"That's that, I'm hitting the pub… you pullin' an all-nighter again, Mr. J?" asked the youngish lad Mr. Jago had hired a while ago for his competent craftsman's skills. But he had soon turned into a pretty jack-of-all-trades. He reminded Jago of poor old Casey, though Casey never was as snarky as this fellow. Or, more accurately, Casey had never been snarky, period. But Jago had liked him regardless – and so did he like this new fellow. Either it was his competence or advanced flattery, but it was all good in Jago's books.

"Ah, you see my boy, when the grand opening-night closes, even the men of my calibre start losing their soppy sleep", said Jago behind the counter. He was trying to look as a businessman-like as possible. He was reading the book of receipts upside down, though.

"I thought a big boss man like you had grown used to it", the fellow chuckled as he was pulling his black coat. A big boss man. God help that man and his slippery tongue.

"Oh no. No, no, no, but hear me out, this is for our enlightenment only: in this fickle business of energetic entertainment, any act at any given time can be the last. I am truly sorry to burst your bubble! You'll never get used to the tumbles in your tummy before the premiere."

"Whatever you say Mr. J. I'm just surprised you're turning down a pint, that's all", said the man and winked. Jago looked at him a bit perplexed, but then just huffed and whisked the lad away with an annoyed, but not very serious growl.

"Off you go you menace. And take the feather floosh-poof with you", Jago pointed at the feathery cloud on the floor, next to the door. "There's a good boy", he said when the fellow picked it up.

"Oh, you have no idea…" said the fellow with an innuendo you couldn't possibly misunderstood. But he continued before Jago had time to react.

"Good nigh Mr. J. Don't work your head off", he said, and then just he sauntered off, leaving Mr. Jago alone in his dim office.

"A dash strange lad, that one", Jago stated and tried not to think about what else the young man had planned on offering, other than just a round of beers. He was not that kind of a manager. Though, he would have been lying, if he claimed it didn't stroke his big ego – nor gave his cock a firm throb. But he was not going to dwell on it, not in the slightest.

Jago turned his attention to his entertaining trinkets. He had filled his office with all kinds items. There were bits and pieces of used props, torn down costumes he was meaning to sew back together. And before you say anything: yes, he did sew on an occasion. It saved a lot of time to do it yourself, rather than look for a competent seamstress. Besides, no-one knew what flattered his well-rounded body like he did.

There was a whole wall dedicated to posters. Some of them were decades old, showcasing his own young figure. There he was, young Henry Gordon Jago, dressed in striped skin tight French frills and whatnot. He had never been a huge star, to be bluntly honest, but he had a good run. Thanks to some very generous managers, who saw past stage frights that plagued him in all the cast calls.

Speaking of managers, there was this one who put him on shows for almost eight months straight. Kept had called him gorgeous and had his hands on him on several occasions. Back then Jago had been a little naïve. Only later he had understood what happened to other boys with bigger muscles and finer faces.

Actually, he understood many things that happened to him after being served so many free beers. None of it he remembers with any particular regret… but maybe he shouldn't have been so damn drunk. Though it wasn't his fault, the manager had been that kind of a sleaze. He did put him on all the shows as a reward though, not like some other directors, who kept hiring a sort of plumb and comical Jago to be their personal kickdog. Jago shuddered at the thought of pulling some poor actor's hair, or slapping their cheeks like he had been dragged on more than one occasion. In hindsight, being a receiving end of few lewd, but not terribly aggressive seduction wasn't all that bad.

Or that's what Mr. Jago assured himself. It felt better viewing it in a light of youthful naivety under some adulterous advances, than to think it as – as –

How about, not going there. Ever.

But back to the point. Mr. Jago had an apartment, a nice apartment with pretty curtains and a separate bedroom. It was nothing like some of the holes he'd been unfortunate enough to lodge over the years. That being said, he barely ever spent a night away from his theatre. More often than not he pulled out a mattress from a cupboard and slept here in his office. It wasn't comfortable and not by any means necessary, but somehow the self-inflicted misery of a poor bedding gave him some familiar comfort.

Jago might be nowadays rich (to some extend), and famous (to a degree), but for most people it would still mean nothing, as he was not born into upper-classes. The taste of a dried out bread and wet cabbage would never really leave him, but in the same breath, there was something Jago couldn't quite stand in his new profile. His apartment felt cold.

