Note: Story is from George's POV. This is entirely a work of fiction lovingly based on characters created/owned by Tom Ford from his 2009 film A Single Man, which was based on a 1964 Christopher Isherwood novel of the same name. I certainly claim no copyright or any o' that stuff. The setting of the film and book is 1962, when it was not apparently unusual for young folks to address older folks by names like 'sir'.

Warning: Slash (if you consider that a warning). M rating.

Reviews: are welcome and encouraged, and I thank you.

Kenny and George, and the Scene That (Sadly) Never Was

Does the lad not know, does he not sense, that today is a very serious day for me? Does he not understand that really, he has no business being in possession of a set of cheekbones so high as to risk vertigo? Of a set of eyes this ridiculously enormous, this blue? Does he not gather that standing here naked in my bedroom was not part of the plan in any way, shape or form?

He stares. I stare back, in imitation of a man unruffled ... trying to transmit the message that while yes, he is very desirable indeed, for a quite smart and more importantly often eerily intuitive boy, he has failed to grasp the one thing that is patently obvious: desire is not a part of my life anymore- I have been cleansed of such things ... the blood flow to my lower half has ceased, died with Jim's passing ... how could it not? Sixteen years ... there is simply no possible replacement, no substitute, the world over, for him. My love has grown in these eight months, by the day, by the second, to the point where I've practiced a sort of quiet worship, holding him still and reverent in my heart. Unhealthy perhaps, but then ... my heart has been broken, shattered, to be sure. All of which defines why today is today and why I have come to the decision I have. So ... silent trousers ... it's as it should be.

For the millionth time, I hear in my head the sound of harrumphing.

"Oh, will you cut the bullshit, please. Quit using me as an excuse. And ... it's 'died', by the way, not 'passing' – you sound like a frigging nun."

Shut up, I tell the voice. Can you not see I'm dealing with a very troubling conundrum at present? The boy in my bedroom, the one with the giant doe eyes the size of Jupiter, the delicate lower half of whose heart-shaped face seems to hang off the upper ... is naked, can you not see? And how did we come to this? Well yes, I instructed him to get out of his wet clothes, that is true, but, til the moment before it left my lips, I had meant it quite innocently. A signal, a clean close to the evening- okay, boy, enough of this curious tete a tete; shower now, and go, please.

As soon as the words left my lips however, I felt it, the strange and rather unsettling realization that in fact I did wish to see him naked. Again. It's not as if I don't have eyes. You are stunning, I want to say, your beauty is almost hard to look at. The moonlit glimpse I had of you at the beach just now hasn't helped matters. I will resist you, of course, I meant what I said- I have no desire, but I believe there is no harm whatever in allowing oneself a final fleeting glimpse of the male form, of which you, Kenny, are as fine an example as any.

"Amen", says the voice.

Yes. Something to take with me into the afterlife.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," it groans.

And now here, as I make myself ready to receive this small parting gift, the boy, rather than scurrying off for the shower, is turning himself, his entirely naked form, boldly, to face me. I want to laugh, for it's Kenny, always it seems, being Kenny- he who, despite what he claims, is seemingly entirely free of fear; he who longs, every minute, like our dogs when they were pups, to genuinely experience, to test, to explore, to make on purpose, a complete nuisance of himself if necessary, or even if not. He who has proven a right pest to me these last several weeks, but also, an increasingly intriguing puzzle, following me around campus, following me home, always with some 'big picture' philosophical idea he wants to try on me, some surprisingly intelligent and refreshing concept mostly routed in dissatisfaction, frustration, questioning, the disgust with the world that only youth seem to possess, and too damned few of them. Such is the nature of the innocent, the unembittered, here to pester and trouble the old and damaged and essentially dead.

The problem being, that it has worked, to a degree. I admit to you here and now that I have at times wavered in my resolve to do what I've decided must be done. And the reason is quite embarrassing, for the silliest of notions has entered my normally quite staid and logical brain: that the boy has been sent to save me. That he is in fact an angel. These moments will surface without warning when we are in the midst of some philosophical argument or other, and I will look into his face and be blown back but what I see: fire, light, passion; burning and breathing.

