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This is a work of fiction.</p> Again my story involves a teenager with post-abuse trauma and with difficulties coping with a brain that works a little out of the ordinary. But it is also a story of love between young and not so young, between related and unrelated males. Love, with all its aspects, does not always like to stay within the boundaries of the volatile laws of any society. Love is the ultimate anarchist. </p> Do not look for quick JO-material in this story. Sex is an undercurrent, and stuff will happen from time to time, but the buildup and the tension is where the focus is. There"s also some father/son eroticism here, so if that"s a no-no for you, go elsewhere.</p> It is my story, it belongs to me. Please don"t steal from it.</p> (And just to mention it, English is still not my first language, and therefore the possibility of faults and clumsiness lurks in the shadows.)</p> Feedback? Yes, please: ota</p> *</p> And remember to support Nifty. http://donate./donate.html</p> *</p> *</p> *</p> *</p> *</p> *</p> *</p> THE CRUSHING COLORS OF LOVE</p> By Magnus Winter</p> *</p> *</p> *
Part Five: HIDE AND SEEK
*</p> He skips school. Won"t get out of bed. Just wants to hide for a while, in this room, this room that with the memories of last night"s words and the faint, faint smell of his father still on his pillow has taken on a new and uncatalogued dimension. He needs to make the newness his own, integrate the smells from the paint and the woodwork and the scent from his pillow into his vague and wistful need to belong. Make it a haven. Make it here. </p> It hurts to masturbate. Even if he uses the other hand. He has to do it very loosely and with a minimum of exertion. </p> His fantasies are murky and looming on the edge of a pool of unpleasant, even bad colors. He tries to force images of his father into a world of serenity, of purity, but his brain wants his father on sweaty and soiled sheets, in a red glow, panting, heaving, moaning ... But I want to be kissed! he tries to convince himself, but his brain wants him to have a vagina, to be a vagina, and be filled to bursting point with his father"s disproportionally large cartoon cock. No, these aren"t good images, these are images of hurt and of terror and of disintegration, get rid of them! Be father"s friend, be the one he discovers the virginal, but sultry and heated liquid of love with. Be the resistant, yet pliable body that receives him into its very core where he stays forever engrafted. Because it can"t be me, his brain flashes, damaged and impure and contaminated. He must have a flawless love, as unblemished and beautiful as himself ... and the images lift and soar, the perfect bodies, the perfect faces, his father and his doppelg?nger in naked fusion.</p> And now it works. Now he can come. And he does. </p> *</p> </p> His father is back from work. He hears the shutting of the front door, the footsteps, the clank from something dumped on the kitchen counter. Images of his father busying himself with stacking cans in the larder and the fridge mingle with the regretful remnants of his masturbation fantasies, he fights to wash away the feelings of desecration and dirtiness that stick to him like little burdocks. </p> His father peeks in on him through the crack in the door. </p> "You"re awake. Good. Eaten anything?"</p> He sits halfway up, sharp knives cut his side and he sags down again. His father comes two steps forward into the room. His demeanor is hesitant, careful, almost insecure, and his wariness makes David"s heart bleed and his brain darken. He lifts his hand and gestures to the right.</p> "On this side is the yellow, billowing stuff", he tries to explain, " and on the other are the black cracks, and I"m caught in the middle, and can you please not be there as well?"</p> His father freezes for a moment, struggling to digest this. Then something decisive seems to slide over his being, he comes up, pulls the chair from the desk, moves it close to the bed and sits.</p> "Is this because of what I told you last night?" </p> His brain wades through a stream of thoughts. </p> "No." He shakes his head almost vehemently. "No. It"s me being David. It"s all that they shrug off and give up on and I need you not to. You ... I mean, be whole and ... unfettered."</p> His father watches him for a while, tries to penetrate the confused words. Then he holds out his hand. David takes it and holds it very, very softly, but not limply. </p> "Maybe I"m a bit like you", his father begins. "Caught in the middle. And David, even though I know it"s not easy for you, and I don"t always get you, but you are so much better than me at being just who you are ... even though your feelings sometimes seem to almost destroy you and I worry myself sick over you, I wish I could ... I sometimes wish I could be more like you."</p> "No one wants to be like me. I"m all wrong."</p> His father chuckles, a low rumble that is caressing him, not riling him.