Date: Fri, 29 Apr 2022 15:46:34 -0700 From: RJ Subject: Rising Sap - Ch. 1 This story is about a man who's in love with his best friend's son. If you do not like age-gap romances or themes of adult/youth, do not read this story. You know the drill: if you cannot legally view this material, do not read this story. All of my writings are pure fantasy. I own all legal rights to my fictional works. A full list of my work on Nifty can be found here: https://bit.ly/2S5IYDI We all love and appreciate this site, so please also consider donating to Nifty if you can: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html ~ Chapter 1 ~ "Keep 'em comin'," I say, holding up my empty scotch glass. The bartender gives me a wary look but doesn't say anything. She merely finishes wiping down a few glasses before she pours me another drink. What number is this? I'm not sure, but my goal is to get rid of all the cash in my wallet. I want every last Hamilton tossed away as carelessly as possible. Might as well, right? I slap down another ten-dollar bill and smile. "Thanks." "You sure you're okay?" she asks me skeptically. She's sweet -- and I think she's taken a liking to me because I'm not the belligerent type that she has to wrangle regularly. Maybe she's just pitying me. Either way, I don't need someone showering me with niceties, so I merely say "Yeah, doing great" when she sets the glass in front of me. But I'm not. Arguably, this has been the worst two weeks of my life. First, my mom died. It wasn't exactly a shock because of her long, arduous struggle with cancer, but evidently I was not as prepared for her death as I thought I was. Then, out of loneliness and grief, I got drunk and brought a young man home. A stranger. Whether or not the sex was even good, I can't remember. All I remember is waking up with various parts of my life missing, including (but not at all limited to) my phone, my wallet, my father's watch, my damn television, and sensitive documents like my birth certificate, passport, and social security card. Dealing with that was and still remains a hassle, in terms of asking both "How do I deal with potential identify fraud?" and "*Why* do I have to deal with potential identity fraud?" To top it off, having already been struggling with paying the mortgage on my mother's home, I got the official foreclosure notice. What's done is done. That was just poor timing, though. I could see that one coming from a mile away and did everything I could to ignore its imminent approach. But couldn't the bank wait just a little longer? And finally, today's latest blow: I'm officially unemployed. "Let go," they call it. Somehow, this feels worse than being fired. It's not personal. I didn't do anything wrong except not climb the corporate ladder high enough. Fuck me for not wanting to devote myself to a career that I'm not interested in. And for that, I, as well as thirty or so of my peers, were deemed expendable. "Let go." So here I am, drinking, because I don't know what the fuck else to do. I've reached my breaking point. I'm afraid that if I step in any particular direction, something else will knock me down several notches. Maybe I'll just stay down at this point. Lay low. "Uncle Ant?" I turn my head towards that familiar voice, and I feel my whole body perk up at the sight of him. "Scotty!" I say, surprised. I can't help but smile when I see him. He brings that out of me. I take a moment to eye him up and down and think, "Damn, he looks good." Tight black jeans and a thick, faux-fur winter coat opened to expose the polo underneath. He always dresses like that: sort of preppy. Plus, he has his backpack on for some reason, so it looks like he's coming home from school, but somehow, he makes the whole outfit look (for lack of a better word) "cool." He has an eye for fashion and art, after all, because he knows what looks good -- and that includes what's beyond the clothing as well. He just has the look of someone who takes care of himself: light dirty blond hair that's cropped on the sides to highlight his goofy ears, one of which is pierced with a simple, silver, square-hoop; eyes that are a crystal clear hazel color; and skin that is positively luminescent. Scotty has a total baby face, smooth and boyish, but he's as adorable as a button, especially when he smiles with those two rows of exceptionally white teeth that beam right at me. However, right now, he's not smiling. He looks concerned. "I haven't heard from you in a couple days," he says. His eyes glance towards the fresh glass of scotch in my grip. I slide it towards my body a little more to hide it from his field of vision. "What are you doing here?" I ask. "Just out with some friends," he says, gesturing vaguely to a table of other (presumably) seventeen-year-olds that are being seated as we speak. I always forget that this place is a restaurant and not just a bar. Unfortunately, it's the only decent bar within a twenty mile radius. Maybe I should have gone out of town. "I heard about the job," Scotty adds, coming over to the bar and sitting right next to me, completely facing my profile. "At least my misery is a good topic for discussion," I say with a smile, slurring my words. He doesn't find my joke funny, though. "You know that's not what I meant." "I know," I say with a sigh. "I tried calling you..." "I haven't been answering anybody," I tell him, turning towards the dark liquid in my glass. I raise it up to my lips, but Scotty stops me. "How many have you had?" I shrug. In all honesty, I don't know. "Not enough," I say, scratching my beard a little. "Please stop," he says with a certain sadness in his voice. My hand automatically brings the glass