Stuart's Journey

DISCLAIMER... =============

This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The author asserts all legal and moral rights (copyright (c) 2001 - ardveche@ardveche.com) to this work and you may not copy it or transmit it in any way except in its entirety and with this disclaimer. This story features descriptions of sex between males:

• if such material is prohibited in your jurisdiction, please DO NOT READ ON, - if you're under the legal age to read such material, please DO NOT READ ON, - if you don't like, or are offended by such material, please DO NOT READ ON.

Now, if everyone who is still here is meant to be here, or is at least aware they shouldn't be, let's get on with it. All comments are welcome and gratefully received (email them to ardveche@ardveche.com or look me up on MSN Messenger under ardveche@hotmail.com).

Stuart's Journey ================

Chapter 1 - The Bus

I have always hated the bus station; it's a grubby, uninviting, and bitterly cold place at the best of times, whatever they might be! The last time I was down here, over a year before, it was to score some weed with a buddy of mine from a guy we knew only as Slinky (I have no idea why) and who looked like he hadn't washed since he got back from Vietnam. Protective coloring I guess. The threadbare combat jacket, matted beard and once red bandana helped him to blend in with the rest of the scum that hung around the place. An Armani suit would not blended in there - not that I thought for one minute that Slinky owned anything that could even be said to resemble an Armani suit. And here I was, again, only this time I was one of the rejected.

I was sitting on an almost painfully hard plastic seat listening to the tinny, piped music and keeping a wary eye on the other denizens. They were few, and they were uninspiring company. To my left about four seats down was an old woman in a brown raincoat buttoned to the throat muttering to herself incessantly and occasionally swearing with surprising vehemence. Opposite, a balding man with a greasy comb-over and a sweater-vest was snoring loudly; they were the only people in my immediate vicinity. There were three or four kids in skater shorts and hooded sweatshirts smoking up in the far corner. The only thing of any interest was a youngish guy who was slumped in his seat off to my right, he was dressed in jeans and a brown suede jacket, with a gray baseball cap pulled down over his eyes and he was unshaven. The cap obscured most of his face, but his body looked solid, from his broad shoulders to where his brown, booted feet were stretched way out in front of him and crossed.

His dirty-blond hair was the same shade as Graham's, which was maybe why I couldn't stop myself from checking him out. Graham, who didn't even know I was leaving. It had occurred to me, briefly, to go to Graham but I had no idea where he lived and he'd probably be too 'busy' with one of his girlfriends. Cute, dumb, Graham who probably wouldn't even miss me anyway, though he would miss the money, come to think of it maybe he wasn't as dumb as all that. He'd soon find someone to replace me, it wasn't like he was choosy, male or female, so long as there was money. My mind began to drift as the music took its soporific effect and my surroundings faded out, my watchfulness lessened and I slipped into a semi-doze.

"Stuart?" A sleepy voice had asked, a voice I now suspected of being calculatedly lazy and indifferent but which, at the time, had seemed wonderfully laid back. "You awake?"

"Mmm?"

"You couldn't lend me maybe fifty bucks could you?" A strong hand drifted back and forth on my back, my cheek nestled against a smooth, tan chest, and he sounded so uninterested in the answer.

"Can't you ask my mom for more money?"

"I did already."

"What do you want it for?"

"You know." Lips pressed to the top of my head, the lazily circling hand on my back was joined by its mate, launching a frontal assault, and an involuntary groan escaped my lips. "Stuff."

"I already 'loaned' you money this week."

"I know, dude, but I'm short. I wouldn't have asked if I thought it was a biggie." His movements stopped, and I felt him sag back into the pillows with a sigh.

"It isn't."

"So you'll help me out?" He kissed the top of my head once more.

"Sure." I sighed.

"Okay." I could feel him smiling into my hair, and knew that I was going to be rewarded for my compliance, after all, the one thing Graham had that anyone else would want was his body. I guess on some level I always knew I was basically paying him for sex, but I guess that subconsciously I thought I was getting the better part of the bargain. I couldn't help wondering if he ever actually liked me, or if it had been about money from the start? We'd been having sex for a couple weeks before he tried to 'borrow' money, but maybe that was his strategy. It would be nice to think that the money was just an added perk, but who am I kidding?

