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

Author's note: I noticed Admin has put this story as a continuation of my first "Oh, Martin" story. Although this story is based on three of the same characters, it was meant to be an independent story. But as it turns out now, the two stories have been put together, and I'll leave it like that.

 

Part Five

"I would like to try to find another place for him. I'm of the opinion the Lodge is not working for him."

Scrutiny from spectacled eyes.

"Oh? Why is that?"

"It's the whole package more than one or two specific things. But ok, the hymns? The religious pictures everywhere? The saying of grace before meals? Of course, I know the place is funded by the Pentecostals, so I guess those aspects are mandatory, but the attitude, or the atmosphere ... the way they enforce their authority ... there's something intrusive, really unpleasant there. Using humiliation masked as concern to restrain the boys. The worst way of practicing Christianity in my book."

"Christians or not, they do have a highly qualified staff. And there aren't that many alternatives, you know."

"We're SO at cross purposes when it comes to what's best for him. And their last stunt has completely tipped the scale for me. You see, through one of his schoolfriends, the only friend he has by the way ... well, through him he's gotten to know the painter Martin Mowinckel, and this artist made a drawing of him and gave it to him, framed and all, and Filippo wanted it in his room. Well, his room? More like a cell if you ask me. Anyway, he removed the Jesus that hung there and replaced it with this portrait. But they took it down and put it in a drawer and hung Jesus back up. So ..."

Heavy sigh. Pause.

Encouraging little hm? from across the desk.

"It's fairly common knowledge that Martin Mowinckel is gay, he's the partner of Boyd Henschel, the actor, you know? Well, Henschel is Filippo's friend's brother and guardian. And I strongly suspect this is what's behind their actions. They consequently try to put obstacles in the way of his visiting his friend, and they consequently deny his friend to visit there. Their negative attitude towards Filippo's sexuality is just rampant, and it's hurting him.. I wouldn't be surprised if they also subscribed to the idea of conversion therapy."

"Ah, surely it's not as bad as that. Conti is still too young to be of a fixed persuasion anyway, and I really don't think they're that wrong if they ... well, discourage his homosexual tendencies."

"But that's not what he needs! He needs to build up his self-esteem, he needs acceptance! Respect! Not any more of that disapproval and rejection."

"That is a point, yes. Would you like me to set up a meeting with them to bring this up?"

"I don't think that's going to make a difference. They're not going to change their attitude because of my say-so. I mean, they're committed to their church's official view on all things sexual. But look at it this way: The last month has been good for Filippo. He's opening up, he's shown touches of confidence, and most important: He has not cut himself, nor has he had those anxiety attacks coupled with outbursts of rage, or "tantrums" as they like to call them. And that's only because for the first time in years he has felt that maybe he isn't as bad and as hopeless and as ugly as he's always been told. His friend and his friend's family have given him a sense of worth, maybe even a touch of pride. I'm not going to stand by and let the Lodge take that away because of obsolete and bigoted attitudes."

Fingers scratching beard. The sound is dry.

"Well, as we're short of foster homes ... and face it: who would be qualified to foster a boy as traumatized as him anyway? ... the only possibility is to put him back in the psych ward, and that would definitely be to admit defeat. I'm not even sure they would take him. So I'm sorry, but I see no alternative."

Pause.

"What if I took him in?"

Laughter. A bit derisive.

"No way. Conflict of interests."

"Wouldn't be if someone else took over his case. You, for instance. And you know I qualified as foster parent before I came to work for you, so we only need an updated report."

"Are you serious?"

"I think I am. I mean, it wouldn't change much at our end, because ultimately he's your responsibility anyway. But it would enable us to move him from the Lodge."

"Have you mentioned this to him? I dearly hope not!"

"Of course not. But I would like to feel him out on this if you'll allow it. Please?"

Pause again.

"I'll think about it. That's all I can say."

***

 

The four of them, subdued and thoughtful after the film they've just seen, enter the small, half-empty diner, aiming at a vacant corner table. Martin slides himself onto the bench-seat against the wall while Tin-tin impatiently runs to the counter to study the menu. Boyd watches surprised as Filippo glides down on the bench and worms himself close to Martin, and against all odds leans his head on Martin's shoulder. Martin, like Boyd, holds his breath. This has never happened before. This is unheard of, this is an epiphany. Martin's heart thumps like crazy, he sits frozen and he dares not stir.

Tin-tin comes racing back, calling out: "I just want the chicken nug ... Oh!"

Boyd pulls himself together. "Sure, nuggets for you. Martin? Filippo? Chicken all around, maybe?"

Martin nods. "Fine with me."

Boyd and Tin-tin both watch Filippo. The boy suddenly realizes he's the center of attention, blushes and pulls away from Martin, slides a couple of inches to the side, and shy and embarrassed mumbles "Ok."

Boyd takes Tin-tin to the counter, but turns halfway there. "Drinks?"

Martin shrugs. "Some fizz. I don't care." He looks at Filippo who just stares at the table.

While the brothers negotiate their meal, Martin leans close to Filippo and whispers: "Thank you."

Filippo looks up, those big, brown eyes full of a strange kind of wonder. His lips part, a tiny little groan escapes him. And then:

"That was you. In the film, that was you."

"Really? You think so?"

Filippo continues to gaze at him. "Yes", he mumbles. "You're like that man in the film. That painter. You make ugly go away. Like ..." And he shuts up, but still stares.

Martin feels his eyes fill up. Oh no, not now! He shudders involuntarily, and realizes he hasn't got a clue what he should do now. So he just looks deep into those two brown wells and again says: "Thank you."

And then: "You can sit as close as you like, you know."

But Filippo almost imperceptibly shakes his head. "I don't know."

So they just sit there like that. No words. No movement. It feels like hours to a nervous Martin.

Finally they see Boyd and Tin-tin turn from the counter and head for their table, trays laden with food and drink. And just as they start, Filippo sighs and inches closer until his jeans-clad thigh lightly touches Martin's again. And the brothers now see Martin bend over and whisper something in the wool-capped boy's ear, and they exchange looks. Boyd hears little brother squeeze out a half-choked little oh.

 

***

There is no yes, nor is there a no. Like always he feels nothing except that everything is meaningless, and one thing is as unimportant as the other. His defensive strategies are fully operative, not even for a second does he allow himself to feel hope that something is going to change, or let himself expect, much less long for something else. The lady says he's going to move, so that's what's going to happen, and that's all there's to it. Yes, there will be a new environment, but she's one of them, and he knows better than to think anything else will be new. Experience has taught him that although the walls surrounding him have changed and changed and changed, people are the same.

But... There is a small nagging but at the back of his mind. His theory may not, against all odds, be a hundred percent correct. He's had a glimpse of something, a touch of color through the greyness, a hint that maybe not all of them are out to push him around and decide for him what to feel, what to think and what to do. But no, he dares not hope. Better be prepared that behind those saccharine insincerities lurks the real intention to carry on obstructing and limiting and diminishing everything that's really him. Burgle his soul. Rob his mind. Leave him with nothing but his lonely nightmares.

She's talking. That Berg lady. Just talking. A lot. Like they all do. Only ... her voice isn't what he's used to, it doesn't sound cooked-up honest, not deceitfully caring and persuasive, it sounds ... like it's genuinely her. And now she asks him if he really wants this. Yeah, right. As if anyone ever needs to know what he wants. Well, does she? Does she want to know? Should he tell her he wants Felix back? Or what if he told her that what he really wants is to dig his tongue deep into Tin-tin's mouth and bury his cock deep in Tin-tin's rectum, and make everything else go away and stay away? That certainly would put an end to her benevolence, whether it's fake or real. Ugly faggot! Disgusting freak!

His short, bitter laugh startles her.

"I know it's hard for you, so I won't ask you to trust me right away", she begins, but he gets up and disappears into his room. She looks a bit puzzled at the other woman in the room who just shrugs, makes a small unintelligible sound, and continues to string green beans into a colander in her lap, looking tired and forbidding. And suspicious.

Marion Berg rises and walks around the room, trying to hide her nervousness and her insecurity from the scrutinizing eyes of the other woman.

"I'm never quite sure", she says, more to herself than anything, "whether he listens or not. But then, afterwards I've found that he remembers every single word I've said. It's almost uncanny."

The bean stringer shakes her head. "He's a strange one, for sure."

"It will be a bit easier and less work for you when he's gone", Marion Berg says, looking at, but not really seeing the embroidered Bible quote on the wall above the TV. "Enjoy it while it lasts. Before you know it, someone new will fill his space."

Another shrug, a mumbled consent.

