"Beauty" by LadyArmand and Mikou

Chapter 6

Ben was exquisitely conscious of every movement of his body. The floors were solid enough, but his mind was doing its best to convince him that every footfall might tumble him into painful oblivion. The eyes of the pair behind him burned holes in his back and suddenly he remembered himself. He stopped short and was about to turn when someone, from the feel of lean muscle, it was the man, bumped into his back. That was the closest thing to human touch that he'd had since leaving the hospital and every molecule in his body wanted to lean back and luxuriate in it, while at the same time wanting to flee like the wind. He waited with his breath held until his guest righted himself, stepped away, and apologized. Then he turned to face them, ever conscious of keeping the light away from his face.

"You'll have to excuse me. It's been a while since I had guests. My name is Ben Bruckner." The redheaded woman squinted with suspicion, but the younger man with her smiled. It was as if the stars had come out and Ben almost wished for a little more light. Just a little so he could see the man more clearly.

"My name's Michael. Michael Novotny. This is my mother, Debbie."

Michael was already stretching his hand forward while Ben was desperately seeking a way to avoid a further touch. The innocent, friendly gesture struck terror into him and he prepared to make some excuse--any excuse--for his rudeness. Luckily, the storm took matters out of his hands. A crash and a high-pitched, tinkling sound of glass shattering, distracted the trio. The disturbance seemed to have come from above them.

Ben hurried them to the library and left the candle with them. "A tree branch must have come through the window. Stay here. I'll be back as soon as I check it out."

Michael stepped forward. "I can help, if you want."

Ben felt his heart leap. Alone? With this man? He wasn't ready for even that much, so he hastily rejected the offer. "No, thank you. Really, it's not a big deal. Just sit here. I'll bring you back some towels. And tea. Would you like tea or coffee or something else?" They agreed on hot chocolate as the best way to chase away the chill. Ben left them in the room and made his way through the darkened halls using his hands and rote memory. On his way, he gathered all that he'd need from a supply closet: another candle, a broom, a large sheet of plastic, a hammer, and nails.

Upstairs, it was just as he'd thought. One of the branches from the old garden tree had been blown through the window. Broken glass and chips of soggy wood crunched and squished obscenely beneath his shoes. The wind whistled through the gaping hole with insolence, as if saying, See? Look what I did. You can't stop me.

"We sure stopped you, though," said Paul with a smile. He picked his way through the glass without stepping on a single shard. "What's with you and Brown Eyes?"

Ben ignored Paul. The familiar numbness blanketed him while he hammered the plastic sheet into place and cleaned up the mess of broken glass and wet leaves. He stooped awkwardly to sweep it up into a dustpan when a glass sliver jumped out of nowhere and stuck in his hand. He stood and dropped everything to dig at the sliver.

Rather than pulling the splinter out, Ben clenched his fist and drove it deeper into his palm. The blood trickled from his fist and dripped onto the carpet.

"As if that would even begin to make up for it," said Paul. He shook his head sadly and faded away.

"Are you okay? I know you said you didn't need any help, but I couldn't let you do it alone."

Ben looked up and thought that he had finally gone around the bend for real. Unless his mind had found a new trick to play on him, he was staring at an angel, glowing in the moonlight, come to save him. The vision stepped forward and continued to speak.

"After sitting in the car for over two hours, I was getting restless, so I followed the sound of the hammering. My mother made her way to the kitchen. She's probably whipping up a three-course meal, even as we speak."

Perhaps Michael wasn't an angel of the heavenly kind, but his timely entrance rescued Ben from the magnetic draw of his own dark thoughts. He opened his fist and gasped at the pain that he hadn't felt before, but which was returning three-fold.

"You hurt yourself? Let me see that."

"No!" said Ben and stepped back. His back hit the wall and he felt taut with embarrassment. Hidden back here, in the shadows, he could maintain his illusions. But if Michael stepped closer and saw him...

Michael retreated and said in a pacifying tone, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to barge in. Why don't you go bandage your hand while I clean the rest of this up?"

Ben nodded with relief. He could barely tolerate this quaking, quivering being he had become, but felt helpless to overcome it. By now, Michael probably suspected he was locked up with a madman. If he ever knew the ugly truth, if he could see it written on Ben's distorted features, his suspicion would become hard knowledge. He accepted Michael's offer and fled to the nearest bathroom where he could lick his wounds--both real and imagined.

~~~~~~~

Brian was sitting on his sofa with the television on, but it was watching him more so then he was watching it. He was too busy watching David slowly pace back and forth. He was worried too, but he'd be damned if he'd say anything about it. Suddenly the phone rang making David stop dead in his tracks, while Brian jumped a little. Slowly he reached over and picked up the phone. His heart sank when the voice on the other end wasn't the voice he had been waiting to hear.

"No Uncle Vic, they haven't called here...No, I told you, I'd call as soon as they did...I know you're worried about them being out in the storm...I know...Michael will call...Yes, Uncle Vic...No...Yes, I'm sure...No...David's right here. Why don't...No...Yes...I'll tell him...Are you sure you don't...Yes...Yes...I will...I'll tell him to call as soon...Okay...Bye."

Brian hung up the phone again, watching as his brother took up his slow march to nowhere. It was getting on his fucking nerves, but it was better then having to actually talk to David about this shit. He could feel it bubbling up inside him.

"Would you sit down already?" Brian couldn't help himself. The tension in the room was becoming too much.

"I'm nervous," David said, continuing to pace.

"Well, be nervous on the couch!" Brian spat.

"I think better when I pace," David replied.

"I think better when you don't."

'I thought you weren't worried about it?" David said with a sly smile on his face.

"I'm not."

"Who are you trying to convince?"

"No one."

"Yeah, right." David stopped pacing and stood in front of his little brother.

"Fuck you," Brian said, looking around David and trying to see the television.

"Fuck me?" David said, laughing a little. "You're so full of shit. You want the whole world to think you're this uncaring, cold-blooded asshole who doesn't need anyone, who doesn't care about anyone or what they think. The truth is, you're scared shitless that Michael won't forgive you. You're scared that the one person who has never judged you will never be able to look at you the same way again. That's why you told him you'd go in the first fucking place. And instead of telling him you changed your mind, you had me do it, figuring what the hell. Michael's always pissed at me for something. You couldn't face him, or what he might say, or the look on his face."

"Fuck me?...No. Fuck you, Brian," David said a little too calmly for Brian's taste. Then he watched as David began pacing again.

"You don't know shit about me and Mikey," Brian said softly.

"Maybe....Maybe not. All I do know is right now he's pissed at both of us and I'm not the only one who can't handle it," David said, never even looking at his little brother.

Brian was starting to believe David. Maybe the reason Michael hadn't called was because he was too pissed to call. Maybe Michael didn't want to talk to his brothers, to him. That had to be it because the alternative was too fucked up to even think about. Mikey was upset and not in the mood for conversation. That's all it was. By the time they got back, Michael would have had a chance to calm down. Mom would have worked her magic by then and all would be forgiven.

He'd take Michael out dancing and explain it to him and that would be the end of it. Michael could never stay angry at him for long. It just wasn't in him to do it. Michael's heart was too big for him to stay pissed off for any length of time.

Brian thought back to the time he spilled beer all over one of Michael's comic books. The look on Michael's face was so odd, it was like he was deciding whether or not to scream or something. His eyes glazed over and it was like looking in the eyes of a stranger. It was like a storm cloud had descended on Brian's heart. He was actually a little afraid of Michael in that moment. But then something happened--the same thing that always happened. Michael would make a decision and then he'd smile the biggest, brightest, warmest smile in the world. The kind of smile that could melt icebergs or put the sun back in the sky.

~~~~~~~

Fumbling in the bathroom cabinet with his bleeding hand and trying to balance the candle on the edge of the sink in the guest bathroom with the other was a chore in and of itself. But the bigger chore, as it turned out, was trying to get the image of the Michael out of his mind. The kindness he'd expressed, the way he'd come to search Ben out just to help. The smooth softness of his voice and the welcoming expressiveness of his eyes--what little Ben could see of them. Maybe his mind was playing more tricks on him. Maybe he was reading this man all wrong. Maybe he was just lonely. Maybe...

"You like him. I can tell. How soon they forget. I'll give you this though, Benny--you do have impeccable taste. He's fucking beautiful," Paul whispered in Ben's ear.

"It's not like that," Ben replied softly to his decaying lover.

"Isn't it, Benny boy? I can't blame you. I'd fuck 'em myself if my dick still functioned." Paul moved closer so that Ben swore he felt the warm stickiness of Paul's breath on the outside of his ear.

"It's not like that," Ben said softly before closing his eyes.

"So you say, baby. So you say." Paul's voiced echoed in Ben's head, then slowly started fading away. "Why don't you two have a drink, then go for a ride." Paul's voice was mocking, yet barely audible. Ben heard, and it sent painful electric shocks through his system.

~~~~~~~

Michael's silence had been deafening, which is why Debbie decided to fumble around and find the kitchen. Whenever things became too emotional for her, she had to find a kitchen and cook. It made her feel better. It took the edge off and gave her time to think of what the hell she was going to do next. The only thing she hoped for now was that this guy, this Ben, didn't have an electric stove. When she was leaving the room, she felt as her son shoot daggers into her flesh. She felt them penetrate her skin and dig deeply into the soft tissue they found there. The pain of it was eating away at her like a cancer. All she wanted was to find someway to make it better. To give her son back something she'd stolen from him in anger, out of hurt, or vengeance. Something she knew she could never give him, because what her son wanted was buried not fifty miles from here. She'd had to forgive Charles for a lot of things, but she didn't know if she could forgive him for this.

She didn't know if she could forgive herself for this. What could she do or say to make it up to her sons, especially Michael? Debbie had a feeling that David and Brian would understand, but not Michael, never Michael. All of her sons were good, strong, honest men. David was honest, but he could abide a lie if need be. Brian was brutally honest, and could deal with being lied to if it was to protect, defend, or in some way keep the peace. Michael, however, was different. Lying to him was personal. It didn't matter the reason. He hated to do it and hated even more having it done to him. For Michael, the truth, no matter how harsh, ugly, or mean spirited and hurtful it was, was better than the most beautiful lie, because then he'd deal with it and move on. Charles had been right. Michael was the most adaptable of their sons and, therefore, the most capable of being devastated by such a lie.

Debbie knew there were things about himself that Michael kept to himself, but he never lied about them. He just didn't talk about them. If she got too close to asking, he'd change the subject. It kept him from having to tell a lie and it also kept him at a distance from everyone, including her and his brothers. Although Debbie got the feeling that there were certain things Michael had shared with Brian. Next to Charles, Brian might know Michael better then anyone, but now even that had changed.

All the time in the car, even before his little tirade at her, Debbie could feel the coldness coming from Michael. It radiated from his in the same way his joy did, in ever widening circles until there was nothing that wasn't touched or changed by it. It was as if deep winter had come early and this wasn't just a frost covering everything. No, this was something else. This was the kind of bitter coldness that comes from arctic winds blowing strong and steady. This was the kind of coldness that caused frostbite, so deep and devastating that entire limbs would be lost to its lingering icy embrace. This was the kind of cold that killed the spirit before it obliterated the body. This was the kind of coldness that didn't come from anger, rage, or even disappointment. No, this was the kind of unrelenting coldness that came from betrayal.

Debbie wanted to find the deepest, darkest hole she could fit in and crawl in, dragging the hole in behind her. She wanted to escape the accusations inherent in Michael's stark silence. From his unwillingness to bend or yield, from his need to close himself off from her in order to continue breathing. From the mocking tone in his voice and his wounded posture.

After doing all she could in the kitchen with what little Mr. Bruckner had in his pantry, Debbie thought she'd do a little exploring, just to keep her mind occupied with something other than her son. Debbie came to the end of the staircase and gave a listen for the two men above her. Hearing nothing, she went into the living room and looked around. The place was a mess, dust everywhere. Hell, it even looked like the guy slept down here most nights.

