Here is the next chapter of this story. My thanks., as always, to Flip for his editing help; to those folks who've been kind enough to write me with comments (good and bad) about the story,; and of course to Nifty for hosting and providing us all with this forum. If you haven't donated to Nifty to help support it, consider it!
This story is of course fictional, so don't go looking for your cousin or weird neighbor in it. If you enjoy it, you might also like my other Nifty story, "Seal Rocks," which can also be found here in the HS section (the last chapter posted in April 2011). Feel free to keep those comments coming; they're my only source of feedback (and, I hope, occasional ego boost) from this process. Read and enjoy!
When the World Changed, Part 18
The bell ending study hall rang at 9:45, and Linsley erupted. David was gone - taken by another Hall Master to the infirmary before Brady even got back upstairs. Ian and Stud Douggie were gone, quick marched by Mr. Frazier to meet with Dean Storeman (and, it sounded like, Dr. Leeds as well). Mr. Billips told Brady that he'd be talked to later, since he had no apparent injuries from the events of the evening (he assiduously concealed the welts on his ass from Stud Douggie's flaying him with the belt). The result was that the entire dorm flooded into his room to talk to him, desperate to learn details or confirm rumors that had already begun flying about.
Brady had expected it. He'd hidden all of David's bloodied clothes and sheets, re-made David's bed neatly, and picked up everything he could. The room looked fairly normal, though the damage to David's speakers and stereo was hard to mask. The effort left him sweaty from the pain, and slightly nauseous. He managed to finish just before the maelstrom hit, and he sat unsteadily on the edge of his bed, waiting for it.
The explosion of noise and bustling about, after the tense silence of study hall, was daunting. Luckily, Evan was one of the first people in the room. Before he could say anything, Brady held a hand out to him, pointing. "David just got beat up. Nothing else. Got it?"
Evan stopped in his tracks, being jostled by several other kids pushing their way into the room. "What -"
"Nothing else happened to him. OK? I don't want all sorts of sick shit starting around about him. He just got beat up. That's plenty bad enough. OK?" He stared as fiercely as he could at Evan, though he really wanted to lie down, and maybe throw up. But I got nothing to puke, I haven't eaten, he thought. He wanted to, just the same.
Evan blinked a couple of times, swallowing hard. It was clear he'd seen exactly what had happened to David. Brady pointed at him again. "OK?"
"OK," Evan breathed, his face turning scarlet. "Just beat up. B - but beat up pretty bad, I mean, right?"
"Yeah, " Brady answered, suddenly blinking back tears. "He got it pretty bad."
Kids stormed in and began peppering him with questions. "What happened to David?" "Did Stud Douggie fuck him?" "Did Ian fuck him?" "Where's David?" "Is Ian gonna get kicked out? Is Douggie?" "What'd David do to get them so pissed at him?"
Someone in the crowd announced in a loud confident voice, "I heard Tanner was trying to get Ian to let him suck his dick, and Ian got sick of it."
"That's bullshit!" Brady shouted, rising quickly to his feet, ignoring the room's sudden roller coaster motion beneath his feet. He belched loudly. The crowd fell suddenly silent. "That's total fucking bullshit, d'you hear me? They - Ian, Douggie - they just had it in for him. They have since last year, who knows why. Isn't that right, Jerry?" Jerry Solomon was seated on David's bed, his face ashen, his hand unconsciously stroking David's pillow as he stared at Brady. "Haven't they had it out for David since last year?"
Jerry nodded solemnly.
"Well, what started it last year then?"
Brady sighed. "Does it really take anything for them to get after you? I mean really?" That quieted a lot of the whispering. The McShanes' history was David's best alibi, Brady knew. "David just got under their skin, I think, 'cause he didn't just take their bullshit and keep quiet. He gave 'em shit back. Which they deserved anyway."
"I heard he got butt-fucked," someone else said.
"Christ, that is such bullshit!!!" Brady shouted angrily, his eyes watering from the effort. "Evan, you saw him. Is that bullshit or what?"
Evan's Adam's apple bobbed visibly for a moment before he answered. "It's bullshit," he managed to say in a forceful voice. "He just - he got the shit beat outta him."
Various side conversations began, with theories of what had set the McShanes off vying for primary topic with speculations about the extent of David's injuries. It seemed common wisdom that David was going to lose an eye.
Brady sat alone, not really listening any more. He'd done what he could. He set the story in place as fast as possible, now it was up to guys like Evan to make it stick. He felt tired, weak. He worried about dry heaving.
