In Which Sparron's Worries Prove Needless

December 10, 1167

Some time ago now, Sparron had decided he would try kissing Camaline again--and since then, he'd done all he could think of to insure that it turned out at least somewhat better this time. He'd cut back on foods that wreaked havoc on the breath. He'd listened to Jadin's tiresome stories of his many lip-conquests with a religious dedication--hell, he'd even asked to hear the details of some, much to the horrified shock of Jadin's little brothers. He'd practiced on pillows, the crook of his elbow, even a statue in one of the back alcoves, the last of which would have been embarrassing enough even if he hadn't been caught by a greatly amused Florian. Finally, he'd grown confident in his kissing ability; he could not have been more prepared.

And yet, when the moment had arrived... well, it hadn't been all that much better, for either him or Camaline. He didn't understand. Hadn't he done all he could? Was it a problem with her, perhaps? Or was he just an irredeemably horrible kisser?

Whatever the reason, he was down to his last resort--asking for help. "Father?"

His father looked up and grinned as Sparron made his way toward the desk. The poor man really had no idea what he was about to hear; Sparron could only imagine how crushing it must be, learning that one had raised a horrid failure. "Did you need something, son?"

His head heavier than usual, Sparron nodded. "Can we talk?"

"Of course." His father gestured to the couch by the other wall. "Take a seat, Sparron."

Sparron proceeded in the indicated direction and collapsed onto the couch's central cushion. His father rose from his chair, opting to sit by his side instead; Sparron wasn't sure just yet if that made him feel better or worse about the whole thing. "So... what did you want to talk about?"

Well, here it was. "Father... what does it mean if you kiss a girl and it turns out badly? Is it just a bad kiss, or does that make you a bad kisser?"

He wished he'd known how to phrase the question more subtly, but despite his blunt words, his father didn't seem scandalized. "If we're treating this situation as an independent event, then I suppose it's fair to say it might have just been a bad kiss."

"But what if it happened more than once?"

Perhaps he shouldn't have said it. His father's expression was alarmingly neutral as he turned his head to face him. "Is this about Camaline?"

Damn. He probably should have scripted this beforehand. "Uh, well..."

His father sighed. "What happened, son?"

Frantic, Sparron squirmed further into the cushions. Maybe it had been too much to hope for his father not to catch on, but he'd never expected to be asked for an explanation. "It's not my fault! I mean, she asked for it the first time--she literally asked me to kiss her--and I was caught off-guard and under pressure, so... and then I practiced for the second, but it still wasn't any better, and--"

"Sparrow!" Sparron froze; that pet-name hadn't been used since he was little. "Please, calm down. Really, two lackluster kisses do not make you a bad kisser."

Sparron blinked; he had come for advice but he'd never thought he'd get any reassurance. "Sorry?"

"Don't worry about it," his father insisted. "You're inexperienced at this point, perhaps, but what boy your age isn't? You're eleven years old; most boys your age find the very notion of a kiss disgusting. You'll learn, and she will too."

Unconvinced, Sparron shifted. "But I practiced..."

"Sparron, you'll find that kissing girls is much different from kissing your hand or your sisters' dolls or whatever else you used. Really, the best way to assure yourself of a good kiss is to simply stop fretting about it."

In spite of himself, Sparron felt a small smile tugging at his mouth. "You mean... it's mostly just in my head?" He could live with that, he supposed; he could find a way to get over that.

His father nodded. "So it sounds to me, in any case. Many people underestimate the dangers of over-thinking things, Sparrow; I do hope you won't become one of them."

Sparron shifted. "I'm just glad you don't think I'm a failure--you don't, do you?"

"Don't be absurd," his father scolded him. "If every boy earned his father's scorn for something as trivial as some botched boyhood kisses, then there would have never been a proud father in all of history. On the contrary, I think it was brave of you to come and talk to me, and noble of you to want to better your abilities for your betrothed."

A warm sort of swell was gathering in his face. Flushed, Sparron stood; his blood rushed to his head at an alarming rate, but he was too elated to notice. "So you're saying you're proud of me, Father?"

His father sprung to his feet and engulfed him in a quick hug. "Of course, Sparron--I've always been proud of you. Did I do something to make you think otherwise?"

Grinning, Sparron shook his head. "You couldn't if you tried. Anyway, can I ride over to Veldora and see if Jadin wants to go for a ride before it gets dark?"

"I don't see why not," his father told him, "but whatever you do, don't put much stock in his stories; if he tells you he's kissed a dozen girls, bear in mind that they were probably his aunts."

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