The voice on the other end of the phone line was both familiar and foreign: "Jacob Tyler speaking."

This was one of those curious moments when Zeke nailed himself with a choice that he had otherwise managed to avoid entirely, in this case by performing the simple action of picking up the phone and dialing a number. To speak or not to speak, that was the choice. If he uttered a few measly little words he'd start something that might turn out to be an epic-style mess. If he said nothing, just hung up right now, chances were that it would come back to bite him on the ass in some way. For several seconds Zeke was orbiting Planet Indecision, suspended in the void with the scant forces of paternal obligation keeping him there.

Well, and there was always curiosity, not an insignificant variable. It pushed him out of orbit, sent him on the plunge towards impact. He answered, "It's Zeke."

"Ah, Zeke." His father's tone held a tinge of satisfaction. "It's good to hear from you."

That was an intimation of human feeling, but Zeke would not be duped by such a pathetic gambit. If someone were to inform his father that corporations would no longer be taxed in the United States of America and that he was thereby effectively out of a job, his tone might betray a little bit of concern. In response to any other matter, there wouldn't be excitement or interest or even nerves — none of those textbook feelings that people seemed to feel at moments like this, not from Jacob Tyler.

"You left me a message," Zeke noted, choosing flat and neutral over the agitated and enraged that he could have been. His fingers itched for something, and if they couldn't be wrapped around his father's throat, a cigarette would help...okay, he was in the bedroom now but he could take the cordless up to the roof and...fuckshitfuck, he had forgotten that he was out of smokes. He lay back flat on the bed, trying to convince himself without the aid of nicotine that he was relaxed, casual, and not in the least bit perturbed.

Jacob said, "I wasn't sure if I had the right number, since I didn't hear back from you until now."

So the next play was a mild reprimand, nothing extreme, just enough to remind Zeke that he owed his sire some trace of politeness — but fuck that, it had only been a few days since the man called, and he did need at least a weekend to digest the man's sudden reappearance before responding. Biting back on the perfect rejoinder — Sorry, I figured I had at least three years before you would start to wonder why I didn't call — Zeke replied, "Oh, it's the right number. In fact...how did you get it?"

"I apologize if it seems like an invasion of privacy, Zeke. I did know you were in Seattle, and — "

"How?"

"Your mother told me."

"I haven't given her the phone number."

"No, so I tried directory assistance. You weren't listed — "

"With good reason."

" — so I decided to ask your...your friend, Delilah. Once I explained why I wanted to call you, she agreed to give me the number."

Zeke couldn't take that lying down; he went vertical, growling to himself. Someone's well-toned, lily-white ass was about to collide with his foot — but it was done now, she'd already shot her wad and there was no point in prolonging the consequences. "Why did you call me?" he demanded.

There was no reaction to his hostility, no indication that Jacob even heard it. "Basically, Zeke, I called because I want to see you. As I mentioned in my message. Can we have dinner, are you free this Saturday?"

For some unfathomable reason, Zeke needed a quick scan for sounds of Casey and Sasha before replying. Unfathomable, and unreasonable too, because they had left only ten minutes ago and Sasha was incapable of spending less than half an hour in a grocery store. Not that Zeke had anything to hide from either of them. "I don't have anything planned, but that doesn't mean I'm willing to see you either."

"I understand that you're angry, Zeke. I'm quite willing — actually, I'm hoping to discuss it with you, but I'd rather do it in person. Will you see me?"

Zeke closed his eyes and just breathed. There had been an opening sally; he'd postured a bit, feinted this way and that...now it was time for a little authenticity. "Maybe," he allowed.

And possibly, just possibly, he heard a little sigh at the other end. Possibly, there had been an occasional, vague tremble of something nervous in that cool voice all along and he hadn't quite been noticing it until right now.

"Is there any place you can recommend?" asked Jacob.

Zeke recalled that his father had this thing about quality. It had a lot to do with his having come from a rather disadvantaged, working class background in which many never finished high school, let alone continued on to post-secondary education. Jacob had made his bid for upper-class nirvana on the strength of sheer brains and will. He'd arrived — but he'd dragged a few hang-ups to the pinnacle with him. He didn't always understand the difference between what was the best and what was the most expensive. He would never just kick back with a beer unless it was from some exclusive micro-brewery or imported from another country, and he certainly wouldn't be found in places like the Bayview.

Zeke mentioned the first fancy restaurant that came to mind. "There's Sojourn."

"Is it good?"

"From what I hear."

"All right, then...I'll call them and make a reservation for us."

"I can do that."

"No, I'd like to take care of it. Do you have a phone book, can you look up the number for me?"

"I know the number."

"Hmm...You must really like this place."

Zeke rejected the weak attempt at humour. "My roommate Sasha is a chef there."

"Oh, but I thought — aren't you living with your friend from Herrington?"

Which would be a piece of information courtesy of Rachel Tyler, World Champion of Shit-Disturbers. "I am, and I'm sure you know my friend's name."

"Okay, I was told that you and Casey Connor...Of course, your mother says a lot of things but I don't always necessarily believe them."

That had the ring of sincerity. Zeke had no trouble accepting that his mother called his father once in a while solely to goad him a little, and no trouble accepting that his father put up with it even after they had been separated for over a decade. Jacob had put up with a lot worse from her, for a lot longer than any adult male person should have. "Believe it," Zeke confirmed. "Sasha lives with us too."

"I see. So...what was that number?"

As he rattled off the digits, Zeke's eye caught and mused on a pile of clothing on the floor — Casey's hooded Old Navy sweater and cargo pants. It wasn't laundry, exactly; Casey just wasn't very conscientious about putting his clothing away, a trait that didn't much concern Zeke but afflicted Sasha deeply. Casey tended to drop what he was wearing and leave it wherever he had been standing until the next time he wanted to announce his usefulness to the household by tidying up. The memory of how this particular bit of disorder had gotten there made Zeke smile to himself and rub the phone briefly with his thumb...

Just last night it had been, Halloween night actually, and even though it was a Sunday they'd had the apartment to themselves, Jerry and Sasha having chosen to go to some gay costume party — okay, not quite to themselves. Stan and Stokely had come over with bags of Halloween-packaged chocolates, chips and cookies and the four of them watched Alien and Aliens, two of Casey's favourites. Later on when they were alone, Zeke had asked Casey why he liked those movies so much and Casey had replied simply They're therapeutic. Shortly after that, the sweater and the pants landed on the floor, and Zeke's hands and mouth landed on Casey —

Casey, who claimed that he missed Zeke if they were apart for more than an hour, who couldn't quite meet his eyes a lot of the time but sought his touch like it was an essential part of his drug therapy, who got nervous whenever he had to confront the fact that Zeke had an existence outside of their life together —

Casey, who had been held responsible for everything that was wrong between his previous boyfriend and his previous boyfriend's father. Motherfucking Roy had actually gone so far as to put it in writing.

"You had better make the reservation for three," Zeke realized aloud.

His father cleared his throat. "You want to bring Casey," he deduced. "Zeke...I was really hoping that it could just be — "

"That's not how I want it."

"We have a lot to talk about and I thought...I guess I thought it would be between family."

"I haven't agreed to discuss anything personal, Jacob, and you're not my family by the way. I've only agreed to have dinner. I want to bring my boyfriend with me. If you have a problem with it then you can forget it."

There was a pause. "I hear you," Zeke's father said.

"Good."

"Just so you know, Zeke, I don't have any problem with your sexual orientation."

Zeke snorted.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Jacob maintained, "but I don't. Whatever makes you happy. Again, I was just hoping to talk with you — but if you really want to bring him, that's fine. I'm not going to make an issue of it. I'm curious to see him again, in fact."

That last shook off a warm frisson through Zeke's body — not quite excitement and almost dread. It was good, and weird, and a little bit nauseating too to think about Casey and his father again sharing the same continuum. "You remember him, then."

"Of course I remember him, I don't see how I could forget him, Zeke. He's the guy who dragged you into some crazy science-fiction plot that had the FBI involved and those reporters crawling everywhere...I remember him very well, although I'm not sure he'll remember me. He seemed a bit — "

"Don't even go there, Jacob."

"I'm just saying what I observed, Zeke. I'm not trying to put him down."

"Whatever. I already heard it all from Rachel, anyway."

"I'm not your mother."

"Fuck me, but that's a relief," Zeke snarled. "We'll see you on Saturday."

"Zeke. Whatever I've done to piss you off — "

"Save it. Just let me know when the reservation's for."

He hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed beside him. He briefly considered following Casey's example and flinging the phone against the wall or some other hard surface — but it would be just too ridiculous for one household to smash two perfectly good phones in two months. No, he would save his aggression for the email he was about to write. He moved to the computer, which had been booted up since this morning so Casey could reply to his almost-daily email from his parents. Zeke would have turned down the gift of the computer if he'd known that it was actually a ploy to extort communication, but Casey didn't seem to mind about that. Casey liked his parents, after all...even his pinhead father.

Zeke set about conveying his feelings to Delilah, while keeping one ear open for the sound of Casey and Sasha returning from their grocery run.

hi, he typed with his slow, two-fingered method. guess what? i just got off the phone with someone who wouldn't have been able to get in touch with me if not for you. thank you SO much. thanks to you, i'll be eating a meal this saturday night with this man i haven't seen for three years. it's such a pleasure to renew that father-son relationship that i've always been missing.

and just in case what i really mean isn't making it into your head, i'm trying to say that you are not to give out my phone number to anyone from here on in. i don't care if the president calls and says that there's another alien invasion and he needs to get in touch with casey and me immediately. you are NOT to give out our number. i'm still trying to figure how you could have thought this was a good idea.

i expect an apology, he finished.

He clicked Send before better judgment could get anywhere with him, then went out to buy some cigarettes from his usual source, a lottery store just a few steps down from the Bayview. When he returned, Casey and Sasha were still out. He went up to the roof to have the smoke that he had been needing for hours.

For a while today he had been in such a superb mood, such a long time ago now, on campus learning that he had gotten ninety-four percent on his mid-term. Winona had earned a seventy-five and was also extremely pleased, suggesting that Casey should take some of the credit for it. Zeke was intending to share the good news when Casey phoned him at two o'clock as per the routine — but Casey didn't phone. Zeke stood outside his lecture hall and made himself fifteen minutes late waiting, then phoned Casey himself. There was no answer, and Zeke forced himself not to get alarmed. There were any number of perfectly valid reasons why Casey might not phone him, the obvious being that the battery on his cell had died. It did not have to be related to that wretched reality of Monday being a therapy day and the first since last Thursday's when Casey had run headlong into past history. In fact, Casey hadn't said a word about the impending session that morning, which was why Zeke had decided not to mention it either.

Another thing they hadn't discussed — but that Zeke understood intuitively — was that he must not make a habit of rushing home every time there was a break in routine. So he had gone into his class, fidgeted and tapped his fingers for the duration of the lecture and left five minutes early. He spent the bus ride thinking up three or four more un-scary explanations for Casey not calling him.

Then Sasha was waiting for him at their door, another variant on the routine that he had come to expect. Normally on Mondays it would be Casey waiting there, and he would hurl himself at Zeke with warm, pliable limbs and a hungry, seeking mouth. It was a very pleasant way to come home.

This was not. This was Sasha intercepting him in a hushed voice, his face pinched and furrowed with concern. Apparently, Casey had come back from his therapy appointment late, and in what Sasha euphemistically referred to as "a state." He had ignored the suggestion that he take a pill, hiding himself in the bathroom at first. When he came out, he crashed on the couch. That was all the information that Sasha could provide; Casey had refused to entertain any questions. Zeke had been about to give Sasha some major grief for letting Casey fall asleep but then Casey had appeared, no doubt summoned by Zeke's voice or maybe just the sound of the door opening.

There had followed a ho-hum, witless verbal exchange consisting of the standard inquiries such as You okay? and You didn't phone...rough day? and the standard answers Yes, Kinda while another — the real — conversation unfolded.

Tell me you're all right, tell me I'm not the next sadistic bully in your life.

But I'm not all right, Zeke, I'm not.

I'm sorry, I don't want to be this person, but I have no choice when you're being self-destructive and irrational.

Please don't make me go there anymore.

I can't back down on this, but how about I cuddle you while you recover from the pain that I inflict on you? How's that?

It was an offer that he knew Casey would never refuse.

Sometime between the euphoria when Casey moved willingly into Zeke's embrace and the slight dismay upon learning that it was a hockey night and Jerry would be over for dinner, Zeke had remembered that he had a task to complete first. If he didn't call his father today, Sasha would bust him — and he knew that because Sasha had told him so.

Thus when Sasha had declared an intention to go to the store to get some dinner ingredients, Zeke appealed wordlessly to him over the top of Casey's head. It took some coaxing and convincing to get Casey out the door with Sasha, and then Zeke made the call.

