Dillon

Sonata in C Major

The challenge was to write a short story which (1) takes place - at least for a part - in Paris, (2) includes a game of chess and (3) involves a snorkel but not in water.

René Gespard pushed through the turnstile, student ID in hand, violin case strapped across his back, and turned right out of the RER station at Fontenay-aux-Roses [commune in the southwestern suburbs of Paris. It is located 8.6 km (5.3 mi) from the center of Paris]. Although it was faster to walk up the Rue Marx Dormoy, René much preferred to cross the tracks on the pedestrian bridge and twist along the paths of the greenway. Here, away from the screech of the commuter train and the buzz of the cars, he could collect his thoughts; the only sounds to disturb him were the melodic call of the birds and the occasional tinkle of a bicycle bell. And, by the time he had reached the Rue des Bernards, he had dinner planned.

He turned left as he emerged from the greenway, the bustle of the busy street energizing him. With a bounce in his step, he stopped first in the patisserie and, after a friendly exchange with the owner, – he was, after all, well known to and well-liked by all the venders on the street – he left with two baguettes warm from the oven. After that, it was a quick stop in the Franprix. The last stop was his most difficult as it was the most critical. There he talked M. Robert, the boucher, carefully explaining his idea. René had learned to cook from his grandfather who lived in the south of France where the cuisine was more rustic, and René often had trouble getting the local grocers and butchers to understand the dish he was trying to create. M. Robert was one of the first to take him seriously and René returned to him religiously ever since.

M. Robert rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Ah oui. Tu veux quelque chose pour une casserole. Quelque chose qui va aller avec une sauce brune." (Ahh, yes. You want something for a casserole. Something that will go with a brown sauce.) And, a few moments later, René bounced out of the butcher shop with half a kilo of fresh chicken thighs.

He cut across the Rue des Bernards and onto the pedestrian walk between the Mediathéque and the Pariosee du Saint Pierre et Saint Paul, then past the ecole he had attended up until last year. There, small groups of boys and girls were scattered about playing ball or jumping rope. Then, leaping the waist-high, chain link fence, he sauntered through the small park. Here he slowed; taking his time, enjoying the happy chatter of the small fountain and the shrieks of the children on the swings. The park was only a few blocks from the apartment where he lived and René had practically grown up here. It was in this park that his father had taught him to ride a bicycle and it was for that reason that René had avoided the park for so long. But time had eased the pain of his father's passing. Now, six years past, he found that the park just brought back good memories.

Leaving the park René was bouncing once again, and, eventually unable to contain himself, he sprinted the last few meters to his building, dashed through the front door and raced up the stairs to the apartment he shared with his mother. Coming around the last corner he stopped, smiled, and almost danced. It was there, just as he anticipated. A package wrapped in brown paper stood proudly in front of the door. René snatched it up with a grin, turned his key in the latch, and went inside. Once inside he dumped his book bag on his bed and carefully put his violin on its stand by his desk. Then he took the rest of the bags into the kitchen.

He stood with the package in his hand wondering what to do next. He could hear the precious liquid as it sloshed in its bottle. The package was addressed to him, but he hated to leave his mother out of the excitement. Finally he could stand it no more, and, grabbing a small paring knife from a drawer, he sliced through the paper, then opened the top of the box and pulled out the bottle.

It was beautiful; a bottle of a nouveau Gaillac from his grandfather's vineyard in the Tarn Valley. His grandfather knew how much René savored his wines and so he knew it would have been one of the first his grandfather had bottled. The tawny colored wine sparkled in its clear, wide shouldered bottle. René held it to the kitchen window and marveled at its clarity. He set it down on the counter, determined to open it when his mother came home, but, as he began to unpack his purchases, the bottle kept calling to him. He was allowed to have a glass in the evening but he always had it with his mother as they ate dinner. Still, this wine was special. His grandfather had confided many times over the course of the summer how perfect the weather had been. René, himself, had walked between the rows of vines with his grandfather and tasted the fat grapes as they hung dewy and heavy in the gold of the morning sun.

Steeling himself to ignore the wine, René went back to preparing dinner, starting by taking out a packet of Espagnol sauce from the freezer, putting it into a small saucier, and putting the saucier over a gentle flame on the stove. He had prepared the sauce this last weekend just for this day and frozen it. Then he began to peel and thinly slice his potatoes.

