but nothing stays easy

[candle_beck]

Extensive notes and soundtrack

Part One

Pictures courtesy bradausmus12 and Jen's Baseball Page





The Rest of Your Life
By Candle Beck

Part the Second: Meantimes

(stay the same)

Things start to Get Weird when they’re fifteen years old.

Munson gets taller at a steadily rapid pace, reaching his full height a couple months before his sixteenth birthday, all arms and legs. Chavez’s growth spurt comes late, so his best friend’s got a half a foot on him for most of that summer. Munce takes advantage of it by constantly throwing his arm around Chavez’s neck and pinning Chavez’s head high against his chest, razzing and knuckling his hair until Chavvy kicks his legs out from under him and escapes.

Eric Chavez is having strange dreams. He dreams a lot about rain and a lot about baseball, same as he always has, but there’s started to be a point, every couple of nights, when his dreams will get abstract and heated.

It’s not much that does it. It’s the image of hands, shaded depressions between knuckles, the traced curves of fortune lines and the delicate webs of skin separating fingers. And the bumps of a spine outlined against a white T-shirt, small cups of ashy gray. And the long movement of forearm muscles and the sweep at the nape of a neck, an uneven fringe of hair rustling on a shirt collar. And a wife-beater pulled tight over a hard stomach. And an unspecific warmth near him, close enough to touch.

No faces and no names, only occasionally distinct enough for Eric’s unconscious mind to be aware that these pictures are almost unilaterally masculine, but he doesn’t really remember that when he wakes up, trembling and drenched in sweat and more often than not achingly hard.

It’s hot that summer, in the high nineties every day and not slacking off much once the sun goes down. They ride their bikes everywhere, racing each other down the shallow hills, and play basketball shirtless in the park where they first met each other, trash-talking and slapping hands on bare chests to spin off and break for the hoop. They sit on the curb in front of the 7-Eleven, wearing the scabs on their knees with war-wound pride, passing nuclear-green bottles of Gatorade back and forth, the wind drying the perspiration on their bodies. Neither of them has gotten a haircut since school ended, Chavvy’s growing faster and curling a bit at the ends, Munson’s just getting thicker and wilder, because it’s summer and they’ve got no reason to look clean-cut, not until September.

They still sleep in the same bed, when they’re over at Chavez’s house on the weekends, the fold-out couch in the living room, because that way they can stay up real late watching movies, falling asleep with the Indiana Jones theme stuck in their heads, and the night when they watched ‘Arachnophobia’ and then Eric’s two brothers snuck in while they were asleep and put a huge black rubber spider, eight legs bristling and shiny red glass eyes, on the mattress between their two pillows, the whole house awakened by Chavez’s crystal-shattering screeches at six in the morning.

The fold-out is pulled out of the red-and-orange plaid couch, and they know the spots where the springs jab through the thin padding, the weak place in the mattress forming a dip that Munson’s always rolling into during the night. They’re up till two or three in the morning, Friday, Saturday nights, talking low in the dark room, long after they’ve turned off the television and settled in, until finally they nod off. Chavez sleeps like a rock on his stomach, his face half-smothered in the pillow, and Munson is restless and tossing, flinging his arms around and kicking the sheets, mumbling in his sleep so regularly that it doesn’t even wake Chavvy up anymore.

In the morning, they stir slowly, whoever wakes first lying there impatiently for maybe five minutes, shifting minutely to hear the old springs squeak, before nudging the other awake. And they switch off on whose turn it is to get breakfast, one of them stumbling up and shaking off the covers, padding to the kitchen and pouring bowls of cereal, and they eat sitting cross-legged on the bed, knees knocking, watching cartoons with half-lidded eyes and figuring out what they’re gonna do that day.

None of this seems strange to them; it’s the way it’s always been.

When Munson’s sleeping over, Chavez doesn’t dream, or at least not that he remembers.

Things are Getting Weird, though. It’s subtle. You’d have to be one of the two of them to be able to even notice it, because it’s very unobtrusive. Just occasionally these pauses in the conversation that weren’t there before, this strange . . . awareness of each other.

Sometimes they’ll be hanging out, just like normal, watching television on the couch, and Chavez will pull a leg up, folding it under himself and Munson will suddenly be terribly cognizant of Chavez’s knee against his own leg, a circle of heat, almost wanting to shift away because it feels like it should be awkward, but it’s never been awkward before, so what the fuck.

Or when they’ll be in the bleachers at the Jack Murph and Chavez will find himself watching Munson’s mouth, his lips pursed around the straw of his Coke, and it’ll be like Chavez is transfixed, unable to look away, until the wooden crack of a base hit startles him out of it.

They get into dumb fights sometimes. They hold grudges for a week or two, sullenly, until they forget what they’re supposed to be mad about or a new video game comes out and they have to pool their resources to see if they can afford it.

Right after a fight happens, and one of them storms out pissed off and shouting obscenities over his shoulder, trying to get the last word, sometimes Chavez thinks about hitting Munson, for real this time, pushing him up against a wall. Chavez runs his tongue across his teeth and imagines how it’d feel when Munson hits him back.

But Munson’s gotten taller than Chavez. He doesn’t want to find out if Munson’s stronger too, or tougher, or anything like that. Still. Sometimes he thinks about that.

There’s a breathless hesitation between them, like they’re held on the edge of something, over a cliff or the highway overpass or the river where the rapids get bad. Something.

They ignore it, best they can, and go about their life. They’re fifteen years old and scowl whenever anyone calls them ‘boys.’

They’ve finished their cereal one Sunday morning, the empty bowls with shallow lakes of sugary milk pushed under the fold-out, arguing about the manager of the San Diego Padres and his recent decisions on pitching match-ups late in the game.

“Man, how can you say you want White in there against left-handed hitters?” Chavez asks exasperatedly, his hair ragging crazily, a sleep crease on his cheek. “It’s gotta be Rodriguez, I mean, obviously.”

Munce makes a scornful noise. “Not obviously. Rodriguez’s given up more dingers than anybody in the ‘pen. And White’s slider, dude, it’s so nasty to lefties, the way it tails in. ’specially with men on, he’s gonna strike out, like, half the guys he faces.”

Chavez jabs his elbow lightly into Munson’s side, needling him. “Yeah, but the second White puts anyone on himself, he totally folds.”

