Date: Fri, 14 Sep 2018 22:47:28 +0000 (UTC)
From: Salvador Escher <xpud@yahoo.com>
Subject: Stories of an Old Boy Chapter 16

Stories of an Old Boy
Written By: XPud xpud@yahoo.com  © 2016-2018


Standard disclaimer: This story depicts sexual acts between minors. There
is also omorashi (desperation/urination) in it. You've been warned.

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Chapter 16


        Not long after Matty zonked out in my lap, I must have fallen
asleep, as well; even a short day of relatively little activity can tire me
out currently. I can't remember having any dreams or memories of previous
lives throughout the night, which is not entirely unheard of for me, but
definitely not the common outcome. I wake up in fairly the same position I
was sitting in, with Matty sprawled out across my lap face-up, his head
tucked neatly in the bend of my hip.
        I study him silently, filled with adoration and admiration: his
strength in dealing with cancer, his father, the breakup, being bullied;
and yet his overflowing heart, the amount of care he gives to even the
people that have wronged him. (Okay, not so much for Chris; I should figure
that one out.) Fuck, if someone had cheated on me when I was 12 the first
time, I'd probably have never talked to them again. If someone could have
killed the bullies that fucked with me back in the 4th grade, I probably
would have forgotten the bullies' names within the month. I admit that,
from the start, I was never a particularly caring individual. Or, rather,
my heart was reserved for specific people, namely those that either showed
love to me first, or had at least been through the things I had been
through. In my first `play-through,' that meant that I felt for the nerds
and outcasts that were bullied, even though I never did anything to help
them; I was too petrified of standing up to those tormentors for fear of
becoming their new target.
        So, after I went back through a few times, I started toying with
people in various ways, half to experiment with my powers, and half, I
suppose, to get back at the people that fucked with me. And, more than I'd
like to admit, I wanted to experience the power that those bullies had over
me. So I did mess with people, but--and I admit how petty this line of
logic sounds to me now--I never bullied anyone in a way that made them feel
bullied. I would do things like what I did to Matty in the locker room,
blaming it on dumb chance that something happened. Later on, I would
engineer it where unfortunate turns of fate sent my competitors out of
business, or where anyone who had bullied me could never land a decent
job. It was petty, asinine, and corporate, and I'd like to think I'm over
it. But it took someone like Matty, and my own selfish `attack' on him, to
make me realize how infected I had become--infected with power, both over
people and over time itself.
        This time around has been the most transformative few months of my
entire millennium of a life, perhaps mostly for the simple fact that I
stopped `cheating' (or at least, cheating as much) with time, but even that
wouldn't have happened if not for someone worth stopping for. Sure, I'd met
great people in my life throughout my various adult years, but as a
corporate raider and general rich-and-powerful guy, the quality of people I
met was significantly lower than one meets as an authentic, `normal'
person. And then comes along a person who I thought was just going to be a
toy, but who ends up needing my protection. As if that wasn't enough, he
shows me--just by being himself--all the things wrong with the way I had
ended up living life. I just wish he realized how amazing of a person he
really is.
        On a whim, since he was worried about it last night, I gently snake
my hand down the front of Matty's diaper to check if he had a nighttime
accident. Other than the sheer pleasure of playing with his privates, I
feel nothing: no dampness, no puffiness, so I decide (against all impulses)
to not take advantage of the sleeping boy and instead lean back and enjoy
the quiet, peaceful morning.
        Oddly enough, now that I don't have the power to go back in time,
time seems to fly by so much faster. In no time at all, the morning passes
and Matty finds his way home. Shortly after that, the weekend is gone, and
it's time for me to try going back to school. I can't say I'm
thrilled. Hell, I still can't say a lot, to be honest; Mom and Dad did
decide, though, to put me with the speech therapist at school, so maybe
that'll help get me back to where I was. It's extremely annoying to have so
much to say, but be unable to even remember the words that you need to say
it.
        Monday is very interesting; the teachers do what they can to
minimize any attention on me (an act aided by my own reputation,
thankfully) while they do their best to give me catch-up work. In reading
class, though, I find out an unfortunate side-effect of aphasia: it affects
writing and reading, too. I mean, my handwriting is mostly fine, though I
can't even write as long as I normally could before without cramping
up. Stupid atrophy; stupid malnutrition. Actually reading, though, flat-out
sucks: I find myself reading the same sentence three or four times just to
get the information out of it, or looking at a word and thinking, `God
dammit, I know this word, but what does it mean?!' Writing essays and the
like is right up there, too; it's exactly the same as if I were trying to
speak. In short, imagine every other word in a sentence being on the tip of
your tongue, just waiting to drop off into your speech or writing. Right
there, just barely out of mental reach. That's aphasia, and it's fucking
frustrating. I feel like I just arrived in this country, and I barely speak
the language. The problem is that I don't even have a first language to
fall back on.
        I will say, though, that Edgar's reaction to seeing me walk in is
heartwarming; I know that he tries his best to stay low-key and act cool in
class, but he very nearly hugs me in front of everyone before just placing
his hands on my arms, patting them awkwardly a few times in a guy-friends
sort of way, and says, "Hey man, welcome back!"
        I respond with an amused smile and an extended hand, which he takes
and `bro-hugs' me. He continues, "I heard from Beto what was up. How you
feelin'?"
        I shrug. "Better? Still, um, re...uh, still getting better. So Beto
knows?"
        "Yeah, news gets around. A lot of people were missing you, man."
        I can feel myself blush; I like attention, but only when I ask for
it. This is more than I expected, to be sure. "Yeah," is all I can think of
to say.
        Suddenly, he furrows his brow at me. "You, uh, lost a lot of
weight."
        I look down at myself, my shirt hanging off my shoulders like a
curtain and my belt drawn a notch tighter. I kinda shrug in that `Well,
that's what happens' kind of way, but say nothing. Thankfully, the bell
rings, putting a stop to any more requests for conversation.
        Study hall and my social studies class are the same as always,
except for the reading part, of course. I pay more attention in lectures,
which are somewhat easier to get information from, but even my listening
ability is somewhat affected. Theatre, however, is a different ballgame
entirely. They apparently already had auditions for the major play we're
going to do this season, and I missed those (not that I could do a major
part at this rate, but I'm still a little salty about it).
        The real problem, though, comes during the read-through, where we
sit in a circle and read the parts off to get a better idea of how the play
goes. Normally, I love the hell out of this part, but when the teacher asks
me to read for one of the absent kids, I ask timidly, "Um, Ms. Hatfield,
can I skip, today?" She's not one to be told `no.'
        "I'm sorry?" She stares me down unforgivingly. "You've been absent
for two weeks and you're asking to not participate? You need a grade,
Phillip. I can't grade you unless you participate."
        "I..." I look for any other excuse, any other way to avoid
it. Maybe she didn't get the memo, or didn't read her email. I dunno. "I
can't, um, read."
        "You can't read." Her tone isn't inquisitive; it's skeptical, which
more than a touch of offense, like `You really think I'm that stupid?'.
        I sigh, "Not like...at all, but..." In frustration, I point to my
head. "I may...have...brain damage." It burns my face and stings my eyes to
say it like that, but I don't know if that's not actually the case; I may
not get my language ability back. "Please," I ask with tears in my
eyes. "Check your, um, email."
        I get a lot of strange looks from the other kids in the circle; the
teacher just stares at me with an expressionless face. Damn actors with
their emotional control. Finally, she takes a slow, deep breath and says,
"Rocky, will you read Alex's part today? Phillip and I need to talk
outside, so go ahead and familiarize yourselves with the parts you'll be
reading."
        I burn under the stares of my classmates; whether out of concern or
confusion, it's still unwanted attention, and I can't do a damn thing to
rewind and get out of it. It's worse that I was already known as the weird
kid, but now I've got tears streaming down my cheeks and am probably redder
than a sunburn. Ms. Hatfield beckons me outside into the hallway, and
closes the door softly behind her. "I apologize for putting you on the spot
like that. I was unaware of any issues, and that was my fault for having
chosen a bad day to skip my emails. Can you explain to me what the issue
is?"
        Asking me to explain something only makes more tears well up in the
frustration of not being able to meet expectations. "No. Kinda. I had a
seizure, and, um, a coma. They don't know...why. No, um...there's no..." I
awkwardly demonstrate with my hand as if there were a growth on my head,
hoping she can get the word that I can't think of. She continues staring
blankly, so I give up. "They didn't see any, anything, and, but I have, uh,
aphasia. I..." The effort of getting all this out, mixed with already being
in a bad emotional state, makes any further attempts to communicate catch
in my throat.
        She continues staring with her stoic face for a moment longer. "We
can discuss later what to do for make-up work. For now, go to the restroom
and clean yourself up. You can sit and listen today."
        I nod and beeline for the restroom, if only to find a place to
avoid people while I calm down. I throw open the door to find an empty
restroom, and sit on a stall toilet with my face in my hands, trying to
stop the flow of tears and the occasional sob. I haven't really mentioned
it much before, but if it's not already painfully obvious, I can't deal
with embarrassment. I know, I know, but when you have a veil of time to
hide your actions and consequences, it's really easy to avoid.
        I sit and sob softly for a minute or so before I hear the door
open. Loud, graceless footsteps work their way over to the urinals, and
shortly afterward, the sound of trying to powerwash the porcelain
reverberates throughout the tiled room. I try my damnedest to stop
sniffling, but one escapes my control right after the pissing stops.
        "Is...someone crying over there?" I hear Rod ask. Fucking
great--what are the odds? Well, I mean, other than the fact that this is
the exact same time I found him here last time I went to the restroom in
theatre class. So...I guess the odds are kinda high. Double fuck.
        I don't answer, but a stifled sob comes out as a soft hiccup. Rod
takes a step toward the stall. "What the fuck are you crying in the
bathroom for?"
        I manage a whispered, "Go away."
        Rod pauses a moment, and stammers, "Okay, look. Whoever is in
there...I'm not gonna fuck with you or anything. Did you, like, piss
yourself or something?" After I stay silent a moment longer, he says,
"Dude, if you pissed yourself, I can, like, go let the nurse know or
something. Or shit yourself, whatever. I'm just tryin' to help."
        "It's Phillip," I finally say in hopes of cutting off his idiocy.
        "Phillip?" he asks, more quietly than before. "Did you piss
yourself?"
        I actually laugh a bit at his stupidity. "No." I lean forward and
unlock the door, kicking it open. "No piss or shit. Just...tears."
        He cautiously walks around the stall wall. "What...you're
back. What's going on? What happened? Where--?"
        I hold up a hand to get him to stop with the question
assault. "Long, long story. Head problems, maybe brain damage, can't, can't
talk right." I feel like I've said all those words enough over the last few
days that I own them well enough to call them up when I need them. At least
the explaining is going faster, if not easier. "Just...really, really..."
And then, ironically, the word I'm looking for takes a good moment to show
up. Sighing heavily, I say, "...frustrated."
        Rod doesn't say anything for a long moment. "Dude. That sucks."
        I look up from my hands, taking some toilet paper to wipe my face
off. The look on his face is hard to interpret, but I'd be willing to bet
that's the closest his face has ever come to showing concern. I mention,
"If...if Matty didn't say, I mean, tell you...we're done. You and me. No
more Friday, um, talks." Half of me wants to yell at him to leave me alone,
but the other half is strangely interested in having an ear to talk to,
even if I can't talk, and even if--or maybe especially since--that ear is
connected to a reformed bully. In a weird way, he actually makes for a good
listener.
        We both stay silent for a good, awkward moment. Finally, Rod very
tentatively asks, "So...I know that you're, y'know, having problems an'
all, but...could you tell me what you were going to? How did you know those
things? That's still bugging me."
        A sly half-smile creeps up on me. Of course. Well, I guess it
doesn't matter now as much, so... "I'm psychic. Well, was. I think it's,
um, why I...why this happened."
        "No way." He gives me his best skeptic's stare.
        "Believe it or not. Doesn't matter. But who else know? Er, who
would know...those things? I don't think that, that you told Diego, right?"
        "No...he'd make fun of me, and then I'd have to beat his ass."
        "Then who could've told me?"
        "I don't know! I never told anyone! That's what pisses me off! I
can't figure it out! I--"
        "Look." I take a moment to gather my words, to see if I can make it
through a longer chunk of speech. "I don't care. I have no reason to, to
tell anyone your, your secret. You're better now; you don't bully, you try
to help, and...I'm proud of you. For, y'know, if you care or
whatever. Yeah, I know about it. No, I don't care." Then, since my
now-mortal life is too short, I add, "Here. Want my secret? You were
right."
        "What? About what?"
        "I am a...how did you, um, say it? A `piss-lover' and a `fag.'
There. Now we're even. You know me, I know you. No big deal. Now, I really
do need to pee, so..." I look at him expectantly.
        He gets the hint. "Right." He closes the door, but stands outside
of the stall anyway. "I...I won't tell anyone. I mean, it's weird, but, I
mean, I guess so am I."
        I just drop my pants, a feat made much easier with a smaller
waistline, and sit to pee. "Everyone is weird, somehow, in some
way. Everyone. That's life."
        "Hm." He stays silent while I finish peeing. "Well, I gotta
go. Sucks that you...yeah. Uh, see ya." I hear the bathroom door open and
close. You know, in retrospect, I think I still may have more language
capability than Rod, even in this state.
        I make it back to class and endure the other students' scrutinizing
stares until the end of class. Next is gym class, which is better; I have a
chat with Beto in the locker room about things, and then I walk around the
gym as per the usual, if a bit slower. Michael melts into the background as
he often does, but we share eye contact for a moment. Diego sees me and
narrows his eyes in a petty display of disgust, but is quickly distracted
by the coach as they continue their organized activity for the day. All in
all, a much less exciting class than it usually is, ironically.
        Lunch, however, proves to be a lot more interesting. The twins make
a huge deal about me coming back, even going so far as to make fake party
noisemaker sounds and shit. It's enough to make me blush, for certain, but
they're always so ridiculous that nobody else seems to even glance over.
        After everyone gets their pseudo-chicken-fried-steak fingers meal
and sits down, Kasha asks, "So what happen? You are gone for two weeks and
you come back and need, like, three sandwiches, maybe more. My tyotushka
would make you eat 5 times a day--"
        Vik interrupts, "Aunt."
        "What?"
        "The word for tyotushka is `aunt.'"
        "Is not. She is not small bug that bites."
        Vik rolls his eyes in frustration. "You are so stupid! Not `ant'
like bug, `aunt' like the sister of our mother! Is close, but not the
same!"
        I'm trying my damn hardest not to laugh, but these two are
ridiculous. Kasha retorts, "Fine! My little biting bug would make you eat 5
times a day to--OW!" Vik smacks Kasha upside the head for his
impudence. Kyle very nearly spits milk again, but manages to cover his face
in enough time to prevent catastrophe. The entire table erupts into
laughter loud enough to be told by the `lunch minotaur' to be quiet--thanks
again to Ethan for that little gold nugget.
        Speaking of Ethan, he shows up shortly after our little fit,
saying, "Hey, Phillip--heard you were sick. Everything okay?"
        I shrug. "Getting better. Sup?"
        "Yeah, uh, can I talk to you...alone? It won't take long."