Okay, he was grateful to Sasha. Without that ultimatum, he probably would have tried to ignore his father's message — except his father would call again, or failing that, karmic justice guaranteed that Casey would find out about the message and no doubt he would then jump to all sorts of conclusions. It wouldn't matter that Zeke had intended to tell him, only that Zeke hadn't. At least now the first part of the ordeal was over and all Zeke really wanted — not in any particular order — was to smoke the rest of the pack he had just opened, to take Casey somewhere private, to cuddle him some more and maybe fuck them both blind.

Voices downstairs finally announced the return from the grocery run. Zeke crushed out his half-consumed bad habit, knowing that Casey would be looking for him right now. Casey was damaged, yes, but he could also be extremely perceptive. Right now Casey had to be suspicious as to why Sasha had been so vehement that he accompany him to the grocery store, why this strange insistence had come right when Casey would have been excused from going anywhere.

Down in the kitchen, Sasha had two bags of fresh supplies and a mission. "Ready to give me a hand here, kitten?" he was saying as he unpacked things onto the counter, pushing them off to the side to leave a fair-sized workspace.

"Yeah," Casey sighed. He jittered at the sound of Zeke coming through the door from the upstairs, turned quickly and, once he confirmed who was there, showed Zeke one of his more weary smiles.

"I just want to show you how to make pizza dough," Sasha said to Casey. "It's really easy and then you don't have to rely on that cardboard stuff from one of those take-out places."

"I like that cardboard stuff," Casey replied wanly. Zeke contemplated him, providing a faint smile to distract him from the fact that he was being stared at. His eyes looked bruised, slightly red and set against an exhausted pallor. He was all dregs and ash right now, but when he looked at Zeke he became brighter, clawing up a few scraps of enthusiasm from some reserve somewhere. It wasn't entirely real, of course. Zeke knew that he would force himself to get through to the end of the day and then fall into a coma for ten hours. Interact now, pay later was standard operating procedure these days.

"You're making pizza?" Zeke asked. Casually he reached over and kneaded the muscles between Casey's shoulder and neck.

Sasha turned from the counter. "I thought it would be fun to have a kind of make-your-own thing. Pizza and beer to go with the hockey." A flip of Sasha's upper lip conveyed his feelings about the night's entertainment schedule.

Zeke had his arm all the way around Casey now. The shoulders that he had been massaging still felt like blocks of wood; if the relaxation therapy was achieving anything, it was difficult to tell. "You don't have to watch the hockey."

"Oh, please. And what will I do, hang out in the kitchen wearing an apron and do chores while you and Jerry belch and scratch?" Sasha was pulling a large canister out of the cupboard as he bitched.

Zeke considered what Casey would and wouldn't do for him. Repress anger at Zeke about being compelled to go to regular therapy sessions so there would be an illusion of harmony between them — yes. Deny physical exhaustion to be with Zeke for a little while before he fell unconscious — yup. Subject himself to pleasantries with a hated — albeit imaginary — rival so that Zeke could have a new friend. Check.

But to go to a packed restaurant next Saturday and sit with tense people in a tense meeting steeped in long-standing historical tension for a few tension-filled hours...that was something else. Zeke knew firsthand that Casey was quite capable of saying no to any number of proposed outings. If Sasha held any lingering concern about Casey's ability to use that word...He really shouldn't.

Yet Zeke also knew friggin' well that Casey would always try to do whatever Zeke wanted. If Casey decided that dinner with Zeke's father was something that he could survive then he would say yes and hate every moment of it, and who knew what would happen when they got there and what the aftermath would be.

"Okay, science boy, c'mere," Sasha said in the voice that he reserved for Casey and no one else. "Time for a biology lesson."

Breaking contact with Zeke, Casey shuffled closer to the counter, where Sasha had a large mixing bowl ready for action. "Biology?" He sounded interested, whether he actually was or not.

"You betcha. We're going to grow something here. First, you have your dry yeast." Sasha removed the plastic lid from a small tin. "A tablespoon of this...then you add some warm water and a little sugar. The sugar will be food for the little guys to eat. Make sure the water isn't too hot or you'll kill them."

Folding his arms, Zeke leaned back against the stove to watch...and not to watch the cooking lesson. By his clock, it had been nine hours and twenty-something minutes since his last sexual contact with Casey. He observed Casey from behind...enjoying the finely etched contours that began behind his ear and shaped themselves into his neck and back, and his torso that was at this moment clearly outlined under a simple t- shirt...assessing the constant shifting of his weight and unsteady hands that betrayed Casey's general state of nervousness. He needed to be calmed down and Zeke knew just how to do it.

Except it wasn't going to happen tonight. By and large, they avoided doing anything when Sasha was around; even had they achieved the near impossibility of complete silence, they would have no privacy. Zeke held an unconfirmed belief that Sasha possessed some specialized radar that enabled him to know when sex was going on in his vicinity. It would naturally extend at least a hundred-feet in every direction, encompassing the length and width of their apartment, including the roof space.

There was always the car, though. Cars went places, they could get you out of range of the special roommate radar.

"Now you just cover it with a cloth and wait for fifteen or twenty minutes for the babies to sprout. The stuff should be all foamy. If it isn't, your little guys didn't hatch and you might need to buy a new tin."

"Kay," Casey said.

Sasha said without turning his head, "Zeke, are you paying attention to this?"

"Sure."

"What did I just say, then?"

"Put yeast in bowl with warm water and sugar, wait until foamy."

"You're just going to order in all the time, aren't you?"

"Yep."

Sasha sighed dramatically. "I don't know why I even try."

"I don't know either," Zeke replied, mostly teasing.

Over his shoulder, Casey gave Zeke a strained look. "I want to learn this," he said.

Zeke reached for and caressed Casey's arm, smoothing a crease in his shirt, rubbing his hand very briefly. There would be no drive tonight. Tonight, it would be enough for Casey to get through dinner. Zeke would have to relent on the no-napping rule; he had made a premature assumption that all of Casey's efforts to get better would give him more energy, not less.

"I'm going to go back upstairs for a smoke," Zeke announced.

Predictably, Sasha clucked. Zeke started up the stairs, pretending not to hear what came next: "I hope you know that you reek of cigarettes." A moment later Sasha added, "Doesn't it bother you, kitten?"

Zeke stopped with his foot poised over the next stair to listen to the response.

"I don't smell Zeke and cigarettes," Casey murmured, and Zeke was sure that Casey knew he was being heard. "I just smell Zeke."

Back on the roof, Zeke lit up with the confidence of the vindicated. "I smell like Zeke," he told the half-filled ashtray. "But you stink."

Lately, he had learned that it was possible to feel happy at the strangest of times. You just had to go with it and not do anything to disrupt it because it was a fragile thing. It depended on innumerable elusive factors that you were helpless to affect, and contrary to the opinion of some, Zeke did understand that there were things that were beyond his control — which was to say that some things, many things, were in his control. Like where and what Casey ate, and when he slept, and who had access to him. Like whether or not Casey would suffer from the unexpected appearance of Jacob Tyler.

Zeke should never have insisted that Casey be included in the reservation. The fact that he wanted Casey to be there was immaterial. The fact that Casey would probably want to be there too was also immaterial. Zeke had been selfish when he made that particular demand — or maybe he had just been confused because, bizarrely, almost all of Zeke's most recent memories of his father also happened to be memories of Casey. In Zeke's mind, Casey and his father were nearly inseparable, thanks to a certain invasion by intelligent, extra-terrestrial slugs.

He didn't think often about the specifics of those two or three days after the aliens came. There was nothing repressed; he had forgotten none of it. It was just that he preferred to travel that stretch of memory in general only, without really letting himself wander into the areas that were frustrating or painful. Being chased and nearly destroyed by a monster from outer space definitely ranked up there with all the baddest stuff that had ever happened to Zeke — but the time immediately after the alien queen died was far worse.

Bruised and bloodied and barely comprehending the past several hours of their life, Casey, Zeke and Stokely had staggered out of their high school. They emerged into a quiet, slightly chilly autumn night, and there was all of Herrington before them — not the town but the people, hundreds of people standing collected in front of Herrington High. They were on the steps leading up to the front door, on the sidewalk, on the lawn, in the street. All silent and expressionless, and terrifyingly, every last one of them seemed fixated on Casey. They bored into him with hollow, inhuman eyes, just at him.

Maybe it was only a few minutes and maybe it was more like ten or twenty. In either case, it was Zeke believing that they were well and truly fucked because these people were still infected. Reason said that killing the queen had worked because Stokely was herself again — or so she seemed — but he and Casey were surrounded and they had nothing left, no scat, nothing with which to defend themselves. During that time it was Casey and Zeke alone in the universe, there was just no way to know if these were their last moments as Casey and Zeke, and the throbbing pain in Zeke's head made him wish that whatever was going to happen would get itself over and done with. He was nauseous, he was trembling and he was not embarrassed that he was clinging to Casey's hand as if they were two passengers on a doomed airplane with nothing to do but hang on all the way to the ground.

Then people started to act more like people. They finally began to wander away in ones, twos, fives and even larger clumps, and Zeke began to believe that it might just be okay. Zeke caught pieces of some odd conversations but mostly people didn't speak very much; they had to have been in shock, perhaps fighting with a residual memory of Casey as the last thing they collectively saw just before they died. Zeke never knew where Delilah got to that night, but Stan suddenly appeared in front of them and he and Stokely fell weeping into each other's arms. Zeke didn't see when they left. His awareness was concentrated in the warmth of Casey's hand, the tight clutch of skin, muscle and bone around his own as they sat down on the steps of the school to wait. Sirens began to shrill in the distance, gradually growing closer.

Herrington City Police units came roaring up to the school, and not long after, an ambulance. The police came unerringly at Casey, who was maintaining a shivering, traumatized silence. There were several small cuts on Casey's face, his hair was damp and he looked every bit of a bedraggled mouse.

The police asked him stupid, rote questions. They were falling back on their training in a time of distress, Zeke supposed, but no one was in a fit state for any meaningful exchange of information.

The paramedics were a gift, though, for when they fell back on their training, they were actually useful. One of them checked out Zeke's head wound and declared him most likely not concussed although he should have someone wake him every few hours just to be safe. The guy's partner examined Casey, who ended up sitting on the back bumper of the ambulance wrapped in a blanket, clutching a paper cup containing some kind of hot liquid.

It must have been an hour or more before the police had run out of questions and just offered them a ride home. Zeke couldn't bring himself to leave Casey and go to his own house that night, and not just because he supposedly needed help looking after himself. Casey had mentioned his parents with some hope, but they never did show up and Zeke was well on his way to reviling them when he and Casey piled into the back seat of the police cruiser.

He ended up having to forgive them all the same. When he and Casey arrived at the Connor residence, Casey's mom was out in her garden, pulling up plants in the dark. Zeke didn't know gardening, but he knew it was unlikely that there were any weeds to pull. She was probably yanking out roots that she had tended for years. Casey's father was inside, sitting in his armchair in front of the TV. He was watching a children's channel, barely blinking. Neither of them seemed to hear Casey when he spoke to them.

Zeke slept on the floor in Casey's room that night. He didn't follow the paramedic's instructions, and he lived through it.

The day after the alien queen died, the press and the government swarmed Herrington. The police sent all of them directly to Casey. The FBI took Casey into his living room and questioned him for a while; then the other government agencies took their turn. Zeke wasn't allowed in, so he didn't know if Casey's parents were on hand. He doubted it. He was expecting to be interrogated next, but after a few hours with Casey, all of the government personnel packed their briefcases and departed. There was no FBI such as Casey would have come to believe in after five or six seasons of The X-Files. There was no Mulder among them, and they had easily drawn their conclusions. Zeke saw more than one of them shaking their head as they exited. "Creepy kid," he heard one of them say.

The press stayed a lot longer. They pinned Casey on his front steps, and he willingly told and re-told the story, either not noticing or not caring about the skeptical faces that were taking it down. Occasionally he looked to Zeke for corroboration and Zeke said nothing. Zeke was not proud of himself, but he knew that no one — not even the Herrington press, who had a damn good reason to believe Casey — was going to accept the story. He would have warned Casey, but Casey was like a burst dam. He couldn't be stopped and he didn't see the reality that Zeke saw until a reporter asked, "So were you doing any drugs that day, Casey?"

And finally, finally, Casey had a slow look of hurt and disappointed understanding. Not that it stopped him. After a pause, he answered the question with complete honesty. He told them which substances he had done, and why, and then he invited the press to interview other people in the town. He did not mention Zeke by name, although Zeke was standing right there, writhing with admiration and fear for him. Zeke wanted to signal to him to stop but he was held nearly spellbound by the image of Casey Connor, the school punching bag, calmly telling everyone exactly how alienated he really was.

