There was nowhere Fox felt better than when on
the basketball court, lost in the game.  When the
buzzer sounded and the team headed back to the locker
room after another victory, he felt like a clock
winding down.  On the court, he was like a machine,
his teammates cogs and gears that eased his way to the
basket.  He operated on automatic, without conscious
thought.  But now, stripping out of his uniform, the
sweat cooling on his body, he remembered who he was,
and the dark unease that was almost always with him
returned.
     A few guys slapped him on the back and
congratulated him for all the points he'd scored, but
he wasn't a part of the general atmosphere of
celebration in the room.  It always felt as if he was
encased in a transparent bubble that separated him
from everyone else.  He quickly washed off in the
shower, trying not to look at the lean, wet bodies of
his teammates.  Lately he'd been surprised by the urge
to run his hand over Tommy Mullin's smooth, muscled
back, down to his butt, and he couldn't deal with that
now.  As if his life weren't bad enough, he had to
start having fag thoughts.  
     The past year at Greenwich High School hadn't
been too bad so far, and he wanted to keep it that
way.  Although he had no friends, and spent all of his
time either reading, doing schoolwork or playing
sports, it beat the year before in Chilmark where he'd
gotten into a fight almost every day and then had to
come home to his parents acting as if they existed on
two different planets, not knowing if his father would
blow up at some point during the evening.  His
parents' separation was a good thing, he knew, but
despite all the anger and shouting, not to mention the
occasional ear-ringing blow, he missed his dad.  Or
maybe he'd started missing his dad before the
separation, missing the man he'd been before Samantha
disappeared.
     "Great game, Mulder," a deep voice said from
behind him as he pulled his jeans on, facing his
locker.  He turned around to look up into the face of
Coach Hansen.  
     At fifteen, Fox was almost six feet tall, but the
coach seemed to tower above him as he placed a big
hand on his bare shoulder.  The contact surprised him,
and he flinched away from it, looking around to notice
that he'd spaced out again and everyone else had
already left.  That happened sometimes.  He quickly
pulled his shirt on and closed the locker.
     Coach ignored his flinch.  "Everything ok,
champ?" he asked.  "You didn't seem to be paying
attention to my congratulations speech after the
game."
     "I'm fine," Fox assured him with his best smile. 
Sometimes he had the urge to tell someone about his
family's troubles, how he'd lost his sister and missed
her so badly that sometimes he had to shut his brain
off just so he wouldn't think about her.  How he knew
his parents not only didn't love each other, but also
no longer loved him, or even liked him.  How he'd only
spoken to his father once in the past year, and that
was because his dad called him to tell him about a
scholarship to Oxford that he expected him to be
working towards so he could send him even further
away.  How his mother wandered around their new
too-big, impersonal house as if she were haunting it. 
Sometimes he thought that Coach would be willing to
listen.  The big man always praised him on his
playing, and Fox often caught him looking at him as if
he wanted to say something meaningful.  He was the
only person Fox knew who ever asked him how he was
doing, and Fox was on the verge of telling the truth,
that he wasn't fine, that sometimes he felt as if he
barely existed.
     "Ok then," the coach said, looking skeptical and
briefly touching his shoulder again.  "Rest up for
practice tomorrow."
      "Sure thing, Coach," Fox said before putting on
his jacket and going outside into the cold night. 
Their house was three miles away from the school, and
he could have asked one of the other guys for a ride,
but they were probably going out to celebrate
somewhere, and they'd long since stopped asking him to
go since he always politely declined.  He didn't know
why the thought of sitting around talking and laughing
with them frightened him so much.  He knew girls would
be there too, and he noticed how a few of them looked
at him from the sidelines.  He might be able to score
with one if he actually ever talked to any of them. 
Sometimes in his bed at night he imagined one of
them—usually Liz Granger—touching him, even sucking
him.  After masturbating, he always felt a little
depressed though, because he knew there would always
be this undefinable feeling keeping him from pursuing
any of them.  He somehow felt he was too different,
perhaps too unworthy to be a part of their normal
world.
      He actually loved walking, or sometimes running,
home at night.  Once he got beyond the busy street the
school was on, the quiet roads were treelined, lit
only by sporadic streetlamps.  Aside from the
occasional car, everything was quiet, and the big
houses, set back at the end of long driveways, seemed
so warm and peaceful, lights burning in the windows. 
He wondered if anyone passing by his house would think
it was warm and peaceful, unaware that inside it was
peaceful all right—peaceful as a mortuary.  He jogged
the last mile, his knapsack bouncing rhythmically
against his back.

     The next week he got asked out on a date, or at
least he thought it might be a date.  It had never
occurred to him that a girl could ask a guy out.  In
honors chemistry class he was paired up with Mia
Lundsford as a lab partner.  She was older than he
was, as were all of his classmates since he'd started
kindergarten early and then skipped third grade, but
she looked about fourteen years old.  She was thin and
almost flatchested, but had a pleasant, intelligent
face and straight blond hair parted down the middle. 
Fox hadn't thought of her as attractive, but he hadn't
thought of her as unattractive either.  And he liked
her.  They worked well as a team on their experiments,
and he didn't need to explain anything to her as he
usually had to with lab partners of the past.  They
even had fun sometimes, putting their own weird
variations into the experiments, and laughing when Mr.
DaSilva was confused by their results.  Basically they
were quiet partners in geek-dom.
     "Fox, do you want to go see Star Wars tomorrow
night?" she asked after class, not looking him in the
eye.
     He had been meaning to go see it, but hadn’t had
anyone to go with, or a way to get there, since they'd
need to drive to the movie, and he didn't even have a
permit yet.
     "Yeah," he answered.  "How're we going to get
there?"  He knew it wasn't the most romantic or
sophisticated thing to say to your date, but he needed
to know.
     "Oh," she said, looking up at him, seemingly
startled that he had said yes.  "I can borrow my
parents' car.  The movie's at seven, so I can pick you
up at six thirty."
     "Ok," he agreed.  She wrote his address and phone
number on her notebook and then, realizing they had
nothing more to say, they both went their separate
ways.  It wasn't until Fox reached his locker that he
realized he probably should have gotten her phone
number, if only to be polite.

