by A. R. Moler
“Six unattended deaths, and one probable murder. What does it say about me that I was relieved to go to what appears to be a gang related shooting?”
“It’s a situation that has perpetrator and a victim, unlike getting sick from an invisible microbe that then kills you. Mom sent us a package that had a dozen fabric masks. We’ll be able to wash and reuse them. I know we’re close to running out of the ones I originally bought for construction work and the ones you were using for sanding fiberglass. She called me to ask how many boxes of gloves she should try to get.” Brian reached across the table and wound his fingers in Tristan’s.
“Two would be a start, but if she can find more than that, it would be appreciated. I assume shops in Buffalo aren’t as barren as they are here.”
“Eh, she did say toilet paper was just as scarce there. I think they have better food stocking in the grocery stores though. It’s not as big a city,” Brian said.
“This feels like a war zone, except the streets are damn near empty.”
“The news says the stay-at-home rules are being extended at least another month. That makes it into mid-May. What has the department been saying about the state order for everyone to wear masks?”
“I think it’s about damn time, but there’s a handful of shit heads who are complaining. The rest of us are wondering exactly how we manage to enforce it. There are somewhere around two thousand police officers that’ve tested positive. Every shift and every precinct are short staffed. Half of those two thousand are quarantined and the other half are sick. I can’t even remember how many they said are in the hospital, but I’m pretty sure it was more than a hundred.” Tristan clenched his hand around the fork.
“Breathe in’.”
Tristan made himself take a long slow breath. “So how was your day?”
“Boring, tedious, dull in comparison. I’ve got about six square feet left to paint on the library ceiling. I could maybe have finished it but I had to spackle one spot from the tear down, and decided I should let it dry overnight before the last bit of sanding. I also moved all the boxes of books into the room, but haven’t started putting together any of the bookshelf units, so there’s a hold on that until the ceiling’s done. Sounds utterly fascinating, doesn’t it?”
“It sounds…calm,” Tristan replied.
“I zoomed with Alicia for about half an hour. With construction still on hold until whenever, she’s on furlough along with ninety percent of the rest of the company.”
“How’s she feeling?”
“Tired. Occasionally sick, morning sick, not the plague. Although she said morning sickness is a lie. Apparently when it does happen, it can be anytime. And of course, she’s worried, too, that she’ll catch COVID. In the meantime, she’s joined the baking bread craze, and started trying to learn to knit.”
“Why do I envision her knitting one of those sweaters with three arms, and one of them twice as long as the others?”
Brian laughed. “She claims the pattern reading is the easy part but the thing where you keep the tension on the yarn the same is a nightmare. Are you done?” He pointed at Tristan’s plate.
“Yes.”
Brian began to gather up the dinner dishes and put them in the dishwasher. Tristan sat watching him. Brian’s hair was longer than usual, hair salons being part of the “non-essential” business list. Beard stubble was obvious on his face. With no feasible work going on for the fledgling architectural business, Brian’s shaving routine had become more random instead of an every morning event.
Tristan pushed himself back from the table and crossed the handful of steps to Brian. He took the last glass from Brian’s hand, set it in the top rack of the dishwasher. He wrapped his arms around Brian. “I’m sorry about downstairs.”
“Don’t be. It’s understandable. The stress has to come out somewhere.” Brian kissed Tristan.
* * * *
“Mom, tilt the phone down a little. I can see up your nose,” Brian said. His mother was trying to navigate using the video call function on her phone. Tristan was cleaning up the mess in the basement.
“Oh sorry. This is so weird. I like that I can see you but I keep wanting to put the phone up to my ear to talk to you.”
“Maybe we should try this on your computer next time. Then you can just sit and look at the screen without having to hold anything,” Brian suggested.
“That might be easier. How’s Tristan holding up? Have they given him a day off this week?”
“Tomorrow. He’s worked eleven straight days. I have a deep suspicion that he’ll sleep at least twelve hours.”
“Do they test him? I mean since he’s a first responder and all,” his mother asked.
