Just Telling Another Story - 1. Chapter 1

It was cold. So damn cold. So damn freaking cold! Barrett kicked the broken radiator. A rusted knob fell to the floor and the serpentine shaped metal let out a dying groan as the last bit of luke-warm water burbled onto the floor.

Dammit, Barrett swore to himself. He wrapped the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He could barely keep his grip on its edges with his numb fingers, despite the thick ski gloves he was wearing.

The front door to the apartment slammed. The sheet of ice that had built up on the living room window cracked and almost fell onto the useless radiator.

"Jesus!" Quinton swore. "I think it's colder in here than outside!" He didn't bother removing any of his winter clothing as he entered the apartment. He held out a Styrofoam container to Barrett. "They were out of chilli. I had to plow down two charity Santas and a little old lady to get the last dregs of the soup. I was delayed getting to the deli by my icicle sword-fight with Selma Blaire.”

Barrett cracked a smile. “Really?”

Quinton shrugged with a knowing grin. “They really were out of chilli. I got you vegetable beef instead. That okay?"

Barrett pushed back the edge of the lid. "I don't care, as long as it's-" But it had been too much to hope for. In the short trip back from the late-night deli the soup had gone from steaming to luke-warm. "Dammit," Barrett repeated.

"The stove may still be busted but at least we can heat it up in the micro-wave," Quinton said sensibly.

As Quinton searched the cupboards for two clean bowls he cursed their asshole landlord. Gone for two weeks over Christmas and the emergency contact he left turned out to be a very annoying electronic lady telling them that this number was no longer in service. Meanwhile, New York was having record low temperatures and from one look at the dilapidated, roach friendly building one could see why Barrett and Quinton couldn't afford to pay a repair man up front and wait for their landlord to reimburse them.

Quinton set the timer on the microwave and quickly put his glove back on. The appliance sputtered to life and the bowls started spinning ’round and ’round.

"Just three minutes until piping hot-"

The lights flickered once.

"No, this can't be-"

The lights flickered twice.

"Goddamn-"

The lights went out and the microwave died.

"That's it!" Barrett exclaimed. He fumbled for the flashlight in a kitchen drawer. "I give up. I'm calling my parents. Screw independence. Screw moving to New York City to paint. Screw refusing to come home until I can prove that it wasn't just a pipe-dream and I can support myself by doing what I love. I don't care anymore. I just want to go home. I want a clean bed and a hot meal! I want to be able to feel my extremities!"

"No!" Quinton protested, despite the fact that he desperately hated the apartment and wanted to be rid of it. He jumped in the dark and grabbed a hold of the puffy ball of fleece that was Barrett. "You promised you'd never give in! No matter how bad it gets! If you quit and go home then who's going to paint the cover for my best-selling novel? Who's going to design all the publicity posters? Who's going to take the sexiest damn author photo the Big Apple has ever seen?"

Barrett flicked on the flashlight and looked mournfully up at Quinton. "I can't feel my feet!" He pouted.

"Come on, dude. Don't abandon me. At least not tonight. It's Christmas Eve and we should spend it in front of a toasty fire, warming chestnuts and listening for the pitter-patter of reindeer hooves landing on the roof, saying ‘No fucking way, not for all the carrots in the world,’ and taking off again before Santa even has time to contemplate how to fumigate all the roaches out of his big red butt. And if you're so gung-ho on giving up painting, you won't mind if I use those canvasses in there to start a bonfire. Who should I burn first? Ricardo, the latin lover? How about Eros, the god of love and lust?"

Barrett thought about the finished paintings that adorned the apartment's tiny living room. His mother had thought panting was a fine hobby, but wasn't a practical career. His father thought Barrett should forget painting and take business courses at a college. Any young man could find a decent career through taking business. Neither of them thought moving to New York City and trying to sell his art was a smart or practical idea. Until they saw the primary focus of Barrett's paintings - nude men, often in erotic poses. All of a sudden both his parents had decided they wouldn't stop him from moving to the city and exploring his "artistic side."

