When the World Changed

Here is the next chapter of this story. My thanks to all those who've written me with comments (positive and negative) on it thus far. I hope the story continues to be of some interest, and I welcome all comments (we all need our little ego trips, after all). This story is entirely fictitious, and all the usual disclaimers and warnings apply. All typos are entirely mine (I'm a lousy typist, for which I apologize).. As always, I'll note that if you like this story, you might also enjoy "Seal Rocks," my other Nifty story, also here in the HS section with a final chapter posted last April. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy it.

When the World Changed, Part 7

He was about five minutes late for dinner as he plodded toward the foyer of Geiger, headed to the dining hall. It was oddly noisy. As he reached the foyer, he saw the team gathered, along with Mr. Glendon. "About time, Conover, are you all right?"

"Y - yes, sir. Sorry, I didn't know -"

"No problem. We're going in as a team, just like we played as a team today. You boys deserve it. I'll make sure you're all cleared for being late to dinner. Creed, Spencer, lead the way." The boys cheered and began bounding up the stairs, their weariness seemingly vanished. Brady found himself next to Doug and Alan Black, who both were grinning like it was Christmas.

They stepped into the dining hall as a group. Brady saw Mr. Taber, seated at a table near the entrance, fold his napkin formally, and stand, applauding. His table rose at once, and the rest of the room followed suit, clapping and cheering. The sound was deafening, it raised bumps on Brady's skin. The team stood in wonderment as the School cheered their victory. What the hell, Brady thought, we're only freshmen. Brady saw Bill Fieldstone whistling and bouncing up and down at the far end of the hall. David was toward the middle, clapping quietly and smiling just a little.

After what seemed an eternity, Mr. Glendon stepped forward, and the cheering died out. "I want to introduce to you, your freshman football team, that today took on the varsity from Summerton High and defeated them 24-18." The din resumed, perhaps even louder. Mr. Glendon was smiling broadly; he let the cheers go for several seconds before again motioning for silence. "These young men have done you all proud today. They're full Cavaliers now, and they deserve your applause." More cheers. "Now," Mr. Glendon called over the tumult, "let's get them some dinner!"

To Brady's astonishment, members of the varsity team appeared at each of their sides, shaking their hand and escorting them to their tables. It had all clearly been prearranged, but Brady had no idea how. Brendan McCracken, the varsity tight end, took Brady by the shoulder and guided him to his table, complimenting him with words Brady couldn't quite make out. McCracken was a giant - 6'7", about 220 - and was already being scouted by a number of big colleges. The honor was overwhelming.

As they passed his table, Mr. Taber, still applauding, shook Brady's hand. "I hope you think a little better of your school now, Mr. Conover."

"Yes, sir," he said, unable to suppress a grin. "I still don't much like Summerton, though."

Mr. Taber threw his head back and laughed. "At least now you have reason to."

At his table, Brady and Chase Morgan were clapped on the back by everyone, and treated as conquering heroes. "So they really threw their varsity at you guys? At freshmen?" asked Chris Wolfsen, a usually shy kid who was in his English class. His voice hadn't quite completed its pubescent change; it squeaked alarmingly every so often, especially on emphasized syllables.

Brady shrugged. "I guess. That's what Glendon told us. I didn't, you know, ask them much." His eyes wandered, and he saw Doug a few tables away, also being questioned and congratulated by his own table mates. Their eyes met, and they both broke into laughter. It was all so cool, so ridiculous, so thrilling. Brady wanted to run over and kiss Doug right there. "So were they like greasy townies or anything? Did they smell?" Chris seemed to want full details.

A hand clapped his shoulder. Bill Fieldstone stood over him. "Good day?"

