The First
Five Weeks of the
Rest of My Life
Week One
I sit back in my seat at the
very top of the lecture room, gazing down at the open door, and start to play
Classmate Pigeonhole. Yesterday, during the first session of my Psych 101 class,
I had a hell of a lot of fun with this, actually. I got there about ten minutes
early--which meant getting up before eight. I'm sure that's a crime. I'm just sure
it's got to be on the books somewhere, right? Anyway, I got there early, set
myself up as far away from the door as I could, and watched them filter in. I
came up with fifteen soon-to-be dropouts, five idiots, three lookers, two dorks,
and a partridge in a pear tree by the name of Lola. Swear to God-Lola. Lolita, I
think, actually, given the looks old Professor Mensch was sending her way.
So, now it's on to Parapsych
105: Mental Processes. This should be fun-if only to see the ratio of believers
to realists.
Okay, here they come:
Looker... hippie... hippie... believer, in the extreme... dork... dork...
dork... dork--this'll be a fun class! ...looker... Wow, she's nice--so's he,
come to think--shit, Ken and Barbie are a matched set. Oh well. ...Never been
kissed... Never going to be kissed...
Oh my!
Now he's... He's pretty.
As tall as I like them, and
so blond! Too bad he's going for that stuffy crew cut look, though. Let his hair
grow a little, and it could be a hell of a lot of fun. And he's staring at me! I
wonder... Damn! My cocked eyebrow stops him for a second, and he moves on,
taking a seat up here in the nosebleed section that I bet he wouldn't normally
take.
And if he's taking it because
of me--which I'm just going to believe he is--I'll just have to look into him.
His name is--get this--"Egon Spengler." Can you imagine? His parents
must just hate him. Maybe they wanted a girl.
Anyway, my snooping turned up
some interesting facts. First, he's a lab rat from a long line of lab rats.
Seems the family business is hard science. His dad's a physicist who helped the
government out with some things I'd rather not know about, back in the fifties,
when his little boy was teething on test tubes. And they have money--lots of it.
Maybe we're not talking the Hearst fortune or anything, but he's definitely
loaded. He's beyond brilliant, too. Egghead Central, that's our Spengler.
So what the hell am I
bothering for?
I mean, sure, he's gorgeous.
Not in a perfect way--not even in a normal way--but... I don't know. There's
something about him that just makes me wish I wasn't tied to a football
scholarship, if you know what I mean. Not that I'd have to worry about that,
really. My teammates aren't going to notice a Science Hall geek--it's not like
I'd be propositioning a member of Tri Kappa Nu. And no one ever said I couldn't
play both sides. I just can't let them know, if I want to keep my scholarship.
Hmmm. Kind of sounds like I'm
planning on trying to pick him up, huh? Nah. I won't bother. He's probably just
as stuffy as he looks, no matter what my intuition is saying about him. If he
has half the sense of humor I saw in his eyes that first day...
Forget him, Venkman. He'd
probably never slum with a guy like you anyway--even if he is into that side of
things.
Week Two
But man, he is hot.
The cafeteria sucks. I'd
rather be over at Gino's having a Hawaiian, but really, who's got the bucks for
that? About the only good thing is the fact that that table fifteen feet away
from him is empty. Won't be for long.
"I still think he's
overlooking the basic principle, Kenneth. If he would simply consider Einstein's
research, he'd find that..." He's wrapped up in whatever passes for small
talk among science geeks, so I can pretty much stare unnoticed. I can only see
him in profile, but the light in his eyes just kind of... shines out. Makes him
look even more gorgeous.
"Hey, Venk!"
Oh wonderful.
"Packer" Wilson lumbers his way toward me, dumping his tray on the
table and taking the seat across from mine. I see Spengler dart a look toward
me, but since I've got someone to talk to while still checking him out, I figure
I'm safe. The blond god gets a weird look in those hot blue eyes for a second
before he turns back to his cronies.
"I hear the coach is
going let you run a few patterns in the scrimmage this weekend." Packer's
not a bad guy, really. Dumb as a post, of course, but that pretty much goes for
half the team.
"Yeah, he probably just
wants to see whether I'm as good as they say I am." Ego. Pete Venkman's got
it in spades.
Ego--Egon.... Gotta be a line
in there somewhere...
