It had to be the biggest turkey Zeke had ever seen, glossy, cookbook- perfect and surrounded by a constellation of side dishes. At the head of the table, Charlotte Rosado wore a pastel-blue apron over a cream sweater and tan slacks. One kitchen, one cook, the apron warned. Should the rule require enforcement, a set of carving knives was within easy reach. There had been no pretense of offering them to Stan, the male of the household, which was something of a relief since Zeke didn't know how he felt about Stan wielding knives, or any cooking implements for that matter. He had already resolved not to ask if Stan had helped with preparing this meal.

"I don't really do grace," Charly said. "That isn't a problem for anyone, is it?"

There was a enthusiastic head shake from Stokely and a shrug from Stan. Sasha went further and verbalized it: "Not at all."

Charly continued, "I thought instead we could try going around the table and saying what we're thankful for while I carve up the turkey. That's a nice tradition, I think."

This time she got rolled eyes and expressions of incipient panic. Zeke shot a surreptitious glance at Casey, across and two side dishes to the left of the turkey. Casey did not appear to have heard the question. He was not looking at Charly, nor at Zeke, nor anyone in the room; to anyone who didn't know him it might have seemed that the food spread out before him had all of his attention.

The home of Charlotte Rosado was an older, two-storey structure filled with what Zeke, with his limited understanding of real estate terminology, understood as "character." She'd given Casey, Sasha and Zeke a brief tour when they arrived; every room was well-turned out, adventurous but tasteful, and Sasha had been making envious gurgles and squeaks the entire way through. It wasn't what Zeke had expected from this woman who was brusque and kind of tom-boyish; he'd imagined a bachelor pad filled with sports memorabilia — and yeah, the memorabilia was there, but confined to designated areas. There was a TV room, too, containing a screen even bigger than Zeke's. Now there was a room that a boy could love, and Stan was very open in his feelings about it. They had sat in there for the hour or so before dinner was ready, engaged in the traditional Thanksgiving activities of the American male. Zeke had let himself be seduced by the soothing distraction of sports blather while obliquely observing Stokely's attempt at conversation with Casey. She hadn't gotten much out of him, to Zeke's satisfaction.

As for the room where they now sat, Martha Stewart could probably have collected royalties for it. It was an actual dining room separate from other spaces, with a large picture window spanning one wall, providing a view of two mammoth spruce trees in the front yard. It also featured an antique walnut table that easily would have seated ten. The napkins, plates and tableware were a coordinated, aesthetic whole. The walls were the colour of coffee and whole cream, hung with black and white photographs of vineyards and other conspicuously European landscapes. Zeke had seen Casey looking at them with almost-interest and wondered what had become of the photography habit that he recalled from their high school years. Maybe it had just been a phase, like Zeke's drug-making habit, but he did recall Roy's letter making some reference to Casey taking pictures so maybe there had been something more to it. Zeke resolved to ask Casey about it — that was, if Casey ever again said more to him than "Where's the pill bottle?" and "Yes, I went to my appointment."

"Cool," Stokely finally said in reply to Charly's comment when no one else had leapt to do it.

Charly favoured Stokely, who was sitting to the immediate left of her, with a smile of thanks, and then moved on along that side of the table to Casey. She said, "Casey, would you like to start?" Perhaps she was trying to be a good hostess and draw out the guest who most needed it, Zeke didn't know, but he did know he wasn't feeling particularly generous towards her right then.

Of course, Casey showed absolutely no reaction.

"Casey?" said Charly, sounding as awkward and concerned as everyone else at the table appeared. On Casey's other side, Sasha looked like he might be about to grab his strings and perform an act of ventriloquism, but before he could intervene, Stokely elbowed Casey in the side. It didn't look all that forceful, but Casey twitched and looked mutely at her.

"Um...sorry," Casey faltered. "Did you...ask me something?"

"We're saying what we're thankful for," Stokely said.

"Going around the table taking turns," Sasha supplied.

Casey squinted slightly at Stokely, as though this were a trick question.

"I'll go first," she volunteered. She tried for deliberate good cheer, tapping her fingers on the mocha-tinted table cloth as she mused aloud, "Okay...What do I have to be thankful for...?"

Stokely was wearing a white embroidered blouse, denim skirt, and an assortment of funky jewellery. With her freckled complexion and shining strawberry- red hair, she seemed restored to her original state of flourishing health. For his part, Zeke thought she looked wonderful and Stan apparently thought so too, from the way he had been ogling her. Like right now — he was wearing a calf-eyed look and Stokely did not appear to be entirely unreceptive to it as she drummed her fingers and made a show of thinking.

"Some time today," Zeke heard himself say roughly.

Stokely narrowed her eyes at him. "This isn't easy, you know."

"I'm just saying...Charly cooked all this food and it's getting cold."

"Hey, I don't want anyone to get stressed about this," Charly intervened. "You don't have to make a big speech. Maybe you're thankful for post-it notes or baseball caps. No one's grading you, I promise."

Stokely took a deep breath and began. "Right...well, I'm thankful that Charly made breast of tofu for me, and I'm grateful to be here with my friends today." She was conspicuously not looking at Zeke as she said it, implying that his inclusion in that particular category was questionable. Meanwhile, she bestowed upon Casey the majority of her visible good will.

In fact, they were all looking at Casey, staring and then glancing away, then staring again because it seemed appropriate, yet finding it difficult because he exhibited something too private and too blatant for the comfort of everyday company. Except for Zeke, who didn't care and could look forever; he had been starved of Casey for days now.

At least ten times since Monday, Zeke had been on the verge of marching into the living room and smashing through that barrier of silence. A few times, he had gotten as far as the marching-to-the-living-room part only to be captured by a stare that was somehow full and empty at the same time. Casey would keep him pinned like that for a few seconds before he released him and turned back to whatever movie he was watching at the moment. The Philadelphia Story and Casablanca — the only two DVDs they owned apart from Zeke's collection of sports documentaries — had gotten a serious workout until Tuesday, when Casey had brought home a stack of rentals after his appointments. He had carried out necessary errands around the house but otherwise he just watched his movies and didn't really speak; he would talk to Sasha, from what Zeke had been told, but not very much. Essentially, when he was in the apartment and he wasn't watching a movie, he was sleeping. He had slept one night with Sasha but otherwise he stuck to the couch. He had not been in his and Zeke's bed once since Sunday night.

It was not going to go on like this, that was what Zeke knew. He was action guy and he was going to take action. All of the waiting and uncertainty were building up inside him, and it was getting to a point where he knew he was going to crack, he was going to be doing and saying any number of things, no longer able to discern whether he was accomplishing anything or just misbehaving. Being Charly's guest for Thanksgiving was, at worst, an inconvenience and, at best, an intermission in his continuing state of crisis. He'd come here only because both he and Casey could really use a change of scenery and a good meal. He'd had a headache for forty-six straight hours now, and Casey was looking increasingly ragged. Stokely had been openly distressed when she saw him.

But Zeke had seen worse things. Late last night after he'd given up on studying and crashed, he had awakened suddenly to find a presence standing at his bedside. "Casey?" he had said, pushing himself up on one elbow.

The spectre had said nothing, staring down with hollow black pits instead of eyes. It had brushed a cold finger along his jaw, then vanished, leaving him shaking.

"Casey?" said Charly, trying yet again. "Do you want to take your turn now?"

The silence lengthened again. Zeke wished that Charly would just fucking give it up or that someone would muzzle the hostess.

"My turn then!" Sasha sang out.

Nervous relief made Zeke's tongue more sharper than he wanted it to be. "Oh, here we go," he muttered quite audibly, regretting it even as he spoke. Really, it was a fucking mystery that he had any friends at all. It was hard enough that they had to find ways to tolerate him being right as often as he was — and then he had to make it harder by acting like a cocky bugger all the time.

Sasha glared at him of course, just like he had been doing for the past three days. Zeke was enduring it without much complaint. He figured he probably deserved it and there was little else Sasha could do since neither Casey nor Zeke had told him much about what was going on.

"I'm thankful that I've been invited here today," Sasha began. "Very thankful, because I'm sure I'd be at home slaving over a hot stove right now otherwise."

"Aw..." Stokely commiserated.

"Not that I mind that much, it's just nice that today someone else is doing it. And it looks and smells wonderful." Always gracious, Sasha raised his glass of wine to their hostess. "To the cook."

Everyone quickly followed suit. "To the cook!"

Zeke joined the chorus, choking down a swallow of the dreadful crap in his glass. He knew almost nothing about wine, but he did recognize cheap, screw-cap swill when he tasted it. The flaring of Sasha's nostrils as he drank only confirmed it; apparently, Charly's good taste didn't extend to choosing a decent vintage. Zeke noted that Casey had mumbled along with the rest of them, even taking a tiny sip from his own glass. No one else would have been able to tell from his bland face that he didn't like the taste, but Zeke could.

Meanwhile, Charly had gone a rosy colour; she was not a person who received compliments well. "You're quite welcome, really," she said. "I know it's hard when you're away from family during a holiday. And I'm really sorry your boyfriend couldn't make it, Sasha."

It was Sasha who was flustered now, which was interesting. Something had to be going on with Jerry and Sasha but Zeke hadn't been paying enough attention to Sasha this week to know what it was. Flushing, Sasha replied, "Oh, you know...He has an entire clan in this city, I don't think his mother would allow him to go anywhere else without severe backlash."

"She didn't invite you to join them?" Charly wondered.

Which would be one of those out-of-the blue, not so subtle questions that were Charly's claim to infamy. Stan cringed visibly but Sasha didn't appear to be offended. "They did, but..." Suddenly, Sasha was staring meaningfully at Zeke. "He wanted to be with his family...and I wanted to be with mine."

A terrible notion seized Zeke: That he might just cry here in front of Stan and Charly and everyone else. It was an insupportable proposition. The problem was, three days could be a very long, very trying time when you were the resident criminal.

He tried to make himself like a rock or a block of wood, something inanimate and emotion-free. When he was in high school he'd honed that skill and used it every day; the trick was in knowing that this inanimate state was temporary and he really did have feelings that would be felt later. It was the promise of later that always tamed the emotions and then once he got to a place where it was safe to feel he would often discover that they really didn't require much attention at all.

"Zeke...?" Charly said with that impeccable timing of hers. "Do you want to tell us what you're thankful for?"

He just wasn't achieving that inanimate state he wanted. The method wasn't working for him, he felt too much; he'd become too invested and now all of his faculties were occupied by the futile project of reviewing each moment that he experienced with Casey, trying to determine which were the critical ones, the ones that he could stick with the labels:

Here I made a tactical error.

Here I hurt Casey.

Here I fucked myself royally.

Here I screwed it all up.

"Play it once, Sam. For old times' sake."

"I don't know what you mean, Miss Ilsa."

"Play it, Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By.'"

"Oh, I can't remember it, Miss Ilsa, I'm a little rusty on it."

"I'll hum it for you..."

The living room was filled with a wistful piano tune that was instantly familiar.

"Sing it, Sam."

"You must remember this...A kiss is still a kiss...A sigh is still a sigh...."

Grey light flickered on dark walls, just barely revealing Casey who was staring at his movie, staring at anything but Zeke. Casey's body was a defensive bundle, forbidding intervention. Zeke waited and stared and hoped but Casey gave him nothing to go on. This certainly looked like a stance of anger, but without any cues he didn't know what Casey wanted him to do.

Okay, then, he should rely on his own analysis of the situation. And then he was to make a decision and stick to it, but first, there had to be some assessment...So there was the little Sasha that lived in his head screaming Go to him, talk to him, you repressed, macho twit! but there was also logic — in which he still placed a certain amount of faith. To obey the Sasha-Voice he would have to believe that his presence was actually wanted, and he couldn't make that assumption. Because he had committed an act of violence. He had used the gifts of his mind, and the power in his hands and his voice, to pound on Casey. To now speak softly and touch with gentleness seemed so hypocritical and false that Zeke just couldn't bring himself to do it.

More to the point, if he touched Casey now he wouldn't be able to stop, and he knew intuitively that not-stopping would mean disaster.

So he went to the bedroom. He booted up the computer and opened the file that was the skeleton of his paper for Major World Religions, a comparison of Hinduism and Buddhism in all of ten pages. He had typed his notes directly from the books he was using, including relevant page numbers, and tediously put his points into the order that he wanted. That had taken quite a while, and now to turn all of this into some sort of narrative would take even longer but he was beginning to find that he could move at a reasonably good pace, using a hunt and peck method of his own devising. For the next couple of hours, his focus on his schoolwork was almost sublime in its completeness.

Somewhere along the way he decided that he was waiting for Casey to come to him. That was not punishment or manipulation, it was just practical. He was respecting Casey — belatedly perhaps, but it was never too late to try. In the meantime, it felt good to concentrate on a problem that was straightforward. Five thousand years of history, thousands of gods and goddesses with their complicated lineages and billions of worshippers had nothing on Casey Connor.

Eventually, Zeke's stomach alerted him that he was hungry. He ventured to the kitchen to fix himself a sandwich, listening briefly to the music and dialogue from the other room — now it was The Philadelphia Story, which meant that Casey must have gotten off the couch at least long enough to change the disc. That thought was obscurely comforting.

Surely an offering of food would not be incorrect. Zeke analyzed that premise, and decided that it couldn't hurt. Even if Zeke had been transformed into a villain over the past several hours, certain essential matters could not be disregarded. Casey still needed to eat regular meals and to Zeke's knowledge he hadn't had anything since the waffles that morning.

He put together what he knew to be one of Casey's favourites — thin slices of cheddar cheese and tomato on white bread with real mayonnaise. It was a conundrum to Zeke but the liking of it was well-established. Coupling the sandwich with a glass of some esoteric, organic fruit blend — Sasha always bought it because he considered most so-called juice to be "glorified Kool-Aid" — Zeke resisted the urge to tiptoe into the living room. He would walk, dammit, and not cringe.

It was past dinnertime and completely dark in the room save for the light glowing from the black and white fiction on the screen and the glint of Casey's eyes. His absorption in the images did not waver until the plate landed on the coffee table before him with a gentle scrape. His eyes jerked in Zeke's direction.

"Food," Zeke stated.

Just as quickly, Casey averted his gaze from both Zeke and the sandwich. He was sitting very much as he had been before, with his hands loosely clasped around his shins. Zeke saw his hands move up towards his chest, shaping themselves into fists.

"Are you going to eat it?"

Casey shrugged.

Zeke swallowed his annoyance, although it didn't go down easily. Still, it would not further his cause any if he were to snap at Casey now. "It's your...your favourite."

Fuck. He was turning into Marge Simpson.

He rephrased: "Eat it, please." That was better, he could even keep some self-respect. It was polite, but it was not a request.

"Okay," Casey said, his eyes flickering in Zeke's direction briefly.

There was no part of him that did not scream Go away, goawaypleaserightnow! so Zeke went away; he took his own sandwich to his room and ate, even though it tasted like cardboard and rubber.

He resumed working on his paper, making great progress at it. At one point he thought he heard Casey moving around in the kitchen, running water. Soon after that the apartment became silent; the movie had stopped playing. Zeke strongly suspected that Casey was asleep.

Around ten the phone rang and there was absolutely no question in Zeke's mind that it was Winona; it had to be, nothing else would epitomize the sort of bad timing that he was beginning to expect on a daily basis. He did not bother to get up, as the phone was in the living room and Casey would undoubtedly get to it first; he just closed his eyes and braced himself for more chaos — but he heard nothing at all from Casey. The phone continued to ring until the answering machine kicked in. "Hi, Zeke," said Winona's voice from the kitchen. "I was going to ask you something...but it's not important. I'll see you tomorrow. Okay, bye."

Zeke couldn't imagine that Casey hadn't heard this. After several minutes of silence, nervous energy drove Zeke out to the living room to discover the state of things.

The room was darker than he had ever seen it before; he had to turn on a light in the kitchen first to avoid tripping over his own feet. The blackness continued to bother him, so he went to the window and pushed aside the curtains, letting in some light from the street. In that light, he could easily see the half-eaten sandwich, the empty juice glass, and Casey, deeply asleep. Right then he looked so endearing and peaceful that it was difficult to process the memory of his wrath earlier. Zeke found that he rather liked the paradox, although he didn't much like being on the receiving end of the wrath.

Maybe, Zeke thought, he should wake Casey and get him to go to bed; maybe that was all he needed to do to make everything okay. The thing about Casey's anger was, it was usually a brief thing that would spout and erupt all over you, and then dissipate until the next time it was ready to build itself up.

Or maybe not. The last time Casey got it into his head that Zeke had sold him out to the shrinks, his anger had gone on for days and days before it finally crested, and even though it had crashed, it was still around, fueling his reactions to this latest transgression. Zeke's mind easily foretold Casey, upon being shaken awake, looking accusingly up at him as if to say It isn't enough that you betray me to Yves and bully me and threaten me, now you won't even let me sleep?

No, he resolved to leave Casey alone until Casey gave him the sign that it was all right to approach. The least he could do was to stick to his plan — that was doctor's orders, even — and respect Casey's autonomy for once. He left Casey as he was but compromised with himself and went to fetch the afghan from the bedroom. He brought it to the couch and draped it over Casey's body, covering everything but his head, watching anxiously for any sign that the sleeping angel would wake and summon another blue inferno. But Casey didn't even twitch. It dawned on Zeke that Xanax had to be involved.

Returning to the bedroom, Zeke made a perfunctory attempt to continue working but almost immediately came to the knowledge that he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes. They were fever-hot from overuse, and his legs ached from general exhaustion. He sprawled on the bed thinking to just take a few hours' break and was shocked when he woke up to daylight.

His first thought was that Casey was not where he should be. In his just-waking disorientation Zeke forgot why and how that had come about; a shot of adrenalin yanked him on his feet — at which point, he remembered yesterday. This was the first morning in many, many weeks that he had wakened without Casey's presence, and the time in the past when he had longed to have a bed to himself was so far distant that it was like thinking about some character in a story he had been reading instead of remembering himself.

He was going to go to Casey and speak to him and they were going to put this behind them. He knew Casey; he knew that Casey would not turn him away. Casey had never turned him away, no matter what he did.

He staggered to the living room. There again was the half-eaten sandwich, the empty glass, but no Casey. His next idea was to go up to the roof and look for Casey there; then a hunch sent him to Sasha's door. He pushed it open, as close to silently as he could. Casey was indeed there, curled up with Sasha, both of them apparently still asleep. However, at the slight creak of the door hinges, Sasha's eyes opened and found Zeke's. He said nothing, but Zeke did not miss the way the circle of his arms seemed to shrink, enclosing Casey firmly. And he smiled in a way that was less a friendly welcome than a showing of teeth to ward off a predator.

Zeke considered it wise to withdraw — for now. He brushed his teeth, got dressed and skipped breakfast in favour of two quick cigarettes sucked down to the filter while he waited at the bus stop.

He was late to his World Religions class, and as usual, Winona had saved him a seat. She was waiting with an expectant face that had neediness written all over it, that made him want to go and sit somewhere else. The two classes that they had together now seemed like two more than he could take. There weren't a lot of seats to choose from though, and it did occur to him that his ego could use a bit of gratuitous flattery. As he sat down she raised her brows in a momentary expression of friendly concern, then wrote to him on her note-paper Everything okay?

He nodded, his jaw clenching. The surprising thing was, he actually wanted to tell her everything that had happened since the episode in The Study last Thursday — even though he didn't expect for one moment that she would have any insight to offer. In fact, he didn't want to hear from her at all; he just wanted a pair of ears that were willing to listen to him speak about his feelings, just his feelings, all the pettiness and impatience that none of their friends would want to hear about. No comment expected, thank you very much, just let me shit all over you for a bit and don't expect me to return the favour for you because I really don't have time for it.

Sometimes, it was really hard not to hate himself, even though it was strictly against his policy.

At the end of class he got up, determined to get out of there as quickly as possible. Winona started to suggest something, an invitation no doubt, and he just shook his head. "Sorry," he added. "I have two more classes today, remember?"

"I know that, I was thinking after you were done. Did you get my message last night?"

"Oh...no, sorry."

Against his hip, his cell phone started to vibrate. "I've gotta run," he said, and did. He hurried out of the lecture hall, finding a place in the hall outside that was reasonably private to take the call.

He was expecting it to be Casey, but it was Sasha: "Talk to me, Zeke."

"What?"

"Tell me something. I'm begging you."

Zeke turned in towards the wall, muttered, "Casey's pissed at me."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Is he okay?"

"He's fine — well, relatively speaking. He's in the shower. I need someone to give me some information before I go mad, and if I go mad, you won't be far behind."

"What did he say to you?"

"Not a fucking thing. That's why I'm asking you."

"Don't hate me for saying this, but there's nothing you can do."

"Fuck that! I'm not going to sit around on my ass while my friends are self- destructing."

"We're not self-destructing, we're just having a disagreement."

"A disagreement."

"Yeah. We'll sort it out." And obviously, Casey had chosen not to tell Sasha about it so Zeke was not going to risk angering him any further. Not that he especially wanted to talk about things that were too complicated to even begin to explain, and painfully private, too. He could not see himself saying out loud, to Sasha of all people, Okay, Casey thinks his biggest problem is that he faced down an alien queen once while I'm terrified because he keeps trying to make me over in Roy's image when we have sex, and then once he has what he wants, he goes catatonic.