Not surprisingly, when the articles and pieces appeared over subsequent days and weeks, there was not a single quote from any citizen of Herrington backing Casey up. The Time piece did not mention anyone by name other than Casey, referring to "several other students who appear to have experienced something similar to what Casey Connor experienced." The article was a meditation on the state of America's youth, suggesting that Casey was a frightened and disturbed character not unlike those teenagers who took excessive doses of Dungeons & Dragons and murdered their parents — or worse, the kind of social misfit who might just come to school one day with an automatic rifle. There was no evidence connecting Casey to the disappearance of Principal Drake, ancient Mrs. Brummel, or a certain transfer student named Mary Beth, and so the press could do little more than hint at things. After a month it was like nothing had ever happened, except at Herrington High where Casey retained a certain respect among the student population. He was no longer the school punching bag. He was the town crackpot, one who should be left alone with his delusions. Even though it was known that Zeke, Stokely, Stan and Delilah had been involved too, no one tended to remember that. In return for their willingness to hold back from telling the entire planet about what had happened, the four of them were granted an anonymity that was denied to Casey.

Zeke only told the story once, and not to the press.

As it happened, the day after the alien queen died was also the day that his parents showed up, both of them at the same time. They too arrived outside the Connors' house, towards the end of the unscheduled press conference. Zeke spotted them standing away and back from the mob. He observed that Jacob Tyler was solemn and silent, while Rachel Tyler harangued him. Zeke couldn't hear any of it from where he was standing, and he knew that was a good thing.

When everyone else had gone and it was just himself and Casey out in front of the house, they finally approached. "What are you doing here?" Zeke wanted to know. It had occurred to him that they couldn't have gotten there so quickly if they were responding to a call from the FBI.

"Your principal...Drake, she called us," explained his father.

"When?"

"Yesterday morning. She said it was very serious and she needed to talk with us immediately."

So Zeke's parents had been chosen to carry the alien invasion to other parts of the world. They would not have been the only ones but it seemed fitting all the same.

He glanced at Casey, hoping for a meeting of minds, a sharing of understanding. He got nothing. Casey was sitting on his front step, staring across the surface of a future that was just beginning to take shape for him. He looked dazed, like he had only just realized that he had committed harikari on national television.

"What happened here, then?" asked Zeke's father. "I'd like to know what's going on and how you're involved, Zeke."

Zeke hesitated for a moment, then answered.

"Aliens invaded our school...our town, actually. They take over your body and control you, sort of like a hive mind. A few of us managed to get away and figured out a way to kill them."

His parents didn't react like he expected. They gazed roundly at him, and his mother asked, "Aliens from where?"

"Outer fucking space, Rachel. We had to kill the queen to save everyone. It was Casey who did it, actually...He's the one who saved us." Zeke made a gesture to indicate the silent bump of a person beside him. "Casey Connor."

His father wore a horrified expression. "...killed?" he echoed. He looked down at Casey, who didn't seem to appreciate that anyone was there. Zeke sat down next to Casey but didn't touch him. "Casey?"

There was only the slightest acknowledgment.

"Casey, these are my parents. Rachel and Jacob."

Casey didn't so much as look at them. He said, as from a great distance, "She wouldn't have liked it here, Zeke."

"Who?"

"She said she just wanted a home...but she wouldn't have liked it. It was much nicer where she came from...better for her she's gone..."

There were a lot of things Zeke could and should have said, but something else happened to him. It wasn't that he had ever forgotten, but he actively didn't remember it a lot of the time because it never came to mind without a significant portion of shame. He remembered looking at Casey and being very aware of his parents standing there and he couldn't make himself answer. He wanted Casey to stand up and act normal, be credible so his parents would believe them both instead of seeing some spun-out kid that had somehow broken their son's mind and involved him in something criminal. So he didn't reply.

"Come with us, Zeke," his father said. "We should go home and talk."

And he went, leaving Casey there on the steps by himself.

They went back to the house that Zeke normally lived in by himself. That was the first night that the three of them spent under one roof in seven years, and the absolute last. For years, Zeke had harboured a secret, vague feeling that he and Jacob Tyler were compatriots in the campaign to survive his mother. He had never known Jacob before he became this burnt-out matrimonial refugee, but he had assumed that on some level his father considered them to be friends. For a while that night, it appeared that he was right in his assumption. His father, who rarely showed any emotion to anyone, seemed openly concerned about Zeke. He asked him gently what had happened, listened to him, and didn't let Rachel get in the way. He didn't judge — in fact, he didn't say much of anything. Zeke went to bed that night with the idea that they might have established some sort of bond. He wasn't yet so jaded that he couldn't hope for such things, although he was justifiably cautious. He didn't commit himself entirely to the notion, and that was a fucking blessing because the next morning Jacob Tyler was gone, leaving the house before Zeke woke. Zeke hadn't seen his father once since then.

Zeke's uneasy remembering was cut short by Jerry appearing with two bottles of beer. "Thought you might want one of these," he said, handing the translucent green bottle of Stella Artois to Zeke.

"Thanks."

Jerry peered up at the sky. "An actual break in the clouds," he mused.

"Hmm."

"Am I intruding?" Jerry asked. Zeke snapped a look at him, saw that he was sincerely inquiring. "I can go if you like..."

"No, it's fine." Zeke didn't have a problem with Jerry, especially when the man brought him beer. If Sasha asked him his opinion — which he had not — he would have to say that Jerry was a bit boring. But Jerry was nice, and nice to Casey in particular, so Zeke was quite able to tolerate him.

"I'm, uh...never sure if I should offer Casey a beer or not."

Zeke shrugged. "He is on some meds but I doubt a beer would do him any harm."

"Oh."

"He doesn't really drink, though."

"Huh. That's unusual."

"Is it?"

"Most teenagers I know drink when they get the chance. I certainly did."

"I guess Casey is unusual, then." Zeke tipped up his bottle and downed half of it. "So how was your party last night?"

"Oh...it was a scream," answered Jerry. "Too bad you and Casey couldn't come too."

"I'm not really into Halloween, not enough to figure out a costume and all that. The junk food part is okay though." A few droplets of fresh rainwater splashed on his Zeke's hands and face. "Fuck," he observed.

"So much for the reprieve," Jerry lamented. "Let's go back downstairs."

There was a lovely, sweet, yeasty smell going on in the apartment. Sasha had assigned Casey to slicing some red pepper while he built a mountain of grated cheese in striations of yellow and white. Zeke snatched a few shreds off the peak and got slapped for his audacity. "Nuh-uh!" Sasha scolded. "Bad."

"Can I help?" Zeke offered, conciliating.

"Yes, as a matter of fact...Can you grab the cornmeal from that cupboard? And there's a jar of pizza sauce down there too."

"You bought sauce? You?"

"Eat me, darling, it's my day off. When you're done with that, you can always start rolling pizza dough if you want."

"Um...I don't think I'm qualified."

"I'll do it," Casey volunteered, having finished his pepper-slicing. He had a little bit of flour on his cheek and more in his hair. Zeke was torn between wanting to savour the sight and wanting to rub that smudge off with his thumb.

"No, I'll do it," Sasha said. "It is a bit of a delicate operation. But you can keep an eye on them while they cook, Zeke."

"Can I? Oh, thank you."

It was crowded in the kitchen; Jerry had backed out, going to stand nearby where he could still interact with them. Zeke fetched the cornmeal and the sauce, and then went to join him out of the way, returning to his consideration of what — of who — he really wanted to consume.

"What are we putting on them?" Jerry asked.

"To each his own, but we've got mushrooms and pepperoni, peppers, tomato slices, red onion, mozzarella, asiago and parmesan...there's some chicken in the fridge that we'll slice and cook up — "

"What about the liver?" Casey asked, a little bit too loudly. He was in that condition where he never could quite slip unobtrusively into the weave of the conversation; he always made a bit of a tear in it even though he was trying really hard.

Sasha twisted around and gave him a puzzled stare, then broke into a smile. "Funny, kitten."

"I — I wasn't kidding." Casey backed himself up into the nearest wall, turning to Zeke for reassurance and getting tangled in the voyeur's net. His mouth moved once and failed to make any sound. Zeke nodded at him, and then he managed, "The...iron content of this meal is pretty low — maybe I should sprinkle some...oatmeal on my pizza."

Sasha laughed, and so did Jerry; he understood the context quite well.

"Don't tempt me," Zeke commented to Casey, his gaze steady.

"Oh, yuck," Jerry said. "That's too much to ask, even in the name of healthy eating."

Casey neglected to respond to that. He was busy directing a low-lidded stare at Zeke's...his mouth, it looked like, but drifting in a southerly direction.

Zeke purred, "You shouldn't give me ideas, Case."

"I'm giving you an idea right now," Casey returned.

"I see that."

Five feet had shrunk to nothing. Zeke could see it, could see the plea in Casey for solace that, right or wrong, was directly associated with Zeke's physical presence. He saw the tremble and the fear that apart equalled alone, and he saw the aura of something exotic. Like a plant that exuded pheromones mainly to attract its food, it was beautiful because it couldn't survive any other way.

"Yeah," Zeke replied. His voice came out much more ragged than he expected. He had started to sweat.

"And what do you think?"

"I'm thinking some things aren't for public consumption."

Casey forced a smile, but his eyes continued to maul Zeke.

Sasha's extrasensory gifts must have pinged. He turned around suddenly, took in the scenario before him in an instant, and said, "Okay, kitten. It looks like you're done here. Go and sit down, I'll excuse you from learning how to roll the dough this time. I don't particularly care for innuendo on my pizza."

Zeke took a swig from his now-tepid beer as Casey passed him. His jeans were too damned tight; after a pretense of a pause, he scurried into the bathroom to relieve the pressure. It was quick, fretful hand action gathering up the tension in him and dispersing it. Not nearly satisfying, but it would hold him. It would have to.

When the hockey game was in full swing and Jerry and Zeke were busy yelling at the TV and pounding the coffee table, Casey slipped away to his room to tell his journal about his day. He didn't get any further than I need a vacation from all this healing before he felt too tired to write another word.

Zeke had left the apartment early again that morning. His explanation to Casey had been that before his classes began he needed to go to the library to start doing some research for the raft of term papers that he would soon be working on. He didn't say if he would be doing this with Winona or by himself, and Casey hadn't dared to ask.

He'd had his own homework to do if he was going to Dr. Yves' office, and he supposed he was. He had taken out his journal, which he was keeping in the drawer of the bedside table next to his side of the bed. He didn't worry that Zeke would read it, not really. There were some things that just were too reprehensible for Zeke to consider, and reading another person's diary was one of them.

My mood since Thursday was the heading. Casey had underlined it, made it look tidy. Underneath it, he made the list: Scared. Frightened. Anxious. Nervous. Terrified. All weekend he had been trying not to think about what would happen when today arrived and he had to go back there, back to her in her lair of framed, matted creatures and dirt-coloured walls. He would manage to put it out of his mind for awhile, and then every few minutes the reality of Monday would shock through him like a bout of mental nausea. He didn't say anything to anyone, there was no point. He and Zeke had discussed it. He would be going to therapy. End of story.

I'm totally fucked. If Zeke knew how this feels —

That had been crossed out.

When I think about that office when I put myself there I feel —

That line was unfinished too, because he had dropped the pen and run to the bathroom to throw up. He remembered whispering "trapped" while hanging miserably over the toilet.

Later, he'd thrown up again in the bathroom in Dr. Yves' building. When he got in her actual office he started to hyperventilate and couldn't stop. Counting didn't work and there was no point in taking a Xanax by then, it was hours too late. He spent half the session with his head between his knees while his body hurtled towards self-destruct.

A part of the hour had eventually arrived where he was sitting limp and sweaty in his chair, an animal that had gone past terror and adrenaline to numb, passive acceptance of its fate. "Can I ask you something?" she said to him then but perhaps he had not yet achieved total acceptance; she saw his short inhalation, the one that would initiate another ten rounds of hysteria, and she added quickly, "Nothing like last time, I promise. Just...what brings you here?"

"What?" he replied in dull tones.

"You're obviously terrified and hating every minute but you're still here. Truthfully, I half expected you to not show up today."

"I wasn't going to," he said.

"So why did you come today? What brought you here?"

Zeke he answered, not speaking it but privately invoking it, conjuring the image of it.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Zeke," he said aloud.

"Zeke makes you come here? How does he do that? Does he order you, or — ?"

"Not exactly."

"How, then?"

"He...wants me to get better...says I have to...to come here and then I remember that he'll never...he'll never be happy if I don't."

"You sitting here hyperventilating makes him happy?"

Casey croaked, "He doesn't know what else to do to help me."

"Is it so very important to him that you work on things?"

"Yes."

"Why is that?"

"He cares, I guess."

"And if he cares and you know that he cares, why are you so frightened of the consequences of saying no to him? What's going to happen, Casey? Why do you care so much about doing what he wants?"

