DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING EXCEPT THE PLOT! ENJOY :D

For the most part, I had a normal childhood. Normal parents, normal siblings, normal family. Normal life. Everything around me was normal, average and expected. For the most part, I was happy with the way things were, and content in the belief that that's how they'd always be. But the problem came – the small part came – when I realized something dire. That I wasn't normal.

"Same time tomorrow?"

/No./ "Sure."

I like men. I'm not exactly sure when this became a truth, and I'm even more far away from understanding how – in my normal world – did I become like this. How did I become gay?

"You're always so distant. I feel like I can't ever reach you. I'm sorry."

/No you're not./ "Me too."

The more the years went by the more I came to understand my new found interest. I liked men, and I like sex with men, but I did not like men after sex. A connection was missing. In normal relationships, a girl and a guy fall in love, date, have sex, get married, have kids, and then retire and die together. All the while, their love never dies. It evolves. For two guys, to me, it seemed that all that happened was dating and having sex. I skipped the parts about falling in love, and as for the rest of it, men can't do that alone.

I learned all this by the time I was fourteen.

And for the longest while, I thought it stayed that way. I thought, that was it.

"Hey! You!" I turned around in that fateful hallway of that fateful school known as Academy and saw a man standing close behind. He was tall with jet black hair. His eyes, even from this distance, were striking. It was as if, in that one moment, he had read my entire life up to that point and was now simply looking back on the cover in thought. "Is your name Phillip Brooks?"

"Yeah." I laxly turned to him. A life of nothing gave me an attitude to care for nothing. "And who are you supposed to be? Mr. Rogers?"

Instantly, his green eyes lit up with anger, and in a breath he was standing so close to me – while subsequently yanking on the two front ends of my shirt collar – that I could feel his body heat as it washed over me. "My name is Mark Calaway you punk! I'm the History teacher for the History class in which you are supposed to be attending at this moment!"

I looked at this crazed man and felt his grip tighten on me. My heart raced a mile a minute the longer we stood there in the hallway. This was Mr. Calaway. My new History teacher. I had heard about him – his nickname being The Undertaker and his long list of ever occurring rules, amongst many other things – but no one in the useless circle of gossip and rumor told me the most important thing. That Mark Calaway was breathtakingly gorgeous.

There were many other words said during the time we spent in the hall, and at one point he had grabbed a hold of my lifeless arm and dragged me back to the classroom that I had blatantly avoided. But I hadn't heard a single one of them. All I could focus on was how gorgeous he was and how much my eyes hurt from staring at his gorgeousness, and how much I disregarded the pain to better soak in all of his absolute gorgeousness.

In that moment of him dragging me back to the classroom, I came to the complete and undeterred conclusion that I was finally at the first stage of the relationship chain. I was in love.

Madly in love.

It's been five years since I graduated from The Academy.

Like a new spring daisy, my mind is still fresh on the events that took place on the day before my graduation. I drove Mason to the airport. He missed his home, his family and his friends. We said our good-byes and one of us promised to keep in touch, although we both said it. On the way back to the campus, I stopped by an ice cream shop, bought a two scoop chocolate cone, and ate it with a view of the school in the distance. It was then that I discovered something.

In one day, I would no longer be a part of The Academy. I was going to graduate and move far, far away. I would never travel on this road again. I would never eat at this ice cream shop again. I would never walk those marbled hallways again. I would never stay in those small dorms again. I would never attend classes here again. I would never get scolded again.

I had grown up now. Five years had gone by and I had grown up, and was now just one day away from leaving this piece of my life behind. Forever. Never to return.

In that moment I became obsessed with a ravenous desire to change that dark and lonely future. I didn't want to close the chapter on this part of my story. Not when I had so many blank pages left to fill out. Not when Mark—

Brain freeze stopped my train of thought then, but the desperation stayed. I threw away the ice cream, and drove madly back to the school campus. Without any of the hesitation that had plagued me all those years at The Academy, I ran up the stairs until I reached the third floor. There I sprinted to door number five on the right. There, I entered Mark Calaway's office.

There, I stood in front of Mark and shakily I promised to return. I promised to come back. And he promised to wait there. To wait in that office, in that school, for a kid who skipped classes. For a kid who gave him trouble. For a kid, not normal.

For a kid, like me.

It's been a long, and draining five years. And in those five years, all I could think about was that day and that promise. Those were the things that brought me back to this campus. Back to this hallway and back to this door.

A set of nerves attack me like a rabid dog as I begin to wonder if Mark even bothered keeping that stupid promise. He is an adult and a teacher. He has his own life. It is indeed selfish to think that he'd be here at this moment, five long years later. I gave him nothing but words to hold, and now I realize that at any time he could have thrown those words away. Like excess cargo. Or trash.

They were, after all, words from a kid.

"How long do you plan to stand there Phillip?" I turn around and see Mark Calaway – older but still heart-achingly beautiful – standing directly behind me, holding his trusty roster book and box of white board markers. Just like I left him, that is how he appears. "Well, since you're here you may as well open the door for me."

"S-Sure" I open it with haste and he prances on ahead. I follow sheepishly behind.

Five years have passed and nothing at all in this small space has changed. Not the paint on the walls, not the furniture, not the placement of objects, not the people inside. Nothing. Everything was here just like I had left it. Including me.

"So how was National?"

