by A. R. Moler
Relative Complications
By A.R. Moler
Published by JMS Books LLC
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Copyright 2019 A.R. Moler
ISBN 9781646562305
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
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Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
To Sappho’s Chocolates and the women who make them.
* * * *
Relative Complications
By A.R. Moler
How to cook a goose. Brian Townsend read through the instructions of the recipe, trying to gauge how complicated this looked. Parsley, sage, and thyme. What about rosemary? Wasn’t that obligatory? Maybe not for a goose. The ingredients list called for lemon and limes, as well as honey. Okay, nothing was particularly exotic about those ingredients. Truthfully, the hardest part was probably going to be finding a place to get a goose. If this had been London, any decent butcher’s shop would probably do. Getting one in New York City was apt to take more effort.
“And exactly who’s goose are you planning on cooking?” Alicia asked, staring over Brian’s shoulder. He was seated at his work desk, trying to take advantage of a few free minutes at lunch at the architectural firm he worked for.
“My sister’s, well, er…I’m thinking about cooking a goose for her and her new boyfriend. They’re coming to see Tristan and me a couple of days before Christmas. I thought I’d try and do something familiar since Mom and Dad are spending Christmas in York, England, with Mom’s family.”
“Only you would think of goose as familiar.”
“What? You’ve never heard of Christmas goose? Some years Mom makes goose, other years it’s lamb.”
“I thought maybe you hadn’t forgiven Heather for her creative packing additions to your luggage after the wedding,” Alicia teased.
Brian rolled his eyes, thinking of the eighty single packs of lube that appeared in the cooler and the dozen strips of condom packets with risqué sticky notes on them. “I know perfectly well that she had help.” He poked Alicia’s belly with a finger.
Alicia gave him a faux innocent look. “Moi?”
“You are so guilty.”
“So what else are you planning on serving with the weird un-American fowl?”
“Brussels sprouts, Yorkshire pudding and roasted root vegetables. I considered a Brie and pasta casserole recipe but it looked complicated and unless I have a chance to try it out before that weekend, I’d better choose my challenges.”
“No hints of holiday forgiveness from Tristan’s family?”
“No, and I think that’s probably the best we can hope for. Total lack of communication is better than one of his mother’s self-centered tirades,” Brian said.
“If I’d known she was pulling a stunt like she did the night before the wedding, I would have given her a piece of my mind and probably a kick in the ass, too.”
Brian rested his elbows on his desk. “I think I’ve grown to never be surprised at anything his family does, which makes me wonder how Tristan came out so sane and down to earth.”
“You said he spent lots of time with his grandfather, the one who left him the brownstone.”
“I wish I had met him.”
Alicia squeezed Brian’s shoulder. “He sounds like he would have been very nice.”
* * * *
The downhill slide of the weeks between Thanksgiving and New Year’s seemed to be alternating between too fast and too slow. This was going to be the first Christmas Tristan got to spend with his new husband. Yes, they’d seen each other for a few hours at the end of Christmas Day last year, but their relationship had still been building back then.
What on earth was he going to give Brian for Christmas this year? Maybe a new desk for the office that Brian was slowly constructing on the third floor of their brownstone? Was that too practical?
Tristan walked out of the precinct toward his car. Oh hey, he’d actually gotten off shift only an hour later than expected. That was better than many days. The sun had already set, such was December in New York City. He opened the car door, and got in, starting it so that it would warm up. He didn’t put it in gear yet though, he was still wracking his brain for gift inspiration.
His phone buzzed, signaling a text.
Any estimates on when you’re getting home?
Tristan smiled. Over the past months, Brian had adjusted pretty well to Tristan’s often chaotic work hours as an NYPD detective.
Soon. Leaving work now. Not sure how traffic will be.
Sitting through innumerable traffic lights and inching along the congested streets, Tristan mulled over the Christmas gift problem some more. Part of last year’s gift had been reservations at a beautiful B&B, in part because the amount of uninterrupted time they had together had been very scant. Moving in together, getting married, the ability to fall into bed together most nights was a blissful improvement.
Coming in through the back door into the kitchen, Tristan could smell dinner.
“Hey,” Brian said. “I timed that almost right. I just finished doing the rice about five minutes ago.”
“Awesome. What did you make?”
“A chicken stir fry thing. It’s mostly throw everything in pan, add sauce, cook.”
Tristan gently moved Brian around and kissed him. Once or twice a week, Brian made dinner from scratch. His work schedule was significantly more predictable than Tristan’s.
“Pull out a couple of plates.” Brian gestured toward the cabinets. They usually put meals directly from cooking pots onto plates.
Piling some rice on his plate, Tristan then held it out for Brian to ladle the chicken and vegetable mix on top. They sat at the table to eat.
“We don’t own a proper full-sized serving platter, do we?” Brian asked, stabbing a chunk of carrot with his fork.
