The average American spends seven years waiting for a red light to turn green throughout the course of their lifetime.

On the way across town, Munky waited longer than seven years in front of each of the trillions of stop lights spanning that great midwestern city. God fucking dammit! he cursed to himself as Ethan screeched to a stop behind a Lamborghini, which had studiously stopped ten feet before an ominous red light. It had just turned red—Ethan had tried to pressure the Lamborghini to make it, but failed—so they were going to be stuck there for at least a minute as strangers took their sweet time crossing and turning and going on their happy little way.

Munky was a wreck.

He methodically tore his already sparse cuticles from his fingertips with his teeth, gnashing maliciously at them one at a time until that finger started to bleed. Then he moved on to another finger. As they waited, Ethan soothed him with kind words, placed a hand on his thigh and massaged him gently. Munky really didn’t want to be touched, but he didn’t have the heart to say so to the beautiful man who had leaped out of bed to save Munky’s ass without even a detour to the bathroom to wash himself off.

Ethan’s tone changed to an inquiring one, and Munky caught the last couple of words through his haze.

(If they hear that message, they’ll know)

"—first time with another man?"

Munky shot Ethan a quick look, and looked down just as fast. That red light was burning holes into his irises. Somebody beeped behind them. "The first time I was with a man…willingly…was when I was about nine or ten."

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"I was abused for years before then. You’re the first man I’ve been with in—six or five or seven years or something."

"And you’ve seen females exclusively—since then. ‘Til now."

Was he implying that they were seeing each other? ‘Til now?’ What does that mean? Were they going out? Whoa. They lived too far away; Munky traveled too much.

"Jimmy?"

(with real life genitaliaaaaa….)

The light flickered green. The Lamborghini didn’t move right away; the owner was apparently talking on a cell phone, from the shadow cast through the sport’s cars untinted back window. Munky’s hands balled into fists and Ethan pressed on the horn and the gas. The Lamborghini beeped back as Ethan came very close to ramming it in the ass.

A feminine hand stretched out the window and gave Ethan a thumbs up with her middle finger.

Another screech of the brakes about 100 yards down the straight-a-way and they were parked. Again.

Munky pounded on the dashboard in frustration. People were giving him incredulous looks, but he didn’t give a flying you-know-what.

"Fucking A!"

Ethan struck up conversation again. He was a talker. "I was openly gay in high school."

"Excuse me?" Munky asked. He took a deep breath. Gritted his teeth. "Wow. That takes balls."

"Yeah. I came out when I was a freshman, because there was this kid that liked me. He was a senior, and he was open, so I thought I could be too." Pause. "Wrong.

"I got my ass kicked every fucking day. Switched high schools twice. Once you come out of the closet, it’s hard to go back in. You feel smothered. I just never learned my lesson, I guess. A lot of girls wanted me, but I obviously didn’t want any of them. People figured it out after a while at my new schools. And then I paid for it."

"Oh, man," Munky moaned, only half-sincerely. His own worries were distracting him.

"Yeah. It fucked me up really bad. I was really depressed for a long time." He reached one hand over and absentmindedly rubbed the scars on his right wrist.

The light: perpetual rouge.

"This is not the way I want them to find out," Munky cried in desperation after a few seconds went by. "I don’t know what they’ll do. One of them, my best friend, Brian, knows I was raped, but he fucking doesn’t know this."

"How would they react?" Ethan, Munky noticed, was nervously tapping his pointer finger on the steering wheel. Munky could guess why. A sex tape is private; especially if you didn’t know you were being taped. As they talked their eyes never left the light.

"They would kill me. They’re so homophobic." The sentence tasted bitter in Munky’s mouth. Until recently, he hadn’t realized that his homophobia was compensating for something very real.

"You know, if worse comes to worse—"

"Gogogo!" Green light.

The Lamborghini didn’t budge. Ethan revved his engine. Precious seconds ticked by.

"Fuck it!" Ethan yelled. He swerved past the Lamborghini and made a go for the next light. Munky held onto his seatbelt as they flew through the next intersection, where the yellow light had just blinked red. They squeezed between two passing cars. Both swerved and honked their horns, nearly missing other cars themselves.

"Go! Don’t let them get your license plate!"

