Chapter 1 - Another Lonely Night.

Some people called it the ‘Triangle Building’. That’s the name that was written on the doors to the lobby on the street level. Well, I assumed that was what was written there - several of the letters had been scratched off so now it only reads, ‘R ANGLE BUILDING’, but you know.

If you looked it up in the history books, though, the official name of the building is ‘The Flatiron Building’. When I first read that I had to go research to find out what a flatiron was because, being a millenial and all, I had no clue what that meant. Apparently, a flatiron was an old-fashioned clothing iron - you know, the kind you used to get wrinkles out of fabric back before they’d invented dry cleaners - and it was usually shaped like a triangle. They were generally made of iron or something else really heavy. You’d put them on top of your big old wood burning stove and let them heat up until they were piping hot and then hoist them onto an ironing board where you’d drape your shirts. Then you’d rub them across the clothing, steaming out the wrinkles, making sure not to let it sit in any one place for too long or it would burn through the fabric. Anyway, buildings that were constructed on triangular shaped plots of land back in the nineteenth century came to be known as ‘Flatiron Buildings’ because of the resemblance to these unwieldy appliances. I guess I could see it if I squinted up at the building across the street and imagined a clunky wooden handle stretched across the roof. Maybe.

So, at one time there were tons of ‘Flatiron Buildings’ around. Mostly because the streets didn’t always go in straight lines and there were lots of strange shaped plots of land that were built on, including triangular plots. But over time, city planners became better at plotting out streets and went with square grids, so the triangular buildings disappeared. There were still a few around. The most famous, of course, being the Flatiron Building in New York City, which was one of the first modern ‘skyscrapers’. But in my humble opinion, Pittsburgh’s Flatiron far outstriped the one in the Big Apple.

For one thing, our Triangle building is a good twenty years older than theirs. And while it isn’t as tall or as well-preserved, it has a lot more character. Every time I came by here to look at the building, I fell more in love with it. There was so much detail put into every stone of the building. The cornices were all hand carved and the brickwork was done so meticulously. There were elaborate ironwork flourishes on the outside, like the big gas lamps by each door and the downspouts. It just looked like a building that had a hundred stories to tell. If only I spoke whatever language the stories were written in.

Okay, so maybe I was over romanticizing a stupid building. Daphne used to tell me all the time that I’m a huge drama queen, and I suppose she’s right. But of all the buildings in the city of Pittsburgh - which, by the way, is chock full of magnificent architecture pretty much everywhere you look - this was the one building that had called out to me when I was directed to find a subject for my Art & Architecture class at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh.

So I was sitting on the bench across Liberty Avenue from the Flatiron Building, drawing its facade for the two hundredth time, trying to capture whatever quintessential characteristic made up the building that had captured my imagination to the exclusion of almost everything else for the prior two months. By that point I had already drawn it from about every angle I possibly could. I remember feeling like I could draw the building in my sleep, I’d done it so many times. But it still seemed like I was missing something. Something that could make the image of a building made of charcoal on paper come alive.

If only I could have got inside. I was sure that there was so much more inside that building that needed to be discovered. Details and minutiae that would have answered all the questions I had about this building. I mean, I had already researched just about everything I could about the building, the architectural style it was built in, and even the architect himself - Andrew Peebles - but it just seemed like there was more there. There was a part of the story that I didn’t know yet. And if I could have found that part of the story, then I would be able to not only ace my end of term project, but I would have somehow felt justified in my obsession.

Yeah, Daphne was probably right. I really was a total nutcase. But that’s why she loves me. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

So there I was, just doodling really, drawing the western point of the triangle - the one made by the intersection of Liberty Avenue and Smithfield Street - not even paying any attention to the images that were coming out of my pencil. The weather was starting to turn colder and it looked like it might rain so I pulled my jacket closer around me but I didn’t rush off. I was done with classes for the day and I didn’t really have anywhere else I had to be, so I figured I’d just do one more sketch before catching the bus back to the University District where I shared an apartment with Daphne. My mind wasn’t really on my drawing though since, like I said, I could almost draw that building in my sleep.

Which is why, when I looked down at my sketchpad, I was actually quite surprised to find that I’d drawn something different that time. The building itself had remained as immutable as the stone it was built from, but there was a new detail there that had never arisen before. I quickly looked up at the building across from me, searching to see if the picture I’d drawn truly did match the reality of the building or not, only to be left wondering. All the windows of the mostly vacant building were as empty and blank as they always were. But that’s not what my sketch had shown.

In that one sketch there was a face looking out the big end window on the third floor.

I returned my attention to the drawing, examining this mysterious face that I didn’t actually remember seeing. It was a face that looked haunted. Which is an odd thing to say, because I had never felt that the building itself was haunted. If anything, that building had always seemed welcoming and warm to me, despite the fact that it appeared to be unoccupied. In my mind I could see the past denizens filling the rooms and walking the halls, throwing parties, doing whatever work their jobs required, living their lives. But if the building wasn’t haunted, this face certainly was.

The face was that of a man. It was difficult to tell, since I’d drawn the image from a distance and the details I’d caught were few, but he looked to be older. I’d decorated the face with a big bushy beard and clunky, horn-rimmed glasses that further obscured most of the facial features. But there was just something about that face - there was a sense of longing there - maybe it was in the lines around the eyes or the twist of the mouth, I didn’t know which, even though I had drawn it.

That was all I could see of the man, though. Either I hadn’t caught the rest of him or his body had been obscured by the darkness of the room behind him, so that all I got was that disembodied face. Or maybe he really was a fucking ghost. Who knew, right?

I was just about to get up, march across the street and start banging on the door to see if a real live person would answer, thus proving to me that I hadn’t simply imagined the face in the window, when I felt the first raindrops hitting my face. That big grey cloud that had been threatening all afternoon had moved up faster than I had expected. It looked like it was going to start pouring. A glance at the clock on my phone showed me that the next #66 bus was due in only three minutes. If I didn’t make that bus, there wasn’t another one for a half hour and I did NOT want to stand in the rain for thirty minutes waiting on it. Making a quick decision, I opted for dry clothing over the pursuit of my mystery man, and started off in a sprint down the block towards the bus stop.

The face in the window would have to wait for another day.

On my way into the apartment I checked my mail again, hoping against hope I’d finally get a response from the LLC that owned the Flatiron building, but there wasn’t anything. I’d actually gone to the trouble of digging through the Allegheny County property tax records to find the name of the registered owners of the lot. The County said the property had been owned by a Donal Byrne for several decades but was apparently purchased by a vaguely named corporation about ten years earlier. The Flatiron Consortium, LLC was one of those faceless, soulless, holding company type organizations that had only a PO box for an address and no other way to contact them. But, undaunted, I had sent them a letter early on, asking for whatever information they might be willing to give me to help me in my research for this school project. I’d also asked to be allowed access to the interior of the building, hoping to see if any of the architectural details of the time - 1880s Pittsburgh - might still be evident inside. So far, though, they hadn’t answered and I was running out of time before my project was due.

I’d been slaving away on the written report that needed to accompany the rest of the presentation - which was NOT my favorite part of the project - for about an hour before Daphne came in from her shift as a patient escort at the Magee-Women’s Hospital. My roommate and best friend was a paragon of productivity. I still don’t know how she did it: she worked forty hours a week and still managed to take almost a full course load of classes at the University of Pittsburgh. She had wanted to be a doctor since she was five. I can vouch for that personally, as I still remember her making me pretend to be her patient as she played doctor on me by wrapping my entire head in toilet paper to bandage me. And, no, we had never ‘played doctor’ any other way, but there was almost nothing besides that which we hadn’t done together in the thirteen years we’d known each other. She was my best friend, my closest confidante, my primary emotional support system, and the only person who’d put up with me. I literally don’t know what I would have done without her over the years.

“Hey, Justin. Haven’t you finished that report yet?” she commented as she peeked over my shoulder in the process of hugging me hello. “Sheesh. You’d think you were working on the Gettysburg Address judging by all the effort you’re putting into this project. I didn’t think you were even that into architecture.”

“I’m not. Well, not really,” I replied, one-handedly hugging her back over my shoulder. “I mean, I’ve always liked architecture but it’s not creative enough for me to do as a career. There’s too many rules involved: like making sure the building won’t fall over and shit. If I were doing it, I’d probably WANT to make buildings that leaned every which way, had impossible angles and that you couldn’t ever decorate because there was too much ‘useless’ space.”

“Yeah, I guess Picasso really wouldn’t be the best person to hire to design your new building,” Daphne agreed with him as she moved off to grab some food from the fridge. “Is that why you’re so enraptured by this building? Because it does lean a little bit, you know, and it has all those wonky angles.”

“Hey, stop ragging on my building. It does NOT lean. It’s just that all the other buildings around it were built crooked,” I argued, causing both of us to break into giggles.

“Well, make sure you put that in your report then,” Daph counselled, “since by this point you must have written everything else there is to know about that pile of rocks.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” I pretended to laugh at my friend’s ongoing critique. “I’m almost done with the report, actually. I just wanted to change a few things and do some editing.” I got quiet as I typed away at the computer, revising my manuscript as I went, only to groan and push away from the desk in frustration after only a few more minutes. “Unfortunately, the one big thing I’m not sure about, and which will definitely affect my grade from this particular professor, is exactly what type of architecture my building represents. I just can’t pin it down. It’s got little bits of everything in it, if you ask me. I guess, if I had to pick, I’d say it was Romanesque Revival. But it’s also got elements of Beaux Arts and maybe even some precursor leanings towards Art Deco. I just don’t think it can be classified as one or the other. My professor probably won’t be happy with that answer though, and it’s driving me crazy trying to figure out what to write on that MAJORLY important point.”

“I say you make up your own term and call it . . . Nineteenth Century Triangular Chic . . . and just be done with it,” Daphne offered unhelpfully.

I threw a pencil at the annoying girl to shut her up. She retaliated by throwing a piece of the popcorn she’d been munching on back at me. Before you knew it, the fight had morphed into an all out pillow fight interspersed with way too much giggling. When the hilarity had finally petered out we were lying on the floor in a panting heap but we both felt much better.

“I think I saw a ghost today,” I said, breaking the companionable silence.

“Really? That’s kinda cool. Where?”

“In my building. I was sitting on the bench across the street next to that little head shop, you know, where I usually sit while I sketch. I wasn’t even really paying attention to what I was doing. But when I looked down at my sketchpad, I realized I’d drawn a face in one of the windows. It wasn’t there when I looked up again, but I don’t think I just made it up. I think it was there and then . . . it wasn’t.”

“Creepy. Was it, like, all skeletal and dripping blood or something like that?”

“No. He just looked sad and lost. I think he’s lonely.”

Daphne slapped the back of her hand against my stomach and laughed. “Leave it to you to romanticize a haunting, Jus. You’re hopeless. We really, really, REALLY need to find you a boyfriend. Stat! Or else you’re going to die of an overactive romantic entanglement with your right hand.”

“Hey, at least Rosy Palm always puts out and I don’t have to buy him breakfast the next morning,” I countered with a snarky grin.

“Yuck! TMI times a hundred thousand, Jus!” Daphne complained as she leveraged herself up from the floor. “And that’s my cue to leave you to your wicked ways. I do NOT want to have to witness that much patheticness.”

I huffed a snort of laughter. “You’re not fooling anyone, Daph. We both know you’d love to watch me jerk off. Cuz you’re kinky like that and always have been.”

“Hush you! I have to go to class in a half hour and I do NOT need to be thinking about you jerking off. I have to be thinking about the muscles in the cardiac system. So please stop teasing me.”

“You’re no fun at all anymore, Daph,” I complained as my roommate deserted me to go take a shower and get ready for class. “Fine, just abandon me to my homework. See if I care. I can do this without you. I really can . . . I just don’t WANT to, is all . . .” I complained as I was forced to go back to my computer and finish the written report I’d been working on.

I was tired of tossing and turning. I’d finally finished the written report for my project - well, I’d done as much as I thought I could and consoled myself that it was as good as it would get - but even after I’d closed up my computer and gone to bed, I just couldn’t stop thinking about my building and that crazy, haunted face. I switched the light back on and pulled my sketchbook out, flipping to the page where I’d drawn that afternoon’s version of the building. There was that face again. It was somehow compelling. So compelling. I felt like I couldn’t look away from the eyes. They were calling to me.

“Argh! I can’t believe I’m being haunted by a fucking face in a building. This shit doesn’t happen to real people, does it? Go away already,” I ordered the face, which completely ignored me and just continued to stare at me from out of the paper of my sketchpad. “You know you’re really annoying right?” The enigmatic face didn’t answer, of course. “Fine. I’m going to figure this shit out once and for all!”

I threw off the covers and crawled out of bed. It was only about eleven and the busses didn’t stop until one so I could still make it back to downtown. How I’d make it back was more problematic, but I chose not to dwell on that issue for the time being. I pulled on a pair of old jeans, a baggy sweatshirt and a holey pair of trainers. My trusty messenger bag with my sketchpad was already waiting by the front door. Since Daph wasn’t home from the library yet, I left the light on when I locked the door behind me. And then I was off.

The bus was practically empty that time of night and very few people were waiting at any of the stops, so the trip downtown took less than no time. I hopped off at the last stop on Liberty Avenue and walked the five or so blocks east till I came to the 7th Avenue cross street and my favorite building. The street was well lit even though most of the buildings were dark. It was almost midnight on a weekday, so there weren’t a lot of people around and I had pretty much the entire block to myself. I wiped off the seat of my usual bench, glad it was no longer raining at least, and then made myself comfortable.

And then I just sat there, doing absolutely nothing, just looking up at the black windows and wondering what was inside.

From where I was sitting, all I could see was the pointiest end of the triangle - the end where the defunct Indian Food place had been. Behind that there was the door to the main building lobby, which was always dimly lit up even though I’d never seen anyone go in or out of the doors. I’d stuck my face up against the glass and looked inside many times, but all you saw was a narrow hallway with the door to what I assumed was the main stairwell on the right and another door to the back of the Indian place on the left, all of which existed in that perpetually flickering dimness of the one barely working fluorescent bulb. It all looked just like it always did. It looked empty and silent.

Or did it?

I scanned across the northern face of the building - the long hypotenuse of the triangle that abutted on Liberty Avenue itself - and thought that maybe I could detect the merest glimmer of a glow coming from the three windows in the center on the top floor. I got up from my bench and walked down the street a bit, coming to a halt standing directly across from the suspect windows. It was really difficult to tell, because those three windows seemed to be covered - which in itself was odd since none of the other windows seemed to have curtains - but maybe there was a hint of light coming from behind them. Maybe. It was a murky, dim light, which was only distinguishable by being slightly less black than the darkness of the other windows. It was the kind of light that you almost didn’t see if you looked at it directly, but when you turned your head to the side and looked at something else, you could detect with your peripheral vision.

Or maybe I was just imagining things I wanted to see.

After standing there staring at the suspect windows for fuck knew how long, I finally realized I was totally pathetic and needed to have my head examined. What the hell was I doing out here in the middle of the night looking at an empty building? Even if there was some light in one of the upper windows, it didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean there was a human in there. It could just be a light left on by the owners like the one in the lobby. Was I really going to stand there all night waiting for something to happen like a total moron?

Of course, the moment I made the decision to stop being an idiot and go home, that’s when it happened. That’s when the curtain that was obscuring the centermost of the three glowing windows in the top floor, moved the slightest bit and a let out a flash of brightness that sliced through the night. I only caught the motion from the corner of my eye right as I was about to turn away, so I didn’t see it clearly, but I thought I might have even caught a glimpse of the hand that had nudged aside the curtain at that moment. A hand that was attached to a lonely haunted face, maybe?

When I looked directly up at the windows again, there was once more nothing at all to see. No real light, no hand, no face. Nothing. The building looked as vacant as it always had. Nothing to see here, folks, move along.

I sighed and shook my head. “I’ll figure you out yet,” I declared quietly to my own private ghost.

Smiling at myself and my romantic fantasies, I reached up to wave at the invisible figure behind the curtain before setting my steps to trudge back down the hill towards the bus stop. If I was lucky, I’d make the last bus back to Squirrel Hill. If not, I had a long walk ahead of me. But at least I’d have a lot to think about while I was walking.

Chapter 2 - Fade To Black.

I was furiously typing away at my laptop about a week later when Daph came in from another late night at school.

My project concept was to create a multi-medium collage incorporating computer manipulated photos of the building, historical pictures of the building that I’d unearthed through my research, and other photos and found objects that related to the building either from history or the present, all of which would be added to my own original painted depiction of the building done in acrylics. The canvas I planned to use for this unprecedented melange was going to be huge - 4x5 feet - and even then I wasn’t sure it would be big enough to accommodate all I wanted to portray for this piece. It was probably the most ambitious work I’d ever attempted. And it was imperative that I get all the elements ready in advance and have my concept schematic worked out to the most minute detail before I started or it would end up a mess. Which is why I was still up at almost midnight, trying to get the picture of Architect Andrew Peebles that I’d downloaded off the internet to come out just right, before I printed it out.

“Is it just me or do all the men from the 1880s look totally gay?” Daphne asked me as she walked past, giving Mr. Peebles an apprising glance. “I think it’s the hair. The way they all parted their hair right down the middle like that and then slicked it back. It’s totally gay. Not to mention that Freddie Mercury mustache thing he has going there.”

“Fuck you, Daph,” I complained, breaking into laughter at my unconventional friend’s assessment. Of course, after she’d said that, I couldn’t help but see it too. “Yeah, it’s definitely the hair. Even I’m not THAT gay.”

We both broke out laughing because, yeah, I really AM that gay. Not that I think I’m overly fem or anything. I probably could pass as straight if I tried, but I’d just never felt like bothering. It was clear to me and all those around me from a very early age that I was as queer as a three dollar bill. I was the ‘sensitive’ kid who hated sports and instead preferred to draw or paint or read a book. I have no idea how my parents managed to be surprised when I finally came out to them my senior year of high school - hadn’t it been obvious to everyone by then? My mother actually handled it pretty well after she adjusted to the idea, but my dad had been another matter. He threw a total hissy fit and refused to accept it or me. So it really wasn’t much of a surprise that my parents ended up splitting less than a year later. I felt bad for my mother, because her whole life had changed, but frankly I was glad I no longer have to deal with my father. And it also meant that I didn’t have to even attempt to seem anything other than my fabulous gay self anymore, because there was nobody that I associated with who cared anymore.

I sat back in my chair, nibbling on my thumbnail and looking at the picture of Peebles that I’d been trying to sharpen with only moderate success. I’d already come to the conclusion that working with historical pictures was a pain in the ass, but this one was worse than most. It was grainy and had odd shadows in it no matter what I did. Oh well, it was what it was and if I still wanted to use it in my work, I would just have to make do.

“So who is the dweeb anyway,” Daphne asked, pointing with a cheese puff at the picture.

“This is the infamous Andrew Peebles, one of the preeminent architects of 1880s Pittsburgh,” I elucidated for my less knowledgeable roommate. “He not only designed and built my building, but also The St. Peter Roman Catholic Church, the  First Lutheran Church, the Hotel Liberty, and he even Supervised the interior decorating of the Henry Clay Frick residence.”

“Sounds like he was a busy guy,” Daph summed it up in her own way. “I still think he was probably gay.”

“You think everyone is gay, Daph.”

“And I’m right most of the time too.”

Daph started to laugh maniacally and I felt a pencil run down the center of my head, her fingers playing with my hair. It took me a minute to realize what she was doing. I tried to reach up to stop her, but she batted my hands away.

“Stop. You look dashingly . . . gay,” she continued to giggle as I pushed her hands away, running my fingers over my head to rearrange my hair the correct way and get rid of the ridiculous part she’d given me.

“Well, in this case, you might actually be right about Peebles - but not because his hair looks gay,” I informed her, spouting my hard won research knowledge. “Peebles was a lifelong bachelor. He never married and the only info I could find on him said that he lived with his ‘partner’ - and I’m guessing they were referring to his business partner here, or at least that’s how it sounded - James Madison Balph, for several years. I mean, who knows, right?”

“Totally gay!” Daphne reiterated, mouth so full of cheese puffs that I could barely understand her.

“Yeah. Maybe,” I had to agree with her on this one. “But the really weird thing is that I can’t find anything he did after he designed the Flatiron Building. He was really prolific from around the time right after the Civil War through the end of the 1880’s and then . . . nothing. It’s like he just disappeared. He eventually moved to Atlantic City around the end of World War One and that’s all I found on him. Then he died suddenly in 1919. It’s kinda mysterious, don’t you think?”

“Maybe he’s your ghost. Maybe he had some deep dark secret that was discovered and which ruined his life. Or he had a horribly disfiguring accident and could never go out in public again,” Daphne hypothesized. “OR maybe he was outed and once everyone found out he was gay they ostracized him, and his lover turned his back on him out of shame, so he was forced to move away and he died a lonely outcast and now haunts his last and greatest creation, the place where his love died. Ooh, or maybe . . . wait, no. I’ve already used up all of my good ideas.”

And she called ME a drama queen?

“Or, maybe, he was just old and retired and then died of the Spanish Flu in 1919 and that’s all,” I countered, dowsing her fantasies with a bucket of reality.

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m LOTS of fun. I’m just not totally delusional is all,” I smirked back at her before returning to my work. “And I’m going to be in deep shit if I don’t get all these pictures touched up and ready to print tomorrow so I can start painting already. So, take your icky orange fingers and your cheese puffs and go bother someone else’s hair, please.”

I couldn’t quite tell what Daph said in reply, mostly because the cheese puffs muffled her words, but I think there was something about HER not being the delusional one. I love Daphne. Even if she does get fake orange cheese gunk in my hair on occasion.

The next afternoon I left school with all my photos printed out and securely stowed in a file folder in my bag. I was actually pretty happy with how they’d all turned out, even the grainy one of Peebles, and I was eager to start crafting my masterpiece. I waved as I passed by a group of other students who were just coming in as I was leaving. Too late I realized that, hiding among the larger group of people that I did get along with, was the one person at TAIP that I really didn’t want to talk to.

Ethan Gold.

Ethan didn’t really go to the Institute. He attended a nearby music academy and fancied himself the next Mozart or something. But he was always hanging around our school anyway. He said he liked to ‘patronize the other arts’. That’s actually how he said it, too. Like he was some grand Medieval Lord or something. Personally, I found him totally pompous and endlessly annoying, but I’d made the mistake of hooking up with him once and now I just couldn’t get rid of him. I blame it all on the Strawberry Margaritas at Sean Carter’s party Freshman year. Those things get me every time. They sneak up on you, you know?

Anyway, I knew it was a mistake the minute I woke up and found myself in bed with this skinny, greasy-haired, wannabe that I didn’t even remember picking up the night before. I would have had to be totally wasted to go home with Ethan, too, because he soooo wasn’t my type. Of course, I hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings or anything, so I tried to be nice to him. I even accepted his invitation to go out with him a second time, but after I was bored to tears listening to a violin performance that caused my teeth to ache, I turned down all subsequent invites. That hadn’t stopped Ethan the Ever Hopeful, though. You couldn’t fault him for his persistence, at least.

“Justin. Justin! Wait up a sec,” Ethan called out to me as he sprinted to catch me before I could duck around the corner and effectuate my escape.

I sighed and rolled my eyes and cursed the fact that I loved margaritas so much, but my country club upbringing just wouldn’t let me be outright rude to someone’s face so I had to stop and wait for my stalker to catch up. “Hey, Ethan. I can’t really hang around and chat right now. I’m working on my end of term project for Art & Architecture and I’m a little behind already, so I’ve got to book,” I blatantly lied.

“That sucks,” Ethan whined, his whole face falling comically. “It feels like we haven’t had time to just hang out together in ages.”

“Yeah, my classes have been really intense this term,” I lied again, hoping he didn’t know I’d only taken three classes that fall, one of which was a sketching class that I could have passed without even showing up all term.

“People say Sophomore Year is a real workhorse year at most schools. Over at the Academy, every year is just as hard, so I wouldn't know, but that’s what people say, you know?” I hated it when Ethan pretended to know more than everyone else, which was, like, always. “I hope that you’ll be done with your project by Saturday, though, because . . .” He fished in his pocket and pulled out what looked like two theater tickets. “. . . I have a recital at Heinz Hall Saturday night and I saved you a seat. Do you think you’ll be able to make it? I know how much you love violin music.”

I really wanted to tell him, ‘yeah, almost as much as I like listening to cats mating’, but I didn’t. Damn my mother and all those Emily Post etiquette lessons she made me sit through as a child. I wish I had the balls to just tell his troll to get lost, once and for all. But I’m terrible at being mean and I’m even worse at lying. I scrambled to think up something - ANYTHING - I could use as an excuse for why I definitely, positively, could NOT be at that fucking recital . . . but my brain went completely blank and all I could do was stand there and stutter like a complete imbecile. The longer I flailed the wider his grin became, and the harder it became for me to think of anything at all other than the fact that I was doomed. Eventually I just gave up and shrugged in defeat.

“Excellent! You’re gonna love it. And afterwards we can go get a coffee together and hang out and really catch up with each other. I can’t wait!” Then, while I was still standing there paralyzed and dumb, he leaned in, wrapped his skinny arms around me, gave me a huge hug, and even snuck in a little kiss on the cheek as the disgusting topping to the already indigestible shit sandwich I felt like I was being forced to eat. “See you on Saturday, Jus. And don’t worry, you don’t have to bring me flowers or anything; your presence alone will be sufficient to make my night.”

Then Ethan scampered off, happy as a puppy who’d just been patted on the head and fed a milkbone, while I groaned in misery. How did I get myself into this shit? Or, better question, how the hell did I get out of it?

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I quickly texted to Daphne: ‘I have to break my leg before Saturday. Do you know anyone with a baseball bat?’

Her, ‘WTF’? emoji in response made me chuckle. And it gave me hope. If anyone could help me figure out how to get out of a night of listening to Ethan torturing cats, it was my bestie. Daphne wasn’t raised all polite like me. She was fine with being a total bitch when needed. And I definitely needed her then.

So I was feeling a little better by the time I got her text. I decided to walk the dozen or so blocks west from school past My Building before catching the bus so I could garner any last iota of inspiration I might find before I went home and started painting. I had no idea why I felt so anxious about this particular project. Usually I found painting came as easily as breathing for me, but this time I felt some eerie compulsion that I had to get it ‘right’. Nothing another look at the inspiration itself wouldn’t cure, though.

My walk along The Strip and through the Cultural District was as enjoyable as always, even on a grey, cold day. I skirted around the Convention Center and the Allegheny Riverfront park before cutting south on 8th Street till I found my way back to Liberty Avenue again. I stopped to look down at the street name carved into the pavement at my feet and got the same happy feeling I always got at seeing the name of the famous street. I loved that our entire state was founded on such a lofty concept - Liberty. As a gay man, that principle meant a lot to me, so even just looking at the damn street name sometimes gave me chills. No wonder the building I picked for this project fronted my favorite street.

Since it was a busy workday afternoon, the streets were relatively crowded and my usual bench was occupied by an elderly woman who was probably waiting for a bus. Instead of sitting and sketching the building again, though, I walked around it, circling the edifice and looking up at it from all the many strange angles that I could, trying to soak in the feeling of the stone; make myself ‘one with it’. Fuck, I was such a nerd sometimes. Didn’t matter, though, it’s what I felt like doing and because I was on ‘Liberty Avenue’ and I had the freedom to act like a total geek, I did. I looked up at the cornices. I looked at the decorative cabbage-shaped thingies that framed the doorways. I looked up at the towering walls from below. I examined the old gas lamp fixtures close up. I looked at everything, all over again, and fell in love with the place all over again too.

And just like I always did, I walked up to the lobby door and pulled on the handle in the off chance that this time the door would be unlocked. Of course, it wasn’t. The door had always remained solidly locked. It was so frustrating. I just wanted one quick peek at the inner sanctum. How could that be wrong? I wouldn’t bother anyone. Really. I would have just walked around and looked at things and silently sketched them and then, finally satisfied, I would have left, and this compulsion I felt about the building would have been sated once and for all. Was that too much to ask for?

This time I let my frustration have rein. I was almost out of time. I had less than a week to complete my term project and then I’d turn it in and my time with this place would be over. Life would move on and I’d find other things to usurp my attention. There would be other things to spark my imagination and new obsessions to while away my time with. And I’d probably come back by this building every so often, and maybe even think about it, but my chance to solve its mystery would be gone so it would have to forever remain a mystery. But I didn’t want that. I WANTED to know, to understand, to glean whatever this building had to offer and I wanted it NOW!

“Fucking stupid door,” I muttered under my breath, giving the door one last jiggle and kicking at the bottom of the metal frame at the same time.

Which was when the miracle happened.

Call it providence. Call it luck. Call it the intervention of the God Hephaestus, patron god of all artisans. Call it whatever you want, but it FELT like a miracle. Because whatever I’d done right then -  some combination of the way I’d kicked at the bottom of the door frame at exactly the same time that I’d pulled at the handle and jiggled it in an upwards direction - caused the lock to give. With my mouth hanging open and my hand actually shaking with anticipation, I pulled the lobby door all the way open. And then I just stepped inside. Me, inside the Triangle Building, imagine that!

So, I’m not sure what I’d expected to happen once I was inside. Maybe that I’d suffer some artistic revelation and be driven to my knees on the spot or something? That I would be a changed man? That there’d be music? Whatever. But, still, I was excited beyond words as my footsteps echoed through the space of the narrow entry hall between the lobby doors. I let my fingers trail along the rough brickwork of the walls and the wooden molding below. I was probably imagining the tingle in my fingertips and the feeling that my touch on those old walls was the very thing that was bringing the building to life after decades of inactivity. It was just so fucking exhilarating, though. It was like I was about to enter the secret sanctum of someplace with almost magical powers. Little old me!

I walked up to the the nook in the wall where I’d thought the stairs to the upper floors would be located and was relieved to see that I had been correct. There was a long, narrow staircase going upwards that appeared to end on a landing on the floor above. It was almost pitch dark, so I couldn’t see much around me as I took my first tentative steps up the well-worn wooden risers of the steps. Up and up, I counted the steps as I rose, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. And I was just about to the top where I could step beyond the confines of the cramped passage of the staircase onto the more open landing which appeared to be lit by natural light, probably from the nearby windows, when something large and dark and menacing flew at me out of nowhere and completely blocked my path and my vision.

“What the FUCK are you doing here? Get out! GET OUT!” a hoarse voice bellowed at me so loudly that it actually hurt my ears.

I couldn’t see anything at all now that the form above me was blocking out what little light had been trickling down from the landing, but I could feel the heat of a huge something or someone bearing down on me.

I stepped backwards, missed the step with my foot, and the next thing I knew I was flying ass over tea kettle backwards, down the steps into the empty lobby. I hit the hard stone tiling of the lobby floor with enough velocity to completely knock the wind out of me. I must have also hit my head because a shock of painfully bright white light lit up my vision for a brief moment and then everything started to fade into a tunnel of black.

You know how your brain does strange things sometimes and you find yourself thinking odd thoughts at even odder moments? Well, that’s what happened to me right then. Instead of being worried about the fact that I was hurt or wondering who it was that had just attacked me, my last thought was something along the lines of ‘maybe I shouldn’t have been joking about breaking my leg just to get out of a date with Ethan’.

Then I forgot everything else as the haunted face out of my picture appeared out of nowhere right above me just as I lost consciousness for good.

Chapter 3 - The Way You Make Me Feel.

When I finally returned to my senses, my head was throbbing and it took me a couple of seconds to remember exactly what had happened. The pulsing in my head was the reminder I needed that I’d fallen ass over tit down a flight of stairs. Shit. So this was what it must feel like to have been run over by a Mack Truck. Can’t say I was enjoying the experience.

I tried opening my eyes to see if I was still lying on the floor in the lobby - which was definitely a mistake considering the blinding stab of too-bright light that pierced my skull at the attempt. I immediately closed my eyes again and panted through the waves of pain that shook me. But when the worst of it had passed, I decided to use my other senses to feel out my circumstances before I attempted the vision thing again.

I couldn’t be sure, but judging by the soft cushions against my back I probably wasn’t still lying on the cold, hard, lobby floor. Something about the sounds around me didn’t match up with a bare, echoing, tile-floored building lobby either. Where was I?

I was pretty sure I wasn’t dead, despite how much pain I was in, or maybe because of the pain coursing through my head, since dead would presumably feel, you know, dead. Blank. Empty. Whatever. Not achy and throbbing and so much owww. Unless my father’s warnings about Hell were actually real and this was my penance for the sin of being gay. I didn’t think that a concussion sounded like divine retribution, though. Wouldn’t a vengeful god come up with something more creative? Now, if I’d woken up to my genitals aching and mutilated, THEN I might believe I was in some homophobe’s version of Hell. A sore head, though . . . meh.

I once again tried opening my eyes, this time much more slowly, and was glad when it looked like I’d succeeded. Unfortunately, it didn’t help much as far as figuring out where I was. I seemed to be in an unfamiliar room. It was so dimly lit that it was hard to see anything. I definitely wasn’t still in the Triangle Building lobby though. And I wasn’t in a hospital - which would have been the next logical place to find yourself after taking a nasty fall - because no hospital I had ever seen was this dark and quiet. Although there was a strong smell of antiseptic coming from somewhere, so maybe I was wrong? But no, because presumably if I’d been taken to a hospital they’d have given me something for this unbearable pain in my head. Fuck me!

I am embarrassed to admit that for the briefest of moments I returned to the assumption that I was dead, and let myself have a moment or two of slight panic . . . Dramatic, I know, but perfectly understandable under the circumstances, I think. I mean, let he who has woken up in a strange, dark room after having cracked open their skull while breaking and entering a building they’d been obsessing over for weeks, be the first to judge, right? It was only when I noticed that it wasn’t QUITE as dark as I’d first thought it, and then heard the sound of running water coming from somewhere over behind me, that I realized, no, I was probably still alive. Then I had to deal with the momentary rush of relief triggered by that realization and my gratefulness that I wasn’t about to meet my ‘maker’ and somehow have to justify the fact that, yeah, I did enjoy the occasional hot cock up my ass, thank you very much, and if that relegates me to the pits of hell, well, so be it because I’m not gonna apologize for being me and who the fuck gave you the right to judge me, I don’t care if you are some omnipotent fuckface, just lay off already, I’m doing the best I can with how YOU made me, you judgmental hypocrite . . . Phew. Yeah, dodged a bullet there, right? If this really had been death, I would have just failed the final judgment with that chain of consciousness shit there, huh?

But just where the fuck was I? I tried to push myself up off the soft surface I’d been lying on. That was sooooo not a good idea, though. Even the miniscule shift I managed was enough to cause an enormous new throb of pain to erupt right behind my eyes. I’d never really understood the term ‘seeing stars’ before, but now I totally got it. Can I just say, ‘ouch’?

“I wouldn’t sit up so fast if I were you,” a deep baritone voice sounded from somewhere behind me.

Disregarding the voice’s advice, I shot up, immediately regretting that I’d ignored the words of caution from the mysterious stranger. My head exploded with pain, the room spun, and a sudden wave of nausea began to set in, but somehow I managed to squint my eyes towards the dim light source coming from behind me. That’s when I saw him - well, the back of him anyway - a large male figure dressed all in black and turned away from me. He was tall and skinny and, from what I could see, kinda hairy. He also seemed to be washing his hands frantically at the sink he was hunched over.

“Are you okay?” I heard myself asking quietly, not sure why I was asking him that question, but it seemed strangely appropriate.

The man didn’t reply. Instead, he continued counting quietly to himself as he washed his hands over and over. Each time, he would squirt some soap into his hands and methodically rub them together, before rinsing and starting the process all over again. I was totally lost. What exactly was the guy counting after all? Did I miss something here or was my head still malfunctioning after being knocked for a loop?

“Eight . . . nine . . . ten.”

“Is everything alright?” I asked a little more loudly after my first question went ignored.

“Are you hungry?” the voice intoned, totally off topic.

I was so fucking confused . . . why was this man refusing to acknowledge anything I was asking him but then the next minute asking me something completely random? Maybe Daph was right and the face I saw was that of an incandescent ghost who was just pissed off and confused with the world. I shook my head - which was a mistake as it caused those stars to shoot across my vision again - but it did work to stop my imagination from running wild. I really needed to rein it in until I knew what the hell was going on here and who my Hunchbacked Host was.

“No . . . but thanks,” I replied, slightly bamboozled by this man.

“Chicken or fish?”

“I said I’m not hungry,” I repeated slightly louder this time.

“Chicken? I thought so - you had tuna for lunch, didn’t you?”

I rubbed my temples to try and ease some of the pain in my head. I was beginning to suspect that the pain I was feeling wasn’t just from falling down the stairs but from trying to wrap my brain around the confusion of my present situation. It literally hurt to think, even though I desperately needed to try and figure out what the deal was with this weirdo man I seemed to be trapped in a room with. I should probably have felt more uncomfortable with the situation than I did, to be honest, but there was something about the man that was oddly reassuring. I wasn’t worried precisely . . . just confused. Which was probably a good thing because I wasn’t in any condition to do anything about it if I truly had been worried or needed to flee for my life or anything like that. So I just resettled myself on my cushions at a new angle, allowing me to continue to watch the goings on over by the sink, and waited to see what would happen.

I watched as the man opened a cupboard above the sink and took down what appeared to be some type of small can. He opened it and poured its contents into a bowl. Fuck, I wished I could see his face, but he appeared determined to keep his back to me.

“Now, don’t eat it all at once . . . You remember what happened the last time you did that, don’t you, Bill?”

“Um . . . My name’s Justin. Justin Taylor. And you are?”

But my strange host totally ignored my attempted introduction and just went about whatever he was doing as if I wasn’t there. I watched as he placed the small bowl on the floor and stood back up, resting both hands on the kitchen counter, his back still facing me. If he was expecting me to jump up and run over there to eat whatever it was he’d put in the bowl on the floor, well, he was gonna be waiting a long time. What the actual fuck anyway? Who gives their injured house guest a bowl of food on the floor?

“Why are you here?”

I was so confused, was he talking to me or whoever this Bill person was? The guy hadn’t turned around and seemed to be directing his words to the kitchen sink. I didn’t think it made any sense, though, to be asking your plumbing fixtures what they were doing in your home, so maybe he WAS talking to me. Or maybe he was asking the bowl what it was doing on the floor? Who the fuck knew? I was so lost by that point I was kinda hoping I’d maybe pass out again and the next time I woke up things would miraculously make sense once more.

But, when that didn’t seem to be an option, I managed a dazed, “Huh?”

“I don’t have anything worth stealing, if that’s what you had in mind.” His voice sounded kinda sad when he said that and it made my stomach do a wild little flip-flop thingie that didn’t seem related to the nausea caused by my concussion.

But before I could answer him, I was surprised by a flash of movement as something that was moving way too fast for my still dazed brain to focus on emerged from behind the still hunched over stranger, jumped from the countertop, and landed with a quiet thump on the wood floor at the man’s feet. I turned my head quickly, trying to follow the speedy little thing - whatever it was - but the dizziness from before came back at full volume. I slumped back against the pillows propping me up and just moaned through the worst of it till I could breathe again. Luckily, by that time the thing that had caused all the trouble had casually sauntered over to investigate me and my moaning on its own.

The two yellow eyes, the disdainful frown, the pointy ears that swiveled around like radar dishes trying to catch my every whimper, and the questioning little ‘mew?’ explained it all.

“Oh, you’ve got a cat! Okay, that explains a lot. Because I thought, either you were talking to your sink or that maybe I’d hit my head even harder than it seemed.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“Uh . . .” I pointed to the furry body that had just lazily stretched itself in front of me before daintily lying down about a foot away from my face. “Then what is that? Or am I just dreaming all of this. You know, actually, that would make more sense than what’s happening. Maybe I hurt myself so badly when I fell that I’m in a coma and this is all some fever dream or something?”

“It’s not MY cat. He’s just some stray that came in here and refused to leave.”

“But you’re feeding him?”

“So?”

“Soooooo, that makes him your cat.”

“No it doesn’t. If anything it makes me HIS person. But we don’t believe in labels like that,” the hulking back declared, still not turning around to face me. “I only feed him because he gets even more annoying if I don’t. Plus, I don’t need a starving cat dying and stinking up the place.”

“But you named him ‘Bill’, right? People don’t name cats that aren’t theirs. They just call them ‘cat’ and tell them to shoo,” I insisted, sure that I must have proven my point finally.

“I didn’t name him ‘Bill’.”

“But . . . Didn’t I just hear you talking to someone named ‘Bill’? I’m sure I heard you saying that name and MY name definitely isn’t Bill so . . .” I was getting confused again. Maybe that coma dream theory had more to it than it seemed?

“It’s ‘William’ actually,” the stranger muttered so quietly that I wouldn’t have heard him if it hadn’t been so deathly silent in there.

“William? Who names their fucking cat ‘William’? I mean, I kinda think ‘Bill The Cat’ is dope, in an old-school kinda way, but William? I don’t get it?” I was too tired and in too much pain, for once, to remember my manners with this looney-toons guy any longer.

“William Shakespaw,” Mister Tall, Dark and Crazy mumbled at me.

“Huh?” I asked again, unable to come up with anything more intelligent to say.

“The fucking cat’s name is ‘William Shakespaw’,” the man roared back at me, finally turning around to reveal himself to be owner of the mysterious haunted face in the window. “He likes to lay on my books when I try to read and he bats at my hand when I turn the pages so I call him William Shakespaw, alright? Do you have a problem with that too? Should I have consulted with you and asked for a list of approved cat names before I selected one? Who made you the cat name dictator anyway? Some fucking burglar you are. Or did you just break into my home to give me shit about cat name etiquette, huh? Huh?”

As he spoke, the man had gradually become more irate and more animated. He had even advanced a step or two closer to where I was lying, glaring down at me all the while. As he got nearer, even in the dimness of the room, I could finally see him a little more clearly. In the back of my mind I was rather proud that my sketch had got so many of the details about him correct, despite the fact that I must have only got the briefest of glances at him from clear across the street. He was just as hairy as I had drawn him with a bushy beard that covered most all of his face and straggled down his neck. The beard was matched by a headful of shaggy, poorly-trimmed, dark brown hair that curled around his face and partially obscured his eyes. From what I could see of the parts of him that weren’t hidden by hair, he was probably younger than I’d first suspected - maybe in his mid-thirties or so - and he had a strong, high forehead, an aquiline nose and, nestled under equally unruly, thick brows, worried-looking hazel eyes. I could see the beginnings of small lines around the corners of his eyes and he looked tired, with the bags under his eyes betraying the fact that he probably didn’t sleep all that well. But in spite of what some might see as a forbidding appearance, I didn’t get a ‘dangerous’ vibe from him at all. Just that worried nervousness. And maybe an undercurrent of lonely sadness.

Or maybe it was just me reading too much into some crazy guy who lived all alone in a huge vacant building with a formerly stray cat as his only company.

“You’re my ghost!” I announced, laughing up at him, my mirth causing him to stop in his tracks and stare at me as if I were the crazy one.

“What the hell are you talking about? I’m not a ghost,” he insisted, taking a step backwards in retreat. “Shit, you must have hit your head harder than I thought. I’m going to have to call an ambulance or something, aren’t I? And you’ll probably sue me even though it’s not my fault you broke in here and then did a header off the stairs.” This thought seemed to make him angry again, though, spurring him to once more demand, “What the hell are you doing here, anyway? I told you I don’t have anything worth stealing.”

“I just wanted to draw your building?” I replied, the answer sounding more like a question than assertion of fact.

“I know that; I’ve watched you. But what are you doing INSIDE? I didn’t want you inside.”

“I . . . I . . . I’m sorry. I just wanted to see if any of the architectural details of the building had been maintained on the interior,” I haltingly explained. “See, I’m doing this project for my Art and Architecture class at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh and I chose your building because it’s so unique and I’ve researched everything I could about it from an historical perspective and I’ve got lots of pictures and drawings of it from the outside but I couldn’t find anything on what the interior was like and I wrote to the building owners but I never got any response and I just thought I’d try the door one last time to see if it was open and when I jiggled it this one way today - well, I jiggled it at the same time I kicked it, actually - but it opened, so I was just coming inside for one quick peek, and I didn’t mean any harm, but I got startled when I saw you and . . . yeah . . .” Did I mention that I sometimes talk way too much when I’m nervous?”

“You’re annoying,” my host declared while leaning back against the countertop and crossing his arms over his chest as if he was done with me.

“That’s all you’re going to say? After you basically pushed me down the stairs, you think I’M annoying?”

“Yes. You’re very annoying. You’re even more annoying than Bill.”

“You’re comparing me to a cat?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Well, you’re still here aren’t you? You won’t leave me alone. You’re exactly the same. Only instead of a stray cat, you’re a stray burglar.”

“I’m not a fucking burglar . . .”

“That’s precisely what a burglar would say.”

I gave a not-so-quiet tut at the audacity of his words. I mean, I guess he was right, but he didn’t have to be so mean about it. Either way, I was done with this insane conversation. I stood up quickly and felt the room begin to spin around me, but it didn’t matter because I wasn’t going to stay here any longer. Not if he was going to be like THAT. So I ignored the dizziness that was slowly beginning to overtake me and grabbed my bag from where I spied it waiting on the floor beside the couch where I’d been resting. I felt myself stumble and I could see out of the corner of my eyes that he wanted to help me. I could see that his feet were trying to move and make their way towards me, but it seemed like something was stopping him. I wasn’t going to wait to find out what his deal was, though. I made my way to the door on my wobbly feet and prayed that I would make it down the stairs in one piece. I really couldn’t afford another head injury.

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to be annoyed by me any longer since I’m leaving,” I announced as I walked out the door and gave it a slam behind me - because, clearly, I’m a mature adult who handles situations like this in an adult fashion. NOT!

Of course, I’d only made it about halfway down the stairs before I had to stop and sit down until another wave of vertigo passed. That’s when I heard the sounds that had followed me from the room above. My stomach dropped as I listened in, hearing the sadness in the man’s voice as he spoke angrily to himself. But It wasn’t just the tone of his voice that got to me; it was his words, filled with such loneliness and self hatred, that caused the uneasy feeling in my gut.

“FUCK! Even the burglar couldn’t wait to leave. Everyone always leaves. Shit, Bill . . .”

Okay, so now I felt bad for not wanting to stick around and be harangued by the crazy guy. I mean, yeah, he was nuts and I felt like shit and probably needed to have a doctor look at my head or something, but it still didn’t sit well with me that I was leaving like I was. It also bothered me that I knew the cat’s name but had apparently forgotten to ask the cat’s person’s name. Maybe I really was as annoying and bratty as he’d accused me of being.

Or maybe it was just the bump on my head that had made me act like a total asshole to the guy. Yeah, let’s go with that excuse. It made me feel less horrible, even if it was, maybe, not completely true.

Either way, I figured my best course of action at that particular moment was to first and foremost get to the urgent care clinic and take care of my head. I could try and figure out my psycho ghost later. And with that decided, I gingerly climbed back to my feet and carefully made my way down all five flights of stairs, letting myself out the still unsecured lobby door. It was already dark when I finally left, so I must have been out for a while - not a good sign - and I still felt too sick to try and figure out what I was supposed to do or where I was supposed to go. Thank fuck that my best friend was only a phone call away and said she’d be there to pick me up in fifteen minutes. So all I had to do was hobble over to my bench across the street and wait for help to arrive.

And while I waited I kept an eye on my building, not missing the moment when the curtain in the middle window of the top floor shifted enough to show me a now-familiar, bearded face, looking out at me from above.

Chapter 4 - Taylor The Latte Boy.

“Justin, you have a CONCUSSION,” Daphne repeated sternly. “You should be in bed. Not traipsing off after some crazy cat-loving ghost.”

“It’s just a MILD concussion, Daph. That’s like having MILD salsa on your chips - it doesn’t even count. At that point, it’s just like dowsing your food in chunky vegetable soup.”

“Yeah, well, vegetable soup is what your brain will turn into if you don’t listen to your doctor and take it easy,” Daphne insisted, trying to block the door to my closet with her body so I couldn’t get to my clothing.

“I can’t just take it easy, Daph. I can’t stop thinking about him. I mean, how do you expect me to relax with a mystery like THAT out there. Not to mention that I still have to finish my term project by Monday, and now that I know that the building isn’t empty after all, I simply HAVE to get back in there and see what the interior is like,” I maintained adamantly as I reached around her to grab a shirt off a hanger from behind her back. “It was too dark - and I was too distracted by having almost cracked open my skull - to have really got a good look around me last night. But now that it’s daylight again, I can take my time and look around and hopefully get a couple of good sketches, provided there’s anything worthwhile to include in my project.”

“I’m sure your professor will give you an extension on the project once you show him the MRI of your traumatic brain injury, Jus.”

Daphne was still standing there in front of my closet with her hands on her hips, looking immovable as all hell, and preventing me from getting to the pile of clean jeans on the shelf. But, as stubborn as she was, I was sneakier. So when she wouldn’t let me get to my pants, I decided to just go without. I shoved the sweatpants I’d been wearing down off my hips and stepped out of them, bare as the day I was born. And as expected, Daphne was distracted enough by my naked dick that she didn’t react at all when I reached around her and finally secured the Levis I’d been after. Of course, as soon as I pulled the pants on and she no longer had a dick wobbling in her face, she immediately returned to consciousness and gave me one of THOSE looks, clearly not amused that I’d used her one weakness - her love of dick - against her.

“I don’t need an extension. I just need a couple of hours inside the building and then I can come back here and start painting.”

Daphne scoffed. “That’s if you don’t get kidnapped by the creepy cat man before then.” When I just shook my head and gave her a ‘Seriously?’ look, she semi-relented. “Fine. But how are you going to get there, genius? Because the doctor said you can’t drive for at least seventy-two hours.”

“No problem. You’re going to drive me,” I informed her.

“And how do you figure that?”

“Easy . . . because you’re my best friend and you love me and you wouldn’t want me to have to take public transportation and potentially fall again and really get hurt, so you’ll be sweet and offer to drive me,” I explained with one of my best, most bratty, smiles.

“Oh, quit with the best friend thing - you know I can never say no to that. But urgh, I hate you, you know,” Daph stated even as I could see in her eyes that she had already capitulated. “And if your brains do turn to vegetable soup, I refuse to clean up your drool - I’ll just let you stew in your own spittal and laugh at you.”

I let her babble and harangue me as she gathered her purse and keys, because I knew I’d already won and I didn’t want to rub it in. Plus, there was no way she’d let me wallow in my own spittal even if I did become a vegetable - despite all her complaining, she was basically a big softie. So even though I had to listen to her going on about how defying my doctor’s direct orders was a really bad idea - and listing in long, gory, detail, all the possible negative consequences of neglecting a TBI - for the duration of the ride back to downtown, I didn’t let it get to me. Daphne really does love me and I know she is just worried about my scrambled brains. She DOES overreact sometimes though.

“So, how are you going to get Ghost Man to let you inside again?” my friend asked as we neared downtown.

That was a good question, actually. “I guess I could just break in again. Unless he’s boarded up the door, I should be able to kick the lock free the same way I did yesterday. Thank fuck it’s a really old building and an old door, right? Maybe I should bring him a peace offering, though, just in case he’s still not happy with me. What’s a good gift that says, ‘sorry I broke into your building - twice - can I please sketch it now’? Something I can get with . . .” I pulled out my wallet and looked inside . . . “less than ten bucks?”

“Coffee?” Daphne suggested as she pulled up to the curb outside the Crazy Mocha shop a block down from the Triangle Building.

Not much of a peace offering, I supposed, but what did the guy expect for $10, right? “Good idea, Daph. Thanks.”

I leaned over to kiss her cheek before getting out of the car and she handed me a twenty. “Here. I have to get to work so I can’t stay. Please use it to take a Lyft home. I really don’t want to have to visit you in a nursing home for the rest of your life after you incur permanent brain damage from your next TBI. Kay?”

“I promise. Thanks, Daph. And I love you even though you said you hated me.”

“Get out. Don’t stay out too late. And PLEASE be careful,” she ordered before driving away while still muttering about stupid blond boys and crazy, cat-loving ghosts.

Fifteen minutes later I was standing in front of the Triangle Building lobby doors with a paperboard drink tray loaded with two large lattes. I decided to at least try and start this off in a legal way, so I politely knocked against the glass of the lobby door. No answer. I knocked harder, making a much louder racket that I hoped would carry up to the sixth floor where I knew my mystery man was hiding. Still nothing. So I started kicking at the door, repeatedly, creating a steady, droning, pounding noise that I kept up for a good five minutes. The only result this time was that the guy who worked at the phone store around the corner poked his head out to see what was going on. I waved at him, and tried to look like I was meant to be there, and he must have bought it because he went back into his shop and I continued my steady kicking campaign. About three minutes later I saw a curious, furry little body come trotting through the opening to the staircase.

I finally stopped kicking at the door. “Hey, Bill! Can you please tell your person that he’s got company?” I asked politely.

Bill the Cat just hunkered down on his haunches, staring at me with that detached and disinterested look that all cats seem to have. As far as I could tell, the cat’s human had not accompanied him downstairs. So much for the polite way, huh?

“Fine. If that’s the way you want to play this,” I mumbled, setting the drinks caddy down on the sidewalk next to me so that I could get a better hold on the door.

