By Kim G. and Linda

© March 2001

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Randy: I looked around the pile of boxes in dismay. When the hell had I accumulated this much junk? And more importantly, what the hell was I going to DO with it all? It wouldn't all fit into Michael's place. Not even close.

We'd moved his furniture two nights ago, after work, scooting his desk around to make room for mine, and while we'd be a little cramped, it would work. A little more scooting got his dresser moved around so mine would fit in his--our--bedroom as well. My favorite piece of furniture, a soft leather recliner, was also going. The rest of it would go into storage until I could decide what exactly I was going to do with it all. Ditto for most of my books. I had some shelves to put up over my desk in its new home, and that would hold the bulk of my current research materials, at least for now. But the rest of it--. Shit. Michael was taping up the last box of books going to storage, and I turned and gave a half-laugh, half-groan. "This is going to give me hives, trying to figure out the logistics of everything."

Michael: I sat back on my heels and ran my forearm over my forehead. I was sweaty and dusty; I'd shed Randy's red sweatshirt---I seemed to have permanently borrowed it---and the white tee shirt---I'd stopped calling them undervests when he'd teased me unmercifully---was smudged with grime. It wasn't that Randy was a poor housekeeper, but that moving this and that about was necessarily dirty work. Personally, I'd have hired in help to do this, but Randy had been adamant that we do this ourselves. In a fit of post-fucking bliss, I'd agreed, and now paid the price in dirt and strained muscles. I reached back and rubbed at my lower back; the last box of books had been heavy, and I'd swear I'd moved *thousands* of them over the course of the day. I'd bought pizza from his favorite pizzeria, and it had been surprisingly good; we'd sat amongst the detritus of his belongings and eaten, washing it down with sodas and trying to figure out what would go where in my flat, and what would go to storage. "Eh. We'll manage to find a workable solution. I'm not particularly worried."

Randy: "Well, good. One of us shouldn't worry. And I'll probably worry enough for both of us." I turned around and took the tape, leaning in to give him a quick kiss. "And I'll give you a world-class backrub tonight, too, darlin'."

He laughed and kissed me again, then wandered out into the living room. My entire apartment was strewn with boxes, packing materials, rolls of tape and black magic markers. I had a sneaking feeling this was Michael's first real brush with the excitement of do-it-yourself moving; he didn't strike me as the type who usually packed his own boxes. "The boys ought to be here pretty soon. Keep an ear open for them, wouldja?" I'd asked Josh and Brian, and Josh's younger brother Sam to help out. It wasn't that I thought Michael and I couldn't handle it, but with three more backs and pairs of arms, things would go a lot more quickly. And smoothly.

Michael: "As you wish," I replied, standing in the midst of chaos, my hands in the pockets of my denims. Some unrelievedly cheerful country tune tumbled from the speakers of his stereo, but I couldn't complain; he'd borne with my jazz for a couple of hours early in the morning. My mouth quirked in a smile. Although his mood had vastly improved over the course of the day, to say that he was not a morning person was a vast understatement. *Temperamental*, perhaps, if I felt generous. *Surly* might come a bit closer. On the other hand, I'd woken relatively cheerful, gone out for my run, and then had pried him out of bed to shower with me. An orgasm and half a pot of coffee later, he'd been somewhat more human, and we'd set to work with only a minimum of fussing, primarily over what went into which box, and where was the *damn* tape and why didn't we have enough of this, that, or the other. Now, at half past two in the afternoon, he was cheerful, as I began to wind down. As he would say, "go figure."

"Is this the Josh I met at the basketball court? The one who cheered at us?"

Randy: "That's the one." I carried another box into the living room to set into the pile definitely going to Michael's. I was trying to organize--Michael actually called me anal last night--what was going where, and not being completely successful at it. "I think you'll like him, just take him with a grain of salt. He's a psych professor, so the lingo comes out sometimes." I set the box down with a groan and straightened up slowly, feeling muscles twinge. "Brian is his significant other, and Sam is Josh's little brother. Though it would take a stronger, better man than me to call him little to his face." Michael snorted and I grinned at him. "Darlin', Sam is about four inches taller than *you*, and outweighs me by about seventy pounds. He went through college on a football scholarship."

Michael: I couldn't help but laugh. "A behemoth," I said. "As I recall, Josh isn't a particularly small man himself. The combined testosterone should be quite heady."

Randy: "Try not to let it go to your head. I know you love that." I winked at him, then stretched my arms up over my head to stretch my whole body out. "Maybe we could give each other backrubs tonight."

Michael: Ah, now that was a lovely sight, and he knew it, the bastard; I could see the twinkle in his eyes. I grinned appreciatively. "I'm not that easy. For this, you owe me. I'm thinking in much more expansive terms. Steak. Fine wine. Extensive pampering. Multiple orgasms." I tipped my head to the side and my grin grew wider. I'd be lucky if we actually got to bed before falling asleep on our feet after all this. But it sounded good, regardless.

Randy: "Hah. As if either of us will be *up* to multiple orgasms tonight. But tomorrow---" I waggled my eyebrows in a parody of lasciviousness, then groaned when my back finally spasmed and loosened. "And hell yeah, I'll buy you dinner. I promised the guys I'd buy them dinner, tonight--though god knows what time we'll get to eat dinner, eh?"

I didn't really think it would take us that long to move stuff. I had a lot of stuff, but it was almost all in boxes now, and the things going to Michael's place, with the exception of a few pieces of furniture, were all small things. Boxes. Not a big deal. I stepped closer and leaned in to whisper into his ear, "I'll give you whatever you want, darlin'."

