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The young tiger felt a little fidgety, more so than usual at this time, but he couldn't really say why. It was another Friday afternoon, and he sat as patiently as possible in the small tutoring room, waiting for his charge to show up. It was unusual to tutor someone in this time slot; the college crowd began celebrating the weekend as early as Thursday night, but there were always exceptions. After all, the junior varsity team practiced all week and played on Thursday nights (as a rule), so scheduling tutoring was no easy task in the mid-week. He was just as glad that his student was smarter than the average jock.

He smiled ruefully at the mental comment. He'd been raised better than to be judgmental about others, especially in regard to stereotypes. He hardly fit the stereotypical tiger image himself. Truth be told, young master Malcolm Monroe Lamar was far more lanky and bookish than his twin older brothers, and they rarely if ever let him forget it. Malcolm's tender contempt of jocks began at an early age, as his older brothers grew, filled out, and generally overshadowed the kit in just about every athletic endeavor. Of a more slender build that favored his mother and grandmother's genes, he was usually the last one standing on line at choose-up during gym class, and the captains of both teams were arguing about which side had to take him. Team sports were not Malcolm's long suit.

Without knowing it, his brothers were instrumental in helping Malcolm excel in two specific areas. The kit was smart already, and his academic excellence was easy enough to predict, up to and including the AP high school courses that combined to provide 18 college credit hours in basic math, science, English, and history before he'd even set paw onto the university campus grounds. Three exceptional scores on CLEP tests gave him another nine credits, for American lit, English lit, and Analyzing and Interpreting Literature, not to mention the clout necessary to qualify as a tutor in English even though (technically speaking) he was a first-semester college freshman.

The second specialty he had developed was more or less literally a form of self defense from his brothers: Aikido. Starting late in his middle school years, he had progressed through the white, yellow, orange and green belts, earning his blue belt in his senior year in high school. He had been encouraged to train and compete, but for now at least, a blue belt was sufficient to keep his brothers from getting too mean in their physical treatment of him. When Duncan, the elder twin by a matter of a few minutes, sported some bruises from a failed attempt to subdue Malcolm, younger twin Daniel joked that their youngest brother had won his black-and-blue belt. Truth told, Malcolm felt bad about it, but he did his best to hide that fact from his brothers, in case they would find it a sign of weakness. Even so, both of them had cut their football practice short in order to be there for the brief ceremony when he was awarded his symbol of accomplishment. That had to count for something.

"Hey, browncoat!"

Malcolm shook his head clear of the reverie and smiled as the studly young lion sat down across from him, book bag hanging casually from one shoulder. The footballer relaxed himself in the chair and regarded the tiger with a smile of his own. For just a moment, the freshman felt that there was something else in that smile, something new, something secretive. Not likely. Not at all likely...

"Hi, Harris. Congrats on the game; campus paper says it was a terrific win."

"Thank you. We have a great team this year," the lion observed. "Glad to be a part of it."

Malcolm grinned. "You're definitely not like my brothers. To hear them tell it, they'd have won the game with just the two of them."

"I know I've got an ego, but I try not to use it too much." He grinned, reaching into his book bag and bringing out a slim trade paperback, tossing it onto the table. "Especially when I need help. Have you read this?"

The tiger picked up the book, nodding. "Slaughterhouse Five? One of my favorites. I love Vonnegut; he can be hilarious sometimes."

"I can get some of the comedy in it, but overall..." Harris sighed, shook out his mane, chuckling. "Maybe I'm just too thick to understand it."

"You're not thick," Malcolm said firmly, surprising himself. Catching his breath slightly, he took a chance and went on. "You really understand more than you give yourself credit for. When we covered _Equus,_you had some amazing insights, even some that my professors hadn't come up with."

"At least I got a B-minus on the essay, which was thanks to you, by the way." Harris smiled easily. "I'm glad they got you to be my tutor."

For a long moment, Malcolm was unable to reply. He'd had a crush on the lion from the first time they'd met, and it wasn't a very difficult thing for anyone to guess. Even if the lion were as thick-skulled as some jocks are reputed to be, he must have figured it out by this time. The tiger felt a blush burning into his cheek fur even as his tail betrayed his thoughts just as clearly. "Well then," he managed, clearing his throat. "Let's find out what's wrong between you and Mr. Vonnegut."

