by Ashton and Bosie

"Any preoccupation with ideas of what is right or wrong in conduct shows an arrested intellectual development." - Oscar Wilde

*Pure Morning

He couldn�t find his socks, nor could he find his dance shoes under a heap of black boots that seemed to have invaded his closet. Henry began to question whether it was even morally decent for a boy to have so much black in a single closet, and he shuddered to think of the sock drawer whose only reprieve from the dreadful dark were navy blue and a single pair of gray socks. He kneeled on the floor smoothing his kilt and began to chuck the black boots over his head onto the bedroom floor finally locating the delicate little black slippers in the back. He picked them both up like a pair of dead rats and settled down to the task of finding his knee socks. They were black as well, and the only way to distinguish them from the rest of his socks was by the fact that each had a green tassel stitched onto its side.

He pulled on the silly socks buckling the silly little shoes and got off his bed grabbing his sporran from atop the television attaching the decorative leather pouch around his slender waist by a gold chain. He grabbed the stiff black jacket from the doorknob and he was in complete Scottish Highland regalia. He had decided to go wholly genuine even to the lack of underwear beneath the skirt. Henry smiled secretively in the mirror feeling more powerful already. He did a few steps in ctice trying to wake up his father who slept in the room beneath his and went into the kitchen locking his room behind him. If he didn�t the cat would probably hump his pillow or do something equally strange and frightening.

He shuddered. The cat was wailing and trilling downstairs. He hadn�t a clue how his Father slept through it. Henry opened the fridge and fried three eggiwegs and poured him a glass of Diet Coke. His animal hunger was temporarily satisfied and he set away to the competition up the hill to his high school.

*Teenage Angst

Henry arrived in the band room only five minutes late, a miracle of speed for him. Disappointed that he had missed nothing vital, he searched for friends. He found one in the corner.

She was a plump girl with a lovely face and long wavy hair that had been painstakingly died precisely five different shades of brown and blonde. She was to open the tri-school competition with a Jimi Hendrix rendition of the �Star Spangled Banner�. Brandy was an accomplished player, front woman of her own Christian rock band, Golgotha.

Her thin lips were in a frown as she bent over her guitar looking very concerned. But in a motherly way as though her child were throwing a tantrum and she couldn�t understand why.

Her vibrant hazel eyes suddenly focused on him, �Hello Henry� she said in her permanently wry sarcastic voice.

�Is there something wrong Bran?�

She smiled sweetly up at him, �Oh no, I just suck today. I hate chords.� She had small hands limiting her stretchability. She and Henry had devised a sort of medieval torture device to get her as far as she was. It was a disturbing hybrid of thumbscrews and the rack; and Henry probably knew far too much about torture devices than was healthy for any boy his age. Brandy suddenly looked with irritation to their left.

Brian, an ape-like snare drummer was hitting on a strawberry blonde named Jaime, another dancer despite his girlfriend who was visiting grandparents in Kiev. He was a notorious slut, but the King of Hypocrisy was also a key player in The Abstinence Club. The activities of these meetings were largely unknown and were the source of much speculation and amusement to Henry and his few friends. He was also wearing a large gold cross around his neck big enough to crucify an overweight elf.

He wasn�t a nice Christian like harmless, peace loving, bunny loving Brandy. Brian was brimstone preaching fire-breathing religious wolf in ape�s clothing. He remembered an event that had soured his opinion of the fuzz-haired mudpucker. Brian had approached him directly in the halls pointing a long hairy finger with his dark brows shading his milky blue eyes; �YOU are going to hell.� He said with a certainty that would send even Mother Theresa to the confessional to beg for her soul. Fortunately Henry was an atheist or he certainly would have been terrified, but at this point he was merely amused. His girlfriend tried the explanatory, and diplomatically offensive approach, �Look, WE don�t mind you being gay. It�s just that, well, WE don�t want to see it, or hear about it. If I ever see it, I�ll tell Ms. Zandwig.�

Henry found himself in utter disbelief, though he knew he shouldn�t be having experienced far more physical assaults on his sexuality.

�What could you possibly say to her? Stop him, he�s being gay again?� Henry knew that if she did, nothing would come of it, but the fact that she was even saying this was so completely medieval he knew it was pointless to fight about it.

She smirked tossing her crimped hair, �I ASKED Ms. Zandwig, she said you�d get in trouble.�

Henry sighed walking off hearing a burst of giggles and apish guffaws. Apparently his temper was labeled as �gay� as every single common trait of his was.

They accused Henry of giggling which he was knew was impossible since his voice was more likened to the braying sound of a hysterical steamroller. They said he was prancing, and any idiot knew it was impossible to prance in black combat boots. However, Henry thought with disdain, these dancing shoes were more than suited to the task. He consoled himself though knowing that if he had joined the football team, they would simply attribute that to his wanting to see boys in the locker room. It was needless to say that Henry hated highschool.

Brandy seemed to read his very rather lengthy thoughts and patted his hair smiling emphatically; �Can I braid your hair?�

�No!" Henry shook his hair in defiance.

