Chapter Text
End of April/early May, post election.
“Ay ay ay! You did what, Irish?! And Ben, you went along with this? Not that I’m sorry, but Dios Mio! That building!? Really?!”
The voice over the phone’s tiny speaker was not exactly shrill, but it was—distinctive, peppered with Nuyorican slang and a still-prominent accent, a high tenor in its excitement, a little like Jock’s intruder alert.
“You know how he is when he gets going,” Ben said, laughing. “Like a bulldozer. I just went along for the ride. And now we’re moving to New York.” At the moment, they were in their hotel room at the Four Seasons on 57th Street with Mushy at Ben’s feet and Jock pacing the confines of his latest prison, walk! clearly on his mind.
“When? How? Why? I want all the details, mijos!”
“Hang on, we haven’t signed the papers yet,” Khalil said, also laughing. Juan Alvarez did that to people, his warmth and generosity and enthusiasm for life rubbing off on whoever he was talking to within the first five minutes of conversation. It made him a wonderful host, a popular dance teacher of everything not ballet and tap, and a charismatic community leader. “We’re still in town. Want to have dinner? You and Roberto with us, and we’ll explain?”
“You will come over today, right now, for dinner,” Juan ordered. “Hoberto and Mami will want to see you both again and hear this insane story too. Ay Ay! I cannot believe you are moving here. Just like that!” They heard a finger snap.
This time they took the train. Juan’s dance studio was in the deep weeds of Bushwick, far from the subway, but his home was only a few blocks off the M train, so it was a single local from 57th Street in Manhattan to Knickerbocker Avenue in Brooklyn, and a few minutes walk from there. They took the dogs with them, too, figuring it was easier to pay the fine if they were caught without carrier bags for them than trying to find a car service to agree to take them all out to Bushwick—a problem they would have to deal with while living here; the Rivian might get more of a workout than just hauling materials to the not-yet-acquired shop. Mushy burrowed in behind their legs and lay on the floor, as well behaved as any service dog, which they hoped he’d be taken for. Jock, meanwhile, sat observing everyone from Khalil’s lap and drawing “Cute pupper!” comments that he basked in.
Near the overhead rail line, Juan’s neighborhood was still a little rough around the edges, but the park near his building was clean and well-cared for, filled with kids bundled up for March weather, and there was construction going on in the few uninhabited buildings they passed. Hopefully not the kind leading to gentrification that would price out the current inhabitants. New York, like many other places in the country, was in the midst of a worse than usual housing shortage, a fact that got Ben thinking about further Yooperville developments. It would be daunting navigating the Department of Buildings here, but they were residents and taxpayers now, and it would be well worth it to give back that way. And he knew there were housing activists and organizations here he could partner with and learn from. Not to mention the new real estate lawyer in the family.
“We should have brought Liliana along,” Ben ventured. “I’m pretty sure nobody would mind that.”
“No, I’m sure nobody would,” Khalil agreed. “Don’t know why I didn’t think of that. We’ll have to make plans to do that later. But Mushy might be enough of a shock for one night.”
“He might,” Ben said with a grin.
They got a few looks walking Mushy down the street as it was, and met the Labrador from the second floor on their way up after pressing the buzzer and identifying themselves. There was a brief stop to introduce the dogs and give Jock a break on the stairs. Mushy took them about five at a time and was unfazed, but Jock had been scrambling a little to keep up with the long legged hoomuns. He was not much used to steps, despite his time at the Michigan house, and these were slick stone without a runner, unlike the ones he knew best. By the time they reached the fourth floor holding the duplexes of Juan’s family, he was panting. Khalil was surprised to find that his knees were less unhappy than he thought they’d be, though he still wouldn’t want to do this every day.
Juan—who they had decided was Rael’s long lost, prettier twin—opened the door to their ring, took one look at Jock panting in Khalil’s arms and burst into tears. Robert appeared a moment later and pulled his husband close while guiding them all out of the doorway.
“Come in,” he said, hushing Juan. After a moment, Juan straightened up and pushed himself out of Robert’s arms, wiping his eyes.