~~~~~~~

Michael stood in the darkness of the room for a little while, watching the candle flicker against the night. He was distracted, nowhere near himself, and yet oddly closer to himself than he'd ever been. He wasn't in the least bit worried about his mother, downstairs in a strange kitchen, searching for food. Nor was he bothered by the fact that he should be worried he hadn't talked to his brothers in hours, or his Uncle Vic, who knew all the family secrets. Michael stood there watching as the small flame struggled against the gentle blowing of the wind that had found a way to sneak past the plastic Ben had just put up. He realized that at this particular moment he was more intrigued by the man who had just left the room than he was about just about anything or anyone in his life.

Slowly it dawned on him that he was supposed to be doing something in his room. Finally he started doing the task at hand. It wasn't until he heard the sound of Ben's cane on the carpeted floor that he realized how long Ben had been gone.

"Mr. Novotny, please leave the rest and I'll clean it up later. Why don't we go downstairs and help your mother?" Ben said, standing in the doorway, not wanting to get too close to the smaller man.

"Call me Michael. My father was Mr. Novotny," Michael responded a bit sadly, suddenly remembering what this completely fucked up trip was about.

"Michael, come on. Let's go downstairs," Ben said, catching wind of something having slightly shifted in the air.

"Sure, my mom must be going a little nuts by now."

Ben led the way and Michael followed, not too closely, but close enough.

~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~

A loud, creaking noise startled Debbie. It's only the house, she told her palpitating heart while she gripped the framed picture in her hand more tightly. Instead of sitting around listening to the wind and rain and the groaning of the house, she had started to look at the pictures scattered around the room. She looked at the couple in the photograph. Underneath the dust was an image of two attractive men with their arms around each other's shoulders. They looked to be about the same age. One, presumably their mysterious host, though she had barely seen his face, was a handsome, brown-haired man with stunning blue eyes. The other was looking away from the camera and at Ben, laughter crinkling his eyes and sunlight reflecting off his sandy blonde hair. She put the picture down. Closer inspection had revealed that many of the pictures were of the same men, though most of them were of the blonde man in various poses. All the pictures exuded joy and lightheartedness that was nowhere to be found, now. She wondered where the blonde man was, since there seemed to be no sign that Ben lived with anyone. Had he run away from his partner's eccentricities? Or maybe he's buried in the basement, she thought, with ghoulish fascination. This house looked like it held a few secrets within its walls.

Debbie crept quietly through another door and found herself on a large porch. She blinked and prepared to run back in the house until she realized it was an illusion. She was in a large, airy space, one wall composed of large window that took up almost an entire wall. Though it seemed impossible, this room was actually dustier and more abandoned than the rest of the house. There was stillness here as if nothing had dared move or breathe within these four walls for ages. It contrasted sharply with the chaos of the windblown trees. Flashes of lightning filled the room with harsh, blue-white light. The moon, showing itself only briefly from behind swiftly moving storm clouds, bathed the space with an ethereal glow.

Several large canvases with paintings in various stages of development were propped up against the walls and shelves. She walked to a cluttered worktable for a closer look. It was littered with scraps of wood. She picked up one of these and recognized it for what it was--pieces of picture frames--likely the parts that would frame all the art work in this room. She tossed it down, thereby knocking some of the table's items to the ground. As she was collecting the fallen objects, her eye fell upon what at first seemed to be a small photograph on the floor, next to an overflowing wastepaper basket. The subject of the small print was instantly recognizable, even under the layer of grime.

"Captain Astro. What's a nice superhero like you, doing in a house of horrors like this?" she whispered to herself. She brushed some of the dust off and smiled. Michael would get a kick out of this--another adult male who loved Astro. Granted, Ben seemed a little bit off his rocker, but it took a certain type to maintain an obsession. She might be underestimating this man's interest in the comic book hero, though. What kind of collector would let his items go to ruin? Michael's collection was pristine--individually wrapped in plastic sleeves, painstakingly catalogued, and packed into boxes like buried treasure. He had photographs and prints that were framed and still hanging in his old bedroom. This print, on the other hand, looked ready for the trash heap. She leaned over to toss it back in the trash where she'd found it.

"What he hell are you doing in here?" boomed a harsh voice from the doorway.

Debbie jumped and spun around, hiding the picture behind her back. "I...I was lost." She cringed when Ben scowled at her. Perhaps it was the wildness of the storm behind her. Perhaps it was her tattered emotions. Or maybe it was the way the candlelight seemed to play up that side of his face as if it had been drawn by the Devil, himself. She was stunned to find herself trembling. When Michael appeared behind the man, some of her fear quieted. "I must have taken a wrong turn from the kitchen." She prayed that he wouldn't call her on her bald-faced lie. Ben's face seemed to draw tighter.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd step out. I don't like this room to be disturbed."

Their host's voice was steely with resolve and icily emotionless in a way that might have been threatening if he weren't plastered against the doorway as if an invisible fence barred him from entry into the room. Debbie was fairly certain that there was something disturbed in this house, but it wasn't this room. She walked past Ben and her wide-eyed son, surreptitiously clutching the print at her side as she went.

~~~~~~~

Michael wanted to reach out and pat Ben on the shoulder, hold him up, or do something to soothe the upset that seemed to have taken hold of the man. His hand was only inches away from Ben's broad back, but it felt like it was swimming through an icy pool of water, as if an unnatural force surrounded Ben and held him apart from everything. When his fingertips had almost touched, the other man spun around without warning. Michael drew his hand back, feeling silly and guilty for trespassing on this quiet man's space.

"I'm fine," said Ben. "We should head back to the kitchen." But instead of doing as he had suggested, he turned back to the empty room. After a long moment of silence, he stepped in, in a trance-like state.

Michael had had more than his fair share of secretiveness for one day. He followed Ben cautiously and asked, "What is this room?" His curiosity faltered when Ben glared at him sideways.

"It's a studio," answered Ben with a clipped voice. He said nothing more, but walked around the moonlit studio, adjusting a few things as if they had been moved from their proper place. How he could tell what needed to be moved, Michael couldn't figure. The room's contents--stacks of frames, piles of books, and other odds ends--seemed to be thrown about haphazardly. But there must have been some sort of order that only Ben knew because he was painstakingly rearranging things. He spent the longest time at the large table where Debbie had been standing. When he seemed done, he stared for ages at a small wastebasket under the table.

~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~

"Let's go," Ben said brusquely to Michael. He started to walk away, his limp more exaggerated than before.

Damn, thought Michael. Maybe he's just angry because he's in pain. All the running around the house could have re-injured his leg. Maybe he wasn't used to walking on it this much. Debbie had probably been right. Maybe they shouldn't have barged in and demanded shelter, but now that he was here, Michael couldn't bring himself to leave. Ben drew him. The man's cloak of isolation begged for someone to tear it off and comfort him. In a way, Ben reminded Michael of himself, hiding under a bed, hoping no one would find him, but praying that one certain person would find him and take away the loneliness.

For a moment, before they had found Debbie wandering in the studio, Ben had seemed far away. They'd been walking through the halls looking for her when Ben stopped suddenly and stood, his mind a million miles away. Michael had walked around him, but the hand holding the candle had dropped to his waist and his face was completely hidden. Ben's tall figure stood frozen, then shaking, then he had heaved several gasping breaths. The moment had ended as if had never happened and they'd continued searching. That moment had repeated itself, here in this room.

Something was wrong and Michael wanted to fix it. His brothers had often laughed at this side of his nature. You're not one of your superheroes, Michael. You can't save the whole world. They had never understood--not even David, who spent his life taking care of people in pain. But David's chiropractic career was a business affair, something to pay the bills. It didn't consume him outside of the walls of his office. Brian might have laughed, but it didn't stop him from taking advantage of Michael's 'mother henning' as he used to call it, especially after their father was gone. They never talked of it, now, but it had been Michael who had held his brother and wiped away the angry tears that Brian had shed privately, not their mother and not David.

And now Michael had been presented with a new wounded bird and he couldn't help but reach out to him. He babbled, hoping that something would draw Ben out of his shell. "I got lost, too. This house is like a maze in the dark. Have you lived here long?"

"All my life," was the abrupt answer. "We should rejoin your mother before she gets lost again." He started walking away without a glance at Michael.

Wounded bird may have been too poetic a description. Ben was more like an injured wolf that bared its teeth at any approach. Michael only hoped that he wouldn't get bitten.

Chapter 7

Brian was well on his way to being drunk, so David's disapproval had no effect on him at all. Not that it would have anyway, but the alcohol definitely helped.

"Do you think you could talk to me instead of drowning yourself in cheap wine?" asked David. They had been silently watching a series of mindless sitcoms though neither was in the mood to laugh.

"Fuck you. This wine set me back half a paycheck and it was worth every penny. I only drink it on special occasions."

"Half our family missing is a special occasion?"

"Of course not. It's you, dear brother. I think this is the most amount of time you've spent here in the last five years. I'm touched. Really, I am." Brian lifted his glass in a toast, but David pulled it out of his hand before he could drink it.

"They could be hurt, you know. Even if Michael wouldn't call, Mom would. Did you think of that? Can you be serious for five minutes instead of clubbing me to death with your sarcasm?"

Brian laughed. "Be serious? What? Like you? Always the self-righteous one with all the answers. Shit. Even when you're sitting there feeling guilty, you have to do it better than me. My guilt and worry isn't good enough for you? I'm not expressing my feelings in a manner that you feel is most appropriate for the occasion? Well, fuck you. I'm not you and I never wanted to be. I don't need you telling me what I feel, who I am, or how to act." Brian grabbed his wine bottle by the neck, tilted it to his lips, and defiantly took a swig.

"Sometimes, I don't know how to talk to you," said David tiredly.

"You never did. You were always too busy trying to talk at me and telling me what I was supposed to be thinking or doing." The television image was starting to swim, so Brian leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. "Mikey never does that. He knows how to listen."

"If you appreciated him so much, why didn't you ever let him know? If your relationship was so special, why are you sitting here and not in that car or wherever the hell they are?"

Brian rolled his eyes behind closed lids. "I don't owe you any answers about me or Mikey. That's our business."

"You always were a prick."

"So were you."

"What the hell did I do to make you resent me so much?"

That made Brian open his eyes again. David was staring at him with hooded eyes. "What?"

"You think it was easy? You think I wanted to step into Dad's shoes? You think I wanted to always be the one telling you what to do? I never wanted to be the heavy. I never wanted to act like your damn father. I did what I had to do. I never got a chance to do what I wanted to do. I never got to indulge myself in daydreams and fantasies like Michael. I was too busy studying so I could get a good job. You may work now, but you had an easy ride for a long time on MY back. I didn't get to party and cause trouble like you did. I was too busy working or helping Mom. That wasn't by choice, baby brother. It was out of necessity. But I'd do it all again if I had to."

"Do you want a fucking medal for being noble?" asked Brian. "Nothing I do or say is ever thanks enough for you. Who the hell asked you to give up your life?"

"No one had to ask! I did it because I loved you!" By this time, the two of them were glaring darts at each other.

Brian leaned back and said coolly, "Bullshit. You did it because you love being in control. You thrive on it. Look at what you do. You're a chiropractor. They call it manipulation, right? Sounds like a perfect fit for a control freak to me."

David clenched his fist and his jaw. His whole body quivered with outrage. Then he sagged like a popped balloon. He stood and walked to the door. "Unlike you, I don't try to hurt people around me on purpose. If I did wrong, it was only with good intentions. I'm going to Uncle Vic's to wait. Call me if you hear anything." He slid the door open and left the loft.

Brian made a solitary toast. "To Brian, for hitting another bull's eye." But his victory rang as hollow as his empty wine bottle of wine and left him feeling just as sick.

~~~~~~~

There was, for an instant, the overwhelming need to be touched. To be held and loved in a way no longer familiar to him. To be kissed all over by lips that knew nothing of his past and cared nothing for the future. For an instant, there was the intoxicating allure of possibility. The dream of the 'what if' became reality in that instant. The clouds parted, the sky lightened, birds sang sweet songs of promise and renewal, and there was sun and joy to be had. All there at his finger tips to be touched, savored, lingered over and made his. The connection he'd once had to the dream was tangible, was palpable, and then, as quickly as one can bat an eye, was gone. Erased by circumstance and the haunting truth of what was, what is, and what will never be again. Replaced by the sameness of the day, by a darkness that encompassed everything, by wave after wave of unyielding grief and anguish. By longing for things better left unspoken. Of broken hearts and shattered bones, and the unrelenting lie of forever. Replaced with a ghoulish voice that taunted and teased him mercilessly, by golden strands of sun kissed hair caked with dry decaying blood. Replaced with the stench of the decomposing remnants of his life.

