by A. R. Moler
“Your cigar, my port?”
Tristan made a snort of amusement. “You are never going to let me forget that suggestion, are you?”
Brian squirmed a little, grinding his groin against Tristan. “I could be in the mood for some practice.” He had on a pair of flannel sleep pants and between those and Tristan’s briefs, that left only a couple of layers of fabric between them.
Tristan slipped a finger into the waistband of Brian’s pants and rubbed his thumb along the edge of Brian’s belly button.
The slow caress sent a slight shiver through Brian’s body.
“Finish brushing your teeth.” Tristan placed a kiss on Brian’s temple and walked back into the bedroom.
In another couple of minutes, Brian joined him. The lights had been turned out and the gas fireplace lit. Having that repaired the previous month, so it could be used again, had been a good decision. Tristan sat on the bed, back against the headboard, blankets pulled up to his hips.
Brian left his sleep pants on the floor beside the bed, along with the towel he’d brought from the bathroom, because practicality was better than sleeping in a wet spot. He crawled across the mattress to sit straddling Tristan’s thighs. He loosely looped his arms around Tristan’s neck and kissed him.
“Does this mean you’d like to be on top?” Tristan asked.
“On top doesn’t have to mean I’m the one driving.” While the two of them had made it past Tristan’s original objections to bottoming, Brian knew his husband had to be in a particular mood to favor that option.
Tristan reached between them and ran a finger along the top of Brian’s stiffening cock. Brian squirmed slightly. “No fair. I want to touch, too,” he teased and tugged at the blanket and sheet that covered half of Tristan.
“That’ll require you to stop sitting on me.”
Brian grinned and stuck out his tongue.
“I might make you use that,” Tristan said as Brian slid off the edge of the bed.
“Promises, promises.”
Once Tristan had pushed the blankets down to the foot of the bed, Brian resumed his position straddling Tristan’s thighs. They were both aroused enough for their pricks to jostle together, upright and hard. Brian wrapped his hand around them both, stroking them slowly.
Tristan squeezed his eyes closed and bit his lower lip. “Stop,” he whispered. “I want to be in you.”
“Face up, face down…over the edge of the bed?”
“Face down.” Tristan reached sideways and grabbed a pillow, dropping it more toward the middle of the bed.
It took Brian a minute to twist around, grab the towel to lay across the pillow and position himself with the pillow under his hips. He spread his legs. Brian smirked as Tristan’s teeth closed along the curve of his left butt cheek. The love bite was just hard enough to get his attention, but unlikely to leave a mark. A slick finger pushed into him. It was a welcome intrusion that ramped up his arousal another notch. A little more prep and then he felt Tristan’s cock slowly thrusting into him. Tristan placed kisses along the back of Brian’s neck and slowly set a rhythm. Grinding against the pillow as pressure and friction hit all the right places, Brian clenched his hands in the sheets as his orgasm swept through him. Tristan came inside him shortly after.
Tristan flopped onto the bed beside him, and placed a kiss on Brian’s mouth. “Love you,” he murmured.
* * * *
The Lawrence Bistro was crowded, not unusual for a Saturday. Tristan and Brian grabbed a spot at a tall table in the bar area, ordering beer as they waited for Alicia and Mike to arrive. The other couple showed up only a few minutes later.
“Parking looks like a total bitch. I’m glad we took a taxi,” Alicia said as she gave Brian a hug.
Tristan consented to an embrace from Alicia, too. “Should I congratulate you?”
“Mostly you should congratulate me on not worshipping the porcelain god this morning,” Alicia snarked.
Mike put a hand on Alicia’s back. “What do you want me to order for you? A diet coke? Cranberry juice?”
“The juice,” Alicia replied.
“Ok, I’ll be back shortly.” Mike went toward the bar.
“So, do I ask when you’re due?” Brian asked.
“September.”
“So, it’s a New Year’s Eve party baby,” Brian teased.
