If you shouldn't be here, go away. If you stay, it's on your own head.

Since you are still here reading this, you will expect this to be a story about cross-generational sex. And basically that is what it is. Frowned upon and punished by most societies, and therefor shouldn't be glorified. But since this is fiction and not a documentary, freedom of expression prevails. Fantasies know no boundaries.

The setting is pre-Covid19. I'm just so fed up with the virus, I don't want it anywhere near my story. And as usual in my stories, the sexy part is the jam in the afternoon donut, not the full morning breakfast fry-up.

If you look for it, you will find that English is not my mother tongue. And also: This is my story, so please do not steal from it or post it anywhere else.

If you should find anything here worth commenting on, I would love to hear it. winterboy@tutanota.com

And remember to support Nifty. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

 

 

Mr. MARSHALL STOPS RUNNING

 

A short Christmas story from Magnus Winter.

 

I'm a small man.

I was a short and skinny boy. With several nicknames. Not all of them nice. I cried a lot when nobody saw me.

I was a short and skinny teenager. With no friends. The nicknames stuck. I cried a lot when nobody saw me.

I'm a man now. Sort of. Still short, still skinny. With new nicknames. Still no nice ones, but then: don't all teachers have nicknames, and aren't they usually derogatory? I have acquaintances, yes. Friends, no. Not really. I stopped crying when I was seventeen, though. Until ... well, you'll see.

Technically I'm not old. For what it's worth. I mean, what is old? A mathematical measurement? A state of mind? An image? I'm NOT old. Yet I see it in the eyes of the fourteen-year-olds that daily sit in front of me, whenever they can be bothered to look at me: That tired contempt, that young and blasé arrogance that says Old. Dismissed, written off, almost non-existent.

I'm not being entirely truthful here. They're not all like that. But I prefer to think of it that way, it gives a certain credit – or perhaps justification is the word - to what I have to offer, what I'm willing to give them: Impersonal instructions, unswayed tutoring, detached coaching. I will not get involved beyond that. To be honest, I don't know how. I do education, I don't do people. So I stick to communicating knowledge, and that's all.

*

 

I was the middle child. My parents found it opportune to produce a litter of four children within the span of three years, which gave me an older brother and two younger twin sisters. As any middle child will tell you: You're easily forgotten in a context like that. There's only so much involvement or engagement to go around, and the attention is easily concentrated on the crown prince, and then the princesses, and it's seems unnecessary to dilute the ministrations any further. You're not rejected, nothing as active as that, nor are you actually neglected. You're just a fixed asset, you're just there.

So in so many ways you are left to yourself. Your mind is left unexplored, your soul is left unprobed, and you learn to exist within yourself. And this nonchalance about who you really are becomes your world, your home – and involvement becomes unfamiliar, even threatening.

I learned early not to expect much, so it was probably easier for me than for the rest of them when I was nine and our father discovered there was a world out there beyond the fences of family life and subsequently packed his bags. My brother turned mean, my sisters had each other, and I've quite forgotten how our mother reacted, if I ever knew. So when my mean brother took out all his frustrations and hatred on me, I learned to run. To somewhere where no one saw me. And then I cried. And when I was all cried out, I created a world of contentment in my head, a world of beauty and pleasure, and I built strong defenses around it to keep it safe and impregnable.

Yes, that's how I deal with unpleasantness. I run away. Literally and figuratively. And I'll outrun all of you anyday.

 

 

December 6^th.

The doorbell.

Out there in the hallway is a boy from my class, one of the quiet ones, one who never looks you in the eyes. Which honestly suits me fine. He wants to sell me a calendar. Looks ill at ease, almost embarrassed, as he politely states his errand.

Overly detached I may well be, but I'm not mean. Of course I'll buy his calendar. I leave him out there to get my phone, I don't carry cash anymore.

As I get the number for the transfer, he suddenly asks: "Don't you wanna know what it's for? The money, I mean?" And then as an afterthought: "Sir?"

I look up, and it's like I see him for the first time. Such an unobtrusive boy, not particularly good-looking, not particularly flashy like half of his contemporaries, not particularly emo-dramatic like the other half, not particularly anything. And yet there is something that makes me stare. Maybe it's his voice. It's a particularly pleasant and melodious voice. And staring at him, I notice that the voice comes out of a pair of exquisite lips.

"I assume it's for a worthy cause", I tell him. "I don't suppose it's to furbish you with illegal substances or anything."

His fascinating lips curl into a small smile. "It's for the Amateur Dramatic Society", he informs me. I catch him trying to look over my shoulder into my flat. As he stretches his neck, I notice some disturbing bruises at his lower throat, like someone has tried to strangle him.

I don't know if it's my personality or if it's a learned condition from my experience with the environment, but I don't do anything or say anything, I just let him go. Others would, I gather, feel most concerned and probably go prying into his bruises to map out the cause and effect of things, but not me. I close the door and do a run in my head to get away from his potential trouble.

I can't quite shake it, though. I keep seeing him, those lips and those bruises, and also that his jacket is a bit too small for him, and frayed at the cuffs. And I can't figure out, since I've seen him almost every day for half a year now, why he should suddenly become so real.

 

*

 

I wake up in the clutches of a very disagreeable dream. I've been fucking the boy, nicely and warmly, but my hands were around his throat squeezing the shit out of him. I feel nauseous. I feel like my inside is rotting.

I have no clue as to why this dream should occur, even less what it could mean. I'm no oneiromancer, no psychologist. All I know is that I do not, I repeat do not long for sexual romps with boys. I do not long for sexual romps, period. My physical encounters with other persons have been at best unsuccessful, at worst disastrous.

Not that I'm asexual. I'm no eunuch, my anatomy is fully functional. But then, I suppose my reluctance to involve myself with humanity in any deeper sense also affects my sexuality. My lovelife, if that's what one may call it, involves mostly myself, my computer and my fantasies, and I'm happy that way. It saves a lot of idiotic expectations, a lot of wasted energy, and a lot of disappointments. Yes, I know. All you amateur analysts are welcome to a field day here.

Oh, I have tried. It's just that ... Let me give you an example: I was 21, a little drunk, a little flattered by the attention the older woman next to me at the bar poured over me, because the norm is that ladies ignore me in these situations.

Somewhere at the back of my mind I believe there was hope that an experienced woman would be what the doctor ordered, technically a virgin as I was. Fumbling in the bushes with anonymous men never seemed like the real thing, and although an orgasm is an orgasm, there was always the disturbance of smells I didn't relate to, or too much hair, or voices mumbling stupid words. So I figured I'd give womankind a chance, in spite of my suspicion that the praise that overflows popular culture in regard to the vagina was somewhat excessive. Anyway, she took me home with her.

Kissing. Well, I wondered what the fuss was about. Why it was considered necessary, or hot, or whatever. The handful of men I'd played with never kissed me, and I wished she would stop and get down to the basics.

Her tits were nice, soft and round and warm, and I put my face between them, trying to, wanting to belong there. But she made it clear that resting there was not what was expected of me.

Instructing me in how to treat mammary glands, she removed the rest of her clothes. No surprises, any person over the age of ten with access to the web knows what a vagina looks like. I was hoping that encountering one in the flesh would bring some stirrings to my loins that the kissing didn't bring about, and it did. I guess because in my mind a saw cocks plowing into it, slick and hairless like in the porn I preferred. I tentatively fingered it, it looked quite substantial and I remember thinking serious, and dipped my index finger in it as she ordered me to get rid of my clothes, not offering to help as the ladies in the films do.

I'm locker room shy. I'm not happy with my body, and I always feel inadequate when I'm naked with other men. Still I had a slight hope that a woman might look at my puny body with less judgement. But her small laugh and her words as I got out of my shirt consolidated my discomfort.

"Jesus, you're skinny!"

But as my pants disappeared, and her eyes widened at the sight of my cock, and she whistled and commented "Now we're talking!", it was already too late. My erection was on its way down, and her lips on it didn't do shit. I lost all connection with my cock, all I could think of was my small and scrawny body.

She put in a bit of work trying to get my cock on the rise again. Then she gave up. She looked at it with a frown and touched it like it was venomous. "How am I supposed to do anything with this?" she snorted and left the room.

I got out of there. All I felt was relief.

A week after I was again roaming the bushes. Just watching. Jerking off to the sight of men going at it with each other, preferring my hand to their touches, avoiding closeness to their big bodies and their hairy faces.

Almost ten years ago, this was. And it's been like that ever since, and I'm content to keep it that way. I've never wanted to fuck anyone, I've never wanted to be fucked by anyone, so why do I fuck fourteen-year-old boys in my dreams?

 

 

December 7^th

I acknowledge him with a nod. He blushes, but does not withdraw his eyes as he usually does. Why he blushes, I do not know. I should be the embarrassed one, having almost snuffed him in my dream. For a brief moment I toy with the idea that he can see into my mind and finds the pictures in there disconcerting.

For some reason I keep half my mind focused on him through the day, and I'm sure my lack of full presence is noticeable in my teaching. I guess it ought to worry me, I never let personal feelings or things concerning other people interfere with my lectures, I pride myself on my objectivity, my distance. But I let my mind wander, seek out and fasten on his lips, moving on, wanting to penetrate his turtleneck collar to find whether those marks there were just in my imagination or for real.

Has he noticed? I think he has, he looks over his shoulder with a quick questioning glance, looks almost bothered as he leaves the classroom.

 

*

 

Out of sight, out of mind. I remain at my desk, starting to go through the stack of essays waiting there, and my concentration is again whole and unfettered.

Until I get to his contribution. His face turns up again, slightly changing as I read through his badly written, superficial and shallow effort. His face in my head takes on a doleful beauty, a Sebastian-like pathos – and suddenly there are inexplicable tears in my eyes.

I have to force myself to write some unbiased comments at the bottom of his short essay. What I really want is to give him some sort of written cuddle, and I do not understand what is going on in my mind.

 

 

December 10^th

I keep meeting his eyes. I give him small encouraging smiles, hoping only he notices. Futile hope. So to cover myself, I also have to smile a lot to the rest of the class, and I'm sure those who have but a minimal interest in their environment wonder what's going on with me. And well they should, I myself do not know why something inside me is changing, nor why this subtle change feels like an ache.

And why those little things you automatically notice suddenly bores deeper into you and stick there. Things you, as a teacher, always notice in a social setting like a classroom: the group dynamics, the codes of behavior, the references. All the things you find there, but never let get past the stage of ascertaining they're there. I mean, unless there are real problems, behaviorwise or intellectually, that you simply have to deal with, I've never let these details concern me much, or bother me. For six years I've been doing this job, and never have I let myself get involved emotionally, never have I lost my cool.

Now I notice everything. No, I don't. I notice everything that relates to this boy.

Strangely enough, there's no overt bulling in this class. The social constellations fluctuate, groupings and pairings come and go like some choreographed stage show, but this subtle dance seems to move in circles around the boy, not with him. Not that he's shunned, there's evidence that quite a few of them want to, or try to include him – unsuccessfully, it seems. The hint of exclusion seems to be his choice. This finds an echo in my heart. I feel akin to him, and I want him to know. I really want him to know. What the fuck is happening to me?

 

*

 

I spot him the minute I enter the mall: His back is towards me, but there is no mistaking that tousled, unkempt head of shaggy hair. His hand rests on the shoulder of a smaller boy where they stand in front of the toy shop near the entrance.

I do what I would never have done a week ago: I walk slowly past the two boys, as close as I dare, hoping he'll turn his head and see me. He doesn't. Disappointment sinks through me like a corpse dumped in a well. However, I can't make myself stop and announce myself, so I just walk on by, feeling stupid, and feeling strangely empty.

