Date: Fri, 19 Feb 2016 16:08:21 -0800
From: Rich H <rlhsanclemente@gmail.com>
Subject: When the World Changed Part 26
Here is the latest chapter of this story. I apologize again for the
delay in getting things done. I want to thank the folks who've been kind
enough to offer comments and critiques- keep them coming, my ego needs
the shoring up (or tearing down, as the case may be). And please take a
moment to support Nifty - it provides a great platform for publishing
these stories. As usual, I'll plug my other Nifty story, "Seal Rocks,"
in this section as well.
As always, this story is entirely fictional, and depicts sexual
situations involving underage (high school) boys. If that's not legal
for you to read where you live, or if it offends you or it's not your
thing, by all means don't read it. For the rest, I hope it offers
something of interest.
When the World Changed Part 26
Brady shifted uneasily on the examination table. The vinyl
covering the table was slimy and cold. Dr. Fishbein had poked and prodded
him fairly mercilessly for several minutes, the ash from his cigarette
drooping alarmingly close to Brady's bare skin. He'd then ordered his
battleaxe nurse to take more x-rays of Brady's ribs, and had gone to his
office to examine them, calling Mr. Glendon to join him. Brady heard Alan
Black coughing fitfully in the outer office - over the weekend, Alan had
come down with a nasty cold on top of his injury, making him even more
miserable, if that were possible.
Dr. Fishbein shuffled back into the room in a coughing fit of his
own, long hacking rasps as he held his cigarette away from his body. As
soon as he caught his breath, he placed it back between his lips. "Well,
young man, I think we can let you back into some of your practices this
week." Brady leapt off the table, ecstatic. "Not quite to play, not yet,"
and Brady deflated, "but you can do things that don't involve any contact,
especially contact on those ribs. You're healing up nicely, son. Don't
look so glum."
Brady tried to put on hit best face. "Thanks, Sir, I appreciate
it. Th - that's really great news." He wanted to kick something, and cry,
at the same time. Mr. Glendon smiled knowingly.
Dr. Fishbein didn't seem to buy his line entirely either. "OK,"
he wheezed, "let me get into the other room here and talk to your friend
Mr. Black." He and Mr. Glendon shuffled out. It was chilly, so Brady slid
back into his shirt, pausing to inspect the faded greenish blotches that
were the remains of his bruises. He prodded himself in the discolored
areas. It feels fine, he thought. He grew brave and whacked himself
carefully with his fist. Nothing. This is bullshit, he decided, heaving
his shirt back over his shoulders and buttoning it angrily.
Alan, by contrast, seemed chipper as they rode in the back seat of
a school station wagon, returning to campus. "So the separation isn't as
bad as he thought, and the collarbone is better too. It's probably only
like 8 weeks, which is great. That means I'll be OK to go in January. I
mean it could be worse, right?"
"Yeah. Lots. That's great, Alan."
"How 'bout you? You ready to go again?"
Brady shifted uneasily. "Not quite, apparently. I can go light
but no hitting or anything." He sighed.
Alan turned awkwardly to reach across his sling and punch Brady's
shoulder with his good arm. "Hey, man, c'mon, you're gonna play probably
next week. You get to play against Dunston."
"I guess." Brady felt a mild and surprising concern. What if he
got hurt again? Would his ribs really break this time? Can they puncture
a lung or something really bad? What if I'm scared to get hit now, and I
don't play right any more. He'd never felt physically vulnerable before,
and the idea alarmed him. Stop being a baby, he thought. It's a fucking
contact sport. Things in life hurt, right? You oughta know that by now,
Conover . . .
That set his thoughts in other directions. He and Alan were
dropped off behind Linsley. Since they had no classes they each went to
their rooms for a bit. Brady stared at some unfinished homework on his
desk for a moment before dropping onto his bed. He felt morose, for
reasons he couldn't quite specify. He also had a sudden curiosity,
remembering his last time with Fieldstone. I wonder if it does hurt, he
mused for a second.
He locked the room door and dropped his pants and underwear as he
crossed back onto his bed. He was already tumescent. He lay down and
played with himself idly, using his left hand, while crooking up his right
leg and letting his other hand reach around his thigh to rub and explore
his balls, running fingers back onto the long thin tendon that ran beneath
from the sack. He hesitated a moment - would it be gross, or smelly? -
before slipping his index finger down all the way, under and up, into his
crack. He leaned over a bit onto his left side.
He'd never really felt himself back there, just rough vertical hand
passes with soap while showering or wiping himself. Now he explored,
prodding with his index finger into the deep moist crevasse. He felt a few
hairs, which struck him as mildly gross - does shit stick on them when it
comes out? - and marveled quietly at how deep he could go before he found
his anus. It tickled oddly when he touched it, as he examined its small
folds and texture. He bent the end joint of his index finger and prodded
it. He easily slid a short way in, then felt a sudden tightness. He tried
pushing harder, but it hurt. He remembered that Fieldstone had licked his
finger to wet it before he had done this. But he had no desire to lick his
finger after it had been - well, back there. He withdrew his finger and
looked at it. Nothing seemed dirty or amiss. Just to be sure, though, he
decided to spit on his finger rather than put it in his mouth.
He stared at his dripping finger for a few seconds before trying
again. He prodded himself awkwardly, not sure where his target was, and
worrying a bit over whether he'd wipe the spit off the finger in his
fumbling. When he found it, he pressed in. His first joint slid in
quickly; he felt the tightness clamp down on his knuckle. He paused a
moment to evaluate, then pushed more. Suddenly his fingertip seemed to
break through into an open space, soft and warm, with none of the clamping
feeling that the rest of his finger felt. He pushed further, contorting
himself a bit now to reach properly, and felt his whole finger slide in.
It didn't hurt, though it certainly felt odd. He probed about the open
space, feeling the inner walls.
Remembering that Fieldstone had used two fingers, he pulled out and
spit on his fingers some more. Things now became a very different
enterprise. Penetrating was difficult, and even with the spit he felt some
mild discomfort. Once he had pressed them in all the way, he decided to
thrust and withdraw them a bit. As he began slowly, carefully, fucking
himself, he felt the heat rise in his cheeks. It felt good, in a strange
way. Without thinking, he bent the end joints of his fingers as bit as he
pulled outward, allowing the fingertips to graze the inner wall. As they
ran along the soft surface, he abruptly got a jolt - they touched
something. He felt his groin stir. He pressed harder at that point, moving
his fingers in and out faster. He started panting as the feeling spread.
Holy shit, he thought, his free hand instinctively reaching for his
thickening cock.
He began pumping himself faster, more aggressively, as he stroked.
