Brandon continued to help Anthony in his transformation of the farmhouse. As the days grew longer and the forsythia bushes burst into their vibrant announcement of spring, the house was starting to feel like a genuine, cared-for home. The hand-me-down coffee table was relegated to the wood pile to be consumed in the fire pit at a future date, replaced by a chunky rustic piece Brandon had scored from the gallery floor at cost.

The tartan wallpaper that Anthony had tolerated enough to approve went up in an incredibly tense day, riddled with expletives, making such a marked improvement to the bland entry hall that he wondered why he had doubted Brandon’s selection in the first place.

Brandon had also convinced Anthony to install sealed butcher block countertops in the kitchen, not merely because they were readily available and easy enough to put in, but because of the warm light they would reflect. And so, as though slowing stripping away a drab and cluttered facade, the two men began to unearth the underlying beauty of the aged house.

But for as much effort as they went about the improvements, they were even more deliberate to avoid discussing what they had shared on their last outing. For Brandon’s part, he had become relatively comfortable with the idea of telling Anthony that his green Supras were getting him hard or that his white socks looked sexy. But he doubted Anthony’s level of confidence to be so open about his feelings. Several weeks had passed since the conversation on the ride home from the clean fill site, and Anthony had not so much as hinted in his feeling one way or the other about having disclosed his proclivity. And so Brandon took his cues from him and threw all energy into the house.

One warm Saturday afternoon, Anthony had returned home from the umpteenth trip to the local hardware store to find Brandon standing in the doorway to the living room and staring pensively at the fireplace.

“What are we looking at?” Anthony said, coming to stand next to Brandon.

“The fireplace,” Brandon responded mindlessly.

“We aren’t knocking it down, are we? Because I’ll probably need to run back to the hardware store.”

Brandon gave him a lopsided grin. “It needs something hung over it. Maybe we should stop and look through some antique places.”

Anthony groaned. “I’ve agreed to a lot. And your ideas have all been great. Never in a million years did I expect this place to look a tenth this nice, bro. But I’m gonna have to draw the line at antiquing. I just…can’t.”

Brandon arched an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“You’ve seen all the old useless shit we’ve cleaned out of this place. What makes you think I want to cart in someone else’s overpriced useless shit?”

Brandon was indignant. “Tell me the last time I’ve made a remotely questionable decision about the design of your house.”

Anthony put his hands up in mock surrender. “You haven’t, buddy. You haven’t. But I’m not putting some 140-year-old rake above the fireplace.”

Brandon had to giggle at this. “Fair enough. No ancient lawn implements. We’re going for a hunting lodge feel anyway. Antler mounts, maybe. Would that be objectionable?”

Anthony looked surprised. “Seriously? Antler mounts?”

“Yes, seriously. Why?” Brandon narrowed his eyes.

“Because I could actually help you there. I’ve got some.”

---

Brandon groaned as the garage door rolled up. Anthony rolled his eyes.

“Aw, come on. It’s not THAT bad in here.”

“You have all matter of crap thrown in this place,” Brandon half-whined, surveying the piles of clutter that had only grown since much of it had recently been evacuated from the house.

“Just think of it as antiquing,” Anthony said with sarcastic pleasure, using air quotes around the word ‘antiquing.’ Brandon gave him a shove.

“Where do we even start?”

“Fortunately, they won’t be in the loft. That’s all my mom’s old stuff. So we are looking on the shelves down below.”

Brandon and Anthony moved in opposite directions, an unsaid strategy between them to start on either and and work toward each other. The garage still had the lingering cold and damp of the winter, the April sun not yet having permeated the block walls. The fluorescents flickered dimly as Brandon began to poke hands in aged boxes on the shelves.

“Can we use this?” Anthony called over, holding up a chipped clown figurine. Brandon glanced at it, then looked back to his own shelf.

“Yep!” He responded without hesitation. “That will go perfectly on the old coffee table.”

“Hey, now,” Anthony murmured softly, looking at the clown. “This creepy looking thing once had meaning to someone. I just have not idea what or for who…” he dropped it back into its box unceremoniously. On the other side of the garage, Brandon was just removing something from his own box—actually a pair of somethings.

“What meaning do these have to you?” he asked, turning and holding them up. They were black ASICS high tops with lime green—well, at least they looked like they used to be lime green—accents and lining.

“Huh!” Anthony exclaimed, squinting from across the garage. “Those are my old wrestling shoes. Didn’t even know I still had them.” Brandon looked down at them, the all too familiar ache in his throat that often came before an erection.

“You wrestled?” he said, giving the high padded collar a squeeze. The foam still had come life left after a few decades in a garage.

Anthony had resumed rummaging through what appeared to be a box of old insurance binders. “Yeah,” he replied somewhat absently. “In college. It didn’t last long.” Brandon looked over at Anthony, his heart thudding in his chest. There didn’t seem a better time to break the thin skin of ice that had formed between them in the last few weeks. He cleared his throat.

“I’ll bet you would still look great in them,” he said as matter-of-factly as he could manage. It made him hard just to say it.

Anthony looked up. Brandon was extending the shoes out to him, his jeans clearly bulging. He blinked. “You think so?” He stared at the shoes a minute. Then he stepped over a cornhole board and approached Brandon, who could already feel his quickening breath heaving in his chest. Anthony’s eyes went from Brandon’s crotch, to the shoes, to his eyes. “I guess we will have to find out, won’t we?” he said. He pulled the tall sneakers from Brandon’s grasp.