René had entered a rhythm, and so it was some time before he realized how quiet the apartment was. But when he did realize it, he smiled again. Music! He must have music!

What should it be? What should it be? René thought as he drummed his fingers on the kitchen counter. René's mood and his energy called to be matched by something modern. He considered Stravinsky but that seemed a bit too chaotic for his mood. He could go American; Copland and Gershwin seemed like good choices. I could be nationalistic and go with Ravel! he thought, but Ravel, while close, just didn't seem right. René ran a finger down the spine of his CD collection, looking for that special something that called to him. Then he stopped at a sky blue jewel case and René knew he'd found it. And, moments later, the melodic opening to Jean Sibelius' Symphony No. 2 in D Major spilled into the apartment.

The first movement found the chicken washed and prepped. It was in his glass casserole and nestled in with the potatoes as the second movement developed. But then came the moment that René was waiting for the most and all work came to a stop. About five minutes into the second movement, the music quieted. René listened as a beautiful, airy melody built in the mid-voice strings while the high voice winds countered with a constantly re-ascending scale. The melody developed gently over the course of the next minute; René, his eyes closed, unconsciously fingered out the violin parts against his leg. Then, as the other instruments joined, René sighed and went back to work. While the entire symphony was glorious, those few bars were magical. He poured his brown sauce over the casserole and popped it into the oven.

Dinner was ready when his mother came in the door. René had the wine open and breathing. His grandfather told him it wasn't necessary with a new wine, but it gave René an excuse to handle the bottle once more. Perhaps he was prejudiced because it was his grandfather's, but René loved the sweet wine of that region; his mother preferring a drier Bordeaux. Closing his eyes, he swore he could taste the dry, chalky soil and the hard, summer sun. The wine was perfect for the dinner he had prepared.

It was probably his euphoria that kept René from noticing sooner, but eventually he became aware that the day would not end well. His mother was effusive in her compliments of dinner, and although he was pleased with both his effort and the fact that she noticed, she was much more complimentary than usual. That made him suspicious. He became more so when she probed solicitously about his day. Finally he decided to confront her.

"Qui est il, mama?" he finally asked with a scowl. (What is it, mom?)

"Qui est qui?" she replied innocently. (What is what?)

René just stared. His mother held his eyes, then looked down to take another bite.

"Vos cousin, Thomas, de retour demain." (Your cousin, Thomas, returns tomorrow.)

René felt his blood freeze. "Alor, j'm'en balance!" (So, I don't care!) He tried to make his voice sound breezy, but instead he sounded annoyed.

René's aunt, his mother's sister, had married an American and lived in Houston. His aunt had brought Thomas, her son and René's cousin, for a two week tour of France, or so the story went, but René sensed there was some sort of trouble in the family. Sunday, the day after tomorrow, the two flew back to Texas. They were returning to Paris tomorrow for a last goodbye and to catch their flight.

To say that René did not have a good impression of Thomas was an understatement. 'Bégueule', or 'prissy' was the perfect word to describe him, René thought. He was a small boy and astonishingly pale. The features of his face were as perfect as those of a doll and his eyes were a mesmerizing shade of blue. René thought he looked frail. His clothes, much more fitting for a middle-aged man, were always immaculate.

Although only eleven, and a year younger than him, René had gone out of his way to welcome Thomas when he had first arrived. He invited him to spend the night at his apartment, imagining the two of them discussing school, music, and girls. He had offered to introduce him to his friends. He had also offered to show Thomas around Paris. Instead, Thomas had chosen to spend all day moping around the apartment his mom had rented. René wasted one afternoon attempting to draw Thomas out, then gave up on the project.

And then the fight began. Well, to call it a fight wasn't quite right. René's mom had a way of asking for favors that really didn't allow for no as an answer. She had made plans for one last evening out with her sister and asked that René entertain Thomas. René recognized when he was boxed in, but fought back anyway. To be honest, he didn't have any special plans for Saturday. A girl that he liked, and with whom he had been involved with in some light petting, would be away for the weekend. And, to René, an afternoon and evening out in Paris on his mother's credit card had more appeal than spending the evening alone, even if it meant tolerating Thomas. Still he held firm, and eventually negotiated for a boxed set of Beethoven symphonies recently released by the New York Philharmonic along with his mother's promise to cover his expenses for the evening.

