Here is the latest chapter of this story. It's entirely fictional, so don't try to look for any resemblance to anybody in real life here. It also concerns sexuality among underage boys, so if that bothers you or is illegal where you reside, don't read it. All rights to all parts of this story, aside from the license granted here to Nifty, remain mine.
My thanks again, as always, to Flip for his editing and advice, and to the readers who've been kind enough to write me and telll me what they think of the story - good and bad. I hope you'll feel free to share your opinions as well. If you like this story, you may also enjoy my previous and completed Nifty story, "Seal Rocks," which is also in this HS Section, with the last chapter published just over two years agfo (wow!).
My thanks, also, to Nifty itself, for providing a forum foe me and all the others to publish their writings. If you haven't contributed to the site, you should consider it.
When the World Changed, Part 15
Brady shook off his emotions after his mother got home. He, she, and Doug had another good dinner, barbecuing burgers over the open grill in the chilly evening, and sitting about the table laughing easily. Brady's mother had a seemingly endless number of amusing stories about Brady and his brothers to tell Doug, and he lapped them up. Brady grew concerned that the whole thing was growing tedious to him, but he seemed genuinely to enjoy it. Brady kept casting nervous glances at him, only to be met by Doug's brightest daybreak smile. He found himself toying idly with his food, listening to all the old stories, and basking in the glow of Doug's smile.
Brady's mom, thankfully, agreed not to watch Lawrence Welk that week - "He's kind of fuddy, anyway," she offered, to Brady's immense relief. Instead, the boys spent the evening clicking around the dial, looking for something to watch - old movies, mostly, it seemed, at least until "Get Smart" came on. She slipped upstairs during that program, and the boys sat on the couch, laughing and casually elbowing each other every so often. The night grew cold, so Brady grabbed a blanket from the hall closet for them to tuck under. Brady soon got sleepy in the warmth, with Doug so close he could smell him and feel his regular breathing. The TV was the only sound.
Brady had no idea how long he'd been dozing. He blinked awake, conscious that he and Doug were leaning into and against each other. Doug was fast asleep, snoring lightly. The TV was turned off. Brady looked at Doug's sleeping face for a minute or two, almost screaming from joy at their closeness. He was so beautiful when asleep, his cheeks ruddy and soft, his strong chin slightly off center as his mouth slightly open, his lips full and darkly red, hiss long eyelashes twitching every so often as he dreamed. Brady put his head back on Doug's shoulder - softly, slowly - and let himself relax back into the half embrace. He wanted to sleep again, but the delicious feeling of warmth and physical contact was too exhilarating.
He considered Doug's dream the previous night. Had be humped off thinking about Brady? Was it just Brady projecting his own desires onto Doug? I mean he's a kid like me, he thought, he's probably coming all the time, or wanting to. God knows I'm like that. And I was the closest person, so it was just natural he'd say my name . . . . Still, the hope kindled in his chest refused to die under any set of rationalizations.
Then he remembered what had happened with Kenny, and his happiness faded. He felt dirty again, and ashamed. He fought this latter feeling as best he could, for a while anyway. He tried rationalizing it to himself. It's not like me and Kenny never did anything before. We fooled around a lot, all spring and summer, and we jerked each other off and even got it on ourselves sometimes, so it's not bid deal. "But you never put it in your mouth," he answered himself. "You never sucked his dick. He never sucked yours. That was really really faggotty, today, and you know it. And it was cheap and nasty, and it wasn't Doug." He sighed. What the fuck is wrong with me, he wondered, that I'd do something like that? It's like I threw everything away, or was willing to at least. He felt his insides tighten and churn and his eyes moisten, and fought back the wetness as best he could. His cheek was on Doug's shoulder, and now he rubbed it slowly, softly, up and down, as he confessed: I'm so sorry. I'll never do it again, I promise. I know I'll never be able to do anything with you, but I don't want to even think about anybody else.
