Okay, this is not a story with a whole lot of sex. Some will come in here and there, but it is not the central theme. It's a story about love between men and self-acceptance, kinda like all of my stories are.
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Thanks for all of the love so far, I will continue to write diligently!
IMPORTANT!!! This story includes excerpts of Paul & Morgan's memoir, which I will separate from the rest of the story with asteriks like the one's below. If this is confusing, e-mail me and let me know and I will try to figure something else out!
Part Four
Wanting to know and getting to know are two different things, though and I found that out the hard way when I went back to the gay antique shop to work the next day. Paul didn't even mention giving me the next chapter of their memoir, not even when I presented him with the copy of the first chapter, all marked up and ready for correction.
He just took it and told me that he had some work for me to do in the office. I trudged uncertainly behind him, trying to think of how to ask him about getting ahold of the next chapter and not sounding gay about it when I entered the office and found Skit there, sitting in a chair with a canvas in front of him and Drew, sitting on the old leather couch a few feet away from him.
My heart started pounding in my chest and my first thought was to turn around and get the hell out of there. I mean, they weren't even touching each other or close to each other, but I could feel something in the air, some kind of intimacy. I didn't want to have any more of the weird dreams or even sit around and think about Skit Tyler.
As I walked further into the room, I realized what was going on. Skit was painting a portrait of Drew. Something inside of my stomach clenched. Drew was sprawled across the couch in a half-lazing kind of way, his black t-shirt tight on his skinny frame and his khakis so low on his hips that the tanned skin of his sides and the wisps of hair on his lower stomach leading down to his pubes peeked out for all of us to see. The look in his dark eyes was clearly seductive. He wanted Skit bad...and for some reason that irked me. Couldn't they do their own gay thing during non-business hours?
"Hey, guys," Paul said casually to them and they both nodded at him, hardly moving an inch. "Don't mind us, I've just got a little project that I need Eric to work on for me." At the mention of my name, Skit looked up and a little bit behind him at me. Our eyes clashed and then he looked quickly away. His hair was still blonde only this time everything he wore was white, white slacks and a funny, kind of mesh white shirt that had a huge metal zipper in the front. Over it, he had on a painting smock with lots of colors all over it. I looked away.
Paul was walking towards the desk, which was kind of kiddy corner from where Skit and Drew were. There was a big pile of papers on the desk and a fat yellow highlighter. Paul gestured to them.
"Morgan and I are going to do a mailing to all of our loyal customers for a 20% off sale," Paul told me. "We've done some in the past, but nothing recently. We started going through the database and there were quite a few duplicate names, people moving and so on. I've alphabetized them, but I don't have time to go through and pick out the duplicates so if you could just go through and highlight the ones you find?"
I nodded, looking down at the huge pile dreadfully. I liked to edit stuff, but piles of duplicate names? It didn't sound like any fun. Paul went over to stand behind Skit and watch as he painted and I just sat down. What else was I gonna do?
I stared at the list sullenly and started skimming for duplicate names. Right away, I found one. Brianne Anderson and Brianne Anderson, two different addresses. Which one should I highlight? I looked up to ask Paul, but he was already gone. I highlighted them both, my hands slow and steady. I took a quick look over at Skit Tyler and clenched my teeth when I noticed him peeking at me out of the corners of his eyes. He quickly looked away again. My breath caught in my chest.
You're beautiful.
It seemed like light years ago that he had said that to me in the freshmen gym. Had he really meant that? My heart was clunking around in my chest as I tried to focus on the names in front of me. The words just swam together into a blur. I held the highlighter and stared at the page as if I was engrossed, though, I didn't know what else to do.
Was I as beautiful to him as Drew was, sprawled across that old leather couch like some kind of offering? How could I possibly be? Drew was the kind of guy girls went for, tall and lanky and long-haired with a pretty boy face, the kind you might see screaming into a microphone on an MTV stage. I couldn't possibly compete with someone like that.
What the fuck was I thinking? I didn't want to compete with him. He was gay and I was not, there was no competition.
I couldn't help it. My eyes just went back to Skit. He was looking at me again, out of the corners of his eyes. I stared back at him, and then watched him move his paintbrush away from the canvas and rest his hand against his knee. His hands were shaking? Was he scared I was gonna go off on him, snap out like I had that day at school?
