xxx Coy’s POV xxx

It’s five in the morning. The city’s still and the sun’s peeking over the pine-covered mountains surrounding us, this little city in the valley. The sky’s bright but buildings are still dark, telephone poles and wires criss-crossing down the streets and over alleys. I breathe in deep; the air’s clean up here. I haven’t slept all night and my eyes are tired from staying open. I curl my toes over the edge and start to sing, quietly, to myself.

“The less we say about it, the better …” I have to force my voice higher, which is easy to do when you whisper. “Make it up as we go along …” I’m not the best vocalist out there, but I love the sound of my voice, even if no one else does. “Feet on the ground …” I open my eyes, forgetting that I’d even closed them. “Head in the sky -”

“It’s okay, I know nothing’s wrong …“ a new voice finishes my song. I don’t turn around, I know who it is and I’m surprised he found me up here. He knows me too well. He doesn’t say another word after the verse and we’re both silent. I don’t know what to say to him, I’m still pissed off and scared of him now. When Jeff let it slip that Brandon was ‘a bit of a masochist,' I thought that was okay. But this is my boy and … I don’t know if I can deal with that. It’s terrifying. Is he like that because of Brandon? FOR Brandon?

I don’t hear his footsteps for another ten minutes at least. Then he’s closer, giving me a quiet, mouse-like: “Are you awake?”

I’m hunched on the ledge of our apartment building, high up on the roof, shirtless and barefoot, the soles of my feet scuffed from gravel and bits of glass. My forearms are crossed over my knees with my bare back to Keith.

“Sure.” is my response. I don’t feel I need to say anything. I wonder if he’s still sore.

“Coy … what are you thinking …?” he asks, just loud enough that I can hear him. We’re pretty far apart right now.

“About what?” I ask calmly. I’m bitter and going for passive-aggressive.

“About me.” he says and I hear him get closer.

“Stay away.” I command.

“I will when you answer.” but he stops walking.

I take a deep breath. The roof smells like tar, my arms smell like skin. “I’m thinking … that … you’re growing up.”

He makes an odd, choked noise. “What do you mean?”

I turn around, legs no longer facing the parking lot. My bare toes wiggle from under the fringe of my jeans. I finally look at Keith … That was the longest I’ve gone without seeing him. I don’t know if it’s the lighting or just him, or maybe it’s that we’re fighting, but he’s never looked more gorgeous. That shirt he’s wearing is mine — it barely covers his thighs.

“I mean …” I play with my fingers and a warm breeze gives me goose bumps. “I … I think you want more than I can give you.”

His expression sours instantly. If I could describe that look in one word, it would be ‘devastated.' “What do you mean?” Now he’s frantic. “Like sex? Love? In general?! Are you breaking up with me?”

It takes me a few seconds to answer — I take some perverse pleasure in seeing him get worked up — but then I rest my chin on my drawn up knees and speak. “I want you to have sex with Brandon.”

He actually gags then swallows, pressing his lips together. I don’t shy away, I stand my ground because I’ve thought of this all night and it’s the smartest thing. Both him and Brandon have the same … state of mind, I’ll call it … and I still love him, god, do I ever, but I refuse to hurt him. Brandon doesn’t. I just need him to take the edge off for me, I don’t want Keith to be upset or unsatisfied. He needs both of us to be happy. Keith steps closer. And closer. And closer, then he’s glaring at me from inches away, glasses almost touching the bridge of my nose. “… What was that?”

I take a few calming breaths and try to stay steely-eyed. “I need you to have sex with Brandon. Just from time to time,” I explain. “I refuse to hurt you and that seems to be what you want, so you’ll have to get someone else to do it. Doing it to yourself is unhealthy and Brandon is the only one that I trust with you.”

His face doesn’t change, but man can his ears go red. “What if I disagree?”

I blink a few times, preparing to tell a white lie. “Then I leave you. Kick you out of the apartment, never speak to you again. At least you’d get what you want.”

That does it. His angry expression shatters and before I can say a word, he isn’t in front of me anymore, he’s crumpled to the cement and gravel of the roof. His head’s against his knees, hands grabbing at his head. He’s sobbing and it’s fucking heartbreaking; I can’t stand it. I never want to make him cry, but I think I have to. I need to make him listen. I hop off the ledge and crouch next to him, not mad anymore. Crying means he’s agreed. He can fight me and hate me all he wants, but in the end I know he’ll do what I say.

