Owen

Owen

Chapter twenty-two

By Roy Reinikainen

Owen patted the sofa cushion at his side, setting aside his ever-present open book. "C'mon, Lucas. Join me." Lucas dimmed the living room lights; then joined Owen, cuddling close and linking fingers, melting against him, reveling in the warmth and sense of . . . rightness, being close to Owen always brought. Owen hummed in contentment, and rested his head on Lucas' shoulder.

"Thank you, again," he murmured.

"Are you doing okay?" Lucas asked. "I mean, you hardly said anything on the way home from the airport. Sorry to see Sam go?" Lucas turned to study Owen, eyeing him with quiet happiness. 'He looks so much like a little boy,' Lucas thought. 'When looking at Owen's short blond hair which seemed to be perpetually uncombed, the faint dusting of freckles over his nose, plus his mobile mouth which often seemed to quiver on the verge of a smile, it was easy to imagine a happy little boy running into the kitchen and asking if he could have a cookie. Since leaving Sam at the airport, he seemed anything but happy. It was as if a shadow had draped over him.

He shrugged, smiled a little wistfully, and absently ran a thumb over the back of Lucas' hand, considering how to answer. "My mind's all jumbled up with different emotions. I don't really understand most of them, or even where they're coming from. Since arriving here." He made a gesture with one hand, intended to encompass the world beyond the apartment's windows. "I feel as if I've begun to grow." He rested a hand atop his and Lucas' linked fingers in a gesture of tenderness. "I've met you. I've gotten a wonderful job at the library. I've gotten to know your sister and your folks. I've made lots of friends at work and school, plus Bailey, and now Corey. That's all good. Then . . ." He paused to consider his next words. "Then, suddenly, I feel as if I'm being placed back into the shell I've only begun to emerge from. Sorta like a butterfly being asked to step back into its cocoon." Lucas made a sound of encouragement. Whenever Owen was in one of these moods, Lucas had found it best to let him talk himself out.

When the silence stretched, Lucas ventured. "Owen?" The response was a silent tightening of their interlinked fingers. "Are you okay? Truly?" he added, using one of Owen's favorite expressions. He could envision the curve of Owen's lips as he smiled.

"I'm a lucky guy," Owen murmured. "I'm in love with two men, and both of them love me in return." He snorted softly. "Some people go through life, never feelin' loved. I've got it in abundance."

'No, my friend,' Lucas sighed to himself. 'Two men loving you does not constitute abundance. You're only beginning to learn what it means to be loved . . . something most of us learn when we're children.' "Somehow, you don't sound happy about it," he said, aloud. There was another hint of a shrug, accompanying a soft sigh.

"Would you kiss me?" Owen asked, in a small voice.

"Mama?" Opie looked up from where she was sprawled on the living room floor. She had been busily coloring one of her drawings . . . a mass of squiggles and swirls; that any connoisseur of modern art would have been proud of.

"Yes, sweetheart?" Bea responded, easing herself into the rocking chair, which had been in her family since her great grandmother's time, and picking up her basket of socks in need of mending.

"I'm drawing a picture for Owen," Opie announced, proudly.

The little girl seemed unaware of the glacial silence that had descended, and continued coloring. Bea's gaze flicked to Jonathan, then to Opie, who sprawled on the rug, making broad strokes of color on the paper with her crayons.

"He always told me he likes my art," Opie added, not looking up. She sighed, moving to a cross-legged sitting position, studying her drawing with a critical eye. "When's he going to come home? He's been gone, like forever."

"Opie!" Jonathan's voice held a menace his youngest daughter had never heard, causing Opie to glance, first toward her mother, hoping for a hint as to what she'd done wrong, then to her father. Instead of the look of trepidation Bea had always seen in the eyes of her youngest daughter, Opie stared her father straight in the eye, a direct challenge Jonathan would not like.

Bea set her mending aside, aware, even if her daughter was not, that Jonathan was about to explode.

"Opie!" Jonathan shouted, louder, hoping to make the little girl cower. Opie failed to give him satisfaction. She continued to watch him, her back straight, her expression unrepentant. Jonathan's knuckles were white from where he was grasping the chair arms so tightly.

"Did I do something wrong?" Opie asked. She appeared to review her recent conversation with her mother; then glanced toward her mother, her hand covering her mouth, as if she could prevent herself from saying anything more to make her father angrier.

"I'm sorry, Pops," she murmured. Still, she didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cower. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry's not good enough, young lady," Jonathan hissed, flicking a glance at his wife, who had knelt next to her youngest daughter, gathering her into her arms.

"An apology is all she can offer, Jonathan," Bea responded, in a soothing voice. "Yelling's not gonna help anything."

