Owen

Owen

Chapter Six

by Roy Reinikainen

Owen's emotions were torn. He was sleeping beside a man, with whom he'd had sex . . . or at least, masturbated . . . in a real bed . . . and that man wasn't Sam. He and Sam had never spent the night in a bed. Somehow, that bothered him more than having masturbated with someone other than Sam.

'Have I been unfaithful?' He asked himself as he stared unseeing at the ceiling, listening to Lucas' soft breathing, and feeling his warmth. 'I've been away from Sam for only a couple days and look what I've done! Still,' he thought, forcing himself to think rationally. 'Sam and I never talked about monogamy, and what either of us would do while I was away at school.' He closed his eyes, wondering if he was only rationalizing what he'd done.

The faintly-sweet flavor of Lucas' sperm lingered on his tongue. He'd wanted so badly to taste it, and when Lucas had licked his fingers clean after running his fingers through a puddle of his sperm, he'd dared to do the same with Lucas'.

'Still . . . there's Sam.' Lucas shifted position, seeming to try and snuggle closer. Owen smiled feeling each breath Lucas took, on his shoulder.

Lucas' behavior was puzzling. He'd thrown Bailey out of the house, claiming he didn't want to be his friend, presumably because Bailey was gay. Yet . . . Lucas had almost insisted the two of them masturbate together. How many straight guys would do something like that? How many straight guys would lick their fingers clean after intentionally swiping them through someone else's sperm? He couldn't imagine anyone he grew up with doing such a thing. It was even a stretch to imagine his brother duplicating Lucas' actions, and he and Jonah had masturbated alongside one another countless times.

'Oh, Sam,' he sighed to himself. 'Just cause I played with Lucas doesn't mean I love you any less. In fact, I'm guessin' it shows how much I actually do love you, 'cause most of the time I was lookin' at Lucas, I was comparing him with you, wishing it was you who was next to me . . . just as I'm wishin' now.'

'Would you be upset by what I did?' He tried to think. 'Would I be upset if you played with another guy?

'Ah . . . Sam. To be able to spend an entire night with you . . . in a bed, instead of on the grass of our meadow. I wonder what you're doin.'

Lucas rolled onto his stomach and rested an arm over Owen's chest.

'Ohh, Sam,' he thought. 'I'm feelin' bad because I'm feelin' so good.'

The doctor slowed his car to a stop before Sam's darkened house, the crunching of the gravel drive seeming loud in the quiet of the early evening darkness.

"Here you are, Sam. Back, safe and sound."

Sam turned to the man who, since Owen had left, had become a friend. They had traveled most of the past hour in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. That was one thing Sam liked about the doctor; he didn't seem to think every moment needed to be occupied with conversation. But, when he did talk, he was fun to be around, always encouraging.

He was a tall man, about Sam's parents' age, with short greying hair and a ghost of a beard. He looked like anything but the stereotypical doctor, always dressing in jeans and plaid button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled half-way up his strong forearms. The top button of the shirt was invariably left unfastened, revealing the trimmed hair of his chest.

He was watching Sam, his mouth curved into an amused smile, as if he were aware of Sam's thoughts. The smile widened, crinkling the corners of his pale brown eyes, and displaying a playful dimple in his right cheek. Typically, he remained silent. Sam shifted in his seat and reached for the door handle.

"Thanks doc. I really appreciate all you've done to help me get set up at school, and for findin' me that rooming house. Since Owen and my folks have been gone, I've sorta felt . . . adrift. Maybe school will make me take my mind off of them."

"Tell Owen I asked about him, would you?" The doctor asked as Sam opened the door. He turned back to the doctor, smiling softly.

"Yeah, I will. I got a call from him not too long after he got there, and have gotten a letter almost every day. He just got a job at the school library, and now he's lookin' for a place to live that he can afford. I guess everything's pretty expensive. Hell, I think what I'm gonna pay is expensive. I can't imagine how he's gonna make ends meet."

As always, the doctor's voice was soothing . . . encouraging. "You both'll do fine. Owen's got his scholarship, which will help a lot, and your folks are pretty much taking care of you." He reached out and gave Sam's shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

"I suspect, you're also worried about your father."

