All week Brandon had pushed the confusing revelations of Lydia’s conversation aside, unable to afford to think about the ramifications of Anthony feeling more about their friendship than he let on. Indeed, in an effort to not think about Anthony whatsoever, he had done nothing to research options for the living room as he had promised, which is why he had pulled into Anthony’s in the middle of the day rather than first thing as he normally would. From early morning, he had sat cross-legged on his bed with laptop, iPad, and various binders strewn about as he clawed to pull together multiple cohesive options, just as he would for any other client.

But Anthony wasn’t just any client. Nor just any friend. And the way that this—what, relationship?—had morphed in the last few months was confusing, terrifying, and exhilarating in one. Brandon was still chewing on this, arm propped on the car window, chin on his hand, staring blankly across the frosty front yard when the front door opened and Anthony beckoned. Time to face the music.

Brandon slung his laptop bag over his shoulder and tried to appear casual as he climbed the porch steps, closing the distance between them.

“How long have you been out here?” Anthony asked as he ushered him into the hall. The scent of fresh paint was heavy in the air, and the house felt hot and sticky in spite of the early December weather.

Brandon hardly glanced at Anthony as he slid his bag free. “Not long. Just a few minutes. I was mulling some designs over. Sorry. Not yours. Different client.” It sounded lame even to him. Anthony watched Brandon curiously for a moment, then nodded, letting it drop.

“Come in a take a look!” he said, abruptly changing his tone along with the subject. He spread his arms wide and slowly circled in the living room as Brandon followed through the archway. Anthony had indeed been hard at work. The dusty scarves were no longer obscuring the windows. The ceiling was now a crisp flat white, and he was in the middle of coating the dirty golden walls in a coat of trendy greige. Canvas drop cloths lay over the carpet, which was considerably fluffier than it had been before the Rug Doctor had worked its healing magic. Brandon’s eyebrows shot up, taking in the transformation as Anthony completed his circle and came to face him with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

“Impressive!” And Brandon meant it. Even unfinished, the room was virtually unrecognizable from its previous state of a handful of weeks ago. Marbles sat on the hearth, staring disapprovingly with his unseeing eyes.

“I think so!” Anthony agreed. “And did you see the porch? All that shit—gone.” Brandon had been so wrapped up in the process of just entering the house that he had not taken it in, but now through the front windows he could see an unobstructed view of the yard. Brandon turned to face him.

“You weren’t kidding about getting this place cleaned up, were you?” Brandon’s question was in earnest. His mind wandered to their conversation from several days ago. Even at the time it had seemed a serious moment, but it seemed much weightier now in light of Lydia’s observations, and even more so in seeing Anthony’s efforts actually come to fruition. Anthony gave a slow shake of his head.

“Wasn’t kidding, bro. I need you for this.” The thought of being needed by Anthony for anything surged adrenaline through his veins. But he kept his gaze steady and slowly nodded in understanding.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Well, then let’s get to work.”

Anthony waggled his eyebrows in eager anticipation. “Here, let’s sit,” he said bouncing over to the sofa, scooping up plastic bags of brushes and rolls of paper towels to make room. Brandon watched, taking in Anthony’s blue pullover hoodie, faded jeans, and orange and gray Adidas Ultraboost sneakers for the first time since he had arrived. Having decided in the last ten seconds that the nature of their relationship simply was what it was and in no need of any kind of definition this very minute, he felt himself slip into the all-too-familiar realm of lusting after Anthony and his feet. The orange meshy fabric curved up his heels, almost like a second pair of socks wrapping up around Anthony’s already black cotton-clad ankles.

Brandon sank into the sofa in the exact same spot he was in when he had stupidly touched Anthony’s shoe. He burned with embarrassment at the thought, but Anthony was too distracted by the anticipation of the software loading on Brandon’s laptop to be dwelling on their shared experience. As Anthony leaned over for a view of the screen, Brandon felt their legs touch.

“Uhh…okay. So…here’s one thought that I had,” Brandon started as he tried ignore to warmth he felt radiating from Anthony through his pant leg. He clicked on a file. The wrong file. A room with a zebra print rug and pink Victorian-style sofa appeared. Anthony took in the image stoically.

“Interesting. Okay. Right. And you think this…is one way to go?” he asked tentatively. Brandon burst out laughing, all at once feeling the tension slide away.

“Yes, Anthony. Obviously this is a way to go. This design was completely conceived with you in mind,” Brandon scrolled through additional images of crystal dropped chandeliers and marble bust bookends. Anthony started to laugh.

“Then what the fuck, Brandon?” he gasped, shoulders heaving. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Brandon wiped his eyes. “A+ for taking it in so calmly!” Anthony grinned at the screen. He playfully slapped Brandon’s knee.

“Now for the real stuff,” he demanded. Brandon’s distractedly clicked on another file, still feeling Anthony’s touch on his leg.