Brady smiled again. "Yeah. Hard day. They were really big, strong." He glanced about him, as if guilty to say this aloud. "I kind of thought we were gonna get our asses kicked, to be honest. And - and we did, for a while, But they sort of wilted. It was weird." He realized for the first time that his right pinky's end joint wasn't bending, and looked to have shifted visibly to the side. He idly yanked on it, and it went back into joint with a crack audible to everyone at the table. Dave Wolfsen grimaced, his hand over his mouth. That should hurt, Brady thought as he quizzically examined his hand, but it doesn't. That's odd.

"You'll need ice for that," Bill said, and he hustled off before Brady could respond. Mr. Freeman, the Table Master., handed him a plate overfilled with roast beef and potatoes (the beef even looking moderately edible, which was a pleasant surprise), and Brady suddenly realized how hungry he was. He mumbled his thanks. And, ignoring the questions peppering him, he dug in.

He took seconds, and thirds. As he grew sated, he became deeply tired. He sat back, listening to the chatter of the table (which had gone on to other matters of import, such as a junior's supposedly being caught with multiple copies of a decidedly pornographic picture book), and closed his eyes. He felt at home. He was part of this place orever, whatever strange or ugly things it held. It was, at the same time, marvelous and deeply sustaining. He thought of the trophies along the walkway, and wished they'd gotten the game ball. Was this a great enough triumph to merit a ball on that shelf?

Fieldstone was back, with a baggie half filled with ice. "I couldn't find a tie or anything to close it, so be careful or it'll spill on you." The baggy looked leaky. Brady accepted it, gratefully, and a bit self consciously. A senior shouldn't be, like, waiting on me like this. "Thanks," he said, wrapping it as much around the end joint of his pinky as he could, and ignoring the small steady dribbling of melted water that fell onto the linen tablecloth. Chris Wolfsen was talking rapidly about something, Brady couldn't really make it out.

Fieldstone stood over him. smiling, his hand on his shoulder. "I heard about the game, Conover. You did the Bevans-men proud today." He squeezed Brady's shoulder a moment, then left, his hand passing up onto the back of Brady's neck and into his hair as he passed. Brady felt a great weariness coming over him. He was grateful when the meal ended soon after, and he could trudge slowly, alone, back out through the walkway and down the stairs. He wanted to sleep.

David was leaning against a wall of the hallway back towards Linsley, clearly awaiting his passage. "So now you're the local jock hero for a day, huh?" There was an odd edge to his voice.

Brady shook his head and slumped against the corridor wall next to David. "It's just a freshman football game, it's no big deal."

David snorted. "Bullshit. You realize they just gave you guys the full conquering hero bit, don't you?"

Brady shrugged. I dunno. That was cool, to be recognized and all. When the varsity wins tomorrow at Germantown, they'll probably shoot off fireworks or something."

David shook his head. "You don't get it. We never beat Summerton in the frosh or JV stuff- they always load up on us with varsity guys just so they can kick our asses. Talk to any of the day boys; they'll tell you what the kids at Summerton High think of us."

Brady smiled faintly, recalling Kenny's disdain. "I can imagine." The wall was cool against his back, as only thick lath and plaster can be, three foot thick brick and mortar built to stand for the ages. He leaned into its solid support and closed his eyes.

An argument among the passing crowd made him refocus. Stud Douggie was walking Ian down the hall, holding him by the bicep, and chewing him out in a low but unmistakably angry tone. Ian looked, for once, completely subdued and frightened. Douggie abruptly pivoted and shoved Ian into the boy's bathroom halfway down the hall, then stepped in after him, reaching down toward his waist as he did so. The door slammed behind them with an alarming whack.

Brady blinked. "What -"

"You don't want to know," David said, stepping out to head back to their room, and pulling Brady along behind him. "Let's just go."

Brady allowed David to guide him down the hallway to the door, and down the sidewalk to Linsley, and if he thought he heard a cry of fear and pain as he passed that bathroom, he suppressed any recognition.

The hour before study hall started was a near constant stream of boys poking their heads into Brady and David's room, congratulating Brady. The acclamation quickly became embarrassing, and he started almost to ignore the guys who kept appearing and saying kind things.