Then I tried to remember how I’d worked it the night before, pulling and pushing at the door frame in various ways until I thought I had it just about right, before aiming a vigorous kick at the bottom part of the metal frame holding the glass in place. And, voila, the door sprang open just like before. I smiled to myself, pleased with my cat burglar skills, and bent over to pick up my tray of coffees again. Then I let myself in and walked up to the resident guard cat. Unfortunately, Bill was not quite as thrilled with my ability to open locked doors as I was, and he was now standing up, his back arched and his hair on end, as he hissed menacingly at the invader who’d dared to enter his domain without permission.

“Nice to see you again, too, William. Or should I call you, Mr. Shakespaw?” I greeted him, undeterred by the feline display of animosity. “Don’t worry, I didn’t forget you when I was shopping for peace offerings.”

I retrieved the little, four-ounce, plastic container of creamer that I’d got at the coffee shop from my drinks’ carrier, peeled the top off using my teeth, and then set it down on the floor in front of the irate kitty. At first Bill looked at the cup with suspicion, but apparently the aroma of the half & half was too tempting. He forgot to be angry at me as he moved closer, sniffing at the unfamiliar little treat. By the time he’d become brave enough to take a tentative taste, I knew I’d won him over. I quickly stepped around the now-purring cat and made my way over to the staircase, ready to tackle the cat’s person next.

I took the steps up to mystery man’s floor two at a time, something I regretted by the time I’d made it to the sixth floor, which was when I belatedly remembered my doctor’s prohibition to take it easy for the next couple of day. But my concussion didn’t explain why I had these strange butterflies in my tummy as I was about to knock on the door - maybe I was more nervous than I originally thought. I stood there with my hand on the door for a good minute before I built up the courage to actually knock. As I waited to see if my presence would be acknowledged, I shifted my messenger bag on my shoulder and jostled the drinks in my hand restlessly. I probably should have thought about this more. What was I going to say to him? However, before I could get too lost in my thoughts, the door opened a crack and there, looking right at me, were those sad hazel eyes that I’d seen for the first time just the day before.

“Well, if it isn’t the stray burglar,” Mystery Man all but growled at me. “How nice of you to break in again. What do you want?”

“I uh . . .” Yeah, I really should have thought about this more. “I brought coffee this time,” I heard myself mumble.

He scoffed loudly and I could see the crack in the door starting to get smaller as he began to close it. “Wait . . . please.”

I could hear him breathing loudly on the other side of the door, but he made no effort to close it further. “I don’t understand what you want,” he said honestly.

This I could do. “I just really love this building,” I laughed nervously, aware I sounded like a total dork when I talked about my love of architecture and art in general. “It sounds crazy, I know, but whenever I see it, my fingers itch to draw it. I can’t explain. I just . . . I’d love to be able to take a look around inside. See if there is anything original left from when it was built? I won’t bother you, I promise. I just want to have a look . . .”

“You talk an awful lot for a burglar.”

I smiled. “I told you I’m not a burglar . . . just a really eager art student who wants an A on his project.”

“Even if it means you go to prison for it?” I could see a glimmer of something almost teasing in those big, hazel eyes.

I nodded. “Yes, even if it means I end up in prison.”

The door opened and my mystery man backed away. “Shut the door behind you,” he told me, walking over to the bookcase that was across the room.

Once again I was presented with his back. I wanted to ask him to turn around but knew that probably wouldn’t go down well. I wouldn’t want him to accuse me of being an impolite burglar. But there had to be some way to get him to engage more.

“I’ll just put your coffee here on the table,” I told him, my eyes seemingly unable to tear themselves away from this man; there was something so fascinating about him even though I couldn’t quite put my finger on exactly what it was.

Once it was clear that the lure of my coffee offering wasn’t enough to get him to turn around, I made my way over to the sofa I’d been lying on the day before, dumping my bag on the floor and digging out my smaller sketch pad which I would be using to take notes. I settled in, got out a pencil and made sure it was sharpened. Then I took up my own cup of coffee, slurping at the steamy beverage loudly and becoming instantly mortified.

“Sorry, it’s hot,” I mumbled.

Thankfully, he didn’t comment on my behavior. “There’s a drawing on the wall by the door over there,” he pointed somewhere over to his right, “that you might find interesting.”

I waited to see if he was going to say any more, but when it was clear he wasn’t, I followed directions and went over to take a look. “Wow, this is beautiful,” I said almost dreamily.

The picture he’d alluded to was a stunning, black and white sketch of my building from when it was first built. The date was etched in the corner: May 6, 1885. I couldn’t stop staring at the drawing in front of me. The detail was incredible; it was almost like looking at a photograph. I took my cell out of my pocket, hesitating slightly before asking if I could take a photo. This was something I would love to show my professor, but I didn’t know if my host would find it intrusive for me to photograph it or not.

“Is it okay if I take a picture?” I finally wound up enough courage to ask.

“Sure,” he mumbled, his broad shoulders shrugging as he replied.

“I’d love to manipulate one of my sketches with this picture - show how the building’s changed over time, you know? How the trees outside have grown, how the street has become more populated and busy.” I knew I was rambling - not that I could stop or anything - it’s what I do when I’m excited about something.

“Go for it,” the man’s back told me as he continued to browse his bookshelf, reaching out every now and then to straighten a book or move it to a different spot on the shelf.

“Would you . . . would you like to see one of my sketches?” I asked the question before my brain had time to assess whether or not it was a good idea.

It was a few moments before he replied. “Sure,” he said, slowly turning around, all the while keeping his eyes to the floor and his hands shoved deeply into his ill-fitting jeans’ pockets.

I walked over to my bag and pulled out my bigger sketchbook, the one containing an embarrassing number of drawings of ‘my’ building. Some were just basic sketches while others were super detailed and displayed an almost obsessive attention to meticulous detail. I felt silly admitting this to myself, but I really wanted this guy to like my work, so I was almost reluctant to hand the sketchbook over. But, with a little mental prod, I eventually held the book out to him, watching as the man hesitantly pulled his hands out of his pockets along with a large white handkerchief, which he then proceeded to use to hold my sketchbook with. I almost made the mistake of joking, asking if he thought the pad of paper would bite him, only holding my tongue at the last instant. Then I watched in confused amusement as he used just the tip of a finger to turn the pages over. What the hell was up with this guy anyway? If I hadn’t been so nervous about what he thought of my drawings, I might have even asked.

“What do you think?” I hadn’t felt this anxious about someone liking my work for a while.

His silence made me even more nervous.

“They’re . . . good,” he responded after what felt like a billion years, but in reality was probably no more than a minute.

I watched as he handed me back my sketchbook and immediately made his way to the sink to wash his hands. He pretty much repeated what I saw him doing yesterday, but with more intensity - and a heck of a lot more soap. He even lathered up a nail brush and scrubbed fiercely at the skin of his hands. By the time he’d counted to eight, I couldn’t bear to watch anymore. His skin looked raw as he continued to rub manically at it. I hesitated briefly as I walked over to him and touched his shoulder gently, hoping I wouldn’t scare him.

“Hey, stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

The moment my hand made contact, he jumped. “Don’t touch me . . . please.”

I pulled back my hand but was still at a total loss about what I should do. The ghost man went right back to work, scrubbing at his hands with the little brush, and it was making me sick to my stomach to watch him hurt himself like that. I truly didn’t have a clue what was going on there, but if he didn’t want me to touch him, fine. I still felt like I should do something, though, to stop him from mangling his hands like that. I looked around for something to help me and the first thing I saw was the sketchbook I was still holding in one hand. Maybe I could distract him?

“Hey, is it okay if I ask you some questions about the building? There isn’t a whole lot online beyond the basics about the architect and I can use whatever you might be able to tell me for my report.”

It worked; the man finally looked up from his business at the sink. “I don’t know that much, but . . . what do you want to know?”

I scrambled to think of questions to ask him. It was crazy that I was having to think so hard to come up with a single question when I’d had a thousand in my brain just a few days before. But put on the spot like this, I couldn’t think of one single thing to ask. My brain was stupid like that sometimes.
Think, think, think . . .

My attention returned to the framed architectural drawing on the wall, and I seized on it. “Do you know who made this drawing? If I’m going to use it in my project I should probably give its attribution.”

“I have no idea. It’s just always been hanging there as far back as I can remember,” my mystery man answered.

“Would you mind if I took it off the wall and looked at the back? Sometimes artists will print information about their work on the back of the drawing. I promise I won’t damage it.”

He hesitated a moment or two but then shrugged. I noted that he was no longer scrubbing at his hands though, so I counted this as progress. I strode over to the section of wall where the drawing was hanging and carefully reached up to remove it from the wall. I could see that there was a wire screwed into both sides of the frame which was threaded through a tiny brass hook nailed into the wall behind the print. I carefully guided the wire with my index finger as I lifted the picture frame, and managed to unhook it with a little maneuvering. Then I lifted the frame down.

I laid the picture on the table next to the coffee I’d brought my host, which had remained untouched so far. I had expected that, like usual when you took an old picture off a wall, the action would have resulted in a cloud of dust and cobwebs, but that wasn’t the case here. There wasn’t a speck of dust on that ancient picture, back or front. So, when I turned the frame over, I could clearly see that the back of the frame had been covered with an elegant maroon felt, indicating that this had been a professional framing job, but it meant I couldn’t see the back of the drawing until I removed the entire mounting board. I looked up and noted that my host had thankfully left off his hand washing and was looking over my shoulder, supervising my inspection of the frame.

“I’ll need to take this off,” I pointed to the backing and got another shrug of acquiescence as I turned the frame upside down on the table and almost knocked over the waiting coffee cup. “Hey, don’t forget your coffee. It tastes better when it’s hot, you know.”

While I was fiddling with the frame, my host moved over to take a seat on the sofa, sitting as far away from me as possible on the relatively small piece of furniture. He pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket again, wrapped it around the base of the paper coffee cup and then picked up the cup, bringing it close enough to his face to sniff at the steam bubbling up through the tiny hole in the plastic lid.

“Mmm. Smells good,” my mystery man commented, almost as if he was enjoying the aroma against his will. “I’ve never smelled coffee like this. What kind is it?”

“It’s just a vanilla latte,” I commented, without really registering the oddness of the question, seeing as my attention was focused on trying to get the drawing out of the frame without damaging it.

Finally, with a little prying, I managed to loosen the mounting board from the frame so I could slide it out, revealing the drawing underneath. I had expected to see just the reverse of the drawing - the back of that one piece of paper - which would hopefully have some notation on it revealing the name of the artist. That’s all you would normally find inside a picture frame, right? But I should have known that nothing about this building was normal. Because, inside that one hundred and thirty-year-old frame was a surprise - there was a loose piece of paper that fell out as I pulled the mounting board free.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to dislodge anything,” I apologized, bending over to pick up the scrap of paper that had fluttered to the carpeting below the table. “Hmmm. What’s this?”

I unfolded the yellowed and slightly brittle piece of paper, which appeared to be a piece of stationary. At the top of the roughly five inches by seven-inch sheet, the initials ‘A. P.’ were printed in an exaggerated cursive scrawl. It was done in a metallic gold ink that must have been fairly expensive back in the 1880s - assuming that was when it was written. There was no date on the letter itself, though, only a short note penned in the elegant handwriting I had seen in other missives of the time. It read:

‘My Dearest B,

It is finally done. May this physical edifice I have created match in strength and beauty the spiritual edifice we are building together. And though we can not show ourselves to the world, I hope you will know, every time you look at this pile of stones and mortar, that my love for you is just as strong and hopefully as everlasting. Perhaps, someday, we can live here together, protected from the capriciousness of the uncaring world, and safe in each other’s arms.

Yours In My Heart,

A.’

“Look! A secret love letter. Did you know this was in here?” I asked, showing the note to my host. “It’s beautiful.” Judging by the initials on the stationary as well as the content, I was guessing the note was penned by Andrew Peebles himself. And now that I could see the back of the drawing, I could see a signature on the picture in the bottom right corner with a large ‘A’ and a second name that started with a ‘P’, in the same handwriting as the note, a sure sign that it was all the work of the architect. “Looks like our Mr. Peebles was not only an architect, but also an artist AND an aspiring poet.”

He didn’t reach out to touch the letter, but read it while I held it up. “Sappy,” was the man’s only comment - his nose scrunched up slightly as he said it, as if the romantic tone disgusted him somewhat.  

“Nah. That’s just how they talked back then, I think. It was a much more . . . sentimental time . . . you know?” I laid the letter down on the table, smoothing it out so it would lie flat, and quickly snapped a picture of it with my phone.

“Like I said, sappy.”

His curmudgeonly response made me laugh; it seemed to perfectly fit his personality, or at least what I knew about his personality so far.

“I can’t wait to work with all of this,” I gushed exuberantly. “I can already see in my mind exactly what I want to create. The drawing and the letter will be great additions. Would you . . . would you be interested in seeing it when I’m done?”

I hated how desperate I sounded, but I knew I needed to find some way to get back here - especially after finding that mysterious letter. There had to be a good story here, right? And not just that, but I felt compelled to see this man again. I didn’t know what it was about him, but for some reason, I wanted to maintain whatever nebulous connection we’d begun to forge. I was hoping that my offer to share my art project with my mystery man would be enough to cause him to want the same.

This time he didn’t take as long to reply. “If I said ‘no’ you would probably just break in again and force me to look at your shit anyway, right?”

“Probably. Once you let a stray burglar in, it’s really hard to get rid of them, I hear. At least we don’t shed as much as cats, though.”

“You’re fucking annoying, you know that right?”

It was probably my imagination, but I swear I saw the smallest hint of a smile as he said that.

“My best friend tells me this all the time.” I felt myself smiling too as I gathered my stuff together and shoved my sketchbooks back in my bag. “So, I need to get home and get these pictures ready to print out to add them to my project, but I’ll come by tomorrow and show you what progress I’ve made, okay?”

“Don’t fall down the stairs on your way out this time,” the man said, getting up at the same time I did and following me as I headed for the door to his apartment.

“I’ll try not to but I can’t promise anything,” I replied as I started down the stairs. “See you tomorrow then. Tell Bill I said ‘bye’.”

My mystery man just stood there at the top of the stairs, silently watching me leave, without comment. When I glanced back at him briefly as I reached the landing at the bottom of the first flight of stairs and turned to make my way down to the next floor, I thought I detected a shy smile partially hidden by the bushy brown beard. It was encouraging. I felt I was making significant progress. And at least this time he wasn’t complaining to his cat about being lonely as I was leaving him.

I was already in the rideshare car on the way home when I realized that I still hadn’t remembered to ask the guy his name.

Chapter 5 - Obsession.

I was still hunched over my computer playing with my pictures when Daphne finally got home from work several hours later. She seemed happy to see me in one piece and with my brains still intact. She even made me a cup of English Breakfast tea and brought me a sandwich to nibble on while I continued to work.

“Where’d you get that new drawing? It doesn’t look like your other stuff,” Daphne asked as she laid my dinner down next to me on the kitchen table.

“The drawing on the right is mine but the one on the left is one that my Mystery Man had in his apartment. I had to adjust the sizing and angle a little - which took me forever to get right, by the way - but I was able to get them to line up perfectly. See?”

“You look so proud of yourself,” Daphne laughed as she stole a potato chip from my plate.

I shrugged, what could I say, I was pretty damn impressed with how well the manipulation had turned out. It wasn’t something I’d ever done before, so yeah, I was feeling a little smug.

“You’re such a supercilious little asshole,” she teased but I didn’t correct her since it was basically true.

I leaned back so my friend could get a better view of what I’d been working on. I’d taken the older drawing and manipulated it so it was the correct size and angle to match my more recent drawing and then overlapped them so that the left half of the building was the old drawing and the right half was my modern building. It was remarkable to see that the building had remained basically the same, even though the details around the building had changed so much. So, in my drawing, you could see the modern street signs and traffic lights along with more mature trees and even a car on the street in front of the building, while the older drawing showed a building bare of even the modernities of fire escapes or electrical wires.

“I plan to use the manipulated drawings, superimposed over a colored photograph I have from that same angle, as the centerpiece of my painting. Then I’m going to add other pictures and found objects to the canvas and incorporate it all into a painting collage. What do you think?” I asked my friend and occasional art critic. Daphne was one of the most honest people I knew, and if she thought something I was doing was crap, she wasn’t one to hold back, which was something I equally loved and hated about her.

“It’ll be brilliant. All your stuff always is,” Daphne declared around a mouthful of toast she was munching on - why did she always have food in her mouth when she talked to me? “So the ghost let you back inside, huh?”

“Sorta. I kinda had to break in again, but at least he didn’t try and push me down the stairs this time. He didn’t seem to like his coffee though.” I went back to messing around with the pictures while we spoke. “He also kinda freaked out at one point after I asked if he wanted to look at my drawings of the building. I let him look through my sketchbook, but it was like he was afraid to touch it or something. And then he washed his hands for, like, an hour, scrubbing at them with this little brush till they were red and raw. It was weird. What’s up with that, huh?”

“Sounds like your ghost might be OCD or something,” Daphne expounded, going into what I called her ‘Expert’ mode. “We just did a unit on phobias in my Psychology class last month. I was really surprised to learn how prevalent those kinds of compulsions are. The textbook we had said that it affects more than two percent of the population, which is like one out of every fifty people or something. Not everyone has it as bad as what it sounds like your ghost is going through - only about half the reported cases are considered that ‘severe’. I wonder if it’s a result of some kind of childhood trauma or something - the data we looked at says it’s most likely a combination of environmental and behavioral conditioning that occurs in conjunction with low serotonin levels in the brain. There’s some really interesting studies going on in that field . . .”

I interrupted her before she could get lost in an esoteric description of some obscure medical study I couldn’t care less about. “But the hand washing? I mean, did I do something to trigger that?” I’d never met anyone with OCD before, so this was all completely new to me.

Daphne pulled her hair out of her ponytail and I watched as it cascaded over her shoulders in this big mass of curls. “They say people with OCD each have certain characteristic behaviours - like, for your ghost, it’s compulsive hand washing - that they use as a way to get rid of the obsessive thoughts they are having. Different people have different compulsions. So, an individual who experiences an intrusive obsession regarding germs, for example, may engage in hand washing to reduce the anxiety triggered by the obsession. Because this washing ritual temporarily reduces the anxiety, the probability that the individual will engage in hand washing when a contamination fear occurs in the future is increased.  As a result, compulsive behavior not only persists but actually becomes excessive.”

That didn’t really help me, but I appreciated her trying, and I marvelled at her almost encyclopedic knowledge of useless crap. “Okaaaaayyyy. But what the fuck do I DO about it? I don’t want him hurting himself every time I go over there just because I ask him to look at my sketchbook or something.”

“You’re going back? Again?”

“Yeah . . . I kinda told him I would bring the manipulated pictures over for him to look at. After all, I owe him after he let me break in and all without calling the cops on me. And, besides, I didn’t really get time to look around at the interior, except for the small room he lives in on the top floor. There’s got to still be a lot of interesting details to draw, you know?”

“What’s this dude’s name, anyway? I can’t keep calling him your Ghost Man forever.”

I could feel my cheeks pinking up a little as I admitted I had once again forgotten to ask him his name.

“Have I told you lately how strange you are?” she asked, looking at me as if I was some alien lifeform she wanted to put under her microscope and examine like one of the bacterium in her bio lab.

“It’s not my fault. I got distracted by the hand washing thing and then the drawing and then I started thinking about how I could manipulate the pictures together for my project and the next thing I knew I was on my way home and I didn’t realize I’d forgotten to ask his name till I was halfway here,” I explained, feeling like a toddler who was trying to explain his way out of being in trouble, while Daphne looked on at me with this infuriatingly indulgent smile.

“You like him,” she grinned, Daph loved nothing better than ragging me about my love life . . . or lack thereof.

“I don’t even know him, Daph.”

“You loveeeeee him. You wanna marry hiiiiiiim. Justin and Ghost Man, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g . . .” she started to chant, taunting me just like she had back when we were only seven and I made the mistake of telling her I was going to marry Aladdin - you know, the one from the Disney cartoon - when I grew up.

Of course, I reacted completely appropriately and maturely by sticking out my tongue at her and then throwing the crusts of my sandwich at her face. What? She deserved it. Although we probably do need to grow up eventually, right? Well, maybe not just yet, though.

When we’d finally stopped giggling, I sighed and returned to my computer work. “Okay, so don’t give me too much shit, alright, but, yeah, I kind of do see something in him that’s . . . I don’t know . . . compelling, maybe . . . He’s intriguing in a way. I can’t figure him out. And you KNOW how big of a sucker I am for a mystery. It’s like I can’t stop till I solve the puzzle. Maybe that’s why I feel like I need to figure this guy out too?”

“I can see that. It’ll be an epic battle of the compulsions, though. His OCD versus your romanticism.”

“So, who do you think will win?” I had to ask.

“You, of course. You’re way too fucking stubborn to let something like a mere neurological impairment stop you,” my BFF insisted with a smile at me, leaning over to give me a reassuring kiss on my cheek. “Just be gentle with him, Tiger. He has no idea who - or what - he’s gotten himself involved with yet.” Then she took up her own cup of tea and started to head down the hall to her bedroom. “Okay, now I’ve got to tackle about a week’s worth of genetics reading. Wish me luck and if I’m not out by morning, send in a rescue team.”

“Luck, Daphy!” I yelled over my shoulder and went back to my computer work, visions of my Mystery Man and my Mystery Building twirling interchangeably in my brain until it had all become one big mystery that I was compelled to paint.

And maybe to solve.

I was waiting at the door to the computer lab at school the next morning when the geek squad guy who ran it showed up for work. I probably could have gone to Kinko’s and got my photos printed out the night before, but the equipment at school was actually higher quality and the price was definitely better - free. My father already gave me enough shit about wasting my college trust fund on a useless endeavor like art school, dribbling out the pittance he allowed me for living expenses only after I supplied him with a detailed accounting of every single penny I spent every month, and questioning me over any expense he thought was ‘frivolous’. It just wasn’t worth the effort to convince him that I needed to spend $50 on Kinko’s copies when I could get the same prints gratis through school. So, even though my fingers were itching to get started on the painting part of the project, I forced myself to wait to print the pics at school.

I was too happy with the results when they were finally printed to be too upset over the wait, though. The multi-layered look of the old and new drawings on top of the modern full-color picture, was absolutely perfect for what I’d envisioned. This creation was going to end up being a masterwork - or at least that’s what I kept telling myself. Which meant I was in a buoyant mood when I left school and ran the entire way to my building to show off my work to the Mystery Man. I only stopped briefly, to get more coffee for all of us at the Crazy Mocha shop across the street, and then I was there at the lobby door, doing my jiggling and kicking thing till I got the door opened again. Bill met me on the third floor landing and I obediently gave him his cup of creamer, disregarding the fact that he tried to scratch me as I set the container down. And then I was there at the top of the stairs, knocking on my man’s door.

“Aren’t you here a bit early?” the bushy-bearded face asked as he cracked open the door. “I didn’t think you were capable of functioning before noon.”

“How would you know that?” I asked, although I didn’t dispute his statement of fact, because it was, sorta, true.

“You never show up till after lunch,” he explained as he pulled the door wide enough to let me in.

“You’ve seriously been watching me the whole time? Why didn’t you ever let me in?” I held up the coffee I’d brought him but he just tilted his head towards the table, so I set it down there for him before plopping down on the sofa with my own yummy mocha.

“Make yourself at home, why dontcha,”

I couldn’t help myself as I gave Mystery Man one of my biggest and brightest smiles. “You didn’t seem to like your vanilla latte yesterday, so I went with caramel today. What do you think?”

I watched in silence as he walked over to the table and bent down, giving the drink a sniff. “Delicious.”

“You CAN actually drink it too, you know,” I prodded.

I could see the involuntary shudder that seemed to overtake him as he thought about what I’d said. “I uh,” he cleared his throat. He was quiet for a moment before he continued. “I’m not so sure I should really trust the guy that keeps on breaking into my house not to poison me.”

I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

I stood up and walked towards the table where he was still hovering and reached for his cup. “How about if I take a sip of yours to show you that it’s perfectly safe for you to drink?”

Just as my hand was about to make contact with the cup, he waved his arms around almost manically and shouted at me, “NO!”

I jerked my hand away from the cup and stared at him uncomprehendingly. Apparently he really hadn’t been joking about the poisoning thing. Fuck, this was awkward. I had to think quickly to find something to distract us both from whatever the fuck was going on with the coffee thing.

“Urm, sorry . . . I, um . . . Would you like to see what I’ve done so far?” I asked apprehensively, seizing on the only topic I could think of that might get me out of this quagmire.

Mystery Man shifted nervously on his feet, his hands desperately trying to find something to occupy themselves with but ending up back in his jeans’ pockets. He gave the faintest nod of his head and I felt myself practically run back to the sofa so I could retrieve the folder where I had stored the photos I’d printed out that morning. I made my way back to the table with my work stretched out in front of me, but the closer I got, the deeper his hands seemed to delve into his pockets. Thinking quickly, I removed the new photos and set them down on the table where he’d be able to see them without having to touch anything. He seemed thankful and maybe a tiny bit less embarrassed as he leaned over to peruse my work.

“Not bad.”

I heard myself gasp loudly. “Not bad? Are you kidding me, these are fucking excellent.”

The mystery man smiled at me as if he found my blatant arrogance amusing. “How’d you manage to make it look like that. Half the old picture and half your drawing?”

Well, he asked, right? So that justified my launching into a very technical and detailed explanation of my photoshop skills, which then led into a full description of the entire project I was engaged in, backed up by a summary of my previous attempts at collage painting, all of which segued nicely into a lecture about the history of multimedia artwork over the ages . . . and I kept talking for, like, twenty hours or something close thereto, before I realized I was babbling on like a total loser and abruptly clamped my mouth shut in total humiliation. Damn I was really NOT good at normal conversations, was I? But it wasn’t my fault. He should have known better than to engage an art student in any discussion of any art-related topic. That’s just common sense, right?

“I suppose now’s probably not the best time to tell you I have no idea what ‘Photoshop’ is? Or, anything else you just talked about, for that matter,” he commented with a hint of a condescending smile.

“Sorry about that,” I mumbled, “I do tend to . . . go on a bit when talking about my work,” I stated and, without realizing I was doing it, I started to chew at the skin around my nails like I always do when I’m nervous - it’s a nervous habit I’ve had for as long as I can remember.

“No problem. I appreciate your enthusiasm. It’s amusing,” he stated, although he didn’t look amused right then; he looked uncomfortable as fuck, his eyes seemingly locked on the hand that I was currently nibbling.

Finally, when it appeared he couldn’t take it any longer, the man leaned over and grabbed a small plastic bottle of hand sanitizer sitting on an end table that I hadn’t noticed before. He mutely offered it to me with a tilt of his head, holding it out with his hand poised over the pump top. I took the hint and stretched my hand out towards him, palm up, allowing him to squirt out a dollop of the clear gel. Then he watched closely as I massaged the gel into my hands - I felt like one of those doctors you see on tv as they scrub in for surgery, washing their hands in a slow methodical process designed so they don’t miss a single spot where germs might hide. Unfortunately, the alcohol in the sanitizer caused my torn cuticle to sting and I hissed at the short but intense pain it caused.

“Sorry,” he apologized as I shook the hand to help dissipate the pain.

“No biggie. It just stings a little.”

“Serves you right. Don’t you have better things to do with your fingers than stuffing them in your face?”

Okay, it’s not my fault that my mind immediately went THERE, right? I mean, you ask any gay man where he wants to stick his fingers and pretty much any one of them is going to have the same reaction? Amirite? But I had only just met this man - a man whose name I still hadn’t remembered to ask, by the way - so I didn’t really know him well enough to give the reply I would normally have given about just what I liked to finger. Fuck, I didn’t even know if he was gay; it was tough to tell considering his general OCD standoffishness. But now that he’d mentioned it, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and I started imagining my fingers doing some truly naughty things, which immediately translated to a rather intense reaction in certain other body parts, and the more I tried to stop it, the worse it got, till I could feel the crotch of my pants stretching tighter and tighter over those excited body parts, and fuck me, I was totally embarrassed but so turned on, and it wasn’t my fault that I had this sudden and almost uncontrollable desire to investigate just how hairy the rest of my Mystery Man was, and why was I such a total horn dog, somebody please stop me, or throw a bucket of cold water over my head or SOMETHING. I hate my life sometimes. I really do.

It was only then that I could feel my Mystery Man’s eyes on me and, holy fuck, that only made things worse. He was looking right at my dick, which got even harder now that it knew it had an audience, and seemed like it was trying to poke its way clear through the material of the Dockers I was wearing that day. I had to do something or in two minutes I’d end up throwing this stranger down on the carpet at my feet and having my way with him. Or letting him have his way with me. At that point I was open to pretty much anything, I was THAT horny. And it really didn’t help matters much that, right at that moment, my eyes wandered down his body and I noticed that even through his loose fitting jeans, I could see he’d sprouted a pretty impressive boner too! Which, I guess, answered the question of whether or not he was gay. But I still didn’t really know him which, for some reason, bothered me all of a sudden.

“What’s your name?” I uttered out of absolutely fucking nowhere, my voice sounding at least an octave higher pitched than was seemly.

His eyes burned into mine as he looked at me and I could see a slight smirk starting to appear on his face. “What? You mean there’s something you don’t know? I thought you were an expert on everything from Burglary to Bechtle.”

I might have become angry at that but then my host broke into a peal of laughter - real, joyful, belly-rumbling, laughter - and I got the feeling he didn’t laugh nearly often enough, so how could I be mad at him?

“Fine. Don’t tell me your name, then. I’ll just call you . . . I’ll call you, Egbert, instead,” I threatened, joining in with his laughter.

“Egbert? You think I look like an Egbert?” The look of disdain on his face was almost comical.

“Yeah, it suits you. Or would you rather I called you, Harry, in honor of your tonsorial choices?”

“Did I mention before how annoying you were?”

“Several times,” I grinned.

“Fine. You can call me ‘Harry’ and I’ll call you ‘Brat’.”

I shook my head. “But I told you my name already, it’s Justin.”

He shrugged nonchalantly but I could see a glint of humor in his eyes that I hadn’t seen there before and it gave me an unexpectedly huge thrill to think I’d put it there. “I think my name fits you better.”

“Okay, Egbert. If that’s how you want to play it, I’m game. But when my project wins first place and I get put into the end of term showcase at school, you won’t be able to come because your invitation will be under the wrong name. I’ll feel really bad about that, you know, but since it means I’ll get all the attention to myself, I’ll somehow deal with it,” I rejoined with a flirty grin as I gathered up my pictures and shoved the file folder back in my bag. “Now, I’m off to go create my masterpiece. See you later, Egbert!”

“Later, Brat.”

I was still chuckling over our exchange when I finally made it home and started to set up so I could dive right into my painting. I’d never felt more inspired than I did after my early morning meeting with Harry Egbert. There was just something about that infuriatingly mysterious man that seemed to light my blood and my brain on fire. And it was his sparkling, laughing, hazel eyes instead of the stone and brick of the building that were front and center in my mind as I began to paint.

Chapter 6 - I’ll See You Tomorrow.

I didn’t make it back to my building for several days after that because I was absolutely consumed by my painting. I get like that, you know? When I’m in the groove, a half a day can go by without me even noticing, until I find I have to pee like a fire hose and can’t remember the last time I ate. If it weren’t for Daphne insisting that I stop and get at least a few hours of sleep each night, I probably would have died of overexhaustion. But in the end, I was so ecstatic over my work that it was totally worth it.

The original project that I’d planned out so meticulously on my computer was difficult to see anywhere on the canvas when I was done. That’s not unusual, though, because when the creative process takes over, you just have to go where it leads you, right? I was used to that outcome. But this picture felt different. It felt organic. Like the multiple layers of pictures and paper and found objects were held together by the paint that I’d lathered on, around, over and under them. It was as if the original project I’d planted on the canvas had grown, with the final work emerging from out of the background of my plan, rising up and filling in the spaces with their own agenda. But it worked. Hell, it was totally amazing.

The one thing that totally floored me though - the thing I wasn’t planning for at all - was that, when the painting was done, I found that it wasn’t done at all. I had to go back and add that one more thing. Now, I generally try to resist the ‘one more thing’ impulses. You can easily ‘one more thing’ a great creation into a total nightmare. Most of the time you just need to stop when it’s done and let the thing you created be what it is. But this time, I just couldn’t. It’s like it wasn’t done yet, no matter what my brain was telling me. So I gave in to the impulse, wetting my paintbrush one more time, and diving in with that last touch that . . . Fuck, when it was done, I realized that ‘one more thing’ was really what the entire picture/project/work was all about.

Then I stood back and looked at it and smiled.

The pictures and scraps of paper and other objects that I’d glued to the canvas were all there - sitting like little islands of clarity amid the swirls of my painting. They were all connected by the larger, more abstract, painting I’d made of the building, which seemed to sit behind the other objects, almost as if they were the windows to my painting of a building. Of course, the painted building was more of a representation of what the building FELT like to me than anything - the pictures and sketches were more direct depictions of the actual building - and it somehow felt more complete than a mere photo would have. But, the part that seemed to draw it all together into that organic whole was the ‘one more thing’ that I added last; the addition of the words to the secret love letter I’d found inside the frame of the old architectural drawing. Those words, painted in a translucent, shimmering, rosy-silver, over the top of everything, were barely visible in some places, yet they were the substance of the whole piece.

‘May this physical edifice I have created match in strength and beauty the spiritual edifice we are building together.’

That was how I experienced the building. That was the truth that my mysterious building was trying to tell me. And the triple mystery of the building, the enigmatic man who resided inside, and the implied mystery of that ancient love note, were all tied together into one enticing whole. It was like a Mystery Cubed.

“You can’t call the picture, ‘Mystery Cubed’,” Daphne insisted when I finally let her look at my creation. “It’s about a triangle-shaped building. It’s totally confusing to call it a cube. That makes no sense at all.”

“It’s not about the shape of the building, it’s about the shape of the mystery underneath. The three different mysteries that draw me to the building,” I tried to explain. “Three mysteries equals mystery cubed.”

“I think it’s more of a Mystery Triangulation,” she maintained stubbornly.

“You’re missing the whole point!” I actually stamped my foot in my frustration.

“No, you’re missing the point of the definition of what a cube is.” Daphne is such a damn realist sometimes - she sees the world in black and white and moral certitudes - as opposed to me, the artist, who’s perfectly comfortable with the fact that a triangle can be a cube in some cases.

So, after I let out a primal scream at the unfairness of a universe that didn’t understand my brilliant, creative soul, I agreed to change the title of the piece to Mystery Triangulated just to get Daphne to shut the hell up. It was still an amazing painting though, no matter what title you gave it. And she did agree that the words of the letter painted over the top of everything made it special, so I eventually forgave her for interfering with my title. Then we took lots of pictures of the picture before I fell into bed and slept thirteen hours straight.

When I finally woke up, it was the middle of the afternoon on Sunday - I felt totally revived and rejuvenated and jubilant as I stretched and lolled in the one beam of fall sunlight that had made its way in through my window. I finally felt like I could peek back into whatever was going on in the real world again, now that my creative frenzy had passed. So, when I’d finished stretching and scratching myself, I began to reaccustom my brain to the outside world again, wondering what I should do next with my brilliant self. To aid in this planning, I dug my phone out from where it was buried under my pillow and started scrolling through the emails and voicemails and other stuff I’d missed.

“Shit!” I exclaimed when I listened to the first of about ten voicemail messages left on my phone by Ethan Gold. “I forgot the recital. He’s going to be insufferable . . .”

I had meant to call him and offer up the excuse of my concussion in order to get out of going to the recital - because even though it was a ‘Mild’ concussion and hadn’t stopped me from doing anything else I wanted to do, for the purposes of getting out of a date I didn’t want to go on, it was completely debilitating. But, what with my ongoing thing with Harry Egbert and then getting lost in my painting all weekend, I’d totally forgotten all about Ethan. Oops. Ethan was never going to let me live this down. I was probably going to have to do something unconscionable to get him to stop harassing me about this, wasn’t I?

I quickly texted him back, giving the excuse of my concussion and fibbing that I hadn’t been able to call him because I had been in soooooo much pain. I hoped he’d buy it. Probably not, though, knowing Ethan. I would probably have to show him the fucking MRI scan before he’d let up. I supposed it was worth it, though, seeing as I hadn’t had to go to his fucking recital.

Once I’d deleted all the texts, voicemails and emails from Ethan, however, it looked like the rest of my afternoon was free. I got up, took a shower - which was really, really necessary, seeing as I kind of forgot to bathe when I was painting sometimes, so yeah, by that point I couldn’t stand the smell of myself - threw a load of laundry in the washer and did some tidying up around the area of the living room that served as my ‘studio’ and where Daphne was under strict orders never to venture. I also made a huge pot of pasta which I lazily doctored with my own special faux-sauce mix of olive oil, salt, pepper and Italian spices out of a bottle, and called it good. Then I was free for the rest of the evening.

So where was the first place I wanted to go the second I had a spare moment? If you guessed the Triangle Building, you’d have been spot on. Because, of course, I simply had to go see my Harry Egbert and take him the photos of my painting so he could see the end product of all my endeavors. It was his building, after all, that had inspired the work. It really had nothing whatsoever to do with me wanting to see HIM . . . Yeah, right. Who the fuck was I kidding? Whatever. The Mystery Man was definitely next on my agenda.

For that afternoon’s coffee selection, I went with a hazelnut syrup. I was determined to find the perfect coffee for my Harry Egbert that would finally tempt him to actually taste the coffee rather than just sniff at it. Didn’t Torani make about a thousand different syrups? One of them was bound to appeal to my Mystery Man, right? And, in the meantime, it was rather fun to try and think up new combinations of coffee for him. Maybe I’d move on to the mochas next if I couldn’t find a latte he liked.

So, laden with a mocha for myself, a Hazelnut Latte for my man, and the usual half & half creamer for Bill the Cat, I trotted across the street to my building. I knocked, of course, but didn’t expect an answer, so I didn’t wait more than thirty seconds or so before I broke in again. I was actually getting quite good at the kicking and wiggling the door thing. Who needed a key, anyway?

“Hey there, William. Did you miss me?” I asked as the resident guard cat hissed at me in welcome. “You do know that we are going to end up great friends, right? I tend to grow on people. And cats. Trust me, before long you’ll be so excited to see me when I arrive you’ll start wagging your tail and yipping in happiness like a dog.” Bill did not look at all amused by my prediction that he’d turn into a disgusting dog and hissed at me even louder than usual. But then he saw his creamer and forgot to be angry as he lapped up the yummy goodness.

“You’re going to make him fat.”

I was surprised by the voice coming from the stairwell behind me. My Harry Egbert hadn’t ever ventured that far downstairs to greet me before. Well, except for that first night when I didn’t even make it up the first flight of stairs before he startled me and I fell. Was my man excited to see me or something? Mystery Man looked very dapper that evening, actually. He appeared to have tried to do something with the mop on his head to make it look more like hair than a bush. It was combed out and slicked back out of his eyes, at least. He might have even attempted to trim the beard a little. I approved of the improvements and the look I gave him probably conveyed that sentiment since Egbert smiled back at me with more candor than was usual for him.

“Bill and I have an understanding,” I ventured to explain. “I bribe him with treats and he agrees not to claw or bite me. It works for us, so don’t knock it.”

“Is that why you keep bringing me coffee too? Bribing me so I don’t report your burglar ass to the police?” Egbert asked, and I could already see his nose twitching as he sniffed the air to see what was in his cup that day.

“Whatever works, right? Besides, I’m determined to find a coffee you’ll actually taste someday. I’ve always liked a challenge and you definitely qualify. So, what do you say? Wanna take a sip? It’s hazelnut . . .” I waved the drinks caddy from side to side just out of his reach and thought for about a half a heartbeat that he might actually accept the cup that night. But when he hesitated, shoving his hands back in his pockets, I relented. “Not a hazelnut fan, huh? No worries. I’ll keep trying.” I gave him one of my best smiles to make sure he knew I wasn’t upset or anything, and he seemed to relax a bit more. “So, I finished my painting of your building. Wanna see it?”

My man shrugged, but I could see that he was more interested than he seemed by the way he so eagerly tilted his head towards the stairs. I had soooo won him over. Piece of cake; coffee or no coffee, he was already putty in my capable, artistic hands. Or at least that was what I was thinking to myself as I boldly led the way upstairs. Except, when we reached the top floor, he cleared his throat before I could reach for the handle of the door into his rooms and instead led me down the hallway towards another, more elaborately decorated door, which he pulled open to reveal an office that looked like it was right out of a late Victorian novel.

“Now this is was I was talking about!” I raved, walking inside as I marveled over the cozy little office space, the original, built-in bookcases, the secretary’s desk against the far wall, not to mention the antique drafting table that took up much of the floor space in the center of the room. “This is so dope! It’s better than I could have hoped for. I can’t believe that this much of it has been kept in its original condition. Most of these older buildings have been renovated so much that they’ve lost all their flair. This is amazing though.”

“It was my Grandfather’s office. He didn’t like change much so he kept it exactly the same as it was the day he bought the building,” Egbert announced, standing off to the side and out of my way while I wandered around. “I thought you might like to see it. You said you wanted to sketch some of the interiors, right? Although, now that you’re done with your project . . .”

“Project, schmoject! I love this building. I love this room. I can still draw it and, best of all, I get to keep this sketch just for myself,” I declared, taking up a seat in an old, velvet-upholstered wingback chair next to the drafting table and sitting the coffees down so I could dig in my bag for the necessary drawing supplies. “I’ll need a model though, so, if you’ll be so kind, Mr. Egbert, as to take your coffee over to the desk there and pose for me . . .”

I pretended to busy myself getting my drawing pad ready and selecting a pencil from the case so as not to seem like I was staring at him as he hesitated to react to my request. I could see him out of my peripheral vision and it was almost comical the way he reached out towards the cup, then withdrew his hand, and then reached out again - not that I’d ever laugh at him for what was very obviously a struggle. Finally, though, on his third try I saw him pick up the cup, holding it with only the very tips of his fingers, and then carrying it over to the desk where he placed it on the leather-bound blotter and immediately took out a small bottle of hand sanitizer which he used to douse his hands with. It was a start though, right? And when Egbert was done cleansing his hands, he leaned over and took an extra-long whiff of the hazelnut coffee, getting a sorta dreamy look on his face in the process. Oh, yeah, I was definitely wearing him down.

“Okay. Try to look busy. And Victorian,” I ordered as I took up my drawing pad and started to put down a rough outline of the scene.

“Look Victorian? I’ll do my best.”

With a captivating little chuckle, I saw my man pick up a gorgeous, vintage fountain pen that seemed to be made of amber. He held it over the blotter, pretending like he was going to be writing something. He looked very official. And, with his hair slicked back that way and the voluminous facial hair, he actually looked a lot like one of the founding fathers of Pittsburgh who might have once occupied this room. He was the perfect model, actually.

It didn’t take me long at all to scratch out a nicely detailed drawing of the room with my man sitting at the desk. If I didn’t know better myself, I would swear it was a period piece. He looked so natural in that setting. I quickly took out my phone, snapped a picture of my drawing for posterity, and then tore the sketch out of the book.

“Here. You can keep this one. I’ll make a more detailed version for myself when I get home,” I offered, letting the picture rest on the drafting table so he could retrieve it later. “It turned out pretty fabulous if I do say so myself. Thanks for bringing me in here to see the room. I’m impressed.”

“No biggie. I figured you’d like it,” he replied, setting the old pen down.

Then he opened up one of the little doors on the antique desk, took out what appeared to be a little packet of wet wipes, and without looking up at me, he quickly used the wipe to swab at the coffee cup, the lid and his fingers one last time. I couldn’t help the swell of pride I felt on his behalf when he proceeded to pick up the coffee cup afterward. I was sure that something like that couldn’t be easy for someone with his level of OCD. Daphne had been doing some extra research on the issue since I explained what was up with my Mystery Man, and had relayed some tidbits to me about the condition, so I was feeling much more educated about what the guy had to be going through. And it might not seem like much to your average joe, but for someone with his issues, merely picking up an unknown coffee cup had to be a mind-blowing struggle. So, yeah, I was proud of my man. Sue me. When he held the cup up so he could breathe in more of the hazelnut-scented coffee, I almost cheered for him.

To distract us both from the momentousness of the moment, I fished around for a topic of conversation that wouldn’t be so stressful. “So, you said this was your Grandfather’s office?”

Apparently, that wasn’t the right topic though - not if I was going for non-stressful. Mystery Man put the coffee cup back down and started to fidget. He was rubbing his hands against his pants legs, his foot jiggling nervously, and then he started to fiddle with the objects on the desk, taking out another of his wet wipes as he pulled each item in the desk out, wiped it off, and then returned it to its correct spot, ensuring everything was in complete alignment with each other.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up an unpleasant topic,” I apologized quickly.

“It’s . . . It’s nothing. My grandfather was . . . a difficult man. Well, difficult for me, at least. Everybody else seemed to love him, I guess. Donnie was almost like a legend in Pittsburgh back in the day.”

“Donnie?” That name triggered a memory from my project. “Would that be Donal Byrne, by any chance? I came across his name when I was researching this building. He was the registered owner until about a decade ago. I wondered about him, but since he wasn’t the current owner I didn’t think to do any further research on him.”

Egbert cleared his throat a couple of times before answering. “That’s him,” he confirmed. “The old bastard. May he rot for all eternity in whatever hell might be out there.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, completely embarrassed for having brought up such a difficult topic and not sure where to go from there.

“Don’t be. You didn’t even know him,” he replied before completely changing the subject, for which we were both grateful. “So, you said you finished your project? Did it turn out the way you wanted it to?”

“It turned out better!” I expounded, taking out my phone again to show him the pictures I’d taken of the finished canvas. “See for yourself.”

Egbert seemed quite taken by the end result and my ego swelled several sizes as he looked at the pictures, even asking me to make them bigger at times so he could see certain details better. I started to explain some of the various techniques I’d employed and why I’d added some of the different elements.

“I like this part,” he said, his finger shaking slightly as he pointed towards a particularly detailed part of my painting that incorporated some of the details from the cornice work of the building.

I beamed once again. Having him like my work meant a lot to me; which was odd, because usually, as long as I liked my work I didn’t care so much what others thought. But all of a sudden it mattered what THIS guy thought. That was different. It made me uncomfortable, but uncomfortable in a good way, maybe. I’d have to think on why, exactly, that was. Later, though, because I was too busy bragging to my man to worry about it right then.

“. . . Yeah. So, I’m pretty happy with how it turned out and all,” I summarized when it seemed like we’d talked the painting to death finally. “Now I just have to hope that my professor agrees when I turn it in tomorrow.”

“So, as of tomorrow, you’re done with the project?” Egbert asked, sounding a little disappointed by that prospect.

“Yeah. Which is good, too, because I have to get started on studying for finals for my other classes, all of which I put off while I was working on this monster.” When Mystery Man looked away, seeming to hesitate about whatever it was he’d been about to say, I felt like I’d said something wrong. So, to backtrack I asked, “why? Was there something else? Something you think I missed?”

“No. No, nothing like that,” he stumbled over whatever it was he meant to say for a moment or two until it seemed like he just decided to blurt it out. “It’s just that, when you seemed interested in that old letter and the drawing, I remembered that my grandfather had a file of old records he kept that he’d found when he bought the building, and I thought you might be interested in looking through them. But, if you’re done with the project, I guess you wouldn’t be interested . . .”

“No! . . . I mean, yeah, I’m finished with the project, but I would definitely love to take a look at whatever you’ve found. Really . . . if you’re okay with that?”

He looked relieved when I insisted I was still interested and I watched as he unlocked one of the drawers of his desk and pulled out a huge leather binder, filled to the brim with aging looking papers. I was surprised that the file was one of the least clean things in the entire building. There might have even been some dust on the jacket of the folder. But, since it was dust that had been in the building for a while, as opposed to dust that came from some stranger outside, maybe it was safe enough because my man just swiped at it perfunctorily with one of his wipes and then seemed good.

He placed the folder on the desk and pushed it towards me. “Here, knock yourself out.”

I paused briefly before making my way over, running my hand over the smooth leather, it was so soft. “Wow.”

“You can . . .” He cleared his throat once again. “You can take it home with you to have a look through if you’d like. I just . . . I need it back.”

I couldn’t seem to control my face around this man, I don’t think I’d smiled this much in years. He was basically inviting me back! Well, that’s what I was taking from it anyway. “You know, I might have questions while I’m looking through this stuff. If I can’t figure it out, maybe I could come back and you could go over it with me? You might know more about the history, after all,” I suggested.

He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly like it didn’t bother him either way, but I knew that he liked my suggestion. “Sure. I could make time,” he replied, trying to sound all cool and unconcerned even though I could detect a smile hiding in that beard of his. “I’m . . . I’m not busy tomorrow afternoon.”

I wondered when he was ever busy, seeing as he didn’t seem to ever leave the building, but I didn’t think our relationship was ready for that line of questioning yet. “Sounds great. I should be done with classes by around three tomorrow. How about I come back after that?”

“Okay,” he agreed readily enough. “Although, I suspect this is probably the first time in history someone invited their burglar to come back for more.”

“I’m not a burglar. Just . . .”

“Just a brat. I know,” he teased me with that glint of humor in his eyes that I was starting to get to like.

“Good thing you like brats, huh?” I replied, because, yeah, I WAS a brat and as a brat, I wasn’t about to let him get the last word like that. Then I picked up the binder full of documents and my bag and started for the door before he could say anything more. “See you tomorrow, Egbert.

“Later, Brat.”

In my head, I was already planning out what I’d say when I saw my Mystery Man the following day as I galloped down the stairs and out the lobby doors. I felt a little giddy - which was a word you really don’t understand until it happens to you, but which I now totally GOT, because I felt giddy as a fucking school girl and that was really pathetic, I know, but it was how I felt so deal with it, okay - and as a result I wasn’t really paying any attention to anything around me as I trotted across Liberty Avenue on the way to my usual bus stop. No wonder, then, that I was caught off guard when I felt a pair of arms wrapping themselves around my waist from behind and moist words whispering in my ear.

“Caught Ya!”

I spun around, fighting against the tight grip that held onto me as I turned, only to find that my captor was none other than The Feckless Fiddler himself - Ethan Gold.

“What are you doing here, Ethan?” I demanded, probably sounding angrier than I should have, but I hated to be snuck up on like that.

“I was on my way to Heinz Hall - I’ve got another performance this evening - and I saw you coming out of that building across the street,” he explained, finally letting go of me but not till I literally peeled his hands off my body. “At first I thought I must be mistaken because your text made it sound like you couldn’t get out of bed due to your concussion. But it really IS you, isn’t it? Are you feeling better?”

“Uh . . . Um, a little,” I hedged, totally kicking myself mentally because I knew I was caught. “I slept more than twelve hours last night and I think it helped because I finally felt good enough to get up this afternoon.” Well, it was mostly true, right?

“That’s great news. If you’re feeling better, I can still get you a ticket to tonight’s performance. I really missed having you there last night.”

“I don’t think I’m feeling THAT good, Ethan,” I quickly answered, thinking up the best lie I could on the spot. “I only came out to feed a friend’s cat, actually. And now that I’ve accomplished that, I’m heading straight home. I’m still not supposed to be doing too much - doctor’s orders, you know.”

“That’s too bad,” Ethan’s face fell so fast it was comical, but I just couldn’t be bothered to feel sorry for him.

“Yeah, sorry. Well, I have to go or I’ll miss my bus,” I declared, trying to edge away from him.

“At least let me walk you to your bus stop. In case you get dizzy or something,” Ethan insisted, insinuating his arm through mine with a proprietary air. “Come on. I’ll make sure you get to the bus safely. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, you know.”

And that’s how I ended up getting ‘helped’ to my bus by my stalker, when what I really wanted to do was get rid of him already so I could go back to the happy place that I’d been in when I left my Harry Egbert just a few minutes earlier. Annoying, egotistical fiddlers are the WORST, aren’t they? At least I didn’t have to go to his concert that evening. It made me even more thankful to my Mystery Man for the concussion. I was so grateful, in fact, that I couldn’t help looking back at the building as I was being led away, thinking to send some ‘thank you’ vibes to my savior. So it wasn’t a surprise when I saw a familiar, bearded face watching out of the third-floor window on the western point of the triangle.

Chapter 7 - A Woman Scorned.

I had a very hard time sitting through all my classes the next day. I had enlisted Daphne’s help to drive me and my canvas to school before she had to head off to work - it had been almost too large for the back of her car, but thankfully she drove one of those Hybrid-SUV type things that seemed to be bigger on the inside than they were on the outside, and we managed to wedge it in on the diagonal without damage - but after I’d turned that in to my Art & Architecture professor, I hadn’t had anything else I needed to do for several hours. I tried to study for one of my upcoming exams, but I found it difficult to concentrate. So, instead of just going through the motions on my schoolwork, I pulled out the file of old building records that my Mystery Man had given me and started to leaf through that.