Barrett sighed. How could he resist Quinton pleading with him to stay? Quinton could have gone home for Christmas. But out of solidarity with Barrett, Quinton had spent every holiday for the last year in their increasingly depressing apartment. "No, don't burn them," Barrett conceded. "But we'd better find some way to keep from freezing to death tonight."

Barrett knew exactly how he'd like to achieve that. Two bodies, huddled under covers and heating up through lots of horizontal motion and friction... But if it hadn't happened after a year of shared residency then what was the likelihood it was ever going to?

"Here, take your soup. Might as well eat it anyway. Who knows? Maybe it’s magical Christmas soup. You could find fame and fortune at the bottom of the bowl."

Quinton traded Barrett the two bowls for the flashlight and lit the way for Barrett back to the couch. Before sitting down Quinton went into their bedroom to grab some more blankets off their beds. They shared one tiny bedroom while the other even tinier bedroom - the only room to get any decent natural light - served as a writing room slash painting studio. Barrett thought the two single beds separated by a single night table was just like the bedroom of a 50s television couple - all hugs and smiles but totally and utterly platonic. Like everything else, their relationship was luke-warm at best.

Quinton returned to the couch and piled more blankets on top of them. They ate their soup in comfortable silence, both putting extra concentration into holding onto the plastic spoons through thick ski-mitts and struggling to see in the glow of the single flashlight.

By the time Barrett got the bottom of his bowl – fame and fortune nowhere to be found – he was shaking with the cold. He could tell by the lack of glow through the ice-sheet on the window that the power was out for many blocks. It might stay out all night.

“Maybe I really should call my parents,” Barrett suggested again. “It’s only a three-hour drive. They could at least-”

“Ruin their Christmas by driving all night long? In the dark. In the cold. In the snow. Your mom will probably forget to fill the tank and run out of gas on the side of the road. Strange New York raccoons will burrow their way into the car and carry her off to meet their even stranger but oddly humanoid fat, hairy leader who-”

“Okay, okay, I won’t call them! But you’re going to have to explain to them why I froze to death- ”

“Heroically and simultaneously fighting off a grizzly bear and a sabre-toothed homeless guy in order to defend my right to wear white after Labour Day when you were tragically struck down by Jack Frost incarnate on a sled of grape flavoured popsicles.”

“Like that’s even remotely believable. Everyone knows that Jack Frost’s ice sled is orange flavoured. Check your facts. You’re a hack writer and always will be.”

“He wounds me deeply,” Quinton gasped with his hand somewhere in the vicinity of where his heart might be under the layers of blankets and sweaters.

“Seriously Quin, it’s too fucking cold. This isn’t safe. Or smart.”

“The streets aren’t a safe or smart place to be either with who knows how much of the city in blackout,” Quinton replied, serious for once. “We’re better off here.” A moment later, “Oh! I just remembered something.” Quinton struggled to get out from under the mound of blankets. He hurried into the bedroom, dug around for a minute, then came back with his hands full of several palm-sized plastic packets. “I’m never going to be able to afford to go skiing this winter so we might as well use these now.”

“Oh, baby, yes,” Barrett sighed in relief and reached for one of the air-activated hand and foot warmer packets. Quinton pulled them just out of Barrett’s reach.

“Nope. You gotta strip first.”

“What?” Barrett yelled. “You’re crazy! I’m not getting naked on the coldest night-”

“Body heat, nimrod. We’re going to strip down to our hats, socks, and boxers and share body heat with these things packed around us and all the blankets on top. That should keep us from freezing until morning. Then when Santa fixes the power we’re going out for the best breakfast buffet we can find that will accept stolen credit cards.”