</p> "Oh no", he says. "You"re more right than most people. And even if you weren"t, I"d love you like blazes." </p> No, you won"t! his brain shouts at him as the razor of memory, the honed swords of knowledge, and the burning waves of orange sweep his mind clear of chances of peace, clear of hope, and the black, intrusive triangle grows large and toxic and ready to swallow him. He desperately searches for the way to escape, but it all seems locked and barred, and his voice rises as he stares wildly at his father.</p> "They hung up the word pretty! To believe in! And I can not be loved, because of all the little pieces they left scattered all around!" </p> Trembling like jelly he turns in his bed, lost in a terrible and all consuming storm of futility and hopelessness.</p> His father watches this happen, suddenly crushed by his own inadequacy and helplessness, he can"t decide what"s the right thing to do. In the end he chooses to follow his own need, picks the boy up and holds him as tight as he dares to his chest, murmuring soothing nonsense. And chasing his own fears as far away as he can, he waits for his son to come back to him.</p> *</p> *</p> He"s back in school, subject to the unavoidable stares at his shiner and those bare spots in his hair. He is aware of murmur that immediately dies when he gets near enough. But there"s a foreign note that starts to form an unfamiliar shape in his head, and it nags at him and wants to be defined. And eventually he recognizes the discordant note: The sniggers aren"t there. The stares linger, but the contempt is missing. </p> He struggles with this. He"s so used to being ignored at best, so used to their dismissive attitudes and poorly hidden ridicule when not being ignored, that this disturbs him deeply. How is he supposed to manage if they don"t despise him? He stumbles into this foreign territory, his brain prepares for cataclysm as he dives into the unchartered waters. </p> But within long he finds that nothing has actually changed. Pretty soon the stares subside, the weak lights of interest go out, and he"s left alone. </p> Until first break.</p> As per usual, he finds his place leaning against the wall at the far end of the yard, careful not to disturb his aching rib, reading his book of the moment. </p> "Hi."</p> He looks up. Straight into two pairs of nutty brown eyes. His brain is flooded, orange fights blue for domination. For a moment, he stares like a lunatic, then casts his eyes down. Looks up again. "Oh. Hi?" Yes, it sounds like a question.</p> "Did we scare you?" The girl Zita giggles.</p> Brother Max seems to concentrate on David"s black eye. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. And repeats this. Words don"t come out.</p> "Whatcha readin" ?" Zita wants to know. He closes the book and stares at it as he shows it.</p> "The Gospel of Thomas? Really? Never heard of that!" </p> Zita"s voice tickles his brain with sprinkles of brown sugar. Max"s mouth seems to go on with its interpretation of a fish. He frantically searches for something to say, something that will keep them there; it has become deadly important not to weird them out. He starts to speak, but only a strange gasp comes out of him. Oh, shit. </p> "What"s it about?" </p> He hems and haws a bit. "It"s ... It"s apocryphal. Eh ... It"s the sayings of Jesus that the Christians don"t like."</p> She laughs. "Weird!" But there"s nothing bad about the way she says this. For the first time in his life he hears this word spoken with a dressing of admiration. Suddenly her eyes are diverted. "Wait", she demands, then scoots off in the direction of another girl somewhere in the periphery, catches her and is soon in agitated conversation. He gazes after her, afraid to fix his eyes on her brother. Who eventually finds his voice:</p> "Hey, I wanted to say thanks", he says, lisping and slurring. "Why did you do it?"</p> David keeps looking away. "Do what?"</p> "You know. Defend us, like. Why?"</p> He has to look at him. His head flows full of warmth and roundness as he meets those hazel eyes, he feels a slight tremor pass through his body and the small hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He"s lost now, can"t control his thoughts anymore. If he ever could, that is.</p> "Chemistry that sets cannot be left alone", he mumbles.</p> Max tries the statement on, but he can"t make it fit. "Huh?"</p> "Oh. It"s a quote. I don"t remember from where."</p> Max slowly shakes his head, a small smile curls his half-open mouth.</p> "You are weird", he sniggers, but pleasantly. </p> For the second time he feels the label as a merit badge. "I do have a reputation to keep up", he ventures. "Your band-aid is coming loose."</p> Max"s finger feels the offender. </p> "Yeah. I"m having my teeth fixed today. I feel stupid with the lisp." He rubs the band-aid, trying to fix it. "How are you doing? You took some beating there!"</p> "I"m ok. Cracked rib, that"s a bother."</p> There are waves of soft, azure waters in his brain. There are no pointy rocks to threaten the shimmering surface.</p> "Max." He just says the name. Like tasting it. Like feeling it"s weight.</p> "Yeah?"