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61 -Winter - Narnia - 100 words - It’s always winter in Narnia.
62 - Spring - Acclimatization - 200 words - It’s not fear Lincoln feels. It’s something else, just as primal.
63 - Summer - Firecracker - 400 words - Peaceful explosions.
64 - Fall - Observation - 800 words - He’s been denied too long. Repressed far too long.
65 - Passing - Peanut Butter - 500 words - When he comes on the screen his hair is sticking up in about a million directions and he’s got a smear of something on his cheek.
66 - Rain - A Phone Call From Talia - 250 words - I’d love to strangle the little bastard but he was out in the rain and he caught a cold.
67 - Snow - A Revenge Thing - 550 words - Lincoln is most pleased with his powers of observation and deduction.
68 - Lightening - Half The Battle - 1,229 words - I never hit a man when he’s down. Not unless he needs to be finished off, and I don’t think we’re at that point, are we?
69 - Thunder - Roller Coaster - 773 words - Laurent is not made for this sort of thing
70 - Storm - Break - 100 words - The air grows heavier and electricity splinters the calm.
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Narnia
“It’s always winter in Narnia.”
Laurent rolls over, squinting, looking at the clock.
“It snows. All the time.”
“Lincoln, it’s three in the morning.”
“I know. It’s snowing in Narnia.”
“They’re used to it. Lincoln, put the book down.”
“I’m only on chapter four.”
Laurent sits up. This isn’t unusual. Sometimes Lincoln can’t sleep. Or he needs help getting to sleep. Laurent knows just what to do.
He takes the book out of Lincoln’s hand.
“Hey! I’m reading that!”
“You can read it in the morning, after you get some sleep.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Not yet.”
But he will be.
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Acclimatization
Albert isn’t scary at all when he looms over Lincoln like that. It’s not fear Lincoln feels. It’s something else, just as primal. And Lincoln wonders why he ever thought reading would be a smart way to pass the time when Albert’s in his bed. But then, Albert had been sleeping, and Lincoln hadn’t wanted to wake him.
Albert springs up and over Lincoln, who flattens himself on the mattress and gets ready to feel Albert’s weight on him. Not that Albert has ever put all his weight on Lincoln. He’s too polite for that.
Which almost makes Lincoln laugh, the idea of Albert being polite when mostly he scares people. Like that lady in the grocery store. She bumped into Albert’s cart and looked like she was going to scream when he glared at her. Angry bear.
Albert’s not angry now, though. And Lincoln’s not laughing, because Albert is stretched out over top of him, and Lincoln’s skin is tingling all over. That’s from anticipation.
Lincoln knows all about anticipation. He’s been doing it with Albert long enough to know what’s going to happen next, and to want it very much. His body wants it too.
That’s called acclimatization.
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Firecracker
Laurent will never get bored of this, but he’s grown used to it enough that he no longer finds himself staring at Lincoln, wondering if he’s imagining things. He no longer wakes suddenly in the middle of the night needing to touch Lincoln, to reassure himself it's not just a dream.
It could be. It’s been like a magical dream ever since he and Lincoln first kissed. Then he’d felt a spark in the back of his head like a firecracker, which reminded him of his first Bastille Day in Paris - the blaze of fireworks, his fascination with the colours and the way the explosions made him jump, even though they were harmless. Peaceful explosions.
Those fireworks keep exploding but they don’t make him jump anymore.
Lincoln stops kissing him. “What is it, Bear?” he asks.
Laurent blinks. “Nothing.”
Lincoln touches his cheek.
“I’m happy,” Laurent says, hoping he hasn’t done anything foolish like cry or anything. “Being here with you.”
“Obviously,” Lincoln teases, and jiggles his hips to rub against Laurent’s hard cock.
Such hedonism. Harmless. Laurent’s seen other kinds of hedonism, the bad, avaricious kinds. Selfish, greedy hedonism that takes without asking. But Lincoln’s isn’t greedy like that – his hedonism is joyful and pure, like fireworks on a summer night.
“I should do something to help you sleep,” Laurent says.
Lincoln gives him a sunny, cheeky grin. “But I don’t want to sleep.”
“I was hoping you would say that.”
Lincoln purrs, then moans, as Laurent slides down his body, tasting as he goes. Licking. Sucking. Nipping. Laurent rubs his lips over Lincoln’s swollen cock. He’d love to play and tease all night, but they both do need the sleep. Plus, he wants to feel Lincoln's cock explode. He opens wide, his tongue tickling the underside while his lips slide to the base.
