Last Step

For Beth, beta and cheerleader who wanted to read angst.

Note: I'm not a doctor and I make no pretense of being any kind of an expert on what's going on medically in this chapter. I did, however, live through the progression and eventual death of a man I knew by this same disease. There are, no doubt, medical mistakes and if anyone is offended, well, sorry and by all means educate me if you wish. The details may be slightly off, but Stan went through this-and more. I know that for a fact. I watched it.

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"Steve? You home?"

"…Upstairs."

Brian took the stairs two at a time, a simple thing given the length of his legs. The bedroom was basically the entire second floor of the duplex, other than a guest room and the bathrooms attached to each room. Steve was lying on the bed in the master suite. The drapes were drawn, the room darkened in late afternoon.

"Steve?"

"I'm alright, just a headache."

"Can I get you anything?"

"I took a couple of Advil, I'll be fine as soon as they kick in."

Brian sat on the edge of the bed. Steve had stripped down to his boxers and pulled the comforter up to mid chest. Reaching out, Brian touched the man's forehead. "You don't have a fever."

He took Brian's hand, holding it. "No, it's just the headache. I'll be alright in a little while."

"Would you like me to call Jess? We can make dinner another night."

"…If you don't mind, I think I'll beg off. But you go. I'll just stay here."

That was enough to tell Brian that it was serious. "How long have you been hurting?"

"I woke up with it. Too much wine last night, I guess."

"Probably." Probably not. It hadn't been that much wine and Steve hadn't drunk that much anyway.

Brian went back down to the kitchen, filling a clean towel with ice and taking it back up. "Here, this may help." Steve smiled and Brian noticed that he seemed pale.

"Thanks." Brian sat beside him on the bed. Steve smiled slightly. "Brian, it's just a headache, go out and have dinner. I'm fine."

"Maybe I should stay around."

"To hold my hand? I'll just rest, you tell me how dinner was when you get back, OK?" He sounded like he meant, not like he was just being polite or some such. Steve wasn't stupid, if he thought it was warranted he would have seen his doctor or at least made an appointment. He'd probably be better in the morning.

Thinking that Steve knew how he felt and was intelligent enough to be honest if he thought that something was really wrong, Brian changed into casual clothes, kissed Steve and left for dinner with a friend.

Four hours later he walked back into the darkened apartment, found that Steve had fallen asleep, stripped and crawled in next to him. Carefully feeling the back of his neck, Brian could still feel no fever and the fact that he was able to sleep seemed to indicate that he was probably on the mend.

In the morning Steve insisted that he felt fine, had likely just had a touch of something and it was gone. He was probably right, there had been some flu like thing going around the agency, some twenty-four hour bug and he must have picked that up. They got up, showered together, minus sex, had breakfast, dressed and went to work. He looked better than he had yesterday and Brian forgot about the whole thing as soon as they got to the office. There were three meetings scheduled, including a conference call with Gardner in Pittsburgh to catch up on a couple of things-just another day.

About a month later the two of them had gone up to the cabin in Massachusetts for a long weekend so they could kick back a little and relax. The weather was good those four days. They slept late, did some basic maintainance on the place-which was something Steve was always amused to see Brian lend a hand to. He had seemed, before they knew each other as well as they did now, to be something of a princess about things like raking out and planting a garden or fixing a broken lamp. Surprisingly, Brian didn't seem to mind chores like weather proofing the dock or pounding loose nails back into the steps.

The day Brian had looked up to see Steve staring at him as he reglazed a windowpane, he had just said, "I may have been born a fag, but I was raised to be butch."

With a straight face, Steve had answered, "Thank God-you've saved us a fortune in handyman expenses." And added, walking away, "You may want to remember that line the next time you talk slogans with Leo Brown."

So nothing much changed at first and if Steve went through more Advil than normal, no one thought anything of it.

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Brian POV

I walked over to Steve's office around eleven. There was another presentation that afternoon and I had to deal with some things about the employee benefit package. I thought he would be able to cover for me with one or the other. OK, usually I knock before going in, but when his assistant told me that he was alone, I simply didn't bother. I mean, hell-what was I going to see that I hadn't already seen a thousand times before?

He was lying stretched out on his couch, covered by a throw and with an ice pack on his head. He seemed to be asleep and I took a minute to really look at him.

