No Hidden Catch (Sensory Overload ficathon)

Original fiction for ephemera_tales's Sensory Overload ficathon

Title: No Hidden Catch
Prompts:
red [x]
flat [x]
ocean [x]
satin [x]
pepper [ ]
Yayness: This was great fun. It totally got me out of the funk I've been in lately about writing anything. Huzzah for that.
Whinging: I hate everything I write for ficathons. I never remember this until I've finished one, and then I think to myself, "Dude, you always hate everything you write for ficathons! Maybe you shouldn't sign up for them." And then I forget. Anyway. I hate this. It was firmly against being what I wanted it to be, and it went all over the place and wouldn't listen to me at all, and ugh. My apologies for the random bits of present tense and the part where I totally skip over the middle of the story because I suspected it was a rather long story, and I didn't want to take the time to write it. Bad me. I would apologize that one of my characters is saddled with the name Dominy, but as my characters always spring forth from my head already named, the blame is entirely his. Anyway. I set out to write possibly p0rny saffic angst, and I wrote fluffy G-rated boylove. I'm so utterly not surprised. (I don't really hate this as much as I say. I just wish I'd been able to take the time to tell the story right.)

No Hidden Catch
by Jenelin

This is Ian at fifteen.

Too small. Always too small and then, suddenly, too tall, too thin, skin stretched too tight. When he was not fifteen, he loved books and hidden corners and quiet. But fifteen is a different thing, and he is something new, and his books, more often than not, are shoved under his bed, and his voice, making up for years of disuse, is a constant scream in the halls and on the cricket pitch and across the streets. He is a jolly sort, and the other boys think well of him, although their thoughts rarely go beyond, "He's always up for a bit of fun."

The other boys talk often of girls, but Ian rarely contributes anything to these conversations. He imagines that this will change at some point; when he was not fifteen, he was not very fond of sport, but now he is. If he is not terribly interested in the fairer sex now, he will be in future.

And then he is sixteen, and he knows this will never be true.

* * * * *

"You remember Dominy Lawson?" Geoff asked, passing a cup of tea over the table. "We were a bit chummy at school."

"A year or two older, wasn't he?" Ian said, taking the tea with what he felt was a remarkably steady hand. "Quite fond of golf?"

"Exactly the chap," said Geoff. "Ran into him on Thursday. Hadn't thought of him in an age, of course, but we got on as well as we always used to, and he's invited me up to some relative or other's country place in a few day's time."

"How lovely for you," Ian said, his voice sounding oddly flat to his own ears, as if it were being filtered in from some distant memory, although Geoff did not seem to notice. Setting his cup down, he tried a more jovial tone, wincing a little that his voice still had a tinge of falseness to it. "Nice for you to catch up, of course. And all that fresh country air."

Geoff grinned. "It'll be just the thing, won't it? You're invited too, of course."

Ian, glad his teacup was safely on the table and away from his suddenly shaking hand, sputtered a little and attempted to cover it with a cough. "Of course?"

"Well, we were all friends back then, weren't we?" said Geoff.

"You've gone senile, old man," Ian said. "You two were friends. He and I were barely acquaintances."

"He remembers you fondly enough, in any case. ‘Geoff, old chum,' he says to me, ‘you still running around with that Everley chap?' ‘Can't seem to get rid of him,' I say to him. ‘Glad to hear it,' he says. ‘He was always a good sport. Bring him up with you.'"

"I imagine he just wants more people in the party," Ian said. "If I remember correctly, he always had quite the crowd around him."

"Nonsense," said Geoff. "You'll come, won't you? We'll have a good time of it."

Ian wanted to decline. He knew he should. He had spent too much time putting Dominy Lawson very firmly in the past and even more time convincing himself that he had succeeded at it. If the mention of his name made him, for a moment, feel the exhilaration of being sixteen, dreaming of red-gold hair and ivory skin, that could be easily enough forgotten. But to actually see him again! Decidedly dangerous. Ian opened his mouth to say ‘no', felt the word ready to drip off his tongue, bitter but necessary, and heard his voice instead say, "All right. When do we leave?"

