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Laylah (laylah) wrote in 1931, @ 2008-05-05 18:43:00

fic: "Thy Distant Fire," Luck/Claire
A present for karanguni, who has done so much hard work putting this community together and doing translation work for us. I am so, so very grateful. ♥

"Thy Distant Fire"
Luck/Claire
invented backstory, set ~1924
Not worksafe for m/m touching and Luck's taste in poetry
~2000 words.
Luck doesn't see what the big deal is, doesn't think he'd care even if he could get his hand up some girl's blouse.

He can think of something he probably would care about, but he tries not to.



Thy Distant Fire

Luck is fourteen when he begins to worry that there is, in fact, something really wrong with him. The boys at school are all talking about girls -- and getting thrashed when the nuns catch them at it, whenever Sister Mary Michael comes around a corner faster than they expect and overhears somebody saying something dirty. And Luck...Luck has nothing to add to the conversation. He doesn't see what the big deal is, doesn't think he'd care even if he could get his hand up some girl's blouse.

He can think of something he probably would care about, but he tries not to.

Most of the time he tries to just not think about anything at all, anyone at all, when he can manage to steal five minutes alone at night -- not easy, with three other boys in the house and only two bedrooms among the four of them. So Luck hurries when the opportunity presents itself and doesn't let himself linger on any of the images that come to mind, the ones with muscular shoulders and quick smiles and no soft feminine curves anywhere.

Refusing to think about it doesn't even mean he's not thinking about it, which is awful and seems unfair. He's pretty sure the nuns would tell him that's just how temptation works, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. Anything can bring his...problem to mind after a while. Even poetry betrays him eventually, when he's curled up with a collection of Poe and finds the one about turning away from the beauty of the moon, preferring the evening star.

It doesn't even fit, not really, because the fire that Luck's been admiring isn't distant at all, and he's sure the morning star would make more sense than the evening one; he's had enough catechism to know it was the Morning Star's pride that led to the Fall. But at that point he's practically rewriting the thing, and he knows enough about his shortcomings to realize he's no poet.

The lines stick in his head for all that he knows they're ridiculous, that pining over thy glory afar when the object of his fascination is sleeping in the next bed, or calling this anything like joy to my heart, is painfully off the mark. It's torment, the more so because Claire doesn't seem to have the first clue he's doing it.

Why should he know, though? If Luck were normal, there wouldn't be anything to worry about at all. If Luck were like any other boy -- but he's not, and despite how much he tries not to he can't help sneaking glances, watching out of the corner of his eye as Claire gets undressed for bed. His heart beats faster at the curve of spine when Claire stretches, at the little trail of fire-red hair that disappears beneath the waistband of Claire's sleeping pants. Some nights he lies awake a good hour trying to convince his cock to stop being hard.

He should have realized it would only be a matter of time.

"What's bothering you lately?" Claire asks one night -- direct as always. "You used to be so happy, so easy to talk to. Now you're all quiet. If something's bothering you, you can always talk to me. I'm your brother, after all." He comes over and sits down on the edge of Luck's bed. "Or, I suppose, if it's a problem with your brothers, I'm also not your brother. So you can still talk to me."

Luck tries to laugh, tries not to pull away. He can feel Claire leaning against his thigh. "It's not --" he can't imagine fighting with any of them seriously, hopes he never has to. "It's nothing to do with Keith or Berga."

"Good," Claire says. "That's a lot better than the alternative. So what's wrong?"

"If I tell you," Luck says -- realizing as he says it how much he wants to tell someone, confess to someone, and he'd rather it were Claire than any priest he's ever met -- "If I tell you, do you promise not to tell anyone at all? Even Keith? And -- and not to think less of me." He's asking a lot, but Claire acts like he's capable of doing impossible things, so just difficult ones shouldn't be so bad by comparison.

Claire frowns at him, and it looks more worried than angry, so that's good. "I could never think less of you, Luck," he says. "I promise."

Now of course he has to say it, at least part of it, at least the beginning. Luck takes a deep breath, looking off into the corner beyond Claire's shoulder. "This year at school, it seems like -- all the boys are, are talking about girls all of a sudden. You know how I mean." He licks his lips. "All the boys but me."

"And that's what you're worried about?" Claire says. He grins. "Being a late bloomer isn't the end of the world, you know. You'll get there."

"I'm not --" Luck protests, and glares. This is much more serious than Claire realizes it is. "It's not like -- I mean, what if I never do? What if I -- what if what I want right now," and saying it still sticks, still makes him hesitate, "what if that doesn't go away?"

When he dares to look at Claire's face, Claire's watching him steadily, serious as he gets, studying Luck's face. "What is it," he says, "that you want right now?"

"To kiss you," Luck says before he can think better of it. He flinches a little, because no matter what Claire said it's hard to imagine that he wouldn't want to hit Luck for that.

Anyone but Claire probably would have. "Well, then," Claire says instead. Then he kisses Luck on the mouth.

His lips are warm and soft, and he slips his tongue into Luck's mouth when Luck makes a little surprised noise, and Luck gets hard so fast it makes him dizzy. His hands come up without him even really thinking about it, and he's holding onto Claire's shoulders, and that feels even better than he imagined it would.

