Date: Mon, 21 Jun 2010 20:05:42 -0700 (PDT)
From: erik ritler <erikritler@yahoo.com>
Subject: space ship boys 12

Author's Note

Here is chapter 12, at long last. It's long. Perhaps too long, and perhaps
it should have been cut into pieces. But I wanted to set some things up
that will propel the story forward, and hopefully be intriguing, sexy, fun
and interesting. The stage is set. Let's see where Devon takes us.

As always, feel free to send comments to erikritler@yahoo.com. I would also
like to especially thank William and Jonathan, who muddle through my drafts
and help point out my vast ignorance of grammar and language use.

There is a Yahoo Group site for this story. It is always kept one chapter
ahead of other sites, and I've tried to put some extra side tales,
pictures, and other extras on there that warrant an occasional visit. I
require membership approval, but only to keep out the spam bots that
otherwise pop up. You can join the group at:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/spaceshipboys/

erik


Story so far:

When the earth is destroyed, millions evacuate in hundreds of massive space
ships, hoping that one of four planets on their route will provide a
suitable new home. The ship that takes off from one college is an odd case
- it's barely half occupied, and almost everyone on board is a college-age
male.

Devon Chasen is one such guy, and he tries to adjust to both this new life
and the fact that he's gay. It helps that some of his friends are also
gay/bi, and horny. There's Charlie, a new friend that helps Devon form a
circle jerk club, and the oversexed Zane.  There's the adorable Mike, and
one of Devon's roommates, Nick. These are just a few of the guys in a group
that meets on Friday nights to fool around. Hey, there's not much else to
do.

Devon has great straight friends too. The ever-loyal Reid, who he's patched
things up with. And Patrick, a best friend from before the
evacuation. Conner, a pre-med student now working as a doctor on the ship,
is also shaping up to be a great friend.

And then there's Sneak, an enigmatic boy who's been spying on Devon and his
friends, albeit with Devon's knowledge and semi-approval. The two have
started exchanging a data chip that contains video files of the boys
masturbating. The last exchange had a particularly steamy encounter between
Devon and Nick, which was semi-accidentally captured on tape.

But there is tension too. From very early on, some of the upper classmen
had strong opinions about how things should be run. This was cracked down
on, and things seemed ok. At least until Devon and Nick stumbled onto a
large protest that devolved into a riot.  Viewing from the third floor
balcony, the two boys were caught in a crush of fleeing rioters and
security force personnel. Devon was pushed over the rail, and fell.


Space Ship Boys

Chapter 12 - Hospital Blues


A bright light flickers annoyingly from above, not quite shining directly
in my eyes, but close enough to be uncomfortable. I'm in an unfamiliar
yellow room, lying in a bed ringed by gray-colored machines and
monitors. To my left are some carts laden with medical supplies, and two
floor-to-ceiling closets. In front of me is the doorway to the room, which
is closed, although there is a glass window looking down a darkened
hallway. The room is silent except for the whirring and clicking of the
machines. I don't know where I am, and yet I feel like I've been here
before.

It's hard to look around. A boy I don't know is sitting in an armchair in
the corner of the room. He's curled up into the chair, his head lying on
crossed arms. I can deduce that this is a hospital room - that seems
obvious, but I have no idea what I'm doing here.

I feel my heart rate increase, and almost involuntarily I speak out. "What
happened?" My voice is raspy and the question comes out louder than I
intend.

The boy in the corner looks up. He stands and walks over to the
bedside. "Are you a doctor?" I ask him.

He smiles, a tired smile that seems slightly sad, but reassuring. "Yeah
Devon, I'm a doctor," he says. "You had an accident, but you're going to be
okay."

"Where am I?" I ask, feeling a little foolish for not knowing something so
basic.

"You're in the hospital," the other boy replies, checking something on one
of the monitors above my head. "Do you remember anything?"

"I remember that I'm Devon," I say almost immediately. The other boy smiles
again.

"That's a start," he says. "Do you remember my name?"

The doctor's name doesn't immediately come to me. He seems too young to be
a doctor, not much older than me. His dark brown hair is disheveled, and
although his eyes are kind they look very tired. His smile seems vaguely
familiar. Familiar in that way someone can be when you've met them at a
party and talked to them for ten minutes, then a year later you run into
them on the street and wonder where you've seen them before.

I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I don't remember the other boy's
name. "I'm sorry, I don't know."

A worried expression flickers across the doctor's face. He tries to hide
it, but I catch it.  Suddenly I'm worried too, and I realize that I hurt
all over. "I really hurt," I tell him, "And I'm really scared."

He takes my hand. "It's going to be okay. I'm right here. You're going to
be okay, you just got a little scrambled."

There seems to be a haze in the room, as if things grow slightly brighter
and then dim again. My head hurts. An unfamiliar boy is standing to my left
holding my hand. I don't know where I am, although I surmise it's a
hospital judging from the machines. "What happened?" I ask.

The other boy smiles tiredly at me. "You're in the hospital, Devon. You
were in an accident, but you're going to be okay."

"Oh," I say matter-of-factly. "I think I remember this room. The walls are
really ugly. How long have I been here?"

"About five hours. You have a slight concussion, so things may be
confusing, but you're going to be okay."

I shift my weight and searing pain shoots up my spine from every corner of
my body. "I really hurt," I say, "And I'm really scared."

"I know," the other boy says sadly.

I look up at a lamp that seems a little too bright, although it's not
shining directly into my eyes. I'm surprised to find that I'm lying in a
hospital bed. On my right a boy is sitting, holding my hand. "What
happened?" I ask.

"You were in an accident, Devon, but everything's going to be ok. You fell,
and you have a slight concussion. You may feel confused."

I look at the other boy. He's holding my hand, but also sponging dried
blood off it, flakes of red showing dark and rust colored around my
fingernails. I don't want to ask about it. I try for something a little
less scary. "How long have I been here?"

The other boy looks up at the wall, I assume to check the time. He thinks
about it for a moment and then replies, "About seven hours. You're a little
out of it."

"I think I remember this room. The walls are really ugly." I take note that
my entire body is in intense pain. "I really hurt," I explain, "And I'm
scared."

"You're going to be okay," the other boy says. "I'm going to stay right
here."

I sigh, and it hurts my ribs. The lamp overhead is a little too bright. I
wonder why I put a lamp right over my bed when I notice that I'm in an
unfamiliar room. I don't know how I got here, although I can tell it's a
hospital from the machines. I'm not sure if this is reassuring or not.

"What happened?" I ask.

"You were in an accident," a kind voice startles me. Someone was standing
just outside my field of vision. I'd just posed the question to the
universe; I didn't know anyone was in here with me. I jump, which turns out
to be a huge mistake. Pain shoots through my back and butt and chest.

"Ow," I moan. "I really hurt."

The owner of the voice moves to my side and takes my hand. His smile is
very reassuring, although he looks tired. "I know," he says
sympathetically. "But you're going to be okay. You have some broken bones
and a slight concussion, but I think you're through the worst of it."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, which also results in pain. I'm
really confused.  "How long have I been here, Conner?" I ask.

My friend grins. "Hey, you remembered my name!" he says. "That's a big
improvement.  Should we try for another? Can you tell me what year it is?"

First I wonder why remembering Conner's name is such an accomplishment -
we've been friends for almost a year, after all. And I question why he's
asking me what year it is. Then I realize that I have no idea what year it
is, and I panic.

Conner sees the look in my eyes and puts a hand gently on my chest. "Ok,
ok," he says, "One step at a time. You're just a little confused. That's
normal. You're a lot better than you were at first."

"At first?" I ask.

"You've been here for a little over nine hours. It's almost
morning. Wednesday morning."

"Oh."

He adjusts some of the dials and buttons on a machine over my head, but
keeps his other hand pressed to my chest, which is comforting. "It will
come back, little by little," he says.

"I'm not sure I want it to," I sigh, immediately regretting not keeping
perfectly still.

* * *

Later I'm told about my time in the hospital, about the endless verbal loop
I babble though for hours on end. Asking what happened, and then
complaining about the ugly walls. Conner says I ended up on a ten minute
cycle, always coming back to the beginning and having the same conversation
again and again. I don't really remember this.

I also ask about the accident. Conner won't go into detail, other than
explaining about my injuries and telling me that I'm going to be ok. He
says he doesn't want to stress me out, although not knowing anything feels
pretty stressful. I mention this, feeling like I'm posing a rather novel
argument that will get him to tell me what happened. He smiles and says
I've made the same point at least five times before.

The walls really are quite ugly. I'm not sure that the dingy shade of
yellow they're painted should be allowed to exist. I mention this to
Conner, who patiently listens to my opinions about the d‚cor. "I've said
this before, huh?" I ask, noticing Conner's expression.

"About...hmm, let's see...twenty or thirty times? Yeah, you really hate
those walls."

"Sorry," I say.

A new voice chimes in from the doorway. "How are we doing this morning?"
I'm lying flat, and it's hard to look down. At first this concerns me, I
wonder if my neck is paralyzed or something. Then I realize that there is a
very uncomfortable collar holding me into place.  I look down as best I can
(immense pain!) to see a blonde boy in green scrubs holding a clipboard. I
know him - at least, I think I do. I try to say his name. It's in my head,
right in the middle somewhere. I know it's the correct name, and I want to
say it, but somehow my mouth refuses to comply - Nathan, Ned, nail-gun is
what tries to cross my lips, although I refuse to allow them to. This is
really frustrating.

Conner looks up from some notes he's jotting on a yellow tablet. "Oh, good
morning Ian," he says (dammit, that's what I was trying to say!) "We're
doing better. I think he's through the worst. What time is it?"

Ian glances at his wristcom, which makes me realize I'm not wearing mine. I
wonder where it is, then I wonder where my clothes are. I hadn't noticed
until now that I'm in a hospital gown, but I guess that makes sense. I
shiver - the things aren't very thick. "It's almost four," Ian says.

"I thought you were on at eight?" Conner asks tiredly.

"Yeah, that's the schedule," the other boy says, "But with the extra
patients I figured I'd come in early. I woke up early anyway. Have you been
here all night?"

Conner looks at his own wristcom, as if the answer to Ian's question
required a complex calculation. "Yeah," he answers after a few seconds. "I
wanted him under observation for the first ten hours, just in case the
scans were off. I'm a little worried about the memory loss, but he seems to
be getting better."

"Great," Ian says, picking up an iChart hanging on the end of the bed. It's
dark enough in the room that the glare from the screen glows blue on Ian's
face. With a few flicks of his fingers he comes to the info he was looking
for and stops to read it. "So, do you want me to report to you or
Dr. Moreno this shift?" Ian asks.

Conner plops into the corner chair, running his hands through his hair in a
motion that conveys that he's almost totally exhausted. "Yeah, you're
right," he says, "I'm beat. I should probably turn things over to
Moreno. He's here?"

My memory is skittered, but I recall that Doctor Moreno is the head
physician, one of the members of the permanent crew who, unlike Conner and
Ian, was actually a licensed medical professional before takeoff.

Ian makes a note on my file and then sets it back on its holder at the end
of my bed.  "Um...yeah," he responds in a tone that indicates he's talking
while thinking about something else entirely. He realizes he's doing this
and snaps to attention. "Sorry. Yeah, I passed him down in MRI. It sounds
like everything is stable, but he still wants the nurses on a one-to-one
with the significant injuries. So I'll be in here today. You can go get a
couple of hours if you want."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. You ok with that?" I wait a moment for
the little medical drama in front of me to continue then realize Conner was
asking me.

"What? Huh?" I ask.

Conner walks over to my bed so that I can see him better. "I've been on
shift for, oh, about fifteen hours now. I should probably go get some
sleep. Ian is your assigned nurse today, and he'll be right here, if that's
okay. I can stay if you want me to."

I'm still a little confused at what's going on, and having Conner here is
really comforting.  Still, he looks like he's about to drop and I don't
want to be an inconvenience. So I say it's okay if he leaves for a
bit. "Okay," Conner says, "But you know what - I'm going to bunk out just
down the hall. If you need anything, or if you get scared, tell Ian to come
and get me."

"Ok," I respond weakly.

"And I'd like you to get a little sleep too. Think you can do that?" he
asks.

I felt exhausted, with pain shooting through my entire body. "I don't
know," I respond. "I really hurt."

Conner looks up at the monitor above me, which I assume displays my
vitals. "Hey Ian," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Let's give him thirty milligrams of Duramorph, I think we're ok on the
head trauma. But I want you to page Moreno immediately if there's any
change."

"Ok, Doctor McLaglen."

Conner has been premed ever since I'd known him, but it was still weird to
hear someone referring to him by his last name, much less as 'doctor.' "And
let's watch his temp. If it goes up, let Dr. Moreno know. He looks good on
hydration - I think he'll sleep, but it's okay if he doesn't."

