The usual warning applies: Don't be here if you shouldn't.

Some of the sexual encounters in this story are considered unlawful by most societies, but if that bothers you, you wouldn't have opened a story from this section anyway, so no warning needed in that respect.

But another warning may be pertinent: This is a romantic story (some will say sentimental) more than a saturated porn escapade. Like most of my stories this one also evolves slowly. I present my plot and my characters gradually rather than by measurements and bed-hopping on page one. In my stories, sex plays the role of the icing rather than the cake. But don't worry, the icing gets thicker the further along you get.

There is no virus anywhere near this story.

And English is still not my first language (which basically means my vocabulary is limited and my knowledge of idioms on the poorer side...)

I'd love to hear from you. All kinds of criticism is welcome as long as it's factual rather than insulting. winterboy@tutanota.com

And remember to support Nifty. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

 

 

OH, MARTIN! II

or

"FLESHABLE"

 

Magnus Winter

Intro

 

The starting point for this story was a very long prose poem, a very adolescent and at first sight embarrassingly pretentious poem with big words and no punctuation called "Jeg snakker til deg" ("I am talking to you"), one that I wrote at the age of 15 or 16, although I have just a hazy memory of writing it, and no recollection at all of what occasion gave cause to it. (Probably suppressed the whole thing.) I unexpectedly found it when clearing out a box of old school books from my attic. Anyway, there was something in this rambling poem that said there's a story somewhere in here, and I kept it, and I've incorporated most of it into a sequel to "Oh, Martin. Oh, Martin. Oh, Martin", because a highly respected reader thought that such a sequel would be a good idea. So a sequel it is, even if both Martin the painter and Martin the little imp, now diving head first into puberty, are more or less supporting actors here.

It's a fairly long story, so I'll split it in three installments. And since it's divided into parts, it should be easy to find your way back to where you left if you can't read each installment in one go.

Don't worry about the title. It's just a quirk that will become clear to you if you bother to read the story. And to get full mileage from this story, I recommend that you read my original Martin-story first. It's here:

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/oh-martin/

 

 

Part One

 

"No, there's not been much progress this far."

"So – How about considering a change of strategy?"

"To what? They've tried every possibility in the book as far as I can see. And surely outside the book as well. Thing is, dealing with him is like dropping a stone in an empty well. Except there's no thump when the stone hits the bottom."

"How about easing down on the medication?"

"I don't think you'll get much sympathy for that idea. There is too long a history of breakdowns and self-harming and what have you. Besides, they`re short staffed, and they have three more boys there, you know."

"I'd like to see him now. Give it another go, try to gain his trust. And they ARE supposed to cooperate with me, you know."

"You're welcome to him. Once he's found, that is. They just called to say he's run away again."

 

***

 

 

It used to be quite a nice neighborhood. Not showy or affluent, just working class respectability. But the rot had set in even before the last of the retired factory slaves moved out.

It's not a neighborhood of observant eyes. The few who still reside here - mostly illegal immigrants, squatters and junkies - huddle in groups in cluttered front yards, on derelict porches and inside run-down shacks, they do not concern themselves with much beyond their own misery. No one gives any attention to the gangly boy with the knit wool cap pulled all the way down to his eyes as he stealthily approaches the front door of the last house in the cul-de-sac. In the blue twilight its peeling walls and badly maintained roof looms like a cartoon metaphor of despair.

One or two eyebrows are raised at the sound of glass shattering, but who cares, there are too many other things to worry about. But if anyone had cared enough to get closer, they would have seen the lips move in that bony, olive-skinned face, and they would have heard a strained voice mumble:

"I'm talking to you now. You told me, remember? You told me this house is built from trash and sits on a tomb of buried garbage?"

The boy lifts his head, his nostrils flare as he sniffs the air for the stench of death, but all his olfactory system registers is the late August smell of wet grass and moldy woodwork.

A hand with long, thin fingers slips through the broken glass, fumbling for the latch on the inside. The shards cut his wrist, and it bleeds, and this seems so right to him: Another hand and another wrist has bled here, and the memory is huge and consuming. He had kept the rag with the blood on it, and hidden by night he would bring it to his face. Until they sent in their stragglers and their marauders to raid and loot his treasure chamber, and locked it up and guarded it with their faceless and ice cold trooper monkeys that understood nothing and perceived neither love nor hate.

His lips move continuously as his hand now presses the handle down and carefully pushes the creaking door open, just enough to allow him to slink through.

"Yes, now", he mumbles, like a prayer, like a spell. "I need you now, I need your shadow to protect me now, I need your phantom hand on my shoulder now, and don't leave me while I'm talking to you..." Because this is a territory filled with the booby traps of memories, and a boy needs protection when he is about to enter a chamber of horrors and does not wish to fall into the potholes of blind fear and deadly sorrow.

"I'm talking to you, so listen", he whispers because he's caught in his own ritual now. "Yes, I'm talking to you even though they constantly try to tune you out, but I win, and you're still in my head."

Yes, stuck in his head like one of those all-absorbing songs, you know the ones you wake up with and you can't escape, and you hum them all day long. Stuck in his head even though they give him pills to forget, pills that he hid under his tongue until they started to invade his mouth, as if his mouth is theirs to do with what they like. Stuck in his head because their bottles of poison and their uninvited hymns that try to burgle his ears to access his brain never really work. Stuck in his head because it is the only thing that remains his, and his alone.

"I am talking to you now ... because I know words now", he says louder. Yes, words that could have helped when the language of fingers was the only thing he knew, and the dictionary of that language was still closed to him, and the need to understand the meaning grew inside him and gave birth to a hurricane that cried out for a name, and this is the name he now whispers as he treads the familiar floorboards, and the name is love.

He feels the presence of his love, and he shuts his eyes hard, once and then again, to preserve the memory of the face, and his lips move, and his ceremonious words make him straighten his back, and his voice is like the ebb and flow of the buzz from a bumblebee raiding a bed of flowers:

"I'm talking to you now. Yes, my love, I'm talking to you now, my love. I'm talking to you, Felix, my love..."

And he's back in the broom closet among the unholy reptilian claws that grab at his throat, but Felix does not talk back to him, Felix is shouting at the woman who turns out not to be his mother after all, and Felix' words are minacious and vile, and he learns that the woman is a cunt and a bitch, and the door is unlocked, and he is hauled out from the grip of the horrors, and his burning cheeks learn the soothing softness of a cotton shirt, and his shivering thighs learn the safety of a young man's waist.

"I'm talking to you now", he breathes through his teeth, "because I'm forever in that black belly of the iron maiden waiting for you to open the door, please open the door. Open the door!"

 

 

***

 

"Tin-tin! Here! Now!"

Boyd is standing in front of the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest and a sheet of paper dangling from his right hand.

"No!" A stubborn voice, boyishly shrill with anguish, sounds from the locked bathroom. "Cuz you're mad!"

"I'm not mad. Not really. But you can't just hand me shit like this and then run away and hide!"

"Yes, I can!"

Pause. A long one.

"Promise you're not mad? Promise?"

Boyd sighs deeply. "I'm not mad. Yet. But I will be if you don't come out now."

A click as the key turns. The boy comes gingerly out, his head encased in a pair of his brother's boxer shorts, his glasses in place on the outside of the white cotton. Boyd swallows his need to laugh. The letter in his hand rustles as he shakes it.

"Disrespectful attitude? Unacceptable behavior? Foul language?"

The boy Tin-tin shuffles his feet, then goes to sit on the old couch in the middle of the room. The white material in front of his mouth flutters as he blows a raspberry.

"What exactly have you done? Please? And lose that KKK act."

The boxer shorts are torn off, the glasses clatter against the floor and disappear under the couch. The boy crawls down on all fours to retrieve them.

"I told the teacher he's an asshole", he mutters.

"Is that all?" Boyd's voice is sceptical, there has to be more to warrant a letter like this one.

"Okay, a motherfucking asshole", the boy reluctantly admits, head still under the couch.

Boyd waits. Clears his throat meaningfully.

"And I kicked his shin."

Boyd comes over, grabs his brother's waist, hoists him up and seats him on the couch. Sits down beside him and puts an arm around his shoulders.

"Why?"

"Wadda ya think? Cuz he is one, doofus!" Big, beautiful, pleading eyes. The boy knows by now that they usually do the trick. And to a certain extent they work their magic even in the predicament he now finds himself. Boyd's voice softens. Mission accomplished, the glasses go back in place.

"You had better tell me the whole thing, don't you think?"

The boy Tin-tin, or Martin as his real name is, draws his knees up and rests his chin on them.

"He was mean to the new boy. And he didn't hafta be, cuz the new boy didn't do nuthin `cept keep his cap on, but he always has his cap on, and what's the big deal?"

He leans closer, snuggling into the crook of his brother's arm.

"But teacher made fun of him, and pointed at him and everything, and then pulled his cap off and everybody just laughed and laughed, and teacher too, because he has no hair. And he was all red, you know, and I could see he felt really bad about it, really, really, really bad, and then he just snatched back his cap and ran out. And I got really mad because teacher was so shitty to him, so I told him."

They sit in silence for a while. Both lost in thought, both with pictures in their heads, different but unified. Then Boyd speaks.

"And that's it? You haven't left anything out? I need to know because I have to meet with the head-master."

"I'm not mean to him. I never ... But the others, they look at him like he smells bad or something, but he doesn't. I know, because I sometimes just stand next to him cuz he always stands alone and I figured maybe he'd like it if someone didn't hate him, like ... But he only looks at me like for just a second, and never says nothing, I mean anything, and that's mega weird cuz he talks to himself a lot. I mean, his mouth sorta moves like he's talking but nothing comes out."

Tin-tin takes his glasses off, leans forward away from his brother's arm and rubs his eyes.

"He's got no eyebrows", he muses. "Makes him look ... interesting. Different, right? That's why the others don't wanna be with him."

He pushes his big brother down on the couch and lies down close beside him, his head resting on his brother's shoulder, one leg slung across his brother's thigh.

"I hope he has someone to cuddle with", he sighs. "Someone nice so he doesn't have to be so sad."

 

***

 

The boy's lips are still forming words although there's no sound now. But the silent words in his head and in his mouth surround him as he is standing in the dust and the filth, standing before the ominously forward tipping armchair with its missing two front legs. And his silent words feel like a nudge to his side and a voice in his ear, a voice that tells him what to do. He pulls out his cock and peels back the skin, and there is the red scar from when he put half a salted peanut inside his foreskin because ... because ... because he didn't know better, and it got infected instead of growing larger, but the scar is no longer the badge of stupidity she names it as she yells at him and slaps him and jails him. No, it's the mark of the branding iron of love, because Felix releases him from the nightmare of the lethal brooms, and takes him to that strange-smelling man in the white coat, and holds him in his lap, and he gets to play with a toy that goes in his ears and magically lets him listen to his own heart and to Felix' heart.

His lips do not stop moving a single second as he imagines her still sitting there, and he showers the broken chair with his piss, and his piss is venom, his piss is liquid hate born of the mumbled curses from his mouth, never mind the futility of it, and his soul cries out and wants praise for this courageous and righteous deed, and now his fingers trace the skull and crossbones carved into the wall behind the chair.

He looks around, and he is suddenly devastated because there's a big gap in the floor in front of the missing bog door, and now he can no longer get close when Felix waves him over like he did then, and with a hushing finger to his lips takes hold of his neck and gently leads him to peep through the keyhole. And he can see the bitch-cunt-cow with that man, and she titters and holds that man's large, pale slab of flesh while he pissed noisily like a horse into the porcelain.

"I'm talking to you now", he mumbles, " and please explain to me again why it's right for her to touch his pee-pee while it earns me a stay in the broom closet when I touch mine." But all he was told then and all he is told now is to store it and save it for future use, and his brain aches because he has no idea for what or for when. He shudders, and he moves away.

"Oh, my love..." The words ring out, sudden and loud. He repeats them silently as his mind is flooded with Felix who smiles at the dancing couples swirling across the TV screen, and then asks him to come and dance with him, and he curtsies, and Felix still smiles as he tells him boys don't do that, but he is in a princess state of mind and he does it again. And he is lifted up, and his arms cling to a neck and his legs cling to a waist, and Felix waltzes him around the bleak room, and they forget her vexing laugh and her foul words of ridicule, and he smacks Felix' lips with his own as Felix sails him through the meaningless and angry sea of bloody pervs and fucking faggots, and his body feels no weight, and his soul unanchors, and he becomes an entity contrived wholly from music, and he squeals.

 

***

 

"Turn it down a bit, will you?"