Filippo comes quietly back into the room, carrying a very small, very worn suitcase and a backpack. He stops, expecting her to make the move. The forlorn figure pierces her heart. Thirteen years on this earth, she thinks, and his whole world can fit in a tiny suitcase?

"I'm ready."

"You got it all?" she asks, not quite able to hide the surprise and the pity in her voice. He nods silently, his big brown eyes looking up questioningly from under the brim of his cap.

The bean woman rises and comes over. Puts a hand on his shoulder. He squirms, visibly uncomfortable with the touch.

"Goodbye, Filippo Conti," she says rather sternly. "Take care of yourself, and good luck. Don't forget that God loves you."

At the door, he hesitates and looks over his shoulder vaguely in the direction of the woman who has sat down again.

"I left my clothes", he grunts. "They didn't feel like mine. You can give them back to God."

And he closes the door very softly behind him and follows Marion Berg to her car.

 

***

 

"This is your room."

Marion Berg indicates the space with her outstretched hand from the open doorway. "You can decorate it any way you want it."

He is completely lost. He has no idea. It shows in his face.

"You don't have to decide anything right away", she assures him. "Just think about it. You can tell me or ask me or whatever when you feel like doing something with the room."

He takes one big step in, turns around and merely stares at his surroundings. Drops his suitcase to the floor, but keeps his satchel on his back.

"You said you didn't pack your clothes. What did you bring?"

He hesitates.

"My school things and books. And my picture," he mumbles. "Change of underwear", he adds.

"Right. So some shopping is called for. Would you like me to come with you, or would you prefer to do it on your own?"

Oh, this is so hard. What would he prefer? Why doesn't she just tell him what to do?

"I don't know", he whispers. "I have no money."

"Yes, you do. I've fixed it so that you will have an account where the monthly support money from the state is paid in, and although I'll be the one technically in control of it, I think you're more than old enough to handle some of it yourself. Oh, wait a second."

She disappears, he's left alone in this unfamiliar place. Taking in the pale blue walls, the dark blue striped curtains, the blue and green checkered bedlinen. The pinewood desk, the white IKEA double wardrobe. Trying to feel something, trying to see himself fit in here, wondering if he'll ever get to know what it's like to belong somewhere, and above all, is this the place where that will happen? His defenses kick in again: Nothing is going to change, so what does it matter? This place is probably as good, or as bad as any. He sits warily down at the edge of the bed. And his head starts to spin and his lips start to move.

"Come and get me", he whispers. "Please, come and get me now. I'm talking to you, please, please listen. You have to come and find me, Felix, do you hear?"

She is back. His thoughts are interrupted, his images flee from him and his lips cease their liturgy.

"Here", she says. "Housekeys, phone and wallet." She hands the items over to him. "Keys, because once you're settled in, you should be able to come and go as you please. Phone, because I need to know where you are if you're not here, so please respect that. There's enough money in the wallet to get you a couple of outfits, but it's your money, so I won't interfere with how you spend it. Only it would be sensible to get some clothes, don't you think?"

He sits there speechless, big eyes staring wildly at her. She wonders briefly if this whole project of moving him in with her is going to fail. But it's way too early to say.

"Why don't you unpack your stuff, and afterwards we can have a little pow-wow. Alright?"

He closes his half-open mouth and nods.

"If you need me, I'll be in the kitchen", she tells him and leaves.

 

***

 

Martin exuberantly hugs Boyd.

"I've sold four more paintings! They just texted me from Berlin. That means I've sold ten altogether, that's almost half of them!"

"I told you. I knew you'd do well."

"Well, it sort of makes up for the shitty review in the Frankfurter Allgemeine. The other papers were rather nice, you know.

"I know. But fuck the Allgemeine, you can take it. You've become so much more confident. God, remember your first exhibition? I thought I'd have to knock you on the head to calm you down after that one rather snooty review."

Martin sniggers.

"I was a bit miffed, wasn't I? So I'm not experimental or groundbreaking. Who cares?"

"You did. A lot!"

Chuckles.

"Listen, can't you get some days off when the exhibition closes? I need to go there to wrap it up ... well, I don't actually need to, but I want to. What if we all went? Wouldn't that be fun?"

Boyd muses over this.

"That'll be around Tin-tin's birthday. It would make a nice present for him, wouldn't it? But maybe he wants to celebrate with his friends ... I'll fix him a passport anyway. Just in case."

"Wouldn't it be even more fun for him if Filippo would come along too?"

"Sure. But those people at the Lodge, and I use the term "people" loosely, would never let him."

Deep sigh.

"Of course. Stupid of me."

 

***

 

Marion Berg is pottering about in her kitchen, picking out things from her fridge, then putting them back in and selecting something else, all the time deep in thought.

What does he like? Or more to the point, does he have any strong dislikes? She guesses, and rightly so, that he hasn't ever been given much choice, so perhaps it doesn't matter what she prepares for a late lunch. But she wants him to feel that he matters, that his preferences and his wishes are taken into consideration. God, what a journey she has embarked on! There's such an enormous amount of things to learn about him, so many holes to fill in. Well, according to the Lodge people, at least he has no allergies.

In the end she prepares a salad and cracks eggs into a bowl for omelets. With cheese or with ham? Or both? Let him choose! Present him with the possibilities and see what happens!

She goes to the room that is now his. He hasn't closed the door, but she nevertheless knocks on the doorframe before she enters.

She finds him sitting on the floor in front of the open wardrobe, empty except for the middle shelf where two sets of white cotton underpants and T-shirts are neatly placed. He doesn't look at her, but when she comes closer, she can make out his cheeks are streaked with dried tears. She sits down beside him, not too close.

"I know", she says softly. "It's strange and a bit sad, isn't it?"

He shrugs. Doesn't say anything.

"I came to ask you if you want ham or cheese in your omelet."

He looks at her, like he hasn't understood. Then he sighs deeply. "It doesn't matter", he whispers, and opens his hand in front of her. In it is a small, enameled metal box, it reminds her of the snuff boxes her grandmother collected.

"This is all", he says, suddenly very articulate and firm, "all that is left, the only thing they didn't steal from me." He shakes the box slightly, something inside it rattles. And very unexpectedly he leans over, grabs her hand and puts the box in it. "You can have it."

She fights off the sudden urge to cry. She searches into his face, looking for something she doesn't really know what is. Something to help her.

"Thank you", she manages.

She opens the box. Three small milk teeth. She swallows hard to choke the threatening tears.

"I so believed the Tooth Fairy would come", he says. He rises, rather laboriously, and goes to the window. Stares out.

"The Tooth Fairy never came."

She feels she's at a cusp. If she fails this ... this test? she's afraid he will be lost to her. She closes her fingers around the box, gets up and walks over to stand beside him, still leaving a small distance between them.

"The Tooth Fairy may yet come", she says softly. "In the meantime I'll keep this safe."

He turns his head. She's not sure if she reads his face correctly, but there's something very disturbing in those eyes. Like he's abandoning everything, or like he's at the finishing line of some strange race. She takes a chance. She reaches out and takes his hand.

"Let's eat", she says.

He doesn't jerk his hand away.

 

***

 

Martin and Boyd exchange looks over Tin-tin's sulking head. The boy hasn't said more than two words since he came home from school, just lying on his bed, then restlessly disappearing into the backyard, pacing the area and throwing pebbles over the fence, and back on his bed again. Now, over dinner, he picks at his food, shuffles vegetables back and forth and breathes loudly through his nose.

Boyd breaks the silence. "Ok, what is it?"

Tin-tin continues rearranging carrots and peas. "Nuthin."

"Bullshit. Something or someone stole your thunder. You might just as well tell us what it is, because you know we'll find out eventually."

"I said it's nothing!" Tin-tin's voice is sharp, annoyed.

Boyd rises, walks around the table, grabs his brother and lifts him up. Tin-tin's feet kick the air, his hands softly punches Boyd's shoulders, but a small titter escapes him and his sulky face cracks up a bit.

"I love you, you sour little scamp", Boyd whispers in his ear.

"I hate you, you big bully", the awkwardly squirming and giggling Tin-tin whispers back.

"Good. Then you got nothing to lose when you tell me what's eating you." He lets the boy down. They sit down at the table with the faintly amused Martin still watching them.

Tin-tin relents. "But it's really nothing", he admits, "it's just stupid. I just feel shitty because Filippo hasn't been to school for two days, and I wonder if he's sick or grounded or whatever. And I miss him. I know, stupid."

Martin and Boyd again exchanges meaningful glances.

"No, it's not stupid", Martin remarks. "He means something to you, so you worry. That's how it should be."

