Date: Wed, 18 Aug 2004 17:50:49 EDT
From: TragicRabbit11@aol.com
Subject: Gay/HS: DRAMA CLUB, Part 9 (revised version)

THE DRAMA CLUB, Part Nine 'Inscribed Across the Heavens'

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This is a work of fiction and all characters are imaginary.  The story
involves sex between teen boys so if that's illegal or offensive for you to
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from the author.  Author does not mean the story to condone cigarette
smoking, teen sex, unprotected sex, 'gay reparation'(Ex-Gay/Exodus) or any
other activity or group the characters are involved with.  Drama Club is a
work of fiction.

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Kisses....Tragic Rabbit


'Above the  mountains
the geese turn into
the light again,

painting their
black silhouettes
on an open sky.

Sometimes everything
has to be
enscribed across
the heavens

so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.'
                                             The Journey (David Whyte)


Angel picked up the glass ashtray and dumped it out into the plastic
trashbag he held, then returned it to the coffee table.  He looked around
the room with a critical eye.  He was almost done, the room didn't look too
bad.  He was glad his mom was letting him host the Cast Party at their
house, especially since he wasn't having a birthday party this year.  He'd
be sixteen but he really only wanted to go out with his friends to
celebrate.  Mom wanted to make a big deal out of his birthday but he just
wanted it over and, anyway, he was getting too old for the parties his mom
wanted to throw.  It's not like balloons and cake would cut it-not for a
guy his age.

What he really wanted for his birthday was a driver's license but Mary
thought he was too young, so no hope there.  Still, he'd asked Jaye to show
him how to drive sometime and Jaye'd said he would.  Which was surprising
because Jaye didn't really like other people driving the Mustang.  He'd
gotten the car for his own sixteenth birthday last spring and spent most
weekends cleaning and polishing it.  Jaye was so damn picky about that
stupid car.  He didn't even let Angel smoke in it, which was annoying, but
Angel didn't complain.  Not much, anyway. Getting rides whenever he wanted
was pretty useful and he didn't want to screw that up.

Angel took the trashbag to the kitchen and got out the vacuum cleaner.  He
drug it into the living room, plugged it in, and began to run it across the
gray carpet, making streaks of light and dark in the pile.  The show
tonight was the last for Midsummer Night's Dream, his last performance as
Puck, the woodland sprite.  He wouldn't be sorry to lose the tights but,
damn, the part was great.  He wondered what role he'd get in Camelot, the
next play Northside was doing.  He could sing pretty well (although
Ms. Robi always said that theatrical singing was more about volume and
acting than musical skill) but didn't think he was built for the part he
really wanted, that of King Arthur.  He could always dream, though, he
reminded himself ruefully.  He had to stop wanting things he couldn't have
and maybe start wanting the things he already DID have, he thought.

He heard a car pull up outside and an engine cut off.  He looked out to see
Jaye slamming shut the driver's side door and walking up the path, face
unreadable.  What the hell, he wondered, Jaye'd just left here.  Last night
had been great, really relaxing, and he hadn't had any of those dreams
afterwards.  Of course, that was partly because he'd been so tired when he
finally went to sleep that his mind had just shut down.  Not just the sex,
although that was fun, as always, but Friday had been a hell of a long day.

Bobby's mom, Jeannie, had really pissed him off at the hospital and he'd
had to take that fury with him, right into that night's performance of
Puck.  He wondered if anyone had seen the anger he really felt as he leapt
around the stage and knelt down on the apron, delivering those intimate
lines to the audience.  Lines filled with a playful sarcasm became lines
spoken in a truer anger, a more honest need to hurt.  He could almost hit
Jeannie, he felt, and he wondered again how Bobby was doing at that stupid
camp.  As if being gay was something that needed a fucking cure, he thought
for the hundredth time, and shoved the vacuum against the wall, flicking
off the power switch.  The knock at the door sounded abrupt, several sharp
loud raps on the wooden surface that he heard echo against the house across
the street.