The feeling sticks with me as I browse the shelves in the book store. Irritation starts to nag at me. It annoys me that I'm behaving like a school girl with a crush, it annoys me that my mind is being burgled with what seems to be the beginning of an obsession, it annoys me that my browsing is hampered by strange thoughts and I can't concentrate on finding what I'm looking for. Disgusted with myself, I leave the shop with nothing.

I pass the burger place. The boys are there, sitting by the half-wall that separates the snack bar from the vast hall in the middle. With medium paper cups and a small portion of fries they obviously share. I'm not going to waste the opportunity a second time. I walk straight up to them, smile like I'm surprised, and nod a big hello.

"Oh. Hi, Sir." A quick, shy smile and he blushes and looks down. Now, why on earth should he blush? Is he embarrassed that a teacher recognizes him outside of school? I linger a bit, but he doesn't look at me, and it's getting awkward. I feel stupid again, I want to leave.

"Well. Have a nice evening."

He looks up now. "You too", he mumbles, and there's something I can't read in his eyes. Fright? Helplessness? I wish I was better at sussing out how people feel, but a lifetime of not wanting to care has seriously stumped me. I smile again, leaving him with what I guess is his brother.

But nearing the exit I feel oddly hollow, like something has been taken from me. It's such an unwanted sensation, and so unfamiliar, and my normal strategy towards disagreeable feelings does not work.

Again I do something I would never have done before. I walk back to the burger place, right up to where he sits, I tap his shoulder. He turns abruptly, looks alarmed. I lean in and stare him in the eyes and say as fast as I can:

"Listen, if you should need someone to talk to, I could be the one. I just want you to know."

His mouth opens and closes. But I'm deadly self-conscious and ashamed of myself, and I hurry off.

 

 

December 12^th

He's been absent for two days. Haven't seen him since Monday at the mall. I find myself worrying. I neither recognize nor understand myself anymore.

My sister, the one I still talk to, called right when I was back from school, wanting to know my plans for Christmas, asking if I'd like to join them. I lied and told her I was going to Rome. So for ten minutes she raved and ranted about how anyone could possibly spend Christmas in a foreign country with crazy food, and on top of that a country that didn't have snow or anything, and I had to cut her short in the end with another lie, saying I had a date and was about to leave. That got her foaming on about the defects of singledom and the benefits of relationships and the glory of marriage, and I just hung up on her.

I'm fine with being single. Absolutely fine. I was for all purposes single as a child, I was single as a schoolboy, I was single as a student, and even if it wasn't by choice in the very beginning, it certainly is now.

So I got thinking, why not do as I said I would, and go to Rome? That could be a nice distraction, a possible fruitful method of putting some distance between myself and the constant reminders of my ridiculous and disruptive fascination for this boy, a fascination that, if I'm honest, is beginning to look dangerously like infatuation. Absolutely useless to me, absolutely useless to him as well.

And why him? It's so inexplicable, there's nothing about him that stands out in any way. His face never launched even a small barge, his intellect will never win prices, his conversation is definitely not that of a Paris salonnière, and if he has other talents or traits, they're certainly well hidden.

But ... But ... Those lips. That haunted look in his eyes. That shadowy enigma of those marks on his throat. That pitiful meal with his brother at the mall – there has to be a story. And for the first time in my life, I really want to learn the story of another person. I just can't deny it. And I know I won't go to Rome. I'll wait here in my delusive illusion that he will take me at my word and come looking for me.

 

*

 

Some distance from our house there was a clearing in the small wood that sat on the edge of our village, and in the middle of that clearing stood a lonely oak with a wide crown and low branches that begged to be climbed. My tree. All mine. I would climb up as far as I dared, a little higher every time, and sit there enjoying my pretend world, safe in the knowledge that no one would come looking for me and disturb my reveries.

Once, and only once, our mother came to the edge of the clearing looking for me, calling my name. I hid in the dense foliage and kept quiet. She moved back through the trees, still calling my name a couple of times.

When later I came in, she didn't let on she had been looking for me, didn't ask where I'd been.

Now my flat is my tree. I hide here. But I know that if he comes calling my name, I will show myself. I will answer.

 

December 14^th

Doorbell.

He's out there, and beside him the small boy I guessed is his brother. His looks agitated. He draws his breath sharply and pulls his shoulders up around his ears.

"You said ... you said I could come to you", he says. Forced, staccato. "Please. I need I favor. Please."

I open the door wide. Still they remain out there. I raise my brows, open my hands in front of him.

"Will you please look after my brother for a little while? I have to ... There is something I must do." Desperate plea in his eyes.

"Of course", I smile. "Come in, won't you?"

He crouches down, grabs the small boys shoulders. "You wait for me here", he says softly, persuasively. "Don't be afraid. He's nice. He won't hit you."

The small boy frowns, but keeps his mouth shut. Now he walks in a circle around me into my flat. Big brother is back on his feet. "Thanks", he whispers. Ready to scram by the look of it.

"I'll be back as soon as I can", he calls out as he runs down the stairs.

Little brother is standing still in the middle of my livingroom. He turns away from me as I close the door and come back in. I feel for him, this can't be easy. How old can he be? Eight? Old enough to be sceptical, anyway.

"Would you like something to drink while you wait?" I try. A slight movement of the head, but he won't turn around and look at me.

"I don't have any pop, but I have orange squash. Is that ok? And we can see if there's anything you like to watch." I turn the TV on, hand him the remote and point to the couch. Without looking at me he takes the remote, sits down cross-legged on the floor in front of the box and starts zapping.

I go to the open kitchen, mix two glasses of squash. Put one on the floor beside him and take mine to the couch. On the screen a cheetah is speeding up through dry grass, he stops zapping. As the beast goes in for the kill, I hear him hold his breath and then sigh.

"My name is Leo", I tell him, "or Mr. Marshall if you prefer. What's yours?"

The cheetah is tearing at the dead gazelle with its sharp teeth, opening up the belly. "Ben", the boy says without looking at me. "Or Mr. Sanderson if you prefer", he suddenly giggles. Then goes stumm.

I'm not at all sure how to play this. Leave him alone or talk to him? I decide to leave everything up to him and resign myself to watch with him as a family of elephants march along looking for water.

Suddenly he shifts on the floor and sits facing me, looking at me with a vacant face. I smile. What else can I do?

"You're Alan's teacher", he says flatly.

"So I am. Has he said bad things about me?" I laugh, reassuringly I hope. "I know I used to slag off my teachers when I was younger."

The boy Ben seems undecided whether to open up or keep silent. Finally he seems to have come to some sort of conclusion. He rises, comes over and sits down gingerly at the far end of the couch.

"He says you're ok. You're not pushy like some of the others."

"That's good to hear. Do you have nice teachers? What grade are you in?"

"Third", he answers. "I'm eight."

"That was my guess. So, how do you like school?"

But young Ben is not going that way. He leans forward, elbows on knees and chin on clenched fists. I watch him now. Same untidy hair as his brother, just a little darker. Rather narrow face with dark eyes and a thin mouth that's nothing like his brother's. He shifts again, leans back with his hands in his lap, and I see his fingernails are bitten down to uncomfortable shortness.

"I know what he's doing", he suddenly reveals. "He thinks I don't."

I wait for more, reluctant to butt in and queer his pitch. Let him decide where this is going. But nothing more comes out, and I see his eyes are fixed on the bowl of four apples and a banana that sits on the table in front of us. He couldn't have made it clearer.

"Are you hungry? Have an apple if you like."

He just looks at me, uncertainty flowers in his small face.

"Or a banana. Or I can put a frozen pizza in the oven if that's your thing. But I'm afraid that's about all this restaurant has on the menu tonight."

A small smile creeps up in his face. Doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"I am a little hungry", he whispers shyly, "but I want to wait for Alan." His gaze goes back to the screen.

There's a commercial on now, a nondescript guy dressed in office casuals walking diagonally towards you, listing reasons why you should buy his insurance. I study the boy instead. His clothes are obviously hand-me-downs: almost but not quite fitting. His trainers are very worn, not really suitable for the weather outside. He absentmindedly gnaws on his thumbnail, but there's not much to work with there. Still, I know that committed nail-biters always manage to get hold of something. I also notice that his whole being is full of tiny, almost unnoticeable nervous twitches. My old self kicks in as my first thought is He needs help and thank god it's not my responsibility. But strange thoughts follow this: Why do I think he needs help? And if he does, who's there to help him? His brother? And then again: What's it got to do with me? But my run-away strategy suddenly feels ... inadequate? Unsatisfying? Misanthropic?

I'm trying to gloss over those unwelcome thoughts by giving myself a pat on the shoulder for letting him in and allowing him to sit here and wait for whatever comes next, so that makes me a good enough person, doesn't it?

I need some empty talk to stop these futile musings.

"Your brother ... He's nice to you?" Half question, half statement.

His thumb leaves his mouth. Silent repeated little nods. And suddenly he pulls his sleeve all the way up to his shoulder and stretches his naked arm towards me.

"He's going to stop this", he states. His upper arm is full of blue and yellowing bruises. "But I don't see how."

Not the easy talk I was hoping for then.

"Ouch", I murmur. "That looks like it hurt. Did you fall off your bike, or what?" I know that's not the case, I know where those bruises came from. Strong hands with strong fingers. But I'm giving him a way out if he needs it.

His head turns from side to side and his eyes roam aimlessly around the room. "Yeah", he finally admits. "It did hurt." Then he straightens his back like he wants to grow an inch or so. "Not so bad anymore. I can take it", he says defiantly, almost proudly.

I have to get out of this.

"Hey, since we don't know when Alan will be back, let's put a pizza in the oven. I have one more, so we can bake that one too when he's here. What do you say?"

He doesn't answer, just stares. Almost scowls. I leave him and go to the kitchen anyway. To fix the promised pizza. Suddenly I'm aware he's right behind me. I turn around.

"I need to go to the bathroom", he whispers. I show him where it is.

I flop down on the coach. Breathe deeply and slowly. In ... and out. I hate this situation. I hate the nagging suspicion that I'm not handling this the way I should, every cell in my whole being wants to run away. But hate it or not, I'm in it now, there's no escape. I try to upholster my edgy discomfort by convincing myself that it's only temporary, soon big brother will be back and I'm out of it. I lean back and watch without really registering a new string of commercials on the screen: Painted ladies in soft focus. Persuasive voice sneaking into my ear, telling me the effect is documented. Documented? Like how? By writing "This works!" on a piece of paper and putting it in an envelope?

Why is Alan taking so long? And why is little Ben still in the bathroom?

There's the ding! from the timer. I get up, rescue the pizza, walk to the bathroom to call him out. As I'm getting closer, I distinctly hear a voice in there, mumbling and talking, the sentences move along melody-lines like the narrator in a fairytale movie. I stop to listen. Listen at doors? How base is that? But it's my house, fuck it!

I close in and put my ear to the door. It's mostly murmur now, but I can make out some words and fragments ...the evil in the land... rise up! (this is very loud) ... sword lies broken ...and suddenly very clear and dramatic But good Sir, I am but a poor farmer's son ...

I turn quickly away. Inexplicable tears, tears that have no business to be here flow down my cheeks. Someone has found his lonely tree in my toilet, and all my defenses crumble. Oh, dear God, please let this be over soon!

I knock on the door and the voice abruptly stops.

"Ben", I say. "Pizza is ready." I hurry out to the kitchen, dry my face on the tea-towel, and slice the pizza in six triangles. Tear off a bunch of sheets from the kitchen roll for napkins.

Out in the livingroom Ben is already on the couch. I put the pizza down on the coffee table and sit down right beside him. Some strange urge in me wants to comfort him, or maybe show solidarity, or make him feel that everything will be all right, I don't really understand what I want anymore. I smile at him and put my arm around his bony little shoulders.

Big mistake. Like in panic, he jumps away from me, crawls up in the corner of the couch and his eyes look terrified.