He had more belongings than ever before, ranging from silly trinkets to books he liked, the clothes he loved, and well made quality furniture – he even had a set of teacups made of rice grain porcelain! Good grief, his mother would be so proud. When he was a child, they didn't always have more than wooden spoons.

On the subject of family, Jago's father had, well, sort of lost his mind when Jago has been just a boy. He never fully understood it, his mother didn't talk about it. It kind of left him with a strange hole in his personal history, since he never got around to asking. They had moved a lot in his kid years, and he didn't want to upset his mother even more.

His mother did everything it took to make ends meet. From a young age Jago had felt like he was the man of the house – looking after his mother despite not knowing how to. In the end, he didn't look after much more than himself.

Jago often wondered if he had done the right thing leaving his home immediately he grasped a small position in a small theatre group. Or as he was just selfish? If his mother had explained some of the mess they were in, given him a context for all the things that made their family a pretty confusing and distressing deal... he probably would have made many different decisions.

Regardless, it was not all that bad. He had triumphed well for a man of his background. He wasn't sad or regretful or angry about anything – his childhood just was a big, tied knot of something rubbery he couldn't really digest. Nor did he try to anymore.

But sleeping upon a mattress on the floor still took him back to the days of living in a single room, downwind from a tannery. Even the smell was the same! And there were little creaks as the theatre settled down during the night. It made Jago feel strangely comforted.

He had pinned few photographs on the wall next to his makeshift bed. There was a picture of him - he couldn't have been more than 17-18 years old. He was dressed up in an indecent, kooky costume. His hair was combed on a curl and his face was powdered in a way, that they don't do even in the theatre anymore. It was a costume from an old play.

Jago had had the part of a ridiculous ditz, and at that time he had been a perfect fit for the part. Young, eager to please. It also was one of those plays under the strange manager. In this particular project he had dressed him in ridiculously tight trousers and commented on his calves and arse. He had arranged the picture to be taken. This take was the only one Jago had, but there had been some variety of others. Oh, dash it, he shouldn't have taken in so many drinks! Jago had a distinguish memory of a sweaty palm squeezing down his manhood. Sloppy kisses on his face. Sloppy yanking of his cock. But that might have been just the mixed beer and wine talking. In the picture he had a sore on his neck though. In the next frame he had been pinned down by another lad.

Next to the picture of himself he had pinned a picture of the Professor as a young man too. Perhaps a little older than Jago, he looked like he was in his twenties. Jago wouldn't confess it at any circumstances, but he had stolen it from Litefoot's dusty album on one tipsy social evening. For Mrs. Hudson's great condemn, the Professor had entertained his impresario friend through the night – Jago had passed out on his soft divan. Poor Mrs. Hudson, it was hardly the first time he had to clean up the mess. At least he hadn't been lying face first on the floor, being poked in the stomach by unimpressed housekeepers.

Only the next day he had noticed that he had stuffed a picture in his pocket. He was too embarrassed to return it, and Litefoot hadn't mentioned noticing it was missing. Guess there was no harm done. Why had he thought it was a smart idea to go through Litefoot's albums and steal from him, he could never venture a guess.

In the small picture Litefoot had a long, decorated black coat, with silver linings and possibly golden buttons. Or was it a coat? It rather hugged his waist like a waspwaisted lady's gown, shaped like an inverse triangle. Oddly feminine at first looking, but it was compensated by Litefoot's assuring pose. A very strong, male grace that was only enhanced by unconventional attributes.

He also wore his hair long, it came down his forehead. There he was, being very, very lean and aristocratic. The pair of these two pictures young men next to each other looked downright absurd – who would have thought they'd ever even meet, not to mention form a friendship. And people didn't find too strange! All thanks to Jago's successful climbing up the social ladder.

Oh, and warm thanks to the mysterious Doctor too. Never forget the Doctor. The man with them multiple faces.

Next to these two pictures there was a third one, somewhat covered up from the public view. It was a very fine photograph he and Professor Litefoot had taken together in a fine camera shop just a while ago. It had been Jago's idea, Litefoot needed some convincing. Strange enough, but for a man of his level of intellect and professionalism, the Professor was quite camera shy! But after persistent coaxing Litefoot had given in – anything for a friend, or that's what he said.

