21-Dec-2000

Title: Curing Homosexuality
Author: TB
Archive: yes please at GW Addiction
Catagory: shonen-ai, angst
Pairing: 2xOMC and 2+1
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: bitter Duo, a lot of bad language
Spoilers: none
Notes: Interspersed through the fic are sections of poetry by Dorothy Allison, Tommi Avicolli, Dennis Cooper, Jim Everhard, and Peter Orlovsky. All of these people were/are homosexuals, and obviously brilliant poets as well. Jim Everhard's poem "Curing Homosexuality" which was the actual inspiration for this fic, and from which I take my title, was completed a few years before his death of AIDS in the 1980's. To my knowledge each of the other authors are still living. This story is for Lee, who will know why.
Thanks go to Marsh for being my beta and my friend.
Feedback: feed me at brother_maxwell@yahoo.com or at amiboshi_flute@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing characters and universe are copyrighted, as are all the poems used in the making of this fic; however, seeing as how I in no way intend to profit from this fiction o' mine, I trust that the Powers That Be will understand, and help the judges in court to understand too.

Curing Homosexuality by Erin Cayce

Of the many known and proven
cures for homosexuality,
the most familiar, perhaps,
is the Catholic Church's version of
"Confession-is-good-for-the-soul."

I knew there was trouble when the Dean called me out of class. It wasn't the first time I've been called out, but for once, I actually had not done anything, and I was working myself up to a display of self-righteous indignation in the secretary's office by the time I was finally allowed into the Dean's August presence.

"Max Howards?" the Dean, a pleasant looking grey-beard asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Please. Sit down." I obeyed, sliding warily into a chair that had probably been designed to make naughty students uncomfortable. But I haven't been naughty, I thought resentfully. Jesus, I've been on my best behaviour-- at least since Heero threatened me with bodily harm. And meant it.

The Dean took his time shuffling through papers on his desk, and I sat in my uncomfortable chair getting more and more angry that I had been forced to cool my heels out with a fat secretary who had kept shooting me disapproving looks, and here I was STILL without any idea what I'd done, waiting for some old fart to get his act together.

Finally the man looked up. "Mr. Howards, I am truly sorry to have to bring this to your attention. Please understand, before I explain to you why you are here, that anything said in here is completely confidential. Nothing you tell me will leave this room."

It sounded bad. I frowned. The Dean crossed his arms on his antique, expensive desk and leaned forward. "Mr. Howards, I'd like to ask you a few questions. Please don't feel like you must answer, but to be honest, the more forthcoming you are, the faster this will go, and the easier it will be on you."

"Yes, sir."

The Dean assumed an expressionless mask. "Max-- may I call you Max?" He didn't wait for my nod. "Max, are you a homosexual?"

Whammy.

I stared blankly at the Dean. When I finally found my voice, it squeaked on the way out. "What?"

"Are you a homosexual."

I was offended. Then I was scared. "Why? What does it matter if I'm a homosexual or a heterosexual or a quadrosexual?"

"Please answer the question, Max."

"I would have thought that in an institution like St. Mary's, in a school that has such a terrific reputation, tolerance would have been considered a virtue," I bit out. My hands clenched the arms of the chair. "In fact, I would have bet such a question would never even have been considered. I don't see the point in even acknowledging that question, Dean Anderson!"

The Dean's expression didn't change. After a long minute of tense silence, he picked up a manilla folder, turned it around, and slid it across the desk to me. I stared down at it. I could guess what was in it. And I wasn't about to open it. "Max," the Dean said quietly. "No one will hold it against you. I'm sorry you feel threatened by a simple question. That was not my intent."

Wasn't it? I asked bitterly, but silently. Jesus Christ, wasn't it just.

"Concerned students have... commented, Max. Some of your teachers have as well. We here at St. Mary's are, as you pointed out, very tolerant. I don't ask you this question lightly. In fact, I was opposed to making an ordeal of this in the first place, out of consideration for you. But when enough people call for action, Max, I don't have very much choice."

Thanks to science it is now well known
that homosexuality is not transmitted by
tiny springing bugs or bats. We are not burned
at the stake (except during ceremonial
occasions of state for example only)
in the larger urban centers today
though we may still face a constant barrage
of misdemeanors (nastier than a case of crabs)
such as littering, (i.e.,
don't drop your hanky in a city park),
jaywalking (i.e., no matter how cute the
cop may be, don't wiggle your ass when
you buzz across Connecticut Avenue
during rush hour in the middle of the block
waving you-whoo, you-whoo to your color-
ful friends) and loitering (i.e., situated
under the romantic moon in an open
park after dark behind willowy shade trees
on your knees with a look of ecstasy
on your face as he creams into your eager mouth
is considered loitering among other things).

"So what did they say?" I heard my voice as if from a distance. "That I look at the other boys in the locker room? That I grabbed someone's ass in the hallway? That I don't wear underpants in gym class or that I keep pictures of hot guys in my cubby? Did they say I make moves on them? Did they say I threaten their masculinity?"

The Dean said nothing. Which was answer enough. I felt strain tightening muscles in my shoulders and neck. "This is bullshit."

"Watch your tongue, Mr. Howards." The Dean stood. "I see no reason to make a big production out of this situation, Max. One of our teachers, who works with remedial students, which of course you are not-" That in response to the expression on my face, steadily more belligerent. First I'm a dangerous homosexual at large, and now I'm stupid, too! The Dean was floundering here, and once he knew it, he lost his cool and his eyes dropped away from mine. "Miss Bevere runs a counseling group twice a week for people who have trouble dealing with their sexual identity. I would like you to attend."

I sat very still now. And quiet. The Dean, having expected an outburst, looked up. And when he managed to meet my eyes, I stood.

And I said, "Dean Anderson, I'm not the one who can't deal with my 'sexual identity.' Sounds to me like you ought to take that list of names-" I pointed to the manilla folder- "and send them to your little *class*. And I think maybe you ought to go with them. 'Cause all I've heard in here is other people who don't know how to deal with *me*, not vise-versa."

Take that folder and stick it up your ass, Anderson. Who knows. You might find you like it, the same way I do.

Then, when you go to confession you
enumerate and fully describe every such
forbidden act leaving out not the
slightest detail and the priest,
who lives anonymously in a dark box,
tells you what you must do to redeem your lost
soul. This usually amounts to kneeling
before a statue of this virgin
who has never allowed the sinful hands
of any man to ever infest her body
with the puerile desires of the flesh and
mutter a prayer that
you won't touch other men hail Mary as you,
in a religious rapture,
fondle your beads.

"I don't know why this is coming up now!" I threw my bookbag at Heero, hitting him square in the chest. Not that it mattered. Mr. Made-of-Gundamium only looked at me. "And yes, I know it's a bad time!"

"It's not as bad as all that," Quatre tried to soothe. He always looked nervous when one of the other pilots lost their temper. He was trying hard not to take sides, but I was angry at him anyway. The less people who had known about this, the better, said my heart- but my head acknowledged that the potential disruption of our cover-stories was more important than my personal dignity.

Not that I had any left.

Heero reached down, and picked up my backpack. He looked at it for a minute, held by the straps in his big, thick-fingered hands; then, mutely, he held it out to me. It was a peace offering. I understood that much, and my anger deflated. I wouldn't hear another word about it from Heero unless the situation worsened. The anger may have been gone, but to my further humiliation, I felt tears pricking my eyes. Jesus Lord. Boys don't cry. I grabbed the bag rudely and whirled around, all but sprinting toward my room.

