Monthly Archives: January 2015

Original Fiction

Confession (Original Fiction)

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Summary:
A priest is stalked by unholy desire.

Warning: Rated R for slash and mature elements

* * *

He follows me. How long has it been now?

I let him stalk me. Or do I lead him?

I’m nervous. It’s because of Pam. They found her, the seventeenth victim. I think of this while headlights stream overhead, oblivious that I’m down here. Just as Pam was down here. I feel responsible; I’m a man of God. I come to the underpass do his work.

Every Thursday for the past five weeks Pam and her downtrodden peers gave me a place in their circle. Except for last night. I couldn’t make it.

Going there now, I feel my mission torn from me. Torn by a stronger incentive. Not mine – his, the one who follows me. I don’t look behind me; I don’t have to. I know what I’ll see.

At first I really was afraid of him. A rough sort, when I discovered him behind me that night, the kind of punk who gets his kicks making people nervous. Then he got closer and I saw his size. Saw that he was a man, not a kid, that he could use a shave, perhaps some sleep, and that his drab olive jacket blew open. I walked faster.

I’m forty, not as apt to tackle an assailant as I might’ve at twenty. People tell me that I look fit. I know better. But surely this man didn’t think that a priest would have anything worth mugging for. Then I slowed, coming to my senses. I decided to lead him to God.

We were standing in the gritty dark as cars raced over the bypass. I turned to him. “Why are you following me? What do you want?”

I couldn’t see his face very clearly, but his voice shook with emotion. “You’re the one who saves others. That’s what you do, right?”

Is that what this was about? “No. Not me. I merely try to help.”

He came closer. “No. You’re a good man. And only a good man can help me. Only a good man can do what it takes to save another person’s life.”

Another step closer and I smelled the alcohol. I asked cautiously, “Are you in trouble?”

Suddenly his hands gripped my sleeves. I heard him say, “Believe me when I tell you that someone is going to die tonight if you don’t help me, Father, because I’d kill to fuck you!”

His breath blasting in my face was the last thing I made sense of. I honestly don’t know how the rest could’ve happened. I fell from a shove that seemed furious. I picked myself up, only to have him twist fistfuls of my clothes until he’d pushed me back against the concrete. I swung out, forgetting vows, anything but my own survival. Never mind the preposterous request.

He came at me. I braced myself, never expecting it was his mouth that would completely undo me. I recoiled from the taste of blood. A million warnings screamed against disease, but the warmth of his face, his breath, the slick ease and fit as he wrestled my mouth open, not to mention how he held me, pinning my arms and thrusting against me… And I realized with horror that I was no longer fighting back.

His bulk cleaved into me, rubbing and lifting as he kissed me. My mouth hung open, unpracticed, but undeniably intrigued by what he slipped into it. I tried to follow his lead, shaping my lips, turning my head, but he was too fast. He delved at my tongue one minute and raked along my collar the next. He inhaled me, chewing at cloth and skin. His teeth twisted the material at my chest,
catching… well, my nipple. This caused a bit of shock, impairing my will to stop him from lifting the hem of my cassock.

Both of us seemed to know by then that my pushing him away, my fight, was about something else. I needed him to let me fight, but not let me win. Oh, how I have needed that! How could a stranger know? Was it written on my face? His hand claimed what it was looking for, cupping me and pulling all of me to a point. Point to point, we met. Though clothed, our organs strained for complete contact.

I worried, hoisted as I was against concrete and his thrusts. Worried about things I didn’t want to do, things he might want of me, if he was so sure he could have this much. How distasteful the word ‘pounding’ is, but then, in his arms, I could find no other word for this stage in our actions. My head, driven back and hitting the structure behind me, allowed no hiding from that realization.

In the end I clung to him. My final defenses broke. I couldn’t help it.

He rasped, “You were supposed to be here last night. Pam would still be alive if we’d done this last night.”

Sweat cooled. He released me. My vestment, crinkled, slipped back down over my pants. I was trying very hard to make sense of what I’d just done and trying equally hard not to understand what he’d said. He backed away, disappearing into the dark.

Now I want to go to the police. But I’m not ready to expose my confusion when I don’t understand it myself. Besides, the news hasn’t reported any more horrible slayings.

I’ve stopped trying to figure out why he needs it. Why me? Yes, I fear what he’s capable of, but it does seem to keep people from dying.

So there he is again under the street light. I feel his footsteps more than I hear them. I cross the road and head for the underpass to help the lost souls there, the Pams of the world.

He follows me.

Uncategorized

Rape Fiction vs. Rape Reality

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Summary:

A look at why some writers have to go where others fear to tread. For me, it became a way to deal with the trauma of being held back in the fifth grade. Fictional rape encompasses the shame and humiliation that I felt as a ‘failure’, that I could not process unless I gave it to fictional characters. Through them, I loved and healed, and found tremendous therapy. Rape in fiction is how I’ve learned to take the hurt out of my own humiliation and put it somewhere else. This confines it to a reality where I control all the pain. It doesn’t control me…

It’s like facing a bully. What once terrified me, has become mine to command, to make dance like a puppet on strings for my entertainment. Little did I know that such content would become the scarlet letter of fiction. Any writer worth their salt has to write about what bothers them, what hurts them, what scares the hell out of them, as well as what makes them happy. You can’t dissect this from the writing experience and still have something worth reading about.

This content was previously published.

* * *

Let’s get one thing straight so that there is no misunderstanding. I don’t believe it is ever appropriate to harm another individual. I don’t condone actual, physical violence or subjugating another person’s will and rights in any way. A true rape victim deserves all the respect, compassion, and understanding they need. Their reality is to be respected, but not confused with the fictional simulation of rape that someone chooses to create in a fictional body of work. This may be obvious to all intelligent people, but this article is in response to real actions against writers of fictional rape content whose works are judged without discernment between a sincere attempt at quality, and violence for violence’s sake.

The subject matter alone, not the quality of work, has been boycotted by other writers, turned away by artists who refuse to illustrate for “that kind of material,” and otherwise prejudged based upon what happens in real life. In some circles, fiction writers are being held accountable for the atrocities of reality. This is simply hatred and fear of rape unchecked and allowed to overthrow common sense.

I’m the author of Sonny Preyer, a fictional novel in which the core is constructed from the trauma of rape, and my inability to “let it go” and write about something more pleasant. I have some thoughts on the boycotting of rape in fiction that I hope will foster a better understanding for those who somehow think that writing a rape scene is as bad as committing the crime itself and feel the need to ostracize and exclude those who do.

Now it’s up to you, the reader, to be honest with yourself and decide if you should continue reading this. Take responsibility for your opinions and feelings and realize you might be offended. You don’t have to continue reading, you already know where I stand. I say this, because no matter what I write or whom I address, someone I wasn’t addressing acts as if I’m using them as a poster child for what I’m trying to say. No, I’m just sharing some ideas and my point of view. I’m not singling you out, Chris or Stacey. I’m not talking about your personal experience so there’s no point in being upset when I don’t get your ideas right. And if you are a survivor of sexual abuse of any kind, please realize this article is intended for writers of fiction, a creative tool, and in no way supports the reality of the crime committed against you.

Getting to it. Why should I limit my life’s work, my mind, my passion, just because horrible things have happened in reality, that I never had a hand in? I write certain rape content because something in me uses the resulting psychological conflict to drive my emotional investment. To understand that, you have to understand me. I suffered a great deal of sexual shame growing up. I don’t know how I got it because I was never abused that way. In fact, no one in my family ever talked about sex directly. So hindsight tells me that silence left my developing intellect to fend for itself. As I looked around me and saw how I didn’t fit in or feel comfortable in my skin the way my friends appeared to, my private pain grew intertwined with my imagination. I failed the fifth grade and was held back. The resulting humiliation worked for my teachers but changed me forever. I became a better student and a more obedient daughter. But I was consumed by shame that never went away and ruled my life.

I hid on the playground, behind a bush, that whole next year because my friends from the first fifth grade were out at the same time as my new fifth grade class, and I didn’t want them to see me. My entire life developed around this trauma in a twelve-year old’s mind. I developed a social phobia. I just wasn’t good enough, wasn’t acceptable, so I didn’t want people looking at me or talking to me. I’ve never talked to anyone about how much being held back hurt me, until the writing of this article. I’m forty-three now. How did I manage to go on to college and forge an adult life? I gave all my pain and dehumanizing shame to the part of me that loves a good drama. The part of me that got through class by daydreaming, that wanted to be a writer, that knew no matter what happens in the imagination, even if it makes me cry, I could always press the reset button. It wasn’t real and that was the great thing about it. All the adventure, none of the repercussions.

But this part of me knew that I didn’t want to face the pain of being left behind, or being seen as less intelligent as the other kids, even though this pain had become a part of my identity and was very much present. This imaginative part of me appreciated and saw the genius in my pain that I couldn’t even begin to look at. So it tricked me with what I love. Boys. Men. But not the confident hot-blooded kind, the odd ones. The ones that were special, intellectual and sexually reserved. The ones that don’t really exist. My imagination made them beautiful beyond belief, to the point that they were so desirable that other straight men wanted them badly. Never heterosex. That reflected a reality in which I was not acceptable. And tragically, these young men could never reciprocate. If they did, I would lose interest. So my imaginary males always had to be resisting. Rape was born out of my need to have them resist as much as possible. Resistance became a barometer of how strongly he was desired, which indicated how desirable he was. I found myself travelling deep into mental realms where humiliation and pain were not only tolerable, but inspired soothing emotions, for he would require great comfort in equal measure to his emotional pain. Never physical pain, because that disappears quickly and is boring. But deep emotional trauma, the kind that I knew well. The more he hurt, the more I could feel love for him because I understood his pain.

