Life's a Beach (John Saville and Henry Wilder)
Who: John Saville, Henry Wilder What: A fishing lesson, and then some fun in the grass. Where: The beach somewhere past town. When: The last week of August, before the big party happens. Warnings: BOYS KISSING. Summary: As a last hurrah and good riddance to summer, best friends John and Henry take off for the sea to do some fishing. They get pulled into the water by a particularly ornery fish, and then while drying off they discuss a little poetry and then Henry kisses John. John is extremely confused but ultimately fascinated, and demands an encore. He still has no idea what to make of it, but it's the start of a strange obsession with this kissing business.
Though he had come to hate the endlessly uniform weather over the past few months, and the heat wave that blazed through Boston and left it dry and crisp as an old leaf, the last fine day of summer was one to mourn the loss of at least a little. John Saville planned on doing so in the way he loved best: out on the beach, with the clear blue waves crashing into shore and the sky stretching on forever until it met the sea in a deep, endless kiss. White puffs of clouds drifted here and there, and John stood amongst the landscape with his shoes and socks discarded, his pants rolled up to his knees. His bare toes gripped at the gray rocks, staring out to the horizon.
"It's beautiful!" he crowed, face glowing with delight. "By God, Henry, you should be struck down where you stand if this doesn't move you even a little!"
Henry's socks and shoes were still on, although the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to his elbows as a concession to the heat. He admired how comfortable John was here in his element, but Henry looked at those bare toes resting against the rock and imagined skittering spiders and slithering worms. The very thought made him shudder with revulsion.
So he turned his attention to the view. The brilliant blue of the sky against the fluffy white clouds and the movement of the ocean below provided a depth that was absolutely breathtaking.
"It's absolutely breathtaking," Henry said, but even he detected a dryness in his own voice. He made a mental note to work on his delivery.
John's eyes flashed with caprice as he turned at the waist to look back at Henry, his smile lopsided. "I have half a mind to push you in and watch you flail about." he chided, wagging a chastising finger in Henry's direction. "For an Irishman you have a shocking disregard for the stateliness of nature. I thought your sort were supposed to be all about the rolling green hills and all that."
John laughed to himself at that, stooping down to pick up the rods and tackle box he'd taken with him. He hadn't imagined Henry would go so far as to even look at the bait he'd brought, but he wasn't going to let that stop him. He was going to teach Henry to fish, whether he liked it or not. The rocks trailed on in a line into deeper water, and John began hopping their smooth, wave-pounded surfaces to make it out and start setting up. A crab skittered out of the way of his step, waving a claw at him angrily.
Henry followed with a bit of difficulty, his head full of visions of himself slipping ungracefully into the ocean. When the crab skittered by, he made a high pitched squeal and clutched at John's arm, but realizing how ridiculous he probably looked, he brushed himself off and cleared his throat.
"Of course I enjoy nature," Henry said once they had stopped, huffing a bit from the unaccustomed exhertion. "Nature is the highest form of beauty. "I just don't like bugs, or wet." He looked around, wondering where they were going to sit. He didn't see any benches.
John nearly tumbled over himself when Henry grabbed his arm, his head flying back and his ear ringing when Henry shrieked into it. His right eye burst into a mass of stars before him.
"You girl!" John groaned, shaking his arm to make Henry let go. "It's called a crab!" For that bit of hearing loss, John briefly entertained putting some seaweed on Henry's head, but that would have been cruel. Instead, he smirked wryly and squat down on the rocks to open the box, taking from it a little jar covered most of the way with a paper label.
"You had best look away for this, Henrietta." he said playfully, twisting the jar open. Inside wriggled a mass of little brown worms. Plucking one from the ball, he twisted it into the proper shape and stuck it onto one of the hooks. He baited the other rod in the same fashion and closed up the jar tight, standing up straight.
"I hardly think that a gentleman should have to enjoy worms and crabs and rocks in order to be considered a man," Henry sniffed, but he didn't look away. He merely wrinkled his nose in disgust at the sight of the worms, and said "ugh" when the hook pierced each worm's flesh. "I certainly will never look the same way at a fillet again."