"Please don't do it!" he whispers, but tears now spring from his eyes and frightened sobs start to jerk his body. "No, please!" he wails. "Please don't do it! Please don't do it!"

I lift my open hands like in surrender. "Ben! I'm not going to do anything! Believe me, I'm not going to hurt you in any way! Please don't think so!" I slide over to the other side of the couch. "I'll go sit over here. Ben, I'm not going to do anything to you! I promise! Cross my heart!"

His sobs abate, but his eyes still look fearful. "And hope to die?" he whimpers.

"And hope to die", I concede. "Now, have some pizza."

 

*

 

It's close to midnight when the doorbell finally announces Alan's arrival.

His little brother is asleep on the couch, has been so for the last two hours. He fell asleep after we finished the pizza, but shortly afterwards woke up with a start. Staring wildly around himself.

"Where's Alan?" Black anguish in his voice.

I tried to put him at ease. "He's not back yet. Don't worry, you've only been sleeping for a few minutes."

"I want Alan!" he fretted. "I don't want him to be out there!"

I didn't stir from my chair across from him, wise from my former mistake.

"I guess he has do what he has to do, you know", I told him as calmly as I could, although I'd started to feel a bit worried myself. "Perhaps it just takes a bit more time than he thought. You go back to sleep, and I'll wake you up when he's back. Ok?"

He seemed to accept this. Folded his body into a pretzel and closed his eyes. The minute after, however, his head shot up again. He stared at me for long time.

"Is it true you are as nice as Alan said?" he suddenly asked.

How on earth can you answer something like that?

"I don't know", I said, "because I have no idea how nice Alan has told you I am. To be honest with you, Ben, I'm not sure I'm all that nice, but at least I'm not mean. That counts for something, doesn't it?"

He obviously had to think through this. Started gnawing on his other thumb, but then laid his head down and put his hand under his cheek.

"I think maybe you are nice", he mumbled, more to the cushion under his head than to me. "Will you read to me?"

I hadn't at all anticipated something like that to come from him. But it had become weirdly important to me that he should feel calm and at ease.

"Of course I will if that's something you'd like. I just have to think if I have anything you would like to listen to. Just a minute."

And then I knew just what I would read to him. I had to search a bit for the book, but I knew I had it somewhere. It was one of my favorites as a child, and I've kept all the books I used to love. Finally I found it. So I started to read him the story of a rather wretched boy from a poor family, almost deadly ill, and his feverish fantasies or hallucinations if you like, fantasies about how he as a Junker desperately fights the evil powers in a fairy-tale kingdom, and in the end wins as the fever leaves him. I can't really give justice to it here, but believe me: It's a beautiful, beautiful story, perhaps mainly because it's so well written.

He fell asleep before we got to the end.

I let Alan in. He looks worn out, everything about him seems to sag, and it looks like he's been crying. I urge him to come in, points him to the couch where his brother lies fast asleep, kneel down to remove his shoes and ask him what I can get him in the food and drink department. And discover that I'm starting to act like a fussy housewife.

He sighs heavily. Bends his head backwards and closes his eyes. Sighs again.

"Can I have some water?" he eventually asks. "Please?"

I get him a small bottle of water from the fridge, thinking teenagers always drink water from bottles rather than glasses. "Are you hungry?"

He takes a swig from the bottle, puts it carefully down on the table. "No, I'm not hungry. They gave me a couple of sandwiches at the hospital."

Oh, that voice now that he's winding down a little. It bathes me in musical honey, swathes me in harmonious silk. I hope his voice is through breaking because it can't possibly be more mesmerizing and it ought to stay that way.

He looks at me with a very strange expression, half hostile, half longing. "And now I suppose you want to know what I was doing there," he says. And then comes the "Sir" addition.

I hold up my hand. "No need for the Sir. Right now I'm just an ordinary guy. And you don't have to tell me anything unless you want to."

Still that weird look. "I think I do. Because ... Only ... "

I don't rush him. He obviously has a struggle to finish inside him.

"Do you think I can crash here on your couch as well?" he suddenly asks.

Something unpleasant stirs in my chest, I'm not sure what.

"Yes", I say, hoping my reluctance doesn't seep through, "but why?"

But he has obviously caught my hesitation. He stares at the floor. "Maybe I got you wrong. When you said I could come to you if I needed someone to talk to, I mean." He lifts his head, but looks at his brother, not at me. "I'm sorry you've been dragged into this. I ... I'll wake Ben up, and we'll leave." He starts to get up.

I rise, come over and actually push him back.

"Just a minute there! Did I say you couldn't stay? And you're right, I did say I would like to be someone you could talk to, but so far there hasn't been much talking, has there? So before you draw any hasty conclusions, do you think you can give me at least a small hint about what has happened?"

He bends forward, hides his face in his hands.

"I noticed you said we'll leave, not we'll go home. Please, Alan, please! Put me in the picture!"

"I know", he mumbles into his hands, "I have to do that. Because I've already involved you in a way. I gave your address to the police and the hospital, because they wanted to know what I'd done with Ben."

"But what is all this about?"

Until now we've kept our voices low, but Alan suddenly gets up from the couch and almost shouts out:

"I know! I know! But it's so ... so difficult!"

His loud voice stirs his brother awake. The boy sits up like a rabbit from a hole, blinks and cries "Alan!", jumps off the couch, runs to his brother and glues himself to his midriff.

Alan pulls his brother's head to his chest, strokes his hair almost absentmindedly. "It's ok, Ben. Everything is going to be ok. Do you hear me? Everything."

They just stand there, hugging, stroking. It's beautiful in a disturbing, almost heartbreaking way, mostly maybe because I'm so totally not part of it, and it dawns on me with a small shock that I really want to be.

"Boys", I suggest, "please sit and lets sort this out."

Alan lifts his brother up, carries him over to the couch and sits them down.

"I have a suggestion. It's late, and you're tired, both of you. Alan, you asked if you could share the couch with Ben, but I think it would be better if you took my bed. It's wider and more comfortable. I'll sleep on the couch tonight. If I'm not mistaken, it would be difficult for you to go home tonight. So Alan, if you find it hard to talk to me tonight, maybe tomorrow you'll feel differently. What do you say?"

They say nothing. Finally Alan nods his head yes, and lets go of his brother. He walks over and hangs his jacket on a peg by the door, pulls out two toothbrushes from the inner pocket.

As I take them through the small hallway to my bedroom, he gives one of the brushes to his brother. "I brought yours, too", he whispers. "Just in case."

I open the door. "I changed the bedclothes yesterday, so I've only slept in them once. Do you mind sleeping in them, or do you want me to change them?"

They shake their heads in unison, eyes fixed on the bed.

"I'll leave you, then. Ben, you know where the bathroom is. Try to get a good night's sleep now, the pair of you."

I walk away. At the door to the livingroom, I hear soft, but quick, socked feet approaching behind me and then a small voice:

"I'm sorry I yelled at you. I didn't really know that you're nice."

I don't turn around. "It's fine, Ben", I say to the door. "I wouldn't have known either."

 

 

December 15^th

The inside of my head feels like a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. I toss and turn, tumultuous thoughts chase each other as I drift in and out of sleep, half-awake and half dreaming.

In this limbo I'm suddenly aware of something that shouldn't be there, a foreign element that does not belong with the rest of the chaos in my brain, and I sit up abruptly.

There in my chair across from the couch sits a teenaged boy, in the darkness I can still make out his white T-shirt and baggy, pale blue boxers. I don't know why I should feel exposed, I'm still fully clothed, but I automatically wrap the woolen throw tighter around me.

"Something wrong?" I ask.

He draws one knee up to his chin and hugs his leg. Pale and hairless skin, almost as white as his shirt, and my eyes are drawn there even if I don't want them to.

"I couldn't sleep", he says softly. "So I just came out to see ... if you are real, I guess."

"And? Am I?"

He tilts his head to the left. "I hope so." He lets his leg down again, settles his hands in his lap, as if for protection. I hadn't really thought about it before, but now I suddenly find all my concentration centered on what he hides there behind his hands. My throat thickens.

"Now that neither of us seem to be able to sleep", I say, "do you find it in your heart to tell me at least some of what's going on?"

He sighs. "I know I should, but I don't know where to begin."

"What if I ask you some questions to cue you in, would that make it easier?"

"I guess." Now he pulls both his legs up and rests his chin on both knees. Folds his hands in front of his ankles.

"What were you doing in the hospital?"

"I came with our mother in the ambulance, and I had to stay while they did the paperwork ... because she was unconscious ... because he had beaten the crap out of her ... because he's a mean asshole when he's drunk. Which is pretty regular, and especially on a Friday."

"I see. And that's where the police also come in, I gather?"

"Yeah. I sorta knew this was going to happen, because sooner or later it was bound to go totally wrong, and that's why I came to you because I didn't know where else to go and I wanted to put Ben away because he's had enough shit from his father already, and I called the police and they were already there when I came back, and they arrested the fucking bastard ... sorry, I don't mean to swear, but ... and I first thought he had killed our mum and I got a bit hysterical, I guess ... but they were all very calming and sorta nice ... but they had to ask a lot of questions ... and the ambulance came, and I went with them ... and the police as well ... and they kept me there until I had told them about everything and that's why it took so long." He draws his breath a little shakily. "I'm sorry and please don't be angry with me, but I had to tell them about you and give them your address ... and I think they sorta had to find out if you were a criminal or something, because it took an awful lot of time ... and whispering and phone-calls and questions and everything before they said it was ok and I had done the right thing."

Listening to that beautiful voice relate only bits of what seems to be a horror story is the most surreal experience in my life up till now. I have goosebumps all the way up to my temples and my stomach threatens to turn itself inside out.

"Never mind me", I tell him. "I can't imagine what a terrible day you've had. I got the impression it's not your father this is about, just Ben's. Am I right?"

"Yeah." He breathes heavily, like he has exerted himself by telling me all this. "My father died when I was very little, I don't even remember him. Sometimes I think I do, but I know that's just the stuff I've been told about him. And Ben's dad has never been like a dad to me, even if I was only like five when Mum married him, but he never liked me and I never liked him, so ..."

He shifts in his chair, leans backwards and spreads his legs and I have to force my eyes not to linger on the suggestive mound to the left of the boxer's mid-seam.

"I can't believe I'm telling you all this, Mr. Marshall, like you're a friend or something. I'm sorry. It's wrong, I know. I don't understand why it's so ... almost easy now ... to talk to you, you know ... but you've always seemed so calm and ... I don't know, neutral? ... and not angry and fussy like the others ... and you did sorta promise I could ... maybe it's because it's dark in here and you can't really see my face."

I can see more of you than is good for me, my first thought is. Oh God, what have I got myself into? I've never been further out of my comfort zone, and I fear there's no way back in now.

"I think we're past the Mr. Marshall stage, at least here and now", I remark. "My name is Leo, if you didn't already know that."

"I knew." Silence, then a small sound as he shifts back to knees up. "Can I ask you something?"

"Feel free."

"How old are you?"

I almost laugh. "That wasn't at all what I thought you would ask. Well, I'm 30 for yet a couple of days. I turn 31 on Sunday." I look at my watch: 02:30. "Tomorrow, as a matter of fact."

"Oh." He seems lost in thought. Then: "You seem so much older. Not to look at, but ... like you've been around for much longer and have seen everything and nothing makes you freak out ... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."

"I don't think you were rude. That was just an observation. Although not a totally correct one. Never mind. Listen, I guess there's a whole lot more to your story, but now that some of it is off your chest, do you feel like you could sleep now? We can talk again in the morning if you want to."

He gets up in a hurry. Stubs his toe on the chair leg and sucks his breath in. "I'm sorry to have kept you awake. I'll .. I'll go now."