Litefoot had dressed in his best. A dark smoking jacket, with velvet sleeves, and pretty snowflake pin in his cravat and shiny, new, dual-coloured button shoes. Mr Jago himself was sporting a vest with a billion flowers, several rings and a flashy watch chain. They didn't look like they belonged in the same picture, but at the same time, they looked so comfortable and friendly, that they obviously did.

Besides, they look quite a fetching pair, Litefoot sitting on a chair and Jago standing behind him, a hand on his shoulder. It looked like a picture of the engagement (they couldn't possibly have.)

The professor sat his legs crossed, hand on his lap. He didn't look straight at the camera like proud Jago did. Instead, his eyes were slightly averted down, making him look shyer than he ever was in person. Even if his posture was quite untrue to the model, it was the most attractive look Jago had ever seen him. That photograph was more precious to him than any porcelain cup.

"Oh, my pulchritudinous Professor, a confederate extraordinaire …" sighed Jago (if you can call it sighing, with such verbal acrobatics), thumbing the shy cheek of Litefoot on the picture before covering it with the cockier, youthful portrait of him from the yesteryear.

Jago was lying on his side on the mattress, going back and forth with the pictures. The young Jago on the photograph was rakish, drunken and aroused. Old Jago on the bed was only aroused out of the three. His prick throbbed. It was nothing like the curiosity prompted by some laddish stagehand. Jago worked his hands down his belly. He gave his prick one strong pull – sweet Lord, he was hard.

"You're a fool dear old Henry Gordon. A real baffling buffoon of the whole baritone section", he scolded himself, but it didn't really stop him from undressing and getting pretty familiar under his felt duvet. He slipped buttons of his underwear open and grabbed his shaft. He gave it a harsh, rough rub. He nudged the tip of his cock with his thumb, pulled his foreskin back and let the sweet clear trickle come down the shaft. He let out a low cry. It felt good, so viciously good. As a matter of fact, it stirred up more unpleasant memory of that old manager and his grabby hands. Which almost spoiled the mood – but then Jago stole a look on the picture of young Litefoot and imagined him instead.

They would have been so young and vibrant back then if they had met in those circumstances – well, if Jago hadn't been drinking so much. And if it had been commanding, prim Mr. Litefoot, a medical student of a certain flair, he would not have been pouring pints down his throat like it was his last day on earth. He would have jumped on him – or let him jump on him. The though of being buggered on film wouldn't have scared him senseless (like it had).

Though Mr. Jago didn't exactly remember if he had been buggered or not, or if they had just posed for the manager's perverse enjoyment. But the presumption stayed. Or maybe it was because Jago had felt so sore afterwards, that he just connected the dots and hoped no-one would ever bring it up again. Or, better, if no-one ever even knew about it. Photographs of that sort could end a man's life… only comfort Jago could spare for himself was, that the manager was subtler with a man ruining evidence than his own flair. Besides, the pictures where takes so long ago, that Jago could well defend himself in the court by saying the snogged lad in the picture wasn't him. It didn't even look like him, not after 20 pounds and a suit.

He had got a big role in a big production the next day of the shoot. He never saw all the pictures that were taken, but the one he got was what it was. Provocative. Yet he didn't keep it as hidden as the double-portrait of him and the Professor.

Stroking and panting really gathered up some steam, after the impossible fantasy of being bonked silly by young George Litefoot in front of a whole cast of other men waiting in the line. Jago closed his eyes and whipped his prick hard, but somehow couldn't get a release. Not even imagining more and more detailed acts young Litefoot could have done to his body give him full satisfaction. But he did imagine it so vividly, he almost felt oil dripping between his legs. He imagined Litefoot covering his own, hardly freed hard cock with it, and then pinning him down. Perhaps he would have whispered something derogatory in his ear, yanking the fluffy hair back? He was a good sir and Jago was a stupid boy with no name or money on him. It could have been sodomy to the fullest, but it was better when it was Litefoot, and not some manager fucking him. Litefoot could have fucked him so – so – deliciously divine!

A sodomite is such an ugly word, if used instead of a lover.

"Oh, corks", he muttered as he crawled onto his knees. He then rolled a thick roll out of his pillow, that he put under his big fat belly. His cock slid against it's taunt side, making his knees buckle at the sensation. Mount it, mount it, bugger it down you dirty old man! It must have looked utterly desperate and ridiculous, but Jago gathered some momentum and was able to forget for a golden minute he wasn't just humping a pillow like a bitch dog in heat. He spewed his seed all over the damp fabric and cried head buried into the mattress. Let his body jerk and soil the sheets!

