When they returned to their room, Justin flopped back on the bed and pulled Brian on top of him.  “I had a great time.”

“So did I.  More than once,” Brian kissed him, backed off just to see Justin’s glow then kissed him and pulled up again.

Justin ran his arms up Brian’s shoulders to haul in a third, longer contact, but Brian looked past him and lifted away.  “What?” Justin turned his head to follow.

“We have a phone message,” Brian grabbed the receiver, touched a button beside a blinking red light.  “I left Mikey our number in case of an emergency.”

Justin rolled to Brian’s side, sat up and watched Brian frown as he listened.  Waited until Brian hung up.  “Did something happen?”

“That was the front desk,” Brian chopped, hurried to his briefcase and shuffled for their tickets.  “Our flight cancelled and he wanted to know if we plan to stay another night.”

“So we’ll take the NEXT one,” Justin shrugged, watched Brian check a timetable, glance at the nightstand digital clock.

“We can’t lose a day and still make the Microburst presentation,” Brian sped out of his shirt, dropped his jeans.  “Get dressed.  Next flight leaves in two hours.”

“Two hours?” Justin removed his shirt in slow motion.  No, not yet.  Not now.

Brian gathered his clothes, gave Justin’s forehead a quick kiss.  “You’ll have to move faster than THAT.”

Justin cleared his throat, stepped up gear and watched Brian toss his clothes and shoes in the trash.  “Aren’t we taking those?” he asked, eyes tracking Brian to the closet.

Brian flung their suits on the bed, rifled into underwear, “What for?  They served their purpose and it’ll be less to carry.”  He saw Justin hesitate before dropping his own outfit into the trash.  Fuck.  Means something.  Not sure what the fuck it IS, but… “Maybe just the shirts.  We can put them in that,” Brian nodded to the plastic shoe bag on the dresser.

“Okay,” Justin beamed and pulled the shirts from the trash. Then he dressed in a flash, gathered the bathroom items into the bag and answered Brian’s stare with, “We can’t take a shower but we’ll have eight hours to shave.”

“You don’t like the rugged beach bum look?” Brian rubbed his five o’clock.

“Only on a beach bum.  Can I put this in your case?”  Justin held out the white lei.  “So it doesn’t get crushed.”

Brian opened his case, let Justin drop the lei inside, shut it and took a last look out the window.  So dark he could only hear the waves, see brief glimmers of window lights on the breakers.  Felt Justin touch his arm, heard his guarded question.

“When we leave, do we leave it all behind?  I mean…it was like we were just getting started…”

“And I’ll forget about it when we get back to the boys, bars and deadlines?” Brian watched Justin’s silent blink.  “Didn’t I tell you once you can never go back?  Neither will I.”

They kissed then left to leave the island…each taking the best part with him – the other.

At Hilo Airport…

Flight already boarded, gate room empty, Brian stood at the gate counter and accepted two passes from a stone-faced Lady Agent while Justin pleaded one last time.

“Are you sure there’s no way we can sit together?”

She answered with a dead stare, “We’re full because of the cancellation and you have the last two seats.  Now if you would’ve gotten here EARLIER -”

“Thank you,” Brian cut in, hooked Justin’s arm and ignored his drilling look.  One more thought. “This flight IS going to Chicago, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Kinney,” she hissed through a smile.  “Now you’d better hurry.  We’re about to close the doors.”

Justin muttered, “I don’t think she likes us,” as they walked down the jet bridge.

“We’re unbooked standby suits with PM S – that’s Afternoon Stubble -” to Justin’s quirky look, “- and natural musk, who showed up right at departure demanding certain seats and questioning if she knows where this flight goes.  Since that fits a lot of traveling execs, I’ll guess it’s past her lunch time.”

Brian let Justin enter first then followed him into…

…the scourge of all men over 5’6”.  Economy Class.

Brian reclined and tried dozing despite his knees against the seat in front, a six-year-old boy’s energy on one side and the bickering of a young hetero couple on the other.  Fifteen rows back, Justin contorted to sketch on a legal pad while wedged between two large men whose meaty arms and spread knees claimed both armrests and half of his legroom.

There were moments when they met at the back lavs to escape their confines, stretch out and stand close.  But little else with other company always in line with them.

