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NELL CROSSED THE CHARLES River, taking Storrow Drive west toward Newtonville. Asbjorn rode shotgun through the thick holiday traffic, paying attention to the lay of the land.
“Next time you go, you can just take the Green Line out and then take the bus or walk. It’s not far.” Owning a car in Boston was expensive – the cost of legal parking was easily a full third of a monthly rent.
Soon they made a left into an old residential neighborhood and wound their way to a house at the end of a dead-end street. It was one of those venerable structures that always turned out to be bigger on the inside than the outside. Its white paint complemented the requisite black colonial shutters, and a four-car carriage house was connected by a walkway sheltered under a shingled roof.
“Is this the dojo?” Asbjorn asked, eyeing the property with curiosity.
“No, that’s Kenny-sensei’s home. We’ll be here tomorrow for Thanksgiving, but today we’ll go straight to the school part. There’s a salle in the carriage house, but he teaches most of his classes at the Watertown YMCA. There wouldn’t be enough space otherwise.”
“What’s a ‘salle’?”
“A fencing hall. The word is French, but he does mostly Asian weapons. You’ll see.” Nell parked nose-in at the carriage house and they got out.
After entering through the side door, they removed their shoes and placed them under a wooden bench. “The rooms with the mirrors are where we change. Or have private lessons.”
Asbjorn looked around. The narrow hallway ended in a small office. A wall of trophies reflected in a large, wall-mounted mirror, and the functional sink and counter revealed that the room used to be a kitchen.
Nell bowed, entered, and checked the calendar above the desk. “Nobody else’s scheduled for today. It’s the day before Thanksgiving, is why. Asbjorn, the door on the right is where the men change. The left is the women’s, and that small door is the bathroom. See you in a couple of minutes.”
Asbjorn entered a bedroom-size space with a large stained-glass window. The walls were blue, the woodwork white and aged. Mirrors covered two walls. The fireplace mantle behind him held several trophies and a dying ikebana flower arrangement, and the scent of dying flowers mingled with a hint of sandalwood incense. Oriental artwork hung on the walls, interspersed with various weapons either hanging, or leaning in corners.
The weapons and the walls bore signs of frequent use. His eyes drifted to two Japanese watercolor landscapes above the fireplace. They looked old, but even their gilded frames showed signs of occasional abuse, as though they had been hit with accidental stray blows.
He dressed in his white gi and black obi, his special-occasion white hakama pants, and pulled the split-toe tabi socks on his feet.
The surfeit of weapons around him made him feel empty-handed.
He opened the door just as Nell emerged from the women’s changing room dressed in a gray kosode, black hakama, and white tabi. A real Japanese sword was slid through the black obi around her waist. Right next to it he saw a folded white paper fan.
“What’s the fan for, Nell?”
“It’s a sign of rank.”
Nell beckoned him to slip on a pair of zōri sandals and led their way outside, making use of the sheltered walkway.
Asbjorn noted the ordinary landscaping on the street side: a grouping of trees overgrown with ivy and several obligatory rhododendrons hugging the sides of the house. The private side of the walkway looked a lot more interesting. There was a little pond, large rocks, stunted shrubs, and trees. A Japanese stone lantern peeked from underneath a pine tree across the lawn.
He stopped, his ears picking up a sound he had not heard since Okinawa. “Is that... is that a shishi-odoshi?” The traditional deer-scare water fountain made of bamboo was out of sight, yet the sound of water and the clacking of bamboo against stone was unmistakably hypnotic.
“Yeah. George built that – you’ve met him at the warehouse. This used to be a farm, and Kenny-sensei’s landscaping the whole property into a Japanese garden. Come spring we always do blossom viewings here. You’ll see.”
“How does he find the time?”
“Hauling stones is one of many ways to keep in shape.”
The wooden stove in the carriage house emanated just enough heat, with wood stacked in a basket nearby. The long wall was covered with weapon racks, and the far wall contained a nook with a shinza. As they entered, Asbjorn followed Nell’s example and bowed. Nell lit a stick of incense, knelt, and opened the little shrine. Asbjorn had seen many shinza in Japan, a small altar where the spirit resided, often in a little wooden house much like the one her and always with various offerings of seasonal flowers and fruit.
