Snow is a funny thing. It blankets cities and highways, looking beautiful and wreaking havoc. It cancels classes, delays planes, and causes car accidents. It aches backs with the recently shoveling. But after just a bit of warm weather, it recedes as though it was never there, leaving just the memories of its convenience, the salt and cinders on sidewalks and foyers, and smashed cars in towing lots.

Brandon was one such casualty of weather’s cruel trick. Not even two days after being broadsided in an icy intersection the temperature rose and the snow trickled into downspouts and puddled in parking lots, leaving barely a trace except for his battered body and smashed Escape. On site EMTs assured him he was lucky, but it didn’t feel like it with several bruised ribs, a sprained wrist, and burns on his face from the side air bag. After an evening of observation in the hospital, he decided to call his mother for a ride. The forty-five minute wait for her was more attractive to him than risking Lydia’s senseless prattle on about Anthony, and certainly a less complicated alternative to calling Anthony himself. He would endure all of that when the shock of the accident was not quite saw raw.

And so he was spared Lydia until the next morning when he called her to explain his absence for the rest of the week. “Oh my God, Boo!” she had cried dramatically. “I am so sorry that happened to you. Why didn’t you call me? You know I’d have been there for you!” She would have, too, yet Brandon couldn’t help but notice that she was making this about herself as he painfully propped himself with pillows on the couch.

“I’m sorry, Lydia” he said through speaker phone on the coffee table. “But you can help me now. I could use some binders from my desk, and maybe you would be willing to grab a few things from the store?” Lydia was a pleaser. Employing her in any task would be the fastest way to ensure that she wouldn’t stay miffed that he hadn’t called her for the last. So she was in high spirits when she left herself into Brandon’s loft a few hours later, flushed with the flurry of tasks she had gone overboard with on his behalf.

“I know you said bread, but these bagel are ah-mah-zing and they come from the organic section. Also, I got you that coffee you like from Barringer’s—I had to go right by it. Oh, the binders are right here, and I left a few messages for your clients about rescheduling meetings. Do you like magazines? People looked good in the check out line, so I grabbed that. Plus the newest AD, which maybe you have…” and on and on. Brandon stared into oblivion from the sofa as Lydia banged cupboard doors and opened and shut the fridge. When the last of the grocery bags had been folded, the recycling taken out, the jet dry in the dishwasher topped off, and the mail fetched, Lydia finally sank into the leather chair opposite him. “Can I do anything for you?” she asked solicitously.

Brandon chuckled, then winced. Lydia winced, too. “Are you kidding? What’s even left for you to possibly do for me?” he teased, although the question rang with truth. Lydia rolled her eyes.

“If there’s nothing else, then I should head back. I just wanted to check.”

Brandon flashed a tired smile. “Really. You’ve done so much. I couldn’t possibly think of another thing for you to do.”

Lydia put her hands on her knees and started to rise from the chair, then thought better of it and star back down, giving Brandon an uncomfortable look. “I did something. Don’t hate me.” Brandon knew this expression. These words.

“Oh, Lord,” he said hoisting himself stiffly up on his side and looking at her wide-eyed. “What now?”

“I may have used your client contacts log and called Anthony to let him know about your accident.” She said this looking at the rug.

Brandon was silent for a moment. He exhaled deeply through his nose in a sigh, and sank back into his pillows, eyes on the ceiling. “Yeah. Okay.” Lydia looked up in amazement.

“Really? I thought you’d be pissed.”

Brandon shrugged. “I’m too tired and sore to be pissed. And you saved me the trouble of figuring out if and when to tell him myself.”

Lydia looked triumphant. “That’s what thought you’d say,” she exclaimed. “I thought how you might—“

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Brandon cut her off sharply. “You’re still in deep shit for this. I’m reorganizing your desk when I get back. And I’m not telling you how or when.” Lydia rose quickly.

“Yep, right, okay. Got it.” She headed to the door. “Call me, okay? For anything. Seriously. Love ya, Boo.” She blew him a kiss from the door.

“I will,” he called after her weakly. “Love you…” he began, but the door had already slammed behind her.

---

It wasn’t until nearly 6:00 that evening that Brandon’s phone buzzed across the coffee table. Blearily from muscle relaxers and a day on the sofa, he fumbled around for it and brought it to his ear without even looking at the screen.

“Hey, bro,” came Anthony’s concerned voice. “I heard about your accident. I wanted to check on you. I’m here right now. Can you come to the door?” Brandon sat up in a motion faster than he had used in the past 24 hours. Pain tore through his chest, nearly taking his breath away.

“Hey. Uhh—yeah. I can come. Gee. You didn’t have to come all the way out here…”

“Bro,” Anthony cut him off flatly. “I wanted to.”

“Thanks,” Brandon managed weakly. “I’ll be there in a minute. I’m moving a little slowly at the moment.”