As long as he was wearing the mask, I could release tears of sadness, tears of anger at all those authority figures who deemed me unfit for the fifth grade, at my total humiliation and the death of my twelve-year old’s outgoing and lively spirit. A spirit replaced by fear of disapproval and paralyzing shyness. As long as he didn’t bear any resemblance to me, I could face what I feared the most: Shame. Humiliation. Rape encompasses unspeakable exposure and vulnerability at a soul level. It makes perfect sense to me now that I merely replaced the label of Failure with the label of Rape. Both can be such a blunt force to the psyche as to render a person insecure and unable to accept themselves.

He, Sonny, urged me to write “his” story. As I did, I felt my power as a person again. I felt amazing energy that I couldn’t explain rise up through me and onto the page. For once, I was excited about a novel that I knew I would finish. All the characters I wrote before Sonny, were unrealized versions of him. All were my fears of what would happen if I really showed him to people. If I really showed what was in my mind to people. I mean, he has a vagina for god’s sake, yet he is a male. He can’t see himself in any other way. I needed him to be male or I couldn’t write his story. But even I had no idea how far ahead of me my subconscious mind was, and how his anatomy became so important to the story. I just thought he was fascinating and I felt incredible love for him. Someone on the outside might see the obvious, but I didn’t until well into the novel.

Writing him as honestly as I knew how, rape and all, freed my creative drive. Little did I know that the rape theme, which was such a therapeutic instrument for my imagination to use, would become the scarlet letter in many forums, communities, and social groups. I can see why, I’m just saying don’t denounce the subject. Judge the writing to your tastes, but don’t condemn the writer based solely on his or her topic and themes.

I don’t ever want anyone, male or female, to be a victim of rape. But rape in fiction is not real life rape, yet there appears to be a movement against writers and artists whose work contain such content. Anyone who is shunning a writer or denying services to artists based purely on their dislike of the subject, is simply persecuting an innocent person for using their imagination and their freedom to create. You don’t have to agree with what a person is doing, but if you’re so high and mighty, extend that person the courtesy of not lumping them into a group of evil people who’ve written so-called glorified rape scenes, and don’t then proceed to ridicule and shun them. This kind of behavior is hypocritical to the very fairness and compassion those against rape fiction is asking of writers who author such fiction. This type of eye-for-an-eye mentality is only pouring gas on a fire.

Unlike real rape, with fiction rape, you close the book and go on to another one. No one really dies in fiction and no one really gets raped in fiction. Hell, in fiction characters come back to life. There is no crime being committed. Such an imagined act can be a safe way for people to brush up against intense emotion without ever putting themselves, or another person, in danger. Feeling intense emotion is healthy and normal, especially when we fabricate them from our imaginations. Even children make play out of serious issues (cops and robbers), and they have shoot-outs and compete for who croaks the best. And we understand that they need room to do that, most of us. Well, so do adults. So do everyone in between. Just because gun control is a hot topic right now and debates and fears rage, doesn’t mean that kids should stop role-playing. It does mean that parents have to be ready to give guidance more than ever. But no one sees the need to ban children from pretending to be heroes and villains (I hope).

Writers need heroes and villains too, but often disguise them as “themes” and “concepts” etc. We’re far too sophisticated to admit that we’re just playing with our own version of cops and robbers. After all, we want to be respected by our peers (*bullshit*) and wouldn’t be caught dead going against the grain of what is considered acceptable. Puh-lease.

The extreme and real behavior of shunning someone because you heard they write rape-fiction, says to me that such a person can’t tell the difference between reality and fiction. By all means, avoid topics that you know you detest. But avoiding the person behind it based on that alone? Really? No mere written word is responsible for the cruelty that goes on in this world. But if writers feel ostracized for their subject matter, I’m sure this would add to the suffering of all. We’re all connected, whether we like it or not. If someone is banning what I write today, it’s just a matter of time before they’ll be banning what you write and hating you and judging the morality of your work tomorrow.

No one can dictate what form healing will take, or what creativity will be missed when it comes to the private act of reading, and what that person gets out of it. So a campaign against writers who explore rape isn’t much better than real rape because it can cause pain and shame for people who don’t understand why they need to exercise that particular pain, they just know they do. For a writer, pain is coming from a real place and is better left to run free in an imaginary world where it can work itself out. And readers who do not possess the inclination to write, but share the emotional connection, can also benefit. This was the case with me, as both a reader and a writer. My character, Sonny, deals with issues that could not be resolved for me in a real life setting. But as a fictional, male character, he could at least provide me with the psychological armor to face them. I could have fun with this adventure and heal real conflicts at the same time. Don’t be fooled by play. Try living completely without it and you’ll see how seriously important it is. How respectable it is. Play and imagination only seem insubstantial.

Creative types claim to know how important imagination is, but anyone who truly understands what play is about, and the subconscious vitality behind it, would never deny another person his or her own imaginary universe. Moral values keep people from hurting other people, not a campaign against rape-fic writers. I personally don’t want to be shunned, persecuted, or left out in the cold by my fellow writers just because I have an issue they can’t relate to.

I’ve put a lot of thought into this because I’m tired of being ashamed of myself, my pain, and how I choose to bring all that together in my writing. Ashamed, just because a number of stories have caused offense, mine included. I realize this is letting people into my head far more than is cautionary, but I’m doing it to support sincere and valid writers who’ve gone through the same struggle to express their creativity in a way that is prejudged. Also, I’m writing this to try to bridge real peace between the two perspectives for and against rape fiction. If someone believes that what I write could possible cause a person to hurt another, that someone and myself will never agree. Stupidity is a huge factor in deliberately causing harm to others, not to mention mental disorders, and erroneous value systems that are already ingrained. And so much else. We could rid the world of vile topics and themes and these hated crimes will still continue. In fact many of us write about dark happenings to expose our fears to the light of day and drive them away.

My novel and my stance has brought up some questions. I’ve already said that I’ve never been sexually abused. I’m adding that I’m not gay and I’m not considered a transgendered person (I’ve been told). But I do feel like my identity embodies both genders, regardless of my body. The mind is so much bigger, so much more powerful than any idea, belief system, or label anyone can come up with. And just because I am none of those things doesn’t mean that I don’t have the right to write about them, about what they make me feel, what they inspire. I’m not saying that any of the above is morally or immorally comparable to rape, I’m just saying that fiction-rape is just another costume for the mind to dress up in, like an actor taking role-identity as far as he or she safely can. It shouldn’t, by itself, be considered a threat to a moral world. If a reprehensible act engages my creativity and my feelings, this doesn’t mean that I’m a criminal. So don’t treat me like I am. And my fellow writers shouldn’t deny me the same acceptance that they themselves expect amongst each other. After all, to dictate what is and isn’t acceptable for a writer to write about, is an insult to the profession itself. To dictate what a person should and shouldn’t feel is to grossly underestimate human capacity and the engine behind all creative advancement and problem-solving. The subset of people who call themselves writers and artists, you of all people should know better than to persecute other writers for their subjects and themes. You don’t have to like or agree. Just don’t hate and act out against them in any way.

If you want to take away rape in fiction, then take away guns in fiction, murder, kidnapping, poverty, all crime, injustice, and vampires. Especially those vampires. Then, you yourself won’t be a hypocrite because your own writing won’t contain anything perceived as horrible for someone to experience, and therefore evil. Say good-bye to drama. And after all this “cleansing,” only the pleasantries of life will be written about, which means there will be very little content because life, as we all know, is more than sunshine and flowers and all that is good. Any writer worth their salt has to write about what bothers them, what hurts them, what scares the hell out of them, as well as what makes them happy. You can’t dissect this from the writing experience and still have something worth reading about.

Now, I’m not defending an excuse to write violence for violence’s sake, without convincing motivation or plot. Not judging it, it’s just not my thing. Neither am I dumping on amateur fiction that doesn’t quite know how to build structure for all of that lovely angst. I’m only talking about people who hear that writing contains rape and immediately conclude that that fact alone is as vile as real rape, and should be avoided at all costs. Yes, I’ve heard people talk like this, with such an air of pride and righteousness.

The great woman who wrote the novel which made my choice to write very clear to me, once said, “Go where the pain is.” That’s where your story is hiding (paraphrased). She wrote about the greatest pain in her life, losing her daughter. Who knew it would take the form of homoerotic vampires, setting the standard for generations to copy from then on? That woman is Anne Rice. The book was, Interview with a Vampire, a very intense and fun read in spite of the pain that gave birth to it. It’s interesting to note that her child, Michelle, died of leukemia, a blood disease, and Mrs. Rice, unconsciously I suspect, dealt with this by disguising the affliction behind a beautiful vampiric mask. Pain that we fear in real life has its place within fantasy play. Mental intensity can be experienced without all the fear and real trauma. Coping mechanisms can be triggered until the inner conflict is resolved.

So before you tell someone you will not illustrate for them, support them, or let them into your club because of the filth on their feet, be sure to wipe your own. As writers, we’re all groping in the dark for something we must have full range to explore. We’re trying to find what we need, to pull it out of ourselves, if we must. We can’t do that if we’re discouraged by criticism and exclusion from those who don’t understand and flinch from raw, honest emotion. Discovering what’s inside you, what works for you, isn’t always a pretty process to see. It’s full of immaturity and pitfalls, but writers must all walk down that path and it’d be a lot easier if we supported each other in the act of expressing our screaming souls, rather trying to shut up that unpleasant noise. Especially when those screams take the form of words, worlds, and creative ideas.

Rape in my fiction is how I’ve learned to take the hurt out of my own humiliation and put it somewhere else. This confines it to a reality where I control all the pain. It doesn’t control me. I need to be the master of that pain, manipulate it, dissect it, and put it back together any way that I want. This way, it doesn’t make me feel helpless and powerless ever again. It’s like facing a bully. What once terrified me, has become mine to command, to make dance like a puppet on strings for my entertainment.

