Date: Fri, 17 Apr 2009 21:24:30 -0600
From: Roy <roynm@mac.com>
Subject: Owen, gay college section, chapter 26

Owen

Chapter twenty-six

by Roy Reinikainen


Jonathan Carver looked up at a noise.  He shook his head, pressed his hands
to his temples, and blinked, not quite sure what he had done to be in jail.
He wondered where the noise had come from . . . or even if there had been a
noise, and bit his lip.  'I've behaved badly.  I must've,' he thought, in a
rare moment of clarity.  'Otherwise, I wouldn't be here.'  He slouched
against the wall of the Evanston town jail, a dismally small building,
staffed by dour people, who fed him poor food.  If nothing else, he
remembered that much.  'Nothin' like Bea's cookin', that's for sure,' he
sighed, cursing the empty feeling in his belly.  'Not only is the food bad,
there's not nearly enough of it.'

He glanced at the shaft of sunlight penetrating the cell from the high
window.  "Can't even look outside," he grumbled, the dark cloud hovering
around his head, threatening to descend.  Jonathan shook his head and
knuckled his eyes in an attempt to drive the madness off.  'It *is*
madness,' he thought to himself.  I wasn't always like this.'  He attempted
to recall his youth.  'Was I?'  He blinked, attempting to focus on the
opposite side of the small cell.  'How long have I been here?'  He tried to
think, but finally gave up.  It was no use.  So much was unclear.  During
the past few years, everything had become so much worse.  'I can't tell
anyone what's going on.  They'll think I'm crazy.'  He huffed a silent
snort.  'I wonder when Bea's gonna show up and get me outta here.'

The brief moment of clarity ended quickly.  He inhaled, his brows sullen,
and the corners of his mouth twisting into a cruel sneer as he surrendered
himself to the dark cloud coloring his thoughts and emotions.  As the
months passed, it had become easier to give in to the hate.  He'd grown
tired of fighting.  He'd just . . . grown tired.

"Lazy woman," he muttered aloud, taking rapid, shallow, breaths and cursing
the dust motes suspended in the shaft of light which painted a glowing
rectangular pool on the concrete floor.  He swiped an angry hand through
the light, causing the motes to swirl.

'The woman never was good for much.  All she had goin' for her was her
looks.'  He huffed a disgusted breath.  'But *those* certainly
disappeared.'  His face twisted into a triumphant smirk, recalling the
woman who'd slid down the dining room wall and lay in a forlorn heap at his
feet, both eyes blackened, blood from her bleeding nose smeared across her
face and dripping onto her white blouse.  She'd shaken her head, then
brushed a strand of hair away from her face, and challenged him with a
defiant expression.  She'd not cowered after the first strike, or the
second, or the third.  Each time, she'd pulled herself up and faced him,
daring him to continue, acting as if she'd . . . won.  'She needs to know
who's boss 'round here,' he remembered thinking, incensed at her
challenging expression.  She'd seemed *pleased* that he had struck her!
'If I'd had just a little more time, I would have *made* her respect me
. . .' He clenched both fists.  'If that *doctor* hadn't shown up to stop
me.' Jonathan shifted position, scooting to the edge of the small bed,
feeling the lumpy surface beneath his fingers.

'What was he doin' interfering with me and my wife?'  Jonathan's bloodshot
eyes flicked to his left, then quickly to the right, wondering who might be
hiding in his cell.  Someone was always hiding things from him, judging
him, comparing to with those . . . boys.  Satisfied there was no one in his
cell, his thoughts returned to the doctor.  'I wonder if he was hiding
around the outside of the house someplace, just waitin' to pounce on me.
Bleedin' ingrate.  After all I've done for him.'

Jonathan wiped the spittle away from his chin, then leapt off of the thin
mattress and threw it aside.  'I'll bet he's hidin' under the bed, just
like Maxine said he and Bea hid their love affair from me.'  Finding no
one, Jonathan disgustedly threw the mattress back into place and began to
prowl the cell, three steps in one direction, three steps back, each time
avoiding the precise rectangle of light on the floor.  He paused and cocked
his head, listening for the telltale scuff of a shoe on the floor, or the
shallow breathing of someone hiding.  He quickly looked over his shoulder,
confident he would catch the person following him; but whoever was
watching, was too fast for him.

As suddenly as the dark cloud arrived, it disappeared.  He blinked and
tried to shake the cobwebs out of his mind, wondering why he was standing
in the middle of his jail cell, and not laying on the bed as he had been
only minutes earlier.  'It wasn't minutes,' he realized.  'The spot of
light has moved.'  He shook his head, massaging the back of his neck.  'I
wonder where Bea is.  Geez, I hope she don't send Jonah to pick me up.  I
hate havin' him drive the ol' pick up.  Or worse yet, the *doctor*.'
Jonathan ground his teeth together until his jaw hurt.  'Good for nothin'.
Or *Art!* I *hate* Art, after how he and the little woman turned Owen away
from wantin' to work on the farm.'  The thought of his oldest son caused
his vision to waver.

'The lousy good-for-nothin' bastard boy, goin' around actin' better n' he
had a right . . . smarter . . . good lookin' . . . confident . . . smilin'
all the time.  He was friends with everyone, probably telin' 'em all sorts
of lies about me.  I hate everything he stands for!'

He took a shuddering breath, and blinked, wondering what he'd just been
thinking.  The moments of unexplained missing time were becoming more
frequent.  'I wonder where Bea is.  Geez, I hope she don't send Jonah to
pick me up.'  Jonathan blinked and shook his head as he walked through the
shaft of light and sat on the edge of his bed.  'I'm not repeatin' myself
. . . am I?'


__________



Lucas set his fork down, leaned back in his chair, and smiled, catching
Beatrice's eye, pleased to see her relaxed smile.  "I've never had such a
delicious meal," he grinned.  "Truly."  His grin blossomed into a smile as
Bea soaked up his compliment, her smile reflecting his, and those of
everyone around the table.  "No wonder Owen's been aching to get back
home," he continued, glancing toward Owen who was watching him in wonder.
"He wanted to come home to see you, and have a good home cooked meal."
Lucas glanced around the table, feeling playful.  "Would anyone mind if I
licked the rest of the apple pie from my plate?"  During a laughing,
many-voiced chorus of, "Ewww," and, "please don't," Bea turned away, trying
to hide the quick brush of her napkin over her watery eyes.

