Disclaimer: I own nothing.

It had never been a good car, but it had been fairly reliable. Now that the boys owned it, serviceable was a better word. The heater was broken, the paint chipped so thoroughly it was difficult to tell if the brown or rusted blue was the top layer, and the locks barely worked. The driver's side doorhandle was loose and in danger of falling off and the window on the passenger side only opened two inches.

Old Clunker, as Roger had affectionately dubbed her, jolted to a halt. "We're here!" Roger announced.

Mark said, "Ulp." He unbuckled the seatbelt that had started to choke him. "Okay," he said, breathless. "Let's go."

Roger grabbed their overnight bag from the back and hopped out of the car, slamming his door as he did. He gave the car a pat. "Reliable old girl," he said. "Got us here in no time."

Mark rolled his eyes. "Most guys like sports cars," he said.

"You'd know!" Roger retorted.

"Touché."

They trod the walk to the front door of a two-story house. Roger said nothing, but the sight raised questions and vague realizations about Mark's childhood. He came from money, no question about that. The wood exterior made clear the circumstances of Mark's family. There was an absence of pets or animal paraphernalia.

Mark rang the doorbell. He twitched, turned to Roger and began to finger-comb his hair, muttered, "Damn curls…"

"Mark!" Roger pushed away his boyfriend's hands. "Hey, enough, okay? I combed it this morning. Calm down."

"I can't," Mark said. He bounced to the balls of his feet. "They don't even know I'm gay. You have to make a good impression--"

"I will," Roger promised. He had done all right when he met Mrs. Marquez, an elderly Catholic lady who demanded to know why her daughter needed to choose a gringo boy.

Mark gave a little groan of frustration. "They have to like you. I don't know what I'll do if they don't." He squirmed and quickly rubbed his thighs. "Not to mention the itch."

Roger grinned. He had caused the itch with a combination of nipping and sucking on Mark's inner thighs, leaving an array of scrapes and hickeys. "Sorry, babe." He kissed Mark's cheek. "Is it awful?"

"Yes."

The door flew open. "Mark!" Roger leaned back as someone pulled Mark into a tight hug. He could see only her hair, dark, curly and completely defiant of clips. "I'm so glad you came."

Mark stepped back. He gave his glasses a push with one index finger, straightening them. "Hi, Cindy," he said. "Um, this is Roger. He's my--"

They were not unlike in appearance; their faces were similar despite the wide difference in hair color. Cindy wore no glasses, but Roger was fairly certain he saw the rim of a contact lens not matched to her iris. "Oh my G-d," she interrupted. "Your boyfriend? Oh, Mark. Mom and Dad don't know, do they?" Mark shook his head. "Best tell them quick then. Like a band-aid. Come in."

Mark passed his sister quickly and strode into the living room. It was a decent mess: books on the table, scads of sheet music atop the piano. He shivered. Cindy had taken immediately to the piano, and Mark was expected to do the same. Years of futile banging had ended only when, at thirteen, he calculated the exact amount of money his parents had spent on lessons for their son to learn 'Row, Row, Row Your Boat'.

"I'm Cindy, Mark's sister," Cindy said, offering her hand to Roger.

"Roger Davis," he said, and shook.

"Goy?"

"Um…"

"A gentile, yes?" Cindy asked. Roger nodded. "Ouch."

From the next room came a screech of, "Uncle Mark!" Roger and Cindy hurried towards the commotion just in time to see a three-and-a-half-foot-tall monster attach itself to Mark.

"Hey," Mark said, surprised. He hadn't seen Lea in three years, and had expected her to treat him as a complete stranger. He lifted her. "Oof, Lea, where's the little girl I remember? You've gotten huge! You must've grown at least two feet!"

Lea giggled. Before Mark had the chance to set her down, two more children raced out and began systematically attacking him, one boy with enthusiastic if misguided karate-style action and the other by wrapping himself around Mark's left leg and biting. "Augh! What-- Ethan! David!"

The karate-action boy kept shouting, "Attack! Attack!"

"Boys," Cindy said. "Ethan, stop it!" Karate-boy froze. Mark set Lea down carefully, the biter still attached to his calf. "Please do not harm Mommy's brother, or he might not come back next year."

This pushed Lea over the edge. "Leave him alone," she told her brother, and gave a fierce shove.

"Lea!" Cindy turned to Mark. "Mom and Dad are waiting for you in their bedroom. Maybe you had better go see them while I sort out this mess."

---

Mark paused outside the door to his parents' bedroom. His heart waged war on his ribcage. He took a deep breath and slicked down his hair once more, then glanced at Roger. "Do you want me…?" Roger asked, giving a little shrug and shake of the head.

"Yes," Mark answered. "Definitely yes." He grabbed Roger's hand and forced himself to step into the room.

"Marcus Daniel Cohen!" Lily Cohen, the source of Cindy's rebelliously curly hair, had never been quiet. She grabbed her son's shoulders and kissed him once on each cheek. "Three years. Mark, you're too thin." She lifted the hem of his shirt an inch before he squirmed away, blushing and protesting. "Well, we'll just have to feed you. Fatten you up. At least tell me you take care of your health. Your apartment has good heating. I don't wanting you catching tuberculosis…"

"We…" Mark glanced at Roger. "We have a good heating system," he said. His parents didn't need to know that said system involved lying under the covers in an endless embrace.

Samuel Cohen was an overweight, balding man who looked as though he belonged on an lawnchair in an advertisement for a sale at the Home Depot. He stood, glanced at his son and said, "Marcus."

"Hi, Dad," Mark said.

"Your mother said you were bringin' someone," he said, his New England drawl taking on an accusatory tone. "I thought she meant like a girlfriend."

"Actually, Dad…" Mark swallowed, but the lump in his throat would not go away. "This is Roger. He's… my boyfriend." The words escaped Mark with a great effort; after saying them, he took a few deep breaths and grinned, suddenly lighter.

Mark's parents had frozen. Lily had a forced smile; Samuel looked as though he'd been slapped. Roger gaze Mark's hand a squeeze. At last Samuel opened his mouth and laughed. It was a cruel, cackling laugh, one of the worst sounds Roger had ever heard. "That's a joke," he said. "You're jokin', right? That's okay, son. I might'a been disappointed you hadn't found a nice girl, but that's a good joke."

Hurt, Mark stammered, "It's not a joke. It's… it's serious. This is my boyfriend."

Samuel bit his lip. His face had a pinched expression, yet his eyes expanded enormously. "Mark, I think you better go to your room and unpack now."

TO BE CONTINUED!

For those asking/wondering, I am Jewish, reformed not Orthodox.

More soon! I live off reviews (I used to live off Cheez-Its, but you can't have those during Pesach. Drat!)