"Don’t worry about that shit. My plate’s in the front. Wooohoo! That was a rush, huh?" Ethan smirked. Munky looked at him. The adrenaline from the past couple of seconds coursed through his veins. He found a laugh in him despite his mood. Ethan’s cheeks were flushed as he lightened his foot on the wheel. They easily passed through the next green light. And the next.

They got into the main parking lot, and through the gate to the private parking lot with Munky’s VIP pass.

Before Munky opened the car door and dashed into the tour bus, Ethan said, "I’ll wait here for you for five minutes. After that, I’m coming in." Munky opened the door. "Thanks," he said gratefully. "I’ll be back."

"Hey James!" Munky really didn’t want to waste any more time, but he went back within hearing range of Ethan. He had leaned over the passenger’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other stretching towards the passenger door. His childish face took on a graven look. "If worse comes to worse, I’ll be there. I’ll be there for you."

Munky shouldn’t have done it, out there in public, out there in the wide open, where his friends could see him if they were looking out of a tinted tour bus window.

But he did.

He leaned over and gave Ethan a kiss.

He closed the door and strode calmly to the tour bus.

Calmly. Ha.

…………………………………………………

David was playing Playstation, and the pungent smell of stale weed was in the air from the night before…or maybe from that morning…Munky wasn’t sure. Oddly enough, Fieldy, Head, and Jon were there too, crowding onto the couch as they watched David try to con on as many butt shots as humanly possible from the Tomb Raider game.

"Hey guys," Munky said lightly as he walked past them. They acknowledged him with a glance.

After, Munky made a beeline for the answering machine. They weren’t waiting for him; they weren’t pissed off; they were just sitting there, playing an innocent video game. More likely than not, they hadn’t checked the answering machine. Routinely, Munky made sure that there were at least two or three messages before he checked…and since the call was made from a different number than they were used to, why should they check it? They might have assumed the message was from a stupid fan or something and deleted it without listening to it.

Rock on! He had probably gotten away with it. He was almost positive.

The answering machine was buried underneath a pile of magazines: another good sign. He pushed them all aside and revealed it: black and shiny, new and very chic, state-of-the art. All Munky had to do now was press Erase, say goodbye to the guys, and then run off with Ethan until they had to practice that night. A wave of relief settled over him. A shuddering sigh, completely satisfying.

He found the Erase button, and pressed it with another, deeper groan of satisfaction. He waited for the little scribbling sound it always made when he pressed Erase. He wanted to savor the sound of his possible downfall being erased in triple time.

Wow, that could have been a disaster. Phew.

There was no scribbling sound.

He pressed the Erase button again, harder this time, all the way down. He looked at the gray text box, and it read in big capital letters "NO TAPE."

Munky gagged.

Ok chill out Munky it’s going to be ok it’s going to be ok there was no tape ok that’s good yippee! There was no tape in the first place alright then but where the FUCK is it…?

"Hey guys?" he prodded as he walked back towards them. They all looked up at him this time.

(It’s nothing Munky it’s nothing)

"—Uh, I was waiting for a message, right? Why isn’t there any tape in there? Kaitlin actually called me last night—"

"Did she really?" Fieldy asked. He was a bit too interested. Enthusiastic. Munky was too busy babbling to notice.

"—yeah she did I need that tape she might be on it—"

"You mean, this tape? This one right here, in my hand?" Fieldy held up the tape, and the Tomb Raider chick’s butt from the TV reflected in distorted angles across its small surface. Munky looked straight into Fieldy’s eyes and saw the despise he had feared he would have to one day face.

Oh. My. GOD.

"What’s going on, Fieldy?" Head asked in an exasperated tone of voice. He quickly met Munky’s terrified gaze and looked back at Fieldy. "We’ve waited here all this time. He’s here now. So what’s going on?"

Munky felt light-headed. As if he were going to faint. His mind was foggy, but he still realized something: the others didn’t know. Fieldy had waited to tell them. Fieldy wanted to make an event out of being the first to know that Munky was gay…which was so typical of him. If Munky somehow got that tape, he could save face. Fieldy would tell them anyway, but at least he would save face.

He lunged for Fieldy.

