Ryan

He ran, out of breath, the coffee spilling out of the Styrofoam cups and onto his gloved hands and he was so late. He had already gone through excuses in his mind, but he knew from experience that it was not acceptable to miss the bus. What was even less acceptable was to be late when he was on coffee duty.

Finally he reached the building and ran through the sliding doors, luckily managing to reach the open elevator before it left. He pressed the button and bit down on his lip slightly, tapping the heel of his foot against the floor as he waited for what seemed like forever to reach the right floor.

"Ross!" Evans called the moment he stepped out of it. "Ross, you're late! The boss is furious, kid. And give me my coffee!"

Ryan took a deep breath to calm his temper. He was used to the boss being angry. He was used to being yelled at. He was even used to being called a kid; as though graduating from the academy a year early and being the youngest person to work here since the Cold War was a bad thing. He put the coffee on his desk, perhaps a little too hard judging by the amount of dark liquid splattering over the papers he'd left on his desk the previous night. "Take it yourself," he grumbled.

"Boss wants you in his office immediately, Ross," Jacobs yelled from the other end of the room, and Ryan sighed, peeling his gloves off and throwing them on the table before letting his coat follow, leaving him in the cheap suit that was mandatory office wear.

He smoothed down his hair as best as he could without a comb to brush it backwards out of his face and hurried down the corridor, into yet another elevator and up two floors. At last he found himself in front of the glass doors leading into the main office, and he reached a hand out, knocking meekly.

"Who's there?" came a loud, booming voice and Ryan already felt himself shrinking a little. He was so not in the mood to be reprimanded.

"Ross," he answered, taking in another breath before opening the door upon being requested. "I'm sorry, sir," he immediately said. "I just, I missed the bus. I know it's inexcusable, but-" He quickly shut his mouth when he realized from the look on the other man's face that he was just managing to make everything worse on himself.

"Ross, you're a fine agent, and you already know I don't tolerate tardiness," the director stated. "That, however, is not what this is about. I have an assignment for you."

Ryan felt relief flow through him, followed quickly by a fair amount of excitement. "Really, sir?" he asked, unable to hold back a smile. "I thought you said I'd need more experience before being ready to take on field work, though."

"When I give you an assignment I expect a 'thank you, sir'," the director stated. "Ask your questions elsewhere. Morrison will brief you on the details later. And you share an apartment with Robb, don't you?"

"Thank you, sir. Yes, sir," Ryan quickly answered, straightening his back a little.

"Tell him that I know he isn't sick and that if he keeps trying to convince me he is every time he gets a new video game, he might as well hand in his resignation. His idea of being a part of one of the most elite units in the country seems to differ quite a bit from mine."

Ryan hid his chuckle behind his hand and a slight cough before nodding. "Yes, sir," he responded again.

"Dismissed then," the director said, looking just a little annoyed and Ryan made sure to hurry out.

***

Brendon

A lot of people claimed that being viewed under the public eye was hard; they said that people always judged you and that a lot of the things they made up could be hurtful. They said having power and keeping your power was difficult and, even, that money could not buy happiness. Brendon disagreed with this whole-heartedly. He had power, and lots of it. He knew how to keep that power, how to treat those who were loyal to him, and how to deal with his enemies.

When asked, his usual answer to questions about stories in newspapers and gossip in magazines, was that he didn't care what people thought of him. He was, after all, their ruler. The people who respected him turned their noses up at such stories and anyone who believed them or passed them on didn't matter. When asked how he could say that anyone in his Kingdom didn't matter, Brendon would smile that irresistible smile and bat his eyelashes, shaking his head. "Oh, I didn't mean that they, as people, did not matter. I simply meant that they could believe whatever they wanted- it doesn't really affect me. At the end of the day, I am still the Crown Prince, the Hereditary Prince, and I will not be losing my place. I simply meant that, in the end, their little tales and gossip stories, do not matter. I don't care for falsities." And everyone would be too enthralled by his pretty brown eyes to know that he'd just told them- in the nicest way possible- that their opinions didn't matter.

Of course, not everything about Brendon's life was this easy. His days were repetitive, to say the least, and he often found himself exhausted and annoyed by the routine of his everyday life. His whole life had been spent learning the perfect etiquette, meeting important people who meant nothing to him, and being groomed to take over the throne once the time came. Brendon knew the rules; he knew what he could not do and what he must do, he knew how to handle interviews and nosy questions without being ignorant and disrespectful, but most of all, he knew that, on top of everything else, he had to be courageous and never show an ounce of fear. Not when he was by himself, not when he was with his parents, and certainly not in the company of his people. He knew that, if need be, he would die for his country. He knew that losing those he loved was inevitable and all part of life, and that, when the time arose, he would fight to keep and maintain his power, no matter what. Brendon knew that, above all, he could never completely trust anyone but himself and he felt no qualms about lying to get what he wanted, or what he thought was best for his country.

All this may have been odd when knowing that these were the exact things running through the seventeen year old's mind, but Brendon never had the chance to think about such things and he never compared himself to other men his age. As far as he was concerned, he was far superior to any of them, and could not reasonably be compared, anyway.

|

Routine for Brendon was, in many ways, the same routine as every other boy in his boarding school. Just because he was the throne's successor did not mean that he was exempt from going to school and getting into a good University. Knowledge, his father had often told him, was the key to power. And so every week day, at exactly 7:00 am, his alarm clock would switch on, the morning's current song telling him that it was time to wake up and get ready.

