There had always been tension between them. From the very first time their eyes met, they couldn't just leave each other alone.

For Pitt Mackeson, it was a deeply ingrained survival strategy - he defended against feelings of affection by replacing them with emotions that were less dangerous. Competition, jealousy, hatred. Mackeson had long ago determined never to feel anything tender again. Never to allow a bond to be formed so that it could once again, inevitably, be torn apart. Never again to feel the overwhelming pain of loss that had almost destroyed the 14-year old boy whose entire family had been murdered before his horrified adolescent eyes. The helplessness he'd felt then as he hid in the bushes, hearing his family's screams, watching the flames engulf the only home he'd ever known - Mackeson was determined never to feel it again. He would never be helpless, and he would never again love.

Buried deep within the still-young man's unconscious six years later were these burning memories of his family's slaughter, a never-ending wellspring for the violence that bubbled up with any slight provocation. Being a Bushwhacker was the perfect vocation for Mackeson. It gave him a license to hate - to kill. Each time he pulled the trigger, he shot one of his ghosts through the heart. And for the briefest moment, as he watched the life drain from them as it had from his mother, his father, his sister, Pitt Mackeson felt better.

But it never lasted. The bitterness returned, driving him to the next opportunity to vent his lust for revenge.

When he met Jake Roedel, Pitt had already been with the Bushwhackers nearly a year. They were both 20, barely more than boys. In fact, everyone called Jake "Dutchy" as much in recognition of his youth and friendly disposition as of his heritage. He seemed to require a nickname. Dutchy's face still retained some of its boyish roundness, breaking into dimples when he smiled. And Dutchy smiled a lot. Even after he'd been with the Bushwhackers a while, with all the bloodshed he'd seen and caused, Dutchy could still find reasons to smile. A beautiful sunset, someone singing a familiar tune as they huddled around the fire, a shared joke - any of these things that Mackeson found unbearable could make Dutchy's face light up like a child's. To Pitt, they only threatened to call up memories that were too painful to endure, to make him feel the excruciating loss he'd buried beneath his impervious fa�ade.

In the beginning, Pitt thought that was why he hated Dutchy so much - the young man's stubborn refusal to give in to cynicism and despair. His smile and the warmth in his brown eyes were a constant reminder of the joy in life that Pitt no longer had. Yet try as he might to avoid Roedel, Mackeson found himself inexplicably drawn to him. Found himself staring surreptitiously at Dutchy's boyish face, fascinated by the curve of his lips and the sound of his laugh. Sometimes Pitt would stare transfixed for long minutes, unaware that his pale face reflected for those moments the emotions he had so consciously denied and carefully buried - lips parted slightly, vivid blue eyes intense with interest, a faint blush coloring his high cheekbones. He was unaware too that there were no small number of lonely men who were equally transfixed by Pitt's own beauty. For he was undeniably beautiful. Especially in those moments when the feelings broke through and softened his steely expression. Then Pitt Mackeson's face could have been that of a pretty girl - delicate, sculpted features, dark lashes framing his sapphire eyes, lush full mouth pink and sensual. His long, dark hair fell in unruly tresses over his thin shoulders, so fine that every small movement lifted silky strands and tossed them in the breeze.

The way Mackeson looked wasn't lost on Dutchy either. For the life of him, Roedel could not understand Pitt's dislike of him, no matter how friendly he tried to be. It seemed the more he went out of his way to befriend Pitt, the more the angry young man despised him. Yet Roedel was intrigued by the incongruous combination of beauty and violence that was Pitt Mackeson. As they sat around the fire on cold nights, Dutchy found himself staring at the man whose eyes always blazed so full of hatred, repelled yet fascinated by the depth of his apparent rage. Unable to correlate that violence with the sight that met his eyes - Pitt sat as close to the men surrounding him as any of them, yet it was as though he was totally alone, isolated from everyone by his invisible walls. His eyes cast down, Mackeson's long thick lashes rested on his prominent cheekbones. The warmth of the fire had blushed his cheeks and reddened his generous lips, and its light reflected in the shiny untamed mane that hung half over his face. Roedel caught other men glancing at Pitt too, some of them no doubt wishing they could possess his full mouth, run their fingers through his long silky hair, claim his slender androgynous body for their pleasure.

As Mackeson got up to leave, Dutchy let his gaze follow, noting the young man's graceful agility, the feminine curve of his ass apparent as he walked away without goodbye. He had a way of walking that wouldn't let Jake look away, a subtle sway to his slim hips that set many men's imaginations running. Dutchy had never before desired a man - in fact, he had only recently for the first time desired a woman - but that was true for most of the men whose lust was inflamed by the beautiful Pitt Mackeson. Everyone looked, but no one was crazy enough to touch. No one dared to reach out, physically or emotionally, to the damaged and defensive young man. Mackeson remained enticing but alone, his pretty features instead inspiring fantasies of the girlfriends and fianc�es and wives left behind.

