Speakeasy fic. Nick/Tyson 1925. Part I
This is my damnyouwentz exchange fic, and I got the moderator. So OBVIOUSLY I was going to be late. SO LATE.
She has forgiven me. Let's see if she does it again. I have been working on this for THREE SOLID WEEKS and its at 5500 WORDS, so I am posting as Part One.
Speakeasy Fic: 1925, New York
AAR boys (and its speakeasy, so you know how this turns out)
5550 words.
Nick goes to New York and finds half of himself. The other half is back in Sweetwater.
In the summer of 1925, Nick Wheeler packed his suitcase and went to New York City. It was something he’d dreamed of forever, since he was a boy and his mother would tell him stories of the streets teeming with people and the high buildings and the languages, varied and foreign, that surrounded her. She had lived in New York during the three years of nursing school she’d completed before marrying his father. Nick had been born in New York but didn’t remember anything of it. By the time he was three, Dr. Wheeler had been hired onto the faculty of a small college outside St. Louis. When he was eight, they’d moved to Oklahoma. Patience Wheeler had consumption, and the drier air of the southern plains kept her comfortable until her death four years later. Nick was an Oklahoma boy now, much to his father’s dismay. He knew more about farming than medicine and spent his afternoons at the water hole with his best friend Tyson. Tyson had been born on the Ritter farm, and raised in the same house his whole life. He’d never even left Oklahoma.
That was the one thing that kept Nick from being giddy, standing here in his tiny room on Second Avenue, hearing the bustle of the city outside his small window. He’d dreamed of New York for years, but he was supposed to explore it with Tyson.
“Come on, now,” Aunt Constance had said, taking his suitcase and walking briskly to the street. He’d found her on the train platform by her profile; her slightly weak chin and her bright, big eyes reminded him instantly of his mother. Hurrying after, Nick had barely a moment to take in the sights and sounds and smells around him. It was probably for the best-there were more people in the massive train station than probably lived in all of his county back home.
Aunt Connie lived in the East Village, around the corner from the hospital where she worked as a nurse. She ran her large apartment as a boarding house for immigrants, medical students and those who had loved ones in one of the wards. Nick’s room was down a long, dark hallway.
“I’m afraid you’re on your own a bit this summer, Nick,” she’d said with an apologetic smile from his doorway. “I’ve got a class to teach most days and the Women’s Hospital is short-staffed too. You’ve got the run of all the common rooms, of course, and the boys have already promised to get you settled.”
She’d left him to prepare dinner and Nick sat at the little desk. His heart was beating too fast. After the three-day journey, he was in need of a bath and a long sleep. He eyed the bed and reached into his satchel for paper and his ink well.
Dear Ty,
I thought the train ride was crazy, but you should see the station…
*
“The Boys” turned out to be the occupants of the two other dark doors on his hallway. He met Chris at dinner, head buried in an anatomy book. Chris was from upstate and a student at the medical school. Nick thought him standoffish (he’d said nothing but “pass the butter” since Nick sat down at the table) until the front door flung open and a boy with dark hair and a big grin threw an apple at Chris’s head, barely missing Nick.
“Bastard!” Chris laughed as he ducked and caught the fruit in one hand.
“Why? You’re the one with good reflexes, and I’m the one with shite aim, remember?” the boy replied with a laugh. He had a heavy Irish accent that took Nick a minute to sort through.
“Michael!” Aunt Connie admonished from across the room where she was sitting with an older couple. “Language!”
“My apologies, Miss Connie,” the boy said with a wink.
Connie sighed. “At least try not to throw food at my nephew.”
The boy, Michael, sat at the table next to Chris and grinned at Nick. He had the angelic face of a good church boy that contrasted sharply with the brown cigarette stains on his fingers and the sharp glint in his eyes. “You must be Nick, then,” he noted and stuck his hand out. His handshake was warm and firm. “I’m Mike Kennerty. Miss Connie said you’d need a tour guide this summer. I can show you all the good spots.”
Chris snorted. “I think Connie wants him acclimated, not arrested.”
“Hey!” Mike elbowed Chris heavily in the ribs. “I can get out of trouble better than anyone you know, Gaylor. And look at this kid,” he squinted across the table at Nick and shook his head. “Trouble’ll roll off him like water off a duck’s back. Look at that fucking face.”
“Michael!” yelled Connie.
“Sorry!” Mike laughed and reached for the bread.
*
Dear Ty,
It’s only been two weeks, but it feels like a month. I’ve almost done more than I can remember, but I’m trying to write down everything so that I can tell you about it. I’ve been to the docks, which you would love. There are more boats than I have ever seen, and everyone is yelling all the time. I rode the subway uptown yesterday for the first time, and it was hot, but really good. I stumbled a little and Mike said I still didn’t have my sea legs.
Mike, who lives in the room across the hall, has introduced me to people he works with at the restaurant around the corner and some people he calls “associates”, but who Chris says are just bad news. Chris is only 23 but he’s already learning surgery. Father didn’t learn until he was almost 30! Mike told me, since Chris never really talks about himself. He says Mike talks enough for the both of them. His accent is so thick it takes me two tries to understand him sometimes. He says mine is just as bad.
He got here a year ago from Cork, Ireland and already has more friends in New York than I will probably have in my whole life. Chris is his best friend, though. Which is strange, since they don’t really have anything in common. Not like you and me. But sometimes they can have whole conversations without finishing a sentence.
He doesn’t mention running into Mike in the hallway early one morning on his way from the bathroom, Mike closing the door of Chris’s room quietly. His eyes were wide over his shy smile, and Nick somehow understood that it was a secret. They never mentioned it, but Nick found himself listening at night for the click of Mike’s door, the shuffle of his feet across the hall, the sound of Chris’s voice, happy and sleepy through Nick’s bedroom wall.
For some reason, the sound made Nick’s stomach tighten. He tried not to think about how much he missed Tyson.
*
Nick was in New York for almost a month before he got his first letter from Tyson. He found it slipped under his bedroom door when he got back from a late night with Mike. They’d dropped off some sort of package at what Mike said was a dance hall, but Nick was pretty sure was a burlesque club. Then they’d spent his earnings on a late film at the movie house on Houston.
Nick stripped to his underwear in the close, hot room and settled onto his bed to read.
Dear Nicky,
Sorry to not write sooner, but things have been busy. It’s hotter than last summer. The planting is finally done. It was harder this year, and Dad thinks the land is getting overworked. Says we need to expand and start some heavier rotations for next season, to give the fields by the water hole a rest, which means he and Uncle Ray have drawn up a plan for new irrigation.
