Knowing it by Hart
This is an out of print short that I decided to make available here. Merry Christmas!
The blurb:
Brit's life is exactly how he wants it: neat, ordered, and disciplined, the way it needs to be if anybody is going to take a thirty-two year old CEO seriously. If that means being so discreet that you're basically in the closet, then so be it.
Then, at a charity dinner, he meets the good Mr. Hart. A very drunken Mr. Hart. Who gives Brit the kiss of his life. That's all that happens, of course; Brit has got a reputation to protect. Only, he can't get Mr. Hart out of his head, and he realizes that it might be time to make some changes.
The story:
"It's all about sex."
The words carried very well through the lull in the conversation, and Brit couldn't help turning in his chair after the speaker's voice. It wasn't exactly what you expected at the annual contributor's Christmas dinner at the Symphony, after all.
The voice belonged to a man in his thirties, well dressed but with the subtly shoddy air of someone having had just one too many. The man's inebriation didn't do anything to diminish his good looks. Very good looks, in fact; the light brown hair was almost the same color as his eyes and he had the sweetest smile on his face.
And Brit was being entirely too obvious in his gawping. Discretion was more important to him than almost anything else.
He wasn't the only one being somewhat too open, though.
"Now, take the Rite of Spring. That's about a fertility ritual, and at the premiere, you couldn't even hear the music over the booing. If something's too sexy for Paris, then it's damn sexy." The last couple of words were a bit slurred, and the speaker was looming slightly to one side where his dinner partner, an elderly lady with an aristocratic air, had a hard time concealing the slightly uneasy look on her face.
"I must admit to being rather more interested in Haydn than Stravinsky, Mr. Hart." Her tone was polite. She must have incredibly good manners.
"Yes! Haydn." It didn't deter the inebriated speaker in the slightest to have his subject changed. "Do you know the Farewell Symphony, Mrs. Campbell?"
"Oh, yes." Poor Mrs. Campbell sounded relieved. "It's a charming piece of music; so very moving when the musicians leave one by one. The Symphony played it a couple of years back when the financial circumstances threatened a cut to the orchestra. But I believe that was before your time, Mr. Hart. How long have you been writing the program notes now?"
The valiant attempt at changing the subject was completely lost on Mr. Hart. "That symphony is about sex, too." He nodded sagely to the rest of the diners at the round table next to Brit's, most of whom were by now very interested in the conversation.
"The musicians were all at the Esterhazy summer residence, out in the country, you know. Without their wives; they were still back in the city. The noble family didn't want to go back, and the musicians got hornier and hornier until Haydn decided to..."
Brit quickly stood up, deliberately tipping his chair so it hit the back of the sorely tried Mrs. Campbell's chair.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, Mrs. Campbell." Brit fussed with the chair, Mrs. Campbell looking grateful for an excuse to interrupt her conversation.
"Mr. Hart, I think my chair is broken." Brit did his best to hide the back of the chair under his arm while he fumbled with it. "Would you be so kind as to show me where I can get another?"
"But I don't know..." The man looked up in confusion.
Brit took a firm grip around the unfortunate Mr. Hart's arm and spoke over his protest. "I'm terribly sorry for stealing Mr. Hart from you, Mrs. Campbell."
Mrs. Campbell showed an impressive restraint when she kept her relief almost hidden. "No, no, Mr. Collins, I'll be fine."
She probably would be a lot better without someone recounting the entire history of classical music in terms of sex to her. Brit nodded politely and dragged a reluctant Mr. Hart out of the room as inconspicuously as he could.
He still had the sturdy chair in his left hand, and it was rather heavy to carry that way. Heavy enough to keep him from reacting fast enough when Mr. Hart reached out and grabbed two large vodkas from a passing waiter's tray. The man had downed them both before Brit had a chance to prevent it.
Brit took a firm grip on the man's arm and pulled him out of the room, putting the chair down. One of the waiters came up to see what was wrong.
"No, it's okay; I just needed an excuse to get him out of there. Could you leave the chair out here, please? That way it won't look suspicious." The waiter nodded, looking grateful for not having to deal with the man now slumped over Brit's shoulder.
"I hate my job." Mr. Hart's voice was slurred. "They never want the real story. Just the fucking 'and that was how he refined the structure of the string quartet.' Who the fuck wants to hear about refining structures? Or fucking string quartets, when it comes to that..." The man's voice died down to a mumble, and Brit almost thought that he had calmed down enough to stay out here while Brit went back inside.
"Haydn was gay!"
Maybe not. He might look good, but the stranger's voice was only made louder by the amount of alcohol he had consumed.
To make it worse, Mr. Hart's chosen topic was Brit's least favorite subject in the whole world when he was surrounded with important business contacts. Dinners at the Symphony had secured the firm huge contracts before, and Brit had no intention of ruining his father's firm.
His firm. Brit ground his teeth when he made the slip for the umpteenth time. He tore himself back to the present situation.
"I think I’d better get him out of here."
The waiter nodded in agreement and not a little relief, turning around and calling them a cab from the phone at the front desk.
"He was!" Mr. Hart continued his monologue without even noticing the interruption. "And Benjamin Britten, and Poulenc. They were all gay."
"I don't think Haydn was gay, Mr. Hart. He did marry, you know." Brit once more took a firm grip on the increasingly limp body next to him and began walking them to the exit, a thankful look on the waiter's face as they left.
"She was his beard!" Mr. Hart gestured wildly into the air to emphasize his point. Then he stopped abruptly. "Oh. But you don't know what a beard is. Straight people never do."
"I know what a beard is, Mr. Hart. Even used one of my own a couple of times."
There was a stunned silence from his drunken partner, and Brit used it to get the man through the doors to the street. The air was cold and clear, and it was a blessing after the stuffy air inside. The good Mr. Hart wasn't the only one who had found the atmosphere in there a bit stifling. But his father would kill Brit if he behaved anything like Mr. Hart.
"What? You mean you're..." Unfortunately, the cold air seemed to have revived Mr. Hart, too, and the man leaned on him, suddenly very friendly.
Him and his hands both. Brit had to wriggle out of his grip in a less than dignified move. This time, it was more to protect what little was left of his virtue than his reputation.
Brit had never been so relieved to see a cab in his life.
He managed to get Mr. Hart into the car, even though he had to negotiate with the driver for a while before the man agreed to take them home. He had to promise to pay for the cleaning, in cash, if anything happened, before the driver reluctantly started the engine.
"Where do you live, Mr...?" Brit turned to look at Mr. Hart and found him soundly asleep. After shaking the man several times, Brit began to understand exactly what they meant by "a drunken stupor."
"That's just great. What on Earth am I going to do with you now?"
The unconscious man just started snoring.
The driver demanded to know where they were going, and Brit had to give the man his own address. Having to do that bothered him; he never brought strange men home. He wasn't in the closet; he was just very, very discreet. There was no need to ruin his hard work; he had been very meticulous about building up his reputation as being trustworthy and, most importantly, far more skilled than his thirty-two years promised. If word got around he was gay, he would be back to scratch, having to start all over.
They were at his building before he knew it, and then he faced another problem: waking up the sleeping man.
It solved itself, though, when the cab driver opened the door and Mr. Hart fell on his face in the thin layer of snow on the ground.
"Wha... Cold." The man shuffled around, and Brit managed to get an arm around him and hoist him up.
The cab driver shook his head before driving off, and Brit couldn't help agreeing with the cabbie; Mr. Hart was covered in snow.
"Now, let's get you inside." He started walking the drunken man into his building.
"I can walk on my own."
Brit didn't even acknowledge Mr. Hart's protest.
"Good evening, Ray. It seems I have a house guest tonight." He rolled his eyes at the doorman who had been working here since Brit's parents lived in the apartment that belonged to Brit now. Then he got busy removing hands from inappropriate places again. God, Mr. Hart had long arms.
"Do you need any help with that, sir?" Ray seemed to find the situation hilarious. No wonder; Brit's life was normally so well-ordered that you could set your clock by when he left for work. He did his duties, his seat on the board at the Symphony one of several he had recently inherited after his father had retired, but he was only rarely out late. Granted, it wasn't even late now. Mr. Hart just looked that way.
"No, I'll manage. Have a nice evening."
"You, too, sir." Ray nodded and went back to his desk.
"Hey. I'm right here, you know."
Ignoring the man's outraged exclamation seemed to be the most effective way of getting Mr. Hart to do what he wanted, and so Brit managed to get his new friend into the elevator. The doors closed behind them and the elevator started moving.
He didn't manage to keep Mr. Hart away from his butt, though. Those hands were all over the place, and Brit squirmed, desperate to get them off him. It wasn't that it didn't feel good; the warm, hungry touches made him feel things that he had denied himself for a long time. For a moment, his body hummed with being wanted, the hunger good and warm and alive.
Then he took a deep breath and pulled back. This was just too risky. It took almost more willpower than he had, but he took a firm grip of the hands on his ass and removed them.
The man looked deeply offended for a moment; then something else caught his attention.