He tried to keep his mouth closed to avoid making noise, but every so often
a big ragged breath escaped him, dragging out a low moan with it. His hips
were moving in time to his stroking and his fingers' penetrations now, and
his eyes lost focus. His mouth fell open, breath held, for a long
agonizing minute, before the tight ring of muscle clamped down savagely on
his fingers and he ejaculated, spraying semen up over his rumpled dress
shirt and across his tie. As the spasms subsided, he shakily pulled his
fingers out and tried to straighten his shirt. It was, of course, too
late.
He lay panting for several minutes. His ass felt oddly tingly; he
was very conscious that something - his fingers - had just been in it. He
brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed, tentatively. They seemed
clean, with just a slight musky odor. He rose, keeping his right hand away
from his body, and tried to compose himself. His shirt was a total loss
for the day; he shucked it off using his clean hand and tossed it towards
his closet, pulling the tie out of the collar as he did so. He rummaged
for soap and a towel, intent on washing his hand several times.
The knock on the door nearly sent him through the roof. "Bray?"
You in there?" It was Doug. Brady's head swiveled, panicked. Do I let
him in or pretend I'm not here? "Bray? Evan saw you come back from the
doc's a bit ago. You OK?"
He grabbed his soiled shirt, wiped his fingers rapidly, stuffed it
as deep into his hamper as he could, and stepped to the door. It was only
as he opened it that he realized he was wearing only his socks.
Doug peeked at him through the opened sliver of doorframe and
laughed. "What the hell, Bray? What're you doin'?" he leaned forward, and
Brady reluctantly let him in. Doug was grinning. "Did I get you at a bad
time, man?"
Brady hustled to grab his underwear, only to find them entangled in
the legs of his pants. He yanked at them, holding the whole knotted mess
in front of him in an effort to hide his nakedness. Dug stared openly,
laughing as he pushed the door closed. "Relax, Bray. It's not like I
haven't seen you before. Just get dressed." He sat on Brady's bed, his
hands dropping naturally to the sheets on either side of him. Brady
managed to free his underwear, and was pulling them up when Doug pulled his
left hand up suddenly. "It's wet," he said, almost to himself, before his
eyes widened and he held his hand further away from him. "Shit, Bray, is -
is this -"
"Oh God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry man!" Brady was scarlet as he
stepped towards Doug, looking about him for something to wipe Doug's hand
off with. "I - I just, you know, I got back and there as some free time,
and - and -"
Doug fell back against the wall along the side of Brady's bed,
roaring with laughter, his hand still extended. "I put my hand in your
come?!" He waved the hand about for a moment, as if trying to dry it off,
laughing. He suddenly seemed to grow serious. "So, um, Bray, can I ask
you something?"
Brady swallowed. "Sure." Oh God, what's coming now?
Doug nodded. "So, is there any place on these sheets that's dry
enough for me to wipe my hand, or did you soak the whole Goddammed bed?"
He was trying to look scandalized, but the smile playing at his lips gave
him away.
Brady tried to hold himself together as well. "You might not want
to sit just there, actually." He watched Doug's eyes widen, and as Doug
stood with a jerk, it was Brady's turn to burst out laughing.
Doug stepped to Brady and wiped his hand against Brady's chest.
"There, you keep it."
Brady's laughter stopped. Doug blinked and looked at him, his eyes
wide in a way Brady had never seen before. A few endless seconds passed.
Brady finally blinked and looked away. He'd revealed too much, he
knew it. He feared it, anyway. "I, uh, I ought to get a shower," he
mumbled, grabbing at his towel and stepping to the door. He glanced back
towards Doug, making what he hoped would be a casual "Oh Well" sort of
face. "I guess I'll see you at lunch?"
"Sure," Doug answered. "Hey Bray?"
"Yeah?"
"Take off your socks before you get in the shower, OK?"
Brady looked down at his feet. "Oh, yeah, sorry. Th- thanks. I
will."
"Good idea." Doug's smile was mesmerizing.
Brady showered himself off quickly, swearing at himself under his
breath the whole time. You fucking idiot faggot, what'd you just do. When
he came back to his room, Doug was gone.
The next day, Tuesday, was Halloween. Brady had never done a lot
for the holiday. The cheap store costumes his mother had managed to buy
him when he was little never seemed to fit, or look less than ridiculous.
And then, of course, he grew so fast and so big that none of those costumes
could fit him at all. So he'd grown to ignore the whole thing. Besides,
everyone celebrated it, and ignored his birthday the next day. It didn't
seem fair to him.
That afternoon, Brady did conditioning drills and running with the
team, dressed in sweats against the deepening cold. He was surprised at
how winded he got: apparently his enforced idleness had done more to his
fitness level than he'd realized. He decided to run and do drills on his
own once the rest of the team moved on from the initial calesthenics, to
get himself back into game shape. Mr. Glendon seemed pleased at this idea,
and readily agreed.
Brady jogged back towards the gym and down the short slope, onto
the cinder track that surrounded the main football field, and started
running. It felt easy in the cold air, his breath clouding in front of his
face as he swung around the curve. It felt good to be back doing something
- anything. He closed his eyes and felt the air rushing against his face.
"Conover!" Brady slowed and looked around, puzzled. Bill
Fieldstone stood amid a gaggle of cross country runners on the other side
of the field, by the Wilson bleachers. "What're you doing?"
Brady stuffed his hands up under the waistband of his sweatshirt.
"I can't do contact yet, so I just thought I'd run, get back in shape."
Bill smiled. "Hey guys, the football player thinks he can run for
a couple of days and be back in shape. I dunno, you think he's in running
shape?" The other runners laughed and catcalled at Brady good naturedly,
making various snide remarks about the weakness of football players. Brady
was unconsciously walking towards them, across the field, smiling. "Tell
you what, Conover. Run with us, we're doing an easy day today, right
guys?" He beckoned Brady over.
Brady hesitated. "You're gonna bust my chops here, aren't you?"
Fieldstone smiled easily as his teammates chuckled. "Nah, just a
nice easy run." He turned to the rest of the group. "Let's go." Brady
hesitated, then fell in at the rear of the pack. What the hell, he
thought.
They took two laps around the track, which winded Brady a bit, and
then veered out along the back side of the practice fields, beside the
shore of the lake as it grew smaller towards its upstream end. The trail
rapidly became narrow and uneven. Brady had to duck from time to time to
avoid branches. His legs began to feel heavy. Fieldstone led the group up
a long hill, Brady struggling to keep up as they climbed. He heard a few
joking comments about him exchanged among the other runners, which pissed
him off a bit. Fieldstone, in front, remained silent, his eyes focused
ahead, the color high in his cheeks.