When he finally opened his eyes (usually at a quarter past), the first thing he saw was Zach. Groaning, Brendon shoved his face into his pillow, looking away from his bodyguard. He hated always waking up to the sight of that huge, bald man. Sighing, Brendon propped himself up on his elbows and looked back at Zach lazily, blinking dramatically to show just how tired he really was. Okay, maybe Zach wasn't that huge. He was sturdy, though, with somewhat of a beer-belly. And he really was bald, with dark glasses over his eyes (sometimes Brendon wondered if they'd been attached permanently) and a pitch black suit. Mumbling something about not wanting to get up, Brendon heaved a great sigh and sat up, pushing back his blankets so that he could swing his legs to the side and let his feet land on the carpeted floor. Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, Brendon stood and when he finally let his hands drop to his sides, he stared right at Zach again.

"Do you have any idea how obnoxious it is to wake up to you every morning?" Brendon asked, his tone serious even as a smile tugged at his lips. Zach simply shrugged, without bothering to reply, and turned to leave the room so that Brendon could get dressed. It was the same thing every morning; as soon as Brendon was out of bed, Zach would leave the room and wait on the other side of the door for Brendon to be ready to be accompanied to his classes.

Once Zach was gone, Brendon shrugged and trudged over to the desk under the window on the far left side of the room. There, he pressed down on the power button to his laptop and waited as it turned on before entering his password and then retreating to the washroom to brush his teeth as it loaded. When he emerged from the adjacent washroom, his hair was brushed, his face was clean and his breath minty fresh. He could never be seen looking less than perfect when he exited this room; it was a good thing he was already naturally good-looking, he thought to himself with a smug grin. Plopping down onto his computer chair, Brendon signed into his IM and smiled when he noticed who was online.

He'd been in contact with the same man, now, for a few months and, to Brendon's surprise, he'd actually started liking the man. And, most frightening of all, Brendon had actually started trusting him. Of course, the man had no idea who in the world Brendon really was; that was the only way Brendon felt safe to tell him some of his secrets. Of course, these secrets had nothing to do with his Father. He was not, after all, completely daft. Smiling, Brendon opened up a window and sent him a message. Glancing at the clock, he noticed he only had a few minutes before he'd have to get dressed and leave, but Brendon found that he could never leave the computer without at least a 'hello' and 'goodbye' to his internet friend.

Sometimes, Brendon would sit back and eye their conversations nervously. He was telling this person things that he himself had never sought to explore and learn more about. Not, that is, until a few weeks into their close relationship, if you could call it that. The first time they'd discussed something near unthinkable, was the night Brendon had gone back home to the Palace and found something he never would have expected in a million years. Of course, since Brendon was far from stupid, he knew that these certain... kinds of people existed. He'd just never thought he'd see someone in his own home.

What he'd walked in on was a complete accident, and Brendon had cringed and wrinkled his nose in disgust upon seeing it. The kitchen cooks, whom he'd been looking for, were gathered around some frail looking boy and cheering quietly as he danced (though it was nothing like the dancing Brendon had been brought up learning, he knew it had to be some form of dance) provocatively. Brendon, horrified, had turned red with embarrassment and slammed out of the Worker's Quarters without a word. He'd known that this happened, that his Father had no problems with his workers bringing home some 'company', as long as they did it quietly, but he'd never wanted to see it first hand. And these were men staring at a young boy!

Brendon felt as though he belonged in Ancient Greece, where men would openly have sexual intercourse with other men, and nobody had problems with it. Not even their wives. Shaken, Brendon had retreated to his room and turned on his laptop, his mind buzzing with the information he wanted to tell his friend who lived so far away and would not judge him. Brendon had spent hours typing that night, relaxing little by little as he drank a small glass of gin. It was then that he divulged his slight tendency towards some men. He hadn't meant to say it, but he hadn't been thinking straight, and within seconds they were discussing his possible attraction towards men. They'd talked about it several times after that, but Brendon was never able to admit any of it, even to himself, in the outside world; the real world.

When Brendon glanced to the clock again, he groaned and quickly typed out a goodbye. Sighing, he clicked on the 'Start' button with his mouse, then clicked 'Turn Off Computer' before walking over to his closet to dress in the horrible ensemble they made him wear as part of the uniform.

***

Ryan

He had been waiting for two hours now, just continuing the paperwork from yesterday since someone had yet to show up and brief him. He was incredibly excited, though. The paperwork had always felt meaningless to him. That wasn't why he'd agreed to join the academy and, upon graduating, the bureau. He had joined because he believed in the ideals of his country and he would do whatever it took to serve and protect those, fight for them. He wasn't the type to do paperwork, he wanted to be out there, to make a difference, and he was thrilled that he may finally get his chance.

There was a sigh from the desk next to him and he turned with a cocked eyebrow, smiling slightly. "What's wrong, Peters?" he asked with a slight roll of his eyes. "Loverboy off line so you actually have to work instead of passing off cyber sex as background for an assignment?"

"It's not sex," Peters grumbled. "I'd have to get off on it for it to be. And I don't even like guys. Don't for one second think it's pleasure. It's the worst work I've had to do in forever, and no one will even tell me what it's for."

Ryan chuckled slightly, shaking his head. "Whatever you say, buddy. What's with not telling us anything lately, though? Boss called me up to tell me I have an assignment, but no one's even come around to brief me yet."

"I'll bet you it's got something to do with the peace conference in July," Peters stated, his voice suddenly hushed. "The government is desperate to know what cards Beauregia plans to play beforehand. Also whether we have to prepare for war or if we can feel safe for another year."

"Same old, same old," Ryan muttered, sighing. "It's crazy to think that we used to be one nation."

"It definitely-" Peters started, but cut himself off when someone stepped up to their desks, clearing his throat. "Hello, Winter."

