Brian was comfortably sitting at his desk, the big new one in the big corner office that he'd been given after he'd agreed to go back to Vanguard after the Stockwell debacle. This time he was a full partner with better benefits and options. He'd agreed to rejoin the firm, but it had been under his conditions. It was his show and he was running it, or so it seemed at that moment.

Cynthia gently knocked; interrupting, apologizing and telling him that he had a personal call on line six. Vance, sitting across from him managed a gentlemanly frown.

"Tell whoever it is that I'll call them back."

"I tried that. She said it was important and insisted that I get you."

"She?"

"She said her name was Claire and that she's your sister."

Oh, Christ. Now what?

"Could you please speak to her? She sounded hysterical."

Of course she did, that was one of her trademarks. With none too good grace he glanced at Gardner and picked up.

"What?"…"What are you saying?"… "I can't understand you, blow your nose or something and start over."… "When?"…a longer pause than the previous ones. "Fine. I'll come."

He carefully replaced the receiver. "I'm sorry, but I have to deal with something."

Catching the change in his mood, seeing his face, Gardner asked "Problem, Brian?"

"I'll be back as soon as I can." Getting his coat and leaving everything else, his laptop and his briefcase, he headed down to his car. In all the years that she had known him, Cynthia had never seen him walk out empty handed.

He got to the hospital twenty minutes later, parking and walking into the ER, the same one he'd been to any number of times when he was younger, thanks to his father. The place hadn't changed. He knew where triage was; he remembered the smells and the sounds. It was familiar.

"Yes, may I help you?"

"I was told that Joan Kinney was brought in a little while ago."

The admissions clerk looked at her monitor, her face carefully neutral. "Are you a relative?"

"I'm her son." He showed his driver's license as proof of his name.

"Annie? Could you please show Mr. Kinney to number four?"

They walked into the main area of the ER, a central desk acted as a hub of a wheel, treatment areas spread out like spokes. He was shown to a curtained off section. He could hear crying from behind the fabric. "I believe that the doctor is in with her now."

"Thank you." He couldn't see anything but evidently Claire had heard his voice. The curtain was pulled back with a screech of sliding metal hangers. She wrapped her arms around him, crying, if possible, even harder than she had at Jack's funeral. In the bed he could see his mother connected to oxygen tubes and IV's and monitors. She wasn't moving at all. He realized immediately that was why Claire was making a mess of his new Armani. The old bat must have finally cashed it in-and high time, as far as he was concerned.

Or so he told himself.

"We've lost her, Brian. Mommy's gone."

His first thought was, 'good'. His second thought was 'what happens now?' and the realization after that-'shit, he'd have it all dumped on him again'.

Turning, with some difficulty, to the doctor who approached him to offer condolences and ask questions. He said "Mackey's Funeral Home", that was the one they'd used for Jack and it was close by. They had seemed to know what they were doing. Nodding, the doctor had turned away, giving the information to someone else.

Next a priest came over, Brian only catching a glimpse before he recognized Father Tom. He had put what was supposed to be a comforting hand on Brian's shoulder, but with Claire still clinging to him, he was hampered in responding.

"I gave her Last Rites, Brian, I thought you'd want to know."

Actually he didn't care, but whatever. "Thanks."

"Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?"

"If you would take care of the service, that would be a help. You would know what she'd prefer."

"Of course." He seemed to be genuinely sorry for the bereaved family, though Brian was pretty ambivalent about it, truth be known. Claire, of course, was basket case. "Have you been told what happened, Brian?"

"No, just that she was brought in a little while ago. Could you tell me more?"

"I'm not the doctor, of course, but as I understand it a neighbor found her unconscious on the floor of her kitchen this morning and called 911. It seems to have been some sort of heart attack, from what I've heard the medical people say."

Brian just nodded. In fact it didn't really matter whether it was a heart attack or a stroke or a pickled liver. The end result was the same. She was dead.

Claire redoubled her wailing then composed herself briefly. "Brian? Could you pick up the kids from school? I think I should stay with Mom."

"What for, to hold her hand?"

"God, Brian-do you have to be so hateful now? Could you try to be helpful just once in your life?"

