Brian stood in the bedroom doorway, hurled the laundry duffle to land with a hard thud…followed by three raps on his front door.  Wary from the experience of past invaders, he took his time, mind-rehearsed a fuck-off speech and pulled the door open.

“Surprise!” Emmett beamed.

Michael held up jingling keys.  “The ‘Vette’s out front.”

“Who’s your friend?”  Brian pocketed his keys, squinted at a potted fig tree the size of a patio umbrella on the landing behind them.

Emmett chirped,  “The minute I heard you sold your furniture, I thought – what a great idea.  A blank canvas ready for a whole new look.”  Then to Michael, “Give me a hand with this, Sweetie.”

Brian stood aside, crossed his arms as Emmett and Michael grabbed the sides of a brass roller and pulled the tree in.  He shook his head at their “Wait.  Wait.  Watch it. Get that” as they awkwardly pushed branches to clear the door, trailed mangled leaves.

Michael passed Brian’s stare with a discreet “His insisted,” and pushed the giant tree center-Loft before rejoining Brian.

Emmett gazed around, dimmed at his friend’s loss then brightened.  “Look at all this space.  I just knew this would be the perfect gift.  It’ll fit – anywhere!” he waved his arms and spun to face Brian, “But I’d suggest the bedroom...if you could get a little more light in there.  When I think of sleeping under a tree, two words come to mind-”

“Ants and birdshit?”

“Try free?  And natural?” Emmett prissed, recovered, “…although you do have a point.  But there’s a lot you can avoid in a controlled environment.”

“Not always,” Brian stared at Em who was wandering the Loft for the perfect spot.

Michael whispered, “Go with it.  He thought it would cheer you up.”

“Maybe.  Will it hold a sling?”

Michael wide-eyed Brian’s Cheshire smile before shaking his head.  “Come on, Emmett.  I have to meet Mom at the house.”

Brian paused in thought, “I was just heading over there,” paced to the bedroom.  “ Why don’t you boys meet me at the car,” he passed Emmett, “And take that down for me, if you don’t mind,” he motioned to the laundry.

“Glad to,” Emmett gushed.  He tugged, finally had to stoop to swing it over his shoulder.  “My god.  WHAT is IN here.”

“A week’s worth of dried cum,” Brian clipped, disappeared into the bedroom.

“Oh REA-lly,” Emmett smiled wide. 

Until Michael’s low “He’s not kidding” made him wince as they left the Loft and shut the door.

Brian slipped on shoes, took the stairs by Justin’s work area and glanced at the desk lamp on the floor.  On his way out, he flicked on the kitchen nightlight, panned the gray of fading daylight in a cavern too lean on lamps, pulled his cell from his pocket and scrolled through a dozen stored numbers before his display lit:

Scott Turner. 

The Diner cash register readout Change $16.00 had Justin’s main focus, his side-vision on the busy room until he caught a wave from the third person in line.

“Daph!  What’re you doing here?”  Justin handed out three bills, grabbed the next guy’s check and punched it in.

“I just got back from the Avenue Art Fest, and it was awesome.  Why didn’t YOU enter?”

“Too busy,” Justin eyed his customer – “Ten dollars even. Thank you” – drawered the bill and finally got to Daphne .  “Follow me,” he led her down the counter, stopped beside Kiki hustling coffee. “Kiki?  Can I take five?”

“Down here.” Kiki swayed to a couple at the counter end by the pickup station, pulled their used plates with a gruff, “You’re done, right?” that sent them wordlessly packing.  She nodded to Justin and winked at Daphne then turned back to business.

Justin, still behind the counter, motioned Daphne to a stool.  “Want anything?”

“Whatever you’re having,” she sat down.  “You know, you don’t have to keep paying rent since you’re hardly there anymore,” she watched him pour two colas.  “So...are you two, like, moved in now?”

Justin slid one drink toward her but kept his eyes on it.  “He didn’t ask.  And I’m not about to ask HIM unless he lets me pay half the maintenance fees.  I know he won’t.  Like he thinks it’s charity or something.”

“But I thought...” Daphne tipped her head, smiled wide and double-raised her brows in a  sex-is-great, love-is-great, life-is-great metaphor.

Justin leaned on crossed arms, stared at her.  “We’re good...mostly.  But sometimes...” he shrugged at the counter, “...nobody’s called him yet, and he’s been kinda restless,” he shook his head.  “I don’t know.”

“Finding work takes time,” Daphne leaned close.

“With Brian, it’s like a matter of pride, and I don’t know how to help.  Like sometimes I’m making it worse just by being there, doing MY work,” he sipped his drink.  “I’d never let pride do that to me.  Maybe I just don’t understand.”

