Owen

Owen

Chapter 13

by Roy Reinikainen

Owen leaned against the dark wooden desk in Lucas' father's office, steadying himself. At last he knew why he hadn't gotten any letters from home. They had never gotten his. He grasped the edge of the desk until his fingers turned white from the pressure, imagining what his mother, brother, and sisters must have been thinking of him. 'So much for hoping Jonah could be a good friend to Sam,' he thought. 'Surely, if they saw one another, Jonah would have asked Sam if he had heard about me.' Owen bowed his head, the familiar feeling of defeat once again weighing him down, his father's influence ruining his life, even here.

"Why's Pops doing this to me?" he asked the room, unsure whether he felt more angry or hurt. 'It has to be Pops. No one else has a reason to intercept my mail. He's doing it, not only to hurt me, but to hurt the rest of the family, making them think I've abandoned them.' He sighed. 'I shouldn't have waited so long to speak to Mama. Not wanting to chance having Pops answer the phone has caused this. If I'd taken that chance, and called earlier, everyone wouldn't be thinkin' bad things about me, and I wouldn't be feeling so troubled.'

He reached for the telephone, hesitating only a moment before lifting the receiver and dialing another number. 'Sam'll know what's going on,' he thought as he waited for an answer. Four rings. Five. He gave up, slowly replacing the receiver. 'He's probably visiting his father in the hospital.'

Owen stared into the distance, feeling more alone than he had since arriving at the beginning of the school year. His father had threatened to cut him off from the family if he abandoned them to go to school. 'I've been a fool to think he wouldn't be true to his word.'

And Sam. The almost-daily letters, and less frequent telephone conversations were not the same as holding him. He felt as if he and Sam were slowly growing apart. Sam's life at the nearby community college, and his at the university, were different enough that soon, memories of their afternoons in their meadow by the river's edge would be just that . . . fading memories, insubstantial as smoke. After four years of school, he and Sam would be different people, so different they would never be able to recapture the love they felt for one another on the day he left for school.

'I'm trapped,' Owen thought. 'Trapped by my own dreams of getting away from Riverton to go to the fancy university. I'm trapped by my unwillingness to let Pops control every move of my life. I've gotten exactly what I've dreamt of all my life.' He looked around the fancy room, then down at his equally impressive clothing. 'This is nothing. Before coming to school, true long-lasting happiness was within my reach, and I didn't reach out to grab it.'

He knew that was an oversimplification of what his life had truly been like. His and Sam's relationship would never be accepted in the tightly-knit community. His father's demands would, if anything, have become stronger. He sighed. 'Eventually, I would have given in and done as Pops insisted. Then, the beatings and shouting would have stopped. But, I would be a slave to a man who thinks of nothing and no one but himself. I would be in Riverton, but I wouldn't have Sam. I wouldn't be happy.'

'Then, there's Lucas.' Owen sighed, taking a couple steps toward the door to the study. 'Being with Lucas makes me feel as if I'm being unfaithful to Sam. I feel as if I'm giving Lucas false expectations. No matter what I do, whichever way I turn, I'm going to hurt one of them. Yet, if I do nothing, I'm hurting myself. I can't go on as I have been . . . not since Lucas and I have . . . discovered . . . one another. I can't exist without the touch of another man, without companionship and laughter.

'What would you have me do, Sam?' He stared around the study: the leather chairs on the oriental rugs; the walls of books. The room was designed to provide a sense of security. 'That's what Lucas is,' Owen thought. 'He's as much an anchor for me as I seem to be for him. Without one another, we're adrift.'

He rubbed both hands over his face in an attempt to school his appearance, hoping to avoid upsetting Lucas or his parents. They'd been so kind, opening their house to him and treating him almost as a second son. When he thought he had himself under control he quietly opened the door, but paused a moment, one hand still on the door handle, unable to dispel the feeling of loneliness enveloping him.

Olivia looked up at the slight sound and saw him standing with bowed head. The gentle light of the entry chandelier cast faint highlights on his short blond hair, and did nothing to hide the vulnerability which seemed to hover about his shoulders.

'What could possibly have happened?' she wondered, sensing her son and husband's attention upon her. She stood, inviting her husband with an extended hand to join her, while directing her son's attention to the entry with a slight incline of her head. "We'll leave you alone for a bit," she murmured, as she and Neil left the room.

