Page 3 of Christmas Miracle
TWO
In the beginning, John had signed the six-month lease in the middle of the month, which meant that his rent, from then, had always been paid on the fifteenth, not the first or last day of the month. That had carried on even when the lease ended, and he moved to just living there month to month.
The landlord hadn’t ever gotten around to getting him to sign a new lease. John knew why now. He had spoken to the other tenants, and their stories were all the same as his. This building was too old, too worn down, and the owner, the slumlord, was getting out before he had to pay for costly repairs.
Doubtless, the building would be torn down, because it would be valuable only for the land now. Something else would come in, another, more modern, more expensive, building. People luckier, with more money, than John, they would be the ones living here soon enough, and there wasn’t really anything that John could do about it.
Maybe it was time to consider a move. There were cheaper places to live than in Boston. He knew that there were, but that would mean leaving Brett, the only person that John still had.
That wasnotan option. He would find something. It was just that, in the middle of the month like this, in December, there wasn’t a lot out there. Most of what there was, he couldn’t afford, and there was a lot of competition for the rest of it.
He could be homeless by Christmas.
Not to mention, his back was seizing up again. Sometimes it was better, sometimes worse, but the cold weather which had blown through just a few weeks before, which held Boston in its icy grasp and had so far refused to let go, it seemed to make it worse. Tensed up his muscles so that even having his shower on and directed at his back as hot as it would go didn’t help much anymore.
Of course, his doctor had told him that he needed more physio, maybe massage, but how was he supposed to pay for that when he could barely afford rent? And when he thought about getting a job, what sort of job was he supposed to get? He was unsuited for anything that he used his brain for—he knew that he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed—which left manual labor.
Which he was also unsuited for.
Which meant that he was pretty much useless.
He should enjoy this while he had it, he realized, looking up at Brett’s cozy house. It was small, nothing more than a tiny bungalow, but Brett owned it, free and clear. His parents had left it to him in their will, though no house would ever make up for the loss, of course.
Brett’s parents had always been more like parents to John than his own parents had been. But, in the end, he and Brett had both been left alone, so they had that in common. Of course, John’s parents had had a choice in the matter, and they had chosen to leave. And they had left him nothing.
Brett had this house, and memories of parents who had loved him. All in all, John felt like Brett had probably gotten the better end of this particular deal, though maybe not. John hadn’t even really been surprised when his parents had taken off, but Brett had lost people who actually cared about him.
Sighing, he gripped the cold metal railing of the short flight of steps that led up to Brett’s house, and, because no one was around to see, he leaned on it heavily as he hauled himself up. His back was spasming by the end, and his vision had gone cold and dark around the edges, but he made it. It felt like those stairs were as tall as Everest, but he did it, and once up, he caught his breath, then pushed the door open and walked in, as had been his habit for years.
“John.” Brett came to greet him, with that same little half-smile that John knew was only for him. To the rest of the world, Brett presented as quiet and solemn and almost awkwardly serious, and he was, but he also had a soft side. Did Brett’s clients see that side? John knew that there were people who would only come to Brett, not to anyone else in the studio where he worked. “Did you find anything?”
John recoiled, fighting back a surge of helpless anger that really had nothing to do with Brett, but which would have been way too easy to take out on him. He had known that Brett would ask that question, just as he had every time that John had seen him ever since he had made what might have been a huge mistake and had told his best friend what was going on. And that had been a week ago, at the beginning of the month.
“No,” he spoke briefly but hoped that his tone would scare Brett off. But Brett had never been scared of John, one of the few people who could say that, John knew. As big as he was, and as gruff as his voice was, most people got intimidated.
He should have known better than to think that might work on Brett.
“But you have to be out by next week, right? By the fifteenth?” Brett prompted, where wiser men, or men who were less brave, would have just backed off.
“Yeah,” John grunted, pushing past Brett, and trying not to notice the little things that he always noticed anyway. The scent of his best friend, almost spicy, a mixture of the oils that he used which always seemed to cling to him and his own scent, which was more familiar to John than his own was. The flash of brilliant blue eyes, shimmering now with worry. The full, wide lips, the round, sweet face which made Brett look like he was more than just eighteen months younger than John.
Then he was safely past him, and John sat on the couch, hoping that Brett wouldn’t notice the sweat on his forehead. Sweat that was certainly not because of the weather, which was below freezing, nor from physical exertion. It was solely from the effort that he had to take to keep himself from making any noise, any indication of pain.
He just hoped that Brett wouldn’t notice.
“Look, I know that this might be awkward,” Brett commented, following him to the couch. Just one look at his best friend’s face let John know that he hadn’t fooled anyone, but maybe Brett wouldn’t say anything. He could always hope, right? “But I have a proposal for you.”
Every so often, Brett said something that almost made John choke. Because while John knew very well that Brett was gay, John had never told Brett about his own experiences which were really nothing more than fumblings in the dark, not the sort of things that John was going to tell anyone. But sometimes, just for a moment or two now and then, not very often, John felt like Brett might have some idea.
But that was honestly probably his own guilty conscience. That and his own half-suppressed desires for Brett, tidy, serious Brett, with his sensitive eyes and his strong hands and his beautiful body.
Not that John went around thinking that men had beautiful bodies all the time or anything. It was just that something about Brett made it impossible for him not to notice, that was all.
“Do you get hit on a lot at work?” John suddenly asked, something that he had wondered from time to time. But Brett had never said either way, and John had never been brave enough to ask. It was, he knew, none of his business. And yet, he couldn’t help but wonder, and now, ask.
“Wow. I almost didn’t notice you changing the subject there, John,” Brett said, with that dry humor that he only really showed once in a while, and, as far as John knew, only with him. With everyone else, Brett was too much on his guard, too quiet, but John got to see it sometimes.
Not often enough. Brett didn’t seem exactly depressed, but he didn’t seem happy, either. Like he had never recovered from his parents’ death, which was probably pretty accurate.