At length, he knealt to remove his own shoes and socks, stuffing the socks inside the shoes and leaving them on a flat-looking rock. "I don't want them to get dirty," he explained as he straightened up, just in case John noticed.
"Mmhmm," John laughed warmly, shaking his head into the window and letting it blow through his hair. It felt good on his face, and he closed his eyes contently. "I think if I were more brave I would be a sailor." he asserted. "But I would never get used to the idea of being in a boat during a storm."
One rod he held out to Henry to hold for a moment, while the other he swung back and let the line fly. It skimmed through the air and plopped into the water some ways away, a bottle cork painted red bobbing in the waves. "Alright, I'll do yours now." He took the other rod and let it go in a similar fashion, so that both corks were bobbing together, and handed the rod back to Henry. "If you see that cork go under, or you feel a pull on the line, roll that lever. See?" To make sure Henry understood, John reeled his line a little, the cork dancing in the foam.
"I see," Henry said. He reeled the line in just a bit to test it, and decided it wasn't that hard. And it was kind of peaceful, standing on the rocks with one of his dearest friends with the cool salt air on his face. It made the heat of the sun seem less oppressive. He noticed the cheerful way the red-painted cork bobbed in the blue water and filed that away in his mind to write about later.
Suddenly he felt a gentle tug on his line. "I think I have one!" he exclaimed, forgetting himself for a moment in his excitement. "Johnny!" He began to reel his line in, hoping he was doing it right. To think he had something so quickly! When he'd gone fishing with his father as a small child, he remembered standing there for hours, and not even catching enough for the cook to make a meal out of.
"Go on!" John cheered his friend on, grinning enthusiastically. "Not too hard, now! But keep going! Steady! A little tug to hook it!" His own rod was all but forgotten as he watched Henry's line, bouncing on the balls of his bare feet. Readily, he grabbed the net he'd taken along and held it out, prepared to snatch up Henry's quarry as he lifted it from the water, before it could get away.
The fish dangling from the end of the line when Henry pulled it up was small and silvery, about the size of the palm of Henry's hand, and it put up such a fight in those last few seconds that the bottom half of Henry's trousers were soon splattered liberally with salt water. If John hadn't been right there with the net, surely Henry wouldn't have been so lucky on his first try, but he was inexplicably proud nonetheless. Admiring the poor fish flopping around in the net, Henry turned a smile on John. "That wasn't entirely bad."
It was always a rush to pull something up from the depths, and John looked back at Henry with equal delight. "That was excellent!" he complimented. "Wonderful job, my friend. Unfortunately, this little fellow..." He held up the net and examined the fish, reaching in to grab it and take the hook and half-swallowed bait from its mouth. "Is a little too small to eat. I think you and he ought to say goodbye, and let him live to fight another day in which he might be a bit more juicy. Want to touch him?"
John took on an unusually devilish face, holding the slippery silver creature out to Henry to try and make him pet it. Something about Henry's squeamishness was entirely too funny, and too tempting not to provoke. After all, they were two young men on holiday; it would be no good not to have any mischief at all.
At first, Henry shrinked away from the fish, but it looked so small and nonthreatening in John's hand. "I suppose," he said, "since I jerked this poor little fellow from his home so abruptly, I might as well introduce myself before we toss it back in. After all, I hope that if I'm ever abducted so unceremoniously that my abductors would at least grant me the same courtesy." With one finger, he gently stroked the fish's slick scales. "Hello, little fish. My name is Henry. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
The way Henry spoke to the fish was terribly endearing and John watched him at length, the corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly. The fish didn't seem to enjoy it as well at all, flopping and waving his tail helplessly. When surely the poor thing was out of breath, John bid the fish goodbye himself and knelt down, letting him slip back into the water.
"How very gentlemanly of you, Henry." John said afterward, drying his hands on his pants. "You are always so conscientious. I'm truly glad, you know."