For the most part it was pretty dry stuff. There were old invoices detailing expenditures for building maintenance, receipts for rents paid by long-lost tenants, and some odds and ends that I found even less relevant. It looked like old Donal - or maybe his predecessor, whoever it was who’d compiled these records - had been ridiculously thorough in keeping pretty much every shred of paperwork ever generated about the building, as evidenced by the dates on the bills, some of which went back to 1886. I got a bit of a thrill as I leafed through all this ephemera - it made me feel like I was somehow delving into the lives of these people who’d lived so long ago. It didn’t matter that the subject matter of the papers was tedious, even the boring payment receipts seemed to draw me into that forgotten world. The smell of the old, wrinkled paper was weirdly addictive, and I found myself sniffing it as I leafed through the mountain of paperwork spread out around me.

But, even while I was indulging my more romantic side by wading through all those old records, I was repeatedly interrupted by the nagging pull of modernity. Now, don’t get me wrong - I LOVE my technology. Most of the time I can’t bear to be without my phone. I have to have it on me at all times; if it’s not in my hand it’s in my pocket or lying next to me on whatever piece of furniture is closest. The one day it accidentally fell out of my jacket pocket when Daph was giving me a lift to school was, like, the longest day of my life. I felt so lost. I couldn’t even log into my regular apps on the school computers because I needed my phone for the two-factor authorization, so I just wandered around all day being grumpy and lashing out at anyone who tried to cheer me up. But just then, though, I really didn’t want to be bothered by the real world. I WANTED to revel in the past. To pretend for a short while that I was part of the city’s Victorian era. To imagine away all the hustle and bustle and stress of the present day. So I couldn’t help but groan every time my cell phone beeped or buzzed that morning. And it was even more annoying because I knew without even looking that all the messages, texts and calls were most likely from my personal stalker, Ethan. How obvious do I have to be to get my point across - I’m NOT interested, Buddy. Back off already.

Anyway, I eventually gave up and turned my phone off altogether in order to get some peace and quiet. I seriously thought about outright blocking Ethan’s number, but that would probably only embolden him to come track me down in person. This was starting to get ridiculous though. Maybe Daphne and I needed to brainstorm an effective Ethan Resistance Force Plan or something. Ghosting him obviously wasn’t working. Daphne would probably just order me to grow a pair already and tell him off, but . . . well, it might actually come to that if he kept up with this crap. But whatever.

So I immersed myself in the past and ignored both Ethan and my school work for most of the morning, only popping back into the present to go to my classes when needed. As soon as I was done with school, however, I was more than ready to be out of there. I quickly hopped on a bus and made my way back to the Triangle Building so that Egbert and I could finish going through the files together. So far nothing out of the ordinary had jumped out at me, but there was still lots left to look through and I was looking forward to having my man around to help me with the looking.

After stopping off at Crazy Mocha and grabbing my usual mocha along with a blueberry muffin - because lunch had been, like, hours earlier and I was bordering on hangry - I decided I’d try my man on something a little different today. I mean, he hadn’t even touched any of the lattes I’d brought him, so I figured I needed to get a little more creative. Rather than trying just another flavor of latte, though, I opted for a nice, smooth, flat white espresso. I figured what the hell, right? I was bound to wear him down eventually.

After talking to Daphne, The Psychology Maven, about it, Harry Egbert’s rejection of my coffee offerings made a lot more sense - she’d posited that my man was probably extremely germophobic, which explained the compulsive hand washing thing. This apparently went along with the OCD. Having someone else make a drink for him, especially if that drink was prepared out of his sight, was probably just too much for him to deal with. Daph recommended that I not give up, though. She said I should keep on bringing coffee drinks with me just as I had been, so as not to treat him any differently now that I knew what was up. According to Daph, the mere fact Egbert kept showing interest in the drinks, sniffing at them and even picking up the cup the way he had the day before, indicated that he was trying to get past his issues. And if he wasn’t giving up trying, neither was I.

So, there I was with my mocha in one hand and Egbert's flat white in the other (the shop was out of paperboard drink caddies that day, wouldn’t you know), with my muffin balancing precariously on top of my cup and Bill’s creamer on top of Egbert’s cup. I was hoping that, like the day before, I would be met halfway down the stairs by my big hairy Mystery Man, otherwise my juggling act was going to become ridiculous, but those hopes were quickly dashed when nobody came to let me in after I knocked at the door with my foot for a good minute and a half. With a sigh, I set all my goodies down on the sidewalk so I could do my burglar impression with the door. At least the cat came down to greet me as soon as I entered the lobby. I opened Bill’s creamer but didn’t even wait to see if he’d find it as I raced to the stairs and headed up as quickly as I could with two scorching drinks in my hand.

I made it up the five flights of stairs with only slightly singed fingers and knocked on the door to Egbert’s rooms, feeling myself bouncing from side to side as I eagerly waited for the door to open. It took a while, a lot longer than it usually did, surprisingly, and for a brief moment I panicked that something might have happened to him. But just as I was picturing what I’d do if some awful accident had befallen my man - because my mind was already going there despite the fact that it was a bit nuts to think Egbert would have somehow gotten himself into trouble in the safety of his own home, and, yeah, I’ve seen way too many bad horror movies, and I also have a mother who would constantly warn me about the dangers of everyday household objects, so I’m constitutionally and genetically inclined to always expect the worst, and that’s just my thing, you know, so deal with it, okay - the door was answered, and there he was in all of his mysteriously hairy glory.

“Hey,” I beamed, waving the coffee vaguely towards his nose - or as near as he’d allow me. “I didn’t bring you anything fancy this time, just a flat white, since it seems maybe you aren’t a flavored syrup kinda guy. What do you say?”

But he didn’t say anything, actually, and just stood there glaring at me, which was not the welcome I’d expected.

Suddenly the air felt thick, and I wondered what I had done to fuck up so badly. Had I accidentally touched him? Had I said something offensive? I was desperately running back over my greeting in my mind, wondering what I could have said or done, but I couldn’t think of anything that would cause him to react the way he was. What the actual fuck?

“You okay?” I asked nervously.

He didn’t answer. Instead he just turned around and walked away, leaving me standing in the doorway. I followed him inside and placed our drinks on the table. He did the whole, back turned to me while he ignored my presence thing again, and I felt like we’d lost significant ground. It did not escape my attention that he hadn’t tried the hair combing thing today either. In fact, he looked even more bedraggled than usual. This was NOT a good sign.

“Have I . . . Have I done something to upset you?” I asked, having no idea what I could have done between last night and now, but clearly something wasn’t right.

Egbert cleared his throat a good four or five times, and I watched in silence as he painstakingly straightened everything on the counter in front of him, moving things just millimeters until he felt comfortable with what he’d done.

“I brought the folder back with me. I thought maybe we could go through it together? I looked through it a bit today between classes but I haven’t reviewed everything properly.” I took out the file and put it on the table next to the waiting drinks, sitting down in my usual place on the sofa. “You wanna come join me over here, big guy?”

“I saw you at the bus stop,” was his nonsensical response.

“What?”

“At the bus stop,” he maintained cryptically.

“Huh?”

“The bus stop,” he repeated, getting even more agitated and running his hands through his hair, but all without turning to look at me still. “. . . that guy . . .” he added, rearranging the storage jars, coffee cups and the spare notepad sitting on the spotless tile surface yet again.

What was he talking about? What guy? And why would seeing me at the bus stop with some guy cause my Egbert to go off the deep end into the big, scary OCD pool of worry where he seemed to be drowning? It took me a good three or four minutes to figure it out, to be honest, because whatever he seemed to be referring to was something that hadn’t even made a blip in my own personal radar.

“Curls,” Egbert blurted out, pulling at his own, slightly wiry hair. “The one with the curly hair . . .”

It was only after Egbert started gesturing wildly at his own hair that I twigged as to what the hell he was talking about. “Ohhhhhh! You mean Ethan? The guy I ran into yesterday as I was leaving here?”

Egbert shrugged his shoulders and mumbled quietly. “How would I know what the little twerp was named?”

The resentment in Egbert’s tone still had me a little confused but at least I thought I understood who he meant now. He’d obviously been watching me as I left the evening before and seen me run into the ever-annoying Ethan. But why that would agitate my personal hermit so much, was still a little unclear.

“You didn’t say you had a boyfriend,” Egbert added, sounding so hurt and accusatory. “I should have known . . .”

“. . . Boyfriend? Ethan? Oh, fuck no! No, no, no, no, no,” I was almost as offended by the suggestion that I would have anything to do with Ethan as my man seemed to be. “Urgh! Definitely, not. He’s just this annoying guy who won’t leave me alone, actually. I made the mistake of hooking up with him once, like, a thousand years ago, and now he won’t go away. He’s not even my type.”

“He seemed to think he was your type,” Egbert insisted, still not turning around to look at me. “Or do you just let anyone grope you and kiss you . . .”

That got me laughing, because it sooooo wasn’t how I’d seen that brief interchange. “Well, I’m always up for a good groping, you know . . .” I started to tease my man, relenting only when I saw the way my words caused his shoulders to tense up. “I’m just kidding, Eggy. Seriously. I don’t have ANY interest in Ethan. He was just a single pringle, if you know what I mean.”

“So he’s not your boyfriend?”

I walked over to the counter that Egbert was still busy reorganizing and stood next to him, shoulder to shoulder, resting my elbows on the edge of the countertop, close enough that we were almost, but not quite, touching. “Nope. He’s definitely not my boyfriend,” I assured him, and then without even thinking about it, I bumped his shoulder with mine.

My taller friend tensed up the instant our bodies touched, and for a moment I thought I’d fucked things up. Bumping shoulders like that was something Daph and I do all the time, so I hadn’t even really thought about it. But, after a moment, I heard him sigh and I could feel his body relax next to mine. That’s when the fidgeting he’d been doing up till then finally ceased altogether.

“I thought . . .” he started, only to have his words falter. But then it was like he got a second wind of courage and finished his thought. “I thought you might forget to come today after seeing you with that guy. I couldn’t hear what he was saying but I saw him watching as you walked out of the building and he looked unhappy. Like he disapproved of you coming here, or some shit. So, I . . . I thought maybe he was your boyfriend and he might tell you not to come back today,” he confessed.

“Fuck that. Even if Ethan WAS my boyfriend - which he most certainly is NOT and never will be - I would never let him or anyone else tell me what to do or who to be friends with,” I rushed to reassure my poor, insecure Eggy. “I WANTED to come here today, Egbert. I couldn’t wait to get done with classes so I could come here and go through these records with you. Trust me, this building and its mysteries are far more interesting than anything else I’ve got on my schedule, so it’s not like it’s a hardship for me to come by or anything. Got it?”

It took my reclusive friend a second or two to internalize my words. Watching his face as he listened to what I was saying and then slowly came to accept that I was being truthful, was kind of revealing. This was a man who didn’t trust easily. It wasn’t just the OCD stuff, either. He didn’t trust anything; germs, people, or even words. I had no idea what was in his past that had caused him to be this way, but the result was that my man was very careful with confidences. And to see him finally accepting me and that I might WANT to spend time with him, something that I could tell he felt was definitely not a given, made me even more certain that I wanted to be right there, where I was at. If ever there was someone who needed a friend, it was my Eggy. He just took a little while to grow on you, you know? But once you got past that prickly exterior . . . well, I still wasn’t one hundred percent sure what I would find underneath all that, but I was intrigued enough to at least want to find out.

“Got it,” he echoed, getting so bold as to lean over and shoulder bump me back. “So, what did you find in there so far?”

“Well, I found that, back in 1892 it cost only $5 to have the roof patched and a whopping $55 to get new gas lamp fittings installed on the exterior of the building,” I answered him with a smile as I returned to the couch and undid the ties holding the binder of papers closed. “But other than that, not much. What I really wanted to find was something that would tell us who the mysterious ‘B’ was from that letter we found the other day.”

I started to rifle through the papers, speeding past the stuff I’d already scanned, and only slowing when I reached some new stuff. A little while later, Egbert joined me on the sofa, looking over my shoulder as I turned pages. He took out one of his wet wipes and applied it to the outside of the flat white cup I’d brought him, holding up the steamy goodness so he could inhale the rich coffee aroma. I smiled encouragingly at him but he still didn’t do anything more than sniff at the cup. My own mocha was long gone but I hadn’t yet finished stuffing my face with the blueberry muffin I’d purchased for my snack, and I was still starving, so I didn’t slow down even though I could see it was hard for him to be around me while I ate. He did his best to try and stop himself from moving away, even while I saw him cringe at every crumb that tumbled from my lips. Okay, so maybe I hadn’t thought through the muffin part of this visit all that well, huh?

“Sorry,” I mumbled once I’d finished my last mouthful. “I skipped breakfast this morning cuz I overslept and was almost late turning in my project and lunch didn’t quite fill the void,” I prattled on, hoping that would explain why I’d demolished my baked good in three huge bites.

He said nothing, but smiled softly as he settled more comfortably onto the seat cushion next to mine - still careful enough to ensure there was a reasonable distance between us - and resolutely ignored the crumbs I’d dropped on his carpet with a good grace.

Egbert sat playing with the hairs of his beard for a few minutes after that, studying me quietly. “You eat like you talk,” he suddenly blurted out of nowhere.

What did that even mean? “Huh?” I asked, feeling my nose scrunch up in confusion.

“I just mean . . . you’re very . . . enthusiastic, is all,” he explained, sounding shyly sincere, and then breaking into hesitant laughter over his observation.

I laughed along with him because what he’d said was so fricken true and something my close friends had always teased me about. Hell, Daphne still says I’m bouncier than Tigger on steroids. “I guess I’m easily excited,” I grinned happily.

It felt SO good to be like this with him, almost teasing each other, you know? It felt right. And did I mention that, when he smiled, his eyes glittered a brighter shade of green? It was very distracting, actually, and I almost forgot the file of paper I had been leafing through as the pretence for my visit, until one of the pages fell out of my hands and lazily drifted down to land on the floor under the table and brought me back to reality. I picked up the errant scrap of paper and added it to the others I’d already pulled out of the file, which was lying open on the coffee table in front of us. Then I focused my attention on my work and started to sort things into piles so as to try and make sense of it all.

“I only very briefly went through some of these, this morning.” I explained. “So far it's all been pretty boring, but we still have about a bazillion pages to look through. Maybe we’ll find something other than a receipt,” I laughed. “You wanna go through these?” I asked, holding out a bunch of papers towards him, then watching as his eyes darted from my hand back up to my face.

“I, uh,” Egbert cleared his throat again - a habit I’d come to recognize was something he did when he felt uncomfortable or put on the spot. “It’s not that I don’t want to . . .” Once again his eyes met mine and I could tell he was struggling to say what it was that he needed to say. “I want to. I really want to.” He started frantically rubbing his palms up and down his legs. “It’s just . . .”

“I know,” I said, hoping my acknowledgment would give him the courage he needed to finish what he was saying.

He nodded. “I have this thing . . . Obsessive Compulsive Disorder . . .”

“I thought so,” I smiled as I said it, so he’d know I was okay with what he’d just revealed, and from the gigantic sigh he breathed it was obvious it was a huge weight lifted from his shoulders. “My roommate, Daphne, is studying to be a doctor, so she knows all about this stuff and when I asked her about it, she explained a little about what it means. I didn’t realize OCD was such a common thing until she told me about it, though.”

“A doctor, huh? Well, at least she didn’t just come right out and tell you that I was crazy. It wouldn’t be the first time someone said that to me,”

I shook my head. “Who’s the asshole that would say something like that to you?”

“My grandfather . . .” Mystery Man answered with a bite of contempt for the man he referenced. “He used to give me shit about how ‘finicky’ I was. Called me a ‘sissy boy’ even. Little did he know that wasn’t the only reason for calling me a sissy.” He chuckled quietly to himself over whatever memory he was looking at inside his head and then gave me a very flirty sideways glance to prove his point.

“Personally, I LOVE sissy boys. Of course, I’m the biggest sissy boy of all time, so I’m biased,” I grinned back at him. “Messy but sissy.”

My Eggy seemed reassured by the fact that I wasn’t making a big deal out of the OCD thing and he seemed to relax even more. I liked that. Underneath that twitchy exterior, I thought I could see glimpses of someone who was smart, honest, and kind - someone that I would love to get to know better. I liked the sparks of flirtiness that sometimes made it through his more standoffish exterior. And, in a strange way, I found him to be incredibly brave, which is probably an odd thing to say about somebody who was afraid of germs and touching and probably hadn’t been outside this building in a decade, but the way he was facing up to that reality with me, almost a stranger, was pretty fucking brave, if you asked me. It was like there was this entirely different person inside him that was just dying to get out - a person that was incredibly attractive in so many ways - and if he could only get past the obstacle of his phobias, then he could let that person shine. So, of course, a die-hard romantic like me wouldn’t be able to resist the pull of a man like that. It was like I simply HAD to find the answer, the solution, the way to draw him out so I could finally see the real man he was hiding behind that bushy beard and forbidding exterior. I couldn’t help myself. I was just a total sucker for that kind of draw, you know. And fuck you if you think I’m pathetic for actually being all empathic and caring, because I don’t plan to change any time soon.

“So, what have you got there?” Eggy asked, pointing with his untasted cup of coffee to the piles I was organizing, redirecting my attention back to my work, thankfully, before all my grinning and romanticizing got totally out of hand.

“I was just trying to organize things a little,” I explained. “I’m putting maintenance and repair receipts over here, rental receipts here, and other stuff in this pile. And, within each pile, I’ll organize them into date order with the oldest stuff on the bottom . . .”

So we spent about the next twenty minutes or so pulling all the documents out of the file and organizing them. Eggy suggested a couple of sub-piles to make things a little clearer, which I went along with. We didn’t come across anything earth shattering, though, until we’d pulled pretty much everything out of the leather binder. Then, just before I was ready to toss the empty folio aside, I noticed that there was an extra little pocket in the back cover. It didn’t look like there was anything in there, but just to be sure, I poked my hand inside and, low and behold, I found an old, timeworn, battered-looking envelope hiding back there.

“What have we here?” I pondered as I turned the envelope over in my hands and noted the name ‘Jay’ written on the face in an elegant cursive script.

Eggy was already leaning towards me, squinting a little as he tried to see better, when I pulled out the flap from where it had been tucked inside and upended the whole thing. Two things fell out out of the envelope: a sheet of rose-colored note paper and a thin, gold band. I managed to stop the ring before it rolled off the table, picking it up so I could examine it more closely. It was a beautiful band, etched with a complex hatchwork pattern around the outside, turning the relatively simple gold band into a real work of art. On the inner surface of the ring there was some engraving in letters so small I could barely read it: ‘J & A ❤ 1878’.

“Okay, so now we have a mysterious ‘B’ along with an equally mysterious ‘J’ and an ‘A’ to boot. Before we’re done we might have the whole alphabet,” my man joked.

I was already too busy reading the note that had come along with the ring, though, to respond. And boy-howdy, what a note it was, too. I certainly was not ready for what I found there.

“Shit! Read this,” I laid the piece of stationary down on the table so that Eggy could read what I’d just found without him having to touch anything.

‘My Once Dear Jay,

I simply can not bear this heart-wrenching shame and I refuse to live the lie you have made out of our sacred wedding vows. However, since I pledged, ‘Till Death Do Us Part’, and I refuse to be forsworn, as you have already been since you violated our marriage bed, that leaves us only one remaining option. And, because your cowardice knows no bounds, I will, of necessity, have to be the brave one for the both of us. May my death provide you with whatever solace is still available to you as you pursue the relentless ruination of your soul.

Yours in Scorn and Betrayal,

Alma’

“Wow! I mean . . . wow! Talk about vindictive. I wonder what the hell this Jay guy did to piss off his wife to the point she’d threaten to kill herself and then send him this note to rub it in that it was all his fault.” I leaned back against the sofa cushions and ran my fingers through my hair, feeling just that unsettled by the letter I’d just read.

“‘The relentless ruination of your soul . . . Yours in Scorn and Betrayal’,” my Mystery Man read the last lines aloud, seeming to be just as bowled over by the letter as I was. “If you ask me, this Alma sounds like a bit of a bitch. Maybe Jay was glad to be rid of her? I know I would be after reading something like that.”

“But what if he deserved it? Maybe he was an abusive prick or something? And it does sound like he was sleeping around on her - ‘violated our marriage bed’ sounds pretty serious, doesn’t it? People took that kinda thing pretty seriously back then, right? I mean, far be it from me to judge and all, but . . .”

“No matter what led them to this extreme, it takes two to make an unhappy marriage, Brat,” my man concluded, rather sagely, in my honest opinion.

Chapter 8 - One Evening.

So, while I was still reeling from reading that apparent suicide note we’d found - which was, like, wow, that’s really intense, what do you say or do after that, huh? - I remembered that I’d seen the name ‘Jay’ somewhere before. I turned back to my piles of receipts and rifled through them till I got to the oldest levels. I almost gave up hope before I finally found the ones I had been looking for at the bottom of the pile of rental receipts.

“Aha! That’s what I thought. Lookie here - I think we have our ‘J’!” I pulled a couple of the scraps of paper out so my own Mystery Man could see and hopefully help me solve this new mystery.

The document I’d located was pretty unremarkable on its face. It was just one of the many rent receipts that had been saved in that file. It showed that the firm of ‘James M’Millin & Sons’, a job and book printing business, had pre-paid their rent for the ground floor retail space for six months beginning in May of 1887. The cost of such extravagance was a whopping $75. And, while most of the other receipts that I had looked at covering that time period had been signed by ‘A. Peebles’, this one showed the name of ‘J.H. Frick’.

“I think we’ve got him!” I crowed happily. “So, it’s pretty clear, I think, that the J & A on the ring are ‘Jay’ and ‘Alma’ from the letter, right? And the fact that this letter was kept along with all these other records would indicate that our ‘Jay’ must have had some connection to the building, wouldn’t you say? So, can we reasonably conclude that Alma’s ‘Jay’ is the same as our ‘J.H. Frick’ here?”

“Jay Frick . . . that sounds familiar,” my man replied, apparently just as caught up in the mystery as I was by that point.

Egbert got up from the sofa and wandered out of the room without saying anything more. I was fucking curious, so of course I followed him. We ended up down the hall in his grandfather’s beautiful old office, where Eggy went straight to one of the large floor-to-ceiling bookcases and pulled out a slightly tattered, leather bound book with the impressive title of ‘A Short History of Pittsburgh’ on it’s spine.

“The Frick family was huge in Pittsburgh back in the day. Henry Clay Frick controlled the production of almost all the coke in the region and, since you couldn’t make steel without coke, he also played a major role in all the local steel production,” Eggy explained as he paged through the book.

I was surprised by the fact that he didn’t seem at all reluctant to touch the book, whereas he’d been unable to touch any of the papers that I’d tried to hand him. I would have to ask Daphne about that later, because it seemed significant. Maybe, though, it was because he kept all the books in this office so clean and dust free that he knew he didn’t have to worry about them? Or maybe it was that he was just as caught up in the enigma of our ancient lovers’ identities as I was and he’d simply forgotten about the risk of any germs on the book? Who knew. But whatever the reason, he obviously knew what he was looking for so I just let him do it, only asking questions as they came to me but otherwise letting him take over the research efforts for the time being.

And the first question that came to my mind was, “why did you need Coke to make steel? Did the workers drink, like, gallons of it while they were making steel beams or something? I bet it WAS super hot in those old factories, so I guess it makes sense. But why didn’t they just switch to drinking water?”

My Egbert broke out laughing at my off the wall question, almost dropping his book, he apparently found me so hilarious. “You’re cute, but so misinformed,” he declared, confusing me for a minute because I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be offended at being called misinformed, or flattered that he thought I was cute, so I said nothing and just pouted. “I was referring to coke with a small ‘c’, not Coke with a big ‘C’ as in Coca-cola,” he explained further. “Coke was the fuel source they used to use to make steel. It’s made by baking regular coal in these huge closed ovens in order to get rid of all the impurities. Coke burns hotter and longer than coal, and was the primary fuel used in the blast furnaces they used to smelt the iron for steel back in the day. It’s nasty stuff though, with horrible environmental effects, and one of the primary reasons that Pittsburgh used to be such a hole. The fumes from the coke plants poisoned all the vegetation for miles around them and it’s what caused the air quality in the city to be so atrocious for most of the city’s history.”

He held out his book to me, opened to a picture of what looked like an old factory at night, as an example. “Is that an old coke factory? Did they run all night?” I asked.

Again he laughed at me. “That’s one of the main U.S. Steel factories in Pittsburgh back in the early 1900s. And the picture was taken in broad daylight, or at least what passed for daylight around here at the height of the steel industry. That’s how horrible and toxic the air quality was here in Pittsburgh. I can’t even begin to imagine how dirty it was.”

I could see him shudder as he took the book back and continued to look through the pages.

“Okay. Here it is. I thought I remembered that name,” Egbert offered me the book, opened to the correct page when he’d finally located what he’d been looking for. “See. Jay Hubert Frick was the youngest brother of Henry Clay Frick.”

I looked at the book and saw that he was spot on. The pages he’d turned to gave a brief biography of the famous Mr. Frick, listing a bit of the man’s genealogy, including the names of his parents, spouse, cousins, children and siblings. And there on the page was our missing Jay H. Frick. Jay was one of three children born to John W. Frick and Elizabeth Overholt Frick, the other two being Henry, the oldest, and a daughter named, Chastity. The book even listed Jay’s wife, Alma, and the date of their marriage in December 1878. The rest of the passage went on to list some of the many illustrious accomplishments of Henry Clay Frick, and his cousins who had helped him get his start in the coke business, as well as the prominent careers of two of Henry’s children, one of whom, Childs Frick, became a famous paleontologist, and another, Helen Clay Frick, ended up a famous art collector and philanthropist. Oddly enough, there was nothing further listed for our man, Jay, other than his marriage to Alma. Apparently Jay hadn’t done anything worth writing about. But at least that answered the question about whether or not we had the correct J.H. Frick.

“Sweet. So, this Jay Frick was famous or something and, based on the fact that he was signing rent receipts for our building, it seems he might have been a business partner of Peebles or something,” I summed up what we’d learned.

“That makes sense,” Egbert agreed with me. “A large part of Henry Frick’s business empire in the 1800s came from him being one of the major landowners in the city. It wouldn’t be unusual for his brother to want to get in on the game too. Peebles was mostly just a lowly architect, so he probably wouldn’t have had the capital to build this place without getting an influx of cash from some other source - and a Frick would definitely have cash to burn around about the time this place was built.”

“So, we’ve found our ‘J’ and our ‘A’. Now we just need to figure out who the ‘B’ was that Peebles was writing to in that other letter,” I speculated aloud. “I wonder if they’re connected? Shit, I love a mystery like this.”

Egbert continued flicking through the book in his hands. “Well, I can assure you that the mystery ‘B’ they’re talking about isn’t me. I may look like I was born in the 1800s, but I promise you I wasn’t.”

My head shot up. Was he giving me some sort of hint as to what his real name was? I looked over at him and I don’t think he’d noticed what he’d said. I studied his face as best I could with that bushy-ass beard covering most of it and tried to guess what his name could be. Benjamin? No, he didn’t seem like a Ben. Something elegant like Byron? Definitely not anything trendy like Braden or Blair or Brock, though. Hell, what else was there? Bob? No . . . well, maybe he could pass as a Bob. Hmm, how about Barry? Nah! I was going to go crazy thinking up all of these names, though. I think I’ll stick with Egbert until he’s ready to tell me more.

Whoops, Eggy caught me staring at him. “What?” He asked nervously. “Do I have something on my face?”

I couldn’t help but smile, this guy was too stinking cute. “No, nothing like that. I was just trying to work out what your name is.”

“And you think you’ll figure it out just by staring at me?” He smirked.

“So, is this going to end up being like that fairy tale? I have to guess your name or you take my first born child or something? Can I jump straight to ‘Rumplestiltskin’ and just skip all the suspense?” I teased him, enjoying the shy smile I got in return.

“Sorry, Brat, but you’re not even close. Keep guessing.”

“You’re just a big tease, aren’t you?” I accused him. “No matter. I’ll just keep calling you Egbert till you get so annoyed that you can’t take it anymore and you have to tell me your real name or go crazy.”

“Already been there and done that, so your threat to drive me crazy isn’t going to work, little boy,” he replied with an even flirtier grin than before - and can I just say that I really like this flirty version of my Mystery Man?

“Well, maybe your name is in here along with the other ‘B’?” I suggested as I went back to scanning through the history book listing the names of all the prominent founding families of Pittsburgh.

“I seriously doubt that. Not unless the book includes a list of the relatives of poor Micks who barely had a nickel to their names when they arrived in town. My grandfather, Donal, wasn’t just dirt poor when he got to Pittsburgh, he actually owed the dirt money, I think. When he was a kid, he used to walk alongside the railroad tracks with a bucket, picking up the lumps of coal that dropped off the trains going to the coke plants and then sold what he found back to the plant owners for a few pennies a bucket. That’s how he fed himself. If he hadn’t knocked up my grandmother and then forced her parents to let him marry her, he would have probably died penniless.”

“This is the grandfather that used to own this building?” I asked, just to clarify.

“Yep. Good old Donny boy. Friend to every bar keep in Pittsburgh back in the day,” Eggy answered, sounding bitter even as he praised his grandfather. “Little did they know that the Don everybody claimed to love in public was a nasty mean drunk to his family behind closed doors, huh? Or maybe they did know and just didn’t care? Either way, I doubt the bastard would have ended up in this list of powerful, upstanding people. And, just in case you’re wondering, I’m not in there either.” My man reached over and, with the tip of one finger, flipped the cover of the book closed.

I obstinately opened the book back up again. “Yeah, well, I’m not giving up. You might not be in here, but maybe Peebles’ ‘B’ is. And maybe there’s some relationship to the unhappy Jay and Alma. You never know. B might be the other woman that Jay shared his bed with.”

“Maybe. But I’d think you’d have better luck identifying her by going through that binder full of documents than in here,” my man wisely suggested.

“Good point, Eggy!” I declared, getting back to my feet and heading for the door of the office. “So, you going to help me go through all those damn rent receipts or what?”

“You’re on your own there, Brat,” he warned, although I noticed that he seemed happy to follow me back to his rooms at the other end of the hallway.

“Fine. You can just supervise. But I’m GOING to find our lost ‘B’. Somehow. Just watch.”

“Knock yourself out,” my man chuckled at me as I sank down onto the sofa once more and started examining the pile of documents more closely, looking for any ‘B’ names that might arise.

“Morning, Sir. I’ve got your delivery here. Shall I put it on the counter as usual?”

The booming words startled me out of the lovely dream I was having of me and Eggy dancing in the courtyard of the old Phipps Conservatory. We were wearing old fashioned suits and I was carrying a wedding bouquet. He was sporting Alma’s wedding band. And, for some unknown reason, the band was all dressed in Lederhosen but the music they were playing sounded a lot like Cardi B’s ‘Best Life’. Okay, I admit that my dreams have never made much sense, so sue me. I can’t help where my crazy subconscious goes. And I may be the only gay white boy who likes Cardi B, but to each his own, right?

Anyway, that’s probably why the transition from my fantasy dreamscape to the present reality seemed so harsh. Because when I woke up I wasn’t in a beautifully manicured arboretum; I was lying on a lumpy old sofa with a sore back and drool drying on my cheek and the pillow under my head. I blinked up at the light fixture over my head as I tried to remember where I was. This was definitely NOT my comfortable queen-sized bed in my own messy but familiar apartment. So where the fuck was I? Did I get wasted drunk and have sex with some rando again? I hate when that happens. It’s always so embarrassing when you wake up and can’t remember the guy’s name, let alone the lukewarm sex you’d had the night before. And then you have to try to remember where you left your car or, if you didn’t drive, figure out how the fuck you’re gonna get home when you don’t even know where you are to start with. I can personally confirm that public transportation on a hangover is less than fun, and if you vomit on the bus, the driver will get really pissed off at you. Plus, even if you’re not hungover, the walk of shame - shuffling down the street in the morning when you’re still wearing the assless chaps and see-through shirt you thought were SUCH a good idea the night before - is never fun. Trust me on that. NEVER a good idea!

“Thanks, Chad. Yeah, just put it all over there and I’ll take care of it later,” replied a smooth baritone voice that made ripples of yum vibrate through my midsection.

THAT voice I at least recognized. It was my Eggy. And once I’d heard his voice, it all started to come back to me. I recalled where I was - on the sofa in the Mystery Man’s rooms on the top floor of the Triangle Building - and that, unfortunately, this time I wasn’t waking up after a night of crazy, wild, unbridled monkey sex. I was waking up after a night of research and poring through page after page of dusty old building receipts. Apparently the research had been so thrilling that I’d fallen asleep in the middle of it all and Egbert had let me stay over. Hmmm. Not sure what that meant, but I’d think on it later. For the moment, the first order of business was finding a toilet so I could take a piss; all that tea Egbert had made for us while I was going through the building records the night before was turning out to be a little much for my bladder.

I got up off the sofa and hobbled over as gracefully as I could to where my Mystery Man was standing, despite feeling as though I was mere seconds from pissing my pants. I could feel my bladder pressing painfully against my abdomen and I knew if I didn’t get to a bathroom soon I was going to embarrass myself. By the time I’d reached the other side of the room, the guy bringing up what I could now see were Egbert’s groceries, had gone. I wanted to stand there and watch as he wiped down and organized his groceries into categories - a fascinating and elaborate endeavor - but I currently had more pressing matters to attend to.

“Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” I asked, bouncing from one foot to the other as a way to distract myself from the water Eggy had started to pour into the coffee machine.

He jumped at the sound of my voice and quickly turned around to face me. The asshole made no effort to hide the smirk on his face as he watched me squirm.

“Please?” I heard myself ask.

I watched as he chewed his lip anxiously, clearly having some sort of intense internal argument with himself. He couldn’t say no, he knew that - it was obvious how desperate I was - but he still hesitated. What the hell? How was my asking to use the toilet a problem here?

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he finally conceded to my request. “It’s over there.” He pointed to a door in the far corner of the room. “Just . . .”

“What?”

He shrugged and shook his head. “Never mind.”

I wanted to wait around and see what it was he was trying to say, but I couldn’t risk it. I legged it into the bathroom and could hear him laughing at me as the door slammed behind my ass. Then I was finally standing above the toilet bowl as my morning stream arched downward, sighing happily as I felt the pressure easing. That morning piss was always the best, wasn’t it? I mean, there’s just nothing else to compare it to. Okay, so maybe I was getting a little overly sentimental about a bodily function, but I really did have to go pretty fucking badly and I am allowed to enjoy the fact that I didn’t piss myself in front of my Eggy, right? There’s a reason it’s called, ‘relieving yourself’.

As I exited the bathroom I could see my man pacing the length of the living area, he was practically wearing out the wooden floors with the way he was going at it. It was only then that I thought about what I’d just done and how that was probably fucking with his mental state.

“I’m sorry . . .” I apologized. “I really needed to . . . you know.” I wasn’t sure if I could even say the word ‘piss’ without setting him off; I wasn’t quite accustomed to what sorts of things were triggers for him yet, but I had a feeling letting some stranger piss in your toilet was probably one of them. “Don’t worry, my mother was a fanatic about always reminding me not to splash - hell, one time she got so mad at me and my dad for making a mess that she threatened to institute a rule that everyone in the house had to sit down to piss at all times - so I’m always careful . . . and I washed my hands.”

The audible sigh of relief broke my heart a little. I couldn’t imagine living in that sort of fear over something, that to me, was so inconsequential, but to him was clearly a huge deal. It must be a bitch trying to get through even a normal day with all that fear hanging over your every move. All in all, though, I thought my man was handling his unexpected overnight guest pretty well, considering.

But, now that the issue of my personal hygiene was resolved, Mystery Man went back to putting away his grocery delivery.

“So this explains one mystery,” I declared, leaning back against the counter so I could have a good view of the proceedings. “I’d wondered how you were getting your supplies, since I’d never seen you go out. I’d never seen any deliveries either, but that must be because they all came at ass o’clock.”

“Not all of us are lazy-assed art students, who never get up till lunchtime, Sunshine,” he commented, as he took out one wet wipe after another, applying each to a different grocery item, and then setting all the cleaned products to one side.

“Sunshine?” I asked curiously.

“I was just teasing. You don’t seem like much of a morning person.” He commented.

“I’m not . . . but I don’t sleep till lunch,” I insisted, slightly defensive, but then reassessed and had to qualify my statement. “Well, at least not all the time. I mean, I DO have ten o’clock classes twice a week, so I’m up by at least nine on those days. And next semester, I think I have one class that meets at nine even, so I’ll be up at, like, dawn those days.”

It was good to know that I was a source of endless amusement to my host, who was still chuckling as he took up a stack of boxes of latex gloves - you know, like the kind doctors use - and wiped them down before storing them in a lower cupboard.

“I stand corrected. You’re not lazy. You’re just ‘morning-challenged’,” he maintained. “I, on the other hand, like to get most of the more mundane parts of my day over with early so I don’t have to interrupt my work later in the day.”

While he was speaking he had made his way through the preliminary sanitization of a case - seriously, he got an entire fucking CASE - of wet wipes, as well as about ten other types of cleaning solutions, sprays, soaps, and other sanitary supplies. The amount of actual food in his grocery delivery was relatively meager compared to the huge haul of all his cleaning paraphernalia. Again, I couldn’t imagine a life that would require that much cleaning shit. Of course, I was lucky if I remembered to scrub out the toilet once a month and I only cleaned the shower when it was so gritty that it grossed me out when I felt the grime on my toes, so I wasn’t one to talk. Daphne wasn’t much better, although she was a stickler for a clean kitchen, going on and on about bacteria if I left food out or shit like that. But for the rest of the apartment, she was mostly just as lax as I was. We didn’t even own a vacuum - we just borrowed the neighbor’s when it got too disgusting for either of us to ignore any more. My poor hermit probably wouldn’t be able to set foot in our apartment without a biohazard suit. Yeah, we wouldn’t tell him about that, though, because he was stressed out enough without knowing his guest was the foulest of foul fucking slobs. At least I was on top of my personal hygiene.

“So, I get the wet wipes and the cleaning stuff,” I commented as he moved on to the smaller pile of toiletries, “but why the carton of condoms, Eggy? Are you secretly sneaking out after dark and plowing your way through the city’s gay bars?”

“Yeah, right . . .” Egbert scoffed as he quickly removed the box of Trojans from my view, wiped the box down and then carried them into the bathroom so as to remove them from sight altogether.

Apparently he wasn’t going to answer my question about what he did with his supply of rubbers, though. Oh well, it really was a little intrusive of me to ask, but then again nobody ever accused me of being overly concerned with propriety . . . to my mother’s everlasting shame. By the time he came back I’d mentally chastised myself into a less nosy frame of mind and vowed not to embarrass him with more annoying questions.

Unfortunately my resolve not to be nosy lasted only about thirty seconds before I gave up on that impossible vow. “You don’t eat much, it seems. No wonder you’re so skinny. Bagels, bread, cold cuts, salad fixings . . . Where’s the real food?”

“That is real food,” he argued as he quickly retrieved the items I’d commented on and began putting them away in the various containers he had ready before depositing it all in the refrigerator.

“You can’t seriously live on bagels and sandwiches, can you?”

“You can if you don’t like to cook.”

I stopped myself only seconds before I made a total ass of myself by arguing with him. Personally, I’d die on a diet of only sandwiches and salads. I lived on pasta and pizza and take out Thai and . . . Well, I hadn’t actually met any kind of food that I didn’t like, except maybe the crap that passed for food with the Vegan crowd. And I loved to cook, when I wasn’t being too distracted by school or my art. I felt worse for my Eggy about the food thing than I did about the weird germ thing. You were really missing out on a huge slice of life if you limited yourself to this pitiful array of cold foods. Poor Egbert. I would definitely have to work on him and his eating issues.

But, to distract myself from making any more negative comments and totally putting my foot in my mouth, I decided to change the subject. “So, you mentioned that you do all this in the morning so it won’t interrupt your work? What do you do? I’m assuming you work from home since I never see you leave, so I’m guessing . . . Maybe one of those horribly rude customer service reps that never say anything useful when you call to complain about your cable going out? Or you could be the annoying guy doing cold calls to try and sell people new phone plans they don’t want. Or . . . Oh, I’ve got it! You’re the guy people call for phone sex - the one who always has that amazing, sultry, sexy voice and says the hottest things, but who you secretly suspect is clipping his toenails while he’s talking to you. You’re THAT guy, right?”

I loved that I could make my man outright giggle the way I had just then. I really don’t think my hermit laughs nearly enough. You can tell because all the crinkles around his mouth and eyes are sad crinkles, not happy laugh lines. And I KNOW I just met him a few days before, but for some reason I feel like I NEED to be the guy that makes him laugh. Weird, huh? Whatever.

“You’re giving me way too much credit, Brat,” he admitted as he stowed the last of the delivery and then wiped down the counters to ensure there were no errant germs left behind. “I’m only a mere technical writer.”

“What’s that?”

“I write all the boring user manuals for all the gadgets people buy. Like computers, phones, cameras, even cars. You know, like, how to insert the metal tang of the seat belt into the slot of the seat belt harness . . . shit that should be common sense to most people but that, for some reason, most of the morons in the world can’t figure out without detailed, step-by-step directions, complete with pictures. It’s boring as hell, I’m afraid, but I’m good at it and I make decent money. Plus, I get to work from home and all my assignments come by computer so I don’t have to deal with anyone in person,” he explained. “Mostly I just do it to stay busy. I inherited this building from my grandfather, along with a bit of money - enough to keep me going as long as I don’t live too extravagantly - so I’m not hurting or anything. But, since I don’t really have anything better to do with my time, I might as well earn a paycheck, don’t you think?”

“Must be nice,” I answered with a tinge of jealousy. “Starving art student here. I can barely make ends meet on what my father allows me for my living expenses. But with school and my artwork, I don’t have a lot of time for a real job. Although I do sometimes pick up a shift or two waiting tables at this kitschy little gay diner a few blocks over in the Strip District - mostly just to pick up tips, because the pay sucks, but the clientele there love me - and the manager is pretty understanding about working around my wonky schedule. Other than that, though, I’m kind of a pauper.”

“Not for long, I’m sure. I’ve seen your work - it wasn’t half bad. I expect you’ll be making plenty of money before long.”

“If you say so,” I smiled at him and stretched to loosen my back after the night on his lumpy sofa. “But I’m certainly not going to be getting rich any time soon. Especially if I miss class and don’t graduate with that art degree that’s supposedly going to open up all kinds of doors for my budding career. So, not to drool on your sofa and then just run, and all, but I think I better get going,” I pushed away from the counter where I’d been leaning and started to head for the door, looking back over my shoulder to say my goodbyes. “Thanks for letting me crash here last night and all.”

“No problem. It was . . . nice to have the company,” my man admitted, hesitantly, as he followed me.

“Awww, Egbert, don’t go getting all soft on me or anything. You’ll get kicked out of the Hermit Club if you start letting crazy art students invade your sacred precincts all the time like this,” I teased, because for some reason I just couldn’t stop teasing and flirting with this man.

“I’m not a fucking hermit.”

“No? Well, maybe not. I always thought of hermits as dirty, half-naked, mostly crazy sorts, so that definitely doesn’t fit YOU. No, you’re more of the Ascetic Stylite type,” I declared. “Yeah. That’s more you. A principled person, of excellent taste, who chooses to live a purer life than the rest of us peons, and therefore maintains himself in the seclusion of his tower, where he can contemplate life on a higher plane, away from the rest of humanity.”

“You’re something else, you know. I don’t even know what to call you. You’re . . .”

“I think the words you were looking for are ‘annoying brat’. Right?”

“Precisely.”

“Later, my Stylin’ Stylite.”

“Later, Brat.”

Chapter 9 - Green Eyes.

I staggered through the door of my own apartment about forty-five minutes later, desperate for a shower and some breakfast. The only good thing about the morning was that it was still so early that I had plenty of time to get both before I’d have to head back downtown for my first class of the day. I seriously did not know how Eggy dealt with these early morning starts to his days. If I had to be up and functional at dawn every day, I would end up crashing by ten each night - definitely not the preferred schedule for a night owl like myself.

Even Daphne, that paragon of productivity, was only just beginning to pad around in her pj’s while gurgling down her morning infusion of caffeine like it was her life’s blood - which it was. She gave me a big old knowing grin as I came through the door. Talk about a Cheshire grin, she practically lit up the whole kitchen with that smirk. 

“Welcome back, Stud. Have a seat. I’ll get you some coffee while you start spilling. And I want ALL the details this time. No skipping over the good parts,” she ordered as she waved the carafe from the coffee maker at me. “Well, go on.”

Sheesh, when did Daph become such a slut for MY sex life? That girl really needed a hobby, you know? Or maybe she needs to take some time off school and get herself laid or something. She can’t live vicariously through me forever. Especially when, at the moment, even my sex life isn’t much to crow over.

“Afraid you’re going to be disappointed this time, Daph. There are no details to give. Unless you want to know about the lumpy sofa I spent the night drooling on,” I replied, almost laughing at the way her face fell when she realized she wasn’t going to get to hear any stories about my dick this time.

“Damn!” she complained as she poured me a cup of coffee nevertheless. “So where did you spend the night then, if you weren’t getting lucky?”

“At the Triangle Building with my hairy mystery man,” I informed her, sparking a new light of interest in her eyes.

“You stayed over with the hermit guy? That’s surprising. Considering his level of OCD, I wouldn’t think he’d be able to tolerate that. He must have it bad for you.”

“Eggy did pretty well with the whole overnight guest thing, actually,” I assured her as I took my first sip of that nectar of the gods known as coffee.

“Eggy?”

“Yeah,” I chuckled along with my friend at the unconventional nickname. “I still don’t know his real name and he’s being all coy about telling me so I said I was going to just call him ‘Egbert’ until he fessed up and told me his real name. I think the name’s starting to grow on me actually.”

“You’re weird, you know that?”

“Well, duh? You’re just now discovering that?”

“But how was your ‘Eggy’ about you staying over and all? Was he super freaked out this morning? That had to be a big deal for him, I would think.”

“He was pretty okay with it, I guess,” I reassured her as I dug through the fridge to retrieve some eggs and a lump of not too-moldy cheese which would suffice for an omelet. “It’s not like we planned for me to stay or anything, though. We came across some really interesting stuff in the file of old documents he gave me and we were doing some more research trying to identify the rest of the people involved. I think we’re on to some kind of juicy scandal or something - well, as juicy as you can get when all the people involved are already dead. But, anyway, I sorta just fell asleep on his couch while I was reading, so it’s not like he had a choice or anything. He either had to let me stay or else he’d have had to poke me awake to get me to leave, and that would have involved actually touching me so . . . I think letting me sleep there was the easier of the two choices actually. The only hard part for him was when I asked to use the john this morning after I woke up. That almost threw him for a loop, poor guy.”

“You know, you staying over and all is probably the best thing for him,” Daphne opined, stealing a slice of the cheese I’d just cut for myself. “He’ll never get over his OCD if he stays holed up in there all by himself forever. He’ll fucking die in there all alone. Just having you visit him all the time is likely causing him to stretch all his boundaries - in a good way.”

“That’s how I see it too. Not that it seems like it’s doing much good. He won’t even touch the coffees I’ve been bringing him without first wiping them down with these wet wipe things. And you should see the cleaning shit he has stockpiled away in there. It must cost a fortune to be that germaphobic. Cleaning stuff isn’t cheap, you know?”

“Just keep it up. What you’re doing is basically the same thing a professional would do. They call it ERP - Exposure and Response Prevention Therapy. It’s the best treatment for OCD out there.”

I dished out the omelet I’d cooked up, sliding it onto a large plate and then taking that along with two forks over to the table where Daphne was waiting for me. She’d poured out two glasses of cranberry juice for us besides the coffee we were both already halfway through. This was sort of our routine, you know? We’d sit, share our food and talk. It was a thing.

“Exposure, huh? So, how’s that work?” I asked, wanting to know more.

“It’s simple, really. It’s just a form of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy that’s specific for OCD.”

“In English, please, Daph.”

She laughed at my ignorance but carried on with her explanation. “So, OCD and related behavioral problems aren’t like other mental health conditions. OCD doesn’t respond well to your normal therapy approaches. You can’t just talk someone with OCD through it, so regular, Freud-ish, lay-on-the-couch-and-tell-me-all-your-secret-thoughts-about-your-mother, therapy doesn’t work.” Seeing my obvious confusion, my doctor-to-be doubled down on the science speak for me - gotta love her. “See, OCD is not something rational that can be discussed. It’s a neurologically based anxiety disorder. Telling someone with OCD not to worry is like telling someone with asthma to stop having trouble breathing. It isn’t possible.” She paused while she slurped up the rest of her coffee and then got up to get us both refills. “In a nutshell, ERP Therapy involves the person with OCD facing his or her fears and then refraining from ritualizing. Even though it can initially be extremely anxiety provoking, eventually the anxiety starts to wane, and can sometimes even disappear. The more a patient is exposed to the cause of his anxiety, and finds he’s still okay after exposure, the less anxious he’ll be.” She sat back down next to me and stole the last bite of my omelet. “So, for example, with your OCD guy who has issues with germs - he might be asked to touch a toilet seat and then refrain from washing his hands. It would totally feel horrible to him at first, but once he saw that it wasn’t going to kill him, he’d learn to internalize the fact that his anxieties were all overkill.” 

“I get it. Makes sense,” I replied, trying to work though the concept in my head. “Same thing with my coffees, right? The more I can get him to deal with his fears about the germs in them, the easier it will get?”

“Exactly. So, your next step would be to get him to stop wiping down the cups. If he can just hold the cup in his hands without freaking over the germs on the cup, he’ll see that it wasn’t as scary as he thought. And then, you could, maybe, get him to even take a sip. Hell, before you know it, you’ll have him actually holding hands and then we can start planning the wedding.”

That had me sputtering in my cranberry juice. “Whoa there, Nelly. Don’t you think you’re jumping ahead a little? I only met the guy and I don’t even know his real name. Wedding plans are a bit premature here, Daph.”

“Pffft. You can deny it all you want, Jus, but I’ve never seen you have it so bad for anyone before. You’re totally obsessed with this guy. Trust me, there WILL be a wedding. It’s just a matter of time,” she teased me, only giggling when I wadded up my napkin and threw it in her face. 

“Maybe we should work our way up to actually touching first, before you start picking out the names of our children for us, huh?” I got up to put my plate in the dishwasher and do a quick clean up of my kitchen mess. “Although, I do kinda feel bad for Eggy, you know? I just . . . I don’t know . . . He’s just different from anyone else I’ve ever met. I feel like there’s this whole other person in there. Maybe it’s his eyes - there’s this impish green sparkle in them sometimes that makes me think there’s another man inside somewhere. Like, underneath that hermit appearance, is this amazing guy, and I want to help him, you know? I want to find out who he really is. Who he could be if he wasn’t hiding his true self. It’s like, I get these little glimpses of the funny, witty, totally amazing guy he could be if he just had a little more self-confidence. It’s a challenge, you know?”

“And you’ve always been a sucker for a challenge, haven’t you?” Daphne finished my thought for me. “Like I said, you’re obsessed.” And she scarpered off, humming the wedding march under her breath in the most sarcastic possible way.

“Freak!” I yelled after her, following down the hall towards my own room with the intent of showering and getting ready for school, and muttering to myself as the threads of our conversation wound themselves through my brain. “Fucking wedding . . . I haven’t even kissed him yet . . . not that I could with that beard . . . couldn’t find his lips if I wanted to . . . wouldn’t mind looking for them though . . . maybe, after I get him to drink the coffee, I could talk him into letting me cut his hair and giving him a shave . . .”

********

“Shouldn’t you be studying something like Art History, not Pittsburgh History?” an annoying voice whispered into my ear as I was startled out of my intense concentration on the computer screen I had been reading back to the reality of the school library.

“What are you doing in here, Ethan?” I angrily  whispered back at him. “This library is for TAIP students, I thought, which doesn’t include you. Or did you give up on the violin and decide to try your hand at art after all?”

“And deprive the world of my prodigious musical talent? Never,” he whispered back, then pulled up a chair and sat down so close to me our knees were touching. “I just met Keith down in the cafeteria and he mentioned he’d seen you up here. He says you’ve been here pretty much all day. But you’re obviously not boning up on your school work, so why not take a break and come get a coffee with me instead,” he gave me a little wink as he asked and it made me want to punch him in the face, but the thought of injuring my sketching hand was enough to stop me. 

I thought about just saying no and asking him to leave me alone, but I didn’t think Ethan would listen. And the library was not the place to have the conversation that I now realized had to happen. This guy just didn’t get it. I was going to have to come right out and tell him to his face; I wasn’t interested and he needed to back the fuck off. Now. So, with a sigh, I reluctantly logged off the computer, stowed my books and the printouts I’d made in my bag, and led the way out of the library and down the hallway to the first empty classroom I could find.

I held the door open for Ethan, who was grinning at me like a fucking loon as he strutted past me. I don’t know what the asshole was thinking - in what alternate reality would I be taking him into a classroom in my school, alone, to do anything other than give him a rude tongue lashing. He was dreaming if he thought I’d ever do anything else to him with my tongue, cuz then I’d be forced to cut it off and burn it and go mute for the rest of my life, but I’d rather do that than whatever it was he was thinking about right then. As soon as he was inside the room, though, I roughly shoved the door closed behind me, and leaned against it to prevent any interruptions.

