November
folder
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
46
Views:
48,033
Reviews:
341
Recommended:
3
Currently Reading:
2
Category:
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
46
Views:
48,033
Reviews:
341
Recommended:
3
Currently Reading:
2
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
October 23
October 23
Almost two weeks, and Jesse had been perfectly well behaved. Sloane had smirked at him for the first few days, but afterwards seemed to have a change of heart and had been trying to soothe him and restimulate his interest bit more. Jesse accepted his kindness, but deep down suspected that Sloane might just be fattening him up for the kill. He watched his back.
He had spent the weekend after with Soria. In her apartment, he smelled warm flowers and momentarily was back in his childhood, rolling tiny monster trucks down the rivets between the tomatoes and the cabbage in her rooftop garden. Those days were gone. Soria was not. She put both arms around him when he opened the door with the passkey he still had - she hadn't changed the code, and he'd warned her about the danger of that, but she never wanted him to be unable to get to her. He loved her for that.
She kissed his face and helped him to make apple turnovers in the tiny white stove, which was hard because she could never remember quite how to make the doughy part and so he always had to come over from slicing the apples to help her. She laughed and turned on some sweet, easy gypsy music and danced around the kitchen for him, her bracelets sliding and long black locks flying. Jesse never wanted to leave.
It took her until dinner to ask about his bruises; he lied and said he'd had a bad trip and been in a bit of a boating accident. She shook her head and said she knew he hated boats so he would never stand up in one so how could that have happened? She asked if someone was beating him. He told her no, but that someone did. She flexed her fingers around her coffee cup, and he knew she was thinking of violence. He kissed her and promised that things would be alright.
For going out, Jesse was required to take a chaperone because he had recently been labeled a flight risk. His mother slapped it in the face; it didn't respond and so she risked another, then six more, seven, eight, and Jesse had to pull her off of the thing because he wasn't sure about her ever stopping.
But the next day was OK, and Sunday was splendid. They went for walks and Soria painted and sang along with heavy Spanish dancing music and Jesse told her all about Ortega, and Sloane and Suleiman and Vichy and Honesty and Sai and Grant and she asked if he'd met anyone who he really liked. Vichy and he were close, he admitted, but he still felt some distance between them. She suggested he try to bridge the gap - good friends are hard to find. He promised her he would try. He fell asleep listening to her sing and when he woke up, she had washed and packed his things. At home, he found her favorite music box buried halfway in his luggage.
Almost two weeks, and Jesse had been perfectly well behaved. Sloane had smirked at him for the first few days, but afterwards seemed to have a change of heart and had been trying to soothe him and restimulate his interest bit more. Jesse accepted his kindness, but deep down suspected that Sloane might just be fattening him up for the kill. He watched his back.
He had spent the weekend after with Soria. In her apartment, he smelled warm flowers and momentarily was back in his childhood, rolling tiny monster trucks down the rivets between the tomatoes and the cabbage in her rooftop garden. Those days were gone. Soria was not. She put both arms around him when he opened the door with the passkey he still had - she hadn't changed the code, and he'd warned her about the danger of that, but she never wanted him to be unable to get to her. He loved her for that.
She kissed his face and helped him to make apple turnovers in the tiny white stove, which was hard because she could never remember quite how to make the doughy part and so he always had to come over from slicing the apples to help her. She laughed and turned on some sweet, easy gypsy music and danced around the kitchen for him, her bracelets sliding and long black locks flying. Jesse never wanted to leave.
It took her until dinner to ask about his bruises; he lied and said he'd had a bad trip and been in a bit of a boating accident. She shook her head and said she knew he hated boats so he would never stand up in one so how could that have happened? She asked if someone was beating him. He told her no, but that someone did. She flexed her fingers around her coffee cup, and he knew she was thinking of violence. He kissed her and promised that things would be alright.
For going out, Jesse was required to take a chaperone because he had recently been labeled a flight risk. His mother slapped it in the face; it didn't respond and so she risked another, then six more, seven, eight, and Jesse had to pull her off of the thing because he wasn't sure about her ever stopping.
But the next day was OK, and Sunday was splendid. They went for walks and Soria painted and sang along with heavy Spanish dancing music and Jesse told her all about Ortega, and Sloane and Suleiman and Vichy and Honesty and Sai and Grant and she asked if he'd met anyone who he really liked. Vichy and he were close, he admitted, but he still felt some distance between them. She suggested he try to bridge the gap - good friends are hard to find. He promised her he would try. He fell asleep listening to her sing and when he woke up, she had washed and packed his things. At home, he found her favorite music box buried halfway in his luggage.