Edmund doesn't like to think.
He doesn't like to think of what Susan would say, how Peter would look (so disappointed), and Lucy - well, he doesn't like to think about that at all. And the way Mother or Father would react is beyond even thought (always the problem child). He doesn't want to think if this was part of Aslan's plan, or any magic they encountered on their voyage (it all started at Dragon Island, started at Dragon Island, started started never stopped). He doesn't like to think about how it was before, or what it would be like now if this had never happened.
He doesn't like to think about it, about what they're doing (this is wrong wrong wrong). He doesn't like to think of how Eustace tastes, and how Eustace's skin feels (soft soft soft yes soft), and how Eustace moans when Edmund sucks that spot below his left ear. He doesn't like to think about how Eustace shudders and pants and gasps his name as he comes, of how beautiful Eustace looks (so so beautiful, dark hair and pale skin and oh, oh yes, so beautiful).
He doesn't like to think of how it started, or where it's going. He doesn't like to think of why he and Eustace have a flat together, and why they must constantly dodge their families' questions of why they never date (it's a secret it's a secret it's a secret, yes, don't tell, don't tell - don't tell anyone). He doesn't like to think of why they move so often because the neighbors start to talk. He doesn't like to think that Lucy's probably already guessed. He doesn't like to think he can never let anyone over unannounced, lest they catch Eustace and his cousin up to something they shouldn't be up to (wrong wrong wrong, but feels so right, yes, so very right).
He doesn't like to think when he takes Eustace against the wall, or when Eustace comes and swallows him down in the bath (oh God yes yes yes, Eustace, yes). He doesn't like to think when they discreetly go to the movies or out to dinner or to the zoo. He doesn't like to think while they talk and dream of Narnia, where this sort of thing was easier (and harder; easier and harder easier and harder). He doesn't like to think as they curl together at night, soft whispers of love on their tongues and everything, for once, simple and untroubled and right (this is right; this is right - I know it is...this is right).
Edmund doesn't like to think. He just goes on, and hopes that some day he won't have to think at all, and he knows that, when and if that ever happens, he might actually be happy, if only for a little while.
Fin.
Flames will be used to make s'mores :)