The next ten minutes found the two felines in a roundabout discussion of the author's work in general and Schlacthof Fünf in specific. Harris thought it a mistake to refer to other works by Vonnegut, but Malcolm helped him to see otherwise. "Bringing in references to other works can earn you points," the freshman said. "For instance, the character of Eliot Rosewater appears in other works, not just this one."

"God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater," the lion cited with ease. "He's the only person who ever sent Kilgore Trout a fan letter."

"Exactly! Have you read that book?"

"No," Harris grinned, "but I'm good with titles."

"Hey, a passing reference can be as good as a full citation, if you work it right." Malcolm returned the grin easily. "So, you've got an idea what your essay will be about?"

"I like your idea about how so many books and movies about war glorify it, as if it's a really good and noble thing, and Vonnegut skewers it by showing how ridiculous all the little stuff is. The way he keeps using the phrase 'So it goes' all the time."

"Right after someone has died. Nearly every death is simply dismissed that way. People talk about how badly London was bombed, but in all of England, only about 600 acres of land were bombed; in Dresden alone, it was almost three times that much, most of it civilian property and non-military industry." He paused. "Vonnegut was in Dresden at the time. A POW. He survived the complete devastation of what he called the most beautiful city in Europe. So much of it came out in his writing that some critics wonder how autobiographical it is. The way that the narrator keeps intruding, saying 'That was me...'

"And Edgar Derby. In the midst of all that horror and destruction, thousands dead and dying, complete devastation all around... and the Nazis take the time to execute one man... one single soldier... for finding and keeping an unbroken teapot. So much destroyed, yet even finding a survivor isn't as important as executing Edgar Derby. So pointless. So tragic. So it goes..."

Malcolm wasn't wholly aware of how quiet his voice had become, nor that he had stopped talking and was staring into the middle distance for a long time. Only after he heard his name called did he flinch and come back to himself.

"You looked about a million miles away," Harris said softly. His face was kind, his eyes half-lidded and gently considering. "Something about this really speaks to you."

"Sorry." Ears splayed, he felt himself blushing again.

"No need for sorry," the lion purred, leaning forward. "You seem to have a lot of empathy. I guess I didn't notice before."

"I... thank you..." Malcolm put his forepaws on the table, tried to control his thrashing tail. "History," he managed to say. "I guess I have a thing for history, especially through literature."

"How do you mean?"

"We should probably--"

Harris put a paw gently on top of the tiger's smaller one, almost whispering, "Tell me what you mean. Tell me about history through literature."

The freshman held his breath at the lion's touch, half a hundred emotions vying for supremacy in the few seconds before he found his voice again. "There are passages in literature, in stories, even in narrative histories like The Guns of August, where history comes alive. To me, at least. How can you read words like, A horse... a horse, my kingdom for a horse!, and not wonder at the emotions of a king brought low by his own hubris? To read about the trial of a teacher trying to promote science over religion, and see how he's abused by his own neighbors? Can you read of Atticus Finch, as real a trial lawyer as Clarence Darrow or Gerry Spence, and not feel the need to cheer him on?" He swallowed self-consciously. "Or is it just me?"

He felt his forepaw being squeezed gently. "Not just you. Not anymore, anyway."

The tiger glanced up and saw the footballer looking at him steadily, the lion's deep amber eyes seeming so open that he could fall into them and keep falling and lose himself there forever. Icefire shot through his veins, freezing him in place even as it burned in his cheeks, his ears, his mind. Malcolm knew that it was just a crush, just a stupid, hopeless, adolescent crush, and he was nothing short of an idiot for feeling this much, wanting what he could never have. He was embarrassing himself, and he knew that only pain could come from this, that he would be found out and ridiculed and bullied like never before because he had risked too much.