David sat at his desk, making no pretence of studying., and watched Brady. "Why are you hiding? Enjoy this. You're the A-1 jock hero now. You just made your place here." He sounded, again, mildly resentful.

"I didn't do shit," Brady said, feeling guilty. "It was, like, a team thing. I'm just one player. Spencer scored most of the time and all. And Evan - "

"I know all that, but you're part of it. Don't you get it? It rubs off, the stardust collects on all of you. The jock aristocracy, that's what places like this are built on. Even fucking McShane gets credit, which is a real laugh if you ask me. Getting kicked out isn't exactly covering yourself in glory."

Brady again felt the need to defend his teammate. "Hey, man, Ian was going after a guy who'd just taken a cheap shot at me - I got no complaint with him for doing that. I need to defend him the same way if the time comes."

"You really think he was defending you?" David was almost angry. "You think he gives a fuck about you? He wants to be Mr.A-1 Hardass, and he's not fussy about how he proves it. You know what Stud Douggie was doing with him just now, don't you?" Brady shook his head. "He was probably gonna pound the shit out of him for not being the big hero like he was supposed to be, not to mention the whole thing with getting kicked out. Both of them are all about themselves, and nobody else." He shook his head. "I can't believe you don't get that yet about him"

Brady shrugged. He felt defeated, in a moment when he knew he should feel triumphant. "I dunno," he whispered, "I'm just glad we won, and all of a sudden it's like this whole soap opera thing got mixed into it. Can't I just enjoy this?"

David smiled tolerantly. "Yeah, enjoy it, Bray. Hey, it's good for me too, right? Now I'm the roommate of the stud guy who helped beat Summerton's varsity. Just all so really, really neat.." He turned abruptly to his desk and made a show of studying.

Brady started to ask what was wrong, but decided against it. He needed to see Doug. The idea of walking out of his room and up the stairs to his room, however, seemed overwhelming. He lay back on his bed. . "Why can't anything be simple?" he asked, as he drifted off.

Friday nights were low key, he already knew. Wilson split its Wednesday class schedule in half, with the later half becoming classes on Saturday morning. Brady had thought this an awful idea when he first learned of it, but he now liked it. It freed up Wednesday afternoons, and since he had to be up anyway on Saturday, a class or two was no big deal - besides, they were over by 10:30 in the morning. Friday evening study hall was thus barely enforced, even for freshmen, and kids wandered more or less freely about the hall, with the Prefects and Hall Masters not much bothering to keep order unless the noise level got extreme. The result, this particular Friday, was that Brady got very little rest. The stream of guys knocking and poking their heads into the room, wanting to congratulate and talk to Brady, continued unabated. It was embarrassing and cool at the same time. He kept trying to sleep, but to no avail. Finally he gave up and started changing into jeans and a sweat shirt when Doug and Dunc showed up. "It's almost 9:30," Dunc said eagerly. "I got a new Hendrix record - my brother sent it from London." Doug glanced at Brady and shrugged, smiling, as Dunc and David became almost frantic with excitement.

Brady had to stop staring at Doug. "So," he muttered, glancing down, "you been getting people coming by too?"

"Yeah, it's pretty nuts. Very cool, though." He screwed up his face to indicate how little he thought of the term: "It's groovy, y'know?"

The four of them shared a laugh over that. They spent the time remaining in study hall planning their seating arrangements for the following day. The varsity's opener was an away game, and the school had buses to take the entire student body to watch. David wasn't much interested in the game per se, but in the chance to get off campus for a while. Dunc seemed split in his interests. Doug and Brady, however, were eager to see the varsity play. Doug flopped down on the bed next to Brady, and the two started quietly recalling the day's events. They huddled together, smiling at the memories, heads inclined towards each other, and oblivious to David and Dunc arguing over which Hendrix song was the best.

Chris Wolfsen showed up at the door as soon as the bell rang ending study hall. "Hey Brady, are you going to the game tomorrow? Can I sit with you? I gotta hear about stuff today. Oh, hi Garretson," he stuttered upon noticing Doug sitting next to Brady on the bed.