Naturally, Sasha was still talking, still trying. "You're killing me, Zeke. I get home last night, and by the way, Jerry wasn't exactly jumping for joy about me having to go home to check up on you two after he made me a nice romantic dinner — "

"You didn't have to."

"Yeah, whatever. I get home and there's Casey drugged up on the couch, and now you're telling me it's just a disagreement."

"That's right."

"Okay, well...Does being in separate rooms strike you as a good way to sort things out?"

"I meant to talk to him, I just fell asleep. I was tired, so sue me."

Sasha was quiet for a second. Then he said, "Can you at least tell me how it went with Dr. Yves?"

Zeke sighed. "It was...interesting. " His memory alerted him to a task left incomplete and he added, "Um, Sasha? Actually, there is something you could do."

"What's that?"

"Ask Casey to phone Yves. She wants to talk to him before the long weekend, she asked me to — to remind him."

"All right," Sasha replied tightly. "I'll be your message boy, but only because it's important."

"Thank you."

"You boys are making me feel very old, I hope you know."

Zeke didn't know what to say to that. He was feeling old himself. "I just think you shouldn't have to get so involved like you were before," he suggested.

"But it's not exactly optional for me — !" Sasha's voice broke off on the last word. When he spoke next, it was hushed; Casey must have been out of the shower. "Gotta go."

The click cut Zeke's tenuous connection to home, and he had nothing else to do but finish his day; it wasn't like he felt an urge to skip his classes so he could rush home to confront Casey. It made him laugh to himself at how changed he was, that he was thinking about how he was safe from Casey at school. Zeke Tyler, safe at school, and from a science geek — the world was turned on its head.

It wasn't that he was afraid, not at all. He was anxious to get back in sync with Casey, but knowing how angry Casey felt towards him yesterday and how much more anger Casey was allowing himself to feel in general, Zeke had every reason to expect incoherence, tantrums and quakes of the sort that would make the breakdown in the desert seem like a minor disturbance.

Later that afternoon when he did step in the doorway to their apartment, he was bracing himself for emotional violence, not exactly ready to receive it but ready to endure it. But Casey was very successfully practicing avoidance on the couch; he was asleep once again, with a pile of movie rentals on the table in front of him.

Zeke made himself a pot of coffee and something to eat. He was determined to stay awake until Casey woke up, and then to have words with him. In the meantime, he got the World Religions paper more or less finished. He printed the draft of the paper, just in case Casey might ever be in a frame of mind to do the editing that he had promised, and delved into the next assignment. There was really no other way to tackle the work than to put his head down and take these things one at a time.

At some point he heard a movie start up, and his stomach started to churn. He let himself dither for no more than ten minutes before heading out to the living room.

He sat down on the chair adjacent to the couch where he could have brushed knees with Casey if he wanted, and turned on the lamp nearest to him. He saw Casey's breathing hitch and increase in speed, his hand clutching the remote tightly while he stared resolutely forward.

"Casey."

Sure, like that was going to work.

"Casey, can I talk to you?"

With noticeable shaking in his hands, Casey pressed pause on the movie. Zeke glanced at the still image on the screen, curious about what Casey liked to watch when he was pissed off. There was a desert, and he thought he recognized Kevin Bacon but he didn't know the movie.

"What are you watching?" he asked.

"Tremors."

"I've never seen it."

Casey gave him a look that was almost scornful.

Faltering, Zeke said the first thing that he could think of to say: "Did Sasha mention about Dr. Yves — "

"I called her. Went to see her this afternoon."

"Oh. Good." Casey's mouth thinned into something unpleasant, and terror suddenly got hold of Zeke. He blurted, "What did you tell her?"

"Nothing," Casey said quickly. Abruptly, his eyes were on Zeke, pleading for something. "I didn't say anything — "

"Okay." Zeke put a hand on Casey's knee. Casey jerked in reaction and Zeke moved his hand. "I believe you."

He closed his eyes and rubbed them, wishing he could erase the last minute or so, and while he was at it, he wished that he could stop getting fucked over by his own emotions. He didn't know how or when he'd come to be so fearful, he only knew that it wouldn't be like this if he didn't care so much. Caring was the fucking problem. Before, when he didn't give a damn about anything, he could count on himself to think before he spoke.

Casey said, almost whispering, "I'd like to watch my movie."

"Okay...I'm s — "

He stopped himself, unable to finish that apology because he knew he didn't mean it. Really, he didn't. He wasn't sorry for thinking he was right about certain things, he was only sorry for his methods.

He couldn't be sitting anymore; he rose to his feet. Casey's eyes followed him up.

"I mean...thank you," he finished.

"Zeke? Do you want to tell us what you're thankful for?"

To Casey, Zeke's expression said he'd just as soon have danced the tango with his mother as answer Charly's question. His eyes were narrowed and pointedly calm, calculating and deadly — altogether, a powerful demonstration that this was a person not to be fucked around with. Casey was accustomed to both fearing and admiring that look, but Charly appeared unaffected by it.

Maybe Zeke wasn't as dangerous as usual today, it was hard for Casey to say because his exhaustion was both helping and hindering him. Ever since they had arrived here, Casey had been watching Zeke steadily, or trying to; the absence of sleep had infected his eyes so that everything he saw was surrounded by a hazy sort of unreality. He knew he was awake because his eyes were open but he felt quite certain that he was dreaming at the same time. That haze made it all too easy to detach his brain and enter a meditative state with Zeke as his focus, yet at the same time there was a blank quiet lurking nearby, ready to come forward and swallow him in an instant. He kept blinking it away and discovering that he hadn't been seeing what his eyes were pointed at.

Stokely had been alarmed by his appearance and let him know about it. Earlier, when they sat down in that TV room she had said to him, under the cover of histrionic football announcers and cheering crowds, "You look like crap, you know that?"

Yeah, he had some idea. Sasha had already "convinced" him to call Dr. Chakri's office first thing tomorrow; the convincing consisted of Sasha threatening to call and make the appointment for him if he didn't do it on his own. Casey was supposed to see the doctor in a few weeks but that wasn't soon enough for Sasha. Sasha held himself responsible for Casey's general well-being, Casey knew that and he wished that he was better at hiding his problems at least, since he couldn't seem to fix them. He was starting to think he was that black hole again, that thing that sucked in all light and matter within a certain space. At a certain proximity, there was no escape from him and he would get Stokely too if she wasn't careful.

"Just tired," he'd muttered, trying for a smile.

"Case..." Stokely had said. She'd bitten her lip, then continued, "You know you shouldn't be nervous about being here, right? You know Charly won't hurt you."

He had almost laughed at that, he was so far from being scared of Charly these days. In fact, he had realized that he no longer had the energy to invest in treating Charly as an enemy. Charly already knew stuff about them; whatever she might do to them, she could do whether they approved of it or not.

Besides which, Charly had a very pleasant home and the scent of dinner wafting throughout the house had been thoroughly enticing. And Casey was hungry; he'd not been eating a lot the last few days despite Sasha's and Zeke's best efforts. He was afraid that Dr. Chakri was going to give him major grief but what the fuck did it matter? He could eat turkey and mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie until he was ready to explode and still he'd be empty.

"I'm not nervous," he had said, to which Stokely raised her eyebrows.

He wasn't offended by that. She couldn't really be blamed for thinking he was a space cadet, complete with the striped jumpsuit and the communicator badge. After all, she'd had the pleasure of watching him rant about Winona, her eyes getting bigger and bigger the whole time, spelling it out. Of course, she didn't know, she wasn't fully cognizant of the threat that he was dealing with. There was a monster stalking him, stalking his boyfriend and stalking him at the same time. Maybe that was a crazy thought — okay, it was a crazy thought but maybe not so crazy when he could feel the presence of her all around him. He couldn't breathe for sensing her and not even a double handful of scat pens could do the trick this time —

Only the timely intervention of Charly calling them in for Thanksgiving dinner had saved him from running from the room or making some other sort of pitiful exhibition of himself.

They all sat down in the dining room and everything looked and smelled wonderful, except now Charly was going around the table, making them earn their food. She was torturing Zeke right now but Casey knew that sooner or later she'd get back to him. It was distressing to think that people could see him even while he was disappearing — and he was disappearing, really, it was a tangible, physical sensation of hollowness, of not being in the space that visual input told him he was in. He could almost feel the substance of his body dissolving, floating away so that the occasional sound of the voice that he knew was supposed to be him could make him panic. It was a distracting incongruity to be unreal and still hear yourself talk.

But it had a simple fix. All he needed was for Zeke to see him, shut off the valve in his head that was letting the crazy thoughts pour in. His body was disappearing because it was in withdrawal. The first night without Zeke had been merely unbearable...now, three days later he could barely think for needing and he knew Zeke needed him too, Zeke's eyes were constantly on him, wanting him. Not that Zeke was going to do anything, it would be up to Casey to come to Zeke...so all right, fine, he'd been here before. He could be as bold as he needed to be.

"To begin with," Zeke said. "I've never really done holidays so I suppose I'm thankful to be having Thanksgiving at all." He inclined his head to Charly and she returned the gesture, the two of them continuing the dance they'd been doing for the past two hours. Challenge, retreat, counter-challenge, evasion...thrustparrythrustparry, it was making Casey's head hurt.

"So I am grateful for the invitation. And..." Finally, Zeke's gaze moved in Casey's direction. Casey felt himself getting sucked down and in, completely encompassed. He wondered how it would look if he suddenly flung himself across the table into Zeke's lap but of course he couldn't do that, it was foolish and if there was one thing Zeke couldn't stand, it was looking foolish. "I'm grateful," Zeke said, his gaze continuing on to Charly, "For not being in Herrington anymore."

Meaning Thank you in advance for keeping your mouth shut, Charly, and I'm thanking you too, Casey, for keeping your mouth shut in general even if it does mean that therapy will never work for you and you'll be doomed to be this way forever thank you for understanding me, Casey and figuring out a way to make this work, you with your wonderful but sickly brain...you need me don't you we'll get that fixed up for you I'll take care of you I'll take you...

Casey pinched his own thigh as hard as he could. He would have pounded it but someone would undoubtedly notice. In any case, the pain felt good — bright, sharp and real.

He heard a cough...that was Stokely, he thought. "Pretty heavy for you, Zeke," she remarked.

Sasha exclaimed, "It's not fair! I tried to keep it light, you know."

"It wasn't all that heavy," Zeke retorted.

"And Stan, how about you?" Charly said.

Beside Zeke, Stan shrugged and made uncomfortable guy faces. "I'm thankful for my family and friends..." He seemed to be looking directly at Stokely now, and she blushed. "And old friends moved here recently and I'm grateful for that...seeing as I can now beat Zeke's ass in squash every week."

"You can try," Zeke said.

Stan snorted. "Huh. Until you stop polluting your lungs with tar, I won't be trying very hard."

"Oh, amen," Sasha declared.

"What, are we suddenly making a commercial?" Zeke growled. "Just lay off, all of you, I'll quit when I'm fucking ready."

In the quiet following that outburst, Casey could see a space growing around Zeke, like everyone else was subtly shifting to isolate Zeke in that location nearest to the stuffing and the gravy boat and Zeke wasn't seeing that Casey wanted to support him, care for him, kiss and make up and fall into his arms...suddenly, Casey couldn't bear that Zeke didn't know.

"You can't convince someone to quit," he heard someone say. It was his voice, coming louder than he would have wanted. He toned it down and went on. "They have to choose to do it — anyway, I like Zeke the way he is." He caught Zeke's eye at last and said, very softly and just for Zeke, "Sometimes he has to be the bad guy but that's okay."

Now there was a thunderstruck silence at the table and for several suspended moments Zeke stared at Casey in a way that made him sweat and tremble in expectation.

Stokely busted into their little moment with, "Hey, I told Casey he should try squash sometime." She nudged Casey with her elbow.

Stan turned a dubious expression to him. "Um...I'll play with you, Case," he said willingly, earning himself a grin of approbation from Stokely. "Anytime you want, just let me know."

Casey forced his head to go in Stan's direction. "Oh — okay." It made for quite a picture — himself and Stan, locked in a tiny room without windows. If they were playing squash, though, they wouldn't have to do a lot of talking.

"So, Casey," Charly said. "We haven't heard from you yet."

"Maybe he doesn't want to say anything," Zeke growled.

"And that's fine," Charly returned easily. "It's not required, Casey, but...did you want to say what you're thankful for?"

"Louis...I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

There were still many hours left in the day and Sasha wasn't home yet. Not like that was surprising, it was just getting to be near suppertime now and Jerry had said he was cooking a special meal. It would be a long time before Sasha was home.

Casey let the credits blur as they rolled; if nothing else he would appear to be completely absorbed in them should Zeke come out here. Yes, if Zeke emerged from the bedroom where he had been holed up on the pretext of working on school papers, then Casey must be immersed in who was the lead hand or the chief electrician, which actors had played Prosperous Man and Singer with Guitar. He must not be sitting here trying to imagine what Zeke was thinking moment by moment, or how Zeke might respond if Casey were to appear in his doorway.

In truth, for the first hour of the movie Casey hadn't cared what Zeke was thinking or doing in the least. He did not want to see Zeke's face. He was afraid that if he did he would do something...unrecoverable. He might start howling, not out of anger really but out of horror at himself for still wanting those hands on him even while that last, unkind touch was still imprinted on his arms. No, especially because of wanting that touch and if Zeke wouldn't touch him he would make sure he did. As far as he was concerned he had accepted an offer from Zeke and they had reached an understanding: If he obeyed, he would not be deprived, he would not be left alone.

The urge to wail passed; the horror passed, diluted by the knowledge that he didn't give a damn about self-respect — except he had no choice but to care if the result of his disrespect to himself was that Zeke could never respect him again but if Zeke wanted him to have self-respect then why was he doing this, what was the purpose of Zeke staying in that room if not that he was waiting for Casey to break and come to him?

But that was what Zeke did. It was what Roy did. They waited, they knew Casey needed them so they waited and eventually Casey broke and they got to keep their dignity didn't they, they got to be the strong ones.

He was not angry about that, he must not be angry as a matter of sheer practicality. Anger didn't work out, whatever Yves might have to say about it. It was a whole lot of risk for something that would inflame him briefly and then extinguish itself, leaving him to face the ashes. Anyway, if he didn't get angry he would be better able to understand Zeke's side. It was incumbent upon him to understand how Zeke had been driven to do something terrible because of him and so he must not be angry, he must not go in that room and order Zeke to fuck him raw even thought he was goddamned fucking entitled to it...but he could go in there and...not beg, Zeke wouldn't like that. Just be there, be available. Give him a kiss, a touch, let him know that he was not angry anymore...

He couldn't do that. Zeke would despise him. And better that Zeke did not come to him, if Zeke came out here and Casey did so much as look at him he would crumble and then again Zeke would despise him, and Sasha would despise him too when he found out.

If only Sasha would come home. Casey knew that Sasha would come home instantly if he phoned and asked him to, but then there would be no special dinner that Jerry had been talking about and Casey would be wrecking someone else's life. And of course Sasha would want to know what had happened, Sasha would keep asking until he found out. Sasha always found out when he wanted to find out and he would...he would ask questions like he did before and say things like, no, I think you need to keep going to see that shrink, kitten, and Zeke's right, you should tell her everything that happened last summer. Never mind those silly aliens.

There was a stab of pain, and he realized that he had chewed his thumbnail down to the quick. It was bleeding. The screen before him was dark, the credits played out and it was almost completely silent in the apartment. Far off in the distance he could hear Zeke's fingers on the computer keyboard.

He hurried to get up and switch the disc to The Philadelphia Story. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he was getting to the point that he really couldn't watch that movie too many more times lest he ruin it for himself. He needed to take a break from it — but he had no choice, unless he wanted to go out to Anton's right now, and Zeke would never let him out the door without some conversation. The thought of talking to Zeke right now was making him hyperventilate so no, going to rent a movie was not an option. Then there was that book of Stokely's that he was still chipping away at, but he didn't think he could concentrate well enough right now to read so that was out too.

What if Zeke did come out here right now, summoned by the sounds of him moving around? He would let him touch him any way he wanted, Zeke could spread him out on the bed and...and he would welcome it, he would —

A noise made him jump. He scurried back to the couch, trembling, waiting for Zeke to appear around the corner — and he had to laugh at himself, giving a derisive snort at the thought of himself shivering in terror like the stupid expendable blond in a horror flick, sobbing and screaming and not even able to run away without falling down. Except her problem was she wanted the monster to catch her all along, wasn't it? At some point she was hypnotized by her own death and just lay there waiting for it.

He pulled in his limbs and pressed play. After interminable seconds, the Paramount theme began to blare and he began to feel a little safer. He got lost in playing voyeur to a world that he could actually understand.

Eventually, something made him look elsewhere, at a figment of Zeke that was standing right there in front of him. "Food," it said.

It didn't admit of the concept of a request. It required, and therefore it had to be the real Zeke. A feeling started to burn in Casey's chest. Oh, right, he knew that one. Resentment — no, he did not feel it, Casey didn't mind, he didn't care that Zeke wanted to take care of him see he would obey, he would follow orders if Zeke would just...just...

"Are you going to eat it?"

Casey shrugged. If he opened his mouth a long stream of pleading words would come from him, he would fall into Zeke or at him and Zeke would be disgusted with him because didn't he know he was supposed to be angry right now?

"It's your favourite," Zeke said, so softly, with a note of something that made Casey look more closely at him. There were lines of pain and emotion around Zeke's eyes and mouth. He must have a head ache again. He must want Casey to forgive him.

Casey was on the brink of saying it: It's okay it's okay you can do what you like say what you like and it's okay with me just hold me, take me that's all I want when Zeke's expression tightened and he said, "Eat it. Please."

Because Zeke didn't expect to be forgiven. He expected each of them to act with integrity, like whole beings who got angry when it was appropriate to be angry. He wanted that minimal demonstration from Casey so that when Casey actually did submit like Zeke fully expected him to do, it would seem to be a conscious choice based on the apprehension of Zeke's superior logic.

"Okay," Casey said.

Now Zeke was leaving. Casey held onto himself and ground his teeth together to keep from calling after him, begging him to come back. He cast his gaze at the TV screen, at Kate and Jimmy and Cary, but they had nothing for him today. He could feel himself freezing over, the world shrinking...he needed, oh god he needed it so bad, needed...

Xanax.

Oh god, oh fuck, yes, Xanax. It took him a few minutes to be able to move but at least he didn't have to go in the bathroom to the main pill bottle; there was the little candy tin in his jacket pocket, by the door. He moved trying not to make a sound, listening and ready to dampen it the second it could be heard.

Water.

Pill down the hatch.

Rescue coming.

He went back to the couch, wishing without hope for a blanket or his afghan, something to warm him. Lying down on his side, he caught sight of the sandwich that Zeke had left for him. He had better eat that before he fell asleep, he had agreed to it after all.

The white bread stuck to the back of his palate like glue and the mayonnaise tasted like nothing so much as raw egg. He gave up after half. The juice, at least, went down easily and then he lay on his side and waited for oblivion to take him, staring at his pals on the screen. Kate was so pretty but so strong, so mannish sometimes and so sublimely self-contained...Jimmy also very pretty, young, tall and thin, a whisp of a man. And Cary, what to say of Cary...

"...kitten?"

There was light in his eyes. He struggled up just so he could get a hand between it and his face. "Too bright," he groaned.

"Sorry...I couldn't see."

Sasha was sitting very near to him, on the edge of the couch. Casey opened his eyes long enough to ascertain that fact and then closed them again.

"Hey, sleepy, how about you get up and go to bed?"

Casey nodded muzzily — but there was something wrong with that idea. Going to bed sounded good....going to bed...going to bed with Zeke...no. "Sleep with you?" he mumbled. "Please?"

There was a pause.

"Sure, if you want to," Sasha said.

There was tugging. He went with it, and was soon installed in a much better, warmer place. He sank down into it and the last thing he heard was Sasha muttering something nearby.

When he woke up the next morning it was around ten and he was alone. "Hey," Sasha greeted him when he stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing a thick crust of sleep from his eyes.

"Morning," Casey replied, briefly checking the landing for Zeke's shoes. It was a silly thing to do; of course Zeke was at school. Or he wasn't. In either case his shoes wouldn't be there so checking for them was silly because if they were there everything was wonderful and if they weren't there the worst could already have happened without him knowing. Zeke's shoes or the absence of Zeke's shoes would tell him nothing.

"Can I get you some breakfast?" Sasha asked.

"No, thanks." Casey noted the half-full pot of coffee, the mug that Sasha was sporting in his left hand. "How about a cup of coffee?"

"Kitten..."

"Sasha, a shot of caffeine's not going to kill me."

Sasha lifted his hands up and said, "It's your body, kitten, you do what you like."

Casey ground his teeth a bit, and gave up. He started to angle away, saying, "going to shower," but only got as far as fifteen or twenty degrees of a full turn before Sasha's voice stopped him.

