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ok, this is an older project i finished about a week or so ago. it originally stemmed from a dream sequence i had a few years back, one that i had to write. thus...things aren't quite meant to make sense. but you'll see what i mean.
thanks to Amindaya for looking this one over for me, despite being sick. a beta's life can be trying, i think. especially if you're one to someone such as me, who's always going, "ok, and then there's this one, tell me what you think, ok? ok? huh? what did you think?!" (laughs)
oh, and this one shot has a strange ending. so, you can read up to a double -- -- -- line and stop if you want, or you can read the ending. it was all a part of the same dream, and i tried to work around it but that didn't fit. so it's here, in it's entirety. maybe i was snorting cheese whiz or something, who knows.
tuesday, 12 june, 2007. 2:21pm
But I wasn’t focused on that, just on the puffy woman sitting behind the wood desk with her hands calmly folded in front of her; she looked nervous and confused, which should have been the first clue that I was fucked.
“Alan…your mother….”
“Is dead, yes.” She swallowed slightly, her eyes moving down to the white paper with black-type writing I couldn’t make out from the angle and distance.
“Actually, your mother is…not.”
“Huh? She ain’t dead?”
“Yes, I mean…no. She’s not your mother.”
-- -- --
I met my parents for the first time in my memory about a week ago, the couple that my “mother” stole me from when I was just a baby; she stole me and took me to California, raising me as her own.
I loved her, she was my mother. She loved me; those black curls would brush my shoulders when she’d bend over to kiss my forehead, her smile would flash when I would come home from school and greet her in Spanish. She never mentioned my “father,” but I never had the urge to ask, never had to know about him. I was content to have my mother…until the accident stole her away from me.
Now, it’s discovered that I’m the long-lost Antonio Vasquez, second-youngest out of four children; maybe mother stole me because she felt that they had enough kids. Maybe she thought I wouldn’t be missed. Maria tells me that she thought of me every day I was gone; Maria is my “Mother” now.
She’s petite and somehow faint, reminding me of those aristocratic wives of Mexican politicians; they’re seen and never heard. Joseph, my father, has lines etched around his eyes, making him seem tired despite the fact that he’s only forty-five years old. He greeted me warmly--eyes bright--as he called me ‘Son.’ They call me Antonio, and it only upsets them when I ask to be called Alan. None of this is my fault--as they say it--and ‘we have to try our hardest to become the familia we should have been.’
Ensconced in the back seat of a fucking nice car, I’m overwhelmed with the urge to go home.
I just want my mom back.
-- -- --
The house the posh car pulled in front of was upper-middle class, a cream-colored Victorian eyesore, the shutters an ‘alright’ subdued green, and the landscaping looked professional.
It’s nothing compared to the two-bedroom rented shit hole I called home for the past ten years; nothing compares to the way I had to jiggle my bedroom window for it to open, or the way Mom’s bamboo wind chimes could carry through the thin walls if the wind was blowing hard enough. Nothing compares to the way I could get up in the middle of the night and shuffle across threadbare carpet, side-stepping the torn portion of linoleum in the hall in front of the bathroom, continuing on until my tented fingers would push open Mom’s door and I could hear her breathing before I would go pounce on the bed and tell her to get up for work. And she would hit me with a lumpy pillow, her laughter rough from sleep before she rolled out of bed and told me to get out so she could change into her work uniform. I would go back to bed, and she would come in thirty minutes later to brush a kiss over my temple before telling me she loved me as she was about to leave for her shift. Mom always loved me.
Neither of the strangers I’m supposed to call ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ seemed to notice the redness lining my eyes when I grudgingly piled from the car; my toe absently scuffed the nicely-pebbled driveway as I stood there and waited for them to do something.
They walked to the door.
I followed.
My fingers absently tugged against the bright red shirt I put on that morning; it’s just about my favorite, and I had needed something safe that morning. Maria was wearing a casual cream and lime outfit, and Joseph was wearing Navy slacks with a white polo with a navy stripe across the chest.
These are my best jeans--the ends are frayed--and my white slip-on shoes are dazzling, but only because I bleached them the other day. My hair is curly and falls to my shoulders--as Mom always liked it--and that day, I had pulled it back into a bunchy ponytail at the nape of my neck; the rubber band was red.
I noticed that Maria eyed the silver hoops decorating my ears, the ones that go up and down and up again; I have sixteen total, nine in one ear and seven in the other. Maybe I should have left them out, but I haven’t taken all of my earrings out at once…ever. I’d feel naked.
