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From: "OT" <oki_toshi@hotmail.com>
Subject: Sixteen Chapter 1 (M/M)
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This story depicts same sex relationships that may be offensive to
some readers. Please stop right now if it offends you. Please do the
same if are not 18 yet.

The story is total fiction. None of the characters are real. Any
resemblance with people dead or alive is purely coincidental. 

The story or any part of it can be stored, archived and reproduced
freely without any limitations, unless it's done for commercial
purposes. Neither the story nor any part of it can be used for
commercial purposes.

Comments, suggestions, criticism: oki_toshi@hotmail.com.   Enjoy!


"Nun zum Peneios frisch hinab!  Herr Vetter ist nicht zu verachten.
Am Ende haengen wir doch ab 
Von Kreaturen, die wir machten".
Goethe.

Chapter One.
Rainy days.

There were very few people on the train to Seattle when Tom boarded it
on that grim fall day. Tiny streams of rain were rolling across the
train windows, almost horizontally from one end to the other. Tom kept
staring out of the window. Woods of different shades of green,
stretched as far as the eye could see. They looked a bit sinister in
the rain. But they also looked comforting in a strange way. 

How long ago was it? Rachel's twentieth birthday was just two weeks
ago. Yes. That's it.   Twenty years, almost exactly. Of course, it
hasn't been quite that long since Sixteen came out. But how long was
he working on the novel? Let's see. He started working on it three
years after moving to Vancouver. Then all the time until publishing.
Yep. Not that long… 

A girl – probably seventeen or eighteen years old passed him by. His
eyes were fixed on her without seeing, as she walked down the passage.
She turned around and smiled at him. That smile awoke him from his
reverie. He looked around shaking the remainder of the dream away. The
rain kept falling and except for a sea of different shades green, he
could make out nothing in the landscape outside the window.

Did Helen know the real purpose of this trip? There was nothing
unusual about it, except that he was taking the train. There seemed to
have been a shade of suspicion in the look she gave him before he
left. But it might be his imagination again.   After all, he was a
writer, wasn't he? Tom smiled to himself. He wasn't much of a writer
before Sixteen came out. That novel made him. Did he manage to write
anything after it? Books that followed were successful, but what would
he be remembered for at the end? Probably Sixteen.

The train stopped with a jolt. Seattle already? Tom stretched and let
other people walk past him to the exit. He just didn't want to get up.
The feeling of the warm train seemed to permeate his entire being, he
hated the idea of having to get up and moving outside into this awful
rainy day. But the goal of his visit suddenly surfaced in his brain,
and Tom forced himself up. Outside he got a cab and asked the driver
to take him to his usual hotel in the centre of the city. At least
there he thought he would relax.

It was already quite dark, and Tom just wanted to shower and go to
bed.   He couldn't think of anything he would rather do at this
moment. Just relax in the shower, plop down on the bed and go to
sleep. But Tom never slept well at hotels. He knew that. He turned on
the bedside light and started to read. Pages were flying by quickly,
but he wasn't following the book. His eyes saw the written words, but
his mind was wandering somewhere…

How did it start? He would never forget it. He was twenty five then,
and a few months into a great marriage. He was coming back to Seattle
with his wife.   Having just graduated, he got a job with one of the
local magazines. It was great to come back after what seemed like
almost an eternity. He would see all his old friends again. His
family… All through that trip across the country, in their new car
(so tiny, but new!), he kept chatting and giggling and making stupid
jokes and laughing at them… Helen laughed with him. 

"Wow, that trip has sure put you in a good mood. We should do it more
often", she would observe sometimes, "I love you being silly like
this."

They reached Seattle at the end of August. The events of the first
week or two, seemed crushed together into one blurry mass of parties,
drinking, talking till wee hours of the morning, and then more
parties, more drinking and more talking, so that by the end he and
Helen lost track of time. Everyone seemed happy to see Tom, and Helen,
thanks to her great looks, and irresistible charm, didn't have any
trouble becoming part of what used to be Tom's circle.

