I'm a fic-a-saurus!!!
Anybody want some more McShep?
Please feed the author. It really does help to know that it's not just my beta-types who are reading this. *tries for winsome grin*
************************
It was just another Friday night, and just another beer, but John found himself feeling strangely out of sorts.
Trif stuck one of those shiny new compact discs in the stereo and nudged up the volume a notch to better appreciate the heavy guitar work on the last Bryan Adams album, which had been released when they were all freshmen. Mike wondered aloud when the new one was coming out, and Steve said drunkenly, “Who the fuck cares? This shit sucks.”
Frank Mancini entered the room from the kitchen, a six-pack in one hand, and punched Steve, hard, in the arm on his way past. “We are *not* listening to that fucking metal of yours, you asshole.”
Steve blinked slowly. “Ow,” he said, finally.
Darren plucked the can from Steve’s thick fingers and danced away gracefully before he could react. “Dude, you’re flagged,” he laughed.
John finished his beer, reached for another, and tried to figure out what was bothering him.
This is what they always did, always had, and even though he’d missed a couple of nights here and there to hang out with Rodney at the Ferris wheel, it shouldn’t have felt this strange to be back to usual routine with his friends.
Should it?
Maybe he’d missed more nights than he’d thought.
Dino and Troy came in, loud and boisterous and laden with snacks and smokes, and someone took advantage of the noise to change the music to Bruce Springsteen. The opening strains of “Born in the U.S.A” rang out loudly through the state-of-the-art audio system, and John wondered briefly what it might sound like on Rodney’s tiny, tinny speakers.
Somebody, who might have been Darren but was more likely Trif, tossed a football crookedly across the room, calling, “C’mon, Shep, see if you can *catch* it this time!”
John tried a one-armed dive off the sofa, bobbling the ball and spilling his beer for his troubles.
Troy looked at the puddle in disgust and said, “Fuck, man! Clean that shit up before it stains the carpet, or my dad will have a fucking fit!”
“Clean it up your goddamn self, Troy, you lazy motherfucker,” John snapped as he picked himself up off the floor. He’d whacked his elbow and landed with most of his weight on one knee, and just because he was skinny didn’t mean that it didn’t fucking *hurt*.
“Jesus Christ, some asshole pretends to drown and then thinks he can act like a fucking *girl* about it for the rest of the goddamn summer,” Steve groused, crushing an empty beer can in one meaty hand.
Mike snorted his beer and his words bubbled out along with the foam. “Yeah, Shep and his new boyfriend are off doing each other’s nails and playing with dolls.”
“Oh, fuck you,” John retorted automatically, wishing fervently that Mike would choke just a little bit more.
He should have known that Troy would pick up Mike’s comment and run with it, the nasty little shit. “Nah, that’s what *you* like, ain’t it, Shep?” he asked, eyes gleaming with beer and malice. “No time for your fucking friends any more, just your goddamn weirdo boyfriend.”
John rolled his eyes, wondering what was bringing on this sudden burst of animosity. “This again?” he demanded. “How many times do I have to listen to this shit out of you guys? Just fucking let it go, man!”
“Fucking asshole,” Steve pronounced. “Fucking cocksucker.”
The referent was unclear, but the condemnation was obvious, and the air seemed to tighten with anticipation.
Mike joined in again. “That’s it, huh, Shep? You suck his cock? You like sucking cock? Is that all you two do, or do you roll over for him too, like a bitch in heat?”
Taken off-guard by the unexpected attack, John tried to laugh it off as he had on other days, saying weakly, “Yeah, you guys are *real* fucking funny. You saw what happened, the guy saved my life and, I dunno, I just feel like I oughta be nice to him or something.”
“We all saw it,” Troy said sharply.
“Saw how much Shep fucking loved it,” Steve said loudly, although it looked for all the world like he was speaking to the stereo. “Loved kissing some motherfuckin’ *guy*.”
There was so much venom in their words, rancor that had never been there before, even though they’d all said similar things in the last few weeks.
Things that John had thought were just well-intentioned, teasing jokes. He’d brushed them off easily before; why was tonight suddenly so different?
He didn’t understand it. Was it just the booze talking? Or were they really *that* shallow?
Had John ever really known these guys at all?
