When the bell rang for lunch at 11:45, Lincoln Loud gathered his things and joined the rush of kids streaming out of third period English. The hall was flooded with people, all packed shoulder to shoulder, and Lincoln had to turn sideways to slip through cracks in the crowd. The middle school and high school were both notoriously small and outdated. Overcrowding had been a problem for at least ten years and every so often, you'd see something in the paper about planning for a new school building that was never actually built. Lincoln had heard horror stories from his older sisters about how crowded Coates Middle was but seeing it for himself was a shock.
In the cafeteria, he waited in line, then went through the lunchport, allowing a line of burly lunch ladies in aprons and hairnets to slap food onto his tray. Mashed potatoes, green beans, a piece of baked chicken, and a roll slathered in butter. Lincoln looked around for Clyde and spotted him at a table by the wall. Going over, he sat across from him. "Hey, Clyde," he said giddily.
"Hey," Clyde said. "The food's actually pretty good here."
It was a long standing fact that the fare at Royal Oaks Elementary was sourced from the local landfill because it was garbage. Lincoln forced himself to choke it down because he couldn't afford to bring his own lunch but he couldn't stand it. None of the kids could. He heard someone named Michelle Obama was to blame and he seriously hoped she stubbed her toe every day to atone for making his midday meal an exercise in trauma.
He expected the food here to suck too, but if Clyde said it was good…
Picking up his fork, he carved off a piece of chicken and took a cautious bite. It wasn't what he could call good per se - it was too dry and bland for that - but it was decent, and compared to the crap at the other school, it was fine dining. "It's pretty good," Lincoln said. He took another bite and stared down at his tray. He didn't like it when people, especially Clyde, saw him eating. He was afraid he'd look like some kind of slob or something. "So...how are you holding up?" he finally asked.
For a long moment, Clyde was silent, then he hummed noncommittally. "I miss her," he admitted, "but...I can't be upset forever."
Though he knew Clyde would say something like that, Lincoln's stomach sank anyway. Why couldn't he just forget about stupid Lori? Lori wasn't even that great. Sure, she was a good big sister, but she wasn't attractive. She was waaaay too skinny, and her hairstyle made her face look fat. Oh, and don't even get him started on her clothes. Lincoln knew clothes and Lori's clothes were as bland and basic as this chicken. She couldn't afford to dress like a Kardashian, he got that, but seriously? Solid color tank tops every single day? Leni is literally right there, she can make designer level clothing for pennies, why not use her?
Lincoln didn't mean to bash his sister, but this inexorable hold she had on Clyde made no sense whatsoever and Lincoln just couldn't get it. Why was he so fixated on Lori? Why wasn't he -?
You know what? Nevermind. If he wanted to pine for a girl who didn't care about him the way Lincoln did, let him.
Okay, maybe that wasn't fair. Lori did just leave. It would take a little time for Clyde to adjust. "No, you can't," he said. "I know you like Lori, but she doesn't like you back. I know that's hard to accept, but it's true and you just have to get over it."
Clyde nodded. "You're right."
"You need to find someone who will like you back," Lincoln said.
"Like who?" Clyde asked.
Lincoln came so close to saying me that the words trembled on his lips, but he yanked himself back from the edge. Was it true that Lincoln liked Clyde like that? Well...kind of, but it was complicated. Lincoln had long been attracted to Clyde and always felt a little fluttery around him, but he wasn't sure of himself. He had asked himself a million times over the past couple years if he was gay, and he was never able to answer that question. Women sometimes turned him on, but only big, muscular tomboys. Men, by and large, did not. Sure, when he saw a guy with a great body he imagined himself running his hands over his chest and sprang throbbing wood, but overtly sexual thoughts pertaining to men made him uncomfortable. He could envision himself having sex with a woman but thinking of sucking cock or something made his mind shut down. Did that mean he wasn't gay? Did it mean he was but subconsciously couldn't accept it?
He didn't know either way, but he had feelings for Clyde. Maybe they were romantic and maybe they were plutonic, coming from a place of brotherly love. It wasn't uncommon to get your emotions mixed up, especially when you were young like Lincoln. He could sit here all day long and try to figure them out, but nothing would come of it; he knew, he had tried. His instincts told him that he did, indeed, like Clyde, but what if he opened his stupid mouth and then realized down the road that he wasn't gay? What if he started something that he couldn't commit to? What if he accidentally led Clyde on and then had to break his heart? Or what if he said something and things got weird between them?