Barrett didn’t have to be told twice. He stripped as fast as he could, considering his numb fingertips. Quinton started making a show of exposing his taught abs and delicious pecks until the cold air hit his nipples. He raced to shed the rest of his clothing and burrowed into the blanket heap. Quinton was tall and broad and had lots of body heat to spare, and Barrett had never been so glad for the expense of living in New York, undependable landlords, ungodly cold temperatures, and ill-timed blackouts in all his life. Barrett settled in between Quinton’s legs and leaned against his chest as they cocooned themselves within all their blankets. They stuffed the opened hand and foot warmers in around their legs and feet and held them between their chilly hands.

Barrett was just trying to figure out how to say how comfy this was and that they should try it in a non-life threatening situation some time when Quinton asked, “Hey, wanna hear a story?”

“Nothing else to do, I guess,” Barrett said in an offhand way, but really he loved it more than anything when Quinton told him stories. The mark of a truly great writer is someone who can tell brilliant stories, and Quinton was the best story teller Barrett had ever heard. Not only were his stories imaginative and full of interesting characters and non-stop narrative tension, Quinton had the best speaking voice. Smooth and perfectly cadenced, Quinton could be the deep narrator, the airy woman, the ego-driven hero, the psycho uncle, any character he desired. And his accents were impeccably accurate, indistinguishable from any native of the region or country he was imitating.

Quinton wiggled his hands out of the cocoon and reached for the recently printed pages already scored with red ink that were sitting on the coffee table. Oh, this was even better than Barrett had hoped. Quinton was going to read something from his most recent novella.

As the smooth cadence of Quinton’s voice washed over and through Barrett, lulling him and making him feel safe and secure, the heat from the warmers slowly seeped into Barrett’s extremities. Once he could feel again it was so nice feeling Quinton’s long legs framing his, Quinton’s chest slowly rising and falling against his back, Quinton’s arms circling his body, one hand holding up the papers while Barrett kept the flashlight carefully directed to the black and white page.

The story was actually fairly familiar. Two young homosexual guys meet through random circumstances and end up being roommates while they try to figure out what exactly they’re doing with their lives. There is obvious chemistry between the characters but they just never seemed to click together romantically. The strong bonds of friendship are formed and they flirt auspiciously while giving up opportunities to spend time with their friends and family to just be around each other.

When Barrett was just itching for the two main characters to finally stop being lame, scared idiots, circumstances pushed them together in a sexually charged, dangerous situation – in this story they were stranded in the ocean on a sailboat with a broken mast. Barrett’s heart raced and he gripped Quinton’s hand as he listened to the heroic climactic efforts of the more outgoing character. He struggled to keep the boat afloat and the both of them from drowning in a raging hurricane. Barrett slowly relaxed after the quieter, more sentimental character saved his best friend’s life and confessed his great love.

On a cliff-hanger chapter ending, Quinton leaned over slightly to put the stack of papers back on the coffee table. Disappointed, Barrett thought that was as far as Quinton had written. He was overjoyed when Quinton picked up a few final sheets and cleared his throat before reading again. Under the blankets, Quinton’s free hand absently traced over Barrett’s naked chest and peaked nipples as Quinton slowly described the characters’ first heated kiss. Then Quinton’s hand travelled down and drew invisible lines along Barrett’s lean abs and up and down either side of his happy trail while the characters teasingly stripped each other naked and fell into a passionate embrace within the tight quarters of the boat’s aft cabin.

Barrett felt his heart pick up speed again, pumping his body full of warmed blood and hormones, one part lust, two parts terror. After a whole year it seemed that his unrequited love just might not be unrequited after all. He struggled to keep still and keep his desperate want and need under control as Quinton’s hot breath on his neck and ear described the most erotic homosexual sex scene Barrett could have ever imagined. During the course of the entire scene Quinton lightly rubbed and teased Barrett’s chest, stomach, thighs, hips, sides, everywhere but there. Barrett’s only sense of vengeful satisfaction came from feeling Quinton’s hard-on pressing against his lower back and knowing all his tiny wiggles and pants were returning the unexpected tease.

Shortly after the characters’ sexual climaxes and declarations of love and devotion they were rescued and the story ended. Quinton dropped the manuscript pages onto the coffee table. Barrett found himself decidedly not satisfied.

