M/M sex. If the idea of a discipline relationship between consenting adult men offends you, so will this story.

ELIZABETH MARSHALL STORIES

IN OTHER WORDS

"Is it ever going to be spring?" Dave wondered, looking through the back window at the ice encrusted garden.

"Probably." Philip turned down the corner on another page of the catalog he was perusing. Made a few notes on his pad.

"What are you doing?" Dave asked.

"I want to take everything out and do a white garden this spring." Philip stared pensively at his paper.

"Oh." Dave considered what he knew of white gardens and winced. Garden designers and their status symbols, inscrutable to anyone outside the magic circle.

"You want to get something out? In which case we should go early, before the Valentine hordes." Dave asked, determined not to involve himself in Philip's usual round of cabin fever inspired re-landscaping.

"I'd just as soon eat here. I'd rather eat here."

"What's wrong, Philip?" Dave leaned over Philip, his elbows on the back of the couch, and peered over Philip's shoulder.

"It's just a lousy weekend for me. Tomorrow makes eight years since my father died, Dave. Can you believe it's been that long?"

"That's right, it's the fifteenth." Dave seated himself alongside Philip on the couch. They sat quietly, thigh to thigh, absorbed in their separate thoughts.

"You want to do anything, gift in his memory to the botanical garden, something?" Dave asked eventually. "We've talked about it before, but..."

"I don't know, Dave." Phil sighed. "You know what my father would have said..."

"'Put the money in the business, Phil,'" Dave answered automatically.

"Yeah." Philip shook his head, remembering his father's most often uttered phrase. "I think I'm going to let it go again."

"I'm sorry, Philip." Dave leaned into Philip. "I know it was hard sometimes."

"Yeah. I just wish he'd gotten a chance to see me as an adult. To see us as adults. To see the house. And the garden." Philip looked out the window. "I don't think I really want a white garden. My father hated them."

"Whew." Dave let out a sigh of relief.

"What?"

"I'm not too fond of white gardens myself," Dave said.

"Ah. Sorry, Davey, I forgot about that party."

"Yeah, well, the look on those snots's faces when I asked why they didn't add some color..."

Philip began to laugh.

"Phil! It was one of the half dozen most embarrassing moments of my life!" Dave exaggerated his indignation, deliberately cheering Philip out of his morbid mood.

"Remember that evil little dog of theirs, that kept peeing in the flowerbed? What was it again?" Philip furrowed his eyebrows.

"Evil, little and a dog," Dave said. "That's what it was, all right."

"I got a few good jobs from that one, though," Philip said. "They were decent about spreading my name around."

"Well, that's good anyway," Dave said. "Snots."

"Hey, hey, hey, I've dealt with worse at your parties," Philip said. "How about that guy in classics who staged that asthma attack when I told him I'd put in the Kwanzan cherries by the humanities offices?"

"Joshua and his allergies. I'd forgotten that," Dave mused. "Sometimes I think we live on different planets."

"I don't ever think that," Philip said, taking Dave's hand and tugging him over. "Come on, Davey, kiss me."

Philip yawned. By the pale light of early dawn he could see Dave's hand caressing his own cock.

"Mine." Philip replaced Dave's hand with his own. He slid his fist to the root of Dave's hardened cock, curled sideways and took Dave in his mouth. Relished the taut warmth of him, the small movements Dave's cock made against his tongue. His other hand cupped Dave's balls gently, the tips of his fingers just brushing the soft skin behind.

"Let me turn over." Dave rolled onto knees and forearms. Philip slicked himself and pressed into Dave. "Oh yeah, Phil, that's so good."

"So good," Philip echoed and for a time there were no words at all, just the creak of bedsprings and the unrestrained groans of lovers who need not fear being overheard.

Afterward Philip sprawled on his back and Dave curled against him, head resting on Philip's still heaving chest.

"Mine." Philip kissed Dave softly. "Mine."

"All yours.

Philip's eyes closed briefly and Dave rolled free. Padded barefoot and bare-assed into the bathroom.

Philip heard the shower start. Pulling on briefs and jeans, a tee and yesterday's flannel shirt, he headed down to the kitchen.

Wary of the older house's pipes, Philip ran the water for a few minutes before filling the coffee maker's carafe and the large copper watering can beside the sink. As the coffee brewed, Philip watered his windowsill garden, removing a yellowing leaf here, turning a pot there. Admired his winter blooming clivia, the luxuriant trail of burro's tail in its hanging basket. Both plants legacies from his father.

Eight years today, Philip thought. I guess I could go to church at least. Maybe I should. He looked up as he heard Dave enter the kitchen. Dave's still wet hair was combed back neatly and he was nicely dressed in good slacks and a turtleneck.

"What time's Mass?" Dave leaned into Philip for a kiss. He tasted minty.

"Oh Davey." Philip knew Dave found little meaning and less comfort in the rituals of faith. Dave's mother had converted to marry Dave's father and steadfastly ignored both her own and her adopted religion. Dave coming downstairs all ready to worship with him was a true gesture of support.

"I figured you'd want to go before you went in to the nursery. If we take my car I can drop you at the store after. I've got to stop by my office for a few hours anyway."

"No you don't, Dave," Philip said. "We agreed you'd stay off campus on the weekends. You just come back here, listen to some music, watch something on tv. I'll be back by four latest."

"Phil, I just want to get a jump on a few things for next week..."

"No."

Dave was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded compliantly.

"That's my boy," Philip said. "You deserve a little time to relax, Davey."

"So do you, but you're working," Dave couldn't help pointing out.

"I could leave you a little list if you're that set on working," Philip suggested, true to form.

"I was joking!" Dave back-pedaled hastily. "I'll make breakfast; you get changed. We don't want to be late." Dave turned to the stove.

"Thank you." Philip patted Dave's rump en route to the stairs. "Dave, I.." There weren't words enough for everything Philip wanted to say.

"Philip, I love you."

***FIN***

Inspired by Rusty and Hedeia's fine interpretations of Sinatra's standard, "Fly Me to the Moon" (Bart Howard). EM