“Let’s sit quietly while we wait,” Nell said, moving to her customary spot on the tatami mats. Her grace spoke of endless hours of training as she lowered herself into a seiza, removed her sword from her obi with all due ceremony, and placed it in just the right spot on her left side with practiced care. Asbjorn watched her eyes close as her breath steadied into an even rhythm.
Meditation was the furthest thing from Asbjorn’s mind. His eyes slid from one thing to the next, inspecting the contents of the room with unveiled curiosity. The garage doors had the appearance of shoji screens, their small windows allowing just enough light to enter. The weapons racks fascinated Asbjorn. There was the usual assortment of wooden swords and staves of various lengths, but also a three-sectional staff, nunchaku, the sickle-like kama, three yari spears, and a very real-looking polearm whose prongs were meant to break fine samurai steel. Two boat oars shared the wall with a sickle weapon with a chain and a steel ball attached – and a nantubo spear. It was the one and only genuine Okinawan fishing spear Asbjorn had ever seen outside of Okinawa, and he felt his heart leap in excitement.
The door opened and Asbjorn stood just as Nell did, both of them bowing to Ken Swift, who filled the whole doorway. He was dressed in black and gray. His kosode was embroidered with his dojo mon in five places. He wore a small sword in his belt and carried another one in his left hand.
After returning their bow, he crossed the space silently, knelt, and bowed to the shinza. The he turned and bowed to them again, and Asbjorn suddenly had a sense of being transported to a different time and place. The smell of leaf mold and smoke from the outside mingled with the sandalwood incense, and the room felt a bit on the cool side despite the fire in the stove. Shadows seemed to dance on the walls like warriors of elder days, comingling his Viking heritage with his chosen Japanese path. He inhaled, taking it all in.
Nell introduced them. There was very little need for words. The two men measured one another with a long, mutual gaze, and their body language immediately seemed to reflect a sort of a mutual agreement.
Ken-sensei’s eyes were halfway shut, his weathered face softened by the indirect lighting as he moved to sit across from Asbjorn, still on his knees. He lifted the sword, holding it horizontally at his eye level, the gnarled fingers of his left hand lightly supporting the gleaming, lacquered saya that protected the razor-sharp blade while his right hand folded around the sword handle. Asbjorn noted the belly of the sword pointing up and toward Ken-sensei, who bowed his head to it.
He then met Asbjorn’s eyes. “I pass on to you the sword of my student, James Tiger Thorpe. May it cut only your enemies. May you carry it well and without injury for many decades to come.”
This was the big moment Nell prepared him for. Her instructions were clear and precise.
He reached out and grasped the sword in just the right place, and as Ken-sensei let go of the blade, Asbjorn greeted it by bowing his head and raising the sword again.
He then inspected the sword in the prescribed and customary manner: he admired the brand-new silk cord wrapped around the sharkskin of the handle, he murmured in appreciation over the antique brass fixings known as “sword furniture.” He gently wiggled the sword out of its saya and drew it almost all the way out, careful to aim the ha, the sharp edge, away from Ken-sensei and toward himself. When he angled his body away from Ken-sensei, he slipped the sinuous steel all the way out of its thin wooden sheath and inspected its even curve and its sweet spot at the end. The watermark line gleamed blue-gray in the natural light and the numerous, almost microscopic folds of the antique, exquisite steel undulated in a wave-like pattern.
“It’s beautiful. Nell told me you did some work on it, Sensei?”
“Ahh... well. Tiger did put some miles on the blade, doing cuts with it. I gave it a new polish. See the nick over here? That was there when Tiger got the sword. It’s reasonably old – I figure 1640s, from the sword signature. The furniture’s newer, but it’s still good, and I thought you would have wanted Tiger’s anyway.” He glanced at Asbjorn.
“Yes,” he said, not wanting to interrupt the narrative.
“I didn’t replace any of that,” Ken-sensei continued. “The wood and the sharkskin were worn, so I replaced ’em, and since I was doing that already, I figured I might as well use new silk cord for wrapping the handle....” Ken glanced at Asbjorn sideways.
