The sunshine was obscene, Peter decided, staring down at the ground, hands in his pockets, uncharacteristically nearly motionless. //There should be rain, torrential rain, Noah-building-the-ark kinda rain.//
It didn't seem right that the planet wasn't in mourning, like Annie and her daughters, like Kermit, like the guys at the precinct. Just like it didn't seem right that he should be standing by the scar in the earth that marked the last resting place of a man who had spent his entire life fighting to make the world safer, only to be brought down with lightning swiftness by a damaged vessel in his own body.
Or maybe the world was like Peter, deliberately holding the sorrow at bay. Going on like normal, being there for those who needed him, his own needs shoved down because the sheer power of them terrified him. Maybe it could only mourn with volcanoes and earthquakes, and so withheld its grief to protect fragile humans with no defense against that kind of fury.
Peter dropped to his knees by the headstone, heedless of the damage the mud did to his jeans. Fingers traced over the letters of Paul Blaisdell's name, and he absently noted that they were extra deep and smooth, as the family had requested, so that Annie could touch and read them with ease. It was strangely comforting, and without meaning to he asked aloud, "How do I go about mourning the loss of a father, Paul? The last time I tried, it came out all anger and attitude - constant tremors instead of one big quake, I guess. But I'm not a kid, and the rage can't be eased away with hugs and patience any more. What do I do to let this, this, tsunami inside of me *out* without destroying myself or someone else in the process?"
The headstone had no answer, but simply thinking about the time in his life when he believed his father, Kwai Chang Caine, to be dead, stirred up memories of their life in the temple.
Master Kahn listened impassively, head bowed as Caine softly told him of the death of his twin brother. It didn't seem to be a surprise to him, though Peter couldn't understand why. From his hiding place behind the statue, he could see the two adults clearly, see his father's compassion and Kahn's sorrow, both burning brightly in the cool dimness of the temple. Thinking that later he would have to find a way to apologize for eavesdropping - all he'd really wanted was to be alone for a while - he scrunched back into his corner, catching only fragments of the conversation. Wondering what a 'conscientious objector' was, he focused on one of the candles and began meditating, letting himself drift toward what he personally thought of as a nap.
Then, to his surprise, Master Kahn began to shake violently, and his father put one arm around his shoulders, drawing him close and hugging him tightly, murmuring something much too softly for Peter to hear. Caine guided the other man toward the doorway that led to the cells, and, both worried and curious, Peter soft footed after them, unconsciously treading lightly. Lingering at the corner, he peered around it in time to see them go into Kahn's cell together, and, thinking that he would let them know he was there to help, maybe to fetch hot water for a calming tea or his father's herb pouch, he tiptoed down the hallway.
But just short of the actual cell entrance he hesitated, uncertain he wanted to explain to his father why he wasn't with the other monks and students doing daily chores (he had finished his, and hadn't wanted to be assigned more). While he dithered, Peter heard a quiet groan from Master Kahn, and he peeked timidly into the tiny room, needing to offer whatever meager comfort he could.
The sight that met his startled eyes paralyzed him, holding him in place even though a very vocal, frightened part of his mind was screaming for him leave, rightnow!
Kahn was burrowed into Caine's arms, pressing so closely into the other man's chest that Peter couldn't see his face for the saffron robes his father wore. For all that, the younger man's hands were busy, very busy, delving under the many layers of fabric, seeking bare skin with single-minded intensity. And his father was not only allowing the intimacy, he was doing the same, but with a marked tenderness that spoke more of comfort than passion even to Peter's very young eye. Lifting his head, Kahn claimed a kiss: a frantic, desperate one which Caine first endured, then gentled, carefully undressing the other monk as he did.
When both were bare, they sank down to the mat on the floor, gold skin flashing against paler flesh, straining together in a rhythm Peter recognized, despite never having seen it before. It was beautiful, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen two people do, and for the life of him he couldn't understand the snickering nastiness the other boys had used to speak of this act. His father had told him the basics about sex, but never that it could be the powerful, graceful dance that he was witnessing.