Uncle Ray says I’m old enough to help out more on the farm and maybe Dad should pull me out of school for next year. He says I know enough about ciphers and writing. I got Miss Laurie to talk to Dad and I think he’s going to let me go back for next year, but it’s a worry. I don’t think sixteen is old enough to quit schooling. Even if I am taller than all the boys in class. Maybe your Father can talk to Dad when he gets home from Chicago this fall? Dad always respects the Doc.
And I know you think she’s a little dumb, but Eloise Pitcher caught me behind the church after the social last Sunday and told me I was handsome. Ma thinks she’s nice, and Dad keeps talking about how Walt Pitcher has 80 acres. All I know is that Jenny Long said Eloise wants to kiss me.
Anyway, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. And even if I’m at the farm next year, you’ll still be around, right? Keep having adventures and writing me about them. Your letters are the only good thing about this summer.
Tyson
Nick placed the letter on his bed and took a deep breath. He was suddenly colder. He checked the date on the letter and it was over a week before. He wondered what happened since then. He was almost asleep when he heard Mike’s door open, his feet shuffling across the floor. For a single, black moment, Nick hated Mike Kennerty.
*
“What do you do back home on a day like this?” Mike asked. He and Nick were laying in the grass in Central Park. The air was hot and sticky and still and Nick’s shirt was open wide at the collar. The weather had been like this all week and Nick felt like he’d never be cool again.
“Swim, I guess.” He stretched his arms over his head, looking for a patch of cool grass. “Ty’s farm has this big water hole, almost a pond, and the water comes up well deep so it’s always cool.” He and Tyson spent every summer at the Ritter water hole. Some afternoons it was full of boys from a few miles around; some days it was just Nick and Ty lounging on the grass half-naked, jumping in the water when the sun beat down too hard, dunking each other and laughing.
“We could swim,” Mike said with a yawn. Nick wrinkled his nose.
“In the river?”
Mike paused. “Good point.”
They lay there for a while. Nick was surprised that he wasn’t more startled by the hum of activity around him-women pushing prams, boys on bicycles, a team of children playing stickball. The constant hum of the city was becoming less distracting and more like background noise. New York was still impressive, but the sheen of amazement had worn off and Nick was noticing more and more the smell of the sewers, the hungry faces peering down from windows in the bowery, how he felt covered in soot and grime when he returned to his small, clean room every night. He spent more time missing the relative quiet of Sweetwater.
“So,” Mike asked lazily. “Tell me about Tyson.” Nick looked over and Mike was squinting at him, grinning.
“I’ve told you about him tons,” Nick replied with a forced laugh. Truthfully, he’d spoken less about Ty in the last few weeks, though he looked for letters every day. It had been almost three weeks since the last and Nick kept picturing Tyson in the small chapel on the lake, Eloise Pitcher’s boney hand gripping his skinny arm.
“Yeah, well. I know he’s loud and tall, and good at baseball. I don’t know why he’s your best friend.”
“I don’t know,” Nick found himself blushing for no reason. “He’s… Tyson. We’ve been friend since I was eleven. I let him copy my homework and he gave me a frog. Then he was bigger than me and I guess I was stuck with him.”
Mike laughed. “I guess that’s a good trade.”
“Yeah,” Nick smiled up the sky. “He’s a good guy. He’s… there for you. When you need him.” Truth be told, Tyson was there when Nick didn’t need him too, getting underfoot when Nick was trying to learn his piano pieces, distracting him with promises of exciting adventures as Nick tried to do his homework. It’s not that Tyson was a bad student; he was one of the smartest boys in the class, and particularly partial to literature. His father didn’t think that school was the answer to everything, though. Not like Doc Wheeler. He was going to make sure Nick went to college, preferably on the East Coast. “He’s smart too,” Nick made sure to note. New Yorkers, he’d found had a nasty habit of equating Oklahoma with idiocy. “He’ll run a lot of land someday. And he’s real funny. He once got Reverend Anderson to laugh in church. It was fantastic. Right up in front the pulpit and everything.” Nick giggled a little at the memory. Tyson had managed to wiggle out of punishment even for that, though his mother glowered through the entire picnic.
“Sounds like a good guy to know,” Mike said quietly. Nick turned again to find Mike still looking at him. The smile was still there, but it was softer, thoughtful. “Come on. Let’s walk down to the lake.”
They stood up and dusted off, the dirt falling like dust from their sleeves. Walking through the Rambles, Nick turned quickly around a corner and almost ran into a pair of pretty girls with braided hair. The taller of the two put out her hand to stop running directly into the boys and Nick reached out reflexively, fingers closing around her sleeve. She laughed and steadied herself. “So sorry,” she said quickly, her friend blushing at her side.
“No, its fine,” Nick smiled and let her go. The lake wasn’t far and he longed to drop his feet in.
“Really, though,” the girl continued, her smile slipping into something a little less wide, but a little more friendly. Her friend rolled her eyes, but the girl stood resolutely in Nick’s way, brown eyes fixed on his. “It was my fault. Are you boys heading down to the lake?”
“Yeah,” Mike replied easily over Nick’s shoulder. The girl still didn’t move, brushing her hair from her forehead and lowering her gaze a little. Nick was getting a little annoyed.
“You ladies look out where you’re going, all right?” Nick said with a nod. He scooted around them and back down the path, Mike clomping heavily behind him.
“So,” Mike nudged his shoulder as they hit an even patch of the path. “She was pretty.”
“I guess,” Nick rubbed at a patch of dirt on his elbow. He noticed the sun getting lower over the museum and realized dinner was soon. “Do you think Aunt Connie’s making roast chicken tonight?”
Mike stopped short and laughed, a bright ringing sound that startled an older couple walking nearby.
“What?” Nick asked, confused but grinning back at him.
“Nothing,” came Mike’s easy reply. He slid an arm companionably around Nick’s shoulder and turned him toward the street. “Let’s get home and see about dinner, yeah?”
*
Dear Nicky,
The words were smudged from where Nick’s fingers had run over them. It was hot and his shirt and shoes had been abandoned the moment he hit his bed, eagerly ripping open the envelope. The page was wrinkled from Nick folding and unfolding the letter a dozen times in the last hour. It was silly, but he thought every time that maybe he could get the words to say something different, something less…
Sorry its been so long since the last letter. Dad and Uncle Ray have been making a fuss about this irrigation plan, and Uncle Ray got really mad last week when he came home to find me out in the hayloft reading instead of down in the field. Miss Laurie let me borrow one of her Shakespeare’s for a few weeks, and I was worried for a minute he’d rip it to shreds and toss it into the fertilizer. That’s what he called it-“nothing better than fertilizer”! Can you imagine? Miss Laurie would have fainted dead away at that.