He choked audibly as the nest thought came to his mind: Because I love you. He did start to cry then, trembling slightly, his chest shuddering despite his efforts to control himself, to force the emotions back down into their hole where he tried always to keep them. He grew angry with himself. Grow up, Goddammit, he snarled to himself, stop being such a fucking baby. Deal with it.
He had to get up, to move around. He slid out from under the blanket. Doug let out a long sigh as Brady tucked the blanket about him to keep him warm. The room was chilly, damp. He padded softly into the kitchen, ignoring Grouch's tail slapping against the floor, pleased to see a visitor so late at night. He swigged down some milk from a glass bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and sat on a kitchen chair - the one he'd dinged with a saw when he was a toddler, one of the stories his mother had told that night. He ran his fingers over the notches he'd made, a few hazy details still in the back of his mind. An early morning, cold like this, the saw huge and cumbersome in his tiny hands, refusing to stay in one place. His father's voice - or at least he knew it had been his father's voice, he couldn't hear it so much as he knew who was speaking - soothing and friendly as he took the saw form his hands. Christ, he should have spanked the crap out of me, look what I did to the chair. And it's a miracle I didn't cut myself to shit on the saw. But he hadn't been angry, he didn't spank him. They'd talked, soft and happy, in the growing light.
I wish I could see his face. I wish I could remember the sound of his voice. Anything. Even the parts I remember where he was still alive, he's a ghost.
"So what do I do, Daddy?" he asked aloud, in a voice as soft as the one in his memory. "What can I do?" He'd asked the ghost questions before, and the answer had always been the same: silence. He listened to the silence now, his cheek against the scarred wood, until sleep took him again.
A low rumbling whine of delight from Grouch woke him. Doug was standing at the entrance to the kitchen, the blanket wrapped around him, looking bleary. "What're y' doin' in here?" he mumbled.
Brady lifted his head, conscious of the marks on his cheeks from the notches in the chair. ""Just - just came in for, you know, some milk, and stuff. Started thinkin', fell back asleep."
Doug nodded. "D'you turn off the TV?"
"No, I thought you did." Doug shook his head. Brady puzzled over the matter a moment, drowsily, then led Doug upstairs to sleep.
Brady's dreams throughout the night revolved around his sitting with his father, an enormous saw in his toddler hands, and talking. They spoke about their lives (most of what his father said was old stories he'd heard from his mother and brothers, but he was still delighted). Brady told him as much as he felt comfortable about life at Wilson. His father, or at least his internal imagined father, noticed the reticence on some subjects. "So this McShane boy has taken a dislike to you?"
"It's not my fault, I never did anything to make him like that. He's just a jerk."
"Some people are like that. You need to be careful of him, and from what you've said his brother, too."
"They don't' scare me," Brady flashed defiantly.
"Maybe they should. Now, your friend Doug - tell me about him."
Brady swallowed. "I already did."
There was a laughter-like snort. "I mean really tell me. All of it."
Brady's' eyes were filling. "I - I can't. I - it's, it's personal."
"And the rest of this isn't? You need to be honest. With me, and with yourself. Lying, especially on the inside, eats you up."
Brady wasn't looking at him, in any conventional sense - he ouldn't see him anyway, he didn't even remember what his face looked like aside from the photograph his mother kept on her nightstand. But he felt the pressure of a steady gaze boring in on him. He shook his head. "Can we leave that, for now anyway? Please? I - don't want - I'm really a good kid, honest, and I'm not, you know, . . . . "
"Do I know?"
"Probably," Brady whispered in total defeat.
He wanted to get the hell out of this dream, he was trying to will his leaden arms and legs to move, he felt as if his conscious self was being pulled into a vortex that slid sickeningly down into, into something awful and dark and unhinged. "We'll talk more about this later. When you can tell the truth."
"I'm sorry," Brady wailed as he struggled to wake up, to gain some control of his body and brain. "I'm so sorry."
