Steam flew into the air and shot towards the ceiling, causing Brady Jeston to leap back, away from the stove. "Holy crap!" he yelped, glaring between the pot's lid, in his hand, and the its boiling counterpart on the stove. "Mom!" he screamed with his eyes transfixed on his blackened porridge.

Brady's mother, Natalie, jumped from her seat at the kitchen table and ran towards her son's beckoning voice. "Brady," she said through a sigh of exasperation, "how do you always manage to destroy my new pots?" Reaching for the element's dial, Natalie switched off the heat while sliding the charred pot across the stove-top.

"Sorry..." said Brady, in an apologetic undertone, lowering his head and placing the lid over the pot.

Moving to the sink and turning on the hot water, Natalie smiled at her son and ruffled his dark-brown, tangled hair. "Keep your head in the game, would yuh?" she said playfully, after noticing her son's growing humiliation. "I wish I knew where it was that your brain keeps drifting to. It must be beautiful there."

Brady looked up as his mother inquisitively. "What?" he asked, while opening the kitchen window, to allow the smoke to circulate from the house.

"Nothing," replied Natalie, snickering to herself, more in envy than in humour at her son's nostalgic tendencies. "After that pot has cooled off, can you let it soak in the sink? I'm going to be late for work."

"Sure thing Ma," Brady agreed. "Sorry about the pot..."

While collecting her things, Natalie's head tilted to left, as her eyes rose to meet Brady's. She felt a smile stretch to the dimple of her cheek, due to her son's guilt-stricken expression. "It's okay, Brady. I'm sure the pot will live," Natalie's smile transformed into a grin. "Just don't cook anything while I'm gone, okay?"

Brady giggled, then reached up to his mother's cheek and kissed it softly. "I won't, promise."

"Good," she said. "I'll be back by six at the latest -- I hope. If not, uh, just make yourself a sandwich to tie you over until I get home."

"Deal," said Brady. "Movie night tonight?" he reminded her.

Instinctively, Natalie turned to the calender. "It's Friday?" her expression turned to panic. "Shoot, I gotta run!" and before Brady could pry an answer from his mother, Natalie had scampered out the door, towards the garage.

As Brady watched his mother peel out of the driveway, his attention was quickly drawn to a large, beast of a moving van, parked across the street where four heavy-set brutes were casually lugging furniture and boxes into a house. At first, Brady wanted to go and welcome the new family, but as his mind began to simmer, the idea became more and more intimidating; "besides," he thought, "they're just the movers..."

Moments later, Brady had dismissed his precipitous intentions of pretending to be social; and, instead, after submerging the pot in water, he retreated to his room where his computer awaited him.

While his game, 'Titans and Realms', loaded, Brady half-humoured his curiosity towards his new neighbours. Through the window, he could see the men carrying a large, thin television from the back of the truck, followed by a long, comfy looking, black-leather couch. Just as the game's log-in menu appeared on the computer screen, Brady noticed a dark-blue SUV pulling into the driveway, when, immediately after stopping, every single door flew open.

Staring attentively, Brady rolled his chair towards the window, to get a better look, as four more people flooded into the front yard. A slightly chubby woman, with long, wavy-red hair, chased behind a very excited boy, of about ten, as a thin, nerdy looking man approached the movers. Suddenly, Brady's watchful eye was drawn to a second boy who appeared to be about his same age. His bright-blond hair was cut short and styled to perfection, and his clothes looked to be brand new, but his face was all that Brady saw.

A strange feeling of nervousness forced Brady to cower away from the window, but his curiosity remained. The brief glimpse of the boy from across the street seemed to have burnt itself into his mind. He could still see the slightly tanned, creamy complexion of his skin, and the shine of his 'Toronto Raptors' jersey, that played against the sun's light in such a way that it illuminated his already shining hair and causing an angel-like halo to shimmer atop his head.

Guilt instantly forced its way into Brady's shameful daydreams, reminding him how impure and ghastly his thoughts truly were. Jumping to his feet and reaching towards the window, Brady grabbed either side of his curtains and pulled them shut.

Turning his head away from staring up at a window across the street, where he had just heard a loud, screeching noise, Mark Dawson faced the structure now in front of him and absorbed the emptiness of his new house. To him, it seemed smaller and less 'real' than his last home. He and his family had just moved overseas from Cambridge, of England, to Toronto, in Canada. The homes in England seemed to hold more character than the dull looking 'cookie-cutter' houses they had thrown together here. Every detail of his new house was streamlined and organized; his parents even had to have a 'Neighbourhood Guide' booklet sent to them before they moved, because, apparently, the neighbourhood wanted to keep its 'Stepford Wives' appeal.

"James! Slow down, you're going to kill yourself!" urged Mark's mother, Brittany.

"Chill-out dung beetle! Watch what you're doing!" teased Mark, as he, too, bolted towards the house.

Running inside, Mark flew up the stairs and down the hallway, right to its end, studying every room as he turned around and made his way back the way he came. Just as he had suspected, the house's insides were just as bland as its outside. The paint was bright and the walls were high, but every corner, nook and cranny spoke of perfection. It felt empty and uninviting yet oddly exciting at the same time.

"Mark!?" bellowed Peter, Mark's father. "The movers are bringing in your things, did you find a room?"

Retracing his recent explorations, Mark exited one room and entered another, across the hall, which seemed identical to the last. "Yeah!" he bellowed in reply. "I guess..."

Heavy footsteps echoed down the halls as the grunting baritones of several oversized men climbed the stairs. Mark walked towards the window of his new bedroom and looked out into the backyard, which appeared to be the best part of this strange new place. He then touched his hand against the glass, feeling the sun's heat absorb into his skin, and at last allowed his mind's discouragement to find some ease. The yard was large and green and bordered by a tall wooden fence. All of which things were lacking at his previous home.

"Where we putting this, kid?" asked a tired, grumpy sounding man.

Mark turned around to face his inquisitor, noting the man's sour expression as he held a seemingly awkward mattress in his arms. "Wherever, just drop it against the wall; I'll sort it, thanks."

"All right," replied the mover, who then tilted his large body and dropped the mattress against a wall beside Mark, then left without a word.

"So? What do you think?" asked Peter, from the doorway of Mark's bedroom, as the mover shimmied passed him.

Mark took a moment to collect his thoughts, and then turned to his father. "It's okay -- kinda bright though."