They emerged onto a two lane road with no traffic in sight, running
straight out into the stubbly fields. "All right," Fieldstone shouted,
"fartlicks starting now!" The group suddenly arranged itself in a single
line.
Brady barely had time to puzzle over this statement before the boys
running just ahead of him turned their heads. "Come on, Conover, get
going."
"Wh - what?" Brady managed to wheeze out.
"You sprint to the front of the pack, asshole. Go."
Brady swung out to the right, slightly into the traffic lane, and
sprinted. The line was about fifteen guys long, but they were moving at a
decent clip, cued by Fieldstone's pace, so it took longer than he expected
to reach the front. When he did, Fieldstone motioned him to become the
lead runner. He slowed and took his place, momentarily conscious that Bill
now had a good view of his ass. A few seconds later the boy who'd been
directly in front of him in the line passed him and tucked in front. The
rest of the boys followed, one at a time, until Brady again made the
sprint. This time he was conscious that Fieldstone had sped up the pace of
the whole line; it took him longer to get to the front, and a greater
effort. His legs were burning.
"Having fun yet, Conover?" Fieldstone breathed into his ear as he
settled into place.
"Not dead yet," Brady grunted. Bill laughed.
They did this drill for about ten more minutes, only occasionally
pausing for a passing car. Bill then led them onto the other side of the
road, turning to go back. Brady appreciated the safety measures Bill took:
he kept the group always on the left side of the road, where they could see
traffic coming at them. He now pressed the pace, and the line started to
break up. The younger and less able runners were being left behind. Brady
saw Bill moving away ahead of him, and was suddenly seized with a
determination not to let it happen. He closed the gap, passing most of the
other runners, and latched onto the rear of the lead group of five runners.
They were all juniors and seniors, he knew, though their names escaped him
at the moment - he had more immediate concerns, like breathing. Fieldstone
glanced over his shoulder, saw Brady, and grinned. "OK then," he muttered
a few seconds later, and sped up some more. Two of the boys soon fell
back. Brady's cheeks were simultaneously frozen from the cold and burning
from his exertion. He's testing me, he realized, and it suddenly was very
important that he meet the challenge. He lengthened his stride and pulled
up just behind Bill. "Shit," one of the remaining boys gasped as Brady
passed him.
They were back on the narrow path along the lake, going downhill
now. Brady slowed to keep from falling. The jarring as his feet landed on
the uneven dew slicked dirt shook his whole body. He was falling back,
breath coming in great heaving gulps. A branch slapped his cheek. No,
dammit. He drove his arms furiously, trying to close the gap. By the time
they reached the outer practice fields again, he had passed one more boy,
but Bill remained well ahead, appearing completely relaxed and easy in his
stride.
The even ground encouraged Brady. He tried to drive forward,
pushing through the leaden heaviness in his thighs and hips. Fieldstone
glanced back for a moment, grinned, and set off on a sprint. Brady managed
to blurt out, "Goddamn it" and tried to pursue him. It was hopeless. Bill
moved with little apparent effort across the fields and back onto the
track. He was rounding the far curve by the time Brady got to the outer
lane. He was hurting all over now, but angry at Bill toying with him. He
sprinted, knees and arms driving high and hard. He passed the other two
boys, whose faces were alarmingly red and mottled. God, do I look like
that, he thought for a moment. He was at the curve now, and Bill had just
come out onto the front straightaway. Had he made up that much ground? He
dug harder, somehow, his lungs screaming, his legs numb. He closed his
eyes against the pain.
He was on the final stretch. Bill had reached a finish point about
midway down, by one of his coaches. Brady pushed hard right past Bill,
then slowed to a stagger and fell face first onto the infield. He suddenly
felt ill. He grabbed handfuls of grass, as if to hold himself to the
earth, and gasped. The gasps soon turned to heaves, his stomach spasming,
trying to vomit but with nothing in it to eject. He curled into a fetal
position, unable to focus his eyes or hear. His breath came in ragged
whimpering gasps between the cramps. He had never felt so awful in his
life.
A hand was in his hair, another on his side, lifting him to a
kneeling position. "Like this, Conover." The hand pushed his head down
against the grass. He shuddered, retched, wheezed, and slowly regained
control over himself. He started to look up, only to be overcome with
another set of cramps. "Stay there a while." He didn't need convincing.
He finally was able to lift his head. The effort made him dizzy.
He fell forward and rolled onto his back. Bill Fieldstone, his cheeks
bright red, sweat staining his face, was on his haunches next to him, hands
on his hips. He was breathing in long deep gulps. "Better now?" he asked,
his voice raspy.
"Yeah." He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes against the
vertigo. "Jesus."
"Dry heaves. Never fun." Bill gulped several more breaths. "You
had to make it a competition, didn't you?"
"Huh?"
"This was supposed to be an easy run today, not a fucking death
race."
Brady looked hard at the wispy clouds. "You - you guys were trying
to, like, embarrass me. Gas out the football player, and stuff."
Fieldstone snorted. "And you couldn't let that happen, could you?"
"I - well, no. I mean, I'm not a pussy like that."
Fieldstone started laughing, fell onto his side. "No. Not like
that. You sure aren't, Conover." He pushed himself to his feet. "God,
what an asshole," he chuckled as he walked away.
Brady waited another couple of minutes before standing. He felt
alarmingly unsteady when he did. Mr. Oramson, a biology teacher who helped
coach cross country, approached him. "Conover, if you ever get tired of
football. You come see me. OK? That was quite a run you just made."
Brady blinked. "I don't ever want to do anything like that again
in my life."
The shower room was chilly - not many boys had used it yet. Brady
turned on the nozzles on either side of him as well as his own, creating a
wall of steaming heat. He was shivery down to his bones. His legs still
trembled. He aimed all three streams at himself and stood, eyes closed,
letting the heat soak into him.
Within a few minutes, the hall outside began to echo as some of the
underclass teams finished practice. Prescott Hills and several other
members of the freshman soccer team - mostly boys Brady only knew
glancingly because they lived in some of the small house dorms on the
perimeter of campus - came in, laughing. They had apparently won a game
against some area high school, easily, and were reviewing their performance
with relish. They acknowledged Brady only briefly, with Pres smiling shyly
at him for a moment before turning to the far wall of nozzles. Brady found
himself looking intently at his ass - smooth and bubbly, with muscles that
flexed with every movement. He took a deep breath, shook his head, and
turned back to his own shower.
The freshman football players soon followed. The shower room
quickly became a cacophony of raised echoing voices, everyone trying to be
heard over the din. Brady made some idle conversation with Evan (who had
taken the shower to his left) while glancing furtively around for Doug.
