This is a work of fiction. No resemblance to actual persons living or dead is intended. If you are underage, or if possession of this text is illegal in your area, leave now. Some of the activities described in this story may cause injury or transmit diseases, including HIV. Please play safe--I don't want to lose any fans!
If you enjoy this site, be cool and click the "Donate" link at the top of the index and contribute to maintain it!
Authors retain rights to and title to their submitted works. (Please consult Nifty's submission guidelines for more information.)
And feedback is always welcome!
INCUBUS
Saturday morning, and like the opposite of a shadow, a sudden bloom of sunlight crossed the table. Carlton Laurence looked up. The boy was dazzling, cherubic and golden-haired, carrying two cups of coffee. Carlton smiled and for a moment, their eyes met. The boy returned Carlton's smile, then left the shop. Carlton was privately embarrassed to find himself attracted to such a cliché; wondered what it would be like to lust instead after Black men, like his friend Steve, for instance. Or mature, heavy-set men like himself, for that matter. No accounting for taste, even if it is for the banal. But this misgiving faded at the speed of thought. The boy's arm was nicely muscular, hinting that he might be older than his face suggested.
Carlton stood, abandoning his own coffee, and walked slowly to the door, but the boy was gone, of course. He shrugged, blinked a few times, and scolded himself. Get back to work, you dirty old man. He wasn't looking forward to another day of staring at his half-finished manuscript. But he headed back to his apartment, a walk-up efficiency a block away. It wasn't much, but thirty hours a week selling shoes didn't provide much of an income. Even the occasional check from some magazine or another for a short article wasn't much help. On the other hand, it kept him fed, clothed and sheltered so he had enough time to pursue his real passion: writing. You make sacrifices.
When Carlton wasn't pushing saddle shoes, when Carlton sat at his keyboard reaching for an apt description, wrestling with some unexpected glitch in a plot; when Carlton looked up after an hour of typing and discovered he'd somehow created a workable draft of a chapter, there were moments he felt complete, somehow: moments when he felt like he floated above himself. "Poor choice of words," he snapped, instantly kicking into editing mode. "Moments when he felt like..." What? And the image of the golden-haired cherub popped into his head. That was the feeling, that moment of--the words weren't there: how utterly unfair for a writer!
Carlton stared at his desk. The Muse had failed yet again. He decided to waste the rest of the day with the Saturday crossword. But he'd no sooner picked up the paper when a sentence popped into his head, and a six-week stretch of writer's block abruptly ended. In one thirty-six hour stretch, he managed to complete the draft of his novel and ship off a sample chapter. Even the likelihood that it was just another opportunity to collect a rejection slip didn't detract from his sense of accomplishment. Suddenly aware of how hungry he was and too excited to sleep just yet, he headed to the coffee shop for a cup of decaf and a pastry. He thought about sitting for a bit, just to see who might show up. No, he scolded himself, that's ridiculous. Get back to your apartment and get some sleep.
"Mind if I sit here?"
It was the boy. Suddenly tongue-tied, Carlton managed to nod.
"Thanks. It's pretty crowded in here this morning."
Still unable to find words, Carlton simply nodded again.
"I know how you feel," the boy went on, smiling. "My brain is pretty much useless until the second cup." He had perfect teeth.
Carlton forced himself to clear his throat. "Sorry," he managed to say. "I'm not really a morning person."
The boy scanned the room. "Looks like you're not alone," he whispered, and took a drink of his own coffee.
Carlton watched the boy's Adam's apple as the liquid went down. "I imagine that's why these places are so successful," he managed to reply, then scolded himself for such a witless statement.
The boy laughed briefly and nodded. "My name's Chris," he offered.
"Carlton. Carl. My folks had delusions of grandeur." He smiled, and immediately wondered if he looked awkward. This, in turn, made him feel awkward, overly conscious of his every move.