“Take your time.”

Brandon hung up and surveyed the loft. It was hardly impeccable, but certainly passable. A few dirty dishes on the coffee table. Lydia had completely tidied the kitchen. He stood up slowly and tossed his blanket aside, running his fingers through his hair and praying he didn’t look as wretched as he felt. When he shuffled to the steel door and pulled it open, Anthony was standing on the other side, looking stunning in a black peacoat and scarf, gray jeans, and the red Adidas Tubulars. Brandon would have possibly drooled from more than one place if he hadn’t felt so lousy. Anthony smiled, his white teeth flashing in the center of his new beard.

“Hey, bro. You look like shit.”

Brandon weakly returned the smile. “Well it’s nothing compared to how I feel.”

Anthony held up a grease spotted paper bag. The distinct aroma of egg rolls wafted out. “I brought sustenance. You hungry?” Brandon nodded and motioned for him to follow. Anthony padded in, letting the heavy steel door close behind him.

“Jesus,” he exhaled as he took in the loft. “This place is incredible!” In spite of the fact that Anthony had been by multiple times to either pick Brandon up or drop him off, he had never actually been inside. There has never been a reason to invite him in before. And even though his entry was now based on Brandon’s incapacitation, he couldn’t help but feel that the timing suggested it was instead due to some unspoken advancement of their relationship. The one that didn’t exist. Brandon tried to shove this thought from his drug addled mind.

“Thanks,” Brandon said, half heartedly accepting the compliment whilst returning to his den of pillows on the sofa. He left Anthony in the center of the loft, slowly turning and taking it in.

“Is this what my place is going to look like?” he joked from across the space. Brandon smiled into his pillow.

“Sure. I feel like we’re almost there.”

Anthony moved into the kitchen. “Mind if I dig up some plates and stuff?”

“Please do,” he called from the couch. As Brandon struggled to find a new comfortable position, he listened to the clatter in the kitchen. It was weird to think that Anthony was in his kitchen. That his beautiful hands were digging in his silverware drawer. That the red suede sneakers that he had shot a load into just a few months ago were standing on the Persian runner in his kitchen. The thoughts swam in his mind, steeped in the muscle relaxer, which fortunately also kept him soft. An erection would be most decidedly inconvenient.

Anthony sat in the same chair Lydia had occupied earlier that day, and the two ate Chinese from cartons on the coffee table. Anthony mostly talked about work, although he mentioned a few ideas about new videos he was hoping to shoot if the thaw held out for a few days. The coffee table obscured Brandon’s view from Anthony’s Tubulars, but he loved to think of them over there, resting on his rug, housing the same feet that would star in these videos.

With the carby meal in his stomach, Brandon felt like he was starting to think clearly for the first time in hours as Anthony cleared the plates and cartons away and returned to his spot in the leather chair. He crossed his left leg over his right knee, just as he had done before Brandon’s desk the other day. He rested his left hand over the hem of his jeans, soft gray wool socks showing between them and the red Tubular collars for the first time since arrival. Brandon’s head hummed. The monochromatic pants and socks contrasting with the bright red shoes were working for him. Anthony had clearly retrieved the shoes from their place of shame in the garage and cleaned them up. The soles were spotless and the large textured straps securely fastened. Had he removed the gunk from the Velcro? Perhaps noticed some staining inside the right shoe color?

“So what happened the other night?” Anthony asked, adopting a serious tone. He swiveled his ankle.

“Some woman in a minivan slid through a stop sign. Creamed the side of the escape.”

Anthony shook his head. “God—were they hurt?” Brandon rubbed his hand over his face.

“No. I don’t think so. They didn’t get jarred quite like I was.”

“That must have been terrible. Did you see it coming?”

Brandon had replayed the moment in his head dozens of times. The crunching metallic screech. The things in the car flinging from one side to another, the dust of the air bag…. “No. I had no idea.”

Anthony sat for a moment, the quiet sinking awkwardly around them. “Shit,” Brandon suddenly said. Anthony’s eyebrows shot up in a question, the Tubular freezing in anticipation. “Your boots. The ones you gave me. They’re still in the car.” Anthony waved Brandon off.

“That’s nothing, Bro. We’ll get them back. And you can always borrow mine in the meantime.”

While the idea was stimulating, Brandon sighed. “You know your shoes are two sizes bigger than mine.”

“Really? Two? You can tell that just by looking? That’s a pretty keen eye you’ve got there.” Brandon fought a momentary panic, trying to figure out how to cover his blunder. Damn, these meds.

“I did go through your entire collection when we cleaned out your bedroom,” he reasoned quickly. Anthony nodded thoughtfully.

“True. But seriously. I’m sure you’ll get them back as soon as you’re on your feet. I’m assuming the car is a total loss?”