“Not that I know of. You live here, babe. Unless you brought one with you when you moved in, I’m pretty sure I never had one. Why?”
“I need one for the goose.”
“Okay.”
“I guess it’s good we’re only having Heather and…shit, why do I keep forgetting her boyfriend’s name?” Brian made a vague gesture. “We don’t have more than four place settings that match.”
“I never really thought about that.”
“Maybe I’m regretting specifying no gifts at the wedding. Just…everyone had to travel and I didn’t want to add to their cost…”
Tristan took Brian’s hand. “Is your sister likely to care if we have mismatched dinnerware?” He rubbed his thumb along Brian’s wrist.
“No, of course not. She’ll probably tease me about it being remnants of my bachelor
days.”
“I’m sure you told me, but I’m spacing on when she’s getting here.”
“Monday night. I’m hoping to get her help decorating on Tuesday. I am fully aware of the fact you own zero Christmas decorations.”
Tristan stuck his tongue out at Brian.
“Careful. I might make you use that,” Brian said with a grin.
* * * *
“We really need some pine scented candles since this thing is plastic.” Heather inserted the next branch into the slot on the artificial tree.
“Are you dissing my tree?” Brian asked with a laugh. “You contemplate lugging a real one up three flights of steps.” He’d bought this one a few years ago, long before he’d met Tristan.
“I guess with the wedding and then the holidays, getting a new one or a bigger one was at the bottom of your to do list.”
“Pretty much,” Brian admitted.
“Tristan didn’t already have one?” Heather asked. The one they were assembling was only four feet tall, a perfectly adequate size for an apartment, but kind of small in the high ceilinged den of the brownstone.
Brian made a face. “No. And before you break out the thumb screws, it’s complicated and I don’t want to get into it right now.”
“Two red plastic boxes and one sort of clear one, right?” Zeke, Heather’s boyfriend, came into the den lugging the stack of storage boxes. He set them a few feet from the partially assembled tree.
“Thanks. I got as far as getting them out of the closet and then got distracted.” Brian handed Heather the next branch. “If you can help her finish building the tree, I’ll find the lights.”
“So, do you have any idea when Tristan’s getting home?” Heather asked.
“He texted me about twenty minutes ago, saying he hoped to be out the door by ten.”
“You did put the goose in the fridge and not the freezer, right?” Heather held out her hands and Zeke gave her the top section of the tree.
“Yes, it should be just fine for cooking tomorrow. I’m still wincing at the price though. Eighty-five dollars…maybe I should have settled for a turkey.” Brian walked over to the wall and plugged in a strand of lights to make sure they worked.
“Even Mom bitches about the cost of goose in this country. You’d think as many of the bloody things there are running around the airports at all, that someone could become a millionaire, executing them and selling them for dinner.”
Zeke laughed, teasing Heather, “Maybe that should be your entry into owning your own business?”
“Enh, no. That would involve feathers and loping of heads and…just no.” Heather made a face.
“Heather Townsend’s Wild Goose Chasing and Execution Service. We’ll kill ‘em and chill ‘em,” Brian said.
Heather groaned.
“We’ll run them off your runways straight into your oven?”
She gave him a one-eyed squint. “There’d still be feathers.”
“We’ll pluck them and fu…enh maybe not that part.” Brian handed her the end of the light string.
She giggled uncontrollably. “It would give new meaning to stuffing your goose.”
Brian and Heather both laughed until they were breathless.
“You two are nuts,” Zeke commented.
Heather began stringing the lights around the tree. “So, any idea what your new hubs got you for Christmas? Considering there are four boxes.” She asked Brian.
“No clue. I did pick one up. It was heavy, so…yeah, no idea.”
“And what did you get him?” Heather persisted.
“Something…smaller than those boxes. I hesitate to say more expensive, because I don’t know what’s in those.”
“So, fess up.”
“A watch. A Tag Heuer. A bottom end one, not one of the ones that cost more than my car. He smashed the shit out of the one he’d been wearing. He and one of the other detectives got in a scuffle arresting some guy.” Brian didn’t want to think too hard about the danger Tristan had probably been in. It came with the territory. And except for a couple of bruises, the watch had been the only real damage. “I had it engraved on the back.”
* * * *
Tristan quietly let himself into the house. Since it was Christmas Eve, chances were that Brian, Heather, and Zeke were likely still awake, even though it was past eleven p.m. He had hoped to be home more than two hours ago, but since holidays and violence often went together, he’d spent most of the evening at the scene of a shooting. As he walked through the dark kitchen, he noticed it smelled faintly of lemons. In all probability, Brian and Heather had been doing prep for tomorrow’s dinner. He toed off his shoes and left them under the edge of the table, out of the way.
Light was visible down the hallway, coming from the den. It was a flickering golden glow and Tristan suspected it might be from the fireplace.