“You used blue cord to match my eyes, whereas Tiger had either green or brown.”
A satisfied grin split Ken’s face. “Yeah. Nell’s got the green, so Tiger had the brown. It would never go with your coloring, and one of my students would pester me to redo it for you anyway.”
Asbjorn sheathed his sword and bowed to it, then set it to his left side just like Nell. Then he bowed to Ken-sensei. “I would be honored if you would teach me.”
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ASBJORN WAS FLOATING on cloud nine despite his aching shoulders. Nobody did hundreds of cuts with a wooden sword and escaped soreness the first few times around. His shinken – the “spirit blade” that had been carried by so many warriors in its lifetime, imbued with their energies – would see use only after Ken was sure Asbjorn was ready for it. Asbjorn’s customary rakish grin softened into a goofy, happy smile that just would not leave his face. His sword was sheathed in its beautifully lacquered saya, protected by a green felt bag which, in turn, was nestled in an old, plastic rifle case together with Tiger’s well-used wooden practice swords: the long bokken and the short wakizashi, and a sword-care kit. He placed the sword case on a low table by Ken Swift’s living room wall with due reverence.
A piece of Tiger would be with him forever now, and as the realization dawned upon him, Asbjorn looked at Nell with wide, glistening eyes and bowed.
She closed the distance between them in three swift steps and embraced him. “I know, Bjorn. I know. I wish you to have this blade. I have my own – and I have Stella.”
“All right, then. Stop being so sappy, you two.” Ken Swift, who was a lot less formal outside the dojo and he threw a wild grin Asbjorn’s way. “I’ll expect you to make class once a week for the first year. Your schedule’s busy, but there’s no point studying if you come once a month and keep having to learn the same thing over and over again. And I expect you to do your cuts several times a week. Daily would be best. Even just a few minutes, if you can’t spare more.”
Asbjorn nodded.
“How about something to drink, then. Tequila? One of my students gave me a special bottle. Here, you’ve got to try this.”
Ken got three small glasses and poured a bit in each. They touched them together and settled on the stuffed living room sofas.
The liquor was unique and interesting: thick, complex, and intricate – and so very smooth.
“It reminds me of a good cognac,” Asbjorn said, surprised. “It’s excellent.”
“Ahhh. My students take good care of me. And I take good care of them.”
Asbjorn smiled. It was such a perfect day. Nothing – absolutely nothing – could get in the way of his newfound good cheer.
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A PRETEEN GIRL SCAMPERED down the curving staircase. Her rainbow-streaked hair bobbed up and down. “Hi, Nell!”
“Heather!” Nell smiled at her. “Did you grow again? What do they feed you?”
“Oh, candy and pizza, mostly.” Heather turned to Ken. “Dad, you told me to tell you when our guest wakes up. So I’m telling you.”
Ken pulled the girl in. “So how is our patient doing?”
“Like all the others, I guess. They all seem to want to sleep with the light on.”
“Nightmares?”
“Yeah. A bunch. But they’ll go away. Right, Dad?”
“Sure enough. Is our guest hungry?”
“I dunno... just showering, for now.” Heather’s eyes flitted to Asbjorn. “Are you the new student?”
“Yeah. I’m Asbjorn.”
Heather walked over to him and leaned in with a slight whisper. “If you bring me candy, I won’t staple the bottoms of your jeans shut while you’re in class.” Introductions over, Heather ran off.
“Do you have one of your wounded birds using the sanctuary, Ken?” Nell’s voice was casual.
“Yeah... An unusual case, that. A student from your school, actually.”
“Let me guess... another rape victim?”
Ken shrugged noncommittally. “Margaret gave me a call last night. The kid had nowhere to go. No family, no friends in town, and the dean’s office lady was being something of an ass about the whole thing.”
“Who is it?” Asbjorn asked.
“Can’t tell you that. Victims’ names are kept confidential.”
“I am not a rape victim.”
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THEY ALL TURNED TOWARD the pissed-off voice of Sean Gallaway. He rested his forearms against the dark wooden banister, and his eyes were on Ken.