"Hey. Aren't you supposed to push the button?" Mr. Hart was blinking, first at the buttons on the wall, then at Brit. He looked quite endearing trying to make sense of that mystery.
"Not for my apartment, no." Brit smiled a little stiffly at Mr. Hart, carefully keeping his distance. Too much could be ruined just because he so desperately wanted to feel that body close to his again.
"Wow. A no button apartment." Mr. Hart seemed to contemplate that, and luckily, that kept both him and his hands occupied until the doors opened, and Brit could walk him through the hall and into the living room. Brit wanted him in one of the guest rooms, but Mr. Hart was lagging behind, blinking at the view.
"Wow. Wow."
Alcohol really wasn't good for one's vocabulary.
Mr. Hart was still capable of speaking words of more than one syllable, though. "Is this the penthouse? That's the park down there, isn't it? I've never seen it from this angle before." Mr. Hart was lost in the glittering lights under them, and Brit had to drag him to the guest room. Finally, Brit could let go of the man.
Mr. Hart didn't let go of him, though. Now that the view of the park wasn't there for distraction anymore, Mr. Hart's undivided attention was on Brit. Reaching out for him, the man's hands were a lot gentler than they'd been before, one holding on carefully to his arm while the other caressed his chest. Brit just stared, unable to process the fact that he was being touched, being held.
Then Mr. Hart's lips were on his, and he didn't think anymore. The man was surprisingly tender, giving him time to adjust to the little nipping kisses before going on. When their kiss deepened, Brit made a little sound deep in his throat, the soft, moist lips against his feeling so good. So right. He gave in to it, kissing Mr. Hart with everything in him, relishing the eagerness that made the other man push close, made his body sing with finally being touched. He had been alone for so long.
He only pulled back because Mr. Hart leaned too far and stumbled, only barely catching himself by clinging to Brit. Brit just laughed.
"I think that's those last two vodkas speaking. Need to lie down for a bit?"
Mr. Hart smiled and kissed him once before turning to the bed, letting himself fall. "Just need a minute." Brit shook his head as the man stretched out, looking very much at home in the bed.
Brit turned to check that there were towels in the bathroom and grabbed the robe on the wall.
"Here, I thought you might want a sho--" Brit stopped himself as he saw the sleeping man on the bed. He sighed. Mr. Hart wouldn't need the robe tonight. He couldn't help feeling a little disappointed even though the man had been way too drunk to be up to anything. Not that Brit was interested, he told himself.
Brit set to undressing the man and soon found out that drunken people were a lot heavier than they looked. The good Mr. Hart was completely out of it, and Brit was breathing hard before he had the man undressed. But he managed, only leaving on his guest's boxers.
Brit let his eyes run over the slim body on the bed before he guiltily stopped himself. Ogling nearly naked men wasn't very tasteful. Especially not unconscious naked men. Not even when you hadn't seen one for months and the object of the ogling hadn't seemed to mind their close contact in the slightest. Still, it was out of the question.
Sighing, he reached for the covers and pulled them over his unexpected house guest. He left the room, but after thinking again, he returned with a bottle of water and a bucket, putting one on the nightstand and the other on the floor next to the bed. Mr. Hart might need both the next morning.
***
When Brit woke up the following morning, he had a strange feeling of not being alone. With a start, he looked around his bed, only to find it as empty as it always was. He sat up, blinking, and only after grabbing the water bottle on the nightstand and drinking deeply did he remember the man from the previous evening.
Mr. Hart. Brit cursed himself all the way to Hell and back. Why had he suddenly gotten an urge to play the knight in shining armor for someone so determined to make a fool of himself? Why, when all of Brit's careful plans depended on the fact that he kept his private life just that, private?
He was determined to keep it that way. And he had, right up until the moment when he told a total stranger that he was gay. And kissed the man, too, just to prove it. Luckily, there was no way Mr. Hart would be able to remember it today, but still.
He groaned, resting his head in his hands. What had he been thinking?
The close contact had felt really good, though. And the kiss... It was like having been starved and then finally fed.
Brit forced himself to get up and take a shower. It probably wasn't going to be easy to get rid of the guy; those hands had really been grabby. It had almost been flattering... Brit scolded himself. He hadn't been hit on by Mr. Hart; he had been hit on by a giant bottle of vodka on two legs.
Which was a shame, because there was something about the man. Even though he had made some less than fortunate comments about sex. Brit almost smiled. Man, he must have had a lot to drink.
The guy wasn't bad looking, though. Washing himself, Brit slowly let his hand close around his dick. Undressing Mr. Hart had revealed a body that was long and lean; even out like a light, the man had been quite sexy. Those lips were what really mattered, though; the easygoing way Mr. Hart had given him what he needed so much was still lingering in his mind. It had been so very different from what Brit had ever experienced.
And his touches had felt so good.
Brit cursed. What he had to do now was to make sure the guy didn't seek him out again. He told his dick to mind its own business and got out of the shower. He could work a couple of hours until the man woke up, then he would talk the guy out of whatever Mr. Hart's grabby hands would be up to this morning, and then Brit could go to the gym. Back to his well-ordered, neat life.
It was almost noon when he heard a sound from the lobby. Frowning, Brit got up to see what was going on.
He found Mr. Hart there, looking around in confusion as the man closed the door to the closet.
"Are you sneaking out on me?" Brit could hear the incredulity in his own voice.
The man turned around with a start.
"Oh! No, I..." Mr. Hart looked around as if to find an answer somewhere behind the gilded mirror or the Renaissance painting.
"Because that would be slightly impolite, you know." Brit had no idea why he felt almost offended all of a sudden.
"Okay, I was." Mr. Hart looked ashamed. "I'll come back and apologize, I swear. Right now I need to be embarrassed beyond belief in private. And look for a new job, of course."
"There is that."
Mr. Hart did look mortified. Brit took mercy on him.
"The door to the elevator is behind there." A bit reluctantly, Brit pointed to the door opposite the mirror. His father had had a thing with the elevator door, hiding the "ugly, industrial-looking thing" behind a normal wooden door.
"Oh. Okay. I'll just..." Mr. Hart pushed the button, and there was an awkward silence as they waited for the elevator to get there.
Brit wanted to say something, but he had no idea what protocol was for small talk with formerly drunken men who were now doing their best to run away. He felt strangely cheated. He had spent a lot of time figuring out how to reject Mr. Hart's advances, and now it seemed it had been completely in vain. It was almost a shame; he didn't meet a lot of new people. At least not anyone like Mr. Hart.
Finally, they heard the small sound from the elevator and the doors opened.
"You can call me if you need to know what happened yesterday." The words were out of Brit's mouth before he could think about it. He defended it by reminding himself that Mr. Hart had been completely out of it. Last night had to be a blur to the poor man. Which was for the better, anyway, with Mr. Hart's hands and comments and everything.
"Oh, I remember."
The doors closed between them, and the last thing Brit saw was the embarrassment on Mr. Hart's face change into a knowing little smile. Brit was left staring at the closed elevator door in astonishment. There was no way the man could remember anything after that amount of vodka.
Walking back into his office, Brit was frowning even as he sat down with the report from the Philadelphia office. He seriously hoped that Mr. Hart had been as inebriated the night before as the man seemed. Otherwise, Brit might be in considerable trouble.
***
In the following days, Brit found himself getting more and more restless. There weren't any headlines on the gossip websites about him, so at least Mr. Hart hadn't gone public with the fact that one of the city's most eligible bachelors (according to last year's list) wasn't that eligible after all. At least not to those blonde former debutantes who surrounded him at fundraisers, dressed to bring home their kill, the hungry look in their eyes barely hidden. Brit shuddered at the thought.
But he still didn't want to be outed -- or whatever you would call it, since he didn't consider himself to be in the closet. He just wanted to be discreet.
As the days went by and nothing happened, Brit's initial relief changed into something strangely close to disappointment. He mentally kicked himself; it wasn't even as if he had been attracted to the guy. But the memory of the man's kisses kept coming back to him; the kisses and the gentle smile and the eager way the man had pushed close. It only accentuated the fact that Brit hadn't had any physical contact with anybody for more than a year now, the yearning that he had tried to smother in work once again making itself known.
It even got to the point where he thought about dressing down and going to one of the seedy clubs on the other side of the Symphony hall, the side the patrons carefully avoided. But he felt more and more ridiculous doing that; the fake name he used was as meaningless as the insistence that they couldn't go back to his place. Which meant that they didn't go any places at all. Brit groaned as he thought about his last hook-up in a club like that. It was so undignified that it completely took the joy out of the... well, "intimacy" was the wrong word for it. A quick release, which left him almost as unsatisfied as before.
Brit told himself to stop thinking about sweet and eager eyes and hands that weren't afraid of what they wanted. With his usual discipline, he managed quite well for almost a week. Then he got a call from the administrator at the Symphony who wanted to hear his opinion on something regarding the fundraising for the orchestra's Canadian tour.
Brit groaned inside, even as he politely agreed to meet Mr. Baxter the next day. It wasn't the barely concealed plea for more funding; Brit happily followed in his father's footsteps when it came to donating generously to the causes he liked. And he liked music. But the risk of meeting Mr. Hart again made him inexplicably nervous.
