Tristan

Tristan by Henry H. Hilliard

This work fully protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a), 302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent.

If reading this story is not legal in your jurisdiction, stop it right now.

If you enjoy this story, please consider making a donation to Nifty to keep this platform alive.

Chapter 20

"Tongue m'ass, Roomy."

"I like it when you give orders," said Tristan as he lowered his head towards the supine Colton, his broad shoulders on the pillows and his knees pulled up to his chest.

They had just returned from their early morning run, setting out before it was properly light for a chilly tour of the University campus. This was part of Colton's punishing fitness regime that included two hours in the footballers' gymnasium every day and a supplementary workout on the bench in their dorm room either in the morning or the afternoon, depending on his classes. It was many months until the next football season when team training would commence again, but Colton was adamant that he was going to be at the peak of his fitness when the time came.

Tristan was not so dedicated and played no sport. He went to the students' gym a couple of times a week for a more leisurely workout and swam laps every now and then. He did accompany Colton on these morning runs and liked the feeling that he might be mistaken for an athlete as he was in the company of the starting quarterback, besides, he could admire Colton's arse and meaty thighs barely encased in the silky blue running shorts that were split so high that the straps of his jock could be seen with each stride.

This stained jock was all Colton was wearing now that they were back and on the bed. Tristan manoeuvred himself to get the good of it and to help' Colton out, as the quarterback put it. He had to be careful not to slip in the gap formed by the two college-issued beds being pushed together. It was a highly convenient arrangement, although Tristan usually slept spooned right up to his naked roommate or else Colton pulled him across his manly chest when he slept, like a true jock' in the stories that Tristan read, flat on his back with his spare arm behind his head, armpit on display, making Tristan feel safe and loved--although he was still afraid to voice this.

Colton had worked up quite a sweat and Tristan felt somewhat light headed being so close to its masculine epicentre. He began by tonguing and kissing the beefy cheeks, working ever closer to the jock's pink pucker. Finally he grazed it with his tongue and was delighted when he felt the muscles flutter around the tip. Colton moaned in a basso growl. He then licked and kissed and slobbered with complete abandon, sometimes rolling his tongue into a probe, all in the hope of driving Colton wild. For variation and to relieve his aching tongue a little, Tristan pressed his nose into Colton's big balls and cropped pubes, inhaling with little regard for his own dignity, which, in any case, had evaporated long ago.

"I'm growing out m'pubes and m'hair this year," Colton interjected informatively, somewhat breaking the spell.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Everyone else trims but I will be different. You'd like Colty with a big hairy bush?" he asked as he forcefully pressed Tristans's face into his groin.

"Yeah, very manly, peaking above your waistband maybe. And you'd look hot with hair down to your shoulders."

"Doin' it for y'all. Back on my ass, asslicker."

Tristan obeyed and Colton used his hands to spread his cheeks wider. Tristan now clawed the tender flesh apart, sparing but a moment's thought for his fingernails. Finally the muscles gave way and the quarterback gaped slightly. Tristan thought fleetingly of Goaltender's Tender Gape--a college ice hocky story set at Notre Dame--and drove his middle finger brutally into the spit-soaked maw. Colton let out a yelp, which may have been heard down the corridor. Tristan wiggled his invading digit in the tight, fleshy tunnel until he found the jock's prostate and touched it. Colton made an incomprehensible noise as he writhed on the bed, his stomach now awash with his dude dew that issued forth in a steady stream from the straining pouch of the jockstrap. "Don't touch it!" commanded Tristan in an uncharacteristically firm voice. It was Colton's turn to obey.

With his free hand, Tristan slapped Colton's meaty and vulnerable arse. A red handprint was visible on the flesh. "Do it again!" cried Colton. Tristan did, again and again. Without a doubt the noise would be heard outside. "Slap m'balls!" Tristan complied, alternating between buttock and ball sack. The attack intensified and, following a particularly stinging blow to the scrotum, Colton came in great volume, his manly seed oozing through the ancient fabric of the garment. A few stokes of his own brought Tristan off, adding to the mess on Colton's groin. He then very gently withdrew his finger from the abused anus.