"Fine, whatever. Call the school so they know I'll be getting them." He knew that much from picking up Gus now and then at that daycare thing the munchers had dumped him in four days a week.

"Could you tell them about Mom? I, I don't. I'm not sure I can…"

Christ, cut me some slack here. "Claire, get your shit together for once, will you?" This released a new torrent of tears. Jesus. "Call the damn school, I have to leave now to get there." It was all the way out in McKeesport, for the love of God.

"Tell them I'll be home as soon as I can, Brian." He glared at her as he left.

Like he needed this.

So the old bitch was finally gone. If he still believed in God he'd send up a thank you to the big guy. Well shit-three or four days and it would be over. He could stand it that long, pain in the ass though it was.

No-it hit him. It would be longer than that.

They would have to deal with disposing of the estate, such as it was. They would have to clean out the house and arrange for it to be sold. Jennifer could have the sale if she wanted it, no reason not to give it to her.

Shit. This was going to be a mess. He had no problem with dumping the whole thing on Claire...she could have everything as far as he was concerned, but there was less than a snowball's chance in Hell that she would be able to deal with anything like this. Dear old Jacks passing was proof of that.

Hell.

He pulled up to the school and was about to go into the office when he stopped to check his watch. It looked like he had a sort wait before the kids were released. He took a few minutes for a needed cigarette.

Next he went into the school office to tell them he was there to get the nephews. Not surprisingly, Claire hadn't called and hadn't ever given him her cel number. Cunt. He suggested they could as one of her brats for the number but the office people refused to disturb their classes.

Jesus.

He showed them ID, but since the kid's surnames were different than his, it proved nothing. When asked if he might have a photo of them in his wallet or some such he almost laughed out loud. Finally they called the boys down to ask if he was, in fact, their uncle.

John confirmed it with. "Yeah, he's our uncle. He's a fag." Then he asked Brian why he was there since he'd never picked them up before.

"Your mother asked me to."

"Mom hates you, why would she do that?"

"Old Granny died this morning and your mother is a basket case, now let's go." The boys seemed fine with it all.

"Can we stop at McDonald's?"

"We can stop at a taxidermist if it will get your ass moving, let's go."

Sitting in the local Mickey D's, Brian was working on a somewhat wilted salad when his cel rang. "Mikey."

"What?"

"I called your office about almost an hour ago, Cynthia told me there was a family problem-is everything alright?"

"Cynthia? She's fine."

"Brian-c'mon. What's going on?"

Shit. Well he was going to find out anyway. "Joanie's not doing too well."

"Ohmigod. Is she OK? How is she?"

"Dead."

"That's not funny, Brian…What, wait-really? You're serious? Holy shit. Brian, are you alright? I'll be right over."

"Don't bother. I have Claire's kids and I'd rather not have a witness when I kill them."

"Do you want me to help with anything? Can I make any calls or anything?"

God, make him go away. "Look, call your mother and let her know. Claire will probably need some food in the house if people come over."

"Right. Good. I'll call her right now and Em can help with that, too, is there anything else? Do you want me to call Justin or your work or anyone?"

"I'll call Justin and work. You can call the others."

"God, Brian, I'm really sorry. I mean, I know that you two had some rocky times and all, but she was still your Mom."

"…Yeah, whatever. I have to go, Mikey."

Hitting the speed dial he went straight through to Cynthia.

"It's me. I won't be in for a couple of days, tell Vance."

"He'll shit" A pause, then…"Is something wrong, Brian?" She knew she was treading on thin ground, but they'd known each other a long time.

"My mother died. I have to deal with it."

"…I'm sorry, Brian. I'll tell him." Whether she was sorry at the old bat was dead or that he had to deal wasn't clear. Either way.

He cut the connection while the ratboys finished their McHeartattacks. Not knowing what else to do with them, he put them back into the car and carted them along to his next stop.

Pulling up to the curb at Joan's house, he was surprised to find the place open and about half a dozen women inside. They were cleaning, vacuuming and cooking. The counters were full of food and more seemed to be arriving.

Of course. These were women from St. Catherine's, the catholic church Joan had basically moved into when Brian was born. The word had started going out already. They were here to try to help the family by cleaning, making the house ready for the guests who would presumably be stopping by to pay their respects.