This had been the pattern every Tuesday for the whole summer. Graham was twenty-two, five years older than me, and my mom paid him to look after the garden and the pool. I met him when I got back from boarding school, and there he was with his shirt off mowing the lawn. Naturally, my mom was out, either drinking martinis or shopping with the rest of the coven or with that sleaze she was seeing. So after a year's absence the only person there to greet me was the gardener. Graham. Not that I'm complaining, I saw him from the cab as we pulled up at the house and could hardly keep my mind on paying the driver, I was transfixed. He was tall, and well tanned, and had that floppy, blond, surfer thing going on, freckles on his back, a lopsided smile to die for and the bluest, blue eyes.

"Hey, you must be, um, Stuart." He had said as I walked up the drive with my bags, my eyes taking in every detail of him, from head to toe. He was dressed in brown hiking boots, no socks, khaki shorts and he had his work-shirt knotted round his waist, a t-shirt stuffed in the back of his shorts and dangling down. He quickly took one of my bags from me and flashed me the pearly-whites, a wonderfully warm, friendly grin, like he was really pleased to see me even though we had never met before.

"Yup, that's me, 'Um Stuart'." I answered smiling back nervously.

"Cool. Your mom said you were getting back today." He had then said, taking a small step backward and looking me up and down. "You're a lot cuter than your picture." I had no ready response to that, so I mumbled a 'thank you' as I blushed the same shade as his shirt. He helped me take my stuff into the house, not that I needed help, and hung around as I unpacked, looking like an 'Abercrombie & Fitch' model and chatting away the whole time. When my mom got home he departed with a 'later, dude' and a wink and I didn't see him until the following Tuesday. Once again my mom was out and it took him less than one hour to get me naked against the counter in the kitchen. And that's where it started, over the weeks that followed we had sex in every room in the house, and in every imaginable position and Graham showed me how to appreciate and how to stimulate a man's body, and I loved it!

"Graham?" I asked the back of his neck that last day as he kissed his way down my naked body.

"Hmm?" He looked up at me, his unruly hair falling across his face, a playful smile on his lips. I had been about to ask if he'd pay me back this time, but how could I resent a few bucks here and there? It wasn't like I was short of cash, and I didn't want to piss him off and have him take his wonderfully talented hands and lips away. I guess if he needed the money, he could have it.

"Nothing." I mumbled, putting my hand on the back of his head.

"Okay." He grinned, shrugged and returned to his efforts, sucking me like a professional, all the way into his throat, a trick I had yet to master, though I couldn't get enough of his dick when we were together. When he came up for air, it was with a familiar purpose. "Stuart, I want to fuck you."

"Must we?" I asked, with a resigned sigh, knowing the answer in advance. I enjoyed it, but I much preferred just to hold and kiss him and feel his hands on my body, to use my mouth on him. The initial pain was a major turn off and even though I knew I'd be writhing and gasping by the end, the thought still daunted me. He rolled away, positioning himself between my legs and lifting them over his own.

"I like it, the way you moan reminds me of someone." His fingers trailed back and forth on my belly.

"Who?" I was quite used to him discussing his other conquests while we played, and in a strange way it turned me on. You know? I wanted him all to myself and at the same time I wanted not to have to deal with him all the time. I never thought of him as a boyfriend really, more just a friend. A friend with perks. Substantial perks.

"A girl." He replied with a laugh, when he talked about sex with girls it made my flesh crawl.

"You're gross!" I laughed back, I still found it weird that a guy who was so obviously into gay sex could also be into girls. I knew I wasn't the only person Graham slept with, I'd have been the dumbest guy on the planet if I hadn't known that, and I sometimes wondered if his girlfriends enjoyed him as much as I did. If they appreciated every nuance of him, the slight roughness of his hands, the way the hair on the back of his neck grew both upwards and downwards, making it prickly whatever way you ran your hand. If they knew he was ticklish on the soft, pale skin on the backs of his knees, or if they loved the way sweat stood out on the wonderfully smooth curve of his shoulders as he drove himself into them. I hoped not, I liked the idea that there were things about him only I knew.

"Dude, you have no idea!" He grinned down at me. "There's this one, even looks a bit like you..."

"I don't want to know!" I cried to forestall the gory details.

"Whatever." He nudged forward, pressing against me, knowing he'd get his own way.

