Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10944978.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Marlows_-_Antonia_Forest
  Relationship:
      Peter_Marlow/Patrick_Merrick
  Character:
      Peter_Marlow, Patrick_Merrick, Ann_Marlow, Rowan_Marlow, Nicola_Marlow,
      Lawrie_Marlow, Pamela_Marlow
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Period-Typical_Homophobia, Period-Typical_Underage, set_after
      RAH, 1980s, Coming_Out
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-05-19 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 9485
****** I Want to Break Free ******
by queen_kumquat
Summary
     Sequel to Hammer To Fall.
     Peter has to tell his family that he refuses to stay at Dartmouth
     after O-levels, and takes Patrick up on their vague plan to deal with
     teenage sexual frustration.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Peter awoke, earlier than usual. He got up, saw the bathroom was free, and set
water running for a bath, just as Lawrie ran down to the landing. She halted,
plan scuppered. "Couldn't I have this bath first?" she wheedled.

"Could. Not gonna," he replied churlishly, more from habit than fear she would
take ages or use all the hot water. He didn't face her as he nipped back to his
room for his new Ian Fleming he'd picked up in London two days earlier, and
tried to look nonchalant as he locked the door behind him to continue with
Moonraker. Not one of the best, he felt, but felt obliged to continue - it was
a thin novel after all, better than the film had been... His younger sisters
would have similarly read to the end, Nicola feeling it cowardly to quit,
Lawrie because she felt sorry for books who got rejected, but Peter was aware
he was putting off an uncomfortable conversation and wanted as many of his
sisters at the breakfast table before he got there as possible. Only two
chapters to go, so he turned the hot water on again, stuck his big toe up the
tap to feel the warm water running along his leg, and decided to finish the
book. He'd completed all his holiday work plus his self-imposed revision plan,
so with five days of hols remaining, he deserved to relax. Just one task to
go...

Book finished, he sighed, dried himself briskly, dressed before he got cold,
took a deep breath and trotted down to breakfast while there might still be
eggs and bacon remaining.

"’Morning," he greeted his mother, Rowan, and Ann, all in the midst of eating.
Lawrie was clearly thinking of going up for the bathroom, but he suggested the
water wouldn't yet be hot enough for her, so she plumped for more toast with
marmalade. "Where's Nick?"

"Frying more bacon," replied Ann, shortly, clearly aware that the family all
noticed that she used always to take on such tasks for the family, and now she
didn't.

"Oh."
Eventually Rowan filled the silence. "So what are your plans for today, young
Peter? There's a couple late ewes needing watching..."

"Me? Basking in the glory of no more homework - even done that beastly Latin
translation. Do you think Edwin or Kay would have done it for me if I'd bribed
them?"

Lawrie gasped before realising this was a joke; Rowan opened her mouth to move
the conversation on, suddenly the family diplomat, but it was Ann who
interrupted - "What with? Haven't you spent all your money again?" Mrs Marlow
glanced across at her third daughter, and wondered again how the siblings could
have changed their roles so much.

"Could babysit. Nice Uncle Peter, that's me."
"If they wanted Fob overexcited and vomiting, for sure. Paragon of good
judgement isn't exactly you, is it," Nicola commented cheekily, entering
bearing another dozen bacon rashers, upon which Peter leapt eagerly, failing to
be insulted.

"True, he said. "Well, I want to do more revision even though I've done all the
suggested papers and my further reading, but not today." Nicola, as expected,
took the bait.
"More revision? You've been slogging all Easter! What for?"
And he told them. "I want a good scholarship to Colebridge Grammar."
Again, Nicola fulfilled her script: "But leave Dartmouth? Why on earth?"
"As you pointed out, responsibility, not my strong point. The Navy would be
better off without me - I'd always be that Marlow who wasn't as good as the
first two - but I could be a damn excellent engineer. Colebridge is great for
science A's and the Navy were suggesting it, maybe even sponsoring my degree
after that." He saw Rowan nodding, slowly. " So I'd live here and get the bus,
like Rose."

"Would you, now?" asked his mother. She spoke quietly, but without any humour
in her voice.
Peter jumped. "Well... it's home. Isn't it?"

"It's a much better idea than you being an officer," interjected Lawrie,
unexpectedly. It's so stupid, making you be Navy when you don't want, when Nick
can't but does want. Like making me be Ariel, which..."
"Couldn't you stay in the Navy and become an engineer that way?" asked Nicola,
cutting Lawrie off, clearly more adverse to giving up a Naval family member.