Rape content in my work is well-matched against the trauma of failing so publicly and having to make sense of all that pain while taming it. I can’t speak for all writers, but the act of writing is much more than making up words to stimulate people and make them happy. Critics of rape content, or any other content one might not agree with, don’t seem to realize that it is not a writer’s duty to make sure their work pleases everyone. That’s ridiculous. And no writer should do anything that a reader is demanding. No writer ever made that promise to them, yet some readers feel entitled to dictate how writers must use their creativity. Writing comes from such a personal place, demands so much focus and mental endurance, that every writer has to write for themselves first and foremost. Pleasing one’s self is often the only thing that makes a project worth it, and the only thing that gets that project completed. If people don’t have sense enough to stop watching or reading what upsets them, that doesn’t mean a writer has to change who he or she is and write something nicer to make them feel better. It doesn’t work that way and it never will.

Fan Fiction

Waiting For You (Lord of the Rings fic)

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Summary:

The King makes a choice. Frodo is there for him.

Rated G, slash, M/M

*    *   *

King Elessar. Aragorn. You have called to me. But even as I draw near your bed, your eyes do not see me standing alongside your wife. Your breath rattles, and you do not feel me take your hand.

I see the Queen has not reconciled herself to your decision. She shall not, I’m certain. I want to calm the storm which pits her grace against your resolve, and leaves lovely fragments heaped upon your chest. Only when I lay my other hand upon her hair, its color reminding me of the Outer Darkness beyond this world, does she seem to calm. She appears to cherish the continued rise and fall of your chest.

I watch the light in your eyes spark and flicker, keen for a moment. It’s taken a number of days for your life to loosen its hold upon your body, to slip free, for you laid yourself down, strong and hail in the certainty of your choice. Majestic province lay down with you, in the autumn of your long life. Your wish is granted, to depart while your mind is whole, your valour steadfast, and your heart glad.

I left this world before you, dear King. And now I wait.

From my home across the sea, I laid myself down to sleep, on a day unrivaled in its beauty. I too was glad to go. I felt safe at last, and ready. Of all my friends, all my kin, and all that for which I am thankful, my parting vision was of you.

You, who lowered yourself to bended knee before me. You, who pledged your fate to me. You, who wielded your sword on my behalf. You vowed to keep me safe, and to follow me through any shadow. I soon lost my fear of the grave purpose, etched rough and deep, into your ranger’s face, and beheld a quality that would not let me look away. You served the good of All. Yet I succumbed to the lure that it was for me alone. And now that I am recalled to you, by the pull of your very own summons, tells me that I am not altogether wrong. I wait.

Your queen’s grief gives way to sleep, and only then do you turn your head slowly, to notice me. I watch as your vision adjusts to me. Your smile spreads behind the brown and gray of your beard, and your eyelids droop as if waking from a peaceful slumber. The Mannish features that once alarmed and fascinated me, are now handsome beyond compare.

“Frodo. You’ve come back.”

Your whisper is like the wind on the sea. It makes me smile.

“No Aragorn. I have not returned; it is you who have left. You walked with me through shadow. I come now, to do the least for you.”

You squeeze my hand, and I know that you are ready.

End

Fan Fiction

His Return (Lord of the Rings fic)

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Summary:

A future king, Ellessar, is too young to get what he wants. But he tries anyway. The year is 2947, Third Age. Aragorn is a mere sixteen.

Warning: G rated, slash, M/M

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Estel’s hands shook as he tied the knot, cursing himself for being so slow. He was not careless by nature, but the time he had wasted on polishing his leather wrapping to perfection, added an element of uncertainty to the success of his plans. And that was careless. He could not allow himself to get caught, not when everything seemed to be going as well as it was.

He tried not to let outside details distract him, but it was as if he had other senses to witness what was happening around him. Or maybe he just longed to be at the celebrations, and done with his whole confounded plan. After all, it had been two years, since last he relaxed in the company of his foster-brothers. Their return from errantry may be cause for the likes of a seasonal feast to their Elven-Kindred, but to Estel, it was more momentous than even that. He glanced from the window of his hiding place, a small storage room seldom visited by anyone.

He saw that a vaporous, blue glow saturated the evening air, creating a deep veil about Imladris’ serene stone terraces. Lanterns heralded the night with darting wisps of lights, and celebration caught on the wind. He could taste it. He had only to allow the aroma of roasting pheasant to heady his senses, or to sample the twinge of fermented fruit that laced the atmosphere, from unstopped bottles, long coveting flavors of sweet gratification. It was not an ordinary night at the Last Homely House.

Estel, however, did not regret his decision to forego the festivities. Deciding he could do no more for his parcel, he tucked it under his arm and crept from the room, out into the open dusk.

He tried to attract very little attention. At sixteen, growth had sped up his angular frame, but left his mind baffled to coordinate long arms and legs without feeling self-conscious. Humbled upon meeting the eyes of those Elves who nodded courtly to him, he kept his head down until he found himself standing in an alcove directly across from the door to Elladan’s chambers. He waited. After what seemed like a very long time, he watched the Elf he expected to see, exit from the room, pause rather oddly, then disappear down the walkway. Estel hurried forward.

As he had done twice now, the two previous nights before, he climbed the lattice structure on the south wall, adjacent to Elladan’s door, determined to get inside his foster-brother’s room. He could not risk his gifts being discovered by any other.

The structure was not meant to hold his weight, so he took advantage of footholds in the rock wall that supported it, and did his best not to damage the honey-suckle trained to grow there. He knew that Elladan loved honey-suckle, and his foster-brother knew how to gather its nectar in drinkable quantities; a Noldor trick passed down from their Grandmother Galadriel.

At the top of the lattice structure, he grabbed hold of one of the many spikes carved to appear as winding vines, and hoisted himself onto the balcony outside of Elladan’s room. Only thick curtains separated him from the most intimate of his brother’s dwellings now. He parted them, and stepped inside.

There, he met with darkness, and the smell of rosewood. A single lantern glowed from the recesses of the large room, allowing faint visibility for his human eyes to see around him. Elladan’s room was beautiful.

The landing where he stood, spanned several feet in front of him, and was laid with shimmering blue tiles. Banisters of polished oak wound around the platform. Steps descended into the bedroom. These gave way to woven carpet, of the same deep hue. A desk, backed with a façade of carved eagle wings, fastened to the north wall. The lure of a gaping and empty fireplace sparked disquiet in his heart. This sat across from a wide bed, so carefully strewn with dark, sheer curtains as to appear suspended from the ceiling by long, graceful columns of the material. The woolen coverlet upon it lay smooth and undisturbed.

Estel resisted the urge to drag his rough hand across its surface. He had not come to transgress, to that degree. But he had to wonder what a fire, and Elladan’s permission to be here, would be like after so long an absence.

The persistence of his purpose jolted him back to reality. His business here would be brief.

He made his way to the door and carefully slid the parcel in front of it. He stared at it, bracing himself to part with yet another fruit of long effort and anxious intent. But stepping away, his back met with a solid, unyielding bulk.

Of two minds, he wanted to bolt. But he was far too conscientious of the scars that would blight his manhood if he chose to do that. Still, the wall of bodily warmth behind him was as the threat of an arrow at his back. Its silence all but skewered Estel’s reasoning. A silent Elf, was usually an angry one. It was hard to tell.

“My young brother, what cause have you to steal into my chambers when you think I am away?”

There was an edge in Elladan’s voice, though his tone was low and steady. Estel tried to turn, to face him. Elladan caught his upper arm, suspending the confrontation. Estel had no choice but to direct his words to the door in front of him. “I saw…”

“What did you see, young Willow?”

“I saw you leave, for the feast.”

“Your eyes deceived you. You saw my brother, who waited here with me, until we were certain you would see him go.”

“I meant no harm. I wanted…”

“You wanted to leave yet another gift inside my door, without respecting my right to know its bearer. What notion of cowardice have you taken to in my absence, Estel?”

Him, a coward? Estel’s anger would not let him defend himself. And Elladan was hardly giving him a chance.

“Does this covetous scheme of yours exemplify my young brother’s education? I shall have to speak to father of his lax attention to your upbringing, I believe. No Imladran behaves so scandalously.”

That was not true, Estel wanted to counter. Imladris was a place filled with torrid intentions, veiled by grace. It was not his fault if he was no good at masking his mind. The very walls whispered ardent stories, if one stood still long enough to listen. His brother’s anger felt like bullying. Surely, anonymous gifting did not justify the force with which Elladan held him.

But Estel did not wish to seem insolent. He accepted, years ago, that his foster-brother was to be shown as much respect as he would show to Elrond, or something close to it. There had been times when the rules were relaxed, and his brothers played and wrestled with him the way cubs pawed at one another. But the hierarchy was not a thing to take lightly among Elves, for even Elrohir, Elladan’s minutely younger twin, was expected to defer to him as well in some matters.

For Estel, this was one of those times. “Please, say nothing to father. I’ve wronged no one, in leaving my gifts.”

He felt his arm released.

“You show great contempt for your Adar’s house, young warrior. If you have a gift for me, I would have you meet my eyes, and place it into my hands. Nothing less.”

Estel knew a challenge when he heard one. But doing what was requested, was not an easy thing. He bent to retrieve the parcel, and slowly turned, bringing his eyes up to those of Elladan’s. He was almost as tall as the other; a far cry from two years ago.

What the lantern revealed of his foster-brother’s unsmiling face, was enough to snuff out all hope of redemption for his intrusion. The absence had done nothing to weather Elladan’s strong, Noldor features. Yet for all the serene angles that greeted Estel, something hard peered back at him from behind an opaque, shielding gray stare.

Estel extended the parcel, finding no words to offer with them, and no point in trying. Clearly, he’d over-stepped his bounds with his foster-brother this time. He wished he’d listened to Gilraen’s warning. His mother’s words echoed through the past two years, her tone bitter.

‘I see the way you look at him, Estel. It is only natural, for you live among myths that walk and eat and sleep beside you, and you are so young, my son. You’ve come to love both of your foster-brothers so strongly, yet you have favor for the one. I see it. Elrond sees it. I say to you, be done with it now. Do not put your trust into such things.”