Well, there wasn't much chance of that, he thought; Mr. Hart had made it very clear that he would have to look for a new job. Brit shouldn't be worried about meeting him at the Symphony the next day.
***
Of course, Mr. Hart was the first person he met when he came out of the elevator in the Symphony's administration building.
"Mr. Collins? Can I help you?" The man looked terrified.
"Mr. Hart." Brit cursed at himself when he heard how surprised he sounded.
Mr. Hart smiled, looking a little sheepish. "Look, I..."
Mr. Baxter came out into the hallway, greeting Brit. Mr. Hart quickly made his way into an office down the hall.
Brit narrowed his eyes, but turned to follow Mr. Baxter into the man's office.
To Brit's surprise, the meeting wasn't about more money. Mr. Baxter hemmed and hawed and finally revealed that they had gotten an offer from another sponsor, a firm that operated in the periphery of Collins Industries' field of interest. Mr. Baxter only wanted to ensure that Brit wouldn't retract his sponsorship because of conflict of interest.
Brit almost laughed out loud. There was no conflict of interest, and even if there had been, an institution like the Symphony wasn't in a position to turn anyone down at the moment. Hell, the devil could sponsor his own opera if he wanted; the result would probably be more interesting than a lot of the projects they did, Mrs. Campbell's beloved Haydn symphonies in mind. He was about to tell Mr. Baxter as much when he hesitated.
"I'll have to consult my board," he said hesitantly. He didn't; he was fully confident in making his own decisions in matters like these. "And I'd like to know more about the program of the tour, see if it's something that fits our profile." He was improvising wildly; how the choice of one classical symphony over the other could affect Collins Industries' prospective clientele of entrepreneurs, he didn't have a clue.
But Mr. Baxter nodded eagerly. "Of course. I'm sure Mr. Hart can see you right away."
Brit nodded, meticulously hiding his grin. He was suddenly looking forward to this. A lot.
He quickly got serious again when Mr. Baxter showed him into Mr. Hart's office, the man looking up from the book on the table with a terrified expression. Mr. Baxter left them, closing the door. The silence between them was awkward, to say the least.
"Did you tell--?" They spoke all at once and then stopped, startled. Then Mr. Hart grinned, a bit embarrassed, and Brit could feel his shoulders relax. He sat down in the chair in front of Mr. Hart's desk.
"So, you were telling me about Haydn, I think?" Brit couldn't keep the teasing note out of his voice.
Mr. Hart groaned. "God. I think I had a bit too much to drink. Did you tell anybody about it? I thought you were here to get me fired."
"No!" Brit frowned. "I'd never do that." That was below him, and apart from that, Mr. Hart hadn't really done anything wrong. Even the story about the Farewell Symphony was true, if a bit too detailed for the occasion. Then he remembered his own question.
"Did you tell anybody?"
Mr. Hart looked confused. "Tell what? You weren't the one who got drunk and told inappropriate stories to elderly patrons of the Symphony."
Brit snorted. Then he got serious. "Did you tell anyone about the... the beard thing?" He kicked himself for getting embarrassed about something like this. And for not having the guts to even mention the most amazing kiss he had ever had.
Mr. Hart looked crestfallen. Then a mixture of wariness and disappointment crossed his face. "Don't tell me you're in the closet?"
"I'm not!" He wasn't. "I'm just... discreet."
"Really? That's what they call it these days?" There was a slight note of bitterness in Mr. Hart's voice.
"No, you don't get it." Brit took a deep breath, wanting this to come out right. "Listen, I meet a lot of people, all of them older and more experienced than me, and I have to keep up with them, you know?" Brit looked pleadingly at Mr. Hart. "It's not for my sake; it's for the sake of his company. My company, I mean." He had to stop making that slip.
"And the gossip about all those CEOs, their second wives and third mistresses; does that affect your judgment of them in the boardroom?" It sounded like a challenge, but at the same time, Mr. Hart looked like he was genuinely interested in the answer.
"No, not... But it's not the same; I'm thirty-two, for God's sake. I can't show any weaknesses." He had no idea why it was so important to him to explain this to Mr. Hart.
"Liking men is a weakness?"
Brit stared at Mr. Hart, desperately trying to come up with an answer. Nothing came to him.
Mr. Hart's face got a bit kinder. "Listen, it's none of my business. After all, I walked out on you, not the other way round. Why did Mr. Baxter send you into my office?"
Brit had to think to figure out what Mr. Hart was talking about. "Oh! Well, he thought there might be a conflict of interest in some sponsorship arrangements for the Canada tour, and I asked to see the program."
"To see if there's any conflict of interest? You know that we're playing Beethoven, right? How can that be in conflict with building houses?"
"You checked what I do?" Brit felt a little rush of joy go through him.
Now it was Mr. Hart's turn to look flustered. "It's only appropriate to know the Symphony's biggest sponsor. Listen, what can I help you with?"
"Lunch." The idea came spontaneously, but Brit smiled as it settled.
"Lunch?"
Brit studiously ignored Mr. Hart's skepticism. "Yes. I'm sure Mr. Baxter would appreciate that you keep 'the Symphony's biggest sponsor' happy." He smiled contentedly.
Mr. Hart snorted. "I'm sure he will. All right, you'll have it your way. Lunch it is."
***
Brit had felt pretty triumphant when he'd gotten his way. With his position, it should have been an everyday occurrence for him, but he had spent the last ten years clawing his way to where he was now, fighting his age and being his father's son and looking far too pretty for the job. The latter was a quote, from the CEO of a competing business. Brit had made sure to tear the man apart in the following negotiations. He hadn't heard that comment ever since.
He had been talking animatedly to Mr. Hart in the cab, but when they arrived at the restaurant, Brit carefully kept his distance from the other man, lowering his voice and looking as professional as possible. Mr. Hart clearly noticed it, and there had been a frown on the man's face ever since.
Now they were at the table in the restaurant, and once again, he didn't know what to say. It got worse and worse as the silence spread between them.
In the end, Mr. Hart put down his fork and looked questioningly at him.
"So, am I actually going to go over the program for you? Because I sincerely doubt that there might be anything in the Emperor Concerto that doesn't fit the building industry." It was impossible to miss the teasing note in his voice.
Brit was this close to making an angry retort, his usual reflex when taunted. Then he sighed. "No, you don't have to do that. It was just an excuse to get you to have lunch with me." Oops. He hadn't meant to say it quite that bluntly. Or at all.
"And it didn't occur to you just to ask me?"
"I..."
Mr. Hart patiently waited while Brit tried to find an answer.
"But you were the one walking out on me!" That sounded more defensive than he had intended.
Mr. Hart sat back in his chair, looking sharply at Brit. "And you're not used to men running away from your penthouse apartment and your expensive sheets?"
"I don't even know what my sheets cost! I didn't buy them, for God's sake. Everything there's my father's stuff."
"You live at home? At your age?" Mr. Hart's eyes narrowed.
"No!" Jesus. Brit let his hands slide through his hair. "No. It's my apartment -- now -- but I haven't changed anything after my father moved to California last year. I mean, it's still like it's his place."
"His place, his firm -- his life?"
Brit stared. This was nowhere near what he had intended with this lunch. He briefly thought about returning the conversation to the Emperor Concerto, but his excuse for inviting Mr. Hart for lunch seemed feebler than ever. He just gave up.
"I just wanted to save you from making a fool out of yourself the other evening." His voice sounded almost pleading. Then he shook his head and put his napkin on the table. "Listen, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made you do this." He looked around for the waiter to get the bill and end his misery.
Mr. Hart sighed. "No, don't. I'm the one who's sorry."
Brit looked up, surprised.
Mr. Hart smiled, a little bitterness in it. "I'm obviously not used to socializing with the upper classes; things seem to work differently with you. Listen, does your father really hate you that much?"
"What? No! Why do you say that?"
"Well, you seem terrified of doing anything to displease him. You haven't even changed his sheets. Figuratively speaking, of course."
"I'm not!" Brit had no idea why he suddenly had to explain this much about himself, but he was reluctant to see Mr. Hart leave. "He's a good man; he's taught me everything I know about his firm. My firm." He bit his tongue.
"But he doesn't like you being gay? Or doesn't he know?"
"It's not like that!" Brit took a deep breath. "He thinks it's some new-fangled idea, but that's what he said about the Internet, too. He really doesn't care as long as I do my best."
"But you care?" The interrogation didn't really seem like one, not with the way Mr. Hart patiently waited for his answers. There was an interest there that Brit wasn't used to in the people he spoke to.
"He's made some really big footprints. I want to do my best." Brit's voice was quiet.
Mr. Hart nodded. "I get that. I just think you need to sit down and figure out what your best is. Because I don't think you're comfortable wearing your father's shoes." The man got up while Brit stared helplessly at him. He hesitated; then he got out a card.
"You can call me, but not before you've done some thinking, okay?" He smiled a little, eyes kind. Then he turned to leave.
"Wait!"
Mr. Hart looked at him.