Dreams are the things you wake up from with a sense of longing, a sense of promise. Nightmares are the things you carry around with you like thousand pound weights on your feet, making the loss of such dreams even more devastating.

~~~~~~~

On the seemingly unending walk from the studio through the living room to the kitchen, Ben felt his wounds more acutely and not just the physical ones. His limp was more pronounced and he felt as though the entire world could see him. Making things worse was the presence of Michael. And the infuriating presence of Michael's mother. He knew she went snooping, but he didn't want to say anything for fear of saying too much. These people didn't need to know his life's story. The storm would be over soon and they'd be gone, leaving him to his lonely little life. Michael's cell phone would repair itself with the clearing of the storm and then this little diversion would be over. The real world would come crashing back upon him. The world was already crashing in on him, but there was still the distant hint of the dream he'd been clinging to since he saw the dark chocolate eyes of Michael Novotny.

"You can't have him," Paul's voice taunted from the dark recesses of the living room. "He'll take one look at your face and go running for the fucking hills," Paul now whispered in Ben's ear. "He could never love you. He feels sorry for you. And why not? You are something to be pitied," Paul said laughing.

Ben felt tears stinging his eyes. He wanted to run, to hide, to disappear and never be seen again by anyone. He wanted to lose himself in the darkness of his insanity and never come up. The truly insane are never aware of themselves and this is what Ben wanted more than anything at this moment. Not being able to accomplish this task only brought his anger from a slow simmer to a raging boil. It took all the strength he possessed not to explode. Not to take his rage out on the not so little snoop in the kitchen. Not to scream and throw things and hurt someone else. Or himself.

~~~~~~~

As Michael followed Ben out of the studio, through the living room, and on towards the kitchen, he suddenly felt grief wash over him with such force it made him stop in his tracks and gasp for air. It was like a curtain being drawn. All was darkness and there was a chill that didn't emanate from the outside, but from deep within. And the chill was the thing taking his breath away. He felt as though he was about to have an asthma attack, which was odd because he hadn't had one for years. But his chest was getting tight--a clear indication of his lungs closing up on him. His throat was starting to burn and he was becoming light headed. He felt dizzy and his legs felt as though they'd betray him at any moment. He thought he might drop like some lifeless puppet whose strings had been cut. But then he felt a presence behind him. He hadn't seen or heard Ben move, but it wasn't unusual for Michael to kind of blank out when he couldn't breathe for shit.

But this was different. This was something else choking him, something else causing his heart to race and the palms of his hands to feel clammy. He knew what it was. He just couldn't name it. Or maybe he was afraid to name it here in front of this stranger, who wasn't such a stranger. Maybe if he admitted it, he would explode and never be able to put the pieces back together again in anyway that resembled who he was now. Who he had always known himself to be, had always known his world to be. His brothers, his mother, his Uncle Vic. Even his limited circle of friends. So he held it in, closed his mind around it and forced himself to calm down, to relax, to fucking, breathe. What made it a little easier was Ben standing behind him, willing to bear Michael's full weight if he had to.

"Are you all right, Michael?" Ben asked, worry permeating his voice.

"Not...really." Michael struggled to get out.

"Should I get your mother?" Ben asked.

"No." Michael said seeming to recover a little. "She's the last...person...I...want to help me. I'll be fine...in a minute..." Michael felt the air coming more freely into his lungs again.

"Are you sure?" Ben asked, his voice gentle and soothing.

"Yeah..." Michael said "Sorry, it hasn't...been a good day. Hell...it hasn't been a good day...for a long damn time..." Michael said trying not to break down and breathe at the same time.

"I know what you mean," Ben said, looking at Paul's ghoulish face in the flickering glimmer of the candle light.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do this..."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah...I feel a lot better. Thank you. I'm just tired, and sad, and missing someone," Michael said before he realized he'd said it.

~~~~~~~

"I need to put this thing back. I never should have picked the fucker up...or went snooping around this man's house...It was in the garbage, though. I mean really he won't even miss the damn thing...and Michael would love it...But this man has been gracious enough to let two strangers come into his home...I'll put it back...No. I'm keeping it. I gotta win some points with Michael...I'll just put it in my bag. He'll never know. He won't miss it...And even if he does, what's the worst he could do? Throw my ass in jail? Make my kid hate me even more then he does now?...Bullshit. Michael doesn't hate me. He's just a little pissed off. He'll get over it. He always does...I want out of this fuckin place. It's givin' me the creeps...Okay...Okay...they're coming...Act cool...Calm down...Relax...Everything is all right...Everything's fine...So what I'm a snooping thieving little bastard...Smile...

"I hope you boys are hungry..."

~~~~~~~

Vic had a feeling that Michael knew everything. He had a feeling that Debbie had walked willingly into something beyond her control. He'd begged her all those years back, when Charles wanted to see the boys for her to let him, for whatever impression they got of him to be from him. He'd told her that she couldn't keep them from knowing forever. If there was blame to be placed, let it be placed on Charles and not her. But she was their mother and she said she knew what was best for her boys. Up until Charles died, Vic thought he'd been proven wrong. But once he saw the little packet of letters Charles had left for Michael, he knew nothing would ever be the same. And now, with neither of them calling to check in, it made him a little nervous. Sure, the storm could be part of it. It, in all likelihood, had interfered with the service on Michael's cell. But that was only part of it. Something was up. Vic could feel it in his bones, but he had no one to talk to about it. Brian would act indifferent to it and David would get pissed.

David opened the door to his mother's house and found Vic sitting on the couch with the phone in his hand. This picture disturbed David, because Vic was always so cool about everything.

"What're you doing here?" Vic asked.

"I wanted to see how you were holding up." David said, walking over to where his uncle sat on the sofa and taking a seat beside him.

"You had a fight with Brian." It was a statement not a question.

"How do you always know?" David asked, placing his head in his hands.

"Because in ways neither of you will ever admit to, you're a lot a like. I know, I know. You don't wanna hear that, but it's the truth, whether you like it or not, whether you accept it or not. And in ways neither of you will ever admit to, Michael has been the buffer between you, not your mother, like all of you'd like to believe. And because he's been that buffer between you, he's paid a very high price for it...None of you treat him the way you should...Not one of you....And none of you see it's killing him. That's why he just up and took off...And that's why, if you all aren't careful, he'll do it again, and this time for good," Vic said, placing his hand on David's back and rubbing it in slow, moving circles.

"I've never known how to talk to him and Brian's been no fucking help."

"You and Brian have to stop getting into these pissing contests when it comes to Michael," Vic said, getting up and walking into the kitchen for something to drink. "You want anything?" he hollered over his shoulder.

"A beer if you have one," David shouted back.

"Since when don't we have?" Vic retorted.

~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~

The storm had cleared up, but it was too late to go vamping to the next house. The lights still weren't on, but Ben had said they would be by morning. It was decided that Debbie and Michael should spend the night and leave first thing in the morning. Ben led them upstairs and into the room they'd be sharing for the night. Then he left them without saying another word. Michael dreaded having to be alone for the rest of the night with his mother, but he said nothing as he took a pillow and a blanket from the bed and lay on the floor. He said nothing to her after she said good night to him. He said nothing as she tried to talk to him after she'd gotten into bed. Michael made of himself a stonewall. A stonewall has no ears, no tongue, and no feelings. After he was sure his mother was asleep, Michael wept for his father, for himself, and, oddly enough, for the stranger who had opened his home to them.

Earlier in the evening as the storm began to settle down, Michael tried his cell phone one last time and found he could get through, but it was only long enough to tell his uncle they were fine. The battery was low and completely died out soon after he heard his uncle's voice and found out that David was there. Michael was glad for that because he really didn't feel like talking to his big brother. Not that he was angry with him anymore. He just wasn't up to it.

~~~~~~~

Ben found he couldn't sleep that night. This was nothing new. He hadn't slept well since...it happened. But this night was different. This night he couldn't get the image of Michael out of his mind. There was just something about him that drew Ben to him. Ben couldn't explain it. He knew nothing could ever come of it. He just couldn't get the man out of his mind. Michael had said he was tired, sad, and missing someone. Ben wanted to ask for details, but didn't. How could he ask this man to tell his life's story if he was unwilling to do so? But he still wanted to know what had made Michael so sad and who he was missing.

Ben walked over to the window and looked out. The stars were shining brightly in the sky. After a storm, the stars always seemed to shine more brilliantly. It seemed to Ben that they were apologizing for the recent, bad behavior of the sky. He stood there looking up and then started worrying about the morning and how he would be able to hide his face from them, from Michael, any longer.

"What do you care if they, if Michael, sees your face?" Paul's voice came rising out of the darkness to greet Ben.

"Leave me alone," Ben, whispered back.

"What do you care if he's horrified by what he sees? I mean you said it yourself--you're never going to see him again. So why worry about it?" Paul asked, his voice for the first time not mocking.

"Am I in hell?" Ben asked to the night air.

"A self imposed one, I guess," Paul whispered.

"So, you're not really here and I'm not really talking to you?" Ben asked.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. So why ask?" Paul said, his voice fading a little.

"Did it hurt?" Ben asked, turning around to face his dead lover.

"You won't believe me if I tell you. So why ask?" Paul repeated before smiling and then vanishing.

Ben turned back to the window with tears slowly gliding down his face. He felt more alone then he'd ever felt at any moment in his life. He was tired and sleep refused to come. He was grieving and could not be comforted. And yet, there was Michael. Ben had a feeling he could tell Michael anything. That he could pour out all of his sadness onto to him and still there would be room for more, that Michael could just absorb it, and still not judge him.

"Those are the kinds of miracles you pray for," Ben heard a voice say. Slowly he came to the realization that the voice belonged to him.

~~~~~~~

It was about seven o'clock when Michael woke up the next morning. He carelessly tapped his mother to wake her up. Even before Debbie could roll over, Michael had left the room. He walked carefully downstairs so as not the awaken their host. At the bottom of the stairs, he found a piece of paper on the banister.

Dear Michael,

Sorry I couldn't be here when you got up, but I had some things to take care of. There's hot coffee in the kitchen, and some fresh fruit in the refrigerator. All I ask is that you and you mother please stay out of the studio, and close the door when you leave.

Have a safe trip.

Ben

Michael was disappointed that he wouldn't get to see their host before they left. He slowly walked back upstairs and went into the guest bathroom. There, he saw that Ben had left for him and his mother towels, soap, shampoo, and mouthwash. Michael slipped out of his clothes, turned on the shower and got in. The water as a little cold at first then slowly began to heat up. Michael found that when he closed his eyes he could feel Ben's presence, almost as if he were being watched and he found he liked the thought. He found he wished Ben where there watching him.

Michael found himself moving his hands slowly over his body and imagining Ben's hands tracing over him. He was brought out of his daydream by the loud pronouncement of his mother. She entered the bathroom, trying to hurry him up like when he was a kid and she caught him daydreaming and not getting ready to go to school.

Michael yelled that he'd be out in a minute. He was good to his word, for he got out of the shower as soon as his mother closed the door. He toweled off, got dressed, and went down stairs. He poured himself a cup of coffee, when to the refrigerator, and got himself an apple. He sat at the table and waited for his mother. Michael found he wanted to leave as soon a possible, because it made him nervous being here with Ben gone. When Debbie got downstairs, he asked her if she was ready to go.

As soon as they were outside of the house, Michael marveled at how lonely it looked in the glaring light of day. He'd seen it on his approach to the house yesterday, but thought it was only an effect of the storm and his mood. He'd been wrong. The house was a lonely as its owner and Michael found this produced in him a new and strange kind of sadness, not only for the owner of the house, but for the house itself, which he believed at one time harbored great love and happiness.

When he and his mother had got back to the car, they found that a repair truck was already there and waiting for them. Wherever Ben was, he'd found a phone and called for help. Michael smiled to himself. Once the car was fixed it had only been a busted water hose he and Debbie were on the road once again.