A hand ran down his back. "What about you, Bray. Are you all right?" Doug was next to him, his face close, his cheeks pale. Brady looked at his deep brown eyes, filled with fear and worry. No one had asked him anything about his own condition all night. Doug was the first. He started to answer, felt the emotions coming up, and turned away toward the wall, gulping huge breaths that wracked his chest with pain.
Doug shot to his feet. "OK, come on, everybody out, OK? You heard what happened, now scram. Brady got hurt today too, at practice. Let him alone for a little, OK?" He and Evan herded most of the kids out of the room. When the door closed, it was just Jerry, Dunc, Vic Stenkowski, Evan, and Doug, all staring warily at Brady.
Brady wiped his face with the back of his good forearm. "I'm hungry," he whispered. "I missed dinner. Have you guys got anything?"
Vic moved to the door. "I'll hit the canteen. What do you want?"
Evan frowned. "Freshmen aren't allowed to go to the canteen on weeknights after study hall, Vic."
"Fuck that, I'm going. Just tell me what to get."
Brady smiled thinly at Vic's sudden (and uncharacteristic) bravado. "Thanks, Vic," he said softly. It was hard to keep his voice even. "Just – I dunno, anything. I appreciate it."
When Vic left, Doug ran a hand again down his back, but this time paused to feel the wrapping around his ribs. "Is it bad?"
"Four of 'em cracked. Not badly, but - but it really hurts. When I move, or move wrong, anyway. When I breathe, sometimes." He tried to take a deep breath to steady himself, and cringed while he did it. "It hurt, when Douggie got me."
"Got you?" Evan and Doug stared at him in shock. "What'd he do to you?'
Brady stood slowly. He swayed, and Doug caught him by the left elbow. "You gotta look at something for me, and not get like grossed out or anything, OK?"
"Oh, shit, Brady -" Evan started to say.
"No, not like that. It's just - Douggie went after me with a belt, and I don't know how bad it is." He briefly described how he had been ambushed and restrained in Ian's room. He really didn't want to dwell on the details. The color was back in Evan's face, and Doug's. Both looked like they wanted to hunt the McShanes down and very slowly kill them. Brady turned round and dropped his pants and underwear. He knew he should be embarrassed, but he was past the point of such details. "Is - is it very bad?"
One glance down at his underwear, about his knees, provided all the answer he needed, even before anyone could speak. The back of his white briefs had blotches of blood on them, streaks and mottled patches of dark red. "Jesus Christ," Dunc whispered. Jerry Solomon let out a soft cry.
Brady looked at Doug. His eyes were wide, and his face had whitened again. Not a good sign, Brady thought. Doug took a breath. "I think," he said, "we need to clean you up a bit." He pulled a towel down from the closet. "Um, Jerry, will you wet this for me? Bray, you got to lie down for me for a little, OK?"
"OK," Brady replied dully. He sat on the bed, and started to lie back. The shot of pain in his right side reminded him to move carefully, and Doug and Evan wound up helping him slowly to turn onto his stomach. Dunc guarded the door against intrusion.
When Jerry returned with the moistened towel, Doug and Evan began wiping Brady clean. They took several careful minutes to do so, whispering at times to each other. "A little more over there." "Don't pull on it and start it going again." Brady felt occasional sharp stings as they worked, and he started to become embarrassed again at his situation, lying there ass up getting his butt wiped by his friends. He started to sit up, only to have Doug's hand press gently against the back of his head. "It's OK, Bray, just stay there a little. It's not as bad as I thought at first."
Brady sighed. "Is that supposed to be encouraging?"
Evan snorted. "The way it looked when we started, yeah. It oughta be real encouraging."
"Jerry," Evan asked a moment later, "you got any like Jergen's or something? Something we can put on him?"
Jerry's gulp was audible. "Shit Evan, he needs to get looked at, we can't -"
"We're handling this, Jerry," Doug cut in softly, firmly. "That's how Brady wants it, right Bray?"
"Yes. Please." Brady felt deep relief that Doug understood his feelings on the subject. Jerry bustled off again, with Dunc emphatically closing the door as soon as he left. There was still a lot of noise outside.
"OK Bray," Doug said quietly a minute later. "You got a couple of welts that got cut open, but they're not deep, and they've stopped bleeding. We cleaned 'em some, and with luck Jerry'll have something to put on them."
Brady frowned. "I got a thing of Mercurochrome in my toiletry bag,"
"Jesus, Bray, that'll sting like a bitch." The idea clearly horrified Evan.
Brady lifted his head a bit. "Gotta do it, though, right? You know that as much as I do. I mean, all I need is to get an infection, down there. I mean Jesus."
Doug sighed, but rose and rifled through Brady's stuff. He soon returned with a small bottle whose lid had an applicator stick attached on its inside. He shook the bottle for a second. "You sure, Bray?"
