Texas, Our Texas 7

Texas, Our Texas

Chapter 7

Milton flipped the page, marking the essay with sweeping red marks. This student had a unique view of European history, unfortunately none of it remotely accurate. It was entertaining fiction, but fiction wasn’t worth a passing grade. Milton tossed the bluebook on the graded stack and pulled out the last one. Sheldon and Samuel had not arrived back at the one o’clock deadline. It was now two and still no sign of the boys, not that Milton was surprised. Sheldon would have calculated how to force Samuel into brat behavior, and this was a relatively benign incident. He didn’t expect Sheldon to press it much longer, beyond an hour to an hour and a half would ratchet this up to a more serious incident. Sheldon wouldn’t mind risking a spanking, but severe lateness had penalties that even Sheldon considered with at least a slight modicum of trepidation and they would terrify Samuel.

Milton had read through the first essay when he heard the faint click and whir of a keycard in the lock. Sheldon charged in the room, dragging an apprehensive Samuel behind him. 

“Sorry, we’re late,” Sheldon said breezily. “The sightseeing took a little longer than we thought.”

“Sit down, boys,” Milton said, nodding toward the sofa. He finished grading the exam, letting the two boys stew. Sheldon assumed an air of excess nonchalance, sprawling across the sofa, his small body taking as much room as possible. Samuel sat stiffly, his back straight, knees together, and his hands clenched in his lap. Milton put the final marks in the last bluebook and added it to the graded stack. “Sit up, Sheldon,” he rapped out. Sheldon made a lazy half effort to straighten his posture, but he still looked like one of Milton’s students sprawled across the broken down dorm furniture. All he needed was a beer in his hand. Milton rose and stood directly in front of his boy, watching Sheldon’s eyes dart toward him in a silent plea. Yes, Milton knew the nonchalance was a pose, an act for the benefit of a terrified Samuel, but Samuel needed to see Sheldon model correct boy in trouble behavior, not pretend disinterest. “Respect, boy.” Milton landed three hard slaps on Sheldon’s thigh. The strength was muted by Sheldon’s pants, but Milton still heard a sharp hiss. Sheldon jerked his legs together and sat up.

“Yes, sir,” Sheldon muttered still with an edge of defiance in his voice that Milton chose to ignore.

“Thank you.” Milton kissed Sheldon’s forehead and watched the surprise flicker across Sheldon’s eyes. Usually for an offense this trivial and this straightforward Milton would merely ask Sheldon for his expected time of arrival, scold him lightly for being late, and take his partner over his knee. It wasn’t a high crime and hardly needed a lengthy discussion or reassurance. They both knew their parts. Milton let his eyes track slowly toward Samuel, hoping Sheldon would catch his concern.

Samuel was white. His eyes darted around the room in the jerky motions of a trapped animal looking for an escape. His breathing was shallow, and Milton could almost imagine he could hear the boy’s heart pounding in his chest, driving blood to the trembling muscles that were straining to eject the boy from the sofa and hurl his body into headlong flight.

“Being late is not a hanging offense,” Milton said lightly. “Sheldon, what happens when you’re late?”

“If it was an unavoidable emergency, nothing.”

“Was this an unavoidable emergency?” Milton asked, knowing full well the answer. Sheldon wouldn’t have gone two steps in the room without telling Milton if they’d been caught in a traffic snarl or a subway malfunction. This was deliberate lateness.

“No.”

“What happens when you choose to be late?”

Milton saw the flush rise on Sheldon’s cheeks. For all Sheldon’s understanding of their relationship and his ease with his identity as a bratty boy, he still stumbled over this simple question and squirmed with embarrassment. “I get spanked,” Sheldon mumbled, ducking his head, his cheeks aflame.