"Hey Chris, what's happening?" Doug answered smoothly. "We're all going, aren't we?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Brady said with a grin. He glanced at Doug. "You find us and we'll all hang out together, OK Chris?"

Chris' face flushed. "Really? Thanks, man, that's really solid. I - I'm sorry I've been, like, sort of ignoring you."

Brady cocked his head, puzzled. "You have? Why'd you do that?"

Chris licked his lips nervously, "Oh, you know, a couple of kids said stuff - you know how it is."

Doug sat up. "No, we don't know how it is. Who said what?"

Chris got even more nervous. He stepped in and closed the door behind him, "McShane," he whispered. "He lives down the hall from me, and he was talking in the bathroom the other morning about how -" he glanced around " - how you guys were dumb hicks and queers and stuff, and how he was gonna see that you got run out of school." He was blushing. "He kind of scared me. I didn't want, you know, to get in the middle of any crap, and, . . . " He seemed unable to offer any further xplanation.

Brady smiled, masking his anger and concern. "No sweat, Chris. It's all cool. It gets weird sometimes, right?" He was conscious of David, Dunc, and especially Doug, watching him closely. "It's really cool that you want to sit with us and all, but if you're worried it'll cause you any shit with Ian, you don't have to. We'll understand. We know you better now, right?"

Chris shook his head. "No, I'm not gonna be scared of him, that crap is - it's just so much bullshit, you know? I don't know what it is with him, but he's an asshole."

Brady laughed. "He's just Ian, he does what he thinks he needs to." Brady wasn't about to say anything publicly insulting about McShane, however angry he may have been. He also wondered if he could entirely trust Chris. God, am I turning into a two faced son of a bitch, he thought. "You want to sit with us, just look for us at the buses tomorrow."

David piped up, "Hey Chris, you ever heard Hendrix? We got a new record, an import from England." Brady and he exchanged glances; Brady appreciated his timely changing the subject.

Chris perked up. "Really? Coolness, can I hear it?"

"Just about to put it on," Dunc announced, bending over David's turntable. Brady gestured to his desk chair, and Chris sat, an eager look on his face.

Within minutes, David, Chris, and Dunc were in an animated conversation (shouted over the Hendrix record) about who was the best guitarist. David and Dunc took Hendrix's side, but Chris was eloquent in defense of Clapton and Jeff Beck. "And the Yardbirds' old bass player - when Beck was with the band? - is really good too. Jimmy Page. Wait'll you hear him."

"He's a bass player," Dunc said dismissively.

"No, he's right," David said, looking at Chris with newfound respect. "Page is amazing, he just was playing bass for the gig."

As the discussion continued, Brady and Doug slipped out of the room. The hallway was alive with kids running back and forth, some in underwear to the bathroom, some between rooms, from each of which a different song seemed to be booming. It was chaotic and entirely comfortable. Brady leaned against the fire door to the stairwell, watching the maelstrom, and smiled. "I'm beat."

"Me too," Doug said, also smiling quietly. He dropped his shoulder against the door nest to Brady and looked at him, a small smile playing about his lips. They're so full and soft looking, his lips, Brady thought for a moment, before forcing the idea back down to his subconscious.

A long minute passed, with their eyes locked. "So," Doug finally breathed, "do you trust him? What he said and all?"

"Who, Wolfsen? Yeah, I think so. I'm glad I wasn't the only one wondering about that, though." They grinned at each other.

"Hey, we laugh alike, we walk alike, sometimes we even talk alike."

"We could lose our minds," Brady completed the lyric. They laughed easily.

Brady's eyes wandered as he considered the matter more seriously. "I mean it's not like I have any real idea, but yeah, I think I trust him. I know what he said about McShane sure fits, right?"

"Yeah, you got that. I wish I understood why he's being such a dick."