"Yeah," Brady whispered. Now that it came to it, he really wasn't sure at all, but he felt like he had to go through with it. He feared being seen as weak. He'd already shown too much vulnerability, he had to be tough. Be a man. Don't be a pansy. He gritted his teeth and took two handfuls of his blanket. "Go ahead."
The next few minutes were, in many ways, worse than the beating from Stud Douggie. That had occurred suddenly, quickly, amid a swirling of pain and emotion; this was slow, calculated, and rationally inflicted. It was also searing agony. Mercurochrome stung badly in the best of circumstances when applied to a wound. Brady had hidden or avoided treatment for many a cut or abrasion when he was little just to keep his mother from putting it on him. Now he got what seemed gallons of it, daubed in broad swathes across both his asscheeks. He clenched his fists convulsively, hissed short breaths through his teeth, and prayed for it to be over. Evan, and even more Doug, kept repeating, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," as they did their work.
When it was finally done, Brady pressed his face into his pillow for about a minute, waiting for the burning sting to subside.
"Oh, fuck," he whispered into the pillow.
After a couple of minutes, he slowly sat up (with Doug and Evan helping), and pulled his underwear and pants back up. Dunc had been inspecting David's stereo equipment, apparently in an effort not to watch. "I can fix this stuff pretty easy," he noted. "Tell David that when he gets back. This isn't messed up badly at all. It just got knocked over, mostly." He sat back on his haunches, reattaching a cover to one of David's speakers. "I dunno why Douggie would trash the room like this, though. Like he was looking for something."
Brady met Doug's wide eyed stare evenly. He shrugged slightly and mouthed: Gone. Doug squeezed his eyes shut and turned away.
Vic burst in, grinning triumphantly, deflecting attention from the gesture. "I got three cheeseburgers for you, Brady - new ones, not the crappy old ones they keep in the water precooked and throw on the grill. And I didn't get stung!!! Fieldstone told the Prefect there that he had to cut me some slack because of what happened."
Brady shot him a sharp glance. "Fieldstone? What does he know?"
"Dunno," Vic shrugged, unwrapping what smelled like a delicious cheeseburger (to Brady's famished senses, anyway - to tell the truth, the food at the canteen was mostly awful). "They're all talking about it, though. Whatever they know, or think they know. A bunch of guys are ready to celebrate, they think they're finally rid of Stud Douggie. Ian too."
Brady took the cheeseburger and wolfed it down. Vic barely had time to unwrap the second before Brady reached for it. He immediately felt better. He finished up the last one with a bit more dignity, then let out a long sigh. "Wow," he muttered.
Evan was working his hands nervously in front of him. "I - I know what we're saying - about David, I mean. I understand why, and all. But - well hell, Brady, you saw it, too. It really did happen, didn't it??"
Brady closed his eyes. "Yeah," he breathed. "I think it really did." He paused. "Douggie - he, um, he was going to do it to me, too, but Frazier came by."
"Oh shit" Doug gasped.
Evan was staring, his jaw hanging. "But - but you woulda like stopped him, right? I mean you're not little like David is, and -"
"I couldn't have stopped him for anything," Brady whispered. He suddenly felt somehow unclean, for reason he couldn't quite fathom. He felt embarrassed to admit it, to Evan or anyone else. "I couldn't like move, or think. He could've done anything." He sniffled a bit. "Really, anything." He felt, rather than saw, Evan's horrified stare in response.
Doug's arm was around his shoulder now, and Brady fought the desire to lean into it, to bury his face in Doug's chest and hide form everything. He looked over, and saw the light in Doug's eyes. "It didn't happen, though, OK?" Doug whispered. "You - you're OK now."
"You call this OK?" Anger suddenly welled up in Brady. "Fucking Ian cracked four of my ribs, man, I can't fucking move or breathe right without it hurting like a bitch, and - and, you know, all the rest of it . . . " He didn't want to be specific.
"Well, relatively OK. I mean it's not like David."
"Yeah," Brady breathed. "Not like David." He fought the urge to cry again. "God, David."
"Did they give you anything for the pain? Evan asked. He clearly wanted to move the conversation to other subjects.
Jerry slipped back into the room. "I tried to find something. I really did, Brady, but -"
"It's OK, Jerry, thanks for trying. I'll be OK."
Jerry's voice caught as he asked: "What about David?"
Brady shook his head. "Dunno. I mean, he's tougher than you think, but . . . " The thought of what he'd endured simultaneously infuriated and frightened him.