“Yes, you do. Go wait in the corner in the other room while I talk to Samuel.” Milton hated to send an in trouble Sheldon out of the room. Sheldon, despite his experience, was vulnerable at this juncture, but Milton had no choice; Samuel needed his full attention. Milton pulled Sheldon up from the sofa, wrapped his arm around his boy’s hip, and gave a light squeeze. “You’ll be fine. You know how to do this, and you knew what to expect, didn’t you, my boy?”

“Yes,” Sheldon said softly and leaned into Milton’s broad frame. “Hurry.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Milton freed his arm, ruffled Sheldon’s hair, and pushed him toward the other room. He watched until he saw Sheldon settle himself in the corner next to the nightstand. Milton shut the connecting door and turned back toward Samuel. “You look so white you’re scaring me, kid?”

“I deserve to be punished. I was late.”

“You were late. You didn’t steal money from a grandmother or murder your neighbor. What do you think I’m going to do to you?” Milton sat down on the sofa and reached to brush the stray hair off Samuel’s forehead. Samuel flinched, jerking his head back as if he expected to be slapped. “I don’t do that.” Milton dropped his hand to Samuel’s knee and let it rest, a warm comfort he hoped. “Did Jonah slap you?”

“No, never.” Samuel shook his head vigorously, his thick hair draping over his eyes.

“Why did you think I would?”

“I...I didn’t,” Samuel stuttered.

“Samuel, you flinched when I reached for you. Am I that frightening?”

Samuel bit his lip and ducked his head lower. “I was late.”

Milton bit back his sigh of exasperation. “Yes, you were late. What do you think I am going to do to you?”

“You’ll whip me,” Samuel whispered, a tear tracking down his cheek.

“Why would I do that?” Milton asked softly, keeping his hand heavy and reassuring on Samuel’s knee.

“I was late; it’s dangerous to be out in a strange city. I was bad. I deserve to be whipped.”

“You were late,” Milton said slowly, “but that is the only thing I agree with in your statement. For you, New York is a strange city, but you were with Sheldon who knows the city, and it’s broad daylight. I would hardly call that dangerous for two grown men. Secondly, you were not bad. You disobeyed a random deadline I set within the framework of my relationship with my partner as his dominant. We have discussed your place in this household, but I don’t believe we have come to a final conclusion. I requested that you respect my rules, but we have not discussed consequences beyond the lecture you’re getting now. My students tell me I’m amply frightening when I corner them in my office for a chat, but few drive their nails through the palm of their hands.”

Samuel’s fingers flew open, and he pressed his hands hard against his pants as if to make it physically impossible to clench them into fist.

“That wasn’t a rebuke; that was a statement of fact. Turn your hands over and let me see.” Milton traced his finger over Samuel’s palms; they were red, but not bloody. “Good boy. Keep your hands palm up on your thighs.” Milton watched closely as Samuel placed his hands on his thighs. This was a posture of submission, not the equivalent of kneeling, but the start of Samuel letting someone control his body through offered submission. “Good boy,” Milton repeated. Samuel seemed to blink at the praise, surprised at the warmth in the voice, but he didn’t flinch from the term boy, and he’d been with Milton long enough to understand the context. “Where were we?” Milton asked. He knew they had been talking about disobedience, but he wanted to see if Samuel could bring a voice to this discussion.

“Disobedience, sir,” Samuel whispered, a fresh tear, escaping his blue eyes. 

Milton touched his thumb on Samuel’s cheek, inordinately pleased that the boy didn’t spook from his touch. “Did you understand the consequences when you chose to be late?”

Samuel dropped his eyes and licked his lips.

“No, silence doesn’t work with me.” Milton placed his hand under Samuel’s chin and forced the boy to look at him, to hopefully see eyes that were questioning and concerned, not angry.

“Sheldon told me,” Samuel whispered, his throat obviously dry as he swallowed convulsively after he forced the words out. 

“What did he tell you?” Milton asked, not letting go of Samuel’s chin.

“That you’d spank us.”

“Spank, not whip or beat you, and only if you agree. Is that what you want me to do?”