When he didn't appear after several minutes, he finally gave in. "Hey,
where's Garrettson?" he asked in as casual a tone as he could muster.
"Probably in the trainer's. He sprained his ankle or something.
They like carried him off." Brady went white. He rushed out of the
shower, grabbed his towel and hurried down the hall, trying to dry himself
as he went.
Doug was sitting on the training table, sweaty and magnificent. He
was stripped to his t-shirt and gym shorts, propped on his elbows, with a
large bag of ice wrapped around the inside of his left ankle. Brady paused
in the door, uncertain. Doug opened his eyes, saw him, and smiled. "Hey
Bray."
Brady rushed into the room, probably too fast, realized his error,
and tried to be cool. "Hey," he answered. "You OK? Wh - what happened?"
"I think I just turned it. They don't seem to think it's any big
deal. Hurt like a bitch when it happened, but it's a lot better now."
Brady touched the ice bag carefully. "I bet it does feel better
now. I mean, it's probably like frozen."
Doug smiled, flipping Brady's heart over onto its side. "Yeah I'm
a popsicle down there now. It's really tingly. I never had this done
before. Did they ice you like this?"
Brady shook his head. "No." he hoped his cheeks weren't too red.
"They just taped me up like you saw. I think icing me would have given me
a heart attack or something - you know dropping body temperature to some
dangerous level."
Doug's head fell back as he laughed. His throat was smooth and
glistening. "I saw you go running with some of the cross country guys
today. How'd that go?"
"It was awful. Those guys are nuts. I finished and threw up for
like five minutes." Doug started laughing, and Brady couldn't help but
join in. "Only I didn't have anything to throw up so I was just like
cramping and gakking and shit, rolling around and making really gross
noises."
"Oh God, I wish I'd seen that! That must've been a riot!"
"Yeah, I was laughing all right. I wanted to fucking die."
"That's because you're a Goddammed idiot." Bill Fieldstone stood
in the doorway, his dark hair wet and plastered over his forehead, a towel
precisely wrapped and tucked about his waist. Brady looked at the subtle
contours of his pectoral muscles, and tapering waist and flat smooth
stomach. He swallowed hard. "This guy tried to run the whole fucking team
down," Bill explained, stepping inside and leaning against a steel table.
"And he came a lot closer than he'll ever admit. He just went batshit to
hell on everybody."
Doug laughed. "Batshit to hell? I like that. So Bray, you gonna
start being a cross country guy now?"
"Hell no. I wouldn't do that again for a million bucks."
Fieldstone laughed as well. "Believe it or not, it gets addicting.
It's like a rush, when you finish and your muscles all tingle and stuff.
It's like being on dope."
"Yeah, and you know what it's like being on dope?" Doug teased.
Bill smiled slyly. "You'd be surprised, Garrettson." He patted
Doug's foot. "Bet you're back out practicing tomorrow." He left his hand
there for a moment. Brady felt a sudden surge of jealousy, but he wasn't
sure who he was jealous of or what the feeling was protecting. He just
wanted Bill to leave, and only when he did could he relax.
"That was weird," Doug said in a low voice when Bill was gone.
"What?"
"The way he looked at us, and talked. At you especially. It was -
I dunno. Weird." He lifted himself into a more upright position. "So
what's the deal with him? It seems like he talks to you a lot and stuff."
"Stuff?" Brady blurted out before he could catch himself. "Um,
yeah, well, you know, he's on the same scholarship thing that I'm on, and
he - he has this like legacy thing going with it. He calls us 'Bevansmen'
and shit, and - and it's like he treats it like it's this club -"
"'Bevansmen'?" Doug repeated, grinning. "What the fuck is that?"
"It - it's the guy the scholarship's named for. This guy who went
here and I dunno, charged the whole German army by himself or something in
World War I and got his head blown off. There's this plaque in the TV room
in Geiger for him."
"Oh yeah, that guy. I looked at that during New Boy Rules. I was
scared somebody'd ask me about it. So they give it out every year, right?
Who else's in the club?"
"Nobody. I guess the guys who got it in the other classes dropped
out or something. So it's just Bill and me."
Doug nodded. "So did Fieldstone like haze you or something?
Perverted initiation ceremony back in the woods with goat blood and naked
dancing and shit?" He was clearly enjoying the tease.
Brady, however, was not. "No!!!" he almost shouted. "Jesus, man,
that's like sick."
Doug appeared startled. "Sorry."
"No, no, it's OK," Brady said quickly, angry with himself for
making Doug feel like that. "I just - it's weird. He's really nice and
friendly, and helpful to me - he got me out of some bad shit during New Boy
Rules that Stud Douggie was gonna have some seniors make me do - but, I
dunno. He makes me feel uncomfortable sometimes." Especially when he
takes me to the Band Room, he thought to himself.
Doug was looking at him intently. "Look, stay away from him, OK?
I mean if he's being creepy or anything." He lowered his voice further.
"You know what guys say about him, don't you?" Panicking inside, Brady
shook his head. "That he's queer."
"Oh." Brady took a deep gulp. "That bother you?"
Doug blushed deeply. He looked at the floor. "Well, no - I mean,
you know, it - he's not like, trying to pick me up or anything. I - he
just . . ." He took a deep breath, then looked at Brady with an intensity
Brady had never known before. "Just don't let him mess with you, OK? If
he tries, you tell me. I'll kick his ass."
Brady blinked, trying to decide how to respond. "Um, OK,," he
finally said. Then he decided on teasing. "So you're gonna defend my
maidenly virtue?"
Doug grinned. "You bet. Somebody has to, you sure as shit won't."
He ducked as Brady threw his towel at him. "See, there you go, showin'
your skinny ass off again."
Brady laughed as he retrieved the towel. "We're in the locker
room, it's kinda hard for me not to. That doesn't mean you gotta look.
And what's this skinny crap?"
"You're right, it's disgustingly fat and ugly. And pimply. Please
cover it up before I puke."
Brady rolled his towel up and snapped it once at Doug, who shrank
back from the attack with another laugh. Without thinking, Brady turned
his back to Doug, held the towel behind himself and rubbed it under his ass
as he walked out, popping his hips as he did so. Doug's laughter echoed
over the din of the shower as Brady walked to his locker. He was laughing
too, but giddy and breathless.
He was almost dressed when Doug walked, slowly and with a slight
limp, to his locker. "Hey, how's it feel?" Brady asked.
"OK. They put this big Ace bandage on it, and I'm supposed to ice
it tonight." He pointed to his ankle, which was indeed swathed within an
inch of its life, and held up some plastic bags knotted at their necks. "I
gotta figure out how to seal these so they don't leak, and I'm gonna have
to get every Master in the dorm to let me have ice from their fridges. We
can take bets on who'll be most pissed."