"Possibly, but it's more grunts-rising-up, not officer-equivalent degree entry.
And I mightn't want to just do ships - there's all of civil and other
engineering too. Besides, no way am I staying at that place beyond this summer.
Ships and military are so not for me - they'd possibly even boot me anyway!" He
made an effort to lighten the tone.

"That is not funny." He jumped at his mother speaking so coldly. "How dare you
jump to such conclusions and casually cast aside all your education thus far?"
Peter was speechless, but after a moment of silence in the room, he managed to
repeat his main point, defiantly. "I'm notcasting aside education - not like
Kay or Rowan! I'm wanting a bettereducation and I'm not going back to Dartmouth
after O-levels." He figured that was time to leave the table, stuffing a last
half-rasher into his mouth and walking out, toast in hand.

Ann had also finished her meal and followed Peter.
"Ann? You know it. I can't do it again. Can't you make Ma see it makes sense,
without saying anything, you know?"
Ann looked at him; kindly, he realised, for the first time since Christmas.
"Best thing for both you and the Navy. You've made a good decision this time.
Don't worry, Ma will simmer down and Rowan and I will have a word – but, for
goodness' sake, could you disappear for a bit?"

He nodded. He had been thinking about just working his way through his new
paperbacks, but actually, given he'd sort of agreed to go over to Patrick's
anyway - he really should offer to keep a promise even if they'd both been
drunk, even though Patrick probably wouldn't really want to do anything they'd
talked about before, but on the other hand he'd done all that slog yesterday -
he deserved some fun.

He stuffed his secret stash of beers into a bag, added camera and sketchbook, a
couple books, plus a rug for lounging on outside if it got any warmer,
regretfully decided he didn't want to go near the kitchen to grab any food, and
looked in on Ann before going downstairs. "Tell them I'm going to Patrick's -
he's going to show me something about the hawks."
"Are you really going to Patrick's?" The new Ann didn't accept wool over her
eyes.
"Yes, really." Hawks optional; he replaced the wool.
"OK, then. See you for supper."
He reached out and hugged her, for the first time that year, and she smiled at
him, likewise.

He ambled past the farm buildings to take the path through the woods to Meriot
Chase. Inside, Nicola was silently fuming about Patrick inviting Peter for
hawking instead of her, whilst Mrs Marlow sat stiffly at her writing-desk,
penning a number of letters.

Peter rapidly forgot the tension at home, and wondered what he and Patrick
might do that day. Hopefully not much seeing to the hawks. Probably just
hanging out with a beer, but you never knew.
***** Chapter 2 *****
"Good morning, Mrs Merrick. Thank you so much for the ticket to Henry V last
week - it was great! Is Patrick around?"
"I'm glad you enjoyed it. The reviews are saying that young understudy is going
to be the next Gielgud and Olivier rolled into one!" Helena Merrick sniffed.
"Good luck to him. Yes, Patrick's in his room - go on up."

Peter ascended the main stairs of Mariot Chase, tracing the carved square
frieze at the top of the dark panelling with his finger. "Patrick!" he called.
"It's me, Peter!"

He rounded the corner of the mezzanine which overlooked the main hall, and
headed down the dim wood-lined corridor to Patrick's room. He hesitated, unsure
which door it might be or how to greet Patrick, when Patrick himself opened one
door and called to him. "This one! Come on in - just been reading the new NME
before going to sort the hawks. How's it going?" He ushered Peter in and closed
the heavy oak-clad door before remembering. "Um... did you tell them? About
your plans for the Grammar?"