It wasn't until Kahn moaned, "Please, *please,*" that Peter's stasis broke, and he inched away, unable to turn his head to give the two men privacy until the stone of the cell blocked his sight. And that last glimpse, that last vision of the younger monk turning to his stomach, lifting his hips in silent supplication while Caine lovingly palmed the soft globes of his backside, had visited him many times over the years, usually in dreams that ended with semen soaked sheets.
He didn't get away with his peeping tom act, of course. The very next time he saw his father, blushing confusion rose in him so strongly that Caine knew immediately something was wrong. It took less than five minutes for him to coax it out of Peter, who stammered and spluttered, alternating between being apologetic and humiliated. When the tale was done, Caine said, "Ah," in the understated way he had of acknowledging valid concerns, and sat for a moment studying Peter.
Finally he said, "A shao-lin does not deny his emotions, Peter. He embraces them, accepts them, them lets them stream through and away and gone. But they can be so turbulent, so violent that he can be pulled into the very currents he created and so be destroyed by them. Master Kahn knew his own strength would not suffice to stand before the flood of his agony; I willingly shared mine so that he could. He is, after all, a brother monk."
"A brother monk," Peter murmured thoughtfully, finger tracing the brand on his left forearm. Bowing his head for a moment, he summoned the image of Paul Blaisdell, sitting on the edge of his desk, eyes filled with amusement even while he scolded Peter for his latest escapade. "Thank you, Paul, for being there."
Then he stood and hurried toward his car, feeling the pressure at the barriers in his mind growing, growing.
The trip to Chinatown took almost no time, yet took forever, and every foot of the way all Peter could do was worry whether or not his father would be home. All during the funeral preparations and memorial services, Caine had been unobtrusively present, lending a hand whenever and however it was needed. Peter had even seen Kermit talking to him, the tenseness in the lanky form ghosting away as he watched. And Annie had leaned on the priest more than she had on her children, as though she thought she had to be strong for them.
Unsurprisingly, no one had mistaken it for Caine taking Blaisdell's place, no one had resented that she had found peace in the aura of serenity the priest exuded. Then as she began to pick up the displaced threads of her life, he had effortlessly faded, though Peter knew all it would take was a thought of him to summon Caine back to Annie's side. It had given *him* comfort knowing that, knowing that he wouldn't have to reinforce the restraining walls of his own furious grief to be able to ease hers.
Standing beside his car, staring up at the plant-filled balcony that belonged to the rooms his father used, he realized that Caine had to be aware of the turmoil gnawing away at his child. Had to be expecting a visit like this - without warning, in the middle of a working day - and probably had his own ideas of how the inevitable conversation between them would go.
That was almost enough to derail Peter, to send him off to try booze or a violent fuck in some town far away to spew out the rage inside him in some anonymous fight, in some anonymous body. But the teachings of his father, renewed and strengthened by their reunion, put his feet in motion, leading him toward the promise of a safe haven where he wouldn't have to bear his burdens alone.
As he climbed, the scents from the plants and herbs Caine grew for his work as an apothecary wrapped around him, and he smiled. Though he would never admit it, he loved the ascent to the top floor. Not only because of the fragrance that always spoke in clear, sweet tones of home and love, but because he never had *any* idea what he was going to find when he got to the top. His father could be meditating, sharing tea with The Ancient, mixing a potion, floating mid-air with a golden glow around him, fighting a off a horde of masked martial artists with a toothpick. And Blaisdell had wondered where Peter got *his* propensity for the unexpected!
The thought of his adopted father sobered him, and he trudged the last few steps up, head down and dizzy with a deluge of mixed emotions. By instinct he headed for the balcony and the little fountain burbling there, willing to rest for a time in that cool niche if the rooms were empty. But as he passed the entrance to the one where Caine habitually practiced his kung fu forms, he saw his father there, flowing through the eloquent dance of Tai Chi.
