When all was said and done, things had to be normal again. Even the most bizarre, freakish events, if one survived them, passed into a "This is Your Life!" type of hinterland. You might even have saved the world, or helped to save it, but everything became a matter of record. What the records didn't tell you was that even the hero reached a point where the narrative became mundane, when they found themselves driving their children to school, changing fuses and mowing the lawn, going to the office every damn morning, seeing the same faces, the same walls, the same desk. Even a person who had accomplished the extraordinary eventually succumbed to an ordinary life.

Zeke Tyler had helped save the world once. He was modest enough to say it hadn't all been him, not by a long shot, but in his heart he knew he'd been pretty fucking instrumental. He and Casey Connor, the little geek that could. Only three years ago it had been and after...he had ridden that particular wave to its final crash and crumble on the shores of normalcy. Seduced by acceptance, he had joined the football team and finished high school, given up his illicit business enterprises for a gig that was respectable.

It was Casey who stayed "alien". Casey had been the last one left, the saviour, so it was fitting that he receive the national attention, the magazine covers...and with them the infamy as years passed and the world at large grew skeptical. Heck, it hadn't even taken a month. No one in Herrington ever spoke of it anymore, embarrassed by their once most famous son but not willing to let him be normal either.

Zeke wasn't infamous. The town had, in some typically human gesture of repressed discomfort disguised as generosity, purchased his silence by offering the sinecures of High School Valedictorian and Football Hero. He had a very clear memory of graduation day as he stood up to make his address, looking down and finding Casey's face in the crowd. Feeling apologetic. Casey, buddy, I really am sorry, it should be you up here because there's no doubt you're smart enough, graduating early and all, it's just look at me up here — graduating late and all — the golden all-American boy. They never did get to speak that day. Casey had gone off to college right after, seventeen years old and on his way. Studying physics or some such.

That was two years ago. Now he heard that Casey was on the Dean's list for a second year and was supposed to go on to graduate school and it fell upon him like a piano on a cartoon cat: I'm wasting my life here.

Sure he had intended to go to college but he had been riding high after graduation and had thought, what's the rush? He didn't need any fucking school to tell him he was smart. He borrowed money from his father and opened a sporting goods store. His idea was simple: Make lots of money first then use it to do whatever he wanted. And the store took off, and running it was at first a compelling challenge, and buying his own house was an opportunity to stick it to mom and dad. And then there was Delilah.

His soon-to-be wife.

The phone called him to attention. He leapt from his reverie, glancing uneasily out the window of his office, as though he weren't the boss and should actually fear being caught fucking the dog. He let it ring four times.

"Zeke Tyler."

"Zeke...it's me."

"Hmm."

"Don't forget, we're meeting at the church later."

"Tell me again why I have to do this."

"It's like an interview, sweetie. No big deal."

He hated the way Delilah said "sweetie".

"Why do we have to do it in a church?"

"Zeke. We're been over this."

"Fuck your relatives."

"Oh, you are in a mood, aren't you? I promise to make it up to you."

"How about a blowjob?"

There was a long silence while ice grew on the handset and began to crawl up his wrist to coat his hand. "You know, Zeke, I'm getting pretty sick of this, I'm busting my ass to get things done and all you can do is gripe and moan, and be unpleasant—"

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I said, I'm sorry." His floor manager, a stockily built ex-soccer player, pushed her head into the office and gestured at the phone...are you done?

"Look, I have to go. We'll talk later."

"You'll be there?"

"Yes. 6:00 sharp, right?"

"6:30. Oh, and Zeke, I was meaning to tell you. Casey is in town. Staying at his folks'."

"Really."

"I thought you might give a damn, since you haven't seen him in two years."

"What about you? Don't you give a damn?"

"Oh, Zeke. That was ages ago and we were only together a couple of months. Long enough for me to remember he's the biggest geek that ever lived."

"Jesus, Del."

"Well, he is. I say that with great affection of course." Delilah made a kissing noise. "Bye, sweetie."

Zeke put down the phone thoughtfully. Chances were Casey was home for a brief visit, not the whole summer. Casey had come home for a few days last Christmas but he was not comfortable in his home town and had given the impression of being in a desperate hurry to get back to his new life. He had alluded to someone waiting for him, someone he missed. He barely had time to talk with his old friends and comrades-in-arms. And he had been different. He had flouted the Universal Laws of Science Geeks and taken to dressing like an English lit major, favouring long black coats, South American knitted scarves and Doc Martens. His hair was longer and completely fashionable. Zeke could not evict the image from his head. In other times and places they would have said Casey "flowered". Zeke could easily picture him, ambiguously sleek, laughing and trading intellectual barbs with his fellow students in a coffee shop, his ever-present camera dangling from his neck, black and white photos pressed into textbooks crammed in the back pack under his feet. He was stunning.

The realization had shocked through Zeke that day five months ago, but he went with it, unresisting. He was not easily frightened, so it did him no harm to notice that Casey was beautiful like a piece of art. Zeke couldn't figure out when it had happened though. Must have had something to do with that whole "flowering" thing. Zeke even remarked upon it to Delilah at home that night. She had given him one of her most contemptuous stares and replied, "Well, he was shit in the sack."

"Del..."

"What? It's the truth."

"You could be a little bit kind."

"I'm not saying it in public or anything...just to you."

"Yeah, but it scares me to think what you might say about me if we ever broke up."

"Hah!" Delilah tossed her head of dark, thick hair. For the first-not last time he pictured his hands there where the ends of her hair brushed her neck. Squeezing. "Never happen, lover."

The memory roused quick defiance. Zeke left the store in his office manager's capable hands and took himself to his car. He was loyal to the classics — the '67 mustang had been an indulgence but one for which he felt no remorse. He leaned up against the driver's side door, lit a cigarette, and dialled Casey's parents' number from memory.

"Hello?"

It was Casey's mother. Odd, he had thought she worked during the day. "Oh, Mrs. Connor. It's Zeke."

"Zeke...oh, yes, Zeke, of course! Goodness, it's been a long time."

"Yes, it certainly has. So, I heard that Casey was in town."

He could smell the tension creeping through their conversation. "Um...yes, he is."

"I would love to see him. Is he staying with you?"

"Yes, Zeke. In fact, he's here right now but he's sleeping."

