The Kept Boy (Le Garçon Gardé)

Chapter 16

2006-12-11T13:44:42Z

Jacques arrived that very same night under the heavy cloak of darkness, not wanting to be seen by any of the town’s people. What he and Joséphine were doing must be done in secret, he did not want Rion to find out what had become of his love, and so he and Tristan came on foot after being dropped by the carriage near the end of the road.

The heavy cloud cover from earlier in the day had turned in to a rare but light snow, which dusted the ground and clung to their clothing as they stepped into the house, greeted happily by the Countess. Jacques was the last piece of the puzzle that was her grand plan, and to see that he had actually arrived was more then enough to bring a smile to her beautiful but cruel face.

It did not take long for things to go into motion, for the Countess wanted Macon removed immediately. She felt deeply that the situation dire and that Rion may return at any time on the merits of love. And so she called for a carriage, a simple thing that was not ornate and that would not be noticed when passing along the lonely road to in Maisons-Alfort. It was to be a discreet operation that just be moved along smoothly and wordlessly, and they must not attracted attention.

Attention was, for once, the one thing that Joséphine did not want.

So after a quick conference of words in the drawing room, and explicit instructions to take Macon straight to the home of one Monsieur Étienne, Jacques was heading to the second house to fetch the boy, and to take him away.

Macon had laid awake for the majority of the night, crying quiet tears into a pillow that was not his, praying that Rion would come and rescue him like a knight in one of his English fairy tales. But his love never came, and he remained alone and brokenhearted, watching through watery eyes as the first rays of the morning sun began to show themselves over the far edges of the cold world.

He had thought, at first, that he might run, but he knew that in the end it would not matter. The streets would destroy him as quickly as the Countess had, and he would not be able to survive. Living so luxuriously had destroyed his street savvy ways, and so he remained, waiting for the final blow to fall.

And the blow did fall, in the form of Jacques bursting through the door and heading straight for the room where the boy was supposed to be sleeping, not knocking as he barged in. It brought a smirk to the man’s face, to see the tears sliding down the handsome face of the young boy who loved his brother so, and he gave Macon a small sneer as he threw a worn coat to him.

“Put it on,” Jacques growled, voice laced with pleasured distain. “It would not do for any of Rion’s acquaintances to catch sight of you, now would it?”

Not sure of the repercussions of an argument, Macon obeyed and stood up, pulling the coat on over his clothes and buttoning it up the front. It was an ugly thing, sewn from rough material with hand carved bone buttons, and he wondered where Jacques might have gotten it, but he did not inquire. Instead he stood in silence, the sleeves of the coat hanging past his hands, fingers curling into the leftover material.

Satisfied that the boy looked very much unlike himself without his fine clothing, Jacques took him by the arm, gripping him tightly and purposefully as he steered him out of the room, pushing past Tristan who had been watching everything from just inside the hallway. The two young boys exchanged pitiful glances as they passed each other, Tristan following along behind as his own ‘beloved’ all but dragged Macon outside to the carriage.

Macon had no luggage, and nor did anyone else, so there was no to do as Jacques climbed onto the seat with the driver, where he would give him instruction, and the two boys were locked neatly inside of the cab using a key to turn the lock from the outside. The shrill and bitter wind of winter blew around them, and even though they were inside, it was bitter cold. More cold then either boy would admit, though they found themselves wordlessly falling into the same seat and curling into each other, Macon crying and Tristan leaning over him to try and keep him a bit warmer.

The drive was long, passing from one day and into the next, and Jacques stopped several times for food and water, never offering to open the door to the carriage, and never offering either boy, not even his own Tristan, a solitary bite of anything. They were hungry and tired, so much so that neither of them realized when the carriage finally drew to a halt again, the sound of voices rising from outside.

Macon and Tristan were lying together on a narrow seat, Tristan’s back to the outside and Macon pressed into the cushions. They were holding each other tightly, skinny arms around equally thin waists, faces buried in necks and eyes red from all the tears that had been cried. They still did not move when the lock clicked and the carriage door opened, a blast of cold air rushing inside.

“Get up!”

The voice that called out was unfamiliar, and it sounded more then a little angry. So much so that they finally pulled apart, looking at each other and then at the man who was looking in on them. Scrambling, the boy’s sat up with wide eyes, shrinking away from the sight that was greeting them.

The man, Étienne Rosier, was in his early 40’s, large and strongly built with dingy gray hair framing his pointed face. He had dark, flickering eyes, and a toothless sort of smile that would make even the brightest of summer flowers wilt in its presence. He was eyeing them up and down, first Macon and then Tristan, nodding to himself before turning to Jacques.

“I will give you what you have asked, for the both of them,” Étienne said, voice gravely and thick when he spoke. “I do not usually readily accept an offer, but they are worth the money, undoubtedly.”

Tristan was stricken with a quick onset of panic at that, stumbling out of the carriage and flinging himself at Jacques, trembling slightly. “Jacques! What does he speak of? You can not mean to leave me here!”

Jacques made no move to comfort or touch the boy, instead giving him a sneer like the one he had given Macon the morning before, a look of pure disgust. “You,” he said to the boy, lip curled upwards, “where of use to be me once. But I find that I am no longer in need of you, nor do I desire you. You are nothing more then chattel to me, or to anyone else, and I do now what I would do with any other piece of useless property. I am selling it to benefit myself.”

Pocketing the money that Étienne had given him, Jacques brushed past Tristan and climbed into the carriage, grabbing Macon by the front of his threadbare coat, throwing him out into the dirt. Giving the boy’s one last look, he smirked before shutting the door and the driver pulled away, leaving them there with a man who already looked like he had a great many plans for both of them.

Chapter 15

2006-11-28T03:09:03Z

The Countess Joséphine Laurent was a woman who did not, and whom would never, take no for an answer. She had heard tell from a friend that Rion was planning to break their arrangement, to destroy the alliances her father had struggled so hard to build and to keep. It had been whispered in her ear that her betrothed was having an illustrious affair, and not with any woman, but with a boy, who was far younger then either of them, and she simply would not have it. She had never received the letter that would formally renounce their engagement, already on her way to Ermont to correct the problem that was tearing apart her future and all of her plans, and she arrived the day after her wayward fiancé had left to care for family affairs that she had yet to hear tell of.

She swept up to the front doors of Propriété Interdite with the air of a woman of great importance. Her skirts and scarves blew in the vicious wind that was whipping in from the north, ignoring it at as she hurried inside, likewise ignoring the cries of the maid who had been told not to, under any circumstances, to let this woman into the house. When Joséphine Laurent had her heart set on a matter, there was no one who might stop her, let alone someone as lowly as a maid.

Pausing in the entryway, she peeled off her coat and layers of scarves, flashing green eyes turning on the innocent maid who stood wordlessly off to the side as she laid the things on the small table near the door. “I am here to see my fiancé,” Joséphine hissed, daring the woman to speak up against her again. “Do not make me strike you, or have you flogged, because I certainly will. You will stand down, and take my things to be put away. You will then get someone to help you retrieve my things from the carriage, and you will have your stable hands put away the horses. Show my driver where he might sleep, and the put on tea. Is that understood?”

Nodding, the maid took the coat, and after a glance up the staircase to where she knew Macon was still sleeping, she hurried away to get done all of the things Madame Laurent demanded. As soon as she was away, Joséphine smoothed her hair and ascended the same stairs, holding up her skirts with small hands that were so perfectly soft they were like silk.

She looked to be the vision of perfection, and Macon would never forget the way the she appeared beside of his bed, the sound of the door creaking open having roused him. He had expected Rion to be there, having come home after only half a day of journeying, needing his love far too desperately to part. The boy had stretched and had opened his eyes with a tired smile, but that smile had immediately disappeared at the sight that greeted him.

There stood a woman whom he had never seen before, a sneer on her beautiful face. She was dressed in a fitted dress, the bodice tight around her extremely small waist, her breasts pushed up and almost spilling out the top. The skirts were full and all over the place, layer upon layer of perfectly draped material, and everything from the bodice to the skirts were a fine powder blue color. It was all edged and trimmed in bits of white lace, white pearl buttons going up the back and white satin ribbons pulled tightly in the front and tied into ribbons. Her hair was the whitest blond Macon had ever seen on a real person, pulled back and up into a tall column of hair, every curl absolutely perfect.

On one hand, Macon noted that she was wearing a brilliant and sparkling diamond ring, an engagement ring he suspected, and then it dawned on him just who this woman was. This was Joséphine, the fiancé that he had so strongly willed away, and now she was standing right in front of him.

Had Rion not written? Had he not expressed openly his disinterest in her, and in the idea that the pair of them were to be married in the spring? What had gone wrong, what was she doing here now, and why had she come when Rion was away and could not right the wrong?

Joséphine stood there and stared at Macon for a long while, neither of them daring to speak because neither was entirely sure as of what to say. She had expected to find Rion in bed, not two young boys, and she had no idea as to which would be the one who had broken apart her impending marriage. Likewise, Macon did not want to speak up out of fear, and he wished more then anything for the woman to simply go away.

Finally she mustered her courage and steadied herself, and when she spoke it was with arrogance, a condescending lilt in her soft voice that made it hard around the edges. “Which one of you is the one who has caught the fancy of my fiancé? And where, might I ask, is he?”

Macon knew that this was his moment, that he could not have Cosme playing a party to his own fall, so he sat up straighter, holding his head high the way that Rion had taught him. He was not inferior to her, in fact, this was his home, his house, and she would not make him feel degraded inside of these walls.

“I am Macon Binet, and I am Monsieur Rion’s lover,” Macon said, his words coming out less strong then he had hoped, but he was doing his best to hold his own. This woman was intimidating, and it was really a struggle just to speak up at all. “He is out of town on a family affair. His father is very ill, and he has gone to look after all the arrangements that must be made. And I suspect that you are Joséphine Laurent.”

“Countess Joséphine Laurent,” she practically spat at him, jerking the covers away and throwing them onto the floor. “You, leave now. I want to be alone with Monsieur Macon. Now get out before I am forced to make you go.”

Not having to be told again, Cosme climbed out of the bed, and after one last look to Macon he fled the room. Macon wished desperately to follow, but he knew that he must stay and hold his ground, and so he did. Crossing his arms over his chest, he made no move to leave the bed or to grant her any sort of attention that was anything shy of annoyance.

Joséphine spoke again, and this time her eyes rested on Macon, her gaze heavy enough to burn right into his skin. “It has been brought to my attention that my darling Jean-Rion has been playing out his desires in my absence. People are beginning to talk, and I am becoming quite the joke at court. They say that my future husband is a traitor to us all, that he is sleeping with a rather young boy when he as a beautiful fiancé who will soon be his wife. We can not have a nobleman on the court that spends his free time between the sheets with not only another man, but a man who is far younger then he.”

Circling the bed, Joséphine looked Macon over with a critical eye, and even she could see how Rion might find this boy sexually appealing and desirable. He was a lovely little thing, with his dark hair and wide blue eyes, but it turned her stomach to imagine the man she was to be wed to kissing those pouted strawberry tinted lips. What they were doing was wrong, and forbidden by the society in which they lived, and while it had been quite alright at first, now that others were knowledgeable, it could no longer continue.

“As soon as I heard tell of what was happening, I wrote immediately to my brother who is in Maisons-Alfort. He knows a man there, by the name of Étienne, who is very interested in purchasing himself a boy. I know that is how Rion acquired you, I have learned every disgusting detail that is known about the two of you and your relationship, and so I have made arrangements. In two days, a man will come for you, to take you away to Monsieur Étienne. The exchange is quite in my favor,” Joséphine said, a simpering grin plastered on her painted lips now. “ I have traded you for a lovely set of silver, including the serving trays and the tea set which will be a lovely wedding gift for Rion and myself.”

Macon felt the heat rising to his cheeks, and in a flash he was out of the bed and standing before her, eyes flickering with anger. “You can not come into this house, and order me out,” he said, voice rising as his temper flared. “It is not your place, and it is not your home! It is Monsieur Rion’s house, and only he can order me out! And he would never do such a thing, because he is in love with me, and not you and you hate it! You hate that he has found someone who satisfies his needs in ways that you could only ever imagine doing! So you get out of my home because I am not leaving!”

Joséphine began to laugh as Macon spoke, and it would have been beautiful tinkling laughter had her expression not conveyed so much malice and distaste for the boy standing before her. “You are so young, and so very naïve. Jacques is on his way even as we speak, to help me remove you from what will soon be my home. He is the one who told me of you and Rion, and he is the one who will help make sure you are properly removed before Rion returns. Now, get dressed, and go with your friend to the stables. You will help tend the horses, and then you will take a bed in the house with the other servants. There is certainly no place for you here anymore.”

“He will not stand for this,” Macon said, even as he was reaching for his breeches from the day before, sliding them on beneath his night gown and pulling them up over his thin hips. “You will pay, and Rion will see to it! And when I return to Ermont, I will laugh at you as you have laughed at me. You will see.”
Once he was dressed again, Macon pulled on his coat and stared at her long and hard, wishing that there was more he might do. He could stand up against her if she remained alone, of that he was fairly certain, but not against both her and Jacques. They both held more sway then he did, and the two of them together were a force that he could not take down alone. So he knew what he would have to do. He would have to go, and he would have to stay with this Étienne until Rion returned home and then came for him, which he would undoubtedly do.

Rion would come for him, and they would return together, and no one in the world, least of all Joséphine Laurent, would keep them from together for the rest of their lives.

Storming past her, Macon ran down the stairs and out the back door, crossing the gallery with a heavy heart. He knew that it was better to stop fighting, but part of him did wonder if he should. Perhaps Rion would think him weak and be glad to see him gone, even though he knew that, deep down, that was just not so.

Joséphine watched Macon through the bedroom window as he crossed the lawns and headed in the direction of the stable. She felt smug, like she had acquired a rather grand prize in her sway over him and the situation, and once he had disappeared she hurried downstairs.

The maids had finished bringing in her things from the carriage, and she instructed them to take her fine boxes and bags upstairs to the main bedroom. She told them to remove everything that belonged to the young boy, and to dispose of it at once. Her things were to be put in the wardrobes in place of his, her fine dresses and hats hanging next to Rion’s silken coats and riding jacket. Once that was done, she wanted the gardener to remove the trees from inside the house, because pine made her sneeze, and the gifts that lay beneath were to be disposed of with the clothes.

She would not have her house look the part of a sinful love nest any longer, and she was determined to begin the conversion of turning it into a home before Rion returned. They would, after all, be making their life here, and she wanted everything to be absolutely perfect.

Chapter 14

2006-11-28T03:07:21Z

Soon it would be Christmas, and for once Macon was looking forward to celebrating the holiday. Never before had he been in a home that was as grandly decorated as Propriété Interdite, and he had not, in all seventeen years of his life, ever had a Christmas tree. They were a fanciful thing that only those who were well off could afford, but now he had one in nearly every room of the house; each one decorated differently then the last.

The best tree, really, was in the main sitting room, which he and Rion had picked out themselves. It was a large tree, nearly as tall as the room itself, and they had draped it with golden yards of fine silk ribbon. Between the ribbons, placed carefully on the branches, were dozens of candles, a hand carved star made by a local wood smith perched on the very top.

Beneath this tree was a beautiful woven rug of white and gold, upon which sat stacks and stacks of gifts, nearly every single one for Macon and all wrapped in colorful paper and tied with string. One cold weekday afternoon, Cosme had helped Macon get to town without Rion’s supervision, so several of the gifts, though small, were for the older man and had been purchased with Macon’s weekly allowance.

In the weeks that had passed since Jacques visit, the tension in the house had begun to melt away, and after many days of not hearing from either him or Rion’s fiancé, things had even grown rather cheerful. The maids had actively helped Macon put candles in all of the rooms, and they had even yielded to his request that they pick holly and mistletoe and string it in bunches over all the doorways. The frost that covered the grounds outside nearly every morning now made things inside the house just that much more cozy, and fires now roared day and night in all of the main fireplaces.

Macon and Rion had settled into a quaint routine, and the days began to melt deliciously together. They would spend entire afternoons curled up in front of the fire, and sometimes Rion would watch in absolute delight as Macon examined his gifts, trying very hard to guess what each box contained within it.

There were quiet dinners with just the two of them, and the occasional night when one or more of Rion’s friends would come for drinks. They rarely entertained, but when they did it was a nice affair in which Rion got the chance to show off the beauty of his love, and Macon got to be the rare center of everyone’s attention, and not just Rion’s.

Though their days were now nice and well spent with one another, it was the nights that they both preferred. Nothing was as blessedly wonderful as that moment when they finally retired to the room that they now shared, the candles doused and everything pitched into near darkness. The most perfect feeling was when they slid between the sheets, nude and curled close together. Some nights there were intense bouts of lovemaking that lasted for hours until both fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. Other nights they simply laid there, Macon’s head resting on Rion’s chest, and Rion’s fingers combing gently though his black curls.

There life together was becoming nothing short of perfect, and as each day passed them by, their undying love for each other began to grow. They began to form and almost unhealthy attachment for one another, neither quite ready to have the other out of his sight, and both wholly unprepared to ever spend any real time apart.

They were together in the stables when the letter arrived in haste, the pair of them not expecting it when Cosme threw open the heavy doors and ran in, interrupting their sneaky kisses and inappropriate touches in the hay.

“Monsieur Rion! Monsieur Rion! Come quick, your father is ill,” Cosme called out, a sharp hint of urgency in his voice despite the way he was panting. Though the run from the house to the stable was not very far at all, the winter wind was enough to take your breath away, and it took a long moment for the boy to recover.

As soon as the doors had been thrown open, Macon and Rion had jumped apart, cheeks flushed and embarrassed smiles on their lips. However, the moment the words had left the stable boy’s lips Rion had gotten to his feet, brushing the hay off of his coat as he stood.

“What do you speak of, Cosme? How do you know that my father is ill?” Rion asked, eyes flashing as he approached the poor boy.

Cosme’s defense was to hold up an envelope, tattered at the edges and sealed with a piece of melted wax embossed with Rion’s family crest. “The carrier told me,” the boy whispered, standing up straighter now that his breath was coming back. “He told me to come find you at once, that you must go now. He is…he is dying, monsieur.”

Rion took the letter with shaking hands, barely noticing when Macon joined his side and leaned against him, an arm around Rion’s strong waist. He opened the envelope and took out a folded pieces of paper, smoothing it out before beginning to read. The hand writing was messy, like the letter had been scribbled in haste, as it most likely had been. And the words said exactly what Cosme had proclaimed.

Rion, your father has fallen terribly ill…will not make it much longer…you must come at once to the estate…he has asked for you, his dying wish to see his oldest son…

Folding the letter and sliding it back into the envelope, Rion struggled to hold back his tears as he turned and wrapped his arms tightly around Macon. The boy did not know it, but the man was not crying over the impending death of his father, the man who had raised him. He was crying because the time had come for them to be apart, for however long it might take Rion to put his father’s affairs into order, and he was more then reluctant to leave the boy for anything, even for such a difficult matter.

“Mon amour,” Rion whispered, lips ghosting over Macon’s cheek, a soft kiss placed amongst the dark curls near his ear. “I must go. I hate to leave you, and I wish that I could stay, but I must do this. They need me at the estate in Lyon, but I swear to you that I will return in time for Christmas. Do you trust me and my promise?”

“Oui,” Macon whispered, tears beginning to pool in his blue eyes even though he struggled to hold them back. “I trust you, Monsieur. You must go, and take care of your family. I will be here, waiting for you, counting everyday until you return to me.”

Rion could see the way Macon’s heart was breaking at the thought of his leaving, and he held the boy that much tighter, kissing his face all over. “Come, my love, do not cry. It won’t be so very long, and while I am away you and Cosme can take care of the horses, and go to dinner in Ermont. Would you like that?”

Sniffling, Macon managed a small nod, pulling back so he could place a chaste kiss to Rion’s lips. “Go now, Monsieur. The sooner you are gone, the sooner you can return,” he whispered, sighing softly before kissing Rion again, and harder at that. “I will you see soon, and I will think of you every second until you are back.”

“It will only be a handful of days,” Rion whispered, returning the kiss before letting Macon go with absolute reluctance. He straightened his jacket and let out a deep breath, heading out of the stable without looking back. A glance at his forlorn lover would have only brought on tears, would have only hurt more. It was better to go with a hint of grace, and with whatever dignity he had left to muster up.

As soon as Rion had disappeared from the stable, trudging up the long path to the house and then beyond to the waiting carriage, Macon turned and looked at Cosme with wet eyes. Tears trailed down his pale cheeks and pooled in the hollows created by his collarbone, dampening the material of his lawn shirt beneath his coat. Wordlessly Cosme opened his arms in a sympathetic gesture, and Macon stepped into them, the pair of them embracing like brother’s, one of whom has just borne witness to something horrible.

They stood like that for what seemed to be ages, just holding onto each other while Macon cried, and when they were done and had broken apart, he invited Cosme into the house with him for supper. He would not, and simply could not, be alone, and he knew that Rion would understand that allowing the stable boy to sit at the table and to climb into the bed with him was not at all a sexual attachment, but more of an emotional one.