His voice caught me at the door. "Are you?"

"A fag?" I demanded bitterly. "Or going to the counselor?"

In olden days
the main cure for homosexuality (then
often known simply as witchcraft) was
to tie the suspected faggot to a tiny seat
on the end of a long pole suspended
over boiling water. The suspected faggot was then
submerged for half an hour or until
he stopped struggling, whichever happened first.
If he was still alive when they lifted him
from the vat, they spread an oil slick over the water,
re-submerged the suspect and struck a match.
If he went up in smoke,
it meant he was a godless heathen faggot
who deserved to go up in smoke. If a choir
of angels emblazoned the sky and God,
humming the Hallelujah Chorus,
personally pissed out the flames dancing
around the suffocating faggot's body,
he was allowed to return home if he promised
to register four times daily with the local
police and never get his hair cut
in a place called a boutique.

"Have a seat, Max," she smiled at me. I took the chair and mumbled some kind of thanks, and then she turned and introduced me to the rest of the group. "This is Max Howards," she announced.

Yeah, I know, I know, it's bad. I'd been pressed for time, trying to think of something on the fly while filling out my forms for entering the school. Of course, anything I can come up with is a million times more creative than the way Heero did it the first time- stealing *my* name. But more than that, I'd realised that I was strangely reluctant to use my real name here; I mean, not just because it could blow my cover, but because it was just too weird. I knew that I was expected to reveal a lot about myself here, and to put my own name on it would somehow make it permanent, and I didn't want to do that. I had enough problems as it was.

A couple of people nodded at me, and one or two smiled-- a cute guy, and an older lady with limp mousy- brown hair. The rest just sort of fidgeted with their notepads and snuck glances at me.

"Are we ready to begin?" The leader, a cheerleader stereotype if I've ever seen one, looked around at all of us, then sat down next to me, maybe because I was new or maybe because the only other open seat was next to this psycho-looking guy with buggy eyes who was really obvious in checking her out. She didn't have a notepad, and she was really relaxed and peppy. I was relaxing a little, too. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. "Max, everyone else has been to a few meetings before, so we all know pretty much how things are run here. But I'll try and take the time to explain it all as I go, okay, and feel free to ask questions if you get confused."

I nodded dutifully.

"Would everyone else like to introduce themselves and say what they do? I'll start." Unconsciously she tossed her hair. It looked good on her, even if the motion was totally expected. "I'm Vicky, and I'm a Phys Ed teacher at St. Mary's School down the street. I'm the counselor for this series of discussions."

My turn. "I'm Max." I shifted, nervous. "I, uh, go to St. Mary's. Miss-I mean, um, Vicky-thought I might get something out of her discussion group." She smiled warmly at me. It went around the room-Keung, an engineer; Quinny, who played in an orchestra; Mikkie, another teacher; Luann, a homemaker; Theo, a cashier at a drug store. Normal people, just like I was pretending to be. I was the youngest by at least a decade, but age didn't seem to matter here.

There was a good atmosphere, and in a strange way it helped when the others looked nervous too. But Mikkie, the cute one, kept smiling over at me, and it was a friendly invitation that I was more than a little aware of. I wasn't here to pick up dates. I was here to-- hell, I was here because the Dean at St. Mary's thought I was gay, and I was here to be punished, in a kindly sort of way, for it. Whoever thought that being a Gundam pilot would include more than killing some Ozzies?

"I thought we'd start off with something easy," Vicky began. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs at the ankle. I wonder if she realised that Keung had a good view up her short little skirt. "You've all heard about the increase in hate crimes around the area. Does anyone have an opinion on it?"

"The police aren't lifting a finger to find out who's doing it," one of the men, I forgot his name, replied immediately. "If it was a woman getting sexually harassed, you'd see a million cop cars out there trying to find the criminals. But it ain't happening."

"That's not fair," Mikkie disagreed. "I think it's just hard. So many of the victims aren't coming forward until they're forced to. They'd be labeled, and it's hard for kids to take that step." Sympathetic eyes rested on me for a second. I looked away.

Talk went on; I didn't offer an opinion. Hate crime sucked. End of story. I mean, nothing is ever going to change. People fear what's different. I, of all people, understand that. Man, I hate groups. Everyone in them seems to think that their opinion is somehow going to change something. It's so useless. This was such a mistake. Fuck the Dean.

If you say you had a hard time coming today
and you don't have anything to say
he'll call that resistance. If you say
it isn't, he'll say that's more resistance.
If you stop resisting, he'll call that
passive-aggressive. If you tell him
you've had it, you're tired of wasting
time and money when you haven't even begun
talking about homosexuality, he'll tell you
your problems run even deeper than he
initially realized and you need hospitalization.

Vicky eventually took control again. "I know we've been over this question a couple of times before, but I think it might be useful for our new member to hear it. Max, as you know, one of the things we talk about here is sexual identity. Something that a lot of young people don't realise is that they're not alone, they're not the only person going through uncertainty about themselves or their lifestyle. They don't realise that other people have been through the same things they're going through now, and survived."

Well, duh. I mean, of course I know that. Lady, you're preaching to the pulpit. I bet I've seen more shit and survived it than anyone in here. But I keep silent, and nod. She doesn't know anything about me except that my grades are poor and I don't like to change with other guys in the locker rooms. Sensing that I'm feeling reticent, she turns to the group at large. "Last week we talked about our first sexual experience. We didn't get through everyone, if I recall. Those of you who didn't go, who'd like to start?"

I winced again when she added on one of those stupid psychological nonsense platitudes: "Remember, no one here will judge you for anything you say, and it's all confidential."

I could be eating pizza and watching porn right now. This is a complete waste of time.

I was a little surprised when the other teacher, Mikkie, volunteered right off the bat. Maybe the guy had a load to get off his chest. I mean, I'd be uncomfortable, talking about sex in front of a student. But he seemed very at ease with himself, and his voice was calm and matter-of-fact.

"I was fourteen. I lived in North America then, in this little suburb off of New York. I was hanging out with a much older crowd, some of them in their late thirties, and most of them were men, though I liked the women too. They'd get me into these adult clubs, and we'd sit in a huge booth and they'd order me Shirley Temples without the alcohol and be very friendly to me, including me in all their gossiping. The men liked to touch me, and I would always be very excited when they put their arms around me, or put a hand on my knee while they talked to me. I knew that I enjoyed it more than when the women touched me, but it didn't mean anything to me at the time."

He was watching me while he talked. It was like me and him were having a conversation, and no one else was around. As soon as I realised that I made a show of examining my notepad and drawing little stick figures in the margins of the paper.

"I'd been going to the clubs with this group for maybe three weeks when I started to focus on two of the men in particular, Charley and J.C.. J.C. was older, like thirty-nine or forty, and Charley was twenty-five. Whenever either of them touched me I would get very warm and I wanted something more, but I didn't know what. I had this vague idea of what sex was like, but I really didn't know much about it at all."

My stick figures had little tiny scythes and were chasing after the big bad Ozzies with huge grins on their circular faces. I tried to draw a braid on one of the good guys, but it looked like a monkey tail. I knew there was a reason why I avoided art class.

