Date: Mon, 11 Aug 2003 18:14:09 -0700 (PDT) From: M D Subject: The Silent Violin - Chapter 2 (gay/highschool) Legal Notice: The following story contains descriptions of graphic sexual acts. The story is a work of fiction and has no basis in reality. Although the names of places used DO exist, they are in no way reflected factually in this story. Don't read this story if: * You're not 18 or over, * If it is illegal to read this type of material where you live, * Or if you don't want to read about gay/bi people in love or having sex. The author retains copyright to this story. Placing this story on a website or reproducing this story for distribution without the author's permission is a violation of that copyright. Legal action will be taken against violators. Note: This story will be slow moving, and plot oriented. It is not a porno, though sex will happen. It's a fact of life. Words in between <> are sign language, as text formatting does not support italics. E-mail responses to the story, questions, suggestions, criticism, and comments to: EquinusScorpius@yahoo.com Thanks for the feedback so far! THE SILENT VIOLIN CHAPTER 2 Bastian sat back from his mother and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his turtleneck. He smiled tremulously at her to show he was okay. , he signed quickly, hands flickering in the now familiar patterns. Marjorie watched his hands carefully, and finally nodded. "Its okay to cry, Bastian," she began, but he cut her off with a severe negative gesture and resumed signing. Mouthing the words to make it easier for her to understand him. . He paused for a moment, weighing his next few symbols. . His eyes began to tear up. . "I'll have to think about it, Bastian. I don't know if I can afford it or not. Let me talk to my parents, okay? Are you really sure you want to go back?" she asked. Bastian nodded firmly. She searched his pale gray eyes and nodded. "I'll try, Sebastian." Bastian pulled his mother into a hug. Thank you, he mouthed. Marjorie got up from his window seat and patted her black hair into place. Bastian noted with some sadness the strands of silver at her temples and the lines around her eyes and face. She looked tired and worn out. For a moment he almost wanted to stop her and tell her not to do this for him, but she smiled at him and left his room, shutting his door behind her. Bastian hopped down from the window seat and surveyed his room. It was very neat, as far as teenage boys' rooms are concerned. His full-sized bed, neatly made with a dark blue comforter was on one wall, next to a small table with a lamp, alarm clock, and the book he was currently reading: J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Across from his bed, his desk with a lap top computer and a printer sat uncluttered. He didn't have internet access, but didn't really miss it either. He had no one to talk to. His knapsack with his schoolbooks inside was propped open against the leg of his desk chair. The wall to the left of his door was covered floor to ceiling with built in bookshelves, filled with books of every sort, mostly fantasy and horror. To the right of his bedroom door stood a music stand and the violin his grandfather had given him. The closet behind it was filled with neatly organized clothes. He wasn't a brand-name wearer, his clothes came from the more inexpensive stores, like J.C. Penny's, but he had a few nicer things from this past Christmas. He walked across his bedroom floor. The hardwood floor was appreciatively warm beneath his socked feet. He stood across from the full length mirror on the back of his bedroom door and looked at himself, wondering what all those people he had left behind in Tilson would think. He was slight and slender, at 5'5" and weighed in barely over the 100-pound line on his mother's scale. He stripped off his turtleneck, mussing his thick black hair. His skin was pale and unblemished but for the scar at his throat. His chest wasn't as defined at he'd like it to be, but he was a casual exerciser. He ran his hands over his chest and concave belly, watching himself in the mirror and smiled to himself. A hint of dark hairs started at the waistband of his boxer-briefs. He stripped out of his boxers and grabbed a towel hanging from the doorknob. His flaccid penis hung a few inches over a tight hairless scrotum. A small patch of black pubic hair arced over the base of his penis. He wiggled his hips back and forth and his penis responded by filling out slightly. He wasn't well endowed by any means, but it was enough for him. His legs were long and slender, and his calves were dusted with a sprinkling of short black hairs. He stripped off his white socks as well and headed for the shower down the hall. Bastian stepped into the bathroom and flipped the switch to turn the exhaust fan on, setting his towel on the chrome towel stand next to the shower. He turned the hot water on and let it warm up