The second my hand touches his warm little shoulder blade, he leaps up and grabs me. He’s so warm and the air keeps getting colder and colder up here, his warmth is soon desperately needed. The shirt he’s wearing is undeniably mine … Is that what I smell like? It’s odd. He smells better. His tears are hot on my bare shoulder and it makes me shiver when his hands grab at my back.

“I’ll do it,” he chokes out in a muffled sob. “I’ll do whatever you say, I’m so sorry please don’t leave me, you can’t leave me …”

I wrap my arms around him and sit down, pulling him into my lap, heavy tremors wracking his little body. I can’t imagine how scared he must be if he loves me as much as I love him. “I’ll never leave you,” I whisper into his ear, kissing his head. He cries even harder, hiccupping and sobbing as he constricts my own breathing from holding me so tightly. “Shhshhshhshh, it’s okay, calm down, it’s okay …”

“I’ve never lived without you,” he mumbles. “I thought you left last night, I thought you were with someone else, never do that to me, please never do that …”

I keep kissing him, hands gently turning his head as my lips gravitate towards his temple. I kiss him there once and cup my hands to the back of his head to keep him there. His glasses press into my chin and his sobs slowly shiver out.

“I’m sorry,” I finally apologize, lips brushing him when I talk. “You must be angry, but I swear this is for the best. I won’t leave you either way, but I’m asking you with all my heart to please listen to me,” I kiss his cheek. “You’re my lover and my soul mate and I only want what’s best for you.”

He squirms a little, tipping his head to the left. “You realize what you’re asking me to do, don’t you?”

I kiss towards his ear. “It sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

“Having sex with …” he falters. I haven’t heard him say Brandon’s name out loud since it happened. “… him?”

“Yes,” my mouth presses to the corner of his and he draws a quick, shallow breath in before turning his head just the slightest amount so our lips touch, gentle and held back, just a fleeting brush. He breathes warm breaths out his nose and I watch his eyes flutter shut.

“You know I’d do anything for you …” he whispers just as quiet as the breeze around us, tousling our hair.

“But, do you want to?” I close my eyes as well, fingers rubbing blindly along his jaw.

“Yes and no,” he answers calmly. “I tell myself no … but there’s this voice in the back of my head — that sounds like you, by the way — that’s always telling me that this is something to pursue.”

I can’t help a small smile from coming to the surface. “You need to do this,” I tell him. “You can’t keep it bottled up forever or you’ll never be able to talk to him again.”

I feel him sigh. “Coy, this is my brother we’re talking about here. You’re telling me to have sex with my brother.”

I kiss him very gently, no more than a touch of lips. “Nobody’s business but ours.”

“No one can know …” he whispers. “… I’d die if anyone knew …” we ‘kiss’ again, closed-mouthed and shy as if I’m learning him all over again. His hands hold my arms. “We should get back inside …” he murmurs, fingers rubbing against sore muscles in my biceps. I lean in and kiss him once, loving these gentle child-like kisses in a very odd sort of way. He lets me scoop him into my arms and I carry him back inside with him nuzzling my shoulder the whole way — sometimes it’s nice when he starts acting like a lady.

We get back to the still-dark apartment minutes later after nearly falling down the stairs. I was barefoot and my feet are killing me, but everything’s okay now. Phil’s continued to snore away on the couch, so I carry Keith as quietly as I can to the bedroom, sitting him on top of the dresser while I change the sheets. He actually apologizes for the blood as well as for being insensitive about it, which makes me snatch him off the dresser and toss him onto the clean white sheets, kissing him playfully.

When the lights are off and we’re lying together under the quilt, my chest against his back, my chin in the crook of his neck, he says something so profoundly adorable and romantic that my breath hitches in my throat. “That’s the longest I’ve been away from you in almost five years,” he whispers. “Is it too needy of me to say that I missed you?”

I chuckle and tighten my arms around him. “You could cling to me like a barnacle and I’d just love you even more.”


xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The sound of falling silverware jolts Keith up and out of my arms in the morning. He lands with a thud on the cheap carpet and wails, making me laugh groggily and push the covers off, swinging my feet over the edge of the bed. “What the fuck was that?!” he groans, standing up and un-bunching my shirt from around his thighs. We stumble sleepily into the living room together, peering around curiously.

We see Phil in the kitchen looking at the two of us with a very deer-caught-in-the-headlights stare, and as well he should be, he’s surrounded by fallen cutlery. He waves something small and metal at us. “T-the handle on the drawer broke …” he says sheepishly before crouching down, collecting a handful of forks. “I’ll clean them up, sorry for waking you!”