“Okay, this is the deal, Ethan - and I’m just going to be blunt here, because I’m totally fucking fed up with this bullshit - stop following me around. I’m NOT FUCKING INTERESTED in you! Get it? I do not want to go out with you. I don’t even want to talk to you. I’m not at all attracted to you and that one night I did go home with you was a total fucking mistake. If I hadn’t been so drunk I couldn’t see straight, I would never have slept with you. You are not my type. You will never BE my type. Get it through your tiny little curly-haired skull, okay? Now, stop stalking me or I’ll be forced to tell everyone in Pittsburgh about just how small and useless that piece of fluff between your legs - the one you think qualifies as a penis - really is. Got it?”

“What the hell? Fuck you!” 

Ethan seemed on the verge of arguing with me and I was just not having it. “No. That’s what I’m trying to tell you here, there will be NO fucking. None at all. Seriously. Get over yourself and LEAVE ME ALONE!” I ordered, almost screaming out the last few words.

“You realize you’re totally fucking insane, right?” he snarled at me and I remembered that old saw my mother used a lot about how, ‘if looks could kill’.

“Insanely tired of you AND this conversation, yeah. Now, I’ve got places to go and things to do with people I want to be with, so it’s time for you to go, Ethan.” I moved away from the door far enough that it would open and I pointed him through it. “I think you can find your own way out. And, if I see you continuing to hang out around here after this, I’ll be making a complaint to campus security, so I’d recommend that you stick to haunting your own school from now on. Kay?”

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself. I was only trying to be friendly. It’s not like your fat ass is anything special. You don’t deserve me anyway,” Ethan said, trying to turn things around because of course he only saw the world through Ethan-colored glasses. “When you finally realize that, and come running after ME, we’ll see who’s begging whom.”

If my eyes had rolled any further back into my skull, I could have probably seen my own brain stem. But at least he finally left. I waited until I saw his scrawny ass turn around the far corner of the building before I finally took a deep breath in relief. Hopefully that would be the last I had to deal with Ethan Gold’s skanky ass.

Now I was free to go deal with some much more amusing business. I made my way out of the building and practically sprinted down the street, heading westward, cutting through alleys and skirting the buildings that made up the Cultural District, as I pelted towards downtown proper. I barely stopped long enough at the lobby door of the Triangle Building to let myself in via my usual burglary skills. And then I was galloping up the stairs two steps at a time. I knocked on the door to my Eggy’s rooms, but there was no answer there, so I trotted on down the hallway to the office and knocked there. 

Upon hearing a muffled ‘Harumph’ noise - sort of a combination exasperated sigh and growl all put together with a cute little Eggy moan added in for good measure - there was a semi-polite, “You’re coming in whether or not I invite you, right? So why do you even knock?”

I twisted the doorknob and let myself in with a grin, answering, “because it wouldn’t be polite not to knock, and if my mother ever found out about me being rude, she’d give me one of her endless lectures which, I can assure you, are not pleasant to sit through, so it’s just easier to be polite and knock.” I found him sitting at the little secretary desk against the far wall, where the modern day laptop sitting on the opened lid of the antique desk made for a strange contrast. “Afternoon, Eggy. Did you miss me?”

“How can I miss you when you’re always here?” Egbert answered, trying to sound annoyed, but he was betrayed by the smile that escaped from underneath his beard.

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to be lonely now, would I?” I replied and helped myself to a seat in one of the big overstuffed armchairs and beamed my brattiest smile at him. “So, whatcha doing?”

“I’m working.”

“I can see that. What are you working on?”

He sighed and spun around in his desk chair so he could face me directly. “I’m writing a manual for a fucking electric teapot. It’s thrilling work. I mean, who can’t figure out a one-button electric teapot? But that’s my life, so . . .”

“Good thing I’m here to distract you, then, isn’t it?” I pulled out one of my signature moves that had never yet failed to get me whatever I’d wanted from the first time I’d discovered it back when I was about five - I smiled at him and scrunched up my nose as if to say, ‘you know you want to agree with me and I’m too adorable to argue with, right?’ I realize it’s a little unfair of me to use that move on a neophyte like Eggy, but all’s fair in love and such. Plus, I’m careful to only use my power for good, and teasing my man was a great cause, wasn’t it? Whatever. Of course he fell for it though and in only seconds after I hit him with the scrunched up nose thing I could tell he’d totally forgotten his work. It’s a burden being this powerful sometimes, but it works for me. Once I had him thoroughly distracted, I dove into the topic I really wanted to discuss. “So, did you find out any more about our long lost lovers or the mysterious ‘B’ after I left this morning?” 

“When would I have done that? You’ve only been gone a couple hours.”

“Well, how long can writing about a teapot take?” 

“To do it right? It takes longer than you’d think. Plus, I’ve already written one on a waffle maker this morning.”

“Then you obviously deserve a break, right?” I suggested, 

“I guess I could use a drink,” Eggy sighed as he closed the lid of his laptop. “All this talk about teapots is making me thirsty. How about a cup of tea? I see you didn’t bring your trusty mocha with you this time.”

“I was too excited to get here to take the time to stop for coffee today. Sorry. I’ll make sure to bring you something special next time though. Any requests?”

“I’m sure you’ll surprise me,” he capitulated, and I knew in that moment that I’d already won him over, hook, line and sinker. 

I followed him back to his rooms and took up my usual spot on the sofa as he puttered around making a pot of tea. I was amazed at the amount of work it took for him to just get that one small task completed, but considering all the little rituals he had to incorporate I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me. First he had to rewash the kettle before filling it with water and starting it heating. While that was doing it’s thing, he hand washed two mugs, drying them before lining them up on the countertop, making sure they were perfectly even. Next he preheated the teapot with warm water from the kettle and added two teabags before filling it with the now boiling water from the kettle. 

While the tea was steeping, my man set two coasters on the table in front of the sofa, taking extra effort to make sure each was centered precisely at opposite ends. He put out a sugar bowl, creamer and a trivet for when the pot was ready, and aligned them with the coasters. Two spoons were added, each squarely aligned next to its respective coaster. Finally, when the tea had brewed long enough, he brought the pot over, poured out a portion of the final aromatic liquid into each cup, making sure that the water level in each was equal, and then placed the pot on the trivet in the middle of the table. It was all done very deliberately and with absolutely accuracy. 

Which, of course, I immediately ruined as soon as I grabbed my cup and in the process moved it out of alignment with the rest of the set up. I saw Egbert briefly flutter his eyes closed and sigh as he dealt with my disruption of his perfect tableau. Thinking back to Daphne’s advice about Exposure Therapy, though, I figured it was good for Eggy to have to deal with me messing with his ritual a tiny bit. But, to distract him from his moment of distress, I decided to change the subject.

“So I did some work of my own this afternoon,” I offered over the rim of my tea cup as I inhaled the aromatic steam. I wasn’t usually much of a tea drinker - not because I didn’t like it, but I tended to need the extra caffeine hit from a coffee more - but after drinking this, I may have been converted. “I was busy trying to solve the mystery of your missing name.”

That seemed to surprise my Egbert, who tilted his head at me over his own cup as if to grant me leave to try and figure him out while remaining skeptical that I’d succeed. Little did he know that I wasn’t one to give up easily. Not when I had a mystery almost as delicious as the tea I was drinking waiting for me.

“It took me a while to come up with a way to find what I needed,” I explained. “I didn’t have much to go on other than the fact that Rumpelstiltskin was wrong.” We both chuckled at that. “But, since you hinted that it starts with    a ‘B’, I started off by looking up ‘B’ names.

He chuckled again at that, probably thinking that I was going to play his game and that he could continue to draw this out, but he didn’t know about MY secret. I could play a little, though. I liked to play. Not that word games were my preferred type of game. But I didn’t think my man was ready for the games I did want to play with him. Who knew, though, I might get there someday, right, and boy had I been dreaming about it . . .

“You’re definitely a Barnaby,” I guessed.

“Definitely NOT!”

“Okay, how about Bartholomew?” He shook his head, ‘no’, and I laughed. “Barnard? Benedict? Beauregard? Bonaventure?” He just kept shaking his head amusedly. “Betelgeuse?”

“Hell no! I think I prefer Egbert.”

“Fine, well then . . . How about . . . Brian? Brian Kinney?” I ventured, causing him to gasp in surprise that I’d seemingly pulled the correct name right out of the blue.

“How did you do that?” he asked suspiciously, his hand busy twirling the hair from his beard as he continued to stare at me. 

“You thought you were being super sneaky by putting the building in the name of an anonymous LLC, but that didn’t confuse me for long,” I grinned cockily at him, enjoying my moment of triumph, knowing that I’d solved at least one of the mysteries about this building. “But did you know that the Secretary of State’s records are online and anyone can find the name of any business’ Registered Agent. So, when I saw that The Flatiron Consortium, LLC listed its Registered Agent to be ‘Brian Kinney’ - a ‘B’ name, by the way - and that the Agent’s address was the building’s street address, I figured I’d gotcha.”

Eggy . . . I mean, Brian . . . cleared his throat - a sure sign that he was uncomfortable with the situation. What? Did he really expect me to never find out his name? “I hope . . . you don’t mind that I know your real name now, do you?” I suddenly felt like an asshole for going behind his back like that. “If you want, I can still call you Egbert?” I suggested lamely. 

Brian shrugged his shoulders, obviously thinking over what I’d offered. “I guess it’s okay. I mean, I know your name after all. I suppose it was kind of unfair for me to not have offered mine to you at the beginning. You know, when you first broke in,” he grinned and his eyes did that bright green sparkling thing that I’d become a hopeless pushover for, and I relaxed, knowing that he was going to be okay with this. “You think you’re a real genius now, don’t you? I can already tell you’re going to be insufferable after this. And here I was thinking that most criminals were inherently stupid. Why did I have to be haunted by the world’s only smarty pants burglar? Although it's probably for the best; I was getting tired of ‘Eggy’.”

“Nah. I think you secretly loved being ‘Eggy’. But we’ll have to keep that private - just between you and me - because we wouldn't want the entire world to know my private pet name for you, now would we?” I teased him right back, thrilled to see him being so bold and even a tad flirty. Of course, then I just had to go and ruin it all by pushing too far, but then again, that’s sort of a thing for me. I’m well known in certain circles for going too far. I just can’t help myself sometimes, you know. “I mean, I can’t be introducing you to people as ‘My New Boyfriend, Eggy’. No. We’ll save that for pillow talk, I think.”

The second the words were out of my mouth I realized that I’d once again spoken the quiet part out loud. The pernicious fantasy I’d been having about how I would tame the wild beast of the tower and then make him fall in love with me, kissing him silly through that ridiculous beard until we were both breathless, was supposed to have just stayed inside my head. Right? Did other people have the same problem I had with a lack of a filter or was I just congenitally incapable of holding my tongue around a man I found attractive? The world may never know because I literally just can’t stop myself sometimes.

“Your new ‘boyfriend’ huh?” Of course he’d picked up on that particular phrase. I was, by that point, blushing so hard that I think my face probably resembled a ripe tomato. But he didn’t let up. “Did I miss something or did we skip a few important steps.”

Instead of apologizing, though - because I didn’t see my Eggy as the type to respect someone who apologized without good cause - I decided to double down and just go for it. I mean, what the hell, right? ‘In for a penny, in for a pound’, my grandfather always said. So here was me, just laying it all out there and probably about to get shot down harder than any man’s ever been rejected in the history of men, but at least I was going down fighting, you know? Fuck it all and damn the torpedoes! 

“Well, I wasn’t going to tell you until after our first official date - and by that point you’d have already fallen so head over heels in love with me that you’d be unable to say no to anything I asked - but I guess the cat’s out of the bag, so to speak. So, yeah, I’ve decided that you’re going to be my new boyfriend. You can try to fight it if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it. I’m very persistent and I almost always get what I want. It’s pretty much already a done deal at this point,” I declared, shrugging and offering up one of my killer smiles, hoping that brash and relentless was a winning strategy. 

“You are SUCH a fucking brat! You do know that, right?” was his only response which, all things considered, I thought was a good sign; I could work with annoying and bratty. “What if I don’t want a boyfriend? Agoraphobic guy here, remember? I need a boyfriend like I need a fucking hole in my head.”

“Ah, now, that’s not true. You need a boyfriend more than almost anyone I’ve ever met, Eggy. You need someone who’s going to draw you out of yourself. Get you out of your head. Introduce you to all the glorious wonders of this crazy world. And who better than me?” By that point he was just shaking his head, looking a little lost but amused enough by my approach that he wasn’t saying ‘no’. That, in turn, emboldened me. “So, we might as well get started. What do you want to do on our first real date? Personally, I’ve always thought the traditional dinner and a movie thing was a bit dull. And you’re probably not ready for the club scene, as fun as that can be . . .” Which is when Daphne’s whole lecture on Exposure Therapy came back to me and I knew this would give me the perfect excuse. “How about I just make dinner for you here, instead?” I offered. 

“Dinner? You . . .” Poor Brian started to look a little panicked.

“Yeah. I’ll cook for you and we can chat and it’ll be great.” From the look on my man’s face, he definitely didn’t think it would be anything like great. “Come on, Eggy. Let me do this for you. Please. I promise it’ll be okay. I know you’ve got the whole germ thing but we can work around that, right? I’ll let you be in charge of the cleaning and you can watch me cooking so you’ll be able to see that it’s all done on the up and up. You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

Chapter 10 - Food, Glorious Food!

I didn’t get time to cook for my Stylite until that weekend because I actually did have to spend a few days studying for my finals in my other classes. It kinda sucked because I was really looking forward to treating him to a real meal for a change. However, it was probably good that the delay gave Brian a few more days to adjust to the idea. As it was, he was ridiculously anxious about the prospect - who knew a simple thing like cooking would freak him out so much? - but I wasn’t going to back down, so he was just going to have to deal.

I had still made time to at least stop in every afternoon, just to say ‘hi’ and bring my man his daily coffees. I tried a cappuccino and an almond milk latte, both of which he seemed to enjoy sniffing, but he still hadn’t tried a sip. That would come with time, though, I promised myself. I mean, I couldn’t have a boyfriend that didn’t share my love of coffee, could I?

By the time I finally finished my last final - History of The Impressionist Era - on Friday morning, I was more than ready to do this thing. I know I’d said I was going to make him dinner and it was only just barely lunchtime, but I didn’t think he'd mind such a minor technical discrepancy. If anything, it might seem a little less stressful if we were only working on a simple lunch instead of a full dinner. I figured I could do a fancy, multi-course dinner spread at a later time, after I’d broken him in to the concept. So I stopped at the market on the way and ended up at the Triangle Building with two heavy bags full of lunchtime groceries supplies.

“Who’s your favorite human, Bill?” I asked as William Shakespaw ambled down the stairs to greet me when I let myself into the main lobby. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

I popped open the top of one of those little cans of nasty-smelling wet cat food and I swear the silly feline practically wet himself with glee. I have no idea how anyone - even a cat - could bear to eat something that smelled so vile. Bill seemed ecstatic about it, though, so who am I to judge, right? I was just happy to know that I’d officially won him over, and winning over the cat would undoubtedly go a long way towards winning over the cat’s human. That was just a given, you know?

I left Bill slurping up his salmon cat mush and made my way upstairs with my grocery bag full of goodies, excited to show my Eggy just what I could do in a kitchen.

I knocked at the door to Brian’s living quarters and was pleasantly surprised when, after only a couple of seconds, the door was answered by my bearded beauty. Unfortunately, the timid smile that was peeking out from under all that hair fell as soon as he saw the shopping bags in my hands. It might have been comical if I didn’t feel so bad for him.

“I thought you were threatening me with dinner,” he looked at his watch and then back up at me, “which isn’t technically supposed to start for several hours. What’s all this?”

“Traditionally, the meal you eat in the middle of the day is called lunch. Unless it’s a weekend and then you can call it brunch. I don’t think you’re ready for brunch, though, so I decided to go with a simple, easy, comfort-food-type lunch,” I explained as I shouldered past him into his room and started to unpack my bags while Brian just stood there gaping at me.

“But . . . But . . . Uh . . .”

“Is it okay if I unload everything here?” I asked as I pointed to the countertop nearest the fridge.

I could practically see the cogs in his brain turning as he thought over all the possible contamination risks that came with my groceries but, instead of complaining, he bravely shoved his hands deep into his pockets and just nodded his head. “Yeah . . . sure.”

I quickly began unloading my loot, which consisted of four cans of cream of tomato soup, the sharpest cheddar that I could find, freshly baked challah bread, and full-fat butter - it’s the only kind I’ll use, which isn’t the healthiest, I know, but it’s SO good - and two rich, dark chocolate brownies for dessert.

I could see Brian hovering out of the corner of my eye. “You wanna wipe this all down, don’t you?” I asked, knowing exactly what the problem was.

He exhaled sharply and I could see the war going on in his brain; I wanted nothing more than to make that all go away for him, but I wasn’t giving up on my lunch plans, so I hoped there would be some kind of compromise.

“Yeah . . . I do.” He mumbled his reply.

“Here’s the deal,” I began, handing Brian the antibacterial wipes that were waiting by the sink. “You can do your thing . . . if you let me do mine.”

He took the wipes from my hand. “What do you mean?”

“Wipe down whatever you want, but you don’t get to interfere when I’m cooking.” I thought that sounded slightly harsh, so I continued. “You can sit right there,” I pointed to the bar stool, “and if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable - you just tell me, ‘kay?”

I watched as he thought this over. I knew I was asking a lot from Brian, but I was determined to make this lunch work. Happily for us both, he seemed to be agreeable to the compromise I was offering. He nodded his head and began wiping down the canned goods and plastic packaging of the food I’d bought, before giving the countertop itself a thorough wipe down as well. He then took out a saucepan and washed it out in the sink - doing the same with the chopping board and cutlery I would be using.

“Okay, I think that should be good enough,” I grinned. “Now sit your ass down and get ready for the lunch of your life.”

He snorted quietly. “You’re a confident little shit, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” I nodded, because I was - always had been, always would be.

I could feel his eyes on me as I washed my hands at the sink, making sure to wash between my fingers and under my nails as thoroughly as I could. I even went as far as rubbing the soap a little ways up my arm. “Can I dry my hands on this?”  I asked, pointing my head towards a tea towel I saw hanging neatly over the oven handle.

He jumped up. “Here, use this one,” he said, as he handed me a fresh one from the cupboard.

I dried my hands and began preparing the lunch.

“Four cans of soup?” He asked, watching as I opened and poured the contents of all four cans into a pan and placed it on one of the burners, letting it begin to simmer slowly. “There’s just the two of us, right? You didn’t invite guests or anything, did you?”

“No. I plan to keep you all to myself - at least for now,” I laughed and winked at him, because sometimes I just couldn’t stop myself from being a big flirt. “And I know four cans seems like a lot, but this is literally one of my favourite things to eat. I could probably finish all four on my own.” I probably shouldn’t sound so proud about that, but whatever, this meal is delicious. “How many sandwiches would you like?”

Brian’s eyebrows raised comically at this question. “One will be fine,” he laughed. “I’m not a pig,” he teased.

I so badly wanted to throw the tea towel I’d just used at him, but stopped myself. That would no doubt gross him out and I was trying my best to be considerate of his issues. Instead, I just gave him another of my best bratty looks and went back to my cooking.

“Oh, damn, I seriously love the smell of freshly baked bread.” I moaned happily as I inhaled the aroma of the delicious smelling challah bread I planned to use for the sandwiches. “I swear, if they made a cologne that smelled like this, I’d totally wear it. Eau de Bread. What do you think?”

That made Brian laugh - like, a lot. “You’re so fucking weird.”

I shrugged my shoulders. I knew I was weird; this wasn’t new information to me. I leaned across the table and waved the still wrapped loaf of bread in front of Brian’s face.

“Lean forward a little.”

He did as I asked, albeit a little reluctantly, but when he was close enough I ran the loaf under his nose, making sure that in the process nothing touched him.

“Now, tell me that’s not the nicest thing you've ever smelled?”

He inhaled again and made a quiet little appreciative noise in the back of his throat that was one of the sexiest sounds I had heard from him.

“Well?” I asked . . . because if I didn’t say something right then I would focus on that sound he’d just made and getting a hard on during lunch probably wasn’t very good manners, right?

“Mmm, yeah, it smells really good,” he admitted.

I grinned triumphantly and gave the loaf one last quick sniff before I sliced off a couple slices and began buttering them. For some reason this was never the cleanest of tasks for me and I somehow always managed to get butter all over my fingers. The urge to lick the butter off was intense and for a brief moment I wondered if his urges felt like this? Like there was some weird magnetic pull making him have to do the things he did? This was definitely something I would have to ask him - just not today. Next I gave the pan a quick stir, making sure the soup was cooking slowly without ever reaching the boiling point.

“Right, the soup will be ready soon, so I’m just going to pop the sandwiches into a frying pan. You have one, right?” He went to stand up but I gestured with my hand indicating he could stay seated. “I’ll get it. Just tell me where is it.”

“The cupboard to your right,” he replied quietly.

I took the pan out and washed it thoroughly, hearing him finally exhale the breath he’d obviously been holding in while waiting anxiously to see what I would do. I smiled over at him, giving him one of my biggest grins. Knowing that I’d probably relieved some of his anxiety made me feel good. I know Daphne said I shouldn’t feed his rituals, but one thing at a time, right? Then I added the sandwiches to the pan and let them sizzle away for a bit so they’d get nice and toasty brown and melty inside.

“Mmm,” Brian hummed happily as the combined aroma of tomato soup and grilling sandwiches filled the room, “it smells pretty good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I told you it would be great. I promise, you’re going to love this,” I insisted as I continued to stir the pot of tomato soup. “When I was a kid, this was one of my favorite meals ever. I used to beg my mother to make it for me any time the weather got cold or rainy - which is why I thought about it this morning, I suppose, since it’s ridiculously cold out there today. There’s nothing better than a cup of soup and a gooey cheese sandwich to fight the chills, right?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Brian replied, looking uncomfortable, and for some reason I just knew that this time the lack of comfort wasn’t caused by his fear of my contaminating his kitchen but from something coming from inside him.

“Well, what did your mother make you instead? If there’s something else you’d prefer - cuz we all have our own comfort foods, right? - I could make that next time.”

“There’s going to be a next time?” he asked, the anxiety resurfacing again for a moment. “I think it would have been easier if you’d just broken in, stolen shit and vandalized the place, like a normal burglar.”

“Too bad for you, cuz I’m the much more dangerous type of burglar - I’m out to steal your heart,” I announced in my most over-the-top, sappy, brattiest voice ever.

And then we both broke out laughing at how campy that had sounded. I didn’t care, though. I figured my hermit needed as much laughter in his life as I could supply. Even if that laughter involved me making an idiot out of myself.

“But, seriously, I do love to cook and there’s no reason you shouldn’t benefit from my amazing culinary skills. Especially since you insist you can’t cook. So, just tell me what you like to eat and I’ll make it for you.” When my man just shrugged without actually voicing any preference, though, I knew something was up. “You don’t have any favorites? Or you really don’t want me here cooking?”

Brian didn’t answer right away, though. He seemed to be struggling with HOW to answer me. Like, there were words inside him that wanted to come out, but that he was trying to smother. I shook my head and turned around so I was concentrating on flipping the grilled cheese sandwiches instead of staring at him. If he didn’t want to say, or maybe just needed some time to figure out how he wanted to say it, I could give him a few seconds to pull himself together. Instead, I devoted myself to adding a dash of Worcestershire sauce to the soup and cutting some cubes of the cheddar cheese to add to the pot as well, because you really could never have too much sharp cheddar, could you? And it seemed to work. Without me staring him down, Eggy seemed better able to work through whatever his demons were in order to find his words.

Just as I was adding the cheese to the soup, he finally spoke up. “I don’t really have one of those - comfort foods - because I didn’t have a mom to make them for me.”

That caught me off guard. “You didn’t have a mom?” I asked, fighting off the impulse to spin around and confront him on this very important detail.

“Of course I had a mom. She just didn’t make me any special food or anything. At least, not that I remember. She died when I was just a kid. If she ever cooked for me before then, I don’t remember.”

Wow! Just, wow. So that would definitely explain a fucking lot about my Eggy’s issues, right? No mother to care for him? Talk about traumatic. How was I supposed to respond to something like that, though? I didn’t want to make him feel pathetic or anything, but I still needed to acknowledge what he’d said. I wished that Daphne was there right then because she would totally know the right thing to say here. But since I was on my own, I decided to go with detached empathy and hope it was good enough while still not suffocating him.

“That sucks. So, what happened to your mom?” I asked, without looking at him directly.

“Both my parents and my older sister were killed in a car wreck. I was the only one in the car that survived, actually. The car hit some ice and went over an embankment into the river. They didn’t make it,” he explained, his words halting and syncopated as he struggled to verbalize something that was obviously horrifying in a way that didn’t betray too much emotion. “I don’t actually remember the accident. I was asleep. I have no idea how I was the only one that survived. But, anyway, that’s why I didn’t have a mom to cook for me, at least not that I can remember. And my asshole grandfather - who was forced to take me in because I didn’t have anyone else - didn’t cook. So, no, I don’t have any comfort food favorites.”

Can I just say I HATED the emotionless, empty, disconnected way he relayed that sad story? He lost his whole family when he was just a fucking kid? That’s, like, some serious Hallmark Channel shit right there. But yet he told it as though it had happened to someone else.

“How old were you?” I asked.

“Six.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Damn. I’d really like to offer to hug you, but I know that’s not going to happen so, is there anything I CAN do right now?” I offered, feeling totally at a loss for what to do or say in a situation like this.

“You’ve already invaded my home and are apparently forcing me to eat your fucking tomato soup, what more do you plan to do? Adopt me?” He was such a snarky little boy, wasn’t he - good thing I like sarcastic, snarky men. “It’s no biggie. I survived. In spite of everything that bastard Donal tried to throw at me.

“You’re fucking strong, you know that?” Despite the fact that I hadn’t known this man for very long, I already knew he’d brush off what I was saying, but I still felt like it was something he needed to hear, whether he liked it or not.

And right on cue, I watched him twist uncomfortably in his seat at my words. Eggy was fucking adorable sometimes, you know? I didn’t want to make it harder for him, though, so I just smiled at him as I served our meal.

“Here you go,” I said, pouring out two bowlsful of the piping hot soup and putting the sandwiches on plates. “Bon Appetit,” I announced as I started to look around to figure out where to serve the food now that I’d finished cooking it.

Brian cleared his throat again, a sound I was really starting to love. “I, uh . . . I was thinking . . . If this is supposed to be a real ‘date’ . . . then we should probably eat this somewhere other than the coffee table.”

“You can stop right there with the air quotes, mister,” I laughed. “This IS a real date.” Then I looked around the room once more. “What do you propose we do? We can’t eat here at the counter since you only have the one bar stool, and you’re saying the coffee table is a no no, so . . . ?”

“Follow me,” my Eggy replied mysteriously, standing up and pulling out a tray from a different cupboard.

I let him take control of the food and watched as he gingerly carried the small wooden tray filled with our lunch out the door and down the hall. I followed him, wondering where the hell he was taking me. We passed his grandfather’s study and a few other closed doors - each, assumedly, leading into rooms I had yet to explore - until we reached our destination, which was an elaborate double-doored entryway into the room at the very end of the hall. Brian opened the door using his elbow and stood back so that I could see where we were.

The room he’d led me to was fairly large, definitely bigger than I had expected, and it looked like an old corporate boardroom or something, complete with a massively large table filling the center of the space. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling and decorated with antique artwork and photos of stern-looking men scowling at the cameras. An equally dark, wood floor was partially covered with a thick, expensive-looking oriental carpet. If it weren’t for the bank of large windows lining both walls - this room occupying the apex of one of the points of the building’s triangular foundations - it would have been dark and foreboding. As it was, the room just seemed to exude an ideal of impenetrable wealth. It was very imposing; a room suitable for high powered board meetings and intense merger discussions between barons of industry and the like.

But sure, I supposed it could also work as an informal dining room, if you were having a cozy lunch with your wanna-be boyfriend . . .

“Is this okay?” Brian asked, sounding a little unsure of himself.

“Sure. It’s very . . . very . . . very formal,” I settled on a word I hoped wasn’t too judgmental. “Perfect for our first formal date, right?”

“I know it’s a bit stuffy, but at least here we have an actual table,” he reasoned, setting the tray down on the near end of the big wooden conference table.

While Brian was wiping down the table - did he have those little packets of wipes EVERYWHERE? - and setting out the plates, making sure that they were lined up precisely and all the silverware was in the correct place and . . . well, you get the picture, right? . . . I pretended to examine the portraits hanging on the walls, so as to give my man time to get through all his little rituals. Most were of old men and not very interesting, although I was slightly impressed to see that I recognized a few of the names engraved on the frames. It would have been pretty remarkable if these men really had all spent time in this board room. Titans of industry indeed. They all looked like they had broomsticks shoved up their asses, though, if you asked me.

The only one of the pictures that was at all interesting was a small portrait of a younger man, seated face on to the camera, wearing a cute little bow tie and his hair slicked to the side as he smirked out of his dark wood frame. For some old dude who’d lived about a hundred years ago, he was hot. He gave off a bit of a ‘Ye Olde Twink’ vibe, if you asked me. Not that I was into twinks, you know, being one myself and all, but I could see the attraction. It was the name on the brass nameplate affixed to the bottom edge of the frame that really got my attention, though - William J. Carnegie. That was a name anyone who’d grown up in The Pitts would immediately recognize. It made me wonder how this boy was related to the more famous Carnegie men, since I’d never heard of sweet young William.

While I had been busy ogling the young hottie on the wall, Brian had continued on with his cleaning unabated. However, when there were no other pictures to look at I decided it was time to move this lunch along. I turned back to survey the status on our lunch arrangements and was glad to see that my Eggy seemed to be winding things up. Once the mandatory wipe down had been completed, we took our seats at the large boardroom, cum dining, table. Brian took the seat at the head of the table, and I took a seat on his right.

“Dig in before it gets cold,” I urged, picking up my spoon and swirling it around in my steaming bowl of soup.

I could see the hesitation in his eyes as he looked down at the food in front of him. I sighed and set down my spoon again. It looked like I was going to have to dish out some tough love along with the soup today.

“Hey, Egbert. Look at me,” I demanded, waiting until he reluctantly looked up from the suspect bowl, his hand clenched so tightly around the handle of the spoon that I could see his knuckles going white. “You watched me cook it, right?” He nodded begrudgingly. “I washed my hands and you cleaned everything else from the cans to the pans, right?” Another nod. “So . . . there’s no way anything bad could be in there. And even if there had been, the heat from cooking the food should kill any germs off. Which means you’ll be just fine eating it.” He looked back down at the bowl and just scrunched up his mouth in a way that made me think of a kid contemplating the unpleasant prospect of his brussels sprouts - something that I would have normally laughed at if it hadn’t meant that I’d be offending my Stylite. “At least try it. Please? I swear to fuck that you’re going to love it. It’s, like, manna from the gods good. I promise.”

I saw him swallow, take in a deep breath, and squint his eyes almost all the way closed as he finally lifted his spoon. I was leaning forward, as if I could will him to do it just by directing all the energy in my body towards him. I held my breath too, waiting to see what he would decide. In my head I was chanting, ‘come on. You can do it. Come on. You can do it . . .’ And when he finally dipped the spoon into the still-steaming soup, I think I kinda squeaked in anticipation even. Luckily it wasn’t loud enough to distract him, and my boy spooned up a nice, healthy spoonful of the tomatoey goodness, then quickly opened his mouth and shoved the implement in, as if hoping that by doing it all in a rush that way, he’d get through it without chickening out.

Of course, that first bite of creamy, hot soup was more than enough to win him over and I saw his eyes pop open in delight as he swallowed.

“So? What do you think? Good, huh?”

“It’s . . . not bad.”

“Not bad? Not BAD? That’s all you’re going to say?”

“Yeah.” He took another mouthful of the soup and then another. “It’s edible.”

“You’re a tough man to please, Egbert,” I shook my head at him and then went back to my own food, breaking a handful of saltine crackers over my bowl to add a little texture to the soup.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked as he continued to ladle in the delicious warm yumminess.

“You could say that it’s wonderful. Ambrosial. The best thing you’ve ever had in your mouth. Your most favorite meal ever,” I offered as suggestions, although by that point I was just giving him shit because I could see by the green gleam of his eyes he was teasing me too. “Oh, but don’t forget the sandwich. You have to eat them both together to get the full effect. They come as a pair. The soup and the cheese together . . . it’s to die for. Trust me.” He looked at his sandwich but didn’t reach for it and I wanted to scream, because, really? We were going to have to go through this with every individual piece of food, every time? Sheesh. “Go on, already, Eggy. The sandwich too. Hurry up before it’s cold.”

He seemed to look around for a minute as if confused before asking, “where’s the rest of the utensils?”

“Utensils? For a sandwich?”

It took me a minute but then I got it - he didn’t want to touch the sandwich with his fingers. I was gonna have to take control here, it seemed. So took hold of my own grilled cheese, used my fingers to break off a bite from the edge where I’d cut the bread into a triangle, and popped it into my mouth. Demonstration complete.

“Easy-peasy, right?” I asked after I’d swallowed the bite I had taken, refraining from licking my greasy fingers afterwards. “You can do it, Eggy. Just try, okay?”

It was like the soup all over again. He spent a good minute or two contemplating that damned sandwich, his agitation showing in the way his knee began to nervously bounce in place. It was like he wanted to try it so badly that his frustration with himself was beginning to upset him. Then he somehow managed to screw up his courage, holding his breath as he reached out with tentative fingers, and just barely touched the crusts of the sandwich bread long enough to hold it steady while he tore off a piece. Then he quickly shoved the bite in his mouth before he could change his mind. I watched this whole process with amusement and somehow managed not to say anything. Frankly, though, I was more interested in the result than the process itself, and I was gratified when he finally started chewing the bite he’d taken, breaking into a bit of a smile at the taste.

“Don’t tell me . . . it’s ‘not bad’, right?” I kidded him as I took another bite for myself. “Fuck that - it’s delicious and you know it!”

“It’s alright,” he responded, but I saw the way he eagerly broke off another piece of the cheesy goodness to savor.

“You can also do this,” I prompted, picking up the remainder of my second triangle of sandwich and dunking the point into the soup before slurping up the now-soggy sandwich/soup combo. “I know it’s an advanced technique - the dunking - but I think you’re up to it. Go on. It’s even better tasting together.”

I think, at that point, my Egbert was just so committed to the entire lunch program - germs and all - that he had given up fighting me, because he actually did what I’d showed him and dunked his sandwich. He didn’t even freak out when a tiny drop of soup dripped onto his chin. He just whipped out one of his wipes, cleaned off the dribble and carried on like a fucking pro. Was it silly that I was so incredibly proud of my boy just for eating a sandwich and some damned soup? I didn’t care. I was just so impressed that he was willing to try for me. Yeah, I could SO do this whole hermit boyfriend thing.

After we had finished eating and had both wiped our plates clean - figuratively speaking of course - I sat there feeling ridiculously full and so incredibly pleased with my man. To some, this might have been seen as a relatively small accomplishment, but to me, it was huge. As I was sitting there, lost in thought, I noticed Brian reach for his hand wipes, but hesitating briefly. It was like I could almost hear the argument that was running through his brain; ‘I’ve done so well, but now look at what I’m doing. It’s like one step forward, a million steps back.’

“Hey,” I said, hopefully distracting him from those ruminant thoughts. “Give me one of those, will you?” I nodded towards the wipes. “My hands always feel so greasy and gross after I eat a cheese sandwich, you know?”

He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “It’s okay to want to wash your hands after you eat. In fact, it’s perfectly normal.”

That seemed to make my Brian happy. For once, one of his little rituals actually made sense to someone other than him. So there we sat, both wiping the grease from our hands with stupid smiles on our faces. Now, wasn’t that about as sickly sweet as you could possibly hope for on a first date?  

Chapter 11 - Love In The Afternoon.

“So, what were you writing about before I interrupted you?” I asked, just to be conversational, as we gathered our dirty dishes up after the successful luncheoning.

“Today was an online manual for how to print file folder labels using this new online application,” Brian answered, sounding bored even as he detailed how complicated the process was. “It’s actually my third draft at this stuff. The company I’m doing this for has workshopped their app a couple of times but no matter how simple I make the instructions, it seems people just can’t figure it out. Personally, I think the people they’re trying to train are complete morons who should just stick to their old typewriters, but I can’t very well tell my client that, so . . . This is me working up a third attempt. Maybe I’ll just draw pictures or something? I don’t know.”

“I didn’t know you could draw,” I commented as I picked up the tray with our stuff and headed back down the hall to my hermit’s room.

“I can’t. Not unless stick figures constitute drawing. But the company has other people for that. I just scribble something and add the words, and the company fills in the pictures later. Sometimes that’s the best way to do complicated shit like this. Nobody actually takes the time to read the instructions for anything these days anyway.”

That got a laugh out of me because it was so true and, unfortunately, I was one of those reprobates that generally refused to read the instructions. At least not till I’d tried whatever it was three or four times and failed completely. THEN I’d go back, read the fucking instructions, and mentally berate myself for being such a damned idiot in the first place. I felt for my Eggy, having to deal with twats like myself. It must be terribly frustrating.

“So, should I offer to help wash up or just step out of the way and let the Master of Clean take over and do it the right way the first time?” I asked, trying to convey that it was okay for him to do his OCD thing now and I wouldn’t judge.

The relief on his face said even more than his words: “I think I’ve got this.”

So I set the tray on the counter next to his sink, held my hands up in a gesture of surrender, and deliberately stepped away. Brian rolled his eyes at my theatricality and then eagerly took my place at the counter, pulling on a pair of the latex gloves I’d seen him unpack from his groceries earlier in the week, and starting the water running in the sink. Even now I could see that there were an excessive number of rituals that he had to follow - who knew washing dishes could be so fucking complicated, huh? Good thing I hadn’t offered to help, because I was woefully unprepared for this amount of dishwashing mastery.

First, my OCD beauty scraped all the scraps of food off the plates into the garbage disposal, his nose crinkling up in disgust at the wet, obviously contaminated, food remains. Once that had been taken care of, and the noisy disposal run for a full minute or more, he placed all the dishes in the one side of the sink that had been filled to the top with hot soapy water. I was actually amazed at how much soap he’d used for such a small pile of plates. The bubbles were practically overflowing the bounds of the sink by the time he was done. Each plate was then wiped with an equally over-soaped sponge before being placed in the water to, apparently, soak away any residual germiness. After they’d stewed in their soapy bath for however long he thought was necessary, Brian took each one up and gave it a thorough scrubbing with his sponge, back and front, going over the surface of each plate and bowl at least five times. Finally, the bubbles were rinsed off and the plates put into a pristine-clean, stainless steel drying rack to drip for a bit. When all the dishes were cleaned, he turned to drying and putting away the dishes in his cupboards, before emptying the sink and washing it - yes, he washed the sink that had been full of dish soap - then wiping down the counter and the tray with cleanser and spray cleanser.

Needless to say, the dish washing took for fucking ever, and I was bored long before the last dish was put away. I gave up watching and planted myself on Brian’s sofa again - in the place I was beginning to think of as ‘my spot’ - pulling out my sketchpad to doodle away the time while I waited for him. Since I’d just finished my last final, and didn’t have anything more to do for the rest of the day, I was a bit at loose ends. The only item I’d had on my agenda for the day was feeding my Eggy, and with that accomplished, I was free as a bird for the duration and not in any hurry to leave. Maybe I could convince my new hermit boyfriend to do something else fun with me for the afternoon?

“You just making yourself at home over there?” Egbert asked, when he’d finally finished his washing thing and noticed I’d planted myself on his sofa yet again.

“Mmhmm,” I grinned as I gave a little stretch like a sleepy kitten.

I could feel Eggy’s eyes on me as I made myself comfortable and it was only then that I realized my t-shirt had risen up, revealing a sliver of my pale stomach. The way his eyes were laser focused on my middle, made me tingle. I felt like asking, ‘See anything you like?’ but knew that would be putting way too much pressure on my guy. He wasn’t ready for the full Taylor Tummy Temptation, no matter how much I would have loved for him to go there. So, reluctantly, I pulled my shirt lower and released him from the mesmerizing effects that glimpse of my skin had caused. He blinked and sighed and then he finally looked me in the eyes, giving a little shake of his head as if to clear it. Poor man, he didn’t realize how hooked on me he already was . . . But if I had anything to say about it, he soon would.

“So, uh. I really need to get back to work,” Brian muttered almost sadly as he nodded his head towards the doorway that led down to his office. “You’re welcome to stay if you want . . . ?” I could hear the question in his voice but knew he wouldn’t ask me to stay - not directly anyway - and I got the biggest thrill out of the realization that he didn’t want me to go to. “It’s up to you. What do you wanna do?”

I didn’t answer right away, but when I did, I was surprised by what came out of my mouth. “Do you want me to answer that question honestly? Or would you rather I made something up?”

Damn, I think I shocked him. Again. He would probably, eventually, get used to that, but for the time being, it was still fun to mess with him. I was a little bit evil like that. If he wanted me, though, he’d have to learn to love my shockingness. It was part of my charm.

Brian shoved his hands deep into his pockets and I could see his tongue poking into the side of his cheek as he thought over his response to my question. “My brain is telling me to ask for the safe option and have you make something up, but . . .”

“But you want me to be honest with you, right?” I asked, loving how brave my man was being with me; there was nothing I respected more than a man who was scrupulously honest and nothing I despised more than someone who played games, so Brian’s plain and simple honesty as he grappled with his emotions like that was probably the biggest turn on I’d ever seen.

Eventually, he reached his conclusion, nodded his head, and then immediately turned his body away so that he was no longer looking directly at me, as if to provide a smaller target for whatever he imagined was coming.

“What I WANT to do is to kiss you, like, really, really want to kiss you.”

I heard him gasp quietly, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me from continuing. He wanted me to be honest with him, right? This was me being totally honest.

“You have no idea how much I want to wrap my arms around your waist and bury my face in your neck.”

I groaned as I said the words, but fuck it, I wasn’t going to let myself be embarrassed. Hell no! I wanted - no, needed - him to know how much I wanted him. I felt kinda guilty looking, but my eyes couldn’t help but wander down towards his crotch and I wasn’t disappointed by seeing what my words were doing to him. He obviously felt the same as I did, even if he wouldn’t let himself act on those feelings. And the sight made my own yearnings even more intense, to the point I could almost feel every cell in my body straining to get nearer to this enigmatic man. If only I didn’t have to hold back. I couldn’t act on those feeling though, at least not yet, so I forced myself to relax back into the sofa cushions and gave him the out I knew he needed.

“It’s okay, though. I know you’re not ready.”

Brian exhaled loudly, the frustration between what he so clearly wanted and what his brain was telling him was obviously getting to him as much as it was getting to me.

“Really, it’s okay,” I smiled. “But I didn't want there to be any confusion between us, you know? I really like you.” Thank fuck no one else was there to hear me say that, because it sounded so middle school coming out of my mouth, but if we were being honest, it's what I wanted. “And I want to kiss you. Whenever you’re ready.”

“It’s . . .” Brian cleared his throat and for the briefest of moments I was scared he was going to shut me down - tell me ‘thanks a lot, but I’m not interested’ - but then he started rubbing at his beard and all I wanted to do was go over there and pull at his hands to stop him from fidgeting. “It’s not that I don’t want to. You know that . . . right?”

I heard myself internally squeeing - at least I hope it was all internal. “I know.”

“I’m fucking messed up, Justin . . .”

“Brian . . .”

“Let me finish, please?” he begged. “I’m messed up - don’t think I don’t know that - I have so many issues . . . My parents . . . My grandfather . . . I . . . Fuck it, I just find it hard to trust . . . well, pretty much anything, you know? And I . . . Shit, I have no fucking idea how to fix . . . this,” he said, waving his hand wildly in front of him. “It’s like my brain is fighting against me all the time. One part of me wants to give in to you, but the other side won’t let me. And it’s fucking exhausting.”

“So, let me help you.”

He scoffed. “I think I’m beyond help, Justin.”

“You’re not beyond help, Brian. Do you realize how far you’ve come just since we met? You should be fucking proud of yourself. I know I am,” I insisted, because he obviously needed to be told that - repeatedly - since he clearly hadn’t internalized the sentiment.

I didn’t think it was possible with all that facial hair to see him blush, but I did.

“Besides, how do you know you’re beyond help? Do you have a degree in psychology hidden away in your past I don’t know about yet?”

“Not that I’m aware of, no,” he chuckled, and I could hear the relief as well as the nervousness in that small sound of amusement. “Just a regular online degree in marketing.”

“Ooh, fancy.”

“Not really, but it does help with the technical writing thing - half of what I do is subliminally sell the product after the fact to the consumer. So there’s, maybe, a little psychology involved in there.”

“But nothing that would help with a clinical diagnosis of your mental health issues or qualify you to give the conclusion that you’re beyond help. And even then I wouldn’t believe it. I see potential somewhere under that beard, Mr. Kinney, and you’ll soon learn to just accept that I’m always right about this shit,” I declared determinedly enough that nobody would have dared argue with me. “So, you let me be the judge of whether or not you’re too messed up for me, okay? I promise I’m not easily scared off. And in the meantime, you, mister, need to get your butt back to work.”

“And what are you going to do?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“I have my sketchbook with me. So, if you don’t mind the company, I’ll just make myself comfortable and create a new masterpiece. Sound good?”

He huffed and shook his head. “Like I said before, just like the fucking stray cat,” he mumbled under his breath, but I could see he wasn’t really all that upset at my announcement that I was staying put.

“It’s true, you know, once you feed us, we never go away,” I teased him. “I think you’re stuck with me forever now, Egbert.”

That earned me a chuckle, but since he didn’t argue or try to get me to leave, I knew I’d won, so let him laugh.

When he started to head out of the room, I picked up my bag and sketchpad and followed, making myself at home in one of his big, stuffed, armchairs, while my man went back to his laptop on the desk. And that was that. We just sat there together, not saying anything much and not even really looking at each other, for the rest of the afternoon. But it was probably the best afternoon I’d had in ages. I mean it. I hadn’t felt that content and at ease with another guy . . . well, ever . . . Strange, huh? But there was something about being with Brian that was somehow freeing. It felt like I didn’t have to pretend with him. I wasn’t trying to impress him or live up to unattainable standards. We were both just there and okay with each other, warts and all, and there was nobody around to judge us. It was the most peaceful I’d felt, probably in my whole fukcing life. So, even though I would normally be freaking out if things had moved this quickly with any other man, I was just fine with our quiet, content, companionable afternoon of doing nothing together.

It was also proving to be quite good for my art. I’d done three pretty remarkable sketches of my Hermit while I lounged the afternoon away, and all of them were pretty good, even if I did say so myself. I was in the middle of shading part of Brian’s profile on sketch number four - I’d started sketching out some of the detail of the wood panellings behind him but quickly got bored - when I was startled by something brushing against my legs. I looked up and caught Bill running past me at lighting speed, jumping up when he was still a good meter or so from the desk, and making himself nice and comfortable on his person’s lap. Brian didn’t even flinch when the cat launched itself onto him - the big, old, softie - instead, he simply continued on with what he was doing as if nothing had happened. I stopped myself from laughing because I didn’t want to interrupt the love, but there was something so fucking adorable about the big guy petting the cat he claimed not to want. Meanwhile, Brian just carried on, typing away with one hand while the other aimlessly stroked Bill behind his ears, causing the kitty to purr in pure delight.

Okay, this was definitely going to be my next sketch.

After a while, though, my fingers started to cramp up, which happens when I get totally lost in my art for, like, a bazillion hours. “Hey,” I cracked my knuckles to try and release some of the pressure I felt building up in them. “While you’re still busy writing, do you mind if I take another look at the dining room? There was some interesting artwork in there; I’d love to see if I can replicate some of it maybe.”

Brian turned to me and nodded. “Knock yourself out, Brat,” he said, going straight back to his laptop - like I said, total ease with each other already.

Brian might have continued tapping away at his computer, but at least Bill The Cat decided to join me on my explorations, so I had some company as I made my way back down the hall. The hallway itself was a little musty and dark - probably par for the course in a building of this age - and the walls showed the expected nicks and knocks in the paneling, but it was spotlessly clean, of course. The few pieces of art on the walls here were mostly boring old landscapes and still life pieces that didn’t really do much for me. Definitely nothing worth writing home about. But, then again, who ever looks at the artwork in a hallway, right? The stuff in that old board room, however, was another thing altogether. The big cubist painting in the center of the back wall had been particularly promising and I really wanted another look at it.

Bill beat me into the boardroom, jumping right up on the top of the big table and marching down the center of the expanse, his tail held high, as if he was in charge of the world. Gotta love a cat who knew his worth, right? Or was that all cats . . . Whatever. Bill didn’t care so why should I? Anyway, I left him to his strutting and made my way to the painting I’d wanted to examine.

While the two longer walls of the room were mostly windows, with only short stretches of actual wall between, the wall at the end of the room closest to the center of the building was a solid expanse broken only by the big double entry doors. The ceilings in here were fairly tall, so that left plenty of space over the top of the transom for a sizable painting to be displayed in its full glory. And the painting that held this place of honor was definitely worthy of the spot it held.

At first glance, the work was simplistic, which meant that a lot of non-artists might overlook it. The colors were a bit drab - olive greens and greys and rust reds - but the composition was unique. For those of us in the know, it was an almost perfect example of the early cubist school which, assuming it was an original, placed it somewhere around the beginning of the 20th century - maybe slightly earlier, as this particular piece was clearly a frontrunner of that movement. The lines were precise and clean and the colors were intense despite the fact that this painting was ostensibly over a hundred years old. My artist’s eye clearly picked up the theme of the painting - a still life depiction of the artist’s desk - built as it was out of large cubes of color. It was fucking beautiful, actually. And, unless I was wrong - and I might be because I couldn’t see any signature on the piece - I thought I actually recognized it as being one of the works of my own distant ancestor, Henry Fitch Taylor. I wondered if my Stylite knew he was sitting on a fucking fortune of art here; not that he would probably care, but I happened to know for a fact that another of this artist’s works was in the damned Smithsonian, so . . . Yeah, he probably had no idea what he had here.

In an attempt to try and get an even better look at the painting than I could get way down here on the floor, I ended up pulling one of the chairs over closer to the wall and positioning it off to the right of the doors. I climbed up on the chair, bracing myself against the wall to maintain my balance, while I tried to crane my neck around far enough to peek over the edge of the frame in the lower right hand corner where I suspected the signature might be. I couldn't quite get high enough though, so I tried lifting one foot up to the top of the seat back and hooked my fingers over the top of the moulding on the wall and sorta lifted myself as high as I could without toppling over and . . .

There was an audible *click* and the entire panel of the wall where I’d been leaning started to move, creaking inward and causing me to topple ass-backwards off the chair onto the floor below.

What the actual hell?

“Um . . . Brian?” I yelled out as loud as I could, hoping my voice carried all the way down the hall. “I think I broke your house.”

I could hear footsteps coming at a fast pace down the hall towards me almost immediately. At the same time Bill, who’d jumped down off the table to investigate why I was lying on the floor, began to sniff at me and meow in sympathy for my plight. I reached out to pet at the beast, silently thanking him for his concern. But, just as I was about to attempt to get back up to my feet, Bill left off his concern for me and took up an interest in the intriguing new hole in the wall in front of me.

“What the fuck?” Brian exclaimed, barrelling around the corner and finding me lying before the large crack in the wall of his dining room.

“I’m sooooooo sorry, Brian. I was just trying to see over the edge of the frame of that picture,” I pointed to the painting, “and I started to fall so I grabbed onto the top of the moulding on the wall there and the next thing I knew the whole panel had swung inwards. How bad is it damaged?”

From my place on the floor I could see the confusion written all over Brian’s face - even though his face was upside down to me. “What the hell is this?” he asked as he stepped over me and attempted to peer into the hole.

As Brian touched the panel that had seemed to break, it creaked open even further. I couldn’t see anything through the gaping black crack in the wall except that whatever hole was back there was dusty and lightless. The smell of damp  mustiness that exuded from the space wasn’t encouraging. I saw my poor OCD Boy yank his hand back as fast as he could move it, because, yeah, dust and yuck and who knew what else could be back there, right? Even I wasn’t keen on musty holes in the wall.

Bill, on the other hand, was absolutely fascinated by whatever it was he smelled wafting up from that dank nothingness. Before anyone even realized what was going on, Bill had padded up to the crack in the wall, nosed at the panel so as to push the opening even wider, and then just disappeared into the darkness beyond.

“Bill! Where the fuck are you going? Bill, get back here!” Brian yelled at the cat who, of course, ignored him, because cats aren’t big on obeying, especially not when there’s an exciting new place with new smells to explore. “Shit! What’s he doing in there?  William, you get your furry little ass out here right now! Damn it, he’s going to get stuck in the walls or something . . .”

By that point I had finally managed to roll over and crawl to my feet, trying not to think about the fact that my ass was throbbing and sore because of my fall. I didn’t think it was possible to break your ass - at least not one as well padded as mine was, thank you very much - but even if I had broken something, I had other things to worry about right then, so the pain in my ass would have to wait. First, I’d have to deal with the cat pain in my Eggy’s ass.

“I’ll get him out,” I promised, knowing that there was no way in hell that my neat freak wannabe boyfriend would ever in a million years be able to venture into that dank hole, beloved cat or not.