as he eased his bladder in the toilet. He tested the water and found it to be nice and hot and pulled the knob to start the shower. The shower released its cascade of water and the bathroom quickly began to fill with steam, despite the exhaust fan. He bathed slowly, luxuriating in the heat of the water on his head and back. He closed his eyes and tilted his head under the water to soak it before picking up a bottle of peppermint scented shampoo and lathering his hair. The aroma of peppermint tingled in his lungs and energized him. He brought one soapy hand down to his crotch and began to slowly stroke himself, delighting at the cool tingly sensation the peppermint shampoo triggered. His right hand toyed with his sensitive pink nipples, kneading them gently and rubbing circles around his areolas. His stroking brought about the familiar tightening of his loins and his muscles clenched as he ejaculated several thick strands into the tub. He turned into the spray and let it rinse his sensitive flesh. He rinsed the shampoo out of his hair and lathered body-wash under his sparsely furred pits, across his chest, his crotch, ass, arms and legs. He let the hot water rinse away the soap, leaving him smelling faintly of peppermint before shutting off the water and stepping from the shower. His pale skin was flushed from the heat and self-induced pleasure and he began to dry himself off. His earlier sorrow was all but forgotten. Bastian returned to his room and donned a fresh pair of gray boxer-briefs, a pair of baggy, black corduroy pants, and a black form-fitting turtleneck. He often wore turtlenecks to hide the scar at his throat. He finger combed his black hair back from his face, arranging it artlessly; it wouldn't be controlled anyway. He pulled on a pair of comfortable black sneakers and headed downstairs. Granny Eleanor looked up from her knitting as he thumped down the stairs. Her pale gray hair was neatly coiffured in gentle waves back from her face. She slowly rocked herself back and forth on the rocking chair she had had Grandpa Guy make for her. She looked over her glasses at him and teasingly said, "You sure took a long time in that shower, Bastian." Bastian smiled and blushed. Granny Eleanor was no stranger to the habits of boys, having had two of her own. Uncle Louis had been killed in the Gulf War. Uncle Adam lived out in California and ran a successful advertising company. She made no bones about giving him the birds and the bees talk, while his mother had been away at work. Marjorie had been a bit scandalized at a ten-year old knowing how to give himself pleasure, but Granny Eleanor had told her to get over it and grow up. Bastian shrugged innocently and grinned, showing even white teeth. , he signed. He bent to give her a kiss on her cheek and inhaled her perfume, rose oil. ? "Your grandfather is out in the workshop fiddling around with something or other. Your mother went to run some errands, now that the snowplows have gone by. She tells me you want to go back home to Tilson?" She resumed her knitting. ? He signed, looking anxiously into her piercing blue eyes. "It's about time if you asked me. You've always been a strong boy, Sebastian. Rouses Point is a little town, and there is nothing here for a boy your age. It's a tourist town, a retirement town. You can't just have seasonal friends. I know you're having a hard time making friends, and I think you need to go back to your roots and reestablish those old connections." Bastian smiled, relieved. . When Marjorie first brought her son to live at Rouses Pointe, she had enrolled him at Chester A. Arthur Elementary School in the first grade. He was ostracized immediately, this silent boy who already knew how to read and write. He kept to himself and did as his teachers asked him. The teachers never pushed him, and wrote glowing letters of praise home to his mother about how well he was doing, but Bastian was miserable. As he grew older, it was easier for him to act, than to correct the misconceptions of his peers. He pretended to be deaf as well as mute, all the while hurting inside at the comments his peers made right in front of him. Bastian was also slightly effeminate, both in appearance and in behavior. He didn't enjoy contact sports but instead ran or swam to keep in shape. In his secret heart of hearts, he suspected he was gay, finding himself physically attracted but emotionally repulsed by some of the other boys at school. He never let on to anyone about this to anyone and kept his body under strict control so as not to get an erection at inopportune times. He found an outlet for his frustration in his violin, playing violent and angst- ridden strains when he came home from school. His mother and grandparents assumed it was merely his anger at being disabled, and it partially was. But at night, he softly played melodies that elicited such sweet sorrow that he cried as he played. "I