"No need to do that, Lucas.  There's more pie," she offered, in an unsteady
voice as she disappeared into the kitchen, dabbing at her eyes.  Lucas was
the only person at the dining table able to see her lean against the
kitchen counter and bow her head, her shoulders still hunched with the
weight of emotional pain she was carrying.

'That woman has hurt for so long, she's forgotten what it's like not to be
abused at every turn.'  He compressed his lips and slid his chair back.
"I'll help!" he told everyone at the table, as he quickly walked into the
kitchen and rested an arm over Bea's shoulders.  She flinched slightly,
then sagged against him, with an uncertain smile.

"It'll be okay, Bea," Lucas murmured, for her ears alone.  "You've been
through more than anyone should have to bear."  He patted her back as she
tried to control her breathing.  "All of us will do our best to make sure
you don't have to endure any more."

Bea backed up, accepting the handkerchief he offered, dabbing at her
bruised eyes.  "Thank you, Lucas," she murmured.  "For bringin' Owen home
. . . and for coming with him.  I can understand why Owen loves you as he
does."  She quickly kissed him on the cheek and squeezed his hand before
turning to the counter.

Lucas decided now was not the time to analyze her comments.  'Owen loves
me?' he thought.  'How . . . *when* did she hear that?'  The rattle of
plates being removed from the cabinet, and another burst of laughter from
the dining room, reined in his speculation.  "How many orders do we have
for a second helping of pie?" he asked, sticking his head into the dining
room, providing Bea a moment longer to compose herself.  He would have to
ask her about her comment at another time.

"I'll have some," Owen called.  He looked over his shoulder and saw his
mother wiping her face with a wet cloth.  "If there's enough," he added, in
a worried voice, glancing at Lucas, unsure if he should go to his mother.
Throughout dinner she'd been happier than he had ever seen her, laughing at
Lucas' stories and looking upon each of her children with maternal pride.
To see her in obvious distress caused his earlier concern to resurface.
Lucas' quick shake of his head told Owen everything was under control and
to stay where he was.

"Me too," Jonah and Sam added, on the tail of Owen's request for another
helping of dessert, unaware of Owen's sudden disquiet, or Lucas' silent
instructions.

"Hey guys," Lucas interrupted, as Abigail and Opie added their orders.  "I
asked first."  He looked over his shoulder and saw Bea arranging pieces of
pie on a row of plates.  "Make mine a big one, Bea!  Since I asked first,
the other guys can get a real smaaall piece."

"There's enough to go around," she laughed, once more in control of
herself.  "Now, if you scoop out the ice cream, Lucas, we'll be all set."
She smiled her thanks as Lucas accepted the heavy spoon she handed him and
began placing a large scoop of vanilla ice cream on each plate.

She patted Owen's shoulder as she took her seat next to him, answering his
unspoken question with her smile.  She was pleased when Owen scooted his
chair closer to hers and laid his hand on top of hers, squeezing it in a
show of understanding and support.  "That's all there is, everyone," Bea
smiled, pleased to see everyone attacking their second helping of dessert,
as if it were their first.  "If you want some more you'll have to wait
until tomorrow.  You all have eaten two whole pies, you know, *plus*
dinner!"  She laughed in amazement.  "I'd forgotten what appetites a room
full of young people would have."  She turned to her oldest son, patting
his hand, where it still rested on top of hers.  "Eat up, Owen.  Your ice
cream's going to melt."  She followed her own advice, finding it difficult
to believe that only a few days earlier she'd lain on the floor of this
very room, surrounded by shards of glass, bloodied and beaten."  She smiled
to herself.  "But not defeated!"

'Never again,' she vowed.  'It's sweet of Lucas to tell me the boys would
protect me, but I've learned I can protect myself.  I'll never be
physically as strong as . . . a man, nevertheless, I will never allow
myself to get into a position where I'll be treated badly again!  I made
excuses for Jonathan, and allowed him to continue his hateful behavior,
always telling myself I wanted to make peace . . . for the children, hoping
against hope he'd change.  That's what I told myself I was thinking.  All
the while, I was really being a coward.'  She compressed her lips.  'Never
again!'

'Being here with Owen and his family is all so wonderful,' Lucas thought.
'If Bea weren't hurting so badly, things would be close to perfect.  Even
Sam and Jonah had finally relaxed, and had joined in the laughter, though
Sam tended to be quieter than Lucas remembered him being.

'I feel as if I've become part of a large family,' Lucas mused, amazed at
how quickly he'd been accepted by everyone . . . especially Opie.'  Lucas
grinned.  Only moments earlier, the young girl had leaned close and had
thanked him for being nice to her.

Her simple comment had brought him close to tears.  'Bea's not the only
person in the family who's in pain,' he thought.

'Tonight's the first time in my life I've been able to be Lucas Horton, and
not Lucas Horton, Neil Horton's son.'  Many times, especially as he'd
gotten older, he'd wanted to shout, 'I am my own person.  I am not one of
my father's accomplishments!'  Riverton, and Owen's family, was giving him
an opportunity to be himself.  They liked him because he was a good person,
not because they saw in him a means to further their own ambitions by
getting closer to his father.  It was as wonderful for him to not feel the
weight of his father's presence, no matter how benign it was, as it was for
the Carver family not to be in the presence of Jonathan Carver.  Those
absences created a mood of celebration.

Owen set his second dessert plate on top of his first and tried to stifle
both a yawn and grin; at the same time he cast an apologetic look at his
mother.  "Sorry, Mama, but we've been up since . . . forever, it seems,
traveling from one end of the country to the other just to get here, and
all the excitement's finally catching up with me.  I'm gonna have to get to
bed or I'm gonna drop."

"I understand; eating as much as you did also tends to make a person
sleepy," Abigail grinned, turning from Owen's surprised expression to wink
at Opie, who had covered her mouth as she tried to hide her laugh.  "It's
so good to have my big brother sitting across from me again; as far as I'm
concerned, you can eat all you want."  Opie nodded agreement, sitting back
in her chair and decisively crossing her arms.