I pushed against the panel again, causing it to swing all the way backward into the space that had been opened up in the wall. The area behind was pitch black; all you saw was the foot or so that was illuminated by the lights in the room. That small glimpse revealed a tight, tunnel-like space with rough wood walls, leading to even more blackness. There was no sign of the fucking cat even once I’d stuck my head in a little ways and called out for the beast. All I got for my troubles was a lungful of dust that caused an almost instantaneous sneezing attack.

Egbert handed me a wad of tissues - I was too busy sneezing to see where he got them from, or did he just come pre-supplied with germ protection items, who knew? - and I eventually mopped myself up, shoving the used tissues into my pocket to deal with later. Then I pulled my phone out and swiped at the flashlight icon so I could use it to light my way. The first thing the light revealed was a virtual curtain of dirty cobwebs blocking the opening just behind the panel that had now swung all the way open till it was flush up against a wall on the right. I could sense poor Brian recoiling from the horror of all that dust and dirt without even looking at him. Not that I was exactly thrilled by the prospect myself, mind you. But, since there was no sign of Bill anywhere in my flashlight app’s reach, it didn’t seem I had a choice.

Holding one of the remaining tissues over my nose and mouth to try and fend off any additional sneezing fits, I steeled my resolve and reached out with my other hand to brush away the cobwebs before stepping through the small opening. I had to keep hunched over because the space was not exactly large, but it did appear to open up a little bit after a few feet. With my phone held out in front of me, I advanced one step at a time, feeling with my toes as I went to make sure the boards under me were solid. Luckily, before I was more than a meter inside the hole, the tunnel I had been in opened up and I found myself standing at the top of a secret stairwell going all the way down the several stories of the old building. The steps were narrow and steep, winding in on themselves, and only bordered by a very crude railing that didn’t look at all stable. The entire space was no more than six feet square, at most, but obviously went down several dozen meters. I held my phone out over the well of the dropoff and looked over the closest railing, but all I could see were more stairs below me.

“Hey, Eggy,” I called back over my shoulder. “I get that you have a germ thing, but do you also have a claustrophobia thing? Because, if so, I don’t think you’re going to like this . . .”

Chapter 12 - Wish Lunch Could Last Forever.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty,” I shouted down the hole of the black-as-night stairwell. “Come on, Bill. Get your furry ass back here. William . . . I’m not kidding here. This is getting really annoying . . .”  

“Bill IS fucking annoying. That’s kind of his thing,” I could hear Brian muttering from outside the secret door and it made me smile - no matter what Brian said, he loved that damn cat.

I’d been calling out for over five minutes by that point, with no luck, so my hopes that Bill would actually come when I called him were fading fast. Bill didn’t strike me as the kind of pussy who liked obeying orders. Especially not when there was a big, new, strange-smelling, secret stairwell to explore.

“Can you see him?” Brian called out.

“No . . . not yet. But I don’t wanna go any further. I don’t know how safe these stairs are,” I yelled back, tapping my foot gently on the next step to test it out.

“What’s it look like down there?”

I couldn’t really see much, other than the million cobwebs, the clumps of dirt, and the mounds of dust that littered the small confined space - but I wasn’t going to tell HIM about any of that. Just the thought of all that filth might send my OCD Man into some sort of panic.

“Is it dark?” I rolled my eyes at his question. Of course it was dark, what did he expect? I was in a hole in the fucking wall.

“Yeah, practically pitch black,” I called back.

I thought about it for a second and figured maybe I could take a picture on my phone . . . of the stairway at least. I turned on the flash for the camera app on my phone and began taking pictures - it would help me get a better idea of what was down here too. There was only so much I could see with the light from my phone alone.

“What the hell was that?” I could hear the worry in Brian’s voice as he must have seen the bright flashes of light when I took the photos. Oops, maybe I should have warned him about that.

“Sorry, that was me taking pictures. I thought you might wanna see what’s down here,” I explained, coughing loudly in the process.

The dust down here wasn’t doing my asthma or allergies any good. I could hear myself already starting to wheeze as if I’d smoked forty-a-day. I patted the pockets of my pants looking for my inhaler but quickly remembered it was in the pocket of my hoodie, which I’d thrown onto one of the chairs in the boardroom as I was looking at some of the other paintings on the wall. Fuck! I turned around and shuffled as quickly as I could back towards the staircase entrance. I tried to stay calm, because the moment I panicked my asthma would get worse, and I really didn’t want this to turn into a full blown attack. As soon as I got to the door I bent over to get through the narrow opening and felt myself tumble out onto the floor - a huge cloud of dust following closely behind. All I could see of my man was his shoes as he moved as far away from me as possible.

“My . . .” the coughing continued as I tried to take in deep breaths of clean air. “My hoodie . . .”

“Huh?” Brian asked, completely oblivious as to what I was asking for.

I vaguely pointed towards the chair with my discarded sweat shirt on it as I got up onto my knees, hunching over as I tried to breathe. Brian didn’t move - if anything he took a couple of steps backwards - as if in horror at the dusty, wheezing mess at his feet. I couldn’t do anything other than sit and huff, though. Maybe going down into that stupid stairwell to find the damned cat wasn’t such a good idea after all? Ya think?

“My in . . .” I began, gasping loudly, “my inhaler . . . for my asthma . . . it’s . . . in . . .” I pointed again at the article of clothing just a few meters away.

Brian hesitated, shifting back and forth on his feet, wringing his hands, and looking almost like a pro-boxer doing some bizarre warm-up exercises as he jogged in place. I felt my chest tightening. If I didn’t get to my inhaler soon I knew I would pass out. It had happened before - lots of times unfortunately - and that was not something I wanted to happen today.

“Please?” I sounded pitiful as I begged for his help, but what the fuck, it’s how I felt.

I could see Brian shuffling nervously, bouncing from foot to foot as he debated with himself about what to do. But I couldn’t wait any longer. I started to crawl towards the chair.

“Stop!” He called out loudly. “Don’t move.”

I watched as he ran towards the chair and, with shaking hands, he picked up my sweater. I watched intently as he searched for the pocket, easily locating my inhaler. His whole body seemed to be vibrating with unwanted adrenaline, but he held my inhaler tightly in his hand as he rushed towards me, holding it out for me.

“Here, take it.”

I didn’t even think about what a huge deal this was for him, I was too busy dying from lack of oxygen. I snatched the inhaler from his hand and popped off the lid before taking a deep breath and spraying it down my throat. Then I did it again. After a few more puffs, I could feel my airways opening back up. Thank fuck and whoever invented Albuterol!

“Thanks,” I wheezed, my voice sounding croaky and my chest aching a little with each word I spoke.

I turned to Brian and tried to give him my most reassuring smile.

“All better now?” He asked. “You really scared me.”

“You?”

He nodded and even through the bushiness of his beard I could see him biting nervously at his lip. “Yeah, I thought you were going to just stop breathing.”

I could see the genuine concern in his eyes, but I could also see him scratching wildly at his arms through his shirt sleeves. I got up from the floor and instantly realized I was filthy as fuck. I didn’t have to look down to see that, however, since I could tell just from the horrified look on Brian’s face.

“I need to . . .” Brian hooked his thumb over his shoulder and bolted from the room.

Seconds later I heard the shower running in his apartment and knew he was in there scrubbing himself clean.

I didn’t know what to do next, I was covered from head to toe in dust and the last thing I wanted to do was traipse through his place and contaminate the whole building. If I did that, he’d probably NEVER leave his shower and, as appealing as the idea of my man all wet & soapy was, that didn't seem very productive. So I patiently stayed where I was until I heard the bathroom door opening back up about twenty minutes later.

“Brian, where’s your vacuum?”

I heard him shuffling down the hallway and then saw him stop outside the dining room door, dressed in new clothes, and looking remarkably delicious with his wet hair all curled up from the shower. “It’s in the closet down the hall.”

“Grab it for me, will you?” I asked, “and I’ll clean this up.” I heard him sigh with relief as he walked off to retrieve the vacuum. Seconds later he stood hovering with it outside the room. “Leave it there, I’ll come get it.” As I took it from him, I made sure that our hands didn’t touch, but damn, I wanted to touch him. He smelled so clean and . . . yummy. It took me a moment to recognize the scent, but it was D&G’s ‘Light Blue’ and, fuck me, if that wasn’t already my favorite smell, it would be now.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, managing to keep my lust-filled thoughts to myself, but only just barely.

I quickly vacuumed up the mess around me all the way to the wall. I made sure the door to the tunnel was pushed mostly closed but left it cracked open just enough that Bill could find his way back out. After I’d thoroughly vacuumed the carpet, I turned the hose on myself - why not, right? It was of course then that Brian decided to wander by. He stopped outside the door and looked at me like I was crazy.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m dusty . . .” I really didn’t know how else to answer that.

He shook his head and continued to watch me suck the dust from my clothes as best I could. “This is quite possibly the weirdest shit I have ever seen,” he chuckled softly.

“Well, I didn’t want to walk out and dirty your floor with my clothes,” I tried to explain; vacuuming my clothes didn’t seem so weird when I first thought about it, but now . . .

“Let me grab you something to change into,” Brian suggested - and although this was his idea, he sounded completely freaked out by it.

“Thanks,” I yelled out at his retreating form.

Moments later Brian returned and threw a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt my way. “They’ll be huge on you, seeing as you’re a midget.”

“A midget?” I scoffed. “I’m not THAT much shorter than you.”

“You keep telling yourself that, but you’re like a little oompa-loompa,” he laughed at his own joke and I couldn’t stop myself from joining in.

“I promise to wash them and bring them right back.”

“It’s okay,” Brian shook his head. “You can keep them.”

And while I knew the reason Brian didn’t want the clothes back was because of ‘contamination’, I still loved the idea of taking these home with me and wearing them around the house. In a weird way it was like I was going to be taking a little of Brian back with me. Too bad they’d been recently washed and didn’t smell like that cologne.

With Brian still standing there looking at me, I started to get changed. I didn’t even think about whether I should be doing it or not; I just wanted out of those dirty clothes. I removed my long sleeved tee first, and the moment the material was over my head I could feel his stare burning into me. I looked up and found his eyes were glazed over as he took me in. Without thinking, I ran my fingers over my stomach and down towards the button of my pants, loving how sexy I felt standing there.

“Do you want me to finish getting changed in the bathroom?” I asked, huskily.

Brian licked his lips and shook his head, his body was now leaning heavily against the frame of the door. “No. Stay right where you are.”

My fingers reached for the button of my pants and I snapped them open, sticking my hand inside and giving myself a little squeeze. I heard him groan loudly as I did it, feeling incredibly empowered by the way I was turning him on. I looped my thumbs into the top of my pants and tugged them down, leaving me standing there in just my tight, black boxer briefs.

“You’re so fucking pale.” His eyes continued to travel up and down my body. “Like some kind of sexy vampire.”

“Well, the sun isn’t my friend,” I teased, loving the feel of him looking at me like this. I felt kind of slutty, but the good kind of slutty, you know? So I didn’t care.

“I . . .” he struggled with his words but was determined to say what was on his mind. “I wish I could touch you.”

Hearing him say that made my heart feel as though it was being squeezed tightly. “I know . . . I wish you could too.” I didn’t want to make him feel guilty by saying that, but I needed him to know I wanted him just as much as he seemed to want me.

I picked up the clean t-shirt he’d thrown at me. It was huge, just like he said it would be, and I could hear him laughing quietly from the doorway. Next, I pulled on the sweats. I ended up having to roll them up a couple of times at the waist so they weren’t dragging on the floor.

“And you don’t think you’re a midget,” he teased.

I fucking loved this; how we could switch so easily from one thing to another. It didn’t feel awkward or forced. It didn’t feel like we’d only met a week or so earlier. It felt natural.

“Now, pick up your dirty shit and put them in this,” he said as he chucked a plastic bag my way. “We clearly have more research to do.”

Brian set me up on his laptop in the office - after supervising me while I used about two dozen of his wet wipes to clean as much of the dirt and dust off my hands and face as I could reach - and I set to work. I remembered some sites our Art & Architecture professor had recommended to us for finding blueprints on historic buildings, so I started there. Our building was a tricky one because it wasn’t important enough to be found on the major historical building indexes, but it was old enough that it wasn’t on the regular county sites. It took me a good forty-five minutes to track down the blueprints, with my Egbert hovering nervously in the background, but I was eventually able to pull something off the net.

“These are useless,” Brian grumbled, leaning over my shoulder to look at the screen showing page one of the building plans. “They don’t show the damn secret passage at all.”

“Well, if they did, it wouldn’t be a SECRET passage, now would it?” I teased him as I scanned through the other pages to confirm that there was no hint of the hidden staircase on any of them. “It looks like that whole section of the building was supposed to be an empty ventilation shaft according to these. Which, by the way, was quite the innovation for 1885, when breathing was considered borderline extraneous. Hence the crappy air quality in the Pittsburgh area of the era.” I clicked through a few more pages and then decided to give up. “Sorry, Eggy, there’s nothing on here that’s going to help us.”

“But, then, how do I know where the fuck that damn staircase goes? All these years I had no idea that was even there. I don’t think Don knew either or he would have been bragging on it and making shit up about Prohibition speakeasies or some other crap. But . . .”

“What?” I asked. I could tell this was bothering my man more than it should by the way he was jittering and rubbing his hands together. “I mean, YOU might not have known it was there, but from the looks of the place it’s original to the building. Which means it’s been there all along without causing any problems. The stairs might be rotten, but I don’t see why the passage itself would cause any problems as long as the building is structurally sound.”

“It’s not that,” Brian insisted, biting at his gorgeous bottom lip and temporarily distracting me from what he was saying with fantasies of me doing the same thing. “. . . if it opens to the outside, anyone could come in. I’ll have to call in somebody to install locks or something and . . .”

“Whoa, there, cowboy,” I tried to derail the OCD train before it got too much steam behind it. “There’s no evidence that the passage even leads anywhere, Eggy. As far as we know, it’s just an internal staircase that goes down to the main floor. And nobody’s come in that way before, right, so why would you think people would all of a sudden start invading your tower now? I think you’re probably over-reacting.”

“I hate people telling me I’m over-reacting,” my flustered fussbudget grumbled.

“Sorry, Eggy. I didn’t mean anything by it,” I rushed to reassure him. “It’s just that - I promise you - I didn’t see any indications that anyone else had been in there anytime this century. Trust me on this. Nobody’s going to sneak up on you using THAT staircase.”

However, he still didn’t look convinced, so I was forced to resort to the photographic evidence. I pulled a USB cable out of my messenger bag and hooked up my phone to the laptop, allowing me to upload all the pics I’d taken of the hole. I hesitated a couple of seconds, debating with myself whether or not showing my OCD beauty pictures of all the dirt living inside his walls was a good thing or not, but in the end I decided it was best to allay his current anxieties about an intruder right away and then deal with any unintended fallout from the expected dirt-pocalypse later. Just to be safe, though, I figured I needed to make sure OCD Man was seated and calm before I showed him the pics.

“Come here, Big Guy,” I directed, hooking the closest unused armchair with my foot and dragging it over so he would have a place to plant himself. “Sit down.” He hesitated, which made me smile because, what did he think I was trying to do - get better access to his hot, hard bod so I could grope him against his will, or something? Not that the prospect wasn’t appealing, mind you. But I would save that for later. “Calm yourself. I just want to show you something.”

My big scaredy cat reluctantly complied, taking the seat but acting like he was expecting me to spring on him at any second - he’s so adorable sometimes, isn’t he? I ignored him for the moment and returned my attention to the computer, clicking around till I got the first photo opened. It was a lovely shot of the area leading down from the top landing of the stairway, showing a virtual wall of cobwebs across the path.

“Now, don’t panic,” I warned him as I turned the computer screen so he could see it better. “I’m only showing these to you to prove that nobody’s been using that staircase to sneak into your building. See?” I clicked on the next photo, one showing a little ways further down the shaft of the staircase, which was even more coated with ancient, filthy, spiderwebs and uninterrupted dirt. “Trust me, no one has been up those stairs in the better part of a century. And that’s even assuming that the wood isn’t so rotten that they’d fall right through it. You’re perfectly safe from intruders coming in that way.”

I could feel the shudders of revulsion that rocked through him as I clicked through the rest of the photos. The struggle between his admitted OCD and what I suspected was a strong competing diagnosis of Agoraphobia, was real. My poor Eggy - so beautiful and yet so flawed - probably why I couldn’t stay away from him. I’d always been a sucker for the vulnerable type. And to find someone who was simultaneously vulnerable and also temperamentally dominant . . . well, let’s just say I was intrigued. But, getting back to the pictures we were reviewing, there was no denying the evidence which proved that no human had come through that muck in quite a while.

“Okay. I . . . I see what you’re saying,” he conceded. “But, what if those stairs go someplace I don’t know about? Maybe the stairs themselves are safe - I see your point that, obviously, nobody has come up them in ages - but I’d feel better if I knew where the fuck they went. You know?”

“Well, not sure how we figure that out without accurate blueprints. I mean, if we could be sure it was safe, we could try following the stairs down, but I don’t know if I want to risk that unless we get someone in to look it over and make sure it’s okay. And, I take it from the fucking delicious way you’re crinkling your nose up at that suggestion, that you’re not in favor of that option. So . . .”

He didn’t bother to answer me other than to shake his head at the suggestion of bringing an outsider into his fortress of solitude. I didn’t have any other ideas, so I just sat there, waiting, and admiring the way he pulled at the hairs on his chin while he thought through the matter. I really needed to get a grip on myself, and control the lust response I kept having to this man before I made a total fool out of myself. But the view was just soooo nice, you know?

“I think, maybe, there might be other paperwork about the building down in the basement. I . . . I don’t go down there much . . . I remember my Grandfather kept boxes of shit down there, though. Do you think there might be some blueprints down there that would help us?”

“I didn’t even know there was a basement to this place, actually,” I responded, returning to the plans I’d found online. “Huh. There it is. That’s interesting. Not a lot of older buildings have basements, I thought.”

“I think all the places in this area do,” he corrected me. “The original street level was lower than it is now, so all the buildings have a lower level that eventually got buried when they leveled the streets and repaved back in the early twentieth century. Which is one of the reasons I never go down there - there’s no exit or light or anything.”

“Well, it’s worth a try,” I suggested. “You wanna go on an adventure with me, Eggy? We can pretend we’re on a ‘Journey To The Center of The Earth’ or something. It’ll be a blast.”

Chapter 13 - I Don’t Wanna Go Down To The Basement.

It took a little persuasion, but I eventually got Brian to agree to head down to the basement with me.

I admit, I was actually curious to see what it was like down there. The flip side to a love of beautiful architecture is an insatiable desire to investigate the less beautiful underpinnings of the same buildings. Whatever it is that holds them up. The ‘bones’ of the building.

The bones aren’t usually as attractive as the outward face of a building, but you can tell a lot about an edifice by looking at the foundations. Is it just a pretty nothing, thrown up quickly, but without taking care to make sure it’s built to last? Did the builders use cheap materials and not really care how it was built? Is it thrown together in a muddle without any real, coherent planning? Or did they put real effort into the structure, with the clear intent of creating something that would last for a long, long time? It was those types of buildings - the ones designed with longevity and purpose - that turn out the most sexy, if you ask me. So, I was really hoping that MY building would be one of the latter sort. The kind of building whose very roots are sensual and strong and make you want to live inside them.

When I mentioned some of this stuff to Brian on our way down, I swear I could literally hear his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

“What?” I asked, as I tried my best to sound offended.

He laughed quietly to himself before he turned and spoke to me. “If Wikipedia was a person, it would look like you.”

I shrugged my shoulders. It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but I guess I do have a tendency to randomly spout off facts I have learned along the way. I’ve always done it though. It’s definitely something Daph gets great pleasure in teasing me about. The more I think about it, the more I was sure those two would get on - once my Eggy got past the whole agoraphobic thing.

Right away, though, I was reassured by the bones of this building. Brian led me down to the main floor and unlocked a door to the old Pizza place that had occupied the western side of the building. I myself had never been in Monte Cello’s Pizza back when it was open but it looked like it was a fun little space and I wondered why it had closed. Brian ignored the empty restaurant, though, making his way into the small but adequate kitchen area and then unlocking another door hidden in the back that revealed a poorly lit stairwell leading down into the depths of the city’s underground.

The walls here were plain, uncovered, red brick. The wooden risers of the steps were solid, looked like they were made of some old-growth wood, and had clearly held up well to the ravages of time. And even though we were in a basement passage, the builder hadn’t skimped on headroom so it didn’t feel too cramped. Yep, this was my kind of building - I could already tell.

It was a little less dingy and had fewer cobwebs than the staircase we’d found upstairs, but it wasn’t exactly clean and I could tell my OCD Buddy wasn’t nearly as sanguine about walking down those steps as he tried to pretend. I heard Brian take a deep breath as he pulled a wad of tissues from his pocket and used them to open the door to the basement itself. Once the door was open he shoved his hands back deeply into his pockets. The guy was a nervous wreck, his shoulders were practically touching his ears they were so tightly hunched.

“Are you gonna be okay?” I asked worriedly.

This was a big deal for poor Eggy and I could see from the way he was holding his body so tightly that he was feeling extremely anxious about the whole thing. As I waited for him to answer, I let out a small cough . . . the dust down here wasn’t even that bad, and I’d taken an allergy pill which should be kicking in soon, but my chest was still aggravated from my asthma attack upstairs.

Brian ignored my question - another coping mechanism of his that I had noticed and stored away to discuss with Daphne later that night.

“Are YOU going to be okay?” He asked. “Maybe you should take a puff from your inhaler before we go any further.”

He stood there watching me until I reached into my pocket and pulled out my asthma medication. His eyes were on me the whole time - even as I shook the damn thing - as though he was worried I wouldn’t do it right or something. Who knew what was going on in that beautiful brain of his.

“All done.” I grinned as I waved my little blue pump in his face like the annoying brat that I was. “Now, you wanna lead the way?”

He thought about it for a moment and then nodded his head.

The room was dark and I didn’t even think to check if there were any working lights down there, I just pulled out my phone and switched on my trusty flashlight app. Brian huffed at me with amusement and took a few steps over to the wall where he flipped a switch and turned on the lights for the whole basement. Okay, so here’s me feeling embarrassed that I was secretly hoping it would be all dark and scary and 19th Century romantic down here, and my Eggy would have to cling to me for comfort in the dark and all, only to find that, yes, we were still living in the 21st Century so of course there are lights. But whatever. I can fantasize about anything I want in my own mind, right?

The basement was obviously unfinished. There was some rough framing put in to shore up the old brick foundations, and some steel support posts that seemed to have been added more recently, probably to bring it up to code. The floor was rough concrete. But, except for that and what looked like some high-end HVAC equipment, it was just another old, dank, dusty basement. At least it was cleaner than the hidden staircase, though, or my OCD Man would have been freaking out even more than he already was.

“God, there’s so much shit down here,” Brian signed loudly as he took in the stacks of boxes and old furniture that filled most of the room.

I wandered around a bit while Brian headed straight over to one particular set of stacks. I immediately saw that my assumptions were proved right - this building was built to last. The materials they’d used were of excellent quality and, even though they were over a hundred years old, seemed to have held up remarkably well. Good, solid brickwork. Large, old-growth timber beams in the ceiling. Yep, it definitely had good ‘bones’.

Over near the eastern end of the foundations, I could see the outline of where an old door had been bricked up. There was a matching, bricked-in, window next to it. This must have been the ‘rear entrance’ back when the building was first erected. Judging by the fact that this door wasn’t all that elaborate, though, I figured that the big, main door on the floor above - on what was NOW the ground floor - must always have been intended to be the main entrance. This indicated to me that the land here might have originally been much more steeply sloped than it was these days - something that I remember my professor talking about in class, along with how large swaths of Pittsburgh had been flattened out to make the downtown area less hilly - a fact which comported with what Brian had told me earlier about how the street level had once been lower. And that also explained why there was a ‘Pittsburgh Toilet’ and a utility sink installed just to the left of the old door, so that workers and others coming in from the less than hospitable muck of Pittsburgh’s environs of the day could relieve themselves and clean up before going upstairs. Typical Pittsburgh construction, obviously.

As I wandered around, I noticed fairly quickly that even though there were lots of boxes down here, they all seemed to be neatly labelled, and at least cursorily organized, so hopefully it shouldn’t take us too long to find what we were looking for. I watched out of the corner of my eye as Brian kicked at one stack of boxes blocking his path, hoping that would be enough to move them and that he wouldn’t have to actually touch anything. Sadly that wasn’t the case.

“Fuck,” he cursed loudly, the frustration etched so clearly and painfully on his face.

“I can do it,” I suggested; I had planned on doing it all anyway as I really hadn’t expected Brian to touch anything down here in the first place.

He huffed loudly. Silently resenting how much he was struggling. “No . . . it’s fine.”

I watched proudly as he used some clean tissues he’d pulled out from his never ending stash and used them to help him turn the boxes around until he could read what was on them. It didn’t take long to find a box marked ‘Building Repairs’.

“Ah ha. I think this might be what we’re looking for,” Brian announced as he lifted the box up with a slight grunt and brought it over to me.

I took pity on his tissue clad hands and tore the tape off the box myself. It was full to the brim with yellowing papers, but after only a couple of minutes of digging around, I found what we were looking for. There, in my hands, was another set of building plans - these much older and looking like they’d been hand drawn - this time including the secret staircase leading off the boardroom.

“Look, look, we found it!” I grinned, waving the papers in Brian’s face.

Using his tissue hand protection, Brian took the yellowed old building plans out of my hands and laid them out over the top of a neighboring stack of boxes so he could examine them more closely. I looked on from the other side, which meant I was forced to read everything upside down, but that happened to be another of my wondrous talents, so it didn’t bother me. There on the plans you could clearly see the demarcation of the hidden staircase, marked ‘Private Stairs’ on the plans. It showed that the staircase did indeed go all the way from the top floor down to the basement, which at the time had been the ‘Ground Floor’.

“Hmmm. If these plans are correct, then the staircase would open out somewhere over here . . .” I surmised, moving towards the westernmost apex of the building’s foundations to try and find the bottom of the missing stairs. “That’s odd. It seems like the basement ends here,” I said, patting the bricks of what looked like a solid wall, “but there should be at least another four or five meters of space down here. You’d expect the basement foundations to mirror the shape of the building up above, right? So, why is there a wall HERE? Why doesn’t the basement carry on to the end of the building’s western triangle point?”

“Beats me,” Brian sighed as he looked around the room as if mentally measuring it. “Hey, can we maybe go figure this shit out upstairs . . . I never really liked it down here.”

I could see how on edge the basement made Brian, and I wanted nothing more than to go straight back upstairs with him because, clearly, he had some unpleasant memories of this place. And that was what I was just about to do when something about the brick wall I had been standing against caught my eye. I’m not sure what it was exactly - but the bricks weren’t completely aligned and that was really grinding at my artistic mind. The craftsmanship of this building was incredible, so the shoddy brickwork stuck out - to me at least. Maybe to a normal human being it wouldn’t be noticeable at all. I simply couldn’t leave an anomaly like that be, however.

“Yeah, sure. Why don’t you head on up . . . I’ll join you in a minute.”

Poor Egbert didn’t move; he just folded his arms across his chest and let out a really loud sigh. “Why ‘in a minute’ and not right now?” he asked, undoubtedly frustrated with me and my shenanigans.

I pointed to the odd brick wall. “I just wanna take a closer look at that.”

With my supervising angel watching over me, I began to feel along the length of the wall. I wasn’t sure what I thought I might find by doing that - it wasn’t as though I would come across something as crazy (and exciting) as a time portal that would suddenly whisk me away to another time period. Fuck, how crazy would that be? I laughed quietly to myself as I continued to press against the brickwork. You could clearly feel the demarcation line where the smoother, normal brickwork seemed to jut out a couple of extra centimeters. It wasn’t really that much, but it still didn’t make sense when everything else around us had been crafted so perfectly, with exact plumb lines maintained at all times. I let my fingers glide up and down this line of offset bricks as they zig-zagged upwards and confirmed that the break went all the way from floor to ceiling. One of the bricks, however, stood out even further than all the rest - this one at about chest height - making it possible to run my fingers all around the entire outline of the dark red building block. There was just something about this wall that didn’t make any sense.

I’m not sure what induced me to try and press on that one brick. Maybe it was just my inherent sense of order exerting its influence or something, but I felt like I needed to push that one out-of-alignment brick back into place, you know? It was wrong. It was messing up my whole building. You can’t have one offset brick maring the beautiful bones of an architectural wonder. It was obscene.

So, I shoved at the brick with the palm of my hand and . . . It moved!

There was some initial resistance, of course, but I’d felt just the tiniest hint of movement so I pushed even harder and, to my astonishment, the entire brick slid inward creating a brick-shaped indentation in the wall. Intrigued, I just kept pushing it, further and further, thinking it would eventually stop when it hit a solid foundation or the surrounding dirt and rock that the building was supposedly built upon, but it didn’t stop. Apparently, there was just empty space behind that one brick, and it kept sliding further and further back until I heard an audible ‘click’. The sound surprised me and I let go of the brick, which popped back out a centimeter or two with another metallic click before stopping short of being flush with the other bricks. And, at the same time as the second click sounded off, that entire offset section of the wall shuddered and then started to swing away from me, leaving a gaping hole in the previously solid expanse.

“Shit, Sunshine. Quit breaking my damn building, will you?” Brian complained as he hurried over to stand behind me so he could look at whatever I’d done now.

“I can’t seem to help myself. I’m a menace. You’d better stop me before I knock the whole place over,” I bemoaned my actions as I stepped back away from the dark entrance to whatever lay behind the fake wall. “This does explain why we couldn’t find the bottom of your hidden stairs, though. I’m assuming they open out onto whatever’s on the other side of this wall. But this room wasn’t on either set of blueprints.”

I could physically feel Brian shudder beside me as he looked into the deep, pitch dark hole.

“I swear to God, if there are bats or ghosts or any of that shit living in there I’m gonna be pissed.” Brian muttered, glaring at the opening as if it where the Hellmouth itself. “You just HAD to go and find another mystery, didn’t you? As if one secret staircase wasn’t enough? You have to find a Pit of Despair in my fucking basement? It was bad enough as it was. I hate it down here. Always have. Always will. And now there’s this to add to it? Shit. Can we go back upstairs now? Please?”

“It’s not a Pit of Despair, Eggy, it’s just an unused room,” I tried to reassure him as I pushed the fake brick doorway a little wider, revealing even more darkness behind it.

“Maybe not to you it isn’t. But it is for me.” He hesitated a moment, as if debating with himself whether or not to speak, but apparently deciding to continue. “I hate the dark almost as much as I hate the idea of germs. I . . . I used to dread being sent down here . . .”

The way he’d said ‘sent down here’ sounded so ominous, it even caused goosebumps to raise on my skin. “You mean as a kid? Why would anyone send you down here?” I asked, not sure where he was going with this.

“Yeah . . . My gra . . . Don . . . he didn’t like it when I would get upset. Which, when I first came to live with him, happened a lot . . .” He cleared his throat and I could hear the sadness in his voice. “He used to make fun of me when I’d get sad and cry about my parents. He called me a ‘sissy boy’ and said he’d ‘give me something to cry about’. Then, if I didn’t stop, he’d shove me down here in the basement and tell me I could come up when I finally ‘grew some balls and stopped snivelling like a fucking baby’. So . . . yeah . . . I spent a fair share of my time down here. Of course, that’s before I had the lighting put in and all, so . . . Let’s just leave it at I just don’t like the dark. Or basements. Or dirt.”

Brian’s explanation tapered off, leaving me feeling lost and sad and so enraged at this long-dead, abusive grandfather that I felt like I was about to explode. How dare that old prick traumatize a poor kid - his own flesh and blood - like that. For what? Being sad that he’d lost his parents? That was fifteen ways of fucked. It did go a long way to explaining some of the reasons behind my Eggy’s many psychological hang ups, though. Shit, with a monster like Donal raising him, it was surprising he wasn’t even more fucked up than he seemed, to be honest. It also left me wanting more than anything to wrap him up in my arms and comfort him, which I couldn’t do for obvious reasons, and fuck Donal for that too. If I ever came across that old man’s ghost I would definitely have a few choice words for the fucker.

Thinking about taking out my ire on the man’s ghost, however, might have been a mistake. It seemed my wayward conjecture had conjured a ready apparition right out thin air when, a moment later, we both almost jumped out of our skins as a dull clattering sound emerged from out of the fathomless blackness we’d been staring into. I was momentarily frozen in place, not sure whether to just run or to try and reach in, grab the door, and pull it closed so as to barricade ourselves from whatever was coming for us. Meanwhile, Eggy had squeaked a tiny moan of protest - a fucking adorable sound, might I add, not that I would comment on that fact for fear of somehow challenging the poor thing’s manhood - and I could almost hear his bones chattering as he started to quake with trepidation. Of course, this had an invigorating effect on me, and I immediately realized I needed to quench my own sense of fear so I could be the rational one here.

Obviously, we were both overreacting. There was probably nothing to fear from whatever was back there. It was more the unknown and the surprise that had thrown me than anything. Logically, I knew there was no such thing as ghosts; there would no doubt be some completely reasonable explanation for whatever had made that noise, right? I just had to man up and face it and then reassure poor Egbert before he totally freaked out here.

Before I could respond to my Eggy’s fears, though, the source of the noises coming from the room appeared, and I almost laughed at how ridiculous I had been acting a second before.

It wasn’t a ghost, it was just a curious feline who’d apparently made his way through whatever secret passages he’d discovered and come out the other end to find his master. Poor Bill was covered in cobwebs and dust but looked thoroughly pleased with his adventures nonetheless. He sidled up to me, purring with happiness, and snaked his body around my ankles, leaving a contrail of cobwebs on the leg of my borrowed sweatpants in the process. It wasn’t till our dear William began to head towards Brian’s ankle that his person finally came to life and started to back away from the dirty kitty.

“Oh no,” Brian wagged his finger at Bill and continued to back away. “If you think you’re coming ANYWHERE near me looking like THAT, you have another thing coming,” he scolded the poor cat, who, strangely seemed to sense his master’s distress and started purring away at him in kitty language like he was apologizing for his wrongdoings.

“At least we finally found, Bill . . .” I offered, bending down to pick up the poor puss before he threatened Brian with another dirt attack.

Brian scoffed loudly and turned around, heading towards the exit of the basement. “First it was a freaking cat, now I’ve also got a resident brat, and they appear to be conspiring together to destroy my entire house. I can’t get rid of either of them. I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed at all today,” he announced, stomping up the stairs and intentionally shutting off the light so as to leave me and my kitty burden alone in the darkness. “Well, are you two trouble makers coming, or what?” He yelled from halfway up the stairs.

Chapter 14 - Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop.

By the time we’d all made it back upstairs, firmly closed all the doors that might allow Bill the chance to wander again, and the cat had slunk off to finish his personal toilet so as to remove the remaining cobwebs and other dust that coated his fur, I figured it was probably time for me to leave. I’d caused more than enough havoc in the poor man’s life for one day and I could tell he was teetering on the edge of a real anxiety attack. Eating my lunch, in and of itself, would have been a major accomplishment for the man, but to also have to go through the stress of finding a hidden staircase in his conference room, a hidden room in his basement, and to have to deal with whatever emotions had bubbled up from the memories he shared about his grandfather . . . Well, even a well-adjusted person might be feeling a little worn out after all that. I could tell that my Eggy was ready for a little alone time. Far be it from me to outstay my welcome. Besides, I didn’t want him to accuse me of turning into a lesbian because I was ready to move in after our first ‘date’ or anything.

So, I took my fine ass home like a good little boy with blue balls and spent the rest of the afternoon wanking off to memories of a wet Egbert just out of the shower. I was still wearing the T-shirt that he’d lent me and the thought that I was draped in his clothing helped fuel my wankfest. I loved how big it felt on me. I imagined that it was his arms around me instead and . . . yeah, did I mention I am a total degenerate and proud of it?

Luckily I’d finally reached the limits of even my recuperative abilities, and moved on to drawing him instead of fantasizing about him, by the time my roommate made it home, because you know how annoying Daphne is when she catches me masturbating? She always tries to get me to keep going so she can watch. Talk about a buzzkill, right? She’s not nearly as excited by watching me draw. Or at least not usually, although that evening seemed to be the exception.

“Wow, does he really look like this?” Daphne asked as she grabbed my sketchbook out of my hands and stared at the sketch in front of her. “He’s so . . . hairy.”

Trust Daph to state the most fucking obvious thing. “Yeah, he’s pretty . . . shaggy,” I laughed, thinking about the delicious cave man I’d left behind. “I kinda like it though. He’s so . . . rustic. Plus, it’s also fueling this recurrent fantasy I have about shaving him. Fuck, I can just see it.” I lick my lips at the delicious images I see all over again in my mind. “First I strip him down till there’s only skin, then I lather him up with one of those old-fashioned shaving brushes till he’s all soapy and wet, and then I have to get super close to him, straddling his lap, because I’m using a straight razor, which I scrape against his cheek ever so carefully . . .” I think I might have even moaned at that point because, hotness, amirite?

“Damn, boy! You have it even worse than I thought!” Daphne laughed at me, backhanding my shoulder to jolt me out of fantasy-shaving-land. “Leave it to you, Jus, to have some kind of weird hairy caveman kink.”

“I know, what can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

“Seriously though, Jus . . . his eyes here . . .” she gasped, continuing to look at my latest Eggy Masterpiece. “They’re really intense.”

I was impressed that she got that from my drawing - I mean, I know I’m good, but to be able to feel the emotion I sense when gazing into Brian’s eyes just from looking at my sketch was pretty damn impressive. Especially as she’s never met him. I must be a better artist than I thought.

“You should see them in real life though, Daph - they’re gorgeous. But you can definitely tell he’s hiding some pretty dark stuff in that head of his. He shared some grim stories about his childhood with me while I was there and if he has more of the same that he’s keeping to himself then I understand why those eyes are so haunted. It’s almost like you can see through the mask of pain he wears when you look into his eyes. I can’t explain the feeling I get when our eyes meet sometimes - I’ve never felt so . . . connected . . . to anyone else before,” I tried to explain, getting frustrated because the words were wholly inadequate to convey what I knew about this enigmatic man from deep in my soul. “Of course, that makes it all the more aggravating that I can’t actually touch him.”

“You’re doing the best you can, Jus. Give it time. It’s not like there’s an overnight cure for OCD or anything,” Daphne tried to console me. “How’d the lunch thing go, anyway?”

“He ate it.” I couldn’t help but feel proud when I said that. “And I could tell he really liked it too, so it’s all good.”

“Wow, Jus, that’s amazing. I mean REALLY amazing. You understand how big of a deal that was for him, right?”

I nodded.

“How did he handle it?”

“I’m not gonna lie, it wasn’t easy. I let him do his . . . stuff . . . before I started cooking. There was a lot of cleaning.” We both laughed at that deliberate understatement.

“That’s good - although I don’t think you should encourage any of his rituals if you can help it.”

“That’s gonna be tough, Daph. He’s so regimented in what he does.”

“Hey, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. It’s not. It’s going to be fucking hard. But trust me, it’s what he needs. He needs you to show him that nothing bad will happen to him if he doesn’t do something that his brain is loudly telling him that he MUST do, you know?”

“Yeah. I just wish I understood what’s going on in that gorgeous, screwed up head of his,” I sighed. “It’s like . . . I don’t understand how he can sit there and stroke his cat, Bill, without even thinking about it. Yeah, he washes his hands like crazy afterwards, but he does it, you know? But he can’t touch me at all. Just the thought of it sends him into some kind of crazy panic. And yet, he’s told me that he wants to.”

“That’s the thing about OCD, though,” Daphne began to elaborate, getting that college lecturer tone to her voice that I recognized meant I was in for a long-winded explanation. “It’s a very personal condition. The compulsions are inherently illogical - that’s the nature of the disease - so you can’t really look at something a person with OCD does and say, ‘that doesn’t make sense’. They KNOW it doesn’t make sense. It’s not logical. The compulsions are a result of years of built up stress reactions and rituals that are organic to that one specific person. So, it’s really not out of the ordinary for your guy’s symptoms to be focused solely on human contamination rather than germs from his pet. And, if you’re right and there’s some type of childhood abuse mixed in there, it kinda makes sense that his compulsions are focused solely on HUMAN contact, right? This is his way of dealing with the fears he has about being hurt by a person, which is why he doesn’t want contact with people. He was never hurt by a cat, so he has no rituals - or at least fewer rituals - about that. Does that make sense?”

I bit my lip, it really did made perfect sense. Listening to Daph’s little lecture, I had one of those metaphorical lightbulb moments where it all just seemed to click. That little story Brian had told me about his grandfather locking him in the dirty basement, the hints he’d given about other abuse . . . Damn, Daphne was good, wasn’t she? It was like my poor Egbert had taken all that abuse he’d suffered and internalized it to the point he was now unable to leave his tower. It wasn’t germs he was afraid of; it was people in general. It all made a lot more sense now.

“So, what you’re saying is that the handwashing and bottomless supplies of wet wipes aren’t really about the germs at all. They’re more a way for him to deal with other stress. Which totally makes sense. But, then, how the fuck will I ever get through to him? I mean, making him eat the lunch I prepare doesn’t exactly count as psychotherapy, which is what he needs if I’m hearing you right.”

“If what you’ve told me is true, I don’t doubt he could use some serious therapy, but until he can leave the building, that’s not gonna happen. Besides, that’s not what he needs from YOU. You just need to keep doing what you’re doing. Keep encouraging him to push his boundaries. Make him WANT to push. Which, if he’s as smitten with you as you obviously are with him, shouldn’t be too hard,” she teased me, and to my horror, I found myself blushing at the memory of just how much I truly was ‘smitten’ with my Egbert.

“Okay, so what’s next then? Do I move on to dinner? Then what?”

“That’s a start, but if you really want my advice, I say, be bold - give him a real incentive to want to make changes. Just don’t do anything to surprise him,” she suggested. When my confused expression clearly betrayed the fact that I didn’t understand what she meant, however, she continued to explain. “Tell him you’re going to hold his hand - don’t just do it - and use that to show him that nothing will harm him because of you doing that type of thing. You know, talk him through the process. Because that’s part of the compulsion thing; he already knows his rituals are irrational, but he’s so caught up in the compulsion that he can’t help himself. And even though the ritual may bring some relief from the worry, the obsession still returns and the cycle repeats over and over. So you have to break the cycle. You have to PROVE to him that nothing bad will happen when, for instance, you touch him. There will definitely be a bit of panic when you try it, too, so you’re going to have to roll with it. Even if he tries to pull away, don’t let go. Don’t freak out. Show him you’re there for him. And be prepared to do the same thing over and over several times before it finally gets through to him - it’s exposure over time that will truly break the cycle, not just a one time thing and he’ll be ‘cured’. Right?”

I nodded. God, this was gonna be tough, but I was prepared to do it. Prepared to free my Eggy from himself. If I didn’t, then all those fantasies I’d just spent the last few hours envisioning, would only exist in my head, and that would be a real shame.

“You don’t think that holding his hand is a little too advanced?” I asked, just to be sure. “Not that I wouldn’t love to push things a little, but he was struggling today with just the lunch thing. Not to mention the fact that I broke his house - twice - and introduced his cat to the joys of cobwebs . . .”

I proceeded to tell Daphne all about our secret passage adventures that afternoon, which took up the rest of our time talking before she had to run to get to her cell bio practicum. Daph was almost as enamored of the romantic idea of a secret passage as she seemed to be with the idea of my Egbert by the time she left. She was all for coming with me next time I went to visit Eggy so that she could help investigate, but I figured that might be too much for my boy at this point. Plus, I really didn’t want to share just yet. I know it’s selfish, but I sorta liked knowing I had my hermit in his tower all to myself. So I told her that we’d work on it for later, and left it at that - although in my mind I was thinking, much, much later, like, maybe next summer later even. Of course, it might just take me that long to get past all Brian’s neuroses, so that’s not saying much, I suppose. But just thinking about trying for more, the way Daphne had suggested, gave me hope. I always had been a sucker for a slow burn romance, because what fun was it if the guy you were pursuing wasn’t at least a little bit of a challenge?

I spent the rest of the evening after Daph left for class daydreaming up other ways to push my Eggy forward.

“Good morning!” I sang out as I came through the door to Eggy’s office the next day, my usual latte in one hand and a Cafe Viennois I’d brought to tempt my hermit in the other. “Who’s ready to play Corporate Executive and the Naughty Coffee Boy?”

“Couldn’t you at least pretend to respect my privacy by, say, knocking on the door before you break in?” the annoyed hermit grumbled, turning around in his desk chair to glare at me despite the half-smile I could see he was trying to hide.

“What fun would that be?” I plopped the cup of coffee down on the edge of his desk and took up a seat in the nearby armchair.

“I don’t have time for fun. I still have to finish the project I was working on yesterday afternoon when you forced me to eat lunch with you and then traipse all over finding secret passages and collecting dust bunnies,” he complained, as if I didn’t see right through his feeble protests. “You wouldn’t believe how nasty Bill was afterward. It took him two hours to finish grooming himself and then he coughed up the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life into my slipper. So now I have to buy new slippers too.”

I chose to ignore the reference to furballs and focus on the primary goal here - coffee. “Come on. It’s 10 o’clock. That’s the universally recognized time for your first coffee break of the day. Nobody expects you to work at 10 o’clock in the morning.” I pointed to the cup waiting not far from his elbow. “I brought you something extra special today, too. Cafe Viennois. All the caffeine of espresso with the sweetness of whipped cream to boot. I thought it would suit you.”

“What are you babbling about now?”

“Come on, it’s just like you. All the bitterness countered by the sweet yumminess. You don’t see the parallel?” I teased, smiling into my own cup to hide my amusement.

When my Eggy started to pull a wet wipe out of the package waiting in one of the cubby holes on the desk, I decided now was as good a time to implement Daphne’s Exposure Therapy thing as any so I coughed loudly enough to get his attention. Brian looked up at me, a little curious and a little anxious. I had to give myself a little mental shove because I knew what I was going to ask would be difficult and I didn’t know how he’d take it. Would he think I was out of line for interfering? Would he be offended. Would he be embarrassed? Would he tell me to get my nose out of his business and throw me out for good? I had no idea, but I did know that if I ever wanted a chance to find out where this whatever-it-was between us might go, I had to start somewhere. So this was me being all fucking brave and shit.

“You know,” I held up my hand to stop him from the wet-wiping. “My med-school friend, Daphne, was telling me about this thing called Exposure and Response Prevention Therapy for OCD. She says it’s pretty effective. You just have to try and do shit that would normally cause you anxiety, over and over again, while stopping yourself from reacting with one of your rituals. The theory is that, once you see that nothing bad is going to happen when you do the thing you’re freaked out about, you won’t need the ritual.”

“Yeah, I know what it is. I’ve read about it,” Egbert answered warily. “I just don’t think I could . . .”

“Bullshit. You can do anything you want, especially with me here to help you,” I countered. “And it doesn’t have to be anything big. At least not at first, right? You could just hold the cup today, you know, without wiping it off first. Maybe?”

He looked at me as if I was fucking insane. I was tempted to laugh, but I knew that would probably insult him. Instead I just smiled and pushed the coffee cup a little bit closer to him.

“Come on, Eggy. I know you’re not ready to actually drink it yet, but you want to take a sniff, don’t you?” I tempted. “I swear that nothing bad will happen if you just pick up the cup without wiping it down.”

Brian reached for the cup but quickly pulled his hand back. “I don’t know . . .”

“Come on. I KNOW you can do this,” I said encouragingly. “Look at what you did yesterday; you never thought you’d be able to eat my lunch, did you?”

He shook his head.

“But you did it and I’m so fucking proud of you.”

Brian smirked as I said that but it didn’t take long before it turned into a genuine smile. Which made me realise that nobody had probably ever said those words to him before and that made my heart hurt.

“That was different though . . .”

“Yeah, it was different, but you still did it. Tell me you see how awesome you were yesterday.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he chuckled shyly.

“Maybe YOU don’t think so, but I do. So, go on, Eggy, pick that cup up. Give it a sniff. Your nostrils will thank you - trust me - that drink smells fucking amazing.”

Brian’s hand tentatively moved forward again but then just hovered a few centimeters away from the damn cup. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head and hear the arguments he was having with himself. I had to restrain myself from reaching over and just taking the cup and shoving it into his hands. For someone who didn’t have the same obstacles, it seemed like such a simple thing - just holding a fucking cup - but I could tell how hard he was struggling. Hell, there was even a drop of sweat on his temple, that’s how hard he was thinking this thing through. But at some point I could see that he just mentally told himself ‘fuck it’ and after that the struggle was over. He grabbed hold of that damn cup with a heavy sigh and lifted it up close enough to take a good long inhale of the bitter-sweet aroma.

“That’s my boy!” I teased, hoping to deflect a bit from the seriousness of the moment with a little humor. “I’m going to turn you into a coffee connoisseur in no time.”

He shot me a killer glare for making fun of him, but I could tell the bravado was only skin deep. Those incredibly expressive hazel eyes were showing the first signs of true panic and the hand holding the cup started to shake just the tiniest bit. Shit. I didn’t want this first attempt to go badly. I couldn’t let him fail. But what could I do? All I could think of was to distract him before his freak out had a chance to take over.

“So, after I left here yesterday I spent the whole night jerking off to thoughts of you,” I spat out, shocking us both I think, with my brazenness.

Brian’s head shot up and his eyes bore into mine with a fierce intensity that made me feel weak at the knees. “Huh?”  

“It’s true. I have these recurrent fantasies about you, Eggy. You wouldn’t believe what my lecherous brain comes up with sometimes. But it’s your fault, you know? You just had to go take a shower yesterday and then come out looking all delicious and wet and smelling so damn appetizing. I have this thing for wet men. Someday, if you’re a good boy, I’ll show you what I mean.”

“You are a complete freak. You know that, right?”

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” I replied, licking my lips as I recalled some of the ideas my fevered brain had come up with regarding this delectable morsel of yummy manliness. “I want to soap you all up - head to toe - and then run my hands all over your body. And then I want to shave off that bush on your chin that you’re hiding behind so I can better kiss your luscious lips.”

“You don’t like my beard?” he asked, sounding kinda hurt, and totally missing the point of the whole wet ‘n’ wild fantasy, I thought.

“It’s not that I don’t like it, but you have to admit there’s something erotic in the idea of me shaving it off you.” I almost moaned at the very thought - okay, maybe I did moan out loud - but you couldn’t blame me what with that image flooding my brain.

“Did I mention you are a freak?”

“Maybe. But, did you notice that you’ve totally forgotten about the cup in your hands while I was detailing my wicked little shaving fantasies?” I pointed out with a smug little grin. “See, I told you you’d be fine. More than fine, if that bulge in your pants is any indication.”

We both directed our attention to his crotch, which was sporting a rather impressive bulge - one which matched the bulge in my own pants right at that moment - and then we both broke out chuckling. We might be totally pathetic, engaging in this seduction of words when we couldn’t actually touch, but at least we were pathetic together. Plus, my distraction techniques had worked like a charm. Eggy’s first brush with ERT was a total success and we were both horny as rhinos. I’d take that as a win, wouldn’t you? And I couldn’t get over how proud I was of my Eggy right then. I wanted to tell him that, but I also didn’t want to make a huge deal about it either.

Meanwhile, Brian smirked at me and shook his head, but he didn’t immediately put down the cup either, so, bonus. “Don’t you have something better to do than torture me with your puerile delusions and your strange coffee fetish?” he asked.

“Nope. All done with finals and, except for picking up a few shifts at this diner where I sometimes work for spare cash, I’ve got nothing to do till school starts up again in January. So, lucky you, you get me all to yourself.” I smirked at him with my brattiest grin, eventually coaxing him into a shy return smile. “Which also gives me more time to work on figuring out the great Triangle Building Mystery,” I announced, pulling out my phone so I could show him what I’d discovered. “And lookee what I found!”

I twisted the small screen around so Brian could see the picture I’d located online of one William J. Carnegie. See, I’d been so taken with that photograph I’d seen the day before in the old boardroom, that I’d snapped a quick pic of it. Then, that morning while I was lying in bed thinking back over the day before, I’d remembered it and decided to do a google image search to see what else I could find on our dear, sweet William. It turned out there was quite a lot, too.

My google search had confirmed that the man in the photo was indeed William Carnegie. The handsome youth even had his own Wikipedia page, imagine that. William was the eldest son of Thomas Carnegie, the less well known brother of the famous Andrew Carnegie. Back in the post-Civil War period, Thomas had been almost as much of a big shot as Andrew. Thomas founded the Union Iron Mills, which turned into the Iron City Forge, then into the Edgar Thomson Steel Works, which eventually became a subsidiary of U.S. Steel, the industry giant that provided the majority of the nation’s steel for almost a century. Thomas, who was never as outgoing or social as his older brother, was instead a real family man. Thomas and his wife, Lucy Coleman, had nine children before he succumbed to pneumonia in 1886 at the relatively young age of 43. Many of Thomas’ children went on to become movers and shakers among the burgeoning capitalist elite of the late 19th & early 20th centuries. William, however, despite being the eldest, never actually amounted to much, and generally fell out of the public light around the time of his father's death. William’s obituary, years later, said only that he was ‘a sportsman and traveler who did not marry’.

