Eternal Triangle

Dreams into Nightmares

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March 27, 2007-Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Brian checked the scrawled directions once again before squinting through the windshield at the partially obscured sign. This was it - the cabin that Michael had rented should be a mile or so down on the left side of the street. He turned down the dirt road, wincing as the Corvette vibrated on the washboard style surface. The digital clock on the dash read 4:42 a.m., and he was exhausted.

Finally spotting a mailbox labeled with the correct address, Brian turned into the driveway and parked the car in front of the small, rustic looking cabin. He reached into the back of the Corvette to retrieve his overnight bag, then locked the car doors before heading to the front steps. There was an envelope taped to the door, with his name printed in large letters on the outside.

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Brian,

Come on in - I left the door unlocked for you. I've gone to bed, since you probably won't be getting in until late.

I'm so glad you came up to the cabin, Brian. I really need you here with me right now.

Love,

Michael

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After sliding the note back into the envelope, Brian quietly opened the door and stepped into the warm cabin, dropping his bag on the floor near the entry and moving into the living area. He took his cell phone out of his pocket, then shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto the couch. Hitting the speed dial for the loft, he listened as it rang and rang. Frowning, he hit the disconnect button when the answering machine picked up, then tried Justin's cell phone. When the call went directly to voice mail, Brian cursed and closed his phone, laying it on the coffee table. He wanted to try Daphne's apartment, in the hope that Justin was over there, but didn't want to wake her. He'd call in the morning, after he got some sleep and dealt with Michael's latest crisis.

A quick look around the cabin showed that there was only the one bedroom, and Michael was sleeping on the left side of the double bed. Since he sure as hell didn't feel like sleeping on the couch, he decided there was enough room on the bed for both of them. Brian went back into the great room to retrieve his bag, then entered the bathroom and quickly got ready for bed.

Brian slid under the covers, lying on his side with his back toward Michael. Exhaustion swiftly overtook him, and he was soon asleep.

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"Her Majesty requests your presence in court." Blaise grinned at his lover as he tossed his cloak on the end of the bed. "You're to paint a portrait of one of her ladies in waiting."

Jerome rolled over and blinked sleepily up at Blaise. "How… how in the world does she even know I paint?" He eased himself upward until his back was braced against the pillows.

Blaise shrugged nonchalantly as he unlaced his doublet. "Perhaps one of her spies informed her of that fact." He peeled the velvet doublet off, revealing his white linen shirt underneath, then sprawled onto the featherbed beside Jerome.

Jerome suddenly pounced on his lover, holding Blaise's wrists above his neck. "Oh really? Well, I must thank the spy - properly - mustn't I?" He nibbled on Blaise's neck, causing him to arch up into Jerome's warmth, then he nipped an earlobe. "Thank you," he whispered, before he proceeded to seriously show his appreciation.

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Marilyn leaned against the diner counter, impatiently drumming the top with her nails. It was early and there weren't too many customers yet, so she couldn't figure out what was taking so long.

Looking around, she spotted Debbie talking to an elegantly dressed blonde woman who was seated at the other end of the counter. Marilyn smirked and wondered what on earth those two had in common. She pushed away from the counter and moved a little closer to the women, hoping to hear their conversation.

"I don't like it, Debbie," the blonde lady said. "It's just not like him."

Debbie stuck her pencil behind her ear and said thoughtfully, "Justin's been a little quiet lately. I'm sure you've noticed that he's lost weight." She smacked her gum a couple of times and added, "Of course, since he and Brian patched things up, he's been better."

The blonde sighed. "Yes. I know I'm just being a typical mother, but I can't help worrying about him." She glanced at her watch and sighed again. "He should have been here an hour ago. I can't wait any longer - I've got to get to work."

"I'll tell him you were here waiting, Jennifer. Don't stress out about him. I'm sure he's fine."

Jennifer gave Debbie a faint smile as she took several bills from her wallet and handed them to her. "Thanks, Debbie." Turning, Jennifer grabbed her coat and walked swiftly out of the diner.

Marilyn frowned as she considered the discussion she'd just overheard. Jennifer must be Justin's mom, and for some reason, he hadn't shown up for their breakfast date. 'Damn it,' she thought, 'I knew the kid was in danger.'