It wasn't like him-this napping at work, let alone at eleven in the morning. It wasn't like we'd had a wild evening or anything the night before, we'd just eaten dinner at home and spent a few hours reading and watching a movie. It had been a quiet night and we'd turned in before midnight.

His color wasn't good. He was pale and the color wasn't a normal healthy skin tone. He had a grayish cast about him and he looked like he was in pain and it frankly scared the shit out of me. I'd known that he had been fighting something for a few weeks but he had insisted that he'd begun to feel better. He had insisted on getting dressed and going to work, maintaining his usual schedule. I touched his hands lightly and they were like ice and I knew, somehow, I knew in that second that he needed a doctor right now.

I called his name quietly and gently squeezed his hand, the one I was holding, trying to wake him, trying to see if he would even wake up and he slowly looked at me.

"Your head still hurts?" He didn't even try to tell me otherwise, like the lies he had been using for almost a month now-"The Advil is working, I'm fine." "I'll just take a shower to relax me, that always does the trick." "It's just some eye strain, I'm alright."-This time he just nodded slightly, as though the movement caused him pain.

"I'm going to call a doctor. You rest until he gets here." He didn't argue, he just closed his eyes. Shit.

I closed his door behind me and went through his Rolodex myself. He still insisted on using the old thing, stuffed with numbers and business cards going back decades and I knew that Naeem was in there.

An old friend, a good doctor and a good man. If he could come, he would. Thank God it was Wednesday and he wasn't in his office. I told him what was going on and he told me that he'd be there as soon as he could and since he only lived forty blocks uptown, he was there in less than twenty minutes. Naeem gave him a once over, took the vitals and all of that, then started testing reflexes and eye movement. After about ten minutes he told Steve to just lie there, he wanted to make a phone call.

I led him to the outer office. He was looking serious.

"Brian, I want to take him in for testing. I think there's something going on here, but I don't want to say too much until I know myself. Can you sign him in and all of that?"

Since the laws had expanded, allowing domestic partners some legal rights I could. "Of course, whatever you want…what do you think…?"

"I know you're worried, but I want to be sure."

"I'll call a cab."

"Thank you, but I'll arrange a ride for him." He picked the phone on the assistant's desk, punched in a number and quickly arranged an ambulance to transport Steve to Sloan Kettering, Naeems's home base.

An ambulance to Sloan Kettering? Oh, Christ.

"You think it's cancer?" I think my legs would have buckled if I'd let them.

"Don't jump the gun. You'll know more when I know more."

You know how when something happens, when you're waiting for some results, you think, "Well, as soon as I know, at least I know what dragon we'll be fighting. We can kill it, it won't be that bad. Isolate the problem; decide on a course of action and deal. We'll take care of this, no problem."

I'm here to tell you that sometimes ignorance is bliss.

That afternoon we knew…well, we knew more, anyway. Naeem had pulled strings and gotten Steve into the MRI unit immediately. He'd ordered all kinds of tests and blood work and Steve was assigned a room.

They did whatever they do, ran whatever tests they ran and that afternoon we knew that Steve had a tumor in his brain. It was cancer and it's location made it inoperable. There were courses of treatment that would be used and he was basically healthy. They would do their best for him.

It was a death sentence. I knew it.

Steve had nodded off, exhausted from pain, stress and the last few days. The pain had made it difficult for him to sleep and now he could. Finally. I followed Naeem out to the hallway, asking him to tell me the truth. He's a friend and, like I said, he's a good man. He's a good enough friend to be honest.

"Two months, maybe three or four. No more."

"…There must be something…"

"Of course and we'll do what we can, but as a friend I'm telling you the truth. You decide what he should know, how much and I'll agree with your decision. You tell me when you want the treatment stopped and I will." He put his hand on my shoulder. "It's between you and Steve." He paused and I think he debated with himself what to say next. "He'll be more or less alright until close to the end. There will be symptoms; they'll get worse-pain and some loss of muscle control. There may be neurological damage, tremors and the like. We can give him meds for the pain and to control some of the worst of it, but-Brian I'm telling you this because you have to know-it won't be long."

I went numb. I know people say that, but it's true. I really did. Standing there in that fluorescent lit hallway with people walking around and the sun shining outside, I felt nothing. I had a tooth that had been bothering me and some detached part of my brain actively told me that I was numb and it was probably good and, hey, even my mouth had stopped hurting.

I guess that was probably a good thing, all things considered.