“Ay ay, it’s not you,” he said, hugging first Khalil—who had to lean down—and then Ben. “We just lost Miss Lala a few days ago and I am still triste. Seeing your boy there—it was just too much. Come in, come in, mijos. And who is this grande chacho?”
“I’m so sorry, pobrecito,” Ben said, hugging them both again. “This is Mushkila—Mushy. Family, Mushy.”
“I think he got that idea already,” Robert remarked with a smile as Mushy slurped his hand.
“He’s pretty good with those kinds of cues, yes,” Khalil confirmed. “Just making sure because he is guard dog-trained.”
“And we remembered to feed them both before we came out here,” Ben assured them, with a significant glance at Robert. “Kibble only when we’re in hotels with them.”
Robert smiled and nodded approvingly. On their last visit, he’d read Ben the riot act about what they were feeding their dogs, and they had started to cook for their two critters and not just for themselves as a result.
In the meanwhile, Juan had collected himself, and his mother, Sarala—a tiny, immaculately and stylishly dressed woman—appeared from the vicinity of the kitchen holding two tumblers. “Hello, my lovelies. It is very good to see you both again. Scotch for you and bourbon for you,” she said, distributing the glasses accordingly to Khalil and Ben, respectively. “Robin, come help me with the butter chicken.”
“Can we help?” Ben asked.
She turned to him with indignation. “Certainly not! You are guests. You will make yourselves at home and my son will entertain you until dinner is ready, which will be soon.”
“Force of nature, that one,” Khalil observed, as Juan ushered them into the living room with its wall of books. Ben gave in to temptation and wandered over to peruse them. It was an odd mix: Renaissance history and literature covering France, Spain, and Italy, mostly; Gay pop culture studies, including a shelf of comics and manga; historical romance novels in English and Spanish; art books covering a wide variety of periods and styles. Four bottom shelves held an expansive record collection. A high-end turntable and tiny but powerful Bose speakers dominated a console table against one wall.
“She is why the drill sergeants at boot camp did not impress me,” Juan said and Khalil knew it was only partially a joke. They had met at Fort Moore, Georgia, in the spring of 1982 as fellow recruits—an involuntary one in Juan’s case—and Khalil had kept the gay bashing bigots off him until he purposely washed out 2 weeks after his 18th birthday. They had only reconnected last year, after nearly 45 years. Khalil was glad of it. Juan had been his own force of nature in the intervening years, flying out of his closet during the plague years and becoming a community leader, from the floor of his abuela’s dance studio in Bushwick to the ACT UP marches on City Hall, where he’d met his now-husband. The dance studio was where Khalil had found him again.
“So,” Juan began, perching on the edge of a footstool with his own half-consumed rum and Coke. Jock had come over to say hello again and was now in Juan’s lap, being fussed over and having his ears fondled. “What has happened that you are fleeing this ranch of yours in New Mexico, chicas?”
“Nothing,” Khalil shrugged. “We just realized that, much as we love Santa Fe—and that hasn’t changed—it’s not the place we thought it was going to be, for us.”
“And that’s partially your fault, you know, gatito,” Ben said in a half teasing way. Juan had called him grande gato, after their tango at that first meeting.
“Oh yes, blame me. Like everyone else,” Juan threw a dramatic back of the hand up to his forehead. “I will take that if it brings you here to the city. What did I do?”
“It was your stories about your community work, the ones you said I inspired you to,” Khalil told him. “We both realized that all the do-gooding we were do-gooding wasn’t helping our own people—LGBT people—except incidentally. Part of it was that there aren’t many gay people where we’re living in Michigan—”
“I saw the hate crime bill you were pushing finally passed. That was a victory,” Juan said.
“It was,” Khalil confirmed, “and I’m not sorry I nagged the shit out of my representative or bribed her with campaign funds.”
Juan shrugged again. “If the corporations can do it, why can’t we?” he said. “I have—what is the word Hoberto uses—connived to get council people and state reps and others to do their jobs for us.”
“But that’s about the only thing we’ve managed to do,” Ben added. “And there’s so freaking much to do now that That Asshole is in office again. Three Lakes will be open to LGBT people who need housing, just like everyone else, but we don’t even have a PFLAG chapter up there yet.”
“What’s Three Lakes?” Robert asked, coming into the living room. “And dinner is served. You can elaborate over that.”