Other than that there’s no excitement here. Dad did take us to Sweetwater last Saturday, and my sister got so excited about the new schoolhouse. There are ten rooms! Mom says Sweetwater is too big now, but I couldn’t help but wonder how different things would be if you and went to that school instead. I bet in New York, though, ten rooms in no big deal.
I’m not sure how to write this, or why I didn’t as soon as it happened. If you’d been here, I’d have been down at your place that same night. But I guess there are just some things that are strange to write down. I told you last time about Eloise? Well, a week ago Tuesday, I ran into her walking from the general store. I had the buggy since Uncle Ray won’t let me drive the truck yet. I offered her a ride home and she climbed on in, and wouldn’t you know it-around by the Moffett’s she leaned in and kissed me. “I’d like you to court me, Tyson Ritter,” she said. Just like that! It was a surprise, and you can bet I had no idea what to say. I may have said all right, though, because she took my arm at church on Sunday in front of Rev. Anderson and everyone, so I guess we’re courting. I don’t feel any different, like maybe I should. I just wish you were here to tell me if I’m being dumb. She’s pretty, isn’t she? And she’s the best seamstress in class, and Mom says I grow fast enough to need my own.
I’m glad New York is so exciting. I wish I were there with you.
Tyson
Nick didn’t even hear the knock on the door. “Hey,” Mike stuck his head in looking concerned. “You doing all right, Nick?”
Nick just blinked up at him. Sure, he tried to say. “Ty’s seeing a girl back home,” is what came out. Nick didn’t know why he said it, because that’s good news, right? Not at all in line with how Nick looked now, eyes gritty and breathing too shallow. But Mike came in the room and sat on his bed unsmiling. He placed a comforting hand on Nick’s leg and exhaled.
“You know what you need?”
Nick folded the letter and placed it on his pillow. “What?”
“You need a drink,” he smiled with a little glint and Nick laughed.
“This isn’t Cork, Mikey. We can’t just,” but Mike tugged Nick up off the bed and out into the hall, shushing him on the way when Nick noted that Aunt Connie didn’t like them wandering about without shirts.
“You can’t let Connie know about this either,” he said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Come on.” He pulled Nick into Chris’s room and closed the door, snapping the latch into place. Chris looked up from where he was hunched over his reading, the lamp light haloing his blond hair. He tilted his head when he saw Nick there, and Nick pulled his hand from Mike’s quickly, worried for some reason just out of reach. “Brought a third for the party.”
“Did you now?” Chris shook his head and smiled the fond smile that Nick had come to translate as ‘what kind of trouble have you gotten us into this time?’
Nick stood transfixed as Mike reached behind the door and pulled a glass milk jug out of his satchel. Inside, the clear liquid sloshed and a thin trickle leaked out the makeshift top and down the side. Mike side his finger up the side of the bottle, catching the drop and sucking his finger into his mouth. “That’s right,” Chris said with a smile and took the bottle. “Don’t want to leave any evidence.” He rolled his eyes, removed the cap and took a good-sized sip of the contents, wincing a little. “Live it up, kid,” he said with a smile as he passed the jug to Nick.
Bootleg. Mike Kennerty was smuggling bootleg into his Aunt’s boarding house. Nick blinked and took the bottle, not knowing what else to do with his hands. He hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since he was fourteen when his father poured him the last of their stash of wine and told him to enjoy it. It had been bitter and Ty had laughed when he said so later.
All thoughts of Tyson now led to the letter one room away and the Eloise situation and Uncle Ray and all manner of awful things. He just wanted to not think about it for a little while. So when Mike bumped his shoulder and grinned, Nick raised the bottle to his lips without another thought. The gin was strong and Nick coughed as it burned its way to his stomach. Mike just laughed and grabbed the bottle before he could spill it. Chris took his elbow and sat him firmly in the armchair next to the bed.
“Trust me, you’ll need to be sitting soon,” he smiled and sat on the bed. Mike slid in next to him and handed him the bottle. Chris took another practiced sip but Nick noticed the quick sour face this time, like Chris wasn’t impressed with the taste either.
“It’s shite,” Mike noted, sighing a bit at the glass. “But it’s the only shite there is in this godforsaken country.”
“Where’d you get it?” Nick asked as he took the bottle back. The second sip wasn’t nearly so bad, and he felt too warm again, even with Chris’s window open. Mike must have thought so too, because he was tugging off his shirt.
“A friend,” Mike answered with a wink and half turned on the bed until he was facing Chris. “Come on Gaylor, you know you’re hot in that thing.” He tugged on the hem of Chris’s shirt so fast that Nick almost missed the way his fingers slid beneath the hem. Chris frowned.
“Michael, I think maybe,” he started, but Mike laughed and handed him the gin.
“Don’t think, love,” Mike replied. “When it comes to gin and bad ideas, I’m the brains of this operation, remember?”
Nick was sure he was missing something, but an hour later he guessed Mike was right as Chris was happily drunk and shirtless and lying flat on his back in bed trying to explain the appeal of leeches. Nick was sprawled in the chair trying to listen, but all he could think was I’m drunk, I’m drunk, oh god would Ty be proud, I think I may throw up. His vision was blurry and the room spun just a little to the left every time he moved. Mike was sitting cross-legged on the bed, the jug in his lap. He looked… fine, actually.
“I’ve been drinking since the womb,” he said when Nick leaned up for the bottle and Mike slipped it just out of reach. “I can take a gallon of this. You are just right, my friend, and you are cut off.”
Nick slid back in the chair and pouted. Mike just laughed and placed the bottle on the other side of the bed. Nick’s eyes kept sliding shut. The room was close and hot and he was tingly and a little dizzy. And Chris was still talking about leeches, and how they suture wounds better than any person can, and Nick blinked once, then twice, because suddenly Mike was leaning over whispering in Chris’s ear and Chris’s head was turning toward him and...
And Nick had no trouble keeping his eyes open anymore. Not when Mike kissed Chris slowly, his tongue visible every few moments. Each time, Nick felt his chest constrict. When Mike broke away and his tongue found new purchase on the sensitive skin of Chris’s neck, Nick felt like he wouldn’t be able to breathe ever again. He thought I should leave, but his legs were like jelly. Chris’s eyes were closed, his fingers threaded through Mike’s hair as his mouth left a mark on Chris’s chest, just below his collar. Nick could see other faint bruises there too, now that he knew to look, and Chris moaned when Mike slid his leg higher, pressing between them.
It was sudden, like a crystal clear rush of cold water through Nick’s blood stream, and he knew what this was: this was the sound he heard at night through his wall-- Mike touching Chris, kissing him, sliding his hands to his pants and unbuttoning them slowly as Chris panted beneath him. This wasn’t new, this wasn’t gin, this was just what they were.