I couldn't go back into Steve's room, not right then. He was sleeping anyway, and I just-fuck me-I couldn't do it. There was a lounge of some kind at the end of the hall, a glassed in room with a lot of plants and comfortable looking furniture and I found myself there. I mean that. I have no memory of walking there, I just sort of looked around and I was there, sort of like I'd been transported there.

I found this easy chair set behind a couple of big plants, sort of hidden there-probably for people who'd just gotten the kind of news I'd just been handed-and stared out the glass at New York City. I could see part of the Hudson River from where I was. The sun was shining on the water and the sky was this amazing blue. People were going about their day. There were boats on the water and-

Steve was going to die.

He should have had another twenty years, fifteen easy, and now I'm told he could count his time in fucking days and I-shit I was going to take him through it if it killed me as well as him.

Whatever he wanted, I'd see that was what he'd get.

A trip? We'd go. Peace and quiet? It was his. Clothes, books, dinners, theatre-whatever he wanted and I'd sell my soul for him to have it. I would.

I'd make sure that anything he even though he might want at some point-it was his.

I'd get it. I do anything I had to, ask anyone, pull any string, spend any amount to give him-

To give him what?

He had everything he'd ever expressed a desire for. He had a beautiful home and friends and family who loved him. He had art and memories and had been any place that had caught his fancy. He had success in his business and his personal life.

He had me.

And I was going to lose him.

He would lose his fight with this fucker growing in his head and I would lose my reason to get up in the morning.

I got pissed at myself when I thought that.

OK, it may have been true, but this sure as fuck wasn't about me. Not now it wasn't.

Jesus. What would I tell Steve?

He's a smart man, he'll know. He knows what Naeem does for a living. He knows what business Sloan Kettering is in. He'll know what some of the drugs are for and the treatments and if he doesn't know he'll just ask a nurse and find out.

And beyond that.

He has a right to know. It's his body. It's his life.

We've always been honest with each other, even when it was bad news, even when one of us had screwed up, we had always been honest.

He'd expect me to be honest with him now, just as I would expect it of him if I were the one lying in the damn bed.

But how the fuck do you tell your partner, the person you've spent almost every night with for twenty years, the person who you let inside more than you ever let anyone in-more than you thought would be possible and who did the same for you ten times over-how the fuck do you tell them that they're going to die?

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A couple of weeks went by and I couldn't tell him. I know, part of me knows that it's because I'm a coward, but part of me, the better part I think, honestly just didn't want him to have this hanging around his neck until it had to be.

The drugs he was taking did what Naeem said they would, they masked the symptoms. He was even taking drugs that were some kind of chemo. I didn't know you could pop a pill for that, but I learned.

I didn't tell him. He asked me, and he asked Naeem and though we all sort of fobbed him off, he didn't pursue it. I thought that he knew. I really believed that. It was like an unspoken agreement. He wouldn't really ask and I wouldn't really tell.

I took a leave of absence from work and the VP from the San Francisco office came to New York to oversee things. Cynthia could have done it, of course, but she was on her honeymoon after all these years and I couldn't ask her to cut it short and fly home from Bali. She would have done it for me, but I couldn't ask her.

In fact, I didn't tell anyone. I couldn't. I mean, what the fuck would I have said? "I'm fine, Steve had six weeks left and counting. How about those Mets?" Besides, if I started, I knew I wouldn't stop and I was scared as Hell to let that floodgate open. If I did it would never close.

We couldn't maintain that, of course. It wasn't possible. Steve was too smart and our relationship had been built on honesty, well, once we'd finally acknowledged that we were together.

He had to know.

He called Naeem one day at home and, I was later informed, asked calmly just what was going on. He knew that we were trying to protect him, probably at my orders and he appreciated that, but he would like to know the truth.

Naeem was his friend, too, and a professional. He dropped whatever he was doing and cabbed over to the duplex.

I wasn't there. I was out doing some errands and by the time I got back Steve was sitting alone waiting for me.

He started without preamble. "I know you did it because you love me, but you had no right."

"…I, it seemed, I-you, I would have told you soon. I know…"

"You did it to protect me, but it wasn't your call to make." I had crossed over to where he was sitting, looking at the fire. "It's my life. It's my choice and you should have told me as soon as you knew."

I couldn't tell if he was angry or sad or in shock or all three. He stood up, pulled on a jacket and told me that he needed to take a walk, declining my request to join him.

