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If you decide to stay, note that this story is pure fiction. Also note that this story deals with males from both sides of the generation gap having feelings for each other, and eventually acting on them as well. And thirdly: In my stories juices do not flow on page one. If you are in a hurry to get off, my stories are not for you. They evolve much too slowly for that, and do not detonate until towards the end.

I have been told that my stories are sentimental and tacky. I will not argue that. My advice: If it gets too sloppy, read it over the sink.

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OH, MARTIN.

OH, MARTIN.

OH, MARTIN.

 

Magnus Winter

 

 

Part One / Preliminary Sketches.

 

 

30 years. 30 years of wearing down the floors of their shitty restaurant, actually improving the damn place, and bang! Out. Redundant. Unwanted. Thrown away like garbage.

Yeah, yeah. There are "Thank-you"s and "Good-luck"s. Words like "Loyalty" and "Great Efforts" hang in the air behind him as he leaves the office, ears smoking. He has no words to put in for himself. Doesn't trust his voice. Echoes of mother knifing though his brain: Never let them know how you feel.

 

*

 

"Dickheads", his fat friend Jennifer concludes, crumbs of Danish adorning her thick lower lip. "Case for the Union, obviously."

He laughs. Sharply, like nails dissolved in acid. "I'm not organized."

Her dark brown eyes flash, her face a mix of pity and resignation. "You are such an idiot. Stew-pid!"

He doesn't contradict her.

The breeze from the fjord blows hair across her face, it sticks to her lips. She lifts her hand to sweep it away. A seagull dives down and snatches the rest of her pastry from her other hand. She heaves her bulk from the bench, surprisingly graceful considering her obesity, and screams at the bird. He bends forward, laughing.

"Fucking vermin", she hisses. Brushes crumbs from her lap and lowers herself daintily back onto the bench. "Everyone should be organized. How come you're not?"

He shrugs.

"Stupid", she repeats. "Well, it's the dole for you, then. I mean, face it, who'll employ an old idiot like you?" Her smile and her soft voice take the sting out of her words. They sting anyway.

"I'm not that old", he defends himself.

She fakes pity. "Well, not too long ago you told me you're about two hundred in gay years."

 

*

 

He makes the sad journey to the dole office to sign on. The caseworker assigned to him seems uninterested, or maybe just tired. Rattles off the list of duties a receiver of benefits must commit to, no inflection in his voice, like a rotary press. Makes it clear that no caseworker is a magician, everything is up to him. Signs him up for the mandatory three-weeks course in job seeking.

His brain stalls. You need special schooling to learn how to get a job? You just apply for a job, don't you? Well, if that's what it takes to qualify for unemployment benefits, so be it. His three months of extended salary from the museum where he managed the restaurant is fast dwindling.

The first week of the course is all about writing an attractive resumé, how to brag without seeming conceited, how to make yourself look valuable and indispensable on paper. He cringes. His upbringing tells him to be modest, reticent, never push himself to the front. The whole formula they try to teach him seems all wrong and utterly fake to him. His CV comes out skinny as a nacht-und-nebel-prisoner. No higher education. One employer since he left school, a job that went from clearing tables to manager. Well, stability and loyalty should count as something, shouldn't it?

His draft is returned. Not good enough. If you don't have formal education or an interesting career build-up, list your hobbies! Interests! Plans! Make yourself attractive!

He sniggers and writes: My hobbies: Jerking off. My interests: Cocks. My plans: To get that hot guy in row two drunk and get in his pants. "Be your age", his brain chimes. He crumbles the paper and sniggers again. The guy in row two turns from the noise and looks at him. He blushes.

 

*

 

"I don't know what to do with all the time!" He pushes his chair back and looks lost.

Jennifer chews. "Oh, stop whining", she mumbles. "The earth is dying, the Neo-Nazis are shouting and marching, and Google has bought everything that Amazon doesn't own, so I should think there would be plenty to occupy you if you want to. If not, go get laid or something."

He says nothing.

"Still no jobs?" She munches on.

He sighs. "I've had no answers since that interview last Monday. I think they just look at my birthyear and delete my applications without looking any further. It's very demoralizing."

"Listen." She sounds like she's talking to her dog. "You just have to keep on trying. You're not that old. You're not even fifty. Something is bound to pop up."

He looks at her, pleadingly, as if she holds a key. As for salvation. "God, I wish you were right."

"I'm always right. Now get your nose out of your ass and do something with your time. Go into politics! Start your own religion! Invent a new energy source! I just saw someone advertise shoes of vegan leather, which basically means you can make money from any absurd shit!" She licks her fingers. "You are getting me down!"

"I can't even trick anymore. It's just leads to more disappointments." He leans his chin on his hand and blows air from tight lips.

She squints at him. "Oh, my! That's really worrying." They look at each other and suddenly burst out giggling like school girls. They rise from the table and hug. Such an incongruent couple: She is huge, he is rather short and slight, almost skinny. People stare at them as he disappears between her enormous breasts.

 

*

 

He signs up with two private employment agencies in addition to the State's job center. After a week he's sent off to a temp job at a solicitor's office. Everything is scary and new for a guy whose skills are limited to ordering groceries at the lowest possible price and setting up rota lists. The next day the agency tells him sorry, no go. They hired a blonde straight out of college instead. Who wants a middle-aged man with an insecure demeanor and no tits?

He's back at the job center, perusing the notice board. Construction workers wanted. Welders. Choir leader for amateur ladies' ensemble. Offer of reduced fees at a gym. Evening classes.

Evening classes?

 

*

 

"Art classes?" Jennifer scrutinizes him. Eyes like jack-o-lantern slits. For once she's not eating.

He just smiles. "I used to be quite good at drawing when I was at school. So maybe now you'll be off my case about not doing anything."

"Oh, I'm thrilled!" She bares her teeth in one of her crazy-smiles. "It'll keep you off the streets the evenings in question anyway."

He snorts. She goes on with her teeth flashing. "So maybe you'll find a cultured fuck-buddy instead of the riff-raff you hook up with."

He looks displeased. "Don't. I haven't really hooked up with anyone since ... you know. Mr. Screw-em-all. Mr. Destruction. Mr. Never-again. That's ages ago."

"Well, then you're overdue, aren't you? But seriously, Martin. Do you think you'll be any good?"

He shrugs. Looks at the ceiling. "I'll know in a while, won't I?"

She pushes cups out of the way, takes his hand across the table. "My hero!" she breathes movie-style. He snorts again, but then laughs.

"Look at my hand", he chuckles. "It looks almost smaller than yours!"

* * *

September sun pours down.

Two brothers, a big one and a small one, watch silently as the black hearse slowly pulls away. Big brother rests his hand on the skinny shoulder of the smaller boy, rubs it absentmindedly. The little one squirms away. Stomps his right foot down, clenches his fists and glares furiously at the sun.

"Go away!" he screams. "Make it rain!" And bursts out crying.

Big brother grabs him, hoists him up over his shoulder and starts to leave. The smaller boy hangs like a sack, upper body bent over the shoulder that carries him, fists softly banging at the waist of the black jacket under him. His glasses slip off his nose, he rescues them at the last moment.

"Hush, Tin-tin", big brother whispers. "Hush. I'll take you to that kebab place you like. We'll manage. You'll see."

* * *

 

Old brick factory building, blackened by pollution, but beautiful in its fin-de-siècle majesty. Through the arched gateway into the courtyard that opens to the river: Black, mysterious waters. Specks of light seeping through the trees on the opposite side dance silently on the rippled surface.

There's a lump in his throat. There's a hard pulse bothering his tranquility. You're such a drip, he tells himself. What on earth could be dangerous here? But he knows. It's all new. It's all unfamiliar and demanding and full of hidden traps, and probably fraught with failure. He leans against the skip by the riverfront, pondering whether to defy his anguish, or chicken out and leave. There's a slight tremor in his fingers as they lift a cigarette to his lips. Smoke modifies the moldy smells around him.

He tries to pick a way through the maze of his feelings. He recognizes his familiar reaction to new things, his fear of the others that never seems to leave him, the fright of being exposed as the hollow and useless image he has of himself. They will judge me. They will not like me. They will hit me.

It's always the same. He never learns.

 

*

 

"So! Tell me! What is it like?" It's apples with Jennifer today. Loud apples. The sound of her biting into them scratches his senses.

"It's OK, I guess." He frowns a bit. "I'm the only man. Apart from the prof, that is."

"Is that the most important part? Come on! What do you do there? What do you learn?" Crunch.

He sighs. "Actually not a lot. But then, first time there? What to expect? We just splashed some paint about and he walked around and watched. He hasn't said much yet, beyond introducing himself. And we all had to do the same, I mean introduce ourselves. I hate that stuff. It's like those dreams where you suddenly have no pants on."

She titters. "You're so predictable!"

"What is it with women?" he asks no one in particular. "They are so ... full of talk. So quick to convey who they are, what their lives are like, what they've achieved, and so forth. On and on. I had nothing to say."

"Yeah, but what about the painting and stuff? How do you feel about that?"

He thinks for a while. His face relaxes. "Know what, I could easily loose myself in it. It's strangely pleasurable. But I fear that will change as soon as it becomes school, you know. When he starts to criticize, or "help", I guess the bullshit word would be."

Her eyes are mischievous. "He's hot, isn't he?"

He has to think. He hasn't consciously considered this, too prepossessed with his own initial discomfort. But yeah.

"He's not bad." He smirks. "He's tall. Very tall."

"Everyone is tall to you", she counters. "How old?"

"Hard to say. I'm not good at guessing age. My age, maybe a little older? Early fifties? And he has my name."

Oh God, he thinks. I'll be in my fifties too, soon. He stares into emptiness. She flips her scarf in his face. He shudders and returns to the present.

"Tell me about your date", he says, surreptitiously.

She waves her little finger.

"Oh. Poor you." He tries not to giggle.

 

*

 

There are other worries that sting his chest as he walks homewards through the streets. His apartment. The mortgage eats too much of his benefits. He'll have to give it up. Find a cheaper place. The knowledge of this feels like strangulation.

He'll have to start looking east of the river. Although some of the old neighborhoods there have been somewhat gentrified, there are still streets where the property prices are manageable. It's just that ... it feels so much like failure to have to do this. It makes him want to hide, or curl up somewhere and cry. And what if he can't find anything there? God forbid he should end up in the suburbs!

He passes the old outdoor pissoir, the last one left in the whole city. Memories flood his head. The smell, the expectations, the wait, the tension. He regrets that these public outhouses are gone, they were for so long his churches, his places of worship. His youth.

He slips in. Empty. Well, it would be, wouldn't it? That whole culture is gone. It's all Grindr now. He steps up to the innermost corner and unzips. Looks down at his cock. It pleases him. It's the only part of his body he feels something like pride about. It springs to life, lengthens and thickens, he strokes it slowly, almost lovingly. He wants to show it off. Wants to hear a voice whisper its praise.

All alone and lost in his memories he fondles and jerks his cock until his cum splashes against the concrete wall.

 

* * *

 

"Boyd, I'm hungry! What took you so long?" The skinny boy sits jumping up and down on the edge of the stained couch. His brother flings his coat across the small kitchen table.

"I'll tell you later. If you're that hungry, why didn't you fix yourself a sandwich or something? You're not disabled, are you?"

"Fuck you! There's nothing to eat here, dummy!"

"F-word, Tin-tin?" Big brother opens the cupboard over the sink. "Crackers", he ascertains, then opens the fridge. "And margarine. Is the milk off?"

"Smell it!"

He does. It's off. He puts his hand inside the fridge. "I think it's dead. It's not cold in here."

He comes over, sits down and puts his arm around his little brother's shoulders. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you alone for so long. Have you been to school today?"

The boy looks stubbornly at him. "What do you care?" He worms his way out from under his brother's arm. Rises and drags his feet across the floor and stops by the table. Touches his brother's coat. Bows down and smells it.

The young man called Boyd sighs. "I do care", he says. "You know, if you start skipping school, they'll start worrying and ask questions, and before you know it, they'll take you away and put you in care or something. Is that what you want?"

"No!" The boy pouts. "They can't do that, can they? We're a family!"

"We are. Come here!" He opens his arms. The boy skips like a flash into his embrace. "You're my own little Tin-tin, you know."

They hug silently. A long time.

"You stink. Have you been out of your clothes at all since I left?"

The boy sniffles and shakes his head. "I didn't want to. I got scared you wouldn't come back."

"Listen, I will never do that again, I mean, leave you alone for a whole night. I texted you, didn't you see?"

The boy's sniffles are getting worse. "My phone doesn't work", he moans, "I think it's broken. And I ate the rest of the bread and the ham and then I got scared and threw up and then I ate the cheese and I sat on my glasses and can you please fix them? And I didn't want to go to bed and this morning there wasn't anything to eat and everything was awfully awful!" He is weeping now.

Big brother tightens his grip. "Listen Tin-tin, I'm sorry. I'm sorry! But it was important, and things are going to change for us. Let's go shop for food, and I'll tell you all about it."

 

 

 

Part Two / Red Chalk.

 

 

He sits lost in a new kind of fear. His canvas is in front of him, exacting, demanding, expecting something from him that he doesn't know how to give. He repeats the teacher's words over and over: Start thin. Start vague. Add layers. Add substance. Let yourself grow with the painting. What the fuck does that mean?

This is so different from the first nights when all that counted was to enjoy the colors and the shapes that more or less automatically happened under his brushes. Suddenly things matter. Suddenly something must be achieved.

The bottle and the apple. So easy to outline with the stick of charcoal, tempting to add some shadow, try bringing dimension to the drawing, but no. Paint should do that. Not line. But how?

He's aware of the prof standing behind him. Silently waiting. He panics, wipes out the charcoal lines and starts over, increases the size of the objects to fill up the whole canvas. Still no words from the man behind him, but he feels his eyes.

Teacher moves over to the woman beside him, talks about baselines and diagonals, takes her brush and does something he can't see on her canvas. Moves further and engages in a low conversation with another woman.

He just sits, unable to move, unable to go on. Concentrating on telling himself it doesn't matter, nothing matters, nothing can be lost, nothing is expected. Suddenly a voice as soft as cotton and as intense as an explosion penetrates his fog : "What are you afraid of?"

Startled, he turns and looks the prof in the eyes. Those eyes are like smiles. He lets his breath out. "The paint?" he ventures. Then adds: "Failure, I guess."

"You need confidence", the prof almost whispers. "Wait a minute." He walks to the front of the room, rummages through a box, grabs a sheet of thick, unbleached paper and comes back. Tapes the paper on top of his canvas and hands him a small, flat square of some reddish brown stuff.

"Your drawing skill is remarkable, although inexperienced." The prof clears his throat, raises his voce slightly. "Forget the paint for now, make a drawing of the still-life instead. Use this red chalk."

The white sheet glares at him. You can do this, his brain tries to persuade his fingers. Yes, I can do this! his mind sings. The chalk is soft, but not too soft. The paper absorbs just the right amount of it. First outline, weak, tentative. Some hatching, some shading, suddenly he is engrossed in his task. It's happening, he thinks, I'm growing with my picture!

There's a hand on his shoulder. "Now take this." He is given a piece of white pastel chalk. "Add some highlights here and here and here." The finger indicates where.

He swallows. "Thanks", he whispers. "Thank you."

 

*

 

"Martin!"

Jennifer's voice cuts into his cushion of thoughts. He meets her penetrating gaze like he just woke up.

"Where were you? You weren't with me, for sure!"

"I'm sorry. I was thinking."

"Don't do that. Unhealthy." She tickles him under his chin. "Hot stuff in the horizon? Like sweet looove getting its claws into you?"

He gives her a raspberry. "Stop it. Or I'll start calling you Jenny." He leans across the table, closer to her face. "Want to come with me and look at an apartment tomorrow?"

She stares. Mouth open. "What?"

"I've put my apartment on the market. I'm looking for a new place. Something cheaper."

"Aowww", she moans. "But your apartment is so nice! And so convenient!"

"But unless I get a job tomorrow I can't afford it. I'm down to my bare bones. They've raised property taxes in my area as well."

She shuts her mouth and reflects. "Where are you looking? East?" He nods. "Going hipster?" she asks.

Should he elaborate? Tell her his newborn plan? Disclose his shaky dream?

"You'll see if you come with me", is all he says. His anguish sits like a stone slowly sinking through the softness inside him. He wants her to hold his hand, he needs her to balance his uneasiness about this new thing.

 

*

 

"I want you all to pick one painting you're happy with, put it on your easel and carry it up front", the prof says. "I'm going to dissect you all, pick you apart." The prof smiles as he says this, the smile kills the ominous content of his words.

He doesn't know what to choose. In the end he just grabs the idiot painting he made the first night. At least it's colorful. Once it's up front alongside the others' choices, he feels suddenly very small. Very stupid. Very untalented.

Prof talks about composition. About baselines. Focal points. Centers of gravity. Geometry.

"And then there is the concept of the Golden Ratio. Or the Divine Proportion, as it's also called." Several nods from the ladies. He is lost, no idea what this is about.

Prof talks about Fibonacci, snail shells, galaxies, the Eiffel Tower, but it all seems so far-fetched and unreal to him. Like math class. Like those riddles he encountered in the IQ-test when he tried to enlist in the Army. Prof's voice drones on somewhere outside his private sphere. Paintings are pointed at, commented on, faults are revealed, improvements are suggested, but he's not able to feel anything either about the paintings or about the comments. His apprehension grows when the prof skips his painting with the short comment "I'll get back to this one". He wants to leave, but that will draw too much attention to him.

"Now take a look at this one." Suddenly his silly painting is in for it. He feels his ears burn. "This looks like just some haphazard and meaningless child's play with colors. But look at it closer. Everything I've talked about is there, the golden ratio, the weight, the lines. Now this man ... Martin, right? ... has no knowledge of what he's doing, but inadvertently adheres to all the rules, so to speak. This man has an eye. And I feel justified to point this out to you, because this is a man who is afraid to paint."

He wants to sink into the ground. He feels denuded, hung out to be mocked. He silently seeks the teacher's eyes to make him stop.

"What do you say? Should he be afraid?" There's a murmur and some head-shaking. He feels pierced by the eyes on him. He doesn't detect any good-will. Jealousy, more likely. He puts on his stony face and stares straight in front of him.

As he's about the leave, prof calls him back. Comes forward, towering over him. He forces himself not to look away.

"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. That was not my intention. I just wanted to speed you along a little, make you believe in yourself."

He has to look away. Too much.

"You shouldn't be shy of your talent. I think you have an unusual gift. Would you like to have a drink someplace and talk?" Out of nowhere. Scary. Terrifying, actually.

"I have a date", he lies. Then regrets. "Maybe some other time?"

 

 

*

 

"Jesus!" Jennifer exclaims and spins around. "What on earth makes you think you can live here? Have you been drinking bong water?"

He just tilts his head. Watches her, eyebrows raised. She still turns around in the vast room.

"Martin, this place is falling apart! And it's not you!"

He smiles now. "Not me? What's me?"

"Huge sofa, two million cushions, artsy wineglasses behind glass doors, Persian rug. I mean, look! The ceiling is about twenty kilometers up! You'll be dwarfed in here. And there's no bedroom!"

"Maybe I need a change from the cushions."

"Well, yeah, but I mean ... Why? Why does this shit-hole appeal to you?"

He shrugs. He knows, but he won't tell. Not yet.

"It hasn't been done up", he explains, "so it's pretty cheap. I'd owe the bank only half of what I do now. The agent says I'll probably get more than the appraised price for my old place, and that would give me some money to renovate here." She shakes her head, purses her lips. "The view is nice, and the area is not yet hip", he adds.

She walks over to the tall, wide windows. "I grant you the view, but even if you fix it up, how are you going to keep it warm in winter? All the heat will rise up and stay near the ceiling. Think of the cost!"

"Don't think so. Windows are good. Double glazing. Heating system from the recycling plant. The whole building is heated that way. And there's another studio-apartment below this, so the floors won't be cold. All I need is to fix the walls and do up the bathroom. And in time maybe the kitchen corner."

She scrutinizes him. "You've made up your mind already!" she accuses. More headshaking. "The floor's nice, though," she concedes. "Good wood."

"Jesus!" she sighs while she takes one long look back to the huge room as they're leaving. Then looks at him. "You're serious about this, aren't you? Jesus!"

 

*

 

He naps before art class.

He dreams that his father, dead even in the dream, is after him for some reason, his cock is an ice cream cone that turns into a cat that jumps him. His mother yells "Don't tell them anything!" He wakes up very confused.