"Fuck that was good!" gasped Colton at last. He broke into a grin. "You've really know how to satisfy y'man, Roomy, but y'sure have a mean streak. Day-amn, I like that! Give y'man a kiss." Their lips met and soon Colton had his arms around Tristan and Tristan was covered in cum too. "Suck it out of the pouch. Don't waste m'spooge. A-grade jock protein." Tristan complied with this cheesy request and indeed found that it was good stuff.

"We're good together?" asked Tristan shyly as they grabbed their kit and made for the showers.

"Best sex I've ever had," replied Colt in Tristan's shell-like. Tristan beamed at him.

Under their' shower they were soon joined by Parker and Hollis. Tristan often wondered if they helped each other out' in the privacy of their room. He had no way of knowing, but appreciated their differing but equally hot bodies. A minute later Deshawn entered through the swing doors. There were other vacant stands but Colton playfully called him over and insisted that he shared with his buddies. De hung his towel on a ceramic hook and muscled-in between Colton and Hollis. There were only four showerheads, so everyone had to move a little so that all received some hot water. Their bodies were touching.

"This is so gay!" said Tristan at last, laughing uncontrollably, as they continually bumped each other as they struggled to apply shampoo and body wash.

"No, no! We're all bros here," said Parker adamantly as he almost certainly deliberately brushed against Deshawn's impressive hanging meat.

"Hey!" cried Deshawn as he stepped back only to find his butt up against Hollis. "Sorry, Holly, man."

"Y'making me hard, De, get y'ass off'n m'junk."

"Who'll wash m'back?" asked Colton, turning around.

Parker made no reply, but applied body wash and began to soap up the muscley expanse of Colton's shoulders

"Stone, y'erection is just about t'poke m'eye out," said Hollis, looking down at Colton's hardon that was standing proudly upright, the still-hooded tip slightly north of his belly button.

Colton displayed not the slightest shame but instead said: "Shut up do and somethin' useful; wash De's fat ass."

Hollis was laughing but surprisingly complied. Deshawn didn't complain, but visibly hardened. Hollis made soapy circles on each buttock and wrote `fuck me' with his fingertip in the foam--he showed Tristan who laughed even harder.

"M'sweaty crack could sure use some 'tention," drawled Deshawn. Hollis ran the soapy edge of his hand down the ebony arse trench and then held up a soapy finger and winked at the company. Deshawn couldn't see, but the others did.

"Hey!" cried Deshawn in alarm when his felt the finger at his backdoor. "No one goes there!" He turned in anger to the laughing Hollis who was now also chubbed up. "You some sick fuck, Holly," he said, looking down at his white cowboy cock.

"Come on, De, let me wash you," said Parker. They changed places and Parker began a business-like job all over the torso of the linebacker who stood there with a faraway look in his eyes. "Fuck, you're ripped, De," he said in admiration. He rotated his palms on Deshawn's nipples, pressing down hard, but it was Parker who was now sporting wood.

"It's usually only me, the gay boy, who's hard," observed Tristan who was now washing Hollis' hair.

"Don't mean nothin'," said Hollis not turning round.

"Nah, just bro stuff," confirmed Parker once again, "Happens all the time in the locker room. Why, once I got m'ass stung beet red with a wet towel by this cunt of a goalie and when I looked down...." He trailed off, suddenly realizing that he had said too much. He blushed, visible even under the shower.

"Can I kiss it better?" asked Tristan mischievously. He was already gently washing the lacrosse player's broad shoulders.

"Y'all such a fag..." began Parker who had regained his laconic humour. Then suddenly, "Shit, Colt! Jesus fuck you're a degenerate!" With a grunt Colton had ejaculated all over the floor, his cum just missing Parker's feet. All five stood mesmerized as Colton squeezed out the last drops, the chunky puddle offering resistance for some minutes before it was finally washed down the drain. When they looked up, Colton was unabashed and grinning.

"Day-amn that was a big load, Colt," commented Hollis in admiration.

"S'why they made me quarterback, Holly. Come on ladies, breakfast awaits."

They rinsed off and, still muttering about the quarterback's shameless conduct as they shaved at the basins before returning to their respective rooms, youthful cocks and balls swinging beneath their loosely tied towels.