back down to the bar before I even consciously think about it. That's the kind of power his tone has over me. "I was gonna ask how you were holding up, but..." I can't help but laugh. "It's just one thing after another," I say bitterly. When I notice his expression, though, I just sigh. "Never mind. Why are you over here? Go hang out with your friends." "I think my uncle needs me," he says with a sad little smile. I'm not really his uncle. Not by blood, nor by marriage. It's more so a term of endearment considering how long I've been in his life. His father and I have been best friends since we were kids. We grew up in this very town together. We had all the same classes, all the same friends, got into all the same sorts of trouble. We had extensive dreams growing up, but I think we both fell short of those. Eric has it pretty good, though. He has a family -- beautiful wife, beautiful daughter, beautiful son. Me? At forty, I'm a perpetual bachelor. That's what I get for being gay and not leaving such a conservative town when I had the chance. But because I stayed, I got to watch Scotty grow up. Eric and his wife Yasmine had their second child when they were twenty-two and twenty-four, respectively. I was surprised to see how quickly they jumped at the idea of having another kid. Their daughter Eliza had practically just been born. But Scotty has always been a blessing, and after seeing my face for so long, it's no wonder he still calls me Uncle Antoni. We've always had a good relationship, he and I, built up from years of him passing by on his way home from school. Since I live directly between both the school system and his house, whenever he walked home (which was any time the weather allowed him to), he would stop by to see me and my mom. I worked nights, so often I was practically just waking up when Scotty would swing by, talk about school, play Yahtzee with my mother, and drink iced tea. It was a part of my day that I always looked forward to, particularly because we learned more and more about each other over the years, just naturally growing closer. Soon, we even started hanging out outside of those regular visits. I'd drive him places if his parents were busy, loan him money if his dad said no, accompany him to art shows and exhibits. Plus, he always brought me his homemade cupcakes for holidays, including my birthday. But it's hard considering how desperately attracted to him I am. I noticed when he was fourteen or so. I had never thought of Scotty in a sexual manner until his father of all people mentioned something to me. He pulled me aside after dinner at his place and whispered to me, "I think Scotty's into incest." I'd never felt my eyebrows raise so high, but I was curious as to why he thought that. Apparently, Eric had seen some of Scotty's browser history, which featured a plethora of dad/son themed porn and erotica. Scotty wasn't out at this point, so I muttered what I thought to be the right response: "It's probably just a phase." Eric trusts me, so I think he liked the sound of that. Inside, though, my mind was reeling. Knowing what Scotty was *into*, what turned him on, what he jerked off to in the wee hours of the night... that changed how I saw the boy. I'm ashamed to admit it even to myself, but I can't deny all those stirrings, those thoughts, those late nights where I imagined doing the unthinkable with him in graphic detail. I mean, what business does a forty-year-old deadbeat like me have thinking of a teenager like that? It doesn't help that I feel like there's some flirtatious energy between the two of us. Now he's seventeen, nearly grown, fully desirable, and my lust for him has only morphed into love, and that love has only deepened over the years, slowly and surely. But it's something I keep private. Never once have I even uttered it out loud. I don't want to tempt anything. I've known his father for too long to step in on his son. "I just wanna make sure you're okay," Scotty says. "You're sweet," I say, smiling. "And you're sloppy," he points out. "Am not." "You can't even look at me for longer than two seconds. And you're swaying." Am I? I hadn't even noticed. Courtesy of alcohol, I suppose. "Go bother your friends," I tell him. "I'm worried about you," he says insistently, and I believe him. "Why didn't you take the offer to stay with us?" I sigh. I don't really know why I didn't. Eric offered me Eliza's old room while she's off at college, but for some reason I refused. "I don't know," I tell him honestly. "Don't tell me you're too proud," Scotty says with a grin. "I'm not," I say, smiling slightly. "I just want to wallow. Alone." Suffer in peace and all that. I think it was the pity Eric had in his voice when he offered me a place to stay that made me say no. That ugly pity. He looks at me for a moment. "I'd feel better if you had loved ones to stay with." He's so adorable when he gets that worried, concerned expression on his face. "You're so cute," I find myself saying -- and I blush immediately. Did I just say that out loud? I must be at that stage where I'm inebriated enough to both be fully aware of what I'm doing while still not being able to control my impulses. He smiles slightly. "You're drunk." "Sorry." He rolls his eyes before standing up and taking my arm. "C'mon." "What?" I ask, staying planted in my seat. "I'm taking you home." "Home?" "Yeah. My house." "But my drink--" "C'mon! No arguing." I huff a bit but let him pull me away from the bar, allowing myself to be dragged out of the establishment by this boy. Scotty says goodnight to his friends briefly before tugging me outside. Damn, I really am drunk. I feel exceptionally warm even though it's