(09) Settled at Last?

"Don't settle for the one whom you can live with . . . Wait for the one whom you can't live without." —Anonymous

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It's the hardest things I'll ever have to do

To look you in the eye

And tell you I don't love you

It's the hardest thing I'll ever have to lie

To show no emotion

When you start to cry

I can't let you see what you mean to me

When my hands are tied

And my heart's not free

We're not meant to be

It's the hardest thing I'll ever have to do

To turn around and walk away

Pretending I don't love you (1)

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Jack couldn't wait for drama class. It was a place where he'd be able to escape his troubles of this world and venture off into another, where he could be whomever he wanted . . .

Wrong again.

'Okay, ladies,' Mr. Raconte said excitedly, clapping his hands together to catch everyone's attention. Unlike Ms. Levington, Mr. Raconte was one whose very nature called for attention. He had no need of screaming and stamping around like a hoard of elephants to have his class listen to him.

'I wonder what we'll be doing today,' Lee muttered to Jack.

'It sounds like something good,' Jack replied with no small amount of conviction.

'Good. Now, as I'm sure you have all realized, the last week has been rather . . . bubbly for everyone.'

'Bubbly?' Lee asked aloud, and he was not the only one to have done so.

'What do you mean, sir?'

'What is "bubbly"?'

'Are you sure "bubbly" is the right word?'

'Now, now, class,' Mr. Raconte said. 'Settle down. When I say "bubbly", I merely mean . . . "happy", I suppose. But for today, I want you to focus on some of your other emotions.'

"Uh-oh," Jack thought. "I don't like where this is going."

'For today's performances, you will be working in pairs. I am going to assign each person from half the class an emotion. Then the other half will choose whom wishes to work with. Does that makes sense?'

'Yes, Mr. Raconte,' the class responded dully.

'Good. Just . . . don't argue over your partners,' he warned, trying to form a stern expression. For a drama teacher, however, he appeared to have difficulty doing so. 'If you argue, then I shall be the one to choose whom you work with.' The overly cheerful professor then retrieved a short list from his desk, as well as a pile of scripts, which he distributed to the students as he went along. 'Okay, Lee, you will do "sadness" . . . Mike, "jealousy" . . . Davis is "impatience" . . . Cristóbal, you shall be "passion . . .' And on and on he went.

Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how one looked at it—Jack was part of the "other half" of the class, so he had to choose whom to work with. He knew that they were going to be marked on this, and he really couldn't afford to receive any bad marks. Thus, almost the entire class had to be crossed off of his mental list, and that left . . . Jack groaned . . . Lee or Cristóbal.

Having heard which emotion each guy was assigned, Jack did not really have a desire to work with either of them.

"Lee . . . sadness . . . Cristóbal . . . passion . . ." Jack thought. " Lee . . . sadness . . . Cristóbal . . . passion . . . Decisions, decisions . . ."

Mr. Raconte began going down the line of students who had not been "assigned" an emotion.

"Lee or Cristóbal?" Jack asked himself. "Sadness or passion?" Both choices reminded him painfully of Ralph.

'And, Jack, have you decided who to work with?' the teacher questioned, having reached the aforementioned teen.

'Uh . . .' Jack hesitated. 'Yes, sir, I have.'

'Good. And whom is the lucky lady?'

Lady? Pfft! That was one of Mr. Raconte's pet names for his students and one that annoyed Jack to no end, especially since none of them could really be called "ladies" . . . Well, except for Lee. When he whined about losing bets, he really did sound quite feminine, like an overly desperate little girl.

'Jack . . . I'm waiting . . .'

'Oh, sorry, sir,' Jack apologized for his lapse of attention. 'I have chosen—'

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The day had hardly been kind to Ralph. After having been forced out of bed by his mother—

'It isn't the end of the world, Ralph!' Mrs. Macpherson screamed at her poor son. 'Get out of bed and go to school! I will not allow your studies to be affected by this!'

—the teen had dragged himself to school and through his classes.