Peter's shoulders slumped. "Yes. Told them all this morning." He sat on the
bed, suddenly too tired to stand. "Ann was nice. Rowan and Lawrie agree with
me, even Nicola realises the Navy isn't for everyone, but Mum... Insulted her
by not wanting to be a crap clone of Dad and Giles, or something. Icy furious,
she was. Anyone would think she couldn't abide me being around more often..."
Patrick sat next to him. "She'll calm down. Especially if Rowan and Ann are on
your side! Remember the hoo-ha about Rowan leaving school to take over
Trennels? Or Karen and Oxford? This has got to be minor in comparison. Not like
throwing your whole education away!"
"Not how Mum and Dad will see it. No Navy, no future in their eyes. Non-navy
education doesn't count." He thought how better to explain. "Like, if you
wanted to stop being Catholic, still being Christian wouldn't count with your
family, would it?"
To his surprise, Patrick laughed. "You should have heard the arguments about
where to ship me to for Sixth Form! Pa was all set for some minor Catholic
school when I suddenly got much better exam results than anyone expected second
time round. Least of all me - I'll say that for Broomhill, the tutors knew how
to get stuff into one's skull - so then Ma said it was stupid to waste that
just because no decent Catholic school would have me, and insisted on calling
on all the best schools in the country. Boarding schools. So I'm getting
worried about being sent to Gordonstoun or worse, figured there's plenty of day
schools in London, called up St Paul's and City and Westminster, and ended up
chatting to a lovely old chap at Westminster - quite eccentric but clearly had
clout - and he ended up calling Ma to hope I'd take up the place, praising my
initiative and all sorts of compliments. She then told Pa after a late-night
sitting. There was shouting, but I think she convinced him it was a sensible
solution, next to the House so he could keep an eye on me, and a good enough
school that no-one could sneer about nowhere else having me. Took him a week to
simmer down, and lots of threats how I'd better not cock this up, but he's OK
now." He looked sideways to Peter. "So if your ma talks to my ma, it'll
probably be OK."

Peter shook himself. "Hadn't realised Westminster wasn't a Catholic school."
"Durr! It's right next to the Abbey, just behind it from Parliament Street. The
Cathedral - our one - is about ten minutes walk away, down by Victoria Station.
Much more impressive building, and hardly any tourists. You should go look."
Peter nodded, sat up. "Ann said, come back at suppertime - she and Rowan would
tackle Mum. Is that all right - staying all day?"
Patrick held his hesitant gaze. "I did say. Once you'd told them, come over.
Course, staying is fine. And if you still want to... do more, what we were
doing... fine by me, bit of hawk-care first, of course." Patrick's stomach
clenched as he awaited an answer.
Peter turned to him, put his knees on the bed, and pushed Patrick down onto his
back. He straddled Patrick and they were just starting to enjoyably rub against
each other - damn these thick jeans! - when there was a knock at the door.
Peter rolled off to standing, as if sprung.

Patrick sat up. "Yes, Ma? Come in."
Mrs Merrick put her head round the door. "Just to let you know, there's ladies
from the Rotary coming for lunch and we're having a meeting after, so please
don't disturb us. And don't touch our lunch - there's plenty of the ham and veg
in the pantry, so I'm sure you can get your own. And don't get your shoes on
the bed! That's disgusting!" She nodded to Peter, eyed his shoes distastefully
in case they had influenced her son's, and exited.

"OK. Let's pack a lunch, clean the hawk-house, and find somewhere where no-ones
likely to barge in."
"Or overhear."
"Good point."

They made a generous pile of sandwiches, decided a third of the currant cake
would be fair, left the lemonade - got Peter's beer - and headed to the hawks.
Peter tried not to think about Jael, realised he hadn't really seen the hawks
since. "That Sprog? He's grown."
"Yes - he's around four now, so this is his adult wingspan. Nicola's clearly
done half the work already, so just need to clear this straw - here's a broom,
young Peter, get it all over there and work up a sweat - I'll give Regina some
exercise.

Patrick buckled on his glove, and Peter noted the thick napped leather and the
shiny lines where the buckles always used the same holes in the straps, worn
smooth with Patrick's sweat. Feeling suddenly hot himself, Peter removed his T-
shirt and resumed sweeping with a vim. Once done, he leant on his broom
admiring the fine bird's swooping and soaring, and Patrick's evident total
control of her.

"Done? I'll put this lady back on her perch, then." Patrick looked Peter up and
down, appraisingly. "Very nice, but put your shirt back on - we're not staying
here all day. Way too many people prone to dropping in - not least your
sisters..." He attached Regina's tresses and shucked off his gauntlets. Peter
picked them up for him and caught a whiff of a wondrous scent - sweat on
leather. As Patrick was facing the other way, he treated himself to a long
inhale, then quickly plopped the glove onto its shelf and pulled his T-shirt
back on.
"Where now, boss?"
"Hm... might rain later, not woods, too cold. I know! The new hay barn!"