Christ.

One of the women noticed him standing there. "Yes, may I help you?" She didn't seem to have any idea who he was.

With a Kinney-curt, "I'm fine, thank you." He told the nephews to behave. Well, in fact what he said to them was, "Don't do anything stupid or I'll make sure you have to kiss Grandma goodbye", but it seemed to work. They were immediately offered trays full of food and despite having just eaten, dove it. The women cooed over the spawn, especially after they realized that they were 'poor Claire's dear boys and that the somewhat brusque man upstairs was the fabled 'Brian', the son Joan had spoken so proudly of whenever his name came up.

Brian walked upstairs to his old room, ignoring the startled look from the lady who was starting to go through Joan's closet, trying to help by getting the place ready for the reception and by cleaning out some closets of things that might be considered personal and which might cause distress for the family to have to deal with. In a normal family that might be true, but in the land of Kinney, such things didn't matter all that much.

He knew that his old room had been cleaned out years ago, that it had been turned into a guest room, but there were a few things of his that were still in boxes in the closet. If Joanie hadn't tossed them.

She would do that periodically. She would go through the house, through the basement or the attic or the garage and find things that she didn't think they had any use for. That was what had happened to his old sports trophies, his old clothes, his old books, his old records and cassettes and…well, you get the idea.

It hadn't really mattered, not really. As she had said, "Well, you know you won them, don't you? Besides, what do you want all that old stuff collecting dust for?" And had then added, under her breath, "And they said 'Vanity, thou name are woman.'"

So he had learned not to get upset when this medal or that favorite book was not longer around. He had even managed to turn it around so that traveling light had become a source of pride.

Going through the closet he found all kinds of things; Claire's old prom dresses and her wedding gown. He found winter coats from the seventies and old ice skates. There was a stack of bundled newspapers with dates from the nineties that had probably been intended for the recycling but hadn't made it. He even found, to his surprise, his old high school varsity jacket, complete with sewn on felt emblems, his graduation year and his name embroidered on the right breast.

It had moth holes.

Finally, on the back of the top shelf, behind the old box of give away glasses from Burger King, was what he was looking for.

The fact that he cared about it-them-surprised him, but he did. He wanted them and he didn't want his frigging sister to lay claim to them.

The Kinney family albums. Old photo albums with snaps of his parents at their wedding-both of them sober and looking young and happy. There were his and Clair's baby pictures, school pictures. There were faded Polaroid's of Christmas's past. A couple of his old team pictures were there, from when he had played in Little League and when he had been a Cub Scout. There was a formal posed picture of him dressed as an alter boy, before Father Glen had been fired-or whatever they did to priests who like little boys back then-probably just transferred him to some other parish in another state.

He was just putting them all back into the carton when one of the women came in, knocking lighting. "Brian? I'm sorry to disturb you at a time like this, but Mr. Mackey is on the phone. He would like to speak with you if you don't mind-about the arrangements."

Nodding, he walked across the hall, sitting on Joanie's bed and picking up the receiver of the bedside phone. Yes, he could go down to the funeral home later that afternoon to make the decisions. No, it was no trouble. Yes, if they could take care of copies of the death certificate that would be helpful and he was sure that he could get them an obituary by that afternoon as well. Of course, not a problem. He'd see them around three. That was in half an hour.

Taking the carton of old albums, he went to the car. The women told him that they would watch the boys while he dealt with the arrangements. Calling Claire's cel, he actually got through. She was crying again-or still-and didn't seem at all concerned that he'd dumped her kids with the good women of the Fellowship.

He was shown right in by Mr. Mackey himself. He chose a casket, selected which viewing room would be used and asked that instead of flowers any donations be sent to the GLC at 27 Liberty Avenue, Pittsburgh. Sitting down with the Funeral Director, they composed a tasteful obituary, which would run the day after tomorrow. He would let them know about the time of the church service and burial as soon as he spoke to the priest.

So far, so good, as it were.

Next he called Father Tom. This was Thursday; Monday at ten would be fine for the service, if that was good with the family. In keeping with Joan's wishes it would be a full mass followed by the internment and a reception at the Kinney home. Passing the information over to Mackey, Brian finally left. Claire would find out soon enough.

