_

"I think we'll need more than that, Justin—do you two mind?"

"I'll get the other bag—out in the garage, right?"

"No, that's alright; let Molly get it."

"I can do it."

"I have to put my bike in anyway, Jus. `Be right back."

Justin and his sister were peeling the potatoes for the mashed potatoes. It was Thanksgiving morning and Jenn was working on getting the turkey ready for the oven, the problem being that it was still partially frozen. Well, actually it was completely frozen. It seemed that she had simply and completely forgotten to thaw the thing out and there was no way on earth that a twenty pound bird would be ready for the oven any time soon. Brian, with atypical patience, had said nothing and walked out when the minor culinary problem threatened to escalate into an actual argument complete with tears.

He and Justin had been down in Bethesda, Maryland on and off for about six months now. Between chemo and radiation, testing and finally, when everything was in place, a bone marrow transplant—an experimental procedure yet to prove effective—which might be the only thing to help in finally, maybe, stopping the advance of the cancer.

So far it didn't seem to be working. Or, as Justin said, `it wasn't doing dick'. Because of the transplant, the hope of which was that the stem cells contained in the bone marrow would stimulate healthy cell growth instead of cancer cell growth, he'd been forced to spend almost two months in an isolation ward but still somehow managed to contract pneumonia anyway. This had led to his being further isolated in a motel room away from any of the other patients.

You see, when you have a procedure like that, you get a massive, really massive dose of radiation—or was it chemo? Whatever. The idea being that they—the doctors—try to kill your immune system so that the donor cells wouldn't be rejected.

The problem, obviously, is that without an immune system, almost any little old germ wandering by can turn into a situation. They weren't sure he'd live through that one, but he had, thinner than ever before—or as his grandmother said, `If that boy turns sideways, he disappears'.

But—that was back in August and September and now it was November and he was sprung for a few days. He was sprung for two days, if you wanted to be nitpicky. They had to get back to the National Institute of Health either Friday or Saturday to start up with the radiation again.

So, here he was with his sister, peeling all the potatoes in the universe and pretending that he didn't feel as totally crappy as he did.

The thing with going back for the radiation? He'd already had more radiation over the last three years than anyone on the planet is ever supposed to get and this time it was pretty strong so what was happening was that basically every mucus membrane in his body was full of sores—his mouth, his nose, his butt—and everything else you can think of and probably a few places you'd probably rather not know about. It hurt to breathe and eat and—everything.

There was some good news, though. The tumors on his head seemed to have disappeared, which was really good. The bad news was that he was still getting what his mother referred to as `pop-up' tumors all through his chest and the treatments weren't doing anything at all for the tumors in his lungs or his breasts. He kept hearing that they were inoperable, so basically if the radiation or chemo or the meds or the stem cells didn't help, then they weren't going to be helped at all.

So he was spending most of his time down at the National Institute of Health undergoing experimental treatments.

He'd even overheard one of his friends at the hospital refer to him as `just another one of the lab rats'.

The pisser was that it was true and he had gotten to the point of wondering how much longer this would be going on.

Shit, it was Thanksgiving and all of that but frankly, my dear, he was feeling hard pressed to come up with anything to be all that thankful about right now.

Oh, sure, he had his family and his friends and he knew that there were people praying for him and worried about him and all of that and it was all very nice, of course, but when you came down to it—well, when you came down to it, it all pretty much sucked.

One of the things he was really starting to get tired of was the reaction of his friends when they saw him. No, not new friends like the people in the hospital. Old friends, people like Daphne and some of the kids he'd known in school and around the old neighborhood. They'd see him somewhere or maybe come over to visit when he had a week off and even though they'd say all the right things and take him out to a movie or to a Chinese restaurant—well, shit. You'd have to be blind to not see the look on their faces when they saw him all pale and bald and with the circles under his eyes. He had the shunt in his chest and he was weak and he just plain old felt like complete crap and it was getting harder and harder to pretend that he was alright.

That was what he hated the most, the looks on their faces. Even when they were pretending to not notice and that everything was okay, you could still see what they were thinking and he knew damn well that half the reason everyone was here this year was on the chance that it was his last one.

He knew that accounted for the turnout and while on one hand it was nice that they cared, on the other hand, he didn't really like being treated like he was dead when he was still walking around—slowly though it may be.

He was willing to bet that Christmas would pack the house as well.

And this time around he couldn't take the classes he'd liked so much, either. Part of it, a big part of it, was that he was down in Maryland a lot and a bigger part of it was that he was just too sick. He had thought about taking classes on-line but then—well, screw it. He decided to take a semester off.

But he was sprung for now and his family was around along with a few of the usual friends. It was a holiday and even though he felt like crap, he was going to help—damnit. Well, at least for a little while, anyway.

So, he was peeling potatoes and ignoring the brou ha ha about the frozen bird.

"Sweetie, if you're getting tired, you just go lie down, alright?"