Casey squeezed his eyes closed. He could do this, he could talk about this, he could...talktalktalk, keep her on this subject and not the other... "It's for him. It's like his life is...all he does is take care of me and worry about me. He says he doesn't mind but I know he won't do it forever. No one would."

He waited for her to contradict him, but she didn't.

"You're right about that, Casey, but it isn't any reflection on you. I think you understand that sometimes in relationships, loving someone isn't enough. Sometimes it gets so that a person can't remain in the relationship and be healthy. Isn't that what you mean?"

Yeah, he meant that but he meant more than that — such as he wasn't good for anybody, not for Zeke, and certainly not for himself. And Zeke would never let himself become trapped in a relationship that wasn't good for him, Zeke was a singular person, someone who was resolute enough to fire his own parents when he thought that it was what he needed, to fail at school when it suited him, and to become gay to be with whomever he chose...only as long as he still wanted that person though because he was always going to be hetero. Zeke had no use for terms like bisexuality, he would say either you are or you aren't something, choose it and be it.

Dr. Yves mused, "So you're afraid that Zeke will get to that point with you, and that's why you make yourself come here, even though it scares you."

"Yes."

"What if you were completely well?"

"If...what?"

"Would you not have to worry anymore? If you were well and you didn't cause anyone any trouble, would you still need to worry about Zeke leaving?"

"I'll always cause trouble."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"It's the way I am."

"How do you mean?"

Casey shifted, fidgeting, needing more than anything to be out of here but couldn't and that left the talktalktalkgottatalkgottakeepherbusy so he said, "It's in me...this thing...I can't change it. Sometimes I think I will but then I get afraid I don't know what I'd be if I wasn't...that."

"Where does this thing come from?"

With a shrug, Casey whispered, "Nowhere. Just is."

Helen Yves was silent momentarily. Then she asked, "Is this thing that's going to drive Zeke away?"

"Might — but if it was gone, I'd definitely lose him."

"You're in quite a pickle, aren't you?"

Tears stung Casey's eyes. "Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not, Casey. I'm just observing..." Dr. Yves crossed her legs and refolded her hands. "If what you say is true, then you have quite a problem. The thing is, it's very difficult for me to assess how much of the problem is real and how much is you setting yourself up."

"It's real."

"I appreciate that you feel that way, Casey. But you see, I talk to many people who feel that there is something wrong or abnormal inside them. They may have a completely different image of themselves than how everyone around them sees them. Can you agree with me on that?"

He shook his head.

Dr. Yves looked less than impressed. "You know," she said like it had just occurred to her, "I think it would be quite helpful if I could meet him."

"Z-Zeke?"

"I'd like to meet Zeke, yes. Would you be willing to bring him to one of your sessions, if he agrees?"

"I — I — "

"It's up to you, Casey. This is your therapy. I just think that if we're going to be talking about your relationship with Zeke like we are, it would be helpful to me to meet him. What do you think?"

"Guess so."

"Will you ask him?"

He told her the truth: "I don't know."

"What is it that you don't like about the idea?"

"You want him to come here and help you pin me down."

Dr. Yves' eyebrows flew up. "In what sense?"

"You want to get all the information so you can pin down all the parts of me and everywhere I turn you'll be there."

"So, I'm trying to trap you again?"

"Yes."

"And you think Zeke will help me."

"He'll give you more information about me," Casey confirmed.

"Why would Zeke do that if he cares about you?"

"He would do it because he cares about me."

"What if what you call being pinned down is actually just me getting to know you so I can know the best way to help you?"

He shot back, "What if I don't want to be helped?"

As ever, Dr. Yves was completely unperturbed by his resistance. "You can choose not to come here, of course, and I think you already know that. But seeing as you are here, I should tell you that I'm not here to give you what you want. What a person wants and what they need are not always the same thing."

"What gives you the right to say what I need?"

"Casey? Who are you angry at right now?"

"You. I'm definitely angry at you."

"Fair enough. Anyone else?"

"No. Just you."

"I don't think you're telling me the truth."

He snapped, "Why even ask me if you already think you know the answer?"

"Because I want to hear you say it."

"I won't."

"Are you afraid of being angry, Casey?"

"I said I'm not — not angry at anyone except you."

"But I didn't make you come here, did I?"

Casey folded his arms across his chest, muttering, "Shut up."

She thought she was so clever but she wasn't, the problem was that he was an idiot answering her stupid questions. He was helping her with the pinning-down, he was playing her game. Simply not answering, that was the only real strategy, silence...Silence was the only real...thing.

"I asked you a question, Casey."

It was beautiful, golden, they said but no, not golden, silence was white maybe silver but not gold and it was hot, burning hot. And not empty. It was full, so full there was no room for anything else, there were no emotions in it no anger no fear... but silence was fragile too.

"Casey. Are you going to answer my question?"

"No." He got his feet under him. "I'm leaving."

"All right. We only have a few minutes left anyway."

He started walking away. Fucking doctor, she always had to be in charge, no matter what he said she turned it around on him. He wasn't coming back here.

"Will I see you on Thursday?" he heard behind him.

He didn't give her an answer. It was a very little thing, him leaving her wondering. She wouldn't exactly be devastated if he didn't show up, but it felt good to threaten it all the same.

For once the walk home was stress free; he found himself on his block with no memory of the trip. He had even forgotten to call Zeke. He should have pulled his phone out right then and called...but he didn't. He was staring up at the sign that read Zorba's, and it occurred to him that life really fucking owed him a coffee. He was tired of doing what he was supposed to do. It wasn't like it was doing him any good and there was no way he could be any more nervous than he already was ninety-five percent of the time so he might as well enjoy something about this day.

A minute later he was pushing through the front door a bit too violently and everyone stopped what they were doing to look at him — including that same man from his previous solo trip to the coffee shop, standing at the end of the line. He nodded to Casey, not quite smiling but definitely trying to be friendly. Casey had no choice but to take up a place behind him, maintaining a gap of several feet.

His nervous system, just recently deadened by indignation, was beginning to revive. He stared at the menu and asked himself if he was really going to do this. He shoved his hand in his pocket again, worrying the little metal tin. He wasn't like this, he wasn't this rebellious person — he just wanted a freakin' coffee.

All of a sudden, the back he was looking at became a face. Casey was able to take in the full ensemble for today; it was monochrome in burnt orange, the shirt, tie and suit all the same colour, meticulously pressed and extremely expensive.

"Hello," said the man. "I haven't seen you in here for a while."

He made it sound like he had already noticed Casey on numerous occasions, and maybe he had. Maybe he had seen Casey when Casey hadn't seen him. It wasn't a pleasing thought.

"Um...no."

"Getting your fix?"

Again Casey noticed the slight lilt of an accent, like a subtle decoration to the rest of the voice which spoke precise, cultured English. "Um..."

"I'm something of a caffeine addict." The man tilted his head. He was studying Casey with an expression that was very direct and open, like he expected Casey to understand that this was just friendly curiosity, and if Casey didn't understand that was too bad but it wasn't his problem. "How about you?"

"Kinda." Casey shifted his weight. Another person got in line behind him, uncomfortably close to his back. He inched forward, trying to create an equal reserve of open space on either side of himself.

Still pondering him, the man said, "Do you find it easier now?"

Casey blinked, not wholly confident that the man was speaking to him; the question made little sense.

"Is it easier now?" the man repeated.

"Wh-what?"

"To be in this world."

From a distance, Casey counted up his various emotions...utter disbelief, shock, not a little bit of outrage that this was being said to his face with all sorts of people in earshot...those would do for a start. "I — I don't — "

"I'm making you uncomfortable," said the stranger. "I have a tendency to do that. I say things that aren't entirely polite but I don't mean any harm by it."

Casey kept staring. He wished now that he had never started this whole enterprise.

"My name is Thomas Kirton," the man said, holding out his hand. He smiled enormously. "You may call me Thomas."

This was just getting more bewildering. Casey noticed that Thomas was now at the head of the line, with a big gap between himself and the counter. Behind it, Coffee Guy Rob cleared his throat.

"It's your turn," Casey blurted.

Thomas looked amused. "Translation: ‘Move your ass, man, get your coffee so you can get out of my face.'" He turned around to retrieve a beverage that had already been poured for him. "Look, Rob knows me too well...let me get yours too."

Thomas put a couple of bills on the counter and stepped aside, gesturing for Casey to move up.

The urge for coffee had expired completely, giving way to a vivid mental image of home. And even if he had still wanted a coffee, Casey couldn't have accepted it from this man. It was too intimate, too much like the start of a relationship. Casey started to move in the direction of the door, planning to leave without another word.

There was suddenly a casual grip on his arm. He yanked it, propelling himself several feet away and almost dragging his captor with him.

Thomas dropped his hand immediately. "Oh, I'm sorry!" he exclaimed. "But didn't you want your coffee?"

"No," Casey said. He was walking, trying not to run, to the door.

The voice with its musical cadences followed him all the way out of the shop. "What's your name?" it called.

On the sidewalk, he froze with discomfort at his own extreme rudeness. He stood with his back to the building for a moment, asking himself how much he really wanted to redeem himself, then turned around and went back in. "Casey," he informed Thomas from just inside the door.

Thomas picked up his coffee in its take-out cup and walked closer. There was good reason for it, as they would not then have to shout at each other across the shop — but Casey almost bolted again. His heart was doing violent things to him, making his body thrum and vibrate with every pulse of blood. He should have been running away and he wondered through the bright haze of anxiety why he wasn't. Maybe it was because he'd never known a stranger to instantly understand so much about him; Roy was the only person who had ever come close.

Thomas probed for a last name. "Casey...?"

"Just Casey."

"Mr. Casey, would you do me the honour of sitting down for a few minutes with me?"

Casey found it necessary to keep his back against the door. All he had to do was push with his legs, and he would be out. "I don't think so."

"Five minutes? It would be a good bit of practice for you."

"What do you know about it?"

Thomas smiled again. "I don't know, I only guess. I'm pretty good at guessing."

"What — what do you want?"

"Just a few minutes of your time, to talk. But let me put you at ease...I have no romantic designs upon you, so you can reassure your overprotective friend on that account. I will not ask you for your last name again, if that helps, or where you live. I only wish to have a conversation with you."

Every alarm Casey had developed over the years was screaming, and still he didn't move. He wanted to, his muscles were twitching with it, and yet he didn't. The reasons to not trust strangers were intact, all the way back to mom's advice on the first day of school, fast forward to monsters behind faces that you knew, walking and talking for them and working their strings — and this man was definitely exhibiting potentially alien behaviours, but there was one thing that was different now. Casey was feeling something that he didn't remember feeling so actively for quite some time. It was curiosity.

"Why?" he demanded of Thomas.

"Truthfully? Because you strike me as unusual. Which would make you a lot like me, so I guess I like you." Thomas smiled with easygoing charm, and waited to hear of his fate.

"You are unusual," Casey agreed.

"Thank you."

Before Casey could assay the meaning of that, the door suddenly gave way behind him. Someone wanted to get in. He staggered back, then forward and sideways a couple of steps still keeping that safety zone between himself and Thomas, which the latter made no attempt to breach. He just smiled relentlessly down at Casey.

Casey's cell phone trilled in his pocket. That would be Zeke calling and Casey broke. He ran all the way from there to their building and up the stairs, so he was panting as he burst through the door. His knees were trembling and he was on the brink of pouring out the whole story to Zeke immediately so Zeke could tell him why he should never go back there again and he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore but it was Sasha who came to him stupid Casey stupid today was Monday Casey —

"What's the matter, kitten?"

"N-nothing," he muttered, and he was close to crying.

"But you're upset...what happened?"

"I — I d-don't — " His teeth were chattering. He ducked under Sasha's arm and down the hall. He didn't know what had just happened, but he knew this: Zeke wouldn't like it. It didn't matter what Thomas intended, Zeke just wouldn't like it.

It would take an entire tank of hot water before he was calm enough to receive Sasha's comfort. He burrowed into that warm acceptance and drifted until he heard the sounds at the door that meant Zeke was home.

He had only moments to savour Zeke's presence, Zeke's arms and his body and his scent. Then he was being whisked off to the grocery store by Sasha, who was covering up for Zeke about something. Casey had noted several surreptitious conversations between them over the weekend and this morning, but whatever it was, Zeke was not sharing it with him. He could have taken Casey aside at any point throughout the evening...before pizza, after pizza, during half-time...any of those options would have been fine. Except Zeke had apparently not decided whether he wanted Casey to know yet — whatever it was.

"Please god...not another letter," Casey whispered. The mere thought of it made his heart play hopscotch for a minute.

The momentary anxiety had just dissolved and his eyes were getting heavy when an outburst from the living room yanked him back to wakefulness.