"All right, but get a rubber." I sighed. He bounded to his feet, dick bobbing as he crossed the room and rummaged in the drawer where I kept my secret cache. He put it on quickly, easily, and took a running jump back onto the bed, quickly crawling up so he was astride me, pushing me back into the pillows and kissing me until I thought my lungs would burst. In truth, the boy was a lousy gardener, but man was he a good kisser. Mere minutes later my apprehensions were forgotten as he pumped in and out, his eyes screwed shut, moaning 'oh, baby' and 'Stuart' as he concentrated on his task. Gerry Ford was much maligned; Graham, on the other hand, really couldn't walk and chew gum, or at least he couldn't fuck and talk. I allowed myself to focus entirely on the sensations of him, on the fullness, on the warmth of his body covering mine, it was out of this world and I was clawing at his back and chewing on my bottom lip to stop from crying out in passion.

"Oh, Stu." He gasped.

"Graham." I moaned back.

"I'm nearly there, baby."

"What the fuck are you doing?" My mother's voice, more of a shriek, demanded from the doorway. A fucking stupid question in the circumstances. "Get off him, you bastard!" My mind was still struggling to register the fact that my mother was in the room as I felt her start to rain slaps on Graham's back and then the agony of him yanking himself, fully erect, out of me blotted everything else out. I cried out and pulled myself into a fetal ball as the yelling went on around me, finally I was able to force my eyes open and to try to cover myself. Graham was struggling into his shorts now, still hard, and was grabbing the rest of his things while my mother screamed at him and tears poured down her cheeks.

"Get out of my house, you fuck! Get out of here, I never want to see you again." She threw a small archery trophy I won at school at him, and missed. The whole scene was playing itself out before me like a movie, like I didn't even exist. The tirade continued as I cowered against the headboard, tears pouring from my own eyes. Graham scooted past my mother without so much as a glance in my direction, his clothes in his arms, and she threw a book at him as he retreated and then gave chase, still haranguing him, her voice growing fainter as she did. "You two-timing, little bastard," was the last thing I heard distinctly though there was more shouting before the door slammed. Then there was silence and I crawled from the bed and pulled on my jeans. I didn't know what to do, to stay where I was, to go downstairs. I was hunting for my shirt when my mother stormed back into the room.

"Mom..."

"Shut up!" She screamed in my face, flecks of spittle hitting me and then she hauled back and slapped me so hard I staggered, as much from shock as the sudden pain of it.

"Mom..." I sobbed as I sank to my knees.

"How could you? You ungrateful little shit."

"Mom..."

"I don't want you in my house either, you disgust me."

"Mom, please." I gasped between sobs.

"Don't call me that!" She screamed. "I can't believe I gave birth to a treacherous little worm like you, how could you? Here under my roof! You're worse than your fucking father." It began to filter through to me that my mom wasn't angry that I was gay, hadn't even said anything about it, she was angry because I had been with Graham. What had she called him 'a two-timing bastard'? The thought hit me at once that Graham had been sleeping with my mother too. And then hot on the heels of that shocker came the thought that maybe she was the girl who looked a bit like me and moaned like I did when he fucked her. I felt the bile rising and lurched to my feet past my mother and into my bathroom where I quickly emptied my gut and hung there, wracked with dry heaves.

"Pack a bag. Get out of my house." She instructed me from the door, her tone icy, not open to discussion in any way. "Go to your father, go to him, go to hell for all I care, just go." And then I was left alone in my misery, she never checked to see if I was okay, nothing, just told me to go. When I was sure there was nothing more to bring up, I splashed water in my face and ran handfuls of it through my hair and returned on rubbery legs to my room. I looked round at my stuff, at the missiles my mother had aimed at my lover, at her lover, and I felt the tears coming again. Through the haze I stuffed things into a bag, kicked my feet into an old pair of boots and grabbed my coat. Downstairs, music was playing and my mother was in the kitchen, a bottle of vodka on the table beside her.

"Mom?" I asked, venturing in a few inches, eyes on the bottle, lest it should be aimed at my head. I felt my stomach lurch again and an image of her face scrunched up in sexual ecstasy as Graham heaved and strained above her flashed through my mind.

"Packed?" She asked without looking up at me.

"Yes."

