Dear Mr. K.
Author: Elsa Rose
Plot Bunny: Bitca78
This story is for Daphne

January 1st, 2001

Dear Mr. K,

You don’t know me, and frankly all I know about you is your name. It’s like this; I have to have someone to talk to. Someone that I can trust; someone who loves me and cares about me, no matter how stupid it sounds – so it seems you’re the one. It really doesn’t matter if you read my letters; after all, you won’t be able to answer them. Something I’ll never know; but, I’d like to think that you’d keep them. You know, Jane Austinish and all that. You can throw them in the garbage, shred them, line your birdcage, or your litter box with them; it doesn’t really matter.  What does is that you’re out there in your home, and I’m in mine, and I have someone, no matter how anonymous, that I can write to – someone who cares enough to listen. I think it’s so much more personal than email.

You notice the date – well, I suppose a lot of people in this world would start a diary or a journal on the first day of the New Year. The problem with using a diary or a journal is that someone could find it. Someone you didn’t want to know how you felt, could read your words, and discover your soul. This way is much better; you’ll never know me and I’ll never know you, not physically anyway.

Considering that trust is one of my issues – I think this is a great way for me to have it.

Trust. Don’t get me started on the topic; the entire concept is a fucking farce. NEVER, and I mean NEVER, believe someone who says it. I mean, really, it’s just a word to placate the masses or the gullible of which I was once one of them.

I mean, I’m not all that naïve, or I like to think I’m not. I grew up in a regular country club kind of house. I had no reason not to trust people. The kids I went to school with all thought I was pretty cool, until the day I declared that Bobby Anderson was hot and not in a sweaty kind of way, though sweaty would have been good. Apparently, I immediately grew an extra head or something and was no longer accepted at the local junior club dances. Who knew getting a hard on for a guy would do that?

I chalked that little bit of strange behaviour up to the aberrations of teens. I mean the average teenager is a tad unstable.

Oops, have to go. I’m going to pop this in the mail on my way out. Thanks for listening, or reading, or lining your birdcage.

Regards,

J

Justin folded the paper and stuffed it into the envelope he’d already addressed. He thought about printing out everything on his computer, and then realized that a handwritten letter was much more personal. And right now, Justin needed the personal touch.

“See you later, Brat,” he said to the heavy metal urn in the corner of his living room.

Justin snorted; the love of his life reduced to a few ashes in a badly made metal urn. He wondered if Ethan had not used him, lied to, or cheated on him all the while professing eternal love. If not for that, would the love of his life be in the ground or scattered to the winds, rather than sitting on his floor? Together forever was what they’d once promised each other. Justin resisted the urge to kick the urn as he hurried past. He’d done it more times than he could count, and it was a bitch sweeping Ethan back into the damn urn.

It was time to get to work. He’d be lucky to get this letter in the mail and still make it on time. It was stupid to continue working when he didn’t have to, and Justin knew it. He could spend time painting or sketching, anywhere in the world. Unfortunately, Ethan Gold had jumped off the bridge in a fit of pique, or was it just to make sure that his lover would stay tied to him forever? Whatever the reason, he had never been able to figure it out.  All he knew was that when his muse, his lover, his partner, and his life had jumped, any desire to paint, sketch, draw or even take a fucking picture with a disposable camera had been taken away.  

Justin ran out of his building and raced to the bus stop. The bus was less than a block away. He managed to slip the letter to the anonymous Mr. K into the mailbox before hopping on to the bus, out of breath but satisfied with himself.

Justin headed to the back of the bus, his breath ragged. He shouldn’t have run so fast. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his inhaler. Fuck, he hated having asthma. He looked out the window feeling better today about life in general than he had in weeks. His brainwave of writing out his life was working. And even better, writing to someone he didn’t know, but had picked out randomly from the phone book, was the best idea yet.

January 4th, 2001

Dear Mr. K,

Well, if I recall, I kind of left you hanging. I didn’t reveal everything about my history of being duped. Now that’s a weird word, duped; but I digress, perhaps it’s the joint I’m smoking, I don’t know. Anyway, let’s see.

School sucked. It was a private school, of course, and so the punks and jocks were of a better class. I mean, not the do-ragged, gun totting homeys of city legend, but still in all they were homophobic pricks each and every one of them with few and I do mean few exceptions. I even managed to kind of fall for one of the jocks, who knew that the odd hand job and occasional blowjob was something to be made fun of in his circle of jerks after football games. Guess whose heart got kicked as well as his ass? No fair, you peeked.

I survived my high school years, oddly enough still gay, and more determined than ever to be out and proud. I went to the university and fell in love, in that order. I pretty much didn’t have a lot to do with my parents anymore. There were more trust issues when they discovered ‘gay’ wasn’t a phase I’d grow out of.

Am I whining? I’ll try not to. I mean, I’m just telling you like it is. I think that writing it down like this will hopefully help me reason out why my life is so fucked up. I mean, lots of guys end up fucked without lube, so to speak. I’m sure not alone in that, but it’s just so strange. It’s like it should have been someone else instead of me. I had a nice mom and dad and grew up in a good neighbourhood. Hell, I was even voted most likely to succeed; that was, of course, before sucking off the captain of the football team.

Sorry, had to re-light. Why is it good dope blows itself out? There should be some kind of study on that. Once again I digress. Oh, and I apologize for writing this evening's meanderings stoned. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m snickering here.

Are you old or young? Gay or straight? That’s the disadvantage of plucking your name and address out of the phone book. There should be some kind of law that puts a picture beside each name and number.  Oh well; it’s the bottom of the kitty litter pan for this letter.

I was at work this week and realized that being employed kind of sucks. I think I’ll find something to do where I’m the boss. I mean, I do have a business degree; that and five bucks will buy you a latte. I even have a little tiny key that’s says I was hot shit at the university. A la de da ivy league university no less, thanks to daddy dearest. Did I mention that’s where I met the man of my dreams? Well, not actually of my dreams, but fuck he was good. Talk about a great fuck, and he didn’t look bad either. He was there on a scholarship but he was good, damn good. He almost scored as high as me. Of course, he had to work like a son of a bitch to come close, unlike me. I didn’t know until much, much later, years in fact, how much he’d resented the fact that studying something I hated came so easy to me.

This sucks. I have to find something to eat. I’ll write again.

J

For some reason Justin drew a small picture at the bottom of the page. He didn’t even realize that he was doing it. He was stoned, and it just seemed like the thing to do. On the bottom of letter number two was a clue for his Mr. K  to find; if he ever wanted a clue, that is.  Justin chuckled at the thought of his Mr. K wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat and holding out a huge magnifying glass, searching for clues as to his whereabouts.

Justin sighed, his second letter written. He was too stoned to analyze his feelings about this one. Not wanting to take the chance of missing the afternoon’s post, he pulled himself together to put the letter in an envelope, stamp and sealed it, then walked down the stairs to find the nearest mailbox.

He ignored Ethan’s urn sitting in the corner. Ethan was easy to ignore when Justin was stoned, which he often was.

For January, the weather wasn’t too bad.  The sun was actually shining, making the dirty piles of snow almost pretty. Justin wondered if his Mr. K. was looking out his window at the snow on the other side of town, or maybe even walking in it like he was now.

Dropping the letter in the mailbox, Justin headed for the restaurant on the corner. He still felt naked without his messenger bag that had held all of his art supplies; although not naked enough, of course, to actually pick it up from the corner of his bedroom and start carrying it with him again.  He glanced at the kid who looked cold and always seemed to be sitting in the doorway of the drycleaners.

“Hey kid, I’ll buy you a coffee,” Justin said as he stood in front of the huddled mass of jackets and old coats.

“Why?” the kid looked up and glared at Justin.

“I don’t know, maybe I like buying coffee. If you want something warm to drink, I’ll be in the restaurant.”  Justin really didn’t care; the kid could come in out of the cold or stay in the doorway. He wasn’t actually sure why he’d invited him in the first place; it must have been the effects of the dope. He opened the restaurant door and shuffled over to his usual booth in the corner. He took the side away from the heater in case the kid followed him.

“Hey kid, get out of here! It’s for paying customers only.”

Justin looked over at the belligerent, apron clad owner of the small diner as he stood behind the counter, his face red with rage.

“The kid is with me, and I’m paying,” Justin yelled. “Hey, Kid! Over here.” He waved the frightened young boy over to his booth. Up close the boy looked like he hadn’t washed or eaten for days. “Go wash up; I’ll order you something.”

“I’m not going to have sex with you,” the kid said quietly.

“Good,” Justin laughed. “Now, go wash up.” He watched the boy disappear into the back and then called out to the pissed off owner. “Two cheeseburgers with fries and two hot chocolates with lots of whipped cream.”

“You can’t trust these street kids you know, mister. I’ve been around for a lot of years, and all they’ll do is steal you blind.”

“Fuck, you can’t trust anybody, so what does it matter?” Justin leaned back in the booth. “Hurry up with the food, I’m starved.”

Justin was staring off into space, his mind blank, thinking about nothing, when the street kid slid into the seat on the other side of his booth. “Hey, you look better with your face washed.”

“Fuck off.”

Justin grinned and continued to stare into space. If the kid didn’t want to talk, no problem; it was fine with him.

Silence hung heavy. The only sounds in the almost empty diner were that of the cook in the kitchen and the wheezing breath of both Justin and the kid.

Two mugs of hot chocolate were put down in front of each of them. The thud of the heavy mug was loud against the tabletop, and caused  the chocolate to almost spill over the side. Justin leaned forward and stuck his finger in the whipped cream, pulled it out, and then licked the cream off. “Not bad,” he said. “But the asshole could have put a cherry on it.”

The kid snickered and licked at the cream on his hot chocolate. “Yeah, right,” he muttered. “Like that’s gonna happen.”

“Garcon, two cherries.” Justin waved his hand and snapped his fingers. The owner glared at him, but put two cherries in a saucer and brought them over, slapping the saucer on the tabletop. “Thanks,” Justin said and grinned.

The cook in the kitchen hit the bell, indicating their order was up, and soon the saucer was joined by two cheeseburgers with fries.

“You ordered food?” The words were said almost reverently. The kid looked at Justin, questions in his eyes.

“Yeah, I hate to eat alone.” Justin plopped one of the cherries on the kid’s hot chocolate.

Still uncertain, the kid looked with longing at his food. He took a sip of the hot chocolate, almost choking on the sweetness of it.

“It’ll taste better if you eat it hot. The guy’s fries suck when they’re cold,” Justin said, picking up the bottle of ketchup and liberally covering his fries. He handed the bottle to the kid. “I’m Justin in case you’re interested.”

“Hunter.”

The kid all but fell on his food, barely taking a breath as he devoured it. When he finished, Justin pushed his own plate over; he’d never seen anyone that hungry. Not even missing a beat, Hunter began to finish what Justin had left.

“Do you want dessert?” Justin asked when Hunter finally stopped eating.

“Another drink would be good.” The words said were almost shy.

“Two Cokes over here,” Justin called out. “Please.”

“It’s been awhile since I ate,” Hunter admitted.

“No kidding.” Justin smiled. He didn’t say anything more. It wasn’t in his nature to pry. He’d learned the hard way not to ask questions; it only gave you grief.

“Thanks.” Hunter stared at Justin, “I guess I could have sex with you if you want.”

“No thanks, not that you aren’t... uh...well, good for asking, but you aren’t my type.”

“You’re not straight, are you?”

“No, your gaydar is working. I’m just not into sex right now. I don’t think I’ll ever be again.” Justin’s laugh was bitter. “Been there, done that, bought the fucking tee-shirt, and it bit me in the ass.”

The two studied their Cokes that had been sullenly delivered.  No one spoke as they slowly drank the sweet liquid. Finally, Justin said, “I’m going home. I need to sleep. You can bunk in the spare room if you want.” He never invited anyone to his apartment, and he wasn’t sure why he did now.

“I’m okay,” Hunter shrugged.

“I’m serious, no strings. Just don’t fucking steal anything.”  Justin stood up. He walked to the counter where he paid the bill. When he got his change, he leaned in and said to the owner, “My tip for you is to be fucking courteous to your customers, even the ones without a lot of money.”  

“You son of a bi…..” the last word of the owner was lost as the door shut behind Justin and Hunter.

“I’m not sure you should have pissed him off like that,” Hunter began. He’d barely been out of the warm restaurant a minute, and already he was shivering. It was a fucking cold Pittsburgh winter.

“Look Kid, my place isn’t great, but it’s warm and paid for. Why don’t you just swallow your pride and stay in the spare room; no strings.” Justin began to walk.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m out here?” Hunter asked, running to catch up to Justin.

“No.” Justin hunkered into the warmth of his parka. “Fuck, it’s cold,” he muttered. He glanced at the mailbox and wondered if his letter was on its way.

“Okay, I’ll stay, but just for tonight. It’ll get better by tomorrow.”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m sure a southern trade wind will unexpectedly blow across Pittsburgh,” Justin sneered. He turned into the doorway that led to his apartment. “I’m up here.”

“You live over a fucking tattoo parlor?” Hunter laughed. “Fucking A.”