Michael: "Really," I drawled. I made a show of looking him up and down. "Hmm. I think the schoolgirl uniform just might fit."

The shocked look on his face was utterly priceless, and I gave in to the laughter that bubbled from deep within me. Not that I wouldn't mind seeing him togged out in it or something similar, but I hardly thought him ready for things such as that. For someone who loved sex as much as Randy, he sometimes seemed almost naive; I didn't think previous lovers had been very adventurous. He wanted more, I knew, but simply feeling our way, building what we now possessed had taken most of our energy. Not that I minded; what we had was incredible, by anyone's standards. But exploration and experimentation were things best left for when we were more comfortable around one another, when the novelty of his moving in had faded a little. We had time.

Randy: I sputtered for a moment, not sure if he was kidding, or serious, then decided he *had* to be kidding--didn't he?, and let myself calm down somewhat. Still, there was an odd gleam in Michael's eyes, which hadn't been there before. A schoolgirl uniform. Jesus. I gave an involuntary shudder and bolted for the door with something like utter relief when the knock rang through the apartment. Spared by the bell, as it were.

I turned as I let the guys in, because I wanted to see Michael's reaction--at least to Sam, if nothing else. Josh was good-sized, a little taller and a little heavier than me, and Brian was a bit bigger than him, though not by much. But Sam was, as Michael observed, a behemoth--or close enough to it, anyway. Fortunately he was slow to anger, or he could have been registered as a lethal weapon. I ushered them in, bearing up under Sam's greeting of slapping me on the back, and shook Brian's hand, since I hadn't seen him in a while. Michael looked, for just an instant, like he wanted to bolt out the door, but he hung on. I smiled. "Michael, I'd like you to meet Josh and Sam Riesen, and Brian MacNulty. Guys, this is Michael Pierson."

Michael: Bloody hell.

I'd never felt...*small*...before. It was an utterly novel feeling.

Josh, I recognized from the courts, but from a distance. Up close, I didn't realize he was quite so...large. He was my own height, but probably outweighed me by at least fifty pounds, if not more. Blond and blue-eyed, he was a handsome fellow Randy's age. His look was shrewd and assessing, though his blue eyes were alight with good humor. I had the sense he did a quick analysis of me and wondered idly what he thought he might see. I smiled back and shook his hand firmly.

Brian, Josh's lover, was slightly taller, but weighed about as much. His hair was a dark, dark red, cropped quite short, and from his bearing, I suspected he was a military man; his posture was perfect, and his attitude cautious and a little off-putting. He looked a little younger than me, but older than Randy, and his body was tight and taut, and he moved with assurance and utter self-confidence. Given the muscles that rippled in his arms, I suspected he could quite easily bench-press me.

And I *knew* that Sam could. With one arm. I'd never actually been around anyone quite that large. Ian had come close, but still...Sam was easily half again my weight and twice as broad. His thighs were as big as my waist, and his hand swallowed mine. He moved like a man well accustomed to tempering great strength, and had surprising grace. Obviously Josh's brother, as they looked remarkably similar, as only brothers do. Well, I amended mentally, *most* brothers; I looked little like Simon or Jamie save for the prominent Pierson nose. Sam and Josh both had the same blond-ish hair and blue eyes, but Sam had charming dimples when he smiled. He looked friendly enough but more serious than his brother. They were both very striking, and I thought they were both quite aware of it. Sam was secure and comfortable enough in himself that he didn't try and crush my hand when he shook it, and I was most glad of that.

"I appreciate the help," I said, after a round of shaking hands. "We've been at this all morning."

Randy: "And some of us have been at it in one form or another, for days upon days." I shut the door behind the guys, then leaned against it. "I'd forgotten how long it takes to pack shit up. Especially since I have more shit than the last time I moved."

"I'll say." Sam's voice was a deep bass rumble that sounded like it came from his toes. He looked around at the boxes piled everywhere and shook his head, then grinned at Michael. "You're getting a packrat here. He collects books…magazines…bits of paper you couldn't possibly believe would have any use--"

I narrowed my eyes. "I've seen your room, Sam. You're as bad as I am. Trade hazard, probably."

"Children, children." Josh moved over to the stack nearest the table. "Do you guys know what's going where? We came in Sam's truck, so we can divide loads, if you want?"

Michael: And so it began. Six more hands made the work go by fairly rapidly. I found Randy's friends to be as friendly and almost as charming as Randy was, and although it was a bit awkward at first, they finally relaxed around me and I around them.

Josh was quite the talkative fellow, and I worked most easily with him. I learned he and Brian had been together for almost seven years, a feat to be applauded for anyone these days, het or gay. Although he shared information easily, his eyes were sharp and clever, and he obtained information from me with the skill of a man well accustomed to earning his living prying out secrets from others. I gave him just barely enough to satisfy him; I'd spent most of my adult life in verbal fencing with those who sought to dig up secrets and weaknesses from opponents, and so I knew all the little tricks. It wasn't that I was a particularly secretive fellow, but I'd played my cards so close to my vest over the years that I tended to give out only the essentials. Still, I admired Josh's skill, and appreciated his honest curiosity, which obviously stemmed from his concern for Randy. I couldn't really blame him; our moving in together had been rather...sudden, all things considered.

Brian was a quieter sort, and seemed the perfect foil for Josh's outgoing nature. Two sides of the same coin, so to speak. I'd been correct; he'd spent years in the service---the Marines, of all things. There he'd learned a profession and was now a civil engineer with the city of San Francisco. A pleasant enough fellow, though more difficult to know.