"Fucking shit, we gotta do something!!!" Dunc had been sitting silent at a desk chair by the door, but now he started striding about the room. "We can't let those bastards get away with this shit!"
"Dunc, they got caught, man, they're going to DC for sure," Evan tried to reassure him. "They're gonna get their asses handed to 'em. Can you imagine what Taber'll do to them?"
"Fuck that, they need to get the snot kicked out of 'em! I don't want them expelled, I want 'em fucking strung up!"
"So what's your idea, Dunc?" Brady was growing tired. "You wanna go set fire to their rooms and stab 'em with butcher knives out on center campus?"
Dunc was taken aback for a moment, before he smiled sheepishly. "Well, kinda, yeah. That sounds pretty good for starters."
It took a moment for them all to explode into laughter. Brady gritted his teeth as he laughed, the jolts of pain hitting him every so often as he breathed.
There was a sharp knock, and before anyone could answer it, the door opened. Dean Storeman wore a long trenchcoat and a homburg. "Gentlemen, I'd like a few moments of Mr. Conover's time, if you don't mind. I believe it's also getting close to lights out, so you might all want to tend to things." The boys quickly filed out, Doug leaving with a last squeeze of Brady's shoulder. Dean Storeman closed the door carefully. "First thing, Mr. Conover, is, are you all right? Are you hurt?"
"I - I'm OK, sir," Brady answered nervously. "I mean aside from, you know, my ribs and all."
"I'm aware of that, yes. I meant aside from that."
"Oh, OK. Um, no, sir, I'm fine, really."
Dean Storeman pulled David's chair over to sit facing Brady. He leaned forward. "Did they do anything to you, son? Downstairs?"
"Um, well, they tripped me so I fell, and St - I mean Douggie, he put this, this belt around me so my arms were like pinned against my sides. Like a lasso, sort of."
Dean Storeman frowned. "You need to be honest with me here, son. Did anyone assault you?"
"N - no, sir, no one did anything like that to me."
"Mr. Frazier tells me you were pulling your pants up when he entered the room."
Shit, he'd seen it. "I - uh, well, Douggie, he was - he hit me with a belt, or something. On my butt."
"Are you hurt?"
"Sir, please, it's OK -"
"It is very much not OK, Mr. Conover. I have no idea why you of all people would lie or omit anything right now. Do you know what happened to Mr. Tanner?"
Brady gulped. "I - I saw it, sir, I have a pretty good idea, yes."
"Then you understand that I need to know: are you all right?"
Yes, sir, I just - I have some, like welts, and cuts and stuff, but it's not bad, the guys helped me -"
"Let me see." Brady stared at him, aghast. "Now, please."
The last thing Brady wanted to do was to show his ass to the Dean of Students. "Sir, please -"
"Now, Mr. Conover. It's all right, everything here is just between us for now."
Brady stood slowly. "Yeah, for now," he muttered. He dropped his pants and underwear and turned to face the wall, blushing furiously.
Dean Storeman took one long breath. "And Mr. McShane did this to you?"
"Yes, sir," Brady mumbled.
"Douglas McShane?"
"Yes."
A pause. "And what, if anything, did Ian do to you while you were in his room?"
"Ian? Um, well, really nothing, sir. He kind of, um, he talked to me. Like taunting. A little. But then, he tried to get Douggie to stop -"
"To stop what? Hitting you?"
Brady's throat caught - he'd slipped up. "Um, no, sir, he, um -"
Mr. Conover, I'm trying to be as kind as I can here, but I need to know." Dean Storeman swallowed audibly. "Did Mr. McShane sodomize you?"
"No, sir!!!" Brady exclaimed miserably. "He truly didn't sir, honest -"
"It's all right, son, calm down. Pull up your pants and sit." Dean Storeman waited until Brady was again seated facing him before resuming. "All right, he didn't - do that. Did he try?"
Brady closed his eyes in utter defeat and humiliation. "I - I think he was going to, sir. From what he said. That - that was when Ian tried to stop him, and they started to fight, and then Mr. Frazier came in."
Dean Storeman looked very intently at Brady for a long second. "All right. That takes care of my immediate concern. Now I need to know everything that happened, from the time Mr. Glendon dropped you off here. Everything you remember saying, or being said, everything you did or saw someone else do."
Brady went through the night's events as best he could. He was careful to omit any reference to the pictures. They were gone anyway, he thought, so what's the use. Dean Storeman seemed to have no idea about them either, which made the omission easier. When he finished, he felt compelled to add, "Sir, I talked to Evan and Doug and everybody. We - we're telling everybody that David just got beat up, that he didn't - you know, that that didn't happen. I - I want to give him some dignity, sir, in all this crap. He deserves it."
