Four Years and Counting

Four Years and Counting

*Story contains M/M relations and some violent references*

Four years ... In four years a child can spring from an infant. He can learn to walk and talk and fasten his own clothing. Tie his shoes and brush his hair. A wise one will recite his alphabet and ask questions about the stars. In the span of four years an individual can be born from a mere seed.

In the same time a tree can grow from a simple stick. Man can imagine, create and perfect motor vehicles and technology. Greatness can be achieved from hard work and discipline. There is just so much a human can do in four years time.

So painfully much.

For four years you and I have watched the bombs fall. Over three hundred times, from every possible direction; in the daylight, and more frightening still, in the darkness. Harris did not lie when he spoke, "they are going to reap the whirlwind."

But even I cannot feel bad for me as I sit here in the rubble and hold your hand. Most days I can't even find it in my heart to feel bad for you. When one follows a snake into a sewer one doesn't deserve the right to complain about dirty shoes.

I remember listening to the radio, the angry voice threatening our holds, "... it will cost us between four hundred and five hundred aircraft," he said. "It will cost Germany the war." And though that promise has yet to bear fruit, I hope so. I honestly, truly hope so. It's time for it all to stop now. More so than the fact that our limbs are tired and our bellies starving, for our hearts are dried and withered in our chests and hope has expired with the knowledge that this was all so very wrong.

I reach for your hand but you don't look over to smile at me anymore. Expression is for the foreign soldiers that celebrate our losses. It is for the German children out there masquerading as warriors—teenage boys behind machine guns, girls with flaks— children, babies to the eyes of the rest of us. Impetuous, misled, passionate fools who think that conquering and controlling are where the power lies.

But here, I think, as I tighten our fingers together and rest my head back against the demolition that was once the wall of a home – this is where real power is. Surviving when the desire to do so is all but gone. Keeping love when Amour has flown so far away one wonders if it will ever dare to show its wings again. Getting up; eating, standing, walking, trying, when the only images your mind will replay for you are the ones reminding you of the hundreds of comrades and civilians that you lined up shoulder-to-shoulder and foot-to-foot so that a proper body count could be established.

These planes ... always the planes ... and some days it's hard not to hope the next one bears your name as target. Death, however, would be a relief and I don't know if we deserve it.

Do you remember when you used to sing, love? You were so young, so very strong and vibrant, and you carried your weapon like it was an extension of yourself. I was proud to be your friend and you seemed just as prideful of my attentions. I miss those drunken nights and the look in your eyes when we touched. Remember that first time you reached for me and I didn't stop you? Remember how you made it seem like it was a mistake in case I caused trouble?

Oh, if they only knew. If they knew, love, if they had a moment's thought, you and I would not be fighting this war at all, would we? No, instead we would be just another member of the hoard wearing the stripes and the numbers. And which is worse for the soul, I wonder? The incessant suffering the likes of which I cannot fathom? Or our hypocritical denial of who we are and what we need?

I am a monster. You are a monster. We're all just monsters now.

"It's dawn," I whisper, hoping to turn your head and it works. For a moment I see your eyes again, caught by the natural glory of light that seems so far out of place in this annihilated city. It is the only light in your eyes though. Beyond you the silhouette of the Kaiser Wilhelm reaches up with its broken finger and I wonder if its walls still carry the weight of its artwork or if, those too, have fallen to dust.

So much beauty destroyed. For what promise I can't even bring myself to recall.

"Maybe today," you say. And I don't need to ask what you mean.

"Maybe."

The End

Copyright © 2013 AF Henley

Smallest of Worlds

Smallest of Worlds

*Story contains M/M relations*

There were somewhere in and around forty-two dozen reasons that Miles had told himself to man up the thirty-eight dollars and some-damn cents and upgrade to a decent flashlight. When one did maintenance one needed to be able to see for heaven's sake. And the reckonings as to why things never managed to break down in a brightly-lit, warm, safe, cozy setting were just beyond overdone. That was, apparently, just how things worked. Or, for accuracy's sake, didn't work. The accepting of that fact however, gave no comfort when he was standing in the dark jerking his flashlight up and down in his fist like he was trying to get the fool thing off. "Come on, you little bit—"

"Now don't you even."

Ted's voice coming up behind him, out of the blue, right there, as if the man had been skulking through the dark like some kind of sneaky cur, had Miles just about choking on his own balls. The flashlight flew from his hand, skipped twice against something hard, and rolled to a stop with a bright, solid beam shining perfectly out of the end of it. Well, at least the damned thing worked again.

"There's not a soul here to hear me swear, Ted," Miles growled. "And you should warn a person when you're coming up on them like that."

Ignoring Miles' rebuke Ted kept his steps moving and his voice quiet. "You don't know that, there are cameras everywhere. And I thought you said you were going to get a new one of those."

"I also said I was going to win last Wednesday's Lotto but that didn't happen either, did it?"

"I'm just saying," Ted said, easing past Miles with that damn look on his face, that pious, calm, I'm-always-right look, "you being as jittery as you are in the dark, it'd only make sense if you got yourself something reliable."

Miles got the feeling Ted would be smiling. Not all cocky like either. Just one of those slow, easy smiles that said there was more to his words than the sound of them. Frowning at himself, Miles scooped the now-bright flashlight up and aimed it down the tomb-like hallway. "Yeah, well, maybe I like this one, all right?"

"All right."

Surprisingly enough, the voice that had sent him towards roof rafters a few seconds prior now seemed far more comforting than the empty silence and Miles hurried to follow it. "We ought to get some more emergency lighting in here. Dark as all hell, ain't it?"

"Tends to happen without power."

"Ah, ha," Miles replied drily. "Just a bundle of wit today, aren't we?"

"Not so much, I figure."

Miles rolled his eyes and shoved his left hand into the front of his coveralls, digging for one of the dozen or so paper-wrapped squares of his Bazooka Joe, still fully ensconced with the beloved five-panel comics so bad they made Miles laugh out of nothing more than feeling bad for the writer. Like 'em or love 'em he was gonna miss them when they were gone. It just didn't seem right, replacing those crazy kids' anecdotes with something meant to inspire brain-power. Bubble gum wasn't about learning stuff.

"You want a gum?" Miles held one out towards Ted's back and waited for Ted to stop and snag it. Ted never asked but he always accepted. Kinda like their sex life. Not that they ever talked about that there at work. As far as everyone knew, he and Ted just shared the half-house they rented out in Conway for the money aspect of things. Some assumed. They knew better than to gossip on it though.

"So where'd it go out at?" Ted asked, handing back the wrapper so Miles could tuck into his pocket and check it later.

"Down around midway. One of the dolls starting acting like it was about to skitter off its wires, and after giving the audience a right pretty lightshow, she shut everything down tighter than a wedged trapdoor. Probably rats in the wires again."

"Must have been a good chew to shut the whole place down."

Miles snorted. "You musing or asking?"

"Well now, I imagine unless you did the chewing it wouldn't do much good to be asking, would it?"

Ted stopped at a Utilidor access, one of the several that would take the two of them from the underground tunnel backstage and up to the set, and waved Miles in for more light while he tried to set the key in the lock.

Miles shook his head and stepped onto the platform that housed the dolls to the left of the Seven Seaways and shuddered. "Lord, I hate these dolls."

"Miles," Ted scoffed. "They're just plastic kiddies for God's sake."

"They're freaky," Miles insisted. "Beady little eyes, fake smiles, rubber faces ... " Another shudder found Miles from shoulders to toes. "Why the hell somebody would spend a Benjamin a day for each and every person in their household and then waste fifteen minutes of that day in here, I could never quite get a handle on."

"Well, you ain't never dragged around a kiddie, I'd imagine."

Miles frowned his confusion and Ted chuckled. "Fifteen minutes of the sweet and repetitive kind of music guaranteed to sedate the crankiest little bugger, lulled by water travel, star-struck by kids of every nation, and pacified by spinning, swaying, dancing colours? You put that under a nice, shaded, dark cover that'll keep your skin out of the sun and give a body a chance to cool itself right proper, and I figure it does a good job of fitting the bill dead on about naptime when a parent's itching to start strangling something."

Miles snorted, Ted reached for and reset the switch for the emergency lights and all around them darkness became the harsh reality of machinery set up as toys. He spent a few seconds blinking his eyes so they'd adjust faster and followed Ted's direction when Ted began searching wiring. It was always odd to see the equipment like that. Illumination took away the fantasy of depth and world beyond the dancing dolls. Sky became mere ceiling, acreage beyond became painted walls; in an instance an entire world was nothing but a warehouse.

"Sounds like you put an awful lot of thought into that, Ted," Miles pointed at the back of the smallest of a set of three Asian dolls, their perpetual grins wide in their silky kimonos and floral headwear. Only the middle one seemed out of place – tilting to the right with both hat and wig askew, dress dotted with holes where sparks had made the effort to catch and been extinguished by cleverly-designed inflammable material. An exclamatory black mark spread out under the doll, denoting the spot most severely damaged and where the worst of it had probably started up.

"Well, I suppose I have," Ted agreed. Deft fingers made quick work at disconnecting and removing the doll from her stand. While Ted muscled the unit away, Miles began the process of cutting back and capping the damaged wiring so they could get the ride back up and running. None of the wee ones would even notice one doll missing amongst the many. "I guess you not so much then?"

Miles hissed at the marette that refused to set, tossing it back into his toolbox and grabbing another. "Not so much what?"

"Thought about it."

Miles frowned and looked up, completely lost from the conversation. "Kids," Ted clarified. "Thought about kids."

"In so much as I tend to avoid them whenever possible," Miles chuckled, shifting his weight to get into a comfortable squat before lifting his eyes back up and reaching out. "Can you pass me those ... " The look on Ted's face dried the words up on his tongue. "What?"

"Like ... ever?" Ted asked, tilting his head. A small frown wrinkled the skin at the apex of Ted's forehead, an expression neither the skin itself nor Miles was used to. Ted wasn't the frowning type. Even in full out concentration Ted kept a complacent look about him. Scowling was Miles' reaction of choice and he'd often thought that was what kept the two of them so in tune with one another. Like one of those sweet and sour sauces.

Miles sat back on his heels and caught Ted's eyes with his own. "Well I'm not really sure what you're asking me there, Ted."

Ted paused, fiddling with a petal on the hat of the doll almost subconsciously, reaching for and handing Miles the needle-nosed pliers Miles had just been about to ask Ted for before the current conversation had twisted off into what Miles could only imagine was some deep dark corner of Ted's brain. "I guess I'm asking if you've ever thought about … well … a family."

"What do you mean by family?" Miles said slowly.

Ted cleared his throat and once again started working at the floppy petal like it was the reason for the failure somehow. "You know. You. Me. And, I mean, they overturned that law there, you know, back in twenty-ten. So I guess I kinda always thought that maybe ... someday ... baby might make three."

Miles didn't say a word. He just sat there, propped on his own boots, stunned while Ted waited for him to say something. But what did one say when one suddenly had the news that one's lover might want kids? It wasn't something Miles had ever thought about. Up until a couple years prior it hadn't even been an option. Cripes, they could barely afford the electric bill some months—

"Someday, Miles," Ted repeated, in that creepy way that always gave Miles the impression Ted was somehow reading his damn mind. "I didn't say today. I didn't even say for sure. Just ... you know. Maybe. Someday."