Lucas barely noticed his parents' departure. He had seen his mother's smile fade a moment after hearing the study door open. In only seconds, she had gathered her husband and departed, murmuring a few soft-spoken words. He was almost afraid of what he would see when he turned.

'Damn his family,' was Lucas thought, as he saw Owen's forlorn expression. 'He has nothing but love for them, and in less than ten minutes, look what they've done to him!'

Owen had silently closed the study door and was now standing next to the table in the foyer, his head bowed, his left hand absently moving too and fro against the carving on the table's side.

"Were you able to get in touch with your mother?" Lucas asked, from where he stood, holding on to one of the columns in the doorway to the living room. He remembered touching the same column as a child. It was a source of strength. Now, the column held him back, preventing him from rushing to Owen's side. Owen would have hated that overt display of concern. He always made such a point of being self reliant, but barely beneath the surface, he was a child longing to be held.

'Damn his parents,' Lucas thought again. 'They've created an emotional cripple in a man's body.'

"Is everything okay?" Owen nodded as he passed Lucas, slowly crossing the dimly lit living room to stand in front of the large fireplace, holding his hands out to the fire for warmth. He turned slightly, extending an arm, a silent invitation for Lucas to join him.

"Mama's fine." His voice trailed off into silence as Lucas stepped into the warmth of the embrace. He remained silent as Owen heaved a deep breath and rested his head against Lucas'. The small, unselfconscious act made the breath catch in Lucas' throat. "Want to talk about it?" he murmured, inhaling Owen's scent. "Is everyone okay back home?"

"There's nothing to talk about, really. Just a little homesick is all." He snuggled closer. "I never would have thought it, but I'm missin' Riverton more'n I thought possible." He glanced around the room. "This is all so beautiful, and your family has been so welcoming, but I still feel out of place." His smile turned wry. "Like I said earlier, just 'cause you dress a country boy up in fancy clothes, doesn't mean he isn't still a country boy." Lucas made an inquiring noise at a slight chuckle.

"I guess I'll never be a biscuit."

"Biscuit?"

"Yeah." Owen's brief spark of humor faded as he explained. "The old saying goes that a Northerner is never gonna fit in when he moves to the South. Even his children, born in the South, will never fit in. A Southerner would no more call one of the Northerner's new-born children a Southerner, than they would call a litter of kittens who happened to be born in an oven, biscuits."

He snorted a dry laugh. "I'm never gonna fit in here. I want to . . . badly, but I'm thinking that I'm always gonna feel like I'm impersonating someone else. I don't act like anyone here, or speak like them, or anything. I'm a country boy." He tightened his embrace.

"I guess I should admit it. I always will be. It's bred in my bones." He made a vague gesture with his free hand. "Just as all this is bred in yours. Me goin' to a fancy school won't change what I am any more'n the clothes I'm wearing will."

"I find that I love country-boys," Lucas murmured, nuzzling Owen's hair. "At least the one country boy I've met. He's the most genuine, loving person I've ever known."

"Thank you. I feel the same about you, city-boy." Owen turned his head and met Lucas' kiss, closing his eyes and surrendering himself to the sensations; to the taste of Lucas; the smell of Lucas; and to the feeling of being immersed in Lucas' love.

Olivia watched in silence as Lucas hefted a large platter; to the upper shelf of a cabinet. He had grown into a handsome young man and, since meeting Owen, his priorities had been revised. He no longer hung out with the young people with whom he had graduated from one of the city's prestigious private schools. Instead, he seemed to concentrate on his school work. He no longer seemed interested in owning the latest, greatest, and most fashionable of . . . everything. He had settled down. If he didn't seem so lonely, she would have been pleased.

At times, she had despaired of her son ever acting like an adult. Everything changed the moment he met Owen. For no other reason, she could love Owen. Now, after meeting him, she had fallen under his charismatic charm, just as her son and daughter had before her. Still, there was an underlying sense of melancholy about the young man. He would laugh and smile, but whenever he didn't realize anyone was watching, the melancholy cloaked him. Only when Lucas was touching him, did a sparkle return to his eyes, and he seemed to relax.

The look on the two boys' faces at even the most casual touch, was . . . intimate beyond description. They seemed to seek out ways in which to touch one another, but when those brief moments passed, they appeared bereft.

She knew, of course, of her son's sexual orientation, but it had been something of a shock for her and her husband to see Lucas and Owen kissing earlier in the afternoon. It had been unexpected, especially because Owen had looked so distraught after having called his parents. She and Neil had left the room, hoping Lucas would be able to sort things out. When she and her Neil checked to see if it might be okay for them to return, Lucas and Owen were in one another's arms.