I'm good at keeping a lot of
balls in the air. Footballs, basketballs--take your pick. So I'm pretty content
to just sit here letting the conversation happen with Packer, while I devote
most of my attention to watching Egon.
Who's definitely trying not
to watch me.
Not like he's staring or
anything, but he's sneaking his peeks. I've got that flirt going on with Kelly
in the parapsych class we've got together, so I think my cover's safe for now...
Maybe I could offer to study with him? The midterm's going to rear its ugly head
sometime, right? A little study session at my place... A little beer...
"Anyway, nice talking to
you, Venkman." Oh, darn. Packer's packing it in. My day is ruined, really.
"Rest up for that scrimmage, man. You'll be first string in no time."
Well that goes without
saying. Usted'll graduate in May, and the only other choice coach has got for
next year is a junior soc major who's lucky he can tie his shoes--and I'm not
sure he can do that by himself. Spengler tries to steal another look
while Packer rises from his lunch, and I just twitch to wink at the lab rat. He
turns back to his buddies quickly, and I wonder if there's something to this
telepathy thing. I could swear he's blushing, and I know my thoughts are at
least triple-X--if the scale even goes high enough to rate them.
Study partners? Maybe...
I swear, that boy genius is
stalking me!
I didn't notice it before,
but for a lab rat, he ends up in the strangest places. Take the football quad,
for instance. Okay, so he's not actually on the field, but I doubt any
path to any science building comes close to this place. And I'm pretty sure even
he doesn't have class on Saturday.
"Venkman! Get your head
in the game and stop checking out the cheerleaders!"
Oh, coach, you really don't
want to know what I'm checking out. Trust me. I call my prep, take the ball from
Butterfingers Martin, and end up flat on my back for my troubles. Shit. Sacked
right in front of him. How pathetic is that?
Under the guise of pulling
off my helmet, I sneak a glance, to find him watching me--almost like he's
trying to make sure I'm not hurt. Ain't that a kick? Marcie and the other
cheerleaders are conveniently between him and me, so I throw off a jaunty salute
to them--and him--and I see him sigh, even from this distance, as he turns and
walks on.
He's hooked but good-and who
wouldn't be? I'm Pete Venkman, after all!
Course, it scares the shit
out of me to admit it, but I think I'm hooked, too.
And that is a true
kick in the ass.
Week Three
Rafael Montiori is the most
boring professor at this college. Has to be. Good ole Raffles is going to put me
to sleep one of these days.
Psychics and astral
projection and telekenesis... they're all crap, but surely he can make them
sound a little more exciting? Luckily, he's not only boring, he's oblivious,
too. Which means I can finally start to put my plan in motion without him
griping at me for talking in class.
I figure we'll start out
slow: a study date at the library, maybe catch a pizza afterward. I've been
saving up, which means I can play the big shot and toss off paying for it. Gotta
come off as something other than the penniless jock I am, after all. Doubt he'd
find that too attractive. If anyone sees us, I can always say I was tanking the
class, and he's the only damn egghead in it who can help me keep my eligibility.
I work hard at looking brainless, you know? It's gotta be good for something.
Course, I wish I'd brought my
psych book today--could've used it to fight off Raffles' lecture. And I have to
ace that class, or there's no hope of getting into a grad program a few years
down the line.
Or... I could just sidle over
behind the god, and ask him out. At least test the waters, right?
I move to the seat just in
back of his, and study him for a few minutes. He doesn't even know I'm here, but
he's hardly wrapped up in Raffles' illuminating lecture on astral projection.
He's somewhere in that genius mind of his, thinking deep thoughts. Too bad,
cause the thoughts I'm thinking are definitely of the shallow variety-primal,
even.
Oh, I can't stand this
anymore! I lean in close, almost brushing his ear with my lips, and put on my
best "first line" voice.
"You're ignoring my
thought waves, buddy."
He doesn't even stiffen.
"I apologize," he says softly, that deep bass of his already getting
under my skin. There's a laugh in it--seems like there always is, even when I
hear him talking to other people. "Perhaps the signal simply needs
amplification."
Damn! Knew it was in there
somewhere! He's one of those quiet types who can tear a person to shreds without
cracking a smile, I just know it.
Of course, now I just gotta
know what his smile looks like. Probably send me right over the edge.