Dean Storeman smiled slightly, the effect alarming on his tight skinned sun ravaged face. Small wrinkles seemed to move everywhere. "That's a good thing for you to do, Mr. Conover, and I'm happy to pitch in. Mr. Tanner does deserve that, at the very least. Now, do you want to have your - your cuts," he gestured vaguely toward Brady with slight embarrassment, "tended to? I can walk you to the infirmary if you like -"
"Is David there?" Brady asked, suddenly urgent for news. He felt bad not to have asked sooner.
Dean Storeman's lips tightened a bit. "I believe he's been taken to the hospital over in Princeton to be looked over a bit more thoroughly. He did appear to be fine overall, just beaten up, as you said. Along with the one other issue, of course."
Brady gulped. "Yes, sir. The other issue,"
Dean Storeman stood. "Will you be able to sleep? I know those ribs are a bit uncomfortable for you right now. I've had a few cracked myself, you know." He smiled slightly again. "It happens to all us dumb football players sometimes, right?"
"I'll be fine, sir." It occurred to him that the events he'd just described to Dean Storeman actually put Ian in a relatively good light. "Ian - he did that to me. He like speared me. A cheap shot."
Dean Storeman's bony hand patted his shoulder. "I know, son. I know all about that." He stepped to the door and glanced at his watch. "Just about lights out now. I'll give you an extra fifteen minutes to take care of things in the bathroom. I'll inform Mr. Billips and your Prefects."
"Keep Cureton away for me," Brady snarled without thinking. His slip embarrassed him.
"I understand. That will also be dealt with. Mr. Cureton might need another calling here than as a Prefect, on this floor at least." He stood by the door. "Tomorrow, I want you to see Mr. Taber during third period. That's your first free one, I believe?"
"Yes, sir. Why is that?"
"He will be your advisor for Discipline Committee."
Brady swayed a moment. "DC? Wh-why am I going to DC?"
Dean Storeman held out a hand. "As a witness, Mr. Conover, as a witness. And I should think as a complaining witness as well. No one has you under any suspicion of any wrongdoing."
Being hauled in before DC with Mr. Taber sure didn't feel like not being under any suspicion of any wrongdoing, but Brady knew he had no choice. "Yes, sir. I assume he'll be expecting me?"
"Very much so." Dean Storeman reached for the doorknob slowly, as if reluctant to leave without some parting comment. "Mr. Conover," he finally said, his eyes on the doorknob in his hand, "I've been here for almost thirty years now. This is as ugly a thing as ever I've seen." He looked up at Brady. "It's a blot on this School. And you - one of our fine young students - are unfortunately caught in it, however tangentially. I hope this doesn't alter your overall view of Wilson."
Brady swallowed again, the emotions rising in him. "Sir, I'm very proud to be at Wilson. I just never want to deal again with those assholes."
Dean Storeman's grin split his face in two. Understood, son. Good night." He opened the door, then stepped back, mildly startled. "And what are you doing here?"
"I thought I should stop by and see Conover, sir." Bill Fieldstone was fully dressed in blazer and school rep tie, looking immaculate. "He's a Bevansman, after all, and -"
"I think Mr. Conover's had quite enough overall for tonight, Bill," Dean Storeman said. "Besides, it's lights out for freshmen any minute."
"Just for a moment, sir. Please."
"It's OK, sir," Brady said. "I - I have a few extra minutes, right?" Besides, he thought, I have to talk to him anyway, might as well get it over with. Get the story out.
Dean Storeman weighed things for a moment. "All right, if you're comfortable with it, Mr. Conover." He turned back to Fieldstone. "You mind your own lights out time, understand?"
"Yes, sir, no problem. I won't be long, I promise." Bill slid into the room and plopped down on the chair in front of Brady. The door closed, and Dean Storeman's voice came muffled through it, directing some kids to their rooms.
Brady listened to the noise from outside for a couple of seconds before remembering that Fieldstone was sitting in front of him. "Um, so, hi."
Fieldstone smiled slightly. "Hi yourself. So, big day, huh?"
Brady started to laugh in spite of himself. "Yeah, big day."
"How's the ribs?"
"Um, cracked. Four of 'em. I gotta be careful how I move, and breathe sometimes." Brady was trying not to look too closely at the fading bruises on Bill's face.
Bill nodded. "So how bad is Tanner?"
Brady gulped. "He - he just got beat up some. I mean he got beat up kind of bad, but that - that was all." He wondered if it sounded convincing.
Fieldstone took a long appraising second. "Right," he responded evenly. Apparently the ruse was less than convincing. "That's what Evan told me out in the hall, too. And Garretson. They were pretty, well, insistent."