Fieldy was on the corner of the couch, and Munky leaped onto him, clawing for the tape and growling. David yelled as Munky’s leg pulled the controller out of its socket. The Playstation crashed onto the floor. So did Munky and Fieldy as Munky yanked Fieldy off of the couch. Fieldy had the tape in a tight grip. No matter how Munky tried to peel away his fingers, he kept his hold on it. Everyone started yelling.

"Jim!"

"What the hell?!" David was mourning over his Playstation.

"Dude! Stop it!"

Then there was Munky, desperately, "Give it to me! Give it to me!"

"You fagot get off me!"

Munky had straddled Fieldy, and was well on his way to undoing Fieldy’s tight knot of brawny, callused fingers, but suddenly any chance he might have had was taken away. Someone hooked their arms underneath his shoulders and crossed their arms behind his neck. A wave of pain shot through his upper back, and Munky yelled as he was pulled up. Through clouded eyes he could make out the glinting tape, and he begged and cried for it, his teeth bared and his eyes bloodshot.

A braid whipped his face. Head. In the end, Head had betrayed him. Head had rendered Munky harmless.

Munky hated Head.

"Let go of me! Let go of me!" he shrieked furiously as he struggled against Head’s grip. Head didn’t budge for at least a minute as Fieldy got up and wiped the creases out of his Fubu shirt.

(This isn’t happening)

Finally, when Fieldy once again sat down, Head asked, "You promise to chill?"

Munky relaxed his aching muscles. "Yes."

"You promise?"

"Yes."

Fieldy sat down on the couch. The tape was still in his hand. Head slowly let go.

Munky waited until he had let go all the way. Then he ran to Fieldy again. Shouts radiated throughout the tour bus. Fieldy was taken by utter surprise once again, and the tape flew out of his hand in the struggle this time. It scattered over the floor and Munky dived for it. But Fieldy grabbed onto Munky’s torso, and his T-Shirt. Munky’s fingers were just inches away from it, his body aching, stretching. Someone’s dark boot stomped between him and the tape.

Between him and his pride.

Jonathan.

Munky tried to beg Jonathan, but it was no use. "I wanna see what this is all about," he said in response to Munky’s pleads, and he bent over to get the tape. He handed it back to a rather perturbed Fieldy.

Munky was spent. He had no more fight in him.

So, this was what it’s like to be despised.

He couldn’t move anymore. Head bent down towards Munky’s face as he lay face down, struggling for breath. The tears threatening to wet his face were making Munky’s gasps come in choking sounds. Head whispered, in an affectionate tone, as he helped Munky to sit, "What’s all this about Munky?"

Munky just shook his head. Once he was sitting, Head sat to his side, and for a brief moment placed a hand on his leg.

Fieldy watched all of this with a curious eye, black and questioning. He was clearly the ringmaster now. The floor was his, and he could sense it. He began speaking, and to Munky it sounded as if he were getting some sort of perverse pleasure out of all this.

Asshole.

He held up the tape. "This was the last thing I needed this morning, Munky. The last thing I needed to hear."

"What is going on?" Head again, agitated.

Munky sobbed. He felt like a child.

Fieldy pulled out a tape player, one he used to record people’s conversations and use the sound clips for his rap music. He slipped the tape player into its place, and closed the lid. He placed his finger over the

Play button.

"James," Fieldy said with a hint of arrogance, "I’m giving you a chance to tell them before I play this. I’m giving you a chance to tell everyone the truth."

"Enough already!" Head exploded. Why was Munky shaking, what was making him struggle to fight tears, making him so vulnerable?

"Yeah can’t we just hear this already?" David protested.

"Yeah, without all this fucking bullshit drama. James? What’s up, man?" Jon. The only one Munky knew would show even an ounce of empathy. Maybe forgiveness. His voice was so smooth compared to the others’ rough tones that Munky just wanted to have him take him into his arms. Then he envisioned the cold black boot. All his pride left him in a swooshing sigh.

He had to tell them. He couldn’t listen to that tape. "I—" he whimpered. His saliva thickened. Head reached for Munky’s hand, and intertwined their fingers, encouraging him. Jon and David, who were sitting on the couch, leaned forward in anticipation. Fieldy rolled his eyes. He didn’t want Munky to tell them. If Munky did, it would mean Fieldy hadn’t won. Fieldy wanted to juice this nasty little newsbreak for as much as it was worth. But he had to give him a chance to tell them himself; it was only fair. He knew that Munky wouldn’t be able to, anyway.

