Rage

Summary:

It's been almost 25 years since Michael Novotny was a harassed kid in school. Such a past leaves scars, and every now and then something makes the scars ache. This time, a news article about a campus shooting pokes at Michael's scars. He finds himself wanting a little too much to avenge the old hurts and injustices. With the help of his best friend Brian Kinney, Michael fights against the pull of his past.

Michael Novotny sat at the kitchen table. The two slices of bread on his plate were missing the eggs that were cooling in the skillet, and the sugar cube in his mug was missing the coffee waiting in the pot. Michael didn't care. He stared at the front page of the newspaper that he brought in earlier that morning. For a fraction of a second, his eyes moved to the cell phone beside the paper, but the headline drew his gaze back right away.

xxxxx

The phone rang.

Michael answered quickly, "Yes?"

"The diner, in thirty minutes," the caller ordered.

"In thirty." And Michael ended the call.

He went to the bedroom, to dress himself, and stopped for a minute to look at his sleeping husband, Ben.

"Ben?" he said quietly, not sure if he wanted to wake him up. "Ben?"

The man rolled on his back and opened his eyes. He broke into a smile, but the happy face disappeared before it was really there.

"Michael?" Ben sat up and reached out a hand as Michael handed him the morning paper. "What's up?"

"I'll have breakfast with Brian, Ben," Michael said and drew on a pair of jeans. He took a t-shirt and walked to the door. "I have to go."

Without a look back, Michael left. For a second, Ben stared at the empty doorframe, then he turned his eyes to the paper in his hand. He spread the folded paper open. The headline on the front page made him send the paper flying onto the floor.

23 students killed in a campus shooting

xxxxx

Brian Kinney was already sitting at a table with two mugs of coffee when Michael walked in. He took a seat across the table. Without a word, Brian pushed towards him a mug of bitter, black coffee.

"I want to kill them," Michael said flatly, looking Brian straight in the eyes.

"Yes, Michael," Brian said in a carefully noncommittal tone of voice.

"I want them killed," Michael repeated.

"I know."

"I need to."

"Drink your coffee, Michael," Brian ordered with a straight look in Michael's cold eyes.

Michael studied Brian for a moment; then he looked at the mug beside his hand. He drank.

"More?" Brian asked and pushed the other mug towards Michael.

Michael emptied that, too, but kept staring at his mug.

"More?" Brian asked again.

Michael raised his head and stared at Brian. He shivered a bit and took a shallow breath. Then he shook his head, indicating a "no" to both questions: the one Brian made and the one he didn't. Brian nodded in affirmation.

For a while, neither said a word. Then Michael took another shallow breath. "Without you..." he said in a strangled voice.

"But you didn't," Brian said with deep respect for his friend.

"I didn't."

But there was no pride and not a hint of a smile in Michael's expressionless face. He looked back in time, to the fall when he and Brian first met. "Thanks to you, I didn't," he said quietly.

"Thanks to me, indeed," Brian said with a self-mocking grimace. His thoughts, too, went down the memory lane.

xxxxx

"Hi, my sonny-boy!" Jack hollered as he came in and wrapped an arm around his fourteen year old son's shoulders. "What has the Warden prepared for dinner?" he whispered in Brian's ear.

"I don't know," Brian said in sullen tones. "Let me go. I need to do my homework."

"Homework? What homework, lad? You haven't started in your new school yet, have you?" Jack laughed. "It's a fine day. Let's go out and play basketball after dinner."

"Jack, Brian? Dinner is ready!" Joan, the Warden and Brian's mother, called from the dining room.

"I guess we have to risk it," Jack chuckled and pulled Brian with him to the adjacent room where Joan and Brian's sister Claire already were sitting at the table. "What are we having tonight?" Jack asked and, at last, let Brian go. Brian escaped to the other side of the table, as far from Jack as possible.

"Meatloaf and vegetables," Joan told them as they sat down, "Claire helped me with the cooking."

"She did?" Brian sneered. "I hope we have antacids, then..."

"You don't need to eat it, Brian!" Claire cried. "I hope you starve and die, shithead!"

"Children, children!" Joan chided. "It's not prudent to behave like this at the meal which our Lord has provided for us this fine day. Let's thank our Lord, and ask for his forgiveness for your ungratefulness."