Munson pushes him back, both of them in their sweats and T-shirts, Munson wearing socks because he’s got a thing about his feet being cold at night. “You fold,” he retorts intelligently, the best argument to fall back on. “Like a lawn chair.”

Chavez makes a mock outraged sound, and loops a lazy right hook at his friend, spurring a tussled wrestling match across the bed, rolling over the sheets and crumpled pillows, the tired springs of the fold-out squealing, high-pitched.

Eventually, Munson fights his way on top, making the most of his longer reach and the heavy width of his chest. If Chavez hikes up his knee, if he throws an elbow or drives his head up into Munson’s face, he could get free, but this isn’t a real fight. This is just for fun. It’s sorta good to have the options, though.

Munson is holding him down by his shoulders, his knees pressed into Chavez’s sides, and god knows what Munson’s gonna do next, so Chavez gasps, “’Kay, truce, truce, fuckin’ truce.”

Munson hoots in victory and his body loses its tension, molding down onto Chavvy, taking a moment to get his wind back

Munson’s head is tucked into Chavez’s neck, his hair prickly on the underside of Chavvy’s jaw. Munce is still snickering and strange thoughts are wicking like a broken film strip across Chavez’s mind. He sees Munson spitting angrily on the sidewalk and kicking Chavez’s bike over because they’ve gotten into another stupid fight. He sees Munson the way he looked asleep just a little while ago, his mouth open and his forehead clear. He sees Munson, his silhouette punched out against the faded screen of the sky, Munson standing on the jumping-off rock at the beach, flexing and posing, grinning and calling out Chavvy’s name.

Chavvy shivers slightly, inhaling the specific scent of his best friend that he never realized he had memorized. Munce’s lips are moving against his throat, saying something, but there’s nothing but white noise in Chavez’s ears, huge rush of tidal static. Sweat breaks out in the small of Chavez’s back, the back of his neck, and his skin fevers quickly as he amazingly, mortifyingly, feels himself go suddenly hard.

And so does Munson.

Munson falls silent, stills, his breath falling curiously, and Chavvy is hotter than he’s ever been in his life, imagining sparks and bonfires. Munson is motionless for an epic spell of time, considering, and then he slowly draws his hand from Chavez’s side to Chavez’s stomach, flattening his palm, and Munce’s fingers are strong and warm.

Chavez panics, heaves up and throws Munson off. He rolls away and sits up, drawing his legs to his chest, his face bright red.

There’s a long moment when neither of them say anything, and all Chavez can hear is the whistling rasp of his own breath, feeling horrified and caught.

“Hey,” Munce says hesitantly, his hand fluttering over Chavez’s curved back like a crippled bird. “Hey, it happens, Chavvy, don’t freak out, okay.”

Chavez shakes his head tightly, not turning around to face him. So fucking stupid, so sick, how could that happen? “Shut the fuck up, Munson,” he snaps, his voice wavering. “And . . . and get out.”

There’s no answer, and Chavez presses his forehead to his knees, wanting to punch him, no doubt now, wanting to pop his knuckles and feel Munson’s skin break on his fist. Chavez half-screams, “Get the fuck out of here!”

And Munson goes, still in his sleep clothes, forgetting his shoes and running away in his socks, which turns out to be a good thing, because he shuffles back a couple hours later, red-faced with downcast eyes, round holes in the fabric over his heels, the soles of his feet filthy, and by then Chavez has calmed down enough to let him back in, let him stay to play Nintendo and not talk for about two hours until it’s far enough behind them that they can start laughing and insulting each other again, and he doesn’t even have to tell Munson not to say a fucking thing, ‘cause Munce doesn’t even try to.

*

(chance)

Eric Munson’s asleep. It’s a school night, and it’s also two in the morning, so being asleep makes sense.

They’re sixteen years old.

He’s dreaming, in frantic vivid colors, with the sound shattered and in fragments. He’s dreaming about surfing, the muscles in his arms twitching unconsciously as he strokes through the shrink-wrapped waves, salt water in his mouth and drying in his hair. The seagulls are dive-bombing him, going for his eyes. Their beaks open and they screech at him, terrible closed-throat sound of metal squealing on metal.

He snaps awake.

He lays there for a moment tense and confused, and then the rusty squeal happens again, and he rolls over on his back, sees Chavez’s face in the window, pale and ghostly. Chavez is popping the screen out with the screwdriver they keep under the bush for that purpose, pushing the window farther open and flattening his hands on the sill, moving like a gymnast as he hikes himself up and into the room, landing cat-soft.

Munson rubs his eyes with his fists, yawning into the crook of his elbow. Chavez comes to sit on the edge of the bed, pushes at Munson’s shoulder with his hand.

“Hey Munce,” he says low, grinning nervously and starting to joggle his leg spastically, his knee dancing.

“Hey man,” Munson replies, his voice blurred, everything fuzzy at the edges.

Chavvy is jittery, darting his eyes around. He punches Munson a few times on his bare shoulder, before Munce makes an irritated noise and bats his hand away.

“What’re you doing here?” Munson asks, curious not angry, and still dragged deep by the ocean from his dream.

Chavez’s manic smile falters a bit, then resurfaces brighter and stranger than ever. His eyes are wide and terribly dry, like he’s panicked. “I . . . I think I went all the way with Laurie tonight.”

Munson blinks, his world going slow for a moment. Chavez has been semi-dating Laurie for the better part of a month. She’s got light blonde hair and thin watery green eyes, is on the swimming team and loves Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Kurt Vonnegut. When Chavez tells her about how he and Munson are gonna play in the big leagues someday, she nods and looks away, and Munce knows she doesn’t believe it.

Munson doesn’t like Laurie, and he’s never bothered to hide that fact from his best friend. As Chavez himself is fond of claiming brashly, “Bros before hos, dude.” Chavez doesn’t seem to care, doesn’t put the three of them in the same room very often.

Munson pushes up on an elbow. “You think?”

Chavez brays out a wild little laugh, sounding a bit hysterical. He rubs his palms fast up and down his jeans. “I did. I did go all the way with her.”

Munce knows what’s expected of him, the congratulations and the tell-me-everything details, but he’s tired. And now his stomach hurts a little bit, a sick throb like when he’s run past his breath, heaving in air.

He nods, watching the shadows move over Chavez’s shoulders, looking for evidence of it, just had sex for the first time, it’s got to show up somewhere. But Chavvy looks the same as ever, spiky-haired and his cheekbones in high relief, his eyes bird-dark.