While Conner goes over some of my other stats with Ian - all of which hurt
my head a little to hear - Ian preps something on a table next to me. When
he turns around he's holding a needle that looks like it's designed for an
elephant. Behind me the 'beep, beep, beep' of the monitor increases pace
significantly.

Ian flashes a smile and laughs. "Sheesh, Devon. It's like you've never had
a shot before.  Calm down, it's not going into you. We've already got a
port set up."

Ian picks up a translucent plastic tube to my side and locates a nozzle. I
can see that the tube leads down my side and to the back of my right hand,
where another nozzle is taped. He gently sticks the needle into the device
and I relax significantly. "I don't like needles," I say.

"Clearly," Ian chuckles. "Your pulse jumped from eighty to one-ten right
there. But you should be happy about this one. Conner's prescribed you the
good stuff. This should help with the pain." I arched an eyebrow
dubiously. Clearly Ian has never been in this much pain. I don't care what
drugs they give me - there is no way that my ribs are going to stop
shooting fire.

But then they do. Almost immediately, which is a welcome relief but also
somewhat scary. Ian looks me in the eyes. I'd forgotten how blue his eyes
were, almost phosphorescent. They remind me of a day I'd spent sailing from
San Diego to Catalina - the water had been that color of blue. I wonder if
they'd glow in the dark.

"Pretty good, huh?" Ian asks me. I try to tell him that I do feel a lot
better, but all I manage is a nod. Conner steps up beside Ian and I feel
him squeeze my hand.

"Wow," he says, "I think he's going to go right to sleep. That's good. I'll
update everyone in the waiting room before I crash. If he wakes up and
feels ok for visitors, that's fine, but no more than two at a time, and I
don't want anyone in here before ten."

"Ok," Ian says. He maintains eye contact with me, as if realizing that his
gaze is having a hypnotic effect. Such pretty blue eyes, I think, so bright
and beautiful. Still, there's no way I'm going to fall asleep, no matter
what. That was more or less the last thing I thought about before I did.

* * *

When I woke up again, Ian was sitting at a desk next to my bed reading
something. I stir, wincing as pain shot its way through my body. Ian looked
up at me.

"Welcome back," he says. "You got some sleep, that's good."

"Mrfph...hrmph..." I manage to mumble. My throat is extremely dry, and I'm
pretty sure the taste in my mouth is something heretofore unknown to
man. "Hey," I manage to say, "Wow, I feel terrible."

"I bet," Ian replies. "Here, take a sip of this."

He takes a plastic cup with a blue drinking straw off the desk. I
reflexively try and reach for it with my left hand, but for some reason my
arm won't bend. I look down and realize that it's in a cast. Figures.

"Here, I'll do it," he says, moving the straw to my lips. I lift my head to
suck on the straw, which is more painful than it needs to be. The liquid in
the cup isn't water - it's sweet and tastes like lemons. I'm not sure why
but it's about the best thing I've ever tasted in my life; I suck down
another big gulp. "Whoa, take it easy," Ian laughs. "Small sips. I don't
want you puking that back up."

I want more, but heed his advice. "Thanks," I say, my voice working better
now that I'm not totally parched. I notice that Ian is wearing a different
color than he was when I went to sleep. "How long was I out?"

"You got a good seven hours, which is great. Doctor Moreno was by, and
everything looks good." Ian types something into his wristcom then turned
his attention back to me.

"Do you know what happened?" I ask.

Ian moves through the room gracefully, taking the cup and filling it from a
white carton.  "From what I hear," he says, "You took a dive off the third
floor in The Commons. Not the best idea, really, but you were lucky
considering. You landed in a flower bed, and fortunately not on your head."

"If I'd landed on my head, maybe that would have prevented any injury all
together," I quip.

Ian gives me a sideways glance and a smirk. "Not really, Devon. If you had,
you'd probably be having far less fun in the morgue right now. Or we could
be trying to stitch your spinal cord back together, which would also be
sort of, hmm, not fun."

I shudder at the image. And the idea that this ship actually has a
morgue. "How bad was I hurt?" I ask, wondering if I'll ever play piano
again. My broken rendition of 'Heart and Soul' at one-tenth normal speed is
the highlight of almost none of the parties I go to.

"Let's see," Ian says, walking over to a white panel on the wall. He taps
it with his forefinger and a series of images appear - x-rays I would
guess, presumably mine. "This is really for a doctor to go over with you,
but we're all friends here. Hmm, you've got a broken shoulder, I'd guess
that's where you landed - be thankful you didn't shatter it, looks like two
clean fractures. No internal injuries from that, which is good. Nobody
likes a punctured lung. You also broke your left forearm, and two
ribs. Slight concussion. You slashed your arm up pretty good, I have no
idea how you managed that. One laceration took twelve stitches, another
took three. Once you're up and around a bit more they'll want a dental
exam. Everything looked ok, but sometimes a fall like that can crack some
teeth. How are you feeling?"

In all honesty, I'm a little dizzy from Ian's long list of my personal
injuries. "Um, I guess I feel like I fell three stories and broke my
shoulder and arm and teeth and whatever else you just said."

Ian gives me another smirk. "Just tell me if anything hurts too much. They
don't want to overdo it on the pain meds, but you don't have to be a
martyr."

"Thanks," I say, wondering where the fine line is between 'searing pain'
and 'unbearable pain,' and how'd I'd know the difference.

"There he is," chimes Conner's voice from the doorway. I look up, again
regretting even the slightest movement of my head. Conner looks
considerably more well-rested than he had earlier. I'm pretty sure the same
wasn't true of me - my nose felt three sizes larger than normal.

"Hey," I say, trying to muster a smile. "Ian was just telling me all about
my scrapes and bruises."

"Was he?" Conner asks. "Good, good. Any questions?"

I consider saying something sarcastic, but think better of it. "I guess
just...am I going to be ok?"

Conner looks serious and thoughtful for a moment, which scares me a
little. "You should be fine," he finally says. "I assume Ian told you about
your shoulder?" I nod and he continues. "Good. Well, you broke that in two
places. You were lucky, though. Scapular fractures often coincide with
internal injuries. You landed right, though, and we don't see any damage
internally. You also didn't break it along the joint, which helps. We'll
want to keep that arm in a sling for a while, and do a weekly checkup on
it, but with a little physical therapy you should heal fine. There's a
small chance that you'll experience a slight decrease in strength or range
of motion, but it's too early to tell. And again, physical therapy will
help mitigate any adverse long-term effects.

"You also had a mild concussion - we monitored that, and everything looks
ok now, although you may experience some mild memory loss for the next week
or so. Let us know if you have any severe headaches, or if anything seems
off. Other than that, you have a bunch of scrapes and bruises. You'll be
pretty sore for a while, but everything should heal just fine."

It's comforting that Conner knows what he's talking about, but the doctor
speak is a little much to take in. Without really being able to control it,
I feel myself tear up.

Conner notices, and his demeanor changes instantly. He moves to my right
side and sits in the chair next to my bed, taking my hand in his. "Hey,
hey," he says very reassuringly, "What's wrong? It's going to be ok."

I feel like I'm on the verge of totally losing it, so I take a deep breath
despite the pain and fight to keep myself from bawling. I feel a pair of
tears roll down either cheek, but I manage to get things under
control. Once I'm a little more composed I try responding to
Conner. "Sorry," I say with a sigh, "I'm just really confused. And
scared. It's a lot to process, you know?"

Conner squeezes my hand. It's probably the only part of my body he can do
that to without immense pain resulting. "I know. But we're going to get
through this. Ian or I will be here around the clock, and I promise that
things will get a little easier. But it will take time, ok?"

I nod, feeling a little sheepish at being cared for like a toddler, but
also grateful for it.  Conner reaches up with his free hand and brushes my
bangs out of my eyes. I look him in the eyes and smile. Conner has always
been a good friend.

"Hey, I know what might make you feel better," he says.

"Peanut butter?" I ask, referring to his secret stash. Our ship was
transporting many, many species of plants and animals from earth to our new
home, but peanut plants had sadly been omitted from our manifest, and
Conner had the only can of peanut butter I knew about on the ship.

"No," he laughs, "Well, maybe later. But for right now I was thinking maybe
you'd be up for some visitors? I mean, only if you want to."

I hadn't really considered that anyone would come by the hospital; I
figured they'd all just wait until I got out. "Somebody is here to see me?"
I ask.

Ian snorts from across the room. "EVERYONE is here to see you, Devon. I'm
about to barricade the door to keep them out, but Conner wanted you to
sleep. Your whole crew is here."

Conner nods in agreement. "They are, and I think most of them have been
here the whole time. You can have visitors as long as you keep it low-key,
and I don't want more than two back here at a time until you're up and
around a bit more. And you can take the neck brace off, Ian. I'm sure it's
uncomfortable for him."

For some reason, thinking about my friends hanging out in the waiting area
makes me both really sad and really happy. This isn't the best mix of
emotions in my current state - I start to tear up again. Conner and Ian
might assume this is my reaction to Ian removing my neck brace, which hurts
because I'm really sore, but once it's off I feel a wave of relief pass
through my body. Man, that f-ing thing was UNCOMFORTABLE.

Conner squeezes my hand. "It's ok if you're not up to visitors."

"No, no," I say in a low voice. "You're right, seeing people will make me
feel better. I'm just a little emotional right now."

"You're entitled." Conner gets up, and I instantly miss the warmth of his
hand in mine.  "Ian and I will give you some privacy. Just have someone
come get us if you need anything. Anyone you want us to send back first?"

I shake my head, not feeling up to deciding who should be let back
first. Conner says he'll let them sort that out. My crack medical care team
disappears out the door and around the corner, leaving me on my own. It
sounds silly, but I panic a little. The room somehow feels lonely and
sterile the second I'm alone.

Fortunately, I don't have to wait long before Zane and Nick appear in the
doorway.

"Whoa," Zane says, "You look like crap." I would normally take offense, but
the statement is posed in Zane's goofy manner, and I take it as it was
meant, affectionately.  Both guys look exhausted. But on Zane this is
uber-sexy somehow.

"You look like crap too," I lie. I always think of Zane as needing to keep
his ego in check.  He smiles at me, as if daring me to say he's not totally
adorable.

"How are you feeling?" Nick asks. I say that I'm doing ok despite the
injuries, and explain what Conner and Ian had discussed with me. Both guys
ask if I'd mind sharing my pain meds with them - it's lame hospital humor,
but it makes me smile.

"You been crying?" Zane asks. It's an oddly direct question for him, and he
looks uncomfortable the moment he poses it. I don't blame him for asking,
though. I'm sure my nose and cheeks are red, and I probably have
tear-tracks down the sides of my face.

"Not really," I reply, sounding a little uncomfortable myself. "They had to
do another physical exam right before you came in, and I'm really
sore. Also, Ian needs some more practice with needles, preferably not on
me." It seems like a convincing lie.

"Conner says you should be up and around in a couple of days. That's good
news," Nick says. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I feel like I could
lie in bed for a month and still feel like a truck ran me down, but then I
also really hate being in here. I'm also starting to tire of people
discussing my condition while standing over me, which is what Zane and Nick
start to do.

I look over at Nick and notice for the first time that his shirt is adorned
with several large splatters of rust-colored dried blood. "Whoa," I say,
interrupting their conversation. "Did you get hurt?"

Nick looks confused so Zane points at what I'm looking at: the dried blood
marks. An expression of realization crosses his face and Nick responds in a
low voice. "No, ah, this is your blood Devon. You don't remember?"

I shake my head. It's scary not being able to remember something everyone
seems to think I should, and also really frustrating. My eyes begin
involuntarily watering up again and I fight to prevent myself from
crying. If Zane and Nick notice this, they kindly don't point it out. "I
was with you when you fell," Nick says. "You landed in one of those
planters in The Commons, but still it was a long fall. I ran downstairs. I
was totally sure you were..." Zane shoots Nick an expression of
warning. "...unconscious. But you weren't. You actually got up and started
wandering around, you don't remember that?"

Again I shake my head. "Anyway, there were these fires everywhere...if you
don't remember, there was a riot and people started throwing those
exploding bottles of alcohol...I mean, that was before you fell. Anyway, I
was worried you were really hurt, so I made you sit down on a couch and I
called for help. You kept wanting to go 'downstairs,' that's what you kept
saying. But I made you wait for a doctor, and when Moreno showed up we
brought you here."

Nick's story is rambling and hard to follow, the hurried words of someone
who's been through too much and had too little sleep. It sounds
unbelievable - riots and fires and injuries. And I don't remember a single
thing he's talking about. I try to. First by searching my memories, which
are a hazy cloud of mess.