He did call me about an hour later, telling me that he'd been thinking and I'd had no right to do what I had, let alone to include Naeem in what he called my 'lies'. He was angry, furious and wouldn't listen to anything I might have to say and that scared the hell out of me.

Look, I know-you get news like that, that you're going to die and there's nothing anyone can do about it, you go through the stages. Denial, anger and all of that until you're supposed to get to acceptance of the inevitable.

How the hell do you get there, to acceptance? When the reality of pain is too much? When you know that you're life has been a good one and there's nothing left to accomplish? When you know that you've done everything that you can and there's just no point in fighting?

Hell, I saw Vic go through it and he did it with grace and dignity and all of that. He did, he did it well, but there's this line from that poem-you know the one about 'Do not go gentle into that good night, Rage, rage against the dying of the light'. C'mon, we all read that one in high school. It's up there with 'Death, be not proud.'

Lot's of laughs in high school.

I know, it's s bit turgid, but it's the Goddamned truth.

Do not go gentle into that goodnight.

Steve-I knew, or thought I knew-what he was going through right then because I had gone through it at Sloan when Naeem told me that first day, but he cut me off, telling me I didn't have any idea because I wasn't the one who's lifespan was measured in days. He cut the connection, turned off his phone and disappeared for a while.

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Brian was sitting in the darkened duplex. It was three in the morning and he would have been cold if he hadn't wrapped the cashmere throw around himself.

He should have been upstairs in bed asleep with Steve. He wanted to be, but after they had argued and Steve had stormed out, he was sitting alone in front of the embers still glowing slightly from the fire Steve had made that afternoon. He was upset and worried about where Steve might have gone and he was scared.

That was something he didn't admit often, even to himself-that he was scared, but right now he was and not just about what could happen to Steve in the city alone and sick and upset.

He was afraid that he might have torn the fabric of trust they'd spent two decades building.

They had never had an argument before. They had been together for almost twenty years and they had never once had a serious disagreement about anything. Nothing had ever been important enough for them to actually fight about, to risk what they had together because of simple stubbornness-except the time Brian had gone to Justin as a friend and the two of them had ended up having sex. That had been bad. Brian had known that what he'd done was wrong and unfair to all of them and most especially to Steve and Justin. He had argued at first, simply because that was what he did but in the end he had known that all he could do was apologize and never repeat the mistake.

If he hadn't, he would have lost both of the other men, both his lover and his friend.

That particular mistake had never been repeated.

They had always worked things out, calmly and intelligently and with a minimum of fuss. At the worst there would coolness for a few days, but eventually one of them would break the ice and they would talk or make love or laugh or something and that would pretty much be that.

Even Debbie had been amazed when she had seen it once.

Until tonight.

He picked up the phone and tried Steve's cel.

It was turned off, all he got was voicemail.

He called 411 and had them connect him to a number in Colorado. Probably no one would be home, probably he was asleep, probably he was busy or…

"Hello?"

"Justin?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"Brian. Do you have a minute?"

He could hear a voice in the background asking who it was then Justin's voice answering… "It's James, I think he's drunk. I'll talk to him for a few minutes. Go back to sleep."

Brian had never really called him before-well since the break up, other than for business and then during business hours. Well other than when Justin had been going through the trouble with Peter-but that was mostly over now. Justin kept Brian at polite arm's distance out of some kind of self-defense. "Of course, is something wrong?" There was a silence and if a silence could be described as pained, this was what it would sound like. "Has something happened? Are you alright?"

"We…I, well…" He trailed off, not knowing how to say it. He was at a complete loss.

"Brian? Tell me what happened."

"Justin…I…"

"Are you sick? Is Steve hurt?"

"No, it's, we, I mean I wasn't thinking and now, he's…"

"Brian?"

"He left and I don't know where he is."

"…When did he leave?" This morning? Tuesday? Last month?

"This afternoon. I don't know where he is."

Well. Steve was hardly without resources. "Have you checked with friends? Maybe he's just checked into a hotel or something." No answer. This was getting creepy. Even Brian wasn't this much of a drama queen. "Brian? You still there?" He was probably drunk or high from the way he was talking-or rather the way he wasn't talking.

"Yes, I'm here."

"Maybe if you told me why he left we can figure out where he is."

No, he couldn't. This was between him and Steve. He couldn't. Justin would want to get on a plane and help. He would involve the family. He would try too hard to make it better or to act as a buffer or something. Calling him had been a mistake.