Sam was, of all things, a doctor, or more accurately, an intern. That had surprised me for some reason; I supposed I'd thought he would choose something more...physical, given his size and strength. His mind was every bit as sharp as Randy's, with a sly, dry wit I much appreciated. Brain and brawn neatly tied into an attractive package. His chosen field didn't surprise me---sports medicine. Given his background, it was quite appropriate. Although he wasn't as chatty as Josh, he was friendly and genial; I learned all about Kelly, his girlfriend, a nurse he'd been dating for close to two years. I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing at the moony look he got on his face when he spoke of her, then grinned wryly when I realized I might be accused of the same thing regarding Randy.

At my flat, the look on Miles' face when first he saw them carrying up the first load was priceless; I heard Randy snickering not so discreetly, and he elbowed me quite sharply and reminded me I'd looked quite the same way. Still, Miles was a perfect Englishman's man, and recovered quickly to point them in the right direction for this box or that.

Finally, we found ourselves carrying in the last of Randy's belongings, much to my vast relief; my back had protested the last box. My once neat flat was now in shambles, filled with a maze of boxes and belongings. Miles stood in the center of it, shaking his silver head in dismay, though he wisely said nothing.

Sam stretched widely, taking up most of the room, and Josh stepped neatly out of his way with the ease of long experience. Miles offered everyone cold drinks, but Sam wanted to check in with Kelly, as her shift at the hospital had ended an hour before. I saw Josh mouth the word "whipped" behind Sam's back, and I turned a laugh into a cough.

At any rate, they were ready to go and shook hands all around, Josh giving Randy a quick hug and a thump on the back. I offered to see them out, leaving Randy standing in the clutter, scratching the back of his neck with a little frown.

Randy: I went as far as the elevator with everyone, then left Michael to see the guys out while I returned to ground zero. I laughed silently at that; not a wholly inaccurate description. Michael's face--and Miles'--as we dropped boxes and bags and pieces of furniture around was a studied mix of amusement and horror.

We'd settled on having dinner in a couple days, after I'd cleared out the worst of the mess and gotten settled. It was nearly eight now; after an entire day of packing, lifting and moving Michael and I were close to dead; the others were mildly fresher for not having done it *all* day--but they were pretty worn out, too.

Sam mentioned he was going to pop the question to Kelly in the next couple of weeks, and I grinned while I rubbed at a sore point on the back of my neck. The idea of him being nervous about doing *anything* was nearly ludicrous, but I supposed size didn't matter a bit when talking about emotions. Which brought me firmly back to how I was feeling, now that everything was moved here or there, and I was most definitely NOT in my own place any longer. I stopped in front of Michael's--*our*, dammit--door, and stared at it for a minute without reaching for the knob. My stomach did one long, slow, almost lazy roll, and I frowned. Surely it wasn't going to be this difficult to get used to it? Granted, it was the first day, but still. I sighed, feeling weirdly consumed by feelings and memories. Josh and Sam had helped me move out of the apartment Bran and I'd shared. Hell, Josh had helped me move in with Bran. Here was hoping this one worked out better than that one had. It could hardly go worse, I suppose.

Actually, I knew it would be better. As unsettled as I felt, I still felt like this was right. Michael was right. I smiled, feeling a little wobbly, and reached out to open the door. At least it would be quiet inside, and I could get some boxes unpacked, maybe, before my body gave out on me completely.

Two steps inside the door and there was Miles, bent over an open box, rooting around inside. I stared for a second, totally blown away by this guy's balls, then snapped out, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Miles looked up, brown eyes curious. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

I swallowed hard trying not to let my growing anger get the better of me. "What're you doing? You're going through my boxes...my stuff...and I want to know why?"

He stared at me, and while I knew the guy was smart--Michael didn't suffer fools around him, much less, I would imagine, running his personal life--he looked like he just wasn't getting what I was saying. "I'm doing my job, sir."

"My things don't fall under the purview of your job. Unpacking me isn't...I'm not part of your 'job', Miles."

Slowly Miles straightened, drawing himself up to his full height, squaring his shoulders, his chin setting into a position almost, but not quite, pugnacious. His brown eyes flashed a moment, then chilled. His accent, more clipped than Michael's, became sharper. "I am Mr. Pierson's manservant," he said with dignity. "It has always been a part of my service to assist him and his chosen...partner." The pause was almost imperceptible, but still there. "I am merely fulfilling my duties, sir."

I had to remind myself to unclench my jaw before I broke a tooth or something. Counting to ten didn't seem like a bad idea either. I figured I was in trouble when I hit twenty and didn't feel any better. "Your duties to him and his...partner, eh?" I gave the last word the same pause and emphasis Miles gave it, then narrowed my eyes. "You'll do your duty even while you choke on it, won't you? I'm really...honored...you can get past your feelings to be such a good little servant, but I'm going to unpack myself, Miles. My things...myself...are *not* part of your duties."

"Your hostility is unwarranted, sir," Miles said after a long moment. "I have cared for all of Mr. Pierson's partners with the same attentiveness I bestow upon him. None have ever objected before." Although his expression was perfectly bland, his eyes spoke clearly enough---none had been so rude and crass as to refuse his services.