---

It didn’t actually take Anthony long to decide which of Brandon’s designs he liked. A mid-range priced option, it had rustic elements that gave a nod both to the history of the house and to Anthony’s outdoorsy vibes. From the moment Anthony saw them, he liked the dark velvet sofa with nailhead trim, and the plaid and leather accent chairs. In fact, Brandon had liked this combination the best, feeling it was the most obviously Anthony of the designs he had assembled. He had referred to the style as “hunting lodge retreat.”

Anthony stood and stretched, looking at his partially painted walls. “Do you think I should have waited to paint?” He looked at Brandon.

Taking in the fresh color, Brandon shook his head. “This color would go with just about anything. Besides, I can pull a bunch of upholstery samples that won’t clash. It’s not like you have to use the exact colors in the mock-up.” Anthony casually put his right foot on the sofa, the Ultraboost sinking into the cushion directly next to Brandon. Putting his elbow on his knee and resting his chin on his hand, he studied the walls further. Brandon’s hand was inches from the mesh upper of Anthony’s sneaker. He could almost stretch out his pinky and run his fingernail along the textured cloth that was embracing Anthony’s foot.

“I like it,” he concluded. “The guy at the paint store said it was a pretty popular color. But I hope it goes with the stuff as you had it picked out. I like the way the picture looks.”

“It’s Agreeable Gray, isn’t it?” Brandon asked the Ultraboost. Anthony looked down at him, his hand coming away from his face. “The paint?” Brandon clarified, looking up. “Agreeable Gray?”

“What the hell? Did you see the label on the can or what?”

Impulsively, he patted Anthony’s sneaker. “I’m a designer, remember? It’s my job.” God, the sneaker felt sexy under his hand. He could practically feel the outline of Anthony’s foot.

“Well, Mr. Designer. Now that you’ve impressed me with your plan AND your ability to randomly identify paint colors,” he said, leaning closer to Brandon, his foot pressing deeper into the sagging cushion, “how about you help me finish this goddamned room?” Brandon could almost feel Anthony’s weight on the couch causing him to tip over. What a shame if he would had to brace himself on Anthony’s leg.

“Are you sure you need help? Looks like you’ve got everything well in hand,” he said as he surveyed the partially rolled walls, none of which had paint up near the ceiling. Anthony smiled.

“You’re a smug little shit.” He paused, smile fading. “Please?” he asked, eyebrows raised, almost pleading. “I don’t know how to edge worth a damn.” Brandon was sobered by his tone. He turned to face him.

“Of course I will help you. You know I’ll help you.” And before the conversation tipped into more serious territory, he added, “and it’s called cutting in, not ‘edging.’ That’s…something else.”

Anthony’s lopsided grin returned. He removed his shoe from the sofa, which lethargically retuned to its original shape. Brandon regretted that Anthony hadn’t placed it a few inches to the left—between his legs—but he brushed the thought away and stood, tucking his warm laptop into his bag.

“I’ll brush,” he conceded. “You keep rolling.” Brandon mounted the ladder in the corner, picked up a brush with a paint encrusted handle, and started to expertly swirl it into a cup of paint. With a single fluid movement, he deftly laid a bead of paint into the corner where the wall met he ceiling, a crisp line forming between the two surfaces. Anthony stood below, head shaking in awe. Brandon glanced with a self-satisfied look in his direction before repeating the process, moving further down the wall.

Brandon had reached the corner near the fireplace when he blotted up the last drop of paint from his cup with the stiffening brush. He tuned to look at Anthony, who was rolling on the opposite side of the room. The saturated pad made sticky sounds as it climbed the wall. Almost the sound mud makes, Brandon thought. Anthony extended his arm to the ceiling, the brought the roller back to waist height, and as he repeated the movement the orange heels of his sneakers lifted off of the canvas drop cloth with each new reach.

“Hey, do you have any more paint for this cup?” Brandon called over from the top of the ladder. Anthony turned and looked over his shoulder, arm raised in another stroke of the roller.

“Yeah, I do.” He stepped back, the heel of his right sneaker catching the lip of the roller pan. The pan, half full of paint, swung up. Brandon watched—as if in slow motion—as the Agreeable Gray arced briefly in the air before rolling down Anthony’s right calf and heel. It cascaded down the side of his shoe, completely obscuring its color and texture beneath a thick viscous layer of griege.

Brandon froze, transfixed as Anthony lifted his right foot and stared in horror, the paint dribbling onto the canvas drop cloth the same way caramel is drizzled on candy bars in commercials. “Fuck,” he exhaled. He looked over at Brandon—coated Ultraboost still in the air—who speechlessly returned a wide-eyed look. As Anthony lowered his shoe, ribbons of wet paint drizzling from the folds of his jeans, Brandon became aroused by the tiny bubbles that hissed through the paint saturated mesh of the shoe as air escaped from around Anthony’s sticky foot.

“Okay, hang tight,” Brandon said, hopping from the ladder and grabbing the nearest roll of paper towels from beside the sofa. He quickly unspooled them and began to layer them over the rapidly expanding pool of Agreeable Gray on the drop cloth. The great quantities of paint refused to be absorbed but rather seemed to coat the paper towels and expand the mess. In vain, Brandon tried to blot at ooze that ran down Anthony’s leg and shoe. Anthony looked down, standing helpless. Brandon tried not to get hard.