Munky tried again. "I’m—I mean, I’ve realized I’m—"

"Yes—?" Head.

He made the mistake of looking into Head’s eyes. In them he saw the times they had massaged, had showered, had hugged, had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. "I can’t. I just can’t." Tears overflowed, wetting Munky’s stubbly cheeks. The pressure behind his forehead ripped into an immense welt, and he suddenly felt the urge to puke as his stomach did a 360. He buried his large head in his hands and pulled away from Head. He assumed the fetal position on the floor.

None of them moved.

Click as the Play button was pressed with a vengeance. There were a few seconds of absolute quiet dripping with heat, and then the crystal clear recorder caught a gasp from Munky and his grumbled message, punctuated with pauses.

"Uh—hi guys. Munk’s here. Just wanted to tell you that—"

Two second pause. "—I’m fine. I’ll be back."

A sharp intake of breath. "In a couple hours."

A faint moan, and then a few seconds of silence.

"So what?" David said—

"Shut up!" Fieldy interjected viciously. This was his moment of glory. Munky winced when the bleeping sound of a button pressed—the button that Ethan had pressed instead of the power button—resonated through the recorder with a shrill sound. Then a paddy bump as the phone was placed onto the pillow.

Less than five seconds later, another groan. Munky’s irregular breathing filtered from the recorder. Already, Munky had stopped crying. He was carefully numb. He had reached his emotional limit, and beyond that point there was nothing but blankness. His empty stare was directed into the corner where the tape had scattered. He could still envision his fingers in slow motion reaching for it. He concentrated on the smell of stale weed.

"Ethan…" came the moan from the answering machine, for the first time, and Munky remembered that moment. Less than an hour before.

There was a wet sound, the sound of someone releasing suction, and suddenly Munky’s whiny, begging, hoarse voice came into play again. "Ethan, no, don’t stop—"

The door creaked. Ethan was suddenly met with ill-tempered glares.

"You!" David cried when he saw Ethan, pointing.

"Huh?" Jon. He was confused.

"That’s the bartender from last night!"

"Shhh! Shut up everybody!" Fieldy’s face darkened.

All in the room—except for Head, who had his back turned to everyone and didn’t even bother to turn around— could finally give a face to a name.

Ethan saw Munky on the floor as the sound of Munky chasing Ethan around the room played from the tape. He went to Munky. Squatted and placed a hand on his shoulder, comforting him. Munky had forgotten about Ethan, who had been waiting in the car the whole time. There was a spot of cum on Ethan’s dark black pants. It didn’t matter whose it was. Ethan sat with Munky. Took his hand in his.

Munky began to cry again. Ethan looked in the other direction as the recorded sounds gained volume. The entire time, the phone had been right next to Ethan’s head, in a defined nook.

"Fuck me, fuck me—"

"Uuuuh…"

"Oh God—"

"You like that?"

"Yes—"

"Harder?"

"Yeees—"

"You sure? Like this?… Huh?"

Deep, wincing groan. "Yes!"

"More?" Gasp.

Head was facing the kitchen, sitting with his head bent down, listening. But now he turned his head up. "Alright. I’ve had enough. Why are we listening to this? Stop the tape, Reg." The moans were getting louder from the tape; Fieldy raised his voice in protest. "Wait a minute—it’s almost over—"

Fieldy’s eyes locked on Head’s burning ones; black eyebrows furrowed, head tilted, Fieldy pressed the Stop button and all were plunged into a screaming silence.

"Oh yeah, and I found these lying around." Suddenly, Fieldy stood up and from underneath the couch cushion yanked out two Playgirl magazines, which he chucked at Munky. One scattered open on the floor and the other sandwiched face down on Munky’s back. Ethan lifted it off of Munky and put it down on the ground. Fieldy looked around, and said, still standing, "I think you have some explaining to do, Munky."

"I don’t think he does." Ethan looked at Fieldy with a carefully guarded expression. "He doesn’t have to explain anything. Looks like you explained everything just fine."