"Apologize to yourself. What you're doing is unnatural."
Brady's heart froze. Unnatural. That's it, it's unnatural. He was unnatural. He was filth. He didn't deserve to have Doug as a friend, much less to love him. Could he have any friends at all, if he had such an awful; perversion? "I'm sorry!!!" he screamed - at himself, at the luminous shapeless glow of his father's voice that now slid into the same vortex that was threatening to suck him down, at the vortex itself, at Doug, at the world . . . "
Doug was shaking him awake. "Bray? Bray!!! Wake up, man, it's OK! Brady!!!"
He tore himself from the whirlpool and sat up. It was pitch dark. He was sweating, and shaking. "Sorry!!!" he blurted out loudly, one last time, his eyes like saucers.
"Brady!!!"
Doug's hands were gripping him. He felt their strength. As his eyes slowly focused in the dark, he could see Doug's eyes, wide with alarm. He blinked, felt the tension ebb from his body, replaced by a feeling of guilt and exhaustion. He let out one loud sob and fell against Doug's chest, face pressed to his T-shirt, panting, trying not to weep openly. "I'm sorry, sorry," he kept murmuring into the cloth.
"Bray, you got nothing to be sorry for. Relax, man. You just had a really shitty dream and all. It's OK."
Brady pressed his face hard against Doug's chest, the cloth muffled his voice. "I'm sorry for loving you," he mumbled.
"What?"
Brady realized he needed to pull things together. He sat up, smoothing the front of Doug's T-shirt the touch of his body sending a shameful thrill through him. "I just - yeah, I had a dream. It was - I was, like, talking, to my dad. About stuff."
"What stuff?"
Brady avoided Doug's curious eyes. "Just - just school, and being away. And Hal and Trent. You know, family stuff."
Doug nodded. His hands now were in his lap. Brady looked down at them longing to have them grip his shoulders again. It took a vigorous shake of his head to stop that thought. "So, so what had you like thrashing around and all? Freaking out like that?"
Brady smiled. "'Freaking out?" You turning into a damn hippie now or something?"
Doug laughed. The sound was musical, and Brady's smile broadened. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and was startled by how wet it was when he lowered it. "Jesus, I'm like soaking."
"I know. You were all thrashing around and saying you were really a good kid and you were sorry, and, well, it got kind of spooky there for a minute. I couldn't wake you up."
Brady recalled the feeling, and a wave of dizziness swept over him. "I thought I was falling into deep water," he sighed, falling back onto the mattress. "I'm really sorry"
"OK, you already said that a lot, you know?" Doug replied, still clearly not satisfied with the answers he was getting. "You say that a lot anyway. It's almost funny, in a way."
"What do you mean?"
Doug shifted a bit - he clearly felt he'd broached a bad subject. "It's just - I dunno, it's your way, I guess. It's like you're always apologizing for something. Going through a door past someone, stepping around to get a drink at the water fountain, all the time. David, he does this great imitation of you, where he just walks into a room and says 'I'm sorry' every time he does anything. Creed almost busted a gut over it."
Brady remembered David asking him the same thing. "I don't do that," he protested weakly.
"The hell you don't," Doug grinned. "I mean it's OK, it's nothing to be - well, sorry, about," he said with a sly grin. "And don't be mad at David either. He doesn't do it to like mock you or anything. He - he really feels like you're his friend. He's a cool kid, to have as a friend."
Brady blinked. "I know. I'm lucky."
Doug smiled. "You OK to go back to sleep now? No more drowning or whatever bullshit you were doing?"
"I'm fine. I'm really - I mean - oh hell," he floundered as Doug laughed, "just go back to sleep, OK?'
"Love to, just keep it down, OK?"
"Will do."
They fell back into their beds, silent. Brady wondered if Doug fell back to sleep quickly. He sure didn't. His heart was still racing, and aching at what his father's disembodied voice had said to him. Unnatural. I can't face him, he realized, and I can't stand to be away from him, not even for a minute. God, what am I gonna do?