"I don't even... What's your name?"
Mr. Hart smiled again. "It's right there, Mr. Collins."
Brit looked at him, confused.
"The card?" The man seemed to give up. "My name is Jeremy. You can even call me that. When you call me." With that, he turned and left.
Brit sat, staring at the card for a long, long time without really seeing it. Then he jumped up and left the restaurant.
***
Brit hardly had time to greet Ray when he got home, tapping his fingers on the wall all the way in the elevator. When it finally opened, he stormed out.
And stopped, looking around at the gilded mirror and the heavy furniture and the renaissance paintings more expensive than most people's houses.
A gilded mirror. What had he been thinking?
Decisively, Brit fetched his pads of sticky notes in his office, one pink, one green. He planted a pink one right in the middle of the gilded mirror. That had to go.
He continued through the whole apartment, seeing it as if for the very first time. Most of it shook him more than he had expected. How the fuck had he been able to live like this? It was like a museum -- someone else's museum.
Halfway through, he realized that he hadn't even taken off his coat. He threw it over the leather couch and put a pink sticker on the massive piece of furniture at the same time. Then he took a step back. Actually, he had always liked that couch; it had so many carvings and decorations that it was borderline ridiculous. With a grin, he removed the sticker again. He felt almost dizzy with elation. This was his life, his things.
Two hours later, he was tired and a little grimy from all the things he had touched as he figured out if he really liked them or not. He sat down on the couch -- his couch; he had decided he wanted it, nobody else -- and looked around. The walls didn't need much; he liked the calm colors his parents had chosen. But he wanted sleek furniture and some very different paintings. And a new bedspread.
He grinned. This was just plain fun. With a satisfied sigh, he sat back on the couch and closed his eyes.
The thoughts were churning in his head, his sudden fresh look on his apartment spreading to other subjects. Had he done the same thing with the firm -- just trudged on without seeing how things really were?
He didn't have to think long about that. His father had given him a thorough introduction to the business, and he felt confident in what he did. His father really was that good, and the man had been a good teacher. Brit had just been taking things a little too far, trying to be perfect.
Brit abruptly sat up, opening his eyes. He didn't see anything, though, the shock of the revelation too big.
His father had never asked him to stay in the closet.
Mr. Collins Sr. had been very determined to raise his son to behave correctly, but he had never said anything about that. Brit had just assumed that discretion would be the easiest way to be successful.
But who said you should always take the easy way? Brit grinned, getting up to find his phone. He was going to order a pizza, and then he was going to find someone to help him buy some furniture.
***
Three days later, Brit was very close to whimpering. He had thought that you went into a shop, pointed out what you liked, and then your furniture guy got it delivered for you.
First of all, the furniture guy was called an interior decorator. Second, he had some very definite views of things.
"You have to live with it for a long time; you don't want to choose this table just because it's the only one left," the man had said, frowning.
That was three shops before the one they were in now, and Brit's legs were hurting the way they did when you stood up without moving enough for too long.
"I like this one, but I think you should have it with the aluminum legs instead of the wooden ones." Thomas looked up from where he was studying the dining room table. He saw the look on Brit's face and seemed to take mercy on him.
"Okay, I'll fix this one. I only have one thing left for you, then."
Brit groaned.
Thomas just laughed. "It's our last stop, and you're going to like it. Besides, I've never refurnished an apartment as big as yours in less than a month. You should be grateful I'm not demanding your opinion on eggshell versus off-white trimmings."
That shut Brit up quite effectively.
He dozed a bit in the car, and he didn't really wake up until they were in an industrial looking building. There was an odd chemical smell, and then his eye caught the big paintings along the walls.
"This is a friend of mine, Peter. Have a look around and let me know if you find anything you like."
Brit absentmindedly shook Peter's hand; his attention was already on the bright mass of green colors halfway down the wall. He went closer, and then he stood still, fascinated by it.
It was just green colors, basically, but there was something about the way they swirled and twisted that caught Brit's attention. The painting was so vibrant it almost looked alive.
He had to tear himself away from it to look at the other paintings, and he stopped several times, caught by bright colors mixed up with layers that seemed almost geological, like rock and gravel.
"I need my sticky no-- Oh." He turned around, only to find Thomas and Peter standing close to him, watching him. Thomas had an amused look on his face.
"I take it you like them?"
"Yes." Brit nodded. He wanted them. "I want the green one in the living room, along with the gray one. And there are four or five others I'd like, too."
The painter looked a bit overwhelmed, but Thomas shook his head. "You can't have the green one in the living room; it's going to look like puke against those walls."
Brit had to make an effort to picture the painting against the olive walls of his living room. He realized that Thomas was right. "But I want it." Man, that sounded pitiful.
"What if we painted your living room white?" Thomas was speaking slowly, as if he was trying out the idea himself. "The paintings would look great, and it would be fresh and clean and something you had decided. Your room, you know?"
"My room." The more Brit imagined it, the more he liked the idea. "And then I could have that one, too." He pointed at an odd, narrow painting almost four feet tall. He felt a little like a kid in a candy store.
The painter laughed. "Well, I've been trying to sell that one for ages, so I'll even give you a discount."
Brit nodded, very satisfied. He was creating a home. His home.
***
It wasn't the only thing he was creating. Three weeks later, Brit sat in the car, feeling both excited and relieved. Earlier that day, he had talked to his father, and it had gone far better than he could have imagined.
"That was about time."
Brit had been stunned when he heard his father's reaction to the news that Brit had redecorated the apartment. His father had sounded very sure, though.
"You have to put your own mark on it, son. Otherwise it's not really yours. That goes for the business, too."
Brit could still feel his surprise at that. He had almost felt that he ought to defend his father and the man's work, but his father had just laughed.
"Handed down boots chafe if you aren't careful, Brit."
Brit had been a little dumbfounded by that.
He had been equally dumbfounded by the other answer he got, from his second call, but pleased, too. Downright silly happy with it, as a matter of fact.
He realized that they were there and jumped out of the car.
***
"I kept the sheets."
Mr. Hart -- well, Jeremy -- looked up in surprise from where he had been waiting in the lobby, away from the heavy snow falling outside. Brit just kept talking; he had wanted to say this for a while at this point.
"My furniture guy told me they were insanely expensive, so it would be foolish to throw them out. But I've redecorated the entire apartment, and I only kept what I like, not what my father liked. I did the same with the business, except I actually agree with almost everything my father did. I do have some new ideas, though."
Jeremy nodded slowly. "So, the conglomerate and the penthouse are fixed. Have you come around to the rest of your life yet?"
Brit opened his mouth to defend himself, and then he caught the little smile on Jeremy's lips. He couldn't help but return it.
"I'm getting there." He reached out his arm, an old-fashioned gesture that seemed strangely appropriate right now.
Jeremy smiled back as the man took his arm and followed him out into the car.
***
"Wait. Can you pull over here?" It was a sudden impulse, but the driver did what he asked, letting them out a hundred feet before the entrance to the hotel where Collins Industries had its annual Christmas party. The snow was still falling heavily, but luckily, Brit had brought an umbrella. He put it up, holding it over himself and Jeremy.
He looked around at the Christmas decorations, the heavy snow covering the streets and making everything quiet and soft. It was beautiful, the busy city hidden away under the layers of white.
Jeremy looked at him questioningly. With an almost shy gesture, Brit reached out and pulled the other man closer. Jeremy didn't resist.
"I thought... You see the snow?" The broad sidewalk was mostly pristine, only a few people having walked down the sidewalk close to the street.
Jeremy nodded.
"I thought it was time to make my own footprints." He looked at Jeremy. "Will you make them with me?"
Jeremy looked at him at him for a moment. Then he shrugged, that little smile still on his face. "Yeah, okay." There was a teasing glint in his eyes, now. "I think you need to kiss me first, though, before you drag me through the snow."
Something rushed through Brit at those words, his stomach suddenly fluttering madly. He looked into those happy eyes and leaned in, finally allowing himself to taste Jeremy's soft lips again.
The sensation was intoxicating. He made a small sound and leaned closer, Jeremy's body solid against his, arms sliding around him and holding on while he gently kissed the man he had been thinking about ever since they met, gently pushing and having his question answered by a soft tongue meeting his own. He was lost in it, in the scent and taste of Jeremy, and the snow was falling around them as Brit let himself touch and kiss and feel.
He was reluctant to let go, but Jeremy smiled when he finally opened his eyes.
"Good work." His voice was quiet, happy. "And merry Christmas, Mr. Collins."
Brit laughed, the sound the only thing to be heard over the snow. "Merry Christmas to you, too, Mr. Hart."
End.
"Knowing it by Hart" was originally published by Torquere Press.
The blurb:
Brit's life is exactly how he wants it: neat, ordered, and disciplined, the way it needs to be if anybody is going to take a thirty-two year old CEO seriously. If that means being so discreet that you're basically in the closet, then so be it.
Then, at a charity dinner, he meets the good Mr. Hart. A very drunken Mr. Hart. Who gives Brit the kiss of his life. That's all that happens, of course; Brit has got a reputation to protect. Only, he can't get Mr. Hart out of his head, and he realizes that it might be time to make some changes.