“Cool. Good for you.” Munson lies back down, searching the cracks in the ceiling.

This weird space between them, held on by the skin of their teeth, the broken parts, waiting for something.

Chavez peers down at him, his gaze still tense, skittering over Munson’s face, the smooth plane of his friend’s chest visible above the thin sheet. Then Chavez’s mouth goes tight, flashes of white in his eyes. “And?” he says shortly.

Munson narrows his eyes. “The fuck do you want me to say?”

Chavez’s lip curls up meanly. “Some best friend you are,” he spits out.

Kind of wanting to hit him, Munce balls up his hands into fists under the sheet. “Your best friend is fucking tired, Eric,” he answers. “It’s two o’clock in the goddamn morning. Us virgins need our sleep.” He sneers it, feeling cruel, cut loose, and rolls over onto his side, facing the wall. “So get fucking lost, how ‘bout?”

The sheet draws across his shoulder, running a clean slant across his back. There’s a long long time that’s soundless and awful. There should be a chance, there should be something.

Munson hears Chavez catch his breath and Munson holds himself perfectly still, his heartbeat stuttering in his chest. He feels Chavez shift on the bed, feels the warmth of Chavez’s hand hovering a millimeter above his body for a moment, and Munson exhales shakily as Chavez’s hand alights on the bare skin of his back, his fingertips patterned into the notches of Munson’s spine.

If he rolls over, Chavez’s hand will be on his chest. If he rolls over, he’ll see Chavez’s jet-black eyes and one of them will have to explain this.

“Munce . . .” Chavvy whispers hoarsely, hissing, and Munson squeezes his eyes shut, feeling nothing but Chavez’s hand resting so soft on his back.

Munson sees everything, their lives one instead of two.

“Don’t,” Munson hears himself saying, something small breaking in his throat.

Chavez’s hand jerks away, snatched quick like a gasp, one of his nails scoring a shallow white line on Munson’s skin. Chavez is up off the bed and Munson watches his shadow moving fluidly on the wall, sweet and fast and out the window in one clean motion, and Munson listens to the sound of his best friend sprinting across the lawn, listens to the struggle of his own heart, and if he’s cold now, it’s only because the window is still open.

*

(no fall baseball)

Chavez goes crazy in November. He’s still sixteen, at least for another month, and Munson is already seventeen, that brief time of every year when Munce can lord the hardly-even-counts difference in their ages over him.

Everything, just everything goes wrong at the same time, one long heart-wrenching nightmare of a week.

Junior year is harder than it should be. Harder than school’s ever been before. He’s got nothing like an attention span and gets held after school three days in a row because he keeps falling asleep in Western Civ and trig.

Everyone’s talking about college, taking the SATs, going on trips to the East Coast, up and down the coast to all the UCs, and Eric Chavez isn’t thinking about it. Because he’s going to be drafted, he’s going to be a big leaguer, but it’s November and it’s difficult to remember that. Everybody’s making plans and drawing their lives out on white paper, and he’s still playing a kid’s game and imagining that this could count as being grown up.

His car, his beloved yellow Volvo four-door, is on its last legs, swiftly approaching the point where the cost of repair will be more than the value of the car itself. The car’s older than he is, but that doesn’t make it easier, every morning wilder and wilder with frustration, cursing the coughing engine and slamming his hand on the wheel.

His parents are fighting, fighting bad, for the first time that he can remember, and family dinners are silent, wicked with tension. Eric doesn’t know the source of the problem between his good-natured father and his kind wise mother, but it’s sent shockwaves through the house, made them all anxious and scared.

He asks his dad, one evening with the football game going on in the background, what’s so wrong, but Cesar won’t look at him, feigns perfect ignorance as he tells his son, “Nothing’s wrong, shortstuff, me and your mom are fine.” But Eric hears their bedroom door snick closed and then the voices rising through the walls, lying in bed listening to it and staring at the ceiling, and he hears his father stalking down the hallway a few bad hours later, sees the blanket and mashed pillow on the living room couch in the morning. Eric Chavez knows at least as many kids with divorced parents as otherwise, and his chest is tight all the time.

He looks at the pinched faces of his brothers and sister and feels this immense inchoate love in his throat, wants to take them away and take that fear from their eyes, protect them because he’s supposed to be the strong one, and there’s nothing he can do.

Laurie, his first real girlfriend, breaks up with him with a quiet kind of cruelty he would not have thought her capable of, shredding him, because he’s not good enough and he should have known that, he should have seen this coming. She never even looks at him anymore, laughing with her friends on the quad and throwing her hair back, and he wasn’t in love with her or anything like that, but he might have been, if she’d have only given him the chance.

He’s angry with Eric Munson almost all the time, and never for any good reason. Chavez doesn’t know what’s going on with him, but he knows it’s not right, the way he watches Munson and wants to pin him against something, the way he doesn’t sleep at night and stares at Munson’s hands on the steering wheel with sick fascination. He knows it’s not right.

Mainly, though, more than anything else, Major League Baseball had gone on strike that August, and completely demolished his heart. He and Munson had steadfastly turned a blind eye that summer, as the labor talks disintegrated and the strike loomed nearer and nearer. Never happen, they said, reassuring themselves, taking their certainty from each other’s eyes. No way. It’ll get worked out, it’ll be fine. It was beyond comprehension.

There’d been no World Series and neither Eric has recovered, but Eric Chavez took it especially hard. There’s this gaping empty spot in his mind, an interruption of a hundred years of steady figures and statistics. The San Diego Padres were twenty-three games under .500 when the games stopped, but who knows, who knows.

No fall baseball and no solid ground for Chavvy to stand on. He’s never had to get through a winter without spring waiting for him, and he’s not sure if he’s got it in him.

It’s all this and then it’s also all this trivial shit, nothing going his way.

The rare late-autumn rains are sneaking through southern California and Chavez hates the rain, can’t stand it. He wants it to be warm, wants it to be clear and good weather for surfing, knowing he’s spoiled by the year-round perfection of the sky but not caring. He wants his goddamn summer back.

He loses stuff that’s very important to him, old newspaper clippings tucked behind the money in his wallet, the Marvin the Martian keychain that his grandpa gave him for his ninth birthday, his lucky watch with the red band and the silver face, he fucking loves that watch. He doesn’t know how it happens, he turns his back and stuff disappears. He looks everywhere, under car seats and in the crack between the couch and the wall, but never finds any of it.