Brandy yipped cheeringly, "You wild thing!�

He grinned standing up. �I�m getting some Diet Coke.�

*Of Legal Age

Curt stood in front of the vending machine, muttering under his breath as he tried to feed his crumpled bill into the money dispenser for the third consecutive time. On his forth attempt to coerce his wrinkled note into the machine, the dollar crept more than halfway into the slot before it was spit back out at him in defiance.

�Aw...Christ, come on!� He grumbled, stuffing the defective bill back into the pocket of his black leather jacket. He scoured the depths of his pockets in search of change only to find a few stray pennies and a solitary nickel.

The morning had begun on a sour note at home and was presently showing no promise of improvement. Curt�s brows furrowed with agitation as he contemplated why everything had to be so goddamn difficult. He wasn�t asking for much. All he wanted was a Coke - just a simple can of soda to ease his dry mouth and scratchy throat. He just wasn�t in the mood for this petty bullshit today.

Relaxing against the glass facing of the soda machine, Curt lifted his hand to examine his black fingernails. He picked absently at the ebony lacquer as his thoughts drifted back involuntarily to the ugly scene he'd just eluded.

Less than an hour ago, Curt had stormed away from his dilapidated trailer, escaping the violence that typically ensued after a battle erupted between his father, brother and himself.

The argument had been as asinine as most of their others. Curt had been feeling unusually lighthearted. Unable to conceal his gaiety, he hummed to himself as he dressed and groomed for the band competition at his highschool. His enthusiasm was not bred out of any great love for his highschool's band, it had much more to do with Henry. Not only would his friend be present at the gathering, he would be dancing. The mere thought of Henry in Scottish Highland regalia quickened his pulse and stiffened his cock. The two had recently developed a pleasant camaraderie, though Curt longed for an opportunity to explore a much more intimate relationship with the boy. Henry was everything he'd ever wanted in a guy. Not only was he bewitched by the boy's delicate features, he was enticed by Henry's gentle nature and sensitivity - qualities he seldom saw in his other male acquaintances.

Curt primped before the mirror in his claustrophobic bathroom, smudging asmall bit of black liner under his soft gray eyes, standing back to admire the effect.

�What the fuck are you doin�?� The abrasive voice of his older brother Scott, sliced through the dense wall of tension that still existed between them. He'd been studying Curt from the kitchen table directly across the hall from the bathroom. Though the hour was still quite early, his beloved sibling was already crocked. His emotionless, glassy eyes were laced with pink webs, his thin lips curled into a nightmarish snarl. It was obvious to Curt that his brother's mood was foul, to stay and argue with Scott would be courting disaster.

"What's it look like?" Curt snapped back, still loathing his brother for the brief sexual interlude that necessitated his 18 month stay in a hospital. Though the ordeal had become a dirty family secret that no one dared discuss, the electric shock treatments would haunt Curt's memories till he breathed his last breath.

"Get that shit off your face, you look ridiculous." Scott took a swig from the bottle of beer he held loosely in his callused hand, "You want me to get Pop up? Tell him yer goin' out lookin' like a two-bit slut? And whatthe FUCK are you wearin'? Are those leather pants? Jesus H. Christ!!"

"Fuck you." Curt mumbled beneath his breath, switching the bathroom light off. Feigning confidence he sauntered into the kitchen and grabbed his leather jacket off the back of a chair, ignoring his older brother's disgusted stare as he slipped it on.

"What did you say to me?" Scott stood upright, glaring at Curt, "POP! Hey Pop, git out here and take a look at Curt! He's wearin' MAKEUP!"

With a forceful nudge, Curt shoved past his staggering brother. Scott teetered, reaching out to seize Curt's jacket collar in a feeble attempt to restrain him. Curt jerked himself free from his brother's ineffective grasp. Once he passed through the trailer door, he quickened his pace to a jog, his black boots thumping against the pavement on the narrow road leading away from the decrepit trailer park. The vehement tone of his father's voice rang in his ears as his name was bellowed over and over again. Curt refused to turn back, knowing exactly what would happen if he did.

*Something Wild

The faint sounds of muffled conversation lured Curt back from his innate reflections on the morning's events. Turning his head to observe the approaching youths, Curt immediately recognized the couple. They were fellow classmates, and if he recalled correctly he�d recently exchanged vulgarities with the muscle-bound oaf headed his way. Curt was almost certain the guy's name was Jeff and suspected he owned the garish title of "captain" on the school's third-rate football team. Typically, the school bigwigs traveled in an entourage, much like a pack of cavemen. However, today it was only Jeff and the plastic girlfriend who clung to his bulky arm.

�Hey! Change a dollar for me so I can get a soda?� Curt called out to the couple in a raspy voice, his throat parched from one too many cigarettes. He detested the very idea of soliciting a favor from the likes of this pair. However, his cotton mouth was severe enough that he was willing to push aside his pride momentarily aside.

�Get a load of this guy,� Jeff snickered, elbowing his girlfriend gently.

�Just give me change for a dollar and don�t be an asshole.� Curt clenched his teeth and glowered at Jeff. The boy grinned wickedly, lifting a closed fist up to his mouth to simulate fellatio as he passed by.

