A Love Like Fireflies

This story involves acts of both sex and romance between consenting adult males, so if that's not allowed where you live then you should march in the streets. I'm releasing this story under Creative Commons by-sa-nc license, which means you can do pretty much whatever you want with it, as long as you give me credit and don't use it for commercial purposes of any kind. If you enjoy the story, I'd love to hear from you. Thanks for reading.

CHAPTER ONE

"Models aren't paid to think. You are paid to stand the way I tell you, and look the way I tell you, and breathe if I give you permission, got that?" This stream of invective was delivered in a choking cloud of cigarette smoke. "Now get the fuck away from me, you fucking meat puppet."

Pete had no response prepared for such an overwhelming load of abuse being heaped on him at once. With a blank, glazed look, he returned to his mark in front of the cameras, next to his fellow model.

They were standing in a cornfield. Or, really, a field that had grown corn previously, but was now a stubbly wasteland, covered with drifts of snow. In the steely blue sky above them the sun shone brightly but without warmth. It was not terribly cold, if one dressed appropriately. Pete was not dressed appropriately. He was wearing, at the moment, a tie. And a pair of white boxer briefs. And that was all. He was cold, and now even his asking an innocent question had been summarily rebuked by that reptilian photographer. This was turning out to be less fun that he'd hoped.

"Nailed ya, did he?" asked his fellow model, who was similarly attired, but did not seem in the least bothered by his state of undress.

"Hell yeah he did," Pete replied. "He called me a 'fucking meat puppet.' What does that even mean?"

"It means you don't ask questions, ever. It sucks, but it's the way these gigs go, so you just learn to shut up and pose."

"I've never done this before," Pete offered, by way of defense.

"No kidding," came the chuckling reply. "What did you ask him, anyway?"

Pete wasn't sure that he should answer this, because it might expose him to more abuse. But this guy looked sincere, and how much worse could his reaction be than the photographer's?

"I asked what we were modeling."

"Why?" He was laughing, but not cruelly, so Pete continued.

"Because I thought I could do a better job if I knew. You know, show the product off better. That kind of thing."

"Look, we're wearing exactly two items of clothing here: a tie, and underwear. That's not a lot to work with in terms of creative expression. It may be the tie, it may be the underwear--ooh, here's a thought--it may be both!" Here he bugged his eyes out and waved his hands in a faux panic. Then he dropped his hands to his sides and continued. "So what? It's not going to change how you wear 'em, right?"

"But why have us just standing here in a barren field if they want people to buy their clothes? It just doesn't make sense."

"Have you been to an X&Y?"

"No," Pete admitted.

"Have to been to an Abercrombie and Fitch?"

"Well, yeah. So?"

"Xavier and Young is trying to be the new A&F. So they're basically copying everything A&F does. A&F has a sexy catalog, so X&Y has a sexy catalog. A&F's models are naked, so X&Y's models are naked. Heh," he chuckled, "A&F has a two-letter name, X&Y has a two-letter name. Not a lot of creativity there, huh?"

"So, that explains us standing in a field--how?" Pete asked.

"Duh. We're mostly naked, and that creep over there is taking our picture. If he thinks we're sexy enough, then we get to be in every X&Y store in the country. The clothes don't matter. What they're selling is us."

Pete considered this.

"Doesn't that sort of make us, well, prostitutes or something?"

"Kind of, yeah. Cool, right? You work out, you pose, you get the money. Is this a great country or what? I mean, look at those guys over at the catering table. See them? The ones in ties and aprons? Well, they haven't taken their eyes off me since I came out of the tent wearing these tight boxers. Every time I flex or smile or whatever they perk up like they hope I'm about to strip off and start beatin' it for them."

Pete saw the hungry, rapt attention of the three cater waiters. He turned back, intending to ask why provoking waiters was a desirable pastime, when he was interrupted.

"Hey--watch this."

As Pete stood bewildered, his companion pretended to notice something terribly interesting on the ground; he turned, facing away from the catering table, and bent over slowly to take a closer look. His arched back caused his his muscular buttocks to be thrust out, and he slowly shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

"So, did they notice?" he asked in a stage whisper.

Pete turned to look at the catering table, and saw all three waiters staring slack-jawed at the white-cotton-covered cheeks. Pete wasn't sure, but they didn't seem to be blinking. Or breathing. One dropped a bottle of mineral water into a bowl of hummus. Clearly this display was having the desired effect.