"No!"

Tin-tin's arms go popping and locking, his lithe body twirling and spinning. "It's a boss song, this!"

Boyd turns from the sink and watches his exuberant little brother, and is suddenly struck by the realization that his little brother is actually not so little anymore, he's grown quite a bit in the last year. His heart fills up with a wild and unexpected euphoria at the joyous sight that unfolds in front of him. A flow of gratitude, satisfaction, exhilaration - who knows? - rushes through his veins. We've come this far, his brain whispers, in spite of everything we're here now. And all of us are ... what, happy? He leaves the kitchen corner and joins his brother, mirrors his moves and duplicates his smiles, and they whoop and laugh together as they drench themselves in the pounding music.

Little brother suddenly stops.

"Can you teach me to waltz?"

"Not to this music, I can't!" Boyd laughs.

"You can try! Come on!"

And Boyd pulls his brother into a closed position, places his brother's left hand on his shoulder and lifts his right hand to shoulder height and marvels at what seems to be almost a perfect fit: The top of little brother's head is level with his lips, their knees are of the right difference in height never to collide. He tries to introduce the triple waltz-steps to the four stroke beat, but soon gives up and instead gives himself over to the unfamiliar, but oddly pleasant feeling of just slowly trotting around on the floor with his brother floating in his arms. His beautiful little brother.

And in his head pride fights regret: Soon he's no longer a little boy, soon he'll be an insufferable teen-aged mass of hormones and contradictions – and I wish I had the power to postpone it for a while...

"You'll grow taller than me", he says softly and lifts his chin to rest on the crown of his brother's head.

 

***

 

"I'm talking to you now", the whispers persist. "I'm talking to you now I'm in your room. No, I'm talking to you now in what is left of your room, and please tell me again the story of the Ouroboros". And Felix' is here now, and his body contorts, and his knees are around his ears, and his long, thin cock disappears between his lips, and he asks him to please tickle his skin behind his balls, and those shiny globes grow huge and sacred in his vision. And when he closes in on them, he understands that since a small finger feels good, a small tongue should feel even better? And their mouths share the wonder that strangers with unpleasant clothes and gooseberry eyes call naughty bits when later they tell him in their sugared voices that no, no, no, it isn't love what you feel.

And now in this derelict space, where the debris used to be a bed, he mumbles: "How can you do it?"

And Felix tells him it's because he is now fourteen and because he is flexible, but he hears fleshable, and he wants to be fleshable too, and he tries to be fleshable, but he can't, so he cries a little. And Felix puts him down on his bed and holds his blue transparent ruler along his own long, stiff cock and then against his little prick and tells him: This is why. But he doesn't get it, so Felix tickles and pulls until his little prick stands on end, and his spine and his groin tingles like its full of soda pop, and Felix measures them again, and he can't understand why the sight of the blue transparent ruler along that long, stiff cock is the loveliest and most heartbreaking thing he has ever seen. And he cries a little more, because ugly and disgusting are the labels she has stuck on him, and unloveliness must weep when it meets beauty.

But now there are no words as he feels an arm around his troubled little chest and a finger against his speechless little lips, and he sucks the tip of the finger into his little mouth, and he's never felt so beautiful as when Felix whispers in his ear that he is beautiful, and he wants – no, he needs to hold the blue transparent ruler along that long, stiff cock himself.

"And you let me", the murmur goes on, "because you are the truly beautiful one."

And Felix answers his silent plea, and purposeful hands bend him and fold him, and he feels expectant and electrified and suddenly thoroughly and wonderfully fleshable, and his soul sings a paean to Felix' tongue as it oh, so softly just tickles his hole and then disappears. And emptiness screams through his head, and all his words call Felix back. And he does come back. And his hole is his realm and Felix' tongue is his king as it caresses and prods and plunders, and Felix' fingers are the princely court that now please and wow his little prick as it fills up with joy, and hardens, and tries to compete with his little hole for the dominant throne in this kingdom of rapture, and something incomprehensible and dangerous rises in him, and he clutches at ears to stop the terrifying powers that want to grip him and haul him off into pain. But Felix does not relent, and struggle turns to surrender as the tongue tries to open the gate and his little body tingles with a sudden and unexpected effervescent tightness that is unlike anything he's ever felt and colors him bright pink.

"Ask me again", he mumbles as he hears Felix' precious voice ask him softly to watch while hands close around that long, thin cock and jerk it up and down, and two sharp moans escape his open mouth, and strange liquid erupts from the tip of his long cock and shimmers like pearls. And Felix tells him að geysa means to spurt in Icelandic, as if it's something one needs to know, but all he wants is to touch the shiny droplets on Felix' chest, because he cannot understand this at all and wonders if it's dangerous.

And the images of that beautiful cock and the memories of that pleasure-whetting tongue surge through him now, and the memories want to consume him with howling bereavement, and he unzips and takes his not-so-little-anymore cock out, and he wipes his still bleeding wrist across its stiffness and rubs the blood onto the scar on the head. And so, in this room, the only one that carries the ghost of halcyon hours and days, while his lips repeat his testimony of love and loss, he makes lonely and caring love to his cock until it throbs and spits out its meager amount of watery cum. And he keeps on talking as his knees buckle, and his thoughts drown in the twilight of regret, and he struggles to be heard through the years crowded and crammed with the din of demands and the roar of restrictions, but Felix whispers in his ear that his name is Little Feather, because everyone needs a true name, and he tries to find Felix' name, but none of his words were big enough then, and he's still searching for that true name.

 

***

 

An open textbook comes sailing across the floor from the corner by the windows where Tin-tin, flat on his stomach, has taken to doing his reading.

"This is so lame! Why do I need to know this?" He crawls like a worm across the floor, slides his slim body under the couch and groans.

Boyd picks up the book, scans the open pages. Reads out loud:

"In the Quran, the heavens and the earth were joined together as one unit of creation, after which they were cloven asunder. After the parting of both, they simultaneously came into their present shape after going through a phase when they were smoke-like. The Quran states that the process of creation took 6 ayam, In the Quran, the word yawm ,often translated to day, is used loosely to mean era, for example Surah 70 verse 4: The angels and spirit will ascend to Him during a day the extent of which is fifty thousand years."

"See?" Tin-tins voice rings out from under the couch. "Stupid! Crazy!"

Boyd chuckles. "What do you expect? It's religion, it's supposed to be crazy! If it was logical, it would be science, right?"

Tin-tin comes wriggling out. A small dust bunny is caught in his dark hair. "I still don't get why I have to learn about this shit!" he whines. "Religion? It just makes people say silly things, and then go and kill each other!"

"Knowledge never hurt anyone", Boyd states. "And it's not like they force you to believe in this."

"They do too! Some do! And if you don't believe in their shit, they blow you up!"

Boyd closes the book, turns it and reads the blurb on the back cover. "This is not meant for sixth graders", he comments. "Why did they give you this book?"

"They didn't. I got it out of the library cuz we're s'posed to find out about Islam. Like it's not on the news every day and I already know more stuff than I want to know!"

Boyd picks the dust out of his brother's hair. "Leave it. We'll see if we can find something online that's a bit less difficult to read. Is there a deadline for this assignment?"

Tin-tin pouts. "Yeah. Like today. But then that shit with the teacher happened, and he forgot to collect our papers. Which was kinda fluky for me, cuz I hadn't done it."

Boyd tuts. Rises and fetches his laptop. "Here. See if you can find something a bit more digestible here. Try to google Islam for kids or something."

Boyd leaves him to it and removes himself to the bathroom to do the laundry. Sees the room needs a clean-up, and occupies himself with these chores for the best part of an hour. When he returns to the livingroom, little brother is slumped on the couch, laptop open on his knees.

"Alo-pe-cia!"

Boyd halts. "What?"

"That's what it's called!" Tin-tin declares eagerly. "Having no hair! It's a sickness! So he can't help it!"

Boyd crosses his arms. "You were supposed to do your homework, weren't you? Do I have to sit on you to make you do what you're told?"

"I'm good. I did that twonky Islam thing already. But why do people make fun of you for stuff you can't help? That's so mean!"

Boyd closes the laptop and picks up the sheet of paper where Tin-tin has scrawled down the basic facts about his hated subject. It all seems a bit hasty and superficial, but he guesses it'll have to do. He sits down next to his brother.

"I'm glad you feel that way. But there will always be people who are thoughtless and unfeeling, and there's not much you and I can do about it, except make sure we're not the same."

They sit in silence for a while.

"Maybe if I..." The boy's voice squeaks softly from his throat. "Or no, that would be like too obvious"

Boyd waits to hear what this is about.

"Or I could ... Do we have a dress or something?"

"What on earth are you on about?"

Tin-tin's brow is knitted and concentrated. Finally:

"Well, someone should take the attention away from him. Give him a break, right? And I think that has to be me, see?" He looks suddenly comically serious, and his voice takes on a note of exalted pathos: "I think I just discovered the purpose of my life!"

Boyd laughs out loud, but his laughter dies when he sees that his little brother actually means what he says in spite of the stilted words.

"So if you do something outrageous, like wear a dress to school, they'll start picking on you and forget about him? Is that what you're thinking?"

"Sorta." He sighs heavily. "But I have to come up with something smart, don't I? Not just shave my eyebrows, like."

Boyd reflects a bit.

"Two things. First, you have to take into account that stunts like that often back-fire. If the other kids think you're a cool guy, then it could have some effect. But otherwise it would probably make it worse for both of you. And secondly, are you sure he would appreciate you butting in like that? What if he only wants to be left alone?"

"Andy thinks I'm cool. And the twins said it was awesome when I kicked the teacher." He leans back and clicks his tongue several times. "But you're right, fuck you. I'm not really popular. Shit."

Boyd hugs him. Holds him tight and strokes his back.

"I love you for wanting to do something for this guy, but your language! Please!", he mumbles in Tin-tin's ear. "I suppose he has a name?"

Tin-Tin pulls away. "God, yeah! Like that's a fat lotta help! He's Filippo. And that asshole Ken Nilsson calls him Fitlips cuz he has a Swedish father and he says it means cunt lips in Swedish."

Tin-tin curls up in the crook of his brother's arm again. They sit like this for a long time, Boyd just relishing the moment, Tin-tin quieting down and slowly relaxing. His fingers weave into his hair, twirling and softly pulling.

"Imagine never having to get a haircut", he sleepily muses. "That's low maintenance costs for ya." His eyes glide shut. " I like him", he mumbles, half asleep now. "Well, I don't know if I like him, cuz I don't know him", he yawns. "But I'm going to like him... I know ..."

And he falls asleep with his cheek resting on his brother's shoulder.

***

 

In a fetal position, lips still muttering words, the boy lies curled up in the filthy corner, wanting the escape, wanting the release that sleep can give, wanting and hoping against all odds that the nightmares will stay away.

But her snout is in his face like an excavator bucket trenching his soul, her teeth pouring out like yellow tombstones, and her laughter screeching like a demented magpie as she holds him down: Yes, do him! Do the ugly little faggot, but hurry up before the other one gets back... And written on his brain in letters of fire and searing pain: But it's my birthday ... it's my birthday ...

He wakes up in the midst of the blinding whiteness of the dream: The mayhem of frenzied shrieks and the splintering of glass and the sickening cracks of hammer hitting bone, like music from the devil's own crank music box, and the blood is everywhere, and he calls out - no, he screams out for Felix, but no matter how many times he screams, his screams bring no familiar sounds and no reassuring scents and where Felix should be there is only vapor and mist.

The boy gropes his way through the darkness, scrabbles around by the front door until he finds what he needs. And back in his squalid corner he rolls up his sleeve, and the shard of glass finds velvety skin among the years of scars on the soft underside of his skinny arm.

And eventually he thinks he can sleep. Sleep for the longest time, and his lips move again and his words are slurred by his aching skin and his tormented soul. "I am talking to you now, my Felix, I am talking to you to help me sleep. And sleep, and sleep, and not wake up until I'm fourteen and fleshable, and then I'll find you. Then I'll find you."

But the dreams won't leave him alone and he's wrenched from the harbor of Felix' arms, and strangers with funereal clothes throw insane dolls at him and sour, plaintive voices tell him Show us! but none of the dolls look like him and none of the dolls will bend and be fleshable, and when he's all cried out and the pain is just a dull throb, and when all their chilly hands and sticky words have hardened to iron in the pandemonium of his brain, they welcome him to his new home.

 

***

 

When Martin Mowinckel enters the dimly lit room, the first things that meet his eyes are the two brothers huddled together and fast asleep on the big couch. His heart skips a beat. Funny, he thinks, almost two years, and still my inside turns to mush at the sight of them. You'd think I was used to them by now.