"NO!" Jerry bellowed, accompanied by an indistinct howl from Zeke. "No, no, you motherfucking whore!"

There was Sasha's voice raised in reply, and although it was at nowhere near the same decibel level and Casey couldn't quite make it out, he was fairly sure that Sasha was giving the hockey spectators a piece of his mind. After that, the noise from the living room was considerably subdued.

Casey took Zeke's pillow and hugged it against his chest, burying his face in it and inhaling deeply of tobacco and nicotine, shampoo and aftershave. "Zeke..." he murmured, just before he fell asleep.

It was a wicked volley, helped along by Zeke's attack scream: "Graaaghh!"

That morning he had finally read Delilah's reply to his precipitous email of Monday — and no, he had not been avoiding it, not at all. When he entered his darkened bedroom on Monday night Casey had been unconscious and Zeke didn't want to disturb him with clacking keys or the glow of the monitor. Then, on Tuesday, Zeke had been on campus most of the day, and later at home he had gotten blissfully distracted, forgetting that Delilah ever existed — until this morning when he woke up to the sound of Casey typing and went hot and cold at the possibility that Casey had seen the email from Delilah and opened it. Of course, Zeke and Casey each had their own profile on the computer, with their individual settings and mailboxes, but Casey was set up as the administrator. He could easily get into Zeke's stuff if he wanted to, not that he ever would. Still, that didn't stop the scary wave from breaking all over Zeke. The moment that Casey was in the shower, he had logged on and checked his mail.

Fuck you, Delilah had written. I know and you know that you wanted your father around and you didn't have him. I'm giving you a chance, you can do what you like with it but stop being full of shit. And I expect an apology from YOU.

So it felt fucking good to scream.

The squash ball ricocheted off the wall and flew right at Stan's face. He ducked out of the way with a bit of a grunt, missing the return, then frowned at Zeke.

"Sorry," Zeke heaved, breathing hard. "We'll make that a let."

"No, it's a point...something bothering you, Zeke?"

Zeke had already picked up the ball and was preparing to serve again. "What?"

"Something. Bothering you."

"No," Zeke grunted.

"Okay."

Zeke served. Stan smashed a return that got past Zeke's backhand, and Zeke threw his racquet on the floor. Constructed of molded graphite, it remained entirely undestroyed. "Fuck!"

"My serve," Stan replied coolly. "And by the way, swearing is technically against the rules in this game."

"Fuck that."

Stan drawled, "Alrighty, then."

It only took Zeke a few more minutes to lose the game. Once he had missed his return on the game ball, he lowered his racquet and began wandering around, trying to cool down. Stan stood next to the wall and began the process of stretching. "You know," he said. "You really should quit smoking."

"Fuck you."

"God, but you're a shit today."

Zeke couldn't find a viable argument to that. He stepped back into the wall of the court and let himself slide down to a sitting position. "I'm in a shitty mood," he returned.

Stan slid into a similar position, on the wall opposite to Zeke. "No shit," he said pointedly. "But why?"

Zeke looked at the person across from him. Steady, open and honest, that was Stan. He had the makings of a good confidante, and one additional thing that Stokely didn't — Stan being a guy and all. But then, Zeke didn't really need a confidante. He knew what he had to do, he had just been dithering and soliloquizing like fucking Hamlet since Monday.

"It's nothing," Zeke said. "Just that I talked to my father a couple of days ago."

"Your father?" Stan had been busy stretching, but he stopped long enough to comment, "Wow."

"Why is everyone so shocked that I have a father?"

"Zeke, it's just that...I thought he was out of the picture, you know?"

"Yeah, well...so did I. Now suddenly he wants to have dinner and make nice and like a jerk I said yes."

"Oh," was apparently all that Stan could think of to say to that.

"Yeah." Zeke wiped his sweaty face. "And I told him I was bringing Casey with me but I'm afraid Casey won't want to go."

"Why wouldn't he?"

"You know how he is, Stan."

"I guess..."

"He doesn't like to be out in public, especially where there are lots of people around."

"I knew that, but why, Zeke?"

Zeke shook his head. "It's complicated."

Stan commenced stretching his other leg. "But have you asked him about the dinner thing at all?"

"Not yet."

"Don't you think you should?"

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

"I'm just saying I don't know why you're all worked up about it when you haven't even asked him yet."

"I'm going to, okay?"

"When?"

"Soon."

"Tonight?"

"Very soon."

Stan struggled onto his feet again with a groan. "While I'm thinking of it, I'm supposed to ask you something."

"What?"

"Aunt Charly..."

Zeke also got to his feet, pretending that his muscles were not trembling as badly as they were. He was even more out of shape than he had thought. "Yes?" he prompted.

Stan just folded his arms.

"What?" Zeke said, exasperated.

"I'm waiting for you to growl or roar or do whatever you do whenever her name gets brought up."

"Shut up, fuckhead. Satisfied?"

"That'll do, I guess. She said that she was supposed to have everyone over to her house, since you and Casey missed the last time, right? And then she was thinking, it's Thanksgiving in a few weeks."

"And?"

Stan rolled his eyes. "So she wants to invite you and Casey and Sasha over for Thanksgiving dinner."

There was a knock at the door to their court, signalling that their time was officially up; the next pair of squash players wanted in. Zeke went out first, going directly to the water fountain out in the hallway. He slurped the warm, stale water and found it delicious. He also considered the possibility that Stan was right about quitting smoking. The phlegm that his lungs were hawking up right now was perfectly revolting. Plus, he was going to be twenty-three soon, which meant that he'd been smoking for almost ten years. He should stop now, before the habit got any older.

"Well?" Stan said. He was holding his water bottle, retrieved from his gym bag; he took a long pull from it.

"Will there be turkey?"

"Unfortunately."

Zeke shrugged. "I like turkey."

"So...?"

"It's probably okay."

Wiping his mouth, Stan said, "No one's going anywhere for Thanksgiving, right?"

"That's kind of far away still, we haven't even talked about it. What about you, don't you go home to see your folks?"

"For Christmas, sure. I can't afford to go twice, though. I can't really afford to go once."

"Your aunt is well off, couldn't she help you out?"

"Yeah, but she doesn't believe in helping out family too much. She wants me to ‘prove myself.'"

Zeke raised a brow. "I would have thought you'd done that by now. Anyway...what about Stokes? Is she invited?"

"Of course," Stan said glumly.

"I thought...the two of you got along fine the other night."

"We do. We're still friends, it's just that I'd like to...well..." Stan trailed off. "And she doesn't."

Poor Stan. If he let himself, Zeke could feel a bit responsible for the break-up, even if Stokely insisted that she and Stan had been in decline before Zeke and Casey ever showed up. So they had just been the catalyst, and maybe if they hadn't been there confronting Stan with their gay ways, the relationship would have soldiered on, even repaired itself. At least Stokely seemed fine with things staying the way they were now. She wasn't happy, but she didn't want to pick up where they left off either.

"So you'll come for Thanksgiving?" Stan pressed. "Say yes, I don't want to be eating all that turkey myself."

"I think we probably will. Just need to check with the others."

"Awesome." Stan started off towards the locker room, letting Zeke trail behind him. "Hey, Zeke, can I tell you something...sort of like...advice?"

"Okay," Zeke said, wondering what this would be, from Stan Rosado.

"Talk to Casey — like immediately. It's was a rough lesson for me, but after getting caught six or eight times I finally got it. They pretty much always know something's up. You could be the greatest actor in the world and they'd still know."

Zeke rolled his eyes, knowing Stan wouldn't see it. Of course Casey knew something was up. He had Zeke constantly under his microscope. He analyzed all data received from Zeke, second by second, and the more time he had to speculate on its meaning, the more complicated the conclusions. He wouldn't know precisely what was bothering Zeke exactly, but he would deduce something — along with twenty or so somethings that didn't actually exist. After a few months as the object of that overcalibrated sensory apparatus, Zeke was beginning to have an appreciation of the kind of scientist Casey would be when his instruments were all functioning properly.

"Thanks," Zeke said dryly, as they reached the door to the locker room. "Hey, Stan? Let me give you a piece of advice now."

"Okay," Stan said nervously.

"Casey's not a girl," Zeke reminded him.

Stan flinched, his eyes getting bigger. It wasn't the message that disturbed him, but the way that Zeke was daring to mention it in the gym, that sanctuary of jocks and muscleheads. They were practically in the locker room, directly inhaling the testosterone, and there were other guys passing right in front of them as they spoke. It didn't much matter that no one stopped for a second, or even twitched. In Stan's mind, they were all listening, and entirely appalled and disgusted. They might have been, too, but Zeke didn't give a fuck.

"Right," Stan said, and fled into the locker room.

Zeke followed, grinning. Stan was just too much fun to torment.

Not that Zeke didn't have a valid point he wanted to make. Okay, there were times when Casey could be a total girl with his melodrama — but it was a mistake to think of him as a girl and Zeke had learned that much later than he should have. If only someone would invent a third category of human being that Casey could belong to. It would make things easier on Stan, at least.

Stan also had a point, though.

Zeke got himself home, arriving freshly showered and a lot less stressed than he had been that morning. As usual, Sasha had gone to work around three, so Zeke and Casey now had the place to themselves for the rest of the evening.

Casey was in the bedroom, also as usual — but instead of being balled up under his afghan, he was sprawled out writing in his journal. He was listening to one of his screaming bands with his Discman and gripping his pen a fuck of a lot harder than any elementary school teacher would ever approve, his hand and face both tight and close to the book. When Zeke touched his shoulder he jerked and flipped over with a face that was equal parts terror and anger, his eyes almost wild. He slammed his book shut and pushed himself up, clawing his headphones off.

"Whatcha doing?" Zeke said.

"N-nothing," Casey faltered. He kept one hand on the book like he was afraid Zeke would try to grab it from him and read it. "Just homework. Ther-therapy t-tomorrow."

Zeke decided not to wonder what this was about; Casey was entitled to some slight degree of privacy. "Okay," he said. "Officially, I'm sorry. There's something I should have told you days ago and I didn't — but I want to tell you now."

Casey blinked away whatever it was he had been writing, putting his journal to one side and turning off his music. When he turned back to Zeke, he seemed to be bracing himself for the apocalypse.

"It's not that serious," Zeke reassured him. He was still standing, looking down at Casey. He should have sat down, but he was finding that the urge to pace was difficult to restrain. "Remember on Monday when Sasha insisted that you go to the grocery store with him?"

"Yeah," Casey said, looking not all that reassured.

"Well...I'm sure you've noticed that I've been a little testy this week, and I'm sorry. See, um...my father phoned me."

Casey clenched his hands together, but didn't say anything.

"He left a message first saying he was coming to Seattle and wanted to see me."

Zeke waited while Casey sorted through his various responses to this.

"When?" was what Casey chose to say.

"When," Zeke echoed. "You mean...when did he call?"

"Yeah."

"Last Thursday, although I didn't realize it until late."

"Did — you phoned him?"

"Yes. While you and Sasha were out the other day."

Zeke could virtually see the pistons firing, emotions combusting, producing enough energy to fuel a thousand messages of insecurity: Wondering why Zeke hadn't given Casey this information earlier, why he had waited until after he called his father back and not even then, concluding that it was because Zeke hadn't decided yet if he wanted to tell Casey. And Casey was right about that. He would just be wrong about the reasons.

"What does he want?" Casey asked, his voice replete with the things that he wasn't saying.

"I don't know. He says just to see me. We didn't talk for very long. All business as usual but we're going to meet for dinner this Satur — "

"Zeke."

"What?"

Casey was almost but not quite whispering. "Will you...will you sit down?"

Zeke realized he had been pacing despite his attempts not to, back and forth beside the bed and as he went on he was making Casey increasingly nervous. He saw Casey looking up at him and looking away, maybe wanting to touch him because that was what you did to comfort someone who was your lover.

He sat. It was just his father, for fuck sake. There wasn't much to feel except annoyance that the man was wasting their time. Certainly there was nothing that required him to be comforted.

"What's he like?" Casey asked.

"Huh?"

"I never met him, I was just wondering what he's like."

"Actually, you have met him. Right after the aliens...Both my parents showed up and I introduced you to them."

"Oh...don't remember."

That wasn't entirely a surprise.

"Anyway," Zeke said. "There's not much to say about the man. He's a tax lawyer in Los Angeles, he's stinkin' rich and he doesn't seem to have human emotions."

At the subsequent quiet, Zeke glanced sideways. Casey had hung his eyes on Zeke. Every gesture, every behaviour was being scrutinized for intention and disguised meanings.

"Casey, don't," Zeke said, more harshly than he had intended, and of course Casey flinched. It would have been nice, just once, to have a conversation that wasn't like picking his way across a verbal minefield.

"I'm sorry," Casey said.

Zeke turned a full glare on him. "Do you even know what you're apologizing for?"

