Decent Progress

Hey Everyone,

Sorry for the delay in this chapter, it was a difficult one to write but also very fun, and I really hope you enjoy it. As always, questions comments and criticisms can be sent to DCfield90@protonmail.com I love hearing from people!

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Decent Progress Chapter 7

The rest of the weekend passed in an enthusiastic blur for both boys. As Thompson and Leslie made themselves scarce, the two spent more time with one another. Christian was concerned the changed dynamic might strain Brody's friendship with the redhead, but that showed no signs of occurring. They romped in the waves with total abandon, threw balls and frisbees, searched for coral and rented paddle boards to cruise the coastlines. The final night they stood in the shore's wave-tamped sand savoring the sunset, the foam lapping at their feet and sounding like nature's lullaby. As the light faded Christian felt a new sense of closeness to Brody. Doing something so simple, just standing side by side alone together, quietly observing Earth's most ordinary and miraculous wonder.

Next morning they packed their bags. It took longer than expected since their belongings had spread themselves to every corner of the place, seemingly of their own free will. The bedroom looked bare and forlorn without their clothes littering it, and the tiny kitchen without character now that the grease-covered pans were washed and stowed.

"Ok, you've got everything?"

Christian did a final inventory in his mind.

"Yep."

"Let's roll then."

They hopped in the truck, still smelling like sumptuous fresh leather and new car despite their sea-salt smelling bodies. Christian watched Brody as he gunned the engine and leaned over their seats to reverse. He looked so grown-up behind the wheel, focused and in control. It made him feel safe, and longing to get his own car. His mother in weeks past had made noncommittal noises but after the recent kerfuffle it might be a while before Christian broached the subject. As they turned onto the main drag Brody switched on the radio.

"Aww, dude, what's that?" Christian said through a scrunched face.

"What? It's metal man. Gets the blood flowing!"

"It's total ear-rape. This isn't even music, just noise."

"There's a melody to it."

"Melody?!" Christian practically shouted over the din, "I can't even hear notes!"

"Just kidding, I agree." Brody grinned cheekily and turned it off "Just trolling. I don't listen to anything when I drive really."

Christian smiled and shook his head at his insolence.

"But you listen to music at your gym, right?"

"Oh yeah, mainly country or some soundcloud dreck. I go along with my teammates choice, I'm not too particular as long as it's fast-paced enough. You?"

"Our coach plays a lot of Neil Diamond."

"Who's that? A rapper?"

Christian giggled. "If only, and I don't even like rap! It's so bad we have to hide the Bluetooth from him sometimes. One time my friend Jameson took it and bounced so high on the trampoline, he stuck the remote on a ceiling beam."

Brody smiled at the image, then looked thoughtful. "Could I come by your gym sometime?"

"What, just to hang out?"

"And do some workouts. If I'm showing you some wrestling, you can reciprocate."

Christian considered for a moment. His first reaction was to object. Brody's personality would rub Jameson the wrong way, plus he'd a bad perception of him thanks to Christian's complaining. But he knew better now, and maybe could win over Jameson as well. Brody was obnoxious and arrogant sure, but there was a sensitive side as well, a considerate and caring part of him that emerged its timid head if you were around him enough. The two sides mixed together in complicated ways and the end result wasn't all bad. So he said,

"Yeah that sounds cool. Keep in mind, with gymnastics you're in for an ACTUAL workout," he smirked.

Brody's eyebrows skyrocketed.

"You wanna get competitive on that front, I'll make sure you're hammered when you come by the compound."

"I'll avoid it then."

"Nah, you're coming, at least for some strength training. Even those shoulders of yours might be tasked by coach's routines."

Did Brody just pay him a complement?

"Why's it called `the compound'? Sounds like a cult."

Brody laughed.

"Wrestling is kind of a cult. It mandates total dedication to the point of obsession, but it's so niche that no one really cares about it. Gymnastics has enough hot girls to draw the public's attention."

Christian rolled his eyes.

"Yeah I mean I don't have a problem with the girl's teams, but..."

"Yeeesss...?"

"It's annoying how much attention they take up. We're always being outshined because we're not sex objects."

"You'd be sexy too, if they didn't make you wear pajama pants."

Another complement. Christian blushed a bit.

"Same for you guys if you didn't wear those full-body condoms."

Brody snorted with amusement.

"They're called singlets!"

"No lie, that sounds even worse."

They bantered back and forth for most of the drive and made excellent time, so they decided to buy lunch for a last treat. Christian researched on his phone while they cruised down the shady oak-lined byways of the state ("Something decadent, I have to get in weight-cutting mode soon"), and found an old seafood shack by a creek.

"Everything's fried here, so you'll have plenty of lard on your ass by the time we get home."

"Excellent. Damn, this place looks almost colonial. Since the dawn of time."

It was a rickety old building so close to the creek's slope it looked ready to fall in. The brown boards of the siding were weather-beaten, the shingles were laced with Spanish Moss and the tall tin chimney puffed with greasy smoke.

