Children of the Knight, Michael J. Bowler [classic book list txt] 📗

Lance understood, and it freaked him out because that’s one of the things that’d been troubling him this night, another reason why he couldn’t sleep. Besides his haunted past, he’d also been reflecting back to those early days not so long ago when it was just him and Arthur and no one else, back before he always had to prove himself to this kid or that one.

How much he enjoyed the ease of those initial days, the closeness he’d felt with Arthur. He knew now how much he’d needed that closeness and wished more than anything it could be that way again. After all, Arthur knew his secret and had accepted him anyway. Not just accepted him, embraced him. Trusted him. Maybe even…. No, don’t go that far.

“It was awesome,” he mused, smiling in spite of himself. “I like, showed him all around the city, taught him about cell phones and TV and trains and busses. Even got him on a swing at the park.”

Mark’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he laughed. “Man, that sounds great. You’re so lucky.”

Lance nodded. He was lucky, wasn’t he? Where would he be right now if he’d never met Arthur? On the streets? Looking for a safe place to sleep? Still hiding from himself? “He’s like nobody I ever knew before, you know?”

Mark nodded in agreement. “I know. All men ever want outta me is….” He stopped, let the thought trail off with a heavy, painful sigh. “Sometimes, Lance, I’d try to pretend they loved me, you know, just ’cause I was so lonely.”

The sadness pooling in those oceans of blue stabbed Lance straight through the heart. “I’m sorry, man” was all he could think to say, imagining how terrible it must’ve been out there, feeling his own humiliation and self-loathing. “I know about the lonely part, for sure.”

He looked long and hard at Mark, whose gaze had locked once more on the throne, his mind somewhere far away, and made a decision. He’d thought about it for too long already. He wanted to know. No, he needed to know.

“Mark, can I ask you something?”

Mark pulled his gaze from the throne and fixed his eyes on Lance. “Sure, anything.”

Lance hesitated, his heart rate increasing, his anxiety rising like volcanic lava. His fingers clutched at his tunic. “When, um, when did you, you know, like, realize you were gay?”

“I think I always knew, you know?” He shrugged. “I knew I was different. Not playing with dolls and girly stuff like that, but, I don’t know, when my dad kept wanting me to play sports with the boys, I didn’t want to.” He laughed. “I realized all I wanted to do was watch the boys play sports. I guess that’s when I kind of figured it out. For a while I kept telling myself I was bi, you know, so I wouldn’t have to admit it? But girls just didn’t do it for me.”

Lance nodded, uncertain how to respond since he’d broached the subject, especially given his own mixed-up thoughts and feelings. “I still can’t believe your parents just kicked you out like that, especially your mom.”

Mark laughed again, bitterly this time. “She was worse than my dad. He was kind a for, you know, hiding me in a closet from the neighbors. But she’s the one that told me if I didn’t decide right then and there to not be a faggot, I could get out and never come back. So, I never been back.”

“That sucks,” Lance said, feeling his own abandonment wash over him.

Mark turned his eyes back on Lance, and Lance noticed for the first time how long and almost delicate Mark’s lashes were.

“Can I ask you something?” Mark asked, almost shyly. “Something personal?”

Lance shrugged, oddly fascinated by those butterfly shaped lashes.

“Are you gay?” Mark asked softly.

Lance instantly averted his eyes, dropping his gaze to the floor, knowing his face had turned bright red with shame, and grateful for his flowing hair to cover it. He was going to deny it. He had to deny it! The denial was right there, right on the tip of his tongue! But what actually slipped out was a strangled, “I don’t know.”

He waited for Mark to laugh, but there was no laughter. Timidly, panic twisting his stomach into knots, he raised his eyes and peeked fearfully at Mark’s face. What he saw there stopped his breath in his throat—it wasn’t the mockery or condemnation he’d expected. It was understanding.

Mark placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Lance. It’s pretty common.”

Lance didn’t freak when Mark touched him, and the boy’s words almost made him do a double take. “It is?” He thought he was the only confused one.

Mark nodded, pulling his hand back. “I hear that a lot on the street, especially from guys that been raped by older men.”

Lance sucked in a shocked breath. “How’d you…?”

“It’s in your eyes, man,” Mark explained sadly, his voice sounding gentle and far away and laced with hurt. “It never goes away.” His blue eyes swam with tears, and he swiped at them with the sleeve of his tunic.

Lance watched him cry softly, wanting to reach out and comfort him, but he was too afraid.

“Am I a slut boy, Mark?” he whispered.

“What?” Mark asked in surprise, his eyes wide and blurred.

“That’s what Jack called himself, for, you know, doing what you guys were doing out there. But am I any better? I let Richard… do those things to me for three years! I didn’t run. I didn’t tell anyone.” His eyes welled up as he gazed despairing into Mark’s softly gentle face. “Can a six-year-old be a slut boy, Mark? Is that what I was?”

Mark shook his head, lightly grasped Lance’s hand, and squeezed.

The touch sent shivers through him, but he didn’t pull away.

“No, Lance, you’re a victim,” Mark said softly, “just like me and Jack. It wasn’t your fault, man. Don’t go there, please. You’ll hate yourself, and you’re way too cool to hate yourself.”