"Not bad," I offer,
keeping my tone teasing--sort of that Venkman con-man tone that Dad taught me.
It's good for the opening salvo in any scheme. "Needs a little work, but
the thought was there." I can just barely see his eye from here, and I
watch it widen as I risk dropping a hand on his shoulder. "Pete
Venkman." Like he didn't already know.
He takes a second, and I'm
seized with a sudden doubt. Shit. I'm never wrong about this! I can spot a guy's
guy a mile away. I wouldn't have made it through high school without a beating
if I couldn't.
"Egon Spengler."
Okay, that was cold. Not angry, though, just... Maybe he's a closet-type? But
then, aren't we all?
I try again. I just can't
seem to let it drop. "Think Raffles just wants to put us all to sleep so we
can try this ourselves?"
"No doubt he believes
that we might learn more through solemnant osmosis than through overt
discussion."
Um... okay. I'm not a stupid
guy--hell, I'd put myself up against genius boy here any day. But can I deal
with a guy who talks like that? Guess he was teething on dictionaries, not test
tubes.
Course, if he's as hot as
Spengler, hell yes I can stand a ten-dollar word here and there!
"I'm gonna need a
dictionary to get through this class, I can see," I whisper, putting just
enough laughter into my tone to let him know he's not going to scare me off that
easy. I can do this. I can hook this guy.
"I will expect you all
to be prepared for the midterm at the end of October." Raffles is actually
saying something moderately useful. "Do not expect it to be easy,
people."
Yeah, just boring, right?
"Like anybody's going to
stay awake for the test, if it's anything like his lectures." My mutter
gets a slight grin from Spengler, and I toss my book into my bag, watching the
labrat take in its contents. Sure, I eat a lot of junk food--I also run three
miles a day. Sue me if I need the calories!
He's turning away, though,
and that's just not in the Venkman plan.
"Hey Spengler?"
He freezes a second, then
turns, and there's a wall in those sexy blue eyes. I hold my breath, pull out
the Venkman swagger and ask, "Need a study partner?"
Something happens in his
eyes-something beautiful that derails my brain for a second. It's like the wall
just dissolves, and his slight grin... well it doesn't get bigger, really... It
kind of deepens.
"I believe I would find
that most useful, Venkman. Thank you." Well, thank God for useful. Now to
pick the place...
"I have already read
much of the coursework," he continues, a really pedantic tone in his voice
that suddenly sets my teeth on edge. Oh come on! You've gotta be kidding me!
"I'd be glad to help you with any concepts you're having trouble
with." Like I'd have trouble learning this crap? You condescending
prick! "Talking out material with others is often a good way of solidifying
the information in your own mind."
Well, there's one great idea
down the tubes. Freaking rich-kid brain trusts! I swear, they see a street kid
like me--a football player to boot--and they just figure we're only marking time
before the NFL taps us on the shoulder so we can pull ourselves out of our
destitute lives.
"Yeah, well, second
thought, I'll get back to you, Spengler." Like, never, maybe.
So much for that piece
of ass. I turn my back on him with as much class as I can muster. But how much
can that be, really, huh? I'm just a poor, dumb jock, after all, right?
At least Kelly's still
around. I head down to the front of the class where she's hanging out with a
couple of other girls, a plastic smile on my face... and I don't give that
classist prick another second of my time.
Except that I can't get him
out of my head!
I don't know why. What do I
need with a big-headed, closed-minded brainiac who thinks I'm some stupid kid
just off the turnip truck. A brainiac with the bluest eyes, and that body,
and...
Shit, Venkman, give it up.
I'd surprise the hell out of
him if he knew how much I know. I bet he doesn't understand half the stuff I've
been studying--couldn't even spell psychology...
Just forget him, Pete. He's
not worth your time.
No matter how hot he is.
Week Four
"You will all be
responsible for coming up with a research project."
Whatever. Can I do a project
to find out if you even breathe, Raffles? I bet you're just a robot,
aren't you?
"Given the large class,
I have split you up into groups of four. Get your assignments, meet with your
group, and have a proposal ready by class next Tuesday."
He's giving me that glare
that I've learned to ignore since I came to college. At least in high school,
the teachers knew I pulled my weight, even if I kept it a secret from everybody
else. "Each member of the group must write their own version of the
proposal. I don't want to see anyone slacking off."