"Just one thing before you go. I noticed the bruises on your neck when you were here last week. And Ben showed me his bruised arm. So now you know that I'm aware of more than you probably thought I was. Let's leave it at that and try to get some sleep."

 

December 16^th

Just finished another of those tiring phone calls from my sister. To wish me a happy birthday, sure, but much more to pry into how my fictitious date on Wednesday turned out. So to make her happy and shut her up, I made up a somewhat ambiguous story that could be interpreted several ways, and left her to ponder the various possibilities.

The Police fetched the boys early yesterday. They were at the door about eight. I'm afraid I was not very accommodating, but I'd not had many hours of sleep, and what little I had, was fretful and fragmentary. The boys were still asleep when they came, so there was no time or occasion for further talks with Alan.

It all happened so fast, but before they were taken away I could almost touch the apprehension and anguish, and probably also sorrow, that hung like a thundercloud over them. Their insecurity matched my own: How do we say goodbye after such a condensed and in so many ways intimate experience? I wanted to hold them both, stroke their hair and tell them to be courageous and strong blah blah blah, but of course I didn't. I also believe Alan was on the verge of a physical goodbye, he kept putting one foot back and forth as if he couldn't decide how to act. And then they were gone.

The relief I felt was wonderful, I won't lie about it. It was ridiculously like the proverbial heavy weight was lifted off me, I could breathe again. I took my coffee to the couch and sank down, relishing the feeling of freedom from responsibility, taking pleasure in the normality of my regained solitude.

But it didn't last. I couldn't just cross out and close off the impact the night before had made on me. All day through images kept coming up in my brain, distracting me, making me restless, regardless of my efforts to clear my head.

The worst relapse came when I jumped into bed, quite early, with the intention of winning back a bit of the sleep I felt I'd lost. The sheets smelled different. The sheet smelled of two unhappy boys. And before I could stop myself, I wept into my pillow like a rejected lover.

 

*

 

Well, it is my birthday, as I repeatedly tell myself, so should I not treat myself to something? Something nice, something tasty, something to take my mind off the stupid gloom that seems to have moved in here and refuses to leave. Go out for a good meal? Or order Thai take-away and find an interesting movie to watch? Or push my sleeves up and do some serious house-cleaning in preparation for Christmas?

Oh, Christmas ... for fuck's sake, I'm not in the mood to even think about it. Maybe I should just throw the bedlinen in the washer and get rid of that smell that isn't mine ... see if it helps to empty my mind.

But I can't be bothered to do anything at all. So I pour myself a glass of Sambuca to go with my coffee and sit down at my small dining table, again debating with myself the pros and cons of eating out versus food brought to my door.

I'm so far into my own unattractive self-absorption that I actually start from the sound of the doorbell. Jesus. If that is my sister in one of her misguided attempts to sort me out as she usually calls it, I don't know what I'll do. Why I never installed a Judas eye on my door, I have no idea, and I regret it now. But before I've made up my mind what I should do, the bell goes off again.

I sigh as I reluctantly get up to answer the door. And I'm literally shocked to find Alan out there. My heart races up in my throat, that's the kind of emotional wreck I've become in two days.

"Happy birthday", he says, and from behind his back he pulls out a flower bouquet, one of those you get at gas stations.

I am speechless. I gape. And I can see how it makes him insecure and nervous.

"I'm ... I'm sorry if I disturb you", he stutters. "I just wanted to give you these." He holds the bouquet out to me. "Then I'll go."

I find my voice. "You'll do no such thing! I'm surprised, that's all. I just didn't think I'd see you here again. Oh, do come in, and please disturb me as much as you like!" I throw the door open and wave him in, and Oh God, I actually have to put all my brakes on not to embarrass us both by pulling him to my chest.

"It's so nice to see you, I've been wondering so much what has happened since you were taken away. What am I saying, taken away? Like you were abducted or something? Since you left, I mean." I realize I'm babbling. "I'll put these in water. You go find a seat."

He looks earnestly into my face. "I won't stay if you have plans. I don't want to interfere ... But see, I didn't thank you. Not properly. And it's nagged me because you were really kind to us. But I'll leave if it's inconvenient."

"Oh, yes, my important plans." I laugh out loud. "The all-consuming question of whether to phone for Thai or put a coat on and trot out to the Indians or something. Believe me, you are more than welcome."

He sits down at the edge of the couch, careful not to make himself too much at home, it seems. I bring my coffee and liquor to the table. "Can I get you something? Do you drink coffee?"

Headshake. "I don't need anything", he says very softly. "I just wanted to see you."

"Where's your brother? Is everything all right with him? And you?" Silly question. How can they be all right in the situation they're in?

"We've been sent to live with Ben's aunt and uncle. Until they know what to do with us, I guess." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice.

"How's your mother?"

"I'm not sure. They're not telling us anything. I think she's still in a coma because I wasn't allowed to see her. I don't think that's right, do you? Shouldn't I be allowed to see my mother even if she's really sick? What if she dies?" If it wasn't for the superb music in his voice, he would have sounded whiny.

"I'm absolutely on your side", I assure him. "And I'm also pretty sure they're not allowed to stop you from seeing her. You're next of kin."

He sits quietly lost in thought for a while. Then it's like something alerts him.

"I promised to say hello and thank you from Ben. He told me what happened when you were alone with him waiting for me. He thought ... I don't know how to ... He thought you were like his dad." The last bit comes out very fast.

My heart makes itself felt in my chest. My suspicions are close to being confirmed or refuted. "Yes, I guessed there was something not ... shall we say not nice going on there. But I didn't ask. I probably didn't want to know, to be honest."

"Like the rest of them", he sneers, not happy with my statement. "Especially the people we live with now. But then, they're that bastards family, so I guess that's to be expected."

"Please don't get me wrong", I break in. "I didn't mean I don't care. It's just ... I didn't know any of you, and I never pry into other people's lives."

I get this sudden and inconvenient urge to confide in him or something. Well, here goes:

"It may be my biggest fault, but I've always tried to keep people at a distance. But that's changed now. Since I met you. Met you for real, I mean. I can't explain it, but it's a bit like waking up. You see, I've always been on my own. That's all I'm used to. But now I find myself thinking about you, and wondering about you ... and your brother, of course ... almost constantly. Wondering what I can do for you." Cough.

" And it makes me feel helpless, and I don't like the feeling," I add.

He stares at me like I've been swearing in his face. It instantly makes me loath myself for being so thoughtless and conceited that I think he cares what I should happen to feel in his miserable situation. Change of subject is required.

"Listen, I'd like it if you would come with me for a bite. When do you have to be back?"

He shrugs. "Sometime, I don't know. They're not overly happy to have us there, especially not me. They're not my family," he says, there's an unusual and acid tone in his voice. "Not at all!"

 

*

 

It's started to snow again when we leave Burger King. Yes, I know, not the place for a gourmet birthday dinner, but ... It was nevertheless the coziest and most pleasant meal I've had in a long time. The talk was loose and uncomplicated. I learned of his tastes in music and entertainment, he learned of mine. Nothing was forced, the silent moments between the words felt natural, in no way awkward.

At one point he excused himself and disappeared. A moment later I felt him behind me, and suddenly I had one of those paper crowns they provide there on my head and I heard a small giggle as he hurried back to his seat. Strangely enough, I felt more touched than embarrassed and kept the crown on for the rest of the meal.

And now, out in the softly falling snow where the whole world is decked out for Christmas and nothing looks ordinary, even real, I catch myself wishing this evening would never end. I want to stay in this fairy-tale moment for ever. Here, with this boy that so unexpectedly has made me feel that things matter.

But I realize this evening has reached the finish line, in spite of my reluctance. So I lightly touch his shoulder.

"Thanks for coming with me", I tell him. "You actually helped make this one of my better birthdays."

Quick smile changes into a frown as he looks down. His feet move restlessly in place, his whole body seems to build up to something. And then:

"I don't feel like going back there. To them ...", he grumbles. Lifts his face and meets my eyes. "Can I please stay with you a little longer?"

My heart skips a beat and joy rushes through my veins.

"Sure." I try not to sound too eager, instead I sound indifferent. "I'd like that very much", I amend my first lame uttering. "Anything you'd like to do?"

He rocks to and fro on his feet, hands in and out of his pockets.

"Can we go back to your apartment?" he finally asks, blushing slightly as the words leave him. He seems to blush a lot. And from quite insignificant things at that. I keep wondering about this all through our silent walk home.

I also notice a squishing sound from his right shoe.

 

*

 

I've hung up my coat and kicked off my boots. He's just standing there, immobilized, like he ... I don't know, expects something? Wants something, but is powerless to get it? And then I see his eyes: so full of despair it hurts to see them. Something snaps in me.

"Oh, come here!"

I grab him, I pull him towards me and envelop him in my arms, I rock him from side to side. I feel how the tension in his body slowly leaves him and dissolves into a small, tight tremble, it's like a purring cat is vibrating against me. His smell tickles my nostrils: a mix of not quite clean clothes, a whiff of this morning's soap and something a little musky and slightly acrid that is surprisingly agreeable.

"I think you have a leaky shoe", I mumble. "I'll get you some dry socks."

He holds on to me. "Not yet", he says, almost begging. "Hold me a little longer. Please?"

I do. It feels right. Feels like home. Feels like I've been wrong all my life, and this is what I was meant to do.

Finally he seems to have had enough and pulls away.

"I'm taller than you", he says. Like it bewilders him.

I laugh. "Everyone's taller than me."

 

*

 

We're watching the second half of a movie. Not a very absorbing one, and from the corner of my eye I'm aware he's frequently throwing glances in my direction. I decide to meet is eyes, catch a question in them before he quickly looks away.

"Boring movie, huh?"

He looks like he struggles with something, his fingers fiddle nervously with the bottom rib of his sweater.

"It's ok", he says, but there's obviously something bothering him. And then out of the blue:

"Do you think I'm childish?"

I'm a little taken aback. "Why would I think that?"

He bites his lip. His beautiful lip. "Because I wanted you to keep cuddling me", he eventually confesses.

I study him, long and thoroughly, hoping he'll allow himself to see the sincerity in my gaze. "Then I'm childish as well", I counter. "Because I could have gone on holding you for ages." Jesus, now I'm the one blushing.

Quick, timid gaze before he turns his eyes down again. His fingers continue fussing with his sweater. I jump in at the deep end: "Would you like another hug?"

I instantly regret saying it, I'm sure I'm scaring him away now. Or if not, I don't know if I can handle more intimacy.

When he finally looks up, there's so much loneliness and longing in his eyes it nearly bowls me over. He nods silently.

I open one arm in his direction. "Come here, then."

He slides slowly along the couch until his hip touches mine, curls up to fit under my arm. A small sigh of contentment, or maybe resignation, escapes him. We sit like this until the movie is nearing the end, and now his arm comes crawling up across the top of my stomach, as if to secure his place, as if he's afraid this closeness will end with the movie. A gesture fatal to my equilibrium, the touch of his arm triggers my blood to travel downwards, I feel my cock twitch as it fills up. And suddenly I feel scared, really scared.

I carefully lift his arm off me. "Gotta go to the bathroom", I mutter, my voice feels strangled. I hurry off and lock myself in. Splash my face with cold water, stare at my face in the mirror and breathe as deeply and as slowly as possible.

Oh God. Half of me tells me to stop this, to send him away now, because this boy does things to me I didn't know anyone could do and I've no idea how to deal with it. The other half is desperate for him to stay, to remain locked in my arms, to let me feel the warmth from his body, the tremble in his limbs, the smell of his hair ... But this is just a boy, he's only fourteen! And I'm his teacher! How come I've never felt like this with anyone before? Oh, sweet fucking Jesus, help me out of this!

I suppose I'd hid in the bathroom long enough for him to get worried, he looks a bit distressed and uneasy when I return and sit down in the chair opposite him. It pains me to see him like that. Makes me feel guilty, too.