     Star Wars was incredible, and after the movie,
sitting on the curb outside the theater, Fox and Mia
spoke enthusiastically about it, already planning to
see it again.  They both liked Han Solo the best,
although Fox was too embarrassed to say that he wished
he was like Han Solo.  He would have been even more
embarrassed to admit that he found Han Solo incredibly
attractive and wished he could kiss him.  He pushed
that thought out of his head and instead suddenly
kissed Mia quickly on the cheek.  She smiled, looking
down at her knees.
     "I can't believe you're on the basketball team,"
she finally said, shyly.
     "What?" he asked,, shifting closer to her so
their thighs touched.  "Why?"
     She laughed.  "I mean I never thought a jock
would ever go to a movie with me," she explained.  At
his confused expression, she continued, "Fox, don't
you notice that the other guys on the football and
basketball and baseball teams only date the
cheerleaders or those girls who flip their hair like
Farrah Faucet?"
     "I don't know," he said for lack of anything
better to say.  He hadn't really noticed anything
about who dated whom.  He barely knew anyone's name at
school.
     Mia laughed again and this time she pecked him on
the cheek.  "You're so," she searched for the right
word, "different."
     He smiled and briefly put his hand on her knee. 
"I'll take that as a compliment."
     "You should," she answered.  "So, how come you
don't hang out with Tommy Mullin and those other guys
on the team.  They're the most popular guys at
school."
     "I don't know," he said again.  He knew he wasn't
being the best conversationalist, but he wasn't quite
comfortable talking about himself.  After Samantha had
disappeared he'd been questioned relentlessly by the
police, by doctors, by unidentified men in dark suits.
 But in the last couple of years no one even seemed to
notice him, much less ask him about himself.  At Mia's
questioning look he tried to explain.  "I just, I just
don't really fit in with them, y'know?"
     She took his hand in hers and turned it palm-up
on her knee.  Her fingers tickled as they stroked over
his palm.  It felt so good to be touched, that he had
trouble paying attention to her words.  "Yeah, I know.
 I heard Liz and her friends talking about you in gym
class.  They think you're cute.  I bet any of them
would go out with you, but you're here with me."  Mia
seemed to be challenging him to be honest with her, so
he was.
     "They're pretty, those girls, but I don't want to
go out with any of them."
     "Why not?" she asked.
     "I don't know," he said yet again.  Talking with
Mia made him realize he didn't know much of anything. 
"I don't like them, I guess."
     Mia smiled widely in approval.  "In seventh
grade," she said, "Liz called me a scrawny little twig
in front of our entire math class.  Everyone thought
it was hilarious."
     Fox shook his head, thinking of Liz bouncing up
and down in her cheerleader uniform, her wavy brown
hair framing her round breasts.  Thinking about her
made his groin tingle, which made him hate her all the
more.  "Now I know why I don't like her," he said.
     Mia smiled.  "Most boys would like her anyway
because she has big boobs," she said, looking at her
feet.  Fox thought that in comparison to her little
feet, he looked like he was wearing clown shoes.
     He laughed nervously, hoping she hadn't read his
mind. 
     They sat in silence for a few moments before Mia
spoke, still not looking at him.  "Fox, is this a
date, or did you just want to see Star Wars?" she
asked.
     Every time Mia opened her mouth, he liked her
more and more, although he still didn't feel that
attracted to her.  She was just so honest, and it
seemed most people around him were hiding something. 
"I guess," he started, cringing at the uncertainty in
his own voice.  "I guess it's a date."
     "Do you like me?" she persisted, now looking him
in the eyes.  "I mean like as girlfriend material?"
     Now her directness was making him sweat a little.
 "Uh, I don't know."
     Her eyes looked a bit wet all of a sudden, but,
much to Fox's relief, her voice sounded steady.  He
didn't know what he'd do if she started crying or
something.  "That doesn't sound very promising."
     Fox didn't know what to say. "No, I mean, I think
so, but I've never had a girlfriend," he tried to
explain.  He did want to spend more time with Mia, but
it's not like he wanted to "do it" with her or
anything.  But then maybe she didn't want to either. 
He'd heard other guys talking about how their
girlfriends wouldn't put out, so maybe Mia didn't even
want to do it with him.  "I do like you," he finally
said, trying to smile, although his palms were
sweating.  Thank God she wasn't holding his hand
anymore.
     She graced him with a relieved smile.  "I've
never had a boyfriend either, unless you count Jimmy
Franzoni who used to follow me around in third grade
trying to kiss me."  They both laughed, the tension
relieved somewhat.  "Didn't you have a girlfriend
before you moved here?"
     If she only knew, Fox thought, how absurd that
thought was.  No girl who had any self-respect would
have been seen with creepy Fox Mulder who supposedly
hacked his little sister up and buried her in the
woods.  "No," he finally admitted.
     Mia didn't question him further on that point,
seeming to sense that he didn't want to elaborate. 
She studied him for a while.  "Why did you move here
anyway?"
     Fox decided on the short answer.  "My parents
split up and I moved here with my mom."
     "Sometimes I think my parents should split up,"
Mia said, taking his hand in hers again and looking at
the palm as if she were going to read it.  He hoped
she didn't notice how sweaty it was.  "They fight a
lot."  He was glad that she'd shifted the conversation
to herself, although he wasn't too keen on the subject
of fighting parents in general.  She seemed to feel
him stiffening.  "Sorry, we don't have to talk about
it," she said, letting him have his hand back.
     "It's ok," he said, feeling bad now.  "It's just
you're the first person to ask me about it."
     "Do you wish they stayed together?" she asked.
     He thought about that for a minute.  It wasn't so
much that he wished his parents were together now, but
rather that he wished things were the way they were
before Samantha was taken.  They hadn't been a perfect
family then, but they'd been normal enough, and he
hadn't been alone.  "I wish a lot of things were
different," he finally said, averting his gaze, "but
it's better that they split up, and I like it here
better."
     "Really?" she asked, astonished.  "I can't wait
to get out of here.  Greenwich has to be the snottiest
place in the world."
     He couldn't disagree with her there.  Everyone
dressed in expensive clothes and belonged to a country
club.  But that didn't affect him too much.  "It's
pretty here," he said, "and no one gets into fights."
     Mia looked at him curiously.  "Was there a lot of
fighting at your old school?"
     He chuckled a little.  "Well. It wasn't like
there were biker gangs or anything," he said.  "It's
just that everyone's rich here and rich people seem to
just say things behind your back instead of punch you
in the stomach or something.  At least you can ignore
it when people say things behind your back."
     "Why would someone punch you in the stomach?" she
asked, looking as if the thought appalled her.  It
wasn't as if Chilmark were the meanstreets or
something, but people in Greenwich were definitely
sheltered.
     He thought of just brushing off her question, but
now that she had gotten him talking, he felt like
telling her about it.  He knew she wouldn't run around
telling everyone.  "A few years ago, my little sister
disappeared from our house," he started.  He pressed
his leg more tightly against Mia's, and she didn't
move away.  "I was there, but I don't remember what
happened.  We haven't found her yet, and some people
in Chilmark think I did something to her, but I
didn't.  I never would have hurt her."
     She took his hand again and this time held it
tightly between her two smaller ones.  "Jeez, Fox,"
was all she said.
     He felt tears sting at the beck of his eyes and
swallowed hard.  There was no way he was going to cry.
 He hadn't cried about Samantha for over a year, and
he wasn't about to start again now in front of a girl
he barely knew.  He pulled his hand from hers and made
a dismissive motion with it.  "Well, it's not like I
never got into fights before it happened," he said as
if fighting was nothing.  "No one likes you if you do
well in school, y'know?  It doesn't help if you have a
dorky name like Fox."  It was true.  He hadn't had
many friends even before everything changed.
     "Yeah, I know," she said, and it sounded as if
she really did understand.  Fox thought of Liz Granger
calling Mia a twig, and figured it was only one of
many stories.  Mia was smart too.  "So what do you
think happened to your sister?" she asked, breaking
into his sympathetic musings.
     "I don't know," he said, abruptly annoyed that
she wouldn't drop the Samantha line of questioning. 
"I told you I don't remember."
     She looked contrite.  "Sorry," she said, "we
don't have to talk about it anymore."
     "Sorry I snapped," Fox apologized, realizing that
she had meant no harm.  "It's just I've been asked
that about a million times," he explained.  "I'm going
to go into the FBI so I can find her."  It was a plan
he'd never shared with anyone before.
     "Really?" she asked, seeming to think it was a
cool idea.  "Do you know yet where you want to go to
college?"  Everyone in school seemed obsessed with
going to college, mostly the best, most expensive
colleges.
     "Oxford, in England," Fox answered.  He did want
to go to college, and thought he could probably even
graduate early and go next year, but it was weird to
think of living in another country.  "My dad wants me
to apply for this big scholarship.  He has a friend
there or something."
     "England?  Wow."  She seemed impressed.  "As
smart as you are you'll probably get the scholarship. 
Plus you're Mr. star basketball and baseball player,
and run track and everything."    
     He blushed, not really sure how to respond to her
characterization of him.  He'd never thought of
himself as star anything.  He was glad that the
conversation had shifted to a new topic though.
     "I'll probably go to Smith," she continued.  "My
mom went there, and so did my grandmother.  I don't
even know why I try to get good grades.  They would
probably let me in if I got straight Cs."
     "They let you in if your relatives went there?"
Fox asked.
     "Yeah, they call you a legacy," she explained. 
"I don't mind though.  It's a really good school, even
though it's all girls."  
     They sat quietly for a few moments, comfortable
in shared silence.  Everyone had left from the seven
o'clock showing, and the ten o'clock showing had
begun, so they were the only ones sitting out by the
parking lot. 
     "It's getting cold out, and I said I'd be back by
ten thirty," Mia announced  "Let's go."

     Fox and Mia continued to spend time together. 
They hadn't moved beyond occasional brief kissing and
handholding, which was fine by Fox, and Mia didn't
seem to mind either.  It was nice to have a friend,
though, and they had a lot of interests in common,
which was basically everything having to do with
school.  Fox had never been able to admit to someone
else that he liked the books they read in English
class, much less carry on long interesting
conversations about Moby Dick or Greek mythology with
a classmate.  He began to spend a lot of time at her
house, preferring it to his own.  Her parents seemed
to like him, and he liked them.  Her mom was just like
a normal mom was supposed to be.  She offered them
snacks and drinks while they studied and was friendly,
but let them be most of the time.  Her father actually
joked around with them sometimes.  Mia must have
explained his family situation to them because they
never asked about his parents, and sometimes he would
catch Mrs. Lundstrom looking at him as if he were a
stray puppy.  He never saw any signs of the fighting
Mia had mentioned.
     Basketball season was in full swing, and the team
continued to win, due to Tommy Mullin's high scoring,
as well as his own.  Fox was the youngest member of
the varsity team, and second in scoring.  He still
hadn't warmed up to the other team members though, and
knew they sometimes made comments behind his back
about him thinking he was "too good" for them, but he
continued to ignore them.  
     One day after practice, Coach called him into his
office and shut the door.  "Have a seat, Fox," he said
ushering Fox into a wooden chair facing the desk. 
Instead of sitting in the big chair behind his desk,
Coach sat on the edge of the desk close to Fox.  "How
is everything going, Fox?" he asked, placing a hand on
Fox's shoulder.
     He'd never seen Coach put his hand on anyone
else's shoulder, but he seemed to do it every time
they talked.  It struck Fox as a little odd, but it
also made him feel as if he was probably Coach's
favorite player, and he'd never been any adult's
favorite anything.  Even thought he was a straight A
student, there was something about him that made most
teachers nervous, he could tell.  "Fine, Coach," he
answered.
     "I know you're still fairly new at this school,"
he started, leaning in even closer, "but I've noticed
that you don't really spend much time with the other
guys."
     "Uh…" Fox murmured, unable to come up with a
response.  
     Coach wore aftershave that made him a little
lightheaded.  The big man started to gently knead his
shoulder.  "Has anyone been bothering you or
anything?" he asked quietly.
     "No," Fox insisted.  The hand on his shoulder
felt good on his tense muscles, but it also felt a
little strange to have a man touching him like that. 
"I just don't socialize much," he explained.
     Coach ignored his answer and continued kneading. 
"How are things at home?" he asked.
     "Fine," Fox answered.
     "I never see your parents at the games," Coach
said.  "Any reason for that?"
     Fox wanted to leave, but he was basically pinned
to the chair, both by Coach's hand and his eyes.  "My
dad doesn't live with us," he explained, his voice
sounding shakier than he'd intended, "and my mom, well
she's not been feeling too well for a while."
     "Is she sick?" Coach asked, deep sympathy etched
in his face.  The man had a square jaw and clear blue
eyes.  He reminded Fox a little bit of Aquaman on the
Superfriends.  The thought almost made Fox forget the
question he'd been asked.
     "Uh, no, but she doesn't get out much," he
finally answered.  In fact, his mom barely left the
house at all.  She'd hired a woman to clean once a
week and bring all their groceries.
     "I want you to know," Coach said, his kneading
turning into a gentle rub on his back as he stood up
from his perch on the desk, "that I'm here for you if
you need someone to talk to, ok?"
     "Sure," Fox said, preoccupied with the hand on
his back.  It felt good to be cared for.  Mia
sometimes hugged him, but this was different.  Coach's
hand was so strong and big.
     "I grew up without a dad," Coach continued, still
soothing his back, "and I know how hard that can be."
     "Oh," Fox protested, suddenly jerking in his
chair, "well I have a dad."
     "I know," Coach said, backing off but not
acknowledging Fox's irritation.  "I just meant if you
ever want to talk, don't hesitate.  In fact, how about
you come over for dinner tomorrow night?  I make a
mean steak."
     Fox did like the coach, and was flattered that he
would have him over for dinner.  He wondered if Tommy
Mullin had been invited over before.  The steak also
sounded good.  He always ate frozen dinners at home,
and only had a satisfying meal occasionally at Mia's
house, but they usually ate spaghetti and meatballs or
chicken cutlets there.  Never steak.  "Uh, ok," he
agreed.
     "Great, Fox," the coach said smiling, and finally
removed his hand from Fox's back.  He usually only
called the players by their last names, and the fact
that he kept calling Fox by his first name gave the
boy a warm feeling in his chest. "I'll take you home
with me tomorrow after practice."
     Something about the way Coach said, "take you
home," made Fox feel strange—happy and scared at the
same time. 