Brady shrugged. "David thinks Stud Douggie was gonna beat the snot out of him after dinner tonight."

"Where? For what?"

"Douggie was yanking him into that bathroom along the main corridor in Geiger after dinner, and he looked pissed. David and I saw. Ian looked scared shitless."

Doug ran a hand over his face. The cut on the bridge of his nose had scabbed over. It was a lot thinner than it had looked right after the game, but was now flanked above and below by a nasty greenish bruise. Brady again suppressed an urge to caress it. Doug's eyelashes cast tiny spidery shadows on the skin just below his large eyes. Doug looked sleepy, his eyelids were a little droopy. He was impossibly cute. Brady had a huge grin on his face looking at him, which Doug noticed. "What?"

Caught again. Brady looked away, blushing, and stammered. "I, uh, you know, I was, um, thinking, um, about the game, and all. You know, winning, and dinner and all. Just that stuff." He moved away from Doug, self consciously.

Doug flattened his back against the door and sighed, looking down at his feet. "Yeah, it was really neat. What'd McCracken say to you?"

Brady chuckled, relaxing a bit. "I was so surprised by it all, and it was so noisy, I got no idea."

Doug joined his laughter. "That guy's huge, man. His hand like swallowed your whole shoulder." He put his hand on Brady's shoulder, in a manner similar to what McCracken had done. The touch was warm and solid; Brady felt his blush deepen. "I mean look at that, my hand is so tiny by comparison." Brady looked at Doug's hand. He wanted to feel it run over him, into his hair, down his chest. He was becoming tumescent.

"Conover!" Evan Creed burst through the fire door at the other end of the hall, in a white T shirt and shorts, brandishing a lime green water pistol. "Your time has come!" He sprinted toward Brady, squirting madly even though he was ridiculously out of range, and shouting as he came. Brady, laughing, saw a room door ajar and bolted in as Evan drew closer, slamming it and leaning against it to prevent him from opening it. Doug, caught on the outside, yelled in protest. "Don't fucking abandon me!" Then Evan was upon him, and Brady heard their cackling laughter as they wrestled clumsily against the door and adjacent wall.

"Um, Hi Brady. What's up?" A small boy, not quite out of his baby fat, was sitting at his desk, looking puzzledly over his shoulder.

"Oh, hi Vic, sorry. Creed was attacking with a water pistol and I needed some cover." Vic Stenkowski was already known as one of the major weenies of the class - taking advanced math classes, lobbying his teacher to get a compute for the school. He wore thick outsized horn rimmed glasses that were so clichéd they invited mockery. Brady really hadn't spoken more than two wards to him in their week and a half of living on the same floor - not out of any sense of distaste, but simply because Vic tended to keep to himself. His roommate, Greg Petty, was nowhere to be seen - a hallmark of Greg, who seemed to be even more invisible than Vic usually was.

"No problem," Vic smiled back. He had huge braces. "I don't have any water pistol or anything, sorry." The thumping against the door and wall had abated.

"That's OK, I was just hiding out for s minute. Sorry to bug you."

"No problem, I was reading." He held up a paperback with an odd blue cover that had a picture of some sort of tree on it.

"Oh, OK, neat. Is that for a class or something?"

Vic shook his head. "I just like to re-read Lord of the Rings a lot. I'm working on my Elvish."

Brady had no good response to that. He blinked slowly, trying to translate the comment into something that made sense.

"Looks like you never heard of Lord of the Rings," Vic observed. He was smiling slightly, as if he had some really important information to impart.

"Um, no, not really, sorry."

Vic gestured to a poster taped to the wall above his bed, a large brightly colored map of some place Brady couldn't recognize. "It's a whole imaginary world. Three books, about all sorts of stuff. It's the neatest thing on earth."

Brady nodded, still not understanding much of anything. "OK, right. Well, I'm sorry to bust in on you like this," he said probably a bit too fast as he listened against the door. "Let me get out of your hair and all."