Miles sucked in a breath and struggled to find something to say. Sure, he'd been in on all the rallies supporting marriage equality and the right to use words like family and parent and husband and wife regardless of the genders behind them. He'd just never considered that he'd get that opportunity himself. Ted had never brought up the concept of "more". Ever. Never ever. Picturing himself cooing over a crib had been so far from reality that Miles just … well … just didn't.

He took another breath and stood, nodding at thoughts for a second before he finally caught Ted's eye. "You remember when you came up on me in the dark back there, Ted? And I jumped sky high and had to swallow my nuts back into place?"

Ted nodded, not making eye contact, embarrassed and looking like he was ready to bolt from the building and never look back.

Miles walked closer. "And I told you that you ought to warn a person?" He didn't stop walking until they were eye to eye and all Miles could smell between the two of them was fried wiring and bubble gum. "Well, I love you, Miles. That's the God's truth. But you really ought to warn somebody before you come up on them up in the dark. So you don't scare them half to death. You know what I'm saying here, Ted?"

Ted lowered his eyes. "Sorry." He cocked a tiny grin at his shoes. "Sometimes I forget we actually gotta speak to hear each other sometimes. It kinda comes … easy … you and me. When I find something I still don't know about you, it throws me for a bit of a loop."

"I imagine if I knew myself, then you would too," Miles ducked an inch or two to catch up Ted's eyes with his own again. "I also imagine there are about a hundred better spots to discuss it other than here." He waited for Ted's smile and then gasped in mock-shock. "Oh Good God! Please tell me this isn't your way of trying to tell me that you're pregnant?"

He couldn't hold back the grin at the playful narrowing of Ted's eyes or the sideways smirk Ted's smile morphed into. "You're a bit of an ass, you know that, boy?"

Miles sent him a cheesy wink and stuck out his pointer finger in the traditional gun-gesture. "Good thing you like a bit of ass now and again then, hmm? Now," he said, jumping out of the way of the swat he knew was coming before Ted even lined it up. "Let's get back to work before we both get fired. Heaven knows it sounds like we got some saving up to do."

The End

Copyright © 2013 AF Henley

On The Wrong Trail

On The Wrong Trail

*Story contains fantasy elements*

Craig had spoken so many "Dude, no," in a row that the words had started to sound like a chant. But when gentle persuasion had tilted into aggressive pressure and that had been given up for shaming, Craig had turned tail and floundered his way back to the ski lodge without looking back. If Max and his buddies wanted to break their necks, good for them – Craig on the other hand was more than content to drink the afternoon away with a novel in his hand and his feet on the hearth.

Mostly.

What he would have preferred would have been for the lot of them to choose a smaller slope and let him work his confidence up. What would have been nice would have been a "Don't worry about it. You'll get it. We'll help you." But as the likelihood of that happening had fallen to nil when Max had started calling him a pussy, it helped to keep telling himself he didn't care.

It's not like he hadn't known the trip wasn't going to be successful; he didn't need to be told that it had been a bad idea to agree to join them. He'd recognized that when his roommates had asked him to come along on their ski trip it had been for one reason and one reason alone – the fact that Craig had a car on campus and none of them did. He'd pre-accepted the sneering and the rolled eyes that would come from his lack of experience. Yet as much as he'd hoped he could prove his inklings wrong, he had no intentions of flinging himself down a snow-slicked hill of death, valiantly trying to keep balance whilst hurtling at break-neck speeds, just to try and make himself look good in front of a bunch of guys acting like jerks. He might be desperate for friends, he might have a crush on Max that was as heavy as Atlas' burden, but he wasn't that stupid.

Still ... it kind of sucked to be the odd man out again. He'd figured college was going to be different. New men, smarter men, more reasonable men: men that weren't going to laugh at him for being who he was. Tolerance, acceptance, understanding; all those little concessions that made life bearable.

He'd been wrong.

He didn't bother to explain to the ski rental counter what he was doing back so soon, he merely shook his head at the attendant and turned away. Somewhere a vodka-laced hot chocolate was moaning his name and he fully intended to put the poor beverage out of its misery.

"There's no refund on the ski rentals," the chipper clerk warned him as he stepped from the desk.

"I could give a fu—" The words died on his tongue as Craig watched a happy couple suit up on the bench a few feet away. They were smiling, chatting, with backpacks at their feet, all the requisite layers in place and Thermoses in their hands. As if they were planning on making a day out of things, a trip, a one-on-one event, a nice quiet track through snow and sunlight. "What about exchange?"

"Exchange?"

"Cross country skis for the downhill ones. Can I do that?" It was a nice bright day. And as much as his roommates might not appreciate his company, Craig didn't mind it in the least. Let them bust their legs into bent matchsticks. Let them wrench their necks and snap their wrists. He was going out in the sun and the snow with a flask of vodka in one pocket and something hot in the other. He was going to cloud-gaze and bird-watch, identify tracks and name trees – every damn geeky thing he could find, in fact.

Fuck Max and fuck Max's minions.

***

The ski trail Craig selected was well-maintained and beautiful. It ran, for the most part, along the rear perimeter of the lodge, parallel with the tree line of the provincial park. A wise man, he told himself, would have brought a proper camera. He had his phone though, a brand spanking new Galaxy S III and it took damn fine pics for a mobile. Although considering the unit was struggling to grab a single bar in connection, it was a good thing it did something.

He shifted his stance to dig the vodka out of the side-pocket of his ski pants and zipped his phone back into his jacket pocket at the same time. The air was milder there beside the trees and Craig took a quick nip out of the flask while scoping the scenery. As far out as he was, it was almost like being alone. He'd long since left behind the sounds of families and associates chatting between themselves as they passed him on the trail. Even the whoops of the downhill skiers and snowboarders had faded away. Watchful hawks and curious crows eyed him from the treetops, feathers puffed against the cold. Branches snapped under the weight of snow and echoed through the air like the cracks of pop-guns. The lake, unseen and yet heard, shifted ice in mournful sighs and startling coughs.

Craig's grandparents had lived beside a lake in Northern Ontario until his grandmother's cancer caught up with her and his grandfather had packed them up and moved back to Toronto. Craig would never forget that property – he'd spent countless hours beside that lake growing up. In the summer it teemed with every living thing one could expect: salamanders and frogs, dragonflies and moths, ladybugs and sand beetles, sunfish and perch, loons and snapping turtles. In the winter it became its own creature though. While everything else buried itself into brush and mud, sand and murky depths to try and survive the next several months, the lake shrugged off its calm serenity and became a constantly-moving, shifting, groaning, cracking, whistling beast. Year after year it swallowed the season's quota of snowmobiles and ATVs. One winter Craig had even stood and watched in fascination as a group of rescuers chipped out the body of a tourist that had met his demise while foolishly attempting to cross the supposedly "rock-solid" surface.

"Never trust the ice over a lake," Craig's grandfather used to tell him. "She's a liar and a temptress." But watch it? Watch the sun turn the surface into a diamond-sprinkled blanket? Watch the wind swirl gossamer strings of snow through dance-like bows and pirouettes before drawing them into drifts that rippled and sprawled like landscape? Yeah, that he and Grandpa could do until their toes were numb and their teeth were chattering.

He wondered if this particular lake had the same dangerous beauty. It couldn't be far from the trail; not if the sounds could be trusted. Surely no more than five, maybe ten, minutes away? And while no manicured trail wound its way through the trees, the snow still sat thick and full and Craig was sure travelling with the skis would be fine. If worse came to worse he could always unsnap them and just walk in his ski boots.

After all, he had all afternoon to kill and damned if that didn't sound like a nice way to do it.

***

"Having some trouble?"

The voice was warm and sweet and Craig's heart lurched towards it before his body managed to. Things had gone from bad to worse very quickly and the last thing Craig's body was doing was responding well.

He hadn't found the lake. While his grandparent's lake had been massive, the one he'd sought had either been as small as a puddle, or demonically elusive. Every time Craig had thought it should have been right there, just past the next set of trees, all he'd found had been more trees. And every time he'd told himself to turn around and find his way back to the trail, he'd heard another haunting call from the ice that had kept him forward. He'd given up the chase when he'd looked into the sky and realised the sun, though bright, was suddenly far more eye-level than it was above him.

A wise person would have followed his own tracks out but Craig had serious concerns about the amount of time it would take for him to follow his wandering, constantly-adjusted path back. He'd been more than sure if he kept a straight north-west it would take him if not back to the trail, at least back in the direction of the lodge.

By the time he realised that had been foolish, dark had been advancing with the speed of flying bullets and he was sweating like a pig from exertion, regardless of the dramatic drop in temperature. It was tension that kept him sipping from the flask but that just made his mouth dry. It was frustration that him cursing at his phone—that damned phone that had looked so shiny and new in the display case, that had all but called his name and promised its devotion and perfection—had sucked the battery dry with every picture and refused to grab even a trace of signal out there among the trees.

When Craig lifted the Thermos of coffee to his lips and found the liquid inside was ice cold, tension bloomed to anxiety. When the trees got too heavy to ski between and he had to slow down his advance by walking, anxiety became fear. But when he finally had to abandon the skis because his arms hurt too much to carry them and the weight made exhausted legs that much more so, fear turned to outright panic.

He'd only stopped beside the arm-span-wide trunk for a second, just to catch his breath and try to orient his mind into thought. His arms and legs trembled but they were nowhere near as bad as the aching, all but useless limbs that had once been his nimble hands and sprite feet. It wasn't until Craig had lifted his left hand to try and push hair from his forehead that he'd noticed the missing glove, nor could he place the time or event that caused the loss. Could, in fact, recall very little of the last couple (few? several?) hours.

"You look like you could use a hand."

"Two actually," Craig thought, though the words refused to form. "At the very least I'll need a few new fingers anyway."

The voice chuckled and Craig finally forced himself to search it out in an effort to locate the person behind it. "Who?"

The question repeated itself and then again. Who ... Who ... Wh-who?

***

Seconds (minutes? hours?) later, Craig shook his head and gazed around his immediate space. Had that been him? Had he asked the "who?" Or had it merely been a figment of his imagination? A misplaced hoot twisted by maniacal reasoning into a question?

No warm breath found his face. No soft spoken man stood at his side. He was sinking. Quickly. Fabrication was edging into consciousness. He needed to get out of the cold. He needed water. He needed strength...

"What you need to do is get up."

It took everything Craig had to lift himself up on his arms and tuck his knees under him. He crouched there, like a dog on all fours, and insisted his lungs keep breathing. When had he fallen? How long had he been there?

"Further up – all the way up. The kind of up that's going to get you walking again. And you have to do it now."

"Oh..." Thought had to take over for speech from that vowel forward. Oh, you arethere. Oh, there is someone. Oh, my. Oh, bother.

There in the dark awaits a man...
He holds both sword and outstretched hand...

"Forget the nursery rhymes, Craig. I need you to focus."

But that was a tough demand, Craig thought. There in the snow concentration was hard to master. Distraction, on the other hand, was so damn easy to fall into.

Who waits for me in the cold, dark hall?
Who sings my name with sweet recall?

"Please, Craig." And still the voice remained calm and strong.