For the year they traveled together, ostensibly on the same side, Roedel and Mackeson found it impossible either to get along or to leave each other alone. Again and again they clashed, over the smallest decisions, the most trivial differences. Dutchy watched incredulously as Mackeson went out of his way to be cruel, repulsed by the way the other man's eyes lit up when he killed, the way his usually expressionless face was transformed with emotion in that moment - with hatred and revenge. Roedel knew the story - they all knew - that Pitt's entire family had been murdered in front of him, brutally and apparently with a great deal of glee on the part of the drunken marauders, while the terrified boy crouched where his father had hidden him, with a ringside view of the carnage. But Dutchy didn't understand what that had done to Pitt, what it had killed in him and what it had left in its wake. Not yet.

Most frustrating and confusing of all to Roedel were Mackeson's rage at him, the only one in the camp who ever bothered to attempt to show the unfriendly young man some kindness. As the months went by, Mackeson took to tormenting Roedel unprovoked, going out of his way to show him up, take him on. Each time Dutchy looked at him with sympathy or kindness, Pitt was gripped with a deep unconscious terror. His schema for survival dictated that he never feel for anyone again, never be vulnerable to the pain that had come so close to destroying him completely. Whenever his eyes met the soft brown ones, Pitt came dangerously close to feeling - an unfamiliar quickening of body and heart that he couldn't allow. And so he set out to drive the threat away, to erase the warmth on Roedel's boyish face, the interest in his big guileless eyes.

Roedel alternated between feeling disgusted with Pitt and feeling sorry for him. It seemed impossible that a person could appear so angelic on the outside and behave like the devil himself. For some reason, the contradiction annoyed Dutchy every time he was confronted with it. As though Mackeson should be able to snap out of his self-imposed exile and live up to his own beauty. It just seemed a tragic waste.

More than once, Pitt Mackeson invaded his dreams. Dutchy woke with fragmented, mozaic images - a loaded gun in his face, Pitt's humorless sadistic laugh, then suddenly Roedel saw himself silencing the other man with his rough kiss, feeling the coldness give way to yielding softness as he worked his tongue between those provocative lips, his hands searching out the soft smoothness of Mackeson's bare skin under his shirt, the gentle curves under his trousers. Sometimes in his dreams it wasn't his tongue he forced between those generous lips. He woke confused, his body throbbing with desire, incredulous at the tangled mix of emotions Pitt inspired. Embarrassed by his physical reaction. It made Mackeson get to him all the more.

Pitt Mackeson's dreams were always the same. There was no room for tenderness or desire. The violent images of the trauma that had shaped his life lay in wait each day, repressed by the force of Mackeson's will. But at night, when the young man's will was helpless, the memories tormented him. Vivid and real, full of his mother's screams and his father's blood. Sometimes he woke with his arms outstretched, instinctively reaching out to someone - anyone - for the support and affection he so desperately needed. Hands open in supplication, clutching at nothing, then slowly balling into fists as Mackeson curled up around himself, alone, his pretty face wet with the tears he wouldn't allow himself to cry. Sometimes he woke calling out a name - a young boy's cry for his mother - sometimes it was for Dutchy, the handsome young man who had showed him kindness that he couldn't accept or return. And it only made Mackeson hate him more.

-------------------------------------------------------

Still, there were times when I saw the other side of Pitt Mackeson - or more precisely, a few times I caught a glimpse of the young man underneath the hard, cruel exterior. The boy who could have been.

Pitt never joined the rest of us when we played cards or sat around the fire to sing ballads, tell tall tales. But from time to time I saw him watching us, standing on the outskirts, his lean form pressed against a tree, just staring. Once, curious, I left the group and circled around behind where he stood, watching him as he watched everyone else. He could have been a girl standing there, one delicate hand resting against the bark. The breeze played with his long hair and he shifted position restlessly, with a subtle sinuous sway of his hips. Maybe that was the first time I was aware of the tightness in my chest as I took in the image of him. The fullness elsewhere.

"Why don't you join us?" I asked in a voice that came out more entreating than I intended. Pitt whirled around like he'd been shot, eyes wide, his gun pulled and aimed at my head in one smooth, fluid movement. Startled, I raised my hands to show I had no weapon.

"Hey, I just asked you if you wanted to play cards. Jesus, don't shoot me!"