He leaves his suitcase by the door and tiptoes over, for a while just standing there watching them, then he cautiously bends down and plants a light kiss on Boyd's forehead. The urge to lay himself down on top of the brothers sings through his veins. Boyd opens his eyes, and as always he feels like he's struck by lightning. It's just that I've been away so long, his rational mind tries to explain to his heart. So long? Come on, two weeks is not that long. Get your shit together! Boyd detaches his arm, careful not to disturb his brother, and pulls him down till their lips meet and two mouths fill up with tongues.

Martin, still lip-locked to Boyd, slips off his jacket and does what he's wanted to do all along, he crawls up, lies down on top of the two brothers and embraces them. Tin-tin stirs and grunts, and still asleep tries to turn around. Boyd breaks the kiss.

"I guess I taste foul, I haven't brushed or anything. We just fell asleep. But God, it's so good to have you back. What time is it?"

"Just past eleven. And you don't taste bad. You taste like a Henschel."

A small, groggy voice joins in: "Do I taste like a Henschel too?"

"Let's find out."

Big Martin puts his lips softly against little Martin's, and as the boy's pointed tongue pushes to enter, he opens up and sucks it in, and as always his skin prickles and his blood tingles and rushes through his body.

"No, you taste like yummy food for the gods."

Tin-tin giggles and yawns. "Silly!" Two skinny arms close around Martin's neck. "I dreamt about you!"

"No shit! I never thought I could figure in anyone's dreams!" He puckers his lips. "Come on! Triple kiss!"

Three faces close in, three pairs of lips open, three tongues stick out and meet in the middle, and three throats rumble with giggles.

 

 

 

Part Two

"I've been going through Filippo Conti's file again. There are some aspects that I would like clarified, though. I feel the reports are rather inadequate on some points."

"Yeah, well, the whole boy is nothing but loose ends. I know he's a new case for you, and I admire you for trying, but I fear you'll soon give up on him. Like the others before you."

"That is a very harsh and negative attitude."

A shrug and a sigh.

"What are the points in question?"

"It's concerning the house where he was found yesterday. He was there in foster care from six until he was nine, and there are five reports on suspicion of abuse from this period. Why wasn't anything done?"

"No proof. Until it all exploded. The foster mother always seemed pleasant and caring, and the foster brother who called in the allegations had a history of hating – well, at least of opposing his mother. Blaming her for his father's disappearance. That happened almost right after they took Conti in. I remember there was some mystery about this, like no one ever found out where he'd gone, and there were speculations all over the place ... Anyway, it was concluded that the son was just out to put the black on his mother for revenge or something. Our mistake, but there you go."

"About this boy, Felix Peterson, right? What happened to him? It says here the man involved in the molestation later died from skull injuries inflicted by Peterson, but nothing more. It also says that Conti's "acting out" and "tantrums" as you call it, usually involves the Peterson boy, for instance like calling or screaming for him and crying while talking to himself about him. It makes me wonder what happened to that boy."

"He was removed from our district, so we have no recent file on him. He stood trial, was acquitted, decision was he had acted in self-defense, but it was considered best for all parts that the connection between the boys was severed. The mother got eight years, you know. I have no idea of his whereabouts. He was ... what, sixteen? when it happened, so he's an adult now."

"Another thing I reacted to: It says here that Filippo Conti shows clear sociopathic traits. Seems to me a rather poorly based diagnosis. I mean, think about it. This boy has been thrown hither and thither, in and out of foster homes and psychiatric wards, heavily traumatized, and would you, if you were in his shoes, trust anyone? Care about anyone? Besides, it's not a sociopathic characteristic to self-harm. It seems to me that all his frustration only affects or harms himself or dead objects, there's no report of violence to others. To me, that doesn't say sociopath at all. It says despair."

"That's something you should take up with the bunch of psychologists and psychiatrists that have crowded him through the years. I'm not responsible for those labels."

Silence. Then:

"He'll be thirteen next week, and I'd like to do something nice for him. Is that alright with you?"

"Well, yes. But I'd think twice if I were you. It's not a good day for him. You know he was raped on his birthday?"

 

 

***

 

Back in school again. He watches from the sideline as sides for basketball are chosen. He knows well he won't be picked. Doesn't want to be, either. He has a new stocking cap, this one is bright blue, and as always pulled down to his eyes. The scene in front of him does nothing but underline his exclusion, cementing the walls of his protection from the hazards of involvement. Anyone good at lipreading would discover repeated sentences: Tomorrow I'll find you. Next week I'll find you. Tomorrow I'll...

But his ritual is disturbed, and the images in his head become blurred and Felix turns his back on him because that boy is standing next to him again. He dares not look. The boy is so beautiful it will burn his eyes out, and he will have no chance to escape his own ugliness again, see the hateful world as real again, and be wide open and unprotected against both old and new things that will make him feel like shit again. And his defense, that primordial absence from life around him will be shot and he will cry again. Tomorrow I'll find you. Tomorrow you'll find me...

And the boy moves closer, almost touching his side, and goosebumps and panic and nausea fight for space in him as he freezes to the ground.

"I like your new hat", the boy whispers. He shuts his eyes hard and turns away and spits on the ground.

"And I like you", the whispers continue, and the only thing left for him to do is to run away as fast as he can.

 

 

***

"Look!" Tin-tin pipes excitedly as he pushes down his shorts.

Martin turns his head away from his canvas, palette in one hand, brush clenched between his teeth. "Look at what?" The brush makes his words sound as if they come from inside a box.

"Hair! Look!"

Martin spits the brush out, leans down and scrutinizes the offered sight: The pale skin beneath the tan line, the top of a growing boyish cock, and yes, there are a couple of tiny, almost invisible dark hairs sprouting from the smooth area. He feels with his finger across the pubic bone. And his heart beats as if to remind him how much he loves this boy.

"Wow!"

"Wicked, huh?"

"Truly! Before we know it, you'll be on your way to vote."

He leans in and kisses the skin where the two celebrated hairs grow. Tin-tin squirms and laughs, steps back and pulls his shorts up. Then his face turns serious.

"Martin, how do you make someone like you?"

Martin puts down his palette. "I'm not sure I'm the right person to ask. I've often wondered the same."

He takes Tint-tin's hand and leads him to the leather sofa at the end of his studio. They crawl up and sit facing each other.

"What brought this about?"

"Oh, right. I haven't told you. There's this new boy in my class, and he has alopecia which means he has no hair and everyone is kinda mean to him, didn't Boyd tell you about we hadda go to the head-master's office?"

"Oh, he mentioned something, but I was a bit preoccupied. So I guess I missed out on some details. You tell me about it."

"I did something stupid, but I couldn't help it, because teacher was shitty to the new boy and no one ever defends him or anything, so I kicked the teacher and told him he was a prick. No, I didn't. I said he was a motherfuckin' asshole." He giggles as he tells this.

"Oops", Martin says. "I bet that didn't go down well."

"It totally didn't. But I wanna be friends with him, even if he's really shy and everything, and I try to talk to him, but it's like he's frightened and he goes away."

"Hm. Well, maybe you just have to give him some time? Why do you want him to be your friend?"

"Everybody needs to have friends, and he ain't got none, so I figured I'd be his friend. And also ... I like the way he looks because his skin's such a nice color and I think he looks mega cool with no hair on him. But he always hides inside his wool cap. It looks itchy!"

"It could be that he's bothered by his affliction, you know. Especially if he has experienced that people make fun of him or shun him. That would make it hard to trust people."

Tin-tin moves his glasses up and down on his nose with squinting eyes and lips tightly shut. Then:

"Can I tell you something?"

"Yes, of course you can. Is it a secret?"

"Sorta."

"I won't tell anyone. So spill it!"

Tin-tin pulls his knees up to his chin. "I get a stiffy from him. Is that weird?"

Martin laughs. "Absolutely not. Stiffies are not weird. Stiffies are nice. You know that."

"Yes, but ... it's different when I get stiff with you and Boyd cuz then everybody has stiffies and we have touched and stuff, but I got stiff as hell once when I got close to him and he hadn't even looked at me!" In a whisper now: "And I wanted to touch him."

"Well, you know, you're growing up, and getting sudden erections is part of being almost twelve, and believe me, you'll get hard all the time as you grow more, and not for any particular reason either. Of course, stiffies happen when something sexy occurs, but you know, part of being a growing boy is that your penis is starting to live its own life more or less, and doesn't need an excuse to go stiff."

Tin-tin rocks slowly from side to side. "Yeah, I know. But it would be crunchy if he noticed."

Martin sighs. "Oh, come here!" He pulls the boy into a hug. "Don't worry, Tin-tin. It will be good, you'll see. Just give him the space he needs, and I'm sure he'll come around and be your friend."

The boy scutters himself close to Martin's chest. "I want him to come here", he mumbles into Martin's T-shirt. "I want you to paint him."

"If he wants me to, I will. All we can do is hope he'll want to be your friend."

Tin-tin sniggers through his nose. "Maybe if you paint him, you'll get stiff too. And you can't fucking hide your elephant stiffy!"

Martin slaps the back of the boy's head. "None of that! And mind your language!"

But he laughs softly and cuddles the boy and sighs.

 

***

 

The teacher's cold and militant voice thunders above the scraping of chairs and the buzz of young voices.

"Quiet!"

The noise reluctantly dies down and twenty-seven young faces showing different levels of interest, or lack thereof, turn towards him. He picks up a black felt tip pen and turns to the whiteboard.

"Buddhism. You'll work in groups of four with this one. You know the drill: Information gathering, editing, presentation. The result in this case will be an oral presentation in front of the class. You can do it like a lecture, or maybe use power-point, maybe dramatize it if you feel like it, but I expect all group members to participate in the performance. So no slacking off and leaving the work to your mates." His eyes fasten on two boys at the back of the room, notorious shirkers both of them, bully-in-chief Ken Nilsson one of them.

"The presentation will be on Monday, that gives you five days including the week-end. And mind that this is not just about finding facts, this is about how you organize a team, how you utilize each other's strengths and talents, and also how you solve disagreements or conflicts within the group. Have I made myself clear?"

Murmur and nods of assent mingle with moans of dissatisfaction.

"And this time you can choose work partners yourselves. I do, however, reserve the right to interfere with your choices if I find it necessary. So. Six groups of four, one group of three. Get organized!"

The teacher sits down and buries himself in a stack of papers, red pen in hand.

Across the room that suddenly has turned into an anthill of moving bodies and murmurs and calls, freckled and ginger haired Andy eagerly points rapidly back and forth at Tin-tin and his own chest. Tin-tin nods and moves over, thoughtful and slow. Now he grabs Andy's upper arm and pulls him up, leads him over to the boy who sits alone staring at his desktop, blue cap over his ears.

"We want you in our group."

Andy's mouth falls open in his incredulous face, a small, choked sound escapes his throat. Tin-tin elbows him.

"If you wanna be with us, that is."

And a dumbfounded Andy witnesses the unexpected and to him incomprehensible scene that unfolds in front of him: As in slow motion, the boy with the blue cap lifts his face. Two big brown eyes stare from under the blue brim, lips part slightly in an expression he can't read. Disbelief? Fear? But those dark eyes do not meet his eyes, they seem completely focused on the boy beside him, almost like he's paralyzed, and the boy beside him, his friend, his mate, seems equally immobilized. The sudden tension he feels is unpleasant, almost dangerous, like he sees them at the edge of a treacherous pit, and he is urged to do something, say something.

"Yeah", he croaks. "Our group. You know."

The boy turns his face away, stares towards the window. "Okay", he whispers.

A jeering voice cuts through the air behind them.

"Get a load of this! Window Face and Ranga and Fitlips! Geek Squad! You fags gonna get married now?"

Ken Nilsson breathes down Tin-tin's neck. He spins around.

"At least we're not as thick as you, you twonk!"

Ken pushes both hands hard at Tin-tin who sidesteps, and the insufferable bullyboy stumbles and falls across the desk in front of him. The noise alerts the teacher, who gets up in a frenzy, comes over and grasps Tin-tin's arm in a grip of iron.

"You again! I'm warning you, Martin Henschel!"

Andy butts in. "But Sir! That wasn't Martin, that was Ken! It was all his fault! He called us fags!"

Tin-tin wrenches his arm from teacher's grip and runs to the back of the room.