The story:
"It's all about sex."
The words carried very well through the lull in the conversation, and Brit couldn't help turning in his chair after the speaker's voice. It wasn't exactly what you expected at the annual contributor's Christmas dinner at the Symphony, after all.
The voice belonged to a man in his thirties, well dressed but with the subtly shoddy air of someone having had just one too many. The man's inebriation didn't do anything to diminish his good looks. Very good looks, in fact; the light brown hair was almost the same color as his eyes and he had the sweetest smile on his face.
And Brit was being entirely too obvious in his gawping. Discretion was more important to him than almost anything else.
He wasn't the only one being somewhat too open, though.
"Now, take the Rite of Spring. That's about a fertility ritual, and at the premiere, you couldn't even hear the music over the booing. If something's too sexy for Paris, then it's damn sexy." The last couple of words were a bit slurred, and the speaker was looming slightly to one side where his dinner partner, an elderly lady with an aristocratic air, had a hard time concealing the slightly uneasy look on her face.
"I must admit to being rather more interested in Haydn than Stravinsky, Mr. Hart." Her tone was polite. She must have incredibly good manners.
"Yes! Haydn." It didn't deter the inebriated speaker in the slightest to have his subject changed. "Do you know the Farewell Symphony, Mrs. Campbell?"
"Oh, yes." Poor Mrs. Campbell sounded relieved. "It's a charming piece of music; so very moving when the musicians leave one by one. The Symphony played it a couple of years back when the financial circumstances threatened a cut to the orchestra. But I believe that was before your time, Mr. Hart. How long have you been writing the program notes now?"
The valiant attempt at changing the subject was completely lost on Mr. Hart. "That symphony is about sex, too." He nodded sagely to the rest of the diners at the round table next to Brit's, most of whom were by now very interested in the conversation.
"The musicians were all at the Esterhazy summer residence, out in the country, you know. Without their wives; they were still back in the city. The noble family didn't want to go back, and the musicians got hornier and hornier until Haydn decided to..."
Brit quickly stood up, deliberately tipping his chair so it hit the back of the sorely tried Mrs. Campbell's chair.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, Mrs. Campbell." Brit fussed with the chair, Mrs. Campbell looking grateful for an excuse to interrupt her conversation.
"Mr. Hart, I think my chair is broken." Brit did his best to hide the back of the chair under his arm while he fumbled with it. "Would you be so kind as to show me where I can get another?"
"But I don't know..." The man looked up in confusion.
Brit took a firm grip around the unfortunate Mr. Hart's arm and spoke over his protest. "I'm terribly sorry for stealing Mr. Hart from you, Mrs. Campbell."
Mrs. Campbell showed an impressive restraint when she kept her relief almost hidden. "No, no, Mr. Collins, I'll be fine."
She probably would be a lot better without someone recounting the entire history of classical music in terms of sex to her. Brit nodded politely and dragged a reluctant Mr. Hart out of the room as inconspicuously as he could.
He still had the sturdy chair in his left hand, and it was rather heavy to carry that way. Heavy enough to keep him from reacting fast enough when Mr. Hart reached out and grabbed two large vodkas from a passing waiter's tray. The man had downed them both before Brit had a chance to prevent it.
Brit took a firm grip on the man's arm and pulled him out of the room, putting the chair down. One of the waiters came up to see what was wrong.
"No, it's okay; I just needed an excuse to get him out of there. Could you leave the chair out here, please? That way it won't look suspicious." The waiter nodded, looking grateful for not having to deal with the man now slumped over Brit's shoulder.
"I hate my job." Mr. Hart's voice was slurred. "They never want the real story. Just the fucking 'and that was how he refined the structure of the string quartet.' Who the fuck wants to hear about refining structures? Or fucking string quartets, when it comes to that..." The man's voice died down to a mumble, and Brit almost thought that he had calmed down enough to stay out here while Brit went back inside.
"Haydn was gay!"
Maybe not. He might look good, but the stranger's voice was only made louder by the amount of alcohol he had consumed.
To make it worse, Mr. Hart's chosen topic was Brit's least favorite subject in the whole world when he was surrounded with important business contacts. Dinners at the Symphony had secured the firm huge contracts before, and Brit had no intention of ruining his father's firm.
His firm. Brit ground his teeth when he made the slip for the umpteenth time. He tore himself back to the present situation.
"I think I’d better get him out of here."
The waiter nodded in agreement and not a little relief, turning around and calling them a cab from the phone at the front desk.
"He was!" Mr. Hart continued his monologue without even noticing the interruption. "And Benjamin Britten, and Poulenc. They were all gay."
"I don't think Haydn was gay, Mr. Hart. He did marry, you know." Brit once more took a firm grip on the increasingly limp body next to him and began walking them to the exit, a thankful look on the waiter's face as they left.
"She was his beard!" Mr. Hart gestured wildly into the air to emphasize his point. Then he stopped abruptly. "Oh. But you don't know what a beard is. Straight people never do."
"I know what a beard is, Mr. Hart. Even used one of my own a couple of times."
There was a stunned silence from his drunken partner, and Brit used it to get the man through the doors to the street. The air was cold and clear, and it was a blessing after the stuffy air inside. The good Mr. Hart wasn't the only one who had found the atmosphere in there a bit stifling. But his father would kill Brit if he behaved anything like Mr. Hart.
"What? You mean you're..." Unfortunately, the cold air seemed to have revived Mr. Hart, too, and the man leaned on him, suddenly very friendly.
Him and his hands both. Brit had to wriggle out of his grip in a less than dignified move. This time, it was more to protect what little was left of his virtue than his reputation.
Brit had never been so relieved to see a cab in his life.
He managed to get Mr. Hart into the car, even though he had to negotiate with the driver for a while before the man agreed to take them home. He had to promise to pay for the cleaning, in cash, if anything happened, before the driver reluctantly started the engine.
"Where do you live, Mr...?" Brit turned to look at Mr. Hart and found him soundly asleep. After shaking the man several times, Brit began to understand exactly what they meant by "a drunken stupor."
"That's just great. What on Earth am I going to do with you now?"
The unconscious man just started snoring.
The driver demanded to know where they were going, and Brit had to give the man his own address. Having to do that bothered him; he never brought strange men home. He wasn't in the closet; he was just very, very discreet. There was no need to ruin his hard work; he had been very meticulous about building up his reputation as being trustworthy and, most importantly, far more skilled than his thirty-two years promised. If word got around he was gay, he would be back to scratch, having to start all over.
They were at his building before he knew it, and then he faced another problem: waking up the sleeping man.
It solved itself, though, when the cab driver opened the door and Mr. Hart fell on his face in the thin layer of snow on the ground.
"Wha... Cold." The man shuffled around, and Brit managed to get an arm around him and hoist him up.
The cab driver shook his head before driving off, and Brit couldn't help agreeing with the cabbie; Mr. Hart was covered in snow.
"Now, let's get you inside." He started walking the drunken man into his building.
"I can walk on my own."
Brit didn't even acknowledge Mr. Hart's protest.
"Good evening, Ray. It seems I have a house guest tonight." He rolled his eyes at the doorman who had been working here since Brit's parents lived in the apartment that belonged to Brit now. Then he got busy removing hands from inappropriate places again. God, Mr. Hart had long arms.
"Do you need any help with that, sir?" Ray seemed to find the situation hilarious. No wonder; Brit's life was normally so well-ordered that you could set your clock by when he left for work. He did his duties, his seat on the board at the Symphony one of several he had recently inherited after his father had retired, but he was only rarely out late. Granted, it wasn't even late now. Mr. Hart just looked that way.
"No, I'll manage. Have a nice evening."
"You, too, sir." Ray nodded and went back to his desk.
"Hey. I'm right here, you know."
Ignoring the man's outraged exclamation seemed to be the most effective way of getting Mr. Hart to do what he wanted, and so Brit managed to get his new friend into the elevator. The doors closed behind them and the elevator started moving.
He didn't manage to keep Mr. Hart away from his butt, though. Those hands were all over the place, and Brit squirmed, desperate to get them off him. It wasn't that it didn't feel good; the warm, hungry touches made him feel things that he had denied himself for a long time. For a moment, his body hummed with being wanted, the hunger good and warm and alive.
Then he took a deep breath and pulled back. This was just too risky. It took almost more willpower than he had, but he took a firm grip of the hands on his ass and removed them.
The man looked deeply offended for a moment; then something else caught his attention.
"Hey. Aren't you supposed to push the button?" Mr. Hart was blinking, first at the buttons on the wall, then at Brit. He looked quite endearing trying to make sense of that mystery.
"Not for my apartment, no." Brit smiled a little stiffly at Mr. Hart, carefully keeping his distance. Too much could be ruined just because he so desperately wanted to feel that body close to his again.
"Wow. A no button apartment." Mr. Hart seemed to contemplate that, and luckily, that kept both him and his hands occupied until the doors opened, and Brit could walk him through the hall and into the living room. Brit wanted him in one of the guest rooms, but Mr. Hart was lagging behind, blinking at the view.