Supper over and the dishes well cleared, the boy’s retired to the room that Rion had given to Macon, that he never used anymore. The majority of his things were now in Rion’s room, and that was where he slept, but tonight he would retire here, in his old bed. He did not wish to have Cosme lying in the bed that he and his love shared, so this would suffice for the purposes of loneliness.

Quietly Macon shed his coat and shirt, pulling on a long night shirt before removing his trousers. He gave Cosme another shirt to slip into before scrubbing off his face and hands, climbing beneath the covers. Since leaving the stables, no more then a handful of words had passed between the two of them, and they would not utter any in this moment as Cosme joined Macon in the bed, settling down into the fine linens and downy softness that was far more comfortable then his bed in the small house the help shared.

Dousing the lights, the pair of them laid there in darkness, just staring around at their shadowy surroundings until Macon began to sob again. He hated this feeling, the needy way his heart cried out for Rion and objected to the poor substitute he had brought along with him. It felt like a sham, to be deprived of the one person on earth who he needed desperately, to have his feelings left in the care of a boy who was scarcely older then himself, and he covered his face with his hands as he let his tears get out of control.

Everything soon became a damp mess, and Cosme just laid there stiffly, listening to the other boy cry. He wanted desperately to help him, but he was also afraid of what that might mean. If he held Macon, if he tried to sooth away his pain and anyone found out, most of all the gossiping maids, and Rion heard news, he would surely be flogged. Or worse, he would be sent away from the place he had come to know as home, and then where would he be?

But Cosme could not stand to listen to the other’s cries. He liked Macon, he greatly enjoyed his friendship and company, so with a soft sigh he rolled over, pulling the other boy into his arms. It wasn’t at all like being held by Rion, but it did help to calm him down just enough so that his body didn’t shake from the force of his sobbing anymore. Eventually the tears slowed and then stopped, and the pair of them just curled together, a tangle of dark hair and limbs.

They slept that way all night and well into the morning, Cosme on his back with his arms around Macon, and Macon with his head resting in the crook of Cosme’s neck, lips slighted parted as he breathed deeply. This was how they lay as the sun rose in the western sky, the light outside filtered and broken from the clouds that were gatherings.

This was how they were, tangled up together on that cold December morning when Joséphine Laurent arrived at Propriété Interdite and destroyed their lives.

Chapter 13

2006-11-25T22:53:08Z

Rion’s heart was thundering in his chest so hard he thought that it might burst, instantly killing him, as he ran up the stairs and into Macon’s room. He ignored the destruction of those priceless heirlooms, the vase, the portrait of his grandfather as a young man… They meant nothing to him, really.

He pushed his way into his lover’s room without knocking, immediately moving to the sobbing form on the bed. “Macon… darling… my love… what’s happened? What did my bastard brother say to you?”

“Do not touch me,” Macon cried out, voice laced with his anger and his sadness. His heart was shattered, nearly destroyed and all because of a woman, a woman who wanted to take away from him the only thing in his life that was perfect and that mattered. “He told me about her, and that she is coming here for you! What of me, Rion? Will I be left alone on the streets again when she comes for you?”

Pulling away, he slid off the bed and stood barefoot and teary-eyed in the mess he had created, both of himself and of the room. There was shattered glass littering the floor, and pages that had been torn from the books in the hall. Macon’s hair was a mess where he had torn at it in fury, and his clothes hung loose and wrinkled on his thin frame as he stared at Rion like a terrified animal.

“Non,” Rion said softly, eyes wide and soft, imploring his lover to listen. “Joséphine will not be coming here. I wrote a letter to my father two weeks ago… I will not marry someone whom I do not love and never have loved.”

He sighed, moving to sit on the bed. “Join me, love. Let me explain things.”

Macon’s small chest was heaving as he struggled to breathe and to keep his broken heart from exploding and destroying him, but he managed a nod and sat down on the farther side of the bed on the edge. “Jacques said your father has stated that you will marry in the spring, that there will be no more waiting. It is a set affair, Monsieur. Please do not lead me on further,” he whispered, fresh tears pooling in reddened blue eyes.

Rion sighed, running a hand through his blond curls. “Joséphine and I have been betrothed since we were children. I was… no more than four or five when she was born. She was a sickly child so we were betrothed right away.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts. “I do not love her. I never have and I never will. And, since she has become of age, I have been fighting the betrothal. But our families will have none of it. It is and was a political alliance.”

He cleared his throat, watching Macon, praying the man understood. “I will not marry her. And if she comes, I will turn her away. And I have told my father as much.”

“Cosme says we are doomed,” Macon whispered, staring at his hands which were folded in his lap and resting between his knees. He was watching as a droplet of blood seeped from a cut caused by his bout of destruction, the red standing out sharply in contrast to the paleness of his pristine skin. “He is right, Monsieur. Madame Laurent will give you a marriage, solidarity, and children. I can not give you anything but the love of a street whore. I can not bear your name, Monsieur, as I can not bear your children. And they…they will not stop until they see us part, and I do not wish for you to ever suffer for the risk it would take to love me completely.”

“And Cosme knows all now, does he?” Rion asked, a hint of humor in his voice. “Perhaps he has attained enlightenment about many things since I saw him last, but he is wrong in this matter. Our love…. It is constant and it is forever. I promise you that.”
He scooted a little closer to his lover, eyes searching the young man’s face. “They can’t tear us apart, my love. I promised you that the other night, and I intend to keep my promise.”

Macon finally allowed himself to look up, meeting Rion’s gaze with sad eyes and a trembling bottom lip. “Do not let her come here to take my place,” he breathed, voice pleading, nearly begging outright. “Oh, Monsieur, do not let it happen. You have made me love you, you have forced me to give you my heart and my whole being, you have taken it all and it is now yours, buried deep inside of your own heart, and if you let her come here, then it will not be the same. Please, promise. Promise me that she will never set foot inside these walls.”

Rion slowly pulled Macon into his arms, knuckles dragging lightly across taut cheeks. “Darling… the staff is already instructed to not allow her or my brother or anyone in their company onto the grounds without my express permission. Do not fear so. You are going no where, my love.”

“It is hard not to worry, when you lived such a life as mine,” Macon whispered, nuzzling gently against Rion’s hand as it brushed across his tear-stained cheek. He felt worn then, and pulled, like he was a piece of material stretched to thin across the frame of the loom and was in imminent danger of ripping in two. Letting out a soft noise, he fell back against the bed and rested his head in Rion’s lap, peering up at his lover with a tired expression.

“I am sorry, for destroying your beautiful things,” he said, voice still low and quiet. “I did not mean it, and I will put it all back right, I promise. I will.”

Rion shook his head, running his fingers through those jet black curls. “Think not on it, my love. They are just things, things which I can do without. What matters to me is your happiness and welfare. Everything else is replaceable.” He leaned down and kissed Macon’s forehead. “If you are tired, you should sleep.”

Macon shook his head this time, still peering up at Rion, reaching out a hand to gently caress the other’s face, fingers curling into the loose blond hair that framed the man’s cheeks. “Is she lovely,” he asked quietly. “Did she ever make you feel the way I do? Did she ever stir things inside of you, did you ever want to have her between your sheets?”

“I do not know,” Rion said truthfully, nuzzling against his lover’s hand. “I have not seen her in years, not since I was fifteen. She was ten.”

“I bet she is,” Macon said, closing his eyes and just letting his hand linger on Rion’s face, fingers idly playing with his hair, furling and unfurling a single curl. “Tell me what you love about me. I need to hear the words.”

Rion chuckled softly, leaning back on his hands. “What I love about you, hm? Well… I love your eyes… They are bright and vibrant and beautiful. And your lips… they’re perfect and sculpted and so pretty… I love your willingness to please, and your eagerness to learn… I love you humor and your humanity and your grace…”

Mac smiled, sitting up and leaning back against Rion, resting against the other man’s chest. Whimpering, he shifted more until he was settled between the other’s legs, reclined and a bit more relaxed. “I did not like Jacques,” he admitted, letting his head loll back against the man’s shoulder. “He was bitter and spiteful, and mean to his boy.”

“I’m not at all that fond of him either,” Rion confessed, arms wrapping themselves around his lover tightly. “He’s my half-brother… My mother passed when I was an infant and his mother raised me as her own. He’s always been jealous of the attention she heaped on me before her passing. He’s dreadfully jealous of the fact that I am titled, through my mother, and he is not.”

“I never knew my mother at all,” Macon confessed, opening up about his family for the first time since he had really come to live with Rion. “Or my father. Or any of my family, because they abandoned me when I was very young. The people that took me in, they passed from illness. I have never truly had a family.”

“I’m sorry, my love,” Rion whispered. “The people that took you in… did they love you? Did they treat you well?”

Macon shrugged, picking up Rion’s hand from where it lay stretched across his stomach, playing with the man’s fingers. “I suppose they thought enough of me to care for me, but I was not their child, and they did not love me. When they passed, I went with their eldest and only remaining son to Paris, and that is where you met me four years later.”

“I was very fond of my step-mother,” Rion said softly. “I wept when she passed. I have no fondness in my heart for my father’s newest wife or their children. Alexander and Therese are brats, just like Jacques.”

“Be my family?” Macon asked quietly, turning in Rion’s arms so they were now lying chest to chest, noses bumping together. “I have never had one, Monsieur, and you are all that I have. Be my…everything. Not my brother, or father, and you certainly can not be my wife. Just be my everything, please?”

“I thought I already was,” Rion said softly, peppering Macon’s mouth with sweet, light kisses. “But if you must hear the words, then yes, my love. You are all the family I want and desire. With you, I want for nothing else.”

Macon smiled against Rion’s mouth, hips pressing just so as he turned his head and buried his face in his lover’s neck, inhaling sharply his sweet smell. “My beautiful, caring noblemen.”

Rion smiled at that, content to just hold the boy close and safe in his arms, to let him know he was loved. “And you are my gorgeous, wonderful, and amazing Macon. My beautiful Monsieur Binet. Do not worry your pretty head, hm? No woman, or man, will ever come between the two of us. Nothing short of God himself could ever take me away from you, and you from me. So please, do not think on it a minute more.

“I will try, my love,” Macon whispered, resting his head against Rion’s shoulder and closing his eyes. “I will try anything for you, anything at all.”

Kissing the top of Macon’s head, Rion merely nodded and relaxed, hands rubbing soothingly over the boy’s back. “Rest, and when you wake we will go take dinner with the Countess, and then we will hide away in our room for days upon days, to make up for this horrible folly.”

Seemingly satisfied, Macon had already begun to drift into a restless sleep, held tightly against his lover’s chest. His dreams were vivid and filled with fright, the worry of the future pressing breathlessly upon him. He would not, however, speak of it again, he would honestly try, because he would do anything to please Rion. Even if it meant suffering in silence and ignoring the stones that were clamoring inside of his stomach at the mere thought of Rion’s fiancé.

Rion in return would that very night begin a letter, to severe his ties with Joséphine and to break off their engagement. Though his letter would arrive far to late to stop the actions that were being set into motion, it was the last valiant effort of a man who would do anything to save his love.

Post #11

2006-11-20T21:41:24Z

After a big dose of Real Worldness, the writing has once again commenced. Progress, progress, and the story should definitely be done on time, so hurray for that.

Chapter 12

2006-11-20T21:31:37Z

The days that followed the masque were a blur, everything bleeding together around the edges and one moment giving way unceremoniously to the next. There were no more grand party’s to attend as the warm weather collapsed into the beginnings of fall, and Macon was taken by Rion into Ermont where he was once again outfitted with a new wardrobe, this one suited for the winter months that lay ahead. They rarely, if ever, left the house now except for the occasional call to an old friend or to have a nice dinner in a fine Parisian restaurant, and they were both content to stay alone with one another, hidden away at Propriété Interdite.

As fall begin to loom over the French countryside, the leaves turning from brilliant greens to vibrant oranges and yellows, Rion began to travel away for extended periods of time, doing business before the snow fell and travel was far too much of a risk even for the most important of matters.

Macon spent his time alone learning to read under the eye of a private professeur, or riding horses with Cosme the stable boy. Several times he was sent by Rion to make calls on people who he had promised tea and conversation with, acting in the place of his lover who had other pressing things at hand to tend to. He felt a bit like a dignitary, sent out in haste on matters of great importance to the country of France, and though this was not necessarily true and he was merely paying visits to friends, it still gave him the air of being significant.

It was a cold day, when Macon met Jacques- Louis Despréaux and his companion Tristan, the pair of them arriving at Propriété Interdite on an occasion when Rion was once again tending to affairs in Ermont. It was far too early out to go riding, and the cold kept the boy all but confined to the main house. He had not been expecting a visit, Rion had mentioned no one coming that day, and he was more then a bit surprised when he heard the sound of hoofs and the turning wheels of a carriage coming up to the iron gates.

Surprised, Macon rose from his comfortable spot in the large settee beneath Rion’s windows where he had been bathing in the cold sunlight, peeking out between the curtains to see who might be coming to the doors. Had his lover gotten leave to come home early? He certainly hoped so, and after a moment of composing himself after his bought of excitement, he hurried down the stairs to welcome Rion home.

The sight that greeted him in the entrance hall, however, was not an expected one at all, and he stopped just short of the doorway so that he might stare at the man that looked shockingly like his beloved. There was a head of blond curly hair, and flickering pleasant blue eyes, but the face was wrong, the nose too broad and the smile too crooked and insincere. The frame was the right height, but entirely too stocky to be his lover’s finely curved and muscular body, and there was a boy. A boy who was not Macon, who had hair that was mousey brown instead of shocking black, who was a little taller and a bit to thick in the middle, but who clung to the strange man much like he clung to his amour Rion.

Feeling as though he ought to play the part of the diplomat in Rion’s absence, Macon finally recovered from his slight shock and stepped forward, offering a shy and awkward boy. “Monsieur’s,” he said, voice coming out far less strong then he had hoped for. “Jean-Rion is not here, he is attending matters of business in the city of Ermont. If you wish to speak to him, I might suggest you return in the morning. He will be back then, and refreshed enough to receive visitors.”

The blond man looked at the boy for a long moment before laughing, his voice cheerful and deep, another striking difference between himself and Rion, despite the resemblance in their features. “I am Jacques- Louis Despréaux, Rion’s youngest brother,” the man said, laughing again. “And who might you be, young sir? And why, might I ask, has my brother left you in charge of his affairs?”

“You are his brother?” Macon asked softly, blinking for a moment in consideration. He had not known that Rion had siblings, but then again their respective family’s were not a topic that came up often between the two of them, so it was not hard at all to believe that he had not known. “I am Macon Binet, Rion’s companion. He has left me to take care of his personal dealings while he is on business. He did not tell me, Monsieur, that you would be arriving here, so I am very sorry for my rudeness. It was not intentional.”

“It is quite all right, I assure you,” Jacques said, bowing slightly at Macon before removing his heavy coat, handing it off to a waiting made who hung it carefully on the rack by the door before taking the younger boy’s as well. “Rion did not know that we were to arrive here, because we did not know ourselves. We were passing through on our own business, heading for Versailles, and though we might stop. By we, I mean myself, of course, and Tristan who is my, as you put it, companion.

The boy who stood so aptly at Jacques’ side stepped forward slightly and bowed at the waist, eyes rising before the rest of him to meet Macon’s gaze, a smirk ghosting over his lips before disappearing again. This action caught Macon quite off guard, but he recovered quickly and managed a small nod.

“I am very sorry that Rion is not here to receive you, it will be nightfall before he arrives back,” Macon explained, stepping aside to let them properly enter the house. “If you would like, we might go to the drawing room and take tea. There is a fire there, and we have scones left from breakfast just this morning.”

Nodding and smirking, Jacques took Tristan by the wrist, his fingers completely circling the slight expanse of bone, leading the boy into the hall and down to the drawing room. “That would be fine,” he assured Macon, giving the boy a look in passing that made him shiver and chill through.

For someone who was so closely related in blood to his love, Jacques struck something sour within Macon at first meeting, and he did not trust the man’s sharply flashing eyes or the way he held onto Tristan, who looked like he might be sick at any moment, swaying and staring openly at the floor when he wasn’t sneaking looks at Macon like a kicked puppy.

Macon showed them into the drawing room and asked the maid to stoke the fire to further warm the room, setting about fetching for a tray of tea and scones, shushing Marionnette who was yipping fiercely at the newcomers like they were common intruders who were there to steal the fine silver. He was purposefully avoiding the way that Jacques stared at him as he moved, and the way Tristan’s eyes seemed to plead quietly, not interested in becoming involved in affairs that were not his own business and were far removed from his own relationship with Rion. He was merely playing the part of the host, and when he finally took a seat for himself it was near the fireplace and not so close to the other two at all.

“You are a new edition to my brother’s estate,” Jacques finally spoke up at last, waving for the maid to exist as soon as she sat down the tray of tea and cakes on the low table that separated the three of them. “Tell me, Macon, who did you come to be here? Rion has not spoken of you in his letters to either father or myself. I’m rather curious, you might say.”

“I came here from Paris,” Macon said softly, not feeling it his place to give Jacques any such details about their relationship or how they came to be together. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he would tell the man even if he did have such a right, not liking the way it all felt. “Rion needed a companion, and he thought me to be a fine one.”

Jacques smirked, pouring himself a cup of tea, handing it to Tristan so that he might hold it until it was cool enough to drink. “He needed a companion, hm? Interesting. Father has told me that Rion has not spoken to his fiancé, Joséphine, in quite some days. She has become worried about his goings on. You might pass along to him to write to her, because she has plans to arrive around Christmas, with the intent to make her home here to stay.”

Macon felt something stir in him then, and he knew instantly why he so heavily disliked Jacques. The man was smiling, taking a devious delight in the hurt that had flashed across the boy’s eyes, and it was suddenly very apparent that this man took delight in things that would make his brother unhappy.

Such as the misery of his lover, who would simply be crushed at hearing the news of Joséphine’s plans.

“She can not come here,” Macon said, something bitter and thick rising in his throat. He didn’t want to speak up, didn’t want to give Jacques the satisfaction of seeing the hurt he was causing with his unjust news, but he could not resist. “There is no place for her in this house, in this place. There is no place for her in Rion’s bed or by his side. She will have to make other plans.”

“Oh, but Monsieur Binet, that is not possible,” Jacques said, taking his tea from Tristan and sipping at it as though utterly bored. “They are to be married in the spring, so that she might finally take her place as Marchioness of Ermont. Father has decided that Rion has waited long enough, and that the marriage must be pushed ahead. He desires grandchildren before he passes, he must have the final reassurance that our bloodline and nobility will continue. Rion is the only recognized son, the only one who carries a title, and it is up to him to full fill his role and make sure our family is not forgotten.”

Macon rose from his seat then, and though he was petite his face flashed with such anger that Jacques shrank a bit, his eager smile fading slightly. “She is not welcome here,” he hissed, voice low and malicious, filled to the brim with distain and hatred. Hatred towards Jacques for his delight in such horrible news, and hatred for Joséphine who wanted to take up her place at Rion’s side, when Macon had already filled the spot and would not willingly give it up. “I do not care who she is, I do not care what she was promised by your father. Rion does not love her, he loves only me, and he will not marry her. Let her stay in Paris, or Dunkerque, or Valence. Let her stay wherever it is that she might dwell, because this is not her home. It is my home. Rion chose me, I fill his lonely spaces, I have consumed his heart and his soul and his body and she will never get it. She and her selfishness will not set foot inside Propriété Interdite. Rion would die before he saw it happen.”

Jacques bent forward and slowly sat down the fine glass saucer and teacup on the gilded tray, leaning back and resting his folded hands across his lap. He stared at Macon for a long moment, eyes considering and calculating, thinking things over carefully before he finally chose to speak up once again. “Madame Joséphine Laurent will be arriving at Propriété Interdite on le 22 de Décembre. There is nothing you can do to stop it, and there will be no halt put on this marriage yet again. Our father has willed this to happen, and so it shall. No peasant boy from the streets of Paris with an idle fancy of love will stop it.”

“Go,” Macon said harshly, eyes flicking to Tristan who looked back at him in sadness before looking quickly away again. “Get out of here, and do not come back. I will tell Rion of your visit here, and I will tell him what you have said. Then he might deal with you as he sees fit and proper. I can do little to amend this situation, but I can make you leave. I am the head of this house in his absence, and I do not wish for you to remain here any longer. So go.”

“Nothing you can say or do will change things,” Jacques said, getting to his feet and beckoning for Tristan to follow and do the same. “I have come to deliver news, and to merely pay a visit to my darling older brother, so that I might wish him well. It is probably better, however, that he does hear the news from his bien-aimé. After all, it is the pair of you who will be at a loss, and you should rightfully suffer the pitfalls of this failed attempt at love together, hm?”

Turning, Jacques exited the room quickly while calling for the maid to fetch their coats and ready them a light meal for the road. As he was rampaging amongst the staff, Tristan turned quietly to Macon, an apologetic look upon his handsome but plain face.