"Casey."

"Yeah?"

"How'd it go yesterday?"

Casey considered a number of possible responses, then said, honestly, "I'd rather not talk about it."

True to form, Sasha didn't hear that answer. "Are you and Zeke not speaking to each other? What's going on?"

"Sasha..." Casey didn't think he had intended to whine. He had wanted to sound firm and resolute, but...oh, well, probably too much to expect of a person without any self-dignity.

"You say you don't want to talk about it, okay...but sooner or later I will have to butt in, Casey, whether you guys want me to or not. Now, wouldn't you much rather I was an informed busybody?"

Unable to stay entirely still, Casey began rocking nervously against the nearest wall. "I'd...t-tell you if I could," he said.

"Kitten...would you look at me?"

That was the I'm-Gonna-Make-A-Statement voice. Casey struggled to meet Sasha's eyes and could only manage it for moments here and there.

Either he looked completely pitiful or Sasha decided there was no point in saying it. "Nothing. Go have your shower, kitten."

Casey nodded and resumed his journey towards the bathroom.

He stripped and got into the tub and almost immediately his mind spun towards the void; he clawed his way back, increasing the hot water until it was almost scalding. Memory beckoned and he clung to that, thinking of the numerous times that he and Zeke had been in the shower together. Touching, caressing...cleansing Zeke's skin, being touched, being on his knees, his mouth around Zeke's hot length...or being taken, possessed entirely, no him anymore, just peace. He could not lose that or he would go mad...more mad...Zeke just didn't understand, he didn't have the ability to comprehend a thing like that with his self-sufficient, disciplined mind, and so naturally he got hung up on thinking it was wrong but it didn't have to be wrong. When Zeke came home Casey would tell him, he would show him how right it could be.

A fresh set of alarms blared in his head when he got back to the kitchen; Sasha was sitting at the table, his posture very straight, with eyes both maniacal and determined. "I was just talking to Zeke," he said.

Casey's heart started to throb like it was going to explode. "Oh, yeah?"

"He asked me to tell you that Dr. Yves wants you to call her as soon as possible."

"Kay," he said, trying to sound casual.

"And I insist that you tell me something."

"What...what did Zeke say?"

"Nothing at all."

"Then I...don't think I should..."

Sasha didn't roar. He didn't yell, or even speak, but his eyes started to glisten and Casey immediately felt his own tears approaching. This was just like when his mother cried. It always got to him, it was pure action and reaction. "I'm sorry," he muttered, getting ready to flee.

"No." Sasha raised a hand. "I'm sorry. It's your prerogative, of course. And you're probably right. Actually, Jerry's been telling me I'm way too invested in your life, he says — well, never mind. I just wanted to say that you can tell me anything, kitten. I promise I won't judge, I won't yell at you, I'll just try to help you solve what needs solving. Okay?"

Casey didn't want to say anything, for fear that he might reactivate Sasha's curiosity. He ventured, "Okay."

Sasha smiled broadly. "You going to make that phone call now?"

Obedient as always, Casey took the handset into the bedroom. Sasha knew him too well; Sasha wasn't going to satisfy himself with just delivering the message and trusting Casey. Good for Sasha — because Casey would never have called Yves otherwise.

At least Sasha couldn't keep him from a little procrastination. He would check his email first.

There was a message from his father: I was wondering if you had made a decision yet about school. Not to put any pressure on you, it just occurred to me that if you were going, it's getting late to do the paperwork. Let us know, all right?

He could have killed a lot more time writing a reply; in fact, he started six or seven times before he gave up and reconciled himself to the fact that this was going to require a phone call, and as phone calls went, the Helen Yves call was probably going to be less of an ordeal than the Frank Connor call. He dug up his shrink's phone number — it was scribbled on one of the pages in his anxiety workbook — and then sat staring at it for half an hour, trying to work up the will to dial the numbers. Finally he just made himself do it, praying that he would get her answering machine.

"Helen Yves."

No such luck.

"Hello, it's — it's Casey...Connor."

"Hello, Casey. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," he said tightly, his hands absolutely quivering — with rage, he realized. Her voice had made yesterday's rage into today's. Of course, it hadn't really been her. She had been just doing her job, unlike some other people in the room.

"I'm relieved to hear it. I was a little concerned given the way yesterday's session ended. I'd like to talk to you about it, I think it would be helpful. Do you think you can come to see me today or tomorrow?"

"Not Thursday?"

"It's Thanksgiving, remember?"

"Oh. What about Friday?"

"I'm going to be unavailable from Thursday until Sunday."

"Next week, then."

"I think sooner would be better, don't you?"

He assumed that she didn't want an honest answer to that. "Yeah," he said.

"So," she pressed. "Today or tomorrow?"

"Today," he whispered.

"I have a slot at three."

He was supposed to be at relaxation at one, as per usual. Theoretically, there were no scheduling conflicts. "Fine," he agreed.

"Very good, I'll put you down for three. And Casey?"

"Yes?"

"There's no retaliation here, remember? We're just going to talk."

"I know."

"I'm looking forward to seeing you."

Even as he hung up, he knew he was not going to show. He had the feeling that she knew it too.

He couldn't bear to watch The Philadelphia Story or Casablanca again, so he watched game shows until it was time to leave for relaxation. He made a point of telling Sasha that he had a therapy appointment and wouldn't get home until after and he was lying twice over when he said that, because he wasn't going to attend relaxation either. He let Sasha drive him to the Powell Relaxation Clinic and he went in but once again he didn't go any further than the stairwell.

As he was walking home, the idea came to him: He should go to the university and find Zeke. Not to bother him, just to watch him...

He was losing it. He needed to think about something else.

That need drew him unerringly to Anton's place; he spent a solid half an hour there, roaming up and down the aisles. For most of the time, he was the only person there aside from Anton, who knew better by now than to try and make conversation with him when he was on the movie hunt.

He decided to go with a cheesy monster theme; it was always satisfying to see the least likely character prevail over the monster in the end. It would have been nice if the monsters in his life weren't always in disguise. In the movies that he liked, the monster might sneak up on you but it was the kind that always only looked like a monster...unlike the monster that was hunting him now...see, that was why it would be good to go to the university and find Zeke. To know that he was doing only school-related things with Winona...or if he wasn't, Casey would finally see for himself and he would do whatever it took to get rid of her except he really dreaded the prospect of getting there on the bus and what did it mean when the worst sort of Fatal Attraction stuff started to make perfect sense in your head...

He felt his heart skip and realized that he was wheezing. He had to get out of here.

Anton looked alarmed when he presented himself at the counter with his movies and he was gasping for breath. "Okay there, kid?"

He nodded. "Just...need to get...home..."

Anton's eyes widened and he gesticulated at Casey with both hands. "Take the movies, kid, I know you'll bring them back. We'll settle up later."

"Thanks..."

Cradling the movies in his arms like they were his children, he raced home. The first thing he did after dropping the DVD's on the kitchen table was run to the bathroom and shove one of his pills down his throat, and even though he was alone in the apartment, he shut the bathroom door and locked it. He stayed in there, pacing back and forth and counting to himself until he felt somewhat calmer, calm enough to unlock the door and bring his movie catch to the living room. Not fifteen minutes into Tremors he discovered that his eyes had gotten to heavy to hold open; he stopped the DVD and got comfortable for his impending oblivion.

When he woke from that drug-fuelled sleep, it was evening and Zeke was home, clacking away in the bedroom. Casey lay quietly for a while, not wanting to do anything that would alert Zeke to the fact that he was awake. Ultimately, though, he needed his diversion more desperately than he needed to hide, so he resumed watching the movie. Inevitably, it drew Zeke out of the bedroom.

Of course Zeke asked him about therapy, and of course he lied. When Zeke wanted to know what Casey had said, if he had broken any of the conditions, Casey did toy for a few seconds with the reply, No, I didn't tell her anything because I didn't go to see her...It was right on the tip of his tongue in fact but when he opened his mouth out came the lie.

Well, he was a liar, and Zeke knew it, too — or he had known it, but Casey had gradually worn away that knowledge until Zeke actually believed him most of the time and as much as Casey wanted to make amends with Zeke and be with him, he couldn't stand to be in Zeke's presence. Zeke was looking at him like he was someone who could be trusted and he didn't deserve to be looked at that way so he asked Zeke to go away. He finished watching Tremors and a while later, Jaws, and then, around four in the morning, he gave up on natural sleep and took another Xanax.

Wednesday was pretty much the same except that night he was determined not self-medicate, with the result that he never did get to sleep. He stayed up all night thinking about Zeke with his long, smooth body stretched out in that comfortable bed, while his own body ached from acute Zeke-deficiency. Fucking self-respect, this was all its fault. He didn't actually have any of the stuff, he didn't want any of it. However he had gotten here, this was him. He was as he was.

He knew what beautiful really was now. It was surrender to a thing, just a thing that was simple and complete in itself and nothing more. Only he could know that, though, because to Zeke, to Sasha and Dr. Yves, a thing had to be bad or good, right or wrong. Casey knew he could have beautiful if he asked for it, he just had to be prepared to take judgment along with it.

Zeke had just given up on ever hearing Casey's voice again when he answered, "I'm thankful for Xanax."

There was gentle laughter from the group, excluding Charly who perhaps didn't know what the Xanax reference was about or thought she wasn't intimate enough with him to laugh at the joke. Zeke dared a chuckle since it seemed reasonably probable that Casey had intended to be funny — and Casey's comment a few minutes ago had given him hope that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't the bad guy anymore. He'd heard those gorgeous, beneficient words...sometimes Zeke has to be the bad guy but that's okay... and looked and there, right across the table was his Casey, the one with the accommodating eyes and acts of undeserved generosity.

"Okay, I'll go now," Charly said when the laughter had faded. "And I'll make it quick so we can get down to business here. I'm thankful to be in the company of these five young people, that you were willing to come to my house and eat food cooked by me and I'm especially grateful that you are all doing well and have bright futures...especially when I think of what some of you have survived together."

Zeke's head snapped in her direction and the warmth he had been feeling just moments ago shrivelled. He simply couldn't believe Charly's brazenness, especially after he had warned her in the plainest, most direct language he could devise — and especially after he had decided to come here and act as if this were a simple invitation to a turkey dinner. He began to compose a retort to her comment and abandoned it upon seeing Stokely's pleading look. Stan was frowning disapproval at his aunt already; that would have to do.

Charly smiled. "Dig in, everybody." She picked up the platter of meat before her and sent it on its way around the table.

Zeke wondered if eating her food now would compromise his integrity, but only briefly. For one thing he was starving, and for another, Casey seemed not to have heard Charly's shit-disturbing comment. Content that his principles were not being compromised, Zeke took a helping of everything that passed his way and ignored Charly. His highly-tuned radar would be dedicated to a higher purpose — as in, watching what Casey ate. Zeke was well aware that Casey had not consumed much except prescription drugs over the last few days.

He was prepared to give Casey some grief about how much he ate, right here in front of everyone if necessary. As it turned out, Casey was acting like he might just be hungry too, filling his plate with turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, salad and bread — and then, unexpectedly, he found some kind of casserole that looked like orange mush studded with marshmallows. He pushed everything as far as he could onto the margins of his plate and began mounding on that goo.

"Whoa," Stan said, watching him. "I guess you like those."

"They look like my mom's," Casey said, dipping a finger in the syrupy juice and tasting. The expression on his face was the most untroubled Zeke had seen in weeks, possibly months. "Actually, I think these are my mom's."

Charly confessed, "I mentioned to your mom that you were coming for dinner...She emailed the recipe to me."

It seemed to be of no concern to Casey that Charly and his mom were having regular communication, so Zeke wasn't going to let that perturb him, especially when it led to this kind of positive outcome. Casey had taken the first bite, his eyes closing for a few seconds. When he opened them, he saw that everyone was watching him have oral sex with his potatoes. "I haven't had these for..." he paused to swallow, memories ticking away behind his eyes "...a while," he finished. "Thank you."

"Nothing to it," Charly said. "It was your mom's idea anyway."

Casey actually smiled at her, and set to eating with something close to joyful abandon. Sasha gaped, open-mouthed, and Zeke could scarcely do less himself. It was inconceivable that a person could be as socially and emotionally challenged as Casey had been acting the last few days and still approach a thing like sweet potatoes with such straightforward enjoyment.

"So," Charly asked as she poured gravy over everything on her plate. "What have you boys been up to?"

Casey glanced at Sasha, who looked at Zeke, who was just getting started on his food. He had to pause with his fork half-raised, mashed potatoes half-way to his mouth. "Not too much," he answered. "Going to school. Hanging out."

"Casey? How about you?"

"Um...I was..." Casey tore himself away from his casserole with difficulty. "...thinking about school."

"Oh, yes?" Charly looked interested.

Casey was visibly reluctant, but he added for her benefit, "My parents want me to...to go back."

"In January, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think you will?"

Inadvertently, Zeke made a sound; Casey's eyes darted in his direction. Perhaps it was rude, but Casey had to be aware and to appreciate Zeke's displeasure at this line of conversation. Zeke knew that Casey had yet to break the news to his parents about his wish to change majors, and no one could expect the response to be a good one. He was fully prepared to support Casey in any way he needed but in his personal view Casey was nowhere near ready to be at school. He had improved in all sorts of ways, but he still took trips to bizarro-ville on a regular basis. And then there was the fact that Casey seemed more willing to talk to Charlotte Just-Blurt-Out-Whatever's-On-Your-Mind Rosado than to Zeke about all of this --- no, Zeke was not comfortable at all.

"I think you should do it," Stokely opined freely.

Casey hunched his shoulders. "I don't know," he said.

Stokely pressed, "But you're so smart, Casey, you should — "

"You don't know what you're talking about, Stokely," Zeke interrupted.

"Are you saying Casey isn't smart?"

"No, of course I'm not saying that but how about you give it up for now?"

"Why, because you don't want to talk about it? It's Casey's life."

"Children, children," Sasha intervened. "Can we not argue at the dinner table? It's rude to our hostess, not to mention it's making my head hurt."

Stokely opened her mouth to argue, then said, "Right. Sorry, Charly. Sorry, Case." She winced apologetically in Casey's direction, fired off a salvo of mega-bitch at Zeke and returned to her tofu.

Stan took that moment to announce, "I'm going to take a journalism course in the fall."

Charly nodded approvingly and Stokely grinned at Stan. "You signed up? That's excellent, Stan." She mucked with her tofu. "Maybe it's time for me to think about applying for school too." She gazed around the table, self-consciously. "Wouldn't that be funny, though? The old team back together?"

"Minus Delilah," Stan noted.

"No loss," Stokely finished smoothly, eliciting a chuckle from Stan.

"She could be a real...piece of work," he agreed.

"She has her moments though," Zeke declared. To his satisfaction, Stan looked a little shame-faced.

"I take it the five of you never bonded entirely," Charly remarked.

That was almost but not quite crossing the line. Zeke turned his scariest look on her but it had no effect. He then turned to Casey, to reassure him — but Casey didn't look to be in need of reassurance. Indeed, Casey didn't seem to care.

Well, of course he didn't. That was his passive way of getting revenge on Zeke, not caring what Charly said or did, smiling at her, talking to her when he'd barely talked to Zeke for three days, taunting Zeke with the prospect of new mayhem ...Hey, what if I told her...what if I just told her...? Sure, it was a good idea if you were so far removed from the social compact that your continued viability as a member of the human race barely mattered to you — except it would fucking well matter when they dragged Casey off to the nuthouse, he would be clinging to Zeke then, wouldn't he, and he'd be talking to Zeke too, begging Zeke to rescue him.

"No," Stokely said, briefly. "We still kept to our little cliques, right, Zeke?"

"Whatever," he snapped.

"Delilah sure did."

"I don't know about that."

"Oh, come on! There was that short blip where she decided it would be fun to string Casey along for a while, but then she was back to her old ways."

Charly said, "I'm sure that she just wanted to believe that nothing happened, Stokely. Like a lot of people. It's a very human reaction."

She might have been making an effort to placate Stokely, and perhaps to bring down the level of hostility in the room, but she missed the mark big time. "I don't like this conversation," Zeke informed her.

"Me neither," Stan piped up.

To Zeke's astonishment, Charly appealed directly at Casey. "How do you feel about it, Casey?"

"Are we here to eat or not?" Zeke demanded. "I thought this was just a dinner invite — maybe I was wrong."

Charly sounded a little testy when she replied, "I only thought that Casey might have something to say."

"He doesn't," Zeke decreed, and began shovelling his food down, wondering how he could be the exact same stupid so many times in a row. He was furious at Charly, furious at Stan for being her emissary, furious at Stokely for being so blind to her manipulations, furious at Casey for showing Zeke that there was no limit to how far he would go to prove his pathological otherness...but mostly, he was furious at himself for agreeing to put himself in this situation when both instinct and reason had said it was a bad idea.

For some time they all dedicated themselves to the contents of their plates, raising and lowering their forks as though eating was a highly specialized skill that demanded all their attention. Finally, Stan made an attempt to pierce the silence.

"How's your tofu?" he asked Stokely, making a sympathetic face.

"It's good," Stokely answered all too readily. Then she grimaced and said, "Actually...it sucks."

"I followed the recipe — " Charly started with a frown.

"I know, sorry...It's really good as tofu goes, it's just...not...turkey."

"This is a special occasion," Sasha said, batting his eyes suggestively. "You could treat yourself."

"Ugh!" Stokely groaned. "Don't tempt me!"

"Sorry."

"It does smell really good though." Stokely stared longingly at the platter of meat, then glanced away. "Huh. Some vegetarian I am."

Sasha queried, "So you don't actually find meat disgusting?"

"No. I keep waiting for that point to arrive but it hasn't yet."

Stan said, "I admire it."

"What?"

"The way you make a promise and stick to it."

"It's called discipline," Charly put in.

"Yeah, discipline," Stan agreed. "I admire your discipline."

Zeke looked for Stokely's response to what was, in his ears, as blatant a case of sucking-up as he'd ever witnessed. She was smiling and blushing, alternately playing with her food and meeting Stan's eye with a sparkle of welcome. Stan grinned back and Zeke had to wonder if he and Casey ever made anyone want to puke with their little public flirtations, because he was feeling pretty nauseated right now.

"Hey, thanks, Stan," Stokely said, then changed the subject. "So like...what are we having for Zeke's birthday party?"

Sasha was caught with a mouthful of food; he took time to swallow it before answering, "I was thinking stuffed mushroom caps, wings, and my special nachos."

"Mmm...basically anything that goes with beer."

"You got it." Sasha was obviously trying to be casual as he added, "And you're going to bring a cake, right?"

"Yep."

"Did you...have anything in mind?"

Stokely laughed. "Don't look so nervous! It'll have all the bad stuff in it, I promise."

"But then you won't be able to have any," Stan said to her.

"I'll make something else for myself," Stokely replied, with a come-hither smile.

Zeke groaned, "Oh, for fuck sake why don't you two just get a room?"

"You're one to talk," Stokely retorted sweetly.

"Eat me," Zeke returned with satisfaction. Sometimes it just felt good to be infantile.

"Thanks but no thanks."

"Well," Sasha intervened loudly, "Let me help you with the dishes, Charly."

"No, you need a break from that I'm sure," Charly replied.

"Oh, no, usually I'm the one who makes them dirty so others have to wash them up." Sasha was collecting dirty plates as he spoke, scraping the bones and leftovers onto the top one and stacking the rest underneath.

"I'll help too," Casey said quietly.

"We can all help," Stokely proposed. "There's more than enough mess for all of us."

"That's hardly necessary," Charly said. She now looked amused. "We'll just be tripping over each other and I insist on being allowed to clean up my own mess." Standing up, Charly said with what appeared to be satisfaction, "You, Sasha, are forbidden to help but since you were the next to volunteer, Casey, you could..."

Zeke almost shouted — or maybe he should have shouted, maybe it would have some kind of effect on this woman since nothing else did. He wasted no time glowering at her either but quickly moved on to Casey whom he found was looking right back at him — oh, yes, that was most definitely defiance. Such a diffident, almost expressionless face had to be harboring rebellion.

"No, I'll help," Zeke growled.

He drilled into Casey with a silent command; it didn't need to be articulated. Casey promptly lowered his eyes.

Zeke turned to Charly and said, "You sit down. Watch some football."

"This is stupid," Stan said.

"Thank you for that astute observation."

Charly folded her arms. "You're a guest in my home, Zeke, you don't need to do anything."

"Then neither does Casey."

"True enough." She shrugged. "So no guests will help. That leaves you and me, Stan. Come on."

Everyone rose from the table at once, probably in a bit of a hurry to get away from it. Zeke immediately moved around to the other side of it and took up a position near Casey, fighting the urge to collect him and make a break for the exit. Charly took the large stack of dirty plates and left the room, followed closely by Stan with the large platter and gravy boat.

"Go relax in the TV room," Charly called from the kitchen. "We'll have dessert in a little while."

Zeke did then what he had been needing to do all day, and even longer than that: He grasped Casey's arm. It was the first physical contact between them in three days, apart from last night's haunting, and even though Casey was wearing two long-sleeved shirts, Zeke's body reacted. He was completely certain that he could feel Casey's skin through the layers of fabric.