"I ordered that no one would ever say that person's name in this house. 'Ever!' All memory of that person has been wiped from this house. As far as I'm concerned, he never existed." The veins on his forehead seemed to pulse beneath his angry red skin. "You've disobeyed me, Opie! I will not be disobeyed, especially when it comes to him!"

Bea felt her daughter take a deep breath a moment before the little girl tore herself away from her mother's protection and stood before her father, her hands on her hips.

"I said I was sorry! What else do you want me to do?" She took a deep breath. "I love him, Pops, and I won't stop lovin' him, just 'cause you don't. You can holler and . . . spank me, but I do love Owen, and you can't make me stop. I love Owen, just like I love Jonah. You can make me stop saying their names, but you can't do anything which will make me stop thinking about them. I wish I could be with them." Her voice rose even higher. "I wish I could be anyplace, but here!"

Opie turned her back on her father and ran from the living room. A moment later, her bedroom door slammed shut.

"Don't stare at me, woman!" Jonathan rounded on his wife, thrusting out an accusing finger. "I don't want to hear one more word."

"You haven't heard from me, yet!" Bea hissed, rising to her feet and unconsciously imitating Opie's fists-on-hips stance. "All I can say is that I agree with Opie. Anyplace but here would be a blessing . . . anyplace!" Like her daughter, she turned her back on her husband and walked coolly out of the living room to the porch. She hugged herself, both from suppressed rage as well as from the cool air, and sat, staring, unseeing, into the darkness until she heard Jonathan's bedroom door close.

A sensuous tingle ran through Lucas as his and Owen's lips touched. A moment later, he felt Owen's hand on the back of his head, pulling him closer, in building passion.

"Oh, yes," Owen sighed, through parted lips which, as Lucas watched, curved into a smile. "You do that so well." He lay back on the sofa, pulling Lucas on top of him, opening his mouth for another lingering kiss.

"Hey, Cowboy," Lucas breathed the words, close enough to Owen to feel his breath against his wet lips. "Let's move to the bedroom. We can spread out more in there."

Owen pulled Lucas close for another kiss. "And, what are you planning on doing, my City Boy lover, that will need more room? We have plenty of room to kiss, right here."

The breath caught in Lucas' throat. Was that a slip of Owen's tongue? 'He's never called me his lover before.' He tried to control the quiver in his voice as he answered, trying to respond to Owen's sudden lightheartedness. "I'm planning on doing something more than just kiss you, that's why. Am I gonna have to carry you over my shoulder, or will you come willingly?"

"Me . . . over your shoulder?" Owen snickered. "That'll be the day."

"Possibly so," Lucas joined in the levity. "I wasn't planning on bringing up what all those desserts are doing to your waistline."

"What?" Owen pushed Lucas off him, with hardly any effort, and stood, tugging the tail of his t-shirt upward to expose his flat stomach as Lucas sat up from where he'd been so unceremoniously dumped. "There's not an ounce of fat on this body," Owen claimed, looking down at himself. "And I'm way stronger than you'll ever be, my scrawny friend."

Lucas, playing along, made a rocking motion with one hand, egging Owen on, and out of his melancholy mood of only minutes earlier. He expected Owen to make some outlandish comment about his strength, but, instead, Owen surprised him by grabbing him around the waist and hefting him over his shoulder.

"Yeow!" Lucas shouted in surprise, his head now hanging upside down. Owen slapped his jeans-clad butt.

"Quiet," Owen ordered. "You're mine."

"Hey, Owen," Lucas shouted. "Stop that! Put me down!" Owen laughed and tightened his grasp, heading toward the bedroom. "I get sick when I'm upside down," Lucas groaned, trying to wiggle free.

"Then, by all means, lie down." Owen tossed Lucas onto his back in the middle of the bed, with a shout sure to startle the neighbors. "You, Mr. Horton, are mine." Owen stretched his arms out to his sides, bending them at the elbows, and flexed, looking first at one bulging bicep, then the other. He grinned in Lucas' direction. "Let's see you do that, eh."

'All he needs to do is beat his chest with his fists, and I'll believe he's trying to imitate Tarzan,' Lucas thought, trying not to laugh. "Oh?" he managed to say, with a steady voice. "I'm yours, am I?"

"Sit up," Owen ordered, making an impatient gesture with a hand before stripping out of his jeans and toeing off his sneakers while Lucas watched the uncharacteristic behavior. Normally, Owen was a quiet lover, slowly stimulating both himself and Lucas to a trembling release. "Now, Lucas," he ordered.

"Yessir." Lucas quickly sat up and began tugging his sweater over his head, excited by Owen's sudden assertiveness. When Lucas was naked from the waist up, Owen pushed him back onto the bed and wildly tugged, first his jeans, then his underwear off, tossing them on top of his own.