"If he's not back by tomorrow, we'll try to find out why", Boyd promises. "Does that help?"

Tin-Tin reflects a bit. "Not much."

"I'll give you something else to think about", Martin ventures. "Would you like to come with me to Berlin in November? I want to go there to wrap up the exhibition, and I want you and Boyd with me."

Boyd sends him a warning look.

"If it's possible", Martin hastily adds. "If Boyd can get time off and you can be excused from school. But wouldn't it be fun if it could be arranged?"

But Tin-tin just sighs. Mumbles something and leaves the table only to disappear into his room. And Boyd and Martin look at each other and shake their heads.

***

 

Now what, Marion Berg thinks. He can't be serious! Those are impossibly ugly things! Is he asking to be bullied? Filippo clutches a pair of bright red jeans and a neon-purple sweatshirt under one arm, his other hand has just picked up a pair of cotton pants in a very intense mustard color. Should I interfere? But she decides to let him have his own way, he's probably never had the chance to choose his own clothes, and there's surely a reason for his desire for these glaring colors.

"Have you tried them on?" she asks. "Just to make sure they fit?"

He looks a little insecure. "I've looked at the size tag of the one I'm wearing," he mumbles and shakes his leg. "So I picked one size smaller because these are too big."

"That's probably ok, then. Why don't you take those", she points at his hoard, "to the cashier and pay? Then I'll pick up some more stuff here. And listen, there's a book store next door, so why don't you pop in there and see if you can find something interesting while I finish here. Just some more necessities, you know. We don't need to complete your wardrobe right away, do we?"

He just looks down and shakes his head. She gazes after him as he heads for the cash register. Then a sudden thought, and she hurries up to him. "Have you got your phone? Just in case?"

He pats his pocket.

"Good. Now, don't throw this one away like you did with your old one", she says jokingly.

He looks sharply up, both pained and defiant. "I didn't," he says rather harshly.

She's slightly perplexed. "Oh. I thought you did. Sorry."

He silently hands his new clothes over to the lady behind the counter, pays her out of his new wallet, and leaves with his bag without looking back at Marion. Thoughtful, almost distraught, she picks up some regular jeans, a low key checkered shirt and a blue hoodie. Some ordinary white underthings and socks. At the cashier's, she notices she's picked two different sizes of underpants. Oh, concentrate! she scolds herself.

 

They're having sandwiches and iced tea in the mall's "Subway". Filippo eats quietly and carefully, all the time avoiding eye contact. She is painfully aware of having screwed something up. Can she rectify it?

"I'm sorry if I said something to hurt you", she begins. "That phone thing, was it?"

He continues to look down. "It doesn't matter", he mutters.

"Oh, but it does! If I said something unjust, then it matters. But there's something strange here. You see, Betty Raftoe at the Lodge told me you threw your phone in the loo. Why would she say that if it wasn't the case?"

His thoughts spin in circles. Would she believe me if I told her? But no one else does, so why even bother? They have all the power, those ... bastards, those dickheads ... But she's not really one of them, is she? Or is she? He decides there's one way to find out who's side she's on, so he lifts his head and stares into her face.

"It's not Betty's fault. It was the Bennett woman who told them that."

"So I got the wrong info. Put me right, then, won't you? Please?"

He hesitates. But oh, how he suddenly wants her to understand! Only, why is that so important? What makes him think for one minute that she will see him in a different light than the rest of them? So she's his foster parent now, but that doesn't mean he should trust her and confide in her. He's made that mistake before. But ...

"The man who ... who had my case before you ... he gave me that phone when I left the clinic." He sighs heavily, unsure of how to go on without laying himself wide open. "They sort of confiscated it when I came to the Lodge. Not confiscated, actually, but they kept it in the office, and we always had to ask to use the computer or our phones, and they always tried to control our use. I mean, if I asked for my phone, I had to tell them why I wanted it. So I had to lie a lot."

She can't help but ask why.

He's clearly uncomfortable. "Because they wouldn't let me find ... someone ... someone they had decided I shouldn't know. Not just the people at the Lodge, all of them. Your lot as well."

Now there's anger in his voice, and the words come faster.

"Always, always they've tried to make me stop thinking or remembering or whatever. Never help me to ... to find out where he had gone. My brother. Well, he felt like my brother even though he wasn't. So that's why I had to lie. And sneak away, see? So I was kinda hiding in the toilet with my phone, and of course that mean Mrs. Bennett had noticed and opened the switch lock from the outside and came in while I was in the middle of looking for something and she wanted to take my phone away from me, and I got mad at her and wouldn't let go of the phone, and she twisted my arm and it hurt so much I dropped the phone and it fell into the toilet bowl because there are no lids on the toilets there. And I got furious and I'm sure I screamed and swore at her, and I remember I started to cry and hid behind the toilet, but they dragged me out and forced some medicine or something into me and after that everything turned grey and dry again."

He draws his breath sharply in, almost a hiccup.

"And she told the others I had thrown my phone into the loo in a tantrum, and of course they all nodded and thought I was a naughty shit."

He suddenly covers his face with his hands, and his shoulders shudder. Then in a whisper:

"There's something wrong with me."

"I'm not sure I agree that you're the wrong one", she says softly, "so why do you say that?"

"I always cry a lot. Like I'm a baby. I don't want to. I want it to stop."

She is not confident that this is the right thing to say, but she leaps into it anyway.

"I believe you have good reasons. But I honestly wonder who's been there for you to comfort you and hold you when you cry? No one should have to go through all you've been through alone."

He frowns at her. Like he doesn't understand. Then his face sort of crumbles.

"He held me. The one they don't want me to remember. He made me feel ... something, I don't know. Like I was real."

Then there's that far-away look in his eyes again. And after a long pause:

"Tin-tin also."

She empties her glass of tea.

"I'm glad you told me this. And just so there's no doubt, I believe you." She straightens her back with both hands on the edge of the table. "And I also believe you've got the short end of the stick for long enough. I promise you one thing, I'll do my best to make sure your life will be less harsh from now on."

He doesn't answer. Just looks at her, wanting to trust her, but not really believing her, thinking that she may mean well, but her promise is nothing more than an airy fantasy.

***

 

Filippo is met with sniggers and whispers and fingers pointing as he enters the classroom, dressed in mustard colored chinos and a totally clashing purple sweater, bright blue cap topping his disjointed ensemble. But he holds his head high, goes to sit in his usual place, makes himself immune to his surroundings and waits for the buzz to die down.

Tin-tin rushes over to him.

"Where have you been? You been sick or something?" he whispers. But a stern voice shouting "Places, everyone!" interrupts him as the substitute Math teacher, old Mrs. Benson, tries to make her somewhat weak authority felt. She partly succeeds, but a low murmur still floats through the room, mostly from the back. All through the lesson the occasional loud laugh splits the more or less hushed atmosphere.

First recess, out in the yard, Tin-tin sticking to Filippo's side like glue. Impatiently asking, almost nagging, to find out the whats and whys of Filippo's two days of absence. Filippo looks a bit bothered, he really wants to explain everything, but he fobs Tin-tin off with a "Not now!", because right now a small army of four boys abreast are ominously approaching them. Of course led by the churlish Ken Nilsson.

"What? Fell into your paint box?" Derisive sniggers. "Your sister wants her sweater back!"

Another voice chimes in. "Now you look more than ever like a cunt!"

Tin-tin steps forward, about to defend his friend, but Filippo touches his arm: "Don't! Just let them."

"Now boys!" a deep voice sounds from behind them. "Are you bothering Filippo again?"

Filippo quickly turns and looks up into Alsted's severe face. "No Sir," he intervenes. "They just don't understand," he adds.

"Not true!" Tin-tin interrupts impatiently. "They're always making fun of him! They're idiots! They're stupid bullies! You should do something about it!"

Alsted lifts his eyebrows and smiles rather ironically. "Well, Martin, isn't that exactly what I'm doing now?"

Filippo turns to walk away from the situation, but then suddenly stops and addresses Alsted. "Sir, if I may, I got something I'd like to say. To the whole class."

Alsted is taken by surprise. There's something new about this ... this forlorn and disheartened boy, some confidence that suddenly rears its head, and he wonders what has brought this about. He nods pensively. "Of course. Next lesson?"

Filippo walks away. Tin-tin runs after him.

 

Alsted smacks his briefcase down on his desk. "Quiet!" He looks at the blue cap. "Filippo wants to say something, so behave and listen."

Filippo stands up, faces the class. Fidgets a bit with his sleeves, but now straightens his back.