Samuel sat frozen, his expression a silent plea. 

“It’s OK to want to try it.”

“Sheldon said it was a given,” Samuel said in a hoarse whisper.

“He would,” Milton smiled and tousled Samuel’s hair, letting go of his chin. “How hard did he have to work to talk you into it?” 

Samuel shrugged and looked down.

Milton clicked his tongue. “You still have to talk to me. This is the way it works with me. So you wanted to try this and a little acting out seemed easier than asking me?”

Samuel nodded, still not making eye contact, but a flush colored his previously pale face.

“What time did I ask you to come home?” Milton hoped the factual questions would be easier for Samuel. He’d walk the boy through the disobedience, take him over his knee, and hope he’d talk afterward.

 “1:00.”

“What time did you come home?”

“2:10.”

Definitely not an accident, not that Milton had ever thought it was. “You remembered my instructions. Why didn’t you come home on time? Did you get lost, get on the wrong subway train, or fail to find a taxi?”

“No. I saw the note too.” Milton had scrawled a note and set it on the bureau as he’d left for breakfast, a little reminder for Sheldon in case he’d been too sleepy to remember the instructions.

More damning evidence, Milton thought, hiding a smile.  His boy would teach Samuel soon enough not to offer more evidence. “Did my instructions not seem important?”

“You wrote them down.”

In other words you knew that I meant it, kid. “So you were just late.”

“Yes,” Samuel said, grabbing onto Milton’s statement as if it were a life raft.

“You understood my directions and you had no valid reason for ignoring them. You simply disobeyed me. Is that right?”

Samuel nodded, his eyes wide as he looked at Milton from under long pale lashes. This was a beautiful boy: pale cheeks, round eyes shiny with unshed tears, mouth slightly open as he silently panted. Maybe he hadn’t always been a boy or even considered wanting to be a boy, but at this moment he looked every fiber a boy.

“I spank disobedient boys. Are you a disobedient boy?” This was Samuel’s final chance to change his mind; Milton hoped he heard and understood that in the question.

Samuel swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing in his pale neck. “Yes.”

“Come stand on my right. I am going to lower your pants and underwear, put you over my knee, and spank you with my hand for disobedience. Come now.” Milton found a certain briskness settled a frightened and naive boy. This was no longer the time for discussion and negotiations and any hesitation made the process only more frightening. All boys were frightened the first time going over a strange top’s knees, and Samuel had more reason than most to be frightened.

Milton had done this long enough to have a smooth and practiced efficiency. Holding Samuel’s hand, he guided him to his right side and with a matter of fact bluntness unfastened his trousers and pulled them along with his underwear to mid thigh. A quick, sharp tug had Samuel tumbling over Milton’s lap.

“Breathe now. I got you. Hang on to my leg for balance.”

Samuel was frozen over Milton’s thighs, unmoving, too unmoving. Even his chest hardly seemed to rise and fall with his breaths as if he were constricting those muscles in frozen stillness. Milton wrapped his left arm around Samuel’s hip and laid his right palm on the unblemished white flesh. He let his hand rest heavy and solid, hoping to reassure and ground Samuel through the contact. With slow deliberate strokes he rubbed across the white cheeks, trying to shift the boy, settle him into place across his knees. He heard a faint grunt as he pushed harder than was totally comfortable, but still the body was board rigid across his knees.

“We’re not doing this.” Milton lifted Samuel to his feet and drew up his clothes in one swift motion. “I have some lines for you to write.” He gripped Samuel’s arm and guided him to the table, trying not to give the boy time to think. “Two hundred times, I will come back at the prearranged time. Number each one and legible.”

“What did I do? I’ll try harder.”