The following weekend saw Tristan visiting his father while Colton, braving the Greyhound bus, went down to the farm. Tristan took Ben and Ivy's plans for the house and pored over them with his father and Cylvah around the glass dining table.

The first were the designs for the former stable loft. His father grunted and admitted that the design was quite economical, being merely a partitioning of the open space but with the necessary insulation and plumbing features. Of the Japanese-style bathroom he said little, but Tristan was used to this and did not register any actual disapproval. Cylvah was a little puzzled as it was not the sort `glamour' that she associated with more conventional designs, but was pleased when Tristan sought her opinion.

Of the main house, the unfurled blueprint showed the new downstairs bathroom, greatly enlarged as it was by the inclusion of a former closet and a redundant part of a corridor. The old screened porch off the kitchen was to be completely rebuilt and extended, and the access to the stable via the narrow stairs was now more fully incorporated undercover. The porch opened onto a paved and gravelled terrace, rather than suburban cliché of timber decking, and here was indicated the barbecue and outdoor kitchen of the sort that Colton had admired at the cabin. They all agreed that this would be expensive. The plans for the basement bedroom were as yet not complete.

Then there was more extensive work upstairs delineated on the second sheet. Here the old boxroom became a new bathroom for the girls and the expansive landing became a small sitting room, with an alcove that could be screened off with a sliding wall for a tiny extra bedroom, albeit one without a window. His father admitted that this was a very clever piece of design. The attic bedroom at the rear was altered substantially to create a small balcony, it being a fire escape route onto the roof. Tristan tried to imagine the design of his home fully realised and walked through the new spaces in his mind's eye.

Cylvah surprised Tristan by asking telling questions about pipe work and ventilation--clearly she could read plans better than either of them. As to the `finishes' in the new bathrooms, Tristan could provide no information and so an excited Cylvah spent the evening with Tristan going through glossy magazines looking for ideas. Tristan felt he would go mad, but bravely faked enthusiasm.

"How were your mid-terms, Tristan?" his father had asked this as the three of them sat stiffly at dinner, which was served by Mrs Torres. Tristan didn't exactly like his father's tone, which was not in the manner of friendly inquiry but seemed somehow to emphasise that Tristan was not an adult of nearly twenty, but still a troublesome schoolboy.

"I'm doing all right, I believe, Dad." He replied, defensively. "Only Greek has actual exams and the rest is graded by coursework."

"You're doing Greek? Ancient Greek?"

"Yes Dad, I told you, remember? I'd done it at school so I thought..."

His father cut him off. "So this University doesn't even have proper exams?"

"Not in my subjects." His father snorted and seemed to indicate he thought little of such disciplines. "And it was you who selected it, remember?"

"Only because you were out of control. And in Iain Macperson's, what is it, British History?"

"Nineteenth Century. A distinction, two A pluses and a B"

"You don't want a degree with Bs, Tristan, so lift your game."

Tristan was beginning to get annoyed and saw that Cylvah had shot him a sympathetic glance. "And how are things going with you at Globoco, Dad. What are you, junior vice-president lubricants?"

Mr Isley sensed that he was being baited by his son. "Shale oil and we don't have junior vice-presidents, as you well know and from which you benefit, I might remind you. We are not here to discuss my business."

"I thought we were just having dinner and catching up, Dad," said Tristan. "I didn't think I was being hauled into the Head's study."

His father gave way slightly. "No, of course you're not, Tristan. I'm pleased that you are passing and enjoying University. I was just making sure you were all right--after everything and now with the baby..."

"What baby?"

"Why, you're mother's baby, of course."

"When is it due?"

Mr Isley put down his cutlery. "Tristan, she had it a fortnight ago. Didn't you know?"

"No, nobody told me!"

"Well, I'm sorry. I was told by the Hollingworths," he said, naming their former neighbours, "and naturally I thought your mother or Rodger would have let you know."

"Well they didn't!" cried Tristan, just short of screaming.

"Your mom had a difficult time," interjected Cylvah, "She lost a heap of blood and they were real worried for a spell."

"All the more reason why I should have been told! My own mother could have died and nobody cares a damn about me. I'm her fuckin' son!"

"Well, she didn't die," said his father, flatly. "They both had to spend an extra week in hospital and now they're home, I believe."