Tonight's class is all about emotions. Expressionism versus Impressionism. Symbols and abstractions. They're told to concentrate on a memory. He wants to paint his dream. He gives up halfway through. There's no balance, nor is there real feeling in it. No power. Just masturbation with bleak colors. He curses himself. Abandons the canvas. Picks up his red chalk and paper and starts to draw his mother from memory.

Prof comes over, sits down and watches him. His hand stops. He gets too self-conscious, too disturbed. He covers the drawing with his hands.

Prof gently pulls his hands away. "How long have you been drawing?" he asks. "I know painting is new to you, and I can tell you haven't had much professional instruction, but you must have been at it by yourself for quite some time?"

He stretches. Braces himself. "I haven't done anything since tenth grade", he sighs. "I used to feel good about it then", he says as an afterthought.

Prof's sharp eyes examine his face thoroughly. "I can't believe it. And how old are you now?"

Where is this going? He gets more and more uncomfortable. He needs to put up some kind of barrier. So he puts on his most forbidding expression. "What's my age got to do with it? I have told you I'm new to all this."

A smile creeps up in the prof's face. "So is your age a secret?" he asks, undertone of mild irony.

Tension breaks. His defenses start to crumble. "'Course not. I'm forty-nine", he admits. Then laughs out loud. His laughter feels like a small liberation. "And it's taken me thirty-three years to find out that this is something I really want to learn. Stupid, huh?"

"Not stupid. Criminal!" the prof says and gets up. "I want to talk to you after class. Don't hedge this time."

Something stirs in him. Strange feeling. Was he flirting with me? flashes through his brain.

 

*

 

He can't deny it. He's deeply flattered by the prof's attention. There's a warm, soft ball that seems to grow in the middle of his body, a nice, pleasant and undefinable feeling that pushes his shoulders down and relaxes his neck. And he's a tiny bit squiffy as well. Three pints. More that he usually allows himself.

They're outside now. The October night is chilly, but not freezing. Suddenly he feels loss: This night is about to end. This uneven, but oddly comforting, budding ... friendship? ... is getting it's pause-button pushed, and he doesn't want it to happen just yet. Is it because prof has taken him seriously? Talked to him and guided him as if he were potentially a real artist? And wow, is it possible that he could be just that?

He doesn't want to think too much. Wants to just stay in the moment. Believe in the impossible. Rest his anguished soul.

They pass the dark alley next to the noisy pub. He's overcome by an impulse, and without looking, he fumbles beside him till he finds his teacher's hand. Stops him at the corner of the alley.

"Thank you", he mumbles. "For spending time with me. For encouraging me. For flattering me."

It's too dark to see faces clearly. It's not too dark to hear breathing. And suddenly breathing is very, very close. His heart starts to climb in his chest, blood makes noise in his head. Lips come very close to his ear. "Then make sure you don't let my faith in you down."

And he's gone.

 

*

 

Jennifer has dragged one of the two ladder-back wooden chairs over to the windows, slowly dipping chop sticks into a flat black box in her lap, alternatively watching the view and his struggle partitioning off the far corner with shelves and closets. Otherwise the room is empty. The newly plastered walls are white and pristine, the floor glows a shiny dark nutty color where it's not covered with flattened cardboard boxes.

"I never, ever took you for a DIY-guy", she announces, face suddenly disgusted: "God, I hate sushi."

He steps back from the shelves, bends and stretches and looks around him. Satisfied. Strangely happy.

"Two much white", Jennifer complains. "Blinding!"

"Just wait", he says. "I'll put up some dark molding and more shelves. It's going to be just perfect."

She titters and sniggers. "My, you've changed! I can't wait to see you revert to your old self and put up sequined curtains or something!"

"Are you out of your mind? This is not a room for curtains."

She shakes her head. "As I said, you've changed. So when are you going to show me your paintings?"

He frowns. "Maybe never?" He thinks a bit, then adds: "I might show you some drawings, though. Sometime." He returns to his shelves and starts sanding the woodwork.

He hears a muffled "Oh" behind him. Then nothing. He finishes sanding one side, turns to ask her if she wants his old sofa. There is something strange in her face. Like half of it is falling off. Suddenly alert, he hurries over. "Jennifer? Are you all right?"

No answer. Her eyes stare at him, despairingly? Frightened? Her left hand moves uncoordinated about, then falls down. He desperately flips through the rolodex of his mind for answers, searches frantically for his phone and shortcuts to an emergency call. Answers the questions and gives the address feeling like he's in a bell jar.

The ambulance arrives, he watches the paramedics struggle with her bulk. He wonders how they'll get her down the two flights of stairs and thinks how humiliating this must be for her. But they're pros, these guys, and pretty soon he sits holding her limp hand in the back of the yellow vehicle.

They roll her into the hospital. He follows, feebly, into the hollow emptiness of waiting.

 

*

 

The others have left. He's preoccupied and a bit slow in wrapping up for the day.

"Why did you skip class on Tuesday?"

It sounds like an accusation. He steels himself, determined not to be picked on. Shrugs and looks away. "Something came up."

Prof's face comes closer, a bit too close for comfort. Eyes digging into him. "You missed out on something rather important."

Anger boils up in him. He wants to punch the face in front of him, to yell and kick. He trembles slightly as he fights to hide his feelings. "Well, tough shit," he says, teeth revealingly clenched.

Prof's face changes. Now there's concern mixed into the inquisitiveness. Suddenly he feels dead tired, like he can't take it anymore. He puts his elbows on the table, rests his brow in his hands and exhales loudly.

And then it happens: Prof puts an arm around his shoulders and a hand on his chest. He immediately backs off, this feels like an intrusion! But the prof tightens his grip and doesn't let go of him. And something snaps inside him, and he doesn't want to scream or kick now, he wants to ... he wants to ... To his horror he feels tears spring from his eyes, he tries to stem them, but it's too late. The dam breaks, the deluge is unavoidable. His body shakes uncontrollably, cramps grip his whole being, his pain is exploding and driving all thoughts from his head.

His senses slowly return, he's aware of a shirt against his cheek, and it's a very wet shirt. Oh fuck, why did I let this happen? He pulls away, but there's a strong arm that holds him still. His embarrassment is complete. "I'm so sorry", he sniffles. "Did I scream?"

"You didn't make a sound. But your body felt like one huge scream."

He tries get a grip on himself. "I'm sorry", he repeats. "Sorry I messed up your shirt. I don't know, maybe I owe you an explanation."

"If that's what you feel."

The arm that held him disappears. But they're still sitting close, close enough to touch. He knows the prof is waiting for his answer, but he feels drained. Empty.

"I want to kiss you."

It's not the shock. It's the panic. He lets out a shaky little laugh, can't help it. "Oh, please don't", his shivering voice betrays him, "that will totally kill me." He leans back, out of the way, out of the closeness.

Prof smiles. A peculiar, crooked, but kind smile. "I don't normally go for men", he says slowly. "It's usually teenage boys for me. But, apart from being impressed with your talent, there's something frail, something vulnerable with you that has tickled my senses from day one. I want you naked. It's as simple as that."

He gives up the struggle. War is over. He just quietly stares at the big man in front of him. Then he shuts his eyes. And finally: "Then kill me."

He is not devoured by those lips, he's softly teased and slowly coerced into a lazy and relaxed surrender. He doesn't want to hurry anything, this is all he wants right now: Lips. Tongue. Spit. Warm softness. There's no need in him to go anywhere else.

He feels fingers starting to unbutton his shirt. He takes hold of them to stop them. Breaks off the kiss. Leans back.

"My explanation", he says. "I need to say this. I lost my job that I've had for thirty years. I'm on the dole. I've sold my apartment. I'm moving to a completely unfamiliar neighborhood. I've started drawing again after more than thirty years. It's two years since I was kissed like that. Everything in my life is new and scary and happening too fast, and I'm like too old for this, I'm afraid it's a stupid mid-life crisis or menopause or something. And my best friend, my only real friend, suddenly had a stroke, and that's why I missed Tuesday. And I honestly haven't cried since sixth grade. Honestly."

He tweaks his earlobe, scratches behind his ear. "And I'm sorry I broke the spell. I don't know who I am anymore."

Prof gets up, pulls him up after him, lifts his chin and looks into his face. "You're Martin", he says, his dark voice like a dressing on a wound. "And you are going places. Just wait and see."

 

*

 

Jennifer is transferred to the State's top range rehabilitation hospital. The hospital's full continuum of care focuses on community re-entry, but looking at her lopsided face and her paralyzed right side, and listening to her slurred speech, he wonders if she'll ever return to her former life.

"I wish you could see my new place now. I'm really proud of myself", he confesses to her.

"Ish anywon hewfing you?" she slurs, "with the uh-mooing an ewyhing?" She sighs. "E-we-wy-thing", she repeats slowly. "Oh, shith! Shith, shith!"

"You'll get there", he encourages her. "Patience. You know you can't hurry these things."

"Thell me awouth your ... hainthing. Phainthing. Oh, phu-ch!"

He smiles at her. "I know. How's the rest of you doing? Beginning to feel your right side?"

She shakes her head. "Your phainthing!" she reminds him. Impatiently.

"Don't know. Sometimes I feel like Yes! but most of the time there's just frustration. You know. Remember I told you I might show you my drawings? Want to see one now?"

"Yeah!" Her one good eye opens wide, it makes her face look so funny he has to curb his urge to laugh. He opens his briefcase, brings out a medium-sized framed picture. "I thought I'd give you this", he says, a little bashful. "If you want it."

It's a portrait of her done in red and white chalk on grey paper. Delicate, misty, but very precise, her face turned slightly to the side, a raised hand holds a half-eaten peach close to her ear.

She stares at it for a long time, her mouth open. "Wow", she whispers. Looks up at his face, then back at the drawing. "Wow!" She pulls the cord as tears roll down her cheeks. A minute after, a nurse sticks her head through the door.

She holds up the picture with her good hand. "On my wall?" she demands quite articulate, her problem with m's not so noticeable. Nurse comes in, looks at the drawing. "No holes in the walls", she answers. "Shelf, don't you think?" Then adds: "Beautiful!"

Jennifer silently points at him, tears still rolling. Nurse nods at him, several times. "Should I know about you? I mean, are you famous?" She blushes and sniggers at her own naivety. He assures her he's not. She props the frame up against the wall on the cornice that runs the length of the room. Nods appreciatively and leaves.

Jennifer still looks from him to the drawing and back again. "I had no idea", she slurs. "No idea."

 

*

 

Prof is behind him. He leans away from his canvas, squints at what he's done. Sighs. "I can't get it right."

Prof hums a little tune. "Think plains", he proposes. "Try to stop thinking lines. As an exercise, try a slightly more cubist approach."

Cubist? he thinks. I hate cubist paintings. Out loud he says: "I'll never be a painter."

"Bullshit. Anyone can be a painter. It remains to be seen if you can be a good one." Prof points at areas on his canvas. "Blue here", he says. "Brings the reds and the ochers to the front. Loose the black."

Prof watches as he tries out the suggestions. Actually it works, his painting starts to come alive. "See?" the prof says. Then in a low voice: "I wanted to talk to you last week, but you weren't here."

Remembering their last confrontation, he blushes. His pulse speeds up. "Sorry", he murmurs, "I was moving house. Took all my time."

"After class?" prof asks. "There's something I'd like you to know about. The pub?"

He nods without thinking. Then regrets it. Does he really want this forceful person in his life outside of these classes? This man who screws youngsters and wants him because he's a sissy? This man who probably has a power fetish? He really must try to keep some distance, avoid the kind of emotional trap he fell into the last time they spoke in private. He fucking must!

 

*

 

Prof is talkative. Over a pint, and then one, he analyses the latest Almodóvar movie compared to the older ones, but he hasn't seen it, and sits rather muted and listens. Then the prof moves on to dissect the two most pretentiously chatty and utterly talentless women in their art class.

They laugh a lot. Snigger together like conspirators. He feels like sharing something important.

"I've bought a sort of studio apartment", he confides. "I've realized I want to go on with painting and drawing after this course, no matter if I'm shit or not. I've discovered it's good for me."

Prof beams. "Well done! And that brings me to why we're here, what I wanted to talk to you about."

A touch of apprehension creeps up in him. He tells himself that it doesn't necessarily have to be something unpleasant whenever someone announces they want to talk to him.

"Have you ever tried croquis drawing", the prof says, "or life drawing? Drawing from live models?"

He ponders this. "Not really. I've done some portraits from memory, but I guess that's different."

"It is something I'm sure you will love. Croquis is fast sketching, life or figure drawing is usually a bit more thorough. You could say it's a bit like anatomy lessons. You learn how to present a naked body."

He's all ears now. "Sounds both educational and fun", he says, "but where can one do that? I don't know anyone who would model for me. Especially with no clothes on."

"There are two options", the prof says. "One is to attend the life drawing classes at the Academy. You're not a student, but I have connections, and I think I could get you status as audit or sit-in. You would get experience with a few different models, though it must be said mostly female. And I don't think you'd have to pay the tuition fee, although I'm not quite sure of that. It won't be much anyway. On the other hand, you wouldn't get any guidance or instructions, you'd have to sit quietly and almost pretend you're not there." Prof sniggers. "Which is something you're quite good at."

He hesitates. Torn and ambivalent. "Wouldn't the full time students resent that? I mean, me just popping in to skim the cream off the milk, so to speak?"

"Sit-ins happen all the time", the prof assures him. "But there's another possibility, only that's going to cost you a little more. There is a semi-private life drawing group that I belong to, where we hire our own models and split the costs. We don't meet every week, but when we get together, we have rather extended sessions that usually last an entire day, sometimes even into the night, with at least five or six different models. Unlike the Academy, where there's normally just one model per session, and limited to just an hour and a half." Prof scrutinizes him. "Would that suit you better?"

He's not at all sure. "But you're all artists, aren't you? I'd feel hopelessly inadequate in that setting."

Prof shakes his head. "It's not a competition, you know. We do comment on each other's work, we discuss and criticize, but mostly to encourage each other. And honestly, you have nothing to fear. You're better at drawing than many of us, even though you lack some professional tricks. Which you will no doubt learn."

Prof drains his glass. "Think about it", he smiles. "And by the way, there's another side to this group that you might find interesting. We got the project going because we were a bit tired of the ... well, the limitations in ordinary life drawing classes. We tend to encourage our models to be a bit more ... uninhibited, shall we say?"

He tries to imagine what it would be like. Images flash through his brain, almost turning into a jerk-off fantasy. He feels a stirring in his crotch. Before he can stop it, he sits there with a full-fledged hard-on. He moves uncomfortably in his seat.

Prof watches him. Leans across the table, bores his eyes into him. "Tempted?" he whispers. "Let's get out of here."

He sneaks a hand down his pants and adjusts himself while the prof grins at him. His ears burn. He hurries out into the safety of darkness.

Safety? Prof hauls him into the dark alley and pushes him against the wall, covers his mouth with his own and starts eating. There is no softness in this kiss; there is urgency, there is need. Long painter's fingers caress his neck, his throat, digs in under his shirt collar. Chills travel up his spine, blood pounds in his ears.

A hand grabs his crotch, then pulls down his zipper. He moans a yes into the mouth that devours his as he hears another zipper. Cold air meets his cock, but it only increases the longing ache in his rock hard erection. He tears himself loose from the kiss, both his hands search for prof's warm meat, he can smell it in the night air. He caresses it, pulls it, rubs it softly against his shirtfront, he wants to bow down and taste it. But the prof bends his knees until their cocks meet, and his fingers peel back their foreskins and pull them over again so they're securely docked together, and then with a firm grip pushes back and forth until knees tremble and breathing heaves and they fill each other's skins with spurt after spurt of warm fluid.

He senses lips against his ear and hears a breathless voice whisper "marvelous". He agrees. Fast and urgent and marvelous. He sighs twice, and laughs because he feels suddenly so open and carefree, still stuck inside the skin of his art teacher's cock.

"That was ... unexpected", he grunts.

"Oh, no", the prof says. "I knew you would have a lovely, big cock. You're just the type."

"Yours isn't bad either."

There's darkness all around them. But they're close enough to see each other's eyes, and there's a twinkle in the prof's eyes that makes him want to laugh again. A handkerchief is wrapped around them as their cocks say good-bye to each other. "Say my name", the prof orders.

He swallows. Takes a deep breath. "Martin", he says.

"Yes, Martin", the prof laughingly answers.

 

`

*

 

He wheels Jennifer back to her room, watching her right hand index finger twitch and move. Almost unnoticeably, but it moves. She's trying to make little of it, but it really is a major event.

"I'm so glad for you", he almost squeals, "you're moving your finger!"

"I know. I hofe it'sh a shtart", she says, watching her finger lift a couple of millimeters. "I'm sure I can do my thumb shoon." She concentrates. He can see her willpower, it oozes from every pore of her being, intense and all-consuming, like an angry street mob with the sound turned off. Her thumb remains immobile, though.

"I'm sure you will", he encourages. "What do they tell you? What are the prognosis?"

She mimics someone's voice: "Don't be impashient! Thash gonna shet you wack!"

"Well, they're supposed to know. But I can see that must be hard. I mean, to be patient and not fret."

She snorts, keeps moving her finger.

They've reached her door. He opens it and pushes her wheelchair in. Bends down and kisses her cheek.

"I'm going to a life drawing class", he tells her. "Live nude models. I don't know what I feel most, excitement or fear."

She sticks her tongue ut at him. "Shtuphid!"

He giggles. "I'll tell you about it next time."

"Jusht bring shome drawingsh", she counters.

 

*

 

He spreads out his drawings on the floor. They're all a bit smudged, especially the charcoal and chalk sketches. He needs to get some fixative spray. At the back of his head the word hairspray pops up, and he remembers one of the Academy students spraying her drawings after class and the smell that permeated the room.

He surveys his drawings, inspects them, tries hard to study them as if they weren't his. Tries to recall some of the other students' efforts. Where do his drawings stand in the contest? Because in his mind, there is a competition. They must all feel it, he thinks, remembering the sideways looks, the silent scrutiny, the clenched lips.

The whole situation had made him feel awkward and ill at ease. Like a parasite, an intruder, a thief. Nevertheless, he had sat through the whole session, quietly focusing on the naked woman standing, sitting, then reclining at the raised podium. Experimenting with tools: Soft lead pencil, charcoal, red chalk, and finally some soft pastels.

It had been very strange and almost distressing at first, this confrontation with a totally nude woman. Not young, still rather athletic, small, slightly sagging breasts, soft and round hips and ass. Shoulders and arms rather defined; he had focused on those muscles first, sketching details, as if to draw attention away from the disturbing sight of her female parts. But soon that had passed, and the whole of the body became congruent, complete and oddly interesting. The process of drawing what he saw instead of what he knew got him along, the shortening of lines and the geometry of perspective seemed to come automatically.

He scans his drawings again. This one, he thinks, is the best one. He stacks the rest of them in a heap, places the one he has picked on his easel by the large windows. The figure, drawn in blue soft pastel chalk, rests on its back, one knee raised, seen from the front, disappearing into the depths of the format. The body is rather androgynous, the focus is on the limbs and the muscles.

But I won't go back there, he thinks. I don't want that feeling of sneaking in where I don't belong.

Somewhere below him he hears a soprano voice shout and wail. He pricks up his ears. Not often does sound penetrate into his studio. He wonders briefly who the voice belongs to.

 

*

 

That frightful, that godawful woman! he screams in his mind. She's risen, waving her arm, calling for yet more attention. Pushy, conceited, ego larger that the Great Wall of China. Her shrill voice cuts through the room: "Could you maybe please help some of us here instead of drooling over that Martin fellow?"

Prof straightens his back, fixing her with a piercing look. His voice is bleeding sugary sarcasm. "I beg your pardon. I'm so sorry you're not the center of my focus the whole time. But as you see, talent seems to make me drool."

She's not fazed. "I've paid for this course to get some tutoring, some development in my art, and I don't think I'm getting my money's worth here", she snarls.

Some of the other ladies raise their heads, worried frowns compete with hidden smirks. He wants to disappear. Sink into the ground, turn invisible.

Another woman drops her brushes to the floor and gets up as well. "Will you listen to yourself?" she shouts. "Have you lost all sense of proportion? Your pushiness and constant nagging gets you about fifty per cent of all the attention in this class, and still you complain?"

There's a gasp to be heard. And a quiet snigger. And scraping of feet on the floor. The first woman spreads out her hands and puts on a what-the-fuck face, but the other one is not finished. "And if you feel you're not developing into the new Rembrandt or something, could it be because you're just shit at what you do? Whereas Martin, who you seem so jealous of, never screams for attention, and in my opinion doesn't get half of the recognition or the awareness he deserves, because unlike you, he's got real talent!"