Then I try physically straining to remember, tensing my body as if my
recollections are stored in my calf muscles somehow. This is both
UNBELIEVABLY painful and completely ineffectual - I don't remember a thing
and end up hurting so bad I want to puke. However, images of Nick naked and
hunched over a computer screen flash through my mind, and I have an almost
completely vivid picture of his erect dick in my mind. What's that about?

I put aside the boner visions for now. "There was a fire?" I ask, still
trying to remember the circumstances of my injuries.

"Yeah," Nick says, visibly grateful at the change in subject. "Well, not
too bad. Nothing in The Commons really burns, it's all that flame-retardant
stuff. But Steven Caine's group had started this bonfire in the middle of
the room with some bales of hay and stuff, then things got out of hand and
people started throwing these makeshift bombs - bottles of vodka or
something set on fire. It made everyone panic, and some people were hurt,
but no one was killed, thankfully."

"How'd they put them out?" I ask.

"No gravity," Zane says, and I look at him curiously. He shrugs, "The
sprinkler system was busted, I think. They're looking into that. So they
turned off the gravity in The Commons. Combustion puts out hot carbon
dioxide as it burns oxygen. This rises off a fire because it's lighter,
which sucks in new oxygen for the fire to burn. Without gravity all the
gases weigh the same, so the hot exhaust from the fire won't rise - it just
floats there right around the flames. The fire can't get enough oxygen so
it goes out."

"Cool," I say at the science lesson.

"It made hauling your heavy ass to the hospital a helluva lot easier," Nick
says, joking. I smile wanly. Then for no reason at all, I tear up again.

"Sorry," I say, this time not ignoring the issue. "I'm a little off today."

Zane and Nick exchange worried glances, probably wondering if talking about
the riot had stressed me out. It had, a little, but it was also helping to
hear about what happened.  Still, I'm making them uncomfortable so I try to
control my emotions.

We sit in silence for a moment, and this is perhaps the best part of the
visit. It's comforting. After ten minutes or so Zane speaks up
again. "Sorry, guess we're not great conversationalists this morning." I
smile - Zane doesn't realize that sitting quietly beside me has been the
best thing all day.

"The other guys are here, Devon," Nick says. "We shouldn't hog you to
ourselves.  Conner said only two people back here at a time, and I think he
may have a gun or axe or something in case we violate that rule."

I laugh at the image, then consider that Nick may be right. I'm reluctant
to let my friends go. I say goodbye and ask them to come back to visit me
later. Zane looks at me sadly and says he'll come back later that evening,
but in an uncharacteristic small voice I'd never heard him use
before. Before I can ask about it, though, they're out the door and I'm
alone again.

My next visitors are an unlikely pair - Mike Albers and AJ Mendell. I mean
'unlikely' only in that I'd expect Mike and Charlie to visit me
together. They seemed inseparable lately.  It's so notable that the first
thing I ask is, "No Charlie?"

Mike doesn't seem surprised that I'd expect Charlie to be with him. "Hey
Devon, how's it going?" he greets me. "Charlie is here, he just ran up to
the bathroom. I can go get him if you want."

I shake my head and Mike seems to get that I was just asking about Charlie,
not necessarily summoning him.

"Hey, Devon," AJ says.

"Hi," I reply.

AJ is one of my flatmates, he bunks in A-room next door. He's always been
something of a loner, and I don't know him all that well, although he's a
nice guy. I do know that he's totally into music, though - especially jazz,
so his next comment isn't a surprise at all.

"We, uh, that is, Beck and I made this playlist for you. Beck says it
should help you get better faster. I don't know about that, but it should
be fun to listen to. Where's your com, dude?" he asks, motioning to his own
wristcom, where I assume he's uploaded some music files.

I smile, Beck and AJ are always trying to 'broaden our musical horizons.' I
consider pointing to the table in the corner where my personal possessions
are lying, but then I realize that my left arm is completely restrained by
a cast and sling. I point right my right hand, which is still a little
encumbered, being attached to an IV tube, blood pressure cuff and some odd
clip things on two of my fingers.

"Over there," I say.

AJ looks around the room then sees what I'm trying to point out. "Oh," he
says, "cool."  Walking over to my com he punches a few buttons on his
own. Then he holds it in proximity to mine until a high-pitched chime
sounds, indicating that there's been a successful file transfer.

"Thanks," I say.

"No problem," AJ replies.

Mike is standing next to me. He looks worried, his brown eyes even larger
than normal, which makes him seem even more of a little kid. It's
endearing. "How are you feeling?"  he asks.

"Like I got hit by a truck," I joke. It's getting increasingly less funny
every time I tell it, but it feels like what you're supposed to say under
the circumstances. We chat about my injuries, and I wonder how many times
today I'm going to have to have this conversation.  Quite a few, I'd
guess. I shiver, suddenly realizing I'm a little chilled.

"You cold?" Mike asks. I nod. "Hey AJ," he says, "Is there a blanket over
there?"

People love feeling useful in a hospital, - I think it's a coping
mechanism. Mike and AJ are no exception, and the latter looks around for a
blanket, first opening the drawers that are obviously intended for much
smaller medical supplies and then looking in the two floor-to-ceiling
closets on the side of the room, which are empty.

"Maybe up there?" Mike asks, pointing AJ in the direction of a cabinet
above the sink very mysteriously labeled 'linens.' AJ sighs at having not
noticed the obvious location of the bedding and walks over to the sink. He
has to reach to open the doors, but when he does he finds what he's looking
for - a pile of sheets, towels and a large puke-green blanket with ugly
goldenrod paisleys imprinted on it.

The cabinet is high enough that reaching causes AJ's shirt to ride up his
stomach. I have to look - the guy has the smoothest, best colored tan skin
I've ever seen. Even on the verge of death (ok, so not really) I can't help
but peep at my friends. In this case, all I get is a rather nice view of a
toned stomach curving up out of jeans that are riding low over a pair of
dark blue undies, a red drawstring hanging lazily over the waistband of
AJ's pants.

"Hrph," Mike grunts. I look up to see him eyeing me with a smile. He seems
to know exactly what I'm thinking. I try to shrug, which is another painful
mistake. I really need to learn to keep my shoulder still.

"Sorry," I say, wincing.

Mike shrugs nonchalantly and rolls his eyes. I look sheepish and AJ walks
over to the bed, blanket in hand. "What?" he asks, clearly feeling as
though he's been left out of a joke.

"Nothing," Mike explains. "He's just being a dork."

The two gently arrange the blanket, first unfolding it like a giant green
balloon and then very slowly lowering it onto me. I feel like a bit of an
invalid. "Wow, that's the ugliest thing I've ever seen," says a familiar
voice. Once the blanket is out of my line of sight to the door, I see a
tired looking Charlie standing in the doorway.

"Yeah, it's not great," I say.

"Sorry," Charlie says, "They told me Mike was back here. I had to go rinse
off. I smelled like a horse barn." I knew that Charlie's family had owned
horses, so I figured if he thought that's how he smelled he was probably
being accurate.

"No problem," I say, which launches us into yet another rendition of 'how
do you feel?' I ask why everyone looks so beat, and am told that most all
of them - Mike, Charlie, Reid, Patrick, Zane, and Nick - had been hanging
out in the waiting area all night. I apologize, starting to feel like a
huge inconvenience. Charlie insists that it's ok and tries to sell me on
the idea that the never-ending rounds of Scrabble they'd played were so fun
that the group might have elected to spend the night in the waiting room
even if I hadn't been injured. I had a hard time buying this, even in my
drugged-up state of mind.

Charlie talked with me a little longer, and I get the sense that something
is bothering him. He's prone to moodiness, which is sometimes completely
obvious and sometimes pretty subtle. I don't like putting Charlie on the
spot, but I am worried about him.

"You ok?" I ask him.

Charlie reflects on this a moment, then looks on the verge of replying when
Ian steps into the room. "Sorry," Ian says, "It's just time to check his
vitals. I'll get out of your way in just a second." True to his word he
simply examines the monitor over my head, checks the IV, jots a few notes
and heads back to the doorway. The whole maneuver takes barely twenty
seconds. When he gets to the threshold he turns and clears his throat,
holds up two fingers and gestures to the three boys standing in the room.

"Sorry," Mike says for the group, apologizing for the violation of the 'two
visitor' rule. AJ offers to leave, but then all three agree to go and let
the next group have their turn. Mike and AJ leave first, then Charlie turns
to go.

"Hey," I say, stopping him in his tracks. "I meant it. Everything ok?"

Charlie turns and looks at me, his eyes brown and beautiful and sad, as is
their way.  "Yeah, Devon. I'm ok. Really. It's just been a long night. You
should rest. I want to come see you later, if that's ok?"

He asks as if visitors are some huge inconvenience. "Of course it's ok," I
say, trying to put his fears to rest. "I mean, please come back later. It's
horribly boring in here."

"Deal," Charlie says, flashing me a rare smile before leaving.

My next visitors are Reid and Patrick. I'm starting to feel like I'm on
exhibit. Both of my friends look a little worse for wear, Reid sporting
what looks to be the beginnings of a black eye and Patrick wearing a
bandage over what he later tells me is a minor cut on his cheek. Images
flash through my head at the sight of them - smoke and a fight and some
blurry green lights, but nothing is clear or overly coherent.

"Hey," Reid says affectionately. I may not remember everything about my
life, but I do recall that he and I were having a fight and not speaking
until recently. I am suddenly very happy we'd made up before this
happened. Having him here is very comforting, maybe more comforting than
any of my other visitors.

"Hey," I reply, trying to make the single word convey 'I'm really glad
you're here and I can't get by without you and your friendship is
invaluable to me.' Like most teenagers, I feel that my 'hey' successfully
says all of this.

We launch into yet another round of 'how is Devon,' which is getting a
little repetitive.  Once I insist that I'm doing okay considering, I try to
change the subject, asking about Reid's eye.

"Yeah, I think it's going to look pretty awesome tomorrow," he grins, and
then winces, his face obviously a little tender. "But you should see the
other guy," he laughs.

Images of Reid fighting dance around the edge of my memories. I can't quite
picture things with any clarity, but I get closer than I have with any of
the other events of the day before. "You were...fighting...on the security
force?" I ask slowly, taking a full minute to complete the entire
thought. It felt like I was right, but then I'm unsure.

Reid sighs contemplatively. "Yeah," he says, "I mean, sort of. You saw me
there?" he asks.

I don't answer, turning to Patrick as I recall something else about the day
before. "And you were there, by the bonfire. Right?"

Patrick looks a little nervous, glancing at Reid and then back at me, as if
unsure that he was free to speak. "Yeah. But you should rest, Devon. We can
talk about all of that later."

Suddenly I'm angry. Whatever occurred the day before resulted in my body
lying here all smashed up. And images of my friends on opposite sides of
the conflict were flickering through my scattered brain, but here they were
standing in my hospital room like nothing had happened. I'm in no mood to
be told to rest now and ask questions later, and I tell them so.

"Ok, ok," Reid says apologetically when my temper starts to flare. "We're
just concerned about you and don't want you overdoing it. But if you feel
up to it, we can talk."

I nod firmly, Patrick starts talking. "Well, you probably know that there
was a demonstration last night that led to...well...I guess you'd have to
call it a riot." I don't remember much, but from what I've pieced together
from everyone, a demonstration followed by fires and bombs and mass panic
would seem to qualify as a riot.

"The demonstration started peacefully enough. It was another one of Steven
Caine's protests, you know?"

I didn't know, and say as much. Reid explains, "Well, you know the whole
deal with how his group is unhappy about how things are run. It started
with the job assignments, and then spread to issues about the election,
living assignments, even food distribution."

I chime in. "Hey, I apologized PROFUSELY for 'Tuna Surprise Tuesday'."

I'd expected a chuckle out of either Reid or Patrick, but I'm
disappointed. Reid continues, barely acknowledging my joke. "At first he
had a small group of followers. Now there are several hundred, and they're
getting angrier. About everything. They've been having demonstrations in
The Commons on Friday nights, which is their right. Then they started doing
them several times a week, like the one last night. Until now, none have
gotten...out of hand."

I think about it; I'd noticed more tenseness on the ship recently, but
nothing on the scale Reid was talking about. "I didn't know things were
that bad," I said.

"I think most Friday nights your mind is on...other things," Reid says,
smiling, and I swear I catch him glancing down at my blanket-clad
crotch. Patrick displays a sideways smirk, which makes me blush. Reid and
Patrick seem to both know about my 'club,' and while they haven't ever
overtly made fun of me, this seems to be an occasion for a small exception.

"Anyway," Patrick says in a very official tone, breaking the awkward
moment. "The point is, we knew you weren't really interested or concerned
about all of this, and that's a good thing. The contention on the ship
is...stressful. To the crew, to Eden. To everyone. And it's annoying. We
may be on this ship for another eighteen years, so it would really behoove
everyone to get along."

