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 . . .”