freezing outside, and I can't even walk straight. My vision isn't totally compromised yet, but if Scotty wasn't leading the way, I'd end up in the bushes. It was stupid to come here. "Where's your car?" he asks me, pausing in the center of the parking lot. I glance around before pointing towards my old sedan. I wonder if *that's* going to break down on me, too. I've sure as hell had it for long enough, and at the rate things are going, I wouldn't be surprised. Might as well unload all the turmoil on me now. Scotty escorts me towards the car before asking for my keys. "Um. Pocket, I think," I say, feeling around my left pocket. Scotty takes it upon himself to check my right pocket, though, digging his hand in and grabbing the keys. I tense up. It feels strangely erotic, feeling his fingers there, sliding around my thigh through the thin fabric of the pocket, but it's over before I know it. Out come the keys, and he jingles them a bit before helping me into the passenger side. He then makes his way over to the opposite side of the car, tossing his backpack into the back seat and then hopping into the driver's seat. "Put your seatbelt on," he says, starting the car and immediately turning on the heat. He tries to warm his fingers quickly with his breath as the engine attempts to get to temperature before he puts his seatbelt on, waits for me to get mine on, and then heads carefully out onto the road. I find myself staring at him, watching as he turns on the radio and hums along to a tune that I don't recognize. I'm glad we're as close as we are. Even though it's been a steady incline, our relationship was graced by an intense uptick after he came out to me, just last year. God, how special I felt knowing that he confided in *me* way before his own father. Scotty and I started hanging out even more regularly after that, spending time with each other, expanding our dialogue, and he opened up to me about things he didn't feel he could talk about with Eric -- which, as turns out, is most things. Eric and Scotty are not necessarily at odds in any way. They just have nothing in common. I guess that's where I unknowingly stepped in, because Scotty and I have a lot in common. Hell, I could have come out to him, too. Sometimes I think I *should* have. But once Scotty admitted his newfound sexuality, my fantasies concerning him flared up even more, my body aching now that there was a possibility this could be a reality. I didn't want to complicate the situation, though -- specifically, *my* situation. Not telling Scotty that I'm also gay was a tactic I employed to keep some distance between us, so that I had no choice but to keep my hands off of my best friend's son. I didn't want to tempt possibility. I had hoped that over time, my feelings would just dissipate, but now, unfortunately for me, I just want him more than ever. After several songs, an idea seems to pop into his head. "So, question," he says, not taking his eyes off the road. I smile. "Answer." "How would you feel about making a small detour?" "A detour where?" "It's a surprise," he says, glancing at me. "But you gotta promise not to tell my dad." The secrecy alone makes me want to jump head-first into whatever he's talking about. "Sure." He smiles at me, and after a minute, he veers off the main route to his house. I spend a little time speculating where we could end up, intrigued by the fact that he doesn't want his father knowing. Is it dangerous? It's probably dangerous. Maybe I should have gotten more info out of him before I agreed. But Scotty just takes us to a bridge. A substantial bridge at that. It's one that was half-built across one of the town rivers ages ago, but the project was abandoned. He drives down a small gravel path that leads under the bridge and then parks by a riverbank. He must come here for privacy. Why the hell else would he come here? For drugs? Shit, maybe he's on something and that's what he wants to tell me. "C'mon," he says, cutting the ignition and unbuckling his seatbelt before hopping out of the car. "Uh... Why are we here?" I ask skeptically. "I wanna show you something." He snags his backpack out of the back seat before shutting both doors and beckoning me out. I sigh a little bit before undoing my seatbelt and joining him outside. I already miss the warmth of the car. Winter in February is not my ideal time of the year, but I suck it up for a bit, stuffing my hands in my pockets as I follow Scotty closer to the base of the bridge. Scotty pulls out a flashlight and beams it on the base of one of the bridge's wide piers, which I realize is almost completely covered in graffiti. Then, he sets his backpack down and looks at me. "Here we are." I look at him, confused. "Where?" "Here." He points to the graffiti. "I don't get it," I say after a moment. He laughs a little. "This is me, Uncle Ant," he says. "I've done this whole wall. Well, almost." I blink, staring up at the illuminated wall. "This whole thing?" I ask, intimidated by the height. It's got to be at least ten feet tall. "Yeah," he says, and I stare. At first, it didn't register as anything but basic graffiti. But now that I'm looking at it, it definitely has Scotty's flair. It reads more like a mural, even though some of the elements are disjointed: a few surprisingly-detailed faces at the bottom, a starry-sort of sky with graffiti-font words, themes of both space and nature. It's a bit daunting to look at, considering how large the canvas is, but it's incredibly detailed and precise. And he did this all... with what, spray paint? "I... have no words," I tell him. "I'm speechless." "Hope that's a good thing," he mutters. "It is." He smiles. "It's symbolic," he