| Lucky Town By Kuzibah |
| Archive: Please email me first. I think I�ll say yes. Fandom: Boy Meets Boy [ http://boymeetsboy.keenspace.com/ ] Rating: PG Disclaimer: Mikhael is the property of Miss Sandra Delete. No ownership or attempt to profit from her creation by the author is intended or implied. Summary: Mikhael, age 15, when he was an adorable little twink and his parents didn�t know it� yet. Warnings: A small frank reference to teenage boy sexuality. Nothing that�s not in the comic. Notes: Only beta�d by me. Some settling may occur during shipping. Two Russian words used in the story are �pidor,� which is a derogatory name for a male homosexual (roughly equivalent to �faggot�) and �gomik,� which also refers to a male homosexual but is more technical (roughly equivalent to �gay� or �homo�). At least this is what my friend Leonid tells me. If it isn�t true, blame him. ******************* For two weeks it had been the same. After dinner, after washing up, after homework, Mikhael retreated to his room and retrieved the special Olympic edition of �Sports Illustrated� that he�d bought at the drug store. At the time, he was only interested in the stories, but when he�d gotten it home and had leafed through it while lying in bed, something had happened. He was looking at a portrait of one of the swimmers, just out of the pool at sunrise, water glistening on perfectly sculpted flesh, and he had gone hard. That it was male swimmer, with perfectly sculpted masculine flesh, terrified him. He flipped through the magazine. Synchronized swimmers? Nothing. Women�s basketball? Zip. Even the perky Chinese gymnasts made not a blip on the radar. Then he came to a two-page action shot of a Greco-Roman wrestling match and had groaned in frustrated lust. Two minutes later, he orgasmed with an intensity that only teenage boys can achieve. Each night since, he had been conflicted. He should have been looking at girls, paging through a stolen �Playboy� or at least a �Victoria�s Secret,� but what the sports pictures did to him, no girl had ever done. And why was it happening to him? He was a man. Even at fifteen he was tall and broad, with handsome Slavic features that made the girls whisper behind their hands. He looked himself over carefully in the bathroom mirror, and could see no sign that he was less than masculine. He was strong, and his chest was already covered with a mat of dark hair. No one would ever mistake him for one of �them,� the pale, skinny boys who worked on the dance committee and listed to Erasure and Depeche Mode out on the bleachers at lunch. It was his secret. No one must ever know. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Mikhael�s father always watched the news as an active participant, keeping up a continuous stream of commentary on the events of the day. Mik tried his best to ignore it while he worked on his homework, but when he heard �pidor� his head shot up. There on the news was coverage of something called a �Pride Parade.� Mik tried to take in the images flashing on the screen. There were men, hundreds of them, seemingly from all segments of the population, and all �like that.� Two firemen, both in full uniform, kissed each other on the mouth and Mik�s eyes went wide with surprise. Then his father, with an expression of disgust, changed to a different station and Mikhael dropped his eyes, pretending he hadn�t seen it. But under his skin he felt a warmth moving like a ripple through his body. There were more of them than he�d guessed, and they weren�t all the same. Some of them were just like him. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Mik dialed his locker combination, keeping his head down. Even though he was bigger than most of the kids his age and had thus far managed to avoid the usual hazing, he was still a freshman, and it was best not to call attention to himself. Being an immigrant had helped. Since he was quiet by nature, most of the other students assumed he didn�t speak English well and left him alone. He had just exchanged one stack of books for another when he heard the voices behind him. �Faggot,� they hissed. �Fucking queer.� Mik went rigid, forcing himself not to spin around and give himself away, instead peering casually over his shoulder. At the end of the hall, three older boys were blocking the path of a freshman boy in black chinos and a stylish sweater. �What you gonna do?� one of the older boys asked threateningly, and the younger turned and headed the other way, preferring to go up a flight, across, and down to his class rather than risk a confrontation. He brushed past Mik, who could see his face was red with humiliation. �That�s right,� shouted one of the older boys after him. �Go on back to Clark Avenue with all the other faggots.