Indiscretion

A/N: Thanks to Young Sage for the review; it might have been at least partially responsible for the expedited finishing of this chapter.

Your Argument is Invalid

Sweat in streaming rivulets down his back. His hand wiping across his forehead, body braced otherwise against the axe. One last remaining to be chopped.

He should take his fatigue as a sign. A sign to do. . . something. And do it more often. Unable to think, though—must finish the last. . .

Done.

From the gate, a voice: Would he mind too terribly looking after the house while she went in town on some business? No answer save a grunt she like as not didn't even hear, but still silence was affirmative, so her hearing or not made no difference.

The boy was heading toward him now and clingy as ever, had a look on his face meant nothing but trouble: talking. Any other time he'd welcome such a change in complexion, but not now. Needed rest, not dialogue. Helpful enough in getting him back inside, at least. Seat by the window even more comfortable than previously.

A sigh of relief. Boy still attached to him.

A cup of water.

A cup of water.

A cup of water sitting in his hand, cool glass perspiring and sweating of its own even as its contents went down his parched throat, and dear lord was the boy his savior incarnate. Grateful enough even to kiss him, full on the mouth and everything. Or at lease the thought had crossed his mind.

He closed his eyes a moment and sank deeper in the cushion. Mind cleared; eyes open and self ready.

“You wanted to tell me something?” he said.

(Now, dear readers, I know the pair are sitting, rather comfortably, in a nice little cottage out on the plains. They are surrounded by walls on each side and in every way protected from the outside. But I ask for the purpose of clarity that you remove them from such a place. Imagine instead the walls vanish into pure whiteness and leave them in a void of sorts. They may or may not be in the same place they were: it doesn't matter. The point is it's only them sitting in a world of nothing more. All else is extraneous.)

Lucien, the fair, the bright—the incongruously nervous: “The truth is I don't know. Why I cried, that is.”

“You said I'd hate you for it.”

“But I don't know why you'd hate me, only that's what I feel whenever I try and think of it.”

“Hmm.”

“And it just doesn't make any sense. The emotion itself is so strong, but I can't put it with a memory.”

“Sounds frustrating.”

“It is.”

“And you can't think of a why at all? No speculation, no wild guessing?”

“I would prefer not to.”

“Do you have any thoughts at all?”

“Well, I thought at first it was because I was still clinging to the more traditional and out-dated ideas of chastity ant morality in general, but that doesn't really fit: I may have been raised that way, sure, but I've moved on. Also, you'd hardly hate me for that, would you?”

“Seeing as how that's what I believe, I hardly could.”

“Then I thought I felt guilty for using you.”

“But we've already discussed that.”

“Yes, we have. But I do still feel guilty about it.”

“Well stop it already. I told you before, it's my fault more than yours.”

“Yes yes yes, I get it. Not my fault.”

“That's better.”

Aiden, again: “Could it maybe be the whole 'No place to call home' thing?”

“Doubtful. We talked about that one too, didn't we?”

“Oh yeah.”

“The only other option is I've repressed some memory.”

“That's pretty much a given, at this point.”

“But what could it be?”

“If only we had a hypnotherapist or something.”

“No thank you. I don't trust them.”

“Have you ever seen one? It works, I tell you.”

“Doubtful.”

“Now that I mention it, it's very unlikely a repressed memory. Just a negative association in your subconscious with an otherwise innocuous memory. Nothing repressed or anything like that.”

“But it's more dramatic if it's a repressed traumatic event from when I was little. What's interesting about having a fear of heights 'cause I had one bad experience on a ferris wheel?”

“Who cares if it's interesting?”

“. . . I do?”

“You'd rather have severe psychological and emotional issues than. . . You know what? It doesn't matter. We can't prove it either way at this point.”

“True.”

(Here you can cease imagining the white-filled world of nothingness. Because now they're traveling between worlds again. Both still conscious, surrounded by swirling colors, but they act like nothing's changed.)

“So. . .”

“You ever thought of having sex between worlds?” Lucien asked.

“What? How would that even work? And what if we popped into the middle of a street while we were still at it?”

“Well. . . it's just that I got kind of worked up watching you chop the wood. I'm a sucker for a guy doing manual labor, apparently.” Lucien had moved closer (somehow) and was touching Aiden's still bare chest. “And that smell. . .”

Aiden's passions knew no reason in such a situation. He let the boy—no, best not think of him like that—let Lucien, rather, stroke and caress as he pleased. Sweat yet lingered here and there, and the semi-lubricating effect worked effortlessly to drive him crazy. But that was just the right hand; the left worked at his pants.

But all he did was unzip them, and out he came in full and at attention. Lucien almost laughed—he could hear the beginnings of a snicker.

Fingers only, at first. Moving gently and deftly (since when?).

He seemed particularly fond of giving blow jobs, but his natural talent was undeniable. Knew just where and how to move his tongue and when. Just the right amount of pressure, too. A moan half-slipped from his mouth (the bo—Lucien's). Vibration good.

Aiden reached his hand down—the one not busy grabbing hold the back of Lucien's head—and stroked carefully his back. Almost a purr-like humming, now, and ever the more pleasure from it.

But never mind thinking on it now, so close was he. Closer and closer he came until he did just that and more. A bit dribbled from his mouth, and thank god he was too jaded to be embarrassed for it.

Then came the kiss, just a tang of salt on the tongue.

While yet kissing he reached down and undid Lucien's pants. Only breaking for breath, he cupped and pressed through the fabric before delving for skin to skin.

It was cute, he thought, to feel the shortening and tightening of breath, the contractions of muscle as he applied and removed pressure. But even better, lovelier, were the eyes—green of a most unrelenting passion. A twitch, a squint, a spurious widening almost of surprise, but not quite. And staring straight back all the while.

Still kissing, and each sound fed between the two of them. Less from Aiden, more from Lucien. The feel of it all was exhilarating.

All things pleasurable or otherwise come inevitably to an end, but here came a gentle end, fitting to such a scene. Gentle in all ways it could be, and certainly none the less for it.

Afterwards, floating in afterglow euphoria.

“So,” Lucien said, “do you have a thing for little boys in general, or is it just me?”

“I do not have a thing for little boys.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“You're the one did the fooling, remember?”

“I thought you were the responsible adult, though.”

“And since when are you calling yourself a 'little boy'?”

“You have little boy semen on your chest. Your argument is invalid.”