     "That's great, Fox," Mia said when he told her
about the coach's invitation.  "Next year, after Tommy
graduates, you'll be the star player.  You must be the
coach's favorite."   
     They were in Mia's bedroom, their calculus books
spread out on the desk in front of them.  He'd been
spending a lot of time in this room, but they hadn't
done much of what guys and girls were supposed to do
in bedrooms together.  Part of it was because Mia's
mother was usually in the house and could pop in at
any time, but also Fox was just happy to hang around
with Mia and study or talk.  He'd never had such a
close friend before, and he worried that making out or
doing anything more than that might ruin it.  Plus, he
just didn't feel that way about Mia, although he could
tell she felt that way about him.
     "I'm sick of math," she suddenly announced,
flinging herself onto the bed.  "Let's take a rest." 
She patted the bed next to her, inviting him to join
her.  They started to kiss, and then Mia deepened the
contact.  For the first time, they each opened their
mouths a little bit, and used their tongues.  Fox
liked the sensation, and held Mia close, continuing to
French for awhile.  Although she had initiated the
kiss, Fox wished that Mia felt less fragile in his
arms, that her mouth wasn't quite so soft.  He flashed
for a moment on Tommy Mullin's strong, full lips, and
was so startled by the thought that he pulled away
from Mia with a gasp.
      "Fox, what's wrong?" she asked, her hair mussed.
     Fox scrambled from the bed and began to pack up
his books.  "Nothing," he said, not looking at her, "I
just…my mom wanted me to come home early."
     "Why?" she asked skeptically.  "You never have to
go home early."
     "Well, she wants me home early today," he
insisted, jamming the last book into his knapsack and
zipping it up.
     "Fox, are you sure you're ok?" Mia asked, rising
from the bed and touching his arm.
     Fox jerked away and headed for the door.  "Yeah,
I'll call you," he said before practically running
down the stairs and out of Mia's house without looking
back.
     As he jogged the five miles home that Mia would
ordinarily drive him, his heavy bag slamming into his
back, he concentrated on the slap of his sneakers on
the pavement, trying to keep his mind blank.  Why
couldn't he just take Mia's shirt off and touch her
boobs, or take all of her clothes off and do it with
her?  Why didn't he want to?  Maybe he should go out
with one of those bitchy cheerleaders after all.  He
thought of seeing Tommy Mullin in the school hallway
kissing one of those cheerleaders—he couldn't remember
her name—how he held her like he owned her.  He tried
hard to imagine himself in Tommy's place, but all he
could imagine was himself in the cheerleader's place. 

     By the time he got home he could barely breathe,
and he felt sick to his stomach.  He threw up in the
shrubbery beside the front steps, hoping his mom
didn't choose that moment to look out the window.

     The next day after practice, Fox sat in the
passenger seat of Coach's car, his knee bouncing
nervously.  Coach talked about plays and the upcoming
game while he drove.  After a while, when Fox didn't
join in the conversation, Coach reached over and
stilled his knee.  "Relax, Fox," he said.  "I won't
bite."
     He kept his hand there for a few moments until
they had to turn, and the touch seemed to burn through
to Fox's skin.
     The coach lived in nearby Port Chester on the top
floor of a two bedroom house.  He immediately put the
steaks on when they entered the apartment, and then
showed Fox all of his trophies from his own high
school and college career.  Fox was delighted to
discover that the coach had played at Georgetown, his
favorite college team.  The more they talked about
basketball, and then baseball, the more Fox started to
relax.  He was glad he'd come.
     He sat on the livingroom couch while the coach
checked on the steaks and baked potatoes.  The
apartment was cozy, and really showed the coach's
personal touch.  The furniture was comfortable, and
the walls were decorated with sports memorabilia and a
couple of old movie posters.  He had a nice stereo
with big speakers that Fox was envious of, and one of
the largest TV's he had ever seen.
     The coach emerged from the kitchen after a while,
holding two cans of Budweiser, one of which he
extended to Fox.  "Here, have a beer," he said with a
warm smile.
     Fox was taken aback and sat motionless on the
couch.
     "Come on, Fox," Coach encouraged, holding the can
closer, "it's ok.  I won't tell anyone."
     Fox hesitantly took the can and popped it open. 
He'd had beer before, but not often.  He couldn't
believe how cool the coach was being.  He was treating
him as if he was an adult.  The coach seemed to be
satisfied when Fox took a couple of tentative sips,
and retreated again into the kitchen.  "Put a record
on if you want," he called from the next room.
     Fox looked through the fairly impressive record
collection.  There were a lot of old jazz records, but
there were other selections he was familiar with.  He
finally picked Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks and sat
down again to drink his beer.  By the time Coach
emerged with their meal and set the plates on the
coffee table, Fox had finished his beer and was
feeling a bit warm and fuzzy.
     "Good choice," the man said, referring to the
record playing on the turntable.  Fox flushed with
pride.  Coach returned one more time into the kitchen,
emerging with two more beers.
     They ate in companionable silence for a while. 
It was definitely the best meal he'd had in a long
time, and Fox practically inhaled his food, washing it
down with gulps of beer.  When his plate was clean, he
leaned back on the couch, feeling as if he would burst
out of his jeans.
     "Well," Coach said, smiling at him, "you
certainly have a healthy appetite.  Ready for another
beer?"
     Fox was feeling pretty soft around the edges.  He
knew he was on his way to getting drunk—he'd been
drunk a couple of times before—but he didn't care.  It
wasn't as if he had to drive home, or if his mother
would even notice if he came stumbling into the house
completely bombed.  Hell, his mom was usually in her
own stupor, always taking those pills the doctor had
prescribed after Samantha was gone.  Clearly Coach
thought he could handle it.
     "Sure," he answered, trying to sound more
nonchalant than he felt.
     Coach gave him an approving smile and went to get
him another beer.  While he cleared up the dishes and
walked back and forth between the kitchen and living
room, the coach told Fox how he was different from the
other players.  "Don't tell those other guys I said
this, but they're like a bunch of kids.  You, on the
other hand, are well on your way to becoming a man.  I
really admire your maturity , Fox."
     Fox, feeling rather mushy from the beer, almost
felt like crying at the praise.
     "You're going to be a remarkable man," the coach
continued, finally sitting down beside Fox on the
couch and placing a hand on his knee.  "You're already
pretty remarkable."
     "Th..thanks," Fox stuttered, feeling his face
burning.  It was probably the nicest thing anyone had
ever said to him.
     "Looks like you finished that one," Coach
commented, taking the empty can from Fox's fingers. 
"Ready for another?"
     Fox already felt drunk.  "Uh, I don't know,
Coach."
     "Oh, you can take it, Champ," Coach assured him,
"Live a little."
     Fox didn't answer him, but the coach got up
anyway to get another.  Fox took the opportunity to
look for the bathroom.  If he didn't relieve himself
soon, he felt as if he would burst.  It was a bit
difficult to walk straight, but he found his way to
the small bathroom.  As he peed copiously he noticed
the pile of Sports Illustrated issues beside the
toilet.  He had a sudden thought of how cool it would
be if he could live here with the coach instead of
with his Night of the Living Dead mother.
     Coach was sitting on the couch when he came back
into the livingroom, waiting with a new beer.  Fox sat
down and took a long swig.
     "Excited about this weekend's game?" Coach asked,
leaning in close.
     "Think so," Fox answered.  He could feel the heat
of the man's thigh pressed against his own.
     "I think we need to loosen your muscles up," he
said, putting a hand on Fox's shoulder and kneading it
the way he had in his office the day before.  "How
about a massage?"
     Fox was surprised by the suggestion, but leaned
into the man's strong touch.  He felt warm and sleepy,
and he'd never had a massage before.  "Uh, ok," he
agreed.
     "Alright then, take your clothes off and lie face
down on the couch," Coach said.
     "Huh?" Fox asked.  "Take off my clothes?"
     "Well, it won't really work  with your clothes
on," the coach said as if he was an idiot.  "Come on
now, you can leave your briefs on."
     Fox began to remove his shirt.  After all, it's
not as if the coach had never seen him naked before in
the locker room.  When he fumbled with his belt
buckle, the coach brushed his hands away and helped
him out of his jeans.  Once he was stripped down to
his briefs, he flopped face-down onto the coach.  
     He heard the coach fiddling with something, and
then the big hands soothed the muscles in his back. 
The coach's hands felt oily, and despite his initial
misgivings, Fox quickly relaxed into the touch.  It
felt so good.  The strong fingers loosened his tight
spots from the top of his shoulders down to the
elastic of his underwear.  He'd never had anyone touch
him like this, had actually never felt anything this
good.  Maybe part of it was the beer, but Fox was
starting to feel like a wet noodle.  He could forget
about Samantha and his parents with those strong
fingers demanding all of his attention.  
     "You're all muscle, Fox," Coach almost whispered,
lowering his face to Fox's ear.  He began to rub the
back's of Fox's thighs, and Fox was disturbed to
realize that he was getting hard.  He tried to will
the boner away, but as the coach moved down to the
sensitive backs of his knees, his calves, and even his
feet, it only grew.  Thank God he was lying face down.
     "Ok, flip over," Coach announced suddenly.
     Fox remained face-down, hoping the coach was
kidding.  Weren't massages just for your back?
     "C'mon Fox," he insisted, playfully slapping
Fox's cotton-covered butt.  When Fox still didn't move
he said, "What's the matter?"
     "Uh…uh," Fox stammered, trying to think of what
to do, "I…I'm comfortable like this."
     "What, did a few beers turn you into a zombie?"
he asked with a laugh, taking Fox by one shoulder in
an attempt to turn him.  
     Fox was so wilted from alcohol and the massage
that he was slow to put up any resistance.  
     "Oh, I see," the coach said knowingly, "sporting
a little wood there, huh?"
     Fox still tried to turn his groin away from the
coach's sight, his entire body flushing with
embarrassment.
     "Hey, there's nothing to be embarrassed about,
the coach reassured him."  He helped Fox up to a
seated position and sat close beside him.  
     Fox crossed his arms over his lap, wishing he
could disappear.  Maybe if he didn't feel so loosened
up and woozy he would know how to deal better with
this situation.
     "Really," the coach insisted, putting an arm
across Fox's naked shoulders and pulling him close,
"it's ok.  It's perfectly natural for a kid your age
to get 'em all the time."
     Fox couldn't help himself from leaning a bit into
the coach's embrace, comforted by his non-judgmental
words.  Still, he kept himself hunched over the stiff
bulge in his jockeys.
     "Want me to help you with that?" the coach asked
softly.
     Fox wasn't quite sure what he meant and looked at
the man questioningly.
     At Fox's confusion, the coach explained, "I can
give you a little relief, with my hand."  When Fox
just looked at him, too stunned to speak, he added,
"In 'Nam we used to help each other out all the time
because there weren't any women around.  It doesn't
mean you're a homo or anything."
     Fox hadn't realized that the coach had fought in
Vietnam.  He'd never heard of manly soldier-type guys
jerking each other off before either, but he'd also
never thought about what all those guys did if they
got horny without any women around.  And then he
remembered reading a book about ancient Spartan
soldiers and how they had sex with each other in
training so they were bonded and willing to die for
each other in battle.
     "You'll feel a lot better," the coach promised,
already reaching for Fox's groin.  
     Fox flinched a little when the large hand settled
gently over his crotch, but didn't pull away.  The
coach started moving his hand in rhythmic circles over
the bulge, and Fox struggled to keep his breathing
steady.  He couldn't help panting a bit; no one—not
even a girl—had ever touched him there.  Fox gasped
when the coach took his hand away for a moment and
then slipped it beneath the waistband of his
underwear.  He cupped Fox's balls in his hand, nudging
the elastic down with his wrist to expose him
completely.  
     "Just relax, Fox," Coach soothed, holding Fox
still with the arm draped over his shoulders.  
     Fox closed his eyes and lost himself in the
sensation of being surrounded by such strength, of
being touched more intimately than ever before.  After
fondling his balls for a while, the coach held the
shaft in his hand and began to stroke it.  His hand
was still a bit greasy from the oil he'd used during
the massage, creating a smooth friction against Fox's
flesh.  It felt different from when he'd done it to
himself—somehow much better.  Despite his efforts to
stay calm, Fox came with a groan, spilling his semen
over the coach's hand.  When he opened his eyes, he
was embarrassed to see the mess he'd made.
     "You're big for your age," the coach commented,
replacing the briefs over Fox's flaccid penis and
wiping his hand on them.  "Don't you feel better now?"
he asked, slapping him lightly on the back.
     Fox struggled to find his voice.  He was still
breathing heavily, and felt strange, a little sick to
his stomach.  He wanted to go home to bed.  "Uh, I
guess so," he finally answered.
     The coach abruptly stood, gathered Fox's clothes,
and handed them to him.  "Well," he said, "I'd better
get you home before your mom starts to worry."
     Fox fumbled with his clothes, thinking how his
mom probably wouldn't even notice if he came home at
all.  He got dressed as quickly as possible, and
didn't resist when the coach took his arm to help him
to the car.
     The ride back to Greenwich was silent until they
reached Fox's house.  Fox had almost drifted to sleep
when the car came to an abrupt halt.  As he reached
for the door handle, Coach grabbed his arm.  "Fox,
even though you did nothing wrong, it's not a good
idea to talk to anyone about the favor I did for you,
ok?"
     "Sure, Coach," Fox agreed before exiting the car.
 He couldn't imagine telling anyone about what had
happened in the apartment, even though Coach had
assured him it was nothing to be ashamed of.  He knew
from the way guys talked about fags or homos that they
probably wouldn't understand.
     Up in his bedroom, he lay awake in his bed for a
long time.  He took off his shoes, but nothing else. 
The room seemed to move around him, and he was
starting to get a headache.  His eyes started to
sting, and when he rubbed at them with his hand, he
realized his face was wet with tears.  He didn't know
why he was crying. 