And I don't know what to say, and neither does he, so pretty soon the reticence begins to feel loaded and strained.

He's the one who breaks the silence. "What is it?" he asks. Apprehensive. Fearful.

I shake my head. "Nothing", I lie. "Just a bit tired, I guess." I should ask him to leave now, but I can't. I can't!

"Do you want me to leave?"

There. He said it. What now?

"Yes", I croak. "And no. It's been nice, but I think it's about time you went home, don't you?"

He doesn't say anything. His shoulders sag a bit as he rises and goes to the door. Bends down to put his shoes on, his whole being like a destitute sigh. And something screams inside my head: You bastard! How can you let him go like that!

A week ago I wouldn't even had had that thought. Wouldn't have thought twice about sending him out in the cold.

I get abruptly up and almost run to him. "I'm sorry! You can't go now, not in those shoes! That one is still soaked!"

He looks and sounds vexed. "Well, what am I supposed to do? You're tired of me, so ... what?"

I sit down on the floor blocking the door.

"I'm not tired of you. That's not it. Not at all!"

He makes a sound that's almost a moan. His lips are closed hard, but his anxious brows shout Don't do this to me! I pat the floor beside me.

"Sit here with me. Please?"

He hesitates. Now he flops down. Makes sure not to come too close.

"Now tell me", I say. "What would you like? Never mind me, what do you want?"

He leans back against the wall. Swallows so hard I can hear it. "I don't think what I want is possible, so ... What I really want is that I don't have to go back to those people at all. Ever."

I have no answer. We just sit there for a while. Thinking. Breathing.

Suddenly he pulls down the ribbed neck of his sweater and shows me his throat. "Almost gone now", he says. There are still marks, however, brownish yellow traces of someone's malicious intent. I reach out and slide my index finger over them.

"I tried to stop him. He was doing stuff with Ben, and Ben was crying, so I tried to stop him. Then he went at me."

I freeze. My throat tightens. "What?" I whisper.

He sucks his lower lip in, then lets it out with a small smack. "When I caught them, he was holding Ben down and forcing his cock into his mouth", he says harshly. "He said he'd kill me if I told anyone. Screw him, so I told Mum, but she wouldn't believe me."

I take his hand and hold it mine. Feel the vibration.

"He's always been sorta mean. Sometimes he would beat Mum when he was drunk and she always tried to hide it from us, but we knew ... and then in the morning he would apologize and look sorta remorseful and be nice to us all ... but lately ... He lost his job, right? ... and he got worse. With the drinking. And the aggression ... And he started on Ben, you know, I don't know when, because Ben only just now has begun to talk about it."

I squeeze his hand. "Oh God", I sigh. "Has he been doing ... stuff ... to you, too?"

He snorts. "No. I'm too old for him, I guess. Or maybe it's because I'm not his son, so he doesn't get the same kick out of it, I don't know. He only hits me when I get in the way."

He edges himself an inch closer.

"And then on Friday ... We heard the shouting even out on the street ... when we came home from school, right? ... and I told Ben to wait, and in there Mum had locked herself in the bathroom and was screaming at him. I ... I guess she must have found out after all ... about Ben, you know ... and he was sozzled, I mean, really stinko ... and he had an axe and was smashing the door down ... so I came to you."

I have a hard time digesting this. It's so unreal, so like a bad movie, there's nothing in my experience, even in my imagination, that could have prepared me for that stuff like this went on outside of fiction. And how can he tell me all this in that sweet-sounding and mellifluous voice and never even once lapse into hysterics?

I rub my chest absentmindedly as the air I've obviously kept in loudly rushes out of my lungs.

"God, Alan. I don't know what to say. Except that my admiration for you just reached the roof."

He poohs softly. "They don't wanna hear about it. Ben's folks, you know. Oh, they're not bad people, they're nice to Ben ... and caring ... but it's like they pretend this didn't happen, and it makes me wanna punch their faces."

His voice changes, there's a nasal twang in it. "How can I make as if nothing matters? I can't! I can't!"

He's crying now. Quietly leaning against the wall, tears streaming from tightly shut eyes. Suddenly he leaps up, runs to the bathroom.

Laboriously I get up as well, my body feels drained and heavy. I wait outside the bathroom until the sound of running water dwindles and stops. And finally he comes out.

"You can stay here as long as you like", I tell him.

He bores his eyes into my face. Searching, scrutinizing. "Really?" he eventually asks.

"Really."

"Forever, then."

There's no need to comment. We both know what he means.

 

*

 

I've made the call to the Sandersons, talked to the aunt. She didn't seem overly concerned that Alan would stay overnight with me, I suspect she was just glad to have him out of her hair for a while. And I had to admit to myself that just a couple of days ago I would have reacted in much the same way if I was in her shoes.

Having him stay here now is possibly going to create more problems than solutions, but I push that aside. My main concern now is to make him feel that he matters, maybe feel wanted, I'm not at all sure what I think. It's all so totally contrary to the way I've always handled my life, I'm so sailing into unchartered waters.

Thinking I'm not seeing him, he surreptitiously sneaks a hand down his jeans and scratches his balls. Now he absentmindedly smells his fingers.

I will not pretend not to have noticed. "Do you need a shower or something?" I ask with a small smile.

Here comes the blush again. "I suppose I do", he reluctantly admits. "But ... then I have to go back there."

I take a guess at why. So I get up and gesture to him to follow. In my bedroom, I open up my wardrobe.

"Look at us", I tell him. "See any significant difference in size? I don't. So if your problem is clean underwear, take your pick."

He's a deep red now. "I can't do that", he stammers.

"Really? Well, Mr. Sanderson, if you are going to stay here, I'd prefer it if you smelled like flowers rather than sewers", I tease him.

His face can't get any redder. "I don't smell that bad", he protests to the floor.

I snigger. "No, you don't. But a shower will make you feel better, don't you think? And I see no reason why you shouldn't borrow a couple of pieces of cotton, because there's nothing that feels worse than putting on dirty underwear after you had a good clean-up."

A small, uneasy laugh rolls out of him.

"And if I'm as nice as you seem to think I am", I continue, "I'll even put all your stash in the washer and have it all smelling of roses in the morning."

I pick out a pair of boxer briefs, T-shirt, socks, sweat-pants and a zip hoodie, and push the pile against his chest.

"Here! Take these, and leave your dirty clothes in the hamper and I'll see to them when you're done. OK?"

He still hesitates. And then:

"You must be the nicest man on earth", he mutters and suddenly bends forward and kisses my cheek. And still blushing like he's on fire runs to the bathroom.

The nicest man on earth? Is that what these few days have destroyed me into becoming? I shake my head.

 

*

 

I'm on the couch. He comes out of the bathroom, looking fresh and untroubled. He comes straight at me, lifts my arm and crawls in under it. "Smell better?" he asks.

I loudly sniff his hair. "Now you smell like me. But soon you'll smell like yourself again", I observe.

Short giggle. "And that's a bad thing?"

I continue sniffing him. "On the contrary. I don't think you should smell like anyone else."

Before I know what's happening he turns, lifts his leg and sits astride me, arms around my shoulders, face buried against my neck. His body starts to jerk as sobs grow bigger and louder and my neck feels like it's out in warm rain. I'm flabbergasted. I'm helpless. But what can I do, except wrap my arms around him and stroke the back of his head, again and again, as he cries himself empty.

That takes some time, but eventually the convulsions subside and his tears and his snot cease to flow. I still hold him. He sniffles an almost inaudible "Sorry" against my wet skin.

With both hands I lift his face up in front of me, and without thinking I kiss him on the lips. He jerks his head back, looking bewildered, but makes no effort to remove himself from my lap.

"Why did you do that?"

I've shocked myself, and I'm more than a little embarrassed.

"I apologize. I don't know what came over me. I won't do it again", I promise, shamefaced.

"Why not?"

Did I hear that right? Now I feel even more confused. I just make strange sounds in my throat. And before I get any further, his lips have closed in on mine again and just stay there, unmoving. Blood starts to pound in my ears as I feel a shiver going through his body, a shiver that sends terrifying signals to my groin, something is moving down there and pushing itself against the confinement of clothes and the weight of a sitting boy. It wants loose. My tongue also aches to come out and play. This can't happen. This has to stop immediately.

I lift his face slowly away from mine and try to wriggle out of the pressure his body puts on my groin.

"Enough", I whisper. "Have you any idea what this does to me?"

He pushes his face against my hands, like he wants closer again. "Same as it does to me?" he whispers back. And moves his hips until I feel his stiff cock rub against my stomach.

"Alan. Alan!" I croak. "We can't do this! We can't!" But my arms wrap themselves even tighter around him, and I know I'm in a losing battle as his lips touch mine again. A shudder runs through my body as he opens his lips and the tip of his tongue touches mine, swirls tentatively around, then tries to enter my mouth. Suddenly I understand where all those songs came from, how all those poems were born, and then all sensible thoughts are gone. I give all my soul over to kissing, I want to drown in his beautiful mouth, want to dive into this boy and disappear.

A kiss should ideally go on forever, but regrettably it doesn't, and as the novelty and the first exhilaration wears off, it wants to go somewhere, lead to something. And my rational thoughts return. What the fuck am I doing, and where the fuck do I go from here? And why the fuck does it feel like I've waited for this boy all my life, to show me what I've missed, to tell me where I've gone wrong?

I tear myself loose, push him off my lap and down on his back on the couch. Draw my breath deeply. And gaze down at him.

"Christ, Alan. This is all wrong. But you feel so good, you're so ... so yummy I'm not sure where I am anymore. I think I'm falling in love with you."

Oh, God. Oh, shit! Bite your tongue, Leo. Still I go on:

" I never knew I could feel like this. Or say something like this to anyone. But it has to stop, you know that."

He lifts himself up on his elbows. "Why is it wrong?" he says, vaguely impatient. And then answers himself: "Oh, the law and all that. Stupid law."

"It's not a stupid law. If that law wasn't there, Ben's father could have just gone on with what he was doing."

He doesn't even pause to reflect. "But that was wrong because Ben didn't want it!" he almost shouts. "And because he hurt him! It's not the same thing!"

What he says makes a certain sense. I know. But does it make sense because I'm now so blind and infatuated that I clutch at straws and disregard reality? Look for excuses? Seek out whatever I can find to justify my horny need? And why do I find him so devastatingly attractive where he lies, why suddenly so ... so beautiful? This quite ... ordinary boy? Why do I want him so much? I, who have never wanted anyone before in my life?

I can see he waits for my answer.

"But I'm your teacher", I say rather feebly.

He groans, flops down and hides his face behind his hands.

"Wait here", I say. "I'll go put your clothes in the machine, and when I come back we'll sort this out. Ok?"

Another groan, softer this time.

*

 

I find him standing by the window when I come back, looking out at the snowflakes dancing in the lights from the decorated street. I come up behind him and lightly stroke the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry if you feel I've put you down", I say as gently as I can. "I don't want this to become a problem. Thing is, I've never felt this way about anyone before, and I don't know how to handle it. Are we still friends?"

He turns. Eyes wide open, shiny like there have been recent tears in them. He nods. "Friends", he repeats, almost like a whisper. "Friends is good." He looks down again, snaps his fingers a few times. Looks abruptly up.

"Please don't say I have to go", he begs. I hold him and say I won't.

 

*

 

He's not going to sleep on the couch. Neither am I. There wasn't even a question about it. All I tell him is that the emphasis is on sleep, we both have school in the morning.

He sits on the edge of the bed in his underwear, my underwear, and watches me undress. Suddenly he gets off the bed, takes my hand and leads me to the mirrored wardrobe door.

"Look!" he says. "We're twins!"