“The victim here’s gonna be the asshole who kicked my door in last night.” He walked down, not seeing the guests who sat deep in the soft cushion of the other sofa until his blazing eyes met the startled gaze of Asbjorn’s. He stopped in his tracks.
Nell was the first to find her voice. “Sean!” She looked at his bruised face and neck, aghast, and as though drawn by an invisible force she neared him, step by step, and halted within arm’s reach. “Sean.” Pained, she extended her arms, and obediently Sean allowed her to embrace him. “If there is anything, and I mean anything I can do, please let me know.”
“So much for maintaining your privacy, kid.” Ken’s voice was resigned. “Margaret’s gonna kill me.”
Sean extricated himself from Nell’s touch and met Asbjorn’s eyes. He noted the stone set of the other man’s jaw. His posture was erect even while seated, and his eyes suddenly acquired the hard gleam of the cold, arctic ice.
I guess I’m the last person he wants to see.
Suddenly overcome by a wave of shame at his weakness, his incompetence to defend himself, and his utter uselessness, he felt heat rise up his neck and into his cheeks. He’d been... used. Abused. All those years of martial arts training, and all for nothing.
Totally worthless.
Incompetent.
Ineffective.
Weak.
Asbjorn was his student in aikido as much as he was Asbjorn’s in fighting dirty, and now... now Asbjorn knew what a lame excuse of a man he truly was.
With eyes downcast, before he embarrassed himself further, he turned and walked up the stairs, trying very much not to hurry.
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ASBJORN SAW A WORLD of hurt in Sean’s expressive brown eyes, and he knew. His jaw tightened, the muscle flexing in a spasmodic twitch.
It was his fault.
Had he not told Sean off, Sean would have most likely stayed at his place. He told Sean off to protect his own precious pride. As a result, Sean lost his.
“Fuuuck!” Asbjorn’s scream held the agony of the past year. Sean’s flushed, battered face and hurt eyes were the straw that broke the camel’s back.
“Bjorn.” Nell watched his fists pump open and closed as his eyes filled with unshed tears.
“’T’s my fault. He took care of me when I was hurt. He did everything – he dragged me in for X-rays and cooked and made sure I got my assignments and made sure I slept okay. This is my fucking fault.”
Asbjorn’s eyes slid to Ken, who was observing him with renewed interest. There must have been stories floating about, both from Nell and Tiger, about him and his famous Lund temper. He tried to tamp the searing heat down and regain what was left of his now tenuous control.
“How so?” Ken Swift asked.
“Cause he was staying at my place. He practically lived there, and I couldn’t stand being taken care of, and I snapped at him. I told him to leave me the fuck alone, so he did.” Asbjorn took a deep breath. “I even texted him today, hoping to make things good again, but he never replied.”
“His phone’s with the police.”
“Oh.” Asbjorn looked at Ken and Nell. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go and see how he’s doing. This is all my fucking fault. Me an’ my big mouth.”
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THE LITTLE LAMP WAS still on even though it was late afternoon. Sean curled in a ball on top of the bed he made just minutes ago, his arms wrapped around a yellow polka-dotted pillow. He buried his face in it, the red heat of his skin cooling against the smooth cotton.
Asbjorn had seen him and his bruised, swollen, battered face. He must have known. He must have heard of what went down, and Sean didn’t know how he would ever meet Asbjorn’s eyes without burning shame. Sean was known as Sean-sensei to his aikido students. He was teaching them techniques purported to aid their self-defense skills, yet he himself was unable to protect himself in a simple home invasion.
What he taught had no value.
What he had learned was a fraud.
Burrows-sensei would turn his face away from him for his loss of heart.
He’d lived a lie for so many years.
He was inept.
Worthless.
Incompetent.
Soiled.
Helpless tears wet the crisp cotton fabric of his pillow, and he let them.
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HE PADDED UP THE STAIRS. His socks slid on the dark wood, catlike and silent. Asbjorn followed the hallway past several doors: a bathroom with a claw-foot bathtub, a room whose shut door proclaimed “Girlz only – KEEP OUT!!!”, the spacious master suite, a study in black and white, the office....