says. Symbolic? "Of what?" "The bridge that was never built between me and my dad." When I stare blankly at him, he bursts out laughing. "Oh, c'mon. It's supposed to be funny." But I find myself frowning. "It's kind of sad, isn't it?" "I don't know," he says. "Maybe a little. But I'm okay." I suppose it's just me, but it always surprises me to wonder why he always seems so unfazed by their lack of a fulfilling relationship. Again, they're never really at odds, but there never really seems like there's much tying them together. "Doesn't it suck that you're not that close with him?" "Do *you* feel close to him?" Scotty fires back. I'm surprised by the accusatory tone in his voice. "We've been friends for a long time." "That doesn't answer my question," he points out. Then he bends down, busying himself with his backpack. "You guys are totally different people." "You think so?" I ask, but it's a stupid question. Everyone thinks so. It's painfully obvious. He scoffs. "Uh, yeah. He's serious, meticulous, disciplined, afflicted with tunnel-vision... You're fun, more artistic, more holistic, you see things in broader strokes, you're a bit of a slob--" "Hey," I say, laughing. "I mean it in the nicest way possible," he says, looking up from his bag. "Like, you're not afraid to, you know, just *be*, even if it's messy." He stares at me for a moment before continuing to speak. "Well, maybe you are a little afraid of that. But Dad? Dad might not look it, but I feel like he's terrified of being anything other than what he portrays." Damn, this kid is astute as fuck. He's way more observant and analytical than I give him credit for. "Well, what are *you* afraid of, then?" I ask, watching him pull a few cans of spray paint from his backpack. He smiles and thinks on it for a moment. "Not being loved. Is that cheesy?" he asks with a little grimace. "No," I tell him. I'll love you, Scotty. You don't have to be afraid of that. He scans a few different cans with the flashlight, probably checking the colors. "Sometimes I really wanna have one of those fiery, super passionate romances you see in the movies," he says. "But I know those are movies. Don't feel like you have to remind me." I chuckle. "You matured faster than I did." "Yeah, right," he says sarcastically. "I still have a lot to learn." "But that's it right there," I say. "Me and your dad, at your age, we thought we knew everything. I'm only now getting to the part where I realize I don't know shit, and I'm fucking forty years old." These past few weeks have probably aged me, too. He seems to settle on a particular can before he stands up and looks at me curiously for a while. "You're okay, right?" His voice is so soft that I almost start crying. "Yeah, I'm fine." "I worry about you." I smirk a bit. "You worry about me?" "Of course," he says. "I care about you. And I look up to you." I laugh, but I feel the warmth his words generate in me. I feel it throughout my whole body. "You don't have to bullshit me, Scotty." "I'm not bullshitting you," he says. "I *do* look up to you. You *and* my dad. You're both admirable guys, in different ways." Then, the killer: "You're like a second dad to me, honestly." I start to tear up. I can't control it. Then, when I notice a few tears streaming, I sniffle and turn away, laughing when he says "Awww!" in a playful tone. "This alcohol is making me emotional," I tell him, rubbing my nose. "Don't cry," he says, and I hear him come closer before I feel his arms wrap around me. God, this boy is gonna kill me one day. I put one arm around him, keeping it appropriate and resting it on his upper back. "Your fault, monkey," I say, finding myself using my go-to nickname for him. I started calling him that when he was younger, on account of the way his ears stick out a little in the cutest fucking way. I thought he'd hate it by now, but he never asks me to not use it -- though sometimes I swear he blushes a little. "I'm sorry," he says with a chuckle, looking up at me as he steps back from the embrace. Then: "Can I ask something? I hope it's not out of line." I arch my eyebrow but nod, giving him the okay. "You're not depressed or anything, are you?" Depressed? "No. I don't think so." "Because after everything that's happened, I wouldn't... be surprised, I guess." "I'm not depressed," I say, mostly to convince myself. "I'm just... tired. I'm tired." That feels like an appropriate word to explain how I'm feeling lately. Tired. Exhausted. Spent. "I'm sorry, Uncle Ant," he says, rubbing my arm. "It's not your fault, kiddo," I say, letting myself be physical for a moment and pat his soft cheek. "It's mine, if anything." He squints. "It's not your fault either." "Part of it is," I say bitterly. "I should have prepared better, been more on top of things. I should have dealt with the bills and taken that promotion. And I shouldn't have brought some fucking du--" But I cut myself short, glancing at Scotty. I almost just let what happened slip. "Never mind." But Scotty knows exactly what I'm talking about. "It's not your fault some scummy guy stole from you." I stare at him, frozen for a moment, and he's quick to catch on to my surprise. "Dad told me." "How much did he tell you?" I ask hesitantly. "Um... All of it," he says, trying to give me an apologetic smile. Fuck. Thanks a fucking ton, Eric. "Jesus Christ," I groan, pissed at him for outing me to his son. I told him to keep it a secret, but I guess that's what I get for being completely open to that man. I didn't want Scotty to know I had brought a young man home to sleep with. It'd be so much easier if he just didn't know. Scotty senses my momentary anguish and says, "It's okay. I've kinda known