Cause that's what I do,
right? Shit, you should get together with Spengler. You could compare notes on
the dumb jock.
I look over at the classist
prick. I can't help it. He may be an asshole, but at least he's worth looking
at. I wonder what he's so pissed off about? His eyes meet mine briefly
and there's... something...
As everyone starts to shuffle
out, I saunter down to the chalkboard where Raffles has taped up a couple of
sheets of paper. His handwriting stinks! Let's see... Venkman, Venkman...
Oh no way! No way! You've
gotta be kidding me!
I look up at Spengler, and a
grin breaks out on my face. Him and me, in a research group... On second
thought, this could be fun.
I wait at the door of the
psych building, lounging against the wall by the sad-looking garden they have
set up to make us think we're not in the middle of the dirtiest city in America.
It takes him a few minutes, but Spengler finally leaves, and he looks a little
startled to see me there.
Good.
"Spengler." I'm not
giving him anything. If he wants to swallow his pride and be professional, let
him do the work.
"Venkman." He
doesn't match my tone. He sounds kind of... scared, actually. "Could you
arrange to be available tomorrow afternoon at three?" He falls silent a
minute-probably waiting for me to come up with a reason to blow this off. No
chance, Spengler. You're about to find out just how good Pete Venkman actually
is. With a little shake of his head, he continues. "We were planning to
meet in the library-by the card catalog."
Him and Shelly and Dick.
Wonderful. I have to get thrown in with a prick and two of the laziest students
at Columbia. I nod, still not bothering to give him an opening. "My
favorite place."
He'll just huff off now,
probably. Figure I'll be more of a liability then a co-researcher.
"Yes, well... We'll,
um... see you then."
Huh?
As he turns from me, I try to
puzzle out his tone. Is he really bothered by what I think? No way. He...
he pretty much proved he thought I was an idiot, didn't he?
Well, didn't he?
Still... "So, is it just
me, or are we gonna be doing this project by ourselves?"
He swings back toward me, and
there's surprise in his eyes at my statement. Come on! Surely even he can
see that those two paid their way in here? Shelly's just looking for a pre-med
to marry, and Dick... Well, I don't know what he's looking for, but he's
probably got a family business to fall back on. If I fell back on the family
business, I'd land in Osning.
"Dicky and Shell?"
I offer after a minute. He just stares, and I can't believe it. "Boy, you
really are just as clueless as you look."
His hackles go up. Damn, he
even looks sexy when he's mad! "As you are apparently as irritating as you
look, I believe Professor Montiori made an error in placing us in the same
group."
And with that dubious zinger,
Little Lord Fauntleroy turns away from me. But not before I see the hurt his
anger's masking.
Wait a minute. Hurt?
"Hey! You're getting
better!" Why are you doing this, Venkman? Why are you bothering when you know
what he's like?
True to his blue blood roots,
he spins dramatically to face me. "If I was not driven to such infantile
displays by the likes of you, perhaps I would not feel the need to
practice."
"Yeah," I agree,
his icy tone forcing me to adopt something a hell of a lot more confrontational
than I originally meant. "Us dumb jocks-" a fire flares in his eyes.
What the hell is going on here? "That's about all we're good for, infantile
displays."
He draws himself up, towering
over me more than I'd like, and grates, "Contrary to what Professor
Montiori seems to assume, I hardly think you got into Columbia simply for being
a dumb jock, Peter."
I feel a real smile tugging
at my lips-not the knife-sharp one I was giving him a second ago. Peter. Damn,
he makes it sound good. And now I know why he was so mad back in class. Shit, he
was actually defending me? At least in his own mind?
"You seen some of our
football team?" I ask. Olive branch, Venkman? That's so unlike you!
He bristles, but he's losing
his edge. "Football is not something I see the need to waste time on."
Shit. Well thank you very
much, Uncle Moneybags. Some of us don't have Mummy and Daddy paying our bills.
Hell, some of us have to pay Mummy's bills. "Got me in here, didn't
it?"
I guess I thought he'd huff
off at that, too. Imagine my surprise when he actually sighs and hangs his head
a little. Great, pity is all I need. I'm doing pretty damn well for myself,
Spengler, thanks.
But when his head comes back
up, it isn't pity in his eyes.
It's shame.