Elladan took the parcel, but made no effort to open it. “Estel. Among your kindred, there is a saying, ‘Be a man.’ It is to inspire Men to rise to the height of their lordship, their integrity. I ask no less of you, for you seem eager to mature, initiating this stealthy courtship upon my return. Yet you are reluctant to face the result of your actions, and I am reminded that you are still a boy, though your physical stature has changed greatly since last I saw you.”

Estel thought hard. After a moment of jaw-clinching focus, he realized that Elladan was asking him to explain his gift. Elves had a way with indirect language, when prompting another.

He found his voice, and drew himself up. “I only wanted to give you a welcome befitting your absence, my brother. One present did not seem enough.”

“So you made many while I was away, is that it?”

“I made a few. I-I couldn’t decide. Some weren’t very good…”

“I trust you have delivered the pick of your skill?”

“Y-yes.”

“The arrows are of prime reed? You’ve learned to straighten them over hot coals, have you?”

“Yes.”

“They were fletched with pine pitch. Who taught you that?”

“I remembered, it is the way you prefer your arrows. Adar showed me.”

“And the bow last night? For what cause did you use unseasoned wood?”

“I’m afraid I kept ruining the saplings I gathered to make the bow. Elrond suggested that even the green wood of an ash, if cured in the old ways, could be crafted into a fine weapon. It did not shape very easily, nor carve as precisely as I’d hoped, but if you have to put it to test, you will find it both strong and flexible. It was my hope to make it an ornament of display for you.”

Elladan folded his arms. “Ornaments are of no use when I’m slaying orcs, young willow. Why did you not bestow these gifts in person, when I arrived several days ago?”

“You were overrun by your fellows, and could not spare a moment for me, or my gifts. I thought to wait till all greetings were fulfilled, but could not.”

“Overrun? I sat down to feast across from you that evening. I questioned father as to your behavior, for you would not even look at me. How say you, that I had no time for you? Have you become so gluttonous in your need for attention that what I offer isn’t enough?”

It seemed to Estel that something more stern than any expression he’d ever seen on Elrond, regarded him in that moment. He detected sharp offense coming from his foster-brother, whose silence reared up and held fast.

Estel burned, ashamed, as he remembered how he could not stand to have Elladan’s full attention thrust upon him that first night of his return. Making the gifts had helped, and kept him focussed. But his human nature kept him ashamed, and even now he would have risked further disapproval from his brother, allowing his eyes to drop, if Elladan had not demanded that he hold his own.

Finally, Elladan’s eyes fell to the parcel, and he made no fuss of loosening the ties. The hide fell away. There inside, lay the last six weeks of Estel’s efforts at smith-craft. A short knife. He’d spent hours, side by side with Imladris’ smith-masters, apprenticed to devising this final gift. None of the other objects, no matter how successfully wrought, embodied the lasting solidity of what he’d felt for Elladan. Made of wood and stone, they did not exemplify the enduring worth and quality befitting his brother. So he continued making gifts, and coming up with ideas that were worthy of Elladan’s return.

Maybe the arrows had been childish. And maybe the bow had been clumsy. But the knife, surely the knife was worthy. Its handle was of a mold of Estel’s own design. The master smith, a gracious Elf, taught him to pour, and hammer the metal. Elrond had helped him draw out the Quenya letters for ‘Elf-Man’, Quenya Tengwar, in a way that fit the contour of the blade most gracefully. Together, they had studied drawings of Elven designs archived in the library.

Estel had practiced etching the letters into hardened clay, then stone, then bits of steel, before biting into the blade he had made with the Master smith. He’d wanted to perform every stage of creating it himself, which is what took him so long. Of course, the lettering had not shone clear and true, as if the Elves had done it. His lines, while painstakingly delicate here, and emboldened with an artistic flourish there, were still a little shaky. Still, the weapon spoke of its own worth. The weight of it in his hands had sounded his accomplishment. It was not a gift to be lost among the hordes of those who loved their princes. He would not risk its dismissal in all the excitement upon the twins’ arrival.

Now, Elladan studied the knife. He did not speak, and did not touch it.

Estel ached for their confrontation to end. He ached to be alone with his failure. When he could stand it no more, the request rasped from his drying throat, “May I go?”

Elladan’s mouth pinched at the corner, the first sign of any real emotion. But his face remained dark with annoyance. “Why are you so eager to run, young willow? You would set down your gifts, and slink away unnoticed, and not allow me the chance to make even. To match you? You are too old to remain ignorant in matters of giving, though far too young for me to tutor.”

Estel was not sure he understood. He watched as Elladan placed the knife on a small table concealed by the shadows, and turned back to him. Estel offered, “You don’t have to keep it, if you don’t like it.”

If Elladan gave the knife back to him, he was sure he would kill himself with it.

“Shall I tell you that I like it? Is that what you need to hear? Or will you be warrior enough to let me show you? You can hide behind your gifts only so long, like a child. But I expected, when I returned home, that I would find something more.”

“What do you ask of me?”

“Stand your ground, as a man, and accept what gratitude I have to give, though it may seem harsh. It does not consist of polite words, but it is what I have prepared for you.”

“I don’t und- ”

“I ask only that you do not run. This time.”

Elladan took him by each arm. Estel braced himself for some new ritual that required his utmost stamina. Something painful, no doubt. What Elven-rite had he chanced into? Should he be delighted to have found favor, or terrified?

Even when Elladan drew far too close for comfort, Estel forced himself to hold the Elf’s stare, unblinking. He ignored his own panic. A hot flush of sweat dampened him under his arms and down his chest. Elladan was close enough now that Estel could smell the scent of the open forest upon him; air and earth mingled with scented oil, like that of almonds, only heavier. Estel inhaled, and his head filled with an image of bright blue sky.

When Elladan was so close that his breath wafted into Estel’s nostrils, Estel could taste it. An inch more, and he stopped breathing altogether. Elladan leaned into him. Estel started, to feel the pressure of the Elf’s lips. At first no more than a nudge, a brush even. Then more decided, maintaining contact that grew insistent and moist. Calmly, Estel opened his mouth, and accepted.

When it was over, Estel was not quite certain that it was. Long after Elladan had pulled away, Estel felt as if he were still kissing him. How long he stood in front of the door, with his mind vaguely registering Elladan stepping away, he did not know. By the time he returned to feel the solidness of the room around him, a fire had been drawn in the hearth, and Elladan was turning to him, poking at the new embers glowing there.

“Estel. You must return to your own quarters now. I have shown you what I think of your gifts, and your attention to my absence these past two summers.”

Estel could not move his feet. His foster-brother seemed to take this as a rebuff to his dismissal. His tone was now gentle. “You are meant for great things, Estel. I would not have you go forth into manhood without knowing the worth of your actions. And of your gifts. It is not lawful for me to show you anymore than that, my young willow.”

Though his feet drug along the floor as if laden with river stones, Estel managed to back into the door. He was unable to take his eyes off of the Elf in front of the fire. A sad Elf, it seemed to him, whose profile shone before the firelight, and whose eyes glistened. Those eyes released him, and returned to their rapport with the burning logs.

Outside, in the blue of night, Estel brought his hand up to his mouth. He still felt the pressure, on his lips. His feet, he later surmised, remembered the way to his quarters, for his mind did not.

End

Fan Fiction

Looking for Casey (The Faculty fic)

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Summary:
Two survivors adjust to change.

Warning: G rated, slash/M/M

* * *

The Cumberland forest stared back at Zeke, winter white and concealing what he wanted most in its blue shadows.

He yelled, “Casey, where the hell are you? I said I’m sorry!”

Not sorry enough, his numbing ears and fingers suggested. His arm was still bleeding from the fall. Who knew a frozen stick could act just like a knife if you fell on it the right way? Now his sleeve was freezing to his skin.

Looking back down the path, the cabin was hidden from view. That made him nervous, but not nearly as nervous as knowing he had driven Casey out into the cold. Why did he keep forgetting how sensitive the guy was? Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut or at least remember that Casey wasn’t like other people? The guy was worth taking the time to be gentle with. Zeke had no idea why, there was just something there, something not present in your average asshole.

Zeke was proud of his ability to tell anyone to go the fuck on, but when it came to Casey, especially after the whole school-aliens bullshit, something in him stopped short and respected what he saw in the guy.

Frosted icicles glistened over his head. Listening for Casey’s crunch in the snow, he heard only the thud of melting ice tapping down from skeletal branches. “Why can’t I find you?” he asked, shivering, through a cloud of breath.

It was eerie, the way Casey could stay out here, hidden for hours. But there were a lot of changes in Casey; all of them could be described the same way. Eerie, that he’d gone all quiet since the aliens. Eerie, that his one assertive gesture, when the town had calmed down, was reaching out to Zeke. Survivor to survivor. From the phone call out of the blue, ‘I could use a friend, Zeke. You could too,’ to the kiss just hours ago.

All warm and comfortable in the rented cabin, they had more room than they could possibly use; three stories of beautiful oak, four bedrooms, a family room, game room with a pool table and a huge fire place, all to themselves. The kiss, shocking but not entirely unexpected, had come after Zeke’s specialty; sausage omelets and hash browns. A lazy noonday breakfast, the best kind.

They hadn’t driven up to the mountains for anything more than healthy isolation, now that their lives had taken on some normalcy again. They even had the blessing of Casey’s father, a man not too charitable with his friendliness. They had entered the cabin as friends last night, but somewhere between Casey’s first fit of morning laughter (at Zeke catching the dish towel on fire) and Zeke leaping over the coffee table to corner him against the wall, they could never be simple friends again.

It was eerie the way Casey could complicate things like that. Eerie, how he felt so easy and natural in Zeke’s arms. Like more than a flesh and blood person does, warmer, deeper. Something to be entered and enveloped by, the rest of the world be damned. How could one little guy have such a fucking gravitational pull?