Sam slowly nodded. "Yeah, I'm constantly worryin'. I've spoken to Mother, but she doesn't seem to know anything. She keeps tellin' me to tend to my business and they'll let me know when they find out anything." He shrugged. "But, it's rough. Y'know?"

The doctor nodded and tightened his lips. "Your father's in the best hands. If anyone can find out exactly what's the problem, and take care of it, those people at the medical center, can." He squeezed once more. "I know it's useless to tell you not to worry, but there's nothing you can do, for either your father, or Owen. Worrying will just make things more difficult for you."

"Yeah, I know, but, like I said, it's rough. If it weren't for you and Jonah, I'd be feeling like I don't have a friend in the world."

"Jonah?" The doctor's eyes widened slightly.

"Yeah, his father's making it kinda rough on everyone over at their house. He was dead set against Owen going to school. Now, Mr. Carver's makin' things hard for everyone. Jonah came by to visit the other day . . . just to get away from home for a bit. He didn't tell anyone he'd come over to my place though."

Sam shifted in the car seat so he could face the doctor in the dim light. "You know, no one over there is even allowed to say Owen's name!"

Sam continued. "Jonah's miserable. He didn't actually say that, but it was easy to see how he felt. I can't imagine what it's like for the girls. I don't have any idea what to think about Mrs. Carver."

The doctor compressed his lips into a thin line and shook his head in disbelief. "I knew, of course, that Jonathan Carver didn't want Owen to leave. Jonathan never finished high school and it galls him to have very bright children. Jonah is as smart as Owen, you know, as are the girls. His interests are in a different direction though. He loves farming, and wants to make things grow.

"Jonathan should cultivate his son's love of the land rather than browbeat him into doing what he wants. If he continues doing that, Jonah will leave, just like Owen." The doctor sadly shook his head. "Nasty business. Nasty business. No one can possibly come away from it a winner." The doctor paused, lost in thought.

"I too worry about Mrs. Carver. The woman has put up with a lot. Sometimes, I . . ." He shook his head, unwilling to finish his thought aloud, and gave Sam a crooked grin.

"I'm glad Jonah has found a friend in you. I'm thinking, being friends will help you both."

Owen crunched through drifts of multi-colored leaves as he crossed the park, heading home. Some of the trees, so lushly green all summer, still clung onto their leaves. Others stood completely bare, surrendering their greenery early, creating the drifts of red and gold at his feet. The birds still sang their carefree songs, and squirrels continued to scamper across the paths and up the trunks of the trees, chattering amongst themselves, but, along with the shortening days, there was a chill in the air Owen had never experienced.

The sounds of rush hour traffic at the park's boundary were muted and distant, hidden behind the park's hedges. He looked up to the balcony of Lucas' apartment at the park's edge, wondering if, by some chance, Lucas might be sitting outside. He kicked at some more leaves, feeling more lonely than he had been since showing up at the airport on the fateful night he'd met Lucas.

Since he'd found a place of his own and moved out of Lucas' apartment, their relationship had not been the same. Whenever they did see one another, they never seemed able to fall into the same carefree sense of camaraderie they'd enjoyed while sharing the apartment. He felt as if he'd hurt Lucas, but he couldn't figure out why.

Lucas had always known that he intended to move out once he found a job and a place to live. Allison's connections at the university library had proven useful. He'd applied for, and had gotten a decent job. Soon after, he'd answered an advertisement in the school newspaper and had rented an efficiency apartment from an elderly couple who had subdivided their home in order to bring in a few more dollars to supplement their meager income. He enjoyed their company, but he missed Lucas.

Their parting had not been easy on either of them. Owen had always been self sufficient. Growing up, under the thumb of a domineering father, he'd had to be able to stand on his own and not depend on his parents for support. Now, his deep-seated need to fend for himself had caused pain for someone he was close to.

The soft light of early evening cast long shadows across his path, and a sudden breeze caused him to shiver and pull his jacket closed. Nature seemed to be in the same melancholy mood as he.

Owen remembered finding Lucas leaning on the kitchen counter intently studying a cookbook. He'd looked up and smiled brightly as Owen closed the door.

