The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy
Chapter Five…
Simon almost vacated his skin, dropping the journal he was reading, as the sound of a throat being cleared came from somewhere to the left of him. He slyly slid his right hand down the side of the couch, then turned towards the throat clearer, who was leaning against the doorframe with arms folded in an enquiring manner.
“Hello, Ez, you scared me, creeping up on me like that.”
“What the hell are you doing down here at this hour, Simon?”
“I woke up and I couldn’t get back off. I didn’t want to disturb you,” he gave a charming smile, “so I thought I’d come down and read for a while. He pointed at the book he’d dropped on the floor. This diary thing is interesting, where did you find it?”
“I didn’t, you did when you were stomping about in the attic. It came down with the ceiling,” Ezra un-leaned himself and walked over to the couch. Heaving Simon to his feet, he lifted up the couch cushion where he’d been sitting and gathered something up.
Simon was dead. He knew he was dead, but he still made the attempt to dodge the funeral. Gazing into Ezra’s brown eyes he gave one of his angel smiles and a shrug. “They’ve probably been there for ages and ages. I’ll try to stop doing it. I know it’s a bad habit, stuffing rubbish under the cushions.” He began to edge towards the door. “I’m feeling sleepy again now, think I’ll...EZ!” He let out a howl of protest as his partner pounced. “I’m tired. I want to go back to bed, can’t we talk about this in the morning?”
“It is morning, three in the morning to be precise.” Holding a clutch of chocolate bar wrappers in one hand and Simon in the other, Ezra transported them all into the kitchen. He dropped the yellow wrappers into the pedal bin, counting them as he did so. “Six!” He gave Simon a fierce stare and repeated the number. “Six!” Keeping a tight hold of his hand he dragged him over to the kitchen drawer where he’d hidden six bars of Cadbury’s chocolate Flake. All were gone.
Simon’s stomach fluttered nervously as he noted the look on Ezra’s face. It was the look of a killer. “It wasn’t my fault,” he tried desperately to free his hand and find an excuse that would save him. “Honest, Ez, they threw themselves into my mouth. They made me eat them, it was chocolate suicide.”
Ezra obviously didn’t believe a word of it. Pulling out a kitchen chair he sat down, tugged down Simon’s shorts, turned him over his knee and at lightening speed delivered six blistering smacks to his bare backside, deepening the pale pink that lingered from earlier to a fresh bright red. He then returned him to his feet and pulled up his shorts.
“I only meant to snaffle one,” Simon squirmed, slipping both hands down the back of his shorts to rub his burning bottom. “I just got carried away. There was no need to kill me. I was going to replace them.”
“Oh that’s most kind of you I’m sure.” Ezra glared at him crossly, “but it’s hardly the point. It’s a wonder you haven’t been sick.” He stabbed a finger at his greedy little lover, “apart from the issue of avarice, I will not have you taking things in such a sneaky thief, unnecessary way! There’ll be no chocolate for you of any description for a fortnight.”
“That’s not fair,” Simon scowled, “stopping my chocolate isn’t fair not when you’ve just killed me. You can’t torture AND kill me!”
Ezra’s craving for a shouting fix overtook him. “I’LL BE THE JUDGE OF WHAT’S FAIR. NOW BRUSH YOUR TEETH AND GET BACK TO BED!”
Simon glared at him, “you’ll have a stroke or a heart attack yelling like that and you’ll wake the neighbours up.”
“I’ll have a stroke or heart attack living with you. As for the neighbours, they’ve woken me up often enough with their bloody lawn mowing and car washing activities on Sunday mornings. Now get moving up those stairs.” He elaborated the point with another firm slap to Simon’s bottom. “You’d better be minty fresh and in bed at least feigning sleep by the time I come up or that little rump of yours will really know what an act of murder feels like.”
Simon fled. Ezra saying things like that at two thousand decibels was not to be taken too seriously; it meant there was room for wheedlement. Ezra saying things like that in a normal voice was to be taken very seriously. It meant do or die and he’d died enough for one day!
Ezra went back into the sitting room in order to check that the fire was safe, muttering as he did so. Simon’s nocturnal pilfering in order to satisfy an extraordinarily childish greed annoyed him, not least because it was unnecessary. He would not deny him any of the things he liked but Simon just couldn’t seem to help himself, or at least he couldn’t seem to stop helping himself, and always furtively, hiding the evidence in the strangest places. Ezra had once found the wrappings from multiple bars of chocolate stuffed into the lavatory cistern, which explained why it was overflowing. He took chocolate biscuits, entire packets of them, chocolate ice cream, litre tubs of it, as well as the chocolate bars he adored, often gorging himself until he was sick. They’d talked about it and agreed that it was unacceptable behaviour. Ezra punished, Simon promised, but still the habit resurfaced from time to time.
Ezra shook his head, six full size bars, why the heck would he want to eat that much chocolate at any time, let alone at three in the morning. It was an obsession beyond his understanding. A sudden surge of guilt washed over him as he thought about Monday again. Perhaps he’d been too harsh. Perhaps it was a response to anxiety? He sighed, it was done now, he couldn’t un-spank Simon, and when all was said and done it was a disgraceful thing to do, regardless of the reasons.
Bending down he picked up the leather bound journal that Simon had dropped when he’d been caught out and put it on the coffee table. Straightening up, he swayed as an ice cold wave of nausea swept over him. Gripping the arm of the couch, he lowered himself down, his heart racing. Taking slow deliberate breaths he calmed himself. As the desire to be sick receded, it was replaced with something worse, the most abject feeling of despair and unhappiness that he’d ever experienced. He wanted to put his head in his hands and weep. Monday was obviously getting to him even more than he’d realised. Taking another determined deep breath he collected his wits and stood up, almost flat-lining as he saw an apparition standing in the doorway.
“Simon,” he growled, when his heart once again lurched into activity. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but haven’t I just told you to go to,” his voice changed tone, “what’s wrong, baby?” He hurried across to him. “You’re as white as a sheet. Are you feeling sick? It’s all that bloody chocolate. I swear, Simon, I’ll spank you until you can’t sit down if you do it again. How many more times do we have to go through this?”
“It’s not the chocolate,” Simon, trembling, moulded himself to Ezra. “I’m scared, I know it’s stupid, but I’m really scared.”
Ezra pulled him into a tight embrace, “everything will be fine, I promise.”
Simon twigged at once that they were on different paths. He shook his head impatiently, “not Monday. I’m not scared about Monday,” he wisely kept internalised the end of that train of thought. He wasn’t scared about Monday because as far as he was concerned it didn’t exist. “Ez, there’s someone upstairs in the attic. I heard them moving around.”
“Was that with or without the accompaniment of music,” asked Ezra, speaking over the top of Simon’s head. He kept his arms around him, but there was grim warning in his voice. “It’s late or rather it’s early and I’ve had enough of your games for one day. We’re going to bed, we’re going to sleep, is that very clear?”
“Don’t be angry, Ez, I promise I’m not trying to wind you up. I did hear something. I did!” He found himself suddenly held at arms length being observed by very cold brown eyes. How could a colour like brown look so chilly?
“I’m warning...”
Simon gave a combined cry of fright and pain as a tremendous bang suddenly echoed through the house, fright because the sound came from above them and pain because Ezra’s hands painfully squeezed his upper arms.
“What the hell was that?” Ezra headed for the door only to be halted as Simon grabbed the back of his bathrobe.
“Don’t, don’t go up there. It might be burglars. They might be armed. They’ll hurt you.” Simon’s face was stark white, the pupils of his eyes dilated.
“It’s okay, sweetheart, don’t panic,” Ezra soothed him. “I very much doubt that burglars would enter via the attic. You probably disturbed something when you were skulking about up there earlier. Stay here while I go and check it out.”
“No,” Simon mulishly shook his head. “I won’t stay here. I’m scared, but I’m not a coward. I’m not letting you go alone...it’ll look bad in the newspapers if you get murdered.”
Ezra kissed his cheek, “all right, my chick,” he gripped his hand reassuringly. “Let’s go and have a peep.”
Simon gave a small smile. “I bet you didn’t mean to make that pun.”
“What pun?” Ezra confirmed Simon’s suspicion.
Simon shook his head, “doesn’t matter.” He followed Ezra upstairs, standing on the landing watching as he climbed on a chair and flashed the torch up through the loft opening. He thought of their earlier conversation, about why they loved each other and smiled. Right now he loved Ez because he was reassuring him and had called him his chick. He liked being Ezra’s chick, amongst other things. He and Ezra were many things to each other.
Ezra flashed the torch up into both the official and unofficial attic opening. All was still, no sound, no movement. A fresh sprinkling of dust and plaster on the landing carpet seemed to verify the idea that something had been disturbed earlier and had finally toppled over. He stepped down from the chair. “Shame you left the loft ladder up there and came down by the unconventional route otherwise I could have had a better look. I’ll look tomorrow. I’m not hauling ladders out of the garage at this hour.” He waved the torch in Simon’s direction, “let’s get to bed and grab some sleep while we can. Have you brushed your teeth yet?”