"And the baby?"

"A little girl. Amy."

"Alice," corrected Cylvah.

"Yes, of course. Alice Isolde. That's something, Tristan. I'm sure she was thinking of you."

"Or Rodger Trefusis' Cornish mother."

"You know that?"

"No, but I bet it'll be something like that."

"Don't be bitter, Tris," said Cylvah, extending her hand to touch his.

"Anyway,' continued Mr Isley, "I wouldn't have thought you would be interested in children."

There was a dreadful silence until it was broken by Cylvah. "Mark! What are you saying to Tristan?"

Tristan's father was slightly taken aback. "It's just that Tristan can't have children and naturally..."

Surprisingly, Tristan wasn't angry, merely disgusted. He replied in cold fury, "I might be gay, Dad, but I'm also a human being. I can still want children someday." He stabbed his chest with his index finger. "Gay couples have children all the time now. Even you must have noticed that."

His father was at a loss for words. "Shit, Dad! Do I disappoint you that much? Even the meathead jocks don't say stuff like that about me."

"I didn't mean anything, Tristan. I was just being mindful of you being different and didn't want to make assumptions..."

"But that's exactly what you did. And I'm not `different'--I want my parents to love me like everyone else."

"I do love you, Tristan."

"Your father does, Tris, really."

"I'll just have to accept that as being true, then. I don't see a lot of evidence to convince me, Dad."

"What, and with all I've done for you?"

"I didn't say you didn't provide generously for me."

"But you think I don't love you?"

"I think you find it hard to tell me and I think you and Mum are ashamed of me--ashamed of a gay son and a failed marriage."

Tristan's father looked pained. "I'm sorry for what I said, Tristan. I do love you and I'm very glad you've come to live here--even if you didn't have much of a choice in the matter. You could have gone home."

"Well, I don't have a home anymore, do I?"

"That's why I'm so glad about this house."

"It'll be your home, Tris," said Cylvah, warmly. "How is Colt?" she added, clearly wanting to ease the tension by changing the topic.

Tristan too was glad of the excuse to do so and went on to relate the story of Colton's new job with Dr Baddeley's clinic. His father and Cylvah were impressed and his father was even moved to suggest that he would always help Colton financially if the need arose. Tristan was a little shocked, but impressed at the same time and thanked his father, promising to bring the quarterback to Dallas in the near future.

The next morning Tristan and Cylvah went shopping. It was her suggestion to buy baby clothes to send to England. "Don't let it get to you, Tris. Make your mom feel that you love her, even if she has issues. You have a little sister now. She may be important to you one day, so start off with love."

Tristan admitted she was right and then enjoyed seeing how happy Cylvah was picking out cute little outfits in an expensive store, punctuating remarks with her irritating laugh, which Tristan tried to ignore. Colton's birthday was coming up and, over coffee at a place in Oak Lawn Avenue, they put their heads together to think of a present for the quarterback.

Chapter 21

Tristan was back at University by Sunday afternoon. He spent an hour getting his notes ready for the next day and then a text alerted him that the bus was in and he drove the truck down to the depot to collect Colton and his backpack.

Almost at once Tristan spilled his guts about the conduct of his parents. All along he had craved Colton's judgement on their conduct and on his own, and the issue somehow wasn't real until he had told his friend. Colton said that thought that it was pretty shitty form for no one to have told him about the baby but, he reminded Tristan, perhaps he should have phoned his mother more often. Tristan conceded that this might have been true and felt a bit sick.

"Y'dad loves y'all, Tris. He just can't say it. I guess he's a bit old school about the gay stuff. Give him time. He did say he was sorry."

"Not exactly--well, I suppose sort of. Thanks for listening, mate. Hey, how was your weekend?"

Colton told him and by then they were back at Charles C. Selecman House. Tristan turned off the engine and then said, "Happy birthday, Colt!"

"Why thanks, Tris, but it ain't until next Thursday."

"Yeah, I know, but I've got you a little present. It's in the back."

Colt hurried out the door. There was a tarpaulin covering a lumpy object. He hoisted himself up and swept it off.

"A bike!"

"Yeah, just like Parker's."

"Oh my God, thanks Tris!" He stood it up and tried to take it in under the streetlight. "You spend far too much on me and I can never do the same in return."

