warning: This story contains: Slash, m/m relationships and content, gay interpretations warning for homophobes or people alike. This story also includes: Inappropriate language, violence, abuse, stupidity, nudity, things inappropriate for children. Readers be advised.

L o v e. Y a. B u t. P l e a s e. S h u t. U p.

Feel it go down your throat—

Feel it spill and choke.

Chapter One

Feel choke

“Long time no see, Paris.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I settle into the large cushion chair, bringing my legs up and keeping them upright on the small coffee table. Handy. “What’s shakin’, Mr. Lewis? You still pining over that straight secretary of yours?”

He moves to shuffle the papers on his desk, head lowered; and seemingly ignoring me. I know he’s not, though. He’s just taking his time. Waiting me out, I suppose you could call it.

I yawn largely, rubbing my limp knuckles into my eye socket, friggen’ tired out of my eyes. And every other part of my body. This always does that to me, I hate it when that happens. But what can I do?

I’m here, and I can’t exactly leave here, now can I? That was a rhetorical question by the way, if you have some ingenious fail-proof escape plans in the back of your head – keep them there. I may need it later on. Probably not in this situation, though, because I actually don’t mind it here. Reason why? Doctor Lewis, of course. He makes these sessions not so bad, almost even… worth it, in a sense. I can blab my mouth off and he wouldn’t even care but of course, that is his job, is it not? He’s good at it, then, if he has the ability to make me feel so comfortable, so… all right with this position. This session isn’t all about fun, though – as much as I may wish it so, or as much as it may seem to you. This is mostly for my mom. Not me.

I know. How sappy.

But that doesn’t mean I love her, because I don’t! Remember that, Paris Troy does not love his mother! Exclamation point. Sure, I care for her – but love? That’s something on a completely different scale, here. I love Johnny Depp, I love milk chocolate candy bars, and I love boys. But I care for my mom. And a whole friggen’ damn lot, that you can know. It’s just the way I’ve always been though, so it shouldn’t really matter – especially to you. So what if I’m not good with my feelings and any of them that should go towards my mom? I’m a gay and apparently, keyword apparently here, crazy eighteen year old. And please, don’t start thinking that because I’m gay I should be in touch with my friggen’ feminine side. I haven’t touch that friggen’ feminine side in years, and I don’t plan on starting to now, thank you very much.

I left the cross dressing behind for the hot men. Both gay and straight. I’m not picky.

“So. How are you this afternoon, Paris?” Doctor Lewis is staring at me through his wire-frame glasses, his brown eyes straight and patient. Watching me, and waiting for me to answer the question. Just like he always seems to do, and I haven’t gotten tired of it yet.

“Meh. Nothing much, just, y’know, here.” I shrug. “Not that I mind of course, coz’ you’re cool and all, Mr. Lewis. How about you, though? How are you?” And of course, Doctor Lewis isn’t fazed at all.

He doesn’t even smile. His mouth just twitches, or quirks, whatever you prefer. Sort of like a smirk that’s deciding whether or not it wants to stay frowning or laugh out loud. Obviously, he’s chosen the former. Because if he didn’t, that would be wrong. And Doctor Lewis can never be wrong, he has a PhD for goodness sakes.

Doesn’t make much of a difference to me, it’s only a piece of paper.

“I’m well, Paris. But let’s move onto more important things, such as yourself.” And Doctor Lewis holds his clasped hands in front of him, leaving them settled on the fine wood desk. I just continue to look at him lazily, slumped back on the cushion chair still, but my thigh’s beginning to itch.

“Actually… I’m not that important, sure, I might be your patient – but that doesn’t make me any more important than you. We’re both human beings and we both have been derived from the term, Homo Sapien Sapien. So, in saying that… where exactly do you have the right to claim that I am more significant than you, Mr. Lewis? Are you claiming to have come from the extinct Neanderthal? Or are you perhaps a hybrid resulting from a fatal love session between a Neanderthal and a Homo sapien?”