“It’s home, sweet home, what can I say?” Justin smiled.

It had been the first piece of property Justin ever owned. Ethan had kept everything in his name, and he hadn’t questioned it. In fact, until Ethan’s lawyer had called, he hadn’t a clue that the son of a bitch had more than a few bucks. He’d left everything to him.  Maybe he’d developed a conscience before he offed himself; he would never know.

The first thing he’d done after he’d surfaced from his initial despair over Ethan’s suicide was to buy the building the tattoo parlor was in. For no other reason than it was conveniently available, and he wanted to get away from the home he’d shared with his lover.  The fact that it would piss off his ex – living over a tattoo parlor – was the icing on the cake.

“Cool place,” Hunter said when he walked through the door. “Did you just move in?”

“No, I’ve been here almost a year.” Justin threw his coat on the floor by the door. He looked around, seeing the place with someone else’s eyes. “I guess I could maybe pick up some furniture one of these days.”

The room was sparsely furnished.  It held two kitchen chairs, a television that sat on the floor, Ethan’s ashes in his jar, and a table with three legs; in place of the fourth leg was a piece of driftwood Justin had brought back from a trip to New England.  His computer, a surprisingly up-to- date laptop, sat securely chained to his kitchen counter. The printer was placed in one of the kitchen cupboards he never used.

Justin shrugged and laughed, “There is a bed in each bedroom. They were here when I moved in.”

Hunter looked around.  “Well, it’s better than a doorway on the street.“

“Help yourself to any food you find, don’t watch TV too late, do your homework, and be a good boy.” Justin laughed. “I’m going to bed.  There are clean towels in the bathroom, and a washer and dryer in that closet over there. I think there’s a clean pair of sweats in the dryer. You’re about my size. See you later.”

Justin disappeared into his room; shut and locked the door. Not used to talking with anyone, the interaction between him and Hunter exhausted him. He threw himself down on the mattress that was on the floor and closed his eyes. It was time to catch some sleep; his shift started soon at the donut shop. It was his escape job to make endless batches of donuts all night long, alone in the back of the shop. Making sure that everything was ready for their first of the morning customers who started to arrive as he left for home at 6 in the morning.

Just before he drifted off to sleep, he wondered if he should have moved Ethan into his room and shuddered at the thought of sleeping with the bastard again.

Hunter stood just inside Justin’s apartment and stared at the closed bedroom door in surprise. The guy just left him alone. He took off his shoes so that he could pad around quietly, and began to explore the apartment. One room was obviously the room he was expected to use. It had a rather nice bed in it that was carefully made up with a colourful, handmade quilt, which was a surprising contrast to the rest of the apartment. The bathroom showed the only bit of luxury in the whole place. There was a stack of thick bath towels, numerous bottles and jars of bath salts, some of which had names that even Hunter recognized as being expensive. He leaned over and began to fill the tub. A hot bath would be heaven.

While the bath filled, Hunter searched out the washer and dryer. He couldn’t remember the last time he had clean clothes.

Brian studied the envelope that he’d taken from his mailbox earlier in the day. He knew without opening it that it had to be from the same person who had sent him the letter a week before.  He leaned back in his office chair and glared at his briefcase, for that’s where the first letter sat.

He’d almost thrown it away a number of times, but for some reason he hadn’t. Now he was in possession of yet another letter. Brian had placed it into his pocket when he’d picked up his mail. He knew it wouldn’t be a letter easily discarded, and he needed time to think about whether he’d even open the thing.

As before he ran through the likelihood of the letter being some kind of weird joke or some kind of situation where the guy was a freak who was stalking him; he wasn’t sure. Both scenarios seemed unlikely, but in this day and age, who really knew?

Brian picked up a letter opener and slowly slid it under the flap of the heavy, vellum envelope. He had to wonder about the person who was writing to him; if it really was some kind of crank, then why was he using such good quality stationary? It was almost as if the stuff was handmade, it was so fine.

“Hey, Brian.”

Brian looked up from the envelope he was holding. “Hey, Mikey,” he greeted his friend as he placed the envelope back on his desk as he prepared to listen to whatever it was that Michael wanted. He always wanted something; he never just stopped by to say hello.

January 8th, 2001

Dear Mr. K,

Have you ever fallen in love? I was working tonight at my Mc Job, and I had time to think about the subject. First of all, while there was a time that I bought into the whole hearts and flowers, sentimental words and roses around the cottage door, I quickly came to realize that for the most part love is just another four-letter word. It could be fuck or shit or cock or cunt – it’s all the same, means nothing, and yet means everything. Of course, the whole idea of love was no doubt thought up by advertising marketing guys. A zillion years ago at the dawn of time. They were no doubt selling the latest in perfume, or some crap to the little woman of the cave.

Did I mention I bought into the whole thing? I mean, you’d think that someone who scored 1500 on their SAT’s would have a clue. Falling for the first bit of boy ass who told me how wonderful, how handsome and talented I was. I should have known it was a crock of shit. Why would I even imagine that after 22 years someone would actually fall in love with me? Like in the fairy tales; happily ever after, true love, until death do you part kind of crap. Well, that part was kind of true. Now that he’s truly dead, and I have his ashes to prove it, I don’t love him anymore; I really don’t.  At least that’s what I keep telling myself. He was a lying sack of shit. How can you love someone like that even after he’s dead? It makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

Not to be whiney here, but it pretty much sucks what he did, and I’m pretty much stuck with the consequences of his actions.

So, I was out the other day, I wanted to mail your letter, and needed to eat something besides soup, which, by the way, was all I had in the apartment. I found this kid freezing his ass off; you know, one of those street kids. I fed him and brought him back to my place. Now he’s kind of here like a stray dog, and I’m not sure what to do with him. I mean, do I boot him out? He’s not really bothering me other than he expects me to talk once in awhile and, besides, it is still cold out. Shit, I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE ANYBODY ELSE DEPEND ON ME.

Sorry for shouting, but I needed to do that. You know, Mr. K, I see you as ... oh, I don’t know, maybe cool is the word I’m thinking of. . . for reading this. Maybe sitting in your armchair in your nice living room, a fire in the fireplace and wondering why the fuck you are reading this drivel. No doubt, you have family and friends around you who care about you. What’s that like? I mean, does it really happen? Is it yet another mystery – urban legend kind of thing?

I’ll sign off now. I think I’ll buy the kid a pizza or something; he still looks scrawny.

Later,
J 

Justin folded the letter and looked up at Hunter. “You want some pizza?” he asked.

“Sure.” Hunter had been sitting on a pillow on the floor watching the television. “Want me to call?”

“You can call,” Justin said. He knew that the kid was aware of the dozen or more menus by the phone.

“Why don’t you just email?” Hunter asked as he looked through the menus.

“Email who?” Justin said. He licked the envelope and put a stamp in the corner.

“The guy you’re writing to.” Hunter dialed the phone and ordered the pizza for the two of them and included a six-pack of soda. Justin shook his head, but didn’t say anything.

“Writing is more personal,” Justin replied and slipped the envelope in his messenger bag. He’d drop it off on his way to work later.

“Yeah, whatever. I think it’s a waste of time. J, if I got a job, do you think we could maybe buy a sofa or even a soft chair? Sitting on the floor to watch TV sucks.”

“If you go to school, I’ll buy a sofa,” Justin bargained.

“If I go to school, I’d have to have the transcript from the last school. I don’t want to do that,” Hunter admitted. “I don’t want anyone to know where I am.”

“Why, did you kill someone?” Justin joked.

“No, but I don’t want to go back.”

“Fine, how about distance learning instead?" Justin walked over and began to surf the Internet. “Check out this place. You could at least get your high school equivalency.”

“I will if you buy a sofa.” Hunter had come to realize in the few days he’d been living with Justin that the older man was a soft touch.  It wasn’t anything he’d ever take advantage of, but he was tired of sitting on the floor.

“I’ll consider it.” Justin smiled. The kid was all right. It was kind of like having a big dog around, but at least Hunter didn’t need to be taken out for walks.

“And could you put Ethan in the closet?” Hunter had taken to talking to the urn of ashes, joining Justin in his obsession with the dead musician.

“Ethan stays in the living room. I want him to enjoy my freedom.”

“You don’t seem too damn free to me,” Hunter grumbled.

January 12, 2001

Dear Mr. K,

Hey, I bought a sofa today; my first main furniture purchase. The kid and I must have hit a dozen furniture stores before I found one that spoke to me. I must be gay. (That’s supposed to be funny)

I suppose now the kid will want me to buy other shit for the apartment. The sofa will look a bit out of place all by itself, but I won’t give in. I am, after all, the king of my domain.

I invented a new donut last night. I was bored with the same old shit. I mean, if I never see another donut in my life it’ll be too soon. I brought half a dozen back for the kid to eat. He doesn’t seem to mind the rejects as long as it’s food; that’s all he cares about. I don’t remember what I was like at his age. He won’t say, but I suspect he’s about seventeen.

I almost took the bus over to your neighbourhood today. When I wasn’t thinking about donuts I spent most of the night wondering what you looked like. How fucked up can I get? Each time I think I’m at the bottom, there’s another step lower.

I do remember when I was eighteen. I spent a lot of that year in the hospital. It was the result of the football jock and his insecurities. It was about then I discovered that you couldn’t expect unconditional love from your parents. I was glad to escape to college.

I’m thinking of quitting my job, I think I mentioned that before, and starting some kind of business. Doing what, I don’t know. Any suggestions?

I’ve got tons of qualifications for doing absolutely not much of anything. I was, after all, a kept man with a degree. Who knew being a good little wife would be so stifling? Of course, in those days I did have plenty to occupy my time. I fancied myself an artist. I was going to be the next Michelangelo, or maybe give Andy Warhol a run for his money. A real artist wouldn’t give up so easily. I mean, I can barely hold this pen to the paper without throwing up, and all I’m doing is writing. Is there such a thing as pen to paper phobia?

I guess that’s another reason I’m writing. I want to get over the fear of making marks on paper. So having fun yet? Are my words of wisdom adorning your birdcage? Are you just a tiny bit curious, just a tiny bit caring about what makes me, me?  Enquiring minds want to know.

Yours,
J

This time, after he sealed the envelope, he doodled a seal on the back. It was actually a quick sketch of Hunter done anime style. It was done so quickly and so unconsciously, that Justin didn’t even notice he’d done it.

Brian found he was anticipating the letter from J and wasn’t disappointed to find it arrived like clockwork, four days after the last one. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the tone of the letter sounded more positive. He’d made a decision; today he was taking the letters to a former trick and now a friend of his, Andy Remson. Doctor Andy Remson, a psychiatrist with a private practice not far from Kinnetik.  Brian needed to know if he should keep them or toss them. Was he crazy to wonder about the man who was writing them, or if he should worry about the man’s sanity? He also wanted to know just why; he wanted to know.

“So, Andy, what do you think?” Brian asked the question that had been bothering him for sometime. “Is this guy a nut case, should I be worried?” Brian crossed his long legs as he lounged on Andy’s chaise in his office.

“Are you worried, Brian?” his friend asked.

“Cut the mumbo jumbo, Andy, I’m not here to have my head shrunk.” Brian laughed. “Just answer the damn question.”

“From what these letters tell me, your letter writer is troubled, confused, upset, depressed, and angry. But then again, who in hell isn’t these days? If you want me to tell you if he’s dangerous, well, he is, but only to himself. Is he a stalker? I doubt he’s ever seen you. I really do think he just picked your name out of a phone book. No doubt he feels that because you are truly anonymous, he can shrink his own head once every few days, and all for the price of a stamp.” Andy placed the letters back in the file folder Brian had given him and handed them back.  “My suggestion is that if they bother you, don’t read them. There isn’t a return address, so you can’t return them, but you can throw them in the trash.”

“That’s it? I have to buy you dinner and that’s all you can tell me? Hell, Andy, I knew all that already,” Brian laughed and sat up.

“If you knew, then why ask?” Andy laughed at his friend. “I’ll call Charlie; we’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

“Later, Andy,” Brian saluted him. He put the file folder in his briefcase and headed out the door.

January 16th, 2001

Dear Mr. K,

The sofa arrived, and I admit, it does beat sitting on the floor. The kid was right. I also bought a matching chair. Can’t break up the set, you know. The kid may domesticate me yet.

The kid is now working on getting his high school equivalency, while I still make donuts. I can’t believe how many of the things he eats! He spent my last shift with me. Said he wanted to see what I did, but what he really wanted was to eat until I was sure he was going to explode.

The old lady in the next apartment was happy to see the sofa delivered. She was bugging me about the lack of furniture for weeks. But, really, I did have a couple of chairs and a table and, of course, a bed. What the hell did I need more things for? Things are only something you have to deal with later, or someone else has to when you die like a certain scum, sucking fucker did. I mean, really, jumping off a fucking bridge? That’s so Harlequin Romance-ish.