He opened the door and Jaye shoved past him and threw himself onto the
nearest sofa section.  His friend stared up at him without speaking, his
hands down in the pockets of his jeans.  He looked tense, his shoulders
rigid, his expression unreadable.  Great, more drama, Angel thought.

"And 'hello' to you, too, Jaye-bird." Angel said, annoyed.  A frown
flickered across Jaye's face and was gone.  He wanted to tell Angel what
he'd seen but wasn't sure if he should.  He'd calmed down enough on the
drive over to realize that blurting it out might not be the best way to
warn him about Michael. He sighed.

"Sorry." He didn't elaborate.

Angel unplugged the vacuum's cord and wound it through the hooks on the
side of the machine while Jaye watched silently.  With a glance at his
friend, Angel rolled the vacuum back into the kitchen and put it away in
the closet.  Jaye followed.  When Angel turned, he found himself face to
face with the blonde boy.  Blue eyes locked onto black.  Neither spoke;
each examined the other.  Angel finally smiled and leaned back, hips
against the door of the closet, arms folded across his chest.

Jaye's eyes traveled down Angel's body and back up to his face, narrowing,
his nostrils flaring as his breath came faster.  Angel wore loose pajamas,
blush colored silk with white piping, and was barefoot on the carpet.  Jaye
could see faint polish on his friend's toenails, his slender feet showing
under the long hem of the pants.  The top two buttons undone left olive
skin bare across his flat chest, the right nipple just barely hidden
against a fold.  Jaye drew in a breath.  He was very conscious of Angel's
naked body beneath the smooth fabric.  Angel looked relaxed as a cat, hip
against the door, his lips turning up slightly in amusement.

"Something I can help you with, Jaye?" he asked with a smile, parting his
lips to touch his tongue once to the upper lip.  Angel was breathing a
little faster now, Jaye was sure of it.  And so was he.

Jaye's narrowed eyes seemed darker to Angel, almost black in the light.
Jaye took another step, drawing himself right up against Angel's body,
without breaking eye contact.  He touched his hand to Angel's shoulder and
drew it slowly across the satin of the pajama top towards the open front.
Angel was motionless, watching him.  Jaye moved closer, pulling his face so
near to Angel's that he could feel the warm breath of the other boy.  Still
staring intently, Jaye's hand moved into the pajama opening and onto the
morning heat of Angel's skin, stroking against him, sliding his fingers
under the satin and onto a nipple.

He leaned closer, touching his lips to Angel's, just as he grasped the
right nipple between thumb and forefinger, pulling gently.  Angel moaned
under his breath and pushed himself against Jaye, unfolding his arms and
circling them around his friend's neck, arching his body into him as they
slowly kissed.  Jaye's body trembled slightly as he twisted the nipple and
slid his other hand around to cup Angel's buttock, squeezing it hard in his
hand.  He felt Angel's satin-covered cock press against the bulge in his
jeans, both of them hardening as they sucked each other's tongues.  He drew
his fingers down to unbutton the rest of the pajama top without breaking
contact.  Angel's arms around his neck tightened.  He pushed the pajama top
from Angel's smooth shoulders and let it drop to the kitchen floor.  He
slid his hands inside the pajama bottoms and onto Angel's bare skin,
pulling Angel to him, grinding against him as he pulled those firm cheeks
apart, slipping fingertips between as he did so.

Jaye broke away from the kiss, breathing hard, and looked into Angel's
eyes.  Those dark eyes were unseeing, dilated in arousal.  Jaye had a flash
of Michael, turning under Gene's bedcovers, muscled shoulders moving, white
skin just visible in the light from between the window blinds, dark hair
against the pillow.  He felt an anger he couldn't explain rise up, joining
the urgent messages from the cock that filled his jeans.

"Angel Eyes..."He said softly, lips against Angel's ear.  Angel frowned,
there was something in his voice.  He put his hands on Jaye's shoulder,
pushing away lightly, uncertain, his brow furrowed.  Unyielding, Jaye's
hands down his pajamas held him close.  Jaye kissed him again and he
resisted a moment, then surrendered to the sensations overwhelming him.
Somehow Jaye fully clothed and hard against him was doubly exciting.  He
felt Jaye push his pajama bottoms down over his ass, letting them fall to
the floor at his ankles.