They drove in silence until they reached their destination, the law firm his father had used. They were told where his father was buried. Before they left the office, they called home again and told everyone that they were fine. Debbie gave Vic a little detail as to what had happened to them during the storm. She told him she'd tell him everything once she and Michael got home. Michael refused the phone when Debbie said David and Brian wanted to talk to him. He walked outside, got in the car, and waited for his mother. Then they proceeded to drive in silence to the cemetery.

Debbie went over first and said a few words to her late ex-husband while Michael stood nearby, with his back turned to her. He didn't hear what she was saying, but he clearly heard the anguish in her voice. Against his will he felt his heart go out to her, but he steeled himself against the urge to go over and put his arms around her.

When she was done, Michael walked over to his father's grave and knelt down. His body slumped as if he'd traveled a long way by foot just to get there. His whole body spoke of defeat, of anguish, sadness, and loss. He wanted to cry, but found he couldn't. He wanted to throw his arms around the headstone, but couldn't. He could feel his mother's eyes burning holes into his back. Finally, the flood gates opened and out of him poured everything he'd been holding in since he found out his beloved father was gone...

So much fucking time got wasted, and for what? Either she was punishing you for walking out or you were punishing her and us by not fighting to see us. I don't know and, at this point, I don't care. You're gone and I'll never get the chance to tell you to your face how much I loved you. How much I missed you. How much I fucking needed you to be around to talk to. How, when you left, I felt so alone it hurt sometimes.

When you left, there was no reason to go hiding under the bed anymore because there was no one to come find me. There was no reason to go out to our little fort because there was no one there to talk to. Both of my loving parents lied to me. Both of you did what you did for your own reasons and you really didn't take me or my brothers into consideration. And I'm left here trying to figure it all out and where to go from here.

I wish I could be pissed at both of you. I wish I could dismiss it like Brian would and vent some other way or get pissed like David, who would eventually let it go and move on. But that's not me, not how I'm built. I'm left empty, sad, and missing you. And I'll go the rest of my life missing you.

Michael stood up without looking at his mother and walked slowly to the car.

Debbie followed along, making sure to stay behind him. She didn't want to get to close for fear of actually looking in his eyes and seeing that he felt nothing for her.

~~~~~~~

"He didn't want to talk to you," Vic told Brian and David.

David sat down on the couch as if the entire weight of the world had suddenly become too much for him. Michael didn't want to talk to him. From the look on Vic's face, it was more than that, but he didn't feel like getting any deeper into it. They were fine and that's all he needed to know for right now. He'd deal with the rest as soon as they got back from their trip.

Brian heard the news and bolted out of the house. They were fine and Michael didn't want to talk to David or him. He just needed to get some time alone with his brother and talk to him. He knew how to get around Michael. He'd always known how to get around him. This time would be no different.

~~~~~~~

Michael dropped his mother off at her front door and drove off before she could even turn around. When Michael had gotten out of the car to put gas in it on the drive back, Debbie slipped her stolen treasure in Michael's overnight bag. Michael silence was deafening and she dared not speak to him. She was certain that once he found the print of Captain Astro that he'd come to see her and she'd be able to finally talk to him in a way that would get her back in his good graces.

~~~~~~~

Michael drove in silent dread as he went over to David's house. As so as he got there, he drove up the driveway behind David's corvette and parked. He got out, walked to the front door, and rang the doorbell.

"Your car's in the driveway," he said blankly. "Go check. Not a scratch on it."

"Come in," David said.

"I want to go home," Michael said, turning and walking way from his brother. He walked back to the car, took out his overnight bag, and left.

David stood in the doorway for a while, watching as his brother disappeared. He stood there for a long time, wondering if he'd lost his brother forever, wondering if Vic had been right, if his and Brian's pissing contest had driven their brother away from them.

Dear Ben,

I'd like to thank you for your hospitality to me and my mother. I know it was an inconvenience for you to take two wet, stranded strangers into your home. I wish I could have said this to you in person. I hate writing letters. I've kind of had my fill of them of late, but that's another story. A long and boring one at that.

Anyway, I wanted to thank you. You helped me out more than you will ever know.

With gratitude,

Michael Charles Novotny...

~~~~~~~

Brian, who had been given a key to Michael's apartment a long a time ago, lay sprawled on his brother's bed when Michael came in. Michael threw his bag onto the table, walked into his bedroom, saw his brother, and went to turn around when Brian rolled over.

"You're back," Brian said, wiping the sleep out of his eyes.

"Looks that way," Michael said, turning and heading into the kitchen for something to drink.

"How was the trip?" Brian called after him.

"Nothing to write home about," Michael called back.

"Mikey. Look I know you're pissed--" Brian started.

"I'm not pissed." Michael interrupted his baby brother.

"I just wanted to say--" Again Brian was stopped short by his brother.

"You just wanted to say what? That you're sorry? Hell, we both know that's not true. And even if it were, what if it got out, this apology of yours? You'd never be able to live it down. We wouldn't want that, now would we?" Michael said angrily to his brother who was now in the living room.

"Mikey."

"Look, Brian, it was a long drive, proceeded by an even longer night. I'm tired, and I have to work tomorrow, so if you don't mind?" Michael said, walking past his brother after picking up his bag and heading towards his bedroom. "Oh, and Brian, leave the key on the table when you leave," Michael said, closing his door on the conversation and his brother.

~~~~~~~

Chapter 8

In the silence of his bedroom, Michael sat and tried to figure it all out. If only he could pinpoint what was missing, he could fix it. Something had to be missing. This void inside him couldn't be all there was. He had hoped that saying goodbye to his father would be the cure, but it hadn't quite done the trick. Even with the strain between him and his mother, he was glad he had gone, was relieved that he'd taken that step, but an ache was still there that wouldn't go away With every passing moment, the pain of it sharpened and gnawed at his insides, making him wonder when he would start bleeding for everyone to see.

Brian, David, his father, his mother--they were all part of him. In the past few days, he felt like he'd lost all of them in one, fell swoop. They say that home is the where the heart is. So where is home when your heart is tired and broken?

He chuckled dryly and rubbed the knots of tension at his temples. He hadn't spent this much time feeling maudlin since his father had disappeared. One day. That's how long he would give himself to not think of any of this shit that had been weighing on him. One freaking day wouldn't be impossible, would it.

With firm resolution, he grabbed his overnight bag and opened it to unpack. On top, was a picture. He pulled it out and examined the subjects more closely. Agony tore through his chest and he fell to his knees, gasping loudly.

~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~

Ben dragged the box to the bedroom. He'd done several rooms already and he felt as if he'd been dipped, soaked, and wrung dry. As a break, he decided to work on Paul's closet. The first sight of the row of shirts, hanging neatly, waiting for their owner, had nearly driven him out of the room, but he had shaken off the clutch in his chest and the tremor in his hands and started working. As he folded each item and packed it, Paul paced behind him.

"Is this it, Benny? You're going to pretend like I don't exist?"

"You don't exist," said Ben through clenched teeth.

"How do you know?"

"They didn't see you, did they?" Ben shook his head. What the hell was he doing?

"Yes. What are you doing? If I'm not real, why are you arguing with me? Because you know I do exist."

"You don't."

"I do. Why do you think your new little boytoy almost swooned? He could feel me there."

"That was just...Well, I don't know what it was, but I know it wasn't you."

Paul laughed. "Don't bullshit me. I can read you like an open book and I know you're wondering."

Ben ignored the apparition, pulled an item off the closet rack, and held its heavy weight in his hand.

"Oh no. Not that! You got that for me for my birthday, I think. You don't want to forget that, do you?"

What Ben really wanted to do was hurl the damned thing into the fireplace and burn it.

"It's just a jacket. Nothing to get you all bent out of shape. Come to think of it, you didn't buy it for me. I bought it for you. I always did like wearing it because it smelled like you."

Ben sniffed at the jacket. It smelled like old leather, cedar, and, faintly, of Paul's favorite cologne. There was nothing left of him in it. Time had taken away the memory of him and left Paul behind in a strange role reversal. Or maybe Time or Fate or something knew what really should have happened on a certain day when everything had turned upside down. He tossed the jacket angrily behind him. It hit the bed with a dull thud and slipped to the floor where it lay like a victim of neglect.

"Why so upset, Benny? You've got your health. You've got your life. You've got a roof over head and money to burn. You've got everything."

"I haven't got you." Ben picked the jacket up and crumpled the thick leather in his tight grasp. " I haven't got anyone."

The wall he'd built around himself was an uncomfortable fit. If Paul were here, he could turn to him and rid himself of loneliness. If Paul were here, he could share the burden of this crushing pain that dogged him. If Paul were here...but Paul wasn't here and he never would be. All these things left behind were only a reminder of what Ben no longer had and could never have again. They were a reminder of what he wanted so desperately he could taste it--an end to this cursed isolation. He wanted it so much that he could almost start praying for another storm to bring him an answer, even if it were for just one night. He wanted it even though he couldn't yet convince himself that he deserved it.

~~~~~~~

Brian sat on the couch and waited for Michael to come to his senses. There was a pattern to all this and, over the years, it had never veered. He and Michael would fight and Michael would get angry. Brian would take the first, small step. Michael would forgive him and meet him the rest of the way. He took advantage of the pattern shamefully because he needed it like a drug. Test after test and the pattern had never failed him. Michael had never failed him.

Michael's recent trip had been the closest thing to making Brian lose faith, but, in the end, Michael hadn't failed to return. Brian didn't think this time would be any different. Time passed and he wondered if Michael even knew he was still out there. Usually, his brother would know instinctively when Brian needed him or needed his forgiveness.

Brian turned the key in his hand over and over. He had gone so far as to take his keys out if his pocket and pull Michael's key off the ring. He'd held it over the table, prepared to drop it and walk out. Fuck it. He wasn't going to beg. He never had before and he wasn't learning any new tricks, now. But the key had clung to his hand as if it knew where it belonged. Brian sat and waited with the small scrap of metal digging into his fingers and palm. He wasn't sure how long it had been when he heard Michael call his name. He jumped up and burst into the room. There, he found his brother, kneeling on the floor, curled up in pain. He rushed to his side, his heart thudding in his throat.

"What is it? Michael?" He heard the harsh wheezing coming from Michael's chest and he jumped to action. "Where the fuck is your inhaler?" he shouted even as he ran to where it was always located on the bedside table. He was rushing back to his brother's side when Michael held his hand up in protest.

"I'm not having an asthma attack!"

Brian sat on the floor, itching with a need to punch Michael for his stubbornness. "You could have fooled me." But Michael's breathing was already easing and the wheezing had subsided. "What the hell was that?"

"Why are you still here?" Michael dragged himself up and sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over and hyperventilating. His voice was shaky and quiet. "I asked you to leave."

"Actually, you didn't."

"It was understood."

"Not by me. Are you going to tell me what the fuck just happened or am I going to have to call Mom and let her nag the truth out of you? Or David?"

Michael fell back onto the bed. "I'm not in the mood, Brian. I've had enough of you, Mom, and David to last me for a long time."

"I'll leave as soon as you convince me that you're not going to stop breathing on a dime."

"I was upset. That's all."

"That's all? You were so upset that you practically suffocated? What could possibly have happened while you were by yourself?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Unacceptable answer." Brian sat at Michael's side. "Imagine what might have happened if I hadn't been here to rescue you, Mikey."

Michael sat up. "Rescue me? Is that what you really think of me? That I'm some helpless baby who can't make it through the day without you? If you're going to insult me, at least treat me like a grown fucking man instead of a toddler. I can take care of myself!"

Brian leaned back. "What the fuck is wrong with you? I was joking."

"I'm not really in the mood for jokes, right now. Just go home."

Brian started to wonder if David had been right about this time being different from Michael's other fits of temper. He stood up to leave, but before he crossed the threshold, he turned back and sat next to Michael. "Hit me."

"What the fuck are you talking about? I'm not going to hit you."

"Then yell at me."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"Hit me. Yell at me. Do whatever the hell you need to get over this."

Michael smiled sadly. "If only it were that easy. I'm not mad."

"Then why do you want your key back? What is all this soap opera drama you're unloading on me? You won't talk to Mom. Fine. You're pissed at her and I get that. You won't talk to David? That's fine too. He pisses me off on a daily basis. But me? What the fuck did--"

"You know what you did."

