In Which Sparron States What He Doesn't Need

August 19, 1170

"Sorry, I know it's a little bare," Searle admitted, as if in response to Sparron's silent musing that the room was impeccably neat for such a bouncy personality. "To be honest, I'm almost never in here except to sleep. My father says it's because I'm a walking sanctuary and I don't need a place of my own to be happy."

"I'll say." Sparron kept his mouth narrow and tried to maintain a polite distance. He regretted not having a drink of water before leaving home; the summer sun was high and after the ride to Veldorashire, he didn't doubt the staleness of his breath.

For some reason, Searle beamed; it was almost as if he thought Sparron's brief agreement just as fine as the original compliment. "So, how are things on the Camaline front? Have all our practice sessions paid off yet?"

Sparron shook his head. "Still nothing. At this point, I'm thinking I could get more out of kissing my stepmother."

"Your stepmother? Damn, who wouldn't get something out of kissing her?" A dreamy look crossed the younger boy's features; Sparron's brow twitched. "Sorry--just saying, you know? She's really beautiful."

Sparron shrugged--he certainly hadn't come all this way on a hot afternoon to discuss his stepmother. "If you say so. Anyway, I tried kissing some other girls--maids, a couple of the village girls, you know?"

"Well, it's about time!" laughed Searle, impressed. "How did that go?"

He should have known that there would be a further inquiry, but it hadn't occurred to him; if it had, he never would have mentioned it. "Uh... well, better than Camaline."

The unsaid rang as audibly as the words themselves; Searle frowned. "So still not good, then."

"Well... I wouldn't say quite that," Sparron insisted, though unsure as to how he himself would phrase it. "The kisses were nice and all, but just... well, nothing more than that. Just nice."

"So no sparks."

He nodded. "Exactly--no sparks."

Searle sucked in his pouty bottom lip and turned around, only to take a few paces and head back Sparron's way. "You know... I think I know what the problem is."

He put his hand to his chin and continued to pace. A little impatient, Sparron rolled his eyes. "Care to share?"

"Well," he began, his eyes shut in consideration, "I'll admit that it may be my fault. You see, I've been teaching with the idea that you would learn from my example, but it seems I've only succeeded in teaching you how to be kissed. I see now that if you're ever going to land a successful kiss on a member of the fairer sex, you'll have to learn by doing."

"So... what?" He took a moment to look the kid up and down; in terms of his face, he could have been the twin of Jadin, but Searle had an unnameable, undeniable quality that his brother lacked. Jadin, for one, would have never agreed to help him--Jadin, for another, would have never suggested such a thing. "You think I should try kissing you?"

"Yes," the boy confirmed without a thought, though he seemed to reconsider in the seconds after. "For purely instructional purposes, of course."

Sparron crossed his arms, if only for the sake of a physical barrier between the two of them. He was not sure what frightened him more--the fact that the subject had been breached, or the fact that the idea was not entirely unpleasant. "I don't know..."

Searle squinted. "Why not? I've kissed you dozens of times--for purely instructional purposes."

"Yes, but we're different." The other boy's blue eyes widened; embarrassed, Sparron looked to the floor, desperate for some other object of focus. "You do meaningless things all the time, and everyone knows they're meaningless because you're the one doing them. I'm not like that." If I do this, it would be like admitting it means something.

Unfazed, Searle gave a dismissive wave of his hand and strode over to his bed. He pulled himself onto the mattress and stretched to his full height, not unlike a lazy, pampered house cat waiting for a bowl of cream. "I told you to do it, didn't I? Therefore, it's still my meaningless action."

Sparron sighed. "Searle..."

"Look, if it makes you feel better, I'll be Camaline." He flipped his hair in a mock-feminine fashion and fluttered his lashes, a sultry smile playing on his lips. "Ooooh, Sparron! Come to bed and let us kiss with the tongues--I'll have you tickling my belly button from the inside all night long!"

It had never occurred to him until just then how unappealing the thought of sleeping with Camaline actually was. He doubted she would be responsive, or even willing out of anything other than wifely duty--surely she would never bat her pretty eyes his way and coo for him to 'Come to bed'. Nevertheless, he had to laugh. "Camaline would never say that."

"Not even on our wedding night?" demanded Searle-as-Camaline as Sparron relented and joined 'her' on the bed.

Grimacing, he shook his head. "Searle, can you stop talking in that high-pitched voice? It doesn't even sound like Camaline--or any other girl, for that matter."