“I am sorry,” Tristan whispered, voice thick with a southern French accent and his words so soft they were barely audible. “He is jealous of Monsieur Jean-Rion. He is resentful that his brother has the title, and he does not. He wishes to be the one who is relied upon, but he has nothing to offer to anyone. He is fear to do as he wishes, but what he wishes for the most is to be the marquees in place of your Rion. I truly am sorry, that things are playing out this way, because I can see in your eyes that you truly love him. I once loved Jacques, as you love Rion, but his own jealousy for things he can not have has torn us into pieces.”

Pausing, Tristan took a shaky breath before continuing on. “Do not let this come between you,” he said. “You can overcome this, if you two are really in love. I do not want to see your heart destroyed as mine was, and still is. I must go now, but I wish you luck, and do not despair. Somehow you will be together; you just simply must find the way.”

Before Macon had the chance to reply, to speak or to let the tears that had gathered in his eyes fall, Tristan was following Jacques out the door and back to their carriage where they would wait for the maid to bring them sandwiches and fresh tea that they might take with them on their long journey to Versailles.

Once they were gone and the doors and gates were once again secured, Macon allowed himself the luxury of expressing his anger, pain, and sorrow. He let out a scream that echoed off the walls and through the narrow hallways of the house, startling the help and Marionette who had come out of her hiding place once the stranger’s were gone. He screamed until his throat was raw and his voice rough, and then he thundered up the staircase, destroying everything that stood between him and the door to his rooms.

Macon broke then antique vase that Rion’s father had received on a trip to the country of Italy, and he ripped a painting of a young and unknown nobleman off the wall, smashing the canvas through on the edge of a gilded table. He destroyed bronze candelabras by throwing them hard against the floor, and the books that lined a shelf at the end of a hall were thrown about, their pages ripped and covers torn.

No one went near him in his rage, they let it play out without intervention, and still no one stepped in when he cried out threats of suicide and murder before slamming the door to his room so hard that it shook the entire floor of the house. Macon did not need to hear Rion’s side of the situation to know that it was impossibly true. While Jacques has said things out of pure malice, it did not mean that it was a lie. Rion had a fiancé, and she would be coming to live in their home, and she would step between them and destroy their finely crafted love for one another.

Rage melting into hurt, and hurt pouring over into abstract sadness, Macon finally collapsed on his bed, wrapping himself up in the silken duvet and weeping openly into his pillows. Everything smelled like Rion, sharp and fresh and with a hint of musk, and this only increased the power behind his tears. Soon everything was a damp mess, but he only continued to sob, unable to stop and with no will to do so anyway. He cried for himself and for his lover, he cried for their imminent separation, and the untimely end of the best love of his love which loomed just ahead in the coming weeks.

Finally Macon fell into a fitful sleep, which soon turned in to something deeper. He did not hear the approaching carriage at nightfall, or the sound of doors opening and closing in the floors below as Rion returned home. One of the maids immediately told him of his brother’s visit and his lover’s rage, but still Macon slept. He slept as Rion raced up the stairs and took in the mess in the hall, and as his bedroom door swung open.

He slept to forget.

He slept to remember.

He slept as a means to cling hopelessly to a love that was doomed to fail.

Chapter 11

2006-11-20T18:52:01Z

On the eve of the masque, Macon locked himself up in his bed chamber and didn’t come out even to eat a bite of supper. He was hungry, his stomach growling in protest and demand, but he was far too nervous to even consider the prospect of food. He had never, before meeting Rion, been associated with royalty or nobility, of any standing, but tonight would change everything, his entire world, and it was causing him no slight amount of panic.

They had gone to the tailor after Rion had received the news of the ball, and they had purchased a lovely coat of the deepest blood red, adorned with heavy brass buttons for Macon to wear. Beneath the coat was a golden colored silk lawn shirt, and new breeches with clean new boots. He had a mask, the same color as his coat, to wear over his face, but all of these things lay untouched on the chair near the window.

Instead of dressing, Macon sat on the edge of his large bed, completely nude and looking like the world was caving in around him. How was he to act tonight, around such people with such fine breeding? He had never been to anything even close to a masque before, and he was supposed to act proper, to behave in a refined manner that reflected well on both himself, and Rion. He was no one, not anybody of any sort of importance at all, why he was attending such a fine affair? He was a boy from the streets, taken into the kind and loving arms of a very important man.

Macon himself was not important, and going to the masque now seemed such a silly thing to do, when he had no birth right or privilege to be there.

Shivering, he wrapped his arms around his own thin frame and bowed his head, dark curls sweeping across the pale skin of his forehead. Rion would understand that he could no go, he was not fit to go, and that, in the end, he was saving them both from utter humiliation.

Whimpering into the quietness of the room, Macon pulled his legs up and slid beneath the covers, curling into a ball and hiding himself from view. Downstairs he could hear commotion, Rion and the others were carrying on, getting dressed and readying the horses that would carry them into Paris to the evening’s affair. It was still mid-morning, but the city was a long drive away, especially with the large carriage that they would be traveling in. Rion had demanded that they drive the finest and most ornate carriage he owned, because he refused to arrive with his love on his arm in anything less then perfection.

The sound of someone thundering up the stairs made Macon groan, and he curled up even smaller, hoping desperately that he might disappear. His nerves were eating away at him now, making his stomach churn, and he went completely quiet as the door to his room creaked open and someone stepped inside.

Rion had realized a bit earlier in the day that Macon’s room had remained shut after the maids had set out his clothes and brought his breakfast back to the kitchen uneaten. But still, he gave the boy some time; let him deal with things on his own terms.
But, as noon approached and Macon still hadn’t emerged, Rion knew he had to intervene.
He opened the door slowly, a tray of light sandwiches balanced on one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. “Macon? Darling, are you getting ready?”

“Macon is not here,” he called out, voice muffled by layers of silk and cotton. “He is gone! Sorry! You must go to the masque alone, Monsieur!”

Curling up tighter, he tried very hard to mold himself into the soft feather mattress, but it didn’t quite work. He still created a slight, if visible, lump in the middle of the bed and it frustrated him. So much, in fact, that he let out a huff.

“And why must I attend alone?” Rion asked, closing the door quietly behind him and moving to one of the small tables off to the side of the room. He set the plate on the table and then moved to the bed. “Why did my love leave me on the day of such an important occasion?”

Macon whimpered, feeling slightly ashamed but more upset then anything else, a few wayward tears prickling at his blue eyes. “Because he is afraid that he will be an embarrassment,” he whispered, feeling it better to be open now, because Rion would just end up dragging the words from him. “He is not fit to be amongst royal blood.”

The tears that threatened spilled over onto his pink cheeks, and he sniffled a little, trying to hide the sound by burying his head beneath the pillows. He did not wish for Rion to hear him, because then the other man would only be more upset, and that was truly the last thing he wanted, to upset his love. “I am sorry, Monsieur.”

Rion sat down on the edge of the bed, watching the small lump beneath the covers move and shift, the sound of tears in the young man’s voice nearly enough to break him down as well. “Mon amour, you are more then fit enough to be amongst the royals. Why, you are fit to be in the presence of the king himself, and do not ever think otherwise. Besides that, beautiful one, you could never cause me embarrassment or shame, because it is I who chose you, and you are merely giving me the privilege of being in your presence.”

Reaching for the edge of the blankets, Rion tugged at them a little, revealing the top of Macon’s dark, curly head. “Do not cry, for there is not a thing to cry about. You will get up and dress, and we will go together to the masque, and we will have the most wonderful time. We will dance, and drink wine, and I will introduce you to simply everyone, because they all need to meet my love. And what the think, in the end, makes no difference in what I think, or what I feel for you. So come, the time is getting late.”

“Do you promise, Monsieur, to never leave my side,” Macon whispered, finally turning to face Rion, tears shining on his cheeks and pooling in his blue eyes, like small crystal lakes. “To be alone in such a place without you would be the worst thing imaginable.”

“I would never even think of leaving you alone, not there, and not ever. We will be at one another’s side for always,” Rion said, reaching out to wipe at the tears, fingers ghosting over Macon’s lips, still kiss-swollen from that very morning. “Now come, I will help you dress, and we will be on our way, and I will show you that you have nothing at all to fear.”

With reluctance, Macon finally exited the bed and got to his feet, letting Rion dress him in the fine new clothes that were slightly wrinkled, but still more then appropriate for the occasion. By the time they finished with every button and buckle, the carriage was waiting for them at the gate, and they rushed out with harried farewells to the help.

Settling into the fine velvet seats, the pair of them sat side by side and hand in hand, stealing a kiss as they headed onto the main road that would take them into the city of Paris. It was only after a second, and then a third kiss, that Macon finally allowed him to smile, contentedly losing himself to Rion, which was a far better option then submersing himself in worry once more.

Kissing kept Macon’s mind off his troubles, and kissing passed the time between Ermont and Paris. Heated kisses didn’t allow for notice when day slid into dusk, and soft kisses didn’t pay any mind when the driver stopped the carriage so that the horses might drink. Gentle touches gave way to unbuttoned coats, and kisses grew more insistent, and by the time they finally reached the grand hall where the masque was to be held, Macon was all but cured of his tensions, the beat of his heart roaring in his ears drowning out the din of the crowd that was passing them on the street.

The pair of them may never have even paid heed to their arrival, but the sharp rapping from the door of the now stilled carriage broke them apart, and Rion hastily righted his breeches and straightened back his hair which was coming loose from its ribbon. Outside it was dark, lamps lighting the streets and illuminating the crowd of people who were passing into the hall. Macon peeked out the window at them, and was immediately awestricken at the sight. To him, they looked like so many stars, each more vibrant then the next and all a fantastic color that stood out against the blanket of black that was the night sky of Paris.

Rion opened up the door and exchanged words with the driver before turning to Macon, a soft and lazy smile on his handsome face. “Back on with your coat, my love, for we have arrived. We have just beaten the Dauphin, who has yet to arrive from Versaille, so we have nothing to worry on,” he said, helping Macon back into his coat, doing the buttons up the front for the boy.

Once the task of clothing was once again corrected and things were in a fair semblance of order, they slipped out of the pleasant warmth of their own little world on wheels and joined the other’s who were going to the party. For that was, really, all it was. A party hidden behind the air of royalty and the anonymity of a face mask and a wine glass, and really the notion of this struck Macon, and he felt more at ease. He’d been to a party, once long ago, and he had been perfectly fine. Of course, there had been do nobility to speak of, but all people in his opinion were quite the same, and if he could only think of this for the remainder of the evening, then he supposed that he might fair quite well.

As they neared the entrance to the hall, Rion took Macon’s hand in his own, their fingers laced tightly together. Looking over at the younger man, Rion motioned for him to put on his face mask as they approached the doorman, who took their names and gave his nod of approval, stepping aside to let them pass.

They only made it as far as the foyer before stopping, Macon frozen in his sudden amazement, the world around him melting from the dirty Parisian street to absolute beauty dipped in gold and trimmed with perfection.

The hall was, as the French would say, énorme, and it seemed to go on forever. The foyer gave way to a large hallway that branched off in two directions, each seeming to go on forever around a pair of sharp corners. The ceiling over their heads was high and slanted, a beautiful painting of angels set against a sepia sky greeting their eyes when they looked up, and in front of them was the most beautiful thing Macon had seen, next to Rion.

There was a wide columned archway, a shining golden color that offset the rich dark tones of the walls that gave way to a magnificent room. The room was, as Macon speculated, where the masque itself was to be held, and his breath was taken from him just by the glimpse that he could see through the entrance. The floors appeared to be solid marble, the whitest he had ever seen, and the walls were equally as white, stretching up into the heavens themselves, or so it seemed. The ceiling in the room was domed, all gold and strikingly curved beams, drapes of the most elegant color red hanging long and thick from the tops of the high windows.

The only thing that disrupted the flow of the colors and the lines were the people, and even they amazed Macon to no slight degree. The men were all wearing coats of fine colors and solid buttons, much like him and Rion, and the women wore gowns of all sorts. There we full skirts that swayed when the women walked, and loose skirts that moved with them, like they were part of them. Everything was bright and almost painful to look at, but Macon finally snapped from his trance when Rion tugged at his hand.

“Come, mon amour,” Rion whispered, ghosting a kiss across Macon’s pale cheek. “There is much to see, and many people that I wish for you to meet, and we are getting nothing done by becoming fixtures in the middle of the entrance hall.”

Smiling softly, Rion escorted Macon through the hall and into the grand room, the boy trying desperately to take it all in at one time. An orchestra played at the far end of the great room, and along one entire wall was a long table, brimming over with food and drink. Men with gilded trays carried fine crystal flutes filled with bubbling wine, and all around them people greeted each other with an air of importance.

Macon could have stood there forever, just watching and taking it all in, but Rion had spotted someone that he knew, and insistent upon showing off his new love he guided them both over, bowing slightly at the waist. “Monsieur Théodore, Mademoiselle Anastasie,” he said by way of greeting, offering them both a charming smile. His French was crisp and perfect, not at all the lazy dialect he usually took when speaking alone with his lover, and while Macon noticed this, he said nothing of it. Instead, he stood prettily to the side with one hand still intertwined with the other man’s, and watched as the formalities were exchanged.

It seemed that they stood there for an eternity, discussing who was in attendance and who Rion might need to look for in the crowd as the evening progressed, and then finally they all turned their eyes to Macon.

Rion edged closer to Macon, his smile spreading across his face from ear to ear. He pulled the boy forward, further into the circle the small group formed, proudly displaying his jewel.

“Well now, Rion….” Anastasie said, a small smile playing on her painted lips. She flipped out her lavishly embellished fan, moving the air around her slightly. “You simply must tell us who this lovely one is.”

“Yes, Rion,” Anastasie’s brother Theodore chimed in, one hand stealing to Anastasie’s expertly corseted waist, his head cocking to the side slightly. “You simply must introduce us.

“Anastasie… Theodore…” Rion paused, his chest puffing up with pride. “This is Monsieur Macon Binet, my ward and companion. Macon, my love… these are two of my closest friends. Madamoiselle Anastasie de Longpre Bernard, and her brother, Theodore de Longpre Bernard, Duke of Pompadour.”

Macon felt the heat rising in his pale cheeks as he bowed slightly, eyes never rising to meet those of the nobles before him. Instead he merely looked at the ground and then up at Rion, the perfect pet with the perfect quiet demeanor. “It is a pleasure to meet you both,” he said softly, pressing himself close to Rion’s side.

He felt stifling hot then, inside of his coat and all the layers of his fine clothes, and he longed for a drink. In a breathless whisper, so that the others might not hear, he leaned up with his lips pressed to Rion’s ear. “Monsieur, might we have a drink now?”

Rion smiled, giving Theodore and Anastasie a look. “Darlings, you will have to excuse me,” he said, threading his fingers with Macon’s. “My love is a bit parched and would like a refreshment.”
“And his need of you must always come before our own,” Anastasie said, curtseying. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur, Binet. You and Rion must visit us sometime soon.”

“Yes,” Theodore echoed, bowing regally. “Very soon, Rion. Very soon.”

“Thank you, Madame, Monsieur,” Macon whispered, blushing and burying his face in Rion’s shoulder, overcome with intense shyness. He knew he seemed childish to them, with his behavior, but it was so hard to look at them in their infinite beauty and grace, and it was better to be closer to his lover’s warmth and familiar scent. “Might I have wine, monsieur Rion?”

“You, my darling, may have whatever you wish,” Rion said with a chuckle, nodding to Theodore and Anastasie over his shoulder as he lead Macon away, through the main ball room. Normally, on an occasion such as this, the Dauphin would host a large, sumptuous dinner, followed by some kind of theater and then music and dancing. But, due to the number of guests and the occasion, the Dauphine’s approaching birthday, dinner was forgone in favor of more music and dancing.

They approached one of the servants carrying a tray and Rion plucked two delicate flutes from it, both filled with a deep, dark red wine. Rion handed one to his lover, smiling at the boy. “Pour vous, mon amour.”

“This place is far too grand,” Macon whispered, one hand held tightly in Rion’s, the other clutching the thin glass flute carefully. He managed, even in his shyness, to look simply graceful, long fingers wrapped around the neck of the flute, cheeks pink even after the first sip and eyes glued to the stoic face of his lover. He thought about speaking, but looked up instead, stricken once again breathless at the sight overhead.

Here the domed ceiling of the room before gave way to a high and flat surface sunken in places that were painted shimmering gold, offset by surrounding beams of white. In the middle of at all was a crystal chandelier, tiers and tiers of glass that shone and twinkled like the stars that littered the night sky just outside the windows. There we candles inside, that caused the unearthly glowing, a rainbow of colors that passed through the prisms dancing across the ceiling and walls, fading away before it could slink far enough down to touch their skin.

He suddenly wished then for the pretty colors to touch them, to tickle their faces and dance on their finger tips, all blues and reds and yellows. Macon wanted to be alive with color, wanted to be part of the rainbow that lingered just above them, but instead of voicing his awe aloud, he simply stared with wide blue eyes and slightly parted pink lips, his wine momentarily forgotten as he dug the nails of his fingers into his lover’s hand.

The sweet pain of fingernails dug into soft skin drew Rion’s attention back to his lover. He turned, facing Macon for a moment, drinking in the man’s sheer and perfect beauty.
Without a word, Rion dipped his head, brushing his lips along those slightly parted, pink-tinged ones.

It was the soft tingle of the kiss that brought Macon crashing back to reality, his daydream shattering as though the crystals of the chandelier had fell to the smooth marble of the floor. “There is an orchestra,” he whispered, lips brushing against Rion’s as he spoke. He could feel someone watching them, but he paid no mind, though he knew they must look quite odd. The colors of their masks could do little to hide that they were both male, and that they were undoubtedly together. “And there is dancing, Monsieur.”

Rion lifted his hand and raked his fingers through Macon’s hair, loosening the man’s carefully tied-back black curls. He reached back and pulled the thick black ribbon away, much preferring his lover’s hair loose. “Would you dance with me, my love?” he asked softly, drawing knuckles across the soft flesh of a cheek.

“Oui, Monsieur,” Macon whispered, cheeks glowing as he sat his half-empty wine glass down on a nearby table, extending his hand shyly to Rion. With his soft curls now falling loosely around his face, he looked a bit less masculine, and far more feminine, allowing himself to fall victim to his lover’s charms.

Rion set his own glass down, forgetting it as soon as it was out of his hand. He led Macon out onto the dance floor of the grand ballroom, eyes trained on his lover’s face as he took the boy into his arms and pulled him into a waltz.

Macon settled himself against Rion, watching the people around them briefly before turning his eyes back to his lover. He managed a small smile, the knot in his stomach not unwinding or relenting. People were still watching them, examining him with a critical eye, and he still felt painfully out of place in the entire affair. “They are watching us,” he whispered softly, the French shaky and startled sounding as it rolled of his tongue. “They are watching me.”

“Let them,” Rion said, pulling Macon in closer, slipping his arm tightly around the man’s waist so they were dancing far more intimately. “Do not think of them, darling. Soon they will be drunk, so drunk that they won’t even notice us.” He dipped his head, kissing Macon lightly again. “Macon, my darling… you are my world.”

“Do not say those things in a place such as this,” Macon whispered, nuzzling gently against Rion’s cheek. “I wish for you to say them in a quiet, intimate place, where it is just you and I. Not here, in a crowded hall, to please me and sooth me.” He let himself sway gently to the music, which was just slightly louder then the din of the crowd.

“Whether I say them here, in this ballroom, or at home, in our bedroom, it is all still the same.” He threaded his fingers through Macon’s hair, resting their foreheads together. “I still love you, no matter where we are.”

Macon made a small noise, almost a whimper but not unlike a sigh, biting his lip as he peered at Rion through the eyeholes of his mask. “I do not like it here, Monsieur, in your world of high fashion and fine wines. It is not where I belong. I do not think that I can be the refined boy that you wish so very much for.”

“If I wanted a sophisticate, it’s what I would have,” Rion said quietly, pulling away from Macon to look into his eyes. “But I want a real person. Someone whom I could care for and love and who would love me in return. Not someone who would use me to advance their social position.”

He sighed, caressing Macon’s cheek again. “If you’d like to go, we can. We must pay our respects to the Dauphin and Dauphine before we leave, though.”

“Might they care to meet a poor Parisian boy?” Macon asked, nerves flashing in his eyes at mention of the Dauphin and the Dauphine. “I do not wish to cause you social suffering.”

“Louis, the Dauphin, and I have known each other many years.” Rion pulled away, threading his fingers with Macon’s as they headed toward the reception hall. “He will be most happy to meet you, I know he will.”

Macon nodded but kept his eyes trained on his shoes, not daring to look up for fear of lighting eyes upon some royal who might take offense in the slightest of gazes. He stayed pressed close and near to Rion’s side, the marble beneath their feet so polished he could see their blurred reflections.

They passed groups of people in fine attire, lords and ladies of all breeding and social standing, and while Rion passed greeting to many, he still did not look up. He did not look until his lover placed a finger beneath his chin and forced his head up, eyes questioning for a moment before he thought to look away and what he saw made his heart nearly still.

There, standing less then a foot before his own face where the Dauphin and Dauphine of France, Louis and Maria Antonia the former Archduchess of Austria. Before he could catch his words, he found himself mumbling, stuttering a bit and his cheeks flushed immediately afterward. “She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Rion smiled as he bowed deeply, urging Macon to do the same. “Your highnesses… It is an honor to be in your presence.”

