long before the horrors that had killed Paolo and nearly taken Milo from him.
Frank and Milo had just been coming up for air, with a promising new album, when the Botanic Gardens serial killings had smashed them all to pieces again. Momentum kept them going for a while, but the wheels came off spectacularly half way through the Ain’t Love Grand Tour.
They’d made the contractually obliged and critically lauded studio album two years later, but touring was right out. Milo still saw his therapist every few months. ‘Just for a top-up,’ he joked. And so what if Milo still couldn’t bear enclosed spaces sometimes? Being tied up and locked in a car boot, waiting to be slaughtered, left understandable scars.
This Carlton house had come at just the right time. It had taken months to get it fixed up – iron lace restored on the eaves and balcony, hardwood floors on both levels. The art nouveau leadlights on the downstairs windows had been cleaned, and so had the etched glass windows and door upstairs. Period plaster details had been repaired, the kitchen refurbished in granite and stainless steel. The tiny garage housed Milo’s Ducati Monster motorbike and Frank’s Kawasaki Ninja. The music room and the back courtyard decking had been added in warm, soothing wood and slate, edged by a small garden bed, ready for planting.
The house was as perfect as Frank could make it. Now Argyle House, overlooking the square of the same name, was their home and their haven. They were safe here.
‘You’ve done a lovely job with the place,’ said Olivia.
‘We like it.’
Laughter heralded Angela, Milo and Pete’s return to the house.
‘But I don’t get it,’ Angela was saying. ‘How many guitars and pianos could you possibly need?’
‘We’ll let you know when we find out,’ Milo promised, tickled by her astonishment.
‘Coffee’s on,’ Frank announced.
‘Mint tea?’ asked Angela. ‘Coffee tastes like muck when I’m pregnant.’
The little housewarming party ended in the front room, on squishy sofas and amid embarrassing stories of childhoods in Perth and Carlton. Pete fessed up to a few of his own, and some precious ones of the son he’d lost long ago.
Milo’s too-brittle energy had dissipated. He curled up with his feet underneath him and quietly encouraged his mother to share the most ridiculous stories of an only child who had charmed half the neighbourhood into letting him do odd jobs so he could buy his first Fender Telecaster.
As everyone was leaving, Milo handed Peter a 15 year old bottle of Glenfiddich to settle their bet, but he’d wrapped it in a tiny Geelong Cats scarf to have the last word.
‘I still win,’ declared Pete, gleefully de-scarfing the bottle.
He sobered suddenly. Curling a hand around the back of Milo’s neck, he planted a quick kiss on his forehead. ‘You take care now, Stepson. And you call me if you ever need me, even if you just want to stick the boot into my footy team. Okay?’
‘The mighty Hawks? More like the mighty Squawks,’ Milo said softly.
‘That’s a good lad.’
Olivia hugged her son hard, then wrenched herself away to hug Frank equally hard while Angela, more circumspect, kissed everyone on the cheek. Promises were made about coming to Cherry Bar on Sunday.
When they’d all gone, Frank stacked the dishwasher and Milo disappeared upstairs. Tidying done, Frank ascended to the bedroom and through the open etched-glass door onto the balcony, where Milo had retreated. He stood behind Milo, arms around his waist, and together they contemplated the silhouettes of Argyle Square’s elm trees against the sky.
‘I said Mum always knows when I’m lying,’ said Milo.
Frank kissed the back of Milo’s neck. Milo sighed and leaned back into Frank’s arms. He began to fiddle with the bracelet. Clack-clack.
‘I am getting better,’ he asserted. ‘I don’t have many days like this.’
‘I know.’ Frank nuzzled at Milo’s hair and kissed his ear. ‘You’re doing really well, babe.’
Milo rested his arms over Frank’s, around his waist. ‘Cherry Bar’s going to be great. And I’ll be fine at the Toff,’ he said. ‘I’ll just take the stairs up. It’s only on the second floor.’
‘Nobody gets in that rickety lift if they can help it anyway.’
Milo didn’t laugh. ‘We might have been famous by now, if I hadn’t gone off my rocker.’
Frank burrowed his nose in Milo’s neck. ‘We might have been dead. It’s not your fault, what happened.’ He kissed Milo’s neck and hugged him close. ‘So hold your ground and look to the sky.’
‘Frank Capriano, are you quoting my own song lyrics back at me?’
‘Yes I am, Milo Bertolone. You write good songs. So what if we’re not famous? We’re alive. We’re here. We’re still making music. We still have fans, even. Intense, slightly unsettling fans.’
Milo huffed a laugh. ‘They’re all right. It’s only people we know who try to kill us.’ The laughter hovered on that threshold of broken, before Milo turned in Frank’s arms and kissed him fiercely. He crowded Frank up against the wall behind them, held his face, kissed and kissed him. Frank, arms around Milo’s waist, willingly let Milo set the pace.
Milo’s frantic kisses slowly softened, deepened. He licked at Frank’s lower lip, at the tip and edge of Frank’s tongue, while Frank responded with soft grunts of pleasure. Milo drew away in stages, ending in the simple press of his lips on Frank’s, before surging closer again, desire building where their mouths and bodies met.
Milo slotted his thigh between Frank’s legs and they ground slow and sweet against each other. Milo breathed hot against Frank’s throat, then sucked hard at the skin before licking to soothe the flush of red. Frank, head tilted back, whispered, ‘Don’t stop.’
Milo sucked on Frank’s lower lip, smeared kisses across his cheek, bit gently at his ear, in between unbuttoning Frank’s shirt. Frank, pliant, held onto Milo’s waist, rubbing his thumbs against the skin of his boy’s hips, gasping when Milo tweaked his budded nipples.
‘I could have you right here on the balcony,’ Milo murmured, before suckling another rosy bloom onto Frank’s chest. He admired the effect, brushing over it with his thumb.
‘You could,’ Frank agreed breathlessly, admiring in his turn the difference in their skin tones, Milo's sun-kissed olive skin against his own paler chest. He could feel the calluses on Milo's fingertips as Milo brushed them over Frank's deliciously gooseprickling body.
‘I’m not giving the world a show,’ Milo replied gruffly. ‘I’m keeping you all to myself.’
‘Yes.’
In the bedroom, they stripped and Milo took his Geelong scarf from its hook. He pushed Frank onto the bed, straddled his thighs to pin him down. He kissed Frank’s mouth, his shoulders, his chest. Nipped the skin, not hard, then kissed again. He tied Frank’s wrists in the scarf, and