René spent a leisurely Saturday morning with a croissant with raspberry jam, a café au lait, and a somewhat lazy wank that concluded with a very nice orgasm. Then he repacked his school book bag with clothes for the night, grabbed his chess set off the shelf, and left. After a change of trains in Saint Michel, René got off at the Champs de Mars, walked back along the Seine for one block, and crossed the Pont d'Iéna to arrive at the Trocadéro.

He paused for a moment at the base of the large fountain and savored the scene. It was, beyond a doubt, his favorite spot in Paris. He loved the fountain and the gardens. He loved the crowds. He loved the carousel and the street vendors hawking their cheap reproductions of the Eiffel Tower. But mostly he loved the energy. The place seemed to vibrate with the bustle and excitement of the thousands who crowded it.

The cherry trees on the west side of the fountain were in bloom, so René headed there. He found an empty bench and spread out his chess set. Then he carefully folded and placed a five euro note under his king. Playing chess for money in the Torcadéro was forbidden, but René found that the gendarmes would generally ignore the fact that he did so if he was discrete. He was there for a few hours and made thirty euros, being seriously challenged only once.

Thomas was clearly in a better mood than when René saw him two weeks ago. He actually seemed pleased to see his older cousin and, it seemed to René, appeared to be trying to make up for their bad start. René had asked him, just out of politeness, about his travels, and Thomas had eagerly recited the details of his and his mother's trip. He had been especially excited about their time in the south of France and described in great detail the castles at Carcassonne, Payrepertuse, and Queribus. He got quite hysterical with laughter when describing a drive along the ocean south of Canet-en-Roussillon and their accidental encounter with a nude beach. In fact, Thomas' face turned quite red and he had hiccups for some minutes afterward. It made René smile to see him so excited.

René studied his cousin Thomas as the two rode the subway toward Saint Michel. The subway car was only moderately full since it was late on a weekend afternoon. A pair of musicians playing guitar and accordion had gotten off at the last stop. René watched as Thomas, still absorbed in the music, rocked in time and hummed quietly. His hair was thin and yellow blond, like corn silk. René liked the way it waved gently in the breeze that raced through the car. His face was unblemished even by a stray freckle; it seemed almost like porcelain. René also noticed a trace of downy hair above his lip and wondered if he had entered puberty.

After stashing his bag and chess set at the Thomas' apartment, he had taken him to most of the traditional tourist spots. René was especially pleased with Thomas' reaction to the Trocadéro, and he had stood back and laughed as the younger boy spun about in wonder, watching the amazing parade of expensive cars around the Place du 11 Novembre one moment, and gazing out at the Eiffel Tower the next. Thomas was amazed at the skateboarders that tore down the sides of the fountain achieving neck-breaking speeds. They had walked along the Champs-Elysées, spending time with their foreheads pressed against the glass of the Lamborghini dealership. And they had walked the steps to the top of the Arc de Triomphe and looked down through the glass viewing port at the people under the arch. Finally, growing footsore, the two boys agreed on one last stop before dinner.

"I thought it was bigger," Thomas remarked, standing in front of the Cathédrale de Notre Dame. Then he added quickly, turning to René, "Not that it isn't spectacular."

Inside, René avoided the typical circle the tourists made around the outer aisles and steered Thomas down the nave. Reaching the transept crossing he instructed Thomas to look straight up, placing his hands on the younger boy's shoulders to steady him for what he knew would come next.

Thomas gasped and rocked unsteadily on his feet. He would have fallen over if not for René. "Oh my god! It's so high!" he exclaimed.

But that was just a set up for what came next. Allowing a moment for Thomas to absorb the scale of the cathedral, René then spun him around so that he faced the rose window above west façade.

The late afternoon sun poured through the stained glass, past the pipes of the massive organ, and spilled color like from a can of paint onto the cathedral floor. Thomas stood rooted in the middle of the transept.

"It's beautiful," he said, dropping his eyes, then looking up once again. "I love stained glass windows. We have some in our church at home, but I've never seen anything like this."

"You love stained glass?" René asked, moving to the younger boy's side. Thomas nodded and René grinned. "Ahh 3; then, mon petit chou, I have something you must see."

René grabbed Thomas by the hand and led him out the northwest door of the cathedral. He raced west two blocks, twisting down the narrow streets of the Ile de la Cité, pulling Thomas behind him. Thomas balked as they approached a government building, its entrance flanked by soldiers with machine pistols.

"René, we can't go in there?" he whispered.