The possibility of Clyde turning him down or even ending their friendship was real, but Lincoln would be willing to risk it if only he knew for certain what he wanted. Right now, he could not say whether or not he was gay or straght; he existed in some gray void between the two, neither or. Luna was bisexual, meaning she liked both, but bisexual people are gay and straight. He couldn't claim either.
It was better to just shut up and work through his feelings. Oh, that wasn't easy, every day he wanted to hold Clyde's hand or slap his butt, but he managed to keep it suppressed so far, h figured he could hold it down a little longer.
Then again, it got harder and harder over time.
DId that mean he was gay?
Ugh. He was so sick of going down this rabbit hole every single day.
He realized Clyde was looking at him, and he flushed a little. "Uh...I don't know. There are lots of girls here." He swept his arms out to indicate the room around them. There were indeed a ton of girls, girls from different grades, girls from different schools, girls they had known their entire lives and girls they had never met before. There were so many girls it was literally sickening.
"Are any of them as great as Lori?"
"Yes," Lincoln said tightly, "they are. In fact, most of them are even better than Lori."
Clyde uttered a harsh, humorless laugh, and Lincoln couldn't help a glower. "I doubt that," Clyde said. "Lori is perfect."
"Yeah, perfectly not in love with you."
As soon as the words left his lips, Lincoln regretted them. Clyde winced then nodded. "I know," he said. "It's dumb for me to be stuck on her but I can't help it."
Lincoln's face softened and he let out a deep breath. What kind of friend was he? Whether he liked Clyde's obsession with Lori or not, he was going through a hard time and all Lincoln could think about was himself and his own feelings. Clyde didn't need to be callously bombarded with things he already knew. He needed love and support.
"I just want you to be happy," Lincoln said, "and you're not going to be happy if you're constantly thinking about a girl who doesn't want you."
Across the cafeteria, Mr. Mattei, the music teacher, talked to Mr. Fragasso, the gym teacher. They laughed together just a little too long and held eye contact just a little too intensely. Were they gay too?
"You're right," Clyde said. "I gotta get my mind off of her. You wanna hang out later?"
Lincoln's heart soared. "Sure," he said. "What time?"
"Uh...like five, I guess."
"Your place or mine?"
Clyde thought for a minute. "Your place."
"Alright," Lincoln said with a smile, "it's a date."
Lucy Loud was one of those rare and exceptional people who never pay attention in school but somehow always make good grades. She didn't know how she did it. Photosynthesis, perhaps? Whatever it was, she was thankfully able to coast through her classes without wasting too much time on studying. She used that extra time to read and write. She loved horror novels and devoured at least half a dozen a week. She had a box under her bed filled with paperbacks she bought for a dollar at the used bookstore downtown. Stephen King, Dean Koontz, John Saul, Richard Laymon. She didn't know many authors from after 2000 because aside from the big names like Stephen King who were already around, not many horror writers had reached high levels of success. Horror today was in a serious commercial slump; it was a ghetto that still didn't get respect or critical acclaim. Big New York publishers might have a token horror like Stephen King or Clive Barker hanging around, but both were old and out of touch. They managed to connect with their generation, but now they were boomer holdovers who would not give up their spot. Typical boomer campers, in other words. They hang onto the best positions while all the younger people - people with more drive and energy - are forced to fight over their crumbs. Where was her generation's Stephen King? Huh? Probably struggling to sell a short story to an online magazine for five bucks while assholes like Ramsey Campbell, Ray Garton, and Brian Keene camped in the only magazine that mattered. Which, come to think of it, didn't even exist anymore.
Horror publishing was a complex thing to understand because it was so convoluted. At the top, you had Stephen King and the few others who were published through big mainstream publishing houses. Below them was a sort of fandom filled with smaller publishers who hawked their books through Amazon and their website. Think of them as the minor leagues. 99 percent of them couldn't get their books into libraries or bookstores because they were too broke and obscure to get good distribution deals and most couldn't pay their writers either. Except for royalties. A real publisher gives its authors advances, a fake publisher only offers its writers a percent of what their book makes through sales, which isn't much since the author - one struggling arist - is mostly responsible for their own marketing. Back in the old days, a wannabe writer would pay for his or her book to be published and then sell copies to strangers from the trunk of their car. Today they use the internet.