Yes. I’m taking World History to the 16th Century, can you tell?

I grin, as I allow my hand to trail down my jean clad thigh and scratch at the slightly bony underside of my leg, just before my knee joint. And fuck that feels good – it was irritating as hell.

Doctor Lewis is looking down momentarily, thumbing through a small pile of sheets on top of his desk. He has a pen in his hand, where he briefly scribbles something down on a notepad at his side, throughout this short while. He looks so calm and assured with himself, with what he’s doing, with what I’m doing. I’ve gotten used to it, but it’s still a little creepy either way. How can he handle me, when my mom barely knows what to do with me – besides dropping me off, here? It sort of sucks. But I’m not telling him that.

Doctor Lewis’ gaze returns back to me, he having pushed aside the pile of papers. I just wait and stare back at him, wanting to see what his response would be. He’s cool with stuff like this, he’s pretty quick witted too – when he wants to be. A shame, I know.

“Paris, why are you here?”

“I dunno’, coz’ my mom made me come. No other reason I’d be here right now, no offense, Mr. Lewis. But I have better things to do, better people to do, really… ” I smile lethargically after murmuring this, watching Doctor Lewis serenely as he doesn’t even seem to be put off by it. By my obvious prods and teases. He’s too good at this, the man is. And I almost want to hate him for it, but I can’t.

He’s just like that.

He only nods, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose – they weren’t slipping, but he likes to do that sometimes.

“Why do you think your mother brought you here? She must’ve had a reason, you must have given her one.”

“Because she thinks I’m crazy. She hates the fact I can be one of the most annoying beings in the world, and still remain her gay and caring son. Or maybe she just wants to just piss me off? Whatever it is, it’s working.” I sneer tightly, anger gnawing and knotting itself in the pit of my stomach, all of a suddenly. Not ravaging anger, just the beginnings of it, something small but grating.

Just like me.

“Do you think you’re crazy, Paris? Do you agree with your mother?” Hard. Very hard.

“Hell, no. I’m just getting tired of all this arguing me and her have to go through every friggen’ day. She doesn’t know that, though, she thinks I’m all fine and dandy with the fact I have to defend myself and who I am on a daily basis. I wish she’d be this uptight about me being gay.” I mutter, looking away to the side, ignoring Doctor’ Lewis’ steady look and his almost intimidating way of never looking away, never being deterred, no matter what you say or do. I look up, back up at Doctor Lewis, and his hazel eyes full of patience, understanding almost, but it’s all an act. “Why can’t she just hate me for being gay, or something? At least then I’d understand what the fuck this was all about… ”

Great. I’m actually opening myself up to the psychiatrist. Doctor Lewis must be getting his jollies off of this. Yes. That’s me, Psychiatrist Jolly Maker at your service.

I glare at Doctor Lewis, hating him for this short moment. Just needing to direct all my confused anger into one place and one being, and unfortunately for him, that one being is Doctor Lewis today.

I breathe a thin slice of air between my lips, weariness creeping into the rigid hold of my shoulders now, an insistent pounding at the back of my neck. It’s getting to me. I lean back farther into the cushion, forcing the back of my head into it, gritting my teeth slightly.

“How do you feel about all of this, Paris?” Doctor Lewis’ soft voice grasps my attention, but only barely – I’m still seething, here. I shift a little bit, adjusting the way my head falls back on the cushion, angling it slightly so I can see Doctor Lewis at his desk with my peripheral vision at least.

His jaw is slack and his eyes are tolerant, just on the proverbial pause button.

“… I told you already, it’s pissing me off. It’s just, like… I don’t really know how to put it into words, and I wanna’ tell her – how I feel that is, but I can’t. It’s not like me to be so open about my feelings and stuff… at least not with her. Our relationship is awkward sometimes, but I still care, y’know? To an extent.” I sigh heavily, and then I blink. I scoff quietly under my breath, shaking my head slowly. “It’s like right now… I’m not supposed to be telling you all of this, but I’m a fucknut right now… so who really cares?”