The last door was shut, and Asbjorn knocked on it gently and listened for an answer. When none came, he grasped the glass doorknob and twisted it. The door swung in with a quiet creak, revealing a sunny yellow guest room. The large bed was in the middle, and on it rested the curled form of Sean Gallaway.
Asbjorn’s heart stopped at the sight. He never imagined Sean could look so small. His hair was splayed in a messy halo around his head. He did not move.
“Sean.” Asbjorn’s voice was quiet, soothing. “Hey, sunshine.” He dared to sit on the edge of the bed, facing Sean’s curved back. “Sean. Sean, I’m so sorry. I’ve been an ass.”
He noticed Sean’s body tightening even more.
“I missed you. I tried texting you. All of this is my fault. This would never have happened to you if you’d been staying at my place.”
No response – but Sean didn’t tell him to leave, either. With careful slowness, Asbjorn crawled upon the bed. He slid his left arm underneath Sean and his pillow, draping his right over Sean’s arms, his touch feather-light. He barely allowed his chest to touch Sean’s back.
“I’m here for you, Sean. I’ll do anything I can to make this go away.”
Asbjorn was rewarded by Sean’s body relaxing just a little bit. They stayed that way for some time – uncounted minutes – and Sean relaxed some more, leaning his back in to Asbjorn’s chest. Asbjorn pulled him in to spoon him from behind and felt Sean tense before he relaxed again, permitting the contact.
Asbjorn nuzzled his hair. “Your hair smells like bubble gum.”
“Heather’s shampoo.” Sean’s voice was cloggy with tears.
“Still sunshiny, though.” Asbjorn burrowed his nose through the overgrown strands to reach the neck right under the ear. He blew the wispy hair off the smooth skin. Then he kissed it.
I love you, Sean.
He felt the words but couldn’t make himself say them aloud. Instead he kissed Sean’s neck again. “Whatever it takes, I’ll be here for you.”
He felt Sean sigh and his breathing soon became regular and even. Unwilling to disturb his sunshine, Asbjorn closed his eyes, inhaling Sean’s unique, soothing scent mixed with the pink bubblegum of Heather’s shampoo, and allowed himself to sink into the mattress.
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A QUIET KNOCK ON THE doorframe woke Asbjorn first.
Dr. Verbosa came in. “It’s just me,” she whispered, smiling. She shook out a large blanket and draped it over them.
As soon as Sean felt the contact, he woke, elbowing Asbjorn in the healing ribs, and sprang to his feet. He looked around as though expecting danger with every rushed breath. “It’s just me, Sean.” Dr. Verbosa’s voice was calm and soothing. “I brought you a blanket.”
Sean forced a deep breath, a flush on his cheeks.
“Oh... I’m sorry – that was silly of me. Just a bad dream....” He glanced away, embarrassed.
Dr. Verbosa looked at him with sympathy. “Since you’re up already, you may as well use the bathroom and get ready for bed. It’s almost midnight.”
When Sean left the room, she turned to Asbjorn. “You and Sean figure out your sleeping arrangements. If he’d like to be alone, you can use the futon in the office down the hall. I left some bedding there in case you need it.”
He stretched and groaned. “Thank you, Dr. Verbosa.”
“Call me Margaret.” She smiled. “How’s your rib?”
“Good. I just got elbowed and it wasn’t too bad.”
“About that....” Dr. Verbosa gave a delicate pause. “Sean probably had a flashback. They aren’t unusual, but they will go away in time.”
Asbjorn swung his legs off the bed and stood up, stretching his frame. “I know about flashbacks.” He met the woman’s eyes evenly. “There were guys in my unit who went through some bad shit. I won’t be overprotective. Don’t worry.”
She smiled as if relieved. “Ah. Yes. It’s best if he adjusts to everything being normal. I’m glad you’re aware of the process. Let me know if I can be of any help, Asbjorn.” To his surprise, Dr. Verbosa – Margaret – came close to him and reached up with her hand, stroking his jaw with maternal tenderness. “Nell brought me up to date on your situation. Don’t you dare think this is your fault. Sometimes, things just happen. We deal with them. End of story.”