They slept in obscenely late Sunday morning, not groggily sitting up until well after 11. Brady was glad his mother had just gone on to church without him. He was in no mood for another of Pastor Everett's long complaints about the world falling away from the Word and refusing to live like Christ. He was always especially nasty about young people, a group he regarded as hopelessly degraded by their creature comforts and easy lives. That sort of stuff always pissed Brady off on a deep level, even though it was (according to Pastor Everett, at least) the unerring judgment of God.
They made some sandwiches, devoured them greedily, and got out the bikes. Brady took Doug on a long ride all over the surrounding county roads, pointing out various farms and other landmarks. One of quarterhorse farms had horses out for exercise runs, and Brady stopped and talked with the stablehands he knew. Doug had ridden before, but not much, and never in a sulky. Brady wanted to give him a ride, but the trainer would have none of it. Brady got to do a couple of laps, however, skimming over the crusty track and feeling the power of the horse's gait. Emory Hanover was his name, and though then only two years old the trainer (whose name was Buddy, an odd name for someone as wizened as he was) had great hopes for him. "We'll get him to the Hambletonian, mark my words. He's got real quality, just needs to grow up. You felt how he accelerated when you let the reins loose and let him run, didn't you?" Brady had. "You should feel it if you touch him with the whip a little, you almost get yanked out of the sulky."
Brady couldn't imagine whipping an animal so beautiful - or powerful, for that matter. "Well, I'd react to that kind of thing too, after all."
Buddy laughed. "It's just part of racing. You teach them to respond. There'll be a day when they'll need that burst."
Brady frowned, and noticed Doug's similar expression of vague disapproval. "I guess."
Buddy moved to unharness the horse. "Hate to tell ya, Brady, but yer getting' too big to exercise 'em much any more. Don't want 'em pulling too heavy a load, not good for 'em. Maybe some of the older ones that're out to stud, or a foaling mare." Brady tried to hide his disappointment.. "Part of growin' up, kid."
They were free to wander the barns after that. Doug picked up a piece of straw and began chewing on one end. "This is so cool. It feels like home, sort of."
Brady grinned. "Really?"
Doug nodded. "Yeah, my dad's always doing calls out on farms around home, and sometimes he lets me go along and hang out while he's working. Birthing a calf or a foal or whatever. You ever seen that? It's really gross, but amazing." Brady shook his head. "I've seen my dad with his arm up past his elbow inside a cow, yanking and pushing the calf around when it's not even out yet. "
Brady's eyes widened. "What, like up the - the, um, you know, . . . "
"Yeah up the cow's uterus and stuff." Doug giggled. "Her pussy." They both groaned at that term and the images it brought to mind. "My dad gets incredibly gross doing it, but he says it's the thing he loves to do most. New life and stuff."
Brady nodded. "Yeah, that is pretty cool, I guess. I mean the idea is. The details, though - I mean wow." They started laughing again. Emory Hanover, now in his stall down the way, snorted loudly and kicked against the wall. Brady grabbed some new straw, still moist and green, and went to the stall gate. He held the straw out, and Emory Hanover sniffed it a minute, then chomped away greedily while Brady and Doug ran hands over his dark muzzle.
"Good boy," Doug whispered as Emory Hanover's eras pricked back and forth listening. "You run that Hambletonian, and kick everybody's asses. Then I can say I knew you when, OK?" The horse snorted lightly and tossed his mane in response. His liquid dark eyes seemed impossibly wise - bright, enormous ,and piercing. Brady watched Doug and the horse talk quietly for a few minutes. The interaction was almost painfully intimate. Brady felt in a strange way jealous. The Goddam horse gets more attention and touching and all than I ever will. Jesus
They didn't get back until the sun was setting behind the town water tower. Brady's mother was fussing over a large stewpot. "You missed Kenny, he was here waiting for you quite a while this afternoon."