René shot him a confused look, then said haughtily, "Of course we can. This is my country, I go where I please," and he led Thomas past the soldiers who never looked at the boys twice.

René twisted through a courtyard, pulling Thomas along. He swept by a small ticket window with a short line of tourists, flashing his student ID as he went. A smiling guard opened a wooden door for them. Inside, René dove up a small spiral staircase. Then, pushing open a second door, he ushered Thomas inside.

Thomas stood just inside the door, his mouth agape. "Holy 3;" he started.

The boys were bathed in the most heavenly light imaginable. It was like being inside of a stained glass fishbowl. The walls of the cathedral were nothing but stained glass supported by no more than thin slivers of a polished blond wood overtop of stone.

René lead Thomas by the hand to the center of the cathedral. He watched as the magical light played across the pale skin of the smaller boy. He loved the way Thomas' eyes sparkled.

In a motion so natural it felt like they had been doing it for years, René stepped up close behind him, draped his arms over Thomas' shoulders and crossed them over Thomas' chest, and, at the same time, Thomas' arms came up and rested on René's. He felt the warmth of Thomas' body pressed against his own and felt the beat of his heart under his arms. Without thought, he buried his nose in Thomas' hair and breathed in. He slowly rotated with him as Thomas turned to take it all in. Thomas was silent. He could think of nothing to say. His eyes glistened with tears. Finally, after two complete circles, he spoke.

"What is this place?" he whispered, as if anything louder would shatter the beautiful glass and scare away the light.

"This, mon ami, is Sainte Chapelle. Where Notre Dame is the cathedral of the people, Sainte Chapelle is the cathedral of the king."

Sainte Chapelle was only about a third the size of its larger cousin, still the boys walked round and round, absorbed in the beauty of its glass. They chatted excited as they did, each pointing out interesting representations to the other. There was so much to see and much of the symbolism was beyond them. Still, Thomas could recognize most of the Bible stories depicted and René filled in those stories that reflected French history. Even when they didn't understand the story being told, they still appreciated the color and the artistry. Finally, the light began to fade and they left exhausted.

"Dinner?" René asked as they emerged into the evening.

"Yes, I'm starved," Thomas replied quickly.

"What shall it be? Shall I find something for us? It is your last night; it should be special"

Here Thomas hesitated. "Well 3; René, I love the food here, it's been great, but I don't think 3;"

René stepped back from Thomas and grinned. "But of course!" and he stepped forward, wove his arm into that of Thomas' and tugged him down the street. But again Thomas hesitated, pulling his arm free. René looked at him confused.

"Maybe we shouldn't 3; you know 3;" and Thomas gestured to his elbow and looked with concern up and down the street. René continued to look at him in confusion until suddenly he understood.

"Ahh 3; you Americans. In France, it is normal for friends to walk this way. It means only that we are close, not that we are lovers," and René held out his arm. Thomas looked at René carefully, then up-and-down the street again. Then he shrugged, locked arms with René once more, and allowed himself to be lead off.

The walk was short; a block to the Pont Saint-Michel; across the Seine; another block to the Rue de la Huchette. And there, once again, Thomas was amazed. If there was a cuisine not represented, Thomas did not know what it was. There was Italian, Greek, hotdogs and hamburgers, Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Thai, even Texas barbecue. And that was just on the first block, the Latin Quarter stretching further on to the south. The restaurants all stood shoulder-to-shoulder, and in front of each stood a waiter eager to extoll the virtues of the menu and to entice hungry passer-byes.

René and Thomas sat by the front window of a Mexican restaurant watching the throngs on the street pausing to read menus or to just bustle past. René pushed the triangle of a tortilla he had torn off through the remains of a hot, red sauce on his plate. The food had been exquisite, there was no denying it. It reminded him of Indian curry, a nice combination of heat and flavor. He swore he would remember the place and bring his mother. He watched Thomas from under his brow as he, in turn, watched the happy commotion outside the restaurant.

"You are much happier now," he remarked. Thomas turned to him, then looked down at his plate and chased a shred of lettuce around with his fork. René suspected that he saw Thomas' face redden, but he couldn't be sure in the candlelight.

"Yeah! Sorry about that," he continued to look away; at his plate; out the window; toward another couple a few tables away. "I'm afraid I was a bit of a shit when we first met."

René watched; not sure if he should ask more. Then Thomas turned to him, set his fork neatly beside his plate, and hid his hands in his lap. René could tell he was twisting them together.