Peter gazed around the room, at the walls. "Yeah, but it'll dim down once we get some curtains up," approaching the window, where Mark was standing, Peter examined the backyard. "Look at that, would yuh? We could host an entire football game in that thing."

Rolling his eyes, Mark turned to his father and patted him on the shoulder. "They call it 'Soccer' here, Dad."

"I know," replied Peter. "But that doesn't mean we have to."

Turning from his father, Mark walked out of the room and across the hall, into his little brother's room. "Dad?" he asked, staring out his brother's window and across the street, where his eye had caught the form of someone's face peeking out from behind closed curtains. "Let's get James's curtains up first."

"Why's that?" asked Peter, joining his son in the bedroom.

Mark pointed across the street, at a second-story window. "Because we've got an audience."

"Ah, I see," Peter smiled and waved. "They're just curious; no need to be alarmed."

"Yeah..." Mark lifted his arm and waved as well. "But it don't make it less creepy."

Brady's heart jumped into his throat, causing him a shortness of breath. For a brief moment, he had almost waved back at the neighbours across the street, and in that brief moment's thought, he became anxious and agitated, followed by a form of longing. An ache in his chest forced a burden of disgust towards his desire. The blond, clean-cut vision of a boy, from across the street, was corrupting his thoughts, making him feel empty and impatient, both at once. He knew that feeling all too well. The feeling of impurity, of temptation, flooding throughout his very core, ready to burst from the inside-out.

Stepping away from the window and taking a seat, back in his computer chair, Brady swallowed a coarse, dry lump in his throat, sending it back to the secluded pits of his stomach. There wasn't anything worth the embarrassment and humiliation of his deepest, most darkest secret being revealed to the cruel, unmerciful world. Instead, Brady reached for the mouse of his computer and navigated the cursor to the 'log-in' button.

A deep rumbling symphony intoxicated the mind's ear into a world of freedom, followed by a bright, piercing light, flashing before him. Brady smiled as his character, Lord Ghastly, materialized before his very eyes on the computer's screen.

"All hale his Lordship!" demanded Brady's servants as they fell to their knees...

The blur of a day's duration was lost in a vortex of an unfathomable realm, and before Brady could realize the neglect he had bestowed upon his growling stomach, his attentions were drawn to a soothing and melodic voice. "Brady! I brought home pizza!"

His eyes suddenly burnt and watered, reminding him to blink as he turned his head from the computer screen. "Mom!?" he replied, pushing himself away from his desk.

"I rented some movies, too! Hope you're in the mood for death and destruction!"

Brady's stomach grumbled and moaned, and his bladder ached and tingled. He peered back at his alarm clock, reading seven-fifteen. "Coming!" he called back to his mother, while announcing his departure from the shadow realms.

"Were you on that computer all day?" asked Natalie, as her son entered the living room rubbing his bloodshot eyes.

"What movies did you get?" he asked, trying to divert the inevitable lecture that his mother's tone was directed in.

Natalie sighed as she fell back onto the couch, and dropped her heels on top of the coffee table. "You know, I can't even remember," she thought out loud while reaching to her side to retrieve a cold beer. "You've really got to try and get out of the house more. I mean, look at your eyes, they're RED. It's just not healthy."

Brady dropped a movie into the player and then circled the room to sit next to his mom. "I know," he agreed. "I just lost track of time, that's all. Tomorrow I'll take a run through the park or something, okay?"

Natalie chuckled as she twisted the cap off of her drink. "Yeah, that'll be the day," she teased, taking a long, relaxed gulp, and finishing with a loud belch. Natalie then reached for her silly child and pulled him under her arm for a hug. "Did you meet the neighbours at least?"

"Kinda," replied Brady, grabbing his mother's arm and snuggling into her side.

Kissing the top of her son's head, Natalie reached for the remote and pressed play. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I saw them from the window."

In a giggle, Natalie playfully ruffled Brady's hair. "You're such a dork."

Brady just smiled and reached for a slice of pizza. "I know."

"Mum!?" bellowed Mark, from the top of the stairs. "Have you seen my iPod!?"

In the kitchen, Brittany hopped off of the stool she was using to reach the top cupboards. "Did you leave it in the car?!" she suggested, while reaching for another pile of dishes. "Are you all done up there, already?"

Mark bounced down the stairs and circled towards the door to the garage. "Yeah, but none of my stuff works here. The plugs are all too small!" he explained in frustration.

Brittany turned her head to look at a wall socket. "Oh sod, I forgot about that. I think your father has some converter thingies in the big box near the front door. See if something in there will work."

Pivoting on his heel, Mark spun around to the front entrance and dropped to his knees in front of a large, cardboard box. "Is this it Mum?!"

"Well I can't see through walls now, can I?" she replied in a half-chuckle. "Just a minute..."

By the time Brittany had made her way to the front hall, Mark was already spelunking through the tangle of wires and other undetermined miniature electronics. "It was it, Mum. Thanks."

Rolling her eyes and tossing a tea towel over her shoulder, Brittany bent over to gaze upon the strange contents of the box. "What does it look like?"

"What does what look like?" replied Mark, while unwinding a balled compilation of wires.

"The converter you're looking for."

"I've no idea, Mum. Figured I'd just take a few and test them out," admitted Mark, feeling just as lost as Brittany was.

"Peter!" she called, leaning against the banister of the stairs. "Peter! We need your assistance on the main level!"

"Coming!" replied Brittany's husband, as the door to the basement opened, from down the hall, by the kitchen.

Brittany huffed in amusement. "I've really lost my bearings here," she admitted in slight confusion. "I can't seem to keep track of where everyone is."

"Me and James are setting up the viewing room downstairs," Peter said in a worn out breath. "Well, I'm doing all the setting up, James is directing... What do you need?"

Mark pushed himself away from the cluttered box. "My shit don't work," he explained in annoyance.

"Mark!" Brittany scolded him. "Watch your tongue!"

Peter chuckled and approached the two, then peered into the box. "Well you won't find anything in that," he explained. "We'll have to run down to the shops tomorrow and find some adaptors."

"Great," said Mark, angrily. "This is just brilliant, isn't it? How am I supposed to charge my iPod? I can't run without music!"

"Calm down, Mark," warned Peter. "The car has a charger, just plug it into that."

"Oh," replied Mark, feeling slightly embarrassed with himself. "Sorry."

"You're just tired, that's all," suggested Brittany. "It's been a long few weeks, you're allowed to be a tad anxious. Remember, it's already four in the morning back home."