What a magnificent act! Only soured by the fact it wasn't real lovemaking at all, but a very exhausting form of self-pollution instead. Which might have been remotely better, than what he actually wanted to do. Luckily he was hit with a completely irresistible wish to sleep. An urge he was more than willing to succumb to.

On a more awkward note, someone knocked on his office door in the morning, but he had apparently jacked himself off to a such a stupor, he wouldn't have heard a cannon fire on the street. That someone was Professor Litefoot, who was up and about in an early hour. What an aggravating early bird! Mr. Jago couldn't understand people who enjoyed any hours before the noon.

"Jago, you old wrench, wake up!" Litefoot stirred his friend up and poked his belly with his silver cane. What a bully! He's taken some cues from Mrs. Hudson.

"Unnngh… what in the devil…" Jago uttered, not really comprehending the world at the first glance.

"Hope you don't mind, I let myself in. The young man I saw at the entrance hall told me I'll find you here. I think you should have a firm word with him."

"Oh corks, what he's been up to now?" cried Jago, not really up to dealing with the bumbling of his assistant this time in the morning.

"He's too flirtatious of his own good", explained Litefoot, "He was sporting me like no tomorrow! I think my head is still a bit confused. He's going to burn his fingers at that rate - people are exceptionally brutal if they get a whiff of a reason. You should tell him to tone it down. Subtle is the key, I wouldn't want to see any fine young lads in the prison. And while I'm at it, do you mind if I say, that those feathered muffs he was carrying around were astronomically ridiculous."

"They're for the Mistress Bouvier's bendy burlesque show I've booked for the weekends", Jago exhaled while trying to muster up some form of decency under the duvet. He had nothing on, except socks and garters. Litefoot gave a thought of a burlesque show a kind of an unimpressed huff, but didn't say a thing. But if he had said something, he probably would have inquired, if Jago had been reflecting upon his own reputation enough.

While Jago was trying to reach a pair of his trousers with his toe, Litefoot's eye caught on the photographs scattered around Jago's bed.

"Where did you find that!" he said and boldly reached over Jago's nakedness. What an annoying old academic!

"Um… I don't know what you're talking about", lied Jago, but never would he had guessed Litefoot to burst into laughter.

"Oh dear, oh dear. You know my dear Jago, the fellow who took this, had such a flair with photography. None of us in our class knew why he wasted time to become a doctor, when all he ever did was salivate over his negatives. I've seen all kinds of men, but he was in his own league. I swear, he caressed and kissed his camera more than his fiancée."

"Oh. I see", said Jago, but no, he didn't see. Litefoot was positively beaming, rubbing his chin and being visibly amused.

"Those are not even my own clothes I'm wearing", he noted flipping the picture, "Nor even gentlemen's wear. That was a modified gown of his mother's! I can't recall why I put up with it, to be honest", he continued, seemingly caught up with a fond memory. Somehow Jago felt like he could have well guessed why he put up with a strange student comrade's quirks. But he didn't want to think about it.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you Henry", said Litefoot, as if he had read his mind. Jago frowned and sucked his lip. It was quite unfair! The Professor was always able to read him when he wished he wouldn't.

"Did you have a reason to meet me up at this hour. Was it so important, couldn't you have sent me a telegram?" sneered Jago, covering up his chest with his hands. All but ridiculous, and increasingly embarrassing considering, that Litefoot seemed to intentionally stand between Jago and his clothes.

"It's way past decent people get up now Jago", he said with a devilish and quite condescending tone, "But granted, I didn't come straight to your precious theatre. I tried to catch you up from your apartment, down the road, first. Your neighbour informed me you've been away from home for weeks. Which got me worried. It's really not becoming for you to sleep on a floor like this, old chap."

"Why?"

"Well, first of all, a man of your age should invest on a good posture. You're only going to get back problems at this rate, mark my words!

"No, I meant, why where you looking for me in the first place?" Jago insisted and that seemed to get past of Litefoot's cover of thick smugness. He could now see a bit or tiredness in his eyes and his shoulders slumped only a little. He's not been sleeping well, that much was obvious.

"Aa, well. For companionship, I guess", shrugged Litefoot. Not very elaborated answer.

"You guess!" Jago exclaimed, and took a turn of poking Litefoot with his own cane. God forbid for him being more adult in this situation. Litefoot rubbed side of the his nose and sighed.