"I know what you all think", he begins, his voice timid and small. "I'm not deaf and I'm not blind. But you don't know anything." His voice picks up in firmness and volume. "You know nothing about me. Or about my life. And I don't care what you think, because for the first time in my life I have some color in my bloody gloomy and grey world and no one is going to take that away. No one! No matter how much you try."

He abruptly sweeps his cap off. "I know I look weird and ugly. I've heard that all my life, but guess what, I don't give a shit anymore. So just look at me and laugh all you want. Call me all the names you want. Point at my ridiculous clothes and sneer at my bald head and laugh. Be my guest."

He spreads his hands, a single tears trickles down from his left eye.

"Have you seen enough now?"

He plonks down on his chair, trembling uncomfortably. But in him there's also a sprout of pride, one that starts to show its frightened little leaves above the dark ground.

The room has gone deadly quiet. Twenty-five pairs of eyes stare at their desktops, but one pair of bespectacled eyes stare at him with unguarded adoration, and one pair of lips move to whisper an almost inaudible Yesss!

"My dear Filippo Conti." Alsted's voice resounds in the awkward silence. "That was very, very brave of you, and it touches upon some really important issues."

He rises and walks across the front of the room. "Now, I want you to let this sink in for a minute, and then you'll start an essay, an essay about differences. Think about this: What would the world be like if everyone was the same? Looked the same, knew the same things, had the same talents or abilities? Would it be a better world or would it perhaps be a boring world, or even worse, a non-functioning world?"

He walks over and picks up his felt tip pen. Writes on the whiteboard: SPECIAL OR ALIKE.

"This is your headline. I want it in by Friday."

 

***

 

Marion Berg is disturbed in her up till now unsuccessful search through the office files and the relevant websites by her phone beeping incoming message.

May I show Martin my room?

She calls him back. Filippo has hardly answered when Tin-tin grabs his phone from him, and she gets to hear the outline of the day's occurrence. She has to ask him to stop and give Filippo back his phone. Tells him Bravo, and I'll see you in about an hour.

She stretches her aching shoulders. What now? Maybe try the Salvation Army? They have a reputation in tracking people down, haven't they?

 

Part Six

 

"Yes, it's Martin?"

"Hi Martin, this is Marion Berg. Listen, Filippo and Martin was here, and now they're on their way to your place, and I need you to know some stuff. He's not at the Lodge anymore, he's living with me now. An experiment if you get my drift."

"Yes? And ...?"

"He's done something very courageous today, and I bet he feels a bit shaken. I'm not sure how stable he is, although he seems quite balanced when he's with Martin, but I thought I'd warn you anyway in case he freaks out."

"Excuse me if I interrupt, but could you refer to young Martin as Tin-tin? Just to avoid confusion with the names, you know?"

"Sure. Well, Tin-tin then. He had an idea that you could be instrumental in boosting Filippo's self-esteem, and reflecting on what your drawing of him has done already, I believe he's right. So I'm going to ask you if you could please do something like that again. Draw him, or preferably paint him, and make him feel that he's worth something. I'll buy the painting."

"You mean I should ask him to sit for me? That first drawing was from memory, you know. I have no idea how he would feel about modelling. Think he would say yes?"

"How would I know? I'm fumbling in darkness as everyone seems to do when it comes to him."

"Oh, I'll bring it up with him. Sort of sneak it in, ok? And I think it's a good thing you got him away from that place."

"I'll come and pick him up tonight, and we can talk some more. Eight-ish ok?"

***

 

Two boys, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, on the bus. They are very quiet. Each of them thoughtful, each of them filled with a strange elation, each of them filled with unspoken apprehension.

Filippo is almost paralyzed by this new feeling of freedom. It's so scary, it's like he suddenly finds himself in a huge, empty space with nothing to hold on to ... nothing to tell him what it all means ... nothing to help him find what he should do with it ... It's too big, it's too open and naked! And then ... oh fuck, why did he suddenly confront the kids in his class, what in fucking hell got into him? And why does it feel like relief? Is it her doing, just because she ... but he can't really see that she's done anything to make him do something like that. Well, she listened to him. Really listened ... Oh, and she gave him those keys, she did. Keys. His keys. And he gave her some old teeth in return ... how embarrassing, how utterly poor ... But now, where on earth will he find protection in this alarming new situation? Where will he go if ...if this jail he's been in is suddenly wide open? If he can't hide behind the injustice of it all? If there's no one to blame? If there's no one to hate? And why is Martin ... no, Tin-tin, still sitting here beside him, so close ... and why does he want this boy so much ... But it's all so brittle, so fragile ... and if Tin-tin could see inside his head, he would probably run for his life ...

Tin-tin is in a completely different corner. Again and again he recaps his conversation with Marion Berg. Her insistent voice when Filippo was in the bathroom, talking about people in general, and the people at the Lodge specifically. What was her expression ...they fear that if they open their minds, their brains will fall out, he must remember that one. He had told her the details of what Filippo did in class today, and he had asked her if he could take Filippo home with him, because Martin was so good at making people feel pretty and handsome and he was sure Filippo needed to feel handsome right now ... and she had said she understood ... And the way she had looked at him when she said: "Be good to him. Find his heart and unlock it." He had felt like she could see into his soul and read everything in there. And he had felt dirty and clean at the same time, how weird is that? But Jesus God Allfuckingmighty, how do you unlock someone's heart? Isn't it enough to be just ... like, nice? Why do adults make everything so complicated?

It's their stop. Tin-tin puts his hand on Filippo's shoulder and leads him out of the bus and on towards the converted factory building where the big windows glow like gold in the slanting sunlight, like it's welcoming them into a fairytale.

"Oh fuck, doesn't that look neat!" Tin-tin cries out.

But in Filippo's heart a familiar pain grows, an aching hunger, a sore yearning for the beauty he fears he can never reach, never own, the old well-known sorrow that beauty is always elsewhere. And in his mind he sees Felix wave to him and fade into the background and leave him with a sting of loneliness and this vast, burning longing that never ever seems to cease.

 

***

 

"Ah!" Martin calls out. "My favorite boys! Just in time for carrot cake!"

The spatula, smeared with thick, white frosting is still in his hand. He waves it at them.

"Look at you! Spiffy outfit, Filippo. God, it's nice to see you teenagers in something else than black or grey!"

Filippo's small smile is rather doubtful and pinched. But it is a smile, and that's not common fare.

"He got teased for it at school!" Tin-tin comments.

"Let me guess. That would be the little thug with the Swedish dad, am I right? So now he's the fashion police as well?"

"I wanted to punch him in the face, but Filippo told me to ignore him, but guess what, Filippo sorta made everyone shut up cuz he told them they could bully him as much as they liked but he didn't give a fuck, and Alsted made us start to write a story or something about being clones or being special, and it was epic cuz Filippo was like brilliant!"

"Breathe!" Martin suggests. "Sit down, I'll cut some cake for you. And Tin-tin, maybe you should let Filippo speak for himself every now and then?"

"Yeah, but he doesn't like talking to people, and that was what was totally neat today, cuz he sorta made a speech to the whole class and they all shut their faces and I loved it! He even took his cap off in class and said they could look all they want and laugh at him cuz he didn't care!"

"Stop it, Tin-tin. Don't embarrass your friend", Martin intervenes with an eye to Filippo's flushed face. "Excuse him, Filippo, he quite often loses his mouth filter."

He points the boys to the table and puts out two plates with large chunks of cake. Tin-tin goes to it with abandon, Filippo restrains himself and shows his excellent table manners.

"I hear you've been let loose from the Lodge?" Martin turns to Filippo. "How does that feel?"

Filippo squirms a bit. Chews and swallows. "I don't know", he finally says. "I won't miss them", he adds.

They eat in silence for a little while. Suddenly Filippo looks up at Martin from under his wooly blue brim.

"I peed in her juice", he confesses. "In her bottle. The mean one, Mrs. Bennett. She always keeps her juice bottle in the fridge. She drank it and she never knew."

Martin laughs and reaches out to touch him, but stalls and withdraws his hand. "Good for you! I guess that answers how you feel about the Lodge."

Filippo looks away. "The other ones weren't so bad." His voice is almost back to whisper.

"Yes, they were!" Tin-tin shoots off. "They wouldn't allow you anything! They were just like bullies!"

"Well", Martin says, "I hope things will be better for you now. Marion seems a very nice person."

Filippo sits lost in thought. Even forgets his cake, which actually is the best cake he's had in a long time. Then lifts his head again.

"I could tell she didn't really want me to buy this sweater. Or these pants. Or red jeans. But she never said anything. She just smiled and smiled and then bought me some normal jeans extra." He attacks his cake again. "I just wanted some bright colors. And she let me."