"It was okay." I watch as Mark takes a seat on the edge of his desk. Even the very position of his stance is the same as it was five years ago. The familiarity of it all relaxes me. It reminds me that it's okay to be Phillip Brooks. And it makes me return to my High School self. "I finished in three years with Honors and recommendations."

"Oh." His eyebrows rise in genuine surprise. And then he smiles and I melt. "Congratulations then. You've done a fine job with yourself." He chuckles a bit. "I guess you can really work hard when the class isn't as boring as mine."

I give a small laugh to the memory. His classes were dull, but he was worth it. He's always worth it. "So how have you been?"

"Hey now" He smiles again "I should be asking you that question."

I nod a bit and place my hands firmly in my front pants pockets. "I've been good. I opened up a parlor. It took me the two years to get it up to standard, but now it's open and ready for business."

"Sounds good. Where is it?"

"Next to Alma's Ice Cream shop."

He frowns a bit in thought before looking on in shocking realization. "That's ten minutes from here isn't it?"

"Yeah." I shift my weight from right foot to left foot. "It's where we stopped for ice cream on that school trip in tenth grade."

"You remembered that huh?" He looks momentarily to the floor before staring back at me with a scary set of darkened jades. After that, he stands up and walks to me – stopping at a safe enough distance.

I can feel the pressure of the years between us start to increase. There was nothing literally stopping me from telling him everything all those years ago – from how I felt to what I wanted. But realistically, there was the large age difference that I knew he'd eventually pick at like a scab and expose the pain of a life we couldn't have. A life together.

Now I know why I left. I left because I didn't want to hear that. I didn't want to hear 'you're just a kid'.

"Phillip" After years of 'Phil', it's a relief to hear my full name. Especially when it's coming from Mark. "Since you've conquered your dreams of tattooing, are you going to chase after wrestling?"

"No." Wrestling never even crossed my mind. "I've got a new dream." After inhaling a deep breath to clear my mind, I continue on. "Mark, when I attended The Academy, every time I came at you, you would always push me away with rules and regulations. But you never once said no, or gave me any reason to stop chasing you." I pause expecting him to rebut, but he doesn't. He just stands there in silence, waiting on my next words before choosing what to say. "Then, I selfishly ask you to stay here until I returned after pursing College. And you did. And I know right now you've probably only stayed because you are a teacher. And I know that you've been kind to me all this time because you're a teacher. But I'm asking you right now to be with me." I stare at him blankly. It's the only way I can see him for who he is. A man. Forty three. Beautiful. Not yet mine. "I want an answer from Mark Calaway. Not from Mark Calaway the History teacher."

He lets out a small laugh and closes the distance between us. It reminds of that time in the hallway. The time when I fell in love with him. I can feel his body heat. I can clearly hear his breathing, and the molecular pulses of his heart beats. And just like then, I stand powerless before it all, allowing the magnitude of it all to crush me like an empty can beneath a falling sledgehammer.

"You want an answer huh?"

I begin to nod, but barely make it all the way as instantly, Mark's hand strikes across my face – turning it sharply away from him and to my right. For a second, all I can do is breathe. Then as my mind consolidates the events that happened, Mark lounges at me and grabs me in an embrace meant to crush a tree. It lasts for a long silent moment before ending once he pulls away – hands still firmly on my shoulders.

"I'll help you realize that dream." He smiles.

I stare at him a bit dazed by the fact that those words had exited Mark Calaway's mouth, before finding the strength needed to speak. "Then... why did you hit me?"

"Why?" He frowns a bit. "Because you were looking at me so damn coldly, and it pissed me off. That's why." He grabs my face tightly at the sides. "I didn't wait here because it was my duty Phillip. I waited because you asked me to." He lightly kisses my lips, and if weren't for my knees buckling I would have fallen a long time ago. "So, don't you ever, ever" he shakes my head on the second ever. It brings me back to those days of him scolding me whenever I did something morbidly harmful to myself, like twisting my ankle but washing it off as if it was nothing "show me that expression again." He bumps his forehead lightly into mine. "Got it?"

I nod. "Got it."

"Good." He releases me and smiles widely. "So, where are you staying nowadays?"

"At the shop."

"The parlor?" His voice teeters on utter disbelief.

"No. The ice cream shop."

"What?" And then falls off into complete disbelief. "Geez. Fine. This was happening anyways." He sighs a bit as his hand runs through his hair. "You're staying with me."

The command takes a while to process. "On campus? With Michaels?"

"No you idiot!" He roars. I missed hearing that. "I live alone in an apartment off campus and away from that stupid idiot named Shawn Michaels! What kind of person do you think I am?"

I let out a hearty laugh. It feels good to be casual. It feels good to be in love. "It's okay. I'll move in as soon as you like."

"Good. So I expect you to be all moved in by tonight then." I nod reverently. He places a loose hand gently on the side of my face. It's far warmer than the days of him being my teacher and me being his student. "Oh, and by the way," He leans in closer, "Sorry about the cake."

"Cake?"

"Yes"

"What cake?"

"The cake you baked."

"I didn't bake a cake. I can't bake."

"You didn't bake a—" He slaps his forehead. "Just forget it."

"No." He walks past me. "What cake are you talking about?" I follow.

"Forget it." He exits the room.

I leave with him. "No, wait! What cake?" And close the door behind me.