"Hey you!" he shouts. "You think Ken is so cool, but he isn't! He isn't! He's a stupid asshole! Calling people Fitlips and bragging about it being Swedish, but it isn't! I looked it up! It's fittläppar with two dots above the first a, but he's too stupid to even know that! And you should all fucking apologize to Filippo for being so shitty to him, and you too!" he spits out directed at the teacher.

"That's enough!" teacher booms. "Martin, go to your place! Now! The rest of you, find your groups and write down the names of those in your group and hand them in."

Tin-tin finds his place, plonks down on his chair, flops his upper body flat down on the desk and hides his face in his folded arms. His whole body trembles. The room has quieted down to occasional shuffles and low murmurs when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"Sit up, Martin!"

Teacher's voice is determined, but not hostile. He complies.

"Listen, I can see you're on a mission here, and on one level I salute you. I think it's great that you stand up for your mates, but you got to cool down your temper. Using language like that! I thought I'd made that clear to you the other day!"

Tin-tin swallows. "Sorry." The word comes out pinched and small.

Teacher turns to leave him.

"Wait!" Tin-tins voice is clearer now. "I've said I'm sorry, twice now, but have you told Filippo that you're sorry for snatching his cap and making fun of him? I'm sorry if you think I'm being disrespectful, but I mean it, I think you should! It's not his fault that he doesn't grow hair and he's bothered about it, anyone can see that." And then adds: "Sir."

Teacher rubs his chin. Counts to ten and sighs.

"So you told me at the meeting with your brother and the principal, Martin. And for your information, I have apologized to Filippo. But regardless of all your admirable intentions, I cannot excuse your behavior. You have to clean up your language, and this is my last warning. Now, try to calm down, and go find your mates and get on with it."

He does. And Andy leans over close to his ear and giggles. "Did you hear? Ken farted when he stumbled?"

 

***

 

Mottled blue and yellow light seeps into the room from the uncovered open window, along with the ripe smells born from the sudden heatwave this first week of September. Two naked bodies lie side by side on top of the sheets in a wide bed, Martin's bed. They've moved it down from his studio into Boyd's and Tin-tin's apartment, no point in keeping bedrooms on two separate floors when they're always in the same bed anyway.

Their bodies glisten in the sultry night air, pearls of sweat reflect the feeble light and turn the bodies into stained marble. It's too hot for sex, but Boyd's hand holds on to Martin's soft cock, because it's a cock impossible to ignore, an unavoidable cock, a cock that is made to be held in all it's different states of manifestation. A cock that is Boyd's security blanket and fills him with a sense of belonging.

Tin-tin is asleep in his nook at the other end of the large, open apartment, separated from them only by two half-walls, so they keep their conversation low, like their words are extended parts of the distant hum from the city out there. Slow and viscous, like their movements.

"He showed me his hairs today. So proud! And there was almost nothing to see."

Boyd's breath caresses Martin's shoulder, it feels almost cooling in the clammy air.

"He's on his way to puberty. I don't know why I feel sad about it."

"I know. But he'll still be your ...our boy, huh?"

"He's changing. Like he's awakening to the world."

Martin is silent for a while. Then: "He's in love."

Boyd lifts his head, seeks Martin's eyes.

"Well, in crush at least."

"Think so? Is that why he has suddenly become such a Samaritan? Such a campaigner for this new boy? In love?"

Boyd's head falls back in place next to the shoulder, hand still holding the cock. "You need a shave. Your pubes are prickly."

"Yeah, I know. God, I remember when I started to grow hair. The strangeness of it. Sort of pride mingling with fear. I wish I could have been as free as Tin-tin about it. I mean, show it off and talk about it. I would have died from embarrassment if my parents had spoken to me about anything remotely sexual. Well, they never did, so..."

"I'm a little worried", Boyd slowly confesses. "That boy. No hair? That says chemo to me, and of course the next thought is leukemia, and then I see just hopelessness and sorrow and death and everything. Uff."

Martin moves his head and licks Boyd's forehead.

"It's not necessarily that, you know. Could be just a genetic quirk or something."

Boyd's hand opens up and glides under Martin's balls, tickles and caresses, then closes around his cock again. It feels heavy and full even when it remains flaccid.

"Do you still think we may have done something wrong?" Boyd quietly asks. "I mean, letting him watch us and touch us, and us touching him, and all that?"

Martin reflects. For a long time.

"No. Not anymore. It's not like we've pushed him into anything. He only does what he wants and always asks when he's curious about something or wants us to do something with him. And it's not like he's become obsessed with sex or anything."

"But soon he'll walk around with a permanent hard-on. And maybe he'll lose the rest of what little inhibitions he has."

"So? I wish I had been that free! But you're wrong. He has lots of inhibitions, and lots of restraint when it comes to what should be public and what should be private. He's feels free with us, that's all. And a good thing, too."

"I do hope you're right." Boyd lets go of his handful and lifts himself up on his elbows. "To him, sex and bodies and stuff has only been like fun, or playing games or something. No real agenda, purposeless if you know what I mean. Not serious stuff. I don't want him to go through what I did, you know. I don't want him to find out that sex is merchandise. I want him to learn that sex is good, and free and voluntary, not something you just use to achieve something else. Oh, this is just bullshit, I don't know what I mean."

"He has an advantage, you know. He knows stuff, even if his not conscious of it. For one thing he's seen that sex and love go together. I discovered sex in the pissoirs, and I was fucking old before I really found out that there's a connection between sex and love."

Boyd moans. "I'm just in a tizzy because I don't want him to grow up. I want him to be my little brother forever. I'm afraid to lose him."

Boyd lies down again. His fingers find his cherished object.

"Well, at least we've given him an antidote to that Christian attitude that pleasure equals sin."

They stay side by side, too sweaty and sticky to spoon, too hot to do anything but breathe.

"In love, you say?" Boyd mutters into the air.

***

Three heads conspiratorially together, two eager, one reluctant.

"I'll ask", Tin-tin hisses.

"Not you, Martin! Sir is always down on you", Andy counters. "I'll ask." He sneezes. Wipes his nose on his shirt sleeve.

"Or maybe...", Tin-tin muses, "maybe Filippo should ask. Sir owes him!"

The brown eyes under the blue wool look panic-stricken. The mouth below the high cheekbones and the slim, straight nose opens, but no words come out. His breath is caught, sounds like a hick-up. Tin-tin, full focus on his new friend, reacts quickly.

"On second thought, maybe you'd better do it, Andy."

 

Their teacher has to hide a smirk when he sees the rather peculiar caravan slowly approaching: In front, the slightly stocky, funny-faced figure with the freckled button nose and the unruly mop of red hair, close behind him the slim, three inches taller, bespectacled and worried-looking brunette beauty, and making up the rear the top inches of a blue wool cap. Like some bizarre rendition of the three Magi on their quest. They stop in front of him as if he were the Baby Jesus. He tilts his head and lifts his eyebrows expectantly.

"Sir", the ginger figurehead begins, then looks down with restless fingers tapping his jeans clad thighs. "We have a question."

"Yes?"

Deep sniffle, back of hand wiping nose.

"There's something we wanna do with this Buddhism thing, but we can't do it here, so we wondered if we could be excused for the rest of the day."

"That is a bit too vague, boys. Please explain why you can't do it here?"

Andy looks back at Tin-tin, Tin-tin nudges him.

"It's the others, Sir. They keep picking on us and bothering us."

"And there's someone we need to talk to who's not here", Tin-tin fills in. "Sir", he adds as an afterthought.

Teacher looks faintly amused.

"Well, if I am to excuse you from ... what, music and PE, right? ... I need to know a bit more about this project, don't you think?"

Again the exchange of looks. Then Andy sniffles noisily again and speaks.

"We sorta want it to be a secret, Sir, cuz we don't want anyone to steal our idea."

"That's not good enough, Andy. What makes you think I'll spill it to the others? Out with it! And please blow your nose!"

Andy's face turns pink.

"We are going to make a movie", he finally divulges. "It's about Buddhism", he quickly inserts, "and the Dalai Lama and stuff."

"It's about the legend of how to find the new one", Tin-tin supplies. "About reinclination."

"Reincarnation", teacher corrects. "And how do you plan to pull that off?"

"We thought we could film stuff with our phones. And Martin knows this artist that can help us with ... stuff. But we want to start now!"

Totally unexpected, a voice rises loud and clear from the blue-hatted boy hiding behind the others, it's a voice deeper and richer than the soprano timbre of his mates:

"Please, Sir!"

The teacher feels strangely flustered, this is the first time he has heard other that whispers from the boy. And it strikes him that this odd band of budding comradeship may be exactly what this difficult and disturbed boy needs.

"Very well", he finally concedes. "I'll talk to your PE teacher. Off with you."

Three muffled thank-you-s from at least to happy faces, then one giant sneeze sprays his desk with tiny droplets.

 

***

 

He doesn't understand why his heart beats so fast, like it wants to climb out of his chest, whenever he looks at this boy. He doesn't understand why it feels like he's being stung when this boy looks at him, even when he can't see him do so because he has turned away. And why he's powerless to resist the pull of a thousand ropes that want to tie him up and drag him into the alien territory that this boy is, this boy whose beauty is so intensely present it hurts, so devastating to his defenses that it violently shakes the very core of him.

And now the boy Andy is sent home with a fever and he can no longer hide behind him. And he's seen that man Martin, and learned that his Martin is now Tin-tin, but only here and not in school, and here is full of unfamiliar stuff: he can see dangerous feelings that look like happiness and trust, even like love, float freely around, and he is frightened and wants to warn Tin-tin. Because he knows what happens to that kind of stuff.

He's unprepared for these rooms, they are too large, they are too open, no shelter. They make him feel like a speck of dirt on a lapel, something you can spit on your finger to remove. Don't be nervous, Tin-tin had said, Martin's nice. He cares about people. Promises of nice, promises of care? Oh, he knows. It's just a matter of time. Sooner or later their gargoyle faces will break through the icing, their sugarcoated smiles will crumble, their flower-garnished words will wither, and their true voices will flood and destroy any unprotected, vulnerable garden, but he won't let them. The prayers in his heart will run like contrails across the blue, blue sky, and Felix will see them and Felix will know, and Felix will come for him and hold him, and all dread will blow away like dandelion seeds and morning mist, and pain will not exist.

And now he follows the constantly chatting Martin – no, Tin-tin – into his room that's not really a proper room, and there are colors everywhere, and books, and a painting that looks like Tin-tin with no shirt on, and skin and nipples that draw blood to his throat and his groin and make his fingers twitch, and he abruptly turns. His eyes fasten on the small desk with a stack of papers and pencils and markers. And a blue transparent ruler. His breath stops and his ears go deaf as his mind explodes and his castle in the air comes crashing down and lies splintered on the ground.

And Tin-tin gulps down the rest of his sentence as he sees Filippo drop with a thud to the floor, staring wildly into nothing, and a thin wail, like a small animal dying, penetrates the room and increases in volume until it's unbearable, and he covers his ears. The siren-like wail turns into loud, uncontrolled sobs, the thin body convulses and heaves, the wide open mouth bawls and sobs, snot and tears bathe the face, spit runs down the chin, like he's frightened – no, wounded to death. Tin-tin's heart is breaking, he feels so useless, so utterly incapable, so clueless about what to do. But with tears fogging up his glasses he sinks to the floor beside the boy, hugs him as hard as he can, fights against the body that tries to shake him off, just holds the trembling, screaming, wildly crying boy tighter than tight, and weeps with him.

There's a click from the front door.

"Boyd!" he yells. "Help me! Boyd!"

Boyd hurries in to the bewildering sight of the two crying boys, one desperately struggling, one relentlessly holding against the spastic motions, and the only thing he can think to do is to wrap his arms around both of them, haul the bundle up and put it on Tin-tin's bed. And he sees a wet spot on the carpet and the front of a pair of jeans darkened and soaked.

And now, in between the howling sobs, words can be heard, words slurred by snot and tears, words so full of despair and pain it tears Boyd's heart to shreds: "He's not coming! I can't find him! He's not coming! He's never coming!..."

 

 

 

Part Three

 

"Alsted."

Short and snappy. Like closing off before anything begins.

"Hello – this is Boyd Henschel, remember me? Brother of Martin Henschel, sixth grade? Sorry to bother you, but I need to get in touch with the parents of Filippo Conti in Martin's class. Can you please help me?"

Silence. Then:

"May I ask why?"

"What? Is that classified information or something? Filippo is here with Martin, and I need to contact them, that's all!"

Easy to detect irritation in Boyd's voice. No warmth in the other voice either:

"Then I suggest you ask Filippo."

"Wouldn't I have done that if I could?"