But September came and it was time for Tom to go to work. After a
couple of months the routine settled in. A new life back home.

He rolled over in bed and looked at the red digits of the clock radio
on his night stand. It was only nine thirty. That early? He couldn't
be seriously going to go to sleep at this hour. Maybe he should just
gather up his courage, get up and make that phone call?! It has been
hanging over him like fate itself. Just get it over with. What is the
worst thing that could happen? He could always go back to the way
things were. "The way things were". For twenty years now he wasn't
sure what was that "way".  Nah.   He'd wait till next day.

Tom stared at the white ceiling above his bed. In the darkness of his
room he couldn't really tell what colour it was. But ceilings are
usually white, aren't they.

It happened on a day very similar to this one. There are so many days
like this one here.   He was driving home late one afternoon and
stopped for gas. He never usually stopped for gas at that place, but
it had a car wash and he decided to treat his car today. He was almost
done filling up the gas tank, when he heard his name being called. He
turned around. There in front of him stood a middle aged man. He had
neatly cut short grey hair, appeared slim under a large baggy raincoat
and had a cheerful smile on his face.

"Well, Tom, old buddy. Forgetting your old friends?" he asked in mock
indignation.

Tom suddenly felt ill at ease. God, how could he do it! In so many
months here, he didn't even call Mr Mitchell once! And yet, they were
so close when he was in high school.   He had the man to thank for his
career, forget career, this man made him for God's sake!

"I am so sorry Mr Mitchell", he started mumbling.

"Oh! Cut it out!" interrupted the older man. "In so many years of
teaching, you get used to that sort of thing. And by the way, time has
come for you to just call me Rob".

"Ok… Rob… But still, I think I should make it up to you. Come on,
ask me something.   Anything. After all, I owe you so much of what I
am now…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Where would you be today without the ol'man
Mitchell?" said Rob interrupting Tom and giving him a slight pat on
the shoulder. "But seriously now. You would be glad to know that I
could really use your help."

"Oh, oh! What am I getting myself into?!"

"Well, if it's not too much to ask, I would like you to come to school
one of these days and speak to the kids in my English class. I mean an
aspiring writer, like yourself… The kids will enjoy it", the teacher
smiled at Tom.

Tom pushed back the covers, turned on the light, and got out of bed.
He started pacing the room. Back and forth, back and forth. It was
still early, he should just pick up the phone and call. He opened the
closet and felt the pockets of his raincoat. There it was. He took the
magazine out and stared at the cover again. There was a photo of a man
in his thirties on the cover, and the title under it read: "Bill
Snyder: The Man and His Art". 

Tom was waiting at his dentist's office when his eyes caught the cover
of the magazine.   There was no need for the title. He would recognise
Bill anywhere. The same elongated face, deep blue eyes, like two lakes
– wild and beautiful. So sad and seductive. Even on that picture. Of
course, now it was a man rather than a boy staring at him from the
magazine cover. But the effect he had on Tom was the same as it had
been twenty years ago. Tom made sure he was alone and stuck the
magazine in a pocket of his raincoat.   There was no need for that,
his doctor would have gladly given it to him, but he was afraid of
questions.

That night he got home before his wife and daughter. He quickly went
to the bedroom, took the magazine out, and lay down on the bed. The
article spoke about the exhibition of Bill's work that just ended in
London. There was an interview and another picture. Tom felt a blob
forming in his chest. His entire body was shaking and his head started
to spin.   Twenty years! For God's sake, he thought he had already
forgotten the whole damn thing. And here it was, fresh as ever, after
all those years!

 He touched his forehead. It felt cold and moist. He was perspiring.
Tom couldn't help but smile. After all these years and still the same
effect. Even perspiration. No, he wouldn't call today. Too tired to
deal with it right now…

Nothing seemed to have changed in Mr Mitchell's classroom from the
time when he had been a student. The same portraits of  Mr Mitchell's
favourite writers: Joyce, Beckett, Faulkner, Hemmingway… It was a
classroom like any other and at the same time quite a unique one. Mr
Mitchell's classroom.

