Phoenix Song

ABANDON HOPE, ALL WHO ENTER HERE: This story contains strong language and strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your house, block, suburb, city (or township), state (or province), country, league of countries, planet, federation, galaxy, or universe, or if scenes of violence and/or sexuality confuse or otherwise irritate and/or annoy you, go read the story about the Unoffensive, Politically-Correct Fluffy Bunnies instead of this one. Furthermore, be aware that I do not own the Harry Potter characters or their destinies, nor do I claim to; my power is limited to my own characters. Should any of J. K. Rowling's characters desire to return to her universe, they are free to do so at any time, provided their transit paperwork is in order.

Author's Note: By the by, this chapter involves some events of a sexual nature. If you've tolerated the story up to this point and this is the last straw, take comfort in the fact that you were warned at the outset and did not have to get to the gory details before realizing how the author tricked you! Bwahahahahaiamsoevilyesyeshahahahahahaokaythatsenoughwhatsfordinner? :-P Oh, and katkitten? Call me a son of a camel, will you? Ha! Two chapters in two days! How do you like them updates? XD

TWELVE

The darkness did not last long. He fell through it like a rock plummeting into the abyss, as if the darkness was a thing made of liquid, like the depths of the ocean but without end. Down and down he plunged, until, quite suddenly, he broke through the surface of the darkness into blinding whiteness. The pain in his head was excruciating, like his skull was splitting open, and the whiteness all around him flared brighter with each pulse of his heart, brighter than the sun, brighter than a hundred suns. In the distance, he felt someone catch him as he fell, and then he was weightless, flying, and the firebird was there, just as he remembered it, soaring next to him, softly singing notes that were mournful and deep and unearthly, but captivating and beautiful and soul-wrenching at the same time, echoing all around him, resounding from the infinite light.

What's happening to me? he asked it. I've gone mad…

The light burns brightest where darkness is strongest.

Aidan laughed at the fiery bird, glowing orange and yellow and starfire and colors that had yet to be discovered and named. I don't know what you mean and it doesn't matter because I'm mad!

You are not mad.

Yes, I am, but not crazy. Angry. Wouldn't you be, if I kept knocking you unconscious so that I could talk to you in riddles? My life is not normal anymore, thanks to you! Wizardry, magic, prophecy? He laughed incredulously. Magic I could take, but now I get to have visions I don't understand of events I can't stop or change, and all you can do is talk nonsense! He hadn't realized the depth of his anger and frustration, nor his utter exhaustion, which even now he felt, and it occurred to him that a great deal of that was because he was being placed into a situation he had been in before, though the circumstances were slightly different now; nevertheless, here he was again, thanks to the wonderful power of prophecy: the helpless onlooker, powerless to alter the course of events as it unfolded, even as he had been night after untold night when Morgan came to his bed and raped him.

The firebird regarded him solemnly. In the end, you changed everything, it pointed out.

It doesn't matter. It never should have happened. He was sobbing now, uncontrollably, and he didn't know whether the firebird meant Morgan or the fact that he was able to save Justin, and it didn't matter. It wasn't fair to be placed into such a situation again and again and again. It wasn't fair that the course of his own life was still so wholly outside of his control, directed by forces he did not understand, driving him inexorably toward some destiny he could only vaguely comprehend.

In the end, you can change everything once more. Give yourself over to darkness, let the fire consume you both, and change everything. Remember.

Wait, Aidan called as the bird flapped its wings and began to soar away. Wait, I still have questions! But already the light was dimming, he was buoyant, rising upward into darkness, into warmth, and gradually he began to perceive that he was being carried, he heard the sound of footsteps on wood, felt the tightness in his stomach and the overwhelming sense of sorrow still with him, and he opened his eyes, but was forced to squeeze them shut again a moment later as a painful, blinding light overwhelmed them.

"Be a lot easier to use a wand," grunted a voice that Aidan recognized, one near at hand.

"Right, see you don't leave yours behind next time, then. Let's get him upstairs," said a firm voice, one that Aidan did not recognize; the voice of a young woman.

"Not me," he tried to say. "Help Justin." But the words lodged in his throat and his lips felt sluggish and leaden, as though his body, furious at the mistreatment it had received at his hands that night, refused to cooperate in his misadventures any further. His every muscle ached with strain and exhaustion, and it felt as if his heart had taken up permanent residence in his head, where it was hosting an extremely raucous housewarming party. Every conscious thought required effort.