They took their places at a massive Indian feast that Robert and Sarala had added to when Juan had informed them of their imminent guests: butter chicken, samosas, paneer, flatbread, fragrant jasmine rice, various curried vegetables, little dishes of chutney, hot sauce and other condiments, all homemade and smelling heavenly.
“Okay, Three Lakes,” said Robert once they filled their plates.
“No!” Juan insisted, slapping the table. “The San Remo! No offense, Ben, but this is why I invited you over for dinner. What is this story, Coronel Khalil? How did you end up in that building?”
“It started as a joke, to be truthful,” Khalil said, looking mildly embarrassed. “Then, when I was here the last time—same trip where we met up again—another friend of mine from my old unit was here too and we were walking by. For the hell of it, I gave my number to the agent in the office and told her what I was looking for—”
“You were looking for. You did not include Ben in this decision?” Juan interrupted, waving a fork at Khalil. “Ay ay, I thought he was joking when he said you bulldozed him. Coronel, Ben is not one of your troops!” He bit into a samosa and chewed it with fierce look at Khalil that Ben thought was kind of adorable. Definitely Rael’s cuter brother.
“It’s okay,” Ben assured him. “We’d already been talking about moving here, and what we wanted and this actually fit the bill better than anything else we looked at.”
“What were you looking for?” Robert asked, and dug into his plate.
“Some place for our commune,” Ben said with a grin. “Or what our snarkier friends call our entourage, now that we’re flying private with the dogs.”
“You have a plane too?” Robert looked surprised but definitely not impressed.
“We have a share of one,” Ben elaborated. “We invested in a company run by a friend of mine that does private charters and life flights—you know, special medical flights for folks who can’t afford or can’t take commercial flights to or from their treatment?”
“Kit flies us around with the dogs a few times a year,” Khalil added. “It’s just about impossible to fly Mushy anywhere, otherwise, and we’re done leaving the pups home when we travel. We did that with Buddy, our last boy, and we’re both sorry we did. Right now our flights are subsidizing the company until it gets on its feet with charters.” Juan didn’t seem to care, except about the dogs; Robert was neutral but interested.
“What is this entourage?” Juan said, revealing his real interest. “Hangers on? Blood suckers? Watch your back, Irish! I don’t want no one taking advantage of you!”
“No, not at all. They’re family,” Ben said, starting to wonder whether Juan was being protective or just now getting a grasp of how much money he and Khalil had between them. “Most of them are people like me, people Khalil’s helped, and by helping them, gotten to know them, and getting to know them, turned them into friends and sometimes more.”
“Comes from years of living communally in the service—and being a lonely only child. The house in Michigan is always full of people,” Khalil said. “People come over when the power goes out in the winter because we’re off the grid and the house is always warm and we can sleep 24 people in a pinch. We had a refugee couple and their two kiddos living with us for almost two years. Sunday dinners can be anything from a half dozen to two dozen people. Neighbors. Friends.”
“Lovers,” Ben added, just to see what reaction that would get.
“Ah, I see,” Juan said, throwing Ben an interested look. “Community, like your art show. Famìlia. There was not one, so you made it.”
“Exactly,” Khalil said.
“So how many does this new departamento sleep?” Juan asked.
“Not quite as many as the Michigan house, even with sofa beds, of which we’ll only have a couple, I think. We’ll have four, maybe five bedrooms when I’m done with it,” Ben said. “Different kind of community requirements than the sort where the power goes out and it hits 20 below on the regular in the winter. ”
“That would be enough right there to make me move to Santa Fe,” Robert said, shivering. “Or someplace warmer.”
“Hence the apartment in Barcelona,” Ben agreed. “That and the architecture there.”
“And there are no stairs here, to save my bad knees,” Khalil added. “The ones in the Barcelona apartment are at least very gentle.”
“Ah, now I see,” Juan said. “And there is the reason why you did not buy a brownstone.”
“Si,” Ben agreed. “And another reason we’re easing out of the Michigan house. It’s three stories, though the top floor is now an apartment.”
“So why not Santa Fe?” Robert asked.
Khalil and Ben exchanged a look. Ben blew out a breath. “Too small for us,” he said. “Lovely, but too small. Same problem as Michigan: finding community, and opportunities to help people.”