'That's not a kiss of passion,' she immediately thought. 'It's a kiss exchanged between two desperately lonely people.' The thought of both young men feeling so isolated was what disturbed her, not the kiss.

Some time later, Lucas had come into the dining room where she and Neil were sitting and had told them everything seemed to be in hand. Owen, he said, was feeling homesick after speaking to his mother.

'There's more to what's going on than that,' Olivia thought, seeing her own questions reflected in her husband's expression. 'I wonder if either of the boys is aware of how . . . exposed . . . and vulnerable they appear to an outsider.'

She took her son's hand as he finished closing the cabinet door and led him to a table, suddenly reaching a decision.

At Lucas' polite raising of eyebrows, she asked the question she had been longing to know the answer to. "Is Owen the one you've been searching for, dear?" Lucas' gaze grew distant. His mouth soundlessly opened and closed. Finally, he nodded and bowed his head.

"Then, why so glum? He's a wonderful young man."

Lucas puffed a sigh, accompanied by an almost silent bark of a laugh. "I wish things were that simple, Mother." The look his mother gave him invited an explanation. Lucas moistened his lips. "He loves someone else, Mother. Someone back where he came from. They grew up together. Owen carries his photo with him wherever he goes. In fact, he's got it in the breast pocket of the sport coat he's wearing." Lucas lapsed into silence but refused to relinquish his mother's hand.

"I love him, Mother. He hasn't said as much, but I believe his feelings for me are causing him to question everything. His feelings are pulling him in two directions. He's devoted to Sam, yet he feels something for me as well. Those conflicting emotions, plus being away from home for the first time, and a few other things, are tearing him up. He's holding himself together by strength of will alone. I don't think he can take one more thing without breaking."

Lucas heaved a tired sigh and gave his mother a wan smile. "I was worried that something about his phone call back home was going to be the thing which would bring him to his knees."

A moment's silence seemed to stretch unbearably. "Your father and I . . ." Olivia met her son's gaze. "We saw you kissing . . . in front of the fireplace. I thought, perhaps . . ."

"Oh . . ." Lucas seemed to stare at a point over her shoulder. "Don't think less of Owen, Mother . . . for kissing me, now that you know he and I can never be partners. He's discussed his feelings for Sam with me. Both of us understand exactly where we stand. We love one another, but we aren't for one another. Does that make sense?" Olivia compressed her lips and gave her son an understanding nod. Owen was not the only man in pain. Her son was carrying more than his share.

"We're both lonely, Mother. We both want physical contact . . . we need it . . . desperately, Owen probably even more so than I. That's why we've grown close; that's why we were kissing. Both of us need the kind of affection the other can provide. But . . ." Lucas hesitated, his voice becoming hollow. "When school's over, he'll go back to Sam."

"And what will you do, sweetheart . . . when that unhappy moment arrives?"

Lucas shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know. The only thing I do know is that I need to be with him . . . as long as possible. I don't know why. I can't explain it. I just do." Lucas hesitated, searching for words adequate to express his feelings. "He considers himself poor, but he's got so much of . . . everything that's important." Lucas smiled at his mother, his eyes alight. "Things like good cheer, infectious enthusiasm, empathy . . . " His voice lowered. "Sanity." Olivia watched as her son looked away, as if embarrassed. "It's . . . it's as if being around him brings out the best in me, a best I never realized I had. He never gives less than his all, and I find I strive to be worthy of his attention." He focused on his mother. "Does that make sense?" Olivia noted the faint blush coloring her son's cheeks.

'He realizes that there have been changes in him,' she thought. 'I'm so pleased.'

"I understand what you're saying, dear. Both your father and I think Owen is a wonderful man, but no matter what you may feel for him, you have to be good to yourself as well. Don't base your future happiness on Owen's continued friendship. Don't limit your vision of happiness to include only Owen." She gently squeezed his hand. "I would hate to see one of my children hurt, and I fear that's what will happen if you don't . . ." She shrugged. "If you don't plan."

Olivia watched a muscle jump in her son's jaw as he frowned into the distance and tried to control his voice. His mouth soundlessly opened. The fingers of one hand slowly closed, as if grasping at something. When he did speak, his voice was rough with emotions, barely held at bay.

"I want to hold on to what I have until I have to say goodbye." He gave her a sad smile and swallowed around the lump in his throat. "I'm going to enjoy every moment I have with him."