He’s running late, all the time, on edge and he can’t get his life together, he can’t make anything hold still long enough to get a good grip.

He wakes up each day feeling worn to the bone, exhausted, a wretched stun of insomnia breaking up his nights, restless sleep and bad dreams. He’s getting skinnier, no appetite, and sometimes his hands shake so hard it spurs into his body and he feels like he’s coming to pieces.

Munce is careful around him, keeping his voice gentle and inoffensive, trying to cheer Chavez up with mild jokes and silly faces from the shotgun seat, but not enough to piss Chavvy off, temper running short and hot. He lets Chavez be mad at him when Chavez wants to be, lets Chavez shove him away and steal the gum out of his backpack and never says anything, because there’s more going wrong than just the wrong between them.

Munson knows that this string of bad luck, this long awful day, will fade away eventually, maybe when the rain blows off, maybe when they camp out in the desert for New Year’s, maybe when the baseball team starts practicing again. All a friend can do is wait it out, make sure he knows where to stand to break Chavez’s fall.

And then Jesse DiMartino, a sweet shy boy in their class who everybody likes, who went to the same summer daycamp as Chavez when they were kids, always giving Chavez two of the four Oreos in his lunch, unheard of seven year old generosity, Jesse DiMartino dies in a horrific car wreck on a Thursday night, and that’s pretty much all Chavvy can take.

The announcement comes over the P.A. as they’re playing desktop football in homeroom, their teacher slouched down in his chair with his eyes closed, almost snoring. Munce is ahead five field goals to none and they’re not talking, Chavez’s mouth taut and ready to bite his head off if he gloats even a little bit.

The grave voice that breaks the hushed rumble of conversation is rustling with static, and it’s not fair and it’s a thing that’ll break your heart, and there’s a collective inhalation, and Munson can’t do anything but watch as his friend collapses.

It’s Chavez’s eyes first, this slow crumble, shock and anger and despair, and then his face, his tense mouth falling slack, his eyebrows bending down and the muscle in his jaw going weak. And Munson watches as it sinks down, dropping Chavez’s shoulders into defeated slumps, rolling inward, caving around his chest. Chavez’s hands on the desktop go limp, and his whole body sags forward, his eyes flickering closed.

“Ricky?” Munson whispers, reaching out but not touching him. He hasn’t called Chavez that in probably four years, and didn’t expect to say it now, but there it is, hanging in the air between them.

Chavez’s lips press together, forming a hair-thin line, and his eyes open, Munson shifting back in surprise, because Chavez’s eyes are blazing.

“Jesse? Did . . . did he just say that Jesse . . . he’s . . .” Chavvy trails off. A girl in the corner of the room is crying quietly, everyone else sitting back, stunned and drained.

“I’m sorry, man,” Munce says stupidly, can’t think of anything else. Chavez stares at him, but Munson doesn’t think he’s seeing anything.

Suddenly Chavez bolts up, his chair screeching back on the tile floor, the whole room starting, snapping their heads around, big round eyes staring, some glimmering, some glassy with unexpected grief. Chavez half-runs out of the room, slamming into an empty desk near the door and crashing it onto its side. When he hits the hallway, he starts to sprint, the slap of his footfalls echoing.

Munson’s up without even thinking, almost out the door before he remembers himself and wrenches back around, catching his teacher’s shell-shocked eyes and gesturing foolishly out the door, inarticulate and stammering, “I gotta . . . he’s, he can’t . . . I’m sorry, but I have to-”

His teacher holds up a hand, sorrow making him look very old, cutting him off. “Go.”

Before he does, Munce rights the fallen desk, and notices that his hands are shaking.

He dashes down the hall, bursts out the double doors into the gray morning. The school-day world, as always, is eerily still and silent, and he looks around frantically, catching a glimpse of Chavez’s favorite red jacket, winking into the trees that border the western side of campus.

Munson takes off after him, finding his right stride quickly, this he knows how to do, this he’s good at. His legs like pistons and his breath coming short and rapid, Munce dashes across the grass and pounds over the asphalt, his eyes fixed on the postage stamp of red wrecking through the woods.

“Chavvy!” he yells wildly, but his friend doesn’t even pause, so Munson finds an extra pennant-race rush of speed, leaping over a fallen tree trunk split open by a charred lightning-struck gash.

Munson chases him down. Munson’s still faster.

He crashes into Chavez’s back, arms flinging around Chavez’s chest, and comes to a skidding halt, nearly going headlong onto the ground. Chavez strains against his hold, his chest rising and falling too fast, trying to break free, and Chavez is weeping, crying so hard.

“Let me go!” Chavez screams, almost pulling free before Munson fists his hands in his shirt and hauls him back into a fierce embrace. Munson’s panting, gasping for air, and he shakes his head roughly, his neck popping.

Chavez whirls to face him, his shirt ripping in Munson’s grip, and batters Munson’s chest with his fists, the blows landing like rain, insensate. “Let go of me, you motherfucker!”

Munce keeps shaking his head, crying himself now. He’s so scared, he’s never seen his friend like this. “No, no,” he manages, his breath hot in his lungs, searing. He holds Chavvy as tight as he can, saying into Chavez’s shoulder, “Please don’t run away anymore, please stay here.”

Chavez breaks, falls to his knees, dragging Munson down with him. Chavez’s arms come around Munson, still crying like he can wash himself clean this way, scalding wetness on Munson’s neck and the collar of his shirt.

Munson’s out of his mind, running frantic hands up and down Chavez’s back and through his hair, trying to calm him down, feeling futile and whispering into his ear, “No, hey, it’s okay, look, I got you, it’s okay, please, man, breathe, all right, okay, just breathe.”

Munson needs to fix this, because everything’s gone wrong for Chavez and it’s Munson’s job to make it right again. Their chests, flush together, rise and fall in rhythm, and they’re both trembling so bad.

Munson burrows his face against Chavez’s neck, murmuring “shh, shh,” the sound of it like the wind stripping through the trees, and, because he can’t think of anything else to do, he presses his lips to the pulse in Chavez’s throat, then the soft flesh on the underside of his jaw, then his cheek, still boy-smooth, and Chavvy is falling apart in his arms, hyperventilating, so Munson covers Chavez’s mouth with his own and thinks disjointedly, ‘breathe for him.’

Chavez gasps against his lips, jerks away, but a microsecond later, he’s back, kissing Munson with everything in him, wrapping his arms even tighter and locking their bodies together.