        I look at my table mates. "Here is okay. They can hear...whatever,
whatever this is."
        He narrows his eyes with a tinge of urgency. "It's about Michael."
        "I see." Damn--I hope he's okay. "Guys, BRB, okay?" It's still
easier for me to come up with internet shortcuts than to put all the words
in place, so whatever works.
        Kasha points at my tray. "You need to eat, here or there, not
important. I will bite you like `aunt' if you don't." Vik just sighs,
clearly realizing he's being trolled.
        I laugh and shake my head, taking the tray with me as Ethan leads
me to a slightly more sparse spot. He sits down and waits for me to settle
in, but it's clear that something big is bothering him. "Phillip, so...I
heard about the seizure and all that, and, first off, I'm sorry about what
happened. That's really gotta suck."
        "Yeah..." I trail off, shoving a steak finger in my mashed potatoes
and chowing down.
        "So Michael, he...I think he thinks it's somehow his fault. Ever
since that day, he's been acting really, well, guilty, like he did the
worst thing ever."
        Fuck. I'm pretty sure that's not what he's upset about. "Did you
ask? Maybe, um, maybe it's not that."
        "I tried, but he will barely even talk to me. We've been friends
for almost our whole lives, so if he won't even talk to me, then...well,
I'm worried. Worried that if he stays that way..." Ethan fights for a long
time with finishing his sentence, finally stammering, "...he might do
something...stupid."
        Thinking about the situation a moment, I ask, "Is he, you
know...does he want to, to hurt himself? Does he cut, or, or anything?"
        Ethan shakes his head, the look of worry slowly becoming more
intense on his face. "No, but...I need you to promise never to tell anyone
this."
        "The guns?"
        Ethan opens his mouth and freezes. His eyes search my face in a
panic. "How--how did you, do you know about that?"
        "Not...never mind. Did he tell what we talked about? Tell you, I
mean."
        "Not exactly, no."
        "I stopped him. From `doing something stupid.' Maybe he is,
um...he's..." God dammit, I can't think of any of the words. "Maybe he
feels bad about it. That he, y'know, was gonna do...that."
        Ethan's face changes from concern to confusion. "You okay, man?"
        "Why?"
        "You just, normally you're a little better with words. I mean, I
was always kinda jealous of how you spoke. Is this part of the whole
seizure thing?"
        He's perceptive, I'll give him that. He earned his GT
spot. "Yeah. Harder to, uh, use words. It's fucking annoying." I got those
words, at least.
        "Damn, dude. I can imagine. Sorry to hear that. Is it gonna get
better?"
        I shrug.
        "So..." Ethan looks around to make sure nobody's eavesdropping, and
whispers, "So he was gonna bring a gun to school?"
        I nod. "Was gonna kill the bullies, and...probably a lot more."
        Ethan closes his eyes as if in pain. "No! Dammit, Michael! Now I
need to talk to him."
        "Wait...isn't he here? In lunch?"
        "He had some work to do in the library for a project. Well, I'll
let you get back to your friends. Thank you for talking to me." He gets up,
but hesitates. "Um, Phillip? Can I ask a personal question?"
        I blink a few times. "Sure?"
        "Why are you in remedial classes? You're super smart--I've seen it
since, well, forever."
        I smile unintentionally at his keen eye. As a response, I just put
a finger over my lips and smile knowingly. He stares at me like I'm a set
of hieroglyphics as I pick up my tray and head back.
        I sit back down next to Matty in the middle of a heated discussion
about whether a pound of feathers weighs less than a pound of gold. A
classic discussion, but as you might guess, Matty is practically yelling at
Kasha that they both weigh a pound, that's weight, that's how much things
weigh, they weigh the same, etc. I add, "Yes, the feathers fall slower, but
it's because of air. Air..."
        "Air resistance," Matty adds. "Right. I promise you. Go look it up
on YouTube. They still weigh the exact same."
        "But how, if gold is so heavy?" Kasha is definitely denser than
both the feathers and gold at this moment. He holds his hands together in a
cup. "Pound of feathers..." Without changing the shape of his hands, he
moves them to another spot and says, "Pound of gold."
        I finish the last bite of cheeseburger and stand up. "No, no. Pound
of gold, yes," I acknowledge as I cup my hands as he did; then I explain,
"Pound of feathers." I open my hands ridiculously wide. "Same weight,
different, um...lots more feathers, but still a pound of feathers. Make
sense?"
        Kasha puts 2 and 2 together. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, okay. So is different
amounts."
        Matty levels a deadpan stare at Kasha. "Vik, hit him."
        Vik hits him.
        "Thanks," Matty says over Kasha's complaints.
        Thankfully, their argument gives me some time to finish up my own
meal, because as soon as I do, Kasha is a fountain of questions. "So what
happen? Matty tell us that you were in hospital, but not why. Did you get
sick? Is it contagious? Did you almost die? Inquiring minds want to know!"
He says the last part in a ridiculous accent that even I can't place.
        "Let's see..." I begin, ticking off fingers as I go. "Coma, no, no,
maybe."
        Kasha raises an eyebrow. "Aaaannnnnnd?"
        "And I'm here."
        "Come on! Tell us! We are your friends, yes? We need to know!" Vik
surprisingly doesn't interrupt; I suppose he's a bit curious, too.
        "Okay, okay. I had a seizure. I don't know why. It was...the kind
that, that doesn't stop, so they had to give, use drugs to stop it. Then, I
had a coma. Uh, went into a coma. Then I woke up, but, um, I maybe..."
        "Maybe what?"
        "I maybe have--may have another seizure."
        Kasha frowns at me. "Are you making fun of my--the way I talk?"
        Matty interjects quickly, "He has something called `aphasia,' which
means it's harder for him to talk and stuff. He's not making fun of
anyone!" Matty sounds almost angry by the end of his explanation.
        "Okay, okay, sorry!" Kasha detects the hostility as well,
apparently. Kasha looks to me and says, "So does it make it harder to do
anything else? Is it just talking? What about--"
        "Kasha, please," Matty says with exasperation. "He just got back to
school after being in a coma for 10 days. Take it easy. It's hard enough to
talk, and then you're asking like five hundred questions."
        I...wow. I'm stunned. Matty is defending me. Matty is defending me!
I must still be dreaming in a coma, because everything is backwards. The
sky is still blue, right? I'll check later. For now, I put a hand on
Matty's shoulder; he turns around and looks at me before casting his eyes
down. "Sorry, I--I didn't mean to yell like that. ...Sorry."
        "It's okay, Matty," I say. "Thank you." To Kasha, I say, "Maybe
later we can talk more, when I can...when it's not so hard. It makes me
tired, kinda. I promise more answers later."
        "Okay, that is fine. I understand." Kasha gets a sly smile on his
face. "We just glad you are back; Matty especially. He was so worried, I
was afraid he would have heart attack if you were gone one more day."
        "Ugh! I was not!" Matty tosses a corn kernel at Kasha, nailing him
in the cheek. "I wasn't gonna have a heart attack. God." By the time he
runs out of steam, it's clear on his face that he still feels the heat. I
can't help laughing a bit, even if I hated when people did the same to
me. Matty grumbles and says, "Whatever. I'm gonna throw my trash away."
        "And your ammo," Kasha points out shortly before getting another
kernel in the face. As Matty leaves, Kasha leans over and says in a low
voice, "He really was worried about you a lot. Us too, but I see that he
really loves you. So...don't hurt him. Or I get the Russian Mafia on you."
He pantomimes holding an assault rifle and spraying an area.
        I know he's joking, but watching him mimic gunfire triggers an
unexpected wave of terror and helplessness through me. I know I have some
mostly-managed symptoms of PTSD from the wars I fought as an adult, but
usually it doesn't...maybe this is related to the Michael incident. I don't
remember it, but maybe my emotions do. "Please don't...don't joke like
that."
        Kasha frowns and searches my face in confusion. "You too? Always
Vik, then Matty...I can't say anything. Not a joke, not a, a question,
nothing!" He looks as if he is going to say something else, but just gets
up with his tray and stalks off. Fucking great. I put my head down, both to
prevent myself from bothering anyone else and to hide the tears of
frustration and fear that burn my eyes.
        Shortly, I feel a hand on my shoulder. "Hey," Vik says softly,
sitting next to me. "He is hard to deal with, sometimes. Trust me, I know."
        Matty, who must have returned to the table, asks, "What happened?
Are you okay?" He quickly sits down next to me and puts his hand on my
other shoulder.
        "I'm fine," I mumble. "I'll...I'll be fine. I just hate...making
people angry. Making friends angry."
        Vik says behind me, "Kasha made a bad joke, Phillip told him to not
do that, Kasha is upset. He will get over himself." To me he leans back
down and says, "Don't worry. Sometimes friends fight. It's just
life. Everybody is not perfect."
        I pick up my head and look at Vik through a fresh wave of
tears. "You have no idea how...right you are." I've always been far from
perfect, but at least I could hide it before.
        He looks at me funny and admits, "I don't get it."
        I just put my head back down and sob lightly. Matty slowly rubs my
back. Nothing else is said by the time the bell rings; Kyle, for his part,
is so silent that I completely forget he's there until I pick myself up to
head to class. I don't see Kasha again. I know he'll be fine, but I still
hate myself for it.
        The next class is cut short for me when the office pulls me out of
class to go see the speech therapist. It's one of those awkward greeting
sessions where they say who they are and make you say who you are. I'm sure
it's to assess your level of speech informally, but it's still awkward as
hell. It turns out that they want me to go to speech therapy two days a
week and a reading/language specialist for the other three. I mean, I guess
it works, but hoo boy. This is gonna be a fun couple of weeks, assuming
that's how long it takes.
        The rest of classes are boring, and soon enough, thankfully
over. Since Mom dropped me off this morning, I call her and ask if she
could pick me up from Matty's place after a while instead of at
school. She's fine with it ("But only for an hour or so--I still want you
here"), so he and I head out the back door and on the path to his place.
        Funny enough, Chris and his lackeys are leaning against the wall of
the school in the shade. When he sees us, though, he freezes in place,
muscles visibly tensed. The other boys studiously begin looking elsewhere.
        Suddenly, seeing the look of terror in his eyes, something in me
snaps. I look at Matty and say, "Hold on."
        "No. What are you doing? Phillip, please!" His pleas fall behind me
as I walk over to Chris, who slowly begins flinching like I'm about to wail
into him.
        I grab him by the shoulders, pull him off the wall, and hug him
tightly. He doesn't move a muscle, not even to reciprocate--not that I can
blame him. I release him and look him straight in the eyes. "Life is too
short," I whisper, and back away from him back to Matty. He stares at me as
if his eyes were frozen in fear, though I see the hint of mist forming in
them. "C'mon, Matty," I beckon, and start walking to his place.
        He catches up a moment later with a wild-eyed confusion. "What the
heck just happened?!"
        "I gave him what...what he needs. Or, what I, y'know, think
that...he needs."
        "A hug?" His tone is skeptical. "Really?"
        "Yeah."
        "He doesn't deserve a hug."
        I stop and turn to face Matty with the most serious expression I
can muster. "Everyone deserves a hug."
        "Are...you sure you're okay, Phillip? You're acting weird."
        I smile in amusement, shrugging. "Maybe. I see now that, that life
is too short."
        Matty quips, "Yeah, says the guy who's a thousand years old."
        "But maybe only has 80, 90 left. Maybe less. I dunno. I might..."
It's a hard concept to express, both linguistically and emotionally. "I
might finally...die." Matty's eyes search my face for cues on how to react
to such a complex statement, but he remains speechless. I smile to let him
know that it's okay, take his hand in mine, and keep walking.
        We get to his place and say hi to his mom (insert bone-crushing hug
here), and head to his room. Matty slowly asks, "So...do you...want to
die?"
        I sigh, sitting on his bed. "I don't want to. I just don't want to
live...for, for all..."
        "Forever."
        "Yeah." I roll my eyes. "Maybe I'm ready to just, just be,
y'know. Normal. I might not get my, my, um, powers back, maybe not even my
talking, speak, um...speech. My speech. I dunno."
        "You'll get better," he reassures me. "I, I bet your powers come
back when your speech gets better, too."
        "Thanks," I say with a comforting smile, "but I already stopped
using them, with you. Why not with...everyone? It's fine. Really. It's
just...hard. No more...cheat codes. Just play the game."
        He grabs my hand and squeezes. "Can I play, too?"
        "Sure. It's co...together...um, a team game." He giggles at my
sheepish attempt to play with words. After a silent moment of enjoying
Matty's soft hand in mine, I give it a squeeze, more for granting me
strength than anything else; the next words feel like they're going to be
hard around the edges. "Um, thank you. For, for defending me. Nobody ever
really did, like, at all. My whole life. I mean, I usually went back and,
and fixed...the problems, so they didn't need to, but even if I
didn't...even if they had the chance, not a lot of people...not a lot
really would, would stick up for me. So...it's scary, being normal
again. Really, really scary. But I feel like...you and me can, can do
this. I can protect you, and you can protect me. And...well, anyway. Yeah."
There are more feelings I want to get out, but at this point, my brain is
done with words.
        Matty squeezes my hand back with a loving smile. "I would love
to. I love you, and I wanna do whatever I can to help you out. It's the
least I can do after everything you've done, anyway." He leans in and gives
me a quick kiss on the lips, though thankfully this time I don't go
tumbling literally head over heels. Just a bit more so emotionally.
        Having had quite enough emotion for a day, we chill out and play
video games until my mom arrives; she and Ms. Petersen have a short chat
and then it's time for us to go. I ask Matty, "Hey, I have theatre practice
tomorrow afternoon, but do you want to hang out Wednesday?"
        He nods and opens his mouth, but then pauses. "Oh, um, I have
a...thing at school on Wednesday."
        "Really? Is it for choir?"
        "Um, kinda? Well, not really. It's...I can't tell you." He looks
aside evasively.
        "O...kay..." I stammer. "Maybe later this week, then?"
        "Sure." He smiles at me, but it's clear something's still on his
mind. We hug goodbye and I head home, glad the day is over but left with a
nagging uncertainty about what Matty said.
        On Wednesday, as I'm getting ready to head home, I pass by the
choir room to see Matty walking in with Sean. They seem to be talking in a
pretty engaged conversation. Welp--it's gonna be fun convincing my jealousy
that my boyfriend isn't doing anything wrong even though he's going into a
closed-off area with the person that I can't help but feel jealous about,
after telling me that he couldn't hang out with me because of something
secret.
        So essentially, Matty occupies himself (and Sean) every Wednesday
and Friday for weeks on end. I know that he's allowed to have a life, and
do...whatever it is that he's doing, but I don't have to like it. Then
again, I don't have to hate it, either, but that part would be a lot easier
if I knew what was going on. As for myself, thankfully--or sadly,
considering which side of the coin you're on--things slow down quite a bit
after September finishes its surprises. I spend a good bit of time reading,
trying to get my skills back on par. My parents are amazed at how dedicated
I seem to be, but frankly, I fucking hate being weak in any way, so until I
get my skills back, I'm going to be bothered. That, and putting myself in
fantasy world and reading Wikipedia for hours on end is a great way to
forget about things.
        Some time in late October, I run across the twins on the way out of
school. "Hey Kasha, Vik!"
        They stop, seemingly both surprised at my presence. Kasha says,
"Oh, hi Phillip! Sup?"
        "Nothing much, gonna head home. Y'all?"
        They look at each other with that "What do we do" sort of look, and
Vik stammers, "We're just going to choir practice. We have to go, okay?
Have a good day!" He and Kasha begin hastily walking away by the end of his
sentence. Shortly afterward, Sean and Matty show up and head into the choir
room as well. I know damn well Sean isn't in choir, so it isn't choir
practice, and whatever it is, it involves the twins, too, now. What the
hell kind of secret are they doing in there? I almost wish it were sex, if
not for the fact that they'd get caught and that they are intentionally
leaving me out of it.