Art had, expectedly, not been up to its usual standard. He had flatly refused to do anything, telling the teacher that he was not feeling "creative".

While Ms. Orville had not been pleased with his decision, she knew better than anyone—or so she claimed—that creativity is a key aspect in art.

Hence, Ralph had spent the period sitting alone in the corner, brooding. When asked if anything was wrong, he had replied with a sarcastic, "No". After a while, people stayed away from him out of their own accord.

Lunchtime passed by in a surprising blur. The teen had avoided his friends by disappearing into the boys' lavatory, flatly refusing to come out—had anyone been there to ask him—until his next class. Well, lunchtime passed and the time for his next class had arrived; unfortunately, Ralph's other teachers were not as gracious as Ms. Orville had been.

The usually well-behaved student found himself in the principal's office two times that day; needless to say, the latter had not been at all pleased. He had sent Ralph home after that, preventing the not-so-unlikely third visit.

"Return to school only when you are in the right state of mind!" he growled angrily, and Ralph was sent packing.

In a sort of mild stupor, the teen shoved his possessions into his locker (after all, he would never be able to concentrate long enough to do any of his homework that night) and made for home. He hardly made it to the front entrance before two familiar voices called out to him . . .

'Ralph! Wait!' Samneric cried out.

'Shouldn't you be in class?' Ralph asked halfheartedly.

'Yeah, but we skipped out on it. We wanted to find you.'

'Whatever. I don't care. Just leave me alone,' the teen muttered.

'No!' The twins ran to catch up with him and firmly planted their bodies in front of the troubled student, blocking his exit. 'Tell us what's wrong!'

'Leave me alone,' the latter repeated firmly.

'Does this have to do with Jack?' Sam asked, concern lacing his tone.

Ralph felt his hard façade beginning to crack.

When he didn't answer, Eric added, 'He's hurt you, hasn't he?'

'It's none of your business,' Ralph finally said.

'Of course it's our business!' they replied in unison. 'We're your friends!'

'I . . . I can't tell you,' Ralph stuttered. 'I can't . . . I can't talk about it at all . . .'

'Why not?'

"Because then I'll break!" he thought solemnly.

'I . . . I just can't, okay? I . . . I have to go.' He tried to push past them, but they simply wouldn't let him leave.

'Ralph . . . You can trust us,' Samneric said.

'He . . . we . . . he . . .' Ralph stammered, trying to fight back his tears.

'Yes?' the twins lightly urged.

'We . . . broke up,' he finally said. 'We're . . . we're not together anymore.'

And then the dam that had been holding the teen back finally broke. He crumpled into his friends arms, heedless of what onlookers—had there been any—may think.

'Oh, Ralph,' Sam said. 'I'm sorry.'

'Why?' Ralph laughed darkly. 'It's not your fault.'

'Don't worry,' Eric said reassuringly. 'Everything will be all right.'

'No! No, everything won't be all right!' the other teen cried out in hysterics.

'Come with us, Ralph. We have to get you out of here.'

The twins gently lead their distressed friend outside to sit on the stone steps in front of the school.

'Okay, we're not going to force you, but can you tell us what happened?' they asked, since it was already clear to them whom broke up with whom.

'Jack . . . he . . .'

'Take a deep breath,' Eric said.

'Yeah, just go at your own pace,' Sam added.

But Ralph overlooked their question and asked one of his own.

'What . . . what am I going to do, guys?' he said between tears.

'What do you mean?' Samneric questioned in return.

'I . . . need . . . him . . .'

'You don't need him!' the interjected abruptly. 'You were able to survive without him before, so what's to stop you from surviving now?'

'I didn't know what . . . what love was before I met him.'

Suddenly, they seemed to realize just how deep of an extent Ralph's feelings for Jack ran.

'You love him?'

Ralph nodded.

'And I need him. Sam, Eric, I need Jack Merridew more than he'll ever need me. He's the only one who doesn't expect me to be anything other than what I am.'

