Date: Wed, 9 Oct 2019 00:55:50 -0400
From: RJ <ruetheben@gmail.com>
Subject: Lessons in Fatherhood - Ch. 1

Lessons in Fatherhood
by RJ

This work of fiction is about the love between two fathers and their
respective young sons. If themes of incest and adult/youth pairings offend
you, do not read.

A lot of the McCarthy's story, which will be featured more starting in
Chapter 2, is inspired by the father/son bond depicted in the art of
bernielover (in his non-furry art). It's hard to find nowadays, but if you
can find his old work, give it a look!

Please note that this chapter serves as an introductory chapter and will
not have as much sexual content as future chapters.

If you have any questions or comments about this piece, want to know about
any of my other works, or just want to reach out, please don't hesitate to
email me. If you would like to be added to a mailing list for this story
(or all stories) and receive emails about any updates, let me know. A list
of my works, including links and descriptions, can be found here:
https://bit.ly/2S5IYDI

Please also consider donating to Nifty if you can:
http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html. Any amount helps.

~ Chapter 1 (Ricky's POV) ~

When I see that classic yellow bus coming up the street, I cut the engine
on the lawn mower and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, smiling
slightly to myself. I lean against the machine and watch the bus slow to a
screeching halt in front of the driveway. I'm a damp mess, the sweat
soaking clearly through my shirt, but that doesn't seem to deter the bus
driver from making eyes at me when the door swings open. Miss Blumenthal, I
think her name is. I just smile when she leers at me, giving her a friendly
wave and letting her ogle. At her age, and as heavy as she is, she probably
just doesn't care who she makes passes at.

Out pops Kyle, his short, dark-chocolate-colored hair messy from the day,
but at least the rest of him looks put-together: striped t-shirt tucked
into corduroys and a small, almost private smile brightening his face. He
walks towards me with his hands around the straps of his backpack as he
looks me up and down, probably noticing how wet I am.

"There he is," I say when he gets closer.

He just keeps smiling in that slightly-slanted way he does. "You're really
sweaty," he comments.

I laugh. "That's what hard work does. You should try it sometime," I tease,
playfully pushing his forehead with my palm. He chuckles softly, slapping
my hand away and wiping the moisture off his face.

"Ew, Dad!" he says with a toothy grin. "Gross!"

I feel a strange mix of emotions just from him simply referring to me as
"Dad." When Kyle moved in with me a few months ago, right at the beginning
of summer, he still referred to me as "Daddy." I suppose that was just
because of his more southern upbringing. Growing up with his mom in Georgia
probably made that notion seem normal. But this is Connecticut. All it took
was two kids at the public pool to poke fun at him for referring to me as
such for him to drop the -dy. So now, unless he lets "Daddy" slip, it's
simply "Dad" most of the time. In a way, it's nice to hear him refer to me
at all, but it still makes me sad -- like he's growing up too fast, or like
I missed out on too much of his childhood.

"Hey, so... I may or may not have a surprise for you inside," I say
vaguely, cocking my head towards the door.

He looks excited. "Cake?"

"Maybe," I say with a smile, fixing a few stray hairs on his head. "If you
can guess what kind, I'll let you have a piece before dinner."

He bites his lip in thought, giving it a moment before saying "Red velvet."

I smirk slightly. "And with what kind of frosting?"

"White," he says.

"You can't just say 'white'," I say, laughing. "That's not a flavor."

"But that's my guess," he says with a cheeky grin.

"Cheating. That's what that is." I wag my finger at him.

"Is not," he says, sneering playfully. "It's white, ain't it?"

I roll my eyes. "Yes."

"Ha ha!" he says, jumping up and laughing. "Cake, please."

"C'mon," I say, chuckling and leaving the mower in the middle of the
yard. I let him hurry into the house since he's clearly eager to get his
hands on a big slice (the size of which he'll probably try to argue with me
about). I wash my dirty hands in the sink before heading straight for the
cake box on the counter. "Shut your eyes."

Once he's seated at the table with his backpack on the floor, he covers his
eyes with his hands, smiling to himself. I set the full cake in front of
him on the small kitchen table and quickly light all ten candles. Once it's
ready to go, I tell him to open his eyes, and he smiles broadly at the
sight of it. "Did you make it yourself?"

"Damn right I did," I say with a grin. Took me a long time, too. It's how I
spent most of my day off. He licks his lips, reaching out to scoop up a bit
of the frosting with his finger. I try to pull the cake away, but he's too
quick, and he smiles as he sucks the buttercream off his index
finger. "Hey!" I say, holding the cake away from him.

"It's *my* cake," he says.

"Mhm," I mutter before setting the cake back down. "Blow out the damn
candles so I can cut you a piece." He grins before closing his eyes and
pulling his lips in as he thinks of a wish. I smile, watching him,
wondering what he's wishing for. A dog, probably. He wants one badly. After
half a minute, he finally opens his eyes, inhales deeply, and blows out the
candles in one go. "Nice," I say, chuckling and pulling the candles out of
the frosting. I toss them in the trash, grab a cake-cutting knife, and
start carving out a substantial piece for him.

"Bigger," he says, watching me.

"No," I say simply, laughing. "This is a meal already."

"But--"

"No arguing," I say, and he smiles a bit as he sits back in his chair. I
transfer his slice to a small plate with a fork and then set it in front of
him. "Here ya go, champ. And hey--" I hold my fist out. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks, Daddy," he says politely, his slight southern inflection
showing. He bumps his fist against mine before scooping the fork up and
digging right in.

I laugh at how messy he's getting already, but I let him enjoy
himself. It's his birthday, after all. "So? How was your first day of
school?" I ask, sitting down with him.

He shrugs a bit. "It was okay. The teachers are real nice."

That's good to hear. There's a Meet the Teacher Night coming up next week,
so I'll have to try to go to that. "Make any new friends?"

He simply shrugs again, and I sigh. I was worried about how he'd adjust to
this new development -- specifically to Northern kids. Kids around his age
can be unpredictable when it comes to responding to newcomers, but I hope
he can make some friends soon.

"Well... I might have a friend for ya," I say lightly.

Kyle looks up at me, crumbles of cake slipping from his lips and onto his
chin. "Who?" he asks, his mouth full.

I laugh a little. "Finish your cake and I'll show you."

He looks at me curiously before focusing on his slice, devouring it with
relish. Once the plate is clean (and I mean sparkling, because he licks the
remnants of his cake off the dish), he offers it to me. I take it with a
smile, bringing it to the sink before I turn to him.

I beckon him to follow me, and he slides out of his seat and trails behind
me as I lead him out to the back porch. As soon as I slide the glass door
to the side, Kyle gasps. I barely even get out another "Happy birthday"
before Kyle practically vaults towards the barking puppy. "Careful with
him," I warn, but Kyle doesn't seem to be listening. He runs up to the
puppy and the mutt, starved for attention, accepts whatever Kyle can give
him. I smile as Kyle giggles when he kneels down and lets the puppy lick
his face in that excited way dogs do.

"Is it ours, Dad?"

"He's *yours*," I clarify.

"Really?" He looks up at me with bright, happy eyes as the dog keeps
lapping at his jaw. This little thing. A buddy from work has a dog that
spit out more babies than he could handle. Maybe it was a stroke of fate,
him asking if I wanted a dog so close to Kyle's birthday. I was hesitant at
first, but I knew Kyle would positively glow -- and I was right. "Can I
name him?" he asks me.

