This takes place during/after/around the same time as Someone Is Killing the Gay Boys of Verona. Devon's parents are horrible, and I love Devon-well not what Devon does, but as a character! Also, I needed to add Brandon. I just did.
They couldn't believe it. How could this Devon be their Devon—their son that they had raised and taught to be respectable and good? They were good Baptists—Devon had been a good Baptist! These police officers, the newspapers, the anchor people on TV; they all had to have it wrong. Their Devon was not the person who had done those things!
Their Devon had been a good Baptist boy. Their Devon had been a soccer player. He'd been kind and intelligent. He had even gone on to be a Reverend! Yes, this "Devon" the news was talking about had also been a Reverend, but it had to be a coincidence. There was absolutely no way any of the stuff they were saying was true.
This "Devon" had been a criminal and a disgusting pervert! He had preyed on young kids—and boys at that! He had been a filthy, perverted, faggot and there was no way on God's green earth that he was their son.
Their Devon hadn't been a filthy, perverted, faggot. He had been normal unlike those two boys who killed themselves back when Devon was still in school. What was their names? Mark and Taylor? They had been on Devon's soccer team. To think that there had been two perverts near their son! But they had gone and killed themselves and the world was better off.
Devon had sure been pleased when it happened. He hadn't been one bit sorry to see those two fags die, so there was no way that this perverted filth was their son. Their son would never rape or molest anybody—let alone a seven year old boy!
He wouldn't kill himself either. He knew that it was one of the worst sins a person could commit. And even worse, this "Devon" had been under investigation for murder!
No, there was no way that this person was their beloved son Devon. They knew that, so they were just amusing the police when they came in to identify the body—a formality, that's all. They couldn't wait to tell the police that they had the wrong person. They couldn't wait to prove that their son wouldn't do things like that.
The police officer led them into the morgue. Mrs. Devlin held onto her husband's arm tightly. She knew they had nothing to worry about, but there was a part of her that felt sick, like her body knew she wouldn't like whatever it was that she was about to see.
Mr. Devlin tried to comfort his wife. He firmly believed that this was a case of mistaken identity. Sure, Devon wasn't answering his phone, but he didn't often answer his phone anymore. Over the last few years, Devon had been growing increasingly distanced from them. It hurt, but they both understood how busy Devon had been.
The stood in front of the table, a body lay upon it, covered up with a sheet. The police officer looked to see if they were ready and Mr. Devlin nodded. Slowly, the sheet was pulled back.
Their was strangled gasp from Mrs. Devlin before Mr. Devlin found his arms full of his wife as she sobbed into his chest. He stared down at the face of his son in shock. He had fully believed that the police—that everyone—had been mistaken, but they hadn't. His son was there. He was dead in a morgue and he was under investigation for multiple rapes and molestations of young children—mainly boys—and child pornography.
His stomach churned at the thought and then he froze, almost relieved at his next thought even though the more logical part of him was denying it. This could still be a case of mistaken identity. Just because it was found in Devon's hotel room didn't mean that Devon had done these things. Maybe he had an enemy. Maybe he was set up!
But there was that small part in the back of his mind that affirmed it for him; Devon had done these things. His only son was a child molester and… and a fag? He didn't know which one disgusted him more.
Where did they go wrong with him? Hadn't they taught him right from wrong? Why had Devon chosen to do those things—to be like that? Had he got converted without their knowledge after all?
How would they ever get over the shame of what their son had done? How would they ever get over their son?
Brandon stared up at the sky as he leaned against the railing of the balcony of his and his wife's house. He almost couldn't believe it. His mind kept going back to the Devon he knew before. He had been funny and outgoing and kind—if not a little narcissistic. Then the thing with Mark and Taylor happened and he had done a complete 180.
They had all suspected that Devon might have issues other than his extreme homophobia—like the possibility of him being gay himself. It seems they had all been right, but the fact his curiosity was now sated didn't change the churning of his stomach or the hurt in his heart of what had become of his once-upon-a-time friend.
Back in high school, he had been so pissed off at Devon. He had loathed him for everything he did and everything he said. He had almost killed him and he probably wouldn't have regretted it either—at least not at the time he did it. But now all he could think about was that grinning blond boy who played on the same soccer team as him, the same soccer team as Taylor and Mark.
He had hoped that Devon would grow up and get over his homophobia, but that hadn't happened. At the worst he had thought that Devon would've continued to be an utter asshole, cruel even. He would've ended up married to a girl and popped out a couple of kids, but no, none of that happened either.
Devon had become a child molester.
Brandon clenched his eyes tightly shut, gripping at the railing of the balcony. He felt sick at the idea of it. He could hardly believe that Devon had fallen so far as to do something so horrible. What had his home life been like if it caused him to become so fucked up?
He had also been under suspicion for murder, but it was seemingly like he hadn't had anything to do with it. Murders in Verona. He couldn't believe it. After the suicides of Mark and Taylor (on consequently of Mark's father as well), things had gotten so much better for gay teens. He had a whole group of friends in them! There had been Brendan, Casper, Ethan, Nathan, Shawn, Tristan, Tim, Dane, and Marc! All pretty much out and in one school. Brandon had become quite good friends with all of them, as had his friend Jon. He had originally only known Ethan—and Nathan through Ethan—but after the deaths of Mark and Taylor, it had seemed more gay boys had decided to come out, and they had all somehow found each other.
For instance, Brendan and Casper. They had lived in Kentucky but had run away and ended up staying with Ethan and Nathan (who lived in Ethan's house with his little brother Dave). As a result, he and Jon had become almost too comfortable with gay boys, if there was such a thing.
Brandon smiled a little. He missed his and Jon's little banters. It hadn't been odd to hear one of their friends comment on the fact they should just "make-out and get rid of the sexual tension already".
But his thoughts were getting off track. Devon. His former friend. The boy who had tormented Mark and Taylor worse than anybody after they were outed. The boy who had (with allies) had beaten Mark to a bloody pulp so that he needed to be transferred to the hospital. Brandon had also always expected that Devon had tried to do more, but he'd never know for sure.
And Devon had also tried to kill Ethan and Nathan along with that asshole Zac. Maybe it wasn't such a stretch that Devon had become what he had, but there was a part of Brandon that wished he could've helped Devon. Although, he was sure Devon wouldn't have accepted or wanted his help anyway, and you can't help somebody who doesn't want to be helped.
Brandon wished he could go back in time. He wished he could go back to fall of 1981—before everything went to hell. He wished he could've known that Devon had been hurting to, but in a way that nobody could tell because he hadn't wanted anybody to be able to.
Devon had gotten what he had wished for, but now he'd be paying for it—in fact, Brandon had been sure he had been paying for it ever since he had called Mark and Taylor out for being "fags" during that graveyard party all those years ago.
A tear slipped down Brandon's cheeks, and all Brandon could think about was how much he missed his friends—all three of them.