Mark looked at the clock, hanging on the centre wall of the living room, that read eleven-thirteen. "All right, guess I'll just hook up my iPod and go to bed."

The next morning, Brady was awakened by the hissing sound of bacon and hash-browns cooking on the stove. He rolled over and stretched out his limbs, and just as the invigorating sensation reached his spine, he realized he was sprawled out across the living room's couch.

"Morning sunshine," greeted Natalie, leaning against the counter, in the kitchen, holding a large mug of coffee in her hands.

"I fell asleep?" asked Brady, slowly sitting himself upright.

"Yeah. You were out before the end of Universal Soldier -- didn't miss much though," she assured him, while poking at the contents of a pan with her spatula.

"Sorry Mom, guess I was sleepier than I thought."

Brady stood up from the couch and hobbled into the kitchen. "Mm, smells good," he complimented, as he reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a jug of orange juice.

Natalie turned off the elements and divided their breakfast onto two plates. "I've got to do some shopping this morning," she started, as she placed Brady's food in front of him. "Before you run up to your game, you should go on a walk or something; it's mid-July and you've barely left the house once."

"All right," agreed Brady, shovelling a fork-full of crispy, golden morsels into his mouth.

"But get a shower first; you're beginning to look like a hobo."

"Gee, thanks Ma," replied Brady, sarcastically.

Mark rushed down the stairs in a pounding fury. He felt, for the first time in ages, revitalized and inspired. After a long stay in an airport hotel, due to his home being sold faster than they had anticipated, and a gruellingly long flight to another country, it was good to be able to sleep in his own bed again. "Mum? I'm going to take a run, okay?"

"What about breakfast, love?" replied Brittany, who was still struggling to get the kitchen in working order.

"I'll grab a bite when I get back," he assured her, while digging through a box for his running shoes.

"Well at least have a drink before you go."

Mark's fingers probed deep into the box and finally located his sneakers. "Do we even have anything to drink?" he asked, while fumbling to untie the laces.

"Yeah, there's a shop just down the street. James and I went for a walk this morning."

Mark thought for a moment as he slid his shoes onto his feet. "What time is it?"

"Half past one."

"Did anyone even sleep last night?" asked Mark, appearing in the kitchen.

"Me and your father had a few winks, I suppose," replied Brittany, "there's some milk in the fridge if you like."

Circling around a maze of half-emptied boxes, Mark made his way across the kitchen and opened the fridge. He looked back at his mother, still arranging the cupboards to the way she liked. "Where's everyone?" he asked, while searching for a glass.

"Glasses are in the second cabinet, top shelf," directed Brittany. "Your Dad took James into town to get those wires for your electronics."

"Cool," said Mark, after taking a long chug from his glass.

At first, the icy-cool liquid felt smooth and comforting, but as Brittany turned towards Mark, she noticed his face turn red with confusion. "What's the matter?"

"Goh, the cows here are eating something awful," explained Mark, dumping the remaining portion of milk from his glass into the sink.

Brittany chuckled in amusement. "Yeah, James didn't like it either. Guess we've got a lot of adjustments ahead of us."

Mark stared into the sink at the diluting, white spirals of milk as he washed them down the drain. "It's terrible! I'd hate to think what their burgers are like." Rinsing out his glass, Mark returned to the fridge and pulled out a bottled water. "This will have to do," he settled, as he shimmied through the boxes, back towards the front door.

"What time will you be back?"

"About an hour or so," replied Mark, remembering his father was out. "Where'd Dad put my iPod?"

"On the shelf, above the coat-rack."

Locating his musical device, Mark then stepped out onto the front steps of the house. He peered from side-to-side, down either direction of the street, trying to decide which way he should go, as he skipped down the two concrete steps and pressed play on his iPod. The music began to flow through his body, building that unique momentum for a sudden burst in movement which could only be created by music's inspiration.

As if guided by the sun, Mark darted across the yard, towards the street. The wind gently caressed his skin, and the day's warmth soaked deep into his pores, filling him with a sense of freedom which both propelled and energized his body forward. The sky was clear, but its colour was not the same as Mark remembered it, nor was the feeling of the sun's rays against his body. It was like he had literally moved to another planet.

Crossing the street, Mark was instantly greeted by a blaring horn coming from the opposite direction that he was facing. His hands thumped down against the hood of a vehicle as he jumped backwards in a sudden fright.

A woman jumped out of the wrong side of the vehicle and ran toward him. "Jesus! Are you all right?" asked the trembling voice of the strange sounding lady as she neared him.

Mark removed his hands from the car's hood, feeling their stressed-moisture almost dripping from his palms. "Yeah, I'm fine," he replied in a distant voice. "Sorry, I forgot about the car thing, here."

"The car thing?" asked the woman, suddenly registering the boy's accent. "Oh! You're the new neighbours from across the street, aren't you?"

Mark shook his head. "Yeah, I'm sorry, I should really learn to watch what I'm doing."

"Don't be sorry," urged the woman. "You weren't the one behind the wheel. Oh, I'm Natalie," she introduced herself, holding out her hand. "We live right across the street from you."

Mark recalled the home where he had seen someone spying on his family. "We?"

"Yes," Natalie replied with a smile. "Me and my son, Bradon-er, I mean Brady. He's about your age, actually."

"Cool, nice to meet you Miss," replied Mark, while shaking the strange woman's hand.

After their hands released the other, Mark noticed Natalie wiping her hand across her jeans. "Oh, heh, sorry about that, I was running, so I'm a bit, um, moist," blushed Mark, drying his hands on his t-shirt.

"It's okay. If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to ask," offered Natalie. "It's summer, so even if I'm not home my son will be."

"Cool, thanks Miss," replied Mark. "Suppose I should let you get going, then?"

"Yes, of course. Sorry," apologized Natalie, backing towards her still-opened door. "Nice meeting you."

"You too Miss."

"And don't call me Miss!" demanded Natalie. "It makes me feel old."

Mark waved the odd lady off as he watched her drive down the street and around the corner, then, with a deep sigh of relief, resumed his morning jog.

Brady walked through the park, barely three blocks from his home, kicking at a rock in an attempt to keep himself entertained. The laughter and bellows of children and their parents could be heard in the near-distance, causing just enough distraction to keep his eyes from wandering towards several guys his age that were skating in the parking lot, to his left. However, he could still hear them perfectly, which provided him with the all-too familiar temptation of curiosity. Every-so-often, he'd catch himself gazing towards them. His eyes would devour their form and absorb every last detail possible. Then, suddenly, Brady would realize what he was doing and immediately redirect his attention back to his friend, the rock.