�Hey, Jeffrey!� Curt extended his middle finger, his temper beginning to pique after a tiresome day of harassment. His blatant display of insolence brought Jeff to an abrupt halt. Curt waited expectantly, adrenaline surging through him as his classmate contemplated whether or not he�d pursue the matter further.

�Come on Jeff, he�s a loser. He's not worth a suspension - besides he's a psychopath." The plastic girlfriend tugged on Jeff's arm, coaxing him along.

�I�m gonna kick yer ass, you pansy. Just wait.� He nodded his head to reaffirm his statement, then turned to leave.

Watching the twosome retreat, it occurred to Curt that he was rather lucky. Had Jeff had a larger audience to play to, Curt would've been in serious trouble.

"What was that all about?" The velvety timbre of Henry's voice was like a feather light caress sweeping over his tense body, extinguishing his hostility.

Curt turned to greet his friend with a warm smile, his jaw dropping slightlyas his eyes swept over Henry's lean figure, openly admiring the fit of the boy's kilt. His friend smiled sweetly, tilting his head to the side, a perplexed expression playing on his finely chiseled face. Stunned, Curt could only ogle like a fool as he tried to recover his wits.

"Wow Henry, you look really cute," Curt looked away sheepishly, afraid he might blush, "Uhrm...do you have change for a dollar? I need a fucking soda and a cigarette."

"Yeah, sure." Henry nodded, fishing around in his purse for the correct change. Curt held his crumpled bill out to his friend, letting his fingertips brush against Henry's during the exchange.

"Do you think we have time to go somewhere before the competition? Some place I can sit and smoke in peace? I've fucking had it with people today." Curt ran his fingers through his shaggy mane with a heavy sigh, eager to be alone with Henry and away from the condemning eyes of all the good Christian hypocrites and cavemen running amuck.

Henry nodded, �Yeah, I know a great place. It should be empty right now.�

*Flowers on the Wall

Henry led Curt to the room trying to notice everything about him taking small indiscreet glances in the walk from the soda machine to the auditorium.

Curt also shared his penchant for black boots and leather. He was beautiful with his huge gray-blue eyes and his long light brown hair. Today there was a bit of eyeliner smudged around the eyes making them appear even larger than normal. The black leather set off his skin tone, and the black nails accentuated his graceful hands.

There was tension in the way he walked though betraying the fact that his morning had probably not gone smoothly. Henry knew about his friend�s hellish home life. He knew of his oafish brother Scott, along with his oafish Father. Curt however must have been rescued from terminal oafishness by maybe his mother�s genes.

Henry resisted the urge to hold his hand in his as they walked and he was toying with the idea of brushing his hand against his.

He opened the thick wood doors of the auditorium and took the side aisle to the stage who was currently occupied only by Mr. Fink, and a boy he knew from stage crew. Mr. Fink was yelling at the boy in his high nasal voice shaking the ladder nearly knocking the boy off it scattering his brains on the floor. It would have not been too terrible a loss if he had managed to shake the guy off. His name was David, an Elvis haired baseball player who had offered to pray on his behalf at church every Sunday as a sign of his acceptance. If it weren�t that, he would come up patting him on the back risking reputation to quote scripture at him. Henry supposed he meant well, but it got very tiresome being stuck in the most orthodoxically Christian school in the state. Even Catholic Schools were less pious.

Curt followed Henry up the two side stairs onto the side stage and behind the heavy green curtain. A large red cardboard trolley and white lace dresses were scattered over uniform stacks of chairs, and the echo of voices in the band room passed through the walls.

A heavy grill box and door covered the passage leading below stage. Fortunately it was unlocked and he opened the tricky bent latch allowing Curt in first closing and locking it behind them.

The stairs were covered in the names of the stars and crew from various school plays dating all the way back to the early fifties. His own name was scrawled in blue on the third step. It was the only souvenir from his part in �Meet Me in St. Louis.� The chipped rail quivered unsteadily beneath their hands as they descended the stairs.

Curt looked perplexed at a raised block that took up three-quarters of the room.

�We�re underneath the stage right now, and the raised section is for prop storage, and also it allows people to get props through the trap door onto deck. And these couches are for the drama class. �

Four mismatching sofas lay nonplused, sagging on the floor. The bare bricks were covered in all sorts of graffiti, as was the floor that had a bold letter �C� emblazoned in purple on it. Old sets dismantled and collapsed adorned the opposite side of the room including the ever-enjoyable rusty nails that poked ruthlessly and indiscriminately into the soles of unsuspecting shoes.

Henry pointed to a couple of cardboard boxes on the table next to the orange couch Curt had chosen, �That is our really crappy old makeup, and those over there are the dressing rooms.�

Curt nodded taking in the broke down scene and sat on the low orange couch. He appeared less happy with the setting than Henry did who in fact would have set up a home there if it had been permissible. He had a passion for dingy depressing places like no other.

He watched Curt cautiously take out a cigarette. He seemed to relax once the tip was glowing and leaned back against the lumpy sofa.