Keith tuts and starts helping him, collecting knives and forks and spoons. “It’s okay, this drawer’s done this before, we should get it fixed. It’s no biggie.”

I give a lopsided little smile for the boy I love that goes unseen. He’s lying, that drawer has never been broken before, tip-top shape since we moved in. He’s doing it for Phil’s sake and that is SO sweet, he’s better with kids than he thinks he is. I choose not to help them, but I finish making cereal for Phil, just a bowl of honey nut cheerios. He and Keith get all the cutlery back into the drawer which Keith lifts and sets on the counter.

“You really just want cheerios?” I ask Phil, carrying the cereal to the table for him. “I can make you an omelette or something …”

“Nononono!” he waves his hands at me, sitting at the chair behind the place I put his bowl at. “I like cheerios, I have them all the time.”

I frown, not too fond of cereal, too cheap, too anti-nutrition, even cheerios. Far from hearty. Keith pats my shoulders as he walks by with a jug of milk in the process of making his own bowl of cheerios. “C’mon, let the kid be,” he chuckles.

I grumble some more but soon give in, making myself a bowl of shreddies heaped with brown sugar, thumping down in my seat across from Keith. He snorts at me and I look up at him. “What?”

“Shreddies.” he says with thick disdain, wrinkling his nose at my bowl of cereal. I paste the exact same expression on my own face and look at his bowl.

“Cheerios.” I glare.

Phil looks between Coy and I with a cutely confused look on his face. “… Wait, what?”

Keith tilts his head to look at Phil but his eyes stay trained on mine. “We’re having a feud,” he informs Phil. “Cheerios versus Shreddies. I won’t get into it in front of you, it’s too much for your virginal ears.”

I give a blueblood huff and scoop soggy shreddies into my mouth.


xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The three of us take turns showering, Phil first, followed by me and then Keith who’s packing our bags when he isn’t showering. I don’t own a single pair of shorts and only one pair of capris, so Keith keeps yelling at me for not being ‘prepared for summer,’ but he’s right. I hate summer, much preferring autumn’s leaves and wind to summer’s sticky asphalt … Plus, in autumn, no one makes fun of me for wearing a sweater vest.

“… So …” I’m sitting on the couch with Phil, staring dumbly at another sitcom. “… Got any talents?” I ask curiously, looking at him out of the corner of my eye. He doesn't look back at me even when I speak, sort of ornery when he isn't devastated. He shifts on the couch cushions, already as far away from me as he could possibly be.

“Not really. I can play guitar okay, but that’s it.” he says solemnly, turning his head to look at me just a little. “What can you do?”

I think about that, coming up with an annoyingly short list. “I can cook and suck dick.”

He finally laughs, a cute little childlike giggle. “You must be the perfect boyfriend.”

“You’ve got that right.” Keith comments, walking by the back of the couch, rubbing a hand through my hair as he does so. I crane my neck to the side and watch him shimmy to the front door, hauling his green patterned suitcase in front of him. He’s got the cutest little emo butt in those jeans, they’re a bluish grey that go nicely with his hair, especially when worn with the lacy white tank top like he is now. God, if that boy can do one thing, it’s dress.

He turns to look at me, a cheeky little grin on his animal-like teeth. “You’re too modest, love,” he tells me, sauntering up behind the couch again, grabbing my face in his hands. “You can do a helluva lot more than suck dick.” And he kisses me upside down like in the movies. He’s a bit of an awkward kisser at this angle, but his tongue’s a lot more exploratory than usual and I lean up into him with a smile.

The lovely kiss he started doesn’t last long enough. His honeydew glossed lips pull away from mine torturously slowly, but only then do I realize that Keith’s looking at Phil who’s looking awkwardly back at us, still not blushing but looking very embarrassed. I forgot that we aren’t allowed kiss in front of him. “Sorry,” Keith apologizes to him with a rowdy smile. “But you might have to get used to that.”

Phil squirms and rubs the back of his neck. “… Okay …”

Keith laughs joyously before prancing into the bedroom to grab my bag and pulling it to the door. “You’re adorable,” he tells Phil, earning more squirming but silence.

I smirk over at Phil, reaching my arm out to brush my fingers over his cheek. It’s soft and boyish like I expected, no trace of stubble in any form. He jerks backwards and smacks my hand, immediately crawling off the couch.