I smile. "Sure. Pick something good."

"I wanna name him Lucky," he says immediately, scratching the puppy's
ears. Guess he had a name picked out already, just in case his wish ever
came true. "Hi, Lucky!" The dog must be responding to Kyle's shift in tone,
because he barks cutely up at his new master, paws on Kyle's chest.

I laugh a little. Lucky it is, then. I watch them play on the deck for a
minute before I take my leave. "You two have fun. And keep him on the leash
for now. I'm gonna finish the front lawn."

Kyle giggles at Lucky pouncing on his chest before he says "Okay, Dad!" I
smile in his direction one more time before shutting the glass door and
heading out to the front yard, feeling a warmth in my chest. It does me
good to see Kyle that happy -- and I feel a peculiar sort of pride to know
that I was the one to make him smile like that. I have to savor moments
like these, because I haven't had many of them.

For this first stage of Kyle's life, I didn't even know I had a son. I only
found out at the very beginning of this year, after I came home from a
particularly stressful day at work to find a packet of official-looking
paperwork on my doorstep. Two words stuck out to me in particular: "child"
and "support," both side-by-side, forming the damning phrase that it
is. I've never felt confusion the way I felt that evening, staring at those
pieces of paper. Confusion, and denial. A child? I have a child? No
way. How? I'd only ever slept with two females in my entire life. One was
when we were both twelve, so I ruled her out. It could only possibly be one
woman: Maranda. And sure enough, there was her signature. Seeing her name
on the documents, I felt a chill run through me.

It took a day or two to get into contact with her, and when I finally did,
part of me hated that things made sense. I remembered that one terribly
drunken night Maranda and I spent together after our paths crossed at our
high school reunion. It was in December, and if our son was born at the end
of September, the timeline undeniably matched. And that feeling I got
opening one of her emails to see a picture of the kid, *our* kid...?

I still had my doubts, though, mostly because she's an addict. Even though
I always gave people the benefit of the doubt, my father's words rang in my
head: "Never trust a junkie." It was an ingrained prejudice that I still
haven't been able to totally shake. It didn't help that I could tell she
was indirectly asking for financial help when she was explaining how she
and Kyle were "struggling."

I didn't know what to do. I was angry, thinking about how, if he really was
my son, she had kept him from my knowledge until she needed something from
me. And if he in fact *wasn't* mine, what was she coming to me for? Did she
think I was stupid?

Looking at that picture of Kyle, though, I knew. I knew he was mine, and I
knew I didn't need genetic testing to confirm that. It wasn't even the fact
that he so clearly resembled me. It was my gut. The strangest sensation was
telling me "She's telling the truth, Ricky. He's yours."

So, I agreed to start paying child support without much hesitation. I
wanted to meet him, though. I travelled back down south one weekend to
visit, scope out their living situation, and talk with Maranda a
bit. Meeting Kyle was strange. He was formal with me, polite, but he kept
his distance. I so badly wanted to hug him, but he didn't seem interested
in physical affection, and I didn't want to make him uncomfortable. It was
awkward, to say the least. I could see he was curious about me, about this
person Maranda referred to me as "your dad," but his curiosity only went so
far. We didn't connect right off the bat like I had hoped we would.

Maranda was hard to judge, too. She was quick to go to extremes with her
mood, was never able to sit idly, and I could tell she had a manipulative
streak. She even tried wringing me out for more money. Whatever I agreed to
didn't seem to be enough for her, and she told me that she'd have to go
back to "selling herself" if I didn't start increasing the amounts (though
I had my doubts that she had ever stopped, considering things Kyle had
mentioned to me in private). But in the end, it didn't matter if she was
lying to me or not, because seeing how much poor Kyle was essentially left
to his own devices rendered me a philanthropist -- or, rather, a father. As
long as some of the money I sent trickled down towards Kyle's needs, I'd be
somewhat happy.

I couldn't exactly move to be with my son because of my job, but I visited
as often as I could -- off-weekends, Easter, Maranda's birthday, and the
beginning of his summer break. I considered flying him up North during his
spring vacation, but neither Maranda nor I really liked the idea of our kid
traveling alone at such a young age, so I used up most of my vacation time
on those visits. Mostly we'd just hang out in Maranda's run-down home and
watch a few movies or play games. Usually I'd take him out for ice cream or
to peruse an arcade or something. It was hard, though. It's not like I had
family up in Connecticut. Everyone I grew up with is still in that small
town in Georgia, so visiting was often both a treat and a reminder of
everything I left behind. And getting to know Kyle was a peculiar
concept. Here was this boy I created, whose birth I missed, who could walk
and say "Please and thank you" and brush his own teeth and call me "Daddy,"
and I only saw him a handful of times a year. It was sad, really. The
geographical distance between us made it difficult to really bridge that
emotional gap, so despite the fact that we were cordial and always had a
pleasant time together, I could tell he didn't totally warm up to me. He
didn't trust me. I could sense his skepticism. I was probably one of the
few adults paying any real attention to him, but he still remained a little
wary of me, so there was something noticeably missing between us.

Then, Maranda hit rock bottom. Relapsed. Apparently, she went missing for a
few days and was found unconscious in some alleyway a few towns over with
bags of stolen glass in her clutches. It was either prison or rehab, and
she chose to serve time for drug possession rather than get better. The
only logical response was to have Kyle live with me. I took him in without
question (mostly to keep him away from Maranda should she be released), but
I didn't realize how strange it'd be to have this little boy in my
home. Everything is fine between us, I think, but that's the key word:
"fine." Nothing spectacular. It's not the father-son bond I had fantasized
about before meeting him. It's like, half the time, we're nothing more than
roommates. Tack on the fact that he's so self-sufficient and it's like he
doesn't even *really* need me. Often over the summer, I'd wake up and find
him making eggs and toast for himself before day camp, freshly showered and
his lunchbox stuffed with a carefully-prepared meal. He always manages to
keep his room relatively clean, and even does his own damn laundry -- all I
had to do was show him how to use my specific washer and drier and he
caught on immediately. His independence, though admirable, scares me.

It's like there's still that invisible barrier between us. Never mind the
fact that I don't know how to be a father. Never mind the fact that I was
tossed into this role with no real warning, that I'm still learning every
day how to be a role model and help shape a now-ten-year-old boy into a
man. There's a hesitation about him that sometimes makes it hard for us to
really connect, a reservation I haven't been able to clearly pinpoint, a
strange shyness that I can't seem to breach without forcing my way in.

And I don't want to force the kid to open up. I want him to feel
comfortable enough to come to me. I do plenty to try and gauge his
responses, though. Just the other day, we were driving back from the
grocery store when I glanced at the rearview mirror. This black sedan had
been following me for a while, and even though I knew it was nothing, I
decided to make a joke out of it.

"Hey," I said in a low voice, leaning into Kyle as he peered over at me
from the passenger seat, "I think that car is following us."

Kyle looked at me before sitting up high enough to look behind us. "The
black car?" he asked.

"Yep." I smiled a little to myself as he scoped it out. "Did you do
something?"

He turned his head and looked at me funny. "No."