"These kinda places make the best food," Brody said excitedly, scrambling out of the cab. They parked beneath a tree, there being no designated spaces. Inside they ordered from an expressionless (and nearly motionless) woman and waited out back on steel chairs, looking down into the babbling creek. They weren't far from the road, but the trees hushed the noise and even with the kitchen's clattering it was quite peaceful.

"Aww man," Said Brody rapturously as they sat their food down, "I love catfish!"

"Mmmm," Said Christian noncommittally, taking a bite of his crispy shrimp. He wasn't hot on seafood, but shrimp was an exception. He could eat shrimp until he ballooned into a whale.

"Hey," Said Brody in a more serious tone, smacking his pink lips with grease, "Thanks for coming here."

"No problem I like fish okay."

"Naw, I meant on the trip. It was really fun having you around."

"I should be thanking you! You drove me and got Thompson to put me up and everything. I had a great time, literally one of the best ever. I don't know anyone who does stuff like this, just gets OUT. Or if I do they don't invite me."

That sounded bitterer than he intended. Brody chewed and watched him as he spoke.

"I know what you mean."

A pause.

"So even with the party shit you enjoyed it? Even though your mother might attach an ankle monitor to you tonight, and ban mention of my name in your house?"

"YES!" Christian said with emphasis, though he was smiling broadly. "But yeah she may declare a fatwah against you."

A pall was suddenly cast over Brody's face, and Christian wondered if he said the wrong thing.

"D'you think we'll be infamous or something?"

"Whaddya mean?"

"At school, where else?"

That was surprising. Hadn't they been over this? And since when was Brody so concerned over the hoi polloi's opinion?

"I didn't know you cared so much."

"About what?"

"People's opinion of you. Your reputation."

"I don't! Not until it's in danger that is," He said, reassuming his cheeky demeanor and engulfing more of his fish.

Eventually they cleared all their fishy delicacy, hush puppies, tartar sauce and French fries and lumbered heavily back to the truck. Once inside they breathed deeply in satisfaction. They were full to bursting and the early afternoon sun heated the cab perfectly.

"God I'm full."

"Me too."

With a groan, Brody leaned forward and started the engine.

"Let's get going before we both pass out."

The rest of the drive was done in silence as they both struggled against the soporific influence of their lunch. Brody completed the passage to Christian's house as automatically as a cuckoo on its track. But when they stopped on the curb fresh wakefulness came upon them.

"Welp," Brody said in that tone which meant an imminent farewell, "catch you at school tomorrow."

"Yeah," said Christian, thinking how weird it would feel seeing Brody on friendly terms. "Good luck with your parents. How d'you think they'll feel about your haircut?"

Brody blew out his cheeks like a pufferfish and ran his hand over his prickly head, as if he'd forgotten it was there.

"Outraged. Even my father fawns over my lustrous locks. I'll remind him that unlike his, mine will grow back."

Christian put his face in his hands. "Great idea. But seriously, don't ignite any bombs, alright?"

Brody grinned, and leaned over to ruffle Christian's hair, who blushed like a little girl.

"I don't have to give you advice, Mr. Angelic. Go on, get outta here."

Unpacked and standing in his driveway as the truck rumbled off and facing his front door all alone, Christian felt a sense of vulnerability. He'd have to face his parents in person. In just a few days he'd grown accustomed to having Brody by his side, though he wasn't always the most agreeable companion. Still he felt a tad bereft as he approached the door, hoping his mother hadn't restrained the better part of her fury to unleash it now. Taking a deep breath he walked inside. The house greeted him with its distinctive smell, only recognizable after spending days away. Reflecting on this, he tried to pinpoint the origin of the smell. Was it some combination of detergent, food, or building materials that gave each home a unique odor? Or did it spring from a more fundamental place? Christian remembered when Brody embraced him in his bed inhaling his scent, his nose pressed into the smooth valley between neck and collarbone. Brody had smelled of the sand and brine and sunscreen and shampoo and lemon but none of them accounted for the deeper essence of... just Brody.

Momentarily lost in this reverie Christian didn't notice the silence. He lugged his bags upstairs and saw his room had been cleaned. The bed was made, dirty clothes picked off the floor and the carpet had dark vacuum tracks. Even his desk had been swept of crumbs and wiped clean of its usual spattering of grease (Christian liked to abscond with food). Such care made him guiltier over his misbehavior. Despite being angry with him his mom cleaned his slovenly living space. And he knew his mother: it wasn't a passive-aggressive gesture because she didn't operate that way. It came from a place of deep concern and love.

He sighed and fell onto his bed. She had excellent reason to be concerned, one weekend away had resulted in attorney's being called. Maybe Alex was right, maybe he needed to separate himself from Brody a bit. Disentangle from any fantasy of being best friends...or more.

"Easier said that done."

No doubt it would be easier for Brody, if Brody felt any inclination to put distance between the two of them.

"Which he doesn't seem to want," Christian thought to himself hopefully, "But then, I'm not the bad influence."

At the moment the phrase passed through his mind, he heard the front door open and close sharply.

"Mom," he knew instantly.

He crept downstairs. He hadn't noticed how dark the house was, and how cool the air felt. Ominousness aside he approached his mother in the kitchen, who was busily putting away some miscellaneous groceries.

