Read Tag Team for Free Online

looked around his home; everything was in its place, but still he had a lot to do. He didn’t want anyone to have to clean up after him. Mason gently lifted the urn from the table and held it to his chest, gently caressing the cool metal. The tears that spilled from his eyes whenever he held Gregory’s ashes were curiously absent for the first time.
    Was it simply he had no more tears left in him, or was it the revelation that caused their absence? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that for the first time since they’d handed him the urn those long four weeks ago, he didn’t feel the soul-shattering grief that normally overwhelmed him. For the first time as he held the urn, continued to stroke his fingers along the cool metal, he was at peace. He had no fear crippling him, forcing him to his knees, not a single tremor of muscles; his heart and breath were still normal, calm.
    Mason brought the urn to his mouth and pressed his lips against it. “Soon,” he whispered before setting it back on the table.
    The rest of the morning was spent making sure all his affairs were in order. He had no one to leave their home, vehicles, or other personal belongings to; instead, he left them to a local GLBT charity. Hopefully they would be able to sell them and provide a little support for the homeless kids who had been dumped on the streets as he once had. His family had disowned him years ago. He wasn’t sure which distressed the Southern Baptist preacher, also known as Dad, more: that Mason was queer or that he was a deviant. He supposed both were just as deplorable as the other in the old man’s eyes and that of his God-fearing wife. Didn’t matter. If Mason was bound for hell on either or both of those charges, if he really was an abomination destined to walk hell for all eternity, then he was fine by that. Because if those were the two things that qualified him for the pits and not based on whether or not he was a good man, then he’d happily go, knowing his lovers would be there waiting.
    Once the house was spotless, Mason showered and pulled on his favorite pair of soft denim jeans with worn knees and a simple white T-shirt. He wasn’t sure why he was fussing over his attire. By this time tomorrow, they would be cut away and discarded anyway. Just as the sun set, Mason took a bottle of vodka from the shelf and went outside for the first time in three days. When he stepped out on the deck in his bare feet, he stopped waiting for the panic to start creeping into his system, but he stayed oddly calm as he stood in the dimming light of the day. No heart palpitations, no tremors, the only thing that moved him was the warm breeze coming over the ocean. Mason took it as a sign that he was doing the right thing; something was guiding him, encouraging him to stay on course with the decisions he’d made.
    Mason set the bottle of prescription sleeping pills on the table, carefully unfolded the note he’d tucked in his back pocket, and set that down as well. He placed a small rock on top of it to make sure the winds didn’t steal it and then took his bottle of vodka and crawled up into the extra-wide lounger he’d shared with Gregory and Charlie an untold number of times. As he melted into the soft cushion, he could practically feel his men pull him into their warm embrace.
    The first long pull from the bottle caused him to wince as the alcohol burned all the way down to his gut. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth as he tried to control the cough the strong liquid produced. He’d never been much of a drinker, hated the taste; yet as resolved as he was in what he must do, he was still, at heart, a coward. Weak. Pathetic. Useless. He wasn’t strong enough to reach for the full pill bottle, shake out the contents, and swallow them down. But soon he would be. With the help of the liquid courage, he could do it.
    A warmth spread through him as he continued to take large gulps from the bottle, the burn he’d first experienced