“Doubtful. Mike and I actually did the Times Square thing this year.”
“I experienced that once, when I was twenty—two, and a relatively new beat cop,” Tristan said. “I think everyone who lives in the New York City area does it once, and then swears never again. The crowd, the booze, and the pickpockets are an adventure.” The conversation drifted to what other New York City stereotypical events they had all done.
Mike returned with drinks for Alicia and himself. “Alicia told me the two of you have started the voyage toward becoming foster parents. Are you getting any flack for being a gay couple? A few years ago, before the current political climate, that thought wouldn’t have occurred.”
“So far, no,” Brian said. “Given that this is New York, I hope that doesn’t come up. If it does, we’ll…reconsider our approach. I still can’t believe the presidential impeachment ended in the idiot being acquitted. The whole segment of the population that supports him seems determined to deprive huge chunks of the human race of basic average rights.”
Tristan reached out and took Brian’s hand. They had discussed the ideas of adoption and surrogacy, and settled on fostering. Tristan still had moments when he wondered if it was the right decision.
“Are you going to take any maternity leave before the kid is born?” Brian asked.
“Doubtful. I’ll probably work straight up until the day I go into labor. I’m hoarding the vacation days that rolled over from last year in the hopes I can take eight weeks off.” Alicia took a sip of her juice. “Although we have toyed around with the idea of having me take a year or two off. I don’t know if I’m willing to derail my career that far though.”
“What about going to part-time?” Brian asked. “Although, I don’t know if that impacts your healthcare options.”
Mike laughed. “Aren’t we all being serious adults? Talking about insurance and kids and jobs. We could swap over to insurance through my job. It wouldn’t be quite as good a package but it is a little cheaper.”
Brian wore a thoughtful expression, one finger tracing the condensation on his beer glass. “Here’s a long shot idea. If my business venture doesn’t fall flat smack into the dirt. If Tris’ and I acquire a child, age unknown at this point. If you do decide you don’t want to work full time…Maybe we could work out an agreement. In a perfect scenario, I’d be out of the office aka my third floor, a day or two a week to do site visits and oversee projects under construction. Having someone to handle some of the drafting and the Gantt charts when I’m out, could benefit you and me.”
“That’s a lot of ifs,” Alicia said. “But not an impossible concept, in theory anyway. So, I bring my rugrat with me and have a play pen in the corner on the day or two I work?”
“Sure. We might have anywhere from a baby to a preschooler eventually and since I’m still in the midst of trying to decide exactly where I want to put new walls, I could even have a room that is super kid proof, with a half door.”
“I’ll think about it.” She cast a questioning look at Mike.
“We’ll think about it,” Mike agreed.
“Are we limiting ourselves to a particular age bracket with the foster care system?” Tristan asked, realizing that was one more thing they hadn’t nailed down.
“I…I don’t know,” Brian said. “But truthfully, I don’t know if I’m prepared to cope with the emotional baggage of a significantly older kid. That sounds harsh, doesn’t it?” He looked embarrassed.
“Being honest is usually best,” Alicia commented.
A harried looking waitress came by to tell them their table was ready for dinner. “I’m sorry it took a little lon
ger than anticipated. We’re running a little short-staffed tonight. Two people are out sick. One’s actually in the hospital.”
“Wow, I hope they recover soon,” Brian said.
* * * *
As the second week of February rolled on, Tristan began to construct a loose game plan for celebrating Valentine’s Day. He and Brian had managed to pull off a weekend at a B&B away from the city the previous year. That year’s scheduling wasn’t going to allow something as good, but Tristan had bought a large bottle of the raspberry Lambic that Brian loved. It was stashed in a closet in the basement. He also placed an order for a gourmet meal to be delivered. Now if only he could get off work at a reasonable hour the next day.
He was barely in the door of the precinct when Mitch Robertson flagged him down asking, “How heavy is your case load today?”
“No worse than usual. Why?”