"Maybe none of them saw the same stamp of disapproval I'm seeing." My stomach felt tight, the last of my good mood from earlier evaporating. I was tired, I was hungry, I felt off-balance enough as it was, and now I was facing down the resident pit bull. I took a deep breath and tried to clear as much of the sarcasm and anger out of my voice as possible. I wasn't sure how successful I was going to be. "I know you don't care for me, Miles. I'm sorry if it--offends your sense of rightness, propriety, whatever, to have me here. But the fact that I am here is solely between me and Michael, and no one else." I gritted my teeth and reminded myself I had to live with this man in and out of my life for as long as Michael and I were together. "I don't care what other...what else you do. But let me unpack my things. Stay out of my way. And I'll stay out of yours."

The temperature of the room seemed to drop several degrees, and Miles' attitude grew cold and aloof. "My thoughts have no bearing upon anything, sir," he said, the very picture of offended propriety. "You've made yourself very clear upon this matter, and I shan't interfere any further." His silver head dipped in acknowledgement and, with all the dignity of a ship under full sail, left the room.

Like hell his thoughts had no bearing on anything. I waited until the door clicked closed behind him before sagging against the nearest wall. Part of me was still primed, ready, itching for a fight. The rest of me was bone-deep weary--of a lot of things. Not even one full day into my new living arrangements and I'd had words with the hired help. Or whatever the hell he was. I sighed and ran a hand over my face, scrubbing at the lines I felt between my brows. I had a headache. A doozy, from the pressure building behind my eyes. I wanted food, hell, even a fast food burger sounded good, and bed. In that order. Preferably with Michael holding on to me. Reassuring me I'd done the right thing, moving in with him. I pushed off from the wall and headed for the study to see what I could do in there. Maybe at least get the shelves up over my desk. Anything, to give myself something to do.

Michael: Although seeing Randy's friends off hadn't taken much time, Edwards, the security chief, had spotted me on the way back to the lift and had caught me for a word about Randy's truck. He'd peered at me closely, and I'm certain he'd never seen me quite so disheveled before, but didn't ask about it. I went on my way with a resident's parking sticker for Randy's truck. I slipped it into my pocket, wondering that Miles hadn't taken care of this small detail; generally, he was frighteningly efficient regarding minor things such as this.

My belly growled as the lift rose to my floor. I glanced at my watch and frowned slightly; little wonder, as it was far later than I'd thought. For a moment, I wished for the steak dinner I'd promised our moving crew, but thought I could find something readily enough.

Back within my flat---I stopped and corrected myself---*our* flat---I halted again, amazed at the collection of boxes piled haphazardly all about. It would take probably most of tomorrow to empty them and find places for all of Randy's belongings. But that could easily wait; I wanted food and a shower and bed, in that order. I yawned, weary almost beyond words, and ambled into the kitchen.

Miles stood at the counter, swabbing it off with a sponge, with far too much...enthusiasm. I'd been with Miles all my life and read his moods as easily as my own. His back was arrow-straight, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Anger lay along the line of his shoulders like a cloak, and when he glanced up, his brown eyes snapped with it.

"Miles?"

He shook his head, placed the sponge with exaggerated care upon the sink. "I think, if you no longer have need of me, that I'll retire for the night, sir. I prepared sandwiches and salads for you and Dr. Taylor, as I knew you'd be famished from your...labor." He said the word as if it tasted bad; I knew he'd been utterly astounded when I told him we would be moving Randy's things, and not some moving company. He'd strongly disapproved, evidently thinking it was beneath my station in life to do such a menial task.

I rubbed the back of my neck. "Thank you, Miles," I said, "I appreciate your thoughtfulness, and I'm certain Randy will also."

"I'm not entirely certain of that," Miles replied. He took off his bib apron and hung it on its hook. I opened my mouth to say something, but he smoothly interrupted me. "If you need anything, please feel free to call. I shan't be off to sleep for a while yet."

"I think we've got it under control," I said, and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. I twisted off the cap, and gestured with it at the piles of boxes. "Well, as much as we're going to do tonight, at any rate. I think we'll continue in the morning rather than do anything more tonight. I'm rather weary."

"Without a doubt, sir," Miles replied, disapprovingly. "Shall you need me in the morning, or shall I wait upon your call?"

I took a long drink of water; it was deliciously cool going down. I thought of Randy, and his discomfort with Miles' presence in the mornings. "I rather think you can take the day off tomorrow. I think we can take care of matters." I knew how much my back ached, and Miles, at his age, certainly didn't need to be moving heavy boxes about, though I knew he'd be terribly insulted if I said as much.

If anything, his posture became straighter, and his eyes snapped again. "As you wish, sir. It is not my intention to further interfere in anything."

I blinked at him as he left, wondering at his mood. Generally, he was a pleasant enough fellow, if too formal to be truly genial, and I wondered what had bit him on the arse. With a shrug, I took another bottle of water from the fridge and went in search of Randy.

Randy: As tired as I was, moving boxes and books around helped. I couldn't very well put my fist through the wall, tempting as the idea was, so I employed labor to help burn up the residual anger. My shelves went up quickly and easily; I'd made sure to leave them and the hardware necessary to set them up out where I could get to them. While it felt late, and I was nearly dead-on-my-feet tired, it wasn't much past eight, and I doubted anyone would hear me hammering from the penthouse anyway. I got the shelves up with only a little more pounding than necessary.

Miles came back at some point during my hammering session; I could hear him moving around outside the office, puttering over this or that in the kitchen. I was thirsty, but was damned if I was going out there until he left. Hell could freeze over first.