He gave a gentle tug, almost expecting Casey to pull away and start yelling, but Casey came along without protest. At Zeke's direction, he went meekly into the other room and sat on a couch. Zeke sat next to him, pushing himself up close so that their arms and legs were pressed together.

Sasha and Stokely had trailed behind them. Stokely sat down on Casey's other side, leaving a slightly larger space between them than Zeke had allowed. Sasha's first act was to pick up the TV remote. He clicked on the football game and turned the volume up a couple of notches to camouflage the ass-kicking he was about to deliver. Zeke waited as graciously as he could as Sasha took a seat on the recliner nearest to him.

"That was unbelievably rude, Zeke," he said in a low tone. "This woman invited us to her home and cooked for us."

Zeke shrugged. Beside him, Casey shifted his weight. Zeke looked at him and saw him chewing on a knuckle; under Zeke's gaze, he glanced up. There was flicker of something there but Zeke couldn't decide if it was meant to be defiance or enticement. Either way it was maddening.

Sasha went on, "Zeke, you need to get your shit together, this is fucking bullshit and you can't — "

"Excuse me," Zeke interrupted. Stokely had put her hand on Casey's arm for some reason and Zeke was pretty sure he saw Casey flinch. He warned her, "Don't touch him."

With disbelieving eyes and a shocked mouth, Stokely appealed to Casey for an overrule. When none arrived, she flung herself to the other end of the couch with a noise of disgust.

Zeke put his arm around Casey's shoulders. His nerves sang, he felt like he was glowing with triumph and all the blood in him making swift retreat to his groin. He saw Casey's chest heaving slightly beside him and wondered why hadn't he taken charge and touched Casey before this when it could have made everything better already.

But Casey was moving. He was pulling away. He was standing.

"Where are you going?" Zeke demanded.

Casey flushed, looking at the floor. "To the bathroom," he said, and then went about it without waiting for permission from Zeke.

Moments later they heard Casey's feet on the stairs, which Stokely took as proof that he was out of earshot because she immediately told Zeke, "Why are you acting like...like you're fucked in the head?"

Zeke had to suppress an urge to commit a violent act. No one seemed to understand that he had legitimate worries here. He was in love with a person who was erratic and profoundly unconcerned about their own well-being, and for some reason everyone he knew had decided to not be on his side even though he was asking for nothing other than common sense. He hissed at Stokely, "I would have thought that you at least would get it."

"Get what?"

"Why it's good to be careful."

"Zeke...Everyone in this house knows about the aliens already and no one has any intention of hurting Casey — or you, although I'd kinda like to smack you upside the head right now."

"It isn't like anyone plans to hurt anyone."

Stokely went silent for a bit. Just when Zeke thought she wasn't going to respond, she agreed, "No. They don't."

She didn't seem to have any more to say. Zeke faced the TV; he watched the little men in tight pants running and colliding on the screen until Sasha said, "Can we change the channel, please?" and Zeke waved that he should watch whatever he liked because he was actually just counting time until it would be reasonable for him to go after Casey.

Ten minutes passed.

Ignoring dismayed looks from both Stokely and Sasha, Zeke went upstairs. At the end of the hall, he saw the bathroom door wide open, the room itself empty. With the growing knowledge of his soon-to-be vindication, he proceeded down the hallway. He was barely surprised when, in passing the open door of Charly's office he saw Casey standing there with Charly. Charly was leaning against her desk and handing something to Casey. Casey accepted it with perfect complaisance.

It was fucking tough being right all the time.

"What's this?" he said, with all the indignation of a jilted lover in a play, and he was almost gratified to see that Casey winced. Even Charly had the grace to look a little flustered, although she recovered her poise quickly.

"We were just talking," she said. "Well, I was talking, mostly."

Zeke came right into the room and saw what Casey was holding in his hand. It was the magazine, it was the issue of Time that had made Casey infamous. He took it from Casey and offered it to Charly like hard evidence of some crime.

"Casey said he didn't have a copy of that," Charly explained. "I have two, so I thought I'd give him that one."

Zeke slapped the magazine down on the desk and said loudly, "I take it you snuck up here so you could be lying in wait for him when he had to take a piss?"

Casey opened his mouth and closed it without a word. He averted his body, as though he needed to make a full examination of the titles on Charly's shelves, and started to rock slightly, shifting from one foot to the other.

"I did want to talk to him," Charly said. "I haven't made a secret of that, but obviously I'm not going to sneak around my own house."

"So you just happened to be up here when he came up."

"That's right. Like I said, I thought I would go grab the magazine for him."

Zeke folded his arms. "Can we just get down to it? What is it that you want from us?"

Charly took her time in answering, and when she did she was obviously formulating her words with caution. "You think that I want to hurt you but I don't. You think I want to expose you — or him — and I don't."

"You've been trying to get your hooks into him from day one."

"No, that's not — " Charly broke off, shaking her head. Taking a breath to compose herself, she resumed, "All this trying to get to know you, to be friends, it isn't for some ulterior purpose. I just want to help. It's not easy being on your own for the first time in a strange city, I know that because I came here myself when I was twenty and it wasn't exactly a picnic."

"Okay, fine." Zeke would give her that one. "But you keep bringing up things that you know we don't want brought up."

"I'm sorry, but the thing about aliens intrigues me. It always did, even before the Herrington episode. I don't believe in god or any sort of religious bullshit, but I don't want to think about a universe that is empty. I want a universe that's full. That's my version of the comforting lie, you understand? Ever since your experience, I've been collecting accounts of alien contact on earth...abductions, sightings, everything. Nothing is too bizarre for me. Your experience, what you described, is probably the most convincing account I know of."

"But they weren't friendly," Casey said, to the wall.

"I know." Charly shrugged. "It doesn't matter as long as I know there's something else out there. I don't believe in angels or friendly spirits, I believe in nature."

"When you say 'collect,'" Zeke asked slowly, "What do you mean?"

"Mostly, things from newspapers, magazines...police reports, that sort of thing, and I had this idea — just recently, after you moved here I'll admit...I've been thinking, if we could interview survivors and put them in a book or at least a journal — "

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"I meant it when I said someone should do a follow up, Zeke. It has to be about the experience — before, during, and after. That kind of depth would do justice to your story and make amends for some of the shit reporting I saw. I have a vested interest in good journalism, you know? I've always thought your story needed to be told properly, not just milked for the shock value."

"And I suppose you're just the reporter to do it."

"No — but I do know several excellent investigative journalists — serious, credible, journalists — who might be willing to take this on."

Zeke made like he was actually considering it. "Have you spoken with them?"

"Not yet."

"Good. And you're not going to, you understand?"

"Zeke — "

"It is not going to happen."

"Have you considered that there are three others who might have an opinion on this? Have you asked Casey what he thinks?"

Charly probably didn't see Casey's head twist around, his eyes caught and fearful. Zeke did see it, and he also saw that Stan and Stokely were both standing in the doorway, watching and listening with gaping eyes and mouths. Sasha's head was prominent behind them. "I don't have to ask Casey," Zeke snarled. "I know what he thinks."

Stokely attempted to intervene with, "Zeke, would you friggin' listen to yourself?"

"Were you in on this?" he charged, rounding on her and Stan. "Both of you in on this?"

"I didn't even know!" Stan protested.

"I thought — " Stokely began.

"Never mind. Casey and I are leaving now."

"You don't have to leave," Charly said. "If you don't want to tell the story, that's all I need to hear. I'll try persuasion but I'm not going to force anyone." But her next statement was addressed to Casey alone. "That is, I assume you don't want to."

"Don't talk to him!" Zeke shouted.

"Zeke, man," Stan protested.

"Be reasonable," Stokely put in. "She hasn't hurt anyone."

"I am reasonable," Zeke snapped. "I'm the only reasonable person here, apparently." He wheeled about and told Casey, "We're leaving now." He would not grab Casey, because only a person insecure about his authority would need to grab. He let his gaze linger until he was confident that Casey was going to follow him, then headed for the door. Stan and Stokely moved back to let them through.

"Case," Stokely pleaded when Zeke was almost at the top of the stairs. "Why don't you say something?"

"He's said enough," Zeke stated, over his shoulder.

"No," Charly's voice corrected from behind him. "He never said anything to me, Zeke. Just so you know."

Zeke stopped at that. Casey nearly bumped into him; he turned and steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. Charly was standing in the hallway along with the others. "Look," he said to her, fighting to get the words past a tight, aching throat. "I'm really sorry this happened. It...it was nice of you to make us dinner and I don't think you really mean to do any harm. You just don't seem to know when to let something go."

"Stay, Zeke."

"No. Sorry, we can't."

He lead the way downstairs and out to the car but didn't get in. He just stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the night sky and trying to control his shaking. He recognized this was a moment that he would always remember; way down the road when most of the years between twenty and thirty were gone this memory would stick out. Everything around him felt contingent and fragile and he understood completely how it was all beyond his control, that there was absolutely nothing that could not get away from him. Stan or Stokely could do what they would do and Charly would say what Charly said and at any second passing meteorite could suck away their atmosphere so they had nothing to breathe or existence could just stop itself like a candle going out. Meanwhile, all he had the power to do was try to stop Casey from doing himself any further harm. He should, he had to, and he would.

While he stood there contemplating his powerlessness, Sasha came barrelling out the door, yanking on his jacket as he tumbled down the front steps. "Forget somebody?"

"You want to be in the same car with me?"

Sasha made the universal face of patience-seeking; his eyes closed, his mouth thinned, and he took one, very deliberate breath before saying, "Okay...You know what? Stop acting like you're alone in this. It just makes it easier for you to be a dictator and I've had quite enough for one night."

Zeke found himself without a reply. And still shaking.

"Get in the car," Sasha said, more gently. "I'll drive."

"But — "

"Shut up and give me the keys."

Casey was standing aside watching them with a white face and frozen, gargantuan eyes. At Sasha's gesture he crawled in the back, and Zeke obediently got in the passenger's side.

Sasha started muttering to himself as he pulled away from the curb.

"....nothing like ruining a perfectly good turkey dinner...of course it's a holiday tradition, isn't it, families just gotta go nuts on Thanksgiving and Christmas...but then, hey, this was nothing! A teeny little drama compared to some of my family get-togethers, I could go another ten rounds if I had to but here's the problem, I'm supposed to go to Jerry's mother's for second dessert, not that I even had first dessert. I promised, now what am I going to tell him..."

Sasha paused, quite possibly to take in some oxygen.

"Do you want me to say something?" Zeke asked.

"Not really."

All was silence for the remainder of the drive home.

Back in the apartment, Sasha went immediately to the phone while Casey and Zeke each went to their separate corners, to the couch and the computer. Zeke had left the computer on, and he stared at the screensaver images, a montage of still images downloaded from the American Film Institute while in the distance Sasha talked to Jerry. He couldn't quite make out the content, but it didn't sound like a lighthearted conversation. After it ended he strained his ears and eventually heard a murmur of Casey speaking and Sasha replying. The next thing he heard was the door to the apartment opening and closing and he understood that Casey — the mute, the perpetually silent — had convinced Sasha to leave.

Zeke's heart began to pound, and then pound faster when he heard the very faint scuffle of Casey's feet on the carpet in the hallway, and faster still as he sensed Casey's presence somewhere behind him.

Zeke spun the desk chair to face him. Three days gone and now, at last, Casey was entirely incarnated in his bedroom, real and warm and staring back at him. Neither one of them seemed inclined to move; for Zeke's part, he knew that if Casey made a single move in his direction, he would erupt. He saw himself descending upon him and dragging him to the nearest flat surface — maybe the bed, maybe not. He might not get that far.

He couldn't think of anything insightful to say, so he asked, "How did you get him to leave?"

"I asked."

"Really, is that all it takes?" Zeke's throat was dry. He decided that standing up was within his power now; in reciprocity, Casey took a jerky step in his direction, then stopped and bit his lip. His face twisted up like he was fighting something.

"Okay, so — " Zeke started.

"Fuck!" Casey swore. He kicked out sideways, deliberately hitting the wall, then angled his body and banged his entire forearm, including his fist, against it. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

It took a few seconds for Zeke to get to him and pull him away from the wall. "That's not — Case — "

Casey's arms immediately twined about him, clinging — but only for a moment, letting him go just as suddenly while Casey fixed his gaze on a place somewhere near Zeke's feet. His muffled voice said, "I can't — I can't stop it don't be disgusted with me — "

"Disgusted...Why would I be?"

"Because I'm — I'm gross and pathetic but I just don't care anymore."

"But...aren't you angry?"

At that, Casey raised his head and Zeke got a close-up view of his fevered expression as he ranted, "I know I'm supposed to, and I know you'll be disgusted by me but I don't care. I know I should be pissed at you and I am, I promise I am but I just can't...feel it." His hand slid around Zeke's neck and up into his hair, tugging on it, pulling his mouth down as he strained up. "Don't care...don't be..." he hissed. He lunged, his mouth violently meeting Zeke's, his teeth snarling with Zeke's lip, and at the same time he yanked on Zeke's hair so hard that Zeke let out a cry of pain.

Zeke grabbed a wrist and an upper arm and forced Casey back, into the wall.

They stared at each other, both panting hard, their chests heaving together. Zeke tasted something metallic in his mouth and tested his lower lip with a finger that came away red; blood had been drawn. Casey made a bid for freedom abruptly, trying to pull his hands free. His teeth snapped at Zeke's jaw too, but Zeke evaded that and bore down with all his weight, forcing a knee between Casey's legs.

He wanted to keep Casey still there against the wall — there was something he wanted to say although he was having difficulty remembering what it was — but Casey was both frantic and extremely bendable, slithering left or right as needed to thrust his crotch against whatever part of Zeke he happened to come into contact with. Hip and pelvic bones ground almost audibly. Zeke moaned when their erections finally made haphazard contact and swallowed Casey's answering cry with his own mouth. He crushed his lips against Casey's, meeting no resistence at all. Casey's tongue plunged and his mouth suctioned Zeke's into his, his body pressing desperately against Zeke, completely without balance or dignity.

For a time Zeke lost almost everything but the pulse and motion of that mouth but through it he managed to cling to his niggling worry. He struggled to pull back far enough to speak, drawing a sigh of desperation from Casey as he did. Casey's finger's bit into his forearms, trying to keep him in place. "Wait," Zeke gasped.

"No...wait."

"Yes, wait...you're angry."

Casey's eyes opened, revealing an unwholesome, manic glitter. He spat, "So? Never makes a difference."

Since his lover was demonstrating marginal coherence right then, Zeke thought it best that he take advantage and get right to the point: "I won't fuck you when you're angry at me."

Instantly, the glint in those eyes went nuclear. "You have to."

"I don't have to do anything."

If one approach wasn't working for him, Casey could easily take another. A sheen of tears appeared, although it did not dilute the laser-like heat that was boring into Zeke. Casey said, "I don't want you to see me beg."

Zeke cupped Casey's face in his hands. "Then don't beg," he said.

Casey shoved his hands away, ducking under his arm. Zeke stayed where he was and watched as Casey started to prowl the room. Something awful was coming on; he could tell by the way that Casey covered fewer and fewer feet in each lap of the room, the area that he was treading getting shorter each time so that within moments he was reduced to jittering in small, irregular circles. All that time he was mumbling. "Thought you understood, I thought...did what you wanted, didn't I? I didn't say anything, I thought we had an understanding."

Absently, Zeke marvelled that he could still be as extremely aroused as he was when a big part of him just wanted to flee the room. "What understanding?" he asked, as calmly as he could manage.

"You wanted me to be quiet about aliens, you threatened not to be with me anymore. So I said I would be quiet — that was the deal, wasn't it?"

Zeke realized a second after this statement that his mouth hanging open. Silly or not, it seemed to be what you did when you were completely blindsided.

"You threatened that you'd leave me," Casey accused.

"No, Casey, no — please stop that — stop pacing!" Casey stopped in his tracks, putting his hands together at his chest and wringing them together like he was trying to tear off a piece of himself. "That wasn't what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?"

Zeke wished he knew. The only thing that he did know was that he had read Casey's silence completely wrong. All this time he'd thought that Casey wasn't talking to him because he was angry at being bullied. Meanwhile, Casey was actually angry that Zeke seemed to be ignoring the terms of an agreement — but that wasn't what he had meant, was it? No, it couldn't have...Three days ago he had been in a blind panic, thinking about forcing the issue of Casey's secrets, telling on him to the doctor, and yes, he had been thinking about sex but not giving it up, never giving it up. Certainly not ever leaving Casey. In truth, he hadn't really thought through what he was threatening, he just knew that he could stop Casey, that he had to stop him or he would lose him. Not losing Casey had been the whole fucking point.

Zeke discovered that he needed to rest his legs. Possibly also his head. He stumbled in the direction of the bed and sat heavily. His eyes fell upon Casey's hands; they were small but also kind of squat and, he knew from experience, quite strong. They were clenching and unclenching as Zeke watched. Maybe Casey was fighting an urge to wind up and punch Zeke, and as much as Zeke wasn't into pain, a punch sounded kind of refreshing. Maybe it would help to clear his head.

Casey's hands had fallen open, Zeke saw. The trajectory had shifted and they were coming towards him. They touched his shoulders, and then Casey was moving right up close to his body, slipping into the space between his knees. Cool fingers trailed a pattern over his sweaty forehead and down his cheeks, stroking his jaw. A voice whispered to him, "It doesn't matter, Zeke, I swear. It's okay, I...it really is and you know I was good, I didn't talk or anything...because I don't want you to worry. It won't be wrong if...if we care about each other it won't be wrong, just don't think like that."

Stalling for time, Zeke put his arms loosely around Casey's waist. Casey had said it a few minutes ago: Fuck, fuck, fuck! Such an astute observation, that, because Zeke was very much afraid that it would be wrong — how could it not be when he couldn't touch Casey without Casey viewing it as a consummation of this unholy arrangement he'd conjured up in his beautiful, tragic head? And all this while Zeke was wanting to touch Casey, touch him and fuck him through the floor, he wanted it so badly it seemed possible that he might actually burn to cinders. There would be nothing left of him but little black bits of carbon.

He was not action guy now; he was in a state of paralysis. His inflamed body was somehow frozen, along with his brain. He couldn't move and he couldn't move away.

Meanwhile, experience had taught Casey that he only had to take the decision out of Zeke's hands. Casey was visibly unconcerned with Zeke's passivity; he casually shed one of the shirts he was wearing, unbuttoning it and throwing it off to the side with a twist of a grin, then pulled his long-sleeved t-shirt over his head, making his strange and wonderful hair stand on end in places. He was wearing the necklace that Sasha had bought him.

Suddenly Zeke could move but it felt as though he were not moving under his own power, as though he were enthralled. He put out a hand to touch the pendant briefly, then moving to touch the hollow of Casey's throat, possibly the most perfect place on his body. He felt Casey shiver. "Case — " he started to whisper.

"Shh." Three fingers strayed across his mouth. They were marshmallow- flavoured.

Absently, he noted that his own shirt was being unbuttoned and slipped off of his shoulders in that matter-of-fact way that was so very much Casey's. Leaving the slightly more problematic issue of getting him out of his sleeves without his participation, Casey undid Zeke's belt instead and opened the front of his pants, letting his fingers brush gently over Zeke's belly. Panting slightly, he put a knee on the bed beside Zeke's thigh, then the opposite knee beside the opposite thigh; Zeke obligingly shifted and braced himself so that Casey could sit without risk of falling off but Casey gave him a little push and he let himself go, falling onto his back.

For such a small person, Casey did a good job of seeming to be everywhere at once. A mouth and hands were roaming Zeke's chest, stroking and sampling; at the same time Casey adjusted his straddle so that Zeke's hard bulge was lined up with his own and he was rocking, using very tiny, humping motions, almost as though he didn't realize he was doing it, making Zeke's body cry more every other second.

Not even a full minute of this torture, and Zeke was nearly broken. Sensing it, Casey stopped moving. He shifted back, settling comfortably in Zeke's lap, doing nothing except keeping his hand moving idly against Zeke's chest. Zeke was drowning, his eyes full of white, white flesh and eyes that seemed to have become a soft, gelatinous blue compelling him to plunge and rampage to his heart's content and he felt a stirring of fear...just a dim, faint tremor of it, and then it was gone.

He gripped Casey's shoulders and sat up to kiss lips that had gone a deep, shining berry red, so moist they seemed to give under his like some sweet, custardy dessert. His hand came up finally, behind Casey's back, and played with a strand of hair at the nape of Casey's neck — and now his other hand was involved too, moving randomly over Casey's torso. He found a nipple and toyed with it, thrilling when Casey arched into his hands and mouth. Casey tore his mouth away and gasped, "Should I take off my pants?"

Zeke nodded, whispered, "Oh, yeah...yes." There was some will in him now; it was the will to do everything and anything to this body that was soon completely bared and falling back on the bed while Zeke shimmied out of shirt and pants and grabbed lube from somewhere, amazed that he even remembered where it was. He threw the tube down on the bed and then laid himself beside Casey's body. His entire crotch felt swollen, absolutely molten and he needed to get off more than he needed to breathe but again there was this disturbance in him, this troublesome thing that tugged and demanded some semblance of absolution before he could have what he wanted.