Joan went on with her praying, and her family, more or less patiently, waited for the "amen". Eventually, the meal could be started. The meatloaf wasn't bad, but it wasn't good either, and the vegetables were overcooked, but Brian decided that it wasn't the Lord's fault if his children couldn't cook tasty meals from the ingredients with which he provided them. Unfortunately, he spoke his thoughts out loud, making his sister scream abuse at him and his mother complain that he hurt her feelings.

The good spirit in which Jack had sat at the table evaporated before the meal was over.

"Shut up, all of you!" he growled. "This is our first Sunday in Pittsburgh, our first Sunday meal in our new house, in our new life. And what are you doing, Brian? The same old! Hurting your mother, riling up your sister, and fucking pissing me off. And you are no better, Claire, Joan. You're older, Claire: don't let him get under your skin like that. And, you Joan. You're an adult. Grow a thicker skin! You're a poor cook: we all know that. It's no big deal. And, now you're in tears. Stupid bitch."

Exasperated beyond endurance, Jack rushed up from his seat and stomped out of the room. Joan rushed after him.

"Jack, don't go out! Please, come back to the table. I've baked a cake for..."

"I don't want your bloody cake, woman! I want some peace and quiet! Shut your trap!" Jack put on a coat and walked out of the house to his car.

"Where are you going? Jack? Don't go!" Joan cried from the door, but it was to no avail. Jack climbed into the car and drove away.

Joan returned to the dining room. She looked at her children who looked back with sullen eyes.

"Go to your room, Brian. You started this," she said in cool, dismissive tones. "Would you go and get the cake, Claire," she then said with a fake smile to Claire as Brian stood up and run upstairs to his room.

Brian stayed in his room the whole evening. Where else could he have gone? The Kinney's had moved to Pittsburgh the previous day; he didn't know anybody in the town yet, and even if he knew where the closest library was, on Sunday evening the place was closed. Brian did his homework and, with dread, waited for his father to come home. He didn't know where his father was, but he knew very well what Jack was doing.

It was close to midnight when Jack came back. Brian was sitting at his desk, reading a book, as he heard Jack letting himself in. He put a postcard between the pages of his book and closed it, setting the tome carefully on the top shelf above the desk. From his back bag he took another book, a sorry looking, paperback one, and opened it on the desk. Resignedly, he settled to wait.

It didn't take long before Jack pushed his door open and invaded his space.

"What are you doing sitting up here, sonny-boy?" Jack snarked sending a foul smelling breath in Brian's direction.

Even if nothing could be seen in his posture or heard in his speech, in the air Brian smelled the beer Jack had been consuming.

"Why aren't you with your mother and sister in the living room? Are you too fucking good to keep them company? What are you hiding there?"

Suddenly, he walked to the table, making Brian scurry up and away from his reach.

"Reading, are you, snot-nose? And what is so important that you can't spare a few moments for your mother, eh?" He took the book in his hand and closed it to look at the cover. "Chemistry again? Why are you wasting your time with this shit? In the factory, they need men with a strong back and powerful grip, not some fancy-pantsy bookworms. You don't need this!"

With a wrench of his powerful hands, Jack tore the book in two.

Taken by surprise, Brian shouted out without thinking, "No! Jack! Give it to me!" and reached out to save his book.

Jack struck Brian across the face, sending the boy down on the floor. For a second or two, Brian couldn't breathe, he couldn't see; then he saw red. Jack was ripping his book to shreds.

No! He's ruining my one chance to get away from this miserable house! flashed through Brian's mind. He didn't stop to think as he rose up and flew at his father in rage.

Jack saw him coming, but in his inebriated condition he couldn't understand what he was seeing. He was used to Brian turning tail, trying to escape the punishment. Brian had never fought back when he disciplined him. This time, something had set Brian off, and Jack had no idea what it was.

The man had no time to figure it out. Brian was smaller than his father, but he was tall. Because of his vigorous soccer training, his slender frame was stronger than it seemed. And he was fast. Brian drove his head into Jack's stomach, sending Jack sprawling on his back on the floor, lungs empty of air. Brian rolled away from him and rose up. He looked down at Jack with hateful eyes.

"I should kill you, Jack," he growled, "but you're not worth going to jail for." And without letting Jack utter a word, he walked out of the room.

Brian passed his mother on the stairs and his sister at the living room door. He didn't say anything to either of them. He just took his coat and walked out into the night.