        December rolls around, and we've all had enough of school by this
point. My speech definitely makes marked improvements, and my reading
skills increase as well, putting me only a little bit slower than the
average 7th grader. I guess it's good that I'm in remedial classes, since I
still look like the top performer in the class. Michael actually begins to
look somewhat content, and even smiles at me shyly in gym class once in a
while. I guess Ethan helped him figure stuff out.
        Matty and I still get to hang out on a semi-regular basis, though
with his being busy on the days of the week that I'm not and vice-versa,
our time together is definitely shorter. I've asked him a few times
playfully what the secret is, but he remains steadfast in his refusal to
tell me. One day, after school, I finally break. I stop Matty before he
goes into the choir room on a Friday and ask, "Okay, what is going on in
there?" Matty just smiles, but I continue, "Look, if I did something to, to
piss you guys off, or whatever, just tell me. All my friends are doing
something that I don't...that I don't get to know about, and now I feel
like--like I'm, I dunno, the fifth wheel."
        Matty's face melts from `knowing smile' to `dawning horror.' He
quickly says, "No! No no no, that's not--argh! I'm such an idiot! Phillip,
no, I promise you it's not like that. We're not going around your back or
anything, we just...we're working on a secret project, and it's almost
done."
        "But why is it secret from me? What did I do that put me, y'know,
outside the circle?"
        In the middle of the stream of students heading past us in the
lobby, he takes both my hands and holds them up between us. "Do you trust
me, Phillip?"
        Damn. He's learned well. I take a moment to decide if my answer
will be honest; in the end, jealousy takes a back seat to how absolutely
adorable this boy is. "Yeah. I trust you."
        He lets go of my hands and gives me a tight hug. His face doesn't
press quite as high on my shoulder as before--I guess my own growth spurt
finally kicked in as well. He looks at me, completely ignoring anyone that
might have seen him hugging another boy, and says, "Then I promise you I'll
let you know what it is when we're done. `Kay?"
        I raise an eyebrow. "A'right. Then...go on and go work on your
project. I'll see you later."
        "Later!" He practically skips off to the choir room. A couple of
people give me sidelong glances, but I'm kinda used to that
anyway. Honestly, though, it's probably for the best that he's been so
busy, since I myself have had so much to do in order to catch up on school
work and to relearn my skills. I just hate being left out of things.
        I've stayed on the seizure meds on the request of my parents and
doctor; I go in for a 1-month and 3-month checkup to get an EEG done, to
see if I've developed any lasting epilepsy. The doctors do notice a very
slight abnormality in my brain waves, the same as before but much lower
amplitude. My doc is very pleased to see my recovery happen so quickly,
though it concerns her when I let her know the amount of truth that I think
she'd be able to handle: I tell her that I'm pretty sure that when I "think
a certain way," they happen.
        She arranges for a test to be run on a day after I've been off the
meds for a week. They bring me in and coat my scalp with electrodes for the
EEG. She asks me to think about various things, move this or that arm,
blink, do some math, things like that.
        Dr. Wells examines the readings in-progress. "I already do notice
the same anomaly from before spiking a bit," she mentions, "but only
marginally so. It seems to be better, though its very presence
is...concerning. Now, you said there is a thought pattern that can
potentially cause these seizures?"
        "Yes, ma'am." I default to auto-pilot 12-year-old when I'm busy
thinking, or in this case, being nervous.
        "What is it that you think about?"
        I look over to Mom, who is sitting in a chair near the wall. She
knows the real answer--or, at least, the version of it I've told her. I
tell the doc, "It's hard to explain. Do...you want me to try it?"
        "Yes," Dr. Wells explains. "If you have a seizure, we can help
control it."
        My heart immediately starts beating faster; I'm legitimately scared
of using my power now. Regardless, I have to know if this is a permanent
thing, or if it's gotten any better. I test it out lightly, thinking about
skipping back just a few seconds.
        "What is it that you think about?" she asks for the first time,
again. So I have some ability back, that's good. "Wait," she says, "the
readings are already climbing back up."
        As she says that, I feel my head spin lightly; I still have the
power, but something is still very wrong. Though my heart is attempting to
escape out my throat, I need to know one more thing. I attempt to jump back
about a week, to just before going off my meds. Nothing. It apparently
doesn't even register as anomalous on the EEG. It's like that time just
doesn't exist `on record,' as it were, like a black box to my ability. I
squint and bite the bullet, trying to go back in time again, just a few
seconds again so that I'm still in the EEG.
        "If you have a seizure, we can help control--" she begins again,
but stops. "Phillip, are you okay?"
        "You already asked me that. I'm okay." I'm not okay at all--my head
is fuzzy, my palms are sweaty, and I'm generally freaking out.
        "No, I didn't," she replies. "I think you may be entering a seizure
state."
        Everything she says feels like deja vu, even though I know damn
well it's not. I recognize the symptoms as the same as the `aura' prior to
the previous seizures, but somehow I remain conscious. At least, I think I
am. We're in the same place, nobody's moved suddenly to a different spot,
and nobody's hovering over me telling me that I had a seizure, so those are
good signs. The headache that quickly creeps inward from my temples is not,
though.
        I think back to my martial arts training from a few lifetimes back
and try to center myself, breathing in measured steps, thinking of
nothing. I will not have a seizure; I will stop thinking. If this is
consciously triggered, I will no longer keep it in
consciousness. In. Out. Emptiness. In. Out.
        Mom stands up and begins to walk toward me, but I hold a hand up to
show that I'm still in control. Dr. Wells remarks, "The...anomaly is
diminishing again. Give me a thumbs-up if you can hear me." I do so. "Okay,
good. Your brain waves are stabilizing. I can't say I've ever seen someone
able to voluntarily enter a seizure state, much less be able to prevent one
from occurring in that way. You truly are a unique boy, Phillip."
        "Thanks, but..." I sigh. "It's still not good. I don't want to try
it again."
        "It's okay, Phillip," she says soothingly. "You don't have to hurt
yourself. It's clear that you have some degree of control over it, but just
seeing the readings without you on the medication, it would be definitely
advisable to stay on the anticonvulsants for the near future." The `near
future' she wants is for the next year, which I'm perfectly fine
with. Maybe next year it'll look better.
        Finally, the end of the most interesting half-year of my long life
(at least the last few hundred years of it) begins to draw to a close as
school gets ready to let out for the Christmas break. On the last lunch
together, I sit down at the table and wait for all the other boys to show
up. Kyle apparently left early for the winter break, so it's just the
twins, Matty, and me. Oddly, the twins--well, Kasha mostly--doesn't seem as
ridiculously talkative as usual, so I break the silence with the formal
announcement: "Attention `and gentlemen'! Unless there are ladies here. No?
Okay. So I dunno if I said it earlier, but my birthday is coming up."
        Kasha's eyes light up. "Birthday time--yesss! When is?"
        "December 31, New Year's Eve. I want to have a party like we always
do. Who's in?"
        Vik and Kasha look at each other. Vik says, "Um, sorry but our
parents, they always make us do celebrations with them. It's a long family
tradition."
        "Yeah," Kasha adds, "with the firecrackers and eggnog and the
um...the little popper things."
        "Oh," I say, disappointed. "Y'all can't, like, do that and then
come over?"
        Kasha says quickly, "Is right at midnight, and then is bedtime
short after. Sorry, Phillip." He gives an apologetic half-smile.
        "Matty? Do you want to come?"
        "Uhh..." he stammers, "Mom and me usually go out of town, um, to go
visit relatives and stuff for New Year's. I...kinda forgot to tell you."
        I stare at him a moment. Crestfallen, I say, "Okay. I mean I
guess...maybe I can do something with the parents and then we can do
something in January."
        "Yeah! There's still a week in January before we go back, so maybe
then?" Matty offers with a shrug.
        I return the shrug and mumble, "Maybe." Damn, that sucks. I mean,
most of my birthdays are usually pretty quiet, but I was really expecting
something bigger this year. The last lifetimes always had big 13th birthday
parties with the friends I had made then, like when I lived the GT life
with Ethan and all that; this is gonna be stupid. Suddenly, I catch a
glimpse of Edgar and Beto across the lunch room. "Guys, I'll be back in a
sec."
        I take a big bite of my school-grade cheeseburger and head over to
their table. "Hey y'all!"
        Beto says over a full mouth, "Oh hey! Thit down, thit down. Thup?"
Edgar pats the seat next to him in agreement.
        I sit next to Edgar with Beto across the table. "Hey, so, first
off, I didn't even realize you had this lunch, Edgar."
        "Well, you're always off with your friends and your boyfriend, so I
didn't wanna intrude."
        I roll my eyes. "You guys ARE my friends. Seriously, it's the last
day of the semester and...anyway. We'll fix this next, next year." I still
find myself repeating words and skipping once in a while, but it's not
nearly as bad as it ever was, thankfully. "So I'm having a birthday party
on New Year's Eve; are you guys interested in coming?"
        Edgar lights up. "Yeah! That sounds cool. Are you gonna be doing
fireworks and--"
        Beto interrupts, "Edgar, wait. We're doing the thing that day,
remember?"
        Edgar looks at him with furrowed brows for a good few seconds, and
gets that `Oh, DUH' face. "Riiiiiight. I forgot about the New Year's party
with your friends."
        "Yeah. Um, Phillip, I'm really sorry, but we already promised we'd
be at a friend's place for New Year's."
        Sighing in exasperation, I ask, "Well, maybe...I dunno, do I know
them? Maybe I can hang with you guys. All my friends are busy."
        Beto winces. "It's...kinda...I mean, I'd feel really weird just
inviting you without permission. I'm really sorry, dude."
        "Eh, it's fine. It's okay. I didn't say anything until now, so it's
kinda my fault."
        Words cannot describe how frustrated, annoyed, and disappointed I
am with all of this, even more so with myself for not seeing this coming. I
go sit back down with the gang, who tries to comfort me by reminding me
that we'll do something in January, and that they're really sorry, all
that.
        Matty gives me the biggest puppy-dog eyes and says, "I can at least
call you on your birthday so we can talk."
        His pleading stare breaks through my defenses, and I sigh with a
half-smile. "Yeah. I'd like that."
        He stares at me lovingly for a few more moments before awkwardly
breaking eye contact and getting back to his food. I do the same,
awkwardness and all. I catch Kasha looking at us with his own little
lovestruck face. Ugh, he ships us so hard. If he were a writer, I wouldn't
be surprised to find fanfiction written about us.
        School lets out early and we all head home. I tell Mom on the way
there about how nobody is going to be around for my birthday.
        "Aw, honey, I'm sorry. I'll still be around, if you want. We can go
out to lunch, maybe go buy a good computer game--heck, maybe you can
convince your father to upgrade your computer, too. We'll make it work."
She glances at me and rustles my hair.
        "Can I still have a party in January?"
        "Of course, Phillip. Like I said, we'll make it work."
        Time grows more wings and flies faster, especially on
holidays. Christmas morning is fun as always: the sisters and I have this
little game where each one tries to one-up the other on excitement and
surprise when we open our gifts, and we videotape the whole thing to laugh
at later. Things like, "Oh my God! Pants...that fit me?! Holy crap no way
wooooo!" and, "Jesus Christ, a gift card to Best Buy! This can't be
happening to me! What did I do to deserve such amazing luck?!" and the
like. It's ridiculous, and we all end up cracking up by the end.
        I open one gift, a huge box with penguin wrapping paper. I tear
into it, pop open the top, and stare in. "No. No way. You got...you got me
tissue paper!!" I hold up the huge wad of tissue paper for everyone to see;
the sisters `ooh' and `aww' at it as if it were sheets of gold.
        "Give me that, you little turd!" Mom says, snatching the paper out
of my hand with a huge grin. "Keep opening it."
        I look in the box, now devoid of paper, and there's a smaller box
in it. I take a deep breath and I pull it out, marveling at its utter
perfection. Then I rip that one open to find...another box, this one about
the size of my two hands. After an appropriate amount of delaying in awe, I
open that box to find a cellphone. And not the keyboard crap of my previous
one, but an honest full-touchscreen modern smartphone. I distinctly
remember not getting something like this for a few years in my last
incarnations; I guess things are dramatically different all over, this
time. I stare in actual wonder at it, jaw dropped. "Y'all. You didn't have
to do this."
        "Do you like it?" Dad asks.
        "Heck yeah, I do! This is amazing! Thanks, Mom, Dad. This is
just...wow."
        I hug them both and place the phone aside so that we can get it set
up later.
        We go through the stocking stuffers and get craploads of
chocolate. I pull out a stick of deodorant. I look at Dad and ask, "...What
are you tryin' to say?"
        Mom actually answers instead, "My dearest boy, you've gone from
`stinking cute' to `stinking and cute.' Welcome to puberty; now put on some
deodorant." We all laugh about it and I lift my shirt to put some on. Dad
notices the skill at which I do so, nodding in approval. I've basically
given up on trying to act like I don't know how to do things; I'm pretty
sure they're gonna aim to put me in GT next year. We'll see where Matty
ends up, because I know he's been doing very well in the remedials. Pretty
sure after this year he'll be at least in normal, if not GT as well.
        We go visit the grandparents and family as well, forcing me to
endure the standard variety of older relative conversations ("Oh my lord,
Phillip, you're like twice as tall as you were!" and "Last time I saw you,
you only came up to my knee," etc.). Afterward, Dad helps me set the new
phone up; as soon as service is established, I send Matty, "Merry
Christmas!!!" with a few Christmas tree emojis. My previous phone didn't
even have emojis; that's how crappy it was. We talk about what we both got
for Christmas; he got a new sustain and soft pedal for his keyboard, as
well as a new game and some neat science gadgets--no surprises there. All
in all, a nice Christmas.
        The next few days suck, though, because I know that we're coming up
on a useless birthday. We do go out fireworks shopping, which is pretty
cool--Mom lets me get a couple of the Chrysanthemum spinners and some
sparklers, and a few `bang snaps,' those little poppers that you throw at
the ground (preferably at your sisters' feet) and make loud popping
sounds. Other than that, we tend to go clothes shopping in the new year to
get the good after-Christmas sales before heading back to school, so the
days are otherwise pretty chill leading up to my birthday.
        And then, the day arrives. The parents wake me up with a
just-slightly-off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday," and Matty texts me
birthday wishes with cake and fireworks emojis. The sisters actually help
Mom make breakfast, and it's banana pancakes. Amen, hallelujah. There's
also bacon, which is awesome, and some scrambled eggs, too. Mom likes to
remind me at this point every year that the doctor cut the cord at 11:59
p.m. just so I could be born in that year instead of the next. I could've
been the first newborn of the year, but I was the last of the previous,
which I feel fits me pretty well. I typically act like I've never heard the
story before, even as my sisters are rolling their eyes hard enough to give
me vertigo.
        Later on that day, Mom knocks on my door (like I wish my sisters
would) and asks, "Hey Phillip, how about we go clothes shopping today? That
way we have more options next week for party times and such, and there
might even be some New Year's Eve sales going on."
        I put my phone down for a moment, pausing one of my new games that
actually runs on the damn thing. "Uh, sure. That sounds good." At least
it'll be something to do today.
        We head out to a couple of different stores; as we're trying on
pants, it's clear that the growth spurt has hit me hard; my previous pants
size almost looks like capris on me now. We get a couple of pairs of jeans
for casual wear and some new khakis for the uniform requirements at school,
some more shirts, plenty of socks and underwear, all that. Afterward, Mom
looks at her watch and says, "Well, we have some time for a movie or maybe
going to Big Top."
        Big Top is pretty fun, I'll admit--it's an entertainment multiplex
with laser tag, arcades, mini golf, and all that. But I reply, "Eh, maybe