"No...but...t-tell me what it is and I'll stop doing it."

Fuck. Just — fuck.

Zeke reached for Casey's hand and held it, bringing it to his chest. "You haven't done anything wrong," Zeke said. "You're just trying to show concern and I'm being completely hostile. It's how I've...I don't like to think or talk about my parents. I'm quite content without them in my life. I just get completely fucking perplexed when they try to snake back in."

There was something ridiculous in how that last part came off. He sounded...well, vulnerable, even when he didn't really feel that way, not at all. And it wasn't denial. He had taught himself the facts of life as regarding his parents quite some time ago. His father shouldn't be getting to him this much, not when he'd done without the man quite handily for a decade or so.

"I — I want to hug you," Casey said quietly. "But I don't know if you want me to."

Zeke didn't know if he wanted to be hugged either. It seemed like a dangerous thing to attempt right now when there were so many unexpected emotions at large, but for Casey's sake, he would try it.

"I'd like to be hugged," Zeke replied, and between them they crossed that distance just fine. It was not nearly as dangerous as he had thought, and it was actually a very familiar sensation — except this time it was Casey who was doing the holding. It felt ridiculously good, even when Casey was so much smaller than he was; Casey's arms were wrapped around him somewhere in mid-torso. Zeke sighed quietly, finding it expedient to put his head on Casey's shoulder, if a little bit of a strain on his neck. Casey's fingers ruffled his hair and suddenly his throat was aching and that wouldn't do at all. He pulled back.

Casey let him go without a fight but he saw that Casey was smiling. "What? What are you grinning about?"

"I'm really fucking short, aren't I?"

Zeke burst out laughing. "Did you just notice that?"

"Not exactly...just...once in a while it makes things awkward and that's when I really notice it."

Zeke stopped laughing. He reached, plying a finger down Casey's jaw and said with complete sincerity, "You're perfect."

Casey flushed delightfully. "Not."

"Okay, not perfect. Except you are. You're perfect in your imperfection."

"Zeke — would you stop it?"

Yeah, he could stop it. He dragged Casey in close to him and smothered him with kisses because he was perfect and Zeke had to mess him up, get him all marked and molested and dirty. And then clean him up and take him out in public so that eyes could pop out of heads and hearts explode with envy because Zeke Tyler's lover was perfectly strange and strangely perfect.

Casey said quietly, his body pliant in Zeke's embrace, "You know...I used to have fantasies about meeting Roy's father."

Zeke held his breath, afraid that he would inadvertently break the spell. For all the things that he knew about Life with Roy, it sure wasn't because Casey was in the habit of disclosing them.

"I was ridiculous," Casey went on. "I'd imagine myself at Roy's family home. I pictured myself there at Christmas one time. In detail...Roy's parents got me a present. His brother and sister were there and they didn't like me at first but then..."

"Then?"

Casey's head stayed buried against Zeke's chest. He mumbled, "I feel really stupid."

"You're not — come on, tell me."

"Okay...so when his brother and sister see how good I am for Roy, they...accept me and they...they say that I'm their brother too."

Zeke took that in. He was long past wanting to pummel Roy every time he heard some new proof of the kind of miserable human being that he was; it didn't do anyone any good to fulminate and make up threats that would never be acted upon. He just asked, "In your fantasy, what did the in-laws get you for Christmas?"

Casey hesitated. Then, "Flannel pajamas," he admitted sombrely.

"Knowing my father, it'd be silk."

"Zeke..." Casey wormed his way out of Zeke's grasp so he could get an angle on his face. "Do you — I mean — what do you think is going to happen?"

With a shrug, Zeke answered, "I don't know. My father and I are nowhere near having Christmas together, that's for sure."

"Does he know about you and me?"

"Says he doesn't care. Which is actually pretty much in character for him."

Casey frowned. "He's your father, he must care about you."

"That's a nice sentiment, and it would be a nice world if it were true but I've had quite a few years to get used to the idea that my father doesn't give a damn."

"But — "

"Just give it up, Casey. Not everyone can have nice parents. Some of us lost out in the parent lottery, and that's that."

Casey's expression fell and his shoulders hunched a bit, and Zeke realized that he was not being very pleasant to deal with. He really needed to put a stop to it too, or someone would start to think that he was bothered by this father-son crap.

"I appreciate what you're trying to do," Zeke said. "I really do — but there are so many other things I'd rather do with my time than talk about my parents." He put out a finger and lifted Casey's chin, saying, "Will you come with me on Saturday night?"

"Do you — want me to?" Casey said, biting his lip.

"Yeah," he said. "I do. But do you want to?"

"I don't know."

It was a little bit devastating. He hadn't thought for a moment that he wanted to hear yes quite that badly until he heard Casey's response. But I need you there, he cried inside, hating his own whining. I need you, don't you see, I must have you there, I must...There's really no reason to go otherwise.

"I want to...for you." Casey shivered slightly. "I'd...do anything for you — I mean, I'd try."

And Zeke had to admit that there was something that he desperately wanted from Casey. He could barely breathe with wanting it, and it wasn't pretty. It was definitely sick because, yes, he wanted to parade Casey in front of his father on Saturday and say, Fuck you, Jacob. I'm not you, I have something actually extraordinary in my life and I don't need your pasty face and your grey suits and your lawyer voice...I have the kid who saw aliens, the one you dismissed, remember, the one you thought was dangerous — well, guess what? He is dangerous, he's taken over my mind and my body now, he's with me and I'm with him and there's nothing you can do about it...

"I know," Zeke rasped, his thumb straying over Casey's lower lip, following its path with his eyes.

"But I...well..." Casey said, "I'll go...but I don't think I'll be any fun."

Words were extraneous right then. Zeke caught up Casey in a tight hold, feeling Casey's ribs moving against him, pressing air in and out. "I — thank you," Zeke managed.

"You really want me there," Casey said against his shoulder, like he couldn't believe it.

"Of course I really want you there," Zeke said. "It wouldn't be bearable otherwise." And there he went, sounding needy again — funny, it hadn't played that way in his head. He added lightly, "Besides, I want to show you off."

Casey's hand came up, settling over Zeke's heart, near to where he had laid his head. "You're a riot," he murmured. "There's nothing to show."

Sometimes, Zeke had to wonder if Casey's eyes worked at all. Of course people rarely saw the good in themselves, but surely Casey had glanced in the mirror enough times by now that he should have figured out what he was looking at. "What if I list it for you?" Zeke offered. His fingers were beginning to stray again, lingering on some of the features he was quite prepared to itemize.

"Fuck, no."

"Why not?"

"Just — no, please."

"All right," Zeke conceded. He sighed melodramatically, "Okay, then I won't tell you how incredibly hot you are."

Casey had full access to Zeke's throat, and he was taking advantage of it. He eased in with a few, patternless, scattered kisses, then turned a bit more assertive, tonguing a locale along the side of Zeke's neck that was especially sensitive. "You can tell me that if you want," he breathed.

Zeke muttered, "You're incredibly hot."

"Thank you," Casey replied, nipping at his jaw.

"Also — very polite."

The sexual aggressor in Casey was stoked now. He executed a neat acrobatic twist so that he was straddling Zeke's hips, using Zeke's thighs as a platform. He was wearing a feral expression, a half-grin that Zeke had a brief opportunity to view before he resumed his assault on Zeke's neck. His hands had fisted in Zeke's shirt, as much as ordering him to stay put, and Zeke was quite content — despite the awkward position that he was in and the potential for severe back injury — to let himself be handled. He closed his eyes and considered that it had been a difficult week altogether and how lovely to be cared for and attended to...how really fucking lovely.

Moving to nuzzle Zeke's ear, Casey breathed, "There's something I want to give you...Please."

"What?"

"A blow job."

"Wha — ?"

"A naked blow job."

"Naked...like...?"

"Like I take all my clothes off and you just take out your cock." Casey's sank his teeth into Zeke's lobe just to the point of discomfort, then turned it into a gentle sucking and laving. "Would you like that?"

Zeke fought to retain possession of some part of his mind. He certainly couldn't think of a single objection to the idea. "Okay, but I...I might want to practice it on you later."

Casey just licked his ear one last time and climbed to his feet, smiling like he was in possession of a secret. Zeke swung himself around and planted his feet on the floor; Casey put a hand flat on his chest. "Stay where you are," he said, echoing a moment that had reverberated with Zeke for over a month now.

Then the boy who usually tore his clothes off and threw them aside, who most times wouldn't even let Zeke enjoy the process of getting naked, executed what was very nearly a striptease.

Casey took his socks off first — a wise decision in Zeke's view — then started on his shirt, toying with the hem a little before pulling it slowly over his head. He broke off long enough to move in for a short but electric kiss. When he stepped back, it had transpired that Zeke had already unsnapped his jeans for him. The slight pink of self- consciousness on Casey's face made Zeke's aching cock twitch and leap in appreciation.

As Casey slithered out of his jeans and underwear, Zeke began to hum something vaguely sleazy, making them both giggle. "Stop it," Casey said, going completely red.

"I'm just providing a soundtrack — "

"Shut up."

Zeke complied.

Casey stepped out of his jeans, leaving them puddled on the floor so he was entirely nude — and, Zeke saw, quite aroused by the whole proceeding. He glided forward again, into Zeke's arms, between Zeke's parted knees. Despite his nakedness there was still a complete layer of clothing between them. Zeke was mesmerized by the paradox, struggling to experience Casey's skin through denim and cotton so he didn't resist when Casey pushed his arms down gently. He closed his eyes again, savouring it all in his mind: Casey, so entirely vulnerable in front of him right now, slowly unbuttoning Zeke's shirt but not removing it, putting his mouth against that place on Zeke's neck and suckling it until there was a burgeoning new mark for tomorrow, then moving down his chest, burning another mark here, and then here, until at last he was on his knees in front of Zeke.

Through a fog, Zeke heard: "Open it."

"Huh?" Zeke opened his eyes, looked down. Casey was looking up at him expectantly, with the most innocent expression he'd ever worn — or at least, it had to be one of the top five innocent expressions that Zeke had seen.

"Open your pants...take it out." Casey's breathing was quick and shallow, his voice low.

"Sh-shit," Zeke muttered. He unbuckled himself, pushing aside what he needed to so that the ache and hardness between his legs was exposed. He would have tried to remove his pants altogether except Casey smacked his hands out of the way, then leaned forward and almost swallowed him whole. His head fell back; so did his hands, just barely catching him before he fell.

The next few minutes dissolved into a haze of torture and delight. Casey was literally breathtaking, bringing Zeke to the brink several times with a pressure that would gradually get so intense it was like being stuck in one of those Chinese finger traps where pulling on it just made everything get tighter.

Just before what would surely be the last time, Zeke managed to recover some slight presence of mind and caught Casey by the shoulder before he could dive again. "No," he gasped. "No, I want...I want to finish inside you."

Casey's expression was exquisite in its complexity — want, guilt, and something kind of perplexed and impatient. He made a grab at the stash of supplies in the drawer, but Zeke grabbed him first.

"Never mind the condom," Zeke muttered. And maybe, never mind the lube. His cock was already slick with saliva and pre-cum.

"What — ? No, you — "

"You're clean. Anyway, it's my risk."

"Zeke — "

"Come up here."

But Casey didn't move. His eyes and mouth glistened as he knelt on the floor, and Zeke couldn't stand it, he needed to be inside him within the next minute, the next second if possible. He would do whatever it took.

"Okay," Zeke said, giving in. "Condom." He took Casey's hand and pulled him up, then got himself lubed and rubber-shrouded faster than he'd ever known he could, while Casey arranged himself over the end of the bed. Kneeling behind Casey's spread thighs, Zeke couldn't help but add, "But the risk is minimal. Most people show positive within three months of the last potential exposure."

"Most but not ah-all — " Casey choked as Zeke entered him. His hand was lying open on the bed; Zeke took it up and squeezed it hard, pressing forward. "Ninety...ninety- nine percent...show positive at six months."

Zeke was now buried inside his lover's ass, and the hot, almost painful tightness quickly pushed all vestiges of statistical information pertaining to the subject out of his head. He began to rock gently, trying for a pace that would let him hang on for a little while, long enough to give Casey some amount of satisfaction. "Fine," he growled.

"Fine," Casey gasped out in reply, his fingers winding themselves into the bedspread.

Then the world was only the glide of flesh on flesh and the pleasure-agony that was building in Zeke, the sweat slicking his skin, his and Casey's sweat and an uncomfortable burn around his knees. He was managing to keep some control, not letting it come on too fast — until a point when he shifted, widening his stance slightly and that changed the angle, drawing a moan out of Casey that made him lose himself entirely, slamming into the smooth heat again and again until he exploded there, vaguely hearing the mingled cries of approval in the distance.

