Copyright © 2013 – Aestivator

 

Foreword

 

This is a work of fiction. In other words, the story is made up, and if anything in the story resembles an entity or entities in the real world, it is mere coincidence. The following story also includes contents not appropriate for any person under the legal age (which is specified by law in the country you reside in), namely graphical sex committed by the characters. Please also make sure it does not violate anything you hold dear before you proceed.

 

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And into a new territory…this is a five-part story, which hopefully, will be updated regularly and finished soon. Here’s part 1.

 

Where Peace Blossoms

by Aestivator

Part I - Asuma

The incubator in the corner mocked me with its constant buzzing. It was never my idea to go to the pet shop which had always irritated me with weird smells and unconstrained barking and squeaking. Dogs and cats don’t sicken me, at least not to extent of setting off my urge to puke all over the place, but rodents often do. And yes, they include squirrels that most consider “cute,” which are in truth revolting creatures.

I didn’t want to come here, but Sam insisted. I protested, but to no avail. So here I was, slumping into the couch and silently groaning, trying to think of a way out of this perpetual nightmare. How long do I have to be here? I wonder.

“Mum, why do I have to be here again?”

“Because you promised Sam you’d get her a pet, honey.” There was a peculiar calmness in her voice that I couldn’t quite recognize and comprehend. Whether it implied authority or concern, or both, I had no clue.

“But I only said it to get her out of my room. And stop her from bugging me, you know.”

“Well, a promise is a promise, Jake.” Now this time I was pretty sure it was authority striking home, authority that my thirteen-year-old mental state still hadn’t found a way to defy.

We left with a squirrel the size of a mouse (the one associated with computers; I don’t really see many running and breathing mice, let alone care about their size or measure them) and all the way back home Sam was cheering and yelling and thanking me non-stop. I was touched all right, but the little rodent still disgusted me beyond belief with its innocently evil eyes and helplessly vicious stares. I knew I could never get over this; the only thing left to do is that I had to demand the abomination never break through the confines of my room, my territory at home. I didn’t know how many times I had to repeat my stance: I am not sacred and pets are not manifestations of Satan; the ultimate truth, simply put, is that though I love mother nature, I’m afraid of animals or any non-human-beings in general, and more importantly, I never intend to discriminate against them (what my mom always said, as if they were a race of some kind) or view them as inferior or do anything demeaning. But every single time I try to explain my old mom ends up lecturing me about my mentally abusing animals and all, and how I need to care about things around me and not only be concerned only (the word “only” is not true) about my own stuff. I love my mum all right, but since reasoning with her never has any effect or leads to any desirable outcome, I’m always tempted to simply stop defending myself no matter what my predicament is.

The uneventful walk back home along the seaside promenade promised more peace than I’d imagined. The harbor, the only haven of nature and restfulness amid a concrete jungle, was tranquil and beautiful especially at dusk, where the trace of light still remained and beamed fragilely in the veil of the impending entirety of darkness. My mind was suddenly devoid of thoughts of animals and pets, devoid of mum and dad and Sam. I was alone on a glade, surrounded by young trees that seemed to stretch out to eternity. But I knew I wasn’t alone at the same time because I saw outlines of skyscrapers and towers ahead of me, separated by the trees and their falling leaves drifting in the air, not a worry in their mind. Drenched in the scent of autumn, I was well aware of my utter safety, guarded by civilization, at an appropriate distance.

Dinner turned out to be a pandemonium. Everybody was excited about something. Sam was showing off the cool tricks her new pet squirrel could do (which gave me the creeps). Mom and dad were looking forward to our trip to Cuba where they would celebrate their anniversary (no clue of what year). And I, I was still exploring in that dreamlike landscape. It suffices to say that I’m an addicted daydreamer, though I insist such a habit is merely a mechanism to deal with the deafening noises that afflict me constantly. I longed for the moment at which I could depart from all these noises and crowdedness. You know, to go seek some silence, away from all the mundane disquiet in this so-called city of life.

It was then I thought of something.

“Dad, can I sign up for the school summer trip to Japan?”

“You mean the one you mentioned earlier?”