Swooping his foot as the bottom of his shoe scuffed across the pavement until its toe made contact with the circular stone. He'd watch it skip, bounce, and ricochet off of anything that dared interrupt its path, only to repeat the action immediately after it slowed.

Just as Brady was about to belt his stone one more time, a huge, dark shadow, accompanied by screaming voices and a loud swooping sound, consumed him from all directions. "Look out!" warned several voices in unison. Suddenly, Brady felt a drilling pressure against the side of his head, followed by a high-pitched ringing noise that echoed from deep within his skull, and before he knew what had happened his flailing limbs were flying through the air, only to be immediately halted by the unwelcoming, heated concrete path.

"Dude! I'm so sorry!" said the garbled voice of a boy, no older than eight. "You okay?"

Brady sat up and rubbed the side of his head. "Yeah, I'm good," he lied, feeling the skin on his arms burning and his face throbbing to the beat of his own heartbeat.

"You took that right in the eye!" remarked the boy in astonishment.

Climbing to his feet, Brady looked around to see what seemed like thousands of eyes staring directly at him. His heart began to pound and his palms became sweaty, just as the cackling-mockery of the skaters' laughter insulted his eardrums. "I'm good," Brady repeated, feeling humiliation begin to build in his watering eyes.

Quickly dusting himself off, and struggling to maintain control over his growing disparity, Brady urged himself forward, in hopes to escape ridicule's immediate view. With a slight limp, he found his way to a water fountain, which he used to wash his face then sat down at a picnic table so that he could collect himself in privacy. He leaned back against the table while rubbing his face then gradually slouched forward, using his elbows as supports against his knees.

His thoughts fell into synchronization with his body's pain, provoking a feeling of guilt, which he did not try to ignore. Instead, he lured it deep within himself, allowing it to build and thicken atop his nerves. He deserved such a feeling, he needed it to stay in control. 'If I hadn't been watching those guys, this wouldn't have happened,' he thought to himself.

The disruption of a random breeze and a sudden passing shadow caused Brady to twinge in remembrance of the football's attack, pulling him back into the reality of his surroundings. His eyes' gaze pulled themselves towards a boy, drinking from the fountain beside him. Brady felt his heart jump with uncertainty, like a flutter, followed by ache. The boy sipped quietly at the fountain; his body was bent forward, and his behind curved outward. Brady's eyes soaked in every last detail of the temptation before them: his white t-shirt clung to his back, emphasizing its shape, and his light-grey sweat pants were loose, but had gracefully draped its fabric along the boy's backside in such a way that every subtle detail appeared in the form of perfection. Then, the boy stood-up straight and wiped the moisture from his lips, while turning back around, the sun glaring against the boy's bright-blond hair, illuminating it in the most angelic of ways.

Instantly, Brady turned away and stared at the grass, below. His chest was thumping, and his breathing became unsure of itself and refused to exhale. "You okay?" asked the boy.

Brady felt his throat swell and become dry. "Yeah," he managed through a soft, raspy voice.

"You sure?" he queried once more. "'Cause you're bleeding..." the boy pointed, as Brady noticed a drop of blood fall from his nose.

The boy's strange accent caressed Brady's ears, only causing him to feel less sure of himself. "Yeah -- I'm cool."

"I dunno, mate. Your face is pretty bashed too," remarked the boy. "Get over here, your cheek's swellin' out."

Brady looked up at the boy, immediately realizing that this boy was, in fact, the new boy from across the street. He looked up at him, only to have to force his eyes back to the ground when he saw the boy removing his shirt. "What are you doing?"

"This water's freezing," he said, as if it were an explanation.

When Brady managed to build enough nerve to look again, the boy was soaking his t-shirt in the fountain, but that wasn't what Brady's attention had found. His eyes travelled the boy's back, all the way down to where a slight trace of a black waistband could be seen peeking out of the top of his sweats. "Here, let's slap this on your face," said the boy, turning towards Brady while wringing out the excess water.

The moment the shirt touched his face, Brady was overwhelmed with instant relief, though he was unsure if it were the coolness of the fabric or its mystifying scent. Upon contact, his face began to pound underneath the clothe as it began to sooth his swelling skin.

"So what happened, anyway?"

Brady thought for a moment, wishing the truth wasn't so degrading. "Got beaten up by a football," he admitted.

"Ouch -- got you pretty good," replied the boy, without so much as a giggle. "I'm Mark, by the way."

"Brady."

"Nice to meet you Brady," smiled Mark, offering his hand.

Brady reached, nervously, and shook Mark's hand, feeling its warmth absorb into his skin and spread throughout his body. A strange chill then caused his body to spasm in a shiver, which, in turn, caused him to softly giggle. "Sorry," Brady apologized. "This thing is cold."

"It's cool. ou uh, you live around here?" asked Mark, standing up.

"Yeah, just down the street from here."

"Cool, then I'll walk you home," offered Mark, jumping to his feet.

Brady involuntarily gasped, being instantly grateful that the damp shirt had managed to muffle his sudden noise; when Mark had stood up, the front of his pants were soaked and clinging to his legs, causing them to droop from the waist, just enough for Brady to flush of embarrassment.

"What's wrong?" asked Mark. "Dizzy? Nauseous?"

"No, I'm okay," blurted Brady, climbing to his feet as proof.

Mark grinned in amusement at Brady's sudden movement. "You know, it's a good thing I found you."

"What do you mean?" asked Brady, staring at the ground as the walked.

"I got myself lost," admitted Mark. "I've been roaming the park trying to figure out where I'd got in from."

"Oh?" replied Brady. "I think I know where you live..." he added, shyly.

"Really?" Mark curled his eyebrow upward and smiled towards Brady.

"Yeah, you just moved in on Almore, didn't you?"

"Yuh, that's it!" chimed Mark, happily. "How'd you know?"

Brady cleared his throat. "I'm pretty sure you live across the street from me."

"Really?" replied Mark. "Your pulling my chain, right?"

"I don' think so..."

"Shit-eh, what're the odds of that?" Mark thought for a second. "You're spying on me, aren't you?" he said in a serious tone.

Brady felt his heart jump into a panic. "No!"