"Hey mom!"

"WUULAUGH!" She screamed, her hands flailing spasmodically as she whipped around.

"Sorry! I thought you heard me."

"No! Oh my god," she laughed breathlessly, "you brat! Come here you!"

She clacked across the linoleum on her heels and threw her arms around him. It was a better greeting than Christian could have possibly hoped for. Releasing him but holding him at length by the shoulders, she appraised him with an unrestrained and beaming smile.

"It's SO good to see you again!"

"C'mon mom," he said self-consciously, "I've been gone on meets for as long as this."

"You got so tan! And your hair got it's natural highlights," she ran her fingers through it admiringly, "I SWEAR you look like a model."

Christian giggled with pride.

"Nah, it's Brody that looks like a model, not me."

He could have kicked himself. Ugh. Why the FUCK couldn't he pry Brody from his thoughts for two goddamned seconds. And to mention his smug self right in front of his #1 Anti-Fan. His mom's smile faltered and she sniffed, turning back to the groceries.

"However good-looking he is doesn't license him to rampage around starting trouble. Clearly this kid thinks he's all that and a bag of chips."

No contest there.

"He does. But he's sorry and he wants to be better. He told me."

She turned to him and cocked an eyebrow.

"Really? Those were the words he used?"

"I mean... that's the gist."

She summoned him to the living room and they sat on the couch. He looked at her expectantly. She had a `clearing the air' demeanor.

"Let's not make this about Brody just now. Like I said Friday, after speaking to the attorney there's no worry of legal action regarding that disgusting party..."

Christian winced at her choice of words.

"...not from the police, or the property owners, OR the parents of that moronic kid the pair of you fought with. So you're in the clear there. Well done you."

Christian recognized the clipped tone she used when her irritation was mounting. No one could sound quite so acidic as his mother when she wanted to, or switch on a dime to sweetness. Small wonder she was an effective lobbyist.

"Coach said there won't be any problems on his end, since I managed to get a hold of your guidance counselor at school-"

(Christian didn't know he had one)

"And she says you may expect detention. Which is tolerable."

She laid firm emphasis on the last world, glowering at Christian. He felt affronted. Wasn't all this good news?

"Geez mom, it's like you WANT me to be in trouble. Would you like it if they expelled me and put me in jail?"

"Of course not honey," She said with some exasperation. Why did teenagers have to be so dramatic?

"I just want you to understand the possible consequences. If the school was harsher with punishment, you'd be automatically put in poor academic standing. That could jeopardize your chance at scholarships right at the point where you're starting to consider college."

"I know all that mom, that's why I was freaking the fuck out!"

"Language!" She warned.

"Me and Brody almost got in a fight about it," he said, lowering his tone, "Right afterwards he was just thinking about the cops but I wasn't. And he's looking to go to college on wrestling even more than I am on gymnastics, so I was pretty mad at him. But it was his idea first to call our parents once he calmed down."

She listened understandingly.

"You've got your priorities straight and your head screwed on, I'm well aware of that," she said in a more soothing voice, "this Brody on the other hand... look, I'm not saying you can't have fun. I didn't even object to that party in itself. Hell, it's better if you experience a bit of that culture now so you don't lose your shit in college and go off the deep end."

She was always a hypocrite when it came to swearing.

"But the fight happened because of Brody, right? What did he do to set that other kid off?"

Christian looked down and picked at the couch's trim.

"He made out with his girlfriend."

"Uh HUH. And does that sound like someone who's prone to good decision-making? Who's considerate? Who cares enough about other people to think before he acts?"

"No."

"So you wouldn't be too mad," her voice was very gentle, "if I said I didn't want you to hang out with him anymore? Not while you're still in high school at least?"

His shoulders sagged. She'd said it before but it felt more like a final judgment now. Possibly because of the mildness with which it was pronounced. It was easier to rebel against a tyrannical overlord than a loving one.

"Not mad, just..."

"Sad?"

He nodded.

"Brody's just so fun!" He spoke with a pleading voice, though it was a plea for understanding not a plea against her judgement.

"He's fun and interesting, and you can talk to him about anything, and he's REALLY nice sometimes and he's cool to hang out with and there's just..." he moved his hands in circular motions frustrated he was unable to explain Brody's uniqueness "something about him." He finished lamely.

She watched him with that same misty-eyed look his dad wore the day he and Brody departed. Christian couldn't figure out it's meaning.

"I get it, sweetie." She paused for a while, considering something. "Obviously I can't control what happens at school, just don't get too involved with Brody outside of it. Ok?"

"Okay."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

"You go on off to your room, I know you want to. I need to make some calls anyway."

He hugged her swiftly and complied, scurrying back up to his lair. Plunking down at his desk he grabbed his phone and messaged Brody.

"How u doin"

It was a while before he got a reply. In the meantime he checked tiktok for updates on the fight video, and wasn't disappointed. The lead runner in that sordid race stood at 37,000 views. That number was attained by a football doofus from their school who made a "when ur boy says he likes tampa" edit overtop Brody and Elliot bludgeoning each. Idiotic, but fairly harmless. Christian scrolled through the numerous comments. Most of them were randoms "@ing" their friends, several of them remarked on how crazy Brody was, a few asked who he, Christian, was.