"I've been horrible to you," he said, throwing a leg over Casey's, getting their erections closer.

"I don't care," Casey returned. He wriggled, fitting his supple and willing body against, almost under, Zeke.

"I'm just saying...This isn't going to make it better."

Zeke raised himself on one elbow so he could watch as possible responses ran across Casey's face. He saw Casey picked through them and decide on the least honest of the bunch.

"I know you're sorry," Casey said.

Zeke didn't say it: No, not sorry. Just sorry that I have to do it. He could have said that and still had Casey upside-down, backwards and sideways, he knew there was no issue there but he couldn't say it and then delude himself that all was forgiven, as he was about to do.

There could be nothing so satisfying as the way that his lover's smooth, solid flesh gave itself into his hand. He pressed one palm down Casey's thigh from knee to groin and stroked Casey's very hot, very hard cock. Casey's body formed a taut bow; he whimpered something. Zeke decided that absolution was overrated. He pushed Casey's leg to the side and reached for the lubricant.

But then as he did, disaster happened. His own erection brushed Casey's thigh and he realized instantly that he was too tightly wound; that slight touch was enough to set him off. A shudder went through him, and a groan, and he was done.

All was still for a moment, apart from Zeke catching his breath. "Fuck," he wheezed, dropping his head onto Casey's chest. "Shit."

Casey moved slightly, unbending his knee so his leg lay flat while his erection continued to jut up. "Yeah," he said, sounding not very happy.

"Hey, don't sound so glum." Zeke shifted, moving his body down the bed so he could get into a convenient position. "I still have lots of toys to play with."

Casey pushed at his shoulders, trying to hold him back. "Wh-what are you doing?" Casey asked.

"I'm going to do something obscene to your cock with my mouth."

The shoving became frantic. "No. I don't want you to."

Zeke disbelieved his ears. "Let me see if I heard you right. You, a guy, are telling me you do not want a blow job."

Scooting out of reach of Zeke's mouth and hands, Casey sat up and pulled up one knee, guarding his most sensitive parts. "I want you to fuck me."

"Well, I can't do that right now, can I?"

"You can in a few minutes, I'll help you get hard again."

So delusion time was over. Zeke also sat up, feeling guilt, relief and a curious sense of defilement all at once. Sure, as a guy he was supposed to be ready to mount anyone at any moment, and not that he found anything unpleasant in the scenario that Casey proposed but he didn't particularly like being treated like a wind- up doll.

"No," he said, enunciating clearly and with conviction.

The responses were fairly predictable. Casey's other knee went up, heels pressing tight against buttocks as he began to quiver. Zeke reached to touch him. He scratched and pushed at Zeke's arm, frantic in his attempts to keep that hand away, staring at Zeke with moist, glowing eyes set in a dead white face and Zeke remembered then what had been scary a few minutes ago: It was Casey himself. Casey was more terrifying than a fistful of alien queens, and Zeke was fucking grateful for his body's betrayal. His body had saved him from making a horrible mistake — but it wasn't going to save him from Casey.

Needing some cover, Zeke got up and pulled on his pants, foregoing underwear for the moment. He pulled on his wrinkled shirt with short, jerky motions. Through it all, he didn't hear a sound behind him and his skin crawled, almost expecting an attack while his back was turned.

He turned and found Casey in the exact same posture as a moment ago. "Case," he started, and realized he had nothing to say.

Casey's entire posture embodied vulnerability even as the voice that came from him was unyielding and cold. "You want me to beg? I'll do it."

"No," Zeke said. "I don't want that."

"Then don't make me."

"Casey."

"You were okay with doing me...you were just fine with it."

"I know, and I was wrong."

"Oh, it's wrong. I see...as long as you get off first."

Zeke could not look away; this was too important, it was a matter of principle, of being correct. He said, "You're right. It's not fair to you at all but if we were banging away right now, it would still be a mistake. And since you're not willing to do it any other way...I think it would be best if we both got dressed."

"Prick."

"Yes. I am. But I'm also right."

Those words rang around the room, falling into a terrible silence. Then Casey was scrambling to the end of the bed and off. Zeke understood quickly that Casey was looking for something to destroy. He followed Casey's eye line to the piles of library books and managed to get between them and Casey but only after Casey had toppled the first one. Stepping protectively in front of what was left, Zeke put a hand out, flat on Casey's chest. "Don't you fucking dare," he warned.

In response, Casey grabbed one book that had been sitting open on top of the desk and threw it across the room, against the wall.

Zeke replied by throwing his arms around Casey, pinning his arms to his sides. "Don't," he ordered.

"Let go." Casey was trying to break out of his Zeke-prison, without much success. He fought and squirmed and elbowed, imprinting injury after injury on both of them. "Let...go!" he grunted.

Zeke just held on, squeezing Casey tighter and tighter as his personal ire rose higher and higher. He'd had enough with tantrums from nineteen — fuck, almost twenty — year-olds, even if they were emotionally disturbed through no real fault of their own, and they were dealing with the aftermath of a horrible relationship...and they were mesmerizing and he loved them so much he thought he might explode from it but Zeke was not going to put up with it this time. Casey could fight until they were both wrecked from head to foot.

"Not...until...you stop," Zeke spat back.

Impossibly, their doorbell rang.

For some peculiar reason Casey went limp, like he was actually not too far gone to think about what a guest might think if they saw him and Zeke having a domestic dispute. Maybe he was just picking the opportune moment to give up. Or maybe he was tired too.

As the bell rang again, Zeke loosened the barrier he had made around Casey so as to test his compliance. "I'm going to answer it," he said. For a few moments he remained poised to tighten his control as needed, and when there was no violence, not even motion, he let his arms fall. He stepped carefully around Casey and suggested, "Why don't you put on some clothes while I'm doing that?"

Walking down the hall to the front door, he muttered as many swear words as he could fit into once sentence. It had to be Stokely at the door, wanting to check in on them although he had to wonder why she hadn't just phoned. Okay, it could be Stan, or maybe Sasha had come home early and forgotten his keys for some reason —

It was not Stokely. It was not Stan.

Winona.

"This is so not a good time," he blurted, not even thinking to censor himself in his dismay and down-right annoyance at seeing her there. Then she lifted swollen, red-rimmed eyes, and he was obligated to feel some regret.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I called several times and there was no answer so I thought...thought I'd just try coming over."

Zeke shot a look at the answering machine, just to his right. The digital four was illuminated in red, right in plain sight. Neither he nor Casey had bothered to look, and if Sasha had seen it, he hadn't felt the need to mention it.

"What's up?" he said. He thought he sounded almost casual.

"I'm — " Winona bit her lip, chin quivering. "Having a bad day here." She set her shoulders then and said, "I know it's a holiday and it's pretty cheeky for me to just show up like this and you can tell me to take a hike if you want but I have to ask...Can I come in, please?"

Zeke didn't mind if she saw his reluctance, because she really had come at the most awful time imaginable. He looked over his shoulder, expecting to find Casey behind him. There was no one there, though, and that helped to decide him on a temporary course of action.

"Okay," he allowed. He stepped back a bit so that she could come in, not letting her any further than just inside the door. He remained just there, blocking her access. "What's up?" he asked again.

Winona peered around him. He couldn't fault her for that; Casey's presence was thick in the apartment. "Where's Casey?" she asked.

"He's around. Not to be rude, but was there something you wanted to ask me?"

Her reddened eyes teared up right in front of him. "Can I take you out for a beer?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, but no."

"Just for a little while?"

"No. It can't happen...not today, sorry."

"Then can...could I just talk to you for a few minutes?"

Again he hesitated, wishing that she would feel so uncomfortable and unwanted that she would leave. But she didn't budge; if she did feel unwanted, her need for an ear, even a not-quite-willing ear, was the bigger factor. It was bizarre that he had suddenly become everyone's emotional dumping-ground, it made no sense to him because he was not an empathic guy, never had been.

But to deny her completely seemed a much greater cruelty than he could inflict on anyone at that moment, especially since it would be so easy not to be cruel. Some people got everything so twisted and wretched that every move you made, even if it was correct, caused them pain. As difficult and inconvenient as this was, he could talk to Winona for ten minutes and send her on her way, and if he never saw her again he would at least know that he hadn't been a prick to her.

"Wait here for a sec," he told her.

He went down the hall to the bedroom with no idea what to expect. Some kind of jealous rage perhaps, or a personality shift — certainly not Casey sitting on the floor beside the bed, facing the door. He was wearing his pants but nothing else, and he had formed himself into a ball of half-naked flesh. He was gaping up at Zeke with an expression that defied understanding. It was that thing that Zeke had occasionally seen in him and dreaded, but now increased to a power of ten. It was terror, it was rage, and it was a despair so complete that anyone seeing it had to know that this person could actually be dangerous because they had nothing left to lose.

"Don't let her in," Casey said. He was shaking so that Zeke could actually see his knees knocking.

Frowning, Zeke shut the bedroom door and knelt down beside Casey. "Just for a few minutes?"

"No, why did you open it — ?"

"She was there, Case, I'm sorry, she looks really upset and she's begging to — "

"Don't," Casey pleaded, catching his sleeve.

"I'm not going anywhere, but she asked to talk to me for a few minutes and I thought we could just — "

"No."

"— go up on the roof and talk for a short while and then she'll leave."

"No!"

"Casey," Zeke said in a low voice. "The woman is crying at our doorstep."

"I don't care. She can't come in."

"Quiet, she'll hear you."

"She can't come in!"

Zeke took hold of one of Casey's arms. "Listen to me. She's already in."

"No!" Casey shrilled. He yanked his arm away, and then for good measure he kicked out, catching Zeke in the shin.

Being hit with a bare foot shouldn't have hurt, but it did. Repressing his yelp of pain, Zeke stood. "Okay, good. Now I've got you having hysterics here and someone else having hysterics out there. I don't know what you want me to do but I know what she wants. I'm going to go talk to someone I can make a difference to. I'm going to allow her to walk through the kitchen and up to the roof. I'll talk to you later."

"Zeke."

Zeke couldn't ignore that small, desperate sound; he turned to see that Casey was struggling onto his bare feet and looking as though he were going to follow Zeke. "What are you doing?" Zeke asked.

"You can't be alone with her...she...she has to be watched."

Fucking hell. Zeke could actually see his skin move with tremors, muscles twitching and spasming beneath the dreadful pallor.

"No, Casey," he commanded, trying to sound much stronger than he felt. He just had to take one thing at a time. He would deal with Winona and then he would try and tackle his lover's raging psychosis. "Stay here. I won't be long."

"No but sh-she can't be...you can't..."

"Just chill, okay?"

Casey shuddered, visibly trying to get a grip, but he insisted, "She shouldn't be in here."

"But she is." Zeke gripped Casey's bare shoulders to emphasize his next demand. "And I want you to stay in here, Casey. I'll only be a few minutes, understand?"

If Casey had been someone else's boyfriend, Zeke would have been impressed by the magnificent combination of emotions that was his expression right now. He tore himself from Zeke's grip, looking absolutely extreme and operatic, like he could have spat on Zeke and showered him with tears at the same time. "Go on," Casey said. "Hang with...with her, t-talk to...to her."

"How about just for once you cut me some fucking slack?" Casey didn't answer, and Zeke felt pretty certain that no slack was being cut. He lifted his hands in frustration. "I'm not Roy, Casey. I'm just not."

"Oh, I know."

It was delivered in a smarmy, sneering tone that was intended to let Zeke know exactly how he fell short of Roy. Anger consumed whatever was left of compassion and reason, and Zeke snarled in return, "Okay. I'll talk to her for a while and I expect you to stay in this fucking room. After that we're going to sit down and make a list of things that are different between me and Roy."

"Why don't you tell me one thing now," Casey gritted. "Something to cling to while you're up there getting cozy with her."

"Sure." Zeke leaned in, and grabbed Casey, yanked him so close that Casey should be able to feel his breath as he ground out his reply: "I wouldn't marry some woman even though I was gay and then keep my fucktoy on the side." With that, he released Casey — okay, maybe pushed him a little but not all that hard — and wheeled around to leave the room. He didn't need to stick around to see Casey's face right now because he knew that if he did his triumph would be instantly crushed. As it was, the narcotic of self-administered vindication lasted only a few seconds. There was still anger, which he was not ready to relinquish just yet.

He was stomping back to the front door, and he never stomped. He was just so fucking tired of this crap. He could take the tears and the traumas but he could not take the false accusations — because they were false. If there was one thing he couldn't tolerate, it was people walking around believing things that weren't the facts even when they'd been told the facts. Repeatedly. Being actively delusional was no excuse.

Winona was exactly where he'd left her — she could follow instructions, at least — and from her face Zeke could imagine that she'd heard pretty much everything. "Okay," he said, his voice harsh. "We'll go up on the roof."

"Zeke...I'm sorry to be such a pest."

"It's okay," he said, almost not lying. "Things can get kinda rough, I know."

It wasn't really a question but she took it as one. "Yeah. This entire month's been crap. First Greg dumped me and my room-mate Tabitha, she's driving me batty and now it's exams coming, I'm probably going to fail everything..."

Something told Zeke to turn and look back to where he'd just come from. Casey was standing in the hallway just outside the bedroom door, visible only from where Zeke stood. He was still barefoot, but he had put on the ratty X-Files t-shirt that he often slept in and he was just standing there and looking at Zeke. There was no question that he'd heard Winona's lament in its entirety, lack of boyfriend included.

"Um...you want to go upstairs?" Zeke suggested to her. "I'll be there in a sec."

Winona blinked at the suddenness of it, and then nodded. As she moved into the kitchen her sight line changed; she caught sight of Casey and started. "Oh, shit! Casey! Man, you scared me!"

Not even blinking, Casey stared at her. Then, without expression or a wordof reply, he slipped back into the bedroom. The door slammed.

"Ouch," Winona remarked sourly. "Should I go?"

Zeke shook his head and said, "Just go up." He pointed to the ceiling, keenly looking forward to being on the roof now — he could use the air if nothing else. He followed her up.

The chill felt wonderful on his overheated face, and the first thing he did was light a cigarette, inhaling so deeply that he could feel each individual tube and alveoli all the way to the bottom of his lungs curling up and screaming. The poisons flooding his body brought back some sanity, maybe even a scrap of patience. Only after two or three really ass-kicking hauls on his smoke did he notice that Winona was standing fairly distant, away from their sad little garden and the illumination provided by the light over the door. She was almost in the dark. "What are you doing over there?"

She came a bit closer. "I dunno, you were having a private moment with your cig."

"Oh." Zeke rubbed his neck. "Why did you have to mention your boyfriend?"

"I'm sorry, Zeke, it was just...why not mention it because it did happen and I didn't know he was standing there...and Zeke, I really only want us to be friends."

"I know."

"Casey doesn't though, he won't even say hi to me. He hates me and that's not fair."

Zeke couldn't muster a defense of Casey at the moment. The best he could come up with was, "It's not personal."

"I dunno about that." Winona smiled wistfully.

"Believe it." Zeke folded into one of the chairs and sucked back some smoke. His anger was beginning to fade a little, mellowing into what was merely an intense feeling of frustration. "The last person Casey was with was keeping a woman on the side and lying to him about how involved he was with her."

"And how involved was he?"

"He married her."

"Pretty involved, then."

"Yeah." Tipping ashes, Zeke asked, "So why did you want to talk to me so badly?"

"Oh...well, um...just everything getting to me. Mostly my kid."

"Mm hmm."

"I guess I never really told you about this. See, Aaron's lived with his grandmother most of his life and he barely knows me."

"Hmm." Zeke was deliberately trying to avoid commentary, so as to avoid lengthening this conversation.

"I had him when I was sixteen. I told you that, eh?"

"Yeah."

"But I didn't tell you the part where I ran off when Aaron was only eight months old." Winona's voice shuddered. Zeke held his breath, hoping she wouldn't cry because he wouldn't know what to do. Didn't they know that he just wasn't any good with people in general? "I can't say it was because I was drinking or doing drugs — although I was. I just felt overwhelmed and I met this guy, he was twenty-two and he seemed so cool...I took off with him. I left my baby with my mother." Winona took a deep breath, lifting her head. "It's the most terrible thing I've ever done...well, obviously. I figure lots of people would say I'm a terrible person too — but it took me years to get my act together and work up the courage to go back to school. I was practically homeless for a few years there...basically, I was a stupid, screwed-up kid."

She left a pause that Zeke was probably supposed to fill. "Lots of people used to be stupid, screwed-up kids," he said. "Some of us still are."

"I thought...You're in your twenties, aren't you?"

"Twenty-three next week, actually. But I've done my share of dicking around."

"You seem so together, so...I mean, you strike me as kind of wise. I thought you were older. I think that's why I've been hanging around. There's a part of me that's still that kid looking for a mentor, you know?"

"I guess," Zeke smiled, feeling distinctly embarrassed.

"Sorry. I don't mean to be all gushy...but I am."

"It's okay."

"I'm probably expecting too much of Aaron, aren't I? I mean, he can't possibly forgive me."

"Well..."

"I just sort of reappeared two years ago. I've been trying to get closer to him but...god. It's so hard." Just when Zeke thought the crisis had been averted, Winona broke down and began to cry. "My mother is doing everything in her power to make him hate me!"

What the fuck was he supposed to do now? He didn't know how to begin to wade in and he didn't particularly want to apply himself to the problem. This was an entire life history full of serious, personal shit, and he had a couple of those on his hands already.

Winona rattled on, "I wanted to go to Vancouver for Canadian Thanksgiving but she told me some story about how they were going to a friend's and it would be too awkward to invite me. So then I was...talking to her for the last month about going up for American Thanksgiving weekend, just to spend some time with them and then all of a sudden she says Aaron doesn't want me to come and — and — don't bother — to sh-show up!"

Zeke leaned over and patted Winona's knee. "Um..." he said, feeling very lame.

"I've...been trying...really trying but I don't think he's ever going to...to trust me!"

Winona was full-out sobbing as she concluded this last statement, but at the same time making some effort to control it. Zeke wanted to offer her a tissue or something but since there were none around he just sat and waited for her to collect herself.

"Do you want to know what I think?" he asked, when she was calmer.

"Yes?" she sniffed.

"I think that if you don't give up, if you stick around and just keep sending the same message, that you want to be his mother...he'll eventually come around. He'll want to give you a second chance."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I think so. As long as you don't jerk him around."

Winona suddenly fell to a fresh outpouring of sobs. Zeke couldn't manage to ignore the call of simple human decency any longer; he pulled his chair closer and put his arm around her shoulders. Her head fell against him, but a crisis point had been passed. Her crying subsided until she was merely shuddering and sniffling. Wiping her face, she said, "I'm a soggy mess."

"Naw," he said.

She laughed. "Yeah, okay." With a pass of her sleeve over her damp face, she said, "How is it that you always seem to know what you're talking about?"

"Habit." He shrugged. "Even if you're wrong, you might as well make your mistakes with confidence. If someone happens to prove you're wrong, then you apologize."

"Are you wrong?"

"No. Not this time."

"I believe you, Zeke." Winona heaved a sigh. "I feel better. There's nothing to be done about the boyfriend thing or the fact that I'm going to fail all of my exams...but I feel better."

Oddly, Zeke was feeling better too. "You're not going to fail," he told her.

"Oh, yeah? How do you know that?"

"Because you work hard. People don't work hard and fail."

She considered that. "You know...I think you're probably right. It's just...hard to believe a lot of the time."

"I hear you."

"You mean...you don't actually doubt yourself? Not you."

"Sure. All the time."

Something in his tone must have been too revealing. Winona gave him a sympathetic look and said, "You're pretty stressed too, eh?"

"Yeah...well."

"You...could tell me about it...if you want?"

Zeke heard himself say, "There isn't much to talk about. I know he's going to be okay someday. I just don't know if I'm going to survive until then."

"Okay, let me give you a piece of my wisdom now. I used to have this thing for guys who were fixer-uppers, you know what I mean? I must have dated about ten of them so I can tell you...that's always bad news, Zeke."

Zeke felt acute discomfort and realized he had egged her on, that he was venting about Casey to her again. He sensed that she was not just willing but eager to hear criticism of Casey and that was why he was so tempted to talk to her. This was becoming a serious ethical challenge for him. "Okay," he said quickly, "but you know, this situation is a little different."

"You figure?"

"Look, I don't really feel like talking about it."

"Sure, okay. Sorry."

"It's okay." Zeke resorted to one of the classic It's-Time-For-You-To-Go gestures, putting his hands on his knees with a certain amount of deliberation. "I don't mean to be rude..."

"No, I understand. Thanks for the chat. I was feeling really...just miserable and alone but I feel better now."

"Good."

They both stood up.

"So...twenty-three in a week, huh?" Winona mused. "Are you doing anything for your birthday?"

Zeke had to perform a lightning-quick series of computations to choose between two tiny words. He came up with "yes."

"Oh," Winona said.