"Justin's already up here," said the first voice, the one Aidan recognized. Since when can he read my mind?

"I think he's come to, Rosie." There was evident relief in Ciarán's tone.

"Set him down on the bed," the woman's voice instructed. A moment later, Aidan felt himself being placed gently on a firm mattress, and then covers were being pulled over him and tucked expertly around him.

"You're just happy you don't have to carry me anymore," Aidan mumbled, regaining the use of his voice. Tentatively, he opened his eyes again and was forced to squint to keep his eyes from burning. Where was all that light coming from? Without needing to look, he had known Ciarán was carrying him, from the telltale scent of the older boy's body, the way it felt to be pressed up against him, and he swallowed hard. I never knew he was that strong.

That doesn't matter. Where the hell was he?

Before Aidan could voice that question, however, an unfamiliar face swam into view.

"Are you all right?" the woman asked.

Aidan nodded. "I think so." One of the hands that had been carrying him now rested lightly on his shoulder.

His eyes, which were watering profusely in light so bright he may as well have been staring directly at the sun, gradually began to discern before him the features of a strikingly beautiful young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, with eyes like dark pools and radiant curls of blonde hair that were somewhat disheveled, as if she had only recently climbed out of bed. Which, considering the time of night, is probably the truth. Nevertheless, she was extremely pretty, and Aidan could well imagine how popular the Three Broomsticks was with her as its proprietress, particularly with the male half of the population.

"Well, his eyesight's come back," the young woman remarked after a moment. It was only then that Aidan realized he had been staring. Abashed, he quickly looked away, feeling the color rise in his cheeks.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"It's all right," she replied with a small smile. "If I don't like the way someone's looking at me, I simply hex their eyes out."

"She's only joking," Ciarán said with a grin in his voice. "She likes the attention."

"Don't tempt me, you," the young woman countered, her attention still focused on Aidan. "If I decided to hex you right now, there'd be little you could do about it, seeing as you've left your wand at the castle."

"We left in a hurry," Aidan pointed out, wincing as his heart resumed hammering at the sides of his head.

The young woman pursed her lips but let the subject drop, staring at Aidan in concern. "You sure you're all right? You look a bit peaked."

Aidan nodded and a wave of vertigo swept over him so that he had to squeeze his eyes shut. "I'll be fine."

The proprietress opened her mouth to say something, but was cut short by a loud rap on the door downstairs. "It's about time," she muttered. "Excuse me." She disappeared; Aidan heard her light steps on the wooden stairs followed by the sound of wind and rain as the door below was opened.

"I came as soon as I could," said a gruff voice. "What a night."

"I know," the young woman agreed. "I thought maybe you'd been blown away, constable."

"Sorry, Rosie," the man replied, a bit petulantly, Aidan thought. "I was helping Barnabas Salk out of a tree when I got yer message. Damn fool tried to go flyin' in this weather."

"Was he drunk?"

"What d'you think?"

There was a short pause. "Did you manage to get him down?"

"Aye. And I confiscated his broom. By all rights, I should've locked 'im up." Another pause. "Anyway, here I am. Where's the victim?"

"Upstairs," she answered.

There was a loud clumping noise on the stairs and a moment later, Rosie reappeared in the company of a large, balding, rain-soaked man with a ruddy complexion and a handlebar moustache. "These the ones who found 'im?" the man asked gruffly, catching sight of Ciarán and Aidan.

Rosie nodded.

"Bit late for children to be out, i'n't?" he inquired suspiciously.

"Maybe, but it's a good thing they were, or no one might have gotten to him in time."

"Huh," the man grunted, staring thoughtfully at Ciarán. Aidan braved another bout of vertigo to look over at the older boy, noting with surprise that he was scowling back at the man. "Well, we'll get to that in a minute. D'you mind if we check on the other'n?" he asked, inclining his head toward the door.

"After you," Rosie said. The big man clumped loudly out of the room. "Let it be," she said firmly to Ciarán, catching his angry look. "He's only doing his job."

"Poorly," the older boy muttered.

"Oh? And how many Dark Wizards have you captured, then?"

"He'd capture a whole lot more if he wasn't always after me."

"Maybe if you weren't always after breaking the rules?" suggested Rosie gently.