On impulse Peter kicked off his shoes, took off his socks, jacket and shirt, went to stand beside his father, then joined him seamlessly in the graceful motions. As he had been taught, he didn't try to think or feel as he moved. He immersed himself in the pattern of controlled breathing, in the stretch and give of muscle and bone, and let conscious thought float past the uppermost levels of his mind.
Some indeterminate time later, they both glided to a halt, and Peter paradoxically felt both much more centered and much more fragile. His skin was shining with sweat and warmth, the good kind of shine that spoke of a well-tuned body, and there didn't seem to be a single knot of tension anywhere in him. But the wild grief and sorrow where so close to the surface, he wasn't sure if it were sweat or tears that dampened his cheeks.
Head cocked to one side, Kwai Chang regarded him solemnly, then lifted a hand, whether to wipe away the evidence of pain or gently pat his face, Peter didn't know. Before the gesture could be completed, he said formally, quietly, the words surfacing by themselves, "I mourn my father, Master Caine, and the weight of that is more than I can bear. For the moment, I don't need another father, much loved as he is; I need a brother monk who would share his strength." Acting much more boldly than he ever had with a potential lover before, Peter stepped into Caine's personal space, close enough for him to feel the physical heat of another man penetrating his flesh.
Caine was surprised, and the childish glee that Peter'd always thought he'd have if he ever managed that stunt was totally absent. The older man's normally inscrutable expression flickered, eyebrows up, and he halted his hand midway between them. Deep brown eyes pinned his own, and meeting them was the easiest thing he had done since their strange, unexpected return to each other.
"Peter," Caine began quietly.
Catching the frozen hand, Peter pulled it to his cheek and pressed it close, letting his eyelids dip slightly in the surge of pleasure he felt from the simple caress. "I'm not a child," he said in anticipation of arguments. "I'm a man who can make up his own mind, who has a very clear idea of the ramifications of what I'm asking. If you're going to deny me, don't do it for those reasons. Because I'm not attractive to you, because *you* find the concept repulsive, because you've decided to steer clear of that kind of contact for whatever holy reasons a shao-lin, Shambala master can come up with, yes. But not those."
As quickly as it had come, the surprise was gone, and Caine's face softened into the fondly nostalgic look that told Peter he'd somehow reminded him of his wife, Laura. Any other time that would have pleased him. Right now the last thing he wanted was for Caine to be thinking of him as anything but the fellow priest he wanted, no *needed* to be.
But all he did was tenderly place his thumb in the bow of Peter's upper lip, as if testing the softness of that vulnerable spot.
Why that was Peter's undoing, he would never know.
With a sound that was a sob mixed with a groan, he closed the small gap between them, winding his arms around Caine's waist and lowering his head to the strong shoulder waiting there. Shaking violently, he held on, not sure if he would cry, scream, or what, but eventually his body decided for him, erection firming up to dig at the muscled stomach it was squashed into. Its match was making its own inroads into the curve of his thigh, burning him pleasantly despite the fabric covering it.
Blindly, mindlessly, he nuzzled at Caine's neck, relishing the musky scent of incense, sandalwood, and Caine's own natural fragrance, feeling it slither deep into his lungs and gut, turning them to fire. Hips beginning the ancient rhythm, he licked his way along the jaw line of his unexpected lover, seeking his mouth with desperate hunger. Caine met him halfway, lips firm and slightly cool, and he cherished them with a careful kiss first, holding the riotous desire at bay for the moment necessary to tell how much this meant to him.
A moment was all he could manage and the flood tide that he had been denying for so many weeks leaped free in a wave of urgency that could not be denied. Intending to deepen their kiss to spill that into lust, he opened his mouth. But before he could force entry to the steaming chamber behind guardian lips, a firm nudge against his own told him Caine had demands of his own to make. For the barest of instances Peter hesitated. He rarely played the submissive to another man's wants, but he was the supplicant in this case, so he acceded to his lover's wishes without giving himself a chance to change his mind.