I tried to wait patiently, holding up the phone and scrolling down for him while Brian read through the Wikipedia page, but before he’d reached the end my enthusiasm got the better of me. “See what it says there? That William Carnegie was ‘a sportsman and traveler who did not marry’? Doesn’t that strike you as odd? I mean, back in those days, the oldest son would have been expected to marry and follow dad into the family business, right? But not our William. Instead, he spent his life as a pretty little playboy, who apparently had no interest in women. That, and the photo of him in your boardroom showing a rather effeminate young man - which, coming from ME, a guy who’s not exactly what you’d call butch, has got to tell you something - made me think that maybe young William might have been batting for OUR team. What do you think?”

Brian shrugged, waggled his head side to side as if weighing the possibility, looked at the photo of William again, and then nodded. “Yeah, he was definitely too pretty to be straight.”

“Exactly! And that got me thinking about another gentleman of the same time period who also never married, lived with his male ‘business partner’ for several years, and then constructed a huge building that he secretly dedicated to his lover ‘B’,” I continued, laying out my suppositions one at a time in a logical progression. “B as in, maybe, ‘Bill’, which is the most common nickname for someone named William . . . ?”

“Peebles? I know you said before you thought he might be gay, but we don’t know that for sure,” Brian replied, trying to dampen my wild speculation. “And, even if we did, we don’t even know if him and this William . . .”

“Billy,” I interjected.

“. . . Billy . . . knew each other. I mean, except for that picture in the other room, there’s no connection. Peebles’ love interest could be anyone.”

“I know. I just thought it made sense since they were both odd ducks in a time when pretty much every other man was expected to marry, you know?” I gave in because I had no proof, only this gut feeling. “But, whatever. It was just an idea.”

“You are a fucking romantic twat, aren’t you?” Eggy accused me, setting down his untasted but well-smelled cup of coffee and smiling at me.

“Maybe,” I admitted. “But, if nothing else, my romantic day-dreamings seem to have distracted you long enough to get you through your first exposure therapy session.” I pointed to the cup and grinned at him smugly with an impish waggle of my eyebrows. “So at least the Tale of our Peebles and his Billy seems to have brought about some good. Right?”

Brian huffed a little deprecatory laugh, smiled at me, and then immediately got up and ran down the hall where, a minute later, I could hear the water running in the sink of his room where he was probably scrubbing his hands raw.

“Oh well. It’s a start,” I told myself and got up to follow my crazy hermit man.

Chapter 15 - My Secret Place.

I eventually caught up with my crazy hermit man back in his rooms as he finished up with his hand washing ritual. Like I said before, making him hold the cup without wiping it down first was only a start. There was still a lot more to do, but I had to remember not to push too hard. The key was to make him WANT to have more. In the meantime, maybe more distraction would help?

“So, I was wondering about your secret staircase and that hidden room,” I ventured, grabbing for the first topic I could think of.

“Of course you were,” Brian sighed loudly.

“Hey, I’m a curious guy. And don’t pretend you don’t like me better because of it.”

“Curious . . . Bratty . . . Same thing, right?” I could tell Brian was teasing, even though he rolled his eyes dramatically.

I smiled brightly. I don’t know why I enjoyed it so much when he teased me like this. It was kind of pathetic really, but I loved seeing what I considered the ‘real’ Brian - the one that wasn’t so constrained and worried all the time. That Brian was a huge turn on.

“Some might say there are similarities, yes,” I conceded.

“So, what exactly were you thinking about my basement? Or do I not want to know?” I could see Brian shivering a little as he mentioned the basement - he certainly did have issues with it - probably because it was a dark, dirty hole full of bad memories.

“It just seems really strange to me - placing a random staircase leading from the boardroom to the basement and then hiding it behind a fake wall like that? There HAD to be a reason for it, you know? Otherwise what a waste of fucking time and effort. I mean, why would you need to move from the top floor to the basement without anyone knowing about it? And what’s with that little secret room?” So much was running through my mind at this point that I knew I was probably waffling.

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re talking to me or just talking to yourself . . .”

I ignored his comment and went on. “Don’t you want to know what’s in that room?” I prodded him.

“Justin . . .”

“Come on. Tell me you’re not at least the tiniest bit curious?”

“I’m really not,” he insisted, pretending to concentrate on scrubbing at the countertop with the scratchy side of a sponge. “I try not to think about the fucking basement at all, if you want to know the truth.”

“Seriously? I mean, there’s a mysterious hidden room in your building and you don’t care? I can’t believe you, Eggy! If this were my home, I’d have been poking my nose into that place, trying to discover all its secrets, immediately. It’s every kid’s fantasy - to find a secret room that nobody but you can get into. How can you resist the lure of that?”

Brian dropped his sponge and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Not every kid’s fantasy . . .”

I instantly felt like a shit for mentioning the basement, especially knowing how traumatising a place it was for him as a kid . . . but, was he still not the tiniest bit curious? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But I just thought you might be wondering what it’s all about too . . .”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Not even a little bit? Really?”

“You’re really pushing all my fucking buttons, Justin. You know that right?” he accused.

“I know. That’s why you love me, though, right? It’s sort of my whole raison d’etre. You are the elusive, enigmatic recluse, and I’m the bratty, brazen wolf whose sole purpose is to draw you out of yourself. At least that’s the way we’d be written if this were some trashy romance novel.”  

“I’m not enigmatic,” my hermit insisted, apparently a little miffed to have been compared to a romance novel character, imagine that.

“Okay, okay. I get it. I’m sorry. You’re not enigmatic,” I relented with a teasing smile. “But you do have a secret room in your basement and I’m still a brat, so I thought I might go and have a look around . . . if that’s alright with you?”

Brian pulled his hands from his pockets and slammed them down loudly on the counter in front of him. “Damnit, Justin.”

“I’ll go on my own. And if it makes you feel any better, I won’t tell you anything . . .” I kind of knew that wouldn’t work, but I wasn’t sure what else I could say.

“You’re not fucking going down there on your own.”

“Why not?” I folded my arms defensively in front of me.

“Because I said so.”

I felt my tongue move to the inside of my cheek - something I did when I really wanted to say something but knew I shouldn’t as it would get me into trouble.

“Well, I’m going whether you like it or not . . .” Whoops, too late, I said it anyway.

Brian turned back around to face me, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth. I could hear him breathing loudly as he continued to stare at me. You could almost hear the cogs and wheels inside his brain spinning as he fought with himself. I knew there had to be some part of him that was just as curious as I was, even if the OCD part of him was appalled by another visit to the depths. For a few moments, I wasn’t sure which side would win. I caught myself holding my breath as I waited, internally cheering him on, hoping that my man would take the challenge, engage his inner child, and come exploring with me.

“You’re a pain in my ass, Justin,” my brave and angst-ridden hermit declared before storming out of the room and through the door of his apartment. “Well, are you coming or not?” I heard him yell as he started down the stairs.

I jogged after him, overjoyed to have once more pushed Eggy to push his own limits. I was getting pretty good at this ERT stuff. Maybe I’d missed my calling - forget being an artist, I should go to med school with Daphne. Or not. Because I really didn’t care about curing the great unwashed masses. If I could cure Brian, enough so we could live out one or two of my naughty fantasies, that would probably do me.

“Have I told you how sexy you are when you go all butch brave like this?” I asked when I finally caught up to my man halfway down the stairs. I saw the tips of his ears and the back of his neck redden slightly at my comment, but he just scoffed in response. “So, got any theories on the mystery room?”

“No idea. If the place had been built fifty years later, during prohibition, I would have guessed it was an escape route or back entrance of some sort. Don’t know that they had the Mob back in the 1880s though. So, no idea.” Brian unlocked the door to the pizza place and I followed him through the empty space then down the basement stairs. “Maybe Peebles needed a dungeon? I don’t know.”

“I had no idea the S&M scene was a thing back then,” I joked, earning myself a chuckle from my man. “But, hey, whatever rocks your world, right?”

“Great, that’s all I need - a secret, haunted, bondage chamber in my fucking basement.”

“Actually, haunted bondage sounds pretty hot to me. Did you ever see that movie, ‘Ghost’? I mean, I could really get into being tortured by that guy, you know?”

“You’re probably just all turned on by the pottery aspect of it - you are an art student after all,” he laughed at his own joke as he turned on the basement lights and proceeded me into the dimness.

“Well, yeah. But what’s not sexy about wet clay and a man with big hands,” I replied. “I do have that thing for wet men, remember?”

“How could I forget,” Brian mumbled, surreptitiously adjusting his pants as he led me through the cluttered basement towards the false wall at the western end of the room. “Here we are . . . do your thing,” he said, as he stepped back from the secret door and rubbed his hands together nervously.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

I reached out, trailing my fingers over the uneven bricks till I found the one that operated the secret latch, and pressed it inward. There was the same audible click, and the whole section of the wall swung open, just like before. I was still fascinated by the experience, thinking how much work must have been put in to devise a secret door like this - especially back in the day when door hardware was still not mass produced. Whatever Peebles, or whomever had built this space, was trying to hide, it had to have been important to go to all this trouble. Which only made the secret that much more tantalizing.

Even with the door pushed wide open, you couldn’t really see very far into the darkness of the windowless room beyond. I had been prepared for this, though, and pulled out a small but powerful flashlight from my back pocket. A quick twist of the handle and the light shone forth, illuminating Egbert’s Basement Hideaway.

I’m not sure what I expected to find when I finally stepped inside. I guess I just assumed it would be like the rest of the basement - mostly bare walls with the brickwork showing through the wooden framing, a bare concrete floor, the joists of the floor above for a ceiling. So no wonder I was surprised by what I actually found.

The room behind that secret door resembled Brian’s upstairs office more than anything. It was fully finished, the walls and ceiling plastered and painted, an oak plank floor laid over the concrete substrata, and filled with dusty but elegant furniture. I noted a comfortable looking leather arm chair, a rocker and, up against the near wall, an old-fashioned fainting couch upholstered in a heavy red brocade fabric. On the far wall there was an old-fashioned coal stove which would have provided adequate heat for the occupants of the small space once upon a time. There was a thick oriental rug carpeting the center area where the chairs were set up for a cozy tete-a-tet. There were even gas lighting fixtures on the walls so the room would have been well lit. Of course everything was dirty and there appeared to have been some water damage in one corner where the plaster was sagging and the flooring appeared damaged, but overall, it was a very nice little retreat.

“Wow! Look at this,” I exclaimed as I walked further into the little room to examine things more closely. “Not bad for a secret lair. A good dusting, maybe a paint job, and you’ll have yourself a nice hideout here, Eggy.”

As I turned around to face Brian, I noticed his eyes were firmly shut and his fists were clenched tightly at his sides, as though he was afraid of what we might find.

“Open your eyes, Egbert,” I urged. “This place is amazing.”

It took him a minute or two to open his eyes, but once he did he then followed me in. I could tell the place freaked him out as he was being extra careful not to touch anything. I, on the other hand, was already eagerly leafing through one of the ancient books I’d found on the small bookcase. Everything was a bit musty but none of the books seemed too damaged. They all appeared to be first editions or at least good copies of fairly well-known works, and were all over a hundred years old; these books would bring a pretty penny if Eggy decided to sell them. Talk about buried treasure!

“So, what do you think?” I asked excitedly.

Brian was now standing beside me and, as I looked at him, I noticed he was holding his breath.

“Hey, you're okay,” I soothed, as I tried giving him my most reassuring smile. “Breathe.”

Slowly Brian exhaled and I could see his shoulders relax slightly from where he’d been standing so stiffly. “I can’t believe this . . . I had no idea there was an entire extra room back here.”

I nodded. “That’s kinda what makes it ‘secret’,” I laughed, thinking about how stupid we must look standing here with our mouths wide open as we took in this small space.

Brian followed me as I took another tour around the room, staying as close behind me as he could without actually touching me, and looking over my shoulder as I used my flashlight to illuminate the various objects in the room. When we came to the apex of the building’s foundations - the short wall that corresponded with the westernmost point of the triangular lot - my flashlight lit up yet another surprise.

There was a narrow, darkly-varnished, door in that wall.

While the door itself wasn’t anything out of the ordinary - just a regular old wooden door with five inset panels and a vintage brass doorknob - I definitely had not expected to find a door that exited out of this basement room through the foundations. There shouldn’t be anything on the other side of this wall except for the ground that underlay the intersection of Liberty and Seventh Avenues above, right? So, why would there be a door?

“What the hell is this?” Brian asked as he did a double take - looking from me to the door and back again several times before shivering almost violently.

“Yeah . . .” I smiled to reassure him, impressed at how well my OCD man was handling this newest surprise despite the initial shock. “Looks like we still have some more adventuring to do, huh?”

“Uh . . .” The uncertainty was starting to kick in, but at least he was still there, so I decided to just go for it.

I reached for the knob, thoroughly expecting that it would be too rusted to operate or that it would be locked, only to discover that the handle turned easily. I looked over my shoulder to find poor Eggy sorta cringing as he watched my every move. He didn’t look like he knew how to react or what to do, but at least he didn’t say anything to stop me, so I just renewed my grip on the old brass doorknob and yanked it open, creating an explosion of dust and stale air.

“What the hell?” we said at the same time, before we were both taken over by insane coughing fits.

I waved my hands in the air to waft away the worst of the dirt drifting through the opening, not that it did much good because by that point I was pretty much covered head to toe in grime . . . so much for dressing up and trying to look pretty for my Eggy, I guess. I quickly covered my face with the sleeve of my hoodie and discreetly wiped at my nose - something I knew would likely set Eggy off. When the worst of the dust finally cleared, though, the beam of my flashlight shone through the particulate haze, not onto the solid ground you’d expect to find under a normal city, but instead on a long, empty tunnel stretching away into the darkness.

From what little I could see, the walls of this tunnel were old brick that had, at one time, been plastered over. The floor was just hard-packed dirt with piles of fallen bricks and plaster littered over the surface as far as I could see. There was some old, rusted piping running down the right-hand wall, which had come out of the bracketing that had originally held it in place and which didn’t seem to have been used in decades. Off in the distance I could see a faint gleam of bluish light where the weak December sun had apparently filtered down through a skylight of some type - probably one of those glass brick sections you sometimes find in the downtown sidewalks which always make you wonder what it is that’s being lit up below. Other than that one patch of light, though, the rest of the tunnel was pitch black. Wherever it led and what was at the other end was a total mystery.

“Damn, Eggy, when it comes to secret passages, you really go all out, dontcha?”

When I didn’t hear any response from the man I thought was standing behind me, I turned around, only to find my companion practically hyperventilating as he swiped with one of his ubiquitous wet wipes at the dust that had accreted on his face.

“I . . . I need . . . I need to get out of here,” Brian gasped as he shuffled backwards, stumbling into things as he tried to escape as fast as he could.

“Brian . . .” I instinctively reached out to try and stop him from falling over or hurting himself - which if he continued walking backwards the way he was, was sure to happen - not even really thinking about what I was doing.

“Don’t . . . just don’t touch me . . . please,” he begged, sounding panicky.

I retracted my hand immediately, feeling uber-bad for having caused him even more stress in an already dicey situation, but the poor guy was too far gone by that point for it to do any good.

“Do you wanna . . . go back upstairs?” I asked, feeling stupid, because of course he wanted to go back up to his clean, controlled environment, like, duh.

Unfortunately, by that point Brian couldn’t answer me even if he’d tried. Luckily, he was too busy trying to rid himself of dust and get himself out of there in one piece to care much. I followed behind him, wincing as he knocked into a foot rest and then almost tripped over it before catching himself at the last minute. Since it was a pretty small room, he only had to dodge furniture for half a minute or so before he made it out through the fake brick wall opening into the basement proper. I could see him standing there, feet splayed apart, panting as if he’d just escaped after being chased by wild ravening beasts. And all the while, he was desperately trying to wipe at the dust coating pretty much every part of him.

I decided it would be best if I just closed the door to the tunnel - any further investigating would have to wait until I was on my own. The most important thing right then was making sure that Brian was okay. And, by the looks of him, that might take a while.

“Push that in front of the door,” Brian ordered as he pointed towards a heavy wooden chest of drawers in the corner of the room.

“What? Why?” I asked as I walked towards the chest, kicking at it with the toe of my sneaker ineffectually; the thing was heavier than it looked.

“To stop them . . . to stop anyone getting in,” Brian explained, albeit in a rather garbled manner.

“Them who?” I still wasn’t getting what his problem was. I had thought his panic was only because of the dirt, but apparently there was more to it. “Nobody’s going to get in, Eggy. This tunnel has been here for, like, a hundred years. And judging by the amount of dust, it’s clear that this door hasn’t been opened in decades. I doubt anyone alive even knows it’s here. Who’s going to try and come in?”

“Just cover the damn door with the dresser . . . please,” he pleaded.

So, of course, I did as I’d been directed, pushing and shoving at the old chest of drawers until I’d managed to drag it the few feet over to block the tunnel door. Then I joined Brian in the main part of the basement and pulled the door in the false brickwork wall closed as well. Once the room was all sealed up, I turned to look at my hermit and was not at all pleased with what I saw. He was totally wigging out but trying manfully to repress it at the same time. Basically, he was a mess.

“Come on, Eggy. Let’s get you back upstairs.”

“Did you put the dresser in front of the door like I told you to?” Brian asked as he tried his best to look around me.

“Yes.” I tried my best to reassure him that he was safe. “You watched me do it . . . remember?”

I immediately felt guilty as Brian’s head seemed to droop and his shoulders sagged. Then I remembered what Daphne had told me about OCD being inherently irrational. Of course he remembered me doing it, he JUST saw me doing it, but this was his OCD trying to convince him otherwise. Trying to make him doubt what he saw was true. I didn’t need to point that out to him. I can be such an insensitive dolt sometimes.

“Hey, Eggy, let’s head upstairs. I’m sure you’re dying to get a shower and clean all that dirt off,” I suggested, trying to redirect his attention away from the scary basement situation. “And while you’re doing that, I’ll be waiting for you in the next room, working on perfecting my wet man fantasies.”

Despite his moment of panic, that got a huff of amusement from my Eggy. Then he shook his head, blew out a long breath of tension, and started upstairs. I followed behind, closing doors behind me as I went, hoping that would be enough to quell all Brian’s misgivings about the tunnel and whomever might conceivably come through it.

My man went directly up to his room and shut himself into the bathroom without another word, leaving me just sort of standing there, feeling like a sore thumb. I didn’t know how to fix this, but I couldn’t just leave him like that either. It was my stupid idea to explore the damn basement room that started all this. Egbert would have probably been perfectly fine living out the rest of his life without poking his head into that damn basement ever again and then nobody would have discovered the tunnel that was causing him to freak out. But I just had to satisfy my bottomless curiosity, didn’t I? Fuck me!

So, anyway, while Eggy did his thing in the shower - probably scrubbing half his skin off in the attempt to get rid of a century of tunnel dust - I just hung out in his living room without really knowing what to do with myself. I was too hyped up to even sketch, if you can believe that. I paced around the room for a good fifteen minutes, but when Brian still wasn’t out of the shower, I finally plopped down on the sofa in defeat. I felt so bad for having caused all this. And I felt worse because I didn’t know how to fix it.

Of course, the boredom eventually revived my sense of curiosity even as I was mentally kicking myself for the consequences of my last bout of meddling. And, since I had nothing else to do right then, I picked up my phone, launching a quick internet search, trying to find something about tunnels in the City of Pittsburgh, which led me down so many rabbit holes - or tunnels, if you prefer - that I almost got lost. Who knew that The Pitts had so many damn tunnels? And not just the big kind that allow cars or trains to pass through the many hills of the city, but also pedestrian tunnels and even one old 1860s tunnel that was part of the original Underground Railway for slaves escaping prior to the Civil War. I also found discussion about some Victorian-era pedestrian tunnels under the city, used by the rich barons of industry, so that they could transverse from one building to another without having to go outside in the pollution and soot-ridden air, thereby getting their clothing dirty. That bit sounded like a possibility for our tunnel, but I couldn’t find any comprehensive list of these tunnels, let alone a map showing their locations. As far as I could tell, Eggy’s tunnel was hitherto unknown.

While I’d been delving into my researches, I’d heard the water in Brian’s bathroom finally shutting off, but he still hadn’t come out of his room. I took that as a bad sign. Poor Egbert was obviously still freaking out so badly that he couldn’t even bear my questionable company. This, in turn, was sorta starting to freak me out too. I could understand if he wanted some privacy after such a traumatic morning, but I didn’t want to just up and leave him. Especially not without at least saying goodbye. I didn’t want him to think I was abandoning him. Or that he’d somehow scared me off. As far as I was concerned, I was in this thing for the long haul, so I wasn’t about to leave my Eggy at that point.

On the other hand, I didn’t want to intrude on his peaceful sanctuary either. Which left me at a loss as to what I should do. I thought about knocking on his bedroom door and asking if he was okay, but then I chickened out. That was his safe space and I didn’t want to leave him with nowhere to go where he could feel like himself. So, instead, I determined to simply wait him out. I was stubborn like that, you know? There’s no way Eggy’s neuroses could outlast ME! Besides, I didn’t have anything better to do that day, so I might as well wait around a bit and see if he might eventually reemerge. And, with that in mind, I made myself comfortable on Brian’s sofa, picked up my phone again so I could entertain myself as best as possible, and prepared to wait him out.

Unfortunately, boredom won the day. Before long I found myself nodding off, unable to concentrate on the game of sudoku I’d started. And the next thing I knew, I was blinking at the late afternoon sun now coming in through the window, forced to move by the crick that had developed in my neck from sleeping for so long in such an unusual position. I rubbed at the dried drool that had now encrusted itself all over my cheek, thinking that I must look a right treat. Damn! Falling asleep at Egbert’s was starting to become a habit. Too bad I was sleeping on his lumpy couch and not in his bed. Hopefully that would come.

While I was stretching and trying to get circulation back in my legs, I listened carefully to see if I could hear any movement in the apartment. From my place on the sofa the only sounds I could hear were the springs creaking loudly under my ass and the sad little noise I made when I rubbed at my neck. I gave one last stretch, got to my feet, and then went on the hunt to find my man. I was starting to get hungry and wanted to know what food he had in his cupboards, but after this morning I didn’t want to go rummaging through them without speaking to him first. Who knew what might set him off next.

Brian clearly wasn’t in the little sitting room where I’d been napping, so I headed down the hall to look for him in his office - the next most likely place to find him, or so I thought. But the office was eerily dark and it didn’t look as though he’d set foot in there all day. I wandered back down the hallway, putting my ear to the door of his bedroom, but it was deadly silent in there too. I figured he was probably sleeping off all the excitement from earlier, just like I had been, and decided not to bother him.

However, as I wandered back to the living room I thought I heard something coming from the adjacent bathroom. I pressed myself up against the door and my heart wrenched a little at the sound of faint moaning coming from inside. Part of me thought I should leave him to deal with his emotional issues in peace, but the brattier, more stubborn side of my brain, took over. I just couldn’t leave the man to suffer like that. Without thinking about it, I pushed open the door - and fuck me sideways if I wasn’t blown away by the tableau I found inside - because my Egbert wasn’t standing there moaning in pain . . . he was moaning in pleasure as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror jerking off.

From where I was standing in the doorway, Brian was facing away from me. He was shirtless and his pants were lowered to just below his perky little butt cheeks. I could see all the muscles in his back rippling under his damp skin as he worked his cock with vigor, his biceps flexing deliciously with every pull and tug. It was a truly glorious sight.

I don’t know what I was thinking - okay, let’s be honest, I probably wasn’t, because half-naked Egbert was enough to overload any gay boy’s rational mind - but without even a moment’s hesitation, I just walked right into the bathroom, intent on getting a better view. What did you expect? We’re talking wet and naked Brian having a jolly ol’ time with himself. I wanted a piece of that too.

As soon as I was through the doorway, our eyes met in the bathroom mirror and, for a moment, I was worried I had made the wrong decision. His eyes were dark and hard to read in the dim light, but as I walked towards him I could see him following my every move. His hand never stopped, only slowed briefly.

I pulled my shirt over my head and unbuckled my jeans at record breaking speed, pulling them just below my ass so that we were mirroring each other in what we were wearing.

“Take . . .” His deep voice, seemingly out of nowhere, made me jump. “Take it all off, Sunshine. I want to see all of you.”

We locked eyes in the mirror and I could see he meant it, so I did as he asked. I kicked my jeans and briefs off in what was probably one of my least sexiest moves but, if the way he groaned at the sight was any indication, Brian didn’t seem to mind. As soon as I was naked, his eyes began to roam my body in the mirror, starting at my chest, his eyes widening as they took in the nipple ring I had put on this morning, and then working their way lower and lower with an avidness that made me even harder than I already had been.

Brian’s left hand wandered up to his own chest and his fingers teased his nipple. “Pull on it,” he moaned.

I pulled on the small golden ring and groaned loudly. It was as though my cock was attached directly to my nipples and each little tug made my dick harder and harder. At this rate I wouldn’t even last long enough to get a hand on my dick.

“Brian, this . . .” I pointed to my erection which was standing to attention like it never had before, “this is because of you.”

He moaned again at my announcement and his eyes lingered over my impressive eight and a half incher. I couldn’t help it, I had to touch myself, thrusting into my curled fingers. The thick head of my cock slipped out of my fist as though it has a mind of its own and was trying to impress. Which, I’m happy to say, by the look on Brian’s face, it certainly did. And that look of longing he sent my way caused another wave of lust to sweep through me, culminating in a bead of sticky white pearling at the tip of my eager cock.

He shifted his body, turning more to face me but still using the mirror as a visual go-between. Now that I could see beyond his beautiful back, I noticed the opened box of condoms waiting on the counter. It was only then that I noticed he was whacking off while fully suited up. I reached around him, into the box, and pulled out a second condom for myself because, hey, why not? The more the merrier and all that shit right? Besides, I was never one to be left out. It was obviously a good call, too, because the sound he made as I rolled it on was almost enough to make me cum right there and then. I had to give myself a good hard squeeze before I managed to rein myself in. No way was I fucking ruining this by coming early.

As soon as I had myself under control, our eyes met again in the mirror, and he watched as I started jerking off too. His hand copied mine and it wasn’t long before we were completely in sync. With my wet, hairy, dreamboat in front of me, I doubted I’d last long. It was pretty clear that my Eggy was struggling not to come as well. Don’t you just love a good wank-fest? Fuck knows I do.

“When I’m . . .” Fuck, it was hard to talk when all the blood had drained out of my brain into my cock. “When I’m home . . . and thinking about you . . . I touch myself like this . . . pretending my hand is yours.”

The muscles in Brian’s arm tensed when I said that, as though he was imagining what it would be like.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice deep and raspy with want.

I nodded.

“I knew you were big.” I licked my lips, they were all of a sudden so dry. “But holy shit,” I groaned, watching his fingers contract as he thrust forward through the constriction of his fist. “The thought of that . . . inside me . . . stretching me . . . Fuck, it’s driving me crazy. Damn it, Eggy . . . you have the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen . . . What are you, nine inches?” I moaned again - couldn’t fucking help myself - I mean, you should have seen that dick, it was truly moan-worthy and something I was going to be sketching for the rest of my fucking life.

“Pfft. Nine inches? Try nine and a half,” the big braggart corrected me with a smug grin as he proudly pulled on the subject of our conjecture again. “Maybe closer to ten, actually.”

I couldn’t help but throw my head back in laughter. I loved that little glimpse of self-confidence coming out. I loved the brashness of it all, even at the same time I knew he was exaggerating. But that didn’t matter to me in the least. I just liked knowing that my Eggy was feeling bold enough to play the game with me. There is nothing more sexy than a man who knows his self-worth, even if he’s pushing the limit a little. And, right at that moment, there was nothing in the world I found sexier than this enigmatic man full of all his contradictions, bold and sexy at the same time he was fragile and scared. Oh, and did I mention hot? So fucking hot . . .

“I’m . . . I’m close, Justin,” he panted heavily and that sound sent shockwaves to my balls.

“Yeah?” I asked, feeling extremely close myself.

“I . . . I may not be able to give . . . this to you . . . yet, Sunshine, but just imagine . . . imagine my fist is you . . .”

So, yeah, I’ve always had a great imagination - even back when I was just a child - and it wasn’t at all a hardship to follow Brian’s orders and imagine it was my tight little ass that he was shoving that huge pulsing dong into. But that was all it took to drive me completely over the edge. I could feel my balls contracting and that shock of anticipation rippling through every one of my nerve endings as my whole body tensed in preparation. All that, just from his words of promise. Hell, I couldn’t have stopped myself at that point for anything.

“Here I come, Sunshine,” Egbert announced as he threw his head back and groaned with exquisite pleasure.

“Briannnnnnn,” was my only answer as I followed him into bliss.

When my brain finally came back online after what had to have been one of the most satisfying orgasms I’d ever had without actual physical contact with another person, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Damn, Eggy, who said you weren’t the adventurous type? Look what you made me do?” I stripped off the condom, which was filled almost to overflowing, and shook my head. “You sure that thing of yours is only ten inches? More like three feet cuz, judging by the amount of spunk I just shot, I could have sworn I was fucked within an inch of my life by you. Or did we just invent telekinetic fucking?”

“Justin . . . shut up,” my beautiful, hairy, hermit man ordered, although I could tell by the ear-to-ear smile that peeked out from under his beard that he was just as over-the-top happy as I was right then.

Chapter 16 - History Repeating.

It took me a few minutes after I woke up the next morning before I realized where I was. The room I was lying in was dimly lit - even though I suspected it was already fairly late in the morning - and the poor lighting made it even more difficult to suss out my surroundings. The old-fashioned brass bedstead and other antique furniture threw me off at first. Then I remembered that I’d stayed over at Eggy’s the night before in order to ‘protect’ him from the invaders that he’d imagined coming in through his tunnel. Luckily, this time he took pity on me and, instead of his couch, offered me one of his spare rooms - get real, he owned an entirely empty six story building, so it’s not like he was short on space, right? - so I’d jumped on the opportunity.

I could have stayed curled up in bed all morning, it was so warm and cosy - and let’s be honest, it was a hell of a lot more comfortable than that damned couch - but my stomach was already protesting at going without dinner the night before. So if I didn’t get up and eat something now, I was only going to embarrass myself later when my tummy would start making those awful gremlin noises it makes when I neglect it. Plus, I was eager to go find my Egbert and fill my eyes with his morning yumminess. Food for the body and food for the soul at the same time, right?

I kicked the covers off and shivered as the cold air hit my bare skin. I’d never noticed how cold the building was until now, but maybe that’s because I’d never been completely naked while wandering around the place before. I hooked a leg over the side of the bed and picked up my discarded clothes with my toes, flicking them back up onto bed like some kind of clothing ninja. It was something I’d done ever since I was small and I had perfected the skill to an embarrassing level of greatness. I quickly got dressed, making sure my pants were tucked into my socks because it was so cold that I didn’t want any unnecessary skin showing. I made my way quietly down the hall to Brian’s rooms in case my host was still fast asleep, but as I turned the corner to the main living area, there he was, standing by the small breakfast bar in what passed for his kitchen.

From where I was hovering he couldn’t see me, but I had a perfect view of my man as he bent down, his shapely ass up in the air, so that he was eye level with the toasted bagel he was liberally spreading with cream cheese. He was eyeing up both halves, and spreading a little more cheese here and there until I assume they were both even. Shit, my mouth was watering and I didn’t know if it was from the half naked man in front of me or the thought of a toasted bagel smothered in creamy Philadelphia  . . . probably both if I was being honest. All I knew was that I wanted to lick something.

I shivered as a cool draft from the hallway brushed at my neck. I couldn’t help but smile as he jumped from the noise I must have made - dropping his knife in the process and tutting loudly as it clattered into the sink and splattered the countertop with cream cheese and bagel crumbs. So much for those OCD-clean counters, huh?

“Sorry,” I bit my lip as I walked into the kitchen and stood across from him, smiling almost shyly.

I don’t know why I suddenly felt almost nervous around him; not in a bad way, more of a fluttery tummy kind of way.

“It’s okay. I should be used to you sneaking around and scaring the shit out of me by now.” He smiled at me as he started cleaning up.

“I try my best to keep you on your toes,” I teased.

“My toes? You’ve done more than that, Sunshine. You’ve almost killed me a couple of times.”

I looked up from staring at his breakfast and was relieved to see he was teasing. “I promise, your life has always been safe with me around. Your breakfast, though, is another matter.”

And with that warning I reached around him, grabbed the plate with the perfectly spread bagel away from him and danced away with my ill-gotten gains. “Nom, nom, nom.”

“You’re a . . .”

“Pain in your ass? I know, I know,” I laughed as I took a huge bite, moaning as I swallowed. Man, I was hungry. I continued watching him out of the corner of my eye as I devoured my stolen bagel. I was happy to see an equally hungry look in Eggy’s eyes - and I don’t think it was just the bagel he was lusting after either.

“So, uh . . .” I cleared my throat and was just about to lick some cream cheese off my finger but managed to stop myself before doing so. “Are we going to talk about last night or . . .”

“What’s there to talk about?” Brian replied, as he went about making coffee for the both of us, cool as a cucumber.

“I dunno . . . I guess I just wasn’t expecting . . . THAT . . . Don’t get me wrong, I totally loved it . . .”

He looked a little smug as he smiled at me over the steaming cup in his hands. “Of course you did. What’s not to love?”

“I think I’m more confused than anything.” I had no idea what I was saying at that point.

Brian placed one of the mugs down on the coffee table in front of me - right smack damn in the middle of the coaster, like he’d had years of practice aiming at coasters. “About?”

I suddenly felt a little embarrassed. “I just never thought you . . .”

“What? That I whacked off? Choked my chicken? Drained the main vein?” He laughed out loud at my surprised look.

Egbert was evil. I think he relished the fact that he was the one that wasn’t uncomfortable for once. That he was in charge of this discussion. That he was the one in control. And he wasn’t going to let me off the hook, either.

I blushed deeply. I guess I’d never really thought about it before. I mean, I thought about him doing it but not him actually doing it - if that made any sense. I dunno . . . I guess his hermit-like personality confused me. I knew he’d not been outside for a while, but did I think of him as sexless? I’m not sure what I thought, to be honest.

“I’m not a monk, Justin,” he stated, apparently reading my mind, and then laughing again.

I could tell he was enjoying this.

“Can I ask you something?”

“I think we crossed that line a while ago, don’t you?” Brian winked cheekily. “But sure. Although I can’t guarantee you’ll get an answer.”

“The condoms?”

“What about them?” He shrugged.

He knew what I was asking but he wasn’t going to make this easy for me. He wanted me to ask the actual question. Which, normally, I wouldn’t have hesitated over. Why I suddenly felt so jittery around my hermit, I had no idea, but there I was. I had to give myself a good mental kick in the pants to prod myself into asking the question I was so curious about.

“Do you always use a condom when you . . . you know?”

Shit, why was I suddenly sounding like sixteen year old Daphne? Masturbating isn’t a topic I’m usually embarrassed to talk about, but right then I sounded like a teenage girl. Great! I think it must be because he was teasing me - I’d never really seen this playful side of my Eggy before and I kinda loved it - like a lot. It sorta threw me though. It turned the tables on our prior retaliationship making Brian the aggressor and I just wasn’t prepared for that switch, you know?

“What? When I’m Jackin’ the Beanstalk? Milking my Monkey? Pounding my Pu . . .”

I covered my eyes with my hand. “Yes, that,” I laughed.

He rolled his bottom lip into his mouth and looked me right in the eye as he answered. “Yeah, I do.”

I hesitated briefly before asking the logical next question, “Why?”

He did the lip thing again looked so freaking hot when he did it that my urge to jump him was almost unbearable. “Because it's all . . .” he sighed almost sadly, “wet and sticky.”

I heard myself groan loudly at the thought of getting all wet and sticky with him. “Mmm, exactly. That’s what’s so fucking good about it.”

Brian shook his head as though he was trying to rid himself of those messy thoughts. “Maybe for you it is,” he exhaled loudly, “but not for those of us with . . . OCD . . . issues. If I had to think about all that . . . mess . . . then I’d be too distracted to actually get off.”

“Even though it’s your mess?” I was doing my best to try and understand what Brian was saying, not that it was easy, because, personally, I love a little mess, you know? “I guess I can understand if it’s someone else’s,” I offered, although I definitely didn’t have that problem myself, “but when it’s mine . . . I actually kinda really like it.” I was definitely blushing now.

Brian rolled his eyes playfully. “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” I shrugged impishly just to play along, which caused him to huff with amusement, but then he continued with his explanation. “Anyway, my method is definitely more efficient than yours. When I’m done filling up one condom, I can just rip it off, toss it in the trash, and then roll on another without missing a beat. My clean up time is minimal so I’m not slowed down between sessions. My hand stays clean and my dick stays happy.”

“Jesus, how many do you go through at a time?” That factor probably wasn’t what I should be focusing on, but I can’t blame my brain for instantly going there.

Brian shrugged, “two or three . . . it depends what’s on my mind.”

He said that last part while looking directly at me with this provocative little smile. My shy little hermit had seemingly turned into quite the flirt, and it was pretty much the biggest turn on I’d ever experienced. I didn’t even bother hiding the fact that I was squeezing myself through my pants by that point; the slight relief in pressure it gave me was enough to make me sigh.

“You only used the one last night though . . .”

“Justin,” he scoffed like I had just insulted his manliness. “You caught me at the tail end. I’d already been going at it a while . . . I’m surprised I had anything left.”

That made me smile.

“That was maybe my fifth . . .” he bragged, eliciting an impressed whistle from me.

“Wow. Five? And here I thought I had pretty amazing stamina,” I replied.

Brian just tilted his head to the side in a self-deprecating gesture and shrugged. “I’m sure you do fine . . . And, while we’re on the topic, may I say that you definitely have a nice sized dick to work with. I’m assuming you’d have to use the Magnum XL Trojans if you were doing things my way. And that’s not just because of the volume of the load you shoot either.”

I laughed out loud.

Was he really just standing there complimenting my dick size while casually drinking his cup of coffee as though this was everyday breakfast conversation? I definitely liked me some playful, confident Egbert.

“It’s not so much the length I have to worry about, but more the girth,” I returned, bragging a little myself.

Even as I said the words, though, I was amazed by my own temerity. I couldn’t believe that I was telling him any of this. Talk about my mouth working faster than my brain.

Meanwhile, Brian licked his lips and hummed happily to himself, his eyes a little unfocused as if my words had led his imagination somewhere fun. I was hoping he was fantasizing about my cock and all the wondrous things I could do to him with it. A boy can dream, right? And after the night before, I knew for certain that would be all I was dreaming about.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to stick around for long after that provocative breakfast with my Egbert. We were both a bit bummed, especially when I had to tell him that I couldn’t come back that night. I perversely enjoyed his disappointment since it was just another sign that I’d managed to get under my Hermit’s skin. But there was no way I’d get out of my commitment for that night.

See, most of the time my father and I kept our distance. He liked to pretend that I didn’t exist, because having a gay artist as a son simply wasn’t acceptable in his circle, you know? But twice a year, when he just couldn’t avoid it, he forced me to appear with him at ‘family’ functions where he was expected to show up with doting children in tow. I envied my mother, who had been excused from these events by way of her divorce, but since Father Dearest still controlled the purse strings to my education trust, I didn’t have the leverage to tell him to just fuck off. Therefore, every year, come Christmas and Independence Day, my sister, Molly, and I were dressed up, threatened with grave consequences if we misbehaved, and then marched into my dad’s club to play the role of good little children. The parties were intensely boring and several times I’d contemplated just telling Dad off, but until I finished school and was able to support myself, I had to continue to be nice to him.

Unfortunately, it just happened to be one of those nights. It was the Duquesne Club Christmas Party - a holiday tradition that went back more than a hundred years, if the hype was to be believed. So, I was obligated to appear, dressed in a monkey suit approved by Dad, and do my duty as the obedient offspring. Fuck me.

When I told Brian that I could still pop over the next morning, the look of relief and, dare I say it, happiness, on Eggy’s face gave me a nice memory to leave with. I would need to fill my head with happy and somewhat innocent thoughts if I was going to get through the night. It’s not as though I could spend the evening thinking about our bathroom escapades - having a hard on the whole evening surrounded by my father’s country club friends was not my idea of fun - not that it would be easy to get the images out of my head. Yep, I had it bad and there was nothing I could do about it.

Anyways, I headed home right after breakfast, spent a couple hours sketching the deliciously naughty scenes I’d just lived through, and then got ready with as little effort as I could get away with while still looking acceptable enough to be seen with my father - his words, not mine. As I was doing my hair in the hall mirror, I couldn’t stop thinking about how it usually takes me at least double the time to get ready for an evening at Babylon. No one can say I don’t prioritise.

Dad had a car pick me up - heaven forbid Dad might actually care enough to pick up his children himself, right? - and then we headed off to Mom’s condo for Molly. Molly climbed into the car with me, frowning just as much as I was, and not saying anything more than ‘hello’. She proceeded to take her cell phone out and spent the rest of the ride to the club engrossed in her social media feed, which was fine by me because I wasn’t in the mood to talk.

Molls - as I like to call her when I’m in a good mood, which is a lot nicer than ‘Fartface’, the nickname I use when she’s being an annoying little brat - is fourteen years old and as obnoxious as any girl her age. It doesn’t help that there is almost six years difference in our ages. We don’t really have that much in common. We pretty much fight all the time. But ever since Dad had made it known within the family that he didn’t approve of my ‘disgusting, unnatural ways’, Molly had suddenly given up idolizing our father, become much more of a mommy’s girl, and now barely tolerated him. And our mutual, yet unspoken, dislike of the Club Christmas party was something else we could still bond over. Hey, it’s a WASP thing - this suffering in polite silence yet doing what you have to do because of the family money - so don’t judge us.

Our car was met at the curb by the well appointed Duquesne Club doorman and we were quickly ushered under the red entrance awning and out of the bad weather. The staid, old, five-story stone edifice was bedecked with festive yet restrained holiday lights along the front walk and all the windows were brightly lit. There was a crowd of people already waiting to get inside, so we had to wait a few moments on the walkway just next to the plaque on the front balustrade that announced the building was on the National Register of Historic Places. I noted from the date on the plaque that the club was built right around the same time as my Triangle Building - 1889 per the sign - and vaguely wondered why Eggy hadn’t pursued the same distinction for his building. Maybe I’d suggest it to him the next time I saw him, I thought, as we finally made it through the front doors into the club proper.

Despite the onerousness of it all, things were going pretty well after we arrived at the party. Molly and I found our way to the ballroom where we dutifully checked in with Dad. We smiled and pretended to care while he introduced us to the group of businessmen nearby. I noted that Dad bragged on and on about Molly, her grades, and the fact that she was a forward on the school field hockey team, but said very little about me other than I was ‘in college’. He was probably afraid if he mentioned that I was attending the Art Institute of Pittsburgh, all his friends would know I was a fag. Whatever. I didn’t care about any of these doddering old bigots. I was only there because I had to be, so I swallowed my annoyance and tuned out the rest of their drivel. Luckily, the conversation very soon veered back to business topics, which meant that Molly and I were no longer needed. We were shooed away and ordered to mingle until further notice.

I took Molly with me to the bar and got her a soda, flashing my fake ID so I could get a beer for myself. Then Molly spotted a group of girls she knew and she abandoned me. Typical. I could have followed suit and tried to join one of the groupings of younger men, some of whom I had met before at various functions, but I just wasn’t in a social mood that night. The thought of standing around with a bunch of Chads, talking about the benefits of protein powder, their workout regimens, and all the Staceys they were currently boning, made my stomach curdle. It really sucked that I had to be there at all, wasting my evening on such drivel, instead of hanging out with my mysterious Egbert, but I kept reminding myself it would be worth it once I graduated from art school and became the next Andy Warhol. However, that didn’t mean I had to suffer through the pain of actually talking to any of these losers.

So, rather than join in with the mingling, I wandered the periphery of the room, strolling around at random and pretending to look at the pictures and artwork on the walls while I sipped at my beer, smiling ambiguously at the people I passed along the way. Fuck I was bored. So, so, so, so bored. There was absolutely nothing to entertain myself with. I fleetingly thought about maybe asking one of the hot waiters I saw darting around to dance, which would likely blow a few minds in that conservative crowd. I thought about devoting my time to getting really drunk, seeing as it was an open bar and I wasn’t one to pass up free booze, but decided it was probably a bad idea if my goal was to keep on dad’s good side. I thought about slitting my wrists right there in the middle of the fucking ballroom just to add a little excitement to the night, but . . . okay, I was being a total drama queen but, seriously, I was THAT bored.

Just as I was getting desperate enough that I began to contemplate giving up my wallflower impression and surrendering to the nearest group of Chads, a tittering debutante who looked like she was on her second or third glass of champagne bumped into another of the guests, who happened to be walking past me at the moment, knocking the gentleman into me and causing me to spill my beer all down the front of my dinner jacket. The man immediately began to apologize and tried to use his own cocktail napkin to help dab at the beer stains. I waved him off, telling him it was no big deal, and joking that I’d always hated that damned jacket anyway but that my father said I couldn’t wear my tuxedo t-shirt. He laughed at my unorthodox comment and smiled again, insisting that he would at the very least go get me another drink. I accepted, offering him one of my best Justin Taylor patented grins in return. As he trotted off towards the bar, with me still wiping up the dregs of my beer, I chuckled to myself, thinking that at least I was no longer bored. Thank fuck for distractions, right?

The guy was back in only a few minutes, bringing my fresh beer. We chatted for a bit, mostly complaining about how we both hated these affairs, and then he excused himself saying he needed to get back to his date. I tapped the neck of my beer against his highball glass as a gesture of thanks and nodded a goodbye. Then he left and I went back to being bored.

Unfortunately my boredom didn’t last all that long because I was almost immediately set upon by a quietly fuming and hissing father.

“What was all that?” My father asked irritatedly as he pulled me over into a quiet corner of the room. His eyes were darker than usual; over the years I had learned this meant he was royally pissed off about something.

“Huh?” What on earth was he jabbering on about?

“I saw you . . . fraternizing . . . with Peter Wyzkopf’s son. What were you doing? Flirting with him? Trying to pick him up? You know very well how I feel about that sort of behavior, Justin. It’s disgusting and I won’t have you embarrassing me like that here, in front of my friends.”

Oh, that. And really, if he thought that was me flirting then I feel sorry for him. How clueless can you get?

“I was just talking to him, Dad,” I tried explaining - which fucking pissed me off, because I shouldn’t have to explain anything about what I was just doing. “He knocked into me and spilled beer down the front of my shirt . . .”

“Listen.” Craig exhaled loudly through his nose - another mannerism from my childhood that I remember all too well and that never resulted in anything good happening. “I don’t give a damn about what started it, I just don’t want you humiliating me any more than you have already.”

I clenched my fists tightly by my sides, I had to really force myself not to do something I would regret later. How fucking dare he though? Humiliate him more than I already have? If anyone there had reason to be embarrassed it was me, seeing as I had to put up with his homophobic ranting. I wanted to tell him off so bad, I could feel the words crawling up my throat, itching to get out, screaming at him to take his club and his fellow bigots and go fuck himself . . . but then I remembered all that lovely money and the fact that I had none and that this stupid party was the price I had to pay to get my art degree . . . and I clamped down the anger yet again.

“I need some air,” I muttered as I turned my back and headed out of the room.

I could hear Craig calling after me, but I just kept walking. I really wasn’t in the mood to deal with his bullshit and if I’d stayed any longer I might have lost the battle and told him what I really thought. So, rather than risk next semester’s tuition, I wisely removed myself from the situation. Luckily, Craig was too afraid of making a scene to bother coming after me and let me go. Of course, I didn’t breathe easily until I’d rounded the corner and was out of the man’s direct line of vision.

While I silently bitched my progenitor out in my head, I continued to stroll along the hallways of the club. The decor was exactly what you’d expect: it was elegant and staid and looked expensive. Everything smelled like wood polish. The wood floor was covered in a thick oriental carpet runner. The furniture consisted of groupings of wingback chairs and small side tables set up along the walls, all heavy pieces made of sturdy wood and plush padding with far too many velvet and brocade cushions. It felt stuffy and confining and like I was totally out of my element. However the walls were adorned with some fairly decent artwork - the club had to do something with all the money it raked in via those exorbitantly high membership dues, right? - so I was content for the time being to focus on that rather than my annoyance with my father.

Tucked in between the real art, the club had hung photos of their members from over the years. And, seeing as The Duquesne Club was more than a hundred years old, there were some pretty ancient pictures on those walls, I can tell you. It was almost more fun to look at the pictures than the art, despite how expensive or how well known I knew the artists were, since the subject of most of the artwork was a snooze. I mean, let’s face it, how many still lifes of vases and flowery landscapes do you really need to look at, no matter how esteemed the artists might be? No wonder I was finding the old photographs more interesting than the artwork for once in my life.

The further I walked along the corridor, the more dated the photos became. It was like walking backwards in time. You could tell the age of the pictures without looking at the captions just by the way the photography changed. The photos went from modern color photography, to the kodachrome yellow-tinted photos of the sixties and seventies, to black and white, to the even older, silver-tinged photos of the thirties and forties, to the downright ancient sepia tinted photos from around the beginning of the twentieth century. And at the very end of the hallway where I was walking there were several pictures from back when the club - and Pittsburgh for that matter - were relatively new.

I recognized the first couple of photos, which were straight out of the architectural history course I’d just finished at school. There was one of the Allegheny County Courthouse’s ‘Bridge of Sighs’ - the bridge that connected the Courthouse to the jail so that inmates could be walked to their hearings without escaping - and another of the Smithfield Street Bridge when it was just being built. There was also a picture of a smallish brick structure that I didn’t recognize. When I leaned in to read the caption, I discovered that the photo depicted the original building on the site where the current Duquesne Club now stood. Apparently there had been an earlier building here, which had been destroyed in a fire and subsequently rebuilt in 1889, remade into the much more imposing structure where I was standing. Who knew, huh? The final picture showed the rebuilt club in its present incarnation dating from 1889.

Next to the picture of the older version of the Club, there was a photo or two of what purported to be the ‘founding’ members of the social club. These were just the kind of photos you’d expect; a group of sober looking gentlemen wearing dark suits, standing around with somber expressions, trying to portray the gravitas of their social standing in the burgeoning metropolis of Pittsburgh. Basically, they pretty much all looked like they had broomsticks up their asses and weren’t happy about it. I at least got a good laugh out of that thought.

Leaning in closer, I was able to read the little brass plaques attached to the bottom of the photo’s frames. The first, and clearly the oldest photo of them all, was of the ‘Founders’, and the inscription listed the gentlemen’s names. I whistled as I read through the list; there were some impressive and well-known names here. Alfred Childs, Henry Phipps, B.F. Jones, John Chalfant . . . Any kid who’d grown up in The Pitts would recognize those names. No wonder this club claimed such exclusivity with those men as their originating members. Although, to look at them, they all looked like a bunch of tight-assed, old, grumps. Not exactly the kind of guys I’d want to socialize with.

The second photo wasn’t quite as old and the individuals pictured included some younger men, so it was probably the second generation of club members. According to the plaque on that one, these were the members of the club as of 1885. The list of these fellow’s names were just as impressive though. There, in the front row, was a relatively young-looking Andrew Carnegie and, on the other side of the picture was his future rival, Henry Clay Frick. I scanned through the rest of the names quickly, not recognizing all of them, until I was stopped short at the last three names listed there.

Hidden in the last row of the men pictured were three gents whose names I had come across quite recently: Andrew Peebles, Jay Frick and, the youngest of those pictured by far, sweet little William Carnegie.

My Eggy’s mystery men were all here, pictured together, standing shoulder to shoulder forever in this dusty old photo. Small world, huh? So I had been right that they all knew each other back in the day? That was telling.

I immediately pulled my phone out of my pocket, unable to wait even a second more before telling Brian about my latest discovery.

Chapter 17 - I Send A Message.

I was so excited to tell Brian all about my discovery at the club the night before, that I was out of bed at the ridiculously early early hour of 8AM the next morning. Well, it was ridiculously early for ME, especially considering that I was on winter break. I scarfed down my two bowls of cereal way faster than I probably should have and started getting ready. My plan was to stop by Eggy’s on my way to my shift at the Diner. I quickly threw a change of clothes for after work into my messenger bag and decided to throw in a pair of pajama pants just in case I got an invitation for another sleepover. I made sure to pack my book on the history of Gauguin to read during the Diner's slow periods. I might as well use my spare time to study, right? Otherwise I’d just spend it daydreaming about my delectable Hunky Hermit.

I was out the door within twenty minutes of getting out of bed - which must be some kind of record for me. I took the bus down to Liberty Avenue, thanking the Pittsburgh transportation gods for my bus running on time so that I didn’t have to wait too long out in the cold. The weather had turned bitter and I wasn’t wearing nearly enough layers. It looked like Pittsburgh was going to get that white Christmas so many idiots always wished for. Hmm. There’s an idea; maybe I could arrange to be snowed in with my Egbert for the holidays this year?