They finish eating. Martin looks from one to the other. "Listen, Boyd is going to be late, he's doing some music video thing for this girl, I forget her name, very of the moment, penetrating voice, pink hair on Monday, black hair on Tuesday, you know who she is, Tin-tin."

"Thea Mara? Wow!"

"That's the one. So if you like, we could go up to the studio. I've been meaning to ask you, Filippo, if I may do another portrait of you? Or maybe both of you together? What do you say?"

"Yes!" Tin-tin shouts before Filippos has had time to digest the suggestion. So he just shrugs. But suddenly feels he needs to put words to it. His wide open brown eyes hit Martin like jolts.

"I want you to do it. Please."

 

***

 

He hadn't expected it to be so awkward, so very unprotected, so dangerous, to be sitting here with Martin's keen eyes scrutinizing him. In this room that's so warm it makes him sweat. Makes him feel stinky and disgusting again. And terribly uneasy, because Martin has stripped off his shirt, and now Tin-tin does the same.

At first it had seemed impossible to escape the sensation of being strangled, the ugly-faggot-feeling was about to drown him. But then - the strangest thing. It felt just as if Tin-tin could sense his feelings, and almost spoke to his mind to let go, to relax, to enjoy being focused upon. That little encouraging smile, and the fingers that touched his knee, and then his shoulder, the ease around everything here, even the closeness between Tin-tin and that grown-up man seems so right, so harmless, not threatening at all. But well, that's not just any grown-up man, that's a man with names, that's Martin, Martin the artist, Martin the beauty-maker, Martin the ugly-remover, and he is not dangerous, he is not big and smelly and hairy and vicious, he's not hairy at all, he's gentle and mild and safe ... Did he just think safe? Immediately he has to check himself. Don't be fooled. No adult is safe.

No sooner than this thought has floated through his brain, Tin-tin whispers in his ear "Let's get naked." And he calls out to Martin behind his easel:

"Know what would make the neatest painting ever? Me and Filippo naked with our caps on!"

Filippo's skin prickles painfully, his almost too warm body shivers like it's suddenly freezing, and his head feels dizzy like all blood has disappeared from it. Oh God! His whole face screams panic. Please say no! he silently begs Martin.

Martin looks up from his canvas. There's an amused glint in his eyes as they fix on Tin-tin.

"I bet you would love that", he chuckles. "But I don't think that's what Filippo had in mind when he said yes to my painting him, so no."

Tin-tin pouts. "Alright." He sounds a bit cross, but then modifies his idea: "Just without our shirts, then!"

He puts his arm around Filippo's shoulder and peers sideways into the boy's face. "It's fun to be painted naked. I've done it lots! Martin, can I show Filippo some of your paintings of me?"

"Of course you can. There's only a couple of them here now, but go ahead."

Tin-tin drags Filippo up from his seated position and impatiently leads him to the far end of the room where a small quantity of large canvases are stacked in front of each other. He carefully goes through them until he finds what he's looking for.

"See?" he exclaims gleefully and gesticulates wildly.

And Filippo sees. And his mouth goes dry and his legs seem to want to unfold from what he sees: A completely nude boy, legs spread and arms lifted and stretched above a jubilant face. Skin. Nipples. Dick. Beautiful. Beautiful Tin-tin. He wants to disappear into the painting, wants to forget everything else.

"And this one!" Tin-tin's voice penetrates his brain. And there he is again, from behind, climbing onto a chair and reaching for a book high up on a shelf, pert buttocks, flexed slender muscles. But he's not the only one in the painting, and Filippo's heart thunders in his chest and his skull seems too small for his brain, because there is Boyd, sitting with legs spread and cock hanging down over the edge of the couch, leaning forward, looking up at the climbing boy, pointing, as if to show him what book he wants. The painting gives the impression of an everyday happening, it sexy too, but it's so full of love and something he has no words for, something he knows he needs but can't reach, so Filippo loses it completely and starts to cry. His face contorts, his head bows down and his shoulders rise almost to his ears as sobs start to shake his body.

The sobs die off pretty fast, though. His breath still sounds halting, like some malfunctioning mechanism, and his tears are still running when Martin comes over and lightly puts a hand on his shoulder.

"It's ok", he says softly.

"No, it's not!" Filippo croaks on inbreath. "It's stupid!"

Martin gently nudges his shoulder. "You know you don't need to be afraid of me? How about we go sit on the couch for a minute?"

Filippo nods, anything to distract him from whatever got to him. He follows Martin, so close he almost stumbles in Martin's feet.

"You too, Tin-tin", Martin orders. They sit down, he pulls Filippo in under his arm. Filippo gives in and his wet cheek is suddenly very aware of the soft, warm skin and the hard bone underneath the muscle of Martin's bare shoulder. I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid. I'm just ...

"I ... I want ... something", he gasps. "How?"

Tin-tin sits down on the floor and lays his head in Filippo's lap. Strokes his ankle. Filippo glances down and notices how his tears have made darker spots on his bright sweater.

"What do you mean, how?" Martin mumbles in his ear.

Filippo sighs and pushes his nose even tighter against Martin's shoulder. "How I can have ... this, maybe." Suddenly he jerks his head away from Martin. "I don't know!" he shouts in exasperation.

Martin pulls him back in. "But you see, Filippo, if by this you mean being with us here, there's nothing you have to do to have it. It's free."

Tin-tin nods in his lap. "Yeah! Just be yourself!" he grunts into to the mustard clothed thigh.

Nevertheless Filippo's inside is in upheaval. "But ... but I'm not ... I'm just a thing! No, not even a thing, a shadow! It's almost like I'm a secret! How can I be ... real? I wanna be real!"

He squirms loose. "You're all so ... nice, and good-looking, and you all got this ... I don't know what, but I don't have it. And I can't have it because in the end I'm just a disgusting freak, and there's no way to get around that!"

Tin-tin is not having any more of this. Swift as a hawk he jumps up, tackles Filippo until he's squashed between himself and Martin's chest and kisses him vehemently on the lips. "I'll show you disgusting freak!" he almost yells and then sucks himself onto Filippo's neck.

Martin feels everything is getting out of hand, searches desperately for the right move. But instincts take over, so he just wraps his arms around the bundle of boys and hope something good will come out of this. Nonetheless, there's an urge in him to speak up.

"You poor boy", he begins, but checks himself. "No, you're not a poor boy, you're so much more. I don't know what has made you think the way you do, I don't know what words have been said to you, and I can't take those words away. But I'll do my damnedest to prove to you they are wrong."

He rocks both boys, feels Tin-tins skin under his hands and Filippo's sweater against his body.

"Think about this: Does it feel like Tin-tin thinks you're disgusting? Did you feel ugly when he kissed you just now? Sadly I can't show you how special, how beautiful you are in the same way, but mark my words when I tell you that you are a truly exceptional boy, and the thing you probably hate about yourself, the thing I guess people have scorned you for, and teased you and bullied you for, is the very thing that makes your beauty stand apart. And that makes me want to paint you a thousand times more than I want to paint those industrial-type fake beauties that people seem to admire so."

He takes a long breath. "I don't know very much about your life, Filippo, but I guess you've not had much happiness, and I guess people haven't always been kind to you. All I'm certain of is that you've been pushed around a lot. We can't do anything about that, but if you let us, we'll show you what it's like to be liked, maybe even loved, for the lovely boy you are, with no strings or reservations."

The words swim around in Filippo's brain. How he wants them to be true! To be more than empty phrases, to be words that aren't just pleasant for a moment, but words you can hold on to, words that don't slip like sand thorough your fingers. But it's too much, too difficult to believe.

Something destructive and fierce takes hold of him. I'll show them exceptional, I'll fucking show them beautiful! He fights his way out of the embrace, strikes a pose in the middle of the floor, and in a frenzy rips off his sweater and his T-shirt, unbuttons his chinos and push them down his legs along with his white underpants and quickly covers his crotch with his right hand. That done, he stretches out his left arm to them, scarred underside in full view. "See this?" he yells. Then bends his knees to show the inside of his right thigh where a long thick scar runs from his groin and halfway down to his knee. "And this?"

He sinks down in a heap, head between his knees.

"Is that enough beauty for you? Now do you want to paint me?" he almost screams, his voice muffled from his contorted position.

Martin and Tin-tin are absolutely knocked out. Both their mouths hang open, both pair of eyes popping out of their heads. They look at each other as if to say What in heaven's name do we do now?

Finally Martin gets up and crosses over to the pile of arms and legs and bungled up chinos, and without more ceremony picks the boy up off the floor, carries him over to the couch and lays him down next to Tin-tin, still crumpled up like a fetus.