And we almost are. There in the softly lit room the mirror reflects us: The same T-shirt and the same boxer shorts, the same bony shoulders and skinny arms, the same pale skin. We look almost like clones. He's an inch or so taller than me, and looking down, I find that my feet need one shoe size above his. His eyes linger on our bulges. So do mine, but none of us feel like mentioning anything.

In bed I spoon him, willing myself to be content just holding him. He falls asleep before me. Eventually I follow.

I do not dream of snuffing him during a fuck.

 

December 21^st

It's been a busy week. The end of the term is always such a hassle, with all the extra paperwork and the meetings and the school play and what have you. Only good thing is that it takes your mind off things, at least temporarily. I must admit, though, that thoughts of Alan forced their way in and disturbed my concentration only too often.

The boys' mother is on the recovery. They got her in time, she had a brain hemorrhage from the beating, that's always touch and go, but the operation was successful, and she's now lucid and able to speak, so no fatal damage.

Yesterday Alan wanted me to come with him to see her. I did. Again wondering how much I've changed. Only a short while ago I would never agree to something like that, I would have immediately found all the excuses in the world not to get involved, would have held on to my distant neutrality for dear life.

It was an education to see the way Alan ministered to her, both practically and emotionally. How his unhurried and serene behavior seemed to ease her anguish and her regrets. It was like watching a father caring for his child rather than a mother-and-son séance. I was very aware of her many sideway glances at me, and I must admit they got on my nerves.

She sent Alan away on a pretext of getting her some Mountain Dew from the hospital shop, a guise if there ever was one. She wanted me alone.

She waved me to her bedside. Her intense scrutiny made me cringe.

"Thank you", she finally said, her voice had the same dulcet tone as her son's. She seemed to weigh some pros and cons in her head, but then obviously decided to come out with it:

"I'm not sure what your agenda is", she said, "and I have no way of either observing or interfering now. I'm stuck here, paying for my mistakes, to put it that way. And Ben will be alright even if he's had some really bad experiences. Because he's a strong little fellow, and his aunt loves him, so he'll be taken good care of. But I worry about Alan. He's much more vulnerable than you'd think, and he really has no one. With the possible exception of you. He's such a loner, you know. He doesn't easily bond with people. And now he talks about you all the time."

She draws her breath a little shakily, like speaking is wearing her out.

"I'm afraid I'm a very silly person who always seem to make stupid choices, and although I love my boys to pieces, I realize I haven't been the best mother in the world. And to have put them in the quandary they now are is tearing my heart in two. So please, Mr. Marshall. Don't hurt my boy. He's come to love you ..." Her hand comes up to stop my interruption. "... so if you can't love him back, please let him down as gently as you can."

I was almost stunned by her last words, didn't know how to respond. I started stuttering some nonsense, but she broke me off,

"Please, Mr. Marshall. Be honest with me."

So I told her a little about the way I'd lived, my total lack of experience with close relationships, my avoidance of commitment, my tendency to run away. I didn't mention Alan.

She lay there silently for a while.

"I've always known Alan would turn out gay", she suddenly said. "How does that sit with you?"

I bite my lip. What degree of honesty does this woman want? How much can she take?

"Gay or straight has never been an issue for me. My experience with relations, sexual and otherwise, is very superficial and limited", I mumbled. "I have never been in love." And then I stared at her, I think defiantly:

"Until now."

She seemed to relax. "Good", she sighed.

Again I was flabbergasted. What was this woman really trying to tell me? Was she giving me the green light?

"What if ...", I started. "What if I said I could love him back? Or in fact, do love him back?"

She kept her gaze fixed on me. "I would still ask you not to hurt my boy." She cast a quick glance at the door, as if she expected Alan to rush in any minute. "Listen", she said hurriedly, "I'm in no position to judge. A love-affair that has to be a secret is not ideal in any way ... dangerous in fact ... but it's obvious it's you he wants, so ... All I have to say is that if you only want him for sex, please leave him alone. If you can love him, it's about time he had some love in his life. He hasn't had too much of it. But if you hurt him, I'll kill you." She smiled tiredly as she said those last words.

Alan then came quietly in. I swear he'd been listening outside the door.

When we left, he stopped me at the bottom of the stairs near the exit.

"Can I come stay with you tomorrow?"

"What? Like permanently?"

A light went on in his eyes, then out again.

"For the weekend? And maybe for Christmas?"

I touched his hand fleetingly. "You can come whenever you want", I whispered in his ear.

 

*

 

He's here. Small back-pack, new snow shoes. Looking a bit shy, as if it's presumptuous of him to bring an overnight bag or whatever it is. I tell him it's good to see him. And that's no lie.

We hesitate a bit around each other, both uncertain of how to act. But I can't hold back any longer, I grab him and pull him into my arms. He clings to me and a small cooing sound escapes him.

"Nice shoes", I whisper in his ear. "Get them off!" I let go of him.

He leaves his back-pack by his shoes and follows me in. I reach out behind me for his hand, and take him to the couch.

"Almost two weeks with no school", I smile at him, still holding his hand. "Feels good, right?"

He squirms a little. "School's not bad", he mumbles. "'S long as you're there." Blush.

I lift his hand and give it a peck from my lips. "Thank you", I bow and let go of his hand. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes. I had to eat with them before I left. For Ben's sake, mostly. He wanted to come with me. I said he could maybe come tomorrow, is that ok?"

I can't stop smiling. "Of course. Anything you want is ok."

Something flashes in his eyes, then quickly disappears. "Anything ... " he repeats slowly. "As if."

I lift my brows in a silent question, but he looks away. Gets up, goes over and leans against the windowsill, facing me.

"I stink", he suddenly says. "I hadn't time to shower before I left."

"Can't say I detected any intolerable smell", I counter. "If that's stinking, you may well go on stinking for my sake."

He titters through his nose. Then serious again: "You said we were friends, right?"

"In my corner we're certainly friends."

He is clearly brooding over something. It is just so plain to see. And finally he comes out with it.

"Do friends shower together sometimes?"

I feel hairs rise at the back of my neck. I have to close my eyes for a second.

"Maybe? I'm about as knowledgeable as you are in these matters. If they want to, I see no reason why they shouldn't."

"Oh", is all he says. He remains by the window, his socked toe writing a small circle on the floor.

I walk over to him. He turns his back on me, as if he's ashamed. I lay an arm around his middle.

"If you think that's what friends should do, then that's what friends will do", I tell him gently, hoping he won't hear the shiver in my voice. "But not just yet. There's something I want to talk to you about."

"Ok", he mutters almost inaudibly.

"How's your mother?"

I feel a resigned sigh pass through him. "Weak. She's going to a rehab center tomorrow. Why?"

I give his stomach a little squeeze. "You were listening at the door, weren't you? Yesterday?"

He turns around, hides his face over my shoulder, his ear close to mine.

"How much did you hear?"

His sudden laugh startles me, that's how tense I am. "I heard she said she'd kill you!"

"Did you also hear what I said?"

He lifts his chin off my shoulder. "No. I only heard her. Not to clear. She said something about you shouldn't have sex with me, didn't she?"

I don't quite know how to say what I want to say. How to correct his misconception without creating new ones. Without promising too much. Without giving both of us too high expectations.

"Come", I say. "Let's just sit for a while. I'll try to explain something, and maybe something will become a bit less overwhelming to me along the way."

We sit in silence for a while, side by side. Again and again my stomach seems to jump about inside me. But I have to get this out.

"See, Alan, that wasn't exactly what your mother said. She more or less asked me what my feelings for you were. I'm not very good at talking about feelings, but I hope she understood me. She wanted to make some things ... things that concerned you ... clear to me. In that context she asked me to lay off you if my only interest in you was sex. She also said that a love-affair that had to be a secret could be difficult. But I did in a way tell her that I ... that I ..."

I have to stop. I try to swallow the lump in my throat.

"She wants you to be happy. So do I."

He's very quiet. I can't even hear him breathe.

"Oh, fuck it, Alan", I burst out, "I'm head over heels in love with you, I want you in every possible way, and it scares the shit out of me. Because if you want ... something ... something I can give you, or share with you, I don't think I can say no to anything any longer. But ..."

His eyes are big as saucers. "But what? Please? Tell me!"

"Is it possible to be happy inside a secret?" I swallow and swallow. "Because that is what it had to be, you know, if we ..."

He flips over, his head is now in my lap, his eyes look up at me.

"I'll tell you in the shower," he whispers.

I decide to leave it at that. He may not be hungry, but I haven't eaten all day, and my stomach rumbles. I tell him so. He puts his ear to it and giggles.

 

*

 

So. He wants to shower with me. I can't postpone it forever, regardless of my misgivings. I know, it's just my reluctance to show anyone my body, silly of me, since he's already seen me in my underwear.

Nevertheless I feel shy and awkward and keep my back to him as we undress. His eyes are on me as we step under the water, he doesn't even pretend not to look, mouth half open and a perfectly scrumptious cock that rises to max in seconds as he gazes at naked me, eyes going all over the place, but homing in on what he until now only has guessed at. I can't help but gawk at him too. I take everything in: The lines, the planes, the ins and outs, and like him my gaze lands on his rock hard, half-hooded, upward-bending staff that seems to me the most beautiful cock God ever made. And I don't have to tell you my cock answers to the call of this wonderful naked boy.

Time has become indifferent, I have no idea how long we stand still just looking at each other. Finally he grabs the shampoo bottle and starts to wash my hair, and I mirror him. Our cocks touch as we massage each other's scalps, it sends small electric shocks all through me, and I can't stand it, I need him close, as close as possible, and I pull him in until all his available skin sticks to all of mine, and my lips find his among the suds, and my tongue drives in and parks beside his tongue.

I've never even dreamed I could feel this ... this aroused, this ready to burst, never imagined I could want anything or anyone the way I want this boy. I lick his face, soap gets in my mouth but I don't care, I lick my way down his neck, his throat, his chest, I suck on the small nubs of his nipples and feel them go stiff against my tongue. Blood pounds in my ears, I hear a voice moan like a song from far away in a tunnel, for I'm on my knees with my face pressing against his taut stomach and my hands clasping the compact hemispheres of his butt and I know I need to taste what I now feel move under my chin.

I bow down to the twitching cock, kiss the tip and feel it jerk, my tongue slides along the rim of the foreskin and the cock jerks again. I want it, I need it, but there's so much water and soap that the taste of it eludes me. I want to feel it deep in my mouth, and I lower my lips to engulf the head, then slowly descend down the shaft, the head throbbing along my palate and the roof of my mouth until the whole of it is buried inside. I fight my gagging reflex and I win, and I hold the cock still as I increase the suction, the song in the tunnel turns into yelps, like in pain, and the softer underside of the hard rod pulsates against my tongue, fingernails claw into my shoulders, and warm liquid hits the back of my throat like soft bullets.

A sting of disappointment hits me, I had wanted this to last. His body feels like it's about to collapse as he bends forward, a couple of jolts run through it, but I hold him up, still with his cock deep in my mouth. I ease up on my tight suction, expecting his cock to go down now that he's cum, wanting to feel it's softness against my tongue, but to my amazement it stays as hard as before. I let it slide out. Still holding his buttocks, I get up off my knees, pushing him upright as I straighten my back. I hear his still panting breath in my ear as we cling to each other, chest to chest, belly to belly, stiff cock to stiff cock. And a long, shivering whimper comes out of him, like from one of those toys you squeeze to give off sound. And then he turns most verbal:

"I didn't think ... I never knew it could be like that", he stutters, "it was so good it almost hurt. And I ... I squirted in your mouth! Wasn't it gross?"

"No. It was you. And you're not gross," I tell him. And then I whisper, almost soundlessly, away from his ear, hoping the sound of the cascading water drowns out my words, but I need to get them out: "I love you."

