by Posy Roberts
Louis had done everything to make Sebastian feel . . . welcomed. And he did.
He had to be careful.
Sebastian opened the bathroom door, walked down the hallway, and noticed both the washer and dryer were going. He listened at the top of the stairs for a few seconds before walking down. He could hear the soft music. Nothing nefarious seemed to be going on.
In the living room, Louis had the coffee table filled with all sorts of snacks. Crackers, meats, cheeses, pickles, and olives. Five different kinds of olives, and Louis had put them on their own little divided tray.
“Come join me,” Louis said, patting the seat beside him on the plush couch. “Fireplace is roaring.”
Sebastian felt the heat before he saw the flame.
“And if you want, we can watch a favorite show.”
Sebastian took the offered seat and noticed Louis looked dressed much the same as him. “It looks like we’re dressed for a sleepover. Is it a school night for you?”
Louis laughed. “Nope. I might have to deal with a few things for work, but I don’t have to go into the office until Oscar gets back later in the week. Would you rather talk than watch something?”
“Maybe. I feel like I need to tell you a few things . . . I don’t know why, exactly. Maybe because you’ve been so nice to me and you haven’t asked for a blow job or anything yet.”
“God, Bash.” Louis shook his head. “I’m not asking you for that. Promise.” He picked up Bash’s hand and stroked over his platinum wedding ring that Sebastian had slipped on his middle finger so he didn’t lose it in the tub.
“Okay. So . . .” Sebastian pulled his gold ring off and put it on the only finger that it fit on Louis’s larger hands: his pinkie. “You look like a mobster right now.”
Louis pretended to smoke a cigar and said, “I’ll make you a deal you can’t refuse.”
“You’re a horrible actor,” Sebastian deadpanned.
“I know. And you’re not the first person who’s told me that.” Louis winked. “So, why did you give me your ring?”
“Seemed like a fair exchange. You told me some of your story, I told you some of mine, and now I’m about to tell you even more.”
“Deal. Then I’ll tell you more of mine.”
“This isn’t a quid pro quo.”
Louis beamed. “Maybe I want it to be. Maybe it feels more equal that way, and I want you to be on equal footing with me.”
“Fair enough. So, Park Avenue penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. That’s where I grew up. I’m from old money, which roughly translates to I’m useless. My father wasn’t wrong.”
Louis scowled. “You’re far from useless, but what do you mean by that?”
“I didn’t need brains to get respect or power or any of that, not even charm. And if I got into trouble, someone was always there to bail me out. My driver—”
“You had a—”
“Yes, my own driver. I was that sort of pretentious rich.” He rolled his eyes and hated his old self a little bit more. “We also had maids who cleaned up my messes. My mom paid for any sort of lesson I wanted just to keep me occupied. And my dad paid people off I was a shit to.”
“Did that happen often?”
Sebastian blew out a slow breath through pursed lips. “I wish I could say it didn’t, but I was a horrible person. I didn’t know it at the time, partly because people went out of their way to stay on my good side. See, I could get other people bailed out of things too. Once my friends had a party, got totally high on who knows what, freaked out, and trashed a hotel suite. I wasn’t even there, but I said I was so my dad would deal with it.”
“So, not entirely horrible,” Louis said around a half smile.
“Even that was awful.” Sebastian shrugged. “I see everything through new eyes now. I fucked up the lives of the people who had to clean up that mess because, God knows, the money my dad gave the hotel sure as hell didn’t go to the people scrubbing blood and vomit out of the carpet. That cash got shoved in some executive’s coffers. And those friends . . . One went on to overdose and die. Maybe if I’d made him face the consequences, he would’ve gotten the help he needed.”
“Wow. I don’t know what to say.”
“Not much to say.”
Louis bit his lip and grabbed a few crackers. “Sounds like you’ve changed a lot.”
“Hard not to. I mean . . .” Sebastian let out a weary sigh. He’d avoided conversations like these for ages, but why was he sharing them now? So this guy, who was clearly nice, would have a story to tell his friends someday? By then, Sebastian would be long gone, so what did it matter? “My dad is a billionaire.”
“Like . . . makes the Forbes 400 list billionaire?”
Sebastian nodded and wrapped the drawstrings of the sweats around his fingers. “He’s been on it.”
“And he . . .” Louis scowled and shook his head. “Who the hell does that to their own kid?”
“A selfish man who was embarrassed to have me for a son.”
“Because you’re gay?”
“No. Nothing like that . . . But I don’t know, really.”
Louis ate his crackers like he was chewing the bones of his enemies. It was a little intimidating, especially the way his furrowed brows hooded his eyes.
“Hey,” Sebastian said to soothe him. “The homeless thing sucks ass, but in all honesty, I’m glad to be out from under that.”
Louis scoffed. “The least he could’ve done is give you some sort of support. Hell, he could give you five thousand a month without even missing it. You should sue him.”
Sebastian chuckled. “I’ve fantasized about it. But if I ever do, I want to be in a good place. Way better than where I am right now. I want to prove I’m not useless like he thought.”
“You’re not useless, Bash. He, and I assume your mother, were just blind to what you have to offer.”