Louis, the Dauphin smiled and chuckled a little. “Jean Rion, it is good to see you, old friend.”

Rion grinned as he straightened up, the guards allowing him to step closer to embrace his friend. “Louis… I do believe you are gaining weight. Antonia, darling… It is a pleasure to see you, as always. I trust you received my gift earlier today?”
“Of course, Monsieur Desperaux. The stallion is as beautiful as she is spirited.” Maria curtsied softly. “It is an honor to receive a Desperaux pedigree.”

“The honor is all mine, Maria.” Rion turned and smiled, pulling Macon forward. “Now… may I present to you Monsieur Macon Binet, formerly of Paris, currently of Propriete Interdite.”

“Bonjour, Madame Maria,” Macon whispered, bowing again to the Dauphine, blushing as he looked up at Louis and then bowed again. “Monsieur. It is very much my honor to be in your presence, and I thank the Marquess very much for allowing me to accompany him to your grand ball this evening.”

Biting his lip, he righted himself and nudged closer to Rion, hiding half behind the larger man. He was intimidated and fascinated all at once, stealing glances to the beautiful woman and her striking husband.

Maria curtsied and Louis bowed. “Monsieur Binet, it is our pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Rion grinned, stepping in to hug Louis and kiss Maria’s cheek. “We are heading home, your highnesses. My companion is not feeling well, but we will call on you again another day. Will you be in Paris long?”

“A few weeks at most,” Louis said, shaking Rion’s hand. “Notify the house if you and Monsier Binet would care to visit. Our doors are always open to you.”

“As mine are to you, Louis.”

Macon and Rion then began to make their way from the vast hall, which seemed to be even more full up with people then at previous. They struggled through an array of farewells and promises to call before finally making it through the ornate doors and back to the streets. Once they were out and away from the crowds prying eyes, Macon first unbuttoned the restricting coat and let himself breathe, stripping off his mask before taking Rion’s face in his hands and kissing him hard.

It was nice to properly kiss, releasing his pent up emotions through his lips, sighing softly against the others mouth before pulling away. “Thank you, Monsieur,” he whispered breathlessly. “For allowing me such a pleasure as to be with you here tonight.”

Rion grinned widely as he pulled Macon into his arms, spinning him around while they waited for their carriage to be brought to the front. “Thank you, my darling dear, for accompanying me. And, I must say, I believe you were very well received. Anastasie and Theodore invited us to dine with them tomorrow at their house here in the city.”

“So we must make the long journey all the way back to Paris?” Macon asked, resting his chin on Rion’s shoulder, letting out a soft little sigh. He didn’t want to return to Paris, he wanted to be at Rion’s estate, away from the dirty city that had nearly destroyed him, but he would not voice it, for they must do what his love wanted.

He was so caught up in his thoughts, so deeply engrossed with his growing hated of the city that had made him what he was, that he scarcely noticed the movement beneath the lamppost behind Rion. But when Macon’s eyes did catch sight of someone there, he felt as though the world had fallen upon his chest and was keeping him from breathing.

There, beneath the flooding light of the dwindling Parisian streetlamp, stood a boy he had once known very well, who was watching him with curious eyes. There, staring at Macon, was Augusten.

Rion nodded, still holding Macon tight. “Do you not want to? I can send a messenger in the morning to refuse the invitation…” He pulled back to look at Macon’s beautiful face, alarm sounding at the shock and faint dismay lurking there.

“My love?” he asked, head cocking to the side, a few stray hairs whipping around his face in the faint breeze that blew past them. “What’s the matter?”

“Augusten,” Macon whispered, pulling away from Rion and stepping around him, watching the boy who was now leaning against the iron lamp, still staring openly at him. He had not seen Augusten since he had been take away by a man who lived in Bordeaux, where he had become an active prostitute in a very low class brothel, according to his one and only letter. After he had gone, Macon had gone to live with Amaury Vioget and they had not spoken a word since then.

Now though, outside the grand ballroom with his new lover, Augusten was there and looking rather smug, wearing worn street clothes and a look that reminded Macon of his own disgusting past. Stomach churning he could only stand there, watching and being watched in return.

Confused, Rion turned and followed his lovers gaze, taking in the shabby, common, abused look of the other boy. He was a prostitute, that much was obvious from the way the boy stood, hips thrust forward, shirt and jacket left hanging open, exposing his chest. He licked his lips every so often and in his eyes, from what Rion could see in the fading light, was a look of hunger, one so great that no amount of food would ever fill it.

“Who is that, darling?” Rion asked softly. “Why does he stare at you so?”

Macon took a deep breath inward, struggling to keep himself from either crying or running over and hitting the boy as hard as he could. He wanted to hurt Augusten, for being so very smug while still looking so beautiful. His dark brown hair was short and hung in his eyes gracefully, bright green eyes flickering in the dimness of the light. His frame was small, much like Macon’s, and he raised his hand, crooking a finger and beckoning the other boy forward.

“His name is Augusten,” Macon said softly, voice low so that only Rion might hear him. “We were once friends, and for a brief time we were lovers, much like you and I. I had many feelings for Augusten, I loved him, and then one day he went away to be a whore in Bordeaux and he left me.”

Rion blinked, eyes narrowing when Augusten beckoned Macon toward him. Rion took hold of Macon’s arm, holding him close, keeping him from advancing. “He hurt you… I can have him arrested. Banished. Anything you want, darling.”

“No,” Macon whispered, turning to kiss Rion softly. “We have to go. I can not be here, with him so near. I want to scream, and hurt him, and I can not do that. I will not give him the satisfaction of my attentions.”

Rion could hear the sound of hooves against cobblestone. He returned the kiss softly. “The carriage will be here momentarily, my love. Just ignore him. Think of me, of us, and the beautiful life we have. The beautiful life we will have forever. And think not of him any more.”

Macon whimpered quietly, letting Rion envelope him in his strong arms, wishing that Augusten would stop staring. He shivered when the boy behind them blew him a kiss, and he turned away quickly, cheeks pink and eyes flashing. “Make him go, Monsieur. I can not stand his presence. He betrayed me. I want him gone. I do not wish for you to have him harmed, for part of me will always care, but I can not stand to look him in the face a second longer.”

Rion nodded without a second thought. “Consider it done, my love.” Pulling away from Macon, Rion approached one of the palace guards and said a few words to the man. There was a monetary exchange, a small one, and the guard nodded in agreement.

Rion returned and the guard, brandishing his weapon, approached Augusten, ushering the prostitute away. Augusten left, slowly, reluctantly, shooting hateful glances at Rion as he wandered off into the bleak streets.

Watching Augusten walk away for the second time in his life, though this time it was his wish that made it happen, caused Macon’s blue eyes to well up with unshed tears. He was glad when the carriage arrived; swaying to a stop so that he might scramble into the near darkness and curl into the velvet seat.

Sinking into the cushions, Macon allowed a few tears to shed, wiping at his cheeks and sniffling slightly. He hated the onset of emotions that came from seeing his former lover, but he cried not for his loss, but for Augusten. Augusten who would never again know the love Macon had given, who had lost the only person who had ever cared to another. Macon was deeply in love again, with Rion, and he would not, and could never, change his mind.

Rion climbed into the carriage and sat on the opposite seat. He let Macon cry his few tears, though it killed him to sit by and watch. Once the hitching in the boys shoulders subsided and his sniffling eased, Rion crossed to Macon’s seat, settling in beside him and taking the younger man in his arms. “Are you alright, my love?”

“Yes, I am fine now,” Macon whispered, pushing formalities aside as he climbed onto Rion’s lap, needing to be close and wanting to be held more then anything in that moment. “You are amazing, Monsieur, did you know?” As he spoke he let his lips ghost over Rion’s cheek, pressing kisses to his face in the dark carriage.

Rion chuckled, hands pulling at the clothing that separated Macon’s body from his own. “What kind of a man would I be if I let that person stay there and make my love uncomfortable? I would be no man at all.”

He dipped his head and pressed feather-light kisses to Macon’s neck and jaw.

Macon sighed quietly, tears beginning to dry as he leaned his head back against the curtains that covered the window, arching his neck for Rion to have better access to the sensitive skin. “Not so many people would go to such lengths for someone, no matter how deeply they care,” he whispered, unbuttoning the front of his own shirt. “You would do anything for me, no?”

“Absolutely anything,” Rion panted, helping Macon ease the small, ornate buttons out of their holds. “I’d die for you, if you asked it of me, my Macon.”

“Would you kill for me?” Macon asked, sliding the shirt and coat off before sliding off the seat and onto the floor, kneeling before Rion and looking up at him in the dark. “Would you, Monsieur?”

“In a heartbeat, mon amour,” Rion breathed, chest heaving, sweat beading his brow. His body was on fire, electrified, every cell alive at the sight of Macon’s perfectly smooth, porcelain skin. “I would kill anyone who threatened you with my bare hands.”

Macon nodded as he reached for the clasp of Rion’s breeches, running his hands gently over his lover through the material of his clothes. “Thank you for loving me,” he whispered, voice thick and rough as he urged the other man to help him in the shedding of clothing. “I love you, monsieur.”

“Thank you for loving me, my sweet boy… My lovely boy…” Rion lifted his hips so Macon could pull his breeches down. He unbuttoned and shed his own shirt and coat, not caring that the gold brocade would be wrinkled beyond repair once they reached their destination. “Stay with me forever, Macon,” he begged. “I don’t want to think of the future without you in it.”

“Forever, for always,” Macon whispered in reply, running his hands up and down Rion’s smooth and well muscled thighs once the breeches and his under garments were removed, fingers dancing over the creamy skin. He leaned in, nosing just into the edge of the other’s damp pubic hair, just breathing him in and deeply inhaling his scent. He smelled delicious, deep and musky but somehow sweet all at once, the roughness of the blond hair tickling Macon’s nose.

Rion whimpered, his growing erection throbbing at Macon’s nearness, at the feel of the man’s breath on him. “Promise me,” he whimpered, chest heaving with the effort it was taking to remain calm. “Please, my darling. Promise me that you’ll never leave me, no matter what.”

Macon sat up a bit straighter, resting his head now so that his lips brushed gently against the base of Rion’s erection. “I promise,” he whispered, tongue daring to take the slightest of licks. The taste was bitter and salty but delicious just the same and he found himself moaning like the whore that he really, and truly, was inside. “I promise that I will never love anyone but you. I will never leave you. Not for anyone else breathing in this world. I will never touch, or smell, or kiss, or lick, or make love with another. There is only you. Only you, mon amour, and none other.”

Rion shivered violently, threading his fingers in his lover’s hair, urging him onward. “You are mine, my pet. Mine forever. And should anyone dare to touch you… I willl kill them.”

“Oui,” Mac whispered before wrapping his lips gently around the head of Rion’s erection, tongue flicking softly over the tip. With one hand he gripped the base, the other held the man’s hip down against the cushions as he worked.

Rion groaned loudly, glad for the separation between he and Macon and the carriage driver. He gripped Macon’s hair tighter, urging the younger man to take more, to taste everything, to claim him as his own. “Oh… mon amour… mon petit amour…”

Macon gladly let Rion guide him, letting needy hips push up and force more into his waiting mouth. He readily accepted it all, expertly relaxing his throat and working his tongue, dark head bobbing up and down. He licked and sucked with a carnal need, a deeply seeded desire to please bubbling to the surface. He had yet to really taste his lover, and he wanted it now more then anything.

Moaning low in his throat, he ran his hands up Rion’s chest and let them rest there, spread out like he was worshipping at some holy alter. But this was certainly unlike any prayer anyone had ever seen, Macon digging his toes into the floor of the carriage for balance, his own body tingling with need.

Rion groaned loudly as Macon took more and more of him. He pulled back and thrust, lightly, into his lover’s mouth, eyes rolling into the back of his head at the sensations. “Oh Macon… Oh my love. I love you. I live for you. I’d die for you.”

Whimpering, Macon pulled his mouth away and stood abruptly, deciding that he could not wait. He would taste Rion another time, but tonight, now, he needed that fullness and that utter closeness. Saying nothing he slid his own breeches down before climbing onto his lover’s lap, kissing him hard. “Make love to me.”

“Anything, my love,” Rion groaned. He reached between their bodies and took his rock hard, saliva coated erection in his hand, stroking himself for a few moments before positioning his head at his lover’s opening. “You make love to me, Macon. As hard and rough, or as soft and sweet as you’d like it, love.”

“I can do that for you,” Macon whispered, raising himself up slightly so that he could slide down onto Rion’s erection, a loud moan escaping through red wine tinted and pouted lips. “Oh, mon amour. Oh, Rion…”

He paused for a moment, allowing his body to adjust and his heart to slow in beating before raising himself and lowering again, small body fitting just perfectly against his lover’s. It became a sort of dance, sensual and slow, hips rocking back and forth and lips attached to Rion’s.

Rion’s lips attached themselves to the soft, delicate skin of Macon’s neck. He was biting at the skin, marking it, making it his own as he peppered the graceful lines and curves of his lover’s neck with kisses. His nails raked up and down Macon’s back as he fell and rose, Rion’s rock hard erection disappearing in the velvety softness of the boy’s body.

Macon shivered as Rion bit his skin, destroying the natural paleness to the skin, replacing it with splotchy redness that would eventually fester and bruise and turn into a dark marking that would tell quietly of their passions. “I do not wish to return to Paris again, not soon, perhaps not ever,” he breathed, voice a ragged and raw ghost of a whisper as he began to move faster and with far more urgency. “I wish to remain in the quiet of the country forever with you…forever…and ever…and oh forever…”

“Then in the country we will stay, mon amour…” Rion was feeling the same urgency, his movements needy and wanting. “Together.. In love forever… You will never leave my side, my love.” He bit his lip harshly, drawing blood from it, the coppery taste flooding his mouth, leaving bright red smears on his lover’s skin. “Oh, Macon my love…”

“Mon amour,” Macon panted, his orgasm rushing over him suddenly and with no warning, his body tensing and a scream escaping him. He buried his face in Rion’s neck, still moving up and down though his knees were shaking now, not willing to rest until his lover had also found his release.

Rion’s climax wasn’t far behind Macon’s. The feeling of the younger man’s body pulsating and throbbing around him as he came was all that it took. Rion’s body tensed and he flooded his lover’s body with his seed, clinging and kissing and holding and being one with his lover. “Macon… my sweet Macon…”

Macon collapsed completely then, giving in to the embrace of his lover and melting into Rion’s arms like he was boneless. His eyelids felt heavy now, and he was so, so very tired, and struggled to regain his normal breathing. Once he was able to take in air without gasping, he pulled off of his lover and slumped into the seat. “I love you, Rion.”

“I love you too, Macon,” Rion whispered shakily, pulling his lover’s petite body to his, showering him with kisses. “I am going to make love to you all night long once we get home. But now, we should dress. We will be arriving in Ermont quite soon.”

Rion interrupted Macon’s redressing often to fondle him and make his lover laugh. He knew that words said in the heat of passion weren’t always true… but he hoped that Macon’s promises of forever would be among the exceptions to that. Oh, God, he hoped.

Chapter 10

2006-11-14T04:37:33Z

Rion was concerned. Not terribly so, not to the point where he was losing sleep… Not yet at any rate, but he was still concerned. His father…

He sighed as he carefully pushed the blankets away from his nude form, sliding carefully out of the bed he shared with his lover so the boy, the beautiful, alluring, innocent and yet worldly boy, wouldn’t wake. He did not want to think about his father. He didn’t even want to acknowledge his father even existed at this point. He’d been hounding Rion of late, pushing him to marry finally formally propose to Josephine, his supposed ‘betrothed’, to finally give up what the old man called ‘these silly dalliances that will do nothing but ostracize you from society’.

He stopped the pacing he hadn’t even been aware he was doing to glance at the slight, fragile form on the bed. In his mind’s eye, he could clearly see that milky pale skin, the long, dark lashes that framed those vibrant blue eyes. The pale rosebud of a mouth. He was gripped with a feeling of possession that was stronger than lust, stronger than love. That boy in his bed… Macon… He belonged to him and no other, just as Rion belonged to Macon. In all of his years, he had never been so certain of something as he was of that. They belonged together, fit together like a lock and key.

Rion reached over and pulled the blankets from that beloved dark head, just watching his lover for a few moments. No one had ever made Rion feel the way this boy did, not even Phillipe, or Thierry, his first male lover. The only person who had ever come close to making Rion feel so loved, so cared for and needed and wanted, was his second cousin on his mother’s side and his first real love, Alix.

Rion had been thirteen, staying with some of his German mother’s family over the warmer summer months while his brother, Jean Pierre, was ill. Alix was fourteen and beautiful, at least in Rion’s eyes. She had long, bright, brassy red hair and snapping green eyes. Her skin was pale and freckled, though she tried desperately to bleach the adorable spots from her face and neck with buttermilk and all sorts of crazy concoctions that her mother dreamed up. She would throw things at Rion and pinch him when she thought her mother wasn’t looking.

He hadn’t realized it at the time, but it had been love. They would go on walks and Alix, being a bossy girl, would push Rion up against the trees boarding the forest paths they frequented and press her body against his. She’d kiss him, lightly at first and then with more urgency, and his body would respond accordingly. Skirts would inevitably lift, pants would drop to knees or ankles, and hands would explore, sometimes to be replaced by mouths and lips and tongues. The very thought of Alix would send his young blood boiling and the need to be with her, to taste her mouth and feel her soft skin under his fingertips nearly consumed him.

But then, her betrothed had come to claim her. Their daily walks stopped and Rion withdrew from her, from family life, from everything. He went home shortly before she married and, the next year, she was dead.

Rion had been consumed by his love of Alix… But he’d been a boy then. He as a man now, wiser, more experienced. And this love, while holding all the benchmarks of that beautiful summer with cousin Alix, reflected that. He bent down, pressing his lips to Macon’s forehead, tasting the sweat that was a result of their lovemaking, their coupling. He licked it from his lips as he stood and slipped back around the bed to climb back in. He didn’t love Josephine and never had. And soon, he would tell his father and break the contract with her. He would never, could never, go someplace when his heart was completely entrenched in another.

Post #10

2006-11-12T05:22:44Z

Chapter Nine

2006-11-12T05:21:39Z

The light in the drawing room was minimal at best, the dreariness of the day outside reflected in the mood of the people inside of the house. It had been raining off and on for the better part of the day, and now, in the late afternoon, it was absolutely pouring and showed little to no sign of stopping.

The poppy fields that lay in the valley were flooded with water, now inhabiting small rivers and lakes in addition to flowers, and the help had run back and forth to the main house and the stable with large umbrellas or coats over their heads. It was very much the sort of day in which one stayed inside and found entertainment in books or card games, and there was little to no travel back and forth into town. It was dull, and dismal, and absolutely dreadful on all counts.

The day found Macon curled up on a settee next to a large floor to ceiling window, watching the rain slide down the panes of glass, disappearing over the ledge and dropping from sight. On his lap sat his new puppy, a Bolognese that he had named Marionnette, sleeping with her head resting on his knee, a bowl of untouched grapes beside them on the window sill. Marionnette had been a gift from Rion, the first present that was not of necessity that he had given to the boy, and while Macon loved her very much, she was a poor companion on this particularly gloomy day.

Sighing softly, Macon rested his head against the cool glass, the rain drops casting shadows on his pale face. He wondered about where his lover might be, perhaps on his way home from his meeting of the counsel in Ermont, and he considered going to the kitchen for a biscuit for both himself and Marionette. He did not, however, stand from his spot, the position too comfortable and the room now warm and pleasant.

Minutes passed, and still the boy didn’t move, eyes closing and hand scratching idly behind Marionnette’s ears, fingers buried in her soft fur. The sound of the rain began to lull him into sleep, and soon he was bourn away on the waves of slumber, heading dropping back onto the velvet arm of the settee, the puppy never stirring from her own pleasant dreams.

When Macon finally stirred, it was the semi-darkness of dusk that greeted his tired eyes, the sound of rain still pounding against the windowpanes. He was no longer in the settee, but rather in a bed that was not his own, but was just as familiar, his coat removed and draped over a chair and Marionnette curled up at his feet.

Sitting up, the boy rubbed at his eyes with balled up fists, and when he looked up blearily he saw Rion staring intently at him with a smile on his lips.

“It is time you woke, sleepy one,” Rion teased playfully, brushing Macon’s curls away from his face. “I found you fast asleep in the settee when I returned home. I didn’t want to wake you myself, so I brought you to bed. I am glad though, that you’ve woke on your own, because I have some news for you.”

Macon nodded sleepily, leaning back against the soft pillows that adorned Rion’s bed, watching the older man with intently curious eyes. “What news, Monsieur? Are we going on a trip? Let us go somewhere grand, mon amour. Might we go to Italy?”

Laughing quietly, Rion just shook his head and slid off his shoes before climbing into the bed beside of Macon and stretching out on his side, resting his hand on the boy’s stomach. “No, mon chéri, we are not going on a trip, but it is quite close to that, and nearly as exciting. We have been invited to a masque, in Paris, and you will get to meet all of the royal court.”

“The court, Monsieur? You mean it,” Macon whispered, a little breathless and eyes as wide as tea saucers. He was far more awake now and very attentive as he leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees, completely enamored by Rion’s words.