“Mike,” Chris managed hoarsely and Mike paused, his fingers tucked in the waist of Chris’s pants. “Really, do you think...”
Mike smiled and tugged until Chris’s cock sprang free. He was hard and the flesh at the head was glistening red. Nick had seen exactly one hard cock before, his own excluded. It was last summer and he and Ty had been camping out by the water hole. Nick had awakened to the sound of Tyson’s harsh breathing a few feet away. He’d opened his eyes just a fraction to see Tyson’s bedroll pooled around his thighs, eyes closed tight, fingers wrapped snugly around himself. Nick had blushed crimson and closed his eyes immediately, forcing his breathing even and steady even though his stomach had felt like lead. He’d stayed awake until long after Tyson had let out a soft hitched breath and rustled back into his clothes. He didn’t let his own hand stray under his blanket until Tyson was snoring lightly beside him.
“Look at him,” Mike replied quietly and Nick couldn’t look when Chris turned his head, couldn’t face Chris, couldn’t not watch Mike’s hand stroke Chris’s cock. This was wrong, more wrong than playing cards or drinking gin or jumping turnstiles. This was hellfire wrong, and Nick knew but his cock seemed not to care. He could feel his skin burning, his lips parted and panting in time with Mike’s sure hand. He felt Chris’s eyes on him and blushed red when Chris whispered “Fuck” with a smile in his voice.
Nick wanted to leave then, wanted to escape to the room next door and pretend this didn’t happen, just like that night camping. But that night seemed to haunt his dreams-- taunted him, made him wake up feeling sinful and aching for Tyson-and this wouldn’t be any different, he knew. He wouldn’t ever forget it, no matter how many prayers or how many years. So he stayed, damned anyway, and watched Mike slide his tongue along the underside of Chris’s cock and swallow him down. Nick was painfully hard, his cock straining against the seam of his pants, and he was sweating from the effort of not moving as much as the heat of the room.
It could have been hours, Nick thought later, all time slowing down as he watched and listened and learned how to make a boy clutch his sheets and shudder and curse. When Chris finally bucked hard, his fingers digging into Mike’s neck and holding him down, Mike moaned and Chris shattered and Nick slid the heel of his hand along his cock through the fabric of his pants and promptly came with a startled shout. By the time Mike had spit, Nick was off the chair and in the hall, locking the door of his room behind him and shaking as he slid to the floor.
*
Nick ignored the knock on his door like he’d ignored all the others in the last three days, sitting in the chair by the window and watching the streets bustle beneath him. “Nick, open it. Come on, this has gone on long enough.” Mike sounded worried still, but angry too. “Let me talk to you. Before Connie thinks you have the plague and checks you into that hospital of hers.”
Nick blinked at the door, flushing like he has for the last few days whenever he heard Mike’s voice. “Just go, alright?” he managed hoarsely. He was parched.
“Look, I brought your lunch. At least come and get it. There’s an orange!”
Oranges were a bit too extravagant to be Connie’s and Nick knew that Mike had boosted it for him from a vendor, probably when he was out that morning. Nick had watched him leave in the dawn hours, his temple resting on the window frame. The idea of a sticky, sweet orange and a thick ham sandwich made his stomach rumble and he stood up with a sigh, crossing the room. He unlocked the door and took three quick steps to his bed before calling out “It’s open.”
Mike swung the door open and stood there with the tray. He didn’t come all the way in until Nick had nodded at him that it was okay, and somehow that made Nick feel better. He surveyed the room. “It’s a mess in here, mate.”
Nick cracked a small smile. His usually neat room was littered with remnants of late night snacks he’d grabbed, eager to not run into anyone. The bed was rumpled and unmade and the floor near his desk was littered with balled up paper. Nick was more confused than he’d ever been in his life and for the first time, he couldn’t talk to Tyson about it. It was terrifying. Each letter started with Dear Ty, and each veered into dangerous directions as Nick had tried frantically to explain what had happened in Chris’s room. He quit trying the day before when he actually wrote the phrase Please don’t kiss her again, at least not until you’ve let me try…
Mike placed the tray on the edge of the desk and stood a few feet away. “I’m sorry. I really… sometimes I don’t think things through all way.” He smiled ruefully and Nick shook his head.
“Why though?” Nick looked at him, eyes wide and bright. “Why would you do that?”
“I like to do that,” Mike laughed. Nick set his jaw tight. “Alright, fine. I didn’t know how to tell you, and I thought if I did, you’d run. And I wanted you to see, Nicky. I wanted you to see that it wasn’t dirty or wrong. It’s just the same as girls.”
“It’s not,” Nick replied and he was horrified at the hitch in his voice. He stood and faced Mike, fists balled at his sides. “It’s not the same. You ask anyone and they’ll tell you.”
“Fine,” Mike said, serious and calm. “It’s not the same, because for you girls aren’t anything. You aren’t mad at me because what I did is wrong. You’re mad because I showed you something about yourself that you didn’t want to deal with.”
“Shut up,” Nick whispered frantically, eyes darting to the door like someone was listening on the other side.
“You’re scared because you want that, you and Ty.”
“Stop, Mike, please,” Nick pleaded. But Mike was stepping closer and Nick felt trapped as Mike slid an arm around his shoulder and tugged him close.
“It’s okay. You can’t stop who you are, Nicky,” he spoke softly against Nick’s temple.
Nick’s balled his hands in the thin fabric of Mike’s shirt, clinging like a lifeline. “A sodomite? Is that what I am?” His breathing was harsh and painful. Mike just pulled him closer into a tight hug.
“Yeah, it is. And you’re right. People will hate you for it.” His hands slid across Nick’s back in comforting circles. “You can do one of two things now. You can deny it and marry a nice girl back home and live in fear, or you can embrace it and learn how to be happy in your own skin.”
“Are you?”
“Happy?” Nick could feel his smile. “Generally. There’s still plenty I’m learning, but we’re not alone, you know. You and me and Chris. We aren’t the only boys in this town who are… what we are. There’s a whole world out there and you’re a part of it, just by being you.”
“Not back home,” Nick said quietly, suddenly still. Back home he would be alone in this and if anyone knew he’d lose everything. Everyone. “What if he’s not…” Nick couldn’t bring himself to finish the question, his throat closing around the words.
Mike sighed and pulled back just enough to look Nick in the eye. “I can’t tell you everything is going to be easy. Maybe he won’t want you like this, maybe it’s not meant to be. But isn’t it worth finding out?” Mike smiled kindly and Nick nodded.
It was. For the last three days, all he could think of was his reunion with Tyson and all the fantasies of happy endings-- of Tyson beaming at him and pulling him close-were enough to make him take the chance.