"I apologize,
Pete." Boy, my name seems really... wrong coming from him. So much better
when he called me Peter. "I only meant-"
I wave him off. Okay, olive
branch it is. He can have a second chance, I guess.
"No biggie,
Spengler," I offer easily, letting him off the hook for the moment. It's
not like everybody else doesn't see the same thing when they look at me, after
all. "Just... Don't judge a football player by his jersey, huh?"
And I'll learn not to judge a
brain by his mouth!
Damn, he's just...
interesting as hell. Shelly and Dick are pretty much as useless as I thought
they'd be, and Spengler and I are going to end up putting this whole thing
together by ourselves. Raffles will look at the proposals the two of them will
write based on my research, and he'll give 'em A's-and I'll have to write
something twice as good for half the grade.
Par for the fucking course in
the life of Petey Venkman.
Still, Spengler's almost
worth it. We can sit for hours, he and I, just hashing this stuff out. He's...
really scientific-even when it comes to this soft stuff. Of course, I'm in it
for its applications toward psychology, so I guess we're both just using the
parapsych as a stepping-stone, aren't we?
We spent all of Wednesday
night-right up until his eight o'clock class (and who takes an eight-o'clock,
anyway? Serious masochism on his part.) talking about my ideas about paranoid
delusion and its correlation with so-called "psychic events." He
followed me pretty well until that third beer of his. I swear the boy cannot
hold his liquor. He's let slip that he really believes the stuff, and I just
can't figure out why. What's an egghead like him doing believing in ghosts and
ghoulies, anyway?
"But I doubt he'll be
able to prove the physical reality of it."
Second beer tonight. Egon's
still making sense.
"Okay, so what you're
saying is, physics dictates that solid objects must be moved by a definable
force, right? Equal and opposite reactions?"
He's nodding excitedly-well,
as excited as Spengler ever gets, at any rate. "Exactly. And since we don't
yet have a way to quantify the force of psychokenetic energy-we have no
"definable force," as you say-Fowley cannot prove that psychokenesis
actually exists."
Wait a minute.
"Spengler, that's just a question of semantics then-or worse, that's
philosophy. If you can't prove something exists, how can it happen? What's the
sound of one hand clapping?" I finish off my fourth bottle and head for my
minifridge. Thing cost me a week's salary at the restaurant, but at least it
keeps the beer cold. "If you're saying physics can't prove it, then why
believe it?" I gesture to his beer, and he shakes his head, refusing
another. "It's like God."
His eyebrow arches in that
wonderful way he has, and the laughter in his eyes is... doing things to me I
shouldn't be thinking about. He hasn't made a move yet, and I don't know if he's
ever going to.
"Are you saying that
psychic ability is a matter of faith, Pete?" He's a little too pleased with
himself-he thinks he caught me on this one.
I'll show him.
"That's exactly what I'm
saying, Brainiac. Psychic phenomena supposedly occur only because people
believe they do-they have faith in the reality of it. You try to 'pick up'
someone's thoughts, they try to 'broadcast', and you end up convincing yourself
that what you learned through subtle body language and verbal cues is actually
acquired through paranormal means. And the initiator of those 'thought waves'
believes too, so the two of you are essentially creating the psychic event
artificially."
"But..." He trails
off uncertainly.
I stopped him! Hot damn, I
actually stopped the brain! Took pouring two beers down his throat, but I did
it.
"I believe my head
hurts, Peter."
Oh, again with the Peter.
Nobody calls me that but Mom. Pete was...a better name where I grew up. Safer.
Less...geeky. Peters got beaten up-Petes, on the other hand, were respected.
But hearing him call
me that...? It definitely ain't Mom calling me in for dinner.
"I fear I'll have to go
home and puzzle all of this out now."
Don't go home, Spengler.
Stop it, Pete. Give it up.
I take another long pull of
my Bud. "Go ahead." Can't believe I got that out. "I still have
to figure out what you were talking about back with those quarks and muons and
shit."
He stands, a little unsteady,
and looks down at me. "Peter, I believe you followed every word of that
discussion."
Sure I did, Spengler. But
damned if I'll let you know that. You think I understand everything you say, you
might start to figure out how good I really am.
That kind of knowledge can
burn a person. It's like looking at the sun.
