Date: Wed, 8 Apr 2015 14:20:48 -0700
From: Rich H <rlhsanclemente@gmail.com>
Subject: When the World Changed, Part 23

Here, after a too-long delay (for which I apologize) is the next chapter
of this story.  My thanks to those who've written and asked about its
status; I hope you continue to enjoy it.  I'll try to keep things moving
on a more regular basis henceforth.  My thanks also to Flip for his
editing help - anyone who'll put up with my abysmal typing skills
deserves a shout-out.

The usual disclaimers apply.  This is fictional, so don't go looking for
your uncle in it or something. It deals with sexual issues and situations
involving underage boys, so if that's not your thing or it's illegal
where you reside, by all means don't read it.  It's also my work, not
yours to steal, so please don't (not that I think it terribly worth
stealing; it would just be wrong to do).

Those who enjoy this story might also like my earlier Nifty story, "Seal
Rocks," which is here in the HS section, with the final chapter posted
back in April 2011.   My thanks as always not only to those who have sent
me kind words (and critiques as well), but to Nifty for providing a forum
for writers and readers.  If you don't help to support the site, consider
it.  Enjoy!


When the World Changed, Chapter 23


	Brady spent much of the day receiving congratulations.  It seemed a
lot of boys just weren't capable of believing - entirely, anyway - that
David had been able to get the McShanes thrown out of school, so they fell
back to the conclusion that Brady must have played a decisive role.  The
fact that this was rank bullshit was irrelevant, of course.  Brady couldn't
really explain things to them, given Dean Storeman's instructions to keep
his mouth shut, so he simply demurred to it all, blushed, and tried to
divert conversations to other subjects.  He wondered what sort of attention
David must be getting.
	The usual Friday school assembly, in Fredericks, was uneventful
enough, at least so far as Leeds' and Larrimore's usual announcements went.
After similar announcements about various student government matters (Evan
had won Class President for the freshmen, and he was introduced to loud
cheering from all his teammates, including Brady), Leeds took the podium
again.
	"I want to end this meeting by emphasizing a basic principle of
this School.  One is that you are, each of you, gentlemen.  You are
expected to comport yourselves as such, at all times.  Neither I, nor
Dr. Larrimore, nor any other Master will accept anything less of you.  That
means, among other things, that no acts of violence or disrespect toward a
fellow student - no fights, no shoving the boy in front of you, no ugly
berating, no conduct that treats any of your fellow students as anything
less than the fellow gentleman that I and this School regard him as being -
is acceptable behavior.  I tell you this not to coddle some vulnerable
person, or to protect anyone from harm, but to hold you all to the standard
that you are expected to attain, here and in your life as adults and
leaders.  True gentlemen neither do such things, nor do they tolerate such
conduct in others.  It's not the boy you pick on who is demeaned by such
conduct.  Ultimately, it is you.  You forfeit the name of gentleman by such
acts.  You sink to a common level, and I do not believe any of you are
common.  I will not accept that any of you are common.  I trust you will
not accept that of yourselves, either."
	He stepped away from the podium and walked offstage.  The students
sat silent for several seconds before stirring, puzzled, to head over for
lunch.  Brady's cheeks felt afire; he wondered if anyone noticed how
embarrassed he was.  He looked for David without success, and realized he
hadn't seen him since he'd left the room that morning.
	The team members were excused from classes that afternoon to
travel, in the Guppy, to their game at Pembroke School.  Though he wasn't
allowed to suit up, Brady went with the team.  He felt terribly out of
place, dressed in his jacket and tie amid his friends all in full pads and
uniform.  The feeling only worsened when the team took the field.  He paced
the bench area ceaselessly, shouting encouragement to everyone he could
think of, talking to teammates when they came off the field, cheering,
sweating, yearning.  It was physically painful not to be playing, far
beyond the aches that his constant movement caused to his ribs.  By game's
end (and the game was a rout, with Wilson winning by thirty points), he was
exhausted and sweated out as if he'd indeed been on the field.  He felt no
fulfillment from the victory.  He was empty.
	He sat alone in the back of the Guppy for the ride back down to
Wilson, legs drawn up to his chest (ignoring again the discomfort of such a
position) with his face buried against his kneecaps.  He heard the boys, as
if from a great distance, talking agitatedly among themselves about the
game and various plays that had been made.  Alan Black, who had taken his
place, had played well, and was beside himself with excitement at his
success.  Brady felt happy for him, but jealous too.  That should be me, he
thought.  And what if he stays as the starter and I never get back in
again?  That prospect made him feel even worse.
	The seat next to him squeaked.  "How are you doing, young man?"
Mr. Glendon put an arm around his shoulders and clapped him lightly with
his hand.
	Brady didn't want to look up.  "I'm fine, Sir."  That seemed
inadequate, so he worked his mouth and Adam's apple for a few seconds
before continuing.  "I guess I just missed playing.  A lot," he added in a
whisper.
	Mr. Glendon patted his arm again.  "It's never easy watching, when
you want to be in there.  I hurt my ankle my last year in college and
missed the last four games of the season.  The last four games I ever would
have played.  It killed me.  It's going to be fine.  You'll be fine.  You
have a lot of football ahead of you."
