Date: Tue, 7 Feb 2017 18:40:12 -0500 From: Bear Pup Subject: Beaux Thibodaux 3 Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/) for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex between adult and young-adult men, some of them related to one another. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming. ***** This time he just stared and I could read nothing from his eyes. It was the longest, oldest, deepest stare I ever endured. He finally blinked and looked down, but not before I saw a tear form. He stood and turned abruptly, "Back to the Hotel, then, sir?" That single tear and the way he turned to hide it ripped another little bit of my soul away, but I found, suddenly, that I'd been wrong. Beaux had not been dropping bits of my soul across Louisiana; every single piece was stored in that tear, his expressions of hope and fear and worry and loss, the firm shoulder-set that screamed of stoic resolve and desperate loneliness and a reluctance to believe that, perhaps, just this once in his entire life, things would turn out right. ***** Beaux Thibodaux 3: Mud Bugs By Bear Pup M/T; no sex yet (just plot) We left the courthouse and that walk was basically silent. Beaux looked at me often, but not in the eyes. He said little and made it clear with his body language that he needed time to process. Regardless, it was crystal clear that he was still floored by the scale and complexity of New Orleans. It was a classic city of a bygone era, slowly being eaten alive by modernity. The courthouse we'd just left was all sparkly glass, but had replaced one six blocks away that was still a beautiful, crumbling throwback to the grandeur of the times where folks like Huey Long ruled the South. When we got back to the Place d'Armes, the packages from Godchaux's were waiting in the sitting room. I looked Beaux over and suggested that he looked really great for the evening. He went into the bathroom to freshen up. Again, I was surprised that no loud splash of exuberant adolescent piss echoed against the plaster walls. I heard a deep sigh, though, of release and relief. As I sorted the merchandise, I also found a wallet, tooled much like the boots we'd bought. It was empty save for a note, 'It was truly a pleasure serving you and your nephew,' signed by the flaming queen of a salesman. I made a mental note to drop back into Godchaux's and really thank him. I pulled out the folder that Harold had made for Beaux and folded a couple of documented into the wallet. One acted as a temporary ID. Another identified me as his guardian. I slipped in one of the cards from Judge Banks, my own business card and a plaque with the hotel info. I added about $50 in miscellaneous bills in the fold. As I set about transferring Beaux's clothes into the dresser, I made a note to stop by one of the luggage merchants who preyed on tourists who'd bought one too many French Quarter souvenirs. His stuff could never fit in the small case I'd brought. I smiled when I found that Mr Flaming Queen had even steamed out the underwear; I got a smile and a wicked idea of just how enthusiastic he must have been at that chore! Beaux emerged, scrubbed and refreshed, and I took to the bathroom myself. I let go with my normal vigour and sighed loudly in relief. I was frankly so used to living alone that it didn't occur that I would embarrass of discomfit Beaux. When finished, I took a minute to fondle and caress MBF (My Best Friend), thinking of both Henri and the Judge's Hunka-Hunka-Harold. I got a chub which is all I really wanted and put MBF away, washing my face and hands. When I emerged, Beaux was sitting stiffly on the couch. I sat next to him, with clear separation, and reached for the bulky TV remote. He watched me and jumped when I turned on the babble-box, head on a swivel between it and me and the remote control. I had seen no evidence of a television, and he had never been in a car, so I rehearsed what I would say. "If television is new, no problem. It is a broadcast medium with both picture and sound, but oddly there seems to be almost nothing worth looking a or listening to." I turned and Beaux was looking down. "I know what TV is, Kevin, I've just never seen one, you know, up close like that. And it's loud." "I am really sorry, Beaux. I know that your mother and G-Ma had... odd habits. I just don't know what to explain and what not to. I promise you, Beaux, that I will never patronise you or talk down to you." He looked up at me. "If I explain something you already know, please know that I'm sorry but you have to tell me I've done it. If I don't explain something you don't already know, you have to say something, too. If not then, like if we're around strangers, please ask me later?" He nodded, looking a bit dejected by