"Hey, it's nothing. It's just, you know, it happens. We'll be fine. I'll call you tomorrow or something."

"Are you sure…?"

"Yeah I'm fine. Sorry I bothered you."

"Brian?"

"I'm fine."

That was that.

Justin lay back down.

"What's wrong with James?"

"Oh, you know, just having a night."

Brian never called back.

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Two days later Steve called in from the cabin in Massachusetts. He had driven himself up there to think things through with no interference or interruptions and had gone without his meds, the ones he now knew he needed to maintain a temporary façade of normalcy.

Frantic after two days with no word, Brian had restrained himself from sarcasm or any accusations. For once, he forced himself to accept that Steve had done what he had needed to do.

"Can you come up here?"

"I'll rent a car and leave as soon as I can."

"Good."

A few hours later Brian pulled the rental into the long driveway, parking by the steps to the front porch. Their shared Jag was sitting there, just like it would on any weekend or vacation. Steve was in one of the big chairs they kept out there, one of the chairs you could sit in and watch the lake.

"I called Naeem. He told me what's going on."

Brian sat down next to him. "He told me that there are things they can do, treatments and all of that. As soon as we get back to the city we can get him started…"

"No."

Brian didn't answer. There was no real point. They both knew that he was going to die. The tumor was malignant and inoperable. It was growing. The best hope was a shunt drilled into his skull so that chemo could be directly delivered to the tumor, but even Naeem had said that it would probably not work.

"You should have told me the truth."

"I know. I'm sorry." It sounded lame, even to him. "After Naeem told me and spelled out the options I thought that it would be better to have things as normal as possible as…"

"As long as the drugs masked the symptoms and I can still function?"

"I wanted us to have the time together." It seemed so simple when he said it.

Steve looked tired. "I want us to have the rest of our lives and that's going to be about six weeks." He was looking out at the lake. "And even with the drugs, the last month or so will be bad." Brian had no answer. He knew it was true. "I want you to promise me a couple of things."

"Of course."

He was still looking at the water. "You tell me the truth from now on." Brian nodded. "And when it gets bad, you do what I want."

Jesus.

Steve caught his expression. "No, not that. I mean, when I tell you that it's time to take me home or that I want the meds stopped or whatever, you'll do it. This has to be done the way I want it."

Brian exhaled. "Whatever you want."

"…Good…" Neither one knew what to say for a while. "It will be alright. We'll do this." He finally looked at Brian, catching his eye and holding out his hand for the other man to hold.

They'd do this, however Steve wanted it done, that's what they would do.

"Did you bring my meds?"

"In the car."

"Good." He squeezed Brian's hand. "I'm hungry and the new Chinese place even delivers out here." He got up to make the call but turned back at the front door. "Brian? We'll do this together. It will be alright."

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They stayed at the cabin for the rest of the week then closed it down and went back to the city, Brian driving, the rental having been dropped off on the way. Both of them knew it was likely Steve's last visit to the place and he had done everything that they enjoyed about the cabin. They had boated, walked, sat quietly by the fire, made love. They had eaten at their favorite restaurants and, in their way, said good-bye to that part of their lives together.

Back in New York it was about the same. Brian spent almost no time at the office, taking a leave of absence and covered by the VP from the West Coast, though he did call in each day. Everything there was fine.

They told no one about Steve's illness, as he had wanted. He didn't want awkwardness or pity. He wanted to see their friends and leave everyone with memories of normalcy.

They succeeded. No one knew. Not their friends and not their families.

They would go to Naeem's office or to Sloan for appointments, but it was useless and they all knew it. Steve was given drugs to keep him going as long as was feasible, but they all knew that time was running out. The symptoms were becoming stronger and harder to control. The headaches were excruciating, his left hand shook as though he had Parkinson's and after a few weeks became virtually useless, resting on his thigh almost like a prosthesis.

Because the shaking had spread to his left leg, the side most affected, he developed trouble walking.

He progressed, through the weeks, from using a carved walking stick to a footed cane. From there he was forced to rely on a walker. Brian would slow his walk to match the increasingly slower and slower movement. Neither of them complained, neither said anything. There was no point.

Brian considered a motorized wheel chair next, but when he mentioned it Steve looked so sad at the inescapable fact of what it meant that they never got one. If the disease had moved slower it might have happened-but it became a moot point.