This is it, he thinks. I'm out of here. He leaves his canvas and his brushes scattered around his place and rushes out of the room, face a deep red, accompanied by the woman's voice trailing off: "And our teacher, who is a brilliant painter and a very good teacher, should really ... "

Those last words stick in his head all the way to the bus-stop. Brilliant painter? Why on earth has he never bothered to find out about his teacher's works, how could he have been so dense as to just assume he must be a run-of-the-mill artist who just teaches to make ends meet or something? God, he really has to remedy his ignorance. Christ, he has jerked off with the guy, and he doesn't know shit about him!

He finds a seat at the back of the bus, hauls out his phone and googles Martin Hoff. Lots of entries. Martin Hoff artist, then. He scans the entries for a homepage, finds he spells his name with a single f: Martin Hof. All white start page, just the name and a pull-down menu: About. Exhibitions. Works. Publications. Contact. He clicks works: Recent works. Landscapes. Portraits. Nudes. Nudes. Click. A glimpse of warm colors.

It's his stop. He hurries off, excited, impatient. Takes the steps two at the time, sits down with his lap-top without even taking his heavy jacket off. Clicks through to the page he wants. Then decides to slow down. Do it the good way, built up some progress in it. Recent works first: Just a handful of them. Cityscapes with skating, half-naked boys. Boys on bikes. Two groups of boys facing each other. Oncoming fight? Sketchy, yet clear, perspective exaggerated for incredible depth, expressive colors. Tension almost tangible.

Landscapes: Just four of them. Same beach in all of them. Weather and light changing from happy to eerie. In one of them a single figure far, far into the depth of the painting. In another, a forgotten pair of red speedos left on the sand.

He skips portraits. Maybe later. He wants the nudes now.

Not many of those either, eight in all. All male, all look like sixteen, most of them fairly modest. Two full length back views, lovingly painted buttocks, rather more hyper-realistic than the landscapes. Five seated boys, hands in laps or side views. The same warm colors and the same love for detail: The bend of a neck, the curl of toes, the defensiveness of shoulders, the enigma of a face. Last one is a full frontal, arms raised and hands covering eyes, hips pushed slightly forward, hairless crotch, meticulously painted foreskin. Striking blend of innocence and lasciviousness.

He's fascinated. This man is good, is all he can think. A longing surges through him, a wild and consuming need to achieve something similar, something as mesmerizing as these paintings. There's an ache in his chest, there's weeping lurking in the depths of his soul. There's also a small shock as he realizes he's got one hell of a boner.

He suddenly discovers a tiny arrow at the bottom of the page. Clicks it.

 

* * *

 

"Do you have to? I don't wanna be alone!" the boy whines. "It's Sunday and everything! There's nothing to do!"

"We've already talked about this", his brother says, somewhat impatiently. "It's work, you know I have to do it."

The boy pouts and then disappears behind the half-wall that shields off his bed. His brother follows and finds him slung down with his face buried in his pillow.

"Come on, don't be like this", he coaxes. "It's just for a few hours. I'm back before you know it."

"That's what you said the last time", the boy mumbles between sobs. Suddenly big brother realizes this is not a tantrum, this is genuine anguish. He kneels down and puts his chin on the boy's shoulder.

"Listen, that was a one off. That's not going to happen again. Move over", he says softly. He lies down and spoons his still weeping brother. "I know everything has been rough for you, but it's going to be all right. I know it will."

"I wanna come with you. I don't wanna be here alone. Please?" the boy whimpers. Big brother is silent. The boy turns around. "Please?" he repeats. Sniffles.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea. I don't even know if they'll allow it."

"Why not?" Another sniffle.

"It's ... well, it's private, you see. And it's for grown-ups."

The boy turns away, the soft sobs continue.

 

* * *

 

Jennifer is not in her room. He roams the corridors, peeps into half-open doors, looks for staff to help him. Finally he spots her wheelchair behind the glass doors leading out to the balcony at the far end of the third corridor. He hurries his steps.

"Aren't you cold?"

She turns her head, startled. Then relaxes and blows air out.

"Jesus! Don't do that!" Her speech is less slurred now. "Ok, wheel me in, then!"

He complies. She's almost able to maneuver her chair on her own now, although turning is still a struggle. Her right arm is still not very functional.

"Where to?"

One-sided shrug. "Cafeteria, I think. Need a soda or something"

He buys. She gulps down two large swigs directly from the can, belches loudly. He tries not to let it rile him. Pulls out his phone, opens a website.

"Look at this", he says and holds the screen in front of her face. "This is his work. The teacher, you know."

"Give!" Her left hand grabs the phone. Scrolls down with her thumb. Clicks through the pages. Sharp intake of breath tells him she's found the last of the nudes.

"Wow!"

"See the tiny arrow at the end?"

She clicks it. Stares for a few seconds.

"For fuck's sake! You need a password? What does he do, porn?"

"No idea. I must say I've wondered. I'm going to ask him about it tomorrow. I think. By the way, I brought something from life drawing class"

He pockets his phone, opens the cardboard tube he brought with him. Pulls out and rolls out two sheets of off-white paper. Two nude reclining women, one in red chalk, the other in blue pastels. She studies them, breathes loudly through her nose in concentration.

"Fuck", she finally bursts out. "If you're this good at doing ladies, I can't wait to see you do men!"

"Oh, I'm not going back there. It felt all wrong. Like I had no business to be there. So I guess this is a one-off."

She seems irritated at this. "Gahd, you really are stupid!"

She looks the other way, fidgets with the hem of the tent-like tunic she's wearing.

"I'm going to stay with my sister", she says. "Up north. I'll not be seeing you for a while, I guess."

He lets this sink in. Ambivalent, yes. He should be happy for her that she has someone to take care of her, but he realizes that she is his only close friend, so how will he cope with the sadness of losing her? She observes how his face falls down.

"It's not forever", she says with fake cheerfulness. "As soon as I can masturbate with two hands, I'll be back."

"When do you leave?"

"She said she'll come and get me tomorrow. But you never know with her. I mean, it's a five-hour drive."

He hugs her, carefully, like she is breakable. She feels it, of course, and roughly laughs at him and tells him she's just as solid as she's always been.

 

 

 

Part Three / Blue Pastels.

 

 

There's this hollow and desolate cave inside him that's been growing ever since he said goodbye to Jennifer. A sudden snowfall turning into sleet doesn't contribute to lighten his mood, he drags his feet from the bus stop through the slush. For the first time since his move, he feels almost reluctant to go home. So why this sudden lack of enthusiasm? All because of Jennifer? Because there's no other person to show off his new studio to? No one to encourage him, no one to share his new ... new everything?

Well, that's your own fault, he chastises himself. This is what comes of never letting people into your life. Acquaintances, no friends. Not really.

His mind in a jam, he hardly notices the boy sitting on the upper step leading to the first landing, playing some game on a handheld console. The boy looks up from his game, pushes his glasses back in place and follows him with his eyes as he passes him and starts up the next stairs.

"Hi?"

It sounds like a question, the small voice makes him turn.

"Oh. Hi. Sorry, I was thinking", he answers somewhat superfluously. As if that wasn't obvious.

"I've seen you", the boy says matter-of-factly. "You live up there."

"So I do", he laughs, all of a sudden his dark fog seems to lift off him. He takes a moment to check the boy out, hopeless at guessing age, not very familiar with children, but oh, not immune to beauty. And this is an exceptionally beautiful boy, glasses and all.

"You live in this building as well?"

The boy nods, rises and comes up behind him.

"We do now", he says and tilts his head back indicating a door on the first landing. "Since Tuesday."

"So. You're right under me. I've heard you, come to think of it."

He feels rather stupid, doesn't really know how to relate to kids like this, what to say, how to act.

"And do you like it here?" he tries.

The boy wrinkles his nose and his glasses move.

"Maybe", he says a little reservedly. "It's bigger than where we used to live, and the fridge works, but there's not much to do and no one to play with."

"I see. No kids around here, are there? I can see that's a bit boring for you. Your folks not around today, is that why you sit out here?"

The boys doesn't answer. There's a frown between his thin, dark eyebrows. His hand twists and turns the game console from side to side.

He unlocks his door. "See you around, then", he says as cheerfully as he can manage, and leaves the boy on the landing as he disappears into his apartment. Throws his coat on the floor on top of his boots just inside the door, leaves the drawings he had brought to show Jennifer with the stack of the other drawings on the work bench by the window, then fires up his computer.

He's just opened his teacher's page of portraits when there's a knock on the door. He ignores it. Gazes at the faces on his screen, young boys, handsome boys, tender and subdued expressions contrasting some with naughty, brazen smiles. A handful of older females, they look very serious, almost forbidding, but surely they must be of great likeness to the sitter. There's a lot of character to all of his portraits, and there's even a next page. And there's another knock on the door as well. Harder, more impatient.

He sighs and gets up.

Yes, the boy is out there. Pleading eyes, hands pressed together like in prayer. He almost laughs out loud.

"Can I come in?" the boy says hurriedly. "Please? I'll be very quiet, you'll hardly notice me."

"Oh yeah? Do you really think I believe that?" He sniggers now, keeps the door just ajar, his face sticking out. "Are you so bored that you want the company of someone from the stone age?"

"Yes, please", the boy counters. "I won't bother you if you're busy, I'll just play my game, but I'm so sick of being alone. And it's just till my brother gets back. Can I, please?"

He gives in. Holds the door open. Smiles a little ironically.

"Ok. I was feeling a bit lonely myself, so maybe we both need a break."

The boy slips in, stops and notices the coat on the floor. Looks curiously up at the man's face, then down again. Toes his shoes off and places them gingerly to the side of the heap. Puts his game console next to his shoes.

He watches, somewhat amused, as the boy tip-toes in and gazes wide-eyed around the room. The boy's eyes fasten on the easel by the window, the brushes and the paint on the small table next to it, then move to the untidy stack of blue pastel drawings on the floor and on the work bench.

"You're an artist?" the boy pipes, he sounds almost awestricken.

That question again. Is he? That word seems too big and too loaded in his mind. He poohs and snorts a bit.

"Not really", he slowly replies. "Maybe", he adds as an afterthought.

The boy looks up at him with a question in his eyes as he moves with exaggerated stealth in the direction of the pile of drawings. It's quite funny to watch, the boy looks like a thief or a scoundrel in an old silent movie.

"Maybe you should tell me your name?"

The boy flinches, like he's been caught red-handed at something. "Oh yeah", he squeaks. "I'm Martin."

He laughs out loud. "Oh no! Not another one!"

The boy first looks crestfallen, then hostile. "Why do you laugh at me?" he says angrily.

His laughter subsides.

"It's not you I'm laughing at. It's just that suddenly there are so many Martins around me. You see, I'm Martin too. And so is my teacher."

The boy seems to ponder this.

"Aren't you too old to go to school?"

"Obviously not, since I have a teacher", he sniggers. "I take painting lessons, it's not really school. You may look at those drawings if you want."

The boy visibly relaxes, his bouncy steps towards the bunch of papers lose the theatrical stealth, now he moves like a boy normally does. He goes to his chair and sits down in front of his lap top, but he now observes the boy rather than the portraits on the screen.

He feels a sudden urge to draw the boy, try to capture that nerdy beauty of his face, that slim and springy body now bending over, leafing through the drawings on the floor, and suddenly he catches himself staring at the boy's small and pert bottom. Something stirs deep within him, something pleasant, but also unsettling. Something new.

"Naked ladies!" the boy almost squeals.

"Not ladies", he retorts. "Just one. It's the same woman in all of them."

"Is she your wife?"

He laughs. "Absolutely not! She's just a model in art school."

The boy's face spontaneously lights up. "Yeah, like Boyd!" he exclaims. "He's a model too!" Then suddenly clams up. Bites his hand. Blushes.

He wonders about this strange reaction. He keeps staring at the boy, taking everything in; the body language, the youth, the purity, the inexplicable hypnotism that almost mesmerizes him. And it strikes him: Why have I never before considered how beautiful a boy as young as this one can be? He shakes himself out of it.

"Who's Boyd?"

The boy first seems reluctant to answer. But then he reconsiders.

"My brother", he answers. "He looks after me. But I can look after myself, you know", he adds defiantly.

"I bet you can! May I ask you how old you are?"

"I'm nine and eleven months. How old are you?"

"I'm forty-nine and eleven months", he chuckles. "Not true, I just wanted to say that. I'm forty nine and four months to be exact."

The boy opens his eyes wide. "Oh. That's old", he states.

"If you say so." He smiles at the boy. "So your brother is a model? What do your parents do?"

The boy avoids his eyes. "Nothing", he mumbles. And all of a sudden he jumps to his feet, hurries over to his shoes and steps into them, treading down the heels. Snatches up his small game box.

"Bye!" he calls out, opens the door and is gone.

 

*

 

"Why is part of your home page restricted?"

They're in the pub again, and he just blurts in out. Prof watches him, partly amused, partly calculating.

"If I tell you", prof finally says, "or even better, if I show you, will you do something for me in return?"

"How can I say yes or no when I have no idea what it implies?"

Prof just keeps that enigmatic little smile on his lips.

"Drink up", he eventually commands. "We'll go to my studio, and you'll have all the answers you want."

Suspicion and forebodings must be obvious in his face. Prof laughs out loud. "Oh, keep your hair on! I'm not going to tie you up and fist you", he sniggers. Then adds mischievously: "Unless you beg me to, that is."

"No, thanks."

Prof drains his glass and gets up. "Let's get going, then. It's just a ten minute walk from here."

They walk north, away from the center, in silence through quiet, dark streets. He can't get rid of the feeling of apprehension, that this is a bad move, he shouldn't be here at all. And what the hell does this man want from him? Sex? Friendship? Something else he can't even guess at?

At the far end of a small park he spots a group of old, one-story wooden houses built close together. That's clearly where they're heading.

"This is my place", prof says.

He is amazed. "All of it?" he gasps.

"No way", prof chuckles. "Just these two." He rummages in his pocket for keys, leads them to the right side of the small cluster of buildings. They're standing in front of two houses connected with a newer built-in passage. Prof unlocks the first door. Grabs inside for a switch.

They enter a large, open room, cluttered with tables full of paints and brushes, canvases stacked against the walls, easels and shelves, floor and fixtures speckled and mottled with dried paint. The whole ceiling facing away from the street is a sky-light. There's a small podium and some furniture in the innermost part of the room, next to a door, he guesses it leads to the connecting hallway between the houses. He stares at it all, mouth slightly open. He shouldn't be surprised, but this is the first time he's been inside a professional artist's studio, and he is a bit overwhelmed.

The studio is very warm. Very. He's starting to feel discomfort in his thick coat. Prof has shed his outer jacket, and his sweater, and now starts to unbutton his shirt. Oh Jesus, he should have known.

"Are you going to just stand there and suffocate in your winter clothes?" Prof is taunting him. He swallows, and with fingers slightly trembling removes his coat and looks for a place to hang it. In the end he just lets it drop to the floor.

"It's too warm to wear too many clothes in here", prof ventures, "because of my models. Besides, I like to be naked when I'm at home. But suit yourself."

Prof has now stripped down to his tight boxers and socks, and hey, here goes the underwear. He just stands there, unmoving, watching the man walk to a cupboard and unlock it. He's such a large man, he thinks, but he looks rather good for his age. A bit of love handles, pectorals not as firm as they probably used to be, but no belly. Nice legs. Really nice. He seems to remember that the man's cock felt kind of large that night in the alley, but it doesn't look very threatening at this moment. Maybe because he now sees it in proportion, or maybe it's one of those growers? And those socks he still keeps on. There's something pornographic about this naked man with his socks still on, he's reminded of trips to that secluded swimming hole where men lie waiting on the rocks or roam in the surrounding forest in trainers or hiking boots and nothing else ...

"Well, are you just going to stand there?" The words penetrate his thoughts, almost like pain. Carrying a stack of medium sized canvases, prof walks over to the large worktable. "Why so shy? I've already seen your cock."

He finds his voice. "I'm not shy about my cock", he answers. "It's the rest of me I don't feel like disclosing."

"Come off it. Get out of those clothes and I'll show you some of my works that aren't for the masses."

Oh, what the hell. At least I'm not fat, he thinks and peels off his pants. And shorts. Prof watches him.

"Wait!"

He stops unbuttoning his shirt, looks questioning at the man.

"Let me just enjoy this. God, I'd like to paint you like that, with the tip of that gorgeous cock hanging from under your shirt and halfway down your thigh."

He can't help but smirk. "Brace yourself", he finally sighs, "because I'm about to reveal my ugly, scrawny self, and don't tell me afterwards I haven't warned you." He removes his plaid shirt and T-shirt. "Can I please get to look at your goddamn secret pictures now?"

Prof scrutinizes him with narrowed eyes, and he feels extremely uncomfortable. Wants to cover up again and run away.

"I knew it. I knew I'd want to paint you." He is not convinced, suspects that this is just bullshit to make him feel less awkward about himself. "Don't look so bothered. You have an interesting body. Nice proportions, good bones, pronounced sinews." Prof nods with every observation. "Don't ever make the mistake of thinking porn star bodies are more interesting to paint."

Prof waves him over. It feels really, really strange to be here in this studio, naked with his teacher. Like a good dream, or a bad dream, he can't make up his mind. He tentatively moves forward.

There are six paintings now lying on the table. They're all beautifully painted, glowing and lifelike, and they're rude. Really audacious. Boys of different ages, some look to be at the very start of puberty, some a bit more mature, all of them with erections, some of them spread out showing pink and hairless assholes. But those faces, they are so hauntingly done. Again there's that insecure questioning look, that innocence, and the contrast to the abandon and lust conveyed by the bodies really gets to him. Goosebumps come in ripples all over his skin, and his cock is starting to live its own life.

Prof keeps an eye on him, gauging his reactions.

"These are stunning", he mutters. "But I don't see why they need to be so inaccessible. I've seen lots of more explicit stuff on the web. Quite openly."

Prof chortles, almost sneers. "A big part of my income is from portrait painting. I need to maintain a certain – well, integrity, or a certain weight, with the general public. Oh, some of these have been exhibited, I'm not keeping them a secret per se, but I don't want them promoted online and limit my appeal, so to speak. I need the public to see all sides of my art, and the controversial stuff is likely to take up too much space in people's minds."

He watches as the man stacks the paintings carefully together, face to face, and carries them to the cupboard. Turns his head.

"Ready to take it up a notch?"

He nods, tingling, excited, ready for almost anything.

Prof unlocks another cupboard, takes out three rolled up canvases and brings them over. Rolls out the first one, puts weights on all four corners.

It's a much bigger painting, set in a rather surrealistic landscape. He recognizes details from the beach he found in the landscape section on prof's homepage, but the whole setting is out of proportion and dreamlike. Three youngsters, looking the same, like triples, are side by side, lying on their backs on the sand, maximally exposed with their knees around their ears, eyes shut and mouths gaping. The middle one's wrists are tied to the wrists of the others with white ribbons of cloth. Misty, almost transparent phallic shapes, like wind in from the sea, disappear into their asses. Their balls are small and hairless, cocks aren't visible.

It's too unreal for him. Oh, he can see the skill, the cleverness, the fantasy, the sublime technique in the painting, but he doesn't find it as hot as the former ones. And a good thing, too, he doesn't want to be observed standing there with a stiff dick, drooling at this man's pictures.

"I wish I could paint as good as this", he sighs.

Prof doesn't say anything, just rolls up the canvas and replaces it with another. A close up this time, an asshole dripping whitish, shiny droplets onto a face. And there it is again, one of those faces: The youth, the innocence, the purity, those wide open, almost disbelieving eyes, the half-open mouth, and the droplets running down the nose, the cheek. And his cock stirs. And it disturbs him. What is it with those young faces that gets to him in this way?

"Better?" prof asks, obviously alert to his reaction.

"God, yes." He doesn't know how to explain himself, but his cock betrays him. It's grown to a size that looks almost improbable on his slight body. Prof sniggers. "Marvelous", he whispers. "One more?"

He can only nod, his throat has gone dry.

 

*

 

It's almost midnight before he gets home. His mind is still in a turmoil as he unlocks his door. What was that about? Why on earth did he want me to get naked? He didn't even touch me! He scatters his clothes all around him, can't wait to get in the shower, urgently needs to wash off the disturbing mess of contradicting feelings: The excitement, the embarrassment, the nagging pain of inadequacy, and the bewildering reactions he had got from the whole situation.

Why was he so turned on by those paintings? They were all just kids! He has never looked at kids that way, has he? He likes men!