She exited the room, leaving Asbjorn standing there like a pillar of salt.
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THE PILLOW SAT ON ASBJORN’S face to keep the light out, but even so, he couldn’t fall asleep. Thoughts raced through his mind, searching old data, retrieving, and organizing. Old memories from his training surfaced – briefings on PTSD, on surviving trauma, flashbacks, capture by the enemy, torture survival – and those several men in his unit who suffered and lived to tell about it. His own scrapes clamored for attention, but he pushed them into the background. This wasn’t about him, this was about Sean.
Then, of course, there was the matter of revenge. Revenge belonged to Sean, but that didn’t mean Asbjorn didn’t get to fantasize about the things he’d like to do to the sad, misshapen excuse of a man who did this to his... his what? Friend? Definitely friend.
Boyfriend? That was still up to Sean, although Asbjorn had strong doubts that Sean would want to enter into a relationship after what happened. As for the unworthy asshole sack of fucking monkey shit who did this to his sunshine – he’d get even. Somehow.
Asbjorn felt Sean stir next to him.
“Bjorn? Are you okay?”
So Sean wasn’t asleep, either.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re so tense.”
“Just thinking.”
Silence passed like a river over them.
“Asbjorn?”
“Yeah.”
“When you said you’d do anything, before... what did you mean by that?”
Asbjorn removed the pillow from his head and shoved it under his ear as he turned toward Sean. “I meant that I am really, truly sorry for snapping at you. I’m sorry I asked you to leave. Had I not done that, maybe things would have gone differently.”
Sean’s thoughtful eyes examined Asbjorn’s face, which Asbjorn knew was still yellow with old bruises. “I would have had to return to my room at some point, Bjorn. It was probably unavoidable, considering who the guy is.”
“You know who he is?” Asbjorn tensed.
“Not his name, no. But I know where I saw him before and what he wants.”
“Do the police know?”
“Yeah. I won’t let an asshole like that intimidate me.”
A slow, proud grin developed on Asbjorn’s face. “Damn straight.” He gave Sean a thoughtful, intent look. “Sean. You know, with stuff like this, the more you talk about it, the faster you get it out of your system.” He observed the way Sean’s jaw tightened. “Will you tell me what happened?”
Sean settled his head against Asbjorn’s shoulder, and Asbjorn felt him release a ragged sigh. There was silence for a while – a silence so long, Asbjorn thought Sean would never say a thing. Then Sean’s quiet, uncertain voice broke it. The story spilled out in halting fragments, and Asbjorn was silent and still, not saying a word for fear Sean might change his mind.
“It started weeks ago with this weird feeling that I was being followed – you know, every so often. Like there was a target on my back....”
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SEAN DREADED HAVING to talk about it, but Asbjorn was next to him like a warm, comforting anchor to reality, centering him. Once he opened his mouth, the narrative spilled out all by itself. In some places Sean fell silent before he plunged into reliving those parts again, and he was grateful for Asbjorn’s quiet support.
“I just feel so useless, Bjorn.”
“I know.”
“I feel like such a coward, y’know? Like I should have done something. And there I was, shaking like a leaf. Totally weak, useless – ”
Asbjorn cut him off for the first time. “You did something. You kept your head about you and you survived. You collected data as best you could. You didn’t panic.” Asbjorn pulled him in a little closer. “Sean, what do you know about the adrenaline response?”
“You mean the fight-or-flight reaction?”
“That one.”
“Uh, not much I guess. Why?”
“Because, my sunshine, that’s exactly what happened to you. You fought and used up your adrenaline, and when it became apparent that this particular battle wouldn’t go your way in the physical sense, your mind told you, very sensibly, to flee. Except you couldn’t. Your adrenaline surge wore off and your body reacted by shaking. That’s a perfectly normal physiological response and has absolutely nothing to do with courage or cowardice.”
Sean pondered Asbjorn’s words. “How do you know that?”
Asbjorn sighed. “From the Navy. Everybody gets trained to know what to do in the event of capture or torture. It isn’t fun, but it’s useful to know what to expect. Everyone, and I mean everyone, has a limit. I do too.”
