.

downstairs.

      On the trips back up, he hauled paint, supplies and boxes of hardwood flooring. He stacked it in the room, slitting the boxes open before deciding to take a breather. He was filthy, sweaty and tired, but he’d have the room painted by the end of the day.

      Lighting up a fresh cigarette, Mark wandered down to the master bath to see what Josh was up to.

      The place was gutted down to the studs. Mark had already taken the wall out between a closet and the bath, reframing it. He’d chased most of the wiring through but couldn’t do anything else until the plumbing was done.

      “If you’re going to San Francisco,” greeted Mark as he walked across the bedroom. He stood in the doorway of the bath. “Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair...” Josh had his back to him, sweating some copper fixtures for the sinks on the far wall as he sang along. Crossing his arms over his chest, Mark leaned against the doorframe, watching. Josh wore a faded brown t-shirt with lettering mostly hidden by the baggy coveralls that hung on his lean frame. His long hair was tied out of his face with a pink bandana, of all things. But it certainly looked like he knew what he was doing as he soldered the joints, handling the small blowtorch with ease.

      The song changed to Bob Dylan’s All Along the Watchtower. Without warning, Mark flashed back to Vietnam.

       Mark leaned against the Huey's shuddering frame, the jungle sliding by in a kaleidoscope of greens as he watched. The wind whipped around him as he glanced over his shoulder. First squad was jammed into the cargo area, everyone on top of each other. They were exhausted, some asleep, heads down, rifles over their laps. The smell of diesel, sweat, and blood washed over him.

       The pilot was talking on the radio but Mark couldn't make out the words over the slick's engine and comforting whump, whump, whump of the rotor blades. Ryan dozed behind him, shouldered against Mark's back, his rifle wrapped in his arms.

       This was safety, skimming over the jungles. Sarge played tunelessly on his harmonica. Most of the time Mark swore he’d steal that damned thing and hide it. Today, it didn't annoy him. They were on their way back to the firebase after almost two weeks in the bush. He was alive, Ryan was alive. Another day survived in this God forsaken hell.

      Mark snapped back to the present, blinking, staring at Josh who had stopped what he was doing. He’d turned off the music along his blowtorch. He now stood, eyes filled with concern behind the safety glasses.

      “Christ, man, you okay?”

      Fuck, just what he needed to do in front of this guy, flashback to his time in Vietnam. Normally that only happened at night. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. It had to be the music, it just had to be.

      “Yeah, I’m fine, don’t go all girly on me, cupcake.”

      “You were in Vietnam, weren’t you?” Josh stripped off his safety glasses, setting them and the blowtorch aside.

      “What makes you say that?”

      Josh shrugged. “You’re not old enough for Korea. You don’t have ‘lifer’ written all over you, so you couldn’t have been in Desert Storm. That pretty much leaves ’Nam.”

      “Aren’t we the rocket scientist here?” Mark didn’t like talking about this, but he didn’t walk away either. The guy was a former Marine, even if he’d never been in a war.

      “You were a boonie rat, I bet. How many tours?”

      “Two. That’s all I’m gonna say about it.”

      “Sweet Christ, man.” Josh shook his head. “If the music’s gonna be a problem, I’ll knock it off.”

      “I don’t give a fuck what you listen to, jarhead, as long as you get the damn pipe run in here.”

      * * * *

      Josh came down wearing another loose t-shirt and sweatpants in a wild flower print. His hair was still wet from the shower he’d taken after spending all day busting his ass in the master bath. He’d gotten a fair amount of the work done, though. Mark had started a fire in the fireplace, tossing a couple of logs on the flames. The sun had long since gone down, leaving nothing but black emptiness outside the expanse of windows.

      “You got anything to eat in that fridge or is it just beer and cornflakes?” Josh clasped his hands over his head and rolled his sore shoulders as he walked into the cluttered kitchen.

      “There’s plenty in the freezer.” Mark turned around after he finished playing with the fire.

      Josh pulled open the freezer, making a face at the variety of frozen dinner choices that included meatloaf, pot pies and fried chicken. He fished the meatloaf out, reading the back of the box. “I don’t suppose you can get pizza delivered out here?”

      “Cute pants there, cupcake. I bet you got boxers to match.”

      Josh looked down at his comfortable sweatpants, hooking a thumb in the waistband. “Want to see?”

      “Get real, jarhead.” Mark turned his back on him and sat in an overstuffed chair facing the fire.

      “I heard boonie rats like you always went commando out in the jungle.” Josh flashed him a grin. “Bet you still do.” He ripped open the box, then pulled the dinner out. First chance he got, he was driving into town to get some real fucking food.

      “Like you’ll ever find out, cupcake.”

      Josh smiled, tossing the frozen dinner in the microwave. He keyed in the cooking time. Outside the wind picked up, throwing rain against the windows. Josh opened a few cupboards until he found a stack of plates, taking one out. He followed that with a beer from the fridge, twisting the cap off as he waited.

      “So, we gonna hook up that fifty-five-inch bad boy there or is it gonna languish in the box?”

      “It’s fine right where it is.”

      “We get it hooked up, we could be watching football on Monday night.” Josh pulled his dinner out the microwave. “You know, all those manly men in tight pants. Some of them even play in the mud.”

      “It’s nice to know you’re so into the game.”

      “You betcha. You can’t tell me you don’t like football, dogface.”

      The fire took the damp chill out of the air. Josh put the plate under his dinner and with his beer in the other hand joined Mark in front of the fire, sitting on the large sofa. The heat was soothing, as Josh tucked one leg up under him.

      “It won’t be a big deal to mount that thing and hook it up.”

      “There are TVs in almost every fuckin’ room in this house, including your bedroom. What’s wrong with those?”

      “Hello? Fifty-five inches! High def! You’ll be able to count the stitches in the seams of their pants, that’s how fucking awesome that bad boy is.”

      “Outstanding.”

      Josh rolled his eyes, then forked up some meatloaf. “Christ, I’m going into town in the next few days and getting some real food. These things will kill ya’.”

      “Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re not one of those granola eatin’ health nuts, are ya’?” Mark pointed at him with his cigarette between two fingers. “It’s bad enough you’re a gay ex-jarhead but if you’re one of those, I’m kicking your flowered underwear ass outta here.”

      “Former jarhead, you idiot dogface. And no, I’m not a health food nut.” Josh gave up on the dinner, setting it on the box beside him. He reached for his beer instead, deciding he’d make a sandwich later. “I am, however, a steak and potatoes guy, among other things. The occasional fresh vegetable never hurt anyone either.”

      “Whatever. But you get it, you cook it.”

      “Like I’d let you grill a nice steak? Yeah,