He started the engine and began driving but realized that he was at a loss as to where he wanted to go. He wasn't hungry; he didn't want to see anyone who would hand him sympathy he didn't want. Almost without realizing it, he found himself pulling into his parking space at Vanguard.

Well, why not?

It was still only three in the afternoon and he had a pitch scheduled for four. Screw it.

Cynthia was away from her desk when he walked by, probably either briefing Gardner or someone about the meeting. Whatever. She's be back soon, no doubt.

He picked up the receiver only to put it down again.

No. He didn't want to tell anyone right now.

Cynthia pushed his door open, probably wondering who had closed it, and asked him what he was doing there-he should be doing-whatever he should be off doing.

"I'm fine. Tell whoever was going to give the presentation that they don't have to."

"Are you sure…?"

He was going to snark something back at her but restrained himself. His answer was almost mild. "I'm fine."

She didn't even bother giving him a look, she knew better. "The clients are in the big conference room waiting. You can start whenever you want. They're already unhappy with their current agency so this should be easy for you-do you want me in there with you?"

"If you can keep your tits out of the way."

"…You're lucky I like you."

An hour later they had the client ready to sign, Vance was happy and Brian was ready to leave again.

He was restless, wanting to keep moving. Sitting at his desk returning phone calls wasn't going to cut it. He picked up his briefcase, put a few files in that he knew he wouldn't look at and left for the second time that day.

As he got into his car his cel started again.

"Brian? Are you coming home for dinner? I was going to cook a…"

"I have some things to do. I'll be late."

"…Is there something going on?"

"I'll talk to you later."

"…Later."

He could have told Justin, there as really no reason not to. He was bound to find out soon anyway. Well, fuck it. He didn't want to talk about it. Not right now.

He should go back to the house and see what was going on there.

He didn't want to, not right now. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

He drove aimlessly through the streets, past the high rises, past the small neighborhoods, past the malls and the schools. He didn't care where, it didn't matter.

His thoughts were about his mother, about his parents-how truly crappy they had been as parents and about his growing up with them. The scenes played in his mind like some warped home movie by Tim Rice.

His father drunk at one of his soccer games and being taken out by some of the other fathers.

His mother's horror at finding condoms in his room when he was fifteen.

Their ignoring his induction into the National Honor Society and his sports dinners and awards and his straight 'A's'. Sneering at his applications to college telling him he was 'too big for his britches'. His mother's fury when he quit being an alter boy, embarrassed that her friends would know.

The trips to the ER.

Being told to find another friend than that fag Michael.

Jack telling him he had cancer and the look on his face when he held Gus, knowing who he was.

The look on Joan's face when she walked in to find him with Justin then telling him he was going to hell.

His father's funeral.

Their believing that he had molested his nephew. That had been the last time he'd seen his mother, the last words he'd said to her were 'fuck you'.

He parked the car and walked up to the porch. He hadn't knocked here in over fifteen years. He had always been welcomed, even when he was doing something he knew was wrong, when he was in some kind of trouble he knew he could come here. He'd be yelled at and chastised and maybe cuffed on the head or shoulder, but he knew that after there would be a hug and a 'what's wrong, sweetie?'

"You look like shit. What's the matter?"

Debbie brought him into the living room, sat him on the couch and seated herself beside him.

"You and Justin have a fight?"

He just shook his head. "Didn't Michael call you?"

"I don't know, maybe. I was at the food store. What's going on?"

Quiet, matter of fact like when he had told her about Jack's being sick. "My mother died today. A heart attack. Claire called me from the hospital but by the time I got there she was dead."

"Oh, Brian, honey, I'm sorry." And sounded like she meant it.

"It's OK." Evidence to the contrary was his sitting there at four-thirty in the afternoon in his Armani suit and obviously needing to talk about it with someone and knowing his surrogate mother was as good a choice as anyone. Probably better, in fact. She'd practically raised the pain in the ass from the time she'd first laid eyes on him. Someone had to take care of the poor kid.

"Have you two made the arrangements?" She needed to get him talking.

He nodded. "It's Monday at St. Catherine's at ten. The burial is after next to Jack. Claire wants to do something back at the house after."

"I'll call her to see what I can send."