I’m thinking of getting a tattoo. What do you think of that? I’m going to go for something meaningful. Unfortunately, so far, there isn’t anything meaningful I could come up with. Good thing my loving husband had a tattoo – it made it much easier to identify his body. I wonder how many of his lovers shed a tear at never seeing that small piece of art again? I have it, you know, the tattoo. A little piece of my beloved.  Of course, it’s a tad crispy, well, it’s ash, really, but you get the point; last laugh and all that.

Have you ever wondered if there are a certain number of times that you tell a lie, that eventually you truly believe that lie so much that the words are automatic? Like saying I love you. How many times does one have to say those three little words when they don’t mean it, to finally maybe mean it? Have you ever thought about that? I have. I figure my beloved meant it at the end. I think he finally loved me, or thought he did when he jumped; only he was so fucked in the head that he thought everything would be better when he was dead. And you know what? He was almost right.

Later,
J 

Justin doodled a picture of Ethan, head thrown back in the throes of musical ecstasy, his violin tucked under his chin, before folding the paper and sealing it into the already addressed envelope.  He got up and glared at the metal urn in the corner. “Stupid fucker,” he muttered and threw his pen at the urn, hitting it precisely with a satisfying ring of metal.

“That could be considered spousal abuse,” Hunter said from his lounging position on the sofa. He was eating popcorn and watching a movie.

“Fuck him,” Justin replied. “Stop eating on the new sofa.”

“Buy a table that doesn’t lean, and I’ll eat at the table,” Hunter said, his mouth full of popcorn.

“What next, dishes that match?” Justin asked. “I’m going out.”

“Yeah, yeah, you have to mail your letter. Put your hat on, your voice is raspy, I think you’re getting a cold.”

“Yes, Mother,” Justin joked. “I’ll pick up something to eat.”

“You know, we could go shopping like normal people instead of always eating take out shit,” Hunter grumbled.

“There was a time when you were damn glad of take out shit,” Justin snorted.

“Yeah, well, a salad or fruit would be nice before our teeth fall out from scurvy.”

“What do you know about scurvy?” Justin answered as he put on his coat.

“I’m studying about it. We need to eat stuff besides take out.”

“Put your coat on, then; I’m not carrying a bunch of heavy bags back from the store myself.”

“No shit, we’re going to the store?” Hunter stood up, pleased that his nagging had worked. “Cool. Can we stop at the furniture store on the corner? They have the most awesome table and chairs in there.”

Justin groaned and rolled his eyes, but he managed to turn away before his smile broke through.

Dear Mr. K,

I feel like you know me now. I’m going to assume you aren’t lining your birdcage with my letters, but you’re rather looking forward to these pearls of wisdom. I mean why not? You are, after all, my very own fantasy man.

My fantasy man, I’ll describe him. He should be taller than I am, so that when he holds me I feel protected. He should be more butch than nelly, and have a swimmer’s build. You know, slim but muscular, especially his arms – hmm...maybe I have an arm fetish. Damn, I hope you have arms like that, because I’d loved to be held by them (grinning here).

I think I’d like him to have just enough body hair to make him manly, but not so much that I mistake him for a cat when we’re in bed. You know, enough so that when I lie in his arms (there I go with the arms again) I can let my fingers twist and caress the hair on his chest, tracing it down that delicious path to the fun bits of a man.

You, or rather my fantasy man, will, of course, have an exceptionally nice looking fun bit. I’d better stop now, or I’ll have to do something with my own fun bits.

This morning when I came home from work, the kid had pasted a picture of Angelina Jolie on hubby’s urn. He thought she looked better than what I had there. I pointed out that it would piss off the little guy, since he preferred boys; many, many boys, but the kid wouldn’t budge. When he goes out to get me a Starbucks, I’m changing the picture to one of a cat. It’s still pussy, but not quite the same.  

So I’ve put the kid on an allowance. Does that make me a sucker? I mean, what do I know about him? He seems like a good kid, but then hubby seemed like a good hubby. I know, I know, trust issues.

But he’s working hard; he challenged the GED exam and aced it. Now he’s working on some credits for a degree in something that’s hard to understand, much less spell.  He keeps the place clean and my laundry done, and lately he’s been cooking our meals, which is good, because I was beginning to retch when I think of take out.

I suppose you’re saying that I’m rationalizing why I’m giving him an allowance, and I guess I am. But, fuck it, it's only money. It's not like I have any great desire to do anything with it myself.

I was noticing your address, as I always do. I mean, I write it often enough. Anyway, I realized your address is close to downtown. I have to wonder if I’ve ever seen you on the street. Maybe we’ve walked by one another, or stood side-by-side in Starbucks, or even sat together at the movies. Well, maybe not the movies, I hate crowds, so I don’t go, but you get the point.

Maybe I could be your dog, like the kid is mine. Stranger things have happened.

Love, (and we know what that word means)
J

Justin doodled himself sitting at the feet of a man, dog collar securely held in the man’s hand, before folding the letter.

“Want me to mail that?” Hunter asked. He was about to go out and had put on his coat.

“No, it’s something I have to do myself.” Justin licked the envelope and carefully sealed it. “It’s personal.”

“No shit,” Hunter snorted. “That pile of muck in the corner must have worked your head over good.”

Dear Mr. K.-2
Author: Elsa Rose
Plot Bunny: Bitca78

Justin was sitting on the floor, staring at the metal urn in the corner. Today when he’d gotten up, he’d seen that Hunter had stuck a bouquet of flowers in the urn, dead roses he’d found in the trash.  Justin was contemplating the irony of the flowers, since roses had been Ethan’s favourite pacifier. Of course, he knew that it was his dead husband’s way of admitting he’d been cheating, but at the time Justin had taken the flowers as Ethan’s love.

“Why did you put the roses in with him?” Justin asked when he heard Hunter come into the apartment.

“I figured he might as well be useful. As an ornament he sucked.” Hunter put the two bags of groceries down on the counter. “I’m making spaghetti tonight with the meat sauce you like.”

“Fine.” Justin continued to stare at the urn. “I suppose dead roses are better than live ones.”

“Well, don’t think of them as dead roses.  Think of them as dried ones. It makes them into something special,” Hunter snickered. “I kind of like the white ribbon, though; I bought that.”

“It’s not bad,” Justin admitted. “But red would have been better.”

“The white was on sale. I’m not spending a lot of money on the fiddler,” Hunter replied, while starting the pasta sauce. “I think it’s time you started drawing.”

“What’s with you? Where did that quiet, submissive kid go?” Justin tried to joke. He stood up, kicked the urn half-heartedly, and then rescued it before it fell over.

“Good save,” Hunter said. “He’s a bitch to clean up.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Justin’s grin was slightly lopsided. He wandered into the kitchen that now sported matching dishes and a set of pots and pans that were ridiculously expensive. “When’s dinner?”

“It isn’t something you just pour into the pot from a can. It has to simmer.” Hunter shook his head. “I know that you have all your painting shit in the locked room. Why don’t go on in there and sort it out?”

“Why don’t you mind your own business?” Justin glared at his housemate. “Besides, I’m not in the mood. I’m going to lie down.”

“Go hide in your room. See if I care,” Hunter snorted. “You know, you’re letting the fiddler win.”  The only answer he got was the slamming of Justin’s bedroom door.



January 24th, 2001

Dear Mr. K,

I never learned to actually fend for myself. Oh, I left home, but went straight, pardon the pun, into living at the university, and from the university, I moved in with the man I was going to marry.  When I grew up, only foo foo boys (my father’s words) helped in the kitchen or did their own laundry.  After all, that was woman’s work.

So I lived in the dorms at school, eating in the cafeterias or local restaurants, and ordering in take out on allowance days.  I sent my clothing to the drycleaners, who washed, ironed, and did whatever it was you did to clothing to make it wearable.

I was self-sufficient, or so I liked to think as I held a hotdog under the hot water tap to ‘cook’ it when I was hungry during times when it wasn’t convenient to go to the cafeterias. Life was easy.

Then came hubby, who discovered I had a bit of a trust fund, and when we began living together, he made sure that I didn’t have to look after myself. He looked after everything, from my laundry to my trust fund, while I played ‘artist’ and housewife. He made sure I always had a few bucks in my pocket, so what did I care; after all, he loved me, didn’t he? And he showed it by looking after me.

It’s almost funny that he died first. He insisted we have wills made, I suppose because he knew that my money was more than he’d ever make. Anyway, the wills kicked in and I got everything; including all the money he’d siphoned off and invested. It turns out the rat bastard was an excellent investor, and for that I thank the son of a bitch. He at least did something for me that turned out not too badly, though he had to die first for me to know about it. Such is life, as they say.

I wonder, did he jump feet first, or make a final statement by doing a swan dive with a two and half gainer? I guess I’ll never know, but if it was me, I’d have gone for the swan dive. I mean, who’d ever know if I fucked it up?

I’m actually in my bedroom writing this tonight. The kid chased me in here with his demands. I guess that’s a little harsh. He’s insisting that I start to live again, and I’m just as insistent that I am living, albeit barely. I mean, he’s like a stray dog that you pick up and feed, and then next thing you know it has given you fleas. He’s a big, irritating flea.

I must admit he’s somewhat handy in the kitchen, so definitely worthwhile keeping around for a few more days.

Hey, Mr. K, I actually got that tattoo! Which, by the way, hurt like a son of a bitch. Anybody who tells you different is full of shit. It’s kind of unique in its own way and honors you. I’m snickering here. It’s a private joke between you and me. I had your initials, rather ornate initials I might add, inscribed forever in my skin. So that should I survive this week, month, or year, I’ll always have you with me as a reminder that you were the reason I survived. Just knowing that you’re out there, at least reading the envelope these letters are sent in, kind of makes me feel that I have someone who actually cares. Oh, yeah, the initials are on my upper arm. I did mention they are ornate.  Well, it was a design I doodled; BK. Here, I’ll give you a quick sketch.

(insert sketch)

I put you down as next of kin on that little piece of paper everyone carries in their wallet. So if you ever have to identify my body, you’ll be able to. I also made you my beneficiary, having learned the value of having a will. (snickering again) I thought you should get some kind of compensation from having these letters fill up your mailbox.

I should sleep while the kid is creating supper. After all, I have to work all night, but I can’t sleep tonight, and couldn’t sleep all day. It’s like that sometimes, my mind, that is. It rambles and rumbles and fantasizes about what ifs, maybes, and could have beens until I want to scream.

I tried drinking, but I’m not all that keen on puking, which seems to be the direct result of over drinking, so I had to stop that. I don’t mind good weed, but that makes my donuts appealing as a meal. So isn’t good for my health, plus I don’t want to be a bad influence on the kid. Another reason not to pick up kids on the street; you have to be a good influence. Which majorly sucks.

So I’ve resorted to letter writing and sulking. I’ll finish up this letter so I can get to the second part of my evening…the sulking.

Thanks for being there for me Mr. K.

Kisses, (I actually excel at kissing)

J

Justin let his pen draw a small sketch of the dead flower-filled urn complete with bow. He carefully inked in Ethan R.I.P. He looked at it and decided it was a nice touch, and vowed to find some paint and paint the words on the urn tomorrow when the kid was out of the apartment.

When Justin finally surfaced from his room, the apartment was dark. He could hear music coming from Hunter’s bedroom, and he knew the kid was studying. He had his study ‘toons’ playing. Justin chuckled and headed for the oven. He knew that Hunter would have made him a plate of spaghetti. Sure enough, there was one in the oven. Not bothering to reheat it, Justin stood at the sink and ate. He was starving, and Hunter’s cooking was amazing. He rinsed his plate off, grabbed his jacket and the letter, and headed out. He was too early to catch the bus to the donut shop, so he decided to walk despite the cold. Justin hadn’t gotten very far when he realized that his ears were freezing.  Hunter would be pissed when he found out he’d forgotten his hat and scarf. He dropped the letter in the mailbox and continued, hunched into his jacket, the collar turned up to protect his ears. Making a snap decision, Justin turned into a Starbucks close to the next bus stop. He decided he might as well buy himself a coffee and wait for the bus. If he continued to walk, his ears would freeze.

He ordered a mocha, and when it finally appeared he took it over to the stools that faced a counter by the front window. It would be easy to see when the bus was getting close, and he wouldn’t have to wait outside.

He sipped his hot drink, his head slowly thawing, and he watched the night activity that filled the streets of this section of Pittsburgh. One of the clubs not too faraway spilled their music into the street. The door opened and three men, arms pulling their jackets tight against the cold, came out of the club. They were all laughing, apparently all friends, and Justin had a fleeting moment of something close to hatred that he directed toward them. Why couldn’t he have something like what they had even once in his life?  
 
His artist’s eye took over as he observed each one. Unconsciously, he reached for the pen in his messenger bag, and pulling over a napkin he began to sketch. First, he drew the shorter of the men; dark hair, big grin, and kind of goofy. Then a few pencil strokes later, the second man appeared; taller, more flamboyant, gesturing madly with his arms and hands. The final man in the drawing demanded more attention to detail. He stood back slightly from the others, as if observing his friends with friendly distain. Justin quickly sketched in the details of the man’s face, when suddenly he turned and faced the coffee shop, their eyes met, and Justin couldn’t move for a moment until the bus approaching his stop caught his attention. Throwing his pen into his messenger bag and taking a final sip of his mocha, Justin moved rapidly out the side door of Starbucks and ran for the bus stop.

