Date: Sun, 16 Jul 2023 15:48:57 +0100
From: AP Webb <pjalexander1753@gmail.com>
Subject: D'n'M Part 6 Chapter 1

All the characters and events in this story are fictitious.  Any
resemblance to real people, either living or dead, is entirely
unintentional.

The story is copyrighted and may not be reproduced in any way without the
express permission of the author who can be contacted at:

pjalexander1753@gmail.com

PJ

D'n'M Part 6

From Part 5, Chapter 12:

Fuck, but Milo was awesome.  How long before he'd be ready to go again?
And how great it was to be one half of the unbeatable combination that was
D'n'M.

**********

Chapter 1:

Whatever they might say at the time, does anyone genuinely want to be
proved right in a game of `I-told-you-so'?  It certainly didn't give Dan
any pleasure, although it did answer a lot of questions which had been
hanging around, unanswered, ever since Milo and Nico had arrived back in
the country.

As soon as M announced his determination to get on the next available
flight to Buenos Aires, Dan knew it was a mistake, but it wasn't until
weeks later, when things had got really bad, that he discovered just how
big that mistake had been.  The `discussion' had gone backwards and
forwards for forty-eight, very stressful hours.  It wasn't as if Dan had no
sympathy for, or understanding of, the turmoil of emotions that Milo was
trying to deal with.  He knew that M was feeling guilty for all the years
of negative thoughts and anger towards his newly-dead sister (anger and
negativity that were, in Dan's view, perfectly justified).  Yes, he was
more than frustrated by the weeks of delay in getting even the most basic
of access to Nico as a result of the endless foot-dragging by the Argentine
authorities; of course he was devastated by the knowledge that the boy had,
very likely, tried to kill himself; and finally there was the mastercard
that trumped every other consideration, the boy was family and M
instinctively loved him and wanted to protect him.  Dan understood all
that, and also the fact that M was a qualified and experienced
psychologist, trained in dealing with traumatised adolescents.  But, Dan
argued, M was proposing to set off half way across the world with no plan,
no experience of dealing with the intricacies of foreign bureaucracy, and,
to cap it all, he was intent on going alone.  Gerry thought he had an
answer to the last of Dan's concerns -- he'd go too, grandfather and uncle
united in the quest to rescue the long-lost boy and bring him back home.
Thankfully, and to Dan's great relief, that suggestion got knocked on the
head very quickly, Dan and Milo and Helen and Roger forming a united front
against the idea.  Gerry, they argued, still hadn't fully recovered from
his heart attack, so such a trip could, literally, prove to be
life-threatening.  And besides, there would be lots for him to do back at
home to prepare for Nico's arrival -- liaising with Ms. Lamar and also with
the staff at Greenside High for starters, as well as getting the second
bedroom set up and ready for its new occupant.  (Helen had a few ideas of
her own in that direction.)

And there were any number of other things which needed to be squeezed into
those forty-eight hours.  Children's Services had to be told of the
family's intentions, and Milo was determined that the Head of Service
should be informed directly, by-passing Ms. Lamar who, Milo had decided,
was to have no further involvement with him, his family and, above all,
with Nico.  He had been both hurt and angered by her reaction to the video
call with the boy and, as Dan knew only two well, that was a combination
that was bound to result in M's heels being immovably dug in, irrespective
of any negative consequences that might result.  In this case it was the
withdrawal of any further local authority involvement in, or funding for,
Nico's re-settlement into the country.  All this was explained to Milo on
the phone by the Head of Service.

"Ms. Lamar might not be the most diplomatic or sensitive member of my staff
but she is, by a very long distance, the most experienced and efficient.
If you and the other Mr. de Beer-Reed no longer wish to benefit from her
support and expertise, all the remaining assessments, reports and
recommendations that the department requires regarding Nico's resettlement
in this country will have to be carried out by a private agency at your
family's expense."

There is no record of Milo's response to this announcement although Helen
noted that the conversation between her son and the Head of Service came to
a very abrupt end.

The authorities in Buenos Aires also had to be informed of this sudden
change of plans.  This task was assigned to Dan who spent several hours
drafting a carefully constructed email, politely detailing the chronology
of events leading up to Milo's imminent arrival in the city and his
intentions regarding Nico's repatriation.  Dan was desperate to avoid
alienating anyone there who had the power, if they wished to use it, to
delay, or even totally frustrate, M's plans.  He made several very positive
and complimentary references to Senora Gomez and expressed a `very sincere
wish' that she should continue to be involved with Nico's case until such
time as he was no longer the responsibility of the Argentine authorities.
Thankfully, certainly as far as Dan was concerned, his efforts seemed to
pay off as, almost by return, he received a reply assuring him that Milo
would receive every possible support and assistance in returning the boy
back to `his rightful and best familial environment.'