“Tests…are hard to come by unless you have symptoms, and even then, it’s a gamble. So no, he hasn’t been tested.”
“That sounds dangerous, but it’s not much different here. Our new next-door neighbor, Janet, went to the emergency room and they didn’t have any tests. They gave her an inhaler prescription and sent her home. I talked to her on the phone. She’s…not worse but not really any better either. I guess it’s too soon. It’s only been five days.”
“Nobody seems to know exactly how long it takes to get over it.”
“While I’m thinking about it, did you get the measurements for the back yard that I texted you? We’re still trying to decide if we want to build a pergola out there.”
“I got them. Are you going for a standard kit from one of the big lumberyards or something more custom?”
“None of the standard ones will fit in the area we want to put it in, so we need one designed just for us. Once you have it drawn up, then we’ll decide if that’s what we really want. It’s got to be easier to change a computer file than an actual wooden structure. Are you sure you don’t want us to pay you?”
“I’ll take payment in the form of the gloves and any Clorox wipes you can find.”
“What, no toilet paper?” Cathy teased.
“The currency of the apocalypse.”
“It definitely seems like it. I’ll call you as soon as I get gloves. It might take a few days.”
“That’s fine. Stay safe,” Brian said.
“Love you.”
After Brian hung up, he walked across the den and picked up the pad of paper where he kept a running list of tasks that needed to be done. Blame genetics. His mom was an obsessive list maker. She was also one of those people who got things done. He added “CAD up pergola for Mom & Dad.” If he hadn’t known his mother had been mulling over the pergola concept for more than a year, he might have suspected her of inventing the project to distract him from the current pandemic nightmare.
* * * *
At least hot water and a sponge took care of the majority of the blue goo of the detergent. The dent in the washer appeared to be cosmetic damage. God, the last thing they needed was a non-functional washing machine because he’d lost his temper. In the pocket of his sweats, his phone buzzed. When he pulled it out, the display said “Althea Blake.” He almost let it go to voicemail, but since she’d already left four cryptic messages that week, he decided he should answer it.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Tristan! You’ve been impossible to get hold of.”
“People are dying in droves. The NYPD is overwhelmed. So frankly, I’ve been busy.”
His mother made a non-committal noise before launching into “Jason came to brunch on Saturday. It’s so irritating that we can’t go to the place I like so much on Fifth Avenue. This lockdown thing is just awful.”
“The goal is to control the spread of the virus and maybe have less people die.”
“Yes, well, it’s very annoying. Luciana made brunch for us here. She said it was very difficult to find smoked salmon.”
Luciana had been the cook for his parents for nearly five years. He liked her and sometimes wondered how she managed to put up with his parents. He suspected the reason was money. His father never shirked on paying top dollar for g
ood help. “Are your employees taking precautions?”
“They are reputable and clean.”
“But are they wearing masks and doing the social distancing thing?”
“We pay them to do their jobs well.”
Tristan wanted to throw his phone. It was highly likely his mother paid no attention whatsoever to recommendations to avoid catching COVID. “Was there a reason you called?”
“I want you to come to brunch this coming Saturday.”
“With Brian,” Tristan said, even though he had no intention of going.
“No, I meant just you. Jason said he would come. Although he’s been feeling a little under the weather for a few days. He said he was sure he’d be fine in another day or two.”
“I have to work. And I wouldn’t come without my husband.”
“You know an annulment is really pretty simple. You did have him sign a pre-nup, didn’t you?”
Tristan wanted to scream obscenities. He choked down his anger and switched topics. “You said Jason was feeling ill, has he been tested? Does he have COVID symptoms?”
“How should I know? He doesn’t live here anymore. He has that new apartment off of 75th. Personally, I think it’s kind of small, but he says he likes the location. You’re not coming.”
“I. Have. To. Work.” He ground out in measured syllables.
“We haven’t seen you at all since the late fall.”