For just a moment, his incredible blue eyes were unguarded, and I saw an expression of disbelief, incredulity. For just a moment, I knew he was tempted to respond to me, to the invitation I knew he could read in my face. So, foolishly, I pressed on. "I hardly even know you, Mackeson - I'd like to..."

But I never got to finish my admission. It was like a veil came down over his eyes, hardening them, freezing all the expression from his pretty face.

"Leave me alone," he said angrily. "What the hell are ya' doin' sneaking up on a person like that?"

"I wasn't sneakin', I was..." /What was I doing? Looking at him.../ "I just wanted to ask ya'..."

And just like that, Pitt Mackeson turned on his heel and walked away without a backward glance. I watched open-mouthed, feeling stupid and inexplicably hurt. Like I'd been rejected by a lover instead of an antisocial man I hardly knew. Damn him! I vowed that would be the last time I'd try. Yet that look on his face haunted me, that moment of vulnerability when he'd looked so human - and so beautiful. I could still feel the fire that had swept through me as he fixed me with those azure eyes.

So, despite my resolve, I tried again. One night when there was a full moon and we pulled watch together. When the captain called the orders and I realized I'd be spending the night with him, my heart raced in anticipation. Surely now he'd talk to me.

Mackeson cast me a surly glance before mounting his horse and starting up the hill to the watch, leaving me to gallop behind. I reined in alongside him when we reached the summit.

"So..." I began. Suddenly I found myself shy, with nothing to say, my hands damp as they twirled the leather reins nervously. He half turned when I spoke, regarding me with disinterest from under his hat. I tried again. "So, how've ya' been, Pitt?"

Now he looked annoyed. "Best not to talk while we watch, don'tcha think Dutchy?" he asked acidly. Cold. Sarcastic as he said my name. Again I felt the sting of pain. Why did he have the capacity to hurt me like this?

"I... I just..." But I couldn't explain it even to myself. Why I was so attracted to him, why I so desperately wanted to know him. I gulped and turned away so he wouldn't see my hurt, but I guess he did because he seemed to soften momentarily. I could feel his eyes on me.

"I can't do it, Dutchy," he suddenly said, softly but with unfamiliar feeling in his voice. I wasn't sure I'd heard him - or what he meant. When I turned to him he was looking right at me, with the saddest expression on his face. The pain was so visible in his eyes, so tangible in the set of his jaw, that I felt my heart would break if I couldn't touch him, if I couldn't hold him. Without thinking I reached out to lay my hand on his arm, and as suddenly as he had connected with me he withdrew, wheeling his horse around violently and galloping across the ridge, away from me. But not before I'd seen it - the hurt and loneliness he tried so hard to hide. That made me care about him even as he pushed me away.

Sometimes when I'd wake in the night, feeling lonely and disconnected, I'd find him where he slept, always separate and alone. In sleep he looked even younger than his twenty years, like an innocent angelic young boy, his dark hair spread out beneath him. So beautiful. Sometimes he'd cry out in his sleep as I watched him, and again I'd see the pain he hid from the world. I ached to clasp his open hands when he reached out, but I didn't dare. I knew he would just hurt me. Keep me away.

The only time I ever touched him during that long, interminable year was when I was ordered to. A debilitating flu struck our depleted band of bushwhackers in the early fall, just as the air became crisp and the leaves began to color. Almost a third of us were stricken, unable to keep down even the meager food and water we subsisted on, and soon weakness and dehydration began to take a toll. The captain ordered those of us who were young and strong to tend the sickest, the ones who without intervention would surely die, too weak to nurse themselves back to health. "We need every man," the captain reminded us gravely. And it was true.

"Heh! You should let that one die," the bitter young man next to me spat as we walked through the camp, gesturing at Mackeson. "He's crazy anyway."

"Can't afford to," the captain returned. "He's crazy but he's smart and he's fearless, and we need him." The captain's eyes met mine. Jesus, I thought, does he know? Did my expression betray my unwanted but suddenly very real concern for him?

"Dutchy," he said, "you always have a kind word for everyone. Will you try? If he's too far gone, you can forget it, but..."

Suddenly that idea was terrifying. The dislike I was trying to develop for Mackeson wasn't going all that well, I guess. The thought of him dying there...

"I'll try, captain," I heard myself say.

The rest walked on, searching for others in need of help, leaving me alone with Pitt. Of course he'd been laying far from anyone else, sick and alone but unwilling to ask for help. For a minute I just wanted to look at him, when he was helpless and couldn't hurt me with his biting tongue. He was pale as ivory, the perfect white skin of his face and neck in stark contrast to the thick black lashes resting against his prominent cheekbones, his full pink lips. He lay sprawled on his back, one arm flung above and tangled in his long hair, legs splayed as though he still fought to get up.