"Not exceptional. There was some wailing and gnashing of teeth ngl, and I've been suspended from the school wrestling team. Can't compete this season."

Christian's heart sank. Brody's father seemed easygoing enough but maybe he reached his limit. As to wrestling, that really sucked.

"So u can just train?"

"No I can complete on behalf of my club, so not all's lost."

"Thats awesome! It went pretty good for me my mom still doesn't like you but we can hang at school and we can meet for workouts sometimes specially when I get a car"

Christian put his phone down and tried to concentrate on his laptop. He kept shooting furtive glances at it, as if he could cajole the device into receiving a message through stern looks. But the expressionless black square remained stubbornly blank. Usually he didn't obsess over getting messages, but Brody's phone was connected to a lightbulb in Christian's chest, and whenever a message arrived, the bulb illuminated and warmed him all the way through.

"Maybe he's not in the mood to talk."

After a while Christian got out his paralettes for a quick workout, then showered and ate dinner with his family. His father wandered through the door at around 5 and prepared a stunning, knee-weakening French casserole and over their moans of satisfaction uncorked a bottle of red wine with gusto.

"You're getting addicted," his mother said indicating the merlot.

"No chance, I'm the spirit of moderation. That's my job here, balancing out you two nervous nellies."

His dad grinned provocatively. Despite not resembling Brody in the slightest, with his curly brown hair and deep-set eyes, Christian was reminded of him in his insolence.

"I'm not nervous, just prudent. Responsible. Speaking of which," she said with that down-to-business tone (she had a lot of tones) "is there something you want to say to Christian?"

"Oh yeah, did you have fun?"

"Not that!" His mom said impatiently, as Christian was about to answer.

"Oh right. Well I agree with your mom."

She glared daggers at him.

"Aaaannd, you should avoid parties with older kids. And avoid drinking. And avoid Brody. I suppose." He concluded indifferently. His mother sank her chin upon her hand, shaking her head amusedly at him. She was incapable of getting genuinely mad at him.

"But DID you have fun? Tell me about it!"

Christian smiled and regaled him with all the gory details, including the party, fight and aftermath. He hoped if not to present Brody in a favorable light, then acquaint his parents with his personality. They could at least understand his eccentricities, his subtleties, the confluence of forces that tugged him in contrary directions. But above all, to show that their son wasn't a baby anymore, and he acquitted himself well out of the house.

"Well I'm really glad you had fun bud, and you seem to be responsible enough on your own."

Christian sensed a variance of opinion on that matter and later, when he sneaked downstairs to eavesdrop outside his parent's door, his suspicion was confirmed.

"Look, it was a dumb mistake. So they had a minor scuffle, big deal! it's not their fault that acting like a teenager is pathologized these days."

"That's not the poi-"

"Shoot, teens didn't let the world get taken over by cat lady bureaucrats."

"For the last TIME," his mother exclaimed, "I AGREE with you: people take shit too seriously. But we work within that parameter and so does Christian, it's called living in a society."

"Now who's being condescending?"

He heard his mother groan in exasperation and slam her brush down.

"Babe, we're not really disagreeing here, are we? This is just an argument for the sake of argument?"

His father's deep chuckle got clearer as he left the bathroom.

"Duh. Now you've spoiled the fun."

She gave a burst of giggles and slapped at his firm chest.

"One point of difference though," he said through his laughter as he caught her wrist, "keeping those two apart? May not happen."

"Yeah, I figured."

"I mean, the way he looked at him that day..."

"Which one are you talking about?"

"Both."

"Do you think they're...is that what this trip was about?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Hard to tell at this stage. They probably don't even know themselves."

His mother sighed and sank onto the mattress.

"I'm just saying, we need to be prepared," His father said in a lightly cautionary voice.

"We are! I just hope our baby is."

Christian stole back upstairs wishing he'd worn socks as the wood floors stuck to his bare soles and made a faint sucking noise as he tapped along. Once safely inside his room he eased the door noiselessly shit and lay on the carpet to think. He'd never doubted his parents were perceptive but apparently nothing got past them. They were attuned to his thoughts like a mental seismograph.

"They know I've got a crush on Brody."

Just that word, `crush', made the truth of his feeling so much plainer. All the time it was there but had a film over it, and that word washed it away like an ocean wave over a dirty rock. Yes, he did have a crush on him. He was crushing on nearly everything about him. From his smooth tenor voice to his smooth creamy skin, from the fine bones of his ivory feet to the black silk of his head. His literary fixation and his tenacity in sports, his aggression and his wild romantic fervor. It was all worthy of admiration.

"I wish he felt about me that way."

He looked at his phone, seeing only a colorless doppelganger of himself staring out of its mirrorlike face. It looked hopelessly young.