"Peters," the elderly man answered with a slight nod. "Ross." Both quickly stood and saluted the man who answered with yet another nod. "Peters, I need that file finished in ten minutes, no excuses. And Ross, you come with me."

Both of the younger men nodded, Peters visibly starting to sweat as Ryan got out of his chair and followed the officer out of the large office space, down another corridor and into one of the private offices where he was instructed to sit down in a chair in front of the desk. Winter himself got down in the comfortable-looking chair on the other side.

The older man pushed a button and the room went dark. Then the sound of a computer turning on could be heard through the quiet office. Then a projector shot a simple picture of a familiar young boy up on the wall. "Do you know who this is, Ross?" Winter asked.

"Brendon Beauregard," Ryan answered, taking a deep breath. "Crown Prince and heir to the throne of Beauregia."

"Exactly," Winter answered. "Also newly appointed member of the Royal High Council, privy to every secret of his father's. And, we think, the weakest link in keeping those secrets. After all, despite all the impressive titles, we're talking about a seventeen-year-old high school student." He pressed the mouse and another picture showed on the wall, showing a large main building with two wings, all in white-washed stone surrounded by impressive, green grounds.

"Does this have anything to do with my new assignment?" Ryan asked slowly, the wheels of his minds turning just a little too quickly. He was getting dangerously close to confused.

"It certainly does," the elderly agent answered, smiling pleasantly. "While you're nowhere near high school age, you're the closest we have at twenty-four and look even younger. With a little effort I believe we can make you fit in." He cleared his throat quickly, smile fading. "Now, the director questions your expertise but I guaranteed that you can do the job. It should be superfluous to ask you not to fail me."

"Yes, sir," Ryan muttered. "I'll do my best. So, am I to understand that you intend to send me to that school, undercover?"

"Yes," came the simple answer. "You have a week to study a file that I'll have delivered to your desk. It holds online conversations that you need to memorize, it holds Brendon Beauregard's information as well as the information and ID on your persona. Other than that, you have to purchase a wardrobe and adopt a look that would fit a teenager. And you need to start sounding more like you were brought up in England and less like you come from New England. In a week, I want you to leave Ryan Ross behind and be British exchange student Ryan Hastings."

Ryan swallowed, just slightly overwhelmed. "Uhm, yes, sir," he finally muttered.

"Further instructions are also in the file, Ross. Contacts on that side of the border, phone numbers, IP addresses, everything you may need. I believe you will also find that the papers hold the key in getting close to the prince. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir," he got out again, saluting him quickly and walking out of the office.

***

Brendon

In History class, Brendon sat at his respective desk with his back straight and his head held high. The teacher was rambling on about something he'd learned years ago with his Father and Brendon was pretending to listen even as he stared fixedly at a spot on the wall, his eyes clouded over. Someone kicked his foot lightly and Brendon turned, only to come face to face with one of the only people he actually liked in the school.

"Hi," he mouthed, smiling slightly. Spencer smiled back and nodded in greeting. Spencer was the son of one of Brendon's Father's councilors. The man was highly important for the King and luckily, Brendon thought the same of his son. They'd been friends, now, for years, and if there was anyone Brendon was adamant about being part of his own council, it was Spencer. The boy was intelligent, loyal, and never brash or judgmental. He took people for who they were, decided if he liked them or not, and then gave them the respect they deserved.

Spencer jerked his head to the left and Brendon followed his gaze, smiling when he saw Zach, who was standing near the door, with his head lolled to the side and his mouth agape, obviously asleep. From behind Brendon, someone chuckled, and he turned once again to smile at Jon, another of his real friends. Brendon still wasn't sure exactly what or who Jon's parents were, but he'd come to trust the other boy almost as much as he did Spencer.

The three of them had made an odd little group, rarely conversing with the other boys their age, and stuck together through the hell that was high school. Brendon grinned at both of them before turning back to the teacher and tuning into her once again as she explained just exactly who general Beauregard was (as if any one of them was ignorant enough not to know,) and Brendon caught more than a few people glancing at him; some coldly and some smiling nervously.

"As you all undoubtedly know, we have one of general Beauregard's descendants right here in our own classroom," the teacher said, smiling warmly at Brendon, "and he will be taking the throne once the time has come, provided, of course, that he marries, which I'm sure will be no problem at all, and has children who will take the throne after him," Brendon bit back a groan at her words and chose instead to smile back at her, displaying the confidence he did not feel.

***

Ryan

"Are you leaving again already?" Ryan's apartment mate asked when Ryan headed back for the front door in his trainers only ten minutes after initially entering. "I ordered us Chinese and everything," he added, pointing at the small white boxes scattered over the coffee table.

"I'm sure it'll taste nearly as good after a microwave," Ryan stated, pulling his jacket down from the coat rack and putting it on. "I'm going down to the shooting range. Target practice. You should come with me, Tobe. Even if you think you're in perfect shape, I could still use some company."

"Why would you even do target practice?" Tobias asked, brow furrowed. "You've got perfect aim. It seems a bit... unnecessary, wouldn't you say?"

"I got an assignment," the younger of the two stated. "And my aim has to be better than perfect. If I get myself in trouble, backup will be miles away. Come along, dude. At least then you can tell the director you've been doing something productive with your time and perhaps he won't fire you after all."

"What?" Tobias nearly jumped out of the couch, looking scandalized. "He said he was going to do that?"

"A little more subtle and threat-like, but that was the main point of it," Ryan answered with a slight shrug. Then he signed. "If you don't want to work, why did you even join the academy in the first place?"