They were startled by the Cook’s heavy hand on the call-bell and louder “Justin.  Order’s up.”

“Gotta go.  Later,” Justin turned, reached for a plate.

“Are you coming over tonight?”

Justin exhaled, looked away then back at her.  “I’m not sure yet.  Don’t wait up.”

Daphne nodded with a smile that flattened at Justin’s back after he passed her.  He looked stressed.  Worried.  Not a word about the Art Festival – and that wasn’t like him.

In Novotny’s tiny laundry room, Michael leaned cross-armed in the doorframe, amused by Debbie’s conflict with Brian’s method.

She stood behind Brian, watched him dump an armload of mixed whites and darks into the toploader.  “For fuck’s sake…give me that,” she pushed him aside, reached into the washer, dug the pile out.  “You’d think being with Justin would’ve taught you SOMETHING.  At least HE knows how to separate.”

Michael grinned, “Yeah, but Brian knows how to get somebody ELSE to – ahh!” Michael winced from Brian’s jab to his gut, hands spinning him around and shoving him out the door.

“It gives her purpose,” Brian breathed in his ear.

Michael halted, turned a sharp eye on Brian, heard Debbie growl “I don’t know what you boys would do without me” and conceded to Brian’s raised told-ya brow.

“How can you can make being an asshole look so benevolent,” Michael shook his head, turned to the kitchen.

“It’s a management skill,” Brian gripped the back of Michael’s neck and followed.

“You know…with all the time I need to work on Hunter’s deal…I could use some help at the Shop.  Can’t pay much, but-” he felt Brian’s hand leave, twisted a look back at Brian’s darkened face.

“I’ve got things lined up,” Brian flatly stated.  A line of callbacks due.  Bills due.

“Yeah.  Good,” Michael wasn’t buying, knew not to press.

They joined Ben, seated at the kitchen table and fiddling with a computer-printer setup.

“Any luck yet?” Michael parked a hand on Ben’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Campus surplus isn’t Cadillac, but we’re online and working,” Ben beamed up at Michael, then to Brian, “The only way to fight the system is from IN the system.”

“We’re petitioning to adopt Hunter,” Michael clarified.

Brian was skeptical.  “Against his blood mother?”

Debbie flew in, voice booming, “Like the courts could GIVE a shit about this kid…rather put him in a whorehouse than see him happy with two decent, hard-working men who just happen to be gay. They want a mother?  I’ll GIVE ‘em one,” she smacked Ben’s shoulder, toned down to Michael, “I know how much you want him, but sometimes you have to take what you can get, and work it for the best.”  Then tougher to Ben, “Show me how to work that thing.”

Brian looked at Michael, tilted his head toward Debbie.  Michael smiled wide and nodded.  Two fags didn’t stand much chance, but one feisty Mother just might.  Brian watched Debbie struggle with her foreign tool and thought about what she was willing to take on.  And what she said.

Open briefcase on his desk, Brian batched 8x10 copies of past ads for a portfolio - Pool Boy, Brown, BioGen, EyeConic – when he heard a timid knock on his door.  He answered, surprised to see Cynthia.

“I…hope you don’t mind…I saw your car out front,” she mumbled softly before a firmer, “Are they ever going to fix your security door?”

“Next time Walmart has a sale.  But I’m not exactly in a position to complain.  Come on in.” 

“I can’t stay…just had a couple things to tell you.”

“If Gardner put you on notice, he’s an even bigger idiot than I thought.”

“No.  I pitched my knowledge and appealed to his sense of ruthless ambition.  I’ve been…” she stalled, looked down, “… handling your accounts.”  Her eyes spot-checked his reaction before she flustered, “I didn’t want you to think -”

“It’s your chance,” Brian calmly breathed out, “Go for it.  I wouldn’t respect you for doing any less.”

“You really mean that.”

“You’ve earned it, and don’t think I didn’t admire or take advantage of you.  Your only fault is you’re not a man.”

“If I WAS a man, I’d probably be a lot further in my career by now.”

Brian rolled eyes to the ceiling, shook his head, “Ah, the classic Glass Ceiling excuse,” then directly at her, “So why didn’t you just try harder?”

Cynthia met his eyes.  Because it would have meant moving on from you.  Before I was absolutely certain there was no chance.  But I know now.  “Choice,” she faintly smiled, “How about you?  Any prospects yet?”

Brian leaned cross-armed against the door. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was being blacklisted.  But legally Vangard can’t say much about how or why I left, only comment on my performance.”

“Sometimes what’s NOT said makes a bigger difference.  One nice word can land an interview.  The word ‘satisfactory’ sends a red flag.”

Brian read Cynthia’s eyes, exhaled a long breath.  “So discrimination is legal after all.”