As I walked past Crazy Mocha, I was debating whether or not to buy us both another cup of coffee, but by the time I was off the bus and making my way towards the Triangle Building my mind was made up. I was freezing and I needed something warm to hold so that I didn’t feel as though my fingers were going to fall off. I ordered myself a triple shot espresso and an Eggnog Mocha for my man, because I was feeling the Holiday spirit, you know? I also ordered a couple of gingerbread muffins because my cereal hadn’t seemed to fill me up at all. Maybe I’m still growing? . . . I laughed to myself as I walked out of the coffee shop - wishful thinking! I’d stopped growing a while ago. I was clearly destined to be short. Of course, that just meant all my twinkie hotness was crammed into a more compact package for my Eggy to love.

I did my usual cat burglar thing, then raced up the stairs two at a time. I had already perfected doing this, even while holding a hot drink in each hand, and could now make it inside and up the six flights of stairs fairly quickly without spilling a drop. I remembered to knock before going into Brian‘s rooms, though, like the polite housebreaker I was.

It didn’t take long for the door to open. A small part of me wondered if Brian was expecting me. Was I getting predictable? Oh, who cares. Young love and all . . . And, yep, there he was. He was standing in the doorway wearing only a pair of baggy sweats and no shirt. I was so stunned by the vision of yumminess in front of me I might have drooled. Damn, my Eggy is one FINE specimen of man meat! Fuck the gingerbread muffins, I wanted to eat him!

“Ah, the young sneak thief returns,” Brian chuckled as he stood aside to let me in.

I must have looked like a right twat as I stood there staring at Brian’s bare chest, but holy fuck, he was beautiful. I could climb him like a tree.

“You what?”

Shit, I hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “Uh . . . Um . . . You . . . Shit, Eggy, you better take this before I faint.”

I held out the mocha towards him and pretended to slouch against the door frame as if I really were about to topple over. I could see him eyeing me carefully, unsure about what I was doing, but after only a moment or two his hand reached out shakily and took the cup from me. I felt myself smile, but did my best not to make a big deal out of it - even though it WAS a big fucking deal.

Brian took the cup over to the breakfast bar and put it down, immediately rubbing his hands together the way I had seen him do numerous times before. It was moments like this that I wished I could read his mind, to know his thought process. He stood still, his eyes flicking from his hands, to the cup, and then to the antibacterial wipes just next to him. I was silently cheering him on, hoping he’d feel the mental strength that I was beaming his way. It must have worked because the hand that was hovering over the wipes fell back down to his side and I could see the faintest of smiles on his lips. He was proud of himself, and so he should be. And even more excitingly, he reached back for the cup and held it in his hands once more - not for long - but you could see he was trying it out and loving the feeling of elation he got from doing it. Then he surprised me even further by bringing the cup up to his face and taking a long sniff, sighing happily as the sweet smelling syrup penetrated his nose.

“This smells so good.”

“You know what else is good? The taste.” I smiled cheekily as I said it so that he knew I wasn’t pressuring him.

I wasn’t expecting him to take me seriously - he never had before - but I just thought I’d make the attempt. And, while I stood there with my mouth wide open like some sort of gormless fish, my brave boy sighed, lifted the cup to his lips, and took a VERY tentative sip. I could feel my heart beating rapidly in my chest as I held my breath and watched his face carefully while it took on at least ten different expressions within a very short space of time.

“It’s good, right?” I didn’t know what else to say, but knew I had to say something as I could see the panic in his eyes start to set in.

Brian nodded and put the cup back on the counter. I could see he didn’t know what to do with his hands, but then he finally brought one up to his mouth and gave it a quick wipe - as though he was trying to erase what he’d just done.

“Brian?”

I made my way towards him, his silence scaring me a little.

“I . . . I did it. Shit. Did you see that, Justin?”

The awe in his voice was enough to give me that jelly-belly feeling I get so much with him.

“I did . . . I saw, Brian. That was . . . Shit, I’m so proud of you.” And I meant it; I don’t think I have ever smiled so hard.

He rolled his eyes but I could see my compliment meant something to him. His naked chest had turned a lovely shade of red and the tips of his ears were glowing. “It was nice. What flavor was that?”

“Eggnog.”

But before I could ask him any more, Brian began to pace the kitchen area.

“Brian?”

“I shouldn’t have . . . I don’t know who made it.”

“No, but I . . .”

“What if the milk wasn’t fresh?”

“I . . .” he wasn’t even giving me time to try and answer him.

“What if it makes me sick?” I could hear the anxiety in his voice as he rubbed his stomach.  “I can’t get sick. I can’t BE sick.”

I walked over and stood in front of him, cornering him slightly to try and stop him from pacing. “Brian . . . Stop . . . Brian, listen to me. Are you listening?”

Finally he looked at me. “I can’t get sick, Justin.”

“You won’t!” I wanted more than anything to reach out and touch him, but now really wasn’t the time. It would only make things worse.

“You don’t know that . . .” He was back to manically rubbing his hands together.

“Trust me?” I asked. It was risky. Of course HE trusted me, but his OCD brain didn’t, and that’s who I was dealing with right now.

“I . . . I want to. I mean . . . I do trust you . . . but . . .”

“I know . . . I know it’s not that easy.” I tried giving him a reassuring smile and that’s when I knew what I had to do. I had to get his mind off what had just happened. “Hey, forget about that for a minute, okay. I’ve got more important news. Guess what I found last night when I was at that annoying Christmas party with my dad.”

“Huh? What?” He looked slightly calmer after even that minor distraction, like he was less likely to bolt.

“I think I found another clue about our Mr. Peebles and the mysterious Jay Frick,” I blurted out, hoping that my news was enough to grab his attention. “So, I got into this stupid fight with my father right off the bat - he accused me of flirting with the son of one of his business associates - which in his book is a sin worse than murder, right? - although I’d only just been politely chatting with him after he bumped into me and spilled my beer all over me. But Dad, of course, saw something nefarious in the whole thing and came over, hissing at me like an angry goose, accusing me of all sorts of shit. I mean, it’s not like we were having some hot and heavy anal intercourse right there in the middle of the Duquesne Club ballroom or anything. But Dad tends to see pretty much everything I do as some prelude to gay sex. Can you say, ‘homophobe’? I can’t call him out on it, though, because he’s the administrator on my education trust and I need to finish school, so I have to put up with the bigot no matter how pissed off I get. But anyway . . .”

And I continued to ramble on in that fashion for at least the next fifteen minutes. While I spoke, I could see the tension slowly draining out of Brian’s shoulders and face. It was working. He was getting caught up in my long, drawn out tale of WASP woe and totally forgetting his panic over that little taste of coffee. Go, me! Daphne would be proud!

“. . . And there they were in the picture. All three of them, standing side by side. Peebles, Frick and our William, or ‘Billy’ as I call him,” I finished my story with a conspiratorial wink. “What do you think? I mean, they all obviously knew each other. Do you think they might have been involved in some way?”

“I don’t know, Justin. Even if they did know each other - which isn’t all that surprising since Pittsburgh society was a pretty small circle of people in those days - that doesn’t mean they were anything more than social acquaintances.”

“Maybe . . . I don’t know why, but I feel like there’s more to it. And you gotta admit that it wouldn’t be completely unreasonable to assume that the ‘B’ Andrew wrote his love letter to might be the unmarried sportsman, William ‘Billy’ Carnegie. Am I right? And, if so, it’s possible that Jay Frick, who was Peebles’ business partner in the building and, if that picture was any indication, also a friend, might have known about it.”

Brian chucked. “Of course you think there’s more to it, you’re a romantic little twat.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that - I mean, he had a point, but, whatever. I knew I was onto something here. I was sure of it. I just didn’t know how to prove what I suspected.

“I wanted to tell you about it all last night, but I couldn’t. I was thinking that maybe there’d be more information about the three of them in the Club's records or something and I wanted to pick your brain on what to do next. Not that I really want to spend more time in that stuffy den of bigots, but I would if it meant we could unearth more info about our boys. Although, now that I think about it, I doubt there’d be anything much at the Duquesne Club. Those old boors would roll over in their graves if they found out one of their members was actually gay. We’re more likely to find additional information down in your basement than at the Club. In fact, I bet if we went through the books and that desk down in your secret room, we’d likely turn up a lot. Why else have a secret room, if not to store all your secrets?”

“The basement?” The panic that Brian had only recently started to master all of a sudden reared its ugly head again. “I don’t want to go back into the fucking basement, Justin.”

Oops. I forgot that he disliked the basement almost as much as he disliked germs. So much for my plan to distract him with my little mystery story. Now I had to start over from scratch on my Calm Eggy plan.

“We don’t have to do it NOW, of course,” I rushed to reassure him. “Besides, I can’t stay much longer today anyway. I have a shift at the Diner this afternoon. In fact, I should probably leave soon or I’ll be late.” I looked at the time display on my phone and grimaced.

“You’re leaving?” Brian asked, nervously.

Damn. I really hadn’t thought this through. First I go and set him off by urging him to taste the coffee and then I raise all the specters of his haunted basement before abandoning him to deal with it all on his own. Nice going, Doofus. Shit, could I be more insensitive? Time for more of that distraction thing.

“If you’re proposing I stay for more play time like we had yesterday, I might be willing to blow off work for you,” I suggested with a sexy leer. “Of course, then you’d have to take me on full time as my Sugar Daddy because I’ll be fired and broke. But I’m good with that plan if you are.”

He laughed at my little joke, and I was glad to see that it lessened his tension. “You know . . .”  Brian began but quickly stopped talking, one finger rubbing nervously over his lips.

“What were you going to say?” I wasn’t going to let him chicken out on me now, not when he had something he needed to say.

“I was thinking . . . what about . . . what if I gave you my number? Then you could at least message me . . . maybe . . . you know, when you’re not in breaking-in distance to my place.” He fidgeted a bit, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck and breaking eye contact as he continued. “And, who knows, I might need to send out an SOS if you’re wrong and someone does decide to come down that fucking tunnel you opened up.”

I could tell he was trying to make light of what he’d just suggested, so I went along with it. “That’s a great idea, Eggy. That way I can text you every time I get a naughty idea about what I’d like to do to you and that gorgeous body of yours.” ‘Cuz, yeah, it hadn’t slipped my attention that he was still only half dressed and I was less than a meter away from those delicious looking pecs. “And maybe I could even message you and let you know when I was on my way over in the future and you could unlock the door for me so I don’t have to keep breaking in. Not that I mind, you know, but eventually a cop might notice and I don't think I’d do well in prison. I’m way too cute and orange really isn’t my color.”

“Well, we definitely wouldn’t want to subject you to that,” he responded, latching eagerly onto the excuse I’d given him. “I don’t want to be responsible for making you into the pet of some fashion-challenged jailhouse bear.”

“You’re so thoughtful,” I shook my head laughing. Sometimes we were just on the same wavelength, you know, and it felt so good to be with someone who had the same quirky sense of humor; I love being silly with him. “Okay,” I pulled out my phone and opened a new contact for him, “shoot me your digits, Big Guy.”

Brian rattled off his number and then he took his own phone out of his pocket and did the same with my number. Then I kinda had to run out of there because I really was running late by that point and Deb would have my balls. But, right as I hit the first landing, Brian called out to me, causing me to stop and look back up at him with one of my biggest smiles ever.

“How late are you doing this working thing?” he asked.

“Why?”

“I thought . . .” he took a deep breath as if to steady his nerves and then just blurted out what he’d been planning to say. “I thought that if you’re going to be breaking in again later tonight I might as well make dinner for the both of us. Otherwise you’ll just steal my food again.”

“Awwww! Eggy, are you asking me to come for dinner? That’s so sweet,” I teased him, internally delighted that my man was getting bold enough to do something like asking me to come for dinner. “Does this count as our first date?”

He scoffed as though I had just suggested the most ridiculous thing in the world. “No, I just don’t want you interrupting my dinner and stealing shit off my plate.”

Yeah, right; he was SO full of it. “I finish at eight and I’ll be back here by 8:15,” I promised and then took off again, yelling over my shoulder as I descended the next flight of stairs. “Byeeee!”

“Hey, Deb!” I hollered as I scooted around her on my way to deposit my stuff in my locker in the staff room.

“You’re late, Sunshine!” she screeched back.

“I know,” I replied, re-emerging as I tied an apron in place around my waist. “Good thing I’m not only adorable but also your favorite employee, otherwise that might be a problem.” I added one of my brattiest grins so as to make myself totally irresistible.

“Yeah, well, if you don’t get your adorable ass in gear and start clearing some tables, I might have to rethink that favorite employee thing,” Deb rejoined with a pretend-serious scowl.

I chuckled and ducked as I trotted past her with my bus tub, effectively avoiding the friendly slap to the back of my head that she’d aimed my way.

We were all busy for the next hour or so, cleaning up the post-breakfast mess and starting on the pre-lunch prep work. I didn’t actually get to stop and take a breath till we hit a lull around 11:15. I sighed, grabbed myself a fortifying vanilla milkshake, and slid into the back booth so I could rest a bit before the next onslaught. While I was catching my breath, I pulled out my phone, trying to think through the wording of the first text I’d send my Egbert.

“Whatcha smiling about over there, Sunshine? “ Deb smirked as she plonked herself down across from me at the booth where I was sitting. “You’re sunnier than usual today.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked around my mouthful of milkshake.

“Don’t play dumb with me, kiddo. You’ve met someone. I know these things. Call it mother’s intuition.”

“You’re not my mother,” Justin laughed.

“I’m someone’s mother.”

I loved Deb. She’s completely crazy and hands down the nosiest person I know. She also has a heart the size of an Elephant’s schlong.

“I MAY have met someone,” I grinned; I couldn’t believe I was that obvious.

“We have about five minutes before I have to get my butt back to work.”

I looked at her over my straw, canting one eyebrow inquisitively.

“That means you have five minutes to tell me everything. Go!”

I spent the next couple of minutes filling her in about my Eggbert -  I didn’t want to tell her everything, but shared enough with her that she was happy. It felt so good to brag about him to someone besides Daphne for a change. Almost like it made the whole thing more real once I’d said it aloud.

“So when are we gonna meet this paragon of manly attributes?” Deb asked. “I need to make sure he’s good enough for our Sunshine, you know.”

“That may be problematic,” I replied, trying to think of a way to delay Deb without revealing Brian’s whole hermit thing - I didn’t want to betray his confidences by discussing his agoraphobia and OCD issues.

“He’s not a closet case, is he? Because you should know better than to get involved with someone who isn’t yet comfortable enough with himself to show his face to the world. After all you’ve gone through with your father and everything, Sunshine, you need someone just as brave and out there as you are . . .”

“Don’t worry. He’s not a closet case, Deb.” I had to stop her before she continued her rant - did I mention she was one of the most passionate people I know? “He’s just . . .” What could I say to satisfy Deb long enough to get her off my back? “He’s just not really into the gayborhood scene.” There, that was vague enough, right?

Thankfully, right then the cook dinged his bell and hollered for Deb to come pick up the bunless burger for the customer waiting at table three and I was saved from further need to explain my not-yet-relationship with Egbert.

While Deb was bustling around, I quietly sipped at my milkshake and contemplated how to word my first text to my hermit. That might not sound like a deep, weighty consideration to some, but I was definitely feeling the pressure. I mean, I wanted to totally wow him without coming across as either too pushy or too needy. Sexting is an artform, you know, and you have to set the right tone from the very start. And, no, I wasn’t overthinking things, thank you very much. I simply have standards.

After using up five more minutes of my precious break time, I finally settled on a simple: ‘Hey, Handsome. I’m thinking about you while HARD at work. How’s your day going so far?’

Okay, I admit, it may not have been the most brilliant work of literature ever written, but how eloquent can you be via text. Am I right? At least I got all the required elements in: flattery, humor, and sexual innuendo. Sheesh, I’d like to see anybody else do better within the limits of the medium.

Seeing as my break was almost over and the beginnings of the lunch crowd were trickling in, though, I didn’t have time to rethink it and merely hit ‘send’

Within seconds my phone beeped, indicating I had a new message. I quickly pulled my phone out of my pocket and clicked to open it.

‘How HARD are you working, Justin? Tell me.’

I smiled stupidly to myself as I read Brian’s reply.

‘HARD enough that I broke into a sweat,’ I typed back almost instantly, chuckling under my breath as I wondered how he’d respond.

Clearly my Egbert was in a cheeky mood and that was absolutely fine with me. I had been nervous about leaving him after his slight freak out earlier, but he seemed to be doing okay by the sound of things. I really needed to get back to work, but since Deb seemed to have the current customers in hand, I decided to quickly duck into the restroom for a few minutes more of Eggy Time. By the time I had locked myself into a cubicle, Brian had replied - this time he had sent me a picture message. My heart beat rapidly in my chest as I opened it, wondering what on earth he could have sent me.

When I opened the pic, it turned out to be a closeup of Brian’s hand. That wasn’t a biggie. Of course, the fact that he was holding an already torn open condom packet, kinda was. What a naughty boy my Eggy was today.

‘As you can see, I’m also hard at work,’ the text below the picture read.

Knowing exactly what my man was gonna be doing with that condom, brought back flashes of our joint jerkoff session. My dick responded immediately, in predictable ways, and I knew I was going to have to take care of my little problem before going back to work. No way could I go out there like this, not with the way my pants were tenting, I would be eaten alive by the lunch crowd. Deb’s rule about ‘No Masturbating During Breaks’ be damned. This was an emergency!

So I quickly unzipped and took matters into hand, so to speak, visions of Brian fueling my momentum. I briefly contemplated sending my guy a photo of myself, in case he needed some inspiration of his own, but I knew it was probably too soon for that. We weren’t quite at the dick-pic stage of our acquaintanceship yet. So, no matter how badly I wanted to do it, I held back. Instead, I managed, awkwardly with my left hand, to scroll through the emojis list and send him back a silly pictographic message:

After that, though, my brain short circuited and I wasn’t able to think any coherent thoughts for a good three or four minutes. And don’t even think about giving me shit for only lasting three minutes - if you’d seen the magnificent cock my man had, you wouldn’t last long either. Just knowing that he was touching himself, right then, at the same exact time I was stroking my own dick, even though we weren’t in the same room . . . well, you get the picture. Fuck, I’m surprised I didn’t go off like a squirt gun in the hands of a trigger-happy toddler. In fact, lasting for three minutes might be considered commendable restraint under the circumstances.

And it was a good thing I’d been quick, too. I was still standing there, panting, with my pants drooping off my hips, when the door to the restroom suddenly swung open and Deb’s loud voice echoed around the small room. I was so startled I almost toppled over into the toilet.

“Break’s over, Sunshine. Wash your hands and get back to work. There’s a time and a place for self love and work ain’t it.”

I could hear the whole diner laughing as the door swung shut.

“Shit,” I mumbled under my breath as I shuffled out of the stall with my pants strangling my knees, washed the cum off my hand, and pulled my pants up.

When I emerged from the toilet into the Diner proper, I actually got a standing ovation. Guess I’d been a little too vocal in my enthusiasm back there. I wasn’t sure if I should be proud or embarrassed, actually, so I just smiled, waved to my fans and tried to pretend it was cool to have such fair skin that my blushing turned my face a bright magenta. Deb merely rolled her eyes and pointed me over to the newly arrived table of customers in the second-to-last booth.

I followed directions, tying on a fresh apron and pulling my order pad out of my apron pocket as I approached the table of regulars. They all welcomed me with smiles, making jokes about my bathroom antics in a friendly way, which did nothing to alleviate my blushing. I was used to it though, so no biggie. Getting heckled, teased and having my ass fondled was part and parcel of the job when you worked at a gay Diner - and I knew without a doubt my little performance would probably get me some great tips, which I was always in favor of.

“About time you got around to taking our order,” Michael - Deb’s adult son - fake-growled at me when I finally got to him. “If the job’s too tough, you know, I’m sure some of us wouldn’t mind lending you a hand . . .”

Predictably, Michael held out his hand to me, palm up, but then when I smiled, his gesture turned into a fist which he pumped a couple times in a lewd fashion. The rest of the table snickered like little boys and I rolled my eyes but laughed along, because who among us doesn’t like a good hand-job joke, right? I don’t care how old they get, gay boys never outgrow that sophomoric sense of humor.

“As thoughtful as your offer was,” I teased back, “I think I’m good. But thank you.”

Emmett, one of Michael’s closest friends, reached over and gave me a gentle poke in my side. “From what we all heard, Honey, you definitely did good. VERY, very good, indeed. And I bet, if you told people that you hadn’t washed your hands afterwards, your tips would quadruple. You go, baby.”

“I’m pretty sure that would violate about a dozen health code regulations,” the oldest one of the bunch, Ted, chimed in, his face scrunched up in a grimace of disgust. “Not to mention it’s just plain bad hygiene.”

“I washed. I promise.” I reassured them all, holding out my clean hands as evidence.

“What I want to know is, what brought on such an Oscar-worthy performance,” Emmett pressed nosily. “It certainly wasn’t the lunch menu offerings.”

“Justin’s got a new hottie on the hook,” Deb butted in as she hustled past with an overloaded tray full of food.

“Well, whoever he is, he must be dreamy,” Emmett added with a wink in my direction, “if that’s what was inspiring you.”

I felt myself blushing yet again. “Yeah, he is.”

“Ooooo - do tell!” Em insisted, clapping his hands joyously as he prepared for some juicy gossip. “Who is he? Do we know him? How big is his cock? Can I borrow him when you’re done? Tell us EVERYTHING!”

“No. I’m not sharing with you degenerates,” I replied, looking at them sternly. “I’m not letting any of you get within a hundred yards of my sweet, innocent, Eggy. You’d corrupt him.”

“This sounds serious,” Ted commented with an appraising look. “Could it be that our lusty little gayling has found ‘the one’?”

Just then my phone pinged again and, partly because I didn’t know how to respond to the guys’ teasing, I used that as an out so that I could look at my phone instead of their jeering faces. I was happy to see that it was another picture text from the very man we’d been discussing. A quick swipe to open the app and I saw a picture of Egbert’s desk with the open computer sitting atop it. The text below read: ‘And now back to the real work.’

“OMG! Look at that smile! It’s from HIM, isn’t it?” Emmett gushed, trying to grab hold of my phone so he could see what I was looking at.

“Wow, Em’s right. You really do have it bad, Boy Wonder,” Michael agreed. “Looks like our little Justin has been bitten by the Love Bug. So, when’s the wedding?”

“I think I’d make a lovely June Bride, don’t you?” I replied, cocking my head to the side and batting my eyelashes at them all while giving my most angelic smile.

“If you don’t hurry up, take their order, and get back to work, you’re going to have to find another job to help you pay for that wedding, Sunshine. Get a move on already,” Deb ordered as the bell over the front door chimed, welcoming yet another group of diners.

“You’re no fun, Deb,” I rejoined, but then proceeded to follow her directions anyway, silently thanking her for getting me out of answering any more questions about my mysterious lover boy.

Chapter 18 - Spoke Too Soon.

I couldn’t help but look at my watch, surely it was almost eight? This day felt like it had gone on forever. And my feet were starting to hurt, too.

“Don’t fret, kiddo, your shift’s up in two,” Debbie grinned as she chomped loudly on her bright pink gum. There was nothing subtle about this woman. “Make yourself useful and empty the last of those lemon bars into a bag so I can refill the display.”

I shrugged and did as I was told, although I was a little confused since we almost never emptied the display stand before restocking - we probably should, but whatever.

“What do you want me to do with these?” I asked, waving the bag of deliciously moist lemony bars in the air.

“Take ‘em home and share them with that mystery man of yours,” she beamed. “If he’s as skinny as you, I have my work cut out fattening you both up.”

I rolled my eyes but in my heart I still secretly appreciated her efforts to mother me. Debbie was obsessed with feeding ‘her boys’ and making sure everyone’s body fat was a little more than they’d like. She’d claim it was her Italian roots and that there was nothing she could do about it. But, if you wanted to live a happy life, you took whatever she gave you and ate it without too much complaining.

Just as I was putting the bars into my bag, my phone beeped, indicating I had a message. I could feel myself smiling before I’d even read what it said. My heart flippidy-flopped as I saw Brian’s name on my home screen. The message was from him as I had hoped.

‘You eat yet?’

Short and sweet was my man.

Before I had the chance to answer, Debbie was pinching my cheek - and, sadly, not the one on my face. “Go home, you’re done for the day.”

“Thanks, Deb.”

“No, thank you. Your little show at lunch kept us all nice and busy. The place was full of hungry fags . . . and I don't care that they were probably hoping and praying for a second performance, as long as it kept ‘em ordering.” She rubbed her fingers together and threw her head back laughing. “Your ASS is one of the Diner’s best assets!”

I cracked up even as my cheeks - the one’s on my face this time - started to overheat. It was definitely time to go. Deb was getting delirious after having worked for over fourteen hours. If I stayed much longer, who knows what she’d be pinching next.

“Thanks, Deb, byeee.” I slung my bag over my shoulder and practically ran out of the diner.

It was then that my phone beeped again.

‘Because if you haven’t, this is waiting for you. No fancy sandwich to go with it though.’

Brian was asking me to dinner! And I was so fucking beside myself with joy it was ridiculous. We had briefly talked about it before I left, and I even teased him a little, but I hadn’t been sure if he was serious or not. Clearly he was. I quickly texted back.

‘Getting the bus to yours now. See you in 15. I’m so hungry I can’t wait. Om nom nom.’

I got a reply back almost instantly.

‘What the actual fuck does om nom nom mean?’

I chuckled. Why the fuck did I have to try so hard to be cute? Now I felt even more silly having to explain.

‘It’s an eating noise . . . I guess it kinda means delicious as well.’

Oh well, he probably already thinks I’m nuts.

‘You’re weird. See you soon.’

I didn’t have time to text him back as my bus arrived right then and I stuffed my phone in my pocket so I could jump aboard. It was only a few stops from the Diner to my Eggy’s building, and I probably could have run it almost as fast as the bus got there, but then I would have been all sweaty and out of breath and, trust me, if I was going to get sweaty with my man it wasn’t going to be because I was jogging through the streets looking like an extra from Marathon Man. Although, as I took a seat in the very back of the bus and got a whiff of myself, I thought maybe I should have opted for that run. As it was, I stunk like the stale grease from the fryer vat at the Diner; not a perfume that I thought my OCD boyfriend would likely approve of. Maybe Eggy would let me take a shower at his place as soon as I arrived? Maybe I could talk him into taking a shower WITH me even? I mean, he couldn’t be afraid of me and my germs if we were in the process of washing those germs off, could he? But then, the more I thought about it, the more I figured that OCD probably didn’t work like that. A guy could dream, though, right? And there wasn’t anything more enticing than the idea of a dripping wet Eggy . . .

My fantasies of showering with Brian kept me busy the rest of the bus ride. When I did climb down the steps across the street from the familiar Triangle Building, I was practically desperate to see my man, french fry smell or no. I darted across the street without waiting for the light to change and had to dodge a delivery truck that almost ran me over. The driver didn’t seem mollified by the sunshiney smile I offered by way of apology, but I didn’t care. I just loped the rest of the way across the street and over to the lobby door.

And guess what? This time, the door wasn’t locked! Instead, there was a post-it note stuck to the inside of the glass that read, ‘Burglarizing Brats Welcome. (Lock the fuck up behind you!)’

Now this was progress!

I know that the smile on my face probably stretched from ear to ear as I pulled open the door and jauntily walked inside, flipping the latch to relock the door behind me. I felt like a million fucking bucks. I was IN! My man was letting me inside, and not only into his building but, I hoped, into his heart. Damn I was good!

I took my time marching up the stairs to Eggy’s top floor aerie, however, because I didn’t want to come off all smug when I got there, no matter how ecstatic I felt. When I did knock on the door to his rooms, I heard a muted cursing and then a rattling crash as if something metal had been tossed into a porcelain sink. This was alarming enough that I didn’t wait to be invited into the room and immediately reached for the handle to let myself in.

The scene I found when the door swung open was enough to cause me to snort with laughter despite how hard I was trying to hold it back. My Stylite was standing in front of the sink, cursing at the fixture as he ran water over his hand. He was sweaty and looked like he’d been anxiously running his hands through his damp hair, causing large clumps to stand on end. The air stunk of burned tomatoes. Right as he turned to look over at me with the most woebegone look you can imagine, the smoke detector over his head went off, breaking our eardrums with it’s complaining wail.

“Oh, Eggy, what have you done?” I tried to sound sympathetic but I think some of my amusement at the situation came through anyway.

Brian glared at me. He took his hand out from under the water and wrapped it in a towel, but not before I’d seen that at least two of his fingers had angry-looking red burn marks on them. I quickly dashed over to the window, cracking it open and flapping my arms to try and wave in some cool, fresh air, in an attempt to get the smoke detector to shut up.

When the din finally abated, my poor Egbert looked over at me with a guilty expression and said, “did I mention that I don’t really cook?”

“You did, but I didn’t know the reason was because you’re a fire hazard,” I replied. I walked over to the sink and noted that the pot he’d been using to try and heat the soup was crusted with a nasty looking layer of blacked tomato gunk on the bottom that the water hadn’t managed to soak off yet. “I’ve never seen somebody burn canned soup before.”

Brian gave me this annoyed look that almost covered up his embarrassment. “I thought I’d have more time before you got here, but when you texted and said you’d be here in fifteen minutes, I turned the heat up, and then . . . I was only gone for five fucking minutes while I changed clothes.”

I started to remove my jacket and set it along with my bag on Brian‘s one kitchen stool. “Okay . . . Rule of thumb for future cooking attempts: never turn the burners on ‘high’ except for when you’re just flat out boiling water. For everything else you should keep the dial below ‘medium high’. Also, never walk away and leave anything cooking on the stove.”

Brian huffed a huge breath of defeat and slumped sideways against the edge of the counter, but he didn’t say anything further. Meanwhile, I quickly got to work digging into his fridge. Luckily, there was still a loaf of bread and some cheese left over from our earlier dinner. I pulled his seldom used frying pan out from the cupboard and then made my way to the sink where I conspicuously washed both the pan and my hands under Brian’s careful supervision.

“Now, step back, and let the master take over,” I teased, making sure he could tell from my smile that I wasn’t being judgmental.

The next half hour passed by quite pleasantly. The two of us worked together to wrangle together a replacement dinner without any more crises. Brian did his little cleaning rituals without really interfering in my cooking much. I let him do his thing but at the same time I tried not to coddle him too much. Mostly it worked without my poor Eggy getting too anxious. Did I mention how proud I was of my man? He was making such progress! From what Daphne had said to me, it sounded like this ERT stuff would be a long hard slog, but my Egbert was barreling into it with more enthusiasm than I’d ever dared hope. At this rate we’d be doing the nasty right there on the kitchen table in no time . . . Yeah, right! Okay, memo to self: rein in those unrealistic expectations. For the moment, though, it didn’t matter, and I was just happy to be spending time with my Sexy Stylite.

As we nibbled on our gooey, cheesy sandwiches, Brian filled me in on his efforts to wrap up the project he’d been working on for that new software application. It looked like it was going back for a third workshopping attempt. Then I told him some of the highlights of my day at the Diner. He seemed to enjoy my descriptions of the patrons and all the gossip from the Gayborhood. We were both laughing by the time I popped the last bite of sandwich into my gob.

Which is when it occurred to me just how odd we must look; the two of us chatting and laughing as we related stories about our days over a casual dinner. The familiar way we were smiling at each other over the coffee table where we’d set up the meal. How comfortable this all felt . . . And it struck me that we’d somehow become a COUPLE.

Like, WOW! I mean, it’s not like I minded or anything, but I just hadn’t expected anything like this. I hadn't been looking for a relationship. And, despite the way I’d jokingly referred to Brian in my own head as my ‘boyfriend’, even I hadn’t thought I was seriously considering such an outcome. We hadn’t even kissed, let alone fucked, and I’d never before had a boyfriend that I hadn’t thoroughly vetted in the bedroom before I’d agreed to date him. But here we were and it looked like, somehow, we’d skipped right over that whole part and moved on to the quiet evenings home alone together stage.

To paraphrase the Talking Heads, ‘My God, how did I get here?’

Was this what I wanted? I mean, yeah, Brian was fucking gorgeous, and he did have that ‘I need to be saved’ vibe that I’d always been a sucker for, and I was uber attracted to him in about every way imaginable, but was I really ready for what getting involved with someone like Eggy would entail? Was I biting off way more than I could chew here? And was I serious about a relationship with someone I couldn’t even touch?

Before I could completely freak out about this scary revelation, however, the man I was freaking over spoke up and disrupted my panic. “So, with all this going on, how did you manage to find time to text me with that naughty suggestion?” Brian asked, looking at me from under his bushy eyebrows with a flirty glint in his entrancing hazel eyes.

And just like that, all my plans to blow a gasket simply evaporated. Because, my Eggy might not be your typical boyfriend, and maybe it would take us a while longer to get to a point where we could act on all those fantasies of mine, but in the meantime what we did have was delicious and fun and more than enough to keep me intrigued. So what the fuck was I worrying about? Calm yourself, Taylor. Can you say, ‘Drama Queen’?

“Oh, I made time for more than just texting you,” I confessed to my flirty companion. “After you sent me back that response, I was so hot and bothered that I had to take a break in the washroom and . . . shall we say, relieve the tension . . .” Brian broke out laughing with an exuberance that I didn't think he often displayed, something which was more than enough to encourage me. “I should probably thank you for that, too. If it hadn’t been for your text - and the fact that I was apparently a little too vocal in my appreciation of the resulting break I took - I’m pretty sure my tips would have been a lot lighter today. As it was, I totally cleaned up.” I fished in my pocket and came out with the ridiculously large wad of bills that I’d walked away with as my take of the tips for the day, getting another roar of hilarity out of my naughty accomplice. “It was worth the teasing I had to take; although my boss did get a little annoyed at me. Deb has this strict ‘No Masturbating On Break’ rule and all. But as soon as I told her about my sexy new love interest, she cut me some slack. Deb’s a die-hard romantic at heart. In fact, she sent me home with this and made me promise to share with you . . .”

I leaned back and reached over the back of the couch, stretching until I could reach my bag, and then excavated the bag of lemon bars out of its depths. The overwhelming scent of citrus erupted into the air the second I pulled open the bag, filling the room with a sweet tartness that made my mouth water. Brian seemed just as captivated by the aroma; I could see his nose twitching amid the confines of his bushy beard. I availed myself of one of the paper napkins stacked on the edge of the table and used that to extract one of the yummy treats from the bag, setting it on the edge of Brian’s almost pristinely clean plate before getting a second lemon bar for myself. Now came the tough part - trying to convince OCD Man to try a bite.

“Deb’s always complaining about how skinny I am and she basically ordered me to eat these,” I explained as I put two of the dessert treats on my own plate. “If she knew how undernourished you were, she’d probably be over here with a metric fuck ton of pasta until she was satisfied you were fattened up sufficiently. So, unless you want to suffer a slow death by ziti, I suggest you eat up now.”

I pointed towards the lemon bar waiting on his plate and smiled hopefully. I was trying not to push too much, while at the same time nudging at Brian’s boundaries the way Daphne had suggested. I wasn’t sure if it would work though. He was just sitting there, staring at the damned plate as if he thought the lemony treat was likely to jump up and attack him. I could see him biting at his bottom lip hard enough that I almost worried he’d break the skin. Meanwhile, the tension the situation was causing was evident by the way his right leg was jittering and bouncing in place. I wished there was some way I could help him through this, but knew it was a battle he had to wage alone against himself. All I could do was offer him ways to keep pushing at those self-imposed boundaries and be there to support him through the struggle.

“It smells good,” the poor conflicted man ventured hesitantly. “What is it?”

“A homemade lemon bar. Deb’s personal recipe, even. Ramone, the cook at the Diner where I work, makes them daily. They’re a big hit with the customers, so you should be honored that Deb let me abscond with these few,” I answered, trying to make it all sound even more appetizing. “You should try it, Eggy. I bet it’s almost as sweet as you are.”

He snorted at my teasing statement and shook his head, but his eyes never left his fucking plate the whole time. Finally, I watched as he reached out and picked up his fork, extending the utensil towards the yummy, sugary, treat. I held my breath, trying to contain my hope. The fork hovered indecisively over the lemon bar for a good sixty seconds.

“I . . . *phew* . . . It looks delicious . . .” Brian took a deep breath and then the fork descended to spear just the tiniest little triangle off the corner of the bar. He lifted the fork back up so that it was just a couple of centimeters from his face and inhaled again. “Probably has about a billion calories, though.”

“That teeny little bite you have there? No way. That tiny taste doesn’t even count,” I assured him. Hoping to provide an example of sorts, I picked up the first of my own bars and took a huge bite that devoured almost a third of the whole. “Mmmmm. You know what, I don’t care how fattening these things are. They’re worth it.”

I saw Brian licking his lips as he watched me eat my own dessert and I could tell that he wanted this so badly it was almost killing him. Finally, as I popped the last of my own treat in my mouth, smacking my lips dramatically as I finished swallowing and then ostentatiously licked a last crumb from the corner of my mouth, he seemed to come to a decision. With a noticeable straightening of his spine, he moved the fork the rest of the distance to his lips and opened wide. I wanted to cheer but restrained myself - just barely. Egbert quickly swallowed that itsy-bitsy piece of cake and then immediately set his fork down. He looked like he was about to panic.

Time for the patented Taylor Distraction Techniques.

“So, how many condoms did you go through this afternoon after you sent me that picture?” I asked, seizing on the first thing I thought of which might work to keep Brian from dwelling too much on the momentousness of what he’d just done. “Personally, I only had time for that one, way too quick, ‘break’, which wasn’t nearly as satisfying as you’d expect seeing as Deb walked in on me at the end and ordered me back to work - sometimes I think that woman likes checking out the men’s room way too much, you know? - and I was pretty much hard the entire rest of the afternoon. I mean, how was I expected to concentrate on work with that? Knowing you were back here, doing what you were doing, over and over again . . . You’re totally distracting, you know that right?”

“I think you’re the one who’s distracting,” Brian surmised with an uncharacteristically shy smile. “I appreciate the effort, Justin.”

It didn’t escape my notice that he’d moved the plate containing the rest of his lemon bar further away from him as he spoke. Oh well, he’d done amazingly well just trying that one taste, so I wasn’t about to criticize. I was ridiculously proud of him for even that one attempt. We were definitely making progress.

“Any time, Big Guy. That’s what I’m here for . . . Well, that, and because I’m in love with your mysterious building and all it’s tantalizing secrets. Cuz, c’mon, where else am I gonna get my secret tunnel fix, huh?”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me,” Brian complained with a new frown.

“You mean to tell me you haven’t been just dying to go explore that secret tunnel?” I prodded. “Seriously? It’s, like, the kind of adventure you’d read about in a book or something. If it were me, I’d be itching to get down there. And now that dinner’s over . . . Whaddaya say? Are you up for some adventuring?”

“Yeah . . . I don’t think so, Brat.” Brian sighed and looked at me with this horribly pained expression that made my heart hurt. “I don’t think I can do it, Justin. I just . . . I had enough trouble going down there BEFORE I knew that there was a fucking tunnel to nowhere in my damned basement. But now . . .” I could see the way his breathing had sped up and the renewed jittering of his bouncing knee was an obvious clue to his heightening anxieties. “I don’t think I can go down there again.”

“No problem, Big Guy. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I’m perfectly happy going exploring on my own.”

“But . . .” I could see that Brian was struggling with that idea almost as much as he’d been with the proposition of him going back to the basement himself. “I don’t like the idea of you being down there by yourself, Justin. What if something happened to you? We don’t know where the fuck that damn tunnel leads. Anything could happen to you down there . . .”

I tried not to laugh at his catastrophizing but, to my mind at least, his worries seemed silly. “I’ll be fine, Brian. I mean, you saw that tunnel. Nobody’s been down there for decades. What could possibly happen?”

“That’s the problem,” Brian insisted. “You don’t have any idea what could happen. Especially if no one's been down there to make sure it’s safe in as long as you claim. Hell, the fucking tunnel could collapse and then what would you do?”

“Why would the tunnel collapse the minute I go down there when it’s been fine for, like, a hundred years already?”

“I don’t know. But knowing my luck . . .”

I tried to stop myself but couldn’t - my eyes rolled back in exasperation - causing Brian to growl softly in the back of his throat.

“Okay. Okay. I get it. I disagree that there’s any likelihood that the fucking ceiling will collapse or that I’ll run into invaders coming through the tunnel, but I understand that you’re not comfortable with me going down there. So, how about . . .” I pulled out my phone and tapped at the screen for a few seconds until I got to the app I wanted. “How about you join me . . . remotely?” I pushed the last button necessary to make the connection I was aiming for and heard Brian’s phone - which was in his jeans pocket - start to ring.

Brian pulled the phone out and looked at the screen with distrust.

“Accept the damn call already, Eggy,” I prompted with a bratty grin.

Brian tapped at the button on his phone screen and all of a sudden I could see a close up version of his face on the screen of my own phone. “See . . . It’s the best of both worlds, Eggy. Now you can stay up here, safe and secure, and still watch while I go exploring. How’s that?”

Brian took a moment to examine the picture on his phone and then smiled at me. “I suppose that might work.”

“Hoorah!” I cheered, getting up from my comfy seat on his couch and enthusiastically trotting over towards the door. “Alright! Let’s go exploring!”

Brian shook his head, silently commenting on my over the top fervor for adventure, but he didn’t try to stop me. He simply pointed me towards the keys to the basement which lived on a hook by the door, and I grabbed them before exiting. I trotted down the stairs, holding my phone right in front of my face so he wouldn’t lose contact with me for even a second while I did my thing. I could see his face on my screen at the same time, an inscrutable look on his face, as if he was withholding judgment on the advisability of this proceeding.

“I’m almost down to the lobby now,” I announced when I reached the first floor. “Unlocking the pizza place door. You know, you really should find some new tenants for these retail spots. I mean, a pizza place in here would be primo. Especially when you burn my dinner. Not that I’m at all opposed to grilled cheese, mind you, but if I had to choose between grilled cheese sandwiches and pizza, I’m thinking pizza would win, hands down.” I knew I was babbling, but what the fuck, it was better than dead air, right? “Unlocking the basement door now. And here we go down the stairs.”

“I don’t need to know your every fucking move, Justin,” Brian complained. “I can see what you’re doing, you know.”

“Right. Sorry. Just trying to make sure you’re not worrying,” I teased and then went right back to my running narrative. “Descending the basement stairs now. Wow, it’s dark down here. Where’s that light switch again? Did you hide it on me to try and get me to stay out of your basement, Eggy?”

“It’s on the fucking wall where it always was, you nutcase.”

“Oh . . . right . . . there we go.” Brian’s face lit up brighter as soon as I found the lights and the reflection from the screen bounced off his countenance. “Okay, now we’re cooking.” I trotted across the expanse of the basement till I came up to the false wall at the western end. “Magic brick, do your trick.” I pushed the brick that acted as a door latch until the unmistakable double click of the internal mechanism had sounded and the fake wall-door swung open. “And we’re in!” I had to juggle my phone into my other hand so I could use my flashlight with my right hand. “So, what are we going to call this place? Eggy’s Lair? The Triangle Tryst Room? Oh, wait, I’ve got it: Peebles’ Peep Hole!”

“I thought you were supposed to be exploring the fucking tunnel, not trying out your future stand up routine, Sunshine.”

“I can do both, can’t I?” I laughed as I moved across the room towards the tunnel entrance. “Hang on a sec - I’ve got to put you down while I move this damn chest of drawers out of the way.”

I laid my phone down on a side table, meaning that, for a moment, all Brian would be able to see was the dimly lit, sagging plaster ceiling. Then I concentrated on shifting the heavy piece of furniture away from the exit door. For some reason the stupid dresser seemed heavier than it had when I’d pushed it over there in the first place. Finally, with an embarrassingly loud grunt, I managed to shift the thing a foot or two, enough so I’d be able to squeeze through the door.

“What was that? Are you okay?” Brian’s worried voice echoed around the room.

I rushed back over to grab my phone so that my charming worrywort boyfriend could see that I was fine. “It’s nothing. I just had a bit of trouble moving that big dresser. It’s all good.”

“Remind me again why, exactly, you have to do this?” Brian complained.

“Because I’m annoying and a brat and I can’t bear to let any mystery go unsolved?”

“Right. Stupid stray burglars . . .”

“Yep. We’re worse than stray cats - that’s already been established - but that’s why you love me,” I suggested boldly. “If it weren’t for me, though, you wouldn’t be having this amazing virtual adventure. So, let’s do this thing, huh?”

Brian whined a little but didn’t bother saying anything, probably because he knew that nothing would stop a determined sneak thief like me. I smiled once more into the camera of the phone and then quickly switched the camera angle so that Brian would be seeing what I was seeing in front of me rather than just my handsome mug. Then I grabbed hold of the doorknob and pulled open the entrance to the tunnel.

If anything, the tunnel was darker than it had been the previous time I’d looked down its lengths. Since it was night already, there wasn’t any light trickling down from the sidewalk skylight so there was virtually no illumination other than what was coming from my flashlight. With all the dark shadows and shit, the tunnel looked more sinister than tempting today. Maybe I was succumbing a bit to Brian’s morbid worries? But I told myself not to be a silly sissy and stepped over the threshold, into the unknown.

“Shit. It’s fucking dark down there. Are you sure this can’t wait till it’s at least daylight?” Brian asked, sounding even more troubled.

“I’m fine, Brian. I’ve got my trusty flashlight. Besides a little darkness never hurt anyone, right?” I offered, trying to placate him.

Of course, just as I was saying that while smiling down at Brian’s anxious face on my phone screen instead of looking at where I was going, my foot caught on a jagged piece of plaster and brickwork that had fallen from the ceiling and I tripped. I dropped both the phone and the flashlight, putting my hands out to try and block my fall. I think I might have yelled out a ‘Shit!” or some similar curse at my idiotic clumsiness. And then it all went dark as I hit the ground with a hard lurch and my head knocked against the hard brick of the tunnel wall.

Chapter 19 - Touch Me.

“Wake up, damn it! Justin! Would you fucking wake up already? You stupid fucking stray burglar. Just fucking wake up!”

Someone cursing me out was the first thing I became aware of.

“Noooo . . .” I shook off the hand that was relentlessly tapping at my shoulder. “I don’t wanna go to school,” I heard myself mumble, which was quickly followed by loud laughing that hurt my ears.

“Fucking hell, Justin.” There was that voice again.

At first the voice sounded like it was coming from far away and the words were all distorted so it was difficult to understand the meaning behind the sounds, but gradually the syllables became clearer and coalesced into actual speech. At about the same time, I noticed that something was jostling my body. I could feel two bands of warmth wrapped around my torso and arms, holding me in place but also sort of shaking me a little. The shaking part kinda annoyed me. How was a guy supposed to get any sleep with all that noise and shaking and shit? After a few more minutes of this, though, when the cursing and shaking still hadn’t let up, I decided I was going to have to wake up enough to tell whoever it was to fuck off.

“Get off . . . Leave me alone . . . Go ‘way . . .” I complained, trying unsuccessfully to bat away whomever was pawing at me. “Shhh! Sleeping here . . . Fuck off.”

“Don’t be a twat! You are NOT sleeping in the fucking disgusting tunnel that, knowing my luck, leads to Narnia or somewhere equally messed up. Now, wake the fuck up so we can get the hell out of here,” the voice demanded, adding another rather insistent shake to emphasize its words.

It seemed that I was going to have to open my eyes so I could see what the hell was going on and why this voice was being so annoying. So I did. Only it didn’t help very much because where I was lying was pretty dark so I couldn’t really see much. Down by my feet there was a small amount of light, but it was pointing in the wrong direction so it really didn’t illuminate anything much. I blinked a couple of times, trying to clear my vision more, and thankfully my eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness. Which is when I finally realized who it was that the voice belonged to.

“Hey, Eggy,” I greeted the voice’s owner who was, right then, hovering over me looking a bit worried. “Um, is there a reason you’re yelling at me? Did I forget to close the toilet seat or something? And why did you turn off all the lights in here?”

“Fucking, stupid, delusional twats . . .” he continued to grumble and curse at me, the angry words offset by a small, worried smile, that completely belied the harsh tone.

I watched as my Eggy bent over and reached towards the one dim source of light, picking it up and revealing that it had been coming from a flashlight that was laying on the ground. Once he’d picked the thing up, the illumination expanded exponentially and I could not only see my immediate surroundings better but also Brian’s face. He did not look at all pleased. Behind a beard that was even more of a rat’s nest than usual, his face was all frowny and there was a tic that was making the tiny muscles next to his left eye spasm. Whatever I’d done to piss him off must have been really bad to cause my poor Eggy to be this upset. Whoops.

At least the shaking stopped when Brian moved. And that’s when I finally realized that the warm bands wrapped around my body were actually Brian’s arms; arms which had been holding me as he tried to shake me awake. Hmmm. That part had been pretty nice, actually. I liked having Egbert arms holding me. He was all snugly. Mmm.

But wait, why did that sound like something that shouldn’t be happening?

Oh, yeah. We didn’t do the touching thing, did we? So then, why was I being graced with all this glorious physical contact? Did I win the OCD lottery or something? Lucky me. I’d even be happy to go back to the annoying shaking if I got to keep with the touching thing. But if we were, indeed, doing the touching thing now, I wasn’t going to settle for just a hug or two. I was going for the full meal deal.

“Mmmm. Nice. Warm . . .” Without even thinking I reached up and pulled that magnificently hairy face down until I could reach his lips where they nestled amid the wooliness of that crazy beard. Just like I’d always suspected, Egbert’s lips were really nice. They were warm and so soft. And they tasted a bit like Deb’s lemon bars. “Yummy,” I managed to mumble as I pressed harder against the warmth of his mouth.

It took me a minute or two before I realized that Eggy wasn’t kissing me back. In fact, he’d gone super quiet and his whole body had become as stiff and still as a plank of wood. Which was definitely not the response I usually got when I kissed a guy. That odd reaction was what finally got my attention. Something here just wasn’t right. If only my brain didn’t feel so fuzzy, maybe I could figure it out.

“Brian? You okay?” I asked, pulling away from his unresponsive lips.

“. . .”

He just stared at me like I’d asked him to do computational physics in his head without a calculator or something. In fact, he looked like he was about to go into shock or something. This was not the reaction I typically got when I was ravaging him. In fact, none of this scenario really jivved with my usual lusty fantasies of me and Eggy together. In my fantasies, Brian would be kissing me back and we’d be naked and sweaty . . . and certainly not lying on the hard, lumpy, cold floor. Something definitely wasn’t right here.

Which is when I finally realized that this probably wasn’t just another fun Ravishing Eggy fantasy at all. I started to sit up so I could investigate further. It wasn’t till I tried to move more that I realized how much pain I was in. There was a horrible throbbing in my head, aches and pains all down the rest of me, and a matching throbbing in my right ankle. What the hell? What was happening here?

I tried to look down at my foot which, after my aching head, was the next most painful part of my body, and realized I couldn’t see it very well because of the strange lighting situation. Of course that prodded me to look around again and that’s when understanding began to trickle into my fuzzy brain. Eggy and I were sitting on the rubble-strewn floor of the secret tunnel under Brian’s building. Oh, that explained the lack of light, I guess. So, what the fuck were we doing down here? And why were we sitting on the ground? Also, why was I all confused and achy and . . .

*Boing*

Some neural connection that had previously been scrambled finally made contact and all of a sudden I remembered what had happened. I remembered coming down here to go exploring. I remembered that I was facetiming with Brian as I went. I remembered that I hadn’t been paying attention to where I was going and that I’d tripped and . . . Okay, now everything was making a lot more sense. Well, sorta.

“Brian, what are you doing down here? I didn’t think you wanted to come into the tunnel?” I asked the still-stunned man kneeling by my side and looking a little dazed.

“I didn’t . . . but when you fell and I lost sight of you . . . you weren’t answering me . . . so I had to come down here to find out what happened . . . I thought maybe you were ambushed by rampaging black dwarves or fawns or something.” That comment left me a bit confused again - because, dwarves? fawns? seriously? - and the fact that he’d lost me must have shown on my face. “How hard DID you hit your head, Sunshine?” Brian asked, looking at me with even more concern than before.

I reached up with my right hand and discovered a huge, tender, lump on my right temple. That probably wasn’t good. A second head injury in less than a month was unlikely to be at all helpful.

“Is knocking yourself out a regular thing with you or something? Because, if so, I’m going to probably need to increase the liability insurance for the building . . . Or wrap you in bubble wrap - that’s probably cheaper,” Brian commented with what I thought was an attempt to be funny.

“I didn’t used to have a problem with that before I met you, Eggy,” I answered, trying to smile through the pain. “Shit. What the fuck have I done to myself now?”

I quickly surveyed the rest of the damage as best I could in the near darkness of the tunnel. Besides the bump on my head, I had skinned up my arms, hands and elbows pretty badly, more on the right than the left. Both knees were also pretty sore, but I couldn’t see how bad they were hurt because of my jeans; hopefully the fabric had provided some protection. The worst of my injuries, though, was undoubtedly whatever had happened to my right ankle.

Even in the dim light of the flashlight Brian was still holding, I could tell that my ankle was already ballooning up. Stupid ankle. I had sprained it really badly back when I was only sixteen - I’d been trying to show off by running underneath a buddy who I’d been pushing on a swing, but I had misjudged the momentum of my last big push and, as I tried to dash under his ass on the up-arc, I got clipped by one of his long dangling feet and had gone down - a sprain that had been bad enough to put me in a boot-cast for six weeks. The ankle had never been quite the same since; I was always twisting that ankle over the smallest shit. So it wasn’t a huge surprise that I’d hurt it yet again, although this injury seemed worse than most. I could already tell I wouldn’t be walking on it any time soon.