"Uh, I think they noticed." He turned back and saw that he was once again face to face with his fellow model, who was grinning widely.

"Awesome, right? I could do this all day."

"Why? I mean, why does it matter to you that three waiters--" Here Pete lowered his voice to a whisper, "Who are probably gay--" He returned to normal volume and continued, "are looking at you? Isn't that kind of creepy?"

"Hell no it ain't creepy! Why have a body like this if no one's going to look at it?" He breathed deeply and sighed. "This is the best job in the world, man!"

Pete was not sure he shared his new colleague's enthusiasm. This modeling job had been his mom's idea, to help him make some money for college in the fall; she had a friend who had some cousin who knew someone at the agency.

"You do this a lot?" Pete asked.

"As often as I can. But this is The Show, right here. The stuff I did before was all local--health clubs, sporting goods, that kind of thing. But this, this is the real deal. We get in the X&Y catalog, we're set. If we can really sex it up, we might get put up in the stores. Sky's the limit then."

Pete was about to ask what it might mean to "sex it up," but he was interrupted by the shrill rantings of the photographer.

"All right, bitches," he shouted, meaning everyone of any gender in the range of his voice. "Let's get this thing done. I want those assholes at Abercrombie and Fitch to fucking kill themselves when they see this."

He approached the models, in a fog of cigarette smoke and obsequious assistants, and began to shout instructions.

"Okay, you, the blond one," he gestured at the one who was not Pete, "Stand more to the left. No, you moron, my left! It's always my left. Jesus fucking Christ where do we find this meat?" He paused to consider the shot. "Now, you, the dark one," he pointed impatiently at Pete, who was momentarily caught off guard by being referred to by his hair color, "stand next to him. That's it, facing him. Closer. Closer. Closer. Good. Closer. Closer!"

Pete and his fellow model had not been introduced, but they now stood together on the same square foot of cornfield, their bodies almost touching. Pete could feel warm breath on his face, could see goosebumps on the collarbone in front of him.

"CLOSER!"

There was really no way for them to get closer without wearing the same pair of underwear, but they tried. They were touching now, their nipples meeting, the fronts of their boxer briefs brushing against each other. Pete told himself it was the cold that made his nipples harden. He looked into the golden eyes of his counterpart, and knew he had to say something.

"I don't think we can get any closer," he whispered.

"Yeah, we can. Follow my lead."

At this, the golden eyes slowly closed, as the face drew closer to Pete. Before he knew what was happening, he could feel lips a whisper away from his own. Not a kiss, not yet, but the hint of contact. A warmth spread through his mouth, his face, his body, and in the background, somewhere, he could hear the click-click-click of the shutter racing impossibly fast to capture this moment. Then, he suddenly realized, he was being kissed. His fear of the photographer's anger kept him rooted in place as the kiss deepened and the shutter reached some sort of climax of clicking. Suddenly, the noise stopped.

"And that is how it's done, bitches! Let's get the fuck out of here," shouted the photographer, who swept away with his attendants in tow.

It was only when the kiss ended that Pete realized he had closed his eyes as well. Suddenly, he didn't feel well, and his knees gave way. He pitched forward helplessly, into the catching arms of "the blond one," who kept him from crashing to the ground.

"Can we get some water over here?" shouted Pete's rescuer. He was delighted to see that the three cater waiters fought over who should be the water bearer; in the end he had his choice of three water bottles handed to him by three waiters sporting three very visible hard-ons. Just another reason to love this job. He chose a water bottle at random, and brought it up to Pete's mouth.

"Here," he said to Pete, as he held the bottle of water to his lips. This act, of pouring water into Pete's open and grateful mouth, caused the waiter whose bottle was being used to suddenly ejaculate in his pants. He turned and bolted for the catering van without looking back.

"Thanks," murmured Pete, when he had swallowed several gulps of water. His strength was returning, and he stood upright once again.

"Looks like you're feeling stronger."

The smirk with which this remark was delivered worried Pete. He looked down to see, to his horror, that the head of his erect penis was now protruding from the waist of his X&Y winter-weight no-fly boxer briefs.

Oh, fuck.