"Fuck you, fagot."

Munky sat up. He wiped his eyes as Ethan gritted his teeth. Head was still staring off into space. Jon was clearly shocked. He had been missing those mags, and had worried about where they’d gone. Munky said, "Those weren’t lying around. Those were in my cubby. You went in my cubby. And no, Ethan’s right, I obviously don’t have any explaining to do. I think everyone got the idea."

"When were you going to tell us, Munky?" David asked. He was slightly peeved, but nowhere near as ticked as Fieldy.

"I don’t know—"

"He was never going to tell us," Fieldy cut in.

"Why don’t you just fucking shut up, Fieldy?"

"You know what Head? I wouldn’t be surprised if you were a fagot! You act all lovey-dovey around—"

"Oh go fuck yourself! Jesus Christ!!" Head chucked one of the magazines at Fieldy. He got up and grabbed Fieldy’s shirt, but David managed to separate them before another fight broke out. "Bitch!" Head spat as he plopped back down heavily. Fieldy had hit a nerve.

"What was that, Head?" Fieldy returned snidely, his hair ruffled.

"I can’t believe what an asshole you are." Head’s tone reeked with hate.

Fieldy spread his arms out wide, "Well, okay. Now that we’re all being open…" Fieldy took on a more mature persona. But just a bit more mature. "It just bothers me that for the past five years I’ve lived with a guy that checks me out and looks at my ass."

"Oh, if I were as nasty as you I wouldn’t be worried about that," Ethan chirped. Fieldy shouted obscenities at him, but Ethan kept his cool. "Gay people can be just friends with some men, the same way that you’re just friends with some women. Dumbass."

Fieldy had cornered Munky, pressured him, and was obviously taking pleasure in torturing him. He suddenly felt that he was the one who needed to explain himself. He turned to his band mates. "Fine! Whatever! I gave him a chance to tell you guys, but he didn’t. He didn’t, even though I gave him a chance, ok? If I’m living with a fagot, I want to know that I’m living with a fagot—"

Munky kept shooting sideways glances to Head, whose back faced everyone. Later on, Munky would want to talk to him, but he didn’t know if Head wanted to talk to him anymore at all. He was really hurt, probably feeling betrayed. Munky interrupted Fieldy in the middle of his little tirade.

"—Ok, then. We’re being open? I’ll be open. I’ll be very open. I’ll be as open as it fucking gets.

"Last night, when we were in the shower? Rest assured, I didn’t think of you, Reggie.

"Any night that we spent time together, I didn’t think of you. Ethan’s the first guy I’ve been with in years."

David’s eyes widened.

Head sobbed.

"I was raped when I was three by my neighbor. That shit continued for nine years. So, in other words, when I met you, when I was chilling out with you and sleeping over your house in your bed with you and playing guitar with you, I was being fucked.

"And—" This was hard to say, but he had to say it. "I kept seeing my neighbor even after he moved away. Because I liked being with him. And if you don’t like that you can shove it. Do you think I really give a rat’s ass about what goes on in your bedroom? Why do you care so much about what goes on in mine?"

"Now wait a sec—"

Munky held up a hand to stop Fieldy. "Just listen to me, ass wipe. Of all the ways that you could have told the others, you chose playing that fucking tape. Real nice. Considerate of you. It surprises me that you would want to listen to it at all, since gay people are obviously so nasty to you.

"You could’ve at least come to me first, and talked about it to me as if I were a person, and not some freak show. Up until this morning, I was your brother. But because I like guys too that obviously makes all the years I’ve been your best friend worth shit. I’d rather be a flaming fagot than a jerk off like you. You know what, just fuck you and everyone like you, Reg."

Fieldy was speechless. Finally, he came up with, "Hey, I’m not the one giving it up the ass to some guy."

"Haven’t you even been listening to him?" Jon interrupted. He looked upon Munky as if for the first time, then turned back to a fuming Fieldy. "He just told you that he’s been raped, and you just fucking dismiss that like it’s nothing." Jon’s face was very white. "Oh my God. He’s right. Just fuck you! You don’t know us because we don’t let you know us. When we do, this is what happens."

Jon walked out.