"What are you so happy about?" He'd asked, returning the smiled greeting as he set his bag on the counter. He remembered how the bag's canvas fabric felt, how the room smelled, and how he was pleased the room was warm. He'd already realized that he was not going to enjoy winter. But, most of all, he remembered Lucas' smiling face and sparkling eyes.

Lucas' smile brightened at Owen's question. "I'm just a happy guy. What can I say? Life is good. I'm doing well in school. I've got a wonderful apartment and a great roommate. What more could a guy ask for? What have you been up to, today?"

"I got myself a job," Owen responded, already feeling as if he were doing something to hurt his friend. "Now, I can begin to feel like I'm standin' on my own two feet. I hate feeling like I'm dependin' on you for everything."

Lucas' smile slowly faded. The sparkle in his eyes had dimmed and his voice was flat. "Does this mean you'll begin looking for someplace else to live? You don't have to, you know. In fact, I wish you wouldn't." He studied Owen more closely, any hint of a smile disappearing. "You've already found a place, haven't you?" He asked, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Owen bowed his head and nodded once.

"Oh," was the single-word response. Lucas slowly closed the cookbook laying open on the counter and licked his dry lips. "I . . . see." He looked aimlessly about the apartment and then turned and silently wandered into the bedroom. Owen watched as he eased himself into an easy chair and bowed his head.

"Oh geez," Owen murmured, flopping into one of the living room chairs. 'This is almost as bad as leavin' Sam behind.' He'd no sooner sat down than he pushed himself up, out of the chair, and slowly walked to the kitchen, telling himself that the reason he was moving was to stand on his own two feet.

He rummaged about in the cabinets, and started some coffee brewing, leaning back against the kitchen counter while the coffee maker burped, gurgled and sputtered. 'Okay, Owen,' he chided himself. 'The real reason you're leaving in such a rush is you're afraid you might do or say something which would expose you as being gay. If Lucas could dump Bailey, a boyhood friend, so easily, what would he do to me?' He glanced into the bedroom where Lucas remained motionless. 'There's some truth in wanting to be self sufficient, but be truthful with yourself,' he scolded. 'You like Lucas . . . a lot. You're feeling bad because you like him, and fear what liking Lucas as you do will do to your relationship with Sam.'

The coffee maker sputtered, as if taking its last breath. 'I want to hold Lucas so bad . . . and if I did hold him, then what would I do? I can't trust myself. I'd do somethin' without even thinking. Then, Lucas would get angry, and I'd lose him altogether.'

He heaved a sigh as he poured the coffee. 'A peace offering,' he thought, as he walked to the bedroom carrying the two steaming cups.

"Thanks," Lucas murmured, looking up with a wan smile, accepting the mug. "Sorry for being such a bore."

"You've done nothin' wrong, my friend," Owen murmured, as he set his coffee down and began to massage Lucas' shoulders. "I'm sorry about springin' this move on you. I thought you realized how I felt about being dependent on someone for everything. The longer I let something like that go on, the harder it'll be to stop. I feel like a sponge, soakin' up all your generosity and not giving anything back."

Lucas heaved a sigh. "I understand your feelings, Owen, and I don't suppose there's anything I can say that will convince you that that's not how I feel about you staying here. I . . . like you. I like you being here. We have fun together. Couldn't we work something out so you'd not feel as if you're imposing, and we could stay . . ." His voice trailed off as he felt the pressure of Owen's fingers on his shoulders lessen. "Together," he finally managed.

"Is there something . . . ? Have I done something to cause you to want to move . . . ? I mean, other than your feeling about dependency, and things?

"Are you feeling all weirded-out by sleeping in the same bed; or when we beat-off together that time?" He heaved himself out of the chair, and away from Owen's hands. "I wouldn't be surprised if that's making you feel all strange to be around me. I mean, do normal guys beat-off together and then sleep with one another." He turned to Owen.

"I'm sorry for even suggesting it. All I wanted, when I saw you at the airport, was to help you out . . . and now, I've screwed up the best friendship I've ever had. Allison is right. I make a mess of things."

Owen grabbed Lucas' shoulder and held him still. "Hey," he said, raising his voice, in order to hold Lucas' attention. "You haven't done anything wrong. Understand? I enjoyed masturbating with you. I've always slept in the same bed with another guy . . . my brother, Jonah, remember? So, don't start imagining all sort of things you've done that you shouldn't have, 'cause you'll be wrong. I'm leavin' 'cause of me, not you. And, just because I'm not livin' here does not mean we can't be as close as we are right now."