“Assholes,” John snarled. “You’re all a bunch of fucking *assholes*.” He glanced angrily around the room, at Darren and Trif in particular, who both looked uncomfortable but who clearly weren’t about to step in and take John’s side. “I thought you guys were my *friends*.”
Mike threw his half-full can of Budweiser, and maybe it was a coincidence that the remaining beer splashed all over John, but the words that followed were cruel and deliberate. “None of us wants to be friends with a fucking faggot cocksucker.”
Rage flashed abruptly behind John’s eyes, turning the world into something hot and red as he launched himself across the room with an inarticulate howl.
He got in two good blows to Mike’s stupid face before the other guy pinned him in one quick motion, showing off the moves that had made him a championship wrestler in his weight class, three years running. Before Mike or anyone else could start really swinging, though, John heard cursing and shoving as Don pushed his way into the room and forced Mike up and away from him.
“Keep him buttoned up, man,” Don snapped, and Dino Lolli, who outweighed Mike by at least seventy-five pounds and topped his height by six inches or so, wrapped one heavily muscled arm around Mike’s throat and stolidly ignored all attempts at freedom.
Ron was with both Franks and Darren in the corner, caging Troy neatly against the wall and keeping him on a short leash.
Everyone was pretty much ignoring Steve, who was steadily and with great dedication drinking himself into a stupor and demonstrating no recognition of his contributions to the brawl.
John was still attempting periodic lunges at Mike, so Don put him into a neat headlock, right arm twisted up behind his back, and hustled him outside.
Together, Ronnie and Don pretty much dragged John down Twenty-Sixth Street and from there, north up Beach Drive, ignoring his complaints, curses, and occasional kicks.
“I will fucking *dump* your skinny ass in the bay and make you fucking *swim* to Stone Harbor if you don’t cool it down,” Don said through gritted teeth. “Swear to God.”
Ron just looked worried, shooting concerned glances at John out of the corner of his eye, even as he kept a tight grip on John’s left arm. “Come on, keep moving, walk it off,” he urged quietly.
They made it as far as Ninth Street before John was finally able to keep himself under control. “I’m fine now, totally,” he insisted, when Don looked doubtful. Ronnie steered them to the wide, concrete-and-wood retaining wall and nudged at John until he sighed and pushed himself up onto its rough surface, kicking his heels dully from his sitting position. The wood was pitted from storm damage, little drifts of fine sand caught in its grain. John placed his hands carefully, hoping to avoid the inevitable splinters.
Ron hopped up next to him, as Don settled himself standing, leaning against the railing that shielded the entrance ramps to the dunes. He studied John closely for a moment before demanding abruptly, “Okay. Like, what the *fuck* was going on in there?”
John sighed and rubbed his eyes. “It was nothing, okay? Just . . . Mike and Troy, mostly, starting some shit.”
“Troy’s a fucking asshole,” Don said sharply. “I’m gonna knock his fucking head off if he keeps up with this bullshit.”
“Mike’s just as much of a dickhead,” Ron observed.
Don rubbed the back of his neck, looking pissed. “Yeah, all right,” he admitted. “So how’d you get into it with them, Shep? You’re usually pretty cool about their shit. Frank said you’d only had the two beers, and that’s not really enough to make you that crazy.”
John shrugged. “I dunno,” he said finally. “I just . . . I was just, like, fucking sick of hearing it.”
He didn’t know how to explain just how enraged he’d been, how he had been swamped by a fury so pure and absolute that there was no choice but to surrender to it. It seemed strange and distant, almost unreal, now that he was outside in the humid summer night.
Up the street by about fifty yards, a halo of light surrounded the streetlamp, gilding the sidewalks and echoing the moonlight reflected on the ocean that John could just barely glimpse through the dunes. The fresh scent of salt tickled his nose, and the stiff night breeze carried with it the sounds of a Friday night on the boardwalk, muted somewhat with distance.
John wondered how Rodney was doing, if he was running the Ferris wheel tonight, or if he was manning the log flume or the roller coaster.
“He’s *not* weird,” he announced suddenly, following his own train of thought. “He’s just . . . different. Interesting. He’s cool, really.”
Don didn’t say anything, but Ron made a noncommittal noise that sounded vaguely like inquiry.