“Hey, Brian, what are you looking at?” Michael asked. He and Emmett turned to see if they could follow Brian’s eyes.

Brian had tried to follow where the guy who’d been sitting at the window had gone, but it seemed he’d disappeared deeper into Starbucks. He didn’t know that Justin had raced out the side door.

“I want a latte,” Brian said and headed across the street to the coffee shop, Michael and Emmett running to catch up.

“We could go to the diner,” Michael said, his voice breathless.

“I don’t want their shit.” Brian opened up the door and stared intently at the few customers inside before stepping through. Michael and Emmett piled in behind him.

Brian walked over to the window counter where he’d seem the man, and stared over at the entrance to Woody’s.

“Brian, I don’t know what to order,” Michael whined. “I want to go to the diner.”  His friend seemed somehow distracted, and Michael didn’t like it.

Looking down before turning away, something caught his attention. Not sure what he was seeing, Brian picked up the napkin and put it in the pocket of his jacket. He turned to Michael. “Maybe the diner would be a better idea,” he said, and went back through the door to the street. Brian stood, looking in both directions, and wondering if he was imagining that ‘J’ could have been so close. Had his presence been an accident of fate, or had ‘J’ been stalking him?

Hunter stood in the middle of the open space and looked around. Yes, the walls definitely needed some color on them. He’d been working on his lessons for hours, and his back ached. Hunter stretched and wondered where he’d start first. The living room area was beginning to come together with the addition of furniture. Having ‘the stinking piece of shit fiddler’ as he and Justin had begun calling the urn in the corner wasn’t a plus in the decorating department.

He walked over and nudged the urn with his toe. Not for the first time, Hunter wished that it was made of glass so it would break during one of Justin’s tantrums and that would be the end of it. Maybe, if he painted the wall a strong color like persimmon and the urn the same color, it would kind of fade into the background.

“Stop staring at the Fiddler,” Justin said. He walked through the door, tired after his shift. He needed a change of job, but inertia had set in, and he couldn’t be bothered looking. It was easier just to go to work every night.

“The room is blah; we need color on the walls,” Hunter declared.  

“Don’t you have a paper to write or something to cook?” Justin asked as he searched the fridge for something interesting to eat.

“You won’t find any leftovers, I ate them,” Hunter smirked. “Have a peanut butter sandwich.”

“That’s just what I was going to do.” Justin began assembling what he’d need. “I like the white walls. It’s peaceful.”

“Okay, how about we hang something on at least one of them? It looks like we just moved in.”

“You did just move in. I, on the other hand, have been here for months. I like white walls.”

“I’ve been here more than a month,” Hunter defended.

Justin realized that he was right. It had been a month or so since he’d picked up a tired, dirty, cold, and hungry kid off the street.  “Interesting,” was all he said as he sat at the counter and ate his sandwich.

“I’m thinking of getting a part-time job.” Hunter looked at Justin. “I want to have some money of my own that I can do stuff with.”

“You get money, I give you money.” Justin looked up from his sandwich. “You’re a kid, do kid things. Finish up school and then get a job.”

“That’s just it, you give me money. I don’t earn it. I don’t like to spend your money. Fuck, you even buy me clothes!”

“Hunter, it’s just money. I happen to have a bunch of it.  Besides, you do things to earn it. You keep the place clean, do my laundry, cook, and shop. Hell, it’s like having my very own houseboy. Too bad you don’t fuck.”

“I fuck, just not guys,” Hunter blushed at the admission.

“So, you like girls.” Justin stared at Hunter. “Got a girlfriend?”

“Now where would I find one?” Hunter stared at Justin and shook his head. “I’m either studying or I’m hanging around here staring at blank walls or shit face over there,” he grumbled and nodded at the urn. “Which by the way, writing ‘Ethan R.I.P.’ did not improve the general look of the whole thing. I preferred the pictures.”

“Yeah, well, tough.” Justin went back to his sandwich. “I’m going to bed.”

“You don’t even sleep half the time, you’re just hiding.” Hunter glared at his friend.

“Now you keep track of what I do in my room?” Justin snorted. “Maybe you are interested in guys. Do you watch when I jerk off?”

“Ewwee, that would be a definite ewweee." Hunter shuddered dramatically. “Can I at least hang a picture or a calendar or something?” Justin had been very vocal about keeping anything off the walls. He wanted nothing on them at all.

“Your room is your castle. Have at it, but leave the rest of the apartment alone. I bought you a damn sofa and chair. You have a desk and table with four chairs, and there’s only the two of us. What more can you possibly want or need?”

“Some life in here might be nice. I mean, the thing in the corner is hardly alive.”

“Get a goldfish.” Justin headed for his room, slamming the door. He hated when the kid made him think about his sucky life. He knew he had to snap out of whatever funk he was in, but he didn’t particularly want to snap out of it and become ‘normal,’ whatever that was. Justin fell across his bed and looked at the wall beside him. He’d filled it with sketches of the man from Woody’s, leaving his two friends, almost faceless, preferring to highlight the beauty of the tall stranger who had caught his eye. Hunter would have been surprised if he’d known that Justin’s bedroom walls were slowly being transformed in black and white strokes of his charcoal pencil.

Hunter watched Justin’s door slam and grinned to himself. Mission accomplished. The blond needed to get a grip on reality and come out of the depression that the fiddler fuck had put him in. Hunter grabbed his coat. He needed to get some air, and he needed to implement the next part of his plan for returning Justin to the land of the living and the fiddler to the winds of Pittsburgh.

“I’m here about the job in the paper.” Hunter looked around the tastefully decorated reception area of Kinnetik.

“Here’s an application form. Do you have a resume?” the blond girl asked him. She looked at him closely. He seemed young.

“I can fill out the application, but I don’t have a resume. I’m finishing up school, and I could use some money.”

“You know that it’s only part-time?” she said. “It could lead to full-time in the summer; it depends on how things work out. It’s only running errands and delivering or picking up things. Do you have a driver’s license?”

Hunter looked at her like she had two heads. He read her name off of her desk and said, “Do I look like I own a car, Miss Molly? I’m only seventeen. This is an advertising company. I can pick up and deliver whatever you want on a bike. I mean, how much stuff can you have?”

“So you know this is an advertising firm?”

Hunter turned to stare at the tall, well-dressed man who’d come up behind him.

“Sure, everyone knows that. I mean, it’s the best there is here in Pittsburgh. I’m finishing up high school, but I want to take some marketing courses in college. I figure I could pick up lots of tips just working as an office boy here.”

“You’re hired.“ Brian turned to Molly. “Have him fill out the paperwork.”

“But you don’t even know my name.”

“The thing is, you knew about the firm; the last six guys who applied hadn’t a clue.” He smiled at Hunter. “I’m Brian Kinney, by the way.” He held out his hand.

“I’m Hunter Montgomery. Thanks, Mr. Kinney.” Hunter shook hands with Brian, hardly believing his luck. He actually had a job.

“Molly will fix you up with everything you need to know.” Brian turned and winked at Molly before disappearing into the back of the offices.

“He’s cool,” Hunter said to Molly.

“Yeah, he is,” she agreed. “He’s good about giving people a chance to work. All you have to do is make sure you don’t let him down. He’ll stand by you to the end otherwise.”

“I won’t let him down. I need this job. I want to buy a dog,”  he smiled at her. “It’s for a friend of mine, but I’ll have to be able to look after it just in case.”

“Cool, what kind of dog?” Molly asked. “I love dogs, but I’ve never had one.”

“I don’t know what kind. I think something small, though; we live in an apartment.”

“Oh, are you gay, too?” Molly blurted out, almost sounding disappointed, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked, but all the cute guys turn out to be gay.”

Hunter flushed with pleasure at the fact he’d been classified as cute. “No, I’m not gay, but the guy I room with is. I’m okay with it, but I like girls myself.”

“My brother is gay, but we’ve kind of lost touch. He went away to school, and except for the odd card on my birthday or Christmas I never hear from him. He doesn’t get along with my parents.”

“That sucks.” Hunter had been filling out the application form while he talked. He signed his name at the bottom, and handed it to the receptionist. “I think that’s everything.” He smiled.

“I’ll show you the offices and we can talk.” Molly stood up from her desk. Having someone close to her age working for Kinnetik was going to be fun.

February 10, 2001
Dear Mr. K,

Valentine's Day is fast approaching, and the whole fucking city is filled with phony professions of love, not to mention the required hearts and flowers. Even the donut shop has asked me to start making heart shaped bits of dough to clog the arteries of those lovers who like that sort of thing. I experimented last night, and came up with one that has a built-in joke. Well, kind of. I overfilled the nasty, little fried hearts with raspberry jelly, so when someone bites into one, they’ll wear their heart on their shirt. It’s my little fuck you to everyone who gives a fucking donut for VDay.  So, if you’re walking around town this week and see splotches of jelly on the shirts of the masses, you’ll know that I was there in spirit, if not in person.

On another less jolly (that’s me, jolly to a fault) note, the kid has something up his sleeve, and it’s driving me crazy trying to figure it out. He spent another week trying to get me to paint my apartment walls. Then he pulled everything out of his room and painted in there. Which is fine with me. I don’t have to look at his walls. That’s what doors are for.

He gave hubby a coat of paint, which wouldn’t have been too bad, except the stuff I used to write R.I.P. on the urn with is bleeding through the paint, and now hubby looks like something from a Tim Burton movie. I’m afraid it’s back to pasting pictures on hubby again. I think I’ll look for something like a naked Brad Pitt. The dried flowers didn’t make it through the last bout of temper, and when we swept up hubby he ended up with a lot of dead rose petals mixed up with him, not to mention the odd dust bunny. A lot of him went under the sofa. I guess the kid hadn’t been as thorough vacuuming under there as he could have. Oh, well, it will give hubby something to think about. He’s mixed up with dust bunnies and dead rose petals. Oh, and the odd roach, the ones with legs, not the ones you smoke. Yes, it’s definitely a Tim Burton movie.

I’ve decided that Starbucks is my new favourite place for two reasons. One, and this is the most important, they don’t serve donuts. The second reason is that they have great seating for people watching even in the winter. People watching was always at the top of favourite things to do in my old ‘artiste’ days. I stopped doing it for almost a year, but have decided that it still has merits, and Starbucks is a good place for the event to take place. It should be in the Olympics; it fills in time. The kid has found himself a part-time job, and there’s a girl he’s interested in at said job. He isn’t talking about either one, but I can read the signs. After all, I'm a professional people watcher.

I don’t like to admit this to anyone but my close friends, but since you are pretty much it here goes. I miss the kid when he’s at work. There, I said it. I can’t believe I’ve done it again, and started to depend on another human being. Apparently, I have a low learning curve. It must have been latent.

Next week is my birthday. I’m going to be twenty-eight. I’ve managed to accomplish so little in my life. Talk about an underachiever, although I do make a mean donut, and I have whining down pat.

Thanks for listening, Mr. K.  You are the MAN.

J (blowing kisses on this letter)

Brian studied the letter. It had arrived on the day before Valentine’s Day, and he could sympathize with what J had to say about the day. It had always seemed like a foolish bit of nonsense as far as he was concerned. He almost laughed out loud when he read the part about the jelly donuts. He could envision a couple of his friends wearing the jelly.

He read it over again, and wondered if he’d ever get to meet this ‘J’ or the ‘kid’. He’d begun viewing the letters with apprehension; now he waited almost impatiently for them.

Reading the letter over for the final time, Brian put it into the file folder he kept in his briefcase. It was full of letters from his mysterious ‘J’.

“Hey, Brian.” It was Michael.

“What’s up, Mikey?” Brian asked. He turned and stared at his friend. “Fuck, Mikey, you have shit all over you shirt! Go wash it off.”

“That’s why I stopped in.  I was eating a Valentine donut, and the fucking thing exploded. What kind of a moron would make a fucking exploding donut? Brian!  Brian, what’s wrong?” he stared at his friend who was bent over laughing so hard there were tears streaming down his face. “It’s not that God damned funny.” Michael glared at Brian and headed for his friend’s private bathroom to clean off his shirt.

The next day Brian walked into the lunchroom. Someone had put up a few dozen red paper hearts in deference to the day. He snorted and poured himself a cup of coffee. A box of donuts was on the counter. “Where did these come from?” Brian asked. He opened the white bakery shop box and stared down at a dozen garishly iced, heart shaped jelly donuts.

“I brought them in,” Hunter said. “My roommate makes them. I asked him to bring me some home and he did.”

“Interesting job,” Brian commented.

“Naw, he hates it. He just does it to keep busy, and he’s too bummed out to bother quitting. He talks about it a lot, but hasn’t made the move yet.” He looked around. “Mr. Kinney, I’d kind of advise you to eat these with a fork and use a plate. I think there’s too much jelly in them. Justin says it’s the right amount, but he looks funny when he says it. I ate one yesterday, and it was everywhere.”

“I’ll remember that, Hunter.” Brian watched his office boy disappear. “So Justin is your name,” he said out loud. It was a small world. Hunter must be ‘the kid’.