Munson kisses him back, blind or insane or something along those lines, not quite registering you’re kissing your best friend, not registering you’re kissing your best friend with tongue, and not registering this is the best thing you’ve ever felt.

He tastes tears on his tongue, not sure whose they are. He tastes orange juice and maple syrup, and feels Chavez’s hands slide up under his T-shirt, Chavez’s palms skating across the skin of his back and Munson moans into his best friend’s mouth.

He pushes Chavez’s red jacket off his shoulders, and sweeps his hands through Chavez’s hair, positioning his head at a good angle, sinking against him and Chavez is sucking on his tongue. Munson’s mind is spinning, astonished, the surface of his skin tingling and alight. Munson can’t help it, can’t stand it, and his hips thrust forward, their belt buckles clinking, a groan vibrating between them, and that’s across some line because they suddenly break apart.

His equilibrium shot, Munce sways drunkenly, then falls, his back thumping onto the soft ground and Chavez slumping forward, face against Munson’s chest, snuffling and still crying a little bit and trying to find his wind again.

Munson heaves in great ragged blasts of air and stares in wonderment up into the trees, the gray sky in shards and glittering silver stars fuzzing his vision. Chavez is very warm on top of him, their legs tangled together.

“Chavvy,” he says without realizing he’s speaking aloud. “Chavvy, Jesus.”

Chavez wipes his face dry on Munson’s shirt, leans up to kiss him again, savagely, life-or-death, and there are tears in Munson’s eyes again, terrified because he knows he can save Chavez, but he’s not sure if he can save them both.

“Munce, no, don’t worry,” Chavez mumbles, licking his neck and nosing against his ear. “It was gonna happen anyway, I’ve been waiting, so don’t worry, don’t worry.”

Munson hugs him tightly, more strength in his arms than ever before, his face in Chavez’s hair and Chavez’s hand rubbing slow figure-eights on his stomach, and Munson watches the weak sunlight filter through the clouds and if they go crazy, at least they’ll go together.

*

(the light under his eyes)

So it becomes this thing. This weird side-note to their life, something forgotten and remembered at inconvenient moments, like a twenty dollar bill in the back pocket of a pair of jeans that hardly ever get worn. An indrawn breath in the backs of their minds. They’ll go about all the normal stuff, school, baseball in the park, the beach, family dinners, but then these strange . . . interludes. Hallucinations.

And Munson will find himself in Chavvy’s dying car, pulled halfway across the seat with the gearshift jabbing painfully into his leg, his hand wrenched in Chavez’s shirt, and Chavez’s mouth streaking slow and wet across his neck.

Or he’ll be pressed against the wall in the stall of a school bathroom, and Chavez’s leg hiked up so that his knee is propped on the wall and tucked against Munson’s hip, bodies tight together, Chavez’s hand on his face and Chavez’s tongue in his mouth.

Moments out of time. Dreamlike, yeah, surreal.

And it’s always there, this constant thought, a buzzing fearful drone that rises to near hysteria when Chavez steps close to Munson or tips his head to the side and runs the tip of his tongue across his lips thoughtlessly, Munson frantic with it: is he gonna kiss me again? Not even trusting himself, the second question: am I gonna kiss him again?

Color to his day.

They don’t talk about it, not since the morning after Jesse DiMartino died, and they didn’t really talk about it then. Everything’s the same, except all this disastrous stuff Munson knows about his best friend now, stuff he never expected to know, never thought he wanted to know.

They just make out, nothing more than that, kid stuff, because eventually Munce will get embarrassed and push Chavvy away, blushing violently and trying to play it off like wrestling, sneak attacks, a bad joke. Or Chavez will pull back suddenly, his face red for a totally different reason, and immediately make some space between the two of them, his eyes resolutely focused forward and his knees pressed together, hands twisted, breathing with deep intent for a couple of minutes before he meets Munson’s gaze again.

It’s too hot, you know, it’s too much.

Then one night, three in the morning rolls around and they’re watching old Cheers reruns on Channel Two, and Chavez’s hand is all at once on Munson’s leg, palming his kneecap. Munce goes tense, his own hand contracting in the couch cushion, and Chavez’s hand slides up, a soft shifting cloth sound. Munson turns his head and Chavvy is there to catch Munce’s mouth with his own, and it’s happening again.

Soon enough, Munson is half-reclined on the couch, paranoid and listening for the creak of the floorboards upstairs warning that someone’s coming down, and Munson is dumb with confusion and not even token-resisting, because it still feels so fucking good. He likes the strength in Chavvy’s back under his hands, the hardness of his arms, the shuddery little pushes against Munson’s body and the swiftly-familiar heat of his best friend.

Munson can’t figure it out, but he fucking loves Eric’s body, maybe because he loves everything about him, but this never even occurred to him, honestly, never did.

And Chavez’s hand is gripped warmly on his thigh, and Munson bites Chavez’s lip, feels Chavez groan and feels Chavez’s hand move all the way up.

Munson inhales sharply, stealing the air out of Chavez’s lungs, because they’ve never done that before, gone that far, not that serious, just messing around. And Munson is going to push him away in a second, regain his sanity and then inform Chavvy firmly that that’s not cool, that’s more than Munson wants, but Chavvy’s hand, curious and finding its way by instinct, wraps carefully around him through the material of his sweatpants and starts to move, slow. So slow.

That changes things.

After, Munson’s panting and already half-asleep, because it’s been awhile since that’s happened with a second person involved, and Chavez kisses him softly on the mouth, leaves him on the couch alone, pads up to his bedroom, not extending the fold-out, not coming down for breakfast in the morning. Munce wakes up disoriented in Chavez’s living room but with Chavez not there, and bikes home through the December sunrise with his socks in his pockets and untied shoelaces, sick with shame.

He takes a shower and gets dressed, and borrows his dad’s pick-up, driving around aimlessly all day long, breaking the law at every available opportunity and trying to think his way out of this.

He comes to a decision out by the old mission, or thinks he does, anyway. It’s an issue of being tough, he tells himself. It’s not being a punk. He watches the sun begin its fall into the ocean, as slow as ice melting, and thinks that they talk about everything, they’ve always talked about everything

Munson drives back to Rancho Penasquitos, parks in front of Chavez’s house and hollers a greeting to Cesar as he comes in through the back, Eric’s father hailing back. Munce thumps up the stairs and bangs through Chavez’s bedroom door, asking without pausing because that’s the only way he’s going to get it out:

“Are you gay?”