“What do I have to offer? What worth do I have?” Sebastian genuinely wanted to know. What did Louis see in him? Because with all the rejection and roadblocks that he’d endured in recent months, he was more convinced than ever that his parents were right on.
“Maybe you’re blind to it too. Were you ever given the chance to see what you were truly capable of? On your own, I mean. Before you got booted.”
“In some arenas. I was a decent tennis player before my fucked shoulder ended that dream.”
“That’s too bad.”
Sebastian smiled. “Well, without my forced recovery time, I never would’ve learned how to play the ukulele.”
“Ukulele?” Louis chuckled. “I never would’ve pegged you as a uke player. Bass guitar, maybe. Cello.” He nodded. “Yeah, you look more like a cello player to me.”
“That would’ve been cool, but no. I play guitar too, but with the shoulder healing, I couldn’t. The ukulele was small enough to not mess with that.”
“I’d love to hear you play sometime.”
“My ukulele is back in New York. I was pretty decent at it too. Had a good repertoire built up.”
“Damn. You could be busking for change.”
Sebastian shook his head. “Not sure I’d bring in much more than pennies. My singing voice has a lot to be desired, and singers are the ones who bring in the cash.”
“Well, I still want to hear ya.”
A yawn overtook Sebastian just as a little song started playing up the stairs.
“That’ll be your clothes. Dryer.”
Sebastian got to his feet and followed Louis. A load was still washing, but it only had a minute thirty left.
Louis unloaded the warm clothes and handed the basket to him. “I’ll hang here to switch this out. Start folding and I’ll help when I get down there.”
As he made it back to the living room, Marvin’s words vibrated inside him.
Louis was truly the nicest guy Sebastian had ever met.
8
Slittens
With both loads of laundry folded, Louis knew he had to do more.
Nearly every piece of clothing he’d folded was worn. There were holes, snags, and runs, zippers that barely worked. And the socks . . . Lord. They were thin and the elastic was all worn out. Bash had looked embarrassed when his finger poked through a hole, but it wasn’t the only sock that had one, Louis noted.
Even with holes, Bash folded the socks and tucked them beside the rest of his clothes.
Louis bought socks from a company that donated one pair of socks for every pair he bought. He even got to pick the homeless shelter they went to. He had just bought eight pair, so the shelter downtown had eight pair delivered to their door. But Bash clearly didn’t get any of those. He’d washed his, but he hadn’t gotten around to wearing them yet.
He had to do more to help. And this wasn’t about the kiss or Bash’s sex appeal or any of that. Louis just knew if he let Bash leave his house without new socks and a decent pair of shoes, oh, and a warm winter parka, he’d never be able to live with himself.
“What size are you?” Louis dared.
“Why?” Bash was skeptical. “Where are you going with this?”
“I have clothes here I won’t ever fit in again.” He palmed his belly to emphasize the point. “I’ve gained some weight . . . Stuff is just sitting here, and . . .” He picked up the pair of holey socks and glanced toward the front door where Bash’s shoes now sat on the rug, then back again.
Bash’s voice was small when he said, “I used to wear a medium T-shirt. Small would probably fit better now.”
“You’ve lost weight?”
Bash nodded. “My waist is . . . maybe twenty-eight inches now. Used to be thirty.”
“I never had anything that small, so I can’t help you with pants unless they’re drawstring.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Shoes?”
“Ten and a half.”
Louis smiled. “I can help you there, I bet. I’m an eleven, but I have some shoes that are a bit tight, so I barely wore ’em. That is, if you’re interested. I don’t want to just assume. And I know you’re a proud man. I’m not trying to castrate you.”
Bash drew in a long breath and looked to the ceiling. It looked as if he were fighting back tears, but Louis couldn’t be sure.
Louis was compelled to do this. His whole life he’d been tugged to serve, from going door-to-door collecting canned goods back in elementary school to building houses to donating chickens and hams today. But most of his giving had been anonymous. Yeah, he got to know a few people while working at the soup kitchen, but this was different.
And if he had a chance to give back to Bash, to make a difference in his life, he wasn’t about to second-guess himself. He may never see Bash after tonight, and the least he could do was make sure he walked away with more than a bubble bath, a shave, and a full belly.
When he looked at Louis again, Bash wore a weary smile. “I’ll take you up on it. I mean . . .” Bash shrugged. “How long will I let my fucking pride stand in the way of staying warm? Or my health, even. God knows those fucking shoes aren’t going to last me more than a few more days, and then what? I walk around DC barefoot in December. I can’t do that.”
“I’m sure you would’ve found a pair somehow, but . . .” Louis stood and gestured for Bash to follow him. He led him upstairs and into his room and invited Bash to step into his walk-in closet.
Bash’s eyes widened as he looked around. “You’re a clotheshorse.” He turned to face the rows and rows of shoes and reached out for a pair of buttery leather boots. “Oh my gawd. You have all these, and you don’t know about Tom Ford’s?”
“Mati bought most of this for me, actually.”
“Well, Mati had phenomenal taste.”
Louis laughed. “She did. She taught me everything she knew about clothes and dressing and decorating.”