“I do, Paris.” I look up fully at Doctor Lewis when he says that, eyeing him amusedly, brushing away blue tendrils from my brow.

“Coz’ you’re paid to care, Mr. Lewis. It’s your job, and you’re good at it. I’ll give you that.” I snort, rubbing away at my face tiredly as I bring my legs up onto the chair, tucking them closely to my body. I’m trying to get comfortable only because this situation might start getting uncomfortable. I need the seemingly eased position right now.

“You may or may not be right, but that doesn’t matter. You’re here so we can talk about you – so we can figure out what’s wrong and get to the root of the problem. Do you agree with me, Paris?” I cast a long gaze up at the curly tuft of red at the top of his head, almost a cowlick but… not quite. It suits him, makes him come across a little less strict, rigid even. If I had to guess, Doctor Lewis should be about… thirty-two years old, thirty-five tops. I’ve always asked him at least once during my sessions, but he always manages to steer the conversation away from not only his age, but also just plain old him, too. I hate the fact he can do that it irks me sometimes.

“I’m going to have to, aren’t I? But seriously, how old are you, Mr. Lewis? I think you’re around thirty… but I could be wrong. Oh. And again, if I may ask, how are things with straight secretary outside the hall – has he even given you anything to bite onto? If not, I can help you out… spare you a few tricks of the trade, if you know what I mean.” I wink lecherously, chuckling a low, husky sound – my seductive side is coming out, and I don’t mean it to, it just does.

I literally can’t control it, if I could? I wouldn’t be doing this, now would I? Especially not to Doctor Lewis, at least not during the session. Afterwards? I’m not his patient, no limitations there, but truly – I’m not considering. As much as it may seem like it right now. I’m not into screwing ones doctors, psychiatrist or not. I can only imagine the shit I’d get into… not that Doctor Lewis isn’t good-looking or anything, because he is.

And then I cock my head to the side, looking at Doctor Lewis, all lechery fading away. For now. I wrap my arms casually around my tucked knees, cradling my chin down into the space my knees provide. Even in this cocoon, I still peer up at Doctor Lewis with wondering and… curious hazel eyes, blue wisps falling into my eyes, but I don’t care. I’m too preoccupied to move them away.

The wavy mass of red hair, that cowlicks itself here and there; the ordinary brown eyes that gaze from behind the wire-frame glasses, thick eyelashes, the slight crease of crow’s feet at the corners; the too big nose for his face, that slopes nicely nonetheless down his face, but always seemed a little too big; the slim and high cheekbones, pale at times, but pretty healthy today; the thin pink lips that never seem to be able to decide on whether or not they want to stay mad; and the slender form I’m able to catch sometimes when he stands up as he welcomes me, or I take my leave.

He’s nothing special, but he’s catching my attention, he’s making me think about it – a triple take almost.

“Paris, you’re not like that. Don’t resort to thinking such idle things.” Doctor Lewis’ voice startles me out of my reverie, low and firm. My eyebrows scrunch in response, confused, and wondering… what the hell? What’s Mr. Lewis talking about?

“I’m not like what? I don’t get what you’re saying, Mr. Lewis.” He only shakes his head, though, lifting a hand to the collar of his sweater, adjusting it – almost fidgeting with it, but psychiatrists don’t fidget, only their patients do. He glances away too, for a moment, looking to the sidewall where bookshelves are lined, it’s as if his eyes are sweeping past all the titles – but I doubt he’s reading any of it.

Just the way it seems to me.

“Why were you thinking that? What did that look mean, Paris? Let me in – and this is strictly off the record, I can assure you.” And that’s when something weird and bothering tightens and stretches in the pit of my stomach, and when my lips part, eyes wider than before, and my head goes up abruptly from the space between my knees.