Tobias got off the couch, shrugging too before walking into his bedroom and reappearing a moment later, wearing a pair of sweatpants. "I guess I'm not as patriotic as I liked to think. I mean, we all want to make a difference, but all they do is stuff us behind desks and load us full of paperwork. I wasn't made for that. My papers from the academy specifically said that I was best fit to be a field agent. Not all that office shit. If I wanted to deal with politics, I'd have studied... I don't know, law or something. At least you have that advantage."

"I dropped out before my last year," Ryan reminded with a slight sigh, opening the door. "And they'll let you out. Some day. If you ever start actually showing up for work."

Tobias merely shrugged and led the way out of the apartment building.

|

Ryan Ross and Tobias Robb were about as different as could be, Tobias tall and built to Ryan's medium-height, slight frame, with blond hair to offset Ryan's dark tresses. He was also the impatient, impulsive, overeager type to Ryan's cool, thoughtful, down-to-Earth, hardworking personality with an extravagant sense of humor to Ryan's dry remarks. The one thing that had always connected them ever since they'd met in the year that was Ryan's first and Tobias' second of academy training was idealism. A love for what their country stood for and a strong will to defend it at all costs. Patriotism if you will. And after that first connection had been made, they'd slowly come to realize just how well they complimented each other and had become fast friends

Ryan was a perfectionist, with a gun as much as with everything else in his life, and he'd take his time finding the perfect aim before shooting a series of bullets in quick succession, watching them all dig into whichever part of the target he'd decided on. He was deep in concentration, eyes narrowed to slits and feet apart perfectly, the gun held out in front of him as he focused on the head of the figure two hundred feet away.

"Hey, Ry?" Tobias suddenly asked, startling the younger man out of his focus and causing the bullet to hit the target's right shoulder instead of the head, and laughed slightly. "I still sort of wonder how you'd do in an actual combat situation. Without time to concentrate and everything."

"I'd do just fine, it's simply another technique," Ryan stated with a slight frown on his face behind the protective glasses. "We trained every possible scenario at the academy, remember?"

"Of course I do," his apartment mate answered with a slight sigh. "That's not even the point, though. I was going to ask what this new assignment is. Whichever parts of it you can divulge anyway."

"It's top secret, utmost importance," the younger male started. Then he rolled his eyes. "And it really kind of sucks. Firstly, how do you even say 'Hastings' with a British accent? Is it... Haiiistings or something like that?"

"I'd put a little less pressure on the first syllable if I were you," Tobias suggestion with a hint of a laugh, loading his gun quickly. "I have all the Miss Marple movies back home. And Mr. Bean. You should watch those. Name aside, what's the big problem?"

Ryan sighed, sucking in a deep breath. "Listen, high school sucked, okay? I was this gangly, clumsy, underdeveloped geek who was way too smart for anyone to like him. The closest thing I got to a date was the girl actually knowing my name when she laughed at me after her boyfriend tripped me in the lunch line. There's a reason besides academic records that I graduated early, all right? I really don't want to go through that again."

"Newsflash," the older male said with a hint of a grin. "You aren't sixteen anymore. You're twenty-four. And while you're still kind of gangly, I think you left 'clumsy' behind at the academy. You're still too smart for your own good, but underdeveloped... I think not. Really, Ry, if I swung that way..."

The younger of the two gave a loud groan. "Please, Tobe, do not finish that sentence. Do not even think about finishing that sentence."

Tobias burst out laughing for a moment before gaining back his composure. "The point is, this is an assignment, but it's also your second chance. We'll change your style a bit, get you a new haircut and some proper clothes and the girls will be following you around by the dozen."

Ryan sent him a skeptical look. "It's an all boys' school," he stated dryly, turning back to his gun and taking just a few seconds to find his aim before pumping a bullet straight into the left side of the target's chest.

"The boys then, I guess," Tobias offered, shrugging.

"And there's a mandatory uniform," the younger man added rolling his eyes again and sending another bullet flying through the room, hitting bull's eye in the imaginary heart of the paper figure.

"You can't wear that all the time," Tobias stated. "Anyway, if you're going to be so dead-set against me I'm going to home to finish my Chinese. Want to come?"

"I'll be there in a bit," Ryan promised, reloading. He didn't watch as his friend left, simply pumped another magazine into the target.

Really, though, the concerns he'd expressed were far from his worst. He'd been instructed to get close to the Prince at all costs, and after just skimming the first few of the Internet conversations, he knew which card to play. That didn't mean he liked it, though. Even though he lacked experience with girls - first given the fact that they'd found him unattractive and later on because he simply didn't have time whether it was because he was focused on Harvard Law or later, after dropping out before his last year, on the academy or his work for the bureau - he knew that he was straight. He was perfectly comfortable being straight. The thing was, though, that judging by some parts of the instruction papers he'd been given, not to mention those conversations, hinted that the Prince may not be. They also hinted that perhaps he was more likely to grow to confide in a lover than in a friend. 'At all costs' had gotten an entirely new meaning.

Ryan's acting had always been mediocre at best, and now he suddenly had to get into a persona who was not only young and spoke in an accent he was hardly familiar with. There were also areas in which Ryan Hastings had to be everything Ryan Ross wasn't.

***

Brendon

English Literature was, without question, Brendon's most preferred course. In the palace, there were several rooms filled with books, from the floor to the ceiling, all perfectly placed in shelves of dark mahogany wood, undisturbed. It had taken Brendon all of three years (starting when he was thirteen, and ending the summer after his sixteenth birthday) to finish only one of those rooms. The room in question had been carefully chosen, as it contained the easiest books and the most interesting subjects. Authors had varied from Edgar Allan Poe, to Shakespeare, to Charles Dickens. From William S. Burroughs and Jack Kerouac to Mark Twain and Oscar Wilde. The only reason Brendon had deemed this room 'easy', was because every other room had books on modern politics, or History and Geography; which, admittedly, was not something Brendon was interested in.