"I tried to apologize, but you wouldn't let me. I'm sorry. There! Do you want me to commit hari-kari? I know I said I would go, but I couldn't!" Brian whipped around to hide his face. He punched at the doorjamb until he'd gotten a hold of himself. His loose control almost disintegrated when he felt Michael's gentle hand on his shoulder. "After all this time, I won't let him get to me....I can't." His heart was thudding heavily in his chest and his eyes were burning, but he reigned it in until the only outward sign of his unrest was the fist that pounded softly on the wall. "I just can't."

Michael said only, "I know," before hugging his brother. In a recreation of many times in the past, they held each other up against all the things that might try to knock them down.

~~~~~~~

Michael sat at the table across from Buzzy and waited patiently. Or as patiently as he could. He squirmed in his seat and couldn't seem to keep his feet from tapping while he watched the man chew his food thoughtfully. After an eon, Buzzy swallowed and held up his fork while he made his point.

"You know I'm no art expert. I just sell the comics. I can't guarantee anything."

"Yes, yes, I know, but what do you think?"

"I wasn't sure so I showed it to a friend of mine--big collector, really knows his shit."

"And? And?"

"He think it's authentic."

Michael slumped back into the chair and stared at the print on a table. He had suspected, but had also had his doubts. "But it can't be!"

Buzzy frowned and paused in the act of spearing a roast potato. "If you're so sure, then why did you ask me to look at it? Nope. It's real. I'm telling you, you could get a nice stack of change for that print if you want. It's one of a kind. Since the artist died, the value of his work is going through the roof. Too bad. The guy who replaced him on Astro was good, but not quite the same. In fact--"

Michael cut Buzzy off without guilt. "How much do you think?"

"Over a thousand. Maybe even close to two."

"No way! For something like that? It's not like it's 'Batman' or 'Superman.'"

"Believe me, this friend of mine really--"

"Knows his shit. I gotcha."

"Art isn't my thing, but apparently, the artist made quite a name for himself in the art world. My friend said that the last person to have bought it was some rare objects dealer who was into restoration. He died a few months ago and no one knows what happened to the stuff that he hadn't sold yet. I don't know how you got it, but it's worth a mint if you can get it authenticated officially."

"Thanks for all the info, Buzzy. Dinner's on me." Michael stood to return to work and took the print with him. He had already taken too long for his break.

"Oh, you don't have to do that. I don't mind paying. All I did was make a couple of phone calls and one short visit to a friend."

Michael patted Buzzy's shoulder. "It's the least I could do. You did me a huge favor."

"See you in the store soon? I got a new shipment with some stuff you'd like. And if you're still looking for an illustrator for that idea you told me about, I got a couple of inquiries about your ad."

"Yeah. I'll be by this week. Enjoy your dinner." From across the room, Michael watched his mother circulating among the customers and chatting cheerfully. She was the only one who could have stuck it in his bag, but she wouldn't have paid for this, even if she had the money to blow. So, where the heck did she get it? He turned when one of the customers called him over. He'd have to talk to her really soon and get to the bottom of things.

~~~~~~~

After the last patron had left the restaurant, Debbie sat on a chair and put her feet up. Her face felt like it might crack from the forced smiles. It took hard work and discipline to maintain a cheery disposition when all she wanted to do was sit at home and stew. She'd felt Michael's eyes on her numerous times. They always flitted away when she looked back. In such a small working place, it shouldn't have been possible to avoid one another so thoroughly, but Michael had succeeded with flying colors.

Still, she could tell he wanted to say something. It was in the way his brown eyes squinted at her and the way his mouth moved as if he was chewing something over. She waited for him to approach. It took longer than she expected, but she wasn't disappointed.

The chair across from her scraped back and Michael sat across from her. He threw the Captain Astro print on the table between them.

"Did my father leave it for me?"

Debbie was bewildered as her mind fought to make sense of Michael's words. "I'm sorry?"

"I've been trying to figure out where you got it. We didn't stop anywhere where we you could have bought it. I can't imagine you had it here, dragged it with you on the trip, and waited until we were coming back to give it to me, so I figured that Dad's lawyer must have given it to you when I wasn't looking."

Debbie stared at Michael, astounded. "Your father didn't leave it for you. It was from me."

"Bullshit. If you're going to make up a lie, you can probably do one better than that."

Debbie felt the blood drain from her face. She was two milliseconds from unleashing her fury on Michael when he spoke again.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I shouldn't have said that. I just..." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what I should do, to tell the truth. Part of me really wants to walk out and the other part of me is wondering what the hell happened. If I can make sense of this one thing, then I can make sense of the rest. I just want what answers I can get since most of them are buried about three hours from her."

Debbie touched Michael's hand where it lay on the table. "I know you've been upset, honey, but--"

Michael pulled his hand away. "I'm not upset. I left upset way behind. All I want is the truth. Where did you get this?"

Debbie laced her fingers together to stop herself from shaking Michael until he listened to her or grabbing him in a bear hug and never letting him go. "I don't remember." The guilt still lay like a heavy yoke across her neck.

"Don't remember? Did someone give it to you?"

"What does it matter? It's just a picture. I saw it in one of those souvenir shops and I picked it up. Maybe you were getting gasoline or in the restroom. I don't remember."

"A souvenir shop? That picture is worth close to two thousand dollars!"

"What?" Debbie felt her stomach turn over heavily. "It can't be. It was in the trash." Her mind raced. Now she knew she would have to get it back to the owner. She knew she should have followed her first instinct and left the fucking thing behind. The accusation in Michael's face was lancing through her and she knew she deserved it for making one, momenumentally foolish move. She'd gone from petty thievery to grand larceny in the blink of an eye.

"In the trash? I thought you said you bought it."

"Michael, just forget it. It was all a misunderstanding. Give me the print and I'll get it back to where it needs to go. I'll...The seller must not have known what he had and I don't feel right about taking advantage. I'll return it."

Michael frowned and picked the print up. "Don't worry. I'll return it. Just tell me where you got it."

"What does it matter?"

"Maybe the owner has other stuff that I could afford to get. Or maybe he would be willing to sell it for a moderate price."

"I don't think it's a good idea. Just give it back to me."

"No."

They stared each other down, at an impasse. A long silence had passed before Michael said, "When you're ready to tell me the truth, you know where to find me." He started to get up when Debbie spoke.

"I found it."

"Found it where?"

"At that house. The one where we stayed during the storm."

"Are you serious? You can't be serious. You took it out of Ben's house?"

Debbie wringing her hands. "It was an accident. I was looking around and I found it. I swear it was in the garbage! Or near the garbage! It was all covered with dust like no one wanted it--"

"Everything in that house was covered with dust."

"Don't you think I know that? I...you two walked into that room and I had it in my hand. I felt so stupid. I know I should have left it, but I thought it was trash. Otherwise I never would have..." She fell silent, out of words to excuse herself. "Just give it to me and I'll return it and explain as soon as I can." Debbie reached out and latched onto one corner of the print.

Michael tugged back. "I'll take care of it."

"But, Michael--" Debbie pulled harder and felt the sickening sound of a half-empty water glass clink against her braceleted arm With horror, she watched as the glass upturned and splashed on everything nearby, including the valuable print. She and Michael sat watching the print wrinkle like sea waves. Then they both sprang into action, blotting it dry with every napkin they could grab, both of them cursing a blue streak. But the damage was done.

"Maybe if we explain..." Debbie began, filled with helplessness.

Michael jumped out of his chair and took the ruined print. "I said I'll take care of it." He shook his head with bemusement. "I always thought you were one of the most honest people I knew. You and Brian. I guess we all have our moments, huh?"

"Michael--"

"Good night, Ma. I'll talk to you later." Michael hurried to the back room where he collected his jacket and keys before he left for his long walk home.

~~~~~~~

The rain was drumming against the window and creating a lulling rhythm. Ben watched his breath fog against the glass and hoped against hope. The last storm had been a force of destruction, reflecting the chaos inside him like an all too accurate mirror. This one was gentler, washing away the grime that coated the windows, caressing the leaves and grass as it fell, baptizing the world with its cleansing power. Despite the rolling clouds, the sun kept trying to fight its way to the ground and the rays of golden light turned the raindrops to flecks of gold. Through the shimmering water curtain a brighter light appeared.

Chapter 9

Brian let himself into Michael's apartment for the second time in as many days. Their mother had called frantically when Michael hadn't shown up for work tonight. In his worst nightmare, Brian imagined finding Michael collapsed on the floor, still as death, having suffocated in another one of his 'not an asthma attacks.'

What he found was much less dramatic but no less worrisome. Everything was neatly in its place--the first clue that told Brian something was drastically wrong. The curtains were drawn and the apartment had a stillness that it never had before. He flicked on the light and looked around. Taped on the bedroom door was a single sheet of paper. Brian read it without touching it.

Brian,

I wrote this to you since I figured Ma would send you over to hunt me down. Don't worry (and I know you're worrying, no matter what you say.) I'm fine. I decided to take another little trip. I know it's really soon after the last one, but things have been a lot hairier than usual. It's easier for me to think when I'm away from it all.

Tell Ma that I'm sorry and that I'll apologize when I come back. She probably won't be surprised. I know I'm leaving her in the lurch, but I need to do this. I left a list of names and numbers of a few people I know. They're all good people with enough experience to fill in for me at the restaurant.

I don't know when I'll be back. I want to say a day or two, but I don't think that will be enough. I'm leaving my cell off for now, but I'll check in with you in a few days. My rent is paid for the next month. Just water my plants and take care of Ma for me. I know she's going to be pissed. If anyone can calm her down, you can, as long as you don't start acting like a smartass. Take care of yourself.

Michael

Brian read the letter a half a dozen times before the meaning really soaked in. Michael was gone--maybe indefinitely. Or maybe he would walk in the door, laughing about his stupid idea of taking off again. The two of them would toss back beers and go out and play pool or just shoot the breeze.

He waited until the afternoon sun had waned and the rain outside had stopped, but Michael didn't magically reappear and the door remained firmly closed.

~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~

Ben walked reluctantly to the front door when he heard the knock. What was it about the rain that dumped unwelcome visitors on his doorstep? He opened the door slowly and found a half-drowned waif standing there. The waif looked up and Ben held his breath at the sight of the deep brown eyes that had been in his thoughts for so many days. He wanted to touch his returning visitor and reassure himself that Michael was real and not another ghost to taunt him. He waited anxiously for the vision to speak. Michael shook some of the water off of his head, but his hair remained plastered to his head like a pelt. The raindrops landed on Ben's face and he felt the first stirrings of faith that this was real. A smile curved Michael's lips.

"I know this is going to sound like deja vu, but would it be okay if I came in out of the storm?" Michael asked, wiping rainwater out of his face.

"What are you doing here?" Ben asked, shielding the damaged side of his face with the door.

"Getting wet. Are you going to let me in or do I drown?" Michael asked gently with a smile on his face.

Ben was caught, taken aback, and held captive by a single drop of water hanging precariously on Michael's long, lush lashes. It seemed to hang there forever until it fell as if in slow motion. All of this took only an instant to happen in real time, but real time was something that, of late, had come to him in fits and starts.

"Did you forget something?" Ben asked, blinking wildly while trying to compose himself and failing miserably.

"Ben, could you please let me in?" Michael asked again, his eyes still smiling, but his face taking on a more somber expression.

There was no way he could hide his face this time--no way he could remain in the shadows. Even with the curtains drawn there was enough light for Michael to see the road map that covered one side of his face. And even though Ben knew he shouldn't care, knew it wasn't supposed to matter to him what this stranger thought of his face or his life, it did matter. He suddenly found it suddenly a great deal to him. Ben was tempted, for a moment, to close the door in Michael's face and go hide. However, it was only a brief moment, which faded.

Michael looked so adorably miserable standing there in the rain. His raven black hair wet and sleek, clinging to his head and making him look an innocent child who had been caught out in the rain playing. Ben was hypnotized by the way Michael had smiled at him, the way his eyes seemed to shine, his rain kissed lips trembling ever so slightly. The lush fullness of them, threw Ben off. He found he couldn't resist the image standing before him even though he wanted to--even though something deep inside of him needed him to do so.

"Come in."

~~~~~~~

"What the fuck do you mean he's gone?" David asked, the color rising in his cheeks.