I watch Doctor Lewis strangely, bringing a hand up to push away some strands from my eyes, up, and behind my ear. They were getting in the way, and I really don’t think I need anything getting in my way now… especially not from Doctor Lewis’ prodding brown eyes, dark and intent. I have no friggen’ idea where this is going, but… that stirring in my stomach? I’m pretty sure that’s not a good thing; psychiatrists shouldn’t make you feel this way. And this is all coming from experience, I’m sure of it. I haven’t felt this way yet, maybe confused sure, but stomach stirrings? And dark, probing looks from Doctor Lewis? No way. I’m definitely not used to this kooky stuff.

God. I hate my life sometimes – only the psychiatrist and anal probes part of it. You would too.

“What the frig’ do you want me to say? I thought your job was to make my life easier? Not friggen’ add heaps of stress onto it in a matter of a few seconds. What the hell.” I gripe gloomily, suppressing an audible sigh, and slipping up off the seat. I stretch my neck side-to-side, relishing in the crack of my neck joints and the easing of my stiffened muscles – it was getting strenuous.

It’s my time to leave, fuck you very much.

“Sit down, Paris. And call me, Rick – we’re getting this settled right here and right now. So, please. Come back.” I gawk, and then I turn around, gaping.

“What exactly are we trying to get settled here?” I sneer lowly, fisting a hand into my side, gripping tightly onto the rough material of my jeans. And Doctor Lewis isn’t discouraged, he just keeps me looking at me, but his eyes? They’re not so dark anymore, and it’s more soft than probing. Shit.

“That look you gave me. I’ve seen it before Paris, but not from you. I want you to explain it to me, that long staring too – what were you thinking when you were looking at me? How did you feel?” Let it fucking go, damnit! “Are you becoming attracted to me?”

“What the fuck?! Are you serious?! You must be fucking kidding me, here! What? You want to get all pedophile on my ass now? Fuck you, man. That’s called statutory rape, I know my laws!” I explode, finding myself now at Doctor Lewis’ desk, hands grasping on the edge forcefully, and knuckles turning white. But my face? My face is red, it’s boiling right now. I’m angry, gutted, and just a little embarrassed. But why? I have no. Friggen’. Clue. It’s just this… man, that’s getting my panties and me all frustrated and in a knot. I hate it! And I hate him! I really fucking do!

All Doctor Lewis does is sit there, all patient looking, eyes bright and laughing, but his lips – they stay all thin and stoic like. Very aggravating, have I told you that? If not. You know now. Fucker.

“Paris. If I weren’t a psychiatrist… I’d think you were in denial— ”

“And I’d think you were a an asshat disguised as a giant ignoramus, but I’m not a psychiatrist, now am I?” I just stand there, smirking downright evilly, laughing maniacally inside my head, but on the outside – I am seemingly calm, besides the smirk, and the white knuckles, and the still red face. I’m just a mess.

He doesn’t even say anything, though, he barely even moves. He merely takes up a pile of papers, restacking them leisurely, and placing them inside one of his bigger drawers – the empty one. He picks up his pen and puts it to the side, close to the edge of the desk, but he doesn’t seem to care. And neither do I, I’m just noticing this, is all. And then he looks up at me, casually removing his wire-frame glasses from his face and placing it down on his desk. Once again, near the edge. He gets up from his seat, not towering, but he’s taller. The corner of his lips turn up, and I quirk an eyebrow at the unexpected movement.

And then you know what happens? Doctor Lewis kisses me.