“Yeah,” I responded hesitantly, sensing the unease in dad’s eyes. “We’ll be visiting farmlands and ploughing and sweating and living the rural life. Isn’t that great huh?”

“So do you really want to go?” Dad asked, a glint forming in his eyes.

“Yes,” I said firmly.

Mom joined the conversation, “I guess it’ll be good for him to be on his own for a few weeks right? Well, not exactly on his own, we know that. He’ll be with his classmates.”

“Yeah, well,” dad echoed, “I guess it’s a good opportunity for him to learn to take care of himself. Plus the school sponsors the whole trip so we only have to pay for the meals and a couple of other minor fees.”

“Have you really made up your mind, honey?” mum asked. “You won’t –”

“Yes,” I said. I hadn’t been more sure in my life. This is the moment, I reminded myself. This is the opportunity to extricate myself from the constant thunderous noises and the over-bright city lights. For a few weeks. But better than nothing. I’ll definitely miss my family, but not where I live, that’s for sure.

I left on 10th June, on schedule. When we were at the airport, mom and dad smiled a lot. And I mean, really a lot. It didn’t take Freud to unmask their consternation, and I was sure that deep inside my heart, there would be a spot that shared a similar kind of feeling, though not likely one of the same degree, for my curiosity and my yearning definitely overweighed the fear of nostalgia.

Hours later, we set foot on Tokyo. Our tour bus took us to through the outskirts in no time. Signs of suburbs shifted on the windows. In front of my eager eyes hungry for exploration, urban regions gradually transformed into rural landscapes. Streaks and masses of clouds painted the sky with a soothing white. Behind lay a backdrop of blue. Lines of sunlight broke through and outlined the oddly familiar shapes of clouds.

Still an hour or two to go till we reached the farm. The approaching peaceful night. The smell of soil and grass seeping through the door cracks. I hadn’t the slightest part of regret in me. The fact that we were observing the city from a distance only gave me pleasure. Because knowing it’s there is always enough.

The Asuma Farm was what I expected. It was incredibly large, occupying hectares of land and bending into the horizon. It was also thoroughly quiet, the kind of perfect silence that I’d longed for. Welcoming us was none other than Asuma himself, a middle-aged gentleman, clean-shaved and well-dressed (you know, in a farmer kind of way). His receding hairline and his square glasses added to the kindness he uttered in soft tones. In the briefing session, he remembered as many names as he could, addressed as many as he could, but never asked questions too hard to answer, knowing us kids were exhausted from half a day of commute, and knowing asking difficult questions never make likeable teachers.

Stan, my buddy, nudged me in the arm, pulling me away from yet another daydream.

“J, wake up, man! This is boring me to bits.”

“You know what? I just love the quietness here. New York is way too noisy for my own comfort.”

“You know you’re weird, right? Anyway, I only came ‘cuz my brother promised me an iPhone.”

“For leaving him alone for six weeks?”

“You bet. I can be annoying sometimes, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I love silence, dude. And yes, I do know you’re annoying…sometimes.” I laughed and did a dramatic pause, then spoke again. “Not sure about the ‘sometimes’ part.”

“Just keep me occupied till that Asama fella stops talking.”

“Asuma,” I corrected.

“Whatever, man. Anyway, where was I? Oh right, I really hate farming. Tried it once on my grandma’s farm back in Ohio, and it sucked big time. The ‘sleeping in the wild’ part sounds kind of exciting though.”

“Sure, I can’t wait, too.” I smiled, but a sense of embarrassment rushed over me. When Asuma told us two boys would share a tent, I kind of freaked out. In the pre-trip briefing sessions held at school, it had always been “one participant, one room/tent.” So I guess you could say this was my first sleepover, out in the wilds, not counting the one time I slept with my middle-school pal Zack. That time we played Assassin’s Creed till four in the morning (great fun), and we were so tired that we ended up asleep in our original positions (we literally fell “on the ground” asleep), he on his bed, and I on the floor next to the TV.