for a long time." "What?" I ask, my head snapping towards him. He knew I was gay? Did Eric let that slip, too? "How?" "I mean..." He laughs a little bit. "We've been kinda flirtatious, haven't we?" It's like it's not even winter anymore. I'm sweating. I'm warm and I'm sweating as if the sun has been beaming down on me for hours. So he's known? All this time, Scotty has known? Now it's all out in the open. He's gay, I'm gay, and we're acknowledging that we've been subtly flirting with each other for, what, a year now? "Why didn't you...?" I start to ask, but I trail off. How do I say this? "Bring it up?" he asks, and when I nod, he shrugs. "That wouldn't be fair. Just because I came out to you doesn't mean I expected you to come out to me." I blink. "You knew before then?" He laughs. "I had a feeling. But that's why I felt okay to tell you. Well, one of the reasons." He smiles sweetly at me, clearly implying there are lots of reasons I made him comfortable enough to be open with me. "Oh." That's all I can really say, because I'm at a loss for words. I don't really know what to do right now. The alcohol in my system isn't helping. I just look down at my feet, so many things running through my head that I don't even know what they are. "Hey," he says, and suddenly he's tossing me a can. Of course I don't catch it, my reflexes as shot as they are, and I have to pick it up off the ground when it slips through my fingers. "What's this?" "Spray paint, dumbass," he says, pointing towards the wall with the flashlight. "Try it." I blink. "Me?" "Yeah. This is why I brought you out here." I look at him skeptically, and he just smiles. "Trust me," he says, grabbing my hand and tugging me closer to the wall. For an instant, I can focus on nothing but his fingers against mine, but he lets go too quickly. "Just try it. You'll feel a little better." "You vandalize to feel better?" I ask with a grin. "No more questions," he says. "Paint." I take a breath before shaking the can. I guess there's no harm in adding to what he's already created. "Paint what?" "Anything," he says. I decide to do the first thing that comes to mind. I don't know why it's in my head, but I try to paint it. It's hard at first to get a feel for how the spray paint applies to the wall, but once I do, I'm in the zone, holding my finger down on the plunger as black paint covers a blank space on the wall. Scotty watches in silence as I go through two cans of spray paint before stepping back and looking at the finished product. "Ta-da!" I say. "Damn, Uncle Ant," he says, smiling at it. I'm a little rusty, but my painting of a man's head with bamboo growing out from his skull fits in nicely with the weird, cosmic, naturistic vibe of the rest of Scotty's mural. When he glances at me, though, he laughs. "Feeling good?" I just realized I have a smile on my face, and a pretty wide smile at that. "I feel great, actually." Lighter, maybe. I don't really know what it is. He chuckles. "Good. You told me that's the point of art: to get it all out." We go through the rest of his paint cans adding to the mural. Mostly, I watch him embellish his mural in various spots before he asks if I can lift him up. I point out that that seems dangerous, considering how many drinks I've had, but he thinks he'll be fine if I lean into the wall a bit. In the end, I let him climb up on my shoulders so he can be high up enough to reach the upper part of the wall. He's short and light, practically half my weight, so lifting him up is a cinch. Apparently he comes here with his friends often. They all graffiti the piers and smoke cigarettes whenever one of them is particularly "in their feels" -- whatever the hell that means. They each have claimed their own wall, making small additions to it whenever they visit. Soon, my legs start to get tired holding Scotty up, so I set him down slowly and just lie on the dirt for a moment, pointing the flashlight towards him as he squats down to touch up something at the bottom of his mural. "So are you a delinquent now?" I ask. He laughs. "Just an artist," he says, flashing his teeth innocently towards me before turning back to the task at hand. "I promise this is the only mildly-bad thing I do. Besides the occasional cigarette." "Mhm," I say skeptically, but I smile. At least it wasn't drugs. "As long as it's just occasional." "Yes, Dad," he teases before swearing under his breath. "Damn, I'm out," he mutters, trying to shake out a few more good sprays. But it's no use. We went through his reserve. He sighs and tosses the can towards his bag before coming over to me. He sits down right by my side, crossing his legs Indian-style before smiling at me. "Comfy?" he asks me. I smile. "Weirdly enough." "Old man," he teases, patting my stomach. "Hey, so, I didn't say it before," Scotty says after a moment, "but... about the whole theft thing..." Oh God, here we go. Is he going to judge me the same way his father did? About how silly it was for me to bring someone home that I didn't know? I mean, why am I being blamed for that? Am I not the victim here? Besides, people sleep with strangers all the time. Hell, the only time I've *ever* gotten action is with strangers, so I'm praying Scotty doesn't say something as simple-minded as that. "Don't let that experience close you off," he says, and he half-smiles towards me. "I know how you get. You gotta stay open." I smile. Look at this kid giving my old ass advice. "I'll try." "Promise?" he asks, nudging my side gently. Even though it's dark save for a bit of moonlight, I can see in his eyes how earnest he is. Damn, he must really care about me, in a way I didn't realize before. "I promise," I assure him. We