"Wow. Wow."
Alcohol really wasn't good for one's vocabulary.
Mr. Hart was still capable of speaking words of more than one syllable, though. "Is this the penthouse? That's the park down there, isn't it? I've never seen it from this angle before." Mr. Hart was lost in the glittering lights under them, and Brit had to drag him to the guest room. Finally, Brit could let go of the man.
Mr. Hart didn't let go of him, though. Now that the view of the park wasn't there for distraction anymore, Mr. Hart's undivided attention was on Brit. Reaching out for him, the man's hands were a lot gentler than they'd been before, one holding on carefully to his arm while the other caressed his chest. Brit just stared, unable to process the fact that he was being touched, being held.
Then Mr. Hart's lips were on his, and he didn't think anymore. The man was surprisingly tender, giving him time to adjust to the little nipping kisses before going on. When their kiss deepened, Brit made a little sound deep in his throat, the soft, moist lips against his feeling so good. So right. He gave in to it, kissing Mr. Hart with everything in him, relishing the eagerness that made the other man push close, made his body sing with finally being touched. He had been alone for so long.
He only pulled back because Mr. Hart leaned too far and stumbled, only barely catching himself by clinging to Brit. Brit just laughed.
"I think that's those last two vodkas speaking. Need to lie down for a bit?"
Mr. Hart smiled and kissed him once before turning to the bed, letting himself fall. "Just need a minute." Brit shook his head as the man stretched out, looking very much at home in the bed.
Brit turned to check that there were towels in the bathroom and grabbed the robe on the wall.
"Here, I thought you might want a sho--" Brit stopped himself as he saw the sleeping man on the bed. He sighed. Mr. Hart wouldn't need the robe tonight. He couldn't help feeling a little disappointed even though the man had been way too drunk to be up to anything. Not that Brit was interested, he told himself.
Brit set to undressing the man and soon found out that drunken people were a lot heavier than they looked. The good Mr. Hart was completely out of it, and Brit was breathing hard before he had the man undressed. But he managed, only leaving on his guest's boxers.
Brit let his eyes run over the slim body on the bed before he guiltily stopped himself. Ogling nearly naked men wasn't very tasteful. Especially not unconscious naked men. Not even when you hadn't seen one for months and the object of the ogling hadn't seemed to mind their close contact in the slightest. Still, it was out of the question.
Sighing, he reached for the covers and pulled them over his unexpected house guest. He left the room, but after thinking again, he returned with a bottle of water and a bucket, putting one on the nightstand and the other on the floor next to the bed. Mr. Hart might need both the next morning.
***
When Brit woke up the following morning, he had a strange feeling of not being alone. With a start, he looked around his bed, only to find it as empty as it always was. He sat up, blinking, and only after grabbing the water bottle on the nightstand and drinking deeply did he remember the man from the previous evening.
Mr. Hart. Brit cursed himself all the way to Hell and back. Why had he suddenly gotten an urge to play the knight in shining armor for someone so determined to make a fool of himself? Why, when all of Brit's careful plans depended on the fact that he kept his private life just that, private?
He was determined to keep it that way. And he had, right up until the moment when he told a total stranger that he was gay. And kissed the man, too, just to prove it. Luckily, there was no way Mr. Hart would be able to remember it today, but still.
He groaned, resting his head in his hands. What had he been thinking?
The close contact had felt really good, though. And the kiss... It was like having been starved and then finally fed.
Brit forced himself to get up and take a shower. It probably wasn't going to be easy to get rid of the guy; those hands had really been grabby. It had almost been flattering... Brit scolded himself. He hadn't been hit on by Mr. Hart; he had been hit on by a giant bottle of vodka on two legs.
Which was a shame, because there was something about the man. Even though he had made some less than fortunate comments about sex. Brit almost smiled. Man, he must have had a lot to drink.
The guy wasn't bad looking, though. Washing himself, Brit slowly let his hand close around his dick. Undressing Mr. Hart had revealed a body that was long and lean; even out like a light, the man had been quite sexy. Those lips were what really mattered, though; the easygoing way Mr. Hart had given him what he needed so much was still lingering in his mind. It had been so very different from what Brit had ever experienced.
And his touches had felt so good.
Brit cursed. What he had to do now was to make sure the guy didn't seek him out again. He told his dick to mind its own business and got out of the shower. He could work a couple of hours until the man woke up, then he would talk the guy out of whatever Mr. Hart's grabby hands would be up to this morning, and then Brit could go to the gym. Back to his well-ordered, neat life.
It was almost noon when he heard a sound from the lobby. Frowning, Brit got up to see what was going on.
He found Mr. Hart there, looking around in confusion as the man closed the door to the closet.
"Are you sneaking out on me?" Brit could hear the incredulity in his own voice.
The man turned around with a start.
"Oh! No, I..." Mr. Hart looked around as if to find an answer somewhere behind the gilded mirror or the Renaissance painting.
"Because that would be slightly impolite, you know." Brit had no idea why he felt almost offended all of a sudden.
"Okay, I was." Mr. Hart looked ashamed. "I'll come back and apologize, I swear. Right now I need to be embarrassed beyond belief in private. And look for a new job, of course."
"There is that."
Mr. Hart did look mortified. Brit took mercy on him.
"The door to the elevator is behind there." A bit reluctantly, Brit pointed to the door opposite the mirror. His father had had a thing with the elevator door, hiding the "ugly, industrial-looking thing" behind a normal wooden door.
"Oh. Okay. I'll just..." Mr. Hart pushed the button, and there was an awkward silence as they waited for the elevator to get there.
Brit wanted to say something, but he had no idea what protocol was for small talk with formerly drunken men who were now doing their best to run away. He felt strangely cheated. He had spent a lot of time figuring out how to reject Mr. Hart's advances, and now it seemed it had been completely in vain. It was almost a shame; he didn't meet a lot of new people. At least not anyone like Mr. Hart.
Finally, they heard the small sound from the elevator and the doors opened.
"You can call me if you need to know what happened yesterday." The words were out of Brit's mouth before he could think about it. He defended it by reminding himself that Mr. Hart had been completely out of it. Last night had to be a blur to the poor man. Which was for the better, anyway, with Mr. Hart's hands and comments and everything.
"Oh, I remember."
The doors closed between them, and the last thing Brit saw was the embarrassment on Mr. Hart's face change into a knowing little smile. Brit was left staring at the closed elevator door in astonishment. There was no way the man could remember anything after that amount of vodka.
Walking back into his office, Brit was frowning even as he sat down with the report from the Philadelphia office. He seriously hoped that Mr. Hart had been as inebriated the night before as the man seemed. Otherwise, Brit might be in considerable trouble.
***
In the following days, Brit found himself getting more and more restless. There weren't any headlines on the gossip websites about him, so at least Mr. Hart hadn't gone public with the fact that one of the city's most eligible bachelors (according to last year's list) wasn't that eligible after all. At least not to those blonde former debutantes who surrounded him at fundraisers, dressed to bring home their kill, the hungry look in their eyes barely hidden. Brit shuddered at the thought.
But he still didn't want to be outed -- or whatever you would call it, since he didn't consider himself to be in the closet. He just wanted to be discreet.
As the days went by and nothing happened, Brit's initial relief changed into something strangely close to disappointment. He mentally kicked himself; it wasn't even as if he had been attracted to the guy. But the memory of the man's kisses kept coming back to him; the kisses and the gentle smile and the eager way the man had pushed close. It only accentuated the fact that Brit hadn't had any physical contact with anybody for more than a year now, the yearning that he had tried to smother in work once again making itself known.
It even got to the point where he thought about dressing down and going to one of the seedy clubs on the other side of the Symphony hall, the side the patrons carefully avoided. But he felt more and more ridiculous doing that; the fake name he used was as meaningless as the insistence that they couldn't go back to his place. Which meant that they didn't go any places at all. Brit groaned as he thought about his last hook-up in a club like that. It was so undignified that it completely took the joy out of the... well, "intimacy" was the wrong word for it. A quick release, which left him almost as unsatisfied as before.
Brit told himself to stop thinking about sweet and eager eyes and hands that weren't afraid of what they wanted. With his usual discipline, he managed quite well for almost a week. Then he got a call from the administrator at the Symphony who wanted to hear his opinion on something regarding the fundraising for the orchestra's Canadian tour.
Brit groaned inside, even as he politely agreed to meet Mr. Baxter the next day. It wasn't the barely concealed plea for more funding; Brit happily followed in his father's footsteps when it came to donating generously to the causes he liked. And he liked music. But the risk of meeting Mr. Hart again made him inexplicably nervous.
Well, there wasn't much chance of that, he thought; Mr. Hart had made it very clear that he would have to look for a new job. Brit shouldn't be worried about meeting him at the Symphony the next day.
***
Of course, Mr. Hart was the first person he met when he came out of the elevator in the Symphony's administration building.
"Mr. Collins? Can I help you?" The man looked terrified.
"Mr. Hart." Brit cursed at himself when he heard how surprised he sounded.