Of these small publishers, a few were well known and well respected in the community. All of the moderately famous small publishing writers were signed to them and to get in, you had to know someone or to be the absolute 1% cream of the crop and know someone. These companies were so small and underfunded that they had to rely on authors with a built-in fanbase to sell a few copies, so they favored the same old white men who'd been camping for twenty years over literally anyone else. If you didn't have that readymade audience, you might as well fuck off, no matter how good you are. Every halfway professional anthology you saw from a small publisher had the same list of names as all the others, with a few slight exceptions here and there. This led to cultural stagnation because everything was the same. Yawn.
Below these publishers were the ones who didn't matter at all. "Micropublishers" they were called. Most were founded on a whim and published absolute shit without proofreading, marketing, or anything else. Since these weren't established playgrounds for the not-so-rich and maybe-sorta-kinda-almost famous big toads, they were completely ignored and you'd never know they existed unless you accidentally stumbled across one of their shitty, poorly made books.
These latter publishers are the ones Lucy had dealt with so far. She looked up a list of horror publishers online and started submitting her work, beginning at the top and working her way down. None of the magazines that paid accepted her but one that didn't got back to her saying they liked her story. At first, she was over the moon that someone wanted to publish her work, but after doing it a couple times, she lost enthusiasm. No one read her story, and if they did, it was only because she directed them to it herself. How is this different from just making a free website and publishing it myself? Or using DeviantArt or FictionPress?
It wasn't any different, she decided, so why bother? If you used a website, you could upload your fiction whenever you felt like it and (usually) know exactly how many people have viewed it. If you emailed it to a publisher you:
1. Had to format your manuscript a certain way, usually in 12 point font, Courier New, double spaced with your name, page number, and story title in the top right hand corner of every page.
2. Make it perfect. Seriously, editors don't edit, they curate. Don't think you can miss a single typo because "oh, the editor will fix it." No, they won't. The editor is a lazy fuck who couldn't hack it writing so he/she became an editor instead. They won't fix shit. If your manuscript isn't flawless, you might as well ball it up and throw it into the trashcan. Never ever think your story is so good that your bad grammar and shitty spelling will get a pass. It won't.
3. Find a market. For this, we're just going to pretend that Random House, Simon and Schuster, and the other big mega publishers don't exist because for you, they don't. There are two kinds of markets available to the young horror writer. Glorified vanity presses and, if they're fucking amazing, mid-tier publishers who can maybe sell a few hundred copies of your book and get you famous in a very small niche genre filled with fanboys, wannabes, and fucking nerds. Choose wisely.
4. Wait. Sometimes you can wait up to a year for a yay or nay from a publisher. Imagine that, waiting a whole year just for someone to say "Nah, we're good." And here's the best part: Most of the better publishers don't allow simultaneous submissions, meaning that while they have your story under consideration, you can't send it anywhere else. That awesome story you really hit out of the park? Yeah, it's tied up at Cemetery Dance for the next sixteen months just to be beaten out by one of the editor's friends. Tough shit. Send it somewhere else and wait a year.
Lucy didn't mean to sound bitter, but publishing was retarded and yeah, she was a little salty to find that the community she wanted so badly to join was such a pitiful shitshow. She was not a starry eyed jackass, she was a practical girl; she understood that bigger a big turd in a little bowl was probably the best she could hope for. At first she was content with that, then she friended a bunch of writers who were famous and well-known in the community. These were people who had had some mainstream success and whose work you could often find in bookstores and libraries, and you know what? They were pathetic. So many of them had to beg for handouts through Pateron and GoFundMe that it was shocking. That told Lucy one thing: They weren't making money. Money might not be everything, but why weren't they making any? BECAUSE NO ONE WAS READING THEM. If people read you, you make money. If they don't read you, you don't make money. Case closed, end of discussion. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.
One thing a lot of writers don't acknowledge is how oversaturated the market is. Anybody can create an Amazon account and self-publish a book, it's disgustingly easy. It doesn't matter how awful or poorly written it is, you can sell it. Anyone can start a publishing company too, and there were so many of low or no quality that you couldn't throw a book without hitting one. There were so fucking many books out there that they all got lost in the shuffle.