He stood naked in the kitchen, held tight against his friend, their bodies
pressed together as they kissed hungrily.  He pulled back and reached for
Jaye's fly, unbuttoning and pulling at the zipper.  It resisted, cock
swollen under it.  Jaye was panting as he reached to help, eyes still
holding Angel's.  He unzipped his fly and pushed down his briefs, reaching
in to cup and pull out his balls, erect cock bobbing free to touch a moist
tip once to Angel's hand. Angel moaned, feeling the steely hardness as it
did so.  Jaye was so fucking hard, it was making him feel dizzy.

Jaye's hand snaked around the back of Angel's head and pulled, urging him
downwards.  Angel met his eyes again, saw those unreadable blues still
searching his face.  Jaye was really pushing now, pushing him down to his
knees in front of Jaye's cock.  Uncertain, not sure he liked the look in
his friend's eyes, Angel let his own need take over and knelt, nearly
overbalancing in the tangle of satin at his feet.  As soon as Angel's soft
lips surrounded his cock, Jaye shoved roughly into his mouth, hands in the
tangle of black hair.

He held Angel's head, thrusting rapidly, growling as he did so.  Angel
pushed back, gagging, to rest on his ankles and look up.  Jaye's face still
showed no expression.  He reached again for the back of Angel's head.
Angel evaded him and stood, kicking away the pajamas at his feet.  Jaye
reached his hand to Angel's chest, grasping at both nipples.  Angel slapped
him.  Hard.

Both boys paused, startled; breathing heavy, staring into each other's
eyes.  Jaye then reached for him again, pulling Angel's stiff body into
another kiss.  Angel couldn't stop his response and pressed into that kiss,
feeling the other boy's tongue enter his mouth.  He felt Jaye's hands on
him and the roughness of Jaye's clothes on his naked skin.  He was
breathing fast, heart racing.  He felt Jaye's fingers on his buttocks
again, pulling the cheeks apart and towards him.  Jaye's index finger
pushed against the opening, pressing harder, demanding entry.  Angel moaned
into the kiss as he felt the finger enter him, setting those tender nerve
endings on fire.

When Jaye pulled back, gasping for air, Angel's eyes were on his.  Jaye
spun him around and pushed him onto the kitchen counter, Angel's hands
automatically grabbing the edge of the counter for balance.  Jaye pushed
the front of his clothed body up against him, his freed cock throbbing hard
against Angel's ass, and wrapped his left arm around Angel's waist.  He put
his finger back to Angel's opening and shoved in.

Angel gasped in a confusion of pleasure and annoyance, his own dick
straining upward towards his belly.  Good thing I'm not a goddamn romantic,
he thought and not for the first time.  He felt the head of Jaye's cock,
slippery and leaking, against the hole.  I can hit him or let him, Angel
thought, almost amused.  Perversely, he felt as much turned on as angry.
He wrapped his hand around his own dick and relaxed against Jaye's
insistence.  He felt the head push, pressuring for admittance.  He groaned
aloud and pushed back into it.

Suddenly, Jaye was gone from behind him.  Confused and breathing fast,
Angel stood and turned to see his friend standing three feet away, his cock
still standing to attention, panting and staring at him.  Angel stared
back, eyes widening.

"I..." Jaye's voice trailed off as he looked into Angel's face.  His
breathing slowed.  Angel stood naked in the morning light, his black hair
mussed and his dark skin flushed, his slender cock hard.  He looked so
beautiful, Jaye thought, disoriented.  What the fuck is wrong with me?

Angel gathered control of his breathing as he watched his friend,
thoughtfully.  Jaye looked away from him.