 "As long as you don't eat *my* food," she amended her earlier claim,
surprised at everyone's laughter.


----------


Sam had to admit that it was nice to see the Carver family reunited,
laughing and teasing one another, behaving almost as if nothing was wrong.
'Deep down, even *they* realize they're only postponing dealing with the
problems which lay ahead.'  He sensed Jonah turn to him.  Over the past few
months, he and Jonah had become . . . almost . . . as close as he was with
Owen.  He returned Jonah's shy grin, hoping the anxiety he was feeling
wasn't reflected in his eyes.  Even though Jonah was smiling, his eyes told
a different story.

'He's worried,' Sam told himself.  'He's feeling the same things I am, and
is no more prepared to deal with those feelings than I.  Since learning
that Owen would be coming home, they'd stayed up late, sitting up in bed,
holding hands, discussing their relationship and their fears of what would
come of it.

Jonah tended to hold his emotions inside, even more than his brother.  'For
fear of bein' ridiculed,' he'd told Sam.  'None of us kids were encouraged
by Pops to think for ourselves.  *He* wanted to do all the thinking."
Jonah's lips had slowly curved into a rueful grin. 'I'm finding that it's
rough to tell you . . . or anyone . . . what I'm thinkin'."

Unlike his brother, Owen had always smiled at anything, and everyone.  'He
makes people want to know him for no other reason than his smile,' Sam
thought, watching Owen throw back his head and laugh at another of Lucas'
stories.  'The two brothers are so different, yet, beneath the surface they
are very much alike.'

Jonah passed him his dessert, their hands touching.  The brief touch was
almost electric in its intensity.  He wanted to take Jonah and run away to
someplace where they could be alone.  'No,' he told himself, a moment
later.  'It's Owen I'm thinking of.  It's *Owen* I love.'  He automatically
began to eat, examining his emotions, not tasting the food, which sat on
his stomach like a lump.

'I hate this!' he shouted to himself.  'I hate how mixed up my feelings
are.  I hate the belief that love is an either or proposition.  I don't
want to hurt anyone; yet I don't see how I can keep that from happening.
And, if I hurt someone, I'll be hurt.'  He compressed his lips.  'I know
what I want . . . Owen . . . yet, at the same time, I want to be with
Jonah.

'Admit it, Sam,' he told himself.  'You're feeling guilty.  When this all
started, all you wanted to do was to help Jonah.  He seemed so forlorn, so
. . . lost, without his brother to keep him company.'  Sam pressed his lips
together thoughtfully.  'Jonah wasn't the only person who was lonely
because of Owen's absence,' he admitted, looking at the other end of the
table, where Owen was telling his mother about the time he and Lucas
wrestled in the snow.  'I warned him against developing feelings for me.  I
never . . . really . . . thought I might develop any sort of attachment to
him.

Why would I?  I was already in love.  But,' Sam sighed, 'even though my
feelings about Owen have not changed, I've found that I love Jonah too.'
Sam sighed again.  'All I wanted to do was help, but, against all reason,
you've let yourself fall in love with the brother of the man you have
always loved.  That you *still* love,' Sam finished, looking down at his
half-eaten slice of pie, sitting in a puddle of melting ice cream.  'How
did all of my good intentions end up in this . . . tangle?'

He answered Jonah's concerned expression with a grin, that he hoped would
keep Jonah from worrying.

'Jonah's got enough on his mind, dealing with his own feelings.  I don't
need to add my concerns to his.  I should be happy.  Owen's home!'  Sam
paused.  'I *am* happy that Owen's home.  I want, so bad, to be held by him
. . . to feel his weight on top of me . . . to taste his mouth, and,' Sam
grinned, feeling guilty, 'his sperm.'

Sam watched Owen move, as he ate his dessert.  'He's changed since he's
been away; yet so much of him is still the same.'  Sam smiled.  'He uses
his hands so much to express himself that if someone were to tie his hands
behind his back, he wouldn't be able to talk.'  Sam recalled the pleasure
those hands had always given him.  Owen's touch was so gentle, so warm and
caring.'  The thought of that touch sent erotic chills down his spine,
directly to his cock.  'My skin remembers his touch,' Sam told himself,
'just as my ears recall his voice and laughter, even when he's thousands of
miles away.  The sound of Jonah's breathing, during the darkest nights is
Owen's, as is the beat of Jonah's heart as he lies on top of me.

'My dick's telling me something,' Sam told himself, as he felt it begin to
swell.  'Since Owen's been home, I've had a tough time stayin' soft!'  Owen
caught Sam's eye and winked, the small, public intimacy caused Sam's breath
to catch.  He shifted position in an effort to ease the discomfort his
erection was causing, and ignored the troubled look Bea cast in his
direction.  'I can't handle this!' he groaned.  'I just . . . can't!

'What I believe I'd like most, would be to have Owen lying at my side,
feeling his breath on my neck, and forget about everything else.  It would
be wonderful to have everything back the way it was before Owen left for
school.'  Sam changed his wish almost before he'd completed the thought.

'What am I thinking?  Since Owen's left, I've grown.  I'm not the same
person who cried, asking never to be forgotten.  I'm no longer the person
who would always defer to Owen's wishes, no matter how much he hated me
doing it.  I feel as if I've begun to grow into myself.  I'm becoming my
own man.  No, I don't want to go back to what I was.  I like the person I'm
becoming too much to wish to go back.'  He sighed.  'It was sorta nice to
have things so simple though.  Before Owen left, I *knew* what love was.
There was no doubt in my mind that I was capable of loving only one person.
Now . . .'

Another burst of laughter tore him away from his thoughts.

'Owen moves with such ease.  He's so self-assured.'  Sam smiled as he
watched Owen describe his first snowstorm, his hands playing a large role
in the telling.

'Owen and I have shared so much.  We grew up together, we learned about sex
together.  We learned of love . . . together.  We've shared one another's
hurts, joys, and dreams.  There's our meadow, the smell of all the growing
things . . . the deep blue sky . . . the yellow flowers smellin' of honey,
and the fireflies dancing around us on summer evenings.  I'll always love
Owen.'  Sam bit his lower lip.  'If I'll always love Owen, where does that
leave Jonah?'