I'm confused, and I'm sure my face reveals this fact. "But the two of you
were demonstrating last night, right?" I ask.

Reid and Patrick share a questioning glance, and then Reid shrugs. It makes
me uncomfortable, even more so when Reid walks over to the door and closes
it, first looking to see if there is anyone around. Apparently satisfied he
crosses back to my bedside, speaking in a hushed tone.

"We weren't sure how to tell you all of this, Devon, and honestly this
isn't my first choice.  I'm worried about stressing you out, but Conner
says you're going to be fine and there's nothing to worry about. I'm also
worried about you keeping this all confidential, not because I don't trust
you, but because you're a little out of it right now."

Patrick adds, "It's really important that you don't talk about this to
anyone. Not Conner, or Zane, or the other guys. Not even to Charlie."

The notion of a secret so great that I can't share it with anyone
immediately weighs on me, and I question whether it would be better to have
a secret I knew I had to keep or remain happily clueless. I don't like
either choice, but it's not a hard choice to make.

"That's fine," I say in a firm voice, almost annoyed that my loyalty would
be questioned by these two. "I can keep things quiet."

"I know you can, Devon. You're my best friend. You saved my life. We just
don't know that you should HAVE to keep a secret. But now you're involved
and we think it would be unfair to keep you in the dark."

"Okay," I say.

"There's something going on," Patrick explains. "Something we don't quite
understand.  There seems to be something we're missing, about why there's
so much contention."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

Reid continues, twirling one of my IV leads between his fingers as he
speaks. "Things have gotten progressively worse, and we have to wonder
why. At first it was just a dozen guys bitching about shit detail, which
seems innocent enough. Then there were fifty griping about the idea of a
brig on the ship, and then two hundred annoyed about the rations. Things
aren't all that bad, by any reasonable measure, but at every step we seem
to be coming back to the same thing - Steve Caine making people angrier and
angrier."

"The guy's a total dickwad," I snort, "What can you do?"

"I'm afraid it isn't as simple as that," Patrick says, sounding tired. "We
can't simply dismiss him. We're all stuck on this ship, and we're all
dependent on one another. What happened last night - the fact that you're
hurt - is evidence of this. We can't have five hundred guys refusing to
work, or fighting with five hundred other guys. It could lead to anarchy."

"You think Steven Caine wants chaos?" I ask.

Reid shrugs. "That's the question. What does he want? The rules we live by
here can be annoying, but they're not THAT bad. Look at the other ships -
talk to your friends out there. A lot of them are WAY overcrowded, and on
much more severe rations. And Steven knows this, so we have to question why
he's riling everyone up."

"And there are other concerns," Patrick says. "The more vocal his followers
get the more effort the crew has to put into maintaining order. At first it
was Eden's security force. I have no idea what sort of other restrictions
will be necessary after last night, but they're sure to only make things
worse. Unfortunately, the more rules that are needed, the more people will
be likely to listen to Caine's bullshit. It's not good."

I sigh deeply, plunging my head as deeply into the pillow as I can get it,
and with only a little neck pain - whoopie. This is just what I needed on
my mind - political contention, infighting, angst. Why can't people just
fucking get along? All I want out of life right now is to go to work, make
my tuna surprise casseroles, do my shit duties, then go home and get blown
by one of my friends. Is it too much to ask everyone else to do the same?

Patrick lays a hand on my (unwounded) shoulder, sympathizing. "We didn't
want to pile all of this on you," he says, "especially not so soon after
your injury, but you asked. And we didn't want to keep you in the dark
considering the next week or two."

I arch an eyebrow. "Huh?"

Reid sighs, again apparently reluctant to burden me with the
details. "There are a group of us...not many, but a few, who wonder how
this can be made better. What can be done to ramp things down a
bit. Nothing seems to be satisfying Steven or his group, and this seems to
be making the crew and Eden respond even more extremely."

"It's not good," Patrick says thoughtfully. "And we're mostly all college
students. You would think some of us would know our history better. Two
groups exerting increasingly drastic pressure on one another almost always
leads to an undesirable end."

Reid looks at him in an annoyed manner, silently chastising him for taking
the conversation into the academic. "Sorry," Patrick says, "The point is
that we need to learn more about what is causing all of this. Because as of
right now, it doesn't quite make sense."

"So you joined opposite sides?" I ask, increasingly confused.

"Precisely," Patrick says, as if everything has been explained.

Reid can see that it hasn't and elaborates. "What Patrick means is that
we're getting more involved, trying to figure things out. We both joined
the security force - me out in the open and Patrick in secret. He's
starting to get involved with Steven's group, going to meetings and that
sort of thing. Hopefully this can provide some insight into what's going
on."

"It sounds sort of crazy," I say bluntly.

Reid looks worried. "It may be," he says, continuing to play with the
various clear tubes I'm hooked to. I watch this nervously, hoping he
doesn't absentmindedly rip the port out of my hand. "But it's all we can
think right now. If Patrick can get into the group, maybe he can figure out
what they're really so upset about. Then we can take that to Eden and see
if we can start to work towards a compromise."

Reid working as a security guard, Patrick volunteering to be a de facto
spy, it's all a little much for a guy following an unsuccessful bout with
gravity. I suddenly feel very tired.

Patrick seems to notice this. "We can talk about this later. You need your
rest. We just wanted to explain why you saw us...well, why you saw us on
opposite sides yesterday.  And why you'll see us more at odds with each
other soon."

"What do you mean?" I ask hoarsely.

Reid again looks uncertain, but then answers my question. "Patrick will be
associating more and more with Steven's group. To make that work, he and I
are going to have a 'falling out.' We'd planned to start that this week..."
I instantly put on what I assume is perceived as a very confused and hurt
expression. Reid continues, "Don't worry, we were going to talk to you
before we did anything. Anyway, he and I are going to get into an ongoing
argument about things, and make it seem like our friendship is under a lot
of strain."

"But it won't be," Patrick says, patting my shoulder reassuringly. "It just
needs to seem to be. And I'll need to move out."

The statement takes a moment to register. "Move out?" I ask.

"Yeah," Patrick says sympathetically. "Sorry, bud, but I need to seem
completely pissed off at the world, like most of Steven's guys. Reid and I
plan to have some fights in public, then I'll request reassignment. At
least for now. Hopefully it won't be permanent. And we'll delay things now,
obviously - wait for you to get home and feel a little better."

I don't have a response for this. Not even remotely. Yesterday I was a
happy-go-lucky gay boy in search of fun times, and today I'm wounded,
broken, and being told that my best friends are going to have a huge fake
fight so that they can get to the bottom of some annoying teenage angst
that's apparently spreading like a virus through our little community.

All of this I could probably deal with under better circumstances, but in
my current condition it's too much. Living with five guys in one room isn't
ideal (thank god it's not eight, like the space was designed for!), but I'd
come to think of Reid, Patrick, Nick, Jacob and me as a little family. I
don't care much that my arm is smashed to pieces and that I feel like crap,
but having our little unit broken up feels...unbearable.

Reid and Patrick both pick up on this - in my current state I'm not exactly
a master at masking my emotions.

"You okay?" Reid asks, concerned.

"No," I say, the tears I've been fighting back all day working their way
back to the surface and then breaking through the fragile barrier I'd
created for them. "This fucking sucks. I don't want to be stuck in this
fucking bed anymore, or hurt. And I don't want you two fighting. Why does
Patrick have to move out? God dammit, this is all just so...FUCK!"

Later I'm told that I can be quite foul-mouthed when I'm hurt. I vaguely
remember my conversation with Reid and Patrick, but I'm told my rant
continues with twenty-seven instances of the 'f-word,' nine 'shits' and
three 'c-words' before petering out. I think I was venting a little, to be
honest, and my friends honorably stand in my line of fire and let me vent.

Ultimately I calm down. "Sorry," I say meekly, snuffling back a glob of
snot.

"It's ok," Reid says, "But dude, do you kiss your boyfriend with that
mouth?"

This gets a smile from me, even in my enraged state, both because Reid is
right - I was being a little foul-mouthed - and because it felt good for my
friend to be alluding to my gayness so casually.

"This is too much for you right now," Patrick says. "And you need to
rest. We can talk about this later. You look tired."

As if Patrick's comments set off some sort of nurse's radar, Ian sneaks
back into the room to check on me. He seems to realize he's wandered into
an emotional conversation, but doesn't seem bothered by it. "You feeling a
little tired and cranky?" he asks. I know why - I'm sure I look like
complete and utter shit by now. I consider arguing with him, but just nod.

"I think our guy could use a nap, and Conner just signed off on some more
pain meds if you want them. Then we can see about lunch - anyone up for
chicken nuggets and jell-o later?" Ian asks, playing the nurse roll
perfectly.

Reid and Patrick take the cue and say goodbye.  They both look really
worried after my outburst, but also like they want to postpone further talk
until I feel better. For my part, I get super-drowsy and concede to Ian
that I could use another shot of painkillers. And like before, the second
they hit my bloodstream and my pain fades to a dull buzz, I fall
immediately asleep. This time my sleep is restless, however, and fraught
with thoughts about riots and contention and Reid in uniform. But I'm
seventeen, and ultimately I also get in a little section of dreaming about
sucking someone off and things feel a little better.

***

And so began my hospitalization. It's probably often the case with young
people who end up chained to a hospital bed, and it was no exception for
me, that this ultimately resulted in a negotiation with the doctor, who in
this case was also one of my best friends. I was feeling much better the
evening of the first day, my stomach full of food and boredom setting in,
so I mentioned to Conner that I was looking forward to getting out.

"I'd like to keep you at least a week, I think. We'll see, but probably a
full week."

I whined about this, pointing out that we lived on a space ship. It's not
like he couldn't make house calls for checkups. "That's not the point,"
he'd said, "You need to take it easy and give those breaks time to set. But
we'll see. I promise we won't keep you here any longer than necessary."

So I'd done what anyone would do and asked for the week to be shortened to
two days.  "Sorry, seven days," Conner had said dispassionately, making
some notes in my chart.  "Think of it as a vacation in the least exciting
hotel room in history."

"Three days?" I'd asked hopefully.

"Seven."

"Four?"

"Seven."

"Five and three quarters?" I'd asked, raising my voice an extra octave to
sound as cute as possible.

Conner had smiled. "Seven, and if you don't stop it I'll make it a
month. Wait, no, then I'd have to put up with you." He'd reached over and
tousled my hair affectionately. I'd smiled and laid back against my pillow,
still sore, and a little annoyed that my negotiating skills had been
unsuccessful.

Conner got off his shift at seven, and offered to stick around. I was bored
out of my mind, and it was comforting to have someone else in the room, but
I didn't want to make him stay around me all day. I told him that Zane was
due to come by and could keep me company.

Once Conner left I immediately regretted having him go. I didn't have a
firm time when Zane would stop by, or any of the other guys for that
matter, but I expected they'd come over, at least to pop their heads in, as
people were finishing shifts and getting ready for dinner.

It therefore came as a great surprise to me when eight o'clock came around
and no one had shown up, and then nine. There was an entertainment center
on a swing arm on the bed, and I tried to watch a little television, but
somehow the fact that I was anchored in the bed with no alternative for
amusing myself made it distinctly unsatisfying.

Even Ian had abandoned me. He was off-shift, and while I still had a nurse
assigned to me who stopped in at least once an hour, he was a rather stern
looking guy I didn't know. He had a hawk-shaped nose and dull eyes that
made him seem eternally indifferent, which was verified when I tried to
strike up a conversation. He grunted an acknowledgement to anything I said,
but didn't add much. I guess bedside manner is an acquired skill for some.

The first evening was the worst. I was still in a lot of pain, and this
seemed manifested on an emotional level when none of my friends showed
up. All the time that I'd lost to the knock on my head - the many hours
preceding my accident - seemed to come back to me that night. Not memories
of those hours, but just the raw, naked time itself, as if the universe
were extending each hour I spent in bed threefold just to make sure I
wasn't gypped of any pain or suffering owing to the amnesia.

My arm hurt. I mean, obviously. And it made me angry. And cranky. When I
fell asleep around midnight, I was channeling this into a general annoyance
at everyone who'd said they'd come see me but hadn't, and at the person who
decided to paint the walls the color they were, and at the blanket on my
lap, and at the universe in general. And also at cupcakes. No reason, I
just thought they seemed smarmy and cloyingly sweet as a general
rule. Fucking cupcakes.

I woke up again around four o'clock. It was weird because I swore it was
late morning, and my body responded by waking up fully, ready to face the
day. Then the soreness set in. FUCK!

"Ugh," I groaned. My body ached and my mouth tasted like a sandwich made of
week- old bread and leather.