Simon nodded.
“Let me smell your breath, see if it’s chocolaty!”
Simon sighed and moved towards the bathroom. Honestly some people were obsessed with dental hygiene. He brushed his teeth thoroughly with Ezra looming over him like the threat of rain.
Simon awoke first next morning. He’d dreamed. He tried to recapture the dream, but it was gone leaving only little blurs of sound and movement in his mind. He stretched and then turned on his side towards Ezra. Early sunshine streamed into the room, highlighting the chestnut depths in the brown hair. He studied his face admiring the strong jaw line shadowed with fine stubble, the straight prominent nose, the dark eyelashes and brows. He gently kissed and then nibbled the lobes of his ears, whispering, “are you awake, Ezra?”
“No.” Ezra lay still, eyes closed, one arm flung back over his head.
Simon kissed his mouth, teasing the tip of his tongue between his lips, “you awake yet, Ez?”
“No.”
Simon moved down to Ezra’s chest, kissing and tonguing his nipples, teasing them into small peaks. “You awake now?”
“Nope.”
Stifling a giggle Simon turned attention to Ezra’s naval, kissing and licking before moving down.
Ezra arched his back as Simon’s tongue and mouth began to work magic on his cock. He gave a husky moan. “Now I’m awake!” Seizing hold of Simon he turned him onto his back, straddling him, seeking his mouth and kissing him hard before pulling his t-shirt up and off.
Sex was good, hard and fast paced. Afterwards, supporting himself on his forearms, Ezra rested for a moment and then kissed Simon’s flushed face, “that was quite some wake up call.”
Simon grinned and reached to cuddle him.
Ezra gave a sharp cry of shock as the cuddle became a stranglehold and Simon’s nails dug painfully into his back.
Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011
tab_itha@hotmail.com
Showing posts with label The Antique Dealer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Antique Dealer. Show all posts
26 June 2011
Chapter Four - The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy
The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy
Chapter Four…
“Thanks for the lift, Ez,” Simon opened his eyes, grinning up at his noble Knight, “It saved my legs.”
There was a stunned second of silence.
“YOU WICKED LITTLE SWINE!” The noble Knight grabbed the sheets and flung them back. “You were awake all the time. I could have put my back out, carrying you up all those stairs.”
Simon let out a shriek of laughter, as he was snatched back out of bed and carried towards the door. “Ez, put me down, what are you doing, where are you taking me?”
“Back downstairs. You’re going to walk back up them; in fact you’re going to carry me up them. I’ll teach you to con me.”
Simon was almost crying with laughter by the time he was placed back on his feet at the bottom of the stairs.
Ezra glared at his partner through narrowed eyes, “come on then, prankster,” he stuck his arms out in front of him. “I’m waiting, carry me.”
“Okay,” Simon took a breath, managing to get his amusement under control. “I can do it, no sweat.” Gripping Ezra around the waist he heaved, nothing happened. He heaved again, still nothing. He broke once more into helpless laughter. “It’s no good, Ezra,” he wiped his eyes. “I can’t lift you up. I’ll have to wait until old age and infirmity render you weak and frail...your next birthday should see it!” He shot up the stairs two at a time, hurling himself on the bed seconds before Ezra caught up with him.
“Pest!” Ezra pulled Simon into his arms, kissing him thoroughly. “You can just go to sleep again, for real. I like you better asleep, you’re less trouble.”
“Love me though, don’t you?”
“Do you really have to ask that, Simon, after four years?”
“Yes,” Simon rolled away from him, lying on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. “People can stop loving you at any moment.”
Ezra lay on his side, tracing a finger down Simon’s delicately boned face. “I love you, Simon. I will never stop loving you, never.”
Simon turned his head to look at Ezra. Taking the hand that was stroking his face he kissed it, saying quietly, “until death us do part.”
“Don’t say that,” Ezra abruptly got up and began to undress.
Simon watched him moving around the room, “why do you love me?”
“I wonder sometimes,” Ezra pulled his top over his head and began unfastening his trousers. “I don’t know, Simes, I just do. Why does anyone love anyone else, desire, need, chemistry? I don’t know. It’s just how it is. The reasons don’t really matter, do they?” He folded his trousers and laid them on a chair, pulling off his socks and boxers he climbed into bed. “Why do you love me?”
“Who said I did?”
“Me,” said Ezra comfortably, turning off the bedside lamp.
Simon cuddled up against him. “I don’t know why I love you, I just know I do. Even when I hate you, I still love you. I loved you last night when we were watching that daft, sad film and I was trying not to cry, and you didn’t say anything and just put your arm round me. Like you said, the precise reasons don’t matter. You don’t love a person for one single reason anyway, it’s lots of things.”
They lay comfortably together, relaxed in a pre-sleep silence.
“What’s the matter?” Ezra jerked back to full wakefulness, as Simon half sat up in bed.
“Sssh, listen.”
“Listen to what?”
“I can hear someone laughing, and music, downstairs, can’t you hear it?”
“I can’t hear a thing,” Ezra pulled him back down. “You’ve wound me up enough today, Simes. No more jokes.”
“I’m not joking, I really did...”
“You were either just drifting into a dream, or you heard a car passing outside with its stereo blaring.”
“It wasn’t car stereo sort of music.” Simon frowned into the darkness, “it was old people’s sort of music.”
“So maybe some tearaway pensioners are out for a late night burn up in their reliant robin,” Ezra kissed his head and said firmly, “go to sleep, or you’ll be too tired to help out at the shop tomorrow.”
Simon settled down obediently and Ezra closed his eyes soon drifting off into a deep sleep. It didn’t last long. He awoke with a start, staring into the darkness for a few moments, the dream lingering in his mind. Reaching out a hand he sought the reassurance of touch, but the bed was empty and the sheet cold, just as it had been in his dream. He quickly sat up; reaching for his robe, pulling it on he made his way downstairs.
Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011
http://www.fabianblackromance.com
Chapter Four…
“Thanks for the lift, Ez,” Simon opened his eyes, grinning up at his noble Knight, “It saved my legs.”
There was a stunned second of silence.
“YOU WICKED LITTLE SWINE!” The noble Knight grabbed the sheets and flung them back. “You were awake all the time. I could have put my back out, carrying you up all those stairs.”
Simon let out a shriek of laughter, as he was snatched back out of bed and carried towards the door. “Ez, put me down, what are you doing, where are you taking me?”
“Back downstairs. You’re going to walk back up them; in fact you’re going to carry me up them. I’ll teach you to con me.”
Simon was almost crying with laughter by the time he was placed back on his feet at the bottom of the stairs.
Ezra glared at his partner through narrowed eyes, “come on then, prankster,” he stuck his arms out in front of him. “I’m waiting, carry me.”
“Okay,” Simon took a breath, managing to get his amusement under control. “I can do it, no sweat.” Gripping Ezra around the waist he heaved, nothing happened. He heaved again, still nothing. He broke once more into helpless laughter. “It’s no good, Ezra,” he wiped his eyes. “I can’t lift you up. I’ll have to wait until old age and infirmity render you weak and frail...your next birthday should see it!” He shot up the stairs two at a time, hurling himself on the bed seconds before Ezra caught up with him.
“Pest!” Ezra pulled Simon into his arms, kissing him thoroughly. “You can just go to sleep again, for real. I like you better asleep, you’re less trouble.”
“Love me though, don’t you?”
“Do you really have to ask that, Simon, after four years?”
“Yes,” Simon rolled away from him, lying on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. “People can stop loving you at any moment.”
Ezra lay on his side, tracing a finger down Simon’s delicately boned face. “I love you, Simon. I will never stop loving you, never.”
Simon turned his head to look at Ezra. Taking the hand that was stroking his face he kissed it, saying quietly, “until death us do part.”
“Don’t say that,” Ezra abruptly got up and began to undress.
Simon watched him moving around the room, “why do you love me?”
“I wonder sometimes,” Ezra pulled his top over his head and began unfastening his trousers. “I don’t know, Simes, I just do. Why does anyone love anyone else, desire, need, chemistry? I don’t know. It’s just how it is. The reasons don’t really matter, do they?” He folded his trousers and laid them on a chair, pulling off his socks and boxers he climbed into bed. “Why do you love me?”
“Who said I did?”
“Me,” said Ezra comfortably, turning off the bedside lamp.
Simon cuddled up against him. “I don’t know why I love you, I just know I do. Even when I hate you, I still love you. I loved you last night when we were watching that daft, sad film and I was trying not to cry, and you didn’t say anything and just put your arm round me. Like you said, the precise reasons don’t matter. You don’t love a person for one single reason anyway, it’s lots of things.”
They lay comfortably together, relaxed in a pre-sleep silence.
“What’s the matter?” Ezra jerked back to full wakefulness, as Simon half sat up in bed.
“Sssh, listen.”
“Listen to what?”
“I can hear someone laughing, and music, downstairs, can’t you hear it?”