He led Peter round the back of the stable block, across a field at the far side
of the Merrick estate from Trennels, and to another yard, where farm machinery
sat for repair, a tractor stood in a shed, and a huge corrugated iron barn had
a small door for human entry.
"It's never locked - only the large slider is. Come in."
The interior of the barn was two-thirds taken up with straw bales from floor to
near the ceiling, around thirty feet up. Enough light came through the gap
below the roof that soon Peter could see a few loose bales made a rough
staircase to near the top. Patrick mounted the first few bales, then pulled one
down from the main block to make another step for Peter to clamber onto and,
more importantly, enable them both to safely climb a cliff of straw up to the
top of the stack. If he stretched, Peter could stand and touch the roof.
"Oh, this is grand, Patrick!"
Patrick grinned. "Wait." He dropped one six-foot bale into the hole where he'd
pulled one out earlier, stamped it into place, then wriggled between two bales
to shove one on top, leaving a rectangular space walled on all sides by straw
bales four feet high. "C'mon down."

Both boys dropped into the gap, totally hidden even if anyone did venture into
the barn. Peter realised his preparation couldn't have been better. "Here.
Picnic blanket: use: for lying on, to avoid scratchy straw." He rummaged in his
bag, pulled out two bottles of Newky Brown, and shook out the blanket. It
covered most of their den, and in wordless agreement they dumped bags and shoes
and socks in the uncovered patch, and lay down on the blanket. Patrick sat up
again, reached for the beers, found the opener on his pocketknife, and passed
an open bottle to Peter.
"Cheers."
Peter clinked his bottle to Patrick's. " Cheers. To...?"
"To day schools? And... male friendship?"
"That'll do. To good friends. And fuck off to boarding schools! Especially
military ones!"
"Prost!"
They giggled together, and downed half their bottles.
"Drinking before midday? What would Mum say, I wonder?"
"A lot, I'm sure. Though not as scathingly as your Rowan. Now you can take your
shirt off again."
Peter feigned ignorance, "taking up life drawing too, are you?", as he
obediently pulled his top off.
"If I thought I could do such things justice, even with practice. Saving up for
a Polaroid would be easier. Or maybe just finding fit blokes to look at
regularly. " He cast his eye up and down the length of Peter's body, and
wondered if Peter would obey any suggestion. "Lose the jeans, why don't you."
Patrick was mildly surprised when Peter did simply shrug and wriggle out of
them, getting straw in his hair from bashing his head into the wall. He gazed
down at Peter's long body, not yet fully grown but wanting it none the less.
Peter was happily reclining with his beer, and upon finishing it, carefully
stowed the bottle back in his bag for later disposal, lay back again, and
started to stroke his erection through his pants, eyes locked to Patrick's.
"Show-off."
"Yeah. What are you going to do about it?" he replied cheekily. In his head,
all sorts of fantastical scenarios flirted into his mind - his tutor appearing
to watch him, a couple Petty Officers coming to teach and torment him, Patrick
confirming he was a naughty little boy who needed to be put over his knee and
spanked - but in retrospect the reality worked just as well.
"Tell you to take your pants off so’s I can watch properly."
And Peter did, and Patrick watched, silent but delighted.

After, they both lay down. Slowly, Peter found his brain and his voice. "You're
still dressed!"
"Yes." Patrick pulled Peter on top of him. "Are you cold?"

"Not now." They wriggled against each other, rapidly finding how to push their
cocks together and enjoy that friction. Patrick put his palms on Peter's
shoulders and rubbed down his bare back, reaching his arse and cupping it
tightly, holding Peter in place. This was the life. Though actually his
trousers were getting painfully tight...

Fuck! Patrick had bucked Peter off him when he had, embarrassment of
embarrassments, come in his pants. And Peter Marlow was watching as the wet
patch spread across his jeans.
"You'll have to get undressed too," Peter stated the obvious, not unkindly.
'Undressed', thought Patrick. Not naked, nude, slutty, gagging for it: just
'undressed' in Peter's view. Oh well. He did.
And was surprised to see Peter looking at him, at his bare arse. "Thought I
wasn't your type," he said with a little regret as he could.