Lincoln is thick in his mouth. The heaviness of his cock is reassuringly present. Undeniable. There’s nothing imaginary about this at all.
But then he gets this funny feeling - a prickling on the back of his neck, as if he’s being watched. Which is ridiculous here in Lincoln’s bedroom. They’re perfectly safe.
“Oh, don’t stop, Bear!” Lincoln pleads.
Laurent pulls the sheet up over his head so he’s assured privacy. Lincoln giggles and assumes it’s part of the playing. He grabs the sheet, rubbing it over Laurent’s head, urging him to continue.
So he does.
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Observation
Laurent sleeps on his side, with his top leg drawn forward, so his flank gleams in the moonlight. His shoulders are so broad they almost hide Lincoln.
Lincoln lies naked, with the sheets pushed to the side of the bed, one leg up so his cock nestles between his thighs, a little bit hard, but it couldn’t be anything else with a body like that lying next to him, equally naked.
Laurent is dark and sleek and so sinuous, rolling on top of Lincoln and slithering down his body with a practiced grace.
Lincoln is coiled tight, a ball of energy waiting to burst apart, pale and almost glowing under the moonlight.
Laurent’s mouth never stops as he moves down, tongue licking, teeth tugging at hair, lips sucking at skin. Lincoln writhes and his energy blazes in the night. Laurent rubs his face over Lincoln’s thick cock, parts his lips and swallows him. Lincoln’s mouth opens wide.
And then Laurent pulls the sheet up over them, and all Merrick can see is Lincoln’s head tossing from side to side, and the lower parts of Laurent’s legs.
Damn.
Merrick takes a few moments to adjust his stance. A crouch, really, on a nearby rooftop. Not terribly comfortable, but it’s the best view of Lincoln’s bedroom. He is pretty sure that Lincoln has no idea how transparent that window really is.
Talia’s binoculars are excellent. It’s almost as if Merrick’s in the room. He can see Lincoln’s eyes open wide. He must be coming. Oh, yes, yes, he is. Laurent is moving, surging under the sheet. Lincoln curls up and his face contorts with sexual bliss.
Wow. That’s some orgasm. Even Laurent’s toes are curling.
Merrick’s cock, already heavy inside his jeans, starts to throb. What those lips would feel like wrapped around it. That tongue bathing it. Lush. Moist. Beautiful. How it must feel for Lincoln to press his whole body against all that muscle, all that man.
Merrick doesn’t know if he could suck a cock. Not the way Lincoln is now that he’s wriggled his way down Laurent’s body. Merrick’s never tried it. His fake sister never would have allowed such behaviour. And opportunities have been scarce.
He knows he’s wanted it ever since he first laid eyes on Lincoln. Merrick had seen pictures of him so it was a matter of reconciling the two dimensional image with the real, living breathing thing. And now, watching Lincoln suck the head of Laurent’s cock into his mouth… Merrick adjusts the binoculars… lick him from root to tip. Get him so wet. So wet it can only mean…
He can’t see what Laurent’s hand is doing between Lincoln’s legs, but he’s sure he would see a bottle of personal lubricant nearby if he could bring himself to stop looking at Lincoln.
Lincoln is as stunning as he was that first time Merrick saw him, but what Merrick got was more than he’d bargained for. He’d also got Laurent, and he’d known who Laurent was instantly, even though there were no pictures of him in the files. But he’d never seen anyone that big, that beautiful and that naked from the waist up before. Even the gun Laurent had been pointing at Merrick’s face had been gorgeous.
Even though he doesn’t think he’d be able to suck Laurent’s cock like that, he knows he yearns to feel that strength against him. He knows he’d like to taste someone the way Lincoln has just licked up Laurent’s chest. And he’s pretty sure he’d love to wrap his legs around Laurent’s waist like that.
Lincoln arches back and Laurent moves up and Merrick’s knows the theory of anal penetration but he can’t quite see how something that big pushed up into a hole that can’t be all that different from his own could make Lincoln look so ecstatic.
That’s sex for you. Doesn’t work very well on a theoretical level. Merrick can’t wait to do his own practical experiments. He’s been denied too long. Repressed far too long.
Laurent is fucking Lincoln hard, and it should hurt, but Lincoln looks like he’s never enjoyed anything so much in his life. So unfair that a mere three year old gets all that while Merrick, older and far more sophisticated, ends up on a chilly rooftop watching through borrowed…
“So that’s where my binoculars went to.”