I heard Michael come in but lost track of him--talking to Miles, I imagined--when I opened the first box of books. My latest texts on cloning and grafting cells, as well as the texts I used for the biology classes I taught. Stuff that needed to be easily, readily accessible. I settled them on the first shelf and dug back into the box. Coolness just this side of cold on the back of my neck brought me upright with a loud yelp, and I turned around to see Michael grinning at me, his eyes reflecting just how tired he was. I smiled and reached up to take the bottle of water he'd rubbed against me, laughing when my hand left a streak of dirt on the bottle.

"I'm pretty grimy. You're even filthier. Think we could eat and shower at the same time, darlin'?"

Michael: "We might try, if you're so inclined," I said, and watched as his long throat moved as he gulped down water. Lovely sight. "Though I think the sandwiches might end up a bit on the soggy side."

His laughter warmed me, and I brushed a kiss across his neck before stepping away to inspect his handiwork. It had been on the tip of my tongue to say he needn't have hung the shelves, that we had handymen to do such things, but refrained. Randy had proven surprisingly touchy on such subjects and much preferred to do things himself, a quality I found both endearing and wearying. He was very independent, and the things I took for granted, the services performed for me, were alien to him. Perhaps in time he'd learn to adjust, if only a little bit. I nodded toward the shelves and their somber tomes. "A little light reading, I see," I said with a smile.

Randy: "For those nights I don't have anything to do in bed but sleep," I deadpanned. A rather undignified snort of laughter was my reward, which warmed me clear to my toes. I set the water bottle down and stretched, angling my arms high up over my head. Something in my lower back creaked alarmingly, then snapped, leaving me groaning but looser. "Soggy sandwiches are completely unappealing. Let's see how fast we can eat, *then* shower. I promised you a backrub, but I think I'm going to renege on it until tomorrow."

Michael: "Fair enough." I crooked a finger through a belt loop on his denims and tugged gently as he would have bent to take more books out of the box. "Leave off, and we can continue in the morning. It's a long weekend, and we don't need to work ourselves to the fine edge of exhaustion. We've food to eat and we need to make a date with the shower and the bed." I rubbed at a smudge of dirt on his cheekbone with my thumb. "In that order."

Randy: "Definitely." I pushed the box back from the edge of my desk and turned fully, smiling gently when Michael's thumb caressed me again. He had a dirt smudge across his nose and another one on his chin. And god, was his shirt filthy. I touched his face, surprised by how cool his skin felt in contrast to my own. "Thanks, darlin'. I know this wasn't your idea of a good time, but I appreciate it. A lot."

He smiled and nodded, then stepped back toward the door. I followed him, snagging the water bottle at the last minute as I clicked the light off.

I wasn't too surprised to see a plate of sandwiches and a big bowl of salad on the table; I was surprised--never mind grateful--not to see Miles anywhere about. I couldn't have handled him again, as tired as I was. Part of me wanted to admit it was kind of cool not to have to worry about fixing something to eat, as hungry and tired as I was; the rest of me slammed down on that part, snarling at it to shut up. It was too weird, to have someone hanging around just to do stuff like that. Michael washed his hands then dished up salad for both of us while I washed and rinsed. I nodded to the pile of what looked to be mail sitting next to his place setting. "Help me remember to go down to the post office on Monday, and check my box. I'll have to pick mail up at the old place for a few days yet, probably, but I just know I'm going to forget for the first couple of weeks."

Michael: "Unless I'm mistaken, Monday's a holiday, yes? Something about the colonies breaking free of the civilized and benevolent rule of a culturally superior land?" I avoided the slap of his hand aimed at my arse, and laughed as he settled down at the table, pulling the sandwiches toward him. "And leave me at least one, please."

He made a rude gesture, his mouth already full of roast beef, and I joined him. Surprising, how ravenous I was; I wolfed down two sandwiches and a large plate of salad before coming up for air. Sated, I leaned back in the chair and stretched a bit. I nudged his knee with my foot, just because I felt like it, then pulled the stack of mail toward me.

Miles always sorted through my mail at home and Erich at work, so generally, all I ever saw at home was personal correspondence. One envelope bore Nona's spidery handwriting---she refused to contact me via email. Another, Mark Keller's rounded, neat script. That one was probably a simple recap of the past couple of months; although I'd always considered Mark my best friend, our lives had taken different routes, and I'd moved to America, so we didn't correspond as often as we probably should have. A postcard from my youngest sister Lizzie; she was in Rome a couple of days on a break from school and her internship---how she managed that, I'd never know, but she said Rome was as glorious as remembered, and she was having a lovely time.

And a thick, heavy envelope of parchment, addressed in a fine calligraphic hand. I pushed the others aside, and sat looking at it for a long moment. It looked like a wedding invitation, and for some reason, it sent a little jolt of sadness through me to see it, though I had expected it. Finally, with a sigh, I opened the outside envelope and pulled out a pearly-white inner envelope with my name written in neat, architectural letters. 'Michael'. Of course I recognized it, and I traced across it with my fingertip, and my mouth crooked in a smile.

Randy: Seated at the table eating, watching Michael go through his mail, felt weirdly domestic. More so than I'd been in a long, long time. Meals at home by myself had often been the same--eating, reading through mail, leafing through research catalogues for books or other miscellany. But I hadn't watched anyone do it, or been a part of it, for a while. Michael handed me the postcard from his sister after he'd read it, then explained in detail what the picture on the front consisted of. His letter from his grandmother was set aside for later, as was the other one, from someone he called Mark. A friend from school, he'd known all his life.