The young man spent the night out and came home only after Jack had left for work. After giving his mother a gruff greeting, he went to his room. Contrary to his expectations, Jack had not trashed his haven. The shreds of his chemistry book had disappeared: other than that, everything was like when he left. His most precious book, the one he had so carefully hidden on the top shelf, was still there, untouched. Tired, Brian sat on his bed and looked out of the window. He didn't see the sparrow perching on the electric wire just outside, though. After a moment he took his back bag and left to go to school.

The new school had no surprises in store for Brian. It wasn't the first time he dealt with being the new guy in the class. The faces may be new, he thought, but the same old personalities pop up everywhere.

By lunchtime, Brian was getting irritated with a bunch of girls. They held onto the delusion that a cute boy needed a pretty girl attached to his arm. Apparently, the giggling idiots were not used to a "no" from a guy. Brian escaped from the girls into the shady boys' locker room, and ran into a scene he knew all too well.

Five strapping lads were giving a hard time to a shorter and smaller guy. Such scenes were a norm in boy's locker rooms, and usually Brian kept his distance. He wasn't a knight in white armor: never was and never would be. Trained by Jack's fists, Brian certainly wasn't afraid of bullies, but he wasn't interested in strangers. Hell, he wasn't interested in his friends even, not enough to take punches for them. He got enough punches at home.

This time was different, though. In the shadowy room it was hard to see the bullies, but the boy they were harassing was standing in a pool of light coming in through the dirty window. Something about him captured Brian's attention.

There's something queer about those eyes, he thought, and by queer he didn't refer to the boy's sexual orientation. The boy is scared, but at the same time, he is scary.

One of the bullies shoved the smaller boy onto the ground and kicked him in the stomach. Brian felt an echo of the boy's pain in his own belly and felt anger rising from his gut.

Without a conscious decision to do so, Brian acted. "What a fine lot," he sneered at the bullies. "Does it really take the five of you to put that runt in his place?"

Five pairs of eyes turned to look at the slender and delicate looking intruder who stretched his lips into a contemptuous smirk.

The bullies smirked back. "You must be new and stupid," one of them said taking a step that set him in front of his friends. "Or just stupid."

The friends chuckled. Brian just rolled his eyes heavenward. His smirk turned evil as he said, "A bunch of Kens, I see." Just like in his old school, the leader of the pack revealed himself without much work.

"Give the dude a warm welcome, Ricky," one of the sidekicks said to the leader. "He needs a lesson. He's got the wrong attitude."

Ricky cackled, taking a step closer, and the others tailed him. "I just might," he said, "if the dude wasn't such a fragile, little flower. I'm afraid the poor bastard will run to his mama if I tickle him a little."

Even though his words were directed to his cronies, Ricky didn't take his eyes from Brian. Brian's eyes didn't shy from Ricky's face, either.

"And I'm afraid that your poor bastard of a father forgot that a rushed fuck can produce only piss-headed brats," Brian shot sweetly(1).

Ricky didn't like Brian's words, but even less he liked the snickers behind his back. Intending to swipe the smirk from Brian's face, he took a quick step towards his adversary. At the same time, Brian bounced. His strong legs sent him flying over the space between the two of them, and before Ricky could react, Brian decked him with one, single blow.

Jack has trained me well, Brian thought with a crooked little grin. He knew perfectly well where a strike would hurt the most.

Ricky's cronies stared at Brian, chins hanging loose. Before they had time to gather their wits, Brian turned and walked to the door. From there he cast a look at the short, dark-haired guy behind the bewildered bullies. "Coming?" he asked.

xxxxx

Brian was jolted back from his memories as a waiter refilled his coffee mug. He thanked the guy, and spooned a mountain of sugar into his drink. With a sigh, he took a sip.

"I was never a hero," he said quietly.

"You were what I needed. You still are," Michael contradicted barely audibly.

His eyes were still vacant of the brother Brian knew and had loved for decades. The man on the other side of the table was not a stranger, but he didn't show up often.

"A broken friend," Brian told him.

"Takes one to know one," Michael whispered.

The friends sipped their coffees in a thickening silence. Michael closed his eyes and let the river of memories take him back to the day the young Brian became his hero.

xxxxx

"Coming?" the stranger at the door asked and I went. Without a word I followed him out. The guy was tall; I was almost jogging at his heels. We ended up at the back of the school yard where there were a few boulders and a pine. I seated myself on one of the stones, keeping my face averted. The guy dug a pack out of his pocket and offered me a cigarette. For a moment, I just stared at the hand and the pack: I didn't really see them. Then something loosened and... Everything looked suddenly a lot more familiar. The last twenty minutes were only a distant memory. I shook my head to clear it and ferreted out one tube of the offered pack.