“I can’t hear a thing,” Ezra pulled him back down. “You’ve wound me up enough today, Simes. No more jokes.”
“I’m not joking, I really did...”
“You were either just drifting into a dream, or you heard a car passing outside with its stereo blaring.”
“It wasn’t car stereo sort of music.” Simon frowned into the darkness, “it was old people’s sort of music.”
“So maybe some tearaway pensioners are out for a late night burn up in their reliant robin,” Ezra kissed his head and said firmly, “go to sleep, or you’ll be too tired to help out at the shop tomorrow.”
Simon settled down obediently and Ezra closed his eyes soon drifting off into a deep sleep. It didn’t last long. He awoke with a start, staring into the darkness for a few moments, the dream lingering in his mind. Reaching out a hand he sought the reassurance of touch, but the bed was empty and the sheet cold, just as it had been in his dream. He quickly sat up; reaching for his robe, pulling it on he made his way downstairs.
Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011
http://www.fabianblackromance.com
Chapter Three - The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy
The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy
Chapter Three
Simon slept, curled up on the couch with his head resting lightly on Ezra’s lap. He looked as peaceful as a child. In many ways he was a child. Not in years or intelligence, but because he had needs that were linked to the child part of his psyche. Residual needs that had not been met in childhood, so they were still there lurking within the adult persona, merging and evolving into behaviour patterns that could often be damaging to the man. Ezra smiled, lightly tracing his finger along the faint milky moustache that still adorned Simon’s upper lip from drinking the hot chocolate. They had spent the evening quietly together, playing chess and watching television.
His thoughts turned unbidden to Monday morning, dwelling on the possibilities that it contained and thinking about...he shut the emotion down, forcing a sudden rise of tears to stay where they were, behind his eyes. To shed them would be to give credence to his fear, to give it power and he would not do that. Everything, he stated firmly to himself, was going to be just fine. He would accept no less. He frogmarched his thoughts to different territory…back to the first time he’d set eyes on Simon.
Winter in London: beneath the pomp and circumstance it was dirty, squalid, much the same as it was in summer really, only colder. Ezra made the trip once, sometimes twice a month on business. He hated it and couldn’t wait to get away from the traffic, the noise, the pollution and the crowds. It hadn’t always been like that. Once upon a time Ezra had been in love with the Capital. He had a successful business in Camden Passage, granted it was not the top antiques sector of the Capital, but respected enough for him. For six, almost seven years he had lived the life that people in a busy city live and he had enjoyed it, or thought he had. Then, one wet November day he suddenly realised that the famous sights of London no longer charmed him. The galleries and museums had lost the power to entrance him, and even the exalted British Library had become simply a place for research purposes instead of pleasure. He was a man who had lost faith in city life. It was time to leave. He brought in a manager for the business and left the stifling atmosphere of London behind him with a sigh of relief.
He opened up another shop, a hobby shop, as his father called it, in a quiet, charmingly dilapidated Victorian seaside town in the North. It was closer to his roots. Sometimes a man needed to get back to his roots. It suited him, but still from time to time he tackled the city. He had to check over the business, do business and attend antique and book fairs, meet clients. Such was his life, such was he: a successful dealer in bygone articles, a self-made man. The archetypal working class boy made good.
Beggars were commonplace in London, as they are in most cities, but especially London. Tales of exciting opportunities, which of course were largely legend, drew them there…the wannabe’s for the most part stayed nobodies. To survive London one had to be strong, hard, determined…and partially inhuman. It was not for the weak and the fragile and yet it drew them like moths to the proverbial flame and destroyed them the same way.
Like most people who lay claim to basic feelings of pity and charity, Ezra dropped the odd coin into the beggar’s blankets, exchanged the odd word, moved on and forgot about them. Some of the faces became familiar and he tended to give them more, a false sense of trust and distant friendship arising from this familiarity. Some of the faces changed from month to month. Some were old, some young, and some hostile, others vacant. Some liked to exchange brief conversation with their benefactors, it helped them believe they still existed in the real world.
Simon was a new face. He was sitting on the cold ground outside Kings Cross with a grubby blue blanket draped across his lap. He was there one frosty morning when Ezra, who never drove to London, got off the early train. Dropping a few coins onto the blanket Ezra made to move on, but for some reason hesitated and looked more closely at the figure, which was shaking and shivering with cold, a harsh cough wracking its body. He looked appallingly young. Ezra almost asked how old he was, but caught himself. He knew that had the waif been younger than sixteen the police would have picked him up in one of their regular trawls for underage runaways.
There were no etiquette courses on how to strike up an appropriate conversation with a homeless person who had taken up begging as a living, so Ezra stuck to the crass, but kindly meant. He asked the figure if it was all right, which it very obviously wasn’t. It played the game and nodded. He asked if he could get it something, a hot drink? The figure had looked up at him eagerly from blue-green eyes framed with dense brown lashes. It asked for hot chocolate in a surprisingly cultured voice, pointing a shaky hand at a machine near the newsstand.
Ezra bought a cardboard cup of hot chocolate and as an afterthought also purchased a Cadbury’s chocolate flake from the newsvendor, who advised him not to bother as it only encouraged the idle, unwashed little buggers to go on begging. “ He’s probably got more money than you have, mate,” he snapped, banging Ezra’s change down on top of a pile of Financial Times. Somehow Ezra doubted it.
He squatted down to hand over the drink and chocolate, noting the feverish glow on the thin cheeks. Smiling slightly, he’d said, “I find it rather nice to stir the flake into the hot chocolate.” The figure had said nothing, gulping greedily at the hot sweet drink. Ezra was conscious of the beggar’s eyes following him as he walked towards the taxi that would take him to his hotel. He looked back as the taxi drove off and saw that the figure had unwrapped the chocolate bar and was engrossed in stirring it around the contents of the cardboard cup.
For some reason the boy came to his mind more than once over that weekend. He was there, a thought passenger, as he went about his business and small pleasures, at the theatre, in a small restaurant where he dined with an old friend, and laying awake in the hotel room with his old friend snoring gently beside him in the impersonal hotel bed.
The figure with the pretty eyes, and even the black circles beneath them could not spoil their beauty, was still there when Ezra returned to Kings Cross to catch his train home. He was shrouded in the blanket and huddled close to a wall seeking warmth as the afternoon temperature dropped. As Ezra approached the figure, it dragged itself upright, putting out a dirty hand to grab at his coat sleeve, croaking, “you’re the same as me. You like me, I could tell. Take me with you. I’m cheap. You can do whatever you want to me I won’t complain and I won’t charge much.”
Before a shocked Ezra could react, the boy had broken into tears, making babbled apologies and retracting his sordid offer. He slid back down to huddle on the ground, weeping and coughing. The man who ran the newsstand had called over and offered to call the police in order to remove the bothersome, scrounging scumbag. Declining the kind offer and abandoning all sanity, Ezra had gone to the ticket office and bought another ticket, an open return, and taken Simon, for so the figure was called, home with him.
The eyes were certainly pretty, but the body that housed them was not. It became heartbreakingly clear that Simon was not adept at life on the streets. He had not worked out how to survive it with any real ability. He didn’t know the best places to sleep or where to find regular food and places to wash. He didn’t seem to have been able to utilise the agencies that existed for people like him. He was not streetwise or clued up. He was covered with infected fleabites from the places he slept in and he was crawling with hair and body lice. He was also emaciated and on the brink of pneumonia. He would not have survived the winter without Ezra.
It wasn’t easy. Simon was not easy, but then neither was Ezra. They seemed to suit each other though, right from the start, in some ground level way. The return part of the train ticket lay unused until finally it expired. Then, one storm heavy night, a slender figure crept into bed beside Ezra, lifting his arm it had placed it carefully over itself, cuddling up against him. Ezra’s heart soared. The orchestra had been tuning up for weeks and this was its first clear note. The storm raged all night, playing a symphony that echoed their passionate lovemaking. In its wake came a calm and beautiful spring day. He and Simon were partners in the dance of life.
The coals in the grate shifted bringing Ezra’s thoughts back to the present. He glanced down at Simon, experiencing a surge of affection. As an antique dealer it was his job to spot treasure amongst rubbish. The beggar boy was the most valuable treasure he had ever found.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed eleven and Ezra got carefully to his feet, moving around the room, tidying up, making the fire safe, turning off the lamps. Then he lifted the still slumbering Simon into his arms and carried him upstairs to bed, tenderly tucking the sheets around him.
Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011
tab_itha@hotmail.com
Chapter Three
Simon slept, curled up on the couch with his head resting lightly on Ezra’s lap. He looked as peaceful as a child. In many ways he was a child. Not in years or intelligence, but because he had needs that were linked to the child part of his psyche. Residual needs that had not been met in childhood, so they were still there lurking within the adult persona, merging and evolving into behaviour patterns that could often be damaging to the man. Ezra smiled, lightly tracing his finger along the faint milky moustache that still adorned Simon’s upper lip from drinking the hot chocolate. They had spent the evening quietly together, playing chess and watching television.