They remained silent while Sean mauled the new information over.
“You still haven’t told me what I can do to help, Sean.”
Sean flushed.
Asbjorn raised his eyebrows. “Wow. You really are my sunshine, lighting up like that. So, spill it. You want me to leave? Stay? Talk? Be quiet?”
Sean turned his face away from Asbjorn and studied a picture on the wall with sudden interest. Yet Asbjorn stayed still – the ball was in Sean’s court.
“You’ll hate me for it.” Sean’s voice was but a whisper.
“Try me.”
“I felt... I felt that you and I had something good going on.”
“Yeah.” Asbjorn whispered, and from his crestfallen look, Sean realized that Asbjorn had been steeling himself for a gentle rejection.
“Well, I fucking refuse to be that fragile, Asbjorn. There’s no way in hell I’ll let that asshole control my life and take that away from me.” He paused. “From us.” Sean took a hot, angry breath before he went on, keeping his voice quiet. “The worst part – the worst part is feeling the guy’s hands on me. It’s like he’s still around.”
“Hmmm...?” Asbjorn made an encouraging, noncommittal noise.
“I was wondering... I realize this is not, like, a totally ideal first time, if you were ever even interested in me that way....” Sean’s voice died away, but he didn’t avert his eyes from Asbjorn’s face.
“Go on,” Asbjorn whispered.
“I was wondering if you could take that part away.”
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“WHATEVER IT TAKES.”
Asbjorn raised himself on one elbow. His intent gaze met Sean’s frightened brown eyes. He descended toward the tense, shut lips slowly, his kiss gentle and chaste.
“But I am interested in you – that way.” Asbjorn thought he imagined Sean shiver in reaction, and he felt him tense. “It’s me, Sean. Just me.” He ran his long fingers through the soft hair, caressing, stroking, placing gentle kisses on Sean’s mouth, his jaw, his swollen eye.
“It’s you... As... bjorn.” Sean’s voice came out in halting gasps.
“Only me, and only you.” Asbjorn ran his hand down Sean’s long, graceful neck, rubbing his shoulder on the way south, observing Sean’s expression with intent care. What Sean had requested was as unexpected as it was unusual. Sure, the two had been dancing around each other for some time now, but to just ask like that, openly, made Asbjorn wonder whether complying with Sean’s request was the right thing to do. Suppose Sean backed out? Suppose he freaked out or he didn’t like it – the ensuing awkwardness might well mean the end of their fledgling relationship. Yet if it helped Sean deal, then he would risk it.
Asbjorn’s brows were drawn in concentration as he studied Sean’s face. His hand ghosted over his well-formed chest and down to the waistband of the blue boxer shorts. He let his hands explore the exposed skin.
“Bjorn.” Sean’s eyes were shut, his face a mask of tense concentration.
“Yeah. Just me.” Asbjorn chose to ignore the nickname, focusing on Sean instead, running his hand underneath the shorts and down Sean’s slender hip. He saw tears leak from under Sean’s eyelashes and bent down to kiss them off. “Too much?”
“Don’t stop.”
Asbjorn stilled. “Are you absolutely sure, Sean?”
He felt the brown eyes on him. “I fucking refuse to have that asshole affect my life in any way.”
“Okay.”
Asbjorn let his hands explore Sean’s body, inch by inch, removing his shirt and his shorts, kissing all the right places. He cupped Sean’s hardening length in his hand when he felt him tense. “You’re still sure about this?” Asbjorn furrowed his brow in concern.
“Yeah.”
“Take it slow, Sean. No need to get upset. I just want to help. I want to see you smile again.” His soothing voice beckoned Sean to open his eyes.
“Bjorn. I am in bed with a guy, and I’m naked. I think I’m a bit....”
“Outside your comfort zone?” Asbjorn asked, cracking a grin.
Sean nodded.
“Whatever you want, Sean.”
“I want to take your clothes off. It will make it more fair,” Sean whispered.