not sullen. "On another front, the salesman from yesterday put another item in the delivery, for you. It's a wallet and I've put some of your papers and a little money in it for you." I handed it to him and he just stared at it. I literally held my breath. "Thank you, but I can't take the money, sir." "Yes, you can, and with good reason. If we get separated, you'll need cab fare to get back to the hotel or to someplace else you feel safe." He just nodded silently and refused to meet my eye. I perked up in my best 'and onto the next subject' voice, "I am taking you out for dinner tonight and I hope you like it. I don't know what you'll like, but we're going just a block or so away and they have a bit of everything that makes New Orleans special. Ask me or the waiter about any dish you don't already know. New Orleans is a city built for folks from other places who don't know the local food or culture or habits, so no one will ever look down on you for asking a question." He nodded again, not meeting my eyes. I pulled him up abruptly, "bro style" which caught his attention. "Come on, Beaux, let's go have great food!" I smiled and got a weak smile in return. I practically dragged him through the Place d'Armes and up a block to one of my perennial favourites. Just a block north, the corner of St Anne and Rue Royale had housed a phenomenal restaurant since time immemorial. Not famous, and often changing hands and name, some delicate magic kept the food sensational. I honestly don't recall the name it sported at the time I took Beaux, but I *think* it was already called Pierre Antione's. A low-key but attentive maitre'd ushered us (after a nice and discreet tip) to a window table and the far Rue Royale corner. The waiter was, surprisingly, actual French, and was superb. I ordered water for each of us and a bottle of wine (two glasses; a tip ensured no argument over age -- this was a long time ago, 'mon cher'). The man intimidated Beaux at first until he said something in French and made Beaux laugh. When he left, Beaux turned to me and said, "Have you ever heard such an accent? Where he think he from, on-CLE?" I laughed with him, which seemed to give him some backbone and I basked in the smile he gave me. He balked at the menu as prices were shown and I told him to ignore them completely; they didn't matter at all. Narrowed eyes and a cocked head accompanied that announcement so I didn't press. I talked Beaux into trying their gumbo; I hated seafood, but he loved it so we split with me getting the Chicken and Andouille and him getting the Seafood Gumbo. The waiter delivered the water and wine. I poured Beaux a glass and he looked at askance. After the first sip, his eyes lit up like a billboard. He admitted later that it was his first taste of wine; delight kindled in my soul that I had taken the opportunity to select an uncommon and favourite label. A lot of discussion ensued over the entrees. There were a number of dishes that Beaux knew how to cook but most he'd never heard of. I convinced him to try one of the unknown ones that had familiar ingredients. I, of course, ordered what I loved most, Red Beans and Rice with an extra link of grilled Andouille (is it even possible to have too much andouille?). Beaux finally settled on Gaige's Crawfish Chicken, a true American original with a creamy, roux-based sauce of crawfish meat (an ingredient unknown outside the bayou at the time) over succulent grilled chicken marinated in magical and mysterious spices. When the gumbo arrived with steaming French baguettes, I thought Beaux's eyes would explode. He tasted the gumbo and made a 'not bad' head motion until he dipped a corner of that amazing, fresh-baked bread into it. I beamed at the look of bliss that suffused his face. When the entrees arrived, Beaux looked like he was going to object. The portions at Pierre Antoine's were large for the time, almost to today's standards. Beaux looked down on two healthy chicken breasts in a rich sauce filled with crawfish tail meat. I gave him a taste of my own red beans and a slice of the spicy and delicious sausage, using a crust of the bread as a 'bowl' to hand it to him. He was in absolute heaven and polished his own plate completely. We split one the PA's incomparable bread puddings for afters. When we were done, I swear that boy looked pregnant. He'd eaten everything put in front of him and loved each bite. He chattered happily about the wonderful food and the wonderful people and the wonderful hotel and the wonderful city. I just basked in his pleasure, such a contrast to 12 hours earlier as we left the hovel he'd known as his only home. We got back to the room just as the post-prandial drowsies caught him. I managed to get him down to his skivvies and into bed