Ted walked into the lunchroom. “Donuts. I’m starving,” he said.

“Nice white shirt, Theodore,” Brian commented as he walked out. “Oh, the pink ones are especially good,” he snickered and left, only to hear a scream of dismay before he’d reached his office.

“Okay, I know you aren’t an artist or anything, but I really, really need your help with this,” Hunter wheedled.

“I still don’t see what I can do.” Justin paced the length of the room, agitated that he had to even consider drawing something. “It’s your school project, you do it.”

“I’m going to do it. I just need you with me. I can’t draw for shit, so I thought maybe if we took some photos and I printed them out, then I could draw from them. Plus, if I actually see one up close and personal, I can kind of get their personality.”

“For fuck sake, they’re just dogs; anybody can draw a fucking dog.” Justin glared at Hunter.

“Well, I can’t. See? “ He held up some very, very bad renditions of dogs. “I’m supposed to do a marketing presentation for dog food. This is something a kindergartener would do. It needs to be better.”

“Fine, we’ll go to the shelter and take some fucking dog pictures.” Justin fumed and threw himself on the sofa and glared in the direction of the urn. Somehow this had to be Ethan’s fault.

“Now, I want to go now while you’re in the mood.” Hunter tossed Justin his coat. “Let’s go.”

“I’m fucking not in the mood,” Justin grumbled and pulled on his coat. “I’m not taking the bus. We’ll take the car.”

“What car?” Hunter looked around as if one would appear in the apartment.

“The car in the long term parking garage down the block. That’s what car. I’m not taking umpteen buses to the fucking pound.”

“We have a car? Cool, what kind?” Hunter was grinning. “Could you teach me to drive? I want to get my driver's license.”

“I have a car, we don’t have a car, and no, I’m not teaching you to drive. If you want to learn to drive, I’ll send you to driving school. My nerves wouldn’t take teaching you. It’s a Mazda SUV.”

“No shit! Call the school now. See if they can take me.”  Hunter was bouncing on the balls of his feet, he was so excited.

“I thought we had to go take pictures of a bunch of dogs.”

“Right, okay, when we get back will you call?”

“Geeze, I’ll call. It’s only a fucking car!”

“But if I get my driver’s license, I can do more stuff at work.”

“Hurry up, I don’t have all day.” Justin opened the apartment door.

“Yes, you do,” Hunter snickered. “You don’t do anything else.”

“But the thing is, I ‘could’ do something else if I wasn’t driving all over Pittsburgh to take pictures of a bunch of dogs.”

“You know, you’re pretty grouchy lately,” Hunter commented as they headed down to the street.

February 20th, 2001

Dear Mr. K,

Well, I survived the big VDay. Somewhat survived. I was canned after about a zillion whiners demanded compensation for ruined clothing. Why couldn’t they all see the poetic justice in it all? Hearts bursting with sweetness and all that. Of course, there’s the up side to getting fired from the donut place; I never have to see a fucking donut again. I used to come home and have nightmares about them. I even smelled like a donut, and it isn’t a good smell 24/7. Now, if I can keep the kid’s hands off my bath salts, I smell rather purty, if I do say so myself.

My adventure for the week was the kid wanting, no, demanding that I take him to the animal shelter so that he could photograph dogs, and his subsequent discovery that I owned a car. Up to now I’ve always used public transportation. I mean, why not, less hassle than finding parking places. It was really hubby who wanted the damn car, not me. I didn’t tell the kid that the sports car beside the Mazda was mine as well. No point in having him orgasmic. Who knew straight boys had this kind of love affair with cars?

So anyway, we drive to the shelter after first stopping for gas, and then at a car wash to get the dust that had accumulated off the car. The kid was touching and patting all the dials and knobs until I almost threw him out of the car. Fuck, he can be an annoying little shit! Then we had to go through a drive thru at MacD’s – apparently the kid has been craving drive through food. Which, I did point, out was no damn different than if we walked inside, but he insisted it was different.  In fact, we ended up going through the drive thru twice; he said he was really hungry, but I suspect he just wanted to do it again.

We get to the shelter, it was the one on Pontiac, and they were expecting him. He’d cleared it beforehand. I guess having people taking pictures of dogs wasn’t normal. We parade down the center aisle of what can only be called a dog jail, looking for the right dog to spring into freedom for fifteen minutes. The last jail cell near the end had a honey-colored dog huddled in the back, and I swear to gawd he was crying like a baby.

The kid insisted that this was the one he wanted to immortalize on the digital camera. So I had to practically crawl into the cell to drag this guy’s ass out. (And) Damned if the dog didn’t jump into my arms and put his head on my shoulder. He was shaking, he was so scared. Every other dog in the place was woofing. I’m sure they were cursing him, ‘yo you’ll be my bitch tonight;’ that kind of thing. To make a long story short, the kid now has a dog, and I have a kid with a dog.  I also have a wallet that is six hundred bucks lighter. Apparently, Dawg needed his own bed, and not just any bed, but one that looks like suede. He needed dishes, food, and toys, lots and lots of toys, shampoo, three kinds of harness complete with matching leash, and a dog tag.

Naturally, the kid promised he’d walk Dog every chance he got. So far, and it’s been a few days, he hasn’t had a chance. So Dawg and I are bonding on the streets of Pittsburgh as we search for new and interesting spots to piss and shit.

Of course, he’s had his picture taken about a zillion times. I’ll put one in this letter. As you can see, he’s not the most beautiful dog, but he smiles nicely for his photo. Now that I have a kid and a dog, all I need is the little white cottage with roses on each side. Oh, yeah, Dawg and hubby have had a few run ins. He keeps lifting his leg every time he goes past the urn on the floor. I finally had to move it to the closet. Which is rather fitting, as hubby was well closeted as far as his public was concerned. I guess it’s marginally better than getting pissed on all the time. (snickering here)

Yours, 
J

Brian was reading the letter over again while he waited for a client. He smiled at the picture of a shaggy looking small mutt before tucking it away in the envelope. There was a commotion at the front desk of Kinnetik, and he got up to see what it was.

In the lobby everyone was ooing and ahhhing over some pictures Hunter had brought in. “Hey, Mr. Kinney, want to see some pictures of my dog?” he held out a picture to Brian.

“No,” Brian replied and was about to turn back when the dog picture caught his eye. It was the same dog; in fact, the same picture as the one in his office. “Cute dog,” he said.

“Yeah, we got him at the shelter.” Hunter grinned. “He’s like the best thing I’ve ever bought. I spent my own money for him, but Justin bought a whole bunch of junk that he just had to have. Dawg would have been happy sleeping on a blanket on the floor, but Justin insisted he had to have this fancy bed. Shit, it’s better than Justin’s bed! I would have brought him in to show you guys, but Justin keeps taking him for marathon walks. I only get to see him when they’re both too tired to move.”

“Maybe you should have bought Justin a dog,” Brian offered.

“I kind of did,” Hunter laughed. “I wanted him to get out more, and now he is. Now, if I can just get him to start painting again everything will be perfect.”

“Oh, Justin is an artist?” Brian asked. He wanted to know more about Justin.

“He’s an awesome artist. I look at his stuff all the time when he’s not around. He has like this whole room full of his stuff, and on his wall in his bedroom he’s been drawing things. Not that I’ve looked at the stuff closely, we have a rule about our room. It’s amazing. If he wasn’t just so hung up on the asshole he was married to. The guy was a complete jerk. He really hurt Justin, not his feelings, but real down deep inside. Dog and I are going to make him better.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” Brian smiled and handed the picture back to Hunter. He turned and headed back to his office. He had a lot to think about.

Tbc.

Dear Mr. K.-3
Author: Elsa Rose
Plot Bunny: Bitca78

March 2, 2001

Dear Mr. K,

Did you notice that little hint of spring that’s been in the air lately? I love this time of year. The kid is doing great in school, and he’s even working these days. Who could ask for more? It’s actually rather nice to see how he’s changed since the day I brought him home from the street. He seems to have a purpose in life. He’s set goals, and he’s working toward them.

I had goals and hopes and dreams at his age. I guess there’s no point in warning him about honey-tongued lovers. I know I sure as fuck wouldn’t have listened when I was seventeen. Hell, I didn’t listen when I was twenty, and for that matter, at twenty-six I wasn’t much brighter.

I look at Dawg, and realize that I was kind of like him. He believes us when we shower praise on him, and snuggles close with grateful affection. We can chastise him or hit him on the rump with a newspaper, and he comes right back, tongue out, tail wagging; kind of like I did. I wag a mean tail. (attempt at levity here) Mr. K.

The days and nights are definitely longer now that I’m not creating donuts. I think I’ll have to come up with something to do.  Walking Dawg can hardly be called a career move.  

For some damn reason the kid has decided that he’s going to be the next creative advertising genius of the free world. But shit, he hasn’t a clue what the hell he’s doing. He spent hours working on some boards for dog food, and to say they suck, well, that’s polite. I finally couldn’t stand it any longer, and had to show him where he went wrong. I swear to gawd he couldn’t stop grinning. You’d think he’d never seen anyone draw before! I mean, it was only a few quick sketches so he’d get the point.

Dawg and I are enjoying the spring like weather. We head to the river every day so that he can chase sticks and do whatever it is dogs do when they have some free space to run around.  I may just dig out the old sketchbook one of these days and record Dawg for posterity.

Meanwhile, I’m looking for that white cottage with the roses. I think Dawg could use a yard to run around in, and the kid can learn to mow a lawn. Every boy and his dog should have a lawn to pee on and mow.

The kid is close to getting his driver’s license. It’s amazing what a little bit of money thrown in the direction of a driving school can do to inspire them to teach the ins and outs of manoeuvring a lethal weapon on wheels. I think I’m spoiling him and putting all my hopes and dreams in a virtual stranger, someone I’ve only known for three months. Apparently, like I mentioned before, my learning curve needs a tune up.

Oh, the kid made me a birthday cake. How cool was that? I’ve never had one made with such love – fuck, there I am swearing again! But you get the point. He was so proud of that cake. It was my favourite, of course, chocolate with raspberry mousse filling. He even made a mini version, complete with candle for Dawg, not using chocolate, but some kind of stuff that looks like chocolate and tastes like chocolate, but won’t hurt the hound. Dawg was impressed and so was I.

I’d better stop so I can catch the mail pick up. Thanks, Mr. K., for listening. I think I can almost cut out the letters, so don’t be surprised if I don’t write as often. I’m feeling better these days about life in general. I’ve even packed hubby in a box, along with the rest of his stuff. The kid says I won’t be cured until we have a ceremonial throwing of hubby off the same bridge he jumped from, only this time he’ll sink in his full metal jacket like a rock. Never to be seen or heard of again.

It seems rather final.

Thinking of you often, whoever and wherever you may be in the Pitts.

J

Justin finished the letter and a sketch of himself at the table writing a letter. He held it up and decided to add Dawg to the drawing, since the dog was lying on the table, watching him write. It was starting to feel good to sketch the odd thing. His heart no longer felt like it was going to jump out of his chest when his pencil hit paper. Justin smiled to himself, and he realized that it was a genuine smile, a smile that warmed his insides. It had been awhile since that had happened.

He almost balled the letter up and threw it away. Maybe it was time to stop writing, and maybe it was time to get on with his life. Justin looked over at Hunter who was industriously working on his advertising campaign. He reached over and scratched Dawg’s head, resisting the urge to kiss the honey-colored forehead. Instead, he gave him a short belly rub before standing up. “I’m going to mail my letter. Do you want anything when I’m out?” Justin asked Hunter.

“Get Dawg off the table. You spoil him. It’s unhygienic having a dog sleep on the table.” Hunter hid his grin.

“He’s on a pillow; he’s not on the table,” Justin defended.

“He’s on a pillow on the table. You’re stretching a point, Justin.” Hunter shook his head. “Can you pick up some donuts?”

“Can you possibly eat something else?” Justin picked the dog up and set him on the floor. Dawg wagged his tail and headed for his leash. He knew the routine.

“I like donuts.”

“I’ll buy you cookies.”

“I make cookies, I don’t make donuts,” Hunter snickered. “I want some jelly ones. You know you made the best jelly donuts.”

“Apparently, you’re a cheering section of one. Justin laughed. “If you’ll recall, jelly donuts were the end of my job.”

“You hated that job.”

“So, but that doesn’t mean I planned on getting fired. I wanted to quit.” Justin shrugged on a lighter jacket. “Dawg hates donuts. We’ll buy cookies.”

“Get something good,” Hunter said to the closing door.

Brian stood across the street. He wasn’t sure why he was watching the tattoo parlor and the windows of the apartment above it. He pulled Hunter’s home address from his files, and decided to find out for himself what the mysterious Justin looked like and maybe they’d meet. There was something almost compelling about the desire to see this letter writer for himself  

He startled when the blond appeared, a small, honey-colored dog on an orange leash with him. The two began to make their way toward the mailbox. The blond talked while the dog listened intently as they strolled along. Impulsively, Brian dashed across the street, hoping to intercept the two of them. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say, or if he was going to say anything.