</p> "Do you think you could refer to me as David if you should happen to speak about me? To other people, I mean? I"m izmit escort bayan sort of working on not being Space-Dave and Spacy-Daisy and all that anymore. Well, it probably won"t help, but it would be sort of nice." The words cascade out of him like they"re in a tremendous hurry.</p> A glint of calculation comes up in Max"s eyes, but David is in far too deep to register it.</p> "Kay", Max drawls. "I will if you will help me with my English essay."</p> The waves ripple, the storm rises, the thunder rolls in the distance and the sky is turning orange. He has no idea how to deal with the sudden feeling of impending danger that the possibility of friendship opens, even though it"s been one of his most urgent wishes lately. His chest tightens, his brain starts to cloud over. Pull out of it! he screams to himself. Pull out of it!</p> Max watches dumbfounded the troubled changes that come and go in his face, but has no clue what it"s about.</p> "I"m sorry", David manages to croak, "I ... I"m bad at this, I know. I"ve never had anyone ask me for help. It"s like ... maybe it"s the idea of ... I"ve never had friends, I don"t know how to do friendship. Please help me?"</p> The shrill bell cuts through the air. David rushes off, on the verge of entering into his private darkness. Max is left in no man"s land trying to figure out what the fuck that was about. He"s acutely aware of the absence of his sister. </p> *</p> *</p> His father finds David asleep in the semi-darkness of the livingroom, curled up in the corner of the big sofa. Something is not as it should be, he tip-toes closer and sees a completely shaved young head. Of course, he thinks, relieved, I would have done precisely the same. He leaves him there, withdraws to his bedroom to change out of his suit. He leaves the door open to hear if his son wakes up. Tosses his jacket onto the bed, toes off his shoes and removes his pants, folds them over the back of the chair by the window. Remains there, looking out on the autumn garden, the reds and golds already beginning to fade. He loosens his tie and puts it on top of his pants, unbuttons his shirt and takes it off. Stretches up on his toes and pushes his shoulders backwards, then spreads his arms out and turns around to face his son watching him from the doorway. A sting of panic before he realizes he still got his boxers on, then all smiles.</p> "I thought you were asleep."</p> David yawns. Fills his eyes and his heart with the sight of his half-naked parent. "Hi", he mumbles. </p> His father points at his hair. "Good idea." </p> "I got sick of the staring at the shaved spots. I"m trying to stop being a freak." He continues to watch as his father pulls on a pair of jeans, a yellow T-shirt and a denim shirt. "I"m not sure I"m good at it, though." </p> His father lets his hand slide over the naked scull as he passes on the way out. "First step: Stop thinking you are one." David follows him to the open kitchen.</p> "Soup? Or eat out?" </p> "I wanted to put make-up on my eye. Soup."</p> "Then soup it is." He looks closer at the boy"s face. "Swelling"s mostly down. In a couple of days the color will be gone too."</p> They prepare their evening meal side by side: canned goulash soup and buttered toast. No big project, but a nice feeling of belonging together in small and insignificant matters. </p> They sit facing each other. Eat in silence for a while, David fixing his eyes on his bowl of soup.</p> "Max wants me to help with his essay."</p> His father looks up, David doesn"t. His father senses this is something bigger than it sounds. "Well, will you?" he asks.</p> "Yes", he addresses his soup, "because I don"t want him to be the others." </p> And he looks up now, his eyes pleading and his face a little hassled. </p> "Will you please be here if he comes?"</p> His father knits his brow, there"s a question in his face.</p> "Sure. But ... wouldn"t you rather be just the two of you?"</p> "No. I"m scared. I don"t know how to speak to him. You talk like people, so it will be better for him. Even if he called me weird in a nice way." </p> His father contemplates this last statement, but decides not to take it further. Better to solve the question of his presence.</p> "You know I will do my best to support you whatever you think is important. But there is a practical side to it also. If he wants to come with you after school, I won"t be here for a couple of hours, you know. So perhaps you had better ask him for supper one evening and see how it works out for you?"</p> Relief washes over the boy"s face. He reaches out with his spoon and touches his father"s spoon. "Thank you", he whispers.</p> *</p> </p> There"s a new picture on the wall above the corner table, a Kandinsky-ish mash-up that he likes even less than the former insignificant landscape. </p> "I"ve done something you"ve asked me to do", he says. "Ich hab" ihm meine Schublade ge?ffnet. I"ve even asked him to put something in it. Well, my name, actually." It is said with a shy kind of pride.</p> Inger Miller watches his bald head and tries to decipher his proclamation. She comes up short.</p> "I"m sorry to disappoint you, David, but I don"t think I understand what you are saying."