~ ♥-♥-♥ ~ Happy Thanksgiving It was precisely seven weeks after we’d moved into the Sewickley house, the day before Thanksgiving, no less, when I came down with the flu. I’d always been healthy, at least in pre-bashing days, but lately all kinds of bugs seemed to have assailed me. Some people say your emotions play a role in your wellness so I wondered if it was a coincidence that the illnesses had struck right after Brian and I formalized our relationship, both personal and professional. Being a full partner in Kinnetik and all the responsibility that entailed … well, let’s just say I spent a lot of time freaking out. Still, the two colds I’d had were nothing compared to the flu that slammed into me that afternoon. By the time Brian returned home from work, I’d put myself to bed, and was huddled under ten blankets, shivering my ass off. My head pounded, my eyes watered, I sneezed and coughed and was about as bright as a forty-watt bulb. “What the hell is up with you?” Brian said as he walked into our bedroom. “Warming up the bed for me?” “Sick,” I croaked. “Again?” Brian sat down on the bed and tried to dig through the covers so he could touch me. “What’s wrong?” “I think I have the flu.” His cool hand found my forehead. “Don’t get close. You’ll get sick.” “I had a flu shot.” With firm hands, he pulled me onto my back and narrowed his eyes as he examined me. “You look like shit.” “Thanks.” I closed my eyes momentarily and felt sorry for myself. “The day before Thanksgiving, two projects due at work, that commission for Jack Blair coming up next week —” He raised an eyebrow. “—but you haven’t lost everything?” Shit, I hate it when he throws my own words back at me. A few seconds later, he got up off the bed and went back downstairs. Great. He wanted nothing to do with me and who could blame him? I was a miserable, whiney mess, and, under the circumstances, not at all attractive. I wouldn’t blame him if he chose to spend his evening in his office working. Squeezing my eyes shut, I concentrated on being extra miserable. “Okay, Sunshine, we’re going out,” Brian announced when he returned to the bedroom a few minutes later. “Wha …?” By then, he’d pulled aside the covers and was trying to maneuver my feet into my shoes like I was five years old. “Off to the urgent care center for you.” “I don’t need—” But I never got beyond that feeble protest because Brian bundled me up in a sweater, coat and scarf, even a blanket, then walked me to the Land Rover in our driveway. We went a few blocks toward Sewickley’s downtown area to a small building with a sign out front that read Phillips Urgent Care. Soon, he was sitting with me in a room filled with hacking, sniffling, sneezing people, patiently sitting with me. If I hadn’t already been at death’s door, I would’ve mentioned that weird behavior to him, but as it was, he put his arm around me and I leaned against him, ignoring the look a man was giving us, although I think Brian said something to him later. Anyway, it took a good hour of sitting there before we were ushered into one of the rooms and met the doctor, a tall Asian woman with kind eyes. Brian was going to wait outside, but I insisted he come along. Not sure why except that in my light-headedness I thought I might forget something. Good thing too. When the doctor started writing out prescriptions, it was Brian who knew what meds I could take and which ones I couldn’t. It was also Brian who knew the names of my primary care doctor and my neurologist. And, as I learned later, it’d been Brian who'd called my mother for advice. She’s the one who told him to get me to urgent care because they have something that’ll shorten the length of the flu. After that, Brian took me home, and wearing the same sweats I’d gone out in, put me back to bed. He kissed me on the forehead, told me to sleep, and then he left. From then on, the only thing I remember in a hazy sort of way is that he woke me up and gave me some meds. Mostly though, I slept. When I finally woke up, it was well into Thanksgiving Day. I realized right away that I felt better—not perfect, but the feeling that a very large bus had hit me was gone. I rolled over in the bed to check out the time and my gaze fell on three things: a bottle of water, a box of tissues, and a pilgrim. And not just your ordinary pilgrim either. This one wore the standard black and white clothing, true enough, but he had a humongous turkey on a platter, one that ought to be impossible to hold, but I guess he was Superman disguised as a pilgrim, so he could do it. Oh, and he was only about four inches tall and made of molded plastic. He had a huge, cheesy grin on his face and sat there twinkling at me like a tiny beacon of joy. It took me a few seconds to realize I was grinning back. Brian bought me a pilgrim with a turkey on a platter? A kid’s toy? Brian? Mr. I-Refuse-to-do-Anything-Sentimental? I got out of bed, wobbled into the bathroom to take a piss, and was just coming back after washing my hands when I almost collided with the big lug. “You okay?” Brian asked, hands on my shoulders, massaging, as he scrutinized me. God, I loved him so much in