Chavvy, sitting at his desk with a messy carpet of papers spread out before him (midterms are coming, Munson realizes, Munce hasn’t even being paying attention), snaps his head up, startled. Then his face sets itself and he says, menacingly low, “You wanna close the motherfucking door, Munson?”

Munce flushes, grins apologetically and pulls the door shut. “Sorry. But, are you?”

Chavez throws down his pen and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He scowls, his eyes dark and hard. “No. Are you?”

Munson shakes his head emphatically. “No.”

They stare each other down for a moment, then Munson sighs, the side of his mouth crooking up. “All right, at least one of us is definitely lying. And I think it’s you.”

Chavvy snorts. “‘Cause you’re so fucking reluctant all the time.”

Munce’s eyes widen, his mouth already open, because he is reluctant, he doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, he’s so messed up, but then he remembers that Chavvy doesn’t know any of that, because Munson has never said a word about it. He’s just thought about it so much that it feels as if he has.

Munson goes over to sit on the bed, Chavez spinning his chair to keep facing him. Munce pulls his hands through his hair and stares down at his feet as he says, “Just seems like . . . like you’re not . . . surprised by this. Like it’s not weird for you.”

He waves his hand vaguely between the two of them to indicate ‘this,’ this latest bizarre twist to their friendship.

He sneaks a look and Chavez’s eyebrows are raised, his expression carefully blank. “This is weird for you?”

Munson starts to nod, then stops, turns it into a shrug. That’s not what they’re talking about right now; it’s important to stay on topic.

Chavez exhales noisily, scratching at the wood of his desk with his thumbnail. He glowers down at his hand like he’s angry with it, and says haltingly, “I . . . I’m not gay. You know I like girls. I just . . . sometimes, I . . . like guys too. Occasionally. Not that often. Maybe, like, ten percent of the time.” He pauses, clears his throat as if to say more, but then shuts his mouth, his ears dull red with embarrassment.

“So, it’s not just me,” Munson says, mostly to himself, but Chavvy catches it and slants him a caustic grin.

“Sorry to kill your ego, man.” Chavvy chews on his lower lip for a moment, hesitant. “What about you?”

Munce keeps his eyes studiously away, moving his shoulders uncomfortably. “I . . . don’t really know.”

It’s true, because Munson, really, Munson doesn’t have the first fucking clue what’s going on in his head these days. It’s not just that he’s never wanted another guy before, it’s that sometimes he doesn’t even want Chavvy, when it gets too strange and too hot, when he wishes they were just best friends again and had never started fucking everything up.

But now also there are days when all Munson cares about are the forgotten sleepwalking make-out sessions with Chavez, times when all he can see are the lean choreographic bodies of the teenaged skateboarders down by the pier, the wide shoulders of the college boys who surf at the same beach he does, the scruffy unfinished grins of his teammates at Mt. Carmel, now that he knows what it’s like to kiss another guy, knows how it’s different but the same, sometimes it’s all Munson can think about. Like homosexuality is contagious, like when Chavez decided to be gay, Munce had no choice but to go along with him.

Chavvy starts to say something, stops, then starts again, eyes trained on the carpet. “Well, do you . . . wanna stop?” His voice picks up, gets professional and efficient, but he’s still not looking up. “Because I think I probably could. Stop. If you wanted. It wouldn’t be such a big deal.”

And Munce hears himself saying without even thinking, “No,” doesn’t realize it’s true until it’s out of his mouth, and Chavez is looking at him in mild shock. But it is true, he doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t want to lose this, not this soon, it’s only been a month, he hasn’t gotten enough of his best friend yet.

He continues quietly, “I don’t want to stop. I . . . like it. It’s weird, ‘cause it’s you. But . . . you’ve always been weird.”

Chavez lifts his head then, grins at him, and something small and important gives way in Munson’s chest.

“So . . . we’re still good?” Chavez asks, some of the room’s withheld tension draining off.

Munce nods. “Still good.”

Chavvy cocks an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna freak out like you did this morning?”

Munson narrows his eyes. “How would you know? You weren’t even there this morning.”

Chavez laughs. “Yeah, but you freaked out, didn’t you? Don’t play like you didn’t, dude.”

Munson shrugs noncommittally, looking away in innocence, mainly just to hear Chavez laugh again. He brings his eyes back to see Chavez rubbing a hand across his mouth, considering, inspecting him closely.

“You’re not gonna freak out again?” Chavez repeats, something under his words.

Eyeing him suspiciously, Munson answers cautiously, his tone dropping a notch or two, “Depends on what happens.”

And Chavez, sitting nonchalantly with his legs sprawling open, pierces Munce with a steady black gaze, asks, “What if I suck your dick?”

Munson, all of a sudden, can’t breathe to save his life. He stares at his friend, can’t believe Eric really just said that, that that really just happened. Munce tries to swallow, but his throat’s closed off, his mouth dry. He makes an unintelligible growling sound that was supposed to be actual words and ended up all consonants, choked out.

Munce forces a swallow down, tries again, unable to summon his voice to be more than a rasp, “Um . . . ah, yeah. You . . . you could try that. Sure.”

Eric grins again, way too good-looking for anybody’s good, and a predatory glint to his smile. He stands, his chair rolling back and bumping the desk, and locks the door, hesitates before hitting the light switch, the room crashing into darkness.

Now they can’t see each other clearly, barely at all, but Munce watches Chavvy’s undefined form coming to him, sees the young-bright spark of his best friend’s eyes, and Chavez gets down on his knees before him.

“Jesus,” Munson manages, his eyes gaping, disbelieving. He wonders if Chavez is going to want the same from him. He wonders if he’ll be able to. But he doesn’t have to worry about that yet, not for another couple of minutes at least. He lifts a hand, so nervous he’s shaking, and touches his fingertips to Chavez’s temple before pulling back quickly like he’s been burned.

Chavez puts his hands on Munson’s knees, tapping contemplatively on the curved ridge of bone, and Munson’s eyes are adjusting, picking out the angle of Chavez’s jaw and the hook of his ear. There’s a horizontal stripe of light from under the bedroom door, reflected in the mirror over the dresser and thrown back onto Chavez’s face, just under his eyes. Munson leans down and kisses him fiercely, holding Chavez’s head in his hands.

