Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Proof ❯ Chapter Eight ( Chapter 8 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Warnings: Cursing, name-calling

Chapter Eight

By the time Jake forced himself to acknowledge his father's awakening, his bedside clock told him it was nearly ten in the morning. Bleary eyed and feeling a little nauseated, his mouth filled with cotton and a bad taste, he winced and slowly pulled himself up from his bed. His head felt disgustingly out of sorts and his stomach roiled with complaints. He made his way to his bathroom and winced at his reflection, the light bothersome to his suddenly sensitive eyes.

“I only had two in all,” he grumbled, touching a visible hickie on the side of his throat, another just below his ear on the same side. “Damn him. How am I going to explain this away?”

He used the bathroom, showered and stumbled his way downstairs to see if his father had cooked anything for breakfast. Looking into the living room, he saw that it was empty and headed into the kitchen, where Mr. James was frowning at a breakfast sandwich, grumbling over the half frozen mess on his plate.

“Yo, dad. What's up my homie G? You getting' your grub on? Ugh, that smells nasty,” Jake said, covering his nose as the smells assaulted him. His stomach roiled again, and he staggered about, bumping into the kitchen island with uncoordinated stumbles.

“How late did you two stay up?” Mr. James asked, ripping out the frozen parts and putting it back together in order to eat. It still made him grimace, but he was determined to finish it.

“Went to bed around four.”

“You'll regret it, later.” Mr. James performed a double take. “What is that on your neck?”

“Uh, a, ah, well, this, um, pinching game. Yeah. He was pinching me.”

Mr. James merely rolled his eyes skyward, wondering why boys always had to hurt each other in such ways, never even considering other possibilities. He grumbled incoherently as he sipped at his coffee, wishing his caffeine high kicked in faster.

Jake was startled that it was accepted as so, wondering when his father last had a hickie. But he was grateful for it, turning to find something to eat. He found the cereal, grabbing both boxes and as he pulled away from the pantry shelves, bumped his head off the swinging door. He stumbled with a curse, and knocked his knee into the counter. Mr. James watched him, wincing with each new impact he made. When Jake opened the fridge for the milk, he pulled the door into his shin, the natural reaction to bend and rub at the offended spot causing him to lose his balance and hit the open shelves with both hands. When he straightened up, he knocked the back of his head off the freezer handle, and he cringed, reaching up to rub at that before snatching the milk, scattering several items around the shelf with a noisy reaction. Instead of cleaning it up, he shut the door, only to knock the freezer door open, which startled him enough to step back, swinging the gallon milk jug up and knocking it hard against the fridge door, causing the plastic to spilt open.

Grumbling, he poured the remaining milk content into a nearby glass container and left it there before returning to the kitchen island. Mr. James, after viewing the entire encounter, shook his head, entirely used to the uncoordinated mishaps his son encountered with such mundane tasks.

After he found himself mopping up a mess of spilt milk and cereal bits, Jake asked, “Gone up?”

“No. Lying on the floor.”

“On the floor?! Man, that guy. He always sleeps so weird.”

Mr. James finished off his first cup of coffee, and poured himself another, enjoying the scent of it. “What do you plan on doing, today?”

“Dunno. Hang out. Go `board somewhere. Bug Bart about his skinny pants. I'll just take the day as it comes.” Jake made himself a large bowl of cereal, mixing two brands together and digging in with less joy than he normally felt for the concoction. He bumped the bowl with his elbow, nearly upending the thing. When he reached out to straighten it, he tipped one side toward him, splashing its contents onto his shirt. He cursed, pulling wet material from his skin. His father snatched the full bowl away from his reach. “Ugh. This tastes gross today.”

“It disgusts me how you eat such things. Any normal person would reject that.”

“Ha, maybe that's my power, daddy-o. Eat weird things without a second glance,” Jake joked, then tossed his spoon aside. He ended up throwing it into the open glass container, in which he'd poured milk earlier. He winced and looked at his father to see if he'd noticed, but Mr. James was too busy enjoying his next sip of coffee. “Make me something substantial. Cook, old man!”

“I cannot. Go eat somewhere.”

“Give me money.”