"Thanks," I said after lighting the cigarette. I finally raised my gaze from my hands and looked at the other boy, but now he was standing with his back to me. "Thanks for saving my ass, too," I added.

"I didn't like Ricky," came the nonchalant answer.

"I'm Mike, Michael Novotny."

I felt awkward as hell introducing myself like that. The other boy didn't seem interested in me.

"Brian Kinney," he said curtly and still didn't turn around.

"Are you new?"

It was a silly attempt at conversation. I knew that Brian was a new guy in our school. A guy that shared a class with Brian pointed him out earlier.

"Yeah, new," Brian admitted turning around.

At last, I could see Brian's face in bright daylight and up-close, and what a face it was! It was not what I expected to see: the particularly handsome face that Andy spoke about. Handsome the face was, even beautiful, but shockingly, Brian's face sported a big and ugly bruise.

Not you too! I thought.

I hated to see him bruised like that. As rage rose from my gut like a bubble in a lava lamp, a chill ran down my spine. Then my guts knotted tightly, and... The vibrant colors of the world faded again, leaving behind just the clear-cut world of black and white.

Without emotions hindering my assessment, it was easy to take stock of the damage on Brian's face. "Ricky didn't do that," I stated the fact. "It's an older bruise."

Brian took a step back and looked me deep in the eyes. Whatever he found there, he didn't comment on it. A strange expression flashed on his face and was gone. With it went his relaxed posture. As well as if I had done it myself, I knew that Brian had just braced himself for violence. I knew. From experience, I bloody knew.

"Who gave you that bruise, Brian?" I demanded.

He cocked his head to the side and looked me in the eyes, again, before he answered.

"The sperm-donor: my so called father, Jack Matthew Kinney Junior," he said vehemently. He sat down on another boulder. "I hate him. He's been using me as a punching bag for as long as I can remember."

Brian's eyes smoldered with hatred, but I felt perfectly safe. Somehow, I was sure that Brian would never hurt me. Brian's anger was for his father, not for me.

"Ricky and his cronies have been harassing me for four years," I told him. "There has been nothing I could do. The teachers don't care, other kids look away, and other adults don't believe me."

"Not even your parents?" Brian asked carefully.

"Ma believes me," I hurried to clear up. I didn't want Brian to think ill of Ma. "My father is dead, but my mother believes me: she knows. But she can't do much to help me. She is just a waitress in a diner; they don't listen to her."

Brian cocked an eyebrow. "They?"

"Everybody here." I looked around the yard, at all the teachers and kids and teenagers. "They don't care. It's unfair, and they don't give a damn."

"You don't hate them?" Brian sounded surprised.

"Of course I hate them." All the people mingling around the yard: I hated everyone. Every. Single. One.

"You aren't angry, Mike..."

"Michael."

"Okay, Michael. But as I said, you aren't angry: you're calm. How could you hate them but still speak about them without showing any anger?"

I looked at Brian: I couldn't understand what he meant. "You think I'm not angry? But I am, Brian. I am angry. I've been angry for years. Actually, I'm full of rage."

"Full of rage?" Brian seemed doubtful. "You don't look like you are, or sound like it. I mean, are you sure? I was full of rage last night, when Jack beat me and ripped my book, but it evaporated. It always does. I can be angry for long periods of time, but I can't hold onto rage. Maybe what you mean by rage is not the same thing, though?"

"Yeah, maybe. I don't know. What did you do when you were full of rage last night?" I took the last drag of my cigarette and stubbed it out on the stone.

"I couldn't control it: I had to strike at Jack."

I could see it in his eyes: the rage flashed in them. It didn't linger, though.

"I couldn't think," Brian went on. "I didn't plan it: I just attacked him, headlong."

"I've had rages like that, too," I said in surprise. His recollection brought back forgotten memories. "A spout of rage that goes away when the cause of the anger goes away. But, the cause of my rage never went away, Brian. The rage went on and on and on. Not like before: not without control, striking at everyone at sight, or trashing things. Just wanting to." And planning to.

"You went from... hot rage to cold rage?" he suggested.