	Brady wiped his face against his pants and looked up.  "Thanks."
He didn't really feel very thankful, or better, but it seemed the proper
thing to say.  "Sir."  He felt very tired, and dropped his head back down.
After a moment, he heard Mr. Glendon stand and move back toward the front
of the bus.
	Several minutes passed.  Another squeak.  "Bray, what's up?"
	His head snapped up.  "Hi!  I, uh, I . . .  I just feel like shit
'cause I couldn't play."  He tried not to look Doug in the eye; his guilt
over so many things was so overwhelming.  Maybe I should just jump out the
window of the bus, he thought fleetingly.
	Doug's hand laid over his, atop his curled up knees.  "Bray," the
soft voice whispered.  "Come on, man.  Please say something.  You're
screwing yourself up, not talking to anybody."
	Brady looked again at him, into his eyes dark in the shadowy light
of the bus as the sun faded.  The planes of his ruddy cheeks shone, his
lips were full and moist, his eyes hypnotic and maddening.  The touch of
his hand was warm and electric.  Brady inhaled the intoxicating faint smell
of his body.  The guilt rose again, and he pulled himself away to stare out
the cold window at the darkening landscape.
	Doug stiffened and stood.  "OK, sorry to bug you.  Maybe we can
talk or something later?"  His question hung in the air.  Brady blinked his
damp eyes, unable to answer, swallowing again and again to try to stay
under control.  He felt Doug move away from him back toward the front of
the bus.  He couldn't look.
	He strode away from the gym as fast as he could when they got back
to campus, letting his teammates go shower and get out of their uniforms.
He wanted to hide in his room, under his covers, and never emerge to face
Doug or anyone ever again.
	The room was empty, dark.  He threw himself onto the bed, face
down, hoping to sleep.  It didn't happen.  Instead, his mind wandered
randomly - Doug, Fieldstone, Ian McShane, his Spanish midterm, his
brother's safety in Viet Nam, the cemetery on a summer day, Kenny, Doug,
David, his spot on the team, the taste of Fieldstone's semen, the
approaching rain, whether Doug's semen tasted like Bill's, his ribs, the
beach down in Ship Bottom, Scout camp, Brutus' farewell speech to Cassius
in Julius Caesar, how lonely his mom must be, Grouch and how he missed him
even though he kept slipping out of his collar to go running around in the
woods for days on end, Doug again, always Doug, again and again.  He'd
tried to avoid looking at him in the showers every day after practice, but
he'd still memorized his body - each small freckle and mole, the otter-like
sheen of his wet head, the subtle musculature of his shoulders and upper
arms, the swell of his buttocks, the sway of his genitals.  He focused on
those small details of his body, hoping he could keep them in his memory
forever.  People passed back and forth every so often in the hall outside,
talking or laughing.
	The shot of light was startling.  David had come in and turned on
the overhead fixture.  "Jesus, did you miss dinner?"
	Brady blinked, sitting up slowly.  He rubbed his eyes.  "Did I?"
	David laughed.  "Who's your table Prefect - Harrison?  Maybe he
won't sting you."  He sat at his desk with a sigh, stared at the papers
there for a long moment, then made an audible effort to start a light
conversation.  "So, um, how did the game go?"
	Brady shrugged.  "OK.  We won pretty easy.  Well, they won, anyway.
I just sort of watched."
	David looked at him.  "You OK, Conover?"
	"Me?  Yeah, fine.  I'm great."
	"No offense, but you need a shower.  You smell like you were
running laps or something."
	He lifted his arm and sniffed.  "Jesus," he muttered.  He stood and
began shucking off his clothes.  "I hope they can clean this jacket fast,
it's one that actually fits."
	David laughed softly.  "Then you shouldn't've taken a nap in it
after getting all sweaty."  Brady was conscious that David was watching him
strip.
	"It just sort of happened."  He grabbed a towel and wrapped it
around his waist.  "Sorry to end the show."
	"I've seen it already.  It's a nice show, but I've seen it."  He
stood and reached for Brady's side.  "That looks awful."
	Brady tried not to shrink from the touch.  It wasn't that it was
unwelcome, really - David's hand was cold, and he was afraid it might hurt.
Why was he so wary?  David ran his fingers slowly along the bruise lines.
"Does it hurt?"
	"Not really, unless I move wrong.  I mean if you like poked me
there it'd probably send me through the roof, but not - not that," he
trailed off as David laid his full palm against his side.
	Their eyes met for a long second.  Brady licked his lips nervously.
"So, um, where'd you vanish to all day?  I didn't see you at assembly or
anything."
	David's hand fell away as he turned back to his desk.  "My dad took
me to see the shrink," he said heavily.
	Brady was intrigued, for reasons he didn't quite know.  "Really?
Cool.  How'd that go?"
	David snorted.  "Apparently I'm a hard case.  The guy got mad
because I wouldn't 'open up' to him the way he wanted.  So I told him that
wasn't my problem - that he should be good enough at the process to get a
stubborn patient to open up over time.  That got him even madder.  I know
his fucking business better than he does."  He sighed and tossed a paper to
a back corner of his desk.  "Anyway, Dr. Tevrizian decided to refer me on.