Next day rain clouds loomed low over the ground. Huge nimbuses swaying their bulk over the sky like purple manowars, their holds threatening to burst asunder and flood the earth. They seemed to converge over the school as Christian mounted the steps, but his mind was elsewhere. He was only intent on finding Brody. No response to his text last evening put him on edge, and even though he contemplated sending him more texts as follow-ups, that might simply annoy him. He felt so pathetically co-dependent on someone who likely felt only mild affection for him, but he couldn't help himself! Christian just wanted to see him and hear his voice. Unfortunately he wasn't anywhere to be seen, so Christian went to classes as usual.

"S'up killer!" Alex greeted him in Biology.

"There's the street fighter," Peter followed up with a shit-eating smile.

"Oh c'mon," Christian said, letting his arms flop to his sides in annoyance, "Are people still talking about this?"

"It's Monday, tough guy, they haven't had the chance," said Peter, putting Christian in a playful headlock.

"I didn't even fight, I was trying to break it up."

"I know and defend your friend. You're a true bro."

"Who says Brody's my friend?"

"No one says it, just assumed. Speaking of which," Peter said releasing Christian, "Have they called you in yet? For discipline?" He made a spanking motion with his hands.

"No actually I haven't heard anything." It was true, none of his teachers had given him notice to go to the principal's office. There was no sign of the executioner's axe anywhere.

"Sweet, maybe you're off free. Luckier than Brody then."

"Why, what happened with him?"

"He didn't tell you? He got out of school suspension for like two weeks."

"Shit!"

"Yeah, stuck at home. Not good."

"How does work for schoolwork and stuff?" Alex piped in.

"Dunno, maybe it's emailed to you or something?"

"Alright everyone, quiet down," Their teacher's voice swelled over the pre-class hubbub, "Now, mitochondrial energy production..."

For the first time all year English was a dull event, despite Christian's happiness at being greeted heartily by Thompson instead of ignored or mocked in tandem with Brody. He asked the redhead (as casually as possible) if he heard anything from Brody, to which the reply was no. Cannily he supposed his parents has confiscated his phone, and this suggestion gave Christian some relief: Brody wasn't just ignoring him.

"I could drop by to check on him," Thompson said reluctantly, "but his dad fuckin' hates me."

"Why?"

"Racist towards gingers. And I may have puked in his car one time when he picked me and Brody up from a kegger."

"Not a bad reason!" A thought occurred to Christian. "Have you ever seen his mom?"

Thompson's brow furrowed in thought. He tapped his chin, considering.

"No. Well...no, that was his aunt. No, never seen her, and I've known Brody since 8th."

He lowered his voice conspiratorially as Shelby was sitting close by, pretending to be browsing Instagram but with pricked ears.

"I think she's sick, like cancer or something. They don't talk about her and when I tried with Brody he just kinda changed the subject." Thompson shrugged. "I didn't wanna keep at it and piss him off `cus you know how he gets."

"Yeah, totally."

Christian supposed it was the mention of Brody's home that manifested the topic of his mother in his mind. Truthfully he didn't care much: Brody was his concern. Knowing the boy's free-roaming rambunctious spirit, two weeks alone with nothing to do but schoolwork might drive him insane. So while listening to the teacher drone like a bee idling between sunflowers, he contemplated a way to see him. All paths inevitably led to a visit to his home, for which Christian, car-less and ride-bound, was ill-equipped to carry out. There was no way his parents would consent to a visit, and he was loath to ask a friend. It would entail an unnecessary burden on them and their presence would be unwelcome. Christian didn't admit the fact, but he was jealous of his time with Brody and wanted as few people horning in as possible.

"Still, it couldn't hurt to try."

He obtained Brody's address from Thompson and input it into google maps.

"Damn, it's not that far."

It would be a strenuous walk or run, no doubt. During the week he'd be far too beaten up after gym to make it, not to mention the time required would cut into studying. But he still had a bike untouched since 8th grade that might yet be rideable. He resolved to give it a shot.

"Chris, welcome back!"

Jameson hugged his neck fiercely, being almost a head taller it was a very convenient movement for him. Christian put his arms around his burly teammate and just enjoyed the contact. He loved it when Brody was physical with him, but Jameson's affection was a different kind. It felt like home, like sinking into a familiar easy chair or donning a worn but supremely comfortable pair of slippers. It was nurturing and rock-solid. Christian never bemoaned not having siblings, but if he did, a better brother than Jameson would be inconceivable.

"Thanks dude," he spoke into his shoulder, "I'm sorry about that video."

Jameson released him and looked at him curiously but with a twinkling in his eye.

"What're you apologizing to me for? I'm not judging. Anyway I'm not your dad." He swatted Christian playfully on the head.

Christian tittered.

"Feels like it sometimes. I dunno, thought maybe you'd be thinking bad of me because I got involved in something stupid."

"No mistake, I was damn surprised you went on a beach trip with that kid. When we left off, you were researching other schools to get away from him! What changed?"

Christian dragged his toe across the mat. "He apologized."

"Just like that? He says sorry, decides you're cool and took you to the beach?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

Stated like that, it did sound like an abrupt about face.

"He said he never DIDN'T like me," Christian expounded, "just that he wanted to get a rise out of me. It was just fooling and I was being too sensitive."

"No, you were just being YOU. That's another thing you shouldn't apologize for, or change for anyone's sake."

Christian nodded his head.