"Cold rage?" Something about the suggestion jolted me. "That sounds about right. It burns like ice." And Hell.

"And makes you numb?"

"Yeah..." I didn't feel as numb as usual, though, after being roughed up by the bastards. "Makes me numb."

"Numb is good," Brian agreed.

"Yeah, good." Maybe we didn't talk about the same numbness, though. I looked at my watch: the lunch break was almost over. "What's in your schedule for this afternoon?"

"Nothing important. You?"

"Nothing important." There never was. "I know a place where we could eat for free: the diner where my Ma works. We could go there, if you'd like?"

I would go, even if he didn't like. I was tired of being angry.

Brian had nothing against the idea, so thirty minutes later we were walking into the diner, and as soon as Ma saw Brian, she shrieked, "Oh, Lord Christ! Look at you! Who did that to you, poor lad?" and shepherded us into a back booth.

"It's nothing, Ma'am," Brian tried to say, but Ma wasn't taking his word for it. She fussed about his face and asked if he had other bruises or worse. Then she interrogated me for skipping lessons. Satisfied at last, she brought us a mountain of food to eat and a lake of coke to drink.

"Are you alright here for a minute, boys?" she asked us then.

"Actually," Brian said looking a bit embarrassed, "I'd prefer coffee over coke, if you wouldn't mind..."

"But, of course. Silly of me, not to ask. I'll be back with your coffee in a minute."

"Thank you, Ma'am," Brian said smiling brightly at Ma.

"It's Debbie to you, you little rascal," Ma grinned back and left.

"Quite a mother!" Brian chuckled as we sat alone at last.

"There's no other like her," I agreed. "And there's no other diner like this."

As always in the diner, the rage subsided. It hid somewhere in the background, and I could breathe more easily. Brian wasn't listening to me, though. He was busy observing the guys around us.

"These guys," he said pondering out loud. "They are gay. All of them!"

"Yeah," I grinned, happy with his reaction. "You don't mind."

"Of course not," he laughed. Then he looked at me with a lopsided little grin. "I'm gay."

"You are?!" It floored me. "You're sure?"

"One hundred percent," he said. Then he looked at me sharply. "Why did you bring me here, Michael?"

"Mike," I chimed in.

"Mike?" he asked.

Suddenly I recalled that I asked him to call me Michael. Why did I want that? "Yeah, Michael is too grown up for me," I explained with an embarrassed, little smile.

"Okay, Mikey. Is that childish enough for you?" he grinned back ducking to avoid my missile of a ketchup drenched French fry. "Why did you bring me here, Mikey? Did you want to test me?"

"No! I had no ulterior motives," I claimed well knowing that I had them. "Not ulterior motives about you. You see, I needed to come here. After what happened in the locker room, well: I can relax here."

"Ah?" He looked at me without voicing his question.

"It's the rage, the cold rage," I tried to explain. "I don't feel it here, not as much anyway."

"You feel... safe here, with these people?" he asked averting his eyes.

"You do understand."

"I do understand," Brian sighed and turned to look at me again.

In his eyes I could see how difficult it was to admit to that.

"Where do you feel safe?" I asked.

"When I'm not home."

He confirmed what I already knew.

xxxxx

"Morning, Michael, Brian," someone said, jolting Michael back to the present.

"Morning, Wayne," he greeted the man standing at the end of the table with a coffee pot. "Have you heard about Ma this morning?"

"She called a few minutes ago. Said she was on her way here. Asked me to check if you two were here and, if so, to ask you to wait for her."

"Okay. Thanks, Wayne."

"Coffee?" Wayne asked, and at Brian's nod refilled his mug. Michael ordered a coke which made Brian chuckle.

"Should we eat, too, like back that day?" he asked with a slight smile.

"Much has changed since that day," Michael said quietly. "Are you hungry?"

"I left without breakfast."

"Me too."

They ordered their usual breakfasts, and Wayne left.

"How are you? Mike?" Brian asked in concern.

"I'm afraid, Brian." Michael stared at his friend with desperate eyes.

"You didn't do it back then; you won't do it now," Brian told him firmly.

"I still want to."

"Listen to me, Mike. Are you listening?" Following the steps of their old ritual, Brian arrested Michael's attention with the familiar turn of words and with the offering of a cigarette. "Wanting is not doing. You won't turn your fantasies into reality. You won't go to our old school with a gun and start killing people. You don't need to."