His shirt was wet with sweat and filthy, and as I watched he shivered a little in the autumn chill. Sighing, nervous, I reached down to unbutton it, my fingers fumbling. He stirred when I touched him, groaned in his half-sleep, but I persisted. I pulled his arms free one by one and tossed the damp soiled shirt aside. I thought he might wake at this, but instead he sunk back into his stupor, and I allowed myself a moment to look at him again. God, he was thin! The bones of his shoulders and clavicle were clear under the porcelain skin, and I could see the shadowy outlines of his ribs. The cold air hardened his small pink nipples, and set off a chain reaction in my own body.

Still I couldn't tear my eyes away, though I felt myself blush even with no one there to see me. His flat stomach was nevertheless muscular, though the waist was tiny. My breath catching, feeling guilty but excited, I let my eyes roam lower. Let myself imagine touching him, wondering if he'd like it. Glancing from side to side like a criminal, I ran my hand furtively across his bare chest, stroking the pale skin lightly. My hand moved lower as though caught in a force I couldn't resist, feeling the hollow above his slender hips, the flat velvety softness of his belly. With effort, I pulled away and reached up to brush his disheveled hair off his face, almost sighing audibly at its silky texture. Wanting to run the long strands through my fingers, brush it until it gleamed as I'd seen it before in the fire.

He stirred then, reaching out blindly and moaning, and I quickly covered him with the warm, dry blanket the captain had provided, tucking it tightly around him. His eyelids fluttered open with effort and he stared at me confused, disoriented. I didn't think he even knew where he was, but he surprised me.

"Dutchy?" he asked weakly, his voice a breathy whisper. I blushed more, feeling I'd been caught wanting him, like he must have known what I'd been thinking.

"Shh, Mackeson, you've practically gone and died on us. The captain ordered me to try to bring ya' back to life. Here, try to drink some of this."

I held the spoon of warm broth to his mouth, trying to be clinical, and to my surprise he obeyed. After four or five sips he fell back exhausted.

"You have ta' have more Pitt," I said more gently. He looked so frail, so pretty, laying there waiting for my help. "Rest for a while, then I'll get ya' more."

And for a while, he let me. For the better part of the day and into the night, I held his head and helped him drink, held the spoon while he ate. Now and then our eyes met, and again I saw some of the emotion he usually repressed. Psychological defenses weakened along with the physical ones, the pain and longing seeped into his soft blue eyes, moistening and warming them as he looked at me. I wanted to say something to let him know he didn't have to be afraid, that I had no intention of hurting him, but in truth it was me who was afraid. Afraid of the rejection he inevitably meted out to me when I tried to connect with him. The rejection that came when I finally had to touch him.

He was looking stronger, sitting up with the blanket still draped over his thin shoulders, able now to eat the soup by himself. His unruly hair fell across his face, obscuring his eyes, but leaving me a tempting view of his voluptuous mouth, moist and pink from the hot broth. I thought suddenly of my dreams of him, and a surge of desire swept through me, a pang of tenderness for him, relief that he wasn't going to die. Overcome by the strength of my tangled emotions, I reached out to push the strands of long hair from his face. Instantly he reached up to grab my hand roughly, pushing me away from him. His blue eyes flashed with the familiar rage, all the warmth and softness erased. When he spoke, his voice was cold as the autumn night had become.

"Don't touch me, Roedel." He turned away, hair blowing behind him with his sudden movement. "I don't need yer help anymore. I'm fine."

My heart broke with the absolute dismissal of his words, the complete rejection. No gratitude, no return of my kindness. No affection. If he couldn't return my feelings after I'd saved his life, what hope did I have of ever getting through to him?

So a part of me was relieved when he finally found a way to hurt me enough to make me give up on him. Finally, at the end of that long year of violence and deprivation, in the heat of battle and in what had come to feel like desperation, Mackeson turned to his habitual method of vanquishing his demons - he shot me. The bullet only grazed my leg, it was true, but I think the effect was gratifying. Pitt sat astride his horse watching as I looked up at him in shocked disbelief, then in rage.

The wound the bullet caused in my leg I could have forgiven him - but not the wound it made in my heart. Pitt Mackeson was the first person I ever wanted - hell, the first person I ever loved. And since he refused to love me back, to give in to the feelings I'd glimpsed in those few loaded moments, I tried instead to hate him. The unwanted connection finally broken.

Or that was what I thought. Fuck Pitt Mackeson, fuck his brilliant blue eyes and silky long hair and voluptuous lips that always made my heart beat faster. Fucking crazy bastard, let him rot alone.

