At the end of Part 4 of this story we left Dan and Milo beginning their new life as Mr. and Mr. de Beer-Reed. Part 5 finds them happily settling into married life together, four years on.
There are 10 chapters, all complete, with more to follow in Part 6 -- probably. I'll be posting one chapter each week while I'm working on the second part of my other story, A Very Ordinary Boy. Thanks for reading.
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 5
From Part 4, Epilogue:
It looks like I've got to wrap this up now, dad and D's mum and dad will be here in a few minutes. We're taking them out to dinner as a special `Thank You' for everything they've done for us, not just for yesterday which was monumental, but for just being there and helping us get to where we are today -- D'n'M forever.
Cheers
Your son, Milo
Chapter 1:
From the kitchen, chopping vegetables for their supper, Dan was surprised to hear the front door bell ring. Had Milo forgotten his key again? He glanced up at the clock on the wall. No, it was too early. Besides, as he'd kissed Dan goodbye that morning, he'd mentioned that he had a late meeting with Please Call Me (even after all these years Dan still couldn't think of Shania Margelles by any other name) so wouldn't be home until gone 8. So it must be someone else, someone unexpected. Quickly he put down the vegetable knife and took off the apron -- a recent birthday gift from his parents and emblazoned with the ridged and very sexy torso of Michelangelo's David -- and walked through the apartment to the front door.
"Mr. de Beer?"
It was a woman, youngish (late 30's/early 40's Dan estimated, so definitely older than him), shoulder-length mid-brown hair held back from her face with a black Alice band, formal, slate grey trouser suit, white shirt and flat pumps, small silver ear studs, large tote bag over one shoulder, an expression of professional enquiry on her carefully and discreetly made-up face.
"de Beer-Reed, yes."
"Ah, I was hoping to speak to a Mr. Milo de Beer? I was told that he lives here."
"That's my husband," Dan replied. There was no obvious reaction to this information, no surprise and certainly no distaste. Dan was impressed. At the very least, people were usually visibly taken aback whenever Dan or Milo introduced each other to strangers. "He's not here at the moment and not likely to be for a while. And you are?"
"Lamar," she replied, producing a laminated and very official-looking identity tag from the breast pocket of her suit jacket and handing it over. "Veronica Lamar."
Dan quickly scanned the information on the tag and took in Ms. Lamar's professional qualifications (Bachelor of Science, Master in Social Work), telephone and email contact information and the fact that her employer was the local department of social services.
"If you need to talk to him about one of the young people he's currently working with then you need to contact him at his office. I can give you the details if you'd like to step inside for a moment." He was about to go back to the desk in the second bedroom, used by them both as a home office, to fetch Milo's number at Margelles and Associates, when Veronica Lamar spoke again.
"Well, it is a young person I need to speak to your husband about but it's not work-related. It's a personal matter, and definitely one that he'll want to hear about here rather than at the office. You say he won't be home for some time. Any idea how long, exactly? Only, it is rather urgent you see, especially as it's now the weekend. I feel confident that Mr. de Beer would want to action this situation as expeditiously as possible."
Dan wasn't at all sure what to make of this. Although her tone of voice was business-like and her manner, along with her language, was text-book professional, it was obvious to him that it was something unusual, maybe even alarming, that had brought Ms. Lamar, a social worker, to his apartment at nearly six o'clock on Friday evening. He made a decision.
"Why not come inside and wait? I'll text Milo, who, by the way, is also Mr. de Beer-Reed, and let him know that you're here, but without giving him any details of why of course." (Not that he knew any, thought Dan), "And maybe he can get out of his meeting or, at least, escape before the end. His boss is usually pretty good about allowing her staff time for `personal matters'," he added, making sure to emphasise the last two words and giving them a deliberately quizzical tone. Ms. Lamar didn't rise to the bait but did accept the invitation to enter the apartment.
Although Dan was completely unaware of it, as she moved from front door into the hallway, past the main bathroom and two bedrooms on the way to the kitchen, Ms. Lamar was giving his home the professional `once-over'. Her immediate response was positive. The place was clean, reasonably tidy and, as far as she could see, in good decorative order (as an agent would say). There would be time, later, to complete a thorough home assessment but first impressions were very encouraging. True, the same-sex marriage had come as something of a surprise -- if things went well she'd have to update the records, including Milo's married name, as soon as she went into the office on Monday -- and she didn't think it was something that the department had encountered before, certainly not in the ten years she'd been working there. But she was confident that there was absolutely no reason why that should prove to be any sort of impediment to the plan that had been worked out between herself and her supervisor earlier that day, certainly not considering the rather unusual circumstances.
