Sequel to "Intimations of Mortality"

[emylye]

Disclaimer: No infringement intended.

Sequel to: Intimations of Mortality

Pairing: Brian/Michael (Michael/Ben and Brian/Justin in background)

Rating: R for language

Notes: Pretty much AU after Michael and Ben got together

*****

LEARNING TO BREATHE

Chapter 1

"Michael on line one," Cynthia announced.

Brian picked up, spinning his chair around so he didn't see her appear in the doorway to ask a follow-up question. "Hey, Mikey," he grinned. "What'd you break?"

"Don't laugh at me." The tone was between disgusted and resigned.

"What is it this time?" In the two days since he'd moved in, they'd both been surprised to learn how hands-off Michael had always been with Brian's stuff. Where Justin had used every appliance, Michael still didn't know the idiosyncrasies of the remote control-stereo setup. He'd let Brian do the driving.

"I pushed a button and now everything's in Spanish," Michael grumbled.

He was in that seriously-cranky, five-days-into-the-flu stage. Still not up to going back to work--Vic was handling the store, and Michael was even considering hiring a part-time clerk--but not needing to sleep twenty-four hours a day, either.

The move into the loft had gone smoothly. Too smoothly. Brian kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to confront them with the realization that something major had to have preceded this decision. To put Michael's flu and ten lost pounds and Ben's sudden departure together with Brian's new solicitousness and the roommate thing and guess.

No one did. Everyone seemed to accept it as a temporary arrangement while Michael got over Ben's defection to Tibet.

Brian caught unexpected depths of pain lurking in Justin's blue eyes when he wasn't supposed to be looking. Shit. They'd have to deal with that at some point, he'd thought at the time. But what was the kid grieving over? The ending of an almost-relationship?

"So, what's the problemo?" he teased Michael now, possibly ill-advisedly. "We took Spanish. Porn is porn in any language."

"I wasn't watching porn, I was watching a fucking movie, and we never got beyond 'the pen of my aunt is on the table'," Michael snapped. "So I either need a gorgeous Latin translator or for you to tell me how to undo what I did."

Wow, he was even nastier than yesterday. OK, Michael had put up with Brian's shit over the years. Brian could do this. "Hmm, let's see, Ricardo's got spinning class on Tuesday mornings..." he said.

"Brian, for fuck's sake." Michael seemed to be having an issue with more than the remote.

"You want me to come home?" Brian asked, sitting forward. Although he hadn't seen as many panic attacks in the last two days, he didn't trust that Michael wasn't having them when he wasn't around.

"Just tell me how to work the damn thing. But yeah," Michael's voice softened, "if you felt like having lunch here again, that'd be good."

"I was planning to. What should I bring today? Italian or deli?"

"Mm, deli."

"Give me your order." Brian looked up to see Cynthia staring in amazement. He gave her a 'yes, can I help you?' look, and she vanished.

"Surprise me," Michael said. "Except about the sudden all-Telemundo problem. What should I do?"

"I don't know. There's a manual somewhere. Let me think. Try the cabinet under the TV."

"Nope."

"Well, at least look."

"Brian, I did. I didn't just call first thing. I tried pushing every button alone, then every combination of buttons, then I searched your place for a manual."

Brian smiled. "You can call first thing."

"No, I did the 'little wife' routine when I was living with David. This is weird enough without me feeling pathetic."

"OK, try the cabinet in the kitchen above the refrigerator."

"The one twelve feet off the floor?" Michael asked petulantly.

Brian laughed. "Yep. Some of us aren't as vertically-challenged as others."

"Some of us hide stupid shit really high," Michael mumbled. "Hang on, I have to climb up on the..."

"Mikey, don't do that!" The words were out before Brian could stop them, and he heard Lindsay-as-supermom in them, grimaced. "Uh, I mean, be careful."

"Got it. I can figure it out now. Thanks."

"I'll see you at about twelve-thirty, then."

"Great. Bye."

Brian disconnected and sat, looking at the phone. He hoped it was just being stir-crazy (well, and the lurking terror that he'd been infected with HIV) that was responsible for Michael's snappishness--not regretting the move.

If anyone was supposed to regret it, it was Brian, right? He was the one giving up his freedom, his space, his castle. He was the one changing his free-to-fuck lifestyle without so much as a day's notice.

Not that Michael had asked him to, but Brian had promised to be there through the months of waiting out test results, and somehow he thought 'being there' didn't include asking Michael to make himself scarce while he brought tricks back to the loft. No one had asked him to stop altogether, and Brian wasn't sure he would--or could--but he didn't plan to do it around Michael.

And for the time being, where Michael was, Brian would be. With the exception of work.

Longest goddamn day of his life had been yesterday, even with a reassurance break at lunchtime. He kept thinking Michael might fall asleep and have another nightmare, or be wide awake and have whatever you call waking nightmares that are completely based in potential reality. Panic attack didn't cover it, really, but for lack of a better term...

"Brian, I have a few things to go over with you, and the Miller report is complete," Cynthia said. "How about we grab lunch and work through?"

He smirked at her. "How about you bite my ass?" he said.

She giggled. "So now you're bringing him meals. And people say you have no heart. I think they've just been looking in the wrong body."

His smile dropped. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You look heartless because someone else has custody," she said, holding her ground. "Don't even bother to deny it, because when you talk to him, you're like a thirteen year old girl talking to her first boyfriend."

"Fuck you," he said mildly. "Was there a work question, or did you just come in here to give me shit?"

"To give you shit," she began, but at his glower she changed her answer. "Work," she said quickly. "I know you don't want to travel this week, but it might be inevitable."

"Death and taxes," he snapped.

"Sorry?"

"It's not inevitable. Tell me the issue and I'll solve it without going."