"Heh, just kidding, bud -- joking? You know?" explained Mark, literally bouncing ahead of Brady.

"Yeah, sorry."

"It's cool," replied Mark. "How's that face?" he asked, reaching for the shirt.

"What?" Brady panicked and backed away, only to feel incredibly foolish the moment he realized what Mark was doing.

"You, uh -- you don't have that many friends, do yuh?" blurted Mark, instantly wishing he hadn't said what he did.

"What's that supposed to mean?" mumbled Brady, defensively, but still allowing Mark to look at his bruised face.

"Sorry, that came out wrong. I mean, you're not used to talkin' to people very much."

"What was your first clue?" Brady replied bitterly.

"Hey, I said I was sorry," reminded Mark, while dabbing his t-shirt across Brady's cheek.

"It's fine. Guess I can be a little dramatic sometimes, it's my fault."

"Nah, it was me," chuckled Mark. "Now shut-up about it; let's get me home, I'm starved."

Brady found himself fascinated with Mark's accent, along with other aspects of the boy which he noted cautiously while steeling glances at his bare chest. "So where'd you come from, anyway?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Well yeah, it is," struggled Brady. "But I meant, whereabouts?"

"Cambridge."

"Is that near London?" asked Brady, mentioning the one place in the United Kingdom that he knew.

"You for real?"

"Uh, yeah..."

"It's like an hour and a half north of London, so I guess it's not that far, but it's not exactly close either."

"That's still pretty cool."

"What is?"

"I dunno," shrugged Brady. "Living in England?"

"Yeah," replied Mark, suddenly remembering how much he was going to miss his home. "But Dad got a great job over here, so his boss asked him to move."

"What's he do?"

"He's a medical researcher, like a scientist or something. He experiments with different medicines and stuff..."

"That sounds cool," decided Brady, while repositioning the t-shirt on his face.

"No it doesn't!" Mark objected. "It sounds bloody boring!"

"Sounds cool to me..."

"What's your dad do?"

"Dunno," Brady said in a huff of suppressed anger. "Never met him."

"Oh..." Mark looked up at Brady, taking notice of his troubled expression. "Sorry."

Realizing where they were, Brady stopped in his tracks and turned around. "Uh, we missed your place," he explained with a slight giggle.

"How'd we manage that?" snickered Mark. "What kind of guide are you?"

"One that works for wet t-shirts," chuckled Brady.

"See? There yeah go -- it feels good doesn't it?"

"What does?"

"Laughing."

Brady wasn't sure what to say in response to that, or if there really was something witty worth saying, so instead he just smiled and agreed by way of nodding his head. "There it is," he pointed in front of them.

"At last!" yelled Mark, jumping into the air. "Thanks Brady, I would'a been lost out there forever if you hadn't been creamed by a ball."

"Uh... You're welcome, I think," he replied, turning back towards his house.

"Oy! Where you going?!" asked Mark, playfully.

Brady turned back around to face Mark in the street. "Home?"

"Don't you want to come in?" offered Mark, nodding towards his house with a grin on his face.

"I dunno..."

"Just come on! You can help me figure out how to plug in all my shit!"

As if heard by the Gods themselves, a loud, all-consuming voice blared from all directions. "Mark! Watch your bloody tongue!"

"Shit," hissed Mark, turning away from his house like he were being beaten on the head. "That mum of mine has ears like a freaken' bat," he snickered, as he reached for Brady's arm. "Now come-on, it's the least you could do for ruining my shirt."

Brady couldn't help himself but to laugh as he allowed Mark to drag him into the house. "Take your shoes off at the door, or my mum'll have your balls," warned Mark, before opening the door and dragging Brady inside. "Mum! I'm home!" announced Mark.

"I know you're home! I could hear that putrid mouth of yours from a mile away," snapped Brittany as she peeked out from the kitchen. Her eyes met Brady's and instantly lit-up. "Ello luv!" she welcomed. "Mark, you didn't say you found company."

"I tried Mum," replied Mark, while kicking off his shoes. "You were yelling too loud to bother."

"Do you like Canadian milk, dear?" asked Brittany, smiling cheerfully at Brady.

"Uh... Yeah?" said Brady, awkwardly.

Brittany's smile grew. "Good, you can take it home with you when you go then."

"Mum, cut it out! You're gonna scare 'em off before he even realizes how crazy you really are," Mark turned back to Brady. "Come-on, let's get up the stairs before she tries to send you home with Canadian bacon and Canadian geese and Canadian orange juice..."

"Very funny you little prat!" chuckled Brittany as she turned back towards the kitchen.

Brady followed Mark up the stairs and halfway down a hall. The entire house smelled of fresh paint and new carpets, which made him feel slightly nauseated. "Just hang-out in there for a second," said Mark, pointing into his room. "I'm just gonna take a quick piss -- I'll be right back."

"Okay," replied Brady, still standing in the doorway.

Mark disappeared inside the bathroom as Brady stared into the empty bedroom. The walls were a bright white and the carpets were a glowing, creamy colour, causing all the furniture to seem out of place.

"Pretty nasty isn't it?" said Mark, from behind Brady, as they both stared into the room. "Go on, get in there," he urged, while gently shoving Brady's back towards the room.

Brady slowly moved to the centre of the room, looking at all the dark-stained wooden furniture. "Is this stuff all hand made?" he asked in interest, feeling as if the furniture had been pulled out of an eighteenth century based movie.

"Nah, well kinda. Me mum got'em from a little furniture shop in Haverhill," explained Mark as he sat down and bounced on the bed. "It's comfy as hell though."

Still finding himself amazed with Mark's accent, Brady accidentally let a giggle slip out. "Sorry, your accent's cool," he admitted shyly.

"What accent?" replied Mark. "Your the one with the accent," stated Mark, throwing in a perspective which Brady hadn't considered.

"Guess this has to be pretty weird for you, huh?" asked Brady, still standing in the middle of the room.

"Yeah. The way you people talk is easy to get used to, but the stupid cars are horrid. I almost got hit on my way to the park earlier!"

"Really?" Brady replied in curiosity. "What happened?"

"I looked the wrong way before I crossed. Fortunately the lady driving saw me before I was made a flap-jack."

"A what?"

"A pancake," groaned Mark. "I thought that's what they were called here."

"Uh, no..." declared Brady. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Online. I kinda researched Canadian culture a bit. I was stuck in a hotel for ages, so I had a lot of time on my hands."