"There!" Owen stood at the edge of the bed with his fists on his hips, breathing heavily, his short hair a mess. "Now," he said, in a voice much louder than normal, "you're just the way I like you best. Naked!"

"Why don't you tell the neighbors?" Lucas laughed, wishing the suddenly wildly hyper man would lower his voice.

Owen blinked. "The neighbors? Oh, okay." He put his hands to both sides of his mouth and shouted at the top of his lungs. "I love Lucas!" he cried. "Hear me world?" He dropped his hands to his sides and turned an impish smile and sparkling eyes in Lucas' direction.

"Didn't think I'd do it, did'ya?" All Lucas could do was mutely shake his head.

"Now, let's get serious." Owen crawled onto the bed, stopping before Lucas, kneeling on one knee while spreading his other leg out to his side, bending it at the knee and resting his foot flat on the bed. His erection bobbed above the firm, full pouch of his scrotum, all within Lucas' arm's reach.

"Kiss me," Owen murmured, leaning forward, bracing himself with one hand on Lucas' shoulder while he fondled Lucas' cock with his other. As their tongues met, Lucas first cupped Owen's balls, then snaked a hand between his legs and ran a forefinger around the hairless perimeter of Owen's anus. The aroma of him, the spicy scent of the soap he favored, in addition to an . . . earthiness, reminiscent of new-mown hay, suffused the air like a caress. He inhaled deeply in a moment of overwhelming sensuality.

'Damn,' Lucas thought to himself. 'He's offering himself to me in a way he never has before. I'm normally the bottom.' He felt a tingle of anticipation run through his body as Owen nibbled on an earlobe while continuing to slowly stimulate Lucas' cock in exactly the way he loved most.

The soft glow of light from the streetlights reflecting off the snow lit the room as well as the smooth skin of Owen's chest, the darker skin of his nipples, his thick blond pubic hair, and straight penis. The sight was like a wet dream come to life.

"Do it, Lucas," Owen murmured, close to Lucas' ear. "Tell me what you want. Do it to me. Make me yours. Cum in me." He took a shuddering breath as Lucas stimulated his hole with a forefinger. "Tonight, I don't want us to have sex," Owen murmured, through another shiver. "I'd like us to make love."

"Touchdown!" Corey howled, jumping off the sofa and throwing up his arms as he gyrated his hips and pumped his arms in the air. Each movement stretched the bright yellow t-shirt fabric across his back, chest, and arms, while in the background the excited voices of the television announcers clamored on. He looked over his shoulder to where Bailey had been sitting quietly, pretending to studiously pore over the morning paper. He looked up at Corey's enthusiastic outburst and attempted to look interested.

'The poor boy,' Corey thought. 'He doesn't know what to do if he's not the center of attention.' It was for precisely that reason Corey found himself watching a televised football game that was of no interest to him.

"Did you see that big ol' boy?" he asked, pointing in the general direction of the television. "Hell, he just plowed right through that line, carrying those guys who were hanging on to him right into the end zone!"

From Bailey's point of view, the football game seemed to have dragged on for hours, the announcers blathering about things which he neither cared about or wanted to learn. 'You can't always be the center of attention,' he angrily shouted to himself. 'This is nothing more than another lesson . . . a little tougher than most, but a lesson, nonetheless. Corey's not doing anything wrong. It's you, behaving like a spoiled little boy, who's the one with a problem.

"What do you expect, ol' Bailey?' he went on, in silence. 'You're an only child, whose every whim has been immediately fulfilled. When immediate wasn't soon enough, a sulk or an outburst of some sort, always got you what you wanted. It's time to grow up!'

He inhaled deeply, lost in thought, feeling naked and exposed without his old self to hide behind. 'This new person I'm creating seems nothing more than a disguise. I wonder which is the real me, the strutting peacock, or this.' He imagined watching himself, wallowing in dejection, while Corey laughed and enjoyed himself, watching television. 'It's a constant struggle,' Bailey sighed. 'It's as if I'm trying to create a totally new person, throwing out pieces of a puzzle I no longer like.' He compressed his lips. 'I wonder what the final person will turn out to be like? Will I recognize him? Will I like him? But, more importantly, will I be able to exist with so much of what I've always been, missing?'

There was a slight noise close-by, which caused him to look up. He'd been so immersed in his self-analysis he'd not realized Corey was no longer watching the television. Instead, he was standing with his feet spread apart, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the dining table, and wearing a bemused smile as he studied his quiet friend. Bailey raised his brow in inquiry, momentarily losing himself in Corey's long dark eyelashes, sparkling eyes, and guileless smile.

