I awoke next to only Cory, and kitchen sounds told me Bo was already up and around.  I gazed at my beautiful lover for a time, and reached out to gently touch him.  No matter how often we touched, I delighted more and more in the feel of his soft skin and the firm muscles beneath.  I decided to wake him up with a nice dream, and so ran my fingers down to his groin.  He was relaxed, his penis soft and short, nearly withdrawn into its tuft of curly brown hair.  At my touch, his breathing began to quicken, and his eyes began REM beneath his closed eyelids.  I was stimulating a dream for him as I stimulated his prick to hardness.  I stroked it lightly, and likewise his inner thighs and his balls.  He was building fast, and began moving his hips, clearly in the throes of an exciting dream.  I continued my ministrations, quite hard now myself, and then decided to wake him up so that we could finish the dream together, awake.  I rolled him onto his back and lay on top of him, kissing his face and repeating his name and pressing our hard rods between our bodies.  His eyelids opened.

    “Good morning my love,” I said.

    “Mmmm.” he replied, while I kissed him on the mouth again.

    “Were you having a nice dream?”

    “I sure was.  You were in it and we were doing some very hot stuff.”

    “I know,” I told him, “and we’re going to finish it now.”  I reached down to take his erect member in my hand, this time holding him firmly, squeezing and stroking him to more hardness.  Fully awake now, Cory responded by attending to my own raging hard-on with his hands, and then turning his body around to 69 position.  We mutually sucked and licked and slurped, and the noise of our passion brought Bo back to see what was going on.  He sat on the bed Indian-style and watched us, naked and hard but not joining in.  I was only dimly aware of his presence, since Cory and I were both on the edge of shooting.  He hit the extremely sensitive spot on my glans again with his tongue and I was over, shooting the night’s build-up of cum into his ready mouth, and that sent him into pumping his into mine.  We sucked each other dry, and then noticed Bo more fully.

    “You guys are so hot,” he said, stroking his own slender erection.

    “How come you didn’t join us?” Cory asked.

    “I didn’t want to break your rhythm.  Besides, I get off on watching blow jobs, as you ought to know.”

    “Let’s see what else you get off on,” I said, as I grabbed him around his skinny waist and pulled him to me.  I added my hand to his around his prick, stimulating him more than he could by himself.  He was already shiny with precum and I figured given his tendency toward speediness, there wasn’t much time, so I leaned down and took him into my mouth.  After only about three or four up and down trips of my mouth, he shot, his thin boycum filling me again as Cory’s had just moments earlier.  I kissed him on the lips and let him taste his own seed.  We all lay quietly for awhile.  Then Bo was pulling us up.  

    “C’mon,” he urged it’s breakfast time.  He tugged at us until we gave in and followed him to the kitchen.

    There, it was obvious that a cyclone had blown through it, displacing everything.  Drawers and cupboards were open,  their various contents strewn on every horizontal surface.  

    “I made breakfast,” he said proudly.

    And indeed he had:  scrambled eggs and bacon and coffee and pancakes, the food warming in the oven and the coffee hot.  We carried the food to the deck, where he’d set the table, and we sat naked in the morning sun.  It was a leisurely meal, for which we thoroughly congratulated Bo.  He was clearly pleased with our praise.  “My mom was gone so often that I got tired of Pop-tarts, and started cooking real food,” he explained.  “It’s easy if you can follow directions.”

    We discussed plans for the day.  Bo figured he should let his uncle know about his mom’s note, and tell him that he was gonna stay with me.  He’d thought it out, and decided that as much honesty as practical was the best policy.  As long as his uncle knew where he was, he wouldn’t worry.  And Bo wanted us to meet him, as well.  So we agreed that we’d go to his house, update his uncle, and get some of his stuff.

    After we dressed and repaired the kitchen, we drove back to town.  As soon as they were in the truck, Bo and Cory had their hands in each other’s shorts.  “Don’t you guys ever quit?” I asked.

    “No,” Cory replied.