He returned to himself lying half on the bed and half on Casey, still clutching his hand. He struggled all the way onto the bed, squirming and helping Casey along until they were both reasonably comfortable, lying in a panting, sweaty mess. Since they had already made a disaster of the bedspread, Zeke didn't feel the need to jump up to dispose of his condom, just leaving it balled up in a tissue for the moment. Fuck but he would be glad when condoms were no longer a necessity between them.

"This is going...to sound funny," Zeke puffed, still trying to catch his breath. "But...thank you...for letting me do that to you."

Casey snuggled in close, his usual move immediately after lovemaking. "Thank you for doing it," he said, far too seriously for Zeke's comfort.

There was something Zeke had realized one night when they were lying together, very much as they were lying together now. It was weeks ago, and it was a sickening thought that now sent a chill through him every single time they fucked — but only, always after. It was just the reality that he would never know if Casey was where he wanted to be or not. Casey would get turned on, he would come...sure he would, that was the almost inevitable result of two guys getting it on but it didn't really tell Zeke anything — because he lost control every time. When he was in the midst of it he could barely see, let alone pay attention to what was happening with Casey. He had the impression that Casey rarely spoke once Zeke was hammering his body, but if Casey did speak, Zeke would probably never hear him. He could be begging Zeke to stop and Zeke wouldn't know about it until it was all over.

"I loved that, when you stripped for me," Zeke said, attempting to casually introduce a topic that he knew had high strife potential. He stroked Casey's damp hair and added, "I hope...I wouldn't mind doing it that way again."

"How do you mean?" Casey asked, sounding distinctly apprehensive.

"Just...kinda slow."

The tension that had been absent from Casey's body just moments ago was renewing itself. "I can do slow," he said.

"I know, it's just...sometimes..."

"What?"

This would be another of those moments, the ones where Zeke opened his mouth to say something innocuous and...well, he was in it now. He finished, "Sometimes it seems like all you want is for me to nail you to the mattress."

Now the rapidly cooling, naked body in his arms was seized with shivers — from cold, yes, but surely other things as well. "I thought you liked to nail me to the mattress," Casey said, his breath hitching slightly.

"I do, Case." Sometimes so much that it frightened him. Sometimes Casey shook for half an hour afterward, and clung to Zeke so hard he left bruises. Sometimes he seemed unable to muster any kind of coherence for a while and Zeke would be convinced that this time they were well and truly lost. "I do, but you know...we don't have to fuck every time."

"We d-don't...always."

"Actually, mostly we do." Zeke couldn't believe that he was having this conversation, but he didn't know what else to say or do. Because they would not be stopping. Neither one of them could have that.

"I was going to suck you off but you said...you wanted..."

"I know what I said. I'm just trying to make a suggestion."

Silence.

"Okay," Casey said.

"Okay, what?"

Let it never be said that Casey was incapable of maintaining his own point of view when he wanted to. "Okay, you're making a suggestion."

Zeke decided it was time to cut his losses for today. "I'm hungry," he announced. "Let's clean up and eat and watch a movie. I don't want to think about anything serious for the rest of the night, and definitely not anything to do with parents."

Casey nodded. "Shower?"

"I think that would be advisable."

"Together?"

Zeke began the somewhat unpleasant process of ungluing himself and Casey. He knew he was not going to be eating any time soon, and that was...more than okay. "I wouldn't have it any other way," he said.

Saturday arrived way ahead of schedule and Casey found himself staring into the face of the next nightmare. "Why?" he moaned.

"It's the perfect time to do it," Sasha answered, waving at the brightly-decorated windows of Adam's Eve Hair Design — a name which made absolutely no sense to Casey at the moment. "You want to look good tonight, right?"

Casey turned squarely to face Sasha while his back crawled with the sense of people walking behind him and his brain spun with fragments of thoughts about now and later and what he would do or say if a casual touch turned into something more purposeful and how did you save yourself from an alien incursion without violating the rules of ordinary politeness or putting off someone's father...and if someone said Hey, science boy, can you give a breakdown of your nervous symptoms it would be Why, yes, Sasha, this week it's twenty-one percent normal everyday terror of the world at large, nineteen percent terror of Zeke riding off into the sunset with his school chum, fifteen percent terror of Dr. Yves and forty-five percent terror of tonight when I'm to meet Zeke's father except today right now that last factor is increasing at an exponential rate and what I deduce from this data is that the guy who said you should be careful about what you wish for was fucking bang-on.

"Kitten?" Sasha had taken his arm. "Breathe for me."

He breathed...onetwothreefourfive...see, he was breathing. He could do this. He had to do this, because he was really here for Zeke and Sasha, today was all about Zeke and Sasha and what they needed, it had to be or Casey would turn around and make a screaming streak back to their apartment.

And apparently, one of Sasha's needs was to transform Casey into a Gay Superstar before tonight. Casey gulped, "What are you going to do to me?"

Sasha was gazing back at Casey with imploring brown eyes. "Me? Nothing, kitten. I'm not doing anything to you. Geesh, you'd think I was going to torture you or something."

"But what — what do — why not just a haircut?"

Someone brushed his arm. He heard himself make a noise like a muffled grunt of terror as he involuntarily twitched closer to Sasha. It was go in or stay out here amidst the throng now. "Can we just go inside?" he asked, shivering.

Sasha looked momentarily jubilant, then sympathetic. He gestured to the door, and followed Casey in, guarding him without looking like he meant to be guarding him. Sasha was always good about that, finding ways to reassure and comfort without being obvious — only when required though, because he did prefer obvious comfort and he did it very well.

It was Adam who greeted them; naturally, Sasha would have asked for him specifically when making the appointment. "Hiya, honey," Adam said to Casey, and when Casey didn't reply there was a nervous pause before he commented, "Oh, goodness but you do need a trim." He glanced down over the calendar in front of him. "And it says here you're going to get a colour today?"

"That's the plan," Sasha replied.

"Wait," Casey said. "Please." He unpacked his own big guns, hitting Sasha with a substantial pout. Sasha's brows drew together; he gestured for Casey to come away a few feet.

"What's wrong, kitten? Is it the money? I told you, it's a gift from me to you so don't worry about it."

"But..."

"But?"

"What if I like my hair the colour it is now?"

"I wasn't going to propose that we change it completely, just put some highlights in, give it some texture."

"Won't that take hours?"

Sasha got a suspicious tilt to his head. "You actually know something about hair colouring?"

"When my mom gets her hair done it always takes hours."

"Is that your main objection? That it will take too long?"

"I..." Casey had let himself be dragged here by Sasha at the suggestion that Zeke's father would think less of him if his hair wasn't decently trimmed — and he could admit that he was starting to look a little shaggy but he didn't want to spend one more second here than he had to. This whole hair colouring thing seemed unnecessary. Even cutting his hair wasn't a matter of great importance, if he was completely honest about it.

Sasha put a hand on his shoulder. "I know it's uncomfortable, kitten, but didn't your doctor say that we're supposed to help by pushing you a bit here and there?"

He looked at the floor and muttered, "Thought going out for a fancy dinner was enough for one day."

Sasha heaved a martyred sigh. "It's up to you, Casey. Call me shallow, but it makes me happy to see you looking your best. Do it for mama?"

Casey grumbled, "You should have been somebody's mother."

"If you really don't want to do it, I'm not going to force you."

Casey tallied the potential threat in the salon. On a scale of one to ten, it was around a five — not terrible but not entirely secure either, and there was a fairly high degree of gratuitous physical contact in places like this.

But on the other hand, he hadn't done much to make Sasha happy lately. Not that Sasha was miserable, not that Casey could see. Sasha was content, perhaps, but he was not by any means bubbling over with joy. Jerry had made some difference, but still...Sasha was not in love. Casey had seen Sasha in love a couple of times before and this was not it. Giving a friend a make-over was not on a par, it seemed like a minor thing by comparison...but it did give Casey the power to make Sasha a little more than content for a while.

"Okay...let's do it," he consented.

Sasha's smile instantly made Casey glad of his decision. Terror, misery and potential destruction now lay ahead of him, but it would be worth it.

Adam actually hopped up and down and clapped his hands to hear the news. He guided Casey to sit at his station and began playing with his hair in that way that hair stylists always did while they brainstormed. "So some highlights...but you know, your natural colour is pretty dark, what if we changed it a bit...just for something different?"

"Not blond," Sasha said, before Casey could speak.

"Sure, okay," Adam replied. "But you know what I was thinking? What about a nice deep auburn base?"

"Um..." Casey said.

"It will still be mostly brown, but darker than your natural shade with red tones — and then we'll take some of it out on top so there will be some red and orange highlights — and if I had time I would do some black, just some chunks around the nape — "

Sasha shook his head, but Casey hadn't missed the way his eyes started to glitter while Adam was speaking. He said quickly, "Okay."

It sounded like Sasha was holding his breath as he said, "That really will take hours, kitten."

Yeah, so it would just have to be the kind of day that was going to leave Casey a strung-out shell of a human being; once he resigned himself to that fact, anything was possible. "It's all right," he said, curbing a shiver.

Sasha was getting brighter by the second. "Do you like the idea, though?"

"It's kinda...I dunno..."

"Funky?" Sasha suggested.

"Yeah...I guess."

"It's not as wild as it sounds," Adam said. "You'll see...it'll be funky and classy." He ruffled the back of Casey's hair while Casey fought not to scrunch his shoulders and twitch him off. "And what did you want to do for the cut? What about just a little trim — because, you know, it's long enough that we could just shape it into a sort of messy Leo DiCaprio thing."

"All right," Casey said.

Quite stunned now, Sasha proposed, "How about a little eyebrow waxing, then?"

"Um..."

"Or ear piercing?"

Casey received an image of himself strapped down in a chair while two Adams took up positions on either side of his head, each wielding a big stapler. "You're kidding, right?"

"Yep. I'm completely and utterly kidding — unless you're willing to consider it, in which case I'm deadly serious."

Casey peered in the mirror, trying to see himself with earrings. That was him, with that same face and body that confronted him every time he looked. He was strange-looking, there was just no escaping it. He'd been told enough times to see how it was true. His eyes were too big and his mouth was too small. He looked like a child, certainly not a man. He would have been lying if he said he didn't have some inkling of how Zeke saw him, but that didn't make it any less bizarre. Dr. Yves had accused him of taking the judgments of the world in general as truth, but she was mistaken. It wasn't that he thought people were right about him, it was just that it didn't matter if they were right or not, because they always acted as if they were.

"Kitten. It's hardly worth obsessing over."

"Huh?" he mumbled, blinking.

"Ear piercing? It's not a major life decision."

Casey stared at himself some more. He said, not really to Sasha, "Doesn't seem like me."

In the mirror, Sasha considered him and said, "Maybe you could tell me what that means?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Hmmm...well. We'll leave the piercing for another day."

Casey floated through the next three hours in a near-trance. He had to, or he would have slapped Adam's hands off, grabbed the nearest pair of scissors and hidden in the cloakroom, brandishing them at anyone who came near; he spent a good chunk of his time in the chair braiding a long narrative in which he did exactly that. Sasha didn't do much to disturb his ruminations, staying close and smiling at him often, occasionally trying to engage him in his natter with Adam but not pushing it when he didn't respond. Two hours in, Sasha had to go ten feet away to the reception desk, to call Zeke and let him know that they were taking longer than expected. Casey followed Sasha there and back with his eyes, hating that he couldn't be the one to talk to Zeke. At the time, he was sitting under a dryer going deaf while his hair was cooked in tin foil. His ears felt singed, and there were a few terrible moments when he thought he was going to burst into tears if someone didn't take that thing off his head.

Headline: Casey Connor needs a nap.

There was yet another stage to put in the black colour around his neck and ears, but finally after nearly three hours the transformation was complete. Casey found himself staring at himself, bemused, not sure what to think. Maybe this had been a mistake.

"What is it?" Sasha asked softly. He leaned forward, putting his head on Casey's shoulder so he could be eye to eye in the mirror. Adam was off retrieving his razor and some other equipment that someone had borrowed from his station. "What's wrong? You don't like it?"

"I..."

"Tell me."

"I look..."

"Mm-hmm?"

"Gay, I guess."

Sasha grinned. "You look like you, kitten, only more now. If someone wants to label you, that's their damage. Personally, I think you're gorgeous."

Casey didn't answer.

"What do you want to do?" Sasha said vehemently. "Shave your head? You're still going to look the way you look, kitten. So you have two choices...Either fight it and be totally obvious that you're fighting it so you'll be like that Spadoni with his comb over, or go with it and make everyone just deal with it. You follow?"

Casey followed. He didn't have much choice when Sasha got on that particular soapbox, and he couldn't ignore the logic in it either. He did look how he looked, and there would always be a contingent of guys who were into it — Zeke being the current president and ringleader.

It was almost three o'clock when they got back — a paltry four hours left before their reservation at Sojourn detonated. Zeke was out, getting smokes the note said.