The rest of the morning was taken up with averting the trip to the client, who only wanted to parade Brian around like a trophy--for once, not a sex trophy but a business one. Brian understood how the game was played, but he wasn't leaving Michael to stand in front of a roomful of weasels and praise a man he thought would look better in a pine box.

There was always *something* you could do instead. And, again, sometimes it wasn't even sexual.

When he finally got to the loft, it was half an hour past when he'd said, so he assumed the silence that answered his greeting was punishment. If Michael didn't get better soon, Brian was going to have to hire a full-time entertainer. Or a hitman. Who knew his best friend had latent ADHD?

But Michael wasn't sulking; he was asleep in Brian's--well, now their--bed. Fully dressed, under the covers, and Brian still couldn't get used to how natural it felt to see him there. It had always--every time--been grating to catch sight of Justin sprawled, at ease, in Brian's home.

He told himself it had only been two days. Soon the choking sensation--'get out; this is my sanctuary'--would begin, and he'd war with himself between the desire to offer comfort to Michael and the long-held need to keep his place to himself.

Right now, though, he'd never been so glad to see a man in his bed.

With no prospect of having sex with him. Unbelievable.

"Hey," he said, sitting on the other side of the bed and flopping back so his head hit the pillow beside Michael's.

Brown eyes opened and focused slowly. "Hey."

"You still want lunch?"

"Not really," Michael said, "but I'll get up. Can't promise to stay awake, though."

"Sleep."

"You came back. I'll get up."

"You don't have to."

"My one chance to talk to anyone in person until tonight. Believe me, I have to," said Michael, a little more awake and a lot grouchier.

"Feeling lousy?" Brian asked. Michael shrugged. "Fever?" He shrugged again. "High one?"

"I didn't check."

"Then how do you know?"

Michael sat up. "What?"

"I said... "

"I heard you, but what a dumb question."

"Is it?"

Michael sighed. "Yes. You just know. You get dizzy and too warm but cold, with sort of a rushing feeling in your head."

"Sounds like poppers," Brian grinned. "What're you complaining about?"

"Yeah, but instead of a burst of manic energy, it's like someone pulled the plug, and you get really sleepy." Michael gestured to the bed. "So you sleep." He laughed. "You're putting me on." Brian shrugged. "You've been sick before."

"Nope."

"I was there. The time in high school, after the field trip."

"Which field trip?" Brian was still on his back, looking up at Michael with wonder. He had to be making it up.

"The one to the historic recreation place, where they spun yarn and churned butter and bored us off our asses. Christ, the worst field trip ever. In eleventh grade? We rode back on the bus together and you were already getting sick then."

Brian sat up, licked his lips. "Oh, I remember that trip. I blew the guy who demonstrated sheep shearing. Behind the cottage," he reminisced. "And our old bitch teacher almost walked right into us. What was her name?"

"Mrs. Carstairs," Michael said. "You don't remember the bus ride back?"

Brian smiled. "Sure. Sitting in the back with you. Making fun of how lame it was. Talking about how life would've sucked back then. Without TV and movies."

"And showers," Michael agreed. "And rock music." He shivered. "I can't believe you don't remember being sick, though. I was so worried about you, having to go home to..." He trailed off. No need to say it. The Kinney household had been dangerous ground even when Brian was in perfect shape.

Brian shook his head. "I don't remember that." He met Michael's eyes. "I only choose to remember the good parts of high school."

"Which were?"

"Sex and laughter."

"Well, I know I didn't supply the sex," Michael said.

"Nope, but you were responsible for a hundred percent of the laughter," Brian said. "The rest of it, it's like it happened to someone else sometimes." Not always. Not when he came too close to his family, like at his father's travesty of a memorial service. But often.

As often as he could manage.

"I'm glad you didn't block everything out," Michael said. "You probably have to get back to work, right?"

"Yeah, let's eat."

Michael had a few bites of the turkey sandwich and about half the Vanilla Coke Brian had brought; he had no interest in the brownies. His mood, which had temporarily improved while talking in the bedroom, headed quickly south, and he finally snapped that he was going back to sleep and flopped onto the sofa, covering his face with a pillow like a spoiled four year old.

Brian should've been pissed, fed up, disgusted. He should've been sort of unsurprised that when he took on the responsibility of looking after Michael, he wound up saddled with his crummy attitude. That he got stuck with Michael's crap as well as his own.

But the only emotion that was real--that wasn't something Brian would say for effect, because people would expect it of him, even as they disliked him for it--was worry.

Wasn't Michael supposed to be feeling better by now?

Could things begin this fast, despite what all the web sites said about HIV infection?

He covered his best friend with a blanket and went back to work, but before he did, he scribbled a note and left it where Michael would see it.

*****

"Come on, you'll like them. And then we'll both be the same."

"I don't need steroids," Michael protested to his built lover, as the needle approached his neck. "And why the hell would I want them in my neck?"

"It's what I want that counts," Ben growled, his blue eyes incandescent with lust and something else. His hand shook slightly as he extended the syringe, and a drop of clear liquid fell on Michael's bare chest.

"Jesus, Ben! What is your problem?" Michael snapped.

"Call me Onatopp," Ben hissed, using an incongruous Russian accent. His eyes sparked in a way that would have been sexy if he hadn't suddenly tightened his thighs painfully on Michael's torso.

"Ow! Fuck, Ben! That hurts."

"I said, call me Onatopp." Now Ben's voice was silky, more feminine. He was moving up Michael's body, muscular thighs clenching.

"And I said, I don't want steroids."

"You just assumed this is steroids, little man. It's HIV. Now take it!" said Famke Janssen, as she plunged the needle into his throat.

Michael's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright, because even in a dream he wouldn't be having sex with a woman-- and where the fuck had Ben gone? Shit, he was freezing; the blanket he'd somehow wound around him like a shroud felt as insubstantial as a net, and his t-shirt was damp. Last time he watched a James Bond movie (half in Spanish) with the flu, he thought.