He turns his face up against the spray of warm water, wants to cleanse his brain, his whole being, hopes to get rid of all the unwelcome thoughts, all the feelings that are just wrong, sick, offensive, unlawful ... Oh God. His cock swells. That last painting just won't leave him. It's burnt into his retinas:

The boy in the front. Just starting puberty by the look of it, caught in mid motion, almost coming out of the painting. Head bent a little to the side, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, one arm halfway behind him, the other thrown out to the side, the hand being licked by a dog, a greyhound? Something elegant, anyway. Cock hanging, swollen like it's just going down. And in the background: another small youngster, held in the lap of an older man, the boy's backside to the viewer, legs spread out revealing a dilated asshole.

And his cock aches again from the memory. The beauty, the depravity, the forbidden heat of the painted story. His brain gives in to his cock, the fight against unwanted feelings is futile. He jerks off like there's no tomorrow, moans like he never does, abandons reason, surrenders to the image of those young boys: In his mind they're fucking now, held in the embrace of the older man. His knees wobble, he sinks to the floor as his body convulses and he shoots like a gun.

Breathless and panting he sits leaning against the tiles, water still running, trembling as he tries to get a grip on what is happening to him.

And he has to thoroughly and calmly consider Prof's suggestion. The offer of joining their private drawing group for free. If he agrees to model for them. If ...

 

*

 

He is summoned to a meeting at the job center. He's got a new case worker who looks just as tired and uncommitted as the former one.

"You haven't submitted your activity report this month. You know you are required to apply for a minimum of three jobs a week for your benefits to continue."

He's getting pissed. "There's no law that says so. The rules just say you have to document that you're actively seeking work."

"Well, you are right to a certain extent, but to evaluate your activity, we need a certain standard. So as an unwritten rule, an average of three job applications a week is what we go by when we revise your qualifications for continued financial support. Which we do every four months."

"That's ridiculous! It's not my bloody fault that there aren't jobs for me. Do you want me to apply for jobs I'm not qualified for just to fill in some stupid form? How senseless is that?"

The case worker is leafing through a stack of printouts. Then scrolls down on his screen. Sighs.

"It's not really as stupid as you think it is. It's the only way we can monitor that you fulfill your obligations. So neglecting to report your activity is not very smart, even if you just have to report that there are no suitable jobs on the market."

He is seething, but tries not to show it. "How bureaucratic and cumbersome!" he mumbles. "So the point of this rule is to discredit people, or get as many people off the dole as possible, regardless of job offers or rights or anything, just to be bloody-minded? If I didn't know better, I'd think you didn't know what the job market looks like at the moment."

The case worker reads through the top print out. "This is your last report. You are too narrow in your activity. You should widen the field, not limit your job seeking to horeca-related jobs. You have management experience, try other branches."

He gets up, squints at the guy, clenches his fists in his pockets. "If you had bothered to look properly", he says almost threateningly, "you would have seen that I've done just that. Also that I've registered with two temp bureaus. It's not my fucking fault that I have nothing to report. But don't worry, I'll make sure to send in a bullshit report each month."

He leaves the office in a funk. Mutters invectives under his breath as he walks from the building. Needs to calm down, needs to get his head in order before art class. This feeling of being suspected of ... of not doing his duty, of cheating, is the last thing he needs on top of the tumultuous jumble of thoughts and emotions his mind has overflowed with since that trip to the studio. He drops in at the nearest coffee shop.

He plops down in a corner, oblivious to his surroundings, his mind going in circles, his confusion and anger blinding and deafening him. Sips his coffee like a robot and seems lost to the world.

Suddenly he's aware of something disturbing his consciousness. He focuses, and stares straight into another pair of eyes two tables away, eyes he suspects must have been watching him for some time. He twitches like he's awakening, withdraws his stare. Collects his senses and returns to reality. Has he been unconsciously gawking at this guy? His eyes return to the other person. A young man, a boy merely, alone and still watching him. Inexplicable goosebumps rush over his skin.

He gets abruptly up, leaves his unfinished coffee and hurries out into the cold and fading late November light.

 

*

 

The boy Martin is running in the stairwell when he comes in, singing and panting, holding on to the bannisters and swinging his legs like a little athlete on a pommel horse.

He feels already drained, and just the sight of the hyperactive boy tires him out completely. He sits down on the top step, exhales and just looks vacantly at the display of energy.

"Hi Maaaartin!" the boy sings in his best choir-boy voice. He wants to laugh. And without thinking, he sings "Hi Maaaartin!" back at the boy in as deep a voice as he can muster. The boy stops his gymnastics and giggles.

"You've had a shit day!" he announces, then smacks his mouth. "Oops! Sorry." Still giggling.

"How perceptive of you!"

The boy knits his brow. "What does that mean?"

"It means you see things without being told what they are."

The boy goes back to his gymnastic experiments, this time hooking his knees over the railing and hanging upside down, his shoulders resting on the steps.

"You didn't look happy", he explains between grunts, adjusting his glasses.

He rises, walks to his door. Unlocks and opens it.

"Waiting for your folks again?" he asks. "Come in if you like." The boy lets his legs slide off the railing, his body seems to collapse into a heap. Then in one gliding movement he's upright.

He's feeling less glum all of a sudden. Maybe the boy provides the exact distraction he needs to get the ghosts out of his brain. He hangs up his coat and kicks his boots off, then lines them up, nicely together beneath the coat. The boy watches with a small approving nod, then toes off his shoes and puts them beside the boots.

The boy walks gingerly across the floor, turning and gazing, looking even smaller than he is in this large, airy space. The urge returns to him: He wants to draw the boy. Wants to catch that fragile beauty, that strangely uncoordinated grace of movement, that ever changing and so expressive face. And before he can stop himself, his mind tries to figure out what the boy looks like under that shapeless sweater and those not to close fitting jeans. Oh no, don't go there, he admonishes himself. Get rid of that thought.

"Want a glass of juice or something?"

The boy just continues his scrutiny of the room. "Where's your TV?" he wonders. "Why don't you have furniture?"

He laughs. Points to the eight high ladderback chairs and the large dining table in front of the open kitchen. Then to the recliner in the corner close to the window. "What do you call this, then?"

"Yeah, but you don't have a sofa, and a TV, and a coffee table and all that stuff that people have, and why don't you?"

He goes to the kitchen and pours two glasses of orange juice, walks back and hands one to the boy.

"I used to have all kinds of clutter all around me. When I moved here, I decided I wanted space to paint, so I got rid of most of it. And I found out I like it like this way." He watches the boy digesting this. He decides to jump to it. "I would like to draw you", he says, "if you'll let me."

"Yes!" the boy shouts enthusiastically. Then suddenly seems struck by something. "You mean naked like the lady?"

"Oh, no!" he laughs. "Totally not. Just like you are now. Can you sit still for like ten minutes, you think?"

The boy proves to be quite a good model, almost astonishingly able to hold himself still for a long time. Who'd have thought that, from watching his antics on the stairs? After a couple of fast sketches he moves over and adjusts the angle of the boy's face.

"Can you hold your head like this? And may I take your glasses off?"

The boy mumbles consent. Puts his glasses on the floor beside the chair he sits on.

"Think you can hold still for a little longer this time?"

A small nod. He resumes his drawing. His fingers have learned the face now, he needs only to glance up every now and then. The soft, blue chalk-lines catch the beauty, even more stunning without the glasses, he's nailed that faraway look in the boy's eyes, almost like he's dreaming. No, not dreaming, there's a sadness there that he hasn't noticed before. A haunting, bewitching melancholy that suddenly is there in his portrait. He stops drawing, lifts his eyes and looks at the boy. Looks at him like a person now, not an object. Yes, the sadness is there, it's not something he just invented and projected to his drawing.

"What are you thinking of?" he asks softly. "Oh, you don't have to tell me. But whatever it is, it makes you look very, very beautiful."

The boy seems to snap out of his pensive state. He's blushing, like he's embarrassed to be called beautiful. He shakes his hands in the air as if to get rid of something that sticks to them.

"Can I see?" Without waiting for an answer, the boy jumps up from the chair and hurries over to the easel. Stares. Lifts his eyebrows. Runs back, grabs his glasses, then looks at the drawings on the table as well as the one on the easel again.

"They look just like me!" he exclaims happily. "You're good!"

He smiles at the boy. "Well, thank you!"

That former energy seems to burst from the boy again as he skips about, suddenly aware of the untouched glass of juice, which he grabs and drains in fast gulps. Then makes the most out of a big burp. And giggles.

"Next time you can draw me like the lady!" the boy titters, and then almost bends over from suppressed laughter.

He says nothing. Just watches thoughtfully as the boy dances out and puts his shoes on. Turns his head as he opens the door, his smile's a mile wide. "You should quit smoking! See ya!" And he's off.

 

 

Part Four / Purple Crayon.

 

 

Snow is falling, quietly and densely, muting the city sounds and enveloping the world in serenity.

Two brothers, a big one and a small one, wander slowly through the afternoon softness, laden with shopping bags. They don't speak, it's like the white and virginal purity around them should not be disturbed.

This changes the minute they're inside: Stamping feet, noisy shudders, loudly blown noses.

"You go put your new clothes away", big brother says, "and I'll start supper."

Little brother disappears behind the half-wall that closes off the corner of the studio-apartment that has become his bedroom, but shortly after comes out with a pair of new briefs with butterflies all over them in his hand.

"I can't bite `em off", he groans, holding the briefs by their price tags. "And Boyd, can Martin draw me naked?"

Young Boyd drops a can of chick peas with a clank into the sink. "Has he asked you that? Jesus fucking Christ, how do you know Martin?" There's surprise, but also panic in his voice.

The boy shrugs. "I talk to him sometimes. And he hasn't asked, I just wondered."

"When have you talked to him? Has he been around here when I wasn't in?" He looks angry, and the boy cringes a bit.

"'Course he has. He lives here, stupid! Exactly there!" A finger points to the ceiling.

"What?"

"Martin. He lives up there. He's an artist. He draws naked ladies. He's made drawings of me too, and they look totally like me, so I think he's mega clever."

Boyd just stands there flabbergasted. The boy giggles and reaches out to put a finger into his brother's open mouth. Boyd quickly shakes his head and closes his lips. Sits heavily down and lets his breath out with a woosh.

"Jesus, Tin-tin. I thought you meant someone else. I'm sorry. But this guy up there, are you sure his name is Martin?"

"Don't be daft. `Course I am. Like me."

Big brother suddenly explodes with energy. "Wait here!" And he's out the door.

 

* * *

 

He has just picked up a piece of pale ochre pastel chalk and started to add another color to the blue drawing of the boy downstairs when there's a sharp knock on his door. He rises slowly, and before he reaches the door, there's another impatient knock. He opens, stick of chalk still in his hand, and almost has to catch his breath.

Outside his door is one of the most intriguing young faces he has ever seen: The cheekbones, the jaw-line, so sharply and perfectly molded, the skin unblemished and golden. A shock of dirty blond hair, highlighted either by sun or by art. But most of all, a pair of almost luminescent blue eyes with just a touch of green, framed by thick lashes and brows a shade darker than the hair. There's a hint of strabismus that makes the eyes even more beguiling, and the thick lips seem at first all wrong for the refined bones. A quote comes to his mind: The ugly may be beautiful, the pretty never. Not that this is an ugly face, not by any means, but it sure isn't pretty-pretty. And way at the back of his brain there's an unsettling little feeling of déjà vu.

But it's a face that in spite of it's strange beauty looks forbidding and hard. And there's a voice that belongs to the face as well, a polite voice with a bit of a sting in it.

"I'm Boyd Henschel. I live downstairs from you", the young man informs him, "and I believe you have made my brother's acquaintance. He's just asked me if he can model naked for you. I want to know what is going on."

He opens his eyes wide in astonishment. This clearly is the brother the boy has mentioned, but what on earth can the boy have said to him? And how can he put this guy at ease? He breathes in through clenched teeth. Opens the door wide and nods his head backwards. "You had better come in."

The young man walks in past him. There is elegance and confidence in the way he moves in his tight pants and lose shirt, it's easy to detect a very well composed body under the garments. Here in the sharp light he can also see the man must be even younger that he first thought, although he finds it hard to guess his age. He steels himself not to flinch from the young man's glare, searches desperately for an opening, knows he is expected to explain something.

"I don't know what you've been told. But I think I should show you something."

He leads the young man to his easel by the window.

"Your brother", he begins, "has been here twice. The first time, Sunday two weeks ago I believe, he almost nagged me to come in, because he was bored waiting for you, and I guess he was also curious about his neighbor. The second time was yesterday, and I actually asked him in, because he was obviously restless, and making a lot of noise playing in the hallway and on the stairs when I came in. I asked him if I could make a drawing of him, and he agreed. That's all I asked him. This is it."

He indicates the drawing on the easel with his open hand. "I'm still working on it. I'm Martin Mowinckel, by the way," he adds as an afterthought.

Young Boyd squints at the drawing, then moves his gaze to scrutinize the man beside him, and back to the drawing again. The hard look in his face softens somewhat. Finally he speaks.

"I can see you know what you're doing. However, that doesn't explain why he got the idea you want him naked."

He leaves Boyd still looking at the portrait, goes over to his work table and searches through the stack of drawings. Picks out two of them and brings them over.

"The first time he was here, some of these ... they're from a class at the Academy, they were floating around here, and he was curious about them. He thought the model was my wife. Well, having seen these, he made some sort of strange connection when I asked him to sit for a portrait. He even joked about it when he left, saying something about I could draw him like the woman in these studies the next time, and he obviously found that hilarious. I honestly never asked him anything of the sort."

He indicates with his hand that Boyd should follow him. Leafing through the stack of drawings, he pulls out the sketches of the boy.

"These are from yesterday. I should probably have asked your parents for permission to draw him, but it happened quite spontaneously, and ... well, that's about it. I'm sorry if you think I've overstepped."

Young Boyd seems to relax a bit. Looks around him, and without being invited to do so, goes to sit down in the recliner in the corner.

"He didn't say your last name", Boyd says. "I know another artist called Martin, and I thought he had gone behind my back and propositioned my brother, and I wouldn't have liked that at all."

Pieces of a puzzle is starting to come together in his head, the pattern emerging sends tiny quivers down his spine: It's all so unlikely, impossible even, but it makes sense.

"Are you by any chance talking about Martin Hof?" And having said it, he knows why the face in front of him rang a bell.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Do you know about him?"

"Well, yes. He's my teacher. I might even go as far as calling him my mentor."

"Oh." Boyd ponders this. His face undergoes a whole series of various emotions. "This is just fucking weird", he finally utters.

"Isn't it just? You've modeled for him, right? I thought I'd seen your face before."

Boyd sighs, then grins. "Yeah. Then you have probably seen what kind of paintings I've posed for."

"I have."

The young man rises from the chair, a perfect symphony of coordinated movements. "I must go down to Tin-tin. Sorry about the intrusion, but I hope you see why."

Tin-tin? But yes, it seems a logical nick-name. And kind of cute, too. A thought strikes him all of a sudden.

"Have you eaten yet? Why don't you bring your brother up here, and we can have a meal and get to know each other?"

 

*

 

Prof is looking very intently into his eyes. Purposeful, unavoidable, alarming almost. "Have you considered what we talked about? Because we have a session now on Saturday, and I think you should be there."

He has considered, but is yet undecided. "I don't know", he sighs. "I'm afraid it would make me feel very awkward."

"Oh, get over it. I wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't think you'd be a good model. And maybe it would teach you to relax a bit. Be a bit more confident." Prof touches his arm, reassuringly? Or persuasively? "Besides the obvious benefit of developing your skills. You won't get many opportunities that equal sessions like this, you know."

He needs to change the subject. But the theme is still uppermost in his thoughts. "I've met one of your models", he announces after a pause.

"Have you, now? Which one, if I may ask?"

"Boyd something. Henschel, I think it was."

"Really? Well, I say! He's one of my all-time favorites! Gorgeous, isn't he? Where did you meet him?"

"He lives in my building."

Prof bursts out laughing. "No way!" he exclaims. "Is that where you live? You are the one that bought the second floor studio? Unbelievable!"

"So you know the place?"

"I sure do!" Prof still laughs, leaning back, drying his eyes. "I own the apartment below you, the one the Henschel brothers live in. I bought it as an investment a year ago."

He is just gaping. Speechless. There are simply too many random coincidences crowding his brain now. Prof is sobering up a bit, a certain seriousness creeps into his countenance.

"He's an amazing guy, that Boyd. How well do you know him?"

"Not well at all. Just met him."

"Do you know his background?"

"Not really. I got to know his little brother first, I even drew the boy's portrait the other day. Then Boyd came up in a funk because he mistakenly thought that I was you, and that you had wanted to paint his little brother in the nude. Sorry, that was a rather jumbled account of it. Anyway, we talked a little to clear up the misunderstanding, and the three of us had supper together. That's about it."

Prof seems lost in thought, then visibly pulls himself together.

"I picked him up when he was thirteen", he confesses. "He was sucking cock for money, mostly to provide for his then four year old brother, as their unreliable, alcoholic mother seemed incapable of looking after them properly. So he resumed responsibility, and has protected, and I would say fathered, his brother, or half-brother actually, over the years. Their mother drank herself to death a couple of months ago.

"You know, I'm no saint. I'll admit I haven't always been very nice to the boys I've seduced ... but Boyd has always had a special place in my heart. I picked him up, as I said, but he was such an unusual and unlikely combination of maturity and young vulnerability, besides being dead gorgeous, of course, that I simply couldn't use him and throw him out just like that. I started to pay him to model for me instead of that risky hustling he was at. I introduced him to a photographer I know and got him a few modelling jobs in teen fashion.

"I'm not sure, but I rather suspect he has been doing some porn shoots as well, but he's been a pillar for his brother all the way, always supporting and providing for him, and he has avoided all the dangers of the modelling business. You know, drugs and booze and shit. Fiercely protective of his family. He managed to finish school with passable grades, always conscious of the danger that Social Services would butt into their lives and break them apart if they suspected or discovered any alarming irregularities. That boy has an almost unbelievable amount of strength in him.

Prof leans back, slowly shaking his head.

"And so his mother ups and dies, and because he's nineteen and of full legal age, as next of kin he automatically becomes his brother's legal guardian. I don't know for sure, but I don't think either of the brothers have ever known who their fathers are. Not even sure the mother knew. But without the money the mother managed to scrape together, and I can only guess at how, there was no way for him to make enough from those few jobs he gets to pay the rent and feed them ... Well, eviction was imminent, so I took pity on them, and let them move into the studio for free. At least until he, hopefully, gets a breakthrough as a commercial model, or maybe an actor, what do I know. And yes, I still occasionally use him as model. And still occasionally fuck him, in case you wonder. But he's always shielded his brother from that part of his life, so I don't go to the apartment. And I've never met the brother."

A lot of information, but strangely enough he's not all that surprised. It all seems to come together: The boy Martin, or maybe he should start calling him Tin-tin, and the way he avoided answering questions about his family. The intensity and fervor of young Boyd's protective attitude. The closeness he has observed between the brothers. Or half-brothers as it turns out. Which explains why they don't look very alike, each of them with distinctly his own brand of beauty.

Suddenly his head clears.

"I'll do it", he says. "I will. Where is it?"

Prof smirks. "Great. I hoped you'd come around. We meet at my place this time, remember where it is?"

He nods. "Think so, yes."

"Lovely. Ten o'clock. You won't be disappointed. I promise."

 

*

 

He feels exhilarated and calls Jennifer. Her phone goes straight to voice mail. He never talks to machines. So he texts her:

Things are happening that you won't believe. Call me.

She doesn't.

 

*

 

He's a little late getting there. He took a wrong turn halfway up and had to go back two blocks to correct his mistake. As he approaches the door, he hears voices from inside. Agitated voices. And they're both familiar. He stops and listens.

"But I just had to bring him! I've left him alone too many times!"

"I still don't like it. And I don't think the others will approve. You should take him home."

"But I need the money! Just for once? I know it may put a hamper on everything, but couldn't it for once be just a bit less exhibitionistic?"

"He's much too young for this. What if he blabbers about it? Have you thought about that? You'd both be in deep shit. We all would!"

"You don't know him. He won't say anything. And I don't see what harm it can do if we keep it at a reasonable level. Just for once. He's seen naked bodies, at least my naked body, all his life, and it never did him any harm. Please let him stay."

"I'll ask what the others think."

Silence. His apprehension is growing, maybe he should leave. But then again, he's here, isn't he? And if he's right and the kid Martin is here, wouldn't that just make sure everything will be kept at a level of ... well, normal propriety? But oh, is he ready to shed his clothes in front of the boy? Or can he just pass up that part and join with the rest of the artists and limit himself to drawing the other models?

He braces himself and enters, carrying his large case with sheets of paper and his pencils and chalks. They all look up as he comes in, he blushes from embarrassment.

"Martin!" a high voice squeals excitedly, and the small body rushes towards him and almost collides with him.