Another thing was falling demand. Fewer American adults read for pleasure now than at any other time in the past. Fewer people buying books meant authors made fewer sales and less money. And how blissfully unaware they were of it. She brought that point up to another writer on Facebook once and they told her that it wasn't a problem because "the people who do read buy more books." Yeah, because 10,000 people can totally buy the same amount of books as 10 million people. There are only so many hours in a day. Even if someone read from the moment they got up to the moment they went to bed, they wouldn't be able to read enough books to put even a tiny dent in the deficit. Competition for readers and for the few spots with prized publishers was insanely fierce and frankly, Lucy didn't feel like fighting over table scraps. She just wanted to write and entertain people. That was all.
Learning that the small publishing industry was like this was kind of like finding out that Santa Claus isn't real, but ten times worse. She had wanted to be a writer since she was small, but now, after a little over a year, she was completely disillusioned.
Still she wrote.
She wrote every chance she got. She would skip meals and favorite TV shows to write, she would write instead of going out or spending time with her family. Every spare moment she had went to writing, not because she felt obligated to always write, but because she wanted to write. She'd rather write than do just about anything else.
Okay. Anything else period.
Yesterday, she created a bunch of different accounts online to share her writing, including DeviantArt, WritingDotCom, Reddit, FictionPress, Wattpad, TextNovel, and even one at FanFiction net. She figured that across all of these platforms, she could easily rake in fifty to a hundred views per story. That wasn't much, of course, but it was better than nothing.
Currently, she glanced down at her notebook, where the opening of a new story was hastily scribbled in pencil. She started it at lunch after giving up on the story she had Lincoln read earlier. This one was way better: It had tons more blood and stuff. It was a ripoff of the Halloween movies and centered on an escaped mental patient killing teenagers on the 4th of July, a holiday Lucy did not think had a slasher movie attached to it (unless you counted 1996's Uncle Sam, which she didn't because it sucked). It was already shaping up to be her best story ever, but she was stuck for a title. For now, she was calling it "Independence Day." She liked that enough but she didn't want to use it because people would instantly think of the 90s movie with Will Smith.
Her eyes were drawn to the first word, and she began to read.
On the sultry morning of July 4, John Wells slid his ancient station wagon into one of the canted parking spaces facing the Western State Mental Center, a low, sleek building resembling a suite of offices more than a hospital, and cut the engine, killing The Rolling Stones mid-roll.
For a long moment, John sat motionless behind the wheel, the gravity of the situation still sinking in. A doctor in a lab coat came out of the building, moved along the covered concrete walkway trimming the facade, and got into a lime green Prius. A woman emerged from around the side of the building, finished a cigarette, and disappeared into a side door. Off to John's right, a man dressed in jean shorts and a blue Old Navy shirt emblazoned with an American flag walked his dog along the narrow street bordering the hospital's eastern wall. The dog, a golden retriever, panted happily as it led its master past a fire hydrant and a sign advertising fireworks on the commons, 6-7.
The normalcy of the scene was disturbing. They were acting as though nothing had happened. They were acting as though they weren't in danger.
John's stomach turned.
She reread it three times, looking for telltale signs of verbosity and found none. She intentionally affected a more casual, pared down style so that she didn't come across as an insufferable windbag. So far, she thought, so good.
When the bell rang, she closed her notebook, got up, and went to her last class of the day.
Study hall.
While other kids did their homework, Lucy worked on her story.
Sighing, he got out of the car, shut the door behind him, and started for the main entrance, pausing as a brown car boasting the state seal passed by, an old man in the driver seat and a vacant-eyed youth in the back. John recognized the look in the boy's eyes, and shuddered.
He paused once more on the walkway, this time to survey the building's rough stucco walls and its many tall, narrow windows. He could find no evidence of the previous night's horror. It looked as it had looked every other time he'd come. Institutional. Pragmatic. A place of business. Cold, hard, and nonsensical.
She was on fire, the words pouring out of her, and before she knew it, class was over and it was time to go home. She packed up her things, fought her way through the hall, and went out the front door, her legs carrying her as quickly as they could. She couldn't wait to get home and finish this story.
Lincoln walked home through the golden September afternoon, the sunshine warm on his skin and the breeze cool against his face. There was something magical about the light in September; it seemed brighter, sharper. Lincoln liked to think it was because the earth was moving closer to the sun in preparation for winter even though he knew it wasn't.
He got home ahead of everyone else, let himself in, and went to the kitchen, grabbing a fun sized bag of Cheez-Its from the pantry. He ripped it open, threw his head back, and emptied the bag directly into his mouth.