His hands move a little insecurely over my chest and down my sides. His eyes flicker nervously up and down. "What should I do now?" he asks. "I've never done this before."

"I don't know if there are any rules", I say. "I'm not ... I've never done anything like this before either. Just do what you feel is right, I guess. Don't start thinking there are things you have to do."

His right hand tentatively moves towards my aching cock, exploring fingertips lightly slide along it. He crouches down, fingers slightly more confident now, eyes fixed on what is in front of them.

"So big," he whispers, like in awe. "He's so long!" He slowly moves his face forward until my cock throbs against his cheek, and I'm aching for him to grip it harder, wank it, even suck it, but this is his domain now, the action and the pace is his to set.

"Does he have a name?"

I can't hold back a small laugh. "No, I never baptized him. Does yours?"

He lifts his face, closes his hand around my hard pole and jerks it slowly and softly a couple of times. His other hand finds his own cock. "Sometimes I call him Timmy", he confesses shyly. "Childish, huh?"

"No. It's cute. But listen, you can play with both Timmy and with my nameless one as much as you like later, but let's finish this shower before we turn into prunes."

He rises, leans against the tiled wall and looks at me, sincere and imploring eyes.

"I promised to answer your question", he says, "and the answer is yes. Yes, I can be happy with this secret. No one else has any business in here, it's you and me, and you and me is all I want."

 

*

 

We stayed naked. Took ourselves to my bed even if it was just past eight. Together we learned more about our bodies, found the places that felt good, found the places that didn't feel like much. Exploring, appreciating, marveling, loving each new discovery.

It was all so pure, so innocent, and so totally encompassing. We came together, just masturbating each other, him slung halfway across my body, kissing me. My cum when I finally exploded splashed all the way up to our faces and our hair, some of it got into his mouth. He shuddered and spat. But I quickly pushed down to take his still dripping cock in my moth and had my first real taste of his cock and his cum, and I loved it.

His fingers caress the base of my cock. "How come you have no hair?"

I feel a little self-conscious admitting this to him, but there should be as few secrets between us as possible. "When I was watching porn", I confess, "I liked it when the men were hairless down there. Like their nakedness was complete, see? So I thought I'd shave off my pubes, and I've been doing it since."

He bends down and kisses the area. His lips glide back and forth. "It's like very fine-grained sand paper", he giggles. "Do you think I should shave too?"

His small, cute wreath of dark blond hair is in no way disturbing the beauty of his groin. "Not for my sake", I tell him.

"I think I'll do it and then we'll look even more the same", he muses. "Only that your dick is so big and mine is so small."

I pull him into my arms. "Your dick isn't small at all. Though I may not have been as close to anyone as I am to you, I have seen and touched a few other men's cocks, and believe me, yours is perfect. Not too big, not too small, just right. Couldn't you tell how perfectly he fit my mouth, your Timmy?"

He bores his nose into the base of my neck. "Wanna know a secret?"

"I want to know everything", I whisper back.

"Don't laugh, promise?"

"Promise."

"I love you."

Words get stuck in my throat. And fucking hell, my eyes fill up. An involuntary little moan escapes my mouth. I clutch at him, pull him in as tight as I can, try my make my body merge with his so I can disappear into him.

"Are you crying?" he asks anxiously.

"I don't know", I whisper. "Am I? I just can't believe what is happening, and I ... I ... I love you too, you know, so much that I feel like exploding."

His spear is trying to puncture my abdomen.

I sniffle and dry my eyes. "Does your cock ever go soft?" I ask, tickling his walnut balls.

"Don't think he wants to when he's with you."

I've never had a more blissful sleep. Every now and then I wake up, discover that he's rolled away from me, I haul him in and bury my nose in his hair, and feeling content and whole I go back to sleep.

 

December 23^d

I take both boys to see their mother in rehab. She's up, walking in a frame. She looked small and forlorn when I saw her in the hospital bed, but in that surrounding almost everybody looks small. Now I see what a petite woman she actually is. Looks tired still, but her hair's been done, and she's put mascara on, and all in all looks a lot better.

The boys are over fiddling with the water cooler.

"They seem fine," she comments with a small gesturing nod. "Especially Alan."

I don't find it necessary to say anything.

"You seem different, too", she muses. "Easier. Lighter."

We walk slowly through the corridor, the boys are on an expedition discovering the secrets of the same corridor. Suddenly she stops. Looks at me so intensely it's almost sinister.

"Oh, please be careful!" she begs. "It's so fragile, you know. Love is so easily destroyed!"

 

*

 

We drive back to our small town, Ben in the back seat, Alan shotgun with me.

Suddenly a high voice from the back seat is aimed at me: "Are you and Alan boyfriends?"

Panic hits me like a kick in the middle of my gut. I look desperately at Alan. He takes responsibility immediately.

"Why do you think that?" he asks.

"Because you're always with him." Ben is a least logical.

"People aren't always boyfriends or girlfriends just because they see each other a lot", Alan says patiently. "Sometimes they're only friends."

I send Alan my most grateful look. We've arrived at the marketplace where they sell trees. There's a lucky space at the curb, so I park the car.

"Let's go buy a Christmas tree!" I try to sound lighthearted and enthusiastic. We scramble out.

But Ben's obviously not satisfied. He tugs at Alan's sleeve. "But you're never home!" he whines. I keep out of it, start browsing through the small jungle of fir trees. But I hear Alan's lovely voice as if he's singing to me.

"Listen, Ben. It's not home. Not to me anyway. They're nice enough, but they're your uncle and your aunt. Not mine. And I think it's enough for them to take care of you. But when Mum's well again and we can go home for real, I'll be so much there with you that in the end you'll be pissed and ask me to get the hell out. Right?"

Ben giggles. "As if!" he snorts, but seems happier now.

I call them over. "What do you think?" I gesture towards a small tree, very densely branched and perfectly shaped.

"It's pretty", Ben says, "but it's like small!"

"I think it's beautiful", Alan almost whispers. His eyes glow. My heart thunders in my chest: I'm buying a Christmas tree with my boy, my lover, and he thinks it's beautiful! I want to hug him and kiss him right there. Fuck society. Fuck all the bigotry, fuck all the discriminating rules that can't discern between love and abuse. And all we've talked about regarding secrecy hit's me like a brick. This is what it's always going to be like: Never show feelings in public, always hide, always pretend we're not what we are. But if that's what it takes to be with him for only a few minutes, I will gladly confirm to these ridiculous limitations.

"Now, boys. I have a confession to make", I say. "I don't usually decorate my flat for Christmas, since it's always just been me there. So we need to go buy some stuff to put on the tree, and maybe some other things as well, and you can help me decorate. Ok?"

Ben jumps and makes a small whooping noise. Then looks at me as if I'm an alien.

"You mean you don't do Christmas? Never?"

"Well, Christmas is there whether I do it, as you say, or not. But I've never felt the need to celebrate much. Usually I go away somewhere. So sue me."

"But not this year?" Alan inserts with a small glint in his eyes.

"Not this year. So are you on?"

 

*

 

We've taken Ben back to his aunt's, now it's again just the two of us.

The boys got free hands when it came to decorating, my only restriction was no colored lights on the tree. I don't know why, but I've always found those ugly and vulgar beyond description.

The flat is transformed: The tree is sitting on a small table in the corner, with strings of soft, white lights, loaded with trinkets and baubles of every thinkable shape and color. There are Santas in different sizes and snowmen with lights inside them, there are golden candles in all my candlesticks, the big window is hung with glittery snowflakes and glowing red hearts. Everything that's always annoyed me about the excessive and intrusive way all the shops and streets have been decked out for weeks and weeks is there: The glitter, the ugly reindeer and awful Santas, the fake poinsettias, the blaring Christmas music, it's suddenly all there in my flat, and I'm hugging my boy Alan on the couch and loving it all. There's even a fake mistletoe above the door, as if I need an excuse to kiss him.

Oh, yes, come to think of it, I put my foot down on one more occasion. I caught Ben staring longingly at a bunch of incredibly disgusting Christmas sweaters, and nothing in the world, not even Alan, could make me throw money away on something like that. But he soon forgot about them when we passed the toffee apples outside the candy store.

And now were here. Alan has sneaked his hand inside my sweater and is pulling my T-shirt up to feel the skin on my stomach. His soft hand sends shivers down my spine and I hold his face between my hands and slowly open his lips with mine. That's all, there's no hurry, no urgent need, just a peaceful kiss and a wonderful touch of a hand on my skin.

"You were good with Ben today", I tell him. "I got really flustered when he asked point blanc if we were boyfriends. But you were just perfect. You are perfect." I nibble his earlobe.

"I think he suspects. He doesn't quite know what it means, though."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're getting at."

"Boyfriend stuff. He has a vague idea that boys maybe kiss and hold hands and things, but I don't believe he thinks it has to do with sex and stuff. Because, you know ... his dad and all that. I don't think he can imagine that anyone would want to do stuff like what was done to him."

I feel a weight drop through my chest. "How bad is it for him? Do you know? Does he talk about it?"

"No, not much. I think he ... what's that word ... suppresses it, which everyone says is bad, I know. And I don't know how to help him. It's made him pretty skittish and nervous, hasn't it."

"You're mother said he is a strong boy. I hope she's right."

He seems lost in thought, his hand has stopped stroking.

"I think it's good that you're getting closer to him and is nice to him. So he can see that men aren't like his dad."

"Some are, you know."

He sighs. "You aren't, so ... I don't wanna talk about it."

"What do you want?"

He leans in against me. "Just sit here with you and listen to the carols."

I lean back and close my eyes, relishing in the warmth from him, the music, the feeling of contentment, and now drowsiness comes stealing over me. I'm almost napping when I'm disturbed by some activity in my lap. Alan has opened my zipper and is fumbling inside my boxers. I open my eyes.

"What are you doing?" I say quietly.

"He wants to come out", he says. "I wanna see him grow and stand up."

He has got my cock out, leaves it lying there and leans down close to it, just watching it. The absurd thing is that it's all it takes for it to do as he wishes, his eyes on it and the knowledge that he's so close causes it to fill up, it twitches and jerks and rises all by itself until it's up against my sweater.

"Oh wow", he whispers." That is so cool."

He touches it several times with his fingertip, every time it jerks and lifts. He pushes my sweater and T-shirt up and spreads my opened jeans out, hooks a finger and lifts my cock up, then lets it flop down and slap against my bare skin. And again.

"He's so ... so ... I don't know." His voice is husky, his breathing strained. "Gorgeous", he finally adds. I'm getting so hard it's painful.

And he bows down even closer, and the tip of his tongue sneaks out and just barely touches the slit on my cockhead, catching the first small drop of liquid and pulling it up like a silver thread. His fingers close around my cock and move softly up and down as he crawls up and sticks his tongue in my half open mouth, then glues his lips to mine and deep-kisses me. I moan into his mouth, he makes a funny noise down in his throat, half growl, half sigh. I'm about to go crazy with abrupt and violent horniness.

I grab his hand around my boner and hold it still as I break the kiss.

"If you go on, I'll cum", I groan.

"I wanna see", he retorts. He removes my hand and starts to seriously wank me. He lifts his head off me, turns to watch, and I lean backwards and watch him. I'm right on the edge, and I don't even try to hold back. He aims my cock straight up as my balls tighten and spasms tear through my lower half and my cum shoots out and flies everywhere.

"I wish I had a cock like yours", he says while my heaving breath dies down. There's a drop of cum that runs down his cheek.

"You have one", I say hoarsely. "This one is yours to do with what you like. Anytime."

He giggles. "That's not what I meant."

"We can swop. Give me yours, and I'll give you mine. Because I like yours better than anything."

He leans in on me, his face buried in my armpit. "You made some mess!" He still giggles.

"You're disclaiming responsibility", I counter. "You made that mess."