just relax for a moment before Scotty says he's getting cold. Then, we head out, making sure we pick up all the spray cans before we hop back into the car and drive. We ride the rest of the way in relative silence save for the radio playing softly in the background. I feel strangely better. It seems silly that spray painting an abandoned bridge should make me smile so much, but Scotty was right about "getting it all out" in a healthier way than drinking myself into a stupor. I didn't get *everything* out, that's for sure. But it helped. Even if it just meant sharing that moment with Scotty, it helped. He pulls my car into his driveway and parks it away from the garage, and I pause. "You sure you don't wanna just take me to my place?" I ask, almost laughing. "My place." Not like it's much of anything. Just this rundown, shanty sort of space on the outskirts of town. That's where I've been staying since I got evicted. "I'm sure," he says simply, cutting the engine and starting to leave the car. "But... my clothes--" "Dad has extras." "And my toothbrush and whatnot?" "We have spares, you know that," he says, chuckling as I grapple for an excuse. I just sigh and undo my seatbelt before I step back into the night air. I suppose it'll be nice to stay with family tonight -- because that's essentially what we are. I follow Scotty up the cobblestone path to his traditional, cookie-cutter house. Jackets and shoes are left by the door once we step inside, and the boy leads me right up the stairs. I have to pause half-way through because I get a sudden sense of dizziness. "You okay?" he asks, and I nod, keeping my eyes closed and waiting for it to pass. I need to lie down, I think. Sleep this off. He comes back down a few steps and escorts me up the rest of the way to make sure I don't fall before leading me slightly down the hallway into his older sister's room. It's not as empty as I thought it'd be. It still looks like someone lives in this bedroom, fully decorated with (what I've always thought to be) slightly too girlish things: pink plush toys, boy band posters on the walls, a floral bed frame that would suit the style of a seven-year-old girl... But I guess this is where I'm staying. "And I'll leave this here in case you need it," Scotty adds, grabbing the small garbage can from under Eliza's desk and bringing it towards the bed. I feel ashamed, right then and there, to be in this state, to have Scotty worrying about me and taking care of me. It should be the other way around. "Sorry," I say moodily. He glances at me in surprise. "Don't be sorry," he says before he looks me over. "Do you wanna shower or something?" That's probably his way of saying that I look like a mess. "I probably should," I say, scratching my head. "Go for it," he says, gesturing to the bathroom across the hall towards the bathroom. "I'll leave you something to sleep in." I head into the bathroom, strip out of all my clothes (which feel incredibly heavy for some reason), and step into a steaming hot shower. Fuck, that feels good. I blink a few times before resting my hand on the shower wall, holding myself up to keep steady as the water washes over me. I do little more than that. No soap. No shampoo. Just hot water washing over me. I'm too tired to move, and I'm too focused on my thoughts of Scotty to do much else. Beautiful Scotty. My little monkey. What has he thought of our flirtations, now that he knows my sexual orientation, now that he knows I could have possibly been sincere? Obviously he's not bothered by it. In fact, he smiled when he acknowledged those mutual, harmless back-and-forths. But now that it's out in the open... what will happen? Anything? God, I'm so torn. When I step out of the shower, there's a neat pile of clothes on the counter by the sink, which means Scotty stepped inside to place them there. I don't know why I feel flushed and warm, but I do. It's probably just the steam, but thinking of Scotty in such close proximity to me when I'm naked is... Anyway, I run my fingers through my hair before trying Eric's clothes on. His underwear is way too snug for my liking -- almost suffocating, so I take those off and try the rest. Luckily, the pajama pants and the t-shirt both fit comfortably. Hope Eric doesn't hate me for going commando in his pants. I quickly brush my teeth with a new toothbrush from their stash before I step out of the bathroom and head back into Eliza's room with my old clothes and Eric's underwear in my arms. Scotty's resting on the bed, and when he looks up to see me walk in, he smiles, putting his phone down. "Hey." "Hey, monkey," I say. "Thanks for the clothes, but..." I hold up the boxer briefs. "These are way too tight." "Really?" Scotty asks, sitting up. "Yeah. Sure they're not yours or something?" And if they are, can I keep them? ...Thank God I didn't say that out loud. "I got 'em from Dad's room." He gets up and takes the underwear back. "Weird. You two are basically the same size. You must be really hung or something," he says, his eyes flicking towards my crotch before he looks up at me. He sees my look of shock (mixed with a red tint in my cheeks, I'm sure) and just laughs. "Stop looking so tense, I'm just teasing," he says with a grin before he says he'll put them back, leaving the room. I try not to wonder if Scotty has thought about my dick before as I set my clothes to the side and climb right into bed. I almost moan when I get under the covers. There must be one of those mattress pads under the sheets because this is incredibly comfortable. It contours my body perfectly with incredible support. Then again, maybe it just feels extra nice considering I've been sleeping on a shit