Chris seemed unaware of this. "Carl's a good name for a guy. You have no idea what a hassle it is to have a name like mine. Got teased all the way through high school. 'Chrissy', you know. 'Sissy Chrissy.'"
Good. At least he's eighteen, though he doesn't look it. "Nobody gets through high school without crap like that. They called me 'Carly girl'." Unless he's lying.
"Boys are so weird about sex. Like if it mattered to them what turned anybody else on. You know?"
"Arrogant pricks." He's got to be over eighteen.
Chris let an adorable giggle escape. "Little tiny pricks, usually. It's all about the size of your equipment when you're in high school, isn't it?"
Carlton smiled. "Some things never change. I'm sure ancient Greek boys compared equipment." He felt his cheeks flush.
"Well, at least that way things got settled once and for all. Who's was bigger, at least." Chris giggled again. "They say it's not what you've got, it's what you do with it that counts."
"Amen." A sinking feeling started in Carlton's stomach. Could this kid be a hustler? Am I that obvious? It's the twenty-first century: loosen up. He might not even be legal. What the hell am I thinking of? This is entirely inappropriate, it's happening too fast -
"Is something wrong?" Concern spread across Chris's face. "Carl? Are you all right?"
Carlton stared at his cup, at the reflection of the ceiling lights quivering in the coffee.
"I'm sorry," Chris said hastily. "I didn't mean to say anything to freak you out."
Carlton lifted his gaze to Chris's blue eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "It's me. I just ... my brain ran away for a second."
Chris smiled, relieved. "I like that. 'My brain ran away.' That's what it does, sometimes. Mine does, anyway. I see somebody and ..." He blinked rapidly. "Some kind of reflex thing." He looked down at his lap. "Damn thing has a mind of its own, just interrupts whenever. You know?"
Carlton nodded. Take the plunge. He leaned back in his chair, appraising the boy across the table. "Is something going on here?" he asked quietly.
Chris blushed. "Maybe. I'm sorry." He glanced down. "Like I said, mind of its own. I'm sorry." He started to stand.
"No! It's all right. Please, sit. You don't have to - I didn't mean to suggest - I was just asking. I was just --"
Chris settled back into his chair, fumbled with his coffee cup, nervously added a packet of sugar, stirred it and took a sip. "Wow! Too much sugar."
Carlton took a long breath. "Just to clear the air," he started. "I'm not ... I just don't want any misunderstandings here. You're a very nice boy - fellow - man. Oh hell! Let me start again. I'm enjoying your company. I'm enjoying our conversation. But it's only fair; I mean I want to be honest--"
"I like you, too."
Carton leaned forward and spoke to his coffee cup. "I'm gay." He stopped breathing, waiting for the ceiling to collapse around him.
"Me, too," Chris replied, and when Carlton raised his head, Chris's smile seemed almost hypnotic. "I was kind of hoping ..." Chris went on, waving his right hand as if trying to catch a word flying through the air. "You know how it is, you see someone and you think, 'Wow!' and you right away remind yourself that it never ... it never ..." He waved his hand again and fell silent.
"Except sometimes, it does." Carlton smiled and pointed to Chris's coffee cup. "If you like, we could go to my apartment and brew something there."
Chris grinned at Carlton's double entendre.
"Safe sex, of course," Carlton said.
"Absolutely," Chris agreed.
Chris was splendid. He stripped, and sunlight streaked through the window, highlighting his perfect form. Carlton touched the boy's chest carefully, as if it were impossibly delicate. But it wasn't: it was solid, warm, real. Chris embraced him and pulled him down; Chris took his head and guided him into a kiss; Chris embraced him and they rolled to their sides and their legs tangled together and everything fit perfectly. Chris seemed to know exactly what Carlton wanted, even before he did. He slid down Carlton's chest, tickling him with his tongue, licked his way to Carlton's painfully erect cock and surrounded it with warmth.
