Carter's Shadow - 11. Chapter 11

"Nice guy," Blake said, glancing down to watch in the mirror as the two other men got into the Jeep. "He's a little young for a teacher, though."

"Co-op program," West explained. "He was pretty good at it, too; he was the one that got me so hooked on Shakespeare."

"That explains it," Blake replied with a nod.

"Explains what?" West asked, shifting a little as they drove back into the heart of the town.

"Well, no one can touch you when it comes to Shakespeare," Blake replied. "I know because I'm trying." He smiled as he adjusted his notebook to sit on his lap as he looked over at West, "But you really love the subject, don't you?"

"Mister Carter was a good teacher, and Mister Greenwood..." West shrugged, "Well you know, he's amazing."

"Yes," Blake replied shifting in his seat. "Speaking of which, where are we going to do this essay?"

West shrugged. "Yours or mine?" he offered.

He felt Blake's eyes on him, studying him, trying to gauge the hidden meaning, if any, in what was behind West's words. "Mine's quiet right now--my dad works late on the weeknights. We could use the study."

"Sounds good," West replied, as he followed Blake's directions, taking turns through the town till eventually they pulled up at a large stone house sitting just back from the road.

The first thought that flashed through West's mind was how anyone could afford a house like it--a squat two-story house that just sprawled around him. Done in a similar architecture to some of the old churches he had seen in Ottawa, it was constructed of dark stones that almost sang in the stillness. Heavy leaded windows and a massive oak door that was flanked by a pair of stone lions stared down at his truck.

West stared in surprise, "Wow."

"Don't be too impressed," Blake replied as he climbed out of the truck. "It's a company house; we get to live in it for free so long as Dad keeps working for Avery-Woods." He smiled. "We're not really rich," he said as if trying to draw West's attention back from the house.

"I'm sorry," West replied giving his head a shake and following Blake up the steps into the house. It had to be one of the grandest houses he had ever been in, and he found himself continuing to feel overawed by it. The artwork on the walls was real, not a print but hand-painted. The furniture was real wood, not MDF or plywood. It was intimidating when he realized he didn't fit in there.

"Are you thirsty?" Blake asked, hanging his typical black trench coat up in the hall closet.

"A bit, yeah," West replied, taking off his shoes and adding his coat to the closet as well. He shifted his book bag to his other hand as Blake led him through the massive house to the stylish kitchen.

It was bright and airy with lots of windows overlooking a low garden. It was as if the ground dropped away from the back of the house and stretched out to the tree line, meticulously maintained like everything else about the house.

"Wow," he said again.

Blake glanced up from where he was digging in the fridge for a pitcher of juice. "Yeah, the view is amazing," he said with a smile. "My dad lucked out when he got this place, it's huge."

West nodded as he sat at the kitchen island, a tiled affair; the whole kitchen reminded West of something out of the twenties, all chrome and black and white tiles. Whoever designed it had a classical taste.

Blake poured a glass of juice and slid it across to him, "Kool-Aid is about all we have, and Dad has to do some grocery shopping."

"So it's just you and your dad?" West asked curiously.

Blake nodded, "Mom lives in Vancouver, closer to her work."

"That has to suck," West said, wondering what he would do if his mom lived halfway across the country. He loved to see her smile, the way she cooked, sometimes the way she just seemed to know exactly what to say at just the right time.

"A bit," Blake admitted sitting down across the island from West. "She's doing all right, though, and I get to see her regularly so it's not so bad. Plus, I get to live with my dad, who gives me a lot of space."

"Cool," West replied as the two of them lapsed into silence. And West took a moment to just look at Blake.

Blake had always been an odd character; the fact that he had skipped a grade to get into high school a year early had made him an outcast. He was a smart guy, but seemed to have only a few friends, most of them the typical "Ottawa Goth" type who tried to be fashionable dressed in blacks and wearing makeup and the like. Blake wasn't nearly as bad as they were. Sure he wore a few too many rings on his fingers, and a couple of band bracelets on his arms, but he stayed well away from the makeup and bad dye jobs so typical of the other goths. And although he looked like a sixteen-year-old, he sometimes sounded like a thirty-year-old.

"What?" Blake asked, cocking his head to the side again and fixing his blue eyes on West quizzically.

"Nothing," West replied with a slight smile.

"You were just staring at me as if you saw me for the first time," Blake replied leaning forward on his elbows on the counter. "So what do I look like through your eyes?"