He smiled warmly, and Lance felt an unfamiliar surge of joy and acceptance, his eyes welling with tears.

“Thanks, Mark. Thanks a lot for saying that.”

Then they fell silent again, each lost in thought.

“Mark?” Lance finally broke the painful silence. “How will I, you know, figure it out, about what I am, I mean?”

Mark smiled sadly. “Give it time. You know that ole Beatles song ‘Let It Be’?”

Lance wiped his damp eyes and nodded.

“Just let it be, Lance,” Mark repeated, “and it’ll all work out the way it’s supposed to.”

“Thanks!” Lance was afraid he might start bawling any minute, feeling more grateful than he ever thought he could be. He’d been carrying those fears around for so long….

But then panic shot through him like a bullet. “Uh, Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“You won’t, you know, tell anyone about me, will you?” Lance fisted his tunic tightly, knowing he must look as desperate as he felt. “I mean, I’m First Knight and all and….”

Mark smiled tenderly and held up a clenched fist. “Our secret.” They did the fist bump.

Lance felt a warmth engulf him that he’d only previously experienced around Arthur. This boy, whom he’d dissed, accepted him just as he was, just as messed up and confused as he was! Unbelievable….

They sat again a moment before Lance said, “Can I ask you another question?”

“Anything.”

“Are you and Jack, well, you know….” Lance felt himself turn red.

“Boyfriends?” Mark finished for him, a twinkle of amusement in those amazing eyes.

Wholly embarrassed, Lance nodded.

“Naw,” Mark went on with a shake of his head. “He’s my best bud, though. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. Saved my ass a grip a times. Man, Lance, we been through it, him and me.” His blue eyes gleamed devilishly, and he grinned. “Why you asking? Interested?”

Lance turned so red he thought he might faint, but Mark laughed and gave him a playful shove. “Just kidding. He is hot, though, you gotta admit.”

Lance blushed again, but didn’t care anymore. Mark was his friend now, and friends didn’t care about stuff like that.

“I’m not gonna go there,” he said softly and they laughed, a simple, comfortable, easy laughter that settled into a comfortable silence.

“You’re pretty cute, yourself,” Mark practically whispered, casting a shy look Lance’s way.

Lance flipped his hair dramatically. “It’s the hair!” he proclaimed in self-mockery. “That’s what everyone says.”

Both boys cracked up. They were buds, now, like Mark was with Jack. Lance had never had a real friend, had never let himself be that vulnerable, but now he welcomed it. Now he recognized just how much he needed it.

But then his face darkened like storm clouds, his eyes dropping like the setting sun. He still had something to say—his conscience wouldn’t let him off the hook.

“Thanks, Mark, for, you know, everything. I feel so crappy hating on you guys, especially since I’m so messed up.” His gaze fell hard to the cold stone floor.

Mark threw one arm around Lance’s shoulders and grinned. “Hey, man, it’s all good. I mean, we’re brothers now, aren’t we?”

Lance snapped up his head and gaped. Of course they were! Wasn’t that what Arthur’s crusade was all about? How come he didn’t see it first?

“Yeah,” he agreed, “yeah, we are.” He threw his arm around Mark’s shoulders. “Brother.” They locked eyes a moment, smiled bashfully, and then turned to gaze absently at the throne.

And so they sat, arms around one another’s shoulders, each lost in his own thoughts, sharing the closeness of their newfound brotherhood, and just letting everything be, until they drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Neither of them woke when Jack padded out to the throne room wearing only his leather drawstring pants, but no shirt or shoes. He started looking around, and then stopped short when he saw the two boys together, asleep against the wall, arms draping each other’s shoulders, and he nearly lost his breath with despair.

“Oh, Mark,” he whispered, his stomach plummeting as he gazed sadly at the only boy he’d ever really loved, and with a heavy heart returned to his bedroll, where sleep would elude him for most of that long, painful night.

Jenny stood at her classroom door, welcoming her students. She had not seen Lance since Eucalyptus Park the previous week, nor had she seen this so-called King Arthur on the news anymore. But neither of them was far from her thoughts, no matter what she was doing.

As her students trickled into the room—tardy bells didn’t mean much to MTS students—she noticed other missing faces besides Lance. Uneven attendance had always been an issue at this school, but in the past few days, weeks maybe, kids seemed to have disappeared. Could this Arthur have anything to do with it, she wondered?

One of her better students, another skater named Khalil, stepped past her with a “’Morning, Ms. McMullen,” and headed to the corner to deposit his board. On a hunch, she followed.

“Say, Khalil,” she began. The handsome Jordanian boy turned around, his mass of bushy hair tied back as usual, his attire pure skater. “Have you seen Lance around at any of the usual skating places?”

“Pretty Boy?” Khalil replied.

“Yes.”

“No. Nobody’s seen ’im. He’s like the best around here too, so we kind a been wondering.” He shrugged.

“Thanks, Khalil, go ahead and put your board up.”

He nodded and went to the corner near her printer and stashed his skateboard. Jenny turned to welcome her other students, who