From this, it can only get worse, Carlton thought, but after a nap, the two of them made love again, and it was at least as good as before. Chris's cock slid down Carlton's throat effortlessly; his ejaculation was like a massage; the boy's thighs warmed him. And then, somehow, Chris's mouth was eager on Carlton's cock, welcoming his ejaculation, drawing every drop from him.
For a moment, they were perfectly still. And then, "Bathroom?" Chris asked, jumping to his feet.
"Through there," Carlton pointed, praying that the boy wouldn't grab his pants on the way. I really should ask his age, he scolded himself. Why? He responded. What's done is done. I must be twice his age. Maybe not quite, he assured himself after a quick bit of arithmetic. If you love it, set it free, he reminded himself. Like hell, he chuckled.
"Are you a writer?" Chris asked, surveying the paper-strewn desk as he returned from the bathroom.
"Trying. Just finished--maybe I shouldn't say anything," Carlton interrupted himself. "Bad luck, maybe."
"No way!" Chris smiled. "Tell me."
"I just finished my first novel."
"Wow! When will it be published?"
"One step at a time. Someone has to read the sample chapter, and then someone has to read the whole thing, and if it makes it through that, there's a whole editing process, and--"
"And then it gets published!" Chris announced. And he playfully pounced on Carlton, nibbling his ear.
This was surprising: it felt wonderful. How could I have lived so long and not realized that my earlobes were erogenous zones? How could this be happening at all, these deliciously sexy moments, one after another? Perhaps the best part, although each moment seemed the best part at the time, was that Chris seemed to reciprocate his lust. Is it even conceivable that I fulfill Chris's fantasies as perfectly as he fills mine? Carlton wondered. It certainly seemed so. The boy seemed to lose himself completely in their lovemaking, nostrils flaring, eyes rolling back in his head, legs trembling at the moment of ejaculation.
What if the charm wears off, Carlton thought. It always did, of course. It would only be a matter of time before the cloud of lust would clear and the flaws would become obvious. Once again, he scolded himself for thinking too far ahead. Enjoy it while it lasts, he told himself.
"Want to do it in the shower?" Chris murmured.
"It's pretty small."
"I know!"
They went to the free clinic and waited nervously for test results. Both were in perfect health. It was strange to Carlton to see men he would previously have looked at with barely disguised lust and realize that they had completely lost their allure. His stack of pornographic magazines and DVDs was abandoned.
"Have you heard from the publisher guys yet?"
"Nope," Carlton answered, smiling. Seeing the boy's face start to fall, he hurried to continue. "And that's a good thing! When they respond right away, it's usually a form letter: Thanks, but no thanks. This is a good sign." I hope, he added silently. But Chris was smiling again: that was the important part.
In July, a notice came that Carlton had inherited his uncle's house in Longneck. The house was an unsuccessful marriage of New England cottage and western rambler. In conversations with his uncle, young Carlton had gracefully avoided sharing that observation. Carlton had spent several summers there, tending to his elderly relative as the man's health gradually failed, finally helping him to move to a nursing home for his last months. Apparently, this inheritance was his unexpected reward.
"Sit down, Chris. We need to talk."
Chris froze for a moment. His smile disappeared as he sank into a chair. "What did I do wrong?"
"Nothing, Chris. It's just ... right now, things are good. Incredibly good. Unsustainably good. This sort of thing..." He groped for the next words. "It doesn't last. It's not your fault, it's not my fault. It's lust. Right now, we see each other through a kind of fog of lust. But eventually, it ... it fades. It always fades."
"Always?"
Carlton nodded. "I've been through this ... not exactly this, never anything this good, never this ... but it fades. It has to."
"No!" Chris shook his head. "No. No, it doesn't. It doesn't have to. Not if we really ... You said this was different! We're different! We're special. You're special. I've never felt this way about anyone, ever."
Carlton smiled. "I'm older than you, Chris. I've seen --"
Chris's whole body seemed to shrink, as if something inside was collapsing, slowly. "So you're saying I'm just another ... I'm not special to you? You don't feel like I do?" It was a plea, not an accusation.