There was a sharp pain in his throat that hadn't been there when he fell asleep, and he reached for the can of soda on the coffee table and saw the piece of paper with Brian's handwriting on it:

*I remember you brought the entire contents of your mom's medicine cabinet to school in your backpack the next day. See you tonight.*

Trying to swallow made him cough, and once he started he couldn't stop. It had been a while since Michael had an asthma attack, but you never forget the sensation of needing to work harder to pull in air, and for a minute he wondered if it was going to progress to a situation where he needed to hunt for his inhaler... or worse. But once the cough stopped, his lungs calmed and he was able to breathe normally again.

Congested, though, and that wasn't good; it was one of the things the doctor had told him to watch for in the list of possible complications of the flu. Fuck. If he told Brian, he wasn't going to get back to the store this week.

Michael felt an itch under his skin being away from *his place* even a few days.

He knew Vic was taking perfect care of it, just as he knew Justin had on Saturday. It wasn't that. It was ownership, responsibility, the first place that had ever been his own. It maybe wasn't that the store needed him as much as he needed it.

He felt better there. He didn't think about... everything.

He had to go in tomorrow. And Brian was--atypically in the extreme, even given the HIV-scare stuff--hovering over Michael. So that meant somehow Michael had to hide that he felt like shit from Brian when he was less than five feet away most of the night.

Good luck.

Ordinarily, he could get him to go out and get laid with just a suggestion. Hell, ordinarily it wouldn't take a suggestion for Brian to want to go fuck. But these were not ordinary circumstances.

Michael got off the sofa carefully, aware that the skipped lunch made more of a difference after a few weeks of not eating well than it would have before. He went to the bathroom and rummaged through the thousand products Brian had purchased, trying to find even one that would decrease his symptoms without increasing his spacey dizziness.

Catching sight of his reflection, he frowned. Had to fool more than Brian, and kids could be ruthless in their honesty. OK, one thing at a time.

He swallowed some flu pills, sprayed his throat, and popped a cough drop in his mouth, then peeled his clothes off and started the shower. Look your best to feel your best. Ha. Well, look half-human to feel half-human.

New comic superhero idea. Amazing Flu-Boy. Nyquil-Guy.

Maybe he wouldn't get Justin to sketch that one.

By the time Brian got home, Michael had worked on his script. He showed sufficient interest in dinner, kept up his end of the conversation, and avoided all discussion about his health until they were getting ready for bed.

Which was going to be an interesting topic soon. So far, it hadn't been much different than any other crisis-intervention; Brian and Michael had been sharing bed-space during bad times for so long it was second nature. Even last night, Michael had been feeling so lousy he'd gotten under the covers hours before Brian. But tonight he was pretending otherwise.

That meant--what? Flirt. Say something. At least a remark. Because, well, who was going to point out first that Brian had said they'd be living together like Michael and Emmett, but Michael and Emmett had never shared a bed? And Michael and Emmett weren't madly attracted to one another, either.

Not that they could do anything about it. Brian still had a small scab on his bottom lip. And Michael... Michael had god-knows-what floating in his fucking bloodstream, thanks to an insufficiently-strong condom.

Then there was the problem of cuddling with Brian tonight, when Michael wanted him to think he was completely fine. One touch of Michael's too-warm skin would show that to be a lie. But how would he avoid the thing he loved most, being close with Brian any time?

It was a conundrum, and Michael didn't feel up to solving it.

He just wanted to go to sleep and wake up feeling as well as he was faking.

Come on. Five days of the flu was enough, already.

As Brian languidly tossed his clothes into a corner of his closet and Michael suppressed a shiver that he was damn sure had more to do with his incredibly beautiful best friend than his own elevated temperature, he said casually, "I told Vic I wouldn't need him tomorrow since I'm better."

From the way Brian's bare back and perfect ass froze in position, Michael figured his next words wouldn't be, 'oh, great idea.' He was right. "You fucking did what?" Brian growled.

"It's my store," Michael said. "Not Vic's. I can't ask him to take it on indefinitely."

"It's a few days. He doesn't mind."

"I don't think it's great for him to work full days."

"He'd tell you if he couldn't handle it."

"He never would. And Ma'd kill me if anything happened while he was helping me."

"Oh, and she'll be thrilled if you make yourself sicker by going back too soon."

"Remember the conversation we had on Saturday about my age?" Michael grinned.

Brian shrugged. "You've stopped me from doing stupid things."

"As I recall, you pointed out they were your choices to make." He was referring both to the client who wanted Brian for a fuck toy and to Kip Thomas-two situations of many where he'd tried to steer Brian away from bad decisions.

Hazel eyes regarded Michael intently. "You're sure you're better?"

Michael fought against a tickle in his throat that chose an inopportune time to begin. If he started coughing now, he'd lose this fight on the spot. He channeled Brian's own careless delivery. "I fucking said I am, didn't I?"

Brian smiled. "Yeah, you did. OK, fine. You're a grownup. You want to go back too soon, I can't stop you."

Michael looked at him. "Yeah?" Speaking of 'too soon,' Brian had given up suspiciously fast.

"Yep." Brian laughed. "You wanted to bicker? I have work to do." He stood and pulled on a pair of pants as he left the room with a soft, "Night, Mikey."

Michael watched him go. Hadn't he been about to go to sleep? Then again, Michael was cutting into Brian's usual action in a huge way. Maybe he was going to surf some good porn sites. Hell, maybe even go out for a while. They were grownups, as Brian had just pointed out.

They'd made one another no promises. Michael didn't even want any. He sure as shit wasn't going to ask Brian to stop fucking. Even if they'd been talking about being together as more than roommates, which they totally weren't...