West frowned, "I...errr..."

"I'm a writer," Blake replied. "I love seeing the world through other peoples' eyes... like this," he held up a small box. "What is this to you?"

"A box?" West asked carefully.

"Yeah?" Blake said turning it over in his hands. "Well to you it's a box, to me it's green, to someone else it's a cube, or a container, or a hundred different things." He closed his slender fingers over it and smiled at West, "Like you, for example, so many different things."

"How so?" West asked, amused by Blake's eccentricity.

"Well, what are you to you? Some people see a jock, others a friend... to a few you're a bit stuck up and arrogant," he smiled. "Well, you can be," he replied, laughing at West's surprised reaction.

"Well, what about to you?" West asked, sipping his Kool-Aid.

"Good question," Blake replied, "but I asked you first."

West stared across the counter at the dark-haired young man with the enigmatic smile and lean frame, what did he see? "I see a writer, a pretty good one, who's a bit of a goth..."

Blake winced, "I hate that term; just because I wear black, that automatically makes me a goth..."

"Well, you wear nothing but black," West replied.

"And you wear nothing but polo shirts and that letterman jacket of yours," Blake shot back, "but you're more than a jock, right?"

"Yeah," West responded nodding. "I see an intelligent and witty guy with a happy look in his eyes."

"Happy look?" Blake asked, surprised. "That's a new one..."

"I don't know, you just seem happy. You don't care what other people think or do, you're just yourself and content to be so. That and you're always smiling--if not with your," he gestured to Blake's mouth, "then with your," he moved his hand up to gesture to Blake's eyes.

"Cool," Blake replied with a smirk. "Thank you, I think."

"You're welcome," West nodded. "Your turn."

"Well," Blake said jumping his stool forward a centimetre to get a better look at West, "I see an outwardly confident guy, school hero, the guy that's going to restore the school's honour after the drug mess." He shrugged, "But at the same time I see some insecurity in there, like you're so used to playing a role that you no longer realize you're playing the role--you are the role." He shrugged lamely, "I can't explain it, you're like this big hero, but you're human, and you're worried about making mistakes." He grinned and downed the last of the Kool-Aid, "Like right now, you're nervous."

"What makes you say that?" West asked, chuckling at Blake's boldness.

"The way you're sitting," Blake replied. "The way you're trying to play cool and aloof, yet at the same time not saying too much. You're one of those guys who, when uncertain, tends to go quiet and let others take the lead..."

"You really do watch me..." West said musing and swallowed as he realized what he'd said.

"Oh yes," Blake admitted. "I wrote about you in one of my stories; you know, trying to get at the guy underneath all the hockey gear, and hard jock exterior."

"You know that sounds kinda..." West shifted uncomfortably.

"Yeah, it does a bit," Blake admitted again with his grin. "But it's what I do when I write; I need to get inside their heads, let the characters show me who they are..."

"So who am I?" West asked folding his arms, adamant to shift this back onto Blake.

"Wow," Blake said looking thoughtful. "There's a difference between the character I wrote and you. I mean, it's just that..." he swallowed, "well, he's not like you."

"Can I read it?" West asked curiously, he'd never been the character in a book before; it was kind of flattering in a way, and mildly intimidating in another.

"It...I..." Blake turned red, "You don't want to read it. We should... err get to work or something..."

"Now who's hiding something?" West asked, standing up and following Blake through the house to the study. The room was designed like something out of an old Victorian photograph. Maps and books lined the walls and there was a smell of old paper and of cigar smoke. It was a warm room, and comfortable. Very masculine and very old, except for the brand-new computer sitting on the heavy oak desk.

Blake went around and sat down in the large chair and pulled himself up to the keyboard, "So... where were we?"

"You were about to show me your story," West replied, standing before the desk and grinning.

"I was not," Blake replied firmly. "We were going to get this essay done."

"That's not fair, you know," West said as he came and sat down at the desk. "You just can't tell someone they're a protagonist in a story then not show it to them."

Blake sighed and looked up at the ceiling, "Ok, but if I show it to you, you have to promise to take it in the context of the story; the character's only based on you, it's not actually you...."

"I promise," West held up his hand in a scout's fashion.

Blake's heaved a long sigh, "I can't believe I'm actually considering showing you this." He pulled out his notebook and fished through the pages till he came to the one he wanted and passed it over the desk.

West took the notebook and started to read; it wasn't long, only about eight pages or so. He flipped through it thoughtfully, recognising himself in the main character, and blinking at the...