Brady decided to stick to his guns. "That's what happened, man. I know there's already all this crap going round about what Douggie supposedly did to him, but it's all bullshit, OK? He just - he got beat really bad, Bill. It was awful." His tears were rising again; he fought to hold them back. "His - his face - it was all puffy and shit."
Fieldstone's hand felt warm and comforting against the back of his neck, fingers winding into his hair. "It's OK, Conover," he said softly. "I understand. Tanner just got beat up. I can sell that, for his sake."
Brady looked wildly at Fieldstone. "They can't know, Bill. It - it'll like kill him. I mean he's already - it's just not fair, Davey of all people . . ." He was choking up now, the emotions of the day crashing down upon him. He leaned forward, choking quietly, the gentle pressure on the back of his neck seeming to give him permission to let go.
"It's OK, Brady," Fieldstone whispered as his hand curled around Brady's head and pulled him into an embrace. Brady fell sideways into Bill's arms, his face pressed against his crisp white shirt. Don't let your snot get on his tie, a small voice reminded him, as he broke down. It took him a good minute to get himself back under control, to lift his face and turn away in shame from Fieldstone, trying to wipe his face against his good forearm. The bell for lights out rang loudly.
Fieldstone's hand stayed in his hair. "It's OK, Brady. Come here." He softly turned Brady's head to face him, and leaned over. His lips were against Brady's before Brady even realized what was happening.
It wasn't bad. Brady had never kissed another boy - he had fairly limited experience kissing anyone really, aside from an awkward spin-the- bottle game at a birthday party the previous year, and certainly Kenny would never do anything so intimate, even though he was apparently happy to blow him on the slightest pretext - but Fieldstone's lips, softly pressed against his, seemed natural and right. So he offered no resistance when, after a couple of seconds, Bill's lips parted, and his tongue slid gently into Brady's mouth as well. Instinctively, Brady's own tongue met this intrusion, sliding against and over it, and into Bill's mouth in turn. He felt his cheeks burning, and his cock hardening rapidly. An almost inaudible whimper came from his throat, and he sagged towards Fieldstone, into the embrace. Too far: his ribs sent a jolt of pain through him and he pulled back up, gasping a bit.
"What's wrong?" Bill asked. His cheeks were very red, as if he'd just run one of his cross country races, and his lips were engorged and deeply colored.
"Ribs," Brady grunted, trying to find a comfortable position. "Guess I can't lean like that. Sorry." He hoped his erection wasn't visible.
Fieldstone stood slowly, pulling his suit jacket closed in front of him. "Well, you're banged up, too, I know. I. um, I should probably get going before Storeman gets wind that I stayed too long, OK?" He ran a nervous hand through Brady's hair. Brady looked at him. He'd never noticed before how soft and silky Bill's hair was.
"Right,' Brady answered, standing as well. He suddenly felt impelled to walk Bill to the door, for some reason.
They were by the door, close to each other. "Try to get some sleep, OK? I can get the story out for you about Tanner."
"I'll try. Thanks, Bill."
Fieldstone's hand again slid through Brady's hair; it gave Brady goose bumps. "Glad to," Bill whispered, and they kissed again, softly, mouths open, tongues working vigorously against each other, for what seemed a long time. When Brady drew back, he was out of breath and felt sweaty. Fieldstone grinned at him, his eyes alight as in triumph n a way Brady didn't notice. "See you tomorrow."
"Right." Brady didn't really exhale until after the door had closed again.
He felt dizzy. His whole body seemed to be tingling. He didn't feel a thing in his ribs, for the first time all night. He was jarringly hard. What the hell just happened, he thought, blinking rapidly. He re-enacted the event several times in his head before deciding he should brush his teeth and get to bed. Maybe he could jerk off, though that seemed disrespectful to David, given the circumstances.
The hall outside his room was empty. A folded note was taped to the outside of his door: "Want to talk. Come up". Doug's handwriting. Brady felt a warm wave: Doug was still thinking of him! Then he remembered what had just happened, and the wave curdled into guilt. Oh, Christ, what'd I just do? I like cheated on him! God I'm so disgusting. He put his forehead to the cool brick wall by his door for a moment and gave way to his despair.
Getting up to the third floor really wasn't that hard - the Prefects were all in their rooms as well, probably after a thorough chewing from the Masters (and maybe Storeman too) out for not controlling events on their halls that night. Everyone seemed to have a wound or two to lick. Brady barely rapped his knuckle against Doug's door once before it flew open. He slipped quickly inside. Doug was in a T shirt and his underwear, obviously just out of bed. Dunc was propped on one elbow in his bed, hair comically askew, and shirtless. His chest's nice, Brady thought fleetingly, before Doug's arms wound about him. "God, man, are you OK? What'd Storeman say? Can I - is there, you know, anything I can do?"