“I don’t see why those assholes should even fucking *care*,” John continued, heat seeping into his voice. Don shifted his weight, looking like he was preparing to tackle John if he tried to make a break for it. “I mean, it’s nobody’s fucking business! It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t fucking *change* things, whether it’s true or not, so why should anybody give a flying *fuck*?”
John almost missed the speaking glance the other two guys exchanged as he warmed up to his diatribe. Stuttering to a halt, he studied them closely.
Ron’s fair, freckled skin was bright red, and seemed strangely abraded across his jaw and throat, visible even in the dim light cast by the distant streetlamp.
Neither the night, nor the deep tan of Don’s complexion could hide the telltale bruises that traveled from his ear down to the collar of his shirt, disappearing beneath the fabric in a way that suggested the presence of more marks, temporarily hidden beneath the clothing.
Strangest of all, though, was that his polo was too tight across his shoulders and was distinctly the pale turquoise color that John knew damned well belonged to Ron. It looked wrong against Don’s olive-toned, Italian skin, just as wrong as Don’s bright red, too-big pocket t-shirt on Ron.
The slow flush creeping up Don’s neck was the final confirmation, even as he glanced away and pretended to casually adjust his collar, flipping it up to hide the worst of the bites.
John knew his eyes were probably the size of dinner plates, but he couldn’t help it. He really wanted to be cool, and act like this was no big deal, but when he opened his mouth, he found himself saying, “You - and Ron? You’re . . . ? Wait a minute, how long has this been going on?”
Ronnie glanced helplessly from one to another, shifting a few inches away from John and wincing, probably as the expected splinters were made known.
Don set his jaw. “None of your fucking business, Shep,” he bit out. “You just said it yourself. ‘It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t fucking *change* things’. Don’t think you can just fucking barge into somebody else’s business, just because you think *now* you have some kind of goddamned *right*.”
Ron raised his hand, just briefly, and Don just . . . stopped. Like a simple gesture from quiet Ronnie meant more to him than any of the yelling that John had been ready to start.
“There’s nothing to talk about, right, John?” Ron asked. He sounded honestly curious, as if, maybe, he really *wanted* to hear John’s answer, but John wasn’t sure of the question.
Was Ron asking if John and Rodney were involved, or was he hinting that John should keep his mouth shut about what he now knew, or suspected, about Don and Ron himself? Or was it something different altogether?
Since he couldn’t decide, John glanced away and kicked his heels against the retaining wall a few more times, pondering instead Don’s aggressiveness. It took him a minute to decide that he wasn’t just being a dick, he was protecting Ron.
John understood that, the desire to be defended, the greater need to shield another. Thinking about it, quickly, about how safe he felt with Rodney, cherished and protected, like someone who *deserved* that kind of concern, John realized that he couldn’t possibly violate that sense of security for someone else, even if it would mean getting all the answers that he wanted.
So he shook his head. “Nah. Nothing to talk about. Go on, get the fuck outta here . . . I’m gonna walk up to the jetty.”
Don straightened up and came close, crowding John and eyeing him closely as Ron pushed off the retaining wall and busied himself dusting sand from his shorts. “Do *not* fuck with me on this, Shep,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “I don’t think you understand just how fucking serious this is.”
John stared Don straight in the eye, even though he had to look up to do it. “I totally get it,” he said seriously, but couldn’t resist adding, “but you should change your fucking shirts!”
For a moment, John thought he was going to be on the receiving end of a blow again, but then Don rolled his eyes and cuffed him with rough affection. “Jesus Christ, Shep, no more goddamn fistfights in the goddamn house and it won’t be a fucking problem, okay?”
They all laughed, and then it was okay.
Ronnie and Don walked away in the direction of the boardwalk, maybe a little closer to each other than usual, or maybe John was just more aware of it now.
He shook his head, dismissing the thought, before climbing to his feet and making his way nine blocks along the retaining wall until he reached the jetty that marked the entrance to the bay.
It wasn’t very late, so there were still a fair number of people there, and John’s favorite rock was occupied by a cuddling couple, so he turned to his right and walked out along the beach a few hundred yards until he came to one of the lifeguards’ tower chairs. It had been dragged up past the high-water mark and was sunken firmly into the soft sand, making an excellent place to sit and think.
He climbed up, facing out to sea and watching the waves for a while, letting his breathing match the boom of the surf, its endless soothing rhythm.