"Earth to Sam," Owen teased, from the far side of the table, the snowstorm
story having wound to its conclusion. "Earth to Sam," Owen chuckled.  "Come
in, Sam!"

"Sam here," he responded, automatically, smiling at Owen's choice of words.
It was a phrase Owen often used, when trying to gain his attention; yet
another tie to the man whom he told he'd always love.  He pushed his
melancholy thoughts aside to be considered later.

"I've just been sittin' here, being amazed at how much you can eat."  At
the same time as his smile broadened, he felt a pang of guilt.  Jonah was
less than two feet away, silently watching, hurting inside.  "Are we
finished, or are you gonna ask for more dessert?" Sam teased.  "I've been
meaning to talk to you about those extra pounds you're carrying around."

"Hey!"  Owen patted his belly, his fingers splayed over the tight white
polo shirt.  "I get plenty of exercise," he added, casting a slightly
guilty glance in Lucas' direction.

Jonah pointedly cleared his throat as his brother blushed, while everyone
looked to Lucas, who suddenly looked like a deer caught in a car's
headlights, not knowing where to jump."

"Well!" Bea interrupted, pushing her chair away from the table, and coming
to the rescue.  "I don't think there's any reason for Owen to go into a
lengthy description of his exercise regimen."  She patted her oldest son's
shoulder, and smiled at his sigh of relief.  "It's time for me to do the
dishes, then put Opie to bed.  She's had so much excitement, she's about
ready to nod-off."

"Am not," Opie murmured, around a yawn.

"We're not leaving yet!" Lucas raised his voice to be heard as everyone
stood.  As one, they all turned to him.  "Bea not only has saved us from
hearing about Owen's . . ." he lowered his voice, "exercises . . . she has
also worked hard to provide us a delicious meal.  It's our turn to show our
appreciation, and clean up."  Bea's open-mouth look of incredulity
confirmed his suspicion.  No one had ever volunteered to help her do the
dishes or clean up the kitchen.  No one had ever been *allowed* to offer.
Lucas held up a hand to stop her protest.

"Allow us, Bea," he said, taking her hand.  "Please."  She swallowed
convulsively, and nodded.

"But you all better not break anything," she added, in mock severity.  "By
any chance," she continued, a few minutes later, as she watched the four
men clear the dinner table and prepare to do the dishes.  "Do you do
windows, Lucas?"

He smiled, looked over his shoulder, and nodded, accepting, with good
grace, Owen's playful attempt to tie an apron around his waist.  "For you,
Madam," Lucas grinned.  "And, for the promise of another meal such as the
one we've just finished, I would do anything."

"Madam?" Opie's voice rose in the background.  "What's that?"


----------


Jonathan had watched the bright rectangle of light cross the floor of his
cell, then climb the wall, until, as evening arrived, it slowly faded.
'I'm losing my grip!  I'm hurting everyone.'  He knuckled his eyes, leaning
against the wall in the quiet jail.  'I don't *want* to hurt people, I just
. . .'  He rolled onto his side, curling into a fetal position.  'I don't
know what I want.'

Jonathan thought of his family.  'Even . . .'  He took a steadying breath.
'Even Owen.'  The thought of his oldest son's name gave him pause.  He bit
his lip, attempting to keep the darkness at bay.  'I don't hate Owen
. . . not really.  He can't help what he is, not bein' cut out t'be a
farmer n'all. '  Jonathan made a fist with one hand and bit down hard on
his knuckles.

'I *have* to think straight, at least for a bit longer.'  He felt a tear
roll down his cheek, recalling all of the beatings, the yelling, and the
days spent in a seething rage, demanding his son give him something that
was impossible.  'I was askin' things of him,' Jonathan groaned, 'but I
never gave him the one thing he wanted.  I never gave anyone what I should
have.  Now, it's probably too late.  He's gone . . . and, I'm . . . here."

A small scurrying sound caught his attention.  He scrambled to kneel at the
bed's edge.  "Who's there?" Jonathan hissed, for some reason, afraid to
raise his voice above a whisper.  This time, the sound came from the foot
of the bed, only a couple feet from where he was kneeling.  In response,
Jonathan retreated to the farthest wall, hiding his face in a pillow.

"No," he wailed, answering the voice in his head.  "Noooooo!"


----------


Bailey pushed the reluctant door of the apartment door closed, with a
decisive movement, accompanied by a hint of a frown.  'We should move,' he
thought, visions of a building with a doorman, a carpeted lobby and a
balcony . . . with a view, making a brief appearance in his mind, before he
cast them aside, and he amended his thought.  'We should get the door
fixed.'

"The handsome man's home," Corey smiled, twisting his head to watch
Bailey's approach.  "How'd things go?"

Bailey set his books on the dining table, then leaned over the back of the
sofa and nuzzled Corey's neck, wrapping Corey in a loose embrace.  "I'm
living with the sexiest man in the whole world," Bailey murmured.

"True," Corey teased, reaching back and running his fingers through
Bailey's short hair.  "But, that doesn't explain why you're all smiles."

"I was part of a discussion group in class today, and people actually
*listened* to me when I spoke.  No one suggested I be thrown out.  No one
rolled their eyes, or made snide comments about how I speak or what clothes
I was wearing.  And, I chose the clothes all by myself!" he concluded, in a
proud voice, before he threw himself down the length of the sofa and buried
his face in the denim fabric covering Corey's crotch, and wiggled his head
from side to side, making animal sounds.  "Now, all I need to make this a
perfect day is for us to strip down and roll around on top of one another
until we get the bed all messy with sperm.  That is, of course," Bailey
nibbled on the denim fabric, "you can think of something else we can do
with the load I've been saving."

"No one laughing at you makes you frisky, does it?" Corey teased, pressing
Bailey's face against his groin with a hand to the back of Bailey's head.

"Nope," Bailey laughed, turning his head and looking up.  He made a slight
face; then picked a stray thread from his mouth.  "Don't say it!"  He
frowned, in warning.  "I do not still have some of your crotch hair stuck
between my teeth.  Your *trousers* are shedding, that's all.  I mean your
*pants* are shedding," he concluded, wearing a sheepish expression.