“After you tried to convince me to cancel my wedding? No, you haven’t. Someday maybe you’ll figure that one out. And two, I’m now happily married.” He thumbed off the call, set the phone on top of the dryer, and bent over to bang his head on the washer lid.
“I heard part of that,” Brian said.
Tristan turned to see Brian at the foot of the stairs. “It was my mother.”
“I kind of guessed it had to be her or your father.”
“She wanted me to come to brunch on Saturday.”
“Just you?”
Tristan made a face, clenching his teeth. “Yes. Hence one small part of the ongoing infuriating problem. I think she has some twisted belief that if she ignores the fact you and I are married that I’ll…I don’t know, lose interest and turn straight?”
Brian chuckled. He crossed the few steps to stand in front of Tristan. He ran a finger down Tristan’s hip and cupped his hand against Tristan’s crotch. “And the odds are?”
Tristan smiled and said, “Nonexistent.”
“I guess this is the evening for parent phone calls.”
“I’m willing to bet yours was quite a damn bit more pleasant than mine.”
Brian wound his arms around Tristan and pressed the length of his body against his husband. “She’s worried. And contemplating a big project to distract herself and probably Dad, too.” He brushed a kiss along Tristan’s jaw. “Come upstairs. We’ll watch something mindless on TV and veg for a little while before bed. Got any requests for your day off tomorrow?”
“Sleep?”
“I will let you sleep as long as you like.”
* * * *
Streaming Stargate Atlantis reruns through the Roku, Brian vaguely realized he’d missed a good chunk of the plot of the current episode. He sat leaning back on the arm of the sofa with Tristan’s head and shoulders in his lap. At some point Tristan had twisted around to wrap his arms loosely around Brian’s hips, hands crossed behind Brian’s back. He wasn’t quite clinging, but it was obvious he wanted the physical contact.
Brian scratched his fingertips lightly through Tristan’s hair. “Maybe we should give up on TV and go to bed.”
Tristan tightened his hold on Brian slightly. “I want you to…I need something to get all of today’s memories out of my head, even if it’s just for an hour.”
Ah. That. Brian had a fairly good clue this was Tristan’s indirect way of asking to be the one on the bottom. His always uncertain, but occasionally almost necessary, need to give control to someone he trusted.
“Okay. Unless you really want to do this here, in bed is easier.”
Tristan nodded. He slowly pried himself up off the sofa and held out a hand to Brian.
* * * *
Clothes shucked onto the floor, Tristan sat on the edge of the bed, his hands on Brian’s hips. He placed a kiss on his husband’s chest, rubbing his face on the light curls of body hair.
Brian tipped Tristan’s chin up with a finger. “Face up? Face down?”
That gaze held care and a hint of concern. “I want to see you,” Tristan murmured. “When I do this…” He didn’t complete the sentence, knowing Brian had some understanding of the reasons for the rare times he wanted to give up control on this level.
Brian brushed a kiss across Tristan’s lips, and made a gesture with one finger for Tristan to scoot back on the bed.
He did, and twisted to stretch out. A line of nips and licks from Brian left a trail from the hollow of his throat to a spot below his belly button. He could feel arousal stiffening his cock. And that was apparently the next object of attention. Brian licked up each side of Tristan’s prick and then across the tip. Breath shuddered out of Tristan in a jerky exhale.
Lube was next. Tristan flexed his knees and hitched them toward his chest. Cool, slick pressure from Brian’s fingers rubbed across his opening several times and then breached him. Tristan’s fingers scrunched in the fabric of the sheets. Slow penetration turned into a glide that stroked that spot. His cock hardened and he could feel the throb of his pulse as Brian worked more fingers in.
Tristan reached down to stroke himself and Brian caught his hand.
“Unh-uh. I want you near the edge before I’m inside you.” Brian locked eyes with Tristan.
“‘Kay.”
Then Brian’s fingers were gone, or rather gone from where they had been. Tristan gasped slightly as Brian thrust into him. For a second or two the stretch and the discomfort took his mind to the thought of squirming away, then the fullness pushing on his prostate drew an exquisite moan of pleasure from him. Brian rocked into him again.
