When the World Changed

Here, after a too-long delay (for which I apologize) is the next chapter of this story. My thanks to those who've written and asked about its status; I hope you continue to enjoy it. I'll try to keep things moving on a more regular basis henceforth. My thanks also to Flip for his editing help - anyone who'll put up with my abysmal typing skills deserves a shout-out.

The usual disclaimers apply. This is fictional, so don't go looking for your uncle in it or something. It deals with sexual issues and situations involving underage boys, so if that's not your thing or it's illegal where you reside, by all means don't read it. It's also my work, not yours to steal, so please don't (not that I think it terribly worth stealing; it would just be wrong to do).

Those who enjoy this story might also like my earlier Nifty story, "Seal Rocks," which is here in the HS section, with the final chapter posted back in April 2011. My thanks as always not only to those who have sent me kind words (and critiques as well), but to Nifty for providing a forum for writers and readers. If you don't help to support the site, consider it. Enjoy!

When the World Changed, Chapter 23

Brady spent much of the day receiving congratulations. It seemed a lot of boys just weren't capable of believing - entirely, anyway - that David had been able to get the McShanes thrown out of school, so they fell back to the conclusion that Brady must have played a decisive role. The fact that this was rank bullshit was irrelevant, of course. Brady couldn't really explain things to them, given Dean Storeman's instructions to keep his mouth shut, so he simply demurred to it all, blushed, and tried to divert conversations to other subjects. He wondered what sort of attention David must be getting.

The usual Friday school assembly, in Fredericks, was uneventful enough, at least so far as Leeds' and Larrimore's usual announcements went. After similar announcements about various student government matters (Evan had won Class President for the freshmen, and he was introduced to loud cheering from all his teammates, including Brady), Leeds took the podium again.

"I want to end this meeting by emphasizing a basic principle of this School. One is that you are, each of you, gentlemen. You are expected to comport yourselves as such, at all times. Neither I, nor Dr. Larrimore, nor any other Master will accept anything less of you. That means, among other things, that no acts of violence or disrespect toward a fellow student - no fights, no shoving the boy in front of you, no ugly berating, no conduct that treats any of your fellow students as anything less than the fellow gentleman that I and this School regard him as being - is acceptable behavior. I tell you this not to coddle some vulnerable person, or to protect anyone from harm, but to hold you all to the standard that you are expected to attain, here and in your life as adults and leaders. True gentlemen neither do such things, nor do they tolerate such conduct in others. It's not the boy you pick on who is demeaned by such conduct. Ultimately, it is you. You forfeit the name of gentleman by such acts. You sink to a common level, and I do not believe any of you are common. I will not accept that any of you are common. I trust you will not accept that of yourselves, either."

He stepped away from the podium and walked offstage. The students sat silent for several seconds before stirring, puzzled, to head over for lunch. Brady's cheeks felt afire; he wondered if anyone noticed how embarrassed he was. He looked for David without success, and realized he hadn't seen him since he'd left the room that morning.

The team members were excused from classes that afternoon to travel, in the Guppy, to their game at Pembroke School. Though he wasn't allowed to suit up, Brady went with the team. He felt terribly out of place, dressed in his jacket and tie amid his friends all in full pads and uniform. The feeling only worsened when the team took the field. He paced the bench area ceaselessly, shouting encouragement to everyone he could think of, talking to teammates when they came off the field, cheering, sweating, yearning. It was physically painful not to be playing, far beyond the aches that his constant movement caused to his ribs. By game's end (and the game was a rout, with Wilson winning by thirty points), he was exhausted and sweated out as if he'd indeed been on the field. He felt no fulfillment from the victory. He was empty.

He sat alone in the back of the Guppy for the ride back down to Wilson, legs drawn up to his chest (ignoring again the discomfort of such a position) with his face buried against his kneecaps. He heard the boys, as if from a great distance, talking agitatedly among themselves about the game and various plays that had been made. Alan Black, who had taken his place, had played well, and was beside himself with excitement at his success. Brady felt happy for him, but jealous too. That should be me, he thought. And what if he stays as the starter and I never get back in again? That prospect made him feel even worse.

The seat next to him squeaked. "How are you doing, young man?" Mr. Glendon put an arm around his shoulders and clapped him lightly with his hand.

Brady didn't want to look up. "I'm fine, Sir." That seemed inadequate, so he worked his mouth and Adam's apple for a few seconds before continuing. "I guess I just missed playing. A lot," he added in a whisper.

Mr. Glendon patted his arm again. "It's never easy watching, when you want to be in there. I hurt my ankle my last year in college and missed the last four games of the season. The last four games I ever would have played. It killed me. It's going to be fine. You'll be fine. You have a lot of football ahead of you."

