Date: Sun, 25 Jan 2009 12:10:20 -0700
From: Roy <roynm@mac.com>
Subject: Chapter 22, Owen, Gay College Section

Owen

Chapter twenty-two

By Roy Reinikainen


Owen patted the sofa cushion at his side, setting aside his ever-present
open book.  "C'mon, Lucas.  Join me."  Lucas dimmed the living room lights;
then joined Owen, cuddling close and linking fingers, melting against him,
reveling in the warmth and sense of . . . rightness, being close to Owen
always brought.  Owen hummed in contentment, and rested his head on Lucas'
shoulder.

"Thank you, again," he murmured.

"Are you doing okay?" Lucas asked.  "I mean, you hardly said anything on
the way home from the airport.  Sorry to see Sam go?"  Lucas turned to
study Owen, eyeing him with quiet happiness.  'He looks so much like a
little boy,' Lucas thought.  'When looking at Owen's short blond hair which
seemed to be perpetually uncombed, the faint dusting of freckles over his
nose, plus his mobile mouth which often seemed to quiver on the verge of a
smile, it was easy to imagine a happy little boy running into the kitchen
and asking if he could have a cookie.  Since leaving Sam at the airport, he
seemed anything but happy.  It was as if a shadow had draped over him.

He shrugged, smiled a little wistfully, and absently ran a thumb over the
back of Lucas' hand, considering how to answer.  "My mind's all jumbled up
with different emotions.  I don't really understand most of them, or even
where they're coming from.  Since arriving here."  He made a gesture with
one hand, intended to encompass the world beyond the apartment's windows.
"I feel as if I've begun to grow."  He rested a hand atop his and Lucas'
linked fingers in a gesture of tenderness.  "I've met you.  I've gotten a
wonderful job at the library.  I've gotten to know your sister and your
folks.  I've made lots of friends at work and school, plus Bailey, and now
Corey.  That's all good.  Then . . ." He paused to consider his next words.
"Then, suddenly, I feel as if I'm being placed back into the shell I've
only begun to emerge from.  Sorta like a butterfly being asked to step back
into its cocoon."  Lucas made a sound of encouragement.  Whenever Owen was
in one of these moods, Lucas had found it best to let him talk himself out.

When the silence stretched, Lucas ventured.  "Owen?"  The response was a
silent tightening of their interlinked fingers.  "Are you okay?  Truly?" he
added, using one of Owen's favorite expressions.  He could envision the
curve of Owen's lips as he smiled.

"I'm a lucky guy," Owen murmured.  "I'm in love with two men, and both of
them love me in return."  He snorted softly.  "Some people go through life,
never feelin' loved.  I've got it in abundance."

'No, my friend,' Lucas sighed to himself.  'Two men loving you does not
constitute abundance.  You're only beginning to learn what it means to be
loved . . . something most of us learn when we're children.'  "Somehow, you
don't sound happy about it," he said, aloud.  There was another hint of a
shrug, accompanying a soft sigh.

"Would you kiss me?" Owen asked, in a small voice.


----------


"Mama?" Opie looked up from where she was sprawled on the living room
floor.  She had been busily coloring one of her drawings . . . a mass of
squiggles and swirls; that any connoisseur of modern art would have been
proud of.

"Yes, sweetheart?" Bea responded, easing herself into the rocking chair,
which had been in her family since her great grandmother's time, and
picking up her basket of socks in need of mending.

"I'm drawing a picture for Owen," Opie announced, proudly.

The little girl seemed unaware of the glacial silence that had descended,
and continued coloring.  Bea's gaze flicked to Jonathan, then to Opie, who
sprawled on the rug, making broad strokes of color on the paper with her
crayons.

"He always told me he likes my art," Opie added, not looking up.  She
sighed, moving to a cross-legged sitting position, studying her drawing
with a critical eye.  "When's he going to come home?  He's been gone, like
forever."

"Opie!" Jonathan's voice held a menace his youngest daughter had never
heard, causing Opie to glance, first toward her mother, hoping for a hint
as to what she'd done wrong, then to her father.  Instead of the look of
trepidation Bea had always seen in the eyes of her youngest daughter, Opie
stared her father straight in the eye, a direct challenge Jonathan would
not like.

Bea set her mending aside, aware, even if her daughter was not, that
Jonathan was about to explode.

"Opie!" Jonathan shouted, louder, hoping to make the little girl cower.
Opie failed to give him satisfaction.  She continued to watch him, her back
straight, her expression unrepentant.  Jonathan's knuckles were white from
where he was grasping the chair arms so tightly.

"Did I do something wrong?" Opie asked.  She appeared to review her recent
conversation with her mother; then glanced toward her mother, her hand
covering her mouth, as if she could prevent herself from saying anything
more to make her father angrier.

"I'm sorry, Pops," she murmured.  Still, she didn't give him the
satisfaction of seeing her cower.  "I'm sorry."

"Sorry's not good enough, young lady," Jonathan hissed, flicking a glance
at his wife, who had knelt next to her youngest daughter, gathering her
into her arms.