</p> His face goes through the usual series of little tics, and she knows he"s looking for another way to explain himself. She has learned this about him: He very often tries to find ways around the direct approach when something really touches him. Like a simple statement will bring him too close to the essence and land him in jeopardy. So he resorts to his own strange kind of poetry. She leans back and interrupts his musing.</p> "I really would like you to put this as simple as you can, so that someone as dense as me may have a chance of knowing what you"re talking about." She says it with a small smile. "Sometimes I get the feeling you are afraid of straightforwardness. Am I right?"</p> He reflects a bit. "Maybe", he admits. Then looks up, almost a little startled. "Why is that?"</p> "We may find out, if we try to go into it a bit. Let"s start with what you just said. Now, my German is not very comprehensive, so what does shoobla mean?"</p> "Schublade. It"s drawer."</p> She reruns his utterance in her head: Opening a drawer, that"s actually not a complicated metaphor at all.</p> "Ok. So you have talked to him, right? And what? Have you asked him to be your friend?"</p> He looks a little embarrassed.</p> "Well, in a way. I asked him to use my name instead of all the names the others call me. And it felt like opening a secret drawer. Or wanting to take your coat off. But then the zipper got stuck."</p> "How?" </p> "He wanted me to help him with some school work, and I got scared and told him I didn"t know how to be friends and I think I asked him for help. And I think maybe I"ve closed something off."</p> "Why do you think that?"</p> "Because that was yesterday, and he hasn"t spoken to me today, and ... " He bows down his head, puffs and snorts loudly. "But I did talk to him!" </p> She praises him for that, urges him not to give up, keep trying to approach the boy. Or if that should feel too taxing on his nervous system, just not fret too much about it. Stay calm and see what happens later. There might be so many reasons why the boy hadn"t shown him interest today. </p> And then she asks him point blanc to stop hiding behind his so-called weirdness to protect himself from getting hurt. </p> He lets her advice swirl around in his mind on the way home. There might be something to learn here, he thinks, maybe all that shit my brain does to me is to protect itself from disappointment and hurt. And if so, can it help itself to stop doing it? Does it even want to? For a moment he actually thinks his brain and he are separate entities, like two persons in conversation, that he can ask his brain to change. That he is a voice from outside that his brain will listen to. But the devastating truth hits him almost right away: My brain is me. It"s my brain that decides and regulates even what I think at this moment. And suddenly that felt terrifying.</p> *</p> *</p> At home at night, he struggles so much with how to approach Max that he forgets to eat. His inner vision fills up with chocolate skin and deep, brown eyes, with the tingling laugh and the breaking voice. Torn between the desire to continue the stumbling attempts at befriending Max, and the equally strong urge to escape the whole situation, his brain feels like a maze of dead end tunnels. Threatening dark shapes cut and slash and want to destroy the colors of beauty that wait wide open and unprotected in the middle, but there"s a clarity in him that hasn"t been there for years. And he just knows he has to find a way. </p> He could write him a note. Oh no, that"s what he"s seen the girls do sometimes. But the idea seems to take foothold and grow. And the problem is no longer if he should write or not, it"s how he can make the note say what he needs it to say. Should he listen to Doctor Miller and be straightforward? Straightforward with what? Dear Max, my dad thinks I"m in love with you. But he isn"t, is he? He just wants to be near him, to look at him and feel the sight of him glow in his chest, and maybe touch that skin to find out if it is as warm and as soft as it seems. But how can a note say something like that and not have the receiver of it run for his life?</p> His father studies him, wonders what it is that occupies his thoughts to this extent. Ambivalent now: should he just break into his head and ask, or should he leave him alone, maybe let him eventually sink into one of his black holes? He makes up his mind to intrude . </p> "Is there a problem. David?"</p> No answer. He reaches out, grabs David"s chin and lifts it up, bores his eyes into David"s.</p> "Can I help you? You look like the cold war is happening in your head."</p> Unexpectedly, David starts to laugh. </p> "I"m so stupid!" he almost shouts.</p> "Stupid is not my first choice of word where you are concerned", his father smiles and lets go of his chin. "Why do you feel stupid now?"</p> David shrugs, attacks his food like he hasn"t seen it before. After a few bites, however, he leans back.</p> "Yeah, I"m stupid. I want to write Max a note and I can"t figure out what to write. Because I want izmit eve gelen escort the note to revolutionize his world! How"s that for stupid?" </p> He laughs again. His father joins in.