At the same time as his unexpected visitor was running through her mental check-list, Dan was leading the way through the apartment whilst simultaneously tapping the keys of his phone.
Don't be too late home. You've a visitor from social services, here on a personal matter. D xx
That should do it, he thought. Accurate if unavoidably ambiguous. He hoped Please Call Me would at least let M off the hook earlier than the scheduled 8 o'clock finish time. It was Friday after all.
"Tea? Coffee?" asked Dan, adding, as a very tongue-in-cheek afterthought, "Beer?"
"Just some water, if it's no trouble," came the expectedly professional response. But was that a slight uplift of the lips? Dan wondered. A hint of a suppressed smile? Maybe Ms. Lamar wasn't quite as straight-laced as she seemed on first appearances.
"No trouble at all," replied Dan. "Please," he added, indicating the bar stools tucked neatly under the counter top, "Sit."
Veronica Lamar selected the nearest stool, pulled it towards her and elegantly perched herself while Dan fetched a glass and filled it with cold water from a jug in the fridge.
"It's my turn to cook dinner," he continued as he handed over the glass. "Do you mind if I ...?"
"Not at all. Please carry on. I can only apologise for gate-crashing your evening like this," she replied. It was clear from her tone that she was, quite genuinely, feeling somewhat embarrassed at the intrusion. Under normal circumstances, unannounced home visits were an expected aspect of her job, but the unusual and, in her experience, unprecedented, reasons behind her being in this particular apartment on this particular evening left her feeling, at the very least, uncomfortably on the back foot, and she didn't like it. She didn't like it at all.
Dan's hand was just about to reach across to pick up the apron he'd discarded on his way to answering the door when his head decided that this was maybe not such a good idea. Although his visitor didn't seem to be at all unsettled by his marital status, he thought the sight of David's very hunky chest and six-pack abs tied round his own upper body might be pushing things just a bit too far. He diverted his hand towards the vegetable knife and resumed slicing the peppers and baby corns. Veronica Lamar sipped her water. Neither was quite sure how to kick-start the conversation. Inevitably they both began to speak at the same time.
"How long have you been ...?" That was Dan.
"Your apartment is very ..." Ms. Lamar hesitated and stopped before getting to the end of her sentence.
"Please, after you. You were about to say something about the apartment."
Ms. Lamar picked up more or less from the point that she'd got to before. "I was just about to say that it seems very comfortable and homely. Have you and your husband lived here long?"
So, with the conversation successfully underway, Dan explained how the building was one that had been bought and renovated by the development company owned by Milo's father and that the two of them had moved in soon after their wedding four years earlier. What he didn't know, again, was that his visitor was taking careful mental note of all the important details that he was unknowingly providing -- that the place was rent-free (how very convenient to have a wealthy property developer father); that the second bedroom would often double-up as a guest room (she'd noticed the two bedrooms on her way through the apartment); that both men had professional and well-paid jobs (so no money worries); that Dan's work for his father-in-law sometimes required him to make site visits often some distance away, so he could be gone from home for three or four days at a time (hm, not great, but also not necessarily a deal-breaker); that Milo was a fully-qualified psychologist, specialising in child and adolescent mental health (how useful could that be?); that it only took a few minutes for Milo to walk to his office at Margelles and Associates (very convenient), that Dan's parents and Milo's father all lived locally (strange that there was no mention of the mother); that, taken all in all, life was good (would he still be saying that in six months?)
All the time that he was talking Dan continued to assemble the ingredients for the king prawn and ginger stir fry they would be having for dinner (one of Milo's particular favourites). Just as he was covering the chopped vegetables with a damp cloth to stop them drying out it occurred to him that this was a very one-sided conversation and that it was time for him to start trying to get a bit more information out of Ms. Lamar regarding the reason for her unexpected visit. That's when he heard the sound of a key being turned in the lock and the front door opening. He looked up at the clock. Just a few minutes after 7. Either the meeting had wrapped up much earlier than planned (not very likely given past experience) or Milo had successfully managed to negotiate an early release ("Time off for good behaviour," as he would later describe it to their visitor).