“Fuck! I think my damn ankle is sprained again,” I announced with disgust. “Well, so much for our evening of adventuring, Eggy.”

“Fine with me,” he mumbled, making me smile because that was just such an Eggy thing to say.

Brian started to get to his feet, biting at his lip and looking around himself as if he was still spooked by his surroundings. I knew he wanted to get out of the tunnel as soon as possible. However, that was going to be problematic.

“Sorry, Egbert, but I think I’m going to need some help here.” I pointed to my ankle. Because of the light and the fact that I was still wearing socks and shoes, he probably couldn’t tell how bad it was hurt, but I could. “I don’t think I can walk on it. At least not very far. Do you think you could lend me a hand, maybe?”

I held my hand up towards him, putting on my most pathetic, imploring face, and hoping that he would be able to do this. If not, I was either going to have to try and crawl my way out on my already abraded hands and knees or just decide to live here in the basement for the foreseeable future. C’mon, Eggy, you can do this . . .

It took him at least ninety full seconds before he responded by extending his own hand. I offered up my biggest smile as a reward for being so brave. Then I grabbed his big, sturdy hand and let him haul me up till I was standing on my one good foot. Once I was vertical, I wrapped my right arm around his waist and leaned into his side. Fuck it felt good to be so close to him, even though the reason for our closeness was my horribly achy ankle. And, when Brian reciprocated by clasping his left arm around my shoulder tight enough to make sure I didn’t topple over, it felt even better. Not to mention, the up-close-and-personal smell of his cologne was almost enough to make me forget about my ankle altogether.

“Come on, Burglar. Let’s get the fuck out of this disgusting tunnel already,” Brian muttered.

I was just about to follow his directions but then looked around myself one last time and noted my phone lying on the ground a meter or so away. “Wait. My phone.” And I took one step forward towards the object before I practically screamed from the pain that action caused to my ankle. “Shit! Fuck! Damn it! . . .” Brian rushed to put a supportive arm around my waist so he could prevent me from upending yet again.  

“Hang on. I’ll get it. You just . . . just try not to fall over again,” my savior advised, stepping away from my side long enough to bend over and pick up the phone before returning to help stabilize me. “Here. It looks like your phone managed to avoid any serious damage. I’m not sure about the rest of you, though. How the fuck am I going to get you back up the stairs?”

“How’d you do it the last time I conked out on your floor?” I asked; something I’d wondered for a while but never had the guts to mention.

“I carried your ridiculously fat ass ALL the way up the stairs,” Brian admitted as he scooped me up, lifting me in his arms as if I weighed nothing. “Fucking princess . . . swooning all over the place . . . you probably like being carried everywhere.”

I tried not to laugh at the way he was covering up his discomfort with grumbling. I was beginning to suspect my Eggy doth protest too much, you know? Of course, I really was a bit of a princess, so he wasn’t exactly wrong. But, then again, who didn’t enjoy being manhandled by a big, strong, warm, hunk of man meat like Brian? Am I right? Hell, I was loving this treatment; it was almost worth fucking up my ankle again. So I didn’t mind Brian pretending to be annoyed with me. I just wrapped my arms around his neck, rested my head against his firm chest, and held on, enjoying the ride.

We made it out of the tunnel and through the little secret room. Brian had to gently set me down - with me balancing on one leg - to close the doors to both the tunnel and secret room. After being scooped back up into those deceptively strong arms of his, though, we proceeded to exit the basement. Brian seemed intent on just getting out of there as quickly as possible. I managed to help him out a little bit by shutting off the lights as we neared the bottom of the steps. Then he struggled up the narrow basement steps - a feat that wasn’t easy because he had to sorta walk sideways with me in his arms so as not to bump my injured ankle against the walls - which made me swoon a little at his thoughtfulness.

When we finally made it up to the ground floor, he huffed a huge breath and then carefully dropped me down to my own feet for a second. “Shit. I think you’ve put on ten pounds since the last time I did this. How many of those fucking lemon bars did you eat today?”

“You saw me - I only had two,” I replied, a little put out after basically being called fat by my boyfriend. “Maybe you should work out more, Mr. Hermit? You know, a good jog around the city wouldn’t hurt.”

“Shut up or I’ll drop you on your head again,” Brian warned right before he hefted me up in the air once more.

So I shut up, because I really didn’t want to be dropped. I didn’t think my head - as thick as it is - could handle any more trauma. Plus, being carried by Brian . . . like, who in their right mind would complain about that? And, little by little, with short breaks on every landing so my hero could catch his breath, we slowly made our way up the six flights of stairs back to Brian’s rooms on the top floor. (Note to self - remember to ask him why the fuck he doesn’t set up house on a lower floor.) Eventually, though, we managed to reach his couch, where he carefully settled me on the cushions before collapsing next to me.

“Thanks for the lift, Big Guy,” I offered before reaching down to very carefully take off my sneaker and the sock on my right foot. I wasn’t disappointed in what I expected to find, either. My ankle was already puffy and starting to turn red as the millions of tiny ruptured blood vessels under the skin continued to leak into the surrounding tissue. “Shit. I’ll never be able to make it home on the bus and Daphne is doing an overnight shift at the hospital tonight . . .”

“Is this your way of finagling another sleepover?” Brian huffed, still pretending to be annoyed, although I was onto him enough by that point that I could tell he was thrilled with the prospect of company.

“Maybe. But only because I know you can’t live without me,” I teased, doing that nose wrinkling thing that I knew would win him over.

Brian shook his head but I could tell by the way he’d tucked his lips inside that he was hiding a smile in that beard of his. Fuck he was just too adorkable sometimes; trying to appear all gruff and uncaring when he’d just finished doing this amazing thing by facing all his fears to come save me. He was a bona fide hero, for fuck’s sake. Someone needed to tell him that.

“Okay, so, consider this fair warning, Eggy, because I’m about to hug you,” I cautioned, twisting my body to face him and then slowly and deliberately reaching out till I could lasso him into a huge hug. “Thank you for coming to save me, Eggy,” I whispered. “My hero!”

“I didn’t save you,” he insisted, still pretending to be unconcerned. “I just didn’t want you dying down there and your bloated, rotting corpse stinking up my basement for the next thirty-some years.”

I scoffed loudly. “You’re such a romantic,” I teased. “Now, stop being all prickly so I can kiss you.”

“. . . Okay . . . But you do realize there are more subtle ways to come onto a guy, right?”

“What . . . like this?” I asked as I licked my lips and locked my eyes on that delicious mouth of his, slowly batting my lashes once for good measure.

Brian gulped loudly. “Exactly.”

“Fine. If you’re satisfied now, can I proceed with the kissing? Because, when I was kissing you downstairs, I hadn’t yet realized it was real - I thought it was just another of my Nasty Egbert fantasies - so I didn’t pay close enough attention, and I really want to remember it this time. Okay?”

He didn’t say anything to stop me, which I took as a sign of agreement. At least he didn’t look like he was about to panic this time. So I closed my eyes and just went for it.

I felt myself leaning towards him and I could feel his warm breath on my face as our mouths were about to touch. I swear, the moment our lips connected I could feel my heart beating so wildly in my chest it felt like it was trying to escape. His lips . . . They were so soft . . . And after a couple of seconds of him just sitting there letting me kiss the hell out of him, he finally started to kiss back. Only, it wasn’t like the kisses I had been dreaming about - this wasn’t all tongue and spit-swapping - no, this was strangely better than I could have ever imagined. He opened his mouth ever so slightly and started nibbling on my lips, moaning quietly as though they were the most delicious things he had ever tasted.

I wasn’t sure if I would ruin the moment by doing this, but my tongue was desperate to get in on the action so, without overthinking it too much, I poked the tip of my tongue out between my lips and ran it gently against Brian’s mouth. I felt him stiffen slightly against me, but then he parted his lips just enough so I could enter, allowing me to run my tongue along the inside of his lips. Fuck, he tasted amazing. We kept this up for a minute or two, and it was great. I’d always known we’d be great once we reached this stage. Thank fuck we’d arrived sooner than I’d anticipated! I could easily see myself becoming addicted to kissing this man, but what an addiction to have, huh?

Eventually, though, with a little smack of our lips, Brian pulled away. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Sunshine, but . . . why do you smell like a stale french fry?”

“Dammit, Eggy, I’m doing my best lip work here and meanwhile you’re busy daydreaming about french fries? You’re not doing my ego any good, you know?” Brian just gave me this skeptical look. “Fine. If you must know, I always end up smelling like this after a day working at the Diner. I didn’t want to take the time to run home and shower first before coming over here, so . . .” Brian’s nose crinkled up slightly and I sighed. He’d done so amazingly well with the touching and the kissing and I didn’t want to ruin things because my eau-de-greasy-spoon turned him off. “I guess I COULD probably use a shower? And it wouldn’t hurt to wash all these cuts and bruises all over me.” Then I had an absolutely brilliant idea, and added, “I’m not sure I should try and shower alone, though. I might fall again with this ankle. Care to join me and make sure I don’t topple over?”

As well as Brian had been doing so far, this seemed to throw him for a loop, I’m not sure why. There was a definite spark of returning panic in his hazels, though. For about a half a second I thought about retreating - giving him the out I could tell he desperately wanted - but then I stopped myself. This was part of what Daphne had been saying, right? Eggy needed me to help him push himself. I wouldn’t force him, but I wasn’t going to withdraw the offer either. I wanted him to know that I wanted him. That I didn’t see him any differently than any other guy. That I wanted to be physically intimate with him. And he could have that option if he wanted it. It was all up to him. I would be there no matter what.

So, while I waited, trying to tamp down my expectations and hopes, poor Eggy debated with himself. You could almost see the thoughts whirling behind his eyes while his face remained almost blank. It was excruciating, just sitting there waiting to see what he would decide. I wanted more than anything to just make it all better for him, but I knew I couldn’t. He had to do this for himself. But the wait . . . Did I mention that I hate waiting?

“Fuck it,” he muttered under his breath a good three minutes later. He stood up and held out his hand for me. “Let’s go, Stinky . . . Stupid fucking smelly burglars . . . I can’t have you stinking up the whole room all night long, but I don’t need you conking out in my shower and getting blood all over everything, either.”

I thought it best not to say anything, so I just smiled and let him help me up to my feet again. Well, up to my one foot, since the other was now completely useless. My right ankle was roughly the size and shape of a grapefruit by that point - if grapefruit came in an ugly, purpley-red color and caused you to scream in pain every time you touched one. Fuck, that hurt!

Brian cinched his arm around my waist and half carried me the few meters to his bathroom while I tried to support my weight as best I could on my one good leg. It wasn’t my most graceful moment, but what the hell, right? If it meant that I got to hang onto my elusive hermit, maybe it was worth it?

We successfully made it into the bathroom and Brian lifted me up so I was sitting on the edge of the bathroom counter with my injured leg dangling in mid air. Then he stopped, standing there looking at me like he didn’t know what came next. I was curious to see what he’d do. How resolute was my recluse going to be? When he was still staring at me a half a minute later, though, I opted to take charge a little. Egbert had already done so much that was completely out of his comfort zone that day and I didn’t want to push him any more.

So, slowly, and with careful but deliberate movements, I reached down, grabbed the hem of my shirt, and attempted to pull it off, over my head as sexily as I could, pausing slightly as I got myself slightly tangled up. It didn’t take me long to recover - although the smirk on his face as I looked up made me shake my head in embarrassment. This is what I get for trying to be a twinkie version of a stripper.

Once I’d gotten over my faux pas, I peeked up at my man and was gratified to see the avid way he was watching my every motion. If he could eat me up with his eyes, he would have done it there and then. I tossed my shirt aside and reached out to take hold of his shirt next, tugging at the fabric hard enough to cause him to step forward, closer and closer to me, until he was right there in the vee between my thighs. Then I ran my hands up under his clothing, letting my fingers trail over the toasty-warm skin I found underneath.

Okay, THIS was much more like one of my fantasies. Nice. Very nice.

“You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do this,” I whispered. “Damn, Eggy, you are the hottest hermit the world has ever seen . . .”

That made him chuckle and he finally relaxed a little bit. I took the opportunity to finish removing his shirt, rucking the fabric up far enough that I forced him to raise his hands, and then pulling from the shoulder until I got the shirt over his head. Which gave me gloriously bare Egbert and that’s all I ever really wanted in the world. Damn, this boy was all that. I mean, ALL THAT! I could . . .

“. . . Climb you like a jungle gym . . .”

Brian burst out into laughter.

“Damn. I said that out loud, didn’t I?” I could feel my cheeks reddening with embarrassment, but whatever. “Fuck it all. Come here, Eggy, and let me worship you and your gorgeousness.”

He shook his head at my over-the-top enthusiasm, but inched forward a little closer at the same time. I crooked my good leg around his thigh and pulled him up against me. Then I very pointedly hooked my fingers over the waistband of his jeans and smiled up at him as I popped the top button open. He stiffened slightly, but he didn’t do or say anything to stop me, so I undid the second button. And the third. And then the last. And then his pants started to slide down his skinny hips, not stopping till they bunched up around his ankles, leaving me face to face with a completely naked, and highly aroused Eggy Jr.

“Hello there!” I greeted my new friend.

“If you’re expecting him to return the greeting, I hate to disappoint you, but he doesn’t usually say much,” my man grinned down at me.

“Oh? Is he shy?” I asked, joining in with the silliness.

“Yeah,” he snorted, “that’s it.”

I knew I was staring, but I couldn’t help it. I don’t think I’d ever seen a more beautiful penis in my life. To distract myself from gushing over his dick - because I knew I probably couldn’t go there yet, no matter how brave my man was being about the touching thing - I said the first thing that came to mind, which ended up making me sound like a moron, but whatever. If Brian wanted suave and sophisticated, he was out of luck.

“You have such a cute belly button,” I babbled.

Brian pulled away from me slightly with a look of what could only be described as disgust on his face. “Cute? My belly button isn’t cute. What the fuck are you on?”

I really needed to stop saying shit like that out loud. “I’m sorry, what I actually meant to say was how sexy and manly it is . . .” Then I laughed at how stupid we both sounded.

The kidding around was definitely helping my man relax, though - you could see it in his shoulders and the way he was standing - he was no longer stiff as a board. Well, a certain part of him was, and I was very much okay with that, but the rest of him was loosening up nicely. And I took advantage of that fact to lean in and leave a kiss in the adorably manly belly button.

“We . . . we really need to take your jeans off,” Brian suggested, his voice gone a little breathy.

I nodded my head and reached down to unsnap the buttons on my grubby 501s. I wiggled them over my boxer-clad bum and down my legs, being extra careful as they reached my ankle. I had decided to keep my boxers on until I stood back up since I didn’t think Brian would appreciate seeing my unshowered ass on his pristine marble countertops.

“A little help here?” I asked as I’d already pulled my good leg free of the denim but was struggling to get them over my swollen ankle.

I could see the hesitation in his eyes and in the way his hands shook nervously. It was funny, Brian was as confident as could be standing before me naked as the day he was born, but as soon as it came to us having any sort of contact he froze up. No problem; I was getting good at this hermit therapy crap. I just kept smiling at him invitingly till I’d worn him down.

“Okay . . .” Brian answered quietly, as he bent down and carefully pulled the jeans off of my ankle. “Eesh,” he hissed as his eyes took in my poor, injured foot. “We should probably put some ice on this once we’ve showered.” I nodded, unable to respond like a normal human being as he gently stroked the tips of his fingers over my ugly, purple ankle with a look of sadness in his eyes. “This looks really painful.”

I shrugged. “It feels really painful too,” I snarked.

“I was trying to be sympathetic,” Brian complained with a wicked grin. “But if you’re gonna be a brat . . .” The sadistic stylite then pinched my side, causing me to squirm and halfway fall off the counter. “Whoa. Careful.” Brian used one of those big hands to steady me and I obediently stilled myself before I really did fall and reinjure my ankle. “Now, let’s get the stink off you already before my place permanently smells like a McDonald’s.”

Brian turned the shower on and then came back to help me down off the counter. He steadied me while I balanced on my good leg, squirming till I got my briefs off. Next, he watched nervously while I hopped the rest of the way into the shower under my own steam. And fuck if the warm water cascading down over my sore body didn’t feel heavenly. Brian joined me a second later, shutting the shower door behind him with a click. Of course, then he had to go and get all shy on me again, standing there just beyond the range of the spray like he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, and looking all adorably confused. He was such a silly goose. I thought we were over that already. But no matter, I just grabbed his hand and yanked him nearer till I could comfortably rest my head against his smooth chest while the water rained down on us both. Only then did his arms snake up and encircle my waist, holding me close to him and supporting me while we both relaxed and let the water sluice over us.

And, while he was holding me like that, I happened to look over to the right, through the glass of the shower surround, catching a glimpse of us in the mirror over the sink. What I saw was so beautiful. I saw two men, holding each other, the larger one being extra tender and solicitous. If I wasn’t so damned happy right where I was, I would have jumped out and run to get my sketch pad so I could draw the scene we were making. But, since I was way too contented right where I was, I stayed put, hoping to memorize the picture I saw so I could draw it later.

Chapter 20 - Sleepover

Random thought #3268: why does human skin shrivel up like a raisin when we’re in water for too long? I mean, seriously, what’s up with that? If we really are descended from creatures that crawled out of the sea, shouldn’t we be able to handle extra-long showers without getting all pruny and icky? Asking for a friend who just really likes taking long, sweet, intimate, showers with his otherwise hands-off boyfriend but doesn’t like the raisin-fingers that come with the experience.

“We should get out of here and get you off that ankle,” Brian insisted when he noticed me surreptitiously scowling at my water-puckered fingertips.

“No. I’m fine. The hot water feels realllly good.”

“Maybe, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to put ice on swelling ankles and conked heads, not heat,” he maintained.

Brian turned the two of us slightly so that more of the shower stream would hit me. His large, soft hands glided over my skin, helping to rinse away any lingering soap. Did I mention how great the soap he used smells? Then he filled one palm with some shampoo from a dispenser affixed to the tiles of the shower wall and began to run his hands through my hair. Damn, if having your hair washed for you isn’t the most sensual experience ever invented! I hadn’t felt that cared for and loved in . . . well, ever. Who knew his hands were so soft? I sure as hell didn’t. It just felt so fucking good, you know? And, despite our shower adventure being relatively chaste up to that point, I could feel certain parts of my anatomy getting warmer even as the shower water was starting to cool. But, since I didn’t think we were ready to go THERE, I just took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on something other than my dick.

Seizing on the first topic that came to mind, I blurted, “so, how come you’re hairy all over except on your chest.”

I let my palm rest on his pec, centered right over the perky nub of a nipple, and allowed my puckered fingertips to play in the few hairs they found there. I could tell he hadn’t shaved or waxed or anything, because no stubble, so the relatively light hair growth that covered his pecs - heavier around the areolas and down the midline that led over solidly defined abs to a more pronounced treasure trail - was a little surprising. Judging by the bush of hair covering his chin, not to mention the magnificent bush down below, I would have expected him to be a regular caveman. But no. That chest was not only fairly sparsely covered, but the hair itself was a lighter color, more a light auburn than the darker brunet I saw elsewhere. It was fascinating. Probably why I couldn’t seem to keep my hands away. Or maybe that was because of the eminently touchable muscles underneath. Either way, I was revelling in running my hands all the fuck over that chest. I couldn’t get enough of the way he sucked in his breath when I ran my hands over a particularly ticklish spot.

“I blame Donal for passing on too many red-headed Irish leprechaun genes,” Brian surmised as he manually tilted my head back letting all the shampoo rinse out. “You should’ve seen me as a kid; after spending way too much time outside all summer I’d be practically ginger by the time September rolled around.”

“Mmmmm. Ginger Eggy. Wish I’d seen that. I bet you were adorable as a kid,” I concluded. But thoughts of a young Egbert brought up other questions. “So does that mean you weren’t always hidden away here in your tower.”

“You make me sound like fucking Rapunzel or something,” Brian grumbled. He moved away from me far enough to turn the shower off and then, after making sure I was holding onto the shower support bar for balance, he stepped out to grab two towels from the heated towel rack. “And, no, I wasn’t always . . . like this. There was once a time in my life where my body absorbed vitamin D naturally instead of through a supplement,” he stated rather matter-of-factly.

I took the towel he offered and began to dry myself off while I waited to see if any further explanations would be forthcoming. Brian ignored me, drying himself all over and then depositing his towel in the nearby laundry hamper. He also took that opportunity to pick up both his and my clothing, adding them to the hamper. Then he reached under the sink, pulled out a bottle of antibacterial spray cleaner and a sponge and started to attack the already spotless countertops surrounding the sink, his nose mere inches away from the counter as he scrubbed at non existent stains.

Okay. So, apparently, I’d hit on an anxiety-causing topic. Good to know.

I finished drying myself and then carefully hopped out of the shower, trying to prevent my bad ankle from making any contact with the floor. Brian immediately confiscated my wet towel and put it in the hamper too. Then he went back to scrubbing at the countertops with a vengeance I hadn’t seen before. Good thing they were solid marble or he would have scrubbed a hole through them by now. Maybe it was time for more Taylor distractions?

“Ow!” I yelled. “Damn. I knocked my ankle again. This totally sucks. I think you’re going to have to give me a hand again.”

Brian was so easy. He immediately dropped his cleaning supplies and rushed to my side, offering his nice solid body as a support. Of course, now I was standing there, precariously balanced on one foot, stark naked, and Brian had just taken away both my towel and all my clothing. It didn’t help matters much that Brian was still buck naked too. Or that I’d been fighting against all these naked-with-Eggy urges for the entire shower. I mean, come on! What’s a guy supposed to do in that kind of situation? It was pretty obvious what my dick thought of this arrangement, though, so I figured I might as well stop fighting it.

“Don’t know about you, Eggy, but I can think of at least one thing I’d rather be doing right now that doesn’t involve helping you clean the bathroom.” I waggled my eyebrows at him in what I hoped was an invitingly sexy manner. “How about you put down that sponge and help me to bed, huh?”

I watched as Brian’s eyes drifted over my pleasingly bare body and I could tell he was interested. More than interested, if the way his glance got stuck on my midsection meant anything. And, since he was still naked too, that interest was more than evident, if you get my drift. For about ten seconds I thought I had him and maybe my wildest dreams were about to come true.

But then, almost against his will, I felt him sorta pull back from me. Biting at his bottom lip, he looked back over at the counter he’d been cleaning. I peeked around his shoulder and could see that there was a foot-square corner of the surface that hadn’t been wiped down yet where you could see the sheen from his cleaning spray still glistening on the marble. I could tell he was caught up in his OCD thing. He just couldn’t leave that counter unwiped. Not even for something as tempting as my tight, twinkie ass on offer, free of charge. And it was pretty much killing him to stand there, unable to make the decision about what to do . . . which pull was going to win out.

Darn it. It was almost physically painful for ME to watch him fighting with himself like that. It was yet another reminder of all the stumbling blocks we’d have to overcome if we were actually going to try and make something out of this attraction we both seemed to feel. But it was probably a good thing that this interruption cooled things off between us so effectively, because we clearly weren’t ready for more.

“It’s okay, Eggy. I get it. You gotta do your thing, right? So, how about you just help me to bed first and then you can take care of whatever you need to do, huh?” I offered.

Which is how I ended up in Brian’s guest room bed, alone and in pain and ridiculously horny. I know I should have been happy with all that Eggy and I had accomplished that day. He’d come so far already. I could wait a bit longer, right?

Did I mention how much I HATE waiting?

However, I was obviously way more tired than I had realized, because I was fast asleep almost as soon as Brian had left the room. I heard him heading back to the bathroom to finish punishing the poor marble counter, but then that was it. I was off to dreamland where all my dreams were filled with naked Eggy kisses . . . so nice.

I was in the middle of a deliciously innocent dream about making out with my Eggy, when I felt the bed dip beside me.

“Wake up, Justin.”

“Huh?” Fuck, I’m so sexy, I think I may have also snorted as I came to.

“I need to make sure you’re okay. I’m not supposed to let you sleep for longer than two hours.”

I rolled onto my side so that I was facing Brian and smiled up into the darkness. His beautiful face was silhouetted by the light coming into the room from the hallway and, damn, it made me want to grab his face and kiss it. “You don’t have to do that, Brian. After my head’s last encounter with your floors, I asked my friend Daphne and she told me doctors don’t bother with that anymore. That’s just a myth.”

“No it’s not. I Googled it.”

“Oooh, then it must be true,” I teased, loving the way Brian scoffed at me, so obviously put out by being associated with such a clever clogs.

Brian crossed his arms over his chest and turned his head away from me. “Fine, I won’t wake you. See how you like falling into a coma . . .”

“Brian, I didn’t mean . . .”

It took everything in him not to fall off the bed laughing at his own joke. “You’re so easy, Sunshine.”

“Um . . .”

“I’m still waking you at least a few more times, whether you like it or not,” he told me.

“Brian,” I moaned, rubbing my cheek tiredly against the pillow.

Out of nowhere, I felt Brian’s hand run very gently over my damp hair. “Calm down, Doogie Howser. You can prove your point tomorrow. But, until then, I’m doing what I think is best. Okay?”

I yawned loudly. “‘Kay.”

I couldn’t even remember falling back to sleep; it was only when I felt myself being poked continuously on my shoulder (he definitely enjoyed doing that too much) that I opened my eyes.

“What?” I snapped before I even realized I had done it.

Brian leant down until his mouth was right by my ear. “What year is it? Who is the current president of The United States?” he whispered. Fuck, I felt myself shiver as his warm breath hit my face.

“The longer you take to answer me, the more concerned I will get and the more I will wake you up.” That little shithead, that’s SO not how this worked.

“2015.”

“...”

“And to answer your other question, Barack Obama is the current president of the United States.”

“Justin???” I could tell he wasn’t sure if I was serious or not. The light wasn’t great in here as it was, and I’d answered completely dead pan. “You’re not fucking serious are you?”

I could feel the corners of my mouth turning up, knowing I had got him good. “No, I’m kidding. I know it’s 2019 and that the current president is a moronic orange buffoon whose name I refuse to say aloud. We would be better off having an actual Cheeto running the country . . .”

I heard him scoff loudly. “Asshole.”

“He is! That’s why I refuse to accept he’s my president,” I yawned, snuggling back under the warm covers.

“Agreed. However, I was talking about you.”

I fell asleep to the soft sounds of my Eggy laughing to himself.

“Justin . . . wakey wakey, eggs and bakey . . .”

“Mmmm,” I stretched. “You cooked me breakfast?” I asked tiredly. “Nothing smells burnt.”

“Twat,” he laughed “it’s only five am, so you still have a while until it’s breakfast time I’m afraid.”

“Ugh . . .”

“Are you hungry?”

I rubbed my tummy, like that would answer the question. I shook my head. “No.”

“Then go back to sleep.”

I didn’t have to be told twice. As soon as I pulled the covers up over my head I was fast asleep again.

“Do you think I should shave off my beard?”

“Huh” I pulled my head out from the cocoon of blankets I had made for myself and looked up at Brian. He was sitting next to me, on top of the covers, with his legs crossed at his ankles and was scratching nervously at his face.

“What are you talking about?”

“My beard? Should I shave it? Was it . . . too scratchy when . . . when we kissed?”

If I could die from how cute this man was, I’d be deader than dead.

I pulled my arm out from under the covers and let it graze the top of his sweat pants-clad leg, waiting to see if he’d grant me access. Once I knew he was okay with it, I started to stroke the soft cotton. “A little, yeah. But it felt really good at the same time,” I told him honestly. “Besides, you can’t shave it off yet. Not until . . .”

“Until what?” he asked when I realized what I’d been about to reveal and abruptly stopped myself. “Justin? What were you about to say? Why can’t I shave yet?”

“Well, it’s just . . .” I stuttered along, my brain still too fuzzy from sleep to think fast enough to come up with a way out of this. “I just . . . sorta . . . I . . .” Oh, fuck it, I might as well confess. “I had this one fantasy about you rubbing me all over with that beard and I could feel how it tickled and scratched along my thighs while you . . .”

I pointedly looked down to where you could see a noticeable bulge beginning under the sheet that was covering my crotch area. Brian snickered wickedly. I knew I was blushing because of the way it felt like my face was practically on fire - damn my pale skin - but I figured, in for a penny, in for a pound, right? I might as well tell him everything now.

“Besides, if you do shave it off, I want to be the one who does it . . . and we have to be naked . . . and there will be large quantities of soap involved . . . and . . . *moan* . . .”

“So, judging by your reaction, I’m going to assume that you’re fine and don’t have a concussion or any sort of permanent brain damage,” Brian assessed with a knowing little smirk, which was only partially hidden by the beard in question. “Now, if you can put those fantasies of yours on hold for a little longer, Tiger, I’ve got bagels in the toaster for our breakfast. Then we’ll try to figure out how bad your ankle is and whether we need to find a way to get you to a doctor.”

I pushed myself up in the bed so I was in a sitting position and tried to will away the raging boner I’d given myself while I carefully flexed my ankle. Yeah, it was still horribly painful. There was no way I would be walking on it yet. In fact, I dreaded even looking at it because I could already feel how bad it was. The second day of a sprain is always worse than the first, in my experience. Plus, not only does it feel even more stiff and painful, but it starts to get that black-purple-green tinge to it that makes you gag. Nope, I was not looking forward to this part of the morning at all.

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty,” Brian insisted, pulling back the covers.

And, yep, it was just as bad as I’d suspected. The swelling had gone down a little, so my ankle no longer looked like a grapefruit, but it was still distorted and didn’t look like an ankle. The bruising had also reached epic levels of ugliness. It LOOKED painful. It WAS painful. And that’s before I even tried putting any weight on it. Shit. What the fuck was I going to do?

“I don’t think I’ll be going far on this thing,” I concluded. “Any chance of getting breakfast in bed? If not, I’m thinking you’re going to have to carry me again, Eggy, because this ankle is not going to cooperate.”

I could immediately tell that my suggestion was causing Brian some discomfort. I could see him biting at his bottom lip as he assessed the possible messiness of me eating in bed. It was probably the thought of all those crumbs going everywhere. But the alternative was more touching and, despite all our progress from the night before, I could already tell that his OCD tendencies were rearing their ugly head. He hadn’t touched me yet this morning and, while he hadn’t pulled away when I reached out to touch his leg through his pants, there hadn’t been anything more offered. Which was infuriating, but probably not all that surprising. I mean, it made sense that years worth of an increasing spiral of OCD rituals wouldn’t just be overcome in one night, right? It wasn’t even like us touching had been his choice - he’d been forced to come rescue me when I knocked myself out in his basement - if he hadn’t helped me back upstairs the previous night I’d still be laying there in pain on the floor of his basement. So, yeah, it was disappointing that he was back to struggling against the pull of all his neuroses and compulsions, but it was understandable too.

Not that I wasn’t going to keep pushing, of course. “So, what’s your preference? Crumbs in your linens or hauling my perky yet plump posterior all over your tower all morning?” I batted my lashes at him while offering up the second alternative just to let him know where my own preferences lay. A boy can dream, right?

Eggy apparently found my flirty approach a bit humorous, causing him to crack a smile and relieving some of his nervousness. “What the fuck. I can always just chuck all the bedding in the wash once I do finally get rid of your freeloading ass,” he surmised with a dismissive shake of his head. “Breakfast in bed coming right up, Princess.”

When Brian returned a few minutes later, I was happy to see that his tray of breakfast goodies contained enough for two. Now, if I could only talk him into crawling in bed with me so we could cuddle while we shared our bagels, that would be something. However, judging by the way Brian took out a bottle of hand sanitizer to use on his hands, not to mention the way he wiped down the nightstand at least twice before he set down his own plate, that wasn’t likely. Hey, at least he was trying, right? I mean, he was eating with me off a tray in his guest room, so I probably should try and overlook the repetitive rituals and the way he was nervously moving items on the tray around until they were all in perfect alignment with each other, right?

I took a moment to devour about half of my own cream cheese-laden bagel before I said anything. “Have you ever considered some kind of anti-anxiety medication?” I blurted. It had been a topic I had wanted to bring up for a while, but I had never found the perfect time to ask . . . And it seemed I still hadn’t . . . Whoops.

He looked up at me, took the time to wipe off his fingers for the fiftieth time, and then smiled sadly. “I’m less fond of doctors than I am of annoying burglars who get crumbs all over my guest room or secret tunnels in my basement, so no.”

“I’m only asking because my friend, Daphne . . .”

“Your friend whom you cite endlessly to mask the fact that you’re nosy as fuck?”

“Yeah. That one,” I admitted, because, he had me there, no denying it. “Anyway, Daphne was saying something the other day about how there’s all these great new meds that might help you. I mean, they probably won’t cure your OCD or anything, but they might help you cope a little better. Make everything feel less stressful for you. Maybe even make it so you’d be more open to trying out some of those ideas I had for your beard . . .”

That earned me a chuckle or two but in the end he just shook his head again, dismissing my idea outright. “I’m not going to see some quack doctor, Sunshine.”

“But what if a doctor came here to see you?”

“I didn’t think doctors did house calls anymore.”

“Well, no, most don’t but . . .” I took another bite of my bagel and thought through what I was proposing. “I don’t know. Maybe Daphne knows someone who could help? She works at the Magee-Women’s Hospital and knows a lot of people. She might have some ideas. And I would really, really, REALLY like it if you and I could, you know, maybe, sorta get beyond all this.” I gestured with my bagel in a large circle indicating all the distance between the two of us, accidentally causing a cascade of cream cheesy crumbs to fly pretty much everywhere, resulting in Brian hoping up off his chair and diving for the box of wipes so he could clean up the mess I’d just made. “. . . case in point.”

Brian looked guiltily up at me from the floor, realizing what he’d done. Then he quickly dabbed up all the crumbs he could see with yet another of the endless supply of wipes, before resuming his seat. My poor Eggy, he looked so forlorn, it nearly broke my heart.

“How does this sound?” I spoke up, trying to help out a bit. “I need to call Daph and have her come pick me up anyway - because there’s no way I’ll make it home on the bus with my ankle like this - which will give you two a chance to meet and sort of get acquainted. And, assuming that goes well, we could ask Daphne to see if any of her doctor friends might be willing to come out and talk to you? No commitments or anything, just talking. What do you think?”

Brian looked a little spooked by this suggestion but, to his credit, I could tell he was seriously thinking it through. Did I mention how incredibly fucking brave he was? I’d been heaping one challenge after another on him for weeks now, and he was doing so well at trying to face them. No wonder I found myself falling in love with him.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk to your friend,” Eggy conceded with a huge sigh.

“It won’t. And I promise you’ll love her. “

“Is she as annoying as you?” Brian asked semi-seriously.

“Even more so,” I laughed, thoroughly enjoying the look of dread on his face as he thought about being tagged teamed by me and my bestie.

I wasn’t sure why, but I had a good feeling about this.

Chapter 21 - Back To You.

Unfortunately it took several days before I could get back to my sweet, solitary, Eggy.

After we finished our breakfast in bed, I called Daphne, who totally freaked out over the news that I’d hit my head again. She insisted that I go to Urgent Care right away and informed me she was speeding right over to pick me up. Brian brought me my fully laundered clothing - I think he’d even ironed my jeans, judging by the perfect creases down the front of each leg - and helped steady me while I dressed. By the time I’d hobbled down the five flights of stairs to the ground floor, with Eggy’s help of course, Daphne was already there waiting for me. I barely got time to say goodbye to Brian before the two of them had me deposited in Daphne’s car. But I did manage to steal a short little kiss from my Eggy as he reached across my body to buckle my seatbelt for me. He seemed startled but kissed back briefly so I figured it was a win. And then I was rushed off to the doctor’s without further ado.

During their very limited interaction, Brian and Daphne were playing it super cool. It was sorta hilarious, actually. I mean, here was the man who probably hadn’t been out of his tower in fuck knew how many years, and whose only human contact had been the boy that delivered his groceries each week, just casually helping me out of the building and into Daphne’s car while he pretended it was normal for him to chat up some strange woman. Daph, on the other hand, was trying her best not to react to Brian any differently than she would with anyone else, so as to try and not make things harder for him. If it hadn’t been for the way Brian nervously avoided touching Daphne as they joined forces to help me into the car, or the way his eyes kept darting around anxiously as if looking out for disguised attackers, I might have even bought his act. I think the only thing holding him together at that point was his concern for me, the big old softie. But, because of his epic level of discomfort, as well as Daphne’s overblown concern for the state of my physical well-being, the conversation was short and casual and we didn’t even get close to the topic of meds for Brian.

So then the doctors did their thing and declared me near death - or at least that’s how Daphne seemed to understand things - and sent me home with directions to stay in bed until at least spring. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit there, but that’s what it felt like. Did I mention that I’m not a good patient? I hate sitting around in bed all day, even when I’m really sick, and being told to stay put for days on end when I’m not really sick, just a little achy, was killing me. But I didn’t have much choice in the matter since I had no source of transportation and couldn’t yet handle the bus with my ankle the way it was. Daph, meanwhile, was working double shifts every day, taking up the slack for everyone using their vacation days in the lead up to Christmas, so she wasn’t even around to help me out with a ride. This meant, unfortunately, that my ass was stranded and I was left alone with my boredom.

I spent my time, like any red-blooded gay boy would, whacking off around the clock to memories of my shower with Eggy. And, when my dick got too sore for that pastime, I moved on to sketching pictures of my shower with Eggy. When even that got too tedious, I launched into a naughty texting campaign with Eggy that inevitably led back to pastime number one. Yes, I realize I’m totally pathetic, but it was working for me for the time being, so fuck off with your judgmental shit, okay?

Finally, it was Christmas Eve and I had an actual reason to get out of bed and get dressed. And for the first time in a long time I felt almost excited to see my father, since he was the excuse for my being allowed out of bed. I got up, took a shower, dressed in suitably stuffy clothing, and strapped on my old boot cast so I could at least hobble around on my own. Dad had sent a car to pick me up, of course, so I didn't have to deal with public transportation. It was like being freed from a long prison sentence or something. So I was feeling expansively happy to see dear old dad when I arrived at his house for the traditional, formal, Christmas Eve dinner with his replacement family.

That holiday spirit lasted all the way up until he started to grill me about what, exactly, I was doing with my life these days. Neither Craig nor his latest girlfriend seemed impressed with my description of life at TAIP. He didn’t even crack a smile when I told him that my Art & Architecture project had won an award and was going to be featured in that spring’s Student Art Showcase - an honor I’d just received notice of that morning. Apparently Molly’s announcement that she’d made the JV Field Hockey team at school was more important, according to Dad, and the conversation quickly moved away from me. I tried not to let it get to me as I sat there through the seemingly endless, five course meal, and tried to keep up with all the meaningless small talk without falling asleep. I seriously couldn’t wait for the day when I no longer had to kiss up to this boring old loser just for the sake of his money.

I was desperate enough that I used my concussion as an excuse to cut out of the party early - and, as an aside, was it telling that my father hadn’t even asked once how I had hurt myself or how I was feeling, cuz I felt that was somehow the truest gauge of the state of our relationship - begging off from the post-dinner cocktails and discussion of how I should amend my life in the new year. Dad seemed more than happy to call the car service to take me home.

Once I’d pocketed the envelope containing my usual Christmas check - because it goes without saying that my father could never be bothered to actually go out and shop for a present for his children and instead made due with buying us off - I loaded myself into the town car. I was so happy to get the fuck out of there; I can’t even think of the words to describe my sense of relief the moment the driver turned the corner and Dad’s house was no longer visible. But, despite my fibbing, I wasn’t even the least bit tired and the thought of going back to my boring apartment all alone was excruciating. I decided not to look askance at the gift of free transportation, and told the driver to take me instead to 26 Liberty Avenue.

When the car was only a kilometer or two away I texted Egbert with a warning. ‘Hey! So, if you hear someone at your street door in about 2 minutes, don’t freak out. It’s only your friendly Xmas Burglar’.

‘I thought even Burglars spent this night with their families?’ he texted back.

‘You haven’t met my family . . .’

I got a laughing face emoji in response but before I could elucidate, the car had arrived at my destination. I thanked the driver, making a point of being extra nice since he was giving up his own Xmas for this, then climbed out of the car and hobbled over to the street door of my favorite triangular building in the world.

Which is when I was stopped cold.

How the fuck was I supposed to break into the building with my foot in this damned boot cast? If I tried to kick it with my injured foot - my usual technique to jimmy the door - it would hurt like fuck. But, at the same time, I didn’t think I was stable enough to balance on that foot while kicking with the other foot. Damn my stupid bad luck and weak ankles!

Luckily, I had only been standing there berating myself for a minute or two before the lights in the lobby switched on and I saw Bill The Cat pattering down the stairs to come stand in front of me behind the door. I could see him meowing at me through the glass. He was definitely getting a little pushy about demanding his treats from me. I almost felt bad that I hadn’t had time to stop by a coffee shop on the way to get him his creamer.

“Hey, Bill. Could you go tell your person that I’m here and I can’t do my burglar thing with a broken foot?” I called to the cat though the door, getting only another plaintive meow for my efforts.

Thankfully the cat’s person chose that moment to appear at the foot of the stairs. Egbert had the biggest smile on his face I thought I’d ever seen. He sprinted across the lobby and twisted the lock before pushing the door open to let me in.

“Hey, Eggy. Got room in your tower for a holiday refugee?” I asked, getting this adorably shy smile in return.

“I’m not sure. I only have about fifty spare rooms, you know . . .”

“Sounds crowded . . .” I teased with a chuckle. “But, if you don’t take pity on me and let me in, I’ll be forced to go home to an empty apartment - Daph is working the night shift because she gets, like, quadruple pay for working Christmas Eve and tells me she needs the money - and nobody should be alone tonight, right?”

I saw a flicker of sadness pass through the hazel eyes but I was glad to see that he shook it off. He took a step back and formally bowed me inside. I limped forward a couple of steps until I was all the way inside and he could re-lock the door.

“Your ankle is still that bad?”

“It’s getting better. This boot makes it seem worse than it is because it’s so bulky, but at least it provides enough support that I can move around a bit more when I wear it.” I gestured at the encumbrance with resignation. “It may not be pretty, but at least it’s functional, so I’m just going to go for it. Personally, I think I totally rock the invalid look, don’t you?”

Eggy made this squinty-eyed face at me that caused me to giggle. Okay, maybe the giggling had something to do with the four glasses of wine I’d had at Craig’s dinner party - yeah, I’m blaming my un-manly giggling on that - I’m also blaming all that wine for the way I stumbled forward with my next step, almost toppling over.

The result of my klutziness was that Brian was forced to reach out and catch me before I fell and hurt myself for the third time. What the fuck was up with me falling all over myself in that damned tower, anyways? It’s like the place was cursed or something. At least this time, though, my hero was right there with his big, strong, arms, ready to catch me.

“Either you’re seriously aiming for that protective bubble wrap suit I mentioned before or else you just love doctors’ offices. I can’t tell which,” Brian half-joked as he settled me back on my own foot-and-a-half, holding on with one hand just to ensure I was truly stable.

“Actually, it’s all part of my secret plan to get you to feel me up,” I replied without thinking. Of course, then I realized that sounded more than just a little manipulative, and maybe even a little stalkery, and I didn’t want Brian to think I had some kind of kinky ‘Munchausen Syndrome’ thing where I’d intentionally hurt myself just so I could force my OCD boyfriend to touch me - because that was too creepy even for me, right? - so I rushed on to add an even more ridiculous excuse that made me sound even more pathetic than I already was. “Yeah, I guess now’s not the time to confess that I’m addicted to your cologne and I’ll do anything for another chance to smell you.”

Yeah . . . Did I mention the too much wine thing? . . . We’re blaming all of this on the wine, okay?

“You are easily the strangest person I have EVER met,” my Eggy declared with a confused shake of his head. All I managed was another girlish giggle and a soft burp. “Come on. Let’s get you someplace where you’ll at least have a soft landing when you do fall over again.”

I shivered as the warmth of his arm again wrapped around my shoulders; it just felt so fucking good, you know? He turned me around, pivoting my body using the heel of the boot cast I was wearing as a fixed axis of rotation, and once we were aimed directly at the opening for the stairway, he pressed against the small of my back as if to get me moving again. I happily held on and let Eggy guide me until just before he was about to hoist me up onto the first step of the staircase.

“Oh! Wait. Wait, wait, wait!” I insisted, pulling away from Egbert long enough to shift my messenger bag around from where it was strapped behind my shoulder blade so I could paw through its contents. “I gotta give Bill The Cat his present!” It took a moment or two, but eventually I fished out the little square wrapped in green holiday paper and tossed it to the tile floor in front of the curious kitty. “Seasons compliments, Mr. Shakespaw.”

The cat was already sniffing interestedly at the small present, batting at it cautiously with the tip of one paw, his kitty head tilted to the right as if he was trying to understand such a strange anomaly.

“What the fuck are you giving my cat?” Brian asked, sounding a little worried.

“I thought you said he wasn’t YOUR cat - that he was just a stray?”

“Fine. What the fuck are you giving the stray cat who lives in my building?”

“Drugs.”

“What?”

“I’m giving him drugs,” I repeated and then those damn giggles happened again and I was almost bent double with the hilarity only I - apparently - could see.

“Justin, why are you giving my stray cat drugs? What did he ever do to you? Bill, leave that alone. Come here, Bill. Bill!”

Brian started to bend over to pick up the package but right at that moment Bill hooked a claw through the wrapping paper and used the new leverage he had to toss the entire thing clear across the length of the lobby. Brian scuttled after the package but William was faster, darting through Brian’s legs to get to the present first. The cat then duplicated his prior feat and tossed his gift over Brian’s shoulder where it bounced off the wall and landed back at my feet. Bill scampered around his person’s feet yet again, following his new toy, where he finally stopped, crouching over the top of the package, and hissing loudly when Brian approached yet again.

When I’d stopped laughing and wiped the tears of glee from my eyes, I finally explained. “Calm yourself, Eggy. They’re good drugs. It’s just catnip. Bill will be fine. But I wouldn’t try to take it away from him if I were you. Not if you don’t want your skin shredded off by those claws.”

By that point Bill had used said claws to decimate the wrapping paper surrounding his gift and was licking and rubbing his head all over the burlap fabric of the toy. You could hear the purring even from several feet away. Yep, I’d clearly won Bill over with this gift.

“Great. So now I’ll have an insane cat going nuts all over the place for the next week. Thanks a lot, Sunshine,” Brian grumbled, pretending to be upset, but I was already onto him and saw through that shit easily.

“If you’re going to be mean and yell at me just for bringing your cat a Christmas present then I guess I’ll just take YOUR present and leave,” I threatened, shifting around as if I was about to head back towards the doors.

Of course I wasn’t serious and I’d expected my hermit to make another sarcastic comment and then we’d laugh and it would all be jolly and happy and we’d go back up to his rooms and maybe - maybe - I’d get through his OCD enough to get a Christmas Kiss or something, and all would be copacetic. So imagine my confusion when Brian didn’t say anything to stop me from pretending to leave again. Nothing. In fact, not only did he say nothing but he sort of froze up and became super still and didn’t even move when I looked back to see what the fuck was going on. This wasn’t right. Where was the jovial banter? Where was the teasing? What had I done? Had I broken my poor Eggy somehow?

“Eggy? Brian? What’s wrong? Did I say something to piss you off?” I asked, looking up at him with concern.

He blinked, almost as if he was just then waking up or something, and looked at me with a hint of confusion in those beautimous hazel eyes of his. “Uh . . . Um . . . No. No, it’s nothing. I just . . .”

I’d never seen him be so lost for words before. Not even when he was struggling to explain to me about his OCD stuff. This was different somehow. More personal in a way? Not that I understood how that was possible, but that’s how it felt. And, damn it, I couldn’t even reach out and hug him the way I wanted, or take any other physical action to comfort him.

“You know what? Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. Why don’t you spirit me away to your lair and let me get off this foot already so we can continue this conversation where I’m more comfortable?” I suggested with a flirty batting of my eyelashes.

The eyelashes thing gets ‘em every time, so it wasn’t any surprise that this maneuver quickly brought the man around. With a little humorous snort, he nodded his head and gestured towards the stairs again, as if inviting me in. I took a couple of hobbling steps in that direction before Eggy took pity on me; he slipped one arm under my armpit and around my back and basically took all the weight off my bad foot as we carefully climbed the stairs in tandem. Before you knew it I had assumed my usual spot on his couch with my boot cast off, my foot up on his coffee table, and a pillow for cushioning underneath.

“Ahhh! Thank fuck! That’s so much better. Damn I hate that fucking boot, but without it I’m trash, especially on stairs,” I sighed as the exhaustion of all that effort finally overcame me. Then I looked up at my hovering hermit and gave him my biggest, holidayest, smile. “So, ho ho ho, and all that jazz. Hope I’m not interrupting any holiday cheer over here. I just couldn’t bear staying at my dad’s any longer - did I mention that he’s a homophobic ass? - and I was hoping I could hide out here until I have to get up and go to my Mom’s for Part Two of the Holiday Horror show tomorrow morning.”

“Uh . . . Sure, I guess . . . I don’t really celebrate any holidays, though,” Egbert replied, looking around his rather barren looking rooms as if searching for the missing decorations.

“No problem. Trust me, if I’d wanted over-the-top decorations and pine-scented EVERYTHING, I’d have gone to my mother’s house. Did you know she even decorates the bathrooms with holiday shit? She has these special Christmas towels and little red and green covers for the spare toilet paper rolls that she puts on the back of the toilet tank. You can’t sneeze without knocking over some precious keepsake she’s got from her Great Aunt Louise or Grandma Marie’s crystal whatamacallit. I know she means well, but it’s exhausting,” I explained, getting a smile out of my man and hopefully putting him at ease at the same time. “I’d much rather spend the night here with my favorite stray cat, in my favorite oddly-shaped building, with my favorite recluse.”

“Exactly how hard did you hit your head the other day?” Brian asked with a shake of his head.

“Huh?”

“You must be brain damaged or something if you’d rather spend Christmas Eve here,” he grumbled.

“Nope. No actual brain-damage. Promise. And I’ve got the MRI to prove it. Just a mild concussion and a sprained ankle. I’ll be good as new in no time,” I assured him. “But seriously, I’ve had to suffer through my mother’s Christmas obsession for nineteen years already and that’s more than enough to tide me over. Besides, I needed to come by here anyway to deliver my presents.”

“I’m sure William is grateful.”

“Right? Because, drugs!”

“My cat does not need drugs.”

“Nobody NEEDS drugs, but we all like them occasionally,” I assured him with a smug, worldly-wise smile. “But he’s not the only one who needs presents.” I picked up my messenger bag off the floor beside the couch and pulled out the other gift that I had waiting inside. “So, are you the kind of guy who likes to open presents on Christmas Eve or Christmas Morning?”

I held out the package towards Brian and waited but he just sat there staring at me like he didn’t understand what I’d said. Any normal human being would accept the gift, say thank you, and that would be that, right? Not my Eggy. Nope, he just looked confused. For a moment I thought maybe it was some OCD thing, like the package wasn’t clean or something, which, okay, I get. I hadn’t thought about that in advance. Damn. So, what should I do; should I just leave it on the table or should I go get one of his wet wipe things and try to disinfect the wrapping paper or something?

While I was still puzzling over what to do, though, Brian interrupted my thoughts and added a whole ‘nother layer of fuckery to the situation.

“I don’t know. I never had one before.”

So, what does one do with a statement like that? Can you say, ‘faux pas’? He’d never had one before? Never had a Christmas present? Like, ever?

“Oops sorry . . . I didn’t think . . . So are you, like, Jewish or Buddhist or, I don’t know, Zoroastrian, or something?”

He frowned and waved off my bumbling question with all the dignity it deserved - namely, zero. “No, I’m nothing. I just . . . I’ve never . . . Never done that,” he explained, pointing towards the gaily wrapped Christmas present as if it was some kind of unknown, alien social convention that might prove fatal if taken the wrong way.

Luckily, I managed to bite my tongue before I said something really stupid and demeaning that would point out how incredible I found the fact that he’d apparently never had a Christmas present before. Because who was I to judge, right? Eggy and I were way, way, way too new to delve into something that deep. For all I knew there could be a thousand relatively benign reasons for him not to celebrate this particular holiday. And it wasn’t like I was even remotely religious or anything; my family was more into celebrating the tradition of the holiday (on my mother’s side) and the commercialism of the moment (my father). But still, Egbert’s almost-panic at being given a present was as worrying as it was endearing. It made me want to give him my present even more than before.

“Then I say it’s time to start a new tradition,” I suggested boldly. “Here. I can’t wait till morning, so you have to open it now.”

Brian very hesitantly took the package I was holding out and looked at it as if he didn’t know what to do next. I tried to wait as patiently as I could, giving him all the time he needed to work through whatever mental hurdles he was climbing over. Eventually he turned the package over and started to very carefully pick at the tape, trying not to rip the paper. I just smiled because I’d suspected he wasn’t the kind of present opener who just tore through the wrappings like a banshee. Of course, that meant I had to wait and wait to see whether or not he would like what I’d given him, and the anticipation was killing me, but I was hoping it would be worth it.