</p> "I think this is brilliant", he sniggers. "Instead of burying yourself under those unpleasant thunderclouds or whatever they are that crowd your mind so often, you laugh at your problem. Good for you!"</p> "Doesn"t solve anything, though. It just leaves the bowl empty. And it should be filled with irresistible candy." He returns to his almost cold stew.</p> His father rises, leaves the table and disappears into his office. Seconds later he"s back, placing a yellow square of notepaper and a pen beside his son"s plate.</p> "So let"s fill the bowl."</p> But David isn"t laughing anymore. His eyes are moist as they desperately seeks safety in his father"s face. "With what?" he whimpers.</p> "Pick up the pen", his father instructs. "Dear Max. Or maybe just Max is better. If you want to, my father and I would like you to have pizza with us. We can discuss your essay. 6-ish? David. I think that"s enough, don"t you?" </p> "It"s not exactly literature", David mumbles. "Is that all it takes? It"s like something Doctor Miller would suggest."</p> "Smart woman. Sometimes, David, the ball should be brought out and left in the opponent"s court with no obligation to kick it or not. The freedom of choice is essential. Trust me on this."</p> Reluctantly he does. Word by word he writes down what his father proposed, in his best hand. He even starts to draw a border around the edges, but his father"s small noise and somewhat strict gaze stops him.</p> "If you need to make it special", his father leans in and whispers in his ear, "make a frog." </p> *</p> </p> The next day he leaves the folded frog on Max"s desk. Instantly he regrets it, the others have seen him do it. He thinks he hears the word loser whispered. They will wonder what the fuck he"s trying to pull and draw wild conclusions, they will laugh at him, they will laugh at Max and tell him he"ll get weirdo-cooties. He hurries to his place and never lifts his eyes from his desktop. So he doesn"t see Max"s questioning glances, doesn"t see him pick up the frog, turn it around a few times and put in his pocket. </p> David is excused from PE, so he doesn"t see Max until lunch. When he enters the lunch-room, he sees Max by the row of windows, backside to the room and phone to his ear. He sits down where he normally sits, at the end of the table in the deepest corner, pulls his knit wool hat even further down to his eyebrows, eats his sandwich hurriedly and dives down into his book. The table fills up, and as if by understanding, no one talks to him or even looks at him. </p> Except ...</p> He hears the scraping of chair legs across the tiled floor, and here he is. Max has pulled up his chair as close to his as possible, pushing the girl on the other side away in the action. Goosebumps brush his skin as Max leans in and whispers: "Cool frog!"</p> David"s interest in his book is mere pretense. His inside fills up with lovely sky-blue draperies. He should say something. "Not stupid?" is all that comes out. </p> "Definitely cool. I checked with the rents, and six is brill. But no anchovies. I mean, please. And Zita wants to come, too."</p> Swallow. Breathe. "Yes, of course." He finally allows himself to catch a glimpse of the boy beside him. Oh yes. Let Zita tag along if that"s what it takes to be near him for a few hours. Excitement and forebodings are building in him until he feels he is about to burst with the load of warring colors, he excuses himself and hurries to the restroom and escapes in behind the locked door of the innermost cubicle.</p> </p> *</p> *</p> Part Six: BLUE INTERIOR
</p> Daniel is not feeling good. Sleep would not come, and here he is: 4 o"clock in the morning, sitting alone by the window watching the dead leaves on the ground, his thoughts going in circles, and they seem to find no exit.</p> It had been a peculiar evening. The twins had arrived, driven by their Ethiopian father, a once handsome man now running to fat, who had been in a rush and left almost the minute after Daniel had opened the door. Daniel had felt oddly cheated, he would have preferred to know a little more about the man and his family before those two heartbreakers invaded his house.</p> Well, the evening had passed uneventfully, but there had been an undercurrent of awkwardness throughout, a feeling of tension he hadn"t been able to shake, or relax out of. The girl Zita had been talkative, chatty almost, and almost continuously seeking David with her glances. The boy Max had been more quiet, mainly answering direct questions, seldom volunteering information, but the boy"s eyes had hung onto his face the evening through, and it had felt uncomfortable.</p> David had been subdued and shy, his acne had flared up and angrily spotted his forehead, and Daniels heart ached for him. He wanted his son to feel at ease, to enjoy the first tiny sprouts of a possible friendship; he wanted to cajole him out of his shell. But all through the meal he had felt this slightly oppressive atmosphere. Was it all in his head? He might have been overly sensitive in his need to protect his son, but they really were a strange quadrangle: Max watching him, him watching Zita, Zita watching David, David hiding from all of them. </p> But the hardest part to digest was how the evening ended.