Stories of an Old Boy

By: XPud
(© 2018 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

xpud@tickiestories.us

Chapter 15

I don’t get it--I don’t understand what’s going on. I don’t just black out like that; I even remember my dreams. Every one of them. But--but the last thing I can recall is talking to Michael, and now I’m here. What the hell?

“Phillip!!” my mother gasps. “You’re awake! Herbert, page the doctor, quick!” Mom leans over me and hugs me tightly, planting kisses on my cheeks.

“Isabel, he’s opened his eyes a few times already; that doesn’t mean he’s--”

“I’m awake, I’m here. What the hell is going on?” I ask. Or, rather, I try to ask that; all that comes out is “Mmmng.”

“Page the doctor, now! He’s making sound!” Mom’s voice is insistent.

Dad hesitates, but caves in, pushing a glowing red button near my bed, just in the corner of my vision. I try to turn to see him, but everything feels like jelly; it takes a genuine effort to push through the invisible foam surrounding my body just to look at him. I notice that he is standing next to one of those IV stands with all the saline drips and stuff for when someone is hooked up to all the machines in a hospital. The tubes go down and around, and up and...oh. Into my arm. Well, that explains a bit. Prompts even more questions, but it’s a start.

When my eyes meet Dad’s, he gives a look of genuine surprise before concealing it in soothing confidence. “Hey there, Sport,” Dad says reassuringly, holding and rubbing my hand gently.

I feel completely emotionally numb. Rationally, it looks like I’m in the hospital and was unconscious, and I’m confused as to why. As far as feeling any of that, though, the best I can do is look at Dad’s smile and notice that he hasn’t shaved in a few days. The feel of his hand on mine is comforting, though, so I focus in on the sensation.

“My boy. My sweet, wonderful, beautiful boy,” Mom intones as she strokes my hair with her long fingernails.

I try to speak again, but it feels as if I’d sucked on silica gel packs: everything is dry and practically glued together. With a phenomenal effort of will, I manage to croak out, “Mmm...Mumm?”

Mom positions herself more centrally in my field of vision. “Yes, honey, I’m right here. I’m with you, darling.”

I don’t have the energy to try talking again, so I rest my head and let the sensations of the hand-rubbing and hair-stroking occupy my mind for a restful moment until I hear a smooth alto voice say, “Good afternoon, Mr. Bontemps.” I lift my head slowly and stiffly to see the source of the voice: a dark-skinned woman with very short curly black hair, wearing seafoam green scrubs. She puts a finger close to my face, which I follow as it moves around. “An impressive shift in responsiveness, from unconscious to tracking audiovisual stimuli. That’s a very good sign, Phillip. You’re clearly a remarkable boy.”

I muster up my courage and try for speech again. “H...huhllo.” I open my jaw slowly, working the muscles up and down, testing their responsiveness. They seem to be working okay, if weak and sore; it’s the words themselves that are hard. “Um.” Having worked through the fuzziness, I try to ask her name, but all I manage to say is a decently clear, “You?”

“Dr. Wells.” She takes a moment to check the variety of machines around and about me, and then focuses her attention back to me. “Use your left hand and touch my finger.” She holds a finger out, which I delicately reach up and touch. “Good, now the right.” We do the same dance, the tubes in my right arm causing no interference. My coordination seems okay, now that the fuzz is clearing out of my brain. “Good,” she continues. “Lift your left leg...good. Now the right...excellent. You’re incredibly lucky, young man; most people can’t even find their legs at this point. Very good. Can you tell me your name?”

“Phillip.” I’m slower to enunciate it than normal, but I know my damn name, woman--you said it, Mom said it, I just said it...

“How old are you?”

“Thousand...no. Twelve.” Wow, really, Phillip? Just make yourself look like an idiot and tell everyone about your biggest secret--good job.

“That’s okay, just a word mistake. No problem. What number comes after three?”

“Four.”

“And what is ten plus five?”

“Five. Ten. Teen? Fiveteen.” That is absolutely NOT the word. It’s like that, but it’s not that. What the hell?!

“Can you say, ‘fifteen’ for me?” she asks in the same tone of voice as before.

“Fifteen.” Right, of course that’s the word.

The doctor gives me a surveying sort of look. “Can you describe how you are feeling, Phillip?”

“Um, hard. No. Move...hard. What--rrgh!” Oh my God, why can’t I say how I’m feeling?

Dr. Wells shares a look with my mother and says, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Bontemps.” Turning back to me, she explains, “You may be experiencing aphasia, which makes it harder to form words, but it’s no reason for concern right now. You’re recovering extremely rapidly, all things considered, so a few hiccups here and there are bound to happen, and are most likely temporary.”

“Why...uh...” Good fucking God--this is annoying! Please, just tell me why I’m here!

“It happens when certain areas of the brain are recovering from things like being in a coma. Like I said, it’s--”

“No! Why...me, uh...here?” Jesus, I sound stupid.

“Phillip, please, honey.” Mom takes my other hand in hers. “Listen. You’re at the hospital because you’ve been in a coma. The school called and said another student found you outside having a seizure, and when the doctors got it under control, you went into a coma. It’s okay now; don’t stress out over it. You’re gonna be okay now.”

I’ve been in a coma? How the holy fuck does that happen?! I don’t even lose consciousness when I die! This is insane! I eventually get out the words, “Bu--uh...t-time?”

Mom says, “It’s about 3:00 right now--”

“Isabel.” Dad gives her a meaningful look before looking at me with the characteristic ‘bad news’ face. “Phillip, you’ve been in a coma for a little over a week, about 10 days.”

“Nuh...no. How? No...” This time, those are the only words I can really think, anyway. I’m completely lost.

“Don’t worry, baby, don’t worry. You’re fine now.” Mom slowly caresses my forehead as she’s speaking to me.

Almost two fucking weeks just missing out of my life. And I had a seizure?! I’ve been all different ages of my life multiple times, and I’ve never had a seizure. Or a coma! The thought scares me more than I’m comfortable admitting.

The doctor turns to my parents. “I’m going to send the nurse in to inform you of the next steps we need to take. They’ll be in very shortly.” And with that, she steps out.

So, I have a confession to make. I was in hospitals a few times in my first life, but I did every single thing I could to avoid them once I had the choice. I really, really hate hospitals. It’s not that they’re a breeding ground for all sorts of shit--that part is gross to think about, but I’m not a huge germophobe--it’s just that I have a certain visceral hatred of the invasiveness, the oppressively sterile atmosphere, the fact that I feel more like an object to be discussed than a person, the fact that when I’m in a hospital, I feel at my most vulnerable...I led a damn healthy life when I had the option, and when you have the ability to fine-tune every action you make, injuries are a thing of the far past. So this whole fiasco here has to go. I can just return back to figure out what the hell triggered this whole event and fix it.

I close my eyes and reach into that special frame of mind where I can rewind, and open my eyes slowly. Nothing has changed.

The nurse steps in, a larger guy with wavy reddish hair and a bushy beard. “Good afternoon!” he says jovially. “I hear we have another pair of open eyes in the room today.”

Okay, don’t panic. Just think about what happened right before I was talking to Michael. What was it again? I was...

“Phillip? Can you hear us?” my mother asks sweetly.

I can’t remember what happened before that conversation. I...I must have been at school, right? Maybe I can just rewind farther than that. I try to rewind all the way back to a moment I remember a few weeks ago. I mean, it was me jacking off, but that’s not exactly an uncommon moment.

“Phillip...” Dad says in a sing-song voice.

I...I can’t rewind. I can’t rewind! Why can’t I go back?! “Back! Go...back!”

The nurse completely ignores me. “So this is the process when a comatose patient regains full awareness. Since he appears to have aphasia, we’re also going to suggest that you refer him...”

“Back...!” I cry out, tears filling my eyes. I don’t even know why I’m trying to tell them anything; I can’t articulate a single sentence, and even if I could, I’d just sound delusional if I told them that I lost the ability to go back in time. My mother continues stroking my hair and rubbing my arm as the realization wells up within me and out through my eyes that, for the first time in hundreds of years, I feel completely, hopelessly powerless.

I lie back in bed, tears flowing freely out of the corners of my eyes, welling in my ears and spilling out onto the pillow. My foggy mind races as best it can to come up with reasons, solutions, the way things are going to change, what I’ll have to do...but all it does is encourage more tears when it comes up with nothing, no answers for the million burning questions.

There’s one easy question I can ask, though. “Matty?”

Mom looks at me with one of those ‘Oh, you’re just adorable’ sorts of faces and pats my arm. “Matty is fine. He knows that you’re in the hospital; he came to visit on the weekend and a few times when his mom had a chance to drop him off. He really is a wonderful boy.”

“I...want...see--to see...Matty.” Finally--a decent sentence.