“Use your allowance.”

“I used that the other night!” Jake sighed in a disheartened manner, frowning down at his cereal and using his finger to mash it around. “Ugh. I feel sick.”

“Susie usually cooks.”

“She's not here. She's out and about, and Go thinks he's single. That's what G said.”

Mr. James finished off his breakfast sandwich. “These things are okay if they're cooked thoroughly.”

“Dad, you throw them in the microwave for five minutes. Then you turn it upside down and cook for another five minutes. And they're gross. I had, like, ten of them before I realized that the bacon in them tastes like stringy dick.”

“You would know what stringy dick tastes like?”

“You know what I mean,” Jake emphasized with a roll of his eyes, exasperated that things had to be explained so explicitly to his father.

Grumbling because he didn't know, Mr. James finished off his second cup of coffee. “Go wake up Gone and see if he cooks.”

“That's right! He does!” Excited by the prospect, Jake turned and ambled out, not feeling good enough to race around his own house. Every movement encouraged some sort of yuckiness from his center, and he burped, morning breath and beer causing a bad mixture that made him grimace. He nearly retched, had he not caught himself at the sound of his father approaching the front hall to rummage in the closet there.

He walked into the living room, ducking to see where Gone was lying, amused to see him curled up on the floor. The teen was notorious for being a restless sleeper, making it quite impossible for anyone to share bed space anywhere near him. He used a foot to nudge at his back, interrupting a loud snore. But the very simple action nearly threw him off balance, and he bumped into the couch before he could stumble to the floor. The alcohol had his already sensitive coordination thrown off.

“Get up and cook us something,” he demanded.

“…Noooo…”

“Dad wants you to cook us something,” Jake emphasized his father's presence, as to keep Gone from mentioning the alcohol they'd consumed last night. The younger teen gave a groan, pulling an arm up to his face.

“I feel too gross. What time is it?”

“Almost, like, eleven. I dunno. Ten thirty?”

“…Noooo…too early…”

“Get up. I'm starving.”

“The thought of food makes me sick,” Gone muttered, woozily sitting up and blinking heavy eyelids. He covered his eyes as bright sunlight touched him the moment he stood up from the floor. A single hickie spotted his neck as well, smaller than the ones he'd planted on Jake.

Movement outside caught Jake's attention and he gave a wince at the sight of Go racing from his house to theirs, looking rather excited. “Uh-oh. Go's coming over.”

“What? He's usually not up until later,” Gone complained, blearily trying to fix the bed he'd mussed in the few hours he'd slept. He gave up and crawled onto it, curling into a ball as the nausea he felt caused him to feel miserable.

Jake reached out to push him, trying to encourage him to get up. “Dad! Go's here! Get the door!” he called out, yanking the blankets away.

“So early,” he heard him grumble as he complied.

“Get up before your dad makes you,” Jake warned Gone, pushing at him again, the other teen complaining as he pulled a pillow over his head.

Go walked in at the same instant Mr. James pulled the door open. “Morning everyone! You aren't up yet? I've been awake for hours! It's a beautiful day, why are you not enjoying it?”

“Excellent,” Mr. James muttered, cringing at the cheer and loudness in his friend's voice.

Go immediately went over to Gone and shook him roughly. “Get up. Get up, I have something to tell you. Argh, you are so lazy sometimes!”

Ignoring his complaints, Go easily swung his adopted son up and over his shoulder. Jake thought Gone was going to barf, the expression crossing over his friend's face and tingeing his skin green.

“Your friend, this Winston Tweedy, called earlier,” Go announced, easily fixing the bed with his free arm. He kicked the bed back into place, sloppy and lopsided as he searched for his bags. “He'll be over within the hour to meet with you.”

Jake frowned, feeling annoyed as Gone took on a bewildered expression. “Who?” Jake asked, a touch petulantly as he glared at Gone, silently looking for an explanation as to why that person was visiting him.

“Gone's friend. You don't know him, Jake?” Go asked, puzzled as he shifted around, Gone struggling to keep from throwing up with the positioning he was in. It took all he had to keep from doing so, even as he felt indignant at being handled.

“I know him,” Jake grumbled. “But why's he coming over?”