Lucas seemed to focus on the large painting on the opposite wall, bold splashes of different colors, twisting and writhing across the canvas. 'Just like my emotions,' he thought, returning his attention to his mother.

"Thanks for the advice, Mother . . . really." He squeezed her hand. "I know what the score is. I don't like it, but I do know what to expect. Even though Owen and I may be . . . intimate . . . and we may love one another, I am not trying to take him away from the person he loves. As for Owen, he hasn't led me to expect anything more from him than what I already have. If I am eventually . . . hurt, as you fear, it will not be because of him." He smiled.

Olivia gave him a sad nod. "I could grow to love him too, dear," she said. "He's a fine man, whom I would be proud to call part of our family. As things stand, I shall be proud to call him a good friend." She leaned forward and kissed her son's forehead.

"Now, let's go see what your father and Owen are up to," she grinned. "It's entirely too quiet for my tastes. I learned early on, when boys are quiet, watch out. Something is afoot." She laughed as she linked her arm with her son and patted his hand, conveying her understanding and support.

The springs of the large bed squeaked a chorus of complaints as Jonah flopped backward, ignoring the mess he was making of his carefully made bed. "Snow . . ." He exhaled the word on an almost-reverent breath. When they were younger, he and Owen had often fantasized about snow, trying to stifle their boyish laughter at the thought of snowball fights, and slipping and sliding on the ice. The darkened bedroom and their nearness made anything seem possible. When they were alone at night, thoughts of their father seemed far away, and their imaginations could fly. It was no wonder that seeing snow was one of the first things Owen had mentioned to his mother. 'I wonder if it looks anything like those Christmas cards Mother receives from her sister.' He heaved a contented breath and linked his fingers behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

'Owen . . .' It felt as if his brother had been gone for ages.

'I wonder how he's doing, and if he's found someone to confide in and hold him, like Sam and I did. We're pretty fragile, Owen and I, no matter the image we cultivate.'

The thought of Sam caused his smile to fade. 'What would Owen think 'bout Sam'n me? Sam says not to worry, but I can't help it.' Jonah rolled onto his stomach, cradling his head in his folded arms, not seeing the dancing shadows of tree leaves cast by the setting sun against the bedroom wall. 'I don't want Owen to be hurt. But, now that I know what it's like to be cared for, I could no more give that up than I could stop breathing.'

Sam bit his lip and swallowed as he watched his mother lean over the side of his father's bed, adjusting her husband's pillow.

Henry Bridgers reached up and brushed a tear away from his wife's cheek. "A little good news doesn't mean I'm cured, now, does it?" Annie Bridgers sniffed and shook her head.

"No, but it's the first good news we've had in months. It means the treatments are working. Now, all we have to do is continue doing the same thing and, pretty soon, we'll be back home."

"Home," Henry said, in a voice almost reverent. "I never would have imagined how much I'd miss the old place." He gestured to Sam, patting the bed in an invitation for his son to join him.

I've got an apology to make, Sam." The words seemed difficult to say, for a man who rarely spoke from his emotions. He reached for Sam's hand, the once muscular forearms, thin, the long-fingered hands, trembling. "I've been meaning to tell you, but it never seemed to be the right time. Now, it is."

"What is it, Dad?" Sam felt his father's grip tighten, a feeble touch not much stronger than the older man's voice.

"I want to apologize to you for thinkin' the things I did about you'n Owen, and for shouting at you when Owen left. I knew you were upset and I didn't want to face the reason why. I didn't want you to be upset, and somehow I musta thought that I could force you not to be by yellin'. I didn't want to face the fact 'bout you and Owen. I know now that I was not facing reality." He puffed a shadow of a laugh. "Sitting here in bed day after day, has taught me how to face reality, and to realize how much you mean to me. You're a good son, Sam. Annie and I are lucky parents, just as Owen is lucky to be your friend." His grin was crooked.

"What you and Owen feel for one another . . . it's the same love as Annie and I feel for you. I'm an old man, but not so old, I hope, that I can't admit when I've been wrong, and to apologize for my behavior. I apologize for not letting you know sooner. I don't want you to feel as if you've got to hide your feelings from your mom'n me any more." He glanced in his wife's direction. She nodded, her eyes shining, her cheeks blotched.