know, honey. I know. Why don't you make yourself a sandwich? I can hear your stomach growling from here." Granny patted his hand comfortingly and then turned him around and swatted his but to head him on his way to the kitchen. She watched him go and sighed. He was a good boy. Bastian made his way to the kitchen and searched in the refrigerator for something to eat. He found some vegetarian chik-patties in the freezer and popped two into the microwave, topped with slices of provolone cheese. Soon the aroma of chicken- flavored soy product filled the kitchen. He slid the hot chik-patties on a pair of rolls and munched away, thinking of what he could do for the rest of the day. Grandpa Guy came into the kitchen halfway through Bastian's second sandwich, letting a gust of frigid cold in behind him as he stomped his boots on the linoleum. "Bonjour, grandson. Have you practiced your violin yet today?" Guy removed his heavy winter parka and woolen cap, hanging both on the coat-hook behind the door. Guy was still in great shape for his age, with a strapping barrel chest and thick arms. His hands were large and his fingers, once surprisingly slender, had become gnarled with age and the onset of arthritis. . Bastian signed, by way of explanation. Gramps nodded sagely. His blue-gray eyes twinkled merrily beneath bushy black eyebrows. ? He signed again, referring to what his grandfather was working on in the workshop. Grandpa Guy had been particularly close-mouthed about it. Guy just grunted and smiled, "When it's done, it's done, and not a moment before. No prying now." He filled a pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. "You want some tea? I need to warm my old bones. Then you and I can practice violin together." Bastian nodded and finished off his sandwich before putting his plate in the sink and retrieving two mugs from the cabinet. Guy handed him two tea bags and he placed one in each cup. They sat in silence waiting for the tea-water to boil, and made and drank their tea in silence as well. Guy Blackmoore was not a talkative man, and neither was his grandson. The tea drank and dishes washed, Guy accompanied Bastian up to his room and sat in his desk chair while Bastian tuned his violin. It took him a few moments to tune the instrument, and Gramps just watched him work the keys. Finally Bastian had it tuned to his liking and rosined up his bow. He looked expectantly at his grandfather, one raven eyebrow raised. "Play your scales to get limbered up. Then play Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D." Bastian nodded in acquiescence and his fingers flew over the strings as he slid the bow up and down the scales. Guy grunted his approval and Bastian paused before beginning the gentle strains of the concerto. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his grandfather mimicking the fingering of the notes, he closed his eyes to block out the distraction and concentrated on the music. When the final chord drifted away, he dropped the violin from his chin and opened his eyes. Gramps wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and smiled proudly. "That was flawless, Bastian. Absolutely flawless." He levered himself up from the chair and pulled Bastian into a tight hug. "You have come a long way, my wonderful grandson. And you have proven to me that you deserve a man's violin. You still play a boy's violin. Come with me." Guy took the violin from Bastian's hands and placed it in its case, automatically loosening the screws that held the strings in tune. Pushing his grandson before him, Guy led Bastian down the stairs, through the kitchen and out into the cold. Guy's workshop was a few yards from the house connected by a flagstone path. It was heated by a coal stove in the winter and by window fans in the summer. A door lead into the double-car garage from the workshop, partially hidden behind a rack of woodworking tools. The workshop was rife with the smells of wood oils, glue, rosin, and sawdust; they were the smells of hard work and determination. Guy's workbench was scattered with tools, C-clamps, and coils of violin string. Half-finished violin frames and bridges were scattered around the room. Lathes and jigsaws, sandpaper and files, the tools of Guy's trade were in their place around the room. Bastian's eyes lit on the finished violin illuminated by a spotlight. The gold- plated E-string glowed in the light. He whirled around to face his grandfather, eyes wide. ! Bastian wrapped his arms around his grandfather and squeezed tight, tears of joy spilling from his eyes. Guy Blackmoore hugged his grandson back and said in a low voice full of emotion, "I'm very proud of you, and want only the best for you. And I think what is best for you is for you to go back home. Your Granny and I are going to help out your mom so you can live the way you should. I know you'll make me proud wherever you go." _______________ To Be Continued.