You know, like a hot potato, or a piece of shit nobody wants to touch.  So
we went to the other side of Princeton to Dr.  Matthews, and he sort of
sparred with me for about two hours.  Christ, that must have cost my dad a
fortune.  Two of 'em in one day . . . "
	Brady nodded.  "Well, did it, you know, help?"
	David snorted again.  "Yeah, I'm all better now.  I'm ready to get
molested again."
	Brady had no idea what to say in response.  He simply sighed,
grabbed his toiletry kit, and went to the bathroom.
	The water was hot - he usually showered in the morning before
breakfast, at the same time as the rest of the boys in the dorm, which
taxed the building's water heater terribly.  It felt good to stand in the
steamy warmth, alone.  Maybe I can just stay here for like an hour or
something, he thought.  Would they sting me for using too much hot water?
He huddled in the last stall, uncurtained as they all were, feeling some
solace in being at least partially hidden from the world.
	He let the water go almost scalding, and played it over his
bruises.  The sting gave slowly way to deep soothing pulses of heat into
the tissue.  It's like it's loosening up the bruise, he thought, moving
himself slowly to and fro to cover the entire area.  Maybe this'll help it
get better faster.  Speed up the circulation, or something.
	"Bray?  You in here?  Geez, it's like two hundred degrees . . . "
Doug's voice came through the steam.  Brady stiffened.  What was he doing
here?
	"Doug?  I - I'm just, you know, getting a shower," Brady called
back.  He realized he was slightly tumescent from the warm water.  God,
what if Doug sees that?
	Doug appeared through the clouds.  He was smiling.  "Damn, Bray,
sweat much?"
	Brady laughed, a bit forcedly.  He tried to keep at least partially
turned away to hide himself.  "Hey, it - you know, it just felt good, to
get warm and all."  He squeezed some water out of his hair, wincing
slightly at having to lift his arm so high.
	Doug stepped closed.  "God, that looks awful."  He was looking at
the bruises along Brady's side.  Brady realized that since Doug's room was
a floor above, he hadn't seen them before.
	"Yeah, I know," Brady said, shrugging a bit.  "It looks a lot worse
than it feels, though.  It just - this feels good, on the nasty parts.  The
hot water, I mean."
	"Right," Doug said faintly.  He reached out carefully and laid the
palm of his hand on Brady's side, over the worst of the discoloration.
"God, Bray I'm so sorry."  He pursed his lips slightly as his hand ran up
and down Brady's flank.
	Jesus, Brady thought in a momentary flash, does everybody have to
touch me like this?  Blood throbbed in his temples.  He knew he would have
a stroke in a few seconds - or, worse, that he'd get an erection.  Doug's
hand was warm, unlike David's had been, the fingers seemed to melt into his
own flash.  Before he could stop it, a soft moan slipped out.  He jerked
away, turning face into the water, and gulped air as fast as he could.
"Sorry," he gasped.  "I - it just - I can't . . . "
	"Did I hurt you there?"  Doug's sounded concerned, but there was
another melancholy quality to it as well that Brady couldn't quite
decipher.  "Um, look, I'm sorry.  I hope that didn't hurt."  His steps
retreated towards the door; Brady kept staring at the nozzle.  "I - I'll
see you later on, OK?"  The door opened and closed, the sound magnified by
the steamy air.
	After a few seconds, Brady grabbed the shower pipe with both hands
and banged his forehead against the tile several times, his breath coming
in huge gasps.  It was crying, it was panic, it was anger, it was
frustration.  It was an inability to comprehend what was becoming of him.
He pressed his cheek to the wet tile, felt the cold porcelain, felt his
chest heave, as if he were observing it from the outside, clinically.  It
took a few minutes for that detached observational self to rejoin his body.
When it did, he turned the water even hotter, ignoring the scalding of his
shrinking skin, and scrubbed himself over and over, trying to get clean.
	David was reading something at his desk, one leg bouncing to an
unknown rhythm, when he walked back into the room.  "They're gonna raise
tuition if you keep taking showers that long."  He turned and looked at
Brady with a faint knowing smile.  "So Garretson was in here, right after
you left."
	Brady blushed. "Really?  Um, what'd he want?"
	David snorted.  "Your body, of course."  He turned back to his
desk.  "I told him you were getting a shower.  He didn't see you at dinner,
so he was worried."  David took a moment before continuing.  "He worries
about you a lot, ever notice that?"
	Brady realized he hadn't budged since walking in.  He moved quickly
now, yanking a pair of shapeless sweat pants out of his closet and slipping
them on beneath his bathrobe.  "Well, uh, you know, we're friends, and on
the team, and all.  I mean you were checking on me too, right?"
	"Yup.  Cuz I want your bod, too.  I told you that."
	Brady pulled a sweat shirt on and toweled his hair.  He decided to
play along.  "Perv."
	David snorted again.  "Yeah, that's me.  The little twerp faggot,
right?"
	"Don't say stuff like that about yourself."
	"No?"  David turned back to face him.  "Well, you missed dinner, so
you didn't get Chuck Hendershott asking me how many times I blew McShane.
