Title:  But to Console
Author:  Maggie Honeybite
Book:  Jamie O'Neill's "At Swim, Two Boys"
Pairing:  MacEmm/Jim
Rating:  R
Summary:  Shortly after Doyler's death, MacMurrough and Jim spend a night at Ballygihen House.  Jim can't sleep.  (AU:  This story makes no allowance for the characters' internment).
Disclaimer:  I do not own these characters or make any profit from them.  Furthermore, I hold Jamie O'Neill and his work in the highest regard.  My reasons for writing ASTB fanfic are admiration and awe; my intention is certainly not to disrespect the author (as I worship the ground he walks on).
Acknowledgements:  Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Tehta.
A/N:  Jim is about 16 years old in the fic -- old enough to consent, just.  MacMurrough is, well, older.
 



"MacEmm?"  The doorknob turned.  Jim's face appeared, cheeks fresh from scrubbing, hair damp from washing.  

Earlier, as the boy rinsed his hair, ridiculous notions had struck MacMurrough; he had nearly gone to the barrel in the garden for rainwater.  As if such stability of routine might fool the heart into peace.  It could not, and he knew it.  In the end water from the pump had sufficed.

"MacEmm?"

"What is it, Jim?"

"Can I stay here with you?"

"Why, can't you sleep?"

The door closed.  "Please."  

That eyes could stare so without blinking where once rich velvet had swept down chilled MacMurrough.  He lifted the blankets and shifted to the side of the bed.  "In you go."

One, two, three times quick feet touched the cold floor before the boy folded his limbs neatly and slipped in beside him.  Damp hair on MacMurrough's shoulder.  Arms around him.

"MacEmm?"

"Yes, Jim?"

"You don't mind me here beside you, do you?"

"No."

"Because I couldn't bear the empty room."  The dark head lifted, sweet breath warmed MacMurrough's cheek.  "You wouldn't have minded before either, would you?"

"Minded what?"  A pathetic feint, but the boy had him rather at a disadvantage.  On reflection, might have been wiser to wear a pajamas.

"You know: you and me."  

"Jim, it wouldn't have--"

"Why didn't you?  It might have been nice."  The arms around him tightened, dark eyes looked down.  Desolation gaped from under the long lashes, not a curtain now, but a shroud.

"It wasn't my place, Jim.  You weren't mine."

"Well, I'm nobody's now."

At last, the eyes closed.  Jim lay his head down on MacMurrough's shoulder and was still.  A few moments, and MacMurrough felt wetness trickle down his armpit.

"Oh, Jim.  My lovely boy..." He cradled the trembling body.  

"Will you now, MacEmm? I know you love me, so why--"
    
"It wouldn't make things any better, Jim."

"It might for a while."  He buried his face in MacMurrough's chest.  Mumbling, he said:  "I just want to feel happy for a little bit, see.  To feel something else besides this... nothing."

"I know."  MacMurrough stroked the boy's back.  Dick, who had long ago divined the conversation concerned him, laid his head back down, ashamed.

"MacEmm?"

"Yes?"

Consoled now, Jim looked at MacMurrough.  Sampled his words silently for a time before speaking.  "You and Doyler.  It was here, wasn't it?"  

The past will slip away unless it can be remembered.  And to be remembered, it must first be learned.  Second-hand, if need be.

MacMurrough sighed.  "I'll tell you about Doyler," he said.  "The first time I had him up here -- and you have to understand that I was a scoundrel of the first order, Jim -- you came with a parcel of socks.  He told me then that if I should lay even a finger on you, he'd kill me.  And when I laughed, he said he loved you."  He reached out and fingered the mop of hair.  "I didn't laugh after that."

"No," said Jim, attempting a smile.  His face looked long, and lonely as evening shadows; his mouth quivered.  His voice sounded as if it came from deep within a well.  "Will you hold me a little longer?"

"Of course."  

Comfortingly, they cuddled.

But soon a boyish hand crept under the covers and found what it sought.  Dick didn't need much encouragement, and stretched his head eagerly toward the stroking.

"Jim..."

"Please, MacEmm.  Let me do this."  A smile then, and Jim's bottom lip caught in his teeth.  "You don't always wear your Jaegars, do you?"

"Never to bed."

The hand moved slowly, but knew its business.  MacMurrough closed his eyes.  Confusing to feel such pleasure without and such sadness within.  Moral compass going haywire.  Not that you've had it for long, he thought.

"Do you like that?"

"Yes, Jim."

"Good.  Will you touch me, then?"

"If you want me to."

"I do, MacEmm, I do."

"All right."

As a boy, MacMurrough had once been given one of his mother's glass figurines to hold.  Venetian glass, antique, drop-it-and-the-world-as-we-know-it-shall-end fragile.  Not even then had he been so careful.  James Mack, recently bereaved of a friend:  handle with care.  He stroked as if he might love some relief into Jim's skin.  Let the skill of my hands, for so many years barren, come to some good at last.

Jim's cheek rubbed his.  "You can pull harder, you know.  I'd like it."  

They kissed, and the slender fingers gripped him firmly down below.  He pulled Jim closer; the boy's breathing quickened.

"MacEmm?"  Jim had wrapped one leg around MacMurrough's thigh, a cold foot tracing its way up and down his calf.  "Will you... you know... with me?"

"No, Jim."

"Why not?  I want you to."

"Jim, no."

But Jim was already kissing harder, clinging and rubbing.  One of his hands had reached around and begun kneading MacMurrough's arse.  Dick could not feign disinterest now, not that he tried.

Last ditch defense, then.  "You won't be so sure of this, after, you know."

Jim stopped kissing and lifted his head.  "After?"  Dark eyes stared.  "I don't want to think about after, MacEmm."

And is it any wonder, thought MacMurrough.  The boy's probably in hell.  You're his palliative, his relief from pain; do not presume too much significance lest you forget your place.  To the devil with your qualms and reservations.  

"All right, lift up," he said, and slipped his hands under the boy's bum.  He moved over him, in position.  "I won't hurt you, Jim.  But I'll give you a good fucking if that's what you want."

That extraordinary blink.  Then a hollow voice:  "It's what I want."

The rest was up to Dick, and he could be trusted to do his job as well as he'd ever done it.  Eagerly he bumped against the boy's nethers, then poked, and poked some more.  MacMurrough held the boy's shaft in his hand and stroked, and his heart pained him at the sight of Jim's eyes closed, Jim's knees lifted in a self-willed surrender, Jim's lashes sweeping his cheeks.  

And still Dick poked, in healing thrusts.  There, Jim, doesn't that feel nice?  Poke.  Doesn't this soreness in your arse balm the ache in your soul?  Poke, poke.  I'm not Doyler, I know, nor can I bring him back, but one thing I can do:  poke at the heart of you until your thoughts dissolve.  There, doesn't that do you good?

With a ragged inhalation of breath, the boy turned his head on the pillow and, shivering, spurted.  He grabbed at MacMurrough's back and pulled him down.  Held on, like a man drowning.  A boy, drowning.  Only then did the tears come.

And MacMurrough thought, if I can do this:  make the pain disappear for a time, then let me do nothing better until the end of my days.  Let me but help, and then hold.  My lovely boy.  My Jim.


END

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