Oh. Shit.
Merrick reluctantly turns his head, even though Lincoln is thrashing under Laurent and the muscles in Laurent’s back have all gone rock hard, standing out starkly as he twists above his lover.
“My boss looks great when he comes,” Talia says objectively.
Wow. She’s got amazing night vision.
“Mind you don’t fall off this roof, Merrick. I think it’s time we go home and have a little talk."
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Peanut Butter
MacNeil calls Lincoln to tell him she was mistaken for a man. It’s ridiculous – she’s so damn womanly. But with her cropped hair and the oversized plaid shirt (which she borrowed from Jones’ randomly expanding collection of what he likes to think of as “normal everyday clothes”), and her work boots and jeans, she does have a bit of a boyish look about her. She walked out of the bar and a guy stuck his head out a car window and yelled “Faggot!”
So MacNeil, knowing all the good slang because she hangs out with Lincoln (who is a bit of a language geek) and the girls at the bar (where she goes to look at women sometimes) yelled back, “That’s dyke to you, asshole!”
She knows Lincoln will be upset about someone yelling that at her and meaning it in a derogatory fashion, but she hopes he’ll find it as funny as she did.
She waits patiently for Lincoln to answer. When he comes on the screen his hair is sticking up in about a million directions and he’s got a smear of something on his cheek.
Oh, shit, they’ve been at the food again, she thinks. It took her hours to scrub that mango off the counter and the table and the floor. (Lincoln and Albert had, of course, tried to clean it up themselves, so she wouldn’t find out about the whole thing, but mango is incredibly tenacious.) It had been easy to get the real story out of Lincoln. Once he'd done the obligatory denial of kinky doings, complete with smiling with his mouth but not his eyes, he'd given in and spilled the beans.
She wonders if Albert knows Lincoln is so honest with her. Not that Albert has anything to be ashamed of. He sounds like a fantastic lover (for a guy) and he sure does make Lincoln happy. And satisfied.
MacNeil had not been sexually aroused by it, but there was something about the aesthetics of the two of them naked - the dark and the light, all shiny with mango - that held an undeniable appeal. She’d walked in on them by accident, and while she’d never seen them totally naked or anything, she’s seen enough to know that Lincoln has a nice shape (for a guy) and that Albert has incredibly long and beautiful limbs and an ass to die for (even though she doesn’t like men).
MacNeil examines Lincoln’s cheek as she tells him her little story. Peanut butter. It’s definitely peanut butter. She doesn’t want to know where else it might be. Lincoln laughs and says he wishes he could have seen the look on the guy’s face, and then Albert appears beside him.
Albert doesn’t have any peanut butter on him, but he’s licking his lips.
Oh, MacNeil definitely doesn’t want to know where the rest of the peanut butter is.
She makes a mental note to bring stain remover tomorrow, in case they got any on the upholstery.
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A Phone Call From Talia
“I’d love to strangle the little bastard but he was out in the rain and he caught a cold. … Albert, I can’t hit a man who’s coughing up a lung; it would be unethical. I’ll wait until he’s better. … I know he’s a clone, Albert. They aren’t exactly the same as us. … No, I didn’t mean that. I meant he might not have realized why what he was doing was so wrong. … He was watching the two of you. … Stop making excuses for him. … Oh, for heaven’s sake, Albert, could you get Lincoln out of the room when I’m talking to you about this? He’ll cloud your judgement…Is he gone? … I need you to stay calm, Albert. … He was up on the roof of the boathouse with my binoculars. … You were doing things. … Personal things. … Albert, you’re my boss. It’s bad enough I saw without having to describe it out loud. … Well, let’s just say that you have impressive control of your gag reflex, and Lincoln is quite flexible. … Albert, you know I hate it when you swear in languages I don’t understand. … I will be sure to keep a closer eye on him. … I had an emergency and he took advantage. … A personal matter. … It won’t happen again, I assure you. I’ve got him under lock and key. … And if I were you, I’d do something about that bedroom window.”
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A Revenge Thing
“It looks like snow,” Lincoln observes.
“More like frost, I think.”
Lincoln runs his hand over the textured glass. Light shines in from the outside, but no objects are visible, only blurred shapes and colours. The inside would look the same from the other side, or even more obscure.