Palms found Craig's cheeks and the warmth that radiated from what must have been bare skin was so powerful it was almost blinding. Behind closed lids, eyeballs rolled forward as though mechanically forced. Breath stuttered into Craig's chilled lungs. He reached up and clung to powerful wrists with both hands, forcing stiff fingers to curl where they were able and hoping pressure would suffice where they were not.

Hey, ma, I might just lose those fingers.
Hey, ma, I might just lose this fight.

"Not on my watch, Craig."

Strong arms helped muscle him back to standing, caught him when he fell forward and forced him into small, hitched steps.

***

Movement felt good somehow. In spite of the bone-wrenching ache, regardless of compounding exhaustion, the shuffling and the bumbling seemed to pump the blood and the movement of blood seemed to force a little vitality to bloom.

Still, working his tongue was an effort and Craig shuddered with every word. "Did they send you for me?"

Silence answered.

"How did you find me?"

Craig could feel eyes on him, a sixth-sense nudge that was completely free of malice and yet still, somehow, chock full of odd. He turned towards the man who assisted him and by the swinging light of the man's battery-operated lantern, Craig noted the strange ski suit, almost vintage styled in a grotesque orange, yellow and brown; the odd cut of layered blond hair a touch too long; the lack of skis.

"Who are you?"

The man's smile was warm, his eyes kind. "A friend."

"I have no friends," Craig chuckled, and the stretching of frozen skin split his lip. The pain brought more heat, the dribble of blood more still, and he wondered if perhaps he might actually be feeling a little warmer...

"You're not," the man replied as though reading Craig's mind. "Severe hypothermia is setting in. In a few moments you will start getting rushes of heat that will feel like something is burning you. As they say, one is never truly freezing to death until one feels the heat. If you stop to rest now, you'll die. If you succumb to these feelings and do something stupid like start shedding clothing, you will die. If you do anything at all but keep going, you will not last the night and you will die. So please, Craig,start walking again."

Stunned Craig dropped his gaze to the ground. A wave of vertigo hit him and he wobbled. When had he stopped walking?

"Where are we—" It took too much effort to look up, to try and orient himself with anything – a distant light, a flickering flame, a familiar star.

"So close now, Craig."

The sentence was mouthed as reverently as a vow. And if only I can trust it, Craig thought. If only there was a way to know if the "close" that was being promised was salvation, and not end game. Because it feels like it, Craig told himself. It feels like I'm dying. White and yellow spots made patchworks on the puffed, blue-gray skin of his exposed hand. Every breath was a chore.

The man lifted a hand while Craig tried to decipher if the slow, smooth movement was actually done in slow motion or if his eyes were just having hard a hard time keeping up to normal activity. His chin was caught by light, warm fingers that made Craig want to fall against the body of the man and be absorbed into the touch and emotion, the feeling of another person caring for him ... being kind to him.

"See?" His chin was pressed an inch to the right and lifted. "Open your eyes and see."

The lights were miraculous in their glory. Dozens, no, hundreds of blazing yellow squares that could only be windows – that had to be glass holding in heat and food and water ... Craig almost sunk to his knees in gratitude. If his tear glands were capable, he'd have wept with relief. Instead he gripped the nylon ski jacket of his companion with his one gloved hand and stumbled forward.

"Wait." The man stilled him with a single touch and as severe as the urge to keep going was, Craig paused.

"Whatever jerk it is that has you out here beating your head against ice castles, trust me, Craig. He's not worth it."

Craig frowned and tilted his head. "Do I know you?"

Unfazed by the question, the man stepped forward and drew their bodies closer.

"We only get one life to live, Craig and we truly are the masters of our own destiny. If you let someone else's broken soul splinter into your own, then you have no one but yourself to blame if those shards make you bleed. Ask yourself this: were you out here chasing the sun? Or were you actually running towards the dark? Were you following the sounds of laughter? Or the haunting mock of disappointment?"

They locked eyes and emotion spiked through Craig's blood.

"If you go out looking for abuse, you need to understand that you will find it."

A bell sounded from somewhere very far away.

"You owe it to yourself to armour your soul with the people and the things that make you happy and whole. You are under no obligation to be part of a broken heart. Step away from those who want to burden you – find fulfillment and solidarity, peace and love. But more than anything, at least right this moment, you owe it to yourself to get up, go on, and get back to that lodge. You need to come out on the good side of this adventure because giving up, even for a second, is going to be the last bad decision you make."

It took a second for the words to register meaning. "You're coming with me?"

"From here you walk alone."

Craig shook his head and the world spun with the movement. "I won't make it."

His hand was gripped, his shoulder squeezed. "You have to."

Craig stumbled out of the tree line, arms stretched in front of him, eyes unfocussed yet trained on the bright squares of hope. He walked.

***

Craig never knew pain like the pain he went through in the following twenty-four hours. As abused tissue reawakened, as dead tissue was sloughed away, Craig's body felt like it was not only being reanimated but rekindled – in hell fire.

"The other," he kept moaning to the nursing staff and the doctors. "You have to find the other man."

"You were alone," they insisted.

"But he saved me," Craig swore. "Out in the snow..."

It was the janitor, on day three, that finally made sense of it. He'd wandered in, suspiciously attempting to look innocent, before smiling a toothless smile and clearing a whiskey-abused, cigarette-damaged throat at him. "I see you've met Jack."

Craig's finger hovered over the call button, nervous and unsettled. "Jack?"

"Our resident spirit," the janitor nodded. "The wanderer in the snow, the saviour of the lost."

He laughed when Craig's expression dropped to a skeptical frown and images of weatherworn, leather-skinned frogs croaking their approval of the weather filled Craig's mind.

"Jack was a ski instructor at the lodge back in the winter of nineteen-seventy-four. He was one of those guys that everybody wanted to be like and no one ever could: athletic, cool, good-looking. He also had the attitude to go with it. Kind of smart-mouthed, cocky – thought he was better than everyone else. You know the type I'm sure. The legend goes that Jack had only been working at the lodge for three weeks when he'd made a joke about one of the students he'd been teaching that got mistakenly overheard by the little guy. The kid took off, humiliated and upset, and was still missing two hours later when a storm started to blow in. Of course, by that time, Jack was feeling like a total asshole and took it on himself to head out looking for the boy. Seven hours and four feet of snow later the little one stumbles through the front door in a state of shock, damn near frozen to death, insisting that Jack helped him find his way back."

A familiar story, Craig thought. But surely just a coincidence?

"Only thing is though? Jack never made it back. Nor was he ever found." The janitor leaned on his broom. "We had an old native in residence at the time, telling legends for the wee ones as part of the Nature Retreat Package. He sat himself down with a big old pipe, had himself a chat with the birds he says, and he tells us that Jack made a deal with the Snow Spirit – his life in exchange for the boy's. He felt responsible, see, for the child being in danger in the first place. The Snow Spirit granted the request but only on Jack's promise that he instead of death, Jack would continue to wander the woods, saving souls, until the time had passed that he'd paid back his debt to the Universe."

"Quite a tale," Craig mumbled.

"Quite, indeed," the janitor nodded. "And unbelievable but for the reports of those like yourself that have stumbled back into the land of the living." The janitor snorted and patted his pockets until he located a rag. He was wiping the top of the radiator when a nurse stuck her head in and all but surprised Craig into a heart attack.

"All well?" she asked brightly.

Dumbfounded and still nervous, Craig nodded silently.

It wasn't until she'd checked the monitor, patted Craig's hand and walked back out that the janitor turned back. "So tell me if I'm wrong, boy. A pretty man, yes? One who seems to know your whole life's story even though you're sure you've never seen him before? And real old ski clothes—orange and brown I think I've heard—with brilliant yellow hair and a touch that seems to have the power of the sun in it?"

Craig recalled that weird sixth-sense-ness that felt so full of bizarre, even while it remained comforting. "Impossible..."

He didn't realise he'd spoken the word aloud until the janitor gave him another crooked grin. "Then tell me one more thing." The janitor shuffled closer, wringing his rag between both hands. "Did he save you?"

He stood so close that Craig couldn't miss it when the man's expression suddenly shifted. And in the light that streamed through the window Craig recognized the shape and shade of eyes from his moments of lucidity while he walked the snow with death at his heels. "You knew him."

Amusement darkened to pain. Sadness. Loss. "He was my son."

A moment passed while throat muscles worked to reshape words and eyes fought to keep back tears – on both their bodies.

"So did he?" the janitor repeated. "Did he save you?" He caught and held Craig's gaze. "I mean really, truly save you?"

"He's not worth it," Craig's saviour had told him and in the past two days Craig had known the truth in that statement several times over.

"We only get one life to live, Craig ... " And who better to know the importance of that then a man facing his own demise? Or how badly one could fight against the concept when death became a probability?

The number of times Craig had asked himself, pensive and lost in musing as he lay in the hospital bed and wrestled with agony, "What was I actually following anyway? What was I looking for?" was surprising even to him.

And wasn't that really just another way of asking, "Were you following the sounds of laughter? Or the haunting mock of disappointment?"

Max and his crew had been by to check on him. But the conversation had ended with a request to take the car back to the college since Craig wouldn't be up and using it anyway. They'd take real good care of it Max had promised. They wouldn't even drive it around. Nope, just to get back to school – Scout's Honour, cross my heart and hope to die, swear on the Holy Bible. It had been the obvious reason for the visit. And for once in his life Craig hadn't buckled to the pressure to please someone who didn't give a shit about him. There would be no more Max worship. There would be no more bowing.

"From here you walk alone," and Craig was walking. For the first time in his life, he felt like he had the strength to stride with his chin up and a smile on his face. He had a reason to live – and that reason was himself. He wanted to live because he deserved to.

Jack had said so.

"Yes," Craig had to swallow on the word, an attempt to rid himself of the lump in his throat. "He saved me. Really and truly."

The janitor closed his eyes and smiled. "Good."

Dust motes danced through the sun that spilled through the window. Snow had continued to fall and the property around them was brilliant and fresh. Refracted prisms of miniscule crystals turned surfaces into diamond-infused works of art. A child laughed; unseen in the hallway beyond. The low murmur of an adult close by answered it pleasantly.

As though in tune with the steady beep of Craig's vitals, the clock on the wall above them tapped along with the passage of time.

It was a beautiful day. A good day to chase the sun.

The End

Copyright © 2013 AF Henley

Perfect August

Perfect August

*Story contains M/M relations and moments of angst*

The rough concrete block behind Rae's skull was far from comfortable. That in itself seemed fitting; comfort through the knowledge that he was, in fact, suffering just a little even if it did seem to be a gross misrepresentation of the word. He dredged up memory, as slow as it was, and considered definitions and understanding. To suffer: to feel pain or distress; sustain loss, injury, harm, or punishment; to tolerate or endure evil. Perhaps then, Rae thought, nodding to no one, vision lost to closed eyelids, perhaps not so wrong a word after all?


