Tintin's still reticent about asking for help in solving his latest mystery.
…
Tintin sighed for the eight thousandth, three hundred and sixty fifth time. At least it felt that way. All evening he had tried to get his nerve up and actually ask the Captain for advice, information or instruction. But he'd glance over at the man who was seemingly absorbed in re-reading the fishing magazine and find his resolve fading. Just how does one bring up this particular subject? It's not as if you were asking a person where they got their haircut, or what haberdashery they purchased their socks from. Those were nice, innocent questions that resulted in nice, innocent answers.
No, these were questions that opened up even more questions. Difficult questions. Awkward questions.
Tintin started to sigh again and physically stopped himself. For someone whose job it was to ask the hard questions, pry answers out of recalcitrant witness, keep digging until the puzzles were solved and all was put right with the world for the time being – he really was having a hard time even opening his mouth.
Dropping his eyes back to the novel he was reading, Tintin realized he hadn't turned a page in probably over an hour. He'd re-read the same sentence over and over. He drew in a deep breath…and held it.
Crumbs!
Looking up at the small clock on the mantel, Tintin noticed with some dismay and not a little relief that it was about a half an hour before they usually started getting ready for bed. Perhaps it was now too late to start having an in-depth conversation about his lack of knowledge concerning the more intricate data of being a sexually active adult. He really wanted to know what was wrong and what was right. He had been raised Catholic and even though he knew it was considered immoral to engage in pleasuring oneself, he also had a more scientific, logical mind and could see it for what it was – purely physical response to a physical need.
But was there more to it than that?
Was having sex just answering a need, or could it be more? And if it was more, then what exactly was it like?
And then there were all the questions he had concerning sharing pleasure with another person.
Biting his lip, Tintin suppressed sigh number eight thousandth, three hundred and sixty sixth. Or was it seventh? Whatever. Closing the book with a snap that had the Captain looking at him in surprise, he stood up and dragged the blankets he'd wrapped around himself over to the bed.
"Going to bed, Lad? Rather early."
"I know Captain, but I'm a bit tired and ready to go to sleep." Tintin answered. He could feel the older man's eyes on him as he took off his shoes and slid under the covers, waiting until he was warmer to pull off his clothes and tuck them down toward the bottom, keeping them warm for the next day. He wished he could take off his socks, but his feet never seemed to be warm enough, and neither he nor the Captain appreciated a frozen foot coming in contact.
Rolling over onto his side, he purposely closed his eyes and forced himself to relax into sleep. Just as he slid into slumber, he felt himself sigh. Again.
…