“Vance hasn’t quite gotten around to notifying Brown Athletics that you’re gone,” her eyes flicked up for a second then away.

Brian stared with a mix of thanks and concern.  “You’re crossing the safety line.  I can’t let you do that.”

“MY choice.  I thought you should know.”

“You could’ve just phoned.”

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you how much I enjoyed working with you…how much I already miss you.”  She stretched up, kissed his cheek.  “Phone technology hasn’t come this far yet,” her smile and tone mismatched hazing eyes.  “Don’t forget about me,” she turned away quickly and headed down the stairs.

Brian didn’t say good-bye.  Stood in the doorway and watched her shadow shrink to gone.  There was little room for sentiment in business, and he knew his name would be hushed gossip for as long as it would take to delete his security sine from Vangard’s system.  After that, deadlines, demands or the next distraction.  Life always went on.  As if optimism could replace Cynthia and make the jab less painful. 

Brian returned to his computer and WaveLight’s boring site.  He leaned back in his chair, glanced at 7 PM on his clock, grabbed his phone and dialed the Diner.  “Kiki.  Put Justin on.”  He tapped fingers on the desk edge to bide the wait.  “Justin.  I’ll come by to pick you up tonight.  Just…what?  I thought you were off seven-thirty.  Okay.  Eleven.  Later.”

He hung up the phone, shut down the computer, stood up and paced behind the desk.  Then he pulled out his wallet, counted the bills and headed out for the evening. 

Darkness.  Until the Loft door opened a rectangle of hall light with a silhouette of Brian pressed to Justin in a kiss.  Brian grabbed Justin’s hand, towed his tired body in, flicked a switch and the desk lamp came on.

“Brian,” Justin stood amazed, “You bought a TREE?”

Brian scraped the door shut and locked it.  “It’s one of those things you can’t throw out or give away called a gift.”

“Had to be Emmett,” Justin circled the giant.

“You’re SO perceptive.”

“Next semester we’ll be doing a lot with branches – rendering them in every medium…chalk…batik…watercolor…this is like my own personal model.”

“Then it’s yours,” Brian came from behind, “I’m sure Emmett would understand,” wrapped arms around Justin and nuzzled his neck.  “You smell like…” his face crunched, “…the Diner.”

“And you taste like Woody’s,” Justin slapped both hands on Brian’s thighs, pulled away.  “God, I need a shower,” Justin dragged to the bedroom.  “You coming?”

“Not yet, but getting there.”

“Stepped right into THAT one,” Justin mumbled to himself, climbed the steps, glanced back and saw Brian touch a button on his answering machine.

The playback echoed:  Kinney.  Scott Turner returning your call.  Ring me at the office tomorrow.

Justin froze.  “You called Scott Turner?”

“He owes me a favor, and we need more light in here,” Brian glanced around the room.

“We could buy a few cheap lamps.”

“And hang them on the tree?” Brian spread his arms toward the barren area.  “I was thinking about track lights.”

“Sure.  We could do that ourselves.”

“Between our wiring skills and vast knowledge of building code, I’m sure we could.”

“Whatever,” Justin sighed, turned away.  Eighty million electricians in the City, and you pick the devil.

In the bathroom, Justin shed his clothes in a heap, started the shower, temp-tested and stepped in.  He closed his eyes, let the water rain over his trance and hardly flinched when Brian moved in behind him.

“Asleep already?” Brian took the soap, leisurely ran it over Justin’s unresponsive skin.

“Too beat to move.”

So much for fucking, Brian resigned.  “We’ll make it an early night.”

Justin leaned back against Brian’s chest out of the spray, eyes still closed.  “I have that PIFA meeting tomorrow.”

“Worried?” Brian grabbed the shampoo, managed around Justin’s chest.

“No.  Yeah.  A little.  But thanks to your dump on Stockwell, I don’t think I’ll have a problem,” he relaxed under hands massaging through his hair.

“Just play their game.  Whatever happens, stay cool.  Don’t burn any bridges.”

“Anything else, coach?”

“Rinse.”

Brian swore that Justin fell asleep before he even hit the sheets.  On his back, wide awake, Brian listened to Justin’s deep breaths, eye-traced the outline of his hip to the valley of his waist and up his shoulder in the streetlight from the window.  He would’ve touched his hair if he thought it wouldn’t wake him.  Or damn himself with arousal doomed to self-relief.

So he closed his eyes and focused on the steady rhythm of Justin’s breaths.  And counted each one.  And tried not to think about all the problems money could solve.

But it didn’t work.

Brian stares wide awake into nowhere.

Song: “Burning Man (Morel’s Pink Noise Vocal Remix) by Daniel Ash 

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