`That's one up to me,' thought Dan as he sent a quick WhatsApp message to
the group with the news.  `Maybe there'll even be a reward.'  Although he
had to wait for it, he was to find out later, in bed, that there very
definitely was.

Helen Reed's self-appointed task was to make sure that Milo was properly
equipped for his trip.  Being, by nature and training, a very well
organised person and meticulous planner, her first job was on-line research
into what sort of conditions Milo could expect to experience on his
arrival.  She quickly discovered that he would be landing in Argentina at
the peak of the summer which, in Buenos Aires, meant very hot daytime
temperatures easily reaching thirty-seven degrees C (ninety- seven degrees
F).  It was also the rainy season, with frequent afternoon thunderstorms
and very high humidity.

`My idea of climate hell,' she thought, `But it means he'll need
lightweight clothing, and lots of it.'

She knew from her own experience of many overseas dental conventions over
the course of her career that such levels of heat and humidity would mean
that Milo's clothes, especially his shirts and underwear, would need
frequent laundering.  And, as there was no way of knowing just how long
Milo would be away she decided that one whole suitcase would have to be
devoted to `the basics'.  She wasn't, she told herself, naïve enough
to totally believe Dan's confidence in the promises of a speedy outcome
made by the Argentine authorities. Rummaging through the clothes hanging in
Milo and Dan's bedroom walk-in (in the years since their marriage she had,
somehow, repeatedly `forgotten' to return the spare set of keys that she
had `borrowed'), she was pleased to find one good linen summer suit and
several light-weight cotton shirts which, she quickly decided, would be
perfect additions to Milo's travelling wardrobe.  He would, she decided,
need at least one more suit and several additional shirts, but she knew of
a reliable local menswear outlet that she was fairly confident would be
able to supply the necessary additions, just as long as she could get there
before closing time that afternoon.  What she didn't realise was that she
was actually searching through Dan's clothes, which wouldn't have mattered
except that he was both slighter and shorter than Milo with the result that
they could never successfully or comfortably wear each other's stuff.
Helen sent off a message to Milo telling him of her shopping plans for
later and received a very swift and, from her perspective, thoroughly
unsatisfactory reply:

Don't bother, ma.  Hand-baggage only for me.  No time for hanging around in
airports endlessly waiting for the carousel to come around.

When she replied with:

But you don't know how long you'll be away -- it could be weeks.

Milo's response was:

I bet there are places to buy stuff in Buenos Aires!  Thanks for caring but
I'm a big boy now, ma.  I'll manage.

At that point Helen realised (finally) that she had little choice but to
accept that her `other son' truly was a proper grown up now and to admit
defeat.  But, she told herself, she may have lost this particular battle
but there was still the question of where Milo would stay while he was
away.  She opened up her tablet and typed in: Buenos Aires hotels.  The
Recoleta Plaza looked more than acceptable, and Milo didn't have to know
exactly how expensive it was because Roger, of course, would be paying.
Once again her knowledge of her husband's credit card number proved to be
very useful!

Meanwhile, Gerry was also busy on-line, checking flight availability.  The
next possible departure from their nearest international airport was
scheduled for early on Monday morning, so the `open return' ticket option
was clicked and the long credit card number entered.  Boarding card and
check-in details having been forwarded to his smart phone by his father,
Milo was fully primed and ready to go.

It had been agreed that the five of them, Helen and Roger, Dan and Milo,
plus Gerry, would spend Sunday evening together, double-checking that all
necessary boxes had been ticked and, equally importantly, to share one last
meal together before Milo flew several thousand miles on a rescue mission
that could take days, weeks, even months.  Roger spent pretty much the
whole day shopping for, and then preparing, the meal, one he knew to be
among Milo's favourites -- mushroom wellington with samphire and crushed
new potatoes followed by his home-made tiramisu or cheese and crackers.
Roger loved to cook and these occasional special meals had become an
important feature of their family ever since Dan and Milo, as teenagers,
had publically declared their love for each other.

As he looked round the dining table that evening, plates clean and glasses
freshly refilled, Milo was almost overwhelmed by the depth of love and care
which flowed over and around him, not just now, this moment, but reliably
and genuinely, every day since that horrific afternoon when his mother and
sister has `discovered' that he was gay and thrown him out of the family
home.  The memory of it still caused his insides to contract uncomfortably
but, whenever that happened, he only had to think of Helen's unquestioning
hug, of Roger's solid support and his dad's determination to make good, for
that discomfort to fade, to be replaced by a feeling of reassuring warmth
and affection.