Relaxing further, John sat down on the rocks and dunked his feet in, re-casting Henry's line and handing it back before tending to his own, which hadn't moved.
Henry had been standing on slimy rocks, dodged a crab, touched a fish, and gotten his pants splashed with water, so he decided he might as well go for the full experience at this point. Awkwardly, with his line still in his hand, he sat down next to John and unbuttoned the top button of his pants. He propped his line up on the rocks like he saw John had done and then rolled up his pants and plopped his own feet into the water. he tried not to imagine everything that was swimming in the water and thinking Henry's fat little toes resembled fat, wriggly little worms.
"I feel so masculine," he remarked at last in a voice that plainly implied he wasn't quite sure whether or not "masculine" was a good thing. "All the same, this hasn't been terrible so far. Thank you for this... educational experience."
"This is nothing," John laughed, splashing his feet a little. "If you really want to see what 'masculine' looks like, you should come down to the river when we go rowing. There are a few boys that row with us that resemble minotaurs, with their giant shoulders and chests."
Quirking his head, John took in the planes of Henry's face, idling a little on the long Irish nose. Henry was so soft-looking but for that nose... it was sort of funny. The one feature on his entire face to remind one that Henry was really quite dignified. And he could not at all fault the proclivity Henry had for staying in and eating -- that was a very pleasurable pastime.
"So tell me something." He wasn't specific on the what. That must have meant for Henry to say anything. Surely he'd think of something very easily.
Henry took a moment to picture in his mind what young men with large shoulders and chests must look like rowing. It wasn't an entirely bad mental image. He supposed if he went rowing with John that he'd actually have to do some rowing, however, and that all but ensured Henry would never go. It was a pity.
"Tell you something?" Henry repeated, looking at John, not surprised to find his friend looking back. He stared back toward the horizon and watched the waves lap at the sky as he waited for something to come to him.
"I was five years old when my father last took me fishing," he said. "I remember looking down into the ocean and seeing a glint of something metallic. Probably rubbish or discarded jewelry, but at the time I imagined an entire city there, far below Boston. Maybe fish lived there, or maybe it was some sort of ocean-folk that kept fish as pets the way humans keep dogs and cats. But I daydreamed about visiting it for several years afterward."
Henry's voice was engaging as he told his story, filling the air between them with its fine quality. John leaned back as he sat, one hand still holding the fishing rod and the other balancing him against the rocks. A wave slapped at the rocks a bit and John braced himself through it.
"What a lovely notion." John admired the story, for the moment consumed with the fantasy of an alternate universe far below the depths of the harbor. "You should write that down... a little story perhaps, or a novella. Oh!"
His thoughts were taken when his own cork bobbed, plunking down under the crest of a wave. The force was heavy! John leaped to his feet and set his teeth firmly together, giving the line a tug. It tugged back -- hard -- forcing John to splay his feet to stay up. "Henry, help me!" he gasped.
"Help you how?" Henry asked, jumping to his own feet. He decided on wrapping his arms around John's waist to prevent him from getting pulled into the ocean. Belatedly, he realized that now if John lost his footing, they'd both go under. "Hold on tight!" he exclaimed. "I've got you, but don't slip!"
John plastered himself firmly to Henry's chest, the rod wrenching and twisting in his hands. "Oh, my God!" John exclaimed over the excitement of all that motion, the white line pulling completely taut. Whatever it was that was caught was fighting as if it were more demon than fish. What leaped from the waves was a slender green fish nearly a foot and a half in length, thrashing itself into knots in the air before falling back in with a splash.
"Damn!" John cursed, his arm nearly being yanked off his torso. "It's a pollock! It's enormous for this spot! As you can tell, these things are me--ouch!--mean!" In truth, he had very little hope for actually reeling in the vicious fish, but if he could manage to stand until his line snapped then he wouldn't have to lose his rod and give Henry an excuse not to fish anymore. He pulled back sharply, hoping the fish would pull in the opposite direction and just split the line already.