</p> He had persuaded Max and David to go to David"s room and get on with the impending task of starting Max"s essay, asking Zita if she would like to watch something on TV or just talk, but she had asked if he had old photos of David that she could look at. He had found this request strange, but then had complied: anything to let the boys have some time undisturbed, even though he knew David would be terribly apprehensive about it. But sooner or later David had to find his own way of dealing with people and situations, he just couldn"t buffer his boy from everything in his life just because he had a rotten conscience and a feeling of having failed him. So he had sat Zita at the table with his laptop and fetched down his photo albums from the cloud. </p> She had asked questions, prying questions actually, about him, about the woman who figured in quite a few of the photos, and most of all about David. How cute he was, how happy he seemed and why he didn"t look happy anymore. Why he was like he was. Why he didn"t talk to people. Why the kids at school shunned him. Why he had to be so nasty to most of the teachers. Yes, nasty was the word she had used. He had been hurt by this, had to curb his sudden anger with her. And in very general terms had tried to explain to her how David had experienced difficult things that had made him distrustful of people, that he felt things a bit differently, and a bit harder, than most people, and that nastiness wasn"t at all what it was about. Had she thought he was nasty when he took her and her brother"s side against the bullies? Think before you draw conclusions, girl!</p> The boys had come back while he was talking to her, he hadn"t really noticed before he felt Max close behind him, eyes fixed on the screen and the photo of David and his father in swimsuits building a sandcastle.</p> He recollects again how Max had held his breath. And had moved so close to him that his chest rubbed against his shoulder. And then Max"s hand had rested close to his neck as he leaned in to get a closer look at the screen, the edge of a finger touching his skin. He remembers the small shock that hit him. He remembers chills. He remembers a terrible feeling of guilt as the pleasure of the contact rushed through him. He had moved, and the hand was withdrawn. And shortly afterwards a car had honked outside, the twins father had come to pick them up.</p> What"s wrong with me? Panic flares up in him again. Those images that wouldn"t leave him when he had tried to sleep! That sudden and consuming want that rushed through his mind, that lust, that inexplicable longing for that lovely, milk chocolate skin and that lithe body. It"s betrayal of the first order, he tells himself, betrayal against his poor and wounded son. How can he ever help him find friends if he is going to lust after every one of them? Damn this curse that"s hit him, damn those thoughts, damn that knowledge that"s suddenly made him aware of these unwanted feelings! And damn, damn, damn that horrifying and persistent urge to now walk into David"s room and get into his bed, cling to him and feel his warmth, and ask his forgiveness. Damn his whole being for wanting to screw his son"s friend, and damn his soul to hell for not being able to erase the thought of what it would be like to make love to his own son. </p> *</p> </p> There"s a free space in the back row of desks at the study hall. He sits down, arranges three books according to size in a neat stack and turns the computer on. Max dumps noisily down on the chair beside him, pulls a memory stick out of his pocket.</p> "I tried to do what you told me to", he sighs. Stretches his arms above his head and yawns, his shirt rides up and reveals a glimpse of skin. David has to look away.</p> "I didn"t get very far", Max excuses himself as he puts in the stick and opens a document. "I hate this. I so suck at this."</p> On the screen is a badly coordinated list of facts and pointers about Rom people, all cut and pasted from the net. Some of the sentences seem to be tweets or comments. </p> "I can"t make anything out of it", Max complains. "It doesn"t, like, come together. I fucking hate it."</p> David feels a huge, soft cloud of concern, maybe responsibility, maybe care, enter his mind. He aches to help, aches to blow Max"s pessimism away.</p> "Everything you want", he says, "is on the other side of fear."</p> Max stares at him, mouth open. "Huh?"</p> "You"re afraid you can"t do something, and so your mind won"t let you do it. It"s a well known mechanism. It"s not very sensible, because it keeps the phoenix from burning and emerging." </p> Max laughs out loud.</p> "You"re so wacky! But how"s that gonna help me with this?"</p> Stay with him, David"s brain chimes, cuddle his helplessness away and kiss his fears into oblivion. </p> "Let"s make izmit otele gelen escort a story", he eventually says. "Pretend your essay is a painting. Or rather a movie. Maybe then the words will come over to your side."</p> "All right. You start."