He rolled off the sofa and stood, extending a hand to help Corey to his
feet.  "If we're going to play, let's do it in the bedroom."  He pulled
Corey into a tight embrace, followed by a deep and lengthy kiss.  "You look
much sexier when you're laying on those white sheets, with your legs
spread."  Bailey pressed himself against Corey, feeling both his and
Corey's cocks respond.  "I love seeing your white buttocks, thinking about
all the things you've taught me to do with that hole of yours."

Corey laughed, as he grasped Bailey's hand and led him to the bedroom.
"Tonight, my handsome lover, no matter how talented my asshole is, I'm
going to fuck you."  Bailey stopped, a smile playing about his lips.

"So, we're celebrating *my* good day, by *you* getting to fuck *me*?  Is
that right?"

"Does being the bottom bother you?" Corey asked, already knowing the
answer.  Giving away control had been one of the most difficult things
Bailey had learned, in his journey toward recreating himself.  'And,' Corey
thought, 'one of the most valuable lessons.  Bailey learned that there were
rewards for not being in control at all times.  Today, for instance,' Corey
thought, pleased more than he could say, at Bailey's good experience before
his class.  'The old Bailey would never have allowed someone other than
himself to lead the discussion, alienating everyone around him.  The old
Bailey would never have considered letting someone penetrate him.'  Corey
grinned.  'The old Bailey was not nearly as much fun as the new.'

Bailey shook his head, answering Corey's question.  "Not at all."  He
stepped out of his slacks and underwear, allowing his penis to stand out
straight from his blond pubes as he neatly laid his slacks over the back of
a bedside chair.

Bailey was not a large man.  That was one of the things which attracted
Corey to him.  When dressed, Bailey seemed like any other well-groomed
college student, albeit a bit more well-groomed than most.  However, when
he tossed his clothing aside and stood before Corey, naked, he was an
entirely different man.  Bailey's body was perfectly proportioned.  He was
. . . firm . . . not overly muscled, nor soft, as one who knew his past
might have expected.  His shoulders were broad, his arms well muscled,
without appearing that he lifted weights . . . which he didn't.  His hands
were broad, his fingers long, and able to send chills of excitement
throughout Corey's body with their warm touch.

Bailey's nipples were light brown and firm.  A light spread of hair covered
his chest, tapering to a thin line as it passed his navel, only to spread
into a pubic mat, which, like his chest hair, Bailey kept trimmed short.

His penis stuck out straight from his groin, thick enough to be difficult
to sit on, but not so thick as to take away any of the pleasure provided by
having Bailey inside him.  Bailey's scrotum was almost hairless, his
testicles large, and able to produce prodigious amounts of pre-cum and
sweet-tasting sperm.

His buttocks were round and firm, and, like his chest, were lightly covered
with blond hair, while his hole was completely hairless, and puckered.
Corey loved Bailey's hole, whether he was teasing it with his fingers,
licking it, or sliding his cock into it.

"Come on, Cor," Bailey urged, recalling Corey from his daydreams and making
hurry-up motions with one hand while cupping his own ball sac with his
other.  "I want to see you bare-ass naked.  I need to be fucked in the
worst way."  As he finished speaking, Bailey crossed the room, climbed onto
the bed on hands and knees, then leaned forward, and cradled his head on
his crossed arms.  His ass cheeks spread wide, revealing his light brown
pucker, his balls and throbbing erection hanging down with its own weight.
He reached back and slapped his own ass, leaving a light pink imprint of
his hand.

"Come and get it," Bailey laughed.  "You know, I enjoy being admired but,
tonight, I want to be fucked long and hard by my favorite man."

Corey toed off his shoes and skinned out of his t-shirt as Bailey moved
back and forth, his ass cheeks parting and offering tempting views of his
hole.  "Are you the same man I met only a few months ago?" Corey laughed,
finding it difficult to imagine how much Bailey had changed.

"The same," Bailey teased.  "I'm liking the difference; aren't you?" he
asked, reaching back and spreading his cheeks wide.  "Now that you see your
target, get busy!"  His words became a groan as Corey licked over Bailey's
perineum before forcing his tongue past the tight sphincter.

"Holy . . ."  Both Bailey's voice and body shivered.  Corey pulled Bailey's
erection back between his legs and licked its length, concentrating on the
place he knew made Bailey crazy.  He slapped the pale-skinned ass.  Bailey
jumped, still not totally comfortable with someone striking him.

The first time Corey had playfully slapped his naked ass, Bailey had rolled
over, his eyes and mouth wide.  "You struck me!" he'd said.  "No one has
ever hit me!"

Corey had climbed onto the surprised man, pushing him onto his back.
"Believe me, Bail," he teased, as he nuzzled Bailey's ear.  "If I were to
strike you, you'd know it."  He thrust himself against Bailey, feeling the
response he'd hoped for.  In the early days of their relationship, they'd
sometimes both acted as if they were walking on thin ice, unsure what to
do, for fear of taking the wrong step.  They'd gradually worked past that
stage, as evidenced by Bailey's behavior.

"C'mon, Cor!"  Bailey's voice was husky.  "Quit teasing me with your tongue
and get serious.  I need you *in* me."

Corey did as Bailey asked.  He mashed his face between Bailey's spread
cheeks, working his tongue into the smooth hole, preparing it for what was
to come.  At the same time, he wrapped a hand around Bailey's dick and
began masturbating him.

Not content with Corey's slow teasing of his cock, Bailey began to thrust,
sliding his cock through Corey's hand, pumping as if he was fucking
someone.  "Oh," he groaned, taking faster, shorter strokes.  "That
. . . feels . . . so . . . gooood."

A tremor ran through his body, as Corey removed his tongue and sank a
finger into the spit-slick butt hole, searching for the prostate; at the
same time he cupped his other hand in front of Bailey's cock, hoping to
catch as much cum as possible.  'He wants to be fucked,' Corey thought, as
the first blast of sperm splashed against the palm of his hand.  'I've
never used his own cum as a lube before.'

Bailey's body trembled, once . . . twice . . . three times.  Each time, his
hole would contract around Corey's finger.  Finally, Bailey sighed, Corey
removed his finger, and spread the large load over his own penis.  When
Bailey looked back over his shoulder, Corey slapped a butt cheek.

