This is gay love story between two boys Some chapters may contain references to sexual activities involving them and others.. If you object to this, you are urged not to read it. If reading this causes you to violate any laws in your community, please do not do so. The author does not condone the violation of any laws. This story is copyrighted 2002 under the pseudonym Omnius. You may not copy or distribute this story in part or in whole without the consent of the author.

This is primarily a romance. There will be some sexual scenes later in the story, (and some of these may be rather intense), but if that is your primary purpose in reading the story, you might be disappointed.

The boy he held. The boy he held?

Timothy's eye's snapped open. The morning sun was about to rise above the hilltop. He was laying in the grass, the sleeping form of his best friend spooned into his body, his arms and legs wrapped around him.

Panic.

"Trevor! Wake up!"

Timothy jumped up and began to frantically shake his friend. Trevor growled as he fought off Timothy's onslaught. Then, when he realized where he was and the predicament they were in, he, too, sat up.

"Oh, shit."

Timothy, already in a state of terror at the situation in which they found themselves, looked at Trevor in shock.

Their eyes met and even Trevor acknowledged that this was serious.

"We have to get home," said Timothy.

"No shit."

"Trevor!"

The boy rolled his eyes at Timothy, jumped up, and ordered, "Come on."

The two ran down the hill just as the sun peaked over the horizon. Climbing through the barbed wire, they uncovered their bikes and tore down Henderson Road. Trevor's ten-speed was quite a bit faster than Timothy's old Typhoon, with its one gear and fat balloon tires. When he noticed how far behind Timothy was, he slowed down.

"Come on, man! You're gonna get creamed when you get home! Hurry!"

Timothy could not speak. He could barely breath as he pedaled harder and faster than he ever had.

Several huge trucks were just pulling out of the truck stop as they came to Union Avenue. One truck blew his horn angrily as the boys cut in front of him as they wildly tore across the parking lot and cut across traffic onto Union. It was another half-mile before they came to Fifteenth Street. Trevor just waved Timothy on as the one turned toward his house and the other continued on to his. Timothy speed up the block and then shot up the driveway and past the side of the house. He jumped off the bike and did not even try to place it in the back yard. He stopped at the back door and tried to catch his breath before quietly turning the knob.

The house was deathly silent, for which he was grateful. With a sigh of relief, he tiptoed toward the stairs leading up from the family room. Then his heart froze. He could smell coffee. Someone was up!

He tried not to panic. Carefully, he examined his options. His father probably started the coffee pot before he and mother went to the bathroom to get ready for the day. There was still a chance of salvaging the situation.

Slowly, quietly, his heart racing, his breaths still ragged from the ride, he crept up the steps to the kitchen. No one was at the kitchen table; so far so good, he thought. Slowly, he crept around the corner and peeked up the stairs.

"Ah hum."

Timothy cried out and spun around. His feet became tangled and he lost his balance, falling to the floor and landing on his butt. He looked up in abject terror at the face of his father who, still dressed in his pajamas and robe, was leaning against the kitchen counter, holding a cup of coffee, and trying with little success to suppress his laughter while appearing stern and disapproving.

"Young man? Where have you been?"

Timothy opened his mouth, but he could say nothing.

"Did you go watch the Pleiades after I quite clearly told you `no?'"

Almost imperceptibly, Timothy nodded.

"And why did you choose to disobey me?"

Timothy's sense of shame overcame his terror and he could not answer, he looked down at the floor and tears formed in his eyes.

His father waited a moment and then, gently, said, "Come here, Timmer."

He held his arms out and Timothy gratefully jumped up and ran to his father. They hugged and then his father directed him to a chair at the kitchen table.

"Timmer, its not like you to disobey me like that. I can always trust you. What happened?"

Timothy thought about his reply for a moment and then decided to spill everything.

"Daddy, you know I love astronomy and this was really special and Trevor is like the best friend a guy could ever have and its not his fault, its all mine because I went along with it, but I wasn't eavesdropping, I swear. I know eavesdropping is wrong and I would never do it, but I overheard you tell Trevor's Dad that you thought I was too good and you thought I should misbehave sometimes and, and, and I thought that maybe if it was something like seeing the Pleiades, then maybe it would be right and...."

He stopped as he saw the stricken look on his father's face. Never had he seen such a look of regret and sorrow and shock on his father's face, his father, the strongest and wisest man he had ever known.

"Oh, Timmer!"

He grabbed the boy and held him tightly. He did not know why, but Timothy started to cry and the two clung to each other for several minutes.