"Well?" Claire says when he pulls away, too soon. "Did it go away?"

"No," Luck says, because now he wants to do it again, and since Claire isn't really pulling away he leans up to claim a second kiss, and Claire lets him. When Claire bites his lower lip, gentle, teasing, Luck feels himself shiver all over, and he's damned, isn't he, but he doesn't think he can help it. He clings, curls his fingers tight in the thin fabric of Claire's undershirt and arches up toward the kiss.

Claire shifts, stretches out on top of him, pinning Luck to the bed, and it feels -- it feels so good when he knows it shouldn't. If nothing else he should worry about someone else having the upper hand, only it's Claire, and he doesn't mind at all. His hips are rocking without him even thinking about it, pushing up toward Claire's heat. The blanket's in the way, too much fabric between them, and Luck pushes at it, trying to shove it down, and that doesn't work so well, but then Claire rolls off him, and grins.

"Need me out of the way for that, don't you?" he says, and squirms under the covers himself, with Luck, and when his hand slides up under Luck's shirt, the callused warmth of his palm makes Luck shiver breathlessly. "You want this really badly, don't you? You should have told me."

"I thought," Luck tries to explain, "I was afraid you would, oh God," and he can't even get the words out, because Claire's hand just slides right down into his shorts and takes hold of his cock, and all he can do is push into that touch. "Claire," he says. "Claire."

"Sshh," Claire says, leaning in close against his side. "Don't want anyone else to hear, do you?" And then he presses his lips to Luck's for another kiss, like he wants to swallow up any sound that Luck makes. It's so very much what Luck wanted, so quickly, so easily -- he should have known Claire wouldn't stop to think on it, wouldn't worry about whether they should. And oh, it feels good, Claire pressing close against him along the full length of his body, lean and strong, tongue twining with his and hand working steadily on his cock -- Luck wants to savor this, draw it out and pay attention to every detail, but his body won't cooperate, won't hold back, and he barely has the presence of mind to pull his shirt up out of the way before he's arching and shuddering and trying not to moan too loudly into Claire's mouth as he comes.

Claire pulls back enough to look him in the eyes, smiling like he's proud of himself. Luck smiles back. He feels dizzy, thrilled like he's gotten away with something amazing, like when they were children stealing peppermint sticks from the penny candy store. "Claire," he says.

"That's a good start, isn't it?" Claire says. He skins out of his shirt, shifts his weight so he's pinning Luck to the bed, like he doesn't even care about the mess getting on him, too. "But everyone likes to be touched. That doesn't really prove so much, I don't think." His hips are moving, pushing slowly. That's his cock hard through his shorts, rubbing against Luck's hip bone. "Here." Claire takes Luck's hand and pushes it down between them. "The real question is, do you like this part?"

Luck pushes down the waistband of Claire's shorts. "Yes," he whispers. The hair at the base of Claire's cock is wiry under his fingers, and the skin of it is suede soft -- but it's so stiff, beneath that softness. Luck curls his fingers around it, Claire's cock, hard for him, God, and he barely has to stroke, even, because Claire's already thrusting into his hand. "Yes," Luck says again. He wants to admit it, feels like it's an act of defiance, a secret worth sharing. "I like this part." He stretches up to kiss Claire's throat, tasting soap and salt. Claire's weight on top of him is solid, not quite enough to be crushing. When Claire's cock slides against his fingers he can feel a smear of sticky wetness there, and Luck bites his lip. He wants, ah --

"You're going to make me come," Claire murmurs, breath warm against his ear, fierce. "I'm going to come all over you, Luck. Is that what you want?"

"Oh God, Claire," Luck says. He hadn't even had time to completely soften yet, and Claire saying that makes his cock throb with wanting it all over again. "Yes," Luck says. It should worry him how much he wants to say that to Claire, how easily he'd say it even if Claire asked more than this. "I do, I want you to. Want you to come."

"On you," Claire supplies. His teeth graze Luck's earlobe.

Luck nods. "On me," he says. His face feels hot but he's getting hard again, too.

Claire hums, low and pleased, and rocks hard into Luck's hand and then his come is splattering over Luck's knuckles and his stomach and his cock. Luck tries not to moan at that, but he's never liked the idea of getting dirty so much.

He's barely let go when Claire sits back on his heels, looking down at the mess they've made. His eyes linger on Luck's cock. "Looks like you've figured out what you want," he says.

"It does," Luck says. If there's poetry about the way he feels when Claire looks at him like that, he's never read any. "And that's okay with you?"

"I want to know all kinds of things," Claire says. "Try all kinds of things." He rests his hands on his thighs, his expression smug and challenging. "This time you do it yourself, and I'll watch you. If I can see how you like it, I bet I can do it better next time."

"Next time?" Luck says. He can't help returning Claire's smile. "I'm going to hold you to that."

Claire just grins. "You'd better."




The poem that Luck refers to, at the beginning, is Edgar Allen Poe's Evening Star. Teenage poetry-reading Luck makes me so happy. ♥