His speech was short, kids seemed to enjoy it. They even asked a few
questions. The bell rang. It was the last period and the kids started
to gather their stuff quickly anxious to get out. Mr Mitchell was
yelling at the top of his lungs reminding everyone about the test
tomorrow. A small group of kids crowded around Mr Mitchell's table.
They didn't seem to be in a hurry to get home after their last period.
Just like the old times. Those spontaneous talks at Mr Mitchell's
table were what Tom loved most when he was a student in Mr Mitchell's
class. You could talk about anything anyway you wanted. The teacher
seemed to intervene very rarely. But this time it was someone else's
turn to have fun. Tom sat down at one of the desks and waited for the
group to dissipate. In a few minutes all of them were gone. All of
them but one, that is.

"Tom", Mr Mitchell called him, "Meet Bill Snyder. Here, Bill, when Tom
had been my student he used to be a pain in all the same places you
are now!"

Tom got up from his chair and stepped forward towards Bill. They shook
hands and Bill smiled at him revealing two perfect rows of pearls.
After they broke their handshake, the world as Tom knew it ceased to
exist. In its place, filling up all the void was this boy in front of
him. This sixteen year old boy. Tom felt slowly drowning in those deep
blue eyes… From somewhere that must have been in a different
universe, Tom heard a voice:

"So, Tom, can I bother you to give Mr Snyder here a ride home. You are
going in the same direction anyway. I am afraid he missed his carpool
now, so you'll be doing him and me a favour. Are you all right? Tom?"

Tom turned his head in the direction of the voice and his eyes met
those of Mr Mitchell's.   He caught a strange glimmer in the old
teacher's eyes, but it only lasted a second. Calling all his remaining
will power to the task, Tom regained his composure.   Or whatever was
left of it.

"Yeah, I'd be glad to", he answered quietly, trying as hard as he
could to suppress his emotion. He just wanted to jump of joy. "Come
on, Bill".

Tom looked at the cover once again. He just couldn't keep his eyes off
of it. Tom rubbed his left shoulder. Bill used to love massaging his
shoulders. He would always initiate love making with that massage. Tom
would usually be sitting – helpless, unable to move, or even say
anything. Just moan. Bill would slowly unbutton his shirt and Tom
would think he would die every time the kid's fingers touched his bare
skin. Then Bill would start kneading his shoulders like dough, gently
at first, then getting stronger and stronger. It always started like
that…

Tom felt a stirring in his loins. If he kept his memories going, he
could climax almost without touching himself. He laughed at that. Bill
used to joke about Tom's manhood growing out of his shoulders, and
that they should have a bet about him being able to climax just by
rubbing himself there. Tonight it seemed almost possible. He laughed
again.

At some point into the massage, it would become just too much for Tom.
He would spring up and face Bill. The kid would be undressed by that
time. They would jump at each other like a couple of wild animals,
locking each other in a bear hug, falling down on the carpet, just
rolling there wrestling and growling. And yet their sex wasn't rough.
It was loving and tender, in spite of all this wrestling. They
climaxed together almost always. Sometimes wrestling alone would be
too much for them, and after a short and very passionate "match", at
the moment when their bodies seemed to be on the verge of breaking the
boundaries separating them from each other, they would cum all over
each other, and then just lay there breathing hard, unable to move.

"You know what separates me from you", Bill once asked as he caught
his breath, and a mischievous grin appeared on his face.

"No, what?"

"A crowbar!"