And then, of course, there was D, his Dan, his husband, his lover, his
life.  Milo knew, one hundred percent, that none of what was being planned
for Nico's return would be possible without D's active support and
commitment.  And for that Milo loved him unconditionally (except when he
left no milk for breakfast!) and, given what he'd learnt from his work with
the troubled young people of the town, he was pretty sure that living with
a teenager with Nico's shit-filled life experience was not going to be a
picnic.  Oh no, not by a very long way.  But with D and the rest of this
amazing family around him there was at least a hope that his new life would
help to protect and heal him, no matter how much hurt the boy had had to
absorb or the amount of pain he had been forced to endure.

*****

Family was something that Nico was finding it hard to fit into.  For all of
his fourteen years the nearest he had ever come to know of family were the
times at La Casa de los Suenos, and he was under no illusion that those
times had been anything remotely like normal family life.  But they had
been familiar and predictable and with a reassuring sense of stability
until, that is, Su Excelensia had come into his life and sent it hurtling
down the toilet.  And apart from La Casa, what else was there?  Years of
living on the meanest streets, under the foulest railway arches and down
the darkest alleyways of Buenos Aires, that's what.  Years of hustling for
a few pesos for food or selling his immature body for a bag of weed or
brown powder for his mum.  And, of course, at the end, there had been the
disgusting room in Villa 31 where his only genuine experience of family
life -- however warped it may have been - had come crashing down, then to
be followed by week after countless week of numbness and despair and,
ultimately, of pain and fear at Our Lady of Flowers.

Was it any wonder, then, that life in the home of Senor and Senora Roja was
taking some getting used to, especially when their house itself wasn't so
very different from La Casa?  On a smaller scale, for sure, but with enough
similarities to make him feel immediately and constantly on edge.  And it
wasn't as if the Rojas had done anything wrong or anything to make him feel
uncomfortable or unwelcome.  Not at all.  In fact, Maria and Domenico (how
was that for a coincidence?) had gone out of their way to convince him that
he was, genuinely, a welcome addition to their family, no matter how long
or short his stay might be.  Fostering wasn't commonplace in BA and the
Rojas were not a common couple.  Over the years they had provided a place
of security and respite for many of the city's waifs and strays, its
orphans and its homeless, its victims and its helpless.  It was their way
of giving thanks for the blessing of their own children, twin girls, who
had survived only a few days before, as Maria Roja explained, they had
been, "Taken back to heaven because there was a shortage of angels."  And
when Nico had looked around, trying to orientate himself and make sense of
this place that he'd been brought to straight from the hospital, he saw
that they were everywhere, the two long-dead babies, in photographs on
every wall, in plaster casts of their tiny hands and feet, in framed
prayers and benedictions, in the permanently pained look in the eyes of
Maria Roja.  Everywhere he looked the atmosphere almost dripped with liquid
sadness.

Nico had come close to exploding with rage when, early on in his stay in
this unfamiliar and disorientating environment and not so long after Senora
Gomez had dropped him off, having promised to be back every day to check on
him and see how he was getting on, Senora Roja had assured him that his
mother, too, was now with God's children, looking down on him and keeping
him safe.

"Safe?  Safe?"  He was incredulous.  "What the fuck do you know about
anything?" he had demanded.  "She never kept me fucking safe when she was
alive so there's no fucking way she'll be doing it now she's dead."  This
was the most he'd spoken at any one time for weeks.  How could they be so
dumb?  When had his mum ever tried keeping him safe?

The Rojas weren't in the least bit shocked or offended by this outburst,
after all, they'd been fostering kids like Nico for a very long time and
had heard it all before ("And worse," joked Senor Marquez), but the boy
himself was completely taken aback by the strength of feeling behind his
outburst, having told himself that the only way to stay protected, to keep
himself from harm, was to allow no emotion to break the surface, and to
project an image of indifferent invulnerability.  Not that he'd used any
such language inside his head when he'd come to that decision.  In fact,
he'd barely used any words at all, he'd simply reacted instinctively to all
the crap that had rained down on him for as long as he could remember, by
shutting the door on anything that looked or felt like an emotion.  And for
anyone looking in from the outside at this apparent shell of a boy, it
wasn't difficult to pinpoint the exact moment that he had completely
withdrawn into himself, even to the extent of more or less stopping
speaking.  It was that night in the hospital when he had been told that his
mother had finally done what she'd been on the verge of doing his entire
life -- she'd abandoned him forever.  How could she do this to him, this
mother who he hated absolutely and loved with all his heart?  How could she
just die?  Didn't she know how much he had depended on her?  How keeping
her alive had been just about the only thing that got him up in the
morning?  How the thought of being accepted into the Boca soccer academy
(or even River Plate at a push) fuelled his dream of giving her a smart
house and fancy car?  But now, now what was there for him to live for?
Without her to look out for there was fuck-all point in going on.  And it
wasn't as if he hadn't already tried to put an end to everything, but even
at that he'd sucked.