And fuck, his mind was not going there, not now. Please not now, not when Michael already felt so lonely--yes, lonely, even living with Brian--and scared and really, despite the bravado of tonight, incredibly shitty still.

Hot tears ran down Michael's face, and he burrowed into his pillow to muffle any sound he made as he cried. He'd cried over Brian before, but it was riskier when he was right in the next room.

*****

Brian nodded and smiled and fantasized about what it would feel like to drive his fist through the gleamingly tan face of the middle-aged man who was regaling him with a story about his summer cottage and the incompetent builders he'd hired. Then he decided he liked the Armani suit he was wearing too much to get blood on it and instead thought about the pleasure of hurling his purple-glazed vase into the wall just beside the client's right ear. Just for the sheer joy of seeing him jump.

And stop fucking talking.

If this jackass didn't own half of Philadelphia...

Cynthia knocked once and stuck her head in. "Brian, you have a phone call."

Roger Phillips frowned thunderously in the manner of someone who has gotten used to never, ever having one of his anecdotes interrupted and has come to think of it as a God-given right. The privilege to bore unimpeded.

Brian held up a hand and said, "Not right now," while shooting the asshole an appeasing look.

She shrugged slightly. "He said to tell you it's about the captain?"

Brian was on his feet in one fluid motion. "Cynthia, would you keep Mr. Phillips company? Roger, excuse me a moment."

Shit, shit, shit. He punched the button. "Justin, what's going on?"

"You were right. He looks worse than on Saturday. He told me he's fine, but he's white and sweaty and you can hear his breathing about a block away."

"Fuck me," Brian said softly. "Is he running a fever?"

In the background he heard Michael tell Justin to get the fuck away from him. Justin came back on, laughing a little. "How the hell are you putting up with him? He is the worst patient ever. Yeah, he feels like a furnace. If you can make him leave, I don't have any more classes today."

Another expletive from Michael was followed by a burst of coughing, and the phone clicked off. Brian looked at it, furious and frustrated, and then dialed the store. It rang ten times before Justin picked up, sounding less amused.

"It's me," Brian said. "Why'd you fucking hang up?"

"Sorry, it's a little nuts in here, and I wanted to get Michael in back. I figure TB isn't exactly good for business." Justin was regaining his sense of humor.

"Is he all right?"

"Well, coming in here was definitely one battle you shouldn't have let him win," Justin said, and Brian gritted his teeth, "but I guess so. Does he have asthma or something?"

"Not as much now, but when he was younger a lot. Why?"

"He seems to be having a hard time catching his breath. But if it's asthma maybe it's not such a big deal. I kind of thought it sounded like walking pneumonia. This one time, my mom had it, and the only thing she had was she lost her breath when she went up the stairs. Well, and she didn't feel well. She thought it was the flu, but they x-rayed and found pneumonia."

Brian glanced back at his office, where Cynthia appeared to be plotting violence against Roger Phillips. And Brian, too. Shit. If Justin hadn't said that, he could have let Michael drive himself home. But now he *had* said it, Brian couldn't un-hear it. Shit.

Brian had known Michael for eighteen years, and for most of those, he'd had to listen to Debbie exhorting her son not to catch his death of cold... only in Michael's case, it wasn't just Debbie's way with a hackneyed phrase; it was a real fear. Because of his asthma, respiratory infections were more dangerous and had gotten out of control a few times, scaring Debbie badly enough that she put extra stock in woolen accessories.

The thought of what Debbie would have to say if she found out they hadn't reacted quickly enough provided the final spur he needed. He stuck his head into his own office in much the same gesture Cynthia had used. "Roger, Cynthia will be your hostess through lunchtime. You and I will pick up with an in-depth evaluation of your campaign at three o'clock. And don't forget to order the tenderloin you said you wanted. Cynthia, a quick word?"

She followed him to her desk, eyebrows raised. "The captain?" she asked. "I've never heard you call him that before."

"What?" Brian asked distractedly, running his hands through his pockets, checking for keys, phone, and wallet. "Yeah, well, just wanted something Rog wouldn't pick up on."

"I can't believe you're leaving me with him," she moaned. "He's such a prick."

"You wanted more responsibility," he told her without pity. "He's perfect practice. And I've got news for you. They're all pricks. I'll do my best to be back by three, but we're going to the doctor's office, so who the fuck knows how long it'll take. Stall him for me however you can, OK?"

She made a lewd face and he made one back, and they both smiled. "Tell Michael I hope he feels better," she said.

Brian nodded tightly. "I'll call you with my ETA. Feel free to show Phillips anything he wants to see, introduce him to the creative team if he's interested... you know the drill."

"Just go," she said, giving him a push.

When Brian got to the store, Justin was ringing up a sale, but the relief on his face at Brian's arrival didn't do much for Brian's own serenity. He bypassed the customers and headed directly toward the back, where he found Michael either finally willing or forced to admit to illness, lying on a set of boxes pushed together.

Justin hadn't exaggerated. Michael hadn't looked great this morning, but if he'd resembled a corpse, Brian wouldn't have let him out the door.

"Mikey, is it your asthma?"

"Don't know. Feels similar," Michael said. One hand rested on his chest, and his breathing was uneven and wheezy.

"Sit up," Brian said, helping him do so. "Any better like this?" he asked.

"No," Michael said, coughing.

"You want to go back and try your inhaler, or go to the doctor's office?" Brian said. When Michael kept coughing, he added, "or the emergency room?" only half-kidding.

When Michael stopped, he said, "Doctor, I guess."

"Yours or mine?"

"Mine. It's walk-in."

"OK. Let's go."

"Justin said he came by to see if the new issues of Rage came in and say hi."

"Uh huh. Put this on," Brian said, handing Michael his coat.

"Bullshit."