“New Mexico, most of the Southwest, is probably going to be an ICE target for at least the next two years, if the initial indicators mean anything,” Robert said. “Probably New York, too.”
Khalil nodded. “You mean the Gestapo,” he added. “We had some experience with them when we had Ibri and his wife and kiddos living with us. Bunch of unconstitutional bullshit,” Khalil growled.
“Wait, you’re first gen, aren’t you, Irish?” Juan said, looking alarmed. “Like me.”
“Aye,” Khalil said with a classic fuck this shit look, “which means we’re both booted out if birthright citizenship gets struck down. I don’t think it’s likely, but it depends on how far in to fascism we let this administration go.”
“Yeah, that is not fucking happening,” Ben said. “Gestapo or no. Not on my watch.”
“Ours either,” Robert agreed.
Sarala, who had been silent so far during the conversation, added, “Or mine. When the old women are against you, there is no path to victory.”
Khalil shuddered a little. “And don’t I know that. There is no army more powerful than an army of old women.”
“I am glad someone recognizes that,” Sarala said. “And it does not surprise me that it would be a soldier who does.”
“Believe me, the old women in the village were the first people I made friends with. Nobody wants them sending a grandson out to put an IED under your Jeep.”
“Let us hope it does not come to that,” Sarala said, a sentiment greeted with nods and affirmations, but also a sense that if it did, there would be no hesitation to do what needed to be done.
“So, you moving into the San Remo, cool,” Juan said, intentionally moving them along. “When will you be hosting your first fundraiser for the new LGBTQ museum? Lotsa rich people in that place.”
“That’s something I’ll need you for, my friend,” Khalil said. “Fundraising is not one of my talents. I can schmooze and drum up business, but I’m more of a throw money at the problem guy, I’ve been told. We should definitely go on your list of people to hit for donations though. And I think Ben and I would be happy to host?” Ben nodded, mouth full of butter chicken.
“My Juan is very good at that,” Sarala, who had been quiet until now, said, “at fundraising. He has raised so much money for community projects both here in the neighborhood and the gay community.”
“So much and so many that he’s getting an award for it,” Robert said, shooting his husband a look that was both proud and mischievous.
“Ay ay ay you were not supposed to tell anyone, bocaza!” Juan wailed.
“Not like it’s going to be a secret when it happens,” Robert said. “And I suspect Khalil and Ben would like to be there too.”
“What’s the award?” Ben asked.
“A Stonewall Community Vision Award,” Robert said, leaning over and kissing Juan’s forehead. “It’s for people who’ve, well, done just what Juanito’s done. Raised up our people, supported us, raised money for our projects, got arrested for us, beaten up for us, and been out, loud, and proud to make us more visible. He’s done a string of fundraisers every year at the studio, marched with ACT-UP—”
“Si, we have a dance marathon every year, competitions—all to raise money for the LGBT youth shelters and gay friendly community health centers like Callen-Lorde and GMHC. Mi estudiantes y staff do the walk every year—”
“The AIDS Walk,” Robert clarified unnecessarily.
Ben nodded. “I did a couple of those in Boston.”
Khalil threw up his hands. “More secrets you were keeping from me. How come I was never invited? I’d have come out to Boston for that.”
Ben flushed a little. “I don’t know. I think I was still feeling my way into who I was then.”
“I’m teasing, love.” It was Khalil’s turn to grab his spouse and kiss his temple. “But let’s do one together soon.’
“I think it’s too late to sign up for this year’s,” Robert said. “It’s—when, mid-May?”
“Si,” Juan confirmed. “But next year, you could join our team at the studio, Irish, you and el Grande Gato.”
Khalil and Ben exchanged a look, Ben’s eyes sparkling with excitement. “Let’s do it,” he said.
“I’ll get both VFWs to sponsor me,” Khalil said, “in Santa Fe and Michigan, now that Will’s not in office anymore.”
“And when’s the award ceremony,” Ben asked sweetly, giving Juan an I see what you did there stinkeye.
“Third weekend of Pride. Big party afterwards,” Robert said. “Same weekend as Brooklyn Pride. I’ll make sure you’re invited.”