Then Zeke had done it. All juiced by Casey pinned against him, Casey’s saliva on his tongue, and caught in the blistering innocence looking back at him, he let it slip, “Damn, you’re scary.”

A mistake. Casey’s smile melted and something fell behind his eyes. “You think so?” He let go of Zeke’s waist and slipped free.

It was too late to take it back. Whimsical words to anyone else, Zeke should’ve known what they’d do to Casey.

“Hey, Case. I didn’t mean it like that.”

The temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees when Casey pulled on his coat and gloves. “You’re honest, Zeke. That’s what I like about you.”

“Man, don’t be like this. Things are going good, for once.”

Casey shook his head. “I’ve always been something of an alien to you, Zeke, I know. I don’t mind. But now that I’m infected… Now that I’m becoming something I’m not sure of – ”

“Don’t start that shit. None of us were infected with anything! You survived just fine, just like I did.”

Casey opened the door, letting the snow-reflected sun hit full on his face. He smiled, “Keep telling yourself that. If it makes it easier to be with me. But I feel the changes.”

“Don’t you dare go out that door.”

“I just need a walk.” He slipped out.

That was almost three hours ago. The danger of the cold was becoming real to Zeke. He’d gone after Casey right away and still hadn’t found him. His throat was hoarse from yelling. He’d turn around and go back, but he couldn’t trust Casey to return to comfort like a normal person. That was the danger of Casey Conner, and probably what had saved their lives; Casey’s strange capacity to suffer beyond necessity. The little guy was strong that way, like some fucking martyr.

Zeke was damn sure he wasn’t going back down the mountain with a dead body. “Dammit Casey, you’re ruining this!” In the quiet following his curse, he heard, “I don’t mean to.”

Soft, but clear to his left. Zeke’s confused eyes skipped across the snowy ground. There through the trees, sitting by the thinnest frozen stream, was Casey. Not as blue as Zeke would’ve thought but not too far from being snow-colored either. He approached cautiously. “Casey, please. I can’t take much more of this. Whatever’s wrong, we can work it out inside. Be as mad at me as you want. Inside.”

A weird smile played at Casey’s lips. Weird because his face, stoical in his lengthy exposure, took on the cast of a statue. But warmth filled his voice and Zeke noticed that he wasn’t even shivering. That wasn’t a good sign.

“Give me your arm. I know you’re hurt.”

“Casey, dammit.”

“I’m not leaving until you give me your arm.”

Well, damn. What choice did he have? He thrust his arm out. Casey took off his gloves and bent forward, gathering snow. He felt along Zeke’s sleeve, placing one slender hand, packed with snow, inside. Shocked, Zeke hissed. “Fuck, Casey!”

Zeke squirmed, more concerned that Casey would get blood on him than anything else. Then a pool of heat seemed to race to the wound, followed by a moment of searing, uncontrollable itching. Casey had to grab Zeke’s other hand to keep him from scratching. “Don’t.”

Confused, Zeke stared into the depths of Casey’s pupils. Locked in silent confrontation, they remained this way, leaving Zeke to wonder at the mysteries suggested within Casey’s closed expression.

“What are you doing?”

The itching stopped. Only the exquisite stroke of Casey’s fingers remained. Without answering, Casey let him go. In a flash, Zeke whipped his jacket sleeve up. There, where the stick had broken his skin, only a light scar remained.

“What the fuck?”

Casey stood. “You’re right. It’s cold. I’m ready to go back now.”

“What did you just do?”

A shrug. “Water is special, Zeke. We don’t know how lucky we are to have it, to be made of it. Before the change, I didn’t know how special it was.”

His stare was far away, looking past Zeke, but his focus returned. “I don’t mind scary. I can be scary, but I need to know if you can handle it. If I’m alone then I’m alone. But if you’re with me, I need to know.”

Zeke rubbed his arm, not taking his eyes off Casey. What in the world had Casey been keeping from him? What had he undergone that the rest of them hadn’t?

He placed one hand to Casey’s cheek, a gesture he could not have accomplished with a straight face before now. “We’re going back. I’m with you, Casey. We’re going back to the cabin and you’re going to tell me everything that happened. Everything that you didn’t tell the police. Promise?”

Casey nodded, slipping his hand into the warmth of Zeke’s. They started back down the path.

The End

Fan Fiction

Ender’s Home (Ender’s Game Fan Fic)

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Summary:
Seventeen year-old Ender is sent home after Commander School, and after his promotion to Admiral. Valentine and Peter are starting families of their own and Ender wonders where he fits in. Non canon.

Warning: Rated R, slash, M/M
Disclaimer: I made it all up. Orson Scott-Card is the real genius.

Notes:
A Chinese translation now exists of this story, thanks to one very gracious, LazyBones, found here: http://justbelittle.lofter.com/post/e3e45_fb9d2b

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

* * *

From the attic window, he watched for Valentine’s Car. His personal console, a membrane-thin band around his wrist, kept him informed of her car’s distance, her vital signature, and that of her unborn child’s, as well as constants and fluctuations in various security checks around him. A third signature told him that Peter had agreed to come along.

How do you free yourself from a prison that has no walls, he wondered?

Your fear and guilt are your walls, answered the Hive Queen. Her voice comforted him.

He’d bought the house. A destroyer of planets at twelve. A home-owner at seventeen. He didn’t want to buy it. He had to. It was his only reference point to a life taken away from him. Now that he was back on Earth, it gave him a connection to a fixed point. It was the house he left his family behind in. It needed a lot of work. While still trying to survive becoming known to the world, it gave him refuge. Aside from being a huge restoration project, it gave him a way to return to his family, even if they were no longer in it. He had to start somewhere. Moving back in with his parents just didn’t feel right. They didn’t know each other anymore.

He’d spent all week fine-tuning the surveillance himself. Under the watchful eyes of FPE guards, he trekked the acreage around his house to make sure all sensors and vid feeds synchronized accurately, displaying real-time information that linked to his personal console. He didn’t trust anyone else to be as thorough. He hoped to be able to get rid of the security guards provided to him, by convincing them he was self-sufficient enough. If anyone was determined to harm him, his court-ordered return to Earth gave them that opportunity. He wasn’t going to waste his life worrying about fighting for it each day. No, put a practical defense in place and deal with what you wake up to everyday. The only real defense is facing what can’t be planned for. That’s what he knew from Battle School. That’s what it came down to.

His neighbors watched him. It took federation clearance just to turn onto his street. Each surrounding resident was mapped of its inhabitants, screened, and assigned an identifier that let them go on with their lives without being questioned, as long as they steered clear of Ender’s property. Outrage over this made its rounds in the media but no one knocked on Ender’s door to complain personally. Some families were close enough to wave from their porches. Ender waved back, a million calculations allowing him to simulate warmth and familiarity in the gesture, which appeared in the news, in real-time. Uncomfortable, but necessary. They must not feel his presence a threat, burdening their quiet, ordinary neighborhood with his fame on the political world-stage. They should not be subjected to his demons.

Living here for now, the only way he knew to protect anyone from those scrutinizing him, was to act normal. Acknowledge what he’d done, what it cost everyone, then proceed to make the only choices a practical man can make; food, shelter, purpose. Give basic life a chance. He knew his life would never be normal and he didn’t plan on it, but he knew he had to survive all the attention. Hold his ground and see if anything was worth surviving his crime. A crime he was born and bred to commit. Well, that was his and enough people were talking about it that he didn’t have to. Talking wasn’t going to bring the Formics back.

We are here. We are strong and waiting, the Queen whispered into his mind.

He had to believe, without any evidence, that if they tried to keep him here, and he wanted to go, that he could get back to the stars with the help of the Hive Queen. He had resources. She had knowledge. It was still amazing to him that he could feel her communicating with him, like she was a part of him. In destroying the bodies of her species, he had given her his body. An inadequate offering, until he could find a way for her world to thrive again. For now, he would give life here a chance.

Ender listened, pausing from assessing water damage that made it necessary to replace part of the roof and one wall. Otherwise, original oak floorboards were in perfect condition. They shined when he got the dust off of them. A seed of pride dared to sprout at his efforts. Work done with his hands, not his genius. He remembered building the raft at Colonel Graff’s and looked forward to what restoring the house could teach him.

A beep sounded, letting him catch Valentine’s car as it entered his long driveway. Instead of rushing down to meet her, his voice triggered her car’s transport console.

“Welcome, Val. You guys are coded in. I’m on my way down from the attic.”

“What the hell are you doing in the attic?”

Peter’s chuckle, behind Valentine’s question, was unmistakable.

“You’ll see. It’s peaceful up here.”

He expected, ‘That’s rich, coming from you.’ But Peter never said a word. Good. They weren’t children anymore and he didn’t need that shit. He did, however, need to find out if this family still wanted him. Forget Locke and Demosthenes. He had to know if there were still real people behind those roles. Peter and Valentine had always needed to upgrade the challenges of their games. Simplicity was not encoded into their DNA. It was no surprise to Ender to learn what his brother and sister were up to and how invested in him they had been. Yes, it pissed him off that they conspired together. But they only played the cards they had, just as he did, and managed to build formidable lives for themselves. They had to come out somewhere in this mess. And he had to face them, these strangers who looked like the people he once loved.

Did you ever love Peter?

Ender ignored the Hive Queen as he jogged from the attic. He registered the cleanliness and sparse furnishings of his new home. It met with his approval. The house was mostly empty, but bright and spacious. He wasn’t used to having so much room, he didn’t quite know what to do with it. The only lived-in part of the house was the kitchen, where dinner waited over warmers and a table sat by floor-to-ceiling windows, displaying a view of the backyard. A frosty noon sun tinted Ender’s plans to welcome Val and Peter into his home. Their home.

This was only his third time meeting them since his arrival on Earth. The first two, few and far between, took place amid hundreds of press cameras, bodyguards, and military personal. Today, the plan was to steal some time for themselves before heading out to their parents and facing that reunion. Sibling recognition was enough between them. Valentine and Peter were removing their coats when Ender swept to his sister’s side and took hers. In turn, she hugged him a minute longer than necessary, making her point.