Yuck.
Stale.
Being as used to stale food as he was to store brand, Lincoln ate it anyway. By the time he was done, the others were home: Lola and Lana ran up the stairs, Lynn ran around the living room like a squirrel with ADHD, Luan told corny jokes, Luna shredded her guitar and sang about gay Nazis from outer space. Leni stood in the center of it all, knees pressed together and a stricken look on her face. She whipped her head left and right, trying to speak but being cut off each time. "Uh...guys?"
Lynn dove over the coffee table, tucked, and rolled into the darkened fireplace in a puff of soot and ash. Luna said the N-world, also the S-word, the D-word, the Z-word, and the X-word. Lana tripped and tumbled down the stairs with a loud crash and Lola slid backwards down the bannister, hitting the newel post and falling over; she rolled back and forth on the floor clutching her crotch and screaming about her hole. Leni tugged at her hair, eye twitching, and Lincoln's heart went out to her.
"Hey, guys!" he called.
They didn't listen.
"Guys!"
Lynn, covered in black, bumped into him from behind, driving him to his knees. "Ten points!" she cried and thrust her hips back and forth. "Boo-yah."
Man, only if Lori was here.
A metaphorical light bulb went off over Lincoln's head.
That's it.
Getting up, he climbed the stairs and went into his room. At the foot of his bed was an old steamer trunk that, Dad said, belonged to Great-Grandpa Alland, who fought in WWI. Lincoln knelf before it, undid the latch, and lifted the lid. Inside were neatly folded stacks of clothes, wigs, shoes, and other accessories.
Over the years, Lincoln and his sisters had developed a system of cooperation whereby they would cover for one another. If Lori needed to sneak out and see Bobby, Lincoln would lie for her. If Lincoln wanted to hang with Clyde but didn't have permissions, Lori and the others would lie for him. To assist in this, Lincoln had gathered articles of clothing from his sisters so that he could dress as them if need be and they could dress as each other. Rummaging through the contents of the trunk, he found a pair of khaki shorts, a blue tank top, and a pair of slip on shoes. He quickly undressed and put them on. He grabbed a blonde wig, straightened it, and checked himself in the mirror. He looked just like Lori.
Yuck.
No offense to Lori, but he liked dressing up as Lola and Leni more. They had better style and he looked waaay prettier in pink and aquamarine than he did blue. He looked at himself in the mirror one last time, then went downstairs. Chaos still reigned: Lynn ran, Lola and Lana grappled, Luna rocked out ('You're the sexiest dyke I've ever, your lovin clots my blood like the COVID vaccine"), and Luan cracked dirty jokes about sex and menstration just like her idol Amy Schumer. Lincoln took a deep breath and let loose. "KNOCK IT OFF!"
Everyone froze.
"GO TO YOUR ROOMS! NOW!"
For a moment, no one said anything...then they all started to laugh. "Nice outfit, Lincoln," Lynn said.
"You're preeeetty," Lola said and batted her eyelashes.
Uh oh. He was losing them.
Time to switch gears.
"I'm not Lincoln," he said, "I'm literally Lori and you guys are acting dumb. Bobby is coming over in five minutes and you better scram or I will literally turn you into human pretzels."
Luna slapped her guitar, Lynn threw her head back and howled, and Lana and Lola held one another for support.
His shtick worked, though; they all dispersed and went their separate ways, Lynn outside, Luna to her room, and Lana and Lola into the kitchen for a snack. Leni sank to the couch, propped her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. Lincoln walked over and sat down next to her. "I can't do this," she moaned. "They, like, hate me."
The misery in her voice broke Lincoln's heart and gave her back a comforting stroke. "They don't hate you," Lincoln said, "they're just trying you."
"Why?" she asked.
"They want to see what they can get away with. They know you're new to this and they're taking advantage of that."
Leni drew a watery sigh. "What do I do?"
Honestly, Lincoln didn't know. Being a hard ass worked for Lori but he didn't know if Leni could pull that off, even if she put her mind to it. She was like a cute little puppy. No matter how much it barks and growls, you just can't take it seriously as a threat. If Leni tried to clamp down like Lori, they'd laugh her out of the house.
Lincoln always prided himself on being a problem solver but he had his limits and this was one of them. He tried to understand people and their motives, but he couldn't even understand himself.