"An apology is all she can offer, Jonathan," Bea responded, in a soothing
voice.  "Yelling's not gonna help anything."

"I ordered that *no one* would *ever* say that person's name in this house.
'*Ever*!'  All memory of that person has been wiped from this house.  As
far as I'm concerned, he never existed." The veins on his forehead seemed
to pulse beneath his angry red skin.  "You've disobeyed me, Opie!  I will
*not* be disobeyed, especially when it comes to *him*!"

Bea felt her daughter take a deep breath a moment before the little girl
tore herself away from her mother's protection and stood before her father,
her hands on her hips.

"I said I was sorry!  What else do you want me to do?"  She took a deep
breath.  "I love him, Pops, and I won't stop lovin' him, just 'cause you
don't.  You can holler and . . . spank me, but I *do* love Owen, and you
can't make me stop.  I love Owen, just like I love Jonah.  You can make me
stop saying their names, but you can't do anything which will make me stop
*thinking* about them.  I wish I could be with them."  Her voice rose even
higher.  "I wish I could be anyplace, but here!"

Opie turned her back on her father and ran from the living room.  A moment
later, her bedroom door slammed shut.

"Don't stare at me, woman!" Jonathan rounded on his wife, thrusting out an
accusing finger.  "I don't want to hear one more word."

"You haven't heard from me, yet!" Bea hissed, rising to her feet and
unconsciously imitating Opie's fists-on-hips stance.  "All I can say is
that I agree with Opie.  Anyplace but here would be a blessing
. . . anyplace!"  Like her daughter, she turned her back on her husband and
walked coolly out of the living room to the porch.  She hugged herself,
both from suppressed rage as well as from the cool air, and sat, staring,
unseeing, into the darkness until she heard Jonathan's bedroom door close.

----------


A sensuous tingle ran through Lucas as his and Owen's lips touched.  A
moment later, he felt Owen's hand on the back of his head, pulling him
closer, in building passion.

"Oh, yes," Owen sighed, through parted lips which, as Lucas watched, curved
into a smile.  "You do that so well."  He lay back on the sofa, pulling
Lucas on top of him, opening his mouth for another lingering kiss.

"Hey, Cowboy," Lucas breathed the words, close enough to Owen to feel his
breath against his wet lips.  "Let's move to the bedroom.  We can spread
out more in there."

Owen pulled Lucas close for another kiss.  "And, what are you planning on
doing, my City Boy lover, that will need more room?  We have plenty of room
to kiss, right here."

The breath caught in Lucas' throat.  Was that a slip of Owen's tongue?
'He's never called me his lover before.'  He tried to control the quiver in
his voice as he answered, trying to respond to Owen's sudden
lightheartedness.  "I'm planning on doing something more than just kiss
you, that's why.  Am I gonna have to carry you over my shoulder, or will
you come willingly?"

"Me . . . over *your* shoulder?" Owen snickered.  "That'll be the day."

"Possibly so," Lucas joined in the levity.  "I wasn't planning on bringing
up what all those desserts are doing to your waistline."

"What?"  Owen pushed Lucas off him, with hardly any effort, and stood,
tugging the tail of his t-shirt upward to expose his flat stomach as Lucas
sat up from where he'd been so unceremoniously dumped.  "There's not an
ounce of fat on this body," Owen claimed, looking down at himself.  "And
I'm way stronger than you'll ever be, my scrawny friend."

Lucas, playing along, made a rocking motion with one hand, egging Owen on,
and out of his melancholy mood of only minutes earlier.  He expected Owen
to make some outlandish comment about his strength, but, instead, Owen
surprised him by grabbing him around the waist and hefting him over his
shoulder.

"Yeow!" Lucas shouted in surprise, his head now hanging upside down.  Owen
slapped his jeans-clad butt.

"Quiet," Owen ordered.  "You're mine."

"Hey, Owen," Lucas shouted.  "Stop that!  Put me down!"  Owen laughed and
tightened his grasp, heading toward the bedroom.  "I get sick when I'm
upside down," Lucas groaned, trying to wiggle free.

"Then, by all means, lie down."  Owen tossed Lucas onto his back in the
middle of the bed, with a shout sure to startle the neighbors.  "You,
Mr. Horton, are *mine*."  Owen stretched his arms out to his sides, bending
them at the elbows, and flexed, looking first at one bulging bicep, then
the other.  He grinned in Lucas' direction.  "Let's see *you* do that, eh."

'All he needs to do is beat his chest with his fists, and I'll believe he's
trying to imitate Tarzan,' Lucas thought, trying not to laugh.  "Oh?" he
managed to say, with a steady voice.  "I'm yours, am I?"

"Sit up," Owen ordered, making an impatient gesture with a hand before
stripping out of his jeans and toeing off his sneakers while Lucas watched
the uncharacteristic behavior.  Normally, Owen was a quiet lover, slowly
stimulating both himself and Lucas to a trembling release.  "Now, Lucas,"
he ordered.