And for the most part, for the better part of the next year, I forgot him. I parted company with the rest of the bushwhackers after he shot me, holed up in a more civilized place to recuperate. Away from the violence. And life took unexpected but strangely satisfying turns. I found myself with a wife and baby, the child of my best friend whose loss had shaken me badly. She wanted me, and soon I wanted her too, at least physically, warm and soft and giving, taking away the pain of all I'd seen and lost. Sometimes I'd find myself absently running my hand over the red scar on my thigh where Pitt's bullet had hit me, and I'd wonder where he was, if he was even still alive. Sometimes when I'd kiss Sue Lee's mouth I'd wonder what it would have been like to kiss him. Sometimes still in my dreams I wrestled with him, sometimes in rage, sometimes in desire. But mostly I just forgot. Until I found myself plunged into the same sort of trauma that had shaped him.

We had been traveling for days, my little family, wagons full of supplies for starting our new life, for making a home of our own. It's true, I didn't love her, but I was determined to do right by Sue Lee - for Jack Bull, and for his baby. I'll never know if I really could have done it.

The woods were still dangerous. Hates and resentments ran high even as the fighting died down but still simmered. And ex-bushwhackers like me were still the logical targets for revenge. But I was careful. Or so I thought. Looking back now, it almost seems like Pitt Mackeson was meant to be a warning, a phantom image of violence and revenge from my past that should have made me more vigilant. He rode into view alone, lean body one with the horse, hair as long and wild as ever under his hat and that same expressionless glare on his pretty face. This time it was me who pointed a gun at him, my finger twitching on the trigger, remembering our last encounter and feeling the itch of the scar on my leg. I'd never expected to see him again. Mackeson's only response was to grin at me, without warmth or feeling, as though he didn't care at all whether he lived or died, but was merely amused at my show of emotion.

"Ya' gonna shoot me, Dutchy?" he asked in a slow drawl, leaning forward in the saddle to meet my eyes. Blazing sapphire blue. Damn him.

"I ain't even pulled my gun," he teased, daring me. I kept my rifle pointed at his chest, suddenly remembering the time I'd touched him there, his skin like satin under my guilty hands. Pushing the memory away, I gestured up the hill in the direction he'd come.

"Get out of here, Pitt, if ya' don't want me to repay the favor ya' paid me last spring. Get out or I swear I'll kill you," I said evenly, angrily. And I think I half meant it. The feelings I'd been denying for the past six months swept over me like a hurricane when I looked at him. The strength of my desire for him - and my caring - and the biting pain of his rejection.

For just a moment his sardonic smile wavered, then he turned his horse, tipping his hat to me solemnly before he galloped up the hill and disappeared into the woods. My heart kept pounding a long time after, but I went about the business of breaking camp and tried to ignore it. Trying not to picture the blue of his eyes, trying to deny the spark I was sure I'd seen there for just a second.

When I heard hoofbeats crackle over the leaves I thought it was him returning, then realized with a start that I was hearing more than one horse. And then it happened, so fast that I never got a shot off. Four riders whirling through the makeshift camp, bullets whizzing by me as I tried frantically to get to Sue Lee and the baby. They were laughing as they grabbed her by the hair and tore her dress, two of them holding me as I struggled to get to her, and then in slow motion I saw the first of their bullets hit her in the back, then another in the chest, then to my horror I saw that one had hit the child she still clutched in her arms. I was staring into the face of the madman who had shot them as he raised his rifle to my head, and then there was a shot. I felt the wind, heard the resounding blast, and I thought I was dead. Then he fell at my feet. One, two, three more shots as the marauders scrambled, confused, finally shooting back at a solitary rider who had galloped into their midst. Still in shock, I felt myself lifted by one arm onto the rider's horse and carried off, belly down on the galloping animal, the breath knocked out of me.

All I could think of was that I had to get back there and save them - my family, my responsibility. Screaming in panic, I finally wrenched myself free from the rider's grasp and threw myself off the horse, rolling over the grass and trying frantically to escape. Scrambling to my feet on the force of my pumping adrenalin, I began to run back. Back towards my family, back towards the killers. All the while knowing in my heart that they were dead.

Cursing, Pitt Mackeson dismounted and came after me, grabbing me around the legs to bring me down.

"Give it up, Dutchy, damn it," he swore at me. "They're gone! They're gone, ya' can't save 'em. If ya' go back there, they'll kill you too."