“No, kiddo. You were terrified. I don’t spank terrified boys. We’ll do it sometime when you know me better. Now do your lines,” Milton said with a calculated sharpness. He didn’t want to answer any questions right now. He had badly miscalculated. Everything pointed to a deliberate provocation to force a spanking, and Samuel had been terrified. Where had he misread him? He still had Sheldon to deal with. Sheldon would have been straining to hear and know something went badly wrong. “Do your lines, boy. It will be OK.” Milton kissed the soft, golden hair.

Sheldon was in the corner, his fingers tapping on the smooth wall. “This isn’t our wall. Don’t peal the paint off, boy.”

Sheldon’s head whipped around to look at Milton. “You didn’t spank him?”

“No, but I’m going to spank you, boy.” Milton sat down on the bed and patted his thigh encouragingly. “Come on, boy.”

“I’m still sore from last night,” Sheldon pleaded even as he started to move slowly toward Milton, his head down and shoulders slumped, the perfect picture of an abject boy.

“Sheldon, you knew exactly what to expect. Don’t even try looking pitiful.”

“It was worth a try.”

“You would try.” Milton snagged Sheldon’s wrist and pulled him closer, reaching for Sheldon’s belt buckle. Sheldon would undress himself at a snail’s pace. Milton pulled Sheldon’s pants and boxers down with a sharp tug.

“Ug again,” Sheldon grumbled even as he arranged himself on Milton’s lap. “I am still sore,” he moaned as Milton’s hand snaked around his waist, anchoring him in that familiar spot.

“You don’t look red.” Milton rested his hand on the exposed butt, watching with a faint smile as Sheldon squirmed under his hand, that beautiful butt flexing in anticipation.

“It feels red. Are you sure you’re not color blind?”

“Brat.” Milton landed a slap on Sheldon’s thigh and was rewarded with a sharp yip and a reflexive twisting. “I can do it there. I know that territory is quite unblemished.”

“Don’t you dare. It wasn’t a major crime,” Sheldon said, now squirming in earnest, trying to pull his thighs out of the firing line.

“Who decides on punishment in this family?” Milton asked as his hand landed sharply on the back of the other thigh.

“You do.” Sheldon sighed and went limp over Milton’s lap.

“My perfect boy. So trusting.” Milton’s hand landed on the rounded cheek. He spanked the standard pattern: high, middle, and then low before switching sides. It wasn’t a hard spanking by any means, but Sheldon was quietly crying, and the skin was a petty shade of red before Milton stopped. “What was that for?”Milton asked as he caressed Sheldon’s back.

“For coming home late when you asked us not to.” Sheldon wiggled, trying to turn himself upright.

“Not yet, boy. I want to know whose idea this was, and Samuel’s none too communicative.”

“No fair,” Sheldon whined. Milton could still hear the tears, but also the hint of humor and resignation. “I’m the good boy and I get interrogated.”

“That’s right, brat.” Milton landed an affectionate swat just out of range of the reddest area. He didn’t want to hurt Sheldon; he wanted to tease. This was his boy, his perfect boy, teasing and griping while still vulnerable over his top’s knees.

“Samuel asked me about last night.”

“He asked?” Milton didn’t hide the surprise in his voice. Samuel never asked about anything. He walked around the house, silently avoiding everyone. He might talk to Luke a little bit. Samuel enjoyed painting, soft sweet scenes of rivers and trees in the sunlight, families picnicking on the bank, a dog chasing a ball. 

“You know Samuel.”

“You brought it up and poor Samuel tried to fade into the sidewalk.”

“No, he hinted. He never says anything directly. You have to figure it out through the dropped words and silences. I didn’t lead him on. I get that he’s afraid.”

“I’m not angry.” Milton rubbed the small of Sheldon’s back, waiting for his boy to relax under his hand. “Samuel can’t avoid it forever. He has to make a decision.”

“You didn’t spank him. I would have heard.”

“He was terrified. I couldn’t do it.”

“You should have.”

Milton paused at the firmness of Sheldon’s words. There was no hesitation, no quibble, just a flat statement. “Why?”