"I went to the washroom one night, and these two guys followed me. At the urinal, I realised they were looking at me, and I was both excited and embarrassed. It was late, and we were all about ready to go home, and it was kind of natural that I ride with Charley and J.C., because we all lived in the same area. I had this feeling that something was going to happen, that they knew I was attracted to them, that they thought it was cute and funny. I was really quiet on the drive back.

"All the roads were empty, because it was so late at night and we were heading back out into the suburbs. Charley, who was driving, stops the car at a red light, and puts it into park. He said he wanted a cigarette, and he offered me one too. He and J.C. scooted over so I could sit up in the front with them, and we rolled down the windows and smoked for a while. I was mostly imitating them, and getting very flushed and anxious sitting in between them."

I looked up. Mikkie wasn't so much looking at me anymore as he was looking back, remembering himself at almost my age. I noticed that only a few others were listening; some looked bored. Vicky was paying close attention, and leaning forward in her chair with her legs uncrossed now, and Keung was paying close attention to her panties.

Mikkie's voice hitched a little with self-conscious laughter. "I had a stiff, by then. I was hoping they'd notice, and praying they wouldn't. J.C. puts out his butt and then starts running his fingers through my hair, smiling like he's indulging me in something. Then he asked me if he couldn't take care of that little problem of mine for me, and I just barely managed a nod." I sort of expected him to stop there; I mean, he had an audience now, though I don't think any of us were really hanging avidly on the tale. But he didn't, he kept going, and he was looking at me again, talking directly to me. "He started touching me again, unzipping my jeans and petting me. Charley was watching, leaning back and smoking still, but he put a hand on his crotch and just kind of rubbed. For a couple of minutes that's all it was, just everyone touching everyone else or themselves, and I remember thinking that this was what it must be like to be gay. It was very exciting."

I can imagine. Two older guys, practically out in the open, being included in something you had only vaguely pictured in wet-dreams. A little fascinated, I absently tugged the collar of my shirt to relieve my rising body heat and kept listening.

"J.C. started kissing me, giving me a lot of marks on my neck and jaw, and he had opened his pants too and was jacking off. I couldn't take my eyes off him. It was the first time I'd ever seen another man up close, and definitely the first time I'd ever watched anyone else masturbate. Charley had his hand inside my shirt and was pinching me, telling me that I was a good kid, a handsome kid, and they were going to be really nice to me because I didn't know what I was doing, what I was getting into."

Mikkie paused, thinking to himself. I ran my eyes over his face-- he had a nice face, kind of like Trowa's-- Latin origins, maybe, the slightly olive-tinged skin tone, sleek lines, brown eyes with really long lashes. He looked at me and smiled. "That was pretty much it," he finished suddenly. "J.C. ejaculated, and Charley handed him a handkerchief to clean up with. I was still very excited and aroused, but both of them had gotten quiet and seemed unhappy. They took me home, and Charley hugged me when he walked me up to the door. I only saw them once or twice after that, and I never went out with them again."

It was a good "first time" story. Gentle and friendly. I was smiling back at him. He was lucky; despite the sad ending, it seemed to have been a positive experience for him. Vicky gave him a big effervescent grin.

"Thank you, Mikkie. We all appreciate you sharing with us. Would anyone else like to share their story?" One of the women went next. I didn't pay much attention, though I probably should have. I kept looking at the teacher guy. Mikkie didn't listen too closely, either. He had a great smile.

Somehow I didn't think this was supposed to be a dating service. But I knew that he'd at least try to talk to me when this torture was over, and maybe if I was lucky, he'd want to go somewhere and get a coffee or something. Judging from his PG-13 tale, he wasn't one to rush things, so I deliberately didn't entertain hopes of getting laid tonight. But maybe it wasn't so bad, to meet someone who didn't want that right away. Unlike some people I know.

"Max?"

I swam up to something resembling consciousness. "Yeah?"

Someone laughed. Vicky smiled at me. I don't really like cheerleaders. They always look fake, though I could tell she was sincere. "Max, if you'd like to, would you share an experience with us?"

Once an ex-con told me
I was pretty,
he said if I were in prison i'd be
somebody's "woman"
i'd have to obey him and be faithful
to him,
if I got caught screwing with someone
else,
i'd be slit with a knife or a
razor blade,
slit until the blood from my
faggot ass
met the blood from my throat,
bled until the redness became a
poem and then a song
until a mute nation heard
but they haven't heard and sometimes
I realise they can't hear at all

Why not? It's what I'm here for, right? Wrong. I'm here so that I don't blow my cover. I'm here so Dean Anderson will continue to allow me the privilege of attending his fancy-ass school and get educated in such life-long necessities as fencing and calligraphy and home-fucking-economics. I'm here so he won't be suspicious and start checking my background, which will piss Heero off, and have him coming in on me in the john to grab me by the collar and snarl at me about screwing up *again.* Why can't I keep my hormones to myself?

I could make something up. Something sweet and pretty, like Mikkie's story. A kiss in a cinema, maybe some groping with a best friend at a slumber party. I open my mouth. "I was eight," I said.

Damn. That was not in the sweet and pretty plan. I saw Mikkie raise an eyebrow. Shit. Shit.

"I was eight," I repeated, floundering a little. "I-uh... " Shit, man. What the hell. The truth is the truth.

I'd known I'd probably end up saying something that should have stayed silent. "I was at a Federation school in the colonies. One of the older students, he was maybe seventeen, he liked to pick fights with the little guys who couldn't fight back 'cause they were too small. I was new. I saw him beating on one of the third graders, really shoving him around and scaring him, and I threw a rock and hit him in the shoulder. To distract him, you know. So, it got his attention, and he beat me up instead. After that I was his favourite target, especially 'cause I usually fought back, and once I bit his hand so hard he had to get stitches." I paused for a moment, remembering that with pride. Should have ripped off his finger. Oh well, I was young. Can't get it all right the first time around. "So once I pissed him off a lot, and he followed me off the campus and into an alley. We fought and he broke my nose, and then he told me if I blew him he'd leave me alone. And he promised he'd stick up for me against the other guys, if I did it. I knew I couldn't keep fighting him forever, at least not til I got bigger. So I did it."

I wasn't really prepared for the pity and revulsion I saw in the faces of the group. To me, it was something that happened all the time. But these were nice, middle-class people. Rape is something that happens far away, in other places, to people who live on the dole or get drunk or high at college parties-- to people who are asking for it. Mikkie's eyes were clouded. He looked more hurt than I'd ever felt about it.

Men are drawn to my ass by
my death-trance blue eyes
and dark hair, tiny outfit,
Men smudge me onto a bed,
drug me stupid, gossip and
photograph me till I'm famous
in alleys, like one of those
jerk offs who stare from
the porno I sort of admire.
I'm fifteen. Screwing means
more to the men than to me.
I daydream right through it
while money puts chills on
my arms, from this to that
grip. I was meant to be naked.

And then suddenly I was getting a perverse satisfaction out of shocking them. Who are all these asswipes but jerk-offs who are ashamed to masturbate because they think about other men or other women? People with good jobs and friendly co-workers who make fag jokes, and they laugh because they don't want to tell anyone that's what they are, just another fag joke. God's little ha-ha on us, people who buy rainbow hankies and have sex with the lights out, so they can't see the stubble on the guy who's sucking their willy.

Mikkie was the only one who was looking at me now. Damnit, teach, get a clue. I don't want your pity. Give me five bucks, maybe that'll change my life.