“I’ll call Ms. Petersen and let her and Matty know the good news. It’s Thursday now, so Matty may be able to come by tomorrow. We have some important things to worry about for now, though, so I want you to cooperate with the doctors the best you can. Okay, honey?” She squeezes my hand encouragingly.

“Okay.”

A smile blossoms on her face, and she leans in to kiss my forehead. “I’m so glad you’re awake, Phillip. Everything will be okay.” I’m beginning to think she’s saying that to herself as much as to me.

They tell my parents (and me in the third person) it’s not as bad as it could have been for a variety of reasons: I’m still a child, I didn’t receive traumatic injury (to their knowledge), and since I was only in a coma for a “short” time, they said my speed of recovery is likely indicative of regaining full function in a few months. As my brain continues to clear, I busy myself with checking all of my muscles. They’re not in terrible shape, but I’ve only been out for a little over a week. I take the time to move each muscle as I can, slowly working the stiffness out of each of them. Speaking of stiffness, I notice a certain bulk in my groin underneath the crappy hospital gown. I check with my un-tubed arm, moving the gown away to expose a similarly flimsy, crappy blue diaper (okay, not literally crappy, but I can only assume they’ve been changing me for quite some time now).

“Do you need to use the restroom, Phillip?” my mother asks. Other than her use of “restroom” instead of “potty,” I can remember times that Mom said nearly exactly that to me, in almost the same tone, when I was younger. Hm. So I can remember that just fine, which is good. I seem to have long-term recall in place, just not this most recent vitally important chunk.

“No,” I respond simply.

“All right. Just let me know; I can get the doctors to come help you.”

“I go. Me. Okay.” What’s the word for when you don’t want anyone else with you? “Um...own. Lone.” Close enough. This ‘aphasia’ bullshit is pissing me off.

“Yes, but you’re probably still weak from being asleep for so long. It would be better if someone helped you.”

“Um...you?”

She smiles. “Yes, of course, dear. Just let me know.”

It occurs to me that, at this moment, I’m basically a 12-year-old toddler who’s been around for a millennium. THAT’s a weird irony to think about. I’m not going to lie and say that I don’t want to just piss myself since I have a diaper on, but that thing looks like it couldn’t hold a fart. That, and I don’t want to worry anybody and possibly delay my discharge.

Sorry, that pun wasn’t intended.

Later that day, the doctor comes back in and sits down next to my bed with a series of large pictures underneath one arm. “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Bontemps, Phillip. I know it’s almost dinner time, but since you’re recovering so rapidly, I figured you’d like to hear about our findings. You seemed interested in knowing why this all happened. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” I nod enthusiastically, sitting up on the side of the bed.

“As you know,” she begins, “you were in a coma for ten days. The only information we had was that you were having a seizure, and when you arrived here, you were classified as ‘status epilepticus’: having a non-stop seizure. Having had no prior history of epilepsy, we assumed some sort of traumatic brain injury to be the case. Regardless, once we administered medicines to stop the seizure, you immediately fell into a coma, which is unusual to begin with, leading us to further believe that some injury, stroke, or tumor must be causing it.” She starts showing pictures of my brain in a variety of scans. “These pictures here are your brain; the perplexing part is that these are all pictures of a very healthy brain. No ischemia, no tumors, no lesions....no injury of any sort.” She flips through a few of the pictures, stopping at a different, more colorful set. “However, the EEG scans showed an abnormal amount of activity in the hippocampal and temporal regions, almost like a bar of activity running through the brain from ear to ear, with a concerningly high level of activity directly in the hippocampus itself. For now, the cause is idiopathic--we aren’t sure why it started--but it’s very possible that you may end up with another seizure. Though you have never had one before, your seizure lasted a very long time, which is dangerous for the brain; as a precaution, we’re prescribing you an anti-seizure medication and an emergency injector in case you still end up having a seizure. Do you have any questions?”

I blink a few times at her audacity in making me speak. Still, I do have things I want to ask. I point to my temples and ask, “Still...same, um, now? Same...zap. Brain...look?” I let out the rest of my breath in a defeated sigh.

“Are you asking if that pattern is still active now?”

Wow. This woman is Dr. Miracle Worker. “Yes!”

“We have not yet run any more tests since the first round, but now that you’re awake, we can run another fMRI later to see if there’s been any change. For now, though, you seem to be in prime physical shape, certainly healthy enough to have real food. Well, hospital food. It’s close enough.”

I laugh, and my parents get a chuckle out of it, too. The joke almost seems to deflate the pressure in the room. I pick up the tube in my arm and ask, “Out?”

Dr. Wells contemplates the idea, chewing her lip a bit as she looks at the IV stand. “You know, I think we can make that happen. To be safe, I’d like to leave the port in, just in case the food or drink doesn’t agree with a stomach that hasn’t been used for a week. But, for all intents and purposes, you seem perfectly healthy. Knowing that no part of the brain appears damaged, it’s not entirely surprising that you’re back with it so quickly...but try not to overdo it. The body and mind act strange after a week-long break.” She stands up and disconnects the IV from the port in my arm. “Freedom, if temporary. If you stay this well, we should have you out of here tomorrow. Go enjoy a meal--you look like you haven’t eaten in a week.” She smiles wryly and exits the room.

I attempt to stand on my own, which quickly turns out to be a bad idea. Dad catches me on my way down and we both semi-gracefully find our way to the floor. “Damn,” I say without even thinking. Got easy access to that word, at least. Funny enough, though, neither parent even remarks about the curse word; I guess I’ve earned a few from all this. Dad helps me up, and I try again, this time finding wobbly purchase on the ground. I point around the bed to Mom, and he gets it immediately: he assists me in ambling around the bed over to Mom, who waits with open arms and teary eyes. I fall into her arms and hug her with all the strength I’ve got, which is a decent amount more than I woke up with. I turn and do the same with Dad, and then look at the both of them with firm purpose burning in my eyes. “Dinner.”

We walk down the hall, Mom’s hand in mine, Dad’s arm wrapped around my shoulders for support. The more I walk, the more my legs pick up the slack; by the time we get to the food court, I duck out from under Dad’s arm and take the remaining few steps to an open table on my own. My legs are still definitely shaky, probably as much from disuse as from low blood sugar (The IV “nutrition” doesn’t exactly expect the patient to be up and walking).

The food area is just a variety of cafeteria lines with different genres of food. I “order” a bowl of chicken soup and some garlic bread--I don't feel like overdoing it on a cheeseburger right now--and the parents grab it for me, along with their own food, of course. The first sip of broth is divine. I mean, I usually don't even like soup all that much unless I'm sick, but I'm gonna count this as “sick,” anyway. On the way down, though, I'm fairly certain my stomach hasn't woken up yet, judging by the pain I get after the first swallow. The parents freak out, thinking that I'm choking, but I put up a hand and grunt, “Wait. Please.”

“What's wrong?” Mom asks, still poised to leap over and Heimlich me if necessary.

The pain passes after a moment; I point to my stomach and say, “Too hungry,” clenching my fist to fill in the blank for the other word that won't come to me.

“Oh,” Dad says with a nod of understanding, “cramp?”

“Yeah.” That thing.

Mom swallows a bite of her salad, some concoction of mixed greens and fruit, and smiles lovingly (and pitiably) at me. “Don’t worry, Phillip. Your brain and body are still recovering. Just take it easy.”

Apparently my frustration is written on my face. I just take another sip of the broth to test the cramp reflex, and then go for a bite of actual chicken. Okay, so I’m assuming it’s ‘actual’ chicken, but either way. It’s not bad on an absolute scale, and completely amazing, compared to nothing at all except an IV drip. We eat a quiet dinner together as my head swirls with inexpressible thoughts and a confusing knot of emotions.

As we’re making our way back up to the room, I find myself feeling a bit stronger and clear-minded. I wonder...I take a deep breath as we walk, centering myself and focusing on the past. I think back to that one moment--the one a few weeks back where I was jacking off to good porn and thinking of Matty, don’t judge me--and try to go back in time. Normally it’s nearly an instant thing, like the span of a blink, but in this case, it’d be like if I couldn’t close my eyes. I can feel it there, just out of reach. Just go back to that point, like I always do. Back through time. Back to when I was jacking off thinking about walking in the hospital. Wait, no, walking in the hospital thinking of...didn’t I do this already?

I open my eyes and find myself back in bed. My mother is at my side, and Dad is on the other side of the IV tube. This isn’t far enough back! This is exactly the point that I wanted to skip, dammit! So now I have my power back, but only to this point...that’s stupid. Maybe it’ll get better later.

“Phillip...are you okay?” Mom asks, deep concern in her voice. That’s not how this started the first time. Weird.

It’s at this time I notice the doctor in the room. She’s early, too. Did something screw up, here? She stands by the bedside and says softly, “Phillip?”

“Hi,” I respond, sitting up. Suddenly I realize how much my head is throbbing.