I had a small bag of things, because the majority of my shit was shipped ahead of me, when they cleared out our house and sold everything. I got a few things of Mom’s; a sterling silver cross she used to wear almost every day, a gold brooch she said she got from her mom when she died, and photographs. I wouldn’t let them throw any of them away; all the photos in the house were packed into a box, and I specifically wrote on the top, “Do Not Unpack.”
Maria assured me that it was placed beneath the bed for me, that nobody had gone through it. I just hoped that she doesn’t lie, although she seemed like a nice person and all. In fact, they both strike me as being honest and loving people, but…I don’t know them, I don’t feel like their son.
I’m not Antonio, despite how much they want me to be.
Just inside the doorway, I self-consciously removed my shoes because Maria and Joseph did, settling them down just beside three other pairs of shoes sitting by a door I can only assume leads to a closet. The carpets are white, and I doubt a pair of shoes has ever walked across them.
Joseph went over to the stairway and used a stern voice to bark out, “Joey, Moses, y Gregory!”
Doors opened upstairs, and suddenly, there was a chubby nine-to-ten year old barreling down the stairs, his face lit up as his eyes lit upon me. “Antonio?!”
Startled, I took a few steps backward just before the body slammed against mine, a face pressed against my sternum as he choked the breath from me.
“M’Greg, did you know that?! I saw your posters, and they’re cool!”
The boy’s brown eyes stared up at me as I struggled to come up with an answer, but Maria saved me by stating, “Greg, honey, let your brother go; what have I said about being polite, hm?”
He peeled away, his brow puckered a bit as he looked at her; “But he’s family. You said to make ‘im feel like he’s home, and I hug everybody.”
A long-fingered hand ruffled his hair, drawing my attention to a tall and skinny…man. He looked to be about twenty years old, his eyes warm but a bit reserved as he looked me over before offering a polite smile. “I’m Moses.”
Oh, he’s eighteen, just two years older than me…but damn, he looks mature! He even has a mustache; I don’t even have to shave twice a week yet.
Someone else had come down with Moses; must be Joseph Jr., and I know for a fact that he’s twenty, and he looks it too. He looks like ‘our’ Dad, actually, but a lot younger and more laid back. His hand extended out for mine, his grip firm in just his fingertips before he let go with a pleasant smile.
None of them dress like I do, none of them have my curly hair; Maria has curly hair though.
“Hello, brother. We’ve missed you.” Joey said this with a level tone infused with just enough sincerity to make a thin smile flit across my mouth.
Greg took my hand into his and pulled me up the stairs, babbling on about how cool my room is compared to anyone else’s; I just wanted to curl up and disappear.
I would take cockroaches in the kitchen sink over this, any day.
-- -- --
I met my Grandfather--on Joseph’s side--at that first awkward family dinner, where I sat and stared at the food set in front of me. I’m used to Fruit Loops for dinner, or--if Mom’s paycheck was padded a bit that month--we had Hamburger Helper.
We were dirt poor, but I never cared, because it had always been that way. It was great to get oranges from the local street market, or to trade some of my old shirts with a neighbor who gave us the best pickled bell peppers ever. I used to watch these little kids sometimes, whose parents paid me back in pounds of raw peanuts from the guy’s job; it was always fun to roast those peanuts when Mom was at work, just so she could walk in the house and smell the air, a grin splitting her face before she would chase me around so that she could rub her greasy forehead on my shirt.
None of the others deigned to notice that I barely ate any of the food given to me; they seemed to want to help me in any way they can, so very nice and unsure how to make me feel better. Maybe they realized that nothing could help right then; I was still grieving.
But the elder man who introduced himself as simply Amador was warm and friendly, asking me about my academics and things of that nature. He didn’t seem to mind my subdued answers. And maybe that’s why I was able to eat some of my dinner and half of the flan brought out for dessert.
I went to bed surrounded by all my personal objects stuffed into an unfamiliar setting; these things comfortably filled my old bedroom at home, but here, they were spread out and added just a touch of veneer to this impersonal room I’ve been given for my own.
--
I woke up four in the morning, half asleep and already out the bedroom door before I realized that Mom didn’t need me to wake her up for work. Upon realizing this, I sank down to the carpet and sat there, almost numb to the point that I couldn’t even cry out the tears burning to be released.
Somewhere around five, the door across from mine opened and Moses stepped out with tousled clothes and hair; he jumped backwards upon sighting me, a low curse tumbling from his lips in his fright.