Brady felt the color rise a bit in his cheeks. "Oh, um, sorry about that. We were just out, you know, pedaling around."
She nodded casually, her attention on the stew. "You might want to call him."
He glanced at Doug, who seemed to likewise be paying little attention. "Um, sure. Maybe later."
His mother nodded. "I have all your laundry done - for both of you. It's all folded up on the beds."
Brady groaned. "Mom, you didn't have to do that, we were going to do it."
"Not to worry, I had time." Brady knew damn well she didn't have time, not even on a Sunday, but there was no use in further protests. He and Doug thanked her profusely and trotted upstairs to sort through things and repack their suitcases for the trip back to school the following afternoon.
"This was really nice of your mom to do," Doug said softly as he laid T shirts carefully in layers on the bottom of his suitcase. "I had so much damn stuff. I feel bad having her do all this work, I hadn't even washed a lot of it yet."
Brady nodded. "She's like that. You leave for an hour or something, and when you come back all this stuff's done for you and half of it's stuff you never even thought of." He sighed. "I feel like that a lot - like bad, or embarrassed, whatever - but it's just how she is."
Doug nodded. "My mom makes lists of things for me to do," he said in a quiet voice, "and checks on my progress, like all the time." He paused, his eyes seeming to drift. "Laundry, vacuuming, dusting, mowing the lawn, washing dishes, all sorts of stuff. She, um, she has lots of, you know, social stuff, to do. Charity things, and bridge parties. She and my dad go out a lot."
Brady was trying to read Doug's face, his tone of voice. That was about the most he'd ever spoken about his home life, and it struck Brady as a hard thing for Doug to have said. "I guess," he finally ventured, "everybody has his weird family stuff, you know? "
Doug snorted. "Yeah. Weird. You got that right."
They finished packing in uneasy silence.
The evening passed without much further incident. Brady managed to evade calling Kenny, to his great relief. The fact of their departure the next day was weighing on them all, and especially on Brady's mother, who insisted on ironing and repacking all their dress shirts after dinner and generally doted on them to embarrassing excess. They watched the Smothers Brothers, went to bed early, and slept soundly. Brady, to his great relief, had no dreams of either his father or the vortex.
Brady's mother left for work early the next morning so she could be free midday to drive them back to Summerton (they had football practice at 2). The boys lolled in bed, leaning on elbows or hands and chatting idly, drifting in and out of sleep. Brady loved to see Doug's face when he was asleep - smooth, long lashed, wisps of brown hair across his brow, and slightly parted lips impossibly red and full. He imagined kissing those lips, what they'd feel like against his, but the dream kept coming back to him: unnatural. How can it be unnatural, he protested to himself, when I just feel it? But he knew that was no answer - it simply showed how deeply ingrained his perversion was. He rolled away to face out the window, which looked out toward the lake three houses down. The water was dark and mirrorlike in the cool cloudy morning, with a small flock of Canadian geese clustered together in the middle, resting on their long flight south. The idea of flying away, of ditching everything, of leaving himself behind and starting over again from scratch in some distant and warmer place, tore at him. I could be different then, he thought. I could be normal. But I'd lose Doug.
No answer in any direction.
His hand was resting in his lap, and unconsciously he began to fondle himself. He hardened quickly, sighing and stiffening his legs from the rush of feeling. He listened a moment. Doug's breathing was slow and regular. He slid his hand inside his briefs and cupped his balls, letting the underside of his penis slide against his forearm. He humped slowly, silently against the smooth inside of his forearm, feeling it slicken with his fluids. Keeping silent was crucial, but difficult. Within minutes his motions became stronger and jerkier. He managed to stop a second and listen again. Slight snores. That's Doug, sleeping so close, he thought. I can smell the smell of his body, it's all over the room. His skin. I can hear him breathe. It's like he's right here. God, I wish he was here. To hold and touch and taste . . . That brought back the memory of Kenny sucking him, and he imagined himself kneeling in front of Doug and taking his dick into his mouth. It must taste so good, he thought. And then he'd lose control and start to, to come, and . . .