His thoughts turned unbidden to Monday morning, dwelling on the possibilities that it contained and thinking about...he shut the emotion down, forcing a sudden rise of tears to stay where they were, behind his eyes. To shed them would be to give credence to his fear, to give it power and he would not do that. Everything, he stated firmly to himself, was going to be just fine. He would accept no less. He frogmarched his thoughts to different territory…back to the first time he’d set eyes on Simon.
Winter in London: beneath the pomp and circumstance it was dirty, squalid, much the same as it was in summer really, only colder. Ezra made the trip once, sometimes twice a month on business. He hated it and couldn’t wait to get away from the traffic, the noise, the pollution and the crowds. It hadn’t always been like that. Once upon a time Ezra had been in love with the Capital. He had a successful business in Camden Passage, granted it was not the top antiques sector of the Capital, but respected enough for him. For six, almost seven years he had lived the life that people in a busy city live and he had enjoyed it, or thought he had. Then, one wet November day he suddenly realised that the famous sights of London no longer charmed him. The galleries and museums had lost the power to entrance him, and even the exalted British Library had become simply a place for research purposes instead of pleasure. He was a man who had lost faith in city life. It was time to leave. He brought in a manager for the business and left the stifling atmosphere of London behind him with a sigh of relief.
He opened up another shop, a hobby shop, as his father called it, in a quiet, charmingly dilapidated Victorian seaside town in the North. It was closer to his roots. Sometimes a man needed to get back to his roots. It suited him, but still from time to time he tackled the city. He had to check over the business, do business and attend antique and book fairs, meet clients. Such was his life, such was he: a successful dealer in bygone articles, a self-made man. The archetypal working class boy made good.
Beggars were commonplace in London, as they are in most cities, but especially London. Tales of exciting opportunities, which of course were largely legend, drew them there…the wannabe’s for the most part stayed nobodies. To survive London one had to be strong, hard, determined…and partially inhuman. It was not for the weak and the fragile and yet it drew them like moths to the proverbial flame and destroyed them the same way.
Like most people who lay claim to basic feelings of pity and charity, Ezra dropped the odd coin into the beggar’s blankets, exchanged the odd word, moved on and forgot about them. Some of the faces became familiar and he tended to give them more, a false sense of trust and distant friendship arising from this familiarity. Some of the faces changed from month to month. Some were old, some young, and some hostile, others vacant. Some liked to exchange brief conversation with their benefactors, it helped them believe they still existed in the real world.
Simon was a new face. He was sitting on the cold ground outside Kings Cross with a grubby blue blanket draped across his lap. He was there one frosty morning when Ezra, who never drove to London, got off the early train. Dropping a few coins onto the blanket Ezra made to move on, but for some reason hesitated and looked more closely at the figure, which was shaking and shivering with cold, a harsh cough wracking its body. He looked appallingly young. Ezra almost asked how old he was, but caught himself. He knew that had the waif been younger than sixteen the police would have picked him up in one of their regular trawls for underage runaways.
There were no etiquette courses on how to strike up an appropriate conversation with a homeless person who had taken up begging as a living, so Ezra stuck to the crass, but kindly meant. He asked the figure if it was all right, which it very obviously wasn’t. It played the game and nodded. He asked if he could get it something, a hot drink? The figure had looked up at him eagerly from blue-green eyes framed with dense brown lashes. It asked for hot chocolate in a surprisingly cultured voice, pointing a shaky hand at a machine near the newsstand.
Ezra bought a cardboard cup of hot chocolate and as an afterthought also purchased a Cadbury’s chocolate flake from the newsvendor, who advised him not to bother as it only encouraged the idle, unwashed little buggers to go on begging. “ He’s probably got more money than you have, mate,” he snapped, banging Ezra’s change down on top of a pile of Financial Times. Somehow Ezra doubted it.
He squatted down to hand over the drink and chocolate, noting the feverish glow on the thin cheeks. Smiling slightly, he’d said, “I find it rather nice to stir the flake into the hot chocolate.” The figure had said nothing, gulping greedily at the hot sweet drink. Ezra was conscious of the beggar’s eyes following him as he walked towards the taxi that would take him to his hotel. He looked back as the taxi drove off and saw that the figure had unwrapped the chocolate bar and was engrossed in stirring it around the contents of the cardboard cup.
For some reason the boy came to his mind more than once over that weekend. He was there, a thought passenger, as he went about his business and small pleasures, at the theatre, in a small restaurant where he dined with an old friend, and laying awake in the hotel room with his old friend snoring gently beside him in the impersonal hotel bed.
The figure with the pretty eyes, and even the black circles beneath them could not spoil their beauty, was still there when Ezra returned to Kings Cross to catch his train home. He was shrouded in the blanket and huddled close to a wall seeking warmth as the afternoon temperature dropped. As Ezra approached the figure, it dragged itself upright, putting out a dirty hand to grab at his coat sleeve, croaking, “you’re the same as me. You like me, I could tell. Take me with you. I’m cheap. You can do whatever you want to me I won’t complain and I won’t charge much.”
Before a shocked Ezra could react, the boy had broken into tears, making babbled apologies and retracting his sordid offer. He slid back down to huddle on the ground, weeping and coughing. The man who ran the newsstand had called over and offered to call the police in order to remove the bothersome, scrounging scumbag. Declining the kind offer and abandoning all sanity, Ezra had gone to the ticket office and bought another ticket, an open return, and taken Simon, for so the figure was called, home with him.
The eyes were certainly pretty, but the body that housed them was not. It became heartbreakingly clear that Simon was not adept at life on the streets. He had not worked out how to survive it with any real ability. He didn’t know the best places to sleep or where to find regular food and places to wash. He didn’t seem to have been able to utilise the agencies that existed for people like him. He was not streetwise or clued up. He was covered with infected fleabites from the places he slept in and he was crawling with hair and body lice. He was also emaciated and on the brink of pneumonia. He would not have survived the winter without Ezra.
It wasn’t easy. Simon was not easy, but then neither was Ezra. They seemed to suit each other though, right from the start, in some ground level way. The return part of the train ticket lay unused until finally it expired. Then, one storm heavy night, a slender figure crept into bed beside Ezra, lifting his arm it had placed it carefully over itself, cuddling up against him. Ezra’s heart soared. The orchestra had been tuning up for weeks and this was its first clear note. The storm raged all night, playing a symphony that echoed their passionate lovemaking. In its wake came a calm and beautiful spring day. He and Simon were partners in the dance of life.
The coals in the grate shifted bringing Ezra’s thoughts back to the present. He glanced down at Simon, experiencing a surge of affection. As an antique dealer it was his job to spot treasure amongst rubbish. The beggar boy was the most valuable treasure he had ever found.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed eleven and Ezra got carefully to his feet, moving around the room, tidying up, making the fire safe, turning off the lamps. Then he lifted the still slumbering Simon into his arms and carried him upstairs to bed, tenderly tucking the sheets around him.
Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011
tab_itha@hotmail.com
Chapter Two - The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy
The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy
Chapter Two
“Please, Ezra,” Simon’s anguished voice reverberated around the bedroom, “it hurts, please stop, please, you’re killing me, you’re really killing me this time. I’m dying!”
Ezra continued with the act of murder, wielding the chosen weapon with unwavering determination. When he was certain that Simon was thoroughly dead he helped him from his lap and put him into bed, tucking the sheets around his nakedness. Placing the hairbrush back on the dresser, he picked up the damp towel from the bedroom floor and quietly left the room shutting the door behind him. He stood for a moment listening as muffled sniffles gave way to silence.
Putting the towel back in the bathroom, Ezra mopped up the mess that Simon had left. He could never have a bath or a shower without leaving small puddles on the floor. He then began to clear away some of the bigger pieces of attic and ceiling debris from the landing. There were several books lying among the dust and plaster, obviously ones that Simon had dragged from the mouldering boxes up there. He gathered them up. Taking them downstairs he stacked them on the coffee table, a cursory glance telling him they were nothing of great antiquity or value. Deciding to leave the vacuuming of the landing until later he went into the kitchen to make a coffee, mentally preparing himself to wait for the inevitable.
Back in the lounge he settled down on the sofa and picked up one of the attic books, a turgid romance set in sixteenth century Cornwall. Propping his feet on the coffee table he began to read. Ezra was one of those people who once they started a book would not even contemplate not finishing it. No matter how achingly dull it was he would go on to the bitter end, while indulging in what Simon termedcritical muttering.
As he read, and muttered, Ezra was conscious of the sun touching his shoulder and the side of his face, as it streamed in through the window. It was deceptive. Outside there was little warmth in its brightness, but the glass filtered out the chill giving the impression of a much warmer day. He turned the page and then started as something flashed at the peripheral edge of his vision, near the window. It was like the whirl of soft material in movement, but when he looked there nothing there. The deep green and gold drapes were tied stiffly back, motionless. He returned to his book, listening to the clock’s musical ticking.
An hour or so later the door was pushed open and he glanced up, saying mildly. “Who gave you permission to come downstairs?”