“Excuse me,” Brian began, pretending to brush into Justin. “Nice dog.”

“Sorry, we weren’t watching where we were going.” Justin smiled up into friendly, hazel eyes.

“I can understand that. There’s lots to smell.” Brian grinned.

Justin smiled and turned to the mailbox. He dropped the letter he’d been carrying in the box, and then pulled on Dawg’s leash. “Come on, Dawg.” Justin smiled shyly at Brian before turning and heading toward the market.

Brian went back to the loft. Justin was handsome, but painfully unsure of himself, his beauty, and his worth. He knew if it was in the cards that he could have a chance to meet the blond and have some kind of relationship with him at all, he couldn’t begin anything with a lie. So taking a big chance, Brian picked up a pen and began to write.



March 2nd, 2001

Dear Mr. T,

I have to be honest with you, as you have been with me. I accidentally discovered your identity. We won’t go into how it happened right now, but I have seen you on the street. What I propose is for you to get to know me, the same way I’ve gotten to know you; through the mail.

That’s why I’m writing now. I don’t want you to disappear, or worse yet retreat back into the man I first came to know in January. I want us to be honest with each other. I could have picked you up on the street; wined you and dined you, or maybe just shown up at your door, but I haven’t. I’m at your mercy. You call the shots.

By the way, your dog is oddly cute for a dog. I mean he’s strange looking, but friendly, I guess that’s good in a dog. Of course, never having owned a dog, I’m not sure about that. Aren’t they supposed to be on guard or something? Just asking.

I have to tell you, I know ‘the kid’ you refer to in your letters. We can actually call him Hunter unless you prefer ‘kid’. Again, not having a lot of ‘kid’ experience, other than having been one at one time, he seems okay. He’s a hard worker and determined to make you proud of him, although I suspect you already are. You should tell him that; he’d liked to hear it from you, I’m sure.

Since I know what you look like, I’m enclosing a picture of what I look like. We met earlier in the street. I was the clumsy guy by the mailbox.

The reason why your letters ‘spoke’ to me is an easy one. You remind me of me, a younger me, a much younger me. But we’re somewhat alike in our outlook on things. No, I haven’t fallen in love with anyone. I’ve never given anyone a chance at my heart and, therefore, it’s remained intact. Some might even say hard, but that’s for another letter.

I grew up in Pittsburgh on the wrong side of the tracks. Wrong for some, although if you were Irish working class, I guess it was the right side. I was raised in a – well, less then child-friendly household. The first opportunity I had, I escaped – it wasn’t much of an escape, but when I was fourteen I met a guy at school who became my best friend and lifeline to reality, and the world of happy families who didn’t have their own drunken wife beater in residence. His name is Mikey and I hope you’ll meet him someday. He’s kind of like your dog, friendly and strangely loyal. So don’t take offence at anything he might say when you meet him.

Oh, I have been promiscuous in the past, not so much any more. In fact, I’m beginning to suspect age is catching up to me, and I would like to find someone compatible to have a relationship with. By the way, the ‘R’ word has always had a four-letter word connotation to me, although I’m beginning to be able to say it out loud without stuttering. (That’s supposed to be funny.)

So what do you say, Mr. T., are you going to give me a chance?

Brian Kinney

Taking a cue from Justin, Brian attempted to draw a picture of himself, even though it looked more like a stick figure with hives. He also enclosed a photo he’d taken at his desk with the aid of a digital camera and a timer.

Rather than rely on the mail, Brian walked the few blocks to Justin’s address and slipped the letter into his mailbox.

Justin noticed an envelope sticking out of his mailbox when he took Dawg  for his before-bedtime walk. He didn’t think much of it, as Joel from the tattoo parlor often left him notes regarding his shop.

Dawg was caught up in sniffing something or someone in the lobby and began to trail, which to Justin was annoying because he really wanted him to pee and get it over with. Dawg had other ideas; with his tail wagging and nose to the ground, he was off, a mini sled dog pulling with all his might as he began to track.  Justin couldn’t help but laugh at the determination of the small, honey-colored dog. Rather than discourage him, he let himself be pulled forward, glad that the streets weren’t as busy in the late evening; otherwise, he’d be running over everyone.

“What do you think you are, a bloodhound?” Justin muttered as they raced across the street to the corner. Dawg looked back over his shoulder at Justin as if to say, ‘of course he’s part bloodhound, way back in his ancestry.’

Two blocks later, Dawg began to head up the steps to Woody’s. “Sorry, Buddy, but no dogs are allowed in here.” Justin laughed. ”Who knew you were a gay boi dog?” He bent down and scooped up his errant pup and headed down the street, and when he got to the corner he put Dawg on the pavement. With a small whine, he looked back and the dog agreed to head to the apartment.

Justin thought of leaving the envelope in his mailbox for the next day, and then as he headed for the stairs decided to grab it.

“What took you guys so long? I was getting worried,” Hunter said from his position in front of the television.

“Dawg was trailing somebody to Woody’s.” Justin grinned. “Or he wanted a beer.”

Hunter snorted, “There’s no way he’s gay.”

“What can I say? I’m a bad influence on him. Maybe you should walk him once in awhile.”  Dawg ran over and jumped on the sofa with Hunter, giving him sloppy doggy kisses. “See, he’s after your body.”

“Ewwwwe,” Hunter said and wrestled Dawg into submission. Soon the two of them were occupied with a late night rerun of CSI.

Justin headed to his bedroom. He wanted to surf the net. He’d long ago moved his laptop into his bedroom on a newly purchased desk. Hunter having his own computer had lessened the arguments over computer time. Justin tossed the letter on his desk and headed for the shower, and then thinking better of it turned around and sat down, ripping open the envelope. He laughed out loud at the stick figure that was drawn at the bottom of the page.  Then suddenly sober, he realized that the name beside it was Brian Kinney.

Justin felt himself go cold, then hot. He threw the unread letter back on his desk as if it had burned his fingers. He backed away from the desk until his legs hit his bed, where he sat down abruptly, his eyes still on the page that lay innocently open.

Questions flooded his mind about what Brian Kinney would be writing about. His breath caught, and he reached for his inhaler, something he’d rarely had to use since the calming effect of the letters he’d been writing was helping him. Justin threw himself backward on the bed and stared at the ceiling, doing his best to quell his panic. That would be all he needed - to have Hunter find him in a complete panic attack. The boy had never seen him at his worst.

Dawg began whining at his door, his claws scratching the wood, demanding to be let in, but Justin ignored him. He couldn’t deal with anything right now, least of all the dog.

He listened to Hunter’s feet padding towards his door; the handle turned and the dog bounded in and up on the bed, continuing to whine, only now he’d buried his nose in Justin’s neck, offering what comfort he could.

“Dawg wants to see you,” Hunter said before closing the door and returning to his show.  He didn’t think anything was unusual because Justin often had his light turned off.

Justin blinked back tears that threatened to fall. It was one thing to cut himself off from his Brian Kinney lifeline letters, and quite another for the man to discover his secret identity and do it for him. His phone rang, and Justin automatically reached over and picked it up. Why he did it, he’d think about later. No one ever called him.

 “Hello?” Justin’s voice was soft and hesitating.

“Is this Justin Taylor?” a man’s voice asked. The words were gravelly, though hesitant and sexy all at once.

“Yes,” Justin answered.

“Did you read the letter?”

“Who is this?” Justin asked. “If this is Brian Kinney, and you’ve called to make sure I never contact you again; okay, I get the point.” Justin was about to hang up the phone; the tears were now more than a threat.

“DON’T HANG UP!” Brian shouted.

“Why not?” Justin asked, having managed to rescue the phone before it hit (the) disconnect.

“You didn’t read the letter, did you?” Brian’s voice was softer now.

“No, but it’s on my desk.”

“That’s a start. I’ll wait here while you read it.”

“Why?”

“Would you just read it, for fuck sake?” Brian rolled his eyes heavenward and lay back on his bed. This was going to be harder than he’d thought.

Justin pulled himself upright and took the letter off the desk. He turned on the small light beside his bed. “I’m reading it,” he whispered into the phone.

It didn’t take long, and when he was done he didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or be angry. “Uh, Mr. K…”

“I think you can safely call me Brian. It’s not like I’m that much older than you are.”  Brian huffed a laugh and smiled up at the ceiling.

“Brian, I don’t know what to say. I guess I have to ask; if you wrote the letter, why did you phone?”

“I had a feeling that you might panic when you saw the letter. I wrote it and dropped it off on impulse. After sitting in Woody’s, it dawned on me that you might think I’ve overstepped the bounds of anonymous letter receiver.”

“I’m not sure there are rules about that,” Justin replied; his sense of humor was returning. “You are the guy I saw coming out of Woody’s one other time. I didn’t know that you were Mr. K at the time, but I was taken with your air of well-being and confidence.”

“Were you in Starbucks, and did you draw me on a napkin?” Brian asked. The napkin in question lay tucked in his dresser drawer.

“Yes, that’s me. I do that all the time, draw things unconsciously,” he shrugged; not that Brian could see it. “I like to think I don’t do any kind of art any longer, but I guess I do.” He could see the drawings on his wall. He’d kept the faces anonymous enough looking, but still he knew it was Brian standing there on Woody’s steps. Maybe now he could fill in where he’d left purposely shadowed.

“I’m glad you didn’t stop drawing altogether," Brian said. “You’ve got some great talent, Justin.”

“I do?”

“I’m not saying that to flatter you. I don’t do things like that unless you’re a client.” Brian laughed. “I really believe you do have talent. I’m sure that the day will come when you’ll be very well known for your artistry.”

Justin flushed in pleasure. “I’m glad you called. You were right; I was freaking out about your letter.”

“I thought so." Brian paused for a moment, not sure how this was going to go. “Should we continue, writing, I mean, or would you actually like to meet? No strings attached, just two friends meeting for coffee or lunch or a walk in the park with your dog.”

“I’d like that,” Justin smiled, his grin wide. “I’d really like that, Brian.”

“You know I run Kinnetik, don’t you?” Brian asked.

“No, but I do now, and I know how you found me.” Justin looked at his closed door. “It was Hunter. That’s where he works, although he didn’t know about us.”

“I didn’t think he did. You should know Hunter is as proud of you as you are of him. He couldn’t help but brag about you and Dawg. Being smarter than the average bear, I managed to put two and two together and come up with the answer to my mystery.”

“I’m glad. I was going to stop writing, and we might never have met,” Justin admitted. “I guess we still haven’t met officially.”

“Not officially, but if you’d like to stop by Kinnetik tomorrow, I could take you out to lunch or we could have something sent in.”

“Maybe we should have something in your office. I’ll have Dawg with me, and I’m not sure, yet about actually being out with anyone. I’m sorry Brian, I know I’m kind of lame about all of this, but it’s a surprise, and I’m not sure I’m ready to start whatever it is you want.”

“Friendship, J; friendship, that’s what we’re starting with. I’ll see you tomorrow at noon. Now sleep well, and, J, if you feel like you want to talk, you have my number now. I expect you to call; it’s much faster than the mail, and I promise I won’t bite.”

“Thanks,” Justin said, his voice soft.

“Later, J.” Brian laughed before hanging up.

The sound of Brian’s laughing farewell had gone directly to Justin’s cock. He looked at his lap in surprise as he hung up the phone. So it did still work. Amazing, he thought.

“How did you meet him, Mr. Kinney, I mean?” Hunter asked. He’d been watching Justin take off and put on clothes for almost an hour. “I think you should wear the green sweater.”

“It makes me look fat,” Justin said and he threw it on the end of his bed.

“Like anything is going to make you look fat! You look like you have some kind of wasting disease,” Hunter snorted, “or you’re addicted to crack.”

“What do you know about crack addictions?” Justin replied, hoping to take the teen's mind off what he was doing.

“I hear things. I was on the street, if you’ll recall, and I’m not blind.” Hunter winced; his days on the street still hurt him.

“Well, I don’t do drugs.”

“You smoke weed.”

“Not much or often.” Justin looked at himself in the mirror. His blue turtleneck sweater would have to do. It was cashmere and had always been his favorite, even though Ethan hated him wearing it.

“So how did you meet Mr. Kinney? You weren’t checking up on me, were you?”

“No, I wasn’t checking up on you. I had no idea you even knew him.”

“You knew I worked at Kinnetik,” Hunter remarked while scratching Dawg’s belly.

“And I’m supposed to connect that to knowing who owned the damn place?” Justin snorted. “You give my sense of ESP more power than it has.” He turned and looked at Hunter, “How do I look?” he asked.

“Like a geek; no one wears sweaters like that.”  Hunter smiled at Justin. “No straight boy, that is.”

“Good, then I know it’s the right thing to wear.”

“You’re only going there for lunch. He’s not even taking you out to a restaurant. I can’t believe he’s so cheap.”

“I told him I didn’t want to go to a restaurant. I’m happy just meeting him.” Justin glanced at the closet where the urn resided. “It's been a long time since I’ve been out with a guy.”

“And it’ll be even longer. You’re having lunch in his office.” Hunter laughed. He stood up and then bent over to pick up the dog. “I guess I’m going to be the dog sitter, unless you’re taking Dawg with you.”