Mike’s smile widened into a mischievous grin. “Come on then! Get your sad self together, my young apprentice. I’m taking you out.”
*
She has forgiven me. Let's see if she does it again. I have been working on this for THREE SOLID WEEKS and its at 5500 WORDS, so I am posting as Part One.
Speakeasy Fic: 1925, New York
AAR boys (and its speakeasy, so you know how this turns out)
5550 words.
Nick goes to New York and finds half of himself. The other half is back in Sweetwater.
In the summer of 1925, Nick Wheeler packed his suitcase and went to New York City. It was something he’d dreamed of forever, since he was a boy and his mother would tell him stories of the streets teeming with people and the high buildings and the languages, varied and foreign, that surrounded her. She had lived in New York during the three years of nursing school she’d completed before marrying his father. Nick had been born in New York but didn’t remember anything of it. By the time he was three, Dr. Wheeler had been hired onto the faculty of a small college outside St. Louis. When he was eight, they’d moved to Oklahoma. Patience Wheeler had consumption, and the drier air of the southern plains kept her comfortable until her death four years later. Nick was an Oklahoma boy now, much to his father’s dismay. He knew more about farming than medicine and spent his afternoons at the water hole with his best friend Tyson. Tyson had been born on the Ritter farm, and raised in the same house his whole life. He’d never even left Oklahoma.
That was the one thing that kept Nick from being giddy, standing here in his tiny room on Second Avenue, hearing the bustle of the city outside his small window. He’d dreamed of New York for years, but he was supposed to explore it with Tyson.
“Come on, now,” Aunt Constance had said, taking his suitcase and walking briskly to the street. He’d found her on the train platform by her profile; her slightly weak chin and her bright, big eyes reminded him instantly of his mother. Hurrying after, Nick had barely a moment to take in the sights and sounds and smells around him. It was probably for the best-there were more people in the massive train station than probably lived in all of his county back home.
Aunt Connie lived in the East Village, around the corner from the hospital where she worked as a nurse. She ran her large apartment as a boarding house for immigrants, medical students and those who had loved ones in one of the wards. Nick’s room was down a long, dark hallway.
“I’m afraid you’re on your own a bit this summer, Nick,” she’d said with an apologetic smile from his doorway. “I’ve got a class to teach most days and the Women’s Hospital is short-staffed too. You’ve got the run of all the common rooms, of course, and the boys have already promised to get you settled.”
She’d left him to prepare dinner and Nick sat at the little desk. His heart was beating too fast. After the three-day journey, he was in need of a bath and a long sleep. He eyed the bed and reached into his satchel for paper and his ink well.
Dear Ty,
I thought the train ride was crazy, but you should see the station…
*
“The Boys” turned out to be the occupants of the two other dark doors on his hallway. He met Chris at dinner, head buried in an anatomy book. Chris was from upstate and a student at the medical school. Nick thought him standoffish (he’d said nothing but “pass the butter” since Nick sat down at the table) until the front door flung open and a boy with dark hair and a big grin threw an apple at Chris’s head, barely missing Nick.
“Bastard!” Chris laughed as he ducked and caught the fruit in one hand.
“Why? You’re the one with good reflexes, and I’m the one with shite aim, remember?” the boy replied with a laugh. He had a heavy Irish accent that took Nick a minute to sort through.
“Michael!” Aunt Connie admonished from across the room where she was sitting with an older couple. “Language!”
“My apologies, Miss Connie,” the boy said with a wink.
Connie sighed. “At least try not to throw food at my nephew.”
The boy, Michael, sat at the table next to Chris and grinned at Nick. He had the angelic face of a good church boy that contrasted sharply with the brown cigarette stains on his fingers and the sharp glint in his eyes. “You must be Nick, then,” he noted and stuck his hand out. His handshake was warm and firm. “I’m Mike Kennerty. Miss Connie said you’d need a tour guide this summer. I can show you all the good spots.”
Chris snorted. “I think Connie wants him acclimated, not arrested.”
“Hey!” Mike elbowed Chris heavily in the ribs. “I can get out of trouble better than anyone you know, Gaylor. And look at this kid,” he squinted across the table at Nick and shook his head. “Trouble’ll roll off him like water off a duck’s back. Look at that fucking face.”
“Michael!” yelled Connie.
“Sorry!” Mike laughed and reached for the bread.
*
Dear Ty,
It’s only been two weeks, but it feels like a month. I’ve almost done more than I can remember, but I’m trying to write down everything so that I can tell you about it. I’ve been to the docks, which you would love. There are more boats than I have ever seen, and everyone is yelling all the time. I rode the subway uptown yesterday for the first time, and it was hot, but really good. I stumbled a little and Mike said I still didn’t have my sea legs.
Mike, who lives in the room across the hall, has introduced me to people he works with at the restaurant around the corner and some people he calls “associates”, but who Chris says are just bad news. Chris is only 23 but he’s already learning surgery. Father didn’t learn until he was almost 30! Mike told me, since Chris never really talks about himself. He says Mike talks enough for the both of them. His accent is so thick it takes me two tries to understand him sometimes. He says mine is just as bad.
He got here a year ago from Cork, Ireland and already has more friends in New York than I will probably have in my whole life. Chris is his best friend, though. Which is strange, since they don’t really have anything in common. Not like you and me. But sometimes they can have whole conversations without finishing a sentence.
He doesn’t mention running into Mike in the hallway early one morning on his way from the bathroom, Mike closing the door of Chris’s room quietly. His eyes were wide over his shy smile, and Nick somehow understood that it was a secret. They never mentioned it, but Nick found himself listening at night for the click of Mike’s door, the shuffle of his feet across the hall, the sound of Chris’s voice, happy and sleepy through Nick’s bedroom wall.
For some reason, the sound made Nick’s stomach tighten. He tried not to think about how much he missed Tyson.
*
Nick was in New York for almost a month before he got his first letter from Tyson. He found it slipped under his bedroom door when he got back from a late night with Mike. They’d dropped off some sort of package at what Mike said was a dance hall, but Nick was pretty sure was a burlesque club. Then they’d spent his earnings on a late film at the movie house on Houston.
Nick stripped to his underwear in the close, hot room and settled onto his bed to read.
Dear Nicky,
Sorry to not write sooner, but things have been busy. It’s hotter than last summer. The planting is finally done. It was harder this year, and Dad thinks the land is getting overworked. Says we need to expand and start some heavier rotations for next season, to give the fields by the water hole a rest, which means he and Uncle Ray have drawn up a plan for new irrigation.