“Don’t deny your love for me!” I call after him, giggling.


xxxxxxxxxxxxx

We leave a half hour after that, packed and prepared. Phil has his duffle back swung over his shoulder and I’m carrying both Keith’s bag and my own because Keith’s carrying Barnett’s bowl and supplies. I’m not entirely sure how long we’ll be gone for, but it doesn’t really matter because even if it’s for a day, WB needs food and Jeff and Brandon are the ones to give it.

I open the door and hold it while Keith and Phil step through before turning around and locking it. Keith’s holding the fish bowl steady but he’s sweating nervously, eyes squinted, mouth turned down. This will be the first time he’s seen Brandon since it happened and I can only imagine what this is like for him. The three of us trot down the hallway making menial conversation until we reach Jeff and Brandon’s apartment.

Keith visibly hesitates before he knocks five times, sharp and forceful. We hear the sound of feet before Jeff is at the door all smiles and elegance, dressed in lazy Sunday attire that he still manages to look classy in. “Hey boys,” he says happily, eyes falling on Phil. “What’s this? The young’un you spoke of?” he asks.

I nod after a few silent seconds, realizing how sickeningly uncomfortable Keith is right now. “Yeah. Phil, this is Jeff, Jeff, this is Phil,” I introduce them. They shake hands as Jeff offers a warm smile and receives a shy lopsided one in return.

“Uhm …” Keith shuffles towards Jeff. “… here.” he says, offering up the fishbowl complete with one thin marble angelfish, one of the utmost lights of Keith’s life.

“Oh!” Jeff says, taking the bowl from quivering hands. “William Barnett! Nice to see you again!” he greets WB.

Keith seems to loosen up a bit at the apparent absence of his brother. “Yup! Make sure you feed him twice a day, not too much or it pollutes the water. He likes it when you sing to him, especially anything by -” he just stops dead.

Brandon’s at the door now, one hand on Jeff’s shoulder, peering out into the hall. Maybe I’ve been dimming him down in my head after all this time apart, and that’s a shame because he is one beautiful boy. Darkish skin, sandy blonde stubble now more of a beard around his sharp jaw, hair light and full of tousled, sleepy charm. His eyes are that same dark aqua color as they’ve always been and they look so much like Keith’s that it isn’t even funny. Those stunning eyes are locked on Keith’s and I don’t think either of them can look away.

A tension fills the air even to oblivious Phil, not having been told a word about their relationship. It’s a sick, heavy, sexual tension burning through the drywall and lighting the cheap carpet on fire. Brandon’s passive face and Keith’s nervous one are saying no, but their twitching hands are saying FUCK.

Brandon steps forwards.

Jeff and I hold our breath. Phil picks at his cuticle.

Brandon lifts his arm, sinewy chest churning beneath his tight-ish black tank top. Blunt fingertips brush carefully against Keith’s jaw and my boy’s eyes flutter at the contact. I know him too well and I just know that he’s fighting his instincts, fighting his body. He swallows hard. Brandon’s eyes lower and he leans in slowly, inch by excruciating inch, too aware of the ones watching him. Their lips are deathly close when Keith turns his head, letting Brandon’s lips rest on his cheek when he tries to kiss him. Brandon closes his eyes completely but doesn’t squeeze them shut, everything he’s doing is calm. His right hand moves to Keith’s face and he turns his head to face him again, fighting Keith’s half-hearted squirming. He looks him right in the eye before kissing him on the lips, awkwardly smushing their noses together.

Phil raises his eyebrows and Jeff closes his hand over my shoulder; I know he feels the same way I do about this. Keith shudders like he’s crying, but no tears escape his closed eyes. His fingers just claw at Brandon’s forearms, not pushing him away or pulling him closer, just … keeping him there. Desperation and disgust and lust ooze off them and Brandon sucks at his lips, tilting his head just a little to deepen everything, making this so romantic in the most unorthodox of ways.

Keith’s the first to pull back, still hovering in close, lips parted, eyes shut. He looks like he’s sweating and I watch his fingers clench and unclench around his brother’s arms. Brandon rests his forehead against Keith’s and frowns, eyes open just a little and looking at only Keith, who shakes as he takes a deep breath. “Jesus christ …” he whispers, looking like he’s in physical pain when he’s anything but.