“I did.” Simon, still naked, stood in the doorway, neither in nor out of the room.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
Ezra made an offer he knew would be refused. “I have some rather charming twenty-first century cuddles on offer. They’re in excellent condition and completely free of charge, would you care for one?”
Simon scowled, wrapping his arms tightly about himself. “No,” his voice was petulant. “I don’t like cuddles, free or otherwise. Anyway, why would you want to cuddle someone you don’t like? It’s dishonest.”
Ezra gave his head a little shake. “I’m not in the mood for that particular game of proof and denial, Simon. I’m tired so let’s stop right here. If you’re intent on annoying me then consider it done. Go back to bed and stay there until you’re in a better mood.”
“But I’m bored up there on my own.”
“Tough!”
“You wouldn’t say that if you really liked me.” Simon fell silent, waiting for a reaction that didn’t come. Ezra had turned his attentions back to the book in his hands. Simon changed tack. “I’m hungry. I missed lunch.”
Ezra knew from experience that there was no point offering to get him food. None of it would be the right food. It would be rejected or flung across the floor. “You know where the kitchen is. Go and make yourself a sandwich if you want one and then go back to bed.”
Ezra turned the page as the sitting room door closed with a loud thump. Having read the second paragraph of chapter six three times, making no more sense of it the third time than he had the first, he laid the book aside with a sigh. “Brat block,” he muttered, “can’t concentrate with a brat block. Best to clear it.” Metaphorically picking up the ball that had been dropped into his part of the court, Ezra got up and headed for the kitchen, giving no indication that he’d noticed the goose pimpled figure sitting in the middle of the stairs.
Simon watched as Ezra disappeared into the kitchen without so much as a glance at him. He wondered what would happen if he poked his foot through the stair spindles and sent the vase on the hall table crashing to the floor. He sighed; he knew just fine what would happen. He’d get killed all over again. Ezra was strict about wanton destruction. His bottom was all too tender from the earlier slaughter and he kept his foot where it was. He sat shivering and feeling tragically and rather pleasurably sorry for himself. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass panel of the front door and he admired the shards of rich colour, blue, green and red that it sent dancing across the black and white tiled floor.
The kitchen door opened again and Ezra reappeared carrying a tray bearing a sandwich and a big mug of creamy hot chocolate. Simon watched him out of the corner of his eye, wondering if the hot chocolate had chocolate flake crumbled into it.
Ezra set the tray on the coffee table and then placed a few more coals in the grate. It was almost June but still cold enough to justify use of a fire. That done he headed into the hall and up the stairs, ignoring the figure huddled there. He collected a clean set of pyjamas and the hairbrush from the bedroom. On the way back down he collected Simon. Taking a firm hold of his hand he pulled him to his feet and marched him into the sitting room. “Put those on,” he ordered, thrusting the shorts and t-shirt into Simon’s hands. “I want no more bloody nonsense.”
Simon, conscious of the hairbrush that Ezra had clasped in his hand, did as he was told. He felt better as soon as he was clothed.
Ezra seated himself on the couch. “Come to me.”
Covering his bottom with both hands Simon shook his head.
Ezra smiled slightly, “don’t worry, your rump is safe. I just want to brush your hair. It’s sticking up all over the place.”
“Promise?”
Ezra gave a nod of assurance.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Simon closed his eyes as the brush was drawn through his hair restoring it to order. He gave a tiny sigh. It was like Ezra he suddenly thought, double sided, a source of comfort and chastisement, both gentle and harsh. The chastisement was over and tension flowed from Simon as he gave way to the comfort he knew was always waiting for him, and which he resisted, rejected and fought every inch of the way.
Ezra pulled the ebony brush gently through the fine, yet abundant corn coloured hair. He knew what Simon had wanted since coming downstairs. He wouldn’t ask for it. He denied and resisted his own needs, perhaps because he wasn’t certain where his exact needs lay, or whether he deserved to have them met. Ezra’s open offer of comfort had been rejected, as it always was, no matter how he formulated the words, command or request. Practical acts, Ezra had discovered, were often the way to bridge the no-man’s land between punishment and comfort that existed for Simon. Laying the heavy brush aside, he reached over Simon’s head, took the mug from the tray and placed it in his hands. “Drink up, honey bunch, while it’s still hot.”
Simon smiled. There was crumbled flake on top and it was all melted in, just the way he liked it. He drank greedily. A voice commanded him to eat and he ate, leaning against Ezra’s legs enjoying feeling his fingers stroke his hair at the nape of his neck. Draining the mug he set it on the tray and then brushed crumbs from his front and got up. Straddling Ezra’s lap he hugged him, savouring the combination of muted aftershave, coffee and the musky sexy sweetness of sweat breaking the grip of deodorant applied much earlier in the day. “I’m sorry about the ceiling, Ez. It was a stupid trick, dangerous and mean minded. I deserved to be punished.”
“That’s true,” Ezra gazed at him solemnly, “you did. What about the appointment?”
Simon dropped his gaze. “I’m not going. Everything is fine as it is.”
“You’re a naughty boy,” Ezra shook his head sadly. “I ought to spank you again and send you straight back to bed.”
Simon settled himself more comfortably on Ezra’s lap, saying confidently, “but you won’t.”
“You’re keeping that appointment, end of story, even if I have to drag you there kicking, crying and screaming.”
“You wouldn’t do that would you, Ez, you know how embarrassed I get when you behave like that in public?”
“I’m not joking, Simon.”
“When have you rearranged the appointment for?” Simon’s voice sounded distinctly sulky and he made to pull out of the embrace that held him, but the arms remained fast.
“Monday morning.”
“I’ll go on my own, there’s no need...”
“There’s every need,” interrupted Ezra sharply. “For one thing I want to make sure you get there. I’m warning you, my lad, any more nonsense and I’ll make sure you can’t sit down for a good long time.”
Simon abruptly changed the subject. “May I help out at the shop tomorrow?”
Ezra nodded. “Yes I’d like that, as long as you behave yourself. Don’t forget that my parents are coming through for Sunday lunch this weekend, so you’ll have to nip out and do some shopping. I think we’ll have lamb for a change. Dad’s partial to a bit of lamb.”
“Oh God, I’d blocked that out, can’t you find a way of putting them off?” Simon scowled ferociously. “Your mother will reel off a list of all her friends and relations that have died recently, along with gruesome details of what they died from. She’s like a combined pathology report and obituary column and your father always looks at me as if he’d like to strangle me.”
“That’s because he would like to strangle you,” said Ezra crisply, “and for good reason most of the time. I’m not putting them off. I don’t see them often enough as it is and neither of them is getting any younger. Incidentally if you’re rude to either one of them this time I’ll kill you right in front of them. I mean it, Simon. I swear I’ll bare your bottom and put you over my knee.”
Simon blanched “I’ll be good, Ez, I promise.”
“Delighted to hear it, and to think educationalists say the threat of CP doesn’t act as a deterrent.” Ezra pecked a kiss on Simon’s lips. “So, my beggar boy, what shall we do this evening?”
Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011
Chapter Two
“Please, Ezra,” Simon’s anguished voice reverberated around the bedroom, “it hurts, please stop, please, you’re killing me, you’re really killing me this time. I’m dying!”
Ezra continued with the act of murder, wielding the chosen weapon with unwavering determination. When he was certain that Simon was thoroughly dead he helped him from his lap and put him into bed, tucking the sheets around his nakedness. Placing the hairbrush back on the dresser, he picked up the damp towel from the bedroom floor and quietly left the room shutting the door behind him. He stood for a moment listening as muffled sniffles gave way to silence.
Putting the towel back in the bathroom, Ezra mopped up the mess that Simon had left. He could never have a bath or a shower without leaving small puddles on the floor. He then began to clear away some of the bigger pieces of attic and ceiling debris from the landing. There were several books lying among the dust and plaster, obviously ones that Simon had dragged from the mouldering boxes up there. He gathered them up. Taking them downstairs he stacked them on the coffee table, a cursory glance telling him they were nothing of great antiquity or value. Deciding to leave the vacuuming of the landing until later he went into the kitchen to make a coffee, mentally preparing himself to wait for the inevitable.
Back in the lounge he settled down on the sofa and picked up one of the attic books, a turgid romance set in sixteenth century Cornwall. Propping his feet on the coffee table he began to read. Ezra was one of those people who once they started a book would not even contemplate not finishing it. No matter how achingly dull it was he would go on to the bitter end, while indulging in what Simon termedcritical muttering.
As he read, and muttered, Ezra was conscious of the sun touching his shoulder and the side of his face, as it streamed in through the window. It was deceptive. Outside there was little warmth in its brightness, but the glass filtered out the chill giving the impression of a much warmer day. He turned the page and then started as something flashed at the peripheral edge of his vision, near the window. It was like the whirl of soft material in movement, but when he looked there nothing there. The deep green and gold drapes were tied stiffly back, motionless. He returned to his book, listening to the clock’s musical ticking.
An hour or so later the door was pushed open and he glanced up, saying mildly. “Who gave you permission to come downstairs?”