"That sucks."

"Yeah. We sold our house in Cambridge faster than we could find a place here. The mortgage approvals are all weird here, apparently."

"How'd you get all your stuff here?" asked Brady, suddenly realizing how freely he was talking.

"Boat. My Dad rented a train-carriage-thing and we packed all our things inside. It all got here before we did, too," explained Mark, realizing he hadn't put on a clean shirt.

"That sucks, too."

Mark jumped off the bed and hopped across the bedroom to his dresser and pulled open the middle drawer. "It did, but at least there's still some holidays 'til we gotta go to school -- I'm not looking forward to that."

"You're not supposed to," Brady pointed out.

"Geeze Brady, take a seat, you're making me nervous," teased Mark, slipping into a navy-blue t-shirt.

"Sorry."

"And quit being sorry so much, it's not normal."

"Sorry," said Brady on impulse, as he cautiously sat himself down on Mark's bed.

Mark turned to Brady with a look of playful annoyance on his face. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Yeah," Brady agreed timidly, then looked down at the floor.

"Hm, you're gonna take some work," Mark teased. "Anyway, let's see if you can figure this crap out."

Brady watched as Mark dropped onto his hands and knees, then crawled towards his feet. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for my lappy," Mark explained, as he sprawled himself out against the floor and slithered under the bed, between Brady's legs.

"What's that?"

"Laptop, sorry. I need an English to English dictionary or something," giggled Mark, from half-way under the bed.

Brady had subconsciously peered down at Mark's behind, gently bouncing in-sync with his laughter, when he realized the flow of blood in his veins begin to rush downward. Quickly becoming enveloped in an overwhelming blast of shame, he immediately turned his head to reinstate his well practised obduracy.

"Ah! Found it!" announced Mark, shimmying himself out from under the bed and looking up at Brady. "What's wrong?"

Avoiding eye contact, Brady stood up and walked towards the door. "I gotta go."

"Wait, why?" queried Mark, fearing he had done something wrong. "What's up?"

"Nothing -- I should go," replied Brady, looking towards the bedroom door.

"For real? Why? Just chill for a second. Come on, I'll get you a drink, something to eat?"

"I'm good, thanks. Sorry, I just gotta go."

Mark peered around the room inquisitively. "Have my walls offended you?" he enquired. "I know they're pretty bland, but they can change."

Brady stared into Mark's eyes, seemingly drowning in their glossy-blue pools, brighter than even the sky could hold claim. For a moment, he felt -- just felt. Like his emotions had run out of names and were now just throwing out uninterpreted feelings by the barrel, and at the precise moment where Brady could not think of a more powerful sensation, a scent lifted from the boy's self, filling Brady's lungs, rendering him speechless in every sense.

"So..." Mark stared blankly at his new friend. "You gonna stay then?"

"Yeah," whispered Brady, in a soft but weary tone.

"Great! Now, all we gotta do is see if my dad found the adaptors," beamed Mark, cutting in front of Brady. "I'll be right back!" he declared as he ran down the stairs.

Feeling oddly numb, inside and out, Brady walked over to Mark's bed and sat back down. His mind was racing, trying to make sense of what had just happened to him. The feeling he had experienced was like no feeling he had ever felt before, something that his brain could not comprehend. It wasn't like his usual disobedience in lustful glares, but something greater, different, but most surprisingly: good.

"All right," said Mark, re-entering the room. "So my dad found these things, but they've got all these nutty attachments..."

"Huh?" Brady slapped his hands against his eyes, and while rubbing them, forced himself back into the here and now. "Sorry..."

Mark presented an awkwardly crooked grin. "See, there you go again! Stop the sorries, mate," tossing Brady a plastic-wrapped package, Mark turned around and sat next to him on the bed. "You look all spaced out, where'd you go?"

"Uh-nowhere. Just tired I guess," replied Brady, examining the transparent bag that was now in his hands. "I have no clue what these things are."

With an amused sigh, Mark grabbed the bag from Brady. "They're so I can plug in my computer and TV. The plugs 'er all different here."

"They are?" asked Brady, dumbfounded. "I didn't know that."

"Great," chuckled Mark. "Superb help you're gonna be," he teased.

"Shouldn't it be whichever your plug fits in?"

Mark examined the package. "I guess -- it just doesn't seem like it should be that simple."

Brady opened the bag and dumped out the adaptors. "Wow, why does every country have different plugs?"

"To piss me off!" exclaimed Mark, in only half-humour.

"MARK!" bellowed an echoing voice.

In astonishment at Brittany's acute ear, both Mark and Brady turned to each other with a jaw-dropping expression on either of their faces. "Shit... SORRY MUM!"

"Watch it!" warned Brady. "Bet she heard that one too," he giggled.

"That mum of mine's got the most annoying super-powers," added Mark. "Here, see if this one fits."

Brady took an adaptor from Mark's hand, and with the laptop's power cord in the his own, attempted to piece the two together. "No luck. Shouldn't you know what your plugs look like? 'Cause the pointy-outty part go into the wall, the inny-holey part is where your plug goes," explained Brady.

"Uh... yeah -- um, pointy-outty? Really?" chuckled Mark.

Brady reached for an adaptor on Mark's lap, and as his fingers grasped the plastic object they also, just barely, grazed against the cotton-fabric of Mark's sweatpants. An instant reddened complexion spread across Brady's face as the warmth, penetrating through the clothe, soaked into the backsides of his knuckles, almost directly over Mark's crotch. "Shit, sorry," Brady apologized immediately.

"For what?" asked Mark, completely blind to Brady's consternation.

"Nothing..." dismissed Brady, while fumbling with the adaptor. "Here, this one fits." he announced in relief at the diversion of subjects.

"Yes!" celebrated Mark, jumping to his feet in victory. "Now we only need three more!"

"Three? I thought you only needed two."

"No, I need four. The laptop and its speakers, my TV, PS3 and DVD," listed Mark. "Oh -- wait..."

"That's five..." Brady pointed out.

"Right -- so it is. But my DVD doesn't matter as much, 'cause my PS3'll play DVDs, I think..."

Brady fished through the remaining adaptors. "Well, you're going to need another bag. There are only two per package."

"Really?" asked Mark, in disbelief. "So what are we supposed to do with all this other junk? It's not like we're ever going to use 'em."

"I guess -- I dunno," said Brady. "Just chuck-em-out?"