“Hey, you ok?” His question was an afterthought, as I didn’t move or show any sign of having seen him at all.
But with his voice, my eyes rose up to meet his, and…the tears came then, spilling over and frightening him. I didn’t mean to scare him. My hand moved up and wiped my eyes, and I pushed up from the floor and turned back to my bedroom, shutting the door behind me.
A low muttering came from the other side of the wood, but then it faded away and I crawled back into bed and fell asleep.
-- -- --
By my second week, I was more in-tune to the routines, and I started up at the private school all the kids were expected to attend. Joey was already in his third year of college, living at home and working at ‘our’ father’s office. Moses is expected to graduate high school this year, and I’m classified as a junior in name only.
The curriculum is stricter here than the public school I used to attend, and I’m actually behind in everything except English. I had to double up my math and science courses to continue, as well as adding Latin to my schedule, dropping the art and study period I had had back home. Here, there’s no such thing as a general physical education class, so I was forced to enroll in the after-school tennis program, because everyone is required to participate in a sport. At least I know how to play tennis.
The dress code is relatively ‘lax,’ so I am ‘able’ to get away with white collared-shirts and dark-navy slacks my ‘parents’ bought for me once they decided that my old wardrobe was ‘mildly lacking.’ I want to wear Jimi Hendrix and my olive-green cargo shorts. I want to wear yellow tank tops and black bondage pants. I want to wear my faded lime wife-beater and black-leather jacket, the one with patches from bands like The Clash, Deftones, Metallica, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Ratt.
They made me take out all of my earrings, and nobody knows how much that broke me inside.
Except maybe the guy I met in Latin, the one with empty holes in his earlobes, nose, lower lip, and right eyebrow. He looked as empty as I felt, and his eyes didn’t laugh as much as his face did when I cracked a joke about my naked ears.
His name was Houston.
I saw a bruise on his wrist; it looked like fingers from a large hand. He caught me looking, and his wrist disappeared beneath the desk, his eyes never catching mine for the rest of the block.
He was also in my last block though, and he acted as if it never happened when I saw him again. His eyes smiled when he saw me sit down next to him, and that made my day that much better.
-- -- --
Four in the morning woke me up, and I lay in bed for ages before I got up at five-thirty, pulling my body from the covers and shuffled from my bedroom and down the carpeted stairs. The house was silent and seemingly-empty, and I found myself in the den, the sliding door quiet as I pushed it closed behind me.
“Up early, are we?”
I jumped with a startled squeak, whipping around and seeing Amador sitting in a leather armchair, looking for all the world like a king or something. “I-I’m sorry, I c-can leave….”
“No, Alan, don’t leave for my sake. I was a little lonely here, anyways.”
I stood by the door a few minutes, my toes coming up to scratch at the back of my calf before I realized how stupid that makes me look; after a while, I tentatively drifted over to an unoccupied chair, curling my legs to my chest as I lowered myself into its comfortable form.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
I shook my head at his question, and found myself asking, “You?”
He smiled; “I never sleep anymore. Must be me getting old.”
“You’re not so old. The man who lived across the street was ninety years old, and he still took care of himself and everything. I just mowed his grass in the summer because Mom said he’d give himself a stroke trying to do it.”
He gave a few low chuckles, and I felt my face respond with a warm smile, my chin lowering down on top of my kneecaps as I stared at him with mild curiosity. “You call me Alan.”
He nodded at my quiet observation, taking his time before answering, “Perhaps your birth certificate says that your name is Antonio, but in your heart, you believe yourself to be Alan, yes?”
I slowly nodded, and he smiled at me. “Then I shall call you what you are most comfortable with.”
Smiling again, I expressed, “Thank you.”
He hummed a bit in thought, and we were silent for a long time before he again spoke, “It’s almost a blessing, this other life you’ve experienced. Your siblings, wonderful kids that they are--I do love them, you know--but they don’t understand, they aren’t grateful for what they’ve had. But you were raised differently, and I think that can give you a different outlook on things, yes?”
I lowered my eyes, looking away as I stated, “No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh?”
My arms tightened around my knees a bit; “I’m not grateful to be here. If I had my way…I would never have come here. I-If I could, I’d bring Mom back.”
I was ashamed at the way my voice cracked, tears welling up in my eyes as I pulled in on myself once more; I’m such a fucking crybaby, and I shouldn’t act like this when this family is essentially taking in a total stranger…but I couldn’t help the way I felt.