I've been suffocating, you see, or, put another way, studiously avoiding life, in fact I've developed a rather satisfying symbiosis with lifelessness. And then here is he, the feisty, inquisitive, somewhat ornery being with little relation to or respect for the word 'no'- life looking me in the face every day. He thinks he is cynical, he thinks he is lost, not fitting in, not understanding the world around him. He doesn't recognize the wisdom he possesses, the withering clarity of his open and inviting mind. There is a beauty to this irony that is positively spellbinding, that has pierced the dead organ in my chest.

In other words, I'm afraid, despite my best, strongest defenses, that I have, essentially and certainly ill advisedly, developed quite strong feelings for the lad. I won't say love- I'm far too defeated for that. It is perhaps, simply, a crush, admittedly of a rather strong nature. It doesn't mean, of course, that he need know how foolish I've been in this, for in truth, I do still intend to carry on with my plans. I can see no future with this boy, of course, and mixing myself up with him would likely ruin his. Why drag an innocent being down with me? There is nothing left for me here. He has been an agreeable diversion, a delight, to be sure, on my way out the door. This is how I will view it.

Almost as if he can read my mind, the boy before me appears to have other ideas. He stands, unshy, waiting, watching my face, a clear invitation as there ever could be.

My eyes remain locked on his. I do not flinch. He doesn't know how familiar I've become with stoicism.

Just as I expect he will get the message and turn for the bathroom, he instead moves himself closer. We are only a foot apart to begin with.

"Kenny," I say sternly.

"Yes, sir?" Oh for heaven's sake, even in this scenario must he call me sir?

"Go and take your shower."

He doesn't move, however, he just stands there burning into me with those piercing blue beams.

"Sir, may I say something?"

Make it quick, I want to snap. How long do you expect me to keep my eyes above your neck?

"Of course, Kenny."

He swallows, clearly working up his nerve.

"You know how I said tonite that we were invisible?"

How could I forget? It nearly spun my head about, for it was the same exact thing I used to say to Jim, one of many eerie coincidence to come from the boy's mouth.

"Yes."

His face is bursting with sincerity.

"I just want you to know, in case you might've thought otherwise: you're not invisible to me."

God almighty.

I hold his gaze, forcing my face to remain neutral despite the terrible new knowledge that I am going to break his heart.

He then reaches out a soft hand toward me.

I grab it and pat it in what I hope is a grandfatherly manner, determined to deflect him from this dangerous path.

"Take your shower, Mr Potter."

He looks crestfallen, and those big doe eyes mist over. It's several nervous moments before he speaks.

"Sir, did you know that you're the first adult in my life I feel like I can trust, that I feel like I can unload my head to, completely?"

"No Kenny, I didn't. That's a high compliment coming from someone so young, I know."

"Otherwise I wouldn't have told you what I just did."

I nod.

"So ... does it bother you, what I said ? I was being honest."

He is not going to let it go.

I sigh.

"I know you were, Kenny, and no, it doesn't bother me. I'm very fond of you- you must know that-"

"-I am of you, too, sir," he blurts.

"You've been a delight. And I've enjoyed our talks very much."

I stop right there. He looks at me expectantly. Terrible pangs of guilt. Oh, how I want to be anyplace but where I am at this moment. Has he been able to read it in my face, hard as I have tried to conceal it? Have I unconsciously led him on, as a result? Hasn't it been he who has said the semi-suggestive things and brought up the subject of sex more than once?

No. No matter who is to blame, I will not drag this boy down with me.

"Kenny, you are an engaging young man with an inquisitive mind- the most inquisitive and dare I say passionate one I believe I've ever encountered in someone your age ..."

"Okay," he replies. He wants the payoff, clearly.

"But-"

"-I'm just a kid, that's what you're going to say."

"Yes."

His face flushes in frustration and he speaks quickly, agitated.

"But that's not what matters, is it? What matters is that you and I have a connection. You told me that was the only thing that made life worth living."

"Yes, I did say that, and it's true. And I have enjoyed our connection immensely-"

"-So then, what is it?"

"What is what, Kenny?"

He fidgets, then blurts it out.

"Why don't you want me?"

Wow. No more beating around the bush. He fires off in rapid succession.

"Is it me? What is it? Did I do something wrong?"

God almighty.

I rub my forehead. This is fairly excruciating. I sigh and look at him.