Shit. He'd gotten himself cornered, and Casey was going to fucking kill him. Or something. It was not going to be pretty anyway. He said, "Just a little get together here. Next Sunday...Do you want to come?"

"If it won't be a problem..." Winona said.

"Well, I live here so I can issue invitations," he replied, a bit petulantly. "And it is my party."

"Yeah, but...to be honest, it's not much fun eating cake with blue strobe-lights right in my face."

Zeke laughed. "I know how you feel." Just then, he was glad that he had invited her. The Un-Casey was good for him.

"How about we say I'll think about it," Winona finished.

"All right."

Casey was nowhere to be seen when they returned to the kitchen. Nor to be heard, which was odd because Zeke had expected him to be in the living room and well into escaperama by now. He said a cordial goodnight to Winona and promised to be on time for class on Monday. She pretended like she believed him.

Once the door shut behind her he went straight for the bedroom, calling, "Case, c'mon out, she's gone." He felt confident that he'd regained some perspective during the last half-hour. He could be patient again. After all, his lover was still a very ill person and it was a credit to Casey's efforts that he had gotten to the point where he could occasionally make Zeke forget that.

But Casey was not in the bedroom. Puzzling, Zeke checked Sasha's bedroom, then the living room and the bathroom. "Casey?!" he shouted as he went. "Case? Come out and be mad at me now!"

There was no response.

Feeling ludicrous, Zeke even checked all the closets and behind the shower curtain. After that, he checked the bedroom and the living room again because he had a ways to go before he could accept that Casey would have left the apartment.

There was no Casey.

There was a word for this.

Trapped.

Zeke had let the Beast into their home. Zeke had just opened the door, just like that and then It was inside and Casey had almost crawled under the bed to hide except he was so completely frozen with terror at first that he couldn't move and by the time he was unfrozen he knew there was no point anyway. People wanted what they wanted and no way was it just friendship, he knew better. She didn't have a boyfriend, she hadn't had a boyfriend for a while now. All this time she was spending with Zeke couldn't just be friendship and Zeke hadn't told him, why would Zeke not tell him unless he felt there was something to hide?

Casey couldn't believe that Zeke had done this, set him up like this. Refusing to give him what he needed, rejecting him, opening the door when he shouldn't and then calling Casey — what Zeke had called him. Well, Zeke didn't realize, did he, that it was perfectly okay if he wanted to despise Casey as long as he was consistent about it. Zeke thought he had delivered such a stinging insult, and yeah it hurt to know that Zeke thought that about him but it wasn't anything he didn't already know. Casey could live with it, he would be Zeke's fucktoy and accept Zeke's judgment if Zeke would just do and be one way. All of a sudden today Zeke wanted to pretend their relationship wasn't about sex...so Zeke was a liar and a hypocrite, he had made a promise to Casey that he wasn't keeping. He saw to it that Casey was trapped, he forced Casey to be quiet about certain things which was certainly not fair but fine if that was how he wanted it. So Casey had let him know Okay, I accept, control every little thing I do, except then Zeke turned around and said But it wouldn't be right, I can't do that to you, Casey.

And then he opened the door to the Beast, he let the Beast in. She's already in, Casey, she's already here just accept it stay here let me talk to her let me convince her...stay here on the roof for a while, Jan, while I handle him...no, it won't be a problem, he'll do anything for me.

It seemed that a red foam was filling Casey's eyes, rising and rising until he was blinded by it. His hands were fisted, ready to strike out if those two demanded anything of him. He wouldn't let that happen. This time she wouldn't get him, she wouldn't have him. She'd had her chance already — and she had rejected him, just like everyone else. He wished he knew how he'd gotten to be such an abomination. He wished he knew why she would even come back, it could only be to finish him, eradicate the aberration once and for all.

Trapped.

There were walls imprisoning him, they were closing in, keeping him in danger. He had to get out. If he didn't, he would die — or worse, it would happen again and he would live. There was a tiny voice crying that he was really fucked in the head now but that cry was overpowered by fearful expectations of What Would Happen. Any second now that door from upstairs was going to open and someone would be standing there saying I have the solution.

Shoes, he needed his shoes. In his bare feet he lurched down the hall to the front entrance, and spotted them lying near the door.

Putting them on was harder than it should have been because he had to keep watching that door while he was trying to look down and attend to his feet. He tried jamming one foot in but it was tied too fucking tight, he couldn't get his foot in no matter how he tried. So his kindergarten training was finally going to pay off; his breath coming short and shallow, he bent over to undo the laces. The entire time that he executed the necessary operations to get both shoes on his feet he was wondering why Miss Horowitz hadn't thought to drill her five-year-olds with a gun over their heads. Extreme, but it would have ensured that they would be able to perform under pressure when the time came.

Finally his shoes were tied and he grabbed the nearest, closest thing he could see to keep warm, it was Zeke's good leather jacket, the expensive one with the lining so it could be worn well into the fall...and Zeke had been getting a lot of use out of it. Served him right if he never saw it again.

Casey grabbed the doorknob; his hands slipped, sweaty with fear. Right then he became absolutely certain that they were behind him, that the door in the kitchen was opening. The door to the outside made a terrible, godawful creaking sound when he tried it — shit, he had to be quiet if he was going to escape undetected. He closed his eyes, taking a half a breath, and then he was through and out into the night.

He clutched the rail on the way down the stairs, having visions of missing his step and tumbling. Everything was wet and slippery and the air was filled with a murky chill, the street unusually deserted. He had no recent memory of being outside at night, by himself. In fact he had no memory of ever wandering city streets like this, although he knew that it had to have happened sometime. It was as though his life had started at Whitby Psychiatric Hospital. There had been no Casey Connor before that, certainly not one that he could recall with any clarity.

He had no destination. He turned left on the sidewalk and just started walking.

It was astonishing to him that he was still functioning, astounding that the worst could happen and he wasn't curled up in the alley, sobbing. Only anger could make that possible; he was terrified and he was certainly miserable but he was mostly furious — furious at Zeke, and that fury was driving him out here. If not for anger he'd be running back and begging for forgiveness but why should he beg when it was Zeke who had pulled back? Zeke could have made everything better but he didn't. Casey had thought that Zeke understood how to get him to behave the way he wanted; Zeke had known enough to strike a deal but then when it was time to ante up, suddenly it was lah-dee-dah we can't make a mistake Casey sorry it isn't fair thank god I shot my load too soon thank god the Beast showed up at the door to save us.

"Fuck you!" Casey screamed. Yep, he was a nutcase just screaming at the fog right now...if anyone wanted to know.

He came to an intersection and stopped; there was a green light just barely managing to pierce the fog and be visible from where he stood. He crossed that street, turning and heading back towards familiar territory. Except nothing was truly familiar here, everything was covered in vapour and he wondered if maybe he'd drifted into a different reality without quite realizing it. He could see almost nothing except his feet, the haze parting before him and closing behind just as quickly. Maybe he was just haunting this street now, not really walking on it. Fuck, even as a ghost he was pitiful, he would pacing the same two or three blocks for all eternity since he was too afraid to go further from home.

Oh, he didn't like it out here. This was why anger was no good. It was keeping him from wanting to go back when this tiny voice — mostly ignored still — was whimpering that it couldn't really be Zeke's fault, that it actually was actually Casey's fault, it had to be because it always was. He hadn't been enough of whatever it was he had to be and now Zeke was tired and fed up, knowing he couldn't be everything for Casey. No one could. Casey's only recourse now was to fall at Zeke's feet and promise never to feel anger again. Pathetic, but he needed that perfect haven of quiet that Zeke had held out and then snatched away. His body was shaking, jonesing for it, his head whirling with noise and craziness — oh yeah he knew he was having a major attack of the crazies so he couldn't figure out how Zeke could see that and then decide that any temporary remission would be bad for him. Fucking prick.

"Casey?"

It was from behind him, a ways back. He came to a stop and turned, expecting to see Zeke. Hoping. There was nothing, just a whitish void. His heart, that had settled into a nice, rolling trot, suddenly leapt up to a gallop.

"Wh-who's there?"

A figure took shape suddenly and Casey leapt back, ready to flee.

"It's me," it said.

"T-Thomas?"

Thomas' long legs swallowed up the remaining feet between them. Casey imagined he must look very much like a rabbit, standing wild-eyed and panting, paralyzed in the act of bolting, quivering in his shoes. It was like Thomas had emerged from nothing but memory, wearing the same suit that he had worn the first time Casey saw him, even the same tie. Except this time rather than being crisply pressed, the suit was noticeably wrinkled. The entire presentation was utterly bizarre, but when Thomas smiled he made a person want to forget that. "Did I frighten you, Mr. Casey?"

"Y-yeah."

"I am sorry."

The apology did not relax Casey at all. He was, after all, looking at a man who was out walking around in the fog in a three-piece suit. On Thanksgiving. This was someone who to all intents and purposes looked normal but was at the same time completely abnormal in everything that they did. Casey might be sick and irrational, he would admit to that but he knew an alien when he saw one. The thing that really stumped Casey was that Thomas was so very charming. The others were never really charming. Aggressively sexual, yes —

Thomas took a step closer, peering at Casey. "Have you been crying?" he asked.

Casey quickly rubbed his eyes. "No."

"I think you have. Maybe you just didn't know it."

"What's it to you?"

Thomas smiled again. There was something else different about him tonight, Casey realized. He seemed to vibrate with an energy that couldn't be explained or named but it was really there, a tangible thing coming off his skin, from his hands and his face. It made Casey think that he wanted to remain in Thomas' presence even though it was scary too. "Nothing, really, except I rather worry about you, especially when I find you wandering around in the fog at night. Your boyfriend must be frantic."

"So what?" Casey gasped, and now, with perfect timing, his eyes were starting to stream. He put his hand up, covering them, trying to hide in that absurd way that one would when emotions were exposed. "He's...not so frantic and if he is...he deserves it."

"I see," Thomas said, kindly pretending not to notice that Casey was disintegrating. "Can I take you for a coffee so we don't have to be out here anymore?"

"I don't know."

"You are cold, aren't you? You're shivering."

"I...don't...."

"Just something to warm you up."

"Nothing's open."

"What? Why?"

"It's Thanksgiving."

"Is it?" Thomas looked momentarily disoriented. "So that's why there's hardly anyone around. I was wondering."

Casey stared at him, confirming that this had to be an alien of some kind. A part of him hollered to run away from this man but another, the part that was pretty much desperate and just wanted whatever this was to be over, said to stay. He wasn't going home now anyway. He didn't know if he could ever go home.

"In that case," Thomas proposed. "Let me take you somewhere that I know for a fact is open for business."

"Where's that?"

"Just follow me. It's only a block away, come on."

"Not until you tell me what it is."

Thomas raised his eyebrows. "So suspicious, Mr. Casey! All right, it's my car. It's parked about a block back."

"Your car," Casey echoed, unable to process that Thomas was being this blatant about his intentions all of a sudden. And maybe he had been wrong about the sexual aggression part and Thomas was exactly like the others, with the difference that he managed to be more appealing than terrifying. "You want me to come and sit in your car with you."

"I know what you're thinking, child, and it isn't that. You can sit with the door open and one foot on the sidewalk if you want."

Zeke's voice started to reverberate through his head. Don't you dare be this stupid, Casey. Don't you fucking dare.

"Why?" he asked Thomas.

"So you can tell me why your boyfriend deserves to be frantic."

Casey shifted his weight. "I don't want to talk about him."

"And get warm," Thomas added. "We'll put the heat on."

That promise of warmth alongside the promise that Casey saw in Thomas' eyes was entirely seductive, and Zeke could just go fuck himself.

"Okay," Casey said.

Thomas gestured back the way Casey had come. They walked together a few hundred feet, passing an older couple walking hand in hand, two of the local artsy-fartsy types. The sight of them made Casey shake as he envisioned Winona and Zeke entwined in the apartment. He'd bet that Zeke was having no trouble getting it up now, and hey, who could blame him? It must be hard to feel sexy around a crazy slut who turned hysterical if he couldn't get a hard cock...but Casey didn't mean to, he didn't, he just needed so much he didn't know what he was doing...like he didn't quite know what he was doing now except he heard an offer of belonging and he was drawn to it against reason and common sense.

An older model Mercedez Benz appeared as promised. Thomas walked up to the passenger side and inserted the key, which he had fished out of his pocket some time ago. He opened the door and made a gallant, welcoming gesture to Casey, like a game-show model presenting a prize. Casey didn't get in right away. He stopped and looked up into Thomas' face. Thomas let him look, without a change in expression. It remained the same, friendly, open face that it had always been. And extremely attractive; Casey wouldn't mind being kissed by that mouth, not at all.

Casey got in.

He wasn't completely without an iota of common sense; he kept the door ajar. He was also relieved to note that the car did not have power locks which meant that once Thomas was in the driver's seat he would be unable to lock Casey in easily. Twisting to look into the back seat, Casey was startled to see a suitcase, only half closed with some articles of clothing spilling out of it. There was also a briefcase sitting open with a large quantity of papers in notable disarray, and most startling thing of all, a pillow and sleeping bag, neatly folded up in the space behind the driver's seat.

Thomas did not start the engine; he put the key in the ignition and turned it halfway so that he could run the heater. He cranked the heat up to maximum.

"There," he said with satisfaction. "I don't like seeing anyone with blue lips. Blue is not a healthy colour for humans."

"Who are you?" Casey demanded. Just a little bit of truth before they got down to it couldn't hurt.

Thomas raised his brows and half-smiled, looking puzzled but tolerant. "Are we not here to talk about you?"

"But I need to know before I can close this door all the way."

"I think the more important question is do you want to close the door?"

Casey replied, "Maybe." His heart was pounding. He was noticing Thomas' scent now, it was the strong, fatherly fragrance of Old Spice — old-fashioned and somehow comforting. He was also noticing how, in the confined space of the car, Thomas seemed quite a lot larger than usual; in his arms a person would be very, very secure. Too secure, maybe. Casey added, "But I'm not going to until you tell me who you are."

Thomas shrugged. "There isn't much to tell. I was born in Barbados. My father is an Anglican minister, my mother is an Anglican minister's wife. I went to school in England for many years and I worked there for several more years and now I am here."

Casey decided to turn sideways and rest his head on the seat, still keeping a hand on the door, keeping it ajar. He found that he was fascinated by Thomas' gestures and facial expressions. Another difference from the others, who were always so flat-looking, so empty. This man was not empty, it was Casey who was empty, who needed... "What — um, what did you study?" he asked.

"Psychoanalysis."

That was interesting enough to make Casey's brain switch onto an entirely different track. "You mean you're a shrink?"

"No. I am not a medical doctor. I was a psychoanalyst for a while but I left my practice."

"Why?"

"I felt I was doing more harm than good. As a method of counselling psychoanalysis is somewhat dated. Perhaps you are unfamiliar with this area...There are many schools of psychoanalytic thought and I won't waste our time explaining what mine was. It is a fascinating philosophy, but I began to question my faith in it and felt it was wrong to continue to use it then in an attempt to heal people."

"What do you do now? Your job, I mean."

"I don't have a job, Casey. I am attempting to run a business, which essentially means that I work twenty-four hours a day. I had an idea that I might have success as...I don't know what you would call it. A motivational speaker perhaps. I offer seminars — my father would call them sermons — to the public. It got off to a slow start but I think that business is starting to pick up. This week I spoke to a group of elementary school teachers and a divorced single father's group. Word is starting to get around and then I think I may have quite a success on my hands. After I have done this for a few years I will have honed my understanding of my approach to life and I will put it into a book which I know will be a bestseller."

Thomas leaned back and smiled yet again. That smile was one of the most beautiful things Casey had ever seen, almost leaping off his face. Casey didn't know what to think of this man. He felt quite certain that this was no normal human being yet he didn't want to run.

"Have I answered satisfactorily?" Thomas finished.

"Are you one of them?" Casey blurted.

Thomas barely reacted. He considered Casey for a full ten seconds and then answered, "I don't know who you mean by 'them.'"

"I think you are."

"If I were, would I tell you?"

Casey pleaded, "Don't play with me. Just tell me what you want."

"I have told you, Casey."

"To get to know me. To be my friend."

"Yes."

"For real? Or you just want to get close enough to hurt me?"

"I certainly do not want to hurt you," Thomas said. His voice had a low, soothing hum; it was as much singing as speaking. "Even if I were one of 'them' I would not want to hurt you."

There was a quake of recognition. Something from inside Thomas, a part that could speak to Casey without speaking, was telling him it was okay if he wanted to be touched. It would be good, he just had to accept it and all the botched attempts would be put behind him, he would finally be safe. He would finally belong.

But at the same time, past experience was impossible to ignore. "If you were one of them," Casey whispered, "you would...hurt me."

"Can you be so sure? Have you seen and heard everything there is to be seen and heard in the universe, Mr. Casey? I know for a fact that there are things so very strange and wonderful that I could never damage them without damaging myself. Maybe you are one of those things to me and even though I may one of 'them,' I am not your enemy. Maybe we are everywhere but you don't need to worry about us because we would sooner cut off our limbs than harm you."

Casey wondered if he might have just been hypnotized. The quiet music of the voice and the words had done something to him; he couldn't seem to speak, or move, even when Thomas reached over and touched Casey's face. With that touch Casey realized that there were still more tears on his face and that Thomas was stroking them away, his hands every bit as gentle as Zeke's had ever been.

"Will you let the door shut now?" Thomas asked.

It will be good so safe and quiet, you see, Casey...see it, see what I'm seeing it's us in the back seat you and I and I'm filling you, finally, with a kind of silence you've only dreamed about, not that temporary, brittle silence that he gives you, the real thing this time...the last time.

Casey moved his hands and feet completely inside the car and wondered if he would ever see Zeke again.

"Why are you so sad?" Thomas asked quietly.

"I — don't know — "

"You are safe with me, you know."

"I know," Casey said, and he knew without having to think about it that it was true.

"Do you want to tell me about 'them?' How did they hurt you?"

"No..." With a violent shake of his head, Casey grabbed onto Thomas' hand and held it to his face. Thomas smiled obligingly and Casey leaned in towards him, almost resting against his side. He couldn't see Thomas' smile anymore, but he sensed it, especially when Thomas touched his hair.

"You are a very tired boy, I think," Thomas commented.

There was no stopping this now.

Casey moved Thomas' hand that he was holding, placing it on his thigh. He just let it rest there. He said, "And you like boys, don't you?"

Thomas seemed to go utterly still, not even breathing. "I like men...and women."

"But...you like me?"

"Of course I like you..."

Casey slid his own hand up towards Thomas' groin, seeking the hardness and heat that he knew was within his grasp. Quickly Thomas took his hand off Casey's leg and gripped the wrist in question, bringing him to a stop just out of range of his target. "What are you doing?" Thomas asked, his voice booming in that close space. His grip on Casey's wrist was nearly painful.

"You know," Casey whispered.

"Do I?"

"I'm having a real bad night, Thomas, and...I am tired like you say and I just want quiet...I know you can give it to me."

Thomas said, his voice strained, "Quiet is not my specialty."

Casey felt a tingle of doubt and crammed it as far down as he could. He could not have misjudged this situation, he could not have misjudged Thomas...because Thomas was interested in him, he could tell. There was no mistaking that and there was no going back. Casey said, "I know what you want, I know why you brought me here."

"Child, do you know that I'm thirty years older than you?"

"I don't care."

"But I do...and I can't do this." Thomas released his grip, freeing Casey's wrist. He took Casey's shoulders firmly and pressed him back into his seat, opening a space of a few feet between them. "And you can't either."

"Yes, I can!" Casey insisted, pushing against Thomas' hands. Everything was getting blurry but there was still an image of himself and Thomas in his head, he was scrabbling desperately to hang onto it while Thomas, with his long reach and greater strength, was having no trouble keeping it at bay. "I want to!"

"I know you'd like to think so."

"You're into me, you have to be."

Thomas sounded both amused and sad. "Do I?"

"Because you're one of them and I know how you are, you can't let me get away again."

"This insanity of yours is extremely fascinating, Mr. Casey. All right. You are of course extremely attractive and if I thought for a moment that you really wanted me and not revenge on your boyfriend, I might accept your offer. But I don't particularly want to hurt anyone...so I will ask you to keep to your side of the car now, please."

Thomas removed his hands, letting them rest in his lap.

That image blurred, went so distorted that for some time Casey wasn't sure where he was...then he blinked hard and found himself almost flattened against the car door with no recall of how he had gotten there. And with a stranger across from him. The magical vibes Casey had been getting earlier seemed to have vanished and in their place was a coldness.

"I think you should go home now," Thomas said, looking away from Casey, out the front windshield.

"I c-can't," Casey choked.

"Yes, you can. It's where you belong, trust me."

Despite the warmth blasting from the vents, Casey's teeth had begun to chatter. He put his hands in his pockets and shivered.

"Will you be all right?" Thomas asked him, with a trace of concern.

"Yeah...sh...sure."

"You will not...go in search of someone else?"

Casey almost gasped at the question; but from Thomas' perspective it was a fair one. "N-no," he stammered. "It was just — you."