"Yessir."  Lucas quickly sat up and began tugging his sweater over his
head, excited by Owen's sudden assertiveness.  When Lucas was naked from
the waist up, Owen pushed him back onto the bed and wildly tugged, first
his jeans, then his underwear off, tossing them on top of his own.

"There!" Owen stood at the edge of the bed with his fists on his hips,
breathing heavily, his short hair a mess.  "Now," he said, in a voice much
louder than normal, "you're just the way I like you best.  Naked!"

"Why don't you tell the neighbors?" Lucas laughed, wishing the suddenly
wildly hyper man would lower his voice.

Owen blinked.  "The neighbors?  Oh, okay."  He put his hands to both sides
of his mouth and shouted at the top of his lungs.  "I love Lucas!" he
cried.  "Hear me world?"  He dropped his hands to his sides and turned an
impish smile and sparkling eyes in Lucas' direction.

"Didn't think I'd do it, did'ya?"  All Lucas could do was mutely shake his
head.

"Now, let's get serious."  Owen crawled onto the bed, stopping before
Lucas, kneeling on one knee while spreading his other leg out to his side,
bending it at the knee and resting his foot flat on the bed.  His erection
bobbed above the firm, full pouch of his scrotum, all within Lucas' arm's
reach.

"Kiss me," Owen murmured, leaning forward, bracing himself with one hand on
Lucas' shoulder while he fondled Lucas' cock with his other.  As their
tongues met, Lucas first cupped Owen's balls, then snaked a hand between
his legs and ran a forefinger around the hairless perimeter of Owen's anus.
The aroma of him, the spicy scent of the soap he favored, in addition to an
. . . earthiness, reminiscent of new-mown hay, suffused the air like a
caress.  He inhaled deeply in a moment of overwhelming sensuality.

'Damn,' Lucas thought to himself.  'He's offering himself to me in a way he
never has before.  *I'm* normally the bottom.'  He felt a tingle of
anticipation run through his body as Owen nibbled on an earlobe while
continuing to slowly stimulate Lucas' cock in exactly the way he loved
most.

The soft glow of light from the streetlights reflecting off the snow lit
the room as well as the smooth skin of Owen's chest, the darker skin of his
nipples, his thick blond pubic hair, and straight penis.  The sight was
like a wet dream come to life.

"Do it, Lucas," Owen murmured, close to Lucas' ear.  "Tell me what you
want.  Do it to me.  Make me yours.  Cum in me."  He took a shuddering
breath as Lucas stimulated his hole with a forefinger.  "Tonight, I don't
want us to have sex," Owen murmured, through another shiver.  "I'd like us
to make love."


----------


"Touchdown!" Corey howled, jumping off the sofa and throwing up his arms as
he gyrated his hips and pumped his arms in the air.  Each movement
stretched the bright yellow t-shirt fabric across his back, chest, and
arms, while in the background the excited voices of the television
announcers clamored on.  He looked over his shoulder to where Bailey had
been sitting quietly, pretending to studiously pore over the morning paper.
He looked up at Corey's enthusiastic outburst and attempted to look
interested.

'The poor boy,' Corey thought.  'He doesn't know what to do if he's not the
center of attention.'  It was for precisely that reason Corey found himself
watching a televised football game that was of no interest to him.

"Did you see that big ol' boy?" he asked, pointing in the general direction
of the television.  "Hell, he just plowed right through that line, carrying
those guys who were hanging on to him right into the end zone!"

From Bailey's point of view, the football game seemed to have dragged on
for hours, the announcers blathering about things which he neither cared
about or wanted to learn.  'You can't always be the center of attention,'
he angrily shouted to himself.  'This is nothing more than another lesson
. . . a little tougher than most, but a lesson, nonetheless.  Corey's not
doing anything wrong.  It's *you*, behaving like a spoiled little boy,
who's the one with a problem.

"What do you expect, ol' Bailey?' he went on, in silence.  'You're an only
child, whose every whim has been immediately fulfilled.  When immediate
wasn't soon enough, a sulk or an outburst of some sort, always got you what
you wanted.  It's time to *grow up*!'

He inhaled deeply, lost in thought, feeling naked and exposed without his
old self to hide behind.  'This new person I'm creating seems nothing more
than a disguise.  I wonder which is the *real* me, the strutting peacock,
or this.'  He imagined watching himself, wallowing in dejection, while
Corey laughed and enjoyed himself, watching television.  'It's a constant
struggle,' Bailey sighed.  'It's as if I'm trying to create a totally new
person, throwing out pieces of a puzzle I no longer like.'  He compressed
his lips.  'I wonder what the final person will turn out to be like?  Will
I recognize him?  Will I *like* him?  But, more importantly, will I be able
to exist with so much of what I've always been, missing?'

There was a slight noise close-by, which caused him to look up.  He'd been
so immersed in his self-analysis he'd not realized Corey was no longer
watching the television.  Instead, he was standing with his feet spread
apart, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the dining table, and wearing
a bemused smile as he studied his quiet friend.  Bailey raised his brow in
inquiry, momentarily losing himself in Corey's long dark eyelashes,
sparkling eyes, and guileless smile.