just a movie. I'd rather save Big Top for my party, maybe."
        We end up going to see The Improbables, this ridiculous comedy
about a bunch of "superheroes" with horrible powers--like being able to
smell terrible and the power to know what song is currently stuck in
someone's head. They somehow manage to save the day, and the media covers
the whole thing up because they don't want to have to interview
`Mr. Stanks.' The movie was pretty great, though.
        Anyway, by the time we get out of there, it's approaching sunset
thanks to the short winter days. We head home and park the
car. Interestingly, Dad's car is in the driveway instead of the garage, as
well; that's unusual. I wait for mom to open the front door, and as soon as
she does, I walk inside to hear "SURPRIIIIIISE!" This time, though, it's
not my sisters being stupid; there's a banner across the entryway that says
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY PHILLIP" in shiny letters, a wide variety of balloons about
the place, and a line of boys: Edgar, Beto, Matty, Sean, and the twins are
all waiting with party whistles in hand. Dad pops out from the kitchen and
takes a picture of my stunned expression.
        I quickly recover and say, "Wait, this isn't the bathroom," and
turn to leave the house. As soon as the boys start yelling at me, I turn
around with a huge smile and run up to give each of them a hug. "Holy
sh--crap, y'all! Why did I not see this coming?!"
        Matty grins from ear to ear. "I can be sneaky too, when I wanna
be."
        "You put all this together?!" I ask incredulously. When he nods, I
run up and pick him up for a huge hug; my growth spurt shows itself again
as his feet dangle an inch or two more than usual from the ground. He
squeals and kicks futilely as I squeeze him, finally putting him back down
to beam at all the other boys. "This is incredible."
        "You ain't seen nothin' yet," Dad says with a sly smile. "Come
along." I follow him over to the backyard, where there is a freaking
gigantic inflatable jumpy castle thing ready to be assaulted by a slew of
bouncy boys. There are a few floodlights pointed strategically so that
people can still see even after sunset. "People will be shooting fireworks
for hours after midnight, so it doesn't matter if you kids are loud. Within
reason." Then he adopts the `infomercial salesman' voice and announces,
"But wait, there's more!"
        We head to the garage, where Dad has cleared out the area and
placed a variety of pillows, blankets, and sleeping bags, some of them
belonging to the other kids; on one side is the living room TV mounted on
the wall with Matty's XBox One hooked up to it and a couple of instrument
controllers for Rock Band 4; near the garage door is Matty's actual piano
keyboard complete with his new pedals; and on the back side is a table set
up with various snacks and drinks. "Now, don't eat too much, or you won't
have room for cheeseburgers. I got out `The Griller' specially for this."
        My heart is racing; sure, I've had some wild fucking parties in my
time, but usually on my own dime and filled with people I was paying off
for something or other. Rarely if ever was a party of this magnitude thrown
for me just because people liked me. I can't help but get a little
emotional about the whole thing, but it's only enough to mist over my eyes
before I yell, "MOONWALK FIGHT!"
        We head outside. I grab a couple of pool noodles from the shed out
back and pass them out; it's only three, but there's not room for 6
fully-geared boys in the Moonwalk, anyway. I take a noodle and run barefoot
into the castle, daring anyone to take it from me. Sean and Vik decide to
sit this one out, but within no time, the rest of us end up as an utter
mess of boys bouncing round, slapping each other with pool noodles, rolling
around wrestling the noodles out of others' hands, and generally having a
squealing good time.
        As with all poorly-planned ideas, though, there are a few injuries:
I sustain an elbow to the ribs, and Kasha gets a heel in the nose, which
stops the fun. He scrambles his way out of the Moonwalk and huddles over,
pinching his nose. Vik puts the bowl of pretzels that he and Sean were
snacking on into Sean's lap and leaps off the deck bench to see if Kasha is
okay, as the rest of us ineffectively ask questions and generally get in
the way until Mom comes out with tissues.
        Mom shoos us away and leads Kasha up onto the deck, sitting him
down on a bench. "Let me see it, please." He shows her, and after a short
examination, she hands him the tissue. "Looks fine. You'll probably have a
bruise, but nothing's broken."
        Kasha stuffs the tissue up his bleeding nostril and mumbles, "Thank
you." Edgar, whose heel was the culprit, gushes apologies as Vik takes
another look at Kasha's nose. Eventually Kasha snaps, "Stop--stop it! Go
away! I'm fine, I'm fine. I will be okay, okay?! Bozhe moi, you are
annoying."
        Vik backs off with a hurt expression on his face. "Sorry I care."
He mumbles, "Khristos," under his breath as he scoots back. Then, suddenly,
he springs up and heads inside, beelining for the garage.
        "Hey," I announce, "Y'all stay here and make sure his nose doesn't,
like, fall off, and I'll be right back." Kasha raises an eyebrow at me,
which I smile mischievously at before finding my way to the garage. Vik is
sitting up against the wall underneath the TV with his arms folded and his
knees pulled up; his bottom lip juts out slightly in a full-blown pout, and
a tear wends its way down his cheek.
        As I sit down next to him, he spits, "Go away."
        "You were right again," I point out.
        He looks at me skeptically. "About what?"
        "Sometimes friends fight. Nobody's perfect."
        "But he is my brother. My younger brother."
        "He's your friend too, right?" Vik doesn't respond, instead wiping
his cheek on his shoulder. "He's gonna be okay. I can see that you care
about him a lot."
        Vik hesitates another moment. "Is my...It is my job to take care of
him."
        Hm. I didn't expect that. Carefully, I ask, "Is that because you
are the older twin?"
        He nods. "Father believes that the oldest son must help take care
of younger siblings. When we were born as twins, he still made sure this
was true. I am older, so I take care of him." He pauses, but I can tell he
has more to say. After a moment, he mentions, "We were going to have
younger sibling, but Mother...eh. Not important. Never mind."
        Well, that explains quite a bit. I wonder, though, if it was a
miscarriage, or...actually, `never mind' indeed--it's not my
business. "Well, you do a very good job keeping him in line, for what it's
worth. But remember, he's almost as old as you, so--"
        "Thirty-seven minutes," he states matter-of-factly.
        "--so he should be able to take care of himself as well as you
can. At least some of the time, anyway. I admit that he's not as mature as
you, but still. He's a big boy, eh?"
        "Is not the same. You don't get it. It is my...what is the word?
Not `job,' more important...obyazannosti. Whatever."
        "You mean like...your duty?"
        "Duty, yes. You...do you speak Russian?"
        I shrug. "I know a little bit, but that's just the word in English
for something like `a job, but more important.' And believe me--I know how
frustrating it is when you can't think of a word." I roll my eyes for
emphasis, which elicits a small smile from Vik. "Look, he was just a
bit...overwhelmed at everything, and his nose hurt, and then everyone was
in his face. You're doing your job just, just fine, but remember that he's
only...thirty-seven minutes younger than you. He'll be okay."
        Vik glances at me a few times before summoning the courage to stand
up. "Thank you for talking to me, Phillip."
        "My pleasure. Oh, and one more thing: try to enjoy being a
kid. Nobody here expects you to be an adult yet, so...have a little fun,
eh?"
        "I am not...trying to be an adult." His face is defensive, but his
hesitance assures me that he sees it, too. "Whatever. It is almost burger
time. Let's go."
        "You speak the sacred words of my people. Let us depart." Vik gives
me a weird look and laughs as we rejoin the others, who have since worn
themselves out in the Moonwalk for even longer. Kasha stands victorious in
front of the Moonwalk with two pool noodles in his hands. I lean to Vik and
mumble, "Told you so."
        Matty sees us walking out and asks, "Is everything okay?"
        "Yeah," I respond. "Everything's good." Taking a whiff of the air,
I notice Dad out in the yard to the side of the Moonwalk, grilling up
patties in the brisk evening air and dwindling twilight, illuminated by the
floodlights on the front of the deck. "Speaking of everything good, I'm
gettin' hungry."
        We take a break from the festivities to put together some
home-cooked goodness: cheeseburgers with fresh bacon and lettuce (the twins
and Sean add tomato to theirs, the weirdos), toasted buns, and crispy
waffle fries that Mom fried up in the bacon grease (be still, my clogging
heart). After we all have our food, we sit around the dining room table (in
itself an honor; we rarely use it) and dig in. Needless to say, it is
freaking amazeballs delicious. Halfway through my second burger, though, I
notice a particular void: "Mom, where are the girls?"
        She looks up from her burger. "Oh, they both found friends' houses
to sleep at tonight. I told them they were welcome to stay and hang out
with 6 boys, but they didn't seem interested." A couple of the boys laugh
at the thought.
        As dinner wraps up, Mom warns, "Make sure you save room for cake
and ice cream."
        "But these burgers..." I lament. "They're so gooooood."
        "Well, it's a fresh-baked yellow cake with homemade buttercream
frosting and a--"
        "Yup, you win. I'ma put this down now." I slowly lower the burger
onto my plate. Mom makes ridiculously good buttercream icing; it's good I
only have one birthday a year, because I'd be so fat otherwise.
        It actually turns out to be good that we have as many boys here as
we do, because Mom always makes way too much cake for my birthday. Of
course, normally it's just us, and maybe some friend that I never end up
keeping around, so this time is significantly different. She doesn't have
any extra cake pans, though, so they just picked up extra ice cream to sate
the hunger of the crowd: vanilla, chocolate, and caramel swirl (Dear God,
it's good). We all gather round the cake that says "Happy 13!" with a crown
of candles in the middle; Dad gets out the long-barreled fireplace lighter
and ignites the show while Mom leads the boys in a rousing rendition of
"Happy Birthday."
        Unsurprisingly, it sounds pretty damn good with multiple choir boys
singing it. Rather surprising is the fact that Edgar has a damn boy-band
voice, complete with smooth tenor and a trilling vibrato. "Daaaaamn!" I say
after the song. "Where'd you learn to sing like that?!"
        Edgar looks at me as if I couldn't possibly be talking to or about
him, and then blushes. "Oh, uh, I dunno. Everyone always just says I sing
pretty."
        The twins are looking at him with star-struck eyes. "You do sing
pretty!" Kasha says. Vik's expression is one of total agreement.
        "C'mon, y'all are embarrassing me." He turns an even brighter shade
of red than his fiery hair as he rubs the back of his neck nervously.
        "There's time to embarrass him more later. Cake time now. Cake cake
cake." I bang my plastic fork and knife on the kitchen table in feigned
impatience.
        The cake turns out to be exactly as stupidly delicious as I was
hoping, and I eat at least four bites more than I should have, forgetting
the ice cream entirely. Sean skips the ice cream as well, so Mom makes him
eat a bigger slice of cake to compensate: "I'm not having leftovers sit on
the counter and rot. You boys eat this cake." Matty and the twins have a
little of both, Edgar takes an extra scoop of ice cream, and Beto takes two
extra scoops ("What? I like ice cream!").
        Meanwhile, Dad had left in the middle of cake time, but returns
with an armful of presents. We head into the living room to open them; Mom
insists that I open the big box first, though there are four smaller boxes
and one thin box, all wrapped in silver, sparkly wrapping paper. "I just
want you to know," I warn, "that I'm not going to act surprised if this is
a box-in-a-box-in-a-box."
        "Just open it," Mom urges, cellphone in hand ready to record it. I
rip into the paper and quickly reveal a Nintendo Wii U.
        "No. Freaking. Way." Interesting; I owned one a few lifetimes ago,
but it's been a damn long time. I didn't even ask for one this time
around. Either way, badass! I love the system, and as soon as I can, I'm
getting Smash Brothers for it. That shit is the best.
        "Well? You have five more presents." Dad shakes a box at me.
        I tear the paper off to find one of the Pro controllers (the ones
that are less like weird remotes and more like actual game controllers). I
shred the paper off the others in a frenzy--four controllers?! This is
literally the first time in 5 years there's been more than one friend over,
and I don't even talk to the ones from back then!
        Mom answers my unasked question, "We figured that, since they were
on a good deal and Matty told us that you had met a few more friends, maybe
it would be good to have a few more. Just in case."
        I give Matty the stink-eye, spoiled by a burgeoning smile. "I knew
you were behind this."
        He just smirks and hands me the last gift. I open it to reveal--of
course, why didn't I see it coming?--Super Smash Brothers. Shit is about to
get real. "Dude," I say in awe. "This is freaking amazing." I give both of
the parents a bear hug, and then wrap Matty in my arms. "You sneaky guy,
you."
        "Well, your mom asked if maybe you wanted an XBox or something, but
I said I already had one, so...yeah."
        Dad shrugs. "So, you actually have another present, but it's not
wrapped, and you can't have it just yet." He reads the confusion on my face
and continues, "You need something to be able to see your games, and I just
happen to have given your mom and myself the Christmas gift of a new TV; it
just hasn't shipped yet. So when it arrives, we're mounting the other one
on the wall in your room, to the right of the computer."
        My jaw drops. "You're serious."
        "Not always, but I am this time." He gives a sly smile, which is
replaced by puffed cheeks and a loud, "Oof!" as I practically tackle-hug
him. This is a freakin' internet-capable smart TV with YouTube, browser,
Netflix, you name it. I will never beat this birthday, I swear it.
        We head back out to the garage, kicking a few balloons with us on
our way there. I just know those are all going to pop in the middle of the
night and scare us shitless, but so shall it be. Matty suggests, "How about
we jam out on Rock Band for a bit?"
        "Um," I begin, "We do have a Wii U that we can set up, too, but
actually, I was wondering why you brought your keyboard over. I'm guessing
that's not part of Rock Band, right?"
        "Oh, uh," Matty stammers, "that's um...it's for...tell you what,
how about we play a few rounds of this first, and then I'll show you what
it's for."
        I shrug. "Deal." Consider my interest piqued, but we still have
hours yet. I can wait. We set up Rock Band; Matty takes vocals, Edgar
claims bass, Beto grabs the guitar, and I sit in front of the drums. Before
I get comfy, though, I ask Sean, "Did you wanna join in? I don't wanna
leave you out or anything."
        "Nah, I'm fine," he says with his typical languid smile. "If it had
a cello, I might, but I'm good."
        "Suit yourself." I'm about to go mad drum solo on this thing. And
no, I don't actually have any real practice on drums. I can keep a rhythm,
but that's where the similarities end.
        The twins and Sean cheer us on as we tackle a few songs. By the
third one, Matty decides we can do Expert difficulty. We're failing left
and right, cracking up laughing, until the whole thing comes crashing down
in failure. Kasha quips, "Is almost as bad as our choir on Mondays!"
        Vik cringes in sympathy; Matty gives Kasha this horrified
expression and asks, "Really? We were that bad?!"
        Kasha grins foolishly. "Almost. Not as bad." I heard them during
their Christmas concert, and they weren't bad, really. For a middle school
choir, anyway. The soprano boys really were the stars, but I might be
biased.
        "Okay," Matty says definitively. "I think I'm ready. Um, Sean, can
you go let Phillip's parents know we're about to do the thing? They wanted
to be here."
        Okay, now I really want to know what's up. Sean goes and fetches my
mom and dad, but also comes back with a huge cello case, which I assume has
a similarly sized cello in it. "What the heck...?" I mutter
breathlessly. "What is going on, here?"
        Matty goes and stands behind the keyboard. "Um, so, you know how I,
how all of us were doing something in the choir room after school? I know
that we kept leaving you out, but, um, that's because it was a surprise for
you. I, um, wrote a song for you, for your birthday--well, Sean helped with
composing it, and the twins had some good ideas, too...and I got some help
with the lyrics, too, but anyway. So, this is...um, I just realized I
didn't give it a title yet. Oops." He grins sheepishly. "Anyway, here
goes."
        Matty boots up his keyboard while Sean prepares his cello. They
match their tuning to the keyboard, and then Matty begins playing a sweet
little piece on the keyboard. Surprisingly, it's decently complex, even
from the beginning; I can see him moving his left hand over to hit the low
notes and sustain them with the pedal as he makes a simple harmony with the
right hand. The part that floors me is when he starts singing the lyrics.