But naturally, the evoked God would have other plans. Somehow, the fish had gotten off the line all together and when John pulled, he pulled at thin air and went backward, his rod flying lineless over his head. From his numb interior he saw himself falling, and then felt the biting chill as his back hit the water. When John fell, Henry, who was holding him, lost his balance and fell as well. The water was shockingly cold compared to the heat in the air, and Henry felt his chest constrict. When his face broke the surface of the water, he gasped and flailed around until he felt he could breathe. Henry wasn't a strong swimmer, although he knew the basic mechanics of it, so he doggy-paddled to the nearest rock and held it as he scanned the water for John. "Johnny!" he yelled.
If John wasn't awake before, he was certainly awake now. He treaded water easily, a stronger swimmer than Henry, and shook his head to clear his face of sticky tendrils of hair. Now it seemed he was the one wearing seaweed, and not his friend. But Henry had his back turned to him, so all wasn't lost. John quietly approached the rock bank with smooth strokes and jumped from the water, flinging his arms around Henry's shoulders in a big, wide gesture.
"Got you!" he chuckled, shivering with his shirt soaked through. His teeth were chattering lightly next to Henry's ear.
Henry cried out in surprise as John accosted him from behind. "You're cold!" he exclaimed and tried to twist around in John's grip. Failing that, he let go of the rock and tried to splash water behind him without going under. It was not graceful at all, nor was it particularly effective, but Henry was laughing.
"The water is cold!" John retorted lamely, but in good humor. He clung to Henry's broad back like a barnacle, taking a little nip of his ear to tease him and prove just how daunting it would be to try to get him to let go. All the while he treaded with his legs, helping to keep them afloat.
Henry shivered again when John bit his ear, but this time not from the cold. Trying not to drown, he reached behind him, succeeding only in getting a hand on John's slippery side. "I'm going to drown!" he protested, flailing more to win the impromptu underwater wrestling match than because he was actually afraid of going under. John seemed to be capable of keeping them both afloat.
"Don't be a baby." John breathed into Henry's ear, the cold beginning to snatch the force from his voice. They would have to stop and get out very soon. "You're not going to drown. You trust me, don't you?" Finally, John let go and drifted around to face Henry sideways, giving him a soft gaze. "I hope you don't think that I would ever do something untoward to you."
Like a good sport, John looped his arm lower around Henry's back and helped him to the rocks, climbing up and pulling him up with him. Now that he'd lost a fishing rod as he dearly hoped he wouldn't, and they were both shivering and wet, there wasn't much point in continuing. Henry's protests would surely only worsen as they dried out.
"Want to head back for some hot tea?" John's lips were a slight bit violet when he smiled obligingly.
"I think you need some hot tea," Henry said, looping an arm around John's back. He didn't get cold easily, so while his arms were covered with goosebumps, the chilly water clearly hadn't affected him as badly. His lips were pale, but not purple. "Do you think any cab driver will take us in this condition? I'm sure I could warm you much better if we were both seated." To illustrate this, he rubbed John's shoulder with his hand. "And to answer your earlier question, I know you wouldn't let me drown. I trust you more than I trust myself."
Perched on the rough rock, John wrapped his arms around his knees and shook his head sadly, peering up at Henry from over the tops of his arms. "I doubt it, really..." he admitted. "We would ruin the seats, and have to pay for far more than the ride. I suppose we shall have to dry out a while. If we make it back to the shore, we can sit on the grass."
That sounded like a fine enough goal, and John went to reach for his tackle box when he felt the hand on his shoulder, rubbing. It was very pleasant, so to thank him John pat Henry's hand and gave him a cheery smile. "Perhaps if I were to lose sight of you in the water, your mermaid would save you." he embellished, grabbing the handle of the tin box and standing up.
"You better not lose sight of me!" Henry said with mock dismay. "I'd never go fishing with you again if you force me to meet my mermaids in such a state. I'm sure I look vile and I'm certainly not at my best while drowning." He picked up his shoes and carefully edged over the rocks. He didn't want to make John take another dip so soon. "Do you need any help with that?" he asked, gesturing to the tackle box.