I was so angry. I stood up, and I said, "Thanks for having me," the way I would say it to a friend's mother, who didn't like me and hadn't offered me cookies or a lemonade and didn't like the way I was looking at her son. And I left.

In the middle of the night I dream
old friends and lechery.
Since I do not drink, I burn.
Is this what everybody knew that I didn't?
how desire and denial roll in the glass?
how the fire, the fire consumes?
He had hands with fingers like tapers
lean legs, dark hair, a car.
Sensitive,
God, he knew he was sensitive
and when I stood over him
he slapped me with the delight of a boy.
"I wanted him, you know."
They knew.

I woke up and saw Heero standing over me. He had opened the curtains and the sun was behind his head, so I couldn't see his face.

"How'd it go?" he asked softly.

I looked up at him. I said, I'm a queer. I was in a
room with eighteen or twenty other queers, none of
whom liked me, and not one of them that I'd ever talk
to outside that room. I said, I'm here to be pretty,
aren't I, here for girls to talk fashion with and
bitch about their boyfriends to and provide my
classmates
with a target for their pent-up need to beat the
living shit out of something. I said, If you had been
with
me, I wouldn't have been so scared or alone.

I looked up at Heero. And I forced a smile. "It was okay."

"Max, I'd like to talk to you before we begin group today," Vicky said to me.

I put on a polite expression. "Sure."

She tossed her hair over her shoulder. Then she changed her brain-cell and pulled back a curl, lifting it to her perfect pink lips to nibble on. "Max, I can't help but feel like you aren't here for the right reasons."

I continued to keep myself in "courteous" mode. "That's because I'm probably not, ma'am. I don't want to be helped. I don't have a problem- at least not one your discussions can fix. I'm here because I don't want to be put on academic probation."

Vicky bit down hard on the hair. I said, "You're going to get split ends," and went inside the room.

Mikkie was there. The guy had a bunch of papers in his lap and I guessed he was grading them. I nodded to him and went to my usual seat.

Five meetings so far. Two and half weeks. "Therapy." What a crock. Where was a good mission when you needed one? If it weren't too implausible I'd almost believe that Treize Khushrenada had heard about my little problem and been so amused he actually halted the war, just to annoy me. Though it would have been a fantastic tactic. I was so miserable I was being- hm, let's call it "short"-- with the other pilots. I'm sure they were surprised to find that I have real emotions and issues behind that stupid grin they thought was all of me.

I catch them looking, when they think I'm not paying attention. I know they're surprised. Hurt, perhaps, indignant, even. I took away one more illusion. They can't measure themselves against me anymore. I'm not an idiot with looks and luck in battle, not anymore. I'm an angry faggot. I'm not the Duo Maxwell I always pretended to be. Welcome to me.

"Gum?"

I looked up. Mikkie was standing right in front of me, holding out a packet of chewing gum. I grunted thanks, and took one piece. He sat down next to me, in the spot that Vicky usually took, and resettled all of his work in his lap.

"So you go to St. Mary's?" he asked.

Small talk? Great. Chalk up another point to how well my month is going. "Yeah."

"It's a nice school. They have some terrific architecture."

"So I hear."

"I also hear Dean Anderson's a hard-assed fascist."

That made me smile, as I suppose it was intended to. "Whoever your little bird is, he's singing true." I popped the gum in, and turned a little in my chair so that I was facing Mikkie. I was reminded, again, of Trowa, as I looked at him- he had the same gracefulness, but his eyes were lively and they showed every emotion he had, where Tro's are pretty much dead.

"It's Max, right?" Of course he knew my name already, but it was a way to keep the almost-conversation going. "Have you been in the area long?"

"Not really." Potentially dangerous line of talk. He might ask where I was from, and that might lead to more questions I wasn't prepared to answer. So I took the lead, as maybe he'd wanted me to. "What do you teach?"

"Lit." His eyes lit up- he was one of those types. He loved his work. Since I didn't really want to hear about it, I cut in fast to say how cool that was and all, but what was he doing here, then, since he seemed so, hm, well-adjusted?

Mikkie sobered. "Funny story. A, um, friend of mine, whom I hadn't seen in quite some time, suddenly showed up in town. Married, of all things, with a little tyke. I was surprised to see the name on my rolls for the winter semester, and once I made the connection, I called the kid's father up to say hi. He was, understandably, very uncomfortable to hear from an old boyfriend... "

"Hmph." I could just imagine. Mikkie's lips tilted up in a warm smile; then he ran a hand through his hair. I'd learned, from watching him talk, that Teach was a blusher. I could see pink making its way from his ears to his cheeks.

"Well, we talked for a while- what've you been doing for all this time, etc. It was- awkward. Finally he asked how I'd known he was in town, and I explained that I was his boy's literature teacher third period. And he freaked out. He said he didn't want a fairy teaching his boy, and how did he know his child was safe with someone like me?"

I winced. That must have hurt.

Mikkie wrapped up with an embarrassed shrug. "He snitched me to the principle. With the laws, they can't fire me, which I'm sure is what Leighton wanted, but they made a few discreet threats and advised me to start getting some official help if I wanted job security. So here I am."

It was strikingly similar to my own tale of woe. I wondered how many queers this happened to. I wondered if it would ever stop.

Mikkie put his hand on my knee. "But once I got here, Max, and I'll admit I was unhappy at first, I found that these talks really were helping me, sometimes with concerns I didn't even know I had. I realised how long it had been since I'd had anyone to tell these things to, and I came to appreciate the circumstances that brought me here."

I looked at his hand. He had very beautiful hands. With cute ink blots, from grading the papers, and a predictable callus on the middle finger, where a pen would rest as if born there.

"You think eventually I'll like it here, that's what you're saying?" I sighed, and ran a hand through my bangs. "Look, I appreciate that. I do. But I can't just... accept this. One day my friends trust me, and the next, the whole fucking school knows where I go on Tuesdays and Thursdays. One day I'm Max Howards... " However real he is. Who am I, anyway? "The next I'm fair game for every queer-basher in the tri-county area."

"This is the place to learn how to deal with that." Mikkie moved a little closer; Keung had come in, and was trying, rather obviously, to listen in. "Listen, Max. You wouldn't believe a sugar-coated reality, I know that, and I admire it. But the fact is this: everywhere you go, this is going to follow you. Man can fly into space and he can cure illnesses he never thought he'd overcome, but he can't forgive homosexuality. And you need to build some defences against that. You can't spend the rest of your life ready to explode."

The worst part of it was that he was right.

If
none of these cures works
you will probably be thrown out of high school
as a bad influence on all those guys who
make you suck them off in the shower,
then beat you up at the bus stop. If you
still wish to remain a homosexual, you will prob-
ably be arrested in the public library
for browsing too long in the "Sexuality"
section or during one of those periodic raids
of the local gay bar or face charges for soliciting
a cop who arrested you and forced you
to give him a blow job while he played
with his siren. In prison
you will probably be gang raped by
lusty straight men who are only acting out
their healthy but stifled heterosexual impulses
and if you are lucky one of them may even
win you in a knife fight and protect you
from the gang except when he trades you
out for a night for a pack of cigarettes or
a shot of heroin.

"I see you looking, bitch!"

My back connected with hard tiles, and a shower handle dug into my ribs. Pain lanced up along my spine as today's guest bully ground me back into the wall in the shower room.