That was a fun conversation."
	Brady sighed.  He really didn't want to be part of this
conversation again.  "Hendershott's a dick.  Everybody knows that.  He
followed Douggie and Ian around licking the shit off their shoes.  Do you
really expect him to be a nice guy with you?"
	"You think he's the only one?  You think it's over?"
	Brady was getting angry.  "No, it's not over.  Not when you won't
let it be, that's for sure.  You keep harping on it, and it'll never be
over.  It'll stay around the rest of your life.  You want it over, end it.
Put it the fuck behind you and let it pass.  As long as you let it stay
with you, it's not over."
	David turned away.  "Easy for you to say that," he muttered.  "You
never - " he stopped as he realized the error of what he was about to say.
	"Never what, David?  Never had anything bad happen to me?  Wanna
trade?  You wanna trade your nice rich boy Westchester County life for
mine?  In a second, man.  You had shitty stuff happen, David, but you're
not the only person in the world like that, OK?"
	David's clenched jaw began to quiver.  He looked down.  "I . . . I
just want it gone.  I want it out of my life.  I want to never have to
think about it again.  I don't want to 'cope with my feelings.' "  He took
a ragged breath.  "I want my Mom back," he added in a whisper.
	Brady stepped towards him, and David flung himself into his arms.
His face buried into Brady's sweatshirt as he started sobbing, crying like
Brady had never imagined him or anyone else could cry, deep wrenching wails
that shook his frail body.  Brady held him up and half carried him to his
bed, where they sat together as David wept.
	David had quieted some, but was still crying hard, when the room
door opened.  Doug stepped in with a smile.  "Hey Bray, how -" He froze in
place, seeing the two of them sitting on the bed.  Brady looked up and
shook his head slightly.  His eyes met Doug.  He saw concern, to be sure,
but something else.  A hurt, as if some light had been snuffed out.  Color
rose in Doug's cheeks as he slowly stepped back and closed the door behind
him.
	Brady didn't understand the look he'd seen, but he knew something
had happened.  He knew he had to run and catch Doug at that moment and
explain what was going on.  Doug would understand, he was the kindest guy
Brady ever had known.  He couldn't let Doug leave like that; it held some
meaning irrevocable and terrible, whatever it was.  But David was still
shuddering in his arms, his breath warm and damp against his chest where
his face was pressed.  David needed him to be there.  He couldn't leave
David.  Either way, he was lost.  His own sense of hopelessness rose in
him, and he felt tempted to start crying as hard as David was.  He fought
it, crammed it down, refused to let the emotion rise to the surface.  He'd
done it so much, it should have been second nature.  This despair, though,
was a strong opponent.  It kept rising, choking him, making him shake.  He
snapped his head back angrily, trying to keep control.
	"What's wrong?"  David whispered in a shaky voice.  "Did I get your
ribs?"
	"No," Brady answered.  That was the angle he needed.  He focused on
the ribs, on the ache he felt from David's arm wrapped across the
contusion.  "It's OK.  I - my neck's just stiff."
	David shifted and sat up on his own, wiping his face.  "Bray, I'm
sorry."
	"Don't be.  That was coming, sooner or later, right?  You can't
hold it together forever."  Not you, he thought.  I can, but not you.  And
I will.  Forever.
	"I guess."  He sniffed loudly.  "Nobody came in, did they?  I
thought I heard somebody."
	Brady shook his head.  "Nope, nobody."  He patted David's
shoulders.  "You OK now?  I mean, you know, relatively, at least?"
	David smiled a bit.  "Yeah.  Relatively."  He sighed.  "That was
really childish bullshit, doing that."
	"No it wasn't."
	David's smile grew warmer.  "Jesus, you're like Mister Perfect or
something."
	Brady laughed.  "I'm just - I'm your friend, OK?"
	David shook his head, running a finger along his lower eyelid.
"Then that would make you Mister Stupid."
	Brady shoved him playfully, and they both giggled a bit.  He
glanced toward the door.  "Hey, I need to piss.  You're not gonna like jump
out the window or anything if I leave, are you?"
	David regarded him for a moment, his customary mood returning.
"Nah.  Not high enough, I'd just break a leg or something.  I need like a
skyscraper, so I make a really good splat."
	"Yum," Brady said, standing.  "Be back."
	The hall was empty.  Study hall was under way.  He realized that
he'd get stung if a Prefect caught him out of his room, but he didn't much
care.  He bounded quickly up the stairs to the third floor.  Doug's room
door was ajar.  Duncan was at his desk with headphones on, tapping a pen
idly to whatever song was playing.  He looked up as Brady pushed the door
open.  "Hey Conover, what's going on?  Did Doug find you?"
	"Um, no.  I - I was looking for him, actually."
	Duncan frowned.  "Well, he went looking for you a little bit ago.
Dunno how you guys missed each other."
	Brady had no idea what to say, or do.  He stood for a long second,
staring blankly.  Where was Doug, then?  "Um, OK," he finally managed to
say.  "I, uh, I guess I should go see if he's down the hall, or something.
Sorry to bug you."
	"No sweat.  You should hear this Cream album on these headphones,
it's so cool."