"Don't you know?" John asked as he threaded his way back across the rocks behind Henry. "Mermaids like that sort of fashion. 'The marooned sailor', and such. That's why mermaids pluck sailors from shipwrecks. They just can't resist the sight of a drenched man."
It was a completely ridiculous line of thought, but amusing nonetheless. When Henry offered to help John just shook his head. He'd carried it out, and worms really weren't that heavy, so he carried it all the way back by himself, until they made it to the grass where he'd left his own shoes. There wasn't anyone about to bother them, so he hadn't paid any mind to keeping them near. He dropped his tackle box with a soft thump as it hit the short foliage, and unabashedly began to unbutton his shirt, stripping the wet, translucent fabric from his skin to lay it out flat to dry more quickly.
As long as they were stripping, Henry decided he might as well do the same. At least he could trust John not to laugh about the little gut he was sporting. He couldn't remember when exactly everything he ate began to go to his waist but it had to be recent. His clothing fit looser even a year before.
"In pictures mermaids are always women," Henry mused. "But there have to be male mermaids too. I suppose they'd be just as young-looking and just as beautiful as their female counterparts. I wonder if they save drowning sailors too, or if they just go after the women who fall off of ships."
He sat and leaned back to look up at the sky. "Not everyone who falls into the ocean and is never found has died, perhaps. Maybe they fall in love with their rescuer and choose to live forever in the land beneath the water."
John sneaked a peek over at Henry from behind the drippy curtain of his shirt as he lifted the edges, smiling discreetly. Actually, it was heartening that Henry seemed to be suffering from the same ailment that he had been. He wasn't as small around the waist as he had been a year ago either, so in that sense perhaps they matched. When they had both settled into the grass John sat close, even colder now that his shirt was off. He pressed himself shoulder to shoulder with his friend, looking for a little of that warmth.
"You know, that's quite true." he agreed, tilting his head curiously. "There must be male as well as female. I imagine they must all look like paintings of Hyacinth or Adonis, or even perhaps St. Sebastien. We shall have to have Allaster illustrate one for us, to satisfy our curiosity, I think."
The idea of falling in love with one's mermaid savior was charming. Romantic, even, and it saw to it that John stared out at the water a little differently. "I didn't know you were so sentimental. Perhaps that's what you really saw in the water that day. The eyes of a mermaid's lover staring back at you."
Henry laughed. "When I was five? I doubt it. But Johnny, all writers are like the ocean. We conceal hidden depths, and possibly cities full of mermaids. No one can write successful emotions without emoting." He nudged his friend's shoulder. "Perhaps you thought my poetry was about food?" he teased.
John shoved Henry right back, sticking his tongue out at him. "Not in love with you! And I wouldn't doubt that you'd write sonnets to food. Whole hymns devoted to the perfection of a pastry, no?"
To prove his point, he stuck his hand up and went for a pinch somewhere in the chest-ribs vicinity, lips curved pleasantly as he concentrated on finding an opening and snatching it.
Henry yelped, swatting at John's hand as he leaned away from the attack. "A man cannot love pastry alone!" he said. "I've written sonnets about pastry and about the perfection of human beauty." He tugged a lock of John's hair as he added, "Perhaps I've written entire books of sonnets about my dear Johnny. The chestnut ringlets falling around your face like the head of a mop drenched in soapy water."
"I think pastry-kind would be very sad to hear that." John snickered, giving up his assault and letting his hand drop to the grass. Padding his weight with an arm leaning against Henry's shoulder, he set his chin down and stared up at Henry sweetly through the lank waves of said chestnut ringlets, heavily laden with water and dripping little droplets onto Henry's chest.
"Really?" he said with interest. "Do go on, my friend. I've never been described so fancifully."
Henry reached up to play with the hair splayed across his shoulder. "Your eyes are like shallow tidepools filled with light that jumps across the surface like fish. Your skin is the palest alabaster, but your lips are frozen petals. Of lavender." He dropped his hand to John's shoulder and laughed, his chest and belly shaking.
