This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author?s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland ? All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Fifty-four

(Sunday, October 23rd, Monday, October 24th)

They arrive in silence and tell me in a low voice at the door not to talk until they’ve swept the kitchen. I nod.

We enter the cage and I wave at Jaén, who blows me a kiss. Liam and Richard grin.

When the cage comes to an abrupt halt in front of our door, Marty is waiting for us. Richard puts his finger to his lips. Marty nods.

“Kitchen?” Richard mouths. I lead the way.

Once inside, Marty gets out four glasses and holds up the bottle. Richard and Liam both nod, as they get out their equipment.

Richard puts on the earphones and starts working the dials, while Liam scans the walls and countertops with a contraption that resembles a wide metal loop on a broom handle. Their efforts last for some twenty minutes after which Richard claims aloud that the room is clean. Liam disassembles and repacks the devices.

After Marty raises his glass, Richard wonders if we have an appliance that makes some noise, just in case. I switch on the loaded dishwasher.

“Give me five minutes,” Richard sips his whiskey. “and then we can move onto chitchat.” He produces a form sheet for Marty. "I would like to ask you to sign this acknowledgement of the Official Secrets Act, and that anything we discuss here tonight will stay amongst us.”

Marty nods and reads the large print. “Doesn’t Dan have to sign one?”

“He already has.” Liam states blandly. “We have to get your signature, so we can discuss this operation and let you participate in it.”

Marty signs and hands the sheet over to Liam. “So, you’re Colour?” Liam nods.

“Martin, that’s chitchat.” Richard declares. “First, the Metropolitan Police have told us that you'll be arriving on Wednesday morning. Is that correct?"

Marty and I nod. “Here are your tickets for the eight-fifteen flight on BEA out of Orly. The return flight is two thirty in the afternoon.

“You will be collected here and remain under Home Office escort the entire time. You may not contact anyone, nor take care of any other business.

“Do not write any cheques nor use credit cards.” Richard looks at me. “And please, do not try to contact Yves-Raphaël.” I nod that I understand.

“The decoy has been decapitated and the hands removed, so the police are not able to identify it without your help. The identifying feature is that he has a pubic mound tattoo of a spider’s web.”

This causes both Marty and me to snort and chuckle. Humour stops when Richard produces an eight-by-ten, glossy, colour photograph of some poor guy who has been mutilated for Queen and country.

“For your information and to appease your consciences, the gentleman died of pneumonia in hospital this morning, and had previously donated his body to science.” Richard avoids looking at the photograph while he speaks. “The organisation has had in-house pathologists prepare it to resemble a brutal murder. Of course, the pneumonia will show up in tests but will obviously not be deemed to be the cause of death.

“You will receive a death certificate, which you will use to have probate registered on Joseph’s estate. The deed to your home here has been transferred into your names and there are separate life insurance policies, which will also not be part of his estate. He did this as a bonus to secure your co-operation.”

“And to keep his greedy sister away from it.” Liam adds, which explains her sarcastic assertion, that I didn’t own the place.

“Of course, you're subject to a gagging order on this, which is considerable. Neither of you may reveal any of this information nor make any reference to this meeting for forty-five years.”

“That would be what?” Marty counts. “2011?”

Richard smiles. “Something like that.” He sips again. “You and Dan may still be around, but the rest of us will be long gone.”

“Yeah,” Raph and I’ll be sixty-two, and Marty and Jaén will be pushing seventy.” I finish my whiskey without mentioning that it would make Dad one hundred and eight.

Marty starts pouring another round. “Is chitchat officially open?”

“Sorry, yes.” Richard looks somewhat sheepish. He addresses me, while still staring at the table. “Have you heard from Raphaël?”

“I tried to phone him,” I’m trying to keep my voice away from sounding pathetic; I am, however, losing the battle. “but my cousin, Doris, wouldn’t let me speak to him.”

“I know that I am totally out of line saying anything,” Richard says softly, which is not his normal manner. "but I spoke with Joseph briefly this morning, and he had talked with Raphaël about your relationship, while they were travelling back to England.”

“And?” My eyes are watering, again, which seems to have become chronic.

“He told Joseph that it was impossible for him to love you with the same intensity that you love him.” Richards face has aged, hardened of late. “Your love suffocated him.”

There, someone finally said it. Love can destroy its object. So now, I can become happy; my eyes can dry. I now know why. Everything is fine. "I see. And how about his being heterosexual."

“My opinion is that the weeks with you were an experiment.” Richard is becoming distant. “He was trying something new. After all, he is only seventeen.”

“So, tell me Richard." I look at him directly in the eyes, which makes him visibly uneasy. "aside from the fact that I’m only seventeen as well, am I damned to wander this Earth, participating in a series of experiments? Or do you think that I’ll find someone who can stand the heat?”

