Indiscretion

A/N: Not much to say except to thank the reviewers for having reviewed. Lucien's quote is from The Sound and the Fury, though slightly altered/out of context. Also, when I was writing the chase scene, I was imagining the scene from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind where Joel is chasing after Clementine under the blanket. I don't know how well I conveyed that, but use that as a reference (if you're familiar with the film).

A Far, Far Better Thing

Have you heard a pipe organ sing, the sweet low melody rumbling the very earth and sending chills to your very soul? You might hear it from a distance, at first, a curious sound unlike any other. Curiosity overcomes you, and your feet invariably lead you to the sound. From wherever—whether wood or meadow or street or sprawl—your destination remains the same, for where else does an organ reside if not a church?

So it was for Aiden and Lucien at dawn's first breaking, with the sun just visible above the horizon and the sky awash in colors beyond imagining. The sound was but a faint echo in the distance, reverberating against unseen hills. Their eyes—Aiden's eyes darted and danced around all things but the other during their rummaging for scattered clothing, each isolated in a bubble of silence. But their next course still was decided, even without their knowing it: Could such a thing be heard and not followed?

Aiden's usual mental berations—though since lessened somewhat from overuse—continued behind a stolid face.

Lucien, however, was not unwise, nor was he imperceptive, and these things did not escape his notice. Only, he had nothing to say in response, just a continuation of a silence pierced singly by the effulgent echo. Perhaps he could make a joke to lighten the mood, or maybe he should take a more direct approach. In his mind either seemed tempting options, and his inexperience prevented him from choosing which would be most suitable. But the best remedy for emo-ness, he thought, had to be laughter.

“So there are two penguins standing on an ice floe,” he said, “and one of them says to the other, 'You look like you're wearing a tuxedo.' And the other replies, 'How do you know I'm not?'”

He didn't respond for a moment, then burst out into laughter. “That has to be the worst joke I've ever heard,” he said.

“It made you laugh, didn't it? Good enough in my book.”

“You mean the worst jokes ever written?”

“Yes, and that happens to be one of my personal favorites.”

“Does it, now.”

“And now that you're in a better mood,” Lucien said, “maybe I can get it through to you not to be so emo just because you think you should be. It's really annoying.”

Aiden stopped laughing.

“There you go again, clamming up like that. I hate it when you do that.”

As they spoke, they did not look at each other, kept heading in an uncertain direction towards the ever present background music. Steadily it grew louder as they progressed, though never so loud as to overshadow their conversation. Were they not so embroiled in a deep psychological, philosophical, and moral debate, they might have marveled at the ability of the sound to travel so far, or maybe even appreciated the subtle beauty of the chords.

“I've said it before and I'll repeat it just this once: I am not a child. You don't have to act like you're the guardian of some helpless damsel. Am I younger than you? Yes. Does that automatically imbue me with some mystical 'innocence' you need to protect? No. I'll tell you what I read in a book somewhere. 'It was men invented virginity not women; it's like death: only a state in which others are left, and nothing is even worth the changing of it.'

“See, some people might make a big fuss about it, but was it ever anything more than an invention by man to suppress his comrades? Either way you cut it, as well. You're the monster who stole my innocence, but I'm the hero who got rid of his. But that puts me in the role of the female (somewhat), and I'd rather keep my penis, thank you very much. Which brings me to my point: there's nothing 'traditional' about our relationship, so there's no need to keep up pretenses or anything.”

They stopped and faced each other.

“But what do we have if not tradition?” Aiden said. “Our world was destroyed, we've nowhere to call home, and the only thing left are our memories of it. 'Tradition' is just a physical manifestation of memory, an outward indicator that we're something more than just ourselves. Without it we'd have nothing but a vague recollection that maybe we once had someplace to call home.”

“We have each other, though. You're all the proof I need that my life before wasn't just a dream, and I can be yours as well, if you'd let me. We don't need to be held down by antiquated notions of morality whose sole purpose are to make us miserable.”

“Then explain to me,” Aiden said, “why exactly you cried after we first had sex.”

It was mesmerizing, Aiden thought, the various subtleties through which Lucien's face transitioned as the question settled in, each defying description in its own way.

“I'd rather not talk about that,” he said of a sudden, then turned around and hurried in their previous direction.

“Wait,” he said in pursuit, but he was ignored.

The river, blue and clear as ever, ran beside them the course of their journey, but the field, then the woods grew progressively denser. Lucien's lithe and young body allowed him to remain just ahead of Aiden's visual perception, and the only indication of his presence was of his footfalls against the scattered leaves and twigs along the ground.

“C'mon,” Aiden said. “Is it really so bad you can't talk about it?”

Again, nothing.

“I shared my past with you. . .”

“It hurts to even think about it,” Lucien said through the dense foliage.

“But it gets easier if you share it.”

“You'll hate me for it.”

“I will not.”

Aiden thought he saw a glimpse of an arm just beyond a leaf, but when he reached out there was nothing. They were both running, now, and neither gaining any ground. The music became less distant.

“You say that now, but when I say it you'll hate me anyway.”

“Now who's being emo?”

“I don't care,” Lucien said.

“But I do.” Another glimpse, but more nothing. “Stop being like this and let's talk.”

“We already talked, still are.”

“So let's finish.”

The leaves grew broader and greener and closer together the further they went. Colors were introduced, bright reds and yellows and oranges ornamenting delicate flowers. Faster and faster they went, and all the while the organ grew in volume, but never more than a murmur. Gentle breezes folded the blanket-leaves in billows of texture and translucence, and overhead the sun appeared only infrequently through the canopy.

A thin branch scratched Aiden's cheek in passing, but he hardly noticed, so fixated was he. The rapid thudding of their feet against the ground, interspersed with a crack and a crinkle of a twig and of leaves, grew louder even than the music, grew until it was the only thing Aiden heard even amidst various animals' calls, amidst the ever-present trickle of the river. He had the thought that they were talking—His lips were moving, at least, but he couldn't tell that he was saying anything. How long it continued like this Aiden couldn't say, except perhaps to say “Too long.”

It stopped when he ran into Lucien's back and they both toppled over. When he looked, there were tears on his cheeks and in his eyes, shut tight so they couldn't see. They were panting, and Lucien sniffling. Aiden, now, was at a loss for words; all he could do was lift the boy up and cradle him in his arms, and as the tears fell he whispered sweet words, hummed faint lullabies, planted soft kisses. And in the distance the organ's music stopped and was replaced with the clanging of bells.