Gideon stood, stunned. After a spell he smiled. “Okay, Horace. No sweat. No sweat, at all.” Gideon turned his back to go, but stopped.

“It’s just wrong, Gideon.”

Horace had taken off his T-shirt, his back to Gideon.

“My, oh my, but you have been doing some developing.” Gideon stepped toward Horace. Gideon walked up behind Horace. His hands glided over the width of Horace’s shoulders as though he were checking a wing span.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Oh, come on. Nobody’s here.” Gideon wrapped his arms around Horace’s waist, placing his head on his shoulders, and releasing a catlike sigh.

“I said, quit, you faggot.” Horace grabbed Gideon’s hands and forced him back.

“Oh, Horace.” Gideon was almost laughing, and the fact that he thought Horace was kidding made him angrier. Once again he reached for Horace, this time for his hips. But Horace grabbed both hands, firmly, hoping he would cause him pain.

“I said quit, damn it.” His teeth were clenched.

They stood before one another. Slowly, it seemed, Gideon became aware of Horace’s seriousness.

Gideon snatched his hands away. “So, who pissed in your cornflakes, Cowboy?”

“Leave me alone, Gid. Just leave me the fuck alone.”

“Oh, come on, Horace. What’s gotten into you?” As if nothing had just happened, Gideon grabbed Horace by the wrists, and winked slyly, grinning. “Come on, let’s do it here. Right here. It’ll be great. No one’s here. Nobody will know.” He began pulling Horace toward the showers.

“Gideon!”

“Come on. It’ll be a turn-on.”

“Stop.”

“Oh, come on. I know you’ll like it. You want to. Come on.”

Horace hit Gideon. Full square in the mouth, so quickly he himself did not realize what he had done, so hard he could not doubt he meant to do it. But had he wanted to hit Gideon, or himself for not wanting to hit him? Gideon staggered; blood appeared on his lip. Tears welled up in his eyes, along with disbelief, rage, disappointment, betrayal, hurt. His open mouth formed an almost comical and silent O.

Horace noticed the blood and felt sick. Suddenly he wanted to rush to him, to grab him, to kiss him, to rock him and beg him for forgiveness. But he would not. Ever. And he steeled his jaw and looked away. “Sorry. But you wouldn’t stop.”

“Bastard. You fucking hit me.”

“I can’t, Gid. Not anymore. It’s just wrong.”

“Why did you fucking hit me?”

“I told you. You shouldn’t have grabbed me.”