Chavez lets Munson do what he wants, his hands already on Munson’s belt, fingers worming in between leather and skin. Munce is dizzy when he breaks away, and Chavez is pulling open his belt, whispering, “Don’t freak out, Munce, it’s gonna be good.”

Chavez flattens a hand to Munson’s chest and pushes him to lie flat, and Chavez moves forward on his knees, breathing fast and shallow, licking his lips. Munson rests his forearm across his eyes and wonders for a moment if they’ve figured this out yet.

*

(broken)

They go camping out in the desert for New Year’s a couple weeks later (the eighth consecutive year, their favorite tradition, though everyone thinks they’re crazy, it’s fucking freezing in the desert this time of year), and fall asleep sticky with bruised mouths in the same sleeping bag.

Then Munson, still the most restless sleeper on the face of the planet and awkwardly constrained by the tight confines, jacks his elbow into Chavez’s face unconsciously and breaks his nose.

Munce drives them out of the desert to the hospital, not doing a very good job holding back his laughter, because Chavez has got his head tilted back and a T-shirt-swaddled icepack on the bridge of his nose, swearing at him extravagantly in a hilariously high-pitched nasal whine.

Chavez gets his revenge, though, because the shirt he used to stop the blood flow is one of Munson’s best.

Before his nose gets broken, though, before his eyes are ringed like a raccoon’s with matching shiners, before he wishes pestilence and plague down on Eric Munson on the way to the hospital, Eric Chavez remembers lying in the sleeping bag, gauzily drunk and staring up at their little tent’s zippered moon roof. Munce is wound close to him, arm across Chavez’s stomach, face pressed to Chavez’s shoulder, almost snoring, humid exhalations. Munson keeps shifting, trying to kick his legs, trying to squirm closer, then farther away, making little discontented noises about his restricted range of motion.

Chavez is staring up at the patch of oily sky, thinking about this three-hours-old year, thinking about how unpredictable his life has become.

Munson stirs, jerks, and pushes his face harder against Chavvy’s shoulder, mumbling, “’ric?”

Chavez smiles, angling a look down at his friend. Munson’s eyes are closed, a hair-thin line across his forehead. “Yeah babe,” he whispers, and Munson sighs.

“Eric,” Munce says again, just making sure, and then falls all the way back asleep.

Eric Chavez is in the middle of nowhere, his life uncertain and complicated as only a seventeen year old boy’s can be, but he’s okay, for now, he’s got all he could have wished for himself.

They get along better now. Chavez isn’t thinking about hitting Munson so much anymore. They’ve come up with better ways to spend their time. Most of the comfort and ease has returned to their everyday dealings, because stuff’s been settled, at least a little bit, at least theoretically, which is good enough for both of them.

When classes start again in January, they’re Eric and Eric again, Eric times two, Eric-squared, popular and winning and waiting for the baseball season to start. None of their classmates, their other friends, notice that anything has changed, because the two of them have always been basically indivisible. On the rare occasions when they’re not together, people look at them quizzically, ask them if they’ve gotten haircuts or are wearing new shirts, because they don’t look right.

They both date girls, because they both still like girls. They never came to an agreement about this, it just sort of worked out. Their . . . whatever (which is how Eric Chavez has taken to thinking about it in a rather stunning display of conscious avoidance) is something different, something separate, and it can’t be touched by the sweet pacific girls who laugh at their jokes and never find it odd that every date is a double date.

They get really good at their whatever, though. Spare moments, free afternoons, cutting class, they refine each other and practice the causes of incoherence. A dirty-minded competition to see who can give a better blowjob, possibly the most fun of all the games they’ve ever played. A week of the buttoning their shirts all the way up to the neck, hiding the marks.

The first time they actually fuck (because it’s a point of pride that they never do anything halfway), it takes them three tries to get it right and Chavez starts to cry in the middle when it’s finally happening. Munson stops, stricken, and Chavvy shakes his head, his lips pressed into a thread and tears running sideways out his eyes, wet on his ears.

“It’s okay, Munce,” he tells his friend, short of breath, and Munson leans down, Chavez’s leg slipping off his shoulder and falling into the bend of Munson’s braced arm. Munce licks at Chavez’s face, the warm rough of his tongue on the tender skin under Chavez’s eyes, the fragile shield of his bottom eyelids. Munce starts to move again, and Chavvy pushes up, fitting them together. He wraps a hand around Munson’s bicep and Munson kisses his closed eyes, touches their foreheads.

They avoid each other for a week after that, neither of them really knowing why.

And when Chavez finally comes to find him, in Munson’s bedroom with his parents out of town for the weekend, they face each other and Chavez holds him by the wrists, looking older than he should, brilliantly aware. Munson feels Chavez’s thumbs, light on the tendon ridges, and frees himself to unbutton his shirt. The window blinds cast a shadow cage on his chest and Chavvy’s hands key around Munson’s hips. Munce swallows, turns around in Chavez’s hold, pulling one of Chavez’s hands around to his stomach and tilting a bit, his back against Chavez’s chest, Chavvy inhaling sharply.

By the time Munce’s face is wrenched in the mattress, and Chavez’s mouth is moving damply across his shoulder blades and the back of his neck, by the time Chavez has got one arm curled airlessly around Munson’s chest and the other following the line of Munson’s, his hand on Munson’s fist, by the time they’re even again, all Munson can think is, ‘oh,’ simple and amazed.

It’s okay, Munson’s decided, because it’s Eric. Eric Chavez has always made a perfect and unquestioned kind of sense to him.

Having come to terms with it to each other, if to no one else and maybe not even in their own minds, it becomes a foregone conclusion. Eric Munson doesn’t shy away; Eric Chavez doesn’t try to stop when it gets too heavy.

The screen is permanently off Munce’s bedroom window. They don’t sleep on the fold-out anymore, because yeah, probably Chavez’s family would think that was kind of strange, at this point. They spread out a decoy sleeping bag on Chavvy’s floor, denting a pillow to give the impression that it’s been slept upon, and keep the door locked.

It’s bizarrely normal. It fits into their life effortlessly. It makes Eric Chavez wonder why it took them so fucking long to get on with it.

It makes him wonder how long this could possibly last.

*

(solve for x)

One night in June, in the middle of finals, they get out and drive south for a long time. They’re running on fumes, their eyes red and gritty, and they haven’t gotten more than a couple hours sleep at any one time in two weeks.