"I'm not always—" Ciarán began fiercely, but cut himself off, as if afraid the constable might hear him. "Forget it."

Rosie nodded once and disappeared after the older man.

Silence reigned for a few moments, or near-silence. Aidan's heart may as well have been excavating for oil in his head with all of its noisy pounding, and his muscles ached bitterly. Never again without a wand, thought Aidan miserably, wincing. However he had managed to get himself and Justin back here, the effort was now taking its toll. His whole body felt exhausted, utterly drained. Even his mind had given up trying to be heard above the cacophony in his head and had slowed to a sluggish crawl.

There's more to Ciarán than meets the eye. What's he done to earn the constable's ire?

"You're full of surprises," Ciarán quietly remarked, interrupting Aidan's thoughts if not his headache.

Aidan turned toward the older boy too quickly, and it took a moment for the world to stop spinning. "Oh?"

"You Apparated," Ciarán told him. "Right in the middle of the room. Only wizards who are of age are allowed to do that, and it's supposed to be really difficult. Then there's the fact that you did it without a wand. And, of course, the fact that you knew about Justin at all." The older boy regarded him quizzically.

Aidan's mind, in its sluggish state and overwhelmed by the pounding in his head, found it was unable to formulate a suitable response. About the best he could do was shrug. The act seemed to cost an enormous amount of effort. He was so utterly exhausted, beyond the point of collapse; he worried he would never feel alive again.

"Never mind," said Ciarán, obviously noticing his fatigue. "You should sleep."

"Thanks," Aidan whispered. Already the light was dimming as his body succumbed to darkness; Ciarán's features softened into boyishness, grew faint, seemed to draw away from him until Ciarán was nothing more than a shadow in the midst of rapidly-descending darkness. There's darkness there, said a voice. Now what made me think that? Before he could discover the answer to the question, he had drifted off to sleep.

At first, Aidan was afraid the bird would return, as was its wont whenever he was subject to one of his abnormally-frequent bouts of unconsciousness, but there was nothing to interrupt the darkness this time, neither dreams nor stray thoughts. After what might have been a moment or an eternity—there was no way to tell—he opened his eyes again. The pain in his head had subsided considerably, leaving only a dull ache in its place. The light in the room now seemed subdued, so that Aidan was finally able to make out his surroundings. He was lying on a large bed with a red and gold embroidered bedspread. The ruddy light of a dying fire flickered from the fireplace on the left wall, illuminating a lustrous mahogany bureau directly across from him, above which a polished mirror hung. On his immediate left stood a mahogany nightstand on which a small pitcher and a basin rested. In the corner to his right, Ciarán was sprawled out in an overstuffed arm chair, dozing quietly; on the right wall was the door, which had been closed. The room itself was relatively small, and Aidan surmised that it was meant to be a guest bedroom of sorts.

Quietly, he sat up, so as not to disturb Ciarán, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and wondering what the time was. The events of the past night seemed to jumble together in his mind, and it took him a moment to recall them. He needed to make sure Justin was doing all right. Carefully, he slid back the covers, not wanting to wake Ciarán, and stood up. The floorboard beneath his feet creaked softly. Casting one last glance at the older boy in the corner, Aidan tiptoed past him to the door, silently turning the handle and pulling it open ever so slowly. Unlike the door downstairs, this one did not creak on its hinges as it opened, and Aidan found himself looking into a darkened hall. The staircase to his right was clearly visible, illuminated from below by what could only be daylight streaming through the windows downstairs. To his left, across the hall, Aidan could see the faint outline of a door.

With great care, he slipped out into the hall and quietly made his way toward the other door. This one made no sound as he opened it and peered into what he realized was the master bedroom. It was mid-morning; sunlight streamed through the white gauze curtains that covered the large windows on the far wall, which extended outward in a sort of half-circle. A great bed had been placed immediately beneath the windows and looked unused; its patterned white bedspread was neat and tidy; its overstuffed pillows were likewise untouched. Rosie was seated before a large white marble fireplace on the right-hand wall in an armchair similar to the one in which Ciarán slept, reading a large volume; she looked up as Aidan poked his head into the room and beckoned for him to enter.

"Sorry," Aidan said, stepping into the room. "I just wanted to make sure Justin was all right."

"He's not here," the young woman answered. "He was taken up to the hospital wing at the school."