“More,” Tristan begged.
A steady rhythm escalated toward desperate and Brian’s hand closed around Tristan’s cock, stroking him, tipping him over into ecstasy. Semen shot up across Tristan’s belly and he felt the pulsing of Brian’s climax within him.
They were both breathing hard as Brian leaned forward and kissed him. There was delicious, vulnerable, intimacy in the moment, bodies joined, watching each other’s bliss.
“Love you,” Brian whispered.
“I love you, too.”
After some cleanup, they snuggled in bed. The comfortable, familiar warmth of skin on skin as sleep crept up on him, leaving a drowsy feeling of relief and emotion in Tristan. Brian was his family, accepting him in ways he never knew he needed.
* * * *
Six more days of hell and death. Tristan flopped into the driver’s seat of his car. Yet another unattended death. This one had been deceased at least two days, and it wasn’t until a landlord had missed a usually on time rent payment, that the man’s apartment had been opened to find him dead in his chair in front of the TV.
Tristan’s phone rang and he didn’t bother to pull it from his pocket. If it was important, they’d leave voicemail. If it wasn’t, it wasn’t. He needed five minutes of uninterrupted…breathing space. In another sixty seconds, his phone was ringing again. Reluctantly he yanked it out and glared at the screen, expecting it to be his Lieutenant. It said Jason Blake. What the fuck did he want? To give Tristan a ration of shit for refusing to come to brunch?
“What?” Tristan said as he pushed the button to take the call.
“They took Mom to the hospital.”
A good three seconds elapsed while Tristan’s brain processed that sentence. “They meaning Dad and the chauffer? They meaning an ambulance?”
“An ambulance. Dad called them. It took a whole fucking hour for them to show up.”
“I’m assuming this means she has COVID.”
“I guess. I don’t know. I suppose it’s likely. Dad said she was coughing and couldn’t hardly catch her breath and he sounded like he was freaking…well as close to freaking as he ever does. They wouldn’t let him go to the hospital with her. The ambulance people said if he drove over there himself, he wouldn’t even be let in. What the fuck? He’s married to her. Legal spouse thing and all.”
Tristan had heard this so many times, it all just sort of washed through him. An underlying thread of anger was there, too, since his most recent conversation had involved her continued avoidance that he himself was married. “Which hospital?”
“Mount Sinai. You’re police. You can flash your badge and get him in.”
“Join reality, Jason. Being a cop doesn’t work like that. No one, and I mean no one but patients and staff are getting into hospitals right now. The hospitals are so overwhelmed they are running out of ventilators. Some patients are being sent to the Navy ship, whose name I’ve totally forgotten at the moment.”
“Fuck you. Dad said they might have to put her in ICU. Don’t you even care?” Jason snapped.
“Do you know she showed up the night before my wedding to tell me how I was ruining her life?”
“So, you don’t care.”
“Jason…”
“You’re a real piece of work for someone who claims to serve and protect.”
“And you’re a worthless drunk ass piece of shit who’s never worked a real job.” Tristan stabbed a finger against the screen to end the call. He pounded his fist on the steering wheel and then stared out through the windshield for a while, gut churning in a mix of misery and anger.
He finally picked up the phone and sent a text to his father. Did they admit Mother to the ICU? There was a fair chance he’d never get a response. His father hadn’t spoken a single word to him since the week of the wedding.
After ten minutes of dead silence from his phone, Tristan started the car. He radioed to the dispatcher that he was done with his shift, noting he’d spent almost two additional hours than his original duty length. Nothing new there.
* * * *
Brian rotated the drawing for the pergola on the screen of his computer. He’d placed it in a set of dimensions that matched his parents’ backyard and indicated where the trees were and the fence. He thought he heard the basement door open and shut. Tristan hadn’t texted him to let him know he was heading home. That was only slightly unusual. Brian pushed himself back from the desk he used in the corner of the den. He walked to the top of the basement stairs and heard the shower running down there. Ah. So, Tristan was home.