I knew it was true, yet when I saw who it was who was preventing me from going back, I went berserk, pummeling him wildly, inciting his own rage that always lay just below the surface. Whatever had possessed Mackeson to return when he heard the shots, what unconscious moment of caring had made him try to save me - now his regret of those forbidden feelings made him as angry and wild as me. We fought viciously, taking out our rage at the world on each other, hurting each other. Mackeson was no match for me without a gun though. I was more muscular and heavier, and I used his slender build against him, encouraged by how thin he felt as I grappled with him.

When I finally got him wrestled to the ground face-down under me, his pretty face turned to one side against the hard-packed dirt, all the conflicted emotions of the past two years erupted in a rush of violence I had never before experienced. Pent up rage, pent up lust, it galvanized into an uncontrollable need to master him - as though by conquering this devil I could somehow conquer my own.

Looking back now, it seems impossible that under those horrible circumstances I was excited and filled with desire, after the violence I'd just witnessed and the loss I'd just endured. But it all got wrapped up in this enigmatic man who, if only he'd let himself, could have been my lover. Instead of Sue Lee. Somehow it all became about Pitt Mackeson.

It was as though I was in my dreams, acting out in reality what I'd so often done when my conscious mind slept. I ripped his trousers down before I was even aware of what I intended, my body's determination obliterating any thought, using my own spit and sweat to slick myself. It wasn't until he cried out in shock and pain as I stabbed into him that I realized what I was doing, and how wrong it was. But even then, for a few more moments, I couldn't stop myself. My hips thrust forward automatically, taking him, forcing him finally to let me in - physically if he never would emotionally. And then I froze, shaking with the effort of stopping myself.

Awareness returned with my stillness, and I felt him shaking too, his slender body wracked with spasms of pain, muscles tensed beneath me, fighting my invasion.

"Jesus, God, I...I didn't, I didn't..." I stammered, feeling close to tears and not knowing words profound enough to apologize for what I'd done, still half disbelieving I'd done it. I pulled back, trying to separate our bodies with some delinquent gentleness, when suddenly he reached around and grabbed my arm roughly, pulling it around his heaving chest so that my body was once again pressed tightly against him.

"Don't..." he sobbed against the dirt, his voice cracking. "Don't stop."

I didn't think I'd heard him, he couldn't have said what it sounded. But he held my arm around him in a viselike grip, his long fingers digging into my flesh, his body trembling involuntarily. The look on his face was one of desperation, full of need and determination. And I had the sudden earth-shaking revelation that this was the closest anyone had ever gotten to Pitt Mackeson - that this was the only time in seven years that this boy had felt the press of human contact. Realized with horror and shame that I had made it violent and ugly, and still he couldn't let go. Or did he want the pain? The degradation, the punishment for his shame, the imagined sin of letting his family die? I knew I couldn't give him that, couldn't let this be rape, in spite of what I'd started.

I leaned down on him slowly, and hesitantly laid my head against his slim shoulder, feeling the silky softness of his long hair caress my cheek. One hand still around his chest, I brought the other up to run my fingers through his tangled locks, then down to his face, tracing the delicate jaw and sculpted cheekbones. Pitt stiffened in my grasp, trying frantically now to pull away.

"No," he pleaded, "don't... don't, please..." Tenderness, that was what Pitt Mackeson was terrified of. Not of my piercing his virgin body, but of my breaking through the barrier he kept around his pounding heart. He sobbed as I continued to caress his face, our bodies still connected, until the tears began to trickle down his dust-covered cheeks in wet streaks. I kissed him then, on the pale skin of his neck below his ear, on the side of his damp face, with him moaning like I was hurting him, like my lips were fire burning through the tightly chinked logs of his emotional fortress. I wondered if he'd ever been kissed, even once since his mother's lips had last touched him as a child. And even as he fought me I knew there was a part of him that wanted to respond to my tenderness - the part that still reached out to no one in his sleep, that still brought tears to his dreams. A part that was dying to be touched, to be loved.

"Shhh," I whispered against his ear, brushing his wild hair off his face until I could see his eyes. He wouldn't look at me, but even at this angle I could see their beauty, their deep moist blue. "I won't hurt you."

His full lower lip quivered at this, as though he were fighting with himself, then he sobbed anew though his body remained limp and unresisting. "Hurt me," he pleaded, his voice forced and breathless, but I only kissed him gently again, this time on the corner of his trembling, voluptuous mouth. I had thought that my excitement would wane as I stayed unmoving inside him, as the urge to conquer him subsided, but I'd underestimated my attraction for him. My long-ignored need and newfound loneliness. As soon as my lips touched his I felt a surge of renewed desire and my hips thrust against him in response. I realized how long and how desperately I'd wanted him.