“Do you know where you are?” she asks.

“Hospital. Aphasia. Yeah.” Maybe I can fast-forward this conversation a bit so we can get back to dinner. Not literally, but just, y’know.

“You had another seizure just now. We’re going to need to keep you a little while longer to make sure the anticonvulsants stabilize you.”

Another...seizure? This--wait. This isn’t the past. I blacked out again. I tried to...I tried to go back in time, and had a seizure. No--this can’t be happening. I’m stuck here, my power’s broken, and now I’m broken.

The doctor continues, “Since we know you can take food and drink by mouth, I have the first pill here. Now, this may...”

I can’t do this. I can’t be powerless and broken like this. I have to do something. I can’t just...wait--maybe since my power is broken, I can finally die! I look around the room to see if there’s anything sharp enough to cut myself; maybe I can just take the entire bottle of anticonvulsants. If--if I can get the parents to leave, I could use the IV cord to strangle myself.

“Phillip?” Mom says with a tinge of worry. “What’s the matter?”

The doctor didn’t bring a bottle? No, just a single pill and a paper cup. Damn! What else could I...the bathroom. I could drown myself. “Um...go! Pee!” I get up and move around the doctor, wiping tears out of my eyes, and head to the door.

Dad gets the door for me and follows closely behind. “All right, let’s go. It’s right down the hall over here.”

“Dad...I, uh. I pee. Me.” I give up on forming a sentence and just point to him, shaking my head.

He sighs. “Phillip, I’m not going to embarrass you or anything. I’ve seen you naked before. Let’s just go; I’m only there in case you need help with anything.”

I groan and continue onward at a steady pace. I’m still shaky, but this time is only because of the adrenaline fueling my actions. I make it into the bathroom and look at the stalls. I deliberately choose the one that Dad can’t fit in with me, so he waits outside the stall. I move the hospital gown and start to remove the flimsy piece of blue paper they call a diaper, when I realize that it is actually damp on the inside. Go figure--I piss myself in the middle of a seizure and don’t even get to enjoy it. Hell, I don’t even think these diapers expand when wet, the pieces of shit.

At this point I realize that I didn’t really have a plan. In my panicked state, I thought that maybe I could do something with all the porcelain around here, or maybe even drown myself in the toilet. There’s no way I can get away with that with Dad standing just outside the stall door, and frankly, I’ve never drowned; I’m not sure I want to try it now, especially since I probably wouldn’t get away with it. So now I’m stuck here, powerless, broken, and I still can’t die. The combined weight of all of these revelations crushes whatever spirit I have left, and I collapse onto the bathroom floor, sobbing my eyes out.

It looks like I have a long life ahead of me, and that’s the worst part of it all. 

*******

I get over myself over the course of the next day as I lie in bed, staring at the hospital ceiling with a slowly-recovering ego and will to live. They do run another round of tests on me, which is the second-most exciting thing that happens in the day. Sitting in the MRI machine is obnoxiously loud; I hope they can see the portion of my brain that governs being really annoyed. Interestingly, though, the results suggest that the seizure medication they gave me seems to suppress the strange brain waves they were seeing before. I mean, I don’t feel any different normally, and I’m sure as hell not going to try to go back in time again--the splitting headache I had the last time didn’t go away for hours, and I have no idea if I’ll end up in a permanent seizure or coma if I try it again. So...let’s just go with hoping for no seizures ever again, and we’ll work from there, powers or not.

The most exciting part of the day is the late afternoon, when they decide to discharge me. They give us a referral to a physical therapy/rehabilitation clinic, but I’m able to walk and move around just fine. Mom hung out at the hospital with me while Dad went back to work, so after I change into a set of real clothes that Mom had for me, she and I find our way to the parking lot and get in the car.

“So,” she says definitively, hands on the steering wheel. “I think we need a celebration. Dad gets home in about an hour, so how about we go get something to eat then? What would you like?”

“Burger! Please. Please please please.” I already feel a bit better at language, though words are still hard to come by quickly.

Mom laughs as she starts up the car and pulls out of the parking space. “What, the hospital food wasn’t good enough for you?” She looks over to see my deadpan stare, which just sets her smiling more. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she sighs.

“Almost,” I lament. “Still...hard to, to talk. Hard to talk...fast.”

“Well, when you’re ready to go back to school, I have a doctor’s note for you to take to your teachers that explains the issue, so they shouldn’t put you on the spot or anything.” She pats my leg with her free hand as she drives.

I stammer, “Umm, can Matty...?”

“Can Matty what?” she asks, fully aware of what I’m trying to say. I see what you’re doing here, Mom.

“Matty eat. Us. Uh, no, wait.” Though it frustrates me, I can’t help but laugh at the mental image of Matty devouring my family. “Can Matty...eat, with us?” Sheesh. There we go.

“Absolutely, dear. I’ll call his mom when we get home.”

My heart skips a beat thinking about getting to see him again. It hasn’t been that long for me subjectively, but I really need some Matty in my life right now. His dad’s trial was supposed to start this week--yesterday, I think--so I need to find out what’s up with that, too.

When we get home, Mom unlocks the door, but hesitates. “Damn, I think I left my phone in the car. You can go ahead and go in; I’ll be right back.”

I shrug and open the door, only to be immediately assaulted with confetti and streamers, a yelled, “SURPRIIIIIISE!” and those obnoxious party whistles. After I’m done reeling from the assault, I look to see both my sisters flanking the door with shit-eating grins on their faces.

“Welcome home!” Stephanie says, engulfing me in a hug. Katie joins from the other side in a pincer attack, squeezing me between a tangle of arms and boobs. I’m sure any of my classmates would jizz at the thought, but y’know. Sisters. Also gay. Yeah.

“Hmllm,” I say into the collective mass of sister in my face.

They release me, but Stephanie picks up the streamers that didn’t end up staying in my hair and carefully places them in their rightful location on my head. “We came up to visit once, but you were still...you know. How do you feel?”

“Okay,” I reply.

Mom comes up from behind me with a knowing smile on her face. “We’re all glad to have you back,” she says, closing the front door. “Now, let’s not bother Phillip too much right now. He’s had a rough week and needs some peace and quiet. We can talk at Ruby Roundbird at dinnertime.”

Stephanie clenches a fist. “Yessssss!” she hisses. Katie simply nods in approval.

As we head into the kitchen and disperse to our respective locations, Katie asks, “So...just ‘okay’?”

“Yeah,” I respond.

“No pain?”

“No,” I shrug.

She nods again. For once, our Caveman Code is paying off. “Good,” she states decisively and heads off upstairs. I take a seat at the kitchen table, glad to be out of the damn hospital in my own home again. Mom calls up Matty’s mom, and the conversation is a short one, punctuated by Matty practically screeching in excitement when I hear his mom ask, “Phillip’s home; do you want to go have dinner with him?” His childlike enthusiasm always warms my heart.

After Mom hangs up, she beckons me over to the living room, where she sits next to me on the love seat. “How you feeling?” she asks softly.

I shrug, my feelings about the frustration of my communicative abilities evident on my face. I’m sure the fact that I’ve lost the most amazing ability the world has perhaps ever known is written somewhere on my face, too.

She strokes the hair around my ear softly. “I know it’s frustrating, but I want you to realize how lucky you are. It could have been a tumor, or something even worse. We were afraid you’d never wake up, or end up permanently...well. Let’s just be happy that you’re okay.”

“I’m not.”

She sighs and stares at me for a moment. “Listen. I talked to the doctor while you were napping yesterday. We’re going to get you set up with a speech therapist so that you can get back the lost vocabulary. With some effort, most people can get back everything they’ve lost, especially if there’s no major trauma. And if it comes back on its own--great! What do you think?”

What do I think? I thought this was going to just go away on its own in a few days. I thought this was just an effect of the coma. I thought I wasn’t permanently broken. But, seeing as it’s all I’ve got, I answer, “...Fine.”

She doesn’t respond, instead just continuing to run her fingernails through my hair. After a bit of searching for the words in my brain, I attempt to explain the real reason I’m so depressed. “Mom? Um, you know...when I, when I have the, um, seeing? Not ‘see’ here (I point to my eyes), but like, see?”

It takes her a moment, but she ventures a guess. “You mean your visions?”

“Yes! Visions. Yes. Um, I don’t...have them.”

“What do you mean?” She looks sincerely confused.

Ugh, come on, Mom! “After...I mean, since the thing. No, after the...pills. On the pills, I don’t...have visions.”

She furrows her brow and contemplates the thought for a moment. “Are you sure? I mean, it’s only been a few days.”

“Sometimes I can, um...you know. Try to. Like, try...” I pantomime putting my fingers to my head and imitate the B-movie version of a psychic doing crazy mind powers. Hooray for theatre training. “But now, nothing.”

“I can’t hope to understand it perfectly, but I get what you’re saying. Maybe that too will come back.”