"I had an awful night at the St. Thomas'. An absolutely tedious and emotionally exhausting runt. I couldn't catch a glimpse of sleep, so I though, that maybe…" he wandered off, letting Jago fill in the rest by himself. Perhaps he was proposing a couple pints at the pub. Maybe a walk down at the square.

Or perhaps he was suggesting something entirely different all together. It wouldn't have been the first time. Let just say, that Mr. Jago has fallen asleep in many, many other places in Litefoot's apartment than just on the living room divan.

"Ah", said Jago, mildly blushing – which on his particular face looked more like medium plus-blushing. Litefoot gave him a wry smile.

"Mind if I ask you, but why can't you be separated from the New Regency enough to slumber in your own bed?" he asked, but Jago wasn't sure if he had an answer formed. He wasn't sure himself why he felt more comfortable here than there.

"Ow, I don't know… Guess it feels homely to me", he gathered up some idle thoughts, scratching his head while he said it. Yes, maybe it did feel like home – or homely, as he had put it. Safe, as he had felt safe living in a single room with his mother, being smothered by the oddness of the situation. But at least being close to someone. If he couldn't be close to Litefoot like that, why wouldn't he spend his nights somewhere, where he did get a whiff of the feeling he so craved?

"Are you being serious?"

"I never said I wasn't nothing but a ninnyhammer and a nincompoop. Dash it, I feel lonely in the soft bed and silenced rooms", he said quite quietly, prompting Litefoot to touch his furry temple and the brim of his ear.

"Oh, Henry…" he soothed and bowed down to give him a tender kiss on the forehead. His grey moustache scratched his skin.

"You're standing on me trousers Litefoot, and it's getting less and less comical to sit here weeping without me clothes on", said Jago. He felt, at the same time, utterly humiliated and comforted like never before. Litefoot scooped his clothes from the floor and gave them to Jago.

"Be my guest", he said, and averted his eyes primly when Jago stood up to dress himself. Though he could swear he stole more than few glimpses, but the Professor was so subtle about it Jago never caught him at it.

At the time he was tying his bow tie Litefoot walked up very close to him, took his hand and pressed it against his chest. It caught Jago off his guard – even though they had had several intimate moments over the years, even more intimate nights, they were usually fuelled by pints and pints of pale ale and a mutual agreement of not getting too deep into details, that couldn't withstand the light of day. Obliviousness was a form ill-advised, non-existing self-protection. Denial more like, but it had worked for them so far.

"Now, Jago. I think we'll agree this cannot continue", said Litefoot, with such a weight on his voice that Jago couldn't help but feel tears coming up in his eyes.

"Mmm... if you say so Professor, if you say so", he said, fearing, that this might be the end – the end of a friendship they had carefully crafted together, because it had grown into something more. It wasn't possible to play so coy anymore. They both knew what they felt, they knew what they had done and what must follow.

Or so did Jago though.

"I think it's time for us to rearrange each our housing arrangements", Litefoot said, and if something has ever come as a surprise to Jago, it must have been that one. Was he really suggesting…? No, no, he couldn't have been! Could he?

"Wait a moment now Litefoot! Are you cannot possibly mean that – that we – "

" – we should combine our households under one roof. Yes, that's exactly what I'm suggesting."

"Corks", huffed Jago, "Sweet golly gosh."

Litefoot gave him a good old kiss. Not very passionate, but firm and meaningful. He stroked the underside of Jago's plumb jaw.

"But what would people say? Wouldn't it be a dashing curious affair for two old coves like us rooming like two poor lads saving up some pennies."

"And this is where your talent of spinning some tales end? Mr. Henry Gordon Jago, the great impresario of the old Palace and the New Regency – silenced by his own unimaginativeness! Oh, well, maybe I should deal with the subtleties myself… either way, I'm sure we can cook up something perfectly reasonable", Litefoot ensured, nudging Jago's chin and laughed.

They left the office together, looking like any respectable pair of old friends. Nothing improper about it. Just click of their heels on the wooden floor.

"And please, try not to steal any of my pictures again", said Litefoot as they came down the stairs, "You've fondled this one that I got here into sticky rubbish. Don't think I don't know how or why."

Jago would have been embarrassed, if he hadn't felt so completely safe, when his blessed friend linked his arm with his arm and smiled.

FIN