Carlton rushed to the boy, embraced him frantically, kissed him. "You are. I do. I feel exactly like you do. I want this - us - to last forever. I swear it."
"Then why can't it just go on forever? I'd rather die than lose you. There's no one on the whole Earth that could replace you, Carl. Please, don't go. Don't leave me."
"I won't, Chris. I won't." I'll keep my pessimism private, Carlton told himself. I will not hurt the boy. I will not hurt Chris.
But Carlton couldn't pretend that his situation hadn't changed. I own a house, he thought. Why am I trying to convince some total stranger that I care passionately about her choice of shoes? I'm a novelist, he thought, close to being published, perhaps. I need a space of my own, where I can work properly. I deserve it. And his uncle's house had a guest room that Carlton had always imagined could become a real writer's retreat.
And so Carlton told his boss that he'd be leaving the store; told the management company that he would not be renewing the lease on his apartment. He purchased boxes. Even packing his possessions was fun, under the circumstances. There will finally be enough shelf space for my books, he thought.
"Are you moving?" Chris asked, coming through the door and surveying the half-packed apartment.
Carlton heard the fear in his lover's voice. "Chris," he said, "I told you about my uncle's house, didn't I?"
"I thought you were going to sell it, or something."
"I need a place where I can concentrate on my writing, not on selling shoes to make rent! This house is like a gift from the gods!"
"When?" The boy was devastated.
Carlton looked at the pain on Chris's face and changed his plans on the spot. "The hell with the house! I'm staying right here, with you!" I could do that, just sell the thing, he thought. Rent a bigger place, someday.
Chris shook his head rapidly. "That wouldn't be right. You're an author. You shouldn't be living in a...here. You should--"
"I will be perfectly happy here, if it's with you."
Chris's eyes widened. "Are you asking me to move in? Can I--"
"Well, I can't ask you to move to Longneck. You must have people here, family--"
Chris shook his head. "There's no one, Carl. No one but you."
"Chris, are you saying you'd be willing to move to Longneck with me?"
"Please, Carl?" he whispered.
Carlton's blood was suddenly racing. "Of course you can! I can't think of anything--"
Chris hugged Carlton, sobbing. "Really?"
"Yes, Chris. Yes, yes, yes."
"I'll do all the work! Whatever you need! Just name it!"
Carlton stared at the boy. It's possible, he told himself. Some people, some lucky few, do manage to fall in love with each other. It's a literary cliché, but that's because it does sometimes happen. He pulled Chris tight, and for a moment, they just hugged. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you," he whispered, and felt Chris nodding happily.
Chris handled the rental truck with confident precision on the road to Longneck. He avoided the highway, though, choosing a route along less crowded county roads. Carlton sat close, feeling the warmth of Chris's powerful arm next to his, half hypnotized by the hum of the wheels. Then, the truck suddenly slowed. "Hey," said Chris, "are we in any kind of hurry? Do we have to meet someone, or something?"
"No. Why?"
"Can I show you something? A little side trip?" Chris turned off the road and into the woods, then into a parking area. They got out of the truck, and Chris turned in a slow circle, then suddenly stopped. "Come on. It's just a little walk." He headed out briskly, and Carlton followed.
"How...have you been here before?"
Chris apparently didn't hear him, but just kept going. Watching him from behind, Carlton's breath became heavier, not entirely because of the gentle upslope of the path.
"Right up here," Chris said, then "You okay?"
"Fine," Carlton puffed, coming up next to Chris. They were standing under a massive oak tree. Just ahead, impossibly green in the sunlight, was a small patch of grass. Beyond, the ground sloped steeply, and Carlton could make out flashes of sunlight on water. "Very nice," he said.
"Come over here," Chris answered. He was stripping off his clothes.
