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[assassinwithahairpin]

Billy Rocks never went to school. He had some schooling, one could say; his mother had taught him how to read and write in Korean, and when he went away to Washington, he'd learned arithmetic and composition and a hundred other, smaller things, that the master's son would teach him when they were allowed alone together. His reading was not the best, but especially with Goodnight, it had improved in his adulthood.

To take classes at the college, he had to have a diploma or equivalent. To get those, you had to go to school or take a test. Classes had already started--he knew that--but the tests we a couple of weeks into the term, for some reason, and the people he had spoken to at the college had assured that the program he was looking at had a later start date than the standard classes.

So here he sat, a study book open, pamphlets and papers and his sketchy hangul in the margins of everything, feeling a bit out of place. He was going to be thirty in the summer. Wasn't it a bit odd to be thinking about schooling so late in his life?

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[assassinwithahairpin]

Billy's breath rushed out as Goodnight touched him. He kept his forehead leaned against Goodnight's, his eyebrows knitted together and his mouth slack with pleasure. He wasn't going to last very long like this, and that was alright.