She eyed Debbie briefly. Debbie might know something about what was going on. After all, she was Michael's mother. The question was, how to approach the subject without pissing off the volatile redhead. Marilyn inhaled deeply then called out, "Hey, Debbie. Can I talk to you for a sec?"

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"I want you to move back in," Brian said quietly.

Justin looked startled. "Huh?"

"I said I'd like it if you and I were to live together."

"Are you proposing?" Justin asked tentatively.

"Of course not. With the sudden and unexpected plethora of gay marriages, I'd hate to add to the glut. All this running back and forth between here and Daphne's is time-consuming. And inconvenient. I mean, just last week, you forgot your socks and had to borrow a pair of mine. And as for the times when you're not around, I wouldn't particularly mind it if you were."

"I've been waiting for you to ask me that since the first night you brought me here."

Brian asked, "Well, then, what do you say? Should I make room in my drawers for your drawers?"

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Michael edged closer to the warm body in front of him, tightening his arm around Brian's waist, and sighed happily. Finally, his dream of waking with Brian had come true. Michael slowly brushed his hand down Brian's side to the waistband of his sweats and allowed his fingers to just dip inside. Leaning closer, Michael buried his nose in Brian's disheveled hair and took a deep breath. The merest hint of Brian's cologne remained, mixing in with Brian's own scent.

Pushing away as he felt his groin tighten, Michael rolled out of bed to get ready. There was breakfast to be made and the rest of the day to plan for. Michael swiftly dressed then paused in the doorway to look back toward the bed.

Brian had rolled onto his back, the quilt twisted around his legs. Michael grinned at the sight of Brian's morning erection, but resolutely turned and made his way to the kitchen. There would be plenty of time for sex later - right now, he was going to serve his lover a great meal in bed.

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Josiah glanced up from his sketchbook to look at Brendon. His lover sat opposite him, long legs outstretched as he stared into the fire, lost in his thoughts. A crease marred his forehead, and he occasionally took a sip from the glass of whiskey he held cradled in one hand. "Is everything all right, Brendon?" Josiah asked quietly.

Brendon started, his eyes shifting from the flames to meet Josiah's. "No, everything's fine," he said with a small smile, which actually looked more like a grimace.

Getting up from his chair, Josiah crossed over to stand behind Brendon. "Don't lie to me." He wended his fingers through Brendon's hair then slid his hands down his neck where he began massaging the terse muscles. "You're worried about something. Brendon, please tell me."

"What could I possibly have to worry about, with you here to take care of me?" Brendon arched his neck, giving Josiah better access to his shoulders.

"Brendon…"

Reaching around, Brendon grasped Josiah by the arm and pulled him between his legs. "All right. I received a disturbing letter from a friend in Boston today. The war goes poorly for the Americans."

"What can we do to help?" Josiah asked as he caressed Brendon's cheek with his fingertip.

Brendon watched the fire for a moment then looked back at Josiah. "Nothing tonight, love." He pushed lightly on Josiah, then stood up. "Tonight, I'm going to make love with you all night."

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Jennifer Taylor knocked firmly on the loft door. After Justin was a no-show at the diner, she'd decided to try his apartment. His next-door neighbor had told her he hadn't come home last night, so she was hoping he was staying over at Brian's. She waited for a minute, then knocked again, this time louder.

When that didn't work, Jennifer called out through the door. "Justin, open the door. This isn't funny!"

Silence.

Biting her lip, she turned to back to the elevator. As she stepped into it, she hesitated, thinking she'd heard a muffled noise, almost like a groan. When the sound wasn't repeated, she shrugged her shoulders and slid the gate closed, pushing the button for the ground floor. She was already several hours late for work; she'd have to catch up with Justin later that evening.

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Brian sighed and opened his eyes when he heard a soft knock on the door. Sitting up in the bed, he glanced over to see Michael approaching him, holding a breakfast tray.

"Good morning, Brian," Michael teased merrily, "or should I say, good afternoon. I made you something to eat." He sat down on the end of the bed, setting the tray between them. "Eggs, toast, juice and coffee, just the way you like it."