He looked at her, he didn't care if she sent anything-he knew that she would insist and he knew that it didn't matter. Debbie and Joan had hated one another since the day Deb had stood in the Kinney kitchen and reamed out both of his parents for beating Brian again. He'd been maybe fifteen, sixteen at the time. He'd made it to her house after another session with the belt to be patched up yet again but it had been bad enough that he'd ended up at Allegheny General for two days.

The older Kinney's didn't really care about that, the boy had to be punished, after all for whatever it was he'd done that time, but they were livid when they'd heard that Deb had been talking about what had happened-again!-to anyone in the parish who would listen.

The nerve of the woman.

But that was when the 'sessions' became less severe and slightly less frequent. He knew Deb was the reason-her and being found out. The only reason charges hadn't been pressed, despite the doctors calling in the authorities and the school being alerted and the neighbors being questioned was that Brian had refused to say anything. Without his cooperation, without him to at least give some evidence the cops were limited in what they could do. They had tried everything they could to get Brian to let them help him, but he simply wouldn't.

Nothing anyone could say to him could make him change his mind. No amount of reason or logic or threats would budge him and so they had finally left him alone, shaking their heads.

Deb was the only one who had understood.

She had never said a word to anyone, but she knew why.

The poor thing, that big sweetheart was still hoping that those sons of bitches would someday give him just one crumb, just one tiny one and let him think that they loved him, that he wasn't a worthless piece of shit-as his father was fond of reminding him-that he had value. Maybe even that they were proud of him.

It had never happened of course and as the years went by Debbie watched the walls around him get higher and thicker and stronger until she could barely get through herself and then only once in a while. It broke her heart.

Oh sure, since he'd hooked up with Justin he'd gotten better and like she had told Michael when he'd gotten back from the west coast and Dr. Dave-he loved that kid as much as he could, but that wasn't what he needed. What he needed was love from his parents and now that the old bitch was dead he'd never get it.

He was on his own, just like always. And Justin couldn't understand this. He had come from a family where he had been loved and wanted and supported, he wouldn't comprehend what Brian had lived through and how deep the scars went.

"She was a fool, Brian. You know that. She had her own set of problems but to have a kid like you and not see how blessed she was-well, pardon my French, but they were both a couple of assholes if you ask me."

He gave her his serious smile. "A kid like me? Always getting into trouble, mouthing off, a fag. They were blessed as shit."

"You're worth ten of them, and twenty of your sister, too. Don't you let anyone tell you anything else, kiddo. You're smarter than all of them put together and I know you'd do anything for that sweet little guy of yours."

He wasn't sure if she meant Justin or Gus. There was no point in arguing with her; he knew where she stood on the subject. He leaned over, kissing her cheek. She reached up, hugging him, hard. His arms came around her of their own volition and he was holding onto her, his breathing ragged and for the space of a dozen breaths he almost lost control before he pulled himself together. Her hand was stroking his hair, just as he would comfort Gus when he'd fallen on the playground, wordlessly but knowing that someone cared and loved him.

Finally he pulled away with a long exhale of breath.

"Thanks."

"You gonna be OK?"

"I'm fine."

Deb hurried to the kitchen, taking something large and foil wrapped from the freezer. "You take this, it's a lasagna. You boys aren't going to have time to think about cooking for the next couple of days.

He didn't want it, but he carried it out to the car. Justin would eat it. Justin would eat anything.

Justin. Shit, this was going to be a pain in the ass-telling everyone was going to be a pain in the ass when you came down to it.

Well, he'd made sure that the obituary would be in the papers tomorrow and Father Tom would tell the congregation. The church ladies would take care of telling anyone else who might care. The neighbors had probably noticed and would know.

They had no family left, no grandparents, no aunts or uncles who would care. Joan and Jack had managed to piss off pretty much everybody over the years.

The church would not be standing room for this one.

If he could he'd just skip the whole thing, but even he knew that there was no way he could do that. He checked his watch. Almost five. Shit.

He fished out his cel. "Cynthia? I won't be in for the next couple of days. Tell Vance, will you?"

"Are you out of your mind? He'll chew you a new one if you pull this. He's counting on you to straighten out the fallout from the Stockwell mess."