* * * * *

This is Ian at sixteen.

Moody, rambunctious, suddenly shy. His books again spend time in his hands, although his eyes take in few of their words. He stays close to his room and hopes that no one notices. No one does; they, like him, are far too concerned with Dominy Lawson. Dominy - Lawson to his schoolmates, Dom to his very closest friends - is a bit older and a bit wiser and, most importantly, new, having spent the past five years with his father in Canada. He is good at sport and good at his studies and is so unabashedly friendly that very few of the boys are jealous of him for this.

Ian is confused and Ian in ashamed and, in the end, Ian finds himself unable to resist being mad for the bright flashes of red that are revealed in Dominy's hair in the cold winter sun and the slight accent he hears in the boy's voice when he talks to Geoff about his old home. He has all the confidence and charm that Ian is without; he is everything that Ian wants. Dominy is a god, and Ian worships.

He notices that Dominy has little patience for talk of girl friends, and he thinks that, sometimes, he catches a quickly-hidden look in Dominy's eyes that he imagines is often in his own. Once, as Dominy is leaving the room, his long fingers ruffle through Ian's hair, and he feels that his heart must be beating loud enough for Geoff to hear, for the whole house to hear, for all of England to hear. But Dominy is affectionate with all, and Ian finds it easy to convince himself that the gesture means nothing. It is, perhaps, easier than thinking it meaningful. Ian dreams of being with a god, but he thinks himself unworthy of the reality of it.

And then Dominy is gone as quickly as he came, and Ian grows up.

* * * * *

Their departure had been delayed, and by the time they arrived at the house it was late, and they were shuffled off to bed by a rather crusty old chap by the name of Elton and were not allowed to see their host at all. Geoff had been disappointed, but Ian was rather glad, both for the chance to sleep and the chance to prepare himself more for seeing Dominy. The need for sleep overtook the need for preparation, and morning came too quickly. Ian had never been one to sleep late, and he slipped out of bed before all the night's shadows had been frightened away by the sun. The view from his window was unimpressive; after fumbling with a resistant latch for a minute, he was able to open it and lean out, hoping to find a better view that way. It remained mediocre, but the air was clean and fresh, and he filled his lungs with it. He briefly caught the tangy salt scent of the ocean and wondered at it. Geoff had not been too clear about where their destination lay, but he had made it seem a real middle-of-the-country sort of place. Ian had always loved the shore; he closed his eyes and breathed in again.

"Everley? That you up there?" came a voice from below.

Ian started, clutched at the curtain, tried to swallow the feeling of being sixteen that was welling up in his throat. He was grown; he could deal with this. Another deep breath and he let the curtain slide away from his fingers, satin soft, and opened his eyes. Directing his gaze down, he saw a figure, nearly hidden in the shadow of the house. He gave it a grin and, voice calm, said, "Hullo, Lawson."

"Up early, aren't you?" Dominy asked, his voice harder, darker than Ian remembered, but still so familiar.

"As you are," said Ian.

"Come down for breakfast," Dominy said. "If I remember Geoff's habits, he won't be up for hours."

"Quite true," said Ian. "I'll be just a moment then." He shut the window, hungrily gulped in a few more calming breaths, and managed to dress himself without getting tangled up in the thoughts of his distracted mind. By the time he made his way down the stairs, spine stiff as steel, he felt he had collected all the bits of him that were screaming to run away.

Dominy had already started eating, but he set his toast down and stood when Ian entered the room. "Awfully good of you to come," he said, clasping Ian's hand briefly in his own.

"Awfully good of you to invite me," Ian said, taking a seat and accepting the plate of sausages that Dominy handed him. "I was rather surprised, to tell the truth. Hadn't thought you would remember me, especially after all these years."

"I always liked you," said Dominy.

