Brandon had seen work-day Anthony loads of times. But that never seemed to dull the electric shock of his metamorphosis from YouTube Anthony or around-the-house Anthony. Today he sported a chocolate wool car coat, the hem of which brushed just above his knees. Slim tailored earth-toned plaid pants ended in a sharp cuff that broke perfectly over a gleaming oak colored monk strap brogues. For as clumsy as he knew Anthony could be, Brandon couldn’t help but notice that he had adopted a more graceful gait as he strolled across the showroom floor, coat parting around one hand in his pocket. His hair was brushed and lightly pomaded in neat waves.

 

“Well, you should see all the types who come in here,” Brandon teased as Anthony drew up to his desk. One side of Anthony’s mouth curled up in a bemused lopsided grin.

 

“Is that the way to greet your newest client?” he asked with raised eyebrows. Brandon returned the expression.

 

“Latest client? You? Here?” Brandon peered around the showroom, set up in vignettes of elegant furniture, clearly sending the message that Anthony’s taste might not be compatible with the type of work Brandon was used to doing.

 

“Yes, me, here,” Anthony shot back, wide-eyed and adopting an ignorant tone as he mimicked Brandon. Brandon smiled and shook his head. Anthony had managed to seep into just about every aspect of his life. Why should work be immune? Brandon moved behind his wide desk and took a seat, indicating a chair opposite him.

 

“Okay, then,” he said adopting his professional tone. If Anthony wanted Brandon’s services, then Brandon’s services he would get. Anthony shed his coat, which he folded neatly over the chair next to him. Brandon surveyed his dark vest and starched pale blue shirt. Cuff links, actual cuff link glistened at his wrists. Was this the same man whose house he had helped clean some three weeks ago, he marveled.

 

Anthony hitched up his trousers and he sank into the chair, crossing his left leg over his right. A slender ankle, sheathed in a wool houndstooth sock, rose from the highly polished brogue. Brandon almost sighed audibly, but quickly regained his composure. “Before we begin, can I get you anything? Bottled water? Pellegrino? Coffee? We have espresso.”

 

Anthony gave a half head shake and raised a cuff-linked hand from the arm of the chair. “That’s okay. I’m good. I want to talk about living room furniture.”

 

Brandon’s eyes once again fell to the houndstooth sock on the other side of his desk, Anthony’s perfectly creased trouser leg pointing at him. It’s busy pattern defined every contour of Anthony’s ankle, like a topographical map, and begged to be stared at. It was the same ankle Brandon had touched the last time they had been together. Unconsciously, he rubbed his thumb over the index and middle fingers of his right hand. “Of course,” he continued with his professional air. “The nice thing is that I know the space we are working with and the scale of the furniture you would need. Do you have a style in mind?”

 

Anthony tilted his head, lopsided grin returning. He was dressed to the nines, but this faces was showed the same Anthony he always saw. “Naming a style is not really my area of expertise. That’s what you’re for.”

 

Brandon nodded in agreement, then leaned over the desk whispering, “are you sure you don’t just want to go to the La Z Boy Gallery down the road? Or Bob’s Discount?” Anthony feigned shock at the suggestion.

 

“What? You don’t think I am worthy of nice stuff?” he gasped, clapping his hand dramatically to his chest. God, even his Apple Watch band had been switched out to a leather one that matched his shoes. No rubber watch bands with this outfit.

 

Brandon backed down. “Of course you are. Everyone deserves to have a nice home. But, let’s face it. I’ve seen your house. Do you really think…” he trailed off.

 

Anthony picked up the thread. “…that I can get my act together and keep my stuff nice?” Brandon shrugged. At least he hadn’t had to say it. “I do,” Anthony stated simply. Brandon must have had a doubtful look on his face. Anthony uncrossed his legs and slid forward in his chair, clasping his hands between his legs. They were beautiful legs, Brandon observed. Even through the slightly shiny plaid fabric, he could see that they were slender and strong. Brandon mentally slapped himself in the face. He couldn’t go and get a boner at work. Anthony had leaned forward over Brandon’s desk, a serious look tracing the lines of his face.

 

“I know that I’ve lived a kind of shitty existence,” he admitted quietly. His candor made it hard for Brandon to look at him. He fingered a notepad in front of him as his friend continued. “I figure,” he paused, glancing at the ceiling for the right words. “I figure that’s why you’re in my life now,” he stated carefully. “Like you can help me, sort of the way that I’m helping you.” Brandon was speechless. His heart had skipped at beat at the words “in my life.”

 

Is that what he was? Anthony sure as hell was in his, but certainly not in the way that he knew. The thought that Anthony was reserving a place just for him sent a euphoric wave through him that was quickly chased by a pang of guilt for letting Anthony think that he was being “helped” by their friendship. The last two months had not exactly been the straight and narrow road Brandon had allowed him to think it was. At his point, having completely given himself over to his fetish, Brandon kind of felt that he was using Anthony. All of these these thoughts and feelings collided within Brandon in the amount of time it took him to slowly blink at Anthony’s words. Anthony looked at him, clearly awaiting a response.

 

“I’m…” Brandon searched. Anthony raised his eyebrows in anticipation. Brandon started again. “I’m honored, honestly. And of course I’ll help you. It’s the least I can do for you after…well, all you’ve done for me.” There. That wasn’t untrue. The tension in Anthony’s face melted into a smile.