His climax was eyeball popping. He managed to cup a hand in front of his dickhead just before it hit, so he caught most of his ejaculate and avoided soiling the sheets, but he knew some got on his chest and the pillow. He tried to keep his breathing regular through clenched teeth, though he knew he didn't entirely succeed at that either. As David had already noted on several occasions, Brady tended to be loud. As his body uncoiled, Brady let out a long exhale and felt himself sink down into a delicious torpor. With it, though, came sadness: but I'm not with Doug. And I won't be, ever. It's unnatural. And Doug's not like that anyway. I could never let him see how I feel, he'd be so grossed out. I'd lose him forever. The torpor turned to remorse, and deep despair.
He had a large handful of semen to deal with, though. He rolled a bit to glance at Doug, who still appeared to be dozing. He sat up, grabbed a wad of Kleenex from the box on the windowsill, and wiped his hand clean. He was almost done when the box, unbalanced by the amount he'd yanked out of it, tipped and fell to the floor with as loud thud. Brady stared at it in horror as he heard Doug snort awake. "Whazzat?' he muttered.
Brady pulled the covers up around him, shoving his hand underneath. "I, uh, I was just, you know, blowing my nose, and, um, I guess it fell. The box, that is. The Kleenex box." He waved vaguely with his clean hand at the floor between himself and the window, only to notice that a fairly significant drool of semen was clinging to that forearm , like a thin silvery thread. Without thinking, he wiped his nose with that forearm to make it look like it was just snot. His nostrils filled with the scent of his come, and he felt his cock stir again.
"Mmmpphh," Doug said, rubbing his eyes. He lay staring at the ceiling. "Damn, I hate falling back asleep like that, I can never wake up again."
Brady rolled to face him, sliding both arms (and the gooey wad of Kleenex) under the covers as he did so. "Yeah, I - I know what you mean."
Doug's hand slid downwards beneath his covers. "I gotta pee again, too," he said with a giggle. "I got a piss-on goin'."
"Huh?"
"You never heard that?" Brady shook his head. "It's when your dick gets hard when you're asleep to stop you from peeing yourself." Brady couldn't help noticing Doug idly fondling himself beneath the covers. Doug sighed deeply. "I got it bad right now," he added with a slight giggle.
Brady was at a loss for anything to say in response. He blinked several times, trying not to make eye contact with Doug, and simultaneously trying not to stare at where Doug was playing with himself. It was hopeless, though, like being told not to think of an elephant. "Um," he finally managed to say, "not to be weird or anything, but given what you look like soft, you with a piss-on must be like a fucking phone pole."
Doug laughed and threw his head back on the pillow. He gave himself a theatrical shake. "Yes, the beast is loosed!!! Damn, this is frustrating."
"Why?"
"Because - well, you know, you get this too, right?" Brady nodded, blushing. "And y'know how you're all hard and like horny, but you can't really do anything about it because you gotta piss so bad?"
Brady smiled. "Then go piss. I - I'll like roll over and watch the pretty birdies or something." He didn't want to, but it seemed the chivalrous thing to do.
Doug laughed. "Who cares? Dunc and I spend every morning parading around the room like this getting to the bathroom, it seems." He threw his covers back and jumped out of bed. The front of his underwear followed him about half a beat later, and waggled to rest after a second. The bulge was enormous; he seemed to be almost bent in half by the constrictions of his Fruit of the Loom briefs.
Brady knew his eyes were wide and openly staring (his mouth was gaping as well, though he didn't immediately realize that). He didn't care. The tossed bedcovers flooded the room with the scent of Doug's body, and together with the sight of his barely concealed erection, Brady's cover was completely blown for a second. "Oh, Jesus," he moaned.