He stared at the last envelope for a while, a strange light in his eyes, turning the grey almost to silver. I got up and got another bottle of water for me and poured him a glass of cranberry juice; when I'd returned to the table he smiled his thanks, then handed me the folded paper.

It was a wedding invitation. I opened it up, admiring the gold embossed lettering on creamy white velum, and read, "Danielle Patrice and William Donald invite you to share with them the joy of consecrating their union, on September Fifth, at the First Methodist Church of Scottsdale. RSVP by July 30." I stared at the words for a few minutes, until they went all blurry around the edges, wondering which one of the two names was inviting Michael. How he'd known them. How long he'd known them. A tiny voice inside me whispered words about old flames, and my belly twisted a little at the look of sadness and joy mingling in his eyes. "Who are Danielle and William, darlin'?"

Michael: I leaned back in my chair with a small sigh, and ran my hand through my hair. "Will, I've only known about a year or so. Nice fellow...a child psychologist, unless memory fails." I could easily see him in my mind's eye, a bearded man with long graying brown hair pulled back into a tail at the nape of his neck, kind brown eyes, and a mouth that smiled and laughed often. I'd liked him almost instantly, though a part of me deep, deep down, had wanted to dislike him, to be jealous of him, envious that he was the one Danie had chosen, and not me. I shook my head slightly and canted a look in Randy's direction. He looked curious, but behind the curiosity was a flicker of insecurity. "It's Danie I know so well...we've been....close...for sixteen years. Lovely, lovely woman."

Randy: "Sixteen years? Wow." My belly twisted a little tighter, agitation running a little faster through my veins. I handed the invitation back to Michael and reached for my bottle of water to keep from fidgeting with my hands. It was easy to forget sometimes that Michael had loved women as well as men; hell, that he'd been married. I looked at him, his eyes a little unfocused as he stared at the wall beyond us, seeing--what? Memories? I cleared my throat, wanting to ask so many things, but uncertain what or how to do it. "Were you and she...were you lovers? Did you love her?"

Michael: "Lovers first, then friends." My mouth crooked in a smile. "We were very young then. Such a free soul, Danie, so generous and adventurous." I could see again Danie at twenty-one, when first we met, the short boyish-cut blonde hair, the bluest, clearest eyes, the sweet, honest smile. And then Danie again, two years ago at thirty-five, sleek and beautiful in candlelight, her eyes still clear and blue, her body every bit as welcoming and loved. I shook my head, then remembered his last question. Did I love her? "Not enough." Somehow, I should have expected the sharp pang of hurt, but still, it surprised me.

Randy: I reached out and touched Michael's hand, then twined my fingers with his, squeezing gently. It was surprising, actually, how badly it hurt to hear him say he'd loved this person...how jealous I felt. Jealousy wasn't something I was used to feeling, and I didn't have any right to feel it now. Whoever and whatever Danie had been to Michael, I was the one who had him now. She'd obviously made her choice elsewhere, and while a part of me grieved for what Michael lost, the rest of me was glad--because it left him free for me to meet, to have, to fall--. I bit my tongue, then murmured, "I'm sorry." I wasn't sure what else there was to say--what I was feeling certainly wasn't the right choice. I squeezed his hand again. "Are you going to go to the wedding?"

Michael: "How could I not? I could never deny her anything." Anymore than I could deny Randy anything, and the thought made me look at Randy in a whole new light. Differences, yes, gender the foremost, but not the only one, and similarities too many to count. I leaned forward and brushed a kiss across his mouth; it was so soft. He looked so unsure in the moment before I kissed him, and I knew he felt the cold sting of jealousy. He needn't have; I'd chosen him, felt the undeniable attraction, the connection of one like soul with another. "I'm going...and I would like it very much if you could come with me, Caro."

Randy: Oh, god. Now was definitely not the time to get into the reasons why I didn't travel. I tried to remember how far it was from San Francisco to Phoenix and couldn't. Damn. Brain-dead at thirty-one. I leaned forward and kissed him again, that strange knot in my belly loosening a little. "We'll have to talk about that when I'm a little more awake, Michael." I gave a half-laugh, because that wasn't a conversation I wanted to have--ever, if possible. But apparently I'd be having it a lot sooner than I'd anticipated. I sighed mentally. When in doubt, change the subject. "How about that shower, then bed?"

Michael: When in doubt, change the subject. It was a tactic I knew very well. I smiled at him and rose, tugging at him until he gained his feet. I leaned in again and kissed him, because his green, green eyes still held a shadow, and simply because I could. I ran the thumb of my free hand over his full lower lip. "Such a wonderful mouth you have," I murmured, and it curved upward into a smile. "Come get wet with me."

Randy: "Now *that* is an invitation I can get behind." I stacked the plates up and handed them off to Michael with a laugh. He set them in the sink--a not-so-subtle reminder that someone would take care of them in the morning--then switched the light off. By the time I was at the bedroom door, he was right behind me.

We had our clothes off in less than a minute, and god it felt good. I hadn't felt so grimy, so dirty, so tired, in ages. But it was a good sort of tired, the kind that came from exercising my body, from hard physical labor. Though it would be interesting to see how stiff I'd be, come morning--and I sure didn't mean my cock.

I pulled some towels out of the large linen closet and set them over the bars on the inside of the huge shower stall. Michael already had the water on, fiddling with the knobs until it was perfectly steamy, large clouds billowing around us. I stepped close to him, under the fine, hot spray, and wrapped my arms around him. "I'm glad to be here," I said softly, speaking nearly into the warm skin of his neck. "Really glad."