"How're fag classes going, sissy?" the jock needled, assuming that somehow these horrible words would make me start bawling my pansy eyes out. When I didn't even spare him a glare before kneeing him in the stomach, and then in the jaw as he doubled over, his goonies stopped sniggering and started growling.

I got in a roundhouse punch and elbowed someone in the eye before they were holding me up against the wall and taking turns hitting me. I came close to blacking out when a particularly tender spot on my skull met the tiles intimately, but passed that in favour of spitting blood into the face of one of my assailants.

Lucky stars, I had Heero on my side, or I might have gotten my ass seriously kicked.

He took out two in what appeared to be one smooth kick, and half-strangled another with a jab of his big hand into the ass hole's throat. Heero may look small, but even in the steam and flickering lights of the showers, there was no mistaking the hard muscle of the bare back and chest, and the powerful arms that were practically flinging aside boys a head taller and a hundred pounds heavier. With most of them down and out, Heero fucking Yuy planted himself in front of me, gave every bystander a contemptuous glare, and said, "Touch him again and I will kill you."

Anyone care to disagree? No? Didn't think so.

When you have had it, and decide to hijack
a jet and escape, you will discover the small
but important fact that no nation under god
or red offers asylum, political or otherwise,
to a plane full of pansies.
Your best bet is to fly over
the Bermuda Triangle and click
your little red pumps together whispering,
"There's no place like home, there's no
place like home."

We walked home in silence. I didn't let Heero carry my bag, though he wanted to, considering the way I had to hold one shoulder so my back wouldn't hurt. But the last thing I needed was some misguided attempt on his part to show he cared. I could analyse later if he protected me because he finally decided to maybe like me a little in a "he can occasionally be useful" sort of way, or because he can't stand to see anyone weak suffer. Either way, I hated him for saving me in there.

Or I would want to, later on, when I woke up from dreaming about him, water streaming over him and slicking his hair down over his severe face, his teeth pulled back in a grimace, as he turned to me after beating off the bashers and held a hand out to me, completely unconscious of his nudity, of the view he was giving me of his thick cock. Yeah. I'd want to hate him, then, when I woke up and had to finish jacking off as quietly as I could, biting my lower lip until it bled.

We paused at a crossroads, waiting for our turn. He said, "We have a mission tonight. It's just as well. You'll have an excuse for any bruises you get."

Gee, thanks, hero mine.

I was halfway out of the door when my physics teacher saw fit to remind the class about the five pages of homework we had due the next day; I wondered, wistfully, if I could claim I just hadn't heard, but honesty compelled me to admit that I had. Oh, well. If I timed it right, I could always use the "I have a ton of homework" excuse to get out doing the dishes tonight.

I needed to make it to the bus ramp in two minutes so that Heero, my little self-appointed white knight, could protect me. He took himself seriously. So did everyone else. He both helped with... things... and didn't help. I felt like he was trying to wrap me in cotton, but at the same time, he was pushing me away in a fashion I'd never quite experienced before. He'd beat back the world for me- but I knew without being told that I wasn't really his friend anymore, and without hearing the words from Mr. Jaws-Like-A- Steel-Trap-Rusted-Shut, I could only come to so many conclusions.

A) He knows. Somehow, he knows... I want him. Have wanted him, since almost the beginning.
B) I am weak, so I have earned his protection- and I am weak, so I have earned his contempt, because I should have been strong.
C) We were never friends in the first place. I twisted every thing he said and every thing he did around in my head so that I could have a comfort zone, a happy little illusion that I'd broken past his barriers and gotten in under his skin. And now I was simply seeing what had been there all along.

Whatever. Week Five of Therapy. The nightmare continued. It would keep going until one day our safe- house was somehow given away to the enemy, until the day OZ hunted us down- or Relena Peacecraft showed up and practically laid down a red carpet for the Ozzies to follow, whichever came first. And then Max Howards would disappear, and in a few months, no one would remember the fag who almost tarnished St. Mary's shining reputation.

"Hi there!"

I blinked myself back to the present and stared at- Mikkie? "Hi," I repeated, dumbly. "Hi. Um, what are you doing here?" Automatically I looked around for Heero- I must have beaten him here.

Mikkie was grinning. "Well, ostensibly I'm here to meet Vicky for a late lunch... "

I shifted my backpack over my shoulders. The other students were simply detouring around us, ignoring the two-person traffic block. No one was paying us any attention. "Ostensibly?" I asked finally.

Teach ran a hand through his hair. His cheeks burned faintly. "Yeah, well, I *am* going to lunch with Vicky, but I was really kind of hoping I'd run into, uh, well, *you*, Max."

Cute. I'd heard better lines, but Mikkie's obvious inexperience was kind of refreshing. I relaxed a little. "What'd'ya want to talk about?"

"You're coming to group tonight, right?"

Like I had any choice. "Yeah, I'll be there."

"You busy afterwards?"

Helllllo, now. So, my prediction had come true after all. "Why?" I studied him, watching the blush work its way down to the collar of his turtleneck.

"I, um, thought we might stop somewhere for coffee, or ice cream. You know, um, get to know each other, outside the 'group environment.' And I'll drive you home."

Unaccountably, I was suddenly flushing too. I cursed the annoyance of a fair complexion. "Is this a... date sort of thing? Or a just-friends sort of thing?"

Mikkie laughed. "I guess that depends on you, Max." Suddenly the tension went out of him. "Is that a smile? Does that mean 'yes'?"

He teased me until I was grinning. "It's a yes." I gave him a little shove, blushing like an idiot. "Now let me go, or I'll miss my friend and have to walk home all by myself." He waved as I ran off.

I found Heero waiting for me in our spot with his robotic patience. "Hey," I huffed, and readjusted my backpack again so it wasn't tangled with my braid.

Captain Obvious said, "You were talking to a man."

So, he'd seen. "Yeah, and?" I demanded, and started walking. The last thing I wanted to do was explain myself to my partner.

Heero followed me, frowning. "Who was he?"

"A teacher."

"He doesn't work here."

"Christ, Heero, whaddaya do, memorise the bloody year-book so you know everyone on campus by sight?" I kept facing away from him, lengthening my stride deliberately so that Heero, with his shorter legs, had to hurry more to keep up with me. "If you absolutely have to know, he's a teacher at a different school."

"How do you know him?"

"Do I ask you personal questions? Do I ask how you met that witch who calls herself a pacifist, and what the hell you did to make her stick to you like cling wrap?"

Heero caught my arm, and I stumbled in a 180 turn, forced along by my own momentum, and smacked up against Heero's chest, nose-to-nose with the guy. "Answer the question, Duo," he said.

"It's not your business, Heero Yuy." If he was cool, I was frozen. "Don't think you can push me around. Now let go of my arm."

"You're too young to be so cynical," Mikkie whispered, stroking my cheek.

"I'm not a cynic. I just tell it how I see it." I sighed, and shifted so that I could lay my head on his chest. His body was a joy to me. I would always like boys, but there was a thrill in holding your palm against a man's palm and seeing the extra inches of finger stretched above yours, in smelling the natural musk that accompanies a man, instead of the sweat and dirt of a boy. And I would always appreciate how a man knows to savour my kisses, when a boy only thinks of the few glorious seconds at the end, never realising how much the in-between stuff can be.