"Nah, it's nothing. I wanted to get it for you. Cylvah helped me pick it out."

"Does this mean I can't use your truck?"

"Yeah, you can take all your dates on the bike. I'm sure you'll figure a way to screw them on the handlebars."

"This will be so good for m'fittness. It's great for the thighs."

"Your thighs are already fuckin' gorgeous. You can barely get your shorts over them."

"Your head can go between them tonight and I'll flex them."

"Hot!" replied Tristan and laughed as they headed to the lift, wheeling the new bike.

As it was Sunday, the usual crowd gathered at Nonno's for pizza. Tristan took the opportunity to give an update on the house then, whispering to their server, a big, gooey birthday cake appeared.

"Happy Birthday, Colt!" he declared. The others joined in with the usual festivities and jugs of beer landed on the rustic tabletop--Nonno turning a blind eye to such regular customers.

"Shit! Thanks, y'all," gasped Colton.

"We're all together now, so I thought it would be good," explained Tristan. "And there is another important occasion coming up--what's the most important event in the whole year?"

"Colt's birthday!" cried Hollis.

"No."

"Is not Hanukka,' said Rachel.

"Homecoming?" asked Carlos.

"The new season of The Bachelorette?" ventured Colt.

"No, Spring Break of course!"

Everyone cheered, but Colton felt only emptiness in his stomach that reflected the emptiness in his wallet.

"My dad can get us a good price on accommodation in South Beach if we let him know this week. It's not five star or anything--just basic, but Dad said the new owner of the hotel is a man who builds oil pipelines in the Panhandle and who wanted to save a threatened building--its actually a bit of a wreck but it's right on Ocean Drive."

"That sounds great, Tris," said Rachel. "Leesh and I were thinking of Cancun," but if we can all go to Miami it would be a blast."

"One hundred dollars per room per night--that's pretty good, I think."

"Sure is," said Alexinia. "All we'd need is the airfare, unless you want to drive."

"Drive if you like, but we only have seven days and I'd like to make the most of it."

The rest of the meal passed in excited chatter, except for Colton who was quiet, and Tristan was just thinking that life was actually pretty good and he started to put his earlier troubles in to a more favourable perspective. Perhaps this was what it was like to be a real grown up.

Back in the dorm room Tristan broached another subject. He got Colton's attention and he put down his phone.

"I've thought of a way for you to make some easy money, Stud."

"Yeah? Nothing illegal, I hope."

"No, take a look at this." He passed his laptop over and Colton studied the screen.

"You're kidding me? Dudes actually sell their dirty underwear?"

"Yeah, it's a big thing. Look at the prices a worn jock can bring--even socks."

"Shit! What does `customize' mean?"

"It means the seller will make sure they are stained with piss, cum, skidmarks and sweat--whatever turns the customer on."

"Sick!"

"Maybe, but I like wearing yours!"

"Well, I already knows y'all a sick fuck."

"Don't you think it kind of shows a kind of appreciation--for a hot jock like you I mean."

Colton was lost in thought. "Like respect, maybe?"

Tristan thought this was going a bit too far but said, "Yeah, like that. And girls sell their panties too. I mean, would you ever like to own a pair of some hot girl's knickers?"

"You mean like ____" and here Colton named a model and actress whose fame rested on her appearance in Sports Illustrated.

"Yeah."

"Sure love to sniff her lacy gusset."

"See, it's the same thing."

Colton thought the idea was very `out there' while Tristan thought the idea was very American--in the worst way--but nevertheless was keen for Colton to consider it. While not exactly prostitution, he viewed it as plumbing the depths of the free enterprise system. Of course, some ruthlessly clever person must have seen a marketing angle (something that Americans extravagantly admired) but it was still selling one's body when you got down to it--the thing desperate people will do when they have nothing left to sell. But he crushed these thoughts.

"Would chicks buy my stuff?"

"Maybe, but it is probably lonely old men if you want the truth."

"They'd want to get off on m'man smells?"

"Of course. And just knowing that your body has touched the piece of cloth--like a holy relict, but for the porn industry."

The moral implications seemingly settled, the practicalities now surfaced. "How would we do it?"