� Mikhael turned back to his locker, pretending to look for another book, but he felt his heart pounding. There was a street where they all lived? Was it just like the Russians on his own street? In a way it made sense for them to have a community of their own, and Mik found the idea oddly thrilling. He couldn�t concentrate the rest of the day in class, too consumed with daydreams of Clark Avenue. He imagined a sunlit street where there were only men walking arm-in-arm, unashamed and unafraid. The TVs in the shops would show swim meets and track races. The drugstores had magazines with beautiful kohl-eyed boys in perfectly tailored suit coats on the cover, and they wouldn�t look at you funny if you wanted to read the labels on the hair gel or body lotion. The radio station played Bronski Beat and Pet Shop Boys. He missed taking notes in history because he was making tiny drawings in the margins of his notebook of the free and happy men of Clark Avenue. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - It took Mikhael until Friday to work up the courage to take the subway to Clark Avenue, although he�d had the schedule brochure tucked inside his magazine for three days. In his mind the beautiful swimmer standing in the golden sunlight was imbuing the whole enterprise with a special boy-magic. Mikhael told his parents he was going to a movie with his friends, and then to one of their houses afterwards for pizza. It was the biggest lie he ever told them, and it was a pathetic one, at that. But they wanted to believe he�d made friends here, friends that would ask him to their homes, and he let them believe it. He climbed the stairs at the Clark Avenue station and stopped still on the street, staring. It was even more fantastical than he�d imagined. Buildings were painted aqua and lavender, with murals of birds and angels, or covered with bits of glass and mirrors. He started walking and passed by an art gallery with black-and-white photos of half-naked men in tribal masks, a record store playing techno-electronica onto the street, a �Gay and Lesbian� bookstore with titles in the window he could not have imagined, a shop that seemed to have no name, but displayed mannequins in complicated leather harnesses; all this in less than one block! At the intersection was a bar with purple-glass windows, lit with strips of blue neon. The music was loud enough to make the sidewalk vibrate. Mik joined a group of young men as they went in. Inside it was smoky and dark, with brightly-colored flashing lights that reflected off the chrome railings and barstools. Around him, Mik could see men dancing together, embracing, kissing� and more. Embarrassed, he turned towards the bar, but there were mirrors everywhere, and he couldn�t help but look. �What can I get you?� the bartender asked, and Mik stuttered out, �a Coke, please.� �Your first time?� a voice said beside him when he�d gotten his drink. Mik looked left and saw an older man looking him over in a way that made him very uncomfortable. �Yes,� he said. The man brushed his fingers over Mik�s bare forearm. �You know,� he said, �I�d be happy to show you the ropes.� He leaned closed and Mik backed away. �No. No, thank you.� �Don�t be shy,� the man persisted, still advancing and causing Mik to back up further. �You�re a good-looking boy.� Mikhael felt the wall against his back and realized he�d been cornered. He could smell the man�s cologne, and it was making him sick to his stomach. �I� I need to go,� he said, ducking under the man�s arm and half-pushing him out of the way. He nearly ran for the staircase at the other end of the bar, hoping for a few minutes alone to take in this environment, but found the stairs did not lead to the bathroom as expected. Instead, he found himself in a hallway with a sign on the wall pointing to the piano lounge. He followed it. He pushed through a door and found himself in a much smaller room, filled with perhaps a dozen cocktail tables. In one corner was a bar and in the other was a raised platform where a man was playing a white lacquered piano. The walls here were painted a delicate shell pink with a border of musical notes around the ceiling. There were framed black-and-white photos of old movie stars and hanging plants scattered here and there. Mikhael found his way to a table near the piano, keeping close to the walls. �good evening,� the piano player said to him, and Mik recognized the accent. �You�re Russian,� he blurted out, and the musician laughed and transitioned into the opening chords of �The Volga Boatman.