There was a brief pause, then:

'For what it's worth, we don't expect anything of you,' Samneric whispered. 'We only want you to be you, Ralph. That's all anyone can ever ask for.'

And they enveloped him in their comforting embrace.

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"Isn't it odd how Ralph and Jack seem to be thinking the same things?" the mysterious stranger asked of himself. "Both of them believe that they are less than the other deserves . . . Perhaps it is time for my intervention once more."

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'Great job, Vincent!' Mr. Raconte praised. 'And you, too, Davis. That was excellent work! Okay, Lee and Ben, you're up!'

Yes, Jack had chosen to work with the Spanish heartthrob. He had decided that it was considerably less depressing to work with him than with Lee, whose assigned emotion was "sadness". Jack watched in mild fascination as his friend delivered a truly heart-breaking performance.

Lee triumphantly ended his scene with, 'I wish that I could be the one to tell you that it was all just a miscalculation—a mistake. But what everyone says is true, my son. You were the one who killed your mother.' He forced tears out of his eyes by—Jack saw—pinching his thigh. 'You were not in the right mind when you did it, but it was you who killed her. It was by your hands that my wife died.'

And Ben hung his head with "shame".

There was a polite smattering of applause following their performance. Usually there was one person (guess who!) who would lose control completely and cheer with all his might, but Jack, expectedly, was not his usual enthusiastic self. So that only left the teacher's never-ending compliments.

'Can I get a "woop-woop"? That was excellent, ladies!' Mr. Raconte exclaimed. 'It was played very well. However, Lee, if you are going to pinch your thigh to produce tears, try to do it a bit more obscurely.'

The student blushed, and Jack chuckled slightly. And here he thought that his friend was a good actor!

'Next up—Jack and Cristóbal! Come on! Chop-chop!'

Jack followed his partner onto the stage, dragging his feet along. He really did not feel up to doing this, but he would try anything to try and escape this black hole that he had dug for himself . . . correction: that Lee had dug for him and then promptly pushed him into.

'Jack? Are you ready?' Cristóbal questioned.

'Yeah. Let's do this.'

The other teen smiled and promptly "disappeared" to the side of the stage. A moment passed in silence before Cristóbal cleared his throat and Jack suddenly remembered that he was supposed to say the first line.

A soft chuckle flowed through the class.

'Thomas?' Jack called out, looking around in a "lost" sort of fashion. 'Thomas? Where are you?'

'Here I am!' Cristóbal said, running up the other student. 'I'm sorry that I'm late. Were you waiting long?'

'Oh, it doesn't matter,' Jack said, wrapping his arms around the Spaniard and burying his face in the latter's hard, yet comforting, chest. 'I'm just glad that you're here now. I've missed you.'

'I've missed you as well.' Cristóbal cupped Jack's face with both his hands and gently coaxed the latter to glance up.

Jack followed the script and did so, looking into the deep eyes of his acting partner.

'I—' he started, but Cristóbal placed a soft finger to his lips.

"Ooh boy, this guy is hard and soft in all the right places," Jack thought.

"No! BAD THOUGHTS! Stop thinking of Cristóbal in that way!" his more reasonable mind scolded.

'Let no more words pass between us,' Cristóbal said, bringing him back to his present situation. ''We have been apart for too long.' His breath played across Jack's quivering lips as he spoke. The Spaniard's lips drew closer and Jack's—of their own accord—began to follow suit. The latter felt one of Cristóbal's hands leave his face to circle around his lower back and pull Jack closer towards him; their hips were now pressed together as their lips became ever-closer . . .

'Excellently done!' Mr. Raconte proclaimed, clapping loudly. 'That was a wonderful performance!'

Jack snapped back into his senses. He had forgotten that he was still in class! What the hell!

Cristóbal slowly (almost hesitantly) released him, and he suddenly noticed a much bigger problem. Yes, much bigger.

'Um . . . Sir, may I be excused?' Jack asked, hiding his waist behind one of the nearby props.

'Not yet, Jack! You must take in the glory that is yours to take! Initially, you were not up to your usual potential, but you made up for it in the end! Bravo!'