	"Yeah, I bet," Brady said, forcing a smile.  "OK, later then."
	He stood in the hall, trying to think.  He couldn't be in another
room, that would be as bad as being in the hall if a Prefect caught him.
He jogged down the stairs to the first floor.  Also empty.  On a whim, he
ducked outside.  The evening was surprisingly mild, the air damp with
coming rain.  Indian summer, he thought.  He padded barefoot down the
marble steps onto the flagstones, looking up and down the long walk.  A
gust of wind blew some stray dead leaves over his feet.
	"Brady?"  He looked around, squinting, and saw a dark silhouette
against the base of one of the elm trees that lined either side of center
campus.
	"What're you doing out here?  They'll sting you for being out
during study hall."  He knew it was a stupid point to make, but he was out
of any better ideas at that moment.  He walked across the thin lawn towards
the tree.
	"Just, you know, thinking."  Doug's voice seemed strained.
"They'll sting you too, you know."
	"Yeah, well, I already missed dinner, so I might as well get the
daily double."
	Doug chuckled.  "Thank you, Art Fleming."  He sighed and looked out
across the lawn.  "I, uh, I'm sorry that - you know, that I like, busted
in, on you, and - and David - "
	"He was crying," Brady rushed to respond.  "His dad made him go to
shrinks all day and he was really like upset and - and he started crying
really hard, and, and I, I had to . . . .  I mean I couldn't just let him
be miserable.  Right?"
	Doug looked up at him for a long minute.  "Really?"
	"Yeah, really, honest!  He got all upset and talked about missing
his mom, and he kind of fell apart.  I mean he was due for it, you know?
All this shit the last coupla days.  He tries to be tough, but he's
hurting, from all sorts of stuff."
	Doug shifted, inviting Brady to sit next to him.  "Tell me."
	Brady plunked down next to him, pulling knees to his chest to keep
warm.  Maybe it's not so mild out here after all, he thought.  "And how
about you?  You're like due for, I dunno, something.  You're all pent up
and stuff."  Brady looked into the dark pools of his eyes, speechless with
wonder.  "Christ, Bray, you're in bare feet out here, you're gonna catch
fucking pneumonia."
	Brady glanced at his feet, and started laughing.  "Pneumonia?  From
my feet???"
	Doug grinned too, a little embarrassed.  "Well, you know, get a
cold or something, and that like develops.  It can happen," he added
defensively.
	They looked at each other for a second, then both started laughing.
Their shoulders bumped together.  Brady fought the tears that wanted to
rise along with his laughter; letting any emotion out threatened to release
them all.  His laughter faded to a determined gasp, as he pushed it all
back down, taking several long seconds to regain full control.
	He realized Doug was watching him.  "That's what I mean," he said
quietly.  "That's all gonna come out sooner or later, and if it's later
it's gonna be a lot worse than it is now."
	Brady blinked fearfully.  "H - how do you know shit like that?"
	Doug smiled softly; Brady felt his whole being fall into its
beauty.  "I'm not stupid, man.  Do you really think I'm stupid?  I can read
you well enough."
	That scared Brady.  "There's not a lot to read," he stuttered,
averting his eyes just a little.
	"Bullshit."  And Doug's arm reached around Brady to pull him into a
sideways hug.  Brady fought for a moment to keep his balance, to resist
being pulled in completely, but the strength of Doug's arm was too great
and his resistance too faint.  He fell against Doug's left side, his cheek
on Doug's shoulder.  "Will you please just fucking talk to me," Doug
whispered.  It wasn't exactly a question, or really an order.  It seemed
like advice.
	Brady shuddered a moment. The warmth of Doug's body, the faint
smell of him and the soap from the gym, the firm comforting grip on his
shoulder, were more than he could bear.  He fought back the tears.  "OK,"
he croaked, "but not everything. I can't tell you everything, OK?"
	"Why not?"
	"I - because, . . . well just because, OK?  Please, not everything.
Not now."
	Doug's hand slid briefly through Brady's hair as they both sat up.
"All right," he whispered back.  "Whatever you want, then."
	It took almost an hour.  Brady talked about growing up in
Cullingstown, his brothers, his mother and her drinking, David and his
history, how close he'd gotten to being raped.  He tried to avoid anything
about Doug, or Fieldstone, keeping the discussion focused on David's
troubles as much as he could.  He found himself shaking part of the time,
from the cold but also from the extent to which he was opening even a small
window into himself that he'd never opened for anyone.  It was the most
frightening thing he'd ever done, and it reinforced his fear of how
devastating it would be to open wide and reveal it all.  Even as he opened
up, the rest of him closed even tighter.
	Doug listened in silence.  His arm remained draped loosely around
Brady's shoulder, warm and strong, and he watched Brady intently as he
spoke.  When Brady finally ran out of things to say - or at least things he
was willing to say, Doug shifted, wrapping both arms around his own knees
and staring at the ground for a few minutes.  "OK," he finally said,
quietly.  "That - that was tough, I know.  A lot of it I already knew, in
bits and pieces anyway.  But, but it's good - I guess that's the word for
it, good - good to get it all, you know, laid out."  He looked at Brady and
smiled.  "You're a good roommate, and a good friend, to Davey.  He's lucky,
and I think he knows it a lot more than he'd like to admit."  Brady felt
the color rise in his cheeks.  "I - I wish we were roommates, though."