"No problem. If you want to read it, I can lend it to you anytime. You'll love it, believe me."

"Right. OK, thanks Vic, see ya tomorrow I guess. You going to the game?"

"Maybe. It'd be nice to just be here alone and read."

That response made absolutely no sense to Brady. It was the varsity football game, for Christ's sake. Read your Lord crap some other time. "OK," he said. "Well, see you."

Brady nodded, and peeked out the door. All seemed quiet. He stepped out into the hallway, suddenly regretting having left Doug. He probably got squirted and all, he thought. But that wasn't all he regretted.

He was so occupied with his thoughts that he never realized the fire door behind him was opening. When he did, he turned just in time to meet a faceful of cold water. Doug and Evan had filled a wastebasket and dumped it on him. Their shouts of triumph were outpaced by Brady's shriek (the water was really, really cold), and his ensuing attempt to tackle Evan and Doug simultaneously made an even bigger racket. They were all in hysterics.

Mr. Billips, when he appeared along with Grace and Cureton, was pissed. "The whole damn carpet here is wet," he shouted at the boys, whose mortification at getting caught couldn't quite overcome their continued laughter. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Boys were peeking out from all the doors on the hall; Brady was conscious of Vic Stenkowski just behind him, smiling tolerantly. "I ought to sting you guys within an inch of your lives! Maybe you should stay here tomorrow and clean the carpet instead of going to the game."

That made Brady blanch. "S - sir, please, we're really sorry. We'll get it all dried up before lights out, I promise.' How, exactly, he was going to accomplish this he had no idea, but the thought of missing the football game was unbearable. Evan and Doug's faces showed similar horror. They both joined in, stammering apologies and assuring Mr. Billips that the carpet would be good as new, just let them take care of it. Billips fumed for another minute or so, then strode back to his apartment at the far end of the hall. "It better be cleaned up, and soon. I mean it."

"Yes, sir," Brady called after him. "It will be, promise." It wasn't until Billips had slammed his apartment door that he, Doug, Evan, and most of the hall burst into laughter.

Grace and Cureton leaned against the wall, arms folded, and watched. "Nice job, guys," Cureton said after a minute or two. "But he's serious, you know. He'll fuck with you if this doesn't get fixed, and fast."

Evan was pale. "What are we gonna do?"

Brady looked at the puddle. "Get every towel you can find, and the vacuum cleaner. Come on, move it. David?" he called.

David languidly moved towards them from their room, shaking his head. "Am I supposed to pull your ass out of the fire here?"

"No, just get as many towels as you can - borrow them from other guys. I'll wash them myself on Sunday if I have to." Other boys were already volunteering a number of towels of varying sizes. David glanced at the scene a moment, then went back into their room. Brady threw the towels onto the wet carpet and started stomping on them. "Come on," he said to Evan and Doug, "get your big assed feet over here."

"What the hell are you doing?" Doug asked.

"The towels will soak up the water," he explained, "but we have to like blot it. Like this." He demonstrated by stomping again on a folded towel, making a water stain appear slowly through its layers.

They soon had six or eight boys stomping around on the affected area of the carpet, using towel after towel. Their laughter returned as they worked, and Brady and Doug held on to each other's shoulders to avoid tipping over as they trod again and again on the uneven piles of towels that were continually being placed beneath their feet. Jokes about crushing grapes inevitably came up, and the entire affair became festive. Evan retrieved the building's huge and cumbersome vacuum cleaner from a janitor's closet in the basement, and Brady thoroughly went over the wet area, setting the nap as low as he could. "My luck, it'll suck the carpet up or something,' he cracked, setting off another wave of laughter.

By the time the warning bell for lights out rang, the carpet was barely damp to the touch. Doug knelt over it, rubbing furiously with yet another towel, as Brady knocked on Mr. Billips' door.

Mr. Billips appeared in a robe, bare spindly legs beneath (unnaturally pale, with uneven black hair tufting on them). "Well?" he demanded groggily.