"Thank you", he says sotto voce, "Say what you will, but that, Filippo, that wasn't the fuck-you gesture I suspect it was meant to be, that was true beauty. So beautiful it hurt. And I absolutely, totally want to paint you."

Tin-tin draws Filippo's left arm out from the bundled mass of limbs, strokes the grid of scars carefully, lovingly, bends down and covers the area with little kisses. Filippo feels drained and empty, and although he's anything but comfortable with it, he lets it happen. Then he realizes that he's lying there trouserless and exposed, pushes Tin-tin away, grabs the waistband and tries to pull his pants back up.

And Tin-tin, watching him wide-eyed, feels a wild longing in his chest, a pricking at his temples and down his spine, and a dryness in his mouth that he's never known the like of. All because of the sight of Filippo's cock as the movements cause it to flop about, a cock even bigger and yummier than he had imagined. A hitherto unknown lust surges through his being, never before has he wanted something so thoroughly, so radically, so all-absorbingly, and he knows deep within himself that this is serious business. The inkling he's already had that these new urges are beyond fun and games becomes certainty, it blossoms with full force, and he knows things will never be the same again.

Tin-tin remains lost in his own space, as Martin hoists Filippo up and leads him by hand to his easel.

"Come and see how far I've got with your portrait", he says, his voice soothing and brimming with friendliness.

 

***

 

It's almost midnight, but sleep won't come to Tin-tin. He can't stop thinking, his head is too full. Crowded with a bungled mass of images and strange feelings that spin and spin around and are impossible to bring to order. And although he's already rubbed his dick to the tingling summit twice, it didn't help, his body still feels like it wants more. There's a growing anger and resentment in him because he can't find a way out of this confusion, it's so disturbing and unpleasant. Oh, why can't everything be just nice and uncomplicated and ... well, small, like it used to be? If this is what growing up means, then fuck it, he doesn't want to.

He hears the door open and shut and Boyd's low voice say something, he guesses that Martin is still up, waiting. He jumps out of bed, runs naked out and throws himself at Boyd and clings to him like burrs.

"Hey, what's this?" Boyd gives his brother's naked back a few light pats.

"Nuthin." Tin-tin just tightens the hug. "I missed you."

Martin is watching them, a little amused, a little concerned. "We've had a bit of an emotional trip this afternoon", he tells Boyd, "and I think your little brother hasn't quite sorted out his feelings yet."

"Shut up!" Tin-tin yells. "Just hold me!" And before he knows what's happening, two big sobs rattle his chest and tears explode from his eyes.

Boyd silently rocks him softly from side to side, looking questioningly at Martin, who lifts his eyebrows and shrugs. Still holding his brother, Boyd slowly backs him into his room, sits him down on his bed and lets him cry himself dry.

"It's tough, huh?" Boyd's voice is like balm. "You'll feel different in the morning, you now. Want to sleep with us?"

Tin-tin's sobs are soundless now, but Boyd feels how they still jerk the slender body. He carefully eases his brother down and puts him under the covers.

"Don't go!" Tin-tin begs. "Come in with me. Just you."

Boyd obeys. Fully clothed he slips under the duvet and cradles the naked boy in his arms.

"I don't wanna grow up", Tin-tin mutters. "I want to be little again. I want everything to be small and simple and ... not big and ... like, sharp."

"I know. But I promise it will be better, just try to get some sleep."

"Sing me the bunny song."

And by and by Boyd's low voice humming and singing the song from his childhood fades from Tin-tin's consciousness and darkness enfolds him.

 

***

 

It's a weird thing, Marion Berg thinks as she covertly observes the couple on the other side of the table, on the surface they seem such a mismatched pair. But then, when I look closer, not to mention listen, they're probably the most harmonious combination I've seen in a long time. That Boyd Henschel, such a forceful countenance, so masculine and yet so boyish, such self-confidence and such exquisite physique, God, he'd outshine almost anyone in a room with his funky, off-kilter beauty. In comparison, the painter doesn't stand a chance, no one would even notice he was there if Henschel was in his vicinity. But when you go deeper, when you look past that indistinct face, that short and almost scrawny body ... and she remembers his sinewy and spare upper body from the first time she met him ... when he looks at you, those eyes reveal a quiet power, a mild and yet intense authority. And where Boyd Henschel is very generous with both his annoyances and his smiles ... his professional smiles she adds to herself ... Martin Mowinckel's face is a bit harder to read, and his really big smiles are so rare and precious, they make you feel quite privileged when they're directed at you.

And the way they act when they're together, like every word and gesture is a seamless flow of affirmation, or a subconscious manifestation of being on the same wavelength, even when they argue certain points. It's reassuring and at the same time almost jealous-making ... She has never seen this in couples with age difference as large as theirs ... it must be something like thirty years between them, and in her experience, in relationships like that the older character is usually dominant and overpowering, or at best fatherly indulgent. But these two ... such balance, such obvious affiliation ... And both of them so self-assured ...

She remarks on this, much to Martin's amusement.

"Really?" he comments. "Well, let me tell you it wasn't always like that."

"Too true", Boyd supplies. "You should have known him two years ago. Such a mass of insecurities! But his success has done wonders."

"That, maybe. But I think the biggest change in me came from your influence", he says with a fleeting, but distinctly loving glance at his side-kick. "And Tin-tin's, of course. But we're not here to discuss us, surely?"

"Not per se, but I think I have to involve you in something. Something I don't think I can handle singlehandedly, and I'm really reluctant to drag the Child Protection office more into it than we already are, and absolutely not the psychiatrists. Because I suspect this is going to need genuine care more than bloodless professionalism."

She stops, leans slightly forward on her elbow, fingers pulling a pearl-studded earlobe. The two men look enquiringly at her.

"You know that boy, the foster brother that Filippo has been so concerned about ... oh, screw it, obsessed is the word. I never understood the reticence, or secrecy or what have you, that everyone has showed when it comes to the importance of this boy, so I've been digging into it. And I've found him. Well, the Salvation Army did. But ..."

She bites her lip.

"And this is where you come in, because your little family has done wonders for Filippo, and I suspect he will need a lot of love and understanding now, and although I don't really know you, my impression is that you are the ones that could give him that. Okay, the point is: this boy, Felix Peterson, is dead. Shot by the police in an armed robbery about a year ago. In Poland, so it never made the media here. I so dread telling Filippo, I have no idea how he will react. And he's still pretty wary around me, even if he has opened up quite a bit and seemingly has accepted me on some level ... but would it be possible for you to be present when I tell him? All three of you? I know it's not your business at all, and I probably ask too much, so feel free to tell me to stuff it. I just don't know who else I would rather involve."

Silence falls like a mantle over them. Then all three of them start to speak at the same time, and words like sorry... and yes, but... and are you... jump chaotically about.

Martin holds his hand up. "Of course we will, if you think it will make a difference."

"I do hate to bring Tin-tin into this", Boyd muses. "It can easily turn into the kind of responsibility I think he's too young to take on."

"We don't know that", Martin inserts. "We can't predict how any of them will react to this. And Tin-tin is the only one of us who seems to have his unreserved trust."

"I quite see your reluctance, Boyd", Marion Berg says. "It could be a heavy load to put on those young shoulders. So let's keep him out of it."

Boyd nods his consent. But Martin is not in agreement.

"Oh, for heaven' sake, those two boys are head over heels in love with each other, and there's no way you can shield Tin-tin from involvement. Get real!"

"Yes, but ..."

"There's no but. Tin-tin would hate us if we tried to keep this from him. It's much, much better if he's in from the start."

Marion sits quietly thinking.

"It's such a sad story. The Peterson boy, I mean. God, the world is a bad place for some people."

Two faces watch her, obviously expecting more.

"I don't know all that much, but there's a pattern, for sure. He figures quite a lot in our files on Filippo, and I managed to get hold of his files from after he was removed from us, both from the Child Protection Services and the Police, and I've pieced together some sort of picture. His father, whom he obviously doted on, disappeared when he was the age Filippo is now, and no one knows how or where or why, by the way ... and he was left with a by all accounts evil bitch of a mother who had beaten him throughout his childhood until he was old enough and strong enough to stand up to her, and a small, disturbed orphaned foster brother that he felt he had to protect against the same treatment. Which I think shows he had a good heart, the poor boy, but what were his chances? Standing trial for manslaughter because he protected his little foster brother, acquitted it must be said, nevertheless sent away to a new environment, totally cut off from his former life, just to be shunned and bullied even more, so of course he ran away. And of course he fell in with the wrong crowd. Resulting in a police record as long as your arm, shoplifting, drugs, prostitution, you name it. And six months in prison that was just another hell of assaults and beatings, so bad he was put in hospital. My guess is he fled to Poland to get away from this, maybe start afresh somewhere, the poor sod. And then that end. I mean, he was only nineteen, for fuck's sake!"

