Meet Kit. :) He will be heavily featured in Part II.
CHAPTER 11 --==Taylan's POV==--
We didn't have to wait long, once we'd arrived at Union Station; the train arrived two minutes after we did, slowly coming to a halt. And suddenly, the nerves got the better of me; the doors hissed open and I watched with trepidation at the masses pouring out. How tall would he be? Would he look like Mitchell?
I turned my head toward the sound of the voice and a lanky, tall kid came darting from the train, almost tripping over his long legs. Without realizing it, I started to snicker, because the sight was just too funny. He flew into his dad's arms, wrapped his arms around his neck and just started squeezing. Oh wow. I hadn't expected that. I had half expected a timid kid, not all too happy about his dad being a fag, and all that. This was actually a nice surprise.
"Heya kiddo!" Mitchell greeted him back, hugging his son just as fiercely.
I had separated myself from Mitchell on purpose and watched from a distance while a throng of people hastened themselves past us. Then I saw the kid looking around, searching the platform, over his dad's shoulder. Mitchell raised himself and looked around as well until his eyes found me; then he nodded toward me, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.
Was that arrogant, bossy man actually crying? Wuss! And from the looks of it, son-dearest too. He was fifteen!
Kit picked up his weekend bag, which he had dropped as soon as he'd seen his dad (I had kept an eye on it), and they came over.
He said something to his dad, who consequently roared with laughter; I nervously cleared my throat and tried a smile. And then got the bejeesus squeezed out of me when Kit dropped his bag once again and hugged me!
"Oh..ehr...hello!" I groaned. "Living person here. Dwarf. Can't breathe." Christ, those arms were like vices.
Mitchell snickered and tapped his son on the shoulder, who immediately let go. The kid grinned attractively and offered his hand.
"Hi! I'm Kit Gilmore."
I shook his hand and looked him over, curiously. He looked a lot like Mitchell actually, just younger and, instead of slate-grey eyes, his were warm blue. His hair was longer, too, and black, or very dark brown, not light-brown like his dads', but he had the same chiseled features, same jaw and chin and also a nose that was just a tiny bit too big. All-in-all, promising to be quite the heartthrob (already was, really). And already he was taller than me, and clearly had the same built as his father.
"Taylan Slattery. You have a good trip?"
We started to slowly walk toward the exits, and from the moment that I asked that first question, there came a waterfall of words.
Kit spoke quite animated, using his hands a lot, speaking about all sorts of things, jumping from subject to subject faster than a locust in heat. His voice was in that stage that is skips sometimes, and sounded pretty funny. I found myself smirking, and nodding to much of the things he talked about, answering without reservation any question he asked. And I actually wondered why I'd been nervous; he was a great kid, very easy, and open, and he had his heart on his sleeve.
And I found out, real quickly , that he missed his dad terribly. They saw each other regularly but not often enough, to his taste; he almost immediately asked if he could stay longer.
He chatted very rapidly, asking what felt like a hundred questions all at once. One by one he fired them at me; what kind of work did I do, what was my age, did I like football (NO!!) and, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, if I stayed the night too. Of course I'd be sleeping with his dad, obviously.
Mitchell roared with laughter again when he saw the perplexed look on my face. Kit, however, just frowned, looking from his dad to me and back.
"What? It's a normal question, isn't it?"
He didn't wait for an answer on that one (thankfully), and continued to fire questions at me; what was my favorite color (Cobalt Blue), my favorite dish (cod parings), what I absolutely didn't like (Brussels sprouts, and beans), if I was into sports (fitness, jogging), if I smoked (yuck, no!), drank (Bacardi-coke, please), the kind of music I liked (80's rock) and what my favorite movies were (Silence of the Lambs, action and SciFi). All that, and a lot more, in the hour's drive from the station to his dads' house.
"Is grandpa coming too?" he asked, when Mitchell had parked the car and we exited. Startled, I looked at him.
"No," his dad answered, winking at me, "but he asked if you'd come by tomorrow. He snickered as we followed Kit inside, whispering ‘chicken' at me.
"Minus 600," I mumbled, following him.
Kit had departed to his room already, to get rid of the weekend bag, a situation Mitchell used to his advantage, by cornering me against the doorpost and locking his lips to mine, thoroughly exploring the insides of my mouth.