</p> He tries to concentrate. Images pop up in his head, but they"re too vague and private, and they"re too full of his own language. He needs to color his thoughts with Max-paint, and he gets stuck. </p> "I need to let it find the right shapes", he mumbles. "If not, it will shrink or expand out of proportion."</p> From the corner of his eye he sees Max getting impatient.</p> "Do you have to make everything so complicated?"</p> His anxiety rushes in. He"s weirding Max out. He"s destroying all the round and pleasant possibilities. Doom creeps forward.</p> "I"m sorry!" he says hurriedly. "I"ll try not to! What if you come home with me after school and we can do it without the rush and the schedule, and no one stares, and everything ..." </p> Max weighs this in his mind.</p> "Yeah, I s"pose. I think I need to go home first, but I can come by later." He knits his brow. "Will your dad be there?"</p> "I guess."</p> "Ok." He closes the program, removes the memory stick and rises. "I"ll see ya."</p> *</p> *</p> "Hovland!" The intense voice penetrates into his study. "Mister! Mister Hovland!"</p> Daniel hurries to the door, sticks his head out.</p> "Yes? Something wrong?"</p> "It"s David, I think he"s sick!" Max wears a worried frown. </p> Daniel comes out, puts his hand on Max"s shoulder.</p> "Easy", he says. "Why do you think that?"</p> Max is fretting, stepping from one foot to the other.</p> "Come!" he urges. "Come and see for yourself!" He grabs Daniel"s hand and pulls him along.</p> David is curled up on his bed, one arm clutching his side where the cracked rib still works as a reminder. Eyes wide open, beads of sweat on his forehead, body almost imperceptivly trembling. Daniel immediately recognizes his condition, and still holding Max"s hand drags him out of Daniel"s room and into the livingroom.</p> "Sit", he commands. "I need to talk to you." </p> Max sits down on the edge of the sofa, fingers drumming on his thighs.</p> "David is not sick. It"s just ... Well, he gets ... I don"t know, overwhelmed sometimes, and now and then that puts him in a state that"s a little hard for the rest of us to understand. But he"ll deal with it in his own way, and he"ll be back."</p> "It was like he disappeared! It was fucking frightening!" Max moans. "Like at school when we got in the fight. Is he ... like epileptic?"</p> Daniel sits down across from the boy. Takes in those wide open worried eyes, wants to hold the boy and stroke his cheeks. Stop it, he tells himself.</p> "Listen, Max. You haven"t known David for long, and I suspect he hasn"t told you much about this himself. But before I tell you more, I need you to be honest: Do you want him to be your friend?"</p> "Sure! I think he"s cool." Max thinks for a minute. "But he"s sorta strange", he adds pensively.</p> "Well, is that a bad thing, do you think?"</p> "I don"t know. No, not bad, it"s just ... I ain"t got a clue what he"s on about half of the time, but it"s kinda exciting in a way, too."</p> "Isn"t it just?" Daniel sniggers. "I"ll tell you a secret, I don"t always get him either. But I know him better, so it"s easier for me. And maybe I should explain him a little more to you. First of all, David never had friends, and you are the first person I"ve discovered he likes enough to want to be friends with."</p> "Never had friends?" Max"s mouth hangs open. "How come?"</p> Daniel wonders briefly if he"s transgressing now. But he wants to help his son, wants this boy to understand something that will help both of them to be at ease with each other.</p> "I have to explain something to you. Do you know what synesthesia is?"</p> "Is it a sickness?"</p> "No, no. Not at all. It"s a kind of double perception. I mean, to some people numbers or letters have different colors, to others different notes in music have their own color. Then others again see different shapes, like the days of the week form a circle or something. It"s actually quite complicated, and nobody knows why some people have this thing, that one sensory experience triggers another in their brain. Do you understand?"</p> "No!" </p> "Well, maybe you don"t need to understand it, just accept it. David has this to a very high degree, he"s always seen both colors and shapes with words and sounds, and also smells. I think almost anything can trigger his brain into seeing these colors, colors that don"t exist for other people. I don"t think it was a problem for him when he was little, but at some point it got too big to handle. And other kids have avoided him, maybe because of this, I don"t really know ... and he"s been so much alone and spent so much time inside his own head that it has become a vicious circle.</p> Max still sits there gaping, trying to make sense of what he"s being told.</p> "I"m talking to you like you"re a grown up", Daniel chuckles a little awkwardly. "Maybe that"s a bit demanding. But I think you should know about these things if you are going to see much of him. You see, I feel rather bad, because I haven"t really been there for him until quite recently, and his mother ... well, he was never close to his mother, let"s leave it at that. And at some point something really, really bad happened to him. I"m not going to tell you what, that will be up to David himself if he wants to tell you, but it"s a very dark thing inside him that disturbs a lot for him. He hasn"t been willing to talk to me about it either, I only know this because everything sort of came to a peak this summer and he"s been seeing a psychiatrist, and that doctor managed to knock some holes into his defenses. Do you follow me?"