Juan buried his face in his hands.
“You should march in that parade with us, too, Irish,” Juan added, coming up for air again. “Bring your uniform. Be good for the young soldados to see un veterano like you out and proud. They don’t remember Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.”
Khalil made a face, having hoped he was done with the military now. But he could see Juan’s point.
“Which brings up the question of when you are moving here,” Sarala added, adroitly shifting the subject to give her son a break.
“Oh, not for a while yet,” Ben said. “We’ve still got papers to sign and renovations to do. Enlarging a couple of rooms to turn into bedrooms, updating the kitchen and baths. We’ve got a tight deadline, so I’m going to have to get everything designed, measured, and ordered first before we bring in a crew. And get permits. I have no idea how long it’s going to take for that. We’re not altering much, so I’m hoping not long. And that there are wheels I can grease to get it expedited if necessary. And we’ve got projects to wind up in Santa Fe and one underway in Michigan I need to go get off the ground. We’re shooting for six months.”
“I don’t envy you,” Juan said “All that dust and dirt and noise.”
“Amen,” Robert said, shuddering. “Are you going to be in the city while it’s going on?”
“I’m going to want to snoopervise,” Ben admitted, “even if I can’t do any of the work myself. Or not much of it anyway, with a union crew. Truthfully, once everything’s roughed in, I could do the finish work, but man I hate fitting cabinets, which is mostly what this is going to be. But there’s no reason to be here all the time. We can pop in for a couple of days, leave the dogs in Michigan or Santa Fe, since we’ve got people there and some things to still finish up.”
“I suspect we’ll be back and forth between Michigan, here, and Santa Fe until the fall.”
“We’ll need to look for a couple of studios for the two of us, too, or one we can share.”
“Studios—oh, estudios de arte,” Juan said, “not departamentos. You should talk to Gloria. She may have some advice about studios.”
“Yes,” Robert confirmed. “I think she had one in Chinatown for a while.”
“Who’s Gloria?” Ben asked.
“One of our tenants. She’s a portrait painter—” Robert began
“Who keeps pissing off her clients,” Juan added with a smirk. “She is a little—”
“Volatile. She’s a little volatile,” Robert said mildly.
“She’s a drama queen,” Juan stage whispered.
“And you are not,” Robert said with a matching smirk. “Of course.”
“Of course I am! But there can be only one of us under one roof!” Juan declared, drawing himself up.
“It’s not Highlander, Juanito,” Robert reminded him with a wry look. “You’re just mad that she steals the attention from you sometimes.”
“Si, si,” Juan agreed with a sigh. “It’s true. She is a very good painter though. Hoberto and I went to her last show in Chelsea.”
“Yes, she’s really gifted. Her portraits are just a step above,” Robert said. “Like Hockney’s but more idiosyncratic. Not just a likeness, but playful, with a sense of the spirit of the person. More like Annie Liebovitz than Hockney, now that I think about it. We’ll introduce you some time soon.”
“Great. I’d like to get back to the masks I’ve been working on,” Khalil said, “and I need a studio for that. They’re all in Michigan right now, languishing.”
“Tell us about this project, Kal,” Sarala said, cocking her head.
That took them through the end of dinner, and into the kitchen, when they helped as much as they were allowed with the dishes. By the time the dishwasher was loaded, Khalil had finished explaining his masks and what he was aiming for.
“And I think, mi hermanito,” Khalil said to Juan, “I will need a cast of your face. To be the one most authentically himself, the corrective to the rest of us.”
Juan looked both embarrassed and pleased.
Sarala excused herself when they moved on to the living room and digestifs—in this case, a really fine Armagnac both Khalil and Ben admired.
“One of my indulgences,” Robert admitted.
“One of many, including me,” Juan added fondly. “Now, what is Three Lakes, Ben? I hijacked your spotlight, grande gato. Perdóname.”
Both Robert and Juan were surprisingly interested in Ben’s project and the fact that he was hoping to do many more of them, including in New York, if possible.
“Bushwick could use something like that, definitely. But please do not buy up community gardens and plow them under,” Robert begged. “That happens way too often here.”