"Don't know that my type - type of woman - exists," Peter said dully. There
must be some, but to date all the ones he had met smacked way too much of
various of his sisters. "In the meantime, you've got willing hands and a mouth
and ... And I actually do do drawing, remember? Don't need to want a
relationship with someone to admire beauty when I see it."
"If you did, people would be worrying about me and the hawks," joked Patrick.
"They are. Obsessed, you are. Oh, I grant you, they’re gorgeous. Stay still -
I'll show you." Peter rummaged in his bag again, brought out pad and charcoal.
"Head back a bit. Legs apart a bit more. That's it. Right."
Five minutes later, he showed Patrick the sketch - mostly hard marks, creating
a clearly masculine body, that was clearly him. Even though the face was only
two lines, the body and pose was unmistakably Patrick, happily showing off
muscular thighs, his lean, scarred torso, and a favourably-proportioned cock.
"All yours - remind yourself you're beautiful when some tit who actually likes
men turns you down for some reason." Peter, suddenly embarrassed, winced.
"Forgive me for not signing it."

Patrick felt honoured and shy, as he thanked him. He rolled it up and slid it
into the bag containing lunch. "If you do become a famous artist, though - or
engineer - sign it for me then." Peter blushed more. He lay down next to
Patrick again, and felt he shouldn't have been surprised when Patrick pulled
Peter's head towards him and kissed him deeply.

Peter couldn't fault the kiss. Patrick had clearly had some practice - Peter
put Ginty out of his mind and wondered who else Patrick had been snogging - and
was quite content to respond in kind, until it occurred to him that something
was missing. After another moment, he realised that while he was replying
politely to Patrick's movements, the whole procedure was doing nothing in
particular for him. Despite trying to recall Wendy Reynolds, all the girls he’d
seen on horseback, it was no good - it felt too clinical, verging on
veterinary. He pulled back, guiltily.
"No good?"
"No. I mean, not no good, perfectly good, just..."
"No tits?"
This was so exactly what Peter had been trying not to say, that he snorted as
his spittle went the wrong way. It wasn't that a girl needed big breasts or
anything, just that what was there even in a minimal version was so different
from what Patrick definitely didn't have. And the skin was different, somehow.
Problem was that his penis hadn't caught up; it just wanted to push against
Patrick's no matter what the rest of Peter thought. He put a hand down to hide
it. "Sorry."
"No, I'm sorry. I knew you weren't up for that. Sorrow."
"Might have been, though? Not like I've not done...stuff... With you."
"Different, though. Kissing. It's emotional. Cock is just... cock. Anything
that makes your prick happy, you're fine with, right? You said. So I shouldn't
have tried anything else, cos it's not like you didn't tell me. Don't tease the
straight boy."
Peter protested at Patrick's attempt to pile guilt onto himself. "You weren't
teasing. Just... testing. Not sure exactly how... interested I might be."
"True," agreed Patrick. "Didn't expect anything, even though you had the
impeccable good manners to try to act interested on my account. I ought to do
something I know you would like, instead, shouldn't I? Shove up."

Peter moved back, reclining on straw as he leaned back. Patrick swooped
forward, prostrating himself down over Peter's cock, and took it in his mouth
for a second time.

This time, Peter thoroughly enjoyed not having to force himself to remain
silent. His throat appreciated the beer after.

"I'll do you," Peter suggested.
Patrick raised an eyebrow. "But you don't really want to, do you? Suck my cock,
I mean."
"I won't exactly suffer..."
"I'm sure. But forgive me for wanting more than mere politeness. Thank you for
letting me pleasure you; it's been divine darling, we really must do lunch
again some time."
"No."
"If you don't want to do it, I'm not letting you. It wouldn't be right - I
wouldn't enjoy it either. So there." 'And so sucks', he added mentally.

Peter reached the end of this convoluted reasoning. "Ah, Merrick logic. Self-
denial at its finest."
"Yes. I guess."

Peter knocked back the dregs of his beer. "Though, if we're conducting
experiments, there's other things we could try. No pressure. Just, y'know, if
you're insisting I only try things I might like to do... He gestured, tailed
off, looking downwards, too hesitant to ask.

Patrick glanced at Peter's shy downcast eyes, leant back, raised a quizzical
eyebrow. "Seriously?"
At sea as to whether Patrick meant seriously-you'd-want to fuck me, or
seriously-you-think-I-might, and unsure how to get out of that one - no, not
assuming you'd be up for opening your arse to any random dick - Peter made an
"mm?" noise and wished the entire conversation would end.