Brian roughly ran his hands over his face, trying to wake up. He glanced around the room, trying to find a clock. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Almost one." Michael picked up one of the forks from the tray and began eating some of the eggs. "What time did you get in last night?" he asked around a mouthful of food.

"Around five." Brian picked up a piece of toast and his coffee. He nibbled on the toast then took a sip of the lukewarm coffee as he watched his friend. Something seemed off, wrong. Last night, Michael had sounded suicidal on the phone; this morning, he was acting as though he hadn't a care in the world. "You sound awfully fucking cheerful this morning, Mikey."

Michael shrugged as he took a large gulp of orange juice. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth before saying, "Things look different now. The sun's up and you're here." He grinned and ate another forkful of eggs. "What more could I want?"

"Hmmm," Brian said noncommittally. He set the cup back onto the tray, tossed his half-eaten toast next to it and climbed to his feet. "I'm taking a shower, then I think we need to talk." He paused as a strange expression crossed Michael's face, then turned and grabbed some clean clothes out of his bag.

"Sure, Brian. Whatever you say," Michael muttered as Brian closed the bathroom door behind him.

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Desert.

Dry. Parched.

Hot.

The heat was overwhelming, and his lips were cracking from lack of moisture. He futilely attempted to moisten them with his tongue. His body felt as though it were on fire. Blindly turning his head, he cringed as a sharp pain knifed through it at the movement. Lights danced behind his eyelids when he tried to force them open.

'Brian,' was his last thought as the darkness overtook him again.

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Michael carried the tray full of dirty dishes into the kitchen. He turned on the hot water, then squirted a dash of soap into the sink before placing the dishes into the water. Picking up the sponge, he began to mindlessly wash the glasses as he mulled over Brian's behavior.

Brian hadn't acted happy while they ate; in fact, he'd been studying Michael rather seriously, as though trying to decipher something. Michael's stomach roiled and he swallowed hard. Things were going wrong; he could just feel it. Brian was supposed to be relaxed and enjoy their time together.

He slid a plate into the sudsy water and scrubbed it, his thoughts a jumble in his head. Michael needed to make sure that Brian stayed here at the cabin with him, but how? They needed to be alone, with no contact with the outside world.

Michael rinsed the last dish and set it on the counter to drain. He quickly wiped his hands with a dishtowel then walked into the living area. Brian's coat was lying on the couch. He picked it up and searched the pockets until he found Brian's car keys and then retrieved his cell phone from the coffee table. Michael then crossed the room and unplugged the cabin's phone, tucking the cord under the edge so it wouldn't be obvious it was disconnected.

After turning off the cell phone, Michael returned to the kitchen. He opened one of the lower cabinets and placed the phone and keys into a pot then put the lid over it before sliding it toward the back. He stood up and closed the door just as Brian entered the room.

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Brooke placed the casserole he'd made for his dinner into the over and set the timer. He then returned to his seat at the small kitchen table, where he'd spent the morning going through Adam's genealogical journals.

He hadn't slept much. Something about the story he'd told Justin had kept him awake for most of the night. Rising at dawn, Brooke had pulled out his lover's painstakingly maintained notes and started reading.

"I know it's in here somewhere," he muttered as he came to the final page of yet another notebook. Brook sighed as he put the journal aside. He glanced at the last journal and thought, 'Typical, it's always in the last place you look.' Placing his hand on the book, he hesitated then got up and went over to the phone.

Kinnetik had a large, boldly designed advertisement in the yellow pages. Brooke smiled at the sight. He'd bet good money that Justin had something to do with the layout; it was just his style. After noting the number, Brooke dialed the phone.

"Hello, Kinnetik. How may I direct your call?" a young man asked.

"Hello. May I speak with Brian Kinney, please?"

The man said, "I don't believe he's here today. Let me put you through to his assistant. Hold, please."

Brooke enjoyed the soft jazz that played as he waited. Soon, a cheerful female voice picked up the line. "Hello, this is Cynthia."

"Hello, Cynthia. My name is Brooke Stevenson. I'm trying to contact Brian Kinney."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stevenson, Mr. Kinney isn't in today."

"When do you expect him to return?" Brooke asked.

Cynthia answered, "I don't really know, Mr. Stevenson. He was supposed to be here today, but I haven't heard from him yet."