"Just give it time," he said and patted her back. "They'll eventually get used to you."
Leni considered his words for a moment, then brightened. "You're right. Thanks, Lincy."
They hugged.
Before Clyde came over, Lincoln changed back into his regular clothes. He was just putting his shoes on when the door opened and Clyde came in. Lincoln's heart jogged and he shot to his feet. "Hey," he said, voice breaking nervously.
"Hey," Clyde said, not noticing how flushed Lincoln had suddenly become. "Sorry I'm late, I had a call with Dr. Lopez."
Oh no. "W-Why?" Lincoln worried, "is something wrong?"
Clyde sat on the edge of the bed. "No," he said, "I talk to her on the phone once a week. It's all good."
Whew, that was a relief.
Sitting down beside him, Lincoln said, "I'm kind of worried about Leni. She's really struggling to adjust. And the others are being merciless." He told Clyde about having to rush in and save Leni earlier, but neglected the part where he dressed in women's clothes to do so.
Clyde listened, nodded where appropriate, and shook his head when Lincoln was finished. "That kind of makes me glad I don't have brothers and sisters."
"I tried to give her some advice, but I just don't know what to do." He sighed and slumped his shoulders.
When Clyde's hand fell on his shoulder, Lincoln's breath caught. The heat of his touch soaked through Lincoln's shirt and spread through his entire body; Lincoln's flesh burned from head to toe and his stomach did a swishing flip that made him feel like he was going to throw up. "Don't beat yourself up over it," Clyde said. "You're a great guy and you give great advice.'
A big, goofy smile spread across Lincoln's lips. "I don't feel like it sometimes."
"Trust me, you do. Wanna play a game?"
"Sure," Lincoln said. He got up, went over to the TV, and got down on his knees. He opened the cabinet underneath and looked through the many games packing the shelves. Nothing really jumped out at him. He didn't care about games right now, he only cared about being with Clyde. He looked over his shoulder and asked, "What do you wanna play?"
Clyde considered for a moment then shrugged one shoulder. "Doesn't matter. I'm down for anything."
Anything, huh?
That thought came unbidden from the recesses of Lincoln's subconscious mind, shocking him. An image came with it, gone so quickly that he didn't get a good look at it, but he was pretty sure it involved him running his hands over Clyde's naked body. A hot blush burst across Lincoln's face and he lowered his head to hide it. "Uh...Steal That Car: Portland?" he asked.
Steal That Car was his and Clyde's favorite video game series. It was set in various cities and allowed players to steal cars, kill hookers, and work for the mafia. In STC: Portland, you play as either a black masked Antifa supporter or a BLM activist and your job is to start a revolution. The last time Lincoln and Clyde played, they started a riot, set fire to the courthouse, and chased a CNN news crew down with baseball bats. It was a blast.
"Sure," Clyde said.
Lincoln grabbed the game, put it into the X-Station, and grabbed the controllers. He turned on his knees and faced Clyde. A distance of less than three feet separated them. If Clyde stood, pulled his pants down, and took a step forward, he could put it in Lincoln's mouth and…
Nothing.
He could do nothing.
Feeling awkward and self-conscious, Lincoln got up and sat next to Clyde, handing him one of the controllers. The game started, and they talked as they played. Their conversation was stiff and rusty at first, like a disused thing, but slowly they warmed up to one another again. There was something about Clyde that made Lincoln comfortable with him. Lincoln couldn't put his finger on what it was, but if pressed, he would say that they were soulmates. Not particularly in a romantic sense but in that they were like two halves of a whole. It was totally possible for two people to be soulmates without being romantically involved, right? If not, it should be. Maybe there was a different word for it when two people felt that way for one another without being in love, he didn't know.
It wasn't long before they were laughing like they used to before Lori left. It seemed like so long since they had been happy together; it was hard to believe that it hadn't even been three weeks. It felt like it had been a lifetime ago, and Lincoln realized only then how desperately he had missed his friend.
Onscreen, cops chased after Lincoln and Clyde's characters. Lincoln hit Clyde's character and knocked him down, leaving him for the police while Lincoln made his escape. "Dude,' Clyde laughed.
"Better you than me," Lincoln declared.