Michael: I almost didn't hear him for the sound of water and the softness of his voice, but I did, and smiled. "As am I, Caro." He pressed his chest to my back, his mouth to the nape of my neck, and I shivered in pleasure; even exhaustion could not make me unresponsive to that sweet touch. His hands splayed over my wet chest and belly, and I stroked over his brawny forearms, taking a step forward and drawing us both deeper into the warmth of the shower spray.

I let him hold me for a long moment, then gently pried loose from him and gathered soap and sponge and began to wash him. It was a pleasure to do it, to stroke lather over him, to feel muscles bunch and move beneath his honey-colored skin. I murmured sweet things to him in Italian, and he smiled and shifted as I directed, allowing me to wash and touch. His eyes were bright and hot, and he grew hard and erect beneath my fingers; even tiredness could not stop his response to me. I pressed him against the wall and he pushed back, wanting to touch, but I caught one of his wrists and pinned it to the tiles next to his head, leaning in close and wrapping my other hand, slick with lather, around his cock. "Be still," I whispered into his ear. "Let me give you this," I said, and then leaned in closer and bit his throat.

Randy: It never ceased to amaze me how hard it was for me to just *take* pleasure, nor how quickly my body roused to his. I could have easily broken free of him; his hand pinning my wrist to the slick wall wasn't really anything more than a psychological barrier, but it was an effective one. I closed my eyes with a soft sigh, and pushed my hips forward, sliding my dick through the tunnel created by his hand. The soapy lather made for an easy, slippery friction heightened by bits of stinging sensation when Michael rubbed his hand over the head of my dick, getting soap into the sensitive little slit there.

The faster he stroked me, the worse I wanted to touch him, and I pushed against his arm holding me, discovering it was at least a little more than merely a psychological barrier. Pushing back excited me further, and when Michael bit me hard again, right where my pulse was pounding in my throat, I groaned loud, my body shaking as the prelude to orgasm coiled tightly through me.

Michael: I smiled against his throat as he shuddered helplessly against me, body moving in an ancient, compelling rhythm. He pushed against me, but I held him in place; I wondered that he had such a difficult time just *accepting* pleasure; he seemed always to need to reciprocate, to work for it. I wondered about his previous partners, if they had been so selfish, so blind as not to appreciate watching Randy accept pleasure. His free hand gripped my shoulder hard enough to bite deeply, and the feel of his fingers digging in, lost in his desire, excited me. I rocked up against him, hard and hot; he shivered at the slide of my cock against his hip. I rubbed my cheek, prickly with stubble, against his, nipped his earlobe. With his head tipped back, his eyelashes were heavy dark fans against his cheekbones; he had the longest eyelashes of any man I'd ever seen, and were spiky with the wet. His mouth, so full and lush, was open as he gasped for air. "Beautiful, beautiful," I said softly, and he was. "Look at me." Slowly his eyes opened, and his head rolled toward me as his body arched into my relentless touch. "Come for me. Give it to me."

Randy: "Michael--" It was hard work just to gasp his name; my entire body felt as though it was being used in the drive to reach completion. He laughed softly and leaned in to lick my neck, teeth scraping gently. I pushed once more against his hand, then shuddered as need rolled through me, as pleasure bloomed hotly into completeness, as my orgasm broke over me like a wave over the beach. It left me shaking against him, panting harshly to draw in lungfuls of the thick, hot air. I tried to release myself, pushing harder against him, but he gripped me tighter, his hand never leaving my dick, stroking rough and fast as I spasmed. I shouted something, his name, a plea, thanks, I don't know. Sound without words. Then he bit me again, mouth fastening on me to suck while I quivered and groaned, my cream mixing with the soap he'd stroked me with.

When I could breathe again, could think, I found myself sagging limply against the wet shower wall, as Michael's lips moved gently over my throat. I pulled on my arm and he released me slowly, then raised up to kiss me. In spite of the orgasm I felt hungry, needy, needing more of him. I took his mouth, trying to put all I was feeling into our kiss as my hands moved restlessly over him. He laughed softly against my mouth then opened, giving into me. I groped for the soap as I kissed him, tasting his mouth, his hunger, as I lathered my hands and stroked them over his chest, his arms, his belly. When he was soapy and panting I slipped to my knees and gripped his thighs, rubbing them over and over as I took him into my mouth, licking gently at the tip of his cock before drawing him in further.

Michael: I leaned back against the tiles and spread my legs for balance. Randy shifted between them, kneeling, the shower pattering against broad shoulders and wide back, water arching down over planes of muscle and smooth, smooth skin. His short black hair brushed against my belly, and I shivered at that, then shuddered as he took me in deeply. Hot, wet, perfect; his mouth was a gift. He was so damned good. My fingers slipped down, traced over his cheekbones, his cheeks, his jaw.

He pulled off me a moment, and looked up at me, eyes almost black, and his fingers tightened on my thigh and hip where he held me. So expressive; Randy could hide nothing from me, and I could see his thoughts, almost as if he had spoken them. What I saw there made me warm, made me ache, made my chest feel full, almost to bursting. Then his lashes lowered, hiding the brilliance of his eyes, and his mouth slid over me again with fervor, and I gasped out my pleasure as it tangled with the emotions he'd offered me so freely.

Randy: I wanted to draw it out for him, to tease him to the brink, then tease him some more, but I could feel him throbbing in my mouth and against my tongue, and I wanted to give him the pleasure he'd just given me. I wanted to give him...what he'd given me. Security. Caring. Understanding and need. I sucked harder, faster, letting him slip in and out of my mouth as I bobbed my head, tasting the first thin droplets that would become a thick surge in my mouth before long.