"I have 3; had 3; no, have 3; well, I'm not sure 3; anyway, I have this friend back in Texas. Well 3; I want to have this friend 3;," here Thomas stopped, took a deep breath, then started again. "You see, we want to be friends, but my dad won't let us be. I guess that had me pretty upset. It's why my dad sent me here. He didn't want me seeing him."

René watched as Thomas looked out the window again. "I don't understand," he said softly. "Why could you not be friends?"

Thomas looked back down at his plate, then back at René, then back out the window. He pulled his napkin from his lap, refolded it and replaced it. Then he did it again. "Well, I guess it's complicated."

"Really?" René said. "Complicated or just something you don't want to talk about?"

"Oh 3; I don't know," and there was a pause. "Look, we were close and my dad just didn't like it. He didn't think he was right 3; I mean a good influence on me."

"You were lovers?"

Thomas' head snapped around. He studied René closely. René watched as Thomas blinked back tears. Then Thomas shrugged and looked back out the window.

The subway ride back was the opposite of the one earlier. This time, Thomas studied René. René knew because he watched Thomas through the reflection in the car window.

Both boys remained quiet, absorbed with their own thoughts, throughout the ride back and as they prepared for bed. René's choices were to sleep on the couch in the living room and accept that he would be woken when the boys' moms returned from their evening out or to stay with Thomas. Both boys agreed that sharing a bed was the better choice. They washed up and readied for bed.

"What's that?" Thomas asked, breaking the silence. René had pulled his chess set out of his book bag as he packed away his clothes.

"My chess set. I sometimes play in the park. Do you play?"

"I've played once or twice," he replied, a wisp of a smile crossing his lips. "You must be pretty good if you're playing in the park like that."

That made René smile. "I made thirty euros this morning," he said proudly.

"Really! Wow!" Thomas shuffled his feet.

"Do you want to play a game?"

"Aww 3; I don't think I'm good enough."

"You don't have to be good," René assured him. "It's just for fun."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure."

Looking back on the evening, René blamed Thomas' underwear for everything that followed. René hopped up on the bed and set the board up between them. René was in his red boxer briefs; Thomas wore a pair of traditional white briefs and a tee shirt. They fit tightly against his body and René was embarrassed and surprised to find himself stealing glimpses of Thomas' ass; it appeared surprisingly strong and firm. René found himself distracted as he arranged the pieces by the spot where Thomas' thighs disappeared into his briefs. The bleach white of his briefs made his thighs look more creamy than pale. René couldn't help but look at the front of Thomas' underwear and wonder what lay hidden there. The bulge was small, but still noticeable. René looked up as he placed the last pawn and noticed Thomas watching him.

"You're white; you start."

Thomas moved his hand out to a pawn but stopped. Keeping his eyes down on the board he said, "We should play for something."

"Oh, no, we can't do that," René said, dismissing the suggestion.

Thomas, his eyes still down, the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, replied, "Well 3; it doesn't have to be money; just enough to make the game interesting."

René began to grow suspicious. "Like what?"

"Ooo 3; I don't know 3; like maybe the loser has to do a favor of the winner's choice."

René wondered about this for a moment, but just then Thomas fidgeted and René was distracted by the way Thomas' thighs flexed. In the end, he couldn't remember if he agreed to the deal or not.

Thomas' opening move, pawn to queen four, was standard. René countered with pawn to king three.

Thomas shifted positions on the bed, raising his knees, spreading his legs, and planting his feet on either side of the board. René saw a small gap appear in the leg opening of Thomas' briefs and he looked sharply, hoping for a glimpse of Thomas' ass cheeks or perhaps even his balls. When his concentration returned to the game, he realized that several turns had transpired. He had been moving without thinking.

Thomas now had both of his knights out front. René had apparently countered with a knight of his own. The next moved confused René as Thomas brought his queen's bishop out. René studied the board, certain that he had seen this combination of moves before, but just then, Thomas reached down, put a finger in the leg hole of his briefs and scratched himself. René watched with keen interest. When Thomas was done, a small sliver of one of his testicles could be seen peeking out from the elastic. It was a nice pinkish brown and there seemed to be more drop to Thomas' balls than René had expected. Looking up, René realized that Thomas was again watching him, and he blushed.