One thing that especially struck Tom, was that he tremendously enjoyed
the afterglow.   He remembered his first time. It was in high school.
A warm night in the beginning of the summer. They all just had a party
at this girl's house, and made a horrible mess. He and a couple of
other kids stayed to help clean up. When it was all done, he was
sitting on the back porch, looking at the dark moonless sky covered
with a multitude of stars. The air was fresh but not cold. Then the
girl joined him. She sat down on the stairs next to him and he could
feel her body's warmth without touching her. He didn't know what came
over him, but pulled her to himself and planted an awkward but firm
kiss on her lips. She pulled him up and led him to her bedroom. They
undressed quickly, with pieces of their clothing flying all over the
room. He was on top of her and the tight warm sensation around his
organ was not to be compared with anything in this world.   The climax
came fast. All too fast. Nothing could describe that feeling, and he
was totally exhausted and a little disappointed. And there was another
feeling too. At first he couldn't understand what it was and then he
suddenly realised. He wanted the girl to disappear. It wasn't right
for her to be there with him, just didn't feel right. Her job was
done, she had to go. When he opened his eyes the next morning, she was
gone. He got dressed slowly and sneaked out of the house without
saying good-bye. When he grew older, that feeling stopped coming back,
but somewhere in the back of his mind, he still remembered the
sensation.

It was different with Bill. Anything they did together was just way
too much fun for any gloom, no matter how small, to creep in.

"Hey baby! I did ok, didn't I?" Bill asked with pride in his voice. He
was calling Tom a "baby". Jeez, he was talking to a twenty five year
old man! Tom was shaking with mirth.   He was rolling all over the
carpet. Then he rolled on top of Bill and started covering his naked
body with kisses. Bill was well built. He was very slim and good to
the touch. The tender, silky skin was like that of a child. He didn't
have much definition anywhere, but not an ounce of fat either.

"You are the best and always will be", Tom finally said and hopped up
to go to the bathroom to clean himself up.

"Yeah, right", Bill answered faking disbelief. "Look, you've got
Helen, you are just playing around. What are you doing to me, though,
ruining my life?" And he laughed that infectious irresistible
adolescent laugh of his.

"He's joking all right, but how much truth is in there?", Tom couldn't
help wondering.   Was he really ruining the kid's life? If so, it had
to stop right now, but he knew only too well that he could never stop
it on his own. He came back from the bathroom. Bill was still lying on
the carpet. Tom propped himself on the elbow next to him.

"Bill", he said covering the kid's mouth with his hand. "Why don't you
just shut the fuck up!"

"Make me!"

"Fine, you asked for it!" and he planted a big wet kiss on Bill's
mouth. Bill responded and they explored each other mouths for what
seemed like an eternity.

"Any more of your nasty comments?"

"Nah. Like they say. If rape is unavoidable, just relax and enjoy
yourself".

"I take it as an invitation, then".

"Whatever".

"Oh, please, don't sound so indifferent. Something tells me you can't
wait" 

They started spending more and more time together. Bill became a
fixture in Tom's household. Helen seemed to like him, and he would
very often tag along when they would go on short weekend trips,
exploring their spectacular surroundings. When Rachel was born, Helen
seemed absorbed by her entirely, and put fewer demands on Tom being
around. Or so it seemed to him. He started spending more of his free
time with Bill. Quite consciously, Tom was trying very hard to inject
Bill with his views, values, thoughts. He wanted the kid to see things
a little bit his way. How selfish and immature, he now thought… Bill,
on the other hand, seemed to care more about just plain having fun. He
liked games, sports, and was always adventurous in everything he did.
Both of them were giving equally to the relationship, in different
ways,  and that was why they were never bored with one another's
company.

The blow came, as always, quite unexpectedly. Helen found out. She was
too perceptive and knew her husband only too well. She had noticed the
look in his eyes when he was watching Bill a while ago and sure enough
there were enough clues dropped here and there for her to suspect what
was going on. But Helen tried to keep it to herself. Maybe it was her
imagination? After all, they were good friends. Until she found the
greeting card Bill sent Tom on his birthday. There was no need to send
a card like that, and of course Tom had to be careful about it. The
best thing was to destroy it, but just like all that came from Bill,
he couldn't help it. It meant the world to him and he had to keep it.

He was in the house just finishing dinner when she found it. When he
walked into the room he saw her sitting at the table staring at it.
She seemed calm at first.

"So, you probably want me to leave now, don't you?", she asked.

"Honey, what are you talking about?", he mumbled helplessly.

