College Boy

College Boy

Milton rubbed his eyes. He’d been hunched over these musty books for hours, trying to decode the pre-revolutionary Russian with all its extra letters. He should have brought Tilden. Tilden was only an undergraduate, but his prowess in Russian left all the graduate students struggling in his wake. Milton wasn’t even in the language field, but he needed a reading knowledge for his source material. Tilden could read a paragraph and rattle off a translation with hardly a thought; Milton spent as much time in the dictionary as he did in the book.

Milton turned the page, watching the particles of dust float through the air. The books had been stored unused in the basement stacks, and as soon as Milton finished with them, they’d go back. Cripes, another word festooned with hard signs. Milton stood, stretched, walked over to the fireplace, and poked at the crumbling logs. This was going nowhere. He’d give it up for the day, but Gordon had discovered Milton’s lack of progress, and their little discussion hadn’t been pretty or politically correct. Veiled threats about canes made the PC crowd blanch; Gordon hadn’t been veiled with his threats. Get this done or suffer the consequences; being a grownup top wasn’t going to protect him.

Tilden had offered to help. Milton should have taken Tilden up on the deal. He’d be in a lot less mental anguish and definitely less physical anguish if Gordon figured out Milton’s lack of progress. Milton ran his hand through his hair and stroked the slight stubble on his chin. He was trying to grow a beard. Landon was teasing him, and Gordon was sending him death glares. Gordon hadn’t actually ordered Milton to shave, but it had been close. 

Tilden was a top. Milton was pretty sure of that. The quiet calm he projected was unmistakable, but Tilden with Gordon--frightening. Tilden could dig his heels in when people became unreasonably bossy; he’d done it once or twice with Milton. Milton couldn’t imagine him with Gordon. Tilden was gentle, almost passive; Gordon waving a cane would send Tilden to the police, the press, or both. This was a part of himself that Milton was determined not to show Tilden. They could never be more than friends; it was fated. Milton would never feel Tilden’s fine brown hair against his naked chest or kiss that welcoming mouth with more than a chaste kiss. This life wasn’t for Tilden, and they were both tops anyway. It would never work.

Milton threw himself back down on the oversized sofa. At least he could be thankful for small things. He was here in the lodge’s great room, not sitting at Gordon’s feet, and he was still sitting comfortably. The lecture had been scorching, but it hadn’t ended with any stripes. He had to answer the phone or the door if anyone inquired about lodging which was unlikely in the blinding rain. At least a guest’s inquiry would be something to distract him. He was supposed to be caring about peasant revolts. Milton stared at the incomprehensible text. This part was going to have to wait until he had Tilden’s help. He’d try to get away tomorrow with the excuse of needing the library. If Gordon knew it was just because he wanted a friend’s help, he would insist that Milton invite him up. They, the older generation, had all subtly started leaning on Milton that he might want to get serious about looking for a brat. Of course, Tilden was no brat. Landon would notice before Tilden had finished saying hello, and Gordon would know immediately after. Poor Tilden wouldn’t know what hit him and would probably jump the nearest plane for the deepest reaches of Siberia. Permafrost would be nothing compared to Gordon in top training mode.

“Are you working or daydreaming, boy?”

“Gordon,” Milton muttered, startling despite his vow to remain still and look studious. 

“Boy?”

“Daydreaming, sir.”

 “It is due next week, right?” Gordon sat down next to Milton and rested his hand on Milton’s thigh. It was a threat but also a gesture of reassurance. “This is unlike you.”

“I’ve been busy,” Milton said, knowing the evasion wasn’t going to get past Gordon. His eyes were too sharp, and he was watching Milton too closely.

“Go run the small loop. Perhaps you will be more talkative when you aren’t so fidgety. Off you go.” Gordon pulled Milton off the sofa.

The small loop wasn’t actually all that small--five kilometers and half were up hill. It wasn’t a favorite with Milton on a fine sunny day, and in a cold rain it was dreadful. He hunkered down in his sweatshirt and kept running. Heading home would be worse. The wind would be in his face, and it was uphill. He could cheat. Gordon hadn’t sent someone with him as he would with a young brat, but Milton prided himself in his honesty, even the slight evasion over the paper was niggling at his conscience, and Gordon knew it. Milton wouldn’t cheat no matter how awful the rain.