“But...” The very admission burns my eyes to say it. “The seizure...I think was, was...the visions. The, um, brain...brain scan, with the thing that, that the doctor...” I sigh. “The weird thing. Went away after...pills. You know?”

“The anomaly in your brain scans, yeah. What about it? Are you saying you think that was related to the visions?”

I nod solemnly, relieved that she can figure out my blathering. “It’s gone, visions are gone.” What the hell did I do before I talked to Michael? I remember my head feeling weird when I talked to him, which I guess was the seizure beginning, but I have no idea what I did. I can only guess I stopped him from doing what we talked about, so if he was shooting up the school, maybe...I dunno. I have no idea. That is terrifying.

“Oh, honey...” she pulls me to her chest as tears begin to sting my eyes. “Listen to me. You’re an incredibly special person, even without the visions. You’ll always be miraculous to me. Besides, you already saved multiple people, both Dad and your boyfriend, and that’s more than most people will ever get to do to help the ones they love. Even if you never have another vision in your life, isn’t that enough?”

I sniffle wordlessly in response. She continues, “Sometimes life is strange; I can’t begin to understand all the stuff that you’ve gone through. But I know that everybody has their own journey, their own struggles, and that just as a beggar can be satisfied, so too can a billionaire be unhappy. It’s not what you have, or how you’re different from others, that fills that need. It’s what you do with what you have, when you have it, that makes all the difference. Your visions were--or maybe still are--an amazing gift, sure, but you’re no less amazing of a person even if you never have another one. If some jerk out there had visions and used them to, oh, I don’t know, gain a ton of money and rule the world, then his ‘gift’ would be a curse, not a blessing. But you used it to help people; it doesn’t matter if it was visions, or even a special power at all--it could have just been a little extra cash on hand for all it matters. You used what you had to do good deeds, and that’s all that’s important. Because the person you are is special, not the things you can or can’t do.” She hugs me tightly.

God, if she only knew who I could have been, who I was. But then again, maybe she’s right--I was that jerk, but I’m not anymore. At least, I’d like to think that I’m not. “Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” That sentence comes easily and quickly.

She squeezes me tighter. “I love you too, Phillip.” We sit there in a comforting embrace for a few more moments, when she finally lets go and says, “Hey. Why don’t you go relax in your room for awhile? I’m sure your bed misses you. For that matter, I’m sure you miss it.”

“Yeah.” I roll my eyes to accent how uncomfortable the hospital bed was. I kiss Mom on the cheek and head upstairs.

Despite it being somewhere around my personal record for time gone without jacking off, I definitely don’t feel like it right now--too drained. I waste time playing single-player games on the computer for an hour or so until Dad gets home. We all meet up downstairs where Dad gives me a welcome-home hug, and by the time he’s out of his work coveralls and into something more comfortable, we’re out the door and on the way to the restaurant, and more importantly, to Matty.

As we’re parking the car, I notice Ms. Petersen’s car pulling into a parking spot only a few spaces down. Perfect timing! I barely wait for the car to come to a complete stop before practically climbing over my sisters (I hate being in the middle seat anyway) and bolting out the door. I reach them just as Matty closes the door behind himself; as he turns around, our eyes lock, and the blossom of elation on his face makes my day. We tangle ourselves in a huge hug in the middle of the parking lot, Matty literally bouncing on the balls of his feet from happiness.

“Phillip!” he says into my shoulder. “Oh my God, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

I squeeze tighter. “Yeah. Hey.”

When the rest of the families catch up, we start walking to the restaurant proper. Stephanie proclaims, “So this is the Almighty Matty. The ‘Al-Matty.’” Yes, her puns are even worse than mine.

“Yes,” I respond with an eye roll. Pointing to each in turn, I introduce them tersely. “Y’all, Matty. Matty, them. Yay.” I stick my tongue out at Stephanie to rub it in.

Matty giggles. “Hi, them.”

“I’m Stephanie,” she says with heavy emphasis pointed directly at me.

Katie introduces herself in typical Caveman Code, the one-word short answer, and leaves it at that. Thankfully, neither sister takes it upon themselves to say anything else embarrassing, at least until we get inside and are standing in line to order. Then Katie breaks code to ask, “So how did you two meet?”

Oh, God. Here I am, stuck with one or two words at a time, and never the right ones. I look at Matty, who looks at me, and we share the most exquisitely awkward moment exchanging worried, prodding glances at each other before I finally just say, “School. Classes.”

Katie seems underwhelmed. “Just...classes? No friend-of-a-friend or anything?”

Matty takes the initiative. “He--we were in gym class together, and Phillip stopped a bully from picking on me and my friends.”

This makes nearly my entire family look at me in surprise. Withering under the stares, I just say, “...What?”

Stephanie smirks. “What are you, some kind of secret crime fighter at school? I didn’t hear anything about this.”

“Eh,” I mutter, shrugging dismissively.

“But we’re in other classes too,” Matty adds, “so we started talking, and, um, yeah.” He trails off, red-cheeked, but still smiles a tiny bit at the admission.

Katie gives an inscrutable glance at Matty and me, but just gives an approving nod and keeps silent. The look in Stephanie’s eyes, though, is the same look you would give a newborn baby unicorn with extra sparkles. It’s sickeningly fangirl...but that’s Stephanie, so there it is. I’m glad she’s already in high school, or things could get awkward quickly.

The line moves up to where it’s our turn before Stephanie gets to put her foot in her mouth. We order our food--mine’s a bacon double cheeseburger, which I will not regret later no matter how bad of an idea it is--and put a few tables in the center of the restaurant together to accommodate the seven of us. Mom insists that we set it up with me at the head of the table, as this is my celebration; normally, I’d be all about it, but I swear to God if someone makes me give a speech, I’m going to stab them with a burger skewer. Matty sits to my right with his mom past him, and my family stretches out across the left side with Mom at the other head of the table (the tail? Do tables have tails?). The conversation dithers a bit on useless subjects, so I turn to Matty and ask, “So...what happened at, um, school, this week? Well, and, y’know, other...the other week.”

“Oh, uh...not a whole lot. Edgar and Beto wondered where you were, so I told them you were sick. I think your parents told the teachers, ‘cuz they didn’t call your name or anything on the attendance. Um, let’s see...some homework in math and I think there’s a test next week; in science class--”

“Hey, hey, slow down,” I plead.

Matty gives me a funny look and continues with a measured pace. “In science, we finished talking about the different levels of the body--you know, like cells and tissue and organs and all that--and we’re starting up a project on organ systems. Um, you and me are in a group with that Clay kid who sits behind us, and...so the organ system we were assigned is, um, the reproductive system.” The look on his face shows that he knows what my response is going to be to that. Of course, we both share a look and crack up laughing hard enough to interrupt the rest of the dinner conversation.

“What did I miss?!” Stephanie exclaims.

“Science.” I offer no more explanation, instead just giggling more with Matty.

When we calm down from the immature joy of getting to talk about ‘The Penis’ in class, Matty’s face drops to a more serious, concerned expression. “Oh, so, you know Michael, the boy in gym class with us, and the back row in all our other classes? Right, so, he came up to me in gym and he was the one who told me about you and, um, the seizure. He looked like he was really worried about you. He also...”

“Also...?” I ask.

Matty takes a moment to find the words, something I completely sympathize with now. Scratching his head, he says quietly, “He also seemed, like, really weird--I mean, like, acting weird about it. I dunno; maybe he knows we’re...” he stops, glancing furtively at the sisters to find them engaged in other conversation, and continues quietly, “...together. I mean, I know he probably knows we’re friends and all, but yeah.”

“He knows.” At Matty’s quickly-raised eyebrows, I add, “Long story. It’s not...he’s cool. It’s fine. But he was...there when I, um, when I...”

“Had the seizure?” Matty offers.

“Right.” I sigh. “Um, they know, too.” I nod my head to the sisters. Matty glances at them and nods, resigned. “They’re cool. It’s fine.”

He nods. After a short, awkward pause, Matty lights back up. “Oh! Another thing: Rod apologized to me. Like, really came up and was all sorry for picking on me. Did you tell him to do that?”

“No!” I say defensively, though a smile still escapes. “Honest. That was him. All him.”

“He also came up to me that Friday and asked where you were, ‘cuz you and him were supposed to have the conversation thing you were talking about. So I told him you were sick and he’s like ‘Oh, that sucks’ (Matty drops his voice to sound more like Rod, and it’s freaking adorable). Then he asked me to ask you if he’s done. I dunno what exactly he means, but I’m guessing it’s the conversation thing.”

“Oh. Yeah...he’s done.” There’s no way I’m going to try having a conversation with Rod like this.

Matty stares at me a moment. “Are you okay?”

I shrug. “Yeah. Why?”

“I dunno,” he replies, unconvinced. “You seem...it’s like you...I dunno. Something’s different. Sorry.”