     For the next few days, Fox kept to himself,
avoiding Mia as much as he could.  He could tell it
was upsetting her, and he wasn't sure why he was doing
it, but for some reason, he felt a little panicky
every time she looked at him.  He missed her
companionship, but couldn't bring himself to seek it
out anymore.
     At the end of the week, Coach approached him
again in the locker room after practice, once everyone
else had gone.  "You need a good meal in you before
tomorrow's game," he announced, placing his arm
casually across Fox's shoulders.
     "Uh, ok," Fox said.  He probably would have eaten
a TV dinner at home.  That's all the housekeeper ever
bought for him.
     "You're too skinny.  We've got to build those
muscles," Coach continued, pulling Fox in tighter
against his side.  "I'll make you another steak for
dinner tonight."
     Fox was nervous about going over there again
after what happened last time, but Coach felt so warm
and solid against him, and he was hungry.  He didn't
really want to admit to himself that he hoped maybe
the coach would touch him again, but a part of him
definitely felt that way.  "Ok, Coach," he agreed.

     After another hearty steak meal, several beers,
and good sports conversation, Fox slouched, sated, on
the couch.  Coach turned the TV on so they could watch
the Knicks game and sat beside him in silence for a
while, his arm resting across the couch behind Fox's
shoulders.
     "So Fox," Coach asked during a commercial break,
"how's everything at home?"
     Fox didn't move his eyes from the TV screen and
shrugged.
     "Where does your father live?" he asked.
     "Boston," Fox answered.  He really didn't want to
talk about this.
     "Do you see him a lot?"
     "No."
     "Doesn't that bother you?" 
     Fox shrugged again.
     "A boy should have a father around," Coach said,
moving his arm from the back of the couch to rest
across Fox's shoulders.  
     Fox flinched, but didn't pull away from the arm. 
It felt good once he got used to it, as if it was an
anchor keeping him from floating away.  He felt the
moisture building behind his eyes, but held the tears
back.  There was no way he was going to start crying
for no reason in front of the coach.
     "It's ok to feel bad about it, Fox," Coach said
against his ear, pulling him in closer.
     Fox felt the first tears spill over onto his
cheeks, and before he knew it, Coach was holding him
in a tight embrace.
     "Let it out, kid," Coach soothed, gripping Fox
against his broad chest.  "It's ok."
     He cried for a while, longer than he had in
years, with the coach running his hands across his
back.  When his tears began to abate, the coach
released him a little, and surprised Fox by kissing
him lightly on the forehead.  It felt nice.  The older
man kissed him again, this time on the cheek.  Fox sat
frozen, torn between pulling away and leaning in for
more.  Coach seemed to sense his confusion and rubbed
his back soothingly before kissing him briefly on the
lips.  "It's ok, Fox," he whispered, kissing him once
again, "I'll make you feel good.  There's nothing
wrong with feeling good."
     Fox leaned limply against Coach's chest, giving
in to his strength, passively allowing himself to be
kissed.  Maybe there was nothing wrong with feeling
good.  Didn't he deserve to feel something good?  He
kept his mind on the Spartan warriors, readying
themselves for war.  When Fox began to relax, the
coach deepened their contact, easing Fox back onto the
cushions and pushing his tongue between Fox's lips. 
French kissing with the coach was very different from
doing it with Mia.  Coach's tongue was bigger and more
powerful, and seemed to take control.  His mouth
tasted like steak and beer, and Fox felt as if he was
getting drunk on his kisses.  His ears hummed, and he
couldn't think.  
     He felt dazed when the coach backed off and began
to pull his shirt off.  Fox raised his arms to make it
easier, and didn't protest when the coach unbuttoned
his pants and helped him take them off.  The coach
started to run his big, strong hands over Fox's narrow
chest, and it felt so good.  Coach paused a moment to
remove his own shirt, revealing a broad, solid chest
covered with golden curls.  "You can touch me," he
said in a low, husky voice, taking Fox's hand in his
and pressing it over his heart.
     Fox tentatively moved his hand, watching Coach's
nipples harden at his touch.  It felt as if his head
was spinning while the coach leaned over him and took
his mouth in another deep kiss.  Coach's hands seemed
to be everywhere, at some point removing Fox's
underwear, and giving his hard penis a few quick
strokes.  The coach abruptly stood up and quickly
shucked his remaining clothing, revealing a big,
purpling erection.  Fox noticed that the coach wasn't
circumcised like he was.  Coach sat on the couch and
pulled Fox up beside him, holding him close.  "Let's
help each other out here," he whispered in Fox's ear
before taking the boy's hand and placing it on his own
penis at the base, resting against his golden-brown
pubic hair.  "Just do what I do."  Coach took Fox's
smaller erection in his own hand and began to steadily
pump it.
     Fox reached out slowly, and took the big cock in
his fist.  It was very warm—almost hot—and he could
feel the vein pulsing on the underside.  It felt
strange to touch a penis other than his own, but soon
he found himself matching Coach's rhythm.  It all felt
like a dream, the sensations in his body making him
feel out of control, the movement of his hand
seemingly powered by some unseen force.  And then he
was coming, a thick burst of semen spilling over
Coach's hand.  He was too overwhelmed to keep a hold
on Coach's cock, and he fell back with a moan against
the cushions.
     When he opened his eyes he saw Coach smiling down
on him.  The man raised his hand to his mouth and
began to lick it clean.  "Mmm, tastes good," he said,
staring straight into Fox's eyes.  "You want to taste
me?"
     When Fox didn't answer, Coach helped lower his
boneless body to the floor between his knees, so his
face was at crotch level.  He held Fox's head against
his thigh and stroked his hair.  The large penis was
still very erect and now right in front of him.  "Come
on," Coach encouraged, gently pulling Fox's mouth
towards his cock.  "Have a taste."
     Fox was feeling very tired after all the beer and
his orgasm, but was curious about what it would feel
like, taste like.  He hesitated, but then took a quick
lick at the penis.  There was some fluid seeping out
of the hole at the tip, and Fox licked again, making
sure to get some of the fluid.  It tasted a little
salty, but not bad.  Something about the feel of the
hot, smooth, but veiny feel of it on his tongue was
getting him hard again though.  It tasted powerful,
and Fox wanted that power.
     "Oh, that's good, Fox," the coach moaned above
him, winding his strong fingers through the boy's hair
as he continued to lick, gaining confidence.  "Why
don't you take it in your mouth?" he suggested.
     Fox thought it looked too big to fit in his
mouth, but maybe he could just take the tip in.  With
Coach urging him forward with a hand at the back of
his neck, Fox put his mouth around the head of Coach's
penis.  
     "Oh, God," Coach groaned.  The older man held
Fox's head firmly and pushed himself into his mouth
further.  Fox thought he might gag, but he felt too
weak at this point to resist.  With a few more
thrusts, a burst of warm liquid flooded his mouth.  He
pushed himself back, coughing and choking, and this
time Coach let him go.  He fell back on the floor and
then rolled to his side, spitting the semen out,
trying not to throw up.
     He felt himself lifted to his feet and supported
by a muscular arm around his naked waist.  "Sorry
kid," the coach said, walking him down the hall to the
bathroom.  "It just felt so good I got carried away. 
Let's get you a drink of water."
     Coach sat him down on the toilet seat, and helped
him drink a glass of water, and wiped his mouth with a
towel.  Fox felt as if he had no strength left, that
he might topple over if he wasn't leaning against
Coach's hip.  "That's better, isn't it?" Coach asked.
     When Fox didn't answer, Coach led him towards his
bedroom and laid him down on the bed.  Fox barely
registered the covers being pulled over him before he
slipped into sleep.