Lucas seemed to deflate. "Yeah, I know." He looked up. "You're determined to leave, aren't you?"

"I have to, Lucas." Owen hesitated. "If I stay, I'm afraid I'll lose you as a friend."

"What? Why? There's more to this than you're telling me, isn't there?"

Owen shook his head, already angry with himself for saying as much as he had. "I'd better be goin'." He gave Lucas a brief embrace and then stepped back as Lucas once again, sat down, propping his stocking feet on the ottoman.

"Owen," Lucas spoke, without turning.

"Yes?" Owen answered, stuffing the last of belongings into his second bag.

"I'll miss you." Owen could hear Lucas' voice catch before he continued. "Be well, my friend," he murmured.

Owen took a ragged breath, unwilling to trust his voice. Instead, he squeezed Lucas on the shoulder and then walked into the kitchen. He rinsed out his coffee cup, and then fished in his pocket for the key to the apartment, glancing back to the bedroom where Lucas still sat with a bowed head. Owen rubbed his thumb over the key before setting it in the center of the kitchen counter where it was sure to be found.

He picked up his two bags, looked over his shoulder once more, and then let himself out of the apartment, silently closing the door behind him.

Two weeks later he'd encountered Lucas, crossing campus. It had felt so . . . right, to give him a hug, no matter how brief. Lucas' eyes had even sparkled, and the momentary smile was almost as bright as Owen remembered.

"You're not eating," Owen murmured, studying his friend. Lucas had always been slender; now he was becoming skinny.

"No more skinny jokes, Owen," Lucas replied, trying to laugh Owen's observations off.

"I'm not joking. You're not eating."

"Yeah, well. I've been busy."

"Too busy to eat? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong! I've just got stuff on my mind, that's all." He immediately lowered his voice and made a placating gesture. "I'm sorry for being testy. It's uncalled for, especially with you." He reached out and squeezed Owen's shoulder. "I'm sorry, but I can't visit." He glanced at his wrist watch. "I've got to get to class." Another brief touch, accompanied by a crooked grin, and then he turned and walked away.

Owen watched, feeling lonelier than ever, until Lucas turned a corner and disappeared. It was as if he'd lost Lucas as a friend. Even though he'd developed other acquaintances at school, none of them were as close as Lucas.

Every night, he'd sit in the armchair in the living room of his small apartment, an open textbook in his lap, either wishing he could think of a way to make amends with Lucas, or dreaming about being held by Sam. He'd hold the photograph Sam had given him the day he'd left for school, absently running a thumb over the glossy surface. He felt so alone. Sam, the man he loved, and Lucas, best friend, whom he also loved, neither one nearby.

He and Sam had spoken with one another only once during the months since he'd come to school, and even though he told himself his love for Sam was unchanged . . . he wondered. As he walked up the tree lined lane to his house, he remembered thinking how . . . sometimes, it felt as if Sam were part of a dream, and that dream had nothing to do with the reality in which he was living.

Lucas, on the other hand, was his reality; a reality which was untouchable. He ached . . . desperately . . . to hold Lucas. He also desperately ached to be held.

He waved a greeting to his landlord and entered the small home by the side door, the door to his rooms. He flicked on the lights, bathing everything in a dim incandescent glow, and sank into the armchair, opening a history book, resigned to study.

When he realized he'd read the same paragraph at least four times, he sighed, closed the book and set it aside. It was no good. His mind was in turmoil. He pushed himself out of the chair with its threadbare upholstery, and began to pace back and forth across the small room. 'I have to speak to him,' he thought, picking up the telephone and dialing Lucas' number.

There was one ring . . . two . . . three . . . and finally the answering machine. He sighed. "Hello, my friend," he said. "I was just thinkin' how much I miss talkin' to you, and seeing your scrawny body." He sobered. "I miss you, Lucas. Give me a call whenever you're able, and let's talk. Okay?" He took an unsteady breath and lowered the telephone.

When he turned, he saw his and Sam's photograph propped up against one of his school books. He could hear the voices of the folks he rented the apartment from on the other side of the thin wall. They were elderly and weren't aware they were speaking so loudly. He smiled to himself.