Tristan liked the assumption of `we' and was prepared. "Well, we use the website to advertise and we set up an anonymous account under an alias."

"`Hung Cowboy', it has to be." Tristan smiled and nodded

"You pack your underwear in ziplock bags to retain their freshness'--although that is hardly the right word-- and then post it. We use an online payment service like Payer'--not `Paypal'--they don't allow sex stuff. We take a photograph to authenticate that you have worn the underwear. You can charge extra for hot photos of course. I could photograph you from the neck down."

"See if you can get m'lats in--been working on those." Colton thought some more. "I couldn't risk having it traced back to me, Tris."

"How many people would recognise your body?"

"Hey dude, a heap! But I meant in my bio. I'd have to say I'm a college footballer and stuff."

"Yeah, a nineteen year old quarterback's jock would fetch more than a forty-year old Geography teacher's. But if we post the goods from Dallas or Austin, then there's no way to connect `Hung Cowboy' to here--there are dozens of colleges with football teams."

"Could we do that?"

"A bit of trouble, but we could take gas out of the profits as well as the purchase of new underwear and the postage of course. It's business. Hey, you've got a boner! I guess you like the idea."

Quite quickly Colton swung into action. He was nothing if not honest and the next day began a journal meticulously recording each piece of underwear and the length of time he had worn it and for which activities--sporting and sexual-- that were undertaken. He wore sweaty underwear to bed for the first time and kept asking Tristan to smell it. Tristan selfishly felt that much of Colton's sexuality was now being directed into this commercial venture and a certain spontaneity was now lost.

"Oh no, not your camo briefs; those and the short plaid boxers are my favourites! Please don't sell them," pleaded Tristan as he helped hang the big Texas flag. This last was used as the backdrop in the photographs as it would conceal anything that might otherwise identify Charles C. Selecman House.

Colton had set up a profile on the used underwear site and with Tristan's help they had fun creating a biography: Heavy hung 19 year-old College Footballer. Prolific leaker, big loads. Photo. Will customize.

Then there were the prices: for sweaty tee-shirts, $30; for boxers and briefs Colton asked $50; for jockstraps--that fetishized object--Colton demanded $75. For extra photographs there was a $20 surcharge. Colton thought these prices fair. Generally there would be a photograph of Colton from the neck down, standing against the flag of the Republic and wearing the item. Some photographs showed cum oozing through the mesh of the jock and generally Colton would add an extra load before packing and mailing as a gesture of goodwill and in the hope of repeat custom.

After just a week the response was overwhelming. Customers asked for all sorts of strange things. Colton had to find a pair of boxers he wore as a sixteen year old and, for a girl, ones he had worn on a date. To this last Colton had to reply that he usually went commando on these occasions and then the customer offered $200 for his jeans. Tristan wouldn't let him sell. Colton refused to sell used condoms, but he did not cavil at boxers with discreet skidmarks--although he thought it strange. By the third week he had to go out and buy more garments to wear and soil and he found that he could not fulfil the orders quickly enough. Then someone offered $100 for his cum stained sheets and Tristan's photograph artistically portrayed Colton's torso beneath the covers, tented by an erection.

They made three round trips to the outskirts of Dallas to post the precious ziplock bags to their, no doubt, salivating customers--ten of whom claimed to be female. When it became difficult, Leesha posted some on a weekend at home, little suspecting the nature of her cargo. Colton posted some others from Austin.

In the fifth week Colton received an email asking for a jockstrap he wore to the gym for a week without washing and for a sweaty wifebeater. He was just noting this down in his spiral bound booklet when he glanced further down the email, which came from someone at Southern Baptist University. The correspondent then asked if `Hung Cowboy' was really Colton Stone. Colton went pale and called Tristan urgently back from the Library.

"Some dude thinks it might be me, man. What should I do?"

"Shit, Colt! I don't know."

"I can't admit it. I'd have to resign from the team."

"Tell him that you're the quarterback for Redeemer Theological College, but you don't want it known, just like he wouldn't want it known that he sniffs jocks."

"It's a lie, Tris, and I don't like lyin' and RTC don't even have a football team. I'll make it the Texas Christian College--in fact I'll just allude to it by sayin' I'm a horny frog--that's their mascot and he should catch on. Y'know, I think we better call a halt."