     Someone was shaking him.  His head felt as if it
might split open, especially when he opened his eyes
to find a light on beside the bed.
     "Come on, Fox," the coach's voice said, "I've got
to get you home.  It's late."
     Fox moaned and pressed his face into the pillow. 
In addition to the headache, he felt queasy.  He'd had
a hangover once before when he was thirteen and
decided to raid his father's liquor cabinet to see
what his father seemed to like so much about it, and
this was exactly what it had felt like.
     "Come on, kid, get up and get dressed," Coach
persisted, shaking him harder.
     "Whatimeizzit?" he mumbled.
     "Almost midnight," Coach answered.  "Get up."
     Fox reluctantly peeled himself from the bed,
quickly pulling the sheet over his lap when he
realized he was still naked.  Coach handed him his
clothes and left the room so he could get dressed.
     Fox fell asleep again in the car on the way back
to Greenwich, and Coach shook him awake when they
arrived at his house.
     Before Fox got out of the car, Coach reached over
and put a hand on his thigh.  "You're a special guy
Fox," he said.  "I know I don't have to tell you that
what we did tonight needs to stay between us, right?"
     "Yeah," Fox said, just wanting to be in his bed.
     "Get some rest for tomorrow."  Coach gave his
thigh one more squeeze before letting him out of the
car.

     Fox felt like crap the next day, but they won the
game anyway.  He tried not to look at Coach too much,
but it was hard not to.  He kept remembering what he
looked like with his clothes off, specifically what
his penis looked like.  Sometimes he would catch Coach
looking at him from the sidelines as if he was
thinking the same thing.  Fox wished he could tell
someone about his new experiences, but he knew Coach
was right about keeping it a secret.  This wasn't
ancient Sparta.
     Coach didn't invite him over at all that week,
but Fox kept himself occupied with schoolwork and
practice.  He also worked on his scholarship
application, which was due in another month if he
wanted to go to Oxford next fall.  He knew his father
would explode if he decided not to go, but Fox wasn't
sure he wanted to leave the country, or even graduate
yet for that matter.  He wasn't sure he wanted to
leave the coach.  Sometimes he thought about moving
out of his house and living with Coach, but he guessed
he would have to be eighteen to do that.  He wondered
if his feelings for Coach meant he was homosexual.  It
wasn't like he didn't notice girls anymore, but he
definitely thought about Coach a lot more than he
thought about the cheerleaders.  He'd never met an
actual gay person before, but whenever there was one
on TV, like that guy on Soap, he always acted like a
girl, or even dressed in women's clothes, and he
wasn't like that at all.  Neither was Coach.  Gay guys
didn't play sports, did they?  All he knew was that
Coach could make him feel good.
     He could tell that Mia was mad at him, and he
couldn't blame her since he'd practically ignored her
for weeks.  When they did their experiments they
barely spoke, and Mia hardly even looked at him.  
     "I'm sorry," Fox blurted out one day in class
when Mia was being particularly icy.
     Mia paused, carefully putting her beaker down on
the table before turning angry eyes up at him. 
"You're sorry?" she asked quietly enough so no one
else would hear.  "Fox, y'know, I thought you were
different, but you turned out to be a real jerk."
     "I'm sorry," he repeated.
     Mia resumed her measuring while she spoke.  "If
you didn't want to go out with me, you could have just
said so, and we could've been friends."
     "Can we still be friends?" he asked, knowing that
he had no right to ask.
     "I don't know, Fox," Mia said, mixing her two
solutions together.  "I'm pretty mad at you."
     "I know I was a jerk," he admitted.  He wasn't
even sure now why he had been avoiding her.  Besides
Coach, she was his only friend, and now he was losing
her.  "I'm sorry," he pleaded.  He felt his eyes
getting wet, and struggled to not let any tears spill.
 That would be just great—crying like a girl in
chemistry class in front of everyone.  What was wrong
with him? Maybe he was a fag.
     "So you said," Mia said coldly, but when she
looked up at him, her expression softened.  "Can I ask
you a question?"
     "Sure," he said, regaining control.
     "Why don't you want to go out with me?" she
asked, her direct gaze demanding the truth.  "I mean,
is there something wrong with me?"
     "No, no," Fox was quick to assure her.  "I'm
just…"  He knew he couldn't tell her about Coach, that
the coach was right when he'd said that other people
wouldn't understand.  It wasn't as if Coach had said
he shouldn't date anyone or anything, but somehow Fox
felt that he shouldn't, that he would be betraying the
man in some way.  Plus, he didn't really want to date
anyone.  "I'm just kind of confused lately," he
finally said.
     "About what?" she asked.
     "I don't know," Fox answered, rethinking his
explanation.  "I guess I'm not confused.  I just don't
want to go out with anyone right now."
     Mia smiled, much to Fox's relief.  "I guess that
makes me feel a little bit better."
     "So, we're friends again?" Fox asked hopefully,
when Mia resumed the experiment.
     "If you stop ignoring me," she muttered, but even
behind the curtain of blond hair that hid her face as
she leaned over the table, he could tell she was
smiling.
     "No more ignoring," he promised.  "We could study
for the math test tonight."
     "Ok," she agreed easily.
     Fox felt so much better.  If only he could share
everything that had been going on in his life with
her.

     Once or twice a week, Fox would go over to
Coach's place for dinner, and afterwards they would
always do other stuff.  Fox stopped drinking as much
beer when he was over.  At first, when he had been so
nervous and uncertain about Coach touching him, and
him touching Coach, the beer helped relax him, but he
started to want to feel everything more sharply, and
he wasn't as nervous anymore.  Sometimes they'd jerk
each other off, and sometimes they'd suck each other. 
One night while sucking him, Coach surprised him by
pushing a finger up his butt.  Fox jerked away at
first.  He suddenly remembered a time after Samantha
disappeared when a doctor had done that to him for
some reason.  He didn't know why then, and he didn't
know why Coach wanted to do it now.
     "Hey, hey, take it easy, kid," the coach soothed
him, while pulling him back to sit on the couch. 
"This'll feel great, I promise."
     "I don't know," Fox said skeptically, but he
didn't pull away when Coach stroked his saliva-slick
penis.
     "You've liked everything else we've done, haven't
you?" he said, giving Fox's erection a swipe with his
tongue.  There was that first time he'd sucked the
coach that wasn't so great, but he'd since learned how
to even enjoy swallowing cum.  You just had to be
ready for it.
     "Yeah," Fox moaned.  He didn't move when Coach
licked his finger and wedged his hand beneath Fox's
butt to press it against the tight opening.  It felt
strange for a moment and burned a little, but when
Coach took his entire length into his mouth again, the
unpleasant feeling faded.  The finger probed around
for a moment, and then Coach crooked it at an angle,
hitting a spot that made Fox gasp and see sparks
behind his eyes.  He came explosively into Coach's
mouth.
     Whenever both of them were finished, Fox wished
Coach would hold him and kiss him for a while, but he
always immediately cleaned them both off and then got
dressed.  Fox would get dressed himself, and then the
coach would drive him home.
     "What did you do with your finger?" Fox asked as
Coach efficiently wiped him down with a damp towel.
     "I hit your prostate," he said without further
explanation, tossing the towel on the coffee table.
     Fox watched Coach while he got dressed.  He knew
what the prostate gland was—he was good at biology—but
he had no idea touching it could feel like that.  They
never mentioned that in the textbooks.
     "Get dressed," Coach said when Fox still hadn't
moved from the couch.
     "Uh," Fox hesitated, "can I stay here tonight?"
     "Why?" Coach asked as he tied his shoelaces.
     "I'd like to stay here with you," Fox said shyly.
     "Fox," Coach said, "you know you can't stay
here."
     "Why not?" Fox asked, raising pleading eyes to
the older man.
     "How would we explain you spending the night
here?"
     "Explain it to whom?"
     "To whom?"  Coach chuckled and shook his head. 
"I bet you're the only kid on the team who says 'to
whom.'"  When Fox didn't laugh, he continued. 
"Wouldn't your mother wonder what happened to you?"
     "No," Fox insisted.
     "Why not?" Coach asked.  "What's wrong with her
anyway?"
     "Nothing's wrong with her," Fox said, still not
ready to explain his family to Coach for some reason. 
"She just doesn't notice when I come home."
     The coach looked as if he was considering the
idea for a moment, but then shook his head.  "I can't
take the chance.  Come on, get dressed."
     "Please," Fox pleaded, not beyond begging.  He
hoped that by sitting there naked, looking sad, the
coach wouldn't be able to resist, but it didn't seem
to work.
     Coach only looked annoyed.  "Fox, get dressed or
I'll do it for you," he said forcefully.  "Now."
     Fox reluctantly pulled his jeans and shirt on,
pouting.