He'd spent all of his free time those three years lounging around in the room and reading. His favorites included The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, The Fall of The House Of Usher, and Measure for Measure. He frequently saw plays that he had read before in books, and even one's that he'd never read. This discovery of his love for English Literature came as a happy surprise for his Father, who was a strong believer that many of these books could help him even in the real world.

Though Brendon was happy about being able to take both English and Creative Writing as a course, he could scarcely wait until he was in University and could take courses on English Literature that would actually let him explore his love of books all the more.

Of course, the only thing that bothered Brendon about his Creative Writing elective was the fact that everything he wrote was like letting someone judge the way he thought and what he believed. He found it difficult to express his feelings on paper, forever trying to hide real events behind intricate story lines about debauchery and the sarcastic nature of his characters. Often times, his teachers had trouble reading between the lines for the carefully hidden truths and morals. This year, he doubted it would be any different.

Upon entering the slightly clustered classroom, Brendon immediately scanned it for someone he liked. He knew for a fact that neither Spencer nor Jon had taken this class, for they both thought that it was a waste of time. Brendon had scolded them, repeating his father's words of how important Classic Literature was, because of all the symbolism and themes that mirrored real life. They'd both shrugged him off without a care. In the end, they'd both taken Philosophy.

Taking a seat near the front of the class, Brendon sighed as he let his binder hit the small desk and sat down on the plastic chair, surveying his surroundings once again. When someone came walking into the classroom, briskly making their way in his direction, Brendon saw Zach tense and narrow his eyes, watching and waiting. His classmate, however, walked right by him and took a seat near the window, turning to look at Zach in surprise when he realized what had happened. Finally, the boy turned to the front and rolled his eyes, mumbling something about a spoiled brat. Nobody laughed, or even smiled, but Brendon could tell that many in the class shared this young man's opinion. He put on his best look of indifference and turned back to the front.

"As you all may know, we were chosen to be the class in charge of making a journal that will represent the year for all who are graduating. The journal, first brought to light only five years ago, has been a tradition in this school since it was first published, and every graduating class has treasured it dearly," the teacher started talking as soon as he entered the classroom, formal introductions completely forgotten, or, never considered. Brendon looked to the door and followed the man's way in, giving him a calculated look.

Marc O'Connor, graduated from one of the most prestigious Universities in England, he'd done his doctorate with a major in journalism and minor in English lit. Worked for a newspaper for ten years after graduating at the age of 26, wrote several books on the How To's of writing and criticizing. Very respected, very young, very ambitious. He'd taken a job at the boarding school the year he'd turned 36 because he'd wanted to, in his own words, relax. Brendon had wanted to be in one of his classes since he'd gathered all this information, and now his dream was coming true.

He straightened his posture (not that it was needed) and listened intently to what the teacher was saying. "It is meant to be something memorable, something to commemorate the bright young men who will be leaving us. These will be poems, stories, and sonnets that everyone- or most everyone- can relate to. I trust you all know what this means; you are, after all, the bright young men in question and I do hope you all know what you like," the teacher winked and grinned at the class, and a few of the pupils chuckled politely, Brendon included. "The journal will be started right away. Each person in this class has, as an assignment, to write something to put into this journal every two days. Preferably you should write about real events, real feelings, and real people. You are doing this for yourselves and for your peers. I want some effort put into it. I will be picking up your first contribution in two days, correcting them, and giving them back. You are all responsible for anything that is lost from here until the end of the year. Now, onto other things..."

***

Ryan

Sometimes I just feel like the whole world is watching, waiting for me to slip up, you know? To finally prove that I'm not this perfect person that I've been made out to be. And a part of me can't wait for that to happen. But at the same time, I know I'd do anything to prevent it.

I think that's perfectly normal for someone our age. I mean, honestly, no one is ever who they make themselves out to be. We all wear masks because we're all equally afraid of everyone's reaction to who we really are. And it's stupid, but everyone does it. But I guess it must be even worse for you. I mean, religious family and a secret like yours. Damn.

You have absolutely no idea. Shit, I'm going to be late for class. I'll talk to you later, okay? And thanks.

Anytime.

Ryan was startled out of his concentrated scanning of the papers spread out in front of him when Tobias barged into his bedroom without as much as looking. "What?" he asked, looking up with an annoyed look on his face.

"Sorry dude, just-" The older man sighed. "God, are you still pining over those files? You've been at it for days now. You could do that at the office, you know. And I'm pretty sure they didn't give you the day off with a limitless international credit card just so you could keep reading."

"Tobe, I'm trying to get this done with," Ryan stated with a groan. "I only have thirty pages or so left to go, and then I need to work some more on my accent. I only have three days left, you know?"

"I do know," Tobias agreed. "But I think I've also got a pretty good idea on Hasting's character by now, and no accent is going to help you if you keep looking like a white-collar guy in his early twenties. You don't look a bit like Ryan Hastings should."

Ryan let out another groan, mainly for good measure, but obliged, putting the papers aside. "Then what are your suggestions?"

Tobias reached for Ryan's shoulder, getting a grip and tugging the smaller man with him into the bathroom. "First off, I think I've already mentioned the hair," he stated, pointing at the neatly combed back locks. "So uncool, Ross." He reached out and grabbed a comb, wetting it slightly under the tap, and ran it through Ryan's hair until it was falling into forehead and eyes, neatly parted in the right side and tumbling down to the middle of his ears in light waves. "You may want to think about getting your hands on a straightener, though."