Neither of them move for a few moments until Brandon’s hand slides to the back of Keith’s neck and his other one he holds out to Jeff and Phil and I, raising just his index finger, mouthing the words ‘just one minute.’ He tugs Keith down the hallway just far enough that they’re out of earshot. Brandon leans against a wall and says something to Keith standing still with his hands jammed into his own pockets, close enough to be basically between Brandon’s legs. He says something short back to him, watching his own feet.

“Who is that?” Phil whispers to me, eyes on the two brothers down the hall.

“Brandon.” I say simply. Phil doesn’t know they’re brothers, maybe he forgot. It’s more fun if I don’t tell him outright.

“Oh,” he says simply at first. “For a second, I … well, I thought you said Keith’s brother was … Naw, this guy’s blonde anyways …” he coughs. “… So who’s Brandon?”

Jeff answers before I have a chance to, saying something wittier than I ever could have come up with. “Keith dyes his hair.” he says loudly, nearly a shout so the boys down the hall can hear it.

“What?!” Phil exclaims, looking up at them just as the two of them look at us, those two sets of ocean colored eyes trained right on Phil. “… Brothers …?!!” Phil finally gets it, and loud enough for everyone to hear.

In an instant after hearing that, Keith’s buried his face in his brother’s shoulder, looking so mortified that I’m surprised that he hasn’t blown to bits on the spot. He always said he’d die if anyone knew. “Shhhh!!” I hiss to Phil, but it’s too late. The Carnovale brothers stride back to us, Keith looking devastated, Brandon looking quite pleased. Brandon’s hand is on Keith’s lower back, propelling him forwards though his heels have been dug into the carpet. He whispers something in his ear that makes Keith scowl before he pushes Keith towards me, and I catch him in my hands. He’s hot to the touch, he’s blushing so badly.

“Have a good trip,” Brandon says to all of us, simply giving everyone one of his sleepy yet painfully charming smiles that make anyone melt. He doesn’t know how gorgeous he is, both he and Keith are so oblivious. “Drive safe.” he finishes, looking at me. I shrink back, somewhat threatened. He gives Keith a ruffle of his hair before disappearing back into the apartment behind Jeff. Jeff shoots a pleased little smile at the three of us, then at William Barnett before uttering a quiet ‘bye’ and going back inside.

Phil opens his mouth to say something, but I give him a look that shuts him up. He doesn’t seem to mind too much about the two of them being brothers, but you can tell he’s bursting with curiosity. We get our bags and shuffle back down the hallway towards the elevator. I look down at Keith, not surprised at what I see. He looks nauseous, devastated, and horny, restless and tired. That single interaction with his brother has him drained of everything he had, he looks pale and out of place, but it’s hard not to notice the backlight of accomplishment glowing on his face. That look of a little kid that’s just lived through ripping a band-aid off.

When we get outside, Phil says something sort of shocking that makes me love both him and Keith even more than I do. “You’re very brave.” he says quietly, shifting his duffle bag on his shoulder. He isn’t looking at Keith, he’s still watching his feet and what’s below them just like he normally does. Keith reacts surprisingly too, which makes me think that maybe Brandon has a track record for messing people up. He drops his suitcase and grabs Phil, pulling him into a vicious hug.

My eyebrows shoot up and I watch them for a second. Keith’s pretty fucked up right now, it’s like he’s crawled out of his skin. He hugs Phil tight around the waist, no less than five inches taller, eyes shut tight.

“Thank you.” he says quietly. I pick his suitcase up from where it fell, giving a sad smile that neither of them can see.


xxx Keith’s POV xxx

When we’re in Coy’s dumpy car, the first thing I do is scramble around in the glove compartment to find the case of Gravol we keep in there. I pop one out and swallow it dry, feeling as if I’m going to throw up at any minute. Coy can not be making me do this, can he? I know I agreed to try things with Brandon, but I honestly don’t know if I can. I’m breathless and squirmy, I can still taste Brandon’s mouth on my tongue, tangy and hot, morning breath mixed with milk. It’s like I’m betraying Coy, I shouldn’t be able to taste any boy but him.

I run a hand through the spiky waxed back of my hair to floof it out in habit as I look over at Coy. He’s looking back with a little smile, and I think he’s okay. “We’re going to get Cam, then?” he asks gently.

Phil answers before I can. “Yes,” he says, then paused with a noise of hesitation. “… Do you have a mirror?” he asks in a voice like a mouse.

Coy grins and flips his visor down, showing Phil a little mirror mounted to it. Phil grumbles but leans over Coy’s seat to peer into it, pushing his bangs around and pushing his bangs around and picking at his braces. He’s like a schoolgirl getting ready for the dance. “You look very pretty,” I tell him.

