Yours Truly (Petekey)

XIX.

Written by: HellaBrendon

Michael James Way

           

The morning spent with Pete is fresh in my memory, the feeling of my hands beneath his shirt – I only recognize now that I may have been overdressed for the casual meeting. I had managed to convince myself the occasion was one for which I would need to look at my very best but reasoned that Pete had seen (and probably made) all my good suits. I felt rather like a girl in a ridiculous hat when he showed up in not a suit but something more casual.

I hadn't worn something quite so casual since my mother died; I've never had reason too. But if there's anything in the world that will convince me of the need to dress down more casually, it would be Pete's insistence of it.

Perhaps, when we meet again, he will not be so hesitant to run his hands under my clothes and to touch me if I dress less intimidatingly. Oh, how I long for his hands to touch me. The thought of his calloused hands over my smooth skin and the idea of looking down to catch sight of his darker skin against mine is almost enough to keep me with him.

But I know that Pete is not ready in that regard, and that is a fact I will have to respect. In many ways, courting Pete is different from courting a lady. For one, I have never desired for a lady quite like I have desired for Pete. But in many ways, courting Pete is just like courting a lady. For now, I will have to respect Pete and his virtue.

I cannot expect him to give himself to me quite so quickly as I am ready to give myself to him. He is a man, who knows what is right both for him and for myself, whereas I am still growing into the shoes of my age; I'm only a boy pretending to know what I'm doing and allowing myself to get lost in my reputation.

I had felt a touch of guilt when I left him in the darkness this morning to return home, but I could not risk coming home late and being caught. I'm flirting with danger now, flitting my fingers around the flames of a fire that will one day burn me. When I think of it – when I consider everything I'm risking for a tailor's son – my stomach clenches.

But I force it to unclench, if I look high-strung or nervous at the breakfast table I may have to explain myself and I am not quick enough on my feet nor am I a good enough liar to get away with telling some fabrication of the truth.

It is in moments such as these where I wish I could somehow transfer Gerard's talents to me. He has always been so quick-witted, so as not to lie but to get him away from the trouble that would proceed, had he told the truth. He knows the fluidity of lies and the manipulation of spoken word.

It is but a second-hand trait, one that developed from his deep-rooted self-preservation. In our household, constantly having to escape from the man who sits at the head of the table, you either behave or you adapt. I chose to behave, Gerard chose to adapt.

But I see now that adapting would have done me several favours, now that I can no longer behave, I am forced to adapt. And adapting to lies would've been so much easier if I had started off lying about stolen newspapers, rather than boys who drive me insane. Was there ever a more suited instance to the term "throw him into the deep end"?

Getting ready for breakfast, having sneaked as quietly as possible through my household, I am in the process of remembering him. I no longer deny myself the simpler pleasures of remembering the way he felt against me, the feeling of his skin running over my own. I think more of how he tasted, his mouth on mine, tongue hesitant and shy while I explored him.

I was inches away from having him, from completely and utterly ruining him beside the lake. It wasn't the sort of thing you thought about doing, not to a lady at least. You'd spare her the embarrassment of your discretion by doing it in a lavish bedroom, after which you could drape her in the finest of silks. Thank God Pete is not a lady.