“I did.” Simon, still naked, stood in the doorway, neither in nor out of the room.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
Ezra made an offer he knew would be refused. “I have some rather charming twenty-first century cuddles on offer. They’re in excellent condition and completely free of charge, would you care for one?”
Simon scowled, wrapping his arms tightly about himself. “No,” his voice was petulant. “I don’t like cuddles, free or otherwise. Anyway, why would you want to cuddle someone you don’t like? It’s dishonest.”
Ezra gave his head a little shake. “I’m not in the mood for that particular game of proof and denial, Simon. I’m tired so let’s stop right here. If you’re intent on annoying me then consider it done. Go back to bed and stay there until you’re in a better mood.”
“But I’m bored up there on my own.”
“Tough!”
“You wouldn’t say that if you really liked me.” Simon fell silent, waiting for a reaction that didn’t come. Ezra had turned his attentions back to the book in his hands. Simon changed tack. “I’m hungry. I missed lunch.”
Ezra knew from experience that there was no point offering to get him food. None of it would be the right food. It would be rejected or flung across the floor. “You know where the kitchen is. Go and make yourself a sandwich if you want one and then go back to bed.”
Ezra turned the page as the sitting room door closed with a loud thump. Having read the second paragraph of chapter six three times, making no more sense of it the third time than he had the first, he laid the book aside with a sigh. “Brat block,” he muttered, “can’t concentrate with a brat block. Best to clear it.” Metaphorically picking up the ball that had been dropped into his part of the court, Ezra got up and headed for the kitchen, giving no indication that he’d noticed the goose pimpled figure sitting in the middle of the stairs.
Simon watched as Ezra disappeared into the kitchen without so much as a glance at him. He wondered what would happen if he poked his foot through the stair spindles and sent the vase on the hall table crashing to the floor. He sighed; he knew just fine what would happen. He’d get killed all over again. Ezra was strict about wanton destruction. His bottom was all too tender from the earlier slaughter and he kept his foot where it was. He sat shivering and feeling tragically and rather pleasurably sorry for himself. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass panel of the front door and he admired the shards of rich colour, blue, green and red that it sent dancing across the black and white tiled floor.
The kitchen door opened again and Ezra reappeared carrying a tray bearing a sandwich and a big mug of creamy hot chocolate. Simon watched him out of the corner of his eye, wondering if the hot chocolate had chocolate flake crumbled into it.
Ezra set the tray on the coffee table and then placed a few more coals in the grate. It was almost June but still cold enough to justify use of a fire. That done he headed into the hall and up the stairs, ignoring the figure huddled there. He collected a clean set of pyjamas and the hairbrush from the bedroom. On the way back down he collected Simon. Taking a firm hold of his hand he pulled him to his feet and marched him into the sitting room. “Put those on,” he ordered, thrusting the shorts and t-shirt into Simon’s hands. “I want no more bloody nonsense.”
Simon, conscious of the hairbrush that Ezra had clasped in his hand, did as he was told. He felt better as soon as he was clothed.
Ezra seated himself on the couch. “Come to me.”
Covering his bottom with both hands Simon shook his head.
Ezra smiled slightly, “don’t worry, your rump is safe. I just want to brush your hair. It’s sticking up all over the place.”
“Promise?”
Ezra gave a nod of assurance.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Simon closed his eyes as the brush was drawn through his hair restoring it to order. He gave a tiny sigh. It was like Ezra he suddenly thought, double sided, a source of comfort and chastisement, both gentle and harsh. The chastisement was over and tension flowed from Simon as he gave way to the comfort he knew was always waiting for him, and which he resisted, rejected and fought every inch of the way.
Ezra pulled the ebony brush gently through the fine, yet abundant corn coloured hair. He knew what Simon had wanted since coming downstairs. He wouldn’t ask for it. He denied and resisted his own needs, perhaps because he wasn’t certain where his exact needs lay, or whether he deserved to have them met. Ezra’s open offer of comfort had been rejected, as it always was, no matter how he formulated the words, command or request. Practical acts, Ezra had discovered, were often the way to bridge the no-man’s land between punishment and comfort that existed for Simon. Laying the heavy brush aside, he reached over Simon’s head, took the mug from the tray and placed it in his hands. “Drink up, honey bunch, while it’s still hot.”
Simon smiled. There was crumbled flake on top and it was all melted in, just the way he liked it. He drank greedily. A voice commanded him to eat and he ate, leaning against Ezra’s legs enjoying feeling his fingers stroke his hair at the nape of his neck. Draining the mug he set it on the tray and then brushed crumbs from his front and got up. Straddling Ezra’s lap he hugged him, savouring the combination of muted aftershave, coffee and the musky sexy sweetness of sweat breaking the grip of deodorant applied much earlier in the day. “I’m sorry about the ceiling, Ez. It was a stupid trick, dangerous and mean minded. I deserved to be punished.”
“That’s true,” Ezra gazed at him solemnly, “you did. What about the appointment?”
Simon dropped his gaze. “I’m not going. Everything is fine as it is.”
“You’re a naughty boy,” Ezra shook his head sadly. “I ought to spank you again and send you straight back to bed.”
Simon settled himself more comfortably on Ezra’s lap, saying confidently, “but you won’t.”
“You’re keeping that appointment, end of story, even if I have to drag you there kicking, crying and screaming.”
“You wouldn’t do that would you, Ez, you know how embarrassed I get when you behave like that in public?”
“I’m not joking, Simon.”
“When have you rearranged the appointment for?” Simon’s voice sounded distinctly sulky and he made to pull out of the embrace that held him, but the arms remained fast.
“Monday morning.”
“I’ll go on my own, there’s no need...”
“There’s every need,” interrupted Ezra sharply. “For one thing I want to make sure you get there. I’m warning you, my lad, any more nonsense and I’ll make sure you can’t sit down for a good long time.”
Simon abruptly changed the subject. “May I help out at the shop tomorrow?”
Ezra nodded. “Yes I’d like that, as long as you behave yourself. Don’t forget that my parents are coming through for Sunday lunch this weekend, so you’ll have to nip out and do some shopping. I think we’ll have lamb for a change. Dad’s partial to a bit of lamb.”
“Oh God, I’d blocked that out, can’t you find a way of putting them off?” Simon scowled ferociously. “Your mother will reel off a list of all her friends and relations that have died recently, along with gruesome details of what they died from. She’s like a combined pathology report and obituary column and your father always looks at me as if he’d like to strangle me.”
“That’s because he would like to strangle you,” said Ezra crisply, “and for good reason most of the time. I’m not putting them off. I don’t see them often enough as it is and neither of them is getting any younger. Incidentally if you’re rude to either one of them this time I’ll kill you right in front of them. I mean it, Simon. I swear I’ll bare your bottom and put you over my knee.”
Simon blanched “I’ll be good, Ez, I promise.”
“Delighted to hear it, and to think educationalists say the threat of CP doesn’t act as a deterrent.” Ezra pecked a kiss on Simon’s lips. “So, my beggar boy, what shall we do this evening?”
Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011
Chapter One - The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy
The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy
Chapter One
“SIMON!”
“Crap!” Simon shot to his feet as the front door crashed open and his name was bellowed in a tone of voice that suggested the bellower was in the mood from hell. In the process of becoming vertical he dislodged the box of books he’d been poking through sending them scattering across the attic floor. “Double crap!” He cursed as he cracked his head on a low attic beam. “Treble crap and fuck,” he glanced at his watch. The dark hour was upon him. Ah well, it was no more than he expected. He waited.
“SIMON!” The bellower began pounding up the stairs, “WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?”
Simon took a deep breath, and prepared to make known his location.
“JUST WAIT UNTIL I LAY HANDS ON YOU!”
On second thoughts, he hastily hauled up the loft ladder, best to pretend he wasn’t here. Hopefully Ezra wouldn’t think of looking in the attic and would go away and come back again when his fury had abated.
“SIMON, I KNOW YOU’RE IN HERE SOMEWHERE,” agitated footsteps prowled the upper floor. “I CAN SMELL YOU!”
He could not! Simon indignantly sniffed under his arms, nope fresh as a...well, maybe a shower later.
“You’re not supposed to be up there. Come down.”
Simon gulped as the voice floated through the attic opening. It had stopped yelling, not always a good sign. He put an ingratiating note into his voice. “Hello, Ezra, I’m sorry. I lost...”
“Don’t talk, just come down here so I can kill you.”
“No, I’m not coming down until you promise to be sweet and forgiving.”
“Very well. I promise to be sweet and forgiving, now come down.”
“You’re lying.”
“I never lie.”
“Yes you do. You lied last week, at the war museum. You promised faithfully not to kill me if I came out of that Bleriot X1, but as soon as we got home you killed me. It wasn’t fair. I was only looking at the controls. That’s why you go to museums, there’s no point going to museums if you can’t look at the exhibits without getting killed.”