“It’s… frosty. But I still don’t understand why you did this. There’s no one around here to look in, and the view was nice, except for those buildings over there.”
“Yes, the buildings. You know there are people in those buildings, don’t you?”
“Sure.” But they’re inside them, and usually only during the day, and why would they be looking at Lincoln’s bedroom anyway?
There is something. Something Albert is not telling Lincoln.
Albert sits on the edge of the bed. He plays with the edge of the blanket. He looks younger than he usually does, maybe even a little shy, but he’s got one fist clenched, so he’s angry and trying to hide it by looking innocent. Or at least non-confrontational. He’s hiding something, that’s for sure. It’s probably something that will make Lincoln nervous, because Albert doesn’t like Lincoln to be uncomfortable. Maybe something that will make Lincoln feel embarrassed. Something that makes Albert feel protective. So it probably has something to do with sex.
Lincoln is most pleased with his powers of observation and deduction. He’s discovered the complete works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on the computer, and he’s working his way through them. This is his first opportunity to use those new skills in a real life situation, so he wants to be as accurate as possible.
He tries to remember the exact location and design of the buildings. The boat repair shop. The scuba training center. The warehouse. None of them face his abode, but there are some windows, mostly covered up. All of them have flat or low-sloped roofs.
From a roof? Someone can see into Lincoln’s bedroom from a roof? Who would be on a roof?
And then he remembers the phone conversation he overheard a couple of days ago. There had been mention of a roof early on. And Albert had been upset. Something about Merrick catching a cold from being out in the rain. And it rained a few nights ago.
“Merrick?” Lincoln asks in a not-terribly-Sherlock-Holmes manner, with a little squeak in his voice.
Albert looks up sharply.
“It wasn’t that hard to deduce,” Lincoln says.
Albert growls. “He’s a menace. He’s obsessed with you.”
They’ve had this conversation before, and Lincoln has no desire to repeat it. Merrick can be… what is it MacNeil calls him?… creepy. Whether he’s obsessed with Lincoln or Albert, it makes no difference.
But Lincoln feels an obligation toward him. They are alike, and it is hard to find family in this huge, cold world.
Maybe they’re a little too much alike.
They both like looking at Albert Laurent.
But that’s not a similarity, really. That’s like saying “they both breathe” or “they both have eyes”.
But they are both clones.
They’re both American clones who came from non-American sponsors.
Both of their sponsors are dead, because of Lincoln.
Maybe it wasn’t a sex thing. Maybe it was a death thing. A revenge thing.
“You think he wants to kill me?” Lincoln asks. Stunned.
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Half the Battle
Merrick Zero Alpha opened his eyes and tried to focus on the woman sitting beside his bed. She leaned over him and put a cool hand on his forehead.
“Decided to join the living, have you?” she murmured, almost to herself.
Merrick opened his mouth but all that came out was a squawk.
“Shh. Your throat is sore. All swollen. I almost feel sorry for you.” She smiled, and the smile was as cool as her hand, but there was a glimmer of something else in her dark eyes.
Merrick hoped it wasn’t malice.
Maybe it was the flash of lightning from the skylight.
Talia helped him sit up and sip from a mug of something hot and lemony and sweet. “You’re sick,” Talia said. “You could argue it’s the only reason you’re still alive. I never hit a man when he’s down. Not unless he needs to be finished off, and I don’t think we’re at that point, are we? I’ll have to wait until you feel better before I deal with you. But for when you’re feeling better, give me one good reason I shouldn’t snap your neck in two.”
Merrick had no doubt she could snap his neck in two if she were so inclined. She was holding him up with one hand in the center of his back. Just her fingertips really. And she was showing no strain at all from the weight. Her other hand stayed on her own thigh, tensed and ready to grab the knife from the sheath on her calf or the Sig Sauer from her shoulder holster – Merrick couldn’t tell which. Maybe she had the little revolver in the calf holster and the larger knife on her belt. He was so sick he couldn’t tell.
Whichever her weapon of choice, he’d discovered that Talia never telegraphed her moves. Even while eating dinner. No warning at all; a hand would shoot out to snatch the salt shaker or butter dish. Terribly unsettling, to sit next to that.
But intriguing. Merrick found her to be an almost indecipherable mix of hard and soft. The words were usually sharp, but the voice had a roundness to it. Maybe that was the accent.