************************
Please feed the author. It really does help to know that it's not just my beta-types who are reading this. *tries for winsome grin*
************************
It was just another Friday night, and just another beer, but John found himself feeling strangely out of sorts.
Trif stuck one of those shiny new compact discs in the stereo and nudged up the volume a notch to better appreciate the heavy guitar work on the last Bryan Adams album, which had been released when they were all freshmen. Mike wondered aloud when the new one was coming out, and Steve said drunkenly, “Who the fuck cares? This shit sucks.”
Frank Mancini entered the room from the kitchen, a six-pack in one hand, and punched Steve, hard, in the arm on his way past. “We are *not* listening to that fucking metal of yours, you asshole.”
Steve blinked slowly. “Ow,” he said, finally.
Darren plucked the can from Steve’s thick fingers and danced away gracefully before he could react. “Dude, you’re flagged,” he laughed.
John finished his beer, reached for another, and tried to figure out what was bothering him.
This is what they always did, always had, and even though he’d missed a couple of nights here and there to hang out with Rodney at the Ferris wheel, it shouldn’t have felt this strange to be back to usual routine with his friends.
Should it?
Maybe he’d missed more nights than he’d thought.
Dino and Troy came in, loud and boisterous and laden with snacks and smokes, and someone took advantage of the noise to change the music to Bruce Springsteen. The opening strains of “Born in the U.S.A” rang out loudly through the state-of-the-art audio system, and John wondered briefly what it might sound like on Rodney’s tiny, tinny speakers.
Somebody, who might have been Darren but was more likely Trif, tossed a football crookedly across the room, calling, “C’mon, Shep, see if you can *catch* it this time!”
John tried a one-armed dive off the sofa, bobbling the ball and spilling his beer for his troubles.
Troy looked at the puddle in disgust and said, “Fuck, man! Clean that shit up before it stains the carpet, or my dad will have a fucking fit!”
“Clean it up your goddamn self, Troy, you lazy motherfucker,” John snapped as he picked himself up off the floor. He’d whacked his elbow and landed with most of his weight on one knee, and just because he was skinny didn’t mean that it didn’t fucking *hurt*.
“Jesus Christ, some asshole pretends to drown and then thinks he can act like a fucking *girl* about it for the rest of the goddamn summer,” Steve groused, crushing an empty beer can in one meaty hand.
Mike snorted his beer and his words bubbled out along with the foam. “Yeah, Shep and his new boyfriend are off doing each other’s nails and playing with dolls.”
“Oh, fuck you,” John retorted automatically, wishing fervently that Mike would choke just a little bit more.
He should have known that Troy would pick up Mike’s comment and run with it, the nasty little shit. “Nah, that’s what *you* like, ain’t it, Shep?” he asked, eyes gleaming with beer and malice. “No time for your fucking friends any more, just your goddamn weirdo boyfriend.”
John rolled his eyes, wondering what was bringing on this sudden burst of animosity. “This again?” he demanded. “How many times do I have to listen to this shit out of you guys? Just fucking let it go, man!”
“Fucking asshole,” Steve pronounced. “Fucking cocksucker.”
The referent was unclear, but the condemnation was obvious, and the air seemed to tighten with anticipation.
Mike joined in again. “That’s it, huh, Shep? You suck his cock? You like sucking cock? Is that all you two do, or do you roll over for him too, like a bitch in heat?”
Taken off-guard by the unexpected attack, John tried to laugh it off as he had on other days, saying weakly, “Yeah, you guys are *real* fucking funny. You saw what happened, the guy saved my life and, I dunno, I just feel like I oughta be nice to him or something.”
“We all saw it,” Troy said sharply.
“Saw how much Shep fucking loved it,” Steve said loudly, although it looked for all the world like he was speaking to the stereo. “Loved kissing some motherfuckin’ *guy*.”
There was so much venom in their words, rancor that had never been there before, even though they’d all said similar things in the last few weeks.
Things that John had thought were just well-intentioned, teasing jokes. He’d brushed them off easily before; why was tonight suddenly so different?
He didn’t understand it. Was it just the booze talking? Or were they really *that* shallow?
Had John ever really known these guys at all?
