Indiscretion

A/N: This is where I'd respond to reviews. If I had any, that is. Don't make me beg.

Mist and Shadow

. . . I read once that some people actively abstain from sexual contact—not out of moral obligation or physical inadequacy, but in a similar way to why I don't have sex with women: that is to say, the thought itself is disgusting. For the longest time, this concept of asexuality fascinated me, a sexual being. It's always a tricky thing to define one thing as the lack of another; that presumes the lacked quality is supposed to be there and that its absence is a deformity. But that is not the case. Rather than create a concept of some “other,” placing the sexual vs the asexual, it's much more helpful to think of a range of sexuality. I am perfectly happy with never having fucked a woman, whereas others are content to have never fucked a man. These, however, are perfectly happy with never fucking, period. In a sense, their existence is even more difficult for the mainstream to accept than homosexuality: it's difficult for a sexual person to relate to a non-sexual one.

I thought for a while I could be asexual. You can still look at porn and all that; the key is the having sex part. But not even that is concrete. You can have sex and still be asexual; you can fall in love and be asexual. Which is why you can't really make yourself asexual, because the urges themselves are the important part, coupled with the general distaste for the act. So I thought what I'd do was I'd have sex with some guy first, and then see whether I could do without it. It. . . didn't quite work out the way I'd planned. It never occurred to me I'd fall in love with my first—not that my falling in love with him was the most important thing that happened. But all of that hardly explains why I'm crying right now, does it? I'm not sure I even know myself why I am. I guess that's the point, the not knowing. If I knew the why, I wouldn't be so spoony.

Maybe it's guilt?

. . . But over what?

What he saw first was not a person but a shadow of a person, a vague, dark silhouette advancing upon him in the gently fading daylight. Already the sun hung so low his tree offered no shade from where he sat, and the sky's vibrant colors painted a surreal landscape all around them. Lucien still slept in his lap, the last remnants of overdue tears still visible at the edges of his eyes. The forest lingered some distance behind them and their lone tree, and before them lay vast fields of green grass swaying sunwards each of them in unison.

The first distinguishable characteristic was her hat—because it had to be a she—then her dress, billowing as it was to one side and her not even trying to tame it, then the hair behaving in a like manner. He wondered how her hat was immune to the wind—but, no, off it went swirling like a plastic bag caught in the wind. She continued forward, though, because what did a hat matter to a woman? She had more going for her than just a hat and she intended not to hide it, and chasing after a stray hat was not something a woman did when she was trying to be womanly. No, so the hat fled and the dress billowed and the hair flew every which way, but her path was certain and her eyes sure, because in front of her, and a little to the left, sat a man under a tree. A very manly tree.

“That is a very nice tree you have there,” she said to him when she was of a proper distance. “One should think you might make better use of it.”

“If I moved,” he said, “the boy would wake. I'd rather let him sleep.”

“I haven't seen you around before.”

“We're just passing through.”

“If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were lost.”

“We're that as well.”

“I can't place your accent. Where are you from?”

“I have no accent, ma'am, and the same for a home. Let it rest that I am from far away, as is he.” He nodded toward Lucien.

“Do you have anywhere besides a tree to stay?”

“None, ma'am.”

“It would be wise to take shelter before the fog sets in. A tree will do you no good.”

“Fog? There was no fog last night in the forest.”

“Nor was there any elsewhere. Last night. It shall come soon, though.” She paused a moment. “You could stay at my house for the night.”

“If it doesn't bother you.”

“I'll have you work it off tomorrow.”

“I can't make any promises we'll still be here by then.”

The woman made no reply but began moving along the path. It headed toward the forest at first, then swerved and followed along its border for as far as he could see. He said nothing as he picked the boy up and followed behind her at a slight distance. An appropriate distance, one might say, were one ignorant of his homosexual proclivities. Because certainly it would be scandalous for a woman to be escorted home by a strange man if he were audacious enough to walk level with her, but a trailing man was acceptable. He was, at worst, a stray hand she had found by the wayside and pitied enough to offer work. Which was true.

“Dammit,” Lucien said suddenly. “Would you stop treating me like a baby? You don't have to carry me.”

Aiden set him on the ground.

“And who's that?”

“A lady.”

“Does she have a name?”

“You can call me Mary.”

“She's offered to let us stay the night at her home.”

“Okay.”

“We can finish our discussion later. I still have some things I'd like answered, if you don't mind.”

Lucien said nothing.

Their destination came into view shortly, a quaint, rustic place of wood and work and sweat. Equally quaint was the interior, though roomier than the outside indicated. There were chairs, which they appreciated, and there was tea, which took a few minutes to brew but was upon being received equally appreciated, perhaps more so.

Night came quickly, and the mist with it. Couldn't even see to the fence it was so thick. Then came the howls from far off and every direction. Would have been scary if it weren't so cozy.

The howls became fewer and farther between as the night progressed, till they hardly came even once an hour, if that. Aiden, for lack of a better word, was tired. The guest bedroom was upstairs and to the left, second door, though there was only the one bed. He informed her that wouldn't be a problem. Lucien went with him: he had never been particularly comfortable around strange women; that, and he was still at least somewhat emotionally distraught, in a vague and indefinable manner—but he certainly didn't say as much.

When he reached the room, Aiden was already asleep or pretending to be. Lucien joined him.

Morning came in a gush of sunlight and warmth. From downstairs wafted the distinctive odor of breakfast. A decidedly long-lost luxury the thought of which sent them almost into a frenzy. Afterwards came the work. Aiden had wood to chop—not that he was particularly good at it. And Lucien. . . well, he wasn't really given very much to do for some reason. The most he had to do was help in the kitchen during lunch; otherwise, his time was mostly spent watching Aiden working, because there's not much better to look at than a man working up a good sweat. Doubly so when he's shirtless. Maybe they could sneak off sometime after he was finished. . .

But if they did that Aiden would most likely want to talk. About things. Not a good plan.

Then Lucien wondered if it would really be so bad to talk about it. It might be uncomfortable, sure, but he needed to talk about it with someone. Even if Aiden would hate him for it.

Wait. If he wasn't even sure himself of the answer, why was he so adamant Aiden would hate him for it? It didn't make sense. There was no reason he could think of for such a thought, but the feeling persisted no matter his logic. Why? Perhaps he should talk about that with Aiden as well. Now to just get some privacy. . .