"Yeah, might be wise. How much did you make?"

Colton consulted his notebook. "Well if this guy pays up and with our cum towel which brought $120, I reckon it's about two thousand, two hundred bucks--that's clear of all the new undies and the new bed sheets and the new toothbrush."

"Toothbrush!"

"Yeah, some sicko wanted my spit-soaked toothbrush."

"Still, that's a lot of money in just five weeks."

"Yeah, Miami will be no trouble now and I've got a bit put by."

"You can always start it up again, when things have cooled off."

Colton nodded and stripped off his plaid boxers and threw himself into bed.

"I like it best when you sleep in the raw, Cowboy," said Tristan.

"Yeah, it's my thang and, well, I reckon there will be a load for y'all rather than for Fedex tonight. You've been goin' hungry and I'm right sorry, Roomy."

Tristan thought he'd better check on the progress of the house, so with a party of friends they walked the short distance to the edge of the campus and crossed William H. Taft Drive to where the residential district began. The trees were bare in Baxter Drive and the neighbouring houses were visible through the branches. Tristan's house was just the second one in on the left and the allotment was now surrounded by a chainlink fence with a padlocked gate. Fortunately Tristan had a key, as the workmen had finished for the day, but the evidence of their activity was all about--there was a portable toilet in the backyard and a shipping container that presumably contained tools and equipment in the front. A huge dumpster occupied the parking bay on the side road. This last was piled high with roofing iron.

It soon became apparent that the iron was from the stable, which was now open to the sky, with its old timber rafters looking rather smart as the result of soda pressure cleaning. The new roofing and insulating paper was still stacked and wrapped and waiting for the men to resume work.

"Wow!" said Carlos. "Your dad's men sure work fast."

"Well, they're used to doing big corporate projects, I suppose. They have a team with several different trades."

"What will the neighbours think?" asked Leesha. It was a good question and until that moment Tristan had not considered his new neighbours. He left the others and went around to the big house on the right, which, like his own, stood on a wide lawn. Marching up to the front door, he rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang for a second time. Tristan was just about to give up when a slight movement at the side of the house caught his eye. An elderly man was trying to put up a storm window and he did not look too steady on the stepladder.

Tristan approached and gave what he hoped was a friendly wave when the man saw him. "Hullo, I'm your new neighbour."

"We don't go t'church and I don't want to pray or read nothin'."

"No, I'm your new neighbour--over there," he said pointing. Evidently the old man was deaf.

"That your place? I thought they was demolishin' it for condos."

"No, I'm just fixing it up--I'm intending to live there."

"What? Speak up, son."

Tristan shouted and eventually the man caught on.

"Bertrum?"

"No, Tristan!" He was tiring, but the man pulled a little notebook and pencil from his pocket. Tristan wrote his name out and added that he was a student and that his friends would also be living there--he hoped the man didn't object.

"You Dutch?"

"No, English!" He wrote that too.

Tristan was glad when Mr Burridge took over. Apparently his wife had just gone into care. Mr Burridge had worked as a maintenance engineer over at the University and had retired in 1995. He and his wife had lived in this house since 1960, having moved from La Grange.

Tristan wrote a bit more biographical information on the pad and Mr Burridge put on his glasses, as his eyesight was not too good, he said. Tristan then climbed the ladder and fixed the window while Mr Burridge talked on. Apparently, he was regularly bothered by Mormon missionaries from the church on the corner, however he liked the neighbourhood except for the car parking and traffic when there was a big game, for the stadium was very close. "Can't even get out m'own drive."

He told Tristan that the house had once belonged to the University and that visitors used to stay there. Tristan said he knew that. Then Tristan pointed to the old barn and shouted that that was being made into his bedroom. The old man read his lips and laughed.

"Love football," he said, "but I can't go to no games no more. We was looking good last season, weren't we? Best for quite some time. New quarterback's great--just a kid, o'course."

"Colton Stone!" Tristan shouted.

"Yeah, Carlton Sloan."

"He'd my friend and he'll be living here too!" cried Tristan, writing it down as well as pointing wildly."

"Well, dang me!"

"Wait!" said Tristan and he ran to the hedge that separated the properties and called Colton over.