Mikkie's arm over my shoulders squeezed for a moment; then he relaxed again. "It's getting late."

I had to laugh. "It's been late for hours, Teach. It's half four, at least."

"Is it?" Punctuated by a yawn. "I should drive you home."

"Yeah." I chewed on my lower lip, thinking sluggishly, in time with the contented beat of Mikkie's heart, right beneath my ear. Eventually, I thought I had the right words. "This was a good night," I murmured. "Thank you."

"There could be more good nights," was the reply. Warm lips nuzzled the top of my head. "All you have to do is show up. No pressure, Max."

Miraculously, none of the good feeling of the evening disappeared. I actually believed him when he said that. I felt a smile coming, and tasted one on his lips when I kissed him.

This could be good. This could be very good.

It meant tons to me. Aside
from the obvious heaven
when cumming, there's times
I'm with them that I'm happy
or know what the other guy
feels, which is progress.
Or, nights when I'm angry,
if in a man's arms moving
slowly to the quietest music-
his hands on my arms, in my
hands, in the small of my back
take me back before everything.

"Last man goes to Duo Maxwell, making a total of thirteen for the Master of Ass-Whooping, and exactly one less for his side-kick, the Grasshopper," I announced smoothly, waving my hands around in something vaguely resembling one of Wufei's kata moves. "Hiiiii-ya!"

"Be serious for a minute," was the predictable reply from Stud-Named-Dud, Heero my Hero. His face, frowning per usual, appeared in the corner of my view-screen. "Get out of here and meet me back at the safe-house."

I was suddenly suspicious. Instinct, maybe. "Why does it sound like you're fixing to stay behind, Heero?"

Was that vague annoyance? Had I managed to penetrate the Yuy Glacier? "Just get going. I don't need you to hang around and get in the way."

Any other day. Any other day, and I could have shrugged that off, the way I always did, the way I was supposed to. It was our routine, right? I'm annoying, so Heero is annoyed. Heero is blunt to the point of rudeness, but I, having invented rudeness, am completely unaffected.

Any other day. But not today.

"Cluttering up your airspace, am I?" I asked, lightly enough- but with an edge that not even Superman could have dodged. "Sure. Catch you later. Don't let me stop me from finding another opportunity to throw your life away on some dumb-ass reconnaissance 'mission.' Only, can I make a request? Next time, just let me know you're trying to die, and I won't waste energy defending your fucking back!"

Blue eyes that had gotten progressively wider blinked. "Duo," he started.

"Go to hell!" I cut off our relay and fired up my Deathscythe. I was a whole metre or so away before I started to shake.

Boys don't cry. Fags cry, I told myself savagely, punching in the familiar co-ordinates of our base and ignoring with all my might the hot prickling at the back of my eyes. Fags cry. Faggot. Ass-fucker. Queer.

By the time I had hidden Deathscythe and trudged into our safehouse, I wanted to hurt something very very badly. I avoided the dull-witted old lady who posed as our guardian for an extra fifty dollars a week, avoided Wufei coming down the stairs, avoided Quatre when he greeted me outside his door, avoided Trowa who was his silent shadow. I went to my room, dumped my gear on the bed, stripped, and sat down in the bathtub.

For a long time, I just sat there. I didn't think. I didn't move, except to loosely hug my knees, and lean my head against the tiled wall.

An hour, maybe two, later, I heard him come in. He was very quiet, but there was no other sound to drown out the slight shuffle of his worn, disgustingly out of fashion yellow sneakers, or the creak of the doorknob in his big hand. But I didn't bother to look up when he stopped at the door to the washroom. What was the point.

"Duo."

"Unless you're here to fuck me, go away."

A moment of confused silence. I felt his pain. I was really getting to him, wasn't I? Did he even go on the reconn?-- no, never mind. Stupid question. But maybe he'd at least thought about what I said.

"I don't understand, Duo."

"No. You wouldn't."

More silence. I couldn't bear the look that I knew would be on his face. He was too good for this game I was playing, too young. But it wasn't a game. And hadn't I been young, too? Though whether I'd ever been too good was debatable.

"Duo, come out." No *please*, no *why don't you and we'll talk*, no *I would like it if you'd meet me halfway*. Heero Yuy didn't know how to speak that language.

I stood up. I made a show of being naked; I made a fucking floorshow out of stepping over the rim of the tub, of tossing my braid behind me, of taking the three steps that put me all but hip-to-hip with him.

"Do you ever think about sex?" I asked him softly. "About what it might be like to rub your cock against my cheek, to shove it down my throat and hear me beg for more of it? Do you ever wonder if I can ever make it feel as good as when you do it with your own two hands? I can, you know. I'd let you fuck me dry, hard, as fast as you could do it, and I'd ask for more. I'd let you treat me like shit, if just once I could taste you on my lips and know that all that cum was for me."

He actually flinched. Training didn't cover dirty talk, did it, babe? "Why are you doing this?" he demanded.

I leaned closer, so that my tongue could have darted into his ear. "Did you ever wonder how they knew I was gay? Did you ever think maybe they knew because I was sucking off the entire football team? Or maybe because some hot piece of ass with a car took me for a drive and watched me jack off all over his nice leather seats, all over his face in the bathroom until we got caught? Maybe-"

"Stop it." He shoved me away from him. "Why are you doing this?" he repeated, mechanically, miserably.

Because I need you. Because I love you. "Because you don't understand, Heero, and you never can. Because you aren't *like* me, are you, because you took me at god-damned face value and you never once stopped to ask yourself if maybe I wasn't here for some other purpose than providing you with an outlet for all the nasty words in your god-damn vocabulary!" I hit him, or tried to. He blocked me, and that only made me more furious. "I'm a person!" I shouted at him. "I'm a fucking person, Heero Yuy, and I want to be fucking heard and seen and loved for who I am, not who it's convenient for you to think I am!"

rape
rape as in genet, the rape of
humiliation
the humiliation of walking past
a corner and being taunted
because you have somehow
violated their manhood
rape
I've thrown out hundreds
like you, and
found only art can remain so
aloof in its make-up that I'll
stare endlessly into its eyes
like a kid with a microscope.

"Gawdamnit, I know you're in!" I shouted, slamming a fist on the door again. "Open the fucking door!"

I was just about to kick the ugly blue wood when it swung open, and Mikkie stood there staring at me. I went completely still, except for the shaking in my body, and stared back at him.

"Max," he said finally. "How did you get here?"

I swallowed hard. "I took a bus. And then I walked."

"It's six blocks to the bus stop."

"Yeah."

He looked me up and down. I had thrown on a tee shirt and someone's shorts- they weren't mine, God only knows whose- sandals, too. He looked at my face, at my red and puffy eyes, and then he reached out and smoothed back the hair at the side of my face. "Come here," he said, and I went to him, and he held me.

"It's okay, Max," he whispered. "It's okay. I'm glad you came here. We'll make it okay." His arms cradled me to his chest, his hands stroked the quivering muscles of my back, and the wild stray hairs that had escaped my braid. "It's okay, Max."

Dean Anderson signed. I watched his pen move with grim satisfaction.

"Once again, Max, I offer my apologies," he said, not quite meeting my eyes. "I know this was an ordeal for you- an unfair one, perhaps. And I'm sorry you feel like you have to leave St. Mary's. You'll be missed."