The cute look John had been baiting Henry with for flattery turned into a chilly little pout. One finger stuck into the jiggling mass of Henry's belly sharply.
"I take offense to that, sir! Lavender is a terrible thing to describe one's mouth with. Lavender stands for insincerity, and you know very well that this mouth has never lied to you. And shallow? How cruel of you." Sniffing with disdain, John uncoiled himself from around Henry and wrapped his arms around himself instead, intent on keeping up the charade of looking truly cross until he remedied his words.
Henry smiled through his eyelashes at John. "Well, they're purple right now, and I could not think of any other purple flowers. Perhaps when they warm up they will be rosepetals but until then, the most amends I can make would be lilacs. And as for your eyes, they are shallow pools that conceal hidden depths. Have you seen the life that flourishes in a tidepool? And I assure you, sir, that yours contain more life than any other I have seen. So clearly I meant not to offend, but if you're still upset by my poetic imagery then perhaps I should switch to political journalism."
"You're a poor poet if you cannot name at least ten different types of flora of any given hue from memory. Perhaps you ought to forget political journalism as well and apply for a position with Punch Magazine." John turned away from Henry stiffly, laying down on his side and only letting his accustomed smile return when Henry could no longer see his face. He plucked a blade of grass and twirled it around the end of his finger, sighing breezily.
Henry sighed deeply. "If only I had a chestnut-haired muse whose pale blue eyes and purple lips I could gaze upon for hours until dozens upon dozens of flowers made their way into my head. Someone who could expand my vocabulary just by existing. But alas, I have offended the only such person beautiful enough to inspire me that thoroughly. Even Punch Magazine is too good for me now. I shall just go back and become a doctor, and by then I'll be able to open a body cavity without thinking of a hundred synonyms for the scarlet hue of blood."
One would be hard-pressed not to feel sympathy for such a romantic declaration, and it gave John plenty of pause, rolling over once more onto his back to stare up at Henry. The curl of grass he still kept between his fingers, stroking it idly.
"Poor thing..." he cooed. "Your heart has been broken and your lovelorn soul is doomed to wander the earth alone forever. That's fine in a way, I suppose, as mermaids are purported to have no soul. But you never did intend to become a cold fish, did you? I simply couldn't live with myself if I inspired such a fate, so I shall have to forgive you."
Really, this was the part John liked far more than the pretend arguing or the false accusations. Making up was far superior in every way to every aspect of fighting, but one could not make up if one never fought. Now, the prize won, he smiled fondly and sat up, draping both arms over Henry's shoulders and embracing him.
Henry stroked John's back and bent to kiss his damp head. He ignored the tug he felt in his chest just as he had become accustomed to doing every other time he had felt it for other friends. Instead he said, "Now my heart is composing a sonnet of both romance and joy. When I get home, I shall have to write it down, but for now I can say that it has to do with the flecks of gold and flame that the sun illuminates in the aforementioned chestnut hair."
There were never enough words to describe the glee with which John drank in such lavish affection; now instead of cold and clammy his skin was growing warm and flush, a laugh for such generous words puffing out under his breath. Henry was such a lovely, charming friend, so very soft. Of course, the translation of such tenderness into words sometimes came out indirectly between males. If John felt a similar tug at his own heart he either hid it very well, or was terribly oblivious.
"What a sap you are." John told him, sitting back enough to smack a teasing kiss onto his cheek, near the corner of his mouth. "A big, foppish sap. We ought to head home straight away then, so that you won't forget your prose."
Before he could get away, Henry grabbed John and rolled him onto his back. Henry wasn't much of a wrestler, but he had surprise on his side. "We can't have me forgetting my prose," he agreed, and planted a kiss full on John's lips before getting to his feet and jogging a few steps away to avoid being hit. Grinning, he turned to watch John's reaction.