"Shine bright like a diamond ... "


And in that moment, as the lyrics from unseen speakers took their dramatic pause, hooking listeners into straining their ears for the sudden impact of impending notes, it was August. It was two-thousand-and one and the sky was as blue as a child's crayon, the grass as green as a glowing streetlight—go, go, go!—and not even the heat in the air could have slowed Rae's footsteps as he made his way across the expanse of lawn in front of the university. Rae didn't "do" late. Late was unacceptable behaviour. Let the sweat prick between his shoulder blades and dampen his hair until it stuck to his forehead; these were the prices that must be paid when one had need to stop for coffee yet had no time to spare. But even in the rush, the day was perfect. There was light in the sky, birds in the trees and the hum of life all around him.


"Shine bright like a diamond ... "


"Paging Doctor Davis," the sound broke through Rae's reverie at the same moment that something slammed into the double-swing-doors at the end of the hall. "Doctor Davis to Emergency, please."

He had no idea what was on the cart the three employees rushed into the hall and past him with. Only that it didn't look good. Worse though, so damn much worse than trying to figure out what it was for, was the question of where it was going. His eyes didn't leave the unit until the lot had disappeared from sight through yet another set of doors at the opposing end of the passage. Even then, he watched until the barriers had long since stilled their hushed, dwindling swing. Nothing going on past here, they seemed to say. No need to stare so sadly. Have you seen our selection of complimentary magazines?

But Rae didn't need the shiny pages full of beautiful people; especially not pages that would be crawling with every virus and bacteria known to man. No, his fantasy was attainable without visual prompt. His reprieve was back inside his mind. Remembering.


"Find light in the beautiful sea, I choose to be happy ... "


He'd been beautiful enough to take Rae's breath away: dark hair tucked into a pony, a t-shirt that looked like it had been washed so many times the fabric itself was giving up, and slim jeans despite the heat. Rae had actually stopped, stunned, before catching himself and blushing. It had been too late though. The young man had looked up from his sketchpad and grinned.

"I know, right?"

Rae had been so taken with the man's smile he didn't realise the words were for him until they were repeated. "I'm ... " Rae frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"The view is spectacular," he'd said. "I've never seen a building so beautiful in my whole life." He'd nodded at the university with a smile on his face and a dream in his eyes and Rae was sure something in his chest had broken from the sheer joy in his expression. "Were you coming to draw as well?"

It took another moment for Rae to realise what the man was asking. Then he'd yanked his own sketchpad up as if there'd never been anything more obvious in the world. "Yes," Rae had said, voice shaky, every plan he'd had for the day dissolving. "Yes, I was."

The man patted the ground beside him and scooched to the right. "You can sit here if you'd like. It's not so bad in the shade."

With their spines pressed against the wide trunk of an elm, pads pressed on the thighs of bent legs, and pencils scratching fine lines, Rae was sure he'd never been so content. And for what? The company of a stranger?

Sometimes the heart knows though. Sometimes it's perfect even before it starts.

"I'm Samuel," he'd said quietly.

And Rae had to hold his tongue lest he speak the reply his whole self wanted to. "And I am saved."


"You’re a shooting star I see, a vision of ecstasy ... "


"Sir, can I show you how to get to the coffee shop?"

Rae opened his eyes and smiled politely at the owner of the voice even though his soul was furious with the interruption. "Not for this!" it wanted to scream. Don't disturb me until you can tell me ... When you can tell me ... If you can tell me ...

"Thank you, no. I'm fine here."

"You might find it a little more comfortable?"

And then not be here? To not be the first to know? To wander back with a full stomach or a caffeine-enhanced boost and find out that while he'd been gone, while no one had sat in attendance, the worst ... the unimaginable ...

"No. I'm good. But thank you."

"It could be hours still—"

"Yes," Rae nodded. "I know."

Don't sleep, he told himself as his eyelids fell closed again. Just don't sleep.

The grass had been warm and dry underneath them, an oddity in the usually damp August. A small red squirrel kept its eye on the two of them—the Universe's chaperone—and insects flitted and droned on lazy, heat-soaked wings.

Rae didn't need to turn his eyes towards the century-old building to find the lines for his sketch. His pencil didn't seek to copy the ivy-graced stone nor the elaborate entrance. From the corner of his eye Rae traced the smooth cheek of a man-child, the firm jaw of a knight, the lips of an angel and eyes of a mischievous sprite.


"I knew that we’d become one right away ... I saw the life inside your eyes."


It didn't, in fact, happen right away. But the fact it happened at all brought Rae back to life again. Samuel gave hope to what had felt like an expanse of devastation, fresh air to a man suffocating in his own expulsions, and soothed a rattled need for control with quiet confidence.

"Relax, kid," Samuel would tell him. "The only person insisting on your perfection is you."

Rae had never known fortitude as strong as what he felt in Samuel's arms. He'd never known peace as sweet as what radiated from Samuel's heart. He felt whole and completed, like he'd spent his entire life struggling to operate with only a single half of him in place, and just by being there Samuel had filled that hole. The most beautiful part about Samuel though, was that Rae never felt alone in those thoughts. He could see the same ones shining in Samuel's eyes whenever Samuel looked at him.

"Remember," Samuel would say, "how perfect that day was?"

"How can I," Rae would answer, "when all I can recall is how perfect you were?"


"Feel the warmth we’ll never die ... "


"What's wrong?" Rae let the suitcase fall and hurried over to where Samuel had crumpled.

The grimace on Samuel's face belied very word he spoke. "Nothing. Just a cramp." White skin, glassy eyes, blotchy cheeks.

"How long?"

Speech appeared painful; perhaps even breath. "This morning I think."

Rae ignored the cabdriver when the man leaned on his horn. Ignorant prick. "Why didn't you say?"

"And ruin the holiday? You've planned this for months."

The suitcases were dropped back in the loft. Samuel was helped into the cab. And when the vehicle swooped from the curb and merged with traffic it was towards the hospital and not the airport they headed. The flights were delayed by phone as they drove.

"I'm so sorry," Samuel kept muttering.

"Don't be," Rae said firmly. "Trips can wait. You can't."

A minor delay; they'd see what was up and then catch the next flight. No big deal. No worries. Except they weren't smiling and leaving the hospital with a prescription in hand and a story for the flight attendant.


"Eye to eye, so alive ... diamonds in the night."


"Surgery?"

"It's a common procedure," the doctor told them both. "But we have to do it now before there are any complications. This is serious."

As they wheeled Samuel away, Rae hadn't been able to stop him from muttering, "I'm sorry," over and over again.

Please don't, he'd wanted to beg. Please don't make "I'm sorry" be the last thing you ever say to me. The words wouldn't make it out of his throat though. The passage had been seared closed with the fire of a million held-back tears.

Too good to be forever.

Too perfect to be mine.

But I need you. Please don't leave me.


"You’re a shooting star I see, a vision of ecstasy – when you hold me, I’m alive."


"Rae?"

His annoyance to his own name came out in a loud grumble of negation.

"Are you awake, sir?"

He wanted to snap, "No." Of course he wasn't awake. But his eyes flew open and his tongue sputtered sound. Why hadn't he been? How had he dared to sleep?

"There you are," the hospital administrator smiled at him. "He's awake, Rae. And asking for you. Would you like to see him?"

No question had ever been so ridiculous or pointless in the history of mankind's ability to communicate with one another. Rae rose so quickly that he stumbled. He followed her in a state of disorientation so severe that he felt drunk.

Awake. And asking. Those two words could have been diamonds on velvet they shone so brightly in Rae's mind.

"It was just an appendix," Samuel said with a weak laugh when Rae dropped to his knees right there beside the bed.

A million rebukes came to mind but none made it to fruition. "I was so fucking scared," is all Rae managed.

They didn't need any more words than that. Rae dragged a chair as close to the bed as he could manage, gripped Samuel's right hand and leaned on the mattress. For long minutes he did nothing more than listen to Samuel's monitor. A perfect rhythm, a perfect pattern.

Blip. Blip.

Remember how perfect that day was?

Blip. Blip.

I only remember how perfect you were.

Blip. Blip.


"So shine bright ... you and I. We're beautiful like diamonds in the night."

The End

Copyright © 2013 AF Henley

Lyrical references from the single "Diamonds", listed on the album "Unapologetic", released September 2012 on the Def Jam label by artist Rihanna. "Diamonds" was written by Sia Furler, Benjamin Levin (Benny Blanco), Mikkel S. Eriksen and Tor Erik Hermansen; and was produced by Benny Blanco under the production name of StarGate.

This fiction is in no way associated with, indicative of, or based on the lyrics. All rights to both lyrics and song belong to their respective owners.

I.S.S. (Imaginative Self Service)

I.S.S. (Imaginative Self Service)

*Story contains M/M fantasy and sexual scenes*

There's a whoosh of air when a section of the wall slides aside and a passageway from here to there appears as if from out of nowhere. Air regulates from one place to the next and he steps through the opening with that calm, cool, detached aura that he always manages to carry with him. Silver graces each temple, a light frown deepens encroaching lines and he leans over a monitor to get a sense of development. "William," he says, his voice clipped and stern, "I was told you needed to see me for a very urgent matter?"

Oh, my, yes. Urgent. Urgent indeed.

"Captain," I say …


Wait, is that the right term? Do they have captains? Ah well, captain is close enough.


We've been boarded on this station for going on eleven weeks now. I can deal with the water jets and wet wipes in lieu of showers, I can manage with the bagged food, but if I have to wait even another moment for what I've managed to sequester him in this room for, I have no doubt that I will lose my mind completely. Time to boldly go…

"Damn it, Jim," a voice says from out of the blue. "I'm a doctor, not an engineer."

I glare at the intruding character that came out of nowhere until he leaves the room with a shrug and another huff of air. So much noise: pressurised modules, external trusses, solar arrays and other components all working to keep life sustained and machinery in motion; everything driving along with the constant whir of fans, blips on monitors and trills of communication devices. And all I want to focus on is him.

Let's just say it's time to step up our biology experiments, sir.

"Captain, I … "


I what? How does this work in the movies? Why can't I make my goddamn brains cooperate with me in the least?


I catch his eye, let my lips fall open and cock an eyebrow. "I need to show you something."

"Perhaps you do," he agrees, pursing his lips a bit, glaring down at the monitor before releasing a series of furious taps on the keyboard below it. To our right the passageway suddenly responds with a harsh click and the light above it switches from green to red. Locked. I turn my eyes back to him and our gazes catch just as firmly. "And perhaps a good time for this little show would be now."

He straightens, dark blue t-shirt stretching sinfully over pectorals that could be rocks, and clasps both bath hands behind his back before he begins to advance. "There is really only one question remaining isn't there, crewman?" His footsteps pad over carpeting, a muted telltale of his advance …


Definitely not buying that you could hear the footsteps, dumb ass. And carpeting? Really?

Growl and grit teeth, ignore … Focus.


"Why aren't you naked?"

That gets my body rising immediately. His voice in that low growl, his expression perfect. I should tell him how long I've wanted him, how many times I've thought about him; instead I just reach for the elastic waistband of my pants and shove them down my hips. They fall …


They most certainly do not.


I have to walk myself out of the fabric and while I step out, reach for and secure them by shoving them into a drawer, he watches. He points at my shirt and I struggle myself out of it as well. You get used to the cooler environment. Of course, one isn't usually standing buck naked in it. He waits until I'm waiting, shivering, before lowering himself to the seating unit in the console. "You'll have to swallow it," he says.

That's freaking fine by me.