“I need you to take a witness statement for me, so I can go run an errand. Do you know Ramirez?”
“Luis Ramirez? One of the beat cops?”
“Yeah. His wife and mine are close friends. He’s been out sick for a couple of days, and they just took him to the hospital. Some kind of pneumonia thing.”
“I guess it’s the season for it, but it does seem like more people are sick this year.”
“I agree. Anyway, I promised I’d take a quick trip over to the hospital and see if the family needs anything. I should be back in an hour or so,” Robertson said. He handed Tristan a folder. “The witness is in room three.”
“Okay, I’ll make sure it gets done.”
The rest of the day featured similar chaos.
When he got home for the evening, he found Brian atop a ladder in the dining room, scraping at the ceiling with a spackle knife. A plastic tarp lay on the floor, sprinkled with flakes and crumbs of the white popcorn substance. “I thought you were going to wait until the weekend to start that.”
“I was, but…I wondered how hard this is going to be, and I wondered if it was plaster underneath or drywall.”
“And the verdict is?”
“One, I suspect it’s going to be a bitch, and two, they went with drywall, so ultimately that makes me feel less guilty if I gouge it some as I do this. I’m probably going to go ahead and pick up all the supplies I need for this on the weekend. Hopefully that will limit the number of runs to the hardware store over the next couple of months.”
“Guess we’re not eating dinner in here tomorrow night.” He had tipped Brian off about the meal that was to be delivered, because he didn’t want Brian to cook a meal and then have another show up.
Brian looked down from the ladder and stuck out his tongue. “We could drag the kitchen table in if you’re desperate.”
Tristan grinned and considered all the dusty flakes and the ladder. “I think maybe we’ll leave the table where it is.”
Brian climbed down. “So, what about dinner tonight?”
“It’s eight. I thought maybe you’d already eaten.”
“I got…distracted.” Brian pointed at the ceiling.
Tristan smiled. His husband was all too prone to get deep into a project. “Should I get Uber to deliver something?”
“Nope, I made a chicken, veggie and pasta thing. All we need to do is throw it in some bowls and nuke it.”
“You have been busy.”
Leaving the ladder and everything else in place, Brian went into the kitchen. He took the lid off a Dutch oven. “I just turned off the stove when it was done. If you hadn’t gotten home by ten. I’d have put it in the fridge.”
Tristan handed him bowls and then got out a couple of beers while Brian reheated dinner. They sat down at the table.
“I’m trying to practice the idea that I should make dinner more often. Dinner with my family was a pretty solid component of my childhood. Does your mother cook?”
“On rare occasions. Sometimes we had a cook, then my mother would have a guilt moment and fire her. That usually lasted a few weeks. My grandfather was an adequate cook. Nothing exotic, but enough to get by.”
“How did Althea end up such a mess? It sounds like she had a fairly average childhood.”
“After marrying my father, I think she began to embrace all the perks of high society. It got worse as I grew up. She became more and more interested in who she could impress, and less in being a parent or even a useful human being.” Tristan stabbed his fork into a rotini.
“And your father? Granted, my sole personal impression of him is based on the unsuccessful attempt for the three of us to have lunch.”
“Work, cocktail parties, dinners with clients. I can’t say I ever spent all that much time with him. Jason got a little more attention, but not a lot. Even when he’s tolerable, he’s a driven personality.”
“I guess it serves him well in the financial world, but living and breathing your career and not much else, has got to be stifling in some ways.” Brian took a sip of his beer.
“Which is part of what you bring to my life. Some kind of balance. My job’s never going to be easy but having someone to come home to, keeps me closer to sane.”
Brian reached across the table and hooked a couple of fingers around Tristan’s “Despite my crazy gamble, I have hopes this will be a good year.”
Tristan clinked his bottle against Brian’s. “To the rest of 2020.”