"What?" Bailey asked, reluctantly tearing himself away from Corey with a blink of his eyes.

Corey reached out with a forefinger and tapped Bailey's forehead. "The engine's runnin' but nobody's driving," he teased. He pulled out a chair and flopped onto it, once again leaning his elbows on the table, giving Bailey a chance to figure out his allusion.

"Y'angry with me for not paying attention to you?" he asked, his comment hitting so close to home Bailey found it unnerving. "I am, you know? Paying attention, I mean." His grin matured to a smile. "I've been watching you sitting over here, silently talking to yourself.

Bailey sighed. "I'm angry, yes, but not at you. I'm having a spirited argument with myself." He sighed. "I seem to be doing that often, nowadays."

Corey made a noncommittal sound of encouragement.

"I'm realizing . . . for the first time, I guess . . . that I'm just an over-grown spoiled child who has always gotten what he wanted, either by sulking, or creating some sort of unpleasantness." Corey nodded understanding into the silence, waiting for Bailey to continue. "I'm telling myself that you have every right to watch that game and not pay attention to me." He folded the newspaper and leaned back in his chair, ignoring the creaks of the old wood, wearing a slight smile. "I guess I should be pleased at how much progress I've made." There was another wordless sound and an encouraging smile from Corey.

"At least I didn't create a scene and demand your attention, like I would have, not too long ago." Bailey softly snorted, absently scratching the back of his neck. "I'm making progress."

"That you are," Corey agreed, resting a hand on top of Bailey's, and grinning. "I could hear your internal argument all the way across the room! You're a quick study, Bail, though you really shouldn't be so hard on yourself, y'know. The fact, that you're even thinking the things you are, means a great deal." Corey frowned.

"D'you mind me calling you that? Bail, I mean?"

Bailey shook his head. "No." He grinned shyly. "I sorta like it." The grin blossomed into a smile. "M'mother thought it was, 'cute'. I wouldn't let anyone else call me that though," he added, quickly.

"I wouldn't use a shortened name like that if I didn't care for you, y'know," Corey grinned. "I don't think your mother would appreciate me calling you Stud, or Sexy, or Cutie." Bailey's lips turned up into a smile, imagining his mother's scandalized reaction to such names. "My mother might not appreciate you calling me those things, but I wouldn't mind," he murmured, glancing at Corey, with a shy smile.

"I can't believe it! I can't believe it!" the announcer began screaming, as the crowd roared and a band began playing a spirited song.

"Aren't you going to go back to your game?" Bailey asked, his attention drawn by the sounds of excitement. "It sounds as if something important is happening."

Corey flicked a dismissive hand in the general direction of the television. "Nah, I don't care anything about that game. I'm not much of a football fan. I was watching to help you focus on jumping that hurdle you were mentioning a couple minutes ago. I'm thinking that it's time for me to turn the damned television off so the two of us can spend some quiet time together."

"Ooo, I like that idea," Bailey grinned, drawing Corey into an embrace

"Hey, Doc!" Sam, the first person to step off the bus, beamed, extending his hand in greeting. Doctor Daniel Johnson returned his young friend's smile, and his handshake, his smile reflecting the younger man's infectious good humor.

'It's good to have Sam back home,' the doctor thought, amused as he watched Sam take a deep breath of the balmy air. Sam looked at the trees overhanging the bus stop, his smile widening. The deep greenery was so different from where he'd just come. The air was soft, even in the middle of winter, totally unlike the frigid air and low-hanging clouds.

"Did you have a good trip?" the doctor asked, while they waited to collect Sam's bag. "Did you find Owen well? I know I'm not the only person to worry how he's handling everything he's encountered."

"Oh yes!" Sam's smile returned, gesturing to the bus driver that the bag he had just hauled off the bus belonged to him. "Owen's fine," Sam glanced over his shoulder as he took the bag from the driver. "His friend, Lucas, is a wonderful guy. They live in a really nice apartment." He hefted the bag and continued speaking as he and the doctor walked through the small bus station. "Lucas' folks live in a frigging mansion, and the weather absolutely sucks." He laughed, as he and Daniel crossed the small parking lot to the car. "It snowed every day I was there. It blew. It was damn cold. There was ice everywhere, and fog, or low-hanging clouds, or whatever they call them." He shivered. "It was miserable." He glanced around. "So much different than here."

He slipped into the car, after throwing his bag in the back seat. "I can understand why Owen hates it so much." He grinned with a single, disbelieving, shake of his head. "I don't think Lucas likes it much better, but his family has always lived in the city, so he doesn't know any different." Sam shrugged.

"How's Jonah? Have you seen him? I've spoken with him a couple times, and he said everything was okay, but . . ." Sam's voice trailed off. "Have you seen him?"