He’d almost reached the halfway point, jumping puddles and skidding on wet gravel, when he spotted the figure crouched at the side of the road, looking at a car perched ready to plunge down the hill. From the skid marks, the car had careened from one side of the road to the other before coming to rest against the rusty guardrail.

“Are you OK?” Milton knelt down next to the huddled figure.

Only the very slight lifting of the head indicated the man was alive. He stared at Milton with wide, frightened eyes behind the gold frames of his glasses. There was a bruise forming on one cheek, but to Milton’s eye there were no other visible injuries. 

“Are you hurt?”

Still no answer. The man trembled as Milton touched his shoulder.

“Are you hurt?” Milton repeated. 

“No.” The man looked at Milton again, and a shudder passed through his body. “I’m cold,” he said in a faint voice. A tear trickled down his cheek. 

“Do you have any more clothes in the car?” Milton asked, keeping his voice calm. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to swat this boy who was obviously a brat in distress or grab him up in his arms and hug him. Brat or no brat, sane men didn’t sit in the pouring rain in nothing but their shirt sleeves next to a crashed car. If they could walk, they went for help. He had to have driven past the farm about a kilometer down the road.

The boy--he was a boy Milton decided now that he had a better look at him, old enough to shave but not old enough to learn a modicum of survival skills--didn’t answer. He continued to hug his knees, shake, and look at Milton with limpid, brown eyes.

Milton opened the car door, carefully balancing himself against the crumpled guardrail. There were both a sweater and coat within easy reach on the back seat. He grabbed those and stopped, noticing the suitcase and grocery bags spilling with clothes. He pawed through the jumbled clothes for something warm and dry. Without thinking, he observed they were of good quality and none too clean. Gordon was a fanatic about appearance, and Milton knew the feel of good quality wool and cottons.

The boy hadn’t moved from the shoulder and didn’t look up as Milton approached. His hair hung limp and wet against his neck and down his face.

“What’s your name?” Milton asked in his warmest voice. This boy was numb; he’d need to be jollied along.

The boy remained unmoving, staring fixedly at the rain splashing into the puddles at his feet.

“Come on, kid, what’s your name?”

“I’m not a kid,” the boy said, jerking his head up.

“You’re kid until I have a name.”

“Fuck off!”

“Kid,” Milton said, keeping his voice calm, “I’m your only help for hours, so why don’t we try civil? “I’m Milton, and I’m twenty-three. Now how about you?”

“Joe,” the boy grunted, not looking up.

“All right, Joe. Wasn’t that easy, and now I won’t call you kid.” Milton smiled, trying to reassure the boy. “Can you stand?”

“Leave me alone.”

“No, stand up.” Milton hardened this voice. Brats responded to that voice, and the kid’s head popped up.

“You’re not my boss.”

“Up. I found dry clothes.” Milton hoisted Joe to his feet, ignoring the boy’s ineffectual effort to fend him off. “Change.”

Joe stood limply in Milton’s hands, not resisting but making no effort to take the dry clothes that were rapidly getting wet. 

“I’m freezing, and I know you have to be. Change,” Milton repeated. Milton watched this dull-eyed creature stand unmoving, leaning slightly on Milton’s sturdier frame. “This is ridiculous.” Milton reached for the buttons on Joe’s shirt and started to unfasten them.

“Stop. Get off me you bastard!” Joe exploded. He jerked in Milton’s grasp and kicked Milton as he swung his legs around wildly.

“Stop it, you fool!” Milton turned Joe and swatted him three times hard on his hip. The boy froze before dissolving into sobs.

“Don’t hurt me. I’ll be good. Please.”

“Shh, shh.” Milton wrapped his arm around Joe and pulled him close. “I won’t hurt you. I need you dressed. We’re both going to get pneumonia or worse out here. It’s not exactly summer. I won’t swat you again. I promise.” He should never have swatted this boy in the first place. The kid had acted like an infuriating brat, but Milton didn’t know him. He didn’t have the right. Get him changed. Get him warm. Worry about his own stupidity later. “Joe, can you get changed for me?” Milton kept his voice low and as softly pitched as he could. “We have to walk down to the farm to call for a ride. You’ll be more comfortable in dry clothes.”