"What, you mean bullshit like you were feeling well enough to work today?" Brian challenged. Michael didn't answer. "I called and asked him to check on you. I couldn't, because I have this asshole from Philly here and I'm supposed to be doing a dog-and-pony show, making him feel like the most important person in my world. I knew if I called, you'd lie, like last night. And I didn't want to wait till tonight to find out if I made a mistake by not tying you to the bed this morning."

"Shit, you left a client for me?"

"As usual, Mikey, you focus on the least vital point of my comment."

"You knew I was lying."

"I figured you needed to find out for yourself it would take a few more days before you felt better. I didn't count on you sounding like this, though."

"Shit," Michael sighed. "Twice to see fucking doctors and it's still too early to test. It's like a conspiracy to make me lose my mind."

Or mine, Brian thought grimly. They walked out, exchanging a quick word with Justin, who was busy with customers.

He'd never felt so antsy sitting in a waiting room before--but then, he'd never been so pissed at Michael, either. He'd known Michael was acting the night before, but not the extent. Now he didn't trust anything Michael told him, which meant he wanted to hear from the doctor himself, and he had no way to get the doctor to talk to him.

He was no one. Just the best friend.

He hated that he was angry, because Michael didn't deal well with Brian getting mad at him.

No, not true. When he was OK, Michael coped with it better than just about anyone--except, maybe, for Justin, who was almost uncannily cocky. The kid didn't even have to pretend not to care. He genuinely didn't mind when Brian was enraged.

Probably one of the reasons they'd lasted as long as they had.

Right now, though, Michael didn't just have the flu, and Brian had to remember that. The HIV exposure was a magenta elephant sitting in a corner of the loft. They both saw it; neither referred to it. Denial was an interesting coping mechanism. Although it had always been Brian's chosen one, he was used to supplementing selective memory with copious drugs.

In the absence of illegal substances, Brian had to admit the elephant was more noticeable than he'd expect. One might even say it stank. If he hadn't known better, he'd have suspected it was leaving brightly-colored piles of dung in his apartment.

Michael still wasn't sleeping deeply or calmly. His eyes were haunted. He could *not* withstand Brian's anger turned full-force on him right now.

When Michael came out, he had a handful of samples and prescription slips and a slightly stunned look on his face.

"Ready to go?" Brian asked, and Michael nodded. "What're those? Need to fill them on the way home?" Another nod, and Michael passed the pieces of paper to Brian, who scanned them. "Antibiotics. Expectorant. For what?"

"Sinusitis. Bronchitis." Michael didn't meet Brian's eyes. "There's a lab sheet, too. If you have time, I'm supposed to get an x-ray."

Brian closed his own eyes briefly. "I can make time," he said. "Check for pneumonia?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck."

"Going to the store was stupid," Michael began.

"It was, but it's not like you ran a marathon," Brian said.

Michael looked at him in surprise. "I thought you wanted to kill me."

"Nah. Let's get going."

After the hospital, they stopped by the drugstore. It was almost two, and Brian was trying not to get nervous. He didn't do nerves. But the face of Roger Phillips floated in his mind, brown and smooth as only a tanning bed and plastic surgeon's knife can render, with that self-satisfied set to his silky pink lips. Worm lips.

Brian had eased back on his account load in the last week, and he didn't plan to pick up to his normal pace, but Roger Phillips was an exception. Brian had targeted him, set up the meeting, and was wholly responsible for landing him. No way around it. He could pawn him off on Cynthia for only so long before the opportunity slipped away, and with it, a lot of Brian's credibility with Gardner Vance.

Biggest fucking account Brian had ever gone after. One hundred million dollars in advertising revenue per year. The man had about twenty products under his umbrella company. And Brian had found out he was unhappy with his current representation and looking for a change. Timing was everything. He had to do this today, not tomorrow. By then, Phillips could have decided he'd put up with slip-shod campaigns in exchange for being cowtowed to and ass-kissed by the assholes he'd been doing business with for ten years.

Today Brian intended to show him what sucked about their strategy. How they were missing the opportunity to maximize and increase the company's client base as a whole and within each product division. By tomorrow he intended for Roger Phillips to be signed, sealed, and delivered.

*That* should keep Gardner off his fucking back for the entire three to six months (they'd been thinking three, but Brian's doctor had said six was more accurate) while they waited out Michael's HIV status.

While Brian attempted to redesign the friendship into something else.

But he couldn't leave Michael alone today. Justin was still at the comic store. Which left... Brian pulled out his phone and dialed Emmett.

"Hi, it's Brian."

"Well... hi!" Emmett sounded surprised but happy to hear his voice. Or maybe that was just his Southern good manners. Brian was never sure.

"What're you doing this afternoon?"

"Nothing. I just finished five jerkoffs in a row--well, four were fake, but who's counting?" Emmett giggled. "Teddy said I could give my wrist a rest for the afternoon. Why?"

"Michael's flu has turned into about sixteen kinds of infections, and I have to go back to the office. I was wondering if you could come hang out with him till tonight."

"Of course I can. Oh, that's awful. It's a bad year for it. You want me to come over now?"

"Yeah. We'll be there in twenty minutes. We just finished at the hospital, and--"

"What were you doing at the hospital?"

"He had to get x-rays. They're worried in addition to bronchitis he's got pneumonia."

"God, poor thing. He looked terrible this weekend, but I figured by now he'd be feeling better. Does Debbie know?"

"No, and Michael wants to tell her himself." Brian knew if you didn't muzzle Emmett, he could be Telegraph Central. "So keep it to yourself until he has a chance to call her when he gets home."

"Sure I will. Is there anything special he needs?"

Brian blinked at the question. "I don't know. I'll find out before we get there. Thanks." The last word did double-duty, as the clerk handed him Michael's prescriptions and took his money.