"That was a
discussion?" I ask, standing up to see him out, handing him his coat on the
way. "I thought I stumbled into one of Geeky's lectures."
"Dr. Gainey,"
he corrects me, his words only slurring a little, "is a very fine teacher,
Pete, and I believe he would find you an apt-if infuriating-pupil."
"That's me: apt but
infuriating."
He shoots me a strange look,
and I stop. God, I...
"See ya in class,
Einstein." Go now. Quickly. Because if you don't...
"Goodnight, Peter."
I close the door behind him
and sink down to the floor. Peter.
Jesus.
Week Five
Didn't I tell you?
Dick and Shelly didn't do a
damn thing on this project, but they were more than willing to pick our notes on
Sunday--just in time to write up their proposals for Raff to read and revel in.
Useless pricks.
Spengler invited me to his
house to commiserate, and I'm curled up in a corner of his battered couch. It's
funny--you'd think a guy with as much money as he has would have a better place.
I mean, it's off-campus, which is good, but it's basically just this converted
apartment over some old lady's garage. Still, it's got that homey feeling. Even
if the walls are lined with more bookshelves than the New York Public Library.
More to make me happy than
because he wants to rehash it, I think, Spengler's turned the subject back to
psychic communication. He's had three beers now, and he's starting to slip.
Which is kind of sexy in its
own, strange way.
"I still think it's all
delusion--or at least self-created reality." I'm back on my high horse, and
damn anyone who tries to change my mind.
Egon hands me yet another
beer, and I grin at the outrage in his face.
"But how can you say
that?" He demands, those fabulous eyes of his flashing as he takes a seat
next to me. "How can everything be in the mind? And isn't telepathy,
by it's very definition, in the mind, anyway?"
God, he's such a total
contradiction. "You think it's all real, huh?" I have to chuckle as he
nods drunkenly--but with complete conviction. "Damn, Dad'd love you,"
I muse quietly. "Easiest mark this year!"
"What do you mean?"
Oh shit. God, let's not bring Charlie into this. I was just starting to really
have fun. "Easy mark?"
"Nothing," I assure
him quickly. Luckily he's a little too drunk to call me on it. "Doesn't
matter, what matters is... You believe it."
He sits up a little
straighter, challenge in every lanky, well-defined muscle. "Disprove it,
and I'll be happy to apologize for my naiveté." He's... God, Pete, don't
do this to yourself. Sure he's sexier than shit, but don't...
Just don't.
"Okay," I sit up on
my knees, facing him fully and trying really hard to keep this in the playfully,
psuedoacademic vein. If I slip, I'm going to attack the guy, and then I'll have
no geeky friends at all. "Okay, you think something, and I'll tell you what
you're thinking."
"That's not a fair test,
Pete," he retorts immediately. Drunk, yes, illogical, never. "You
could lie and tell me you didn't know."
I throw out the Boy Scout
pledge. Not that I was ever a Boy Scout, but I've seen them on TV. "Word of
honor, Spengler. No lies." I raise my eyebrows, daring him to take the
challenge. "Just think something--something really outrageous, okay? Not
something I'd be able to figure out."
He thinks a moment, and
closes his eyes...
And, God, this look comes
over his face.... Almost rapture. Almost climax.
And totally, completely, the
sexiest thing I've ever seen. God, could he be more gorgeous?
His eyes open and fix on me,
and I know I'm caught.
"You heard that."
His voice isn't much more than a deep bass whisper, but it's enough to raise
every hair on my body--and a particular body part, too.
I try to speak past the lust
in my throat, but I have to clear it to get the words out. "Heard
what?"
He moves closer. Don't do it,
Pete. Jesus, if you value your soul, don't do this... "What I said."
He's drunk. This isn't real.
It can't possibly be real--because if it is, I think I'm sunk for good. I try
for a light tone, a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "You want a peanut
butter and pineapple pizza, right?"
Just the feather touch of his
fingers on my chest starts me shaking. "I want... something."
So do I, Spengler. Oh, Jesus,
so do I.
I know I'm going to regret
this in the morning. Sober, he'll probably just pretend it never happened.
But he isn't sober now. He
isn't thinking, he isn't in control....
And God damn but those
lips need kissing!
He tastes like beer, and the
risotto he had for dinner, and something else that's all him and all perfect. I
can breathe later--he can breathe later. Right now, all I want is for
this to last forever.