    “Are we s'posed to?” Bo asked innocently.

    “Just don’t cream your shorts yet.  We have to act normal for awhile.”  That would prove to be more necessary than any of us realized.

    When we arrived at his uncle’s house the drive was blocked by cars:  police cars and an ambulance.  Bo jumped out and ran ahead.  A cop grabbed him and told him roughly to stay back.  

    “I live here!” Bo shouted indignantly, “Get your fucking hand off me!  What’s going on?”

    Startled by the youth’s vehemence, the cop let go.  Cory and I caught up to them.

    “Officer, what’s going on?” I asked, echoing Bo’s question.  I, however, got an answer.

    “The old man apparently had a heart attack.  Some hikers found him outside his hogan and called 911.  The paramedics are working on him now.”

    Bo took off across the clearing and ran to where his uncle lay, paramedics on both sides.  They had IV’s running and oxygen flowing into the old man’s nostrils and were nearly ready to take him in to the hospital.  He looked gray and weathered, barely breathing.  Bo knelt by him and took his hand.  “Uncle, it’s me, Bo!”  Then he said something in his Indian tongue, and the old man’s eyes flickered open.  A weak smile crossed his lips, and he slowly raised a hand to touch Bo’s face.  He muttered a few halting Indian words, dropped his hand, drew one ragged breath, and relaxed into eternal sleep.  Bo collapsed onto him, hugging the old man’s body and sobbing.  Cory and I gave him a minute or so to cry alone, and then we pulled him up and held his sob-wracked little body close.  After crying for awhile, his sobs subsided, and he turned his teary face to his uncle.  The paramedics had covered him and were preparing to take the body away.

    “Wait, please,” he said to them with quiet dignity.  “Before you take him there is something I must do.  You understand.”  He looked at one of them, with dark skin and black hair like Bo’s.  He held his gaze for a moment, and gave an almost imperceptible nod.  Bo went into the hogan, and returned with a small box.  From it he took a small gray feather and a piece of string.  He knelt and tied the feather in the old man’s white hair.  Then he took out tiny jars of paint, and adorned his face with ceremonial stripes of white and blue, white across the brown forehead, and blue along the prominent cheekbones.  From a pouch in the box he tossed a few pinches of cornmeal into the air above his uncle.  They drifted away on the breeze, and he followed the cornmeal with a bit of yellow pollen.  That done he added stripes below the old nose and across the chin, yellow and green.  He said more words in the Indian tongue, and tears again flowed from his eyes, dripping onto the ground next to the old man, and onto him.  Bo leaned down again to hug the lifeless form one more time, and then, after pulling the  cover back over him, picked up the box and stood up.  “He is ready now,” he said to the medics, and turned to us.  “C’mon,” he said, tugging at my hand.  “We have to do something.”

    I spoke to a paramedic.  “I’ll be in touch later today with burial instructions.”  Then I allowed Bo to lead me down the canyon path.  We walked in silence, sensing Bo’s need for our presence now but not our words.  So we walked, keeping him close between us, letting him feel our strength and our love.  Presently we arrived at the secret room, and Bo led us inside.  He silently pointed us to the same places, and again raised his hands and his tear stained face.  He stood so for probably five minutes, motionless and silent.  Then he drew a ragged breath and began to chant.  This one was plaintive and low, the sound evoking deep grief, and wrenching at our hearts.  He paused, and then raised his voice to become again the clear soprano that I recognized from the first time he’d chanted.  He raised his arms higher and drew his slender body to its tallest limit and let his beautiful tones loose again.  As before the sound filled the room and sailed into the heavens and we were in awe.  The sound died away, his arms dropped, his body relaxed, and he turned to us.  

    We took him again into our embrace and just held him.  We felt the breathing become ragged again and the sobs begin anew and then he began crying his little boy’s heart out.  The duties of the Indian brave complete, he reverted to the hurting child.  My own tears and Cory’s mixed with Bo’s, and we stood grieving together.  Linked together by arms and by love, we shared our  pain.  And our strength.