"Is he okay?" Aidan asked.

Rosie looked at him somberly. "Whoever attacked him nearly killed him. It's lucky for him that you found him when you did. They're thinking they might have to transfer him to Saint Mungo's." Her expression became curious. "How did you manage to find him?"

Aidan shrugged awkwardly. How did one explain prophecy? "Er, well I sort of…saw it happen."

"You were there?"

"No."

"Ah, you had a vision," Rosie concluded without missing a beat.

Aidan nodded mutely.

"It's a rare gift."

"Sometimes. Not all of my visions are so helpful."

Rosie looked thoughtful. "Well, but you have to remember, you see the things you see for a reason."

"Maybe." He did not want to talk about it. "Anyway, sorry to bother you."

"It's no bother," she replied, holding up the book. "I'm an insomniac anyway. Comes of opening late and closing late, I suppose."

"What time is it, anyway?"

"About nine in the morning. Don't worry," Rosie added, seeing the dismayed look on his face. "Headmistress McGonagall already knows you're here."

Aidan's stomach knotted. "She does?"

"She was a bit put out, but I told her it would be better not to wake you."

"Thank you," Aidan replied, a feeling of dread building in the pit of his stomach. She knows, he thought. What will she do? Suspend me? Throw me out?

"She'll be along in a while," Rosie said. "I think she has a few questions."

Aidan swallowed. "I can imagine."

"It'll be all right," Rosie said, smiling reassuringly. "She's not nearly as bad as she seems." Her dark eyes sparkled merrily. "Well, maybe you have to be on the other side to figure that out. I still remember how terrifying she seemed when I attended Hogwarts." She closed the book and stood up, stretching and stifling a yawn. Aidan realized that she had found the time to add those touches to her appearance which only served to enhance her beauty. Her hair was now neatly combed, its golden locks cascading gently over her shoulders and down the back of her rich blue dress; her cheeks held just the slightest hint of color, and a small amount of makeup had been applied her lips, which had given way to a small, knowing smile.

"You're staring again."

Aidan caught himself and looked away, blushing fiercely. "Sorry."

"Why don't you go wake Ciarán and we'll have some breakfast?"

Aidan nodded quickly, not daring to look directly at her, and made a hasty retreat.

Great, he thought sourly as he quietly reentered the guest bedroom, now I'm confused. He paused to gaze at Ciarán's sleeping form, at the way his chest rose and fell with every breath, the way his mouth parted slightly as he exhaled, how his dark hair hung loosely over his face. He felt something that was wholly different from what he felt when he looked at Rosie, but he didn't know what it was. Why do these things have to be so complicated?

Still he stared at the older boy, trying to make sense of his feelings. If there was an angelic, unearthly quality about the way Rosie looked, it was present in Ciarán, too, he decided, but in a different form. Whereas with Rosie he was awed by her grace and beauty, with Ciarán he felt—what, a longing, a tenderness? Love?

It can't be love, he told himself. I'm too young for that.

Ciarán stirred slightly and opened his eyes, yawning stretching his lithe form. How I'd like to see more of that, Aidan thought, remembering the firm arms that had carried him the previous night. I must be…like him. So why can't I stop staring at Rosie?

"What is it?" the older boy asked sleepily, noticing Aidan's gaze.

Aidan sighed. There are never any easy answers. Why can't the universe just say in a big, booming voice, "You're gay!" and get it over with? At least then I'd know for sure. Aloud he said, "Nothing. You want breakfast?"

"Sounds good," Ciarán said sitting up. "Oof. Next time, you get the chair," he added, rubbing his back painfully.

There is one way to know, a voice suggested in the back of his mind. His heart began to pound furiously at the implication, nearly bowling him over as his knees suddenly went slack, while at the same time a sudden surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins. He stumbled slightly, and had to grab hold of the doorframe to stay upright.

Ciarán looked up at him, concern written all over his face. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Aidan squeaked. He cleared his throat and nodded. "Fine," he said again, in a voice that was closer to his own. I can't do it, he told the voice in his mind.

If you don't, you'll never know.

If I do…

"Maybe you should sit down," Ciarán suggested, standing and holding out one hand.

Take his hand!

His hand felt like a block of ice, his arms felt like they had turned into molasses. With a supreme effort, he managed to get one hand into Ciarán's and let the older boy guide him over to the bed.