The doctor gave Sam a bemused smile. "You haven't had a chance to do too much talking, I imagine, have you?" He chuckled. "I've never seen you so wound up."

"I'm just so glad to be home, that's all. The only thing that could make things better would be for me to be haulin' Owen with me." Sam shifted in his seat and made a hurry-up motion with a hand. "Jonah?"

The doctor tried to mentally rub the involuntary smile from his lips and failed. "He's fine," Daniel answered the question. "I went over to your place on Christmas. We had some coffee and a nice visit. I think we were both glad to have someone to spend some time with." He flicked a glance at his passenger. "What'd you do for Christmas?" the doctor inquired, turning his head slightly to study the slender young man.

'He's grown so much more confident, since Owen's left,' the doctor observed. 'I wonder if Owen saw the difference.' The doctor paused. 'If Sam's grown this much, I wonder what changes Owen has experienced.'

"We went to Lucas' house for dinner." Sam answered, shaking his head in wonder. "Y'know the saying about wondering how the other half lives?" The doctor nodded. "Well . . . let me tell you . . . I've now experienced how those people live, and all I can say is, 'wow!' I was overwhelmed.

"Lucas' folks were just like ordinary people," Sam added, quickly, "but their house!" Another unbelieving shake of his head. "I've never seem so many fireplaces in a single building." Sam turned to the doctor, warming to his story. "The place even had columns out front, and cobblestones on the driveway. Oh, and wood paneling everywhere, with huge paintings. It looked like a museum or something." He shook his head. "There are no words to describe it other than wow. At first, I felt sooo out of place, but Owen seemed to fit right in." Sam half-turned to face the doctor.

"We met a couple of Owen's friends. Everyone seems pretty taken with him. I guess he's been helpin' one of the guys out. You know how Owen's always inspiring people to do something? Well, this guy . . . Bailey's his name . . . he's taken Owen's words to heart, apparently." Sam sighed. "He's another rich guy. The place is crawlin' with 'em." He turned to the doctor and grinned.

Daniel laughed at Sam's enthusiasm.

"So, Jonah's okay? I thought maybe he might be with you today."

"He's missed you, of course, and he would have been here, but he had a big test in school, so he couldn't come. He joked that, since you've been gone, and he had nothing else to do . . ." The doctor chuckled, deciding not to dwell on what the two young men would have been doing if Sam was home. "He told me that since you were gone he got lots of studying in, so he was going to ace the test. I imagine," Daniel continued, daring to tease Sam about his and Jonah's relationship. "I imagine, that the two of you will have lots to talk about." He cleared his throat. "Or something."

"He's aced every test he's ever taken," Sam laughed, choosing to ignore the doctor's comment. "He and Owen are cut from the same mold. Oh,"Sam continued. "Owen's got the job of his dreams! He's workin' in the big library on campus. He's in heaven, surrounded by all those books 'n stuff. Computers are everywhere. Everyone's got one . . . even Owen! He gave me a tour of the library. You'd have thought it was all his. He seems to be a pretty popular guy with the folks he works with, just like his friends, that guy Bailey . . . and, of course, Lucas, his roommate." Sam shook his head in wonder. "That place is huge!" He laughed. "The library, that is. The city's also huge. Hell, everything is huge!

"So, Jonah's okay? He's not had any run-ins with his father, or anything? He's lookin' good? Could you tell if he's been eating okay?" He took a breath; then continued. "I wonder if Dog and Cat missed me."

Sam didn't wait for an answer. He leaned back and sighed. "It's so good to be home."

Owen looked up, still stirring a liberal amount of sugar into his coffee, to find Corey silently studying him, the slightest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Owen raised his eyebrows in a silent question. The two men had come to the coffee shop at Corey's request. Sam had left to go back to Riverton the day before; Lucas was off having lunch with his father; and Owen was at loose ends with nothing to do. When Corey called, he jumped at the chance to go to his favorite coffee shop, both for the company and the excellent pastries he'd come to love. Today, the coffee shop, popular with the university's students, was nearly empty. Many people had left town for the Christmas break, while others, who had decided to remain in the city, had decided not to brave the cold and ankle-deep snow. The sound of soft jazz playing in the background was a welcome respite, after weeks of Christmas music.

"G'day, Owen," the shop's owner smiled, greeting them the moment they chose a table, including Corey in his greeting with a slight tilt of his head, and placing a tray of pastries in the table's center. His smile broadened. "Everything's fresh from the oven, so if you want more, just holler. I must be psychic," he continued, with a laugh. "I told Emmie to bake-up a couple extra dozen, 'cause Owen, our best customer, was overdue for a visit." He extended his arms to his sides and smiled. "And here you are! Y'see?" he chuckled, pointing to his head. "Psychic!" The man seemed prepared to continue his visit, but was interrupted by a loud crash and a simultaneous yelp. He threw up his hands in resignation; then turned toward the kitchen, giving Owen and Corey a long-suffering sigh and shake of his head.

