The apartment was still and cold. He went into the kitchen and switched on the light, then carefully dug around the bottles and canisters of household cleaners in the cabinet beneath the sink for the fifth of vodka he hid there. He drank it straight from the bottle, grateful for the burn. He capped it and put it back. Did Nick know about it? Or the other bottles he had squirreled around the house? If he did, he didn’t say anything. But then Nick rarely spoke unless Bill asked him a question. At first, Bill thought Nick was giving him the silent treatment for some imagined offense, but the silences deepened and lengthened until the Nick he had first known, the awkward, cheerful chatterbox with a silly streak, completely disappeared into them. This new Nick was quiet and sad and compliant. He joylessly agreed to whatever Bill suggested, whether it was a restaurant or sex or one more night at home watching TV. Guiltily, Bill plied him with gifts, clothes, books, records, even, finally, a car so he could visit his family. Nick accepted them but the clothes went unworn, the books unread, the CDs unopened, and the car gathered parking tickets on the street. A dozen times a day, Bill wanted to scream, “What’s wrong with you!” but he held his tongue. He knew what was wrong with Nick. He—Bill—was what was wrong with Nick. Nick was no longer his lover, but his shield against a loneliness that grew more fearsome with each new death of a friend or acquaintance. Nick was his hostage who, overwhelmed by Bill’s need, had lost the ability to walk way. Only Bill could release him, but if he did, the loneliness would eat him alive.

Bill went into the bathroom where, before a mirror that ran the length of the vanity, he inspected himself for KS lesions, felt his lymph nodes, studied his tongue for signs of thrush, drew deep breaths to assure himself his lungs were clear and strong. When he finished he studied his face. Worry and fear had etched deep lines across his forehead and along the sides of his mouth. His hair was thinning, his chest and belly had begun to sag. He was only thirty-two but he looked ten years older. Soundlessly, he wept.

“It’s just a cold,” he snapped at Nick.

Bill was lying in bed, the sheets damp beneath him, wheezing and coughing. Nick stood over him anxious and exasperated.

“You can hardly breathe. You’ve got to go to the hospital.”

Bill shook his head and tried another tack. “Listen, baby, let me rest today and if I’m not better tomorrow, I’ll call my doctor, okay?”

Nick pursed his lips skeptically but said, “Okay. Are you hungry? I can warm up some soup.”

“No, I just need to sleep. Don’t worry about me.”