Silence follows again. And:

"That's the kind of info only the school office gives out. I don't think I –"

Boyd interrupts.

"Come on, school's closed! We have a situation here, and I need to speak to his parents! Now!"

Silence again.

"Now!" Boyd shouts.

"Alright, alright! He's in a care home, I think it's called Primrose Lodge. I haven't got their number here."

"Well, thank you so much!"

Voice dripping with irony, Boyd closes the call abruptly.

***

 

"Primrose Lodge, Betty speaking."

"Hi, my name is Boyd Henschel, I'm calling in connection with one Filippo Conti, have I come to the right place?"

"Yes. He's not here, though. What is this about?"

"I know he's not there, he's here. See, my brother is in his class and they work together on a project. Thing is, Filippo's had some sort of break-down here at our house, and I'm uncertain how to deal with it."

Resigned sigh.

"Oh, no."

Silence. Then:

"Well, could you be bothered to bring him over?"

"I don't have a car. And he's not fit to take himself anywhere, as far as I can judge."

"Shit. Sorry. I can't leave, I'm alone here. I'll get hold of the standby. Is he being destructive?"

"Not at all. Just crying a lot. I feel bad for him, but I don't know how to help. He seems totally lost in himself."

"I see. Give me your address, I'll send the standby over to pick him up."

 

***

 

Half an hour. Doorbell. Tiny woman in her early thirties, seemingly dressed for jogging, is out there, her pretty little face one big question mark.

"Henschel?"

Boyd nods, lets her in. No handshake.

"I'm Marion Berg. The Lodge sent me. I'm also Filippo Conti's case worker, as it happens."

Boy scrutinizes her, then tilts his head towards the partly closed off compartment to the right in the vast room. "Come", he says softly.

There's no door to Tin-tins sleeping quarters, just an opening. They stop there, watching the room. Watching the bed where the two boys lie, Filippo still violently sobbing, but no longer struggling. Both his arms are now locked around Tin-tin's waist, his blue cap is askew covering one eye completely, his wool-clad forehead thrust hard against the other boy's shoulder. Tin-tin's arms are secured around him, his cheeks still wet with tears, and his mumbles can barely be heard above the sobbing: "It's alright. It's alright. It's gonna be alright..."

"Oh", the lady whispers. "He's wet himself."

Boyd leads them away. "I don't think that's the biggest problem here", he says. "We should talk. Coffee?"

"Glass of water, please. If I may."

Boyd seats her at the dining table with bottle and glass, flops down vis-á-vis her. She is studying him thoughtfully.

"I've seen you before, but I can't make out where. On TV?"

"Possibly. If you watch "Knee Deep". I'm in it."

"No, I don't. Some commercial or something. Some bank, I think. You do have a rather distinctive face."

He cuts her off. "Let's talk about the situation at hand. What now?"

Her smile is a bit hesitant. "Well, technically I should bring him back to the Lodge. But ... well, I'm new to his case, I was appointed to him just three weeks ago, and I'm not all that certain about what is best for him. I fear he has been treated rather badly, or thoughtlessly at least, and I'm not fully in agreement with the policy at the Lodge. And seeing the two of them in there, I feel it would be a crime to break them apart. I'm sorry, I shouldn't talk like this. This is not your business."

"Actually, it is. Or it has become my business. For two reasons. One, he's in my house having a rotten time right now, and two, that's my little brother with him in there, and he's doing what he can because he cares about this boy, and strangely enough that seems to work. When I tried to calm him, I only made it worse. Tin-tin - eh, Martin seems to have gained his trust now, from what I could see."

"It looked that way, didn't it? Now, Filippo is extremely wary of adults. There are reasons for that, but I can't go into them with you. Let me just say it's pretty heavy stuff. I'm struggling to get through to him, I've come to believe adult women are among his biggest issues." She inhales sharply. "And again my mouth runs away with me. Sorry."

"Don't be. I may be wrong, but I'm pretty certain that we'll see a lot more of Filippo here in the future. Without going too far, I'd say my brother has taken more than an ordinary interest in him, and it seems now that Filippo is not averse to that. And now I'll tell you something that's probably none of your business, but: I love my brother. I've more or less been his carer since he was very little, you don't need to know why, but I'll do anything to keep him happy. And if being with Filippo is one of the things that make him happy, I'll do what I can to facilitate that. So let's look at the practical side of the situation right now. Do you absolutely have to take him back to that home right away??"

"Well, what else can I do?"

"Wait a second."

Boyd picks up his phone and taps an icon.

"Martin? Can you get down here? ... Yes, pretty urgent."

He puts the phone down.

"My ... boyfriend, or partner, whatever ... He needs to be in on this. His studio is upstairs, he'll be here in a tick."

She looks pensive, even a bit concerned. "Oh", she slowly utters. "So, a gay household ... That could be ..." She bites her lip. At the same time Martin comes in, shirtless, work pants and fingers speckled with paint of all colors.

He stops in mid step when he sees her. "Oh."

"Martin", Boyd says hurriedly, "this is Marion Berg."

Martin takes a couple of steps closer. Wipes his hands automatically on his trouser-seat. "Martin Mowinckel", he bows at her.

She suddenly laughs out loud. "Oh my days! What have I got myself into!"

Two pairs of eyes hit her, worried and sceptical.

She chokes on her laughter. "God, I'm sorry. You must think I'm crazy. I'm not, I promise you. It's just that in my office there's a painting I look at every single day - a present from my ex that I can't make myself get rid of, even though it reminds me of ...well, it's still there because it's one of the most beautiful paintings I've ever seen, and do I have to tell you who the artist is?"

Boyd rises. "Martin, listen. Filippo, you know the boy Tin-tin talks about all the time, he's here and he's in a bad way. Marion Berg is his case worker."

"Yes? They came to see me along with a feverish third person that I sent home. We've been planning their movie. What do you mean, in a bad way?"

"Later. Problem is, this lady says she has to take him back to the fucking orphanage or whatever it is he lives in, pardon my French, and I think he should stay here with Tin-Tin for a while. But she seems to have doubts about leaving the poor boy here with gay people all over the place."

"Hang on!" she exclaims. "That's not at all what I meant. You didn't hear me out! I was going to say that could be a good thing, because I'm pretty sure he's gay too, but it could also be the worst thing for him, because one of the reasons he's so distrustful of adults, is that he was raped. And I'm violating my confidentiality agreement by telling you this, but the hell with it. If you are going to be here for him and help him, you should know. He was raped by his foster mother's boyfriend, helped along with the woman herself, on his ninth birthday. So you see you have to tread carefully here? You're two grown men, chances are he's scared shitless of you."

They stare at her, speechless. Martin has covered his mouth with his soiled hand. A small whimper escapes him.

Boyd pulls himself together. "If you let him stay, we'll keep ourselves in the background and let Tin-tin do his magic. If that's the right word. I mean, he seems to be doing the right thing."

"He will need his medicine. At least, that's what they think at the Lodge. I myself think they're too heavy with his medication, but they're specialized in mental health issues, so they outrank me ... And clothes, since he's all ... Ok, let's do it this way and see if it works: Unless he protests, he stays here until he's calmed down. I'll try to fix it with the Lodge, pick up his medicine and a change of clothes if they agree to it, and come by you this evening. Here's my card. If it turns out you can't cope, call me or the Lodge again."

Boyd studies her carefully. "I was wrong about you", he admits. "I was afraid you would be one of those heartless people that always go by the book and never think outside the box. I apologize."

She smiles as she rises. Turns towards the door, then changes her mind and walks over to Tin-tins room. Boyd takes Martin's hand and follows her. The three of them stand quietly watching the boys. There's been a change. Filippo is still lost in his convulsive weeping, still clinging to Tin-tins waist, but his blue cap is gone and Tin-tin's left hand is slowly stroking his bald head. Tin-tin sees them, he opens his mouth, but says nothing. His eyes are full of bewilderment and confusion.

Martin feels a tear escape and run down to the corner of his mouth. "Yes, Tin-tin", he whispers to himself. "I will paint him."

They follow the lady to the door. A thought strikes Boyd.

"I almost forgot. When he was howling and crying at his worst, he was repeating something about someone he couldn't find or someone not finding him. It seemed significant. Any idea?"

"Ah, yes. It's a recurring thing. It has to do with a foster brother, I believe. Listen, if ... if this works out, I'll see more of you later. There are lots of issues here, but I think I've got to get going now. If you don't hear from me, you'll hear from the Lodge. That's all I can say now."

***

 

Darkness starts to creep up on them, the street lamps are now lit and the soft glow seeps through the window and washes over them. Tin-tin is dying to move, his whole body is sore with stiffness, his muscles ache and it feels like cramps will set in any minute. The thrashing and the sobs have subsided, now he only feels an occasional jerk and hears irregular whimpers.

"Filippo", he whispers, "I have to move. I'm getting the cramps."

Filippo stirs, but his arms remain like they're bolted around Tin-tin's waist. A hoarse and nasal voice begs: "Don't leave!"

"I'm not going to leave you, silly. I just have to stretch."

The grip slackens, the forehead moves an inch from the shoulder. Tin-tin twists and bends and flexes, still with one arm around Filippo's shoulder, but he has to move his arm, it feels completely dead.

"Stay here", Tin-tin whispers in his ear. "I'll be right back. I'm not leaving, okay?" He moves to get out of the bed and Filippo curls up like a fetus.

Tin-tin calls from the open doorway:

"Boyd! Can Filippo stay the night? Cuz if not, I'm going with him!" He hears Filippo's breathy moan behind him.

It's Martin who answers.

"Of course he can! If he wants to."

Tin-tin returns to the bed, sits down and puts a hand on the crumpled boy's shoulder. "Do you?" he asks quietly. "Do you wanna sleep over?"

A rarity. A strange feeling. No one ever asks him what he wants. So a tiny nod and an almost inaudible moan is all Filippo can manage.

Tin-tin takes hold of his shoulders, trying to get the boy to sit up. Slowly he succeeds. And the dark, wet stain in the boy's lap is suddenly the most prominent thing in the room, and Filippo's face turns dark red, and all the shame and awkwardness in the world is contained in his mortified face. It's almost incredible that there are still uncried tears in him, but a few of them find their way out.

"I'm sorry", he wheezes. "I couldn't help it, I'm sorry."

Tin-tin pats his knee. His heart is racing, he so desperately wants to help this boy, wants to take his embarrassment away, make him happy, and suddenly something painful stings his chest: What if I can't? What if he doesn't want me? And a new and colossal awareness of feelings soars through him: But I want to be with him! Like totally! Even if he's pissed himself!

"Don't worry. We can fix this", he says reassuringly. He rummages through his clothes, finds what he thinks they need. "We're almost the same size", he muses, "so this should be alright. Come!"

Panic-stricken, Filippo emits a choked "No!"

Tin-tin looks questioningly at him.

"They'll see me!" Filippo gasps.

Tin-tin mind spins this around for a second.

"Boyd!" he shouts. "Martin! Go away! Go upstairs or something!"

They hear footsteps. Then a door slams.

"Now! Come!"

 

***

 

Filippo's brain seems to have gone empty, there is no will left in him, no power. Like everything he knows to be him is going away, and the only thing still inside him is this aching consciousness of the heartbreakingly beautiful creature that is now unbuttoning his shirt. What is happening to him? Why doesn't he do this himself? But he can't. Because this unbelievable boy in front of him has paralyzed him.

There's a slight tremor in Tin-tin's hands as he parts the shirt front and slides the soft material away from square, bony shoulders and reveals smooth skinned chest, paler than hands and face, but still with that warm Mediterranean hue. His skin prickles, the hairs at his temples and at the back of his neck rise, almost hurtlingly, as he gazes at big, brown and slightly puffed areolas surrounding those small buds in the middle. They pull him closer, strongly, almost irresistibly, like he's being sucked into a vacuum. Frightening. He's never considered nipples before, never really noticed them, they are just there, ok? But something, some unexpected feeling, now stalls him, because there is something so private, so vulnerable in what he sees, and he feels like he's trespassing, and it makes him want to cry. It's too much, it's too big. He swallows and takes a step back, aware that his dick is rock hard. His voice is thick in his throat.

"Better do this yourself."

He turns, about to leave the bathroom.

"Please don't go!" There's a trace of panic in Filippo's voice.

So he sits down on the toilet. Fighting to keep his eyes to himself.