Zeke glanced at his watch. 11:37 a.m. "Students, huh. Semi-nocturnal."

"Ummm..."

He remembered Casey saying, before they even graduated from high school but after they had become friends, that his mother was — how had he put it? — limited by nature and training. Which was to say that she meant well — and Zeke respected that. He did not go for the kill. He could have pushed, demanded to know what was up with that small, tired sound.

"Well, could you let him know I called and ask him to call me back? My cell number is 555-2701."

"Sure, Zeke."

He hung up and stood there for a while, smoking and thinking. What was to stop him from just fucking off, doing something different? No action had been taken yet that was irreversible. No major dollars had been spent. Sure Delilah had already bought her dress but she would find someplace to wear it. Nobody would be terribly inconvenienced. Fuck, it could be so easy, so painless...

It would be so easy, so painless. Just swallow. And swallow, and drift.

Problem was, he didn't have the goods. Sure, there might be treasure in the bathroom medicine cabinet, guarded less than securely by his mother. He knew that she had been medicated for a stretch not too long ago, and she always had a supply of sleeping pills on hand. The thing was, he'd set out towards the bathroom once already. He'd made it halfway down the hall and turned back.

"Casey?"

He hadn't expected to see his father. Since he was home his father had barely spoken to him. He noted with disinterest the cool yellow gleam through his window stroking the glossy of Pamela Sue Anderson plastered to the wall above the computer desk. It was just a howl, really, that his parents had preserved all this...detritus. Like they expected him to come back and claim Pamela, take her to a better place...a land where boys only loved girls and sons knew how to maintain a Stiff...Upper Lip.

"Casey!"

His father's voice was angry. That was nothing new. He was used to hearing Dad curse and swear, at the neighbours, at his mother, the television set. Not at him most of the time because even if the only person who truly infuriated Frank Connor was his son, Frank Connor was not going to beat his only child into the ground.

"Casey, I am losing my patience. Now you get out of this bed and take a shower and put on some clean clothes!"

"Frank," his mother admonished. So she was there, too — yes, standing behind his father.

"No, Allison. Enough is enough. Yeah, I get it — big tragic break-up. For Christ's sake—"

Be a man, Casey. His father didn't need to say it aloud for Casey to hear it. Men don't enter a coma because a relationship ends, even if the relationship is with another man. Stop being such a fucking fairy—

Casey closed his eyes. "But I am, Dad."

"What?" His father was taken aback. Fair enough. After all, Casey hadn't spoken for several days.

"A fucking fairy."

His mother gasped. "You are not!" That didn't scan, to say the least. Was she protesting the term or his gayness? Because she'd had months to get used to the fact that her son was into guys.

"Casey," his father said in the I've-given-this-some-thought-now-heed-my-wisdom tone, vaguely familiar from sporadic paternal chats-usually delivered from the sovereignty of the easy chair every other major holiday after the better part of a case of beer and a surfeit of sports. "Has it crossed your mind that the reason you're so....so down...is that you know you were doing something — not right —and then it didn't work out?"

Casey had to open his eyes, to verify that it was indeed Frank Connor's head that performed this psychological convolution. He laughed. He hadn't thought it was possible. Even this short bark shocked him when he heard it because in his head he knew it had come from him yet it felt like it came from some other place not of him. He couldn't remember when this sensation that parts of him were fading or not quite in the room had started, but it was his everyday now.

His father shifted his weight and was evidently uncomfortable. But then he had always been uncomfortable with Casey, and Casey, for some obscure reason, wanted to apologize to him. Not so much for trading to the wrong team, but for never being the right sort of chap and for never being receptive to what affection the man did have to offer: the macho back slaps and casual offers to watch the game that were always rebuffed.

His mother begged, "Casey, please come down to dinner. I made your favourites. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes..."

He felt bad for his mother too. Yeah, he was depressed which meant he was self-centred and fixated on the negative, but he was still able to notice these things. He saw her worry and her need to somehow help even though understanding him was a place impossibly removed from where Allison Connor lived and breathed. A six-year-old who fell down and skinned his knee she could comprehend. A sixteen-year-old who came home busted and bloody and told her he fell down she could pretend to understand. A boy who came home and said Mom, today I saved the world from aliens...that was getting a bit too hard — and when that same boy came home at eighteen and said, mom, I've fallen in love with this man and I'm going to spend my life with him and then a few months later showed up at her door after the same man was finished grinding his heart up into a hash...

She would make meatloaf then. That boy always loved meatloaf.

Appreciating the gesture, he whispered, "I'll come down...just...give me fifteen minutes."

After they were gone though, he knew it had been his ploy to get them to leave him alone. The silence and darkness of his room as the light turned to twilight was enticing. To move, to breathe even seemed to hurt and he couldn't understand how to want to sit up. He struggled to get upright, to put his feet on the floor, and that took everything from him.

He was sitting there, feet on the floor and crying when Zeke came to the door a half hour later. "I can't..."

Not a minute into the interview Zeke's mind took possession of two words.

I can't.

In fact, it happened the moment he arrived at the church. Delilah had been furiously pacing the sidewalk in front of the building, her heels clicking smartly with each step. He'd looked at that face — lovely, cold — and it was then that the words rose up in his throat. He had actually attempted to push them down for the next ten minutes, nodding at the pauses in Delilah's diatribe but all the while thinking that he had gotten caught up in the idea that he could be a hero and that was where it all got fucked up.

"So," began the Reverend Foley. "Tell me, Zeke...what do you understand marriage to be all about?"

Some gleeful maniac inside him was giggling and rubbing its hands together. He looked directly at the man of God and said, "To the best of my knowledge...misery."

Delilah didn't have time to make a sound just yet.

"I-I'm not sure I understand," the Reverend gulped.

The maniac went on, "I mean, it's about fucking pain and suffering. Every day jumping when she hollers, resisting the desire to strangle her so I don't have to hear that voice."

"Jesus Christ!" Delilah hissed. "If you think I'm marrying you now—"

"No," he confirmed. "I don't."

One thing he had always liked particularly about Delilah Profitt was her determination, her absolute refusal to be a victim. She did not disappoint this time either. A moment later she was on her feet, yelling, "You unbelievable prick!"