When René returned his concentration to the game, he realized that he and Thomas had exchanged several moves. Thomas had sacrificed his bishop for one of René's knights and they had traded pawns in the center of the board. Thomas next crowded the center of the board with his knights. This confused René. He decided to play more conservatively, and so he castled his king on the king's side and he swore to keep his head in the game.

Once again Thomas reached down to adjust himself and René's eyes followed. This time Thomas appeared to be scratching himself, but his touch seemed to linger. And, when his hand came away, René thought that Thomas' bulge was clearly bigger. Suddenly René realized that he was starting to stiffen, and so he changed position and lay on his stomach. That's when all hell broke loose.

Thomas brought out his second bishop, which René countered with one of his own. Then, Thomas' queen swept into action, darting across the board to threaten René's king. René positioned his bishop for defense; Thomas took René's pawn with his queen. Suddenly René felt sick. The board, and Thomas' play, now made sense. It was Lasker vs. Thomas in 1912 and René was screwed; only twelve moves into the match and René was defeated. He could recreate the humiliating and futile run of Lasker's king across the board while Thomas slowly choked him, but he saw no need. Taking his index finger, he tipped his king over and admitted defeat.

The two boys sat quietly; René reviewed the match in his head. Thomas sat back on his hands, watched and grinned.

"You have played before!" René exclaimed.

"Once or twice," Thomas said. Then he added, "Candidate master, ranked fifth in the state of Texas. Probably should have told you." There was a silence as René stared at him, then they both laughed.

René cleaned up the chess set. When he turned back to the bed, Thomas had pulled off his tee shirt and was under the covers. René regretted that he could no longer see his legs. Flicking out the light, he crossed the room in the glow from the street and joined Thomas in bed.

Turning toward Thomas, hoping they would talk for a bit, René adjusted his pillow. As he did so, he felt something hard underneath it. Pulling it out, it took him a moment in the faint light to realize what it was.

"Ahh 3; this is one of those things for swimming in the ocean. A 3;" and here René struggled for the English word. "A snorkel." He suddenly felt it pulled from him as he wondered what it was doing there.

"Sorry. I 3; umm 3; forgot that was there," Thomas said.

"But why do you have a snorkel under your pillow?" René asked. He could see Thomas shrug as he stuffed it behind him between the bed and the wall. René could tell he was clearly embarrassed and that he didn't want to talk about it. He could only conclude it had some special meaning. Perhaps it was a gift from Thomas' friend in Houston.

"Have you forgotten?" Thomas asked, when he turned back to René.

"Forgotten what, mon ami."

"Forgotten my favor."

"Ahh 3; yes, I did. I'm sorry. What can I get you? Do you need water?"

"Well, I was thinking 3; " and here Thomas hesitated. "Well, ok, I guess water is ok."

"No, if there is something else you want, let me know. You won the bet."

"Well, I was hoping 3;"

René heard Thomas' voice drop in the darkness and so he waited. Then he said, "What is it you want, mon petit lapin? Your wish is my command." And he rubbed Thomas' arm.

"Remember you told me about kissing your girlfriend?"

"Yes."

"Well, I was hoping you would teach me how to kiss."

Both boys were laying on their side facing each other. René watched as Thomas dropped his eyes and made to turn away. Before he could, René took Thomas' chin in his hand and lifted his face. Then René leaned in and kissed him tenderly.

From just that one kiss, René found himself breathing heavily. He watched as Thomas looked at him, his eyes glittering with tears.

"Don't cry my love," he whispered, and he leaned in and kissed him again.

They parted for just an instant before they came together again. This time René's tongue found its way between Thomas' lips who seemed to gulp it in. René slid one arm underneath Thomas and his other circled under Thomas' arm and around his back. He pulled him close and kissed him again. Thomas rolled slowly onto his back from pressure by René who followed him, laying across his chest, his arms now underneath him. René felt Thomas' arms around him now. Both boys were breathing heavily, staring into each other's eyes, inches apart. Then they kissed again.

René wasn't sure what was happening, he only knew that he wasn't stopping. A small part of him told René that he should feel guilty, told him he should stop, but, to the rest of him, it just felt so right. He kissed Thomas' forehead, then gently on each eyelid, then across his cheek and down his neck. Then he was kissing Thomas on the lips once more.