     Basketball season was soon over, and baseball
season started.  There was a different coach for
baseball, and Fox missed his coach.  However, he and
Coach worked out a system for the weekend.  On Friday
at five o'clock, after everyone else was gone, Fox
would wait for him at the edge of the woods behind the
high school, and Coach would drive into the cul-de-sac
that dipped into the trees to pick him up.  It was
hard to wait all week without seeing him, and by the
time Friday afternoon rolled around, Fox was
practically twitching with anticipation.  Aside from
hanging out with Mia, Coach's touch was the only human
contact he had some days.
     In the middle of April, Fox received word from
Oxford.  He had been awarded the scholarship, and was
expected to arrive in August.  He hadn't told anyone
yet, not even his dad, because he wasn't sure if he
wanted to go.  He could stay in high school and take
electives, since he'd already completed all the
requirements for graduation.  Then he wouldn't have to
leave Coach.  The thought of being alone in a foreign
country at a famous university was overwhelming, but
also a little bit exciting.  He could study criminal
psychology, like he'd planned, so he could figure out
who took his sister and why.  But couldn't he do that
if he went to Harvard or Columbia, or some other good
college that wasn't so far away?  Those schools
probably wouldn't pay his way though, and despite the
fact that he owned three homes, Fox's father seemed
pretty set on him getting a free ride at Oxford.  It
didn't sound like he would pay for anything else.  Fox
didn't know why going to school there was so important
to his father, but he wasn't very good at questioning
his father's views.
     He tucked the letter into the back of his sock
drawer.  He had to notify them within the next two
weeks, but he didn't want to think about it yet.
     The next night at Coach's place, Fox leaned
against Coach's side as they watched the Yankee game. 
Recently they had started to touch and sit close to
one another even when they were just doing ordinary
things.  Sometimes Fox wondered if he could go on like
this forever, just being with Coach.  Without thinking
about what he was saying, he suddenly blurted, "I got
a scholarship for Oxford."
     "Huh?" the coach asked without removing his gaze
from the TV.
     "I applied to Oxford University in England, and I
got a scholarship to go there in the fall," he
explained.
     Coach sat up straighter and  looked at him. 
"Wow, Fox, that's great.  You're old enough to
graduate?"
     "Well, I'm a little ahead," Fox explained.  "My
did wants me to go to Oxford."
     "That's just great, kid," Coach said with a broad
smile, slapping him on the back.  "That's an
incredible opportunity."
     Fox hadn't expected Coach to be so happy about
it.  Didn't he realize that the news meant they
couldn't be together?  "I…I guess so," he reluctantly
agreed.
     "Not many kids get an opportunity like that,"
Coach continued, ignoring Fox's mood shift.
     "I…" Fox started, his chest feeling a bit tight,
"I don't think I want to go."
     The coach looked taken aback.  "What?" he said. 
"Why?"
     "I just…I just don't think I'm ready to leave,"
Fox tried to explain.  The fact that Coach seemed
happy he might leave didn't make sense to him.  "I
don't want to leave you," he said quietly, his voice
slightly choked.
     The coach smiled, looking as if he was trying not
to laugh.  "Kid, we're just having some fun together,
helping each other out, right?"  He slapped Fox on the
back again as if they were just buddies.  "You
shouldn't stay here because of me."
     Fox suddenly grabbed the coach's wrist, holding
on tight.  "When I turn eighteen in  a few years, I
can move in here," he said urgently.
     Coach yanked his arm out of Fox's grip, his smile
disappearing.  "Whoa, whoa," he said, backing up. 
"Fox, that's not going to happen.  You're a great kid,
but I like living alone.  Besides, you've got your
whole life ahead of you.  You'll meet some hot chick
in England and forget all about me."
     "No," Fox insisted, unable to keep the whine out
of his voice.  Could all that they'd done together
really have meant so little to the coach?  Weren't
they like Spartan soldiers, bonding, ready to die for
one another?
     "I'll make you feel good tonight, one last time,"
Coach said, his voice cold as he wrapped his strong
hand around Fox's wiry bicep and pulled him from the
couch, "but we can't do this anymore."
     "No!" Fox cried.  Coach's grip hurt, but not
nearly as much as his words.
     "Come on," Coach insisted, practically dragging
him towards the bedroom.  "Let's use the bed.  We'll
need some space."  He spoke rapidly, harshly.  "I'll
show you one last thing," he said, pushing Fox onto
the bed.  "You want to live with me like a faggot, we
should fuck in bed like a happily married couple,
don't you think?"
     "Please…"  Fox pleaded, the tears finally
spilling over his cheeks.  Coach had never spoken to
him like this.  It was ugly, and made him feel ugly.
     Coach looked irritated at the sight of Fox's
tears.  "Fox, stop acting like a pussy," he scoffed,
hands on his hips.  "Come on, get your clothes off and
get on the bed.  Lie on your side, back to me."  While
the coach had always taken charge whenever they did
anything, he never ordered him around like this.
     Fox didn't know what to think.  Maybe if he did
what Coach wanted, maybe if he did everything he
wanted really well, he would let him come back.  He
finally complied, still weeping quietly and trying not
to as he removed his clothes and got on the bed.
     "You'll like this," Coach assured him, smacking
his ass once before retreating to the bathroom for a
moment.  Fox heard him return and sit on the edge of
the bed behind him.  Coach pushed his top leg up so
his knee was bent and his behind more exposed.  In
another moment, he felt Coach's finger at his
entrance, slick with something.  He eased a finger
slowly inside of him, let Fox adjust to the intrusion,
and then stroked his prostate a couple of times.  
     Fox writhed on the bed, his cock growing, despite
the fact that he couldn't stop crying.
     "Fox, settle down," the coach said, annoyed, his
finger still fully imbedded.  "Stop crying."
     He tried to contain his tears, and almost had
them under control when the coach started to push a
second finger up his butt.  It felt like too much and
burned painfully.  He moaned and pulled away.
     Coach kept his fingers inside the boy and grabbed
his hip with the other hand to hold him in place. 
"Come on Fox, relax," he insisted.  "Don't be such a
baby."
     Fox did his best to lie still, and soon the
burning wasn't so bad.  Coach crooked his fingers
again, and this time Fox moaned in pleasure.  He
reached for his erection, but Coach slapped his hand
away.  "Don't touch yourself," he commanded.
     Coach worked his fingers in and out of Fox's ass
for a while, stretching the opening.  Without warning,
he suddenly pulled his fingers out and pressed a
larger blunt object against his asshole.  It took a
few seconds for Fox to realize it was Coach's penis. 
"No," he protested, shifting a little away from the
man, but Coach gripped his hip tightly while working
his thick erection into the small opening.
     "Come on, Fox," the coach panted, "You can handle
it.  Be a man."
     "Hurts," Fox grunted as the head of the cock
popped inside of him.  "Please."  He didn't want to
cry, he wanted to be a man for Coach, but it really
did hurt.
     "This is what it's all about, kid," Coach said in
that same ugly voice, pushing in harder, ignoring
Fox's tears.  "You want to move in with me, this is
what it's all about.  You want to be a faggot?  Well
this is what it's like."
     Fox couldn't help the tears that spilled over his
cheeks, as he was stretched beyond what he thought was
possible.  It felt like he might rip apart, but he
didn't think he could stop Coach from doing what he
wanted to.  The cock kept moving further inside him
until he could feel Coach's pubic hair against his
butt.  Coach's breath was hot and fast against the
back of Fox's neck as he paused for a moment, holding
still inside of the boy.  Without pulling out at all,
Coach pulled him up until he was on all fours.  He
gripped Fox around the middle and started to pump in
and out of Fox's ass.  It hurt and it burned, but it
also sent what felt like electric charges straight to
his cock.  Fox was crying and moaning, but his hard
penis slapped wetly against his belly with each
thrust.  This didn't feel real.  He felt drained and
weak.  Unable anymore to hold himself up on his hands,
he rested his face on the mattress atop his folded
arms, which only pushed his butt higher.  Coach sped
up his thrusts, and increased their intensity.
     Coach started to yank on Fox's erection in time
with his own thrusts.  Fox came first, despite the
pain, and Coach continued to ram into him until a
flood of warmth shot into him.  They both collapsed
onto the bed, Coach laying on Fox's back, until Coach
pulled out with a wet plopping sound and got off the
bed without a word.  Fox stayed face down, weeping
onto the mattress.  His butt felt raw and open, and
sticky.  He felt disgusting.  He wondered if he was
bleeding, or if the moist feeling back there was just
semen.  Probably shit too, he thought, repulsed by the
possibility.  
     Fox heard Coach return, but didn't look up.  The
older man wiped roughly at his backside with a damp
towel without speaking.  The only sounds in the room
were Fox trying to hold back his sobs.
     Coach left his side again, and then came back and
sat on the side of the bed.  "You're bleeding a little
bit," he said.  "Take a bath when you get home.  It
doesn't look too bad."
     Fox turned his tear-stained face toward the
Coach, wondering who this strange, mean man was who
had replaced the man who seemed to care about him,
maybe even love him.  The coach sat fully dressed on
the bed, not looking at Fox's face.
     "Get dressed, Fox," he said, rising and walking
out of the room.  "It's getting late."
     When the man had left the room, Fox sat up
slowly, trying to ignore the burning pain in his
rectum.  He didn't check for blood before putting his
clothes on.  He just wanted to get out of here.  
     Coach was waiting, car keys in hand, when Fox
emerged from the bedroom.  They walked in silence to
the car.  During the ride back to Greenwich, Fox
stared out the window, his tears now dried.  His whole
body felt completely dried up, as if his entire chest
cavity was like the papery abandoned wasps nest Mr.
DaSilva kept in his classroom.
     When they pulled up in front of Fox's dark house,
Coach said, "I'm sorry I got rough with you Fox," not
sounding very sorry at all.  "I had to show you why
you can't stay with me."
     Fox opened the door and slid out without looking
back.  Before he closed the door, Coach said, "Fox."
     He turned around but couldn't look at Coach's
face.
     "None of this ever happened, right?"
     Fox nodded before slamming the door, and a moment
later he stood alone in the dark in front of his
house, not sure what to do next.  The wasps nest in
his chest felt as if it was collapsing in on itself,
and he crumpled to sit on the curb, his knees drawn
tightly against his body.  He couldn't breathe right,
just little gulps of air that didn't seem to get all
the way down.  He remembered this feeling.  It was how
he'd felt when they told him Samantha was gone.  He
couldn't go into that dark cold house.  He had to get
away.  Despite his hyperventilating, despite the
aching in his behind, Fox ran.  He didn't think of
where he was going or what he was going to do when he
got there, but he ran hard.  When he finally stopped,
falling exhausted into the grass, he looked around and
realized he was in Mia's backyard.  He lay on his
back, catching his breath, his sweat-soaked shirt
causing him to shiver in the cool April night air.  By
the time he was able to breathe right again he was
freezing.
     He slowly got up, feeling pretty shaky.  He
grabbed a handful of gravel from beneath the bushes
that bordered the house, and tossed it against Mia's
bedroom window on the second floor.  It took a few
more tries before a bleary-eyed Mia stuck her head out
the window.  "Fox?" she asked, confused.
     "I…I need to come in," Fox said loudly enough for
Mia to hear, but quietly enough not to alert anyone
else to his presence.  His voice sounded like he had
the flu.
     Without a word, Mia closed the window, and a
moment later, she opened the back patio door, and
motioned him inside.  She was wearing yellow pajamas. 
"What happened, Fox?" she whispered, looking him up
and down.
     He was shivering violently now, and felt like he
might drop at any moment.  "C-c-can I…can I t-t-take a
b-bath?" he asked.
     Mia looked at him confused, but then seemed to
notice that he was sweaty and cold.  "Sure, ok," she
agreed, seeming to be willing to wait for an
explanation.  She led him upstairs to the bathroom,
gave him a towel, and left him alone.
      Fox filled the bath with water that was almost
too hot to stand.  When he stripped off his clothes,
he noticed that there was a little bit of blood in his
underwear.  He crumpled the briefs up into a tight
ball and pushed them under the used tissues and Q-tips
in the trash can so no one would see them.  
     The hot water stung his bottom when he immersed
himself, but it felt good to get the blood and sweat
off of him.  He soaked for a while, and then scrubbed
himself with soap all over.  He really just felt like
falling asleep in the water, but knew Mia would
probably come to get him eventually.  When the
bathwater started to cool, Fox opened the drain and
then turned on the shower and scrubbed himself again
before turning the water off and getting out.  He
heard voices out in the hallway, and realized with a
shudder that Mia's parents had probably woken up. 
What would he tell them? 
     He dried himself off and was relieved to find
that he didn't seem to be bleeding anymore.  There was
a blue, terrycloth robe hanging on the back of the
door, probably Mia's father's, which he put on.  He
knew he was being presumptuous, but he just couldn't
bear to put his clothes back on.  He folded them and
left them on top of the wicker hamper.
     He didn't hear any more voices, so he quietly
opened the door and crept towards Mia's room.  Her
door was open, so he went in to find her sitting on
the bed in her pajamas, looking nervous.
     "I told my parents you had a fight with your mom.
 They said you could stay," she said immediately when
she saw him.  "Is that what happened?"
      Fox didn't answer, instead moving further into
her room and lying down on the other side of her bed. 
He was so tired.
     "Fox, what happened?" she asked, lying down
beside him, facing his back.
      He couldn't speak, and though he tried not to,
he started crying.  He had no strength left to hold
anything back, and sobbed into Mia's pillow.  He
registered in the back of his mind that she was
holding him and saying something to him, but all he
could do was sob.  Somehow he had turned around and
was clinging to Mia, weeping against her shoulder
until he fell asleep. 