He's perfectly hard and smells like hospital soap but I don't care because I'm finally on my knees in front of this man that I've wanted for way too long and even though the floor is hard …


Carpeting.


… and even though the carpeting is rough on my knees the moment is too perfect. Wet suction resounds over the hard, sound-bouncing surfaces of machinery and walls but though his rubber soles occasionally grate over the rug, he makes no sound of his own. He's in complete control of himself—a king among men—and watching him, watch me; feeling his body twitch and respond in my mouth even as his face remains passive, makes me hard as hell.

"Touch it," he says. He doesn't need to tell me he means my own. I can tell by the way he's rocking his hips that he prefers my throat to my palm. No, it's me he wants to see getting touched. It's my cock he wants to see leaking over my knuckles.

That's what breaks him. That's what finally makes him moan: when I release him for a moment to grab myself, when we both look down and a single, thick run of cum dribbles from my body. "Up," he growls. "Up and over. Now."

I don't need to be told twice. Slick fingers are deep inside me even before my mind has a chance to reorient itself. His fingers are rough and long, as experienced as he is, and there's not enough oxygen in the air to support my lungs as he learns the way I feel from the inside. My legs shake, my cock throbs, and I go back to stroking myself while he plays. Then his fingers are gone and he's nudging against me.

I get two slow thrusts to get used to him and that's it. I'm not complaining. Not even when he leans over my back, steadies himself against me and groans out a, "Tell me you want to feel it." He doesn't give me time to do it though. He drives into me.

I choke on my reply and I feel him hesitate. The thought makes me insane with panic. "Don't you dare," I pant. "Don't you stop. I do. I want to feel it. I want to feel all of it. Fuck me, Captain. Fuck me hard."

He definitely likes the reaction. I grip the ledge of the tiny viewing pane, pushing back into him as he shoves himself into me, not sure if the stars in my eyes are real or imagined. Naked skin beats against naked skin, I'm making sounds that even I don't understand, and his fingertips are so deep into my skin I can feel his nails marking me.


Captain, it's gonna blow!


I shout, lost in it; feeling every pulse and shudder. My cock gasps shot after shot of warm, wet relief over my abdomen, my fingers still in the depths of my body. I open my eyes, breathless and sweating, and blink until I can see again.

The couch squeals its protest as I shift my weight and reach for the shirt I'd abandoned on the fading carpet of my apartment. In front of me, Roddenberry's crew are laughing through the final moments of scripted humour. Beside me, an open, but long-since forgotten printout I'd been reviewing for my new boss. My new boss: he of the never-to-come smile and the silvered temples; he of the experienced dry wit and the voice that sounds so firmly commanding and somehow so damn soothing at the same time.

Ah well, back to reality. 

The End

Copyright © 2013 AF Henley

After Party

After Party

*Story contains M/M relations and explicit sexual scenes.*

"Might I suggest," Riley shut the front door quite a bit harder than necessary, as if the extra firm pressure would reiterate his disgruntled opinion of the weather, "that we never, ever, ever do that again?" He kicked off both boots as he walked, not stopping to set them on the tray, caring less that within seconds the snow that was caked on the bottom of them would turn into tiny rivers over the tiled flooring. He paused only for a single second before he breached the passage from front entrance to living room to shake the balance of the snow off his body, dog-like, sending the frozen bits clinging to his hair and body as far away from him as possible.

"Oh, come on," Lyn huffed, reaching down to undo his own boots and smiling at the snow as if Mother Nature herself had left him a personalized present and masked it as precipitation. "It wasn't that bad. Even you have to admit that the artwork was amazing."

Riley popped his head back into the entranceway and curled his lip. "That is not artwork, Lyn. It is frozen water – made possible only because the god-awful weather is cold enough to freeze your damn lips together while you're talking. It's vile. It's evil. It's ... "

"Live?"

Riley frowned and tilted his head. "Say what now?"

"My mistake. I thought we were playing with anagrams," Lyn grinned.

Riley stared at him, completely expressionless. "And I'm sure that means something to someone somewhere."

"Tina's satin stain?" Lyn suggested. "Stop spot? The eyes, they see?"

Riley continued to gaze at him as if Riley was attempting to personify still-life.

"Nothing, hmm? The words all have the same letters? Just arranged differently? It's a ... thing ... " Lyn let his words trail off.

"You need to get a life," Riley replied pleasantly. "Seriously."

Lyn shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the handle of the front door so it could dry, his tone every bit as cordial. "And I would. If my partner wasn't such an ass and actually wanted to leave the house every now and again."

Riley pasted a look of innocence on his face. "No doubt your partner would be far more amicable to events that didn't cause the destruction of his most valued toes and fingers, sir."

"Perhaps, good sir," Lyn crossed his arms over his chest and lifted an eyebrow at Riley's poor-me expression. "Or perhaps my partner should grow a set of balls and stop being such a whiny little suck—"

He didn't get the opportunity to finish the sentence because Riley was already launching at him. In typical Riley fashion, Lyn didn't have a chance to even attempt repositioning himself. Riley bent at the waist and barely had to use any shoulder pressure on Lyn's torso to make Lyn fold like a reed in a windstorm. From there Riley had only to wrap his arms around Lyn's thighs, stand and scoop, and Lyn was over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

"I'll show you whiny little suck," Riley laughed, marching down the hallway while Lyn tried to reorient his brain. "Don't lift up; you'll hit your head."

In response Lyn set both palms on the small of Riley's back and tried to push himself up so he could wiggle down and free. A sound smack on his ass was all Lyn got for his efforts. "I told you not to lift!" Riley growled playfully. "Now be still before you hurt yourself."

"You mean before you accidentally hurt me?"

Riley turned into the bedroom and flicked on the lights. "You've been warned. Therefore, any damage to your skull is completely on your own head." He stopped, mid-stride and laughed out loud. "See what I did there? Damage? Skull? On your own head? That's gotta be some kind of literary geniusness, right?"

"Not only would I not use the word genius, genius," Lyn chuckled. "But if I had I would have used it correctly. Like I just did. Twice." Suddenly the world shifted, a moment of panic ensued, and with an oof and a flump, Lyn landed on his back on their mattress. "You realise," he sighed. "That now I have to kill you."

Riley's laugh sounded like the bleat of an offended goat. He straddled Lyn's legs and reached for the buckle of his belt. "Firstly, Mr. Lyn Jones, man who lives in my home, person who shares my bed, and self-assumed wordsmith," Riley stopped talking and tilted his head at Lyn.

"Yes, that would be a suitable word—"

"I knew that!" Riley lied. He seated himself firmer over Lyn's thighs and whisked his belt off, smirking. "Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Firstly you will admit to the group that you cannot, in fact, kill me. Because 'a' you love me too much to live without me, and 'b' you are physically unable to overpower me." He leaned over Lyn and began to loop the belt around Lyn's wrists, tugging it snug but not tight enough for the buckle to bite, then tucked the end of the belt into itself to secure it. "Secondly," he grinned, settling back once again, "you will solemnly vow never to expect me to stand out in the cold and admire supposed-art ever again."

"Or else?"

Riley dropped his voice to a low, comic grumble. "Or else I will make sure you gain a proper perspective on just how horrific this medium is, my pretty baby boy."

"Baby ... boy ... " Lyn pursed his lips. "Really?" He lifted his head off the mattress when Riley hopped off him and motioned for him to stay, shaking a fist threateningly at the door of the bedroom.

Lyn rolled his eyes and called to the then empty doorway, "You realise I could just sit up if I chose to, yes? That the belt isn't tied to anything, right? That I'm willingly lying here and under no circumstances do you have any control over the fact that I am still on the mattress?"

He cocked his ear and listened to sounds that, had he been standing alongside Riley, would have probably sounded quite day-to-day normal. From the vantage point though, Lyn had no clue what Riley was doing, only that it sounded like Riley might be in the kitchen. He narrowed his eyes at the impish grin and the cup in Riley's hand when Riley returned. "What do you have?"

Riley shook the cup and the resulting jangle of hard and plastic could only be one thing: "Is that ice?"

"I warned you."

"Mm hmm," Lyn began to sit up. "To reiterate my previous points – you realise there's no way you can keep me here if I choose to get up."

Riley advanced with a slow, evil swagger. "I also realise that you are so in love with me, that you would rather die than deny me anything."

Lyn looked up with mock-worry. "Aww, you poor thing! You fell and hit your head when you were in the kitchen, didn't you?"

Riley climbed over the end of the bed like an advancing tiger, complete with toothy, feral grin. And Lyn didn't stop Riley from straddling his shins and knee-walking back up to his previous position. "And your plans now are ... ?"

He didn't need a reply when he saw Riley tip the glass into his mouth and snag an ice-cube. He got one anyway. "Hoo abbage hoo."

Lyn squinted, tilted his head, and frowned. "Come again? Without the ice in your mouth?"

Riley huffed a heavy sigh and spit the ice into his palm. "To. Ravage. You."

"Ah." Lyn dropped his head back to the mattress and went through the pretence of getting comfortable. "Carry on then."

With a clunk Riley reseated the ice in his mouth, caught it between his teeth and leaned over Lyn with his lips open. It took Lyn a second to realise why Riley was exhaling long breaths over the ice, right up until the first drop of water fell on Lyn's cheek. A low chuckle rumbled from Riley's throat when Lyn jumped and while he repositioned himself to do it again, Riley's hands dropped to Lyn's waist and began to simultaneously work Lyn's sweater up, and Lyn's t-shirt out of his pants. Layers, Lyn grinned at himself – gotta love 'em.

Another drop of water fell on Lyn's lips and he opened his mouth to both swipe at the liquid, and advise that the water wasn't nearly as cold as one might expect when it was warmed by breath first, when he caught Riley's stare. Riley was watching Lyn's mouth with the intensity of a teenager watching his first porn – as if, for whatever reason, the drops falling on Lyn's lips were as salacious as semen. So instead of casual observation spiced with sarcasm, Lyn went with seduction; drawing his tongue over his bottom lip with a slow, wet slide, tilting his chin and parting his lips wider to catch a third drop with the tip of his tongue as it fell.

Riley grunted around the ice, lowered his head and pressed the cube along Lyn's mouth in a half-kiss, half smear. Fingers climbed under Lyn's shirt and trailed his ribcage as water seeped between swelling lips, and Lyn caught his breath as goosebumps jumped to life under Riley's touch. "Sorry baby," Lyn grinned when Riley finally pulled back. "But I have to admit that you're doing a lousy job of making me dislike ice."

The cube once again clacked as it was sucked back into Riley's mouth and shoved into his cheek. "I'm getting there. Just wait." He took a long moment to taste Lyn's lips, both sets as cold as the other, then slid farther down Lyn's body as both hands finished the job of lifting sweater and shirt up as far as Riley could manage. Everything in Lyn's body jumped when Riley turned his oral attentions to Lyn's nipple and, instead of a warm mouth, the ice cube was flicked to forefront and pressed against the sensitive nub.

"Ah, you fuck!" Lyn gasped, rolling his hips up and into a grind against Riley's ass. Across Lyn's chest Riley dragged the ice, forcing a growl and a shudder, while Riley's hands found the still rock-hard nipple and rolled it between his fingers.

"Now see," Riley smirked, spitting the ice out and using his free hand to hold it in place. "I was going to be nice until you started swearing." Back and forth the ice went, freezing one nipple while fingertips warmed the other.