“He needs to know, and he’s not going to know until you do it. If it’s out there looming on the horizon, it becomes this beast of mythical proportions. And you’re the best at it. He’ll feel safe with you. I should know; it’s not like I don’t get a lot of practice.”

“You are an impossible brat,” Milton said fondly.

“This impossible brat would like to get up now.”

“I don’t know.” Milton chuckled and stroked the red skin in front of him. “It’s an awfully nice view.”

“Milton!”

“Up, boy.” Milton landed a hard swat before releasing Sheldon and drawing him to his feet.

“Ow! That wasn’t fair!” Sheldon rubbed his butt as he jerked his pants up.

“All’s fair when you’re in that position.” Milton hooked an arm around Sheldon’s neck, pulled him close, and kissed the pouting mouth. “Behave, boy. I need to go check on Samuel and his lines.”

“It’s much more fun in here.”

“And I have responsibilities, and you’re much too cheeky. I think a few lines will do you some good also.”

Sheldon groaned, “I hate lines.”

“I know, but they’re good for you sometimes, and it will keep you out of trouble for a few hours.”

“A few hours! How many thousands are you going to make me do?”

“Have I ever made you do thousands, boy?” Milton teased.

“It seems like it,” Sheldon groused, but he was unsuccessfully hiding a smile. “I’m so abused, worked to the bone, spanked till I’m blistered--”

“And the other boys are as jealous as hell,” Milton said, interrupting Sheldon’s tirade.

“Yep,” Sheldon said with a wide grin. 

“Boy.” Milton tousled Sheldon’s hair and headed into the other room, Sheldon firmly in tow.

Samuel was seated at the table, a page full of lines in his neat script in front of him. He raised his eyes as they entered, but kept his head down. 

“He didn’t kill me,” Sheldon said, throwing himself down in the other chair. “Shit!” He popped back up and rubbed the seat of his pants. “Don’t sit on a freshly spanked butt. I should know better. It’s not like I haven’t done this before.”

“Can you try to behave for five minutes,” Milton said with enough of a smile that he knew Sheldon would know immediately he was teasing, and he hoped Samuel would pick up on the lightness of the exchange. Samuel was much too pale and much too still. He looked like a wax figure, not a live, breathing, and hopefully lively boy.

“Two minutes is my limit.”

“Sit, boy.” Milton pointed at the chair. Milton rifled through the table drawer, looking for something for Sheldon to copy. He didn’t think the Bible was an appropriate choice, and he momentarily wondered if The Gideons had any real idea about what went on in this establishment. They would probably never grace the door again. Milton could use the phonebook, but even he wasn’t usually that cruel. Copying names out of the phonebook would be agonizing, and it wasn’t that he was irritated with Sheldon. He just wanted some quiet and a chance for Samuel to hopefully find the confidence to talk to him. The Forest handbook--that would be perfect. He flipped through to a relatively innocent page on mealtime and proper attire and set in on the table. “Copy this.”

Sheldon scanned the page. “Did you miss lunch waiting on us? This is all about the food service. After 6:00 gentlemen must wear a jacket and tie,” Sheldon parroted. “Leather is not appropriate in the dining area, and the boy, as per New York Health Department regulations, must wear a shirt. Exciting.”

“Would you prefer the phonebook?”

“God no! Don’t threaten me with the phonebook. I’ll be good.” Sheldon slid into the seat, careful to drop softly on his tenderized rear end. “At least he didn’t get out the wooden chairs. Lines on those are slow torture after a spanking.”

“Can you be quiet,” Samuel snapped, looking up from his lines. “Do you and your crazy brother ever shut-up? You two are insane. All of you are insane. He whips your ass, and you like it. I’m not doing these stupid lines! I’m not a child!” Samuel flew up from the chair, and with a flurry snatched up his papers and tore them into tiny shreds, hurling the confetti at Milton.

“Shit! What got up your ass?” Sheldon muttered, watching Samuel with excited eyes. “Even I don’t throw bits of paper at Milton. He tends to get mad.”