Brooke pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Cynthia, it's really important that I talk to him as soon as possible."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stevenson. I'll give him the message as soon as I see him. Is this about an account? Maybe someone else can assist you."

"No, it's…" Brooke hesitated, unsure about how much of Brian's personal life his employees were aware of. "It's a personal matter."

"Oh." There was a pause at the other end, then Cynthia asked tentatively, "Is this about Justin?"

"Why do you ask that?" Brooke queried sharply.

Cynthia stated, "You're the third person to call today to ask Brian about him."

Brooke thought for a second before asking, "If I may ask, who else has phoned?"

"Well, Jennifer - that's Justin's mom - and somebody named Marilyn."

"Damn," Brooke whispered. He cleared his throat then said, "Thank you for your help, Cynthia. If you would give Brian my message, I would greatly appreciate it." He quickly gave her his number, said goodbye and hung up the phone.

Brooke stared at the phone. Both Brian and Justin were nowhere to be found, and Justin had people looking for him. Brooke had a bad feeling about the whole situation.

Brooke walked over to the oven and turned it off, taking the casserole out and putting it in the refrigerator. He'd eat later. Right now, he was going to pay a visit to one Mysterious Marilyn. After putting on his coat, he went downstairs and exited the building.

Marilyn's shop was only a couple of blocks away. A brisk walk would do him good.

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Brian was getting pissed off with his best friend. Really pissed off. It was almost midnight, and they had done nothing all afternoon except talk in circles. Brian had come up to the cabin because Michael had threatened to kill himself, but whenever he pointed that out, Michael changed the subject and talked about being in a relationship and living together.

Every time Michael brought up his dreams of them as lovers, Brian carefully explained how it was an impossibility. How he had Justin now. Unfortunately, Michael wasn't listening and Brian was ready to shake him. Or scream.

Leaning his head back, Brian closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He straightened up again and looked toward the other end of the couch, where Michael was seated. "Mikey," he began.

"Brian," Michael interrupted him. "Please, just try. I know you love me."

"Yes, Mikey, I love you, but I'm not in love with you. How many fucking different ways can I fucking say that?"

Michael moved closer to Brian, stopping when their thighs were pressed against one another. He gently touched Brian's cheek, his hand trembling slightly. "I fell in love with you on the day we met. Remember that day, Brian?" When Brian nodded, Michael continued, "You've always been there for me. How can this not work?"

Brian pushed Michael's hand away and jumped off the couch. "Goddamn it, Mikey. I can't do this anymore." He stomped over to the front door and threw it open, stepping out onto the porch.

The night was cold; the temperature had dropped drastically with nightfall. Brian shivered as he gripped the railing with his hands and stared down at the snow on the ground. He'd tried. God knew, he'd tried, but maybe Justin was right. Maybe it was time to let Michael go.

Twenty-one years of friendship was difficult to walk away from, though.

Brian raked his fingers through his hair as his eyes shifted to the car. 'This is fucking ridiculous. I should be home, with Justin,' he thought. He dropped his hands to his side and went back inside the cabin.

Michael was huddled on the couch under a quilt. When he looked up hopefully, Brian noticed that his face was wet from crying. Brian gave him a faint smile as he walked passed Michael and into the bedroom. He rapidly threw his things into his overnight bag and went back out into the living room, dropping the bag near the front door.

"You're leaving me," Michael observed flatly from his place on the couch. He stared at Brian for a minute then rose to his feet and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. The turning of the lock echoed loudly in the cabin.

Brian ignored Michael's tantrum as he picked up his jacket and looked around for his phone. He frowned when he didn't see it on the coffee table; he could have sworn he'd placed it there. Shrugging on his coat, he crossed the room and picked up the cabin's phone. When he lifted the receiver to his ear, there was absolute silence. No dial tone, nothing.

He slammed down the phone. "Fuck it!" Brian grabbed up his bag and headed outside to his car. When he got to the Corvette, he fumbled through his pockets, but came up empty-handed. No keys.

Brian glared narrow-eyed at the cabin. No phone. No keys.

Michael.