"I will, huh?" I reached across the desk and took the papers, glancing through them to be sure my transfer recommendation was in order. I stood. "Dean Anderson, I don't accept your apology. I don't accept your excuses. And I don't accept your attitude. The only other thing I have to say to you is that I pray to God every night that what you did to me, you won't do to some other poor kid."

He stiffened. "May I remind you that you should speak to your elders with respect, young man!"

"I'll respect you when you deign to respect me," I retorted scornfully. "Just be glad I decided not to go blabber about this little episode to the County School Board." I folded the papers, stuck them in my jacket, and gave the Dean a little mock-salute. "Adios."

Mikkie was waiting for me in the parking lot, leaning against the side of his car. He straightened when I approached. "How'd it go?"

"About as expected." I glanced down at my watch. "We'll be late if we don't get moving."

As we pulled onto the main road, he asked, "When is the transfer effective?"

"At my discretion." I'd argued for that for a few good reasons: it would save time when the inevitable OZ raid disrupted our quiet lives here, and it gave me something to hold over the Dean's head. Father Maxwell, Lord bless him and keep his soul, would probably not have approved of the vicious and admittedly bad-tempered move; but I wanted the Dean to get my point.

I figured he'd be getting it for about three more weeks. And damned if I wouldn't rub his face in it.

"Where do you figure you'll go?"

Mikkie always kept one hand on the shift. I laid my own hand on top of his, and laced our fingers together. He had such beautiful hands. "I dunno. Far away, maybe."

He didn't say, "I'll miss you." He didn't say, "I wish you would stay here, with me." He didn't say, "Why?"

He just accepted my decision, and me. And I knew that I could have loved him for that, if somehow I could have stayed.

My past
is a short one of beautiful
boys or young men I admired,
dragged to bed, left in ruins
on corners with taxi fare home.
Another of friends who were
horny, who I could have slept
with but didn't they
were ugly, insane or too much
like me to be sexy. The sun
rose slowly. I was
still huffing and toiling
with them, like a sculptor
attempting to get things just
right- finally collapsing
in bed with some smeared,
smelly torso before, and
a powerful wish to be left
alone.
Once I was back when art chatted
just over my head, when I was
wondering what could be out there, miles
from my hands. He was leaving
like you. Who knows where that
man and that feeling are now.

Vicky reached behind her chair and hauled into view a huge shopping back, settling it between her spread legs with a grunt. Keung looked disappointed; the bag blocked the view of her pink satiny g-string.

"I have a sort of take-home assignment for you," she announced, ignoring our collective groan. "Our last meeting will probably run a little shorter, but we'll have a reception afterwards, coffee and desserts type thing. I'm extremely proud of each and every one of you; you've all come a long way since we began this group seven weeks ago. Which is why our last meeting will be a celebration of that progress."

She reached into the bag and took out a book. She held it up so each of us could see it. "Each of these books contains fifty or more poems. Your assignment is to find a single poem that describes you, or something you feel, or mimics a struggle you went through before or during this group. You get the idea. Chose a poem that means something to you. Before you leave, pick up a book. Have a good weekend."

I glanced at Mikkie. He was excited by the idea, I could tell- Mr. Lit Professor. That made me smile. This was perfect for him.

He was the first to get at the books after Vicky spread them out on a table. I waited until most of the group had grabbed one and left, grumbling to themselves; Mikkie was still taking his time choosing from the remaining books. When we were basically alone, I joined him at the table, and teasingly poked him in the ribs.

"Slow down, there, Teach," I grinned. "Don't rush, you've got all night."

Mikkie flashed me a brilliant smile. He rightfully got the hint behind the sarcasm and made his choice, picking up two books. I raised my eyebrows when he presented one to me. "What's this?"

"It's you, Max. The title says it all."

I turned it over so that the front cover faced me. Then I rolled my eyes.

Angry Gay Poets. Classic.

When I was a kid in summer camp,
around 13teen & one night I lay asleep
in bunglow bed with 13teen other boys,
when in comes one of the camp councilors
who is nice fellow that likes ya, comeing to
my bed, sits down & starts to say: now you
will be leaving soon- I like you very much-
& if yr ever alone in the world come to me.
So I loked at him getting sad & tuched
-I realise he was quear & wanted my
flesh meat & sweetness of that age-
that we just might of given each other.

"Can you turn the light up?" I asked absently, turning a page.

Quatre did. "Are you working on homework? I've never seen you do work on a Friday night."

"Nah, it's not homework." I skipped a few pages, bored, and looked for any words that would catch my interest enough to warrant actual skimming.

"What is it, then?"

One, two, skip a few, ninety-nine one-hundred. How long *was* this book? "Poetry."

"*You* read poetry?" This from Wufei, who of course was diligently, dare I say enthusiastically, doing his homework on a Friday night. I stuck my tongue out at him. "You wanna start something, Wu-bear?"

Quatre came to sit next to me. "What kind of poetry?"

I hurried to hide the book. "Uh, bad poetry. Awful. You wouldn't be interested."

I all but saw him deflate. "Oh. I'm sorry, Duo. I won't bother you." Aw, Jesus. I hadn't meant to hurt him. I reached out fast and caught his hand. He looked up.

"Uh, well, maybe it's not so bad. Listen, um, do you know a lot about poetry? I gotta admit this stuff seems dry to me. Maybe you could, like, shed some light on the subject for me."

Suddenly he was grinning. "I'd love to!" So I scooted over on the couch, and he got comfortable, pulling his feet up under him and squirming around until we held the book between us. I saw his eyes skip over the title in the top corner, and I tensed- but he never said a word. He just smiled at me, and flipped back to the table of contents.

"It helps to start by looking for titles that sound interesting," he advised.

I barely heard. I was suddenly thinking very hard. I felt like something important had just happened.

I'd been pushing them away because I had just expected them to want me gone. But Quatre was very clearly reaching out. It was obvious enough even to me.

We didn't find any really good poems, and eventually we just headed to bed without resolving my assignment. But I spent a lot of time thinking that night. And I reached a few conclusions that had a lot of importance to my life. And I knew I wanted to share them with somebody.

And I wondered why I felt like I didn't have anyone to share them with.

According to
psychoanalytic theory, everything you say
means something even more sinister
than what you meant. Your unknown desires
live within you and control your outward be-
havior. For instance, if you say,
"It's such a beautiful day today
I wanted to leave work early,"
the psychiatrist will interpret this to mean
you are dissatisfied with your job
and this in turn means you are sexually frus-
trated and this goes back to your miserable
childhood which means he'll probably
respond with, "Do you think that this means
you resented your mother when she
wouldn't let you play with yourself?"
If you say you had a dream about flying
he'll interpret it as a dream of sexual
frustration and penis envy meaning
you are really sick since only women
are supposed to have penis envy. He'll
probably ask you, "How did you feel when
you first saw your father's instrument?
Did you notice if it was bigger than yours?
Did he seem ashamed of it?
Did you want to touch it?"
If you tell him you don't recall
what it looked like he'll tell you
you unconsciously wanted it to fall off
so you could flush it down the toilet.

Mikkie woke slowly. I placed a small kiss on his forehead as he began to stir, but didn't interrupt my reading. Only when sleepy hands drifted under the covers to tease my bare skin did I put the book aside, and tend to my sleeping beauty.

A few minutes later, we broke off the languid foreplay and just kissed for a while. Then Teach resettled with his head on my chest and his arms wrapped tightly around me, shifting only to pull up the coverlet to protect himself from the admittedly chill midnight air.