“No fear I’d do that,” Ben confirmed, shuddering. “More likely to buy up the buildings on either side, and maybe that lot itself, then cede the garden to the community in perpetuity and rehab or rebuild the buildings depending on their state. Cities need green spaces, and community run ones are just as good as public parks. Better in some ways.”
“This is like what we did here, with this building,” Juan added. “Our tenants are like family, and stay a long time. We make enough to keep up the building, make some renovations, but don’t charge market prices.”
“No, we don’t gouge people,” Robert agreed. “And sometimes we give people a break if they’re going through hard times. But we can only afford so much, sadly. We always try to find some other place for them, or some funding source to tide them over, though.”
Ben looked at Khalil, who nodded. “Maybe we could help with that. You could be part of our project?”
“How would that work?” Robert asked, frowning.
“Off the top of my head,” Ben said slowly, “a self-sustaining emergency fund? We could work out the details later, link it without strings attached to access to social services as necessary. How’s that sound?”
Robert and Juan exchanged a look Ben couldn’t interpret.
“Too good to be true?” Robert said honestly.
Ben nodded. “Yeah, I know. It’s possible though. I’m setting the same thing up for Three Lakes.”
“That’s … a lot of money, Ben,” Robert said, “to be self-sustaining.”
“Nothing we can’t afford,” Khalil confirmed. “I’ve already done it with the school I started in Afghanistan. It’s been going almost 20 years now, though the Taliban are likely to kill it. I’ll have to find some underground project there to funnel the money into.”
Juan and Robert exchanged another look. “If you say so, Coronel.”
“Think about it,” Ben said. “It could be a good model for more projects here, later.”
They left it at that and went on to other topics, Ben pulling Robert over to the bookcase, and Juan and Khalil discussing some of Juan’s neighborhood projects as well. It was late by the time they wrapped it up, the dogs asleep at their feet. “I think it’s time we got these guys home,” Khalil said, standing up. Mushy was instantly alert but Jock was up like a flash, dancing to go out and whining a little. It took them a few minutes to wrap up their conversations, retrieve coats and jackets, and wend their way to the door, followed by their hosts.
Just as Khalil was reaching out for the knob, the bell rang insistently. Khalil opened the door to find a woman as tall as himself, with long black hair and skin tone that reminded him of many of the Native Americans they’d met. She was wearing a faded, paint spattered t-shirt that said I’m a WOMAN with a DICK and I’m NOT AFRAID to USE IT across ample breasts unsupported by a bra. Her jeans were equally faded and paint spattered and Ben briefly wondered how she’d even gotten into them, they were so tight. Tight enough to reveal a substantial right-tucked package. She was square jawed and muscular enough to be a blacksmith.
She looked Khalil up and down like he was a delicious kebab on a stick.
“Hell-O Sailor!” she purred, one large, blunt-nailed hand on a slim hip.
Jock barked and stood himself between Khalil’s feet. My hoomun!
“Hush, you,” Ben told him. Jock whined a little and sat down.
“Soldier, actually. Retired,” Khalil said with a wide grin. Ben wondered what he was thinking of. Or who. He stuck out a hand and there was a moment’s grip test that was clearly a draw. “Khalil Cahill, friend of Juan and Robert. This is my husband, Ben Kenner.”
“Hello there,” Ben said, switching Mushy’s leash to his left hand. He stuck out his right, ready to be crushed. But it was only a firm and not painful grip and she looked him over with interest if not quite as avid as the kind she’d shown Khalil. Like he might be an interesting snack. Or appetizer.
“Gloria,” she replied. “Gloria Glorious,” and tossed her hair dramatically. She was indeed.
“I see you’ve introduced yourselves,” Robert said, appearing behind Ben. “Khalil and Ben are friends of ours, just moving here.”
“We’re renovating another apartment in Manhattan,” Ben added.
“They’re going to be looking for studios,” Juan said to Gloria.
“Oh? You’re artists too?” She arched her eyebrows skeptically. “What media?”
“Ceramics,” Khalil said. “Sculptural work, but I’m just getting started, really.”
“I’m an architect who also makes furniture,” Ben added. “I hear you do portraits.”
“When I find somebody I’d like to paint. You might be on that list, you two,” she admitted, looking them both up and down again. “By the way, Robert, the dishwasher has conked out again. It was leaking a little but I caught it in time.”