        Since the beginning of this year,
        My life was dark and gray.
        Cancer and chemo, bullies too
        But you came and saved the day.
        You came to me,
        You opened my eyes.
        You cared for me,
        Which was a big surprise.
        So I made this song
        `Cuz I thought it'd be nice to say:
        I love you, for all that you do
        I love you, for just being you
        I love you, and I love that you love me, too.


        So, since you came into my life--


        Matty stops the performance to ask, "Phillip? What's wrong?!"
        I was already on the verge of tears the moment he started singing,
but when he reached the first `I love you,' I lost it. I'm sitting here
sobbing like my dog died, snot running from my face like a damn fool. I
sniffle and plead through the sobs, "No-nothing! It's--it's beautiful. I
wanna h--hear the rest, please!"
        "You...sure?" he asks carefully.
        "Please," I nod, sniffling. Mom shows up behind me with a box of
tissues, which I eagerly take and start blotting my face. "Danks," I say,
blowing my nose to clear it out. Mom has a few tears in her eyes, too, but
her loving smile says everything.
        Matty looks to Sean and the twins, who all nod. He starts the
second verse, which the twins join in occasional harmony with Sean
providing ornamentation:


        So, since you came into my life,
        I see the bluest skies.
        I wouldn't spend a single day
        With any other guy.
        So here's to you,
        A wonderful boy
        Who fills my life
        With nothing but joy
        My lover and
        A trustworthy, loyal friend:
        I love you, I hope we can be
        Together, for eternity
        I love you, and thank you for loving me.