Brady was shocked.  "I mean it's not like I don't like Dunc or anything,
he's a cool guy.  But - him and me, we don't, you know, connect, the way we
do."
	"Right," Brady said.  "Connect."
	"And there's a lot you left out, I can tell."  Brady shivered
involuntarily.  Doug smiled again.  "And that's OK, too.  I know how much
you hold in.  Just - look, you can talk to me, OK?  You can tell me
anything, man.  About your family, or kids here, any of that stuff."
	Brady shuddered again.  Like hell I can, he thought.  "Wh - what
about you, though?  Are you doing OK?"  He hoped that subtly changing the
subject might get him off the hook.
	Doug smiled.  "Pretty much.  Math sucks, Earth Science is idiotic,
and I got this one really good friend who's being a jerk.  He's got all
this heavy shit on his mind, and he won't let me help him out."
	Brady laughed.  "Asshole.  No, I mean, what about, you know, you
and your family and all?  It must be really weird for you, and your
parents, to be away like this."
	Doug smiled quietly.  "My Mom hates it," he sighed.  "She was
really upset that I spent the open weekend with you and didn't come home.
They're coming with like leg irons for me come Thanksgiving, so don't even
ask."  The thought of being apart from him for that long weekend made Brady
shake again.  How could be live?  "You oughta get inside, Bray, you gotta
be freezing."
	"Yeah, I guess."  He didn't want to break from even this small
physical contact with Doug, but his desire was growing - he couldn't reveal
that.  He stood, his feet suddenly feeling icy against the cold dew on the
grass.  "Wow, it's cold," he said flatly.
	Doug chafed his shoulders and biceps.  Brady couldn't help smiling
at the feeling, especially when Doug started to return the smile.  They
stood for that seemed like a long time, with Doug's hands rubbing Brady's
arms at a slowing pace, and Brady's hands stuffed in the pockets of his
sweats, sagging into the massage and grinning stupidly.
	"Conover!" a voice barked out from the sidewalk behind them.  They
both started and turned.  Bill Fieldstone was regarding them coldly.  "Get
the fuck inside and into study hall or I'll sting both of you myself.
You're freshmen, you stay inside during study hall.  Clear?"
	Brady gulped.  "S - sorry, Bill, we - "
	"I don't give a rat's ass, get inside."
	"Give it a break, Fieldstone," Doug objected.  "We were just - "
	"I don't care.  Get inside now!"
	They glanced at each other before moving slowly toward the door.
Brady's cheeks were flaming - did anything show?  Was Bill angry at him,
jealous or something?  He felt Doug looking at him as they walked.  God,
did Doug realize, or even suspect?  Another door closed tightly in his
mind, things he could never let out.  He didn't dare look back at Bill as
he slipped inside.
	They stood in the entrance hall, both shaking a bit from the cold.
Brady found it suddenly hard to look Doug in the eye.  "I guess," Doug said
slowly, "we better go up.  Wanna get together after study hall's over?"
	Brady nodded.  "Sure.  That'd be cool."  He took a deep breath.
"Look, I - I'm sorry - "
	"Don't apologize, Bray.  The last thing you need to do is
apologize, OK?  Not to me.  Never."  He patted Brady's shoulder and moved
off.
	Brady shook for another couple of minutes before going back to his
room.
	As he opened the door from the stairs to the second floor hall,
Mr. Billips emerged from his apartment.  Brady froze.  "Conover!  How are
you?"  Brady hesitated.  Billips had never been especially friendly to
anyone.  He suspected the tone was a lead-in to being told he was stung for
being out of his room during study hall.  "Did you have an appointment for
your ribs?"
	Brady licked hip lips subtly.  A perfect opportunity, a perfect
excuse.  He should use it.  He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
He'd find out, you'd be really screwed.  "I - uh, Sir, no, I - I just - I
sort of needed to, you know, walk around a little and sort of clear my
head."  He waited for the hammer to fall.
	Instead, Billips came to him and clapped his shoulder lightly.  "I
understand.  Been a rough week for you.  Look, you can come in and talk to
me any time you want.  Do me a favor - do that, don't go outside.  I'm not
supposed to let you guys out of the room until study hall's done.  Come by
my apartment and no one else will see you're out.  OK?"
	Brady blinked.  "Uh, OK.  Sorry, Sir."
	"No need.  Just keep it low key, OK?  And don't blab about it.  And
don't abuse the privilege."  He stepped closer.  "I really am here to help,
Brady.  You, Tanner, all of you.  The door's open."  He turned back towards
his apartment.  "Get back inside now, OK?"
	"Yes, Sir."  He shook his head slightly as he reached his room
door.
	David was leaning back in his chair, grinning, and looking at him
as he slipped inside.  "Billips got you, huh?  Too bad."
	"I - no, actually, he didn't sting me.  At least he didn't say he
was gonna sting me.  He - he was, like, nice.  It was weird."
	David frowned.  "What happened?"