Brady smiled. "Well, Billips powers at least a couple of Scotches
down every night, so he'll be greedy." He paused. "I can go to the dining
hall for you and get all the ice you'll need from the machine there."
Doug smiled. "Thanks. I figured I'd ask Dunc, but if you can
. . . that'd be cool.
He sat down and began dressing. When he tried to stand on the bad
ankle to pull up his underwear, he tottered and fell against the lockers
with a hiss. Brady grabbed his arm. "Lean on me, OK?"
They were standing very close. Brady felt Doug's skin against his
palms, pressing along the side of his pants. He wished he'd taken longer
to get dressed. Doug smiled at Brady. "Thanks." He watched Doug slide
the cotton briefs up his leg, then switch feet. "I'm OK on this one."
Brady stepped back quickly, embarrassed. "But I'll need help with the
pants, too." He flipped his soft dark penis into the front of the
underwear, adjusted the waistband a bit, and reached for his pants.
"This'll be harder." Brady nodded and stepped forward again, steadying
Doug with two hands now - one on his near bicep, and the other around his
shoulder. As he slipped his injured foot into the leg of his pants, Doug
looked at him and smiled. Brady felt as if his head would explode.
The school had made no mention of Halloween, so the presence of
pumpkins and orange and black streamers in the dining hall at dinner that
night was a surprise. A few boys had some rudimentary costumes on (while
remaining in proper school attire, of course). As usual on Halloween,
Brady found himself less celebratory and more pensive. Somehow a pending
birthday always brought into sharp focus the passage of time and the things
missing in his life - his father, financial security, his mother's
drinking, his brothers' absence, the war. This year he had several other
weighty matters to add to the list. He picked at his dinner absently.
The evening passed quietly enough. The children from a couple of the
Masters with families on campus came by all the halls looking for treats.
David had anticipated this, and had bought several orange lollipops with
pumpkin faces on them. He and Brady handed them out to the kids with happy
smiles, trying to make conversation. What a life these kids must have,
Brady thought - living here, with all these guys and the crap going on all
the time. They have to turn out twisted.
Sleep came quickly, with dreams. Doug and Bill Fieldstone were
arguing fiercely. Brady couldn't make out the words, but it was clearly
about him. Things quickly escalated to a fistfight, which Brady was unable
to stop. David was refereeing. Doug landed a particularly heavy punch and
shouted "He's not queer!!!" Bill staggered backwards, grinning knowingly.
The voice of Brady's father, from his dream of several weeks ago, came
back: "What you're doing is not natural." Everyone ran from the sound.
Brady shot up in bed, staring at the darkness.
David was grinning at him when he awoke in the morning darkness. The
room lights were on. "So baby Brady is growing up today, is he?"
Brady smiled groggily. "Fuck you too. Why're you dressed already?"
"Because it's time to head to breakfast, schmuck." He pointed to the
clock radio: 6:43. "I've been trying to get you up for like half an hour."
"Shit!" Brady yelled, leaping from the bed. "I got seven minutes?"
David nodded slightly and smiled. Brady leaped up and threw open his
closet, intending to put on any sort of available shirt and pants, tie a
tie on the run to Geiger, and make breakfast before being stung for being
late. His closet was empty. He stared numbly for a moment. "What the
fuck???" he finally managed to rasp out.
"I think you forgot to get your shirts from the laundry last night,"
David offered helpfully.
"I - but - where are my suits and shit?"
"Oh, those. I don't know. Didn't you take them to be cleaned too?"
Brady was grabbing his hair in groggy panic. "Not all of them! I
can't take all of them!!!"
"Yeah, I guess so. Look, I'll head over and talk to Taber about
letting you off this time."
"Taber? Why Taber?" The idea of seeking mercy from Mr. Taber was
like asking a shark to just nibble.
"Well, he's the Master in charge of breakfast, right?" Brady had
never heard of this before, but it had a ring of plausibility. "You know
that, don't you?"
"I - I guess. I - where the fuck are my jackets?"
"OK, I have to go here," David said, stepping towards the door.
"Wait, I - I'll find something." He yanked his underwear drawer open
to get some fresh briefs. It was empty. He almost fell over. "What the
fuck???" he shouted.
The room door opened. Evan, Doug, and Dunc peeked in, fully dressed.
"Hey guys, are you coming or what? Conover, why the hell aren't you
dressed yet?" Evan snapped.
"I - because - my suits - what the hell happened?" He almost wanted
to cry for a moment, stumbling towards his bed in despair, until he saw the
smile that Dunc couldn't quite suppress. "Wait a minute . . ."
"Better check your watch, Bray," Doug said calmly. Brady did. It
read 5:45. He wheeled and looked back at the clock radio, which now read
6:45. He blinked, looking between the two. He glanced out the window,
into pitch darkness, and for a moment grew very still.
"Oh, you assholes, . . ."
The laughter that erupted then should have wakened the entire dorm,
along with any dead bodies buried beneath it. David fell onto his bed, red
faced, with tears streaming down his cheeks. The other boys slid inside
the door and managed to close it. Brady stared at them for a few seconds
before screaming and throwing several fake punches at them all. He dropped
onto his own bed, laughing and shaking. "That was so awful, you guys
. . . "
A knock on the door brought them all up short. Vic Stenkowski poked
his head in, looking sleepy. "You OK, Brady? Hey, what are you guys
doing?"
Within minutes, the prank was the talk of the entire dorm. Brady sat
on his bed, still shaken, but oddly proud at having been the butt of such a
joke. He felt, more than ever, like he belonged.
David perched on his bed, watching as boys came by to laugh at, and
with, Brady. "This was your idea, wasn't it?"
David smiled. "Actually, it wasn't. Garrettson came up with it."
"You're kidding!"
David smiled. "I never kid about Garrettson with you, Conover. I
know better." Brady blushed.
David closed the room door. "OK, so you really do need to get ready
for breakfast now."
"Yeah, but you guys still have my clothes someplace."
"They'll be back when you're out of the shower, no sweat." He pulled
a package from beneath his bed. "Besides, you'll have this."
Brady took the large box nervously. "Davey, you didn't have to -"
"Of course I did. I should do a lot more, OK? Just open it and stop
this modest bullshit."
Brady pulled the white wrapping paper off. The box beneath was a
deep blue, with a gold circular graphic: "J. PRESS" Around the circle were
written, "New Haven New York Cambridge Princeton".
Brady regarded the graphic for a long moment. "What's J. Press?"
"You're kidding me, right? Jesus. Just open it."