"Sorry." Jaye said finally, flatly, his brows drawing into a frown as he
struggled to get his softening dick back into his jeans. Angel didn't move,
didn't speak.  Jaye zipped up and walked out of the room, then stopped.  He
walked back and stood in the doorway, looking at Angel intently.

"Gene's going to help with the Gay-Straight Alliance." He said quietly.
Angel nodded warily.  Jaye paused, again searching Angel's face.
"And... Michael spent the night in Gene's bed." He added, watching Angel
carefully.  Angel smiled.  "Michael fucked Gene last night." Jaye added, in
case that wasn't clear. Angel surprised him by laughing.

"Gene's gay? Gene the Machine is gay?" This was hysterical. He couldn't
stop laughing.

Jaye frowned. "I guess so but I mean...he spent last night with Michael.
Michael Morrison.  The football player."

Angel's laughter died down as he raised his eyebrows, unconsciously
imitating Gene. "So?" he asked.

Flustered, Jaye answered, "Michael asked YOU out last night, Angel."

Angel chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, and I said no.  It's not like he's
my boyfriend or anything, Jaye."

Jaye studied him for another moment silently, then left the room again.
Angel heard the front door open and close.

Well, they do say Romance is dead, Angel told himself, wryly.  He reached
for his pajamas.  So Clean Gene is gay, he mused.  A queer Vulcan; too
funny.  He remembered his dream of Gene in the forest and blushed.

He thought of Jaye just now, standing in the doorway, and the look on his
face.

It was almost as if Jaye were jealous.


                                        'We noticed smallest things-
                                          Things overlooked before
                                          By this great light upon our Minds
                                          Italicized-as 'twere.'
                                                        (Emily Dickinson, 1890)



Gene sat in the unfamiliar lunchroom, his tub open as he sifted through
folders, pen in hand.  On the table in front of him were short stacks of
tabbed folders, each with at least one yellow post-it note attached,
indicating which section of his case they applied to.  The lunchroom was
sparsely populated, debaters scattered through the room talking softly,
working neatly.  Many, like Gene, were organizing for their next round but
some scarfed the lousy nachos or drank cokes while listening to headphones.

Schools without students were familiar to him from years of speech
tournaments, schools emptied on weekends to make room for debaters and
orators and extemp speakers from around the country, rooms tagged with
signs listing rounds and speaker orders in hastily drawn black magic
marker.  Just another weekend.  All these schools began to look the same
about a month into the season.  Just another place to win...or to lose,
taking home a trophy or a tired sense of annoyance.  Gene Kuo tended to win
but that didn't mean he got lazy in between rounds.  You never knew when
something would leap out at you from your files, something you hadn't
thought about could apply in a new way to some argument.  Friedman sat
across from him, talking on his cell.  He finished and flipped it closed,
looking up at his star debater.

"Well?" he asked Gene.  Friedman wasn't sentimental.  He never spent much
time telling Gene how great he was, the way some coaches seemed to do.
Somehow Gene had always liked that about him.  The lack of sloppy
sentiment.  He hated being fussed over.

Gene shook his head.  "Dunno, can't find anything.  I was so sure there was
something in here on Korean minefields." He caught Friedman's bemused
expression.  "So sue me.  I was wrong." He smiled.

Friedman laughed. "Well, it had to happen sometime." Gene rolled his eyes
and tossed his pen down, leaning back to stretch the tight muscles in his
neck.  Friedman watched him noncommittally.  Gene finished his stretch and
leaned his arms down against the table, meeting his coach's eyes.

"There's something I wanted to ask you."

Friedman nodded, waiting.  Gene drew a breath.  He had no idea what
Friedman thought about gays, he'd never asked.  That Michael had been his
lover seemed obvious to him but, again, Friedman seldom commented in a
personal way.  He remembered one night late on a bus trip home from
somewhere, waking up on a seat with Michael's head on his shoulder and his
arms wrapped around Gene's waist as they slept.  Friedman had been watching
them when he woke.  They studied each other, saying nothing.  Finally, Gene
had fallen back asleep, Michael's warm body comforting him as the noisy
public school bus traveled the dark interstate.  Nothing had ever been
said.  He cleared his throat.