Moments later their clothes were mingled in a heap by the foot of the bed. Asbjorn growled as Sean’s warm hands ran up his bare chest and down his back. He leaned over Sean, letting their lips brush, then press together in mutual exploration. The little light was still on, the door was closed, and their eyes were open, taking in every detail. Asbjorn pressed down, caressing Sean’s lower lip with his tongue, flicking it against the corner of Sean’s mouth. He felt Sean’s lips part and suddenly Asbjorn was flipped onto his back and kissed back with fierce and unequaled passion.
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“ASBJORN.” SEAN GROUND his hip against Asbjorn’s awakening arousal. “I want to make you feel good, Asbjorn.” He trailed kisses down Asbjorn’s chest, over the pale scars that marked his lower abdomen, continuing south. He touched Asbjorn’s hard length experimentally and felt him tense and gasp, and it was all so very different from the night before. Maybe this reckless experiment would actually work. Sean felt Asbjorn’s hands slide across his shoulders. The intruder’s touch was but a pale memory, one he worked hard to supplant with the hot, hard heat of Asbjorn’s generous hands.
No pressure.
The light is on.
I can stop if I want to.
Except he didn’t want to, and Sean slid down to kiss the erect cock under him. He eyed Asbjorn’s size and shape. This was different from the night before. This was a guy he really liked – a guy who liked him back or else he wouldn’t be here. With sudden decisiveness, he licked the hard length from root to tip. The taste was clean, like skin, and incredibly smooth under his tongue.
“Sean... you don’t have to.”
“I want to.” As Sean slid his lips down, he felt Asbjorn tense under him and was rewarded with a sweet, incoherent moan. This was very different from the other night – he filed away the minutiae of the smooth, hot contours in his mouth, the friction against his lips. So different. So good. He had never done this before – except for last night, which didn’t count – and he was surprised to feel hands struggle not to grasp his hair as Asbjorn arched under him.
“You need to stop,” Asbjorn gasped. “Too much!”
Sean ran his tongue up the side of the hard, smooth cock with interest; Asbjorn sighed and relaxed under him.
He pulled off. “You’re sure?”
“You’ll make me come right away,” Asbjorn said with an airy laugh. “It’s just too good.”
“I see,” Sean said, and licked the hollow of Asbjorn’s hip, making him writhe. “Ticklish?”
“Too much,” Asbjorn said again. “Trade places?”
“But this is so much fun,” Sean said as he experienced the wonder of making someone else feel like that. There was power to it.
He sucked Asbjorn’s tip in, moving down slowly, exploring with his tongue. Asbjorn smelled strong and warm, yet different from the attacker, and that was good. His skin bore a hint of salt, most likely from exercise earlier. Asbjorn sank his fingers into Sean’s hair and uttered a long, quiet moan.
Encouraged, Sean slid down Asbjorn’s shaft and hollowed his cheeks a bit. There was a place he found on the tip of Asbjorn’s crown that made him stiffen and gasp. He played his tongue over that place again, and felt the silky length swell and pulse as Asbjorn gasped another word of warning. Sean stayed the course, and grinned as a new and welcome warmth filled his mouth. Slightly bitter and with a hint of sweetness – not like the bitter musk of the previous night.
Sean allowed himself to experience the taste, relishing the knowledge that he was in charge this time. There was no gun pressed to his head. He could have stopped anytime he wanted. This time, he swallowed.
––––––––
“HERE – WATER, SEAN.” Asbjorn was still breathing hard, but his care won over the sudden lassitude that threatened to overwhelm him. Sean accepted the drink with a grateful smile. When the glass was safely returned to the night table, Asbjorn applied himself to marking his territory, erasing every memory of the strange and brutal hands from Sean’s body, from Sean’s mind.
When Sean rewarded him with quiet cries of pleasure untainted by tears, Asbjorn smiled. Two hands clenched his shoulders. He was drowning in the intoxicating sound of his own name on Sean’s lips as Sean arched toward him in crashing waves of turbulent release.
They were tangled under the covers, almost asleep, when Sean stirred. “Bjorn. Would you turn that light off, please?”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
Asbjorn grinned in the dark, delighted at the stubborn streak in Sean’s voice.