"Yeah, I am," he agreed calmly. "Better we get that out in the open now, before things progress any further, wouldn't you agree?" He got to his feet, faced her. "I'm leaving."

"You're damned right you are!"

He was walking out then. Silence followed. He had accomplished his freedom — the irresistible wish rising, intention forming and action being taken inside fifteen minutes. Easy.

Halfway home to start packing he thought fuck it. He would go see Casey. He needed to talk to someone else who had escaped. Casey Connor...role model. Maybe just. He laughed to himself, feeling almost euphoric. He was Jerry-fucking-McGuire.

Pulling up to the Connor home, he was struck by its plain, all-American wholesomeness. Two storied structure, white siding, tidy little lawn punctuated by squat shrubs of trees. Who could have guessed that the saviour of mankind was within — 'cuz we did save the effing planet didn't we, Casey? A bunch of wankers and malcontents saved the planet, saved a few billion more wankers and malcontents. Not that he wanted anything like that to ever happen again. He just wanted a little bit of the out of the ordinary, the sense of everything being special that had followed him around for months afterwards.

He rang the doorbell and whistled some tune whose lyrics he didn't know as he waited for an answer.

The door opened and he was looking at Mrs. Connor and she was looking at him with absolute dismay. "Zeke."

"Hello, Mrs. Connor. I hope you don't mind...I thought I would drop by and say hi to Casey."

"Oh, well...we were just about to eat dinner."

"Really?" Zeke suddenly realized that he was starving.

"Are...are you hungry?"

"Allison!" came the voice of Mr. Connor. Then the man himself was standing there in the doorway. Zeke had never liked him. He was much like the dumb, petty bullies that had tormented his own son for years, and the father had joined their ranks himself by letting it continue.Zeke couldn't imagine that the parents hadn't known, or at least guessed. And they had done nothing — but then neither had he.

"Casey isn't feeling well," Mrs. Connor said anxiously.

They couldn't have been more blatant about their discomfort if they were waving it about on placards. Zeke stared at those two ridiculous, caught faces, and decided he was in no mood to play nice. Three years of it was enough.

"Well, maybe I'll just go on up and say hi. Cheer him up." He brushed past them easily.

"Wait!" called Mrs. Connor. "Zeke, wait."

He stopped with his foot on the stair, for she sounded sincerely miserable.

The woman got close to him, speaking almost in a whisper. "Casey's...been really upset since he came home. Something happened to—"

Mr. Connor made a warning sound, a noise behind his teeth.

"...something happened at school," finished Casey's mom. "Since he got home...well, he hardly leaves his room. He said he would come down for supper but he hasn't and — maybe it would help, if you talked to him, Zeke. He's always liked you."

"Glad to hear it, Mrs. C."

Zeke took the stairs two at a time.

He didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't to find Casey sitting with feet on the floor, head dangling down between thin shoulder blades; at Zeke's entrance he looked up slowly and he was crying, just leaking from the eyes but not sobbing or making any other sounds.

"I can't," said Casey.

Zeke was a guy after all. He wasn't accustomed to this sort of melodrama from his male acquaintances, although it was a stretch to associate Casey with the category male. Oh, he gave evidence of being male and was by no means a girl either...yet he was in some essential part of him neither and both. Zeke was willing to bet that in better times Casey could have cried this much and still looked good, but today was not that day. The kid's hair was greasy and matted and it appeared the rest of him was not much cleaner. The normally ivory-pale skin had adopted a palette that included shades of chalky and waxen. A guy just didn't know how to speak to that. "Can't what?" Zeke heard himself say.

Casey blinked. Tears that had been trapped in outrageously thick lashes broke away and rained down his face. "Zeke..."

Well, the situation might be new, but he could deal. Zeke closed the door and came as close as he dared, taking a seat at Casey's old computer desk chair.

"What's going on here, buddy?" he asked, sounding very sensible, and, he thought, reasonably compassionate.

Casey leaked some more. He didn't really look at Zeke. He didn't really look at anything. He seemed quite broken, even physically, folded awkwardly, a snapped twig. "Casey? Are you going to talk to me? Your parents seemed to think I have the power to crack the code, but I have to admit, I'm having some doubts here, pal."

Nothing.

"Hey, c'mon. Casey, what could be so bad to get to the only resident planetary alien ass-kicker?"

Nothing.

Zeke let out a long sigh. There really was only one thing to be done. He understood these things even if he didn't like to.

He moved, slowly and carefully, to sit right next to Casey. It wasn't easy; that close, the aroma was fairly pungent. Zeke decided to not notice it. Taking his time, he put one arm around Casey's shoulders. Then he moved the other around the front to loosely embrace the hunched body, and gradually, slowly, pulled Casey in against his chest.

For long moments they remained that way, Zeke holding Casey and Casey not moving. Then suddenly there was a noise and Casey was sobbing, his hands moving, creeping up between them. Right about then Zeke had the insight that things had just changed between them. He knew it when Casey clung to him, his fingers pressing through flesh to bone, raising bruises, actually hurting him with those tiny little sticks of fingers while he soaked Zeke's shirt with saline.

It seemed like it must have been at least half an hour that they were there. Probably it was less. Eventually Zeke realized that Casey was not going to move of his own accord and began to pull back. Casey's hands twitched, about to impress a new layer of sore spots on Zeke's ribs, but then stilled. He moved away quietly, eyes downcast.

Zeke said, "How about a shower?" Casey's eyes snapped up and Zeke realized with a squirm of discomfort what he had said and how it sounded. "Ah...for you, I mean. No offense, buddy, but you're ripe. You'll feel better if you're clean..." Zeke heard his own voice and mentally smacked himself for being such a guy — but hell, what did you do when some skinny little geek you knew from school inexplicably became this fey creature of ambiguous gender and then transmuted to a fountain in your arms? You said something stupid and testosterone-laden: "...and maybe something to eat?"

Casey just looked at him, seeing through his bravado and apparently forgiving him. At long last he breathed, almost inaudibly, "Okay."

He just got up and walked out the door without another word. A minute later Zeke heard the shower running in the bathroom just down the hall. He went back downstairs then, not wanting to be in the room when Casey got back...not because it would make him uncomfortable or anything, just to give Casey his privacy.

Zeke found Casey's parents at the dinner table, almost done their own meal. There were the remains of a meatloaf, and mashed potatoes and peas, all so normal, so hopeful that it hurt. The Connors sat at opposite ends of the small, four-person table. Two more plates were set out.