Seconds later Milo walked into the kitchen, went straight over to Dan who he kissed gently on the lips, and then looked questioningly at the unfamiliar woman who was sitting in his kitchen, nursing a half empty water glass. What he saw was pretty much the same as Dan had, an hour or so earlier, that is a neat, professional woman, somewhat older than the two of them. She was more or less a carbon-copy of the type of local official he encountered, and frequently crossed swords with (metaphorically speaking) on a regular basis in his work with the troubled young people of the town. That realisation did not fill him with confidence. What she saw was a tall, slim and strikingly good looking man (some sort of sportsman?), most likely in his early thirties she estimated (Dan and Milo had both recently celebrated their 30th birthdays -- hence the apron). With his slightly unkempt, short-cut hair flicked back from his forehead, smart-casual (but clearly expensive) grey jacket, upturned black jeans and unbuttoned formal pale blue shirt, he looked the very picture of the confident and successful young professional.
It's true what they say,' she thought. All the best ones are either married or gay.' (Or, as in Milo's case, both!) She thought the kiss was sweet but it did start some quiet alarm bells ringing at the back of her mind. She'd have to get her supervisor's thoughts on the matter when she went in on Monday.
"This," began Dan, "Is ..." He didn't get to finish the introduction.
"Veronica Lamar. I'm from Social Services, Children and Families department, and I'm here to speak to you about something that has come through to us today from another agency overseas, something personal to you, Mr. de Beer-Reed, personal and really quite pressing."
"So Kate has a kid. Fuck!"
Although Milo no longer visibly winced whenever D used the F-word, he still didn't like it. But, as it was something he frequently heard when listening to his young clients, it was also something he'd more or less come to accept.
"Yeah. And she wants me -- us -- to take him in. It's a lot to process."
They were lying in bed, side by side as they had been doing for so many years, with Dan's head and one hand resting in their usual places on M's smooth chest and one bent leg gently nudging the underside of his boxer-brief-clad ball sack. The only light in the room came from the almost full moon shining dimly through the slightly open venetian-blinded window. It cast deep shadows on their two faces, both of which showed the impact of the news that Ms. Lamar (she had made it clear that they should continue to use her formal name and title) had brought. For Milo it was a mixture of shock, surprise and confusion, while Dan's expression was more of concern for his husband and anger at Kate, M's long-absent sister.
Yes, it definitely was a lot to process, and that was without knowing the whole story.
Ms. Lamar had explained how, earlier in the day, her department had been contacted by the authorities in Buenos Aires, Argentina, regarding a young male whose mother was not in a position to continue to support or care for him. In a letter, apparently written by the mother and handed over to the local authorities, she asked that he should be repatriated back to the country of his birth and citizenship and allowed to live with his immediate family, namely Milo.
"Domenico. Domenico de Beer. That's quite a name. I wonder what he's known as. Dom? Nico?" Milo mused.
"Hey, let's not get ahead of ourselves here. We don't know if any of what Ms. Lamar said is true. And he might have his dad's last name. And as for taking in some random kid ..."
"He's not random," Milo interrupted sharply. "He's family. Kate's son. He's my nephew. Our nephew."
Okay, so the news might be overwhelming and hard to believe but, if it was true, it meant that there was a child in trouble out there somewhere a long way away. And not just any child, his sister's child. And she wanted him to look after the boy because she couldn't do it herself for some, as yet, unknown reason. In Milo's mind that meant discussion over, decision made, case closed. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind of the right thing to do, nor that D would back him up 100%. Had he been able to read Dan's mind at that exact moment he might have found himself being forced to reconsider that last thought.
Dan wasn't slow to pick up on M's determined tone of voice. It was the one that he'd heard many times over the years of their relationship, the one that said, "My mind is made up."; the one that assumed that Dan would automatically agree; the one that Milo used whenever he encountered an injustice or some sort of unfairness, especially when the victim was a vulnerable child or young person. Of course, at the back of this unshakeable conviction were his memories of being abused and rejected by his own mother when she discovered that her only son was gay, and of how he'd been rescued by the love and support of Dan's family and also that of his swimming teammates. So, of course he'd want to come to the rescue of this previously unknown-about kid in a far distant foreign country; of course he'd take on trust whatever cock-and-bull story the kid's mother had put together; of course he'd assume that he had to do the decent thing and that there was no other possible course of action. Well, Dan wasn't so sure or, as he put it to himself, so naïve.