"I will." Yes, he knew his mother was just being maternal, but that comment ranked up there with, `if you're hungry, eat something'.

"Sunshine? You go sit down, I'll finish that."

"Thanks, Deb, but Mol and I have it."

The woman would spoon feed him if he let her, especially after Vic died. She seemed to need to look after someone and Michael wasn't available for that lately. He seemed, finally, to actually be looking after himself—and Ben and Hunter as well..

"Well, come in here and watch the parade—you're missing the Rockettes."

Like he cared. "I'm good." Where the hell had Brian gone? That was just so fucking like him—bailing out, disappearing, taking a hike, and probably picking up some trick—another zucchini man or something.

Fucking Brian—he knew that Justin felt like crap, he knew he wasn't really up to dealing with all the people and the noise and he knew that what he wanted the most was to have him around so they could exchange looks and jokes and rub each other's necks and shit like that—to just connect even with everyone walking around and talking and all of that family stuff.

And now Gus was starting to whine because his father wasn't here to give him a ride on his shoulders and—Christ.

Fucking Brian.

"Sweetie, the cider is hot if you want some—I put extra cinnamon in it the way you like it."

"Thanks, Mom, maybe in a little while, okay?"

"Are you sure? Maybe you'd like to lie down?"

"I'm alright, I'll just finish this bag of potatoes and go inside."

"I don't think that this hot water is thawing this turkey fast enough, Linds…maybe we should put it in the microwave? Justin, honey? You look like you're getting tired. I tell you what, I'll finish that and you go see if Debbie wants to put the pies in the oven yet. How would that be?"

Peachy. "Fine." Whatever. Actually he did feel like shit, but this was just getting so damn tired. `Poor Justin. Tired Justin. Sick Justin. Bald Justin. Thin Justin. Cancer Justin. Maybe his last Birthday/Thanksgiving/Christmas Justin.'

Tired of the whole thing.

And where the hell was Brian?

Sitting in the big chair, the chair and a half with the blue flowers that he really liked, he thought—and not for the first time— about how Brian had gotten the short end of the stick in this whole thing; maybe even more than he had. Sure, he was the one who was actually sick and going through the treatments, but when you came down to it Brian was going through all the crap just as much. Fine, he wasn't the one getting his body hit the rads and filled with chemicals and throwing up and losing his hair and getting radiation burns and stuck with needles and CAT scanned and MRIed and Christ knew what all, but he was there everyday, holding Justin's hand and talking with the doctors, making sure they all understood just what was going on and what they were hoping for and what the side effects would be and the percentages and the odds. Brian was the one dealing with the boxes of files filled with bills and letters and claims which had to be explained and itemized and often fought or resubmitted. He was the one who made sure that he wasn't stuck in some examination room and forgotten for a couple of hours. Brian was the one who held him at night and made sure he took all of his meds and ate as much as he could and tried to keep him entertained. Brian did the laundry and cooked almost all of their meals and had put his job in jeopardy and still managed to keep his temper most of the time, even when Justin was in a pissy mood or tired or hurting or just at the end of his rope and sitting on the couch crying for the third time that week.

Brian was the one who told Jennifer what was going on and what the prognosis was this week and for next year.

Brian was doing all this from the outside looking in.

Justin was dealing with it in his own body, knowing that he might well not see his next birthday and he was learning to accept that.

Brian was watching the, well shit—he was watching the person he loved go through all of this crap and knew that no matter what he did, nothing would make much difference in the end. All he could do was try to smooth out the bumps and go along for the ride and when it was over—like it was looking like it would be at some point, and not in a positive life affirming way—he would be the one left to deal with the loss.

And that sucked.

Justin sipped his mulled cider; it was really quite good and heard the car engine stop out in the driveway. It was the `vette. Brian was back from wherever he'd gone.

The kitchen door opened and closed. Sounds of packages.

"Brian! You didn't! Oh my goodness, this looks absolutely beautiful. Debbie, come look at this."

He looked in the direction of the kitchen, not having either the energy or the curiosity to get up and see for himself. Molly came over and sat on the arm of the chair.

"Brian found this like twenty-five pound turkey somewhere, all cooked and hot. It looks and smells amazing so now they're busting to get the vegetables and rolls and stuff cooked so we can eat in like half an hour."

Brian came out to the family room, taking off his coat and hanging it on the coat tree. "How you doing?" He sat himself in the big chair, squishing Justin slightly, neither of them caring.

"I'm doing okay. I hear you hunted up a bird that isn't solid ice."

"I couldn't deal with Debbie harping about the fucking thing—and it wouldn't be thawed before Christmas."

"So we get to do this again in a month?"

"God bless us, everyone."

Justin had that small smile on his face, the tiny one when he was just pleased about something. "You know, I'm really glad that you're here."

Brian returned the small, satisfied smile, the one they could use to talk to one another without talking. "Yeah, me, too."

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