"No? Not hiding any drugs?"

He smiled, catching on to the fact that I was playing around. "No."

"You sure?" I reached over and started tickling his inner thigh as if
searching for his drug paraphernalia.

He just laughed hard, trying to push and slap my hand away. "Dad, no!"

"Alright, alright, I believe you," I said, pulling my hand away with a
smile. I waited a moment before murmuring "You didn't kill anybody, right?"
and Kyle snorted so hard that snot came out of his nose.

Most of the time, he's a touch reclusive, though -- and I can't blame
him. I'm not exactly an open book, myself. It's still strange to feel like
we both are on the edge of saying something without ever pushing the words
from our mouths, both too fearful that we'll crack the inexplicably thin
ice we're walking on.

I have my theories as to why our dynamic is like this: he grew up barely
seeing me throughout the year, he probably thought I was just another one
of Maranda's men popping in and out of their household, he most likely
finds comfort in keeping to himself since he never got proper attention
from his mother, he's fully capable of handling the day-to-day himself
because that's what he's had to do his whole life, et cetera, et
cetera. But the blame isn't on him. Maybe I fucked up. Maybe I should have
offered to take him in a little earlier -- even Maranda, if it came to
that.

I have to remind myself that there's no use dwelling on the past. I have a
job to do now: to do better than she did, than *I* did. I want to be a
proper father to him, in the way that he needs me to be. I just don't know
how yet.




After finishing with the lawn, I take a quick shower and then lounge out on
the couch with the paper. I'm a bit of a crossword junkie, and I've been
collecting newspapers for years just to do the crosswords the classic
way. I even bring them to work as a de-stressor for when the day inevitably
gets too hectic. Working as an operations manager (*the* operations
manager, in fact) for a global specialty chemicals company means managing
daily operations and overseeing a plethora of projects as well as the
people who work on them, so it's easy for things to go wrong. If I take a
few minutes to lock myself in my office and momentarily focus my energy on
a crossword, I'll end up in a healthy-enough mindset to do some effective
damage control.

As I'm thinking of a six letter word for "danger," I hear a voice: "Daddy?"
I nearly jump, clutching my chest as I look at Kyle, who has somehow
materialized beside me. That's the thing about him: he's so quiet sometimes
that he can just float into a room undetected.

"Jesus, you scared me," I say with a small laugh.

He smiles. "Sorry. I didn't mean to."

"It's alright," I say, clearing my throat as I set my newspaper down on my
lap. "What's up?"

He bites his lip a bit, swaying on his heels before he comes and sits next
to me -- right up against me, in fact. I'm surprised, since we don't often
have much physical contact. Our exposed arms press against each other, and
I feel his hip against mine. A sizable couch, and he chose to sit
here. "Thanks for getting me Lucky," he says, looking up at me.

"Of course," I say, smiling. "I had a feeling you'd like him. But taking
care of a dog is hard work," I add. "You up for the challenge?"

Kyle just nods eagerly.

"Atta boy," I say, patting his thigh. Then I give him a curious
look. "Something else on your mind?" I ask.

He's making that "I wanna ask something but don't know how to" face that
I've come to know. "Yeah, I... I was thinking about it, and..." he says
hesitantly before finally spitting it out. "I wanna do a sport."

"Yeah?" I say, excited about this discussion. This is one of the rare times
that Kyle has expressed something that interests him. "Awesome!" He smiles,
seeing that I'm clearly invested in this already. "Baseball?" I suggest
before shaking my head. "No, it's not baseball season. Basketball? Soccer?"

He looks embarrassed for a moment, blushing as he utters a
suggestion. "Gymnastics?"

I blink. "Gymnastics?" I repeat. "Gymnastics isn't a sport." Immediately I
know I said the wrong thing because he looks crestfallen, his head shifting
down so he can stare at his lap. Fuck. Get it together, Ricky. "But if you
wanna do it, I can try to find you a place."

He looks up at me. "Really?"

"Yeah, of course," I say, smiling as encouragingly as I can. He gives me a
little smile back. "You any good?" I ask. I've never seen him do anything
related to gymnastics -- though he is quite nimble and flexible.

He shrugs modestly. "It just looks fun."

I nod. Seems as good a reason as any to do something. "Well, give me a day
or two and I'll look into it, alright?" It could be good for him. He's a
gentle sort of boy, after all, and gymnastics could probably be an
appropriate fit for him.

"Okay," he says, biting his lip as if containing excitement. Then, all of a
sudden, he shifts and throws his arms around me. Before I can even process
what's happening, he bolts out of the room excitedly. I just sit there,
surprised. I've never known Kyle to be terribly affectionate, so that all
came as quite a shock -- a welcome one.





Although incredibly pricey, I manage to find a place nearby called Kinetix
that teaches gymnastics on both recreational and professional levels. I
sign Kyle up for the recreational class within his age group. If kids show
promise, they can easily get transferred to something more "intense,"
because gymnastics apparently isn't for pussies. But I guess we'll see if
he has the promise, and the drive.

After fussing over what to wear, he finally settles on something easy to
move around in (some short-shorts and a striped tee) before we hop in my
car and head over. We're a little early, but it seems like every other
parent had the same idea: show up ten minutes before class. As soon as I
walk in with Kyle, all the women in the room (presumably moms) turn their
heads toward me in surprise. I just smile politely, but I feel
uncomfortable. There's not a single man here. Not one. I didn't even
consider the possibility that this would be a mom-sport.

I introduce myself to the coach, Jasmine: a sweet, college-aged girl who
balances kindness with firmness as someone who means business. Kyle's a
little shy at first, even when she just asks his name, but I can tell just
from her energy that the kids like her. She runs through the rules quickly
(one of them being no shoes on the floor) before asking us if we have any
questions. I just shake my head, and she smiles and turns to Kyle. "Wanna
join us out there, Kyle?" she asks. "I can introduce you to the rest of the
kids."

He just nods slightly, looking nervous, and I mess with his hair
lightly. "Go have fun," I say, smiling down at him.

He glances at me before he takes his shoes off and leaves them beside my
feet. As he steps through the doorway, he looks back at me and
smiles. Then, he's off.

Now, I wait. I take a seat on the bench by the large window that separates
the main waiting area from the gymnastics floor that's coated in blue
mats. Seems like there are over a dozen kids, mostly girls, doing
stretches. As Jasmine approaches them with Kyle, I watch her do
introductions, and I smile, hoping that my boy has a good time and maybe
makes a few friends.

It's an impressive place. It's a large area big enough for kids to run and
somersault around, and they have tons of equipment, including a few beams,
two vaults, uneven bars, and several trampolines. I'm glad I'm getting my
money's worth, but I do feel terribly awkward being the only male
here. Every so often I'll feel a woman's eyes on me, and I stay polite but
usually avoid eye contact. Are they judging me? Are they impressed? Who
knows?

Then, I hear a masculine voice directed towards me. "Uh oh. Looks like I'm
not gonna be the only dad anymore."

I hear a couple of women giggle as I turn towards the voice and find myself
faced with a tall, built, exceptionally handsome, red-headed man. My first
impression is that he's good-humored, maybe even cheeky, but that's because
of his slanted smile. Then, after noticing those green eyes sandwiched
between thick, strong brows and a faint dusting of freckles, I have one
thought: "He's gotta be Irish."

