Disclaimer: Characters not mine.

Author's Notes: Thank you kindly to Zabira for the beta. This story was partly inspired by the following piece of lyrics:
But way back where I come from, we never mean to bother,
We don't like to make our passions other people's concern,
We walk in the world of safe people, and at night we walk into our houses and burn.
-- Dar Williams, from the song "Iowa".

Story Notes: The quotes are from page 639 and 623 of Sexual Behavior in the Human Male by Alfred Kinsey.

"Bet you can't keep me from the goal." Mark's voice was taunting, and Benton got in front of him, determined to prove him wrong.

He didn't know how long they'd been playing, he only knew the singing sound of blades on ice, his focus on the location of the puck, and the flash of Mark's white teeth when he grinned.

Thwack! Mark made a shot, and the puck rebounded from the icy snow at the edge of the pond. Chasing after it, Benton was aware of Mark behind him, catching up, but Benton got there first. Then Mark was there, slamming into him, and they went down in a tangle. Benton's whole body hummed with adrenaline, from the skating, from the competitive game, from Mark's solid body on top of his. Mark's face was so close that Benton could see the stubble on his upper lip.

"Hey, Mark. Let me up."

"Sure thing, Ben." Mark grinned, then heaved himself up. Something caught his attention, and he waved in the direction of the road. Benton looked up, and saw a red parka and cap, vivid in the glow of the streetlight. Sarah.

"Sarah, hi! Benton and me were just finished, right, Ben?"

"I guess so."

"How's your hockey practice going?"

"Oh, fine. I'm winning, of course. "

Mark glanced down at him, teasing, then skated to shore and exchanged a kiss with Sarah, awkward on his skates in the snow. Benton clenched his hand, digging his nails into his palms inside his mitten. He got to his feet, and since practice was obviously over, he skated slowly ashore. Untying his skates, he pulled his boots on instead. They'd gotten cold from standing in the snow, but he was plenty warm enough.

He glanced over at Mark and Sarah, then turned his gaze down to his half-tied bootlaces again. They were standing close together, breaths mingling in the cold. Mark was murmuring something, and Benton couldn't quite hear what he was saying. Then Sarah's low laugh, and the sound of some kind of scuffle. More playful laughter. Benton couldn't stand another minute of this. He gathered up his things and slung the skates around his neck, where they dangled from tied-together laces.

"I guess I'll be going home, then."

Mark nodded at him, and Sarah smiled and waved. "See you at school tomorrow, Benton."

He turned his back on them, walking quickly away.

The snow squeaked under his boots as he walked down the newly plowed road to his grandparents' cabin. The sun had long since set, but the snow and stars turned the night into a half-gloom where he could easily see where he walked. Benton enjoyed walking, he liked the sense of his legs working while his mind was thinking of other things. His body had finally started doing what he told it, which was a nice change from the awkwardness of growing into arms and legs that seemed too long for him. He could skate as well as Mark, and hit the puck with the satisfaction of knowing it would go where he wanted.

Unfortunately, this was little consolation when what he really wanted to do was grab Mark and push him down, and... he was so irritating, bragging and acting superior all the time. A wave of heat washed through Benton, and he walked faster, the air cold on his flushed face. He knew it was jealousy, seeing Mark with Sarah. It felt like a worm, eating away at the core of him, or like some poison running in his blood.

Benton knew this was melodramatic of him, but he couldn't seem to help it.

It would have been easier, perhaps, if he could have disliked Sarah, but she was always nice to him. She seemed smart in school, too. Sometimes he wondered why she was with Mark -- she seemed so much more mature than Mark. Only, this logically led to the question of why he himself wanted Mark despite the fact that he was the most infuriating person on Earth. How could he blame Sarah for wanting what he wanted, too? It was such a tangle. Benton huffed out a frustrated breath, watching the moisture freeze in a cloud of white. Well. It wasn't as if he would ever let Mark know. Mark clearly preferred Sarah.

There was a light ahead, glowing warm on the snow. Caught up in his thoughts, he had already walked the five kilometers home. He carefully brushed the powdery snow off his boots, and opened the door, blinking in the light and warmth of the cabin.

"Benton! You're just in time for dinner."