She lowered him and arranged the blankets neatly. He eyes glittered dark and piercing, but the lashes around them were thick and… feminine. The hair was long and wavy and feminine. The hand that brushed it off her forehead could break a board in two. Utterly unsettling. She had some voluptuous curves, but they couldn’t quite cover up her killer instinct. Scary. But he might as well study his enemy and look for weak spots.
Lots of studying, no weak spots so far.
It was almost impossible to do anything else with this powder keg watching him all the time. He was only lucky that he’d managed to slip out when she was otherwise occupied. He’d noticed that for a couple of days she’d been scratching at the scar on her face, and then she’d spent a little longer in the bathroom than ordinarily before lights out, and scratched less the next day. Some sort of treatment, he presumed. But by the end of the next day, she’d been scratching again, so he correctly guessed she’d be repeating the treatment.
There’s nothing like a little deduction. Lincoln had been telling him about this Sherlock Holmes character, and Merrick had scanned the complete works. He found the stories a bit over simplistic at times, but the theories behind them were good.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Talia muttered.
What had he been thinking? That he needed to get out more. That he needed to find out more. That he needed more.
Merrick opened his mouth again. The honey and whatever else was in the drink had soothed his throat considerably. “They’re beautiful,” he said huskily.
“Of course they are. But that doesn’t give you the right to spy. Do you even understand that?”
“I just…” Merrick sighed. “To see them…”
“Together,” Talia finished for him. “I know. And I can’t say I entirely blame you.”
“His mouth,” Merrick tried to explain.
“Albert’s?” she asked. “Oh, yes, I know what you mean. It’s very…”
“Lush,” Merrick suggested. He watched Talia swallow. Did she harbour certain feelings for her boss? Or was it just an automatic response to stimulation? “And Lincoln’s—”
Talia’s cool fingers stilled his lips. “No more. It’s not right. Monsieur Laurent is my employer, and Mr. Lincoln is… I am sworn to protect him. You will have to get your cheap sexual thrills elsewhere.”
Merrick struggled to sit up. His head throbbed, his ears rang, his throat ached. He vaguely remembered Talia explaining to him that he had a virus, and that it was nothing to be concerned about no matter how close to death he might imagine himself. He was glad she’d told him that. He would surely fear death if he’d didn’t know this was normal. Talia allowed him one more pillow, and the extra height relieved the symptoms somewhat.
“It’s not about sexual thrills,” he rasped. Although it certainly was thrilling. It was about education. He’d been sheltered from all this. He’d had no idea at all. The woman, Merrick’s sister he presumed, had shown no love toward her husband or Merrick Zero Alpha, certainly not the way Laurent and Lincoln showed each other. This was about more than just mechanics.
“Love,” Merrick said.
Talia narrowed her eyes at him. “They don’t love you. They love each other.”
Merrick knew that. But by watching, he felt as if he could almost understand.
“Go back to sleep,” Talia said. “You’ll feel better in the morning."
He shifted a bit to get more comfortable. Talia watched him. “I’m not going to run away,’ he told her.
“I know. But look what happened last time I let you out of my sight. You could have fallen off that roof… and I could have thrown you off it when I saw what you were doing! You’re a dangerous one, Mr. Merrick.”
“Am not,” he protested.
Talia laughed. “Charming, suave and handsome,” she said cryptically, and ran her fingertip gingerly along the scar on her face.
Merrick would have to ask her about that sometime. It looked like something she needed to talk about, a load she needed to get off her chest. Like Merrick wanting love. It felt better to have said it out loud, as if admitting the problem… Merrick’s eyes grew heavy… half the battle.
Merrick opens his eyes with a start. Morning light is filtering through the reinforced glass skylights. His head feels much clearer. His ears don’t hurt as much. Everything is quiet. Talia is still in the chair next to his bed, with her dark hair falling across her face, softening the usually harsh lines. The hair covers the scar.
Merrick wonders if that’s all it takes. You hide the scars, and you erase the past, make things better again. Except he doesn’t have much of a past. His problem is not a surfeit of bad experiences, it’s the lack of them.
Talia’s eyes snap open as soon as Merrick turns his head on the pillow.
“Good morning,” she says. “Feeling better?”
Didn’t she say as soon as he was feeling better she would deal with him?
Merrick makes a good show of coughing profusely.
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Roller Coaster
Laurent has all the patience in the world when he is being covert, tracking his target, gathering intel, plotting strategy; he has none when something he cares about is threatened. His passion is constantly tipping the balance one way or the other. He is a roller coaster.