"Guess not," I say back with a little laugh.

He seems to approve of my friendly response, because he smiles a little
wider before a boy half his height catches his attention. When I look down,
I'm surprised. This kid is no doubt his father's son. He has the same
reddish-orange hair (maybe even a little blond), matching freckles (but far
more of them), exaggerated versions of his dad's eyes, and I even notice
that their ears stick out in the same way. The boy's face seems mighty
similar to his dad's, too, but most of his father's profile is obscured by
a thin, face-framing, natural-but-presentable beard and a shapely mustache,
so the jury is still up on that. They are undoubtedly a handsome pair,
though, that's for sure.

"Go on," the man says to his son, and the boy smiles before kicking his
shoes off and hurrying through the entrance to the floor before he's late.

The man picks up his son's shoes before deciding to take a seat right next
to me, sitting back against the wall with a sigh. I feel oddly inferior
next to him. He's clearly proud of his body -- he looks like he just got
out of the gym or training a weight-lifting class or something, rocking
short-shorts and a tank top, whereas I'm completely covered up by jeans and
long sleeves. I wouldn't say I'm *terribly* out of shape, but I certainly
don't claim to have the muscle and discipline that he has. Not to say that
I'm ashamed of my body, but softer, thicker, more "average" dudes such as
myself don't get eye-fucked as much as someone like him -- and I'm very
aware of how the women attempt to discreetly ogle him.

The thing I like about him, though, is that it doesn't look like he's
paying them any mind -- and possibly intentionally so. He's extremely
casual without being aloof. "So, what's up, new guy?"

Even though he looks stereotypically Irish, his voice is All-American
beef. "Just trying my hand at this gymnastics-dad thing," I say.

He laughs before cocking his head towards the window. "Which one's yours?"

"Um..." I scope out the class before finding Kyle sitting Indian-style with
the rest of the group as they listen to Jasmine speak. "The brown-haired
boy. The only kid wearing stripes."

He leans over me a bit to look into the class before he nods. "Ah, nice!"
he says. "What's his name?"

"Kyle," I say with a smile.

"And Daddy's name is...?"

I laugh. "Richard. Richard Fischer," I say, offering my hand. "Everyone
calls me Ricky, though."

The man smiles at me as he shakes my hand. Sure enough, it's a nice, firm
handshake. "Nice to meet you, Ricky. I'm Kieran. Kieran McCarthy."

"Kieran, huh?" I ask curiously as our hands separate. "Doesn't that mean
'dark-haired'?"

He grins. "How the hell did you know that?"

"I have a cousin named Kieran," I say with a smile -- though I never liked
that guy. He was always a bit snobby, and with a fancy-sounding name like
Kieran, it was hard for him to not come off as pretentious. This Irishman,
however, seems anything but.

"Ah." He nods a little. "Yeah, it does. And I know what you're thinking:
'Bastard doesn't have dark hair'."

I laugh. "Something like that."

He smiles. "Believe it or not, I was born with a full head of dark hair,"
he says, pointing to the top of his head. "And I come from an irritatingly
long line of pale-faced gingers, so you can imagine why my father thought
my mother was whoring around."

I wince, grinning. "She wasn't... Right?"

"To be determined," he says in a low voice before chuckling as a way of
making it seem like a joke. He locks his fingers together as he rests his
hands on his stomach and leans closer to me, speaking in a volume low
enough for just me to hear. "Gotta say, it's damn fuckin' refreshing to
have another dude here. As you can tell, men are a rare breed around this
place."

I smile. "Trust me, I noticed," I say. "Thought the women were gonna bore a
hole in me from all those stares."

He lets out a full laugh. "The sights of a woman, I tell ya," he says,
shaking his head and grinning softly.

"A dangerous thing."

"In-fucking-deed," he concurs, nodding as he looks over at me. "So, Richard
Fischer," he says playfully, "what's your story?"

I snort. "My story?" I ask, smiling. "Pretty vague question."

"Yeah, you're right," he says with a laugh. "Well, for starters, a fair
warning: I'm a talker, and I ask a lot of questions. Don't take it
personal, and don't feel like I'm grilling you or anything. You can just
tell me to shut up."

I almost laugh. In a weird way, I like how forward he is. "Grill away, my
friend."

"I like that attitude," he says with a smile. "You live here long?"

"Oh yeah," I tell him. "Almost... well, just over two decades, now," I say,
surprising even myself. I moved practically the day I turned eighteen, but
it's strange to think that that was just over twenty years ago. Kieran lets
out a little whistle and I laugh. "I know. But my son's only been here for
a little bit. He moved in with me over the summer."

"Oh, really?" he asks, looking genuinely interested. I think he's just an
extremely personable type of guy. "Where's he from?"

"Georgia," I say. "Super polite. Has a bit of an accent still. The whole
nine yards."

Kieran laughs. "My son, Niall? He has a bit of a lisp, but... I don't think
that counts as an accent."

I smile. "I'm sure he's still perfect though."

"You're damn right he is," Kieran says with a proud grin as he looks
through the window, presumably towards his son. "Love that boy."

I look back through the window as well to see Kyle doing some handstands
with a couple of the kids. Turns out, he can hold the pose for quite some
time. I'm impressed. I find myself counting the seconds before Kieran
speaks up again.

"You married?"

I turn to him. "Married?" I scoff. "No, why?"

"Ah, sorry. Assumed because of the ring." I look down and see Kieran
loosely pointing to the ring finger on my left hand. It's not naked like
the rest.

"Oh, this?" I ask, holding up my hand and laughing. "It's from Kyle,
actually."

Kieran smiles, seeming to think that's sweet. "Yeah?"

"He won it at an arcade or something and gave it to me. It's the only
finger it fits on, so..." I make it sound like it's not a huge deal, but at
the time, it meant everything to me. He thought of me when he won this ugly
plastic ring and specifically gifted it to me, so I wanted to treasure it
openly.

"That's adorable," Kieran says. "You two close?"

I shrug. "Not terribly. Not yet, at least." He gives me a curious look
before I say, "Long story short: we're only really just now getting
familiar with each other."

"Hm," he says with a nod. "Well, you'll get there. Boys have a way of
following their fathers."

I wonder if he's just speaking about his relationship with his own son. I
bet they're close. Kieran just has that energy that draws people in. He's
so relaxed, and so unapologetically himself, I can tell that right off the
bat. It's rare to have that type of energy around me, so I soak in it while
I can. I can only imagine how his son feels on a daily basis.

"So *you're* married, then?" I ask, glancing at his wedding band.

He snorts a little. "If you wanna call it that," he says surprisingly
bitterly. When he notices the way my eyebrows are raised, he shakes his
head, realizing he probably let something slip. "Sorry, that came out bad."

"It's okay," I tell him.

"Just a bit rocky," he says, though I have a feeling he's understating
things. "But it's not the end of the world. I'm still happy."

It certainly seems that way, talking to Kieran. He radiates
positivity. That's why I'm not surprised to learn that he's a
paramedic. The few paramedics that I've known all have a lust for life, a
drive that keeps their spirits up despite the problems they face on a daily
basis. I can easily picture him in that role, talking someone up as he
holds their hand in the back of an ambulance, or working efficiently and
calmly under pressure, or having the ability and intelligence to turn off
that natural charm when it's time for business.