“I was going to.”

“There is no way I’m letting you hide behind Dawg. I know what you’d do. You’d never look at Mr. Kinney, just at Dawg.”

“I would not.” Justin glared at him. But he knew his young friend was probably right. Dawg would make a good point of interest, something to watch when he couldn’t form words or acted like a two-year old away from his parents for the first time.

“And, no, you can’t take the ‘piece of shit asshole bastard’ with you.” Hunter kicked the closet door for emphasis. “I’m surprised you don’t have him stuffed in a pillow or a teddy bear or something, so you can be the eccentric artist and carry him around.”

“You are really being an asshole today. What the fuck is your problem?” Justin asked. “It’s not like I’m going to fall madly in love with Brian Kinney, and go off into the sunset with him, leaving you and Dawg to live out your lives in solitude over a tattoo parlor.”

”Now who's being the asshole?” Hunter said, as he turned his back on Justin so that the older man couldn’t see that there had been some truth in what he’d said.

“Hunter.” Justin came up behind the boy and put his hand on Hunter’s shoulder. “No matter what happens with me and my life, you’ll always have a place with me. That’s a promise, and I don’t give promises lightly.”

“You don’t have to say stuff like that.” Hunter turned and stared at Justin. “I know how the real world is.”

“It’s not my world.” Justin gave the boy a quick hug. He may be taller than Justin and have a bigger body, but he was still a seventeen-year-old boy. “I’ve even made sure legally that you would be protected if anything happened to me. You never know, I could be hit by a bus tomorrow.”

“Right,” Hunter said, but laughed slightly. “Go make Mr. Kinney fall madly in love with you. He’s a nice guy; you could do worse. Actually, you have done worse.” He attempted to joke, and nodded at the closet door.

“Take care of Dawg.” Justin put on his heavy tweed jacket. The blue fleck in the tweed stood out even more now that he was wearing the cashmere sweater. He looked hot and he knew it.

“Dawg and I will stay in and eat hot dogs for lunch.” He looked at the dog in his arms. “Er, we’ll eat wieners.”

Justin was laughing as he headed down the stairs to the street. He walked outside, and was surprised to see Brian standing there, lounging against a streetlight.

“Hey, I was going to your office,” Justin said, suddenly shy.

“What a coincidence; that’s where I’m heading.” Brian laughed, and his laugh brought color to Justin’s cheeks. “You look amazing,” Brian said and bent down, kissing Justin’s cheek. “Sorry, J, I couldn’t resist.”

Justin shut his eyes for a moment. He couldn’t believe Brian had kissed his cheek. The touch of his lips burned, and he looked up at the taller man, not sure what to say.

“Don’t say a word, J.” Brian’s voice was husky. He took Justin’s hand and tucked it through his arm. The two men began to walk down the busy street toward Kinnetik.

Justin couldn’t make his voice work. He was nervous at first as they walked arm in arm down the street. Brian didn’t talk to him; he just walked along in silence, nodding to people he knew and walking as if Justin was the most important person in his universe.

“We’re here,” Brian announced, even though Justin was well aware they were standing at the door of Kinnetik. “Let me know what you think. I decorated it myself.”  He placed his hand on the center of Justin’s back, steering him through the door. “What do you think?” he asked, looking at Justin’s face almost as if he was seeking approval from the blond.

“It’s wonderful.” Justin stepped away from Brian and turned slowly, taking in everything with his artist’s eye.   “Brian, that picture, where did you get it?” Justin’s eyes were big when he looked at the focal point of the main wall.

“I picked it up a couple of years ago in New York. Some guy was selling off a number of paintings. I liked them all, but this one kind of spoke to me.” He looked at Justin, “Do you see it, how the swirls of colors look almost like they’re trying to escape?”

“I see it.” Justin was quiet. “I always wondered what had happened to my work. I came home one day and everything was gone. There wasn’t even so much as a paintbrush left. He said...he said it was all crap, and he was tired of it cluttering up our apartment.”

“Well, I paid the guy ten grand for the crap,” Brian snorted. “He was a kind of a greasy-haired guy, about your height; he’d rented a storefront to sell off the paintings.”

“Ethan,” Justin whispered. “His name was Ethan.” He turned to Brian and smiled, even though his eyes were bright with tears. “This was always a favorite of mine. I put a lot of myself into it. I’m glad you have it. It was the last painting I ever did.”

Brian put his arm around Justin’s shoulders. “I’m glad I have it, too,” he whispered, almost too soft for Justin to hear. “It might be the last painting you did in that era, but it won’t be the last painting you ever do.”

“I don’t have the same urge to create,” Justin said, not minding that Brian was leading him down a hallway, perhaps to his office. As he said the words, Justin realized that Brian was right; he would paint again. He had to, it was part of who he was, and it had been Brian that awakened that part of him.

“Let’s go in here and discuss that statement.” Brian opened the door to his office. A small table had been set up in one corner. He’d obviously had lunch catered.

“You didn’t have to go to so much trouble.” Justin smiled, but he was glad that Brian did. It made him feel important, and it was a great beginning to their friendship.

“It isn’t any trouble, J.” Now, it was Brian’s turn to be almost shy. He’d never done anything like this before for anyone.

“Hey, Brian.” Both men turned to stare at the man standing in Brian’s door.

“Hey, Mikey; haven’t you ever heard that knocking is the thing to do when a door is shut? It’s generally shut for a reason.” Brian’s voice drawled slowly, but it was edged with a harshness his friend hadn’t heard often. “I’m sorry. Justin, this is an old friend, Michael Novotny. Mikey, this is my very good new friend, Justin Taylor.”

Even Michael could hear the affection in Brian’s voice when the man introduced him to Justin.

“Uh, hi,” Michael said. He kept looking between Brian and Justin. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to come to the diner with me for lunch, but I guess you have plans.”

“How good of you to notice.” Brian looked at his friend, “I’ll call you, Mikey… later.”

“Yeah, sure, Brian,” Michael started to back out the door. “Good to meet you, Justin.”

Justin nodded, not trusting his voice. He wasn’t used to meeting new people. It was enough that he’d met Brian in person, and no doubt had Brian not been outside his door, he probably would have chickened out.

Brian got up and closed and locked his office door. He turned back to Justin. “I’m sorry, J, I wasn’t planning on being interrupted.”

Justin smiled, “It’s okay. It was kind of nice to meet one of your friends. Do you know I never did meet any friends of Ethan?”

“Let’s not mention him.” Brian put his hand over Justin’s, “As far as I am concerned the man is dead, and that’s a good place for him.”

Justin giggled slightly. “He is kind of dead.”

“Have some salad.” Brian lifted the silver dome off Justin’s lunch plate. “For what it’s worth, Justin, as long as you let me stay in your life, you’ll always be part of mine. And that means you have to put up with my family and friends. There aren’t many of them, but they are very, very annoying most of the time.”

“But you love them,” Justin smiled.

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

Tbc.

Dear Mr. K.-4
Author: Elsa Rose
Plot Bunny: Bitca78

Justin couldn’t help smiling all the way up the stairs to his apartment. Brian had walked him home, and he couldn’t even begin to say how pleased he was that the busy owner of Kinnetik had taken the time to make sure he was back safely and comfortably.

Hunter and Dawg were out, and he had the big apartment to himself. He glanced at the closet door that stood firmly closed. Even the urn in the closet couldn’t make him feel bad. He’d had a terrific first date, although Brian might think it was lame. Justin hadn’t been able to say much, preferring to let Brian talk, and when he wasn’t talking they sat together in silence. Justin wouldn’t blame Brian if he never heard from him again.

Not sure he was doing the right thing, Justin sat down at the desk in his room and pulled a piece of paper out of the pile in the corner. Sighing, but still smiling, Justin began.



March 3, 2001

Dear Mr. K,

The strangest and most wonderful thing happened to me today. I had a date. Oh, it wasn’t a 'get dressed up and go dancing' date, but I did get dressed in better than my usual sweats. It took me ages to decide on what sweater to wear. I think it was worth it, because my date had the darndest twinkle in his hazel eyes when he saw me wearing it.

Did I mention that he’s tall, not bad looking, and has the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen? And his lips, well, they touched my cheek in a soft kiss, and I can still feel the burn. I have to wonder what his lips will be like when they kiss mine.  Will they be as soft, or hard and demanding? Will he taste like cigarettes and cinnamon gum? All questions I will spend hours dreaming and fantasizing over.

I, of course, was a complete moron. I could barely speak, and when his friend walked in on us, I was lost. He knew it, and he spoke up and saved me in that quiet way he has, and I melted even more under the touch of his hand.

Mr. K, the thing that made my day, my week, my year, my life, was the fact that when I walked into his office he had a painting on his wall. It was my last painting, one that I’d put all my hopes and dreams and fears into. It had disappeared as far as I was concerned, and yet there it was on his wall. Best of all, he liked it. He even knew what I was trying to say in the painting. I knew then that I was … dare I say it … severely in ‘like’ with the man.  Fuck, damn, it's another four-letter word – wouldn’t you just know it?

The kid and Dawg aren’t here right now. I came home to an empty apartment, which was nice in one way. I didn’t have to give the kid a detailed blow-by-blow description of my lunch date. I want to savour it, like a fine wine. After all, it was my first entrance into the real world in a long time.

I didn’t mention that he called the other night. My date, I mean. It was sweet, that’s the only way I can describe it...very sweet.

Justin thought for a few minutes.  He didn’t want to continue to ramble and have Brian think he’d gotten himself involved with a complete fruitcake. He needed to let him know that he was happy.  What he began to do was sketch, and soon the letter was only a small part of what Brian would receive.

When Justin was finished, he quickly sealed up his pages and headed back out onto the street. He wanted to catch the afternoon mail, so that Brian would get his letter the next day. It was important that the man know how much the day had meant to him.

Brian debated whether to call Justin or not after he’d made sure he was safely home. The neighbourhood Justin lived in was interesting to say the least, between tattoo parlors and strip joints.  It was close to Liberty Avenue and (it was close) to Kinnetik, so it couldn’t be that bad, Brian grinned to himself. He’d been doing that a lot since a certain blond had started to write him letters. A rather girlish high school reaction, he was sure, but it was the only one he had.
 
“Brian, what are you doing with that loser?” It was his friend Michael. Brian turned and stared at him just as he was about to go into Kinnetik.

“What are you doing back here, Mikey?” Brian was surprised to see his friend twice in one day.

“I came to see if you’d come out with us tonight. Everyone is going to Babylon.”

“Oddly enough, I still have a working telephone.” Brian smirked at his friend. He knew what Michael wanted. He wanted another chance to see Justin, and to see just where the blond stood in Brian’s life.

“You never talk to me when I call,”  Michael complained. “Where did you meet that loser?”

“I’m not sure who you’re talking about. If you’re referring to Justin, he’s anything but a loser. He’s a brilliant and talented young man.”

“He doesn’t work. I’ve been asking around about him. Everyone knows he’s crazy. He hardly ever goes out of his apartment, and he lives over a tattoo parlor.”

“Well, you hang out with your mother more than is healthy. I suppose you and Justin are equally talked about,” Brian snorted. “I live in a converted factory.”

“You live in a loft.”

“What do you think the loft was before it was a loft?” Brian asked. Michael had followed him into Kinnetik. “It was a fucking factory; they made pianos there.”

“Well, you know what I mean.” Michael tried to defend himself.

“No, Michael, I don’t know what you mean. I know that I have a relationship of sorts with one Justin Taylor, and he has one with me. I’m a big boy, Mikey, I don’t need your permission or good wishes to live my life the way I want to.”

“But Brian,” Michael began.

“I have work to do, Mikey; I’ll give you a call later.”

“You’ll come to Babylon?”

“No, not tonight; tonight I have some planning to do.”

Justin had almost fallen asleep when his phone rang. “Hello?” his voice was hesitant. He looked over at the clock; it was almost midnight.

“I’m sorry if I woke you, J, but I wanted to say goodnight.” Brian lay in his own bed, the phone propped up on the pillow beside him. “I was thinking about things we talked about this afternoon.”

“Things you talked about; I barely said two words.” Justin smiled into the darkness; he couldn’t believe Brian had called.

“You said plenty.”

 “If you count long looks, many sighs, and affirmative nods,”  Justin giggled.

“I count those.” Brian smiled, and Justin could hear the smile in his voice. “Do you really want a rose garden?”

“No, I hate the damn things, they make me sneeze.”

“How about petunias?” Brian said with a laugh.

“Petunias? I never actually thought about them.” Justin wondered where this was going.

“Well, if I bought a house for my husband, that’s assuming I ever have a husband, I thought petunias would be better than roses. Everybody does roses; who does petunias these days?”

“Would you ever get married?” Justin asked. “I mean, it’s not who you are, is it?”

“Well, I never thought about it before. You got married.”

“Yes, I wouldn’t recommend it as a way of filling time.” Justin laughed. “It really sucked the life out of me. I sort of became the ultimate Stepford wife. Believe me, Brian, never again as long as I live.”