"Stay right where you are," he'd ordered.  "You wanted to be fucked.
You're gonna get fucked."  He wiped the hand, which had caught the sperm,
over Bailey's gaping hole.  "I'm using your own jiz as a lube, Bail."

Beneath him, Bailey groaned, and reached back, spreading his own cheeks
wide.  "Do it, Cor," he husked, rocking back in an attempt to impale
himself on Corey's cock.

"*Now* damn it, Corey.  *Fuck me*!" he shouted.

"Uuuu, what will the neighbors think?" Corey murmured, loving the change in
Bailey, as he rubbed the head of his erection over Bailey's anus, then
pressed until the head was partially in.

"All the way!" Bailey shouted.  "You're either going to do it, or you
aren't.  What's it to be?"

Someone in the apartment next door pounded on the wall.  "We listen to you
all the time.  Now it's your turn!" Bailey shouted, even louder than
before, "so, shut up!"  There was a one-rap reply, and, at the same time,
Corey slid his full length into Bailey, pressing his dark pubes against the
spread cheeks.


----------


Daniel grumbled as his sweat pants slipped out of his hand and fell to the
bedroom floor.  "I've just about *had* it!"  He glared at the puddle of
grey fabric, as if accusing it of fighting him.  "I'm in no mood to have my
life made more difficult!"  He huffed a laugh and shook his head, wondering
when he had begun talking to his clothing.  Perhaps it had begun when Bea's
sister had deposited him at his apartment's door, and he had had to
undress.

He'd let himself into his apartment, wanting nothing more than to eat
something and shower.  Somehow, he'd managed to undress, though it had
taken much of the morning.  'The pain killers they gave me when I left the
hospital were responsible,' he thought, after kicking the discarded clothes
into a corner, to be picked up at some future date.  He'd been wearing them
during his fight with Jonathan, then, to the hospital, and finally back
home.

'I never realized how difficult it would be to do the simplest things with
one arm strapped to my chest, not to mention the pain of simply *moving*!
I'd like to think ol' Jonathan ended up in worse shape than I, but," the
doctor shook his head, "that wouldn't be true.  I should have hit him with
something . . . other than myself,' he thought, studying the assorted,
large, multi-colored bruises covering his chest and one . . . visible
. . . arm.'  He turned his back to the dresser's mirror and looked over his
shoulder.  'At least the back view is better than the front!  If I hadn't
fallen over that cursed chair and hit the edge of the coffee table, I
wouldn't have that bruise on my back.  Still,' he thought, 'Bea is in worse
shape than I am, and she's not broken anything!'

Now that he was naked, the thought of getting dressed was too much to
handle.  Daniel snorted.  "I'm feeling about as useful as a trap door on a
canoe!"

He kicked at the troublesome sweatpants in frustration, and winced at the
sudden movement, deciding to dispense with getting dressed.  'It's dark
outside,' he told himself.  'If I'm wearing those sweatpants, I'll just
have to get out of 'em to go to sleep, or whatever.  Besides,' he thought,
feeling slightly daring.  'I've always sorta liked being naked.'  He
fondled his flaccid penis, feeling like a schoolboy doing something
naughty.  He grinned, as he left the bedroom and walked into the small
living room, checking to see that the blinds were drawn.

"I've got to remember to never make a flying tackle if I'm going to fight
someone.  I need to do things in a civilized manner . . . just walk up to
the person and punch them in the face."  He snorted, amused at the
ludicrous idea.  'Then, *run*!'  He couldn't help but smile, imagining the
scene.  'I may *look* all macho, but I'm just a regular guy whose idea of
conflict is to give a person a stern look.

'Well, I did more'n that when I tackled ol' Jonathan; may he rot in the
Evanston jail!  Too bad dungeons have gone out of fashion.'  Daniel
grinned.  'Cold, wet dungeons,' he added, his imagination painting a vivid
scene, 'with big spiders, and various assorted instruments of torture
scattered about the room, their presence made worse by the ululating
screams coming from nearby chambers.  Oh, and there has to be bats.'  He
smiled, enjoying the scene he envisioned for Bea's husband.  'Big bats.
Better yet, *vampire* bats!'  The vision banished his bad mood and caused
him to laugh.

'I should at least try and get into a pair of underwear, or a robe, or
something,' Daniel thought, rejecting each item of clothing as being too
difficult to manage.  'Maybe underwear . . . later.  Too bad I don't own a
pair of loose boxers.'  He thought for a moment, made a face, and decided
that being naked was much preferable to hanging loose within a pair of
baggy boxers.

He huffed an amused breath, standing in front of the open refrigerator,
contemplating what he could make for dinner using only one hand.  After
abandoning two different dinner plans, he gave up on the idea of dinner and
settled for an apple, which he bit into and held between his teeth as he
lit a fire in the already-prepared fireplace.  'I'm gonna have to figure
something out,' he thought, as he gingerly sat down in the nearby armchair
and stretched his legs out, propping his feet on an ottoman.  'I have to
eat . . . sometime.'  Daniel wiggled his toes, luxuriating in the feeling
of the warm fire and the freedom being naked gave him.

'No one better need my services,' he thought, as he idly scratched his
pubes.  'They'd have to accept being examined by a nekkid, one-armed
doctor.'  The thought made him pause.  'Oh *please*,' he intoned, looking
toward the heavens, 'don't let Maxine know I can't get dressed!  Fighting
Jonathan was bad enough.  I don't think I'd manage to fend off a
perpetually-horny woman!'  He shivered.  "She's all angles and sharp edges,
with eyes like flint, and hair which looks as if a deranged cat spent the
evening licking into unlikely swirls and peaks.  Daniel shuddered, sinking
into the cushions.

"Ugh! Maxine.  I'd hire her to haunt a house."


----------


Lucas kept his eyes on the narrow road, sensing when Owen turned to him.
"You gonna be okay?" Owen asked in a low voice, accompanied by a hesitant
touch.  Lucas nodded, sparing Owen a brief glance.

"Yeah, I'll be fine . . . really," he added, as reassurance.  "Your mother
is as wonderful as you always said, and little Opie!"  Lucas grinned.  "I
feel as if I have a little sister."