We chat for the rest of the class amongst ourselves -- mostly about our
boys. I learn that Niall is the same age as my son and that the McCarthy's
live in the same town as we do. Niall does to a private school, though, so
unfortunately, they can't be school friends. We compare their similarities,
though, taking about our son's interests until it finally hits eight
o'clock.

We notice the kids start coming back into the waiting room, and I smile
when I see our boys walking side-by-side and chatting animatedly with each
other as if they have a well-established friendship already. The sight
makes me happy, and it also makes me laugh. Kyle and Niall. Has a nice ring
to it.

"There they are," Kieran says with a smile, sitting up straighter.

Niall notices his father and then smiles. He rushes closer, getting between
his dad's legs and then giving the man a peck on the lips. I falter
slightly, surprised at seeing a ten-year-old boy showing affection in such
an intimate way. And in public, no less. Then again, I've seen guys like
Tom Brady do it on national television. Maybe it's more normal than I
thought. But still... isn't he a little old to be kissing his dad?

"You have fun?" Kieran asks.

"Yeah!" Niall says brightly. Clearly, he inherited his father's vibe for
cheerfulness. "Jasmine said my handstands are getting better. Oh! And I met
Kyle!"

Niall steps aside to gesture to my son, who smiles shyly. "The infamous
Kyle," Kieran says with a grin towards my boy. "I was just chatting it up
with your dad about you." Then Kieran pats my arm, addressing me as he
notices something. "Hey, he looks just like you, man!"

It warms my heart to hear him say that, because I feel the same way. Plus,
if anything, it's a compliment. Kyle's a terribly cute kid, equipped with a
messy crop of dark hair, richly-brown eyes, and a small mouth that, by
default, has the smallest, shyest hint of a smile on it. He inherited my
hair (though I keep mine short now), my eyes, and what look to be an
exceptional set of teeth. It's one of my best features. I tend to get
compliments on my smile the most, typically by older women who like the
sight of pearly whites shining through a small mane of brown facial hair --
a beard that hides my softer features and makes me look a little more
rugged than I would without.

"Thanks, Kieran," I say proudly.

"Can Kyle come over?" Niall asks suddenly, holding onto his dad's knees.

Kieran looks surprised before he laughs. "Friends already, huh?"

Kyle nods a little, but Niall nods several times.

Kieran chuckles before looking at me. "Why don't you both come over? The
kids can hang out and we can have a beer."

"I don't wanna intrude," I tell him.

"Nonsense," he says. "Us gymnastics-dads gotta stick together." He nudges
me with his elbow before chuckling. "Plus, we'd love to have you
over. Right, buddy?" he asks, turning to his son.

"Yeah!" Niall says, flashing his big green eyes at me and batting his long
eyelashes.

I look towards Kyle briefly, seeing that he clearly wants to hang out with
his new friend. What kind of father would I be to deny him? "Alright," I
say with a smile.




Kieran and Niall have a similar set-up to us: a small but cozy house in the
same pleasant (albeit crowded) suburban neighborhood that Kyle and I live
in. The only difference is that their yard is *far* nicer, with healthier,
freshly trimmed grass, bright-looking trees, and a sprawling garden in the
front. It's nothing overly-extravagant, but it's a good, quiet place to
raise a kid.

I'm surprised the McCarthys only live a few streets away from us -- which
makes me sure that Kyle and Niall will become quite good friends
considering how close in proximity they are to each other. The thought
makes me happy, and as I park on the side of the road in front of Kieran's
yard, I glance over at Kyle with a smile on my face.

Once I cut the engine, Kyle tugs his seatbelt off and hops out of the car,
heading straight towards Kieran's sedan that's sitting idly in the small
driveway. I had followed him here, so we all arrived at the same time, and
I laugh when I see little Niall hop out of the passenger seat and rush
towards Kyle, already striking up excited conversation with my son.

Then, Kieran's doubly-larger form emerges from the driver's seat, and he
stretches a bit before shutting his door. As I head up the yard to join
them, I see him smiling towards our kids. "Don't talk the boy's ear off,
Niall," Kieran interjects.

Niall blushes and smiles. "Sorry." Then he bites his lip. "Can I show him
my room?"

Kieran just laughs. "Go on," he says, cocking his head towards the
house. Within a flash, Niall is tugging my son up towards the front
door. Apparently it was left unlocked because he just charges right inside
and disappears. Kieran just turns to me, smiling. "I'll pray for your
boy. Mine's a talker, just like his daddy."

I laugh a little, finding that interesting. I wouldn't say I'm not a
"talker" necessarily, because I can hold a conversation easily enough. I
just don't always feel the need to. I think Kyle may have inherited that
trait from me, because he usually only talks when necessary. "I'm sure
he'll be fine," I say with a smile.

Without much delay, we head inside after our boys. "Welcome to casa de
McCarthy," he says as we enter the open doorway. Briefly looking around,
somehow it's clear that a woman still lives here. There are small feminine
touches all around, from the décor to the choice in furniture, from the
patterns on the throw pillows to the "Live Laugh Love" wall ornament
hanging above the mantle in the living room. In contrast, I live a fairly
minimalistic lifestyle at my house. No fuss, no folly, no art just for the
sake of having art. Still, I can't deny that Kieran's house is at least
tastefully decorated.

"Nice place you got here," I tell Kieran, who has just finished unlacing
his sneakers behind me.

"Thanks, buddy," he says, kicking his shoes to the side. "Make yourself at
home. Just leave your shoes by the door, and I'll go grab us some drinks."
He puts his hand on my back as he walks around me to get to the kitchen,
leaving me alone.

I hear the boys upstairs, right above us -- presumably in Niall's room. I
smile slightly, hoping my son is having a good time. After I leave my shoes
next to Kyle's, I look around the living room a bit, my eyes drawn to all
the photographs. This is something I wish *I* had at home -- pictures of me
and Kyle. Most of the pictures around the living room are of Niall at
various stages of his life, and many of them feature his dad. I only find
two pictures with a woman in them who, despite being exceptionally pretty,
has a sour look on her face in both photos. I hope she's not home if this
is the impression she's already giving me.

On the mantle, there's one picture that I find particularly sweet. It's of
Niall, who's probably half as young in the photo than he is now, sitting on
his father's shoulders with a medal around his neck. Both of them have
bright, shiny smiles -- Niall's ecstatic and Kieran's proud. I feel a smile
of my own forming on my lips as I look at this perfectly-captured moment.

"That's a good one, huh?" I hear Kieran say suddenly, and when I turn, he's
stepping into the living room with me, one of his arms outstretched.

I take the beer that he's offering me. "It's a great one," I say with a
smile, nodding a "thank you" as I clutch the cold bottle. I take a swig
just as he's raising his own drink to his lips.

"He was so happy that day," Kieran says after swallowing, smiling
gently. "Won some tumbling competition. It wasn't anything serious, but
damn, I was still proud."

Even now, I can see remnants of that pride in his expression. "So he's
pretty good then?"

"*God*, no," Kieran says, shaking his head. "No, he's awful." I can't help
but laugh, surprised. "But he loves doing it, and that's what matters."