"Good. There's money on the counter. Take it and go." I looked to my left where there was a small pile of bills, obviously whatever she'd had in her purse. What choice did I have? I couldn't stay there and feel like vomiting every time I looked at her, even if she did calm down. So I pocketed the money and walked out of the house, down the driveway and into the street. At first I wandered aimlessly, I had it in my head to find Graham, but like I said, I had no idea where to start looking, so I made my way to the only other option: to my father. A father I had seen no more than a half dozen times since I was a little kid, a father with whom the only contact I had was monthly checks. And that's how I ended up sitting in the bus station, my face puffy with crying, with the weirdest, most inadequate assortment of clothing imaginable in my backpack. My six wonderful weeks with Graham had cost me hundreds of dollars, my home and my mother. Maybe I didn't get the best of the deal.

I sniffled at the thought of what had happened, although I was hard at the thought of Graham's talented hands on my skin. There was the taste of vomit in my mouth still, and I had searched in vain for a vending machine around the bus station but couldn't find one that wasn't out of order or vandalized, so I just had to live with it. The music cut out abruptly with a burst of static and then what sounded like someone tapping a finger on the microphone.

"Number seventeen in ten minutes, folks." The fat man who had sold me my ticket, with I supposed as much enthusiasm as could be expected, announced to the near deserted station. The balding man opposite me didn't stir and the old woman responded with a distinct 'fuck, 'im, that's what I say', presumably as part of whatever whacked out conversation was going on in her head. The young guy stretched all his limbs and yawned widely before pulling himself into a more upright position, looking up straight into my eyes. I dropped my gaze immediately, but when I glanced up again he was looking at me quizzically, so I pretended to study the floor intently. The last thing I needed right now was to add a beating to my troubles. I held that pose for at least the advertised ten minutes, and probably longer, until the sound of an engine announced the bus's arrival. I rose to my feet, the only person who did, and hurried out into the cool air to wait for passengers to disembark before I climbed aboard and found myself a seat as far away from everyone else as possible.

Thankfully the bus was very nearly empty, with only four people near the front, so I made my way to a place near the back and slid into the seat, keeping my backpack with me, with the intention of sorting through my belongings. Time to take stock, check my cash and assess just how desperate my situation had become. As I was tugging at the drawstrings the young guy from the bus station boarded and took a seat down one from me and on the other side of the bus. I pulled the things I had 'packed' out onto the seat, some socks and underwear, a few shirts, but no other pants so I had only the jeans I was wearing. There was a sweater and a pair of sneakers along with my Discman (but no spare batteries) and a half dozen CDs. A pretty poor selection really. On the plus side, I had the passbook for my savings account, a pack of cigarettes and my lighter, my tiny stash of weed, and two hundred sixteen dollars, forty-five cents. Great.

My throat hurt from throwing up, my head was pounding and I was really hungry. I still had that taste, and no amount of sloshing saliva about and swallowing was going to shake it, and now I had several hours ahead of me on a bus. Could things get any worse, I wondered as the bus lurched into motion and my journey began. I cleared my throat a few times, or tried to, and allowed my eyes to close, resting my head back on the headrest. I felt like crying again, now that I was really on my way, everything seemed much more real, I was on my own for the first time in my life. A choked sound escaped my lips as I fought to keep the tears from flowing, but they came anyway, silently, but in force.

"Are you okay, dude?"

"Huh?" My eyes flew open and I blinked to clear the blurring of my vision. Leaning over me with one hand resting on the back of the seat next to me, and the other on the seat in front to help maintain his balance was the guy from the bus station. His cap had been removed and thrust into his pocket revealing a mop of dirty-blond hair in need of a brush. He wore a concerned expression, and this close up I could see that his eyes were not the crystal blue of Graham's, but a pale almost orangish brown. The stubble on his cheeks and the soft, kindly voice made him seem even more sexy and I flushed a deep red at the thought of how idiotic I must look to this man.

"You're crying, and you look pretty, um, I dunno, troubled?" He seemed a little unsure of himself, which made me feel slightly better.

"No, no, I'm fine." I mumbled, looking away, he reminded me powerfully of my former lover, even though he wasn't as 'surfery' in his looks.

"Bullshit. Here." He was holding out a clean, square-folded handkerchief to me.

"Thanks." I croaked taking the square of cloth and unfolding it to wipe my tears away. He turned away from me, affording me a great view of his denim covered ass, had I been in any mood to check it out, and rummaged in his backpack for a moment before returning his concerned gaze to my face.

"Drink?" He proffered a bottle of water to me and continued to speak in an almost apologetic tone with a slight shrug. "It might be a little warm."