When he reached the archway that led to the den, he paused for a moment. The gas fireplace was burning and a slightly awkward looking Christmas tree was in the far corner of the room. Brian was lying on his belly, on the floor, wearing a dark blue long sleeve t-shirt and a pair of green plaid sleep pants. There were no other lights on in the room except for the fire and lights on the tree. A clip board holding a sheaf of paper lay on the floor in front of Brian and he was currently chewing on the end of an ink pen. Tristan’s gut tightened a little. In that moment, Brian was a wistful combination of relaxed innocence and sexy desirability.
Brian twisted his head and looked at Tristan. “Oh, hey, you’re home.” He rolled on his side, leaning his head on his bent arm.
Tristan crossed the room and knelt beside Brian, tipping him over to lay on his back. “Merry Christmas Eve.” Tristan straddled Brian’s thighs, hands on either side of the man’s head, and bent down to kiss him.
“Merry Christmas Eve to you.”
“What are you madly scribbling away at here in the firelight?”
“The miles and miles of paperwork for the foster care application.”
“Oh.” Tristan still wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
“You did say, proceed forward, since we know it’ll take months. I swear, it’s going to take months to fill out the paperwork alone.”
“I thought it would be a digital form.”
“It is, but I printed off one of the parts, since it seemed quite a bit more complicated than, name, address, phone number, and marital status kind of thing. And I wanted to make myself some notes down the side.”
“Mmm.”
“That was a rather noncommittal sound,” Brian said.
“I’m still on the fence,” Tristan admitted and changed the subject. “So here you are, practically laying under the Christmas tree in your PJs. Did you do this as a kid? And are you waiting on Santa?” He was still positioned above Brian.
“Yes, I did. And no, I was waiting for my husband to get home.” Brian pulled Tristan down on top of him and wrapped both arms around Tristan.
The warmth of Brian’s body and comforting strength of his embrace roused desire in Tristan. They kissed and nuzzled, end of the day beard stubble rasping. Tristan rose up enough to push Brian’s t-shirt up and nibbled his way down the side of Brian’s rib to the man’s hip. He had just licked along the angle of flesh over bone when a female voice said, “Hey Bri, I forgot…Oh shit sorry!”
Tristan gasped and listened to the scurry of footsteps back up the stairs, accompanied by giggling. He smooshed his face into Brian’s stomach and muttered, “Oh, God, five more seconds and your dick would have been in my mouth. Kill me now.”
Brian chuckled and ran his fingers through Tristan’s hair. “Enh…wouldn’t be the first time she’d walked in on something.”
“Given your thing for semi-public…Lord, why should I even be surprised?”
“We have a very nice bedroom upstairs, and a door with a lock, you know.”
Tristan exhaled a long breath, trying to regain his sanity and composure. “Turn off the tree. I’ll do the fire.”
The bedroom was a little chillier than it had been downstairs by the fire. Brian was amused by watching Tristan very deliberately lock the door. “We’ve gotten kind of used to privacy here at home.”
“True.” Tristan began to undress.
Brian sat cross-legged on the bed, and took off his t-shirt. He let his gaze rove over the toned body of his husband, pausing for a moment on the fading bruise on Tristan’s left arm. That was a reminder of the day of the broken watch. Once Tristan had stripped down to his briefs, Brian crooked a finger. “We could pick up where you left off.” Ah, there was a hint of a smile from Tristan.
A couple of steps brought Tristan to the bedside. Brian uncrossed his legs and curled them around Tristan’s thighs. He slipped a finger into the waistband of his husband’s briefs. “Of course we might have to get rid of these.”
“Patience.”
Tristan pushed Brian back to lie flat on the bed and tugged a little at Brian’s sleep pants. Brian obligingly lifted his hips and Tristan pulled the pants off, dropping them on the floor. Tristan leaned forward and blew gently on Brian’s already half aroused prick.
“Dear, sorry to tell you that a blow job doesn’t actually involve any blowing,” Brian teased.
That earned him a lustful gaze from Tristan, that was followed by a long deliberate lick up the underside of his cock. Brian groaned. God, that felt good.
Tristan ran a finger down Brian’s belly, past his prick and fondled Brian’s balls. “Your cock in my mouth or my cock in you?”
As much as a quick release would be nice, Brian knew he wanted the intimacy of more. “Do me.”
And then the sound of Tristan’s cell interrupted the whole idea. Both men glanced in the direction of where Tristan had dropped his clothes on the floor.
“I don’t suppose you could just ignore that, with it being Christmas Eve and all?” Brian asked, already fairly certain the answer was no.
“I wish,” Tristan muttered and crossed the few feet to pluck his phone out of the pocket of his slacks. He made a face and swiped his finger along the screen to answer.
* * * *
Why in the hell was his brother calling him? Tristan was pretty certain it had absolutely nothing to do with wishing him a Merry Christmas. That moron was usually out drinking himself into oblivion given almost any excuse. Tristan was severely tempted to just let it flip over to voicemail, but that would probably result in having to listen to six voicemails later.