and I basically face-planted myself into my own bed a few moment later. I awoke perhaps two hours later to the melody of abject misery erupting from the bathroom. I didn't even make it to the door before I realise what I had done. I had picked up a boy who'd never seen *McDonalds* much less the magnificent cuisine of New Orleans, and fed him some of the richest and most decadent offerings in a cuisine renown for extreme decadence. I reached the door to the bath. Beaux either didn't know about the lock or didn't care. I opened the door and he looked at me in utter and irredeemable torment. Now, no one, especially no guy, wants to be seen taking a shit. No guy would ever accept the idea of another guy, especially one he'd just *met*, seeing him in the ultra-vulnerable stance of sickness. Most would die before stomach trouble brought an older, respected and unknown person into the bathroom as he voided himself. Beaux had none of those phobias. I reached Beaux as he exploded with a trumpet-sound of flatulence and diarrhoea. He looked at me not as an interloper or adult, but as a lifeline, face a mask of desolation. "Oh, lord, Oncle. Them mud bugs is trying to kill me, true!" It took a minute for me to recall that one of the many, many terms for crawfish was mud bugs. As you can guess, it is not a complimentary one, especially when referring to food. I pulled the steel waste-bin out and set it gently in front of Beaux. "This is my fault, Beaux. I never should have pushed all that rich food..." "Oh, God, Oncle, stop! Please I be begging not to talk bout no food right now!" Beaux clutched the waste-bin, countenance distinctly green around the edges, trying to decide whether he'd be more or less miserable if he puked. He sat back and let loose with another volley into the bowl. I walked up and stood beside him, holding his head and petting his back. I could only imagine how badly his innards had objected to the sumptuous meal and the misery he must be feeling. Beau turned his head into my undershirt and I heard him mumble in agonised French (a language well-suited to food-related regrets) what sounded like, "Marie, Mère de Dieu, prends-moi maintenant. Laisse-moi mourir, mon Dieu." I had enough high-school French to figure out the gist as he begged God and various saints to let him die. I worked hard not to laugh, as I knew his suffering was all too real, but the teen-aged ability to go straight for high melodrama made it hard to keep a straight face. It took about an hour for Beaux to rid himself of the last ghost of the mud bugs. I got him cleaned up and put to bed, then cleaned up the bathroom as well. It wasn't the poor boy's fault, and I kept kicking myself for lack of foresight. I also, perv that I am, couldn't help but notice as I cleaned him that Beaux was definitely *well* into his maturity. I couldn't help but think of the line from the movie M*A*S*H, "I'd surely like to see that thing angry!" before banishing the inexcusable and inappropriate (and quite honest) thought. I woke the next morning strangely rested after the disturbed night. I looked over at Beaux who was curled up in a tight ball, covers thrown back and shivering. I quietly went over and covered him up, relishing the contented sigh he made in his slumbers. I went about my morning ablutions as quietly as possible, but Beaux was up when I came out and gave me a slight-horrified and completely-mortified look as he reclaimed the bathroom. Luckily, there was no explosion of misery this morning and Beaux emerged looking human and dressed for the day. He had decided to try the sneakers, and looked quite fetching in tan pants and a button-up shirt in a subtle pattern of sage and deep greens. I could tell he kept looking for ways to apologise, but I made sure that he never got the chance and acted as if the night had never happened. Beaux slowly relaxed and even smiled occasionally. When I announced that we were headed to breakfast, he did pale somewhat. I took the opportunity to apologise to him for overloading him the night before and told him that we'd do better on introducing exotic foods from now on. I walked across in front of the Cathedral to avoid walking past Pierre Antione's. Our destination was one block further from the hotel, just off the same street as PA's. It was my favourite breakfast on Earth, with the possible exception of a creperie I'd found in Aix-en-Provence once on holiday to the Mediterranean. The Old Coffeepot on Rue St Pierre was a treasure, slightly shabby as might be expected for a place that had served amazing food for a century, but charming. Miss Pearl recognised me when I walked in. I have no idea how. I get to the Crescent City perhaps every year or two, but she has never failed to recall how I take my