mattress for a handful of days. I hear Scotty's voice before I notice him walk in. "Comfy again?" he says with a smile. "Big time." "Good," he says, and then he steps inside, sitting on the edge of the bed, right near my legs. He looks like he wants to ask me something. He plays with his fingers for a minute before finally turning his head towards me. "Can I ask you something weird? Now that things are out in the open?" Oh Lord. What could this be about? "Sure." "What was your first time like?" My first time? He's asking me about losing my virginity? "Oh," I say, surprised. "Um... It was good," I say, not sure how in-depth he wants me to get. "Who was it with?" "A friend I was close with at the time," I say. "Kinda just happened." "Were you scared?" "Scared? With him? No." I shake my head. "No, I trusted him." "So you wouldn't have done it with just anyone?" "No way. I wasn't that kind of guy," I tell him, looking at him with a curious expression. "There's nothing wrong with that, though," I add, wondering if that's what he's getting at. I don't want him to feel like I'm judging him for being... loose with himself, if that's what's happening here. "I know," he says simply. "I just wouldn't feel... secure with just anybody for my first round." Scotty nods a bit, pondering what I'm saying. "I think that's exactly it," he says. "What is?" "The security thing." He turns his body towards me more before he rests on his side, right across my shins. "You know my friend Quentin? With the ugly blue hair?" he asks, and when I laugh and nod, he continues. "He's made it more than obvious that he wants to sleep with me. You know, more than just, like, oral." It's not like we haven't talked about sexual things before, but it was always in a general sense. Never once has he mentioned specifics. Now I know that he's done oral, and I have to focus to get those flashing images of him and his friend blowing each other out of my head. "And you don't want to," I comment. "Not really. He's cute, sure, but we don't have that emotional connection, you know? And I feel like I need that if I were to have, you know, actual sex. And he doesn't seem to think that sex sometimes isn't just physical." I smile. "You sound like someone with experience." "I'm a romantic," he teases with a smile. "I don't know. I just need to trust the other person, and I don't trust him. Not in that way." I get that. There's a lot that goes into trust: trust that they'll take care of you, that they'll give you what you want, that they'll guide you, that they'll make sure you're okay through the experience. But of course, I'm feeling particularly hurt and untrusting after these past few weeks. "Trust is hard to find though," I find myself saying. "With anyone." "Maybe," he says, shrugging. "I trust you, though." I blush. I blush, and I sweat, and I nearly stop breathing. Did he just imply--? "You hungry by the way?" he asks suddenly, sitting up, totally switching subjects as if he didn't just stop my heart momentarily. "Or thirsty? You might need water for that impending hangover." I clear my throat, feeling tense from his earlier comment even though he doesn't seem to think anything of it. "I'm okay." But he just smiles. "I'm gonna get you some water." Again, I'm left alone with my thoughts for a minute or two. He trusts me. Does he mean that he trusts me to... what, be his first? No. It was just an off-hand comment. That's all. But God, what I'd give to prove I'm trustworthy to him. I'd give him the full experience. I picture me taking off each article of clothing slowly, as if unwrapping a set of gifts. I imagine our limbs tangled together. I see myself kissing his lips, and his neck, and his chest, and his cute little belly button, going lower still and inhaling his scent: an inviting cologne mixed in with his natural pheromones, coaxing me to part my lips and take him into my-- Scotty comes into the room again and I shift a bit, grabbing my boner out of the way so that it's not making a tent in the blanket. He came back with more than just water, though. "I brought you an extra blanket 'cause I know you like to be smothered," he says, smiling and tossing the extra blanket on me. I laugh, fixing it over me and feeling even more relaxed. I always sleep with multiple blankets. I like the weight and the warmth. "You're a godsend," I tell him as he sets the water by the nightstand. "You need anything else?" "You've done enough for me, Scotty," I tell him. "So you don't want my company, is what you're saying?" he teases in a pretend-offended voice. I laugh. "I always want your company." Always. He smiles. "Well, if that's the case..." He hops onto the bed with me, climbing over me (his knee actually nudges my fucking crotch through both blankets) and collapsing on the other side of the bed. "You could have gone around," I comment, not minding that he didn't. "Yeah, but that's no fun," he says, and he chuckles a bit. We talk in bed for a while. For the most part, he talks and I listen. How much time actually passes, I'm not sure, considering how the alcohol is messing with my perception of time. Plus, all it's doing is quickly lulling me to sleep. I feel myself sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress with each passing second, and sometimes my eyes flutter before I force them to stay open. I don't want to fall asleep. Not yet. He gets a text on his phone in the middle of one of his sentences, and when it lights up on the bed, I notice all the cracks in the screen. It's like a spider web. He ignores the text and turns his attention back to me. "The hell happened to your screen?" I ask before he continues speaking. "This?" He laughs, picking it