It was a lot easier to reply the third time. The second was mostly music related - musings about Michael Jackson's career and whether or not the guys in Wham! were gay. This time Howie talked about his own musical aspirations, the time with the guy at the party, how he'd picked his parents as the first people to come out to when most of his friends still didn't know. He walked with AJ to the post office, the warm wind whipping their shirt sleeves around.

"You need to just meet this guy," AJ said. "You're going to run out of time at the rate you're going."

Howie shrugged. "I don't care if we just write letters. I mean, this is cool."

"No way," AJ said. "You need to get laid. I demand that you get laid. It's now, or you're going to have to go for German guys in liederhosen."

Howie giggled. "You'd look good in liederhosen."

"Your pick-up line could be 'would you like to Oktoberfest with me?"

"Would you like to see my weiner schnitzel?" Howie laughed out loud at his own joke and they had to stop and lean against the side of a building to catch their breath.

"Baby, I can make your Berlin wall come down," AJ added.

They made it to the post office and Howie dropped the letter in the mailbox, waiting until he heard the metal clang to walk away with AJ. "Where are you headed now?" AJ asked.

"Back to study. I want to get ahead before we leave."

"I hear you. I got a little something waiting back at the house, if you know what I'm talking about."

"I know what you're talking about."

They stopped at the corner a block away from the dorm. "Later," AJ said.

"Later."

Howie watched AJ walk away, crossing the street like he owned it. Maybe if AJ was with him, things would be cool. Like taking a little piece of home on the road with him.

By the time he headed down the hallway to his room, his legs were tired. A pylon from a construction site had magically appeared near the stairwell, and someone's door was newly decorated with toilet paper.

"Hey," Howie said when he entered the room. Chris sat in his corner, in his makeshift office, his head bent over a book. He didn't answer.

"Hey," Howie repeated, a little louder this time.

Chris waved his hand a little, distracted.

Howie inched closer. "What are you reading?"

"One of your books," Chris said. "The Wealthy Barber."

Howie froze. His backpack slipped off his shoulder and landed on the floor with a thud. He gulped. Tried to get his voice to work. "What?"

Chris waved one of the folded letters in the air. One of the Thompson letters. "I...I needed it for a class."

Howie's heart pounded so hard that it vibrated through his entire body. He couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Panic and terror strummed through him, mixing into one toxic stew in his stomach.

"You could have..." Chris stopped. Took a deep breath. He still hadn't looked up. "You could have just told me...."

Howie knew it was impossible to close his mouth. Impossible to stop the panic from spreading through his body. He blinked back tears. "Those are my letters."

"Really?"

"Those are...those are my letters!" Howie lunged forward suddenly, snatching them out of Chris's hands. He stepped backward, not sure where to put them now. Not sure what to do now that the secret he'd kept hidden so carefully was blown wide open. His face burned with embarrassment, his heart cracking slowly down the middle. He walked over to his bed and threw open the drawer of his night table, shoving the letters inside and slamming it shut. "You weren't supposed to see those."

"Howie...."

"You weren't supposed to see those!" Howie sat down on the bed and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. "Not until I wanted you to. I wasn't ready for you to see them yet."

"Howie...."

"I'm not ready yet, Chris. I'm not ready." Howie wiped his eyes again, this time with his fingers, and realized his hands were shaking.

"Howie! Let me say something!"

Howie rested his hands in his lap and realized his whole body was shaking. He stared at the floor, unable to look up or slow his breathing.

"Howie, I've already seen them."

Howie let out a harsh, uneven sound. "So you've been going through my stuff when I'm not around? Is that what you do for kicks or something?"

"Howie...."

"Because I'm not ready yet. Those are my private things. No one was supposed to see them."

"Howie!" This time Chris's voice was loud and insistent. Howie let in a jagged breath.

"Howie, I wrote them."

"Ha," Howie said, wiping his eyes with his shirt sleeve again. "Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?"

"Howie, calm down and look at me."

Another jagged breath. Howie finally willed himself to raise his head, but just a little, and look cautiously at Chris. Chris leaned against the desk with his forehead propped on his hand, his eyes dark. Then it was Chris's turn to take a deep breath. "I'm the Thompson guy."

Howie laughed nervously and looked away again. "That's crazy. I mean, you're not even...."

"Well, until today, neither were you."

"But...but why would you write to me? Why would you...."

"I didn't know it was you." Chris's voice was low, an edge of panic and awe creeping through. "I didn't know until I looked in your book about two hours ago."

Howie rubbed his feet together. He couldn't stop shaking. He stared at the lamp on his night table, and under the drawer to the shelf. The neatly tucked books were looser now, and one tilted a little and took up the space where The Wealthy Barber used to be. There was a long period of impenetrable silence.