"Kenny, listen to me: it's not you; you've done nothing wrong-"

"-But it must be!-"

"-It's not! I'm your teacher for heaven's sake. I'm more than twice your age! We shouldn't even be having this conversation-"

"-No! That's cop out bullshit! None of that matters when you have a real connection and you can't pretend that we don't! I was completely honest with you just now- I think you owe me the same! Tell me what I did-!"

"-You did nothing!"

"But it must be something! I know you like me! Do I turn you off; is that it?"

"Kenny, stop it! That's not the point-!"

He interrupts me yet again, voice shaking, almost yelling ...

"-So then why don't you want me? Why!"

I boil over, finally, from frustration, from the growing stress ... and bellow.

"I do want you!"

Shit.

I then begin blathering quickly, like an absolute fool, scrambling, trying but failing to cover my stupid idiot tracks.

"I mean ... what I meant was ... Kenny, I-"

And then, it's all over. The energy in the room is ignited. He plunges his face into mine, planting those full, pink lips, and ... I can't make myself make him stop. Immediately I am overtaken by a tidal wave of desire- the very thing I was convinced had left me for good, the like and strength of which blinds me to all reason, and I pull him down over me onto the bed.

We kiss madly now, that warm, velvet mouth, that eager youthful tongue darting and swirling ... it feels hot and vulgar ... absolute magic. Very quickly, and for the very first time in eight long months, the dead flesh between us ... awakens, and he's pressing himself into it. Before I realize, he reaches below, impatiently frees it from behind the material and then as I watch, spits several times onto his own hand, which he then lowers to grasp the flesh.

I'm panting like a fool, in total disbelief at the sudden, extraordinary turn of events. Weren't we just discussing Huxley less than 2 minutes prior?

He quickly lifts his torso and straddles mine, those young, elegant thighs stretched taut, and without hesitation or permission, proceeds to rightfully impale himself onto my upturned cock.

I cry out- it has been decades, it seems.

He wastes no time, not a single moment, and proceeds to rock and tilt and rigorously bounce himself upward and down ... up and down ... all grace and rhythm, effortlessly athletic ... the mattress and bed frame squeeking away beneath us ... 'riding the pole' as Jim used to call it- poking at my English sensibilities which recoil at such phrases.

It's too much; as if the physical sensations weren't enough, when I can pry open a lid I have the unspeakable view of this pure, porcelain skinned boy thrusting, grunting, clenching me with those tight inner muscles, forcing the highly undignified animal sounds from me, all whilst he pays me no heed at all- totally lost in the sensation ... an absolute vision ... face strained, chest flushed and heaving, chin tilted slightly, lips moist and parted, and most breathtaking of all: in his right hand stands his upright penis, being stroked in time to his writhings ... and within a minute, as I watch, his noises suddenly spike in volume and intensity, and my god ... yes ... right before my eyes, it happens- he calls out and orgasms in spectacular fashion, the white spurts of fluid flying, one after another, straight up his chest and at one point, over his own shoulder and back down to the sheet below. Breathtaking. Staggering. Glorious. Magnificent. So bloody hot.

Finally ... moist and panting, he looks down at me, shy at first, eyes alight, then grins and laughs softly as he goes to resume the writhe/rock, however by now the spittle has dried and it simply isn't working. I grasp hold of his hips and he pulls off.

I whisper to him to stay right where he is and slide off the mattress, hips and back moaning, mind in a fog, in total disbelief as I beeline to the dresser that bobbing in front of me is my own half fucked and very hungry erection.

I reach for the small handle, the one I have not touched in eight months, slip open the drawer and then ... freeze. Inside is exactly where he left it ... the lubricant, the expensive imported type Jim preferred. I have a sudden full-color flashback of his crawling to this same drawer, grinning demonically back at me as he often did in the midst of a lazy Sunday afternoon lovemaking session ... teasing me and calling me 'old man' before slithering back to bed ... it, like all of the hauntings I have experienced since his death, leaves me momentarily catatonic and immediately bereft. My chest tightens as if I've been kicked, and a wall of helplessness and despair washes over me.

The boy on the bed has no idea, of course ... has never experienced anything so painful in his young life. I turn to him.

He has laid himself over a pillow, watching me, entirely unaware of the shift in my mood.

"I'm sorry Kenny," I whisper, "I can't do this."

His face falls.

"But ... why?"

I move to sit on the nearest chair.

"What's wrong?" He looks wounded.