Uncle Ray says I’m old enough to help out more on the farm and maybe Dad should pull me out of school for next year. He says I know enough about ciphers and writing. I got Miss Laurie to talk to Dad and I think he’s going to let me go back for next year, but it’s a worry. I don’t think sixteen is old enough to quit schooling. Even if I am taller than all the boys in class. Maybe your Father can talk to Dad when he gets home from Chicago this fall? Dad always respects the Doc.
And I know you think she’s a little dumb, but Eloise Pitcher caught me behind the church after the social last Sunday and told me I was handsome. Ma thinks she’s nice, and Dad keeps talking about how Walt Pitcher has 80 acres. All I know is that Jenny Long said Eloise wants to kiss me.
Anyway, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. And even if I’m at the farm next year, you’ll still be around, right? Keep having adventures and writing me about them. Your letters are the only good thing about this summer.
Tyson
Nick placed the letter on his bed and took a deep breath. He was suddenly colder. He checked the date on the letter and it was over a week before. He wondered what happened since then. He was almost asleep when he heard Mike’s door open, his feet shuffling across the floor. For a single, black moment, Nick hated Mike Kennerty.
*
“What do you do back home on a day like this?” Mike asked. He and Nick were laying in the grass in Central Park. The air was hot and sticky and still and Nick’s shirt was open wide at the collar. The weather had been like this all week and Nick felt like he’d never be cool again.
“Swim, I guess.” He stretched his arms over his head, looking for a patch of cool grass. “Ty’s farm has this big water hole, almost a pond, and the water comes up well deep so it’s always cool.” He and Tyson spent every summer at the Ritter water hole. Some afternoons it was full of boys from a few miles around; some days it was just Nick and Ty lounging on the grass half-naked, jumping in the water when the sun beat down too hard, dunking each other and laughing.
“We could swim,” Mike said with a yawn. Nick wrinkled his nose.
“In the river?”
Mike paused. “Good point.”
They lay there for a while. Nick was surprised that he wasn’t more startled by the hum of activity around him-women pushing prams, boys on bicycles, a team of children playing stickball. The constant hum of the city was becoming less distracting and more like background noise. New York was still impressive, but the sheen of amazement had worn off and Nick was noticing more and more the smell of the sewers, the hungry faces peering down from windows in the bowery, how he felt covered in soot and grime when he returned to his small, clean room every night. He spent more time missing the relative quiet of Sweetwater.
“So,” Mike asked lazily. “Tell me about Tyson.” Nick looked over and Mike was squinting at him, grinning.
“I’ve told you about him tons,” Nick replied with a forced laugh. Truthfully, he’d spoken less about Ty in the last few weeks, though he looked for letters every day. It had been almost three weeks since the last and Nick kept picturing Tyson in the small chapel on the lake, Eloise Pitcher’s boney hand gripping his skinny arm.
“Yeah, well. I know he’s loud and tall, and good at baseball. I don’t know why he’s your best friend.”
“I don’t know,” Nick found himself blushing for no reason. “He’s… Tyson. We’ve been friend since I was eleven. I let him copy my homework and he gave me a frog. Then he was bigger than me and I guess I was stuck with him.”
Mike laughed. “I guess that’s a good trade.”
“Yeah,” Nick smiled up the sky. “He’s a good guy. He’s… there for you. When you need him.” Truth be told, Tyson was there when Nick didn’t need him too, getting underfoot when Nick was trying to learn his piano pieces, distracting him with promises of exciting adventures as Nick tried to do his homework. It’s not that Tyson was a bad student; he was one of the smartest boys in the class, and particularly partial to literature. His father didn’t think that school was the answer to everything, though. Not like Doc Wheeler. He was going to make sure Nick went to college, preferably on the East Coast. “He’s smart too,” Nick made sure to note. New Yorkers, he’d found had a nasty habit of equating Oklahoma with idiocy. “He’ll run a lot of land someday. And he’s real funny. He once got Reverend Anderson to laugh in church. It was fantastic. Right up in front the pulpit and everything.” Nick giggled a little at the memory. Tyson had managed to wiggle out of punishment even for that, though his mother glowered through the entire picnic.
“Sounds like a good guy to know,” Mike said quietly. Nick turned again to find Mike still looking at him. The smile was still there, but it was softer, thoughtful. “Come on. Let’s walk down to the lake.”
They stood up and dusted off, the dirt falling like dust from their sleeves. Walking through the Rambles, Nick turned quickly around a corner and almost ran into a pair of pretty girls with braided hair. The taller of the two put out her hand to stop running directly into the boys and Nick reached out reflexively, fingers closing around her sleeve. She laughed and steadied herself. “So sorry,” she said quickly, her friend blushing at her side.
“No, its fine,” Nick smiled and let her go. The lake wasn’t far and he longed to drop his feet in.
“Really, though,” the girl continued, her smile slipping into something a little less wide, but a little more friendly. Her friend rolled her eyes, but the girl stood resolutely in Nick’s way, brown eyes fixed on his. “It was my fault. Are you boys heading down to the lake?”
“Yeah,” Mike replied easily over Nick’s shoulder. The girl still didn’t move, brushing her hair from her forehead and lowering her gaze a little. Nick was getting a little annoyed.
“You ladies look out where you’re going, all right?” Nick said with a nod. He scooted around them and back down the path, Mike clomping heavily behind him.
“So,” Mike nudged his shoulder as they hit an even patch of the path. “She was pretty.”
“I guess,” Nick rubbed at a patch of dirt on his elbow. He noticed the sun getting lower over the museum and realized dinner was soon. “Do you think Aunt Connie’s making roast chicken tonight?”
Mike stopped short and laughed, a bright ringing sound that startled an older couple walking nearby.
“What?” Nick asked, confused but grinning back at him.
“Nothing,” came Mike’s easy reply. He slid an arm companionably around Nick’s shoulder and turned him toward the street. “Let’s get home and see about dinner, yeah?”
*
Dear Nicky,
The words were smudged from where Nick’s fingers had run over them. It was hot and his shirt and shoes had been abandoned the moment he hit his bed, eagerly ripping open the envelope. The page was wrinkled from Nick folding and unfolding the letter a dozen times in the last hour. It was silly, but he thought every time that maybe he could get the words to say something different, something less…
Sorry its been so long since the last letter. Dad and Uncle Ray have been making a fuss about this irrigation plan, and Uncle Ray got really mad last week when he came home to find me out in the hayloft reading instead of down in the field. Miss Laurie let me borrow one of her Shakespeare’s for a few weeks, and I was worried for a minute he’d rip it to shreds and toss it into the fertilizer. That’s what he called it-“nothing better than fertilizer”! Can you imagine? Miss Laurie would have fainted dead away at that.
Other than that there’s no excitement here. Dad did take us to Sweetwater last Saturday, and my sister got so excited about the new schoolhouse. There are ten rooms! Mom says Sweetwater is too big now, but I couldn’t help but wonder how different things would be if you and went to that school instead. I bet in New York, though, ten rooms in no big deal.