        I love you, for all that you do
        I love you, for just being you
        I love you, and I love that you love me, too.
        I love that you love me, too.


        As the last notes of the song die down, my renewed sobs drown out
everything but my feverish applause. I wipe my face, and as Matty comes out
from behind the keyboard, I make a mad rush over to him and wrap him in a
passionate, more-than-slightly-bone-crunching hug. I realize that I'm
crying on his shoulder as I do, and his feet are dangling in the air, and
he might be crying a little bit on my shoulder too, and maybe I should let
him breathe, but there is nothing more important right now than making sure
this hug is felt and my feelings known.
        I finally set him down, if only to let him catch his breath. He
smiles bashfully and mutters, "I know that it's not, like, the best music,
and there's still a few parts in the middle that I didn't really like, but
I couldn't figure out how to fix them by the time that--"
        "Matty..." I say, suppressing a sniffle, "...that was the best
thing I've ev--ever gotten in my life. I mean it. I could live for a
thousand years and I still don't think an--anyone would ever give me
something like, like that." His eyebrows indicate that he catches the
emphasis I place on those words. "That was incredible. Thank you. Thank you
Sean, Vik, and--and Kasha, too; I couldn't ever have asked for better
friends. Y'all too, Beto, Edgar. I know you weren't part of the song, but
y'all are still awesome." I look around at everyone and realize we're at
risk of flooding the garage: I'm still snot-faced, Mom had to borrow a few
tissues, even Kasha is red-rimmed around the eyes. Edgar is sitting next to
Beto, his head on Beto's shoulder with his arms wrapped around Beto's left
arm, and I'm pretty sure I see a bit of mist in his eyes, too. Beto, Vik,
Dad, and Sean seem to have kept their cool, so they can build the life raft
if we need it. "Matty...I love you, and I love that you love me, too."
        That gets his eyes flowing. He immediately presses his face into my
chest and wraps his arms around me. We stand there hugging it out for a
good, long forever; I catch a glimpse of Dad using his cellphone to film
the entire thing as he's been doing since the start of the song, while Mom
is working overtime to keep her face clean.
        Eventually, as the tender moment grows awkward, Mom announces,
"Matty, that was a wonderful song. I'm very impressed at the work you boys
put into this. Congratulations."
        "Now," Dad interjects. "You've got about an hour and a half to kill
before it'll be time to get the fireworks going. We'll get things set up
and let y'all know when we're ready."
        Edgar's eyes light up. "You got fireworks?! Mom never lets us do
fireworks!"
        "You bet we got fireworks," I say, grinning. "But no Roman Candles;
Stephanie burnt me with one once, so those are a no-no."
        Mom rolls her eyes. "You wouldn't let her live that down for
weeks."
        "Still won't. It hurt!"
        Mom and Dad chuckle and leave the garage through the laundry
room. We play a bit more on Rock Band, swapping out players this time. Sean
isn't the best at plastic guitar, but Beto rips the drums a new one while
Edgar shreds the bass again. In a not-at-all surprise twist, the twins both
take vocals, singing together on each song. I find out afterward that
they're actually the ones who own the game, and use it to practice singing
(which, by their scores, is very obvious). Afterward, we set up the Wii U,
but it begs us for updates and all that, so I set it to do its thing.
        Shortly, Dad knocks on the garage door (the one for the cars),
calling out that he's opening it. Shortly, the chilly December air invades
the Boy Cave as we spill out into the driveway. The neighbors are all out
doing their own little celebrations, so there's general popping and
cracking heard all around the neighborhood. Mom already has some lawn
chairs set up outside and an ice chest full of sodas, our standard fare for
fireworks fun.
        We all light sparklers to inaugurate the celebrations; Edgar, Beto,
and the twins decide to have team fencing battles with them until Mom has a
fit about safety issues, at which point we content ourselves with signing
our names in midair and such. I get to light a few of the little
firecrackers, including a long string of them; when we move on to the
louder fireworks, though, Dad won't let any of the boys that he "didn't
assist in creating" light any fireworks--stupid responsible parenting--so
he does the lighting while we choose the next lineup. Dad had specifically
asked that we get a few of the "bigger guns," as he calls them, like the
off-brand M-80-type firecrackers that are still legal in Texas, so I vote
we do those next.
        Dad pops one of the bigger ones, and the bang makes most of us
jump--those things are LOUD! This gives me a terrible idea. At this point,
all the boys are sitting down on the driveway talking to each other, and
Mom is lounging in a lawn chair. I rummage around in the fireworks supplies
and find the box of bang snaps (those little packets that you throw at the
ground to make them pop), and when Dad goes to light another one of the big
ones, I wait until juuuust before he lights the fuse, and I throw a handful
of them right behind all the boys on the driveway. Matty and Edgar both
screech, Beto ducks for cover, the twins scatter like pigeons, and even
Sean jumps a bit. The next minute is spent with me rolling back and forth
in the fetal position, cracking up laughing as the other boys slap and yell
at me. Vik takes the bang snaps and throws them at me, but they don't
exactly work against someone's clothed shoulder or stomach; the intent was
made clear, though.
        Once everyone runs out of hatred, we calm back down and sit to
watch the show. Dad lights the loud ones first, then the ground spinners,
leading up to the ones that launch spinning into the air, and finally a
grand finale box with all sorts of stars and designs in a standard
show. After the applause, Matty asks, "So what now?"
        Dad cheerfully answers, "Now we clean up! Can't just leave all this
trash in the street."
        We all make short work of the mess with a couple of push brooms and
hands. Right before we put everything away, though, Mom calls out, "Wait!
It's time!"
        Oh. Of course. I look at my phone: 11:58. I bring the boys over to
the driveway so that Mom can have her fun. She begins, "Did you know that
Phillip was born almost at the last possible second of the year?"
        The boys gasp in collective astonishment, saying things like, "No
way!" and "Really?!" and all that.
        "Mm-hmm," she confirms. "So as of...now, 11:59, Phillip is
officially 13 years old. The doctor asked if I wanted to wait another
minute so Phillip could be the first baby of the year. I had already been
in labor for hours, so I very calmly said, "I WANT THIS BABY OUT, NOW!"
(She screams the words for emphasis, staggering Beto and surprising Matty.)
So Phillip was born on the last second of the last minute of the last hour
of the last day of the year." She smiles proudly at her amazing
factoid. "Speaking of which, it's almost time!"
        Dad looks at his watch. "New Year commencing in 10..."
        Everyone joins in the count. "5..."
        "4..."
        "3..."
        "2..."
        Mom: "Happy Birthday!"
        Everyone else, one second later: "Happy New Year!"
        Mom always makes sure to wish that on the correct second of the
countdown. It gives her such joy; who am I to get in the way of fun?
        Dad announces, "Aaaaaaaand I'm going to bed goodnight don't stay up
too late sleep well." After his rapid-fire farewell, he packs up the lawn
chairs, hauling them off through the backyard. "Phillip, you guys can
finish the drinks in the ice chest if you want, but dump it out in the lawn
when you're finished, either today or tomorrow."
        "Will do!" I say with a salute. The twins pick up the chest from
both sides and haul it back into the garage; I kiss the parents goodnight,
thank them for a badass birthday (using the term directly), and head back
into the now-cold garage. Matty is goosebumps from head to toe, and the
skinny twins are both shivering a bit. We have a decently sized space
heater that Dad keeps in one of his cabinets out here; I fish it out and
set it up, and the skinnier boys all flock to it like moths to a
flame. "That should warm the place up pretty good in a little bit," I
mention.
        Kasha says with a quivering jaw, "My b-balls are hiding in my chest
right now! Is like...summer back in Russia." Vik snorts and nods while
everyone else laughs.
        I move the heater over near the pile of blankets so that I can feel
it while wrapping myself up in a blanket in front of the TV. "There's
plenty of room under this blanket for anyone else," I say invitingly.
        Matty quickly takes me up on the offer, snuggling up his shivering
little body next to mine. The other boys find similar accommodations--the
twins in their unzipped sleeping bags layered to make a giant blanket,
Edgar and Beto wrapped in my mom's old comforter, and Sean with just a
linen sheet over his shoulders (though still closer to the heater than the
others). The Wii U is done with its updating, so I fire up Super Smash
Brothers and hand out controllers; the base console itself comes with a
remote, so there are 5 total players available. I take one, Matty joins in,
and the twins quickly nab the other two Pro controllers.
        "Count me in," Sean says with a determined smile. He grabs the Wii
Remote and situates himself to where he can see better.
        If you've never played Smash Brothers, imagine a side-scrolling
battle game where everything goes wrong and then blows up. Then add all
your favorite characters from every game Nintendo ever made, throw in a ton
of levels that are just as explosive, and you've got hours upon hours of
hilarity just waiting to blast you off the screen. It's really a
phenomenally-made game, and within no time, we're screeching and cracking
up laughing at the stupidity we inflict upon each other.
        Edgar and Beto are shouting encouragement from behind us; I can
hear the munch of pretzels as they enjoy the battle royale. Sean ends up
annihilating us over and over, but even when a player is dominating, it's
still fun to try to take them out.
        "Sean! Catch!" I throw a bomb at his character.
        "Nah," he says lazily as he blocks the shot and reflects it back to
my character, which gets blown straight off-screen. Matty is red-faced with
laughter; he actually ends up dying a few times just because of putting the
controller down to wipe his eyes and try to catch his breath.
        We duke it out for an hour or so before everyone's sides hurt too
much from laughter. Matty leans over to me and mutters, "I, uh...I'll be
back. Need to, you know...change."
        Ah. I was wondering why the blanket wasn't soaked after his
laughing fit, or when I scared him earlier outside. I say in a louder
voice, "Hey, Matty, can you go get my pillow and blanket from my room? We
need more."
        Matty gets the hint and stands up; I can see the bulge in the
crotch of his pants, but he turns and leaves fast enough that it's not
terribly noticeable. I do notice that his mom got him slightly baggier
pants, which I assume he'll grow into over the next year, but they work
wonders for concealing his secret. Frankly, I'm just glad he finally seems
comfortable with himself and his body. I'm also turned on, but no surprises
there. He comes back shortly with the requested bedding materials, which I
offer to Sean; he shrugs and wraps the linen sheet around himself a little
tighter, saying, "This is fine for now."
        "You know," I point out, "if we REALLY wanted to be warmer, we
wouldn't all be separate islands. I vote we combine the blankets and make a
tent."
        Vik furrows his brow. "How will you make the tent stand up?"
        "Follow me--I got this." I head into the kitchen with the army of
boys behind me. We commandeer all of the chairs in the kitchen and dining
room, lining them up in two rows of five, facing away from the center;
then, we drape two comforters over the tops of them, creating a canopy
easily big enough for seven boys to fit under, even with a few of them
lying down. (We'd have to get pretty cozy to sleep like this, but I'm good
with it.) The rest of the blankets and sheets are kept inside as cushions
and such--it actually ends up pretty cool. I know that it'll get hot as
hell in here with this many boys inside, but at that point, we won't need
the tent anymore.
        Once we have everything set up, I adjust the top of the tent to
allow for better viewing of the TV and ask, "Anyone wanna watch a movie or
something?"
        Sean finishes yawning and blinks his heavy-lidded eyes. "Actually,
I hate to be the party pooper, but it's way past my bedtime. Um, if y'all
wanna watch a movie, that's cool. I can just go sleep in the living room or
something."
        "No no," I counter, "you can use my bed. Just take whatever
blankets you need and a pillow."
        "You sure?"
        "I'm sleeping down here, so yeah, go ahead." A pity he won't be
staying up with the rest of us, but I get it--it is getting a little late.
        As he heads out, Kasha requests a sci-fi movie. I put on one of the
newer Star Wars films (I admit that I was never a huge fan, but I figure
I'll give the newer ones a shot), but shortly into the film, I notice a few
things. Number one, only Kasha is really into it. Matty is just leaning his
head against my shoulder and casually watching, Vik is on his cellphone,
and Edgar and Beto are just kinda staring at the screen. I say this because
I can tell very well by the occasional movement under the blanket they
decided to drape over themselves, and by how red-faced Edgar is, that their
attention is definitely elsewhere. Edgar catches me looking his direction,
and at my raised eyebrow, he looks around the tent mock-innocently as the
blush in his cheeks travels up his ears.
        "I have a better idea," I announce, turning off the movie.
        "Hey!" Kasha protests, but I continue minimizing Netflix and pull
up a web browser.
        "How about something a little more my style?" I ask as I pull up
PornHub. This is the best thing about having a smart TV, and I already
figured out a long while back how to selectively delete the history so the
parents don't have any ammunition against me. I am so ready to get this
moved up into my room.
        "Dude," Kasha breathes. "We would get in SO much trouble if Father
caught either of us looking at porn." Vik's face echoes the sentiment.
        "Then don't get caught," I suggest with a smirk. "So, what's first?
Ooh, I know." I search for `circle jerk' and pick a nice one: lots of
twinks, some flimsy story about studying for exams, a few pieces of pizza,
and then hands on cocks. Perfect.
        We all watch silently for a bit as it gets into the action, though
with a surreptitious glance around, there are a lot of interested hands
moving under blankets and adjusting crotches. I shuck the blanket off my
shoulders and claim, "It's getting warm under all these. I'm going to get
more comfy." I take off my shirt and pants, leaving me sitting in my
rapidly-tightening underwear.
        Matty glances down at my tent pole and slowly snakes a hand over to
touch it. It flexes of its own accord at his touch. I slide my hand over to
his crotch and fondle the fabric; the jeans need to be out of the way, but
I can feel him poking at it already.
        Edgar laughs half-nervously and asks, "Are you like this with all
your friends?"
        I look back at him and smirk. "When I can be, yeah. Oh, screw it,
I'm horny." I stand up, disrupting the blanket roof, and drop my briefs to
let my dick point outward invitingly. I move the blankets off the chairs,
letting in some of the chill garage air; my balls are already tightly up
against me, so it doesn't change much. "I challenge you all to a duel!" I
say, waggling my sword in the air.
        Matty giggles and bats at it a few times. "You're gonna poke
someone's eye out!"
        In response, I straddle Matty and slowly push him backward, peeling
the blankets away and unbuttoning his pants. Fishing his stiffy out, I grip
it and say, "Says the boy with the concealed weapon over here." I notice as
I wrap my fingers around it that there's the tiniest beginnings of pubic
hairs at the base of his dick, a thin little dusty brown carpet to match
the drapes, as it were. He actually looks a little bit bigger now, too; not
but maybe a quarter inch, but I got pretty familiar with this little
stretch of land some time ago. "I should confiscate it," I announce, and
shove the whole thing in my mouth. It does actually go a little further
back on the soft palate now, so it's definitely longer. I suck it like I'm
trying to get to the center of a Dreamsicle, which I suppose in one sense I
am. I watch his eyes roll in his head as I hit all the good spots, and it
makes me drool with anticipation. From both heads.
        By this point, the twins are torn between watching the live show
and the porn. They've both removed their pants and matching boxers (ugh, so
adorable) and are jacking off casually. Beto and Edgar are both more than a
little surprised at how sudden things change to `orgy mode,' but Edgar
unwraps himself to reveal Beto jacking him off. Beto follows suit, and of
course Edgar has his own hand wrapped around Beto's cock.
        Kasha glances around to see what everyone else is doing, and does a
double-take on Edgar's thick pole. "Holy cow! That is big!"
        I nearly spit Matty's dick out laughing as Edgar turns red all down
his neck. "God, it's not that big..." he says with almost no
conviction. Given that the twins apparently haven't seen much porn and they
still haven't hit puberty, he is most likely the thickest they've ever
seen. Beto's is already longer, though, and I have no doubts the twins
themselves will both end up easily 7 or 8 inches easily, if not longer.
        Matty rolls over to get a better view of what they're talking about
and mutters, "Dang." Edgar gives me a look of desperate helplessness, to
which I just shrug and laugh more. Since Matty is on his belly, though, I
take the opportunity to grab handfuls of that beautiful little butt and
start massaging. I help him strip off his pants, making sure the blanket is
fully underneath him (the concrete garage floor would be hellishly cold on
the tender bits). I work his calf muscles, then his hamstrings, moving up
to his gorgeous rear. Matty just slowly deflates in a sensuous moan as I
work out the tension in his lower half, moving up to his lower back. By the
time I get to his middle back, though, my dick rests perfectly in between
his cheeks; I press down a little with it and receive a horny grunt in
reply.
        "Damn," Beto says with raised eyebrows. "Where do I sign up?"
        "Sorry," I reply with a wicked smile, "but this is my birthday
present."
        Matty says a muffled, "Yaaaay! I'm a present!" into the blanket. He
tries to say something else, but I make it to his shoulders in time; all he
gets out is "I like bluhhh..." as my thumbs dig into his neck and shoulder
muscles. ViKasha both crack up into giggle fits, much like they did when
Sean made the same noises. What can I say? I have a talent.
        I see Beto say something to Edgar, who then comes over and lies
down next to Matty, with Beto's position over Edgar matching mine over
Matty. He watches my motions and starts trying to imitate my technique, but