"And you shouldn't take abuse just to be on good terms with some douche."

"He's not a douche! Well he kinda is, but that's not all there is to him. It really isn't, Jameson."

He looked pleadingly at his friend, willing him to understand. Jameson's hard expression melted slightly, but retained a worryingly pitying aspect.

"If you say so. Just remember I'm gonna speak my mind no matter what."

Christian nudged his shoulder.

"I'm counting on it. I really am. C'mon, let's go through your rout."

Christian watched as Jameson went through his floor routine. Smooth as silk besides his double tuck, which on account of height the poor guy never mastered with the greatest smoothness. Gymnastics really was biased towards shorter statured people. Christian practiced on parallel bars, executing a perfect kip to front straddle. Not an advanced move, but he made it look as casual as walking. It elicited a round of soft "oohhs" from some younger observers who he tried his best not to acknowledge, as if he was so consumed by his practice that the praise meant nothing. But of course he reveled in it. Only in the gym did Christian ever feel genuinely admired and felt he entirely deserved it. It wasn't vanity to acknowledge his own grace and power on the bars and the perception of weightlessness his movements inspired. Jameson was superior on rings and Andy was more well-rounded, but Christian appeared not as performing rehearsed exercises to earn a mundane score written on some drab white placard, but more like...well, an artist. He felt it was healing to be back in the gym, even if he gained a few more tears on his palms that Jameson helped bandage.

"These are bad ones, you tender thing," he joked as he kneeled before him in the locker room binding them up. Perhaps the seawater had softened his skin.

Once home he fished around the garage for his old bike. Still mulling an attempt at Brody's house, he unearthed the cobwebbed contraption from underneath a pile of dusty camping equipment. The tires were floppy and some rust accumulated on the frame, but the gears were in order and (somewhat to his chagrin) he still fit it. As he worked the bicycle pump and watched the tires regain life, he contemplated strategy. Aware that his parents knew he'd attempt to see Brody, asking them was out of the question and they'd be naturally suspicious if he suddenly announced a new interest in bike-riding, especially when he was plainly tired from gym. The only alternative was to sneak out, of which naughtiness made a more enticing prospect anyway.

"Not tonight though," He groaned as he felt his throbbing feet and raw hands.

Besides, it looked like it was going to rain. He checked the weather app. It looked like one long continuous downpour that week. And indeed it was.

~

Water. Thudding down against his skylight, trickling down the sliding glass door, sprinkling against the window by his bed. Late afternoon sun was sieved through the clouds to bathe him in blue light, making his bed a phosphorescent droplet in his otherwise dark room. Pitter patter, pitter patter. Altered circumstances might make it soothing, but the rain only made him feel underwater, submerged in a pale aqua netherworld where he was all alone with his melancholy. It was strange that only five days ago he and Christian were munching happily on fried fish and basking cozily in the heat of the nest of his truck's cabin. Though he detested the modernism of the term "mindfulness", it gratified him he'd allowed such weekend moments to imprint fully into his memory, and to inhabit them completely.

He rolled onto his back, letting his head flop sideways and seeing the mountain of school books as his only bedmate. His phone was taken and with the internet blocked (as a condition of suspension) his laptop was reduced to a typewriter. No communication with the outside world was allowed. Assignments were funneled into his home through his father's email like raw sewage through a pipe. His only relief from this 21st century monk's cell was wrestling practice and workouts which, between Joel joking that his buzzcut made him look like a school shooter and getting immediately pinned afterward by him, hadn't improved his mood.

"Tomorrow I'll flatten that taco-bender into a tortilla."

Ugh, what was he saying? Brody scolded himself for indulging his racial animus, AND for taking practice personally. It was a tricky thing in sparring, very tricky. You were expected to have enough aggression to overcome an opponent, but not enough to spark your real killer instinct. He found it to be a perennial struggle. Sighing mournfully he sat up rubbing his burr-like head. An open math textbook yawned up at him, its inky maw ready to gulp his insufficient mind into its fathoms. Brody hated math but Christian was a whizz at it along with most other subjects. He wished he had him as a tutor. He wished he was here right now in his bed, his solid suntanned torso stretched out on the comforter. Strong but vulnerable, ready to submit or be submitted. Either one was fine by him. Brody felt the pounding of blood in his cock as he thought of Christian laid out beneath him, looking as he did pinned on the beach. Mouth open with his lower lip in a slight pout, large moist hazel eyes begging, muscles expending their energy uselessly against Brody's superior power and technique. No avenue of escape, all of it his and his alone.

Brody flopped onto his back and swiftly freed his tool from his underwear. With each stroke of its reddening tip he imagined a thrust of his hips into a warm, inviting-

"Brody?" A knock on the door.

He swiftly tucked his rod into his underwear and sat up, trying to minimize the rustling and keeping his voice even, answered,

"Yeah?"

His father opened the door (Brody cursed himself for not locking it) and laid a stack of papers on his bookshelf.

"I printed up today's assignments, then you're clear for the weekend."

"Uh huh."

"There's microwave meals in the fridge if you get hungry."

"Gotcha."