He smiles shyly. "Hi, Martin. Or maybe I should call you Tin-tin today? There seems to be quite a lot of Martins here."

The boy giggles, then pouts. "They won't let me stay", he complains. "Tell them I can stay! I'll be good!"

Suddenly the big Martin looms over them, dwarfing them.

"You can stay on one condition", he says to the boy in a stern voice. "You sit quietly and you leave when your brother is done with his job. Get it?" The littlest Martin looks up, awestricken, and nods his head.

He looks around for a place to set up his gear. There are two empty easels and several chairs, he moves over to the easel closest to him. There are six other men present, all seated and ready to begin, some with sketchpads in their laps, some with larger sheets taped to cardboard on easels. There's a murmur of voices filling the room. Young Boyd sits in a deep chair in the far corner next to a man who looks to be in his late twenties, presumably another model. So Boyd is going to model! He feels suddenly elated. He fumbles with taping his paper up, his fingers are trembling, but finally he's ready. And at the same time he feels the boy's presence next to him.

"Can I sit with you?" the boy whispers. "I won't disturb you." He nods without looking at the boy.

His teacher claps his hands. "Before we start: We have a couple of new faces today, one of them you'll get to know better shortly. The other one is a guest, and you will all have to consider that. You know what I mean. Let's get going, then." He nods to the man sitting next to Boyd. The man rises, turns away from the group and starts to undress.

The room is very warm. Several of the men, prof included, strip off their shirts and sit bare-chested. He removes his shirt, but keeps his T-shirt on. The model, naked now, enters the podium in the center of the room, carrying a long pole. Positions himself with legs slightly spread, clasping the pole and leaning on to it.

He has the profile view of the model. A fit body, pronounced muscles without being too beefy, rather pale skin with shadows of dark hair, especially dense on his lower abdomen. Low hanging balls and a thin, average length cock with long foreskin. He starts sketching. Soft graphite pencil first, not filling the format, leaving room for more sketches on the paper.

The boy next to him sits quite still the whole time, but he can feel his eyes on him. Suddenly he feels like he's being judged, evaluated, and oddly enough he feels he has to deliver, make the boy proud of him. But the model changes position, down on all fours now, he has clear view of the back, and the buttocks and the dark spot between them. He gets all absorbed with his drawing, forgets about his surroundings. Loses his sense of time, fills sheet after sheet with sketches as the positions change. But now the model is obviously through, and gets up and leaves.

And it's time for young Boyd. He glances at the boy, wondering briefly how he will react to watching his brother revealed for all to see. But the boy just smiles at him. Leans closer and whispers in his ear: "I think you are the best!" And then the naked young man on the podium, seen from behind, takes all his attention.

He holds his breath. This could well be one of the most beautiful creatures he has ever seen. Slender limbs, well-proportioned shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist and hips, the most perfectly shaped buttocks. Smooth skin that seems to glow in the rather sharp light. He picks up his favorite blue chalk as young Boyd spreads his legs a fraction, folds his hands behind his neck and stretches his body upwards and small muscles ripple across his back. The stick of chalk flies across the paper.

And Boyd turns around. And involuntarily he gasps. God, that young man is mesmerizing! Oh, how he yearns to produce the most beautiful drawing of his life, eternalize that flat stomach with just a hint of definition, that deep V leading down to smooth, shaved pelvis and that lovely, lovely cock, just the perfect length and thickness. The hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. He wants so much right now, he wants the impossible, and frustration hits him: He can't get the face right. He scratches the chalk away, as much as he can get off, and tries again. But he can't! He moans out loud in agony, and faces turn towards him.

His teacher's voice suddenly penetrates his exasperation. "Martin! Come up here!"

He feels the boy at his side stir, starting to get up. He stays him with his hand. "I think he means me", he whispers. "Stay here, will you?" He takes a couple of deep breaths and walks up to where prof sits.

"Get undressed!" prof commands. "I want you together. You'll make a great double up there."

He stalls, perplexed. What? He can't do that! He can't pose together with this incredibly perfect specimen of a young man. His face shows panic.

"Don't be silly!" prof admonishes. "You'll complement each other in a very interesting way. Trust me."

Almost in a daze, he complies. Turns away from the group of men, the audience as they feel like now, and takes off his clothes. God, he feels old! He feels ugly and wrinkled and sagging and unattractive, why did he let himself be talked into this?

Prof puts a chair up on the podium, grabs him by his upper arm and leads him up on the platform. "Sit here, legs spread. Boyd, get in behind him, a little to the side, put your hands on his shoulders and lean slightly forward."

He vaguely registers how young Boyd's eyes widen as they scan his body and fasten on his crotch. But he's not able to think. He just wants to sink into the ground and forget he ever existed. The murmur in the room suddenly hits his ears, it's like he wakes up. He looks up at young Boyd, his desperation is all that can be read in his face. "Please help me?" he whispers. "I feel so ... this feels so bad." Boyd squeezes his shoulders and bends over him. "It'll be fine", he whispers in his ear. "Relax. You look a lot better than I had expected." And the young man winks as he moves away from his ear.

The hands on his shoulders. Just a tiny bit of pressure, a slight movement of fingers, almost unnoticeably stroking his skin. A smooth thigh that gently pushes against his arm. He feels a small jerk in his cock. Oh, fuck, he thinks, I'm going to get hard. He needs to distract himself.

"What do I do with my hands?" he askes loudly. "Sorry everyone, but I'm new to this."

"Cross your arms", someone shouts from the room.

"Spread you legs more", someone else calls out.

But the real distraction comes in form of a commotion in the room, the rustle of clothes and the sound of feet flapping across the floor. And a high-pitched voice: "I wanna do this too!"

Now a naked boy comes running up to the podium and bounces in between his legs. He shivers as he realizes that the pinky-sized little dick that flopped towards him seems burnt into his mind.

"Tin-tin! What are you doing? Get the fuck away from here!" his brother shouts angrily.

Prof jumps up. "No, no, no! Leave him! This is sensational!"

Another shout from the room. "Yeah! Awesome!"

Boyd looks bewildered around him, searching for support. None comes. Every one of the men seems to find the scene in front of them just fine, a couple of them even applaud. Young Boyd bites his lip, sighs and reluctantly gives in. Prof comes up, moves the boy to the side of him, backside to the audience, and tells the boy to lean a bit in and put an arm around his neck and hold still.

The boy stage-whispers into his ear, loud enough to be heard in the now silent room: " You have a mega big willie!" And the men look at each other, some happily enjoying everything, some shaking their heads, probably with envy.

There's a tremble in his legs and in his crossed arms as he tries to hold still, but the feel of young Boyd's thigh, and the smooth skin of this most beautiful boy rubbing against his body in several places makes it almost impossible. Relief finally comes when they're asked to find another position, and they split up. He looks from one stern brother to another giggling brother with bewilderment. What now?

Boyd's voice rings out. "Ok, one more pose. But that's it! After that my brother is going home, and so am I." He notices the hard looks the young man gives to prof. "Regardless", Boyd adds.

Directed by prof they find new positions. Young Boyd now seated on the floor, his back resting against the chair, legs out in front of him. The boy on his belly slung across his big brother's thighs, and he himself is guided to stand close by on one side, turned away from the pair, which basically puts his buttocks right against Boyd's ear. He looks over his shoulder and catches a glimpse of the boy's cheeky grin as he looks up straight at his ass. His embarrassment is killing him, but luckily it's the very thing that hinders him from totally screwing up by getting an erection.

Fifteen minutes later, and his legs ache from tension. But it's over now, the three of them leave the built-up podium, Boyd to the back to get dressed, little Martin runs down to where he left his kit, on the chair by the easel. He grabs his clothes and follows the boy, finally allowing himself to take in the slim body. Really letting the beauty of the nine year old body get to him, so that he will remember it and be able to recall it later.

As he packs up his drawings and his tools, a new model enters the podium. He doesn't even want to look, his mind is in such a state of disorder, and well, to be honest: He wants to keep the memory of the two naked brothers untainted on his inner vision. He swears inwardly that he'll never participate in something like this again, never again subject himself to the kind of unpleasant scrutiny he just experienced, never again put himself in such a humiliating state of exposure.

He joins the brothers on the way out. With a silent nod young Boyd invites him to walk with them. The two of them trudge silently along the snowy sidewalks, every now and then sending sidelong glances at each other. The boy Martin, on the other hand, skips and dances along, full av energy and high as a kite.

"That was fun!" the boy squeaks. "Did you hear 'em clap for me?" He runs off the road when they cross the park, throws himself to the ground and rolls around in the snow, laughing and whooping. "Can we do it again?"

He feels Boyd's eyes on him, and suddenly he's struck by some heavy regrets, as if he's to blame for the whole thing. "I'm sorry", he mumbles.

Boyd stops and glares at him. "It's not your fault", he remarks. "It's my fault for bringing him, and it's fucking Martin's fault for always pushing and pushing and pushing!"

He resumes walking, calls out to his little brother to stop his shenanigans and come along with them.

"He's so ... unfeeling sometimes. Martin Hof, I mean. But I just can't say no to him. He has helped me so much ... I owe him so much. But God, I wish he wasn't so bloody ... determined ... or ruthless, I don't know."

Little Martin is running in circles around them, singing softly to himself. Young Boyd seems to have lost some of his grace of movement, he shuffles his feet and looks almost like he's carrying something heavy on his back.

"It's so fucked up", Boyd mutters. "He probably won't pay me since I broke up the session. And I so need that money ..."

He doesn't say anything, just tags along. But his mind is busy. Busy revising his budget, calculating his resources. Sorting out his priorities.

Their walk home takes the best part of an hour. He is a bit tired, his case of paper and drawing tools doesn't weigh a lot, but the size makes it cumbersome and irritating. The boy also seems to have lost some spirit, he's been rather quiet for the last ten minutes, his steps have lost their bounce. "I'm hungry!" the boy moans when they're at the front door. His brother mumbles something unintelligible and pats the boy's head.

He drops his case and leans against the door, facing the two brothers.

"Listen. I've been thinking", he says, looking into young Boyd's face. "How much do you normally get for a session like that?"

The young man knits his brow, scowls at him as if he's sticking his nose where it doesn't belong.

"I only ask because I wanted to propose something", he says hurriedly. "I didn't get to finish my sketches of you up there. What if I pay you to model for me here instead? Would that help? I mean, we have the rest of the day, unless you have something else you need to do?"

He anxiously awaits the reaction, but the young man is silent. "I really would like to draw you. Maybe also try to paint you", he adds softly, pleading eyes.

Little brother tugs at big brother's sleeve. "Yeah!" he pipes. "Can I watch?"

Young Boyd sniggers down at the boy. "Haven't you had enough of the art world for today?" he inquires.

"No! It's fun to watch Martin draw cuz he's so clever! Please? Please, please?" The energy is back in the boys demeanor, he's skipping up and down impatiently.

Young Boyd relaxes. "Oh, why not." Then adds: "I need to go to the mart first. I'll come up when I'm back. And when I've found out what I'm going to do with this disobedient little shit", he smiles down at his brother.

 

*

 

He has turned the heat up, but it will take some time before the huge room is warm enough to be comfortable with no clothes on. He prepares for everything that springs to his mind: Tapes up several sheets of paper on the stiff cardboard plate that fits his easel, lays out a variety of pencils and sticks of chalk. Arranges some sort of stage with a chair dragged in from his bedroom corner, drapes it with a dark blue bed-spread, moves one of his work lamps to light up the tableau from the side, knowing the light from the big windows will soon fade. And he puts out some snacks on the kitchen counter, wondering if maybe he should prepare a hot meal. Well, he'll ask them when he sees them.

And then he just sits down and waits. But time moves so slowly, and he gets restless. Dying for a fag. But he's stopped smoking, right? So stick with that decision!

He walks over and adjusts the drapery, back to his worktable to sort through his old drawings, changing their order. Puts this morning's sketches away in a separate stack.

His phone beeps twice.

Text from Jennifer. He opens it hurriedly.

Martin darling - this is just to say I'm not coming back. Maybe not ever LOL. I've met someone. Have fun and I do love you. J.

How the hell should he respond to this? Why the fuck does he feel suddenly so empty, almost bereft? He should be happy for her! Come on, there's no reason to sulk and act like a child because he's not her first priority. Honestly! Especially when there's so much going on in his own life now that doesn't involve her!

He sends her a champagne emoji. That will have to do.

 

*

 

The room is getting warm now. He changes into a pair of loose shorts. The brothers arrive just as he pulls a singlet on.

They're both in their underwear, panting from running up the stairs in the cold. They hurry inside, kick off their shoes and push each other playfully as they come into the room. Young Boyd looks happier and more carefree than he did a few hours ago.

He asks if they're hungry. Young Boyd shakes his head. The boy takes a couple of dance steps, skinny arms in the air, punching at imaginary opponents with his small fists. "We had pizza!" the boy shouts. He pushes his hips forwards, hands to his side, showing off the huge butterfly that decorates the front of his briefs. "Are these cool, or what?"

"The epitome of high fashion", he smiles.

The boy stops in his movement and lifts his glasses up off his nose. Squints puzzled up at him. "Huh?"

"That's grown-up for cool underpants."

"Yeah, right", he smirks, pulls off his T-shirt, runs over to the draped chair and starts to remove his briefs.

"Oh, no, Tin-tin!" his brother calls out. "Not this time, you little monkey!"

The boy pouts, then sticks his tongue out and giggles. He obeys, though, and pulls his pants up. Comes skipping across the floor and inspects the array of pencils and colored pieces of chalk on the table. Young Boyd picks up the discarded T-shirt and throws it at his brother. "Here! Put on!"

He can see the boy wants to argue and steps in:

"I thought maybe you would like to make some drawings along with me", he says, "so I think your brother should be the only naked one and we should be the artists, and artists have to be dressed for work. How does that sound?"

The boy is instantly diverted. "Cool!" Pulls his T-shirt over his head and his glasses fall to the floor. The boy bends over with straight legs to pick them up, his trim little buttocks straining the fabric. He puts his glasses on while down there, and peeps up backwards from between his legs. "Can I use your blue chalk?"

"Sure. Come on, then. I'll make room for you on the table and get you some sheets of paper. You can bring one of those chairs over." He points to the dining area, clears off enough space to put a large sketch pad out for the boy. The boy hauls the chair over, climbs up, kneels on the chair, and leaning over the table picks up a stick of blue chalk which he examines thoughtfully.

"Can I have a rack like you have to put my picture on?"

"I'm sorry, I only have one of those. It's called an easel."

"Why?"

"No idea, really. It's from the German word for donkey, but don't ask me why."

"That's mega weird. It doesn't look like a donkey at all!"

"Listen, we can change places later, and you can try drawing with your paper on the donkey easel, ok?"

He is aware that something in his attitude has changed. He no longer feels insecure talking to the boy, doesn't strain himself to come up with things to say, it all seems to float seamlessly along. It strikes him how pleasant this is, how warm his inside feels just being near this unpredictable little sample of such remarkable beauty, but also how inexplicable and alarming the intensity of his attraction to the boy has become. His heart beats faster as he remembers how the boy's skin had felt against his. And suddenly he feels like he's heading for disaster.

"How do you want me?"

Young Boyd's tenor voice breaks into his reveries. Looking up, he sees the young man in the act of taking off his boxer shorts, and at once he's back in the present. He lets the sight of the man-boy fill his vision, chasing the former disturbances away.

"Maybe with only your T-shirt on? Just to make it a little different?" he muses. Boyd just smiles and puts his T back on. He places one knee up on the seat, leans forward and holds onto the back of the chair, presenting those pale and smooth, those beautifully rounded and dimpled ass cheeks to him. "Oh, that's ... that's just beautiful", he exclaims. "Please hold that!"

He sits down and starts to draw. Soon everything around him is forgotten, all that exists is the paper in front of him, the soft graphite pencil in his hand, and the absorbing process of transferring the exquisite anatomy in front of him to the paper. The large sheet of paper is soon filled with sketches, whole figures and details. He would be completely lost in it if it wasn't for the one grating thought that creeps into his brain: When he turns around, will I get the face right this time?

A small cracking sound alerts him. He turns to look at the boy: There's blue chalk all over the boy's hands and some on his underarms, and one long streak along his cheek. The once white T-shirt is speckled with blue where he seems to have wiped his hands. Half of the broken pastel stick is still in his hand, going in wide circles around a strange and messy drawing of a figure with a huge ass and tiny little legs and feet. A small pink tip of tongue sticks out from the corner of the boy's mouth. The cuteness of it kills him.

"This is my third!" the boy proudly announces and tears off the top sheet, sweeps it away, and it lands on the floor with the rest. "Can I have another color?"

"Yes, but you need to clean up, unless you want the next drawing blue as well."

The boy looks down on himself and titters. "I made a mess, didn't I?" he squeals happily.

"You can go wash in the sink. Dry yourself on the paper towels, not the terry cloth."

Meanwhile young Boyd has shed his T-shirt and is now facing them, one foot up on the seat of the chair, elbow resting on the knee. Head slightly bent down, like he's watching his own crotch. Oh, God, the beauty of him!

He switches to charcoal. Fast outlines, then fills in the details of hands, arms, genitals. Thighs and knees, and wow, that guy even has scrumptious feet! Isn't there a single flaw on this body? He's only half aware of the boy sitting down again, stretching across the table to pick up a purple crayon from the box of oil pastels.

His whole being seems to fill up with the sight of the young man, his body tingles, waves of goosebumps crawl along his spine as the body on his paper comes to life. But still no face.

The boy beside him taps his arm. "You got a stiffy!" he loudly whispers.

"Tin-tin!" his brother calls out warningly.

"What?" the boy says innocently. Then turns to him again. "Can I see it?"

He blushes, he hadn't even noticed he was hard. "No, you can't. Besides, you've already seen it."

"Not stiff, I haven't!"

"Tin-tin! Drop it!" Young Boyd's voice is sharp and threatening. The boy shrugs and begins to draw.

He starts on a fresh sheet of paper. Scrutinizes the body in front of him again, suddenly aware of a certain growth. Yes, looks like young Boyd is starting to chub up. His cock stirs and jerks. He throws a quick glance at the boy, but he seems intent on having fun with the crayon and doesn't notice him anymore. He concentrates on his drawing. Soon his arousal subsides, and again he can drown himself in the process of filling the white sheet.

Young Boyd changes his position. Slumps in the chair now, legs stretched out in front of him, one arm lifted to expose a hairless armpit, slightly swollen cock hanging down over the edge of the seat, no hair disturbs the lines and the shapes. It's such a sexy pose, his own cock is starting to react again. Concentrate. Concentrate on the face, forget the body for a while. And he dives into the task of finally trying to catch that intriguing face with his stick of charcoal. And little by little he succeeds: There it is! The shape, the bones, the lips, all is there, except the luminescence in the eyes. Suddenly the boy's laughter ripples through his brain.

"I gave him your willie!" he wheezes, bending over and flopping down on his drawing, laughing. "Look!" he adds and lifts himself off his work of art.

There it is. A clumsily outlined body with a smiley-ish face and a colossal cock between awkward, stick-like legs. There's a speech bubble over the figure's head that says I'M GONNA GET YOU YOU LITLE SHIT!! The crazy drawing, the absurdity of the whole situation, the tension, and the unpredictable novelty of everything finally explodes in him and releases a bellowing laughter, starting in his stomach and soon having him in stitches. Tears spring from his eyes as he leans back and roars.

Young Boyd breaks his pose, grabs his discarded underwear and comes over. Standing behind them, he puts on his boxers and T-shirt, stopping halfway in the process to ruffle his brother's hair and snigger.

"You've had fun, huh? No complaints and no stressing around for almost an hour, what's got into you?"

The boy beams up at his brother. He is again struck by the devotion and trust on display in the boy's face. And envy stings him like a rusty nail. Oh, how he wishes he could have some of that in his life: the brother that he has never had, the kind of care that he has never experienced, the love ...

He shakes himself out of this oncoming gloom. "Perhaps we're done for now?" he asks. He nods at young Boyd. "Feel free to look through my drawings. And of course, you must assess your brother's efforts. The budding little cartoonist!"

"But I never got to draw on the donkey!" the boy announces and touches his forehead dramatically. "I forgot!"

"If it's up to me," he says, "there'll be a next time. You can come up and draw any time you like."

The boy throws himself in his lap and wraps his arms around his waist. A muffled, but triumphant squeak against his stomach: "Yes!"

Big brother touches little brother's shoulder. "Tin-tin, I need to have a little talk with Martin here. You run down and wait for me. Key's in my shoe."

 

*

 

For two days he's been struggling and cursing, but now it has all come together. His two paintings seem finished now, he forces himself to stop going further, he is aware of the risk of overdoing things.