"Thanks." I mumbled again, accepting it gratefully and taking several huge gulps. It was slightly warm, but it tasted so good right then that it didn't much matter, like a mountain spring to my parched mouth and throat. When I finally removed the bottle from my lips there was less than an inch of water left.

"You really were thirsty, huh?" He smiled at me, his teeth clean and straight, and his face lit up, he looked really friendly.

"I guess." I replied. He hefted my backpack easily and set it on the seat across from me, taking its place beside me, his knee brushing against mine as he did. "Um..." I ventured uncertainly as he did so.

"So you wanna tell me what's up?" He asked, looking at me with a frank, serious gaze, sitting side on so he could look at me. "Might help to talk to someone."

"I don't even know you." I protested.

"Might help to talk to a stranger." He grinned at me and gave the shoulder nearest him a squeeze. "But my name's Zach if it helps you?" He offered me his hand, which I took cautiously and shook, his grip was firm.

"Okay." I was worried that my own hand was limp and clammy, like a dead fish.

"Usually here you would tell me yours?" He prompted.

"Oh, yeah, it's Stuart."

"Nice to meet you, Stuart." He smiled again, and released my hand. "So you wanna tell me what the problem is? I'm a good listener."

"I don't really want to talk about it." I mumbled without looking at him.

"Okay." He shrugged. Part of me desperately wanted him to go away and leave me alone, but part of me wanted to break down and tell him my woes, as though that would somehow make them go. "You know, I ran away from home when I was sixteen. About the same age as you."

"I'm seventeen." I answered defensively. "And I'm not running."

"You got thrown out, huh?" He asked, pursing his lips at me, I nodded. "Dad wasn't happy that his son was gay?"

"What?"

"Just a hunch, that and you kept saying 'Graham' when you were sleeping in the station."

"Oh, Jesus." I was able to mutter before the tears started to flow again.

"Thought so." He said softly, putting an arm round my shoulder and holding the handkerchief out to me again as I leant forward in my seat and sobbed.

"It wasn't like that." I gasped between tears.

"Graham's your boyfriend?"

"Yes." I answered, remembering his hands on me, his dick inside me, then the traitorous thought of him with my mother resurfaced and I shuddered. "No." Over the next half-hour I spilled the whole story to him, he kept quiet mostly, but asked the odd question or prompted me when I trailed off. I was telling a total stranger my most private problems, and he was right, it was amazingly cathartic to talk about it. He made sympathetic noises as I explained what a dupe I had been for Graham, and squeezed my shoulder when I said that I still wanted to be with him, but had had no idea how to find him. All in all, he proved what he had said, he really was a good listener. Finally we got to the horrible revelation my mother had inadvertently made and he put his strong arm back around my shoulder and rested his forehead on the top of my head, murmuring to me how sorry he was. It felt so good to be so close to someone like that, my stomach lurched and I stayed perfectly still, fearful he would move away.

"Does your father know you're coming?" He asked sitting up straight at the end of my narrative, leaving his arm where it was.

"No." I finally answered him, my hands were shaking so I clasped them together.

"You got money to call him?"

"Um, yeah, yeah I do." I answered nodding firmly, pleased to be able to be sure about at least one thing. "Not sure how pleased he's gonna be to see me though, or if my mom'll say anything to him." That thought was particularly frightening to me.

We chatted for some time after that, back and forth about nothing much and I learned that he was twenty-three, a year older than Graham, and that he worked in a bar but had hopes of breaking into movies. He seemed like a really nice guy and much more relaxed than he had been when he first spoke to me. His arm never moved, seeming to sense that I was drawing comfort from our closeness, but he talked about his boyfriend which confirmed my suspicions and extinguished the glimmer of hope that had been forming in my mind. He had been visiting his brother at college and was now on the way home to boyfriend and crappy job, I felt a little pang of jealousy for Mark, his boyfriend, as Zach was obviously a good guy.

Hours later the bus made its fifth stop since I got on and Zach informed me that this was a longer one than the previous four and we would have plenty of time to get a coffee and maybe pick up a sandwich or something. This seemed like a great idea to me as my stomach had started to grumble quite noticeably. So as the door opened he withdrew his arm and got to his feet with a groan, stretching hugely and bending over to rub his knees a little. I took his proffered hand and he hauled me to my feet, letting me off first, and I followed him to the drab little diner at which we had stopped. He ordered coffee and a roast beef sandwich and I followed suit as there was little else that appealed to me, and he paid for both of us before I had even got my money out.