Fieldy’s mouth dropped open like a rusty hinge. Red filled his face. "I’m fucking outta here! You cock suckers can all fuck each other for all I fucking care!"

Fieldy stormed through the door. Jon climbed into his cubby. David sat for a minute, absorbing what had just gone on. The heat in the room was unbearable. Ethan wiped the sweat trickling down his forehead. Munky, though it was hot, accepted his warm hand, and the two sat together, silent, for several minutes.

David finally stood up. Head was still facing away. He hadn’t moved. David rubbed Head’s shoulder, then helped Munky to his feet. He hugged Munky and told him quietly, "S’okay, man. You know, sorry if I ever said anything that hurt you and stuff."

The meaning of it all was so profound that a tear rolled down Munky’s face. For the first time he truly appreciated acceptance. He had been accepted all his life as a son, a friend, a bandmate, a rock star, a talent, and a lover. Now he was being truly accepted: as a person. It meant more to him than words can explain, and to try to do so in text is to only hinder and undermine the emotions he felt as he embraced David.

Then, louder, David said, "Fieldy will get over it. He’s just in shock. Denial."

David shook Ethan’s hand. "I’m sorry if he offended you. He—he can be really close-minded sometimes. But he’s a cool guy. He’ll come around." Ethan shrugged.

"I love Munky. No matter what. Fieldy will come around," David repeated, as if he were trying to convince himself. When that was done, David went back to his Playstation. He unplugged the system and brought it onto his lap. It looked banged up, but maybe there was just a loose wire somewhere.

David took the news exceptionally well, in Munky’s opinion.

Obviously, Ethan knew quite a bit about video game systems, because when David began poking around the CD player part of the system, he warned him not to touch certain components of it. This made David visibly nervous, so Ethan finally sat down next to him with it and together they checked to see if there was any wire that had slipped loose. Ethan apparently was unable to notice anything wrong. As David and him plugged the system in again, Head finally got up and left the room, snatching a beer and a banana on his way to his cubby. Munky watched him go; now wasn’t the time or the place to talk to him.

Head would come out when he was ready to talk. He couldn’t be prodded.

If he wanted to talk about it at all. If that was the case, Munky’s plight looked pretty bleak. He wanted Head to accept him, but didn’t know if he would for two major reasons, the first being that he liked men, as aforementioned. Head avoided gays and bisexuals, looked down upon them. He had never had a gay friend in his life, unlike Jon, David, and Munky. It must be quite a shock to him that his closest friend after all these years was just that. The second reason Head was probably angry was because Munky hadn’t told him beforehand. Head wanted Munky to feel that he could talk to him about anything; if Munky was being with other men, he wanted to know. For more reasons than one.

Out of the corner of his eye, Munky noticed the mags that had been violently thrown at him less than fifteen minutes before. They were Jon’s. More likely than not, Jon wanted them back. As David and Ethan raced each other on a Playstation dirt biking game (They had one durable Playstation. There had been nothing wrong, contrary to what David had assumed), Munky suavely picked them up. He checked to see if David or Ethan was watching him before he lifted the curtain to Jon’s large, spacious cubby. It was a mess in there; Jon’s blanket was wrinkled, and there were dried drool puddles on his blanket. Hanging from hooks in the ceiling were his top hats, askew in their holders. It smelled of alcohol, pot, and cigs, and in the corner of his cubby were pictures of his dear son, Nathan. One playing pool. One at Disneyland.

But no Jonathan.

Where had he gone?

He wasn’t in the bathroom, or in any of the other cubbies. Finally, Munky looked in the backroom, and there he was, sitting staring blankly, tapping his blunt pencil edge on the side of a thick open sketchbook. Jon was trying to write lyrics. To distract himself from the thoughts in his head. This was how he chose to deal with Fieldy’s asshole ways and Munky’s forced coming out.

Why not? It’s how he dealt with everything else that bothered him. Munky wasn’t surprised.

When Munky sat down, he craned his neck subtly to read some of the words. All he caught was the word "SECRET" in bold scrawl across the top before Jon tilted the book away. Munky probably couldn’t have figured out what he wrote, anyway; Jon’s chicken scratch was damn near unintelligible.