Mackeson's body no longer fought me, and a wave of intense pleasure washed over me with my movement. This time it was me who moaned. Pitt seemed to calm then beneath me, hearing my pleasure, allowing me to pull him to his knees so I could reach beneath him and unbutton his shirt. We both knew he could escape now if he wanted to, and I could feel the pull to run in him, see it in his wild eyes. Yet he remained. Pulling the torn and muddied shirt off him, I ran my hands slowly over his bare back, stroking pale skin that was soft as a baby's. Suddenly I wanted to feel his warmth against me, and I tossed my own shirt aside, leaning forward to press my chest against his back, my hands wrapping around him. God, he was thin! I could feel his ribs clearly under the satiny skin, see the delicate bones of his shoulders. As though he hadn't really thought he deserved to nourish himself these past seven years.

My hands smoothed gently over his chest, feeling his nipples harden under my strokes. Pitt whimpered at my touch but didn't try to stop me, and I let my hands slip down his sides to his slim hips, over his taut muscled belly. He trembled again, writhing under me, his movements sending jolts of pleasure through my body where it connected to his. I pressed my lips to his ear again, whispering softly.

"Has anyone ever made love to you, Pitt?" I asked as I let my fingers stroke the insides of his thighs, so soft and perfect, feeling the muscles dance at my touch. He gasped the answer, his breath coming harder, the one word torn from his throat.

"No," he panted, as I wrapped my hand around him, finding him hard and ready.

"I'll be the first then," I told him, stroking up and down his length tentatively.

Not that I'd ever done it before - made love to another man. I felt strangely like I was touching myself, and as he began to move against me I stopped holding myself still and matched the rhythm of my hips to that of my hand. And all the while I kissed his neck, his shoulders, the side of his face, murmuring words I hoped would make what we were doing real to him, make him feel.

"Mmm, ya' feel so good, so good... I wanna make you feel good too, make ya' like it, want it.." All the things I'd wanted to tell him for so long came flooding out, desperately, sincerely. "Jesus, you're so beautiful, so beautiful... so many times I wanted to tell you that, wanted to touch you, wanted you to let me in..." He was making soft, incoherent noises that let me know he heard me as I urged him to let go of the defenses that had kept him alone for so long. "Let me in, Pitt, let me..." He was helping now, bringing his hips up to meet my thrusts, my hand already slick with the wetness that let me know he was close to letting go. I leaned down to watch his pretty face transfigured with ecstasy, felt his lean body tense around me as he came, and then I let myself go too, trying to fill both his body and his soul at once, crying out with him as the waves of pleasure rolled over me.

When I found my senses again I was flat on top of him, my whole weight pressed down on his slender form. Pitt fought for breath under me, exhausted and gasping, and I knew I should climb off. Yet I was reluctant. Would he run, or had we really shared some intimacy, something more than the physical contact?

I needed him now.

Gently I broke away and rolled beside his limp form, keeping my arm around his bare back. To my relief, he made no move to rise, eyes still closed as he panted through parted lips. I ran my hand softly over his shoulders and into his long wild hair, stroking the back of his head as one might comfort a child.

"Pitt, look at me. I need to know yer okay." I knew he heard me, watched his bottom lip quiver, but he didn't open his eyes.

"Please?" I asked again softly, letting the emotion into my voice. "Please look at me, I don't want to be alone, and I don't want you to be." I paused, hoping he would meet my gaze.

"Will you stay with me, Pitt?" It wasn't what I'd planned on saying - truly until I said it, I didn't know how much I did want to be with him. I didn't want to give up now. "I... I want to know you... will you let me?" I ran my thumb gently over his dirty, tear-streaked cheek, letting it slide down to his voluptuous mouth.

"Will you ever want to do this again?" I asked hesitantly, voicing my stream of consciousness thoughts to his unresponsive pretty face. "Pitt?" Now I let my loneliness shape my words as he refused to acknowledge me. "Do you want me to go?" I asked, my voice cracking as I realized how much I didn't want to.

Reluctantly, as though he had been in the dark a long time and was afraid the light would hurt him, Mackeson opened his eyes, the long wet lashes slowly parting to reveal the sapphire blue beneath. I locked my eyes to his, trying to read the feelings there, terrified I would only see the icy cold that had always before been in his stare. It was a long time before he answered, just holding my gaze unflinching, long enough for me to see the fear and sadness - and just the smallest glimmer of pleading. He finally spoke against my thumb still on his lips. "No." His voice caught when he said it, but his eyes held mine. "Don't go," he said quietly. Courageously.