When he got out to the car, Michael had the heat turned on high. "Freezing again?" Brian asked him, and Michael nodded. "Great," Brian sighed. "What'd the doctor say about the x-ray--that he'd call you?"

"I guess."

"Well, when?"

"I'm supposed to call the office tomorrow. Tell them if I've still got a fever. And if I'm coughing anything up." He made a face. "I'm a disgusting mess," he muttered.

"Yeah, but you're my disgusting mess. I'm stuck with you," Brian said in the light tone he always used when Michael got self-pitying. Michael just gave him a weak glare. "Shut up, you're not. So, about the x-ray?"

"I call at nine, when they open. Maybe he'll tell me then."

"Oh. OK. Wow." On one hand, Brian was glad they wanted to keep close tabs on Michael. On another, it was kind of frightening. "Emmett's going to come over."

"Fine."

"Anything else the doctor said to do? Or not do?"

"Do: sleep and drink. Not do: everything else," Michael said with a faint smile. "He said if I was sixty instead of thirty, he'd be concerned. As it is, I just have to get a *lot* of rest."

"Good. Of course, I said that and got shit for it," Brian complained.

"I know. I apologize times a billion. You were right and I was wrong." Michael started to cough. "Satisfied?" he asked when he caught his breath again.

"Yes. Stop talking."

Brian handed Michael off to Emmett and went back to the office, resenting Roger Phillips and his enormous account, and the whole damn agency, which all of a sudden was getting in the way of important things.

A week and a half ago, he might not have been capable of being honest enough to admit there was anything more important to him than winning. Now he could.

And now he was aware of his priorities, the time he had to put in at the office fell so low he just hoped his apathy didn't convey itself to the major tool he had to electrify for the rest of the day.

But Roger Phillips appeared suitably impressed with (or possibly well-sozzled by) lunch with Cynthia, and he was receptive to Brian's concept of blitzing the airwaves with a campaign that introduced his entire company rather than each individual product. Instead of elongating the pitch, Brian kept it concise, hoping to reel in Roger's somewhat inebriated focus.

Phillips signed on the dotted line--and at four-forty-five, no less. With Brian on one side and Cynthia on the other, Roger slid into his limousine to relubricate himself on the ride back to Philadelphia. As soon as the limo rounded the corner, Cynthia held up her hand for a high-five.

"A hundred-million-dollar account! You are simply amazing! I thought for sure he was going to make you wait until tomorrow!" she said jubilantly.

"He wasn't having any fun with me," Brian smirked. "But he liked the ideas. So I made it clear he could sign, get all the benefits, and be home in time to kiss his wife goodnight. Actually, I still don't know if that was an incentive, but he signed. Now, I have to get out of here."

"What's going on with Michael?" she asked as they approached Brian's car, and for a taut moment all Brian could think about was the HIV fear. How the fuck had Cynthia found out, and who else knew?

Then he remembered: flu, bronchitis. Normal shit. Only a little worse.

"He can't do anything the easy way," he shrugged. "Instead of flu, he has to get bronchitis and a sinus infection. The reason for the phone call today was he tried to go to work when he was nowhere near ready to be out of bed."

"Oh, nasty," she said, her eyes sympathetic. Then, more hesitantly, she added, "Is that it?"

"He had to get an x-ray. It sounds like the doctor suspects he's got pneumonia as well. They want him to call in the morning, which is... " Scaring the crap out of me.

"I'm sure that's just to make sure he's feeling better," she said, touching Brian on the arm. "I hope it's not pneumonia, though. That's a bitch to get over. So he's, ah... you're... " She broke off, blushing. "Never mind. None of my business."

"We're roommates. That's all. And best friends. Same as always," Brian added.

"Uh huh," she said.

"What's that mean?" They were at his car, but he paused, about to open the door.

"Just that it doesn't seem the same. *You* don't seem the same," she said. She smiled, dimples flashing briefly. "And I'd like to say it's an improvement, but it's not."

"Sorry?"

"Brian, I happen to get along great with the fire-breathing version of you, but that's not it, either. I'd be thrilled if you looked happy. If you were lightening up at work just to spend more time with Michael, you'd be glad about it. Instead you look like the weight of the world landed on you. I just hope whatever's going on with him--with both of you--works out all right." Before he could remark, she turned and left, calling over her shoulder, "Tell him I said get better soon. And I know my opinion doesn't count, but when you land the biggest client the agency has ever gotten, I think you can miss a day of work. Especially if you're a partner."

"I plan to. And so can my assistant," Brian told her. "That is, if you take care of the paperwork on Phillips tonight first. You can have the fun of telling Gardner, too."

"Woo hoo. You got it, boss," Cynthia hooted. "Call me if you need anything tomorrow, though."

"Above and beyond," Brian teased, though he appreciated the offer. He got into his car and sped toward the loft, feeling lighter than he had in hours. Not only was he going to see Michael, but he didn't have to leave again in the morning.

*****

"How'd it go?" he asked Emmett as he let himself in.

"Quiet," shrugged Emmett, looking up from the sofa. "Michael slept. I watched your TV, and now ours is going to seem incredibly tiny. I thought it was so luxurious, but just like all things," he winked, "size is relative, and now I need a bigger one."

"He slept the whole time?"

"Yeah. He took his stuff, called Debbie, who sounds frantic, and went to bed. He coughed a lot, but I checked and he was asleep, so I didn't wake him. I found absolutely nothing on until I landed on Turner Classic, and they were running a film festival. I only got to see one and a half Lana Turners, but that's still better than anything made these days."

Since that was an opinion Brian didn't share--and he knew better than to get into it with Emmett--he changed the subject. "Do you know if his fever broke?" Emmett shook his head. "No, you don't know?"

"No, I'm sure it didn't. He'd at least look a little sweaty if it had."

Brian nodded. "Well, thanks. You can go if you want."