"Oh, fuck," Pete said, mortified. He tucked his stiff member back into the pouch as best he could, and blushed furiously.

"No worries, buddy. That kiss got me plumped up a bit too. My drawers are just too tight for the dragon to poke his head out."

"But, but," Pete stammered, "I don't know how this happened. I'm not ... I mean, I don't ..."

"Look, forget about it. The important thing is that Mr. Asshole Q. Photographer got the shot he wanted, which means that we have a shot at the big time. Thanks for playing along. Oh, and sorry about sticking my tongue in your mouth. I kind of got carried away."

"Oh," was all Pete could think of to say. He'd had another guy's tongue in his mouth? What the fuck?

"I guess since we're on such intimate terms, we should introduce ourselves. I'm Nick."

Pete looked at the hand offered to him. He took it, haltingly.

"I'm Pete and I'm not gay." Where this blurting introduction came from Pete was not sure. But he felt like it was something that he should say. Actually, he probably should have said it before Nick stuck his tongue in his mouth. His tongue! Pete's head whirled a bit again.

"Well, okay then, I guess we'll have to call you Straight Pete. Good to know you, Straight Pete."

"Look, I just wanted you to know that I'm not ... I mean, that kiss ... your tongue ... I ..."

"Oh, that? Look, Pete, don't get any romantic ideas. I'm a confirmed pussy hound from way back. That kiss was to get us in the book, pure and simple. It was a business decision, and I'm just glad you didn't freak out. It'll pay off, I promise."

Pete did not look convinced.

"But damn your lips are soft. I've never kissed a guy with such soft lips. What do you use?"

Pete tried to parse out that statement, to make it make sense. Straight guy, notices my soft lips, compares them to guys he's kissed before, wants to know what I use. There was no logic to it at all. At all.

"They put something on them in the trailer. I don't know. It tasted like strawberry."

"Strawberry! That was it. I couldn't tell what the flavor was. Nice."

Pete was completely overwhelmed, and just wanted to get away from this strange man, and these horny waiters (who are apparently flighty as well--weren't there three of them before?), and this bizarre photography crew. Luckily, his reprieve came quickly.

"All right, we're done here, people," called the photographer's assistant, whose voice was slightly less tobacco-tinged than her boss's.

"Well, it's been nice working with you," beamed Nick, extending his hand again.

"Yeah, you too. And sorry about the, you know ..." Pete gestured vaguely in the direction of his waistband. Nick laughed.

"Hey, I consider it a compliment. You have nothing to be ashamed of, my friend." With that, Nick strolled off to the wardrobe tent to claim his clothes. Pete waited a few minutes before following, so as not to run into Nick as he was changing. Luckily, he didn't feel cold anymore.

CHAPTER TWO

That night, as Pete lay in his bed, he tried to sort out just what had happened today. Specifically, he tried to figure out this Nick guy. He said he's straight, but then there was the kiss. But that was just business, except that he compared it to other times he had kissed guys. And then there was the horrifying boner. Where had that come from? What did it mean?

He turned over in his bed, closed his eyes tight, and tried to sleep. He had school tomorrow, and needed to get some rest before gymnastics practice in the morning. But when he closed his eyes he suddenly saw himself back in that barren field--saw himself from outside his body, above, as Nick leaned in and kissed him.

"Oh, fuck!" he said, too loudly, and turned onto his other side. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to will himself to sleep. He was just starting to fade away when he smelled something odd--strawberries?

He sat up, looked around his dimly lit room, and realized he was imagining the sweet, pungent odor.

"I'm going insane," he muttered to himself, as he flopped back on the bed. He resorted to counting the stars on his ceiling, even though he knew how many there were. He had put them up during a momentary flirtation with astronomy in fifth grade, and to this day 112 of them still glowed dimly in the 20 minutes or so after the lights were turned out. He counted them, twice, and then he was finally asleep.