"Yes, sweetie. I hope you already know how much your father and I love you, but even we weren't aware how difficult being away from you would be. Our being away from you is much like you being away from Owen. It hurts. Your father isn't the only one who needs to apologize. We've known how you feel for Owen for years. We should have, somehow, told you, long ago, that no matter who you love, we will love you."

"Don't bring home a goat though." Henry's voice was rough as he made an effort to tease his son. "I'm not sure how I could handle introducing Billy Goat as my son's boyfriend." Henry winked and gave his son a weak slap on the knee as he tried to stifle a cough. "Gotcha, didn't I?"

Sam swiped at his watery eyes, and reached for his parents' hands. "Thanks guys. I wish Owen and Jonah's parents were as understanding as you are. Mr. Carver is a mean old stick. He's going to drive all the children off, the moment they're old enough to leave."

"Thank you for being part of our Thanksgiving." Lucas' father, Neil, took Owen's hand in a firm handshake before turning to his son, giving Owen over to his wife to say her farewells.

Olivia adjusted Owen's scarf then gave him a brief kiss on the cheek, a mirror to the one she'd already given her son. "It has been a privilege," she murmured. "I neglected to ask if you were able to speak to your parents."

Owen ducked his head, overwhelmed with the outpouring of generosity and love. "Yes ma'am. I spoke with m'mother." He grinned. "She was pleased to know I wasn't spendin' the day alone, but was with good friends." He took her hands in both of his. "That's what you and Neil have become . . . good friends. Thank you for opening your home t'me . . . and for your kindness." He swallowed and grinned, wondering at the sudden surge of emotions he was experiencing.

'I'm accepted here. It doesn't matter that Lucas and I share a bed. In this house . . . with these people, I don't have to hide what I am.' He exchanged a smile of thanks with Olivia. Her return smile conveyed a depth of understanding he had never experienced. She knew what he was feeling, he was sure of it.

'This is what I want,' he told himself. 'I'm tired of hiding . . . of not being myself. From now on, no matter where I am, or who I'm with . . . even Mama . . . I'm not gonna change my behavior to be what they expect.'

"And for the food." Lucas jumped into the silence, patting him on the back.

"And the desserts!" Allison snickered from close-by.

"Don't you go laughin' at me, Allison," Owen teased. "I noticed you ate as much dessert as I did." He reached out and gave her a hug.

"Thank you, too," he added, tightening his embrace. "For bein' a good friend . . . since the day I arrived." He kissed her on the cheek. "You're the best, Allison." She blushed as he released her, something she very rarely did.

Olivia cleared her throat, interrupting the emotion-charged silence. It appeared both her children had fallen under Owen's spell. "Well, you boys had better hurry on, unless you're going to spend the night here. It's snowing again."

Owen made a face as he stepped out into the slowly falling flakes, through the open door. "I'm really hating the snow," Neil heard Owen grouse as he and Lucas gingerly crossed the snowy cobblestone drive to Lucas' car. "I truly do."

'Damned woman!' Jonathan thought as he slammed the kitchen door and stepped out onto the dark porch, knowing how much his wife hated the sound of a banging screen door. 'What friend does she have that'd be calling her to wish her a happy Thanksgiving?' He hated it when she said things which caused him to wonder at their meanings. 'She always looks so smug, knowin' I'm not as smart as she is.' He took a deep breath of the cool night air, hoping it would calm him down. 'Always thinkin' she's better'n everyone. Always puttin' fancy ideas in the kids' heads, makin' 'em want something they don't have . . . be someplace they shouldn't be.'

He stomped down the porch steps and headed for the tool shed. "It's all that boy's fault!" The wooden door to the shed screeched loudly then slammed against the wall, it's rusty hinges and old wood protesting their treatment. 'The boy never was one to know his place. I shoulda put my foot down right at the beginning and ended all this nonsense about schools and learning things. I taught him all he needed to know, but was that enough?' Jonathan huffed a disgusted snort.

'Just like his mother, he was. All full of big headed ideas which have no business around here.' He looked around, anxious to find something to take his frustrations and anger out upon. 'I hope he rots in the darkest, hottest, depths of Hell!' He grabbed the nearest object, a hammer, and flung it at the opposite wall. It thudded against the wood, narrowly missing the window, and fell to the floor with a thump, taunting him, for having lost his temper . . . or missing the window . . . Jonathan wasn't sure. 'The boy had no business challenging me.' Jonathan looked around the small room, cluttered with equipment used on his small farm, but refrained from taking his anger out on something else.