Prof has agreed to let him enter some of his works that are not from the evening classes in the exhibition that marks the end of the course. He was afraid to ask, suspecting prof would be hostile or pissed with him from what happened at the life drawing session, but obviously not. Prof didn't even ask to see what works he had in mind. The exhibition is scheduled to be in two days at an uptown gallery, and prof has assured him there's room enough for him to bring almost as many pictures as he likes. Within reason. It's everyone's show, not primarily his.

It's the last evening of the classes, and the women seem even more chatty and shriller than ever. They're all sorting through the canvases they've worked on during the course, looking at each other's works, seeking opinions, commenting, asking questions, criticizing, waving prof over here and there.

Prof seems friendlier, more helpful and less sarcastic tonight, even towards that hellcat that always nags him and commandeers his attention. And by and by most of them seem happy with their final choices.

He has sat quietly at the outskirts of the bustle, he has not even unwrapped the paintings he has brought, and so far none of the women have shown any interest in debating his works with him. Until the one that usually sits next to him notices the grey paper parcel leaning against his easel and asks to see what he's got there. He bites his lip, and almost furtively peels off the gray paper while the woman chatters on, he puts the two paintings above one another on his easel, and leans the two framed sketches he's used as starting points for the paintings against the base of the easel.

The lady watching him goes very quiet. Just sits there staring.

He has abandoned all pretense of the kind of hyper-realism he so has admired in his teacher's paintings, realizing the technique is beyond him. Instead his paintings are a bit rougher, some would say blurred, the color scheme not even trying for natural. There's a misty quality about them, but the subject matter nevertheless stand out as precise and as detailed as you could wish: The portrait of the boy Martin is full of low-spoken, melancholy mystery, without being the least bit sentimental. There's a beautiful balance between the nuances of blues and the touch of ochre and rusty iron. And he has inserted the almost washed-out figure of a man in the background, barely discernable. The other painting is young Boyd, bare-assed in his T-shirt, with half of a mirror showing behind him, equally vague and misty, except for the buttocks and thighs that are sharply and accurately defined, and the colors are tiny bit more boisterous, shades of red and orange mingling with the dominant greens.

The woman rises and waves her arms, not saying a word. One by one the chatterboxes come over, one by one their voices die down, except for the bitch who never shuts up. She passes his paintings with only a short glance, nods briefly and moves away.

And prof comes. The ladies withdraw to let him into the middle of the throng. Prof looks at the paintings and the sketches for a long time. Tilts his head, moves a couple of steps away, then up close, nose almost touching the canvas. All of a sudden prof grips his shoulders, shakes him fast and sharp and then kisses his forehead. Takes two steps back again and slowly starts to clap his hands.

 

*

 

He has ordered a fish burger for himself, two double bacon-and-cheese for his guests, and there's fries and onion rings and sodas all around, as requested by the birthday boy who's face now could light up a small alley. He holds his hand up before they have a chance to dive in.

"I just want to say thank you. My life has become so much brighter since I got to know you two." He blushes a little from his confession, he's not used to talk feelings. His mother's ghost turns in her grave. "Here. These are for you. And happy birthday, little man." He hands each of them an envelope.

Big brother exchanges looks with little brother, and in unison they open their envelopes. True to form, little Martin shouts "Yes!" and adds "Mega Cool!", and hops around the table and hugs him. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

. "Uhm ... " Young Boyd frowns as he looks down at the contents, then up at his face. "You've already paid me", he says, a little sceptical. " What's this for?"

"Oh, I'll tell you, but let's eat while the food's still hot."

They do. Big brother now and then nudging little brother, telling him to slow down. The boy just laughs with his mouth full, ketchup mustache and birthday crown askew.

He pushes his tray away. "You know, we've had this exhibition to mark the end of the art course. And all four of my paintings were sold, as well as three of my drawings."

The brothers both look keenly at him.

"I asked Martin to help me price them, and he more than tripled my original suggestions. And that's what they went for! So I thought I'd share it with you, since half of the pictures were of you. Besides, my little birthday king", he looks smilingly at the boy, "I never paid you to sit for me that first time."

Young Boyd shoves two paper napkins over to his brother and points at his upper lip. The boy picks them up and covers half his face. "You're so nice, Martin!" The words are muffled as he rubs the napkins over his mouth.

"Yes, you are", Boyd agrees, still with a small frown. "But ... It feels a bit like charity, and it makes me a little uncomfortable."

He laughs. "Charity?" he chuckles. "You've fucking earned it! Believe me!"

Birthday boy jumps off his chair again and comes skipping over to him. "I fucking earned it!" the boy squeals and plants a smacking kiss on his lips, then returns to his chair. He blushes a deep red. Young Boyd looks sternly at little brother: "Tin-tin, not the F-word."

"But you say it!"

"When you are grown-up, you can say it as much as you like."

He coughs. "Well, now you know the reason for the envelops", he concludes, "and also there's the fact that I ... I really like you two. I mean, really." Saying this doesn't help his very hot and flushed face much.

The boy frames his mouth with his hands and whispers loudly: "Wanna know a secret? We like you too!" Young Boyd lifts his eyebrows, purses his lips and nods a few times.

 

*

 

On their way home. Little Martin skipping and dancing, young Boyd thoughtful. He suddenly feels a little destitute, like something he wants is slipping away. He does his best to strangle the feeling. He should be happy!

At their door, Boyd sends his brother in first, then closes the door behind the boy. Turns to him with a strange look in his eyes.

"Thank you, Martin. I really am grateful, you know. You see, Tin-tin doesn't have a lot of friends, and I am a little short right now, so your money makes it possible to have a party for him with the little gang of squirts he hangs out with at school. It's going to mean the earth to him."

The young man is moving closer. His world goes into slow motion. Chills run down his spine, heart races as the beautiful youngster wraps his arms around him and holds him tight, tight. "Thank you", Boyd whispers again, and then those lips lightly touch his lips, like butterfly wings. Young Boyd opens the door and beckons with his head: "Come on in."

Their apartment is originally exactly the same as his, but quite differently done up and adapted. To the left and to the right half-walls close off compartments that are turned into sleeping quarters. The walls are painted grey with a hint of pink, there are curtains of a dense, off-white material covering the lower half of the tall windows. In the middle of the room a large, worn maroon couch sits on top of a rectangular carpet with a geometrical pattern in nuances of green, a couple of incongruent armchairs, probably from a second hand store, are scattered around a low glass-top table. A medium sized TV screen is hung on the half-wall to the left. A small desk, cluttered with books and games and small toys, leans against the opposite wall beside a narrow shelf housing children's books, board games and jigsaw puzzles. Decorating the other part of the half-wall is a huge poster: a black-and-white fashion photo of a shirtless, windblown teenager in jeans and huge sunglasses. Boyd, of course.

There's a bleak, almost forlorn impression that comes to him from the room, a lump grows in his throat. He doesn't quite see why, but the sight of the small, tattered school satchel that sits on the chair by the desk makes his heart bleed. He has to remind himself that poverty isn't necessarily a synonym for unhappiness. And those two boys that live here seem to have something very valuable that he doesn't have, namely each other.

The boy comes rushing towards him, grabs his hand and pulls him to the kitchen. "Look!" he points to the fridge. And there is his purple big-willie-drawing, hung with two magnets. Still holding his hand and pulling, the boy flexes his knees impatiently. "Wanna see my room?"

"Give the man some space, Tin-tin", young Boyd sighs.

He smiles indulgently. "Oh, it's fine. Of course I want to see your room. But I really need to pee first." He looks over at Boyd.

"I suppose you know where to do that?" the young man sniggers.

The bathroom is very untidy, but clean. The shower niche is occupied by a folding rack where underwear of two sizes hang to dry. The butterfly briefs smile at him, but most of the garments seem rather worn and tired. Dirty towels and a pair of jeans lie in a heap on the floor in front of the washer. He does his business, washes his hands, dries them on his trouser legs.

On the way out he catches a glimpse of the nearest partitioned corner. A row of wardrobes line the half-wall, a wide mattress, hastily made up with bed clothes, takes up most of the floor, the rest is strewn with discarded garments, comic books and magazines.

The boy calls out to him and disappears into the compartment at the opposite end of the big room. He follows. The boy's sleeping quarters are a lot tidier than his brother's. The bed, a proper bed, is nicely made, clothes are folded and organized on shelves, there's a night stand where a story book and two small game consoles lie, and there's a colorful mat with a street-map pattern in front of the bed. On the wall above the bed are two Star Wars posters, and above the headboard one of his sketches of the boy's head is pinned up.

"See?" the boy eagerly points out. "I hanged it there!"

He automatically wants to correct the boy's language, but resists. It's really not his business. And the boy seems so proud and happy with everything, so who is he to pee in his pool?

"I didn't have a frame for it", the boy grumbles. "Sorry."

Young Boyd comes in behind them. "Bed, Tin-tin."

The boy pouts. "No! Not yet! I wanna be with Martin!"

"No arguing. School tomorrow, and it's already way past your bedtime."

"You know", he inserts to back up young Boyd, "there are several days to come and there will be several opportunities to be with me."

Reluctantly, with lots of sighs and mutterings, the boy drags his feet to the bathroom.

He stretches his back, and starts for the door. "I should get my ass up those stairs. It's been a nice evening. I really enjoyed it."

Young Boyd comes close and puts a hand on his arm. Gazes into his face, and what is this? His eyes look glassy. Moist!

"Please stay a little longer," Boyd pleads softly.

 

*

 

That big old couch is really very comfortable. He suddenly regrets having spent the money he had set aside to buy himself a new sofa on paints and canvases and all that.

The boy had wanted him to tuck him in, and he had done so. And the tittering little beauty had again put his arms around his neck and loudly smacked his lips.

Now young Boyd comes out from his brother's room, sits down in the other corner of the couch and draws his legs up. "He's asleep now", he says quietly. "I'm glad you didn't go", he adds after a pause.

He says nothing, just gazes at this bewitchingly attractive young man, wonders what this vision of rare and somewhat off-kilter beauty, so totally out of his league on all levels, wants with him.

"Now and then", young Boyd continues, looking down. "I've wanted to ... maybe share responsibility ... or involve another adult in caring for Tin-tin ... not that I'm really an adult, but I feel like I have to be, you know ... but I never met anyone I felt I could trust."

Head lifts. Those radiant eyes strike him like lightning. "It's been very ... lonely sometimes."

Apprehension starts to rear its head in his chest. Please, let this stay uncomplicated.

"He likes you a lot. Please don't let him down. He doesn't need more ... more hurt in his life."

He moves uncomfortably, inserts two fingers inside his shirt collar, as if his breathing is constrained by it. Clears his throat.

"What on earth makes you think I want to hurt him?"

Young Boyd keeps up his relentless scrutiny. "My contact with ... my experience with men hasn't been altogether positive", he says slowly. "With the exception of Martin, they've caused more hurt than help. And even he ..." The young man stops, bites his lip. Looks away for a second, then piercing him with his eyes again. "I just try to protect him from that. So if you don't think you can ... follow him up ...be there for him, I don't know... if you can't, then please get out of his life before he becomes too fond of you. Before he makes the mistake of starting to rely on you."

Something grates on his mind. Something that wants to be cleared up.

"And what about you?" he puts forward. "Who's protecting you from being hurt?"

Boyd is taken slightly aback. "Me?" he finally says. "I don't know. Actually no one. So I know what that's like, and I don't want the same for him."

He aches for the young man. He feels almost physical pain for this man, this boy, who has gone through his short life with such high odds against him and still has kept so much strength, so much integrity, such conscientiousness. So much love for his brother.

"I wish I could do something for you", he almost whispers. "The least I can do is promise you I'll never hurt your brother."

And then, out of the blue, Boyd's bombshell goes off: "Do you want to sleep with me?"

His blood rushes to his head, rings in his ears. He swallows hard. His fingernails bore into his palms. What the fuck is he going to say now?

He tries to laugh. "Who wouldn't? I don't know anyone who wouldn't sacrifice an arm and a leg to sleep with you. Fortunately I'm not the least bit conceited, so that possibility never entered my mind."

Young Boyd rises abruptly, walks in a circle, comes back and sits down on the carpet in front of him.

"I've wanted to sleep with you from the moment I saw you naked", he confesses. "Your shyness was so endearing. First I guess I wanted to mostly because of your cock. Now that I know you better, I want it even more. Because I like the whole package. A lot."

He feels massively embarrassed. He wants to die.

"You can't", his voice rasps. "Don't do this to me. I know what I look like. You don't need to ... pay me back for wanting to help you."

Boyd actually looks affronted. "You infer I'm being dishonest. That's not nice of you. That hurts."

His words seem stuck in his throat. He swallows. Twice. "I didn't mean it that way. It was just self-protection."

He can't meet those eyes anymore. But a hand takes his, and he's pulled up off the couch.

"Come."

 

 

Part Five / Oh, Martin.

 

 

They stand beside the mattress, two steps apart, facing each other, watching each other wordlessly. And young Boyd takes his hand, pulls him forward and brings his hand to his crotch. His fingers slide over the young, hard pole that runs diagonally from fly to belt. "This is because of you", Boyd whispers.

He shuts his eyes, trembling fingers still feeling the hardness, his mouth is dry and his knees threaten to give in under him. And young Boyd starts to unbutton his shirt. He's torn between anguish and all-consuming arousal, his cock is growing at a painful angle in his pants.

He shudders as cool air encircles his now bare chest and fingers unfasten his belt buckle. Don't think, he tells himself, don't fret, let it happen. Eyes still tightly shut, he hears the sound of his pants crumbling to the floor, and he steps out of them and toes his socks off.

Something pushes his erection up and in. He opens his eyes and looks down at young Boyd's face pressed against him, his cock along the young mans cheek and forehead, his mouth half open as he slowly rubs against the cock before him. Still caressing his cock with his face, Boyd unbuttons his own jeans, and still kneeling he pushes them halfway down his thighs and lightly folds his fingers around his own upwards curving hard-on.

Oh, this is almost intolerable. "Please get up", he begs. "Please get naked with me. My eyes need to see you naked."

And they're standing face to face again, naked now, watching and feeling each other's cocks. But Boyd wants them on his bed, and soon he feels the weight of the smooth young body on top of him, hips slowly grinding into his, hands roaming and exploring. His hands are filled with silky, firm buttocks, his fingers wander by themselves into the valley between them. And lips meet lips, mouths open and tongues dance and play together, and all his thoughts drown in a sea of immeasurable pleasure.

He slides down, licking and kissing a trail along warm, smooth skin, biting and sucking a nipple, tongue burrowing into a navel, and lips finally closing around tapered cockhead, slick with juices, foreskin rolling back as cock moves into his mouth, drilling him, filling him. His fingers tickle and caress hairless balls, feel them move up and then down in their sack as cock sinks into his throat, all the way until his upper lip touches smooth, shaved pubic skin. A muffled, wailing moan mingles with his own half-choked groans as his middle finger finds and circles a wrinkled opening, teases and tickles, rubs and pushes, seeking entrance.

The body on top of him moves, the cock withdraws as the body turns around, giving his tongue access to its most private and secret part. And the tip of his cock is enveloped in a moist, warm cave, a tongue pushes at the slit, then circles under the foreskin and pushes it back, surrounds the most sensitive ridge where the head stops and the shaft continues. His lips close in on the puckered opening, his tongue finds its target. And he has to clasp his hands around the unruly head of hair to hold it still, he doesn't want to come just yet.

Young Boyd turns over on his back, cock pointing with a slight curve to the ceiling. He buries his nose in Boyd's groin and inhales the sweet musk of fresh teenage sweaty skin.

"Sit on my chest", a husky voice softly begs. "I want to see that awesome cock. I want to worship it."

He obeys. Part of him is secretly quite proud of his cock, it pleases him to hear its praise. But ... There is a but. He thought he had long ago given up the thought of being loved for other assets, his mind more or less settled with the fact that his cock is what makes people want him, but did he ever really get away from that hard-to-kill hope of being loved as a person? As his whole self?

And in young Boyd's eyes he sees what he has seen before: Awe, hunger, even traces of reverence. His eyes cloud over, there's this sudden, aching need in him again, the need to be more than just cock. Not being able to stop the unwelcome attack of loneliness, of worthlessness, a tear goes astray and lands on young Boyd's chin. And another one. He bends his neck backwards, blinks hard to get rid of this nonsense.

But young Boyd has noticed. Not really understanding what is happening, the boy's instincts nevertheless tells him the man sitting on top of him needs something more than cock worship, some confirmation, some conviction of worth. So young Boyd pushes him back, flat onto the bed, embraces him and holds him, licking and kissing his throat, nuzzling in the crook of his neck. And to the young man's surprise, it feels so right, so like he belongs there. A quote, or maybe it is a line from a song, pops up in his teenage mind: And then there was love ...

Slowly those uninvited and unwelcome thoughts leave his brain. There is so much skin, there is so much nakedness, and he wants so badly to have it all, to touch and feel every square inch. And now a voice whispers in his ear. Sweet words, words like balm on his sore soul, words that chase darkness away and bathes him in soft heat.

And mouth closes over mouth again, there is some movement of arms, some rummaging, and young Boyd's head lifts, and young Boyd's luminous eyes bore into his, and now young Boyd's hand pulls his hand in between his legs.

"Open me up"

He finds everything slick and oiled down there, his fingers probe and search, and his middle finger slips almost effortlessly in. He hears a sharp intake of breath as his index finger joins its neighbor. A hand, cool with slippery liquid, caresses his throbbing cock, slicks it up, makes it ready, as his third finger claims its space in the soft heat of the tunnel behind the now opening gate.

The young man straddles him, pushes back and makes his slippery cock slide up and down between ass cheeks. Leans forward on his hands, their eyes meet again. For a long time this is all: Looking. Sliding. Trembling.

"I was tested only last week", young Boyd eventually says, "and I'm clean. You?"

He nods. Bites his lip. "Are you sure about this?"

"No. I've never had anyone this big. But it's you, and I want you so much." And young Boyd positions himself with his hole touching the tip of the hard cock beneath him, slowly pushing, down, down, and the muscle guarding his entrance gives way to let half of the head in.

"Oh, God!" Boyd's whisper is strained, his breath stops for a second and then explodes in a soft moan as the rest of the cockhead slips in.

He struggles to keep still. The urge to push upward, force himself into this wonderful, warm and tight cavity is almost impossible to resist. A couple of jolts run through his cock, he tries to relax his breathing, he lifts his hands to stroke and caress a smooth chest, fingertips gently passing over hardening nipples.

Boyd hoists him up in a sitting position, arms clasping him tight and lips seeking his lips. He closes his eyes. All his senses, all his nerves feel like they've rushed through his body and gathered together in his cock and in his mouth. Their tongues wrestle, Boyd moans into his mouth and sinks down, and his cock is now almost completely buried deep in the young man's warm and soft inside.

"Oh, God", young Boyd wheezes again. "Oh, Martin. Oh Martin, oh, Martin! Just don't move right now!"

So they sit like this, in a tight embrace, sucking on each other's tongues. His cock jerks in its tight confinement, and each time it does, a whispered oh! escapes from Boyd's throat. He's on the verge of exploding, he feels how his ballsack tightens. Oh no, please not yet! He opens his eyes. And his whole body freezes.

There, on the mattress, between his spread out legs, the boy sits, in his pajamas, leaning forward, eyes wide open in wonder, staring into the spot where their bodies are joined. His mind goes blank with fear.

Young Boyd notices something happening to him. "What is it?"

He swallows. "He's here", he whispers panic-stricken. " Your brother is here!"

He can feel a small, sharp bolt run through the body sitting on him, but then: Young Boyd, without moving his body an inch, just turns his head and looks down at his brother.

"Why aren't you in bed", big brother asks little brother softly. The boy tears his eyes away from the sight that has fascinated him so much. "Dunno. I woke up", he answers. "Martin's still here!" he adds, as if they hadn't noticed.

"Tin-tin." Boyd's voice is firm, but loving. "Do you understand what you see here?"

The boy nods.

"And do you understand why we do this?"

The boy nods again. "To make yourselves feel good", he muses, "or because you love each other. Do you?"

A small smile curls Boyd's lips. "Maybe", he muses. "Or at least we want to make each other feel good."

"But it looks like it hurts. Does it?"

"No. Not anymore. You've no idea how good it feels. But you'll find out when you grow up. Now will you let us do our thing and stop pestering us?"

"Yes, but I wanna watch. I wanna see how you do it, because I love you, and I love Martin too."

He is speechless, numb all over. And he can't fathom why his cock is still hard and deep inside young Boyd's body, and why he hasn't died from embarrassment. And why the sight of the beautiful small boy is no longer so terrifying, but instead feels ... stimulating? Exciting? Has he lost all sense of right and wrong?