"Coach...some of the drama kids are going to start up a Gay-Straight
Alliance at Northside."  He watched Friedman's face.  No reaction.
Friedman must have been one hell of a debater.

"Ah...well, the thing is, they want you to be the sponsor.  You know, the
teacher sponsor.  If you're interested." He studied his coach for a
reaction.

"Are you helping with this, Kuo?" Friedman asked, slipping his cell into
his shirt pocket.  Gene nodded.  Friedman smiled.

"Is Michael? Helping?" Friedman's expression was always difficult to read.

Gene concealed his surprise. "Yeah, I think so.  Maybe.  I haven't asked
him yet but I'm pretty sure he'll want to help." He hesitated. "Angel de la
Torres is supposed to be running this thing.  According to his friend,
Jaye. "

Friedman's smile broadened, reaching his eyes, but he said nothing.  He
watched Gene pick up his Sharpie pen and fiddle with it, running it between
his fingers.

"So you and Michael both are helping, helping Angel...de la Torres.  With
the GSA."  He observed, still smiling enigmatically.  Gene pulled the black
cap from the end of the pen and snapped it back over the writing tip.  He
coughed.

"Yeah.  Looks like it.  That's if Michael says yes.  I haven't asked him.
Yet."

Friedman was still smiling.  Gene waited.  Finally, Friedman nodded.

"No problem.  I can sponsor the club.  And you can tell Angel he can use
the debate room, if he wants.  If you think it's big enough."

Gene exhaled, relieved.  That still unsaid thing, that Gene was gay, didn't
seem to be a problem.  He wondered what the other teachers would say to
Friedman, if anything, about sponsoring a bunch of queer kids in a club.
It didn't always pay to criticize the debate coach; the only thing sharper
than his mind was his tongue.  And a few Northside teachers had the scorch
marks to prove it.  Gene guessed he'd had practice, growing up in a
wheelchair after winning a childhood battle with polio.  'Winning' must
have seemed relative to a ten year old orphaned Jew in a wheelchair.  He'd
debated in junior high and high school, had taken most of the top awards
and then gone on to a full scholarship at Loyola.

Gene often wondered why the hell he decided to coach debate instead of
making real money somewhere.  He didn't wonder it too often, though, since
he was grateful for Friedman and knew only too well how debate could fill
your life.  It had filled Gene's since his seventh grade speech teacher had
put a debate privacy case in his hand and told him to argue it tomorrow in
class; first for, then against it.  When he'd done so, staying cool while
not losing a single point to his opposition, she'd mentioned that there
were scholarships offered at colleges.  He'd gone home to tell his mother,
who was cautiously interested and explained to him the reality of their
finances.  A month later, he'd talked Kerri into going to tournaments with
him.  Two years later, as a freshman, his name was an epithet in the mouths
of older debaters who often couldn't match his drive to win, his lucid
summaries that devastated whole arguments in a few sentences.

By his junior year, he had focused his life into debate summer camps and
weekends in round after round, seldom losing, seldom failing to take home
another trophy to show a delighted Mary.  He was Gene Kuo, champion
cross-examination debater and he was always at Friedman's side.  Last year,
with Michael, he'd had a chance to wonder what else was possible but it
just hadn't worked out.  It was amazing to Gene, how much simple time
seemed to matter between two people.  Somehow lack of it had killed off
some of the passion, for both of them.  There's only so many times you can
stand up your lover, keep him waiting for a check-in call between late
rounds, before...well, before he stops caring so much when you'd be done
that night.  Or any night.  And before you stop trying so hard to make it
up to him.  Things just end sometimes, he thought a little tiredly.  Not
always with a bang but sometimes just with a whimper.