"What part of it didn't you understand?" Brian asked, looking from his brother to his mother.

Debbie felt somewhat deflated as she sat in the chair at the kitchen table. "Where'd he go?"

"I don't know," Brian said, looking down at her.

"Let me see the note," David said angrily.

Brian was not about to hand it over. "I told you what it said already."

"I want to see it," David demanded of his little brother.

"It wasn't addressed to you," Brian hurled back.

"Stop it both of you. We have to find him. Before..." Debbie stopped short.

David looked at his mother gravely. "Before what?"

Tears welled in Debbie's eyes. "Before he does something stupid."

"What the fuck's going on?" Brian asked his mother.

"Nothing," Debbie said half-heartedly.

"Nothing? You call me, nearly hysterical, and tell me to go over to Michael's apartment and find him. I get there and he's fucking gone. And now you tell us that we have to find him before he does something stupid." Brian took a seat next to his mother. "What went on between you two?"

"He's just upset. He might do something..." Again, Debbie stopped short. She got up and half ran up stairs.

"This is bullshit," David said, his hands on his hips and his head down. "We have to go find him."

"He doesn't want to be found, David. That's the fucking point," Brian said, placing his head in his hands.

"We have to do something."

"For once in your life, David, stop pushing."

~~~~~~~

"Come in."

The words seemed innocent enough as they fell from Ben's lips. It was just an invitation out of the rain. It didn't have to have any deeper meaning than that. It was just the right thing to do when someone came to your door, dripping wet and looking like one of God's own angels. Michael or his mother had probably forgotten something the last time they were here, and Michael had come to retrieve it. Ben would let the raven-haired beauty in, help him find whatever it was, and then watch in silent admiration as he left.

~~~~~~~

His pulse quickened and his heart felt as though it were about to burst the constraints of his chest. His palms were sweaty and his breath came quicker than he wanted it to. He felt lightheaded, as if he were in a dream. He'd wake up in a minute and life would be as it had been--but this was no dream. Michael was here, standing only a few feet from him, and in that moment he felt his scars more acutely than ever before.

Michael saw him. Michael saw him completely and the expression on his face didn't change. The bright spark in his eyes was still there. Ben found that he was breathing again.

He realized that up until this very moment he had been holding his breath. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop--to see that shocked look of horror flash across Michael's face and then the familiar attempt to recover. He'd seen it all the time, in the beginning, with the doctors and the few friends he'd let come around.

Michael smiled. It was a smile that lit up his entire face--a smile that lit up the long lived with gloom of Ben's house. A smile that told him that maybe, just maybe, there was something out there other than the dark, dank remains of his life.

~~~~~~~

"So, are you gonna tell me or am I supposed to guess?" Vic asked as he sat on the end of his sister's bed.

Debbie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I don't want to talk about it."

Vic rubbed the lower portion of his sister's outstretched leg. "What did you do?"

"What makes you think I did anything?" Debbie asked, trying to muster righteous indignation.

"Because I know you. You fucked up. So what did you do to try and fix it?" Vic asked without accusation in his voice.

"He's never going to forgive me now," Debbie said more to herself than her brother.

"That bad?"

"Worse."

"Shit," Vic said with a heavy sigh.

"I wanted to make it up to him somehow. That's all. I know I can't...I knew I couldn't when I took the damn thing," Debbie said.

"Took what? From where?" Vic asked, moving to the head of the bed to embrace his sister.

"From that house...we stayed...at. It was in the trash...or...near it and he didn't...even want it...And I knew...Michael would love it...and I picked it up...and they came in...and...and...I pocketed it...and gave it to Michael...and somehow he knew...and I told him...and now he hates me even more...and he's gone...again...and it's all my fault..." Debbie managed to get out through deep wrenching sobs.

"You stole something and gave it to Michael. He confronted you, you told him, and he's even more pissed so he took off," Vic said, holding his sister. "This is bad."

~~~~~~~

David sat, looking at the phone, willing it to ring. All he wanted to do was hear Michael's voice. Brian had told everyone that Michael had left a note saying he was gone and that he didn't know when he'd be back. However, the little prick refused to let anyone see the damn thing. Sometimes David felt like knocking the hell out of his little brother because of the games he played.

Then he'd catch himself, take a deep breath, and walk away. Brian's antics weren't worth it, but on of these days that little pissant was going to push too damn hard and end up eating knuckles.

"Goddamn it, Michael! Call!" David heard himself yell at the phone.

~~~~~~~

As Michael stepped in from the rain and moved past his host, he saw what Ben had been hiding from him on his last unexpected visit. With a suddenness that startled him at first, he remembered what Buzzy had told him. He'd heard Buzzy in the restaurant that day, but, like most people, he was only listening for the parts that affected him. He had focused on the bits and pieces that were further confirmation of the fact that he knew very little about the people he'd loved his entire life. Those little gems spilling absentmindedly from Buzzy's grease-stained lips produced, in Michael, a more complete portrait of betrayals by one he had loved so completely and, as it would appear, rather blindly.

Buzzy had said that the last owner of his mother's ill-gotten gain had been killed. Michael knew with a certainty that rocked him (because it had been so long since anything was certain in his mind let alone his life) that the previous owner had been Ben's lover.

The guilt he felt for what his mother had done in an effort to score points with him, welled up and nearly cut off his breath. The sense of simpatico He'd felt before with that man who was scarred in more ways than one, turned to an overwhelming sense of empathy. Michael wanted to reach out and touch Ben, to hold him until the grief they both felt receded just enough to allow them to breathe.

~~~~~~~

"Did you forget something last time Michael?" Ben asked, turning his face aside so that Michael could only see the undamaged portion.

"I wish it were that simple," Michael said, looking down at his waterlogged feet.

"Where are my manners? Let me get you a towel....I'll be right back," Ben said and headed for the hall pantry.

"Look. That's not really necessary," Michael called behind him. "Plus you might wanna throw my soggy ass out once you know why I'm here," Michael muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Ben called over his shoulder.

"Nothing."

"So, how'd your trip turn out last time?" Ben asked, trying to make small talk. It had been ages since he'd done so with someone who was actually there.

"It came and went. I didn't get any of the answers I was looking for," Michael said before he caught himself.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ben said as he came back with the towel.

"Look. Something happened the last time I was here. Something I don't really know how to explain, because I really don't understand it myself," Michael said, taking the towel being offered to him with an unsteady hand. Their fingers touched lightly and it sent a shock through both of them.

"I have a feeling this is one of those sit down moments. Why don't we grab a seat in the living room? Can I get you something, tea, coffee, beer, water?" Ben asked, leading the way and attempting to recover from the unintentional glance of flesh against flesh.

"No thanks." Michael followed Ben into the living room, his heart pounding in his chest harder than it ever had before. He could feel himself getting lightheaded again. He fought with all of his might to stave off a repeat performance of the attack from the last time he was in this living room. Michael felt a growing sense of dread clutching at as his lungs and threatening to close them once more. He took several deep breaths and felt himself calming down.

"So, what's this all about?" Ben asked, taking a seat and offering one to Michael. He made sure Michael was seated on his good side.

Michael gave a great sigh. "This is hard."

"Take your time." Ben said, looking at Michael with concern.

"I have something I need to give you," Michael started, looking down at his hands.

Ben was intrigued. "Something for me?"

"Not really for you. Something of yours," Michael said, finally looking up.

"Something of mine?" Ben asked, getting nervous.

"God...Ever just want to crawl into a hole?" Michael asked with a strained voice, his eyes brimming with tears.

"All the time," Ben replied, looking at the smaller man with a growing sense of compassion. "Just say it. Sometimes it's like a Band-Aid--the quicker you pull it off the better."

"My mother . . ." Michael started, then paused, taking another deep breath and looking at Ben. "She took something out of your studio," Michael said thickly. "Oh God! I think I'm gonna be sick." Michael jumped up and raced up the stair to the guest bathroom.

Ben sat in the living room with his heart pounding in his ears. He wanted to move but found he couldn't.

"You thought he came back here for you?" Paul scoffed. "What a fucking joke."

"Shut the fuck up," Ben said angrily.

"You thought he wanted you. I told you, Benny boy, you and I are stuck with each other," Paul said, laughing as his voiced receded back into the darkness of Ben's mind.

Ben was about to reply when he heard a loud crash come from upstairs. As quickly as his still mending legs would carry him, he mounted the stairs and rushed into the bathroom. He found Michael collapsed on the floor, with his head bleeding slightly and his breath coming in slow, labored gasps.

Michael wasn't unconscious, but he was unable to get up under his own power. His lungs and throat felt as if he'd swallowed burning embers. When he focused, he saw the worried face of Ben above him and Ben's lips moving. It took another few seconds before he could actually hear what Ben was asking him.

"Michael...Michael, can you hear me?" Ben asked. "Don't move. I'll get some help."

Michael tried his best to sit up. "Don't. I'll be fine in a minute."

"Like hell you will."

"Really. It's nothing," Michael said, finally sitting up.

"You do realize your head is bleeding?" Ben asked while reaching up to grab a towel.

Michael reached up and felt his head. "I must've bumped it when I fell."

"How'd you fall, Michael?" Ben asked.

"Remember the last time I was here--that little incident in the living room? Well, it was like that, only this time I kinda blacked out," Michael said, wincing a little as Ben placed the towel on the small cut.

"Maybe we should get you to a doctor and have you checked out?"

"No. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. I just need a minute." Michael said, getting to his feet slowly.

"You scared the shit out of me," Ben said.

"Sorry about that. If it's any consolation, I scared the hell out of me too." Michael said, suddenly achingly aware of Ben's closeness to him. To distract himself, he nudged the towel aside and began gingerly palpating the edges of his head wound.

"Michael..." Ben started, then stopped short.

"Yeah?"

"I'll wait for you downstairs," Ben said, before tossing the blood-stained towel in the sink and leaving the bathroom.

It had gotten a little too close for him in there and he found he needed more space between them. He needed it like he needed his next breath. He had actually forgotten what Michael had come to tell him, had come to return to him. All that was on his mind at this moment was the overwhelming urge to kiss those luscious lips.

"Are you fucking out of your mind?" Paul hissed as Ben negotiated the stairs once more.