Carlton watched. Seconds later, the naked boy lay back on the grass. "Come here, Carl," he said. Or at least it seemed to Carl as if he'd spoken, but the voice was soft, as if Chris was whispering in his ear.
Carlton walked slowly into the sunlight, pulling his clothes off as he did. He almost fell, struggling to get his shoes off, then tripped on his trousers, falling into Chris's arms. The boy caught him effortlessly, and laid him down, gently, then finished undressing him. He began stroking Carlton's body, half-singing under his breath. "What are you singing?" Carlton asked. "It sounds beautiful."
"It's an old song, sort of a hymn. The words aren't in English, or I'd teach it to you."
"I didn't know you spoke a foreign language."
"Shhh." Chris pressed a finger against Carlton's lips. "Close your eyes. Feel the sun. Can you feel it?"
"Yes," Carlton whispered.
Chris's song grew louder. His hands moved slowly, teasingly, down Carlton's body. And then, somehow, he was on top, fitting himself perfectly to Carlton, and their bodies trembled together to Chris's song.
Carlton took a deep breath, filling himself with the boy's scent, wondering why he'd never noticed how arousing a body's odor could be. And then Chris was kissing his ears, his cheeks, his eyes, and finally his lips. Carlton opened his mouth and felt the tip of Chris's tongue glide along the ridge behind his upper teeth. As if independent of his will, his arms embraced the boy's body, slid ever so slowly down to the curves of his buttocks. Chris's legs tensed, iron-hard, and his breath was hot against Carlton's face. Carlton felt Chris's shaft stiff against him, and his own cock strained. They were motionless together, and then it seemed as if his entire body was cumming, as if the boundary between them had simply disappeared. They lay together for a moment that seemed eternal, then Chris rolled off to Carlton's side.
Reluctantly, Carlton opened his eyes. "My God," he whispered. "That was--"
"Shhh," Chris replied. "It's this place. It's magic here." And he began licking the rapidly cooling liquid off Carlton's stomach.
Carlton was surprised at how quickly they arrived in Longneck. He directed Chris to the house, and soon they were unloading boxes and Carlton's few pieces of furniture. "It's fucking beautiful," Chris gushed when everything was in place.
Carlton shrugged. "It's certainly a step up. At least there's room for everything." He suddenly felt tired. "I didn't realize how much I had."
"I could paint the rooms for you, if that's what it needs."
Carlton shook his head. "No need. It's actually pretty nice inside."
"You don't like the outside?"
"It's just a question of taste. It's a good, solid house." No telling if his uncle's spirit was lurking somewhere.
"I know!" Chris almost shouted. "It needs some landscaping. Flowers, bushes--"
"You're right," Carlton agreed. Shrubs, he realized, would go a long way to mask the awkward exterior. "Maybe we can plant a few things."
Chris glowed. "We can?"
Carlton grinned. "Why not?"
"I'll do all the work, Carl. And I can cook, and stuff. I'll take care of everything so all you have to do is write. I promise."
"I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you. This is our home now, Chris." He turned the boy around and embraced him from behind. "Ours," he whispered into Chris's ear and felt the blonde hair brushing against his lips. "I'll write, and we'll make love, and somehow everything will be perfect forever." A tear splashed onto his forearm. "No crying, now, Chris. It's okay."
Chris turned around and buried his face in Carlton's chest, weeping. "I'm happy." Carlton felt the words against his body as the sobbing boy repeated them over and over. "I'm happy. I'm happy. I'm happy."
Carlton opened his eyes, let the ceiling gradually come into focus. For a moment, he imagined himself floating. His uncle's bedroom--his bedroom now, his and Chris's--was large enough that he could stare at the ceiling without seeing its corners. And it was quiet. The quiet was still the first thing he noticed when he woke. He carefully turned his head. Chris was asleep next to him, angelic and muscular, his crotch discreetly covered by the bedsheet, like a nude in a neoclassical painting. Carlton doubted the kid could look anything less than beautiful if he tried.