“You’re so skinny, Ender. It’s not healthy.”

Peter waited patiently, catching Ender’s eye and pretending to put his finger down his throat. “Just because you have a great excuse to eat, doesn’t mean we all do,” he told her. “She’s a blimp. If she gains anymore weight, we’re entering her into a next month’s IFP parade.” Not an ounce of regret in Peter’s statement. “The correct ratio is one to four pounds during the first twelve weeks. As usual, Val, you’re screwing it up.”

Valentine’s petite figure and flat stomach were the only clues that Peter was kidding.

“Too bad I can’t turn this whole pregnancy project over to your control, Peter. A male pregnancy would surely augment your plans for world domination.”

“I would birth only the smartest and the brightest. Oh, I’m sorry, that’s already been done. Hello, Ender, I didn’t see you standing there.”

Valentine noted her brothers’ cool smiles. They didn’t hug, nor did she expect them to. She gave them credit for letting the awkwardness be what it was. Peter offered his hand. Ender took it. Later, she would replay the scene and wonder if she hadn’t really seen Peter offering equality and Ender, a light of hope in his eyes, falling for it. Ender’s absence taught her that he could take care of himself. But his return taught her that she would always be watching out for her baby brother. She was a mother the minute he was born.

At the table, Ender’s console signaled his attention. A weather forecast issued storm activity, a system moving quickly from the north. He, Peter, and Valentine all listened to the updates as they ate sweet crab portions wrapped in bacon. The food was Ender’s treat to them and something of a treat to himself. An average meal for him consisted of rations he kept stocked. Standard issue foodstuffs kept his time efficient and uncluttered with trivial choices. He gave his wardrobe the same treatment, possessing dozens of the same T-shirts and pants to keep himself from having to think of civilian clothing. He did what he could to maintain his Command School standards.

After an hour, polite conversation thawed to something more genuine. Valentine let her brothers grill her over her choice to become a wife and mother.

“It’s your right,” Peter insisted. “I just didn’t expect you to leap to it, after all the dysfunction in our family.”

“We didn’t do so bad. It was hard, but we’re here. And Peter, you’ll be married soon. I can’t wait for Ender to meet her. What persuaded you to give family another chance?”

“We all grew up, that’s what. The end. Too bad life is not as tidy as all that.”

“Then why have a wife?”

“She’s a constant I can always turn to. Same as you with your husband. Yay, the geniuses, we made it to adulthood without bringing Armageddon upon ourselves.”

Both looked at Ender, realizing Peter’s mistake. “Ok, maybe Ender brought Armageddon to the buggers, but it makes me grateful for what’s left. What’s normal. There is nothing more intrinsic to life as we know it than a baby. A family. It’s worth all the pain. And this family knows a fucking thing about pain.”

No one wanted to tread on Peter’s platform. He went quiet before turning to Ender. “Look at her. She’s carrying a baby. And a genius, no doubt. You’d think she’d learned her lesson. Because she, and other women can do that, humanity continues to get another chance. That makes me very glad. I was a shitty brother and I can’t go back but my genes can go forward. All of our potential will go forward in our kids. I’m proud of Valentine. She’s beautiful and she’s going to be huge.”

Neither Valentine nor Ender knew if Peter was serious.

“I guess I’m trying to tell you both that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for putting you through hell.”

***

Falling temperatures froze their plans.

“Let’s wait the storm out here, ” Ender advised. “We’ll go to Mom and Dad’s tomorrow.”

Valentine grimaced. “If we leave now, we can make it. It’s not expected to hit here until six. That gives us a good window.”

“No, Val. I won’t have you on the road in this. If those excuses for meteorologists didn’t see this coming, they don’t know what it’s going to do when it gets here. We’ll stay put. We’ll build a campfire and reminisce about the childhood that never was. Admiral Ender can tell us how he got all those medals.”

They ended up bundling up and stepping out onto the white, alien terrain of their old backyard. Now snow-covered. Memories came, but not happy ones. Each wanted to enjoy this second chance at being siblings, at making peace. But Valentine was the first to cast away her ideologies in favor of having warm hands and feet. “I didn’t bring the right shoes. Sorry guys, you’re on your own. It’s beautiful, Ender, but way too cold.”

Peter insisted on walking her back to the house, as Ender’s property sprawled farther than they realized. “What’d you do, buy the whole division?”

“I just needed. . . space.”

“I’ll bet. Hang on, I’ll be back. We need to talk alone.”

Ender watched as Peter helped Valentine. Her small feet were obviously too cold to give her purchase in the snow. She kept stumbling. As soon as Peter got her through the back door, he bounded back to Ender. “She’s so fucking delicate, I love her. Now that she’s a mother, she’s going to be even more dangerous than ever. Better not let her catch me doing this.” He let loose a hard ball of snow, which exploded on the bridge of Ender’s nose.

Stunned and blinded, data leapt into movement as Ender tried to determine if this was real or play. His brother’s laughter echoed. “C’mon, Admiral. Show me what ‘cha got. I didn’t come all this way for polite conversation.”

Ender made no move to retaliate. He had to be sure of Peter’s intentions. Another burst of frozen ammunition, packed for optimum force, confirmed his suspicion. Peter wanted an old-fashioned snowball fight. Ender hadn’t even seen snow in almost three years. He took a beating before he got the hang of packing a ball tight enough and fast enough to send Peter running. He watched Peter’s handiwork and improved upon it. Soon, it was Peter spitting out snow and picking himself off the ground. “We’re too old for this shit, Ender. Good job, though.”

Finally, Peter won a smile from Ender and the offer of his hand. Sunlight was quickly leaving them, replacing the splendor of gold with blue shadows.

“Ender, you’re a man of few words.” He pulled himself up. In using Ender’s support, he thrilled at what he found in the face staring back at him and the strength holding onto him. His little brother looked amazing. It wasn’t just the attractiveness. Ender had always been a beautiful child. That used to make Peter angry. It was the oddness, the miracle that Ender was seventeen, a decorated war hero, and in the midst of all that, a young man who was still quite innocent. That was a rare thing. That was a valuable thing. To Peter, that was an irresistible thing. He had always needed to make smaller things suffer, to make innocent things give him their power. Now, the great boy wonder stood over him. Peter wasn’t angry when he shoved Ender away. He was excited. Excited to see Ender’s smile dissolve into confusion.

“Look at you. You’re the prettiest goddamn war hero I’ve ever seen.”

Ender’s awareness switched to high alert. What Peter did as a child could be nothing compared to what he could do as a man. Ender’s expression closed, casting Peter from it.

“Ender, I really am sorry for what I did. I was a kid. But you know me. You know, I’ll always want you to wear the mask. That’s the game and you understand the game better than anybody. I should get credit for making you that smart. For giving you the anger to defeat the Formics. Remember when I used to hold you down?”

“We should go now.”

“Remember how you’d cry?”

“I never cried.”

“Hey, do you think you’re finally stronger than me?”

Familiar surge of adrenaline bled warmly through Ender’s body. If Peter were anyone else, he’d shut him up by now. But Peter was the one person who remained looming and larger than life in Ender’s mind. Ender’s fists hesitated a bit too long. He feared being trapped in Peter’s net.

“Whoa, calm down, soldier. We’re not going to fight. Ender, man, I’m not going to hit you.”

“Then let’s go.”

Peter gestured for Ender to lead the way. As soon as Ender started, Peter’s arm shot around his chest, pulling Ender’s back against him. Ender’s ability to free himself thrilled Peter, giving him license to pin his brother against him a second time. Before Ender could maneuver any damaging footwork, Peter slung him, chest-first, into a tree. “Calm down. You might be a hero, but you’re still a boy. Stronger than you were, but not as strong as me.”

“Get off me.”

“I will, I just want you to understand something.”

Ender would see where the bark scratched and cut his face and chest much later. He would feel the strained ligament in his shoulder, from the way Peter hooked both his arms behind him, for weeks to come. And he would remember the way Peter ground all his weight against him, unable to mistake Peter’s erection for anything else.

“You win. I don’t want to play this game.”

“Just one last time, Ender. God, I missed you. Only you know what the game is really about.”

Peter’s breath against his neck reminded him how cold it really was. He wasn’t going to let this happen. He strained to lift his chest off the tree, biting down on a groan as Peter’s hands fumbled with his pants.

“Wear the mask for me, Ender. You always wore the fucking mask! They took you away and you were the only one who knew what I needed.”

Ender never stopped fighting. Even when Peter’s touch pushed him into silence. Even when his shoulder threatened to dislocate. Peter exposed him, kneading and demanding something Ender didn’t know how to give. No amount of twisting from Peter’s efforts worked to free him. Ender dared not speak, dared not reveal his distress in a voice that cracked. And even though Peter remained clothed, it didn’t stop him from using and taking what he could against Ender. Clothing seemed to serve Peter’s antagonistic streak more, maddening his pressure against him. In the uncomfortable cold, there was not enough friction, not enough warmth to do the damage Peter wanted to do. For that, he made Ender pay. It wasn’t Peter who convulsed, bent in paralyzing cramps that sent streams from his body. Liquid humiliation took Ender’s strength, tearing a ragged growl from somewhere dark and hot inside of him. Something he’d never met in himself. Never had he hated Peter more than right then, trapped in his hand. Trapped in his power.

That was the game. That had always been the game. Only now, there was no hiding behind the mask. There was no pretending that Peter wasn’t fucking him through their clothing. Wasn’t on top of him riding him with as much friction as he could get. Strangulation was just a show, just a ploy to maintain dignity. Say anything, and I’ll kill you. That’s what Peter’s hands around his neck meant. God, why did he move back into this house! What was he hoping to salvage? His fucked up childhood?