"’Cos we could try it, if you want. You trying to do me. Don't know if it'd
work, and I suppose it won't work anyway if you don't really want to, but we
could." Patrick was idly twiddling some strands of straw, looking downwards to
hide his burning face, wondering if it was obvious to everyone now that yes, he
was a poof who was desperate to be fucked in the arse, and scared what Peter
might do with this information.

Peter grabbed him by both shoulders, unexpectedly violent, and Patrick tensed,
ready to fight. "Only if you are really, really sure. I'm not going to be one
of those cruel bastards just wanting to get their jollies in a warm place,
right? Not like your old school. Those blokes that don't care if you're not
willing - I'm not one of them!"

Practically fainting in relief, Patrick collapsed back on the straw and laughed
and laughed. "For God's sake, Peter! I’m sure – have been for ages! Dunno how
it will feel, they say it hurts the first time - but all the more reason to get
the first time over with, right? You said yourself it wasn't bad?"
Peter nodded, spellbound.
"Right, then. Come here." Patrick paid some attention to Peter's rapidly-
stiffening cock. "I've got a rubber in my jacket somewhere."
Peter recoiled a moment, then realised, obviously, Patrick would have been
paying more attention to the dire warnings about AIDS is Death for Homosexuals,
and, well, could he have caught something from the lads at Dartmouth? Unlikely,
he felt; no-one seemed ill. So, just encouraging young Merrick in sensible
habits, and thinking about it, if he was going to be putting himself there,
then being wrapped in clean rubber sounded like a damn good idea. Did he really
want to go there? A quick stroke with his hand reminded him, yes, anything that
might improve upon his own hand was something he wanted to try.
"Great - left my wallet at home," he commented.
Patrick had removed the rubber from the wrapper, careful to place the wrapper
in with the fruit skins. "Time to get dressed."
It really wasn't sexy, this strangely-pink stretchy thing. "Just think of your
cock surrounded, tight and hot, squeezing you..." OK, that was better.
Patrick's hand on him was wonderful. The rubber snicked against him and Patrick
tried to stretch it down further, like he'd seen his bio master do with a
boiling tube. Peter moved, and Patrick's thumb went through the rubber.
"Oh, bugger."
"Not bugger."
"Well, precisely. You don't happen to have..."
"No. And don't really want to go home for."
"Oh, arse."
"Yes. Well, we'll have to trot off to Colebridge." Peter concluded.
"Get dressed, then. Oh, all right, I'll finish you off first - don't want you
falling off the bike in frustration..."

***** Chapter 3 *****
A minute later, Peter wasn't sure he wanted to move, but seeing Patrick fully-
clothed above him persuaded his naked cock that doing as he was told would be a
good idea. Shaking straw off themselves, they snuck back into Meriot Chase,
where an animated meeting of ladies was happening in the drawing-room.

"Best not interrupt. Now, through here..." They went down a small stone passage
that led off the kitchen - "Shed. Do you think you could ride on the pannier?
Or handlebars?"

Peter allowed that he could, but with the traffic now on the dual carriageway
to Colebridge..."
"In that case, I'll take Dad's. Oh! It's not here. I'd best have Mother's,
then."
"Won't she be fearfully cross, borrowing her bike without asking?"
"Only if she finds out. Which she won't, if you get a move on."

The day was less sunny now, so they cycled briskly along the new bypass into
Colebridge, and propped the bikes up outside the one chemist, a traditional
lattice-windowed establishment. They went in, looking about for where such
supplies might be found, and both found their hearts sinking as they concluded
the answer was: behind the counter.

Peter nonchalantly moved behind Patrick and faced the window rather than the
ancient custodian of over-the-counter products. "Heads you ask." He flipped a
penny, squashed it onto the back of his left hand with the right, lifted the
right sufficiently to see the coin. "Heads," he lied. "Off you go."

Patrick took a deep breath as Peter mooched outside. Best get used to this, he
thought. All part of growing up, as Ma might say. No, not thinking of Ma - who
might be a role model for this scenario? He couldn't imagine Kay nor Rowan
purchasing condoms. Too painful to think of Jon Marlow. Claudie - now thatwas
all too probable. Channelling that poise, he sauntered to the counter.
"A packet of condoms please. Um - and one of those pots of Vaseline. In a
sudden bid for plausible deniability, he stuttered - hadn't done that for years
- "A-and a bottle of, of Badedas. Those two are for my gran."