“Yes, Macon, the entire court including the Dauphin Louis-Auguste and his wife the dauphine, and all of those who serve them, I included. I wish very much for you to accompany me, three nights from this. It would be my honor, my beauty, to show you off to all of them,” Rion said, taking one of Macon’s hands in his own. He played with the boys fingers for a moment before brushing a kiss over his knuckles and closing his eyes. “Please say that you will, mon amour. I wish nothing more then to have you at my side.”

Macon curled his fingers into Rion’s palm, a smile creeping across his face as he blushed slightly and then nodded his pretty head. “Oui, Monsier,” he said quietly, absolutely fluttered with delight at the idea. “It would be my honor. But Rion…what might I wear? How does one dress for such an affair. I have never been to a masque, or a ball, and I have certainly never dallied amongst royals. I do not wish to cause you embarrassment.”

Rion fondly ran the fingers of his free hand through Macon’s unruly dark curls, leaning in to kiss the boy’s forehead softly and with a gentle grace. “You will undeniably be the most beautiful creature in the room, mon amour, regardless of what you wear, but do not worry. We will go in the morning into Ermont, and we will have you made the most elegant suit of clothing, fit for the king himself, if that is what you desire. You might have anything you want, no matter the cost. Anything is worth your utter happiness.”

“What if they disapprove of me, Monsieur? What if they think me not good enough for you?” Macon asked, nuzzling into the hand that was tangled in his curls, scooting closer until he was pressed against Rion’s side. “What will happen?”

“Nothing, pretty one,” Rion said, kissing Macon’s forehead again, and then the tip of his nose. “Nothing will happen, because they will not think it. And even if they did, then it will not sway the choices I have made. The love I feel for you, Macon, is far greater then the love I feel for my country and for my position within the court. Nothing shy of death itself could take you away from me, nor I from you. So do not think on it, and be happy. Are you happy?”

Macon nodded, turning to rest his head against Rion’s strong shoulder, nestled perfectly into the curve created by the man’s arm. Was he happy? That would be quite the understatement, as he could not recall a time when his life had been as perfect and as fulfilled as it as now. He had come from nothing to find himself with everything, and since he couldn’t quite find a way to convey such a thing in words, he merely nodded. “Oiu, I am very happy. You are perfect, Monsieur, and I have never felt the things that I am feeling now before. I wish that I could be this happy forever.”

Rion reclined back in the bed, taking Macon with him and letting the boy rest against his chest. Carefully he wrapped his arms around the other’s thin frame, protectively and with love. “You can be this happy forever,” he whispered, ghosting a kiss over Macon’s cheek, stopping just shy of the very corner of his mouth. “And you will be, for as long as I am alive to see too it. But let us not think of such things now, hm? It’s getting late, and you have not had supper, or so the maid has told me. So lets get you to the kitchens for a hot meal, and then we will discuss our venture into Ermont for tomorrow.”

“Can we not stay here forever, Monsieur,” Macon pouted, turning his sad expression on Rion, eyes wide and sad. “I wish to stay here with you, like this. I don’t want supper, I only want you. They have had you all day, in their silly counsel meetings, and now it is my turn!”

“If that is what you truly want,” Rion smiled, tightening his grip on Macon, one hand running smoothly up and down the boy’s back. “We can stay here for as long as you wish. If you want me, mon amour, then you shall have me.”

Macon giggled quietly, burying his face into Rion’s neck, reaching absently for the sheet and tugging it over their bodies. “You are what I want, Monsieur. What I have always wanted, and what I know have, and I do not intend to ever let you go.”

Post #9

2006-11-08T14:25:12Z

Chapter Eight

2006-11-08T14:24:03Z

Macon Binet was quite sure that he had never seen anything as lovely as Propriété Interdite as he slipped out of the house and into the early morning air, buttoning up the front of his new coat, the brass buttons cool beneath his fingers. It had been a long night, hidden away in the solitude of Rion’s private quarters, basking in the afterglow of their act together, his small body held close against the other man’s, protected and warm but so very worn out.

Now, however, it was an entirely new day, and Rion had business to tend to before he could entertain his new kept boy, and he had sent Macon out on his own to explore. So with wide eyes and kiss swollen lips, the boy did just that, exiting through the gallery and skipping down the steps.

Propriété Interdite was a sprawling estate that stretched out over many acres in the French countryside, on what used to be Rion’s mother’s private retreat. It sat just outside the city of Ermont, nestled between two rolling hills in a secluded valley, the main house sitting prominently at the forefront of the property, the other buildings and quarters hidden behind it.

The view from the gallery was breathtaking, the lush hills and wild poppy fields spreading out behind the stables and the second house, the gardens laid out and blooming to Macon’s left. It was almost too much to take in at one time, the sudden revival of color and scent, the world flooding his senses with abandon. He had a hard time deciding what he might do first, but a sudden noise coming from the right prompted him to follow the worn path towards the stables.

Everything about this place was elegant, in Macon’s opinion, right down to the stone footpath that led him on his way. He passed a row of talk oak trees that toward high over head, not in a menacing way like those at Grands Chênes, but in an inviting and protective way, and then a line of thick shrubbery that obstructed his view of the rest of the world. Finally, though, he reached the stables and pushed open the heavy door, peering inside.

There in the aisle between the stalls was a boy, who looked to be nearly Macon’s age, standing at the shoulder of a tall dapple gray horse. The horse looked patient and a bit sleepy, standing with its head bowed while the boy brushed its long and tangled black mane. Neither of them had noticed the new presence in the barn, and they might not have at all, had Macon not spoken up.

“Whose horse is that?” Macon asked softly from the doorway, still unsure of himself and not at all daring enough to set foot inside quite yet.

Startled, the boy looked up suddenly, pulling sharply at a tangle which in turned caused the horse to snort and stomp his foot in irritation. Taking a moment to collect himself, he said nothing for a long moment, just staring at the person in the doorway before he finally spoke up, voice soft and accent thick. “He belongs to the Marquess, just like everything here. All of these horses are his, and the stable too. Don’t you know who he is?”

Macon finally stepped into the stable, out of place in his newly tailored clothes, dark curls still mussed from the night before. “I know who Rion is,” he said, in an almost challenging way, meeting the boy’s dark eyes. “I am Macon, his new love. And who might you be?”

“I am Cosme, the stable hand. And forgive me, Monsieur, I did not know that you are the new boy that the others have speaking of,” he said, holding Macon’s gaze and not backing down. This boy was scarcely older then he himself, and he would be damned if he let himself be intimidated.

“Others?” Macon asked, stepping closer and running a hand over the horses’ velvety side, fingers dancing over the dappled coat, tracing the patterns. “What others do you speak of? What have they been saying?”

Cosme held the brush down at his side and gripped it tightly, his other hand holding the horse at the halter. “The maids, Monsieur, and the stewards, they have been saying that the Marquess has a new lover, which I suppose must be you. They have been talking of nothing but your arrival since the night you came to be here.”

Macon nodded, taking in the information as he reached down and plucked the brush out of Cosme’s hand, taking over the job of untangling the horses’ mane. “Yes, but what sort of things are they saying? They do not speak ill of my Rion, do they?”

“Oh, no, Monsieur, nothing of the sort. Mostly they talk of how…how beautiful you are,” Cosme said, cheeks tinged pink as he looked away, staring down at the floor and their shoes. “You are by far the loveliest of all the one’s that have come and gone. They say that you will be staying, that Rion is completely enamored of you. He is already dans l'amour.” He paused then, considering before continuing on. “Of course, it has only been two days, so I don’t know how that could be. I, however, have never been in love myself, so perhaps I just don’t understand.”

“I very much hope that I shall stay,” Macon said softly, not sure of what he might say of the other things that Cosme had said. He very well couldn’t discuss his own loveliness, he wasn’t as vain as that, and as far Rion being in love…that was something better left to discuss between the two of them at some later period of time. So instead he changed the topic, away from his lover. “Do you think that perhaps Rion will let me have this horse? I’d very much like a horse of my own, I have only been riding once.”

Cosme shrugged his shoulders, rubbing the horses’ nose and smiling when it nipped at his fingers playfully. “I’m sure that he will. His horse is on the far end, the white one with the ill temper. He likes to go riding on Sunday afternoons, so you will need your own horse, after all, and no one else has laid claim on this one.”

The pair grew quiet then, Macon still brushing and caring for the horse that he very much hoped to call his own, and Cosme watching him with an intent interest. When he finally spoke up again, it was to ask a question that had been weighing heavily on his mind since he’d heard the rumor two nights prior.

“Is it true that you came from a brothel?”

Macon froze in his actions, face going slack as he looked up from the horse that he had already decided to name Chauncey, looking at the other boy with cold eyes. “Where I have come from, is not the concern of anyone but Rion and myself. But to answer your callus question, no. I came from a home where other young boy’s like myself live, because we have no place else to go. I’m quite sure that your maids and your stewards might call us whores, but I assure you that we are anything but. I am not on the street, having sex for money. I am here, at your fine estate, living in the grand house under the care of the Marquess, and what do you have? A room in the second house that you must share with another and a job in a stable. Who of us is fairing better?”

Quickly Macon put the brush down, now in more of a hurry to get out of the stable then anything else, but he wasn’t quite finished with Cosme as he headed for the doors. “Where I come from is more terrible then any of you here have the right to imagine. You have never lived your life anywhere but Propriété Interdite, and you do not know what it is like to be thrown to the wolves, taking salvation where you might find it. I am a whore, who comes from a brothel? Fine. I have been bought and sold for money, and Rion himself paid for me. But I do not call that a whore, Monsieur Cosme. I call that lucky.”

Macon slipped through the still open doors, and Cosme watched him go without another word. He was, however, now quite confused, but he simply shook his head and returned to his job, leading the horse back into his stall and moving on to the next.

Running back towards the main house, Macon didn’t slow down until he was entering again through the wide double doors at the gallery, sweeping past the suited man who called to him that Rion was still in his meeting, which was being held in the large hall on the first floor. He didn’t pay any mind at all to the man or his words as he thundered up the stairs and down the long corridor, disappearing into his private rooms with a slam of the heavy door.

So that was how the people here thought of him, a poor little whore who got taken in by the Marquess. Just another so-called ‘love’ that would eventually flicker out like a dying candle, to be returned to the streets once his purpose was well suited. How could they think such a thing?

Everything began to blur around the edges as tears pooled in Macon’s blue eyes, and he flung himself onto the bed, face down and buried beneath the mountain of pillows. He began to cry in earnest, unashamed as he sobbed into the fine silks and linens, and he didn’t bother to raise his head when the sound of thundering feet flooded in from the corridor outside.

Macon didn’t move at all when the door to his room flew open and someone made their way to his bed, sitting down on the edge of it, shifting he mattress more heavily to one side. He did, however, offer a quiet whimper when a familiar and strong hand went to his back, rubbing in slow circles against the material of his coat.

“What is wrong, my love? The maid said she saw you crying, and I came straight away,” Rion whispered, fingers now tickling the curls at the base of Macon’s neck. “Come, my beautiful one, my joli amour. Tell mw what has pushed you into tears, so that I might make it well again.”

“You are supposed to be in a meeting with the counsel of Ermont,” Macon whispered through his tears, pulling the pillow away from his head and rolling over, staring up at Rion with tear-filled eyes.

Rion smiled softly down at the boy, wiping at Macon’s tear stained cheeks with his thumbs. “The meeting can wait. You are far more important,” he said, leaning down to give Macon a soft kiss on the nose. “Now what is wrong?”

Macon pouted a little, the tears pooling in his eyes now instead of falling, and he sniffled a bit as he sat up in the bed, leaning back against the pillows. “I met the stable boy, Cosme. He told me that everyone thinks I am some common whore, come here from a brothel. They maids and the stewards, and even he think it is true. Why would they think such a thing about me, Monsieur? I am no whore!”

“They do not understand, joli l'un,” Rion said, resting his hand on the back of Macon’s neck, staring the boy intently in the eye. “You are beautiful and new and they feel threatened by your presence. Once you have established your place in this house, and by my side, then they will forget all about it, and will think on it no more. And we both know that it is not true, and people will talk, and we must look past it. You can not let them make you feel inferior. Do you understand?”

“Oui,” Macon said, his tone hushed and laced with frustration. He didn’t understand, not really, but it would be better to pretend then to let Rion think that he was ignorant. “I will not let them get the better of me, Monsieur. I will learn to look past their harshness, because they do not know me, or the nature in which I came to be here with you.”

Rion smiled again, fingers curling around the curve of Macon’s neck as he leaned in for another kiss, this one lingering longer and with a bit more insistence. Finally, though, he had to pull away, smoothing down the boy’s dark curls as he stood again. “I must tend to my meeting, mon amour, but when I return we will go to the stable to have a word with Cosme. You must learn to brush their words aside, but he must also learn that there is an appropriate and inappropriate way to address you. You may hold no royal title, but in this home and in my presence you will be treated as though you do. Once we have finished, we will have a nice supper and then retire early. I want to make this up to you.”

Macon didn’t want to feel pleased at the thought of Cosme being punished for what he had said, but he couldn’t quite hold back the small smile that played across his lips. He peeked up at Rion and smiled wider, and then he giggled a bit, turning over and hiding beneath the pillows again, pretending to be shy. “Hurry back to me, Monsieur. It is terribly boring and tedious without you.”

“I will be back as soon as I can,” Rion said, blowing Macon a kiss even though he couldn’t see it from beneath the pile of pillows and blankets, closing the door behind him as he exited the room.

Once Rion was gone, Macon climbed out of his bed and went to the basin that sat in a far corner of the room. He knew that he looked terrible, puffy and red from all of the tears, and he wanted to clean himself up well before dinner. A change of clothes was also quite in order, as he had torn a small hole in the sleeve of his coat when he’d snagged it while running through the stand of trees on his way back to the house. It would have to be mended, but he knew that Rion would not be angry with him. He could never be angry with him, and that thought made him smile even more then idea of Cosme getting a whipping.

Macon Binet might have come from a private bordello, and he might have been paid for like a stand of cattle, but all of that was seemingly obsolete. Rion really did seem to care for him, and whether or not it was love as Cosme had said, it was certainly something.

Something was better then the nothing he had had for all of his life prior, regardless of what foolish people might say about him.

Post #8

2006-11-07T05:08:04Z

Progress.

Chapter Seven

2006-11-07T05:04:09Z

Morning had melted into afternoon, which had smoothed over into evening, and the pair of them were once again at Rion’s grand home, hiding from the house guests and maids in the man’s private sitting room. They were reclined in a large curved back chair lined with smooth horsehair, Rion sitting firmly in the seat with Macon stretched across his lap with his legs draped over the chairs arm.

They had finished the tedious task of shopping earlier in the day, and they had purchased so many fine things that Macon felt like an entirely new boy. As it was, he was wearing a new pair of crisp white breeches, a fresh new linen shirt, and a coat that was a magnificent shade of vibrant blue with the grandest solid silver buttons that he had ever seen. He curled his toes and relaxed against Rion, resting his head on the man’s broad shoulder, one finger furling and unfurling a solitary golden curl that escaped from Rion’s hair ribbon.

Macon had never been to school, not even for a day, and he had never properly learned how to write or how to read. So as they sat there, he playing with that one escaped tendril, Rion read to him a book of stories from England that he called ‘fairy tales’. Really, Macon just thought them to be utterly silly all together, but he listened just the same, enjoying the pleasant sound of Rion’s voice rather then the book itself.

Rion was reading… but he wasn’t really paying attention. He was doing it just as an excuse to hold Macon close, on his arms, without ravaging the boy. He’d been close to doing just that all day and holding back was killing him. The words he was saying were just that, nothing more than words, and he’d inevitably have to pause every so often when Macon would wiggle in his seat and unknowingly (or perhaps not so unknowingly) rub against him in a way that made his heart stop.

Finishing the current story, Rion closed the book, turning a small, warm smile to the boy in his arms. "Are you tired, my love?"

“No,” Macon said, a slight pout on his lips as he raised his head, tugging slightly at the curl wrapped around his finger. “You might keep reading, Monsieur. I promise that I am listening.” Honestly, he wasn’t listening much at all, but he was content to stay exactly where he was. He had no real desire to leave the warm lap and the strong arms of Rion, and he gave him a small look that he hoped conveyed his feelings.

"I think I’m done reading for the day, actually," Rion said, tightening his grip on Macon. "Actually… I feel the need to lie down and stretch out this poor body of mine." He gave Macon a small look. "Would you join me?"

Macon pouted more, peering at Rion through his curtain of dark hair. “Monsieur, surely you wouldn’t make me stand and walk after doing such all day. I ache as well.” Oh, if only Rion knew exactly how Macon ached.

Rion chuckled and nuzzled against Macon’s neck, breathing in his scent deeply. "You imp. We’ve both walked and stood quite a bit all day."

“Really, Monsieur, I do not wish to stand because I do not wish for you to let me go,” Macon whispered gently in Rion’s ear, heart beginning to race in his chest. Slowly he wrapped his arms around the man and closed his eyes, just loving how close they were.

Rion groaned, pressing his mouth against Macon’s, the kiss needy and wanting. "I don’t want to let you go, Macon. Not now. Not tonight. Stay with me, please."

Macon kissed back, lips gliding smoothly over lips, a whimper escaping him as he pulled away. “I will stay with you, Monsieur, if that is what you wish.” Taking in a deep breath, he leaned in for another kiss, softer this time, letting their mouths linger together longer.

Rion threaded the fingers of one hand through Macon’s soft curls, the other slipping around the boy’s waist. His fingers searched out the hem of the fresh lawn shirt and pulled it up out of the breeches, skin aching for the feel of the silken flesh he’d glimpsed earlier in the day. “You’re so lovely, Macon… So incredibly lovely.”

“I believe you said something about lying in your bed together, Monsieur,” Macon whispered, arching gently into the touch, pressing himself closer to the warm fingers that traced along his side. “I would very much like that.”

Rion nodded, kissing the tip of Macon’s nose before he slipped his arms under the boy, lifting his weight, heaving as he stood. “Remind me not to attempt that again,” he said with a chuckle as he crossed the room and kicked the door to his bedroom open.
His room was dark, so it was nearly impossible to tell the colors of the bed linens. But, in the light, they were a deep, dark bloody red, almost entirely silk and completely sumptuous. Rion laid Macon on the bed, closing in for a kiss as he did so.

Macon sighed softly as he fell back into the mattress, the softness enveloping him as he stretched out his arms and legs, almost as though he were making an angel in the snow. “So wonderful,” he whispered, raising his head slightly to kiss Rion back. “Join me, Monsieur, in this heavenly cloud of a bed.”

Rion chuckled as he shed his shirt and tossed it onto a chair. His shoes were gone in a second and his stockings as well, and soon he was in nothing but his breeches. He paused with his hands on the buttons, watching Macon carefully. “Shall I shed these too?”

“Oui,” Macon whispered, his voice suddenly low and far more breathless as he propped himself up on his elbows, watching Rion in the semi-darkness. “All of it, Monsieur. S'il vous plait?” Licking his lips, he was quite aware of the fact that he was staring openly, but he did not care. Nothing in the world could have forced him to look away from the sight before him as the older man undressed.

Slowly, almost agonizingly so, Rion pulled the buttons on his breeches loose and slid them down over his hips. His legs were muscular, honed from years of riding and hunting, as was his rear. His muscles flexed and moved as he climbed up the steps and onto the bed, crawling over Macon’s prone form and laying beside him.

Heart racing, Macon could hardly think clearly, let alone move. So he lay there in his clothes, spread out across the bed with one hand resting against Rion’s chest, his own breathing ragged and labored from his own anxiousness. It was hard to believe that such an amazingly beautiful man was laying just inches away, and he quickly tried to piece together what he should do, but nothing came to mind.

So instead of speaking or making a move, Macon sat up and slid his jacket back and over his petite shoulders, brushing it off the bed and onto the floor. Carefully, and with shaking hands, he then began to undo the buttons of the lawn shirt, going down the row one at a time and fumbling. Each move was nervous but calculated, laced with need and want so deep that he could scarcely control his inner most carnal desires as the shirt finally fell open and followed the coat onto the floor.

Lying back again, he bit his lip and glanced over at Rion, accepting an encouraging nod before his hands slid down his own body, across the smoothness of his torso and the sharp lines of his hips to the buttons of his breeches. The movements came quicker now and soon the fabric was being pushed away and down, hips rising from the bed as he slid out of the clothing and let it drop onto the small set of stairs.

Nearly exposed to the point of total nudity now, Macon let out a breath that was not even aware of holding, the slight sound of a gasp mingled whimper escaping between parted lips as he again turned his head to face Rion. With a bit of his bottom lip and a flicker of gazes, Macon reached over and slowly, so very slowly, let his fingers dance delicately over the other man’s chest until the movement stopped and his hand flattened out palm side down to rest over Rion’s heart.

The feeling of the other man’s heart pounded into Macon’s hand, spreading like an indescribable warmth from his palm to his fingertips and then up through his wrist. It felt like fire as it crawled into his veins, coursing through him and into him, from his hand to his heart and covering all of the blood filled spaces in between, and something heavy pressed down on his chest and he was left breathless and speechless, a hushed whisper of ‘monsieur’ finally escaping.