                                      'One need not be a Chamber-to be Haunted-
                                       One need not be a House--
                                       The Brain has Corridors-'
                                                    Emily Dickinson (1891)



Michael paused to wipe the sweat from his face with the towel he kept
tucked in his shorts for that purpose.  He looked up, across the football
practice field.  He wasn't used to seeing it so empty but after football
season most of the guys worked out at home or in gyms, if they could afford
it.  Michael preferred the quiet of the field on the weekends while he got
in shape for track in March.  He'd gone out for basketball, too, last year
but told the coach this year that he wasn't going to, that he needed to
spend more time on classwork.  He'd not been happy with the news but didn't
push it.  With a little luck, Michael thought he'd make it into the top
five percent of his class this year and that standing, along with his
football record, might land him a decent scholarship.  Michael dropped down
to the grass again and continued his push-ups.

He thought back to last night with Gene.  Michael had slept late this
morning and fixed his breakfast alone in the kitchen, Gene already at the
tournament and Barbara at work, as usual.  In fact, a little too much like
usual, he wondered if it was a good thing to stay so close to their
family. Sometimes it was confusing to sleep with someone he used to love.
Someone he probably still loved, in some sense, just not in that sense, the
romantic sense.  He wondered how connected his breakup with Gene and his
attraction to Angel were.  He'd started noticing Angel about the same time
he began not returning all of Gene's calls.  Or his returned calls when he
checked messages after midnight.  Or his emails between rounds at
tournaments, telling Michael that things were running late...again.

It had seemed for so long that he spent his spare time hanging around
anxiously waiting for those calls until one day it just didn't seem to
matter as much anymore.  Fine, he'd tell Gene calmly, when the tournament
ran four hours late and Gene was headed for first place, debating into the
early morning hours.  Fine.  No problem. Because it just didn't mean much
any more, not really.  So finally the calls and emails stopped coming.  And
Michael didn't get that weight in the pit of his stomach any more when Gene
didn't call, he didn't feel that clutch in his chest when Gene walked into
the room.  He still wanted to see Gene and thought they'd always be friends
but something else, something that used to be there, just somehow...went
away.  And it was about that time that he started to notice Angel at
school.

He'd known of Angel for years; everyone knew who Angel was, after all, but
somehow Michael started to see him more, notice him walking by or sitting
in class.  He'd seen him in the halls, almost always alone but sometimes
with drama kids, that haughty expression on his face that discouraged
conversation.  He'd watched Angel dismiss jerks in the hallways with a
sharp word and a flip of his hair and then walk on.  He'd seen Angel in
class, rarely raising his hand even when he needed help, often slumped in
the chair and huddled over his book.  He'd seen Angel in theatre
productions looking alternately gorgeous and ghastly, playing a wide
variety of roles for an underclassman.  It almost seemed as if he could
sense when Angel entered a room; often he found himself turning just as
Angel walked gracefully into the cafeteria, alone, and scanned for the
drama group.  He caught himself staring at the boy, watching him eat,
watching him take delicate bites while talking and gesturing with those
long elegant fingers.  Every move seemed somehow...enticing, if that was
the word.  He wanted to touch Angel, to talk to Angel, to know Angel.  He
found himself dreaming of him at night and waking up sweaty, his cock hard
and his mind a jumble.

He knew Angel wasn't like Gene, wasn't like Michael himself, but couldn't
keep from watching him, thinking of him, dreaming of him.  Angel was so
openly gay that it frightened Michael.  He couldn't imagine what it would
be like to be hated that much, to be looked at that way.  And he didn't
know if he could be brave the way Angel was, brave no matter what and
despite everything.  He'd never seen Angel cry.  He had a feeling that some
of what he'd seen would have made him cry, football player or not, had it
been directed at him.  He was sure he wasn't that tough.  He couldn't be.
He couldn't imagine just being himself in public, in school, and it be
okay. Oh, it had been great, over at Gene's house with his mom, and still
was but that acceptance was a long way from the whole school knowing, the
whole world knowing.  Even Gene was braver than he was; Gene never denied
being gay, after all, when asked.  But Michael had told lies more times
than he could count.  He'd even dated a girl the fall of his freshman year,
one of the cheerleaders, and taken her to Homecoming.  They'd had their
picture taken at the dance, him in a rented tuxedo and her in a baby blue
floor length gown, the corsage he bought pinned to a shoulder strap.  In
the picture, he was smiling.  In his heart, he'd been miserable.  He hadn't
done it again.