I looked over to see that Conner was again curled up in the armchair in the
corner, his head lying on folded arms. He stirred, and I regretted making
noise that woke him. He looked at me sleepily, and although I pretended to
be asleep he didn't fall for it. Standing slowly, yawning largely in a
magnificent manner, arms outstretched fully, he wiped sleep from his eyes
and then walked to my bedside.

"You on shift already?" I whispered. I'm not sure why, it just felt
appropriate to whisper because it was so late. Other than a dim lamp behind
me, the room was dark.

"No," he said. "I just wanted to stick around in case you needed
anything. Besides, the chair is really comfortable."

There were red lines running down his face, neck and arms that, if he
positioned himself correctly, would display the perfect imprint of the
chair's surface down to the finest detail, so I was pretty sure he was
overstating the comfort of the furniture.

Conner poured a fresh cup of 'hospital drink,' whatever it was, and offered
me the straw.  I gratefully accepted. Less concerned about throwing up, I
gulped down the entire glass greedily. Conner poured a second and I drank
that too.

I had to catch my breath after drinking so fast. Once I did, I off-handedly
asked, "Did you always want to be a doctor?"

Conner looks reflective. "Yeah. I did. At least since I was in high
school. I mean, I never thought it would happen like this, but I like it."

"You seem good at it," I say. Conner blushes at the compliment, which is
endearing. I add a little sarcasm to lighten the moment. "I mean, I don't
feel like you sewed anything up inside me. And I'm not leaking from any
orifices, that I can tell."

"Well, that's something, I guess," he laughs.

Then I get serious for a moment. "But thanks...for everything," I say.

Conner grabs my hand. "No problem."

It may have been the 'leaking from orifices' comment, but suddenly I
realize that I need to pee. This is really concerning because I'm still
connected to several medical devices. I feel really shy about it, but I
tell Conner my predicament.

"Um," he says, "You don't have to worry about that - you can just go."

I have no idea what he's talking about, I'm not sure I can sit up yet, much
less get to the bathroom. I try to sit up, but then fall back into the
bed. "I don't think I can get up," I grunt, annoyed.

"No, I meant you can go right here." Conner looks a little bashful, then
explains that they put a catheter in me when I first came in.

"Really?" I ask. "I wondered why I felt so weird down there."

"We'll take it out tomorrow, along with your IV. You should be able to
start getting up and around by then. But for now I'd recommend just using
the...well, just doing it in bed."

Now I REALLY feel like an old man. Pee in the bed? Even with a catheter -
gross. "I don't think I can," I say. "I'll just hold it until morning."

Conner laughs. "Are you crazy? You'll explode."

He may be right, I feel VERY uncomfortably full. Dang that second glass of
lemony goodness. "Well, I'm not peeing my pants," I say firmly.

This makes Conner laugh again. "It's not peeing your pants, Devon. You
aren't even wearing pants. There's a tube leading into a bag. Don't worry
about it. Just pee and tomorrow we'll give you back bathroom privileges."

We argue back and forth a little. Not seriously, just being silly. I say
I'm afraid that the bag will fill up and pop, like some horrid water
balloon filled with 'essence of Devon.' This gets Conner laughing, and it's
good to see. I like 'Doctor Conner', but I prefer my friend.  It makes me
smile.

"Ok, ok, fine," I finally say. "I'll go in the bag. But you can't tell
anyone, and this comes off first thing tomorrow."

"Sure," Conner says, remaining in his seat next to me. I arch an
eyebrow. "What?" he asks, as if he has mustard smeared on his cheek.

"Well I can't go with you sitting there," I say.

Conner snorts at my prudishness. "You're such a baby. You know, I'm sure
there are some guys who'd like the ability to urinate mid-conversation
without anyone knowing."

"Ha, yeah, well, not me," I assert, " I'm not pee-shy, but I don't want it
all over me. Or in a tube leading out of me. Or whatever. I've always been
a little OCD. It's dirty."

"That's good to know, considering you handle all our food," Conner points
out.

He doesn't seem like he's going to get up, so I decide to just fuck
it. "Fine. Here I go," I say. And this is really embarrassing, but the
moment I try to go my body refuses.

"Everything good?" Conner says, trying not to smile at what I'm sure is a
very goofy expression of extreme concentration.

"Um, it's not working," I say.

"It can take a second. I could tell you a joke. About water, maybe."

"I'm not sure that will help," I say.

Conner isn't deterred. "So an H2O molecule meets up with a friend, and the
friend says 'How's things?' " Conner is mimicking the cadence of a stand-up
comedian rather goofily. "And the molecule says 'fine, but I seem to have
picked up this extra deuterium oxide isotope,' so the friend says - the
friend says 'Wow, heavy.' Get it?"

I groan. It's about the worst joke in the world, but its terribleness makes
me laugh.  "Dude, that's SO bad," I say, then stop mid-sentence. Suddenly I
was peeing. Conner's joke had worked.

"Are you going?" Conner asks, looking a little triumphant that his joke had
worked.

"No," I say shyly, turning red.

"You are, aren't you?" he grins.

"Shut up," I say childishly. "This is weird." I let my bladder empty into
what I assume is a tube leading to a bag under the bed. It's weird, but I
feel very relieved that I'd gone.

Conner and I talk into the morning - my internal clock seems to be off and
I have no desire to go to sleep. I feel really relieved to have someone in
the room with me, although I kick him out when Ian comes on shift. I'm sure
being well-rested is a good thing for a doctor, and I'd hate for anyone
else to suffer because I wore Conner out.

"Doctor McLaglen says you'd like to be disconnected this morning," Ian says
after Conner leaves. It's still weird hearing him referred to as 'Doctor
McLaglen'.

"Yes, please," I immediately say, trying not to sound too pleading. "He
also said I could get out of here this morning?" I instantly regret making
the statement a question.

Ian chuckles at me. "Nice try," he says as he disconnects the leads from
the suction cups placed in a square on my chest, and then tells me to brace
myself as he rips them off one at a time. I'm rather grateful I don't have
a lot of chest hair. He takes the IV out, and for all the smack I've talked
about his needlework, I don't feel a thing as he removes the sharp
instrument from the vein in the back of my hand.

"We'll just get this catheter out, and you'll be mobile again," he says,
lowering the blanket on me and moving to raise my hospital gown.

"Whoa!" I say, trying to sit up. "I can do that part."

Ian looks at me uncertainly, then says dryly. "Really? With one hand?
You're just going to yank a tube leading up your penis out with one hand?"

I frown sheepishly. It's hard to get used to people caring for me in this
manner. I suppose he's right - the yanking idea sounds bad. I shrug, and
resolve to let this be the last insult to my manhood before getting well
again. Although Ian seems to understand my embarrassment. He closes the
door and pulls the window shade down before proceeding.

"Don't worry, I'll be careful," he says, slipping a gloved hand up under my
gown. "And it's not like it's something I haven't seen before," he
adds. "We all have one. Well, not everyone, I suppose."

His rambling is silly, but it cuts down on the awkwardness, and before I
know it the deed is done. "There we go," he says, dropping an unlikely
length of tubes and bags into a hazardous waste bin. "Feel like maybe
standing up?"

I do, actually, although my idea of standing up - hopping out of bed and
stretching and running in little circles around the room - conflicts with
Ian's, which is to take a full fifteen minutes to prep before I shakily
attempt to defy gravity. In the end I manage, despite massive soreness in
my chest. I ask if he thinks I'm ready for a marathon. "Maybe we can hold
off on that until later," Ian says. "For now I'm happy with the
standing. Let's get back into bed, and then this afternoon we'll try
walking a little."

I grumpily agree.

The day passes slowly, but it's not as bad as the night before. Conner and
Ian are both working, and they seem inclined to spend a lot of time in my
room. "I'm not keeping you away from other patients, am I?" I ask Ian as he
takes my blood pressure for the fourth time that day.

"Nah," he replies. "We were swamped the night after the riot. I hate to say
it, but you were one of the worst off. Most everyone else has been
released, and we're back to normal. Just the occasional sprained ankle or
whatever."

Later that afternoon, I'm distracted from the TV when Conner has a bit of
an argument in the hall. "...I don't really think it's a good idea. I'd
rather tomorrow. But if you think it's necessary," he says, clearly a
little agitated. I can't see who he's talking to, my shade is still drawn.

"How about I promise we keep it under five minutes?" A familiar voice
says. I recognize it right away as belonging to Eden Stranton, Conner's
roommate and, more notably, Mayor of the civilian population.

"Fine, but don't stress him out." Conner is clearly agitated about
something.

I don't have to wait long to find out what. Eden enters my room along with
another very unlikely visitor - Steven Caine. "Devon, how are you?" Eden
says in a genteel voice, his eyes blazing blue and kind and sexy. He's
wearing a black t-shirt that, although blank, should be emblazoned with 'MY
PECS ARE PERFECT!' in large white letters. I'm always a little
uncomfortable around this ideal specimen of manhood.

"Um...good...I guess," I squeak, looking awkwardly at Eden, then at
Steven. Conner and the guys are one thing. I'm not sure about having these
two over when I'm in a dress.

"Good, good," Eden says, sounding quite sincere, then he puts on a tone
that seems much more official. "Well, I don't want to bother you too
much. We'll get to the point." He gestures to Steven, who looks a little
less genteel and a lot crankier.

"Uh, yeah," Steven begins. "I've just been going around today, talking to
anyone who was hurt Thursday night. I wanted to apologize about how things
went down."

"Um...ok." I find myself unable to hide the doubt in my voice. I didn't
know Steven, but he'd made such an ass of himself since we'd left Earth I
couldn't help but know of him.  He was a good looking guy, really, with
green eyes and delicately arched eyebrows. I might find him attractive
under other circumstances, but given what I knew about his personality he
seemed really unattractive. Repulsive even. Although there seemed to be
plenty of guys who liked him - he was pretty popular apparently.

"As you know," he continued, "My group...my friends and I...we disagree
with a lot of the way things are run, and we feel like we need to speak up
about that. But it was never my...our...intention to have things spiral out
of control like it did. You were hurt, and that's unacceptable. It's
unacceptable that anyone was hurt."

"Ok," I say, not sure how to respond. I don't like Steven, but he has a way
about him. He seems almost sincerely sorry, and his words do sway the way I
feel about things a little.

"So that's it," he says, clapping his hands together in front of his chest
annoyingly. "I just wanted to check in and see how you were, and if there's
anything I can do."

"Maybe have fewer riots in the future?" I say dryly in a quiet voice.

Steven looks annoyed for a second, but then his expression softens. I have
the distinct impression the softer visage isn't necessarily the most honest
one. He composes himself and then speaks. "You're absolutely right," he
says, "And I think we can accomplish that.  I've asked people to knock off
the demonstrations for now, although it's healthy for people to express
their opinions."

"Yeah," I agree. "Patrick talks a lot about your meetings, about what
you're trying to accomplish," I lie. If I have to talk to this asshole, I
figure I can at least help Patrick and Reid out with their whole Mata Hari
thing.

"Patrick Dellano?" Steven asks.

"Yeah, he's my roommate," I reply. I quickly add, "And best friend."

"He's a good guy," Steven says, "And smart."

"Ok, ok," Conner says, ushering himself into the room with a little more
volume than necessary. I'd seen him hovering just outside the door, and
wondered when he'd been in to check on me. "It's time for us to clean him
up, and I think he's had enough excitement for one afternoon."

I'm grateful for the interruption, and respond by trying to look as tired
as possible, which isn't that hard. Steven and Eden agree to leave, and
after another minute of apologies and well-wishes, they exit the room.

Once I'm sure they're gone, I ask, "What the frell was that about?"

"I'm really sorry about that," Conner replies, ignoring my use of my
favorite fake swear word, 'frell.' "Apparently, part of Steven's
'punishment' for the riot is that he has to apologize to everyone that was
injured. Eden requested that specifically, and I don't know if you could
tell, but Steven is none too happy about it."

"He seemed genial enough," I say, too tired to bitch about how much of an
ass the guy was.

Conner looks thoughtful, as if measuring his words carefully. "I
guess. I've never quite trusted him, and I've known him since I was a
freshman. He's an okay guy, but only okay if he wants something from you,
know what I mean?"

I nod.

Dinner that night was mac and cheese and applesauce, which suits me. I kind
of like how hospital food all seems like its intended for six year-olds. I
rather like mac and cheese and applesauce.

Conner and Ian both keep me company, even after their shifts end. And Zane
finally shows up - about twenty-two hours later than promised - looking a
bit sheepish and uncomfortable. I don't give him much slack, treating him a
little colder than maybe I should. After some small talk, we agree on
watching a movie and everyone pulls a chair up around my bed. It's funny
how TV with friends is so different than TV alone.