	Brady recounted the conversation.  David began smiling grimly.
"His ass in in a sling," he observed with no small degree of satisfaction.
"He's supposed to be responsible for what happens on his hall, and what
happened here?  One of his little freshman boys gets attacked.  Shits on
his chance for tenure next year, that's for sure. I hope he's sending out
letters for new jobs."
	Brady nodded.  "I guess.  It's too bad, though, isn't it?"
	"Why?"  David snapped.  "He was kissing Ian's ass all semester
until this happened.  Maybe he thought that'd get him an in with Daddy or
something.  Well, it blew up in his face.  Tough darts."
	Brady considered objecting that he was getting bitter again, but
decided to forego another round of that fight.  "Well, anyway, he invited
us to go to his apartment anytime we wanted.  To talk, or hang out, you
know, whatever.  So maybe we can go catch some TV there sometime, right?"
	David turned back to his desk.  "Star Trek's already over, so
what's the point?  It's all shit after that on Fridays."
	Brady sighed.  No relief, not anywhere.
	Doug showed up almost as soon as the bell ending study hall
sounded.  He was in a T shirt and gym shorts, long-limbed and glowing.  He
flopped on Brady's bed and started telling him about Dunc's latest
obsession, a soul singer Brady had never heard of named Otis Redding.  "I
guess he was at the Monterey thing last summer and was really good - along
with that Hendrix guy.  He's been playing this record all night.  I dunno
how the Prefects didn't hear it."
	Brady chuckled, trying to stay as casual as he could, given who was
lying next to him on the bed as he sat on its edge.  "Well, maybe Polling"
- one of Doug's third floor Prefects - "likes it, too.  He's all up on that
stuff, right?"
	"You guys never heard of Otis Redding?"  David asked incredulously.
When they shrugged, he shook his head in mock disgust.  "Jesus, what am I
living with here?"
	Evan poked his head in the door.  "Did somebody say something about
Otis Redding?"
	David waved his hand toward Evan.  "There, you see?  Even he
knows."
	Evan started laughing.  "My older brother plays his stuff all the
time.
	Doug flung his arms outward; one brushed Brady's shoulder and gave
him an involuntary shiver.  "I give up.  I'm an idiot no matter what I do!"
	David snorted.  "Ain't self-knowledge the pits?"  They all laughed
while David rifled through his pile of LPs.  "Here, this is one Dunc may
not have.  What's he been playing?"
	"I dunno, something like 'Encyclopedia' or something."
	David nodded.  "OK yeah.  Dictionary.  Lots of "Feh, feh-feh
feh-feh feh-feh feh feh, right?"  Doug nodded.  "This is a live record he
put out this summer.  He's even better live."
	Doug groaned as the needle dropped.  "God, do I have to listen to
it here too?"
	"Grow up.  You'll like it."
	Brady lay back with his head against the wall so he was reclining
next to Doug.  The record was another revelation for Brady - raw,
emotionally draining, gorgeous in a primal way he'd never imagined music
could be.  "I've Been Loving You Too Long" and "These Arms of Mine" almost
brought him to tears.  He lay next to Doug, whose eyes were closed, a
slight smile playing across his lips, and yearned with all of Redding's
intensity for what he knew he could never possess.  He saw David glance at
him a couple of times with a slight knowing smile.  That was comforting,
that David knew and empathized (though of course that term was one he
didn't know).  It just felt good to know that someone else understood even
some part of his feelings - good, and strange as well.  No one had ever
seen as deep into him as he'd let David see.  The notion that anybody could
know that much about him was thrilling, and unnerving.  How much more might
he guess at?  How much more would he reveal?  And how much more could he
reveal to Doug without exposing the ugly secret that lay in his heart?
	"These arms of mine/They are lonely . . . they are yearning,
yearning from wanting you . . . "
	He yearned his way, in silence, until the side ended.  "That was a
weird version of 'Satisfaction,' "Even observed, as David moved to flip the
record.
	"Yeah, but I like it, so I played side 2 first.  I like "Day
Tripper,' too."
	Mr, Billips appeared in the doorway.  "Somebody's got good musical
taste in here if they're playing Otis," he said with an unusually open
smile.  "I saw him in L.A. last year.  It was great.  That's the live
record, right?"
	David seemed uncomfortable having a civil conversation with
Mr. Billips, but obviously felt constrained to do so.  "Um, yeah, from
Europe someplace I think."
	"Paris, last March," Billips quickly replied.  "Listen to the
backup band - it's not his usual touring guys, they got Booker T and the
MGs to do that gig."
	David sat up.  "What?  I - I hadn't noticed . . . "  He was
genuinely surprised to have somebody one-up him on anything musical, let
alone Billips.
	Mr, Billips grinned.  "Yeah, they were all on a tour for Stax
Records.  That would have been fun.  Anyway, gentlemen, getting towards
lights out.  Let's get it going.  Tanner?"
	"Sir?"
	"I have a lot of soul stuff, you're welcome to any of it you like.
Come take a look."
	David blinked.  "Th - thanks Sir.  I will."  He stared at the door
for several seconds after Billips closed it behind him.