"What?" Bailey asked, reluctantly tearing himself away from Corey with a
blink of his eyes.

Corey reached out with a forefinger and tapped Bailey's forehead.  "The
engine's runnin' but nobody's driving," he teased.  He pulled out a chair
and flopped onto it, once again leaning his elbows on the table, giving
Bailey a chance to figure out his allusion.

"Y'angry with me for not paying attention to you?" he asked, his comment
hitting so close to home Bailey found it unnerving.  "I am, you know?
Paying attention, I mean."  His grin matured to a smile.  "I've been
watching you sitting over here, silently talking to yourself.

Bailey sighed.  "I'm angry, yes, but not at you.  I'm having a spirited
argument with myself."  He sighed.  "I seem to be doing that often,
nowadays."

Corey made a noncommittal sound of encouragement.

"I'm realizing . . . for the first time, I guess . . . that I'm just an
over-grown spoiled child who has always gotten what he wanted, either by
sulking, or creating some sort of unpleasantness."  Corey nodded
understanding into the silence, waiting for Bailey to continue.  "I'm
telling myself that you have every right to watch that game and not pay
attention to me."  He folded the newspaper and leaned back in his chair,
ignoring the creaks of the old wood, wearing a slight smile.  "I guess I
should be pleased at how much progress I've made."  There was another
wordless sound and an encouraging smile from Corey.

"At least I didn't create a scene and demand your attention, like I would
have, not too long ago."  Bailey softly snorted, absently scratching the
back of his neck.  "I'm making progress."

"That you are," Corey agreed, resting a hand on top of Bailey's, and
grinning.  "I could hear your internal argument all the way across the
room!  You're a quick study, Bail, though you really shouldn't be so hard
on yourself, y'know.  The fact, that you're even thinking the things you
are, means a great deal."  Corey frowned.

"D'you mind me calling you that?  Bail, I mean?"

Bailey shook his head.  "No."  He grinned shyly.  "I sorta like it."  The
grin blossomed into a smile.  "M'mother thought it was, 'cute'.  I wouldn't
let anyone else call me that though," he added, quickly.

"I wouldn't use a shortened name like that if I didn't care for you,
y'know," Corey grinned.  "I don't think your mother would appreciate me
calling you Stud, or Sexy, or Cutie."  Bailey's lips turned up into a
smile, imagining his mother's scandalized reaction to such names.  "My
mother might not appreciate you calling me those things, but I wouldn't
mind," he murmured, glancing at Corey, with a shy smile.

"I can't believe it!  I can't believe it!" the announcer began screaming,
as the crowd roared and a band began playing a spirited song.

"Aren't you going to go back to your game?" Bailey asked, his attention
drawn by the sounds of excitement.  "It sounds as if something important is
happening."

Corey flicked a dismissive hand in the general direction of the television.
"Nah, I don't care anything about that game.  I'm not much of a football
fan.  I was watching to help you focus on jumping that hurdle you were
mentioning a couple minutes ago.  I'm thinking that it's time for me to
turn the damned television off so the two of us can spend some quiet time
together."

"Ooo, I like that idea," Bailey grinned, drawing Corey into an embrace


----------


"Hey, Doc!"  Sam, the first person to step off the bus, beamed, extending
his hand in greeting.  Doctor Daniel Johnson returned his young friend's
smile, and his handshake, his smile reflecting the younger man's infectious
good humor.

'It's good to have Sam back home,' the doctor thought, amused as he watched
Sam take a deep breath of the balmy air.  Sam looked at the trees
overhanging the bus stop, his smile widening.  The deep greenery was so
different from where he'd just come.  The air was soft, even in the middle
of winter, totally unlike the frigid air and low-hanging clouds.

"Did you have a good trip?" the doctor asked, while they waited to collect
Sam's bag.  "Did you find Owen well?  I know I'm not the only person to
worry how he's handling everything he's encountered."

"Oh yes!" Sam's smile returned, gesturing to the bus driver that the bag he
had just hauled off the bus belonged to him.  "Owen's fine," Sam glanced
over his shoulder as he took the bag from the driver.  "His friend, Lucas,
is a wonderful guy.  They live in a *really* nice apartment."  He hefted
the bag and continued speaking as he and the doctor walked through the
small bus station.  "Lucas' folks live in a frigging mansion, and the
weather absolutely sucks."  He laughed, as he and Daniel crossed the small
parking lot to the car.  "It snowed every day I was there.  It blew.  It
was damn cold.  There was ice everywhere, and fog, or low-hanging clouds,
or whatever they call them."  He shivered.  "It was miserable."  He glanced
around.  "So much different than here."

He slipped into the car, after throwing his bag in the back seat.  "I can
understand why Owen hates it so much."  He grinned with a single,
disbelieving, shake of his head.  "I don't think Lucas likes it much
better, but his family has always lived in the city, so he doesn't know any
different."  Sam shrugged.

"How's Jonah?  Have you seen him?  I've spoken with him a couple times, and
he said everything was okay, but . . ." Sam's voice trailed off.  "Have you
seen him?"

