Date: Tue, 15 Feb 2000 18:56:45 EST
From: Hidden12@aol.com
Subject: Eric CH 14

This is the chapter without any sex, so if you want now is the chance to move
on to something hotter.


Chapter 14
(Can you believe it? No sex in this one!)


"No!  Take your hand off of me!"  Eric threw off the sheet covering us both
and leapt to his feet.  I had put my hand on his bare back as I had perhaps a
thousand times before, felt the heat and silky smoothness of his back, my
boy's back.  Only this time had been different.  Eric just stood before me,
face mottled with a rage I'd never seen before.

"What do you think, huh?  That you own me?  Body and soul?" he shouted at me.
 Seconds later I was alone in that room.  My arm fell from where it was
hanging in the air, my soul stopped in ache and shock.  When my hand hit the
bed, I felt the warmth of where he had lain, that which was gone in more ways
than one.  That night I slept truly alone for the first time in a very long
time.

I woke up the next morning groggy, brain fuzzed from troubled sleep.  Rolling
over in that half sleep of a relaxed early morning I stretched out my arm,
and became instantly awake.  My bed was empty save me, and I remembered why.

Slipping into a robe, I walked through the upstairs to Eric's room.  Door
open, it was empty.  His room was more of a personal study or den as we
usually shared the same bed.  Downstairs I heard the refrigerator slam and
dishes clash.

I paused before entering the kitchen wondering just what I would do.  Just
what would I say.

"Hello Eric."  I said quietly as I entered and stood at the sink.  He had
still made coffee.  No answer came back, only the sounds of spoon scraping
the bottom of a cereal bowl and the splash of milk.  Having poured myself a
cup of coffee I sat across the table from him and watched.  Eric intently ate
his cereal, Frosted MiniWheats if I recall correctly.  Never once looking up
at me.  His face stony, back tense beneath a blue T-shirt.

"Eric..."  I tried again.

"Leave me the fuck alone, will you!  Will you?" he demanded looking up for
the first time.

I sighed, stood, and walked back to the emotional safety of the sink- a
retreat.  I could only stare out the window.

"I bet you don't even know why I'm so fucking mad, do you?" he asked quietly.

"No, I don't."

"See, you just don't get it, do you mister 'master'".  It hurt to hear the
sneer in his voice.  "I work my ass off for you:  in school, at work, hell
even in fucking bed!  All the time you're the boss, demanding, demanding,
demanding!  Hell, even when you aren't saying it I feel it.  Nothing is ever
quite good enough is it?"

"Eric....."  Now I was at a loss for words.

"No!" he shouted.  "I'm a kid for god's sake!  Not some college grad, not
some seasoned soldier, not some fucking whore!  I'm a kid; hell, I'm barely
16!  You've got me into stuff that makes my head spin: freaking million
dollar business deals, traveling half the stinking world, even freaking
pulling plastic balls out of my ass!  Always more, more, more!"  His words
came out in a flood, laden with anguish, frustration, and pain.  "Why can't I
be normal?  Huh?  Why not?!  Do you know what it's like trying so hard to
meet your expectations?  Trying and failing?  Fuck!"

"I'm sorry Eric."  I said reaching out to him with both arms and moving to
close the physical and emotional gap between us.


"No. No.  Don't touch me.  I'll be back later." He said as I watched his back
slide past me into the garage.

"I leave today."  I was going to Korea for a week to meet with their ministry
of defense.

"Yeah, I know.  Just like before." I heard his voice fade away as the garage
door opened.  The clatter of his bike filled my ears as the faint smell of
gasoline and mown gas filtered in through the air.

Hours later at LaGuardia Airport I went through the motions of checking in
and walking to the gate.  Eric filled my mind.  We'd had some fights before,
but always short, and never with me leaving on business like this.  While
waiting for my flight to be called, I thought about what he'd said:  that
nothing he did was good enough for me.  That the boy I knew as my son and
lover felt betrayed and in pain was an overwhelming grief.

Plane rides to new destinations are usually filled with a rapid jumble of
thoughts, virtually all business connected.  That day there was only one:
Eric.  I knew I had been angry with him because he had failed a German exam
in school.  I had been pushing him hard in swimming, to go faster; in school,
to do better; at work, to try more things.  God, I just wanted him to be good
at what he did, to be the best.  To hear his words in my head, to hear the
pent up frustration and pain.  I wondered how much it all had to do with his
being my lover as well as a son.  I wondered if he'd be there when I
returned.  We had in fact spoke before the car came to pick me up.  Words
were exchanged without emotion.  He knew the routine well.

I called when I reached Seoul; as expected there was no answer.  I called
Peter, a family friend of sorts and told him I was worried.  Then the MoD
liaison officer walked up and welcomed me back to Korea.  Business had begun;
my personal life faded.

Twice a day for 2 days I called, only to hear my own voice on the machine.  I
hardly knew what to say, and when I played my messages back and heard my own
earlier calls, I stopped repeating myself.  On the third day I called Peter
in the middle of the night.

"Oh god, I might have know it was you."  he said, sleep still heavy in his
voice.

"Eric.  How is he?" I asked.

"Well, he's alive.  I think he might even be at home.  I don't know really.
I had to sign for him yesterday you know."

"Sign for him?"  I thought I knew what he meant.  I had "signed for" many a
soldier while in command.