Zeke announced, "He's coming down, I think."

"Oh!" Casey's mother gasped. "Thank you, Zeke...thank you. Please...sit, have something to eat."

Zeke sat, noting the cold face on Casey's father. Yeah, try to guess what your son did with me up there and worry, you fuck. Zeke took a large helping of everything.

They were just starting to find the length of silence worrisome when there was a creaking and a shuffling and Casey appeared at the doorway, peering in, pressing his face against the wall. His hair was damp, his face just a little bit dewy from his shower. With the desperate pallor and haunted expression he was Chaplin, posed in black and white.

"Sit down, Casey, please," said the boy's mother.

Mr. Connor merely looked disgusted, and set about polishing off his mashed potatoes.

Casey took the fourth chair. He was wearing a clean t-shirt and sweats, and his shoulders were resolutely slumped. He made no move to put anything on his plate.

"Would you like some potatoes?" his mom asked in a small sort of voice. Casey nodded, she grabbed the dish herself and got up, standing beside the boy, and scooped out an enormous wad of them. The very size of it was a howl of worry, of unfulfilled need to help. "More?" she asked hopefully.

Casey shook his head.

"What about some peas..."

"For Christ's sake, Allison!" bellowed the father, slamming a hand down with enough force to rattle the dishes. Both mother and son jumped.

Zeke did the only thing he could short of busting the man's face. He offered the platter of meatloaf to Casey's mom. "Here, Mrs. C. Make sure he gets some of this. He's looking even more anemic than he did in high school."

The woman smiled gratefully and went about what she had been doing, heaping food on her son's plate, even though he had been old enough to serve himself for some years now.

Mr. Connor glared at Zeke and he glared back, hoping he was getting across the particular message he wanted to convey which was that he had no scruples about taking a past-his-prime blowhard into his own backyard and beating the snot out of him.

Now they were all settled, with food on their plates. There was nothing to do but eat, so Zeke forced himself to the task, his hunger having been rather stunted by adrenalin. He kept a surreptitious eye on Casey as well, noting with satisfaction that Casey was eating, not with enthusiasm but there was at least some nourishment getting into that skinny frame. Zeke was a lot smarter and well-informed than he chose to act a lot of the time, and he was quite knowledgeable about the symptoms of depression — hell, his mother had practically trained him as a psychiatric field medic. He saw enough to tell him that Casey was in trouble...just how much trouble he couldn't assess.

"So, Zeke," said Casey's mom brightly. "I guess congratulations are in order. I hear you and Delilah are getting married."

Casey stopped in the process of raising his fork to his mouth. The fork trembled a little, but he managed to regain his composure and the fork resumed its journey.

"Ah...well, yes, we were..." Zeke began.

His cell-phone, as though on cue, trilled for his attention. That would be Delilah calling to offer him another chance. He smiled at his hosts and turned the phone off.

"Are you sure you don't want to take that?" asked Mrs. Connor. "It's okay—"

"No, it's not important." Zeke found Casey's eyes across the table — no great distance and no hardship either. "So, Case. I guess you're off for the summer, huh? Any plans?"

This question was an inadvertent disaster.

"He was supposed to get a job, earn some money this summer," complained Frank Connor. "But too late now that the summer's half over."

"Casey was on the Dean's list again," his mom said quickly, with genuine pride.

"I heard that." Zeke turned away from Casey to his mother, and smiled with all the charm he knew he was capable of, when he needed it. "Seems there's some kind of underground information railroad here. We all know what each other is up to — what good news everyone is getting," he amended quickly. "So how did you find out about Delilah and me?"

"Celia Profitt and I...at a cooking class we both take."

Ah, Delilah's mother was the leak, not that any of this stuff was a state secret.

"I guess you only have one year to go, huh? Are you going to go to grad school?" Zeke said to Casey.

Casey spoke for the first time since coming downstairs. "I...guess."

"I'm thinking about applying to college myself," Zeke said. "In fact, I could use your advice."

Was it possible for those eyes to get bigger?

"If you're not busy tomorrow," Zeke went on. "Maybe you and I could hang out. I'm looking for an apartment — you could be my second opinion."

"Oh!" exclaimed Allison Connor. "You and Delilah are moving out of your house?"

"No, I'm moving out of the house. Delilah's staying for now. I don't know what she'll decide but it's up to her."

Casey's mom put a hand over her mouth. "Oh."

"So how about it, Casey? You wanna apartment hunt with me tomorrow?"

"Okay," Casey whispered.

Zeke was feeling very pleased with himself as he pulled up to the house that he and Delilah shared — would share until he could get to a lawyer and ditch his part of the title. It had always been Delilah's really, from silk chenille throws to the stainless steel refrigerator, Debbie Travis walls and Italian tile. Zeke had no desire to take it from her.

Delilah was waiting in the kitchen. Long ago she had decreed that the kitchen was where Serious Discussions would take place. She was pulling on a bottle of Evian. Delilah did not drink, having learned the potential consequences well and early.

"I phoned you," was her initial shot.

"I turned my phone off."

"Where were you?"

"At Casey's."

Something eased in Delilah's face at the reassurance that he was not out banging the first blond he could find. "Why did you go there?"

Zeke shrugged. "I wanted to."

"Is this your new philosophy for life, then?" The usual mellifluous tones turned harsh.

Just after high school ended Zeke and Stan had met for beers a few times. Once, over his fourth beer Stan had said, "Watch yourself around her, man. When her voice changes...watch yourself." Zeke had not commented but he knew that Stan had simply been no match for Delilah. He was a rock-hard jock with a marshmallow heart. He and Stokes had moved together to Seattle a year ago and probably lived happily ever after too, the sucks.

"No," Zeke said. "It's my old philosophy."

"So what has this been...the last two years?"

"A wrong turn."

He hadn't intended to say that. But it was out now and there was no recovering from that honesty. Now some more honesty, laced with that perfectly refined malice at which Delilah excelled, would be coming his way.

"Wrong turn," Delilah echoed. She lifted her bottle to take a drink. Her hand shook. When she lowered it, however, her face was hard and set. "You know what I think? I think you just can't bear the thought that everything went back to normal and you couldn't be a superstar anymore. And that leaves you back where you started — a screwed up loser who couldn't bring himself to finish high school."