"You need some privacy, I think," Chris announced, as he cleared the table after lunch. "To work on your new book."
It was true. Carlton was something of a recluse when he was writing. "But I don't want you to feel abandoned," he protested.
"I won't! There's plenty to do around here. You go lock yourself in your writer's room, and I'll take care of everything else."
Chris was as good as his word. The house almost seemed to be cleaning itself; the clothes Carlton wanted were always ready. Chris was an excellent cook, and somehow knew when Carlton wanted a light lunch and when he was ready for something more substantial. When Carlton was deep in his work, it was as if Chris had vanished, but whenever Carlton left his writing room, the boy was there, sparkling and eager.
Chris did have one peculiarity, which surprised and, in its way, charmed Carlton. He apparently did not like his own body. "No mirrors," the boy had insisted, shortly after they'd moved in. "I don't like to look at myself."
"I do," Carlton grinned.
"And I like to look at you," Chris replied in a husky whisper. "Almost as much as I like touching you." He quickly pulled his tee shirt off. His moves were fluid, dance-like.
"No mirrors? Really? Even in the bathroom?"
"You know what would be hot? I would like to ... can I shave you? And be your barber and everything?" Chris moved behind Carlton, reached down and began unbuttoning Carlton's shirt. "Hot towels, facial massage, the works. I would love it!" He stroked Carlton's chest, and it seemed as if his fingers left a warm trail across the man's body. "I'm really good," he murmured.
Carlton sighed and leaned his head back. "No mirrors, then. I'd rather look at you, anyway."
Carlton's lucky streak continued. His novel was accepted, a contract was signed, a check was deposited. A few minor changes were made, nothing of substance, and somewhere out east presses began to roll. The publisher requested photos. Chris took them and they were shipped off. The second novel was coming along nicely, taking shape almost faster than Carlton could put words to paper. "You are my muse," he whispered to Chris as his sperm shot into the boy.
"What do you think? 'Happy Holidays' is pretty generic, but it's a nice picture." Carlton watched Chris's face.
Chris took the card in his hand and studied it. "I like it. Trees and snow and a rabbit. It's cute. Good choice," he said finally.
"Will one box be enough? How many do you need?"
Chris blushed. "I don't really have anyone to send cards to."
"No family anywhere?" Carlton was surprised. "We've never talked about--"
Chris shook his head. "There isn't one. There's just me -- us." He smiled. "No in-laws to worry about." He placed his finger against Carlton's mouth. "Shhh. Let's talk about presents instead."
Carlton wandered wearily around the house, reading a draft of chapter six aloud to see if it had the proper cadence. Suddenly hungry, he set down the manuscript and went into the kitchen to grab a banana. He returned to the living room and watched through the window as Chris pruned the lavender bushes along the edge of the house. Sweat glistened in the small of his bare back. Carlton had an instant desire to lick it. He reached out to tap on the glass just as Chris stood and turned, making a licking motion as he did. Carlton nodded, suddenly filled with energy. He watched the boy running to the corner of the house, hurried across the living room, and met him as Chris appeared in the kitchen, his shorts already opened, body streaked with dirt. It didn't matter.
"Fuck me!" Chris demanded, gathering Carlton into his arms and depositing him, moments later, on the bed. The rest of his clothes disappeared.
Grinning and eager, Carlton licked the sweat from the boy's back.
Chris moaned with pleasure and offered his ass. "Fill me, Carl!"
"I'll change the sheets," Carlton said, when they were finished. "Maybe later," Chris laughed, rubbing his face against Carlton's stomach. "Let's cuddle a little and go for round two!"
At times, the days seemed almost like one, continuous day: spring in the morning, over coffee; summer for lunch; autumn for dinner, and in the cool of winter they wrapped themselves into each other's arms and flew through the night. And what money Carlton needed appeared in a regular rhythm: a comfortable advance, then a small but steady stream as his novels continued to sell, three of them, then four, then five.