I’m not sure how to write this, or why I didn’t as soon as it happened. If you’d been here, I’d have been down at your place that same night. But I guess there are just some things that are strange to write down. I told you last time about Eloise? Well, a week ago Tuesday, I ran into her walking from the general store. I had the buggy since Uncle Ray won’t let me drive the truck yet. I offered her a ride home and she climbed on in, and wouldn’t you know it-around by the Moffett’s she leaned in and kissed me. “I’d like you to court me, Tyson Ritter,” she said. Just like that! It was a surprise, and you can bet I had no idea what to say. I may have said all right, though, because she took my arm at church on Sunday in front of Rev. Anderson and everyone, so I guess we’re courting. I don’t feel any different, like maybe I should. I just wish you were here to tell me if I’m being dumb. She’s pretty, isn’t she? And she’s the best seamstress in class, and Mom says I grow fast enough to need my own.
I’m glad New York is so exciting. I wish I were there with you.
Tyson
Nick didn’t even hear the knock on the door. “Hey,” Mike stuck his head in looking concerned. “You doing all right, Nick?”
Nick just blinked up at him. Sure, he tried to say. “Ty’s seeing a girl back home,” is what came out. Nick didn’t know why he said it, because that’s good news, right? Not at all in line with how Nick looked now, eyes gritty and breathing too shallow. But Mike came in the room and sat on his bed unsmiling. He placed a comforting hand on Nick’s leg and exhaled.
“You know what you need?”
Nick folded the letter and placed it on his pillow. “What?”
“You need a drink,” he smiled with a little glint and Nick laughed.
“This isn’t Cork, Mikey. We can’t just,” but Mike tugged Nick up off the bed and out into the hall, shushing him on the way when Nick noted that Aunt Connie didn’t like them wandering about without shirts.
“You can’t let Connie know about this either,” he said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Come on.” He pulled Nick into Chris’s room and closed the door, snapping the latch into place. Chris looked up from where he was hunched over his reading, the lamp light haloing his blond hair. He tilted his head when he saw Nick there, and Nick pulled his hand from Mike’s quickly, worried for some reason just out of reach. “Brought a third for the party.”
“Did you now?” Chris shook his head and smiled the fond smile that Nick had come to translate as ‘what kind of trouble have you gotten us into this time?’
Nick stood transfixed as Mike reached behind the door and pulled a glass milk jug out of his satchel. Inside, the clear liquid sloshed and a thin trickle leaked out the makeshift top and down the side. Mike side his finger up the side of the bottle, catching the drop and sucking his finger into his mouth. “That’s right,” Chris said with a smile and took the bottle. “Don’t want to leave any evidence.” He rolled his eyes, removed the cap and took a good-sized sip of the contents, wincing a little. “Live it up, kid,” he said with a smile as he passed the jug to Nick.
Bootleg. Mike Kennerty was smuggling bootleg into his Aunt’s boarding house. Nick blinked and took the bottle, not knowing what else to do with his hands. He hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since he was fourteen when his father poured him the last of their stash of wine and told him to enjoy it. It had been bitter and Ty had laughed when he said so later.
All thoughts of Tyson now led to the letter one room away and the Eloise situation and Uncle Ray and all manner of awful things. He just wanted to not think about it for a little while. So when Mike bumped his shoulder and grinned, Nick raised the bottle to his lips without another thought. The gin was strong and Nick coughed as it burned its way to his stomach. Mike just laughed and grabbed the bottle before he could spill it. Chris took his elbow and sat him firmly in the armchair next to the bed.
“Trust me, you’ll need to be sitting soon,” he smiled and sat on the bed. Mike slid in next to him and handed him the bottle. Chris took another practiced sip but Nick noticed the quick sour face this time, like Chris wasn’t impressed with the taste either.
“It’s shite,” Mike noted, sighing a bit at the glass. “But it’s the only shite there is in this godforsaken country.”
“Where’d you get it?” Nick asked as he took the bottle back. The second sip wasn’t nearly so bad, and he felt too warm again, even with Chris’s window open. Mike must have thought so too, because he was tugging off his shirt.
“A friend,” Mike answered with a wink and half turned on the bed until he was facing Chris. “Come on Gaylor, you know you’re hot in that thing.” He tugged on the hem of Chris’s shirt so fast that Nick almost missed the way his fingers slid beneath the hem. Chris frowned.
“Michael, I think maybe,” he started, but Mike laughed and handed him the gin.
“Don’t think, love,” Mike replied. “When it comes to gin and bad ideas, I’m the brains of this operation, remember?”
Nick was sure he was missing something, but an hour later he guessed Mike was right as Chris was happily drunk and shirtless and lying flat on his back in bed trying to explain the appeal of leeches. Nick was sprawled in the chair trying to listen, but all he could think was I’m drunk, I’m drunk, oh god would Ty be proud, I think I may throw up. His vision was blurry and the room spun just a little to the left every time he moved. Mike was sitting cross-legged on the bed, the jug in his lap. He looked… fine, actually.
“I’ve been drinking since the womb,” he said when Nick leaned up for the bottle and Mike slipped it just out of reach. “I can take a gallon of this. You are just right, my friend, and you are cut off.”
Nick slid back in the chair and pouted. Mike just laughed and placed the bottle on the other side of the bed. Nick’s eyes kept sliding shut. The room was close and hot and he was tingly and a little dizzy. And Chris was still talking about leeches, and how they suture wounds better than any person can, and Nick blinked once, then twice, because suddenly Mike was leaning over whispering in Chris’s ear and Chris’s head was turning toward him and...
And Nick had no trouble keeping his eyes open anymore. Not when Mike kissed Chris slowly, his tongue visible every few moments. Each time, Nick felt his chest constrict. When Mike broke away and his tongue found new purchase on the sensitive skin of Chris’s neck, Nick felt like he wouldn’t be able to breathe ever again. He thought I should leave, but his legs were like jelly. Chris’s eyes were closed, his fingers threaded through Mike’s hair as his mouth left a mark on Chris’s chest, just below his collar. Nick could see other faint bruises there too, now that he knew to look, and Chris moaned when Mike slid his leg higher, pressing between them.
It was sudden, like a crystal clear rush of cold water through Nick’s blood stream, and he knew what this was: this was the sound he heard at night through his wall-- Mike touching Chris, kissing him, sliding his hands to his pants and unbuttoning them slowly as Chris panted beneath him. This wasn’t new, this wasn’t gin, this was just what they were.
“Mike,” Chris managed hoarsely and Mike paused, his fingers tucked in the waist of Chris’s pants. “Really, do you think...”