� Several of the patrons around him laughed, too, and Mikhael blushed furiously. �Sascha Dmitrovich, late of Kiev, at your service,� the pianist said. �Mikhael. Mikhael Rasputin.� �A Stoli for my young Russian friend,� Sascha called out, �to welcome him to the Skylark Lounge.� - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Two months later, when school had ended, Mikhael found that he was visiting Clark Avenue almost every day. He took a job bussing tables in one of the restaurants, a macrobiotic-vegetarian caf� frequented by aging hippies where he was paid under the table, though he told his parents he worked in a private country club on the other side of town. Before work he would browse in the shops, and had already bought two books that the bookseller thought might be helpful: �Growing Up Gay,� and �The New Gay Man�s Health Handbook.� He�d gotten some magazines, too, and they�d all joined the now dog-eared copy of Sports Illustrated in a box under his bed. After work, if he wasn�t too tired, he stopped by the Skylark and shared a drink with Sascha. He found he liked the atmosphere of the lounge, and the regular clientele, which included many actors and singers. Tonight it was pleasantly warm, and Mikhael was enjoying just walking around the neighborhood before clocking in at the restaurant. As luck would have it, he ran into Sascha at the newsstand. �It�s good to see you, Mik,� the pianist said as he handed the cashier a ten for his usual stack of lottery tickets. �Will you be coming to the lounge tonight?� �I hope so,� Mik said. �Here, I feel lucky today,� Sascha said, handing another single to the cashier. �Give my friend a scratch-off ticket.� �No, I never play those things.� �Give it a try,� Sascha said, and Mikhael took a penny from the tray beside the register and rubbed off the silver coating. �You see,� Sascha said. �Three flags! You win twenty-five dollars for that.� �No, you bought the ticket,� Mik said. �It�s your money.� �No, you take it,� Sascha insisted, holding up his handful of tickets. �One of these is the daily number, I know it.� The cashier took Mik�s ticket and handed him a twenty and a five. The boy shoved them in his pocket. �Thank you,� he said. �I�ll see you tonight, then? Maybe?� Sascha asked as he headed towards the Skylark. �Maybe. If I�m not too tired, we�ll see,� Mik told him. �If not, then tomorrow for sure. I�m not on close, then.� �Tonight or tomorrow, then,� Sascha said. �Either way, the vodka is on you, lucky boy!� And laughing, they both went off to work. The restaurant was very crowded that night, and by the time he finished the close at 10:30, Mik was exhausted. But the tips had been good, and he had a nice roll of cash in his pocket. He decided to skip the lounge and head home. Even though he wasn�t closing the next day, he was working the lunch/dinner shift, and he�d probably need the sleep. He�d also be able to do more reading when his parents had gone to bed. He climbed the stairs to his family�s apartment and put the key in the lock. The door was jerked open from the other side, and Mik jumped back, startled. Then he looked up into the face of his father. The older man�s face was a mask of cold rage, and Mikhael felt a rush of fear like iron bands tightening around his heart. �Where were you?� his father demanded. �At work,� Mikhael stuttered. �At the country club�� Mikhael felt the sting of his father�s palm against his cheek, more surprise than pain. �Liar,� his father said. �We called to find out your schedule for next week. They never heard of you.� Mik felt the blood drain from his face. He was so busted,� he thought, even as he tried to compose another convincing lie in his head. And then he knew there was no story he could possibly invent when his father held up his hand, where he was holding Mik�s magazines. The meaty paw tightened around them, crushing them, not quite obscuring the titles which burned into Mikhael�s eyes: �BoyToy,� �Honey Bear,� �Gay Video Forum.� Mikhael looked past his father to see his mother standing in the kitchen doorway, her face tight and pale, her eyes rimmed in red. �What are these, Mikhael?� his father said, bringing the boy�s attention back to him. �Are these yours?� Mik lowered his eyes and nodded. �Does this mean..?� His father�s voice broke, clearly not wanting to go on. Mikhael considered lying again, only for a moment, to re-assure his parents he had found them, or was keeping them for a friend, but he knew this would mean lying from this moment on. It would mean never going to Clark Avenue or seeing his friends there again. It would mean hiding and living in shame. �Yes,� he said quietly. �I am a gomik.