"Well that's a bloody waste, isn't it?" Mark ran towards his door. "DAD! WE NEED MORE ADAPTORS!" he screamed, only to quickly become overwhelmed with impatience. "I'll be right back."

Collecting the remaining, useless adaptors, Brady dropped them into their original packaging and placed them on Mark's side table, next to his bed. He looked around the room again, at the slight mess that had already began to accumulate on the floor, and realized that the t-shirt Mark had lent him for his face had, at some point, wound up on the carpet. Reaching for the damp clothe, Brady picked it back up, and while looking in the direction of the bedroom's door, brought the shirt to his nostrils and slowly inhaled its scent.

"Hey Brady, you hungry?" asked Mark, as he came back into the room. "Uh -- what are you doing?"

Brady felt as if he had become suddenly paralysed. His heart sank to his stomach, as an unexpected flood of goose-bumps consumed his body. "Uh, wiping the dirt off my face..." he murmured nervously.

"Oh, okay," replied Mark, awkwardly. "Mum's got some pizza-bites heating up downstairs. Wanna come grab some?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure," replied Brady, through a shaky voice. "Sorry about the shirt, just figured it needed to be washed anyway..."

"It's cool. The thing was probably dirtier than your face though, that's all," he said with a chuckle.

"Meh," shrugged Brady. "Did you find more adaptors?"

"Nah, ran out already. Dad's gonna go grab some more in the morning," explained Mark. "It's cool, at least I can get online now."

"True," replied Brady.

"So, you comin' or what? I'm starved."

Brady stood-up from the bed, looking at the shirt in his hand. "What should I do with this?"

"I dunno. Have no clue where Mum's got the hamper. Just chuck it back on the floor for now."

Unable to simply drop the damp shirt on the floor, Brady hung it on doorknob as they exited the room. As they walked down the hallway, the dramatic belly-chuckles of a child freely echoed throughout the house, only becoming louder as they travelled down the stairs.

"...so then Dad bought every single one!" cackled the piercing voice of Mark's brother, as they entered the kitchen.

"What's so funny?" asked Mark, sitting down at the table.

Brittany rolled her eyes as she placed a large plate of pizza-bites in the centre of the table and then turned back towards the stove. "James was just telling me how much of a sucker your father is," she explained.

James reached for a handful of the snack, and with sloppy sounding snort, fell back into another hysterical giggle. "You're such a dork," said Mark in a humorous chuckle.

"But he bought all of them!" snickered James. "Like every last one!"

"Of what?" queried Mark, as he pulled out a chair for Brady.

James tossed a pizza-bite into the air and tried to catch it in his mouth, but, instead, it bounced off of his forehead and plummeted to the floor. "Darn," started James. "But yuh, those plugs... that's why we got... all those extra ones..." he tried to explain between heaving gasps for air.

"That's not even funny..." decided Mark, looking over to Brady as he, too, sat down at the table.

"Tell me about it," added Brittany. "He's been this way since they got back from town."

"Town?" asked Brady, in a murmur.

"Yeah -- the shops? Mall? Downtown?" Mark struggled to explain. "Gotta watch it Mum, Brady here's not familiar with real English."

"Oh ,sorry love," said Brittany. "The world's lingo seems to change by the minute."

Brady just nodded, feeling slightly out of place, as Mark urged him to fill his plate. "Better be quicker than that Brady, James is a right pig sometimes," warned Mark. "You want some Canadian orange juice?" he added mockingly, gesturing to his mother.

"Shut it, Mark," warned Brittany, reaching into the fridge for the juice then carried it to the table. "So where do you live Brady?"

"Uh, across the street," whispered Brady, noticing Mark turn his head to face him.

"Really?" he asked. "Is that your place like right across the street from here?"

"Yeah."

"Your mum almost flattened me!" he blurted in amusement. "Hey, was that you in the window yesterday?"

"Uh -- no," lied Brady, feeling himself become tense. "Why?"

"Just wondering... that's all," replied Mark. "I thought it was some pervert spying on us."

Brady felt his entirety clam-up in an attempt of retreat. "Must've been my mom."

"Flattened?" asked Brittany. "Like run over?"

Mark popped a pizza-bite into his mouth. "Yeah, I looked the wrong way when I crossed the road," he chuckled.

"Both ways Mark! You're supposed to look BOTH ways! Be more careful!" urged Brittany. "I don't want to have to replace someone's bumper because your boney arse had done it in."

"Gee, thanks Mum," giggled Mark. "I love you too."

Brittany approached the sink and turned on the taps. "We should have you and your mum over for tea," she suggested.

"Um, I don't think my mom drinks tea," replied Brady, shyly biting into a pizza-bite.

"No, dum-dum," teased Mark. "Tea means food -- kinda. Well, you can drink tea, but it's like a meal, only with snacks, mainly."

Brittany turned her head to face Brady, from the sink. "What you're having right now is tea. It's just a formal way of saying 'snack'."

"Oh," replied Brady, catching on. "Well, my mom likes to cook barbecues and drink beer."

"A true lady," Brittany smiled. "We could do that."

"Mum," started Mark. "We didn't bring the cooker, though," he reminded her.

"We got one," offered Brady.

"My goodness!" shouted Brittany, randomly running to Brady's side. "What happened to your face?"

Mark began to giggle. "He got clobbered by a football."

"A football did this?" she panicked. "Look at the size of that welt!" she added, poking at Brady's cheek.

"It's okay, I'm fine," struggled Brady, feeling more than uneasy.

"American football, Mum," Mark reminded his mother. "They got a sharp point on them, like a rugby-ball, 'cept pointier."

"Silly game, that one," moaned Brittany, running over to the sink while pulling a tea towel from her shoulder and soaking it under the water. "Bunch of massive men who can't even handle a real ball," she added. "Sorry, this will have to do," she explained, as she approached Brady with the damp clothe. "We haven't got a thing in the freezer at the moment."

"It's okay," repeated Brady. "It stopped hurting a long time ago."

"Yeah Mum, we already chilled it with my shirt," added Mark. "He's fine, quit fussing."

"Just hold it there for a while," Brittany pleaded. "It'll make me feel better."

Brady timidly giggled. "All right then," he agreed.

"Hey! I've got two plugs!" realized Mark. "You wanna play some videos?"

"Sure," agreed Brady, feeling happy just to end the awkward moments in the kitchen.