Big brother now withdraws one arm from their embrace, reaches out and strokes little brother's hair. "And I love you. And if you're sure it's something you really want, then you can stay. We'll talk about it later." With this, the lovely young man lifts himself a little bit up, and with a sigh sinks all the way down. He shuts his eyes.

He's torn. This shouldn't feel so good, this shouldn't feel so totally right! But this beautiful young man, who now moves up and down, who caresses his face and kisses his lips, drives every misgiving, every regret right out, and he abandons himself to the all-consuming ecstasy of hands roaming over silky skin, of tongue tasting sweet moisture of mouth, of cock sliding into tight ass.

He opens his eyes again, focuses on the boy still sitting between his legs. Slowly he moves his knees until they touch the boy's pajama-clad legs, wants the boy to look him in the eyes, but the little voyeur is deeply concentrated on watching how his cock glides in and out of his brother's hole.

Suddenly the boy leans closer and with one finger tentatively touches the base of his cock. Goosebumps rush over his skin and he shudders. The small hand tries to wrap itself around it, but discovers that it takes more than one hand to do that, and now his mind is totally blown as he feels two small hands encircle his shaft. His whole body jerks, he moans and calls out: "Boyd! I'm going to come!", and his body feels like it's being ripped to pieces by the spasms that chase through him as he shoots into the unbelievable, tight and velvety cave that envelops his throbbing cock. And young Boyd leans back, jerks his beautiful, curved cock twice, body stiffens and asshole contracts as sperm spurts out and hits his chin, his chest, and then runs down his stomach. They sink down on top of each other panting, a couple of late spasms still jerking them. And Boyd loudly exhales, lifts his head and looks sideways over at his little brother, smiles at those wide open eyes, and says:

"That's how we do it."

 

*

 

He sits staring at his first drawings of little Martin. Tries to sort out his feelings, tries to tell himself it wasn't his fault. But guilt is eating him. He blames himself for not having stopped, for not having got up and left the minute he discovered the boy there. But most of all he feels guilty for having indulged in the most satisfying sex and the most sensational orgasm he has ever had. Oh, if only it hadn't felt so amazingly, unbelievably good.

How can anything return to normal now? How can he face the boy again and act as if it was nothing? And how the fuck can he face himself, when he deep down knows that the thing that topped it all, the thing that really, really did it for him, was those two small soft hands around his cock?

And what will happen to him, to all of them, if the unpredictable little boy decides to broadcast what happened, either by bragging to his friends or simply by slip of the tongue? There's hardly a law that makes it illegal for two adults to have sex in their own home, even if a child should happen to watch, but he's convinced that a whole host of authorities would cooperate to raise hell and take measures to "protect" the boy if it came out.

And what about that, should the boy have been "protected"? Was it in any way harmful for him to see what he saw? To touch what he touched? Will he have traumas, nightmares? A warped mind? From watching an act of love, and a hundred percent voluntarily at that? He just can't tell. He continues to stare at the drawing, wishing he'd never met the boy. Or his brother. Wishing he could just wipe the slate clean, forget everything. Wishing the boy was here, so he could explain to him. Wishing to see that beautiful face smile, hear that tingling laugh. Wishing the boy would hug him again, and he could hold the boy and make all the bad thoughts go away. Wishing the time in bed with the brothers had never ended ... If only it hadn't felt so devastatingly good ...

And why, oh, fucking why is it that it's little beautiful Martin, and not his lovely brother, who sits at the top of his thoughts, who fills his head, who haunts his mind? Turning into a fucking obsession, if he isn't careful.

The neurotic cascade of noise from his phone interrupts his brooding. God, he has to change that ring tone.

 

* * *

 

Little brother sits in the crook of big brother's arm, his feet up on the seat and his chin resting on his knees. Quite happy that he was allowed to skip school, not all that happy about big brother's serious face and determination to "have a talk". Somewhere at the back of his head there's a nagging suspicion that he's done something wrong. So he asks.

"What's the matter?"

Big brother softly squeezes his shoulder. "Nothing's the matter. I just want to make sure you're okay with what happened last night."

"Why? Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, to some kids it would seem very strange. Or gross. Scary, even."

"I thought it was neat! Are you gonna do it again?"

Big brother bites his lip. "Good thing you weren't scared or anything. But listen, you can't talk to anyone about what happened. It has to be our secret."

Little brother frowns, his glasses jump on his nose. "I wasn't going to. But why not? Was it wrong or something?"

"No, it wasn't. But a lot of people wouldn't understand, and they would say it was wrong, or bad for you to see it. That you are to young to see grown-up stuff like that. And in the worst case, they could possibly take you away from me and make you live somewhere else. So do you see why it's smart not to mention it to anyone? I don't ask you to lie, you know, I just ask you to keep quiet about it."

Little brother thinks a bit. "But that's stupid. Because everyone can look at sexy stuff on the internet, even if you're not supposed to. Everyone does!"

"I know. It is a bit stupid, but the laws are like that. It's forbidden for kids under 18 to watch porn, you know that. So can you imagine what they would say if they knew you were allowed to see stuff like that in real life? And to actually be there?"

"But that wasn't porn! Porn is stupid ladies with stupid shoes on!"

Big brother has to laugh. "Shit, man. Where have you seen crap like that?"

Little brother tears himself loose, runs into his room and comes back with his phone. Thumbs click and scroll, and he shows his brother the screen. "Here! Andy showed me."

Big brother sighs. "Put that away. I'm not going to tell you not to look at shit like that, even though I wish you wouldn't, because I think you should decide for yourself what you want or not. But there are some things you should know." He pats the couch beside him. "Come and sit."

Little brother crawls in under his arm again.

"Now listen. You know I've always told you that you are your own person, and your body is your own, and that no one has a right to tell you what to do with it, and no one has the right to do something to you that you don't want."

"Duh. You've told me a hundred times!"

"And I know that you like to play with your willie to make it feel good, and that's something every boy and every man likes. And sometimes you want to share that with someone, because it feels even better to do it with someone else. And that's why Martin and I did what we did last night. And both of us had agreed it was something we both wanted, so that makes it right. But you did something you shouldn't have done. You just came to watch us without asking if it was all right with us. And then you touched Martin without asking his permission, and that's bad. For several reasons, actually. First, Martin's willie is his own, and no one should touch it if he doesn't want them to. But you didn't ask, so you couldn't have known if it was something he was OK with or not.

"Secondly, there's the law that says kids can't touch adults like that, and adults can't touch kids like that. And it doesn't matter if the kid wants it or the adult wants it, the law makes no distinctions. It's illegal for adults and kids to do anything sexy together, no matter how you look at it. And touching someone's penis is considered sexy.

"Now, that law is there to protect children, to make sure no adult forces a child to do things, because adults are stronger than children and can do that, and some do it, too. And forcing someone to do sexy things with them is rape, and that's the worst thing anyone can do to anybody, no matter what. And people go to jail for years and years for that."

Little brother looks up with worry in his eyes. "But it wasn't like that?" he almost whimpers. "I didn't wanna do anything bad, I just wanted to see how big it was!" He makes a circle with both hands' thumbs and index fingers. "It's like this big!"

Big brother puts his hand behind little brother's neck and pulls him to his chest.

"I know", he chuckles. "It's really big. I can see why you wanted to grab it. And Tin-tin, I don't want you to feel bad about any of this. I'm fine with everything, but I'm not altogether sure that Martin is. We'll find out, I guess. But it is very important that you don't tell anyone about it, and it is important that you don't touch people without making sure they want you to. Do you understand?"

"'Course I do. Think I'm stupid?" The boy lifts his head off his brother's shirtfront, looks into his face searchingly. "Think it's gonna happen again?"

Big brother thinks. Then smiles briefly. "I hope so", he eventually confesses.

"I hope so too", little brother almost whispers, "'cuz that was my best birthday ever."

 

* * *

 

They meet coincidentally on the stairs, young Boyd coming down, he is on his way up. They stop, they greet, Boyd smiling warmly, he is more reserved. Young Boyd takes notice. Studies him.

"Something bothering you?"

He wants to escape, but he can't very well avoid this now. He sighs and prepares for the inquisition. Oh, stop it, he tells himself. Just be honest.

"It just feels a bit awkward", he mumbles. "I don't quite know how to handle seeing you after what happened."

"Why? I mean, was it that bad for you?"

He has to meet those eyes. "On the contrary. It was ... unforgettable."

Young Boyd rocks a little restlessly from one foot to the other. "Listen, I have to see someone about a job. Can I come up and see you when I get back? I think we need to talk."

He just looks down, nods a few times. "Yeah. I guess."

They split up.

 

*

 

He searches aimlessly in his drawers and cupboards, messing around and rummaging through everywhere. He knows he put those pills he salvaged from his mother's flat somewhere.

He wants them now, he needs them. There is just too much going on in his head, he can't think rationally, he can't make head or tail of his life anymore. Everything is chaotic, one minute he's exhilarated, the next despondent and contrite, then jubilant and excited, then scared shitless. If ever he needed those pills, it's now. But where are they?

Finally he finds them in the cupboard under the kitchen sink, at the bottom of a box of paraphernalia from the bathroom of his old apartment. He shakes the small plastic bottle, hears the rattle. Opens the lid, pours out some of the little yellow globules in his hand. Is one enough? He looks at the chemist's label, it says one in the evening. Then two, just to make sure. He just wants peace in his head now.

He's starting to get a little drowsy when he hears a knock on the door. Oh yeah, that'll be Boyd. His feet feel a bit heavy when he walks to the door to let him in.

Young Boyd, looking radiant and very appetizing, takes his shoes off and wanders in. Turns with a question in those blue eyes: Where to sit? He waves indistinctly in the direction of the dining table.

"So, do you have a job?" His speech is a bit slow. Boyd eyes him a little warily, but the smile lights up his face and sends a vague tingling rush down his back.

"I do! I'm going to be in a series of six commercials. You know, for TV and cinemas."

"Wonderful", he pronounces carefully, and repeats almost in a whisper: "Won-der-ful." God, he feels funny. Like he's in a fog. He pulls himself together. "I got a job, too. Well, not a job. They called me from the gallery. It's incredible, but they want me for a one man show in August." That isn't entirely correct. "Well, with another artist, actually", he adds.

Young Boyd reaches out across the table and touches his hand. "But that's fantastic! Your going to have a break-through! I'm sure of it! And you deserve it!"

He inhales deeply. Then lets the air out with a long, dull whistle. "I'm scared. I'm really ... ecstatic about it ... but scared. What if I fail? What if they ... hate me?"

The luminous blue eyes pierce him. He bows his head down to get away from the stare.

"Martin, are you sick or something?"

He sighs tiredly. "Yeah, maybe I am. I don't seem to know my way anymore. Everything is such a muddle in my brain." He surprises himself. What? Are you going to talk feelings? But he doesn't care. "I just took two Valiums to escape the fucking noise in my head", he says slowly.

Boyd looks concerned. "Because of yesterday?"

He leans his chin on his hand, elbow on the table. "That too. But it's not just that. It's everything, it's art classes, it's Martin Hof, it's the gallery, it's the unemployment and the move and ... My life has always been predictable. You know, a fixed pattern, but now it's not. I guess I haven't learned to cope yet."

"I do know the feeling. You need to deal with one thing at a time, give yourself space to sort everything out."

"Don't bullshit me. I know the theory, but it just doesn't apply. My mind keeps going in two or three different circles at the same time." What is happening? Why does he want to open up so much to this ... this hustler, ex- or not ... this potential supermodel ... this too beautiful to be real man-boy ...this wonderful creature who is just going to disappear the minute his cock is not interesting anymore ...

"Oh, that sounds tiresome", young Boyd says softly. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

He feels worn out and sleepy. "No, there's nothing you can do", he slurs. His head feels heavy in his hand. He stares at the young and beautiful hands that rest on the other side of the table. "I've fallen in love." It just slips out from his mouth. Damn.

Silence.

Then almost inaudibly: "With me?"

And young Boyd clearly sees the pain and the anguish in his eyes when he lifts his head.

"With you", he confirms whispering. "And with your brother." He lays his head down on top of his crossed arms, hides his face and starts to weep. "I don't want to!" he sobs. "I don't want to!" And shivers. And sobs.

Suddenly there are hands that grip his shoulders. He tries to shake them off, but he feels so weak. So powerless. He lets himself be hoisted up, arms encircle him from behind and he is gently pushed forward towards his recliner chair in the corner. And this paragon of beauty and strength, this man-boy young enough to be his son, technically even his grandson, sits down with him and cradles him in his lap as if he were a child.

"Don't be afraid." The warm voice pours over him like honey. "Love isn't dangerous. Pretense is dangerous. Demands are dangerous. Selfishness is dangerous. Exploitation is dangerous. Love is ... Love should be beautiful and good ... and wide open. Please don't see only danger ... and limits, and trouble."

He falls to rest there, doesn't care if he's too old and too big and too heavy to be a child in a lap. "How come you know all this", he slurs. "You're so young."

Boyd rocks him slowly. "I had to grow up early", he answers softly.

The rocking, the emptiness after the release of feelings, the strange safety of the arms around him, not to mention the two pills, lull him into a woolly lethargy. And eventually he falls asleep.

 

*

 

He wakes up in his bed, grey morning light creeping into his room. He is fully dressed, and his mouth tastes foul and feels like parchment. He feels dirty, his clothes feel like a prison, he needs to get out of them. He tears them off, staggers to the bathroom, rinses his mouth and swallows a few large gulps from the tap. Starts the shower, sinks down on the tiled floor and lets the water cascade over him, cold at first, then slowly warmer until it reaches comfort level.

His memory of yesterday's last hours is not very clear, he has some vague remembrance of sitting in young Boyd's lap, but surely that can't be right. He has no memory of going to bed. What he does remember, regrettably, is that he told Boyd that he is in love with both him and little Martin, and by God, how he wishes he hadn't. Those bloody pills. Now, how could he have been so stupid as to think two pills would solve his issues?

He sits there until the water turns cold.

He towels himself warm again, puts on his bathrobe and shuffles out to fix himself some coffee. He passes his easel, sees the portrait of the boy still sitting there, grabs it and puts it underneath the stack of drawings on his work table.

Sits down with his coffee, determined to find a way to control his wayward and unwanted feelings. Prioritize. Sort out.

Concentrate on what's important. The Gallery, this unique opportunity to be noticed, to prove his worth, the incentive to go on with his painting, try to develop his own style, if possible find something that is recognizably him, yes, that must be his first priority.

Then there ought to be other people in his life. For the past two years there's been only Jennifer, and lately Martin Hof, and of course the brothers, and just see what has come out of that! One has disappeared, one will be nice to him as long as he needs a protégé. No, not even that. A dog, more likely. And the last two are just a road to disaster. Yes, he really should get himself some new friends.

But how does one do that? He's always been to shy, too reserved, too insecure to approach people. Those few friends he has had over the years, they've always come to him, always made the first moves. Even his sexual partners, his tricks, they've picked him up, never the other way around. Could he possibly change his personality, become one of those outgoing types that just throw themselves at anyone and start conversations left and right? No way, that's never going to happen.

He has to stop wanting what he can't have. Resign himself to the fact that he is, and always will be, a sad old troll who should keep to himself and not bother others with his awkward presence, his foolish needs, his pointless dreams. Face it, dreams never come true anyway.

And in his mind he can clearly see himself now: A recluse that at all costs avoids expectations, disappointment, humiliation ... but who would have his art, who would pour all his strife and all his futile longings into paintings, and those paintings would have the strength and the backbone that all great art possesses, and people would speak his name with reverence and guess at who he really is behind that impenetrable façade ...

What the fuck is he thinking? Where does all this sentimental drivel come from? Has he turned into a complete moron?

He drags his feet into the bathroom, slaps his face in front of the mirror and tells himself sternly to pull himself together.

 

*

 

He's feeling better. The meeting with the gallery staff was good, eased some of his initial fears. He's been paired with a young female artist, unestablished like himself, working with similar themes. He hasn't met her yet, but he was shown two of her etchings: Small formats, minute details, drawn-out naked figures in complicated constellations. And he has to agree that the two of them will make an interesting contrast, two very different approaches to much the same subjects.

And of course, he should have known, the driving force behind this venture is Martin Hof. Those utterings from young Boyd springs to mind: ...I can't say no to him ... I owe him so much ... Is that what this man is about? Helping, supporting, and by that making people indebted to him? Is that his power trip? Well, he will eventually find out what payback might be expected from him, won't he? Until then, he's determined to just paint, paint, paint, and hope to release the best in himself. If there is such a thing.

He struggles up the stairs, carrying four large empty canvases. It's a bother he hasn't learned how to mount a canvas to a frame and thus has to buy the ready-made ones, it's such a hassle to carry them from the art shop to the bus and then to his apartment.

As he crosses the first landing, a door opens and a small voice calls out his name. He turns, one of the canvases slips from his grip and drops with a thud to the floor. The boy stands in the open doorway, heartbreakingly beautiful as ever, but unusually subdued.

"Boyd says I should apologize." The thin little voice sidles into his ear. "I'm sorry that I touched your willie without asking you first. Please don't be mad at me."

Oh, no. Not those chills down his back. Not those disturbing eyes watching him. He has to put the rest of his load down, it's like the weight is suffocating him.

"I'm not mad at you. I never was."

"I won't do it again."

He shakes his head slowly, can't take his eyes off the boy.

"Let's not talk about it", he manages to say at last. "Not out here. Let's just forget it for now."

He tears his eyes away, gathers up the canvases, wrestles them up the stairs to his door. Hears the door down there close.

 

*

 

On the wall he has taped up sketches of the first model from the life drawing session, the ones where the model is on all fours on the podium, and he has finished a quick outline in charcoal on the canvas. Now he's thinning out acrylic paint with water, starting with the bottom layers of this new painting. Unsure yet of background and context, but he's convinced it will come to him when the central figure, placed slightly to the left, starts to come alive.

He's just getting into it when he's disturbed by knocking. He sighs. Does he need this interruption? Does he really want to see the brothers now? Because he's totally sure it must be one or both of them.

And yes, he's right. Both of them standing there, looking serious but devastatingly beautiful. It doesn't feel like he has a choice. He lets them in.

Young Boyd notices the sketches and the canvas.

"You're busy", he begins, "and we probably shouldn't bother you right now, but frankly I don't care. There are some things we need clarified, Tin-tin and I, something that has become important to us."

He remains silent, just lets the sight of them sink into his mind. But those grave faces make him ill at ease, there's an urge growing in him to reach out and wipe the gloom off and see smiles.

"I don't want to waste time with this, so excuse my bluntness. Martin, is there room for us in your life? I mean, do you want us?"

His jaw falls down. He had not expected this. The boy looks anxiously up at him, the young man looks wary and guarded.

"Because if you don't", young Boyd carries on, "we'll disappear before we get too involved and never bother you again. But you see, and this is the reason I say this, we both want so much to be with you, to share our lives with you. We've talked about it lot, but Tin-tin is afraid you're mad at him, and suddenly this whole situation has become paramount for both of us, and we really need to know."

It is very strange for him, disquieting really, to see young Boyd blush and look so self-conscious. He swallows hard.

"Oh, come and sit", he breathes. "I don't know what to say. Give me a minute?" He looks helplessly at one and then the other brother.

They gather round the dining table. Tension sits like thick fog around them. He looks directly at the boy now.

"God, how can I be mad at you? How can you think that?" He switches his glance to include both of them. "You two", he continues, "are the most wonderful things that's ever happened to me. I have never encountered such beauty, such friendliness, I have never met anyone who has touched my heart like you have. So much that it scares me."

He gets too tense, too rattled by his own confession. He gets up and walks restlessly in a circle, comes back and sits down again. Stares at the table.

"I'm hopelessly besotted with you. With both of you. I think of you all the time. But I don't know how to deal with it at all, I've never been in a situation like this before."

He looks up now, desperate eyes.

"I want to look at you, I want to hear you laugh. I want to draw you, I want to paint you naked, I want to swim in your beauty. Jeez, that sounds daft. Sorry."

He should hold back now. But something urges him on.

"The other night ..." Oh, God. Does he really want to go there? Can he?

"The other night ... I have never experienced anything as wonderful, or as excruciating, as that. And the more I try not to think about it, the more I do, and the more I want it again. Being with you like that. I mean, with both of you. And that scares the shit out of me. Because it can't be. It just can't! And here you are, asking if I want you. I've no idea what to do now."

A tear rolls down his cheek. Oh, no. Not again. What's wrong with him with all this blubbering?

But little Martin jumps up from his chair, hurries around the table until he's so close he can smell him, and a small finger strokes the tear away from his face.

"Don't cry, Martin. Please?"