The doctor gave Sam a bemused smile.  "You haven't had a chance to do too
much talking, I imagine, have you?"  He chuckled.  "I've never seen you so
wound up."

"I'm just so glad to be home, that's all.  The only thing that could make
things better would be for me to be haulin' Owen with me."  Sam shifted in
his seat and made a hurry-up motion with a hand.  "Jonah?"

The doctor tried to mentally rub the involuntary smile from his lips and
failed.  "He's fine," Daniel answered the question.  "I went over to your
place on Christmas.  We had some coffee and a nice visit.  I think we were
both glad to have someone to spend some time with."  He flicked a glance at
his passenger.  "What'd you do for Christmas?" the doctor inquired, turning
his head slightly to study the slender young man.

'He's grown so much more confident, since Owen's left,' the doctor
observed.  'I wonder if Owen saw the difference.'  The doctor paused.  'If
Sam's grown this much, I wonder what changes Owen has experienced.'

"We went to Lucas' house for dinner."  Sam answered, shaking his head in
wonder.  "Y'know the saying about wondering how the other half lives?"  The
doctor nodded.  "Well . . . let me tell you . . . I've now experienced how
those people live, and all I can say is, 'wow!'  I was overwhelmed.

"Lucas' folks were just like ordinary people," Sam added, quickly, "but
their house!"  Another unbelieving shake of his head.  "I've never seem so
many fireplaces in a single building."  Sam turned to the doctor, warming
to his story.  "The place even had *columns* out front, and cobblestones on
the driveway.  Oh, and wood paneling everywhere, with huge paintings.  It
looked like a museum or something."  He shook his head.  "There are no
words to describe it other than wow.  At first, I felt sooo out of place,
but Owen seemed to fit right in."  Sam half-turned to face the doctor.

"We met a couple of Owen's friends.  Everyone seems pretty taken with him.
I guess he's been helpin' one of the guys out.  You know how Owen's always
inspiring people to do something?  Well, this guy . . . Bailey's his name
. . . he's taken Owen's words to heart, apparently."  Sam sighed.  "He's
another rich guy.  The place is crawlin' with 'em."  He turned to the
doctor and grinned.

Daniel laughed at Sam's enthusiasm.

"So, Jonah's okay?  I thought maybe he might be with you today."

"He's missed you, of course, and he would have been here, but he had a big
test in school, so he couldn't come.  He joked that, since you've been
gone, and he had nothing else to do . . ." The doctor chuckled, deciding
not to dwell on what the two young men would have been doing if Sam was
home.  "He told me that since you were gone he got lots of studying in, so
he was going to ace the test.  I imagine," Daniel continued, daring to
tease Sam about his and Jonah's relationship.  "I imagine, that the two of
you will have lots to talk about."  He cleared his throat.  "Or something."

"He's aced every test he's ever taken," Sam laughed, choosing to ignore the
doctor's comment.  "He and Owen are cut from the same mold.  Oh,"Sam
continued.  "Owen's got the job of his dreams!  He's workin' in the big
library on campus.  He's in heaven, surrounded by all those books 'n stuff.
Computers are everywhere.  Everyone's got one . . . even Owen!  He gave me
a tour of the library.  You'd have thought it was all his.  He seems to be
a pretty popular guy with the folks he works with, just like his friends,
that guy Bailey . . . and, of course, Lucas, his roommate."  Sam shook his
head in wonder.  "That place is huge!"  He laughed.  "The library, that is.
The city's also huge.  Hell, everything is huge!

"So, Jonah's okay?  He's not had any run-ins with his father, or anything?
He's lookin' good?  Could you tell if he's been eating okay?"  He took a
breath; then continued.  "I wonder if Dog and Cat missed me."

Sam didn't wait for an answer.  He leaned back and sighed.  "It's so good
to be home."


----------


Owen looked up, still stirring a liberal amount of sugar into his coffee,
to find Corey silently studying him, the slightest hint of a smile tugging
at the corners of his mouth.  Owen raised his eyebrows in a silent
question.  The two men had come to the coffee shop at Corey's request.  Sam
had left to go back to Riverton the day before; Lucas was off having lunch
with his father; and Owen was at loose ends with nothing to do.  When Corey
called, he jumped at the chance to go to his favorite coffee shop, both for
the company and the excellent pastries he'd come to love.  Today, the
coffee shop, popular with the university's students, was nearly empty.
Many people had left town for the Christmas break, while others, who had
decided to remain in the city, had decided not to brave the cold and
ankle-deep snow.  The sound of soft jazz playing in the background was a
welcome respite, after weeks of Christmas music.

"G'day, Owen," the shop's owner smiled, greeting them the moment they chose
a table, including Corey in his greeting with a slight tilt of his head,
and placing a tray of pastries in the table's center.  His smile broadened.
"Everything's fresh from the oven, so if you want more, just holler.  I
must be psychic," he continued, with a laugh.  "I told Emmie to bake-up a
couple extra dozen, 'cause Owen, our best customer, was overdue for a
visit."  He extended his arms to his sides and smiled.  "And here you are!
Y'see?" he chuckled, pointing to his head.  "Psychic!"  The man seemed
prepared to continue his visit, but was interrupted by a loud crash and a
simultaneous yelp.  He threw up his hands in resignation; then turned
toward the kitchen, giving Owen and Corey a long-suffering sigh and shake
of his head.