Stan seemed over-excited and looked forward to squeezing in that tent with me, but I was so embarrassed I hadn’t the guts to talk about it. It was getting hot and we might have to take off our shirts, and that made me even more embarrassed. As much as I looked forward to sleeping in unison with the night and the stars, I wished the night would never fully approach. It’s the Jake way of dealing with stress (which is pretty ridiculous to be honest) – to try to avoid inevitable things.

And night fell. The time had come for us to erect tents and head off to wonderland.

Stan had once been in the boy scout, so I let him do the work (he didn’t let me help) while I watched the stars hanging high up in the night sky. It was a peaceful scene that I’d never forget. Away from home, away from factories and vehicles and contamination, there was purity instead of obscurity. Away from all that urban disquiet here the crickets and the summer breeze played a melody of simplicity, an admirable tone of nature that far overtopped the urban roars of melancholy. The air I breathed was also fresher. I figured I would grow up to be a farmer.

The superiority of nature ruled, and the night grew increasingly noiseless. Eventually we got in our tent, zipped it, lay down and closed our eyes for a second to feel the total silence. The night was so quiet, so lovely and so comforting. I could imagine the darkness surrounding us and its secrets buried deep within the woods.

I was extremely embarrassed so I faced Stab with my back (using “face” seems improper, isn’t it?). My eyes skipped all over the tent space and concluded that the frame was more than safe to sleep under. Of course this meaningless thought didn’t alleviate my embarrassment of the moment; that was only something to occupy my mind, for minutes, if not for seconds. More distressing was the fact that Stan could see that I was being awkward and not my usual self. There appeared to be no solution, but the night was too long for me to stay wake for its entirety, with my back towards my friend.

It was Stan who spoke first. “J, wanna talk?”

“Sure.”

“Wanna talk about something?”

“S…sure.”

“Well? Aren’t you gonna talk?”

“Sure. What a…what about?” I knew I was stuttering, but I couldn’t help it.

“Something. Anything. You know no one is gonna hear us right?”

An odd observation and comment, I thought. Why does it matter whether others can hear us?

“J, are you tired?”

“Not…not really.”

Stan laughed, “Dude, why are you so scared all of a sudden?” Well, he said it. He asked me something that I would have no answer to, which only added to my worries.

This was uncomfortable, being alone with my best friend in a tent. More uncomforting was the fact that he knew I was uncomfortable. Though I wasn’t really looking at him, I knew he was putting on his usual grin. But what was going through his mind I had no way of knowing. This was too unfamiliar a territory for me to tread on. But I had no choice.

With a few yawns and faked coughs (I don't know why I faked coughs, so don’t ask) I turned and looked up to where the star-filled night sky is supposed to be without the tent. Stan felt the movement and looked my way. It was undeniable that we both sensed something unusual, and we both knew all that weirdness emanated from me: I was being uneasy and he didn’t know why. Hell, I didn’t know why, too.

I didn’t know when he felt asleep but I knew he truly was asleep when I heard snores. It was a peaceful kind of snoring, one that wasn’t too loud or disturbing. I didn’t know why but I imagined how his smooth skin would glisten if the moonlight shone on it, and imagined how his eyes would reflect the perfect picture of nature when he looked deep into the woods, and imagined how his hair would sway in the breeze. Really, I didn’t know why I imagined those things. I fell asleep thinking that the culprit was curiosity.

I woke up in the middle of the night. I knew it was still nighttime because no light came from outside. I sighed, knowing that it would be hard to get back to sleep again once I woke (this I knew from experience). The silence of the night was peaceful, but it was also monotonous. There was nothing and nothing to do. There was no symphony of motors and sirens.

What greeted me when I turned to Stan was a surprising sight. A bulge formed in his boxers, and while it wasn’t too protruding, it remained noticeable at times like this when the only thing to do was to look around. There were slight twitches as the protrusion rose and fell with his steady breathing. The sounds of snoring seemed to have subsided, but surely he was dreaming of home already. Stan scooted closer to my side; his hand fell on his side, unexpectedly landing on my ankle. It was a…inviting gesture, but for what? My rational mind urged me to move away, but an unfamiliar tingle throughout my body extinguished that idea, as I experienced a mixed feeling of tickle and static electricity. It was a vague but confirmed existence, and certainly it was a positive sensation my young body had seldom felt, considering that the feeling bore great excitement, undeniable excitement.