He scowls and sits back, settling his back across his lap, clearly leaving the other seat open for Cam. Coy puts the keys in the ignition and drives off. We zig-zag through our old neighborhood and Coy scares me to death when he turns sharply around a corner, nearly turning the car on two wheels. Phil shrieks and flies against the window, duffle bag narrowly catching me in the back of the head.

“Phil! Buckle up!!” I yell, whipping wildly to Coy. “Coy! What the fuck?!!”

He flashes a rowdy grin at me, speeding down the narrow pine-lined street he pulled into. He tries to get control of the car. “I almost forgot! I called my mom, she wants us to stop in before he leave.”

I try to stop shaking — I scare too easily. “You called your mommy?”

Even Phil snorts. Coy blushes, slowing the vehicle as he turns onto our street. Calm, quiet, filled with so many memories. It hasn’t changed in twenty years. Boy, is that reassuring. The world can keep turning but Tuxford Drive will stay the same. We pass my house. there’s a bright red Yaris Hatchback in the driveway and kids tinker toys scattered in the clean-cut lawn — mom left sometime a few years ago. Moved, dead, lost, I don’t care. I didn’t get a phone call, a message on the answering machine, a letter, nothing. So see if I give two shits about her.

More houses pass until we’re greeted with Coy’s impeccably well kept lot. Line with hedges trimmed to perfection, grass kept short and bright with Miracle Grow. A thin, clean cement path leads to a perfectly centered big blue stucco house with slate colored shutters and a wide window showing a room that used to belong to my teenage lover. A clean, silver car is parked in front of a white garage door.

“Man,” I look in awe as Coy pulls up at the curb. “You moved out of that beauty for our dinky apartment?”

He pulls the keys out of the ignition, tossing them in the air once with a smile. “I did it for you, not the apartment.” he leans across the armrest of the car to kiss my cheek.

I squirm and give him a kiss before opening the car door and getting out. The air is damp and muggy. Fuck, is it ever hot out.

“This won’t take long, Phil,” Coy turns in his seat to peer into the back at a shooken up (seat belted) boy. “You wanna stay in here?” he asks. Phil licks his lips in a sort of nervous way.

“Yeah, okay. You won’t be long?” he clarifies.

“Not at all, sit tight.”

Coy hops out and we walk to the front door quite quickly, lest I get all stick and uncomfortable. I really do like summer though, the warm sun and the thought of tanning and letting my skin just bake while I sleep makes me drowsy in the best of ways. Coy is the exact opposite: hates showing too much skin any time of year, and he avoids sun like the plague because he burns like a lobster with skin as pale as his. We stand on the front stoop and Coy jingles the keys in his hand, flipping past a little plastic crab, the apartment keys and his car keys until he gets to the keys of his childhood house. He was given permission to come inside and visit whenever he wants.

We step inside as quietly as we can. Brad, Ms. Russel’s new husband, has unusual sleep patterns and can usually be found napping on the living room couch. We take our shoes off at the door, taking a few careful paces inside while listening for a man’s snores. All is silent.

“Not asleep?” Coy whispers to me.

“Not as far as I know …”

Coy looks around and I swear I can hear him getting nostalgic.

“God, I love this house.” he mutters, holding my hand as he drifts down the hall past the kitchen to the living room. He puts a hand on my hip and twirls me slowly and whimsically as if we’re dancing. “You remember everything we’ve done here? All the time we’ve spent?” he asks softly, waltzing me without thinking. I let him.

“Mmmmhhhhmmm …” I hum positively, playing with his hand in mine - his hands are soft like a woman’s, you can tell that he’s never done a day’s work in his life. He pulls me in close and holds me there, eyes such a bright shade of blue, lips such a dark color of pink. He can’t be real.

“You know I love you, right?” he whispers, a hint of a sly smile playing across his face as he waits for my answer.

“I might need a bit of convincing …” I tease him, leaning up for a kiss. He obeys my silent request and kisses me, sliding a hand up to my back, squeezing my left hand in his. I almost sob in relief at the familiarity of it, his taste, his tongue, so comforting and just right that I know this is where I should be. No boy is better than mine.

Ms. Russel enters from the kitchen and quickly turns around.

“I see nothing, I hear nothing. I’m just a blind, deaf old woman,” she mocks us with her hands in the air criminal style.