Mr. Hart smiled, looking a little sheepish. "Look, I..."
Mr. Baxter came out into the hallway, greeting Brit. Mr. Hart quickly made his way into an office down the hall.
Brit narrowed his eyes, but turned to follow Mr. Baxter into the man's office.
To Brit's surprise, the meeting wasn't about more money. Mr. Baxter hemmed and hawed and finally revealed that they had gotten an offer from another sponsor, a firm that operated in the periphery of Collins Industries' field of interest. Mr. Baxter only wanted to ensure that Brit wouldn't retract his sponsorship because of conflict of interest.
Brit almost laughed out loud. There was no conflict of interest, and even if there had been, an institution like the Symphony wasn't in a position to turn anyone down at the moment. Hell, the devil could sponsor his own opera if he wanted; the result would probably be more interesting than a lot of the projects they did, Mrs. Campbell's beloved Haydn symphonies in mind. He was about to tell Mr. Baxter as much when he hesitated.
"I'll have to consult my board," he said hesitantly. He didn't; he was fully confident in making his own decisions in matters like these. "And I'd like to know more about the program of the tour, see if it's something that fits our profile." He was improvising wildly; how the choice of one classical symphony over the other could affect Collins Industries' prospective clientele of entrepreneurs, he didn't have a clue.
But Mr. Baxter nodded eagerly. "Of course. I'm sure Mr. Hart can see you right away."
Brit nodded, meticulously hiding his grin. He was suddenly looking forward to this. A lot.
He quickly got serious again when Mr. Baxter showed him into Mr. Hart's office, the man looking up from the book on the table with a terrified expression. Mr. Baxter left them, closing the door. The silence between them was awkward, to say the least.
"Did you tell--?" They spoke all at once and then stopped, startled. Then Mr. Hart grinned, a bit embarrassed, and Brit could feel his shoulders relax. He sat down in the chair in front of Mr. Hart's desk.
"So, you were telling me about Haydn, I think?" Brit couldn't keep the teasing note out of his voice.
Mr. Hart groaned. "God. I think I had a bit too much to drink. Did you tell anybody about it? I thought you were here to get me fired."
"No!" Brit frowned. "I'd never do that." That was below him, and apart from that, Mr. Hart hadn't really done anything wrong. Even the story about the Farewell Symphony was true, if a bit too detailed for the occasion. Then he remembered his own question.
"Did you tell anybody?"
Mr. Hart looked confused. "Tell what? You weren't the one who got drunk and told inappropriate stories to elderly patrons of the Symphony."
Brit snorted. Then he got serious. "Did you tell anyone about the... the beard thing?" He kicked himself for getting embarrassed about something like this. And for not having the guts to even mention the most amazing kiss he had ever had.
Mr. Hart looked crestfallen. Then a mixture of wariness and disappointment crossed his face. "Don't tell me you're in the closet?"
"I'm not!" He wasn't. "I'm just... discreet."
"Really? That's what they call it these days?" There was a slight note of bitterness in Mr. Hart's voice.
"No, you don't get it." Brit took a deep breath, wanting this to come out right. "Listen, I meet a lot of people, all of them older and more experienced than me, and I have to keep up with them, you know?" Brit looked pleadingly at Mr. Hart. "It's not for my sake; it's for the sake of his company. My company, I mean." He had to stop making that slip.
"And the gossip about all those CEOs, their second wives and third mistresses; does that affect your judgment of them in the boardroom?" It sounded like a challenge, but at the same time, Mr. Hart looked like he was genuinely interested in the answer.
"No, not... But it's not the same; I'm thirty-two, for God's sake. I can't show any weaknesses." He had no idea why it was so important to him to explain this to Mr. Hart.
"Liking men is a weakness?"
Brit stared at Mr. Hart, desperately trying to come up with an answer. Nothing came to him.
Mr. Hart's face got a bit kinder. "Listen, it's none of my business. After all, I walked out on you, not the other way round. Why did Mr. Baxter send you into my office?"
Brit had to think to figure out what Mr. Hart was talking about. "Oh! Well, he thought there might be a conflict of interest in some sponsorship arrangements for the Canada tour, and I asked to see the program."
"To see if there's any conflict of interest? You know that we're playing Beethoven, right? How can that be in conflict with building houses?"
"You checked what I do?" Brit felt a little rush of joy go through him.
Now it was Mr. Hart's turn to look flustered. "It's only appropriate to know the Symphony's biggest sponsor. Listen, what can I help you with?"
"Lunch." The idea came spontaneously, but Brit smiled as it settled.
"Lunch?"
Brit studiously ignored Mr. Hart's skepticism. "Yes. I'm sure Mr. Baxter would appreciate that you keep 'the Symphony's biggest sponsor' happy." He smiled contentedly.
Mr. Hart snorted. "I'm sure he will. All right, you'll have it your way. Lunch it is."
***
Brit had felt pretty triumphant when he'd gotten his way. With his position, it should have been an everyday occurrence for him, but he had spent the last ten years clawing his way to where he was now, fighting his age and being his father's son and looking far too pretty for the job. The latter was a quote, from the CEO of a competing business. Brit had made sure to tear the man apart in the following negotiations. He hadn't heard that comment ever since.
He had been talking animatedly to Mr. Hart in the cab, but when they arrived at the restaurant, Brit carefully kept his distance from the other man, lowering his voice and looking as professional as possible. Mr. Hart clearly noticed it, and there had been a frown on the man's face ever since.
Now they were at the table in the restaurant, and once again, he didn't know what to say. It got worse and worse as the silence spread between them.
In the end, Mr. Hart put down his fork and looked questioningly at him.
"So, am I actually going to go over the program for you? Because I sincerely doubt that there might be anything in the Emperor Concerto that doesn't fit the building industry." It was impossible to miss the teasing note in his voice.
Brit was this close to making an angry retort, his usual reflex when taunted. Then he sighed. "No, you don't have to do that. It was just an excuse to get you to have lunch with me." Oops. He hadn't meant to say it quite that bluntly. Or at all.
"And it didn't occur to you just to ask me?"
"I..."
Mr. Hart patiently waited while Brit tried to find an answer.
"But you were the one walking out on me!" That sounded more defensive than he had intended.
Mr. Hart sat back in his chair, looking sharply at Brit. "And you're not used to men running away from your penthouse apartment and your expensive sheets?"
"I don't even know what my sheets cost! I didn't buy them, for God's sake. Everything there's my father's stuff."
"You live at home? At your age?" Mr. Hart's eyes narrowed.
"No!" Jesus. Brit let his hands slide through his hair. "No. It's my apartment -- now -- but I haven't changed anything after my father moved to California last year. I mean, it's still like it's his place."
"His place, his firm -- his life?"
Brit stared. This was nowhere near what he had intended with this lunch. He briefly thought about returning the conversation to the Emperor Concerto, but his excuse for inviting Mr. Hart for lunch seemed feebler than ever. He just gave up.
"I just wanted to save you from making a fool out of yourself the other evening." His voice sounded almost pleading. Then he shook his head and put his napkin on the table. "Listen, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made you do this." He looked around for the waiter to get the bill and end his misery.
Mr. Hart sighed. "No, don't. I'm the one who's sorry."
Brit looked up, surprised.
Mr. Hart smiled, a little bitterness in it. "I'm obviously not used to socializing with the upper classes; things seem to work differently with you. Listen, does your father really hate you that much?"
"What? No! Why do you say that?"
"Well, you seem terrified of doing anything to displease him. You haven't even changed his sheets. Figuratively speaking, of course."
"I'm not!" Brit had no idea why he suddenly had to explain this much about himself, but he was reluctant to see Mr. Hart leave. "He's a good man; he's taught me everything I know about his firm. My firm." He bit his tongue.
"But he doesn't like you being gay? Or doesn't he know?"
"It's not like that!" Brit took a deep breath. "He thinks it's some new-fangled idea, but that's what he said about the Internet, too. He really doesn't care as long as I do my best."
"But you care?" The interrogation didn't really seem like one, not with the way Mr. Hart patiently waited for his answers. There was an interest there that Brit wasn't used to in the people he spoke to.
"He's made some really big footprints. I want to do my best." Brit's voice was quiet.
Mr. Hart nodded. "I get that. I just think you need to sit down and figure out what your best is. Because I don't think you're comfortable wearing your father's shoes." The man got up while Brit stared helplessly at him. He hesitated; then he got out a card.
"You can call me, but not before you've done some thinking, okay?" He smiled a little, eyes kind. Then he turned to leave.
"Wait!"
Mr. Hart looked at him.
"I don't even... What's your name?"
Mr. Hart smiled again. "It's right there, Mr. Collins."
Brit looked at him, confused.
"The card?" The man seemed to give up. "My name is Jeremy. You can even call me that. When you call me." With that, he turned and left.
Brit sat, staring at the card for a long, long time without really seeing it. Then he jumped up and left the restaurant.
***
Brit hardly had time to greet Ray when he got home, tapping his fingers on the wall all the way in the elevator. When it finally opened, he stormed out.