His grandfather was setting the table, and when he had taken off his heavy parka and boots, Benton helped. His grandmother came over with a big pot of thick soup, carrots and potatoes mixed with bits of meat. It was sturdy winter food, and the smell made him swallow in anticipation. But when he sat down, he found his thoughts were still preoccupied, and he stirred the soup with his spoon and sighed.

"Eat up, Benton, you're still growing. And moping doesn't suit you, you know." His grandmother was watching him with a keen gaze.

"I'm not..." he began, then realized that perhaps he was. "I'm sorry."

He began to eat, feeling the soup warm him all the way inside. Benton was grateful that at least his grandmother couldn't see why he was moping. Or he hoped she couldn't. He finished up the last of his soup, and looked up.

"May I be excused? I'd like to finish my physics homework."

His grandmother nodded. "Of course, Benton."

He took his plate to the sink and washed it off, drying it carefully, then went into his small room, adjacent to the combined kitchen and living room, and closed the door. He did have physics homework to look at, but he made short work of it. Really, basic mechanics wasn't much of a challenge compared to what he'd read on his own. Then he lay down on his bed, and dug under the mattress, pulling out a thick book with dark red covers and opening it at a bookmark. As an afterthought, he grabbed a book from the pile on his bedside table -- T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land -- and put it half on top of the book he was actually reading, in case someone came in.

Propped up on his elbows, he read avidly.

It is a fundamental of taxonomy that nature rarely deals with discrete categories. Only the human mind invents categories and tries to force facts into separated pigeon-holes. The living world is a continuum in each and every one of its aspects. The sooner we learn this concerning human sexual behavior the sooner we shall reach a sound understanding of the realities of sex.

Very interesting. He couldn't believe his grandparents had gotten this book, though he'd found it in the library, so they must have. Not that they didn't want him to know about sex, exactly -- human reproduction had certainly been part of the biology lessons they'd given him -- but they were so reserved. He didn't often see them touching each other, or him for that matter. Mark's mother hugged Mark when he left for school.

Benton read on.

In these terms (of physical contact to the point of orgasm), the data in the present study indicate that at least 37 per cent of the male population has some homosexual experience between the beginning of adolescence and old age (see Table 139, Figure 156).

Benton chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. It was almost unbelievable that 37% of all men had actually had sex with another man, but the proof was right here in diagrams and small black print. People in his class. More than a third of the men he met on the street. And yet no one ever talked about it. Why didn't they? It didn't seem to Benton to be something unethical. He frowned, and tucked the problem away in his mind for further analysis.

Benton hid Alfred Kinsey's Sexual Behavior in the Human Male under the mattress again, and got up to get ready for bed.

Brushing his teeth, he looked at his grandmother, who sat by the fire reading, and wondered how on Earth she would react if he told her he liked Mark that way. Perhaps she would be coolly analytical and understanding. Or would she be disapproving, or just find it embarrassing? However she reacted, he just couldn't picture telling her, or his grandfather either. It wasn't something one spoke about.

The fire wasn't enough to heat the cabin to a comfortable temperature, so he dressed in his thick woollen long johns and crept under the heavy covers with a hot water bottle at his feet. It was dark, with only a sliver of light leaking under the door from the living room.

Benton closed his eyes and tried to sleep. His mind was still buzzing with thoughts, and with sensory memories of today's hockey practise with Mark. Mark, knocking him down and falling on top of him. Mark's sharp elbow in his ribcage, the side of Mark's hip slamming into his. Mark grinning at him. Heat slowly crept along his skin, and he hesitated, then reached for his handkerchief beside the bed. Unbuttoning his long johns, he slid his hand down and touched himself. Pleasure spread and bloomed in his body like some strange flower. He breathed through his open mouth, making sure not to make a sound.

There was nothing wrong with this. 92% of all men did it, even if no one ever talked about it.

Benton moved his hand slowly, carefully not thinking about Mark anymore. Oh... it felt so good. His hand went faster without his own volition, and he couldn't hold on anymore, but he had to be still, had to be quiet. Benton bit his lip and shuddered silently as he came. Lying motionless, he felt his heart beating fast and hard in his chest, while he lay suspended in the aftershocks of pleasure. Finally he moved, wiped himself on the handkerchief and crammed it into the pocket of his pants. He could wash it out tomorrow without anyone noticing.

Drifting, Benton relaxed in the warm bed, thoughts dissolving into sleep as his breath became slow and even.