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they'd be able to get back into the studio, and this calculation made him sick. Yet Peyton was the person he needed right now, more than anyone else in the world. He hadn't thought losing Harold could hurt so much, thought he'd lost the capacity for this kind of pain after his mother's death. His mind was feverish with What if he ... and If I only . He knew he needed Peyton even though it infuriated him to have this need, and he reached for Peyton's hand, aware that his own hand was clammy with sweat and tears but not caring.

    * * * *

    When Peyton felt Seth's hand clutching his own, something in him melted. He climbed all the way onto the bed and pulled Seth into his arms, cradled him through the bedclothes as best he could. Seth sagged against him and sobbed, a dry, wrenching sound, that of a man unused to crying. “Oh Christ,” he said at last. “Oh, Peyt. I did this to him. I did."
    â€œYou didn't. Some random piece of shit did."
    â€œBut I knew ... I knew ...” Seth couldn't go on for a minute. Then he said, “I knew he used to pick up rough trade. I knew it was dangerous. But I let him go back to it."
    â€œWhat could you do, Seth? You couldn't stay with him out of pity. You didn't love him."
    â€œI did love him. Just not the way he wished I did."
    â€œI know,” said Peyton. “I know."
    They were silent for a while. Seth's next whisper was so soft that Peyton missed its meaning. “What?"
    â€œI love you that way,” Seth said.
    Peyton was glad of the room's darkness then; it hid the blood that rose to his cheeks. “You don't,” he said.
    â€œI do . You came here ... only you came here ... and I thought ... oh, Christ ...” Seth punched a pillow in frustration as he began to sob again.
    â€œShhh. Shhh, Seth. You thought what?"
    â€œI thought: I can get through this . I can get through it with Harold. But if it was you..."
    â€œWell, it wouldn't be me, would it?” Peyton said reasonably. “I don't do the things Harold did."
    â€œNot any of them?"
    â€œWhat d'you—"
    Seth stopped Peyton's mouth with a kiss.
    Peyton's heart began to hammer in his chest. He pulled back, looked closely at Seth, whose face was full of naked hope. Peyton ran though his immediate reactions and found no revulsion, some curiosity, but most of all a sense that he could do this if it needed to be done. That was what he'd always done for Seth, really—whatever needed to be done for him. An irresistible hook for a song that was a little too raw. A lyric for a wordless riff. A fiver, a word of diplomacy with the suits at the record company, a lift home back in Leyborough when Seth was too drunk to stand. Whatever Seth needed, that was what Peyton did, and if the reason was because Seth was the only person with whom he could write great music—well, that was a kind of love as true as any.
    He put his other hand to Seth's face, brushed hair out of Seth's swollen eyes. He stretched out on the bed and gathered Seth closer to him. Not until they kissed a second time, with open mouths like lovers, did Peyton understand that this act was irrevocable.

    * * * *

    This would change everything between them, and Seth was afraid. But he'd been afraid for a long time and he was sick of it, sick of this new peaceful acid-tamed version of himself, and he suddenly wanted this as much as he had ever wanted anything. It was funny; he'd never once thought of Peyton that way, not even after he realized he liked boys as well as girls. Of course he knew Peyton was a good-looking bastard, anybody could see that. But he was Peyton , little Peyton Masters who'd astonished him in Leyborough by being able to play the guitar as well as Seth despite looking like a posh choirboy, Peyton with whom he'd shared a thousand squalid hotel rooms, train cars, toilets down the corridor. Just Peyton.
    He touched his friend warily, certain that at any moment he would be stopped. Peyton was as straight as