"Sit," Ciarán instructed. Slowly, Aidan remembered how to work his legs and sat on the edge of the bed, staring anxiously up at the older boy, whose hand had not released his.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Ciarán asked. "You're shaking."

Aidan nodded dumbly, struggling to find his voice. "I—I need to know," he finally managed to say.

"Know what?"

Tell him!

God, why do you make it so hard! Aidan took a breath and tried again. "I need to know if…if I'm…" His mouth was twitching, his lips wouldn't respond, he felt like he was going to throw up. "If I'm—like you," he whispered hoarsely.

"Oh," Ciarán said softly, surprise and comprehension dawning on his face. He turned and strode to the door, closing it gently before returning to sit next to Aidan on the bed.

"All right," the older boy said, "ask me anything."

Aidan shook his head. He doesn't get it, doesn't understand. "Kiss me," he whispered.

"What?"

"Again. Like the first time. Kiss me." Aidan was shaking all over, but he had to know, had to press on, had to find out.

"I thought…" Ciarán frowned and paused. "Are you sure?" he asked finally.

"No," Aidan croaked, tears springing to his eyes. I don't know anything anymore!

Ciarán swallowed and nodded slowly. "Okay," he whispered. For a moment, neither of the two boys moved, and then, slowly, imperceptibly at first, Ciarán leaned in, the firelight reflecting softly in his liquid blue eyes, his dark hair hanging over his face, his beautiful face, so inviting. Instinctively, Aidan leaned forward, and their lips brushed, tentatively at first, like the first time, in the darkened classroom. Something inside Aidan broke and a surge of longing flooded over him, spread like fire outward from his chest, something warm and all-consuming, that felt right somehow, and he pressed closer to Ciarán, who responded in kind, pushing back, pushing him gently to the bed. Aidan's pulse was racing, his extremities were tingling, he felt like he was veering out of control, it was so wonderful and so right and it hurt because it was so right, it hurt because it was everything he wanted, it hurt because it promised to fill that empty spot inside of him, to soothe away the years of silent grief, and he realized the tears were flowing freely now and then it was all over, and Ciarán was staring at him in concern, panting heavily, and he was staring at Ciarán, breathing hard and trying to fight back the wracking sobs which threatened to overtake him.

"It's not right, is it?" Ciarán asked softly, looking sorrowful.

Aidan shook his head and tried to find his voice again, but Ciarán just nodded once and rolled into a standing position. "So now you know," he said in a quavering voice, doing his best not to look hurt and miserable but not quite succeeding.

"Yes," Aidan said in a voice equally as shaken. "I know. I want you."

Ciarán stared at him as if not quite daring to believe. "What?"

Aidan sniffed and sat up, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I want you." The admission in and of itself was nearly enough to start the tears flowing again and it took him a minute to beat the rising feelings back into submission.

"Then why did you start crying?"

"Because I was happy." Even as he said it, he knew it wasn't the complete truth. But it was close enough, and easier to explain. "And I've never felt that happy before."

"Oh." Ciarán walked back over to the bed and sat down next to him. After a moment, he cautiously placed one hand over Aidan's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I thought I'd done something wrong."

Aidan laughed despite himself, laughed because he realized how insecure he must have caused the older boy to feel, when in reality he had no reason to feel that way. "No. I'm the one who messed it up. You did everything right." He leaned his head on the older boy's shoulder and they lapsed into silence for a time, lost in each other's eyes.

"Shall we try again?" Ciarán suggested at length.

Aidan nodded. This time, when they kissed, it was with more urgency than before, and Aidan was surprised to feel Ciarán's tongue probing gently at his mouth and was even more surprised when he opened his mouth and found the older boy's tongue inside. It was weird, and messy, and he wasn't sure if it was at all what he expected of a so-called "French kiss" but it didn't matter. He lost himself in the feel of Ciarán, running his hands eagerly over the older boy's face, down his neck and over his shoulders, trying to pick out every curve of the older boy's body, which was made difficult because of the sweater.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Ciarán asked in a husky voice when they came up for air.

Aidan bit his lip. "Yes," he decided, his own voice considerably lower than he was used to. "Only…" he faltered.

"Only what?"

"I've…never done it before." And that also wasn't quite true, but it was close enough and easier to explain, and besides, he had never willingly done anything like this with another person before.