“Call me Rion,” the blond man said, groaning slightly as his fingers searched out a delicate hip, grasping it to pull the other closer. “I want to hear my name spill from your lips…”

With that, Rion’s mouth found the soft, delicate skin of Macon’s neck. Lips caressed, tongue licked, and teeth nibbled along the clean lines that stretched from shoulder to ear. His hands roamed the expanse of Macon’s sides and hips, not quite daring to go further, to push the envelope.

“Rion,” Macon repeated, the name whispered softly with the curiosity of a young boy trying something out for the very first time. It sounded wonderful, the way it spilled from his lips, the way his mouth moved to form the word, and he whispered it again, almost inaudibly it was so quiet.

As he whispered, he reached down and took Rion’s hand in his, pulling it away from his sharp hip, dragging it slowly across his pubic bone and letting it come to rest on the front of his underwear. “It is okay, Rion, touch me where you like, how you like. I want to please you.”

“Just being near you pleases me.” Rion voice was raw with wanton desire, the sounds grinding themselves out as his hand drifted so slowly and lightly over Macon. Nimble fingers grazed carefully over the cloth that concealed heated flesh.

Macon made a noise in his throat, something that was indescribable but laced with need and want, and he found himself raising his hips, forcing himself closer to Rion’s hand. “Kiss me, Rion. I need you to kiss me, to touch me, I beg you. I beg you.”

Rion groaned as he pushed his mouth against Macon’s in a rough, heated kiss. His mouth opened immediately and his tongue probed the other’s mouth, tasting him, claiming him, making him want and need even more.

Rion’s hands pulled at Macon’s underpants, pushing them lower, wanting them off, wanting absolutely nothing between them. No words, no clothes, not even their own skin.

Macon parted his lips for Rion’s probing tongue and allowed him entrance, completely engulfed in the feel and taste of the other’s mouth. Letting out a breathless moan, he raised his slender hands and curled his fingers around Rion’s bare shoulders, pulling him in until the other man was nearly on top of him and certainly leaning over him, supporting his weight on his hands that were placed on either side of Macon’s slight body.

Raising his hips, Macon pressed his now bare and growing erection into Rion’s thigh, which was still covered in thin material, rotating his hips slowly to create friction. A wave of pleasure shot through him, causing him to shiver deliciously and eliciting yet another moan, this one louder even though it was somewhat muffled by the intensity of their kiss.

Rion didn’t hold up his own weight for long. He carefully laid himself down, hips resting against hips, hardened flesh brushing together lightly. He gyrated, the friction between their members driving him insane, making his eyes roll into the back of his head and a low, guttural moan coming from his throat.

He deepened the kiss, hands freely roaming that soft, sweet flesh as he settled himself between willingly spread thighs. “So lovely,” he moaned, tasting lips and neck and the gentle curve of a collarbone. “So completely lovely.”

“And yours,” Macon said, spreading his legs open further so that Rion rested perfectly between them without restriction. As the man above him would press down, he would push up, and together they created a rhythm between their body’s. The feeling of their erections pressing together made him moan and whine, writhing beneath Rion and panting quietly, dark curls sweeping into his eyes and sticking lightly to his damp forehead. “All yours.”

Rion eased down, kissing his way down Macon’s neck and chest until his lips met one rosy, hardened nipple. “All mine,” he whispered before taking it into his mouth, tongue swirling ‘round it, suckling gently. He moaned loudly and his hands continuously moved, running over all the dips and hollows in the body beneath him, memorizing everything.

Macon breathed in deeply and when he exhaled the words that escaped were fluid and in a string of broken French. His hands ran smoothly over Rion’s freckled shoulders and along the gentle curve of his neck, one hand curling into the man’s long blonde hair, the other sliding further down his back.

Rion’s muscles were taut and firm beneath Macon’s fingers, and the boy felt a surge of lust laced with dominance pass through him. This man above him, this beautiful, strong, amazingly important man wanted him above all others, and he knew he could make Rion weak, that he could manipulate him just the slightest to his fit his whim and fancy, and the idea alone drove him wild.

Rion groaned again as he moved lower on Macon’s body, lips briefly touching the boy’s other neglected nipple before continuing on. He stopped at Macon’s navel, tongue dipping and tasting there while his fingers combed through the young man’s pubic hair, barely dusting along the heated flesh of his engorged cock.

“Would you not prefer I take care of you, Monsieur?” Macon asked, even as his blue eyes were straining to observe the man’s actions in the darkness, breath hitching in his throat with every kiss that Rion placed against his heated skin. Pale fingers stayed tangled in blond hair, dark curls blurring his vision and increasing his other senses in the slight loss of sight.

Everything came to life around Macon, the smell of salty sweat and sex that choked the air, the sound of Rion’s lips sucking on the soft flesh of his hip where the bone jutted out at the perfect angle. He could feel the way the silk sheets were sticking to his back and his bottom, everything a beautifully tangled mess of sensation, and he finally allowed his blue eyes to slip closed. “Rion?”

“Later,” Rion said roughly as he took Macon’s cock into his hand, stroking firmly for a few moments before raising it and pressing the head to his lips. “There is always later,” he whispered before kissing the very tip. Blue eyes rose, searching for Macon’s face as his mouth opened and he took the young man’s rock-hard and throbbing cock.

The feel of him within his mouth made Rion’s eyes close and he moaned with pleasure. Hips automatically thrust against the soft, cool silk of his sheets.

Macon gasped out loud, choking on the sound so his throat constricted and made him cough, chest hitching painfully even as his hips thrust upwards, willing for Rion to take more. Clutching at the sheets with one hand and the man’s hair with the other, he opened his mouth wide and forced himself to breathe, managing to steady himself as pleasure began to creep up on him.

It was an intense feeling, that of Rion’s lips wrapped tightly around his erection, teeth gently scraping sensitive skin and tongue making purposefully slow licks up and down his shaft. He shivered hard when the tip of Rion’s tongue pressed hard against a very responsive area just beneath the head, and he let out a low moan, the man’s name sliding past his lips. “Mmm…Rion…”

That little moan, that quiet breathy moan… Just two little words that spoke volumes about love and lust and pleasure and everything in between. Rion moaned even louder, trying to speak the young man’s name around the hardened flesh in his mouth. He took even more of Macon into his mouth, licking and licking and sucking and slurping until pubic hair tickled his nose. Tomorrow, we shave him… and myself.

“Oh,” Macon whimpered in pleasure, toes curling pleasantly and back arching off the mattress, tightening his grip on Rion’s hair. “Oh…ooooh…” A tight ball began to form in the pit of his stomach, large at first and then shrinking, tighter and tighter, shriveling into nearly nothing before expand quickly again.

Everything in the world seemed to explode then and Macon’s eyes flew open, breath coming out in ragged pants that made it nearly impossible to stay composed at all, though he as trying. One more solitary thrust upwards and his eyes were squeezed shut again, brilliant fireworks exploding behind closed lids. The room grew unbearably hot and he moaned so loud that he was quite sure the hired help heard him through all the other rooms of the enormous mansion.

“Rion! Oh, Rion!” Macon let go of the man’s hair and dug into the sheets with both hands, small body tensing up as he let himself go into the sweet arms of release, shaking so hard he thought he might die.

Rion experienced a small climax himself, his juices staining the fine silken sheets as he swallowed down everything Macon gave him, and then some. His mouth and tongue begged for more as his fingers, long and thin, the kind of fingers one would imagine belonging to a pianist, massaged his scrotal sack. He played with it, fingers combing through the sparse hair there before pressing forward, pressing on to find the boy’s opening.

Again, searching for Macon’s face, Rion took two fingers and moistened them with the saliva and other juices leaking down Macon’s cock. Then he pressed them against the young man’s asshole, plying for entrance. Rion wasn’t done. He hadn’t had his fill yet. He wanted more.

Macon was still panting and his eyes opened again, face surprised as he stared down at Rion, body reacting to the new presence inside of it by pushing forward, aching for that much more. “Monsieur, please…please…let me take care of you know,” he breathed, even as he used his hands for leverage, sliding his body up the bed and then down again, pressing himself onto Rion’s fingers. “Or you take care of us both, and let yourself have the pleasure of being inside of me.”

The words were precise and calculated, breathless and muted against the panted breaths that escaped him. Hips rose and fell methodically, blood pumping so fast to his heart that he felt like it might burst into flames at any moment and completely consume him. Everything was damp now, his skin, Rion’s blond hair, the sheets beneath their writhing body’s, and he felt like screaming. Screaming from pleasure, from the intensity, from the way it all felt, but he refrained, he held it in and buried it deep, letting it all escape in the form of a shudder and a gasp.

Rion pulled away then, chest heaving, his body aching with the need for release, for completion, to finally feel whole. He crawled up Macon’s body, mouth meeting mouth, lips parting so tongues could meet in a sensual dance of intimacy.

He sighed as his heated skin finally met Macon’s, shivering a little at that slight contact. “Tell me you want me, Macon. Please…”

“I want you, Rion,” Macon whispered, tongue licking at the other man’s lips, tasting him a little at a time. Wrapping his arms around Rion, Macon dug his nails into the soft skin of his back, pulling him closer, nearer, wanting him. “Please.”

That was all the urging Rion needed. He groaned, reaching between their bodies to position himself at the younger man’s opening. “Love me, Macon,” he groaned as he pushed forward, burying himself deep within Macon’s body. “God, love me, love me please.”

Macon just nodded, raking his blunt and bitten nails up and down Rion’s back, leaving fine red marks in their wake. He raised his legs, wrapping them tightly around the man’s waist, forcing him in further and pulling him closer. This was the sort of ‘love’ that he was familiar with, the kind that he was good at showing. He wasn’t good with words, he was no poet, he could not write beautiful songs or plays confessing his love. Macon had a very hard time, whispering those sacred words, because all of his life he had never been shown what love truly meant.

So he buried his face in Rion’s neck instead, lips mumbling incoherent nothings against sweat slicked skin. The weight of the man above him was suffocating but in that deliciously delicate way between asphyxiation and satisfaction, and he breathed in deeply the heady scent of Rion as they coupled.

Rion whimpered as he sunk himself deep, reveling in the feeling of being whole, of being so intimately connected to another. He quickly pushed himself into a good pace, thrusting in and out of his new lover, mouth open so he could taste every bit of that heated, beloved skin that he could reach. “God, Macon… You’re so perfect… So lovely and you fit me just so perfectly! I love it, I love it… I love---”

Whimpering sharply, Macon covered Rion’s mouth with his own, cutting off his words, pausing the moment for just awhile longer. It was too soon, they needed more time, this was just another fuck, just another fuck and just another home. A home he would be removed from soon enough, because in the end, it could never be any different. He could never be any better, and no one could ever truly love him.

Rion shivered at the deep kiss, pausing in his actions to enjoy it, to enjoy the feeling of their bodies doubled, their hearts beating in time. Slowly, purposefully, he started to move again. If the first portion of their coupling was nothing more than a quick fuck, this was the opposite. This was slow and loving, speaking of care and the desire to please as well as be pleasured.

Macon gasped quietly, back arching and head lolling back against the pillows, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Never had ever felt anything so intense, and so focused on no one but himself, and it was scary but so amazing. Letting out a low moan, he began to thrust in time with Rion, heart beginning to race. “Monsieur…so near…”

Rion moaned loudly, picking up his pace a little. “With me, dear one. I want to share my pleasure with you and you to share yours with me…” He kissed Macon hard, eyes screwed shut as he lifted the other man’s legs just a bit more, getting deeper, his head massaging Macon’s prostate. “With me, my Macon… with me….”

“Your Macon,” Macon breathed, moaning louder and clutching Rion tighter. “Rion…Rion…mmmm…..”

It washed over him in waves, pleasure that came quick and hot and pulsed through him suddenly. His small body went rigid and his face went back to Rion’s neck, stifling the sharp scream of gratification that escaped him. He came hard and with persistence, releasing himself between their heated bodies, coating skin that was already tainted with sweat and fluid. He heaved himself up and closer, muscles constricting and pulling, begging and wanting.

Rion’s climax spilled into Macon’s hot, tight body at the same moment Macon’s spread itself on their skin. He cried out Macon’s name, body thrusting uncontrollably until he was finally spent.

Collapsing on the smaller man, Rion held him tight, kissing him lazily, never wanting to be parted. Ever. “You are simply amazing, my Macon.”

“You are the amazing one, Monsieur Rion,” Macon whispered, feeling suddenly spent and worn, yawning a little and melting into the mattress beneath the other man. “I am tired, Monsieur. Might we retire now?”

“Yes, my love,” Rion said softly, kissing Macon’s cheek as he withdrew his softening member. “Under the covers with you. I’m not allowing you out of my arms tonight.”

Macon, sated now and dizzy from the experience, slid easily beneath the blankets, not bothering to clean himself off. Instead, he curled himself into a ball, and once Rion was beneath the covers with him, he was pressing close against the man’s side. The world was warm under the sheets, held tightly against Rion’s strong chest, and it didn’t take long for him to slide into the world of dreamless and deep sleep, hair in his eyes and lips pouted.

Chapter Six

2006-11-05T00:33:12Z

It was just past dawn when Macon stirred from his deep and undisturbed slumber, the first time in many years that he had been able to rest without being wakened countless times. It was a pleasant feeling, the one of having gotten enough sleep to be satisfactory, and he almost scrambled back into bed as he put his feet onto the cold floor, letting out a shrill, but quiet, noise.

Everything around him was relatively silent, and he could only make out the faintest hints of activity somewhere in the floor below, but it didn’t concern him in the slightest as he stood and stretched. The sun was creeping in through the windows, leaving fat, warm stripes of sunlight across the floor, and Macon smiled as he stepped into the light, enjoying the way it felt against his skin.

Macon stood like that for a long moment, just taking in the day, before he finally began to focus on his surroundings, which had been left vague and unappreciated in last nights darkness.

It was a grand bedroom, the finest he’d ever had the pleasure to sleep in, let alone to call his own, and he was suddenly stricken with the intensity of the situation. Rion was obviously a very rich and very important man, and it showed in everything that Macon laid eyes in. There was intricate crown molding around the edges of the walls and ceiling, and a lovely gold and crystal chandelier hung over the center of the room. The bed that Macon had slept on the night before was made out of dark, rich carved wood, and the blankets were silk woven in patterns of gold and blue.

There were chairs carved of the same dark wood, and the cushions were made of some fine hair dyed the same vibrant shade of blue as the blankets. The floor was covered in woven rugs that felt soft and new beneath Macon’s feet, and a wardrobe stood nobly in the far corner, just aching to be filled with new clothes and fine things.

It was almost overwhelming, the newness and the niceness of every little thing in the room, and Macon had to take a deep breath before he sat down hard on one of the chairs, dark curls sweeping into his eyes. What was he doing here? How did he end up in a place so nice and lovely? And how on earth was he going to be able to stay? No one ever kept Macon for long, why would Rion be any different?

As he sat contemplating these things, he failed to notice that someone had pushed open a door near the wardrobe, and was effectively staring at him. Instead he remained sitting, swimming in his sleep shirt and staring at the floor, tears of frustration stinging his blue eyes.

Rion was quiet as he crossed the room to the boy, concern shining in his eyes. He was still dressed in his morning clothes even though it was going on mid-day, the fabric of his lawn shirt and silk dressing jacket whispering softly as he closed the gap between them.

“Macon,” he said quietly, kneeling beside the youth. “Is something wrong? Is something not to your liking? We can have it changed, whatever it is…”

“No, Monsieur, it is perfect,” Macon whispered, raising his head and moving his hands away from his face, a few lone tears escaping his watery blue eyes. “I am just afraid that I am not as perfect or new as all of your fine things.”

Staring carefully at Rion, Macon sniffled and raised one sleeve to his nose, hiding half between his splayed fingers. He looked young and innocent, the action captivating in its sincerity, and he whimpered quietly, eyes still fixated on the older man.

Rion smiled a little with relief, reaching out to cup Macon’s cheek. “Mon petit chou… You are exactly what I was looking for.” His thumb began rubbing slow circles on Macon’s cheek, wiping away those errant tears. “So now… Let us dress for the day. We have much to do today.”

“Merci, Monsiuer,” Macon whispered, cheeks going flush when Rion’s thumb began to dance across the smooth skin. Raising his eyes, something flickered behind his gaze as it met the other man’s, and he licked his lips softly. He could taste the saltiness of his own tears where they had stained the pale pink of his mouth, and he snaked his tongue out again, tip dancing over the very edge of his lips.

When Rion’s fingers stopped moving, Macon’s heart began to race, thundering so hard inside of his chest that he was sure it could be heard throughout the whole of the house. He didn’t think on that though, as he spoke again, softly and purposeful in his words. “What are we doing today, Monsieur? How might I be of help to you?”

Rion smiled wider, cornflower blue eyes twinkling merrily. “We, my dear boy, are going into Ermont to this fabulous tailor I know. We’re going to be buying you an entire wardrobe. Shoes, hats, cloaks… everything.”

His hand drifted along the lines of Macon’s jaw and neck, coming to rest at the juncture of neck and shoulder, squeezing gently. “Come now, darling. No more sad faces and tears today.”

Macon nodded, leaning his head just so that he was nuzzling against the hand that rested on his shoulder, soft curls brushing over Rion’s fingers. Smiling crookedly, the boy blushed again and sat up, feeling a bit awkward and his sudden burst of forwardness. “I have nothing nice to wear to a tailor, Monsieur. All I have are the things I arrived in last night.”

“If you feel uncomfortable wearing your things, you may wear some of mine,” Rion said, biting his lip as he fought the urge to sit forward and press his lips to those perfect, petal pink ones that graced Macon’s face. “I think what you have, however, will be fine for the time being. It shouldn’t take Jean-Pierre more than a day or two to finish the first complete set. Probably much less than that if I offer a large enough bonus.”

“That will be fine, Monsieur,” Macon whispered, getting slowly to his feet, and giving Rion another small smile, stepped over to the chair where he had left his things the night before. He wasn’t sure if the older man would stand to leave, or if he would remain sitting, and he didn’t turn to look as he slid the sleeping gown down past his shoulders, letting it fall. The shirt gown was large, and his frame so small, that he pushed it over his hips with relative eyes and let it pool around his bare feet, reaching for his worn breeches and stepping into them.

Rion rose when Macon did, eyes following him as he crossed the room. He didn’t mean to watch as Macon changed. He didn’t mean to stare… But as the boy dropped his sleeping gown and stood there in the nude, Rion couldn’t help it.

Macon was exquisite and delicate, a flower compared to Rion’s former lovers. He was even more fragile looking than Rion’s late wife, Marie, had looked at the end of her life. Macon’s skin was clear and pale with the texture of silk. His loosely curled hair, jet black in color, was whispery-soft. And as he stood there, watching this man, Rion felt his heart stop and his head spin. He was enamored, overcome with lust and something less primal and more needy.

Buttoning up the front of his thin lawn shirt, Macon finally turned to face Rion again, a smirk playing on his pretty lips. “I am ready now, Monsieur. Should I help you get ready, or do you have other needs for me?” He asked, voice that low and breathless whisper that made him seem more like a desperate lover, then a young boy merely eager to please.

He knew that Rion had watched him dress, he had felt the older man’s eyes on him, and it pleased him deeply to know that he was found attractive. He could tell by the look on the other’s face that he had liked what he had seen, and it only increased his playful smirk.

Rion took a moment, swallowing down the lump in his throat while he willed his heart to be still enough for him to think before he answered Macon. “I’d like… I’d like you to assist me, Macon.” He moved stiffly, glad that his long gown and dressing jacket were bulky enough to cover his sudden erection.

Lips aching to kiss and be kissed, Rion moved through the secret door that connected their rooms. The juxtaposition of the colors was, at first, startling. Macon’s room was smaller, but decorated in brighter, livelier colors, blues and gold. Rion’s room was red. Red velvet curtains. Red brocade coverlet and pillows on the bed. The wood of the furniture was mahogany, like Macon’s, and just as intricately carved, also polished to a high sheen, so you could almost see your reflection in it.
He stepped to the opposite side of the room, opening his wardrobe. “Macon… would you like to choose my ensemble for today?”

“It would be my pleasure, Monsieur,” Macon said, feeling better then he had previously, and even a bit flirty now that Rion had assured him that everything would be perfectly fine. He made sure that their shoulders brushed together as he approached the wardrobe, staring at the vast array of clothing before he chose a pair of white breeches and a jacket made of a vibrant shade of purple. Purple was, after all, Macon’s favorite color.

Reaching into the wardrobe, he stood on the tips of his toes and pulled down the jacket, folding it over his arm as he bowed slightly to Rion, taking a step back. “Should I wait for you in the foyer while you dress, Monsieur?”

Rion smiled and, as soon as the breeches were in hand, he stripped off his sleeping gown and was pulling them on, sliding the fine cloth over his thin, muscular hips. Buttons fastened, Rion turned toward Macon, smiling as his long, honey blond hair fell into his face. “Would you get me a shirt, please? The white with purple ribbons on the sleeves. And some white stockings. They’re in the drawer at the base. Thank you, dearest.”