So, what was left for him now?  Weeks, perhaps months, with these stupid
people who seemed to think his mum had suddenly become some kind of saint?
Or maybe something would happen with this `real family' thing away on
another continent.  And what was all that about anyway?  Fuck, but that was
so weird, that video call at Senora Gomez' office.  Uncle Milo?  That must
have been the person his mum had been mumbling about in the back of
Miguel's car on the way to the hospital, that night when ...  And the old
one, the one who said that he was Nico's grandfather.  That was a real
shocker `cause he looked exactly like her, his mum, though much older, of
course.  And a man!  But it was the third one that he was most puzzled by.
Dan, wasn't that what he'd called himself?  Where did he fit in?  He
couldn't remember his mum ever mentioning anyone with that name, definitely
not another uncle or cousin, or any other family member for that matter.

And that was something else he could totally not get his head around.
Always, ever since he could remember, from the very first time he'd asked
his mum about her family, always she had bad-mouthed them, said what a
bunch of total shits they were, how they'd completely screwed-up her life,
especially her dad.  And yet there he was, an old man on a screen from
thousands of miles away, calling himself Grandpa and saying how good it was
to finally see him, Nico.  But it didn't make any sense and he wasn't going
to believe anything that any of those three strange men said to him, not
after all the things his mum had told him about them over all the years of
his life.  But Uncle Milo -- he called himself his mum's little brother
though he didn't look very little at all -- he'd had kind eyes and had said
that there was a home for him with them whenever he was ready for it.  But,
surely, it had to be a trick or some kind of scam.  Yes, that was it, they
wanted to get him away from BA, the only place in the world he knew and
where anybody had ever heard of him, so that they could do to him what
Miguel had done and sell him to whoever was willing to pay for his young
body.  Yes, that had to be it.  Well, there was no way that was gonna
happen.  No way!  He'd survived that once before but only because he'd had
to keep himself together in order to protect his mum.  Without her there
was no way he had the strength or the courage to go through that horror
again.  He'd rather slit his own throat or throw himself in front of one of
those giant trucks on the highway.

But what other choices did he have?  Sure, Isabella Gomez was nice enough,
but what was he to her?  Just another problem case on a long list of
problem cases, that's what.  And at the end of the day she was being paid
to cross him off that list, and this time spent with the Rojas was no more
than a step along that box-ticking road.  What did it matter to her where
he ended up, just as long as she could move onto the next name on her list?
Whether he flew off into a life of unimaginable luxury or got pimped out by
his so-called `family' for cash he'd never see any of, she'd go back to her
safe government job and cosy little house in the suburbs and never have to
think about him again.  No, there was no point in kidding himself, his life
was a fuck-up and there was no happy ending for him.  And there definitely
wasn't anyone he could turn to, who was on his side, who'd have his back.
Oh, but then again, maybe there was.

He knew he couldn't go back to La Casa -- he might as well put a gun to his
own head -- but what about Tori?  He had no idea why, but she seemed to
have taken a liking to him.  Look at the way she'd tried to protect him
when him and his mum were still at La Casa and how she'd found them the
room in Villa 31.  And that was without even thinking about how, no
questions asked, she'd got Santos to `borrow' Miguel's car to take them to
the hospital on the night his mum ... The night his mum left him.

So there was someone, someone he could, at the very least, trust to help
keep him away from the do-gooders and out of the hands of his fucked-up
family.  All he had to do was find her.

One morning soon, possibly as soon as tomorrow, early, that'd be the best
time, before anyone was up who might try to stop him.  And he'd do it
properly so there'd be no chance of any nosy do-gooder or social worker
stopping him.  But, fuck he was tired, so tired, and this bed that he'd
been given by the Rojas was soft and comfortable and he'd just allow
himself a few hours' sleep, but he'd make sure he was awake well ahead of
dawn so he could sneak out and .....

*****

In the small hours, not long before the alarm would rudely remind Milo that
he had a flight to catch and he absolutely needed to get himself out of bed
in time to complete the three s's before leaving for the airport, D gently
eased his dick out of M's butt for the second (and best) time that night.
This wasn't just his reward for all his efforts with the Buenos Aires
Children's Services department, it was also the deepest, most loving way
that the two of them could acknowledge that it could well be a long time
before they'd be doing this again and that a lot of water was likely to
have flowed under a lot of bridges first.  That, and the fact that they
never needed much of an excuse to get themselves well and truly laid!

**********

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