"Don't worry," Ciarán said. "I'll show you how."

"But—" began Aidan, but Ciarán placed a finger on his lips and he fell silent as Ciarán leaned in and gently brushed Aidan's lips with his own, kissing them softly.

I've got to pay attention so I know how to do this, he resolved, but that resolution went out the window as Ciarán began to gently kiss his way down Aidan's cheek to his neck, causing Aidan to squirm and gasp with the overwhelming sensation of pleasure that spread outward from his neck.

"It gets even better without the coat," Ciarán remarked dryly, tugging gently at the collar of his jacket, which Aidan was still wearing. "And the shirt," the older boy added, helping Aidan to shrug out of both and gently pushing him down onto the bed.

Aidan suddenly felt self-conscious, remembering the skinny, red-haired boy he saw in the mirror every day, and he worried that Ciarán might not find him attractive enough to continue. It was hard, to feel so exposed and so vulnerable, to need someone so badly and to be so dependent upon their acceptance, but his worries were quickly laid to rest—or rather, they were quickly forgotten as the older boy straddled him at the waist and resumed exploring his body, but with more than his mouth this time, running his hands lightly over Aidan's exposed chest and stomach, fluttering closer and closer to his waist but always pulling away at the last second. Aidan was panting heavily, his heart was pounding against his ribcage; he had to close his eyes and grit his teeth every time Ciarán made contact with his bare skin, lest the building waves of pleasure overwhelm him.

"Having fun yet?" Ciarán asked, breaking off and grinning mischievously at Aidan.

It was all Aidan could do to nod.

"Good," the older boy said, his grin widening, turning around and pulling off first one of Aidan's shoes, then the other.

"What're you—ah, haha, don't, that tickles!" For Ciarán had deftly removed Aidan's socks and begun to run his hands lightly over the younger boy's bare feet. Aidan squirmed and writhed, convulsing and helpless with laughter and pleasure as the older boy assaulted his toes, his ankles, and the underside of each foot where it was most sensitive.

"You like it, you know you do," Ciarán laughed as Aidan finally managed to pull his feet away from the older boy.

"I do," Aidan agreed, breathing heavily and sitting up, "but now you've had it!" He roared and charged at the older boy, grabbing him by the waist, toppling him to the bed and scrambling on top of him. "Let's see how you like it!" he shouted and proceeded to tickle Ciarán's sides mercilessly.

"Acknoooargh!" was about all Ciarán could say under the onslaught. He tried to brush Aidan's hands aside with his own, but Aidan skillfully avoided his passes and continued tickling the older boy ruthlessly, an evil smile on his face.

"I surrender!" Ciarán gasped. "I promise never to do that again!"

"You promise?" Aidan asked, relenting.

The older boy nodded. He was breathing heavily, his face was flushed and sweat was trickling down his brow. Aidan pretended to consider it. "All right," he said at length, rolling off of the older boy to lie, panting, next to him.

"Gotcha!" Ciarán shouted, whipping around and straddling Aidan again. "And this time—"

They were interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. "What are you two doing in there?" Rosie's voice called.

The two boys looked at each other.

"Um—" Ciarán said.

"Er—" said Aidan at the same time.

"Yes?" Rosie prompted in a manner that indicated she knew all too well what the pair had been up to.

"Just a bit of high spirits, Rosie!" Ciarán replied in a reasonable tone of voice.

"Oh, really, is that what you call it? Look, the Headmistress will personally bite my head off and use it for Quidditch practice if she finds out I let you two do what you're doing. So come on down to breakfast!"

"But how will she find out?" Ciarán inquired mischievously.

"Because she's downstairs," Rosie replied in an even tone. "I'll give you two minutes to make yourselves presentable."

"We should've been quieter," Aidan said as the sound of Rosie's footfalls on the stairs reached their ears.

"Yeah," Ciarán agreed. They disentangled themselves from each other. "But there'll be other times, right?"

Aidan grinned and nodded as he retrieved his clothes.

"Well then, Mr. Hayes, will you do me the honor of having breakfast with me?" Ciarán asked once Aidan was dressed again, holding out one hand to Aidan while the other was tucked behind his back, making him look for all the world like a proper and respectable gentleman.

"I'd be delighted, Mr. Dwyer."

Hand in hand, the two boys went downstairs to have breakfast.