“Assholes,” John snarled. “You’re all a bunch of fucking *assholes*.” He glanced angrily around the room, at Darren and Trif in particular, who both looked uncomfortable but who clearly weren’t about to step in and take John’s side. “I thought you guys were my *friends*.”
Mike threw his half-full can of Budweiser, and maybe it was a coincidence that the remaining beer splashed all over John, but the words that followed were cruel and deliberate. “None of us wants to be friends with a fucking faggot cocksucker.”
Rage flashed abruptly behind John’s eyes, turning the world into something hot and red as he launched himself across the room with an inarticulate howl.
He got in two good blows to Mike’s stupid face before the other guy pinned him in one quick motion, showing off the moves that had made him a championship wrestler in his weight class, three years running. Before Mike or anyone else could start really swinging, though, John heard cursing and shoving as Don pushed his way into the room and forced Mike up and away from him.
“Keep him buttoned up, man,” Don snapped, and Dino Lolli, who outweighed Mike by at least seventy-five pounds and topped his height by six inches or so, wrapped one heavily muscled arm around Mike’s throat and stolidly ignored all attempts at freedom.
Ron was with both Franks and Darren in the corner, caging Troy neatly against the wall and keeping him on a short leash.
Everyone was pretty much ignoring Steve, who was steadily and with great dedication drinking himself into a stupor and demonstrating no recognition of his contributions to the brawl.
John was still attempting periodic lunges at Mike, so Don put him into a neat headlock, right arm twisted up behind his back, and hustled him outside.
Together, Ronnie and Don pretty much dragged John down Twenty-Sixth Street and from there, north up Beach Drive, ignoring his complaints, curses, and occasional kicks.
“I will fucking *dump* your skinny ass in the bay and make you fucking *swim* to Stone Harbor if you don’t cool it down,” Don said through gritted teeth. “Swear to God.”
Ron just looked worried, shooting concerned glances at John out of the corner of his eye, even as he kept a tight grip on John’s left arm. “Come on, keep moving, walk it off,” he urged quietly.
They made it as far as Ninth Street before John was finally able to keep himself under control. “I’m fine now, totally,” he insisted, when Don looked doubtful. Ronnie steered them to the wide, concrete-and-wood retaining wall and nudged at John until he sighed and pushed himself up onto its rough surface, kicking his heels dully from his sitting position. The wood was pitted from storm damage, little drifts of fine sand caught in its grain. John placed his hands carefully, hoping to avoid the inevitable splinters.
Ron hopped up next to him, as Don settled himself standing, leaning against the railing that shielded the entrance ramps to the dunes. He studied John closely for a moment before demanding abruptly, “Okay. Like, what the *fuck* was going on in there?”
John sighed and rubbed his eyes. “It was nothing, okay? Just . . . Mike and Troy, mostly, starting some shit.”
“Troy’s a fucking asshole,” Don said sharply. “I’m gonna knock his fucking head off if he keeps up with this bullshit.”
“Mike’s just as much of a dickhead,” Ron observed.
Don rubbed the back of his neck, looking pissed. “Yeah, all right,” he admitted. “So how’d you get into it with them, Shep? You’re usually pretty cool about their shit. Frank said you’d only had the two beers, and that’s not really enough to make you that crazy.”
John shrugged. “I dunno,” he said finally. “I just . . . I was just, like, fucking sick of hearing it.”
He didn’t know how to explain just how enraged he’d been, how he had been swamped by a fury so pure and absolute that there was no choice but to surrender to it. It seemed strange and distant, almost unreal, now that he was outside in the humid summer night.
Up the street by about fifty yards, a halo of light surrounded the streetlamp, gilding the sidewalks and echoing the moonlight reflected on the ocean that John could just barely glimpse through the dunes. The fresh scent of salt tickled his nose, and the stiff night breeze carried with it the sounds of a Friday night on the boardwalk, muted somewhat with distance.
John wondered how Rodney was doing, if he was running the Ferris wheel tonight, or if he was manning the log flume or the roller coaster.
“He’s *not* weird,” he announced suddenly, following his own train of thought. “He’s just . . . different. Interesting. He’s cool, really.”
Don didn’t say anything, but Ron made a noncommittal noise that sounded vaguely like inquiry.