Around eleven I'm told that it's my bedtime. Well, eat like a six year-old,
be treated like a six year-old I guess. Conner and Ian start up a
discussion about which of them will stay with me overnight. Both seem a
little worn out, and while I crave company in here I also want some alone
time. It's a weird paradox.

"You know what, guys?" I interrupt them. "In all honesty I feel a lot
better, and I could use a night to myself." I wonder if it seems like a
rude request, but both guys are amiable.  Conner even issues orders for the
nurse to let me alone all night, which I'm appreciative of.

Zane is less excited about me spending the night alone. "I could stay, if
you want..." he says, trailing off.

I try not to be overly cold, although I'm sure that I come off as a little
angrier than I need to. "That's ok. I was alone last night, and I was
fine. Like I said, I'd really just like to sleep. As long as someone will
be by tomorrow?"

"I come on at six," Ian replies. Zane shuffled his feet; I don't know if he
picked up on my snarkiness or not, but I assume he had.

"Cool," I tell Ian.

Falling asleep that night proves more difficult than the night before. I
learn that people who sleep on their backs probably fare better in
hospitals than us side-sleepers. It's really hard to change your habits,
especially when doing so is required because of a huge honking cast on your
arm.

I fall into a light sleep, at least until awakened by the sound of someone
outside my door.  It's just after two am. I snap out of sleep. My first
thought is that it's Conner coming back to take up his nightly vigil on the
chair.

"I told you I'd be okay on my own tonight," I groan, annoyed at being woken
up just when I'd fallen asleep.

"Sorry," came the soft reply. I look up to see a very bashful looking Mike
in the doorway.

"Oh, sorry." My voice is groggy and sounds raspy again. "I thought you were
someone else."

"Sorry," Mike replies, still looking like he's wondering whether he's upset
me.

I try to make up for snapping at him with humor. "So, uh, what's a guy like
you doing in a place like this at this time of night?" I ask in a cheesy
voice.

He smiles, probably grateful I'm not going to leap out of bed and strangle
him. "Sorry," he says a third time, and I briefly consider doing just
that. "I couldn't sleep. I thought you might be lonely."

"It does get a little boring in here," I admit.

"How are you?" he asks, crossing the room silently in a boyish shuffle.

"Good as can be expected, I guess. You?"

"I'm really good, actually," he says hurriedly, almost gushing. A big grin
spreads across his face, then he collects himself, as if seeing him smile
isn't allowed.

"What?" I ask, his smile becoming infectious. My curiosity is also
piqued. "What is it?"

Mike refused to tell me, insisting that it's nothing. Then insisting that
it's something, but something he has to wait to tell me later. I find
myself wondering if he's found a better place to jerk off than his secret
spot in the engineering section, but think better than to ask him directly.

"I'm sorry you got hurt," he says in a little boy's voice. Mike can be
quite angelic when he wants to.

"S'ok," I reply, half meaning it. "At least I get to eat mac and cheese
every meal."

"Cool!" he says.

Our conversation meanders. Part of my mind concentrates on the small talk,
and another part wants to fall back asleep. Another wonders why Mike came
down here so late. Still another can't get the image of Mike in the
vibrating room out of my head. We'd snuck in there a few weeks back, and
the effect on one's body when the engines were firing was...dramatic.

"Charlie and me went to that wet farm you told us about today. I didn't see
Beau, though."

I smile at Mike's childish use of grammar. He has like a 175 IQ, I'm pretty
sure he's doing it to be cute. And it is. I'd forgotten that I'd
recommended the location to the duo as an ideal swimming spot - much better
than the crowded pool in Bottomside. "He doesn't come out all the time," I
explain about the whale. "He's a little shy. I'll introduce you next time."

Mike talking about the whale tank doesn't help a newly developing
predicament I'm in.  Pictures of Charlie and Mike swimming naked start to
float through my brain. I imagine them wrestling in the tank, two thin,
lithe bodies slipping against one another salty and slick and wet. I may be
broken, beaten and stuck in this horrid bed, but I'm a teenager, dammit,
and nothing can stop the march of hormones!

"That would be really cool. We had a lot of fun. Charlie was all
like...uh..." Mike trails off, as if he's lost his train of thought.

See, and this is what's stupid about hospitals. I'm not wearing anything
except a gown, and my blanket is really thin. I'd become aroused, and it
wasn't exactly the easiest secret to keep. "Uh, so Charlie was like..."
Mike says, turning his attention back to me. I try to think clean thoughts,
but then I flex my butt accidentally, which causes the lump in the sheets
to jump visibly.

You know what the deal is with the boner in the room? It gets everyone's
attention off the fucking elephant.

"So, uh, anyway," Mike stumbles on his words.

I decide to let him off the hook. I'm the one with the erection, after
all. "Sorry," I say, "I was thinking about something else." That sounded
wrong. "I mean, I'm listening, I just was thinking about you and Charlie
skinny dipping." And that was worse. I try to recover a third time, but the
situation is kinda funny and I laugh through my words. "I mean, you were
making me horny. No. Ah, jeez. I mean...whatever. Oh my god, this week has
SUCKED."

Mike smiles at me sympathetically. "Sorry."

"S'ok."

"So," he says coyly. "Is that a banana in your hospital gown, or are you
just happy to see me?"

It's cheesy and lame and predictable, but the perfect joke considering the
moment. It gets me laughing, which both hurts and makes Mike laugh too. It
may be the first real laugh I've had since the accident.

"It's good to see you smile," Mike says, as if reading my mind.

"Thanks."

"And I'm glad not everything was broken," he says, placing a palm against
the spot in the sheet where my dick is pressing outward. I inhale sharply.

"You know," I say, "Me too. I haven't tried it out since, well, you know."

"Oh," Mike says, a questioning look on his face. Then his eyes grow
extra-wide. "Oh!" he exclaims.

I hadn't been hinting, honestly, but maybe he took it as such. Mike
nose-dives into my crotch, and before I can say what the flip, he's pulled
down my blanket and stuffed his head up my gown. Well, they are designed
for easy access.

A warm hand wraps around my shaft, very shortly thereafter replaced with a
pair of hot, wet lips. Mike and I learned the skill of BJs together, and
after a lot of practice (a LOT) he's definitely earned his black belt in
the art. He goes to town, immediately swirling his tongue in all the right
places and sucking just right.

"Jeez, Mike!" I gasp, hormones exploding all throughout my body. I almost
want to yell at him - I'm incapacitated, for god's sake - but then I don't,
this feels really, really good. If I move too much it hurts, but if I lay
still it's heaven.

"Mrph!" He says from under my gown. I'm not sure what that means, exactly,
but as he slides his lips up and down my pole I find myself not really
caring.

The last forty-eight hours had been horrible. Painful, boring, scary. But
this, this feels right. This feels good. My ribs are still killing me, but
fuck this feels good. "Oh my god," I gasp, "You're so fucking good at
that. Ah, ah. Oh jeez!"

"Mrph mue," comes the response, which almost certainly means 'thank you.'

I feel bad. I can't really reciprocate. One of my arms is in a cast, and
the other is pinned under Mike. I try to move it, thinking I might jack him
off, but he slaps my hand away. I get the message - this is just for me.

"At least take your shirt off," I say when he comes up for air. Mike grins
widely and does one better. With a practiced maneuver he tugs off his tee,
and drops his shorts to the ground so that he's completely naked. We smile
at each other.

I love Mike's body. His small frame, the way his dick curves up towards the
ceiling. He bends back over me, pulling my gown up above my waist, and goes
back to work on my dick. I gasp and run my right hand up and down his
back. This time he doesn't protest, and moans lightly at my touch.

Mike's ministrations feel great, but then I start to wonder if I'm going to
be able to finish. I mean, I've never had problems before, but sometimes
when you think about it in the middle of sex it makes it harder to climax,
you know?

I don't have to worry about it for long, though. Mike takes me deep into
his throat and simultaneously uses his finger to apply pressure against the
spot right behind my balls.  It's a secret spot, a Devon spot. One that a
growing number of guys know about, now that I think of it. The pleasure
shoots through my body in spasms, then feels like it's all drawn back into
that one place deep inside my body where Mike's fingers are pressing
firmly.

"UH!" I gasp deeply.

Mike feels me approaching climax and releases the pressure. It brings me
inexorably to the brink of climax and then over.

"OH, FUCK...AH, AH, ARGHHHHHHH!" I gasp as I cum. I briefly freak out, not
wanting to splatter copious amounts of semen all over my sheets - they'd be
noticed by anyone who came into the room the next morning. But my fears are
allayed - Mike keeps his mouth over my erupting cock, drinking in my full
load.

It makes me thrash at the end, the pleasure too much. "Ouch!" I exclaim.

Mike comes back to earth, panic crossing his face. "Oh my god," he
exclaims, "I'm sorry.  Did I hurt you?"

I gasp for air. "No," I laugh. "That was awesome. But I'm still a little
sore."

Mike walks around my bed, still naked and erect (man, what a sight!); he
takes a sip from the glass on the tray next to me. "Mmmm," he grins, "You
taste like mac and cheese."

I'm sure I blush at this, but I also have to laugh. Mike is hot - super hot
- standing over me, boner pointing upward, drinking from the glass. "I want
to see you get off," I say, trying to put a little pleading in my voice,
although I know I probably won't have to ask twice.

Mike smiles and puts down the glass, then wraps his hand around his stiff
erection.  That's about the time we hear the door at the end of the hall
click open, followed shortly by footsteps on the hard tiled floor.

Mike's eyes go wide. "Oh, shit! I'm out past curfew," he says. "I can't get
caught. I'm totally busted!"

I have no idea what he's so worried about, but he's clearly in a
panic. "Then hide, over there," I tell him, nodding at one of the two
floor-to-ceiling closets in the room. The footsteps draw closer, and Mike
jack rabbits into the left closet, moving quite silently considering how
fast he moves. He doesn't bother to grab his clothes, or to cover me up for
that matter. I quickly use my free hand to pull the blanket over my
deflating dick.

A light rapping comes from the doorway, someone gently knocking. I'd
expected that the night nurse had decided to check up on me despite
Conner's orders, but instead I'm greeted by a familiar voice. "Hello?"

I sigh. All that bustle for this. "Hey Charlie," I say into the dark
room. The door opens and closes, Charlie's silhouette stepping inside.

"I thought you might be asleep," he says.

"Three a.m.?" I ask sarcastically. "Nah, I'm having a party in here."

"Sorry," he replies. He doesn't get the inside joke. I consider telling
Mike that he can come out, but then I'm not sure why he hid in the first
place so I keep my mouth shut.  Charlie walks over to my bedside.

"It's ok," I say, trying to sound a little more grateful that he's here. "I
was up."

"Cool. They have us on weird shifts," Charlie says. "I couldn't come by
before now. I wanted to come see you yesterday, but everything is a little
weird."

"Yeah," I say, "I heard about the curfew."

Charlie looks surprised, as if it's odd I should know about this already. I
wonder if I've given something away, but then he continues
speaking. "Yeah," he says, sitting next to my bed. "It's weird. I think
things will calm down, though. Look, Devon, there's something I want to
talk to you about."

Charlie looks very serious. I respond to this the way I usually respond to
serious - with a joke. "Dancing flamingoes?" I ask.

Charlie looks at me soberly for a second before realizing I'm goofing
around with him.  He smiles, revealing a chipped tooth I've always found
extra-sexy on him. "No," he laughs. "That would be good though, I guess."
He resumes his serious posturing, and this time I let him. "I needed to
talk to you about Mike."

I involuntarily glance over at the closets, where the very same Mike is now
hiding. "Look, Charlie," I say, not really wanting to compromise either of
my friends by allowing Charlie to say something he might want to keep
private, "I'm not sure that now is the best time."

Charlie sighs. "Yeah, you're right," he says. "It's too late to be
pestering you. I'm sorry.  But I can't sleep because I feel like I've
really messed up."

"Messed up?" I ask, forgetting for a moment that it's probably best to
change the subject.

"Yeah," Charlie says with a sigh, "I'm in love with Mike."

A little alarm bell goes off in my head. "Charlie, I'm REALLY sure this
isn't the best time," I say, trying to reaffirm that he should be quiet
now.

He doesn't seem to get the gist. "I know, I know," he says. "The timing is
shitty, you being stuck in here like this. And that's kinda why I had to
come down here tonight. I can't sleep. I think about it all day. I'm really
sorry to have to tell you this way..." I almost scream 'shut up!', but
restrain myself, "...but Mike and I are boyfriends now."

My words come gushing out. "You should really talk to Mike before...wait,
what?" I ask, my preformed sentence falling apart as Charlie's last
statement sunk in.