I thought about Paul and Morgan, meeting way back in the '60s and still being together now that they were grownups. It was like my parents or grandparents or something. How could I make that wrong?
Skit stood up.
"I don't think I can finish today, Drew," Skit said, in his quiet way, his back to me. "I can't really focus." He started putting his brushes and paints away in the still, calm way that I was coming to recognize as something that defined him. Drew still sat, languid on the couch.
"You're so sexy when you bite your lip and frown," Drew told him and Skit let out a sound, half-laugh, half-groan. I stared down at the papers like they held the secrets of the universe in them. What was I doing here?
"You gonna help me carry the canvas or lay there?" Skit asked after a moment and I peeked over to see Drew starting to move around slowly.
"Come lay on me," Drew suggested in this lazy, seductive voice.
"We have company," Skit reminded him and I blanched. If I wasn't there, they would be rolling around on the couch?
"He doesn't care, do ya, kid?" Drew threw at me and I dropped the highlighter and looked at him. He was half-grinning, looking at me, but when he saw the expression on my face, the smile left his face. I didn't like it when people called me kid and they weren't at least a decade older than me. This guy had a year on me, tops. Plus, it bothered me that he was always with Skit, all over Skit.
I stood up and walked over there, not knowing what the fuck I was doing.
"I'm not a kid," I told him slowly and he stood up, too. He was taller than me, but I have the agressive thing down, it didn't really matter. "Every time I see you, you're bothering Skit, but it looks to me like he doesn't wanna fuck around with you."
I intimidated him, I know, but the way he felt about Skit went a little bit deeper than that.
"We go way back," Drew said slowly. "We're friends."
"You're friends?" I asked Skit, my eyes on his pale face. His eyes were glued to me, wide and shocked. Skit nodded jerkily. I turned back to look at Drew.
"Then, yeah, it would bother me if you two made out over here while I'm working over there," I said, my eyes back on Drew. Drew stared hard at me, gulping. He was scared of me, but he didn't wanna be. I could respect that. He nodded and turned away from me. He picked up the canvas and easel that Skit had been working on and headed for the door.
"You want these in the art room?" Drew asked and Skit nodded at him, still standing there, staring at me. Drew left. I stood there looking down at Skit, watching a variety of emotions cross his face. Mostly, there was confusion and I could understand why. I was a total asshole to him at first and now I was trying to rescue him? Even I didn't know what in the hell I was doing.
"You guys can maybe make out in the loading room," I told him after the silence stretched out between us. I looked at him. He was still staring at me.
"We're just friends," he said slowly, quietly after a breath.
"Yeah?" I asked, taking a step away from him.
"Yes," Skit said firmly, emphatically. His jaw was set and he was looking at me square in the eyes. I looked away.
"Hey, I'm sorry about what happened in the gym that time," I said, floundering, but I wanted to say something about it. "The guys were ragging me and I had to do something."
Skit looked away, nodding. His face was turning colors. We stood there in silence for a long moment before he started gathering his paint and stuff up again, real fast, as if he was scared that I was gonna switch back to being mean at any moment.
"Yeah, well, I'll see you around," he said as he started towards the door.
"See ya," I said to his back as he disappeared. Damn.
I headed back to the desk and the highlighter and duplicates and plopped down on the seat, my mind on Skit. He had a face that was round and angular at the same time, it gave him a softness that was appealing...and his body was small and tight and compact. I could easily pick him up and toss him around...and he was extremely sensitive. It was clear from every line he painted. How had he felt when I got up in his face that day? Was he terrified? Did he hate me?
It kind of surprised me, but I really didn't want him to hate me.
The office door was opened and Morgan popped his head inside. I sat up straight. His eyes pierced me.
"You get rid of the others," he fired at me and I shook my head.
"Skit said he couldn't paint anymore and they left," I told him, clearing my throat. He stared at me for a long moment, then came into the room. He tossed a folder onto the desk.
"Paul wanted me to give you this," Morgan said, then started back out of the office. He was at the door when he turned back and looked at me. "Good job on the first chapter."
"Thanks," I said and watched him leave, my heart pounding in my chest. As soon as the door was closed, I grabbed the file and opened it.