Oh fuck this. "Tell him my mother died."

"And you have a sick grandmother too, right? Like he's going to believe that."

"The obit will be in tomorrow's paper, he can read it himself."

"…Oh shit, Brian…I'm sorry. I didn't know you were serious. I mean, God, I'm sorry…"

"It's OK. I'll be in on Tuesday."

Walking into the loft he put the lasagna on the counter. He heard the shower going, saw Justin's carrier bag on the couch. The kid was home. Fuck. He didn't want to deal with this. He made his way up to the bedroom, stripped and went into the bathroom. Opening the door he saw Justin jump, startled.

That big smile. "I didn't think you'd be home this early…"

Brian grabbed him, none to gently, kissed him hard and turned him against the wall. Saying nothing he reached for the condom in the soap holder, tore the wrapper opened and put it on himself, all the while holding Justin in place. Brian entered quickly surprising Justin, thrusting hard and finishing quicker than he had before with him.

Judging by the sound of dismay, Justin was still a few minutes behind Brian when he pulled out, tossing the used condom out the door and actually getting it into the garbage.

Saying nothing, giving Justin a look, he left, grabbing a towel as he went into the bedroom. Drying and dressing quickly in jeans and a black tee, he grabbed a beer out of the fridge and sat down to watch, but not listen to the news. About ten minutes later Justin stood at the end of the couch.

"What was that?"

"That was a fuck. I thought you knew that by now."

"Brian…?"

"Drop it. Deb gave me dinner if you're hungry. It's on the counter."

"…I'll heat it up." He looked a question.

"Sure."

The rest of the evening was silent and Brian knew he was being unfair. Finally, hours later when they were both in bed, on opposite sides of the mattress he spoke softly. "I'm sorry about the shower."

"It's alright." He reached over for Brian's hand. "What happened?"

"My mother died-don't make a big deal out of it for Christ's sake."

"Oh, fuck. I'm really sorry. But…Brian, I mean, she was your mother and…"

"I'm fine." That was what he had said when his father had died, too.

"But Brian…"

"The funeral is Monday, you don't have to come."

"I'll be there."

"You didn't hear me. You don't have to come."

Don't come. Justin got it. Brian didn't want him there.

"If you change your mind, I'll be there." He rolled over against Brian, the larger man putting his arm around Justin's shoulder, stroking his arm gently.

"I won't. Go to sleep."

It was what he would have expected from Brian-especially after having met his mother.

As always happens, the word went out. Father Tom did his part; Claire called everyone in Joan's address book. The announcement was in the paper.

Brian dealt as he always dealt with things he didn't want to face. He drank, fucked Justin at least half a dozen times a day and when that failed, did poppers.

Claire was useless.

He also had to pick out what his mother would wear in her coffin, dealt with the funeral home again, arranged for the rest of Joan's clothes to be donated to Goodwill and have Jennifer over to look at the house.

The will was read. Brian was specifically cut out. He was left one dollar and with the instructions that if he tried to contest the will the estate was to fight him by any and all means.

He wasn't surprised and pretended that he didn't care.

The day of the funeral was rainy, dark and overcast. Justin didn't come, at Brian's request. Michael was there, but Brian had made it clear that he wouldn't appreciate his friends being hypocrites. He remembered how they had acted at Jack's funeral-wanting to get away, making excuses to leave. They didn't know Joan any better than they had known Jack and they didn't know the family baggage. Several of them said they wanted to be there for him but he made it clear that he would rather just deal without them as an audience to the whole thing. They stayed away.

Despite being personally invited by the priest, he declined to take communion during the service.

He stood without expression during the internment and later at the house he was polite, if distant to the well-wishers who tried to be kind.

For once Claire's kids were quiet and under control.

He didn't care. They didn't matter to him any more than he mattered to them.

Vance was there, doing his duty and Cynthia kissed his cheek, looking around curiously at the house he'd grown up in. There were few clues to be found there.

Brian handled the reception well, for him. He made no horrible announcements, told no horrid stories, vented no spleen or bile. He thanked people for coming and suffered the hugs and the kisses from the well meaning semi-strangers, the hands pressing his.

Around nine that night he let himself into the loft. It was dark, no one was there.