"You have a lot of passion in you, Malcolm," Harris said softly. "You're going to be an amazing teacher, if that's what you want to be. I hope you will be, or at least keep tutoring, because you really feel strongly about literature. I probably wouldn't really have noticed it before, because I..." The lion looked away, sighed. Absently, his thumb stroked the freshman's paw, making the hair on the back of Malcolm's neck start to rise, not to mention a similar sensation in his groin. Several moments passed until Harris looked back at his tutor, then down at their paws and, startled, took his paw away.

"I'm sorry," Harris began, "that was probably..."

"Very nice." The tiger spoke before he thought, and when he realized it was too late, he moved to gather his books and papers.

"Mal, wait." The lion's arms reached out toward the freshman, stopped, pulled back. "Look, I overstepped here, and I'm sorry."

The feeling in the small tutoring room was too close, too warm. Malcolm felt his head swimming, sweat on the pads of his paws, his heart beating too hard, too loud. He felt his muzzle moving, not entirely sure he was in control of it. "Please don't be."

Slowly, Harris nodded. "Will you sit down? Please?"

Please? The voice so soft, the young tiger wasn't even sure he'd heard it. Harris was never rude (brash, maybe, if he had to pick a word, or audacious), but neither was he this... sensitive? Was that the word he wanted? Malcolm found himself sitting down again without protest.

The lion leaned forward. "I don't think these rooms are entirely soundproofed, so..." He smiled a little self-consciously, and the tiger was again reminded of what had made the footballer so attractive when they'd first met. Quite apart from the muscles, the magnificent mane, the sheer maleness of the self-confident lion, it was those little glimpses of what lay beneath the veneer of Athletic Star that Malcolm found so attractive, that sense of something real and rare and original underneath the polished layer of presentation that matched so well with everyone else's expectations of the college football stud. And Malcolm really liked what he saw. Gods help him, he really liked what he saw.

As the freshman leaned forward, Harris' spoke softly. "Malcolm, I need to trust you. Can I do that?"

"Yes. Completely."

"When we first met, I made a guess about you, and I hope that I don't offend you by saying it. I had the impression that you might be gay." He waved a forepaw slightly. "You don't have to answer; it doesn't matter, except that... well, I found out recently that I... I think I might be gay too. And I need to talk to you about it."

The tiger swallowed hard, fighting the sensation of being about to faint.

"All this has happened slowly over the course of this school year... since summer scrimmage time, I guess... but I've only really thought about it over the past, what, three days maybe. I guess what I'm trying to say is that everything seems completely new to me right now. I mean, you've been tutoring me for weeks, but it's only now that I really see you as... you. You have so much passion for literature, and you've been trying to get me to understand that too."

"You've been doing great," Malcolm whispered. "You really understand this so well, more than... well, more than..."

"More than a jock should?" Harris chuckled softly. "Not all of us are stupid, but most people expect us to be. That's sort of what I want to talk to you about. See, you knew something about me even all those weeks ago. You never treated me like I was stupid. You trusted me to understand you, and you found a way to get through to me. You, and one other male, have trusted me to understand. And that's what I'm doing now. Understanding myself."

The tiger forced himself not to reach out and hug the lion close to him, or just take the cat's forepaws into his own and squeeze. Did he dare to want too much, to ask, to hope that maybe...? "Can I help?" He blinked. "I mean... maybe that came out wrong..."

The footballer's entire face warmed into the most loving, smiling chuckle that Malcolm had ever seen, with a grin that seemed to reach from ear to ear. "I think I got it. And thank you, browncoat. For now, you can help me most by keeping this quiet. I still don't know how all this is going to turn out, and I'm worried about the future. I don't know if I'll take up football as a career, but so far, no NFL player has come out until after he retired. Maybe that makes me a coward."

The look on the lion's face cut Malcolm to the quick, and again he had to force himself not to move. The emotion in his voice took over completely. "It can't be easy," he whispered. "I wish I could... I'm sorry if this comes out wrong, but I want to..." He gulped loudly enough for the click in his throat to sound like a gunshot in his ears. "I want to love you."