Mike smiled and tugged until Chris’s cock sprang free. He was hard and the flesh at the head was glistening red. Nick had seen exactly one hard cock before, his own excluded. It was last summer and he and Ty had been camping out by the water hole. Nick had awakened to the sound of Tyson’s harsh breathing a few feet away. He’d opened his eyes just a fraction to see Tyson’s bedroll pooled around his thighs, eyes closed tight, fingers wrapped snugly around himself. Nick had blushed crimson and closed his eyes immediately, forcing his breathing even and steady even though his stomach had felt like lead. He’d stayed awake until long after Tyson had let out a soft hitched breath and rustled back into his clothes. He didn’t let his own hand stray under his blanket until Tyson was snoring lightly beside him.
“Look at him,” Mike replied quietly and Nick couldn’t look when Chris turned his head, couldn’t face Chris, couldn’t not watch Mike’s hand stroke Chris’s cock. This was wrong, more wrong than playing cards or drinking gin or jumping turnstiles. This was hellfire wrong, and Nick knew but his cock seemed not to care. He could feel his skin burning, his lips parted and panting in time with Mike’s sure hand. He felt Chris’s eyes on him and blushed red when Chris whispered “Fuck” with a smile in his voice.
Nick wanted to leave then, wanted to escape to the room next door and pretend this didn’t happen, just like that night camping. But that night seemed to haunt his dreams-- taunted him, made him wake up feeling sinful and aching for Tyson-and this wouldn’t be any different, he knew. He wouldn’t ever forget it, no matter how many prayers or how many years. So he stayed, damned anyway, and watched Mike slide his tongue along the underside of Chris’s cock and swallow him down. Nick was painfully hard, his cock straining against the seam of his pants, and he was sweating from the effort of not moving as much as the heat of the room.
It could have been hours, Nick thought later, all time slowing down as he watched and listened and learned how to make a boy clutch his sheets and shudder and curse. When Chris finally bucked hard, his fingers digging into Mike’s neck and holding him down, Mike moaned and Chris shattered and Nick slid the heel of his hand along his cock through the fabric of his pants and promptly came with a startled shout. By the time Mike had spit, Nick was off the chair and in the hall, locking the door of his room behind him and shaking as he slid to the floor.
*
Nick ignored the knock on his door like he’d ignored all the others in the last three days, sitting in the chair by the window and watching the streets bustle beneath him. “Nick, open it. Come on, this has gone on long enough.” Mike sounded worried still, but angry too. “Let me talk to you. Before Connie thinks you have the plague and checks you into that hospital of hers.”
Nick blinked at the door, flushing like he has for the last few days whenever he heard Mike’s voice. “Just go, alright?” he managed hoarsely. He was parched.
“Look, I brought your lunch. At least come and get it. There’s an orange!”
Oranges were a bit too extravagant to be Connie’s and Nick knew that Mike had boosted it for him from a vendor, probably when he was out that morning. Nick had watched him leave in the dawn hours, his temple resting on the window frame. The idea of a sticky, sweet orange and a thick ham sandwich made his stomach rumble and he stood up with a sigh, crossing the room. He unlocked the door and took three quick steps to his bed before calling out “It’s open.”
Mike swung the door open and stood there with the tray. He didn’t come all the way in until Nick had nodded at him that it was okay, and somehow that made Nick feel better. He surveyed the room. “It’s a mess in here, mate.”
Nick cracked a small smile. His usually neat room was littered with remnants of late night snacks he’d grabbed, eager to not run into anyone. The bed was rumpled and unmade and the floor near his desk was littered with balled up paper. Nick was more confused than he’d ever been in his life and for the first time, he couldn’t talk to Tyson about it. It was terrifying. Each letter started with Dear Ty, and each veered into dangerous directions as Nick had tried frantically to explain what had happened in Chris’s room. He quit trying the day before when he actually wrote the phrase Please don’t kiss her again, at least not until you’ve let me try…
Mike placed the tray on the edge of the desk and stood a few feet away. “I’m sorry. I really… sometimes I don’t think things through all way.” He smiled ruefully and Nick shook his head.
“Why though?” Nick looked at him, eyes wide and bright. “Why would you do that?”
“I like to do that,” Mike laughed. Nick set his jaw tight. “Alright, fine. I didn’t know how to tell you, and I thought if I did, you’d run. And I wanted you to see, Nicky. I wanted you to see that it wasn’t dirty or wrong. It’s just the same as girls.”
“It’s not,” Nick replied and he was horrified at the hitch in his voice. He stood and faced Mike, fists balled at his sides. “It’s not the same. You ask anyone and they’ll tell you.”
“Fine,” Mike said, serious and calm. “It’s not the same, because for you girls aren’t anything. You aren’t mad at me because what I did is wrong. You’re mad because I showed you something about yourself that you didn’t want to deal with.”
“Shut up,” Nick whispered frantically, eyes darting to the door like someone was listening on the other side.
“You’re scared because you want that, you and Ty.”
“Stop, Mike, please,” Nick pleaded. But Mike was stepping closer and Nick felt trapped as Mike slid an arm around his shoulder and tugged him close.
“It’s okay. You can’t stop who you are, Nicky,” he spoke softly against Nick’s temple.
Nick’s balled his hands in the thin fabric of Mike’s shirt, clinging like a lifeline. “A sodomite? Is that what I am?” His breathing was harsh and painful. Mike just pulled him closer into a tight hug.
“Yeah, it is. And you’re right. People will hate you for it.” His hands slid across Nick’s back in comforting circles. “You can do one of two things now. You can deny it and marry a nice girl back home and live in fear, or you can embrace it and learn how to be happy in your own skin.”
“Are you?”
“Happy?” Nick could feel his smile. “Generally. There’s still plenty I’m learning, but we’re not alone, you know. You and me and Chris. We aren’t the only boys in this town who are… what we are. There’s a whole world out there and you’re a part of it, just by being you.”
“Not back home,” Nick said quietly, suddenly still. Back home he would be alone in this and if anyone knew he’d lose everything. Everyone. “What if he’s not…” Nick couldn’t bring himself to finish the question, his throat closing around the words.
Mike sighed and pulled back just enough to look Nick in the eye. “I can’t tell you everything is going to be easy. Maybe he won’t want you like this, maybe it’s not meant to be. But isn’t it worth finding out?” Mike smiled kindly and Nick nodded.
It was. For the last three days, all he could think of was his reunion with Tyson and all the fantasies of happy endings-- of Tyson beaming at him and pulling him close-were enough to make him take the chance.
Mike’s smile widened into a mischievous grin. “Come on then! Get your sad self together, my young apprentice. I’m taking you out.”
*