"Just gotta wait for Davey, see how he is," Brady said. He felt guilty to be in Doug's arms, like this, with Fieldstone barely out of the building.
Doug seemed to feel the way Brady was shying away from him. He stepped back, looking slightly self conscious. "So what's up with Storeman?"
Brady filled them both in on the conversation. Dunc swung his legs out of bed to sit and listen. "So, so Storeman doesn't know about, um, what Davey had?"
Dunc cocked his head quizzically. Doug glanced at him and visibly realized he'd said too much. Brady shook his head. "I didn't tell Storeman. I mean what good would it do? They're gone. Last thing Davey needs is some wild story he can't prove about having pictures of Douggie doing shit to Ian."
"Oh, that," Dunc said, nodding his head.
Brady looked at Doug, shocked. "You told him?"
Doug looked away, embarrassed. "Well, he's my roommate, and all. I - we - we trust each other, with stuff. And I made him promise to keep it secret, right Dunc?"
"Never tell a soul, Brady, relax."
"That's what Doug told me," Brady said with a rueful smile. "And what I told Davey."
"I'm sorry, Bray," Doug said miserably.
The notion of Doug, of all people, feeling guilty, after what he'd just done, made Brady feel even worse. "Relax, no big deal," he said, perhaps a bit too quickly. He realized he needed to move the conversation along. "So I guess Taber is gonna be my lawyer or something at DC, I'm supposed to talk to him tomorrow."
"I don't get why you gotta go to DC," Dunc said suspiciously. "I mean you're the one who got fucked up here."
Brady shrugged, trying to look less worried than he really felt on the subject. "I dunno, just as a witness or something, I guess. Tell what happened, what I saw and stuff."
Doug nodded. "I wish I could see that. Their asses are so fried, man!"
"Well, I think Douggie's ass is, anyway," Brady said. "All Ian really did was the cheap shot on me. I dunno about Ian."
"You think they'd keep one and not the other?" Dunc asked. "Would their parents do that?"
Brady laughed sardonically, realizing that he suddenly sounded much like David. "Their dad'll never take any of this lying down. He'll come with a checkbook in one hand and a baseball bat on the other, or something like that."
"Right," Doug snorted, "like he can buy his way out of this!"
"It looks like they buy their way out of a lot of shit, actually," Brady observed quietly. He started to feel gnawing doubt. What if they let them get away with it? What if it was David who left? "Anyway," he added, "I'm kinda beat here. I'm gonna go back down before we all get stung for this, OK?"
"You need any help?" Doug asked. The concern in his eyes simultaneously made Brady feel warm all over, and broke his heart.
"I'm fine," Brady said with shrug. "Listen, both you guys - thanks a lot, for everything tonight. I - it really helped, OK? And Evan and Vic, and Jerry too. All of you. I, I didn't say that before, and I should have." He was emotional again. "It's - I really do appreciate it."
Doug's hand rubbed the back of Brady's neck, much as Bill's hand had. Alarmed, Brady pulled away with a jerk. Doug looked at him for a moment in surprise, then lowered his gaze. "Ok, well, glad to, you know. We - we're, like, friends. And all. Right?" Dunc's head was again cocked to one side.
"Right," Brady said, unable to bring himself to look at Doug, and hurried out the door and down to his room.
He turned off all the lights and sat on his bed. God, he kept thinking, long day. He slowly stripped and clambered into bed, suppressing his cries from occasionally moving wrong. It took several uncomfortable minutes to find a position to sleep in that didn't hurt.
The light from the hallway, flooding in through the opened door, startled him awake. He jerked upward only to be caught by the pain in hi side. He hissed at the throbbing jolt. "Just stay there, Conover," David said in an even voice. "I'm just gonna sleep myself."
"David?" Brady said loudly, shocked. He hadn't expected to see David until - well, he hadn't really formulated an exact estimate, but certainly not that night. "Davey, are you OK?" He tried to climb out of bed, wincing as he did so.
"Fine," David answered, closing the door. He heard David throw his jacket onto his desk. "So you had to play Mr. Hero, huh? How'd that go?"
"I - it was - well, they kind of jumped me," Brady admitted, embarrassed. "But Frazier caught 'em, caught 'em both. They're fucked, Davey. They're going to DC, and they're gonna get kicked out."
"Yeah," David answered, quietly. "A glorious victory."
Brady didn't know how to begin. "So - so you're, um, you're really OK?"