     The next morning, Fox awoke alone in Mia's bed. 
He was still wrapped in her father's robe, but was
also under the covers.  He didn't remember that
happening.  He could tell by the intensity of the sun
that it was probably late morning.  For a moment he
thought he should get up to go to school, but then
remembered it was a Saturday.  He felt overheated with
the robe and the covers, but lay there for a while
staring up at the ceiling.  The burning in his ass
from the night before was a dull ache, and he tried to
pretend it wasn't there at all.  But he couldn't.  He
couldn't stay in this bed forever either, but he
dreaded what he would find outside this room.  Mia
would ask questions, and her parents probably would
too.  He couldn't tell them about Coach, he just
couldn't.  He would never tell anyone.  The whole
thing now felt completely humiliating.  To think that
he thought he could live with Coach forever, and the
whole time Coach was just using him.  How stupid could
he be?  It wasn't like Coach was some sort of fag who
wanted to play house with a teenager.  He was just
using him as a girl substitute.  That's all it was. 
Fox didn't even feel like crying anymore.  He felt
completely empty.
     Finally his full bladder forced him to get up. 
His clothes weren't where he left them on top of the
hamper, so after relieving himself he tentatively made
his way down the stairs in the robe.  He was greeted
by his worst nightmare in the kitchen.  All three
Lundstroms were sitting at the kitchen, and all three
turned to look at him where he stood in the doorway.
     "Fox," Mr. Lundstrom finally said after a painful
silence, a little too cheerfully.  "Why don't I get
you something to wear?  Laura's washing your clothes,"
he explained.
     Once Mia's father brushed past him and up the
stairs, Mrs. Lundstrom pulled out a chair from the
table.  "Sit down and have some breakfast Fox," she
said, indicating a plate of Danish.  Fox felt as if he
was in an episode of Leave it to Beaver.  Mia sat at
the other end of the table, watching him, but trying
to look as if she wasn't watching him.  He sat down
and obediently took a pastry and nibbled at it
halfheartedly.  He was hungry, but his stomach also
felt a little fluttery.
     In a little while, Mr. Lundstrom came back into
the room, and handed him a pair of brown slacks, a
golf shirt, and a pair of boxers still in the plastic
wrap.  At Fox's barely concealed grimace, Mr.
Lundstrom said, "They'll be too big, but we're about
the same height."
     Not wanting to be rude, he retreated to the
downstairs bathroom to change.  When he returned in
his too-big, less than stylish clothes, he stuck out
his tongue at Mia, who was struggling not too laugh,
when her parents were looking away.  
     He sat back down with the family, although he
wanted nothing more than to get out of there.
     "Fox," Mrs. Lundstrom said after another awkward
silence, "would you like me to talk to your mother?"
     "What?  No!"
     "Mia said you were very upset last night," she
said.  "It frightened her."
     Fox looked across the table at Mia, and she
looked at him apologetically, but said nothing.
     "What happened last night?"  Mr. Lundstrom asked
sternly.
     "Nothing," Fox insisted.  "I guess I just freaked
out a little."
     "About what?" the man persisted.
     "Uh," Fox said, struggling to think of how to
explain his weird behavior.   "There's just a lot
going on right now."  He paused, and then said,"I got
a scholarship to Oxford."
     "Fox, that's great!" Mia exclaimed.
     "Congratulations, son," Mr. Lundstrom said, his
mood suddenly shifting.
     "Fox, why would you be upset about that?" Mrs.
Lundstrom asked, bemused.
     "I guess I was just overwhelmed," he explained
weakly.
     "So you're going, right?" Mia asked.
     Mulder thought of what was left for him here. 
Maybe it was better to get as far away as possible. 
"Yeah," he said.  "I'm going."
 

25 Years Later

     It had been over a year since Mulder had heard
from Mia.  Since high school they had kept in touch,
first with letters, and more recently through e-mail. 
They shared major life events with one another, and
offered emotional support when those life events
weren't so positive.  Except for Skinner and Scully,
she was probably his best friend.  Mia was now a
veterinarian in Maine.  She was married to a
pediatrician named Liam and had three kids.  Sometimes
Mulder wondered how his life would have been different
if he had pursued a relationship with her, but that
was never meant to be.  The latest e-mail read:

Hi Fox.  I hope you're doing well and keeping out of
trouble.  I attached an article that I thought you
should see.  I don't know if this will give you some
closure (God, I hate that word), or upset you, but I
couldn't not send it.  Call me if you need to talk
about it.  Love, Mia

     The attached article was from The New York Times.
 Mulder regularly read the paper after he was finished
with the Washington Post, but usually didn't get to
the stories buried in the back pages, which is where
this article had been.  It was about the murder of
Carl Halvin Hansen, age sixty-two, in Port Chester,
New York.  Mr. Hansen, a former Greenwich High School
coach who had spent two years in prison from 1984-1985
for performing a sexual act with a minor, had been
shot by a former student, Edward James Pinsky, age
forty-four.  Mr. Pinsky, who had been taking
medication for depression and had been hospitalized
for depression in the past, told police that he held
Mr. Hansen responsible for his emotional problems, and
that he had been involved sexually with Mr. Hansen
between the years 1975-1977 while he was a student and
athlete at Greenwich High School.  Mr. Pinsky was
being charged with first degree murder.
     Mulder read the article through several times
before he realized he had stopped breathing.  The
sound of Walter cleaning up in the kitchen broke him
out of his daze, and he gulped in some air.  He almost
deleted the attachment, thinking maybe he could also
delete it from his mind, but then merely shut the
machine down.  He rarely thought about Coach anymore,
and the only time he had ever spoken about him to
anyone was when he told Walter his first time had been
with an older man.  Walter hadn't pressed him on the
details.  Somehow Mia knew though.  She must have put
the pieces together when Coach was arrested while they
were both away at college.  It had been huge news in
Greenwich, and Mia had always been smart.
     He sat staring at the blank computer screen for a
long time, not knowing what he should feel.  He
wondered about Edward Pinsky, and what had gone on
between him and the coach before Mulder even moved to
Greenwich.  If the coach had seduced another boy
before himself, chances were there were others, both
before Pinsky, and after him until that one kid
finally told someone about it.  How many had there
been?  Somewhere in the back of his mind, Mulder knew
all along that he should have told someone about what
he and Coach had done together.  Even if he had been
too naïve to report it at the time, he should have
done so later when he was in college and started to
understand how manipulative some people could be.  For
years he had avoided relationships with men, although
he had been attracted to several, only to find himself
in relationships with women like Phoebe and Diana who
weren't much different from Coach.  And then, until
Walter, he had no relationships at all.  Had he been
the cause of other boys' pain and anguish?  Were there
other boys after him who suffered as Pinsky had?  As
he had? 
     The memories of his unpleasant coupling with the
coach years earlier suddenly flooded back.  Mulder's
vision blurred, and he felt sick to his stomach.  He
stumbled down the hall into the bathroom, just in time
to vomit Walter's previously delicious chicken
parmegian into the toilet.  When his stomach was
empty, he leaned his face against the cool porcelain. 