Corey paused a moment as he seemed to consider Owen's questioning glance.
"Bailey tells me that you're responsible for what he calls his
transformation.  I wanted to personally thank you.  In the last few weeks,
I'm finding that he's become pretty special to me."  Corey watched Owen's
reaction to his words, then looked down, wrapping both hands around his
steaming cup of coffee, welcoming its warmth.

"I only encouraged him to smile more often," Owen protested, wondering why
Corey seemed study him, then look away, retreating into himself.  "Bailey
did all the real work," Owen continued.  "Or, I should say, the two of you
have been working hard.  Bailey couldn't have accomplished everything he
has without a lot of support from his parents, and from you."  Corey
grinned and slowly nodded.

"He took everything you told him to heart.  He refers to your suggestions
as, Owen's Rules of Behavior."  Corey grinned.  "Still, he's so self
conscious, thinking he might do something wrong.  Sometimes, watching him
is funny, but mostly it's touching, as he tries to think things through
before he gets dressed to go someplace.  I've seen him change clothes three
times before he's satisfied that he's casual enough to not stand out.  He's
throwing out tons of clothes he's convinced are too showy," Corey said, in
an aside, grinning as he recalled Bailey tossing things onto a bed faster
than Corey could stuff them in bags to be donated to charity.  "Someone's
going to end up with some great clothes."  Corey paused a moment, lost in
thought.  "He's becoming better at smiling."  Corey grinned.  "I found him
practicing in front of the mirror one day."  He chuckled.  "My outrageous
stories help him out, as much as they've always helped me."

Owen looked up, captured by the change in Corey's voice.  "Y'see," Corey
finally continued, glancing up from beneath lowered lashes.  "I'm here at
the university trying to create a new man, as much as Bailey is."  He
hesitated.  "Or, as much as you."

"Me?"  Owen shifted in his seat.

Corey nodded once, wearing a crooked smile.  "Owen," he said, as he leaned
forward and, even though no one was sitting nearby, lowered his voice.
"The first time I saw you, I figured that you've led a pretty rough life.
You tend to seem distracted, as if your mind is somewhere else.  You seem
so sad, even when you're smiling."  Corey watched as Owen lowered his eyes,
absently rotating his coffee cup, one half turn to the right, one half turn
to the left; then repeating each action.

"I don't think most people would ever notice, but I did."  Corey heaved a
sigh.  "Y'see, you and I are very much alike."  He made a casual throw away
gesture with a hand, his voice taking on a joking tone.  "I don't mean
we're both drop dead gorgeous . . . though, of course, we are."  He smiled
brightly, his sense of using the outrageous to camouflage his pain,
manifesting itself.  In response, Owen huffed a silent laugh.  Corey took a
deep breath, the smile fading from his lips.  "I'm talking about the both
of us having a past we're trying to escape from.  I cover the pain by
joking around and being outrageous.  You . . . you haven't learned to hide
your pain yet.  It hangs from your shoulders, weighing you down."  Corey
shook his head at the approaching waiter in a silent request to not
interrupt.

"Some people would call you melancholy.  I would say that most of the time
you're feeling beat down, like you've been run over by a herd of cattle,
you hurt so much."  Owen opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when Corey
held up a restraining hand.  "You've learned to hide it from most everyone,
so much so that I'd be wiling to bet that much of the time you don't even
realize that you're running away."

"Are you trying to do to me what I did to Bailey?" Owen asked, looking up
and attempting to not squirm.

"If you mean getting you to face what's troubling you and making some
fundamental changes, I guess I am."  Corey seemed ready to continue, but
paused.  "I wouldn't bother if I didn't like you.  But, I also feel a
. . . kinship with you."  Owen raised his eyebrows.  "We're both country
boys," Corey continued; then smiled. "We need to stick together, y'know?"
He paused.

"Should I shut my mouth?  You just say the word and I'll never mention
anything again."  He placed a hand flat on the table, his fingers splayed
wide apart, as if reaching for Owen.  "Please don't, though."  Owen made a
slight gesture with his hand, where it lay on the tabletop, giving Corey
permission to continue.

"I'm gonna tell you a little about my life."  He took a deep breath and
tried to smile, his dimples making a brief appearance as he steeled himself
for what he was about to say.  "I've only told one other person what I'm
gonna tell you, a boyfriend I had back home.  He guessed most of it, but I
refused to admit everything to him, and he finally got tired of trying to
help, claiming talking to me was like trying to argue with a fence post.

"A fella can talk all he wants, but the fence post isn't going to change
for anybody.  He told me I was like that fence post.  When I wouldn't
listen, he gave up, walked away, and I never saw him again.  That was
awful, 'cause when he was gone, I was left all alone."

"But, you have a family.  I heard someone mention your sisters."