Clyde hit Lincoln's arm with his elbow. Lincoln shoved him . Before either of them knew it, they were locked up like two professional wrestlers with a score to settle (this SUNDAY Sunday Sunday). Clyde tried to push Lincoln back and Lincoln held fast, but just barely. Lincoln, being slightly bigger, gained the upper hand but couldn't do much to throw Clyde off. Letting go with one hand, he dug his fingers into Clyde's stomach, and Clyde jumped with a shocked yelp. Somehow, they wound up on the floor, rolling back and forth, Clyde on top, now Lincoln, their bodies rubbing together. Lincoln went to push Clyde off and accidentally brushed his hand over Clyde's crotch. At least he told himself it was an accident.
In the end, Clyde was on top, pinning Lincoln's wrists above his head. His groin pressed lightly against Lincoln's, and if Lincoln were a girl, he'd be this close to being penetrated.
That thought excited him so much that he started getting hard.
As soon as he realized what was happening, panic overcame him and, summoning strength he didn't even know he had, he threw Clyde off and sat up. For a moment they caught their breath, then Clyde drew himself up and rubbed the back of his own neck. "You got stronger."
"All in the life of a Loud," Lincoln said because he didn't know what else to say. "It's an endless workout."
"Maybe I should move in for a while," Clyde said, "that way I can bulk up."
You can sleep in my bed, Lincoln thought and flushed.
"It'll certainly help."
They went back to playing the game, but Lincoln couldn't focus; he was hyper aware of Clyde's presence and his eyes kept drifting to him. Their legs were so close that every time Clyde took a deep breath, they touched. Lincoln casually opened his legs and shifted his weight like he was adjusting himself, and his leg pressed lightly against Clyde's. Clyde didn't seem to notice or care, but why would he? He was mature and grown up, he wouldn't cringe and go "ew gay" because anoher guy's leg was touching his. That was one of his most attractiv features: Other boys were loud, dumb, and annoying, but not Clyde, he was old beyond his years. That, Lincoln figured, was because of the life he had led. Clyde told him about the facilities and foster homes he'd been in and thinking about them now dampered Lincoln's mood. Clyde was forced to grow up way too soon and it was really sad when you thought about it. He seemed okay and well-adjusted now, but if you gazed into his beautiful brown eyes - which Lincoln had - you could see hints of lingering pain.
It took a little convincing but Lincoln got Clyde to stay for dinner. He couldn't blame Clyde for wanting to leave; he usually wanted to leave around dinner time too. Mom and Dad were masters at making food stretch, but you can only do so much. Every meal had to feed thirteen people so they rarely had pizza or hamburgers, instead they ate more than their fair share of soups and pastas. Dad only got paid every two weeks so by the end of the second week, money was far tighter than usual. That was when he started throwing random ingredients together, like Spam and sweet peas, noodles and kidney beans, chicken broth and liverwurst meatballs. Clyde knew all about this and typically had an excuse for leaving before dinner or not eating when he couldn't. Dad just got paid the other day, so tonight they were living large with chili and rice: They even had cornbread on the side, but only half a piece each.
Lincoln naturally sat next to Clyde. While they ate, he went back to the thought he had earlier, the one of Clyde putting it into his mouth and then fucking him like he was a girl. His dick twitched and stood tall and proud, pushing out the front of his pants. It wasn't gay, it was normal to be curious, though.
Right?
It was close to eight when Clyde finally left. The urge to hug and cling to him came over Lincoln but he settled for a handshake that did little to convey the intensity of the emotions he felt. After he was gone, Lincoln took a bath then tried to lose himself in a comic book, but couldn't get his mind off of Clyde. He went back to them play wrestling on the floor, to the moment when Clyde ws on top of him, holding his arms above his head and panting for air. Lincoln wished he kissed him, wished he laid Clyde back on the bed and kissed his naked body and took him into his mouth.
Now his dick was throbbing and beginning to leak. He crossed and recrossed his legs and bit down on his lower lip in an attempt to dispel the arousal welling in his stomach. Heat spread through him and visions of naked, sweaty Clyde danced through his head. When he couldn't take anymore, Lincoln kicked off his underwear, got beneath the covers, and started to gently stroke his aching member. He got onto his stomach, put his butt in the air, and imagined Clyde reaming him from behind. Clyde groped his hips, pumped furiously, and kissed his neck, and Lincoln came with a cry, his load soaking his sheets and his knees giving out. He lay on his side for a long time catching his breath, and when he was able, he sat up and brushed his sweaty hair out of his face.
This confirmed it.
He really was gay.