The elderly chemist looked at Patrick, shifting his wire-framed glasses in
order to do so. "Durex or Mates?"
With a flash of that biology lesson, Patrick replied firmly, "Durex."
“Only got them in the twelve-pack,” the man sniffed.
"That will do nicely." Patrick attempted to beam pleasantly, though his
treacherous blushing cheeks were holding his face rigid.
"Vaseline isn't compatible with them, you know. If you's thinking of using the
two together, best have the KY Jelly instead. Shall I swap those for you? For
the best."
Patrick dimly recalled something of the sort from one of the leaflets he'd
swiped from one of the porn shops.
"Er. Yes. That would be best."
"That'll be five pound sixty then. Thank you. And your change. Have a nice day,
Mr Merrick."
Patrick, almost paralysed by recognition, nodded weakly and turned to escape,
minus virtually all his money.
"Hope your gran enjoys the bubble bath, now."
Patrick ran.

"Mission accomplished? Not too excruciating?"
"Yes, and more than you could imagine. Stop a moment - we need some beer."
Peter was surprised. "More beer? There's a couple left."
"In the barn. But, if my dear mother catches me returning her bike, she's going
to want to know why I borrowed it, and what was so urgent or private I couldn't
ask first. Right?" Peter nodded.
"So: need plausible explanation we don't mind giving under duress, right?
Hence, buying booze. Beer, not spirits; mild depravity, nothing to worry about
here, move on."
"You really have thought this through," Peter said admiringly.
"That's your problem - thinking. Means no talent for crime. You’re paying, by
the way."
Peter stuck his tongue out at him and raced Patrick home.

They returned the bicycles without incident, and sidled out once again to the
barn. Peter climbed up the straw bales back to their cloistered eyrie, followed
by Patrick. They opened Peter's last two beer bottles rather than the new four-
pack of Carling, which needed time to settle after the journey.

Peter looked at Patrick. "Second thoughts?"
"No. Would be trying it sometime with someone. At least I know you..."
"?"
"You're a decent chap. Not like finding a bloke in a pub and not knowing if
he's actually a... robber, or violent, or..."
"Or got AIDS."
"Yeah. That."
"Yeah, well, not promising anything life-changing here."
Patrick was too shy to say, "Trust me, Peter, it will be." He did articulate
"Now get your kit off again." Somehow, Patrick realised Peter responded to
orders. At the time he put it down to the Naval training, but afterwards he
remembered how previous instructions had led not just to Peter's obedience, but
his cock twitching. Interesting.
Peter pulled off his shirt again, undid his fly. "Would be filthier, really,
leaving clothes on and just pulling open what's needed. Isn't that what blokes
do in alleyways? Standing up?"
"Probably, but in the comfort of our own bed, er, haystack, let's live a
little." Besides, you've got good legs, Patrick didn't say.
"You just want to embarrass me."
"Pre-emptive strike. Let's face it, I'm about to get in the most embarrassing
position known to man." As Peter looked confused, he clarified, “Kneeling in
front of you, arse for the taking."
"Thought you might want to lie down, missionary style?"
"Is that possible?"
"According to this mag some blokes were passing round, yes. But yes, on your
knees looks good." It would be easier to fantasise he was fucking a girl if he
couldn't see Patrick's face. "Legs apart. Pass us that lube. OK. Tell me if
anything hurts. Serious. How's that?"
Patrick had jumped as the cold jelly touched his arsehole, and again when a
finger pushed inside him, but then felt confidently relaxed. "Good. More,
please?"
"Ooh, aren't you the demanding boy. OK. More."
The second finger was squashed, but Patrick's happy sound meant Peter didn't
mind.
Peter thrusted his fingers in and out - inside a rubber, he wasn't quite
prepared to get arse contents under his fingernails - then wondered what would
happen if he twisted his fingers from side to side. He felt that nub, prostate,
was it, Patrick had called it? and triggered what Peter could only call
mewling, as Patrick rolled about under him, making high-pitched whining gasps,
and occasionally attempts at words. He paused a moment to listen.
"Noooo! Don' stop!" Patrick whispered, panting.
Ever alert to command, Peter resumed until his fingers were tired. He bent down
to Patrick's ear. "Do you want my cock, then?"
Peter wasn't sure how to interpret "ooooooh" but pulled his fingers out in any
case. Patrick's arsehole looked bigger than ten minutes earlier - funny, that -
and like fucking it might actually be physically possible.
Patrick flipped over onto an elbow. "You teasing bastard."
"Hey, wait a moment! Just making sure you wanted... If you're in such a tearing
fucking hurry you can help me with the rubber," as Peter put a thumb through
another condom, trying to pull it down too quickly. Patrick, hands trembling,
managed to get another one out of its foil packet and stretched it down over
Peter's cock. He caught Peter's eye and nodded. "Ready as I'll ever be."
Peter noticed the sudden shaking and stiffness. Like a scared dog, or a horse.
He rubbed his hands over Patrick's flanks and back. "S'OK. Just see what
happens. Let's get you back in the mood," he muttered soothingly. And himself,
fixing that with a few strokes of his cock, and then gripping Patrick's round
the base. "Tell me what you want me to do, Merrick," he hissed in Patrick's
ear.