"Just give me your clothes. I'll put them in the washer", he mumbles as he stares at his feet. He hears a zip, hears rustling of clothes, hears a plop as soaked jeans and underpants hit the floor in front of him, followed by socks and shirt. Hears the water start splashing against the tiled floor as he heaps the bundle og garments into the machine. Suddenly reminded of former blunders, he pulls out those jeans again and goes through the pockets. All that's there is a tiny metal box, blue enamel worn off at the edges. He puts it on the wash basin, measures out the soap and starts the cycle.

But he can't stop himself, he has to turn around, he has to look.

In his dazed condition, Filippo hasn't thought to close the shower curtain. His back is towards Tin-tin, his head bent backwards, the spray of water straight to his face. There is so much skin, there is only skin, even-colored from the neck down, beautifully tapered waist, narrow hips and almost no buttocks, just a modest curve and a hint of dimples on each side. Tin-Tin's mouth has gone dry, his heart thunders and threatens to choke him, his cock is so hard it hurts, and his mind is filled to the brim with a sudden and new clarity: This is what it feels like to want someone for real. This is what it must feel like to fall in love.

Filippo turns halfway around, and Tin-tin's whole body feels as if it foams over, like a carelessly opened bottle of carbonated beverage, but the tingling anticipation that he's now about to see the cock he's been so curious about dies a very quick death, for Filippo lifts his arms, and his left arm is suddenly in full view, and the underside of this arm is crisscrossed with several pale, almost white lines, some thin, a few thick, and two long, angry red ones. And his heart feels like it stops, a heavy weight falls down through his chest to his stomach and moves around there: It feels like something is growing and expanding out of a container inside me, and I can't keep it in place, and now I really wanna cry.

Swallowing hard and looking away, he wordlessly hands Filippo a large, fluffy towel.

***

He wakes up in a cold sweat, heart pounding like a sledge hammer, the dream still vibrant in his head. A different dream, a terrible dream, the worst he's yet had. Because he was again held down, he was again mocked and ridiculed and beaten, but it was Felix who held him, and another Felix smacked him, and a third Felix left him, laughing cruelly...

It's hard to breathe. The Technicolor nightmare won't let go of him, it's nailed inside his brain, it's hammered into his chest, it's glued to his clammy skin. He tosses and turns, discovers he's in a strange bed, moments of panic pass before he realizes where he is. In Tin-tin's bed. Alone.

He sits up and breathes heavily. Gradually the knowledge that it was just another dream seems to settle in him, his right hand slowly strokes the scars on his left arm, as for comfort, as for reality.

He needs to pee. Gets out of bed, shuffles his bare feet across the large livingroom, passes the opening of the other bedroom that isn't really a room, more a compartment partly hidden behind a half wall lined on the inside with wardrobes and shelves. There are three heads resting on the pillows in that enormous bed, soft snores mingle with deep, slow breathing. He doesn't want to look. He wants to escape.

He opens the door to the bathroom. His clothes are here, hung on a rack in the shower niche. Something snaps in his head: He can't pee in here. He just can't!

 

***

 

Way at the back of Boyd's sleeping brain a sound that shouldn't be there alerts his consciousness. It takes his lethargic mind a few seconds to recognize the disturbance: The smack of the street door shutting and the loud click of the latch.

What? Who? Why now?

Cautiously he gets out of bed, careful not to wake his bedfellows. They're the only ones who use this door; the residents of the far end of the building, a photographer and his wife who keep very much to themselves, have their own entrance. He goes to the open window to inspect.

And out there is a slender figure crossing the street, heading for the bushes that grow on the sloping riverbank, white underwear standing out against the dark background even after the figure has moved out of the glow from the street lamps. God, what is he doing out there? The figure stops, he can barely discern arms moving and fumbling, and what is this? The white underpants are pushed down and the slightly darker shade of half an ass can be glimpsed. Now what is wrong with the boy? If he's pissing, why didn't he just use the bathroom? This would be ridiculous if it wasn't for the deep concern that grows in him. Because how on earth will the boy be able to get back in without keys?

Quickly he grabs his bathrobe, snatches up his keys from the shelf by the door, and as quietly as he can leaves the apartment, down the stairs and out. Shuts the front door as soundlessly as possible, determined not to scare the boy. Who knows what will happen if the boy should panic again?

He follows in the boy's wake as softly and silently as he can, filled with apprehension and the sinking feeling that he has no idea how to play this. Should he make himself known? Should he just wait and see if the boy comes back? He decides to wait, observes the white figure down there in the bushes, wondering if the boy isn't done soon – and suddenly he's aware of a rhythmic movement. So totally unexpected. And so abruptly arousing, his skin is all over goosebumps. Spellbound he watches, frozen in place, almost holding his breath. And the boy bends his head down, his knees tremble, his body twitches and jerks and then goes still.

The white underpants are pulled up. The boy turns, and still looking down starts walking towards the building. Suddenly he looks up, sees Boyd standing there a few steps in front of him, and freezes. His face, now visible under the streetlamp, looks like it's going to explode from fear.

Boyd lifts his hands disarmingly. "Hi", he says softly. "I heard you go out. I just wanted to make sure you could come back in again. Snap lock, you know."

Filippo is just gaping, stiff as a board, one arm suspended catatonically in midair.

"I didn't mean to spy on you. But ... but I couldn't not watch you. It was so ... beautiful. You are beautiful."

Filippo's hand falls down. His shoulders sag, his mouth closes and chokes a moan.

"I know you don't trust me", Boyd continues, "but please come back in now. Tin-tin will be devastated if he finds out you're not there. He really wants you to be okay, to feel good, you know. We all want that."

He turns and crosses the deserted street, jingles his keys as he approaches the door. Unlocks it, holds it open, not looking back. "Coming?"

And the skinny body slinks silently past him, like a ghost.

Back in the apartment, Filippo remains standing just inside the door, full of discomfort, looking every bit a stranger. Or maybe an intruder caught red-handed. Fidgeting with the hem of his T shirt and shuffling his feet, avoiding Boyd's eyes.

"Couldn't sleep?" Boyd asks as he walks around the room. "Would you perhaps like your medicine now?"

Filippo clears his throat. "No, please." He stands lost in thought for a moment. "The medicine is pointless", he suddenly says, very articulate. "It just brings questions and not solutions. It slows everything down, but doesn't kill the dreams, just makes everything drag out and last longer."

A freight train of thoughts run through Boyd's head. But in the end, why not stop overthinking and try to be just open with the boy?

"It's like this here in our house", he begins. "When Tin-tin was little, whenever he was sad or worried and couldn't sleep, he would come to sleep with me in my bed. It made him feel better, which is why he still does it, even though he's not so little anymore. I'll just let you know that if it would make you feel better, there's room for you there as well. Or you can go back and sleep in Tin-tin's bed if you prefer to be alone. Or I can wake Tin-tin up and tell him to sleep with you in his bed if that's something that seems good to you. The choice is yours."

Filippo looks more crestfallen and dejected than ever. Years of bad experience well up inside him and tell him it's pointless to try and make people listen to him, and stubbornly he refuses to involve himself.

"But ... but I don't know ... nobody ever makes me choose", he says defiantly. "They tell me what to do. Why don't you tell me what to do?"

"I can't do that", Boyd answers. " But maybe I can help you decide. Listen, if you're uncomfortable around Martin and me, or afraid of us or whatever, then you would not sleep well in our bed. If, on the other hand, you would like to find out what it's like to be with adults that are not out to hurt you, or push you, or force you ... I mean, grown-ups that only want you to feel good and feel safe, then perhaps it's worth a try to just hop in beside Tin-tin and I'll crawl in on the other side and sleep next to Martin. But it has to be your decision, because I think it would be wrong of me to try to convince you to do something you don't really want."

Filippo looks up, bewildered, almost in despair. He opens his mouth, but shuts it again.

Finally he whispers: "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

And looking at his feet, he slowly walks back to Tin-tin's bedroom.

 

Part Four

 

"He's not a prisoner, is he?"

Resigned sigh.

"No, but he's not fully discharged from the clinic yet. He's only out on trial, as you well know."

"I still think it will be beneficial to cut out some of the restrictions. And reduce the medication."

This is met with a cold stare.

"Pardon me, but you're talking bollocks. We can't run this place without rules, and the same rules must apply to all four of the boys. I'm not saying this is ideal in all contexts, but our resources are limited and our staff is minimal, as you well know. And don't start on the medication again. You're not a doctor."

"Let me put it this way: Have your rigid rules and heavy drugs done anything to help him? Now, these people are sensible and responsible people. The atmosphere in their home is positive, creative, stimulating – and I've seen signs that tell me he's starting to open up a little. Even to me. So I'm totally convinced that he should be allowed to spend as much time as he likes with this new friend and his family. He's appreciated there. Instead of being a burden, which I'm sorry to say is the impression you convey he is to you."

Still the freezing stare.

"I don't like this conversation. I don't like it at all."

"He may be stunted, but he's a very intelligent boy, believe it or not. Let him decide for himself, be responsible for his own choices. It will be good for him, it will help him grow. Don't make him always go through this humiliating process of asking permission to have a life. The only rule I think should apply is that he tells you where he is. Trust is a bilateral thing, and he's never going to trust you or me or anyone else if we don't show him we trust him. And by the way, why doesn't he have a phone? I asked him, but he shut me off."

Short laugh.

"He threw in in the toilet in one of his rages. He knows he won't get a new one until he shows us he can control himself."

Sigh.

"This is such primitive psychology! I will run this by my boss, you know. In the meantime I'll do all I can to make him feel trusted, even valued, in spite of all your efforts to the contrary."

 

***

 

His door has no lock. Well, of course not, if it had, they couldn't spy on him, could they? They couldn't plow through his drawers, couldn't search under his mattress, couldn't slip their pale and clammy fingers through his pockets hunting for whatever they suspect him of hiding. Just like the clinic. Just like the couple who housed him before he was sent to the clinic.

I could have slept with them the other night. With all of them ... Why didn't they just make me do it?

Jesus Christ, those grown-ups, why do they always make him feel so ... insufficient? So worthless? So wrong? Always there with their admonitions or their strictures, their remedies and their spiritual straightjackets ... or they tiptoe around him like he's in danger of detonating, or avoiding him as if he's contagious or inedible or something. Never there with the touches he longs for, the warmth he needs.

I would have let them touch me. I would have let them cuddle me and kiss me, I would have sucked on their tongues and their dicks, I would have put their dicks inside me. Why didn't they want me?

He's untouchable, he knows that. Because every one of them knows he's been taken and opened and fucked till he bled, and none of them stops and thinks that that may not be the biggest issue at all, that the humiliation and the pain was actually preferable to the years of coldness ... and the ridicule and the taunting and the incomprehensible punishments ... for nothing, for just being him ... him with that stupid and cursed affliction ... and the only one who seemed to understand was taken away from him.

He fingers his scrotum inside his pajamas bottom, hoping the darkness of the room and the duvet that covers him will save him from those spying eyes. His young cock is rock hard. He pushes it down on his belly, hunches his body slightly, trying to make the tip of his cock enter his belly through his navel. His left hand inches closer to his anus, index finger pushes at the crinkly opening. Up his hand comes, three fingers straight into his mouth, leaving as much saliva as they can carry before traveling down again, One by one the three fingers are inserted into his hole, opening it, widening it, the initial discomfort more a nuisance than real pain, a confirmation than this is something he needs. He tries not to let his breathing reveal what he's doing, but his cock is at the point of bursting, and a few strokes as the middle finger finds the nub inside his ass sends his cum up along his belly.

His pajamas and the duvet-cover gets to soak up the sticky moisture. They'll find it in the morning. He sniggers almost feistily inside himself as he pictures their disapproving faces.

***

 

Three boys line up facing the class. Andy, now snot free and afebrile, is flanked by the other two, both with wool caps pulled down to their eyebrows, his red and untidy mop of hair like a beacon among the subdued shades of blues and greys their almost uniform clothing and hatting make up.

Tin-tin seeks eye contact with Filippo, and with a synchronized movement they both remove their caps, Tin-tin to reveal his newly shaved head.

"We made a film", he says, "but since Andy got sick early in the project, he still has his hair on. You'll find out why I've shaved when you see the movie."

Suddenly Filippo's almost an octave deeper voice rings out loud and clear:

"I didn't have to shave. As you know."

Tense silence. But now teacher's laugh resounds in the room.

"Good one, Filippo!"

Titters and sighs of relief. Two raspberries from the back of the room are actually met with disapproval, and not the admiration they were intended to evoke.

"Well, boys. We're ready for your film!" Teacher closes the blinds and turns on the projector, Tin-tin plugs in his phone and opens the file.

