#indie-flexor

No really, how? Mitch relived it and saw no warnings of incoming lingering hand touches - they were both married, so whopping great STOP signs should've flashed red at them. It took two to tango but Mitch really should've set a good example and stepped back, especially given his track record. Max deserved better than a husband with a wandering eye - or in this case, a whispering wolf whistle that slipped out of his lips when he noticed how fit Scot looked in his neon blue and purple Hawaiian shirt.

And Scot had smiled, not taken aback at all. Neither could blame a brain-altering beverage - he'd only come over for a cup of tea, to update about adopting Gabriella and see the new tiles Mitch chose for his bathroom. Things that friends did.

The moment ended there and Mitch took his mind off it by helping Rainelle's boyfriend Dongsool move in. How handy, to have a live-in handyman. Unfashionable as he was, he made Rainelle happy.

Fashionable friends, like Xander Capp (née Roth, taking their wife's last name and therefore strutting beyond the patriarchy in platform boots, which was very cool). Dogs of different shapes and sizes who photographed well for social media, all posted with the hashtag 'adopt, don't shop'. Max himself being the politician who listened to his barely-out-of-teens intern when they suggested he do a Twitch livestream on Fortnite to engage the youth crowd, to great memetic success. Mitch getting kudos for stepping back from politics to take care of his health, but dubbing himself Max's first man. Yeah, they were cool.

Roommate Rainelle's romance with the repairman was a worry.

The dishwasher needed a once-over, and that should've been it. Rainelle woke up late and stumbled out in her stained pyjama top just as Dongsool was dusting off his hands on his near-threadbare jeans in the kitchen. She handed him the cash and his smile, to hear Rainelle tell it, was like a thousand stars.

A double date at Greaves Greener Gardens about a fortnight later would only confirm Max and Mitch's concerns of unfashionability: the guy turned up in his toolbelt, for goodness sake! Probably fresh from someone's clogged toilet - and Rainelle couldn't keep her hands off him.

She knew the concern of her very dear friends. She even had a moment of what the heck is going on here herself. But by then, she was down to her black bra and panties with Dongsool, and wanted to keep going.

Every god, goddess and deity received a prayer; even the ones Max couldn't remember the names of from high school classical studies, decades ago. He wanted to reach every cultural pantheon possible to save his true blue love. He'd known something was wrong when Mitch went out to the yard to tire out the dogs with a play before bedtime, and they came clattering back in without him, whining and worrying in circles. There'd been some fluey symptoms but Mitch hadn't thought it was serious, so neither did Max. He wished he'd fussed over him more, tucked him into bed and insisted on doing dog duty himself for now.

Max wished he knew which of the gods to thank for making sure Mitch pulled through okay in the end. The ambulance swiftly carried him to the hospital; a bed and a doctor was still hours away on account of the late night, but they got there, and got the care.

On coming home, Mitch made the decision to step back from the city council and enjoy retirement with the dogs. Fellow political pundits and dear friends Jules and Scot supported the decision and bought him a hell of a farewell gift (continued health insurance for himself and the dogs). Max would continue advocating for rainbow services alongside them.

Mitch had mulled over the proposal from their longtime friend and decided to accept it. They'd known Tybalt was from a wealthy family for a while but Mitch would never have considered asking him for monetary aid. When Max passed along the Capp fellow's interest in patronage, it started to make more sense to swallow pride than to remain a starving artist (food for Tramp was always prioritised). So, the underground apartment quickly became far beneath their bank account's full capabilities; their new place was still a studio as an ode to their humble beginnings, but it felt as though it were among the clouds at the topmost floor.

The bathtub was especially embraced as a golden slice of their new tax bracket. Max would enter and observe a bathing Mitch as if he were one of his artworks at a gallery: "Hm, yes, the large amount of bubbles represent happiness. The figure within is remarkably well sculpted, too. Literally chiseled abs. I wonder who the model was..." It made Mitch laugh and Max loved to hear it. It distracted him from the instrusive thought that Tybalt was simultaneously paying hush money to ensure their affair from years ago was never revealed.

Max was one of the turkeys and he was all smiles about it. While the other contestants were ranging from nervous shoulder rubbing to practised power poses, he let himself have a laugh about the unlikely double-up of entries and wave at the audience gathered in the Copur Kitchen Cook-Off building. Confidence was key if he wanted to win that blue ribbon - and he really, really did want to. He wanted to bring it home to Mitch and share a new moment of joy, like their good friend Jules had suggested.

As expected, blue looked good on Max and his turkey. Apparently the aroma of it outdid the others for audience vote, especially for those who were pregnant and had particular cravings. Max happily carved several slices to share before heading home to tell Mitch the good news (he'd stayed home to look after the dogs).

"Come here," Mitch said, when they both in their pyjamas and cosy for the night. "Let me get the tension out of your shoulders. Turkeys are hard work."

One crisp morning, Mitch broke away from the campfire convo to greet a passerby he spotted. This passerby wasn't just anyone - he wore an unblemised white hat with a black band and had a sharply cut handlebar moustache, which could only mean he was the new rumoured rich-lister in town.

"Good morning, sir," Mitch offered.

"Feh," the rich-lister replied. "What do you want, pleb?"

"Hah! Yeah, I do live in a trailer park," Mitch said lightly, shooting a finger-gun towards his cabin. "Name's Mitch. Hey, do you like art? I -"

"Money! I see. Bloody artists. Get a real job for god's sake." The rich-lister turned as he spoke and grouched his words into the universe.

Mitch let the unsolicited advice slide off his back. "Well, nice to meet you anyway, Mr Mann, sir!" Mr Mann flicked a hand over his shoulder, as if hoping a force field would send Mitch flying. It was a form of farewell, at least. He returned to the gathering, pondering his next move. Max and Roxie had their own four-letter words to describe the old man from what they saw, but Mitch had a different vision: a potential patron of the arts. More specifically, his art.

Aspirations of artistry (Mitch) and animalia (Max) clashed with the grim number in their joint bank account. All hope wasn't lost - Mitch had saved for an easel and painted pieces to sell at the market - but Max had doubts about his hobby farming dream. The owner of the Riverblossom Hills eco park would not be best pleased with more than one animal per tenant! Little Tramp would need to be their one and only, for now.