Joe nodded, tears still spilling down his face. “Don’t hit me again.”

“I won’t. I promise.” The bruise on the kid’s cheek, was it from the car accident or had someone hit him? Now that he was closer Milton could see the dying traces of a black eye in the faint smudge under Joe’s left eye. “Do you need help?”

Joe shook his head. Milton handed him the clothes and turned his back to give the young man at least the illusion of privacy. The clothes were damp, but they were dryer than what Joe was wearing. Milton turned back to find the boy partially dressed. He’d pulled on his pants and the semi-dry sweater. His shirt tails hung out on one side, and he was struggling to slip his feet into the boots while balancing on one leg.

“Where are your socks?”

Joe shrugged and gave Milton a blank look. Milton scrambled back into the car and dug around until he found two grayish white sweat socks much in need of a wash. He wrapped his arm around the thin wisp of a boy. This young man was much too thin, all bones and skin.

“Sock and then boot. It works better that way.” Milton tried to smile through his chattering teeth. He was beyond wet; the cold rain had penetrated every last layer, and worse it was starting to change to that horrible weather phenomenon that the weather people perkily described as a wintery mix. It was late April for heaven’s sake.

Milton bent and tied Joe’s boots; the kid looked too numb to do it himself. Milton couldn’t tell how much of the numbness was from sheer cold and how much was related to the depressed mental state of his new companion. Milton also suspected a little recreational pharmaceuticals on the side. The car had reeked of marijuana.

“Come,” Milton said with false heartiness. This young man was going to require extensive cajoling to walk to the next bend in the road, let alone to the farmhouse. “Moving will help you warm up. Come on, trooper.”

Joe didn’t look up, but he let Milton pull him down the road toward the farmhouse. He seemed content to lean against Milton and to let Milton propel his wispy body forward, his legs limp enough that Milton was supporting most of the young man’s weight. Milton pulled Joe closer, wrapping his arm tightly around the young man’s thin body. Milton could at least share his small amount of body heat and offer physical reassurance to this frightened and very cold young man.

They made it a few hundred meters when Milton heard a faint whine. “I’m tired. I can’t walk any farther.” 

“One foot in front of the other,” Milton said with false cheeriness. “It’s not much farther.”

“No, I can’t. You can’t make me!”

Milton ruthlessly repressed the urge to swat this irritating boy into the next township, but he couldn’t keep the sharpness out of his voice. “Put your arms around my neck. I’ll carry you.” Milton was a big, strong man. He still routinely helped his Grandfather on the farm on the weekends, and this boy was slight, almost emaciated.

“Don’t yell at me.” Joe threw his hand up to protect his face and tried to squirm out of Milton’s grasp. 

“Shh,” Milton soothed, trying to keep his voice soft. “I’m not going to hurt you, but we can’t stay out in the rain. You’ll get hypothermia.”

“Get off me! You asshole! Get off me!” Joe’s voice was spiraling into panic. “I don’t want your fucking help! It well be like everyone else’s.”

“Stop now.” Milton grabbed Joe’s flailing arms. “I won’t hurt you.” Milton forced his voice into a low, soft tone, the pitch he’d heard Gordon use with hysterical brats. 

“You hit me before. Everybody hits me.” 

Joe was limp in Milton’s arms again, the picture of defeat and abject pity. With this young man’s ricocheting emotions, Milton was unsure of the sincerity of this newest mood, or if this boy used emotions the way some used a change of clothes, a new one for every occasion. No matter, obviously this boy wasn’t thinking clearly, If he was trying to be manipulative, it could be sorted out later. Now the priority was getting Joe warm and dry. Gordon could sort out the brat later. He was good with these impossible types. All Milton wanted to do was shake some sense into this boy, but it wasn’t his right, and he’d already gone much too far by swatting the boy. Infuriating or not, he hadn’t had the right.

“I didn’t hit you,” Milton said softly. “I swatted you, and it was wrong. I’m sorry.” Not waiting for a response, Milton lifted Joe over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and continued down the road. Thankfully the boy was small and didn’t fight him. Limp and passive wasn’t a good condition for a brat; Gordon warned that it was a sign of real trouble, but with a driving rain it was preferable to kicking and biting.