"Yes, I have to get home to start dinner. Ted's coming over. I was going to make something for you, but as it turns out, you two don't seem to believe in groceries."

Brian smiled. "We believe in take out." Then he frowned. "Michael hasn't been eating, though."

"I noticed. Honey, he's looking super-thin. It's not like he had anything to spare." Emmett clucked. "Poor boy. He's really taken Ben's leaving badly. Not that I can't relate; of course I can."

You'd relate better than you know, Brian thought but didn't say. "He's just run-down," he said, trying for an approximation of his usual dismissive manner. He knew he'd failed by Emmett's sympathetic arm-squeeze.

"I know you're worried, sweetie, but he'll be fine. You're doing a good job taking care of him," Emmett added.

"Mm." Brian didn't trust himself to say more. "Tell Ted I'm sorry his dinner was held up." There, that time his intonation was Kinney-patented sarcastic; he saw Emmett's lips tighten.

"Whatever, honey. Call if you need me tomorrow. I think the schedule's equally clear, at least in the afternoon."

"I'm not going in," Brian said. "Landed Mr. Philadelphia earlier than planned."

"Ooh, was he adorable?" asked Emmett eagerly.

Brian laughed. "That was just our name for him. He was middle-aged and paunchy, although not by breeder standards, I suppose. Big account, so I'm taking tomorrow off. And my plans are to stay here and make sure Michael does the same."

Emmett patted Brian's arm again. What was with everyone and Brian's bicep? First Cynthia and now Emmett. Like there was a sign on it: please express pity here.

"He's lucky to have you."

Well, that was as wrong as it got, Brian thought, but he smiled again, his fake one, as he showed Emmett to the door and closed it after him.

Shit. Sleeping, coughing, feverish. No improvement. It had to be time for more aspirin, if nothing else. Brian went into the bedroom and lay down behind Michael, wrapping his arms around him and tucking his face into the back of his neck.

Michael stirred and started coughing. "Ben... get away from me," he protested hoarsely, shoving away from Brian.

"It's me, Mikey," Brian said. He sat up to show his face.

After a moment, Michael sat, too. "Sorry," he muttered. "I was dreaming." He shivered hard. "Ben was never rough, but lately, Jesus, these dreams... "

"It's OK," Brian said. He held out his arms, and Michael leaned into them. "God, no wonder you're having crazy dreams. What was your temperature last time you took it?"

"I don't know. High," Michael said into Brian's shoulder. "It's on the paper."

"What?"

Michael waved a hand vaguely. "In the living room by the phone. I wrote what the doctor said to do. One of the things was chart my temperature."

"You didn't tell me that before."

"I forgot," Michael shrugged. "You know me, not the best memory even on good days, and right now it feels like my head's floating away."

"Yeah, I bet. Let me get the thermometer and aspirin, and then we have to figure out what to do about dinner."

"I'm not hungry."

"You have to eat."

"No, just drink," Michael said.

"According to who?"

"Check the notes. It says that, too." Michael shivered again. "I want to get into warmer clothes. Any idea which box my sweatpants are in?"

"I don't think you have any more clean ones. I'll get you some of mine. Give me a minute, OK?" First Brian wanted to take a look at whatever Michael had written out.

He found the pad by the phone on the table in the living room, a scribbled brain dump of the doctor's appointment. It included when to go to the ER: 'if temp to 105, can't catch breath, or can't keep down meds and water' plus information Michael had quoted: 'food if you can, but drink water as much as possible' and 'chart temp every three hours.'

Underneath it was the first notation: 103 at 3:20 PM. The thermometer Brian had bought last Friday night sat on the notepad, proving it hadn't been used since.

As Brian picked it up, the phone rang. Caller ID showed a blocked number. Brian raised his eyebrow but answered it. "Hello?"

"Is Michael Novotny there?"

"Can I tell him who's calling?"

"This is Dr. Gruen."

"Oh, hang on." Brian ran the phone in to Michael. "It's your doctor," he told him with one hand over the receiver. "You OK to talk?"

Michael shrugged and took the phone. "Yes, hi. I wasn't expecting... Um, no, not really. Only once so far. Yeah, I think so. I haven't checked. Oh. OK. *No*. No way. Um, sure. In the morning still? OK, the afternoon. Fine. What? Brian. My best friend. Yes, sure. Anything we talked about." Michael held the phone out again. "He wants to talk to you."

Brian was surprised. He hadn't had to charm or threaten after all. Interesting. "Yes?"

"Brian? Sorry, I didn't catch your last name, and I didn't want to tire Michael out."

"It's Kinney."

"OK, well, Mr. Kinney, the reason I want to tell you what I told Michael is that, as at his appointment today, I was concerned he might not be quite following what I was saying."

"I'm sure he was. In fact, I saw his notes, so I know he was," Brian said acerbically, the way he spoke to anyone who cast aspersions on Michael's intellect.

"No, you misunderstand. I mean because of the high fever. Normally I wouldn't have any question, but under the circumstances... "

"Oh, OK. Good idea. He did seem to understand you fine, though."

"All right. I just heard from the hospital, and Michael does have early pneumonia in both lungs. Which doesn't change anything in terms of the antibiotics, or even the treatment, but I wanted to make sure there was someone else who knew about the situation."

"The hypotheticals for going to the ER that you gave," Brian said. "Those weren't based on anything he said, right?"

"Well, Michael is adamant that he doesn't need to be in the hospital. But with a history of asthma, any episodes of serious airlessness need to be handled as an emergency. And he mentioned he was having some nausea already. Antibiotics can increase that. If he can't hold down fluids or medications, the decision will be out of his hands."

That wasn't even close to what Brian had been hoping to hear. "You think he might belong in the hospital?"