Paul & Morgan - Chapter 2.....yes! I immediately started to read.
********************************************************************* Paul & Morgan 2:
Paul:
I often doubt that I would ever have really said another word to Morgan, if my father did not force me to take over my brother Ryan's paper route when he made the high school football team. I sat across from my dad, his head was buried in a newspaper and my mother was hovering nearby, waiting to soothe whatever feathers were ruffled on either end.
"Paul, tomorrow morning, I want you to get up and deliver those papers for your brother," my dad said, his voice booming over the paper and at me like a nuclear bomb. I folded my arms over my chest. I was the baby and I could get away with being petulant, obnoxious or spoiled much easier than either Ryan or Louisa.
"That means getting up at five a.m.," I whined. The silence that followed let me know that I was not about to win this one. My dad slowly lowered his paper and fixed one brown eye on me.
"You need to learn some responsibility," my dad informed me. "I talked with Mr. Gale down at the paper and you'll do this."
I groaned a loud and pouted while my mother placed a cup of her strongest coffee next to my father's chair. She sent me a warning look, then stood in front of me.
"I'll wake you up and make sure that breakfast is waiting," she told me, coaxingly. I never even thought about the fact that either of us having a paper route would just mean that much more work for her. I doubt that my father did, either.
I pouted the rest of the night and went to bed early with the hope that I would be able to function at five in the morning. I wasn't really sure. I had seen Ryan crawl out of bed at that hour, but I was always stuck in a state of dreamy reality, able to close my eyes a moment after he left and fall back into a deep sleep.
Ryan had the motivation that he would take Betsy Richards to the movies on the weekend with the money he earned, but what motivation did I have? I didn't need movie money and if I took the job, my dad would cut off the piddly allowance that kept me in bubble gum and candybars throughout the week. In essence, I would be giving up the free and easy life. It irked me tremendously as I lay with my head on my pillow that night, watching Ryan shine his new football helmet and carefully inspect his cleats.
"Why can't you deliver the papers and then go to football practice?" I asked.
He looked over at me and shrugged.
"Practice doesn' start until almost seven a.m.," Ryan told me. "Dad just thought it might be cutting it close and putting too much pressure on me. It was his idea."
Because of my dad, I was going to be traipsing up and down the neighborhood streets at six in the morning.
That morning, even my mom's cinnamon pancakes could not dispell the mood of dark blackness that hovered over me. Experiencing my first taste of waking up at five in the morning had let me know in no uncertain terms that I did not want to be the neighborhood's paper delivery boy. I made up my mind at the breakfast table that I was gonna talk to my friend Sammy at school and see if he could get me a few hours in at the five and dime on the weekends or afternoons. There had to be a way that I could learn responsibility without having to wake up that early in the morning.
I got out my bike and slung the newspaper carrier over my neck and shoulder and started for the corner where the newspaper carrier dropped off the pile for my neighborhood the next morning. They were in neat little rolls right next to the post office drop box when I got there and I stuffed them into the carrier quickly.
There was this weird stillness in the air that just didn't exist at eight in the morning when I usually left the house. It was barely six a.m. and the sky was already blue with the sun hanging low in the sky, on its way up. I could smell the wet dew on the grass.
When I had loaded up, I started down the street, flinging the newspapers onto porches and front steps haphazardly. I didn't really care if I did a good job or not. I was not trying to impress my dad or Mr. Gale.
Halfway through the route, I wobbled dangerously on my bike when I spotted Morgan, resplendent in gray sweats, jogging towards me. I barely stopped myself from falling and crashing into the neatly trimmed bushes along side of me.
"Hey," he said and his voice sent shivers down my spine. I smiled at him.
"Hi," I said, stopping my bike and staring at him awkwardly.
"Delivering papers," he said, checking out my carrier bag.
"Yeah," I said with a laugh, so nervous that my breath was coming out in vauge puffs. I held onto my handlebars tight. He stood looking at me for a long moment and when I worked up the nerve, I looked up at him, too. Our eyes met and a wave of heat when through me. I was aware of something, aware that there was something between us, but not sure what it was. Morgan just didn't seem...queer to me, not at all. What could it be?
"Well, see ya later, kid," he said with a grin and started off, jogging down the street. I stood there half-twisted on my bike seat, watching as the distance grew between us.