	Brady started laughing.  "I never seen you speechless!  We need a
movie camera or something to record this for posterity!"  Evan and Doug
were laughing as well.
	David blushed brightly.  "Fuck all of you.  I never saw Billips not
be an asshole before.  What can I say, it caught me off guard."
	Evan shook his head.  "Maybe he's actually not such an asshole?"
he suggested.
	"Not a chance," David fired back.
	"Oh, come on, man," Doug protested.  "You gotta give people a
chance."
	"He had his.  Blew it."
	"Jesus, David, what'd Billips ever do to you anyway?"  Evan was
getting frustrated.
	"He was a fucking prick who spent his life sucking up to McShane -
to both of 'em, and their asshole father too whenever he'd show up.  He was
a fucking enabler, OK?  That's the term for it.  An enabler."
	Brady blinked, feeling a little dumb.  "Uh, what's an 'enabler'?"
	Doug nodded calmly to him.  "Somebody who enables, of course."
	"Oh."  They held their laughter in for only a second, before
rolling about Brady's bed giggling helplessly, bumping into each other.
Brady was laughing so hard, for reasons a small corner of his rational mind
couldn't quite fathom (it really wasn't all that funny), that he wasn't
even self-conscious about the physical contact with Doug.  They would up in
a heap in the back corner, wedged against the wall, panting and giggling
anew every time they looked at each other.
	Evan shook his head.  "Geez, don't be a bunch of girls about it."
	Brady snapped to attention.  He sat ramrod straight on the bed,
brushing his hair into place. "I - we - it was just, you know, it was, it
was funny, and -and I -"
	"Grow up, Evan," David answ ered bitingly.  It was so unusual for
David to use someone's first name in casual conversation that it drew
everyone's attention.  "You spend that much time looking for faggots under
every rock, maybe you're under the rock with 'em, huh?"
	Evan flushed brightly.  "Fuck you too, Tanner."  He walked out,
visibly angry.
	Brady stood to chase after him.  "Jesus, Davey, you didn't have to
piss him off like that."
	"Why should I be the only one pissed off around here?"
	Brady stopped in the door.  "You're being fucking childish, you
know that?  Poor little Davey boy, he's unhappy so he goes Don Rickles on
the world."
	David started laughing.  Doug stared at them both, apparently
unsure if he even wanted to intervene.  "Don Rickles?"
	Brady started blushing.  "Well, you know, like insulting everybody,
and stuff . . ."  He wished there were a small hole in the doorjamb he
could crawl into.
	David sighed and looked at Doug.  "See what I got to live with?
You wonder why I get pissed off?  All right," he waved toward Brady, "I'll
go apologize to Evan for offending his fragile manhood.  Fragile, and from
what I've seen pretty small, too.  I mean, no wonder he's sensitive,
right?"  He stretched as he stood.  "Evan!  Hey Evan!!!"  he called as he
strolled out the door.
	Brady sagged back onto the bed.  He was conscious of Doug watching.
"You OK?"
	"Yeah."  He didn't feel OK, though.  "He just - it's like he wants
to piss people off sometimes.  Me, Evan, Billips, . . .  No wonder McShane
wanted to kick the snot out of him.  I mean not like he deserved what
happened, OK?  But, but you can't, you know, . . . "
	"Go through life being a dick," Doug said, completing the thought.
	Brady laughed a bit.  "Yeah, that.  Bingo."
	Doug shifted around, sitting more upright.  "You care about him a
lot, don't you?"
	Brady chuckled again.  "Well, yeah.  Dunno why.  He's clueless
about what a jerk he can be, he lives this . . .  this life, that's so like
privileged and all . . .  and he's such a little kid even while he's
pretending to be a cynical old man.  I just . . . "  He glanced up and Doug
and froze.  Doug's face was impassive, but his eyes were glistening a bit.
Doug ducked his head away to look out the window.  "But, I mean . . . man,
it's not like with you.  You're . . .you're the best friend I've ever had.
OK?  I mean really.  Davey's more like my asshole little brother I need to
keep on a leash or something."
	Doug laughed and fell back against the wall, hand to his mouth.
"Jesus," he sighed in soft voice.  "You guys are like an old married
couple, bickering over the same stuff over and over again."  He stood
quickly, startling Brady, who fell back onto his bed.  Doug looked down at
him, a slight smile playing across his face.  He had never been more
beautiful.  Without thinking, Brady extended a hand to him.  Was it for
help getting up or to pull him into an embrace?  Doug clasped it, firmly,
and looked at him for a second.  Then he pulled hard, lifting Brady to his
feet.  "C'mon," he said.  "I bet Davey and Evan are about to start World
War III about now.  This oughta be good."
	Brady followed Doug into the hall, his hand tingling from their
touch.  He wanted to spin Doug around by the shoulders, hug him, kiss him,
become one with him.  He would gladly have surrendered his entire being
just to be with Doug, somehow.  Never gonna happen, Conover, he realized.
So he contented himself with watching the flex of Doug's butt as he loped
down the hall towards the animated conversation coming from Evan's room.
From the sound of it, things seemed pleasant enough, which relieved him.
At least Davey can keep things cool with somebody, he thought.  Me, I'm not
so sure how much longer I can do this.