By noon they were back in the bustle of O’Hare and dragging to their 1:30 PM connection two buildings away.

“At least we’re sitting together,” Justin trudged wearily.  “I just want to get home, grab a shower and sleep flat.”

“Next time we go away, let’s make it Scranton.  Or Latrobe.”

Justin did a double take, expecting the tongue-cheek thing.  But Brian’s eyes were steady, smile sincere.  “Next time,” Justin confirmed.

At the Turner Ranch…

Scott sat at his computer and analyzed a wiring schematic.  The lights blinked, his power backup unit beeped.  In the second it took to look around, all systems recovered.  Back to work.  Then another brief power failure.  WHAT the FUCK.  Scott shut down his computer.  When the lights blinked again, Scott went to his office window, squinted at a distant electric pole down the drive, snatched field glasses off a credenza and focused on the pole top.  The magnified view showed a large, swaying branch wishboned over the main line near the transformer.

He grabbed his phone, pressed three numbers, stalled and hung up.  Walked to his stairway display case, smiled at three trophies on the low shelf – Valley Pole Cat Tournament – each with an engraved plate “First Place – Scott Turner”…for three consecutive years.  I’m STILL the fucking best there is.

He strode to his hall closet, scanned an array of work gear, dug out a set of leather leg braces fit with thick steel spikes.  Hard hat.  Goggles.  A pair of heavy yellow gloves.  A sturdy wide utility belt.  Would only take a few minutes.  Piece of cake.

Final descent toward Pittsburgh. Brian awoke from a sudden mach-one drop in altitude and Justin’s grip on his arm, the rev of engines and shudder of recovery lift.  He looked at Justin’s eyes, wide as the Bear’s beside him white-knuckling the armrest.  Another jolt made a toddler whimper, an older girl ask, “Mom?  Are the wings supposed to bend that way?”

Speakers tinned with the Captain’s drab routine, “Uh…Folks, we…uh…we’re about sixty miles west of Pittsburgh and we’ve been advised that due to some strong winds in the area, we’ll -” another sharp dip “- we’ll…uh…things may get a little bumpy.  So relax…keep your seatbelts fastened.  Flight Attendants, take your seats.”

Justin whispered to Brian, “I thought they only took their seats for takeoffs and landings.”

“If it was that bad, we’d be landing somewhere else,” Brian assured, buckled his seatbelt.

Scott snapped his utility belt around the top of the pole and leaned suspended by its support and deep-set climber spikes until his hand reached the branch.  After a few awkward attempts, he dislodged and let it fall, heard the drone of an airplane, spied its landing lights and tracked its roaring progress overhead before he released his belt and started down.  Flying fucking low today.  

On final approach, the plane jostled so much, a Flight Attendant had to grab seatbacks as she made a last belt check up the aisle, swayed and bumped back to her seat.

-Brian and Justin locked hands.

-Scott’s hands gripped the pole.

-Seconds from landing, the plane caught a gust, dipped right, shook and rattled.

-Halfway down, Scott jammed his right spike solid, threw all his weight onto it to reset the left, felt a give.  A twelve-inch strip slivered out from under his spike so fast, his own falling weight ripped his hold away.

-Wing flaps full out and bucking on the wind, the plane dropped fast and hit the runway hard, blowing a back tire and churning black strips in the engine wake.

“Welcome to Pittsburgh,” a Flight Attendant smiled while wiping a wild lock from her eyes and huffing breaths between words, “We ask that you please remain in your seats and keep your seatbelts fastened until we’re stopped at the gate.” Only the crew knew about the tire as the plane rolled along fine on what was left. 

On the ground beside the pole, nothing moved but thoughts as Scott stared up in pain, shock and denial

The Loft door slid open and Justin shuffled in, left his suitcase in the foyer and stripped a trail of clothing across the living room.  “Never thought I’d be so glad to see this place.”

Behind him, Brian shut the door, eyed the pieces.  Fuck it.  I’ll sweep it up later.  He removed his own jacket and draped it over his suitcase, yanked off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt as he followed Justin up the bedroom steps.