Clearing a drawstring bag of rags from an old desk chair, Anthony sat down, loosening the laces on the shoes. He looked at Brandon, who was watching rapturously, as he slid his white socked feet from the green Supras he was wearing, and pointed them into the ASICS. Brandon unconsciously licked his lips as Anthony pulled on the laces, drawing the tongue and thickly padded collar of each shoe close to his ankles.

“You know what’s unique about wrestling shoes?” Anthony asked, standing and flexing his feet in the shoes. They bent and rippled with his movements.

“What?” Brandon’s voice was practically a whisper. He knew without looking that a dot of precum had appeared on the tip of his bulging pants. Anthony had noticed, too.

“They’re made extremely thin. They provide just enough support, but no extra. They are supposed to be as close to barefoot as you can get.” He put his right foot on the chair and leaned. The shoe easily bent around the edge of the chair, the thin sole squeaking joyously at being used again. Anthony turned and looked at Brandon. “Want me to show you?” Brandon nodded. Anthony inclined his head toward the chair. “Have a seat.”

Shaking, Brandon sunk into the chair. Anthony rested his foot on his thigh. “Feel how flexible the upper is,” he said quietly. “Go ahead. Give it a squeeze.” Brandon obediently placed his hand over Anthony’s foot. The shoe had been sexy enough when he had unearthed it from the box. Animated with Anthony’s foot, it was sending him into overdrive. He squeezed the suede, feeling Anthony’s toes inside.

“Can I also direct your attention,” Anthony continued, as if a tour guide, “to the support around the ankles?” Anthony slowly loosened the top laces, parting the collar in an invitation. Brandon could practically see his pulse in his fingers as he reached in along Anthony’s sock and slid his fingers inside the shoe. Anthony cracked a grin. “That tickles a little.” Brandon had closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of Anthony’s foot as his fingers were gently pinched between his sock and the padded collar.

“Now the most important part,” Anthony continued as Brandon withdrew his fingers, “is the sole.” Anthony rolled his ankle over on Brandon’s thigh, exposing the bottom of the shoe in the fluorescent light. “This is a split sole. It’s made for maximum movement of the foot.” Anthony slid his foot between Brandon’s legs. Brandon gasped. Anthony had placed his right foot over Brandon’s cock, and was gently rolling it this way and that. “See? I have so much more maneuverability with a split sole.”

Anthony was breathing reality into a quintessential fantasy for Brandon. He opened his eyes and saw how the loosened collar of the shoe caused Anthony’s jeans to bunch up as he pivoted his foot into him. Anthony was relaxed, his right arm resting on his leg, hand handing limply. He continued his sales pitch. “I can also tell exactly how much pressure and force I exude.” He leaned his foot harder into Brandon’s cock. Brandon was practically panting. He looked down and saw his clear pre-ejaculate clinging to the thin rubber lining over the ball of Anthony’s foot.

At that point, Anthony pulled out all the stops. He started to pulse the wrestling shoe into Brandon’s crotch, as though feathering a gas pedal. Brandon cried out in ecstasy and wrapped one hand around Anthony’s calf and another around his heel, pulling the foot in closer still. “I’m going to cum,” he whimpered.

Anthony looked intense. “On my shoe?” he asked in mock surprise. Brandon nodded frantically. “But your pants are still on,” he pointed out. Brandon glanced down at his sticky jeans. “I’ll bet your pants weren’t on when you came in my red adidas,” he said in a low voice. Brandon looked up at him, wide-eyed. Anthony broke into a grin. “Yeah, bro. I know about that.” He lifted his foot from Brandon’s cock. “So come on, then!”

Brandon exhaled sharply as he fumbled with his button and fly. He had just wrenched his waistband under his balls when he erupted, hot white liquid launching in streams over the top of Anthony’s shoe and white sock. He cried out as a pearly drop slowly rolled down Anthony’s foot.

Anthony chuckled as the last dribbled out. “That was intense, bro. That was seriously intense. Well done.” Anthony examined his foot, dipping a finger into the cum on his sock. Brandon was still gasping for air, as Anthony removed his christen shoe from the chair, revealing his own bulged jeans, a damp spot forming. Brandon stared, attempting to straighten himself in the chair.

“You’re…” he started.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I am.”

“Well, go ahead,” Brandon urged. “Touch yourself.”

Anthony shook his head and took a step back. “I don’t do that,” he said quietly.

“Do what, exactly?” Brandon probed, pulling his pants up around his still half-erect cock.

Anthony had grabbed a rag from the drawstring bag and was wiping Brandon’s juices from the wresting shoe, dark stains left wetly behind on the suede. “I just can’t, bro. Not like that. Not…”

“In front of me?” Brandon finished for him.

Anthony chucked the rag aside and looked up at Brandon, a suddenly tired expression on his face.

“Why not?” Brandon insisted.

“Because I’m not gay!” Anthony suddenly exploded. “Jesus!” Brandon froze, cowering under Anthony’s sudden mood swing. He had never known Anthony to raise his voice for any reason. He stared into Anthony’s blazing eyes for a moment before, feeling the fire in his own cheeks, he looked away. He heard Anthony leave, and felt himself cloaked in the loneliness of the suddenly empty garage.