Ryan reached up and touched his hair carefully, frowning slightly in distaste. "It's getting in my eyes, Tobe. I hate this."

"Are you an office stiff or a third generation rich kid from England who's about to attend high school and have the time of his life? Have the time of his life in a stylish manner, by the way."

The younger man narrowed his eyes slightly. "I'm not even going to answer that," he stated, but sighed slightly. "Whatever, I'll leave the hair be." And suddenly he saw the pencil being rolled back and forth between his counterpart's fingers, and his hazel eyes widened in shock. "Tobias Adrian Robb! No, I'm not wearing that!" Then he paused, blinking slightly. "Why do you even have eyeliner in the first place?"

"Remember my ex Janie?" Tobias inquired. "She left it here and hasn't picked it up. Hence, I've claimed ownership. And George Ryan Ross the Third," he continued, a bit of a mocking tone to his voice now. "You are definitely wearing that. Hasting's got to emit a "gay vibe", okay? Makeup is the easiest way of doing that, according to teenagers. Go through your life story while I do this if it makes you feel better."

Ryan took a deep breath, suppressing his growing annoyance as he regretfully admitted, silently of course, that Tobias may just be right and that even if he weren't, he was physically stronger. "I was born in Dover in southern England on August thirtieth, nineteen eighty nine. I'm now seventeen, turning eighteen later this year." He cringed slightly, blinking a little as the pencil came a bit too close to stabbing out his eye. "I'm the son of Daniel Hastings Junior and Andrea Hastings, né Wallace. I'm also heir to Hastings Industries which was founded by my grandfather in fifty-six and has made our family rich. I'm an only child who was raised in my hometown of Dover until age eight when I went away to prep school, or public school as we, oddly enough, say in England. I've transferred here from what may be the most prestigious school in England because... I wanted to see how life was in a country so different from my own?"

"Now, if only you could say that and actually sound British," Tobias said with a sigh, finally pulling back a little. "Aw, aren't you a pretty one? You'll have to learn how to put it on on your own, though." With that said he quickly slipped the kohl pencil into Ryan's front pocket before patting the younger man's hair.

Ryan sighed and looked at the mirror, frowning slightly at the sight of the black lines around his eyes, his hair hanging down far enough to nearly cover it, at least on the left side of his face. "This looks so weird." Then he rolled his eyes slightly. "But if you like the makeup and everything so much, why can't you just ask for the assignment?" He knew it was a stupid question, and that you couldn't just go around swapping missions, but still... He was sort of miserable about this one. Excited, but miserable.

Tobias let out a slight chuckle. "I, at best, look twenty-one or twenty-two," he stated. "Somehow age has left you unscathed, and you can definitely pull the seventeen-year-old thing off. We still have to get you clothes, though."

The younger male couldn't hold back yet another groan.

|

"Hey, hey, hey," Ryan grumbled, shrugging Tobias' hand off his arm. "Why are we in the women's part of here?" he asked on, looking around him with a frown. "Seriously, isn't makeup feminine enough to fit whatever stereotype you're going for?"

"I'm not sure when the last time you bought anything but suits, ties and cotton shirts was, much less anything form-fitting," his friend said. "But you're sort of tiny, and if you want anything to be tight, it's either this or children's department. And your arms and legs are too long for that. Don't worry, though, it's just jeans and hoodies." And as if to underline that statement, he threw an armful of jeans at Ryan. "Changing room's over there. I'll bring you more in a moment."

Ryan grumbled and walked towards said changing rooms hesitantly.

***

Brendon

Brendon sat at his desk, chewing on the end of his pen. He was reading and rereading his contribution to The Journal. He had to give it in when he got to class tomorrow and he had a sinking feeling that this would only cause him shame. Now, he didn't even have the comfort of knowing that only the teacher would be reading his most personal thoughts; by the end of the year, every student in his grade would have a copy to show to their friends and laugh about it.

Sighing in frustration, Brendon shook his head and muttered under his breath inaudibly. He jumped when someone knocked on his bedroom door and looked over his shoulder, watching Zach open the door and let Spencer and Jon through.

"Hello, my frustrated ami," Spencer said, clapping Brendon on the shoulder once he was close enough, and then sitting down on the boy's bed. Brendon frowned, looking up at Jon questioningly.

"Spencer's taking French as a Foreign Language. Now he knows all of three words," Jon explained, shrugging and ruffling Spencer's hair like he was some sort of small animal. Brendon chuckled, shaking his head, while Spencer huffed and rolled his eyes.

"I know more than three words. Bonjour, comment allez vous?, tu es mon ami, je t'aime de tout mon coeur, Jon est un con..." Spencer trailed off, smiling proudly. Despite his accent being thicker than molasses and mispronouncing a few words, Brendon nodded and congratulated his friend.

"You're right," Brendon said, smirking, "Jon is an idiot!"

"Hey! No insulting in languages that some of us can't understand! It's not fair play," Jon announced, cuffing Spencer on the side of the head. Spencer let himself fall back onto the bed, bouncing up slightly on the mattress from the force of it. He stared up at Brendon's ceiling for a few minutes before sighing and looking over at Brendon.

"What are you working on?" he asked, propping himself up on the elbows. Brendon looked down at the paper in his hands and sneered at it. Not only was it boring, because nothing of importance had happened yet, but it also kind of made Brendon want to throw up. He couldn't give this in! What would people think!?

Sensing the silent battle, Jon snatched the paper from Brendon's hands and read it, all the while holding it out of Brendon's grasp when he tried to take it back, whining that it was bad and stupid and shouldn't be read. When Jon had finished the short paragraph, he looked back at Brendon, bewildered.