Brady wiped his face against his pants and looked up. "Thanks." He didn't really feel very thankful, or better, but it seemed the proper thing to say. "Sir." He felt very tired, and dropped his head back down. After a moment, he heard Mr. Glendon stand and move back toward the front of the bus.

Several minutes passed. Another squeak. "Bray, what's up?"

His head snapped up. "Hi! I, uh, I . . . I just feel like shit 'cause I couldn't play." He tried not to look Doug in the eye; his guilt over so many things was so overwhelming. Maybe I should just jump out the window of the bus, he thought fleetingly.

Doug's hand laid over his, atop his curled up knees. "Bray," the soft voice whispered. "Come on, man. Please say something. You're screwing yourself up, not talking to anybody."

Brady looked again at him, into his eyes dark in the shadowy light of the bus as the sun faded. The planes of his ruddy cheeks shone, his lips were full and moist, his eyes hypnotic and maddening. The touch of his hand was warm and electric. Brady inhaled the intoxicating faint smell of his body. The guilt rose again, and he pulled himself away to stare out the cold window at the darkening landscape.

Doug stiffened and stood. "OK, sorry to bug you. Maybe we can talk or something later?" His question hung in the air. Brady blinked his damp eyes, unable to answer, swallowing again and again to try to stay under control. He felt Doug move away from him back toward the front of the bus. He couldn't look.

He strode away from the gym as fast as he could when they got back to campus, letting his teammates go shower and get out of their uniforms. He wanted to hide in his room, under his covers, and never emerge to face Doug or anyone ever again.

The room was empty, dark. He threw himself onto the bed, face down, hoping to sleep. It didn't happen. Instead, his mind wandered randomly - Doug, Fieldstone, Ian McShane, his Spanish midterm, his brother's safety in Viet Nam, the cemetery on a summer day, Kenny, Doug, David, his spot on the team, the taste of Fieldstone's semen, the approaching rain, whether Doug's semen tasted like Bill's, his ribs, the beach down in Ship Bottom, Scout camp, Brutus' farewell speech to Cassius in Julius Caesar, how lonely his mom must be, Grouch and how he missed him even though he kept slipping out of his collar to go running around in the woods for days on end, Doug again, always Doug, again and again. He'd tried to avoid looking at him in the showers every day after practice, but he'd still memorized his body - each small freckle and mole, the otter-like sheen of his wet head, the subtle musculature of his shoulders and upper arms, the swell of his buttocks, the sway of his genitals. He focused on those small details of his body, hoping he could keep them in his memory forever. People passed back and forth every so often in the hall outside, talking or laughing.

The shot of light was startling. David had come in and turned on the overhead fixture. "Jesus, did you miss dinner?"

Brady blinked, sitting up slowly. He rubbed his eyes. "Did I?"

David laughed. "Who's your table Prefect - Harrison? Maybe he won't sting you." He sat at his desk with a sigh, stared at the papers there for a long moment, then made an audible effort to start a light conversation. "So, um, how did the game go?"

Brady shrugged. "OK. We won pretty easy. Well, they won, anyway. I just sort of watched."

David looked at him. "You OK, Conover?"

"Me? Yeah, fine. I'm great."

"No offense, but you need a shower. You smell like you were running laps or something."

He lifted his arm and sniffed. "Jesus," he muttered. He stood and began shucking off his clothes. "I hope they can clean this jacket fast, it's one that actually fits."

David laughed softly. "Then you shouldn't've taken a nap in it after getting all sweaty." Brady was conscious that David was watching him strip.

"It just sort of happened." He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist. "Sorry to end the show."

"I've seen it already. It's a nice show, but I've seen it." He stood and reached for Brady's side. "That looks awful."

Brady tried not to shrink from the touch. It wasn't that it was unwelcome, really - David's hand was cold, and he was afraid it might hurt. Why was he so wary? David ran his fingers slowly along the bruise lines. "Does it hurt?"

"Not really, unless I move wrong. I mean if you like poked me there it'd probably send me through the roof, but not - not that," he trailed off as David laid his full palm against his side.

Their eyes met for a long second. Brady licked his lips nervously. "So, um, where'd you vanish to all day? I didn't see you at assembly or anything."

David's hand fell away as he turned back to his desk. "My dad took me to see the shrink," he said heavily.

Brady was intrigued, for reasons he didn't quite know. "Really? Cool. How'd that go?"

David snorted. "Apparently I'm a hard case. The guy got mad because I wouldn't 'open up' to him the way he wanted. So I told him that wasn't my problem - that he should be good enough at the process to get a stubborn patient to open up over time. That got him even madder. I know his fucking business better than he does." He sighed and tossed a paper to a back corner of his desk. "Anyway, Dr. Tevrizian decided to refer me on. You know, like a hot potato, or a piece of shit nobody wants to touch. So we went to the other side of Princeton to Dr. Matthews, and he sort of sparred with me for about two hours. Christ, that must have cost my dad a fortune. Two of 'em in one day . . . "

Brady nodded. "Well, did it, you know, help?"