His arm reached out towards me, his large and calloused hand settling overtop of mine; “You have nothing to be ashamed of, son. You have lost someone very dear to you, your entire world thrown on its ass and here you are, thrown in the midst of strangers to try to make sense of it all. So you just cry if that’s what you need to do.”
With his words, my tears renewed, my face twisting up as I buried it against my knees; his hand remained on mine as I gave into my sobs, and eventually, I discovered that I’d taken his fingers into my own, squeezing them and taking the comfort they offered. Maybe he’s not the only person who understands, but he’s the only one here right now, and that’s all that matters.
Amador.
-- -- --
Once I learned to never discuss Houston’s home life or various bruises, and he learned to call me Alan and not ask questions about why, we got along famously.
He was cuttingly funny and always up for anything I came up with on the fly; such as the time we cut classes just to walk through some local neighborhoods and talk about how much we hated the Latin instructor. He always had a cigarette with him, and although I don’t smoke, I’m used to having friends who do; the smell of the smoke reminded me of home.
And the first time we met up outside of school, I was only mildly surprised to see the black jeans and metal-band t-shirts, his piercings made of dark metal and his hair full of gel. But his smile was the same as it ever was, especially upon seeing me wearing my almost-Rastafarian Jimi Hendrix shirt with my dark red skater shorts; his fingertip grazed down the numerous hoops in my ear, his eyes dancing as he leaned in for a kiss that felt more brotherly than anything.
I could see in his face that he felt the same the next our gazes caught after we pulled apart.
That was the day I invited him home for dinner, taking delight in the veiled dismay in my ‘parent’s’ eyes upon seeing the look of my new friend. Moses apparently has a class with him, and they were a bit surprised to find that they have something in common through me; and maybe I was a bit jealous when they started talking about upcoming assignments.
Maybe Houston was supposed to be mine in the sense that he was something normal for me to identify with in all this madness that is my life. At any rate, having a friend like Houston made Greg’s esteem of me go up even more; apparently none of his brothers has ever had friends like mine.
Big surprise.
-- -- --
Most mornings found me sitting down in the den with Amador, the two of us talking until it was time to get up and ready for the day. I had never met anyone who listened to me the way he did, like an equal. Maybe that’s why I found myself staring at him when given the opportunity, drinking in his seemingly-stern visage and dark-skinned features. His hair is still black with the odd streak of gray throughout, and his body is solid despite having lost the firmness of his youth years ago. He smelled of pipe tobacco and wintergreens, of the aftershave he splashed onto his face every morning.
The day I surprised him with a hug was the day I came to terms with my infatuation for the older man. I wanted him, I wanted the man whose DNA is in my veins; I want my grandfather.
Amador means Lover.
-- -- --
Houston was gone from school for a whole week, and worry ate at the corners of my mind as the absence grew; the last time he was gone this long, he came back with a scar on his chin and faded bruises on his arms. I have cause to worry for my friend, whose home life is up the shit river as far as I’m concerned.
When he’s over at my house, he eats heartily and smiles often, but his eyes are dulled from years of the abuse that I can only imagine; he never talks about it, and I never ask. I want to make him better. I want to show him that people can love him. If I could, I would take the years of pain away and allow him to start over again; I’d give him a new life.
And I would love him as my own.
--
It was nearly two weeks before I saw his picture in the paper; “Local teen found dead in river.”
I didn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it. Not Houston, no.
Halfway through breakfast, scanning the day’s paper over a plate of eggs as I ignored the mild chattering of my siblings and parents, I saw the article. They fished Houston’s body from the river over four days ago; he’d been murdered, is what they said, due to the multiple fractures and stab wounds, and the fact that his father confessed when confronted with his son‘s death.
Houston was dead.
The eggs in my stomach started to rebel the longer I stared at the paper, my breakfast coming back up only to be stopped by the trembling hand I pressed against my mouth. I jumped from my seat and ran to the kitchen, pushing through the white double-doors before I threw up into the empty metal sink, my belly heaving as scalding tears burned me from within.
Houston.
-- -- --
My family stayed away from my grief, steering clear of the stranger still amongst their midst, the person they never learned how to address. Only one person braved my pain. Amador. He showed up in my room and sat on the edge of the bed, his strong hands rubbing my back beneath the heavy blanket I’d thrown over my body and head, plunging me into a suffocating darkness.
He comforted me as I silently began to weep once more, until his voice, soft and rich as the smell of tobacco that perpetually hovered near; “This boy, was he your lover, Alan?”
I froze, my body rigid before I croaked, “No. But I kissed him once.”
“Ah…did you love this boy?”