Laurent is not made for this sort of thing - the communication and the give and take and the sharing. Sharing in the decisions. He wasn’t made for this relationship thing. He was made for fast, harsh, desperate sex with someone he either does not know at all or who has no wish to be truly known, or to know him. This sort of ongoing, long-term love requires such balance, such patience.
Perhaps he should have told Lincoln the truth from the start, instead of trying to protect him. And he should have consulted with Lincoln about how to solve the problem instead of arbitrarily…
Lincoln has been looking at the newly frosted window and giving Laurent looks as if to ask ‘It’s not so bad, is it?’, and Laurent knows, he knows, that he’s about to get one of those clone-centric speeches about being understanding and sympathetic to Merrick’s plight. Why the hell is it okay for Lincoln to generalize about clones but not Laurent? The real problem isn’t Merrick being a threat to Lincoln; Laurent can handle him. It’s Lincoln looking for ways to rationalize and excuse Merrick’s behaviour, even when he’s frightened of what Merrick might do, if given half a chance.
More than Laurent not wanting Lincoln to feel frightened, he doesn’t want him to feel obligated to accept fear out of some misguided sense of brotherhood just because Merrick is a clone like him. Laurent tries to keep his voice from thundering but he’s kept his anger and fear inside for so long it threatens to burst out all at once.
“He will not touch you!” Laurent roars.
Lincoln steps back and Laurent actually slaps himself on the forehead. “Lincoln, I didn’t mean to…” He didn’t mean to be scary, but now Lincoln is actually jittery and Laurent has fucked this up royally.
“I’m not scared.” Lincoln sits on the bed. He’s breathless. “I’m a little overwhelmed.”
Lincoln has the same flushed skin he gets when he’s aroused, when he’s overwhelmed by Laurent in bed. Maybe he is aroused. But by what? By Laurent’s outburst of emotion? Or the idea of Merrick touching him?
“It’s not a revenge thing, is it? He doesn’t care that I killed Doctor Merrick at all.” Lincoln stares at the obscured glass of the window as if he can see through it. “It’s not about death.”
How could it be about death? When Laurent looks at Lincoln, he never sees death. It doesn’t matter how they came together. Lincoln is pure life.
No, it’s not about death; it’s about sex. And that makes Laurent just as determined. “He will not touch you.”
Lincoln stands abruptly, whole body tense and eyes flashing. “And you think that’s for you to say?”
Hell YES, Laurent wants to shout. But in spite of his lack of balance due to the excess of passion, he regains control in time. There will be no more shouting.
He walks softly to stand in front of Lincoln, and keeps walking until the backs of Lincoln’s knees hit the edge of the mattress and Lincoln falls backward onto the bed. Laurent keeps moving forward until he is hovering over Lincoln, holding his weight on his arms, balancing on his toes, legs straddling Lincoln’s legs, barely touching him.
He doesn’t need to touch. Yet. He can inhale Lincoln’s scent and feel his body heat. He hovers and looks down at Lincoln’s rosy skin and wide eyes and pink tongue, which flicks out to moisten his lips.
Lincoln touches Laurent first, manicured fingers on Laurent’s triceps, thumbs curving around biceps. Not pushing, not pulling. He lifts his head and licks across Laurent’s lower lip.
He wants Laurent to say it out loud. How a less-than-four-year-old can understand so much about love and men and sex and power is a mystery. Perhaps Lincoln is uniquely gifted. He is certainly wise beyond his years.
Laurent shifts his weight to his elbows and puts his hands on Lincoln’s shoulders. His hips rest on Lincoln’s upper thighs. He rubs his nose against Lincoln’s cheek and breathes the air Lincoln exhales.
“Yes,” Laurent says quietly and deliberately. “It is for me to say. Because I know you wnat me to say it, and because you are mine, and because I cannot stand the idea of anyone else ever touching you like this.”
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Break
Storms break. They hover for a long time. They tease and feint. They threaten, dark clouds on the horizon, winds surging, thunder rumbling. The air grows heavier and electricity splinters the calm. Sparks fly. It builds to a frenzy. The sky opens. All pours down. Those caught in the onslaught wonder if it will ever end, knowing that when it does there’s no reason to mourn. There will always be another storm. Things will build up like that again. It’s part of a cycle.
Lincoln is old enough to know this.
But that doesn’t stop the storm from exciting him.
Next: 71-80 Island100
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