David snorted again. "Yeah, I'm all better now. I'm ready to get molested again."

Brady had no idea what to say in response. He simply sighed, grabbed his toiletry kit, and went to the bathroom.

The water was hot - he usually showered in the morning before breakfast, at the same time as the rest of the boys in the dorm, which taxed the building's water heater terribly. It felt good to stand in the steamy warmth, alone. Maybe I can just stay here for like an hour or something, he thought. Would they sting me for using too much hot water? He huddled in the last stall, uncurtained as they all were, feeling some solace in being at least partially hidden from the world.

He let the water go almost scalding, and played it over his bruises. The sting gave slowly way to deep soothing pulses of heat into the tissue. It's like it's loosening up the bruise, he thought, moving himself slowly to and fro to cover the entire area. Maybe this'll help it get better faster. Speed up the circulation, or something.

"Bray? You in here? Geez, it's like two hundred degrees . . . " Doug's voice came through the steam. Brady stiffened. What was he doing here?

"Doug? I - I'm just, you know, getting a shower," Brady called back. He realized he was slightly tumescent from the warm water. God, what if Doug sees that?

Doug appeared through the clouds. He was smiling. "Damn, Bray, sweat much?"

Brady laughed, a bit forcedly. He tried to keep at least partially turned away to hide himself. "Hey, it - you know, it just felt good, to get warm and all." He squeezed some water out of his hair, wincing slightly at having to lift his arm so high.

Doug stepped closed. "God, that looks awful." He was looking at the bruises along Brady's side. Brady realized that since Doug's room was a floor above, he hadn't seen them before.

"Yeah, I know," Brady said, shrugging a bit. "It looks a lot worse than it feels, though. It just - this feels good, on the nasty parts. The hot water, I mean."

"Right," Doug said faintly. He reached out carefully and laid the palm of his hand on Brady's side, over the worst of the discoloration. "God, Bray I'm so sorry." He pursed his lips slightly as his hand ran up and down Brady's flank.

Jesus, Brady thought in a momentary flash, does everybody have to touch me like this? Blood throbbed in his temples. He knew he would have a stroke in a few seconds - or, worse, that he'd get an erection. Doug's hand was warm, unlike David's had been, the fingers seemed to melt into his own flash. Before he could stop it, a soft moan slipped out. He jerked away, turning face into the water, and gulped air as fast as he could. "Sorry," he gasped. "I - it just - I can't . . . "

"Did I hurt you there?" Doug's sounded concerned, but there was another melancholy quality to it as well that Brady couldn't quite decipher. "Um, look, I'm sorry. I hope that didn't hurt." His steps retreated towards the door; Brady kept staring at the nozzle. "I - I'll see you later on, OK?" The door opened and closed, the sound magnified by the steamy air.

After a few seconds, Brady grabbed the shower pipe with both hands and banged his forehead against the tile several times, his breath coming in huge gasps. It was crying, it was panic, it was anger, it was frustration. It was an inability to comprehend what was becoming of him. He pressed his cheek to the wet tile, felt the cold porcelain, felt his chest heave, as if he were observing it from the outside, clinically. It took a few minutes for that detached observational self to rejoin his body. When it did, he turned the water even hotter, ignoring the scalding of his shrinking skin, and scrubbed himself over and over, trying to get clean.

David was reading something at his desk, one leg bouncing to an unknown rhythm, when he walked back into the room. "They're gonna raise tuition if you keep taking showers that long." He turned and looked at Brady with a faint knowing smile. "So Garretson was in here, right after you left."

Brady blushed. "Really? Um, what'd he want?"

David snorted. "Your body, of course." He turned back to his desk. "I told him you were getting a shower. He didn't see you at dinner, so he was worried." David took a moment before continuing. "He worries about you a lot, ever notice that?"

Brady realized he hadn't budged since walking in. He moved quickly now, yanking a pair of shapeless sweat pants out of his closet and slipping them on beneath his bathrobe. "Well, uh, you know, we're friends, and on the team, and all. I mean you were checking on me too, right?"

"Yup. Cuz I want your bod, too. I told you that."

Brady pulled a sweat shirt on and toweled his hair. He decided to play along. "Perv."

David snorted again. "Yeah, that's me. The little twerp faggot, right?"

"Don't say stuff like that about yourself."

"No?" David turned back to face him. "Well, you missed dinner, so you didn't get Chuck Hendershott asking me how many times I blew McShane. That was a fun conversation."