For a full minute, John's reaction was to lay there in the grass and be ultimately confused. His eyes were on the sky but looking at nothing in particular as he tried to process what Henry had just done. He'd been tackled... taunted... and then kissed...? Was that a real kiss? Or just a friendly peck as they'd grown accustomed to? No, it didn't seem that way... but in that case it was John's first real kiss from anyone, and now he was vaguely annoyed that it had been so short, the experience divested from him. He sat up and stared at Henry, out of his reach, a blank expression on his face. Slowly, John crawled out of the grass and picked up his shirt, slinging it over his shoulders without buttoning it. He would have liked an explanation from Henry, but couldn't seem to find the words to ask, so he stood nearby and looked down at him expectantly, waiting for him to either repeat the performance or explain of his own accord. Somewhere from within the muddle of his mind he might have been intrigued... but there was no preparation ever supplied to him to tell him what to do in this situation.
Of all the reactions Henry had expected, that hadn't been one of them. He felt a slight pang of regret of having gone too far, and he hoped he hadn't ruined it. Henry's friendship with John had been the best thing in his life since they first met.
So when John stood before him, looking at him in a way that seemed to be waiting for something, Henry reached up and cupped John's face and kissed him again, not joking this time. He didn't have anything to lose, after all. When he pulled away, he smiled at John nonchalantly in case his friend wanted to laugh it off, pretend it was a joke and move on, but his voice was soft when he said, "You can't taunt me with those dewy rose lips and not expect me to want a taste."
Turning, he grabbed their shirts and the tackle box and called over his shoulder in his usual voice, "Would you like to come to my house and clean up before going home? I believe mine is closer than yours." His tone was light, but his heart was heavy in his chest for fear of losing John's friendship.
Even when he felt it again, the tender brush of his friend's lips against his, he still could not believe it. John closed his eyes to block out the light, leaned forward stiffly into the hands that held his cheeks and accepted the kiss, his breath locked into his chest as he searched in vain for the answer. The only fear he felt was that there might not have been one, that kaleidoscope of firecrackers that went off from scalp to toe when Henry touched him that way were simply... as they were. That, there not being any answer, was a concept far more alien than that of any kiss, and it was terrifying.
Yet even as the crisp air rushed in to replace Henry's presence John could think of nothing but performing that strange ritual again, and again until the compulsion dissolved. Though the voice of reason inside his head screamed a litany of all manner of sins this must be committing, he hastened at the ribbon of fear riding Henry's voice and ran to catch up with him, grabbing him by the elbow and turning him around. With fascination on par of being bewitched he fixated upon Henry's elegant mouth, looking at him with the pleading of innocence before he bore down on him heavily, smashing him into another rough, confused kiss.
Henry had used up all of his ability to laugh this off two kisses ago. Normally a master of hiding his true feelings with flippancy, Henry found that he had run out of flippancy and was now standing there staring at John completely at a loss and with no little confusion plain in his own expression.
"Johnny," he said softly. "Why are we doing this?"
Henry was lucky, John thought, that he could speak. His own mouth felt surprisingly dry after all that, cracked open so that his breath could puff through it. A hand had come to rest on Henry's shoulder, but he let it slip off and hang limp.
"I don't know." he finally said numbly, mustering a shrug. "You started it. Let's just go home." How could Henry expect him to know "why" if he still couldn't decide on "what"?
"Let's go to my house and clean up and then you can go home," Henry repeated. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to fix whatever had happened, to erase what he had done and put their friendship back on solid, safe ground, but outwardly he was numb. Slowly he began to walk back toward the city proper, but he couldn't help looking over his shoulder to ensure John was following.
John was following, very closely. By the time Henry looked John had caught up with him again, entwining their arms together at least until they reached a semi-civilized area once more.
It had begun to occur to him, albeit slowly, like bubbles tracing their way up glass, that Henry had given him a very valuable gift. Not everyone could say that their first kisses came from someone lasting, someone memorable. Some had perhaps given them away to whores, or girls they barely knew, or girls they later wished they didn't know. But Henry was none of those things. He was his best friend.
Giving his arm a firm squeeze, John murmured to him softly, "Henry, thank you."