And for the first time in the two years I'd known Pitt Mackeson, I found myself smiling at him, surprised at the relief I felt at his words. He stared at me, incredulous that I should feel this for him, whatever warm feeling it was. And in the glow of the relaxed moment, I did what I'd so often done in my dreams - I pressed my lips to his lush full mouth, kissing him gently, not in lust but brimming with affection. He didn't kiss back, and worried I pulled away, looking again into the deep blue eyes questioningly. No anger, no disgust - just awe at what I'd done, and then a slowly spreading warmth that was alien to Pitt Mackeson's beautiful eyes. That made them even more beautiful.

"Your first kiss?" I asked gently, hoping it was, hoping I could be special to him. He nodded almost imperceptibly and I felt the smile return to my face, letting him see what that meant to me. Then my emotions choked me suddenly as he reached out in slow motion, his long fingers trembling, and shyly touched my cheek. I felt the tears spring unbidden to my eyes, knowing he had never before reached out to another human being, overcome that he should do so now - to me. I didn't care that he saw the strength of my feelings. His eyes were wide as he ran his fingers through the tears that ran down my face, then touched my lips, his fingers salty and wet. He had never looked more beautiful, his pretty features softened by the unfamiliar openness he was allowing himself.

I licked his finger teasingly, testing his reaction. Watched his lips part in surprise, but he didn't pull his hand away. So I nibbled at him gently, gratified to see his blue eyes spark with interest. I ran my hands from his hair down over his back, caressing him while I held his stare, daring to stroke the round curve of his ass that had just been mine. At this he gasped out loud and I thought for a moment he would bolt, but instead he clutched at my neck, his hands tangling in my hair as though I might be the one to run.

"More..." he managed, his voice husky.

"Come here," I returned in a whisper, "Let me hold you." I pulled his thin body to me, wrapping my hands tightly around him. He felt so frail in my arms, all soft silky hair and delicate bones. I realized then that the violence and menace Pitt Mackeson had surrounded himself with had served to make him seem bigger than life, more threatening. The boy I cradled against me now was vulnerable and real, and I marveled at his willingness to let me feel it.

Emotional again, I sought his mouth and kissed him, tenderly and full of feeling, filling him with my tongue as I tried to fill him with my affection. My body responded as he returned the kiss, and I was struck all over again by the depth of my desire for him - more intense even than that I'd felt for my own wife, the woman I hadn't loved but had married for my friend's sake. I wondered if this rush of feeling Mackeson inspired in me was in fact love, as I felt his heart pound wildly against my chest.

I wanted him again, wanted to give and take pleasure in all the ways we hadn't tried yet, when I realized Pitt Mackeson was crying. Trying desperately not to, but rapidly losing the battle, his thin shoulders shaking as his slender body was wracked with wrenching sobs. Years of defenses crumbled, he was helpless now to stem the pain of old memories and lost love.

And I was responsible.

So I held him tightly to me, pressing his face to my bare chest and wrapping my arms around him, murmuring words of comfort and caring. "Go ahead, let it out now, I won't leave you." Then, as I began to remember the stories I'd heard about what had happened to him, I forced myself - and him with me - to go further. "It wasn't your fault, Pitt, you were a boy, just one boy. And you couldn't have stopped them. What those bastards did, it was wrong - so wrong! - but it wasn't your fault, it was theirs." I was speaking to myself as well as to him. "Do you hear me Pitt?" And then it was clear he did, because he threw his head back and wailed like a wild animal, thrashing in the grass as I tried frantically to comfort him without stopping him. "Go on, go on," I urged him, "Feel it, you have to feel it." Then, as his wails returned to quieter sobs, I gathered his trembling body back into my arms and stroked his silky hair.

"It's okay now, I'm here," I told him gently. "I know now, I know how ya' feel... how you've felt all these years, I know..."

Mackeson finally drew a shaky breath and spoke softly against my chest, his breath tickling my bare skin. "I'm s-sorry, Dutchy," he said in a quavering voice. "Sorry about your wife and child, sorry I didn't come back sooner."

"Shhh" I soothed, petting him. "You saved my life, Pitt - I'd be dead with them now if you hadn't come back when you did." A wave of guilt swept over me and I clutched him tighter to me. "And I repaid you by taking out all my rage on you. Can you forgive me?"

Mackeson struggled back from my grasp a few inches to stare at my face, like he couldn't believe I had asked for his forgiveness. His big eyes were red and wet, his nose was running. " I shot you, Dutchy," he said weakly.

"And you saved my life, and I... I almost..." I returned, feeling my cheeks hot with embarrassment at the admission.

Then we just left it at that, somehow both feeling even, and he snuggled against me again and let me hold him. I didn't know for certain who the boy in my arms would be when we got back up to face reality. But I knew I wanted to find out.

The End