The farmhouse was a small stone house typical of this part of Vermont, nestled back against the hillside. To the right lay the barns and other assorted outbuildings of modern farming. A herd of black and white Holstein cows milled in the mud lot picking at the hay from raised hayracks. 

Milton knew the farmer by name and by sight, but as was typical for the farmers, he didn’t intermingle with outside folks. Milton doubted if the man approved of the fancy lodge as the farmer would call it, but Milton also knew that when he knocked on the door he would be let in and shown immediately to a telephone without question. Milton rapped sharply on the door and heard the sound of a dog barking from somewhere inside the house. An older woman in a house coat, her silver hair pulled neatly into a bun, opened the door.

“May I help you?”

“I’m Milton Brown. There’s been an accident. May I use the phone?”

“Of course. My husband’s in the barn. Do you need him? Is anyone hurt?”

“No, ma’am. Only the phone.”

“This way.”

Milton could tell she longed to ask why he was carrying the other man, but her rural politeness prevailed. The kitchen reminded him of his Grandfather and Uncle Doug’s kitchen. A rough finished wooden table surrounded by four upright chairs stood in the middle of the floor. The counter was clean of all debris except several metal canisters labeled sugar, salt, and flour arranged carefully under the window. The woman pointed the way to the phone and withdrew from the kitchen, letting these strange men make a call in private.

“Sit,” Milton said, dropping his burden on the nearest kitchen chair. He dialed the number and listened for several rings until someone who sounded out of breath answered the phone.

“Yeah,”

Yeah, Milton thought incredulously; Gordon must be well out of earshot. “With whom am I speaking?” Milton said formally.

“Todd.”

“Todd, this is Milton.” Even being down the road, Milton knew the young man had straightened his shoulders and smoothed his pants. He swore he heard the boy swallow. Todd was a young and very irresponsible brat and was somewhat terrified of both Milton and Gordon.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“I need a ride. I’m down the road at the first farmhouse. There has been an accident. No one’s hurt,” Milton continued before Todd could go off on a wild tangent. He had a tendency toward that sort of thing. “Get Gordon or Landon.” Before Milton could say more, he heard the receiver clatter down--no chance to finish his instructions. Gordon or Landon would figure it out as long as Todd went straight to either of them. If he became distracted, God only knew how long it would take.

The farmer’s wife returned to the kitchen, carrying two blankets and a heavy knit sweater. “You look chilled to the bone. I’ll just put on the kettle.”

“Please, don’t go to any trouble,” Milton said, taking the sweater and pulling it over Joe’s head before wrapping him in a blanket. He took the second blanket and threw it over his shoulders.

“Should I put the kettle on?”

“No, my ride will be right here. The lodge is only a few minutes away. My friend lives there,” Milton said quickly as he watched her quizzical expression. He knew the rumors that went around town which this woman was too polite to mention. Rumors of wild orgies were whispered at town meetings and at the local diner. They’d always be polite to those weird men, but they were strangers in this close knit community, and odd strangers at that. They also kept the town afloat. Gordon was careful to contract work locally. The stationary came from the local printers and the sofas from the tiny furniture store. Local artisans had built most of the tables and chairs. The Green Mountain Boys kept the town employed, and they and the town’s people had come to a comfortable but not totally trusting relationship.

Milton heard the sharp knock on the door. “This must be your friend,” The farmer’s wife said and hurried toward the door.

Gordon and Landon walked into the kitchen. Gordon with his usual perfect politeness had removed his hat and was expressing his genuine thanks to their temporary hostess. Milton knew that first thing tomorrow, the Green Mountain Boys would deliver handwritten thank you notes and a basket of prepared foods. Gordon knew how to ensure their continued coexistence with the neighbors.

Joe never looked up at the new arrivals, He sat huddled at the table, his eyes firmly fixed on its worn wooden surface. Landon’s gaze swept over Joe before resting on Milton. “Does he need an ambulance?”

“He appears unhurt, just shaken,” Milton said.

“Very well,” Gordon said, taking over for Landon. “Dr Brisbon is staying with us. He can look him over and make the decision if further medical care is needed. Thank you again for your kindness. We’ll be on our way.”