“I don’t see why those assholes should even fucking *care*,” John continued, heat seeping into his voice. Don shifted his weight, looking like he was preparing to tackle John if he tried to make a break for it. “I mean, it’s nobody’s fucking business! It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t fucking *change* things, whether it’s true or not, so why should anybody give a flying *fuck*?”
John almost missed the speaking glance the other two guys exchanged as he warmed up to his diatribe. Stuttering to a halt, he studied them closely.
Ron’s fair, freckled skin was bright red, and seemed strangely abraded across his jaw and throat, visible even in the dim light cast by the distant streetlamp.
Neither the night, nor the deep tan of Don’s complexion could hide the telltale bruises that traveled from his ear down to the collar of his shirt, disappearing beneath the fabric in a way that suggested the presence of more marks, temporarily hidden beneath the clothing.
Strangest of all, though, was that his polo was too tight across his shoulders and was distinctly the pale turquoise color that John knew damned well belonged to Ron. It looked wrong against Don’s olive-toned, Italian skin, just as wrong as Don’s bright red, too-big pocket t-shirt on Ron.
The slow flush creeping up Don’s neck was the final confirmation, even as he glanced away and pretended to casually adjust his collar, flipping it up to hide the worst of the bites.
John knew his eyes were probably the size of dinner plates, but he couldn’t help it. He really wanted to be cool, and act like this was no big deal, but when he opened his mouth, he found himself saying, “You - and Ron? You’re . . . ? Wait a minute, how long has this been going on?”
Ronnie glanced helplessly from one to another, shifting a few inches away from John and wincing, probably as the expected splinters were made known.
Don set his jaw. “None of your fucking business, Shep,” he bit out. “You just said it yourself. ‘It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t fucking *change* things’. Don’t think you can just fucking barge into somebody else’s business, just because you think *now* you have some kind of goddamned *right*.”
Ron raised his hand, just briefly, and Don just . . . stopped. Like a simple gesture from quiet Ronnie meant more to him than any of the yelling that John had been ready to start.
“There’s nothing to talk about, right, John?” Ron asked. He sounded honestly curious, as if, maybe, he really *wanted* to hear John’s answer, but John wasn’t sure of the question.
Was Ron asking if John and Rodney were involved, or was he hinting that John should keep his mouth shut about what he now knew, or suspected, about Don and Ron himself? Or was it something different altogether?
Since he couldn’t decide, John glanced away and kicked his heels against the retaining wall a few more times, pondering instead Don’s aggressiveness. It took him a minute to decide that he wasn’t just being a dick, he was protecting Ron.
John understood that, the desire to be defended, the greater need to shield another. Thinking about it, quickly, about how safe he felt with Rodney, cherished and protected, like someone who *deserved* that kind of concern, John realized that he couldn’t possibly violate that sense of security for someone else, even if it would mean getting all the answers that he wanted.
So he shook his head. “Nah. Nothing to talk about. Go on, get the fuck outta here . . . I’m gonna walk up to the jetty.”
Don straightened up and came close, crowding John and eyeing him closely as Ron pushed off the retaining wall and busied himself dusting sand from his shorts. “Do *not* fuck with me on this, Shep,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “I don’t think you understand just how fucking serious this is.”
John stared Don straight in the eye, even though he had to look up to do it. “I totally get it,” he said seriously, but couldn’t resist adding, “but you should change your fucking shirts!”
For a moment, John thought he was going to be on the receiving end of a blow again, but then Don rolled his eyes and cuffed him with rough affection. “Jesus Christ, Shep, no more goddamn fistfights in the goddamn house and it won’t be a fucking problem, okay?”
They all laughed, and then it was okay.
Ronnie and Don walked away in the direction of the boardwalk, maybe a little closer to each other than usual, or maybe John was just more aware of it now.
He shook his head, dismissing the thought, before climbing to his feet and making his way nine blocks along the retaining wall until he reached the jetty that marked the entrance to the bay.
It wasn’t very late, so there were still a fair number of people there, and John’s favorite rock was occupied by a cuddling couple, so he turned to his right and walked out along the beach a few hundred yards until he came to one of the lifeguards’ tower chairs. It had been dragged up past the high-water mark and was sunken firmly into the soft sand, making an excellent place to sit and think.
He climbed up, facing out to sea and watching the waves for a while, letting his breathing match the boom of the surf, its endless soothing rhythm.
************************