"Kaleidoscope: Dorm Room" (Working Title) 

Variation 1

A strangled cry. 

He woke up and was careful not to move, not to let whoever might be
watching know he was awake. He did this automatically, because he did
not remember where he was instantly upon waking. Some people have the
gift, of being instantly aware once sleep has released them. Like so
much else in his life, the boy got through this on balls and bluff. 

Another cry, this time a keening sound which ended in a breathy
exhalation. A little like a moan. It was not precisely the sound of a
man in distress, and he was fairly certain that wherever he was, it was
safe. That the sound was probably coming from his roommate. 

The idea of 'roommate' was the key to remembering everything else. His
roommate was named Jeff Spender. His own "name" was Alexander Krycek. He
was a junior at an American college on the West Coast, and there was
absolutely no known reason for the sounds coming from underneath the
window, where the tall, gangly freshman he had met only this morning had
staked out a nest of bedding and pillows, choosing to use the bedframe
provided by the school for storage. 

Alex waited an additional 30 seconds. He neither heard nor smelt an
intruder, but Jeff's noises switched to whispery little groans, almost
continuous. Alex turned over, casually as if asleep. Jeff broke off his
sounds. And the room was quieter than it had been. Alex realized that
the gentle 'whir-whir' he'd taken for leaves brushing against the window
had been the sound of sheets rustling. He waited once more. 

"Fuck it," he heard. Quiet, very quiet. Then the rustling, and a low,
continual moaning. Alex moved again for the second time since waking. He
smiled, and considered his position. He also opened his eyes. By the
time he was sure his vision, always slightly fuzzy on waking, was
focused, his crotch had flooded with heat, thinking of the
possibilities. The moans changed quality. They were shorter, quicker,
and rising in pitch. "Fuck it," he whispered, soft enough that the
freshman wouldn't hear him. 

He rolled out of the bed, hopped to his roommate's nest, and cleared the
top layers away. He had a split second impression of diamond-spotted
white parchment, stretched too far over rib cage and hips, and then he'd
gotten the cock in his mouth, and it was heavenly. Far, far too long
since he'd gotten a man in his mouth, had the luxury of caressing the
soft, velvety sack of a man's testes in his hand. He swallowed,
swallowed, swallowed, down to the roots, and then it was over. He heard
a smothered scream and cursed himself because he'd let the kid shoot
into the back of his throat and he'd missed the taste of the semen. He
did not know when he would be able to repeat this experience and he'd
cheated himself out of its full flavor. If only he had realized that
this child would be so close to the edge. 

He got up, still silent, and stalked into the hallway, then the common
bathroom for the floor. He looked into the mirror, and saw that he was
shaking. 

This was insanely stupid. He could not afford to get close to anyone, to
let anyone think they were getting close to him. And to let himself slip
for unsatisfying sex with an ungainly, plain boy was unacceptable. If he
were going to take big risks, they had to be for a reasonable gain, not
a mere three seconds of holding another human being in his throat. 

He threw water on his face, rubbed his arms, waited for the shaking to
stop. He looked down and realized that he couldn't sleep, realized, too,
that this was the second physical reaction he hadn't felt tonight.
Wondered why this lack of *awareness* didn't frighten him. He was sure
that it ought to, was also sure that the fact that it didn't should be
treated as another bad sign. He sighed and went into a stall to jerk
himself off. He slept on his stomach, and he didn't think he could do
that with a hard on. 

He took his penis out of his blue boxer shorts. It poked out, squat and
fat as usual. To his surprise, the tip gleamed with fluid, lots of it.
He reached into his shorts, to grab his testicles. His hand and arm
brushed against the shaft, and suddenly, he was ejaculating. He managed
to redirect himself, get most of the liquid in the toilet. It hadn't
felt good and he'd had no idea that he would get off so quickly. He knew
that was bad, and he knew it was worse that he wasn't scared by this. 

He left the stall, went back to his room. A desk lamp was on. It shone
down on his roommate's unruly curls, and shadowed his face. 

"What was that? What was that all about? No one's ever, no one's ever
done that. To me. Before, I mean." Jeff had not worn a shirt to bed, and
Alex could see that the visual impression of skinniness had been
correct. 

"Your noise woke me. It seemed like the fastest way to shut you up."
Peculiarly true. And impersonal enough to make the whole thing seem like
a dream to an inexperienced college student. Or so the inexperienced
foreign operative hoped. 

"How did you know? I try not to let it ... show to people. I don't want
everyone looking at me, staring at me. I don't want to be --" He looked
away, hiding behind a curtain of curly brown hair, looking much like a
refugee from a metal band. For a moment Alex feared he would break into
some inane power ballad. 

"Know what?" Freshmen always seemed to talk too much. Alex wished,
again, that he had payed attention to the housing lottery last semester,
instead of relying on his looks and seniority to get a good place. It
had not worked out that way. 

"That I'm gay." 

"I didn't. Go to bed. I want to sleep." He reached out, turned off the
lamp. He made his way into his bed. Alex took a moment to regret that
the sheets had gotten cold, and then he was asleep.

Variation 2

Alex couldn't sleep.  He felt itchy.  It had been so long since he'd had
a boy.  Summer he had spent in Russia, training with Peskow.  The old
man was an ascetic, and he expected his protege to partake of his
lifestyle with enthusiasm.

But Alex was a sensualist.  The sheets he put on the miserable dorm room
mattress were cotton, yes, but an expensive Egyptian weave.  His clothes
were either new, expensive, and perfectly tailored or old, worn to an
exquisite softness and perfect fit.  The speakers on his stereo were
unremarkable, but the headphones had been featured in Audiophile
magazine.

Tonight, he wore silk pajamas and the slick caress against his skin was
driving him insane.  As he tossed and turned on a lumpy mattress, he
once more cursed the mentor who had insisted he live on campus, rather
than securing an offcampus apartment.  The last minute change in plans
meant he had been stuck with a roommate, embarrassingly, a freshman.

He decided to play a game with himself.