Sidestepping Rion, Macon kneeled down on the floor in front of the wardrobe, pulling out the bottom drawer. He pushed his dark curls away from his face as he looked through the stockings, finally pulling out a white pair. Looking up, he watched Rion from the floor for a moment before standing again, dusting off his knees. “These should do,” he whispered, handing over the stockings before finding the shirt and removing it from the closet, holding it close against his chest as he waited for Rion to take it.

Macon watched him with curious eyes, taking in everything about the man as he dressed slowly. Rion was defined, but still lovely, his curves and dips perfect in every possible way. He wasn’t heavy, but not too thin, and his hair was the loveliest color that Macon had ever seen, and when he found himself blushing he quickly looked away. “Do you need any help, Monsieur?”

The way Macon was looking at him made Rion’s heart beat a little faster every second. He took the shirt from Macon slowly, chewing his lower lip until it was nearly bloody. “Macon…” His voice was low and breathy. “If you keep looking at me that way, I’m going to forget that I’m a gentleman.”

“Let me help you with the buttons, Monsieur,” Macon whispered as a means of reply, stepping forward and taking the shirt by the hem. Slowly be began to do the buttons up, starting at the bottom, fingers ghosting gently over skin and material as he worked his way up.

Rion hissed softly as cool fingers trailed their way up his torso. Unwittingly, hands reached out, slipping to the boy’s waist. “Macon,” he said, a hint of warning in his voice. “I was serious when I said I would never force you, but… You are trying me. You are making me want to do things…”

Macon peered up at Ryan then, blue eyes wide with feigned innocence as he continued with the buttons, slow and purposeful in his movements. “What sort of things, Monsieur? Do tell?”

“You know what kind of things, mon amour,” Rion said with a breathless little laugh as he leaned in, pulling Macon in to him. “Macon… I would like it, very much, if you would allow me to kiss you.” His lips brushed against the delicate shell of the boy’s ear.

“That is what I am here for, Monsieur,” Macon whispered in return, hands still resting against Rion’s chest, face buried in the man’s neck. “I am here to please you, so do with me what you like. You may kiss me if you wish, as often as you wish.”

Rion let his hands slip around to Macon’s back, pressing the slight form even closer. “I want you to want to kiss me too, Macon. It’s not fun if it isn’t mutual.” Lips dragged themselves along Macon’s cheek, moving steadily towards those deliciously pink lips.

Macon nodded then, gazing up at Rion before leaning up on tip toe and turning his head to catch the other man’s lips softly with his own. It was a chaste kiss, and all too short, but it sufficed to put an end to the awkwardness, and to push them both forward into what they truly wanted.

Rion followed when Macon pulled away, pressing him into another, longer, softer kiss. There was something behind it, something that needed and wanted and craved. Something that cried for sweat and yearned for closeness.

He pulled back after a few moments, holding the boy close, breathing in his scent deeply. “Later, my pet. I promise you that.”

“Of course,” Macon whispered, pulling away from Rion, but not until he had ‘accidentally’ brushed a hand across the man through his breeches. “I will wait for you, monsieur, downstairs.”

Leaning up, he placed one last lingering kiss against Rion’s lips, touching his own pouted mouth with two tentative fingers as he backed away, looking a bit sullen. A lock of dark hair fell into his face and he finally smiled, reaching behind him for the door handle. “In the foyer, I will wait for you.”

“Yes, of course,” Rion said, his chest heaving, heart pounding. He watched as Macon left and then hurriedly dressed, willing his body to behave. He had his valet tend to his hair, pulling the curls back and securing them with a black velvet ribbon. A deep purple hat, just the color of his jacket, was added to his ensemble, and the look was finished with black shoes polished so one could almost see one’s own reflection in them. With a nod to himself in the mirror, he set off to join Macon in the foyer.

“There now,” he said, smiling as he saw the boy. “Has the carriage been pulled around yet?”

Macon nodded, feeling self-conscious and out of place in his worn and dirty clothing. Blushing, he bowed slightly to Rion, blinking as his hair fell into his eyes yet again. “It has. Forgive me for being so outspoken, but you look lovely, Monsieur.”

“You never need to apologize for speaking your mind, Macon,” Rion said, greeting the boy with a kiss to the cheek. “And thank you for the compliment. Now, let’s be off. We’ll go to the tailor and the cobbler’s and get your wardrobe taken care of. Is there anything else you’d like to see or do today?”

“I have never been outside the city of Paris,” Macon said, climbing into the carriage and resuming his seat from the night before, nose pressed against the window pane. “What things are there to do? In Paris I only ever spent time with the other boy’s who worked in the brothels, and sometimes I would walk past the halls where they’d have grand party’s, but I’ve never been in such nice places. Are there nice places, Monsieur? Might we go there once?”

“Well, there’s much more to do in Paris than there is in Ermont, where we are going today.” Rion smiled as he watched Macon, taking pleasure in the boy’s curiosity. “But there is a lovely public garden with some of the most beautiful roses I’ve ever seen there. Everyone in the city helps and tends to it. Every winter, I help spread the wood chips and saw dust on the ground to help protect the roots from the frost.”

Macon smiled a little, turning to Rion with wide, childlike eyes. “Madame Binet grew roses in her garden. We had a garden there, at their home, and I helped her care for it in the summer. Might we see the roses, Monsieur? S'il vous plait?”

“After we visit the tailor and the cobbler,” Rion said, nodding, his smile nearly as bright as Macon’s eyes. “Perhaps we should have Louis go to the Inn for us and arrange for a meal… A basket lunch. We can go to the garden and eat amongst the roses. Does that sound like a good idea to you?”

“Oui!” Macon smiled again, wider this time and far more genuinely as he looked back out the window, even as his hand crept across the smooth velvet of the seat. It was a simple gesture, but he was careful in his actions as he slid his hand quietly into Rion’s, watching the world pass them slowly by.

Rion glanced down to their hands when he felt Macon’s enter his. He threaded their fingers together, squeezing lightly before bringing the boy’s hand up to his lips, kissing the skin on his knuckles lightly.

“So what shall we eat on our picnic?”

Macon tore his eyes away from the scenery to look at Rion over his thin shoulder, the morning light filtering in through the small window playing over his features. “Chocolate,” he said almost immediately, cheeks going pink. “I have not had chocolate since I was a very little boy.”

Still holding onto Rion’s hand, Macon shifted and turned in the seat so he was facing the older man, completely curious as he peered up at him. “You are a very important man, are you not, Monsieur? So we can have chocolate?”

“To some,” Rion conceded, “I am an important man. But, regardless, we can have chocolate for desert. We must eat a real meal, lest we get sick.”

He reached out, fingers dancing over Macon’s cheek and neck. “You are beautiful, Macon. You should always be treated like a gem. And I will. I promise you that.”

“Are your words honest, Monsieur?” Macon whispered, edging a bit closer on the seat, still staring intently at Rion. “All of them? Am I truly beautiful? Will you hold that promise? Please, Monsieur, do not make promises you can not keep.”

Macon let out a sharp breath when Rion’s fingers grazed a sensitive spot on his neck and his small body shivered, eyes closing tightly at the feeling. It was a bit like a sharp current, washing over him, and he felt it to the very tips of his own fingers.

“Macon,” Rion said, leaning forward, unable to withstand the distance between them any longer, memories of their kiss this morning playing for his mind’s eye. “I have nothing to gain by lying to you. And I have nothing to gain by abusing you and your trust…”

He pulled his fingers away and replaced them with his lips. “I want to love you,” he whispered. “And I want you to love me in return.”

“You came seeking love,” Macon whispered, gasping audibly when Rion’s lips faintly brushed against his warm skin. “Love, Monsieur, is a brittle madness, but what makes you think that you can find such love in me?”

Even as he was speaking, Macon’s heart was thundering painfully in his chest, and he was sure that Rion could feel it in the pulse of his neck. His words were a contradiction to his true emotion, because someone wanted to love him. Truly, honestly, wanted to love him and wished for his love in return, and it made him feel heady and light, like he’d had a bit too much to drink before bed, and slowly, without realization, he let his hands rest lightly on Rion’s thighs.

“Because my heart tells me it is so,” Rion said, lips moving to the line of Macon’s jaw. “My dear, Macon… I didn’t go last night searching for love… I was searching for you.”

Macon arched his neck, presenting an angle that was perfectly suited to Rion’s actions. “It is wrong to love me, Monsieur. I am nothing, and no one. People with think less of you, if you are to be seen in the company of someone as hopeless as myself. I am nothing more then a poor boy from the streets of Paris.”

“Devil take them,” Rion said, moving his mouth back to that delicious spot that made Macon shiver. He nibbled at it lightly. “I could care less what society thinks of me.” He looked up, pressing a light kiss to the younger boy’s mouth. “I only care what you think of me. And what you want. And what you need.”

“I think that I will very much enjoy my time here,” Macon whispered, leaning up and kissing Rion back, a forcefulness and need behind his actions as he pressed heavily against the older man. “Too long, Monsieur, has it been since someone has truly cared. Cared for me, and my well being, and you are what I have prayed for.”

“Let me care for you, Macon,” Rion moaned, pulling the boy’s small frame onto his lap, pulling him in close and tight, like a man drowning. “Let me take care of you, and give you happy days and happy nights. Please Macon…”

He looked up, the naked need to love and be loved, to care for another and be cared for, shining in his eyes. He licked at his kiss-swollen lips, fingers dancing along Macon’s skin. “Please…”

Macon met Rion’s eyes, his own gaze desperate and searching. Ever since he was a small child he’d had no one, just people who took him in out of pity, and now someone wanted to be the one to take care of him, and to love him. “Oui,” he whispered, burying his face in the warmth of Rion’s neck, kissing the skin softly. “I am yours, Monsieur.”

The carriage rocked to a stop, but Rion sat there, holding Macon tight. “Come, my love. We must get you outfitted. No love of mine should ever be dressed in clothing that isn’t fit for the King himself.”

“Do you know the king,” Macon asked, sliding gently off of Rion’s lap and getting slowly to his feet. He was genuinely curious and so very naïve, looking expectantly at the man as though he might be waiting for the answer to any ordinary, everyday question.

“We’ve met,” Rion said smiling. “He’s a cousin, on my mother’s side. My great-great-great-grandmother was Madame Royale.” One last kiss and Louis was opening the door.

“Monsieur,” Louis said, bowing slightly. “We have arrived.”

“Very good. Thank you, Louis.” Rion turned to Macon, tugging his hand lightly. “Come.”

Macon stared openly at Rion, blue eyes wide and shocked as he scrambled out of the carriage after the other man. “You have met the king,” he whispered, voice a quiet whimper. He looked at the man in admiration, sucking on his bottom lip as he was tugged along in the direction of the square.

What exactly had he gotten himself into?

Chapter Five

2006-11-04T02:44:06Z

Macon fell asleep as the carriage traversed the bumpy, rutted roads. Rion simply sat there and watched him, gently running his fingers through the boy’s hair. He was beautiful. Had Vioget held out for his two hundred francs, Rion would have paid it. He would have paid double that for one as exquisite as this one.

He looked up, out the carriage’s small, frosted window. The landscape beyond it was dark and distorted, much like the landscape within Grands Chênes. Rion had never seen anyplace as dark and desperate as that place, and he hoped he never would again. True, this hadn’t been his first visit within it’s walls. It hadn’t even been his second, or third. The difference now was on each of his previous trips he’d always been pleasantly, and completely, inebriated. More often than not, Phillipe or someone else would have to hold him upright while the selection was made.

But now, now that he’d seen the way that the boys living with Vioget were kept… Well, he was suddenly glad that he’d gone there this night. And he was very glad that he’d picked this boy. He was too refined, too pure for a place such as that.

He sighed, gaze drifting to the raven head nestled in his lap. Five ‘homes’ in two years… six, if you counted his. Only the good Lord knew what kind of hell he had lived through. Rion could only imagine and, even then, he was sure it paled in comparison.

The carriage pulled into the estate and the guards secured the gates behind them. The peasants, for the most part, were unsettled. Rion didn’t care, really. His family, while generally regarded as being one to keep to themselves, were liked well enough. They were generous with those who lived on their land, always making sure that children and the elderly were cared for, making sure that the people had enough to eat. It was his mother’s doing, really. His father couldn’t care less. But not all of the nobles were of the same mind and there were more of them than there were people like the Desperaux family.

Rion roused Macon and helped the boy inside the house.

“Macon, darling, are you hungry?” he’d asked. The youth started to shake his head, but paused, and he ended up nodding a little, brilliant blue eyes sheepish, as if he were afraid to be punished for admitting his hunger.

Rion nodded as he turned the two of them down the hall toward the kitchens. Normally, he’d eat in the small, intimate dining room to the left of the kitchen. It was his favorite place to eat in the house, with its rich, blood red draperies and warm mahogany wooden furniture, intricately carved and perfectly waxed. But tonight was different. They were tired and he was sure Macon was worn, so directly to the kitchen it was. There was a table there that the servants often shared their meals. That would be well enough for the two of them.

A few brief words were passed to the cook, a lovely older woman named Rosalie, and Rion and Macon were seated at the small, rough-hewn table, bowls of hot rabbit stew and a half loaf of bread between them. Rion smiled and kissed the older woman on the cheek before he asked for some wine with the meal.

“How are you feeling, Macon?” he asked after a few moments, studying the boy carefully. “Better now that you’ve napped and are eating?”

"Better, Monsieur," Macon whispered, voice scratchy and laced with tiredness. His surroundings were vague, his bleary eyes unable to make out much of anything, but it wasn't hard to tell, even just by the china that was used for such a simple meal, that the home was nice. Far nicer then any place that he had ever been, and he looked up at Rion with flushed cheeks and tired eyes. "I am still sleepy. I'm very sorry, Monsieur."
Rion smiled, shaking his head. “No need to apologize, Macon. Sleep is a necessity.”

His valet slipped in from the rear door and bent to Rion’s ear, letting him know the carriage and horses were taken care of. “Very good. Please get one of my extra sleeping gowns and bring it to the blue bedroom. That is where Monsieur Binet will be sleeping tonight.”

Rion turned back to Macon, absently eating his own meal. “As soon as you’re finished, I’ll escort you to your room, Macon. You may sleep as late as you like.”

Macon pushed the bowl off to the side, feeling decidedly warm and pleasant and a lot better with a meal inside of him. Biting his bottom lip, he gave Rion a soft look. "I am ready for bed now, Monsieur. And do not worry about a…a sleeping gown. I am quite fine, you need not take any special pains on my part."

“It is no trouble, Macon,” Rion said, picking up both of their bowls and bringing them to the cook. “You’re a member of my household now. It is my duty to take care of you.”

He motioned for Macon to follow him up the set of stairs used by the servants. “This is the most direct way from the kitchens… I’ll give you the grand tour sometime tomorrow. Perhaps after visiting the tailor.”

A few more steps and a ways down the hall brought the pair to the double doors that marked the entrance to Rion’s bed chamber. “This are my rooms,” he said softly as they stepped past, stopping at a door just on the opposite side. “… And these will be yours.”

"I will not be staying with you?" Macon asked, caught off guard and immediately blushing once he realized what had been said. He was very much used to sharing quarters with whoever had taken him in. The only person whose room he had not shared, had been his one and only mistress, and it was only because she only used him for sex and little else. Now though, he looked nervously at Rion and blushed a furious shade of red, hanging his head in shame. "I am sorry, Monsieur, for speaking up against you."

Rion touched Macon’s cheek gently, turning the boys face up to his. “Macon… this is your home now. I want you to be comfortable and have a place to call your own.” He smiled a little, thumb caressing the boy’s hairless cheek. “Your presence in my rooms will always be welcomed… but not required.”

Macon nodded curtly, the faint hints of a blush still clinging to his pale cheeks. "Yes, Monsieur," he whispered, bowing slightly to Rion before opening the door to his appointed room, stepping quietly inside.

In the scant light from the candles placed near the tall windows, Macon could see that the room was quite lovely, simple yet elegant and very telling of Rion's station in life. The walls were papered in a pale shade of blue, and a tall bed sat regally in the center of the room. The bed linens looked soft and inviting, and he smiled crookedly as a man approached him with a sleeping gown, the pair of them exchanging slight bows to each other before the man left the room.

Sliding off his worn breeches and thin lawn shirt, Macon put his old clothes in a neat stack on the seat of a finely carved chair before sliding into the sleeping gown, which hung well past his knees. He was far too small for such a large garment, but the smell of Rion lingered in the fabric and he smiled, feeling a bit more at ease.
Kneeling beside of the bed, which required a step up to get comfortably in, Macon recited the same prayers that he had recited since childhood, more out of habit then out of any real standing of faith. Night time ritual completed, he stood again and climbed into the bed, settling beneath the layers of blankets and sheets, curling up with a slight yawn. It had been a long, long, ride from Paris and Grands Chênes, and it had worn well on him, leaving him tired and feeling boneless. It didn't take long at all for him to drift back into sleep, lost in a hazy world of delicious dreams.

Post #7

2006-11-02T07:44:48Z

5,419 / 50,000
(10.8%)

And now we rest.

Chapter Four

2006-11-02T07:43:17Z

It was early evening when Rion pulled up to the estate on the outskirt of Paris known as Grands Chênes. The sun had yet to completely set, but it was well on it’s way as his carriage stopped at the gate and he stepped out. A imaginary speck of dust was flicked from his shoulder, and he turned, striding up the path to the front door.

Amaury had been watching through the parlor windows, anxiously awaiting Rion's arrival. He had gotten word that the marquess would be paying them a visit tonight, his first since the year prior, and he had told the boy's to make themselves presentable. It wasn't often that someone of such a high social ranking came to see them at Grands Chênes, and he wanted only the best of the lot to be presented.

Hurrying into the corridor, Amaury swept open the heavy front doors and bowed slightly to Rion, the gesture more wooden then any sort of proper. "Welcome, Monsieur Despréaux, to Grands Chênes. How might we be of service to you on this evening?"

Rion nodded to Amaury, shrugging off his hat as he crossed the threshold and his cape soon after. “Monsieur Vioget,” he said, nodding to the man, one conrner of his lips curling up into a small smile. “I see that not much has changed here since my last visit.” He too off his kid gloves, both proverbially and literally. “I’m in need of a distraction, Vioget. What do you have available?”

"We have anything that you might desire," Amaury said, a smirk tugging at his lips as he shut the doors and motioned towards a stairwell that disappeared into a lower floor. "The boy's are ready and waiting for you downstairs. It's quite business as usual, nothing has changed. You may look, but you may not touch until you have paid. After that, the boy is yours to do with what you would like."

Taking the candelabra off the table nearest the door, Amaury motioned for Rion to follow him as he headed down the slight staircase, the stone walls giving way to a vast and mostly bare room. There were slight feather mattresses lining the floor along the walls, each one with a solitary blanket and pillow and a set of clothes beside of it. Lined up in front of the mattresses were boy's of varying heights and ages, some blond, some brunette, the rare redhead, and the one boy with raven hair, Macon, who stood furthest down the line.

In all of the prior visits made by Rion, Macon had never been in attendance. He had always been gone, off with another one of his clients, but now here he stood, back straight and expression vague, chin held high. His dark curls were damp from the bath he'd been ordered to take, the dark hair sweeping into his shocking blue eyes and hiding them behind the fringe. His lawn shirt hung open at Amaury's instruction, the left sleeve sliding off his shoulder and leaving it bare. He knew this drill, and he knew it well, so he pouted his lips and waited his turn.

Rion walked slowly down the row of boys, eyes carefully appraising each of the boys before him. Amaury was a cunning businessman… he knew exactly how to present his wares and, in that respect, he was an artists. The dim lights of far lit candles would make it difficult to see signs of ill health in a boy and the damp air would impede any coughing and rattling of the breath.

He spoke to a couple boys, asking their names and ages, but no one stood out. No one made his breath catch and his loins stir.

No one until he reached the raven-haired boy at the end.

Rion let his eyes sweep from the brilliant blue eyes hidden behind the dark curls all the way down to the boy’s feet, bare against the thrush covered floor. He cleared his throat and caught the boy’s gaze. “What’s your name?”

"Macon Binet," the boy whispered, voice breathless and almost whimpered, playing to his strengths as he tugged rose-kissed bottom lip with his teeth. He allowed himself to meet the gaze of the man before him, but only for a second and then his eyes were once again on the floor. "It is my pleasure to meet you, Monsieur."

“It is my pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Binet,” Rion said, bowing ever so slightly as a gesture of greeting. “Might I ask your age, Macon? You appear to be older than most of the boys here.”

Macon stood up straighter, an airy expression on his pretty face as he allowed himself to once again meet eyes with the man. "I am seventeen, Monsieur," he said, voice still a low whisper. "I am the eldest."

Rion nodded, still trying to get a grasp of this one. But perhaps I don’t need a grasp of his personality, he thought. He’s a good looking one… beautiful form. Yes, this one will do nicely, once he’s cleaned up. As per usual, Amaury has neglected all of his boys in the clothing department.

He held back a sigh as he looked at Macon. “Monsieur Binet… If you would agree, I would like to offer Monsier Vioget a certain amount of money… And I’d like you to come live with me in my home.”