"You're right," Zeke admitted, not giving her the satisfaction of seeing the slightest bit of a flinch.

"I was going to say we could talk about this but I see that it's impossible. You never wanted me, you never wanted this home or a life together. You've been faking it for the last two years, you pathetic fuck!"

"Delilah, I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Delilah sounded nothing like the poised young woman she normally portrayed. She was now her mother's daughter. "You're not sorry. You're not sorry about anything except the time you think you've wasted. And I'll tell you this — I'm not moving out of this house!"

"That's—"

"It's mine, you understand? I'll buy your half. Don't you dare try to fight me on this."

"Delilah, shut up! I'm giving you my half."

"You're...giving...me — I don't want it, I'll buy it from you."

"No. I want you to have it."

And there — he had scored the winner. Tears built in Delilah's eyes; she stood silently, fighting them.

"I'll see that the title is transferred to you alone by the end of the week," Zeke said.

Delilah took a deep breath. "What are you going to do?"

"Go to college...I don't know exactly."

"I'm glad," Delilah sniffed. "You're brilliant, Zeke."

"I know."

"A brilliant jerk," she amended. "What about the store?"

"I'm keeping it for now, but I won't be involved in managing it anymore."

Delilah walked up to him, slowly. She placed a kiss on his cheek. They would be friends, as much as either of them ever really had friends.

"So handsome," Delilah sighed. She moved to kiss him on the lips.

He gently disengaged. He would have liked to fuck her, hard and punitive to let her know he was not forgiving her for her words. And she wanted to fuck him for the same reason. But he had always been, of the two of them, the one who knew where to draw the line.

"Where will you sleep?" she asked.

"On the couch. I'll find an apartment tomorrow."

He was walking into the family room as he spoke. Family room, living room. The living room, in Delilah's mind, was for guests only. It was pristine. The family room was his room, full of guy-type things like a 52" television, stereo, DVD player, surround sound....

"You wanna take this stuff?" Delilah asked.

"I think so." He collapsed into the couch. It was black leather, and excellent for napping.

"What's up with Casey?"

Delilah looked a tad sly. He decided to ignore it.

"He's in a bad way. Depressed."

"Wasn't he always?"

"No. I mean can't-get-out-of bed depressed."

"Ooh, poor baby," Delilah purred, dropping down next to him. "Did his boyfriend leave him at the altar?"

Zeke just looked at her. "I'm taking him with me tomorrow to look for a place to live. Maybe I can get him to open up a bit." He could not pretend he didn't notice Delilah's grin at that. "What?"

"You have a thing for him."

"I do not — what sort of thing?"

"An 'I wanna jump your bones' type thing."

"Why would you think that?" Zeke asked, genuinely curious and not wanting to let Delilah see the panic that was welling inside him.

"You've always been fascinated by him. You don't talk about people, but you talk about him. You always have." Delilah touched his arm, still grinning. "It's okay. I've been there too. Once I had him it was over. All you need to do is fuck him."

Zeke ripped his arm away. "I'm tired. Why don't you go to bed?"

"He'll let you, Zeke. He's a slut."

"Go to bed!"

Delilah laughed and left him alone finally.

He stripped to his underwear and sprawled out in the dark.

Slut. It was almost a compassionate diagnosis for what Casey was. Even back in the days before the aliens it had been blatant in the wide hungry eyes and hungry body. Not for sex then because Casey hadn't quite learned to be a sexual being, but for a touch, a word of affection. He bore the blows as though he trusted that at any moment one of them might evolve into a caress.

There had been a time, not long after Delilah dumped Casey, still only a few months after the thwarted invasion became a national sensation, when Zeke noticed that Casey seemed to be losing sleep. He had circles under his eyes that appeared to be drawn in magic marker, and he had actually nodded off in one of his classes. The general school population was of the opinion that this was a further act of heroism. Zeke knew better. He cornered Casey after school-knowing it was a waste of time trying to get him to skip class — and ushered him into his car, and then they were flying down the interstate towards nowhere, ostensibly a diner where they had the best fries around but nowhere really. Casey had fallen asleep in the passenger's seat, his head lolling to one side, cheek pressed against the place where window met door. Zeke just drove, filled with an unaccountable happiness that he was sure was all about being on the open road in his car, with his tunes.

When they reached the diner it was nearly dark. Casey didn't even stir when the car's engine stopped. Zeke just sat and watched him sleep while the evening disappeared and it became dark. The diner's neon glow and the street lamps gently illuminated Casey's face, highlighting the artful arrangement of lines and textures. Zeke became entranced by his lips, moving infinitesimally with each susurration of breath. He had been intrigued by Casey's face for some time, with its odd juxtaposition of strength and delicacy.

Zeke leaned over, and over, and before he could think himself out of it, he pressed his own lips to the flushed-pink warmth opposite him.

Casey's eyes peeled open and simply took him in for many heartbeats, his lips neither hardening in resistance nor softening in welcome.

Zeke pulled back with a jerk, staring out the windshield and running his hands through his hair. The feelings were not bells and choirs like in some book. No, what he felt was the literal wish to grab Casey and finish what the alien queen had started — to dissolve Casey's separate existence, to own him entirely. He envisioned them in the back seat, him crushing the smaller body beneath his own, pressing, pressing him down into the seat until he disappeared, until skin was no longer a plausible barrier between them.

"We're here," Zeke said, his voice shaking.

He dared to look at Casey and saw — oh motherfucking god — the boy's head tilted sideways against the headrest, staring at him with open invitation, saying I'm here, I want you, do whatever you want. The look could not have been more perfect if he had trained for it — geisha house or crack house, none could teach what was in Casey's eyes. He was a natural.

"God," Zeke said out loud. "Fuck." His cock was tearing a hole in his jeans.

Casey took pity on him then, getting out of the car.

Incredibly, one could recover from something like that. One could walk into the diner, sit down, chat over the menu, pretend it never happened. Later, over a plate of fries Casey told him why he hadn't been sleeping. He was afraid of it happening again, the aliens. He worried about it going on right now in other places, in Kansas or Texas, spreading until this time when it reached them it would be too late to do anything. He talked about his parents not understanding and how tough it was seeing Delilah when they worked together on the school paper and how nervous Coach Willis made him...and he seemed such a child, such a human being with his completely human anxieties, that Zeke could dismiss what happened in the car as an aberration. Casey was no siren, and he, Zeke, was just a hormone-ridden teen.