Brady sighed. He really didn't want to be part of this conversation again. "Hendershott's a dick. Everybody knows that. He followed Douggie and Ian around licking the shit off their shoes. Do you really expect him to be a nice guy with you?"

"You think he's the only one? You think it's over?"

Brady was getting angry. "No, it's not over. Not when you won't let it be, that's for sure. You keep harping on it, and it'll never be over. It'll stay around the rest of your life. You want it over, end it. Put it the fuck behind you and let it pass. As long as you let it stay with you, it's not over."

David turned away. "Easy for you to say that," he muttered. "You never - " he stopped as he realized the error of what he was about to say.

"Never what, David? Never had anything bad happen to me? Wanna trade? You wanna trade your nice rich boy Westchester County life for mine? In a second, man. You had shitty stuff happen, David, but you're not the only person in the world like that, OK?"

David's clenched jaw began to quiver. He looked down. "I . . . I just want it gone. I want it out of my life. I want to never have to think about it again. I don't want to 'cope with my feelings.' " He took a ragged breath. "I want my Mom back," he added in a whisper.

Brady stepped towards him, and David flung himself into his arms. His face buried into Brady's sweatshirt as he started sobbing, crying like Brady had never imagined him or anyone else could cry, deep wrenching wails that shook his frail body. Brady held him up and half carried him to his bed, where they sat together as David wept.

David had quieted some, but was still crying hard, when the room door opened. Doug stepped in with a smile. "Hey Bray, how -" He froze in place, seeing the two of them sitting on the bed. Brady looked up and shook his head slightly. His eyes met Doug. He saw concern, to be sure, but something else. A hurt, as if some light had been snuffed out. Color rose in Doug's cheeks as he slowly stepped back and closed the door behind him.

Brady didn't understand the look he'd seen, but he knew something had happened. He knew he had to run and catch Doug at that moment and explain what was going on. Doug would understand, he was the kindest guy Brady ever had known. He couldn't let Doug leave like that; it held some meaning irrevocable and terrible, whatever it was. But David was still shuddering in his arms, his breath warm and damp against his chest where his face was pressed. David needed him to be there. He couldn't leave David. Either way, he was lost. His own sense of hopelessness rose in him, and he felt tempted to start crying as hard as David was. He fought it, crammed it down, refused to let the emotion rise to the surface. He'd done it so much, it should have been second nature. This despair, though, was a strong opponent. It kept rising, choking him, making him shake. He snapped his head back angrily, trying to keep control.

"What's wrong?" David whispered in a shaky voice. "Did I get your ribs?"

"No," Brady answered. That was the angle he needed. He focused on the ribs, on the ache he felt from David's arm wrapped across the contusion. "It's OK. I - my neck's just stiff."

David shifted and sat up on his own, wiping his face. "Bray, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. That was coming, sooner or later, right? You can't hold it together forever." Not you, he thought. I can, but not you. And I will. Forever.

"I guess." He sniffed loudly. "Nobody came in, did they? I thought I heard somebody."

Brady shook his head. "Nope, nobody." He patted David's shoulders. "You OK now? I mean, you know, relatively, at least?"

David smiled a bit. "Yeah. Relatively." He sighed. "That was really childish bullshit, doing that."

"No it wasn't."

David's smile grew warmer. "Jesus, you're like Mister Perfect or something."

Brady laughed. "I'm just - I'm your friend, OK?"

David shook his head, running a finger along his lower eyelid. "Then that would make you Mister Stupid."

Brady shoved him playfully, and they both giggled a bit. He glanced toward the door. "Hey, I need to piss. You're not gonna like jump out the window or anything if I leave, are you?"

David regarded him for a moment, his customary mood returning. "Nah. Not high enough, I'd just break a leg or something. I need like a skyscraper, so I make a really good splat."

"Yum," Brady said, standing. "Be back."

The hall was empty. Study hall was under way. He realized that he'd get stung if a Prefect caught him out of his room, but he didn't much care. He bounded quickly up the stairs to the third floor. Doug's room door was ajar. Duncan was at his desk with headphones on, tapping a pen idly to whatever song was playing. He looked up as Brady pushed the door open. "Hey Conover, what's going on? Did Doug find you?"

"Um, no. I - I was looking for him, actually."

Duncan frowned. "Well, he went looking for you a little bit ago. Dunno how you guys missed each other."

Brady had no idea what to say, or do. He stood for a long second, staring blankly. Where was Doug, then? "Um, OK," he finally managed to say. "I, uh, I guess I should go see if he's down the hall, or something. Sorry to bug you."

"No sweat. You should hear this Cream album on these headphones, it's so cool."

"Yeah, I bet," Brady said, forcing a smile. "OK, later then."