Amaury watched the exchange with quiet delight, eyes going between the two men as he took it all in. He had thought, after the last return, that it would be very hard to get rid of Macon yet again, and any idea of a permanent removal from Grands Chênes had all but been erased. Now, however, his luck seemed to be shifting, and just maybe this would be the last time he'd ever lay eyes on the boy.

"Shall we work out the monetary arrangements," Amaury asked, letting his eyes graze over Macon, who glanced back before nodding, bowing slightly at the waist to Rion.

"It would be my pleasure, Monsieur," Macon said, standing straight again though he was now slightly unsure of himself. It always rather hard, knowing how to behave with any one new person, and this man was difficult to understand. He was younger then any of the other's that Macon had ever been with, and he was handsome, far too handsome to be in a place like this. But he asked no questions, he merely stepped out of the queue and kneeled down, gathering up what few articles of clothing he owned that were not currently hanging off of his thin frame.

Rion turned his attention briefly to Vioget then looked back to Macon. “My valet is with my carriage,” he said dismissively. “He will handle the exchange of cash.”

He reached out, hand softly resting on the boys thin forearm. “Leave those things. You won’t be needing them any more, Macon.”

Macon looked up when he was touched, the contact gentle and not expected, and he made a soft noise before nodding and getting back to his feet, leaving his things on the dirty floor. "Of course, Monsieur," he breathed, just staring for a moment before he moved again, beginning to fumble with the buttons of the shirt that still hung open against his chest.

All around them the other boy's began to move as well, making their beds or attending to their neglected evening chores, the air thick and heavy with their disappointment. Everyone wanted to be the one that was chosen by a man such as Jean-Rion Despréaux, but there could only be one, and that one was Macon.

Rion noted the disappointment and sadness in the air and he made a mental note of it. These boys… their situation was not their fault. It was not their fault that a rat such as Vioget was taking advantage of them. He disliked it, immensely.

“Macon,” he said softly. “When we get home, remind me to have my tailor and cobbler make enough shirts, breeches, and shoes for these boys. We will send them over immediately. The way these boys are being kept is an outrage.” He nodded to the boy. “I’ll be waiting for you upstairs.”

"I will remember, Monsieur," Macon said, finishing with his shirt and pulling on his worn shoes as Rion disappeared upstairs. As he was dressing, pulling on the threads that he called a coat, Amaury approached him, gripping the boy tightly by the wrist.

"You listen to me," Amaury growled, voice low and dangerous. "You will obey him. You will do what he tells you to do, when he tells you to do it. He is not just a mere member of the court as Pétain was. He is far more important, and holds far more at stake. If you are sent back to me yet again, boy, I will dispose of you myself."

Letting go, he shoved Macon towards the stairs and they headed up together, Amaury not willing to send him out alone for fear of not receiving his money. Once they were in the long hall, however, he turned on a crooked smile, nodding to Rion.

"All affairs seem to be in order. Now we make the exchange, and he is yours to deal with."

Rion motioned to his valet, Louis, and then looked over to Vioget. “And your starting price is?”

Amaury looked Macon over, the boy's curls now drying and looking soft against his face, and he smirked before turning his eyes back to Rion. "He is my most sought after boy," he said, petting the side of Macon's face.

The boy flinched when touched but resisted the urge to pull away, staring again at the floor as though ashamed. "I think," Amaury continued, "that I can accept no less then 200 for him."

Rion snorted at that, taking Macon lightly by the arm and pulling him closer. His blue eyes barreled into Vioget’s. “Most sought after… meaning most well used. Tell me, Macon… How many homes have you lived in since meeting Monsieur Vioget?”

"Five, Monsieur," Macon whispered, stepping closer to Rion as he was pulled, though his eyes never left the ground. "In two years."

"The boy is worth the money," Amaury said, staring back at Rion with flickering eyes. "If you do not wish to pay what he is worth, then take another who is worth far less. You are paying for beauty and experience, but you may have someone of lower standards for the lower price."

Rion met Vioget’s gaze, eyes flickering with the challenge. “The boy… while lovely… is well used. And much older than the rest of your selection. You claim he is worth two hundred francs… But I say no more than one hundred and fifty.”

Macon felt decidedly like a piece of chattel, and he very much wanted to be anywhere but in the hall with the two men as they argued over his worth.

"One hundred and seventy," Amaury hissed, reaching out to take Macon by the sleeve of his jacket. "If you will not pay it, then he will return to finish his chores."

“One hundred sixty,” Rion countered, his arm firmly around Macon’s waist. “And I’ll be sure to keep my opinions of the deplorable conditions all those boys down stairs are housed in to myself. Because, correct me if I’m wrong… but I think that knowledge might very well hamper new business.”

Amaury's face turned a brilliant shade of rose red but he nodded, taking a step back and away from the two men. "One hundred sixty," he said, voice laced with anger and irritation. As much as he wanted to push for more, he knew that what Rion might say would ruin further business, and he couldn't have that. "I want my money, and then you may take him from the house."

Rion nodded to his valet and the man promptly procured the requisite amount and deposited it in Vioget’s hand. “So gauche,” Rion muttered, not bothering to hide his contempt for the man. Of course, when one was as high up on the social ladder as Jean-Rion Desperaux, you were under no obligation to treat your inferiors as equals.

“Vioget,” he said before turning toward the door. “How many more are there downstairs?”

"Eleven," Amaury muttered, already in the process of counting his money, not paying any more attention to Macon or the man who had just procured him. "And if you should say a word, about anything, then you will ruin yourself just as well. No one would care for a nobleman who is housing a whore."

“Housing a whore?” Rion laughed. The man really was thick. “Pardon, Monsieur. I’m doing the charitable thing and taking in a shiftless, homeless youth.” He sobered quickly, taking a step toward Vioget. It was just menacing enough to get the man’s attention. “You are to take each of those eleven to my tailor in Ermont in the coming week. I will alert him that you are coming. Each of those boys are to get a new shirt, new breeches, a new coat and a new pair of shoes. Their condition is deplorable and you should be ashamed.”

Amaury pocketed his money, stepping around Rion and Macon to open the front doors, gesturing for them to exit. "I am not ashamed, because it is not I who is going to be having sex with a homeless, pathetic excuse for a boy," he said. "Now I bid you both farewell."

Macon made another noise, this one sharp as he moved past the two men and down the slight incline to the path outside the door, not at all appreciating being called a whore. When you were something that you could not help, it felt like being stabbed in the chest, and he could no longer stand to be in the presence of Vioget any longer. He ran all the way to the gate, where he paused to what on his new owner, looking small and helpless as he crossed his arms over his chest to protect himself against the wind that blew through the tall oaks.

Rion rolled his eyes at Vioget and exited the man’s home, more than a few lengths behind Macon. Vioget was slime, worse than slime, and Rion was well-connected enough to see that he would be punished for his impudence.

One he caught up with Macon at the gate, he nodded to his driver and the man opened the door. “If you please, Macon. It’s cool out and we should get home. There is much to do in the morning.”

Caught of guard at being allowed to go first, in anything, Macon paused for a moment before stepping into the carriage, blue eyes wide as he brushed his hair away from his face. Everything was silk and velvet, the seats a deep shade of blue and entirely too soft as he sat down on the left side nearest the small window, settling back and feeling very out of place. His shirt slid off his shoulder again and his pale skin was once again exposed, but he paid no mind as he looked around in complete awe. "You have a lovely carriage, monsieur."

Rion smiled a bit at that, settling in to the bench on the side opposite of Macon. “Thank you. It was a birthday gift from my godfather.. Some two years ago.”

The carriage started moving then, taking them in the direction of Rion’s home. “Are you cold, Macon? We could stop at an inn for coals, if you are. Food, though, will have to wait. My cook is preparing a meal for us upon our return.”

"I am fine, Monsieur, thank you," Macon whispered, slipping off his worn coat and laying it on the seat beside of him, resting his head against the window. His neck arched gracefully and melted seamlessly into the curve of his jaw, everything offset by the curls that fall against skin. He stared out the window until his eyes grew heavy and his head lolled to the other side, looking for a place to rest but finding nothing in the emptiness.

Whimpering tiredly, he wrapped his arms around himself and tugged the sleeve back up over his shoulder, the world outside growing steadily darker. They had quite a ways to go, and already he was sliding easily into sleep.

Rion watched as Macon tried to get comfortable in the seat, which was neigh impossible. He’d tried it a few times himself. He slipped his cloak off his shoulders and folded it so the soft, rabbit fur lining was on the outside. “Here, Macon,” he said softly, leaning over to help the boy rest his head on this makeshift pillow. “Rest. But before you do, I’d like to talk to you for a few moments.”

Macon absently nuzzled his head against Rion's hand as he put the makeshift pillow beneath his head, nodding slightly at the man's request. "Yes?"

Rion watched Macon for a moment while he decided that being blunt was probably the best course of action. “Vioget is… an asshole, for lack of a better word. I’m sorry that you had to sit and listen as he called you a whore.”

"I am not ashamed of what I am," Macon whispered, peering at Rion with half-closed, bleary blue eyes. "It is not what he called me, but the manner in which it was sad. He has no respect for what I must do to survive."

“Had, Macon.” Rion’s voice was soft and, slowly, he moved to the other seat, beside Macon. “Because I want you to know, right here and right now, that I will not… expect those types of favors from you. Should you decide that you would like that kind of relationship with me, then it would be your choice. But I will never force it upon you.”

Macon turned his head away from the softness of the cape he was using a pillow so that he might look at the man beside of him, doe eyed and pouty lipped as he watched Rion tiredly. "You came to Grands Chênes for a reason, and we both know what that reason is. It's all right, I assure you. You will get what you paid for, Monsieur."

“I came for companionship,” Rion said, shaking his head slightly. “If I wanted a whore, I could get one at court, for free.”

"Companionship," Macon repeated, smiling crookedly as he shifted around, pulling his legs up into the seat and curling up a bit, lawn shirt falling again although this time he had little care to correct it.

“Exactly,” Rion said, smiling a little as he reached over and adjusted Macon’s shirt. “Believe me or not, it is your choice.” Rion relaxed, pulling Macon’s feet into his lap so the tired boy could be more comfortable.

“Now, the first item on our agenda tomorrow is… clothing. And shoes. We shall visit the cobbler and the tailor in Ermont and order your wardrobe.”

Macon nodded vaguely, pulling his feet away so he could turn around, lying with his head on Rion's lap and his feet curled against the velvet of the seat. He closed his eyes and ignored the sudden racing of his heart at being so close to the beautiful older man, whimpering quietly as he got comfortable. "New clothes…so long since I had anything new….nice…"

“We can’t have you running about like a ragamuffin,” Rion said, running his fingers through those dark curls. “Rest, Macon. I’ll wake you and show you to your rooms when we’re home.

Chapter Three

2006-11-02T04:25:32Z

There are three things everyone in Parisian society knew about Jean-Rion Desperaux that season.

First, Jean-Rion, or Rion as he preferred to be called by those nearest and dearest to him, was very, very rich. His father, Duc Claude Despréaux, had married well, as his father before him had and his father before him and on and on until Methuselah. The women who married into the Desperaux clan were, without fail, independently wealthy and quite beautiful. Rion, being his father’s only recognized child, was set to inherit all of Propriété Cachée, the familial estate in Toulouse.

The second thing that society knew about Rion Desperaux was that he did not, under any circumstances, prefer to spend his time with ladies. He was usually noted in the company of his group of friends, men he’d known since childhood and, on the occasions where they were seen at a soiree, he kept to that group of friends. He was engaged to Countess Joséphine Laurent but it was an arranged match. Rion, for all appearances, had little patience for his future wife and avoided all talk of reading the banns for their marriage.

The third, and most pertinent, thing that society knew about Rion was that he was beautiful… and bored. He had no problem attracting lovers and, if you listened to such tails, he was both skilled in the carnal arts and generous with his time and money. But he bored with his ‘playthings’ quickly and had left a long line of broken hearts behind him.

But Rion was thinking of none of that as he sat reclined in a chaise in his home, Propriété Interdite, a bottle of red wine in hand. His shirt, a soft lawn was hanging open on his lean chest, the soft blond fuzz of hair that covered him easily visible if anyone looked. But no one did, because Rion was alone. He was alone and bored, drinking away a heartache because this time, instead of being the one to leave his lover, he had been the one who was left behind.

“Oh, Phillipe,” he sighed, taking another drink. He didn’t want to think of that louse or the whore he was marrying. What they’d had, what they’d shared was love, true love! At least… he thought it was love. He’d never really been in love but he figured that what he’d felt for Phillipe de Pompadour was probably love.

Another sigh and Rion was up, pacing, hands running through unfashionably long and tangled blond curls. He had to do something, anything at all, to keep those thoughts at bay, those jealous, burning thoughts that threatened to consume him, thoughts of Phillipe and their passionate nights and passionate days and all the passionate moments in between.

That was all it took to spur Rion to action. He was going to prove to Phillipe that he was not the type to sit around, heart broken, and cry over someone. He was going to go to that place… that one place with all the terribly good-looking boys. He would pick out one for himself, maybe two, and then he’d take them home for a little fun.

Cornflower clue eyes stared out the window for a moment before he moved himself into action, calling for his valet. “Grands Chênes,” he whispered, nodding to himself as he stripped off his clothing, waiting for his man. “Yes. Something pretty.”

Chapter Two

2006-11-01T15:40:01Z

Grands Chênes Estate sat on the outskirts of Paris, not quite inside the limits of the city, but far removed from the vastness of the countryside. The lane that ran past the main house was well worn with carriage wheel tracks and trodden down from the hoofs of horses, people passing by on various travels to and from the city, but few of them ever stopped at Grands Chênes. Those who did stop came at night, when the lane was dark and empty of passerby, and when they came it was with purpose.

The men didn’t stop to call on Amaury Vioget. They didn’t travel from Paris, Rennes, or Marseille to inquire about the fruit bearing trees that grew in the orchards behind the house, or to procure a place to stay overnight before carrying on with their journeys. If you came to this place, to this house, you had one thing in mind and one thing only.

The boys.

There were perhaps fifteen of them at any given time, all ranging in age and look, all from different walks of life. Some were the runaway son’s of respected noblemen; others were abandoned and neglected by broken families. Some were from other countries, though most were from neighboring French towns and cities, and all of them had found a second chance and a home with Amaury Vioget.

Macon had came to Amaury over two years prior, when he was just 15 years old and living alone on the streets of Paris. It had been a bad winter, harsh and cold, and with no blood relations left living and his foster family broken by sickness and leaving him abandoned, he had taken the man up on his offer to live with him at his estate and to work for him for what promised to be good money.

Only people are quite deceiving, and even the seemingly best situation can turn bad in an instant, and Macon found out quickly that Grands Chênes was more then just a house, and that Amaury Vioget was more then just a generous soul. He was a man of business, making money in a way that most would find filthy and repulsive, but that he found quite profitable. He found young, hopeless boys with no where to go and no one to care, and he sold them for a profit.

The boys would never leave, because it was either live with Amaury in his house of sin and corruption, or return to the streets to die of starvation or disease. They were trapped by their own fate, and forced into a life they had never wanted, but what was just a bit better then what they had left behind.

In all aspects it was a slave trade, people in exchange for money, but it all ran much deeper then that. The me and women who sought these boys out weren’t looking for a house maid or a field worker. They were looking for someone to control, someone to keep under their thumb. The boys were told what to do and they were expected to do it, no matter how harsh or humiliating the act, and once they were broken beyond repair, they were either returned to Amaury or buried discreetly and quietly in unmarked graves.

In the two years of living and ‘working’ for Amaury, Macon had been to five different homes with four different men and one woman. Men were the most frequent clients, seeking out a satisfaction that they couldn’t act upon in their daily lives, while women were far more inclined to simply find a man for free that they could use for a single night and then forget about. It was a steady stream of new faces in and out of the estate, one boy leaving to be replaced by another, and it was all quite unsettling, at least until you got used to it.

Amongst the assorted cliental, Macon Binet had dealt with a drunkard, a married man, an abuser, a member of the royal court of France, and a woman so vicious and sexually driven that she had nearly starved him to death, only allowing him a single meal a day in exchange for hours of pleasure. Each and every time he was with someone for only a few months, and then he was returned to Grands Chênes with complaints of disobedience, sassing, and a variety of other accusations that he neither openly denied nor admitted to.

He never stayed out of work for long, people bidding for him on the grounds of his looks alone, and while it amused him into delight to watch their faces when he went against what he was told, he also knew that a day would come when he was taken in by someone who would not tolerate his mouth and attitude, and that would very much be his demise. He did not, however, count on ever being taken in by a person who he would truly come to care for, and who would make him feel important and cared for in return.

That is, until the day that Marquess Jean-Rion Despréaux came to the estate seeking a companion, and then everything changed.

Chapter One

2006-11-01T14:52:33Z

Everything was quiet, not a solitary sound breaking the blissful silence of the early morning that surrounded Amaury Vioget’s estate. It was before dawn, the entire world bathed in a thick blanket of dew, the grass damp and a thin layer of mud covering the dirt road that stretched on for miles in both directions. The house itself, rambling if a bit derelict, stood ominous and mostly hidden behind a line of tall oak trees, no lights yet burning though someone just inside the main entryway was stirring.

It was a bit shocking when the stillness was finally broken; the sound of horses coming around the bend shattering whatever peace was left to be found at the start of the day. Over the eastern horizon the sun was finally showing her face, kissing the edges of the land that lead up to the lawns of the Grands Chênes Estate, and the front doors to the house swung open as the horses drew to a halt, the carriage behind them rocking slowly to a stop.

Amaury Vioget looked less then pleased as he hurried up the cobblestone pathway that lead to his home, stopping just shy of the gate as the door to the carriage drew open and out stepped a young man, his appearance far less grand then the nature of his arrival.

The boy was young, he could not have possibly been a day over the age of 17, and he was dressed in a pair of well worn breeches and a lawn shirt that was missing several buttons and that hung loosely off his petite shoulders. His lack of stylish dress, however, was made up for in the striking beauty of his features, and in the elegant way in which he carried himself. He was all wide, bright blue eyes and dark hair that hung in loose curls around his face, framing the gentle curve of his cheekbones and the eloquent curve of his nose as he climbed down from the carriage and bid farewell to the driver, holding his head high as he started through the gates and past Monsieur Vioget.

The scene was not untypical; in fact the very same scenario had happened many times before. The pretty young boy would arrive in a gilded carriage, left outside the front gates without so much as a goodbye, and Amaury would take him back into the house without a word or a question.

Only today things took a decidedly different turn when Amaury reached out and grabbed the boy by the arm, stilling him in his journey towards the open front doors. Around them the silence had settled again, the birds only beginning to wake, a few calling out from the branches of the tall trees overhead. But neither paid any mind as they looked each other in the eye, Amaury staring down at the boy with distaste.

“This can not happen again, Macon. You must do better, because for every time you return, we are losing something. Money, time, reputation,” Amaury growled, voice a low whisper that was laced with anger, his fingers tightening their grip. “You are getting older everyday. As you age, you become less and less desirable, do you not understand that? Men want young, pretty little things who obey and who listen. Not old, worn out and used up grown men who don’t do what they are told.”

Macon blinked against the sunlight that was now filtering through the leaves of the trees, dancing across his pale skin and blurring his vision. He considered for a moment before speaking, tugging his arm gently out of the older man’s grip. “With all respect, Monsieur Vioget, it is very easy for you to say and to assume what men want and do not want. But you can tell me what it is they want, when you are the one in their beds every night. May I retire to my room now?”

With a slightly angry look and a hateful grunt Amaury nodded and stepped aside, letting Macon pass into the house. He followed the boy inside, pausing only to close the heavy doors that shut out the rest of the world and kept the secrets of Grands Chênes well hidden.

Post #6

2006-11-01T14:47:32Z

I've made a little progress. Chapter One is finished and will be posted up as soon as I finish reading it over. I got a late start, but I think if I try I can get a Chapter Two in there, which will better explain what is going on, and what happened in Chapter One.

So, everyone read it and tell me what you think. It's really just an introduction to one of the two main characters, and it'll seguey into the broader spec of what is going to happen.

I freakin' love NaNo!

Post #5

2006-10-25T12:39:03Z

Only one week until NaNoWriMo and this lovely story begin!

I'm beyond ecstatic to start writing! It's going to be a great month, even if I am going to be super busy during the days. My nights will be completely devoted to writing (after homework, that is)!

In other news. recklessliving.

Seriously. All the cool kids are reading it.

Post #4

2006-10-20T14:11:08Z

For those of you who are bored in the days before NaNo, allow me to 'pimp' the ongoing work in progress for one of my most beloved original fictional characters.

It's the biogrpahy of my character Macon Dunlevy Webb, and his life is, at least to me, very interesting.

So if you're bored and want something to read check out recklessliving.

I promise it's at least mildly entertaining.

Post #3

2006-10-19T02:44:03Z

I just want to take a brief moment to thank everyone who has, thus far, friended this journal to read the story once it begins. It's nice to know so many of you are interested in The Kept Boy!

I look forward to reading all of your story's in return, and again, thanks so much! I can't wait to start writing!