Coy leaps off me like a scared rabbit, though with careful nagging, I get him to hold my hand. His mother steps back in with a rowdy grin not unlike her son’s.

“Welcome back, boys.” she laughs.

“Hi, Ms. Russel …” I say sheepishly, rubbing one foot with my other. She smiles at me. Ms. Russel is a short, stocky woman with her son’s nose and her mother’s eyes. Just like Coy, she has a heart of gold with an absentminded lining and I love her for molding Coy into what he is.

“Hey mom!” Coy says happily, letting go of my hand so he can hug her. She looks so much older in his arms. “Where’s Brad?” he asks.

“Upstairs, asleep,” she tells him, pulling away. “He had a long day yesterday, he’s still sleeping it off.” she shrugs. Coy nods, visibly sort of upset. He’d taken a shining to his new stepfather after not having one for so long.
“That’s okay. We just stopped in to say goodbye, Phil’s waiting in the car.”

“Oh!” Ms. Russel exclaims. I’m going to assume that Coy’s told her about the whole story due to that shocked reaction of hers. “He didn’t want to come in, the poor boy?” The addition of ‘poor boy’ means that there is no longer any doubt that she’s been told. Man, that must have taken Coy courage to tell her that. That would have been one hell of an awkward conversation.

“Naw, he wanted to stay in the car, he’s a shy little kid.” Coy grins. Ms. Russel gives a mom-smile back before bustling into the kitchen. We follow her. She sticks her head into the big (and expensive, I fume with jealousy) chrome refrigerator and rummages around, long cotton skirt twirling around her ankles. Coy and I wait near the island and she soon pops back out with a saran wrapped sandwich — it looks like roast beef — and she puts it in a little paper bag, holding it out to me with a smile.

“Here!” she says with glee. “This is for Phil, he likes roast beef, doesn’t he?”

I laugh. “I don’t know, Ms. Russel.”

“It seems all you boys know about this poor child is that he’s devastated!” she rolls her eyes. Coy looks at me and I look back, both grimacing because we know that’s true.

“Weeeell,” Coy waves his hand, searching for words. “I know he plays guitar.” he answers lamely.

“Oh my, you’ve known each other for years,” Ms. Russel responds sarcastically. “If he’s waiting for you, you’d better go. I’ll tell Brad that he stopped by,” she leans in and kisses Coy, then she kisses me. “Call me if you need anything, and drive safe!”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?!” Coy wails, yanking my hand — the one that isn’t holding the paper bag — towards the door. “I’m not a bad driver! I’m not going to crash, for fuck’s sake. You and Brandon both!” he shoves an accusing finger into the face of his mother that’s followed us. We slip our shoes on. Ms. Russel has a new look of wariness on her weathered face as she looks us over. I look back at her, standing behind Coy as he ties his shoes.

“What?”

She smiles and steps closer, extending her hand and brushing the tip of her thin finger to my bare bicep, tracing three red nasty nail marks made by Coy last night when he was holding me down.

“Oh lord,” Coy mutters, having seen this. He stands up, huffs, then looks at me. “I told you to cover them up!”

I shrug and blush, playing with my hands because the thought of Ms. Russel knowing that Coy and I have sex is completely horrifying. She laughs, hearty and clearly amused. She’s a good natured lady.

“It’s not a big deal,” she says, a hand on her head. “But Coy, honey, try to be gentle with him, please? Those little bones are brittle.” she finishes, pinching my weak arm between her index finger and thumb. Coy laughs a little uneasily and I just know he’s thinking ironically about what happened last night. I shift awkwardly with a laugh of my own, curling my toes on my flip-flops.

“I’ll try my best, mom,” Coy says before opening the door, making the hot air from outside battle for dominance with the air-conditioned wind of the house. “We’ll call you once we get back.”

And we leave, nearly jogging towards the car. Well, to be honest, Coy’s the quick one. He’s wearing a sweater vest again, despite the twenty degree heat. I’m dressed for the occasion and strolling along teasingly slow. Coy reaches the car first, yanking the door open with flourish. I watch him and before he gets in, he stops, looking into the back seat.

“Phil?! What the hell!!?” I hear him say loudly and I run to the car, pulling the back door open.

Phil’s sitting as we left him, but he has one hand cupped near his mouth while the other holds a cheap red lighter that he’s flicking at, trying to get sparks. In between his lips is a thin, hand rolled cigarette and I just know it’s weed.