Milton didn’t bother to try to get Joe to stand. He picked up the unresisting bundle and carried him to the car. Blessedly Gordon had left the heat running in the big, European sedan, and the car was steamy warm. Nothing was said during the short trip to the lodge, and Milton repeated the process of carrying the slight figure inside. The lodge’s vaunted efficiency had worked overtime; a fresh bedroom had been prepared right down to a beautiful fire crackling in the grate. Milton set Joe on the bed, and Adam, Dr Brisbon, immediately stepped forward to begin the exam.

“Come on,” Landon said, grabbing Milton’s wrist and towing him from the room. “You’re freezing; you need a hot shower.”

“I’m capable of taking care of myself,” Milton muttered, annoyed. He wasn’t a flake who couldn’t find his way to his own dry clothes. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine, my lad,” Landon said in a perfect reproduction of Gordon’s tone and accent. “Shower and dry clothes. Gordon will have my head if I let you get pneumonia because you’re brooding.” Landon kept a hand on Milton’s back, propelling him toward his room.

“I don’t need an escort.”

“Do you want to continue that with what you really wanted to say? ‘I don’t need an escort; I’m not a brat.’” Landon reached up and casually ruffled Milton’s drenched hair and then kissed the back of his neck. “You’re not a brat. God forbid! A brat wound as tightly as you would need three full time tops, but you’re a top and my friend, and you’re upset. You deserve care like anyone else, and don’t try to tell me you’re not upset. I can read you.”

“Landon, you’re impossible. I’m not upset. I’m cold and wet.”

“I hope you choose more honesty with Gordon unless that’s what you need.”

Milton halted and turned sharply toward Landon.

“Don’t you give me that top glare; I’m immune, and you know exactly what I mean. I won’t tell him, but you will.”

“Sorry,” Milton said softly. Could he screw up any more today? He’d swatted that poor, distressed boy, and now he’d lied to Landon. It hadn’t even been a lie of omission. It had been a boldface lie. “Sorry,” Milton said again.

“Sweetheart,” Landon said in a tone of such deep affection that it was nearly Milton’s undoing. “You’re a top, not an island. It’s not only the brats who get the support and love. What do we have to do to you to make you understand?” Landon swept Milton into a tight hug, not giving him a chance to answer. “You promise me you’ll talk to Gordon later.”

“Yes,” Milton said meekly. “I’ll be a good boy.”

“Good. Now shower and into bed.”

“I’m not six, and I have a paper to write.” Landon swatted Milton hard. It hurt plenty through his drenched running pants. “Hey, you’re a brat. You’re not supposed to do that.”

“I’m a switch, and you know that. Don’t you dare try to brat in front of me. You’re a terrible brat, a disgrace to our whole tribe. Now in the shower.”

The shower felt good. Milton leaned against the wall and let the hot water cascade down his back. He’d been an idiot today; he’d hit that kid. Without permission, it was nothing more than hitting. It wasn’t a gentle swat, not what Landon had done with him. Milton knew the rules, played the game. That kid had known nothing but abuse, and he’d added to it. 

“Don’t drown in there.”

Oh God, Landon was waiting for him. Why couldn’t Milton scare him off with a growl? Sensible brats ran off when he growled. 

Milton shut off the water and pulled the towel off the radiator. It was warm; heated towels were absolute decadence as far as Milton was concerned, an unnecessary softness. Milton dried, taking as long with his hair as he dared, and wrapped himself in the robe.

“Flannel pajamas?” Milton couldn’t decide if he should curse or runaway from the embarrassment. At least they didn’t have any cartoon characters, but they were a horrid check. 

“You were chilled through, and no complaints about not being six.”

“Yes, Landon,” Milton said with a wry grin. When Landon got this way, there was no sense arguing with him. Landon would win; he was too damn good at it.

“Pajamas and bed.” Landon patted the bed. He’d already turned back the quilt. “Don’t dawdle. The hot water bottles are getting chilled.”

“I don’t have consumption,” Milton growled. “I got wet; it’s not life threatening.” 

“It will be if you don’t get yourself in bed.”

Milton let himself be herded into the pajamas and tucked into bed, surrounded by hot water bottles. He even managed not to grimace as Landon brushed back his still damp hair and kissed his forehead.

“My overachieving baby top. I’ll send Gordon in to have a little chat once he’s free. Now you rest.”