up. "Dropped it down the stairs." "Dumbass," I tease. "It was an accident!" I smile. "Not gonna fix it?" He shakes his head. "It's a little over a hundred dollars. And I can't really afford that." "So ask your mom or your dad," I suggest. "I did. Mom told me to ask Dad, and Dad told me to get a job." I laugh. Sounds like Eric. "Well, I can help you out if it's that bad," I say. Wouldn't be the first time I've loaned him some money. He refuses immediately. "Aren't you struggling right now?" I shrug. "It's not that much money." "Enough, Uncle Ant," he says, but he smiles a bit at me. "You're always too quick to help me out." I blush. "Well, I like helping you out." "You tryna be my sugar daddy?" he asks. I chuckle softly. "I don't have a lot of sugar to offer, but..." "You've got plenty of sugar, Daddy." I gulp. His tone was purely playful, but just hearing the way he called me "Daddy" made my heart flutter a bit. And my cock? Forget it. "Alright, enough," I say, laughing as a way to distract myself from his somewhat sultry tone. "Oh come on," he says, giggling. "We'd be a hot unit, don't you think?" I blink before I have to look away from him. I think I'm dizzy, considering all the blood in my body seems to have rushed right to my dick. What used to be innocent flirting has now turned a little more (dare I say) adult. Maybe I'm just noticing his tone more. Maybe because I'm drunk I'm just hearing what I want to hear. I should end this night before I let (or make) things spiral. In all honesty, though, he's not wrong. A six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-forty-pound, bearded, hairy man with a smooth, lithe, five-foot-six boy? We're a perfect contrast where it matters, and enough similarities to satisfy that fantasy. My hair's darker and greying and he's more blond, but we have similar faces from the right angle. Although my eyes are a lighter color, they're the same shape as his, and our smiles look mighty similar if we're just using our lips. But he has his parents' perfect teeth and glowing skin. Underneath my thick facial hair, I look a little rougher, more rugged, and my smile is more characteristic because it's always on a slight tilt. Still, it's enough for me to be able to pretend he could be my flesh and blood. "Maybe," I admit. I swallow thickly. It's time, Antoni. Send him back to his room. "I should sleep." Scotty chuckles. "Alright, alright. Say no more." He lifts himself up and leans over to kiss my cheek. Nothing he hasn't done before, but it feels new this time. It feels wonderful. "See you in the morning." "See you," I say, eyeing him as he slides out of bed, walks towards the door, hits the lights for me, and disappears into the hallway. I let out a heavy sigh. Fuck. It's a good thing I ended it where I did. Who knows what I could have said if the conversation continued? Who knows what fantasies I would have admitted with the scotch having loosened my tongue and fucked with my impulse control? Even just thinking about it now is making me horny. I can still feel his lips on my cheek. I can still hear the way he said "Daddy." God, I'm such a fucking perv, aren't I? I am. I've been perving over this kid for x amount of years now and there's no stopping it at this point. I'm in too deep. Even right now, I can't ignore my cock much longer. I let a hand slide down my body, right into Eric's pajama bottoms, and wrap my fingers around my manhood, stiff as a board, hot as an iron. I let out a soft moan as I start to move my fist up and down, working it slowly, purposefully. I think about Scotty, and nothing else. Oh, what I'd give to call him mine. My boy. My precious, sexy boy. I'd take good care of him, both in and out of the bedroom -- but of course, the bedroom is the only context I can picture him in right now, disrobed at the end of my bed, climbing over me with that little half-grin of his. I wonder what he tastes like. Caramel? He's always eating those small Werther's hard candies. Caramel and butterscotch. If I close my eyes enough, I can practically taste it. And to taste it on his tongue would be a blessing. To feel his body over mine would be a miracle. And his hands... I'd let them wander. Explore. Touch and tease until he found my cock and held it firmly in his grip. I'm sweating. I throw the blankets off of me enough to have my cock out in the open while I stroke it vigorously. I have one desire, one focus, and that is to cum as quickly as possible, to get rid of this energy. But where to cum? I envision all the options: Scotty's lips, face, ass, back, stomach, chest, groin. Better yet, inside him. Deep inside him. I'd plant my seed in my boy as he mewls in my ear. What does he sound like when he hits climax? What expressions does he make? How much do his eyes flutter and how hard would he clutch onto me when he hits the brink of no return? I'm there. I swear under my breath, choking back a moan as I lift up the shirt I'm wearing and spill my load all over the front of me. Fuck. Fuck yes. God, what a release. A relief. I loosely hold onto my cock, panting, aching, sweating, sighing. My eyes have never felt heavier than at this moment, but I need to clean up. Tissues. I need tissues. I force my eyes open and look over. Thank God there are some tissues on the nightstand by the glass of water Scotty brought me, so I tear off a couple sheets and wipe up all my cum before tossing the soiled napkins into the trash. I fix my pants and pull the blankets back over me, rolling onto my side and finally shutting my eyes. I know I'm bound to pass out in no time -- and I know exactly who will be the last thing on my mind before I fall into the deepest sleep I've had in weeks.