Munky said to him, "I put the mags in your cubby—" Jon stiffened "—underneath the mattress." After an awkward moment, he explained, "I couldn’t tell you that I took them, but I’m so sorry if I made you worry."

Jon didn’t accept the apology. "Sorry for stopping you from getting that tape. I had no idea it was anything like that."

Munky reluctantly said "S’ok." Even though it wasn’t okay.

"If you want, you can keep the two Fieldy found and just give me the other one that you borrowed."

"Other one?"

Jon’s eyes widened. "Yeah, you know, you took three, right?"

"I only took two," Munky held up two fingers. Now he was confused.

"You sure?" Jon suddenly looked very old; the wrinkles in his large forehead deepened.

"Positive. I only took two. Either the day before yesterday or the day before that."

"You mean you didn’t take any, like, a month ago?"

Wow, a month ago. Munky had no idea back then what kind of position he would be in now. A month ago was ancient history as far as he was concerned.

Like most adults, he had buried away his past. It had finally caught up with him, and his life had done a 360 because of it.

Jon closed his notebook. "Fuck," he muttered underneath his breath. "Well if you didn’t take it, then who did?"

"I have no idea."

"Wonderful," Jon lamented, and cradled his head in his two slender hands. Munky gave him a hug. It was a private moment; a moment between one who had come out, and a closet who had struggled with his own identity for years and always would. Jon and Munky’s dark secrets perpetually tormented them. Rarely was their pain articulated, but it didn’t need to be; the wear of insomnia showed on their faces and in the softness of their nearly identical brown eyes. They were linked together in a way only truly realized that day.

They had lived through everything.

They knew pain.

Tomorrow was just another day.

Another day to dread.

…Meanwhile, in the other room…

"Ha! I beat you again! That makes three!" Ethan shouted gleefully.

David had a sour look on his face. He’d put countless hours and hours playing Playstation, preparing for a worthy nemesis like Ethan. Despite all the tricks David knew, all the little cheats, Ethan still kicked his ass every time. Ethan loved to remind David that he had never played a racing game before.

Right. Like David believed that.

"I’m just a natural, I guess," Ethan concurred lightly, putting a scowl on David’s face that Ethan imitated perfectly. They cracked up. David requested that they have a rematch. They had played a tournament, which was three races. On his second race, Ethan beat David’s best score ever for the backroads track—6:15—by more than 30 whopping secs.

Amazing.

And what’s more, it didn’t seem as if Ethan was trying very hard. David insisted that he wasn’t up to par…to save his pride. Ethan switched controllers with David when David asked. Out of courtesy for the guest, David had taken the shitty controller. That’s why he was losing. Of course. It was all the controller’s fault. As Ethan took the crappy controller, David smiled inwardly. Now it was his turn to win, motherfucker.

In the middle of their game Head emerged from his cubby. All that damned noise was driving him mad. The TV was blaring. David took the news well, obviously. Better than Head was, that one thing was for sure. First, Head had dealt with the fact that Munks had cheated on Kaitlin. Then he had dealt with Talena. And worst of all, the abuse: What was that Munky had said, that he kept going to his neighbor because he ‘liked being with him’?

Where the hell did that come from?

There was a lot Head needed to know, a lot begging to be explained. He had expected Munks to be with his so-called boyfriend, but it was just Dave and Ethan bonding in the video game room. Fieldy was out pouting and trying to salvage what was left of his bloated ego. He finally found Munky and Jonathan in the back, talking. A lump rose into Head’s throat, but he told himself to relax. They were talking about lyrics.

Munky quickly ushered Head into the bathroom and closed the door. Sealing them off from the world. Head didn’t have to say anything at all. Looking at Munky was body language enough. Head wanted to talk, he had questions, and finally Munky would answer everything. No more secrets. If he didn’t say everything, he was putting his friendship on the line.

Munky didn’t want to keep anymore secrets.

At first there was an awkward moment of intense contemplation, neither brave enough to say anything. Head shuffled his feet; Munky pressed his back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest.

Too much drama.

This had better be the grand finale. Past this point, they weren’t going to be able to surprise each other anymore. They went into that bathroom together, still tight friends. They went in there to finally achieve closure and move the fuck on.

Little did they know that it was just the beginning.