"Gotta get one of the girls to clean this place up." He stood in the middle of the dusty room, its single, bare, light bulb, imparting a harsh glare to everything. It's mirror-like windows reflected a balding man in a plaid flannel shirt and dusty jeans, his hands on his hips. He turned away from the reflection, rubbing a hand across his sweaty forehead, barely noticing the motes of dust floating in the still air.

"Now, there's Jonah. He's got that same far away look as the other one. I'm gonna have to find a way to keep him away from his mother, otherwise he'll get all infected . . . just like the other one." Jonathan leaned back against the workbench and crossed his arms, a satisfied smile creating unfamiliar creases on his sun-toughened skin.

'Great idea I had, to have old man Martin at the post office snatch the boy's letters so the woman wouldn't see them. She's got things to tend to here. She's got no business thinking about the ingrate who soaked up more'n his share of everything we had, then shot out of here at the first chance without even a word of thanks. Not that I would have accepted anything the bastard would have said. No respect.' His hands clenched as his anger and frustration threatened to explode.

Jonathan chuckled, recalling Owen's many letters, addressed to his mother. 'The boy's carryin' on, asking Bea, why she or the other kids aren't writin'.' He barked a satisfied laugh. 'Let him worry what they're thinking of him. A little worryin' will do him a world of good.' Jonathan looked over his shoulder at a slight sound, wondering if it was one of the children spying on him.

'Jonah's got to help out more. I need a strong back to lend a hand, now that the other one's gone. The girls are too young to help out much.' He snorted a disgusted puff of air. "Girls! Good for nothin' but making sons to help with the chores."

His head snapped up, the half-whispered hints he'd heard for years, suddenly leaping into focus. Maxine, the owner of the town's grocery store had tried to worn him, as had others. 'How have I been so blind?' he asked himself. 'Everyone else has known what was goin' on, and I haven't seen it!'

His expression grew distant as he invented an alternate reality in which his world-view made sense. 'Those boys are nothin' like me. Maybe that's what Maxine'n the others have hinted at.' He looked over his shoulder to the house, the germ of his earlier idea growing, flowering, and bearing fruit in the space of a few moments.

"I knew it!" he hissed, snippets of information falling into place.

'The woman's been sleepin' around with strangers. Has been for years and years. Those boys aren't mine. That's why they've got no sense!' He flung himself away from the workbench, crossing the shed in only a few steps.

"I've been supporting someone else's bastards!" He spun, the grit on the floor grinding beneath the heels of his boots. 'They've been sopping up everything I've worked so hard to give 'em, and what have they given back?' He slammed the palm of his hand against the workbench, sending a shudder through the nearby tools. "What have they done? Nothing!"

"Damned woman."

Lucas and Owen walked hand-in-hand down the dimly lit corridor leading to Lucas' apartment. Even the snow flurries had not distracted Owen during their drive home. He would answer any question Lucas asked, but was otherwise withdrawn.

"Things are not good, back home, are they?" Lucas asked, closing the apartment door. He took Owen's coat and scarf and hung them in the closet, next to his own, while Owen silently rummaged about in the kitchen, starting a pot of coffee brewing. Lucas leaned on the counter and watched until Owen turned to him with a hint of a crooked smile.

"Things are about what I expected," he responded, linking fingers with Lucas as he leaned his elbows on the island countertop opposite Lucas. "It's just that it's not nice to find out that your worst expectations are real."

"I'm here to listen. If you need to talk, that is."

Owen's fingers tightened as he smiled his thanks and then lapsed into silence. "I know." His lips compressed, frowning into the distance as a muscle jumped in his jaw..

"M'father has been destroying my letters to the rest of the family." He looked away. "I can't imagine what Jonah and m'sisters are thinking about me. Mama would have said more when we were on the phone, but Pops must have come into the room. I heard his voice. Mama was going to have enough to explain, being on the phone." Owen sighed. "He doesn't like anything to happen that he doesn't somehow control."

Lucas bit back his angry response to Owen's father's actions, through sheer strength of will. "There's more, isn't there?"

Owen nodded his bowed head. "I love you, Lucas. More'n I can say. I get this empty feeling when I'm not with you. All I want to do is be with you."

"But?" Lucas asked, already knowing the answer.

"I love Sam too. I can't say if I love him more'n you. One minute I'm sure I do. The next, I don't know. I don't want to hurt either of you, and I feel like that's what I'm gonna do."

"Have you told Sam about me?"