"Oh, you know darn well what I am talking about!", she screamed. "He
stole you from me a long time ago, that fucking bastard"

"Don't you dare call him that!", Tom yelled back in a sudden flash of
anger. He regretted it in the next moment, but the words were out.
Helen stared at him for a second, and then on the top of her lungs
yelled:

"I will call him what I fucking please!!!", tears were rolling down
her cheeks, she fell on the floor. Tom had never seen her like that.
He rushed towards her, tried to pick her up.   Hold her. She started
hitting him and scratching his face. Tom just tried to hold her as
tight as he could, whispering "It's ok, it's ok" in her ear and
kissing her gently on the back of her head. She was just shaking in
his embrace one tight ball of nerves. Then she saw blood on his face,
and that seemed to calm her down.

>From then on, every night when he would come home from work, she
>would 
meet him with a meek, almost apologetic smile.

"I shouldn't be alive", she once said.  "Helen!" "Oh, be quiet. You
are stuck with me now. And the baby. At least if it weren't for the
baby you could go live with him".  "Darling", he answered, "I love
you. Nothing has changed!" "Nothing has changed", she repeated
thoughtfully. "Except that now I am like a thorn in your eye". She got
up and went to the kitchen to fix his supper.   Something had to be
done to end all this. Tom had a good job opportunity in Vancouver, but
he never thought of it seriously because of Bill. Now it was precisely
the reason to think seriously about it.   Games fate plays with us…

When Tom awoke, it was already afternoon. He didn't go to sleep till
early morning. He stared at the ceiling above him for a second not
understanding where he was and what he was doing there. Then he saw
the magazine lying on the desk near the phone, and his memory came
back. He got up, took a long shower, stalling on purpose, avoiding the
unavoidable. The phone, the regular hotel phone – a white ugly device
with solid buttons and instructions printed all over the dial. No, he
couldn't wait any longer. He had to make that call. Maybe Bill won't
even be home. Maybe the number he got from the information would turn
out to be the wrong one. He dialled with the shaking hand.

"Hello", said the voice on the other end.  For a split second Tom
couldn't talk. No sound would come out of his throat.  "Hi", he
finally mastered, he heard himself say it, or it had to be him since
there was no one else in the room. His heart was ready to jump out of
his mouth with the sounds of this simple word.  "Yes? What can I do
for you?" "Bill? Is that you?" Tom was slowly regaining his composure.
"Yes. Who is this?" "It's me, Tom. Remember?" There was a pause.  "It
has been a long time, hasn't it? How are you doing, Tom?", he sounded
calm.  "I am ok. How are you? Looks like you are quite a celebrity
now".  "Not compared to you, I am not".  Now it was Tom's turn to be
quiet.  "Listen", he finally said, "Why don't we meet for dinner
tonight, unless you've made other plans already?" "No, I haven't".
"Well great, you got any preferences?" "How about I pick you up at the
hotel at about eight?" "Fine. See you then".  "Cool. Bye, Tom".

The line went dead. Tom hung up the phone and looked at his watch. It
was only twenty after six. He sighed. An hour and forty minutes. He
sat down in front of the TV set and tried to channel surf. He couldn't
concentrate on anything and turned it off after about half an hour. He
tried reading, but his thoughts drifted away from the book. Finally,
he just got dressed and decided to go downstairs into the lobby. It
was only a quarter to eight.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Tom was standing right by it,
so he just turned the handle and opened it. The lights from the
hallway were very dim, but even though, they didn't hide the beauty of
his visitor. Tom moved aside and the young man stepped in. He was no
more than eighteen, Tom thought. His beauty now shined in the bright
light of the room in all its sensual glory. He wasn't very tall –
about Tom's height and looked young and fragile. Thoughtful brown eyes
and long eyelashes, almost like those of a girl, added to the
impression he gave of fragility. He wore blue jeans, a polo shirt and
a pair of running shoes. Nothing stunning, but he made it seem like
the best thing in the world to wear. A model's quality, Tom thought.

"Hello, Mr Webber. Chris Labreau", he said smiling and stretching his
hand out for a handshake.