Corey paused a moment as he seemed to consider Owen's questioning glance. "Bailey tells me that you're responsible for what he calls his transformation. I wanted to personally thank you. In the last few weeks, I'm finding that he's become pretty special to me." Corey watched Owen's reaction to his words, then looked down, wrapping both hands around his steaming cup of coffee, welcoming its warmth.

"I only encouraged him to smile more often," Owen protested, wondering why Corey seemed study him, then look away, retreating into himself. "Bailey did all the real work," Owen continued. "Or, I should say, the two of you have been working hard. Bailey couldn't have accomplished everything he has without a lot of support from his parents, and from you." Corey grinned and slowly nodded.

"He took everything you told him to heart. He refers to your suggestions as, Owen's Rules of Behavior." Corey grinned. "Still, he's so self conscious, thinking he might do something wrong. Sometimes, watching him is funny, but mostly it's touching, as he tries to think things through before he gets dressed to go someplace. I've seen him change clothes three times before he's satisfied that he's casual enough to not stand out. He's throwing out tons of clothes he's convinced are too showy," Corey said, in an aside, grinning as he recalled Bailey tossing things onto a bed faster than Corey could stuff them in bags to be donated to charity. "Someone's going to end up with some great clothes." Corey paused a moment, lost in thought. "He's becoming better at smiling." Corey grinned. "I found him practicing in front of the mirror one day." He chuckled. "My outrageous stories help him out, as much as they've always helped me."

Owen looked up, captured by the change in Corey's voice. "Y'see," Corey finally continued, glancing up from beneath lowered lashes. "I'm here at the university trying to create a new man, as much as Bailey is." He hesitated. "Or, as much as you."

"Me?" Owen shifted in his seat.

Corey nodded once, wearing a crooked smile. "Owen," he said, as he leaned forward and, even though no one was sitting nearby, lowered his voice. "The first time I saw you, I figured that you've led a pretty rough life. You tend to seem distracted, as if your mind is somewhere else. You seem so sad, even when you're smiling." Corey watched as Owen lowered his eyes, absently rotating his coffee cup, one half turn to the right, one half turn to the left; then repeating each action.

"I don't think most people would ever notice, but I did." Corey heaved a sigh. "Y'see, you and I are very much alike." He made a casual throw away gesture with a hand, his voice taking on a joking tone. "I don't mean we're both drop dead gorgeous . . . though, of course, we are." He smiled brightly, his sense of using the outrageous to camouflage his pain, manifesting itself. In response, Owen huffed a silent laugh. Corey took a deep breath, the smile fading from his lips. "I'm talking about the both of us having a past we're trying to escape from. I cover the pain by joking around and being outrageous. You . . . you haven't learned to hide your pain yet. It hangs from your shoulders, weighing you down." Corey shook his head at the approaching waiter in a silent request to not interrupt.

"Some people would call you melancholy. I would say that most of the time you're feeling beat down, like you've been run over by a herd of cattle, you hurt so much." Owen opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when Corey held up a restraining hand. "You've learned to hide it from most everyone, so much so that I'd be wiling to bet that much of the time you don't even realize that you're running away."

"Are you trying to do to me what I did to Bailey?" Owen asked, looking up and attempting to not squirm.

"If you mean getting you to face what's troubling you and making some fundamental changes, I guess I am." Corey seemed ready to continue, but paused. "I wouldn't bother if I didn't like you. But, I also feel a . . . kinship with you." Owen raised his eyebrows. "We're both country boys," Corey continued; then smiled. "We need to stick together, y'know?" He paused.

"Should I shut my mouth? You just say the word and I'll never mention anything again." He placed a hand flat on the table, his fingers splayed wide apart, as if reaching for Owen. "Please don't, though." Owen made a slight gesture with his hand, where it lay on the tabletop, giving Corey permission to continue.

"I'm gonna tell you a little about my life." He took a deep breath and tried to smile, his dimples making a brief appearance as he steeled himself for what he was about to say. "I've only told one other person what I'm gonna tell you, a boyfriend I had back home. He guessed most of it, but I refused to admit everything to him, and he finally got tired of trying to help, claiming talking to me was like trying to argue with a fence post.

"A fella can talk all he wants, but the fence post isn't going to change for anybody. He told me I was like that fence post. When I wouldn't listen, he gave up, walked away, and I never saw him again. That was awful, 'cause when he was gone, I was left all alone."