"Sir, we got it all cleaned up. Come on and see, it's fine now."

Mr. Billips yawned extravagantly and padded down the hall. The boys watched, breath held. He slapped a bare foot on where he thought the spill had been, though in fact he was so sleepy he missed the actual spot by a good foot and a half. "OK, good. Do that crap again and it's DC. I mean that. Get to bed, all of you."

Brady grinned at Doug as he thanked Mr. Billips effusively for being so understanding. The boys dispersed to their rooms.

David was sitting on his bad, already in his pajamas. "Total skate. You're amazing - what a jock can get away with."

"What? We didn't get away with anything, we almost got detention and missed the trip tomorrow."

"Almost," David repeated. "Almost. That's like the recurring theme, isn't it, for you? You almost had something bad happen, but because you're the hot shot jock and crap, it never quite does happen. If I pulled something like that they'd have me in detention till my eyes fell out of my head."

Brady wasn't prepared for this. "Come on, David, I didn't say, 'you have to go easy on me because I play football' or anything. That's not fair."

"You don't need to say that, Brady, don't you get it? You just get that treatment. It's given to you on a silver platter, and you don't even know it."

That pissed Brady off. "I've never had anything handed to me on a silver platter in my whole fucking life, David, and you know it. Don't start this shit with me about how you're all poor and oppressed or something - not when you have everything I never could dream of."

"What, like a father?"

Brady was ready to punch him when the lights out bell rang. They stared at each other a long moment, then turned to put out their desk lights. Brady threw himself into bed, fuming. He wanted to tell David to fuck off, but bit his tongue. The dark minutes crept by icily. "Brady?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry, that was really out of line. About your dad, and all."

A long pause. "Why would you say something like that?"

Another pause. "I just get pissed off. It seems like it's always about the Goddam jocks and shit, and I'm always on the outside looking in."

Brady swallowed. He knew that feeling. "I'm on the outside, too, you know. In lots of ways. You think I feel like I belong here sometimes, when everybody's so rich and shit? I go to class, I look like the fucking janitor next to you guys. It's embarrassing - every day, all day."

He heard David stir. "No you don't, your clothes look fine." A short silence. "Who gave you shit about your clothes?"

Brady snorted. "Wanna guess?"

David sighed. "OK, look, I'm gonna tell you again: Do NOT let asshole McShane, or his larger asshole brother, get to you. That's what they want, it's how they live. You can stand up to them. I sure as shit can't." His voice took on a pleading quality. "Please, Bray, don't let them get to you. Not you, out of anybody."

Brady blinked, feeling a sudden sense of responsibility. "OK," he whispered.

They fell silent again for a while.

"Your face, when they were getting you with the bucket? Truly priceless. We were all watching." He started to giggle.

Brady tried not to crack up as well. "Some loyal roommate you are, letting me get smeared."

David rolled in his bad, now laughing openly. "It was like a fish," he grunted out between breaths. They both pressed their faces to their pillows to avoid making too much noise.

Brady couldn't sleep, despite feeling immensely tired - or maybe because of it. He stared at the ceiling, watching the light from the lamp post outside waver as the thinning leaves blew in the night breeze. David was soon snoring contentedly. He found himself idly playing with his genitals, which reacted predictably. As he stiffened, and the intensity overtook him, he thought of Doug - the shadows of his eyelashes on his cheekbone, his warm liquid eyes, the strength and velvety touch of his hand on his shoulder. He remembered how his cock had flopped about that afternoon as he dried himself after showering, how his belly rippled when he bent over, the fullness of his asscheeks. He was stroking hard by now, and when he imagined touching Doug's full red lips with his own, he lost all control. Gasping through his nose in a desperate attempt to stay quiet, he came violently into his cupped right hand, shuddering over and over again as if he'd never stop. He barely remembered when he did finally stop, so quickly did he fall asleep after that.

He dreamed all night - utopian, unobtainable dreams - of Doug Garretson.