It's clear that Neiman hadn't really thought through the implications of defining the start of his career this way, in terms of repeated cataclysmic confrontations with an established professional. But he's young, and he can afford spontaneity. He can afford to improvise from here.

When asked, Neiman can readily produce some worthy-sounding quote about the rapport between them, about his mentor's presence pushing him to be better, about finding the people you love playing with and what a privilege it's been working with Dr. Fletcher. (His eyes will fix on Terence when he calls him by his title; it's a rare occasion, but it's clear that in his mind's eye he's still reading it off of a course list.)

Fletcher would never be able to bullshit for that long. Nobody asks him any questions but he'll affably volunteer that Neiman is a pleasure to work with, that he's really finding his feet as an artist and a young musician. He's got a long way to go. And he's made plenty of enemies, which puts him well on the road to becoming Terence Fletcher lite. You don't get to be that vicious by treating your peers with uniform respect -- or the definition of what constitutes your peers narrows considerably.

It's Father's Day. Fletcher has received the customary 3-minute phone call from his daughter, this time from a moving vehicle. From the late hour at which Neiman arrives he can assume that the Neiman clan has had their little get-together. The kid smells like charcoal and red wine, and there's grass stains on his jeans.

Neiman is standing there in his socks on the ugly hotel carpet, looking at him with big shiny eyes.

"Glad you could make it, darling." The words are spat dismissively as he goes to unzip his suitcase; Fletcher positions his body between the banality of its contents and his protege's line of sight.

"So what's this going to be?"

"I don't think you're in any position to be asking me that kind of thing."

Fletcher's thumb traces down his nose, only to catch against his lip. Neiman has somewhat feminine lips, a characteristic that hasn't gone entirely without remark. He's a cute kid, even now.

Neiman is watching him closely, with consideration.

He sinks down to his knees, still skillful.

"Not quite, kid." Fletcher hoists him up by a fistful of his shirtfront, and Neiman scrambles to his feet, six feet of wiry youth and enthusiasm dangling from his grip. It would be easy, even satisfying, to crush him. "Come on, get the fuck up."

Andrew presses his face to his chest and breathes. Fletcher's grip locks on the back of his neck, fingers digging into hard sinews and baby-soft curls alike, and he twists back his head for a better look at those eyes.

"What makes you think I'm going to fuck you? What makes you think I won't shove you out the door?"

"Because I deserve it."

"And what have you done to deserve it?"

"I've played very, very well. I've been good. I've been great." There's a flicker of sullen amusement in his voice and Fletcher lets his head drop a little. Coaxing out the simple answers is more important than a wordy declaration of purpose -- they both know why he's here, what brought him here and what Fletcher wants him for.

"Why'd you do that for? Were you just showing off, or what?"

"I did it for you."

The kid doesn't know what the fuck he's doing.

His impatience is gratifying. Bent over on the hotel bed he's pretty as a picture, but he keeps shifting his weight and moving his legs -- not for balance or for comfort but anticipating the need for easy access. There's next-to-no meat on him, and little to grip.

Fletcher palms between his legs, up and under. Andrew's responsive groan is almost cute, he's already hard in his jeans and his plaid shirt's coming untucked.

"Take your shirt off, for Christ's sake. This isn't a public bathroom." (And he does, fumbling with the sleeves, until his lean white torso is naked to the stale hotel-room air.) "Hands in front of you. Don't even think about touching me."

Neiman complies without hesitation. The muscles in his long arms are laid out in hard lines, deceptively powerful for a kid who six months ago would have looked incredibly fragile.

His shoulders are dotted with freckles. Imagine that.

Fletcher takes a moment to roll a condom on -- the kid's too young to remember sex before condoms, he's probably had it hammered through his thick skull by high school teachers and Schaffer conservatory residential assistants alike. But they haven't taught him a damn thing, and his impatience is gratifying. He's too fucking tight. And too fucking eager; Fletcher has to hold him in place to stop him from rutting back against his leg, when he wants to take his goddamn time.

Neiman is skinny, alive with jumping muscle and with nerves. Fletcher is working into him, pulling him up against himself with an arm hooked up to grasp his throat. He can feel his breathing hitch and hiccup under his palm, can feel the kid twist and twitch, working at the hard dirty edge of his satisfaction with Neiman hitching beneath him.

Too tight, too hungry, twisting back like their mouths can meet from here -- Fletcher sticks himself deep in him, liking the way he sighs and swears. The slip of latex between them hardly feels like anything.

This kid has no idea how it used to be, what it used to be like if you wanted to fuck and be fucked in New York. He never will. Everybody else who knows what it was like is dead or defunct. When he was Neiman's age -- well, goddamn.

Fletcher bites his neck from behind, and Neiman shakes with laughter, reaching back.

Long strokes, until it gets easy -- then it picks up into the jackhammer bounce an angry little slut like Andrew craves, Fletcher can crush his balls in the grip of one hand and feel him open up only wider beneath him, knees knocking knees out of place and hairy legs grating hairy legs.

Neiman must like that kind of thing.The pain enters into his voice, but the invective spills forth strong enough to make even Fletcher proud. Fuck or be fucked. That's life. Happy Father's Day, here's a necktie and a Hallmark card.

He comes like a fucking geyser, Neiman drags that out of him in one brutal tug and leaves him raw -- and Neiman doesn't come until he's let him, Fletcher fumbles him off even though his forearms shake and his insults have a tremor in them.

How long are they going to do this for? How long are they going to -- Neiman probably calls this hooking up in the privacy of his own head, assuming he calls it anything at all, but that particular turn of phrase makes Fletcher want to stab himself. How long are they going to keep making these same mistakes? Until they come up with some new ones. Neiman is ruined for anyone else -- he's never going to keep a girlfriend, not in New York, and he's never going to get a boyfriend either if this is the closest he gets to talking about his feelings. Fletcher's left a mark in him, he's left him unfit for anything else but their shared work. Neiman is a thing, an extension of himself, and never more than when he's spitting and sweating and bleeding for Fletcher alone.

With his face buried against the wet nape of Neiman's neck, the soft barbered line of black hair slip-sliding against his spitty lip -- Fletcher can stay there for a neverending moment and forget all the bullshit. Look at the pair of them -- at what he's made this kid into. He's made him great. Look at what he's made him.