I look to the center of the table and announce, “BRB.” Strangely, I was looking more to say each of the words out, but the acronym is what came out of my mouth. Whatever works. I excuse myself and head to the bathroom, giving Matty a purposeful look as I do.

On my way away from the table, I hear Matty say something along the lines of, “Yeah, I gotta go too,” and he joins me right as I’m opening the door to the restroom hall. I beckon him into the men’s room for a touch more privacy (that, and I actually do need to pee).

We both pee at a urinal (separate urinals, mind you) and after I’m zipped back up, I look at him and sigh. “Okay. So. After the seizure, the um...the coma, they said I have...‘phasia. Um, ‘aphasia.’ It’s...it’s hard to...to talk. To make, um, to make the right words.”

Matty looks aghast. “But, but you’re always the one who knows what to say!”

I sigh heavily. “I know.” I go to wash my hands as I continue, “So, also, um, another thing that, that changed is, um...”

Matty just rinses his hands without soap (I’m not judging--it’s not like there’s anything on his hands that hasn’t been all over my face) and asks, “What? What else changed?”

I turn off the water. “Maybe we can talk, later. Um, alone. Like, really alone.”

He gives me a worried look. “Okay...” he says, trailing off. I nod my head to the door, and we both head back to the table.

Out in the dining area, we notice the burgers being put down on the table. Never fails: soon as someone goes to the bathroom, the food shows up. I approach my seat, chanting, “Burger burger burger oh God burger” the entire time I sit down. I’ve got a huge chunk of the thing already shoved in my mouth and I’m prepared to bite down before I notice pretty much everyone staring at me. “....Whuh?” I ask through the burger.

My sisters start cutting their burgers, looking at me with thinly-veiled amusement. Mom just smiles. “Nothing. Just...glad you get to have regular food again.”

“Me too!” I finish chomping down into the juicy burger and revel in the taste of bacon, grease, beef, cheese, grease, mayo, and grease. Oh, and lettuce, if you count that as having a flavor. Words, and the lack of words, are suddenly completely unimportant, as there’s no time for talk when it’s burger time. I finish eating easily twice as fast as anyone else, though I think my stomach shrank over the coma; sadly, I leave a third of the burger uneaten, and I didn’t even get to the fries. I wash it down with Coke and lean back, fat and happy.

“What,” Dad teases, “tapped out already?”

“Resting,” I reply, patting my stomach. He chuckles and gets back to his own food.

Matty makes it all the way through his burger and half the fries, picking through the remainder of them for the crispy ones, even going so far as to scavenge my fries for the small, crunchy slivers. As we all slow down, Dad takes his fork and gently taps it against his paper cup. “Attention, attention! I know this sort of thing usually happens before everyone starts eating, but I was afraid of getting my fingers bitten off if I tried to stop Phillip.” After a round of laughter, he continues, “First off, I propose a toast. To health and quick recovery!” Everyone taps their disposable cups against one another’s and takes a swig from their straw.

“Secondly,” Dad announces, “we have a gift for you, Phillip, one that I think you’ll be thrilled to have.” With that, he produces a small, festive bag with tissue paper in it. “Here,” he says, passing it down the table to me.

I start to remove the tissue paper slowly, letting the suspense build, when the bag starts making sounds. Specifically, the sounds that my phone makes when I get a text message. I stare at Dad and blink a few times with a growing grin, and then literally rip the bag down the side to get my phone. I unlock it to check the text:

Matty: Surprise!

I hold it out in front of me, bring it to my face and kiss it, smash it against my cheek and rub it like it’s the smoothest silk, and then wipe it off on my shirt because now it’s covered in face oil. “THANK you!” I gush. “Thank you thank you! Finally!” I notice that even texting takes my brain a bit longer than I’m used to, but I text Matty all the same:

Me: You’re super cute.

His phone goes off, and when he looks at the text, he shoots me a look somewhere between flustered and amused, and turns beet red. He manages to remain silent about it, though.

But if they got my phone back, then that means... “So, um, how did...?”

Ms. Petersen answers, “They don’t need it anymore. We can explain later. Congratulations on getting your phone back.” She smiles with the love of a second mother.

Stephanie puts up a finger. “Wait, why did you not have your phone?”

“LONG story,” I say quickly. “Never mind. I mean, um, don’t worry.” Stephanie stares at me with complete confusion while Matty glances at me with his characteristic “Thanks for covering” face he’s so good at.

As dinner winds down, I tentatively ask, “Um, Mom? Dad? Can I...?” I point to Matty to finish my sentence visually.

Mom gives me a smile of pity. “Sorry, dear, but I want you at the house for the next couple of days so we can make sure you’ll be okay and that the medicine is working.”

Damn. I guess that makes sense. “Then...can he...?” I point to him, and then to me.

My parents look at each other. Dad shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”

Matty and I both go, “Yesssssssss!” at the same time, prompting a quizzical (and possibly somewhat knowing) look from Katie.

“You want me to bring my XBox over?” Matty asks enthusiastically.

I shrug. “Okay.”

We wrap things up at the restaurant, with Ms. Petersen giving me a bone-crushing hug and everything. We head to our respective homes, and within twenty minutes more, a knock at the door reveals Matty with a pillow, a backpack, and a huge smile. As he looks around at everything in the house, I realize that we’ve known each other for almost two months and he’s never been over here. “Come in!” I say with a flourish. “Welcome...to my home. You want a, um...” Dammit, what’s the word for when you show someone around a place? I swirl my finger in a circle to pantomime the action I can’t think of.

“A tour?”

“YES. So.” I point to the left of the entry. This is the...office, hi Dad.”

Dad takes off his headphones and pauses the movie he was watching. “Hey there!”

“And over here,” I say, gesturing to the opposite side, “Is the dinner...wait, no. DINING. The dining room. Dammit.” Calm down; you know the names of the rooms of your house, Phillip. Just calm down.

Ms. Petersen, by this point, has made small talk with my mom and headed out the door. We travel down the main entry hall and I point out the living room and the kitchen, names which come easily to me. Then to the “clothes room” because I can’t for the life of me think of the other word for it, and the backyard, where we have a really cool little deck my dad built a few years ago. It’s still a bit too nasty outside for me to enjoy it, but maybe in a month or two. Anyway, we head upstairs, where I point out my room and the bathroom, seeing as the other rooms are somewhat useless to visit. My room isn’t the biggest room, but then again, I don’t really have a lot of stuff; never really liked showing off things, and what toys I had are mostly broken action figures and such in a toybox in the closet.

Matty drops off his stuff in the corner and sits down on my twin-size bed (I never understood why they’re ‘twin’ sized when they’re made for one person. One twin? Why not just call it a ‘single’?). “So,” he begins, “um, a lot of other things happened since, you know.”

“Yeah?” I ask, sitting next to him.

“Yeah. So the reason you have your phone back already is...my dad pleaded guilty. There wasn’t even a trial.” His reaction seems as conflicted as I feel about it. “So your dad went and got the phone, and...yeah.”

“What are they...what happens now?”

Matty shrugs. “Mom says they’re gonna put him in rehab for the alcohol first, and then she actually agreed to let him go to a mental hospital instead of jail.”

After a short silence, I venture, “Are you...okay, with that?”

He takes a long time to respond. Finally, he takes a deep breath and admits, “Yes and no. I don’t really want anything bad to happen to him, even though...I mean, he’s my dad. And I hear what they do in jail to people who, who rape kids is...well, worse than raping kids. I’m mad at him, I’m scared, but I don’t hate him. I don’t want him to...I just don’t want any more people getting hurt at all.” After another silence: “But then, it’s like, he got away with it for so long, and now it’s just like, like they’re just sorry for him and are trying to fix him. I dunno--it sounds stupid when I say it, but...whatever. Maybe I’m just a horrible person.”

“Matty, no,” I say quickly, squeezing his thigh with my hand reassuringly. “You’re not. You’re normal. That’s...That’s something people just feel. It’s okay. It’s...sorry, this is hard to, to say...to explain. Dammit. I hate this.” I feel my face flush, mostly from frustration.

“I get it,” Matty assures me. He puts his hand on mine. “It’s just weird, is all. But like, I guess it’s done. It’s over now. I thought it was gonna go for months or whatever, but just...bam. I mean I guess I’m happy about that, and glad that Daddy would, you know, admit it, but I guess I just need more time to, like, feel it.” We both fall silent for a while, sorting through our own personal thoughts. Suddenly, Matty jolts as if startled. “Oh!” he snaps, “you said there was something else that happened with you. What...what was that about?”

“Oh. That.” I contemplate the right way to broach the topic. “Um, you know how I, how I had the...seizure, right?”

“Yeah?”

“I think it was...from my power.”

Matty furrows his brow, a tinge of worry creasing his features. “What...do you mean?”