He really had been lucky to find a place he could afford within walking distance of school. Even so . . . He looked around and grimaced. 'Even back home was better'n this,' he thought. He did his best to help his landlords out, fixing or doing things they needed done, and they did provide some company, but not the affection he'd always gotten from Sam, nor even what he'd gotten from Lucas.

There it was, the same nagging thought. His mind had returned to Lucas, his bright smile and ready laugh. They'd . . . masturbated together that one time, and had awakened the next morning in one another's arms. Both the physical as well as emotional satisfaction of being near Lucas was wonderful, yet every time he touched Lucas, if he wasn't thinking of Sam, he was thinking of Bailey, and how Lucas had kicked him out of his apartment, shouting that he never wanted to see him again.

He suddenly knew what he had to do. It didn't matter that it was an extravagance he hadn't planned for, he had to do it. He picked up the telephone and dialed the number. The phone rang once . . . then a second time, and a third. He exhaled a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding and was prepared to hang up when there was an answer.

"Sam!" He choked, his emotions taking control. "It's me!" He smiled through watery eyes at Sam's surprised greetings, and then his excited string of questions.

"Yeah, I'm doin' okay, other than missin' you an awful lot." He softly snorted. "Y'know, Sam, that picture you gave me is gonna be all worn out, I hold it so much. I take it with me wherever I go." He hesitated, and then spoke with a ragged breath. "Oh, Sam . . . I miss holding you, and being held by you, so much. I can hardly stand it. I never realized how much I love you." He swallowed around the lump in his throat and took an unsteady breath.

"How'ya been? I want to know everything." He flopped back into the chair, ignoring the creaks and groans it made, and threw a leg over the chair's arm.

His expression sobered when Sam described how his father and mother had left so his father could receive medical treatment. "So, I'm 'bout as lonely as you are," Sam said in a subdued voice.

"The Doc has got me enrolled in a two-year program at the community college, over in Benston. I'm learning all the newest things about how a farm like my parents' should be run." He laughed. "I'm not sure when I'll ever be able to use the stuff I'm learnin', but I sure am being stuffed full'a all sorts of information. About all I do is read, and drive back and forth to that school." He laughed.

"I'm usin' lots'a gas, but I got all signed-up for classes only three days a week. That way, I can spend four days a week studying, here at home. When I can't be at home, the Doc recommended a rooming house he knew of."

He seemed to hesitate.

"Somethin's on your mind, Sam," Owen said, knowing the signals, even long distance. "Spill it." He teased. "I'm not gonna let you go till you do, you know. Is everything else okay?" He tensed, waiting for the answer, wondering what the news might be.

"Yeah, everything's fine, other'n you being gone, of course." He took a deep breath. "I saw Jonah the other day."

"Jonah! How's he doin? What's he up to?"

"He came by the house to ask about you, actually. He was wonderin' if I'd heard from you. Owen, haven't you written to him?"

"Of course I have! I write to him and the girls as often as I do you."

"Well, he hasn't seen any letters. That's why he was over . . . wonderin' how you're doing." Sam took a deep breath.

"Owen, he's in pain."

"Pain! What sorta pain? Is Pops beatin' him?" Owen stood, his anger at his father ready to boil over.

Sam answered quickly. "No, not that he told me, anyhow. He brought me over some stew sayin' your mother sent it to me." Sam chuckled. "Your mama sure can make good stew, y'know?" Owen nodded, making a hurry up motion with his hand, urging Sam to get on with Jonah's problem.

"Owen, he's starving for affection."

"Go on," Owen urged. Jonah had always been there when he needed him, comforting him as best he could, chancing his father's wrath by bringing him food whenever he was exiled to his room after a beating, and holding him in the middle of the night . . . allowing him the freedom to cry. He knew what he himself had experienced at the hands of his father, yet had never considered that his brother might also be suffering in a similar way.

"He told me 'bout the arguments you and your father had, about school . . . and about . . . me." Owen could hear Sam force a swallow and take a ragged breath trying to control his voice. "Owen, why didn't you ever tell me that your father beat you?"

"I . . ."