"That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question isn't it?" Ben replied. He entered the living room and plopped down on the sofa to wait.

~~~~~~~

Once he was alone, Michael automatically turned to the medicine cabinet to examine his reflection, but the door was missing. Instead of his own image, he was confronted by small shelves that were empty except for a fine coating of dust and a lonely bottle of vitamins. After wasting as much time as he could cleaning his wound, Michael left the bathroom. The nauseating sense of dizziness had settled enough to let him walk around without feeling like a tiny sailboat in a hurricane. Now, he only felt panic and guilt and that was more than enough. "Why am I feeling so guilty?" he thought to himself. He wasn't the one who had lifted the print. He was only returning it--making a wrong, right. Nevertheless, the feeling wouldn't go away completely, almost as if it were flesh and blood.

From nowhere, a whisper...Maybe it is.

Michael whirled around and instantly regretted the action when darkness pulled at him again. He recovered his balance and was surprised to find himself alone. The whisper must have been a product of his overactive imagination. He didn't ask if his imagination was also making the room feel a few degrees colder than it had a moment ago. To himself, he said, "That's enough. If he could see you, Brian would call you three different kinds of pathetic and he'd be right. Just go down there and tell Ben the truth. What's the worst that could happen?"

He reached under his soggy jacket for the print that he'd tucked away for safekeeping from the storm. Wrapped in a protective mylar sheath, the water damage was still apparent. Captain Astro's cape seemed to be melting around him. The lettering, once brilliant and crisp, was blurred into illegibility. Over one thousand dollars, close to two, down the drain.

Michael started laughing. His laughter grew until he had to lean against the wall and catch his breath. "Un-fucking-believable," he said to himself. After he regained his self-control, a quick look out the window proved that a speedy and secret getaway wasn't in the cards. Given the choice between hiding up here or going downstairs and presenting the truth, there was nothing to do but face the music.

He was at the living room entry when he stopped and stood stock still. Ben was sitting on the sofa, staring at nothing. Absently, he rubbed at his right jaw. Underneath his fingers, the flesh was rippled, not unlike the print that Michael was carrying. The pink streaks spoke of healing from a recent injury. They stretched across Ben's face and down his neck, disappearing into the collar. And when Michael looked closely, there were similar scars on the back of Ben's hand. He hadn't had an opportunity to exam them very closely before, but now all he could think about was: When? Why? Did they still hurt? His eyes moved onto the rest and his thoughts turned in a different direction. Whatever had created the scars hadn't touched Ben's mouth. What would Ben's kiss feel like? What would those hands and those long fingers feel like if they...

Michael didn't know how long he'd been staring, but he gradually became aware of Ben's eyes on him and Ben's question.

"Are you done?"

Michael abandoned his musings about the scars and what they signified. Ben's bright blue eyes lanced him and he felt his heart trip. It really was a sin for a man to be so appealing. Certainly, it didn't make confessing to him any easier. "Done?"

Ben opened his mouth to speak, but then visibly changed his mind. "Would you like to sit and finish what you were going to say earlier?"

"Sure. Thanks." Michael entered the living room, perched on an empty chair, and started babbling out of nervousness. "You know, this place looks a lot less freaky when the lights are on."

Ben frowned and looked around. "Freaky?"

"Yeah, it's like something out of one of those monster movies," said Michael. He stopped short when Ben paled. "What's wrong?" Michael asked, panic-stricken by his the offense he'd given unwittingly.

"Nothing," said Ben and rubbed at his face again. "I just...I thought you were...Never mind." He walked over to the bar. "I don't keep much. How about--"

"Actually, I don't really want anything to drink. I'd rather say what I need to say with a clear mind.

Ben walked back and stood across from Michael. "Sounds serious."

Rather than wasting time explaining, Michael pulled the print out of his jacket and placed it on the table. "This belongs to you."

Chapter 10

Ben stared down at the picture. He knew, instantly, that it was one of Paul's--the last piece he had been working on. It was nothing like his usual restorations, just a simple framing. But it was ruined now, just like everything else. His eyes moved to Michael's face and he was unnerved when his guest looked back without flinching. Ben could almost feel his face itch under the scrutiny. It was the same itch that he had felt when he had caught Michael staring at him from the doorway--like light feet tiptoeing across his soul and leaving almost imperceptible footprints. Deep brown eyes had wandered over his face and there had been a flare of something. A few months ago, Ben would have said it was attraction, interest. But that couldn't be possible now. "Why did you bring it back? It's useless, now. Nobody's going to want it. It will never look like it used to."

"I don't know about that." Michael picked it up and looked at the print with a frown of concentration, nibbling on his lower lip while he paused in thought. "This part's messed up, but you can still tell it's Captain Astro and Galaxy Lad. It was supposed to be the cover of issue number 37, but there were rumors that the way Astro was holding Galaxy Lad meant that they were--"

"More than friends. Yes, I've heard the story." Ben was taken aback by another of Michael's glowing smiles.

"I know I get a little nuts about this. Collecting comics is a hobby of mine. I don't have a lot to spend on rare memorabilia but I do have a few things. Even though this print's not perfect anymore, it's still valuable to me. There's nothing else like it so I bet other people will want it too."

"Keep it." Ben didn't know where the words came from, but they felt right. "It's yours," he insisted when Michael started to shake his head in refusal. He withdrew when Michael tried to hand the print over.

"I couldn't keep it. I'll still pay you the balance of the value lost, but you should have it back."

"No. Consider it a gift." Ben suddenly needed to be out of the room. He got to his feet and started backing out of the room. "I really don't want it anymore." He paused when Michael spoke out.

"This thing is really valuable! Don't you want to work out how I'll repay you?"

"Clean my house," Ben replied facetiously. He ignored the bewildered look on Michael's face. Really, he didn't care. He didn't need apologies, explanations, or repayment. He needed distance and room: room to breathe; room to think; room to forget; distance away from the dark eyes that were a little too accepting to be true. By the time he got to his bedroom, he had forgotten all about the stranger he'd let in his house. He climbed into his bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

~~~~~~~

For Ben, there were many mornings. There were those during which he pulled the covers over his head and slept the day away, driven out only when the necessities of life forced him to arise. There were days when he woke up like a man on a mission. He would swim laps in the heated pool, the one part of the house which he maintained. Buoyed up by the gently rippling water, he could transport himself away from everything--out of sight from the world, out of time.

On other mornings, the gentle exercise afforded by leisurely laps in the pool wasn't nearly enough. For those masochistic days, he used the exercise machine, pushing his body in ways that might do more harm than good, but with determination to rebuild what had been broken.

Then there days when he woke up and the ache in his body was the usual one from having slept in an awkward position--nothing more, nothing less; when the sun was shining and he could appreciate its warmth; when he would turn to Paul with thoughts of waking his lover by tickling Paul's ear or nuzzling his neck until his eyes were open. On those days, they should have been scrambling to shower and dress because it was so much nicer to stay in bed making love than to get up and get ready for work.

He turned to the empty side of the bed and reached out a hand. He couldn't break himself of his morning ritual. As always, that side of the bed was cool and undisturbed because Paul wasn't there and hadn't been in so long. On those mornings, the pain of remembrance usually soured everything--turned the sunlight dim, made the chirping birds turn to the grating of nails on a chalkboard, made the warmth feel like a suffocating thing, a solid substance.

Today was a little different from all the rest. The pain was still there, but it wasn't as bitter or sharp as it usually was. His mind was preoccupied with other vague thoughts. Not until he had climbed out of the shower did he recall his uninvited guest. Had he really invited a stranger with stolen property into his house and given the man free reign while he slept obliviously?

After he'd completed his morning ablutions, he went looking for Michael. His guest wasn't to be found in the living room or the kitchen--or in the library. Ben saw the open door of the studio and felt a burst of anger. Ruining the print was one thing. Did Michael actually have the nerve to intrude again? Ben stomped to the studio and threw the door open. The sight that greeted him took the wind out of his sails.

Cleanliness. All of Paul's incomplete projects had been neatly sorted. The canvases were leaning against the wall. The set of World War I tin soldiers were neatly lined up. The books that needed rebinding were lined up on a shelf. Not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere.

Actually, the last thought had been formed too soon. In the corner was a small love seat. It had been Ben's practice to sit there and read or write while Paul worked. Curled up in what had to be a pretty painful position was Michael. Possibly every speck of dust that had coated the room, now covered his slumbering figure. Ben walked over to the couch. "Excuse me."

Michael murmured in his sleep but didn't wake.

Ben tapped him on the shoulder. "Michael?"

Ben smiled when Michael swatted at his fingers and rolled over. He looked around the room again. He wondered about the cleaning spree, but his own words quickly came back to him--Clean my house. It must have taken the man all night. Ben left Michael sleeping and headed to the kitchen.

~~~~~~~

Michael awoke to the delicious aroma of coffee wafting through the air. Every cell in his body craved a jolt of caffeine to drag him out of his heavy drowsiness. He felt as if he'd been drugged, but it was only the effects of staying up all night. He looked down at himself. Jesus. I look like a train wreck. I hope that Ben didn't see...

"Did you sleep well?" came Ben's voice from across the room.

Michael groaned, sank against the couch, and closed his eyes. So much for that hope. He opened them again and sat up. Ben was sitting at a small table in front of the window. Upon it's draped surface was a coffee pot and a plate of croissants. Michael's mouth started to water and his stomach grumbled, reminding him that the last meal he'd eaten had been lunch the day before. "I slept fine."

"Liar. That chair isn't made for a restful night of sleep."

Michael began to worry that the anger that had been lacking last night had blossomed overnight. One look at Ben's face reassured him that Ben was joking. He dared to hope that they could settle the issue of the damaged print amicably but he didn't mind delaying that discussion. "Well, it wasn't exactly like home, but it was better than sleeping in the car." Michael looked at his watch. He really should have asked David about 'borrowing the car, but his thoughts hadn't been clear at the time. His actions yesterday felt like something out of a dream.

"Do you have somewhere to be?"

Michael looked up. "What? No. Why do you ask?"

"You were staring at your watch like you were expecting it to start talking to you."

Michael flushed. "No. I was just remembering that I should call my brother." He laughed sheepishly. "I sort of stole his car."

"Is grand larceny a family tradition?" Ben took a casual sip of his coffee.

Michael wanted to sink into the floor, but he wouldn't let the remarks cow him. "I borrow his car all the time. It's just that I was in a hurry and I didn't really ask him first. And my mom...Oh, you don't want to hear all this. Bottom line is that I'd like to repay you. I know you said to clean your house, but--"

"I wasn't serious. Seeing that print just brought back some bad memories. I needed some time alone."

"I can imagine," Michael said with empathy.

"No, Michael, I don't think you really can, but that's okay. Please join me. I'm sure you must be starving."

Michael shrugged on a mantle of pride. "No, I'm fine, really. I'm not hungry." His growling stomach made a liar out of him.

Ben cocked an eyebrow. "If you're going to repay me the money, you might want to eat something. You have a lot of work to do."

Michael looked at Ben with suspicion. "You changed your mind?"

"I had a whole night to think about it and darned if it didn't make sense."

Michael approached the table with all the wariness of a man walking around a dangerous animal. "So, you're not mad?"

Ben nodded towards a chair and waited for Michael to sit. "I was mad."

"And now?"

"And now I feel a little better. You did a marvelous job on this room. Paul used to..." Ben's hand twitched and the coffee sloshed dangerously without spilling. "Paul used to work in this room."

Michael had started devouring a croissant, too hungry to worry about what a mess he was. When Ben stopped talking, he was moved by the faraway look in the other man's eyes. He swallowed and said, "You must really miss him."

Ben smiled a tiny smile. "He's not completely gone." He sat up straight and looked Michael in the eye. "So, what's the plan?"

Michael took a sip of orange juice and thought. "I didn't really have a plan."

"I assumed, from what you were saying, that you don't have the money."

"Not exactly."

"Not exactly means..."

"Means no, I don't have the money."

"Right. That's what I thought. So, I have a proposition."

Michael started to worry about what this 'proposition' might entail. He scanned Ben's figure. Despite the upper arm strength, Ben was hampered by his limp. Michael could run faster in case this turned out to be a lot weirder than he thought. If he didn't want to get caught, that is. Thoughts of Ben snaring him in those arms distracted him...

"Michael?"

In a flash, Michael put his woolgathering on hold. "Yes?"

"You didn't hear anything I just said, did you?"

"Uh...no." Michael took another sip of orange juice and avoided Ben's eyes. "I must be tired or something." David and his mother had often harped on him for daydreaming. Outside of school, it had never been a problem--until now.

"Do you know anything about collectibles?"

"Not really."

"Not really means..."

Michael shook his head and laughed. "Not really means that I don't know about a darned thing other than comics and the few collectible toys that I've bought."

"It's still perfect."

"How so?"

"Besides the stuff in the studio, Paul has a...had a storeroom full of pieces that he hadn't catalogued. I need help going through all of it."

Michael was puzzled. "Wouldn't it be better to have a professional go through it?"

"The storeroom is here in the house. For personal reasons, I'd rather not have people I know nosing around my home. You can even stay here while you do it. There's a small guest house not too far from the house. You'll have to clean it, but it has its own bathroom and kitchen."

"I see."

"Will you do it?"

"This will make us even?"

"I'll consider this payment in full."

Michael thought about how he was unsuited to the job and how Ben seemed strange and a little unstable, despite his attractiveness. He thought about his job that he'd left behind and his family, all of whom were probably ready to string him up for making them worry. He thought of every reason he should say no and came to a decision.

"Okay. I'll do it." At the very moment he was asking himself if he hadn't just made a pact with the Devil, Ben smiled and Michael new that he wasn't going anywhere. It wasn't the happiest of smiles, but the warmth reached out to him in a way that he couldn't resist--in a way that made him want to stretch his hand forth, trace Ben's mouth, and taste his lips. In a way that made it impossible for him to look away. What was he getting himself into?

~~~~~~~

Brian knew he shouldn't but he couldn't help himself. He found himself picking up the phone and dialing Michael's cell phone number. It immediately went to voice mail. Brian cursed softly into the phone and waited for the beep.

"I know you said you'd call but Ma's goin' a little nuts. So when you get a chance, give her a buzz. Make it soon Mikey."