I nod, smiling. I wish I watched Kyle more through the window, but I was so
invested in my conversation with Kieran that I had barely looked. I wonder
if Kyle's just as bad. "My son's probably in the same boat," I say.

"They can be bad together, then," he says with a laugh. "They seemed to hit
it off pretty well already," he adds as he takes another sip.

"Yeah, definitely. Probably your son's doing," I comment. "Niall seems
pretty personable."

"Maybe *too* personable," Kieran says with an eyeroll that makes me
chuckle. "He'll talk to anyone. Makes me worry sometimes."

"No sense of stranger danger?"

"None," he says bitterly. "But he's still alive, so I guess that's
something." When I laugh, Kieran smiles a bit. "So, you said Kyle's
from... Georgia, right?" he asks.

"Yeah. We both are, technically. I grew up there. And that's where his mom
is."

He nods a bit, taking in new information. "Lived with his mom all that
time, then?" he asks.

"Yup. Pretty much his whole life up until this summer."

"Did you guys divorce or something?" he asks, and then he laughs when he
sees my expression shift. "Sorry. I'm nosy."

"No, it's okay," I tell him. "We, uh... We were never married. Never even a
couple, actually."

"Really?" he asks, intrigued. "That's not your typical family story."

I shrug. "Too many drinks at our high school reunion."

He laughs, nodding. "Well, that'll certainly get you into trouble," he says
before taking another sip. "Watch out for the gymnastics moms too,
then. They'll get you into *major* trouble."

I laugh a bit. "I'm sure I'll be fine," I say.

"The way you ended up with a son says otherwise," he says with a grin.

Normally, I'd be somewhat offended by someone saying that to me, but it's
clear that Kieran means no harm -- and frankly, I find it humorous. "Things
could've turned out worse," I tell him.

"That's fair," he says with a small chuckle. "So, what, living the life as
a bachelor now?"

"Not quite," I say, clearing my throat. "I've actually been seeing someone
for a while now."

"Really?"

"Yup. Six years."

"Damn, nice!" he says. "Putting some time in. Mary and I are going on
our... Well, I guess we've been officially married for eleven years, but
we've been a bit on and off."

"That's gotta be difficult," I say curiously.

"They say love is never easy, right?" he says, hitting me with a sad
smile. "Ah well. That's what we get for getting married so quickly."

"Young love or something?"

"Or something," he says with a grimace before smiling about me. "Maybe
you'll get to meet her if she comes home early enough." I force a smile,
but judging from the pictures and how Kieran seems to respond to the
thought of her, I'd rather not. "She's a bit hard-headed but... well, you
know," he says, laughing as if I get what he's talking about. "What about
your girl? What's she like?"

I clear my throat again. "Um... Actually, it's a guy." I admit to him. I've
been pretty comfortable with my sexuality for a long time now -- ever since
I moved up north. The shame that I carried up the East Coast has mostly
died by now. Still, it's always nerve-racking wondering how someone is
going to respond.

"Oh shit, really?" Kieran says, surprised. "Sorry. I didn't mean to
assume."

"It's okay," I tell him.

He nods a bit before smiling amicably. "Well, cool man. Honestly, I never
would have thought--" But then he stops himself. "Never mind, that sounds
really ignorant," he says with a laugh.

I just laugh a little to ease him. Honestly, he's taking this information
better than I had hoped. "I've heard far worse. You're good."

He smiles gently. "So what's your *guy* like, then?"

"He's fine," I say. "Works in finance." But suddenly, that's all I have to
say about Ethan. We've been together for six years, but it hasn't been an
easy six years. We don't live together because of our jobs. It'd be far too
much of a commute for either of us, even if we compromised and lived
somewhere in the middle. But we see each other almost every weekend,
swapping who stays with who -- at least, we did until Kyle moved in with
me. Now Ethan usually just comes to me. He's a good guy, really. But... I
don't know. "Distance is hard" seems to be a running theme in my life.

Kieran clearly waits for me to say more than just my boyfriend's career,
nodding slowly. "Sounds like a riveting love story," he says with a grin.

I laugh nervously. "Sorry. It's just been... yeah."

"No worries. I won't pry," he says. But then a thought seems to pop into
his head. "Does Kyle know? That you're gay, I mean. Assuming you're gay,"
he adds quickly, looking worried that he said the wrong thing.

"You assumed correctly," I say with a smile before thinking. "Um... Not
really, no," I say, running my fingers through my hair. "I mean, he knows
about Ethan, but he doesn't know that we're 'together'."

"Why not?"

I blink. "Isn't he a little young to understand these things?"

Kieran just shrugs. "You'd be surprised," he says before his posture
completely changes. "Hey, you want some baklavas? Mary makes 'em special,
and they're fucking delicious..."




Our kisses are loud, wet, consistent, slow. His tongue tastes a little too
much like toothpaste, but I don't mind it. I'm just happy to be kissing
Ethan. He's got to be the best kisser I've ever had the pleasure of sharing
spit with. He just *feels* skilled, and he knows exactly what I like: soft
lips, gentle amounts of tongue, deep presses, and deliciously tender moans.

But that's as much as he gives me lately. Ethan's always down to make out,
but when I want to do more, it's a toss-up. Still, I try. I let my hand
wander as we kiss in bed, both of us just in our underwear and pressing our
bodies (of which he describes as "rugby bods coated in a soft padding")
firmly together. I want to touch him where it matters. It's been so long.

However, as soon as my hand finds his groin, he sighs against me and pulls
away from my lips. "Wait," he says, reaching down to grab my wrist.

I open my eyes. "C'mon, Ethan," I say. "I took a pill and everything." I've
never used (nor needed to use) Viagra -- but I decided to use it as a way
to subtly coerce Ethan into sex. My logic was: if I have a raging hard-on
that won't go away, he'll help take care of it.

"I'm just not in the mood, babe."

It takes every bit of strength I have to not roll my eyes and say "You're
never in the mood." I just pull my hand away and shift onto my back.

"Sorry," he says.

I scoff. All he ever does is apologize, but he won't tell me *why* he
hasn't wanted to have sex with me in four months -- even before Kyle moved
in. He won't even jerk off with me. I get that libidos change, and maybe
I'm putting too much emphasis on sex, but I'm an intimate person. Sex is
very important to me in a relationship, and I'm not getting that from him.

"Hey," he says, grabbing my arm. "Come kiss me some more." I look at him
and find myself annoyed by all the things about him that I usually find
attractive. Now his jet-black hair looks like tar, his glasses look far too
dorky, and his often-charming smile looks crooked and condescending.

So now *I'm* not in the mood. "I'm gonna get a drink," I say, sitting up
and pulling my arm out of his grip.

"Ricky--"

"Be right back," I say bitterly before waltzing right out of the room. I
head downstairs into the kitchen, filling up a glass with tap water and
gulping it down. I hate how I feel right now. Standing at the sink, I can't
help but feel unwanted. The thought makes me sound like a hopeless,
hormonal teenage girl all bent out of shape for a boy, but it's the
truth. Ethan and I used to have sex regularly, hot, steamy, even raunchy
sex, every time we saw each other, even when we were fighting --
*especially* when we were fighting. And now, it's like a switch went
off. He has no drive to do anything. I would have thought the distance
between us would make him hungrier, but it seems the opposite has
occurred. I don't know what changed, and I don't know what to do about
that. I've told him I miss sex, that I *need* sex, but here I am, four
months dry.