And stopped, looking around at the gilded mirror and the heavy furniture and the renaissance paintings more expensive than most people's houses.
A gilded mirror. What had he been thinking?
Decisively, Brit fetched his pads of sticky notes in his office, one pink, one green. He planted a pink one right in the middle of the gilded mirror. That had to go.
He continued through the whole apartment, seeing it as if for the very first time. Most of it shook him more than he had expected. How the fuck had he been able to live like this? It was like a museum -- someone else's museum.
Halfway through, he realized that he hadn't even taken off his coat. He threw it over the leather couch and put a pink sticker on the massive piece of furniture at the same time. Then he took a step back. Actually, he had always liked that couch; it had so many carvings and decorations that it was borderline ridiculous. With a grin, he removed the sticker again. He felt almost dizzy with elation. This was his life, his things.
Two hours later, he was tired and a little grimy from all the things he had touched as he figured out if he really liked them or not. He sat down on the couch -- his couch; he had decided he wanted it, nobody else -- and looked around. The walls didn't need much; he liked the calm colors his parents had chosen. But he wanted sleek furniture and some very different paintings. And a new bedspread.
He grinned. This was just plain fun. With a satisfied sigh, he sat back on the couch and closed his eyes.
The thoughts were churning in his head, his sudden fresh look on his apartment spreading to other subjects. Had he done the same thing with the firm -- just trudged on without seeing how things really were?
He didn't have to think long about that. His father had given him a thorough introduction to the business, and he felt confident in what he did. His father really was that good, and the man had been a good teacher. Brit had just been taking things a little too far, trying to be perfect.
Brit abruptly sat up, opening his eyes. He didn't see anything, though, the shock of the revelation too big.
His father had never asked him to stay in the closet.
Mr. Collins Sr. had been very determined to raise his son to behave correctly, but he had never said anything about that. Brit had just assumed that discretion would be the easiest way to be successful.
But who said you should always take the easy way? Brit grinned, getting up to find his phone. He was going to order a pizza, and then he was going to find someone to help him buy some furniture.
***
Three days later, Brit was very close to whimpering. He had thought that you went into a shop, pointed out what you liked, and then your furniture guy got it delivered for you.
First of all, the furniture guy was called an interior decorator. Second, he had some very definite views of things.
"You have to live with it for a long time; you don't want to choose this table just because it's the only one left," the man had said, frowning.
That was three shops before the one they were in now, and Brit's legs were hurting the way they did when you stood up without moving enough for too long.
"I like this one, but I think you should have it with the aluminum legs instead of the wooden ones." Thomas looked up from where he was studying the dining room table. He saw the look on Brit's face and seemed to take mercy on him.
"Okay, I'll fix this one. I only have one thing left for you, then."
Brit groaned.
Thomas just laughed. "It's our last stop, and you're going to like it. Besides, I've never refurnished an apartment as big as yours in less than a month. You should be grateful I'm not demanding your opinion on eggshell versus off-white trimmings."
That shut Brit up quite effectively.
He dozed a bit in the car, and he didn't really wake up until they were in an industrial looking building. There was an odd chemical smell, and then his eye caught the big paintings along the walls.
"This is a friend of mine, Peter. Have a look around and let me know if you find anything you like."
Brit absentmindedly shook Peter's hand; his attention was already on the bright mass of green colors halfway down the wall. He went closer, and then he stood still, fascinated by it.
It was just green colors, basically, but there was something about the way they swirled and twisted that caught Brit's attention. The painting was so vibrant it almost looked alive.
He had to tear himself away from it to look at the other paintings, and he stopped several times, caught by bright colors mixed up with layers that seemed almost geological, like rock and gravel.
"I need my sticky no-- Oh." He turned around, only to find Thomas and Peter standing close to him, watching him. Thomas had an amused look on his face.
"I take it you like them?"
"Yes." Brit nodded. He wanted them. "I want the green one in the living room, along with the gray one. And there are four or five others I'd like, too."
The painter looked a bit overwhelmed, but Thomas shook his head. "You can't have the green one in the living room; it's going to look like puke against those walls."
Brit had to make an effort to picture the painting against the olive walls of his living room. He realized that Thomas was right. "But I want it." Man, that sounded pitiful.
"What if we painted your living room white?" Thomas was speaking slowly, as if he was trying out the idea himself. "The paintings would look great, and it would be fresh and clean and something you had decided. Your room, you know?"
"My room." The more Brit imagined it, the more he liked the idea. "And then I could have that one, too." He pointed at an odd, narrow painting almost four feet tall. He felt a little like a kid in a candy store.
The painter laughed. "Well, I've been trying to sell that one for ages, so I'll even give you a discount."
Brit nodded, very satisfied. He was creating a home. His home.
***
It wasn't the only thing he was creating. Three weeks later, Brit sat in the car, feeling both excited and relieved. Earlier that day, he had talked to his father, and it had gone far better than he could have imagined.
"That was about time."
Brit had been stunned when he heard his father's reaction to the news that Brit had redecorated the apartment. His father had sounded very sure, though.
"You have to put your own mark on it, son. Otherwise it's not really yours. That goes for the business, too."
Brit could still feel his surprise at that. He had almost felt that he ought to defend his father and the man's work, but his father had just laughed.
"Handed down boots chafe if you aren't careful, Brit."
Brit had been a little dumbfounded by that.
He had been equally dumbfounded by the other answer he got, from his second call, but pleased, too. Downright silly happy with it, as a matter of fact.
He realized that they were there and jumped out of the car.
***
"I kept the sheets."
Mr. Hart -- well, Jeremy -- looked up in surprise from where he had been waiting in the lobby, away from the heavy snow falling outside. Brit just kept talking; he had wanted to say this for a while at this point.
"My furniture guy told me they were insanely expensive, so it would be foolish to throw them out. But I've redecorated the entire apartment, and I only kept what I like, not what my father liked. I did the same with the business, except I actually agree with almost everything my father did. I do have some new ideas, though."
Jeremy nodded slowly. "So, the conglomerate and the penthouse are fixed. Have you come around to the rest of your life yet?"
Brit opened his mouth to defend himself, and then he caught the little smile on Jeremy's lips. He couldn't help but return it.
"I'm getting there." He reached out his arm, an old-fashioned gesture that seemed strangely appropriate right now.
Jeremy smiled back as the man took his arm and followed him out into the car.
***
"Wait. Can you pull over here?" It was a sudden impulse, but the driver did what he asked, letting them out a hundred feet before the entrance to the hotel where Collins Industries had its annual Christmas party. The snow was still falling heavily, but luckily, Brit had brought an umbrella. He put it up, holding it over himself and Jeremy.
He looked around at the Christmas decorations, the heavy snow covering the streets and making everything quiet and soft. It was beautiful, the busy city hidden away under the layers of white.
Jeremy looked at him questioningly. With an almost shy gesture, Brit reached out and pulled the other man closer. Jeremy didn't resist.
"I thought... You see the snow?" The broad sidewalk was mostly pristine, only a few people having walked down the sidewalk close to the street.
Jeremy nodded.
"I thought it was time to make my own footprints." He looked at Jeremy. "Will you make them with me?"
Jeremy looked at him at him for a moment. Then he shrugged, that little smile still on his face. "Yeah, okay." There was a teasing glint in his eyes, now. "I think you need to kiss me first, though, before you drag me through the snow."
Something rushed through Brit at those words, his stomach suddenly fluttering madly. He looked into those happy eyes and leaned in, finally allowing himself to taste Jeremy's soft lips again.
The sensation was intoxicating. He made a small sound and leaned closer, Jeremy's body solid against his, arms sliding around him and holding on while he gently kissed the man he had been thinking about ever since they met, gently pushing and having his question answered by a soft tongue meeting his own. He was lost in it, in the scent and taste of Jeremy, and the snow was falling around them as Brit let himself touch and kiss and feel.
He was reluctant to let go, but Jeremy smiled when he finally opened his eyes.
"Good work." His voice was quiet, happy. "And merry Christmas, Mr. Collins."
Brit laughed, the sound the only thing to be heard over the snow. "Merry Christmas to you, too, Mr. Hart."
End.
"Knowing it by Hart" was originally published by Torquere Press.
"Knowing it by Hart is a sweet and nice story of two men who seem like a really great match [...] Knowing it by Hart by CB Conwy puts a smile on your face and that is worth a lot."
4.5/5 Whips at Naughty Boys in the Backseat
4.5/5 Whips at Naughty Boys in the Backseat
"The character of Brit is well written and sympathetic, especially in the way it shows how he is afraid to step out from the shadow of his father’s legacy and strike out for himself. Despite this, Brit’s innate kindness shines through his character, as does the poignancy of his loneliness. There’s also a humour about the writing, particularly in Brit’s slightly bewildered reaction both to Mr Hart and to shopping for furniture, as well as the opening scene with Mr Hart’s octopus hands! [...] Overall, if you’re looking for a sweet holiday short about stepping out of your comfortable life and making changes for the better, then I’d recommend Knowing it by Hart." Brief Encounters Reviews