David snorted slightly and clicked on his desk lamp. It took Brady's eyes seconds to adjust to the sudden flood of light. David's left eye was still swollen, with a dark bruise developing below it. His lip looked better than Brady had remembered. He doesn't look that bad, Brady thought. Just like he's been in a fight, which is OK. "So what d'you think?"
Brady glanced away. "There he is, Miss America," he half sang.
David snorted again and sat on his bed. That seemed to hurt, though - he started and shifted his weight, grimacing, for a second or two before settling in. Brady blinked, trying to pretend he hadn't noticed. "Is - is that OK, too - I mean, your butt and all?"
David looked down. "Well, I didn't need stitches, that's the good news." He stared at the floor. "I mean, how bad would that be - to have to get stitches in your asshole? I kept imagining that."
"So you're OK?"
David looked at him. "As good as I can be, considering a just got like raped, you know?"
Brady felt awful for asking, for prying into such a horribly private and painful thing. "Davey, I'm sorry, I didn't -"
"Relax," David said. "I mean, it happened, right? I gotta deal with it."
Brady sat up slowly, hissing as the pain shot through him again. Jesus, this is ridiculous. "I - I got Evan, and a bunch of the guys, to tell people that you just, you know, got beat up. And nothing else."
"As in 'no, he didn't get fucked?' "
"Well, yeah. I mean I wanted to stop the like rumors and all, you know? Like right off, just not let 'em even get started. I mean guys are saying you lost an eye and shit already -"
"They think I lost an eye?" David started laughing. "Where the fuck did that come from?"
"Well, this shit gets going, you know how it is. So, so I wanted to stop it from spreading. And Storeman, he's gonna go along."
"When did you talk to Storeman?" Brady briefly described the evening after the end of study hall. He carefully omitted any reference to Fieldstone's visit. David listened, his head down.
"I wish," David said mournfully, "I hadn't been such a pussy. I never should've told Douggie where the pictures were. I just - it hurt so bad, when he hit me. I got so scared. I just kind of fell apart . . ." He sighed. "That's gonna be a problem at DC. They're gonna want some kind of explanation why Douggie'd go Bogatz on me like that. I mean, what can I say - 'well, I had these incriminating pictures of him fucking his little brother in a dorm bathroom, but I don't have 'em any more'? Like that'll fly."
Brady swallowed hard. "Davey, you - you're not - you can't leave, OK?" He'd been brooding about this subject, in the back of his mind, for a couple of hours now.
"Leave? Leave what?"
"I mean like leave school or go someplace else or something." Brady felt his chest tighten. "You can't let them win like that. And," he took another breath, "and - I'd like, um, miss you. I - I don't -"
"Skip it," David said curtly. "I'm not gon' anywhere. My dad'd never let me, for one thing. And - and yeah, I'm not gonna give them that satisfaction. They're not gonna fuckin' beat me, OK?" There was an edge to his voice Brady had never heard before. He sighed. "I don't know how I'm gonna face people the next coupla weeks, though."
"It'll be all right," Brady answered, though he wasn't at all sure he believed it.
They sat, staring alternately at each other and the floor, in silence. There seemed so much else to say, but no way to say it. After a bit David wordlessly stood, clicked off the light, and climbed into bed. Brady swung his legs back under his covers, slowly, as well.
The silence lasted maybe ten minutes, maybe ten years. Brady stared into the darkness, wide awake. His thoughts were racing far too fast for anything so mundane as sleep.
There was a noise from across the room, in the darkness. It was muffled, so it took Brady several seconds to realize what it was. David was crying softly into his pillow, Brady had to do something. He slipped as quietly as he could from his bed and knelt by David's. This close, he could see the small shoulders shuddering, even in the darkness. He hesitated, then put a hand into David's thick dark hair. "Davey," he whispered.
David flung himself against Brady's chest, the sobs loud and unmuffled for a moment, until his face pressed into Brady's t shirt. The impact, and the ferocity of David's arms around him, hurt horribly, but he ignored the pain. This is nothing, he thought, compared to what he's been through. What he's going through now. After a minute, he swung himself up onto the bed with David, holding him, feeling his thin sparrow body shake with each ragged breath. Brady let out one grunt as he did so, where he couldn't quite master his own pain. David wiped his face back and forth across Brady's chest. "Am I hurting you?" he asked, shakily.
"No," Brady answered. "You're fine." They lay down together, Brady outside the covers but heedless of the night's cold, his own discomfort, or anything aside from the small boy in his arms. He pushed his face into David's hair and started silently crying as well.
They shared their grief, and their wounds, all night, even after sleep finally took them.