     "Jesus, Mulder, are you ok?" Walter said from
behind him, laying a gentle hand on his back.
     "Yeah," Mulder grunted, sitting back on his heels
and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
     Walter pressed a hand on his forehead , feeling
for fever, and then ran a washcloth under the faucet. 
He crouched down in front of Mulder and wiped his face
clean.  "Can you get up?" he asked.
     "Yeah," Mulder said again while struggling to
stand.  Walter slipped a hand around his arm to help,
but Mulder shook him off.  He leaned against the sink
and brushed his teeth while Walter stood watching.
     "What did you eat today for lunch?" Walter asked.
     Mulder didn't understand what he was talking
about at first, but then realized Walter thought he
had food poisoning.  "Nothing," he insisted, making
his way out of the bathroom and into the bedroom they
had been sharing for two years.  "It's nothing."
     "Do you want some water?" Walter asked, following
him.  "Maybe some crackers?"
     "No," Mulder said curtly, flopping down on the
bed and rolling on his side.  Walter always took such
good care of him, but he couldn't take it right now. 
It took so many years for him to admit that he loved a
man, and to accept that man's love in return.  He was
still trying to convince himself that he deserved that
love, and Mia's e-mail was enough to convince him for
the moment at least that he didn't deserve it.  "Can
you just leave me alone for a while?" he pleaded, his
voice tight.
     "Mulder, what's wrong?" Skinner asked, making no
move to leave.
     "Walter, I just, I just can't talk right now," he
insisted.
     "You were just checking your e-mail," Skinner
said, using his investigative skills.  "Did someone
send you some bad news?"
     "Walter…," Mulder groaned into the pillow.
     "I'm not leaving you alone when you just got
sick," Walter said, reclining on the bed beside him. 
"I'll just lie here next to you."
     "Walter, please," Mulder whined as he felt Walter
shift towards him.
     "We don't have to talk.  We'll just lie here." 
Walter began to stroke his back, but Mulder arched
away from the touch.
     "Ok, I'll just stay over here," Walter soothed,
leaving space between them. 
     They lay still in silence for a long time. 
Mulder listened to Walter's breath behind him.  He
wanted to feel that breath on his skin, but he
couldn't ask for it.  
     "Walter, I did something terrible," he suddenly
blurted.
     "What is it?" Walter asked quietly. 
     Before Mulder thought about what he was saying,
the whole story spilled out of him.  Maybe all of
Walter's talk over the past few years about being
honest and open had finally sunk in.
     "You were just a kid, Honey, and he was a fucking
pedophile," Walter said once Mulder was finished,
placing his hand once again on Mulder's back.  He
didn't flinch this time.
     Mulder wanted to defend Coach for some reason,
but he knew Walter wouldn't understand.  "But I could
have said something later," he insisted, tears running
freely over his cheeks at this point.
     "Fox, you were still a kid when Hansen was
convicted," Walter reiterated.  "How old were you in
'84?  Twenty-two?"
     "Everyone's an adult at eighteen," Mulder
sniffled.
     Walter began moving his hand in steady circles. 
"Fox, you know that's just a legal distinction.  You'd
been through so much by that age."  After a long pause
he asked, "How do you feel about him being dead?"
     "I don't know," Mulder wept.  "I don't know."
     Walter continued his comforting strokes until
Mulder's crying settled down.  He put a hand on his
lover's shoulder and pulled him gently onto his back.
     "Can I make love to you?" he asked, gazing into
Mulder's eyes.
     Mulder tried to roll away, but Skinner wouldn't
let him.  "How could you want to?" he cried.
     "This is now.  I'm with you now," Walter
whispered forcefully in his ear, holding him tightly,
his palm splayed across Mulder's heaving chest.  "The
past is in the past."
     They had talked about this before in reference to
so many things, how they had to live in the moment and
for the future because if they didn't, all of the
horrendous garbage in both of their pasts would bury
them alive.  This was just another piece of trash on
the towering garbage heap.
     Mulder swiftly turned on his side to face
Skinner, clutching at him desperately and pressing his
wet face against the bigger man's neck.  "Love you,"
he choked out against warm skin.  It had taken him
over a year to say it out loud, and he still rarely
voiced it, but he felt it so strongly at this moment.
     "I love you, Fox," Walter said fiercely before
lifting the younger man's face from its warm shelter
and peppering it with gentle kisses across his
forehead, eyelids, nose, and finally his mouth.
     Mulder greeted his lips with his own passionate
kiss.  Their tongues entwined, and Mulder felt his
tears change from those of distress to those of
relief, and then joy.  He wedged his hands between
their bodies, still trying to keep contact with his
lips and tongue, and frantically worked at the buttons
on Walter's shirt.  He yanked it open to reveal the
broad expanse of muscular, hairy chest.  Walter broke
their contact for a moment, quickly divesting Mulder
of his shirt.  Both men fumbled at one another's
pants, and soon they were both completely naked, once
again in a tight embrace, tongues dueling.
     "Make love to me," Mulder moaned into Walter's
mouth, one hand reaching down to grip the large
erection pressed against his own.  He began to turn
onto his stomach, but Walter stopped him, maneuvering
him onto his back.
     "I want to watch you," he said, leaning over
Mulder's prone form to lick a nipple.  Wordlessly, he
removed a tube of lube from the bedside drawer, popped
it open, and squeezed a generous amount into his palm.
 Mulder spread his legs, letting Walter settle on his
knees between them.  He reached out, scooped some of
the lube out of Walter's hand, and began to smooth it
over the cock that would soon be inside him.  Walter
shuddered, his erection jumping at the contact, but he
still had the presence of mind to grab a pillow and
wedge it beneath Mulder's hips, fully exposing his
ass.
     "You're going to make me lose it," Walter
chuckled, pushing Mulder's hand away from his rigid
cock.  Mulder laughed, removing his slick hand, only
to rub Walter's chest with it, playing with his
nipples.
     Mulder raised his knees, planting his feet
widespread on the mattress.  Walter pushed one finger
and then two into his tight hole, spreading the
remaining lube around.  Mulder panted and moaned as he
was gently stretched.  Finally, Walter eased his cock
slowly inside until his balls were pressed against
Mulder's ass.
     "Oh God, I love you," Mulder gasped, this time
with no hesitation.
     "Love you too, so beautiful," Walter panted out
as he let Mulder adjust to the intrusion.
     At the beginning of their relationship, Mulder
had been very reluctant to have anal sex.  His only
memories of the act had been pain and shame.  But as
their relationship grew stronger and trust built,
Mulder had started to crave Walter's cock inside him
more and more, had in fact dreamed about it.  Walter
eventually showed him how amazing it could be, and
even though Mia's e-mail had brought all of those old
painful memories back to the surface, the forceful,
yet loving hardness moving inside him now obliterated
any unpleasant thoughts from his mind.
     As  Walter's thrusts increased in intensity,
Mulder began to stroke his own erection which bounced
against his belly, oozing pre-come.  He was close.
Walter pushed his hand away, replacing it with his
own.  Mulder gripped Walter's forearms, delighting in
the play of muscles rippling beneath his skin.  The
only sounds in the room were their grunts and the
slapping of flesh on flesh.
     Fox was the first to come, his semen spilling
over Walter's hand and his own stomach, and Walter
soon followed, shooting powerfully into his sated
lover.  He collapsed on top of Mulder, trying not to
crush him, his flaccid penis still partially embedded
inside the smaller man.  Their mouths sought one
another and they kissed slowly, lazily.  There kisses
were always sloppy after sex.
     "Shower," Walter mumbled between kisses.
     "No," Mulder weakly protested, holding on,
refusing to let Walter roll away.
     "We're filthy," Walter laughed, running a hand
between then, smearing semen and sweat over their
bellies and chests.
     "Nothing filthy about us."  Mulder smiled before
licking a path through the mess on his lover's chest.
     Walter sat back on heels between Mulder's knees,
his cock emerging completely with an audible "plop." 
They had stopped using condoms about two months
earlier after both testing negative, and sometimes the
results weren't pretty.
     "At least let me get a towel," Walter insisted,
looking down at himself.
     "Ok, Mr. Clean," Mulder answered, his eyelids
drooping, "but come right back."
     After Walter had returned from the bathroom,
cleaned them both off, and tossed the soiled towel and
pillow aside, he lay down beside Mulder again and took
him in his strong arms, pulling the covers over them. 
Fox was almost asleep.
     Part of Fox Mulder would always be that
twelve-year-old who lost his sister, and essentially
his parents, that fifteen-year-old whose heart had
been trampled on, that young adult whose heart had
taken more than a few additional beatings. But for
now, in the arms of his lover—his generous, selfless,
honest lover—Mulder could believe that he was whole.