"Please don't ask me to explain. It's not you, I promise; it's me."

I can see in his face that he doesn't believe me but thankfully, he has the sense not to press the issue. He moves quietly from the bed, gathers his clothes, and with slumped shoulders, walks into the bathroom. A moment later the shower is turned on.

I lean forward on my elbows and drop my head in my hands.

The familiar voice immediately leaps on me.

"Excellent. Great job, old man. Listen to me: I am dead ! You are not ! Life IS for the living ! You don't deserve it if you waste it! Since when are you so egotistical you won't listen to a dead man!"

Shut up, Jim! Leave me alone!

"No I will not leave you alone! You make me sick- the very first piece of ass you've had in 8 months and you pull this ? You should've seen the look on your face! I was so happy for you I was singing ! I swear to god I could strangle you!"

Stop it. Please. I beg you.

"Fucking coward! You want him! You're in love with him!"

No, I sob.

"Yes!" He shrieks. "You think I don't know you? It's the first I've been able to stand to look at you in all this time! You will not use me as an excuse to fold up and die!"

I raise my head and speak into the room.

"No, I was rather going to use a gun."

He pauses. He softens.

"You're breaking my heart, George."

I sniffle.

You broke mine.

"But that wasn't my fault. If you kill yourself, it will all be down to you. You have a choice; I didn't."

I wipe the tears streaming down my face.

I can't get past it. I can't.

"Yes you can. You're already on your way." He points. "Listen to me. That door is a portal. Go through it! Don't make him pay cuz he was stupid enough to care."

I look at the door. I blubber.

I-I don't know what to do about that. I didn't expect it. I didn't look for it. I don't know what to do.

He whispers.

"Yes you do. Be brave. He was. Go in there. For me. Don't break his heart, too."

I wipe my nose on my hand.

He's just a boy for heaven's sake.

He grins.

"He's 20. And whip smart. I was 21 when you picked me up, in case you've forgotten."

You picked me up. And that's different. I was much closer to your age.

"You were 36!"

I'm his teacher, Jim!

"So don't be- transfer to UCLA, already. How many more times are they gonna ask you before they stop?"

I fidget.

I cannot have an affair with a student.

"This isn't an affair." The curls are tenderly brushed back from my forehead. "This is a love story."

I snort.

Uh huh ... know something I don't?

He stops.

"Yes ... he's in love with you."

What are you talking about! He ... we ... Anyway, how would you know?"

"-Also, and I wasn't gonna tell you this, but... he is an angel. I sent him."

I chuckle.

Right, now you're talking complete rubbish. He's as normal and human as any boy.

"Ya, you just found that out, huh?" he belly laughs.

Shut up. I don't believe in such nonsense and you know it.

"You're talking to me, aren't you?"

You're not an angel. You're a nightmare. The only reason I'm talking to you is because I'm losing my mind.

"Thanks. Thanks a lot." He shrugs. "Well, you don't have to believe me ... I mean, hell, what do I know? Other than that I couldn't bear it anymore, day after day, month after month watching you like that."

And so you sent him my way, did you?

The voice smiles.

"Yes." I am kissed. My face is whispered into. "To heal your broken heart."

I am held. The physical contact after so long, the scent, the weight and form ... I can't help it. "Oh, Jim," I sob, and burst into tears.

I am softly shushed. I feel warm breath on my neck.

"Listen to me, George; this is very important. Are you listening?"

Sniffle. Yes.

"There's only one man in the world. Do you understand? One man ... with many faces." My wet cheek is kissed. "One falls, the next one rises."

I blink.

I am stilled and calmed.

The room is peaceful.

I look.

The room is empty.

There is a squeak from the direction of the bathroom, the sound of the shower being turned off.

A quick disorienting push propels me forward and suddenly I'm at the shower door.

The lad is inside, facing away, still fiddling with the nozzle, which is old and so it sticks and squeaks.

I watch him a moment.

Many faces.

I disrobe and pop open the door.

He turns. Those big doe eyes widen and glow in the foggy dim light. He isn't sure what is going on.

"It's stuck," he offers. Perhaps I've come in to help ?

I look at him. His beauty, even for a celestial being, sets me back on my heels. I reach for the handle, and turn the dial back on.

He looks at me in confusion.

I take his hand, pull him under the warm spray, and fall forward into my future.