“Yes, Daniel, you are seventeen - going on forty.” Richard laughs. "And don’t be so bleeding short-sighted.” He glances at Marty. “He’s sitting right here.”

Liam and Richard stand up to leave with Richard’s admonishment. “This meeting never happened.”

“Won’t work.” I tell him in a clear and assertive voice. “The concierge is our friend.” That gets their attention. “He has seen you come in, and he is going to see you leave." I laugh at secrecy in general. “We are going to have to tell him something. Besides he will see you tomorrow at the funeral brunch.”

Richard grows incredulous. “Did he know Maurice?”

“No, but he lives in this apartment.” I laugh again at their problem.

“Um...” Richard is stumped.

“Why don’t I tell him,” I grow serious, since I refuse to lie outright to Jaén. “that since you know Geneviève from Kansas City, where you are the Consul General, you are representing the British government at the interment?”

“Brilliant idea, Daniel.” Liam concedes with Richard nodding. “Simple and very close to the truth.”

“Yeah, Little Brother," Marty puts his arm around my shoulder. "not bad for a hillbilly."

“I’m a learnin’.” I laugh about Marty’s remark earlier. “An’ I can even find the to’let now, no longer hav’n’ta crap in the bee-day.”

Marty giggles; Richard and Liam ignore us. And as Bob would say: that’s as it should be.

I see them down to the entry, and we exchange pleasantries. After I close the door, I return to the concierge’s window. Jaén doesn’t ask me who the two men were. He only asks me where he should sleep, since there is still no bed linen.

I open the cage. “You don’t have much of a choice, do you, wee bear?” I snicker salaciously.

He licks his thick lips. “Would you penetrate me, when I finish work?”

“We have an interment tomorrow.” His smile droops. “With a buffet afterwards.” His glance drops to the desktop. “But you can be dessert, if you like.” He’s still looking at the desktop but grins broadly behind the moustache.

“So, I come into your room, when I finish, is that the scheme?” He looks at me gently.

“Yeah.” I grin, as my cock starts to inflate.

“And you and Marty will come back to play with me after the funeral.” He looks at the front of my pants and licks his lips. His right hand slips off the desktop.

I get into the cage and fish out a jetton. "Don't make a mess under the table that you will have to explain to your aunt."

He chuckles and throws me a kiss. The cage jerks into action. Marty is waiting at the top.

He opens the cage door. “We have to talk.”

“Oh, shit, Marty,” I feel drained. “the last time someone said that, I got abandoned."

He closes the apartment door. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” He pulls me into the kitchen. “I’m deathly afraid of being left alone to become emotionally destitute.” His eyes are searching mine.

“First of all, settle down.” I pour us another whiskey and start to roll a joint to go with it. “I am not going to leave you. I am Daniel, not Joseph. I don’t have to disappear. You don’t have to go away. Nobody can separate us, if we don’t let them. Jaén certainly has no ambitions in that direction that I can recognise.”

“What’s going to happen, when I get really sick?” Marty is on the verge of panic. "You won't leave me to die alone?

Since I’ve never been around someone before who is terminally ill, I’m going to have to play this by ear. “You heard Richard.” I light the joint and pass it to him. “You are the one who can stand the intensity of my love. And I do love you, Martin.” I take another toke. “And that love is growing every hour of every day.”

“But what if--”

“--Stop right there.” I lay the J in the ashtray and take both of his hands in mine. “I, Daniel Aaron Mongrain-Bourke, do solemnly vow to love and honour you until death do us part.”

“And what do you want in return?” Astonishment is now filling his eyes rather than panic.

“Absolutely nothing.” I pull him into my arms.

He pulls away gently. “And Jaén? What do you feel for him?”

“As you, I think am falling in love with him.” I relight the joint.

"Do you think that we can be happy in a ménage à trois?” He takes another toke and a sip of whiskey. This conversation about ‘what if’ is sapping his strength. Fortunately, it is not making him wheeze.

“If we want it to work, it will.” I think I see where the problem lies. Residual Lebanese Baptist thinking. “Martin George,” He giggles weakly at the unaccustomed name. “There is no god, steering the universe. We make our own destiny. No one is going to punish you or me or Jaén for loving one another. What we are is legal in this country, and, as far as I can tell, pretty much accepted - respected even. We have absolutely nothing to fear. The future is ours to design as we see fit.”

“But what’s going to happen when Raph comes back?” Marty’s panic is now even more acute than it was just seconds ago.

“Look at me.” And I am aware that this is probably going to be the most important extemporaneous speech of my life. There is so much in the balance. “I do love you. I am falling for Jaén. And I'll admit that I also love Raph. But do not forget that I first and foremost love myself, and that is not negotiable and cannot be compromised.