After a minute of fruitless attempts to contain the mess and in growing concern for the carpet beneath the saturated canvas, Brandon stood back and offered his last idea. “Take off your shoes and pants. We’ll roll the entire drop cloth up and get it out of here.” Wordlessly, Anthony complied.

He first grasped the clean, left Ultraboost and yanked it from his foot, tossing the shoe onto the couch. His black sock came down into a sticky puddle of paint. “Shit,” he whispered. The sighing heavily, he squatted down and delicately tugged on the sticky laces of the right sneaker, his finger tips shining with fresh paint. Hooking his thumbs into the collar of his sneaker, he extracted his foot, the shoe giving up the slimy sock with an obnoxious slurp. Brandon stared, heat spreading in his pants.

Wiping his fingers a clean area of his jeans, he unzipped and tugged the pants down and let them crumple to the floor, stepping out of them. At last, he peeled the sticky socks from his ankles. He stood in his hoodie and boxers and looked at Brandon, a look of disgust on his face.

“It’s not so “agreeable” now, is it?” Brandon asked softly. After a moment of silence, they both burst into laughter, doubling over. “You go change,” Brandon finally managed. “I’ll take care of this.” Anthony wiped the bottoms of his feet with a paper towel and hopped across the expanse of carpet to the tile floor, bounding up the steps to the shower.

“See if you can spare the sneaker,” he called from the top before disappearing down the hall. Brandon picked up the dripping shoe between thumb and forefinger, dropped it into one of the plastic bags from the hardware store, and threw it by the front door before gathering up the entire canvas drop cloth and everything in it and carrying it outside to the garbage can. Returning to the house and briefly confirming that no carpet had been soiled, he plucked the bag with its soggy shoe from the floor and headed to the garage where he knew Anthony had a slop sink.

Brandon stepped inside, it’s familiar scent filling his nostrils. He flicked the switch and the fluorescents buzzed on. The garage was kept somewhat warm by a large louvered heater that softly clattered from the ceiling. Shutting the door behind him, Brandon surveyed the usual chaos and clutter, thinking about the last time he had been in the garage, which hadn’t been since the Halloween decoration debacle. He glanced at the loft, seeing that Anthony had returned the pile of battered boxes to their teetering column. To his right, the pair of Tubulars sat by the cleats and the Wolverines as if awaiting another adventure.

The faucet of the slop sink sputtered and frigid water issued from it. Brandon tugged the plastic grocery bag from the gluey Ultraboost. On the inside, he could see how the paint had rolled over the rims and had filled into the edges of the insole, the knit pattern of Anthony’s sock printed in paint in blotches in the center. He pried the foamy pad loose and tossed it into the basin, the water clouding as it made contact with the paint. The sneaker he held directly under the stream, massaging the mesh and squeezing the paint from its pores.

Even with the freezing water and the tang of paint in his nose, to Brandon the task was sensual. He dug his fingertips into the foamy areas, squeegeeing the paint from them, knowing that Anthony’s foot had been there just minutes ago. He thought about Anthony opening his closet door that morning, surveying his many shoes, and selecting that particular pair, sliding his socked feet into them and lacing them up without a clue that at least one of them would be filled with sticky paint a few hours later. Brandon leaned into the sink, the chipped porcelain lip digging into his crotch.

He rubbed vigorously at the knit upper, imagining the shoe as it was a little while ago, when it had sunken into the folds of the sofa cushion next to him and he had patted it with his hand. He pulled the opening of the shoe up over the tap, letting the water fill it and pour from it, the sides bowing out as water found every possible way out through the fabric. Paint leeched from the seams and escaped from the padded collar, dried flecks released from around the plastic cages, and the sexy orange and gray bands became recognizable again. Brandon was just considering committing to self pleasure when the side garage door opened.

“There you are,” Anthony said, walking over to the sink next to him. Brandon froze, his hard cock smashed against the sink and hopefully unnoticeable. He glanced down and saw Anthony’s black Vans and camo pants come into view. Fuck. The exact same ensemble that had started his sexual torture weeks ago. His heart thudded and his cock throbbed again the hard edge of the sink. “How did it come out?” Anthony asked, leaning over he sink. Brandon couldn’t move. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anthony’s right Van lift from the floor as he leaned over, catching a brief glimpse of fresh black sock as it receded into the shoe, the little corner of white elastic winking at him from under the frayed hem of his pants.

Anthony looked from the shoe to Brandon, who tried to return the glance. “That’s amazing. It practically looks like it never happened. What would I do without you?” Another smile, another wink, and another clap on the shoulder. Brandon’s cock mashed even harder into apron of the sink. Anthony pivoted away, the white trimmed waffle soles of the Vans crunching on the rough concrete floor. “Why don’t you just let that sit out here to dry and come on in?” he said, hand on the knob of the door. “We’ll salvage what we can of the paint and then get something to eat, okay?”

Brandon managed a watery smile. “Almost done. He said. Coming in a moment.” Anthony smiled again, then nodded and shut the door behind him. And cum Brandon did.