"I am flattered. Truly." Thomas looked at him at last, but with a face that was almost blank. Casey wondered if he had murdered the real Thomas with his appalling, sluttish behaviour. "I think that from now on we should only meet at Zorba's. Do you agree?"

Thomas' stare was more than Casey could handle. It understood him completely and left him too ashamed to speak. He hoped that he nodded a reply because Thomas was right; Zeke couldn't find out what he had done and there must be no other similar opportunities for Casey to debase himself. It was all well and good to talk about trust, but if Zeke knew that he had just thrown himself at this man-alien, it would be the end.

"You really do think I'm one of them, don't you?" Thomas said, cocking his head with evident curiosity.

"I...don't know."

"Perhaps you could tell me about them and we could sort it out."

Casey gulped, "Zeke doesn't think I should talk about it."

"Zeke is your boyfriend?"

Casey nodded.

"Well, if Zeke thinks that you mustn't talk about it, then clearly it must be talked about."

"He doesn't want me to be hurt," Casey muttered.

"No, it is more than that." Some warmth had leeched back into Thomas' eyes. "I feel terrible for your Zeke. He must be so frightened."

"Why?" Casey knew, logically, that Zeke must be frightened sometimes because everyone got frightened, but in his heart it was difficult to accept that Zeke knew fear the way that Casey did.

"When you possess something that you treasure above everything else you condemn yourself to insecurity. The emotion of possession is born in fear and constantly reforms itself from fear."

Casey thought about that. He was sure he didn't quite grasp it the way Thomas intended, but in a way he did. He did understand possession. Feeling possessed was the safest feeling in the world and it was worth it even if you had to earn that safety by feeling continually endangered by the threat of being alone. Casey hadn't given much thought to the other side of it, though. He knew that Zeke was worried and stressed, and that it showed in his controlling ways...and once he thought about that, another thought occurred to him, that Zeke was no longer that guy from high school who stayed calm through any crisis. Maybe high school Zeke could keep his cool because he hadn't had much to lose.

"I apologize," Thomas said then. "That was the psychoanalyst in me talking."

"It's okay," Casey said. "I...wish you were my shrink."

Thomas laughed out loud. His laughter had a frantic, almost violent edge that made Casey think quickly about jumping out of the car. "Oh, believe me, I am not fit to be anyone's shrink!" Then Thomas' gaze fell upon Casey and the false mirth disappeared in an instant. "I think it's time for you to go, Treasure. My battery is going to die shortly and your Zeke will be desperate to find you." He gave Casey a little push. "Go."

Casey groped for the latch to the door and almost fell as it swung open. He gained his feet, shocked by the heavy chill outside. Before he could say a word of gratitude or apology, Thomas stretched across the front seat, just reaching the door handle and pulled the door shut in front of Casey. The car's engine started, and Thomas drove away, leaving Casey staring at the red brake lights.

He shrank inside Zeke's jacket, pushing his hands deeper into the pockets. One thing he knew: He wanted to go home now and he couldn't. How could he look at Zeke knowing he was such complete filth? He had been prepared to let Thomas do anything to him despite what Thomas — maybe — was. No, the horrific truth was he had wanted Thomas to do anything to him because of what Thomas — probably — was. He ran from one monster and willingly fell into the embrace of another and he didn't know what that meant except that he was pretty well fucked in the head.

Casey started walking. The slight warmth he had absorbed from Thomas' car was already faded and he was rapidly getting numb with cold but he didn't want to see Zeke and he especially didn't want to see the Beast. Rushing home wouldn't help, if he was losing Zeke it was probably too late already and he deserved it besides. But he wouldn't rush home so the two of them could do something terrible to him either, and even if both scenarios were wrong he still had to be able to face Zeke, which he didn't think he could do. Not yet. He was a fairly accomplished liar but this would require all of his skill and stamina.

A patch of green hove into view. Casey looked up, saw the park that he had once visited with his father. He took the familiar path and sat on that same cement bench. It felt like a slab of ice, and he was sitting on it wearing only a thin t-shirt under Zeke's jacket, and with no socks because he'd been in such a panic to get out of the house that he didn't have time for them. So he supposed he was going to freeze as solid as the marble fountain in the centre of the park; he could only try to stave it off. He folded his arms, tucked his hands together inside the sleeves of the jacket and rocked, trying to generate a little warmth.

Hooray for progress, for getting to the point where no one had to tell him how fucked up he was. He knew, thank you very much, Dr. Yves. He was beginning to see the landscape of it even; the particular hills and valleys were forming under his feet. There was the part where he let himself deteriorate from a lack of food and proper sleep until he couldn't think straight. There was the part were the present and the past melted into each other and he was helpless to stop it. And there was the part where he had just thrown himself at a virtual stranger — a beautiful, fascinating stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. He was that desperate, that needy, and he hadn't been caring about what could have happened to him. When the day came that he was alone, he was going to end up with any jerk, human or alien, who happened to cross his path and was willing to pull out a prick and use it. Or a series of jerks, and if he was lucky, they would be kind. If not...His future could be a terrible, lonely, frightening place, much more terrible, lonely and frightening than his present. Contrary to appearances, he didn't want that.

He heard his name — that was his name, wasn't it? Yes, he was being called, summoned, and this time it was definitely Zeke. He was some distance away, but approaching rapidly; he must have been running. Casey flattened his feet on the path, almost ready to flee. He wanted to be found with all his heart, but...he was so dirty, he was a thing entirely of filth.

"Casey!"

At the sound of Zeke's voice so nearby, longing burst inside Casey. There was no question of not going to him, and if Zeke looked at him and knew instantly what he had done...well, there was nothing to be done about it.

Casey got up and walked to the end of the path where it met the sidewalk, just as Zeke came jogging up, puffing hard. The expression on Zeke's face just before he caught sight of Casey was something Casey had never thought to see; it was the contemplation of some terrible doom. It was lost, embarrassing, not in the least bit elegant.

"Casey — " Zeke gulped, skidding to a stop.

He almost tackled Casey, burying him in his chest, hugging him so hard that he couldn't breathe. It went on and on until Casey was forced to try to move, to catch some oxygen, and Zeke loosened his grip.

The questions began, coming at him rapid-fire. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? Where did you go?"

"I — "

"Why did you do that, do you know what you just did to me?" Zeke looked up at the night sky for a minute, then down at Casey with a shimmer in his eyes, and suddenly he began shouting. "I didn't know where you were, I thought you might be gone for good, do you realize? Do you ever think before you do these things, do you have any idea how it feels to be me?!"

"Yeah," Casey whispered. "I do."

Zeke blinked, his face going flat. His mouth became a thin, unstable line. He faltered, "I...need to sit down."

He hauled Casey to the nearby bench and sat, pulling Casey down beside him; one long arm circled Casey, hugging him to his side. Casey let his fingers wind into Zeke's sweater, closing his eyes. For once Zeke seemed to not want to talk, and Casey was more than content with that; they sat quietly together until Casey's violent shivering became impossible to ignore. Actually, it was their combined shivering, Casey realized.

"I'm cold," he said.

Zeke murmured, "That jacket isn't as warm as it looks."

"Um...s-sorry I — "

"No, I don't care. Unless, of course, you were planning to...to burn it or throw it in a dumpster."

"It crossed m-my...mind," Casey said, trying some humour. It fell entirely flat and he abandoned the experiment.

"Let's go home," was all that Zeke said in response.

Casey knew he shouldn't ask, but at the same time he knew that he wouldn't be able to stop himself. "Is sh-she gone?"

"Yes," Zeke replied patiently. "She's gone." After a moment he sighed, "I might as well tell you now so we can get all the fights done and over with today...I invited her to my birthday party."

He paused to give Casey the opportunity to flip out, and somewhere within himself Casey was very appropriately doing that. However, at this moment it was much more important that he be as good as he could possibly be. He decided he would not remember that Zeke had told him this for at least a few days. It would come nowhere near atonement for what he had done...but he could at least try not to hurt Zeke anymore today.

When there was no response from Casey, Zeke started to explain, "It was one of those situations — "

"It's-s...okay," Casey interrupted.

"Say what?"

"It's okay...c-can we just go home?"

Zeke said wonderingly, "Sure...yeah." He untwisted himself from Casey and stood up. For a moment he just waited, looking very tall from Casey's vantage point; then he stuck out his hand.

Bemused, Casey stared at the hand for several seconds before taking it. Zeke had become a lot more touchy-feely than he used to but he just wasn't the type of guy who held hands for the sake of holding hands...all the way home, too. There weren't many people around but Casey had the sense that Zeke wouldn't have cared. He just didn't seem to want to let go.

When they were back home Zeke immediately began the process of undressing. He pulled his sweater haphazardly over his head, then reached over and gently removed Casey's numb hands from the zipper on his leather jacket. "Let me," he said. Shortly, both the jacket and the inside-out sweater had been abandoned on the floor in the hallway.

In the bathroom, Zeke peeled off Casey's damp t-shirt and knelt down to help him step out of his pants. He chuckled to discover that Casey wasn't wearing underwear. "Going commando these days?" he asked Casey.

Casey knew that he was trying to be playful, but all the same it was a bit embarrassing to think back to his madness of a mere hours ago. "I was in a hurry," he muttered.

Zeke straightened up and put his arms around Casey, his former grin having completely disappeared. "Case," he sighed. "Why can't you stop being afraid?"

The answer to that question was one that Zeke wouldn't like, so Casey remained silent.

Zeke sighed again, and went about removing his own clothing. When he was naked himself they got into the shower and just stood together under the spray, getting warm. Zeke was aroused all the while but Casey allowed himself no expectations of what was going to happen. He would be grateful if Zeke were to kiss him, ecstatic to receive an actual caress.

But what Zeke wanted to do, it seemed, was wash him. Zeke lathered up a sponge and started to smooth it over every bit of Casey's skin, transcribing circles and random overlapping shapes like he intended to polish his flesh to a fragrant gloss. Maybe Zeke could see how truly rank and stained he was. It must be coming out of his pores and naturally Zeke wanted to make him clean...if only it weren't such a wasted effort.

"What is it?" Zeke whispered when Casey started to shudder and press in closer.

Casey shook his head, keeping it buried against Zeke's chest. He couldn't very well say, Oh, nothing...just betrayed you with some guy. Again. Or was he an alien? Can't really be sure but I kinda think he is an alien and I really could use some professional help here.

"It's okay," Zeke said. "I know."

He didn't know, but it didn't much matter because his hands were travelling, playing up and down Casey's back, gradually moving lower. With a sigh, Casey rested his cheek and his hands flat on Zeke's chest and did his best not to disturb the tentative equilibrium he sensed between them. He felt Zeke's lips near his ear and arched slightly, lengthening his neck, but otherwise did not move.

"I was thinking..." Zeke murmured. His hands stopped their motion and just rested on Casey's ass. "Do...do you love me, Casey?"

Sweet, warm, wet skin, strong hands and arms holding him willingly despite everything he had done and said...tolerance and protection and, yes, possession. "Yes," Casey breathed.

"And I love you so I think...I think this must be okay...somehow."

"It is okay...It is."

Once again, Zeke's hands were beginning to move against Casey's skin. "I don't want to talk anymore," he declared. "Not today."

"Kay."

"Just...don't ever run away from me again, Casey."

Casey nodded fervently.

"Can we use soap? Is that okay?"

In answer, Casey put one foot up on the narrow bit of tub where the shower door met it so Zeke could gain better access to him. Two soapy fingers sought his body's opening, circling, teasing him gently. Soon they were breaching the tight muscle, scissoring gently to open him. He worked his body to take Zeke's fingers deep inside him while he braced himself with hands against the wall and the shower door and it was so good, so good...wonderful and real and he silently thanked Thomas for kicking him out of his car.

It happened almost casually, Zeke turning him and letting him put his hands flat against the far wall. A single thrust impaled him with a rod of painful heat, pushed him forward, caught him off guard so that he almost lost his balance. Zeke waited until he was steady, and wrapping an arm around his middle, began to move slowly, each thrust seeming to go further, deeper, filling him and thoroughly taking him. It was not comfortable, yet his entire self was electrified, pleasure spreading out from his centre and overwhelming his senses.

He didn't know how long it had been when his ears tuned into the sound of someone moaning — himself, and there were gasped words from behind and above him, an arm across his chest and a hand gripping his shoulder. Water dripped onto his wet back; moisture made Zeke's legs sleek against the back of his thighs as Zeke thrust and thrust again, grunting with the effort of partly holding him up, legs and arms shaking. Suddenly Zeke's muscles weren't up to the task; when Casey's knees gave way, they both went down. He landed rather hard on the porcelain, the impact taken by his knees and one elbow which then slipped so that his upper arm and chin bore the brunt instead.

Zeke's arm hugged him back against his chest. With their bodies separate again he could feel Zeke's cock scalding his backside and he was aching, afraid that he might just break apart from the terrible emptiness. "You okay?" Zeke whispered.

"Yes."

"Sounded like it hurt."

He nodded his agreement with that. "'s okay. Finish."

"How do you want it?"

"Um...we could..."

It was something new for him but Casey didn't hesitate; he rose up on his knees and, with Zeke's help, guided himself back onto the slick, erect cock. There wasn't much in the way of lubrication now and his insides felt abraded but he ignored it, biting his lip and pressing on until he was almost seated on Zeke's lap but tilted forward at the necessary angle, clinging to the edge of the tub.

A loud knock on the door made them both jerk in surprise. "Hey!" Sasha's voice said. "Are you guys in there?"

"Fucking unbelievable," Zeke hissed. He raised his voice, "Yeah!"

"You left your stuff lying in the middle of the floor."

Neither of them had a response to that. Zeke's cock was like concrete stuffed inside Casey and he knew this was going to hurt more than Zeke would be comfortable with if he found out, so it would be important not to make any noise...doubly important because Zeke had a dread of Sasha hearing anything.

"Well, whatever you're doing, finish it up and get out here," Sasha finished. Casey decided to assume that for the next few minutes his friend was going to avoid standing outside the bathroom door.

Zeke's hand stroked Casey's neck, telling him that he was ready if Casey was. Casey forced himself to breathe and began to ride Zeke, rising and almost unsheathing Zeke each time before slowly taking him back within. Each motion was like a long scrape of misery, punctuated by a brief stab of ecstacy. He tried to concentrate on the pleasure and ignore the pain, continuing to move while his sight was blurred by tears. Eventually a first cry was driven from him, and then a second, evading all his efforts to be quiet. Zeke's hand slipped over to cover his mouth. The other hand found his erection and worked it in tandem and then finally Casey was no longer feeling the pain; he was surrendering hard and he threw himself into the motion, squeezing and milking Zeke's cock, riding a wave of euphoria, barely knowing what his body was doing or what was being done to it.

Awareness returned with the pain-sparks of Zeke thrusting up and spilling liquid heat inside him while clutching his shoulder and delivering a spate of moist expletives to the back of his neck. Casey slumped back against Zeke, gasping, every muscle quivering.

It had to be entire minutes they just stayed like that with Zeke still inside him. When he did finally move he had to bite down on his lip to keep from crying from the pain. Zeke had to help him to stand up.

His skin was clammy, chilled from being out of contact with the water's heat. He glued himself to Zeke, quite certain that if he let go he would fall and be lost. In fact, he might just be lost already. He clung to the only thing in his vicinity that was real, dug his fingers into Zeke's flesh. That elicited a grunt of discomfort and he was forced to ease off a bit. He felt himself being steered back under the shower spray. It was tepid; he made a sound of protest. Zeke adjusted the temperature so that the spray became, if not hot, at least warm. Finally, he wrapped himself around Casey and resumed plying that hand up and down his back like it was the whole purpose of being here and they'd just taken a temporary break from it.

"I hate what I said to you today," Zeke said abruptly.

"'s okay," Casey whispered. He couldn't manage more than that. Besides, Zeke hadn't said anything that wasn't true.

"I've never been so scared in my life," Zeke added, and he sounded utterly drained. "Never."

"I'm sorry, Zeke." Casey's voice was a near croak. "I'm...I'm so sorry."

"Do you really know? I don't think you do, or you wouldn't do things like that."

"S-sorry."

"I see you sometimes...how you look like you just want to do the most reckless thing possible, just go over the edge. You can't do that, Casey. I won't let you."

"Zeke?"

"Hmm."

"I...can I..."

"Just say it, Case."

"I want to talk to Yves about the aliens."

Zeke stilled just for a second. His hand paused, then resumed its methodical caress. His body tautened. "No," he said. "No, Casey. No."

That was the end of that conversation.

They exited the bathroom wrapped in towels for decency since Sasha was around. Casey just wanted to sleep, but he knew Sasha was going to want to talk to him. To get Sasha out of the apartment earlier, he had promised to tell him everything but it was probably better if Zeke didn't know about that.

Casey put on a t-shirt and sweats and went out to the kitchen, disguising the stiffness in his body as best he could. He hadn't been sore like this for a long time; he suspected that if Zeke had taken any longer to come, he would have been bleeding. He just hoped he wouldn't have to sit down.

He found Sasha at the table, setting down dessert plates. "I brought pie," he said, and there was indeed half a pie of a lovely deep golden brown and a spray- can of whipped cream. "It's Jerry's mother's recipe. It's really good."

"Oh...yummy."

Sasha lowered his voice. "Are you sleeping with Zeke tonight?"

"Yes. Sasha — "

"Tomorrow," Sasha allowed, waving a hand magnanimously. "We'll talk tomorrow." When Casey shifted with discomfort, Sasha misunderstood the reason. He lifted his chin and said, "You promised me, kitten. That was the only reason I was willing to leave you alone."

Casey opened his mouth to tell him not to worry, that he would keep his word, when Zeke walked in. He put his hands on Casey's shoulders from behind and bent down to kiss him somewhere around his ear. Straightening up, he inquired, "Is that pumpkin pie?"

"It most certainly is," Sasha replied.

"Fuckin' A." Zeke dropped into his chair. "Case? Are you going to have some?"

"Mmm." Casey sat gingerly, carefully maintaining a composed mask of neutrality. It was a good thing that he liked pumpkin pie; it was the only thing that kept him in his chair.

Sasha glanced at him, then glanced again. "What happened to your chin?" he asked.

Casey put his hand there, surprised. "What?"

"There's a mark."

"Oh, I...slipped in the tub."

"Hmm..."

Zeke added, "Yeah, I was there. It sounded bad."

Evidently, Sasha didn't much like the scenario that Zeke invoked with his words; he turned quickly to a more palatable subject. Two large pieces of pie were cut and covered liberally with whipped cream. He slid on the plates across the table to his roommates.

Zeke attacked his piece immediately, cutting off the tip and almost half of the piece at once. From the look on his face, he found the taste to his liking. Sometimes he was like a child with food. It would make Casey think about Zeke when he really was a kid, rattling around that huge house by himself, making himself canned soup and toast because it was all that he could manage. It was probably not the reality but it was how Casey pictured it. It was important to remember, to know that Zeke too had been left alone.

"This is good," Zeke said, around a mouthful.

Sasha sat down and folded his arms, looking satisfied.

"Aren't you having any?" Zeke mumbled.

"I already did." Sasha groaned and patted his stomach. "And Jerry's mom made me eat a whole other turkey dinner before that. I'm ready to burst."

Casey put hand to fork and fork to pie and tried not to think about how much everything hurt. He thought about how the pie was good but not as good as the sweet potatoes had been, and how it really had been very nice of Charly to go to the trouble...

He looked furtively at Zeke just in case he could sense when someone was having charitable thoughts about Charly, but Zeke was quite occupied with eating. He paused only long enough to gave Casey a weary smile and Casey immediately cast his eyes down.

"Tired, kitten?"

He must have sighed out loud. He nodded at Sasha.

"Me, too," Zeke said. "But I should do some work before I go to sleep."

"Oh, take a night off," Sasha urged. "You could use it, I'm sure."

Zeke shook his head. "Can't. There's one due in a few days that I haven't even started yet. I promise I'm not going to be at it for long, that's for sure." He held out his plate. "More?"

Sasha complied, cutting off another, larger piece and putting it on Zeke's plate. Casey was halfway through his own piece, very tempted to scrape all of the pumpkin matter and whipped cream off the crust and just eat that. He didn't think that would go over well though.

"I feel bad about the way we left Charly's," Sasha announced.

"Yeah, well," Zeke replied absently. He reached for the can of whipped cream and built a mountain of white mousse on his pie, demonstrating no remorse whatsoever over the debacle at Charly's house. "She'll just have more dessert to herself then."

"I think someone should phone and apologize."

Zeke retorted, "Someone can do whatever he likes."

Casey knew that someone definitely excluded himself. He had his marching orders and he wouldn't defy them now; he could barely find the will to raise his head and if that made him a coward, so be it. All he wanted out of the rest of this day was — without chemical assistance — to fall asleep in some comfort and that required continuing harmonious relations been himself and Zeke. Besides, he didn't have the right to question Zeke's behaviour, not when he was already pushing the envelope by having the gall to sit here with Zeke and Sasha and eat pie as though he wasn't the debased, dishonest creature that he was.

Putting his fork down, Casey said, "Thanks for...for the pie."

"No problem, kitten."