"Timothy," his father said hoarsely, "I am so proud of you. You are the best son a man could ever ask for. I guess that what I was saying to Trevor's father is that I worry about you because I don't know if you really enjoying your childhood, if perhaps you are growing up too fast or missing out on some of the joys of being a boy. You may not understand what I'm saying and I really don't expect you, too. No, I don't want you to misbehave. But, I don't want you to be so afraid of doing something wrong that you never take those chances and push those limits that boys often do. That's one of the ways you learn to be a man, taking chances, pushing the limits, taking risks. But, never, ever think I'm not proud of you, because I am more proud of you than you can ever imagine."

Timothy broke down again and clung gratefully to his father. He did not see his mother standing in the doorway or the frown on her face or the reproving look his father gave her.

After she had gone back upstairs and Timothy had regained his composure, his father pushed him away and said, "So, now. That leaves us with how I am to deal with what you did."

"Yes, sir."

"You know that it was quite dangerous for you to leave the house in the middle of the night."

"Yes sir."

"It was dangerous for you to ride past the truck stop. You may not understand why, but a lot of really dangerous things could happen there."

"Yes sir."

"There are reasons for rules, Timothy. I don't say `no' just to be contrary or difficult. I love you and I don't want anything bad to happen to you."

"Yes sir."

"So what punishment do you feel would be appropriate in this case?"

Timothy grinned shyly at his father and replied, "Grounding for a day?"

His father rolled his eyes.

"I think three days may be more in line."

"Yes, sir."

"Now get up there and get some sleep."

Timothy stood at the head of the dining room table as his birthday cake blazed with the flame of eleven candles. His parents stood beside him as Andy and Sally stood to the side in bored acceptance that they were not the center of attention. His grandparents stood at the far end of the table guarding the stack of presents while Trevor and his parents stood respectfully behind them.

"Alright, Timmer! Make a wish and blow out your candles!"

Timothy looked around at everyone, closed his eyes, and blew. When he opened them, the candles were out and everyone was cheering.

"What did you wish for?" his brother asked.

Timothy's eye caught Trevor's for a fraction of a second before turning to Andy.

"I can't say because then it won't come true, silly."

Andy rolled his eyes as if he actually cared what Timothy had wished for. There were appreciative chuckles and then everyone sang a spirited rendition of "Happy Birthday."

As the gathering settled around the dining room and living room with their cake and ice cream, (because it was a special occasion, Timothy's mother had reluctantly lifted her prohibition against food in the living room), Timothy began to open his presents. He pretended to be thrilled with the Spyrograph his brother and sister gave him. He was genuinely pleased with the shirts and sweaters his grandparents gave him, not understanding Andy's sneer of "Clothes! Yuck!" And, when he opened the box from his parents, he let out a whoop. It was a combination AM/FM radio and record player by Panasonic.

"Now all I need," he declared as he gratefully hugged his parents, "are some records."

"Well," his father replied, "maybe you should open Trevor's presents now."

He looked at his friend, who stood shyly behind Timothy's grandparents. His grandfather handed him the large flat package and a smaller thicker package.

"A record and a book," announced Andy. "Big deal."

"Andrew," his father said with a warning tone, "I'm going to pop your butt if you don't quit acting like a poop!"

Andy rolled his eyes again as everyone else grinned.

Timothy's hands shook with greater anticipation as he pulled away the wrapping on Trevor's presents than they had with any other gifts, and a smile formed on his face as he saw two albums. The first was The Left Banke's album, "Walk Away Renee/Pretty Ballerina." He looked at Trevor, who merely smiled back.

"Who's The Left Banke? I never heard of them," Andy declared derisively. Timothy softly replied, "They're a Baroque rock group. They're special."

"Humph. What's the other one?"

Timothy help it up for all to see, The Doors, apparently by The Doors.

"Who are they?" Timothy asked. This time, Andy laughed.

"They're a cool rock band. Don't you know anything?"

Everyone laughed, though Trevor was not as enthusiastic as the others, disliking the way Andy seemed to take pleasure in teasing his older brother.

"I thought you might need to listen to something other than The Lettermen and Dad thought this would be a good album to break out on."

Allen smiled as Timothy's grandparents openly displayed their disapproval.

"He might not need to `break out,'" commented his grandfather.

Timothy's father grinned as Trevor stepped back toward his parents.

"I seem to remember your saying something similar when I came back from Korea and was listening to Chuck Berry."

Timothy, however, was looking at the cover of The Doors album. It was black with a picture of the band in the background. The face of one of the members was blown up and dominated the others. His face was round, rather a baby-face in a way, with dark waves and curls around his forehead and ears. It was a face that seemed to be saying something, though Timothy did not know what. Nonetheless, it fascinated him. It was a moment before the silence in the room awoke him and he set the albums down on the table with a blush. He opened the second present, a paperback of Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. Once again, Timothy gave a meaningful smile to Trevor, who simply returned it.