“I need to meet him,” Go announced. “I have had sources tell me that this kid was homo, so I need to make sure it isn't so.”

Mr. James rolled his eyes as he tossed the couch cushions back into place. “That's ridiculous.”

“Chase said he was, and Mitch said that he was performing a lot of unnecessary touching the night he was over,” Go complained, finding Gone's school bag and swinging that over his free shoulder.

“Chase is convinced the tooth fairy lives underneath his bed!”

“There are small enough Aliens to pass by as such, Hautta. There it is. Off we go! Thanks for watching him!” Go called over his shoulder as he found Gone's other bag and left with a determined step, his son complaining from his position.

Mr. James shut the door with a heavy sigh. “Do you not know this boy?”

“I do, but he's this stupid baseball jock from school. I think he's just trying to get his evil jock hands on G's homework abilities is all,” Jake grumbled.

“Huh.”

“I'mina brush my teeth and get changed,” Jake said quickly, racing off.

“Is he not allowed to have other friends?” Mr. James asked aloud, his son returning from his rampant stomp upstairs.

“It's not even that. Did you not hear me? I said, this evil jock's tryin' to get in to get him to do his homework.”

“Really.”

“I'm serious, dad! That's what they do! God, you know how that goes, don't you?”

Mr. James snorted. “Is it truly that? Or are you just jealous over the fact that he's branching out to others?”

“NO!” Jake snapped at him. “Gawd, why do people say that? I swear, when I have to drag home a kid all used over by the baseball jocks, I wanna hear you say that again.”

“You are too paranoid and overprotective, sometimes. It's a wonder that kid gets to breathe. If it isn't his father breathing down the back of his neck, it's either you or Chase.”

“Bah, bullshit. That's bullshit.”

“No cursing.”

“I'm changing! This is a ridiculous waste of my time!”

Amused, Mr. James lifted an eyebrow, hearing his son thunder upstairs to his room. Moments later, Jake returned, looking miffed.

“Okay, fine. FINE. Okay, maybe I do think too much like that. Maybe I should stop.” With a sigh, he picked up the handheld. “I'll just ask Bart to do it.”

Mr. James snatched the phone out of his hand. “Don't bother him with such a thing. Go make yourself some breakfast and wind down. Let the kid play with another friend, it's not going to hurt him. Or you.”

Grumbling, Jake took one look at the closed front door, and then shuffled back into the kitchen.

0o0o0o0

Gone stared down at the weapon he held in both hands, his knees shaking with anxiety. Tweedy noted the way he stood and gave a light chuckle, turning away from adjusting the pitching machine. He strode over quickly, and forced Gone to adjust his stance, noting with some surprise that his own fingers overlapped the other's wrists. His skin was warm and soft and he smelled good. Tweedy was embarrassed of his reaction, giving himself space lest he humiliated himself.

“Hold it up. Like this. Don't swing from this arm—you want to use this one just to guide it,” he instructed, stepping back against the fence and waiting for the first pitch.

“I can't,” Gone said quickly, lowering the bat and then leaping back once the neon yellow ball sliced through the air, hitting the gate beyond him. When the second pitch occurred, Gone cringed and ducked, dropping the bat.

Tweedy snatched up the bat and connected with the third pitch easily. “It's not going to hurt you. It's designed to throw steady over the plate, just so all you gotta do is swing at it,” he said, swinging at the next pitch. He posed himself accordingly, making sure Gone was watching. “You want to stand like this, knees bent.”

Uncomfortably, Gone shifted the helmet that he'd been required to wear inside the batting cage. He sighed, feeling his knees shake and his stomach continue to roil. Lack of sleep and the sheer horror of being taken to such a place had his nerves on end. He'd barely said more than a few words to Tweedy since the senior picked him up.

The batting cages were a small, locally owned place. Anthony's father happened to open it up for his friends during certain hours, and as such, the area was empty save for them.

