Kiss and Cry. Narrelle M Harris

cuddle-up sounded pretty damned good, actually, which made Frank feel just that bit older, but also a bit relieved. Milo, reading his mood, took Frank by the hand and led him into the living room and onto the sofa.

      Milo shoved cushions aside and flopped down, drawing Frank alongside him. For a while they snuggled, before Frank tilted his face up and Milo obliged him with a kiss. Several kisses. Several more.

      Before long, Frank was on his back on the sofa with his shirt shoved out of place so that Milo could kiss his chest and lick at his nipples. Then Milo kiss-licked his way over Frank’s ribs, dragging his teeth slightly across bare skin, until he could squish his face into Frank’s slight podge to suckle at the pale skin.

      ‘Don’t.’ Frank squirmed, self-conscious.

      ‘You don’t,’ Milo told him. ‘I love your belly.’ He suckled at it again to prove the point.

      ‘Yeah, right. Dead sexy.’

      Milo wriggled up again, took Frank’s face in his hands and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Yes. You are. My sexy Bear.’

      ‘I’m a grumpy bear.’ That was how Frank had earned the pet name in the first place, years ago, when Milo would turn on the lascivious charm to convert him from a grumpy growler to a languid teddy bear.

      ‘Grumpy bear, cuddly bear, sexy bear.’ Milo kissed him between each iteration. ‘I love your little belly and I love your crow’s feet and I love the grey hairs you keep pulling out thinking I haven’t noticed. And do you know why?’

      ‘Why?’ Frank grumbled.

      ‘Cos you’re growing old with me, baby Bear, and at least twice over the years, we didn’t think we’d get that chance. But here we are.’ Milo pulled Frank close and held him tight. Frank wrapped his arms around Milo too, happy to be reminded.

      ‘Here we are,’ said Frank. He brushed his thumb across Milo’s cheek. ‘God, I love you.’

      They kissed again, and Milo used his mouth to retrace earlier steps, smearing lips, tongue and teeth over Frank’s skin to the swell of his stomach. He looked up, dark eyes pleading the question under his lashes.

      ‘Didn’t you promise me a birthday ravishing?’ Frank asked.

      Milo grinned. ‘Get your pants off, birthday boy.’

      Frank put his hands behind his head. ‘I thought you were going to do all the work.’

      Milo gleefully proceeded to do all the work, and Frank to make almost all of the noise.

      *

      ‘Do you get a trophy if you win the skating thing?’ Frank asked. He and Milo were still cosied up on the sofa, Frank lying in the V of Milo’s legs, Milo’s arms around him and his head on Milo’s chest. He was gazing up at the row of music awards on the mantelpiece.

      Milo nuzzled Frank’s hair. ‘Don’t know. Reckon I should?’

      Frank ran his hands down Milo’s bare thighs. ‘Definitely. You should have all the trophies.’

      ‘You’ve got enough trophies for both of us.’ He kissed the back of Frank’s neck.

      A prickle of irritation crawled up Frank’s spine; a sense that the comment was somehow a criticism. They’d argued before about Frank’s long hours at the studio and his single-minded focus on making every album for every artist was as perfect as it could be. Milo hadn’t minded when it was their own album they’d been making just right, and he didn’t mind when Frank was making the singles that raised money for the Foundation.

      Milo pressed his nose into Frank’s skin and kissed him, and Frank abruptly let go of the irritation that had come from nothing. He sank back into Milo’s arms.

      A querulous feline mew made them both sit suddenly up. The last time Treble had leapt up unexpectedly to join them on the sofa when they were both naked, it had been briefly alarming and bloody. Milo’s bum still bore a faint scar. Frank leapt up, dragging the soft throw rug over his body and Milo shoved a cushion over his crotch.

      ‘Little monster,’ Milo chided the tabby cat fondly. She alighted onto the sofa beside him and head-butted the hand holding the cushion in place. He scratched her ears and she purred. ‘That’s my precious girl,’ Milo crooned at her. ‘Daddy’s fluffy princess.’

      ‘You are such a sucker for that cat.’

      ‘And you’re not?’

      ‘I don’t call myself her Cat Daddy.’

      ‘You totally think it, though.’

      ‘I do not.’

      ‘You do. Anyway, it’s not like we’re gonna be real dads.’

      ‘God. You’re as bad as Angela.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Gay couples can have kids.’

      ‘Course they can,’ said Milo. ‘Elton. Neil Patrick Harris. The sound guys from the last album – Ivan and Harry from Sydney, remember them? Their kid’s adorable.’ He addressed Treble in a sooky voice: ‘But why would we want them when we’ve got a lovely fur baby, hmm? We don’t have to worry about saying fuck in front of you, do we, Queen Fluff? ‘

      Treble, Queen Fluff, the Fur Baby, miaowed a regal response, clambered up the protective cushion and head-butted Milo’s chin.

      Frank stroked Treble’s spine and she purred happily. ‘What was that about a new footballer coming onto the skating thing?’ he asked, firmly changing the subject.

      ‘Josh Baker broke his leg, remember I told you? The producers have said his team-mate Adam Wills can take his spot, for the same charity. Something to do with rural football clinics for kids.’

      ‘Hard to imagine a football player being any good at skating.’

      ‘Ice dancing,’ Milo corrected him with a grin. ‘And yeah, just like it’s hard to imagine singer-guitarists doubling up as ice dance ballerinas.’

      ‘This one can,’ Frank tapped Milo on the chest. Treble patted gently at his finger with her paw.

      ‘I bet you say that to all the boys.’

      ‘Only the pretty ones.’

      Milo batted his eyelashes. “Why sah, d’y’all think Ah’m purty?’ he said in an appalling attempt at a Southern accent.

      ‘I think you’re fabulous dressed in nothing but a cushion and a cat, and I’m the luckiest bloke in all of Melbourne.’

      ‘You are,’ Milo agreed, carefully putting aside the cat, more rapidly putting aside the cushion. ‘Happy birthday, handsome.’ He kissed Frank on the lips then headed for the stairs to the upper storey. ‘Come to bed, old man, and snuggle with your boy toy.’

      Frank threw the cushion at Milo’s head, then chased him up the stairs.

      Chapter Three

      CHANNEL 8 COMMS AND MEDIA – MEMO: Claire Poppy to Justin Samms

      Please finalise images and proofread text for the press release. I’ll sign off before distribution. Include head shots beside the contestants now we have Adam W’s. Make sure Flynn and Wallace don’t get mixed up again, don’t want another social media riot. I know they’re both actors, but Wallace is also The Director. Hany is The Dancer and Bertolone is The Singer.

      ~ Claire.

      CHANNEL 8 COMMS AND MEDIA – MEMO: Justin Samms to Claire Poppy

      Claire, will do. Darn these triple threats. And is JoJo Busch really “The Lover”?

      ~ Justin

      CHANNEL 8 COMMS AND MEDIA – MEMO: Claire Poppy to Justin Samms

      She sure