Doug laughed and grabbed at himself. "The young stallion in his glory! Lemme piss before I lose it completely." He strode out of the room, leaving Brady frozen in place. Did he breathe for the next several seconds? Did his heart beat? He closed his eyes, slowly, willing the lids to move. The air was redolent of Doug's smell, and he knew he was going to come again. He jammed his hand into his underwear and stroked, eyes rolled back in his head, panting, sucking in the faint aroma and remembering the contours of his body, of his crotch, of his hard cock pressed against the thin white fabric. It took him only seconds to explode again.
He was wiping himself off with the sheet, back to the room door, when Doug came back in. Doug laughed. "Did I do that or you?"
Brady blinked and turned as much as his sense of modesty allowed. "What?"
"It smells like come in here. Really strong."
"Oh! Oh, that," Brady mumbled. "I just - I, uh . . " He decided to be bold, plus he couldn't hide it anyway. He shrugged and grinned over his shoulder at Doug. "Well, hey you know, young stallions, right?"
Doug laughed even louder. "Really? Damn, you were fast! Lemme see!!!"
"No!" Brady protested. "I mean, you know, it's like, over, and I - I'm not, you know, hard, or anything, now I mean Jesus, Doug.' This was true - the fear of discovery by Doug had abruptly shrunk his genitals to seemingly microscopic size. He didn't notice the slight disappointment on Doug's face. "B - besides, I - I'm just, like average - like that, and all. I mean you, you're like - well, Christ, Doug!" His desire was showing through again, entirely too much for his own comfort.
Doug smiled and sat on his bed. "Relax, Bray. I - I'm just used to it. People, you know, guys sayin' stuff, about my dick and all." He paused. "I joke about it a lot. Probably too much. I just - well, you get self conscious, about it. I do, anyway. Everybody staring at you in the shower and all. Sometimes I feel like, you know, a freak, or something. I mean I don't just wanna be known at School for the size of my cock you know?"
Brady smiled, trying to be reassuring. This was by far the most intimate thing Doug had ever told him, and he didn't want to mess things up. "There are worse things to be known for. You could be McShane."
Doug, laughing, made an exaggeratedly ugly face. "Thanks a lot - asshole." He sighed. "So, anyway, I crack jokes about it, I make like I'm laughing it off and stuff, and it usually works. Makes people laugh, and you kinda move on from there." He sighed and groped himself softly. "I wish sometimes it wasn't like this."
"No, it's fine!" Brady blurted out before he thought through his inflection completely. He intended it as reassurance, but he feared it came across as desire. "I mean," he added quickly, "you - you're like, you, and that - that's part of you. Part of the package."
Doug arched an eyebrow. "Package?"
"Oh Christ,' Brady said, throwing his hands in the sir in real exasperation. How could he be so dense? "You know what I mean. I . . . I wouldn't change any of you. Anything about you. Not for anything. You - you're like, perfect, I think."
He'd gone way over the line, he knew, but he almost didn't care. He had to say it. He just feared the reaction.
Doug cocked his head slightly and looked at Brady very closely for a second. Brady felt the blood rushing from his face. Doug smiled slightly. "Thanks, man. I mean it. You - this is so cool, that we can hang out like this. That we like met, and all." His smile broadened toward full daybreak. "I think I'm lucky."
Brady swallowed hard to keep his composure. "So do I, man."
Grouch began barking loudly outside, followed a moment later by the doorbell. The boys glanced at each other, puzzled, and Brady grabbed his jeans to go check it out.
Kenny was leaning on the porch pillar nearest the front door, arms folded, and smiling slightly. "What's goin' on, " Brady said as he opened the door, "no school today?"
Kenny shrugged. "I ditched out after first," he answered casually as he stepped through the door. Brady hadn't expected that, and their bodies brushed together as he did so. Kenny paused, glanced at Brady, and grinned, before continuing inside. "So where's Danny boy?"