Peter’s thrusts made him ever aware of his gratification. They ended with increased sharpness, and Ender knew as Peter trembled against him that he’d finished. Peter didn’t release him. He waited, covering Ender’s neck and face with kisses and words of comfort so fragile that Ender could hardly believe he was speaking them.

“I know you hate me. I know I made your life hell, but I need this. God, Ender, forgive me for needing the power you give me.”

Ender wrestled free from Peter’s arms. Muscles cramped and he struggled to fix his clothes. He couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers but wouldn’t allow Peter to zip him. Peter kept a few feet between them as Ender stumbled toward the house, rushing forward only when Ender sank to his knees. As Peter watched him crying, he vowed never to laugh at his brother’s tears ever again. They’d taken Ender away from him. That hadn’t been fair to him anymore than it was fair to Ender. Cruel games. How else could brothers show what they meant to each other? Gifts don’t cut it. Words don’t mean anything. They can’t be felt the way Ender, straining beneath him, can be felt. Only touch, painful or powerful, mean something in their world.

When Ender was ready, Peter supported him back to the house. Valentine, on the console with her husband, hung up when she saw them climbing the stairs. “What the hell?”

“Forgot what winters are like out here. Afraid we stayed out a bit too long.”

“Ender? Are you okay?”

She knew Peter was lying. It took more than cold to wrench that much heat and emotion from Ender’s face. His trademark silence held firm, until he swallowed and his watery eyes brought her into focus. “I’m okay. Stop worrying about me, Valentine.”
Something in his voice made her follow them upstairs. She stopped short of entering the bathroom where Peter started the shower. The last she saw of Ender, before Peter closed the door, was his fingers trying numbly to undo the top button of his shirt. They trembled.

* * *

Notes:

When a fan decides to use an author’s characters, that is simply a reader wishing to prolong what the writer has given to them and is a tremendous compliment to the original author. Yes, a lot can go wrong concerning tastes, talent, and sheer outrage. But for my part, Ender’s Game, the movie and novel connected me to an intense young man already entrenched in a very adult world and already tragically affected by sibling rivalry and unfair expectations. Even criminal expectations, which the abuse in this story represents. I simply embellished the hints already provided by Mr. Card himself. And I hope I don’t cause offense to the author or anyone else.

The book provides wonderful, economical, genius story-telling. How did Mr. Card say so much by saying so little in the way of description? But even better, the movie provides the warmth of visual character connection and emotion. I could not access what was going on in the book until the movie broke through certain barriers and into my emotional awareness, thanks to a great script and an extremely talented Asa Butterfield. Now Ender Wiggins, considerably older, is with me forever and no matter how I feel about Mr. Card’s personal beliefs, I will always be thanking him for this wonderfully complex character.

Authors stimulate minds. Minds are at different levels. Once stimulated, the extent of neural movement and journey cannot be limited to what the author wishes would happen in the minds of their readers. I could’ve done more with the fact that Mr. Card himself, imagined and allowed Alai to kiss Ender, and wrote of it as forbidden. He probably was not intending anything contrary to his values, but why put that out there? Because creativity knows its own order, that’s why. We all know that an author owns their characters and has every right to them. But the author doesn’t own the reader-experience and the urges that compel the reader to want the character to continue. I only hope that true authors will be able to forgive what seems like an injustice. It isn’t meant to be. Mr. Card has indicated that he has forgiven fans, which helps break down the psychological barriers and makes his work accessible to even more people.

I hope that someone stumbles across this story and goes looking for the book and movie that got the ball rolling. I’ve done that with other fan-fics and find that author-fan offsprings are wonderfully Creative Ecosystems that keep the thrill of writing, inspiring, and reading going generation after generation. The work will always be alive to spark interest-input and inspiration-output in someone who has never heard of it. Considering that over 200,000 people are estimated to be born a minute, the act of first-time discovery that happens to all of us, and the possibilities of how creative energy is being used and woven from mind to mind, is too amazing to put into words. I’m just glad that I’m in a position to see and appreciate the talent and writing to the extent that I do. May others partake of this mental feast as well.

Fan Fiction

Big Deal (An Asa Butterfield RPS fic)

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Summary:
Asa personifies young genius, but he’s learning that every film has a breaking point, a point that makes him want to turn back from his commitment. Each new project brings a new challenge and an even greater breaking point. He hasn’t backed down yet, but when he’s asked to play a difficult role, all the professionalism in the world won’t help him fake the part.

Warning: Rated R, slash oriented

Disclaimer:
I do not know anything about the real Asa Butterfield and have no connection with him. I made it all up and hope he’s okay with it. This piece is still a rough draft, not finalized. I’m testing the waters. The social/political issues in this story are only used as props to tell a story, not to raise awareness or stir up any trouble. This scene wanted out, so I let it. I’m lifting Asa up, in the slashiest way I can and still show respect.

                                                      *     *      *

Asa thinks Marshal is looking at him, but Marshal isn’t. Marshal is looking at the sun, all orange and glowing on the inside of the plane. It turns the cabin’s beige paneling into brilliant morning illumination. It turns all the passengers’ skin into memories of shinny golden things he used to hold up to the sun as a child, Frisbees, Mickey Mouse sippy straws, broken colored glass. The sun makes everything beautiful, even dirt. Humans are hard-wired to light up when the sun hits their pupils. No point in letting Asa take credit for it.

That’s why he stares at Asa, who’s currently hogging up all the sun in his white T-shirt. His undershirt. Asa’s shirt is the brightest thing in their cabin, which is cramped with eight people. So bright, Marshall has to squint, but he can’t stop staring at the cotton threads of light-play. The shirt looks clean and soft.

“What the hell are you staring at?”

Asa, apparently, wasn’t really asleep.

“Does it bother you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then control your own staring. There’s no way for you to know I’m staring unless you’re just as guilty of the same thing.”

Eyes rolled, accompanied by a thin smile. “Asshole.”

Score. He wasn’t going to give Asa credit for the sun’s work. Anyone could look like that in the sun. Asa is just a kid in a maturing body. Besides, he has no idea what he’s got. Marshal didn’t want to scare him. It’s just that he’s perfect for the script but he’s not ready for it. No point in not speaking. No point in acting like nothing happened at Olive’s little New Year’s party last night. One thing he liked about working with this director, she believes in her script. She believes in her actors. Presently, she slept under a blanket beside him. Their seats faced away from the sunrays the other passengers were enjoying. She’d given Asa all the time he needed to get around his problem, short of offering therapy. Marshal was impressed with that.

They shot around Asa’s problem scene, against studio wishes. When it came time again, and he still couldn’t do it, it was Olive’s idea to fly her little camp of actors to her Montana home. Heather Keasley, the female lead, slept beside Asa. Olives twelve modest acres of mountain views could inspire anyone to open up and talk. That was her therapy. And it fucking worked.

Olive is not a spontaneous woman, so you could tell she’d put some thought into what she would do if she came up against Asa’s little problem again. She’d make him comfortable, get him to trust her, put together a presentation of other actors who overcame similar challenges, feed everyone, and discuss the historical ramifications of a star like Asa having the guts to do what she’s asking him to do.

At one point, after gaming in her den, we sat on the floor and she took his hand, “I would be willing to start a campaign against homophobia. Anyone can dump ice water over themselves, but it takes real balls for a straight leading man with a rock-solid image to uphold, to kiss another man, on camera. Sure, it’s been done, but not without the fear that surrounds the threat to one’s image. People are still afraid to be gay, for god’s sake. I’d like to see straight people all across the world, sacrificing their reputations, to free the world of its homophobia. Can you imagine, viral videos of your favorite straight, same-sex actors kissing?”

We only turned the TV on to watch the ball drop and wish each other a happy new year, in sync with the rest of the Mountain Time Zone. Like all of us, Asa listened to Olive politely and watched her put away two bottles of wine, without yawning. The rest of us, our bodies on global time zones, drank fruit smoothies out of martini glasses. The script was her baby. Olive, short for Olivia Ofrahasa, is a small, delicately framed woman of Armenian descent. She made independent films with her twin brother until his death in 2002. She only tells us that it was a hate crime that took his life and she has vowed to use her work to remove all hatred from the association of being gay.

“I want people to care when someone looks down their nose at gays. Not laugh and shrug it off just because they themselves are not like that. I want people to see that it starts with the attitudes of straight people. And this is why you are my prize, Asa. Studios want to protect their investment as they escort you to leading roles that inflate public perception. New generations are noticing you, both older and young. You have the power to persuade honesty and compassion from your fans.”

Asa shrugged, shaking his head. “That’s way too much pressure. I just want to act and be myself.”

High pitched giggles spilled from Heather Keasley. “That’s a contradiction. Sorry, go on.”

Asa’s head tilted. “I know it is, but I want to do this film. I just don’t like this scene. And that’s a contradiction too. But so what, you can’t expect me to be perfect. None of you are. I think if we don’t make such a big deal out of it, I’ll get through it fine.”

Heather stretched her green stockinged legs and pointed to Asa with her smoothie, “We tried not to make a big deal out of it. We filmed around it. Now it’s time to look at it for what it is, a big-ass deal. Which is exactly why I want to do this film. It addresses that. Your difficulty addresses that.” She wiggled her toes, which looked oddly muscular in her hosiery.

Marshal felt sorry for the kid, but he wasn’t going to save him. You can’t save someone from the stress that will eventually teach him. What he needs to know about his career choice is exactly what gets him up and headed for the kitchen. Asa makes an excuse about getting water. Olive’s made it clear we’re to help ourselves.

Both ladies look at me expectantly. “Go check on him.” Like Marshal’s the one who ran him out.

“He’s not a baby. He can handle it.”

They grimace. Now he’s the bad guy.

Marshal gives Asa a couple of minutes before going to check on him. When he enters the kitchen, Asa doesn’t look up. He stands at Olive’s stainless steel cooking range, which is an ugly bricked island in the middle of the kitchen, and waits for Marshal to walk by. Marshal heads for the sink. He dumps his smoothie in favor of water. As he fills his glass, he prays that Asa will get it off his chest. When he turns around, Asa is standing right in front of him. “Okay. Do it.”