Words are not sparrows, rang an old Russian proverb in the young tiger's head. Once set free, you cannot capture them again. His body all but vibrated with the raw fear over what he had just done, knowing he could not undo it, knowing that his entire life now rested squarely in Harris' paws. As he watched, the lion's face changed expression minutely, flickering - was that laughter about to form, derision, scorn? Or was it more like a cry, a tear, of sorrow or pity or some pain not related to Malcolm at all?

Harris' eyes cut to the door, back to the tiger's face. "Those don't lock from the inside," he whispered. "Or else I'd probably be hugging the stuffing out of you right about now. Malcolm, I really need you to hear me. I meant what I said - this is all completely new to me, and apart from you, only one other person knows. That's the male I've been seeing. And I'm still... well, I'm still trying to understand all of that too. It started out as one thing, mostly just sex, but there's a lot more emotion involved now, and..." The lion shook his head, his lavish mane dancing about his face, a rueful smile on his muzzle. "I'm not explaining this well."

"No, it's okay... I get it." Unfair as it was to himself and to Harris, the tiger felt daggers twisting in his chest, a shattering of great icebergs inside himself as his heart and mind collapsed of their own weight. He forced a smile up through his constricted throat, shoving it past the whirling grinders and chainsaws trying to choke off every cry and moan that he might produce, until at last the smile appeared on his muzzle, bloodied, broken, and false even to himself, helping to push forward the lie that he felt compelled to utter. "It's okay. I understand."

The kit was only dimly aware of movement at first, fast and powerful movement that finally resolved itself into a shape, a very warm shape, a very close and warm shape seeming to wrap around him like a protective cloak. Harris. It was Harris. The lion knelt next to Malcolm's chair, his lean, powerful arms around him in a tight hug, his mane in the freshman's face, his lips close to the kit's ear. "It's not all right," he whispered. "Not if it's going to hurt you. That's the one thing I promised myself I would try not to do, try with all my strength. I don't want to hurt you. Too much hurt."

Malcolm's mind whirled, overloaded, trying to understand. "I..."

"Shh," the lion whispered. "Hold me. Just hold me for a minute, okay?"

The tiger's arms flew up to embrace the lion closely, his chest hitching in something just short of tears. The footballer was so warm, so solid, so completely here. Malcolm smelled the coconut and lime scent of conditioner in the lion's mane, and somewhere underneath, down below the aroma of body wash, was the hint of a darker scent, more musky, more personal. He felt the sculpted muscles of the neck, the back, and pressed up against him, the firm chest muscles that moved slowly, easily, in steady breaths. Nothing was asked of him, other than the silent request to stay, to be held, to be given these few moments of...

To Malcolm's thinking, a very long time passed with neither of them saying a word. He felt Harris squeeze reassuringly and pull back a very short distance, his muzzle close enough to the freshman that he thought perhaps he was about to be kissed, to have the first real, emotion-filled kiss born not of sexual curiosity but out of something more, just a bit more. Harris looked deeply into his eyes and finally spoke. "Malcolm... I need to go. But I want to see you. Not here. I think we have more to talk about." He smiled ruefully. "That's what I've learned from the other male I told you about - that, sometimes, you have to talk. Are you staying in town this weekend?"

The tiger nodded slowly.

"Maybe words aren't enough, but it's where we have to start. Right here, right now, I can only make one promise to you: I promise I will see you this weekend, and we'll talk. Can that be enough for right now?"

"I..." Malcolm swallowed, as Harris brushed his cheek with a tender thumb. "I want it to be..."

The footballer smiled softly. "Thank you." The tiger felt his eyebrows draw together, and the lion chuckled quietly. "Thank you for trusting me. It's been a long time since I've said, 'I'll call you' and meant it. I will call you tomorrow, before noon. If you want, we can start with lunch."

Malcolm's muzzle twitched into something more like a grin. "Am I allowed to call it a date?"

"Someone's feeling better!" Harris pulled the tiger back into his embrace and whispered into his ear. "We'll call it whatever you'd like, browncoat. Or can I still call you that?"

"You can. Nobody else." Malcolm squeezed the lion and this time was the one to pull back. He looked into the lion's deep amber eyes and found no answers... but he did find the promise, and for now, perhaps that would be enough.