A/N: Read bio for warnings
The thing about hypocrites is...they often dislike other hypocrites. "I hate hypocrites" one hypocrite was purported to have said one bright sunny night! And though David Henry Thoreau complained perhaps the most that he should have to languish alone in a cabin on Walden Pond, he forgot to conveniently mention that "isolated" meant "one mile from town" and "starving" meant "home cooked meals from mama". David Henry Thoreau forgot to mention quite a lot of things when one got down to the grit. And maybe he didn't dislike hypocrites as much as he couldn't stand them! As if his top would blow any moment, rage broiling in his ears, oozing out his scalp.
Why couldn't Emerson not pay the tax? He preached individualism. He encouraged purity in morals, equality of law, and scarcity in living. Encouraged, no, called for! He demanded these standards be met and yet where was his pure morals when he abandoned his wife and son for a life of hypocritical lectures? Where was equality in law when he staunchly avoided the entire subject of slavery? Where was scarcity in living when he received thousands of dollars from his dead ex-wife's will?
But there is a fine line between hate and passion. And all his rage at his less than godlike mentor turned into something more like fire. In the wilderness, the lines began to blur...
The sun beat down through the trees, drenching Thoreau's already sweat drenched body in golden rays. His mediocre muscles were slightly defined as he raised the heavy ax for the umpteenth time. Chop! Wack! Chop! Chop! His muscles strained- as he was unused to physical exertion- to keep up with the rapid supply and demand of ATP. This would all be worth it, he thought, once Emerson walked through his doors- well the cabin was technically Emerson's all along- and exclaimed how hot the cabin was. To which Thoreau could nonchalant suggest they extract themselves from their coverings and perhaps do what his wife went into town to get?
Thoreau licked his lips at the delightful thought. Yes, he'd be so natural, Emerson wouldn't know what hit him. The man of the hour arrived at the hour of five and one, meaning six, wearing an academic suit with a fancy black coat.
"I have dinner already prepared." Thoreau smiled deeply.
Emerson made some noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, before stretching out the collar of his coat.
"I understand it may be cold out here in the woods, but is it really necessary to start a fire in the middle of July?"
Thoreau's grin widened. "Yes, I should think so. Although, if you aren't comfort-"
"I'm not." Emerson said point blank.
"Then perhaps we can retire to the bedroom?"
Emerson choked on his spittle. "Ex- excuse me?" The learned man asked.
"You said to relax, didn't you Emerson? Well, I've recently discovered a way to relax and it's beyond anything I could have imagined. More than teaching, more than nature, more than writing. I- I want to share this with you. I do. I just- I love you so much!"
Emerson swallowed, his scrumptious adam's apple bobbing up and down in a decidedly obscene fashion. "My wife-"
"Is known as a slut around town!" Thoreau growled.
"Wait- how do you know this? You've been here for months!"
"I come out once in a while!" Thoreau argued in the same tone of voice.
Emerson let out a deep breath. "You're right. I can barely look at her, let alone touch her, knowing she's been with all those...those Satanic radicals!"
"So you haven't had that exquisite feeling of absolute ecstasy in...about two months now?"
"No! Longer!" Emerson moaned. His eyes darted from Thoreau to the door. "I should leave." he said, mouth dry.
"By why?"
Emerson took a step back. "It's too hot."
"I can fix that for you." Thoreau smiled, grabbing a kitchen knife and backing up a very frightened Emerson against the back of the door. "So what'll it be? A night? Just one little night alone without any prying eyes? Or will you continue down your life of celibacy? Live as pure and free as a monk!"
Thoreau's breath was on the man's face now. Emerson wiggled uncomfortably. This was so...not right. Not right at all, but, wait, was that? Oh yes...Emerson lost himself as his young protégé gyrated against his rapidly growing tent. This was...so absolutely, horrendously wrong! But then, what was he supposed to do? Resist? So that he could go back to his life with his whore wife and stupid spoiled son, too stupid to be of any use. They were on his property, no one would come knocking on the door, right? And, oh, it did feel so good!
As Thoreau watched his mentor's face melt into contemplativeness, he took the opportunity to neatly slice up the man's outer clothing, careful not to draw blood...yet.
At two in the morning, Emerson left with Thoreau's words ringing in his ears. "It is such a lonely existence" Thoreau had said, propped up against the wall. "You will come visit me soon, won't you?"
Stupid, silly, absolutely ludicrous, satanic...but Emerson couldn't deny the warmth that spread through him as the younger did things, wonderful unnamable things, which completely undid him. Undid him like a ball of yarn, or a spider's gossamer thread, or a noose hanging low against the clouds.