"But, you have a family. I heard someone mention your sisters."

Corey snorted a silent laugh and slumped back into the chair. "Yeah, I've got two brothers and two sisters, and a mother and father . . . but I don't have a family." Owen frowned.

"I was an accident, y'see," Corey added, as if in recollection. "My earliest recollection . . . my very earliest - I must have been three years old, or something like that - was hearing my mother telling someone that I was an accident, and that she wished I had never been born. Later, I overheard her say to one of her lady friends that, "it doesn't matter how cute the little bugger is, just having him around is a royal pain in the ass." He held out a restraining hand, preventing Owen from speaking. "Every time I heard her or my . . . father, say something like that I hurt so bad. Pretty soon, there wasn't a time I didn't hurt.

"My brothers and sisters were most all grown when I was born. Only two of them were still living at home, and they had moved by the time I was three. That left my parents free to ignore me, when they weren't telling me how awful their lives had become because of me. Before I was born, they figured they were finished dealing with children. They were ready to have some fun . . . just the two of them. Then, along comes Corey. I was named after a school teacher my mother despised, by the way," he murmured, with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

"My . . . parents." He snorted. "They went around behaving as if m'mother had one of those sexless conceptions, or something. Y'know? She acted like I somehow just happened, that she and my father had nothing to do with it!

"When I was born they didn't even want to give me a name, but the hospital folks told 'em they couldn't go home without giving me one. They considered giving me up for adoption, but in the little town where I come from, that sort of thing just isn't done. The folks at their church would have kicked 'em out if they'd done something like that, and my grandmother would have . . ." He shrugged. "She would have done something.

My mother and father were all sweet and rosy whenever someone was around, or when they thought someone, especially a church member, might overhear them; but the moment it was just the three of us, they hardly ever spoke to me, or anything. I had clothes . . . my brothers' . . . never once any of my own. They gave me enough money just to get by at school, but not a penny more. I never laughed. I . . . existed, losing myself in my school work, convinced that I'd never know what it meant to feel loved." He stopped speaking and took a convulsive swallow.

"Ohhh, Corey." Owen couldn't help himself.

"I don't want your sympathy, Owen." Corey leaned forward, his eyes flashing. "I don't need sympathy from anyone. I'm telling you all this for a reason." He lowered his voice when he noticed some of the people at other tables looking towards him and Owen.

"No one knew what I was going through. I figured that most kids must have similar things happening to them, and we all just didn't say anything about it. When I wasn't thinking that, I racked my brain wondering what I had done wrong to be treated like they did. I tried doing everything I could think of to make them change, but they never did. They had built a wall around their emotions, and no matter what I did, I couldn't get through.

"They never beat me, or stuff. They just pretended I didn't exist, except to tell me how much they hated me." He sank into silence, chewing his bottom lip while Owen watched, horrified that anyone should be treated so badly, and realizing, at the same time, that there were many parallels between Corey's life and his own.

"I'm not going back, Owen. I'm never going back! Those people gave me my name, and a strong will to survive . . . nothing more." His voice lowered to barely more than a whisper. "Nothing more," he repeated, consciously making himself release his coffee cup before it broke.

He heaved a deep breath, his eyes still haunted by memories which would reappear whenever he let his guard down. He had bared his soul to Owen, and it had cost him a great deal to do so.

"I'm thinking that . . . sometime . . . I'll learn your story, Owen. I'm betting it's as . . . disturbing . . . as mine." Corey leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"Whenever . . . if ever . . . you decide you would like to talk to me, I'll be there for you. You helped Bailey, and because of that, Bailey's helping me. He doesn't know he is, he just is, and I want to help you. There's not much I can actually do other than listen, or hold your hand. I can do those things. I can be a person you'll know, understands.

"Your friend, Sam, seems like a wonderful guy, but I'm thinking that sometimes, it'd be easier to talk to someone who isn't quite so close as the two of you are. Let me be that person. Let me help you, by listening. Cry on my shoulder, and I'll cry on yours. By letting me into your life, you'll be helping me deal with my past, too. No one need never know of our little therapy sessions, but please let me in. I want to be your friend; I already consider you mine."

Owen gulped a breath of air and nodded once, unable to speak. They sat in silence as the waiter caught Corey's eye, wondering if it was okay to approach. Corey shook his head once and the waiter turned to deal with other tables.

"How?" Owen asked; then swallowed. "How . . . how did you survive? Who helped you?" He paused. "Did anyone . . . help you?"

Corey nodded slowly, his lips compressed. "It was a teacher." He bowed his head. "She found me silently crying in the darkest corner of the library. I . . . I didn't think anyone knew I was there. She sat down next to me, put an arm around my shoulder, and let me cry myself out. She didn't ask what was wrong, or ask if she could help. She just sat close to me giving me her support." Corey took a ragged breath. "She was the first person to ever hold me and try to comfort me. Ever! I was fifteen."