"What the hell does this even..?" he trailed off, frowning. Brendon jut out his bottom lip, refusing to answer. Rolling his eyes, Jon read it over another time, shaking his head all the while. "The only words I understand in here are befuddled, which is a really gay way of saying confused," Jon chuckled, "and dejected. What the hell are you writing this for? Are you not telling us something?" Jon looked over at Brendon suspiciously, his eyes narrowed. Brendon rolled his own eyes and shook his head.

"Mr. O'Connor asked us to write... something dark and sad, so... that's what came out. It's not like I really feel any of these things!" Brendon scoffed, looking away from his friends. Jon smiled widely and shook his head.

"Right... whatever you say, Brendon." Jon chuckled, throwing the paper onto the desk. He launched himself onto the bed (thought more than half of his body landed on Spencer) and snorted when Spencer complained shrilly that he was being squished. Brendon smiled as he watched his best friends swat each other, both their legs dangling off the sides of his bed.

"How the hell did I become friends with you people?" Brendon asked, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised. Jon rolled his eyes and Spencer attempted to kick him.

"If you weren't such an insufferable ass, you might make some more friends, you know," Spencer pointed out, shrugging one shoulder. Jon turned his face into the pillow and nodded his agreement, causing Brendon to huff loudly and shake his own head.

"I don't trust anyone else," he explained, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And, on top of that, anyone else would probably sell any and all of my secrets in a heartbeat. But, I suppose that doesn't matter much since everybody already makes up lies about me." Brendon sighed, sliding down in the chair and lifting his feet to set them on the desk for support.

"That doesn't mean you can't trust anyone, Brendon. I mean. When you care about someone, you choose to believe that you can trust them... I don't think you've ever told me a secret. At least, not something that was of utmost importance. In fact, I don't think I've ever heard you utter the words, "don't tell anyone, but..." and that saddens me. That's what fucking adolescence is all about! Stupid, little, secrets." Spencer had propped up on of the pillows against the wall and was now sitting on the bed with his hands clasped in his lap.

Brendon rolled his eyes and sighed, "none of my secrets are stupid or little, unfortunately."

"What about when you fall in love? Your wife? Surely your Father shares everything with your mother!" Spencer pointed, eyes wide.

"Yeah! And aren't you supposed to be looking for a wife? Or at least some candidates?" Jon put in, grinning deviously. Brendon wrinkled his nose and shook his head quickly. "What? Still think girls are yucky?" Jon snickered to himself.

"No! I just... No one is good enough..." Brendon said. Spencer rolled his eyes and snorted, but chose not to say anything more.

***

Ryan

"One of my last days of freedom and you already force me to wear this," Ryan grumbled, looking down himself again. In place of the suit he'd grown so used to over the years, or even the trainers or basketball shorts and loose t-shirts he'd lounge around in every now and then, was a pair of annoyingly tight, dark-washed jeans that clashed sort of horribly with the winter coat he was used to wearing with his normal clothes. And he was wearing sneakers! He hadn't worn sneakers since high school. Both he and Tobias were already carrying several bags, and according to the older of the two they were nowhere near done. "These jeans are cutting off circulation."

"I just want to see if it works," Tobias protested, pouting slightly, and Ryan almost had to laugh at the pathetic face he was being presented with. "Now, can I have some accent please?" he continued before leading the way into another store. A designer store, Ryan realized, sort of delayed. And he was about to head straight back out, but the sale's lady was already almost all the way over. "Hello," Tobias greeted. "This is my cousin, Ryan, who's visiting from England. Sadly he lost most of his luggage somewhere along the way, and we need a new wardrobe. Mainly shirts and accessories. Belts, hats, you know. He could use a nice couple of jackets too."

Ryan looked around him, feeling sort of intimidated by the nearly hysterically clean interior of the store, by the brand names he didn't recognize and the strange music that was playing in the background. He leaned in slightly so he was close enough to Tobias that he could whisper. "Why designer, asshole?"

"One," his friend answered. "It has to be something you could get anywhere in the world. Two, rich people like to show off." Then he turned his attention back to the sale's lady. "No, no, no. That's way too masculine. Not Ryan's style at all."

"Well, Ryan," the woman said with a wide, fake smile on her face. "What do you like?"

As he glared at Tobias he was really sort of annoyed that no one had invented death rays yet.

|

"Tobe, I don't get why this all has to be so feminine," Ryan stated, a slight edge of exasperation in his voice, as he pointed down to the pink and flowery shopping bags at their feet. Five minutes earlier he'd insisted they take a break, which was why they now found themselves in a nice little coffee shop. "I mean, sure, you let me get one suit, Gucci, but a suit nonetheless, a few dress pants, like two fucking silk shirts and two blazers. Everything else is women's clothing."

"First off," Tobias said, smiling brightly as he took a sip of his espresso, "you have to promise me you aren't going to lounge around in those clothes. Special occasions only, you hear me kid?" Upon receiving a groan and a nod, he continued, "And secondly, the reason for the girls' clothing is stereotypes. Firstly, rich kids tend to either be all macho, masculine, sporty guys, or they're as preppy as the girls. Secondly, Ryan Hastings is gay, and I know not all gay guys are androgynous or anything like that, but according to the stereotype they are, which means that by living up to people's expectations, you draw a lot less of the bad attention to yourself, a lot less suspicion. It's stupid, but that's how it is."

Ryan gave his thousandth sigh of the day and brought his cup to his lips, getting a nice, sweetened mouthful of cappuccino. "I get that, but it still bugs me." Then he let out a deep breath, rolling his eyes slightly. "How much more do we have to get done?"

"Socks," Tobias answered. "Pajamas. Underwear. I'm thinking Dolce briefs, perhaps some Calvin Klein too."