"Doug," Brady corrected him. "Um, upstairs. We were sort of flopping around this morning. Last taste of freedom and stuff, we gotta go back come lunchtime."
"Yeah, floppin' around. I bet," Kenny replied with another grin.
Brady was confused. "Whaddya mean?"
"'Last taste of freedom,' my ass. You guys're probably screwing yer eyes out all morning."
"What?!" Brady gasped. "Is - is that what you - you think Doug and me -"
"I'm better, man, remember that. I got lotsa other stuff my cousins showed me. Betcha some of it's even stuff your cornhole happy prep school buddies haven't thought of yet, too." He stepped towards Brady, hand reaching for his crotch.
Brady stepped back, flushing angrily. "Fucking shit, Kenny, that's really sick, you know that?"
"Yeah, right, like you ain't done nothin' with Dan or Doug or whatever the fuck -"
"No I haven't!!! Jesus Christ!"
"Uh huh, or anybody else there at Faggot Central?
"No!!!" Brady protested again, though this time he felt himself blinking rapidly. "Look, you need to go, OK? This is bullshit, man."
"What's bullshit is you goin' back there when you can get what you want right here and now. You liked it, I know you did. That was just a taste, man."
Brady yanked the door open. "Get the fuck out of here, OK?" he said in the calmest voice he could muster. He kept glancing back toward the stairway wondering where Doug might be.
Kenny followed his glance, looked him in the eye for a moment, then snorted. "Fine." He strode out. "Have fun in Fairyland," he sneered over his shoulder.
Brady watched him stride down the sidewalk after he closed the door. His shoulders seemed to sag more with each step.
Doug appeared. "What was that about? I heard you like yelling, almost."
Brady frowned. "Kenny came over. He, uh, he was just being an asshole."
"'Bout what?"
Brady hesitated. "He just - he like wants me to dump Wilson and come home and shit."
Doug nodded. "I kinda got the feeling you guys were, like, close."
"No! I mean, well, we're friends, but not like really close friends. We just, you know, hung out together. And stuff." This blush is becoming permanent, he thought.
Doug looked at him for a moment. "So do you want to? Dump Wilson and come back here?"
"God, no!!!" Brady answered heatedly. "I mean, look, this is home, and it'll always be home in a lot of ways, but - but it's like a trap, for me. I - I'll never be anything more than the deadbeat kid Mr. Jocko pisses on for fun, as long as I stay here I - I want to make something, of myself. Of my life. I dunno, it's all different now. It's like Wilson is more home than here. And - and that, that's good, I think." He lowered his eyes. "I don't wanna be a fuckup. One o' those guys who hang out at the Oasis every night after workin' some farm job and talk about how he kicked ass in high school. That's where all these guys, or a lot of 'em, are headed. They don't know it, but they are." He sighed. "And - and I don't want to leave, you know, my - my friends, and all. You, and -" it took a second to even think of someone else "- and David, and Dunc and Evan. Everybody." He looked up again. "Except McShane, him I'd dump in a second."
That was supposed to be a laugh line, but Doug wasn't smiling. He was looking intently at Brady. "Good," he said, and started to turn away. He stopped and turned back. "Bray, I - I want you to be happy, man. I know so much of your life has - well, been, you know, tough.. If - if you'd be happier here, do it. I just - you're my best friend, now, and . . . I'd like miss you. But it really is your call. OK? Do what's right for you." His voice sounded a bit shaky.
Brady swallowed hard. "I could never leave you," he whispered, before he could stop himself. He looked with open panic at Doug - had he revealed himself too much?
But Doug just smiled, his shoulders relaxed. "Never, man. We're brothers, right?"
Brady smiled thinly as his heart sank. "Yeah, right. Of course. Brothers."
Doug stepped to him and gave him a hug, patting his back. "We are gonna kick that School's ass, Bray. Promise. You and me, all the way."
Brady was swallowing hard, trying to stay in control. His eyes were shut tightly. "Right. All the way."