“Having said that, I have just committed to you for the rest of our lives. We can add Jaén or even others as we go along. But that will never change the fact that it’s you and me until the end. Nothing can change that, not if Raph comes back, nor if Joseph comes back. I will not stand for anyone challenging my commitment to you.

“The others, Mack, Raph, Seph, they’ve had their chances, and they have all chosen not to take advantage of our offer to love them. They broke things off, we didn’t. They made their choices. We’ve now made ours.”

Marty is looking at me blurry eyed. “I’m just starting to understand intensity.”

“Get used to it, Big Brother.” I laugh. “You’re the one who is going to feel the heat.”

I notice his left hand is no longer wearing Seph’s gold band. As I take his hand in mine, I also realise that it has become clammy from worry, from agonising about what just happened and about what is to come. Guiding him up the stairs to our rooms, I become conscious of the fact that it is now my duty to teach him to focus on the present. We can’t change the past and we can never know for certain what’s around the corner.

He is shivering slightly, as I undress him. It’s not cold, but existential stress over the past several weeks has taken its toll. I kiss him lightly and wrap him in my arms, now it’s my turn to be my big brother’s bodyguard. His shivers stop.

I open the taps in the bathtub, thinking that a hot bath will improve how he feels. As I adjust the temperature, he inserts a finger with hand cream into me. I put my right foot onto the edge of the tub to afford him easier access.

Once inside me, he doesn’t pump but slowly undulates to the rhythm of our heartbeat, pulling us both into a trance-like state of closeness. I lean my back against his front, arching my hips to keep him inside. His arms are holding me soothingly. Neither of us is going to climax; that’s not needed. The purpose of what we are doing is just to be as close to one another as we can possibly get.

I lean forward to close the taps, and we step into the tub in unison with Martin still inside me. We stretch out, putting me on top, and I massage his cock with my anal muscles, slowly, sensually, maintaining our state of heightened togetherness.

By the time the water goes tepid and not only our skin has begun to shrivel, we are relaxed and ready to dry off and go to bed. We get the two clean towels off the rail, where Jaén left them for us and blot one another dry.

Sleep comes fast, and the travel alarm has yet to go off, when Jaén joins us. We cuddle with our little bear and lull him to sleep in our arms between us, keeping the clock's shrill bell from disturbing the tranquillity. Marty and I get out of bed and close the double doors to the bedroom.

Marty has to go get his black suit from his wardrobe upstairs. The one Geneviève bought for me at Galeries Lafayette on Friday is hanging in my closet next to the one she’d bought for Raph.

My heart sinks. And as can be expected, my eyes water, and my nose runs. I have to sit down on the arm chair to keep from collapsing. My head is resting on my arms across my knees when Marty returns in his tailored black suit.

He pulls me up and hugs me without speaking. “This looks good, Little Brother.” I give him a quizzical glance, wiping my nose on the back of my hand. “Your father just got murdered. Stay as miserable as you can until the buffet is over, which will underscore your grief. Orphan at seventeen. Then, we come and play ‘hide the sausage’ with Jaén."

“You’ve got a point. It’s an overcast day, anyway. Even the Eiffel Tower seems dreary. And we're going to an interment on the other side of place du Trocadéro.

“I’m going to indulge my mélancolie. Nothing looks more self-indulgently tragic than wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day.

“It’s Bonjour Tristesse, all over again. I’m Cécile, the naive child, and you’re Anne, my father’s cruel girlfriend. Of course, it’ll be without Anne’s fatal car wreck. We’ll have my father murdered instead.”

Marty shakes his head, smirking. “Raph was right.”

“How so?” I try to flutter my eyelids but my eyes are too puffy from crying.

“You just cannot do camp.” He giggles. “Now, get dressed, or we’ll be late.”

The Cimetière de Passy is a five-minute walk from our home, directly across the north semicircle half of place du Trocadéro. The entrance reflects 1930’s stone-façade architecture with bronze gates, in keeping with the design of the nearby Palais de Chaillot, and belies the cemetery’s actual age.

Directly behind the entrance is the waiting room, where we are to meet. It’s also in 1930’s style, and is vaguely reminiscent of the small museums on either side of the huge phallus at the Liberty Memorial in Kansas City.

The waiting room is empty, aside from an official in uniform, looking at his watch, whom Marty and I approach with: « L'inhumation de l'urne funéraire de Maurice Mongrain ? »

He points to the solitary urn on a pedestal draped in black velvet. The bronze plaque to be attached to his gravesite reads: Maurice Albert Shaba Shinkah Mongrain, 1918-1960, musicien américain et martyr politique.

That is typical of Seph's perception of the world. Maurice is now a political martyr rather than the victim of a racist murder.