His father leaned back on his heels as if he intended to leave, then stopped, looking indecisive. His mild brown eyes looked as forlorn as the sky outside.

"I don't want you to feel like you're in prison here. If you're feeling really low, I can call a thera-"

"It's okay, dad," Brody said as gently as possible, "I'm coping just fine. Admirably so, in my opinion. You can't expect me to be pinging off the walls with joy, can you?"

His father smiled, his eyes crinkling in that way that spoke of real genuineness of character. It made him a talented glad-hander and successful businessman; being trustworthy.

"No, I can't expect that. Just keep me informed is all."

"I will."

His father gave his shoulder an affectionate squeeze, then left the room. Brody collapsed back on his bed, exhausted by that brief display of equanimity. In truth he was still fuming at his father for grounding him in an act of intolerable cruelty, since it compounded his isolation. It would be one thing if he wasn't suspended, but he was. And then his dad had the unmitigated fucking balls to imply he WASN'T imprisoned? Confined to the house except for workouts and practice, excepting the lonely walks he took to avoid the stifling air of this tomb of a home, unable to see most of his friends, the world just passing him by. And then to throw in talk of therapists, as if the intention was to unnerve and infuriate him all at once! And the reason behind it was the same explanation for these draconian measures; his mother.

Brody kicked the textbooks off his bed in anger and grabbed another off his shelf at random. Whitman. He flipped to a random page and began reading to take his mind off things.

"For the one I love most was sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night, In the Stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me, And his arm lay lightly around my breast-and that night I was happy."

He slammed the book shut and flung it aside.

"That's it then."

Free verse was never his preference but of all the anemic vacuous verses he could have landed on, he picked the one that made his heart ache. And it ached keenly for someone he suddenly needed, NEEDED to see. Throwing on his hoodie grabbing a flashlight and donning his grungiest pair of shoes, Brody gently unlatched the glass door and slipped out into the rain. Immediately he shivered. They were deep into Fall and though their climate never allowed too bitter a chill it was unseasonably cold. Brody manfully sloshed through the puddles of his back yard towards the brush that abutted the property, and the dense trees looming beyond. His neighborhood was built circuitously around a bit of undeveloped forest that had been designated as a nature preserve and hiking trail. His own home was right next it across from an easement of woods. Brody had discovered by gods-eye mental mapping that if he crossed into the trail, went through the (restricted) area of the nature preserve and crossed the trail once more, he would emerge very close to Christian's neighborhood. It was a shorter more arduous route than along the sidewalks and across the main road, but he didn't want to be seen by the neighbors. Girding himself for mud, water, wind and thorns, he plunged into the dark trees.

~

Christian peddled along bravely through the curtains of rain sweeping against him, but his anxiety grew with every yard. The uneven ground rattled his bones when the bike hit a rut, occasionally the front wheel would jerk violently when he skimmed through a puddle. Exposed tree roots caused shocks to blast right through the bike's worn out springs and vibrate through his stomach. The sensation of this combined with the hills and crests he went crazily up and down made him feel slightly nauseous. He could slow down but dark was rapidly descending upon his terrestrial realm and the trees seemed to close around him like a silent mob. Despite the freezing cold of the rain his mind felt afire with the effort of seeing ahead of him through the water's veil, keeping the bike steady and managing the brakes.

"What the fuck was I thinking?"

What began as an exciting proposition, to cruise over to Brody's house sometime and surprise him, and give him some company, had evolved over the week into a burning desire, then an irresistible urge. Every night he went to bed thinking how lonely he must be, how stir-crazy he must be getting. Brody was like a husky or a wolf in spirit and you can't just lock something like that up in a cage, especially not as punishment. It occurred to Christian that prolonged tedious isolation would just make him more erratic, more spontaneous. So that Friday afternoon, when his mother was held up indefinitely at work and his father was out with friends from that stupid church, he threw on a rain jacket and set off. The weather hadn't relented the tiniest bit and he was almost exhausted from a week of hard practice, but he refused to deviate from the object of his desire. He'd see Brody again. Hear him, smell him...feel him. Be intoxicated by his presence and get drunk on his essence.

Christian selected his route through the old nature trail at the back of the neighborhood, which he'd never been on and had no interest in. Truthfully he disliked the great outdoors. Born and bred in the gymnasium, the smell of antiseptic and the feel of polymer was more calming to him than the reek of fungus and the grotesque forms of life that abounded in the forest. Yet as he mapped it out on the trail's website, Brody's neighborhood, an older development, could be reached quicker that way without running the risk of crossing the streets on a bicycle. Drivers in this area were notoriously inattentive and speedy and a cyclist had been killed several years ago not far from his house.

`I should have risked it,' He thought wildly as a root sent shockwaves through his spine. It hadn't seemed so impenetrably dark in the open air of his neighborhood, but the dense wood blocked light making the sky just a ribbon of dark blue slashed and crisscrossed by the black shadow of leaves overhead. His bike's small headlamp didn't improve things, but on he peddled, the worn handlebar's rubber chafing his palms. The darkness seemed to grow by the minute and Christian began to feel fear creeping in. Where the hell was the trail exit? How far had he gone? The map made it look so simple and every bend and curve a distinct, recognizable thing. But in the real world, it was just an endless realm of hostile overgrowth and trees leaning over him like malevolent sentinels. And still it went on, his aching legs pumping and the darkness swallowing him. In an hour's time he'd freezing in total blackness. The thought made him panic momentarily, and on impulse Christian leaned down to adjust the headlamp and simultaneously struck a jagged rock.