"I understand the top layer," the younger man stated. "Really, I do. But what does it matter what I'm wearing underneath it? No one's going to see that."

"They are," the blond informed. "In a gym class, or because your shirt rode up and your jeans down or, well, for other reasons. It's stupid to assume no one will ever see your underwear, which in turn makes it stupid to wear whatever you found on sale at Sears, especially since Sears doesn't exist in England. So stop complaining."

Ryan rolled his eyes once more but nodded tiredly, surrendering. "What else?"

"Makeup, bedsheets, fragrances. I'll buy you some posters, movies, CDs and whatever else. Office promised to Photoshop you some family photos."

"I don't even want to know how you've got all this under control. You're like a professional super shopper or something."

"Well," Tobias answered with a grin. "Before you were recruited, you were wasting your time studying law. Me, I was at NYCU studying fashion and design."

"And then you decided to become a federal agent," Ryan finished. "Somehow I'm not as surprised as I think I ought to be. Are you sure you-"

"Don't even think it."

***

Brendon

"Brendon!"

Looking up from his binder, Brendon swallowed, averting his gaze from left to right before letting it land, once again, on Mr. O'Connor. "Yes?" He asked, looking and sounding more confident than he really was.

"May I see you after class?" he asked, gathering some papers on his desk and making them into a neat pile. Brendon frowned, then sat up straighter and held his head high.

"Of course, sir. I trust everything is all right?"

"Yes, yes. I just have a few questions for you." When the teacher smiled, Brendon allowed himself to breathe normally again and smiled restrainedly. It always amazed him how slowly time passed when one was looking forward to something, no matter if it was good or bad. He spent most of this lesson watching the clock and sighing inaudibly. Finally, when the last bell rang and everyone had filed out of the classroom, Brendon stood from his desk and waited for his teacher to talk.

"I wanted to ask you about your journal entry," Mr. O'Connor started, looking up briefly at Brendon and smiling. "I'm not quite sure what exactly I expected, but this is definitely not it." Brendon nodded at his words, bracing himself for the worst. "Yes, definitely somewhat of a shock, but... somehow, it makes perfect sense. I just wanted to tell you that I enjoyed it very much. It felt real to me, raw with emotion. I didn't even think you'd have enough guts to submit something like this, pardon my obvious ignorance."

Brendon smiled uneasily and bit his lip, looking away momentarily. "Anyway," the man continued, not noticing Brendon's uneasiness, "I just wanted to tell you to keep it up. I know that being your age is hard, which means that being in your position must make it that much harder. Just... don't stop something on account of what others might think."

These seemed to be the last words, because the teacher turned back to his desk and didn't look back. Scrambling for his things, Brendon quickly left the classroom and headed to his room.

They say that we have no reason to feel lost and dejected. We are living without a care in the world, and everyone must take care of us, for we cannot do it ourselves. If only it were the truth.

When everyday is a new battle, with the same people and the same restrictions. When none of us can express what we truly feel for fear of being ridiculed, or worse, ignored. When the impossible is expected from the same people who are treated as inferior. How can they say that we have no right to feel befuddled and angry? Helpless and hopeless and sad?

We do not want recognition; we know that we are not the firsts to have felt so utterly abandoned in the limelight, and set up to fail. We do not want stale words of apology falling from sneering lips. We want only understanding. We want only for them to remember what it was like and to admit that, yes, perhaps they recognize these emotions we are forever showing.

And yet we want so much. Our demands and needs and desires are too much. But what of their demands? What am I to do when I must take on the responsibility of my whole world and weigh it on my shoulders? These demands and needs and desires will be fulfilled, because they must. But who is helping us to cope with it all?

***

Ryan

"Tomorrow morning," Winter instructed. "You are to take a plane from J.F.K. to Heathrow. This route is obviously longer, but it's easier to get from Europe to Beauregia than from New York City, and it'll throw people off your trail, even put the right tags on your suitcases. From Heathrow you take the plane to Miami, where you check into the Dalton Hotel. You are to stay in your room for the rest of the day as well as the night, when another agent of ours will find you and give you your necessary equipment. Laptop, weapons, encrypting and decrypting devices, papers, surveillance equipment, anything you may need. The following morning, you will take a cab, and it will take you to the school where you are set to arrive in the evening. Are you with me so far?"

"Yes, sir," Ryan answered, looking down at his new passport and travel papers. The photo inside was one Tobias had taken for him on their shopping trip a few days earlier, and in Ryan's opinion it stunk. Inside it, the name Ryan Andrew Hastings was printed along with all the other little pieces of personal information he had learnt over the last week. Suddenly everything had gone from being some vague, strange thing looming ahead to something tangible. His near future. And he couldn't help but to be scared and excited all at once.

"At the school we've gotten you a single room. They're slightly more expensive than the doubles, but you need your privacy for some of the things in your luggage," the elderly agent continued. "You need to hide everything immediately, and you need to hide it well. You're entering a country that has been under martial law for nearly a century and a half. There's no such thing as a warrant or a fair trial. If the police feel like searching your room, they can. And if they find anything, you'll be dead or in jail, no questions asked. Unless they feel like using torture to find out your exact mission. Is that understood, Ross?"

Ryan nodded again. "Sir, yes, sir."

"If you are caught, do what you can to save yourself. It won't take a genius to figure out why you're there anyway. But you may under no circumstances reveal the appearances or identities of any man or woman on our side who is still in Beauregia. Clear?"

"Of course, sir," Ryan mumbles, swallowing slightly.

"Get a good night's sleep, Ryan," Winter finally suggested. "God's speed. Come back to us in one piece."