The sheet began to tangle in their legs as they thrashed about and both reached the point of frustration at the same time. Breaking their kiss, they rose as one and both threw and kicked the sheet down to the bottom of the bed. One more brief kiss was all it took to convince them that getting rid of the sheet was not enough and two pair of hands began to frantically tug at each other's underwear. Both laughed as they realized they were making no progress, so Thomas laid back and lifted his hips. René pulled Thomas' underwear down to his knees where Thomas then kicked them off. Then he hungrily attacked René, pushed him onto his back, and yanked on his underwear. With René kicking and Thomas pulling, a pile of boy's underwear formed at the bottom of the bed along with the wadded up sheet.

René looked as Thomas sat by his knees and watched as Thomas studied him. Thomas ran his hands up and down René's thighs, his eyes hungry. Then he seemed to launch himself onto René and lay flat on him, his legs straddling the older boy. René ran his hands up Thomas' thighs and across his ass as Thomas threw his arms around René's neck and kissed him again. René felt Thomas begin to grind his groin against his own, their two cocks slipping against each other. René realized they were both getting sweaty and he felt the damp, dark heat that came from Thomas' anus as his fingers brushed over it. Then he threw his arms around Thomas' back and joined the rhythm of Thomas' thrusts.

"Hold them together," René directed in a ragged, desperate voice, and Thomas didn't need to ask what he meant. René felt Thomas' hand snake between them. He felt Thomas lift his hip slightly and watched as Thomas looked down to find both cocks and to grip them tightly together. René then began to join him in grinding together as Thomas lay flat against him once again. The two boys rocked together, the sweat building between them, their breaths mixing along with their tongues, when suddenly Thomas threw himself off and lay beside René, staring at the ceiling and panting. Then he was on his side, up on his elbow, his hand stroking René's chest.

"I want you inside me, please!" he begged. René stared back, knowing what Thomas wanted, but uncertain it was right. Yet his cock throbbed and what Thomas was suggesting was something that René wanted more than anything.

"I don't know, mon amour," he said with uncertainty. He wanted to say more, knew he should say more, knew he should say that it wasn't the type of sex to engage in causally, knew he should warn Thomas it would hurt, but his desire stopped him. And then Thomas made it all ok.

"Please let's do it. I've been practicing. I know I can do it. I want it so bad." His voice was pleading. And then he leaned in and gave René a deep kiss.

Thomas lay on the edge of the bed on his back, his knees pulled back to his shoulders. René stood before him, his cock glistening with a thin coat of petroleum jelly from a jar that Thomas had produced from the nightstand. René had already worked a slippery finger into Thomas' anus and Thomas had cooed in delight. Reassured, René lined himself up, then leaned over Thomas so that their faces were close.

"Tell me if hurts, mon amour, and I will stop," he whispered huskily. Thomas just nodded, wrapped his arms around René's neck and pulled him in for another kiss. At the same time, René pushed forward.

An "uff" came from Thomas as René entered him.

"I'm hurting you. I'll stop," René said quickly, although he didn't pull out. He felt he couldn't pull out.

"No, no, please don't. You don't understand. I've 3; I've been practicing. I've had stuff in me before. I always imagined how it would be with a real person and 3; well, I never imagined it would feel this good."

Reassured, René kissed him and began to slowly move in and out of Thomas.

"Ahh 3; yes, like that, but faster."

This request put René in a predicament. He had never felt anything this wonderful before. If he sped up at all, the moment would be over in seconds.

"Wank yourself as I fuck you, my love, and tell me when you are close."

René stood up straight to give Thomas room. Thomas, overwhelmed by the sensations in his ass and in his groin, reached down, wrapped his hand around his cock, and began to pull at it furiously.

In the end, it was not the prolonged, gentle, romantic coupling of experienced lovers; instead it was the rapid and fierce fuck of youth. But that was ok for both boys. Thomas pulled on himself for only a few short minutes before he announced that he was about to cum. René flew into high gear at that announcement, thrusting deeply and quickly, feeling the silky, hot heat that grabbed his cock and hearing the slap of his thighs and balls against Thomas' ass. He finished with his hands on the bed, leaning over Thomas, jamming his cock as hard and as far into the younger boy as he could, feeling the shudder that announced Thomas' orgasm at the same time as his own.

The warm, bright, early morning sun found a very content and worn out, René Gespard lying on his elbow, on his side, his back and his ass pressed against the cool plaster of the wall. The sheets were pulled up to his waist. Twice more the two boys had made love, each time with the same passion and ferocity as the first time.

René listened to his young lover as he finished washing up. He knew that Thomas' ass had finally started to get sore and that another fuck was out of the question. Still, it had been a whole two hours since they last had sex and he thought he might suggest that they give blow jobs a try.