Corey's mouth silently moved. "I," he croaked. "I didn't know how to handle being touched. I still have trouble, sometimes. I can hide it pretty good, but sometimes, even with Bailey, I have trouble." He gave Owen an embarrassed grin, swiping at his eyes. "That teacher . . . she let me know that not all the world was . . . was, like my folks. By touching me that one time, she changed my life." He sniffed, glancing aside, embarrassed by his loss of control.

"A week or so later, she asked me if I would be a live-in tutor for another student, a couple years behind me in school. I'd never heard of such a thing, and told her so. She smiled, sort of a sad smile, and told me that the family was willing to pay me to help their daughter, but that I would have to live with them. No mention was ever made if it was okay with my folks. She knew.

"I was too dumb to realize it at the time, but that teacher must have realized what my life was like, and made some sort of arrangements to get me away from . . . home." He grinned. "I left without telling my . . . parents . . . anything. I took what little I had, and left.

"During the next three years, I became like a son to the people who had taken me in. It was . . . difficult . . . at first, but they didn't make any demands, and finally I fit in. It turned out their daughter didn't need a tutor at all. That was just an excuse for me to leave. For the first time in my life, I was happy. My grades, which had always been good, got better. My teacher put in a good word with someone she knew here at school, and here I am."

Corey waited for the expressions of sympathy he very much hoped wouldn't come. Owen didn't seem the type.

"I'm glad you're here, and that you and I are becoming friends," Owen murmured, grasping Corey's hand for a moment. It was a small action, something he would never have dreamt of doing, back in Riverton. Yet, here, the thought of two men touching, seemed nothing special. 'I've grown,' Owen thought to himself, releasing Corey's hand and returning to his cup of coffee. "Thank you for telling me your story." He leaned his forearms on the table, nodding his thanks to the waiter, who had finally been allowed to refill their coffee cups. "Does Bailey know any of this?"

Corey shook his head once. "No, and I'd like to keep it that way. He'd . . . he'd do . . . something. I would just as soon he know me as he sees me. It was you I wanted to tell this to, so . . . when the time is right . . . you'll know that I'm safe to talk to." He lowered his voice. "Owen, you do need to talk . . . if not to me . . . to someone. I'll bet you somethings can think of nothing but . . . whatever." Corey made a helpless gesture. "You need to do something to start feeling better. Whatever's bothering you, try to change it. Do what you want rather than what's expected of you. Start thinking more of you and less of . . ." he grinned . . . "whatever."

Owen silently studied his steaming mug of coffee, then looked up, compressing his lips and swallowed. "You're probably right. I'll think about what you've told me." He ran a forefinger through some pastry crumbs on his plate, wondering how he should express his thoughts.

"Corey, just as you believe I should talk to you, I . . ." He swallowed. "You have to forgive me, but I think you do need to talk to Bailey about your life. Is it fair to him to enter into a relationship?" He glanced closer. "The two of you are doing that, aren't you?"

Corey smiled. "I hope so." He held out a hand, preventing Owen from saying any more. "I understand what you're saying, and . . . you're right. It's just that I've tried to overcome my past for so long, that talking about it to anyone makes it seem immediate."

"It is immediate. It's a part of you, and you're letting it control your life."

Corey lapsed into an introspective silence. "You may be right." After a moment, he asked, "Are you letting your past control your life? Are the two of us more alike than even I realized?"

Owen grinned crookedly. "Maybe. Y'know, I've always found it easier to give advice than to accept it.

"D'you think everyone's life is as screwed up as ours?" Owen asked, deflecting the conversation, as he reached across the table and rested his hand on top of Corey's, offering his silent thanks for the trust Corey had placed in him by baring his soul.

"I doubt it," Corey tried to laugh. "I very much doubt it." This time, the smile was real. "It doesn't matter though. You, Bailey, and I, are survivors. We'll make it through whatever it is we're facing. Then I'm betting all of us are gonna be great friends."

~ to be continued ~

Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I always welcome your email and enjoy hearing your thoughts. If you would like me to send you a pic of the character(s), please ask.

My other stories on Nifty include: Phalen (located in the Gay College Section) Phalen - Finding Happiness (Gay College Section) Phalen - Reputation and Honor (upcoming) Chris (Gay College Section) Leith (Gay College Section) Owen (Gay College Section Wesley (Adult Relationships Section) Jess (Gay Incest Section) Travis (Gay Incest Section)

I hope you enjoy them all.

Roy Reinikainen roynm@mac.com