He was back in the field, back standing toe-to-toe with Nick, back in the moment before Nick kissed him. This time he was not aware of trying to find a way out; this time he was fully aware of the constriction in his underwear. This time he reached up to Nick's neck, and pulled him closer, closer, until their lips pressed hard and wet against each other, until the pressure in his crotch grew to an unbearable level, until he felt himself grinding his distended boxer briefs against Nick's identical pair, feeling the heat and the firmness inside, until--

Pete awoke with a start. His sheets had been ripped off as he dreamed, and now he lay on the bed, his cock protruding from his boxers, rising from his body in the dark, straining. Before he was fully conscious, his prick began to pulse desperately, once, twice, and then the first huge glob of cum blasted from its head. Pete jolted, but was unable to stop the orgasm that was tearing through his body, through his psyche. He gripped the sheets on both sides of his seizing body, and thrashed with the force of it. His balls were drawn up tight, his every muscle tensed, and his cock shot out volley after volley of hot spunk.

Finally the spasms subsided, and Pete tried to catch his breath. Only then did he sense something on his lips, something wet. He darted his tongue out, and found his lips had been covered with his cum. Without thinking, he wiped his tongue across this lips, and then was horrified to realize that he now had a mouthful of his own ejaculate in his mouth. He bolted upright and sputtered, sending drops of semen all over his bed.

As he sat, in the dark, trying not to think, not to think at all about what had just happened, the semen on his chest began to flow down his body, leaving a cold trail behind as it went. Pete shivered in the dark, alone.

CHAPTER THREE

When the morning light flooded into Pete's room, he awoke, peaceful in the quiet of the dawn; then he remembered what had happened the day before, and then what had happened later in bed, and the room spun a bit. Luckily, in the glare of daylight his powers of rational thought returned, and he found a way out.

"It's been almost a week since I jacked off, so of course that would happen," he rationalized. "It had nothing to do with that Nick guy. Just backed up plumbing, that's all." He ran his hand across his chest and felt the dried, crusted remains of his plumbing problem spread from neck to navel. He jumped out of bed and made his way quickly into the shower. As for Nick, he was washed out of Pete's mind just as the spunk was washed from his body. It was an episode that he was determined to put behind him, and he did just that.

The school year was winding down, and Pete had ahead of him the usual cycle of senior-year events: trips, dances, exams, and finally graduation. He managed to maintain his grade point average through the end of the semester, which was critical to his securing the gymnastics scholarship that had been offered him. Several other modeling jobs were offered to him as spring gave way to summer, but he turned them all down--he was busy with other things, and he had plans for summer.

Pete had signed up to spend the summer in a student exchange program, in which students from the US were sent to countries in need of development. This is why Pete found himself at the airport one afternoon in June after graduation, waiting to board a plane to a country he'd not been able to locate on a map two weeks ago. It was in eastern Europe, he knew that much, but beyond that it was a complete mystery.

As he walked into the terminal, he spotted the group's frenetic advisor, Mr. Patronus. He was currently pacing rapidly back and forth, waving his clipboard about and counting students over and over again. As Pete approached, the increasingly frantic advisor caught sight of him, and took great pleasure in ticking off his name.

"Oh, Pete, thank goodness! I was so worried!"

"Mr. Patronus, the plane doesn't take off for three hours. We're fine."

"Oh, yes, yes, but you know how I worry! We've still got two of our people and three from the other high school to find, and then I can relax. Well, once we get through security I can relax. Okay, once we're all on the plane, oh what a relief that will be!"

It was clear, Pete thought, that Mr. Patronus would never relax.

"Now, Pete, put on your t-shirt so that we can find you!" called out Mr. Patronus.

Pete had purposely not worn the shirt to the airport, as it was a color that does not occur in nature, and he did not want to look like a total tool when his parents dropped him off. Now he dug through his carry-on to find the shirt, and put it on over the white t-shirt he was already wearing. Planes can be cold, might as well layer.

"Hey, buddy, don't you think you should find out the question before you answer?"

That voice was familiar, but Pete couldn't place it right away. He swiveled around to see who had spoken.

It was Nick.

He stood there beaming, very pleased with himself for the joke he had made about Pete's shirt. The group organizing the trip was called Youth Exchange for Service, or "YES!" and this was printed boldly across Pete's startlingly bright yellow-green shirt.

"I mean, I might ask you something you don't want to answer yes to," Nick continued, as if his joke needed explaining.

Pete, for his part, was simply stunned into silence. He had no thought of ever seeing Nick again, and yet here he was. He was, obviously, part of the delegation from the high school in the next county that was participating in the trip. Pete's conclusion was confirmed by the flustered arrival of Mr. Patronus, who made a beeline for Nick with his clipboard.