Robert sighed. “I’ll call the plumber in the morning. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Thank you,” she said to Robert. “When are you moving here?” Looking back at Khalil.
Khalil shared an amused and quietly excited look with Ben. “Soon as we can. We love New York.”
The subway ride back to the hotel was much less crowded and quieter than the ride there had been.
“That was nice, wasn’t it?” Ben observed when they’d settled in their seats with the dogs.
“It was,” Khalil agreed. “Like dinner with Liliana. And that’s three—maybe four, with Gloria—new friends we’ve got here. People like us. That feels different somehow. And good. More like Barcelona.”
Ben nodded. “When I was talking to Roberto after dinner, I asked him what he teaches. He said he’s shifted from Renaissance history to Queer Studies, mostly pop culture. This is the last time he’s teaching his gay comics class and seemed pretty sad about it. But there are some really interesting books on his shelves. I felt stupid asking him for a reading list, but that wasn’t a subject offered anywhere I went to college. As good as Joanne was then as a librarian, I know for a fact there weren’t any books about being queer on the library shelves when I was a kid. Believe me, I looked.”
“I don’t think the discipline of Queer Studies even existed when I went to uni,” Khalil agreed. “And maybe we can start a fund for that at the library. Sandy would be on that in a hot minute.”
“Not sure how Joanne would be with it though,” Ben said, looking uncertain.
“We’ll find out, won’t we?” Khalil said. “In the meanwhile, I think both Roberto and Juan have a lot to teach us.”
And Ben, at least, felt like they were already settling in, somehow, without having yet moved anywhere.
Ben spent the next couple of days after getting the keys to the San Remo apartment doing just what he’d told Juan and Robert he needed to do: Measuring the space and designing the layout. He’d pinned the working copy of the builder’s blueprints on the gallery wall in the center of the apartment and blocked in measurements in pencil in his neat architect’s hand, scribbling out the walls he wanted to move and penciling them in where he wanted them. “We’re going to lose a significant chunk of the master suite’s dressing room if we add this extra bedroom, instead of just enlarging the staff bedroom,” Ben said, staring at the plans with a pencil shoved behind his ear. “Think we really need this many bedrooms? We’ve only got four in the Michigan house, not counting the guest house. We’re rarely that full up, except when the power goes out, which isn’t a factor here. This seems like plenty, even for holidays. And it’s not like there aren’t hotels up the street here, too.”
“No, you’re right about that,” Khalil said, staring at the plans. “I don’t care about the dressing room though, do you? Seems stupidly huge. We’re neither of us real clothes horses. Unless you’re planning to become one?”
“Who knows? New York might inspire me the way London does,” Ben said with a grin. “I don’t think I’ll need that much space, even if it does. You might though, talking about Met Galas and everything. And we can always make changes later, if we … want.” Ben’s voice trailed off and he got a devilish look on his face as he turned to Khalil.
“Do we want … a playroom? Not as big as the gyms we’ve planned at the ranch or riad but enough to store toys and a piece or two of equipment?” Ben slunk over to him, wrapped himself around Khalil and rubbed against him. “Somewhere I can tie you and discipline you, my Awar?”
It was interesting to watch all the thoughts but one leave his husband’s head. Khalil started to slide to the floor in his usual submissive position, but Ben stopped him. “Not on the marble, my Awar. It’s bad for your knees. Just tell me what you want.”
Khalil shook himself a little, visibly pulling himself out of his intruding head space. “I would love a playroom,” he managed in a hoarse voice.
Ben nodded and stepped back from his husband, turning to the plans on the wall, only a little gleeful about winding his husband up so easily. “Here’s what we’ll do: Keep the staff room and its en suite, but close it off from the pantry where you enter now. We’ll take this wall out—” he scribbled with his pencil “—and close off the end of the dressing room so the staff room doubles in size and has two windows instead of one, and it’ll open up into what was the dressing room from behind a hidden door. We’ll make that en suite a little bigger, put in a bigger tub you’ll fit in—or maybe not. Maybe we’ll just fold you into that one,” he said, glancing over at his Awar in time to see his pupils dilate and a shiver go through him. “Nicer tub then, not bigger. Maybe a little deeper. The en suite will open into the hallway, and we can lock the bedroom access from the other side to make it seem like a standalone. We’ll still have a good sized dressing room/closet. And that still gives us four bedrooms, even if one of them is only for our closest friends.”