Brady lifted the lid, and pushed aside some tissue. A suit jacket,
almost black, was folded neatly in the box. Mouth agape, Brady slowly
lifted it out. A pair of matching pants was beneath it, along with a white
and a pale blue button down dress shirt, with striped ties to match.
"J. Press," David said quietly, "is a clothing store based out of New
Haven, across the street from Yale. They have stores in those other
cities, too. Been around like forever. They sort of outfit the Ivy League
guys, though if the dress codes at the colleges go I think they might be in
trouble. My dad had it tailored, but you can do it better if his guesses
were wrong."
Brady held up the suit, shaking. It was full heavy fabric, soft to
the touch but palpably sturdy. It was the most beautiful piece of clothing
he'd ever seen. He set it carefully on the bed, put his face in his hands,
and started to cry. "Well, that's not exactly the reaction I was
expecting," David said calmly. He sat next to Brady and rubbed his back.
"Happy Birthday, roommate."
"Thanks," Brady managed to whisper before pulling David into an
embrace. He held David there for a long moment. "This is amazing," he
whispered. Impulsively, he kissed David on the side of his neck. David
pulled back, looked at him for a moment, then leaned in and pressed his
lips softly against Brady's.
Brady's eyes flew open, and for a moment he froze. Their eyes met,
and David pulled back, looking away now guiltily. "Sorry," he said, in a
voice that broke Brady's heart.
"Hey," Brady said throatily. "C'mere." He kissed David, pulling the
smaller boy to him. David slid onto his lap as their mouths opened to each
other, and with a soft whimper David wrapped his legs around Brady's waist.
His fingers tangled in Brady's hair. They fell awkwardly onto their sides
on the bed, clutching at each other. Brady was achingly erect.
After several seconds, he broke the kiss. David looked at him with
softly hooded eyes, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Is this OK? I,
uh, I didn't, like, intend this."
Brady blinked. "It's OK. I think." David's eyes lowered. "No, I
mean, I - I didn't expect this either. Davey. Any of it," he whispered
softly. "I - I've never had a friend like you. Never known anybody like
you. I - I really, like, need you, OK?"
David smiled ruefully at him. "As a friend, right?"
Brady ran a hand over David's smooth cheek, and they kissed again for
a long moment. "I - I think so. I don't know. I mean, nobody knows me
like you do. Things, about me, and - and -"
"And about Garrettson?" Brady flushed and nodded, unable to admit it
and look David in the eye. Now it was David's turn to caress Brady's
cheek. "God, Conover, when are you gonna come clean to him on this? Is it
gonna have to eat you up totally before you let it out?"
Brady felt overwhelming shame. "I don't know. I don't know what to
do, or say. With him. Sometimes with you. With Evan, with Dunc. With -
with Fieldstone," he added uncertainly. "With anybody."
"Well, don't go spilling your secrets to Fieldstone, whatever you
do." Brady tried not to react. They settled onto the bed, comfortable in
each other's embrace. David chuckled. "I really didn't mean for this to
happen."
"I know." Brady breathed deeply. "It's OK, though."
"Is it?"
Brady smiled. "Well, on its own terms, I guess, anyway." David
pulled back and punched him in the stomach, laughing. They rolled about
for a few seconds, but never releasing each other. They kissed again.
David pulled his head back slowly. "I think we better stop."
Brady took a deep breath. David, it turned out, was a terrific
kisser. "Yeah," he whispered. "We better."
David stood, smoothing his jacket and pants. "OK, birthday boy, get
in the shower. You stink. And," he added with a sly grin, "you got
morning breath really bad."
"I thought all that was what got you so turned on."
"You would. Go."
Brady received more teasing, and good wishes, in the bathroom from
the rest of the boys on the hall. Several snapped towels at him. He,
however, remained preoccupied with what had just happened. His new suit
was laid out on his bed when he got back to his room - and, he noted with
relief, his other clothes were back as well.
"I don't think the shirts are wearable out of the box," David said
evenly. "Better get them washed and pressed first. But the suit looks
fine. Wanna give it a try?"
Brady grabbed a dress shirt, buttoned it up, then slipped into the
suit. He had never worn anything like it. It fit well, even around his
buttocks and thighs. The jacket hung perfectly off his shoulders. David
tossed him a tie with wide diagonal red and green stripes. He tied it and
looked at himself in David's full length mirror. "Wow," he whispered.
David was grinning. "There he is, the young banker."
"A banker? Really? You think I could be a banker?"
"Well, you sure as hell aren't a farm boy any more. Not in that,
unless you're farming Green Acres."
Brady laughed and started humming the show's theme music as he
regarded himself. Two months ago he'd been driving tractors, pitching hay
bales, and cleaning chicken coops. Now he stood in a new J. Press suit in
his dorm room at The Wilson School. He almost felt dizzy. His grin
widened to an impossible degree. "Davey, how did you do this?"
"Not me, really. My dad. He, uh, he noticed your wardrobe -"
gesturing towards Brady's closet "- and decided you could use a decent
suit."
"It's amazing," Brady said, trying not to choke up again. "It must
have cost a fortune."
"Don't worry about that. My dad does one session with some lunatic
housewife from Rye and he can buy three of these things. It's like
printing money. He oughta be ashamed."
"Well, thank him for me."
"Sure. You can do that yourself next time you see him."
Brady turned away from the mirror. "And thank you. Seriously. I -
I can't tell you what this means . . ." He lost the battle with his tears
again. It was weird, standing, to be in David's embrace, leaning so far
over his fragile frame.
They stood for several seconds. "Hey Bray?" David said into his
jacket, the voice coming out muffled.
"Yeah?"
"I - I'm sorry about - about that, OK? It won't happen again."
"It's OK, Davey," Brady whispered, and kissed him again, tenderly.
"Look, I know you still think of that guy from last year -"
"Edward." He looked away for a moment.
"Right. Edward." He felt momentarily guilty for bringing up the
subject. "And - and, well, you know what's going on with me. But - but
we're cool, too. We're more than friends. You know that. Even if we
don't, um . . ."
David cocked an eyebrow. "Even if we don't fuck?" Brady giggled.
"Christ, look at you, you can't even say it, can you?" He leaned in,
pulling Brady's head forward and down, and put his mouth close to Brady's
right ear. "Even." He kissed the ear. "If." Another kiss. "We."
Another. "Don't." Another. "Fuuuuuckkkk," and he took the ear into his
mouth, sliding his tongue inside. Brady squealed, breathless, a huge
tingly feeling shooting through his body, and tried to squirm away,
wondering if it was just tickly or if he was turned on.
A knock on the door separated them. David opened it and let Doug and
Evan inside. "So, Birthday Boy, you ready for some food? Gotta nourish
the young stallion here."