"I don't understand," Chris said, when Carlton's publisher asked for another photo. "Can't they just use the ones they have?"
Carlton shrugged. "They may want me to do a couple of appearances - book signings, that sort of stuff."
Panic masked Chris's face. "I want you to stay here! This is where you do your work. What about your new novel?"
Carlton smiled. "Chris, what's wrong? You can come with me. We can celebrate our anniversary in New York, perhaps."
Chris shook his head frantically.
"Why not, Chris? I want you with me! I want to see your face everywhere I am."
"Please, Carl! Let's stay right here, where...where all you have to do is write and make love to me. And no more pictures. Please?" Chris turned away. "I can't explain it, Carl. I know it's unreasonable. But this...I'm part of this, now," he said, raising his arms and spinning around. "It would be like pulling one of the plants up and taking it along. Oh, gods! That sounds so...stupid!" he wailed.
Carlton hurried across the room and gathered his lover in his arms. "All right, all right. We may have some old ones I can send. Will that be okay?"
Chris's sobs eased. He wiped his eyes and nodded, relieved.
Carlton smiled, comforting Chris like a little boy. "If you like, I'll be Carlton Laurence, novelist of mystery. I'm sure my agent could make that work--at least as long as the books continue to sell." He held Chris's face in front of his, wiped away a tear.
Fall came slowly, leaves turned gradually, clouds lingered. Carlton was having trouble getting enough sleep, for some reason. The house seemed to be getting larger, somehow. Words came more slowly. But then Chris would take him in his arms and they would make love, and everything would be fine.
"Want to have a little afternoon delight?" Chris asked, and Carlton roared with pleasure. Afterward, they stood together on the back porch as the setting sun made its way below the cloud cover. Suddenly, the colors around them brightened: reds, golds, violet shadows crossing the grass, splinters of sunlight gleaming through the lavender.
Carlton slipped his hand onto Chris's. "Listen, Chris. I was wrong when I said it couldn't last. It is lasting. There's nothing to be afraid of, darling. Nothing! We belong to each other forever." To Carlton's surprise, the boy sank to his knees, weeping, resisting Carlton's efforts to raise him.
"I love you," Chris moaned. He raised his eyes toward the sky. "Please don't. Please!"
"Chris? What--" A sudden sharp pain grabbed Carlton's chest, shot up towards his left shoulder. He gasped and staggered backwards, losing his grip on his lover's hand. Chris fell forward, wailing.
"Chris!" Carlton gasped. "Something's wrong! Something's wrong!"
The boy rose slowly, tears streaming down his face. He seemed almost to be glowing. Carlton stared at him through the failing red-tinged light. The beauty in front of him was overwhelming, stilling the pain for a moment. "Oh, God," he screamed. Then, as blackness overwhelmed him, he reached for the vision, to touch it one last time.
"It was very sudden. He just ... fell."
The ambulance driver was sympathetic. "Must have been quite a shock, kid. But from what you've told me, he went quickly. That's the best thing in the long run. Guys that old can linger for months."
The police officer emerged from the house and joined them, frowning. "So you're what? The gardener?"
Chris shook his head. "Not exactly. He just hired me to do odd jobs, like planting these flowers. Picked me up in town and asked if I'd like to make a few bucks."
"Picked you up?"
"Nothing like that. He just needed some help, you know?"
"Well, I can't let you take anything from the house, you understand. Procedures. If you--"
"Nothing in there's mine, Officer. I just called 911 is all." He stared at the withered corpse, watching the medic close the body bag. "Nice old guy," he said, his voice trembling just a little. "Real nice."
He looks like one of those gorgeous Italian street kids, the officer thought, and pulled out a notebook and pencil. "Better give me an address. I may need to touch - to get in touch with you again," he said, resisting the temptation to say more in the presence of the ambulance driver. I wouldn't mind seeing you after work, he thought.