That is, until I step inside the loft and see… it. 

The enormous purple bow seems to take up half the counter space, dwarfing the tiny planter onto which its tied.  The bright green stalks of the plant itself look almost fluorescent against my stark walls and minimalist decor.  But the kicker… the thing that actually has me gaping, open-mouthed, my jacket dangling almost forgotten in my hand and contemplation of hot showers, cold drinks and lingering fucks vanished into the ether… is the balloon. 

The bright yellow happy face bobs merrily at the end of its string, vacuous smile mocking me. 

I’m going to kill Justin. 

I finally shake off my stupor and take the remaining steps into the room. I drop my jacket on the stool and reach for the offensive plant, fully intending to deposit it into the nearest garbage can and then pretend it never existed.  Burying things that annoy me is one of my most highly-developed skills, after all.  Besides, killing Justin would involve a big confrontation regarding my all-too-justified reasons for his early demise, and the ensuing conversation would just take too much time and effort.  I’d rather get laid. 

My fingers brush against the terracotta planter, knocking aside the little envelope that was previously hidden by folds of violet silk.  It lands face-down on the floor, and I’m tempted to just leave it where it fell.  I really don’t need to open it.  I made it very clear, abundantly clear, exquisitely fucking clear that I had no intention of “celebrating” my birthday.  There is absolutely no obligation on my part to read the damned card. 

I’m still thinking this as I retrieve the envelope and walk toward the desk.  At least the rich vellum matches my design scheme.  The letter opener slides effortlessly through the envelope, yet I hesitate a moment before withdrawing the card from its folds.  I really don’t want to kill Justin.  So I offer up a silent prayer to whomever might be listening that I’m not about to be subjected to some mushy, sentimental Hallmark crap.  Then I upend the envelope and let the card slide out onto the desk. 

Another bright yellow happy face smirks up at me. 

I resist the urge to stick out my tongue, choosing instead to ignore Mr. Smiley and flip open the card.  Justin’s distinctive script practically leaps from the page. 

They say that bamboo is an excellent way to attract positive energy.  It’s said that three stalks attract happiness; five attract wealth; and seven result in good health.

I glance toward the plant, mentally counting off the stems.  I guess Justin figures that I’m rich enough and hot enough already, because there’s only three stalks on my little plant. 

Twenty-one stalks attract general all-around good luck, but I figured you’d kill me if I bought something that big!

Happy Birthday, Brian!

Good to know that he’s well aware of how close he’s come to a hideous yet well-deserved death. 

I drop the card on the desk and give the plant a final scowl as I head toward the bedroom, stripping off clothes as I go.  I suppose I can’t be too pissed at the kid.  Justin has a natural exuberance that can’t be suppressed… that shouldn’t be suppressed, least of all by someone like me.  And…he has said that he loves giving gifts.  He’s one of those pathetic suckers that actually gets a thrill out of choosing the “perfect” wrapping paper, like the person getting the gift ever gives a shit what it‘s wrapped in.  He’ll spend half an hour wrapping it, making sure the edges are razor sharp, the edges tapered just so.  Ritualized gift-gifting -- a Taylor family curse.  Couldn’t be more different from my fucking family if he tried.  So, restraining himself to the purchase of one small bamboo plant and one slightly ostentatious ribbon is actually a great accomplishment.

Yeah, I’ll let him off easy.  I’ll accept the present in the spirit which it was intended.  No big deal. 

Being caught up in charitable thoughts as I am, I’m halfway through the bedroom before I notice the second happy face balloon.  My eyes follow the string down to the centre of the bed, where it’s anchored to a small rectangular package. 

Little fucker. 

The bed dips with my weight as I drop to my knees and pick up the present.  This one is wrapped in bold fuchsia paper and tied with a pastel ribbon.  All right, so I can’t resist.  I shake the box, hearing the tell-tale rattle and knowing with absolute certainly what it contains.  Bedroom, rectangular box… and we just recently spent an afternoon browsing at Good Vibrations.  It doesn’t take a genius to figure this out.  I just hope he splurged for the 9-inch. 

I untie the ribbon, ignoring the freaky yellow face as it drifts lazily toward the ceiling.  I have to admit I’m smiling as I slide open the end of the box, already mentally planning  just how and when I’ll test out my new…

Toblerone chocolate bar. 

That little shit. 

The chocolate drops to the duvet as I dive for the card, propped so innocently against the pillows.  The vellum tears in my grasp and soon enough I’m staring at another version of Mr. Smiley.    This time I do stick out my tongue.  Maturity is highly overrated. 

They say that eating chocolate releases a chemical called mesolimbic dopamine to the brain’s pleasure centres, causing a warm inner glow similar to the feelings associated with sex… and love. 