coffee (cold cream and lots of sugar) and I added a mostly-milk cafe au lait for Beaux. Miss Pearl was an older but handsome black woman, and one of the nicest people I'd ever met. She fussed over Beaux and I watched as he melted under her charm and grace. I ordered Eggs Creole, aka world's-best-heartburn, and asked Beaux if he liked grits. He nodded shyly, so I ordered some for each of us. I got him pain perdu, literally 'lost bread', French toast made of a split baguette in soaked some sort of magic egg mixture with powdered sugar, pecans and maple syrup. He looked slightly green when the food arrived, but a blissful smile appeared after the first bite. The tiny jolt of caffeine from the beverage seemed to help him as well. We made short work of the meal. As always, I tipped lavishly; not only was Miss Pearl a true gem and the food fantastic, the prices were ridiculously out of date. I'd spent more at McDonald's the day before! Today's agenda was hazy. I'd accomplished the legal stuff far more quickly than I ever expected, and was not planning to head back home until the following day. I decided that Operation Know Beaux needed to be launched. I walked with him down Rue Royale, eying the shops that were slowly waking for the day, and started asking gently-probing questions. Beaux was quiet and just looked at me quizzically at first, then shrugged. "I cooked and cleaned for Mama and G-Ma, and did all the little repairs. We had a bateau..." I was familiar with the flat-bottomed canoes first introduced by French fur traders in North-eastern America, what was then Nouvelle France and became Canada. The original Cajuns of Louisiana were their descendants; when France ceded most of Canada to Great Britain, the many "Acadiens" chose to move to what France kept, the area that would eventually be the Louisiana Purchase. The well-to-do settled in New Orleans and the backwoodsmen began trapping in the bayous. Over generations, the latter became more and more insular and their French evolved (or degraded, according the Frenchmen). Acadien morphed into Cajun. I shook myself out of my reverie, "...so I fished the Bayou most days. Mama and G-Ma were real protective. When I got older, G-Ma would send me to the dry-goods store or the grocery, but warned me that it was really dangerous to talk to anyone more than required. She went in once a month to the library and brought books back that she wanted me to learn. So I read mathematics books and understood them pretty well. History, some. Lots of books in English and French, lots of classics." "I know your life has been completely uprooted. I can't even guess how it must feel. Are you leaving a girlfriend behind? Best buddies? Teammates?" "Oh, no sir! No one else who lived on our stretch of the bayou had kids, and the town folk down there are right dangerous, especially the kids and younger men." His face shone with sincerity and concern. "Dangerous how?" "Oh, G-Ma told me the awful things that happened to kids in the town. Getting beat upon, robbed, all sorts of things -- even killed outright. Young folk alone are just easy pickins for young folks in packs. It's why the schoolbuses are yellow with black stripes, to warn people, just like the prison vans are always white with blue stripes so people knows they're carrying dangerous criminals. Even when G-Ma sent me into town, she made sure that I only went to stores run by older women. 'sonly way to stay safe off the bayou! I'm not as worried here in the real city, people seem nice and mannered and all, but the towns? Oh my no!" Well, that explained the school issue and so much more. At the time, 'home-schooling' was not an accepted practise, but not unheard-of in remote areas. Beaux could have gone to school, and frequently saw the buses passing filled with laughing kids, but his female wardens had prevented any real contact. They even convincing the child that he's be beaten or killed for having friends or other simple human contact. No walking-along conversations about cars and stereos and phones and TV shows and movies, no exposure that was not controlled by his bat-shit crazy mother and his monstrous grandmother. What a seriously fucked-up family. He knew nothing of modern life, or any history past the American Civil War. It was shocking and I felt a real rage brewing. How could anyone raise a child like that? I think Beaux sensed my anger and he gradually ran down. We shopped for a few minutes and I got my face (at least) back under control. One things we could talk about was fishing. I had been an avid angler in my youth, exploring the creeks and rivers of the corner of Nebraska where I grew up. Beaux chatted happily about the ones that got away, the fat-bellied and angry bass, the monster catfish that would