He has to do it, there's no escape. He hugs the boy close to his chest, holds him so tight his heart is about to explode. "I can't help it", he whispers as tears keep rolling. "I'm sorry."

The boy whimpers and squirms in his embrace. "I can't breathe!" he wheezes. He lets go of the slender body, and something breaks: suddenly there's laughter boiling up in him. A pinched "Oh, Jesus!" escapes from him as his laughter resounds in the quiet room and then dies.

He dries his eyes. Little brother now sits in big brothers lap, big brother's fingers twirling his dark locks. They both watch him.

"God, I love you." Stupid or not, it just needs to be said.

Big brother carries little brother over, the two of them embrace him from behind.

"I take that as a yes", big brother says quietly.

 

*

 

At Martin Hof's insistence, he had sat for the life drawing group again. The man had urged him to persuade the brothers to join him and do a repeat performance, but young Boyd had adamantly refused. It was the afternoon of Tin-tin's party, so his excuses were more than valid.

Strangely enough, it hadn't felt that awkward to do it this time. That is, until suggestions came from the room that he should get it up and masturbate in front of them. Blushing, he had tried to go with it. The weird thing, though, was that he couldn't stay hard. He didn't understand this. That first time there, he had struggled for his life not to get hard, and now that he was expected to get it up, his cock wouldn't go along with it. Oh, it rose to full magnificence for a minute, but then it was as if it just opted out and refused to cooperate.

He had known all along that he was wanted as a model for his cock and not his body, and not getting hard had felt like failure to fulfill his contract or something.

He had not stayed when the next model took over. And he had insisted to be paid at the going rate, even though the original deal with Martin was that his posing was supposed to be his fee for joining the group. Well, he had been paid, and the outcome is now sitting in his studio in the shape of a second hand dark brown leather sofa. With two brothers on it. In their underwear, close together, big book open on their knees. And him behind his easel, watching, sketching.

This has become his theme now: one or both of the brothers, in various stages of undress, reading. Three unfinished canvases lean against the wall, one of young Boyd sitting in the recliner, no pants, newspaper open in front of him, another one shows the two of them fully dressed and hunched over the boys homework, the third is just little Martin, lying naked on his belly, pillow under his midriff, pert little ass in the air, perusing a comic book.

For more than a week now, this has been the pattern: Through the mornings he works on his paintings, adding and subtracting, introducing elements, changing colors, one minute happy as a clam at high water, the next swearing and cursing and hurling brushes at the wall. It's like all the emotions he's spent his whole life suppressing and hiding have been allowed to come out and play. Afternoons the brothers come up, poses are suggested and tried out. Some, or at times all, garments are removed; even he has taken to painting in his underwear in the warmth of his studio. And often, when alone in the morning, out of his underwear as well.

In spite of the fact they're usually so scantily clad, even nude, there's been no repetition of what happened that night on young Boyd's mattress. It's as if they have an unspoken agreement to hold back, to put that kind of intimacy on hold. But the room is thick with sweet tension anyway, like they're all waiting for the storm to break loose. Hard-ons come and go; even little Martin, when he finally got his wish to model naked, tickled and pulled and then presented his stiff little spike to them with pride and giggles. But it's all easy and relaxed. Like they all three of them know the potential is there, but the urgency is not.

Well, that's not altogether true in his case, though. The urge is there, all right. There is a hunger growing in him, a steadily increasing need, and when their sessions are over, he has to take time out and dedicate himself to an intense bout of masturbation. At one time, when he was sketching the boy naked on the floor, he had excused himself, snuck out to the bathroom and four hard tugs was enough for his sperm to cannon into the toilet bowl. Still, he will not initiate anything. It's all too complicated for him, too unmanageable. He can handle his attraction to young Boyd, that doesn't seem difficult or out of place, but the strength of the absorbing lust he feels for the little brother still terrifies him.

A few nights they've had dinner together, more often the brothers just scamper off to their own apartment after a couple of hours of sitting for him, broken up by talking, having drinks and eating snacks, little brother sometimes drawing on his own. And it's the same every time after they've left: He frets and mopes around in a chaotic mix of relief and emptiness, ends up on his bed, or if it hits him bad, just in front of the kitchen sink, sets his cock free and jerks off, often twice in succession. And only then is he ready for his evening meal.

 

*

 

"Tin-tin, why don't you go downstairs and watch TV or something?"

Young Boyd, reclining naked on the sofa, open book covering his face, sounds enervated. The boy has been running around in his Yoda underpants, singing and making airplane noises, for the last ten minutes.

The boy stops. "No. I'll be quiet."

The boy comes up to him, watches him silently for a minute. Stretches up on his toes and whispers as close to his ear as he can come: "I don't so much like to be alone."

He lays the brush in his hand on the table and takes away the second brush that sits clamped between his teeth. Looks at his watch. Christ, they've been at it with no break for more than an hour. No wonder the boy is getting restless.

"You're bored", he smiles. "But I so want to finish this. Do you want to watch TV in my bedroom?"

"You have a TV?" the boy yells in surprise.

"Only a small one, but I have got cable. I'm sure you can find something to watch instead of annoying your brother."

The boy skips and jumps. "Yes, please!"

He takes the boy's hand, leads him along and says conspiratorially from the corner of his mouth. "Now, young Sir, you'll be taken to the secret chamber." The boy squeals his "Yes!" in delight.

He returns shortly after. "I gave him the remote. Should I supervise his choices?"

Young Boyd stretches his slender legs, cock moving just a little. And his pulse picks up speed. Music is starting to seep out from the bedroom corner.

"Nah. The only thing I don't like him to watch, is very violent stuff. But he doesn't like that himself, so I don't worry. He'll probably find some cartoons or a soap or something."

"Ok with you that I finish what I started? Twenty minutes or so?"

"Go ahead."

He picks up his brushes, rinses them, squeezes blobs of acrylic paint onto the plastic cutting board he uses as a palette. Narrows his eyes at his canvas, looks up again. Young Boyd is back in position, book on top of his face, but fingers now lightly fingering the swelling cock. Again he feels the quickening of his pulse, and a lump starts to grow in his throat.

"If you keep that up, I can't paint", he groans, the front of his boxers tenting.

Young Boyd stops fondling himself. His brushes fly over painted skin, soft hues of amber and bronze, but his attention is fixed on the now hard dick that's risen up along the flat stomach. It cries out to be painted like that. There is no choice. His own cock is starting to get painfully hard as he brings the changes to his painting.

Finally he throws his brushes down, exhales heavily and pulls his shoulders back. Boyd gets up, stretches and yawns, his lovely cock on its way down, but still half hard when he puts on his white briefs. "Let's see what Tin-tin's doing", he says in the middle of a second yawn.

The boy is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, watching a talent show on the small screen hung from the grid that lowers the ceiling of the compartment that serves as bedroom to a more normal height. When he sees them, he waves his arms.

"Look at this bed!" he calls out to his brother. "My whole class can fit in here!"

Big brother sits down on the edge. "It sure is big", he agrees. "Are you ready to go?"

"No!" The boys face contorts into a scowl. "I wanna see this show! Can't I watch it here?"

"Don't you think Martin's had enough of us for a while?"

The boy looks anxiously up at him .

He pretends to ponder the question, teasing the boy, keeping the suspense. And then smiles. "Of course you can watch it here. We can all watch it. Move over." He rolls up the duvet to make a headrest. Looks questioningly over at young Boyd, who just shrugs.

The bed is more than wide enough for the three of them. They half lie, half sit, side by side with the boy in the middle, just enough space between them not to touch. On the screen two shirtless acrobats pull off a breakneck routine. Eyes glued to the screen, gasps and Oh!s escape their mouths, and as if on cue, for each gasp their bodies move a little closer. By the time the two athletes bow off, they're huddled together, young Boyd's arm now behind his shoulder, little brother leaning back on both of them.

His skin tingles from feeling the young body squirm and push against him. Boyd's fingers slowly caress his shoulder, the small hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He has lost interest in the show, his eyes are now fixed on the face of the young man, still watching the screen. His arm slinks behind the boy and around young Boyd's lower back, his hand comes to rest on the young man's hip. Boyd turns his face towards him and those radiant eyes hit him like bolts of lightning. The fingers on his shoulder rub harder, squeeze a bit, wanders down his arm.

Without thinking, his free arm moves and his hand starts stroking the boy's chest. The boy looks quickly up, then wriggles even closer and returns to watching the magician now on the screen. Boyd's arm slides down his back, hand slips in under the elastic band of his boxers, fingers caress his buttocks. He removes his hand from the boy's silky skin and tries to adjust his aching, throbbing cock without the boy noticing. Young Boyd bites his lip, smiling, eyebrows raised.

Little Martin suddenly wriggles and stretches and turns his face upward towards his brother. "Boyd", he whispers, "can we have stiffies now?"

Boyd looks from one to the other. "We already have them", he whispers back.

"Can I see?"

Panic falls through his body like glowing rocks, painful goosebumps rush over his skin. He tears loose, sits abruptly up. "I ... I ... I need a shower!"

Young Boyd's smile widens. And just like that, he leans over, plants a kiss on his lips. "Good idea. Let's all go shower!"

 

*

 

No, it's not the world's biggest bathroom. But with the shower curtain pulled away, the hamper put outside the door along with towels and robe, there's room for all three of them to splash about and play with the handheld shower head, brushing against each other, alternating on holding the hose and controlling the spray.

He turns the water off, starts to soap up. Young Boyd squeezes liquid soap into his hand and starts on little brother's back, the boy spins round and pulls his brothers head down and whispers in his ear. Boyd then turns to him.

"He wants you to wash him. Will you?"

Oh God, yes. But should he? Oh, to hell with it, he's going to lose this battle anyway. His hands are already slick with soap, and this revelation of boyhood beauty is only inches away from them. He surrenders, he inhales deeply, he kneels down, and now hands glide carefully over exquisite smoothness, become acquainted with the shapes of slender limbs. Fingers follow curves and planes, move between hard bones and the soft promise of muscles. His heart beats like an engine, hard and noisy, he's sure it can be heard miles away.

Something unexpected happens in his mind. He's no longer frightened, no longer afraid to lose control. There's a knowledge, a certainty, that's grown in his mind: I will never do anything to harm this child. I will never hurt or molest or abuse this boy, I will never force my cock into any of the places it could go, why was I so afraid I was going to do that? And although his disobedient cock just grows and grows, he is happy now, happy in the wisdom that this is enough, this is all he wants: To be allowed to stay in this closeness of skin touching skin, just feeling this silky smooth softness, just feeding his vision with the loveliness in front of him.

The boy's delighted laughter echoes from the tiled walls like a string of pearls. "Look!" he points, and seeks his brother's eyes.

Big brother laughs gently back at him. "Yes. If it gets any bigger now, there'll no longer be room for us in here."

"I'm gonna make mine stiff too!" the boy squeals. And still tittering, the boy tugs and toys with his little prick until it's not so little anymore. He watches it grow until it stands out from the smooth crotch, the size of his index finger, and he thinks: Isn't that rather big for such a small boy? But he can't remember what his own had looked like at that age.

He gets up from his kneeling position and turns the water back on. The boy jumps and dances between the bigger guys, bumping his little ass and then his stiffy into them, laughing and having the time of his life.

He holds the spray of water over them, and watches them with a curiously satisfied heart. The joy and exuberance that flows from the boy, the relaxed ease of the bigger brother, it all comes so beautifully together, so fulfilling and so full of pleasure, with only a small sting of regret: Why had his own childhood, or his youth, never held anything even resembling this sparkle, this euphoria, this freedom?

The boy's soprano voice rings out: " Are we never gonna have food today?"

 

*

 

His fridge has been raided for an impromptu meal: Cold cuts and cheese, tomatoes and rocket leaves, slices of sourdough bread. There's mango juice and tea, young Boyd having turned down the offer of beer.

"You go ahead, but I warn you. I can't abide the smell of alcohol."

So he refrains as well. Who needs alcohol anyway, the ambience they've found together now is more than enough stimulating. Just sitting here, together, still comfortable in their nakedness. He is reveling in his newfound freedom: The freedom from worrying about his body. He has stopped comparing it with the sublime physique of young Boyd or the pure innocence of little Martin's frame. And it's such an uplifting relief. His body is what it is, and yes, his body has been around for almost fifty years, so of course it shows signs of wear. And admittedly, a pivotal contributor to this new and relaxed attitude was young Boyd's offhand comment when they emerged from the bathroom: "You look younger out of your clothes."

He glances down at himself. Granted, his skin has lost some of its elasticity, but at least he's smooth, he has never had much hair on his thin body. The thought of shaving his pubes hits him. Would it make him look better, or just silly? Oh, relax! If you feel like it, just do it, and stop speculating.

He leans back and enjoys the loveliness that meets his eyes: Big, beautiful, naked brother bending closely over little, equally beautiful, equally naked brother picking the rocket leaves off his sandwich.

"This year I'm going to do Christmas", he suddenly says.

The boy is about to bite into his ham and tomato sandwich, but stops midway. Looks uncomprehending.

"This year? Don't you have Christmases every year?"

"Well, there's Christmas every year regardless of what I do, but I've usually worked the holidays, and when I didn't, I went to Ibiza or some such place. You know, there was just me, so I saw no point in celebrating."

The boy pulls his glasses down to the tip of his nose and looks sternly over them: "Wow. Shame on ya."

He laughs. "Shame on me, then. But this year..."

"We can have Christmas together!" the boy shouts cheerfully.

Young Boyd nudges his brother. "Tin-tin, don't put words in people's mouths."

The boy ponders this. "Oh. You mean that wasn't what Martin was going to say?"

"Precisely."

He chuckles. "Well maybe it was and maybe it wasn't. Let's just see what happens."

The boy resumes eating. Suddenly he lifts his hands in the air. "Yes!" he shouts, crumbs falling out of his mouth. "I know what I want for Christmas!"

"Now eat and don't talk!" his brother admonishes him. "Martin doesn't need to see the inside of your snout."

A sudden shiver runs through him. The inside of his mouth, he thinks. Feeling the inside of his mouth. With a finger. Or my tongue. Or ... Oh fuck it, this is where you promised yourself not to go!

 

*

 

He's bending over the dishwasher when two arms encircle his waist and a low voice pets his eardrums: "This is so nice I don't want it to end. Thank you."

That touch. That warm skin.

"It doesn't have to end yet, does it?"

"Hm."

Long pause. He unbends, turns around to face the young man. Those luminous eyes, those tantalizing lips that now open to speak:

"That's what Tin-tin said, too. He wanted to know if I thought you would let us sleep here."

"God, I would love that. I'm not sure I would be able to sleep, though."

Boyd's fingers lightly brush his cock, feel like feathers. "Me either."

He's aware of the boy watching them from the sofa. And he knows he will say yes. Knows with all his heart that whatever these two boys want, he will give them. He's putty in their hands.

 

*

 

As he thought: Sleep won't come. He's been lying listening to the sound of breathing, waiting for it to turn deep and rhythmic. The boy, now close to the wall, was obviously tired and the first to stop turning and go still, he hears those audible signs of regular, slow in-and-out puffs. However, there's young Boyd, his back to him, spooning his little brother, naked skin so close he feels the warmth radiate from it. The knowledge that he only has to move his hand a little bit to stroke a thigh, feel a buttock, touch a ball, grip a cock, is keeping him somewhat tense and wide awake.

The soft light from distant streetlamps float in through the tall windows. He can see it has started to snow again, it makes the warm room feel extra cozy and safe. Maybe it will be all right to move his hand a little closer to the backside next to him, just grazing the skin ...

Young Boyd turns, careful not to wake his little brother. A firm hand grips his hand and leads it to a rock hard cock, a face comes so close to his, he only has to stick out his tongue to lick it, and a voice whispers:

"I can't stand this. I want you so bad."

It's all it takes for his own cock to rear its raging head. Voiceless moans rise in their throats as they cautiously fondle each other, he moves even closer and grips both cocks with his hands, sheathing them, tenderly rubbing them together. Boyd's tongue now seeks his lips, pushes and wants in, and he opens his mouth and sucks. And it's becoming almost impossible to lie still, his body aches and yearns, he wants that cock inside him, he wants this young body to crush him, to mangle him.

He whimpers into young Boyd's mouth, tears away and exhales explosively. "God, I need you", he moans, caution to the wind. "I need to feel you in me! I don't care if we wake your brother."

Young Boyd flips him over on his back, covers him with his body, grinds his hips into him. Grabs his legs and spreads them, he feels the hard cock plow its way along his perineum and into his crack. He clasps the young, firm ass cheeks, pulls them even tighter to him, feels them strain to rise and fall. His whole body is on fire. Muffled words tumble out of him: "I don't want to get up and get the lube. Try spit. Please ... I need to feel it. I need to really feel you take me ..."

He spits in his hand and moistens his hole, and Boyd does the same. The young cock is leaking and wet, now it pushes for entrance, he holds his breath, tosses his head from side to side. Searing pain tears through his body as that so desperately desired pole of meat slowly takes possession of him, but the pain quickly passes into the sweet, sweet burn he so longed for.

Boyd withdraws and pushes that wonderful cock in again, out and now in. To the hilt. And there it stays until his legs are lifted and guided around the young man's waist, and hands support his buttocks, and the ride slowly starts. Oh, the angle is so right, the curve of that cock is so perfect, it sweeps across his prostate with every thrust.

In his blind ecstasy he feels a soft cheek lightly graze his face and hears a small voice in his ear.

"Can I touch your willie, please, Martin?"

He gasps, opens his eyes wide, looks suddenly panic-stricken up at young Boyd, silently begging for his help.

Big brother looks at little brother, there's love and there's trust in those eyes. Then at him: "If you're ok with it, let him."

And now those little fingers run along the shaft, circle the head, one finger pulls a thread of sticky liquid from the top of his cockhead, and with this, coupled with the cock that moves in him and fills him, all sensible thoughts leave him, and burning lust and unfathomable rapture has him completely in their hold.

"Why is it so wet?" little brother asks.

"Because it's preparing to slide into hole", his brother almost grunts.

"Does yours do that too? Mine doesn't."

"It will. Just wait a few years."

Little brother is quiet, fingers now finding his balls, weighing first one, then the other. His hand searches and finds a smooth and slender thigh, strokes it, all the way from the knee to the groin, moves further and caresses the soft, yet firm little bottom.

Suddenly the boy's hands disappear, the small body crawls up on his chest and the sweet voice asks, as if it was the most natural thing in the world: "Do you wanna touch my willie, too?"

And as his one hand roams over satiny chest and belly, the other finds the boy's already hard and springy dick, thumb and forefinger close on it and pull back and forth; he marvels at the silk and the iron, dumbstruck by the small wonder his fingers are allowed to feel, reveling in the cooing sounds that come out of the small mouth.

The cock in him glides out and slides in, stretching his opening, stroking his love button, he's lost in fervor and desire. His hands now grip the firm little ass and pull the boy closer, closer, all the way up to his face, and his lips engulf the hard spike between the boy's legs. His body trembles and his mind spins at his first taste of boy cock. His tongue curls around it, hungry mouth sucks it in and rolling tongue pushes it to rub against his palate, and the boy hums and coos and from pure instinct humps his face. His cock jolts and jerks with every shove and thrust from that magic stick that plows his ass.

The boy's body starts to twitch, and he tries to pull out of his mouth. "Stop it! I'm gonna pee!" Young Boyd, without stopping his movement in and out of him, suddenly lets go of his buttocks, instead he grips his little brothers waist and holds him in place while whispering: "No, you're not. This is something else. Trust me."

The boy twitches harder, a series of short yelps escape him. He sucks the boy's cock in as deep as it will go as the boy throws his head back, goes all quiet and rigid as a board. Blood thunders in his ears, and without anyone touching it, his cock jumps and jolts and spews rope after rope of warm liquid love onto the boy's backside and his own chest and stomach. His muscle clamps rhythmically around the cock in him, and young Boyd calls out, like in surprise, and his inside is coated and filled with the young man's exploding juices.

And as they drift off to sleep, spooned together, tired out and spent, there is just one lucent thought in his mind: How can it be possible that I, yes I, am so blessed that I have had the two most beautiful and wonderful creatures I have ever encountered fill my vision, and my heart, and now my body, like this?

And while his fingers lightly brush the warm and firm skin of the two brothers, December darkness enfolds him and sends him into nothingness.

 

 

(The End)

 

 

My other stories on Nifty:

"The Crushing Colors of Love" https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/incest/the-crushing-colors-of-love/

"My Blood sings in Bendik" https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/incest/my-blood-sings-in-bendik/

"The Sound of his Footsteps" https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/the-sound-of-his-footsteps/

"The Tower and the Maze" https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/the-tower-and-the-maze.html