"Thanks, man." I said as we took a seat at a table near the door.

"No problem."

"I owe you." I said with feeling. "And not just for a sandwich."

"So you know many people there?" He asked, changing the subject as he took a huge bite of his sandwich.

"Nobody." I confessed.

"Well, now you know me." He smiled reassuringly at me and lifted his hips out of the seat to get something from the pocket of his jeans. I looked away, out the window at the mounting gloom, rather than stare at his crotch. I thought about the friendly arm he had draped round my shoulders, much friendlier than most people would have been, and shivered slightly. He produced a book of matches and sat back down pushing it towards me across the table. "Here, this is where I work."

"Um, okay." I said, taking the matches.

"If you need someone to talk to, you can get reach me there most days, and the number's on there too. Okay?"

"Oh! Okay." I said with renewed enthusiasm as the point sank in. "Thanks so much, Zach, you've been really kind."

"Hey, Stuart, buddy, that's what friends are for." He put his warm strong hand on top of mine and gave it a little squeeze. "Right?"

"Right." I smiled weakly back at him.

"Good boy." He said in a patronizing tone.

"Don't call me that!" I laughed at him as he picked up his sandwich again and winked at me.

"Mark's meeting me at the station, so we'll drive you to your father's place."

"Oh, you don't have to do that." I protested.

"Shut up, Stuart." He grinned. "Eat up, we'll be moving again real soon."

We quickly finished our sandwiches and returned to the bus. Zach put my bag and his on the seat in front of us and resumed his place next to me. Possibly because he thought I was okay, or possibly because he felt awkward about it, he didn't put his arm around me this time. We chatted idly for a while, about my school, about his work until eventually I yawned widely. It had been a long and tiring day, and I was more drained by the day's events than I thought.

"Tired?"

"A little." I answered untruthfully, in fact I was pretty near exhausted.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" Something on my face must have suggested that I wasn't too comfortable with this idea. "I'll wake you before we get there, don't worry."

"What about you?"

"I'm fine, I'll just read or something."

"Oh, okay." I said, still somewhat hesitantly.

"You can use me as a pillow if you want." He told me with a slight smile, and before he could say he was joking I snuggled close to him and rested my head against his shoulder, placing my hand on his chest as I did. He had taken his jacket off and thrown it on top of the bags, so my face was resting against the soft fabric of his shirt, and I could feel the solidity of his muscles beneath. I felt rather than heard him chuckle as he freed one arm and draped it around my shoulders and let his fingers explore a little way down my back. "Comfortable?"

"Very." I mumbled.

"Good. Try to sleep." He replied quietly, and I guess I must have drifted off because I remember nothing more after that, until his gentle shaking woke me. I blinked up at him, and was trying to clear my throat enough to talk when I realized that I was uncomfortably hard in my jeans. I felt the blood rush to my face instantly as I pushed myself upright and away from him, if he hadn't noticed until then he was certainly aware of it after that. He glanced at me, a smile playing on his lips, and blushed a little before turning away again and then finally returning his gentle gaze to my face.

"Don't worry about it."

"I'm so sorry, Zach."

"For what?" He grinned broadly, almost wickedly. "Forget about it, Stuart, natural reaction to being around me!"

"You wish!" I laughed out loud, my embarrassment forgotten in the face of his good humor.

"You snore, you know." He informed me when I stopped laughing.

"Do not!"

"Ask anyone." He gestured round the bus at the six or seven people that were now on it.

"Seriously?"

"Yep. But it was quiet, like you had a cold."

"Probably because I was crying." I mumbled, keen to excuse myself.

"Probably. And you were talking again."

"Oh, God." I put my face in my hands. I didn't want to know the answer, but I had to ask. "What this time? Graham?"

"Nah, sounded like, um, maybe, 'Zach, Zach?'" I gaped in horror at him, as he looked straight back at me, his face so serious, then the corner of his mouth twitched and he started to laugh. When he saw the look on my face, he creased up completely and bent double with laughter.

"You bastard!" I laughed along with him. I found myself wishing he was single, found myself hating Mark. Why could I not have met someone more like him instead of Graham? Someone who made me laugh and put me at my ease and was also attractive, someone, basically, who was nice? How hard could that be? We were still laughing when the bus drew to a halt at the station, even though it wasn't all that funny it felt so good just to be laughing.