Brady grinned, full of the glow of belonging. "Sure. Let's go."
All day, he felt like he was in a parade in his new suit. No one
said anything about the suit - he had a fair share of variations on "Hey,
Conover, what time is it?" - but he felt different. He liked the change.
At the gym that afternoon, he was extra careful placing the jacket and
pants into his locker, making sure nothing got wrinkled. He worked out
with the team, in pads, hit sleds, but did no live contact. It felt
wonderful to be back, even to that extent.
As he was leaving the gym, alone (the rest of the team was
scrimmaging so he'd been sent in), Bill Fieldstone approached him. "Happy
Birthday, Conover," Bill said with a slight smile. He pressed a small box
into Brady's hand.
"Oh geez, Bill, thanks. I - you didn't have to -"
"Relax, it's not much."
Brady opened the box to find a pair of school cufflinks, gold with
the school seal on them. He remembered seeing them in the bookstore. "Oh
man, Bill, these are so cool, thanks." He giggled. "Now I gotta get a
shirt to use them with."
Bill laughed. "Do I have to do everything for you?" His voice
dropped. "We should meet after dinner. I wanna give you another present."
Brady flushed. "Um, OK, sure, I - I guess that'll be OK."
Bill smiled a bit wider. "Oh, it will be." He turned away into
the gym. Brady took a couple of deep breaths before walking on towards
Linsley.
He stopped short as he opened his room door. David was in his desk
chair, talking to his father. "Oh, hi. Sorry to interrupt."
David's father smiled broadly. "You're not interrupting at all.
Happy Birthday! Let's have a look, see if I guessed right on the
tailoring." He walked around Brady, smoothing the jacket in back a bit.
"Looks good. I figured you at a straight 39 long and I was right."
"Sir, I don't know how to say thanks for this -"
"Don't be ridiculous, son. You need a good suit or two, proper Ivy
League look and all that. Now you've got the suit, the oxford cloth button
downs," as he gestured to the shirts still folded on Brady's bed, "and a
couple of good rep ties. I was a little bothered that there wasn't a rep
tie in the School colors, but I know the bookstore here has some school
ties that'll do just fine."
"Mr. Tanner, it - it's amazing, thank you so much!"
"Don't worry, son." His hand rested on Brady's shoulder. "I know
how you've been a friend to Davey, and how you've looked out for him. That
means a lot to me. Now, you ready for some good food?"
"Sir?"
David smiled. "I didn't tell him."
"Oh? Well, a guy needs a proper birthday dinner, doesn't he? And
it's not going to come from the dining hall. I got you and Davey out of
dinner tonight, we're heading to Princeton to a nice little French place.
Sound good?"
Brady grinned, embarrassed. "Of - of course, sure! I - you really
- "
"I want to, Brady. Least I can do."
There was a knock. David's father smiled. "You better get that."
Brady opened the door. His mother stood in the hall, in her best
dark blue dress. "Happy Birthday, doll baby."
Brady grinned and threw himself into her embrace. They hugged for
several seconds before she stepped back, blinking, and held him at arm's
length. "Look at your suit, it's wonderful. Sal couldn't have done any
better."
Brady grinned. "But I bet he'll want to tinker with it some when
he sees it. That's what tailors do, right?"
"Oh of course he will, you know him." She stepped inside and held
her hand out to David's father. "Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Tanner."
"My pleasure, ma'am."
She smiled at David. "Is Mrs. Tanner joining us?"
David blushed and turned away slightly, with a glance at Brady.
"She's on the west coast right now, I'm afraid," David's father answered
smoothly, with a relaxed smile.
Brady's mother nodded. "That's too bad."
"Yes, it is. Well, shall we get going? I know we're supposed to
have the boys back for study hall, that's at 7:30?"
"7:40," Brady and David both responded, reflexively. They looked
at each other and laughed.
As they trotted down the stairs, Doug burst in from the first
floor, looking upwards. "Am I late?"
David's father smiled. "Right on cue, son."
Doug looked at Brady and grinned. Brady's heart stopped for an
instant. Doug was coming too. He tried to keep his smile from exceeding
polite proportions. "Cutting it close, aren't you, Garrettson?"
"Hey, I actually had to practice today and not wimp out like you
did," Doug answered, pretending to be offended. "Hi, Mrs. Conover."
Brady's mother beamed. "Hi, Douglas. I'm very glad you're coming
along; I know you and Brady are so close." She gave Doug a hug, smiling.
"Joined at the hip," David said, earning him a jab in the ribs from
Brady.
The boys sat in the back seat on the drive over to Princeton, on
winding two lane roads through stubbly fields and occasional small towns -
Monroe Township, Cranbury, Plainsboro, Grover's Mill. They were familiar
to Brady, he'd known them his whole life. Yet now he felt separated from
them, adrift. He looked at his hands, where the calluses had been thick
and rough all summer. They were now smooth, long fingered, almost dainty,
by comparison. He wasn't a farm kid any more. Was he? And if not, what
was he now? Doug's side pressed lightly against his, warm and firm. Brady
breathed deeply, imagining he could smell Doug's scent in the air. He
became tumescent, and panicked a little, subtly adjusting his suit jacket
to cover his lap. David, on his other side, snickered.
The restaurant was on Witherspoon Street, just off Nassau Street,
with the elms surrounding Nassau Hall outlined to the east in the gathering
darkness. It was very formal, and Brady and Doug were visibly intimidated.
Brady was worried his mother would feel uncomfortable as well, but she
calmly ordered in French and directed Brady to a veal dish she assured him
he would like. He never knew his mother spoke French. "Oh, I don't,
really. Not any more, I haven't used it since the Barbizon, back before
Daddy and I got married," she said with a slight smile. "And I never was
very good at it. But they always said I sounded good, which seemed to
count for a lot."
Mr. Tanner leaned forward. "When were you at the Barbizon,
Mrs. Conover?"
She smiled again. "For about a year, when I was young. I tried my
hand at some modelling, and my father put me up there."
Brady gaped. "I never knew you did that." The idea of his mother
having a life before his own was an alien concept to him. He felt suddenly
embarrassed that he knew so little about her life.
She shrugged. "Well, it didn't work out. They didn't like my
nose, even then," she added with a wink at Brady. He and his brothers
teased her affectionately about her nose often. Hal and Trent called her
"Beaky," which generally earned them a pretend cold stare and a whispered,
"Shit on you" response that sent all three boys howling.
A waiter stood next to Mr. Tanner and asked for drink orders.