He keeps giggling. I grab a handful of his hair and gently lift his head up. "I love you."

His mirth subsides. He looks into my eyes. "Thank you", he whispers.

 

*

 

"Leo!"

He's calling from the bathroom. I'm busy cleaning cumstains off the couch.

"What?"

"Please help me!"

They're some resilient bastards, these stains, but I'm not giving in to them.

"In a minute!"

"Please!"

He needs me. My heart can't resist that. I've become such a pushover. Easy game for him.

I find him sitting naked on the toilet lid, white foam adorning ... no, covering his crotch, razor in hand and resignation written all over his face.

"Christ, Alan, what's this?"

"I can't do it! I'm scared to cut myself. I've never shaved before! Will you help me?"

"Why? Why do you want to shave off that cute little bush?"

"I wanna look like you." He blushes and looks down. "And I wanna see if it makes my cock look bigger", he mumbles.

"Oh, my dear, misguided little chump. Of course I'll help you if that's what you want. Sure it's not something you think you should be doing for my sake? Because if so, you're far off the mark."

"I'm doing it for me, doofus. Please?"

"All right, all right. First of all, we're going to clean off all that foam. There's way to much of it."

He scoops off the foam and drops it in the washbasin. I soak a small towel in hot water, roll it up and lay it in his lap.

"You see, warm water softens the hair better than just foam. So hold it there for a couple of minutes."

He does. When he's ready, I rub a small amount of shaving foam into his pubes and pick up the razor. His cock is on the rise. I have to hold it to the side, which of course makes it grow even harder.

"Stand up and let me sit. It'll be easier that way."

He holds on to my shoulders, staring down while I carefully shave him. I can tell he's apprehensive, his hands feel almost like he's got the cramps. I kiss his navel.

"Relax. Just watch and learn", I soothe him.

The process is quickly done. I clean off the area with the moist towel, kiss the tip of his stiff cock whispering "There, Timmy boy!" and lightly slap his buttocks. And stand up.

"So! Happy?"

He embraces me, kisses my cheek. "Thanks. You're so nice."

I turn him halfway around so he faces the mirror. "Now see what it looks like."

He studies himself, feels with his fingertips over the newly shaved area, turns sideways and holds his cock down and scrutinizes himself. When he does this, a shallow cavity appears at the root of his penis, framed by two tendril-like ridges, and I have no idea why this touches me so deeply, why it makes my need for hi flare up, but it does.

He blushes again and smiles bashfully. He's so adorable I just have to touch him, feel him, kiss him. I sit down on the lid again, pull him towards me, lick the now silky skin above his cock, move down and suck his balls into my mouth, they're so smooth and edible, like all of him. I can't get enough of his pale, firm, sleek skin. My hands rove all over him and his cock finds its way into my mouth and fills it just beautifully, like it belongs there, like it was made for just my mouth.

I don't want him to cum in my mouth. Like him just a while ago, I want to see the spurt. And it's so beautiful: The rhythmic contractions of the ridge on the underside of his cock, the way the eye at the tip of his cockhead opens a little bit when his first blast shoots out, it's bewitching and sexy in a way I never imagined it could be.

"How old do you have to be to change your name?" he suddenly says. My absorbing fascination with his cock disintegrates, like an unwanted awakening. I guess my face tells him so. Automatically I give my head a couple of shakes.

"I don't know. Sixteen maybe? Eighteen? I don't know if there are any regulations, but I should think you'd need parental consent before that. We can look into it. So you're thinking of changing your name? Your surname, right?"

He nods. "I don't want to be a Sanderson. I wasn't always, you know. Mum changed it when she married that asshole."

"Changing it back, then? To what?"

"Gardner", he replies, almost reverent. "I wanna be Alan Gardner again."

We hug. Him in his naked innocence, me still in my clothes. He whispers in my ear:

"Can we have a shower now?"

 

 

December 24^th

I wake up in the semi-darkness of the room, spooning my lovely boy, my cock is hard and slippery and slides in between his thighs. Waves of lethargic pleasure surge through my body as I slowly push in and out, changing the aim slightly to let the tip of my cock lightly sweep back and forth across his sphincter. He stirs in my arms. Turns his face towards me.

"Are you going to put him in my butt?" he whispers.

"I don't think so. It's just that this feels so good."

"Don't you want to?"

Suddenly I fear where this can go. "In a way yes", I admit, "but then no."

"Why not?"

I have to think a bit. "I've never done it. Never wanted to, really. It scares me a bit. I'm not sure I know how to do it right. I think it will hurt a lot."

"Yeah, maybe", he agrees. He's silent for a while, my cock still slides between his asscheeks. "We could try?" he eventually says.

But I know I won't. Not now. But his butt has suddenly become overwhelmingly attractive to me, I feel an irresistible urge to explore it. I glide down along his back until my nose touches his buttocks, I part the cheeks and feel the tightly closed little hole with my finger. Along with the smell of soap, there's a musky scent that gets to me in an almost intoxicating way, and I know I have to taste it. My tongue tickles the wrinkled gate of his orifice, it twitches at the light nudge.

"Hoi!" he exclaims. His legs jolt, and now he spreads them, giving me permission and access. And I dive in, licking harder, closing my lips over this secret and intimate place, sucking, kissing, licking, and he writhes and squirms and moans. I point my tongue, want to push it in, but his hole is too tightly closed. I reach in front of him, find his cock, it's rock hard and the tip is wet and slick. I caress it as my tongue and my lips keep at it. His body shudders and goes stiff, his cock pulsates in my hand and his hole opens and closes, and the tip of my tongue suddenly goes in. I hump my cock against his foot and cum like a fountain.

It's crazy, but my cock won't go down even if I just came. Neither does his. I'm obsessed with his asshole now, I can't get enough of it. I scoop up cum from his leg, rub his hole with my index finger and push until it slips in.

"Ouch!" he cries out and his hole clamps like a vice around my finger. I withdraw it quickly. Remorse hits my like a frying pan in the face. My cock instantly deflates.

"No!" he whines. "Put it in again! I wanna do this!" He grabs my hand, tries to put my finger back in, and clenches his teeth as it slips in almost up to the first joint, but there something inside him stops it. "Keep it there", he groans. "I can do this!"

I put my other arm around him and hug him hard. "We don't have to do this", I tell him. "We don't!"

"Yes!" he almost shouts. "We do! Because then I'll be your boy for real! Forever!" His hole twitches again around my finger. "If others can do it, we can too."

I nuzzle the back of his neck. "Is it really something you want?" I have to make sure, I'm so uncertain about this.

His hand closes over my hand on his chest. "Yes. Please!"

I need to do this the right way. I try to recall the movies I've seen, how they go about it. It's obvious one needs some sort of lubricant, but what have I got? The only thing I can think of is the body lotion in the bathroom.

I pull my finger out and whisper "Wait!" in his ear. Get out of bed, almost run to the bathroom to get the lotion and run back in.

He's on his back, waiting. Looks so ethereal, so breakable in the dim light from the window.

"Your cock flops about so when you're in a hurry", he giggles. "It's really cool!"

I bathe my eyes with the sight of him where he lies. He's so ... I can't find the words ... pure? and yet irresistible. Innocent, and yet almost lascivious. Skinny and pale, and yet the most beautiful thing I can think of. He smiles up at me, no longer blushing, no longer shy, like he's finally secure in the knowledge that I love him, that I want him.

I spread his legs and sit between them leaning on my heels. "If you at any point want to stop what we're about to do now, tell me", I say. My voice sounds unfamiliar to me, I can't really believe what I'm doing now. But I'm not backing off. He wants it. He's said so.

I bow down and suck his soft cock into my mouth, swirl my tongue around it as I put lotion onto his butthole and softly massage it. I moisten my fingers with as much lotion as they can carry, and start pushing my middle finger against his impossibly cute and tight little hole. I hear his sharp intake of breath as I push through, but he doesn't cry out this time. And suddenly it is as if his body has decided to let the intruder in, and my finger is almost sucked into this moist and warm cave. My cock responds like a shot.

His hand clasps my wrist, holds still a second and then pushes to get my finger deeper in. I take my clue from him, I twist my finger inside him, pull it slowly out a bit, then in again, all the time watching his face, looking for signs of pain. There's only deep breathing.

"Try two", he whispers.

I pull my finger almost out and try to ease my index finger in beside it. He holds his breath, but his hand on my wrist pushes my fingers in. His sphincter tightens, then relaxes, and my two fingers slide into him. All the way. And he yelps.

"Oh!" he moans. "What was that?"

"Shall I take them out?"

"No! I just felt something ... strange. Like I want to pee, but in a good way."

I suppose I hit his prostate, I know it's supposed to be in there somewhere, and it's supposed to feel good. I move my fingers about, and here it is, I think, a small mound on the upper side of this tunnel of wonder. He moans again. "There!" he sighs. "Oh, God."

We don't talk anymore. He lets go of my wrist. His arms close around my neck and he lifts his head and puts his cheek to mine. I twirl my fingers around inside him, and move them in and out, and then I add my third finger, slowly and carefully, listening to his breath, alert to his body language. And his body tells me yes.

"Put him in me", he whispers.

I'm so hot and hard, I fear I'll come the instant my cock touches his hole. I bend down, I want to see what it looks like down there, my fingers in his tight opening and all. It's really too dark to see much, but I think I notice his hole gape a bit before closing when I pull my fingers out. Maybe he is ready for me, I can't tell, but I can hope.

I never thought I could tremble as much as this. I steer my cock towards its target, I shiver as goosebumps race in waves down my back and I push. His sphincter resists me at first, but I can feel how he makes an effort to fight the reflex, he instinctively pushes out as I push in. My cockhead slips in and is enveloped in soft heat, he groans and I hold still.

"Are you all right?" I whisper.

"It hurts a little." His voice sounds pinched. "Don't move now."

I fight the urge to shove it in, my body is so tense and my muscles so strained I'm shaking all over. He moves under me, pushes himself down, and now my cock is halfway in. It feels like it has passed a barrier. He gasps. I hold still again.

"Alan", I say, trying to sound calm, "we don't have to do this. Not if it hurts."

"But I want to", he whimpers. "Put him in now. All the way!"

And in it goes. He yelps again, but not in an alarming way, and now there's a humming sound coming from deep within him. In my wildest dreams I could never have imagined the sensation of this warm and tight sheath around my aching cock. I'm at bursting point, I clench my teeth to hold back, to hold still.

Alan wraps his legs around my hips, his cock is now hard again and rubs against my belly. His face goes from faint contortion to desire, his beautiful lips open. "I wanna feel him move in me", he mutters. "Do it! It doesn't hurt anymore!"

I pull halfway out, and slowly slide it in again. He moves with me, his hole squeezes and grips my cock as I continue the motion: withdrawing and then plunging in, he moans softly with every thrust. It's too much, I can't last. The unbelievable pleasure, the desire and lust that's like a fever in me, the love that fills me, something's got to give.

"Alan", I gasp, "Alan, my love, I'm going to cum!"

His arm leaves my neck, his hand finds his cock and starts to jerk it fast.

"In me!" he almost sings. "I want it inside me!" His muscle clamps around my cock, contracts rhythmically and I bury my cock as deep within him as I can and shoot all my liquid love into him as his sperm gushes out of his throbbing cock and baptizes the skin on our stomachs.

I almost collapse over him, I feel totally drained and at the same time fuller than I've ever been. Our bellies stick together with the juices from his cock, his lips find mine and he sucks hungrily on my tongue.

With my cock in him, wilting but still refusing to leave him, I mumble words of love in his ear, and he grips my hand and holds it to his face and sighs, satisfied, almost proud.

"Now I'm really, really, really your boy."

 

* * * *

 

If you feel like reading another of my stories, try this one: https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/oh-martin.html