Well. Double you tee eff, mate? The last half of this, I definitely did not plan, I must’ve been possessed for that part. The rest? I’ll take full blame and custody of, fuck you very much. But. I digress. I have updated, and I couldn’t have done it at a more opportune time! Yeah. Right. I wish. I started this chapter a week ago, procrastinated, got a review (out of nowhere!) and I was inspired. Once again. People may just be reading this, I thought, let’s do this for them. And. Here I am. And with more than three thousand words, bitch! You know. Haha. That feels good. And I meant bitch, indirectly, or, if you prefer, in the most affectionate of ways. Haha. It all works. But, yes. I might be getting back into this, but grade eleven is being a constipated bitch right now, and time? Where the hell do I find that? Seriously. Thank God For Fridays (TGIF!). I seemingly enjoyed writing this chapter, though, it just felt good being able to get back into the mood of things – get back into Paris’ frame of mind – coz he’s a woozy. He’s different, I’ll tell you that. And. Before I end this, I need to say – thanks! and lots, and lots of love! If it weren’t for the reviews (from years ago… ) and all that other good stuff – this story would’ve been completely dead by now. Haha. Good thing it isn’t. I guess. I think I might’ve screwed my original plot with this cliffhanger. Oh well.

xanthofile, oh xanthofile. You know how I love thee. I may not say it much, and hell. I might not tell you much. But I do. I love you, your stories, and your cursed writing skills (not really, it’s called jealousy, dear). And about that update soon, is a year and seven days soon enough? Love (forgive) me.

Gagging Angel, you make me want to gag. Gag in the most awesome and best of ways. You’re the gagging angel, y’know what I mean. Your name? That makes you cool enough to gag the whole world if you wanted to – with a dirty rag that’s been up Donald Rumsfeld’s ass lately. And if that isn’t good enough? Then you can just gag me with a jock strap or something, whatever you want, really. I don’t care. I’m willing. Your comments work.

ChocolateSugar, no, you keep it up! Haha. I love you. But I haven’t read your stuff lately, and I haven’t updated this lately, and life’s just not been doing what I’ve wanted it to do lately – it’s screwing everything inside out and backwards. But, no matter. Your reviews still made me smile, and happy, and feel a little bit better… even after a year and seven days. That’s gotta’ mean something, right? Yeah. I thought so.

ddz008, you know exactly what an author needs to make their day, don’t you? Smiley faces, and very smiley faces. Alongside a few nice words here and there, no story bashing – just love. You gave me some of that, so love is the ‘least I can do for you. I won’t do love, I’ll give it to you. Coz you deserve it, and I thought I might as well. That on top of the update. Awesome, is it not? Prob’ly not.

AppLEaves, can I give you some Ovaltine? And then some chocolate and emo glasses as a side order? I thought you might like that. Coz your crows of affection are just as sweet. Hell, maybe even a little more. But I’ve got no guarantees that it isn’t rocking my bed too. I left my socks at home.

shadowedskies, I don’t want to make you die happy. I want to make you live happy – but die? That isn’t my job. Not that I have one, but if I did – that wouldn’t be it. But. I think. I’ve made you live unhappy. Have I updated? No. Not until now, that is. At least I’ve updated, though, right? It’s the thought that counts, as do the review responses, and the author loverespect I have for you. Thanks.

youdontknowmyname, I’ve updated both TWAB and PdoA before this. You have to cut me some slack for that at least. Right? Right? Yeah. I would hope so. Haha. But, yeah. I don’t mean to come across as bitchy right now, you know I love you, and your reviews, and your huge amounts of loving TWAB and prodding me to finish it. Thank God (and you) for that. If it wasn’t for you half of the time, you would’ve either mutilated me by now, or TWAB wouldn’t be this close to being done. Thank you for that, and take all of my love – at least, the TWAB portion of it. Haha. Y’know.

linn991, I think you’re the only person who actually got an update soon. Feel special, all right? Just for a few moments at least. It’ll make me feel that much better and accomplished. Thanks. If it wasn’t for your random but much needed review – I wouldn’t have been able to finish this chapter. So, thank you! And. Haha. I’m glad you find Milo cute and adorable. There’ll be more of him, don’t worry – my muses just wanted to screw with me on this chapter, and, well. Look’it.

September, 16, 2006.