</p> Max muses over the new information. Some of it he can"t fathom. </p> "I"m ok with the colors and stuff. But why does he sorta close off like that? It"s eerie! I got scared!"</p> "I don"t know why or what sets it off. Usually it"s something that"s been said that triggers his emotions to explode, I think, and his brain has to black out everything else to get on top of it. But I don"t know exactly what it"s like. Only he knows."</p> "But ... what should I do if it happens again? What do you do?"</p> "Yes, I guess that"s a pertinent question. Sometimes I just hold him to let him know I"m there and sometimes I do nothing and he manages to get out of it just like that. Sometimes it takes hours, sometimes it"s just a few minutes. What I ask you not to do, is to shun him or avoid him, because he can"t help this, there are reasons for his reactions that you may learn later and you will see."</p> Max now stares intensely at the man in front of him. </p> ""You"re very understanding", he says slowly. "My dad would have just told me to cut it out and get my shit together."</p> "Well, his mother tackled him that way, and it didn"t do much more than add to the damage", Daniel reflects. "Please, Max, listen. David really wants to be friends with you, so try not to hurt him. He"s been hurt enough, I think."</p> Max is silent. His countenance is just one big question mark.</p> "Is this too much for you?" Daniel softly asks.</p> A tear suddenly loosens itself and rolls down Max"s cheek. </p> "But why me?" he sighs. "Why does he wanna be friends with me? I"m just stupid."</p> "I can guess, however I think you should ask him that yourself. You may get an answer you won"t make head or tail from, but that doesn"t make you stupid. Not at all. I don"t think anybody can follow his thoughts all the time. But", he continues, briefly touching the boy"s knee, " can you think what triggered his reaction this time? What happened between you in his room?"</p> "I don"t know, we were just talking."</p> "About what?"</p> "Eh ... We were mostly bullshitting. I mean, we were making up a story, that was David"s idea, because I have to do this essay about the way we treat Rom people, and I"m really stupid about that kinda shit, and he thought it would help if we pretended to make a movie about a woman in a lot of weird clothes who sat outside a shop with a paper cup and some guys came by and spat in her cup ... it was mostly him talking and he was really good at this ... and I tried to get into it and said that a posh lady comes out of the store and yells at her and shoos her off, and he suddenly shouts no, no! and something in Spanish and bang, he"s gone. I mean, not gone, but ... you know."</p> He jumps off the couch, stares wildly as if something just hit him, and then he blinks twice and his tears rush out like from a faucet.</p> "Oh fuck, it was my fault!" he sobs. "But how could I know?"</p> Daniel gets up, comes close to him.</p> "Of course it"s not your fault. It"s not a question of fault, it was just one of those things."</p> But Max keeps on crying, feeling incapable, and blaming himself, and not understanding anything of what"s going on. Daniel sees his pain and without thinking puts his arms around him to comfort him. And Max clings to him, his whole body pressing into Daniel"s, his arms lock together behind Daniel"s back. </p> Daniel is torn between anxiety and pleasure. Some part of his brain says he shouldn"t do this, another feels this is just the right thing. But then panic sears through his head as he"s suddenly aware of David in the doorway watching them. Now what?</p> "David, come here!" he softly calls out and holds out his left arm as Max continues to hold on to him. "He"s scared because he didn"t understand you. Come over and join us."</p> David comes over, somewhat hesitantly, but drawn to what"s in front of him: The two people in the whole world that he wants to be close to. And Daniel"s arm pulls him in. Here they are, the three of them, locked in a tightness, and a safety, and a strange mixture of both belonging and alienation.</p> Daniel shivers, the little hairs at the back of his neck rise, blood thumps noisily in his ears as he feels one head on his shoulder, another against the crook of his neck, two teenage bodies pressed tightly against him and two hard, hard teenage cocks against his upper thighs.</p> (To be continued.)</p> *
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My other stories on Nifty:
"My Blood sings in Bendik" fty//gay/incest/my-blood-sings-in-bendik/
"The Sound of his Footsteps" fty//gay/adult-youth/the-sound-of-his-footsteps/
"The Tower and the Maze" fty//gay/adult-youth/the-tower-and-the-maze.html </p> *</p> </p> *</p> *</p> *</p> *</p> *</p> *</p> *</p> </p>