“Here,” Tweedy said, once more shifting him back into place. Gone gripped the bat tightly within both hands and tried not to fret over balls flying at him. Tweedy didn't move away this time, instead, forcing him to swing at the next ball. Gone jerked in place, feeling the connection of bat and ball. But he felt more bewildered with the fact that Tweedy was touching him so much, even if it were for the sake of positioning. He could smell the other's cologne, feel the calluses on his hands, and feel the way his larger body rubbed against his. It made him uncomfortable to notice such things on another guy, his face starting to redden and his skin to go sweaty.

“Ha, ha, excellent! See? You can do it,” Tweedy said cheerfully, guiding his hands back into proper position and then pulling Gone's shoulders back. “Just imagine that ball being the head of somebody you don't like. And then swing at it.”

Too uncomfortable with the very notion, Gone grimaced. He did try to swing at the next ball, though, nearly losing the bat. Tweedy jumped out of the way, automatically protecting his privates. With a laugh, he gestured at Gone to re-position himself. Gone did so tentatively, holding tightly before swinging again.

“This is hard,” he managed to say between clenched teeth, wishing he were home.

“I figure it'd help in the long run,” Tweedy said, sidling up right behind him once again and using his own form to correct Gone's. Gone felt his face warm and redden with the proximity, his hands growing sweaty around the bat. “You just want to use this arm to pull the swing. Just…like…that! That was at least an infield shot.”

“This is heavy.”

“It's light,” Tweety said, forcing him back into position. “It's one of the lightest I have? My little sister uses it in fast-pitch.”

Gone grunted with the next pitch, startled that he was able to hit it. Tweedy released him and stood away, saying, “It's hard starting out, especially if you haven't done this before. But I think with some practice, you'd do awesome.”

“I'm not coordinated.”

“You just don't have the confidence,” Tweedy said cheerfully, giving an approving noise at the next effort. “It's totally okay. So, what sort of wild night did you have? You look a little bushed there, pal.”

Gone shifted the helmet out of his eyes. Tweedy jerked him out of the way of the ball, causing him to cringe. “Um, I—spent the night at Jake's. There was a, uh, SyFy marathon. Old school horror movies.”

“Your dad's some chipper guy,” Tweedy then said. Today he was wearing a pair of distressed jeans and a flannel shirt, the orange and green plaid matching his coloring. He was wearing his fave baseball cap, which was covered with the mandatory helmet that he had to wear inside the batting cages. He was currently having an internal battle with himself, over whether or not he should be worried about the reddish mark on Gone's neck. It looked like a hickey, and it was making his mind race over the way it made him feel.

Gone mumbled some noise, concentrating on the next swing. This time he lost the bat, the item sailing away before hitting the fence. Tweedy had to laugh, hurrying over to pick it up and turn the machine off.

“Well, that was a great start,” he said cheerfully. “Anyway, when I called this morning, I got the whole background check from him.”

“He's very nosey,” Gone muttered, rubbing his hands on his jeans.

“He sounds very…excitable,” Tweedy added.

“He can be,” Gone muttered, removing the helmet, revealing messy hair. Self-consciously he tried to finger comb it back into place. “Um, this is—”

“This isn't all we're doing today,” Tweedy said quickly, leading them out of the cage, setting the bat aside. He took Gone's helmet from him, hands over his in a brief brush of contact and Gone had to wonder if it were really necessary to be touched so much. “I just thought I'd give you a few pointers on handling a bat. But then again, I wouldn't mind it if you'd somehow take out that Marty Fellow. God, he's such a bitch.”

Picturing the heavyset junior, Gone winced at the thought of deliberately trying to `take him out'. He followed Tweedy as the other rustled around an open locker, withdrawing a couple of mitts. A little apprehensive by what was next, he barely caught the item as it was thrown to him. He was hesitant to stick his hand in there, scared at the thought of someone's sweat coming away on his fingers. Both of them then put on their winter jackets.

“I noticed you had an awesome throwing arm,” Tweedy said, leading them out of the cages and into a long hallway that would connect them to the outside. There was a wide open area of sidewalk and dirt that allowed space to throw. Tossing a neon yellow ball from hand to hand, he said, “My sis uses this. It's bigger than the men's ball, but it might be easier for you to catch. You can't miss seeing it.”