“That Bleriot was a fragile piece of aviation history. It was also suspended twenty feet above the ground from a couple of cheese wires, and I still don’t know how you managed to get into it. You’re lucky that you weren’t killed for real. Death at my hands was gentle in comparison, now get down here.”
“You’re always killing me.” There was more than a hint of a whine in Simon’s voice. “And usually after promising not to. You even killed me for cooking you a meal a few weeks ago.”
“Are you still bearing a grudge for that?” Ezra manfully resisted an urge to yell again. He rather enjoyed yelling, it was better than turning to drink or medication as a stress reliever. However, his doctor had suggested less shouting might be a good thing as he was in danger of developing nodules on his vocal chords. He continued calmly. “Actually, the promise I made concerned not killing you if you came out of the wardrobe you’d locked yourself in, and I kept that promise. I didn’t kill you for locking yourself in the wardrobe, nor did I actually kill you for cooking me a meal. I killed you for setting fire to a rare first edition Victorian cookery book that I had lined up for a collector. You have been told on any number of occasions not to touch the more valuable books, or, if there’s something of interest you particularly want to look at, like a recipe, you obtain my permission, and photocopy it carefully. You do not take the original book into the kitchen and lay it on top of the Aga. Stop prevaricating, Simon, and get down here.”
“Not until you listen to the reason why I was late.”
“LATE!” Ezra ignored all medical advice, breaking into bellowing mode once again, “YOU DIDN’T TURN UP AT ALL. I WAS LEFT SITTING THERE LIKE A MELON!”
“Lemon.”
“WHAT?”
“ I think the word you’re looking for is lemon, Ezra, not melon. Lemons are the fruit commonly associated with incidents of human embarrassment or foolishness.”
There was a brief silence as Ezra digested this helpful information, then.
“I’M IN NO MOOD FOR ANAGRAMS!”
Simon grinned and then risked a small peep through the attic opening. It didn’t look good, Ezra’s colour that is. It had a puce tint of intense rage about it. The traffic must have been heavy on the way home. Heavy traffic did nothing for Ezra’s complexion, especially if he was vexed to begin with. He pulled a face as he observed his partner’s fingers moving towards his tie. Damn, unfastening of the tie was an indication that blood pressure levels were still hovering in the nuclear zone. Death by fall out looked imminent, unless he could avert it. He spoke sternly. “Are you done barking and bawling, can I unplug my ears and have my say now?”
“Oh very well, trot out your excuse.” Ezra’s volume returned to normal levels as he unfastened his tie, and reached for his top collar button. “Say what you like. I’m still going to kill you. I’ve been looking forward to killing you all the way home. It’s the only thing that kept me sane during those bloody hold ups on McMillan bridge.”
“I had a bit of time to spare before setting off, so I thought I’d just pop up into the attic and have a quick poke around. The Estate Agent said there was lots of interesting boxes up here and I thought it was about ti...”
“Shut up!” Ezra suddenly abandoned all efforts to undo his over tight collar button. He’d just remembered what the Estate Agent had omitted to say was in the attic. It only came to light in the surveyor’s report. Besides boxes of junk there were patches of chronic dry rot in the wooden floor, which they had not yet got around to having treated.
“That’s not very polite.” Simon pouted. “You said I could...”
“Get down, now, do you hear me, now.” Ezra’s voice was firm. “Put the ladder down and get out. It’s not safe, watch where you’re placing your feet, avoid the...”
There was a sudden loud crack followed by a tearing sound and a scream that made Ezra’s blood run cold. He stood for a moment blinking dust and snowflakes of paint and plaster out of his eye. His vision cleared, taking in the figure lying prone on the landing. Heart hammering with shock and fear, he flung himself down on his knees, brushing splintered wood and plaster from Simon’s body. “Oh God, Simes, baby.” He began gently examining his limbs, there seemed no damage that he could detect, no blood anywhere, breathing regular, no apparent head injury, why then was he unconscious? Gathering him into his arms, he begged, “Simon, speak to me, say something.”
“Oops,” the blue green eyes opened, sparkling with mischievous laughter. “Clumsy me.”
“You horrible little sod!” Ezra let him drop back onto the floor.
“Love me though, don’t you?” Simon propped himself up on an elbow.
Ezra immediately picked up the inflection in the voice that made a question rather than a statement out of the words. “Yes, I do.” He rose to his feet, pulling Simon up with him. He wrapped arms around his waist, “are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.” Simon wound his arms around Ezra’s neck, feeling happily in control of the situation. “Probably a bruise or two to come out, but otherwise intact.”
“I don’t want you going up there again, not until it’s been made safe.” Ezra glanced around at the debris. “My God,” he took a shaky breath. “You were lucky. Another inch or two to the right and you could easily have plunged over the ruddy banister and that would have left a fine mess on the hall tiles.” He kissed the dusty figure tenderly, he’d already swallowed enough dust and grime, a little more wouldn’t matter and then he began vigorously brushing Simon down with his hands. “You look like the mummy from a thirties horror film, all grey dust and cobwebs.” He suddenly stopped brushing, a flint edge creeping into his voice. “You’re not dressed. You’re still in your sleep shorts and t-shirt. You never had any intention of keeping that appointment, did you, Simon.”
“I did, Ezra, honestly,” Simon looked at him guilelessly. “As I said, I just went into the attic for a quick poke around. I know I shouldn’t have, not when I was alone in the house, but I did it for you. I thought you’d be pleased if I found some old books or maps that you could sell in the shop. There’s loads of stuff up there, Ez, and I did find a box of books. I started flipping through them and I lost track of...you’re going to kill me aren’t you?”
“Look me in the eye, Simon, look me in the eye and tell me you genuinely meant to keep that appointment.”
“Which eye would you prefer me to look in, the left or right one?” Simon regretted the words the moment they left his lips. Sometimes he hated his mouth, it insisted on saying things that were never in tune with the moment.
Ezra dusted the seat of Simon’s shorts, clearing ceiling debris from them with one sharp smack, then he pointed wordlessly towards the bedroom.
Simon immediately moved towards the bedroom. He knew when Ezra was to be obeyed without argument. Ezra yelling wasn’t really scary, Ezra yelling was, well, just Ezra. Ezra wordless was terrifying. In the bedroom he took up position in front of the Edwardian dresser, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt, resisting an urge to reach a hand back to rub the sting that Ezra’s hand had left on his bottom.
Closing the bedroom door and folding his arms, Ezra gazed at Simon for an hour-long minute before speaking. “I’ve rebooked the appointment, you will attend it.”
Simon’s sea coloured eyes shone defiance. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to go. I won’t go, just like I didn’t go today.”
“So you did miss the appointment deliberately. You planned it. All those promises were just to keep me off your case.”
Simon stuck his chin out at an aggressive angle, “your obsession with this appointment could have gotten me badly hurt.”
“Elaborate.” Ezra fixed steady eyes on his partner.
“That accident I just had wasn’t an accident,” there was childish triumph in the voice. “I wanted to scare you and make you forget all about the bloody appointment, so I stamped on a rotten patch on the attic floor. I knew what would happen.”
“Go and have a shower, Simon, go on, you’re filthy. I don’t want you spreading muck everywhere.”
Simon remained where he was, determined to take his moment of defiance as far as it could go. “I think it best that you don’t mention this appointment again, who knows where it could end.”
Ezra began to count in a slow, calm voice. By the time he counted out eight the sound of running water reached his ears. He removed his jacket, shaking dust and flakes of plaster and paint from it, hanging it over the back of a chair, pulling his tie loose from his collar. He stripped off, changing into chinos and a long sleeved top, raking his fingers through his hair to dislodge dust and particles of plaster before re-combing it. Then he sat on the dressing table stool, waiting.
Freshly showered, fragrantly damp, silently sulky, Simon walked back into the bedroom clad only in a white bath towel, water still trickling in little rivulets from his hair. Taking the towel from him, Ezra silently dried his hair off with it, and then picking the hairbrush up from the dresser, he took hold of Simon’s hand and led him over to the bed.
Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011
Chapter One
“SIMON!”
“Crap!” Simon shot to his feet as the front door crashed open and his name was bellowed in a tone of voice that suggested the bellower was in the mood from hell. In the process of becoming vertical he dislodged the box of books he’d been poking through sending them scattering across the attic floor. “Double crap!” He cursed as he cracked his head on a low attic beam. “Treble crap and fuck,” he glanced at his watch. The dark hour was upon him. Ah well, it was no more than he expected. He waited.
“SIMON!” The bellower began pounding up the stairs, “WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?”
Simon took a deep breath, and prepared to make known his location.
“JUST WAIT UNTIL I LAY HANDS ON YOU!”
On second thoughts, he hastily hauled up the loft ladder, best to pretend he wasn’t here. Hopefully Ezra wouldn’t think of looking in the attic and would go away and come back again when his fury had abated.
“SIMON, I KNOW YOU’RE IN HERE SOMEWHERE,” agitated footsteps prowled the upper floor. “I CAN SMELL YOU!”
He could not! Simon indignantly sniffed under his arms, nope fresh as a...well, maybe a shower later.