He nodded, following Owen's hand motion to turn down a road darker than the
one they were on.

"That's not what I mean," Owen said, sounding both tired and exasperated,
as he leaned his head back against the seat's headrest.

"I know what you meant, Owen, and I'll be fine.  So will Jonah, right?"
Lucas asked, looking into the rearview mirror.

"Sure we will."  Jonah reached over the front seat and squeezed his
brother's shoulder.  "It's good to have you home, Owen.  You'n Sam have a
good time, and don't worry 'bout Lucas and me.  We'll do okay."

Lucas murmured agreement, as he stopped the car and turned off the lights.

"I . . ." Sam began, as the four men crossed the gravel drive toward the
house, visible in the moonlight.  Jonah stopped, giving both his brother
and Sam an irritated look, barely visible in the faint light.

"Don't go torturing yourself about something you have no control over,
guys!  If you insist on feelin' bad, it's not Lucas' or my fault.  We told
you, *we'll be fine!*"

"Yessir," Owen teased, laying an arm over his brother's shoulder.  They'd
taken a couple steps, when Owen stopped.  "When'd you get to be so tall?"
he asked.  "You're gonna be taller 'n me."

"Everyone's taller than you," Lucas teased, playfully poking Owen in the
ribs as he walked past.

"Hey!"

"As long as you know who's boss around here," Jonah quipped, passing Owen,
on the opposite side.

"Hey, I thought *I* was the boss!" Sam added, opening the front door,
leading to the living room.

Jonah entered the house, with Owen one step behind, and Lucas following up
at the rear.  "Nope," Jonah responded, to Sam's comment.  "You're the top,
*I'm* the boss.  They're different roles, entirely."

"The top?" Owen asked, as he gave his brother and Lucas an abbreviated
salute, steering Sam toward the home's bathroom, and the shower Owen had
been looking forward to since their arrival.

"Sometimes," Sam chuckled, as the door closed.


----------


Jonah's eyes followed the two men, wearing an expression of sadness mixed
with a determination not to let his feelings show.  "I'm full of brave
words,' he murmured, turning back to Lucas and catching a fleeting glimpse
of how deeply *he* was bothered by having Sam and Owen with one another.

"It's rough . . . on both of us, I'm feelin.'"

Lucas' lips twisted into a wry grin, as he ran his fingers through his
hair, then massaged the back of his neck.  The person who faced Jonah was
not the same man who had been the laughing, bright-eyed center of attention
throughout dinner.  The smile had disappeared, to be replaced by a look of
someone who was trying to keep his emotions in check.

"Neither of us like things as they are, but we'll manage, won't we?"  Lucas
asked, as he sank into one of the room's overstuffed armchairs, with an
exhausted sigh.  Jonah had hitched one hip onto the sofa's arms, one leg
idly swinging.  "You doing okay?" Lucas asked him.  "I mean, really."

It was Jonah's turn to sigh.  "When Sam'n I got together, almost the first
thing he told me was not to develop feelings for him, 'cause he would not
forsake Owen."  One corner of Jonah's lips twisted upward as he bowed his
head, shaking it slowly.  "It's so easy to say, 'don't develop feelings,'
but not so easy to keep from doing it."  Jonah shifted position.  "I told
myself I was prepared to see Sam in Owen's arms . . . but, I wasn't."

"We paint a pretty picture, don't we?" Lucas asked, thinking how closely
Jonah's thoughts mirrored his own.

Jonah softly snorted.  "I'm not feelin' very pretty right now.  As much as
I love Owen, I find myself wishin' . . ."  His voice trailed off, and,
finally, he shook his head, unwilling to go on."

"Me too," Lucas added.  The room lapsed into silence punctuated only by the
faint sound of the shower and voices.

"Geez!"  Jonah broke the silence, standing up.

"What!"  Lucas automatically turned toward the open door to the house,
instinctively thinking someone was intruding.  'The Big City strikes
again,' he could almost hear Owen say, laughing.

"I'm not thinking!" Jonah continued, tapping his forehead with his
fingertips.  "No one's planned for where you're supposed to sleep!"  His
embarrassment had overcome his mood of only moments earlier.  "I should
have made plans."  He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, trying to
ignore the distant sounds of the two men in the shower.

"The sofa's fine with me," Lucas laughed, shifting position, extending his
legs in front of him, beneath the coffee table.  "I'm so tired, I don't
care *where* I'm sleeping."  He stretched, extending his arms to his sides
and yawned.  "This chair's so comfortable I think I could sleep right where
I am."

"Maybe, but I hate that Sam'n I have neglected your needs.  Here you are, a
visitor, having to sleep on the sofa.  Tell you what!  I'll take the sofa
and you can have the bed."

Lucas held up a hand, motioning for Jonah not to worry.  "No, the sofa's
okay . . . really.  Besides, didn't I hear you mention something about
homework, during dinner?  And I snore," Lucas grinned.  "I don't want to
keep you from getting your assignment's done."

"Snore?  Truly?"

Lucas shrugged.  "So I'm told.  I wouldn't know, for certain.  I'm asleep
when it happens."  He smiled, pleased to see Jonah's tentative smile.

'I didn't know he had dimples!' Lucas grinned to himself.

"Okay then.  If you're sure."

Lucas made a shooing motion.  "Now, get busy on that homework.  I intend to
stretch out and enjoy the peace and quiet.  When the guys are finished with
their shower, I'll get one; then go to sleep.  With all the excitement, I
probably don't realize how sleepy I actually am."

"Oh, okay.  If you're sure," Jonah repeated.  Lucas nodded, making another
shooing motion, pleased when Jonah smiled.  "See you tomorrow, then." Jonah
turned and headed down the hallway.

A few moments later, Lucas looked up as Jonah came back, carrying a bundle.
"You'll be needin' some sheets n'stuff."  Before Lucas could thank him,
Jonah continued, looking at him with a curious twinkle in his eyes.  "Does
m'brother really sleep naked . . . like you said at dinner?"

Lucas grinned at the question, *and* Jonah's transformation.  "Yes, why?"

Jonah shook his head.  "No reason, really.  He just never did when he was
sleepin' with me."

"I don't think sleeping with me has much to do with it," Lucas laughed.  "I
think it's just another way for him to express his freedom being away from
home.  What about you?  Do you sleep naked, when you're with Sam?"