Caine took possession of their kiss with the same flowing grace that he brought to Tai Chi, absorbing the leaping flow of lust and re-releasing it into Peter’s bloodstream as sweet currents of pleasure. Moaning, surrendering to the ebb and flow of the intruder exploring him, Peter scrabbled at the silk tunic that lay under his hands to hold the firm body closer. Accidentally baring a patch of skin, he stroked sensitive fingertips over it, and liking it much better than the material, he devoted a fragment of attention to uncovering more, eagerly caressing all that he found.
Dimly he felt them moving, not caring where Caine was taking him until his bare feet found the workout mat underneath them. By some unknown signal they sank down to its yielding surface together, Peter willingly going to his back and spreading his thighs in silent invitation as they did. Somehow his pants vanished, and his lover covered him, introducing naked maleness to naked maleness for the first time. Crying out, Peter arched his back and came, clinging with all his strength to the stability of the man hovering over him.
As good as it was, it wasn't enough, not nearly, and before the last tremors of his climax had passed through him, he was reaching between his stomach and Caine’s to gather up the evidence of his release into his palm. Smoothing it over the slender shaft, he marveled at how perfectly it fit his hand and couldn't help but wonder if it would as perfect a fit inside him. His trembling intensified, not from the lingering shock of climax, but from renewed need, and he fit his heels into the back of his companion’s knees to urge him forward.
"Wait, Peter, wait," Caine murmured, resisting the pull. With amusement tingeing his words, he went on. "I think we can a better substance to ease the way for us."
Seemingly out of nowhere - and given that it was Caine, it might have *been* from nowhere - he produced a small pot. Taking Peter's wrist, he guided his fingers into thick oil, and the subtle request sent a jolt of pure want through the younger man. It was the first sign that Caine was taking his own pleasure from their love-making and not just acquiescing for Peter's sake. Eagerly he coated the hardness in front of him, taking his time to learn the shape of it, how his lover liked being touched there.
"Damn," he muttered, expertly manipulating the foreskin over the seeping crown. "That's… that's just… damn!"
Sighing deeply, Caine murmured, "Yes," then with obvious reluctance pulled out of his grasp and reached for the oil himself.
"Yes, yes, yes," Peter begged unashamedly, twisting over to offer himself up. "Please!" The memory he'd carried for so many years of seeing his father preparing to do this with Kahn hit him in the gut, sending his semi-hard cock to full length in a single, painful heartbeat. Ready, beyond ready, he opened easily to the first careful probe, and lifted his hips higher, sobbing again, "Please!"
The blunt head breached him, and he froze, trying to memorize the moment, the sensation of slowly being opened and filled. It was incredible, but what finally broke his stasis was the faint, faint vibration from the body covering him. A small sign that the pleasure was shared, but he'd expected nothing more from his tightly controlled lover. With soft cries he didn't really hear himself make, he reared back, taking the dick as deeply as human anatomy would allow.
That was more than Caine could take. Linking their fingers and stretching their arms over their heads, he lay on top of Peter and began pounding steadily into him. Answering each thrust with one of his own, wanting it to go on forever, Peter held onto tightly to the hands holding his and gave himself to their passion. Everything faded but the demands of his ass and cock, and he grunted and strained with the efforts to meet those demands.
Their finish built relentlessly, for all their combined desire to keep it at bay. Just as he thought he would black out from the sheer intensity of the ecstasy filling him, a small change in breathing and in Caine's hard-on warned him, and he turned his head as his lover rested his cheek on his shoulder, whispering, "Peter" with such love and need that he tumbled over the edge as hot cream coursed into him.
He screamed his joy and release, then could not stop screaming. Thrashing at the weight holding him securely, not to escape it but to reassure himself that it was there, he howled out his agony, finally submitting to the raging flashflood of it. Hot, childish tears streamed down his face, eddies from his sorrow, not that he felt them or even really heard his screams.
But every river meets the ocean sooner or late, and finally he was too worn out to do more than sob broken-heartedly and tumble into sleep, half formed words of gratitude for his father's strength on his lips. finis