"Yes. He knows you're my good friend. Until yesterday, that's all you were . . . a friend. I tried callin' Sam after I spoke with Mama, just so I could hear his voice. He wasn't home. Most likely he was visiting his sick father in the hospital, being it's Thanksgiving n'all."

Owen released Lucas' hand and turned his back, leaning against the counter. "I don't want to hurt anyone!" The words seemed almost torn from his throat.

Lucas rushed around the counter and pulled Owen close. "Listen to me, Owen. "You should not be feeling torn between Sam and me. Sam is the man you love. You've grown up with him. He's the man whose picture you carry next to your heart." He held Owen at arm's length. "Don't try and tell me you don't have his picture in your breast pocket." Owen lowered his eyes. "You may love me, but you love Sam. There is a difference."

"I want to be with you, Lucas . . . while I can. I want to hold and kiss you, and sleep naked at your side. I want to have sex, and laugh." He turned to face Lucas. "Won't that hurt you . . . knowing that . . . it can't be permanent?"

Lucas sighed. "We've been over this, Owen. Of course, it'll hurt, but it'll hurt me a lot more if you do something that will harm Sam. So." Lucas playfully punched Owen's shoulder. "No more talk of hurting someone. I know how you feel about me. You know how I feel about you. We both know that what we have can't last, and both of us want to be with one another as long as possible. So, that's where things stand. You can get rid of all those feelings of guilt." Lucas raised his eyebrows. "Is it a deal?"

Owen nodded once. "I'll try."

"Good. Now, I'm missing my laughing country boy." Lucas reached for the one spot he knew Owen was ticklish, causing Owen to jump away, his boyish laughter bubbling up in one of his abrupt mood changes.

"You always were slow, city boy," he laughed, dodging another of Lucas' lunges and running for the bedroom, the coffee forgotten.

"C'mon," he shouted as Lucas turned out the lights and shut down the coffee maker. "I'm about naked. I'm going to freeze my fanny off if you don't strip and join me in that big bed of yours."

'The question is,' Lucas thought to himself as he turned towards the bedroom. 'Can I live by the same rules I've asked Owen to follow? Is it possible for me to be with him and not, in some small way, do something that would cause Owen's feelings of guilt to return. Will I do something unintentionally that will cause Sam to suffer?'

Owen stepped into the open doorway, naked and half-way aroused. He looked over his shoulder as he rubbed the palm of one hand over his own butt cheek. "Since you're so slow, I thought I'd give you some incentive to strip, so we can play." He grasped the muscle of his butt and squeezed. "It's all yours, but not until you're nekkid as a jay-bird."

He laughed, wiggling his hips from side to side in invitation.

'Is this the same man who was almost in tears only minutes ago?' Lucas wondered, as he hurried toward the bedroom. He gave Owen one mighty swat as he passed, causing him to yelp in surprise.

"Step aside, country boy, unless you want me to take you over my knee for a good and proper spanking." Lucas was about to drop his slacks onto the floor when he realized Owen had neatly folded and hung up all the clothes he'd worn earlier. He followed Owen's lead, folding everything and hanging his slacks and sport coat over the back of a chair.

When he turned back, Owen whooped a loud yell and tackled him, picking him up and carrying him to the bed, dropping him unceremoniously in the middle of the white expanse.

"Wha . . .?" Was all he managed to say before Owen was on him.

"C'mon, city boy," he said breathlessly, as he grappled Lucas onto his back. "If you want me you're gonna have to work for it."

"High opinion of yourself," Lucas shouted, pushing Owen off his chest. "What makes you think I want it?" He lunged for Owen, who was kneeling less than a foot away, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. For some reason, Lucas was drawn to the faint dusting of freckles on Owen's nose. That is, he was until Owen grabbed his own thickening cock and wiggled it back and forth.

"You're hard, Mr. Horton," Owen snickered. "My sexy body has got you all hot and bothered."

"Sexy body, ha!" Lucas lunged, wrapped his arms around Owen, as they both rolled off the bed, landing on the thick carpet with an umph of expelled breath. Without losing a beat, Lucas rolled Owen onto his back and straddled his belly, Owen's erection pressed against the cleft of his butt.

"I win!" Lucas shouted, inordinately pleased with himself for having bested Owen. He leaned forward, pinning Owen's shoulders to the carpet, and looked into his eyes.

"That means I get three wishes."

"Huh?"