Justin flicked on the bathroom light, walked in and stared.  A glass block wall instead of a linen closet?  When he checked the shower, the fixtures were moved to the left.  On the right, a deep built-in tub took up half the stall and all the closet space.  Justin lit a smile, shook his head and stepped out to find Brian shirtless and leaning on the doorframe.   As exhausted as excited, Justin opted to not freak like an idiot.

“Is THIS why you planned the trip?”

“It was really a well thought-out process.”

“Of course.”

“If we DIDN’T leave, I’d be crass and irritable about men tearing up the Loft in a nonsexual way, we’d argue because you’d feel responsible and insist we stop the project, then our sex life would be shot to shit, not to mention showering at Ben and Mikey’s given your great relationship with Hunter.  Should I go on?”

“You wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Well?”

“It’s alright.”

“HOW alright?”

Justin moved against Brian, grabbed his shoulders and backed him into the bedroom, flopped him on the bed, settled onto him and kissed a short one.  “It’s incredibly well thought-out.”

“It’s also not the only reason I planned the trip,” Brian scanned Justin’s eyes to clarify the translation.

“I figured that,” Justin kissed him again. “Wanna take it for a test drive?”

“I’m still a shower man.  But I’ll wash your back,” Brian ran his hands across Justin’s back then rolled him under.  “AFTER I call Mikey and let him know we’re here or he’ll see the lights on and call the cops.”

Brian stood up, pulled Justin’s raised arms to boost HIM, snatched the cordless, keyed a number and watched Justin slip off his shorts in the bathroom, disappear into the shower stall.  Brian almost dropped the phone when “I LOVE IT!” burst and echoed in the room.

Outside the Comic Shop, hair whipping in a wind gust, two Punk teens sharing a jay stopped at the window.  Punk One coughed smoke, “Think the new X-Men’s out yet?” and handed off.

Punk Two dragged deep, husked out smoke, “Dunno.  Come on,” and quick-tamped the roach on the glass, sparks flaring in the wind.

Inside, Michael held the phone in one hand, smiled at the Rage Vol.One. Issue One in his other.  “Brian…good to hear you’re back,” he checked his watch, “Hey.  Wanna hook up at Woody’s tonight?  Is seven too late?  Good.  See ya there.” He hung up, unlocked the counter display case, glanced at the jingling door.  “Hey guys?  We close in five minutes,” he hinted, got the Punks’ giggly nods as they headed to the New Releases rack.

The bells rang again.  A Tall Police Officer and his Stout Partner with all-business faces.

Seeing them, Punk Two slipped the roach into a racked X-Men and nudged wide-eyed One.  “We’re outta here.”

Michael set Rage on a clear plastic protector and rounded the counter to meet the Officers.  “Help you with anything?”  What the fuck do THEY want.

Tall started, “You know you got boxes piled outside your dumpster and they’re blowing all over the alley?”

They swiveled to the ringing door, ignored the Punks’ dash out before Tall finished, “You might wanna get that cleaned up or we’ll have to cite you.”

“It only happens when the new stock comes in, and I break them up after closing,” Michael checked his watch, “Which is right about now,” he smiled his congenial best, one eye on Stout at the New Releases and reaching for an X-Men. 

“See that you do that,” Tall flat-toned, halted Stout’s hand with, “Let’s go,” then to Michael,  “We’ll check back later,” as both Officers headed out.

Michael followed, stood watching at the door, plastic smile fading after they drove off.  How long did you Stockwell sympathizers have to case my place to find something wrong.  He flipped the CLOSED sign, turned off the lights and hustled to the rear door.

Brian saw a card envelope addressed “Kinney” standing beside the phone charger, picked it up.  He stripped it open, pulled out the card and caught an extra folded paper before it fell to the floor.  An invoice for Liberty Contractors stamped Paid in Full.

Brian viewed the card.  A computer graphic of two drunken doves with wings around each other and holding champagne glasses.  The inside was blank except for precise handprint: To the happy couple.  Tub’s on me – and signed with a flamboyant “ST”.  PS. If  (crossed out) When he gets bored, give me a call.

I’d make you take this back, Brian smiled, but it’d be easier to cap a volcano.

In the bathroom and lazing neck deep in tub water, Justin smiled at Brian’s naked lines fractured through the glass block and marveled at his sinewy movement into the shower.