“Sheldon go in the other room,” Milton said in a soft, demanding tone that he knew would be obeyed. “Take the lines with you.”

Sheldon stood up.

“No, stay here. I’m leaving. I’m not playing these games anymore.”

“Sheldon, other room. Samuel, sit down.”

“No. I’m going.”

“Young man, sit down,” Milton said, his voice still quiet, but it was an unmistakable order. “You’re going nowhere while I’m responsible for you until you calm down. Sheldon, out,” Milton ordered, not taking his eyes from Samuel. From wax mannequin to spitting mad, Samuel had skipped a few steps, but this at least was something that Milton could work with once he had calm and wasn’t tripping over his own boy. He knew Sheldon was curious, and Milton didn’t begrudge him the curiosity, but Samuel needed at least the illusion of privacy. Sheldon would be able to hear plenty through the walls.

Milton heard the door shut as Samuel moved toward him, the stack of Milton’s graded exams clutched in his hand.

“You scatter those, you will be sorting them, boy.”

“Fuck off! I’m not your boy. I don’t want to do this.”

“Sit down and tell me what you do want to do.” Milton kept his voice level; he might still diffuse this, even though he wasn’t sure if that was the best strategy. Samuel had clearly been holding everything back for weeks. Maybe Milton should encourage him to blow like a volcano.

“What I want doesn’t matter. It never has.” Samuel hurled the bluebooks at Milton. They floated through the air, coming to rest harmlessly on the carpet. Samuel reached for Milton’s laptop and Milton moved.

“No.” The word was short, sharp, and of startling ferocity. Samuel froze and Milton caught the young Texan’s wrist and with a sharp tug pulled the boy against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around the struggling body.

“Get off me!” Samuel kicked at Milton’s legs. “I don’t want to do this.”

Milton steered them both toward the sofa, and with the experience of a long time top he sat down and pulled Samuel over his knee trapping the boy’s flailing legs and pinning his arm on his back. “Settle down,” Milton growled.

“Let me up. You fucker, let me up!”

“So you can throw more things. I don’t think so, little boy. You just sit tight until you’re a little calmer.” 

The flurry of abuse that Samuel shouted at Milton was surprising for its intensity and for the ugliness of its language. He called Milton every possible foul thing that could be hurled at a gay man, and some that Milton was even sure he’d never heard. As suddenly as the shouting had started, it burnt out, and Samuel lay frozen over Milton’s knees, only his chest heaving as he tried to regain his breath.

“Are you done?” Milton asked, sliding his hand under Samuel’s shirt and rubbing the skin beneath.

“Yes, sir.”

“I made a mistake letting you up earlier without a spanking. We’re going to rectify that now. Lift your hips, so I can pull down your pants.”

Samuel complied docilely and silently, only the occasional shiver showed how difficult this was for him. He grabbed for the sofa cushion, burying his head in his arms. Milton’s palm landed smartly on the upturned flesh. This wasn’t his lover or even a well loved housemate, more a half invisible ghost hiding in the walls. The spanking would be workmanlike and sharp enough to sting for a few hours, but Samuel in many ways was a stranger, not a man Milton could touch sexually and not even a man that Milton thought would accept platonic affection.

Samuel’s butt was an even red when Milton stopped and lifted the Texan to his feet, pulling his underwear and pants up before he could become more embarrassed. Samuel wasn’t in tears, but Milton could hear the hitched breath of a man trying to swallow back sobs.

“You’re very safe here.” Milton pulled Samuel down against him, tucking the boy onto his hip with a substantial portion of his weight against Milton’s chest. “Don’t struggle, or I’ll put you back over my knee.” It was a threat that Milton hoped he truly wouldn’t have to carry out. This boy needed cuddling far more than spanking.