'Um . . . Please, sir? I . . . er . . . have to use the loo.' Well, it wasn't really a lie.

'Very well,' the drama professor huffed, as if he was personally offended by Jack's need to leave.

After a muttered thanks, Jack was finally allowed to escape from the classroom (with his hands concealing a certain . . . area) and take care of his . . . needs.

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'What the fuck is wrong with me!' Jack asked—no, demanded—of himself once the dire . . . circumstances had been disregarded. The teen ran the cold water in the sink before proceeding to splash some of the cool liquid onto his flushed face.

'You are—shall we say—desiring me,' a voice answered.

Jack's body stiffened nervously and he raised his sopping face to glare into the mirror at the new arrival.

'What do you want?' he inquired.

'After your abrupt departure from class, Raconte asked someone to go and check on you.' Cristóbal grinned. 'I volunteered.'

'I see,' the other replied, slowly turning the faucet off. 'Why?'

'You know why.'

'Oh, and here I thought you'd answer with, "Why not?" I guess I don't really know you that well, after all.'

Cristóbal laughed, genuine and pleasant; Jack could not help but love the sound of it. Eventually his laughter died down, leaving the latter rather disappointed.

'Jack,' Cristóbal said, 'I know that I have said I'm happy just being your friend, but I want . . . more.'

'Cristóbal—' Jack began, but said teen held up his hand, cutting Jack short.

'No, listen first. I have been watching you for a while now, Jack, and I am . . . enraptured by what I see.'

'What?'

'You heard me. I am fascinated by everything you do, from the way your eyes harden in contemplation to the way you kick your friends when you are irritated,' he added with a grin. 'The point is . . . I think that I—'

Then it was Jack's turn to interrupt.

'Don't say it!' he snapped. 'Don't say it, Cristóbal! I don't think that I could deal with that right now.'

'Okay, I won't,' the other student replied, reaching behind him to lock the washroom door. 'How about I show you instead?'

Anxiety increasing, Jack backed away into the far wall, intent on placing as much distance as he could between him and his foreboding companion.

'I am not going to force you to do anything that you don't want to do, Jack,' Cristóbal said, slowly approaching him.

Jack's response was running into a stall and slamming the door shut.

'How do I know that you're not lying?' Jack asked. 'How do I know that this won't end up as just another one of your "just friends" things?'

'Because I'll allow you to stop me.'

Now Jack was scared. His fear did not originate from the fact that he had only about a half-inch of slated wood between him and a potential molester. No. His fear hailed from the fact that he actually wanted it. Cristóbal had confirmed it upon his otherwise silent entrance.

Jack desired him, Jack desired Cristóbal!

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Cristóbal wanted only the best for Jack. True, he may have been lying when he said that he would be satisfied with just being Jack's friend, not his lover. However, he had lied because he did not want to pressure Jack into an affair when he already had a thriving—although distant—relationship with someone called Ralph. His intentions were actually good and pure.

The Spaniard fancied Jack for all the reasons that the latter seemed to overlook and/or have trouble seeing in himself, amongst which were his gentle nature, his strong-willed character, and his devotion to those he cared about.

"So why can Jack not see that?" Cristóbal wondered, staring at the broad plank of wood that still separated him and the other teen. (If he squinted, he could almost make out Jack's scuffed up shoes by looking through the slats.) "Why can he not see that I am not pursuing him for sex or pride or anything of such vile nature? Why can he not see that I merely want to show him how much I care about him? I may not be able to given him everything that he desires, but I would willingly bend my spine twice over trying."

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If I could Then I wouldGive you the stars from heaven aboveIn these armsI'll take you around the worldWith the love I have for you (2)

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Cristóbal's spirits promptly soared when he saw the stall door open and the object of his affections step out.

With a slight smile, Jack whispered, 'Okay.'

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(1) Mini-Disclaimer: "The Hardest Thing (I'll Ever Have to Do)", 98 Degrees

(2) Mini-Disclaimer: "If I Could", Joee