“Don’t fall asleep in there,” Brian started the water hissing.  “I’d hate to tell your Mommy you drowned while I had my back turned a few minutes.”

Justin sat up, leaned crossed arms on the edge and watched Brian suds his hair, soap his body in perfunctory but erotic moves.  “So how much did this set us back?”

“It’s not polite to ask the cost of a gift,” Brian rinsed and shagged his hair.  “Scott took care of it.”

“He bought us this?”

Brian paused and smiled without words.  Us?  He knows I’m a shower man.  And it’s just like Scott to give an expensive gift.  Along with the price tag.  And a warning he’s waiting in the wings.  Dream on, Scott.  Brian cut the water reached for a towel and ruffed it over his hair.  Justin’s call stopped him from stepping out.

“Hey.  Forget something?”

Brian took a second.  “You saved me your back?”

“Ever since we got back together,” Justin blinked.

Brian wrapped the towel around his waist, sat on the mat, grabbed and dampened a washcloth then worked a soap bar into it.  Stared at Justin’s bright eyes and kissed him.

“That was a fast shower,” Justin leaned his chin on his hands, closed his eyes as Brian flowed the soapy cloth over his shoulders.

“I’m meeting Mikey at Woody’s in an hour,” Brian circled the cloth like he was smoothing fine silk.  “You’re welcomed to join us.”

“No,” Justin wrinkled his nose.  “You two will have to play without me tonight.”  He felt Brian’s chest against his head, the cloth moving below water and over his ass, between his thighs.  “Keep THAT up and I’ll make sure you’re late.”

“I think I’ll like this tub,” Brian kissed Justin’s ear, moved the cloth up to rinse.  Any more washing and his stirring cock WOULD forget time. 

Woody’s at seven had only a few patrons in quiet conversation, 80’s music.

Beating the heat in a sleeveless vest and jeans, Brian saw Michael’s back at the bar, crept up and whispered “Aloha” in his ear.

“Brian!” Michael spun as Brian took the stool beside him.  “When you told me you were in Hawaii, I thought you were fucking around.”

“I WAS,” Brian grinned.

“Yeah.  Pictures don’t lie,” Michael smirked, took a folded sheet from his pocket, opened and handed it over.  “One of Ben’s students was on vacation, saw this and couldn’t resist using it for the cover page of his Gay Culture assignment.  It was in Ben’s email this afternoon.”

Brian silently chuckled at the digital 8x10 gray rock with Justin + Brian Made Love Here - in black lava stone.  “You mean there’s another Justin and Brian on the planet?”

“That crooked M looks suspiciously like it used to be an F.  Vintage Kinney slightly Taylored?” Michael narrowed-eyed his smile, held up a hand to halt Brian’s return.  “Keep it.  AND the bullshit.”  It’s ME you’re talking to.

Brian rolled his lips in a moment then leaned over and kissed Michael’s.  “Thanks for the memories.”  He folded the sheet and slid it into his back pocket, lifted Michael’s beer bottle to get the Bartender’s attention and held up two fingers.

“So how the fuck did you end up in Hawaii?” Michael asked over the 80’s music and the wail of a siren outside. 

At the Loft, TV playing low just for noise, Justin added their Thrift Mart shirts to a cleaner bag with a black tee and white tee, hung it at the remote end of closet and spread the array of suits back into place.  Then he opened his bottom drawer, removed the lid from a shoebox, took out the unused Vermont ticket.  Smiling wide, he ripped it up, trashed the pieces and replaced it with the Denver stubs.

Close sirens and a blaring horn made him bolt to the window and look out, but he didn’t see any action so he turned back and lifted the white lei from his bare desktop.  A souvenir for a friend.  He pulled his cell, hit a key  – and got a busy signal.  “Come on, Daph,” he grumbled out loud, shut the phone.  “Well I KNOW you read your email.”

Justin wandered to Brian’s desk, sat down and plugged in Brian’s laptop.  Fired it up, cursored to the Browser icon beside a document icon titled LegalW1.  Curious, he clicked on the page – we’re partners…it’s allowed – and up popped a Will and Testament.