"I know, but it's hard to stop." Searle cleared his throat, then pushed himself upwards into a proper sitting position. "Better?" he asked in his regular voice. Sparron nodded; triumphant, Searle slipped his arm around Sparron's waist and thrust out his arm in front of him. "Good. Now, good sir, you may begin with my hand."

Shrugging, Sparron mushed his lips together and did as he was told; that seemed harmless enough. He lowered his hand and looked to Searle for the verdict, which announced itself in the form of a nod. "Good--firm, yet tender. Now, what comes next?"

Sparron didn't answer--not because he didn't know, but he had just thought of something more important. "Searle, what if your father or someone walks in?"

The other boy snorted. "You think I didn't lock the door? My God, Sparron, you do insult my intelligence. Anyway, what comes next?"

He threw a quick glance toward the door and braced himself as he moved nearer--to his great surprise, however, Searle withdrew a couple inches. "Nuh-uh-uh! A gentleman always asks, you know."

Sparron sighed. He struggled for a moment to think of some moderately fine thing to say, then swallowed. "My sweet and radiant lady, might I request the honor of a kiss?"

Searle donned that same un-Camaline-like smile he'd teased him with earlier, then snapped his leg around Sparron's thighs and fell to the mattress, lurching Sparron along with him. "If you insist, my lord."

"Searle, what the hell?" He glanced down at the giggling youth below him and frowned.

But Searle continued to laugh. "Believe me, the best kisses are done in the horizontal position--why else do you thinking people always refer to 'rolling in the hay'? The rolling adds to the fun!"

"Rolling is sex, you idiot," Sparron corrected him, "and for the love of God, don't tell me you want to practice that next."

"Oh, just shut up and kiss me, you stupid prude." Searle placed his hands on Sparron's shoulders and yanked him downward; not wanting to prolong this any more than necessary, Sparron puckered his lips and pressed them to the younger boy's.

He did like kissing more than being kissed, he realized suddenly--he liked it, and he was damn good at it. He knew what do. He knew the necessary mechanics and he knew how to add his own personal touches. It was innate and natural and right--he was a fantastic kisser.

But he'd needed the feedback. Camaline had never responded to anything he'd given her, so he'd assumed her to be indifferent or even politely unimpressed. The other girls had tried a little harder, perhaps, but they too had failed to reciprocate in a way that told him anything. But Searle... maybe some people were born to be kissed. Searle was an active follower. His lips moved as Sparron's dictated and his tongue knew by instinct its most preferable destinations. He had his own little surprises too; Sparron would have never guessed that a tongue stroking the ridge of his back teeth could have produced such an intoxicating feeling. After this, he didn't think he'd need any more practice; he'd teach Camaline how to respond, and then everything would be all right.

Except now, he realized a minute or so too late, everything was all wrong.

Alarmed, he sprang back from atop Searle's form, hastily crossing his legs and putting as much distance between the two of them as possible. "You know what's fun? Staring at the wall."

"I agree." The was odd--Searle sounded almost as uncomfortable as he felt.

But he didn't want to think about comfort, or feeling. He just wanted to think about the wall. "That's nice paneling you've got there."

"Thank you. My mother picked it out."

"She was a woman of fine taste."

"That she was."

Why was an energetic kid like Searle willing to go along with this false conversation? Under any other circumstances, Sparron would have never noticed the paneling, but he knew himself to be more prone to such dull discussions than Searle; why was he playing along instead of pestering him about what was wrong?

Unless... Sparron allowed himself a brief glance at Searle's pelvis, where a suspicious tent-like fold provided the answer to his private musings. "Oh God, not you too!"

"Too?" Searle's eyes flickered toward the same region of Sparron's own anatomy. "Well, at least it's not just me. Let's just... keep this between the two of us, all right?"

A few seconds of queasiness overwhelming him, Sparron nodded. "You don't have to tell me."

Unsure as to what else he could do, he slinked toward the footboard until his head rested at the base of the pillow. He stared up at the chandelier and tried to imagine it swaying--spinning, falling, anything. "I can't go home like this."

"We can't even leave the room like this." Searle's hand fell to the mattress with a deft thud! "What are we going to do?"

Sparron pulled the blankets out from under his useless, broken body and concealed himself beneath them. "You go sit down on that chair over there. I'm going to work this off, and then I'm out of here--and don't expect to see me again any time soon. I've learned all you can teach me and I don't need you anymore"

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