 

 

Part Seven

 

All four of them watch Filippo from the window.

That didn't go at all as I had expected, Marion Berg thinks. It just goes to show how little I know him. But I need to come up with a strategy in case he falls into one of his black holes later, because I'm sure he will have a heavier reaction when this really sinks in. And I just can't capitalize on these guys forever ... sooner or later there will be just him and me, and then what?

Boyd strokes his chin. Should I go and get him? He'll catch a cold like that! No, I'm not going to put my oar in, this is obviously what he needs, this is his way of coping. And I think I can understand him, even if I would have chosen a less unpleasant distraction, or maybe counterweight is the word ... But then, perhaps this is his catharsis, or some sort of release. Or maybe just a simple goodbye? But Jesus, we can't leave him out there for much longer ... he'll be sick, he'll freeze to death! Oh, I wish I knew what to do.

Martin doesn't think much at all. He's got his sketchpad and pencil, and is totally absorbed with transferring what he sees out there to paper. A small part of his brain registers movement beside him, and there's the sound of the door closing, but he won't let it disturb him. His pencil flies over the sheets.

And suddenly there are two boys out there in the October rain. Two boys just standing there with maybe ten paces between them, facing each other, eyes locked together. And as if by a silent agreement, with perfectly synchronized movements, they start undressing. Practical thoughts like They'll catch cold! or What will people say! never enters Martin's head, his soul is bursting with joy at the beauty unfolding in front of him. This his pencil must preserve forever!

Marion Berg gasps. Mesmerized she watches the two naked bodies. Rain on smooth skin, glittering like gemstones. Two slim, young bodies, one slightly darker than the other. Two backs stretching as slender arms lift to the heavy, grey sky, two narrow waists bending from side to side and small buttocks clenching and relaxing as the boys move towards each other and start to dance.

It's a wild, uncoordinated dance, yet amazingly graceful. Exuberant and jubilant jumps and spins and twirls, and her mouth goes dry and goosebumps tickle her spine as she watches those young cocks, one quite surprisingly bigger than the other, flop and slap against taut lower bellies and lean thighs. I'm not supposed to react like this, she thinks almost in panic. It disturbs her almost to self-hate to realize she finds the sight of the two dancing boys so unbelievably sexy. She has to turn away. Focuses on the worried face of Boyd. Moves her attention to the fiery intensity in Martin's eyes as he sketches fast and fervently. These men are gay! she desperately thinks. Do they also feel like I do? Have I put Filippo in danger by letting these guys into his life? Would they ... would they violate him like those others ... What am I going to do?

An abrupt movement from Boyd breaks her chain of bad thoughts.

"I'm going to get them!" he says impatiently and almost runs to the bathroom. Comes back carrying two bathrobes, hurries out the door.

Martin draws his breath sharply, like he's waking from a trance.

"Phew! That was some performance!" he announces. "Who'd have thought he would react like that?"

Marion Berg examines his face, searching for answers to the questions in her mind. Her eyes quickly scan down his body, but there's no obvious sign of arousal as far as she can judge. Maybe she's just being stupid. And even if these two men found the scene they had just watched as arousing as she had, and honestly it would be strange if they didn't, there's no reason to believe they'd act on it in any inappropriate way. Oh, come off it! What's inappropriate anyway? And a demon enters her brain and says: What if "the inappropriate way" is exactly what Filippo needs? She quickly kills the thought. No way. And there's no, absolutely no reason to doubt that these people have anything but the best intentions, everything she has seen here speaks of honest wishes to help and do what's right for Filippo.

"Like a manifestation of freedom", Martin interrupts her musings. "I do hope that's what it was. How should we make sure he doesn't get some sort of backlash, do you think?"

She sighs, relaxes her shoulders, aware of the tension in her body. "I don't think we should do anything. I think we have to play it by ear. Let him set the agenda. Because I believe he's been pushed around and manipulated long enough."

They're interrupted by Boyd entering the room, a robed boy under each arm. Shuddering, teeth chattering, but looking happy. He lets go of them.

"Get in the shower!" he commands. "As warm as you can stand!"

The boys disappear. The three adults look at each other, and as if by mutual agreement move to sit three abreast on the couch.

"It's feels almost like a need a drink", Boyd laughs. Then he fixes on Marion Berg. "I hate alcohol", he says, "but what do you say we share a joint?"

***

 

Tin-tin head is swimming and his whole body feels like a giant vibrator. There, in front of him, is Filippo, leaning against the tiled wall, eyes closed, water cascading over his naked body, so smooth, and with that warm olive color, and that spellbinding half-hard cock calling for him, somewhat darker in color than the rest of his skin. That cock is pulling him, hypnotizing him. His knees feel wobbly, and he kneels down.

"Boyd says I should always ask", he mumbles, "so may I please touch your willy?"

Filippo starts and opens his eyes. Looks down at the beautiful face turned up towards him. His heart pounds in his chest, his groin tingles. He closes his eyes again.

"Don't ask. You can do what you want with me." His voice is thick with emotion, his body fills up with shivers of anticipation.

Tin-tin leans closer, sees the cock in front of his face grow thicker and lift, watches as it lengthens and the foreskin pulls back to reveal the slit on the tip of the deep reddish head. It's an eye looking at me, he thinks, and pushes his cheek against the cock, feels it jerk and twitch, and his hands come up to caress it, explore it, size it up. He hears Filippo's sharp intake of breath, feels the quivers in Filippo's body.

"He's so big", Tin-tin breathes as his hands slide tentatively up and down the shaft, then peels the foreskin away. There's a strange, dark red mark in the middle of the tapering head, he wonders what it is, but right now it doesn't matter, he just wants to go on feeling and fondling and stroking this delicious cock. It feels like there's a steel spring inside the silky skin. He holds the cock in his grip and lets the tip of his tongue slide around the head and then explore the tiny lips of the slit. A small drop of transparent liquid trickles out, his tongue pulls it up like a silver thread. He closes his lips around the head and sucks it into his mouth, the way he's learned from Martin doing it to him, and he knows he's doing it right, because Filippo's thighs starts to tremble and then go stiff, a loud, sharp moan echoes from the tiled walls. The cock twitches, and he takes it out of his mouth as it starts to pulsate in his hands, and he directs the spurts of semen to his face, feels the warm cum hit his forehead, his cheek, his closed lips and his whole body shivers from arousal and excitement. Filippo sinks panting down on the floor and pushes him out of the spray of water from above, but he crawls back in and lifts his face to let the water rinse away the cum.

Tin-tin sits watching Filippo's cock shrink and go to rest on his thigh. "I wish mine was as big as yours."

Filippo's opens his eyes, there's something almost painfully devoted in them.

"I think you are the most perfect boy in the world", he whispers and blushes.

And Tin-tin blushes too, and suddenly feels hot all over. "Oh", is all he can say. But now there is something more that wants to come out. "I think I'm in love with you", he mumbles.

Filippo's head spins, a huge lump grows in his chest, his eyes fill up. "You can't be", he says anxiously. "Not with me. I'm ... I'm ..." The words are stuck in his throat. Ugly, his mind whispers to him. Repulsive.

Tin-tin's hand comes up and his fingers trace Filippo's face from forehead to chin, lingers on the bony ridge where other people have eyebrows. Down the side of the neck, across those square shoulders and down to a nipple, teasing it and making it point out. He leans in and licks it, sucks it.

"You're like totally beautiful", he tells him. "I've never felt anything like this ever, so I guess I'm in love with you, cuz what else could it be?"

Like an explosion Filippo heaves himself up, grabs the sitting Tin-tin and turns him around. Squatting, he hugs his arms around Tin-tin's midriff, lifts him up until his butt is level with his chin, then bows down and buries his face between Tin-tin's asscheeks. His tongue wanders around and finds the small, wrinkled opening, tickles and prods, pushes to get in. Tin-tin is too overwhelmed to do anything but try to spread his legs even more, bewildered by the suddenness of it all and the incredible sensation. And almost shocked as he realizes he hopes that tongue will push through and lick his whole inside, and then by God, he wants Filippo's lovely cock to enter him and fill him up, just like he's seen Martin and Boyd do ...

There's a sharp knock on the door. Boyd's voice rings out.

"Boys! Aren't you warm by now? We're about to eat, so hurry up, will you?"