He read only the first page, downed the system and slapped it shut, sank back in the chair and closed his eyes over a torrent of thoughts.  The renovation.  The trip together.  Now a Will.  Something’s wrong.  He’s not telling me, but something’s wrong.

A little apprehensive, a little angry, Justin hustled to the closet, pulled out cargo pants and a tee shirt good enough for...

Woody’s.

Ben burst wide-eyed and panting through the front doorway, saw Michael and ran up shouting, “Michael!  The Shop’s on fire!”

“WHAT?” Michael spun and jumped up.

“Come on!  We’ve gotta go!” Ben grabbed Michael’s arm and towed fast.

Brian sprinted after them, past mumbles of  “Fire?” “Where? WHAT shop?” as the Bartender surfed TV channels for any update.

At the Comic Shop in summer’s late daylight, flashing patrol car and fire truck barricades already blocked that section of Liberty.  Officers held gawkers at bay.  A cameraman’s lens scouting the scene past an Anchorwoman’s, “…the fire broke out shortly after six…” played on a small TV screen inside an OnTheSpot News van and…

Rheinholdt’s living room TV.

…in the predominantly gay area of Liberty Avenue.  Fortunately no one was inside at the time.  Firefighters have yet to determine the cause of the blaze, but it’s believed to have started in a storage area.  Damage estimates won’t be known until the extent of damage to the Comic Shop and a second-floor Advertising firm are fully investigated…

Seated on the couch with his Martha Stewart wife and finishing an ice cream dessert, Rheinholdt stopped mid-bite when the screen filled with the Comic Shop second-floor window and painted Lightwave logo.

“Isn’t that the new division you’ve been working on?” she asked.

Rheinholdt’s only response was the sharp clink of his spoon dropping into his dish.

On Liberty, Michael, Ben and Brian slalomed through bodies toward the Shop, saw flames and dark smoke licking from the shattered front windows, Firemen aiming a high-power stream inside.

A Fireman grabbed Michael by the arms.  “Hey.  HEY!  You can’t go IN there!”

“But I’m the owner!” Michael ripped free only to have the Fireman step in front of him.

Ben clamped onto Michael’s arm, “He’s right,” hugged him tightly from behind and they both stood helpless, shocked and bewildered, Brian beside them and lost for what to do.

Seeing the chaos near the Shop, Justin plowed through crowd traffic until he recognized the gang.  “Brian!” he shouted, saw Brian spin a look and ran up to him, froze stunned when he saw the Shop.  “Oh god,” he gaped, felt Brian’s arms around him and in his foggy state, clung loose, eyes on the blackened hole left by the dying flames.

By morning, investigators, police and fire crew gone, the blocked-off Comic Shop was just a curiosity for passers-by.

Not so for Michael inside behind the counter, eyes damp and heart skewered by blackened cone and ash that once housed the Popular section, comics strewn soggy and wrinkling in water meant to save them.  Michael viewed his collection, damp and littered with glass from the shattered top.  In his hands – Rage, Issue One, soaked and mangled.

Justin quietly entered through the front door, saw Michael brush an eye.  “Hey,” he said with a somber look around as he slowly rounded the counter.  “Brian would’ve been here, too, but WaveLight called him for an urgent meeting.”

“Ben and Mom are on their way,” Michael looked toward the stairs.  “It still smells real smoky up there but everything else looked okay.”

“Do they have any idea how it happened?”

“They’re looking for two kids who came in right before we closed,” Michael weakly managed.  “And they’re checking to see if Scott might’ve stopped by last night.”

Justin struggled to find something…ANYTHING to say.  “The insurance should cover most of this,” he looked around and sank inside, watching Michael’s eyes glaze at Rage in his hand.

“Most of it,” was all he said, set the copy on the missing counter and watched it plop onto the others.

It didn’t come natural for two rivals for one man – to hug and truly mean it.  But it happened anyway, between two artists…partners of a different sense…mourning the loss of an irreplaceable part of one man’s lifelong passion…

…while on a driveway beside a private lake, an Investigator’s sedan stops near a County patrol car and Medic van where grim-faced medics zip the last inches over a form in black plastic.  Two men beside a Turner truck, hard-hats in their hands, watch until one turns, hand to his face as his shoulders shake…because even tough guys cry.

Song: “Real Men” by Tori Amos

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