He idly reached back to give his lower back a scratch when his fingers bumped up against something hard and cool stuffed between the mattress and the wall. He pulled the object out without much thought, without even turning around. It was the snorkel he had found earlier under the pillow. He found it curious that Thomas would be sleeping with such a thing. The only reason he could imagine it being there was that it had some special meaning to Thomas. Perhaps it was a gift from the friend that Thomas' father despised.

No, that made no sense. Who would be so 3; so 3; so unromantic as to give a gift like that? It couldn't be from a lover. Perhaps it was a gift from his grandfather. It seemed like an odd gift to be from a grandfather, but perhaps? Regardless, it must be from someone Thomas loved because sleeping with it under his pillow must mean that Thomas cherished it.

Suddenly he saw that Thomas had returned and René realized that he was openly, and carelessly, twirling the precious object around. Thomas pretended not to have noticed, but René saw the color in his cheeks.

"I'm sorry mon cher," he said apologetically. Thomas just waved his hand at him and busied himself with his suitcase. "I should not have treated something that means so much to you so carelessly," René continued, and he placed the snorkel carefully on the nightstand.

Thomas was looking at René in a way that was both sheepish and comical at the same time.

"What? Have I said something wrong?" he asked, afraid that he had offended Thomas.

Thomas looked at René quietly for a bit more, then down at his packing. Then, when he looked back again, there was a grin.

Thomas returned the clothes in his hand to his suitcase and crossed over to the bed. There he hesitated, looking at the snorkel. He picked it up and fingered it gently, then looked at René once more.

"Can you keep a secret?" he asked.

"But of course I can," René replied gently.

Thomas, still nude, climbed onto the bed, and, propping a pillow up behind him, leaned back against the wall. He then grabbed the jar of petroleum jelly from the nightstand and worked the hard end of the snorkel through the goo. After placing the jelly back carefully, he scooted down to bring his butt up. Then he reached down and spread his ass cheeks with one hand while the other carefully guided the end of the snorkel to his anus. And, with a gentle twisting motion, he inserted it part way in.

René watched this all with confusion. Whatever could this mean?

Thomas then began to take deep breaths like a diver preparing to head under water, each breath deeper than the last, until finally he took one as deep as he could before quickly clamping his mouth on to the snorkel's mouthpiece and exhaling. Then, when he had fully emptied his lungs, he released the mouthpiece and popped the snorkel from his ass.

René watched in stunned silence. It did not make sense. Thomas gave René a silent grin, his breathing returning to normal. At first all seemed normal and René was puzzled by the whole affair. Then he grew troubled as a strain appeared on Thomas' face. It started small, but grew. Thomas was clearly struggling. A blush crept into his cheeks and a small bead of sweat appeared on his forehead. René grew alarmed as Thomas' distress grew; the blush now trailing down his neck, a second bead of sweat appearing above his upper lip. Thomas' forehead furrowed with effort and his eyes shut tight. Then, just as René was about to insist that Thomas stop whatever he was doing, it happened.

The fart that burst from Thomas' ass was the most beautiful thing René had ever heard. Its form was that of a sonata and René recognized a key of C major. It began with a simple motif rather than a theme, like something Beethoven would have written in his middle years. It built a complex structure that was full of emotion, all from a few simple notes. The mid-section came in with a Rachmaninoff-like rumble, strong and full throated. It played forcefully in the low register while stately melodies fought in the upper voices. And, it ended light and airy, with the gentleness of a Debussy piano étude. René was only disappointed by the cadenza. He would have preferred something stronger, something like what Dvorak would write.

René sat in stunned silence; tears brimmed in his eyes. Thomas watched him anxiously. Finally he spoke.

"Oh my love, that was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard," he exclaimed. The two boys continued to stare at each other. Finally, neither one could stand it, and they fell together laughing harder than they ever had before; laughing until their sides ached, laughing until tears rolled from their eyes.

They lay side-by-side, staring into each other's eyes. Occasionally one or the other would giggle and then the two would laugh hysterically all over again. Then, with one last burst of inspiration, René sat up and cried, "Allumette! Allumette!" Realizing that in his excitement he had slipped into French, he struggled for the English word before he finally found it.

"Matches! Matches! We must have matches! Then we can play Handel's Music for the Royal Fireworks!"

The End