that instant. He always tried to be tough and aloof, but moments like that betrayed him and he didn’t even know it. I wrapped my arms around him in answer and, up on my toes, kissed him on the cheek, hard. “Happy Thanksgiving,” I said with a huge smile as I came back to stare at him. “I feel like I could eat the entire turkey all by myself.” “Hmm.” Brian cocked his head to one side, tongue going into his cheek as he gave me his best amused look. “How about a little chicken soup instead?” ~ ♥-♥-♥ ~ Love We’re sitting in the Phillips Urgent Care. Justin’s wrapped in a wool blanket over his coat, which is over his sweater, and he’s still shivering. He has a temperature of one hundred and four and he’s scaring the shit out of me. I know it’s just the flu, and they can give him a med that’ll help him kick it quicker, but still, I’m not enjoying this, not at all. My arm’s around the kid and he has his head against my chest when I realize there’s a man sitting across from us who’s staring like he thinks we’re an especially interesting sideshow act. Fuck, why does it never fail? What is it about breeders that makes them so threatened anytime we’re around? I lock eyes with him, hoping he’ll back off. “Your son?” he asks in a soft voice. “No.” My arms tightens a little more. “My lover. He’s twenty-three,” I tell the asshole, watching for his frown, knowing I’d like nothing better than to kick the shit out of him if he so much as looks cross-eyed at Justin. The guy’s gaze returns to Justin and I’m surprised to see a smile on his lips, a gentle smile that’s miles away from a smirk. “That’s good,” he says as he returns his gaze to mine. “Anything with the word ‘love’ in it is good, right? Very good.” He gives me a tiny nod and returns to his newspaper. I blink. Well, I’ll be damned. ~ ♥-♥-♥ ~ Talented Hands No one was going to tell Brian Kinney he couldn’t make chicken soup. Not fuckin’ friends, not “family,” and definitely not the blonde he called “Mother Taylor” … at least when he was in a better mood. Buy soup at the store and add a can of corn or peas? That was the best advice she could offer? And with Debbie snickering in the background? They both ought to be drummed out of motherhood. Fuck, the next time they wanted to go to a PFLAG convention in San Francisco, he’d forbid it … somehow. Hands held high like a surgeon, Brian went over to his laptop on the edge of the massive stainless steel island in his kitchen, his new kitchen in Sewickley. He checked the online recipe. Boil the chicken with onions, celery, carrots, and herbs—check. Remove and shred chicken—check Drain chicken broth and return to pot—check Add some canned chicken stock—check Add chicken to pot—check. Chop vegetables and add—check, except for the mushrooms. Brian craned his neck, looking around. Mushrooms, mushrooms, where’d he put the mushrooms? Ah! He spotted the bag, a crumpled green nonentity near the sink. Great. There’d be chicken soup within the next twenty minutes made by the talented hands of B. Kinney, Renaissance man. He grabbed the bag and let the mushrooms spill onto the cutting board, reaching for the ten-inch cook’s knife, a personal favorite. But, what the fuck? The mushrooms looked dirty. Should he wash them first? His only experience with mushrooms was stuffed, eaten along with a good Porterhouse and a Caesar salad. “Yes, you need to wash them.” He turned to find Justin standing there looking, for all the world, like a ten-year-old wearing his father’s robe … except that it was his brand-new, blue Perry Ellis bathrobe, purloined the minute Justin became ill. “You’re not supposed to be up.” He spoke in his most severe voice. Handcuffs. That was the only way to keep the kid in bed when he was sick. “I told you—” “I slept.” Justin still sounded congested, still looked washed out, and still gave off a sick vibe that made his breath hitch just a little. “I really did. Come on, Brian, I’m lonely.” He managed a wan smile. “Besides, I had to see if you were really making chicken soup.” He held up his cell phone. “Can I take a picture? For Mom and Deb?” Brian pointed a finger at him. “Fuck you,” he said, but it came out surprisingly weak. He went up to Justin and slid a hand along his cheek, just checking. He was maybe a little warm, but not like it’d been the other day when he’d found it necessary to pack Justin, blanket, and all, into the car and drive him to Sewickley’s only urgent care center. Like the big, sentimental mush of a man he’d become in the last five years, closing in on forty and making fuckin’ chicken soup the minute his partner fell ill. “Don’t worry, it’s okay, Brian.” Justin eased his bath-robed arms around Brian’s waist, squeezing tightly. Automatically, he drew Justin closer. “What’s that?” “It’s okay that …” Justin took a deep breath, smiling up at him, “…you so care about me, you love me,” he finished in a sudden singsong voice though the roughness in his throat made it sound strange. Brian reached down one talented hand to give Justin a gentle whack on the ass. “Yeah, but you still have to eat my chicken soup.” Justin only smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”