He looked up at Blake, who was sitting gripping the edge of the desk nervously, staring at him expectantly. "Who's James supposed to be?" West asked with a smile.

"N-no one," Blake replied shaking his head, "he's just a character I came up with..."

"Sounds like a good kisser," West murmured flipping the page.

Blake's jaw must have hit the table, because when West looked up again he was being stared at in open shock. "What? I like it, I'm a sucker for a good love story, are you going to finish it?"

"Y-you're not upset?" Blake asked, trying to piece together his shattered paradigm. The straightest guy he knew had just read a gay short story about himself and enjoyed it.

"Upset?" West shook his head, "I want to read more. Like, does James ever work up the courage to say anything about his feelings? I mean a kiss is a kiss, but come on, inquiring minds want to see what happens afterwards."

"I-I haven't written anymore about James, but I have written some more about..."

"Me," West said sitting back into his chair and smiling. "You know, you're a pretty good writer, I'd love to read the others."

Blake nodded to the notebook, "They're all in there, but..."

"But?" West asked looking up.

"Well they aren't as... I have a pretty active imagination," Blake admitted, pasting a typical smile on his face, even though his eyes continued to show he was scared to death.

"You mean I get to take my clothes off?" West asked with a broad grin as he flipped through the book. Finding something, he stood up and started to read, "And he felt the sweat roll down his skin, a single bead that trickled over his breast as he heaved a sigh of anticipation..."

"Hey!" Blake said hopping to his feet. "Don't read that..."

West ducked around the desk to keep it between him and Blake, "He felt the touch, feathery fingers dancing over his..." he grinned up at Blake, "you do have an active imagination..."

"Give it back," Blake laughed as he lunged after the book, but West continued further around the table.

"As he drew closer, he felt the heat of his breath, catching the scent of leather and fading cologne..." West stopped suddenly as Blake collided with him, snatching back the book.

Blake looked up at West, his head cocked and a typical questioning smile on his face. "What?" he asked with a quirk of his eyebrow. " You just 'saw' me again."

"I did," West said with a nod as he instinctively reached out to put his hand on Blake's waist.

Blake's eyes widened. "Hello," he said, looking down at the hand and up at West again.

"I'm sorry," West withdrew his hand, "I shouldn't have done that."

"Nope," Blake replied still smiling, his eyes searching West's face. "You're gambling your reputation, Captain Condor."

"Sometimes you have to roll a hard six," West said with a shrug.

He couldn't help but wonder what was going through his head. Coach Highmore's warning rang in his ears about how difficult it would be if he chose to... chose to do what? Prove that the perfect athlete wasn't so perfect? That he was human underneath the jacket? Hadn't that been what he had tried to tell Peter? How hypocritical was it of him to say one thing to Peter and not act upon it. But what was he...

Blake nodded at him, "It certainly explains the whole Jenny-Lynn thing."

"Does everyone know about that?" West asked incredulously.

"No," Blake replied, "I didn't until just a moment ago, when you..." He smiled, "Do it again."

"No," West chuckled, "it's not the way I want to do things..." He shrugged, "I'm too old-fashioned, I guess."

"So which one of us asks and which one of us gets to play the girl, titter and fake thinking about it before saying yes?" Blake smirked.

"Oh," West reddened slightly, "you mean... like a date."

"Well, that is what you were implying, right?" Blake said broadening his smile.

"Would you like to go..." West began.

"Yes," Blake cut him off, grinning.

"Weren't you supposed to fake thinking about it?" West accused.

"Turn down a chance to go on a date with the captain of the hockey team--do I look stupid?" Blake grinned, "I'm free Friday night."

"Good, so wear something other than black," West said folding his arms.

"Only if you wear a tie," Blake shot back.

"A tie?" West asked in amusement. "I don't think I own one."

"Go buy one," Blake stated with a firm nod.

The sound of a key in the door caused both young men to take an involuntary step away from each other, as Blake's father, a broad-shouldered Hungarian man, walked into the study.

Side by side, West could see the resemblance--Blake was a smaller, thinner copy of his father, with the same eyes and typical Eastern European curve to their features. Mister Wolchowski clapped his hand over Blake's shoulders, giving West the once-over as they were introduced.

Satisfied with the introduction, the older man left the two of them to work on the English paper together, sharing casual glances across the broad desk, and the occasional conspiratorial grin.