 

“I knew it,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re the best.”

 

“I’m not,” Brandon blushed. “But I’m happy to do this. Can I think about your space and pull some ideas together for you in a week or so?”

 

Anthony nodded emphatically. “Absolutely. Absolutely, that sounds great. You know I have no idea what to even ask for,” he stood up, and the houndstooth socks disappeared from view, the cuffs of his trousers once again brushing the gleaming brass buckles of his shoes. Brandon stood to join him.

 

“But I need some things from you. Room dimensions. And a budget.” Anthony continued to nod in understanding as he gathered his coat and swung it over his shoulders.

 

“Right. I’ll get you the room dimensions later tonight. And budget?” he laughed softy. Jesus, it was a sexy laugh. “I’ll have to think about it. I just have no idea what it takes.” Brandon understood.

 

“I can work up a few different options at different price points. Show you what you can get in different ranges.”

 

Anthony, half turned to the door, looked back at Brandon, his smile growing broader. “Wow. God, it’s like you’re a professional at this.” He shot Brandon one of his infamous winks, which made Brandon weak at the knees, then strode from the showroom.

 

Brandon stood and stared through the glass doors until the flapping car coat and gleaming brogues were out of view. Anthony’s Camry soon glided by the door, entered the highway, and he was gone. Brandon sank back to his chair, sadly eyeing the empty one across from him. Lydia dismounted her step ladder and bounded over to him.

 

“So, tell me all about your ‘friend,’” she said in an affected, purposely obnoxious tone. Brandon leaned back in his desk chair and smiled at her as she leaned on his desk, face propped on her hands. She echoed his smile with a grin. “Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “Who was he? He was gorgeous,” she ejaculated, leaning heavily on the last word.

 

Brandon shook his head sadly. “That, my love, was Anthony.”

 

Lydia’s jaw dropped dramatically. “No—“ she rapidly dropped her voice to a stage whisper— “fucking way. THE Anthony?” She turned and stared out the door as though he was not long gone.

 

“Yep. Straight as an arrow.”

 

Lydia turned back, eyebrows knitted together and her mouth pressed into a tight lipped smile, as though holding back a secret. “No,” she said simply with a shake of her head. Brandon replied with a questioning look. “I’m sorry, no,” she repeated, clearly not sorry. “He’s not straight. He might be bi, but he’s definitely not straight.”

 

Brandon cocked his head at her, a bemused look on his face. “Oh really, great one? Please tell me, how have you gleaned this information?”

 

Lydia perched on the edge of Brandon’s desk. Being work spouses, Brandon had shared the basic gist of his relationship with Anthony with her. She didn’t know the gory details, but she was the only person in the world—other than Anthony—who knew about his fetish and that he was trying to deal with it by working with him. Lydia had been dubious, but had reserved judgement. Now she opened the floodgates and her opinions tumbled out.

 

“Okay, first of all,” she kept her voice low, conscious of their environment, “I’ve been a little skeptical of Mr. Anthony.” Brandon adopted mock astonishment on his face. Lydia continued, “no, seriously. What guy goes around making mud videos on YouTube with absolutely zero…” she paused, searching for the word, “…interest?”

 

“Anthony,” Brandon immediately responded. Lydia shot him a look that told him she thought he was gullible. “No, really. I’ve been with Anthony for well over a year now. I have seen zero evidence that he has that kind of interest in what he does,” he said, borrowing her word.

 

“Mmhmm,” Lydia responded, wholly unconvinced. She continued to enumerate her evidences. “Second of all, did you see how he dresses? You don’t even look like that, no offense. You are adorable and you know I love you.”

 

Again, Brandon countered. “You haven’t seen the way he dresses other times. And his house? It’s a complete disaster. It isn’t like that.”

 

“Sweetie, even gay people can have dirty secrets in privacy. What’s homosexual-trademarked is how they are obsessed with public appearance. How often do you think Anthony has people over?” Brandon thought.

 

“I’ve never seen anyone,” he confessed.

 

“But I’ll bet he always looks like that when he works,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the door. Brandon didn’t reply. Lydia smiled, feeling as though she had won this one. But she had saved the best for last. “Third, and most importantly,” she emphasized, leaning in over the desk, “you two shared quite a moment just now. And there’s no sense in denying it. I saw it for myself.” Brandon stared blankly at Lydia, who looked smugly back. He had certainly had plenty of his own feelings, but didn’t he always? He never considered for a moment that Anthony might have them back. Lydia interpreted Brandon’s silence as confirmation. She nodded slowly at him. “Oh yes, baby. Anthony likes you. I know all gays like to think they have the most fabulous gaydar, but the fact is you don’t,” she concluded flatly.

 

Brandon struggled with the idea, even though he felt that deep down, Lydia’s words rang somewhat true. “But, he…” he reached. Lydia raised her eyebrows at him in a challenge. “He’s straight. I know he’s dated women. He goes hunting. He, he rides four wheelers…” he trailed off, knowing that his own stammered words sounded feeble. Lydia slid off the desk and shrugged, returning to the stepladder by the tree. Brandon turned and stared again at the empty chair.