"Mutual," Ian said, immediately feeling that this was quite a silly thing to say. But Dominy laughed, and if it was not quite the clear and musical laugh he remembered from their school days, it was still pleasant and friendly, and Ian felt himself begin to relax. There were quite a few things about Dominy that were not quite as he remembered. He had seemed taller back then; Ian did not recall that he himself had grown any great amount since those days, but perhaps he had. The lustre of the fondly remembered golden hair seemed a bit dim, and the ivory skin was generously spotted with freckles. Not quite the flawless Apollo that he remembered. But his smile was the same, quick and genuine, and if the skin around his eyes was lightly crinkled with lines, it was only a sign of his continued good humour. Ian, young as he still was, could not pretend that age had not left its mark on him as well.

Over the next fortnight, Ian realised that perhaps the biggest change was that he could talk easily with Dominy. At school, he had spent most of his time with his tongue twisted in knots and never an idea of what he would say if he found himself able to speak. But conversation never lacked now, and Dominy seemed ever interested to talk more about Ian than himself, something that would have surprised his younger self. He had never thought that he was remarkable in any way, but Dominy's questions made him seem almost interesting. Various people joined and left the party as the days passed, but Ian always felt that he was a favourite. It was a comfortable place to be, and when Dominy caught his eye over the breakfast table or brushed against him on an afternoon walk, he allowed himself to hope.

And then it was time to go home, for Geoff had a fiancée impatient for his return, and Ian had a father wanting his son back to help with the family business, and Dominy himself would not be much longer at the house.

The afternoon of their departure was sunny and clear, a change in a drizzly, dreary week. Geoff said his goodbyes and quickly boarded the train, proclaiming that he hated dragging these things out. Ian lingered a while longer, suddenly feeling a bit of the old shyness descending over him. "A shame the weather didn't change sooner," he said, for want of anything else to say. "We could have gone down to the shore."

"Next time then," said Dominy. He laughed a little, his eyes crinkling. "If you haven't had too much of my company by now."

Ian smiled. "I'd love to come up again."

"Good," Dominy said. His cheeks were flushed, which Ian attributed to the warmth of the day, although he did not feel similarly afflicted. "I say, I'm awfully glad we got this chance to be friends. You seemed a splendid fellow at school, and I was always sorry we weren't better acquainted there." He cleared his throat softly and gave a short laugh, and Ian realized that he was somehow nervous - Dominy Lawson succumbing to nerves in the face of Ian Everley! He saw a certain look in Dominy's eyes and wondered if it had always been there, if he had hidden it from his own sight in his awe of the god he had imagined on a pedestal before him. He saw Dominy now, fiddling with his sleeve, feet firmly on the ground, human and approachable and all the lovelier for it. His heartbeat sang in his ears, and it sounded free and unfettered, and he did not care who could hear it.

"Exactly my feelings," said Ian, grinning in what he was sure was a rather ridiculous manner. The train whistle rang loudly through the air, and he quickly grasped Dominy's hand. "Look me up when you're in town," he said.

"I will," said Dominy, and the whistle sounded again. An awkward handshake, and then Ian found himself pulled into a quick embrace, heard a whispered, "I look forward to it," felt the promise of something in the feather soft touch on his cheek and the tightness of the arm around his shoulder. And then he was released, and the whistle edged itself again into his hearing, and he remembered that he had a train to catch.

He was onboard moments later and found Geoff easily. "Hallo," he said, trying and failing to keep a wide grin off his face. Geoff, head already buried in a newspaper, did not notice. Ian slid into the seat and pressed his forehead to the glass. Dominy still stood on the platform, and, as the train slowly pulled away, he gave a wave. His hair was red-gold in the sunlight, and Ian could see his eyes crinkle up as he smiled. He watched him until he was a speck far behind them, and he felt sixteen and twenty-six, giddy and unbelieving and pleased. With a contented sigh, he settled back in his seat. "You know," he said. "I'm awfully glad I came."