He stood in the hall, trying to think. He couldn't be in another room, that would be as bad as being in the hall if a Prefect caught him. He jogged down the stairs to the first floor. Also empty. On a whim, he ducked outside. The evening was surprisingly mild, the air damp with coming rain. Indian summer, he thought. He padded barefoot down the marble steps onto the flagstones, looking up and down the long walk. A gust of wind blew some stray dead leaves over his feet.

"Brady?" He looked around, squinting, and saw a dark silhouette against the base of one of the elm trees that lined either side of center campus.

"What're you doing out here? They'll sting you for being out during study hall." He knew it was a stupid point to make, but he was out of any better ideas at that moment. He walked across the thin lawn towards the tree.

"Just, you know, thinking." Doug's voice seemed strained. "They'll sting you too, you know."

"Yeah, well, I already missed dinner, so I might as well get the daily double."

Doug chuckled. "Thank you, Art Fleming." He sighed and looked out across the lawn. "I, uh, I'm sorry that - you know, that I like, busted in, on you, and - and David - "

"He was crying," Brady rushed to respond. "His dad made him go to shrinks all day and he was really like upset and - and he started crying really hard, and, and I, I had to . . . . I mean I couldn't just let him be miserable. Right?"

Doug looked up at him for a long minute. "Really?"

"Yeah, really, honest! He got all upset and talked about missing his mom, and he kind of fell apart. I mean he was due for it, you know? All this shit the last coupla days. He tries to be tough, but he's hurting, from all sorts of stuff."

Doug shifted, inviting Brady to sit next to him. "Tell me."

Brady plunked down next to him, pulling knees to his chest to keep warm. Maybe it's not so mild out here after all, he thought. "And how about you? You're like due for, I dunno, something. You're all pent up and stuff." Brady looked into the dark pools of his eyes, speechless with wonder. "Christ, Bray, you're in bare feet out here, you're gonna catch fucking pneumonia."

Brady glanced at his feet, and started laughing. "Pneumonia? From my feet???"

Doug grinned too, a little embarrassed. "Well, you know, get a cold or something, and that like develops. It can happen," he added defensively.

They looked at each other for a second, then both started laughing. Their shoulders bumped together. Brady fought the tears that wanted to rise along with his laughter; letting any emotion out threatened to release them all. His laughter faded to a determined gasp, as he pushed it all back down, taking several long seconds to regain full control.

He realized Doug was watching him. "That's what I mean," he said quietly. "That's all gonna come out sooner or later, and if it's later it's gonna be a lot worse than it is now."

Brady blinked fearfully. "H - how do you know shit like that?"

Doug smiled softly; Brady felt his whole being fall into its beauty. "I'm not stupid, man. Do you really think I'm stupid? I can read you well enough."

That scared Brady. "There's not a lot to read," he stuttered, averting his eyes just a little.

"Bullshit." And Doug's arm reached around Brady to pull him into a sideways hug. Brady fought for a moment to keep his balance, to resist being pulled in completely, but the strength of Doug's arm was too great and his resistance too faint. He fell against Doug's left side, his cheek on Doug's shoulder. "Will you please just fucking talk to me," Doug whispered. It wasn't exactly a question, or really an order. It seemed like advice.

Brady shuddered a moment. The warmth of Doug's body, the faint smell of him and the soap from the gym, the firm comforting grip on his shoulder, were more than he could bear. He fought back the tears. "OK," he croaked, "but not everything. I can't tell you everything, OK?"

"Why not?"

"I - because, . . . well just because, OK? Please, not everything. Not now."

Doug's hand slid briefly through Brady's hair as they both sat up. "All right," he whispered back. "Whatever you want, then."

It took almost an hour. Brady talked about growing up in Cullingstown, his brothers, his mother and her drinking, David and his history, how close he'd gotten to being raped. He tried to avoid anything about Doug, or Fieldstone, keeping the discussion focused on David's troubles as much as he could. He found himself shaking part of the time, from the cold but also from the extent to which he was opening even a small window into himself that he'd never opened for anyone. It was the most frightening thing he'd ever done, and it reinforced his fear of how devastating it would be to open wide and reveal it all. Even as he opened up, the rest of him closed even tighter.

Doug listened in silence. His arm remained draped loosely around Brady's shoulder, warm and strong, and he watched Brady intently as he spoke. When Brady finally ran out of things to say - or at least things he was willing to say, Doug shifted, wrapping both arms around his own knees and staring at the ground for a few minutes. "OK," he finally said, quietly. "That - that was tough, I know. A lot of it I already knew, in bits and pieces anyway. But, but it's good - I guess that's the word for it, good - good to get it all, you know, laid out." He looked at Brady and smiled. "You're a good roommate, and a good friend, to Davey. He's lucky, and I think he knows it a lot more than he'd like to admit." Brady felt the color rise in his cheeks. "I - I wish we were roommates, though." Brady was shocked. "I mean it's not like I don't like Dunc or anything, he's a cool guy. But - him and me, we don't, you know, connect, the way we do."