Brian pressed the off button and threw the phone across the room. He hated not knowing what the fuck was going on with Michael. He hated when Michael got all silent on him. His anger soon turned to fear for his brother. What if his mother was right and whatever happened between them drove Michael to do something crazy? What if Michael had gotten into an accident or something? Worse yet, what if Michael decided not to come back at all?

What if...

"Fuck this..." Brian whispered and dove onto this bed.

~~~~~~~

At first he was pissed off that Michael had left without a word to him--leaving instead a note that no one but Brian got to read. Then he was pissed off because the little twat had taken his car. He'd given Michael an extra key in case of emergency or if their mother needed a ride somewhere and there was no one but Michael to take her. Michael had been pretty good at letting David know in advance when he needed the car. But to just come here and take it while he was at the office worked on David's last good nerve. Those feelings subsided, only to be replaced when a deep rooted fear began to sink in--a fear so thick and deep that it threatened to overtake him utterly and drive him headlong into the darkness of his rapidly growing imagination. He wanted to scream but couldn't. He wanted to get out of the house but couldn't for fear of missing Michael's call. What if Michael needed him and he wasn't there?

David picked up his phone several times before he actually dialed Michael's cell phone. He hated voice mail. No matter how friendly the voice, David always felt like it was so cold and impersonal. But there was nothing else he could do. He took a deep breath and waited for the miserable beep.

"I don't know what happened between you and Ma and I don't care. I just want to you to come home, Michael. We can't leave it like this. I don't care about the car. I don't care why you took it. Just call me. I'll even come get you if you want me to. Just come home--or at least call."

David dropped the phone and for the first time in ages, he let go--really let go, broke down, and cried deep, penetrating sobs that seemed to come from the dark reaches of the universe. He cried until his heart hurt, as if it had been broken for some time and only now was he able to feel the pain of it. He couldn't lose Michael. He needed to make things right with his little brother--not so little anymore. Michael wasn't the little boy he protected from the bullies anymore. He wasn't the little boy afraid of thunder. He needed Michael to understand how much he loved him and that he never meant to hurt him. He needed...He needed...

~~~~~~~

Ben stood at the kitchen window watching as Michael walked the short distance from the back door of the house to the guesthouse with as many cleaning materials as he could carry. Ben had appreciated the front, but watching Michael walk away was another experience all together. Those shoulders that tapered down to a trim waist that led directly to that perfectly shaped...Being alive wasn't such a bad thing today. Ben felt a genuine, uncontrollable smile creeping across his face. However, the smile evaporated once he felt a cold, familiar presence in the room.

Ben turned around, leaned against the counter, and waited. He and Paul stared unblinking at each other for what seemed like hours, years, millennia. An eternity of silence divided them. Somewhere deep down inside, Ben knew he should feel guilty but he didn't. There wasn't one ounce of guilt traveling through him about his decision to let Michael stay--to let Michael help him. He actually felt good about something for the first time in a long time. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Ben felt like his old self again and it made him feel lighter inside. It felt right. He felt normal...but then there was Paul. There was always Paul.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Paul asked slowly and deliberately.

"Nothing," Ben said coolly.

"Why are you letting him stay?" Paul shouted.

Ben replied calmly, "He wants to repay his debt."

"Bullshit."

"Why is that bullshit?" Ben asked, leaning his cane against the counter and folding his arms in front of him, a self-satisfied smile on his face. Paul was jealous...

"Because you fucking want him," Paul said, pacing.

"What are you talking about?"

"Look at yourself...You're drooling like some lovesick puppy," Paul said, coming face to face with Ben. "You're fucking hard."

"It's an involuntary reaction." Ben's smile widened. "You said it yourself. He's fucking beautiful."

"I want him gone," Paul spat.

"Sorry. No can do. He owes me money."

"I. Want. Him. Gone!" Paul shouted again.

"Not gonna happen. I want him here so he stays," Ben said calmly.

"We'll just see about that," Paul said, fading away.

Ben ignored the veiled threat and turned back to the window just in time to see Michael approaching the house. Ben was trying to compose himself when Michael knocked on the back door. Ben shouted for him to come in as he pretended to be finishing up the morning dishes.

~~~~~~~

Debbie did everything in her power not to pick up that damned phone and beg for Michael's forgiveness. She cleaned the kitchen again; she dusted off all of her little knickknacks. She called the restaurant to make sure everyone had shown up and to tell Peter the day manager that she'd be in later in the afternoon. Then she did the laundry, including all the bedding--even the bedding that didn't need to be laundered. She vacuumed the floors upstairs and down; she mopped the kitchen again, cleaned the bathrooms, polished the silver, rearranged the china cabinet, cleaned the oven in and out, and re-papered the kitchen cabinets. She cooked a massive meal and then called David and Brian and told them they were coming over for dinner. She wouldn't take no for an answer. She wasn't about to lose her entire family over this.

Finally, when there was nothing else to do, she picked up the phone and dialed Michael's cell phone number. Then she promptly hung up. What if Michael actually picked up the phone? What the hell was she really prepared to say to him. More importantly, what was she prepared to hear him say? What if she talked to him and he told her he was never coming back and it was all because of her and her lies? What if he told her he hated her and never wanted to see her again?

Debbie sank down into one of the kitchen chairs and started crying. She knew Michael would be back. There was just no way he could stay gone for good. He wouldn't do that to her. He just needed some time to think things through. Once he did, he'd realize she never meant for any of this to happen. He'd forgive her and then things could go back the way they used to be between them. But even as this thought passed through her mind, Debbie knew that even if Michael forgave her, things would never be the same. This lie would always be between them. Michael would never forget. He'd always know and he'd always have this little piece of him that no longer trusted her. A piece of himself would always question the truth of her statements.

~~~~~~~

Ben tried not to look at Michael as he entered the back door rather hesitantly. He did see that even though Michael hadn't completely cleaned up, he had knocked at least two layers of dust off himself. Michael's hair, which had been a lackluster gray, now resembled the silky, black radiance of its natural state. His face, which had been smudged by what must have seemed like decades of dust, dirt, and neglect, was now bright and brilliant.

~~~~~~~

Ben felt himself being drawn in, so again he busied himself with the business of doing the dishes. There was something there when Michael looked at him; he wasn't sure what it was. He wanted to find out, but something in him cringed at the mere thought of it. That part of him that still mourned for everything that had gone before gnawed at him, reminded him--as if he could ever forget, as if he ever wanted to. However, his interest as well as his curiosity was piqued. He found he wanted to know everything there was to know about the raven-haired Michael Charles Novotny. Ben wanted to know about the origin of the small, almost undetectable glint of sadness in Michael's eyes. You could see it just around the edges; it looked as if a star had gone dead in the night sky. One was wont to notice it because of the sheer resplendence of the light surrounding it. Having experienced that kind of death in his own personal night sky, Ben recognized it immediately. It made him want to reach out and touch Michael, to hold him and comfort him until there was no more sadness, no more pain. He wanted to understand Michael's apprehension, to talk about the family he clearly loved but from whom he had to remove himself. He wanted to know about the person Michael had said he was missing on his previous trip. Ben found he wanted so much and yet he felt like he deserved so little.

~~~~~~~

Ben's thoughts were interrupted when Michael began to speak.

"I thought maybe we should get started," Michael said, entering the kitchen like a small child about to steal a freshly baked cookie and run.

"Don't you wanna shower first?" Ben asked.

"I figured--what the hell, I already look like shit. I might as well get to work," Michael replied, looking at his soiled clothes and smiling brilliantly at his host.

Ben smiled and averted his eyes once more. "You might be dusty but you don't look like shit."

"Thanks for saying so. But...um...I know how I look. I got a good look at myself in the mirror in the guest house."

"We can start tomorrow. You have a cell phone, don't you? Why don't you get settled and call your family--"

Michael's smile waned a little. "I'd rather not talk about my family."

"Michael--"

"I need to do something, so if you'd rather not start now then just point me in the right direction," Michael said, the light returning to his smile.

~~~~~~~

As Michael was stacking boxes for cataloging he found his energy waning as if, with every movement, his strength was slowly oozing out of his body. At first he attributed it to not having really slept and having done so on the love seat--not the most comfortable place to lay one's head in hopes of a restful slumber. His head began throbbing; he was sweating; his breath was shallow and darkness slowly descended upon him.

~~~~~~~

About an hour later, Ben went to check on Michael's progress and found him on the floor. As quickly as he could, he walked over to the prone figure on the floor and knelt down beside him. Ben could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He placed his hand on Michael's forehead and felt the heat emanating from him. Michael was burning up.

As best he could manage it, Ben half carried, half dragged the semi-conscious Michael into the house and lay him on the couch. Michael kept telling someone named Brian to leave him alone, that he was fine. Ben's heart fell a little. Who the hell was Brian?

Ben went into the kitchen and filled a salad bowl with cool water. He grabbed the unused drying cloth and brought both back into the living room. Michael's eyes were half open as if he were seeing the room, but not really.

"Brian?" Michael called.

"No. It's me, Ben."

"Where am I?" Michael asked while trying to sit up.

Ben gently pushed him back down after placing the bowl on the coffee table.

Michael allowed himself to be pushed down. He was moaning as in pain and his voice sounded hoarse and scratchy.

Ben placed the cloth in the bowl of water then placed in on Michael's forehead. After Michael had closed his eyes in a sort of half sleep, Ben proceeded to take off Michael's dirty shirt. Ben gave an audible gasp at the sight of the nearly flawless alabaster skin. He took the cloth and bathed Michael's chest with it, letting his covered hand linger a little longer than was absolutely necessary.

After He'd finished, Ben went back to the kitchen to replenish the water which had become warm. On his way back to Michael, he snatched a few more towels. When he entered the living room, Paul was hovering over Michael like a fucking vulture.

"Get the fuck away from him," Ben snapped. He was surprised at the level of emotion in his voice.

"Why should I?"

"Get away from him," Ben repeated more firmly--and Paul was gone.

Ben walked over to the couch and knelt beside it. He loosened Michael's pants and began to pull them down, very careful of where he put his hands. Regardless of his altruistic intentions, he let the back of his hands glance over Michael's heated flesh. After removing the sneakers and socks and pulling the pants the rest of the way off, Ben used the water and towels to bathe Michael's body again.

"David I'm scared," Michael muttered.

"Shh. It's okay Michael. You're gonna to be fine," Ben said, wondering who the hell David was.

~~~~~~~

Brian couldn't stand it when Michael got sick. He'd run and hide until Michael was feeling more like himself. Michael understood that it wasn't a lack of love on his Brian's part. It was just that his younger brother couldn't bear to see Michael looking so weak after his attacks. When Brian was five years old, Michael had a massive asthma attack--so massive that he was in the hospital for two weeks. When he got home, Brian was terrified to touch him. He walked around Michael as if he were a piece of fine China that would break at the slightest disturbance of the air around him.

Whenever Michael got sick it was always David who made him feel safe. It was David he wanted--even more than his father. David just had this way of being so sure everything was going to be all right. He'd hold Michael, put his hand on Michael's chest, and place Michael's trembling hand on his own chest. He'd coax Michael into breathing like him. David would take slow, deep breaths while looking Michael in the eye. If David was ever scared, he never showed it. He'd be so sure of himself that Michael would start to relax. His eyes never wavered; his breath never caught. David's voice was always so calm and soothing--like a balm covering Michael.

Whenever Michael went to the hospital in the middle of the night it was always David and their father that took him. David would be there holding his hand making sure Michael knew he was there at all times. Michael would relax and stop fighting the medicine. He could sleep because his older brother was there to fight all the demons, to chase away all the ghosts. It was a side of David that Michael missed as he grew older. A side that was suppressed as David got older and had to more and more be the man of the house even before their father left. It was a side that hardened and crusted over leaving behind who David was now--who he had to be in order for this not to fall apart. That gentleness was so far removed from who David was now that sometimes Michael thought it was a dream he'd been having when he was sick.

He wanted David now. He was scared, and alone in the dark, and something was there staring at him.

"David, where are you? I'm scared...Hold my hand."

Michael felt a cool hand on his forehead and heard a voice--new, but familiar--soothing him, calling to him, bringing him back to the surface of his fevered mind.

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