Chris?

No way.

Chris looked at Howie. Howie looked at the shelf. He wiped his face again, wishing he could stop the stray tears. It still seemed like some kind of joke. Some kind of thing Chris would say to make him feel better. To alleviate the guilt he felt for taking Howie's book without asking when he knew that Howie hated people touching his things. Some way to rib him, or get back at him for something. Any possibility was more believable than the real one.

Howie crawled back into his bed and slid under the covers. He wished he could just stop shaking. The silence in the room was heavy, hovering over them like a rain cloud. The room was way too small. No matter which way he turned, Chris was only a few feet away from him. And yet Howie had nowhere else to go.

Chris breathed deeply, and even that small sound was enough to shatter the silence. Howie knew the breath was going to turn into a word and cringed, afraid of what that word would be. Afraid to know the truth.

"So...yeah," Chris said. Out of the corner of his eye, Howie saw Chris turn back to the book.

More silence. Howie wanted to change positions but any way he rolled would send a message. If he rolled and faced the wall, Chris would think he was disappointed. But if he rolled and faced Chris, he'd have to look at him.

"Are you mad?" Chris asked.

"Mad?" Howie asked in disbelief. "No. Why would I be mad?"

"Because it's me and not someone else."

"No!" Howie said with a little more enthusiasm than he'd meant to, and was afraid to follow it up with anything else.

"So we'll just..."

"Yeah."

"Forget it ever happened, then."

Howie nodded, still afraid to look. He heard Chris get up and gather his towel and toothbrush. He couldn't breathe until he heard the door shut.

Chris was gone longer than usual. Howie stayed focused on the ceiling, not moving the whole time. So it was Chris who wrote the letters. Chris probably thought he was writing to some stud trying to pass his bar exam. Instead he'd gotten Howie. What killed him more than Chris finding the letters was the idea that Chris was walking down the hallway with a sinking heart, knowing that he'd have to keep looking, because the romantic prospect he'd thought would turn into something had just ended up being Howie.

Chris came back with wet hair and shirtless with a towel around his neck. He looked at Howie briefly and started towel drying his hair.

"Sorry," Howie said quietly.

Chris spun around, still drying. "Sorry? Why?"

"Because it wasn't what you thought it was."

Chris stared for a moment and then actually smirked. "No, it definitely wasn't. But that's not your fault."

And for Howie, that confirmed it. Chris wasn't interested in him. Howie rested his hands on his stomach. "That guy down the hall with the leather jacket is gay."

Chris spread the towel on the back of his chair. "Are you going to go for him?"

"No. I meant for you."

Chris seemed focused on laying the towel evenly. "Howie, I don't want just any guy. I wanted someone I connected with, to kind of learn more about myself. To experiment and hang out and stuff."

Howie gulped. "Oh."

"You would have been perfect, actually."

Howie's heart sped into a drumroll. "Huh?"

"Yeah. If you were into it. But I can understand why you're not."

Howie jerked up in bed, going from a lying position to a perfect 90-degree angle. "Me not into it? It has nothing to do with me not being into it. I never said I wouldn't be into it. You never even asked me if I'd be into it."

Chris bent over like he was trying to crawl into his dresser drawer, his hands moving methodically through his folded clothes. "Why? Would you?"

"Jesus Christ! Yes!" As soon as Howie said it, his face flushed. Oh, God. He would have crawled under his bed if he could fit, and if it wasn't crowded with boxes.

Chris stood up straight. "Come here."

"What?"

"Come. Here." Chris pointed to a spot in front of him to illustrate.

Howie swung his legs and rested his feet on the floor. This was it. He might just die of a heart attack right there, a sudden and tragic corpse at the ripe old age of 20. His legs wobbled when he stood, and he stepped timidly over to the imaginary spot in the carpet where Chris has pointed.

He wasn't sure if he was going to be kissed or punched or slapped playfully. And then he was hugged. Pressed tight against Chris's bare chest, his heart thumping so loud he was sure Chris could hear it. He rested his chin on Chris's shoulder and hugged back.

Chris repositioned himself enough to fondle Howie's shoulders. "You're way too tense," he said in Howie's ear.

"Sorry."

"And stop apologizing for everything."

"Sorry."

"I said stop!"

"Okay! Sorry!"

Chris laughed, rocking Howie with him a little. He pulled away and messed up Howie's hair. Howie knew he was giving the little kid grin he'd once seen himself do on a family home video and hated.

"We'll just see what happens, okay?" Chris asked.

"Okay." Howie turned and walked back to his bed, flopping down and trying to hide a smile. He grabbed a book off his shelf and laid back with it. And then he couldn't decide if it seemed like nothing had happened at all, or if they'd just adjusted to what had happened really, really quickly.