I was aware of the tension unfolding in the air, and I was also aware of the raging indecision of my heart. Somehow, I knew my next action would change a great deal of things. For starters, I wasn’t even sure how Stanley would react if he caught me watching him like this. But something inside me urged me to perform the impossible and the dangerous; something inside me wanted me to do more. More. More than just being a passive observant. I remembered those nights when my erection struck me as the most intriguing and mysterious of all adolescent wonders, and how I caressed that private part of my body with gentle fingers, gently flicking and sometimes pulling the skin, revealing the secret glans invisible to my eyes with multiple layers in between. Now, in this peace and silence, a part of me wanted to do it all over again. To Stan. To Stanley. I like to call him that because everyone calls him Stan, and calling his full first name somehow gives me this feeling of closeness in our bond. An incomplete feeling was forming in my loins, and it begged me to let it grow into an unprecedented intensity. That something in me told me again and again: You need to do it now. And that was when I knew this was one of those moments in life when you need to cast aside logic, one of the moments in life when risking it all is the only option that remains.

I can’t remember, but I think I smiled.

Then I reached my hand forward making the least amount of noise, my arm making contact with the skin of his bicep. To test how deep he was in dreamland, I gently zigzagged one of my fingers against the smooth surface. If he woke now, nothing too devastating would happen, and I would simply pretend that I was asleep, in some kind of nightmare. But this security couldn’t last long. Once I advanced into more private territories, it would be highly risky. But I was willing to take that chance because that something inside of me wasn’t relenting at all.

Further into the night we went, and further my fingers went. I was about to cross the border when he moved a little. I gasped silently, and sighed. I was inches away from his boxer, and needless to say, the disappointment was paramount. I stopped for seconds.

Then I strove on, my fingers drawing tiny circles and my whole body shifting closer to him. Filled with courage, I reached my fingers into that holy region of his body. Without hesitation my hand surrounded his organ, trying not to press too hard and not to jab him with my fingernails. From the outside it looked as if the outline of his penis distorted, sending forth waves of exotic appeal. Maybe it was precisely what I wanted. I might be journeying on a foreign landscape, but this unfamiliarity was also attractive and gripping, like an ancient novel of love and lust. This sensation, I wondered, does it come with the birth of man? Is it inherently attached to our ancestors? Because when our skin met, when I was exploring this organ of his, I was certainly feeling more than the typical friction and touch of physical contact.

Deep inside, I knew what I was doing to my friend was somehow wrong, immoral. But still I touched, fondled and stroke, watching his closed eyelids, admiring his heavenly body. As if it was possible, what I held in my hand grew, pushing against the fabric that was already stretched far. The tightness in the space multiplied. Stroking became more difficult, but the sticky liquid dripping onto my thumb turned me on. With that tacit agreement, I applied more force, squeezing a little harder and moving a little faster. He began to hyperventilate without being conscious (I wondered if he was really awake). His intense breathing made me quicken my pace, and soon he wasn’t the only one who was breathing this fast. In that pure silence, we seemed to inhale and exhale in unison.

Just so you know, although I had only managed to come a few times myself, I know what an orgasm is because there is a thing called the Internet. So when the signs came, when his erection and the muscles twitched uncontrollably, I knew it was time. My grip became firmer, and in the end I pulled back his foreskin and let it stay there. What followed was probably the most exciting moment I’d ever experienced. The white (this I didn’t have to see because I knew) fluid first invaded his boxers, creating a large area of wet spot that I could feel. Of course soaking into the fabric wasn’t enough; soon drops of his seed reached my fingers, a few reaching my palm and others reaching my outer wrist. The fluid itself soon succumbed to vaporization, but in that heat and humidity, the stickiness remained and the familiar smell spread in that enclosed cage.

I didn’t let go until he went flaccid. I told myself I’d keep my distance when I pulled out and pretend none of this had happened. The excitement was over. The clever thing to do now was to keep a secret that concerned two but was only known by one. It sounded easy enough. But six weeks were ahead of us, and there was no reason why I wouldn’t do it all over again.