“I mean...the seizure, the coma, was my power. Um, so, you know Michael? Please, um, don’t, don’t hate him.”

The worry is all just replaced by pure confusion on Matty’s face as he asks, “Um...why?”

“He was...he gunned the school. Shot. Well, was going to. I stopped him.”

“Wait.” Matty takes a moment to collect the jumbled puzzle pieces falling out of my mouth. “So did he actually...?”

“Yeah. I mean, I know he did. I just...can’t remember it.”

“What?”

“I can’t remember it. I can’t remember...I remember the, the talk we had, and, but I don’t remember anything...before. Like, weeks before.”

Matty stares at me. “You mean, like, you don’t even remember the tickle fight where you made me pee all over you?”

I search my memory for anything like it, but all I can think of are fantasies that are similar to it. (I have a lot of fantasies.) I shrug. “You did? I mean, I...that happened? God, I wish I could remember it. That sounds...hot.”

Matty sighs. “That’s what you said about it then, too.”

“Oh. Well, it is.”

Matty frowns. “Do you remember my birthday party?”

I try my damnedest, but all I can come up with is, “I think I...remember making you mad.”

“You didn’t--” he begins, and stops to gather his words. “The party was awesome. You and me, Sean, and the twins were there...nothing?”

“Nope.”

“Dude, that sucks!” He sits for a moment, frowning. “So, you said the coma was your power? What does that mean?”

“I have a...hump? Uh...what’s the word. Argh, just...I have an idea that, that it, the coma, was from my, my power somehow. I remember talking to, to Michael, and saying...you know. Not, don’t shoot...whatever. But it...I must have tried...to stop him and then, um, went back. I don’t know why, but...” This isn’t going anywhere. Sighing, I try a different angle. “Later, at the doc...white...place. Dammit! The...”

“Hospital?”

“Yeah...hospital. I tried to go back. That’s...when it happened. The seizure. Another one. I started to feel...bad, weird, when I talked--was talking to, uh, Michael, and the same way...when I tried to do the thing in, in the hospital. Then seizure.”

“Oh no.” Matty looks horrified. “So your power can make you have seizures?”

I shrug. “I have medicine now. Stops seizures. But...it stops...me. I can’t...anymore.” The admission brings tears immediately back to my eyes. “I can’t go back.”

Matty’s eyes well up, possibly in empathy. He lunges forward and hugs me, squeezing me tightly. “I’m so sorry, Phillip. I’m so sorry.” I embrace him as if he were the only thing left to hold on to. Hell, maybe he is.

I’ve done my share of outright crying about this over the last few days, so there’s not a lot of tears available for it--which is fine, really; my brain really likes me to obsess over things like this, so it’s a decent change of pace to stop caring as much. I focus instead on the warm hug and the soft skin of his cheek against my neck. “Thanks,” I mumble as I absently play with his hair. “Wait, you got your hair, um, a haircut.”

He lets go of the hug with a goofy smile. “Yeah, I got it super short on the sides this time. See, feel the back side.” He lowers his head.

I rub my hand against the grain of his hair, feeling the bristly texture. I’ve always loved short hair; it just feels neat, regardless of how it looks (though it does look good, mind you). He arches his neck, almost like a cat being pet, as I continue to distract myself from my emotions. Then, realizing what he actually asked me, I casually slip my other hand down his back and into his shorts.

“HEY!” he squeals, his head bucking upward and throwing my hand off. He realizes instantly why I did that and gives me the ‘Why you little...’ face. “That’s not what I meant!”

“But you said...” I smile innocently. “But are you...wearing a diaper?”

His face falls slack as if he had forgotten completely. “OH, uh...yeah.” He smiles sheepishly, turning a warm shade of pink. He doesn’t meet my eyes, though, almost as if he feels...guilty? He hesitates before offering the explanation, “Ever since the whole thing with my dad, I kinda just started wearing the diapers when I’m not at school. I mean, it--it’s not like I need them or anything, and I’ve even been wetting the bed a lot less, and, and I don’t even use them most of the time--well, you know what I mean...”

I put my hand on Matty’s leg and stare into his eyes until he stops rambling. “It’s okay,” I coo. “It’s also, um, really hot, but, y’know. It’s okay. I never cared. I think...I think you’re cute, no matter what, diapers or underwear or, or whatever. You know me. I love you. For you, not for...diapers or no diapers.” Sighing, I add, “Does that...did that make sense?”

The sheepish smile blossoms into a full grin. “Yeah, I get you.” He rubs his hand over mine slowly and gently. “I’m just...I dunno. Like, I feel embarrassed about it, but then some part of me, I guess, just...likes it. It feels...I dunno.”

“Safe?” I ask.

Matty ponders the idea. “I dunno. I mean, I guess so. Hey, I thought you were having trouble finding words,” he teases.

I shrug. “Talking sucks.”

“GOD, I know, right?” he replies, rolling his eyes. “Story of my life.”

“Less talk, then,” I suggest. “Hm. Games?”

“Yes!” Noticing I don’t have a TV in my room, he asks, “Did you want to set up the XBox downstairs?

“We can use my computer...thing. TV. Monitor.” It’s old, and not the biggest screen, but it still has HDMI capability; it’s not ancient. Matty opens his backpack and starts handing pieces of gaming equipment to me: controllers, the system itself, the power cable, etc. As he’s digging through, I notice the fluffy white tip of another diaper in the backpack; I won’t question it, but that seems surprising to me. If he rarely uses them--actually uses them, then why does he have multiple? Okay, so I won’t question it aloud, but I will question it.

I clear out the area and move my computer chair to where we can rest the XBox on it while Matty goes to town connecting the rest of the stuff up. He fires up a new game he downloaded where you work together to build a defense against a zombie apocalypse. It’s pretty cool, though I let him go do most of the shooting while I stay busy constructing shelter and defensible positions. Zombies move too fast; walls don’t. That, and getting my fingers to do rapid fine-motor type things isn’t as easy as usual; they’re shaky like I haven’t eaten, except that they get that way an hour or two after eating. I guess my body has a good bit of catching up to do.

We get really into it, so much so that I’m genuinely surprised when Mom comes by and wishes us goodnight. Damn, time flies. Anyway, Mom gives us the whole routine: extra sheets and blankets are in the linen closet, there’s an extra pillow too if we need it, don’t get too loud, try to go to bed at a reasonable hour, blah blah.

I agree and say “okay” enough that she finally leaves us alone; these zombies aren’t stopping right now, so I need all my concentration. The problem is that it gets harder and harder to concentrate the more I realize I haven’t gone to the bathroom since dinnertime, and free refills on Coke take their toll. If Matty can make it, though, I should be fine. I think.

I push through for another couple of minutes, making it to the very end of the level, and as soon as the “You Win!” message pops up, I pop up as well--I can’t wait any longer. “Gotta go!” I say hurriedly as I whip out of the door and slam into the locked bathroom door.

“What the hell?” I hear Katie say.

“Gotta go!” I call back.

“Well, I’m busy.”

“Gonna pee!”

“There’s a bathroom downstairs, idiot.”

I growl in frustration. Looking back through the door, I see a look of half-worry, half-amusement on Matty’s face. I decide to make the dash downstairs, feeling my bladder bounce and send electric waves through my midsection with every step. As I throw the downstairs bathroom door open and fumble with the button on my shorts, I feel my pelvic floor muscles quivering as if they had the muscle tone of a 6-year-old; the first squirt escapes into my briefs, warming my balls and signaling to me that this could end terribly. Apparently I still don’t have 100% of my muscle tone and coordination back. Another, longer spurt of pee makes it out and dampens my thigh as the briefs can’t hold any more. I finally get the button undone with my uncoordinated sausage fingers by the time the third jet of piss makes it out, and I realize that it’s useless to even try at this point--my shorts are already soaked enough that I can’t wear them. So...I stop fighting. The pressure in my dick feels like it’d be flying around the room if it weren’t restrained; my entire crotch and both sides of my legs are flooded with warmth as the hissing sound of me pissing myself reverberates in the tiny half-bathroom. I look out to the right to see Matty at the foot of the stairs, staring at me with an expression halfway between horrified and fascinated, like watching a train slowly derail. By the time the sound of pee splattering on the ground from my shorts reaches the office, Dad comes over to see what the commotion is, as well.

The torrent dwindles to a few last spurts, which I squeeze into my briefs--might as well, anyway. I look down and sigh, more annoyed by the lack of control than turned on by the fact that I pissed myself. The fact that my dad and my boyfriend were watching me, though, does temper that a bit, leading me to firm up a bit.