Shit. He was hard how, remembering.

Dammit, he wasn't gay. He knew that many men feel an attraction to one of their own sex at some point in their life, even if they never acted upon it. It didn't change a guy's basic orientation. But he had never felt anything like this for any other male...this...this whatever this was. Maybe all guys occasionally had a thought about a pal and ruthlessly repressed it. Or maybe not. Maybe they jacked off to fantasies of their friend's blue eyes and soft skin.

Quietly he slipped his hands into his pants — and pulled them back. If Delilah heard, if she guessed, she would have his utter humiliation in her grasp. He wouldn't give her that. A house, yes, but not that. He curled up and tried his damndest to go to sleep.

It was remarkable how, having made a decision that was an emotional necessity, a person could witness the pain it caused without being the least bit affected. Like the morning after Zeke broke it off with Delilah. Contrary to all expectations, Delilah awoke grieving. She appeared in the kitchen heavy-eyed and just plain sad. Zeke felt little sympathy...only a vague disquiet that he didn't feel any more than he did. He could only draw the conclusion that your average bugger is a selfish prick.

As the first order of the day he packed a bag and checked into the Best Western downtown. He then drove to the Connor residence with a smile on his face. Not content to wait in the car, he parked at the curb and bounded up to ring at the front door. To his surprise it was Casey who appeared, dressed in jeans and a blue shirt that set off his eyes to splendid effect although the shirt was hopelessly wrinkled and Casey's hair stuck out in every direction. Sitting in Zeke's car, he seemed smaller than ever, bird frail. His eyes gazed a bit too widely, flicking here and there with little pattern or purpose. He seemed to have no defenses, not that he ever had so many to begin with.

There was a terrible, long silence in the car as Zeke drove to the nearest Starbuck's. He felt tongue-tied in a way that hadn't happened since he was twelve and caught with his hand down his pants by his mother.

"Here we are," said Zeke as they sneaked into a spot in front of Starbuck's. He winced at his own voice. "Are you getting something?" He raised an eyebrow. "Maybe some caffeine would be good?"

Casey lifted his shoulders. It was near to a shrug, but even that lacked commitment. "Yes...please."

"Grande?"

"Sure."

"Milk?"

"Zeke....I'm gay."

Zeke barely paused. "I think I knew that, Casey."

"You needed to be warned," Casey said in a low, hollow tone. "It could affect your reputation, you know."

"I don't care what people think of me, Casey."

"You're with Delilah."

"Was. As of yesterday." Zeke spoke to the windshield, gripping his steering wheel. "I realized it was a mistake." He made a point of looking at Casey. "I'm going to get our coffees." He hesitated, asked, "You'll wait here?" As though Casey might exit the car to throw himself into traffic. It didn't appear too implausible.

Casey nodded.

He was sitting in exactly the same position, staring out the window, when Zeke returned. Zeke almost had to fold Casey's hands around the coffee cup to get him to hold it.

"You know what?" Zeke said. "I don't feel much like apartment-hunting. Let's go for a drive."

Enormous blue marbles on a white surface. To Zeke's relief, it spoke. "Okay."

Zeke turned up the stereo as they left the parking lot.

Two hours later they pulled into a wayside rest just outside the next town. Casey hadn't spoken the entire time. He did drink the coffee, and let his head fall back against the headrest, gazing idly out the passenger side window. When the car's engine stopped he came out with, "I'm bad company."

"You're not bad company. Who needs to fill every second with talk? To tell the truth, it's a relief." Zeke opened his door. "Let's walk a bit." He was pleased to see Casey follow, squinting against the bright sunlight. "So... what happened, Case?"

Keeping his distance, Casey snapped a look at him. "I don't want to..."

"That won't cut it. It's obvious something bad happened."

"You can't help."

"You might be surprised."

This elicited a sad half-smile.

"You obviously need to tell someone. I'm volunteering myself." Zeke grinned. "These offers are few and far between, you know."

"That's...you don't really want to get into it."

Zeke moved closer and took Casey by the shoulders, turning him to make sure Casey was seeing him. "You're right, that sort of thing isn't really me. But I'm different with you, Casey. I really do want to help."

Casey stared for a while before replying, "There's not much to it. I fell in love with someone who didn't love me, not really." Casey's voice choked. "I won't see him again."

"Well, excuse me for saying so, but good riddance."

Casey shrugged. Zeke knew, just as Casey did, that Casey made it easy for people to hurt him — witness his daily torture by Gabe and his crew. Casey was practiced at suffering; it was written on his flesh in blood and scars. That aura of passive endurance, that willingness to just take it — well, Zeke knew that there were plenty of people in the world who were either tempted or maddened by it.

"I never hit him," Stan had said. "But, god, sometimes I just looked at him and something made me want to do it. Just...to see how it felt because I knew he would let me."

Stan after six beers was introspective. Not necessarily a welcome transformation to Zeke's memory.

"So this prick of yours," Zeke said lightly, "You want me to go beat him up?"

Casey laughed briefly. "No. It wouldn't change anything. Besides, he's from a powerful family, they'd probably have you arrested and tossed in jail for life."

"Is that so?"

Casey nodded. He stated, the brief burst of animation fading rapidly, "I'm just so tired."

"Come, we'll drive back to town. Maybe you'll fall asleep in the car."

And Casey did, uncannily falling into the exact same position he had that day almost three years ago. Zeke glanced over at him frequently as the miles fell away.

He tried it on for size: I want him. A comfortable fit, no chafing at all.

I've always wanted him.

That was a little tight across the chest. For one thing, it showed off his complete stupidity that he had been keeping this kind of major secret from himself. He liked to think that he was reasonably self-aware.

I'm going to have him.

He couldn't get his head through that one. It was too tight, he could barely breathe. Well, his cock certainly had no problem with it, but above the waist he was still Zeke Tyler, resolute heterosexual.

All you have to do is fuck him.