"Yeah, yesterday.  It took me a long time to convince the cops he was under
my care.  He got busted at the mall shoplifting some damn shirt.  What the
hell does he want with some shirt?  Didn't you leave him any money?"

Silence.  I did not know what to do.  In that instant, the small confines of
the rooms at the Seoul Walker Sheraton Hotel seemed to get smaller, the smell
of kimchi grew stronger, and the feel of the polyester bedspread felt more
foreign.

"Hey, you still there?" Peter asked.

I sighed.  "Yeah, I'm here.  He has money; that's not what it's about.  Is he
OK?  Thanks for bailing him out- and bailing me out."

"Yeah, he's OK.  At least for now.  Didn't want to have much to do with me
either though.  I think you've got trouble guy."

"Yeah, so do I."  The rest of the conversation never made it into memory.
That night was sleepless.  Half spent turning and twisting in sheets, my mind
plagued by Eric and the still lingering effects of jet lag.  The other half
of the night was spent on the balcony listening to the sounds of traffic
along the banks of the languid Han River.

The next morning, I found a renewed energy.  My first meeting was with the
assistant ministry of defense.  He was not pleased when I told him I had
pressing business in the States and that I would have to personally attend to
it.  Although he agreed to postpone additional meetings a day and to meet
with a replacement, I could see the irritation in his eye and the hesitancy
of the translator.  So much for business.  Immediately on returning to the
hotel, I called to change my tickets to fly out on the next stateside plane.
I kept the room; it would be filled with one of my other project managers.
Ben Brockstein, a seasoned combat Engineer and a retired Colonel would be in
the following day to take over.  He would have to salvage what he could, to
make lemonade from lemons.

I don't remember much about the flight back to the States, or the limo
dropping me off at my house.  I do remember unlocking the door to find it
tidy, but empty.  Eric was gone; but was he gone?  I went upstairs to his
room.  It told me he was gone.

There wasn't much missing:  just enough.  Some clothes, his Yankee's
baseball.  Some stuff.  It was seeing the marks in the dust on top of his
dresser where his pictures had been that told me he was gone.  Gone.

I walked downstairs and sat in an old Morris style chair I'd made while I was
still in the Army.  Not since I was in the Army, an exhausted Captain at the
National Training Center in the deserts of California, had I felt so
defeated, forlorn, torn, and without hope.  Never a man to love much, that
which I did love had fled me, and I didn't know how to deal with it.
Memories, rich in color and sound, came to me in a flood.  The smell of his
hair after a shower, the sensual touch of his skin in passing, the arc of his
back swimming breastroke during the 200 yard medley relay race, the touch of
his hand on my body, his voice calling to me.  He was gone.

That night sitting on the side of an otherwise empty bed, many thoughts
crowded my mind.  I could smell him.  I could reach to the sheets where he
had slept and feel his presence.  Yet my hand found nothing in the darkness,
just cool cotton devoid of life.  Only after a long while did I set my pistol
down.  I'd had it in my hand before, although not in a long time.  I knew its
cold weight well, the familiar odor of solvent and gun oil caressed my nose
like the old friend it was, my hand comfortable wrapped around its matte
machined surfaces.  I had once known it as a truth in my heart that I would
find a way to die and flee life; but only after the death of my parents.  I'd
feared beyond all else, even the possible wrath of my God, the loneliness and
despair of when the only people who loved me left my life.  Eric had helped
me deal with their passing.  Eric had made me feel like I had emotional bond
with life.  Now he too was gone.  I told myself I was just too tired and set
the pistol down, back into its soft green case between the bed and the
nightstand:  loaded, round chambered.

The next morning came quickly.  I was disappointed to wake and have to face a
new day.  With no interest in breakfast, I went to the front door, not really
sure why. I just wanted to walk.  Opening the door, I looked out, and saw
Eric, bag in hand, asleep on the stones of the entryway.  Silent, speechless,
I looked at my boy, heart roaring, anger and joy seething together.  I looked
at him, legs folded into his arms against the chill October night, he looked
dirty and worn out as he slept on the cold grey slate.  Crazily, I guess, I
sat beside him, one arm around his back holding him to me.  I too fell back
to sleep as I felt the slow pulse of his heart, and that of his life
reentering mine.

Some time later I woke when I felt him stir beside me.

"Dad."  I heard him say softly.

"I'm glad you're back Eric; I really am." I said kissing the top of his head.

"I'm sorry, I really am.  I just, I just."

"Sshhh.  Don't worry about it.  I'm sorry too.  Let's go inside."

Going inside, Eric said nothing until after he had showered.  I purposely
chose the open neutral territory of the back deck to wait and see if he
wanted to talk.  He did, and we both explored the causes and outcomes of our
conflict, quietly and with great emotion.  I came to see a great strain I'd
put upon my boy, yet he also recognized and even marveled at the recounting
of his experiences.  That night dressed in loose sweats, Eric stood in the
doorway of my bedroom looking in from the threshold.

"Um.  Can I sleep here tonight?"  He asked looking down.

I went to him until both hands lay on his shoulders.  "Eric, I would like
that very much, but it is truly your choice."  Little else was said as we
finished climbing into bed, each on our familiar sides.  I didn't try to
touch him or arouse him.  Only as I drifted off to sleep did I feel truly
relieved:  Eric reached around my chest and pulled himself into my back.  I
covered his hand with mine.  Even as my mind closed down in sleep it
registered the fine strength of his hand and the joy of knowing he was back.
Eric was home.