"Right," Brady said. "Connect."

"And there's a lot you left out, I can tell." Brady shivered involuntarily. Doug smiled again. "And that's OK, too. I know how much you hold in. Just - look, you can talk to me, OK? You can tell me anything, man. About your family, or kids here, any of that stuff."

Brady shuddered again. Like hell I can, he thought. "Wh - what about you, though? Are you doing OK?" He hoped that subtly changing the subject might get him off the hook.

Doug smiled. "Pretty much. Math sucks, Earth Science is idiotic, and I got this one really good friend who's being a jerk. He's got all this heavy shit on his mind, and he won't let me help him out."

Brady laughed. "Asshole. No, I mean, what about, you know, you and your family and all? It must be really weird for you, and your parents, to be away like this."

Doug smiled quietly. "My Mom hates it," he sighed. "She was really upset that I spent the open weekend with you and didn't come home. They're coming with like leg irons for me come Thanksgiving, so don't even ask." The thought of being apart from him for that long weekend made Brady shake again. How could be live? "You oughta get inside, Bray, you gotta be freezing."

"Yeah, I guess." He didn't want to break from even this small physical contact with Doug, but his desire was growing - he couldn't reveal that. He stood, his feet suddenly feeling icy against the cold dew on the grass. "Wow, it's cold," he said flatly.

Doug chafed his shoulders and biceps. Brady couldn't help smiling at the feeling, especially when Doug started to return the smile. They stood for that seemed like a long time, with Doug's hands rubbing Brady's arms at a slowing pace, and Brady's hands stuffed in the pockets of his sweats, sagging into the massage and grinning stupidly.

"Conover!" a voice barked out from the sidewalk behind them. They both started and turned. Bill Fieldstone was regarding them coldly. "Get the fuck inside and into study hall or I'll sting both of you myself. You're freshmen, you stay inside during study hall. Clear?"

Brady gulped. "S - sorry, Bill, we - "

"I don't give a rat's ass, get inside."

"Give it a break, Fieldstone," Doug objected. "We were just - "

"I don't care. Get inside now!"

They glanced at each other before moving slowly toward the door. Brady's cheeks were flaming - did anything show? Was Bill angry at him, jealous or something? He felt Doug looking at him as they walked. God, did Doug realize, or even suspect? Another door closed tightly in his mind, things he could never let out. He didn't dare look back at Bill as he slipped inside.

They stood in the entrance hall, both shaking a bit from the cold. Brady found it suddenly hard to look Doug in the eye. "I guess," Doug said slowly, "we better go up. Wanna get together after study hall's over?"

Brady nodded. "Sure. That'd be cool." He took a deep breath. "Look, I - I'm sorry - "

"Don't apologize, Bray. The last thing you need to do is apologize, OK? Not to me. Never." He patted Brady's shoulder and moved off.

Brady shook for another couple of minutes before going back to his room.

As he opened the door from the stairs to the second floor hall, Mr. Billips emerged from his apartment. Brady froze. "Conover! How are you?" Brady hesitated. Billips had never been especially friendly to anyone. He suspected the tone was a lead-in to being told he was stung for being out of his room during study hall. "Did you have an appointment for your ribs?"

Brady licked hip lips subtly. A perfect opportunity, a perfect excuse. He should use it. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He'd find out, you'd be really screwed. "I - uh, Sir, no, I - I just - I sort of needed to, you know, walk around a little and sort of clear my head." He waited for the hammer to fall.

Instead, Billips came to him and clapped his shoulder lightly. "I understand. Been a rough week for you. Look, you can come in and talk to me any time you want. Do me a favor - do that, don't go outside. I'm not supposed to let you guys out of the room until study hall's done. Come by my apartment and no one else will see you're out. OK?"

Brady blinked. "Uh, OK. Sorry, Sir."

"No need. Just keep it low key, OK? And don't blab about it. And don't abuse the privilege." He stepped closer. "I really am here to help, Brady. You, Tanner, all of you. The door's open." He turned back towards his apartment. "Get back inside now, OK?"

"Yes, Sir." He shook his head slightly as he reached his room door.

David was leaning back in his chair, grinning, and looking at him as he slipped inside. "Billips got you, huh? Too bad."

"I - no, actually, he didn't sting me. At least he didn't say he was gonna sting me. He - he was, like, nice. It was weird."

David frowned. "What happened?"