As Dad stares at me in stunned indecision, I just mutter, “Couldn’t do my pants. Shorts. Whatever.” I wave the button flap around to illustrate what I mean. “Still not...all the way yet. My...” Ugh, fucking words. I flex my fingers at Dad a few times to see if he’ll understand me.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll go get a towel.” He walks off into the laundry room and comes back with a full-size beach towel. I take it and close the bathroom door--sure he saw me naked probably multiple times over the last few weeks, but it’s still my body, and he’s still my dad. I finally unzip and drop my shorts and underwear, kicking them to the side irritatedly as I sop up the mess with the towel.

I hear a muffled, “Do you need anything else?” from my dad outside.

“No. Just...eh, no. Gonna go...wash.” I clean the rest of it up and bundle the soaked garments into the towel. Naked from the waist down, I nevertheless open the bathroom door and trudge over to the laundry room to dump them into the washing machine. I put a small amount of detergent in and start the machine up, regardless of how many other people in the household need their clothes clean. It’s 10:30 at night and I’m not about to have that argument with anyone.

Dad just stays out of the way, making sure that I’m capable of handling the cleanup before returning to his office. Matty, at the foot of the stairs, joins me as I go back up. At the top of the stairs, Katie sees me; the look on her face is all kinds of mixed up. “Did you...pee your pants?”

I look at her, then to my naked legs, then to her, and finally blink a few times. “Yeah. Move.” I fully expect her to say something snide in return, but she silently steps aside as I go to the bathroom and into the tub. “Be just a sec, Matty.” He nods as I shuck my shirt and close the curtain.

After I clean up, I head back into my room, where Matty is sitting on my bed, waiting. “Are you okay?” he tentatively inquires.

“Yeah, fine.” I put some underwear on and sit on the bed, clad only in my dark blue briefs. “Thought I could...go longer. I know how you feel.”

That gets a tiny smile out of Matty. “If it makes you feel better, I couldn’t hold it, either.”

“What? But...” Oh. Right. The diaper. “You little...! I was, I was waiting for you!”

Matty flinches playfully, a devious grin on his face. “What? I wanted to finish the level! Speaking of which, umm...I need to go to the bathroom, too. To change.” He gives me an innocent smile.

That sneaky little bastard. I honestly thought that if he could hold it, I should be able to. As he gets up, I swat his cushioned butt for good measure. He squeals and hops a few more steps. “Oh,” he says, “Can you come with me downstairs to throw it away? I...I don’t wanna do that alone, just in case.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine.” Smiling, I add, “Go wash.”

I admit that in the short minute or two that he takes washing up, I get intensely turned on by the fact that Matty willingly wore a diaper, and even more so that he willingly used it, without provocation. This is straight-up an episode of “That’s My Fetish!” (which isn’t a real show to my knowledge, but it totally needs to be). So when Matty gets back, fully clothed but with a bundled-up diaper in one hand, I’m tenting so damn hard it’s a wonder my briefs don’t rip.

“Dang, Phillip,” he remarks. “One second you’re all annoyed and upset, and the next, you got a huge boner.”

I look at it for a moment, judging. “Not huge...but okay. Kinda want it smaller, sometimes.”

Matty sputters, “What? B-but why?”

I shrug. “Out of the way. Wouldn’t do...this.” I flick it a few times. “Less hurt--for others, when, y’know.”

He takes the ideas and tosses them around a sec in his mind. Then he looks at the diaper in his hand and stammers, “So...can...we go throw this away?”

“Yeah. Lemme get something on.” I dig in my dresser for a pair of dark, almost black cargo shorts and put them on with some difficulty. The zipper isn’t so bad, but I still notice a little more difficulty doing little things like buttoning (not that I was great at it before, the little bastards). That, and the iron rod in my underwear doesn’t want to make things any easier. I manage to point it upward to where the band of the shorts holds it in place; it’s not comfortable, but being a tween never really is. I throw a black t-shirt on (first thing I grab from the closet, not that I’m trying to match or look goth) and step out in front of Matty to scout the location. “I’ll go talk to Dad. You can throw the, the thing away.” Thing. I’m getting tired of that word.

Matty nods, and we enact Plan Diaper Dump. I wanted to talk to Dad about what happened anyway, so it works out just fine for me. Matty splits off at the base of the stairs while I head to the office. “Dad?”

“Hey, Champ.” He clicks a few more times on his computer and turns to face me. “You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry about...earlier.”

“Hey, no big deal,” he says dismissively. “It’s only a little laundry. I know you’re still recovering.” Then, beckoning me over, he whispers, “Matty didn’t give you any trouble about it, did he?”

The irony of his statement puts me in a fit of laughter, which confuses both Dad and Matty, who has just rounded the corner from the kitchen. When I recover, I gasp, “No, no, we’re...we’re fine. I love you.” I lean in and kiss his cheek.

He gives me an amused half-smile. “Love you too. Don’t stay up too late, a’right?”

“Okay.”

Matty and I head back upstairs and sit on the bed. “So now what?” Matty asks.

“Still less talking. Um, Netflix?”

“Sure. Whatcha wanna watch?”

We end up putting on the first of the Lone Wolf movies, a nice, mindless action romp. Before everything starts, though, we go get an extra pillow and a few blankets and sheets for Matty to make a bed on the floor. (Granted, I’m not about to have him sleep on the floor when there’s room in my arms, but gotta maintain appearances.) I prop my own pillow up on the wall that my bed is up against, using it to lay back on like a nice, comfy theater chair. Matty does the same to my right, and we get settled in with my comforter spread across our legs as the movie begins.

I’ve already seen this one (and most other movies) a few times, so I’m always more interested in the “chill” part of “Netflix ‘n Chill”; after the intro action scene and such dies down, I turn and physically hoist Matty over my leg, or at least try to. Turns out that nearly two weeks of not eating really fucks with your muscle tone in all sorts of ways.

Matty gets the idea and scoots over my leg, snuggling himself up between my legs. He leans back into me (pressing my boner into my waistline) and we stay that way for a while longer, watching the movie idly, enjoying each other’s warmth underneath the AC vent and the ceiling fan.

Eventually, though, the movie can’t keep my attention more than the erection I haven’t been able to ignore (I’m guessing Matty is just used to it by now). I start to caress Matty’s arms, lightly enough to enjoy the feel of his skin and watch the goosebumps pop up all along his arms. A shudder slides up his spine and catches his breath as I move to his shoulders and up his neck. I play with his bristly hair, going against the grain lightly around his ears, up his neck, along the top of his scalp from forehead to his adorable little whorl of a cowlick, and then rest my hands on the soft inner shoulder area, where my thumbs get to work massaging. There’s just something about kneading the shoulders of such a tender body, one unused to the weight of the world resting upon those shoulders. He’s a little tense, sure, but nothing I can’t work out of him.

By the time I start digging my fingertips one by one into his shoulder muscles, he lolls his head back with this gloriously blissful expression, muttering, “God, that’s good.” I take that as the cue to start moving to the front side, so I rest his head on my own shoulder as I massage him, bit by bit inward on his chest muscles, until I get right up next to his sternum. The moaning that I’m getting from him says enough; we’ve moved from Netflix to Chill. I run my hands down the silk-smooth abs, reaching down to unbutton his shorts, only to find his pecker staring immediately at me--I forgot he wasn’t wearing any underwear. Well, that makes this part easier, I guess; I lift his arms so that I can get better access, caressing his hips and converging on the target. I know I’ve only been out for a week or two, but I swear it looks a little bigger than it was. Growth spurt, maybe? Maybe I’m just hungry for cock. I gently drag my fingers over all of the sensitive spots, occasionally making him jump and giggle, only to melt into moans and sighs again. He’s drooling quite a bit, more than I’ve seen him do. Well, his dick, not him--though with the state he’s in, I wouldn’t find it surprising.

By this point, mine is straight-up painful (pun intended), so I hug him tight and grind against his lower back. He arches back a bit, but then leans into it. I put my hands on the band of his shorts, tugging a bit. Matty gets the hint and stands up off the bed, shucking his shorts like they were covered in ants. He looks at me with anticipation, but then as I reach for my own briefs, he puts out a hand. “Wait.”

I give him a quizzical expression. “What?”

“I wanna try something.” He crawls up on the bed, motioning for me to lie down lengthwise on the bed. As I do, he straddles my thighs and very delicately trails his fingers up the sides of my legs, barely touching the underside of my sack. It tickles like crazy, but in a fucking hot way. He continues to go up and down the sides of my dick through the material, just barely touching, going back to the tip of my scrotum and back.

I try my best to stop squirming, but the sensations are electric-intense. “Gnh! Pff--Matty! That tick--Ohhhh God--” is basically all I’m able to say while he’s doing it. I catch a glimpse of his face, which has quite possibly the most sadistic grin I’ve ever seen on him. Somehow, even that turns me on more. “Okay, okay, stop,” I finally gasp. “Slow. It’s been like two weeks...I’m--I almost...”

“Fine,” he says with an ear-to-ear mischievous grin. He grabs my underwear and pulls it down my legs with my assistance, taking a seat next to me. He starts jacking himself off a bit while staring at my pole.