Bash picked up the wooden bobbins Louis’s shoelaces came on and smiled. “Look at all these choices. I sorta love the shoelace thing.”
“So do I.”
“Did Mati get you hooked on the skincare thing too?”
“Yeah. She started with bath bombs and moved on to making masks and mixing lotions. Pretty much all I brought to our marriage was the clothes on my back, my weird obsession with novelty socks, and a way with seafood that won her over. She was the one who helped me focus and made me a success.”
“You make it sound like you grew up dirt poor.”
“I did, or damn close to it. I’m new money to your old.”
“Oh?”
“Yup. After college, Mati and I developed an app. It did well enough to catch the attention of a big tech company, and they bought it for . . . well, a healthy sum.” He chuckled. “Paid off college loans, my parents’ debt, and then for a year I worked under the diplomat who owns this house, an old family friend of Mati’s. On the way, I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. And I wanted to do it back home, not working under the umbrella of the State Department.”
“But you still settled on politics? Of all things? Why not tech?” Bash sounded incredulous.
“I want to make a difference in my small part of the world so everyone benefits. So now I help shape public policy and push for tax reform to help all people. Better than working in the tech sector. But I’m not a politician, nor do I work for one. I just work in the political sphere.”
“Whatever that means . . .” Bash scowled.
“What?”
“I’m trying to figure out what you studied in college. That’s a lot to absorb.” He held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess.”
Louis laughed and waited.
“I’m thinking computer science and poli sci, but neither of those seem to fit you. Did you go to war college? Diplomacy school?”
Louis chuckled. “You’ll never guess. It’s nothing related to what I do now. Well, it is, but on a really obscure level most people don’t see.”
“Okay, I give up.”
“I planned on being a teacher.”
“What? What kind?”
“Be prepared for another shocker. I’ll give you a hint.” Louis pulled a box down from high off a shelf and pried off the lid. Bash reached for the sweater, caressing the navy blue wool but leaving it there. “This was the first major project I knitted. It was for my father. His Christmas gift when I was eleven.” Louis lifted the sweater and shook it out, handing it to Bash. Underneath was a pair of mittens, so he pulled those out and tucked them away on a shelf.
“You made this?” No other word could describe Bash’s expression aside from shock.
“Fine art major paired with family and consumer sciences.”
“Wait . . . The art, I get, but like cooking and sewing stuff?”
“And budgeting and life planning and parenting. Life stuff.”
“Parenting . . .”
Louis folded the sweater up and tucked it back in its box as he swallowed down his loss. He’d given up his dream of being a dad three years ago.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize. It is what it is.” He pulled the mittens off the shelf and helped Bash into them.
“Did you make these too?”
Louis nodded as he unhooked the mitten part and attached it to the button near the wrist, revealing fingerless gloves underneath. “You might get some use out of these.”
“No, Louis. I can’t.”
He nodded as he fixed the other mitten. “Yes, you can.”
“Thank you. I’ve only ever had mittens because they keep my fingers warmer. But I have to take them on and off whenever I need to do something, so I end up with cold hands all over again. Convertible mittens will be nice.”
“Is that what they’re called? I thought they were slittens.”
Sebastian burst out laughing. “What’s that short for? Slutty mittens? Easy access for fast hand jobs. Diddle your bits without making a mess.” He gave a few eyebrow waggles. “Well, if the mitten fits . . .”
“Not where I was headed,” Louis said
with a roll of his eyes, but he couldn’t contain his laugh. “There are slits for your fingers under the mittens . . .”
“Yeah, I see where you’re going, but that’s not at all what the name suggests. From now on, they’re slittens, short for slutty hand-job mittens.”
“You’re a horrible person,” Louis said, mock serious. “I made those when I was fifteen.”
“Right at the peak of your sexual awakening. I was jerking off five times a day back then.”
Louis gave up pretending. This was fucking hilarious, and before long, he had tears in his eyes and his belly hurt. Bash wouldn’t stop, coming up with innuendo after innuendo, painting vivid scenes of people hooking up in public in the middle of winter.
“No need for getting a room, I’ve got my slittens!” He mimed unzipping a fly, going to his knees, and sucking a cock he pretended to stroke. “No mess. No fuss. Just handy—” He winked. “—dandy pleasure at the flip of a mitt.”
“Stop. Please. I can’t even breathe.”
“You could’ve gone with glittens or glomitts or mloves, but I think slittens is far superior.”
“Thanks for the approval.”
Bash stood and smiled as he tugged each slitten off. He folded them and then got serious. “Thank you, Louis. I really do appreciate it. And they fit perfectly.”
“You’re welcome. They’re too small for me now, so I’m glad someone can get some use out of them. Just don’t jerk anyone off with them on, ’kay?”
Bash gave him a half smile and a quick nod. “Deal.”
“Now . . .” Louis turned to his shoes and dug on the bottom shelf until he found the sneakers he’d ordered that never worked. “Try these. I have a pair of hiking boots that might be better, but I don’t remember where I put ’em.”
“Thanks,” Bash said as he sat on the floor and untied laces.
9
Pillow Mountain