"So, have you had enough? If so, this would be the time to swear that I will never be subjected to such a wicked display of winter nastiness again."

Lyn's response was not immediate. He could feel Riley's cock growing thick even from behind both sets of jeans, his own already hard underneath Riley's ass. And as much as he would have imagined himself hating the feeling of fingers pinching skin already shocked by cold, the sensation was actually intensely sensual. He was almost disappointed as frozen dissolved into water and trickled down his sides.

"No answer, hmm?" Riley picked up the sliver of leftover ice and thumbed it into Lyn's mouth. "Guess I better try harder then." He reached over to the nightstand, scooped another cube out of the cup and dragged it from sternum to belly. With an evil smirk, he placed it in the hollow of Lyn's belly button and left it there.

"Fuck me, that's cold," Lyn hissed. "Take it off!"

"Not until you promise."

Lyn twisted his hips sharply to the right, gasping as cold deepened. "Riley, I'm warning you ... "

"Uh uh!" Riley leaned over Lyn, used his hips to hold Lyn's in place, and caught Lyn's arms as Lyn made to move them. Riley's breath was hot on Lyn's face, both cocks were hard as they each sought friction against each other, and when Lyn opened his mouth to reiterate disapproval, Riley caught him in a rough kiss.

It wasn't obvious to Lyn what made him squirm more, the cold transferring into pain or the way Riley moved against him. And just as the ice was too much to take, as if Riley somehow knew it was the pivot point from game to rage, he pushed his hands between them, caught the ice in his fist, and popped it in his own mouth.

Riley didn't have to tell Lyn to leave his arms where they were. Even though the belt was loosening, even though Lyn could have simply shaken it off, when Riley's wet fingers began to work at removing Lyn's jeans, Lyn kept his arms above his head and simply watched. He continued watching when Riley shifted on the mattress and pulled clothing off his own body as well.

"Now then," Riley mumbled, climbing between Lyn's legs instead of over them. He rested on his knees and slowly stroked the anxious flesh straining against Lyn's belly, reacquiring the cup with his free hand. He shook it once, jangling the final cube within. "You have one last chance to prove you deserve my mercy, sir."

Lyn shook his head back and forth in exaggerated denial. "No way. I love winter. And I love being out in the snow."

Riley shrugged and tilted the ice into his mouth. "Hen I huggest hwe het a hog."

"You suggest we get a hog?"

Riley repeated the final two words around the ice cube.

"A log?" Lyn teased.

Sucking the ice, Riley made no further attempts at speech other than the mumbled, "Hoo asked for it." He scooted farther down the bed, put both hands on Lyn's hips and lowered his head towards Lyn's cock.

"Wait!" Lyn laughed, fingers already clenching in their binds.

He paused only for a quick second—still sucking the ice cube, still rolling it around his mouth—to see if Lyn would cave and when no such promise was forthcoming, he closed the inches between lips and cock.

"Oh, come on," Lyn panted, gasping when Riley's way too cold tongue began to run the length of his cock. "There must be something about winter you like!"

"Un unh," Riley wrapped his lips around Lyn's head, working cold over muscle with suction and vibration in a way that made Lyn's throat huff a sharp breath and his hips jerk towards the sensation even as his mind told him to pull away from it. Lyn had to give him kudos if for nothing else than his ability to manage both flesh and ice cube in one orifice.

He whined when Riley pulled away, not if the sound was in relief, confusion or disgust to the fact that Riley was no longer sucking his cock. "How about skating?"

Riley shook his head and spoke around the ice-cube. "Nope. Broken wrist, fourth grade."

The mattress shifted, Lynn felt Riley move between his legs again, and his entire body shuddered when his right ball was sucked in alongside of the ice. The cold made him shout out, two fingertips found his hole, and a much warmer palm began to stroke his cock. Instinct forced a sharp tug away from the offensive sensation, the movement impaled him on Riley's fingers, and assisted the friction of Riley's grip. "Hnn ... ! Ha ... damn." And just before the process teetered from shocking to painful, Riley released him. The ice-cube clattered as it fell back in the cup. Neither hand, however, stopped their individual pursuits.

"Sorry," Riley's voice was a light tease. "You were saying? Something about 'hnn?'"

"Ha ... " Lyn's brain faltered, he flailed without movement, his tongue working at trying to find speech. "H-hockey. Everybody likes hockey."

"Nope. Eight stitches under my chin on my thirteenth birthday." The fingers inside him crept deeper, wiggling against one another in a mind-blowing tease of nerve-endings.

"Tobogganing?"

"Sprained ankle, Christmas break, first year of college." Riley grinned when Lyn's body jumped as sensitive glands reacted to pressure. A clear run of fluid worked itself free of Lyn's cock and ran over Riley's fist.

"S-s-snowballs?"

"Ice chip in my left eye when I was eight. Wore an eye-patch for six damn weeks. Got damn good at saying arrgh, mind you."

"Jesus, Riley," Lyn's tongue felt thick enough to gag him. His brain was getting too slow to process new questions. "Snow men?"

"Made one," Riley nodded. "I think I was five. Did it all by myself too. I'd just got finished sticking the carrot in its damn face when a bunch of older kids came by and stomped it into the ground." He moved up, leaned closer and caught Lyn's chin in a light bite before licking a line up Lyn's jawline. All the while his fingers worked as far and as furiously as they could inside Lyn's body. "I fucking hate snow men."

Riley's cock was hard and heavy as it twitched on Lyn's stomach and Lyn's fingers wiggled and flexed at the thought of touching it. "Okay, okay, okay," Lyn breathed, hungry for more, desperate to wrap his arms around Riley's shoulders and drag the man inside him. "No more snow. No more ice. Hell, I won't even make you walk outside in a bad rain if you quit playing the hell around and fuck me for God's sake."

He would have loved to say the look on Riley's face wasn't smug as Riley moved away. He would have been lying if he'd dared to though.

With chest pounding and breath hitched Lyn watched Riley transfer his hand from Lyn's cock to the nightstand and snatch up a bottle of lube. Lyn narrowed his eyes at Riley's smirk as liquid was stroked over Riley's dick. "What are you up to?"

"About one point eight metres on last check. You?"

"Ha. Ha." Lyn deadpanned.

"You've gotten kind of mono-syllabic, Mr. Jones. Everything okay?"

As much as Lyn would have loved to commend Riley on his choice of words, he couldn't take his eyes off Riley's hand: the way Riley gripped his own cock, the shine of slick over Riley's fingers, the slow slide. "Damn ... "

"That hardly sounds like a proper answer, Lyn." Riley let his hand slip off the end of his dick and with the same slippery fingers he picked the ice up again. He rolled it slowly in his palm, coating it in the lube, and with a devilish grin, Riley pulled his fingers from the depths of Lyn's body and held the ice against Lyn's hole.

"Aw, fuck!" Lyn shouted loud enough that the words bounced off the bedroom walls and came back at them.

"Now, now, I thought you liked ice. Think of it as art," Riley chuckled, teasing the torturous, slipping, dripping chunk over Lyn's crack, hole and taint. "Whoops."

For a second Lyn just laid flat, completely unsure what 'whoops' could entail, finally associating the sound of something hard skipping over hardwood as the fact that Riley had dropped the ice and not, in fact, lost it elsewhere. "Now you pay," he panted, catching Riley's eyes with his own and forcing his wrists out of the belt at the same time.

"That sounds fun—"

Lyn tackled Riley flat, effectively cutting him off and switching their positions at the same time. With one hand he fought the lid off the bottle of lube, with the other he wrestled Riley's leg over his shoulder and before he could even consider the fact that Riley could easily overpower him, Lyn lined up and shoved the head of his cock inside Riley's body. He paid no mind to the following hiss though did allow the shift of hips for angle and ease of acceptance, and worked the next few inches in with a slow, far more forgiving push.

One strong leg wrapped around Lyn's waist, one firm palm found one of Lyn's ass cheeks, and one set of lips found the other in a fumble that refused to identify its director. Not that it mattered. Neither of them cared who'd initiated, only that they were both starving for it. While Lyn held his weight on both arms, Riley kneaded Lyn's ass, using the grip to control Lyn's thrusts. With his free hand Riley jerked himself.

The heat of Riley's body was a welcome and all-consuming change of sensation. It made Lyn's legs tremble with exertion they shouldn't have been suffering with. It made his mouth and throat dry as his body worked to force more air inside seemingly failing lungs. It made every nerve feel as though they'd been hard-wired to his cock.

"Cumming," Lyn huffed.

"Already?" Riley's surprise was only half-jest.

"Lots of ... errm ... can I use the words 'warm up' if we were using ice?"

"Nope," Riley shook his head, his hand sliding over his cock furiously. "You'll have to think of something else. At least it'll distract you."

Lyn sighed as his body let go, his cock oblivious to Riley's resulting growl, the entire process more relief than bliss.

"Aw, you suck," Riley teased, more truth in his tone than he'd probably intended, Lyn was sure.

"Well, since you asked nice," Lyn grinned. He pulled to his knees while Riley slid up against the headboard.

"I want to watch. See if it looks as pretty on your lips in white as it did clear." Riley smiled, "I can guarantee it won't be cold this time." They caught eyes as Lyn descended and Riley started stroking his cock again. "Just the head okay? It'll go fast like this."

"I don't care if it takes all night," Lyn mumbled, dragging his lips over Riley's glans.

"That's because you're not the one leaking all over the sheets, beautiful."

Lyn didn't argue the fact they could easily change linen. He just followed the request, drawing lips and tongue over the head of Riley's cock and meeting Riley's fist with an unintentional kiss every time Riley's stroke brought the quickly working hand back up. He didn't break the connection until the thighs beneath his forearms flexed and Riley's breath was being held. Lyn didn't have to be told to stay in place, wouldn't have dared to pull away regardless of the fact that Riley's free hand found his hair with enough pressure to sting. He just looked up and watched Riley's face watch his mouth, revelling in the rush it brought him when Riley coughed a sound of choked pleasure, rested his cock on Riley's bottom lip and came.

"Okay," Riley panted. "I'll make you a deal. I'm totally in for snow trampling in any form you see fit if I get to play with the ice when we get home. That was fun."

Lyn dropped on to the mattress and closed his eyes, dragging an open palm over his face to rid what hadn't fallen where his tongue could swipe. "Oh, now we're negotiating, are we? Well tell you what. That's a deal then. But what do I get when I get dragged to your parent's house and have to listen to your father talk about his days in the army? I mean, seriously Riley. He didn't even see active duty."

"Please tell me you're not asking for some gun play, you sick bastard," Riley said in mock-horror.

Lyn laughed and smacked at Riley's leg.

"Oh my God," Riley continued, the pseudo disgust compounding in his voice. "You want to have sex with my father, don't you?" He slid down beside Lyn and wrapped his leg over top. With closed eyes, Lyn felt the kiss get pressed on his forehead. It was a softer, more serious voice that spoke against his skin. "That was fun, Lyn. I like it when you make me like things I despise."

"Cool," Lyn mumbled back, turning to bury his face against Riley's chest. "Tomorrow we make snowmen."