I’m not terribly sure that the meek, mild-mannered accountant would have been willing to die for any cause had anybody bothered to ask him. But one thing is sure; he can no longer object.

We are the first to arrive. And at the very moment I think the thought, Geneviève appears on Richard’s arm, followed by Liam with Françoise hanging off him. Now, this promises to be a real treat.

Richard holds the door and Geneviève comes to me immediately. “I am so sorry, Daniel, mes plus sincères condoléances.” She turns and walks over to where Richard, Liam and Françoise are standing next to the doors.

“Excuse me, Geneviève?” My stage voice echoes under the high ceilings of the waiting room as she looks back at me. “I think you forgot someone or were the bad manners intentional?”

“Considering the reason we’re here, I hardly think that Martin’s presence is appropriate.” Geneviève’s sentiments are apparently shared by Françoise, since she is nodding approval.

“Being that Martin was intending to host a buffet brunch in honour of Maurice at our home, consider it cancelled.” I take Marty’s hand and we proceed to leave.

Just when we’re reaching the glass doors, Françoise snarls: “It’s not your home, yet, Buster.”

Since I’m ignoring her for the rest of her life, Marty clears his throat, still without wheezing and smiles at her in fake Ozark-down-hominess. “If I was y’all, Madame, I wouldn't go bettin' my fuckin’ cat house on it.”

We make it barely past the bronze gates before we burst out laughing. I look at Marty. “It was you, wasn’t it? You phoned the police.”

Marty’s eyes are moist from laughing for a change. “Naw, but I hope she thinks it was me, too.”

“You know what?” My sinister side comes to the fore. “When they ask us at Scotland Yard if we know anybody who could have a motive, we can tell them about her whorehouse getting busted and putting her out of business only a day or two before he was murdered."

Marty snorts. “I dare you.”

“Just fucking watch me.” I sneer. “And if she’s convicted in France, she could get the guillotine.”

“I don’t think they would sentence her to death on circumstantial evidence.” Marty sounds just short of terrified.

“We can always hope.” I grin and take his hand. “But if it’s going to upset you, we'll let it drop."

He chuckles weakly followed by his demeanour becoming thoughtful. “What are we going to do with all the food?”

“It’s a buffet for six, and there are three of us. And it’s a long time before Jaén has to go back downstairs.” I love sounding hedonistic. “We’ll set it up in the bedroom and see what happens.” I pause and lower my voice. “He says he wants to get fucked.”

Marty purrs a lot like Raph does. Wonder if it’s hormonal. Also, when I mention that I’d like to stop by the bakery on place du Trocadéro just before you get to the metro entrance at the corner of avenue Kléber to pick up some croissants for a late breakfast with a large bowl of coffee, he purrs; we haven’t eaten anything since the duck couscous.

When we get back home, the cloud cover is starting to disperse, and an occasional ray of hope breaks through. We open the large, heavy oak door and proceed to the cage.

Since we're both dressed in black, the concierge wonders if anything is wrong. Since she has to know at some point, I tell her of Seph's passing.

She looks shocked; her eyes brim. And I feel like a total shit, knowing that this poor woman is about to go into terrible mourning because of a hoax, a political necessity. She expresses her condolences; and all I can do is look sad and thank her.

When we come into the kitchen, I let the croissants drop and take off my black jacket and put it on the back of a chair. "You sure do look the part of a mourner.” Marty's smile is cautious.

“I had to tell her about Dad, since we’ll be her new bosses, and there’ll more than likely be a fake funeral here. But lying due to State’s secrets makes me feel like a traitor to humanity.” I pull out the coffee canister, which Raph had brought with us from Kansas City. “And please remind me tomorrow to buy other coffee and a new canister.”

“What do you not like about this coffee?” Jaén asks from the doorway.

Since he is one of those men who look their best when they've just got out of bed, I feel that I have to put my hands all over him. Marty, however, beats me to it, since he is closer and is not fiddling with coffee. “It reminds me of someone I’d like to forget.”

“Not me, I hope.” Jaén squeals softly, as Marty tongues his neck.

“No, wee bear, Maman Mongrain insulted Marty, which caused us to cancel the brunch.”

He tilts his head back to let Marty work is magic on his neck, and his mind goes wild, which I can see reflected in his cock. “That means,” He pauses, straightens his head, steps back and grins lopsidedly, looking both of us over from head to toe. “that I don't have to get dressed, but can undress you, does it not?”

“No, you don’t have to get dressed. We are not in the Garden of Eden and you haven’t just eaten the apple.” Jaén giggles as he takes the coffee bowls to the table and places the croissants on a plate. Marty takes off his jacket and hangs it over mine. “But let’s wait until the buffet has been delivered before we go into orgy mode.” I look at my watch and it’s just short of ten-thirty.