Lucas leaned forward until he was laying full length on top of Owen. "My first wish is that you kiss me for a . . . very . . . long . . . time." Each word was interrupted by a short kiss, and the sound of pleasure Owen was making deep in his throat.

"The second wish," Lucas continued, "is that you fuck me all night long. I want you to fill me up until I can't hold it all, and your sperm runs down my leg." He thrust his erection against Owen's interrupting the list of wishes with a frantic and sloppy kiss.

"And your third wish?" Owen asked, his breath warm against Lucas' face.

"I want you to lick up all your own sperm from wherever you find it, then share it with me."

Owen groaned loudly, and arched his back, thrusting himself against Lucas while burying his tongue in Lucas' mouth. They writhed on the floor, parting only to take a few hurried breaths before returning to the interrupted kiss.

"I love kissin' and sharing sperm," Owen breathed, his fair cheeks flushed with excitement. "D'you think you can handle all that I'm planning on pumping into you? I shoot lots, y'know."

"Then there'll be more for you to clean up and feed me," Lucas teased.

"So, let's get started!" With surprising ease, Owen pushed Lucas off him, spun to his knees, and bodily lifted Lucas onto the bed.

"You let me win," Lucas accused, as Owen pulled him to the edge of the bed, pushed his knees back to his shoulders, and buried his face in the sparse hair surrounding Lucas' hole. Owen shook his head, and made a negative sound as he forcefully licked back and forth over the length of Lucas' prominent perineum.

"You didn't win. I won, city boy." Owen plunged his tongue into Lucas' hole. "'Cause I won, I get to suck my own sperm outta your hole." He renewed his attack on Lucas' anus. "I get to fuck you, and kiss you with my sperm-covered tongue."

He nuzzled Lucas' scrotum, licking back and forth over the hole. "Then, the best part happens," Owen mumbled, still within tongue's-reach of Lucas' hole. His breath was a warm puff against Lucas' spit-wet skin.

"What's that?" Lucas asked.

Owen answered with an evil chuckle. He looked up, his face and chin shiny with saliva. "When I'm finished with you, the best part is, you get to do me." He paused only long enough to suck down the length of Lucas' erection. Once, twice, three times, it rubbed the back of Owen's throat. "I'm not plannin' on getting any sleep tonight, mister sexy man." He nipped at Lucas' scrotum with his lips, fascinated by the testicles shifting in the sac. "When we're through, the whole apartment's gonna smell of sex, and you and I are gonna be soooo sweaty."

He licked a long swath, beginning at Lucas' perineum and extending half-way down the length of the back side of the thigh of one of his flexed legs. "Hmmm," he murmured. "I bet you didn't know how much I love lickin' a sweaty man." He licked over Lucas' scrotum. "No shower for you m'man. Owen's gonna clean you good."

Riverton came into view as Sam drove over the hill, west of town. It was late and the three streetlights offered scant greeting as he drove down Main Street. The lights in the doctor's office still shone, casting a diffused yellow puddle of light across the narrow sidewalk, but otherwise the town might have been abandoned. 'Quite a change from the lights and traffic of the hospital, and the city,' he thought.

Only one light was on at Owen and Jonah's house, the same yellow as the doctor's, but somehow colder, more aloof. He compressed his lips, wondering what Jonathan Carver was up to. 'Nothing good. That's for certain.'

'Poor Jonah,' he thought to himself. "Poor Owen," he added, aloud, as he turned down the lane leading to his house. The ancient oak trees arching over the gravel drive were black silhouettes against the starry sky.

'This is home, not some place with thousands of cars, and an equal number of people.' Sam stepped out of the car, listening to the gravel crunch beneath him, and savored the silence of his surroundings. To the person who was unaccustomed to no more sound than the slight movement of the tree leaves, the background noise of the city could almost be painful. 'This is where I belong. Someplace that's quiet, where I can think.'

He lovingly trailed his fingers over the porch railing. "Oh, Owen," he murmured, his hushed voice seeming loud in quiet. "Oh, Owen," he repeated. "How I miss you." The texture of the wooden porch rail was rough beneath his fingers, so unlike Owen's smooth skin. With only the slightest imagination, Sam could feel the muscles shift as Owen moved, lying on top of him. He could hear Owen's boyish laugh in the still night air. The sound was real enough that he opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder. His blossoming smile of welcome faded. "What are you doing? Are you happy?" Sam bit his lower lip, closing his eyes. "Do you miss me?"

~ to be continued ~

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