He got up, trying his utmost to not hobble like an old man. He thought he'd done reasonably well with that until he glanced up and saw Sasha gazing intently at him. He stammered, "I'm really t-tired...think I'll go to bed...I'll do the dishes to-tomorrow, okay?"

"It's just a couple of plates, I'll take of them. See you in the morning, kitten."

Zeke shovelled the last of four enormous bites into his mouth and jumped up to follow Casey. "Thanks, Sasha," he mumbled.

In their room, Casey wasted no time creeping into the bed; it felt a lot more luxurious than he remembered. The only thing he lacked was Zeke in the bed with him but Zeke was sitting on the computer chair, apparently determined to do a bit more homework today. Casey pulled the covers up to his chin and watched Zeke from behind as the computer booted up.

"Fuck, but I'm beat," Zeke said, his back still to Casey.

"Sasha's right," Casey said, yawning. "You should just crash."

Zeke spun the desk chair around and asked, "Is that what you would do?"

"Um...I..."

"What? Just say it."

"Would have started earlier and h-had most of it done already...and then yeah, I would take today off."

A wry grin pulled at Zeke's mouth. "Okay, I asked." He just looked at Casey for a moment, then said, "You know, I was wondering...I have two papers drafted now, would you take a look at them?"

"Sure...can do it tomorrow."

"Case?"

"Yeah."

"Have you made a decision about going back to school?"

Casey closed his eyes, tugging the covers up higher even. "I don't...no, I guess not."

"Is your dad giving you a hard time?"

"Not really...don't want to think about this right now."

"All right," Zeke said softly. "Go to sleep. I'm going to try to do this for a little while."

Casey was more than able to sleep, even without Zeke in the bed; having Zeke in the same room and being on speaking terms with him was enough. The sleep was anything but restful, however. He dreamed, and it was one of those protracted, anxious dreams that seemed to go on for years. Thomas and Winona were his parents and they all lived in Charly's house for some reason; there was a long segment where they were busy cutting clippings out of newspapers. The topics were all the sort that drew skepticism or pity, or both...Elvis was alive and working for Donald Trump, the world's fattest man sat on his dog and killed him, the pyramids were actually a space station and the government was plotting to turn everyone into vegetarians.

But that segment ended when he finally saw his parents in their alien form. In the dream their alien form looked exactly like they looked the rest of the time — yet different. He ran away when he saw them. Some of the time he seemed to be looking for Zeke but the rest of the time he was just on the streets running, constantly feeling like something was behind him. Of course, in that nonsensical way of dreams he kept stopping to do nonsensical things, like to return some movies or buy party favours for Zeke, even though he was always watching for them, waiting for them to appear.

Then suddenly he rounded a corner and there was Thomas, holding a casserole dish full of sweet potatoes. Thomas asked Casey to come with him to his car and Casey had no choice but to go. The whole time that he was walking to the car he was crying loudly but no one who passed them on the street said anything, except Sasha who was wearing his chef's tunic and stopped him along the way to ask him if he'd returned his movies. He was still sobbing when he got in the car. Thomas began to touch him and laid down on top of him, keeping him immobile with his long, powerful limbs; Casey struggled but his body just wouldn't work for him.

Thomas asked him, "Why are you so sad?"

"I've done a bad thing," he sobbed. "Zeke hates me."

"Zeke doesn't hate you," Thomas soothed. He licked away some of Casey's tears. "In fact, he's really happy we met."

It made no sense at all and Casey said something like, "How do you know?"

"Well, you can ask him yourself."

He managed to lift his head and look into the back seat and Zeke was sitting there. He was wearing a friendly grin. "Hi," he said.

That was when Casey made himself wake up. His eyes popped open to the first, dull light, just beginning to enter the room. Zeke was tucked up behind him, his arm snug around Casey's waist, his deep, peaceful breath warming Casey's neck, and Casey felt reasonably certain that he was about to die.

Ignoring the stiff discomfort in his body, he pulled himself from Zeke's clutch with little thought of how to do it without waking him. His heart was going furiously as he scuttled into the bathroom, turned on the light and grabbed his precious bottle of pills. There were only two portions of peace-of-mind left. He gulped down one, inhaled water and spent some time with his head down over the sink, gripping the porcelain with both hands while he tried to get his lungs sorted out. When he straightened up, Zeke was in the mirror behind him and he jumped, making a noise somewhere between a yelp and a scream.

"My bad," Zeke said, his voice gruff from sleep. He put a hand on Casey's shoulder, steadying him. His hair was mussed; he looked not even half awake. "Why're you up?"

Casey would have thought that it was obvious. "Panic attack starting," he said.

"Oh." Zeke blinked. "C'mere."

Casey shook his head. "Let's just go back to bed," he pleaded.

There was an edge of hysteria in his voice that Zeke, thankfully, didn't seem to notice — or if he did, he was far too used to it to consider it worth losing sleep over. They returned to their bed and Casey burrowed back into Zeke's arms, wishing there was someway to slip right under Zeke's skin. Zeke put his leg over Casey's and bundled him close, making noises of contentment. "Better?" he sighed, already drifting back towards unconsciousness.

"Mm hmm," Casey said, but it was not better, not yet. He hung on and waited for Xanax to work its magic. His last thought before achieving sedation was that it was never going to actually get better until he did something other than run away...he had to do something to get better, he had to...something brave, he would do it, he had to do it...

It was the scent of coffee that woke him and the daylight on his face. "Wakey, wakey," sang Sasha's voice, right next to him.

He peeled his eyes open. The coffee was right beneath his nose, in a mug that Sasha was waving around. Sasha was reclined next to him, fully dressed, and Zeke was absent.

"What time?" Casey mumbled.

"Almost noon."

"Where's Zeke?"

"He was whining about the library being closed today, something about there being too many distractions here or something, so I kinda...I suggested he should go find a coffee shop to work in...and he did. Took a bunch of books with him, too. Said he'll be back in a few hours."

Casey could have said a few words on the subject of temptation himself, especially given the rich, ambrosial aroma emanating from the mug that Sasha was holding. Casey tried not to breath very much while he asked, "Why you...sticking that in my face?"

"To wake you up?"

"That's mean, Sasha."

"Oh, but it's for you, kitten."

Casey half-rose on one elbow. "Really?"

"Really, really. But you have to get up and follow me out to the living room."

Casey threw back the covers intending to get up right away, but a short, sharp shock in a very private place caused him to wince. "Okay," he said, instantly slowing down the process of leaving the bed.

Sasha was upright and heading out the bedroom door, saying, "Then I'll see you at oh-twelve-hundred — sharp."

With the room to himself, Casey was at liberty to creak and groan but, thankfully, once he was on his feet and moving around, it wasn't really that bad. He just a bit sore; it wasn't something that had never happened to him before, it would pass. And it was worth it. Even if there was some discomfort, even if Sasha was lurking in the other room right now waiting for him to come out and confess all — that was price and he was willing to pay it. He would not tell Sasha everything, of course, but he would be expected to have an explanation for the fact that he'd had trouble sitting down last night. He would just say that they had gotten a bit enthusiastic, which was nothing but the truth.

He crept to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Looking into the mirror, he was startled to see the bruise on his chin, and with the clarity of a brain no longer limping and hiccoughing with fatigue, he remembered things...things that hadn't exactly been forgotten, just not yet recalled. It was like watching a film playing in reverse...falling to his knees in the shower, getting in the shower quaking with chill and raw need, but before that running away, running around in the fog too afraid to go home, running into Thomas...

Casey uttered a tiny, anguished moan. It was the sound of a person appalled by himself.

His mind filled with the reality that he was filthy, absolutely nauseating; he wanted to lock the door, stay in here until Sasha had to go to work...but there was no point to that when Zeke was going to return within a few hours. Ultimately, Casey couldn't escape from either of them. If only he could disbelieve what he remembered...but he couldn't. He didn't know how to face Sasha and he certainly didn't know how to face Zeke. Not that he wasn't perfectly capable of hiding this. No, that was the problem. He could go on lying, day after day after day. He was long past disbelief at his own actions, he just didn't know how to manage the horror he felt of himself.

His eyes had begun to leak. He spit and rinsed and splashed cold water on his face, then just stood there in front of the sink, trembling.

"Kitten!" Sasha shouted. "Coffee's getting cold!"

Casey knew that Sasha would come looking for him next; he turned away and dragged his feet all the way to the living room. Sasha was sitting on the couch, facing sideways with one leg up and one dangling. He had his own mug in his hand; the other was sitting on the table. He smiled at Casey and patted the spot on the couch beside him.

"There you go," he said, gesturing to the coffee cup while Casey complied with instructions. "I fixed it up just the way you like it, I think. I figured it would be a nice treat and you're right, one cup probably isn't going to hurt you."

"Thank you," Casey whispered.

"No problem, kitten. I'm afraid sometimes that I'm too rigid with some of this healthy stuff. I'm going to try to be a little more flexible. I mean, you are an adult and you could just as easily tell us all to shove it, right?"

Casey managed a tiny nod. He lifted the mug and took a slurp. It tasted every bit as delicious as he had expected, far more delicious than he could possibly deserve.

"I sometimes think Zeke and I are the ones who need the shrinks and you're just too tolerant of our craziness. Like that performance of Zeke's yesterday, that was just so..."

Sasha trailed off, probably because he'd finally noticed that Casey was weeping.

"God, what is it?"

Casey glanced up and saw Sasha's face full of recognition and understanding and willing-to-listen-ness. Full, chest-rattling sobs began to fill his throat, choking him. "S-Sasha — "

"What, Casey — ?"

He couldn't contain this. He was gripping his coffee with two hands and still the surface of the liquid was choppy, the mug very close to becoming another casualty of the Casey Connor melodrama and this time the brown stain would be on the rug and it would be even harder to get out and Sasha would be so...so...he would —

With great caution, Casey lowered his mug and placed it on the nearby table.

"Kitten, you're scaring me here. Talk to me immediately."

Casey threw himself upon Sasha's shoulder, just barely getting the words through the constriction in his throat: "I — I've done s-something — awful!"

Sasha instantly launched into consolation, cuddling him and rocking him, saying, "Oh, kitten...oh, my, it can't be that bad, come on...shh...shh..."

"It — it's — "

"Shh."

"I'm — "

"Okay, kitten, just let it go, and when you're done with this, then you can tell me."

Casey just let it go.

Some time later he was limp and sodden, lying in the crook of Sasha's arm, and Sasha was using his other hand to stroke Casey, smoothing his palm up and down Casey's arm with nothing but tenderness. Casey's eyes were swollen and sore and he wasn't necessarily done crying yet, there were plenty more tears in him — but at least now he could talk. He had to talk, or he would shatter.

"Done something terrible," he muttered.

"That's what you said...but I'd like to know what this terrible thing is."

"I don't know...how to..."

"You just start, kitten. You can tell me anything, remember?"

Casey let out a shuddering, miserable breath; so he would tell Sasha and probably in a minute or so Sasha wouldn't be quite so willing to hold him and pet him. Sasha would be disgusted, but that was the natural result of being disgusting.

"There's this man," Casey started.

He felt Sasha tense slightly.

"I've run into him a c-couple times at Zorba's...his name's Thomas, he...he would keep coming up and talking to me and I thought — I was sure that he was into me and yesterday after you went to Jerry's — "

Casey stopped, because everything he'd been thinking at that point was just a gnarled, tangled mess and he didn't know which thread to pull on first.

"Yes?" Sasha prompted. "What happened?"

The tears were rallying to overtake him again. "Sasha...I'm so fucked up, I...I need...help."

"You have help, kitten. You have me and Zeke, and Dr. Chakri and Dr. Yves — "

"I didn't go."

"Huh?"

"On Tuesday...I lied to you, I didn't go to see Dr. Yves and — and I haven't been to relaxation therapy for over a week."

Sasha didn't speak for several seconds and Casey was certain that he was about to be thrown at the other end of the couch — but that didn't happen. Sasha just said quietly, "Why?"

"It just doesn't work, I can't relax that way — "

"Forget about the relaxation stuff for now. I mean why didn't you go to see Dr. Yves."

Casey wondered if he should move out of Sasha's embrace and sit apart from him. He attempted to do that, only to be met with a grunt of refusal. Staying put, he answered, "Remember how I told you that...um, I haven't talked to her about the aliens."

"Yes. And that Zeke is dead set against it."

"And so am I...or...I was, I guess..."

"We've hashed this out before, kitten." Sasha gave him an encouraging squeeze. "You want to always be in agreement with Zeke, but he's wrong about this, Casey. You know he is."

Casey whispered, "Yeah."

Squeezing him again, Sasha said, "Good for you, I know it's hard for you to say that."

It had been far too easy to say, actually. So he had betrayed Zeke all over again, and having received this admission from him, Sasha was pressing on, determined to extract more information before this bizarre, forthright mood of Casey's dissolved. "So can you tell me what happened when Zeke went with you to see Dr. Yves?"

Casey recognized that he was at risk of revealing something very dangerous, that he was endangered just as he had been in Yves' office — so he needed that physical separation now. He squirmed out of Sasha's hold and kept his face averted while he spoke. "Zeke wanted...to show me how I could go there and do therapy without talking about aliens, he just wanted to talk about...about Roy, and...and it made me so mad..."

"I guess it would," was Sasha's comment.

"I took off before the session was even done and walked home...When Zeke got home we had a fight and I...I didn't mean it but I said I wanted to tell Yves about the aliens. I did it to scare Zeke...and I did scare him."

"Oh, kitten."

"And then yesterday...after you went to Jerry's we...we were..." God, this was humiliating, but he couldn't not say this, he didn't know how to tell the story otherwise. "I wanted to have sex and he thought we shouldn't because I was still mad at him and then I got even more mad at him...and then sh-she showed up."

"She?"

"W-Winona." Casey had to hide his eyes again, putting his hand over them as though blindfolding himself would somehow hide him from Sasha. "And yes, I'm crazy, I know I'm crazy because I just lose it every time Zeke says her name and when he's at school with her...I keep thinking things."

"It's kind of understandable — "

"But you don't know how I...I wanted to go to the school and watch him, Sasha...and she came here yesterday wanting to talk to Zeke and I totally freaked out — I know when I'm freaking out and that I act like a complete mental case but I can't help it, I can't bear to think about her w-with Zeke."

Casey made himself glance at Sasha, certain that he would see disgust and revulsion. Yep, he thought that he saw those feelings, and pity, too, so Casey decided to let Sasha know just how pitiful he was.

He resumed, "Zeke said he was going to talk to her because she was upset and I wasn't making any sense and I was acting like this — this slut who couldn't control himself, I got mad when he wouldn't fuck me."

"Casey," Sasha murmured, sounding pained.

"H-he couldn't take it anymore so he went up on the roof with her and I ran away, I just thought the worst things and I was so mad at Zeke I wanted to punish him...I figured...I thought h-he didn't want me...and then I ran into Thomas on the street and he's so strange, he's always so strange but kinda really friendly too and I knew that he liked me..." Casey stopped to gulp some air.

Sasha's expression and voice were flat and purposeful; he was on a mission now. "What did he do?"

"He asked me to go for coffee, he didn't even know it was Thanksgiving and I really think he might be an alien...anyway, so he asked me to go to his car with him and...I went."

"And then?" Sasha demanded.

"We talked a bit and I asked him if he was one of them and he wouldn't tell me...I decided he had to be and — " The tears were back with a vengeance "— and I didn't care, Sasha, I wanted him because he was one of them, I thought he would take me and make me disappear and I wanted him to..."

"Oh, god, kitten..."

Sasha was reaching out to soothe him but he didn't want to be soothed, he flinched away. "I...I came onto h-him...I'm so..."

"Did you have sex with him?" Sasha demanded in a level tone. He was obviously making a great effort to restrain himself.

"No, but I would have...He's s-smart, he knew I was just...just using him, he was nice about it but he s-said I just wanted revenge and he was too old for me and then he asked me t-to go so I did...but I was afraid to go home until Zeke found me — "

"Did Zeke hurt you?"

"Hurt — ?"

"Did he hit you? Did you tell him and then he put that bruise on your face?"

"No...I really did fall in the shower."

"I saw how you were moving yesterday, I'm not blind, Casey."

"He didn't hurt me," Casey insisted. "He was just wonderful, like really patient and...he forgave me for running away but I don't know if could forgive me for this...Sasha..." His throat clogged up yet again. "I don't — I'm afraid — don't know what I'm doing — "

Sasha took his hand and held it firmly. "Okay, I'm not exactly comfortable with this business about Zeke 'forgiving' you — or that bruise, but I'm going to let that go for the moment."

"Are you disgusted with me?" Casey pleaded, clinging to Sasha's hand.

"Disgusted — fuck, no." Sasha was scowling as he continued, "I am shocked, though. A bit disappointed...but mostly relieved that something really bad didn't happen. For fuck sake, Casey, you don't know a thing about this man and if he had wanted to do something to you we wouldn't even have known where you were. I thought you were more sensible than that."

"Thomas isn't...like that."

"Sure, you were lucky this time," Sasha snapped. "I'll tell you what, kitten...You can have sex with anyone you like but if I find out that you've ever done anything this foolish again I'll see to it that you never leave this apartment without a chaperone." Sasha tugged lightly on Casey's hand, like he wanted to be certain that he had Casey's attention. "Do we understand each other?"

"Yes," Casey whispered. "Are you — are you going to tell Zeke?"

Sasha was taken aback. "Of course not," he returned. Unexpectedly, his eyes began to tear up. "Kitten, you have no idea how grateful I am that you confided in me, I really thought that you didn't — " He caught himself, went on, "Well, you don't need to hear about my insecurities in addition to everything you're dealing with. I was going to say that I'd never betray a confidence like that. But I would try to convince you that you should tell Zeke — "

"No...can't."

"— but not now," Sasha finished, and sighed deeply. "Right now we need to figure out the best way to help you because this is all way beyond me."

Casey could see that Sasha needed to hold him; he slipped back into range of Sasha's arms and laid his head against Sasha's shoulder, shuddering away the remnants of his crying jag. "Scared," he mumbled.

"I know," Sasha said, and rocked him a bit.

"Had this dream last night...It was terrible, Thomas and Winona were aliens and they wanted to make me one of them."

"I'm afraid I'll never understand about the aliens, but I do know one thing, Casey...They're more a part of you than I ever thought, they're absolutely fundamental to this whole mess and you have to tell Yves about them or you're just spinning your wheels with her."

Casey said in a tiny voice, "I know...but I asked Zeke again yesterday and he said no."

"So you do it anyway, Casey."

"I don't know if I can."

"Well...then you're just stuck, aren't you?"

Casey didn't have a reply to that, other than a shiver.

"I'll talk to Zeke about this if you want me to," Sasha offered.

"No, please, don't...don't do that."

"All right...then you could talk to him — but you don't need his permission, Casey."

"It's not that simple."

"Yes, it is that simple. Now I want you to repeat after me: 'I don't need Zeke's permission...'"

"I don't need Zeke's permission," Casey muttered.

"'...to talk about whatever I want to talk about...'"

"To talk about whatever I want to talk about."

"'...in my therapy.'"

"In my therapy."

"Excellent. So then...what are you going to do?

There was no answering that question. Sasha had just travelled a really long way with Casey and would not want to hear another I don't know. The thing was, Casey needed to explain to Sasha why it wasn't that easy, that it wasn't just because he didn't like to do things that Zeke didn't want him to do. The aliens were the cement between the two of them; the aliens had been the shared history, the linchpin of their loyalty to each other long before they were anything but friends. Sasha didn't understand that yet and Casey should help him to understand — but even to do that was somehow a betrayal of the bond.

"Kitten? What are you going to do?"

I don't know.

"I guess I don't need to tell you what I think," Sasha added, with a sigh.

But something had been betrayed yesterday too. Maybe it could have been worse, maybe Zeke didn't know the full extent of it but even so Casey had done some serious damage and he was afraid that he was nowhere near finished. It didn't matter that he didn't want to break Zeke, that he didn't want to be this way, feel this way...he would break Zeke, he would be this way and it wouldn't stop until he could be less scared and more brave.

Now there was another memory floating up, and this was the one that he had truly forgotten until this moment...It was that instant in the early morning just before he fell asleep again, when Zeke had asked him if he felt better and he lied and said yes. Right then he had known what he needed to do to feel better, and he was even willing to do it but that was last night when he was still shaking with panic and desperate never to have a dream like that again. Now in the light of day the dream was fading, and he was a whole other kind of desperate. Even with Sasha right in his face confirming what he already knew, he didn't think that he could do it. He had been told that he was brave, and maybe he had been in the past. Maybe he still could be, but he didn't know if he could be brave enough.

Casey shook his head and smiled to himself.

"What?" Sasha queried, frowning. "What are you thinking?"

"That I know what I'm supposed do."

"Which is what?"

Casey replied bitterly, "Nothing I haven't done before."

It was something he hated to do and longed to do, something that no one wanted to do, that no one would do except for him. Certainly not Delilah or Stan, nor Stokely — not even Zeke.

Zeke would never understand why it had to be done, because when it came right down to it, Zeke didn't know a thing about being alien. That was Casey's area of expertise, always had been and always would be. It was his gift.

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