Charlie looks forlorn, and grabs his hair in a fist, tugging at it in a
manner he does when really stressed. "I know. This is all fucked up. I'm
really sorry. I really messed up. I'm really sorry," he rambles.

I'm confused, and I say so. "Wouldn't you guys getting together be a good
thing?" I ask, speaking really slowly and trying to analyze my own words as
I say them, as if I'm missing something obvious.

Charlie stops to take in my question. "Well, yeah," he says. "Obviously. I
don't mean THAT'S fucked up. I'm totally in love with Mike, and I think
he's totally in love with me.  That's great. Better than great. AWESOME."
He shuffles his feet on the floor, clanging a shoe against the metal leg of
the chair in a slow staccato. "We did it. A bunch," he giggles, the laugh
of a teenager who is getting some and wants to share it with the world.

I forget about the naked Mike in the closet for a second and try to figure
out what Charlie is trying to say, exactly. "Um, you've got me totally
confused."

"What do you mean?"

"Charlie," I say, trying not to sound too tired or exasperated, although
I'm both. "It's three in the morning and I'm on like forty-seven kinds of
medication. You tell me you and Mike are boyfriends, but then you tell me
things are a mess. Which is it? What the hell are you talking about?"

Realization dawns on his face. "Oh. Sorry. Am I being confusing?" I give
him a wide- eyed nod that screams 'hell yeah!'

He shrugs. "I just didn't know how to tell you. It happened last week, and
things have been so busy. Then this. I thought you might be...that your
feelings might be hurt."

Things are starting to make sense, but I want to confirm that I'm catching
on. "Hurt that it's not me?" I ask.

Charlie nods, and to be honest he looks like he's about to cry, which makes
me think about how important my feelings are to my friend, and that makes
me want to cry. "Aww, Charlie. Come here."

I wave him over and he steps closer. I take his hand in mine, it's warm and
dry and familiar. "I owe you a lot, you know? You're one of my best
friends. And I can't say...I can't say there wasn't a time when I thought
you might be boyfriend material." I glance nervously at the closet. I don't
want to say anything that will offend Mike, but I want to be honest with
Charlie.

"But you and me...well, it just developed into friendship, right? I mean,
like right away.  And it's a friendship I'll always treasure. I know that
sounds like a greeting card, sorry."  Charlie smiles at this - I'm getting
a little sappy.

I decide to cut to the crux of the issue. "It's sweet that you were worried
about me, but don't be. I've always wanted the best for you, and I've
always been a little worried about you, to be honest. Mike is one of the
best guys I know. I couldn't wish a better boyfriend for you, and I'd say
that if he were standing right here." It's a pointed comment, so sue me.

Charlie smiles sweetly. "Thanks, Devon."

I slap him on the chest playfully. "That's what you've been so worked up
about? Dude, I have like two hundred broken bones." Charlie shrugs
bashfully. He knows he gets worked up needlessly sometimes, but he also
knows it's one of the things I like about him.

And then he does something a little unexpected. He puts his hand on my
tummy and start rubbing it in small, gentle circles. I love tummy rubs, but
I'm also aware that Charlie's (apparent) boyfriend is stashed in my closet,
and since Mike has yet to emerge, I figure he must want to remain hidden
from Charlie. Sigh. Life with these two dating is going to be like this,
isn't it?

Back to the here and now, I shake my head at Charlie. He gets the message,
and asks, "What? Not in the mood? Are you sore there?"

I chuckle. "No, my tummy isn't sore. It's about the only place that
isn't. But it's late."

"Oh, laters then?" he asks.

"Charlie," I hiss in as low a whisper as I can manage, "What about Mike?"

He doesn't seem to get my hint to be quiet, and replies at near-normal
volume. "What?  Oh. Ohhhhhh...I get it. Nah, don't worry about that. We
decided to totally golden gate it."

Golden gating was popular slang for having a relationship where some form
of sexual play was allowed outside the relationship, but only after being
pre-defined and openly discussed. In a world where you could jump online
and be circle jerking with fifty other people at a moment's notice, it was
often necessary to set boundaries and expectations with your
partner. Charlie meant to tell me that Mike and he had discussed this and
decided what was and was not allowed.

"Cool," I said. "And the two of you are cool with what you decided?" Humans
are imperfect. Don't think that many relationships didn't end despite
staying honest to the rules.

"Yeah, totally," Charlie smiled. "I think being in the club helped. Gave us
an idea of what was friendly sexy and what was boyfriend sexy. We're going
pretty vanilla on the golden gate stuff. Ok to stay in the club, ok to jerk
and blow members. No penetration with others. Pretty standard."

"How progressive," I say in a silly voice.

"Indeed," Charlie replies. "So don't worry, you won't be cut
off. 'Specially not now."

"You know, I do fine on my own," I say, feigning hurt. "It's not like I
need the 'underwear brigade' coming to my rescue." This statement might
have seemed more earnest if I hadn't been growing hard. It's not my fault -
I SWEAR. Charlie's tummy rubbing was moving the cotton fabric of my
hospital gown across the tip of my penis. What would you think would
happen?

"In fact," Charlie said, "Mike's been stuck on this fantasy about you in
bed with a broken arm since the accident happened. I almost had to hose him
down to keep him away last night, but I told him that sort of thing is
sexier in porn than real life. But don't be surprised if he comes down here
soon. I mean, I sort of encouraged him, but I told him to wait for you to
heal a little. He'd be the perfect little candy-striper, right? Can you
imagine that ass in those little red shorts? Oh my god."

It's cute that Charlie is fantasizing about Mike right in front of me, but
I sense something beyond the sexual in the way he's talking about him. I
think my friend is in love.

And he's also in my pants, I think to myself as his hand shoots up the
underside of my gown and finds my half-hard dick, which he begins swinging
side-to-side playfully.  "Charlie, whoa, stop it!" I giggle.

"Looks like you might not be able to hold out for my boyfriend," he laughs.

It was sexy when Mike did it, and it's equally sexy when Charlie lifts my
gown to expose my naked crotch. And like Mike, Charlie dives right in,
taking my cock into his mouth without asking permission.

"Ahhh...wow," I sigh, the universal signal for 'yeah, you have permission.'

Dang - what is it with me and hospitals? Sneak, Mike, Charlie - do I give
off some 'violate me' pheromone when I'm in a hospital bed?

I grunt and groan, and Charlie does his best to pleasure me, opting for
more up and down thrusts than Mike used. I close my eyes for a few seconds,
and when I open them I see that he's pulled his shorts and underwear down
so he can play with himself while blowing me.

"That's so hot," I groan. Charlie gives me a sideways glance and smiles,
best he can with my dick in his mouth.

I am by no means a premature ejaculator. At least, I don't think I am. I
mean, I'm seventeen. I have some control, I think. Anyway, blowjobs usually
get me off pretty fast, especially when the guy is really trying, and in
this case Charlie really was trying. He goes a full fifteen minutes before
taking a break.

"Wow," he pants, "You're taking a while tonight."

I'd normally shrug, but I can't, so I just shake my head. "Sorry. You can
stop if you want."

"No way!" Charlie says defiantly, and I think in a voice he means to sound
like a pirate.  He goes back down on my dick, this time foregoing the
self-pleasure so that he can play with my balls and shaft with both hands
in addition to his mouth.

I don't have the heart to tell him I'm taking a while because I'd cum not a
half hour earlier, and although I wonder if I'm going to be able to shoot
again (hey, it's late!), it doesn't take long before he starts hitting my
buttons just right. I writhe, and make a cooing sound I sometimes can't
avoid uttering.

Charlie goes faster, knowing that I'm close, and soon I'm there
again. "ERGH!" I exclaim, arching my back (ow!) and letting loose. Like his
boyfriend, Charlie does me the courtesy of preventing me from mussing up my
sheets by swallowing my load. I am more than happy with this arrangement,
and shoot off in his mouth. It's a lighter load, but one that is no less
fun to fire off.

"That's my boy," Charlie says, licking his lips.

I catch my breath. "Whew, thanks."

"Anytime."

Charlie allows his pants to drop to his ankles, clearly eager to finish
things for himself. I look wistfully at my broken arm. "Sorry, dude," I
say, "I so wish I could help you out."

Charlie smiles at me. "I'll run you a tab," he says, "but don't think I
won't collect later on."

I laugh at him, and he grabs his dick, ready to flog it mercilessly. And
that's when the door to the hallway opens and closes.

I roll my eyes. "You have got to be kidding me," I say. I think it's funny,
actually, but like Mike, Charlie looks completely panicked by the
noise. "Hide in the closet?" I say, uncertainly. "But the right one...left
one is full."

Charlie utters a quick 'thanks' and does exactly as I suggested, which is
actually quite comical because his pants are still around his ankles,
resulting in a bare-assed waddle.

Whoever is in the hallway is almost to my room when I remember that my gown
is pushed up to my nipples, my naked not-quite-deflated penis still
swinging in the wind. I hastily pull the blanket over my nudity the last
possible moment before someone enters the room.

"Oh, you're up."

I look up to see a worried looking Nick Laskaway standing in my door. What
the hell is with these guys? Doesn't anybody visit during normal human
hours anymore? I consider asking this, but stick to my classic line. "Hey."

Nick crossed the room, pausing for a moment when a very audible 'ker-thunk'
sounds from the closet. He shakes his head, maybe thinking he imagined the
noise. I think about Charlie in one closet and Mike in the other, and
almost have to laugh.

"Can't sleep?" Nick asks.

"Something like that."

"Oh. Hey, Devon, I need to tell you something." Nick looks worried. There
seems to be a lot of that going around.

"Secret boyfriend? Lost whale? Mac and cheese breath?" I ask, being
silly. Nick looks scared for a moment; he might be worried I'm still
suffering from head trauma. "I'm just joking," I explain. "What's up? Here
in the hospital. At four in the morning. Where I am." I drone on, dryly.

Nick apologizes profusely, and I feel bad for making a joke. He's agitated,
clearly. "I, um, I don't know how to say this," he says. "But I felt like
you needed to hear it from me first.  I...uh...the thing is...it was my
fault when you fell."

Nick goes on to relay the events of two nights ago, explaining how we'd
stumbled across the riot and how it had been his idea to go up high to see
better. And then he explained about the crush between the security guys and
fleeing rioters, and how he should have caught me, kept me from going over
the rail.

I feel bad, the guy seems like he's about to start crying.

"Sheesh, Nick," I say, trying to sound comforting. "I mean, the first thing
is that I'm going to be okay. I may look like shit, but I'll heal. And the
second thing - none of this is your fault. Crap happens. I got pushed over
a rail. I'll try to stay away from mobs and railings from now on."

Nick looks at me sheepishly, his brown eyes large and watery and
beautiful. "Really?" he asks.

I answer matter-of-factly. "Well, yeah. I mean, if you fell off the third
floor you'd probably stay away from rails too."

Nick sighs, not sure if I'm being serious or not. "No, I meant you really
mean we're okay?"

"Okay?" I ask. "From what I'm told, you carried me to the hospital. Ok, so
in zero gravity, but still. You were there for me when I needed you. That's
what counts, not tossing blame around for other stuff that happened. Well,
unless we want to blame that douche Steven Caine."

Nick looks very relieved. "Cool. 'Cause I was sure when you found out what
happened...I was sure you'd be mad as fuck, and that we wouldn't be friends
anymore."

"Nope, sorry. I'm as un-mad as fuck, I guess. And we're still
friends. Always."

"Cool," Nick says, and it feels like some intangible weight exits the
room. "Also, to be honest, I didn't want to have to leave the club." Nick
smiles and blushes.

He's cute, and I decide to mess with him a little. "Oh, why is that?" I ask
slyly.

He turns a deeper shade of red. "You know...."

"I'm sure I have no idea," I say, playing it coy.

Nick realizes I'm messing with him, but still answers my question. "Well,
because it's hot.  I mean, duh. But also, you guys are like...I don't
know. I was always straight on earth, but hanging out with you guys...makes
me think, I guess. Did you see Mike and Charlie last week? Oh my god, I
freaking almost sprayed when they did that thing...but I should let you get
to sleep."

"It's so cute how you're shy about sex," I say, laughing at Nick.

"What? No I'm not."

"Yeah, you totally are. And it's cute. Sex talk makes you instantly
bashful. It always takes a little...motivation...to get you going, and then
you're like...bhew!!!" I make my best laser-pistol noise to try to signify
how Nick is when horny.

"Dude, whatever," my friend says, feigning annoyance but still
laughing. "You didn't complain when you were sucking me off on Tuesday."

"Wait, what?" I ask, giggling and sitting up at attention.

Nick explains about the events that occurred directly before we'd stumbled
onto the riot.  And he takes his time, explaining things in excruciating
detail. Now it's my turn to blush.  But at least it explains the flashes of
Nick naked from earlier.