I just set my glass in the sink and rub my face a bit. I might have to
reevaluate this whole relationship, and that scares me. Six years, and for
what? We like each other on most levels, and there's a history of comfort
with each other, but love? I don't know anymore. Being compatible in most
regards doesn't feel like it's quite enough. How sad is that?

I look down at my crotch and am almost irritated to see a tent there. God,
I'm fucking pent-up. Would it be terrible of me if I just shot out a quick
load here? Not like Ethan's going to take care of this. I'm almost
embarrassed to be considering busting one out in the fucking sink, but
*God*, I'm horny -- and Viagra is a persistent motherfucker. I reach into
my boxers, my fingers finding that familiar thickness, and I sigh softly,
closing my eyes. I don't even want to think about Ethan. I want to think
about anyone else. So... who?

There's a new guy at work with one of the nicest asses I've ever seen. It
fills out his dress pants so much it threatens to burst the seams, and my
mouth practically waters at the sight of it. Or... There's the guy who
delivered Kyle's mattress for me at the beginning of the summer. Haven't
forgotten about him. He was so damn handsome that I thought about him
nearly all season. That's how much of an impression he made on me. With his
long red hair, goofy little smile, and deeply rich eyes, I've busted load
after load thinking about what I'd do to that kid.

And speaking of red hair... Kieran McCarthy. Fuck, what a stud he is. I'd
be lying if I said my new friend hasn't crossed my mind over the past two
weeks -- and no gay man would blame me. I've often imagined what'd he'd
kiss like, what he's packing between those thick thighs, if he's got a
hairy hole and fiery pubes to match. I'm sure I'll stop thinking about him
sexually eventually, once we get closer and really establish a friendship,
but for now, I'll fantasize all I want about my new buddy. Plus, that
little boy of his? It's hard not to wonder--

"Dad?"

I twitch, quickly pulling my hand from my boxers, feeling that shameful
tinge of red heading to my face like it always does whenever my mind, even
briefly, pictures Kieran and Niall that way. I just turn towards the sound
of Kyle's voice to distract myself. He's in the living room, sitting in the
semi-darkness, head poking above the couch to look into the
kitchen. There's a bit of light coming from a small device -- and then I
realize it must be his Nintendo DS. "Kyle?" I ask, tucking my hard cock
into the waistband of my boxers so that it doesn't tent while I walk into
the living room. "Why aren't you in bed?" It's nearly midnight. He's
usually knocked out by now.

"Sorry," he says.

I arch my eyebrow as I stand behind the couch and look at him. "You're
playing video games... down here? In the dark?"

He shrugs. "My charger isn't long enough to reach the outlet in my room,"
he explains, gesturing to how his DS's AC adaptor is plugged into an
extension cord I use for my laptop whenever I work in the living room. "And
I wanted to see Lucky."

I wonder how long he's been down here for, because Lucky is fast asleep
under the coffee table. "You should really be in bed, kiddo," I say,
scratching my hairline. "It's late."

"I can't sleep," he says.

"Why not?" Then I lean in, touching my fingers to his forehead. "You
feeling okay?" I ask, knowing he was complaining of not feeling too well a
few hours ago.

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "Just nervous."

That surprises me. "Nervous?" I question. "Nervous about what?"

"Tomorrow."

I smile, even laugh a little. "Why? I thought you liked Niall."

"I do," he says, fidgeting with his shirt. "But I've never had a sleepover
before."

I frown. "Never?"

He shakes his head. "Never."

Wednesdays have already become a night to look forward to, for both of
us. This week, we went to the McCarthys' after gymnastics for the second
time, and the boys hung out upstairs while Kieran and I threw back a few
beers and talked. It's been great befriending Kieran, since he has such a
way of making me feel welcome and (frankly) worthwhile.

Mostly, though, I'm happy for Kyle. He was very much anticipating another
after-gymnastics-class hang-out, and I've even noticed a tiny shift in his
personality. He's opening up a touch more, starting to vocalize his needs,
his wants, his interests. As we were leaving Kieran's Wednesday night, Kyle
told me about how much he loves the woods, and he asked me if there are any
places to hike around here. I had no idea he enjoyed the outdoors, and I
smiled widely. Excitedly, I told him I knew of a few really good spots and
I promised him we'd go this upcoming weekend -- after his sleepover, of
course.

Kyle was particularly excited when Niall suggested a sleepover, and I
happily agreed to let the boys crash here after really noticing how
beneficial this friendship has been for Kyle. After just two hangouts,
Kyle's a little more spirited, even glowing a bit, and I feel like I'm
starting to see the beginnings of his blossoming. Maybe he just needed a
pal to help coax him out of his shell a tad.

Now, though, it seems Kyle is anxious about the sleepover. "What do you do
at a sleepover?" he asks me.

"Just... do what you normally do," I tell him, leaning my forearms on the
couch.

"Yeah?"

"It's just like hanging out during the day," I explain, "but more fun
because you can stay up late."

"We can stay up late?" he asks cheerfully.

I laugh. "Well, not *super* late. But yeah."

He nods, biting his lip. "Cool," he says. "Can we get pizza too?"

"Pizza it is," I say with a chuckle. "Maybe I'll pick up some games
tomorrow for you guys too."

"Awesome."

We smile at each other for a moment before I notice his face change. I
raise my eyebrows, recognizing that expression. "Something else?"

"Not really," he says, self-consciously picking at his shirt still. "I just
wanted to ask you a question."

He mumbles it so much that I almost didn't hear him. "Alright."

He sucks in his lips for a few moments before asking something that clearly
must have been on his mind for a while now. "Are you gonna send me away?"

I actually laugh before I notice that he's not joking. He looks
concerned. "What? Why would I send you away?"

He shrugs, picking at his sleep shorts now. "I just thought..." He trails
off for a moment before saying something else. "I like it here."

I smile. This is the first he's told me about enjoying life with me in
Connecticut -- though it's not lost on me that it's probably because he has
a new best friend. "Yeah?"

He nods, taking a second. "Do I have to live with Ma again?"

I sigh. Is that what this is about? Does he think this is temporary? "No,
you don't have to live with her."

"So I can stay here with you?" he asks, almost desperately. "For real?"

I come around the couch, and he shifts his legs to make room for me to sit
next to him. "As long as you want," I insist, patting his thigh. I rest my
hand there, feeling like my suspicions were correct. He probably has
thought this is all transitory, and that I'd send him back just as suddenly
as he got sent here. Does he not know that I'm here for him? I want him to
know that. "You'll always have a home here, okay?"

His eyes get all watery before he blinks away the tears and then smiles at
my hand. "Okay," he says, resting his hand on top of mine. I feel his
fingers nudging the little plastic ring he gifted me. We share that gentle,
quiet moment before he starts sitting up. I initially think he's going in
for a hug, but he catches me off-guard by leaning up to peck me on the
lips.

I recoil in surprise. "What was that for?" I ask, wide-eyed, heart racing.

Kyle blushes. "Niall kisses *his* daddy."