"Well, we're here." Zach informed me, wiping his eyes.

"We sure are."

Zach got to his feet slowly and stooped to grab his jacket and shrugged his arms into it, pulling the cap from his pocket as he did so, but not putting it on. He flashed another grin at me and then reached out a hand, I took it cautiously and let him pull me to my feet. When I was standing up and had put my own jacket back on Zach thrust my backpack at me and grabbed his own by the handles, stepping back to let me precede him from the bus again.

"On you go, then."

"Thanks, man, really." I said, putting a hand on his arm.

"Don't get gushy on the bus, Stuart. Please." He gave me a little shove and I got off the bus with an embarrassed grin, Zach following right behind me. It was cold, but it was good to be back in the open air after so long on the bus, even if it had felt great to be so close to Zach for so long. He stood beside me and took a few deep breaths, then put his hand on my elbow smiled reassuringly at me. I don't honestly know if it was intended as a reassuring smile or not, but to me that's exactly what it was. "There's Mark, c'mon, buddy."

"Okay." I mumbled following him as he trotted across the concourse.

"Hey, you." A nice looking young guy with glasses and curly, dark hair said to him as we approached. He was wearing a pair of tan slacks, button down shirt and a sports jacket, making him look like a high school teacher or something. This, I assumed, was Mark, the boyfriend. He turned to me and smiled, almost as nice a smile as Zach's, but more cautious, then looked back at Zach. "You leaving me for a younger man?"

"You're funny." Zach laughed and grabbed his arm. Mark jerked away from him and the two exchanged a knowing, but indecipherable, glance. "Um, Mark, this is Stuart, Stuart, this is Mark."

"Good to meet you, Stuart." Mark stuck out his hand.

"Hi." I said, taking the proffered hand.

"Hi, to you too." He replied.

"Stuart and I met on the bus, he's having parent trouble, I said we'd drive him over to his father's place, make sure he got there alright." Zach supplied.

"Sure, no problem." Mark's smile seemed less forced this time, even so I found the impression I formed of him on the bus staying with me, even before I'd met him I had decided I didn't like him. Now I had met him, I still didn't. I liked him less. He seemed kinda geeky, too formal, and nowhere near good enough for a great guy like Zach. "Shall we go?"

"Yeah, yeah, lead on." Zach said, falling in behind him alongside me as he started for the door. He shrugged at me and smiled faintly at his boyfriend's back. We walked in silence to the car and I climbed into the back seat, and Mark gave a low whistle as I told him my father's address. He had money, I knew that, but my mom had money too, so I guess it never really struck me before. I suppose it kinda filtered through at the bus station, that my life was a lot better than most folk's. Well, it had been until that afternoon. We continued the journey largely in silence, at one point Zach leant over and whispered something to Mark, who made no response. Other than that, nothing much was said, a few desultory questions about my dad, mostly from Zach who seemed much quieter around Mark. There was a new tension now, and I could tell that I was the cause. Suddenly, I wished I'd got a cab from the station.

"Well, this is the place." Mark supplied as he took a right and pulled to a halt outside my father's building.

"Yup. I guess so." I answered faintly from the back. "Thanks so much for this, guys. Look can I give you money for gas or something?"

"No, that's okay." Zach answered for them throwing open his door and getting out to open mine too, what a gentleman! He grabbed my arm and practically hauled me from the car with my bag. "Back in a sec." He called to Mark who simply grunted in response.

"Thanks for everything, Zach." I said once he had closed the door again.

"Don't worry about it buddy, any time." He walked round the car with me to stand under the awning outside the building. "Sorry about Mark, man, he's not usually like that. I guess cause I sprung you on him."

"Forget about it, it's okay. You've been so kind to me, Zach."

"So, um..." He hesitated and thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans, hanging his head, scuffing his foot and looking five years younger in the process. "Look you know where I work and everything, right?"

"Right." I fished the matches from my pocket and grinned.

"Okay, cool. So, I hope everything works out." He glanced back at the car. "And that your dad's okay and all and that, you know, things get better for you and everything." He had returned to the slightly shy, nervous, young man who had first approached me on the bus.

"Thanks, Zach." I offered again and held out my hand for him to shake.

"Aw, to hell with it." He said, grabbing my hand. "I'm already in trouble." And with that he pulled me closer and kissed me on the cheek. "Take care of yourself, kid. Look me up, okay? Whatever happens with your dad, stay in touch, you're gonna need a friend."