“So what do you think?” Quinton finally asked, his voice faltering for the first time.

Barrett put the flashlight down on the table and struggled to roll over. As soon as the frigid air hit his bare shoulders he gasped and frantically grasped for the blankets, pulling them over his head and shoulders as he sat astride Quinton’s lap, looking down at the writer who had just his head and shoulders propped up against the arm of the couch. They were both still quite hard and Barrett really wanted something to be done about it, so he went for a version of his standard answer.

“You’re a hack. Totally unoriginal. Trying to get by on selling sex.”

“But it’s a true story.”

Barrett tilted his head and smirked. “Really?” he enquired, unbelieving.

“There really is a guy who was too afraid to admit he’d fallen for his roommate.”

“Really?” Barrett repeated, his voice softer, more intrigued. He slowly lowered his torso forward and stretched out until he was lying on top of Quinton, resting his forearms on either side of Quinton’s head, their bodies lined up in the most delicious way. Barrett hovered over Quinton, their faces just inches apart.

“I really want you,” Quinton whispered. He quickly closed the gap between their mouths, kissing gently and running his hands sensually up and down Barrett’s back. Barrett’s cold but welcoming lips were confirmation enough that the feeling was mutual. Barrett ground their hips together and revelled in that oh-so-awesome feeling of one erection rubbing against another, it having been way, way too long since the last time either of them had felt it. Quinton grasped Barrett’s hip in one hand and the back of Barrett’s neck in the other and guided the smaller young man as his mouth was invaded, Quinton searching, tracing, memorizing with his tongue as he ground himself desperately against the painter’s hot, hard erection within their blanketed cocoon of warmth.

The making-out only lasted a short while – punctuated by their not-so-sexy cold noses dripping and sniffing – until Barrett reached down and tugged on their boxers just enough to free their desperate, straining need. Neither of them was about to brave what they were willing to call the deadly cold to retrieve any supplemental provisions. So they just caressed and rubbed, kissed and nipped, thrust and gyrated until they were gasping and coming and then finally sated and relaxed.

Quinton kissed the back of Barrett’s damp neck as they spooned together on their sides on the couch, their discarded boxers quickly hardening into a frozen clump on the living room floor.

“Hey Bare?”

“Yeah?”

“If I tell you I love you, will it be enough to convince you to move to my parents’ place with me? I’ll promise as little compromise on the whole freedom, self supporting thing as possible. It’ll just be until we can find an apartment that has working utilities and doesn’t have roaches frozen into the window.”

“Is that what those dark patches are in the ice?” Barrett wondered, peering through the dim glow of the flashlight’s ambient light. Then he thought better of it. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“So?”

“Well,” Barrett mused, looking over his shoulder just enough to see Quinton’s profile. “If I agree because you say you love me, how do I know you really mean it and you’re not just telling another story?”

Quinton grinned mischievously. “I will prove my truest love with never-ending poems, written in the sparkling dust of Shakespeare’s fairies. I will declare my intentions in the sky upon the purest, winged steed. I will shout so loud it will rock the heavens, the earth, and the fiery depths of hell below. I-”

Barrett cut him off with a laugh and said, “I love you too, you cheesy hack.”

Quinton grinned even wider. “No talent poser.”

“Monkey-typist.”

“Finger-painter.”

“Copy and paster.”

“Tracer.”

The buzz of electricity startled them and light flickered into their apartment as the fluorescent bulbs warmed up.

“Yay! Lights! It’s a Christmas miracle!” Quinton exclaimed with exaggerated cheer.

“What do we need lights for? Aren’t we just going to sleep until daybreak and then get the hell out of here?”

“Sleep?” Quinton questioned incredulously.

Barrett rolled over fully so that they were facing each other and found his mouth full of sexy, brand-new, best-friend-turned-boyfriend tongue. They buried deeper into their cocoon to bide their time until morning.