He couldn’t see my face from where it was shoved against the pillow, the blanket still covering my head; “Not that way.”
I felt the blanket pull from my head, his fingers running through my hair as he soothed, “If you felt any love at all for him, then he knows it now. He was a good boy; he’s in the good place, for God hugs all his lovers to his chest, no?”
Laughing despite myself, I managed, “I doubt that’s the phrasing the Church would use.”
His chuckle was warm, “God loves everybody, and what better love than that of a lover, hm?”
Rolling onto my back, I stared at him with my damp and red-blotched face, seeing his eyes smiling with shared sadness for losing my friend.
I reached up for his embrace, and he gave it by pulling me up against his chest, allowing me to press my face into his neck before I acted on my impulses and molded my lips against his skin in such a way as to make him stiffen with surprise. He pulled away as far as I would allow, his black eyes large and round even as I then pressed my lips against his in an unmistakable kiss.
“Alan, we should not-”
“Yes, we should.”
He shuddered at the groan I gave against his moustache, my arms about his neck as I attempted to pull him down against me. For several long moments, he remained frozen in my grip, staring at my face before he slowly--ever so slowly--gave in, kissing me gently enough to drive me crazy.
Once I opened to him, he tasted of me, deep and searing; he tasted of tobacco and his wintergreens, sharp and smoky, all at once. I became aware of his hand upon my side, his weight pressing down against my chest as he gave into this lust, our lust, and I felt myself arcing into his touch, wanting more.
I needed more.
His fingers crept beneath the rumpled t-shirt stretched tight across my chest in result from my movements, and I embarrassed myself with a hushed mewling, saying his name; “Amador!”
“Shush, child.” His voice was barely audible and just the tiniest bit frightened; and yet, he grew bolder in touching me, my obvious reactions removing his barriers of reservation. The pad of his thumb was soft but calloused, pressing against my sensitized nipple and shocking a gasp from me that pleased him; my body is young and ripe, and I won’t be able to hang on for long with his stimulus to push me over. He bent over, brushing his soft lips and scratchy mustache over that same nipple, and my body went rigid before another low mewling spilled from my throat, my groin tight and uncomfortable in my briefs beneath the loose shorts I’d pulled on before crawling into bed.
“Amador, Amador….” He apparently liked to hear his whispered name on my lips, for his mouth on my chest did its best to keep me saying it.
“Touch me….”
My request was almost frantic, and he hesitated only a split-moment before following through with trailing his fingers up my inner thigh and settling them into place over my crotch, so very hot through the double layer of fabric separating him from my erection. My hand flew down and covered his, desperately kneading as my body coiled and tensed, needy in wanting more contact but almost scared for it too. He shook off my hand, his free fingers grabbing a hold of my wrist and keeping it out of the way for him to touch me as he wished; I was well aware of the silently-gaping expression on my face, well aware of his eyes on me as his fingers traced along the sides of my now-weeping clothed cock.
Never, ever, ever.
Surprising both of us, I tugged my wrist from his grip and hefted my upper body upright on my elbows, staring at him with a lust-flushed face as I asked, “Did you know it?”
“What?”
I’ve never seen someone so rumpled and caught off-guard, but I had to ask; “Did you know it was possible to pull love from someone? Am I the first to know, to feel it?”
“What are you talking about?”
I paused, thinking over my words with confusion before I gave in and fell back against the bed, my voice low, “I don’t know. I don’t know….”
A quick stroke through my shorts was just enough to spike pleasure in me, just enough to startle me into orgasm, my breath a sharp hiss as my heels dug into the mattress and pushed my hips upwards, my thighs trembling with the tension bunching up my body as I came.
Never, ever, ever.
And it was only after I became aware again, once my sex was soft and languid, that I remembered that my pleasure was the only one. “Amador…what about…?”
His lips curved into a smile beneath the mustache; “I’m old, not young and needy such as you. My drive doesn’t really exist as it did years ago.”
“Damn. I’d give anything for you to fuck me into the mattress.”
My dreamy sigh had an effect upon the older man, who shivered and true regret flickered across his face; “If only, child.”
“Child…?”
My soft tone made him look away, but then his gaze flicked back, warm and sensual; “Alan.”
Teeth flashed in my grin, my reaction pleasing him enough that he leaned down for another pleasant sweeping of tongues that almost made me forget the frigid unpleasantness still in my shorts.
It was hours after he left my room that I was able to sleep.