My cheeks heated up when I heard a well-known whistle coming from Kit, who'd returned from his room. I tried to push Mitchell away but he acted as if he hadn't heard anything, taking his sweet time to end the kiss. Then he winked at his son, who grinned back broadly. Dickheads!
As I had thought, Kit turned out to be a great kid. Until that afternoon, I had never heard "I love you" as many times as I heard them say it; they did it just because...because they wanted to, felt like saying it and felt completely comfortable saying it, making me feel a bit like an intruder at times. They didn't seem to have a problem with it, but Mitchell frowned when he saw that it made me uncomfortable.
I myself have something of a problem saying it; I never say it. Not to my dad, or my mother, sis or brother. I just don't. Dunno why.
Kit was also very sweet. A terrible word to use, maybe even more for a boy, because it sounds so...soft. But I couldn't think of another word; he was sweet. He was also very ‘hands on', sitting close to his dad, who had his arm around him constantly, touching him, squeezing him or just hugging, roughing up his hair or just bumping each other.
If you ask me? The way to raise a kid is the way those two behaved around each other. I'd been raised rather distantly. I have no doubt that my family loves me, as much as I love them, but we definitely didn't treat each other the way these two did. Maybe that's why I feel uncomfortable seeing it. It was definitely an experience to learn from, and it didn't make me feel envious or jealous. It taught me a lot about Mitchell, actually.
I learned that he was a very emotional man, something I hadn't thought he was. Not at all. But it showed in his gestures, how he spoke and behaved. I was on the receiving end of some of it, and felt weird at first, especially because Kit was sitting right there; I'm not the touchy/feely kind of guy. But I started to like it; it was different, and not entirely unwanted.
The day flew by, and before I knew it, it was 10pm. I furtively glanced at my watch, not because I wanted to leave but more because I didn't want to outstay my welcome. That was actually a 180 degree turn from my previous thoughts about this day, and Mitchell's promise of putting on the charm; I found myself actually waiting for it to happen.
I was getting soft, I guess.
"The day's not over," it sounded beside me, whisperingly. I looked up, feeling busted. "The whole day, remember?"
Kit looked up from the handheld game he was playing, and grinned at me; I think he knew a lot more than he let on. Or what was good for him.
"Shut up," I retorted, "I was just checking to see what time it was. You're back on 6000." I'd been a frequent target, yes.
Kit, fully in the know about my use of the score card system, hadn't left a stone unturned, constantly hinting to his dad; two against one were never good odds.
"Want me to leave?" he asked, with a devious smile. "I don't mind spending an hour in my room, you know. Actually, dad? I think I still have some left-over punishment from last month. You could use it to raise your count a bit." That little shit...
"You keep that tuchus right where it is," I snickered, stretching my leg out to block his way when he prepared to get up from the comfortable chair he'd appropriated.
"Actually," Mitchell remarked, glancing at his own watch, "it's about time for bed, Kit."
Ah...and there came the stuff of a well-remembered childhood. The ‘Oh man' and ‘It's a weekend' objections came flying in spades, and he managed to draw another half hour out of it. Then Mitchell sent him to his room and he went without so much as a word, followed by his dad fifteen minutes later, to check up on him.
I'd even received a kiss goodnight, and he handily pilfered a promise from me to be here early the next day.
"There," Mitchell smiled, returning from the check, "now it's your turn."
"What do you mean ‘my turn'?" I grinned back.
"That's for me to know and for you to find out."
"Oooh, thrilling," I replied, jokingly.
"You better believe it," he murmured, taking my glass and setting it on the table. Then he sat down, facing me, and made no effort to be subtle. "So what should I do with you, huh?"
The feeling of butterflies traveled through the lower part of my belly and I felt warm.
"Well, you're still at 6000." I sent him a wink and a corner of his mouth turned upwards.
"Mmm, is that an invitation?" he asked.
“Oh, I’d say so.”
Normally I'm not one to take the initiative; I actually kind of like to be...well, taken, really. Be overwhelmed, conquered, whatever. But somehow, he'd gotten me completely relaxed and feeling at ease. Maybe that's why I had no problem hinting at the count of his scoring card.