*** Morgan:
Ryan was a decent kind of guy, so after the afterschool football practice, I met up with him outside of the boys' locker room. In some very minor ways, being around him reminded me of his little brother Paul...and for some reason, I wanted to be reminded.
We walked out to the parking lot while my mind wandered and replayed the events of that morning. I laughed at myself as I remembered how very near to grabbing Paul and holding him in my arms I had been. I didn't know exactly what I wanted to do with him when I got him there, but I'd had the distinct urge to just reach around that bag and snatch him up off of his bike and roll around with him in the bushes.
The difference between Paul and what had gone on with Tim in the past was that I seemed to have absolutely no control over what I felt around Paul. With Tim, it was all about getting off and I really never cared much whether or not we talked or hung out as long as he was there when I needed him.
I wanted more than that from Paul. I was seriously working towards getting Ryan to invite me over for dinner again, just so that I could be around Paul again, when Ryan eliminated the need for me to do that.
"There's my kid brother and that ditz, Sammy," Ryan told me and I felt some thing inside of me quicken as I looked around to where he was pointing out across the parking lot. Paul was headed in our direction with a tall, lanky kid beside him, walking over from the middle school. I disliked Samuel Pettigrew on sight.
"Hey Ryan, hi Morgan," Paul called out, kind of shyly. "This is my best friend Samuel Pettigrew." Paul presented Sammy like he was some kind of treasure.
He was a pimply-faced, dark-haired kid with a cocky smirk and shifty eyes. I couldn't really figure out what it was that Paul could ever see in a guy like that until they stood in front of us for a few minutes and I watched as Sammy rubbed, brushed and did everything humanly possible to get his hands on Paul.
"Give us a ride home," Paul appealed to Ryan, his eyes stopping on me in brief, nervous increments. I slid my hands into my pockets and watched the Sammy kid nudge Paul a bit.
"Yeah, Ryan, give us a ride," Sammy chirped in, jostling with Paul in what I figured was supposed to be a playful manner. What it revealed to me right away was that Sammy couldn't wait to get his hands on Paul and was willing to do anything to try to accomplish that. It set my teeth on edge.
"I'm not letting you two spazzes into my vehicle," Ryan informed them, leaning against his car as if it were some prize and not a beat up, fifteen-year-old trasher.
"C'mon, Ryan, Sammy's gotta be at work in an hour and if you give us a ride, we can stop by our house first," Paul implored, his big, hazel eyes pinning Ryan. Even Ryan was not immune to his brother's childish charm. There was just something about Paul that made you want to give him his way. It probably had a lot to do with him being the youngest child in his family...and his pretty boy looks.
"Fine, squirt, but you both ride in the back," Ryan told them after a moment and both boys started moving around excitedly. Paul to pull on the handle to the car's back door and Sammy to bounce up and down on the balls of his feet, bumping frequently into Paul. Ryan turned to me.
"You need a ride home?" he asked and I nodded, reluctantly, my eyes on the two boys getting into the back seat, the way that Sammy's legs kept knocking into Paul's as they climbed in and the way he maneuvered his long legs to brush against Paul's once they were seated. Crafty little bugger.
I got into the passenger seat and proceeded to stare at the two boys in the passenger side rearview mirror. They kept exchanging quick, laughing glances the way that twelve-year-olds do and I grinned a little, amused. I moved in my seat until Paul was the only thing I could see in the mirror and my smiled widened. He was making goofy faces every once and while at Sammy, who I could hear snickering. Ryan turned down the radio and began to talk about football practice. I nodded and grunted in response, all the while looking surreptitiously at Paul in the mirror.
Every once in a while his eyes would be fixed on the back of my head and a deep, silent thrill would course through me. He was just as aware of me as I was of him. The question what, if anything, were we gonna do about it.
Back to Eric:
I read the story in minutes and then re-read it, correcting the grammar errors and smiling at Paul and Morgan's thoughts about each other. I could understand them in a way and I really didn't want to think about what that meant.
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I am Virtual Insanity and my Nifty Stories are: Wade & Chistian - High School 2004 The Prick - High School 2004 Mannie the Marine - Military 2004 Summer of Change - High School 2004