“Oh, dammit,” Coy sighs. “Put that out.”

Phil finally gets it lit and takes a deep breath, making the end burn brightly. The lighter goes back into his pocket.

“No,” he says this more forcefully than I’d expected. He takes the joint out of his mouth and holds it carefully between his fingers. “I’m fucking nervous! This is all I have to calm me down.”

Coy opens his mouth to say something, but just sighs and closes it in resignation. He gets into the car and waits before I’ve scurried around the hood and gotten into the passenger seat to start the car. We hear Phil smoke, deep rasping inhales.

“Fine,” Coy says, a little bitter. “You smoke what you want, but if you start getting all weird and high, I’ll hit you. And do it out the window, please.”

“What?! Are you nuts? I’ll get arrested!” Phil cries as Coy backs the car up, pulls a u-turn and starts zooming back down the street to where Lauren resides on the North Shore.

“That’s your loss.”

Phil grumbles, takes a drag, and cranks the window down. The car’s going fast enough that the air rushes in, tousling various papers and receipts that we’ve left on the back window. Phil blows a perfect smoke ring into the air and it floats out the window. He doesn’t say another word for the length of the drive to Lauren’s, none of us do, but if Phil’s anything like me then he’s preparing himself. He keeps combing his bangs with his fingers to get them to lie how he wants.

“What’s Lauren’s address, Phil?” Coy asks, needing to speak loudly over the wind. Phil’s still smoking.

“Uhmm …” Another smoke ring floats out the window. “Uhh … 10858 Cherrycreek lane.”

“You sure?”

“Yup.”

Coy turns into a little residential area lined with weeping willows. He chuckles.

“So typical of Laur … Cherrycreek Lane … my god.”

I smile and watch the houses go by. Cute neighborhood, full of picket fences and crocuses. More conventional than I’d expected of Laur, but she’s always just been a soccer-mom under her tomboy façade.

Coy stops at a stop sign above which it reads ‘Cherrycreek L.’ He hurts and the old car gives a violent lurch and for a second I think we’re going to pitch into the ravine on the other side of the road. Somehow, this bucket of bolts keeps going.

“You couldn’t get a decent car, Mr. Moneybags?” I groan. He laughs, eyes looking at addresses on houses.

“I get a fancy one when I graduate university, mom says that this is just to hold me over until then.”

I grumble some more, eyes valiantly checking addresses on my side of the street, looking for 10858 on the houses.

“Oh, wow.” Coy says with a hint of disdain. I follow his gaze and realize that we don’t need an address, Cameron’s out waiting for us. Even from far down the street, I can tell it’s him by how thin he is, it’s almost gross. We pull the car up in front of him and I lean by Coy to get a good view.

He’s giving the car a look of disgust, paler than pale skin scrunched into a scowl. Freckles bloom over his skin like wildfire across the bridge of his nose towards his cheeks and near his ears, up onto his wide forehead. They dot his shoulders and down his arms, trailing like water or bugs to the back of his hands. I’ve always thought of freckles as something childish, but not on this boy. I’ve never seen longer hair on a boy, he has it drawn up into a thick, curly ponytail cascading down his back, wet - hopefully - because of a shower. A thin black tank top covers his concave chest and he’s wearing tight, skinny jeans, accentuating thighs no wider than Coy’s bicep. Old, scuffed green converse covered in drawings hide his small feet. He adjusts the strap of his backpack thrown over his shoulder and he looks at Coy.

“That took long enough.” he says, gravel-like but somehow still nasally voice ringing out over the silence of the traffic-less street.

“Should, uh, we stop in to see Laur?” Coy asks.

“Don’t bother, she’s fucking.” he says offhandedly. Without asking, he climbs into the left side of the car, unoccupied by Phil, and sets his backpack on the seat between them. I turn in my seat to look at them … Phil’s just getting a pair of the hugest headphones I’ve ever seen over his ears, playing with the buttons on a bright orange discman sitting on his thighs. Now, seeing Cam closer up, I can clearly make out the fading color of a black eye and two sour yellow bruises that mark the column of his throat. Bandages still cover his forearms.

I look at Coy. He opens his mouth and closes it like a fish, trying to find something to say to the sulking wonder. He can’t think of anything and turns back to the road. He starts the car and off we go. In the side mirror, I can see Phil curl up against the window, getting as far away from Cameron as possible. Cam’s nearly the opposite, legs spread, one arm on the armrest of the door, the other on top of his backpack. He looks bored already.