"I have to get going to work soon," Sasha said, "But there's something I want to give you."

"You mean something else?"

That didn't come out the way Casey had intended, and Sasha's expression was disconcerted, verging on hurt. "Well..."

Casey grasped the cuff of Sasha's shirt with his fingers. "I'm sorry. It's just you've given me so much already."

"You're welcome, kitten. C'mere...I've got this thing..." Sasha was nudging Casey in the direction of his bedroom as he talked. "Now, it's not anything fancy. I just saw it and thought it would go really nicely with that cotton shirt your mom got you, you know the one with the neat sort of Indian embroidery?"

"Mmm."

"The one that I haven't seen you wear yet?" Sasha hinted.

"Been too cold."

Sasha went to his dresser and retrieved something off the top of it. "You have a couple more pounds on you now for insulation and it isn't all that bad out there today...here we are."

It was a little plastic baggie that Sasha was holding up. Spying the contents, Casey said, "You're giving me jewelry?"

"Now don't get excited, sweetheart. It's cheap, I got it from that place the next block over, what's it called...Fran's?"

"Freda's."

"That one." Sasha unsealed the bag and pulled it out. It was a braided black cord embracing a stone piece the size of Casey's thumb, decorated with a rune-like symbol. "It means ‘transformation'...loosely translated."

Casey was sure that his eyes and throat wouldn't have been quite so clotted right then if he hadn't been quite so tired from the salon ordeal. "Thank you," he said hoarsely.

"It's my honour, kitten."

"Sasha?"

"Yes, kitten?"

"I'd get my eyebrows waxed for you."

Sasha's solemn expression crumpled into a laugh. "You..." He mimed a smack upside Casey's head. "Brat!"

"I'm serious — " Casey replied, ducking.

"Don't tempt me, I own a pair of tweezers. Now if I had more time — "

"I said waxing, not tweezing."

"Okay..."

"Rather have one big hurt, you know?"

"As opposed to a bunch of little ones...You're one of those pull-the-bandaid-off- all-at- once people, aren't you?"

"I think so."

Sasha hugged Casey's head against him. "So no tweezing...listen, I need to get going to work soon. I'm going to try to pop out for a visit tonight but don't be disappointed if it doesn't happen. If it gets busy they don't always let us take a break."

"Kay."

"You going to have a nap?"

"Mmm."

"Good idea. Get refreshed for tonight."

Casey clutched Sasha when he tried to move away, startling a bit of a grunt out of him. "Sasha...I'm scared."

Sasha obligingly hugged him a bit more. "Aw, kitten...don't be. It's just dinner and it'll be fine."

"Dinner with Zeke's father."

"What gives you the impression that Zeke cares so much?"

"He cares. He pretends like he doesn't but he does."

"Yes," Sasha sighed. "He does. But he cares more about you, so he's not going to hide you."

"Sasha," Casey gulped. "You don't know...how...how much I..."

"What, kitten?"

"I fuck up. I fuck it all up."

"Shh, shh...stop being silly now, I command it." Sasha rocked Casey from side to side. "You're tired and once you've recharged you'll feel much better about this. And what's the worst thing that can happen anyway?"

"Don't ask."

"Come on, kitten."

"I'll embarrass Zeke...and the more I worry about it happening, the more likely it will be true."

"Well, what if you take a Xanax before you go?"

"Then I'll definitely embarrass him. I'll be face down in my soup."

"Hey." Sasha captured Casey's face in two hands, cupping it gently. "I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Zeke likes you. He likes you a lot, and he asked you to be there because he enjoys your company. It's that simple. None of that other stuff matters so I don't want to hear you talking about anyone being embarrassed by you anymore. All right?"

Casey nodded.

"I'll see you later." Sasha smacked a kiss flat on his mouth, then nudged him gently out the door, saying, "Sorry, I need to get ready and you need to sleep...damn, I wish I could be here to see Zeke's face when he sees you!"

So did Casey, because the reaction might be something quite other than what Sasha seemed to be expecting. Zeke was a guy's guy, which meant that while it was okay to care a bit about how you looked, it was not okay to look like you cared about how you looked. He might just see Casey and say, "What'd you do that for?" and Casey wouldn't have much of an answer.

Now he was veering in the direction of a panic attack, he had enough experience to know it now and he walked himself to his room, standing in the middle of it, keeping a hand over his heart to reassure himself that it was still beating — laughable, since it was going like a programmed backbeat. "I'mokayi'mokayi'mokay..." He'd discovered that he wanted to be on his feet when he was panicking, like walking around necessarily refuted the assumption that he was dying. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Xanax wasn't an option. He counted five breaths that were less fast if not actually slow onetwothreefourfive and sat down on the computer chair. He could do this. His vital signs would resume something like normal function as long as he didn't think about anything. It wasn't cognitive therapy, but it was close.

"Sixseven...eight...nine...twelve...forty-six...a billion..."

Breathing could make a difference, he knew that. It had last Thursday. He'd started out that session almost as freaked out as he had been on Monday, and she again took him through that infinite, agonizing count to ten, forcing himself to slow the intake of oxygen into his body, lowering the rate of adrenaline production so his heart didn't race and his brain didn't get hazy with counterproductive messages about how he was having a stroke or a coronary episode. So the book had it right...Hooray for science.

Then Dr. Yves had asked him what was upsetting him — or what was upsetting him the most at that place and moment, and he spilled about the looming dinner with Zeke's father. She had used it as an opportunity to start practicing her cognitive-behavioural method, trying to give him tips about how to handle the dinner. To him, there was something very obvious about the message think anxious and you'll be anxious and he had told her so. She had replied that, common sense or not, applying it seemed to require a lot of practice and the key to making it work was doing the mood logs; by the time they got through the book, he was expected to have a stack of them about six feet high.

Towards the end of the session, she had switched onto another tack. "Did you ask him?"

"Did I...ask...?"

"You were going to think about asking Zeke to come to therapy with you. Did you decide about that?"

"Oh...no."

"Does it make you nervous, the idea of bringing Zeke here?"

"Of course," Casey had sighed. So many questions for him to answer all the time. Zeke's questions, her questions...Did you eat, Casey, are you okay, where are you now, did you fall asleep, what lie are you going to use with her, Casey...Can we do it slow, Casey...

"You look tired, Casey. Have you been sleeping?"

"Yes, only...sometimes I fall asleep too early and then I'm awake in the middle of the night. I'm so tired but still I can't sleep. Then sometimes I just totally crash."

"What do you do when you wake up in the middle of the night?"

"Um...dunno. Watch TV sometimes. Mostly I just lay there."

"They say it's better to get up and do something if you're having trouble falling asleep, as opposed to tossing and turning. If you get up, you'll start to feel tired again."

"Okay."

"Is there anything else you need to talk about today, Casey, before we run out of time?"

"You're really not going to ask me about...the stuff from last week?"

"No, Casey. I told you, this is your therapy. We'll do it the way you want it. There are times when things go on the backburner...until you're ready."

"I'm never going to be able to talk about it. Just so you know."

"I hear you, Casey. And I repeat that you will never be forced to talk about anything. That doesn't mean that I won't ask you, though."

"You sound like Zeke now."

"Do I? How so?"

"He's always so reasonable. The more out of control I get the more reasonable he gets."

"Does that bother you?"

"No."

"You told me that Zeke is basically forcing you to come here. You seemed angry about that last time."

"Even if I was, what good would it do?"

"What do you mean? Don't you think you have the right to express these things to Zeke?"

"I can't."

"Haven't you ever gotten mad at Zeke?"

"Once — "

"Yes?"

" — but that was something major. I tried to hold it in but...I just lost control after a while."

"How did you feel after that happened?"

"Terrible."

"How so?"

"I felt ugly...like I just showed him what I was really like and I couldn't take it back. I can't let that happen again...I am ugly...can't let Zeke see it."

"But you blew up at him and he's still around, isn't he?"

"He forgave me...he's always forgiving me. I do stuff to him, he won't forgive me if I do it too many times...anyway, it's hopeless, he hasn't talked to his father in three years and he just called out of the blue and wanted to have dinner...Zeke asked me to come with him but I don't think I can do it, I'm going to be freaking out there and Zeke will be embarrassed and his father — his father — "

"Breathe, Casey."

He breathed.

He breathed like his life depended on it.

It was inconceivable to Zeke that he had actually been contemplating quitting smoking, he must have been having a psychotic break at the time. As he took his time returning to the apartment with his fresh package of smokes — the sixth this week and it was really getting absurd that he insisted on buying them one at a time — Zeke ran down his checklist of emotions.

Guilt, safely stowed. Casey had agreed to come with him and he would take that at face value. Casey Connor, most infamous citizen of the town of Herrington, was appearing arm-in-arm with Zeke for dinner with Zeke's estranged father, and it was just a fluke if that had the ring of poetic justice. Zeke couldn't dwell upon how satisfying that was to him personally or he'd be paralyzed.

Anger at said father, sufficiently repressed. He shouldn't have felt anything about the man, but seeing as he did and that what he felt was anger, he would have to be careful to restrain it for Casey's well-being. If it meant something to Casey that his boyfriend have a functioning relationship with his parents — well, Rachel was out of the fucking question, but he would tolerate Jacob. The man might be aloof, avoidant and arrogant, but at least he was sane.

Anxiety about this meeting, fully contained. He really didn't give a fuck so there was nothing to be nervous about. Except that Casey was going to be nervous because nervous was what Casey did, so Zeke needed to take care and not push him. Casey had just spent three hours on a public outing with Sasha, and now another was pending. It would have been a stretch for Casey even before Zeke's father injected himself in their lives.

Excitement about tonight, unlikely and unseemly, and completely stifled by now. Otherwise he might have allowed himself to look forward to a night out with his boyfriend. They hadn't done anything like this in a very long time. Never, actually.

Sasha was going down the stairs from their apartment as Zeke was about to head up, wearing his customary white tunic and colourful scarf. Zeke waited at the bottom for him, assuming that he would have some advice to impart. He was, after all, Sasha. He wouldn't be able to help himself.

"Casey's having a little snooze," Sasha informed him.

"Good."

Sasha was now standing adjacent to Zeke, both feet firmly planted on the ground.

"Say what you have to say," Zeke invited.

Sasha pressed his lips together for a moment, considering, then said, "Be good."

"That's all? Be good?"

"I think that about covers it, yes." Sasha almost took a step; he stopped, and added, "And if it doesn't work out with your father, make a point of telling Casey it's not his fault."

"Why would I — ?" Zeke decided to be gracious; it would be good practice for later. "Yes, of course."

"And be sure to keep him in the conversation."

"Anything else?"

"Say please and thank you. That always helps."

"Sasha, I think I can manage."

"I know, I know...I'll see you later. Enjoy yourselves tonight. I recommend the pecan crusted venison with dried blueberry chutney."

"Thanks," Zeke replied.

With a nod, Sasha moved on.

Zeke didn't call out when he entered the apartment. He moved silently to the bedroom, curious to see what Sasha had done to Casey, but Casey was nearly buried in his afghan. All Zeke could see of Casey was the top of his head, with a hint of something different going on with his hair colour. Zeke squinted at it, trying to decide what he thought. Well, he'd get the full effect later. He turned, intending to go up to the roof and get a little chain smoking under his belt, fortifying himself for later...The restaurant would be non- smoking, of course...

"Zeke?" Casey's voice was muffled.

"Yeah. Go ahead and sleep, Case."

"Lie down with me?"

Zeke shook his head regretfully. "I can't stay still, Case. I'll be around." He closed the door halfway and struck a careful balance between restful quiet and comforting background noise as he made his way to the roof.

As he smoked and paced, he found himself thinking about some of the scenes he had witnessed between his parents over ten years ago, and he stomped those down viciously. They were no longer relevant to anything. They were the past.

Never mind the quitting-smoking lapse, he must have been having a psychotic break when he agreed to this dinner. He couldn't think of a single, viable reason for it. He was putting Casey though an ordeal to prove — to prove what? That he was happy, that he didn't need his father, that he had tried to organize his life in direct contradiction to what Jacob Tyler believed in...meaningless, all of it. If he didn't need the man, he shouldn't be having dinner with him, and he should call this off right now. The only thing left was curiosity, and that was scarcely sufficient to justify all this turbulence.

He went downstairs and turned on the TV, but found himself sitting holding the remote, not even knowing what he was looking at. It had to be time for Casey to wake up. Dinner wasn't until seven but there were things to do; in fact, Zeke had some ideas that could be quite time consuming. He turned off the TV, leaving it unwatched this time.

Casey was exactly as he had left him, an afghan-sized lump. Zeke lay down beside it, carefully peeling back the covering. He still didn't know what to think of the hair colour. He put his knuckles against Casey's cheek and caressed from just beneath his eye to his chin. Casey