Chapter 2
It was a plague year. Brian decided that term probably hadn’t been used since the middle ages, but damn if it didn’t seem like an appropriate phrase. New York City was in full lock down mode, as the hospitals were overwhelmed and bodies were starting to be stored in refrigerated trailers usually used for food transportation. Nearly twenty percent of the NYPD was sick with the dreaded virus. Being married to a police officer, even if Tristan wasn’t a beat cop, carried a risk. Brian worried about his husband every day, and occasionally about himself.
It was eight o’clock at night when Brian got a text from Tristan, indicating he was finally heading home after a twelve-hour shift. He began listening for the sound of the basement door opening. Over the past few weeks, Tristan had developed a routine to try and avoid carrying any contamination he might have come in contact with, home to Brian. He would come in through the basement, strip, put everything that could be washed directly into the washer and take a shower before coming upstairs.
While he waited for Tristan to make the drive home, Brian carried clean underwear, a T-shirt, and a pair of sweatpants down the stairs and left them in the small basement bathroom.
* * * *
Yesterday, he pulled four burglary and robbery cases, not part of his usual duties. Today it was all about deaths. Tristan stood under the hot water of the shower, scrubbing all the skin that might have been exposed to viral contamination. The department didn’t have enough gloves and definitely didn’t have enough masks. He’d been using the ones that he purchased long ago for working on building rocket models, not really designated for medical level of protection but better than nothing.
He rested his forehead against the fiberglass wall, wishing the water would also wash away some of the images of the day. The worst one was standing in the apartment of an elderly couple. The husband had died in bed more than twenty-four hours before and the wife had dutifully called 911. But the already dead were at the bottom of the priority list and she had had to wait an entire day before someone was dispatched to sign paperwork and have the body removed. That someone was Tristan. It wasn’t even the presence of the dead body that bothered him. It was the quiet agonizing grief of the woman. The rest of the family lived outside the city and there was no safe or feasible way for them to come help or comfort her.
Shower finished, Tristan dried off and walked out of the small bathroom to go start the washing machine before he went upstairs. He poured the detergent into the cup and turned slightly to dump it in the machine, but it slipped from his grasp and splattered the thick liquid down the front of the machine and onto the floor. Irrational fury surged through
him and he kicked the washing machine, grabbed the cup off the floor, and flung it at the wall. No. No. No. He hurled the laundry basket, and the bottle of detergent, punched the wall and slammed the dryer door.
It wasn’t until his brain caught sight of motion on the steps, that the rage bled out enough for him to realize Brian was standing on the stairs, not quite all the way to the bottom. He stood there very still.
Tristan looked at the spilled detergent and the dent in the washing machine and the cracked plaster…He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, willing his temper to back down, rage slowly turning to embarrassment. He braced his hands on the edge of the washer and scrunched his eyes shut. The silence was deafening.
Eventually Brian said, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Maybe in a while.”
“Have you eaten since this morning?”
“No.”
“Come, dinner’s on the table.”
Tristan nodded and followed Brian into the kitchen. He sank into a chair at the table and began to eat. . Once they were finished, Brian prompted, “Talk to me now.”
This was their agreement. No matter how bad it was, Tristan wasn’t allowed to hide the horrors of his job. When they first met, it had been excruciatingly hard to open up about the things he saw and dealt with. It wasn’t exactly easy now, but it had become part of their relationship. Brian was who he confessed to. Brian was also his solace and the one who helped keep his soul intact.
“I’ll clean up the detergent goo, and fix the wall.”
“Okay.” Brian rested his elbows on the table. “You are allowed to lose your shit. Your job’s gone from difficult to a journey through hell.”
Tristan nodded slightly in acknowledgement.
“Tell me.”
Tristan fiddled with his fork. “The National Guard is doing some of the body pickup now. The coroner’s office is so snowed under, they can’t even begin to keep up. Someone in the precinct said yesterday’s death toll was one hundred seventy-one.”
“What cases did you get sent to?”