“Why did you do it?” Brian really wanted to know. “Getting married is so hetero.”

“It kind of seemed like a good idea at the time. Of course, I was twenty two, depressed, and oddly lonely, considering that I was at a university filled with good looking gay boys. When Ethan came along, and fed me his patented line of bullshit, I was ready to eat it up.”

“Sounds disgusting.”

“Not literally,” Justin snorted. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know, I just wanted to see if you did.”  Brian sighed. “I would, you know, marry you if you wanted to.”

“You would?” Justin was surprised. “You don’t even know me.”

“Sure I do,” Brian laughed. “You’ve told me everything about you since we first met in January.”

“We didn’t actually meet.”

“We didn’t, but I’m sure we did.” Brian shut his eyes. “You were this shy blond who looks about seventeen. I’m this tall, handsome and debonair business icon.”

Justin snorted.

“You jest,” Brian laughed. “Anyway, I was saying, I was this extraordinarily handsome gay man who you decided to write to, subconsciously knowing all of my good attributes.”

“I must have known that you had a white horse and lots and lots of shining armour.”

“And that I am devastating to blond, young men.”

“That, too,” Justin giggled. “Not to mention a complete and utter softy.”

“It’s not soft.” Brian was indignant.

“Maybe not, but you are putty in my hands.”

Brian had to laugh, “You know my secret identity.”

“Yes, I do, Mr. K.” Justin’s voice was soft and full of promise. “Night.” He hung up the phone, sure that his face was going to crack from smiling. “Mr. K, I’m falling in love with you,” Justin whispered into the dark. “It’s so different from anything I’ve ever felt before. This time, Mr. K, it’s not a four-letter word, but rather a word filled with infinite meaning.”

Justin woke up at first light. He sat up in bed and grinned as the day before flooded into his brain. He was in the kitchen, looking through the cupboards, when Hunter walked in, rubbing sleep from his eyes.  

“Hey, how come you’re up?”

“It’s morning.” Justin had his head in a lower cupboard. “Is there any stuff in here to make muffins?”

“Of course there is; I made muffins the other day.” Hunter sat at the kitchen table and watched Justin with interest. “Where’s Dawg?”

“Sleeping; he apparently doesn’t like to get up in the morning.”

“He’s your dog; this is the first time you’ve been up this early.”

“Okay, I give up, where is the muffin mix?” Justin stood up. “It would be easier to just buy the damn things at the store.”

“First, there is no mix. I use flour, sugar, water, eggs, etcetera. Secondly, muffins from the store suck.” Hunter stood up and began to pull what he needed from the cupboards. “What kind of muffin do you want?”

“Something good.” Justin took Hunter’s seat. “And can you make coffee, too, please?”

Hunter rolled his eyes. “You just want me to live here so I can be your slave.”  But he pulled the coffee maker over and efficiently got it started.

“Hey, you weren’t supposed to find that out,” Justin joked. “Unfortunately, you make a pretty mouthy slave, but not a bad cook.” He watched Hunter expertly put things together in a bowl. “Cool, chocolate chunk muffins.”

“I would have made blueberry, but you ate the blueberries yesterday.”

“Sorry, but they looked good.” Justin shrugged. “Dawg likes blueberries.”

“He’s a dog, he should eat dog things.”

“If he was a wild dog, he’d eat blueberries in the woods,” Justin defended. “Of course, I’m not sure that blueberries grow in the woods.”

“They do.” Hunter was putting the mix into a muffin pan. He slid the pan into the heated oven. “Twenty minutes, and you’ll have muffins.”

“I’ll clean up for you.” Justin went to the sink and began to run hot water into it. “It’s the least I can do.”

“You can eat the muffins,” Hunter replied and together the two friends began to make the kitchen tidy again. “You seem pretty cheery this morning.” Hunter looked at Justin, who didn’t seem to be able to stop smiling.

“I think I’ll see if I can find my sketchbooks.”

“Running out of wall space?” Hunter snickered. “I guess sketchbooks are easier to carry around, and with the added bonus of not pissing people off when you draw on their walls.”

“Have you been in my room?” Justin looked at Hunter. “We have rules here.”

“I know we have rules, and, no, I haven’t been in your room, but, yes, I can see from the door that you’ve been drawing on the wall. You know a picture hanging is much neater.”

“Brat,” Justin laughed. “I wish those muffins would hurry up.”

“You could buy a convection oven. That’s faster.”

“We need a house, or maybe just some heavy-duty renovations to this place.” Justin looked around. “What do you think, house or fix up this place?"

“I’ve never lived in a house,” Hunter said. “So I can’t offer an opinion. I’ve always lived in ratty old apartments. This one is marginally better, because it’s clean and you aren’t drunk and abusive.”

“I should sure as hell hope not.” Justin looked around. Hunter had put his stamp on the apartment. There were things where nothing stood before. Bits and pieces that made what had been merely a place to sleep and eat into a home.  “I think we should get ourselves a house.”

“A real house, with a yard for Dawg and everything?” Hunter looked around. “Are you sure, Justin? A house costs a lot of money.”

“Money isn’t really a problem. I have more than enough to last us a lifetime, thanks to urn boy.” He nodded toward the closet. “Of course, there will be lawns to cut and shit like that.”

“I’ll learn how to do stuff like that.” Hunter headed for the computer on his desk. “Let’s see if there are any listed that are interesting.”  

“Look for something just outside of Pittsburgh,” Justin suggested. “Maybe you could drive in for school and stuff.”

“Seriously?” Hunter looked over at Justin.

“Seriously,” Justin said with a laugh. “I don’t want anything with roses on the property.”

“That’s cool.” Hunter continued to look. “This one’s nice, it’s kind of expensive. It has a pool and a building that could work as a studio for you.”

“Let me see.” Justin pulled a chair over and together the two of them looked at houses that were for sale in the Pittsburgh area.

The day was going good. Brian had completed a presentation that had ended with a long-term, million-dollar contract for Kinnetik. He was sure the blond was bringing him luck. At least yesterday’s lunch and last night’s phone call had certainly put Brian in a good mood. Deciding to break off early, he wrapped things up and left for his loft. He was seriously considering looking at a couple of properties, houses that maybe, just maybe, he could interest Justin in sharing.

The first thing Brian noticed when he retrieved his mail from his box was the letter from Justin. He had an instant reaction of pleasure, quickly followed by fear that the blond didn’t want anything more to do with him and this was how he was breaking it off.

Not wanting to wait until he reached his loft, Brian sat down on the steps and ripped open the envelope. The first page he unfolded was a sketch of him sitting opposite of Justin at the small table in his office. The sketch was almost like a photograph; it was so full of details. Brian could see the laughter in his eyes, and the happiness in his face. Slowly and carefully he unfolded the written page.  He began to read and then shouted, “WOOHOO!” Standing up, he bounded up the stairs two at a time.  Digging in his pocket for his cell phone, Brian did his best to hit speed dial for Justin’s number. “Hey,” he all but shouted into the phone when Justin hesitantly answered.

“Hey, yourself.” Justin grinned. “It’s not bed time; I wasn’t expecting a phone call.”

“I got your letter.” Brian grinned; he was trying to pull his coat off with one hand, and yet still keep the phone to his ear. “Do I really look like that to you?”

“Better,” Justin purred.

Brian could hear Hunter groaning in the background. “The kid is there, eh?”

“We’re looking at houses on the net,” Justin explained. “Nothing with roses.”

“Funny,” Brian said as he sat down on his sofa. “I want to look at houses with the two of you.”

“Three of us; there’s Dawg.”

“How could I forget? I mean if Brian Kinney, stud of Liberty Avenue, is going to fall for someone, there should be a kid and a dog involved to make it perfect.”

“I hope that wasn’t sarcasm,” Justin laughed. “You forgot ‘he who cannot be named’ in the closet."

“We’ll get him his own closet." Brian laughed. “One in the basement, maybe near a leak and a drain.”  

“Want to come over and help us pick one out?” Justin asked.

“What, a closet with a leak and a drain?” Brian was already trying to get his jeans on one-handed.

“Oh, there’s a closet like that in the basement of my building,” Justin laughed. “I moved him there very late last night.”

“No shit,” was heard in the back ground from Hunter.

“I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

“Bring food,” Hunter shouted.

“How can he hear me?” Brian asked with a laugh.

“He’s a teenager.”

“Young ears,” Hunter shouted, combined with a couple of woofs from Dawg.

“I think we should have a separate kid-free and dog-free suite in the house.” Brian laughed. “I’ll take you all out to dinner, even Dawg.”

“Should we get dressed up?” Justin laughed. “Not many restaurants will accept dogs.”

“This one will,” Brian said. “I’ll pick you guys up. Later, J.”

“Later, Mr. K.”

Epilogue


Justin stood on the lawn in front of his easel. He’d been painting for more than an hour, but he never tired because of the scenes that were happening around him. Brian had discovered that Dawg would let himself be chased, and then chase Brian if a brightly colored ball was involved. It was a great workout for both of them, and they spent many hours doing it.

Hunter liked to sit with his laptop at a table on the patio. He was in his second year at the university and studied constantly. He’d been given the choice of having his own place, living in the dorms, or making the hour-long commute each day and staying home. He chose the commute; he liked feeling like he belonged.  His favourite time of the day was breakfast when he’d make muffins or pancakes, no matter how busy his day was. He also liked to sit and listen to Brian and Justin’s back-and-forth kibitzing about their day. His second favourite was the evening when, after his long drive home, Brian would sometimes have his dinner ready, or maybe he would have picked him up some lemon bars from the diner. He’d talk to him all through dinner, helping him with his subjects, but the biggest bonus of all was the offer of an internship at Kinnetik next summer.

Brian chased Dawg behind the flower garden and around the pool, finally cornering him near the oak tree on the lawn. Brian fell down on his back, and that was a sign for Dawg to jump on him and pretend to wrestle the ball from Brian’s grasp. Both of them growled and barked, cracking Justin and Hunter up as they looked up to watch man and dog wrestle.

Today, Debbie was in the kitchen getting everything ready for the second anniversary celebration. Their guests would be arriving soon, and Debbie and Emmett, combined with Vic, had insisted on catering the event. They’d thrown Justin, Hunter, and Brian out more than an hour earlier.

Hunter got up and walked over to Justin. “Not bad,” he said. It was what he said every time he looked at something Justin painted.

“Don’t you have some marketing thing to study?” Justin’s reply was also the same each time.

The two laughed and looked over to where Brian and Dawg were wrestling. “The kids are having fun,” Hunter commented.

“They always do.” Justin smiled, his eyes filled with love. “I hope you’re ready for the onslaught of ‘family’.”

“Yeah, I picked up ‘he who will not be named.' You have to know he’s rusting out badly in that basement. I put him in a plastic bag. I don’t want to get rust on my car seat.”

“Well, a family gathering wouldn’t be complete without him.” Justin grinned. “For some reason Brian likes him there.”

“Well, it’s fucking weird,” Hunter said and shook his head. “I’m tempted to deep six the bugger on the way over the bridge.”

“It wouldn’t bother me any if you did,” Justin said. “I’ll break it to Brian later.”

“I can do it now.” Hunter looked at Brian. “He’s still in my car.”

“No, we’ll let him have one last celebration.” Justin finished up his painting and began to clean up.

“Hey, J.” Brian and Dawg ran up to Justin. “Hey, Kid.” He ruffled Hunter’s hair, even though Hunter was two inches taller than he was.  “Did you bring the banjo player?”

“Yeah, he’s in the car. He’s getting gross.”

“Getting?” Brian laughed. “He’s always been freaky.”

“Okay, you guys,” Justin laughed. “Help me put this stuff away. The hoards will be descending soon.“

“Kid, can you put that stuff away? I have a present for blondie that can’t be given in front of everyone.” Brian pulled Justin into his arms and kissed him lightly.

“You guys should have had enough of that by now,” Hunter said and shook his head, but he gathered up Justin’s paints and brushes and headed off toward the studio with Dawg following closely.

“I’ll never have enough,” Brian whispered to Justin.

“What did you get me?” Justin asked with a laugh.

Brian began to walk to the river that ran behind their house. “I thought maybe you and I could have some fun out here.”

“We always have fun out here,” Justin laughed.

“But we’ll have more fun in our boat,” Brian grinned. They’d come through the trees and stood on the bank of the river. Tied up to their small wharf was a boat called “Sunshine."

“A boat?” Justin was puzzled. “Why a boat? I’m not complaining. It’s nice to have a boat, I guess. We never have even gone on a row boat before.”

“Because, J, I want to make love to you on a boat.” Brian stepped onto the small boat and helped Justin cross over.

“So you bought a boat.” Justin shook his head and laughed, “I do love you, Brian Kinney.”

“I love you, too.” Brian pulled Justin close for a kiss. “Don’t you just adore that four letter word?”

“Asshole.”

“Come on, say it, say the magic words, J.”

“Dear Mr. K: I love you.” Justin looked deep into Brian’s eyes when he said the words, the words that never failed to get Brian hard, or make his eyes glow with joy. “Dear Mr. K: I love you.”

September 25th, 2005