it's pretty clear he isn't the most intuitive when it comes to
massage. Edgar grunts a few times and points out when Beto digs in the
wrong way, but I show him how to use the thumbs for pressure and the other
fingers just for steadiness, and immediately his technique improves. I show
him the muscles he should be working, how hard he needs to press, and all
that, and soon we are two skilled bakers rolling the lumps out of
dough. Moaning, drooling dough. The twins are captivated (and giggly)
watching the whole thing.
        A few moments later, I hear Matty mumble, "Phillip?"
        "Yeah?"
        "I really want to do it this time."
        I know what `it' is immediately. "You sure?" I ask, though I know
he already has wanted to do this for months. I drag my dick down his crack
slowly, and then grind it in for a little extra temptation.
        He exhales forcefully in reply, but quickly says, "Wait, um...not,
not with, y'know, everyone around." He looks around at the boys, each pair
already interested in each other or the porn (or both).
        I lean in over him, my dick nestling itself in his
cheeks. Whispering in his ear, "Follow me," I get up, my dick straining
enough to launch off like a rocket, and announce, "Gentlemen, Matty has a
present to give me, but it's a private one. We'll be back...later."
        The twins get that look and both go, "OooooOOOOOoooooh," as Edgar
looks us both over; Beto digs his thumbs back into Edgar's back muscles,
though, and Edgar becomes putty once again. Matty giggles at the burbling
moan of pleasure that Edgar makes as we both find our way into the house.
        "Okay," I half-whisper, "the first task is to find a good place to
go."
        "We can't just use your room?"
        "Sean."
        Matty smacks his forehead. "Right."
        I think for a moment--of course! "We can use Stephanie's room."
        "What?!" he hisses. "You can't just use your sister's bed!"
        I stroke Matty's hair. "You poor, misguided only child. Your
siblings' stuff is there to use, as long as they don't find out."
        He stares at me for a long moment until I break into an evil
grin. He shakes his head, sighing. "Come on, there's gotta be somewhere
better."
        I shrug, "I mean, there's the couch. Someone could come downstairs,
though."
        He looks in the living room, then to the garage, and then through
the ceiling to the upstairs. He sighs, "Fine. I guess your sister's room,
but..."
        "We'll leave it like we were never there. I've done it
before--c'mon!" I head upstairs, ignoring Matty's sputtering attempt at a
reply.
        We run upstairs, my dick bouncing almost painfully with each
two-stair leap, Matty scrambling behind me with the grace of one who hasn't
lived in a two-story house all their life. I try the door and find it
unlocked; it's only one of those non-key-type locks, though, so a thin
screwdriver would've fixed that problem anyway. I take a peek inside,
noting that it looks exactly as her room always does: posters of My
Chemical Romance and The Birthday Massacre on the walls, collection of
fantasy books on the shelf, shit like that. More importantly, her bed isn't
made, so I don't have to feel even remotely bad about fucking around on
it. Seeing as I fully expect bodily fluids here, though, I figure it's not
a terrible idea to put a towel down.
        I tell Matty to wait there as I duck into the bathroom to grab a
towel, along with a bottle of conditioner (it's not as easy to secure
official lube when you're 12--or 13, now, I guess). I lay the towel out on
the bed, hopping up on one side as I beckon Matty over. He hesitantly makes
his way onto the bed and sits next to me; the tension is clear in his
posture and expression. He looks at me and tries to smile, but it's clear
that he's fighting some pretty deep fears. I ask carefully, "Are you sure
you want to go through with--"
        "Yes," he interrupts firmly. "I really, really wanna do this."
        That's not passion speaking. "...Why?" I prod.
        "Wh--? What do you mean? I want you to, y'know...I want to..." he
stops, unable to finish his sentence. Taking a deep breath, he centers
himself and admits quietly, "I want to stop being scared."
        This kid just melts my heart. "Then let's make you the one in
control." He furrows his brow in confusion (and maybe a little alarm), but
I clarify, "First, I need you to lay down." As he does so, I lift his legs
and bury my face in his crack tongue-first. As I start lapping up against
his hole, he arches his back in writhing, moaning pleasure. I take a break
to point out, "This isn't where you're in control yet, by the way."
        He giggles breathlessly. "Apparently not," he pants.
        I go back to work for a little bit, working the area until he
doesn't realize that he's not clenching his sphincter as tightly. Taking a
few tentative probes inward with my tongue, it seems that I've made him
forget about his fears, at least for a little bit. I'm actually able to get
the thicker part of my tongue in before I run out of tongue muscle
strength--such is life. "Okay, now," I state, "I want you to take some of
the conditioner and rub it on and in your hole."
        "Um, won't it burn?"
        "Nah, I get Mom to buy this one specifically `cuz it doesn't. I
mean, she doesn't know that's why, but yeah."
        He does so, taking a small glob of the thick, white
conditioner--almost a lotion, really--and working it into and around the
area. "It's cold!" he remarks, but keeps going.
        When the area is nice and coated, I grab the bottle and put a
little bit of conditioner on my already-aching member; I have a feeling our
first time isn't going to last terribly long, but maybe that's for the
better, all things considered. "All right, now I'm going to lay down, and I
want you to sit down on it. Not, like, just plop! or anything, but slowly."
He lets out a nervous laugh as he gets up and positions himself over my
pole, slowly lowering himself down until the tip pokes him in the cheek. I
help guide it to a better spot, letting him know to help me guide it to
where it'll work best. "Okay, now," I say once I can feel my head at the
point of penetration, "I want you to slowly move up and down just a tiny
bit, so that you don't lower yourself all the way, but just a little bit
and then back up, a little bit and then back up. Just like that."
        "Okay," he says, following my example. I feel just the quickest bit
of warmth as his sphincter gives a little, and even just that bit is a rush
of pleasure. He does it a few more times, and I resist every urge to just
thrust and bury myself.
        I take a deep breath and try to concentrate on the lesson, not the
sensations. "Now, try going just a little bit farther. If you can feel the
head pop in, then the rest shouldn't be a problem." He does a little bit
more, going just to the fringe of my head, and hesitates. The next thing I
know, he pushes himself on top of it forcefully, his butt bones hitting
next to my hips. "Whoa!" I yelp, "I said not to just plop down! Are you
okay?"
        He cringes for a moment, but relaxes his face. "My legs were
getting tired," he admits sheepishly. Well, apparently I'm not so long that
I hit his second sphincter, so that's good, I guess. Makes this a little
easier on him. For me, though, this moment is bliss: one of the most
adorable boys I've ever met in my life, one whom I love more than I can
remember loving someone, is sitting balls-deep on my cock and smiling back
at me. Heaven take me now.
        I laugh with him. "So, if you want to rest your legs a little bit,
you can just rock back and forth slowly on me, so that it pushes me in and
out a bit."
        "Like this?" he asks, leaning forward, making the top side of my
dick rub against his insides and sending shudders through my body.
        "Yeahhhhh," I manage to moan.
        He scoots back down the shaft, but a small thump of my dick hitting
a bump in his inner walls makes his spine shoot straight up. "Oh God," he
whispers with a shudder. Oh, I think he just found out how to use me to hit
his prostate. The sight of his dick quickly going from `timidly limp' to
`launch formation' is evidence of that. He moves himself back and forth on
me, grinding my dick into his prostate, causing a prolific dribble of
precum to start steadily dripping from his dick.
        "This is amazing," he whispers as he starts up a slow, steady
rhythm.
        I attempt a response, but a perfectly-aimed grind sends my eyes
rolling into the back of my head at the stimulation. I grab his dick and
start smearing all his precum over the head, which sends shivers up his
spine as I work it around. Then I hold my fingers steady while he fucks
himself on my dick, using my fingers to jack himself off.
        As expected, it doesn't last very long, but not for the reason I
expect: Matty speeds up just a little bit, getting a decent, slow rhythm
going, but he can only keep it up for a few thrusts before he exhales
heavily and shoots a glob of cum straight onto my lip, followed by another
two on my chest and navel, respectively. The tightening of his sphincter
and inner walls coupled with holding his spurting dick is far too much
stimulation for me to take; I quickly grab him by the hips and bury myself
deep, locking in place as I shoot pulse after pulse of sheer orgasmic bliss
into him. He hunches over, spent, and I follow suit a moment later, my dick
still spasming occasionally; I think I might still be draining cum into
him, too. Jeez.
        "That feels weird," he says out of nowhere.
        "What does?"
        "You're, like...I can feel you twitching."
        "Oh," I say, suddenly blushing profusely. "That's me cumming."
        "Oh!" he says with a look of surprise followed by a `well, duh'
face. "Still...like, I can still feel you twitch."
        I blush harder. "I think maybe I'm still cumming a little, but
mostly that's just the `aftershocks,' like I like to call them."
        "Dang," he says. "You always cum a lot."
        "I know."
        He just looks at me with a half-loving, half-amused, and
half-content expression on his face (yes, it's three halves, so sue
me). Smiling a little mischievously, he whispers, "Happy Birthday."
        I can't help but laugh. "Best. Present. EVER." I flex my dick a few
times for emphasis, which makes him giggle. "So," I ask carefully, "was it
okay? I mean, like, did you like it?"
        He shrugs a little. "Yeah, I did. It actually feels really good
when you, um..."
        "When you're the one in control?"
        He thinks about it a sec. "Yeah."
        "Well, it's all you, now. You're the one in control of your own
body, so you let me know what you want to do with it."
        He looks down at my chest, where his couple of drops of cum are
still glistening. "Well, I'm fine, but um, we should do something about
your body. Like, clean it up."
        "Did you just make a joke about cum?"
        Matty blinks at me. "Yeah, why?"
        "Oh, no reason." Inside, I'm torn between squealing in delight and
crying a little--my baby is growing up so fast! "Anyway, um...you should
probably be careful when getting off of me, since, well, you know how I
always cum a lot? Yeah."
        Matty looks between his legs. "Oh. Uh..." He hesitates, unsure of
how to handle this.
        We end up rolling to the side, me still rock-fucking-hard and
buried to the hilt, so that he can un-impale himself and close his
sphincter before he tries to go anywhere. We head to the bathroom where I
turn on the shower while Matty, um, y'know. So anyway, I clean my front off
and wash the lube off my dick (which FINALLY has started to go down), and
we both head back downstairs to rejoin the boys.
        Matty stops me at the bottom of the stairs. "Hey, um..."
        "Yeah?"
        Matty hesitates, his face contorting into the standard `I'm trying
to get the words in the right order' face. "I'm...I'm really glad that..."
he begins, but goes back to his mental drawing board. A few seconds pass,
and he eventually just shakes his head. "Never mind."
        I take one of his hands and smile at him. "C'mere," I say, leading
him over to the love seat. The microfiber upholstery feels nice and tickly
on my sack, which brings little stirrings into my dick (not enough to get
hard, thankfully). I prompt him, "You're really glad that what?"
        His eyes don't meet mine, but instead search the area for something
to stare at as he talks. "I'm really glad that, I mean, you keep helping
me, and showing me all these cool things, and take me places, and--and
protect me from bullies, and still like me even though I pee my pants
sometimes or wear diapers, and now it's like, you saved me from my dad, and
this was like, the last thing that he `had,' you know? I kinda was afraid
that I would never be able to, you know, do...what we just did, but we did,
and...and I really liked it. Like, a lot."
        "I could tell--you shot me in the face."
        He rolls his eyes and meets mine for the first time. "Yeah, sorry
about that."
        "Oh, no no, it was my pleasure entirely." I grin stupidly and
receive a well-deserved smack in the arm for a reply.
        "Ugh, stop! You're making me laugh, and I'm trying to be serious."
He puts on a fake pout for a second, which melts into an actual serious
face. "But anyway, so now we're going out, and we just had, like, `real'
sex--well, the other way around this time, `cuz I already--whatever,
anyway. So I finally feel like I have everything, y'know? But..."
        I raise an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
        "But I still don't know what I've done to deserve all this," he
admits. "Like, I mean, I know we've talked about this kind of thing before,
but I still can't figure out why you keep...why you keep me."
        I take his other hand on mine and stare him down. "Is being Matty
not enough?"
        "No!" he says emphatically. "It's not! I'm just some kid who had
cancer and a dad who raped him and is in all remedial classes and pees
himself like a--"
        "Stop," I say firmly. "Stop, stop, stop. You're sabotaging
yourself, and there's no reason to do that."
        "But why do you stay with me?" He asks the question as if it were
the most perplexing, frustrating problem that mankind has ever
pondered. "What did I do, what made, what--?"
        "You wrote me a freaking song," I point out, holding him by the
shoulders. "A song. For me. With 7 billion people out there, I'm pretty
sure there's at least a one-in-multiple-millions chance of that happening
to anyone in particular, and nobody has ever done that for, for
me. Ever. In a literal thousand years, living my life in every way that I
did, nobody wrote me a song." I pause to wipe a tear out of my eye. "That
alone is amazing, but you tackled cancer, you--you survived a new school
full of bullies, you know more science than I ever would have dreamed of
when I was that age the first time--wow, that sounded weird--you have a
beautiful voice, you're cute as hell, I really, really like sucking on your
dick (he rolls his eyes and giggles at this), and your personality draws me
like, like a magnet: you are everything I wish I was, like, centuries ago."
        He pulls his head back and squints at me. "Wh--how?"
        I shrug. "Just by being you, I guess. You always want the best for
people, even if they don't deserve it. You don't want anyone to get hurt;
even after your dad did horrible things, you still just wanted him to be
better. Most people would want their father dead for doing things like
that, but not you. You stopped me from hurting Rod, even though he was
basically, y'know, a piece of shit to everyone and everything."
        Matty looks aside sheepishly and mutters, "Well...I mean, I guess,
but then there's Chris. I wasn't really nice to him."
        "Yeah, and I'm still kinda trying to figure that one out. He brings
out the tiger in you, and I'm not talking Frosted Flakes."
        Another eye roll (I'm keeping score) and a shrug. "I dunno. He
just...he just rubs me the wrong way. And don't you dare make a bad pun
about `rubbing,' I'm warning you."
        I open my mouth, but close it as he gives me the stink
eye. "Fine. Anyway, as I was saying, not only are you such a good person,
but no matter what happens, no matter if you are forced to wear diapers (or
like to), no matter if you're, if you're in a group of friends or alone, at
school or in your house, you're always Matty. You don't try to be anyone
else, and after living in a world full of actors for so many years--after
being an actor for most of my life--it's just so refreshing to know that
some people are just who they are, and...and I love you for that."
        "Yeah, but is that worth always protecting me, and having to cover
for me, and--?"
        I interrupt, "You defended me, too, you know."
        Matty frowns. "I did?"
        "At the lunch table, when Kasha was going all crazy with the
questions, you stood up for me and let me catch a breath. You even
explained what happened so I didn't have to do it. The one time I was
seriously at a low point, you were there for me. Don't think I didn't, that
I didn't notice." I had to pick my jaw up from the floor when he did, but I
don't think mentioning that is necessary.
        Matty takes a moment internalizing the idea. "Yeah, I guess, but I
mean, that was just that once."
        "And that was enough," I retort. "The one chance you had, you took
immediately. If that isn't reason enough to stick with you, then I must
just be insane."
        "Well..." Matty says, half-smiling."
        "I said, `just insane.' I'm insane AND you're still awesome, so
that's different." We both laugh a little at the absurdity of the moment,
but after it dies down, I say softly, "Matty. I hope you see one day how
amazing you are. I'm proud of you for staying strong, I'm absolutely in
love with you for all the things you are and have done, and I'm humbled by
your honest, authentic kindness. I couldn't possibly ask for more." I stare
into his eyes, though he diverts them after a few seconds as his cheeks
slowly flush. "And then you wrote me a frickin' SONG."
        "UGH," he groans with an eye roll big enough to knock a grown man
over, "stop it with the song already! You're embarrassing me!"
        "Well, can I just say one last thing about it?"
        He sighs heavily through his nose. "Fine. What?"
        I stand up, bringing him up with me. "I love you, and I love that
you love me, too." I hold my hands wide and he accepts the hug; my
contentment at the moment is actually strong enough to overpower the fact
that there is hot boy pressed up against me, and that's saying
something. We kiss lovingly: nothing crazy with tongue-fights or anything,
just a nice, long kiss, and a fatherly, friendly, loving hug.
        We're both caught a bit by surprise at the sudden sound of the door
to the garage opening, and a mostly-hard `Canelito' walking in. "Oh," he
says, stopping halfway into the kitchen. "Sorry if I'm interrupting; just
needed to go to the restroom."
        I look down at his semi and remark, "No, we're good. I see y'all
are still at it, though."
        He looks down and back at me; putting the spotlight on him seems to
always put a bit of rose in his cheeks and neck. "Oh, yeah, so uh...we were
watching more porn, and there was this really awesome gangbang scene, and
uh...we were wondering if you wanted to...try it out. You know, get a
`birthday present' from all of us."
        My erection practically lifts Matty off the ground on its way up.
        Best. Birthday. EVER.