They knew that using some of the methods available to them might buy some time, but Steve quietly refused, insisting that he wanted to spent the time he had, as much of it as he could, living his life.

Brian supported him in this.

It wasn't that they were against treatment, though they had little reason to think it would make any real difference in extending his life or improving the quality of it. Nor did Steve have a death wish or a bad case if fatalism-they simply had asked the experts, done their own research and concluded that they would rather-that Steve would rather-take the little time he had left and spend it as he wanted.

Later, years later, other people would question the choice to not pursue an aggressive fight and though he knew they asked mostly out of concern, Brian thought the answer was obvious.

Steve had been given the facts and the statistics. He knew that nothing short of a miracle would help him and he decided to live what little time he had left under his own terms, not surrounded by doctors and hospitals and the suffering of other people. He wanted to stay in his own home, surrounded by his own things.

He wanted to sleep with Brian and wake up with him next to him, lending his warmth and strength. He wanted to be able to look out of the windows of his own home. He wanted to be-as much at ease as was possible while his body failed him.

Brian supported him completely. It was his life, it was his choice.

After the first six weeks or so, it became more difficult to hide that there was something seriously wrong from their close friends, so they stopped going out and rarely had people in. They simply told anyone who asked that they were swamped with work and promised to call when things lightened up.

The two men would stroll, slowly, up Fifth Avenue to Central Park, walking the paths and enjoying visiting the areas they had used as a back yard. They would bring a blanket and food to the Great Lawn, reading or just talking with one another or they would, occasionally take one of the hansom horse cabs when Steve became too tired to walk far.

Steve made sure that all the legalities were in order. His will was updated and everything was in order. Brian knew that almost everything would be his and he readily agreed to give Steve's sister whatever she might want as keepsakes. Steve set up trust funds for her kids and for Gus.

Gus-the night he dropped in without warning he had to be told. There was no possible way not to. He'd seen, he knew something was very wrong as soon as he'd used his key and found his father helping Steve up from where he had fallen, the palsy now affecting his entire left side. He now needed a walker to get around and the thing had gone out from under him.

Brian had put Steve to bed, carrying him upstairs to Gus' horror then gone back down and told his son the facts.

Steve would likely be dead inside of a month. They hadn't told anyone and neither should he. That was Steve's wish and it would be honored. He'd been diagnosed almost two months ago, the tumor was growing by the day, impairing motor function, vision and now control of basic bodily functions were being lost. They had arranged for a live-in nursing staff who would arrive in two days. In fact there were three and they would rotate shifts. Naeem had told them it was necessary if he wanted to stay at home. The money wasn't a problem and that was what they had decided on.

If Gus could control himself, if there were no scenes, which would upset Steve, he could come visit as often as he wanted. Please call though, just to make sure that Steve was up to having visitors.

Gus tried to understand what Brian was telling him so gently. Steve was dying. He had brain cancer and in weeks he'd be dead.

Steve who had bought him his first bike and taught him how to ride it. Steve who had gone on all the big roller coasters with him when he was a kid and none of the other adults would go near them. Steve who had been another father to him, always patient, always having time to listen and give an opinion-he was dying. And his Dad, he was losing his husband, his lover, the man he'd lived with since Gus could remember and he was talking about it as if he was discussing the weather or what movie should they see.

"How can you be so fucking calm about this?"

Brian took a beat. "What choice do I have?" Gus was about to say something, but Brian held up a hand to stop him. "I'm not calm, Gus. I'm-not."

That was all he had to say. Gus knew he was dying as much as Steve was.

For the next few weeks Gus did everything he could to make it easier. He would spell Brian so he could take a walk around the block when it became too much. He would show up with dinner and a movie. He would field questions from whoever called. He sat next to Steve for hours, reading aloud or listening to whatever Steve wanted to talk about.

He helped.

And despite having the nurses, Gus helped remind them that they weren't alone, that they had people who cared about them and that when they were ready-when Brian was ready-they would be there for him.

Two weeks later Gus showed up with a bag of Chinese food to find the duplex empty, no one home. He called Brian's cel. They were at Sloan. Steve was worse. No, please. There was no point in his coming to the hospital, Steve was sedated. He wouldn't even know anyone was there. Thank you, but no. Brian would call him when there was word.

That was a Thursday.

On Sunday Steve was ambulanced back to the duplex.