Gone had just stuffed his hand into the mitt, trying not to be repulsed by the very thought of someone else's sweat permeating his skin when Tweedy tossed him the ball. Gone ducked away from it instead.

“Last night we went to this party? And Anthony totally hooked up with that Leslie Miller. The girl with the big chest? Yeah, she was all pissed because she'd read in Starz that she and Jake were this big ole item,” Tweedy said with a laugh, waiting for Gone to throw the ball. Just as he thought, the younger teen did have a good throwing arm. “She was trying to find out who this `source' was that told the paps. She got into this thing with one of her friends about it. They didn't hook up, right?”

“Correct,” Gone said with a frown, unable to figure out how to work the mitt. He tried to catch the ball Tweedy threw underhanded at him, but it rolled off the fingers. “He thinks she's pretty, but there's no way she'd go for him.”

“Just `pretty'?”

“Well, I'm being nice,” Gone muttered, throwing the ball back.

“Ha, ha! Anyway, Anthony was like, dude, they're not real. Trust me. But in all actuality, I don't care for that sorta thing,” Tweedy confessed. He watched the other's face closely for some sign of expression or thought. “It scares me, y'know? Boobs?”

Gone shrugged. He tossed the ball back and caught the next throw, finding himself starting to relax with the menial actions. He had a feeling Tweedy wanted to say something to him, but he was just so unfamiliar with him that he wasn't sure.

“What about you?” Tweedy asked, rolling the ball toward him. It caught a crack in the sidewalk and bounced, but Gone managed to catch it before it could hit him. “Any interests in that sorta figure?”

“No,” Gone replied, cleaning the ball and mitt of accumulated dirt. He then tossed it back, wondering why this particular subject was being discussed.

“No crushes on anybody?”

Gone shrugged, feeling uncomfortable with the very subject.

“Those guys probably give you a rough time over liking somebody,” Tweedy said sarcastically.

Gone looked up as Tweedy approached him, tugging the mitt from his own hand. “It's cool you came out here,” he then said, indicating the bench nearby. “I didn't think you would. Well, I didn't think you had a choice, anyway. Your dad practically strapped you into my car.”

“He's very pushy,” Gone muttered, reddening at the memory of it.

“I see that,” Tweedy said on a chuckle. “I just wanted to hang out.”

Squinting at the snow ahead of them, Gone thought about what they'd done so far and felt better now that it was behind him. “I don't mind,” he said quietly. “Um, I'm just surprised that y-you'd want to do anything with me.”

“Same here. We come from, like, two different places, huh?” Tweedy said, adjusting his hat, so that all his hair was tucked inside. “I mean, I guess I'm this, like, jock and you're this…guy. That hardly does things.”

“I do things. Just…” Gone trailed off, suddenly uncomfortable with revealing himself. “I thought about what you said the other day. How I don't try things out for myself. So, I'm here.”

“That's awesome,” Tweedy said, finding that Gone's crowded teeth didn't bother him so much anymore. “I can't believe my words affected you so positively.”

“Well…yeah.”

“You and James get into a fight last night? Tommy was saying you two tore it up in there,” Tweedy then said, scratching at his nose while Gone grimaced, wondering if their words had been caught. “James really wrecked the place.”

“Kind of. It was a disagreement over things. And it wasn't him, it was me,” Gone added quickly. “I just got so angry that I threw this…this…tantrum?”

“You? I can't imagine you behaving like that.” Tweedy tried to picture the younger teen screaming like a toddler.

“Well, I don't hit, so I…throw things.”

“What he'd get you so worked up about?”

“Just things between us,” Gone mumbled, feeling discomfort at sharing his business with this virtual stranger.

“I can't imagine you being the type to, like, explode on people. Though I can see you mouthing off,” Tweedy added. “You and Bart get along like oil and water.”

Gone managed a small chuckle. “If he wasn't so snotty, I wouldn't be treating him the way that I do.”

“What does he do?”

“He's…mouthy. Just mouthy.”

“Holly Gellum has this huge thing for him. She's always trying to get information about him, but nobody knows a thing. He won't even talk to people? Kinda like you.”

“I talk when asked something.”