"Okay, thanks, man." I managed, though I was still a little stunned by how good that kiss had felt and the fact he was still holding my hand.

"No problem. Listen, I gotta go now or I really will be in trouble." He grinned sheepishly at me and glanced at the car again.

"Yeah. You should, you don't want that."

"Okay. So you will come find me?"

"Of course." I answered with a grin and an eager nod. Was he kidding?

"Cool." He stayed where he was, scuffing his foot again.

"So, um, bye?" I ventured.

"Yeah. Bye." Still Zach didn't move. So I stayed where I was too. Finally he looked up at me, straight in the eye, blushed a little and smiled. Then he grabbed my shoulder and kissed me a second time, on the lips. "Take care, Stuart, you're a good guy." He said, finally releasing my hand and heading back towards the car, that same sheepish expression on his face, knowing how much trouble he was in with Mark. I watched him get in and watched as he drove away, he glanced out the back window briefly, but there was some discussion going on with Mark which he quickly turned back to. Was I being a fool? I don't know. But I stood and watched the car until it disappeared and then turned to look at the building behind me. The security guard was watching me suspiciously through the glass, so I screwed up my courage and headed for the door.

"Can I help you?" The guard asked me as I pushed open the door and stepped into the foyer.

"Um, yeah, I'm here to see John Halliwell."

"Is that so?" He crossed his arms and looked at me.

"Yes it is." I said, my voice as cold as I could make it. "Would you call up and let him know I'm here, please?"

"And who are you?" He asked, plainly in no way inclined to make that call.

"Tell him Stuart." I gave a grim little smile, in no mood after the day I had had to be sneered at by a doorman. "I'm fairly sure he'll know the name, Stuart Halliwell."

"Stuart Halliwell?" He asked, uncrossing his arms.

"That's right. His son." I smiled more broadly, actually the most dazzling smile I could produce, to show there were no hard feelings. "So, am I going to stand here all night or are you going to call up?"

"Yes. Sorry, just a second." He practically scurried to the desk and called up to my father's condo. I only half listened to the conversation, or at least that part of it I could hear. "Mr. Halliwell? Sorry to bother you sir, but there's someone here to see you. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Um, he says his name's Stuart, sir." There was a long pause. "Yes Mr. Halliwell, I will. Right away, sir."

"Everything okay?" I asked, propping my pack against the desk and taking my jacket off as the guard hung up the phone.

"Yes, sir. Sorry about the misunderstanding earlier."

"No problem. Easy enough mistake, I've been travelling for a while." I glanced down at myself with a rueful smile.

"Let me get your bag."

"I think I'll manage." I scooped up the bag and the jacket and flashed him another grin as he called the elevator. "Which floor am I headed for?"

"To the top, sir."

"Of course, where else?" The doors slid closed silently and the elevator began the trip to the penthouse. Suddenly my nerves that I had suppressed in the lobby came back with a vengeance. I was on my way up to see a man I hadn't spoken to in over ten years, a man I knew nothing about and that I probably couldn't pick out of a lineup. On the other hand, he hadn't told the guard to throw me out, had in fact invited me up, so that was promising. Wasn't it? There was a quiet 'ping' signaling that the elevator had reached its destination. The doors slid open again. Before me was a vestibule of maybe twenty feet square, lined with marble and with two huge potted ferns, one on either side of a set of double doors. I took a deep breath and raised my fist to knock.

"Stuart?" The door was flung open before I could knock. "My God, Stuart!" A man of indeterminate age, though I knew he was forty-five, was standing in the doorway. His silvering hair was immaculately groomed, and his tan pronounced, he was of slim build and expensively dressed. This was my father, John Halliwell.

"Dad?" I asked tentatively, though I knew it was him.

"God you've grown, Stuart." He stepped forward and put his hands on my shoulders. "How old are you now? Eighteen?"

"Seventeen." I replied, a little hurt that my own father didn't know my age.

"Of course, of course. Eighteen in April." He patted my shoulder.

"That's right." Okay, so maybe he did. My spirits lifted a little again, I had the feeling that this reunion was going to send them on a rollercoaster of highs and lows.

"Well, come on in." For the first time he beamed at me, showing rows of perfectly white teeth, which seemed unnatural because of his tan.

"Thanks."

To be continued...