Sam didn't wait for an answer. "Jonah told me how he would sneak you food, and finally admitted that Abigail and he had snuck the stew out of the house so he would have an excuse to come over here and see if I'd heard from you. He was sneaking me food just like he did for you. He told me how he would spread salve'n stuff on the places your father had hit you, and how he'd hold you when you were cryin'. Sam's voice rose.

"Owen . . . I didn't know what to do . . . or say to 'im. He was tellin' me about how you had been emotionally and physically abused by your father, but I think he was talkin' about how much he's sufferin, as well."

"You sure Pops isn't beatin' him?"

"No . . . at least I don't think so. He didn't mention it. He's lonely without you, of course. You're really important to him, but there's more than that. When he bought the stew over, I joked that I could love your mother for sending it over to me. When I realized that it had been him and Abigail who were responsible, and not your mother, I teased that it I should be sayin' I could love him for bringin' the stew to me.

"Owen . . . he bowed his head and got all quiet and teary-eyed, just 'cause I told him he was a good guy!" Sam's voice had risen even further.

"What's goin' on at your house, Owen? I'm learnin' about all the shit you had to put up while growin' up . . . now Jonah! It tears at my heart to hear about what you went through, and now to see him being worn down by your father's behavior. A beating doesn't always leave marks, y'know? Jonah's being beaten every day, even if your father never lays a hand on him.

"When he was 'bout ready to leave, I gave him a hug, and you'd'a thought I'd given him a million dollars, or somethin'. He was smiling, thanking me, and tryin' not to cry, all at the same time. It was both sad and embarrassing. I've never seen someone drink up a kind word like that. It was like how the desert absorbs a drop of rain. The drop just disappears, and the desert is left wantin' more. Jonah wants more. He wants to be held; he needs to hear that he's a good man . . . that someone loves him. Heaven knows, he's not gonna hear it at home."

Sam seemed to hesitate. "Owen . . . that's what you're callin' for tonight, isn't it? We're both like your brother. We need to hear each other's voice to know that we're not alone. Now that you're livin' alone, and me all alone 'cause m'folks are away . . . we, both of us, need to hear we're loved." He sighed. "I do love you, Owen. Since learnin' what you went through, I'm lovin' you more'n I ever have." He sighed. "I just wish Jonah'd find someone to tell him how great a guy he is."

Jonah kissed his mother's cheek. "G'night, mama." She smiled, her eyes involuntarily flicking past his shoulder to see if her husband was nearby. Jonah tried not to stiffen at her unwitting behavior. It wasn't his mother's fault that his father was so . . . he searched for a word . . . terrible. She tenderly ran her fingers over his chin.

"You've grown into a very handsome young man," she said in a low voice. "I am so proud of you, Jonah. You're such a good boy." She looked aside. "You put up with so much. Just like your brother."

"Mama . . . about Owen." He could see a warning in her tired eyes. "Have you . . ." His words were drowned out by his father shouting from the front porch.

"Beatrice!" His father bellowed. "Where are you?" There was a slight tightening of her lips before she turned back to Jonah and quickly kissed his cheek. "Sleep well," she murmured, her lips curving into a sad smile before she turned and headed toward the porch.

"I'm here, Jonathan," she called. "There's no need to wake the entire town," she muttered. Anything else she might have said was lost as she walked outside.

'Her kiss isn't enough,' he thought to himself as he walked through the house and into what was once his and Owen's bedroom. 'I want more than a mother's kiss,' he continued thinking as he slid the bedroom's windows open, welcoming the breeze as well as the sound of chirping crickets. His parents' voices could be heard in the distance, his father's, always demanding, and his mother's, always conciliatory. The voices faded as he walked away from the window.

He heaved a tired sigh as he sat on the edge of the big bed he and Owen had shared, and tugged off his boots and socks, wiggling his toes in the rug. He set his boots aside and tossed his socks toward the bedroom door where he would collect them, along with the remainder of his dirty clothing, in the morning. His shirt joined the socks, then his jeans, and finally his underwear.

He bowed his head as he stood at the edge of the bed, in what had become a nightly ritual. "Be well, Owen," he murmured into the silence. "I miss you . . ." He didn't know what caused him to feel better after wishing his brother well, but afterward, he was always able to sleep soundly.