Trust Justin to know the name of the fucking chemical.  My eyes flick back to the card.

I think you should save this Toblerone for when I’m out of town.  That’s when you’ll need it the most.  :)

Happy Birthday, Brian!

I lean back on my haunches and run a hand over my face, pressing my lips together.  What has this kid done to me?  It’s just a birthday.  The fact that my mother saw fit to spew out a mewling brat on this day thirty three years ago is no reason for cakes or candles or presents or any of that other shit.  Justin of all people should know exactly how I feel about that. 

So how did this ridiculous chocolate bar end up back in my hand, and why can’t I wipe this goofy grin off my face?

Pushing myself off the bed with a grunt, I grab my robe and stalk toward the bathroom.  And then… I hesitate.  What if…  No, he wouldn’t.  But I pause at the doorway anyway, peeking cautiously into the room.  This is what life with Justin has reduced me to -- sneaking around like a thief in my own loft!  All right, our loft.  Mercifully, the bathroom counter is free of both gaily wrapped packages and blindness-inducing helium-filled balloons. 

I let out a breath and pull open the shower door, only to come face-to-face with Mr. Smiley. 

At this point, all I can do is shake my head. 

I poke a finger at the latex happy face, watching bemusedly as the balloon floats drowsily to the opposite wall, bounces off, and then returns to me.  Why am I not surprised?  I swear the goddamned thing almost winks.   Tugging on the cord, I pull Mr. Smiley’s anchor -- a small square box wrapped to the nines -- to chest level before snapping the cord.  Ignoring the balloon’s final resting place, I carefully unwrap present number three, sliding a bar of scented soap into my palm.  A quick perusal of the shower stall finds the card, propped amongst the condoms and skin cream on the tiny shelf.  Justin’s inimitable handwriting sprawls across yet another happy face card. 

They say that soy nut acts as a revitalizing agent, while cucumber melon is known for its moisturizing properties.  This soap should leave your skin silken smooth to the touch.

I lift the pearl-coloured bar to my nose, inhaling deeply.  The scent is strong and fresh, clean and pure.  I turn my attention back to the card.

I can’t wait to touch you. 

Fuck. 

Strong and fresh and… intoxicating. 

I lean back against the cool glass and close my eyes, letting the aroma fill my senses and allowing myself this moment… a moment of revelling in whatever images my mind sees fit to create.    Images of Justin’s pale hand enveloped in my own, fingers interlaced as we troop through the farmers market in quest of the makings for his “famous” artichoke salad… Images of Justin hunched over the desk, tongue peeking ever-so-slightly from between pale pink lips, forehead creased in concentration as he places the finishing touches on a project that I’ll never have to worry about … Images of Justin writhing beneath me, eyes closed, lips parted, caught between a gasp and a moan, his face transformed by ecstasy. 

I never tire of touching him. 

I never tire of him.

I can’t quite put a finger on what I’m feeling.  Happiness, yes, but I feel happiness often when Justin is concerned.  And love, and pride, and a shitload of other emotions that I generally take as they come and endeavour not to analyze.  And this is happiness, yes, but the persistent sensation is one of… amazement.  That he cares enough… still cares enough… to do this for me.  That he’s strong enough… still strong enough… to sometimes ignore my wishes and follow his own heart. 

That he will never tire of me. 

That fucking scares the hell out of me. 

I push away from the wall and turn on the taps, letting the hot water and the pungent scent of soy nut and cucumber melon wash away my errant thoughts. 

I drop the wet towel on a barstool and make my way to the stereo.  Before long, music -- something lazy and vaguely Latin -- is drifting softly from the stereo speakers, but I can still hear the rattle of the elevator cage as it is lowered.  I can close my eyes and picture Justin hefting his backpack onto his shoulder as he steps toward the door.  I can see the way he automatically flexes the fingers of his weaker hand before he lets them curl around the handle; see the muscles in his back slide beneath his shirt as he pulls the heavy door open.  I can hear the soft patter of his sneakered soles on the polished floor as he steps inside the loft…and then stops. 

I can feel his gaze crawling heatedly over my skin. 

I stand near the kitchen counter, arms spread wide, and watch from lowered lids as he drinks in my body, starting at my toes and making his way slowly, so slowly, to my face.  He grins, and I find my heart rate accelerating  as I eagerly match his smile with one of my own.  He licks his lips, and my half-erect dick quickly jumps to full alert. 

When his eyes return to my cock, I slowly trace the scrap of ribbon tied there, letting my fingers trail upward along the silken length of lavender to the bobbing head of a inanely grinning sunshine-yellow balloon. 

“Justin,” I grin, “have you met Mr. Smiley?”