America: Chapter 17
The Abernathy Trilogy
Abernathy, Abandon, America
by Kristen
America
Chapter 17
April, 1774
Brian
"Henrietta? You sent for me?" I say tentatively from the doorway.
"Yes, Brian, do come in."
I walk into the room, and sit down in a chair by the window. I'm not well acquainted with Henrietta's part of the house. Her rooms resemble mine in every respect but color. It's almost as though the architect designed half the house, then gave up and decided to mirror the other half by the first. All the furniture is the same, as is the layout of the room. But where I have an overabundance of blue, she is swimming in burgundy. I glance at the giant wine-red bedspread and wince, reminded of the awkwardness that is sure to come after the wedding.
Suddenly I hear a swish of fabric, and catch Rachel in the corner. I hadn't even noticed she was there. She glowers at me briefly before exiting the room, shutting the door loudly behind her. She's been cold to me since talk of weddings was first introduced, and I think she suspects me for the fraud that I am. Sometimes I've wondered whether I should at least attempt to pitch woo to Henrietta, at least when Rachel or Mrs. Carroll is around. But I don't have the stomach for it.
"I've finally heard from the chaplain," she says distractedly, rifling through some papers at her desk. "He said we might be married by St. John's Day."
"Oh...so soon?" I ask, smothering my immediate sense of dread at the news.
"It's over a month. That's quite a long time."
"Are you so anxious?" The words are out before I can close my mouth.
"Yes," she says, a bit flustered. "I suppose I am. After all, what is to be gained by waiting? Have you changed your mind?"
Yes! I want to scream. Yes, this was a horrible idea. Because I'm in love with someone else.
"No," is my actual answer. Coward. Justin's voice this time.
Justin
I wake the same as always, eyes searching the dark with passive interest, wondering where I am. A slight shift; I feel the warm body pressed against my back, and remember. I am in Amos' cramped wooden bed, the one he graciously offered to share with me. I refused at first, but when the floor became so cold that my shivering bones would knock against the floor in my sleep...I acquiesced.
Before long I become aware of the sound that roused me from sleep: a low, insistent moaning, muffled slightly by the thin wall in between. Too deep a voice to belong to Francis; it must be Ralph this time. I'm surprised they have the energy tonight after the long meeting. But then, perhaps the inflamed talk of revolution fevered their bodies as well as their minds.
Tonight's meeting was the third this week, and the second held in our-- Amos'-- flat. The numbers of attendees are growing rapidly. No longer only charged circles of idealistic young boys, these gatherings are now fully organized affairs, with a growing constituency of workers and tradesmen from every walk of life. Tonight there were even women in attendance.
The impetus for this upswing: four ships full of British soldiers landed in Boston a few weeks ago. With that news, everything changed. What once seemed a mischievous game to many colonists--dumped tea and illegally posted bills-- is quickly turning into a dangerous reality. The arrival of these solders was the final affront for many. Those who might have tolerated Britain's patronizing half-rule will not stand being beaten into submission. There is talk of uniting the colonies, of sending delegates to Philadelphia, even of arming ourselves.
The fervor of gestating revolution is not lost on my flatmates. From morning to night, there is talk of little else, and Beszick has us working extra hours delivering the "special" papers. The insurgent spirit has infected me as well, though I must admit that I am inspired equally by morality and by fear of the British soldiers themselves. But above all, this social upheaval has proven to be a very conveniently timed distraction. Sometimes I can even go a half-hour without thinking about Brian.
Tonight though, as my ears are filled with the primitive, muffled noises of lovemaking, it is more than my emotions can bear. Even my traitorous body is not immune; my member is stirring, inspired by the sounds, and by the memories of once making them. For a time I softly lie, willing my groin to desist as tears slip quietly in horizontal tracks across my cheeks.
I roll onto my back, (foolishly!) assuming that Amos was asleep. But, turning my head on the pillow, my eyes are met by his own, a ghostly pair glimmering in the darkness, watching me. The amorous sounds from the next room exist between us with an almost physical presence, dancing with the breath between our faces; taunting. Too loud to pretend we cannot hear them, too soft--too intimate--to laugh at.
Frozen by embarrassment, I can only watch as silently, calmly, he reaches up to wipe a tear off my warm cheek. At the contact, I crumble altogether. A horrible sob bursts from my throat, as fresh tears stream down to my ears.
Amos pulls me to him, my head against his chest, and wraps his slim arms around my shaking frame. He strokes my back softly, whispering sweetly unintelligible sounds into my hair. And, though it is horrible to think, this gesture...the warmth of human contact...is not without its effect. My member, pressed against his hip, is become painfully stiff, a solid reminder of my loneliness and need.
With compassionate sobriety, he guides me onto my back, and slowly pulls down my drawers. I watch as if from afar: my shaft springs out in readiness, and Amos settles himself next to me. Propped on one elbow, he watches my face unquestioningly as he takes me in his hand. The contact, so long missed, causes a cry to escape my lips. And in that moment, it doesn't feel wrong, or deceitful... All I feel is a warm, soft hand soothing me, like a salve on a painful wound.
It is over in seconds, and to his credit, he pretends not to notice the influx of new, remorseful tears that followed my release. He rolls onto his back once again and yawns once, a kind gesture indicating that he does not demand reciprocation. But of course I must give it, after everything he's done for me. And besides... I am long past the threshold of innocence now.
I reach under his waistband for his thick, smallish rod, warm and smooth in my trembling hand.