Dan's love for Milo knew no bounds. His devotion to Milo was unbreakable. His belief in Milo was unshakeable. But all that love, devotion and belief added up to an absolute determination that, for the rest of his life, he would do everything in his power to ensure that Milo was never hurt again, particularly by his mother or sister. Milo may have moved on from what they'd done to him all those years before, forgiven them even, but Dan's hatred of what they had done still burned as fiercely in his chest as it had on the day that Helen Reed, his mum, had returned home to find Milo sobbing and bleeding on their front steps. The memory of the damage done by that humiliation, that violence and rejection still had the power to interrupt Dan's sleep, ball his fists, reduce him to tears. But this, he knew, was not the moment to come on too strong with all guns blazing. He needed to tread carefully.
"You're right," he murmured, "and I'm sorry for calling him a random kid."
Milo's response to this olive branch was to bend his head down to kiss Dan's forehead. Dan decided it was safe to continue and, hopefully, buy some time, if not some much-needed (in his opinion) perspective.
"She talked about the letter coming through from the authorities down there, maybe even tomorrow," Dan reminded Milo of what the social worker had told them before she left. "Once we've seen what it says, then we can start thinking about what's gonna be the best thing to do."
"Yeah, she said an email of it might arrive tomorrow and that she'd text me if it did."
"She didn't sound too impressed at the idea of, maybe, having to go into the office on a Saturday."
"Yeah, she made that pretty clear. But she obviously knew that I ... that we'd want to read it a.s.a.p. and not have to wait until Monday. She's totally right about that. The thought of having to wait all weekend would drive me nuts." Milo was obviously already obsessing about Kate's letter and exactly what it might say. Dan needed to try to take things down a notch or two.
"We might have no choice, if the letter doesn't turn up before Monday." Secretly that was his hope. A delay of 48 hours or so would give him time to work on Milo, create a bit of distance, tone down his expectations. It would also give them a chance to talk to his parents, Helen and Roger. Dan didn't mind admitting, at least to himself, that he was beginning to feel seriously out of his depth. His mum and dad, especially his mum, could always be relied on to shine a logical light on any bump in the road. Let's face it, they'd had enough practice.
At that moment the old D'n'M telepathy thing clicked in.
"What are we gonna tell the parents? My dad finding out he's got an unknown grandson out there somewhere is gonna seriously mess with his head. And it's only been a few months since his heart attack. Shit!"
"Well that's a good enough reason to say nothing for now," Dan replied. "There's not a thing he can do about it anyway so why upset him and, maybe, knock back his recovery? He's been doing much better since he cut down his office hours." While all this was perfectly true, the sub-text to Dan's apparently reasonable and measured response was his belief that, at this early stage and before any real facts had been established, the fewer people who knew about the possible existence of Kate's son the better, even the boy's grandfather.
"I think that's a good plan. No point getting the old man over-excited before we know how and when we're gonna be able to get Domenico back with his family. Where he belongs," he added. "But I don't know how I'm gonna be able to sleep until we hear from Ms. Lamar that the letter's arrived."
Well, that was one area that Dan was confident in his long-standing and pleasurably-acquired expertise. He began to gently rub his inner thigh up and down over Milo's bulge whilst simultaneously circling one finger around his right nipple. This, and what would inevitably follow, was guaranteed to ensure a good night's sleep for both of them. So Dan was both surprised and disappointed when he felt a hand come to rest firmly on his own, forcing it to stop its circular stimulation.
"Thanks for the thought, D, but I'm really not in the mood. Can we just cuddle? Do you mind?"
Yes, he did mind, mostly for M but also for himself. It had been a long week (and that was without this evening's bombshell) and he'd been looking forward to some bedtime R&R. But what he said was, "Sure." He hoped he was managing to hide his frustration. "That's fine. We can cuddle. And tomorrow, after a good night's sleep everything will make much more sense."
`And pigs might fly,' he thought.
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