occasionally latch on, taking hours to coax off the bottom and into the boat. I talked about a time with the neighbour's sons when we decided to fish an old farm-pond on their property. Our hooks would barely touch the water before a bluegill struck. It was like the neglected pond had become so packed with the small, beautiful fish that they were just begging for someone to finally turn them into dinners. I doubt we (or the farm cat) had ever eaten so well. "Do you like science?" "Science, sir?" "Hmm, okay. We'll come back that one. You liked math? What sort of stuff?" "Pretty much all of it, but it's real hard to when you get to differentials and the like. The books have to go back each month, and not all of them have indexes with sine, cosine, tangent and such. Some you can do in your head, but not many. Then I got really into stuff that that Indian fellah with the Brit friend, Ramanujan and Hardy. You know their stuff? And the other theorists. That's much easier to follow cuz you never really need to use the actual number values, just the math itself." Well, fuck me! As an architect and builder, I live and die by maths but I only vaguely recalled Ramanujan from an advanced maths class toward the end of my university years! This was a 16-year-old from a fucking backwater bayou who'd never set foot in a school talking about, if I recalled correctly, hyper-something-metric functions as the 'easy stuff'! Oooooookay. I let the sound of maths wash over me for a while until Beaux noticed my glazed look. He blushed hard and looked down. "That's probably boring. Sorry. I guess every kid knows that." "Beaux, I don't think you could be more wrong. I personally know professors who could not have followed that. Honestly, I use maths every single day for what I do, and you lost me right after mentioning Ramanujan! We've got a lot to work on, s- Beaux. We're going to need to sit down with an expert and find out what you need help with to keep up at school, and things like maths where you'd just destroy other students!" Beaux stared at me for the longest time as we paused outside the gaudy tourist displays at Toulouse Royale. He bit his lip, one of the first signs I'd seen of real uncertainty -- not nerves or fear like yesterday, but puzzlement and worry. In a very grave voice, Beaux said, "You don't have to say things like that to make me feel good. I know I don't understand what I need to. I'm not educated well, but I am smart. All day yesterday, all I could do was watch as you did just wonderful things that I couldn't even follow, much less do." His head hung like a beat puppy. I reached out and grabbed his chin, which seemed to both startle and comfort him. "I'll make a deal with you, Beaux. I am never going to lie to you. I might refuse to tell you things that I think might do more harm than good, but if I say something I mean it. I'll do that on the condition that you do the same. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, but let's neither of us ever lie to the other, okay, s- buddy?" Again with the ancient-man's stare. Beaus was not going to give me a flip answer; he was considering carefully. I somehow knew he'd abide by the agreement. "Okay, Kevin, but I got a condition back. You lie to me even once, about anything, and the deal is off. I'm not gonna trust a liar, I had too... Anyway, you okay with that?" "I swear to you, Beaux. And I have to tell you, the thing with the maths really threw me. Someone your age with that brain is really, really rare. But all that stuff you don't know can really get you in trouble, s- Beaux. You're going to be embarrassed, even humiliated by other kids (they aren't monsters like you've been told, but teenagers say pretty hurtful things). I'm going to do everything I can to help, but you have to start asking about stuff you don't understand." Beaux mumbled something I couldn't hear, then looked up and heaved a sigh, "You almost called me 'son' like four times in five minutes and changed to Beaux. I, I don't mind you calling me 'son' if you want." I couldn't help the shuddering breath I took, and Beaux noticed. "That's only if you want to, sir." "For only having three letters, I know it's a big word, Beaux, and important. A lot of people, me included, use it to mean 'young man' or 'buddy' or 'guy' or 'boy'. Some young guys find it insulting. I want you to know two things: First, I'll be using it that way cuz it's a hard habit to break. Second, though: One day I hope to use it to mean that you're really my son, that we see each other as pure family. That's going to be a lot of work for both of us, Beaux." He looked back down. "Yes, sir, it surely will," he said softly. Your e-mails are making this story better. Seriously. Please let me know what you think.