Brady recounted the conversation. David began smiling grimly. "His ass in in a sling," he observed with no small degree of satisfaction. "He's supposed to be responsible for what happens on his hall, and what happened here? One of his little freshman boys gets attacked. Shits on his chance for tenure next year, that's for sure. I hope he's sending out letters for new jobs."

Brady nodded. "I guess. It's too bad, though, isn't it?"

"Why?" David snapped. "He was kissing Ian's ass all semester until this happened. Maybe he thought that'd get him an in with Daddy or something. Well, it blew up in his face. Tough darts."

Brady considered objecting that he was getting bitter again, but decided to forego another round of that fight. "Well, anyway, he invited us to go to his apartment anytime we wanted. To talk, or hang out, you know, whatever. So maybe we can go catch some TV there sometime, right?"

David turned back to his desk. "Star Trek's already over, so what's the point? It's all shit after that on Fridays."

Brady sighed. No relief, not anywhere.

Doug showed up almost as soon as the bell ending study hall sounded. He was in a T shirt and gym shorts, long-limbed and glowing. He flopped on Brady's bed and started telling him about Dunc's latest obsession, a soul singer Brady had never heard of named Otis Redding. "I guess he was at the Monterey thing last summer and was really good - along with that Hendrix guy. He's been playing this record all night. I dunno how the Prefects didn't hear it."

Brady chuckled, trying to stay as casual as he could, given who was lying next to him on the bed as he sat on its edge. "Well, maybe Polling" - one of Doug's third floor Prefects - "likes it, too. He's all up on that stuff, right?"

"You guys never heard of Otis Redding?" David asked incredulously. When they shrugged, he shook his head in mock disgust. "Jesus, what am I living with here?"

Evan poked his head in the door. "Did somebody say something about Otis Redding?"

David waved his hand toward Evan. "There, you see? Even he knows."

Evan started laughing. "My older brother plays his stuff all the time.

Doug flung his arms outward; one brushed Brady's shoulder and gave him an involuntary shiver. "I give up. I'm an idiot no matter what I do!"

David snorted. "Ain't self-knowledge the pits?" They all laughed while David rifled through his pile of LPs. "Here, this is one Dunc may not have. What's he been playing?"

"I dunno, something like 'Encyclopedia' or something."

David nodded. "OK yeah. Dictionary. Lots of "Feh, feh-feh feh-feh feh-feh feh feh, right?" Doug nodded. "This is a live record he put out this summer. He's even better live."

Doug groaned as the needle dropped. "God, do I have to listen to it here too?"

"Grow up. You'll like it."

Brady lay back with his head against the wall so he was reclining next to Doug. The record was another revelation for Brady - raw, emotionally draining, gorgeous in a primal way he'd never imagined music could be. "I've Been Loving You Too Long" and "These Arms of Mine" almost brought him to tears. He lay next to Doug, whose eyes were closed, a slight smile playing across his lips, and yearned with all of Redding's intensity for what he knew he could never possess. He saw David glance at him a couple of times with a slight knowing smile. That was comforting, that David knew and empathized (though of course that term was one he didn't know). It just felt good to know that someone else understood even some part of his feelings - good, and strange as well. No one had ever seen as deep into him as he'd let David see. The notion that anybody could know that much about him was thrilling, and unnerving. How much more might he guess at? How much more would he reveal? And how much more could he reveal to Doug without exposing the ugly secret that lay in his heart?

"These arms of mine/They are lonely . . . they are yearning, yearning from wanting you . . . "

He yearned his way, in silence, until the side ended. "That was a weird version of 'Satisfaction,' "Even observed, as David moved to flip the record.

"Yeah, but I like it, so I played side 2 first. I like "Day Tripper,' too."

Mr, Billips appeared in the doorway. "Somebody's got good musical taste in here if they're playing Otis," he said with an unusually open smile. "I saw him in L.A. last year. It was great. That's the live record, right?"

David seemed uncomfortable having a civil conversation with Mr. Billips, but obviously felt constrained to do so. "Um, yeah, from Europe someplace I think."

"Paris, last March," Billips quickly replied. "Listen to the backup band - it's not his usual touring guys, they got Booker T and the MGs to do that gig."

David sat up. "What? I - I hadn't noticed . . . " He was genuinely surprised to have somebody one-up him on anything musical, let alone Billips.

Mr, Billips grinned. "Yeah, they were all on a tour for Stax Records. That would have been fun. Anyway, gentlemen, getting towards lights out. Let's get it going. Tanner?"

"Sir?"

"I have a lot of soul stuff, you're welcome to any of it you like. Come take a look."

David blinked. "Th - thanks Sir. I will." He stared at the door for several seconds after Billips closed it behind him.

Brady started laughing. "I never seen you speechless! We need a movie camera or something to record this for posterity!" Evan and Doug were laughing as well.

