Les Noyades

14: The Little Boy Lost

So it was that he returned in calmer a mindset than he had held in the midst of their short dispute that morning, and Yves was waiting for him in the bedroom in which they had briefly lain together the night before. He was wearing the same cornflower turtleneck and grey slacks from the day they had met. That had not been so long ago— a week, he realised. But it was not a matter of time— time was afforded to each minute regardless of the length said minute seemed to stretch— it was a matter of close or apart, enjoinment or separation, next or never.

He let Yves undress him wordlessly. There was not much to be said that they did not already know. He stood there, immediately shivering and burning for cold and courage, as Yves gently took hold of his shoulders and turned him toward the mirror. There they remained as statues, a reflected world of reversals and repetitions. Exactly the same happened to this parallel Rumi; his hair was softly kissed by warm breaths, his arms self-consciously held across his chest until they were prised away by firm hands.

"There's no need for that," Yves whispered. "The rest of you isn't so shy."

Rumi mantled and diverted his eyes to where Yves was so brightly staring, drinking in what he had created, the cat so desperate for the cream. His hand so delicately smoothed over Rumi's behind before spidering across his hips to take him slowly, expertly, into his hand. Rumi watched his broad, strong hand with curiosity and lifted his hips to inch further into it.

"Rumi, mon cheri," Yves sighed, drawing out the vowels in pleasure.

Rumi shuddered and allowed himself to be caressed delicately, as if it were the stem of some precious, life-prolonging flower, and then the flower was blooming further, solidifying under Yves' grip and begging to disperse. Yves made a soft noise of appreciation and Rumi watched how the mirrored young man wearing his own blue sweater downed to his knees and joined where his hands had been, letting his tongue run over the tip, as his hands moved to hold the pale hips in front of him. Rumi hated to see the evidence of Yves' expertise; he took all of it down his throat, his eyes closed, and he went on with ease.

Yves began to make small noises as he pulled Rumi's hips back and away each time, small noises that made Rumi's spine curl up and his lips begin to tremble, and he could feel the pleasure pooling about him as it gathered up. At once the flower burst into life and Rumi let loose a contained gasp of surprise as he experienced the simultaneous constriction of Yves swallowing around him.

"You didn't have to-" he began, but Yves stood up and kissed him before he could speak, and Rumi kissed him back, and then Yves forced their tongues together that Rumi might taste a bitter salt washing through his mouth. They parted breathless.

"Was it good?" Yves asked as he stepped back to inspect himself in the mirror, swiping away with a deft finger the saliva which had crept from the corners of his mouth. Rumi saw him beginning to detach, beginning to equate it all to necessity, and he was not ready to allow that.

"Yes," he said, "but— but not enough."

"Not enough?!" Yves repeated with a sharp laugh. "There's nothing else I'm going to do for you."

"Please."

"No."

Rumi dropped onto the bed with all the rejection of a sulking child told they would have no dinner.

"Don't be upset, baby," Yves soothed as he placed a warm hand on his goosebumped arm. "I only know it will hurt you."

"But I don't care!"

"Don't be such a child. I don't want to hurt you and that's final."

"Didn't it hurt for you?"

"Yes."