Brian rushed back inside the cabin and pounded on the bedroom door with his fist. "Mikey, goddamn it. Give me back my phone and keys."

"Go to hell," came the faint reply.

Hitting the door again, Brian then leaned his forehead against it and breathed. "Mikey, please give me back the phone. And my keys," he asked again, quieter this time.

There was no answer.

"Fuck you, Mikey. Give me my goddamned things!" Brian yelled. When Michael remained silent, Brian growled angrily under his breath. 'All right,' he thought, 'the cabin's not that big. Where would the asshole hide my shit? Hopefully, not in the fucking bedroom.'

Brian began to methodically search the living room. He looked underneath the couch, then pulled off the cushions and looked under them. He checked in the TV cabinet and in the small drawer in the end table.

Nothing.

Cursing under his breath, Brian then walked into the kitchen. He went through all of the drawers, looked in the oven and the refrigerator then began to check the cabinets. As he searched the third one, there was a faint metallic 'clunk' when he shifted some of the pots. Grinning triumphantly, he reached inside and removed his phone and keys.

Brian then calmly left the cabin, climbed into his car and began the drive back to Pittsburgh.

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Michael perched on the edge of the bed. He could hear Brian's rampage out in the main room but didn't bother to get up and try to stop him.

He stared out the window as he heard the front door slam and Brian's car drive away. His hand absently caressed the cold metal of the gun that was lying in his lap.

Finally, Michael brushed his tears away, got up and walked out to his own car, still clutching the pistol in his hand.

Justin wouldn't win, wouldn't get Brian. Michael would make sure of it.

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The red light on his answering machine blinked cheerfully at him when he entered the loft. Brian called out to Justin, but the loft was quiet. He then pushed the play button on the machine and listened to his messages.

Jennifer, looking for Justin. Brooke. Marilyn. Jennifer again. Daphne. A guy that Justin knew from PIFA. Cynthia, looking for him. Ted. Jennifer.

Several hang-ups. Probably when Brian was trying to get a hold of Justin.

Where the fuck was the brat?

Brian crossed the room, heading for the kitchen, and came to a sudden stop. His heart pounded loudly in his chest as he gazed at the smear of blood on the edge of the counter.

Fuck! What had happened?

Brian carefully examined the counter then began to look around the room. He started yelling when he noticed another smudge of blood near the loft door. He slid it open and rushed out onto the landing, looking frantically about, but finding nothing.

He called for the elevator, and while he was waiting for it to arrive, his gaze landed on the utility room door. "Why not?" he muttered and opened the door.

"Shit!" Brian fell on his knees beside Justin, frantically running his hands over the still figure. "Justin, come on, wake up!" He flinched when his palm came into contact with Justin's cheek. Justin was burning up with fever. "Justin!"

Justin moaned softly, his head flailing from side to side. He thought he heard Brian's voice, but he'd been hearing that for hours in his head. When Brian called out his name, Justin forced his eyes open and whispered, "Brian? Is that really you?"

"Justin. Thank God." Brian pressed a kiss against Justin's dry, chapped lips then said in his ear, "Just hold on. I'm going to go call 911 and get the key for the handcuffs. I'll be right back."

Justin caught Brian's hand with his free one and squeezed it lightly. "Glad… glad you're here, Brian."

Brian kissed Justin on the forehead then rushed back into the loft. He grabbed his cell phone and made the call to 911 while he searched through the toy chest for the keys. When he found them, he went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water then went back to Justin.

After unlocking the handcuffs, Brian sat down on the floor next to Justin and pulled him halfway into his lap. He dribbled a little water into Justin's mouth, which Justin licked thankfully. "You'll be okay, Sunshine. The ambulance is on its way."

Justin's eyes fluttered; he was having a hard time keeping them open. "You're really here, aren't you, Brian. Not a dream…"

Brian snorted. "More like your worst nightmare." He brushed a lock of hair off Justin's forehead and said, "Take it easy, Justin. Everything's gonna be all right."

"Love you…"

"Love you too." Brian looked around the room and decided that Justin would be better off in the loft. He got to his feet and leaned over, picking Justin up in his arms.

Turning, Brian came face to face with Michael.

"Put him down, Brian," Michael commanded and pulled the hammer back on the pistol.

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