A huge, complex building, white and brown, stories and terraces built up along the summit of a mountain, is slowly zooming in. The sound of a gong reverberates. Andy's squeaky voice comes through, slightly hesitating when difficult words occur:

"The Potala Palace. For ages the center of Tibetan Buddhism. Residence of the Dalai Lama, the great leader."

The picture gradually fades to black.

"The Dalai Lama is dead. His soul has left his body and is on the prowl for a new body to inhabit. For his soul is the ... Bodhisattva, the perfect and awake soul that has decided to be ... uh ... reincarnated as the Dalai Lama again and again, for ever and ever. "

A loudly whispered "Bullshit!" is heard from the back of the classroom. Someone hushes. The image on the screen changes to ripples in water as Filippo's melodious voice takes over.

"Now the new Dalai Lama has to be found. He is somewhere out there. But where?"

Zoom out. A figure with red fabric draped from its head and shoulders sits by the river. The fabric is pushed from its head, and there's Tin-Tin's shaved skull and pensive face staring out over the river.

"The holy men look for signs. They meditate, they dream, they wait for guidance."

The robed Tin-tin on the screen rises and leaves, now the image is just the dancing gems of light reflected in the ripples.

"The search is on. No one knows how long it will take, it can take years and years. But the direction of the smoke from the funeral pyre has told the holy men which way to go, and from the legend and from the dreams they know they have to look for a birthmark. One that looks like a rose."

Cut to a bustling street in the business quarters, men in suits entering doors and getting into cars. Tin-tin's boyish voice comes on the air:

" Could he be found among the rich and the successful?"

Interior of a church, two figures vaguely discernable.

"Among the spiritual and the holy?"

Hospital corridor, orderly wheeling a bed.

"Among the ailing and the sick?"

Overview of busy street, beggars sitting with their paper cups outside shops. Closing in on a skinny, downcast figure sitting in front of his cup, hooded, hidden.

"Among the down and out? Among the forgotten ones?"

Close up. Hood pushed slightly aside, revealing a neck with a birthmark.

"The rose! Can this be him?"

Zooming out: Tin-tin, bare shouldered and robed in red, looking ludicrous in the busy street, reaches out and takes the hooded beggar's hand and pulls him up, leads him away.

"And now for the final test."

A table, cluttered with objects. Clothes and utensils, books, jewelry and money. A slender hand with long fingers hover over the table, then picks up a small, golden ring.

"Yes. He chose the right thing. He chose the ring that belonged to the former Dalai Lama. The new Dalai Lama has been found, and his education can begin."

The hoodie is removed, Filippo's hairless head and face is revealed, camera zooms out and shows him swathed in the red fabric that imitates a monk's habit.

"He will learn the teachings and the philosophy, he will learn the rituals and the drills, he will learn the meditation and the concentration, everything that his soul had forgotten on its way to the new body."

Final scene: Filippo and Tin-tin, robed and with polished skulls. Seated on the rooftop in lotus position, face to face, backdrop of blue sky and a row of little flags strung across, Tin-tin's head slightly bent down, Filippo's hand on Tin-tin's shoulder. Andy's slightly nasal words come through:

"And Tibet now again has its great leader, the Dalai Lama."

Fade to black.

Silence. It's so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Even the two rascals at the back have shut up. Filippo pulls his cap back on and stares at his shoes.

Teacher clears his throat, leans back and folds his hands behind his neck.

"This was a surprise", he says. "This wasn't at all what I had expected. And although you've chosen to skip most of the essential facts about Buddhism, I must say I'm impressed."

Tin-tin finds his voice. "All the others have told us the facts, right? So we've learned what we should learn anyway. Eh - Sir."

Andy stretches his neck up. "It was Filippo's idea, cuz he had read about the legend in a book!" he squeaks.

"The Gospel of Fitlips!" a voice calls out, and another voice whoops. "From the Book Of Morons!" Teacher instantly jumps up.

"Ken! Roger! Principal's office. Now! The rest of you, recess!" He turns to the trio still stuck in front of his desk. "Well done, boys!" he compliments them. " Very good. Very impressive."

Tin-tin beams. "We first thought we would do it on TikTok, but Martin ... not me, but Martin the artist ... helped us with the filming and the editing on his really good camera. The soundtrack was a bit difficult, but ... We wanna put it on You Tube, do you think we should? Sir?"

Teacher smiles. "It's yours to do with what you like", he tells them as he turns and hurries out of the room.

Andy looks at Tin-tin. "I wanna shave my hair off", he whispers.

 

***

 

Martin takes two steps backwards and squints at the drawing taped up on his easel, charcoal stick in his hand. Almost there, he thinks. Question is, should he leave it now before he overdoes it and ruins it? The decision is made for him as Tin-tin comes storming through the door.

"Guess what!"

Martin holds one hand up. "Shoes!"

Tin-tin abruptly turns and kicks his shoes off by the door.

"Yeah, but guess what! Alsted liked our movie! We won!!"

"Good. Who's Alsted?"

"Teacher, dummy! We really, really made a level nine boss movie, and he had to admit it! He said it was brilliant! And the fuckers who were teasing Filippo got sent to the head-master! How random is that! Yes, Sir!" Tin-tin comes dancing across the floor, arms raised and fists punching the air. Martin has to laugh, for in his eyes Tin-tin looks so exactly like the little boy he used to be. The boy comes to him and loudly kisses both his cheeks. "It was epic! Thanks for helping!"

"No sweat."

Tin-tin suddenly stiffens and looks at the drawing.

"Oh wow! You're doing Filippo!"

Martin smiles. "What do you think? Have I caught him?"

"Oh yeah! Oh wow! I wish he could see it!"

"'Course he can. Anytime."

Tin-tin muses. "Not anytime. They're so strict. Know what, if he wants to do something, he has to write it down, like with timing and everything, and give it to the people there and answer questions and stuff and sign something, and if he doesn't he gets punished, and often they say no, and I totally would have flipped if it was me!"

His face is flushed with indignation. "Why can't they be like normal people?"

Martin reflects a bit. "I guess they must have some sort of discipline. It's not a normal home, you know. The boys there have lots of issues and difficulties, so I guess the rules are for their safety. Or to make it easier for them to cope. But I don't really know."

"I wanted to go with him today. Cuz we should like celebrate, right? I mean, the movie and all? First he said just no. But I like pestered him to tell me why not, and then he told me about the rules. So if I wanted to go with him, and sorta visit, he'd have had to write like an application ... like the day before I would be allowed to come there, or most likely not be allowed at all, and can you imagine?"

"No, I can't, actually. But if that's how it is, you just have to take it in stride."

"It totally sucks", Tin-tin pouts, voice half choked, fingers restlessly clawing at nothing. Sighs heavily.

Martin says nothing, just hugs him, rocks him from side to side. Wonders how on earth he can contribute to make the friendship between these two boys grow, even flourish. There seems to be just too many obstacles, and sadness sinks in him like a load of bricks. So he tightens his embrace.

 

***

 

Dinner, a rather subdued affair with a somewhat morose Tin-tin, is interrupted by the doorbell. Boyd raises his eyebrows, shrugs and gets up.

Outside the door is the trim little figure of Marion Berg, in tights and heels, blond hair piled in an untidy bun on top of her head, and at a safe distance behind her the taller and more angular form of a boy with his covered head bent down and his nervous fingers soundlessly snapping.

"Sorry if I disturb you", she declares, but there's no apology in her tone. "I brought Filippo over. I think the boys wanted to be together today?"

"Oh! Oh, come in, come in!" Boyd almost hauls her inside. She turns to Filippo and beckons him. He follows shyly, reluctantly. Unlike her, he toes his shoes off by the door.

"We're eating", Boyd goes on, "want to join us? It's just Carbonara, but there's a lot of it!"

Tin-tin comes over, and without a word takes Filippo's hand and drags him to the dining table, his face like sun breaking through clouds after a storm.

"I'll get you a plate", he says to Filippo. "It's really good. Martin's a pasta wizard, I promise!"

"How about a plate for the lady as well?" Boyd throws at Tin-tin, then turns to her. "I'm not really up on formalities. Do we call you by first or last name?"

She laughs. "Oh, whatever. First name's fine. Thanks for the offer, but I'm not staying. I have just turned a deaf ear to those unyielding sticklers at the Lodge, and I need to meet with our mutual superiors. I'll be back tonight to pick Filippo up." Her smile moves from face to face. "Have fun, boys!"

Boyd follows her out.

"You just saved Tin-tin's day," he says when they're out of earshot. "He was really pissed that he couldn't be with Filippo. After their ... well, their feeling of success with the Buddhist project. How did you know? Is he talking to you now?"

"Oh, no. Not much." Wry smile. "I got a call. Someone had a lot to say about someone else's lack of freedom. A fairly accurate analysis of the ... let me get this right, "the fucking Nazi conditions" at the Lodge. "That Shithole Lodge" was the epithet used."

"Oh no!"

"Oh yes. You honestly need to do something about his vocabulary. Well, I have to go and get court-martialed."

And she's gone.

 

***

 

They're alone now, still sitting at the table. Filippo has no idea where the two men have gone, but something is slowly happening to him:

There's a new and peculiar peace that wants to crawl into his psyche, a soft and unfamiliar hush that pads his anxiety and upholsters the sharp edges of his consternation. This, he thinks, is somewhere I want to be. Just here, right now, with this boy that so uninvited has moved in to occupy his thoughts, and he almost allows himself to feel things he had made sure he would never again make the mistake of feeling. But there are still reminders that mar the possibilities of total peace in his head, reminders of what happens if he lets his guard down, reminders of what that stern, and icy, and ever present army of jail keepers and turnkeys can do to him: Loss, and pain, and ruin. Yes, he knows. They're so easy to unmask, their embellished portrayal of heartiness and care is just a cover for their real agenda.

But this boy. This boy, so unreserved, so without hidden motives, so open, so trusting ... he's not one of them, is he? He can't be, can he? Oh, how he wants to let him in, wants to have him jump all those fences and tear down those walls, he wants to get lost in this boy's beauty, he wants him out of his clothes, pure and naked in his skin. He wants to touch him. He wants to be with him in all possible ways, he wants to be him.

Up till now, they've stayed comfortably on neutral grounds. Just talking, just rehashing funny incidents during the making of their little movie, just reliving the proud moments of joy of nailing it.

But ...

"I wanna ask you something", Tin-tin says tentatively. "You don't have to answer, but ..."

Filippo feels a jolt of apprehension. This is a test. This is where I let him in or throw him out, he thinks.

"Alright. Ask."

"That day in my room", Tin-tin begins, but stops. Filippo makes a small noise and withdraws his eyes.

"I don't mean to pry", Tin-tin says hurriedly, looking pleadingly over his glasses, "but I've thought ... I mean, was it something I said that made you feel so ... so miserable? Cuz I didn't mean to."

Filippo is at a cusp. Part of him wants to close off, run away, scream, and a slight tremor starts in his chest and runs all the way to his fingertips. But the other part of him wants something else, needs something else, something he has no real words for, just a vague sense of something blurred, but soft and warm, something important that suddenly is within his reach. Something bigger than just being matey with this devastatingly attractive boy. Something beyond what his cock tells him he wants, too. He makes a terrifyingly huge decision, and draws a long, long shaky breath.

"The ruler", he finally mumbles. "It was the ruler. Felix had one like that."

His breath turns staccato, his hands fumble with his waistband. "It was like I knew I would never see him again", he whispers.

"Who's Felix?"

Filippo hesitates. Then:

"He is the best. He's the nice one. He's like ..."

Long pause.

"He can suck his own dick. He showed me. He is ... he is so ... fleshable ..."

"You mean flexible?"

Filippo turns away and stares into nothing, his voice is a hoarse whisper.

"No! It's fleshable! Because it's flesh and blood ... And skin .. And smells good and tastes ... like I don't know. And it hides all the grey stuff behind nice colors and makes you forget ugly."

"Ugly what?"

"Ugly. Just ugly."

Tin-tin looks amazed at him. "Oh!"

"Forget it." Filippo pulls the old curtain of shyness and embarrassment over himself.

"No! It's brilliant! It totally get it!"

"No, you don't. You don't know about ugly." Filippo suddenly lifts his face and stares straight into Tin-tin's eyes. "You're not like me", he croaks.

Tin-tin's face is blank.

"Huh? Whoever said you're ugly? That's bullshit! That's fucking horseshit!"

A very pinched, very small and very bitter laugh escapes Filippo. "Cut it out. I'm not stupid. Everyone seems to think I'm stupid as well as everything else, but I'm not."

Tin-tin abruptly gets up, almost startling Filippo.