"OOWWW!"

As it had threatened to do for almost thirty minutes, the old bike finally followed through and threw him like a bucking bronco. He landed on a patch of hard clay and skidded, his jacket tearing at the sleeve.

"Oh goddamn it" He whispered. He lay motionless for a moment to collect himself. The rain seemed less loud and intense now that he wasn't speeding along but the quiet of the woods seemed all the more eerie and the cold was worse. Gingerly he rose to his knees and rubbed his shoulder and elbow. No deep pain, thank God. As a gymnast he knew how to fall with the flexibility to avoid injury. But as he examined the loose gear chain on his bike, it didn't make his situation any less bad. He had no clue how to fix it, no clue where he was on the trail, and only a bike headlamp and his phone for illumination. Should he continue on? Turn back? Call a park ranger? How much trouble would he be in when he arrived, and his parents were home? How pathetic and stupid would be look if he showed up at Brody's house with a busted bike and covered in mud? In his infinite wisdom, Christian hadn't even considered what would happen if he presented himself at Brody's in the first place. His parents might send him packing or moody Brody himself tell him to fuck off. Feeling overwhelmed Christian gave a forlorn sob. He couldn't blame Brody's rashness for this one, it was down entirely to his own poor planning and stupidity. Christian had never felt so completely defeated before: alone and scared in the dark with nothing but punishment awaiting him in every direction. With no will to act, he just sat and mingled his tears with those of the sky.

Suddenly a white light blinded him. Wincing from its glare he bolted upright shading his eyes with his hand.

"Christian?"

No way.

"Brody?!" His voice cracked with incredulousness, relief and embarrassment.

"What the hell are you doing out here? Are you okay?" The light lowered and turned off.

"I think so. I just fell and the bike's broken." He gestured vaguely at the ground, seeing spots from the flashlight and more blind than before.

"But what are you doing out in this?" Brody's voice was closer.

"I-I was coming to see you."

His vision returned, and Brody was right before him, skin milk white and glowing in the gathering night. Suddenly he threw his arms around him and squeezed him into a tight hug. Some of the breath actually went out of him like air from a bellows.

"I was coming to see you too," Brody said from over his shoulder. "My house isn't far, let's go. I wanna make sure you're not hurt."

He released him, his arms sliding across his slick jacket. Christian bent down for the bike, but Brody stopped him.

"Just leave it man, we can come back for it some other time. You won't miss it, I presume?"

"No," Christian answered truthfully.

They trudged along in silence for several minutes, Christian a pace or two behind Brody. With every step he felt his spirits lifting. The rain felt gentle now, the woods less evil, even the sky seemed lighter. Brody was coming to see him! He KNEW the poor kid must be going insane confined to home. And he, Christian, was the one he sought out. This was indisputable proof he meant something to Brody, that he wasn't just an acquaintance he took along on a fun weekend out of pity, or one of many so-so, only-called-by-the-name-of "friend". A bond DID exist.

Brody abruptly began climbing a hill to the side of the trail.

"Up here," he encouraged Christian to follow.

They clambered up the steep slope using the trees to propel themselves like giant walking sticks, wet leaves occasionally making them slip. The ground levelled out a bit and the trees were replaced with brush and bramble, Christian instinctively raised his hands to his face and squinted to not catch a thorn in his eye. Oddly his mind whipped back to the old tale of Rapunzel, where the prince is blinded in a thorn bush. When he was small he listened to myths on tape to fall asleep. He wondered where that old CD was. Suddenly they emerged in a large clearing of bright green grass. Looking around, Christian realized it was a backyard. A few old magnolias and oaks overshadowed a low single-story house made of dark wood.

`Id've never found this place" Christian admitted.

"My room's over there," Brody said without facing him, pointing to a sliding glass door above a small deck. They sloshed across the almost submerged grass and Christian, overwhelmed with curiosity to see Brody's home, kept trying to look around him. Judging by the size of the trees, this really was an older property. He hadn't expected Brody's family to live in such an old-fashioned home; he expected something more McMansion. Without warning Brody turned around and stopped, Christian almost running into him.

"What's up dude?" He inquired.

"Since you came all this way, it's only fair to be honest with you," Brody said with a low, even tone. He spoke so carefully, like he wanted Christian to understand every syllable.

"Okay... honest about what?"

Brody said nothing, just looked at him so severely Christian started to get nervous again. Was he angry with him? Even through the dark hoodie he could see his chest rising and falling rapidly. The rain had stopped but water dripped from the overhanging branches of an oak, making plip plop sounds in an old stone fountain with a cracked cherub underneath, and cascading down Brody's handsome face. Then in one movement he stepped closer and clasped a cold hand to Christian's neck.

"Dude, what-"

Then Brody leaned in, and their lips met.

End of Chapter 7