Abernathy, Abandon, America
by Kristen
America
Chapter 17
April, 1774
Brian
"Henrietta? You sent for me?" I say tentatively from the doorway.
"Yes, Brian, do come in."
I walk into the room, and sit down in a chair by the window. I'm not well acquainted with Henrietta's part of the house. Her rooms resemble mine in every respect but color. It's almost as though the architect designed half the house, then gave up and decided to mirror the other half by the first. All the furniture is the same, as is the layout of the room. But where I have an overabundance of blue, she is swimming in burgundy. I glance at the giant wine-red bedspread and wince, reminded of the awkwardness that is sure to come after the wedding.
Suddenly I hear a swish of fabric, and catch Rachel in the corner. I hadn't even noticed she was there. She glowers at me briefly before exiting the room, shutting the door loudly behind her. She's been cold to me since talk of weddings was first introduced, and I think she suspects me for the fraud that I am. Sometimes I've wondered whether I should at least attempt to pitch woo to Henrietta, at least when Rachel or Mrs. Carroll is around. But I don't have the stomach for it.
"I've finally heard from the chaplain," she says distractedly, rifling through some papers at her desk. "He said we might be married by St. John's Day."
"Oh...so soon?" I ask, smothering my immediate sense of dread at the news.
"It's over a month. That's quite a long time."
"Are you so anxious?" The words are out before I can close my mouth.
"Yes," she says, a bit flustered. "I suppose I am. After all, what is to be gained by waiting? Have you changed your mind?"
Yes! I want to scream. Yes, this was a horrible idea. Because I'm in love with someone else.
"No," is my actual answer. Coward. Justin's voice this time.
Justin
I wake the same as always, eyes searching the dark with passive interest, wondering where I am. A slight shift; I feel the warm body pressed against my back, and remember. I am in Amos' cramped wooden bed, the one he graciously offered to share with me. I refused at first, but when the floor became so cold that my shivering bones would knock against the floor in my sleep...I acquiesced.
Before long I become aware of the sound that roused me from sleep: a low, insistent moaning, muffled slightly by the thin wall in between. Too deep a voice to belong to Francis; it must be Ralph this time. I'm surprised they have the energy tonight after the long meeting. But then, perhaps the inflamed talk of revolution fevered their bodies as well as their minds.
Tonight's meeting was the third this week, and the second held in our-- Amos'-- flat. The numbers of attendees are growing rapidly. No longer only charged circles of idealistic young boys, these gatherings are now fully organized affairs, with a growing constituency of workers and tradesmen from every walk of life. Tonight there were even women in attendance.
The impetus for this upswing: four ships full of British soldiers landed in Boston a few weeks ago. With that news, everything changed. What once seemed a mischievous game to many colonists--dumped tea and illegally posted bills-- is quickly turning into a dangerous reality. The arrival of these solders was the final affront for many. Those who might have tolerated Britain's patronizing half-rule will not stand being beaten into submission. There is talk of uniting the colonies, of sending delegates to Philadelphia, even of arming ourselves.
The fervor of gestating revolution is not lost on my flatmates. From morning to night, there is talk of little else, and Beszick has us working extra hours delivering the "special" papers. The insurgent spirit has infected me as well, though I must admit that I am inspired equally by morality and by fear of the British soldiers themselves. But above all, this social upheaval has proven to be a very conveniently timed distraction. Sometimes I can even go a half-hour without thinking about Brian.
Tonight though, as my ears are filled with the primitive, muffled noises of lovemaking, it is more than my emotions can bear. Even my traitorous body is not immune; my member is stirring, inspired by the sounds, and by the memories of once making them. For a time I softly lie, willing my groin to desist as tears slip quietly in horizontal tracks across my cheeks.
I roll onto my back, (foolishly!) assuming that Amos was asleep. But, turning my head on the pillow, my eyes are met by his own, a ghostly pair glimmering in the darkness, watching me. The amorous sounds from the next room exist between us with an almost physical presence, dancing with the breath between our faces; taunting. Too loud to pretend we cannot hear them, too soft--too intimate--to laugh at.
Frozen by embarrassment, I can only watch as silently, calmly, he reaches up to wipe a tear off my warm cheek. At the contact, I crumble altogether. A horrible sob bursts from my throat, as fresh tears stream down to my ears.
Amos pulls me to him, my head against his chest, and wraps his slim arms around my shaking frame. He strokes my back softly, whispering sweetly unintelligible sounds into my hair. And, though it is horrible to think, this gesture...the warmth of human contact...is not without its effect. My member, pressed against his hip, is become painfully stiff, a solid reminder of my loneliness and need.
With compassionate sobriety, he guides me onto my back, and slowly pulls down my drawers. I watch as if from afar: my shaft springs out in readiness, and Amos settles himself next to me. Propped on one elbow, he watches my face unquestioningly as he takes me in his hand. The contact, so long missed, causes a cry to escape my lips. And in that moment, it doesn't feel wrong, or deceitful... All I feel is a warm, soft hand soothing me, like a salve on a painful wound.
It is over in seconds, and to his credit, he pretends not to notice the influx of new, remorseful tears that followed my release. He rolls onto his back once again and yawns once, a kind gesture indicating that he does not demand reciprocation. But of course I must give it, after everything he's done for me. And besides... I am long past the threshold of innocence now.
I reach under his waistband for his thick, smallish rod, warm and smooth in my trembling hand.