"Don't I?" Michael moaned. "Brian, I feel like I'm a time bomb waiting to blow up."

Brian dug out his lighter and offered to light Michael's cigarette. Michael welcomed the offer. He drew smoke deep into his lungs.

"You may always be a bomb, but you've got no fuse, Mike. Not anymore. And nobody pushes your buttons anymore. It's all in the past. It's been over for more than two decades. You won't blow up."

"But I wanted to do it again, this morning," he said in a wobbly, tiny voice.

"Did you, really?"

"Yes. Really!"

"Think, Mike. What do you remember, exactly, of this morning? You opened the paper. Then, what?"

"I was back at school, surrounded by enemies, feeling the cold rage. Just like that, I was back in that rage." Michael's hands were trembling: he almost dropped the cigarette.

"And?" Brian prompted.

"And?" Michael repeated, his train of thought had escaped the tracks.

"What happened then: when you found yourself in the cold rage?"

"I put the paper at the table, and fetched my cell phone. Then I waited for your call. You know that."

"Why?"

"I knew you would call!"

"No, no: Why did you stop to wait for my call, Mike?"

"So that I wouldn't do it!"

"So, you didn't want to do it."

"I didn't?"

"Of course you didn't."

"Are you sure?" Michael asked with rekindled hope.

"I'm sure, Mikey," Brian promised. "You didn't want to do it: you just were afraid that you would."

The bell over the door to the diner chimed. Brian who faced the door saw who was entering. "Debbie is here," he warned. "Are you ready to face her, Mike? Or should I buy you some time?"

Michael shook his head, and the guys made room for Debbie at the table.

"I hoped I would find you both here when you didn't answer your cells," Debbie said as she sat down. She turned to Michael and asked how he was.

Michael smiled weakly and told her that he was well enough.

"Brian, would you call Ben, please," Michael asked a moment later. "He would want to be here, too."

"You told Ben?" Debbie asked in delight. "I'm so glad."

"Me too," Brian flashed one of his rare, genuine smiles at his friend. "I'll leave you two alone for a moment and make the call." Brian stood up and walked to the counter.

The mother and son smiled at each other. "You've come so far after that fateful day when you and Brian met for the first time."

"He saved me."

"The little rascal sure did." Debbie looked at Brian with love shining in her eyes. "I didn't understand it right away, but you knew."

"It's odd how little it took, after all, to steer me away from the road to Hell: just one person to defend me."

"The right person."

"Yes. You should've seen him there, in the locker room that day," Michael said with shining eyes. "He challenged Ricky without fear: with such a reckless, foolhardy fearlessness that he and the others couldn't touch him. He didn't care. Brian laughed at them!"

"Old Jack did his best to rid that boy of that kind of fear," Debbie said with compassion.

Michael nodded his head, and added, "He planted the seeds that grew into his greatest fears, too."

"The old bastard," Debbie growled. "I'm glad he's dead."

"Did you know that Brian wanted to kill the bastard, many times?"

"Yes, I knew. I saw it in his eyes when I tended his hurts after the beatings."

"Ben is on his way, Michael," Brian said sitting down at the table again. "What do you think you saw in my eyes, Debbie? A little boy lost?" he said with a slight smirk.

"You are one of my lost boys, Brian: the first one," Debbie said with a kind smile. In a very quiet voice she told Brian what they had been talking about.

"And you knew how close I came to killing him?"

Debbie nodded. "I'm glad you survived your childhood and got through your teenage years without doing it."

"Yeah, me too." Brian turned to Michael. "You helped."

"What? How?"

"Defending you that first time, I understood something important. What Jack did to me taught me lessons about violent behavior. I learned what made him tick. Consequently, Ricky was like an open book to me."

"You and your books," Michael smiled. "Do you still have your precious book on psychology?"

"On the top shelf over my desk, as always," Brian told him with a grin. "Jack never knew about it. Like me, it survived life in the Kinney house."

"You're a survivor, too, Michael," a warm voice chimed in.

As the occupants of the table looked up, Ben pulled his husband up and kissed him deeply. Then he sat down and pulled Michael down, too, and against his chest. Then he turned to Brian. "Thanks, Brian. You're a good friend."

"The very best," Michael echoed with a grateful smile.

(1) What Brian says here is an allusion to a classic Finnish book by Vaino Linna The Unkwown Soldier. Any Finn would recognize it. What a well-read fourteen years old boy! LOL