Taking a bottle of JB from the cabinet he went up to the bed, removed his clothes and stretched out on the bed with the old album he'd taken-the only thing he'd taken from the house-beside him. The only light coming from the single lamp on the bed stand.

Slowly he flipped through the pages as he drank himself into a stupor.

Justin found him there, passed out, and pulled the blanket up, making sure he was positioned so that he wouldn't choke if he threw up everything he'd drunk. He took the album out from under Brian's arm and carried it down to the couch where he looked through it.

There were the usual pictures you'd find in any family album, snap shots of weddings and birthdays, Christmas and one or two vacations to local places. There were school photos of both Brian and his sister and Justin saw them grow up from page to page. There were even a couple of Brian's old report cards stuck in the back, showing straight 'A's'.

It was all standard stuff but something was off about it. It wasn't quite right.

Going back to the beginning again he looked closer and then he saw what he was looking for.

No one was really smiling.

In the wedding pictures for Brian's parents his mother had her bouquet in front of her stomach but you could see, if you looked closely, that there was an obvious bulge there.

In the early pictures of the birthdays and at the Christmas', both kids looked like they'd been crying. By the time they were teenagers they didn't even try to pretend. They both stared into the lens as though challenging it to make them look like they wanted to be there. The expressions were angry, surly. Clearly wanting it to be over so they could go somewhere else. Justin looked closer. Brian had bruises in that picture and his arm was in a cast in that one.

That one there-he a had pair of crutches leaning against a tree behind him, you'd hardly notice them if you didn't look. There was a picture of him with Michael-they both looked about sixteen, arms around one another and similar to the one hanging in Michael's old room. That was the only picture in the entire book where the smiles were real, where the people were actually happy. It was the only picture where the people were touching.

He'd known that Brian's family was screwed up. Debbie and Vic had both told him stories when he was living there with them but he hadn't really understood how awful it had been, year after year.

He'd sort of known, Michael had made a few comments and Lindsay had told him how tense the house had been the few times she'd been there but looking at the pictures was a record of how forced they had been, how the surface veneer hadn't been more than skin deep.

Justin had no real way of understanding. Not really. Nothing in his life could prepare him to understand the constant off hand cruelty that Brian had lived with from the time he was born.

Something Deb had said had stuck with Justin. They had been sitting in her kitchen one night, talking, eating cookies and he had brought up Brian-like he did every chance he got. That particular day Brian had reamed him out for being rude to Jennifer when she had stopped by to drop something off.

"You don't have any idea how lucky you are to have a mother who loves you." He had been really angry, furious.

"She's a pain in the ass."

Shaking his head, Brian had walked out, refusing to engage, too angry to get into it with the boy. Debbie had taken up the gauntlet when Justin had complained to her about how ill-treated he felt, how put upon.

Debbie was the one who had told him, almost as angry with the boy as Brian had been. "Brian would have given his right arm to have a mother like yours and that's the fucking truth. You're not cutting any slack with me. You ask him about it some time and maybe you'll stop acting like a fucking twat and appreciate what you have."

Looking at the pictures, hearing the stories, he thought he was starting to understand and was sorry that he hadn't insisted on going to the funeral to be there for Brian, no matter what he had said.

The old bitch was dead and so now there was no chance of them ever seeing eye to eye.

As far as Brian was concerned, he'd always be the disappointment, the son who hadn't been what she had wanted-no matter what job he had, no matter how tall and handsome he was, no matter what awards he won, no matter how much money he made, no matter who he was with.

The hole would always be there. There was no way to fill it, to make it right.

Closing the album he turned off the lights and went up to the bedroom. Brian had rolled over to his other side. Justin got into the bed, fitting in to spoon in front of his lover who put his arm around Justin in his sleep, holding him.

No, of course, he couldn't take the place of a parent or fill the gap; the emptiness but he loved Brian.

He did.

It wasn't the same, but it was what Justin could give him.

The lack would always be there, though, there was no way to make up for it now.

It was too late to make amends twenty years ago and now the scars would never disappear. It wasn't possible.

All they could do was to try to make the best of it, the two of them.

They could make their own family-or try to, if Brian would let him. The alternative was to have nothing.

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