"Cool," said Mark, jumping from his chair and disappearing in the hall. "Well come-on then!" he shouted from the stairs.

Brady slowly climbed from his chair, grabbing his plate and handing it to Brittany. "Thanks for tea," he said behind a faint smile as he backed away towards the stairs.

"No problem, love," replied Brittany, placing the dish inside the sink.

By the time Brady had made his way back to the bedroom, Mark was already bent over in behind his LCD television, similar to the one he had seen the movers carrying in the day before. "Wow, that's yours?" he asked, entering the room.

"Yeah, took me ages to save up for it," replied Mark, awkwardly manoeuvring his slim body between the TV stand and the wall. "Sod, I forgot the adaptor. Can you grab it for me?"

Brady nodded, realizing Mark couldn't see him. "Sure," he said, turning to the bed to collect the adaptor. "You got the other one?"

"Yup," moaned Mark in a grumbled voice. "Just can't quite reach the socket, that's all."

Now standing behind Mark, Brady closely watched as Mark struggled to get the prongs to make contact with the socket; with his body tossing itself from side-to-side, and his shirt being snagged on a corner, Brady's vision automatically narrowed to his friend's behind. His sweats were just low enough to reveal the black waistband of his underwear, with a slight trace of a forest green fabric below it. The sweats hugged Mark's backside shamelessly, as if doing so, mockingly, for Brady's eyes. "Um," Brady mumbled, leaning forward and grabbing the end of the stand. "Would this be easier?" he asked, sliding the table away from the wall.

Mark rolled onto his stomach and slithered forward. "Yes!" he squealed in celebration and then pushed the adaptor into the socket. "Much, thanks."

Handing Mark the other adaptor, Brady then backed away and went to sit on the bed. Mark quickly completed his task and climbed to his feet, smiling over to Brady. "So, what yuh want to play?" he asked.

"Uh, dunno. What you got?"

"Hm, God of War II, Street Fighter, Modern Warfare... Uh... I've no clue where everything is," realized Mark, kicking his foot around against the floor to move the mess around. "Borderland!"

"Borderland?"

"Yeah, it's a zombie game, I think. Haven't really played it much, though; so at least I won't have an advantage."

Mark handed Brady the game's case to look at while he set-up the game. "Good enough," decided Brady, placing the case on the floor.

"Here," said Mark, offering Brady a controller. "Now, if I remember right, it's a cooperative game, so let's stick together."

"Sounds good."

As the game started, Brady quickly realized that Mark was just as energetic while playing a game as he was at any other moment. His legs would jump and spasm, his shoulders would flinch and shake, and on occasion, particularly when he was under attack, his entire body would fly into the air and crash against Brady's side. For the first twenty or even fifty assaults by Mark's body, Brady would move away from him, trying to avoid any and all contact, but after a while he found himself leaning in and purposely getting closer to Mark, so that he'd be more likely to crash into him.

Guilt was, of course, surging throughout his mind and body. However, the shear ignorance of his 'other regions' for once prevailed in its war for indulgence. With every movement from Mark, Brady would hold his ground, and on occasion, even lean into him.

Mark yelled and then bounced to his left, closer to Brady. "Shit! Brady where are you?!" he whined, directing his arms through the air in the direction he was trying to move his character. "Brady, shit! Help!"

"I'm right behind you," chuckled Brady. "But I don't have any health, so don't die."

"Damn!" said Mark, leaning into Brady's side with his shoulder. "I need... DAMN!" he screamed, dropping the controller to the floor. "I died."

Brady giggled and pressed the pause button. "That's cool. I should probably get going anyway, Mom doesn't know where I am."

Mark looked at his alarm clock. "Wow, it's eight-thirty? How'd that happen?"

"Really?" Brady jumped to his feet. "My mom's probably ready to send out a search party."

Mark followed Brady down the hall, to the stairs. "So, you wanna hang-out tomorrow?"

"Sure. Just come by whenever."

"Cool, seeya then -- and look both ways before crossing the street."

Brady smiled and slid on his shoes. "Yeah... You're one to talk."

"Experienced is all," replied Mark, plainly.

With a nod, Brady opened the door and turned to leave. "Seeya."

"Later Brady."

"Brady?! Where've you been?"urged Natalie, when she heard the front door opening. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Brady assured her. "I met up with one of the new neighbours at the park, and we wound-up playing video games at his place."

Natalie's worry transformed into happiness. "That's great! Did you have fun? What's his name?"

"Geeze Mom, slow down," teased Brady. "It's Mark -- said you almost hit 'em earlier, too."

"Yes! I did!" exclaimed Natalie enthusiastically.

"Well, don't sound so happy about it..."

"Sorry, it's just good to hear you finally got out of this house," replied Natalie, still smiling.

Brady kicked off his shoes and entered the living room. "Did you make dinner?"

"Yup, it's in the fridge -- Nothing special, just nuggets and a baked potato. I was lazy," admitted Natalie.

Roaming into the kitchen, Brady went to the fridge and pulled out his dinner. "Oh yeah," he remembered. "Mark's mom was talking about having us over for tea sometime."

"Tea, huh? Sounds like fun," decided Natalie, sipping on a beer. "Did they say when?"

"Nope. I also suggested a barbecue, but then we'd have to have that here, 'cause they don't have a 'cooker' over there."

"We could do that, too," Natalie collected her thoughts momentarily. "This is sad, I'm actually excited to meet these people... without the assistance of my car, that is."

"Figured you would be," said Brady, while waiting for his food to heat-up in the microwave.

"So, what's he like?"

Brady pondered, trying to put Mark into words without his 'other' thoughts intruding in his description. "Uh -- he's, kinda like Mr. Bean meets Adam Sandler..."

Natalie coughed as she snickered, sitting up so she could catch her breath. "What? That sounds -- special."

"Well," started Brady, trying to describe Mark justly, "maybe not quite that nutty, but he's, I dunno, energetic."

"Either way, I haven't seen you look so smiley in a while -- and you look like you may have even got a bit of your colour back."

Sitting down on the couch next to his mother, Brady leaned forward and put his plate on the coffee table. "You having a drink a second night in a row?" he asked, noticing the half empty bottle in his mother's hands.

"Yup. What can I say, I felt rambunctious," Natalie confessed.

"Don't use your dirty lingo on me," replied Brady in an accidental British accent.

"Dirty? Hm, we're going to need to get you a dictionary..." decided Natalie, as she lifted her drink for another sip.