“You’re not supposed to be up there. Come down.”
Simon gulped as the voice floated through the attic opening. It had stopped yelling, not always a good sign. He put an ingratiating note into his voice. “Hello, Ezra, I’m sorry. I lost...”
“Don’t talk, just come down here so I can kill you.”
“No, I’m not coming down until you promise to be sweet and forgiving.”
“Very well. I promise to be sweet and forgiving, now come down.”
“You’re lying.”
“I never lie.”
“Yes you do. You lied last week, at the war museum. You promised faithfully not to kill me if I came out of that Bleriot X1, but as soon as we got home you killed me. It wasn’t fair. I was only looking at the controls. That’s why you go to museums, there’s no point going to museums if you can’t look at the exhibits without getting killed.”
“That Bleriot was a fragile piece of aviation history. It was also suspended twenty feet above the ground from a couple of cheese wires, and I still don’t know how you managed to get into it. You’re lucky that you weren’t killed for real. Death at my hands was gentle in comparison, now get down here.”
“You’re always killing me.” There was more than a hint of a whine in Simon’s voice. “And usually after promising not to. You even killed me for cooking you a meal a few weeks ago.”
“Are you still bearing a grudge for that?” Ezra manfully resisted an urge to yell again. He rather enjoyed yelling, it was better than turning to drink or medication as a stress reliever. However, his doctor had suggested less shouting might be a good thing as he was in danger of developing nodules on his vocal chords. He continued calmly. “Actually, the promise I made concerned not killing you if you came out of the wardrobe you’d locked yourself in, and I kept that promise. I didn’t kill you for locking yourself in the wardrobe, nor did I actually kill you for cooking me a meal. I killed you for setting fire to a rare first edition Victorian cookery book that I had lined up for a collector. You have been told on any number of occasions not to touch the more valuable books, or, if there’s something of interest you particularly want to look at, like a recipe, you obtain my permission, and photocopy it carefully. You do not take the original book into the kitchen and lay it on top of the Aga. Stop prevaricating, Simon, and get down here.”
“Not until you listen to the reason why I was late.”
“LATE!” Ezra ignored all medical advice, breaking into bellowing mode once again, “YOU DIDN’T TURN UP AT ALL. I WAS LEFT SITTING THERE LIKE A MELON!”
“Lemon.”
“WHAT?”
“ I think the word you’re looking for is lemon, Ezra, not melon. Lemons are the fruit commonly associated with incidents of human embarrassment or foolishness.”
There was a brief silence as Ezra digested this helpful information, then.
“I’M IN NO MOOD FOR ANAGRAMS!”
Simon grinned and then risked a small peep through the attic opening. It didn’t look good, Ezra’s colour that is. It had a puce tint of intense rage about it. The traffic must have been heavy on the way home. Heavy traffic did nothing for Ezra’s complexion, especially if he was vexed to begin with. He pulled a face as he observed his partner’s fingers moving towards his tie. Damn, unfastening of the tie was an indication that blood pressure levels were still hovering in the nuclear zone. Death by fall out looked imminent, unless he could avert it. He spoke sternly. “Are you done barking and bawling, can I unplug my ears and have my say now?”
“Oh very well, trot out your excuse.” Ezra’s volume returned to normal levels as he unfastened his tie, and reached for his top collar button. “Say what you like. I’m still going to kill you. I’ve been looking forward to killing you all the way home. It’s the only thing that kept me sane during those bloody hold ups on McMillan bridge.”
“I had a bit of time to spare before setting off, so I thought I’d just pop up into the attic and have a quick poke around. The Estate Agent said there was lots of interesting boxes up here and I thought it was about ti...”
“Shut up!” Ezra suddenly abandoned all efforts to undo his over tight collar button. He’d just remembered what the Estate Agent had omitted to say was in the attic. It only came to light in the surveyor’s report. Besides boxes of junk there were patches of chronic dry rot in the wooden floor, which they had not yet got around to having treated.
“That’s not very polite.” Simon pouted. “You said I could...”
“Get down, now, do you hear me, now.” Ezra’s voice was firm. “Put the ladder down and get out. It’s not safe, watch where you’re placing your feet, avoid the...”
There was a sudden loud crack followed by a tearing sound and a scream that made Ezra’s blood run cold. He stood for a moment blinking dust and snowflakes of paint and plaster out of his eye. His vision cleared, taking in the figure lying prone on the landing. Heart hammering with shock and fear, he flung himself down on his knees, brushing splintered wood and plaster from Simon’s body. “Oh God, Simes, baby.” He began gently examining his limbs, there seemed no damage that he could detect, no blood anywhere, breathing regular, no apparent head injury, why then was he unconscious? Gathering him into his arms, he begged, “Simon, speak to me, say something.”
“Oops,” the blue green eyes opened, sparkling with mischievous laughter. “Clumsy me.”
“You horrible little sod!” Ezra let him drop back onto the floor.
“Love me though, don’t you?” Simon propped himself up on an elbow.
Ezra immediately picked up the inflection in the voice that made a question rather than a statement out of the words. “Yes, I do.” He rose to his feet, pulling Simon up with him. He wrapped arms around his waist, “are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.” Simon wound his arms around Ezra’s neck, feeling happily in control of the situation. “Probably a bruise or two to come out, but otherwise intact.”
“I don’t want you going up there again, not until it’s been made safe.” Ezra glanced around at the debris. “My God,” he took a shaky breath. “You were lucky. Another inch or two to the right and you could easily have plunged over the ruddy banister and that would have left a fine mess on the hall tiles.” He kissed the dusty figure tenderly, he’d already swallowed enough dust and grime, a little more wouldn’t matter and then he began vigorously brushing Simon down with his hands. “You look like the mummy from a thirties horror film, all grey dust and cobwebs.” He suddenly stopped brushing, a flint edge creeping into his voice. “You’re not dressed. You’re still in your sleep shorts and t-shirt. You never had any intention of keeping that appointment, did you, Simon.”
“I did, Ezra, honestly,” Simon looked at him guilelessly. “As I said, I just went into the attic for a quick poke around. I know I shouldn’t have, not when I was alone in the house, but I did it for you. I thought you’d be pleased if I found some old books or maps that you could sell in the shop. There’s loads of stuff up there, Ez, and I did find a box of books. I started flipping through them and I lost track of...you’re going to kill me aren’t you?”
“Look me in the eye, Simon, look me in the eye and tell me you genuinely meant to keep that appointment.”
“Which eye would you prefer me to look in, the left or right one?” Simon regretted the words the moment they left his lips. Sometimes he hated his mouth, it insisted on saying things that were never in tune with the moment.
Ezra dusted the seat of Simon’s shorts, clearing ceiling debris from them with one sharp smack, then he pointed wordlessly towards the bedroom.
Simon immediately moved towards the bedroom. He knew when Ezra was to be obeyed without argument. Ezra yelling wasn’t really scary, Ezra yelling was, well, just Ezra. Ezra wordless was terrifying. In the bedroom he took up position in front of the Edwardian dresser, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt, resisting an urge to reach a hand back to rub the sting that Ezra’s hand had left on his bottom.
Closing the bedroom door and folding his arms, Ezra gazed at Simon for an hour-long minute before speaking. “I’ve rebooked the appointment, you will attend it.”
Simon’s sea coloured eyes shone defiance. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to go. I won’t go, just like I didn’t go today.”
“So you did miss the appointment deliberately. You planned it. All those promises were just to keep me off your case.”
Simon stuck his chin out at an aggressive angle, “your obsession with this appointment could have gotten me badly hurt.”
“Elaborate.” Ezra fixed steady eyes on his partner.
“That accident I just had wasn’t an accident,” there was childish triumph in the voice. “I wanted to scare you and make you forget all about the bloody appointment, so I stamped on a rotten patch on the attic floor. I knew what would happen.”
“Go and have a shower, Simon, go on, you’re filthy. I don’t want you spreading muck everywhere.”
Simon remained where he was, determined to take his moment of defiance as far as it could go. “I think it best that you don’t mention this appointment again, who knows where it could end.”
Ezra began to count in a slow, calm voice. By the time he counted out eight the sound of running water reached his ears. He removed his jacket, shaking dust and flakes of plaster and paint from it, hanging it over the back of a chair, pulling his tie loose from his collar. He stripped off, changing into chinos and a long sleeved top, raking his fingers through his hair to dislodge dust and particles of plaster before re-combing it. Then he sat on the dressing table stool, waiting.
Freshly showered, fragrantly damp, silently sulky, Simon walked back into the bedroom clad only in a white bath towel, water still trickling in little rivulets from his hair. Taking the towel from him, Ezra silently dried his hair off with it, and then picking the hairbrush up from the dresser, he took hold of Simon’s hand and led him over to the bed.
Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011
The Antique Dealer and The Beggar Boy
This story was inspired by lighthearted discussions with friends, in which we observed that in discipline fiction Tops do not shout, they never raise their voices, it’s a kind of no-no area. I immediately felt compelled to create a Top who often resorted to high decibel conversation.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
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