“See, that's the thing. How can someone say something to someone when they ain't even acknowledged? Y'know? I mean, saying `hi' here and there to people, or even looking up and smiling at them is a definite icebreaker,” Tweedy said. “You don't have to be friends with everyone, but it'd help if you exposed yourself out there.”

“I can't,” Gone said anxiously. “I can't. I don't want to. I'll only talk to people I know.”

“Why are you so afraid of things?” Tweedy pressed.

Gone didn't feel like answering, feeling threatened and pressured by this questioning. He was uncertain as to why Tweedy was pressing the matter and questioning himself as to why he was still here, `hanging out'. He wanted to be with Jake and Chase, doing whatever it was they were doing. Being that it was Saturday, they were probably outside somewhere, shooting hoops or snowboarding over on some of the local trails.

“It's probably because people pick on you a lot, huh?” Tweedy then said, answering his own question when Gone shut down. He leaned over, arm sliding on the back of the bench to say, “People aren't always going to be like that. You allow it, sometimes, by not doing anything? Those guys that talk about you are only jealous because you do things they don't. You have these wild and wacky friends, and they're boring and dull. Y'know? But you shouldn't have to hide from things just because they make you uncomfortable.”

Gone mumbled an affirmative, wondering why Tweedy had to sit so close. He wanted to move away, but then he didn't want that attention brought to him. He felt himself hunching in closer on himself, making himself as small as possible to avoid contact.

“I think you've been sheltered too much,” Tweedy continued, leaning back against the bench and wiping off a dirt smudge from Gone's jacket. He was a little surprised that Gone wasn't moving away from him, like any normal guy would do.

“What's this?” he then asked, poking at the reddish mark on his neck.

Gone cringed and slapped a hand over it, growing so red that Tweedy had to laugh, incredulous that this homely kid was able to get some from somebody.

“Who'd you get that from? You seeing somebody on the sly?”

“I—I, J-Jake and I were—we were pinching a—at each other's necks.”

“That's not a pinch, my friend. I'm telling you, as a guy that's seen this shit all the time, that's not a pinch. No, seriously, who're you seeing?” Tweedy asking, nodding to himself as he reaffirmed the very fact that the hickie was indeed what it was.

“I'm not seeing anybody! Why would anybody want me?” Gone squeaked, his voice shifting from one end to the other, making him sweat with mortification and horror.

“Does she go to our school?” Tweedy pressed, trying to picture him with one of the freshmen.

“It's not what it looks like! Um, I have to go—”

“No, no!” Tweedy caught his jacket before he could take off, pulling him back. “Okay, I won't give you any shit about it. Hey, c'mon, it's okay. I mean, we're teens, right? We all got these hormones and shit? If you don't wanna talk about it, I mean…just between us, she's gotta be this hideous creature, huh?”

“NO,” Gone answered, indignant at the thought. He realized he was going into defensive mode. He caught himself quickly. “I mean, I don't want to talk about it.”

“She the love of your life?” Tweedy joked. “How'd you guys meet?”

Gone shook his head at both questions, rubbing at his neck and feeling incredibly self-conscious by the attention it had brought. He'd hidden it from Go—he knew the man would know what it was immediately. But the scarf he brought was tucked away in his jacket pocket, forgotten.

“Hey, don't get all embarrassed. But usually people are all excited and happy about discussing their significant others,” Tweedy said, gesturing back at the building. “What's so different about yours?”

Gone pressed his lips together, thinking, He's a boy.

Tweedy suddenly grabbed his arm, going for the question he'd been waiting for. “You got a boyfriend, then? Is that it?”

Gone stammered a negative, giving a nod at the same time. Tweedy recognized the sign of a lie instantly, feeling himself nearly overheat at the given answer. He could barely believe it, wondering who it was among their school would hook up with this quiet, dorky kid. His breath nearly shook with excitement as he jammed his hands into his jacket pockets, trying to think of the most likely candidate for the boy's boyfriend.

Instantly he thought of Bart. How fashionable the teen was, how surly he was in public, how the two sniped at each other with barely any reserves. He was also from New Park City, where the gay population was on equal standing to the straight population. He nearly reacted with joy at knowing for sure that he wasn't alone in this small community. It felt as if a heavy weight had lifted from him.