Both boys feel like they've been shot through the head. They leap up, wild-eyed and disoriented, both with raging hard-ons. Tin-tin's dick is so hard it hurts, and Filippo seems to be in the same predicament, even though he came just minutes ago.

"We have to get `em down", Tin-tin titters awkwardly. They exchange looks, and both start frantically to jerk off. Filippo starts to shoot almost immediately, and as his spurts hit Tin-tin's hand and cock, that does it. Tin-tin feels like something explodes in his groin, and a strange new and immense pleasure pulsates like thunder through his body and concentrates in his cock and three small spurts of thin fluid shoots out of his dick. Speechless he looks down at what has just happened, then up at Filippos face. His mouth opens and closes, like a fish on land, while Filippo turns the water off.

"Wow!" he whispers. "Spurts! Fucking wow!"

Filippo just gazes at him.

They dry off and get the robes back on, Boyd's robe a little too big for Filippo.

"Please, please", Tin-tin whispers in Filippo's ear, "please can we do this again?"

 

***

 

Filippo and Marion stays on after supper while Filippo's clothes are in the dryer. Although the grown-ups try to hide their apprehension and their concern, it is obvious to both of the boys that they are wary and alert to Filippo's possible late reactions to the news of Felix' death.

Suddenly Tin-tin finds the touch of tension comical. He laughs out loud.

"Your faces! Why don't you just say it?" he chuckles. "Why not just ask him if he wants to cry or shout og throw stuff about or kill himself or whatever it is you're afraid he'll do?"

Filippo blushes. Martin comes to his rescue.

"I've told you before to let Filippo speak for himself, right?" He leans across the table and fleetingly touches Filippo's hand. "We're being stupid. I know. It's because we don't really know you yet, so forgive us. If you want us to stop worrying, maybe you could just tell us a little about how you feel?"

Filippo blushes even deeper. Wishes he had his cap handy and could pull it down over his eyes. But he's starting to believe that all of these people are actually on his side, they ... they ... care. It seems he can't get away from that. But what will happen if he should start to care for them right back? And is that what's happening to him, are these new feelings all about caring for someone? But he can't let that happen, because then they'll disappear! And suddenly he feels an urge to let them know.

"I ... I don't know how to do this", he says slowly. "Like hope and everything, you know? I'll just jinx it!"

Four faces, nonplussed, but tense and expectant, watch him. He can see they don't really understand what he's talking about.

"And ... I knew ... in a way I sorta knew that Felix was gone ... because he's like moved out more and more. But I ... I couldn't let him go. Like my teeth, you know." He glances at Marion. "And now you sorta act like I can have something ... something that's not just in my head, but real, and I don't know how ... and all I feel is like I'm being rearranged. That everything inside me is moving around and something I don't know is being poured into the holes where my ... my things ... the things that were mine and that no one could take away used to be. But the new stuff will disappear if I start to let it fill in the holes, because that is what always happens."

His shy scowl disappears, his upturned face looks wide open.

"Out in the rain ... I thought maybe I could be ... be tangible, maybe ... not be like a shadow, you know? Because you tell me I'm not ugly ... and you tell me I'm ... I'm someone, but I don't know! And then Tin-tin came and we danced on Felix' grave and it was the right thing. The right thing ..."

He blushes again and looks down. "And I want to dance with you forever", he whispers. "But I know I can't."

Suddenly he gets up. "You've made me want it!" he shouts. "You shouldn't have!"

Marion weeps silently. Boyd looks totally lost and incapacitated. Tin-tin also.

But Martin rises, comes over to Filippo, wraps his arms around his hips and lifts him up. And with a surprised Filippo unsteadily supporting himself with his hands on the man's shoulders, Martin takes a few dance steps out on the floor, swings them around and around as he hums a tune.

And Filippo laughs, and the robe swirls around his bare legs.

 

***

 

Filippo and Marion have left, Martin has disappeared up to his studio. Tin-tin is sprawled across the couch, his feet in in his brother's lap. Boyd is absentmindedly stroking the socked toes while watching a documentary about hate crime.

Suddenly Tin-tin jumps up, runs to his room and comes back with a yellow marker. On the calendar in the kitchen he fills in a huge yellow star in today's square. Skips back to the couch and flops down with his feet where they were just now. Boyd tears his eyes away from the screen.

"What?"

Tin-tin sniggers. Shrugs and looks secretive.

"Come on! What was that about?"

Tin-tin shrugs and smirks and sniggers some more. "Guess!"

"I don't know. Something to do with Filippo, maybe? Are you like boyfriends now or something?"

Tin-tin slowly shakes his head. "Maybe? I don't know. That's not it." He sits up, crawls over and puts his lips to his brother's ear. "I can spurt cum now!" he whispers.

Boyd grabs his shoulders and holds him a little away from himself, examining him with a small smile curling his lips.

"Really? Since when?"

Tin-tin tries to look nonchalant. "Mmm. Since today?"

Boyd embraces him and sighs. "Congrats! I remember what it was like the first time, it was so cool!" He puts on the voice of a whining child. "But now you're not my baby brother anymore!"

Tin-tin giggles. "Pff. Like I'm ever gonna escape being your baby brother. I know you!"

Boyd is struck by a thought. "So that's what you were doing in the showers! Come on, tell me! Details, please!" he says teasingly.

Tin-tin actually blushes. And something inside him wants to keep what happened in the showers to himself, like it will diminish and become a joke if he tells. So he looks away.

Boyd seems to sense what's going on inside his brother. "Oh", he says, "as major as that, huh?" And he pulls Tin-tin into his arms. "How lovely for you."

But inside his brain, all kinds of thoughts spin and spin. This is bigger than I thought ... but can he really handle this? With this torn and ravaged boy? Oh God, I hope he doesn't get hurt. But how can I protect him? I can't! I'm losing him! He kisses his brother's cheek.

"It's okay if you don't want to tell me. Just remember, if things should get ... like, difficult, you can always come and talk to me."

Tin-tin lays his head on Boyd's shoulder. "I know", he murmurs.

They sit like that for a while, Tin-tin somehow relishing in the safety of his brother's arms and at the same time impatient to just step out into the unknown and dive into the promise of rapture he's had a taste of, immerge himself in this newfound inkling that everything is wide open, anything is possible, the world is chock full of things to discover and wonderful things to experience ... and it's exhilarating and it's frightening ... and he boards his fantasy ship bound for anywhere with Filippo by his side ...

"He's so smooth", he says softly into Boyd's shirt. "I thought we were kinda smooth, like with you and Martin shaving and everything, but look!" He pushes his sleeve up and holds out an arm. "There's little hairs all over! I never thought about that! But Filippo is just smooth, smooth, smooth, like ... I don't know anything as smooth as him. Makes me wanna eat him!"

Boyd strokes his brother's hair, still too short to really ruffle. "Have you grown more hair down there? I forgot to inspect the last time you were in bed with us," he says with a small smile.

"Yeah. Wanna see?" Tin-tin unbuttons and unzips and pulls his jeans down a bit. And there it is: a sparse smattering of short dark hairs adorning the root of his penis. "I wanna keep 'em, I don't wanna shave!"

Boyd just sniggers.

"His willy is as big as yours", Tin-tin confesses. "At least almost. I'm gonna stop saying willy. I'm gonna say cock from now on." He fishes his slim, longish penis out of his jeans and waves it around. "Hey, look at my cock!" he says in a gruff voice, as deep as he can muster. "Ya like my cock, Sir?"

"You said Sir", Boyd interrupts. "Why not Lady?"

Tin-tin stops fiddling with his dick. Puts it back in, sits up and stares at Boyd. "I don't know. I never think of girls that way. That means I'm gay too, doesn't it?"

"A bit early to say, isn't it? Things can change a lot during puberty, you know. Either way, it's not a big deal. You are what you are. And labels are really redundant if you ask me."

"You ever screwed a girl?"

"None of your business!" Boyd automatically answers, rather sharply, then reconsiders. "Yes, I have", he admits.

"What was it like?"

Boyd sighs. "I didn't like it", he says shortly.

Then he suddenly laughs. "All that hair!" he says mostly to himself. "Nothing but a jungle of fur! Next stop Narnia!"

Tin-tin yawns. Lays his head back on Boyd's shoulder. "I love you", he mumbles. "And I love Martin. And I think I love Filippo too. You can love several people, you know."

"And everybody loves you, you little heartbreaker."

Tin-tin yawns again. "Ken Nilsson doesn't", he comments. "Not that that worries me." And he goes to sleep on his brother's shoulder.

 

(To be continued...)