That's very true -- though sometimes I wonder if it really is
normal. Kieran and Niall are *very* close, closer than I've ever seen a
father and son be. My imagination can't help but wander when I see how
touchy-feely they get with each other, when I see what surely was intended
to be a small peck linger for a hair too long -- but I always quickly
expunge those stray thoughts. Kieran and Niall? There's no way they're more
than just a happy, handsome, father-son duo. Maybe I'm just jealous of
certain aspects of their relationship, because Kyle and I certainly don't
have what they have -- which is why the kiss is so surprising.

"I--" I clear my throat, feeling flustered... but at the same time,
touched. Pleased.

"Sorry," he mutters, clearly thinking he did something wrong.

"No, no, it's okay," I say quickly.

"Are you mad?" he asks, unsure how to read my reaction.

I laugh a little. "I'm not mad." Then, I lean forward and return the kiss,
just to reiterate that there are no hard feelings. After the second kiss, I
feel a little fluttering sensation in my stomach, and I grin a bit when
Kyle smiles bashfully at me. Then, he straddles my lap, throws his arms
around my neck, and hugs me tightly.

"Thanks for being my dad," he says into my neck.

I nearly almost cry right then and there, and I find my arms sliding around
his small frame to hug him to me. "My pleasure, buddy," I whisper back,
kissing the side of his head. I soak in this moment: the physical and
verbal affection, the tender air between us, this clear step in the right
direction. Whatever you did, Niall, fucking thank you.

Then, Kyle says something that makes me tense and pulls me right out of
that mindset momentarily: "Your thing is hard."

I swear every muscle in my body locks up for a second. "Oh," I say, my face
getting warm. Thanks, Ethan. I feel my cock pressing right against him
since he's sitting deep into my lap, crotch-to-crotch. I hadn't even
noticed because I had completely forgotten about it. For a moment, neither
of us move. "Sorry," I add, unsure what to say. Should I be embarrassed? I
feel surprised, but somehow, I don't feel... bad.

"It's okay," he says, face still in my neck.

"You can... hop off if it's bothering you," I tell him, swallowing thickly.

"I don't mind it," Kyle says.

I feel like we're crossing the line a bit here, but Kyle seems unbothered,
still holding onto me tightly -- and that part, I like. I gulp a
bit. "Well, if it's not bothering you..."

There's a pause for a moment before Kyle speaks up again. "Mine does that
sometimes."

Instantly, I get flashbacks to my relationship with my own father. I
remember when I had asked him what was wrong with my dick. It kept getting
hard, and I didn't know why. Truthfully, I thought it was broken. But when
I expressed these concerns to my father, he just laughed at me and said
nothing more -- and that's exactly what I shouldn't do with my son. I at
least have to allow for some dialogue here. I don't want him stressing out
about his body the way that I so needlessly did. "That's what happens when
you're a boy," I say. "A growing boy, at that," I add, sliding my hands to
his sides and giving him a little tickle.

He starts giggling a bit, slapping my hands away and sitting up in my lap
so that we're face-to-face. "Why, though?"

What a loaded question. "Well," I say, thinking about it for a moment,
"sometimes it just happens because of hormones, and you can't really
control it. Other times..." How do I word this carefully and appropriately?
"Other times, it's when you're excited... in a special way, I guess."

"A special way?" he asks curiously.

"Yeah," I say, "like... sometimes, it'll happen when you're excited to see
certain people. People you love special." I'm realizing I don't know how to
go about this correctly. I should really prepare for this conversation
before I jump down this rabbit hole, because I want to do right by Kyle.

"Like... couples and stuff?"

"Yeah, like couples and stuff," I say, smiling at him. Smart boy.

Then, a thought occurs to me, which makes me bite my lip. I think of Ethan
upstairs, and I hear Kieran's voice in my head asking if Kyle knows. I've
always put up that boundary between me and my son. Why would Kyle need to
know about my romantic relationship? I've always figured acknowledging it
would just complicate things, or that he just wouldn't understand... Deep
down, maybe I'm just afraid he'll respond negatively to me being gay. But
it's my duty as a father to make him understand, right? And besides, I have
an obligation to at least try to be as open as possible with him. I have to
allow all types of dialogue if I want to get closer to my son.

"Hey, so... speaking of which," I say, clearing my throat, "I wanna tell
you something." Kyle peers at me curiously, raising his eyebrows. "You know
Ethan and I are... well, we're close, right?"

"Sure," Kyle says.

"We're... almost as close as two people can get," I tell Kyle. "Like, we
care about each other, and have a lot of love for each other in... in a
different way than, say, normal friends would." I scratch my head, unsure
how to really go about this. Jeez, who knew talking to a ten-year-old about
this stuff would feel so difficult? Maybe I'm just making it unnecessarily
complicated, though. What if I were to be forward with him, like I'm sure
Kieran is with his son?

But Kyle says something unexpected. "Oh," he says softly, his face shifting
to a more understanding expression. "I know he's your boyfriend."

I blink, surprised. "You do?"

He nods a little. "You guys kiss a lot. And you sleep together."

I feel my cheeks getting warm. Damn, I really thought I was being careful
about being that affectionate in front of my son. "Oh. Well... Yeah,
Ethan's my boyfriend," I confirm, nodding.

Kyle just smiles.

I clear my throat, waiting for him to say something else. "Does that bother
you?" I end up asking. He looks confused for a moment before asking why
that would bother him. I just shrug. "I don't know. I don't think many
people would like the idea of their dad being gay."

"You're gay because you like boys, right?"

I raise my eyebrows a bit. So he knows what "gay" is? Guess it's a
different time, because I sure as hell had no idea when I was his age. I
just thought I was fucked-up and hell-bound. "Well, guys my own age," I say
with a slight smile, "but sure, yeah."

"Why don't people like that?"

Beats fuckin' me, kid. "There's a long, complicated history there," I say
simply, patting his side, "but that's a whole separate conversation. I
just... I just wanted you to know about me and Ethan, that's all. But I
guess you knew already," I add with a slight smirk.

He smiles sheepishly, almost in a "Whoops!" sort of way. "Sorry," he
mutters.

"No, you're good," I say with a laugh. "Honestly, I'm impressed with
your... observational skills."

Kyle chuckles. "Maybe you're just not good at being secret."

When Kyle sees my expression shift to affronted, he bursts out laughing. I
just shake my head, laughing with him. "Damn, kid," I mutter before
tickling his stomach, making him squirm as he giggles. "I'm gonna have to
be careful around you."

"I'm always watching," Kyle says in a funny voice before smiling brightly
at me. I feel an incredible lightness in my chest seeing this playful side
of Kyle come out. It's something I don't see terribly often, and I like to
briefly soak in those moments whenever I get the chance.

"Alright, super spy," I say with a grin before patting his leg, "I'm gonna
go back to bed. And you should too."

"Okay," he says before biting his lip. "Can I finish my game first?"

I sigh but relent. "Fine. But no more than ten minutes. Got it?"

"Got it," he says with a smile before sliding off my lap and picking up his
DS. Within a flash, he's got his game up and running, his little fingers
tapping eagerly away at the buttons.

I just chuckle, standing up and holding my tent to the side as I lean over
and kiss the top of his head. "G'night, buddy. See you in the morning."

"'Night, Dad," he says, looking up at me only for a second -- but long
enough to give me a little smile. That's all I needed. It's that
unintentional confirmation of a newly established understanding between us:
we're a little bit closer now.

- End of Chapter 1 -