Still, as he looked at Gone again, he wondered why this kid appealed to Bart. He was short, skinny, timid and anxious—yet maybe it was just the availability, he thought. Because there was no one else. Tweedy wondered if he could go for Bart, and just couldn't picture the possibility. But he could picture one with Gone, and that was only because it made him wonder what was so desirable about him.

He laughed aloud, reaching out to give him a one-armed hug, having to lean down to do so. “It's okay. Don't be mad. It's all good. Secret's safe with me.”

“Whatever you're thinking, it's not,” Gone insisted, pulling away quickly, face flaming. Tweedy kept touching him, and he was starting to grow uncomfortable with it every time it happened. He was starting to notice more things about him, and it made him self-conscious. The smell of him, the feel of his touch, the overwhelming sensation of being with a taller person. “It's not. I, uh, I'd rather just not discuss it.”

“It's that big guy isn't it? The one you're always fighting with.”

Gone gave him such a startled look that Tweedy was certain he'd been right.

“Don't tell him I said that,” Tweedy begged, but he had to laugh. He reached over to tug on his jacket, keeping his fingers there after, as if he were going to do it again. “Don't tell him, I know he'll kick my ass or something.”

Gone laughed, delighted that someone other than their small group of friends figured upon such a thing with Bart.

“What's up, guys?”

Both jumped at the sound of Anthony's voice, the other striding into the room with a bewildered expression as he looked first at Gone, then Tweedy. Tweedy quickly dropped his hold on Gone's jacket, wiping his hand on his jeans. With a strained smile as he lifted his bat bag from his shoulders, Anthony said, “I didn't know you were coming out here, buddy. What the hell?”

“Oh, uh, it's just, like, random. I thought you were up at your mom's this weekend,” Tweedy said, fidgeting, shifting away from Gone. Gone only looked to the floor as he wondered why Tweedy had gotten suddenly uncomfortable.

“Was. Fuckin' Aaron and his shitty friends showed up. They were camping nearby and decided to drop in, so I left. Came down here for some practice.” Anthony looked down at Gone. He almost sneered, giving his clothes and stature a onceover. “What's up, man? Didn't know you did this stuff.”

Gone mumbled something he didn't catch, so he frowned as he gave Tweedy a `What-The-Fuck?' expression, clearly demanding an explanation. Tweedy merely cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly.

“Well, we're heading out.”

“You are? Where you going?” Anthony asked forcefully, blocking their way. “Don't let me run you off if you're having fun.”

“Just…out. I mean, wherever. Chillax, geez.”

“You been practicing, buddy? Why don't you show me what Tweedy taught ya?” Anthony then asked Gone, pushing his bat his way to make him take it.

Gone shifted away, shaking his head as the room filled with sudden tension. Without saying anything he hurried toward the door, Anthony giving Tweedy an annoyed expression. He held his bat out to keep the other teen from racing after him.

“What the fuck, Tweedy? Why you hanging out with that joke?” Anthony demanded, loud enough for Gone to hear before he left.

“Look, we were just hanging out. What's the problem?”

“Sounds like you were having a ball. Seriously, Tweedy, tell me why? What's all special about that guy?”

“We were just talking! Why are you acting like it's a big problem? You and that Bellows should get together sometime and talk about it.”

“Fuck that Chase kid. I don't even like those guys. But you're hanging out with that one like it's nobody's business. What, I wasn't supposed to know you were with this kid?”

“Why are you all jay, Tony? Let it go. We're just hanging. Fuck.”

Anthony sneered at him, retrieving his helmet from a hook nearby, his name written clearly upon the lip. “Is that all? Maybe those guys are right, huh?”

“What?” Tweedy asked, facing him. “What?”

“Nothin'. Whatever. Go hang out with your new best friend, then, Champ.” With a snort, Anthony headed out to one of the cages. Tweedy glared after him, his face slowly reddening. He then grabbed Anthony's backpack and stalked out from the area, hurling the thing into the trash can nearby. He heard Anthony yell at him from inside the cages, but he ignored him and hurried off, to see if he could catch Gone before he got far.