The tumor was out of any kind of control and the pain was extreme. He was on a morphine drip and Naeem had told Brian that it could only be a matter of days. Steve had been told, he understood. He asked to be taken home. The nurses would be there. He would be looked after.

Settled back in his own bed, propped up on pillows, he alternated between drugged sleep and a light doze. He would rouse now and then, look around and drift back off. The second day, Saturday, he rallied enough to tell Brian that he wanted the morphine removed. He wanted to be awake. He didn't care if it hurt. He wanted to be with Brian. Please. Now.

Not bothering to wait for the nurse, Brian removed the needle himself, climbing on the bed, stretching out, his arms around Steve's shoulders, holding Steve's hand with his own free hand.

That's how they spent the next couple of days. Brian held Steve; feeling the waves of pain, hold him tighter until they passed.

They talked, the two of them, about anything that came into their minds.

They talked about how happy they had been, how they regretted their happiness had come at the cost of Justin's but that there was no other choice, other than for all of them to have lived out their lives dishonestly.

Steve thanked Brian for allowing him to be part of Gus's life.

They talked about their mutual surprise when they each had finally understood that they were equally attracted to one another-each had thought, at least at first, that it was one sided on both their parts.

They remembered friends and trips and dinners. They spoke of how Steve knew his life had been a good one and that it was well lived. He had no regrets, little left to accomplish.

Finally, he told Brian that he could accept death, that he knew it would be soon and that he was only sorry that they were both cheated out time together.

He told Brian that he was to find someone else, that he wasn't to grieve too long. "I'm dying, you're not. Find someone. Don't be alone. Well, after you've waited a decent interval, of course."

Brian didn't say anything, so Steve continued. "I mean it. I want you to find someone."

"Some twink?"

"God, no. None of them would have you anyway unless you want to be someone's sugar daddy. Find someone decent. Intelligent. Someone with a reasonable amount of good taste who can appreciate Armani and a fine Bordeaux."

"You want me to find another Truman Capote?"

There was a spasm. Brian waited for it to pass. "No, I'll have him, he's dead, remember? You need-someone younger than you."

"Why do I need younger?" He kissed Steve's forehead.

"Because you've been with an old man for the last twenty years."

"I like old men."

"Old men are your worst nightmare." He turned serious. "Promise me that you'll find someone. I don't want you alone." He pulled at Brian's hand. "Promise me."

"I'll look. I'll try." No, he wouldn't. He didn't want anyone. He could still get sex, which was enough.

They talked about other things, everything and sometimes Brian would do as Gus had, he would read Steve's favorite poetry or scenes from plays. They would listen to music. They just held one another.

It got worse. The pain was bad now, very bad and Brian asked him if he wanted even a little morphine. He refused. He couldn't eat-his appetite had been off for at least two months now because of the meds and the disease and he was gaunt. Still Brian stayed beside him on the bed, holding him, talking soothingly, not knowing if he was either being heard or understood.

On Sunday morning Brian knew they were at the end.

Steve was only semiconscious on and off and he was no longer responding to much of what Brian said.

There was no last minute rally, no miracle. No visions appeared, no voices. There were no last minute declarations or confessions.

The end was much like Steve himself, quiet, calm and in control.

His breathing became more shallow, less regular.

Brian kissed his forehead, held him and slowly the spaces between breaths became longer and longer.

Finally he exhaled one last time and simply stopped. Brian knew that this had ended.

There was no sound.

Brian continued to hold him.

There were things he should do, people who had to know and arrangements to be made, but they could wait a little. There was time enough to tell the family and friends. The obituary would be in the Times and elsewhere. He would have to write and deliver a eulogy. The church would have to be contacted and-whoever else would need to know.

He would think about that in a while.

He removed the gold St. Christopher's medal from around Steve's neck. Not really religious, he had worn it more as a keepsake from his grandmother, a gift for his first communion. St. Christopher, the patron saint of traveler's and bachelors. For years Steve had been both. Later he would say that after Brian he was not longer a bachelor, just a traveler. It had become his good luck charm and he had never taken it off. Brian slipped the gold chain around his own neck. It would stay there until his own death.

He sat on the bed, holding his lover, the man he had loved for two decades. The man he had shared everything with, his home, his thoughts, his body and his hopes and fears, feeling the body cool and knowing it would be the last time he would ever hold Steve in his arms, that as soon as everyone else found out then it would no longer be just the two of them.

This was the last time.

He didn't cry.

He just held onto what he had lost.