"He's a fan, Colt. And he'd deaf--the perfect neighbour for us!"

Colton swaggered up to Mr Burridge and began one of those jock conversations that Colton was only too familiar with. Irritatingly, Mr Burridge's hearing seemed to improve when it was the football champion that was doing the talking. Perhaps it was just the Texas accent.

In the end they parted, promising that there would be beer for Mr Burridge when they all moved in and had the big television set up. Mr Burridge, on his part, said that he would enjoy that, now that his wife could no longer supervise him so closely.

Back at the house the group prowled around, each paying particular attention to where he or she would likely be sleeping. Tristan tried to describe the changes that would be made, but found it hard without the plans to hand.

In the dining room he explained how there would be a pass-through, once more, from the kitchen. "Y'mean we just sits here and the grub appears through a hole, like magic?" said Hollis, laughing.

"Well, you won't think it's so funny when it's your turn to cook," said Alexinia.

"Don't y'all cast no nasturtiums on my sausage and grits."

"What are grits?" asked Tristan

"Trust me, you don't want t'know, honey!" replied Alexinia.

Tristan then said that he wanted a big table for general use, like at Nonno's. "I don't want a fancy one, or one where you gotta use coasters for glasses and bottles. I want us to be able to study on it, eat on it and I want it strong enough for Colt to be able to dance on it at parties." They all laughed and imagined the great parties they would be able to have in their own frat house.

"I'll make you one," said Rachel, suddenly.

"You?"

"Yes, me," she replied a trifle crossly. "Dad and me make things at home. He taught me woodwork and he's got this big ass workshop at the back of the garage--every machine possible." They all looked at her, save for Leesha who must have already known her secret. "Don't be so surprised, jock boys, I'm more than just a gorgeous cheerleader. I've built stuff for the Food Bank and the Shelter and places like that. I look smokin' hot in coveralls too." They laughed.

"Well, that's awesome, Rache, but please don't make it expensive or fancy. It's gotta be robust enough for us."

"No problem. I think we'll use MDF--it's not environmentally friendly, but if we seal it well it should be okay, Dad says. He loves a project and it will give us something to do together when I'm home for weekends." She then roughly measured the floor with her feet and made a note of the size on her phone. Tristan then suggested that one end of the long table could be pushed up to the kitchen wall meet the pass-through. "That should seat the nine of us."

Eventually they were in the backyard again. "You know, the barbecue and the paving are not part of the contract with Lone Star. I could offer you guys some labouring work in the summer--girls too I mean."

Hollis seemed interested. "Doin' what, Tris?"

"Well, digging a trench for the gas and electricity to the outdoor kitchen. Levelling the ground around here and then laying paving." Tristan swept his arm in a circle."

"You'll pay us?"

"Twenty bucks an hour. Maybe two week's work?"

"Ahh..."

"And free beer."

"I'm in. Colt? De? Parks?

"Yeah, I guess so," said Colton.

Parker was going back to Georgia. Deshawn, however, said he would think about it.

They wandered back in the direction of Charles C. Selecman House, Colton and Tristan lagging behind the others.

"The house will be great, won't it Colt?" said Tristan, excited but wanting reassurance from the person whose opinion he valued most.

"Yeah, I can see some mighty fine times ahead. Y'doin' a great thang, Tris. I couldn't imagine this just six months ago."

"You know, our frat house should have a name. I don't mean a Greek one."

Colton walked on in silence for a minute then said, "There are an awful lot of churches in this neighbourhood. How'd y'feel about callin' it `Beagle House'?"

"You mean, as in Charles Darwin's ship?"

"Yeah. I've always wanted to call a house o'mine that--although I know it's your house--and a house is a kinda ship, ain't it?"

"It is, and we're all adventurers onboard. What about `HMS Beagle' to do it properly?"

"If y'all thank so, Roomy. Course the others won't have a clue, but fuck 'em."

"Well, I understand, Colt."

"Yeah, I know and thanks, f'understanding." Colton put his arm around Tristan's shoulder and they were soon back at their dorm, just as it was getting dark.

Please look for the next chapter. Henry would love to receive feedback and will endeavour to reply. Please email h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and put Tristan in the subject line.