� Mikhael felt the magazines thrown at his feet. �Then you are no son of mine,� his father said. Mikhael looked up, confused, into his father�s face, now brick-red with fury. �Get out of here,� his father shouted. �You are nothing to us.� Helplessly, Mik turned to his mother. �You are filth,� she said, and spat at the floor. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - �Mik, I didn�t think I�d see you tonight,� Sascha said happily. �You must have had a really late night at the restaurant. We�re getting ready to close, but I think there�s time for a small toast�� �Sascha, I need your help,� Mik interrupted. �What�s wrong?� Sascha was all concern, now. �My parents� they found out about me. They�ve thrown me out.� Sascha guided his friend to a table and sat him down. He motioned to the bartender for some vodka. �They found my books, my magazines,� Mik said. �My mother said I was filth. I have nothing� not even my golden swimmer�� Sascha pressed a frozen glass into Mikhael�s hand. �It will be all right,� he said. �Can I stay here?� Mik asked. �I can sleep on the floor�� �You can stay with me,� Sascha assured him. �Tomorrow we will decide what to do.� �Where can I go?� Mik said. �I�m too young to get an apartment of my own, I�m too young to hold a real job, and what about school�� Realization slowly dawned on Sascha, a question he� never thought to ask, going only by the boy�s looks. �How old are you, Mikhael?� �Fifteen.� �Oy vey,� Sascha said faintly. �Tell me at least that you are Jewish.� Mik shook his head numbly. �Oy vey is mir.� - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Sascha led Mikhael, now in a stunned daze, down two blocks and up three flights to his flat. �Stay here,� he said, leaving the boy in the living room. �Sit down if you like. There is someone you need to meet.� Mikhael sank into a contoured, modern chair and looked around the apartment. It was decorated in sleek, clean lines and stylish gray tones. Along one wall was an enormous record collection and on the other nearly three-dozen framed black-and-white photographs. �It was an emergency,� said Sascha, re-entering the room, and Mikhael looked up. �It�s perfectly understandable, lovely,� said the man behind him, and Mikhael gasped at the sight of him. He was striking, with black hair nearly to his shoulders and clear green eyes. He wore a green and gold satin bathrobe, and Mikhael was immediately put in mind of an exotic bird. �Mikhael, this is Patrick,� Sascha said proudly. �My boyfriend.� �It�s a pleasure to meet you,� Patrick said, expending one manicured hand. �Sascha�s told me all about you.� - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Mikhael slept on Patrick and Sascha�s couch for three weeks, at the same time working long hours at the restaurant until he�d saved security on a one-room garret above the bookstore. It had only a bed, a desk, a chest of drawers and a hotplate, and Mikhael had to walk down the hall to use the bathroom, but it was his. Patrick, who made his living as a photographer, gave Mik two prints he�d done as housewarming gifts, one of a sunrise and one of a swimmer just leaping into the water. Mikhael tried to write his parents once, but the letter was returned, unopened, and he didn�t try again. He ate leftovers at the restaurant most days, and Sascha helped him open a bank account. They started examining Mik�s options for school in the fall. Sometimes, at night, when he was visiting with Sascha and Patrick, he worried out loud about the future. �Will there ever be anyone to love me?� he asked one night. �Of course,� Sascha said. �You only have to give it time.� And Patrick patted his cheek and said, �with that face, just try to keep them away.� One night Sascha asked him if he regretted the choices he�d made, and Mik hadn�t answered right away. Thinking about it later in his garret he realized there were things he wished had turned out differently, but they were things over which he�d had no control. But his own choices? No, making different choices would have meant resigning himself to living a lie, and he could never do that, not and be truly happy. It was a revealing bit of insight into himself, so much so that Mikhael felt it through to his bones, but it was oddly comforting, too, and for the first time since seeing the picture of that swimmer, glistening and golden in the early dawn beside the pool, he slept soundly. Main Menu |