Jonah laughed, a bubbling sound, surprising, considering his normally quiet
manner.  "Yeah, I guess."  A bright pink flush colored his pale skin.
"Though I'm findin' that since leaving home, I get much less sleep than I
once did."  His smile blossomed, joining Lucas', as he handed Lucas the bed
linens, then turned and headed for the hallway, with a raised hand of
farewell, and a, "g'night."


----------


Lucas sank back into the embrace of the armchair, and tilted his head back,
resting it on the chair's upholstery.  After a moment, he toed off his
shoes and stretched out his legs, resting his stocking-clad feet on the
coffee table.  He heaved a sigh, dimly aware of the sound of the shower and
Owen's voice.

'Stop it!' he told himself.  'The guys are exactly where they should be
. . . with one another.  You've told them you can live with it, so
. . . *live with it*!'  A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his
lips.  'Yes, Mother,' he responded, hearing his mother's words, telling him
to follow his own advice, and truly accept Owen and Sam's reunion.

So far, his visit to Riverton had produced not much more than a collage of
images, each awaiting an opportunity for closer examination.  The beautiful
countryside and expansive sky took center stage, followed by myriad images
of Jonah, Bea, the two girls, Sam, and, of course, Owen's reaction to each
of them.

'I shouldn't have told Bea we would protect her,' Lucas thought, pressing
his lips together at the thought.  That was an insult.  She doesn't need
anyone's protection, all she needs is everyone's support, and a few kind
words.  Then, she'll begin to believe in her capacity to overcome anything.
She has the strength to endure.  Bea knows more about surviving than all of
us put together.  The love problems of four guys pale by comparison to what
*she's* gone through.'

Jonah, on the other hand, had much yet to learn.  'As if *I* don't!' Lucas
sighed, grinning as he closed his eyes and thought of Owen's brother.  Of
all us guys, Jonah's probably the most . . . fragile.'  Lucas made a face,
not liking the word, but unable to think of another, more appropriate.
'Sam, Owen, and I, have other experiences to draw upon, admittedly not
many, but some.  Poor Jonah has nothing.  It's as if he lived in an
emotional vacuum until meeting Sam.  Now, he's thrust back into the place
he's only just begun to emerge from.  'The butterfly being stuffed back
into the cocoon, to use Owen's analogy.'  He's confused, and hurt, and has
no one to turn to.'

'Then, there's Sam . . . quiet Sam . . . behaving so differently from how
he did during his Christmas visit, when he'd brimmed with laughter.  Now,
his affections seem torn between the two brothers, just as Owen's are
divided between Sam, and me.'  Lucas shifted position.

'Owen's right.  He is the spider at the center of its web, and each of us
is caught in the web's strands, wondering what the spider's going to do.'
Lucas' mother's voice seemed to intrude on his thoughts, telling him to
tend to his needs before worrying about someone else's.  He shook his head.
"Easy for you to say, Mother."

He was awakened by the sound of Sam's bedroom door closing.  "Have fun,
gentlemen," he murmured, as he heaved himself out of the chair and rummaged
in the bag Owen had hurriedly stuffed with some clothes.  Lucas pulled out
a pair of baggy shorts and headed toward the shower.  'I hope there's an
available towel,' he thought, as he stepped into the still-steamy room.
'*And*, some hot water!'  Owen was a person who favored long showers.  It
appeared Sam was too.  "Well, I'll be quick about it.  I've got to leave
some hot water for Jonah.  He'll probably want a shower when I'm finished.'


----------


Jonah eased the bedroom door closed, determined to not pay attention to the
voices of his brother and Sam in the shower.  He turned on the desk lamp
and flopped backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.  'I should be
happy,' he told himself.  'Owen's back home!  At the same time, Owen's
being home is the reason I'm feelin' like I am.'

Jonah touched his cheek.  'He kissed me!  Owen kissed me, and told me he
loves me!'  Jonah continued to stare at the ceiling.

'Poor Owen, always searching for love . . . always givin' so much of
himself it's a wonder there's anything left for *him.* He helps people,'
Jonah thought.  'He gives of himself without reservation, never asking for
anything in return, but always afraid he's not given enough, *done* enough,
been supportive enough.'  Jonah closed his eyes.  'And here *I* am, wanting
him to leave Sam alone.

'Now, he's got it into his head that he might . . . somehow . . . end up
acting like Pops.  No, Owen,' Jonah thought.  'You shouldn't worry 'bout
ending up like Pops.  You don't have that sort of anger inside you.  You
can barely give a person an angry *glance*.  You're certainly not able to
sustain a red rage for days on end, like Pops.

'Instead of fearing that you're gonna be like him, you should be worried
that your need to be loved will end up hurting you.  You can't help
everyone, big brother,' Jonah thought, laying a forearm over his eyes to
shield them from the light from the desk lamp.  'Pops doesn't want your
help . . . or your love.  It's nothing personal though.  Pops doesn't want
*anyone's* love.'

Jonah rolled onto his stomach, cradling his head in his folded arms.
'Lucas seems like a nice guy.  The way he looks at Owen speaks volumes.
I'm not even sure *he* knows what his eyes are saying.  Mama saw it, and
Abigail.  So did I.  I wonder if Owen realizes what Lucas feels.

'And, there he is . . . stuck in the living room, left to sleep on the
sofa, ignored, like so much extra baggage.  And, he does it without a word
of complaint.'  Jonah softly snorted.  'Owen could tell that man to jump
off a cliff, and Lucas would probably ask him, when.

'He's as much a prisoner of his feelings as I am.'  Jonah tilted his head
up and glanced at the bedroom door.  'I shouldn't be in here, pretending to
do homework.  I should be out there, in the living room, with Lucas
. . . havin' a beer, or something.'  Jonah grinned.  'Listen to me, acting
like I'm Lucas' self-appointed savior.'  The thought gave him pause.
'Maybe I'm more like Owen than I thought.  Neither of us can handle
conflict, or feelin' the pain of others.  Lucas is feelin' as much pain as
I am.  I wonder how he handles it so quietly.'


----------


~ 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.

Roy Reinikainen
roynm@mac.com