Brandon nodded, wincing as he tried to adjust the pillow behind him. Anthony hopped off the chair and stepped forward, grabbing the pillow and jamming firmly in place. The right Tubular was just below Brandon in front of the sofa. “Thanks,” he said once he was comfortable. He risked a comment about the shoes. “Guess you decided to rescue those from the garage,” he ventured nodding at the right sneaker. Anthony glanced down at his foot as he backed into his chair.

“Oh,” he grinned. “Yeah. I was trying to get some of those Halloween decorations away again. You know, a couple of those boxes in the loft fell out again, and I was just getting to the point—“ the phone vibrating his his pocket cut him off. He glanced at the screen, then looked at Brandon. “Crap. This is work. Mind if I take this?”

Brandon shook his head. “No. Not at all. Bedroom is in there if you need privacy.” He gestured to the box like protrusion that jutted into the corner of the otherwise open loft. The walls didn’t even extend to the ceiling, so it wasn’t exactly private, but it was better than awkwardly sitting across from someone and pretending not to be listening to a conversation. Anthony stood and headed for the sliding factory door that led into the room.

“Thanks, won’t be just a few minutes,” he called over his shoulder.

Brandon flipped through some of the binders on the coffee table that Lydia had left earlier and ignored the audible side of a somewhat lengthy insurance-based conversation. He had all but nodded off when Anthony’s voice suddenly came from next to sofa.

“Aren’t these…mine?”

Brandon raised himself up higher on elbows and looked over to Anthony, standing a few feet away and holding a black object in his hand. Shielding a hard against the harsh light of the nearby lamp, he could make out the Lebron Soldier. Fuck. His stomach dropped. Those had been near the bed. Left there a few days ago when he…when he….when he had used them last. He reached for words.

“Oh. Yeah. I guess they are. Well, I mean it were. You were throwing them out. Remember?” By now, Anthony had crossed to his chair and sat down, setting the shoe on the coffee table between them. Brandon all but winced as the lamplight caught the outline it stains on the mesh uppers.

Anthony knitted his eyebrows together, looking quizzically from the shoe to Brandon. “Right. But what could you possibly want with a ratty old pair of basketball shoes?” He put emphasis on “basketball.” They both knew that athleticism was a qualifier ever used to describe Brandon. Brandon struggled to sound casual.

“They have plenty of use in them. One man’s trash, you know?” Anthony wasn’t buying it. Brandon’s exhausted, pain killer steeped mind started to experience a slow version of panic.

“Didn’t you just get done saying that my shoes are two sizes too big for you?“ he asked, an eyebrow raised. Brandon was now at a loss. Anthony glanced the shoe from his chair, his eyes traveling from the opened straps to the outlines of murky pale stains running down the worn fabric. Brandon saw Anthony register what he was seeing. He wanted to look away, but he knew that would make matters worse. He was looking directly into his face when Anthony slowly turned his gaze to him. “I see,” he said quietly.

Brandon searched Anthony for a look of disgust, but that wasn’t what he saw. What was it, exactly? Confusion? Disappointment? Brandon couldn’t decide what would be worse.

“Anthony,” he said, trying to break the terribly silence. Anthony stopped him with two fingers he raised off of his knee.

“I thought I was…” He paused, eyes closed as if he was trying to see the words in his head. When he opened then again, it was to stare at the floor. “I haven’t helped you at all, have I?” his voice was small. Brandon burned with humiliation.

“Of course you have,” he cried trying to sit up straight and not feel so pitiful. It was agonizing but necessary. He put his feet on the floor and squared himself with Anthony. “You’ve been my friend. I really value what we have. I enjoy my time with you…” he trailed off, realizing the his unfortunate choice of words too late.

“I can see that,” Anthony said, glancing at the shoe. There was no cruelty in his voice. “I had just hoped that you were enjoying our time because we were friends.”

“I do,” Brandon protested. “I absolutely do.” He swallowed. It was now or never. “You’re important to me.”

Anthony looked up at Brandon and studied him, his eyes widening slightly. “Oh. You mean…you….I…” he fumbled for words. “I don’t, I mean I can’t—“ Brandon eased his way.

“I get it.” he said softly.

Anthony stood up abruptly. “I guess I should let you get your rest, okay?” He started to put on his coat. Brandon watched helplessly from the couch.

“Anthony,” he started, pain in his voice. God, we’re those tears stinging his cheeks?

Anthony turned to him, concern in his face. “Hey, no. No, don’t be like that, bro. It’s fine. We’re all good.” He put his scarf around his neck. “You’re gonna be fine,” Anthony assured him. “You just need rest. We’ll talk, okay?” He stepped toward Brandon and hesitantly gave him a light clap on the shoulder. Then he turned and left, the loft reverberating with the slam of the steel door.