Michael's fingers tangled in my hair, not guiding me or holding me, simply connecting with me as I pleasured him. My body throbbed in time with the pulse against my tongue; no longer arousal, just the sensation of what I was giving him, what I was receiving back from him. It made me shudder hotly, to feel this connected--not just in sex, but in all the emotions spiraling between us--and I realized how badly I'd missed that connection. I gripped him tighter with my left hand and slipped my right hand between his legs, cupping and caressing his balls, drawn up heavy and tight against his body. I wanted to feel him as he came, to feel him as I tasted him.

Michael: I couldn't hold it; I didn't want to hold it, no matter how wonderful his mouth upon me was. With a gasp and a whole-body shudder I came, my fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him closer, spilling into him. He took my seed willingly, hungrily; I could feel him swallowing until I could offer no more. With a final suckle, he released me, and bonelessly, I slid down the tiles, his hands running up my flanks supporting me until I sat with a wet thump before him.

It took a moment of deep breathing before I could manage, "Bloody hell."

His smile flashed whitely, and he blinked water from his eyes. I slid my fingers around the nape of his neck and pulled him in. I could smell my seed on his breath for a second before I covered his mouth with mine.

Randy: It was a hungry kiss that gentled quickly, becoming something else. It was easy to kiss Michael, to touch his tongue with mine, to taste him, to meld into him. We broke apart when we both needed to breathe, then held there, staring at each other for a long moment before I realized the water was starting to cool down, no longer steamy hot. I stood up slowly then stretched my hand out to him. "C'mon, darlin'. Let's finish up and get to bed." His eyes were still storm-dark as he looked at me before nodding and climbing slowly to his feet.

He was a warm presence behind me as we quickly lathered and rinsed our hair; the water was running nearly cold by the time we turned it off and grabbed the towels hanging on the bars. I shivered, glad to step back into the bathroom, gladder still of the heat lamp Michael switched on while we toweled off. I had a large red-purple bruise blossoming on my throat, just beside where my neck and shoulder met, and I stared at it for a minute, then shook my head toward the mirror, and Michael's reflection. "You do thorough work when you put your mind to it, don't you?"

Michael: I paused in toweling off my hair, and stepped up behind him, peering over his shoulder at his reflection in the mirror. I reached around him to run my fingertips over it; Randy reflexively shivered, and I smiled. "I can't be sorry," I said softly, and pressed a kiss to the place. I slid my arms about him, running my hands over his chest and belly, and looked up, meeting his eyes in the mirror. The contrast between our sizes, our skin tones pleased me on many levels. I nudged his ear with my nose. "You please me very much, Caro," I said, and the warmth in my voice surprised even me, but I felt truly happy for the first time in years. "Let's go to bed---I'm tired."

Randy: "Yeah--me, too." I wasn't sure what to say, so chose nothing. At least that way it was easier to make sure I didn't say something stupid. Truthfully, the mark on my throat bothered me a little; I didn't like visuals that other people could see, never had. But--and this bothered me more than the fact that I bore his mark--I liked him marking me. I wanted to see more of them. I wanted to see other things that proclaimed me as his. And the part of me that still gibbered in fear from Bran wanted to run out the door screaming. I drew a deep breath, then hung up my towel. Michael was waiting by the door, his eyes warm and concerned, and full of--something. The same something I felt when I looked at him, when I thought about how he was *mine* now, as surely as I was his. I smiled briefly, hoping it looked reassuring, then followed him into his--our--bedroom. The bed was turned down and looked more than inviting. I was suddenly more tired than just moving warranted.

We stopped at the foot of the bed and looked at each other, then back at the bed. I grinned, a little relieved that Michael was at least a little thrown by this first night *together*, too. "I'll take the right--I know you prefer left." It seemed easier to just get into bed without giving it too much thought; I clicked the light off beside the bed and turned onto my side, then curled into Michael's warmth when he settled beside me. Unlike earlier, when his skin was cool, he was warm, like a mobile space heater, filling the chilly spots I hadn't seen. I kissed him, that weird domestic feeling rearing up again. "G'night, Michael."

Michael: I'd left the light on in the bath, though I'd closed the door save for a small crack; enough light to just barely make out the shape of his face, the curve of his ear. It felt...odd. I recognized the feeling; I'd felt the same the first night Nicole had officially moved in. Randy had spent the night with me on several occasions, though I'd spent far more of them with him, so I shouldn't feel so odd to have him so warm beside me, to hear his soft breathing in the dark. This marked the shift of our...relationship...from a series of one-night stands into something more serious. He was no longer a fling; he was my lover. For a moment it bothered me, then as I turned it over in my mind, tasted its flavor, I decided I liked it very much.

"Sleep well," I said softly, and caught the white flash of his teeth as he smiled, obviously feeling as unsettled as I did. He shifted first one way and then another, seeking a comfortable place, and when he finally turned to his side, away from me, I curled against him, as closely as possible, my knees behind his, my arm about his waist, my mouth close to the nape of his neck. I could smell him, his spicy-musky scent, and I found it wonderfully comforting. His body tightened a moment, but then he relaxed against me, wriggling his arse into my crotch.

In for a pence, in for a pound. I'd invited him into my life, and he'd accepted. Nothing would ever be quite the same again, and I relished that thought as Randy's breathing, soft and lulling, coaxed me into sleep.

~finis~

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