"What? Four times? No way!" I giggle.

"Yeah, totally," Nick says. "You don't remember?"

An image of Nick's dick flashes through my mind. "Maybe a little," I say
thoughtfully. "But not enough, obviously. Sounds hot."

"It was," Nick agrees.

"You'll have to show me sometime," I joke.

"Anytime."

I shrug. "Now's good." I'm totally joking. It's the middle of the night and
Nick isn't ramped up - despite what he says I know this will make him
shy. This is partially why I'm shocked when Nick immediately tosses off his
clothes, unveiling a very hard and very large dick. "Uh..." I say.

"Told you it was hot. Look at me," Nick says. He looks to the floor, where
his clothes have joined the ones that Mike had shed earlier. "Uh, they just
threw your stuff on the floor, Devon."

After I'm released, I consider that I need to do two studies. First, I need
to find out what makes guys throw off their clothes in this room (and
whatever it is, hopefully I can bottle it). Secondly, I need to figure out
why nudity keeps causing people to come through the hallway door, which is
exactly what happens the moment Nick is totally naked.

"Oh shit!" he exclaims.

"And of course," I say dryly.

"I should hide!" Nick exclaims.

"You should hide," I say even more dryly. This is getting silly.

"The closet!" Nick says, moving to walk around my bed.

"Sorry, both full," I tell him. He takes me at my word.

"What do I do?" he asks, footsteps growing ever closer.

I glance down at his engorged cock. "Hang a shirt on it and hope you're
mistaken for a coat rack?"

"DEVON!" he hisses.

"Fine," I say. "Over there, in the corner." I nod to a nook created by the
bed and supply cart - a somewhat hidden corner in the room. Nick leaps over
the cart, his balls flopping as he flies over it, and hunkers down behind
the cart.

"This isn't a great spot," he whispers.

"Too late," I whisper back. And it is. A shadow passes across the shade;
someone is in the hallway about a foot from the door to the room.

Ian pops his head into the room. Great. I think to pretend to be asleep,
but I'm too late.  He sees that I'm awake.

"You up?" he asks.

"Yeah, just woke up for a little bit," I lie.

Unfortunately, this seems to concern him. He enters the room. "Any pain?"
he asks.

"No. I was sleeping fine. My clock is just all jumbled. I'll go back to
sleep. I'm pretty tired." This last part was true.

"Ok," Ian says. I notice that he's wearing a pair of athletic shorts and a
tank rather than his usual scrubs.

"Casual workday?" I ask.

Ian looks at his outfit and then laughs. "Nah. I'm not on for another two
hours, but I like to work out in the morning. I wanted to check in,
though. See how you were."

"Cool. Well, have a good workout," I say.

"Ok," he replies. I figure he'll head off to the gym, but he glances down
at my blanket, which is all askew. "Here, let me fix that for you," he
offers.

"No!" I exclaim, a little too sharply to be comfortable. My gown is still
up around my chest, and I don't want Ian seeing that. I mean, he saw it
before, but whatever. "I mean, it's fine. I sleep weird."

"Okay," he says. "Let me at least get you another one in case you get
cold."

Ian reaches for the closet door, one of which hides Mike and the other of
which hides Charlie. "I'm fine!" I exclaim, again a little too loud for
comfort.

Ian isn't stupid. He can sense I'm being a weirdo. "Devon, are you ok? You
seem a little high-strung."

"Bad dreams?" I shrug.

Ian's response is sympathetic. "Aww...sorry to hear that. Let me take your
blood pressure."

It so happens that I have a naked friend hiding in just about every corner
of the room, and it so happens that Nick is hanging out (literally) behind
the cart that houses the blood pressure checker.

"You know what?" I say a little forcefully. "I'm just a little
bwew-bwew-bwew" (I make the universal signal for crazy by twirling my
forefinger around my temple) "after some weird dreams. If we can hold off
on that until later I'd appreciate it. I just want to go back to sleep."

"Um...ok," Ian says uncertainly. "If you say so. I'll be down at the gym
for a couple of hours. Sleep if you can. Call me if you need
anything. Here, take your com."

Ian picks up my wristcom from the table at the entrance to the room. It's
lying next to a vase of red sunflowers, which I hadn't noticed before. Or
maybe I had, I was a little bizonkers this week. "Oh. Looks like Beck left
you more music," Ian says, bringing the com over to the bedside table where
I can reach it. He sets it down, along with a blue data chip.

I recognize it instantly, and it's not from Beck. "Where'd that come from?"
I ask.

"Over there," Ian says. "Conner didn't want you on your com yesterday, but
you seem okay enough to have it back."

"No, I mean the chip," I clarify.

"Um, it was with the com. You know, your roommate is crazy," Ian says,
referring to my flatmate Beck, who is in fact a little crazy. "He's emailed
me at least five times asking about music in the room, and about suggested
playlists. He doesn't seem to think you'll get better unless we play the
right stuff."

"Yeah, he's weird." I agree, letting Ian think the chip is full of Beck's
music.

"Anyway, unless you need anything else, I'll be off."

"Yeah, cool. See you this afternoon. I mean, tomorrow. I mean, this
morning."

Ian gives me a weird smile before turning to leave the room. I'm pretty
sure he's going to report my behavior to Conner later. Great. He pauses at
the doorway, lingering for a long moment. I'm afraid that Mike or Charlie
or Nick has made a noise, but then Ian leaves for the gym and all is quiet
again.

Nick stands up once he's sure Ian is gone. "Wow, that was close," he says.

I roll my eyes. Then I almost start giggling. Everything suddenly seems
very silly.

"Where were we?" Nick asks, hopping over the cart, his dick still very
erect.

"You still have a boner," I laugh.

Nick looks down. "Yeah. And you will too, in a sec."

He reaches into my lap, but I stop his grab with my one good hand. "What?"
he asks playfully, seemingly a little hurt that I'm not instantly up for
some play.

And then it hits me. My first real laugh since I got here. The whole world
seems hilarious, and while it hurts LIKE HELL, it feels great. I eventually
try to compose myself enough to speak, which isn't easy. "Heh, heh. You
guys...heh...too funny. Oh my god this is ridiculous. Everyone out...ha,
ha...everyone out, now."

Nick looks at me curiously, then nearly jumps out of his skin when the
closet door swings open, revealing a sardonic looking Charlie, still
sporting that 'nude from ankles to waist' look.

The other closet remains closed. "I said everyone," I enunciate with a
little more force.

This time both Charlie and Nick jump when the other door opens, revealing a
naked Mike. Poor guy, he's been in there for over an hour. I think he's
actually shivering.

Mike and Charlie look at one another suspiciously. "What are you doing in
the closet naked?" Charlie asks Mike, who shrugs and smiles bashfully.

I figure that of anyone in the room, I had the best point of view for the
evening's events, so I try to explain to my three friends how we came to
this point. I try not to laugh at them too much, partially out of respect
and partially because it really hurts when I laugh. The boys all get
dressed, but not before offering to 'help me out' one more time.

"You've got to be kidding," I say in exasperation. "It's almost five in the
morning.  Besides, I already got off twice. I'm beat."

Charlie and Mike take me at my word, but Nick, who has stuffed his
oversized boner back into his pants, looks a little regretful that I'm not
up for fun. "Are you sure?" he asks one last time.

"You know what?" I ask. "You were just going on about that thing these two
did at the last meeting. I'm going out on a limb here, but I bet if you ask
them really, really nicely, they'd take you upstairs for a special one-time
viewing of that very same thing."

Nick looks at me with dubious skepticism, at first slightly annoyed by my
patronizing tone. But when he looks up at Charlie and Mike, who have put
their arms over one another, and sees that they're eyeing him in coy
agreement with my suggestion, he smiles. "Maybe you're right," he says,
lacing up his shoes.

I send the three off for what I later hear is a very entertaining morning,
still laughing a little at how silly my friends can be. And maybe this is
why I'm able to fall asleep.  (Although I'd also put money on the fact that
it was so late. I mean early. Whatever.)

When I wake up again it's late morning, and both Conner and Ian are on
duty. This makes me feel better about my third day in the hospital, but not
so much that I don't try to convince Conner to cut my stay short by a
couple of days. He refuses, again threatening to keep me longer. It
works. I shut up about it.

It's not until lunchtime (mac and cheese!) that I remember the blue data
chip that had mysteriously appeared with my possessions. It almost seemed
like a dream, but I remembered and snatch my com from the table. The blue
chip was the very one that Sneak and I had been trading back and forth. I
press it into the slot on the side of my com and pull up the file
tables. I'm not sure what I'll find, and maybe that's part of the fun.

Sadly, there were no new video files. Just the three I'd made for Sneak,
and the three he'd made for me. I sighed. I hadn't had time to view the
third one in detail, and I'm sure I will at some point while sitting here
in the hospital, but it won't be as much fun with my arm in a cast - you
know what I mean?

I back out of Sneak's directory on the disk and see that there's a new text
file in the root directory. Curiously, I open it. There I find a message
from Sneak:


Devon,

I'm sorry you got hurt. I wasn't sure how to tell you this. I feel like I
should come and visit you in the hospital, but then we have a sort of weird
thing going on. I wouldn't know how to introduce myself, if that makes
sense. Life feels weird sometimes.

Also, thanks for the movie. OMG, that was WILD. I'm assuming that wasn't
staged - the look on your face. Priceless.

Anyway, I hope you feel better soon. I'll make some more movies for you
later, but I wanted to tell you that I was sorry you got hurt. The flowers
are from me. Feel better.

Sneak

PS: Thanks for the undies.


It's not a profoundly revelatory message, although it does draw my
attention to a vase of red sunflowers in the corner. Aww, that's cute. And
a little weird, like most everything Sneak does. But it's good to know he
cares.

"You doing ok?" I look up. Ian is standing in the doorway, making his
hourly check on me. "You look a little down."

I think about it for a minute and then respond. "Nah. Just tired. I just
got a really nice email, though."

"Cool," he says, then leaves to give me some privacy.

I look down at the blue chip sticking very slightly out of its slot in the
side of my com and think about Sneak. And then something else flashes
through my memory. Blue chip.  Blue. But why am I remembering blue?

Then it hits me. "Thanks for the undies". That's what Sneak had said. I'd
left him a pair of navy blue underwear right before the riot. At least, I
think it was right before the riot. I couldn't quite place the timing, but
I definitely remember that at some point in the last week I'd gone upstairs
and left Sneak a pair of underwear that Charlie had made, along with the
chip.

And then I'd seen that same pair of underwear again.

I remember because it was very distinct - navy blue briefs with a bright
red drawstring that extended out of two eyelets in the side. Very
different, but sexy. I'd noted that when Mike had given them to me - that's
right, I'd gotten them from Mike, promising to pay Charlie later.

And then I'd seen them again. But where?

An image flashes through my mind. A tee-shirt riding up, revealing a bright
red drawstring extending over the side of a pair of jeans.

"Crap, that's it," I say out loud to an empty room. I'd seen those exact
briefs on my flatmate AJ when he'd come to visit. "AJ is Sneak," I say. I
hadn't been trying to uncover my stalker's secret identity, but I'd done
it. He was busted, all because of a red drawstring.

I lay back against my pillow, wondering what I should do with this new
information. And also wondering why I'd lain on my boxy wristcom when my
back was so bruised and sensitive.

"Ouch!"


To be continued



Author's endnotes:

Thank you for reading that REALLY long chapter. I hope it was fun.

Recently I've started including endnotes for anyone interested. Here they
are:

Soundtrack: I try to assign a song to each chapter. Put them together and
you'd have a soundtrack to the story, or at least how I picture their world
to sound. The song for chapter two is Restless Heat Syndrome by Green
Day. It's a little "on the nose" considering, but I thought it was the
right tone for the chapter.


Devon's concussion was inspired by a friend's following a car accident. It
was very much like the opening scene. He was okay, just loopy the first
five hours.

Following chapter 11, readers speculated that Devon's fall would cause
massive injuries.  While it potentially could, I actually modeled it after
a time I fell off the second story of my house when I was 17. I walked away
just dazed (and overly lucky, I guess).

I wasn't going to mention how they put out the fires following the riots
since it didn't really matter to the story. But when a reader kindly sent
me research on how flame reacts to zero gravity, I thought it added a nice
touch. My thanks to that reader for their great insight and comments!

I worked really hard to make up Conner's lame joke. I hope it was as
horrible as possible.

The boys occasionally use "what the frell?" It's a reference to the
television series Farscape.

Golden gating is a silly term I made up to mean "discussing the rules of
sexual contact outside of the relationship." I figured they'd have a word
for that by then, and naming it after the body of water sitting outside San
Francisco seemed appropriate.

I looked for a pair of distinct underwear for the stuff with Sneak. My
inspiration pics can be found on the group site.