The End

Copyright © 2012 AF Henley

Fireside

Fireside

*Story contains M/M relations and explicit sexual scenes.*

The coals that glowed in the fire pit were as red as cherry tomatoes, but their heat was dissipating quickly. Simon poked at them for what had to be the thousandth time, his melancholy growing, while he did his best to convince himself the mood shift had nothing to do with the fact that Jonas had left him alone at the campsite – it wasn't the empty, gnawing solitude consuming his chest at all. Nope. It was just the ambience. It had to be.

Together they'd watched the sun slip towards the horizon, transforming fading leaf and thinning branches into a Midas-worthy display: green had become goldenrod, brown had warmed to umber; even the lake had lost blue to caramel. As burgers had sizzled on the grill and lighting had accentuated every one of the bulges and ridges on Jonas' body, the hastily planned rendezvous masquerading as campout with friends, had seemed like a damn fine idea. But when the light had failed and the cold began to creep in, Jonas had decided that coals needed to become fire lest he be forced to find a way to admit to Simon's parents that "the boy had frozen to death on the north shore off County Line Four."

"Fifteen minutes," Jonas had said. "Thirty tops." But there was no way, Simon was sure of it, that he'd been waiting for Jonas' return for less than a half hour. Dusk had darkened to the kind of black that without the familiarity of the little blue hooded nightlights that Simon's mom kept tucked into the sockets back at the house, tended to coax one's mind into drifting towards coyotes and snakes. Not that Simon had a hate on for any of God's creatures, he just preferred to know when or if one of them might be sneaking up behind him.

He shifted closer to the embers and held his hands over top of them, trying not to consider that his father would have killed him for not bringing a rifle along. "You don't never know what you're gonna find in the bush, son." After all, they'd shot off their fair share of coyote trying to sneak into the chicken barn at the farmhouse. The little buggers were bold enough with people and lights. God only knew how brash they could get when they had the advantage of cover and camouflage.

If the moon had been full, Simon wouldn't have been so nervous. The sky was clear, the stars were beginning to make their debuts, and if the man in the moon had been grinning down full-faced, it would probably be bright enough to see for miles – even with the trees blocking most of the sky. Mostly though, light and lack of weaponry aside, Simon would just feel a fuck ton better if Jonas would get his ass back with the firewood. Hell, even without it. He'd live with the possibility of frost-inspired teeth-chattering as long as he could stretch out beside Jonas. A body beside another one did a damn good job of fuelling heat.

His fingers had just got to the point where a mind had to choose whether it could deal with the fact its knuckles were still like ice at the risk of losing palms to blisters when Simon heard the first branch snap to his left. He was still telling himself he hadn't when he heard the next. Panic seated, fight-or-flight activated but with a flailing see-saw between the two reactions, and Simon choked on a whine that would have embarrassed even the smallest, frailest child.

He was fumbling for the branch he'd been poking the fire with when the brush gave away with a grumble too quickly recognized. "Fucking flashlight," Jonas hissed. "Gave out just as I—" He stopped, amusement lightening his tone. "Or should I say grrrr?"

"Jesus!" Simon huffed, dropping his makeshift poker with one hand while the other gripped his twisting belly. He snapped back with disgust aimed more at himself than anything else. "Don't you know you're supposed to whistle when you're getting close to camp? So people don't have freaking heart attacks?"

Jonas dropped an armload of wood beside Simon. "No, actually. When I'm sneaking around in the dark I tend to prefer stealth." He grinned at Simon, a flash of white teeth catching moonlight, "Why? Did I scare you?"

Simon couldn't hold back a return grin if he'd tried. "No."

He waited for the light lunge, bit his bottom lip when it came as expected, and sank against Jonas as their bodies were pulled tight and Jonas growled into his ear, "Liar."

"Un unh," Simon shook his head and tried to focus on Jonas' eyes. "I was worriedabout you. Big difference."

Jonas snorted and released him. "Well don't. I can take care of myself just fine. Now let me get a decent fire going."

He moved out of the way while Jonas flipped the grill from the fire pit back and began to toss in wood. Simon tugged at the bottom of his jacket and laughed. "I should have worn a warmer coat. So you wouldn't have to fuck with the fire."

"Meh," Jonas dug the branches into the coals and stacked some heavier ones on top. "You'll be fine in the sleeping bag. This is just for now."

Twigs began to pop and glow as the embers did their job at transferring heat to such a degree as to inspire flame. "Good thing it's been dry," Simon nodded at the fire, watching Jonas manipulate the wood. "I can help—"

"I got it."

Simon didn't bother to argue the stacking process he'd been taught in damn near every kid's program he'd been in. With the life still left in the coals, he had no doubt the fire would catch regardless. Still, whenever the obvious 'city-ness' of Jonas came out, it always made him grin a little. Internally, of course. Nobody liked to look like a fool. Especially not when they were doing one a favour. After all, the settling frost didn't appear to be bothering Jonas in the least.

"You cold?" Simon asked.

"Nah."

"Was the wood hard to find?"

"Not so much."

"Heavy?"

"Not really."

"Those burgers were good though weren't they—?"

Jonas turned away from the fire just as a majority of the smaller kindle caught and flamed. The colour caused a cool silhouette of yellow around black. "You're rambling," Jonas said, crossing his arms over his chest and cutting Simon off mid-question. "Why?"

"I ... " Simon frowned and copied Jonas' arm cross, though his was accentuated by drawn in shoulders and the clutch of fingertips into biceps. "Just making conversation I guess."

To anyone else the sound Jonas made would have been considered derision. Not to Simon though. Simon knew the sound was merely frustration. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'll wait until you're done."

"I'm not pissy because you bothered me, Simon. I'm pissy because you're sneaking around again."

"Wait ... wh—?"

"What's on your mind?" Jonas stepped forward, caught Simon's hand and pulled him closer to the fire. "You wanted to be alone together. And I got this nagging suspicion you didn't just want to get laid. We could have done that in my apartment. In a bed. With heat." He smiled down at Simon and wrapped both his hands around the one he'd grabbed. "You're frozen, you barely ate those supposedly 'good' burgers, and you've been pussy-footing around me since we left this afternoon. I gave you a good half hour alone to get your words together and you're still walking around like the campsite is a minefield. Let's get it out, whatever it is. So we can deal with it and get on with spending some quality time together before I pack you up and take you home."

"I don't want to go ho—"

Jonas lifted an eyebrow, and squeezed Simon's hand. "You're freezing to death."

"And you said it would be okay once we got in the sleeping bag!"

"We'll be even better tucked into my bed," Jonas chuckled. "As pretty as those stars are, they look just as nice off my deck. You should know; you spent enough time on it."

"Aww, I want to stay ... " Simon let the whine fade. Growing flames licked away hidden expression and he was pushing his luck if the look on Jonas' face was being accurately read. "I like being here with you. It's like ... I don't know. Just the two of us, see? Like we're ... different. Not just guys that meet up to bang. Almost like it's a date or something."

"Ah."

The syllable may have been nothing more than breath, but it fell on Simon like an anvil. "No! I don't mean anything by that! Everything's good, everything's great. We're good. I'm not saying—"

Four warm fingers found Simon's mouth and stopped his words cold. "You're nineteen. There's nothing wrong with wanting to date. I get it."

Simon yanked Jonas away from his face, his heartbeat already accelerating. "That's not what I was saying! Please, Jonas – don't even think that. I'm perfectly happy with what we're ... what we ... how we ... "

The speech died in Simon's throat as he held Jonas' gaze. A little voice inside his head began to whisper warnings about winding one's self to the point of frenzy. "Don't go gettin' wound up." It was a sentiment forced down the throats of everyone Simon knew, by everyone that Simon knew – one of those goddamn niceties that ensured children didn't throw hissy fits, young men didn't start wars, and little old ladies didn't get into shouting matches at Bingo parlours. As if a display of emotion was some kind of sin. Simon always wanted to lose his mind when he heard it – had felt that way since he was a child. "Don't you know how awesome it feels?" he wanted to say. "To let a sensation just take you over? To wake you up? To make you feel alive!" And never in his life had he felt that to be truer than during the moments he spent with Jonas. Jonas made him feel good – heights he'd never been to before, sensations he hadn't even known he could experience, a sense of being accepted for who he was without asking why he was.

At the same time though, Jonas was a loner. He worked alone. He lived alone. No friends were beating paths from god-only-knew-where in the city to come visit. And there'd never been a single intonation that Jonas planned on changing any of that. So how did one turn around and say, "I want to hold you all the time. When I start thinking about you, I can't stop. You're so goddamn everything that I finally feel like I'm something just because you're around me."

One didn't.

One couldn't.

He was young, sure. But his mama hadn't raised a fool. He knew damn well that if he started digging in his heels about needing more, or dared to let words of affection slip too fast or too often, that's when the fear would come. That's when the retreat would start. And that concept was far scarier than the possibility there might never be anything more than what they had. Because at the end of the day, 'at least' was a fuck-ton better than 'not at all.'

Wasn't it?

"Was that it?" Jonas asked in Simon's pause. "Or you got something else in there?"

Simon didn't know a reply was coming until it was already settling in the air between them. "I want to tell my parents."

When Jonas pulled away, Simon was sure his heart exploded. "It's just—"

"About you?" Jonas asked. "Or about us?"

Simon's voice faltered. He choked out a "both" that he wasn't even sure Jonas heard.

"They gonna freak out?"

Simon shot a breath that should have been laughter but ended up as more of a desperate caw. "I don't care. I mean ... " He made a show of turning his eyes up towards the sky as if exasperated. Mostly it was just to stop the confusing tears that were gathering in the corners of them from getting any farther. He blinked hard, waited for the millions of pinpoints in the dark velvet of the sky to focus, and gave himself a second to ponder on the devil horns of the moon. "I mean, I care. I want them to understand. They need to know. But if they hate me for it, then ... " He let his shrug end the sentence for him.

Jonas settled slowly on to the rock they'd used as table and chair for dinner. The one they'd been considering as a hard, but relatively dry mattress. He tapped a spot beside him. "Come here."

Apparently, Simon thought, it was about to become therapist's couch as well. And while his mind raced to commend the rock on its ability to switch roles so effortlessly—a ridiculous thought, a flail of mental balancing to help ease off the pressure of reality—Simon's legs began to tremble so badly he wasn't sure he'd be able to pull off the half a dozen steps it would take him to get there.

While they made the journey without incident, Jonas had to catch him with an "easy there" when he tried to sit.

Simon's head was shrieking in silent rebuke. "Why?" it asked him. "Why would you ever, in a million years, think to say that? Are you insane? Or were you actually trying to get him to tell you to fuck off and not bother coming back?" The only thing his heart could do was pound its plea in time with blood flow: please don't leave me. Please don't leave me.

Only the night spoke out though. As the stars in the background glittered, though the moon hung in pensive silence, the rest of the world began a chorus of disdain. It whistled its surprise in the wind that stole through emptying branches. It chuckled mockingly with every falling leaf. A coyote began to yap, was followed in succession by a dozen of its hungry mates, the lot of them signing a prayer of triumph that the world would be retrieving a prized champion from the clutches of a foolish boy.