David blushed brightly. "Fuck all of you. I never saw Billips not be an asshole before. What can I say, it caught me off guard."

Evan shook his head. "Maybe he's actually not such an asshole?" he suggested.

"Not a chance," David fired back.

"Oh, come on, man," Doug protested. "You gotta give people a chance."

"He had his. Blew it."

"Jesus, David, what'd Billips ever do to you anyway?" Evan was getting frustrated.

"He was a fucking prick who spent his life sucking up to McShane - to both of 'em, and their asshole father too whenever he'd show up. He was a fucking enabler, OK? That's the term for it. An enabler."

Brady blinked, feeling a little dumb. "Uh, what's an 'enabler'?"

Doug nodded calmly to him. "Somebody who enables, of course."

"Oh." They held their laughter in for only a second, before rolling about Brady's bed giggling helplessly, bumping into each other. Brady was laughing so hard, for reasons a small corner of his rational mind couldn't quite fathom (it really wasn't all that funny), that he wasn't even self-conscious about the physical contact with Doug. They would up in a heap in the back corner, wedged against the wall, panting and giggling anew every time they looked at each other.

Evan shook his head. "Geez, don't be a bunch of girls about it."

Brady snapped to attention. He sat ramrod straight on the bed, brushing his hair into place. "I - we - it was just, you know, it was, it was funny, and -and I -"

"Grow up, Evan," David answ ered bitingly. It was so unusual for David to use someone's first name in casual conversation that it drew everyone's attention. "You spend that much time looking for faggots under every rock, maybe you're under the rock with 'em, huh?"

Evan flushed brightly. "Fuck you too, Tanner." He walked out, visibly angry.

Brady stood to chase after him. "Jesus, Davey, you didn't have to piss him off like that."

"Why should I be the only one pissed off around here?"

Brady stopped in the door. "You're being fucking childish, you know that? Poor little Davey boy, he's unhappy so he goes Don Rickles on the world."

David started laughing. Doug stared at them both, apparently unsure if he even wanted to intervene. "Don Rickles?"

Brady started blushing. "Well, you know, like insulting everybody, and stuff . . ." He wished there were a small hole in the doorjamb he could crawl into.

David sighed and looked at Doug. "See what I got to live with? You wonder why I get pissed off? All right," he waved toward Brady, "I'll go apologize to Evan for offending his fragile manhood. Fragile, and from what I've seen pretty small, too. I mean, no wonder he's sensitive, right?" He stretched as he stood. "Evan! Hey Evan!!!" he called as he strolled out the door.

Brady sagged back onto the bed. He was conscious of Doug watching. "You OK?"

"Yeah." He didn't feel OK, though. "He just - it's like he wants to piss people off sometimes. Me, Evan, Billips, . . . No wonder McShane wanted to kick the snot out of him. I mean not like he deserved what happened, OK? But, but you can't, you know, . . . "

"Go through life being a dick," Doug said, completing the thought.

Brady laughed a bit. "Yeah, that. Bingo."

Doug shifted around, sitting more upright. "You care about him a lot, don't you?"

Brady chuckled again. "Well, yeah. Dunno why. He's clueless about what a jerk he can be, he lives this . . . this life, that's so like privileged and all . . . and he's such a little kid even while he's pretending to be a cynical old man. I just . . . " He glanced up and Doug and froze. Doug's face was impassive, but his eyes were glistening a bit. Doug ducked his head away to look out the window. "But, I mean . . . man, it's not like with you. You're . . .you're the best friend I've ever had. OK? I mean really. Davey's more like my asshole little brother I need to keep on a leash or something."

Doug laughed and fell back against the wall, hand to his mouth. "Jesus," he sighed in soft voice. "You guys are like an old married couple, bickering over the same stuff over and over again." He stood quickly, startling Brady, who fell back onto his bed. Doug looked down at him, a slight smile playing across his face. He had never been more beautiful. Without thinking, Brady extended a hand to him. Was it for help getting up or to pull him into an embrace? Doug clasped it, firmly, and looked at him for a second. Then he pulled hard, lifting Brady to his feet. "C'mon," he said. "I bet Davey and Evan are about to start World War III about now. This oughta be good."

Brady followed Doug into the hall, his hand tingling from their touch. He wanted to spin Doug around by the shoulders, hug him, kiss him, become one with him. He would gladly have surrendered his entire being just to be with Doug, somehow. Never gonna happen, Conover, he realized. So he contented himself with watching the flex of Doug's butt as he loped down the hall towards the animated conversation coming from Evan's room. From the sound of it, things seemed pleasant enough, which relieved him. At least Davey can keep things cool with somebody, he thought. Me, I'm not so sure how much longer I can do this.