Zeke's fantasies took him all the way to the parking lot of his hotel. As Casey slept he drove right by the turn to Casey's house, glancing once at the sleeping face of his friend. He pulled into a parking space around the back of the hotel, where no one would see them — he hoped. He turned in his seat and stared at Casey, who continued to sleep for several minutes, oblivious to Zeke's ethical crisis.

He was no fool. He knew that Casey had come to represent for him everything that he had been missing lately — like for two years. Something special, out of the ordinary. He would have called off the whole wedding business anyway, he was sure of it...wouldn't he? Yes. But veering in Casey's direction immediately after had only made the rebellion sweeter. Not only did he dump Delilah but for a man, and not just any man but a friend, and a friend who defined the concept of "alien". In his mind Casey was to him everything exotic and strange and just what he needed.

But his gut was having a bit of trouble with Casey's plumbing. He wasn't gay. He couldn't even consider himself bisexual. He was Casey-sexual and that was about it. To touch Casey, to even suggest that he wanted to, was probably cruel. He would have Casey once, remember that he preferred women, and then he would have used his friend at a particularly vulnerable time.

All this philosophical energy when he didn't feel inclined to be ethical. What he wanted was to pound Casey into a well-used hotel mattress. The image made blood rush to his face, pulsing warm, interfering with the orderly flow of thoughts to their proper locale.

"Fuck!"

Casey made a slight noise and brushed at his face lightly. Waking up.

Down to seconds. Time to shit or get off the pot.

The blue orbs were uncovered and it was as in some classical myth — although he couldn't quite remember which one — where the statue came to life and when its eyes fell on the hero he became the statute, frozen at that very moment. The sex fantasy instantly collapsed as he was confronted with a person rather than an object of his mind — yet the scene continued. He saw Casey take in their location around the back of the hotel, saw him pin his gaze on Zeke's face. It took Casey all of four seconds.

Casey leaned in, straining to reach Zeke's mouth while still wearing his seat belt. Acting on instinct, Zeke planted a hand on his chest and stopped him.

"You can," Casey said, so very, very, softly. Improbably, there was hunger in his eyes.

Well, of course there was. He had been fucked over by some guy and never had been more than formally acquainted with the Real World. He was all about need.

"I want to," Zeke said angrily.

"You can."

"No, I can't." Zeke turned the key in the ignition. "I'm taking you home."

"No, please, can't I—" Casey reached, almost grabbing his arm, and pulled it back. "I don't like it there. Can't I just stay with you?"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"What if I promise to keep my hands off you?" Somewhere along the way Casey Connor had learned how to address a man with just that note of sly admiration, flattering him that he was irresistible and completely in control. Casey — the same boy who had worn K-Mart t-shirts and a cheap haircut — could turn on a dime from ingenue to incubus.

"Casey...I'm not good at depriving myself of what I want."

"You don't want me," Casey replied sweetly. "You like women, remember?"

"Right..." Zeke knew he sounded wary, and with reason.

"Please, Zeke. My father can't stand having me under his roof."

Zeke pocketed his keys, knowing it was an irrevocable step. "All right. You can come up for a drink. We'll watch a movie."

He knew to be afraid when Casey slid out of the car without a flicker, only a half-smile of satisfaction.

He would not be self-conscious. Men took their friends, their business colleagues, their cousins to their rooms. No one should be suspicious. There was no reason to flinch as they strolled through the lobby, no reason to wonder if the whole town actually knew that Casey was into guys and what the hell should it matter anyway? As far as they all knew Zeke Tyler was still engaged to Delilah Profitt and this was his bachelor party.

All the way up to the third floor Zeke tasted the bitter knowledge that he was a coward. He did care what people thought, and his bravura statement to Casey that morning was an empty protest — like a teenaged loser selling caffeine hits in the school bathroom, trying too hard to be dangerous. Nothing would happen between him and Casey, he resolved, until he had the balls to kiss him in front of Delilah, his mother, and his entire alma mater.

His room looked much sadder than he remembered. A lone bottle of vodka that he had bought that morning expecting to celebrate tonight sat unopened on the small round table that was placed in standard hotel configuration. On one bed his hastily packed suitcase sat open just as he had left it after quickly rifling through that morning for a different shirt. You chickenshit, he berated himself. You dressed for him. Now you won't even look at him.

Zeke went for the bottle of vodka. He opened his mouth to offer Casey a drink, reconsidered, debated. It wasn't what Casey needed, but then contrary to appearances he was an adult and Zeke didn't want to pound one back alone. That would just look too much like drinking to fortify his nerves.

Fuck it. He tore off the seal.

"Do you want a drink?"

Casey shook his head. Zeke quickly poured a couple of fingers into one of those paper-wrapped hotel-sized tumblers. He grabbed the remote, switched on the television and began paging through the menu looking for movies.

"Well, make yourself at home."

There was something about being in a hotel. Maybe it was that the slightly wicked delight of watching television in bed was practically unavoidable. Or was it that you suddenly felt you could be anyone in that carbon copy room where a maid erased your transgressions in the morning and you didn't even have to watch...just do your business and walk away.

Soon he and Casey were sprawled on the double bed directly adjacent to the television propped up on two pillows each and giggling at the selection of movies.

"Oh, this must be Oscar-worthy...'Creamer versus Creamer'. Or how about 'A Beautiful Behind'." Zeke was pleased to see Casey smiling a little. "Look, they have a selection for those of us who pursue alternative lifestyles: 'About the boys'."

"How about a real movie?"

"This is real. 'A stirring account of one man's quest for emotional completion'," Zeke read from the guide.

"I don't want to watch that," Casey said, sounding anxious.

"Hey, I'm just goofing around. I think watching gay porn with a male buddy is just about the last thing I..." Zeke's voice trailed away when his eyes happened to find Casey's looking up at him, too knowing and too needy. "H-how about #The Thing'? It's on Sci-Fi."

"Too much like real life."

"Sweet Magnolias?"

"Seen it too many times."

"Fuck, you're strange. Okay, here we go...'Lethal Weapon 2'."

"Mmm....Danny Glover."

"Danny Glover?" Zeke glanced down at Casey, who was smiling again. "What about Mel?"

"Sure, he's hot," Casey agreed, shifting around to get comfortable and ultimately getting his head on Zeke's shoulder like that hadn't been his intention all along. "But Danny is big and gentle. I'll bet he makes Mel feel so safe."