Samuel stopped trying to pull away, but he didn’t relax against Milton either. After a few minutes of strained silence where Milton listened to the hum of the heating system and the gurgle of the pipes, Samuel slumped against him as if a balloon had been pricked and the air let out.

“I’m sorry,” Samuel murmured, his blond hair fanned out against Milton’s chest. “I don’t like this.”

At least it wasn’t the verb hate or studded with horrible profanities, words that Milton feared both Samuel and Jonah had heard turned against them in far less safe settings than a hotel room in the finest erotic private club in New York. 

“If you throw things at me or curse me, I will spank you every time. That is not negotiable. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir, and I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.” Milton raked his fingers through the blond hair that was now touching the back of Samuel’s collar and not in the severe almost military cut with which he’d arrived. “I don’t think throwing things and cursing is usually a problem for you, but it is a guaranteed way to get a spanking, and I’m OK with that. I’m not angry about it. Only don’t throw breakable items. I will be angry then.”

“I made a mess.”

“You did, and you will be cleaning it up. There’s no harm in that.” Milton rubbed the tense neck and shoulders and bent down and kissed that tempting fair hair. “Did it help?”

“I don’t know.” Samuel looked up at Milton, his eyes searching and with more life in them than Milton had ever seen except for the furtive glances at Jonah last night. “Sheldon likes this.”

“Very much. Not your thing, kid, huh?” Milton asked, intentionally keeping the question as informal as possible. He’d spanked Samuel; he’d felt his body language and now had  a far stronger feel for where this boy lay on the emotional scale of submissive to dominant, but now it was Samuel’s turn to find his voice.

“I’m not crazy about doing it again,” Samuel said with an almost invisible smile.

“Fair enough. I think you’re smart enough to avoid this fate if you don’t want it, but it’s OK to want it.”

“I don’t like it.”

There was that phrase again, but still no elaboration. “You don’t have to do any of this. We won’t throw you out on the street because you’re not one of us.”

“Jonah...” 

“Do you love Jonah?”

“Of course,” Samuel answered promptly, maybe too promptly.

“This isn’t Texas; there are many men to choose from.”

“No.” Samuel said, trying to pull from Milton’s grasp. “You’re not taking him away from me.”

“Not if you want to be together,” Milton said soothingly.

“It wasn’t always like what you saw. It was different in Texas. We had a lot of good times together.”

“Tell me about it.” 

“We used to go walking on the paths by the river. We couldn’t hold hands, but we could be close enough our shoulders touched. We’d rent a movie and sit at home on the sofa and, well...”

“You’d neck like teenagers,” Milton said with a laugh.

“Yeah.” Samuel blushed, the color slowly climbing up his neck to his cheeks. “We’d have a quiet dinner with a linen tablecloth and a candle flickering in an old wine bottle. It’s not like here; we couldn’t go out.”

“I know,” Milton said gently and brushed the scattered and tangled hair off Samuel’s forehead. “Because of a line drawn on a map, you were forced to live in hell. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t make me this way.”

“What is this way?” Milton tucked Samuel against his chest, hiding the beautiful and anguished face against his shirt. Come on, kid, talk, he thought. Samuel had to have been told all this was wrong. In Jonah, the oceans of hate and disgust had turned inward. He attacked himself and his partner. It had made him create tall barriers around himself and Samuel. Barriers that might have protected them from the outside, but let the demon from inside nearly destroy them.

“I’m a fucking queer,” Samuel spat.

“You’re a gay man. Listen to me,” Milton said directly into Samuel’s ear. “You’re a gay man. You’re not broken, perverted, a devil loving criminal, nor a pedophile waiting for a victim. You are a man who is gay. I’m gay; Sheldon’s gay; Blade is an insane bisexual, and the guy in the blue house across the street from us is straight. None of us is broken.”

“I had to leave my family, my home, my country.”

Milton felt the sobs before he heard them, choked gulps and shaking shoulders. “Cry, kid. You need to. Mourn for all you left behind, and then we’ll build something better here.”