“I think...it’s my turn,” I say with an evil smile as I push him over onto the bed. “No underwear, though, so...” I finish the thought with my tongue along his tight, round sack. His gasp speaks volumes; he involuntarily grabs my head with his hands as if to stop me, but just leaves them there as I continue up the base of his prick and over its salty precum-covered head. I suck on his dick like I’m trying to lick the skin off the underside; he writhes under the assault, still keeping my head in place with his hands.

“Uh! That’s...!” he manages to say before another gasp overtakes him. I push his legs up by the hamstrings, pointing his little boyhole straight at me, and I dive in for the kill with my tongue. Not that I can see his face, but the sounds he’s making would go perfect with when you make someone’s eyes roll in the back of their skull.

I work his hole for about a half a minute or so before I run low on energy--being weak is really fucking annoying, by the way--but even if I had more in me, the sound of my bedroom door being unceremoniously opened makes Matty screech in shock and accidentally axe-kick me in my lower back.

“Phillip, have you seen--oh God!” Stephanie is standing in shock and horror at what she’s seeing, whilst Matty is frantically covering himself up with the blanket.

I just look at her and exhale noisily through my nostrils. “Stephanie,” I say in a warning tone. “Knock.”

“Whatever, just--ugh, y’all are too young to be doing that, anyway! I should tell Mom.”

I know she expects me to freak out and beg at her feet, but I’ve played this game too long. “You won’t.”

“I will. How are you gonna stop me?”

“Two words.”

“Yeah?”

“Mitch Hill.” The name of the boyfriend she doesn’t know that I know she has. Not only did I find out from Katie, but the boy is an 8th grader at my school. He freakin’ bragged to me about it once. She has...poor taste in boys.

She freezes in place, staggered by the revelation. “How--what...does that even mean? What about...who even is that?”

“Please. I know you and him are...a thing. And that you...” I demonstrate the traditional finger-in-hole sex gesture.

She works her mouth around various ways to start up a sentence, but each one dies under scrutiny. Finally, she just says, “Fine. I promise to knock. Ugh, can you at least cover yourself up while we’re talking?!” She shields her eyes as if someone shined a flashlight at her.

“Bye-bye,” I say in a sing-song voice, waving like an infant who’s just learned how to use his fingers. She stares daggers at me a moment longer, and then shuts the door (with more than a little frustration) behind her.

Matty looks at me with a beet-red face, and we share this “Oh dear God” look before I bust out laughing. “Whatever. She can’t, can’t do anything.” I rub the sensitive spot on my back where Matty kicked me; that’ll hurt for a day or two, easy.

“But it’s so embarrassing!” Matty laments. “Just rewind it already! It’s--” He freezes, immediately aware of what he just said. “I’m--I’m sorry, Phillip, I...”

“I can’t,” I say with a shrug and a small smile. “Just gotta deal.” I narrow my eyes and smile a bit bigger at Matty. “I wasn’t done, though.” I throw the blanket over my head and crawl underneath, moving Matty’s legs up over my shoulders as I get back to work on his little pink hole. Again, I can’t keep it up for long, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to try my best at it.

When I finally come up for air, Matty has this wild look in his eyes. “I...kinda want you to do me. Like, do me.”

I smile at him sadly. God damn do I want to, but in the shape I’m in, it’s bound to be a terrible idea. “Not tonight. Still...not strong.” I think for a moment, and get an idea. “How about we...do this?” I scoot myself up, placing my legs astride him as he lets his down around me. I wedge my pillow underneath him so that I can press my shaft up his crack, slowly grinding into it. Matty takes a deep breath and watches me intently. The friction lets me basically slowly jack myself off between his cheeks by grinding against him, which feels stupidly amazing. I take my ring and pinky finger on my right hand and start jacking him off in double-time to my own thrusts, which makes him start bucking his hips, which jacks me off faster. The feedback loop brings us both close to the brink quickly; I thrust hard against him and I pop, sending thick globs of cum a few inches straight up in the air to dribble down my shaft and land on Matty’s sack. Not the power shots I usually have, but the feeling isn’t any weaker.

Matty immediately starts breathing much harder as he moves my hand out of the way and jacks himself off furiously. His breath catches in the final few seconds before blastoff, and he grunts a fierce exhalation as a small glob of milky cum flies out into his navel, followed by another translucent dribble of cum onto his thumb.

We both sit there, stunned by the throes of orgasm. After both of our heads clear from the rush, I point out, “Look. Sperm.”

Matty looks at his thumb with glassy eyes. “Oh, hey!”

I pick up his hand to look at the cum more closely. Then, when he least expects it, I suck it all off his thumb sensually. “Tastes good.”

He watches in rapt attention. “It does?”

“Always. To me, anyway.” I then wipe up the dribble of cum left on my own dick with a finger and lick it off. It’s definitely thicker than normal; then again, I never go two weeks without cumming. I spend a moment licking the cum off his sack (making him squirm more than necessary) and dick (making him squirm a LOT more than necessary). “What?” I ask innocently. “Gotta clean up.”

Matty just rolls his eyes and sits back up. “Um...did you wanna watch another movie?”

“Like, for real watch?” It’s a valid question.

He giggles, music to my ears. “Yeah. For real.”

“Uh, sure. Maybe put on, um, some underwear though. In case...you know.”

Matty suddenly stares off with an “oh, shit” face. “I...I forgot to bring underwear. I only...” He sighs. “I only have a spare diaper. Mom insisted, for nighttime.”

“Oh. You...you don’t have to. If you don’t want.”

“Nah, I probably should. I don’t want to mess up your bed by wetting it.”

“Whatever. I can just, you know, say I did it. I mean, I did have a, um, a...mess? No, um...a real...”

“Accident?”

“Yes. Stupid brain. ‘Accident.’ So if it, if you wet the bed, then I just say that, that I did. Whatever, you know?”

Matty seriously contemplates the idea, but instead climbs off the bed to pull out the diaper from his backpack. It’s plain white and actually looks decently like underwear from the outside, though it’s clearly a bit bulkier. “We’re trying out a new type,” he explains. “They’re a little more comfortable for sleeping in.” He wiggles himself into them and hops back onto the bed. After a moment, though, he says, “...What?”

I realize that I have been staring intently at him the entire time. Seeing him in a diaper like that inspires all sorts of emotions and thoughts in me, and surprisingly, not all of them are sexual. Easily over 50%, but not all of them. “Sorry,” I say, flustered. “Just...you’re really really cute in those.”

Matty tries poorly to suppress a smile. “I’m glad someone likes them, I guess.”

“But do you?” I ask.

“I mean, well...kinda. I guess it has grown on me a little.”

“Diapers can grow?!”

“God, Phillip, Shut UP.” He picks up a pillow and smacks me soundly with it. I make no move to avoid it--I deserve it completely.

I smile lovingly at him. “Well, you have grown on me.”

He looks at himself. “I’ve grown?” he asks, attempting the same joke.

“Actually...yes. I think so. So...grown on me, and just...grown.” I run my hand down his arm to his hand, which I hold.

He stares at me a long moment. “I’m really glad you’re back. I was worried you’d...you know. I didn’t wanna lose my boyfriend, or...” he hesitates. “Or another dad.”

Hearing those words stuns me for a moment. Rather than attempt a response, I just bring him close and hug him tightly. We embrace for a small eternity, each of us dampening the other’s shoulder quietly with shed tears. I sniffle, holding him in front of me. “I think I...didn’t want to, to leave you,” I say, caressing his arms and picking up his hands.

He squeezes my hands tightly, but says nothing. I can see a flurry of thoughts and emotions working their way through his mind, so I offer, “So...movie? Maybe something...I dunno. Disney?”

He thinks about it, and shrugs. “Sure. Emperor’s New Groove?”

“I LOVE that one!” Seriously--it’s the best movie Disney comes out with in my lifetime. Don’t judge.

I put on a pair of underwear and set Netflix up to play the movie. Matty cuddles up next to me, and I wrap the blanket around us both. In a short time, however, he repositions himself to lay his head in my lap. We watch the movie for less time than it really takes to get started before I see the slow rise-and-fall of sleep from Matty’s chest.

A funny thought occurs to me, though: here I am, an anomaly of time, with the memories of lifetimes in the body of an almost-13-year-old, playing as friend, lover, and pseudo-father figure to a kid less than a year younger than me who has had to grow up way ahead of his time, but is currently wearing a diaper and is curled up in the fetal position draped into my lap. In a sense, he’s as time-displaced as I am. Maybe that’s what I see in him. In this moment, I don’t need to use my powers: I can live as a kid, a parent, and a love-struck tween all at once.

I drape the blanket over him and stroke his hair lightly, thinking about how much more meaningful life seems considering that I may not get to relive this moment again. 

To be continued...