"Not if the penicillin takes effect. Michael said he's only taken one dose so far, and that's not enough to have made a difference. So instead of calling first thing in the morning, I thought at noon, when he'll have two more full doses in him, or three total. We'll know then if it's the right medication. Will that work for you?"

That depends, thought Brian, on what kind of episodes of airlessness you expect him to experience. And when is 'airlessness' *not* serious? Shit. He needed Debbie.

"Sure. Fine. But is it OK that his fever's been going on for so long?"

"Well, how long has it been?"

"Six days now."

"With no breaks?" The doctor sounded surprised.

"Oh. No. That would be since yesterday."

"Well, that's a while, but if the antibiotics work, they'll bring it down, possibly during the night. Do you have any other questions?"

Brian looked at Michael, who'd lain back down and burrowed under the covers, showing no interest in Brian's conversation with his doctor. He dropped his voice and walked out of the room quickly. "Did he... bring up anything else when he saw you today?"

"You mean the HIV exposure?"

Oh, thank God. "Yes."

"He did, but it's too soon for even a preliminary test. All it would be at this point is a baseline, and that wouldn't be any help in reassuring him."

"We know. But Friday it'll be three weeks."

"You do understand the three-week test isn't really indicative of anything."

Fuck. What did Brian expect? Lies, from a doctor? "Yeah."

There was a short pause. "He already requested his first test, if that's what you're asking. Do you want to arrange one for yourself as well?"

"No, it wasn't me. It was his lover. Ex-lover."

"Who is HIV-positive?"

"Yes."

"I see. Well, it's certainly unfortunate."

Brian swallowed back seven more appropriate adjectives. "Yeah. All right. He or I will call tomorrow at noon."

"Sooner if you need to."

"Thanks." Brian hung up, wondering what the fuck that meant. He looked at the notes from the appointment again; sure enough, under the penicillin it said 'might cause stomachache or worse.' Fuck, if Michael lost another ten pounds he'd be a skeleton. Nice medicine. Brian almost hoped it didn't work; then maybe the doctor would replace it with something that got rid of the infections without making him feel terrible in new ways.

For the first time, as much as he wanted to be there for Michael, Brian began to wish he wasn't trying to fulfill his own or Michael's Rage-fueled vision of himself as Mr. Fix-it. He really needed backup. And Michael was his standard sidekick--or vice-versa, in most cases.

It was like this was the first test of whether he was worthy of Michael. Being with Michael. Could Brian handle this... 'twosome' thing Emmett had referred to? This forming of a bond that didn't allow for anyone else?

Ordinarily, sure. Hell, they'd formed that up in Michael's bedroom when they were fourteen. Solidified it in the balcony of the movie theater. Confirmed it with all the quick and not-so-quick kisses.

But this felt different, like a weight he couldn't carry alone. Or a decision he didn't trust Michael was making correctly and didn't want to make for him. Someone would know better than either of them.

No matter that they were grown men; sometimes you needed a mom.

Brian brushed his hand lightly over Michael's forehead and left the room again, dialing the number as he went. "Hi, Vic. It's Brian. Can I talk to Deb?"

"Hi, how's Michael doing?" Vic asked. "She's been loony since he called. Thinks he was lying through his teeth."

"Why, what did he tell her?"

"That he had bronchitis and was told to spend the rest of the week in bed," Vic said. "I have no problem covering the store, as I told him. And don't let him worry about me, either. I'm fine."

"Thanks," Brian said. "Well, he didn't lie, exactly. More like undersold the truth."

"What's going on? Shit, here's Deb," Vic added unnecessarily, as the phone was wrenched out of his hands.

"Brian? I knew it! What's really wrong with Michael? He sounds terrible." Debbie's naturally hyper voice was even more so.

Brian compressed his lips. Was this a good idea or a horrendous one? He took a quick breath and hoped he was making the right choice. *This* is why it was so much easier only caring about yourself. If you screwed up, so fucking what. "Debbie, he does have bronchitis, but he also has a sinus infection and pneumonia."

"Pneumonia? Oh, my fucking God! I'm coming right over, just let me... I'm getting my coat. What did the doctor say? I don't have any soup made, but let me see what I can... "

"Debbie, wait," Brian said, cursing silently as he listened to her lose it on the other end. A freaked-out Debbie Novotny wouldn't help anything. He'd been counting on the one who pulled it together when she had to, not fucking fell apart like a pile of pickup sticks. Shit. "Are you listening?"

"Yes. I'm not deaf, you know," she snapped.

He sighed. Good, sounded like she was gathering the sticks into a pile. He summarized what the doctor had said and what the day had been like, and told her soup would probably be as ignored as everything else he'd tried to get Michael to eat. "I just thought maybe you could come see him and tell me... how this compares to other times."

"You mean, to when he was sixteen," Debbie said flatly.

"Yeah," Brian said. Because that was the crux. He wanted someone else who knew what that had been like, so they could make sure Michael got nowhere near that sick again.

"I'll be there soon," Debbie said, no trace of flightiness left in her delivery.

Brian went back to Michael. "Mikey, I called your mom. She's coming over."

"Oh, good," Michael said fuzzily. "I miss her."

Brian frowned. He knew what Michael meant; he'd been staying away from the diner and his mother's house ever since the accident, afraid to reveal too much. He'd kept most of his contact with Debbie and Vic to the telephone, having decided when it first happened, just as he decided each day after, that he didn't want to burden them with it until he knew something.

Because maybe he'd get lucky and not have to tell them, ever.

Now, though, Brian worried that Michael would say something in his delirium that he would never choose to say to his mother otherwise. And then be furious at Brian for putting Deb through the HIV-fear he wanted to spare her.

This roommate-partner-boyfriend (well, not yet, but potentially) thing was complex.

Or maybe Brian just was not a natural. Fuck, everyone knew he wasn't.

What was he thinking? He couldn't do this.