God, what does his neck taste
like? It's clean, soft and musky and lickable and oh Lord, I just want... His
pulse point is salty, and I can feel him arching his head away from me as I lose
myself in the smell and the taste and the reality of him...
"Peter..."
I didn't think I could get
harder. That one word is like fire. It races from my ears right to my groin and
I pull back, looking into eyes so painfully blue that I'll drown in them.
And be damn happy to do it.
"Say it again,
Egon," I beg softly. Egon. I haven't called him Egon. Keep it simple, keep
it impersonal...
Don't slip. Don't fall...
"Peter," he
whispers, reaching out and running the backs of his fingers down the side of my
face. More currents heading for a painful joy between my legs.
"Peter..."
"Nobody calls me that,
Egon." He needs... needs to understand what that means. I don't think I've
ever been willing to explain before--to anyone. "Nobody--except Mom--"
He pulls me down abruptly,
attacking my mouth with a ferocity that frankly surprises the small part of my
brain still functioning. Blood loss is a bitch--and my brain is the last place
my blood is headed right now.
"Let us keep parents out
of this, shall we?"
The soft, teasing tone is
almost enough to send me over the edge. God! How did this happen? How did I
suddenly go from the guy that didn't care to... To this? I can feel the old
feelings coming up. I remember the last time I wanted to trust like this--the
last time I wanted to expect someone to be there. It wasn't like this--it's
never been like this--but I remember what it was like when that someone wasn't
there.
But Egon will be. I know
he will be. He'll be there, and I'll be there and...
He gasps as I curl up, almost
in his lap. As my knee brushes the erection he's sporting--my crotch's twin.
Self-created reality.
Ice. Fear is the best thing
to kill a hard-on.
"Whoa... Um, Egon?"
He stills, and I wonder what
he's thinking. Shit, I wonder what I'm thinking!
"Look, I..." I look
into his eyes for a second, and drop my gaze when I see the hurt there.
"Man, never thought I'd say this, but..."
And suddenly he's comforting me.
His hands are running up and down my arms, stilling a little of the panic.
There's this little voice inside saying, "Trust him. Trust him, he's worth
it."
"It's all right,
Peter." His kiss is soft now, understanding.
I've known you for five
weeks, Egon Spengler. How the hell did you do this to me?
Like another dose of frozen
water, his chuckle spears out at me. Oh shit... God damn it, I told you not to
do this...
"What?" Lay it on
me, Spengler, you shit. Go ahead, make fun. Make fun, or tell me you knew I was
just a wimp, or whatever... Just do it quick.
Insult to injury, he reaches
up to touch my face, soft caresses that do nothing to calm me. "I believe
you have an apology to make, Peter."
Whatever. You want gracious
defeat, you got it. Pete can play that game, too.
"For what?" The
smile I give him is a sham, and I hope he hasn't figured me out enough to tell.
If he got that far inside... If I dropped my guard that much for something like
this...
"I believe we've just
proven that telepathy works, don't you?"
What?
I look at him again--really
look--and see something that just plain floors me, and I think it's making the
panic worse, not better. He... He gets it. Jesus, he gets it, and he's still not
leaving. The teasing is still there, and the lust, and... and whatever that
third thing is, I think I'll wait to find out.
After all, it's only been
five weeks. Maybe I've got time.
I put my hands on his
shoulders, rubbing across those broad, tight muscles and loving it. "Not a
chance, Spengler," I tell him truthfully. "It wasn't telepathy--just a
little good, red-blooded lust."
The eyebrow trick makes me
laugh, and I feel the panic draining into that little place where it lives. I
wonder if it'll ever move out? I wonder if Egon could help me with it. Looking
at him now, flushed and caring and perfect, I think... maybe he can.
If I let him.
But that's a panic attack for
another time.
"Do you have any idea
how sexy you looked?" I finally ask, catching my breath as that look comes
over his face again. There's disbelief too, and that, I just don't get.
"God, I don't know what you were thinking, but...."
I shrug, watching him melt a
little. He smiles gently--a real smile, not the little grins he gives everybody
else.
I was right, I realize, as he
pulls me down to lay against his shoulder.
That smile did send me
right over the edge.
And I think I'm going to like
where I land.