"You still reading that book?"

"Mm-hm."

"Haven't found one you like yet?"

I was quiet for a while. I answered slowly. "Actually, I think I have."

"Read it to me?"

I hesitated. "I don't want to spoil the moment, Mikkie."

"That bad, huh?" He sighed, and sat up, reaching for his tee shirt, flung somewhere over a bed knob during the evening's activity. Sensing the mood was already broken, I shut the book unhappily and watched him hunt for his boxers, getting only a little enjoyment out of the occasional peak at thighs and buttocks whenever he bent over.

He gave up and got back in bed, and I wrapped myself around him, rubbing his legs with mine and wincing at his freezing feet. He said, "You're going to do something I won't like, is that what you think?"

"Do we have to do this?"

"No. We can ignore it. You can ignore it all your life, Max, and spend every day of your existence angry at the world."

"So I'm supposed to just accept it, like you do?" I didn't want to fight. "We're different people. Why does it have to matter so much that I can't see it your way?"

"I just don't want you to be miserable all your life because you can't face the facts!" Mikkie exhaled sharply. "Max, I just... "

I closed my eyes. "I know. And I'm sorry. But I can't change, not overnight- or maybe you're right, and I'm just refusing to change. But I need to do it my way, Teach. I need to do it my way."

There was a long silence. Then he nodded. "I know, sweetie. It's just hard to stand by and watch and know you're- useless."

"You're not useless."

"With you, I am." He halted my protests by putting a hand over my mouth. "Listen for a minute. Just listen." Brown eyes, sad and saying they loved me, held me still. "You don't need other people the way normal humans do. You have everything you need to survive all packaged in, I know that. And it's extremely attractive. You're smart, independent, strong. But you just don't need, or want, help from anyone else, and I can't help wanting to protect you and care for you and wrap you up tight and hide you away from all the bad things in the world. I'm your friend, I'm your boyfriend, whatever else I am- I'm those things because you let me be. I feel like an attachment to you, like an extra arm, maybe. Something interesting and fun, maybe, but essentially not very useful."

I didn't know what to say. So I held him close, and eventually we fell asleep that way.

His told me how his roommate stood
silent over his bed,
he reached up, slapped him,
slapped him again.
"He wanted me, you know."
I knew.
His roommate used to talk of how he resisted it
the desire, the burn for a beautiful boy.
A scholar of greek and latin and buggery
when he drank he became foolish
"I wanted him, you know."
I knew.

"Thank you very much, Keung," Vicky smiled. I wondered idly if she would do a cheer. No such luck, I suppose.

Mikkie sat next to me, silent and tense. He'd read his own poem earlier. It had been beautiful. I had asked him for a copy of it. He'd smiled for me, appreciating the gesture, but knowing I only wanted it because he'd read it, not because I had loved the words or the meaning.

The door opened somewhere behind me. I figured it was one of the group members back from a piss or a smoke, and didn't bother to look back. One of the women was reading her poem now, standing up at the front of the room at the horrid little podium that seemed like a soapbox to me. It was something about womanhood, about feminism, about standing up and shouting at MEN, about breasts and pussies. She read it in a clear voice. I listened attentively, but most of it went over my head.

Vicky clapped when the lady stepped down. She was positively beaming, our cheer captain. She checked off her attendance roll, and said my name.

I drew a deep breath. I wiped my hands on my slacks- I was unaccountably nervous, the going-into-battle- doomed-before-the-first-shot-is-fired nervous, all but shaking in my hiking boots. Mikkie took my hand, and held it for a moment; his smile eased some of the butterflies in my stomach. I went to the podium. I started reading, mumbling at first, stumbling over the words. But the longer I read, the stronger I got. And finally, I didn't need the dog-eared copy of Angry Gay Poets anymore; I knew the poem, in my gut, in my heart, and I raised my head and looked my audience in the eye as I recited the poem that was me.

"'In conclusion,'" I quoted, and I paused, for a second, to swallow and wet my throat- I'd been up here for nearly five minutes, longer than anyone else, God, this was hard- I paused, and then I saw him.

Standing in the back was Heero Yuy.

I drew a slow breath. "'In conclusion,'" I said, softly but distinctly, "'there are no known cures for homosexuality. Faggots have survived Christianity, psychiatry, social ostracism, jail, earth, air, wind and fire, as well as the pink triangle and concentration camps. Nothing can reckon with you if you can reckon with yourself." I was speaking directly to him, now, Heero Yuy, a kid just like me, a kid nothing at all like me. "The facts have been available for a long, long time: where there are human beings, there are faggots. We were around clubbing each other over the head just like straight cave men. We were considered magical by some people. We were considered mysterious. We were obviously different but not always hated.'"

I met his eyes directly. "'Hatred is self-hatred. Denial is always fear. It's easier for THEM when we hate ourselves, FEAR OURSELVES. I don't have to and I WON'T. None of us knows how he got here, for what reason we are here or why we are who we are. It is not obvious and a swish doesn't make it any more obvious than the lack of one.'"

You listening, Heero my hero?

"'I am obvious,'" I said, "'because I AM.'"

And in silence, I stepped down from the podium and went back to my seat.

Later, out in the parking lot, I stood by Mikkie where he leaned against the driver's side door and played with his keys. We tried a hundred times to find something to say; nothing came out. Finally, he put his hand on the back of my head, pulled me close and kissed me gently.

My eyes filled with tears. And for maybe the first time in my life, I let them fall.

"I'm glad I finally got to see him," Mikkie said suddenly.

I wiped my nose on my sleeve. "See who?"

"The boy you're in love with."

I looked up, stunned. "What?"

Mikkie lifted one shoulder in half of a shrug. "The kid who came in late, the boy with the dark hair. I made a few guesses, from the way you looked at him."

I wiped my nose again, more aggressively. "How did you know that there was someone- else?"

"Teachers aren't blind, Max," he smiled sadly. "Students only think we are." He pulled a tissue out of somewhere and gave it to me. "Listen. I don't mind. I'm glad I got to see a part of you that he probably hasn't. At least not yet. Whoever he is, he's lucky."

I laughed, then hiccoughed. "He's also straight." I gave my nose one last swipe with the tissue. "I'm glad I knew you, too, Mikkie. And you weren't useless. Not to me."

"Why does this feel like 'good-bye'?"

Because it probably was. Because I'd known going in that this could never be permanent, because gay or not I was still a Gundam pilot, and there was still a war, and all I'd gone in hoping for was a few lays and maybe a little romance. "Because I met a special guy, and he helped me realise that I'm not ready for... some things, yet. But I hope he knows that I want to be, now."

Mikkie nodded. "And he hopes that someday, in the not-too-distant future, you'll let him know how those things are going, and maybe stop by for coffee."

I smiled. "I think I can do that."

Heero was waiting for me at the curb. I joined him after Mikkie drove off, and for a while, we just stood there looking at each other.

"It was a good poem," Heero said.

I relaxed a little. "Thanks."

We started walking. It was a cool night, only a little nippy, and very quiet. I kept my eyes on the moon as I walked. I wondered, one more time, if Heero ever thought about the moon.

At the door of our safe house, he turned to me and said, "Friends?"

I put my arm around his shoulders, and we climbed the stairs in perfect step with each other. "You bet, man."

The End

(:./erin/curing)