-- -- --
-- -- --
A low cry woke me, my eyes blinking uncertainly even though my body was propelled from bed without thought. I remained in a fog as I shuffled across the floor and past a dark green and gauzy curtain; a crib was situated near a richly-colored wall, but I didn’t notice my surroundings as I looked at the quietly-crying child situated inside.
Wet and near-black eyes stared up at me, and my mouth curved into a smile to see two chubby arms reach out for my embrace. I leaned down and picked up the child I instinctively knew to be just over two years old, settling him onto my hip as I smoothed out errant wisps of dark, baby-fine hair.
“Why were you crying so early in the morning, sweetling?”
His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I experienced a fleeting moment of vertigo, my free hand coming up to cup the side of his head as I fought back a wash of unpleasant memories that couldn’t have been mine.
Thoughts of a tall boy with metal adornments in his ears and all over his face, thoughts of bruises from large hands against pale skin…of a body in a river….
Shaking my head, I frowned and walked back to my bed, my eyes drawn to the slim body lying curled onto its side and hogging all of the covers. As always.
My lover stirred when I sat on the edge of the bed, and I could feel the mattress shift as he turned over and finally sat up, his voice rough with sleep, “Alan?”
I looked down at the toddler nodding off against my chest, and my face softened with love for the tiny boy. “Houston was just crying.”
“How unusual.” There was more movement behind me, and then arms curled around my upper chest, a man only three years my senior leaning against my back as he breathed into my ear in such a way to make my stomach flutter.
“He’s normally so quiet.”
“I know, he was pretty quiet, but he woke me up anyhow.”
My lover chuckled, the smell of tobacco and wintergreen floating over me as he managed to plant a dry kiss to my cheek; “You are just attuned to his needs.”
“Is that so?”
My tease garnered me another of those chuckles, and his hand ran over my bare shoulder and raised goose bumps across my bared flesh. “Yes. Ever since you managed to pluck Houston from his father, you have shared an uncanny bond that I can’t help but envy.”
“Envy? I didn’t know you knew such emotion.”
Our banter was lighthearted, and if I didn’t know that Amador loved Houston even as much as I did, I would be worried; as it was, the boy never lacked for love in our family, treated as if he were our own from the first day I claimed him with my heart. All I want is to give him that love, to see him grow up strong.
Again, I was troubled by a fleeting memory of a river death, but I was able to shake it off even quicker than the first.
It didn’t hurt to feel Amador’s erect nipples against my back, or that his fingers were deft in finding one of my own, gently pinching and rolling so that it was hard to remember that I had a sleeping child in my arms.
“Amador….” My groan was low and needy, and Houston stirred in sleep, bringing me back to sanity.
I batted away the amorous advances of my lover, my tone laughing as I said, “Let me put him back to sleep first!”
He pulled back and allowed me to carefully stand upright, his voice carrying after me as I returned the child to his crib; “He’s going to need a bed soon.”
“We’ve discussed this! Not until he’s three; he’s not even fully toilet-trained yet.”
With practiced ease, I managed to set Houston down without disturbing his slumber, returning to my bed and crawling beneath the blankets.
The man who has been my lover since I was sixteen was slim and dark, but had the bearing that spoke for his strength, one I somehow knew would grow stately through the years. He had an old-world quality to him that meshed just right with my bright and outspoken personality, with my need for self-expression through colorful dress and adornments.
My only cousin on my father’s side; my lover.
Our relationship was something of a family disgrace and taboo, and the cause for many a fight whenever our parents came into contact, despite them being siblings; both parents blame the other for something that none of them had any control over. As soon as I was old enough, I knew what I wanted, and who I wanted it with.
I only had to convince Amador that he needed the same as me.
Sometimes, it felt as if forces outside of ourselves were at work between us, and while the thought should have frightened me, it had only left a strange sense of relief. Something out there wished for this, and who am I to argue?
“You’re thinking.” His tone was amused as he curled up to my body, sure and comfortable in the embrace that was common between us.
My smile flickered and then gained strength with veiled mischief; “Only good things, of course.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
There was a pause, and his breath heated my skin as his fingers made looping and lazy circles against my shoulder; “Such as?”
I gave a dreamy sigh; “Such as that I’d give anything for you to fuck me into the mattress.”
He paused, and I caught a strange look in his eyes that caused a worm of unease to work its way into my lower belly; but then he blinked and his lips pulled into a lascivious smile. “Oh, there won’t be any problem with that.”
Our low laughter reverberated through the room, not disturbing the boy still asleep in his crib, his life one of sure love and happiness.