"It's Tom. And nice meeting you, Chris". He kept staring at the boy.
He found it hard to keep his eyes away from the kid. It wasn't really
his beauty so much, as Tom was starting to realise, but a certain
inexplicable charm that just seemed to fill up the entire space around
the young man. He didn't know what to say. The right thing would have
been just to ask his visitor to what he owed the pleasure and the
honour. Before he regained his composure, Chris broke the awkward
pause:

"Bill sends his apologies, but he isn't feeling well tonight. So, he
asked me to pick you up and bring you to our place. We can all have
dinner there." Tom was baffled. Too many puzzles for one short speech.
Who was this kid? And then "our" place?.. He wanted to ask Chris, but
the boy seemed to be reading his mind.

"Oh", he said, "I am in Bill's class at the Art Institute. Bill rents
out part of his house to me. I don't pay the rent, but have to kind of
look after the house, you know, help Bill around the studio, things
like that. It's not a lot of work and I like it. Besides, being so
close to a master like Bill… I am pretty lucky".

"I agree!", said Tom and smiled. "Let's get going".  The ride to
Bill's house didn't take them that long, since it wasn't a rush hour.
Bill owned a beautiful house, almost a mansion on the East Side. The
table was set on the patio. It wasn't raining and the evening was
brisk but very pleasant. 

"Hello, Tom!", Bill greeted him. "Thanks for bringing him, Chris. We
are about ready here".
 
They all sat down at the small table. What was the meaning of this, Tom 
couldn't help 
thinking. Obviously Bill was afraid to stay alone with him. He could 
certainly understand 
it, but he was hoping they could be alone for the evening. There was so 
much to catch up 
on. After dinner they just sat on the porch looking into the night and 
listening to the 
silence broken only by the occasional sound of the wind shuffling the 
tree tops. The tree 
line started just a few yards away from the porch. Old, tall pine 
trees. Their dark 
silhouettes were barely visible in the night.

"So, I see you are doing quite well. All that publicity", Tom said to
fill a pause in the conversation.

"Oh, it won't be the first time", Bill answered and laughed a little.
Tom blushed at this comment. It was fortunate that Bill couldn't see
it in the dark. The only light they had came from inside the house and
the candles on the table. Tom could only see Bill's face in the faint
red glimmer of the candle flame.   Chris pushed his chair back,
towards the house, and no light fell onto his face.

"I am sorry, old man", Tom finally said. His desire to hug Bill and
squeeze him tight against his chest was almost unbearable. But there
was a student here.   He had to control himself.

"Ah, it's ok. Don't think about it. Besides, I've got Chris here, and
he is a great help.   He's flipped out of course, but you know what,
at times I envy his passion. I wish I could carry something like that
into my paintings".

"Bill!!!", Chris was trying to protest, but Bill stopped him with one
gesture.  "I have no idea how he does it, but whenever you see his
painting, it's forever in your mind. It may seem like it faded or went
away. But one day you will suddenly find yourself thinking about it".

They were just sitting there in silence sipping their drinks,
listening to the silence of the night.

The next morning Tom was going to return to Vancouver. Chris
volunteered to see him off. They were walking together towards Tom's
train, Chris carrying Tom's suitcase.

"All right, Chris. Thanks for seeing me off", said Tom taking the
suitcase from Chris's hand.

"Oh, please don't mention it, Tom. How many opportunities does a guy
like me have to be so close to his favourite author. Oh, I didn't even
ask you for an autograph. Damn!   The guys are never going to believe
I met Tom Webber and had dinner with him".  Tom grinned slightly,
wrapped his arm around Chris's shoulders and pulled him close.

"That can be easily fixed, I am sure. Look. Those paintings Bill spoke
about…" "Oh, yeah… It wasn't terribly nice of him, was it?" Chris
said and frowned a little. Like a cloud suddenly passing through his
beautiful face.  "Au contraire. I would love to see some of those one
day".  Chris's face lighted up again.  "That's not a problem at all! I
could bring them over to Vancouver and show you!" "Yeah, why not.
Well, time for me to go. Good bye, kid. Thanks for everything!"


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