When they find a turnoff and a view of the desert all the way to the smeary opiate lights of Tijuana, Chavez is crawling into the back before the car’s even all the way stopped, clocking Munson on the chin with his knee as he clambers between the seats. Seventeen years old and just shy of six gangly feet tall, but Eric Chavez is always forgetting and tunneling himself all legs and shoulders into places where he shouldn’t fit.

Munson unbuckles his seat belt and peers over his shoulder, rubbing his chin. Chavez is making himself comfortable, kicking chem and calc textbooks to the floor, stuffing a stray baseball cap on the wedge of shelf under the back windshield. Chavez’s shoes are in the front seat because he wears shoes as seldom as possible, and his hair is poking up everywhere, his eyes swollen and tired.

“Well, come on, what’re you waiting for?” Chavez asks, pushing at Munson’s arm with his socked foot.

Munson half-grins. “The backseat, dude? That’s kinda cliché.”

Chavez leans forward, bites Munson’s shirt sleeve and pulls it out, looking like a sweet rabid puppy of some kind, his teeth sharp. “Not a cliché,” he answers with his teeth still clenched together, certain sounds lost. “Is a classic.”

Smirking, flattening his hand on a stick-out curve of hair over Chavez’s temple, Munson says, “I like your euphemisms.”

Chavez releases his bite. “Big words, bro, you sure you didn’t study too much?”

Munson pops the car door open, because he can’t fold himself and wriggle between car seats with the same awkward grace of Chavez, and the heat rolls in. “Do me a favor? Don’t call me bro while we’re being all euphemistic in the backseat.”

He steps out, and closes the door on Chavez’s laughter.

Munson takes a moment, out where the air is high and as thin as a dime, gravel crunching beneath his shoes and his hands on the roof of the car. There are those gnarled desert trees, with gray knuckles on the branches and prickly needle bursts. It’s baseball-warm and quiet, nature things creaking all around him. He looks up for the Big Dipper, his summer constellation, and Chavez’s foot thumps beckoningly on the window from inside.

Munson grins, and climbs into the backseat.

Chavez’s mitt is wedged in the space between the seat and the door, and Munson would make some little comment about why is it that everything Chavez owns ends up getting left in Munson’s car, but Chavez is scrambling on top of him and happily pushing up Munson’s shirt and Munson can feel the leather on his back, so he shuts up and kisses his best friend.

They shift around each other and get jeans unbuttoned, boxers scrunched out of the way, hands squeaking around, and Chavez’s foot keep banging on the door. Munson thinks about clichés and that maybe there’s a reason that this is a cliché, because it’s awesome. Chavez pushes his hips down against him and Munson groans, clonking his head on the window and Chavez is licking his chest, fingers scratching and rubbing on Munson’s stomach.

Munson’s sleep-deprived and calculus formulas are swirling in his mind. He’s thinking about differential equations and he’s seeing graphs in his mind, the x-axis, the y-axis shooting up, a blur of geometric shapes and numbers and Chavez is hard, grinding against him and making little surprised noises in the back of his throat, his breath hot on Munson’s throat.

Munson thinks about how strange it is that gay sex has become such a big part of his life so quickly. You’d think a huge crisis in sexuality would at least have been kind of gradual. But it’s not a crisis, and he’s not really gay. He doesn’t feel gay. He doesn’t feel anything except this, this backseat cliché and Eric doing that thing with his hand again, that swipe of his thumb, and Munson keens back, not even registering when Chavez’s foot hits the door again and kicks it open.

He might have blacked out for a little bit, but that probably was more about all the late-nights he’s been pulling to force conceptual mathematics and the European Reformation into his brain. He swims back down and there’s a wet spot on his hip and Chavez is slumped on top of him with his feet hanging out the door.

Munson kisses Chavez’s head, feeling altogether excellent, peaceful and floaty and exhausted, not minding the way Chavez’s chin is digging into his sternum, or the sweat beading on his forehead and soaking into his collar, not minding the knot on the back of his head or the ache in his bent neck.

Chavez mumbles something incoherent and then starts chewing toothlessly on Munson’s collarbone. He’s got quite the oral fixation happening recently, but it’s not like Munson’s complaining. He moves his hands across Chavez’s back, hot bare skin because his shirt is on the floor with their textbooks, and pats Chavez’s hair.

They’re like that for awhile and Munson never wants to move. This, it’s perfect.

Chavez eventually groans and pushes himself up, though, looking in bemusement at the open car door. He leans out to pull it closed and then settles himself back against it, one leg bent on the seat and the other on the floor, his foot crumpling up the pages of his chem text. Munson sits up himself and winds an arm around Chavez’s crooked leg, fiddling with the seam of his jeans. Chavez is looking at him all shadow-eyed and wet-mouthed, sweat sheened on his skin and his jeans still unbuttoned.

“Study breaks rock.”

Munson smiles. “That they do.” He kisses Chavez’s knee, feeling kinda like a tool, but Chavez looks absurdly pleased with it, biting back a stupid grin.

Chavez, poster-child for short attention spans, pulls the baseball cap from under the back windshield and messes around with it, snapping open the back and then pressing it closed again, over and over. He keeps looking at Munson, a strange joyful expression on his face.

Munson gets self-conscious, flicking at Chavez’s jeans. “What?” he asks uncomfortably. “With the, the . . . staring?”

Chavez shrugs, doesn’t look away. He tugs the hat onto his head, which should look stupid considering his bare chest and everything, but really, definitely, does not. Munson licks his lips and he can’t see Chavez’s eyes anymore, they’re hidden.

“Freak,” he mutters, and Chavez grins then, looks so happy it makes something hurt in Munson’s chest.

“You have no idea, man,” Chavez says, and whatever it is that makes Chavez smile like that, Munson doesn’t know and doesn’t care, because it’s just like it should be.

Munson leans forward, hugging Chavez’s knee to his chest, and turns the brim of the cap around backwards so that he can kiss him, his hand on Chavez’s chest and sliding down over his ribs and Eric Chavez laughs against his lips, like he’s got a secret or at least he thinks he does, and Munson wants to write things on the steam-fogged car windows, write reversed hieroglyphic letters that can be read from the outside, all sorts of stupid stuff and all the things that’ll never get said out loud, drive around like that through the summer and go with Chavez to Mexico and fuck in the backseat and never do anything for the rest of his life except this.

(end part two)

*

Part Three