Marshal doesn’t even have room between them to lift his glass. Asa is practically shaking, fingers twitching. He’s so tall and out of sync with his skinny, angular frame that it makes him look even younger and more awkward. Marshal is certain that when he catches up to maturity, he’s going to make someone very happy. But he loves it, and decides to have fun with him.

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

“You know, man. The scene. Just do it before I back down. Get me past it.”

“Um, what are you saying?”

“Those fucking bitches! I am not homophobic. Just because I don’t want to kiss a guy doesn’t mean I’m that way. It just means that I am naturally not inclined to kissing guys. I’m no more homophobic than gay guys are heterophobic, if that’s a word.”

A white line of tension formed above his mouth. Marshal pressed his glass against Asa’s shirt, coaxing him to take a step back.

“I hear ya, calm down.”

“This is not cool, bringing me here to guilt me into doing what I already agreed to do. I’m sorry if it’s not going as well as I wanted. I don’t know what else I can say.”

“Chill. Calm the fuck down. You don’t have to say anything. Olive doesn’t mean any harm. She thinks she’s helping you.”

“God, this is stupid. It’s not a big deal, it’s really not and I need you to prove that with me.”

“You don’t have to prove anything. If you don’t want to do the scene, just have the balls to tell her.”

He shook his head. “No, that would prove I’m homophobic, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, yeah. But if that’s who you are…”

“Bullshit! You’re wrong.”

“Look, answer me this, are you my friend?”

“Of course we’re friends.”

“You can’t call me wrong and say you’re my friend at the same time.”

“Yes, I can. You’re wrong and I like you anyway.”

“Then why are you shaking at the idea of kissing me? You’re so uncomfortable at the idea. It’s that instinct to back away, that this script is fighting. If you don’t want to be in this fight, you shouldn’t do this movie. This is not a joke, this is my life and deep down you loathe what it means to be gay. I need you to admit that.”

“All because I don’t want to kiss you?”

“Trust me, I don’t want to kiss you either, but you did something tonight that pissed me off. You’ve bashed Heather as a total bitch since we started filming. The ball drops, her date is no where to be found, and when she begs you to play nice and kiss her for a New Year’s selfie, you do ’cause you’re a nice guy. Well, let me ask you, if a guy wanted that same kindness, could you do him the favor? Could you not let it be a big deal and just dive right in? I refuse to believe that it is the mere fact of how tissue is formed between her legs, that makes it possible for you to put your lips to hers, even though you loathe her. But you like me, yet the thought of putting your lips to mine, because of how tissue is shaped between my legs, is so repulsive you can’t get through one scene.

“Is a flap of skin really that powerful? Is it a biblical hypocrisy, or just what family, friends, and fans will think when you no longer live to please them?”

Marshal waited for a reply that Asa couldn’t provide. He took the opportunity further. “I don’t have a problem kissing girls because I don’t despise the idea of it. It’s not my favorite, but I can do it. The only reason you can’t kiss a man is because you secretly despise the idea. It’s a very shameful thing to you. And as long as you hate the idea, you hate me. And that’s what I see every time you look at me.”

Marshal saw that he was no longer in Asa’s focus. The kid stared at his own inner movie, eyes grazing in a path from Marshal to rustic, stained counters with brick and mortar walls behind them, to all the stylish silver appliances and surfaces. It had to be the ugliest kitchen Marshal had ever seen. Tension still held Asa’s shoulders rigid, but his back lost whatever weight it was carrying as he took another step back and let the island counter support him.

He shrugged. “There’s always a difficult part in every film. It makes you consider turning back. I just don’t want to turn back. I’ve never turned back from anything that I knew I truly wanted.”

“So what is it you want from this film?”

“I want it to not be a big deal. Olive asked me to do it. When I read the script, I told myself it wasn’t a problem. Now it’s something that’s making me feel afraid. And if I run from it, if I avoid it, that bothers me even more. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes sense. You’re afraid of what people will think, it’s part of the tribe mentality. Survival is tied to it. Believe what the tribe believes or face rejection, or worse. God forbid you like it, then you’ve got a problem on your hands.”

“Holy shit, don’t talk like that.”

“We all need the tribe. But the tribe can’t help us solve our individual problems.”

“Enough. Are we doing this or what?”

Marshal folded his arms and shook his head. “You have to let me know that this is what you want. I shouldn’t have to assume anything or coax it out of you. So say it.”

“Oh god, this is too weird.”

Marshal leaned towards him. “If you can’t do it when we’re alone, you can’t do it when the camera’s rolling.”

“Just do it already.”

Marshal stepped closer. “How many times are you going to turn your head before we have to re-cast?” While he kept his tone light and conversational, his arm reached for Asa’s waste, speaking more advanced than his words. Asa pushed at his arm, prompting Marshal to immediately release him. Marshal held up his hands, “No crimes happening here.”

“Okay, this is just nerves. You’re going too fast.”

“Any slower, and we’ll still be here tomorrow. I’m going as slow as I can.”

“Well don’t hold me like that. You’re all up on me.”

“When I kiss a guy, I put my whole body into it. We’re not filming you kiss your grandmother.”

Asa squirmed. “Oh my god, I’m going to fight you, you gotta give me that. Just please do it and get it over with.”

“I’m trying.”

This time, when Marshal’s arms encircled him, Asa forced himself to hold still. Too still. Marshal felt like he was holding a six foot plank of wood. Resistance trembled to the surface of Asa’s skin, communicating fear and excitement. At least he felt warm and good in Marshal’s hold. Light perspiration added a nice touch, revealing what Asa would never admit about being excited.

“Now, don’t put all the responsibility on me. Do something to show me that in spite of your anxiety, which curiously takes the form of resistance, you really do want me to kiss you.”

“Oh my god, just do it.”

“Give me something first, Asa.”

Steel determination in Asa’s brow proved sexier and funnier than his tremulous effort to lean into Marshal. A twitching brush against his cheek confirmed that Asa had just attempted some sort of consenting invitation.

Marshal knew that laughing would ruin everything and leave him holding a cold draft instead of this warm, nervous body. He inhaled Asa. He didn’t have the will to play it nice for much longer. He would never again have the opportunity presented to him right now. That sweet cherry mouth had to be tested by the world, had to fight for its adulthood, its rightful place. It would be abused by girlfriends, aged by experience, and dulled by age. Why not taste this tender young man while Asa was still inexperienced enough for it to matter to him? Life puts you through so much, you can lose the ability to get excited over the little things. Things stop being new and unpredictable. Thrills solidify into normal and mundane. We reach for safety, then wonder why we’re so bored.

Marshal didn’t realize he had a problem with taking Asa’s beautiful mouth for himself, until he was. Maybe the kid’s fears were justified somehow by the lust any man would feel, gay or straight, with another sexual body against theirs.

Marshal held Asa’s arms to his sides, bending to kiss him. It was more struggle than technique, as Asa’s body attempted to adapt and learn. Marshal was smart, holding the kiss first, closed mouth and chaste, before drawing back. He gave Asa a second to adjust to his own shock before pulling him into a short succession of smaller kisses. This, before finally convincing Asa to open his mouth and let him in.

Slow, slow, careful, he wants to pull away. Can’t have him thinking it’s over, thinking when will it end. Show him that it goes somewhere, if he’s willing to follow.

Marshal broke it off to observe Asa. If the kid wanted to run, now was to the time to do so. But Asa looked uncertain. “Wow, am I doing it right?”

Hell yeah you are. Marshal said nothing of Asa’s rigid stance, his delayed reaction, or the timidity of his tongue. His steadfast ability surprised Marshal. He may not have experience with men, but he brought to Marshal, a sincere desire to know what kissing a man was all about. Was it worth all the fuss? Marshal wanted to make sure it was for him.

At first, Asa moved like he was counting to the mechanical challenge of give and take, to and fro, with all the enticements that a wet and germy kiss with a stranger can hold. But as warmth shifted between them, facts fell away and muscles tensed for a different reason. Marshal felt that ancient pressure and prayed to god that Asa felt it too. Pressure wound down so tight, that it solidified into a new incentive.

Asa’s novice stature let Marshal do all the work. Marshal enjoyed the work. Asa reminded him of a child happy to be taking steps, not concerned with how well they were being taken. He loved it when he could get Asa to squirm. But the goal quickly became to hear what he caused the guy to feel. A movement of sound deep from Asa’s throat, just a little, sent a thrill up Marshal’s spine like no other. There were many layers to that voice, many changes, and they all echoed off the walls of Marshal’s desire. There were underground cathedras in the bottomless tones elicited. It was new masculinity strong and tender in a unique combination. And no, it could not be gotten from a woman. Not quite the same way. It was strong. And no matter how hard he held Asa, the kid returned his strength. He urged Asa for more of his tactile voice, more groan, more whimper, any sound he could push from him.

When it ended, it ended abruptly and well. So well that Asa kept repeating, ‘Oh, god,’ like he was in trouble. He couldn’t look at Marshal for two seconds at a time. And so well that Marshal kept quiet, not daring to reveal that he knew anything more than what Asa wanted him to know.

That’s what he was thinking when the plane took off the next morning. Olive wanted to film details of Asa that no camera could ever record. Where a chosen boy meets a mythical mystery, and all that unfolds. She’d get her awkward kiss, but she’ll never get what she’s trying to film. That private war of Asa’s will and his body’s rights, all fought on the battleground of his mind. The fear of feeling pleasure at the hands of something you hate. Or the loss of control that goes with it.

Asa thinks Marshal is looking at him, but Marshal isn’t. Marshal is looking at the sun, all orange and glowing on the inside of the plane. The sun makes everything beautiful, even dirt. No point in letting Asa take credit for it.

 

All works by Bridgette Hayden found at sonnypreyer.com