Sam had assured him Owen was fine, but he would have felt much better, hearing his brother's voice. He never realized how much he would miss their late night conversations, or the warmth of his brother's body next to his each night. He climbed beneath the cool sheets, the only sounds the hesitant rustling of leaves and the crickets calling to one another in the distance. Now and then, the light of a fire fly flickered outside his bedroom window, their dance, unlike the crickets' calls, was silent.

'Ah . . . Sam,' he thought, as he fluffed the pillow beneath his head and hugged Owen's pillow to his chest. 'I'm one mixed-up guy.' He blinked into the darkness. 'I'm also sooo lonely.'

The feeling of Sam's arms around him had stayed with him for days. His teacher at school had even commented on his uncharacteristic smile, as had his father. After that, he made sure he held his happiness close to his heart, not giving his father an opportunity to ask why he was making foolish expressions. He hated himself for being like his mother, unwilling to do anything to incite his father's wrath. It was easier to passively go through each day letting his father decide everything. But lately . . . since Owen left and after being hugged by Sam, he had grown to realize that he needed something for himself. He needed to be his own person, not merely an extension of his father's ego.

'What would it be like,' he wondered, staring into the darkened room, 'to have someone hold me like Sam did . . . whenever I wanted it? Or, to hold someone else, or kiss them like I did mama, and not worry that that slight show of affection would cause an uproar, if seen.' He thought back to the kiss on the cheek he'd given his mother and realized that that was not the type of kiss he wanted. 'I want something passionate,' he said to himself, fondling his thickening penis. 'I want to taste another person's tongue.' His penis become firm. 'I want the kiss to be sloppy . . . and not be afraid that someone might interrupt.'

The pillow was soft under his neck. The sound of crickets and the feeling of the warm breeze against his bare skin lulled him into a peaceful sleep, while tendrils of a dream began to form, enveloping him in an ideal world.

He saw himself look up and smile as another man . . . someone his own age, or slightly older . . . crossed the room and wrapped him in one of the most satisfying and sensuous embraces he'd ever had. It was even better than the one Sam had given him recently. He and the other man were naked lying on a large bed. Pale yellow light of an early morning flooded the room, the slight breeze causing the sheer drapery to billow into the room. Outside the open window, he could hear birdsong.

Jonah bucked his hips, sliding his erection against the texture of the pillow case, while in his dream, his erection pressed against that of the other man. He wasn't sure what he should do. It felt so wonderful just to be held by another person. The sensation of their erections rubbing against one another was almost secondary. He felt safe . . . loved. He wasn't afraid his father would barge into the room and make a scene. He wasn't afraid . . .

He saw himself lay back on the mattress, so unlike his own, and the man crawled over him on hands and knees, smiling as he leaned forward to resume their interrupted kiss.

For a moment he thought it was Sam who was crawling over him, and then . . . a moment later, it was as if Owen were lying on top of him. Then, it was the other person whose weight he felt, and whose tongue he'd welcomed into his mouth.

In the darkened room, he thrust his erection against Owen's pillow, once . . . twice . . . a third time. He could feel the weight of the person. He could taste him, smell him . . . feel his erection slide against his own, their shared pre-cum lubricating their movements. The room smelled of sex, and two naked young men, lost in their lovemaking.

He could hear their moans, mingling and growing in intensity as they thrust against one another. His breathing was becoming ragged. He clutched the pillow to him tighter. In his dream, his arms circled another man . . . a man who was approaching his orgasm as fast as he.

He heard the other person's ragged breathing, and could almost feel his hot breath against his neck as their cocks rubbed against one another lubricated by their slick juices.

"Oh, Sam," he groaned, aloud, a moment before he felt the other man's load splash against his skin. The feeling made him groan and shoot again, his sperm coating his own hand as he sought out the person's mouth and tongue.

Their earlier kisses of passion were now kisses of satisfaction. He was being held in a loose embrace. "I love you," the man said, and then faded into nothing more than a wisp of smoke and the memory of the words . . . "I love you," hanging in the still air.

~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) Chris (Gay College Section) Leith (Gay College Section) Owen (Gay College Section Wesley (Adult Relationships Section) Jess (Soon to be in the Gay Incest Section)

I hope you enjoy them all.

Roy Reinikainen