Corey snorted a silent laugh and slumped back into the chair.  "Yeah, I've
got two brothers and two sisters, and a mother and father . . . but I don't
have a family."  Owen frowned.

"I was an accident, y'see," Corey added, as if in recollection.  "My
earliest recollection . . . my very earliest - I must have been three years
old, or something like that - was hearing my mother telling someone that I
was an accident, and that she wished I had never been born.  Later, I
overheard her say to one of her lady friends that, "it doesn't matter how
cute the little bugger is, just having him around is a royal pain in the
ass."  He held out a restraining hand, preventing Owen from speaking.
"Every time I heard her or my . . . father, say something like that I hurt
so bad.  Pretty soon, there wasn't a time I didn't hurt.

"My brothers and sisters were most all grown when I was born.  Only two of
them were still living at home, and they had moved by the time I was three.
That left my parents free to ignore me, when they weren't telling me how
awful their lives had become because of me.  Before I was born, they
figured they were finished dealing with children.  They were ready to have
some fun . . . just the two of them.  Then, along comes Corey.  I was named
after a school teacher my mother despised, by the way," he murmured, with a
slight shrug of his shoulders.

"My . . . parents."  He snorted.  "They went around behaving as if m'mother
had one of those sexless conceptions, or something.  Y'know?  She acted
like I somehow just *happened*, that she and my father had nothing to do
with it!

"When I was born they didn't even want to give me a *name*, but the
hospital folks told 'em they couldn't go home without giving me one.  They
considered giving me up for adoption, but in the little town where I come
from, that sort of thing just isn't done.  The folks at their church would
have kicked 'em out if they'd done something like that, and my grandmother
would have . . ."  He shrugged.  "She would have done something.

My mother and father were all sweet and rosy whenever someone was around,
or when they thought someone, especially a church member, might overhear
them; but the moment it was just the three of us, they hardly ever spoke to
me, or anything.  I had clothes . . . my brothers' . . . never once any of
my own.  They gave me enough money just to get by at school, but not a
penny more.  I never laughed.  I . . . existed, losing myself in my school
work, convinced that I'd never know what it meant to feel loved."  He
stopped speaking and took a convulsive swallow.

"Ohhh, Corey."  Owen couldn't help himself.

"I don't want your sympathy, Owen." Corey leaned forward, his eyes
flashing.  "I don't need sympathy from anyone.  I'm telling you all this
for a reason."  He lowered his voice when he noticed some of the people at
other tables looking towards him and Owen.

"No one knew what I was going through.  I figured that most kids must have
similar things happening to them, and we all just didn't say anything about
it.  When I wasn't thinking that, I racked my brain wondering what I had
done wrong to be treated like they did.  I tried doing everything I could
think of to make them change, but they never did.  They had built a wall
around their emotions, and no matter what I did, I couldn't get through.

"They never beat me, or stuff.  They just pretended I didn't exist, except
to tell me how much they hated me."  He sank into silence, chewing his
bottom lip while Owen watched, horrified that anyone should be treated so
badly, and realizing, at the same time, that there were many parallels
between Corey's life and his own.

"I'm not going back, Owen.  I'm never going back!  Those people gave me my
name, and a strong will to survive . . . nothing more."  His voice lowered
to barely more than a whisper.  "Nothing more," he repeated, consciously
making himself release his coffee cup before it broke.

He heaved a deep breath, his eyes still haunted by memories which would
reappear whenever he let his guard down.  He had bared his soul to Owen,
and it had cost him a great deal to do so.

"I'm thinking that . . . sometime . . . I'll learn *your* story, Owen.  I'm
betting it's as . . . disturbing . . . as mine."  Corey leaned forward,
resting his elbows on the table.

"Whenever . . . if ever . . . you decide you would like to talk to me, I'll
be there for you.  You helped Bailey, and because of that, Bailey's helping
me.  He doesn't know he is, he just is, and I want to help you.  There's
not much I can actually *do* other than listen, or hold your hand.  I *can*
do those things.  I can be a person you'll *know*, understands.

"Your friend, Sam, seems like a wonderful guy, but I'm thinking that
sometimes, it'd be easier to talk to someone who isn't quite so close as
the two of you are.  Let me be that person.  Let me help you, by listening.
Cry on my shoulder, and I'll cry on yours.  By letting me into your life,
you'll be helping me deal with my past, too.  No one need never know of our
little therapy sessions, but please let me in.  I want to be your friend; I
already consider you mine."

Owen gulped a breath of air and nodded once, unable to speak.  They sat in
silence as the waiter caught Corey's eye, wondering if it was okay to
approach.  Corey shook his head once and the waiter turned to deal with
other tables.

"How?" Owen asked; then swallowed.  "How . . . how did you survive?  Who
helped you?"  He paused.  "Did anyone . . . help you?"

Corey nodded slowly, his lips compressed.  "It was a teacher."  He bowed
his head.  "She found me silently crying in the darkest corner of the
library.  I . . . I didn't think anyone knew I was there.  She sat down
next to me, put an arm around my shoulder, and let me cry myself out.  She
didn't ask what was wrong, or ask if she could help.  She just sat close to
me giving me her support."  Corey took a ragged breath.  "She was the first
person to *ever* hold me and try to comfort me.  *Ever*!  I was fifteen."