Mr. Tanner ordered a scotch. Brady glanced nervously at his mother. Their
eyes met for a moment. Her lips pursed a bit. "I'll just have some iced
tea, please." Brady felt his shoulders relax. He also felt ashamed, and
for the next couple of minutes couldn't bring himself to look at her.
The conversation between the adults became easy and superficial.
Brady and Doug kept looking about as if they were in a foreign country.
David, who'd also ordered in French, shook his head. "God you guys are
hayseeds."
The meal was spectacular. Warm, impossibly crusty bread, a cold
soup redolent of whole milk, potato and onion, meat with a thick cream
sauce laced with fragrant mushrooms that melted in his mouth, thin sliced
potatoes with cheese baked on top in another creamy sauce. He even ate the
vegetables, which earned him a few gentle teases from his mother. "I can't
believe it," she said. "It's not frozen Green Giant corn." The boys
gorged themselves, going through six baskets of the bread alone. The
adults were amused.
For dessert, David's father had a pastry set before Brady, with
seemingly thousands of paper thin layers interspersed with custard, and an
icy frosting on the top. It of course had a candle in it, which he blew
out quickly to quiet any possible cheers (this was definitely not a place
to burst out in a raucous chorus of "Happy Birthday"). "It's called a
Napoleon, Brady. I think you'll like it." He gestured for Brady to take a
bite as the rest of the table received similar plates. Brady's eyes
widened as he tasted it. "Wow," he mumbled through his full mouth. David
laughed loudly.
The drive back to campus was dark and drowsy. The boys, stuffed
with rich food, were barely awake. Brady felt himself slipping off, shook
his head, and realized that Doug had fallen asleep with his head on Brady's
shoulder. His even breathing warmed the side of Brady's throat. He
furtively glanced at Doug, then over at David on his other side. He was
contentedly leaning against the window, half asleep, but smiling at Brady.
As their eyes met, he cocked one eyebrow.
Brady lifted his arm slowly, sliding it behind Doug's head, and put
it round his shoulder. Doug grunted, rubbed his face against Brady's
shoulder, and snuggled in closer, his right hand reaching across to rest on
Brady's chest. The crown of his head was just below Brady's chin. Brady
could smell his hair, feel it tickling him. He inhaled deeply, eyes
fluttering closed, and dropped his nose into Doug's hair. He kissed his
scalp, softly, praying that Doug wouldn't awake, and that the moment could
last forever.
The car lurched suddenly. "Damn!" David's father shouted.
The boys shot awake, Brady scrambling to disentangle himself from
Doug. "What happened?" David asked.
"It's OK," Brady's mother said, her voice a bit shaken. "A deer
came right out of the woods in front of us. We didn't miss him by much."
"Wow," Doug muttered. "I must have really been out." He looked at
Brady and smiled groggily. "Sorry."
"It's OK," Brady said, outwardly calm. He knew he needed to say
something. "You just revealed all the missile launch codes, nothing too
major."
Doug's smile brightened. "Great, your comrades in Moscow will be
pleased."
"Moscow, hell. Peking, baby. Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh -"
"That's not funny, Brady." His mother's voice cut through the
darkness icily. "That man is trying to kill your brother."
Brady blinked. "Sorry, Mom, I just -"
"I know. Just stop it, all right?"
The rest of the drive was spent in uncomfortable silence. Brady
was embarrassed. Doug tried poking him in the ribs a couple of times,
smiling, to cheer him up, but Brady was in no mood for it. They climbed
wordlessly out of the car when it parked behind Linsley. "We're a few
minutes late, boys. I'll go excuse you with your Hall Masters," Mr. Tanner
said. Brady rushed around to open the door for his mother. "Mom, I'm
sorry -"
"Ssshh, it's fine. You were being silly, I know that." She cupped
his cheek in her hand. "So grown up. Look at you." She smiled a soft
smile for a moment, then turned to her car. "I didn't bring this up
earlier. I thought we'd just do this here." She handed him an airmail
envelope. "You can read that later. Your brother is very proud of you."
She pulled a box from the back seat. "Happy Birthday."
Brady opened the box. A blazer jacket, with an elaborate seal on
the breast pocket, was neatly folded inside. The Wilson School seal. A
Wilson blazer. Brady stuttered. "M - Mom, I - you shouldn't've - I had
money saved up for this and - Mom, this is like $150 - and they don't sell
them until after Thanksgiving! How -"
"Your Dr. Leeds can be very helpful," she smiled. "And Sal did
tinker with this, a bit, so it should fit perfectly." She reached back
into the car. "And of course you have to have these." She handed him two
boxes of cream filled Tastykakes.
Brady was blinking rapidly. "Thank you," he whispered. They
embraced. He smelled her perfume, felt the coarseness of her heavily
sprayed hair. The heaviness of their separation came over him again.
When she pulled back from him, her eyes were damp. "Now you go and
study hard, all right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She turned back to the car. "Thanksgiving will be here before you
know it." She smiled bravely at him. "It'll be nice to have you and your
brother home again. Grouch misses you both."
"I miss him," Brady whispered.
As she pulled away, Brady noticed that the rear bumper sagged a bit
on the right side. The car's a heap, he thought sadly. He felt embarrassed
that she drove it. What if some of the other kids saw it? Then he felt
embarrassed at thinking like that.
"You OK, Bray?" Doug was leaning against the back door to the
stairway, in the shadows.
"Yeah, fine. Sorry, I, uh, I didn't see you there."
"No problem. Listen, I, uh, I don't really have anything for you.
Nothing like what Davey did, that's for sure. I'm really sorry, about
that."
"Th - that's OK, I don't, like, expect anything. David was just -
well he kind of goes overboard, him and his dad. Like with dinner, you
know?"
"Yeah, I can see. Overboard." Doug seemed uncomfortable. "Bray,
I - I want you to know . . . "
"Yes?" Brady's heart was pounding.
"I - you're my best friend ever, Bray. I - I'd do anything for
you. I - I really love you, man. I'm really lucky to have you as a
friend. I want you to, well, to know that."
Brady gulped. "I do know it." He inhaled deeply, blinked hard,
and said it: "I love you too, Doug."
Doug' grinned and stepped forward to hug him. He clapped his arms
around Brady's back, holding him for a few seconds. Brady, his arms full
of boxes, could only tuck his head against Doug's shoulder, eyes pressed
shut, and try to keep his composure. When Doug stepped back, he tousled
Brady's hair. Brady's lips parted slightly, a soft moan escaped him before
he could stop it. "Love you, man."
Brady managed a smile. "Yeah. Love you too, Garrettson." He did
his best to make his voice strong, manly. Not shaky. Not queer. Anything
but queer. They strode up the stairs together towards their rooms, with
Brady trying to decide if this had been his best birthday ever, or his
worst.