So the idea of dating Angel wasn't one that just fell into his head
full-blown.  He'd tried not to look at the boy, tried to think of something
else when that slim form had caught his attention, tried to ignore the way
his pulse raced when Angel spoke.  He had wanted to talk to Angel for so
long that he'd almost given up on it.  What the hell would he say, how
could he make Angel look at him, talk to him, not blow him off, and, God
willing, smile at him?  He'd stayed up night after night, staring at the
ceiling, trying to work out a way, work out a plan.  Nothing seemed
rational.  Angel would walk away.  Angel would laugh at him.  Angel would
despise him.  And so months had passed.  He'd finally confessed to Gene,
who'd laughed, delighted that Michael was in love again and amused that he
couldn't seem to do anything about it.  After all, this was the same
Michael who had shadowed Gene, persisting despite Gene's repeated, polite
refusals until the object of his affection had relented, and gone out with
him.  Was Angel so different, that Michael couldn't simply walk up to him
and talk, the way he'd done with Gene?

In a word... yes.  Michael found himself speechless when Angel walked by,
his words left him when Angel was near.  If he were talking when Angel
entered a room, his sentence fizzled out, unfinished.  If Angel glanced in
his direction, the breath left his body in a great rush and he felt dizzy,
disoriented.  Once, when Angel brushed against him in the hall, he'd spun
up against the wall, gasping for air.  His friends, not guessing the cause,
laughed at him, asked if he was in love.  And he knew he was, he just
didn't know what he should do about it.  He suffered in near silence,
letting Gene in on his torment finally, and then recounting in detail each
time he'd seen Angel, heard Angel, thought of Angel.

Gene must have gotten a little sick of all this, patient man though he was,
because he issued an ultimatum.  Talk to Angel or don't talk to Gene again,
at all, period.  No chats, no emails, no phone calls, no lunch, no morning
coffee, no sleepovers, no nothing.  Gene was tired of hearing about it and
said it was past time to find out what Angel himself thought.  Michael
reluctantly agreed to try.  Gene snorted and quoted Yoda with a smirk,
'Do...or Do Not.  There is no try.'  Michael had thrown his burger wrapper
at him.  Gene had brushed it off and raised a Vulcan eyebrow, 'Well?'
Michael had given in but wondered when he'd find the courage.  Somehow,
though, the courage had just appeared that day in Trigonometry.  He'd just
walked up, sat down and...talked to Angel.  And the sky hadn't fallen in.
And best of all...Angel had smiled.  At him.

And he wasn't going to take no for an answer.  Angel had refused him on
Friday but that wasn't the end of it.  He'd followed Gene Kuo for months,
he could follow Angel for as long as it took.  He had a feeling that being
annoying was half of why Gene had loved him and he could be annoying again,
for as long as he needed to.  He didn't want to think about what would
happen if Angel said yes but he wasn't going to pretend any more.  He
wasn't going to lie about Angel and he wasn't going to pretend they were
just friends.  He was going to sit with Angel at lunch, even if it meant
sitting with the drama kids, he was going to walk Angel to class, he was
going to take Angel to the movies on the weekends.  And if some asshole
wanted to call him a fag or kick his ass, well, they could try.  But he
wasn't going to run away, wasn't going to tell a lie, wasn't going to
pretend it wasn't true.  No matter what happened, he was going to love
Angel and everyone would know it.

And that thought scared the shit out of Michael.


                                 'Some say the world will end in fire,
                                  Some say in ice.
                                  From what I've tasted of desire
                                  I hold with those who favor fire.
                                  But if it had to perish twice,
                                  I think I know enough of hate
                                  To say that for destruction ice
                                  Is also great
                                  And would suffice.'
                                            Fire and Ice ( Robert Frost, 1920)


[End of Part Nine]