"What's that?" Andy asked with his usual derision. Trevor stepped forward again.

"It's about a society in which its illegal to read books."

"Sounds like my kinda place!" Andy replied. There were chuckles around the room until Allen spoke up, saying, "You might think so now, but it could very well happen in America; or, at least, something very much like that. We already have a lot of censorship."

"Perhaps, its for everyone's own good," Timothy's grandmother replied.

"If someone can censor the ideas you don't approve of, someone else may come along and censor yours, as well."

"You sound like those rioters in Chicago last night."

"You sound like Mayor Daily."

Before a more serious discussion of politics could explode between Trevor's father and Timothy's grandparents, Andy broke into the conversation, sensing a way to embarrass his brother, by asking, "Why didn't you thank Trevor?"

"He didn't need to," his father replied softly.

"But, you said its polite to say please and thank you! Timothy's being rude! He's supposed to say thank you!"

"Well, Andy, some friends can communicate in ways you don't understand. I think Timothy has already said thank you to Trevor."

Timothy and Trevor were both blushing by now.

"I didn't hear him say it! Its not fair. You make me be polite, but Timothy never gets in trouble!"

Timothy rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Oh, for Pete's sake! Thank you, Trevor!"

"You're welcome, Timothy." Trevor replied with a bow. Andy received a bop on the head as the two friends ran upstair to listen to Timothy's new albums on his new record player.

"Man, your brother's a pain," Trevor declared as he crouched under Timothy's desk to plug the record player in.

"Yeah, he can be," Timothy replied as he removed the cellophane from The Doors. "So, what are The Doors like?"

"Really groovy. I'll bet you've heard "Light My Fire."

"Oh, yeah. I know that one."

"Well, that's The Doors. The last song on the album is called `The End.' It's way cool! I'll bet your grandparents would hate it!"

Timothy grinned as he placed the album on the turntable. Trevor told him to flip it over and put the needle on the last song.

They both sat down on the floor, side by side, as Timothy held the cover and looked at the picture on the front. As the first soft strains of "The End" started, Trevor noticed his friend was staring at the picture. He smiled.

"That's Jim Morrison. He the singer and he writes the words. He's so cool."

"Yeah," Timothy replied in a preoccupied way. "He really is."

Timothy was feeling funny as he looked at Morrison's face. He was good looking. He liked looking at him. It was like looking at Billy Mumy, only different, maybe more intense. It made him feel, well, excited, breathless, rather nervous, as if he was needing or expecting something. And, it made his penis stiff again. He realized that it would be apparent to Trevor if he looked. He moved the album cover lower on his thighs to obscure the rise in his shorts. Trevor smiled, knowingly.

As the disturbing words of the song broke through Timothy's reverie, he turned to Trevor and asked, "So what did he want to do to his mother?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he went into the bedroom and said, `Father, I want to kill you.' The he went to his mother and said, `Mother, I want to...' and then he screams. What did he want to do to his mother?"

Trevor shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he wanted to kill her, too."

Timothy shook his head. "I don't think so. I think he wants to do something else, something worse than killing her."

Trevor thought for a moment and then nodded. "I think you're right. You know? I think you understand this stuff better than me!"

Trevor put his hand on Timothy's shoulder and suddenly, Timothy felt a strange surge through out his body. It was "the feeling," the feeling he got looking at Will Robinson, the feeling he got listening to The Left Banke, the feeling he got in bed at night when his penis was stiff, the feeling he had gotten just minutes before looking at Jim Morrison. It was "the feeling," only stronger, much, much stronger. Timothy exhaled and his eyes met Trevor's.

"Trevor," he whispered with a tremor.

"Yes," his friend replied with the same tremor, his hand, still holding Timothy's shoulder, trembling.

"You're the best friend a guy could ever have. I... I... I love you. Like a brother. Like better than a brother. You know what I mean?"

Trevor looked down at the floor and Timothy followed his eyes. His breath stopped as he eyes came to rest on Trevor's shorts and saw, in full glory, the same bulge in Trevor's shorts that he sought to hide in his. Timothy felt dizzy.

"Yes. I love you, too."

And, then, Timothy suddenly felt overcome with embarrassment. He coughed and jumped up as the album ended. Lifting it off the turntable, he said, his voice husky with emotion, "Well, maybe we should go back downstairs now."

Quietly, still looking at the floor, Trevor replied, "Yeah."