Zeke just looked down at his friend, thinking about how he would like to put his arm around him. Have you ever felt safe? he wanted to ask. Instead he got up to pour himself another drink, figuring he knew the answer.

While Mel wooed Patsy Kensit, Zeke got used to the feeling of Casey's arm and leg pressed against his. It was pleasant enough, not too different from cuddling with a person of the female variety. Parts, Zeke reminded himself, are parts. When you get right down to it.

"Oh, yeah!" Zeke exclaimed as Mel executed a flying back kick. "Don't you wish you had moves like that?"

"Not really," was Casey's answer. He reached over as he said this and began idly to finger Zeke's shirt buttons.

"Wha-why not?" Zeke's attention was fragmented, divided between the television and Casey lying half-draped over him, head on his chest.

"Just couldn't imagine hitting someone that way — to hurt them, to kill them even."

Zeke stared resolutely at the screen. "Not even Gabe and co?"

"No," Casey whispered, his fingers still playing lightly over Zeke's buttons.

The moment he attempted to undo one of them, Zeke's hand was there, snapped onto Casey's wrist. "Stop."

"Don't want to."

Casey grabbed a fistful of his shirt in a mostly symbolic effort to keep him in place. Zeke gently but firmly worked Casey's fingers free; Casey's hand clasped his then, unrelenting.

"Casey..." Zeke risked a look at Casey's eyes. He thought he understood what he was seeing there. "You don't need to do anything to keep me around. I'm not going anywhere."

"Maybe," Casey breathed, "...just...."

"What?"

"...want you..."

Zeke didn't believe it for a second, not from a guy who could barely say the words, who seemed to have lost the word "I". But when Casey reached down and grasped his arousal, talented fingers stroking him just enough to make him amoral...he had enough of trying to be good. He waited as two hands and a mouth repositioned themselves, unzipping him and engulfing him in a sleek heat and the only thing he was thinking as the pleasure mounted was that parts were parts and this could just as well have been Delilah doing this except she was never this good at it. Within moments Casey had found his buttons and was using them ruthlessly to reduce him to a mindless, thrusting animal. He erupted into that willing heat, unable to form a single thought or word, and then fell back into a sated pile of mush.

He lay back with his eyes closed, content to let that talented mouth lick him clean. A firm, hot body then snuggled up against him and this time he made no attempt to stop the fingers from unfastening his shirt.

But now...the body against him was unmistakably male. Keeping his eyes closed could not sustain the lie. He had to look, had to respond to his heterosexual male training that wanted him to get up and run. It was no longer an androgynously beautiful face and ungendered but highly skilled mouth. Slim-hipped and soft-skinned, yet undoubtedly a boy with an unfulfilled cock pressed against his leg.

For all his fantasies, all his brave thoughts, the sight of Casey there was anathema. As a rebel he was a complete fraud.

"You should go," he heard himself say coldly.

Casey had at least enough self-interest to freeze if not to withdraw entirely. He became so still his body seemed to float, barely touching Zeke.

"Did you hear me?" Zeke snapped. Knowing why he was angry and knowing it was unfair didn't seem to stop it from happening.

"Why?" Casey whispered to him, body flexing like he thought curling tightly around Zeke would draw the anger out.

Other people might have moved away off the bed and left with self-respect intact. Casey was not other people. Zeke could have wondered if this guy who had just finished destroying Casey had trained any and all sense of self-preservation out of him except that Zeke had known Casey since high school and figured it was hard-wired. It was a brave and stupid way to live, and Zeke was not going to let himself be seduced by it. You couldn't overcome a person's limitations by repeatedly throwing yourself past their borders and offering them your sovereignty.

"Because I've already used you and if you stay I probably will again."

Casey's hand tried to draw some sort of pattern on his chest. "It's okay."

Zeke grabbed his hand, pushed it aside, violently this time. "No, it's not okay. Maybe you've got some fantasy going in your head about me, that we were meant to be together or something. I'm completely freaked out right now and I'm not going to be nice." He swung up to a sitting position at the side of the bed, keeping his back to Casey. "I shouldn't have let you come up here."

Casey didn't say anything — he didn't have to. Zeke had known perfectly well what he was agreeing to when he agreed to let Casey come to his room.

"I'll take you home," Zeke offered. Shame was bitter in his mouth.

"Please let me stay," came Casey's voice, small and hesitant. "I...I'll do anything you want."

Zeke stood up at that and whirled to shout down at him. "Fuck you!" Casey had made himself small on the bed, hugging his knees to himself. "Don't you have any pride!?"

Casey shook his head, his mouth trembling. He flinched as Zeke began to rave, his hands flying through the air.

"You're my friend, for fuck sake! How could I accept an offer like that and not be a complete bastard? I can't fucking believe this! Never mind your own pride — what do you think I am?!" Zeke stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Five minutes later he came back out, feeling a bit stupid. "Okay, Casey—"

He stopped upon seeing Casey's face. The boy was huddled just as he had been left, but now he was clutching his arms, trembling rather violently. He looked up at Zeke like he expected to be physically attacked, his body language a plea for simple physical comfort, nothing more. Instead of noticing that Zeke had let himself indulge in a great bit of ego masturbation to cover his embarrassment that he had just come in his friend's mouth. He should be at least capable of holding Casey, he had managed it well enough the night before after all.

"Shit, Casey...I'm...sorry."

Casey's smaller body fit neatly in his arms this time, curled up within his embrace, warm and pliable. After the drama of the last half hour, it was easy. He even rocked Casey a little.

"You need to tell me to shut up, Casey," he said over the dishevelled hair. "It's easy — Delilah did it all the time."

This won him the tiniest bit of a giggle.

"Go on, say it: 'shut up, Zeke'."

"Shut up, Zeke."

"Louder."

"Shut up, Zeke."

"That's better." Zeke grabbed the remote and switched off the television. "What's going on with you, anyway?"

He didn't really expect an answer, and wasn't entirely surprised when Casey muttered, "Dunno."

"That's a child's answer, Casey. I think you must have a little more insight than that." Zeke made an effort to modify his tone. He had it in him to be patient with Casey, he realized. And, he realized, he really did want to know what was going on in his friend's head. He cared, enough to conclude that he was going to get the details out of Casey sooner rather than later. Enough to let him off the hook for right now.

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