		---

        You know, at this rate, I could die happy. Maybe in a year or two
I'll have my powers back, maybe not, but I think I'm ready for this to be
my final play-through. I've already had the First Ending, the one where you
miss half the good things on your first run; I've had every one of the Bad
Endings; and I've had my fair share of restarts and reloads from premature
endings. With a millennium's breadth of experience and a strong group of
friends around me, though, maybe I can finally see the Good Ending, the one
you can only get if you don't cheat or make the really stupid choices.
        Sure, I'll make plenty of stupid choices along the way, and you
know what? I'm looking forward to it. I don't need to hide them, I don't
need to be perfect, and I don't need to impress anyone. I just need to
learn from those mistakes and move on. I don't need time travel to become a
better person. If I've learned anything from Matty, it's that you don't
have to be the strongest, smartest, hottest, or any other `-est' to be a
worthy human being. You can be flawed, insecure, vulnerable, fallible,
clumsy, foolish, and still completely amazing. To err is human, and I could
do with a little more humanity.
        The name's Phillip Herbert Bontemps. I've been around the block a
few times, but I think I'm ready to go home.




	The End




        And there it is: the end of a fun story and a few years' worth of
work. For all of you that have read the story to here, I can't thank you
enough for taking the time to read my little labor of love; it means
everything to me (also, please email me if you've read it from the
beginning--I love to hear from y'all!). I hope you've enjoyed the journey
with me, falling in love with these boys, suffering their hardships and
celebrating their triumphs. I definitely plan on writing other stories
(currently, Lucky Chances over in the Incest section is my other work, the
one to which I am returning after this), so hopefully we'll meet again in a
different setting, with a new set of boys to follow.


	BUT! As a gift to y'all for making it this far, I have actually
composed the song that Matty wrote, so if you'd like a .pdf copy of it or a
MIDI file so you can hear how it would sound, feel free to email me at
xpud@yahoo.com with which ones you'd like to have. You can listen to it and
imagine the extra-long credits screen rolling by with pictures of the boys
smiling and such.


	BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE! Or, at least, there will be. After the
credits you've imagined, there will be an epilogue; I had wanted to include
it here, but we're already 20k words in on this chapter and it seemed a
decent enough chunk to end on so that I can have enough time to put the
last little piece together for you without you having to wait for this. It
will answer some nagging questions many of you have emailed me about
regarding Phillip's powers, so hang on for the ride (and definitely bring
tissues--no reason, just...you might want them), and let's wrap this up in
style!


	Until the next (and final) time! -XPud