“That sounds like enough to me,” Khalil said in his normal voice. “We just didn’t need either a room for staff to stay over or such a huge dressing room. This looks like a far better use of space. For us.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Ben agreed with a straight face. “Okay, that looks good,” he said, standing back from his sketched-in changes. I’ll get these drawn up and file for permits. Now—the fun part! Shopping!” Khalil suddenly looked alarmed. “Don’t give me that face, Coronel. This is what makes it our house and not just mine. Fixtures and furniture. Paint and wall coverings and art. Window treatments. You want one of those big soaking tubs again in our bath, I assume.”
“Yes please,” Khalil affirmed. “ My knees and back appreciate them.”
And so it went from there.
They were two weeks more in New York, using Ben’s designer credentials to shop the various design centers across the city, negotiating cabinets, furniture, wallpaper, carpets, and art for the walls. ABC Carpet and Home got its own entire day, as did the D&D Building. The New York Design Center on Lexington got three, and they spent another day hunting through the lighting shops on the Bowery and several more on the galleries in Chelsea.
Khalil admitted he enjoyed the art tour more than anything. They found Gloria’s dealer and immediately saw what Robert had meant by describing her as a cross between David Hockney and Annie Liebovitz. She had Hockney’s love of color and light, and Liebovitz’s delight in props and costumes. The product was sometimes absurd, sometimes grotesque, often playful as Robert had said, but always intriguing and original. “Wonder what she’d make of our little polycule?” Ben said.
“Maybe we should find out. David wants a portrait for the Uglies gallery anyway,” Khalil responded. “I told him I’d swap one for the medieval holiday one that’s there now, so I can give it to Manizha, to go with the dagger.”
“And wouldn’t that be a shocking departure for that Hall of Horrors,” Ben said with a laugh. “You, me, Rael and Sandy, Manizha and Maaz, the dogs.”
“I can hear the docent years from now when that barn is part of the National Trust: And here we have the black sheep of the family, Khalil, and his daughter and harem.”
“Not sure how Sandy would feel about being part of a harem,” Ben observed. “Or Maaz.”
“Hey, that’s the docent, not me,” Khalil shrugged. “Stupid old cow.”
They had decided not to settle on a period or a style but to buy things that they both liked, somewhat the same way that they had bought antiques for the ranch. It would be an eclectic home, comfortable for both of them and their guests, unpretentious, dog-friendly, party-ready (whether Martha liked that or not) for Juan’s fundraisers and their own Sunday Dinner Extravaganzas. Ben rented a storage unit and they started filling it.
“This is definitely a joint effort, isn’t it?” Khalil said as they came out of the D&D Building. “A little you, a little me.”
“All us, for a change,” Ben said.
“You know, I wasn’t paying that much attention when you designed the Barcelona apartment because I wanted it to be your thing,” Khalil said. “To see what you would do when cut loose. This is much more work—skilled work—than I thought it was. I’ve underestimated that, and I’m sorry.”
Ben shrugged. “Easy to do with design. It’s one of those things that people do kind of instinctively. We get shelter, we want to make it look safe and welcoming. We want it to reflect us. We all want beauty in our lives, even when we don’t know how to get it. Some people have a natural eye for using color and placing objects, others don’t. I don’t always pay a lot of attention to the so-called rules of it either, or the trends. We’re going to end up with something that’s uniquely us though.”
“Well, we’ve kind of thrown out all the rules this time, haven’t we?”
“Not all of them,” Ben said with a grin. “Just the ones that are really egregious. For a guy who lived in military barracks and diplomatic housing most of his life, you’ve got a good sense of design yourself.”
Khalil shrugged, reddening a little. “I know what I like, but that’s about it.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself, Colonel. You’ve got an artist’s eye, too. You’ve picked out some beautiful stuff.”
“You’re the best thing I’ve ever picked out,” Khalil said, pulling Ben in for a warm kiss.