"I'll show you something!" he says and grabs Filippo's hand.

Up the stairs, unlocking the door, into the studio. Filippo is pulled along, weak-willed and fearful, but he's at the point of no return: There's a new certainty deep down in him, a knowledge that he will not back off, a determination to trust this boy.

And they're standing in front of a medium big picture, a black-and-white charcoal drawing, and Filippo is shocked. For it's his face and his shameful, bald head and it's ... it's ... it's not ugly. It's not repulsive. It's not hateful. It's ... it's ...

Nothing is real. The world has disappeared. He doesn't even notice the tears that run down his cheeks, he stares mesmerized at the drawing. "Ugly faggot", he whispers. "Disgusting freak."

Something runs over inside Tin-tin. He forgets all that's been said to him about caution and patience. He takes two steps closer, his hands fly up all by themselves and close on each side of Filippo's face, he leans in, and his tongue licks the tears away.

An incredible, wild urge rushes through him as hands close around his neck and his lips are met with lips. And Filippo's body, the body that had seemed so stiff and reluctant, explodes with life as they push and grind against each other, and Tin-tin heaves and pants: "But you're ... and this ... God, you're so ...!"

The leather couch is the place to be. They almost run to it, throw themselves down, embracing, kissing, like in a fever, like if they slow down, something will break and be destroyed. All their young blood feels like it has rushed to their groins, they slip out of each other's arms, they turn until Filippo is on top. He lifts his upper body, one stiff arm holds on to Tin-tin's shoulder, one arm clasps the back of the couch for support, all feelings concentrated in their groins, mashed together, glued tightly to each other. And their throbbing cocks, confined in their jeans, are rubbed and squeezed as hips frantically grind and press and hump. This is not a game, Tin-tin suddenly thinks the second before the prickling feeling starts to spread from his crotch, up his spine and down his legs, and pow! his orgasm hits him with a force he's not known before.

Filippo tears his cap off, throws it on the floor, sinks down and shivers as he covers Tin-tin's body. And Tin-tins right hand strokes and caresses his hairless head. Again and again.

***

 

There is so much that wants to be said, so many feelings that fill up these young heads, but where are the words? The silence that first was relaxed and pleasant is turning awkward. They sit side by side, but a chasm has opened between them, and there is no bridge. An edgy feeling of danger creeps into their souls, a nagging loneliness that neither of them seem to be able to put into words, and it threatens to eat them.

The interruption of Martin with Marion Berg in his wake is sudden and sharp, it feels welcome and unwanted at the same time.

Brisk and cheerful voice from the lady:

"Time to go, Filippo!"

The boy hurriedly picks up his cap, pulls it on. His eyes meet hers, and she almost flinches from the devastated look.

"I'll explain everything in the car", she sooths him.

But he can't leave just like that. This confusing thing that has happened to him, this bewildering mess of contradictory feelings, he can't just let it go, and he can't find a way to avoid the looming sense of emptiness, and the suffering and the pain that he fears will fill its place later.

He reaches out. His fingertips touch Tin-tin's face and lightly trace his cheek down to his chin. He abruptly gets up and hurries out.

When Martin comes back up, he finds Tin-tin curled up in the corner of the couch, both arms crossed, hiding his head. His glasses lay broken on the floor.

***

A sudden and unexpected weight across their feet stir both Martin and Boyd out of their sleep. Eyes open to the sight of Tin-tin slung down at the bottom of their bed, on his belly, his naked buttocks shining white in the darkness.

Yawns and rubbing of eyes. Boyd lifts himself up on his elbows. "What?"

No answer.

"Still feel bad? Do you want to talk now?"

Boyd feels Tin-tin's head nod against his right calf.

"Come under the sheets, then."

The men separate to make room for the boy in the middle. He crawls up between them, and as he turns to slip under the sheets, his legs weigh down upon Martin's chest and his dick slides across Martin's upper arm. Automatically Martin's hand comes up to stroke his smooth bottom before it disappears between the layers of cotton.

"Why do I feel like this?" Tin-tin asks, there's vexation, also anger, in his voice.

"How can we answer that when we don't know what happened?" Boyd says softly. "So why won't you tell us?"

Tin-tin squirms, as if to get closer to both of them.

"But I don't know how to explain." His hands come up, gesticulating. "It was like closer and closer, and then something totally huge, and then like everything broke and I didn't know what to say, and everything sorta fell down in a hole and Filippo had to leave, but I wanted him to stay even though it felt bad to be in that hole. And now what do I do?"

"Listen, let's try to get down to earth", Martin intervenes. "For instance, what were you doing in the studio in first place?"

"I wanted to show him your drawing. Cuz he said he was ugly."

Pause.

"And?" Boyd now.

"We were just talking, you know, just bullshitting ... and he was like talking too, right, so I figured I could ask him about why he cried so much, you know that time in my room, and he told me about someone called Felix, and I think he is in love with him or something, and then he sorta said he was ugly, and I don't think he is, so I took him up to show him that he isn't. And then he sorta started to cry and then we kissed and ... and ... I don't know, we sorta almost fucked ... or made love? ... on the couch, but with all our clothes on. And I wanted it to go on forever but then I got a ... you know, orgasm, and I think he did too, and I wanted to tell him that I ... I don't know what. It was like I had to tell him something, but it got stuck, and we just sat there and it felt ... like difficult. Like something didn't fit. Or ... I don't know how to say it!"

Boyd pulls him into his arms, rubs his back up and down.

"I'm afraid I ruined something", Tin-tin murmurs against his brother's chest. "I'm afraid he doesn't like me anymore and I so want him to like me."

Martin closes in on them, spooning Tin-tin. "Of course he likes you. You kissed, huh? And you made out on the couch. Would he have done that if he didn't like you?"

"But then why did everything become so strange?"

"It sometimes happens", Boyd says, "that people become sad or feel awkward or empty after an orgasm. That could be it."

"And it could be", Martin adds, "that he likes you so much that it scares him. I know, because I've felt just like that, and that is almost paralyzing. Maybe that's what happened to both of you."

"It's stupid!" Tin-tin sounds on the verge of tears. "Why can't things just be nice and stuff?"

"We don't know", Boyd almost whispers. "Life is just strange. But you wouldn't want to miss any of this, you know. Because even if it feels impossible inside you right now, I'm certain that lots of nice things will come your way pretty soon. And you'll find out that things that look bad or difficult or tiresome sometimes help to make you find out who you are and what you want."

Tin-tin poohs at this. "I know who I am! I'm ... I'm me!" He wriggles and squirms and pushes them aside to lie on his back. "Can you please touch me and pet me a little?"

Boyd looks over at Martin, tries to read his face in the shadowy darkness. A small nod is what he finds.

"Are you sure you want that now?"

"Yes, and I want to think about Filippo while you do it. Is that weird?"

They don't answer. Martin just leans in and softly kisses the side of his neck. Boyd's hand caress the boyish chest, index finger circling a nipple.

Tin-tin pushes the sheets down, lifts his knees and kicks the sheets all the way off them. His slender body is ready for them, he spreads his legs to make himself even more accessible, surrendered and open, eagerly waiting and blissfully expectant.

It's a sight that almost breaks Martin's heart with its immense beauty and its mixture of total trust and complete abandon. He sits up, his hands start to caress those soft feet, toe after toe, marveling at their perfection, their youth, their ... innocence. Up along slim calves, now starting to develop, starting to grow shape and curve. Over bony knees to slim, but strong thighs, skin smooth as silk, and warm, following the thighs up to where they join the torso, fingers tracing the shallow furrows on each side of the abdomen, and then down again to the knees. And now upwards, softly kneading, tenderly stroking as he bends down and kisses the navel just below where Boyd's hand moves in circles.

It's been months since Tin-tin has wanted to be cherished, to be loved like this, and Martin treasures every moment. Still caressing those thighs, he bows down and inhales that distinctive smell of the boy's groin. Oh, that aroma, so uniquely Tin-tin, even more pronounced so these days. His nose pushes gently against the perineum, and his hands touch his own cheeks as they creep up and feel the inside of the wide open thighs and the beginning of the valley where the secret little opening hides.

He lifts his face, stares at cock that stands proud up against stomach, balls that lay like starling eggs in taut sack. God, he's grown, Martin muses, those globes must have started production now, and that cock is as long as my middle finger. And he's drawn to the sight like he's being vacuumed, he licks his lips that have gone dry, and quietly asks the purring and softly moaning boy:

"You are so lovely, Tin-tin. So delicious. May I taste you?"

"Oh, yeah", the boy breathes. "Do it!"

So Martin's tongue gets to savour that musky boy taint and wanders close to the dark cleft behind it. Fleetingly, not deep. Just teasing, no digging. And moving forward again to slightly sweaty and smooth scrotum, up to the twitching slim rod, licks the length, tickles the tip ... and finally Martin's mouth closes around skin covered cockhead and sucks sleek, stiff boy cock, tasting a tad of piss but mostly of pure Tin-tin, all the way in, and there it is kept while his tongue works around it, and the boy starts to lift and jerk his hips.

"Stop", Tin-tin moans. "Stop!"

Of course Martin stops. Lifts his head.

"Lie beside me", Tin-tin begs. "I wanna hold your willies and then you can make me come. Please."

Boyd's hand stops petting the small nipple. "Mine too?" he whispers. "Not just Martin's?"

"Yeah, I want both hands full," Tin-tin giggles, and his hand closes around his brother's half-hard cock as the other hand searches and fumbles and now finds Martin's rock hard piece of meat, too big for his fingers to meet around it. Martin shudders and with three fingers starts to stroke Tin-tin's spike slowly and rhythmically. Boyd caresses his belly, his chest, tickles his navel and lightly scratches his hard nipples, and leans close to lick and kiss the slender neck. Boyd's cock is now stiff and tensed like a steel spring, he can't help but push and pull in and out of his little brother's fist. Martin bites his lip, dares not move in Tin-tin's hand, he's so close to erupting. He increases the speed and varies the grip on Tin-tin's cock, and the boy draws his breath sharply in through clenched teeth, his legs start to tremble, his hips lift and his buttocks squeeze tight and he lets out a long moan as his body goes all stiff and then sinks down, his heart thundering in his chest.

It's all it takes for Martin. He rolls over on his back, holds his breath as his cock jumps and contracts and spews a couple of long, white strings of cum up to his throat, across his left nipple. He pushes Tin-tin's hand away, grabs his cock himself, jerks it hard and fast and empties it into his navel, panting and shuddering.

"Don't let go!" Boyd almost shouts as he fucks his cock in and out of Tin-tin's fist. "Watch me!" And he spurts a spray of pearly droplets over his brother's belly, and another one, and one more, and moans as the final smaller spurts trickle out.

Tin-tin giggles and shakes the sperm from his hand.

Martin watches him, his heart about to burst. "You're such a marvel, Tin-tin. Such a wonder." He sighs deeply. "You've no idea how much I love you."

Tin-tin giggles again, then turns pensive. "Know what, I was almost sure I was gonna spurt. It really felt like yes! But nothing!"

"You will soon", Boyd assures him. "Any day now."

"Think Filippo can spurt?"

Martin clears his throat. "I'm pretty sure he can. But you know, he's thirteen and his voice is changing, so that's more or less a foregone conclusion."

"He's thirteen?" Tin-tin sounds shocked. "So how come he's in our class?"

"He hasn't told you?" Boyd wonders. "Well ... but I don't think it's our place to discuss why he's a year behind."

"Well, I'm not sure I agree", Martin inserts, "I think it's good for Tin-tin to know." He touches Tin-tin's shoulder. "But you can't go around spreading it, he must decide for himself what he wants people to know. But since you've already become so close ... Thing is, he's been very sick and in hospital so long that he lost a year. Or so the Berg lady told us."

"Sick? Like how? Is that why is hair is gone?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. It's a bit hard to ... well, he'd been treated very badly for a very long time, and it made him sort of sick in his soul, if you can try to see it that way. But what it basically means to you, is that you should be patient and nice and not ask too many questions, just wait and see if he wants to open up to you. Never push him, get it?"

Tin-tin reflects a while. "He did tell me about Felix. I didn't really understand, but I don't think this Felix guy was mean to him."

Boyd grabs his shoulders and pulls him down, touches the cum on his belly. "Let's not talk behind his back like this", he says. "Let's just clean up and go to sleep, alright?"

Boyd throws Tin-tin a towel. "I'm pretty sure", Tin-Tin ponders as he wipes his brother's cum off his flat stomach with Martin's T-shirt instead, "that he has a big willy. It felt like big." And he giggles.

(To be continued.)