Corey's mouth silently moved.  "I," he croaked.  "I didn't know how to
handle being touched.  I still have trouble, sometimes.  I can hide it
pretty good, but sometimes, even with Bailey, I have trouble."  He gave
Owen an embarrassed grin, swiping at his eyes.  "That teacher . . . she let
me know that not all the world was . . . was, like my folks.  By touching
me that one time, she changed my life."  He sniffed, glancing aside,
embarrassed by his loss of control.

"A week or so later, she asked me if I would be a live-in tutor for another
student, a couple years behind me in school.  I'd never heard of such a
thing, and told her so.  She smiled, sort of a sad smile, and told me that
the family was willing to pay me to help their daughter, but that I would
have to live with them.  No mention was ever made if it was okay with my
folks.  She knew.

"I was too dumb to realize it at the time, but that teacher must have
realized what my life was like, and made some sort of arrangements to get
me away from . . . home."  He grinned.  "I left without telling my
. . . parents . . . anything.  I took what little I had, and left.

"During the next three years, I became like a son to the people who had
taken me in.  It was . . . difficult . . . at first, but they didn't make
any demands, and finally I fit in.  It turned out their daughter didn't
need a tutor at all.  That was just an excuse for me to leave.  For the
first time in my life, I was happy.  My grades, which had always been good,
got better.  My teacher put in a good word with someone she knew here at
school, and here I am."

Corey waited for the expressions of sympathy he very much hoped wouldn't
come.  Owen didn't seem the type.

"I'm glad you're here, and that you and I are becoming friends," Owen
murmured, grasping Corey's hand for a moment.  It was a small action,
something he would never have dreamt of doing, back in Riverton.  Yet,
here, the thought of two men touching, seemed nothing special.  'I've
grown,' Owen thought to himself, releasing Corey's hand and returning to
his cup of coffee.  "Thank you for telling me your story."  He leaned his
forearms on the table, nodding his thanks to the waiter, who had finally
been allowed to refill their coffee cups.  "Does Bailey know any of this?"

Corey shook his head once.  "No, and I'd like to keep it that way.  He'd
. . . he'd do . . . something.  I would just as soon he know me as he sees
me.  It was *you* I wanted to tell this to, so . . . when the time is right
. . . you'll know that I'm safe to talk to."  He lowered his voice.  "Owen,
you *do* need to talk . . . if not to me . . . to someone.  I'll bet you
somethings can think of nothing but . . . whatever."  Corey made a helpless
gesture.  "You need to do *something* to start feeling better.  Whatever's
bothering you, try to change it.  Do what you *want* rather than what's
expected of you.  Start thinking more of *you* and less of . . ."  he
grinned . . . "whatever."

Owen silently studied his steaming mug of coffee, then looked up,
compressing his lips and swallowed.  "You're probably right.  I'll think
about what you've told me."  He ran a forefinger through some pastry crumbs
on his plate, wondering how he should express his thoughts.

"Corey, just as you believe I should talk to you, I . . ."  He swallowed.
"You have to forgive me, but I think you *do* need to talk to Bailey about
your life.  Is it fair to him to enter into a relationship?"  He glanced
closer.  "The two of you *are* doing that, aren't you?"

Corey smiled.  "I hope so."  He held out a hand, preventing Owen from
saying any more.  "I understand what you're saying, and . . . you're right.
It's just that I've tried to overcome my past for so long, that talking
about it to anyone makes it seem immediate."

"It is immediate.  It's a part of you, and you're letting it control your
life."

Corey lapsed into an introspective silence.  "You may be right."  After a
moment, he asked, "Are you letting your past control *your* life?  Are the
two of us more alike than even *I* realized?"

Owen grinned crookedly.  "Maybe.  Y'know, I've always found it easier to
give advice than to accept it.

"D'you think everyone's life is as screwed up as ours?" Owen asked,
deflecting the conversation, as he reached across the table and rested his
hand on top of Corey's, offering his silent thanks for the trust Corey had
placed in him by baring his soul.

"I doubt it," Corey tried to laugh.  "I very much doubt it."  This time,
the smile was real.  "It doesn't matter though.  You, Bailey, and I, are
survivors.  We'll make it through whatever it is we're facing.  Then I'm
betting all of us are gonna be great friends."


~ to be continued ~


Thank you for taking the time to read my work.  I *always* welcome your
email and enjoy hearing your thoughts.  If you would like me to send you a
pic of the character(s), please ask.

My other stories on Nifty include:
Phalen  (located in the Gay College Section)
Phalen - Finding Happiness   (Gay College Section)
Phalen - Reputation and Honor (upcoming)
Chris   (Gay College Section)
Leith   (Gay College Section)
Owen   (Gay College Section
Wesley   (Adult Relationships Section)
Jess (Gay Incest Section)
Travis (Gay Incest Section)

I hope you enjoy them all.


Roy Reinikainen
roynm@mac.com