"You know what?" Simon finally sputtered. "Just forget I said anything. I'm being stupid. It's really not even a big deal—"

"You're not being stupid," Jonas sighed. He lifted his chin and set his jaw and all Simon could think of was granite: hard, impassive, cold – yet so damn beautiful. Simon shivered, drew his shoulders in once again and hunched over his own lap.

"Listen," Jonas reached for his hand and the tone in Jonas' voice made him want to shrivel up from the inside out.

"You should have kept your mouth shut," Simon's conscience tut-tutted.

Jonas tightened his grip with Simon's clutch. "I'm only going to say this once ... "

Simon closed his eyes against his mind's derisive tone. "Couldn't just be happy with what you had, could you?"

"If he hurts you, I'll kill him."

Simon frowned, suddenly confused and looked up to catch Jonas' eyes. They were dark, hard – coal without a touch of fire.

"I'm serious," Jonas said, emphasizing the words with a gritting of teeth that made his jaw flex even harder. "No one gets to beat on you. If he tries it, I'm going to make him pay for it."

"Wh—?"

"I know you're scared that your dad—"

Simon shook his head and cut Jonas off. "I'm not afraid of my father?"

Jonas huffed a breath of complete exasperation. "Then why have you been acting like a spooked kitten all night?"

"Not because I'm afraid of my father!" Simon laughed without mirth. "He might hate me for what I'm about to tell him but he's not going to hurt me. I mean, sure, he's kicked my ass before. But nothing I didn't totally deserve. Why would you ... I mean ... " He wasn't sure if he was going to pass out from relief or jump up and start dancing. "So, you're not mad at me? For wanting to tell them?"

Realisation dawned on Jonas' face so dramatically it was comical. "Wait a minute. You mean to tell me that you've been jumping around like a beetle in a frying pan because you thought I was going to be mad? Why the hell would I be upset that you wanted to tell your parents about us?"

Simon gripped Jonas' hand that much tighter. "I don't know? Maybe you'd think it was too serious? Or that I was expecting too much? It's not like you ... ever ... " Simon looked away and shook his head.

"Like I ever what?" Jonas prompted.

Another shrug. Another head shake. "It's not like you ever say you like me or anything."

"I say I like you all the—" Jonas stopped himself with a press of palm to mouth that worked its way up to a full rub of barely-there hair. "Simon," he started again, voice low and quiet. "I like you. The only reason I've kept my mouth shut and our encounters on the down-low is because that's how you were playing it. I don't need to remind you that you were the one sneaking around peeking in my windows, right?" He held up his palm to silence Simon when Simon made to reply. "You think I give a fuck if anyone knows? You think I care if your parents don't like me? People can suck my dick for all I care."

"I would prefer if they didn't," Simon interjected with a small grin.

Jonas eyed him. "If you want my opinion, you should have told your parents months ago – the minute you realised you wanted to come back and see me as a matter of fact. And you should have told them you were gay six years ago."

Simon tilted his head and pursed his lips. "Six years ago I was only thirteen."

"Un hunh," Jonas nodded. "And you probably already knew five years before that. So don't give me your shit. But my point is, it's your life – not mine. You do what you need to do. Don't ever think I'm going to be mad at you because you need to come right with someone. Especially not someone that's important to you. I'll just be back here keeping an eye on you while you're doing it. Because that's what I need to do."

Simon didn't say anything for a long minute. He just leaned his weight towards Jonas' wide shoulder and rested there. A small grin broke across his face. "So you like me, hmm?"

Jonas snort-laughed. "You don't need to hear it a million times."

Simon grinned, nudging into Jonas with enough of a shove to make them both rock. "How about just once more then?"

"Tell you what," Jonas wrapped his arm around Simon's waist and tugged him. "You come over here and I'll say it again."

The scramble onto Jonas' lap was an easy one. "Like this?" Simon whispered, resting his forehead against Jonas'.

Jonas cupped the back of Simon's head with one hand, drew Simon's hips that much closer with his other and leaned back, pulling Simon down with him. "More like this." And suddenly Simon didn't need to hear the words again – he could feel them: in the way Jonas' hands worked too hard at pulling out his shirt; the way they paused and just let heat transfer from back to palm when they finally succeeded, like the touch alone was worth the effort. In the way body movement became instinct as their hips sought friction against one another. In their kiss. Sex with Jonas was always fantastic. Blame it on his lack of previous experience, call it a case of obsession, whatever the driving factor was behind it, Jonas had an uncanny ability to blow Simon's mind with sex. This though, this moment, just felt different. As if with every kiss they consumed a little of each other, transferred some of one into the other and offered it back in turn. It was heady and consuming and nothing else mattered. Until Jonas rested swollen lips against Simon's flushed ear and repeated the words with a raspy voice, "I do like you, Simon. I like you a lot."

Only then did Simon realise that he'd desperately needed the confirmation. Just so he could tell himself later that he had definitely, most-assuredly, one-hundred-percent heard it for real. His cock throbbed in time to the gasp that fell from his tongue in response; his body shuddered as his mind digested the words and answered with a leak of fluid that spotted the front of his jeans shamelessly.

"Damn, kid," Jonas chuckled low and husky, "I do like how much you like what we do."

Before Simon's conscious mind understood what his body was doing, he'd already leaned into Jonas' neck and had both hands shoved between their bodies, desperately working at the fastenings of Jonas' pants. His own breath warmed him, radiating back from Jonas' skin with every word he spoke. "Need to feel you, Jonas. In me, in you, I don't even care. Just need to be together, okay?"

"We can do 'in' later," Jonas grunted, rearranging hips and sucking in tummy to allow Simon space to move his hands and draw Jonas' cock out of the open V of his jeans. And the moment Simon was holding Jonas' body in his hands, Jonas redirected Simon to his own button fly. "You now. Just take your cock out for me before your pants are too wet to wear back home."

Simon didn't argue even though his palms itched to stroke Jonas harder. He merely lifted himself up and followed instruction. His body ached to be free of the denim, the tip of his cock slipped wet and slick in its trappings and he managed to loose five buttons faster than he'd ever done before. Damp underwear was drawn off his body and Jonas' grab, firm squeeze and low groan did things to Simon's body that made him wonder how in the hell he'd be able to wait for Jonas to catch up to him.

"Lie back down," Jonas told him. "Let me feel you up against me."

Once again Simon went along with directive but he couldn't stop the sound of frustration from getting mumbled into Jonas' neck when he found his place over Jonas' body again. Frotting was fine – as warm up. His body was well past needing to be coaxed though. He wanted more. So when Jonas reached between them and wrapped his hand around both their cocks, disappointment became a long moan of appreciation.

"There we go," Jonas sighed. "That'll work, hmm?"

Simon's answer was a grunt, a shove of hips, and a rush of hot air against Jonas' neck. Simon wasn't sure what felt better – the friction of palm assisted by his own precum, the way Jonas' cock pulsed against his, or the eroticism of the knowledge that two bodies were closer then they'd ever been before. He moved his hips in time to Jonas' grip and it was a beautiful feeling. Hot. Scintillating. It made his spine tingle and his toes curl in his boots. It inspired thought to go flying and left sensation to sit on the throne of his psyche. The temperature of the air lost all importance as body heat conquered frost and wind. Dark was pointless as Simon was lost in the steady twist and fade of colour behind his closed eyelids.

Jonas nudged a stubbled chin into Simon's cheek and teased him with a chuckled, "You better wait for me," while fluid dribbled its reminder that Simon was enjoying the touch at a far quicker pace than Jonas was.

Not my fault, Simon tried to pant but the sound was no more than a weak, "Nah-mm."

"Wait," Simon repeated silently. "Don't you dare," he warned his body without speech. "No!" he insisted as his body reacted to the manipulation. Yet every admonishment sent another gasp, another whine of heated need over Jonas' neck until the patch of skin under Simon's lips was wet with the condensation of breath.

It was the sounds of Simon's pleasure that drove Jonas forward. Simon could tell by the way Jonas' cock responded against him. He distracted himself by latching on to Jonas skin: sucking, licking, even biting around the trill of gratitude his throat continued to offer.

"Wait for me," Jonas rasped. "I want to feel you cum with me. I want to know your cock's feeling what I am."

Simon fought the wave of bliss the words brought him even as his body arched closer, seeking more in a frantic attempt to reach completion. "God, Jonas, fuck!"

The plea was more apparent than the praise. The need was real and the fighting of it all but impossible.

"Can't, Jonas, please. Need, fuck, ah!" Both fists grabbed Jonas' jacket, both feet dug into the stone beneath them, he opened his mouth to order himself to stop, as if somehow speaking it out loud might make his body pay more attention to his brain, but derision became a shout of relief as Jonas' free hand shot between them, pried t-shirts up in a collective slide of both fabrics and heat spilled in tandem.

"Damn," Simon whispered, his body trembling with exertion and the sudden rush of cold air. "That was ... damn."

Jonas laughed. "Good damn? Or bad damn?"

"Dunno," Simon shook his head. "Good probably. Can't really think."

Jonas hummed his approval and tugged Simon closer, lowering his chin to catch Simon's mouth in a kiss, breaking the kiss to murmur, "I like it when you can't think. You're fun when you forget how to reason."

Simon dropped his head to Jonas' shoulder, not caring the least at the squelch of skin pressing against wet skin or the creep of cold into the slivers of bared flesh. "Do we really have to go back?"

Jonas' hands stroked the nylon over Simon's back in a steady lift and fall – down the length of spine, over the swell of ass, lift back to shoulder, and start the process over again. It was soothing, relaxing, comforting. "No," Jonas answered. "We don'thave to do anything. But no one's expecting you back until at least noon tomorrow. I think we could get better use out of a nice warm bed than this rock, don't you?"

"And the couch," Simon grinned.

"And the countertop," Jonas agreed.

"The coffee table."

"The floor."

Simon laughed and rose. "I suppose no cloth?"

"Might be a rag in the truck," Jonas suggested, ignoring his own proposal and pulling his shirt down over the mess on his torso without even a grimace.

Simon shrugged and followed suit, untangling his legs and sliding off Jonas' lap when prompted with a light smack on his thigh. He curled his lip and shuddered as he yanked his jacket down over the seeping shirt. "The shower might be a good place to start."

As Jonas picked up the few items around the fading fire, the cooler, the half-gone six-pack, the still-bound sleeping bag, Simon shifted the coals flat and doused them in sand. By the time they were both seated in the truck Simon was more than sure his fingers had frozen solid. "Good thing we didn't set up a tent or anything," Simon said, gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering.

Jonas looked over his right shoulder with a half grin and turned up the heater.

Simon narrowed his eyes. "You had no intention of spending the night here, did you?"

Jonas cupped his hands together and blew on them once before shoving them under opposing arms. "Kid, I might look pretty tough but I'm still a city boy at heart. Why the hell would I want to sleep on a rock when I pay six hundred bucks a month to sleep on a mattress?"

"Well let's get the hell out of here then," Simon smiled. "And put your money to good use."

Jonas laughed, released the brake and shifted the truck into gear. He stopped mid-roll though, turning his body and holding Simon's gaze. "Listen, you want me to be there when you talk to your daddy you just let me know."

Simon nodded, "I'll let you know." He looked away, shot a glance out at the half moon and the stars and told himself it was the heater kicking in when a warm flush worked its way from his head to his toes.

The End

Copyright © 2012 AF Henley