The reply was both sooner and deeper-voiced than he expected. "Fuck. Me. Now."
Peter grabbed the KY tube and squirted a generous handful into his palm, then
some on the other hand to slather on his cock. The first handful got applied to
Patrick's hole - suddenly looking very small - and Peter inhaled. Time to lose
his virginity, sort of. He touched the end of his cock to that dimple, rubbed
it about a moment, and pushed forward. Nothing happened. He tried a bit harder.
His cock wasn't going in.

"Try your fingers again," hissed Patrick.
Peter, sighing, did for a moment, then tried his cock again. " Just push
harder."
Peter lodged the first inch of his cock in place, but then felt a solid
barrier. No go, he concluded. "No!" wailed Patrick. " Just do it."
"But it'll hurt! You aren't opening enough! I'm not doing it!"
"One last try?" Patrick begged. So near, yet so far...
"Last try. Get down and think of England. And Freddie Mercury. And whoever
floats your boat. Imagine their fingers in you..."
Patrick had happily had many dreams along those lines, but right now he wanted
the real life, not just fantasy. "Go on."
There was a painful pushing feeling, and just before Patrick needed to cry
uncle, it stopped as Peter sat back. " Nothing doing, mate. Not working."

Peter guessed that Patrick was staying still to hide any moisture that might be
coming to his eyes. Poor sod, having a first sexual experience even more
embarrassing than his own! He glanced at his watch - still three hours before
he should head home. "Sorry. Guess your body knows I just want to use yours, or
something. Give it a few minutes?"
This clichéd advice, applied liberally to recalcitrant cars, horses, immersion
heaters and lavatories, made Patrick snort.
"I'm quite happy to be used! Sort of the point, giving you a nice hole to
fuck."
Peter shrugged. "I'm sure it's lovely. Um - how much experience have you had,
opening it up? I mean doing stuff yourself, does that work? Strewth - don't
want to pry and all, but looking at it as an engineering problem here... we
need increased pressure at an angle to stretch the, um, material, and reduced
friction...
Patrick glared at him. "If it sticks and it shouldn't, WD40? No, thanks."
"Daft clot. No, we have lubricant, so was thinking it's going to be more about
gradual stretching and increased tension tolerances... In layman's terms then,
how many fingers can you fit up you?
Patrick was silent a minute.
"You have, haven't you?"
Somehow this admission seemed both filthier and more intimate than anything
they'd done so far. "Three," he confessed.
Peter compared his hand. "So that should be possible, then. OK, chop chop, time
to relax, get opened that far, and Bob's your fathers brother. Drink that.”
Patrick took the beer - should have nicked some spirits - and knocked it back.
After climbing out of their nest to piss down the wall of the barn, he
returned, blushing.

"Aw, the blushing virgin." Peter had also downed his third beer and tact was
beginning to drop even further away.
"By increasingly few definitions. Anyway, thought you wanted to remedy that."
"I'm trying! You need to do your bit. So show me you stretched with your
fingers!”
Figuring that he'd long passed beyond embarrassment and out the other side,
Patrick squirted more lubricant out and began to play with his cock in his left
hand, arsehole with his right. Peter watched, spellbound, at this private sight
being shown to him, deciding reluctantly against pulling out the sketchpad
again. And indeed, after some minutes, Patrick was applying three fingers.

"Here, let me." Peter felt the stretch around his knuckles. "I think you might
be ready." Would dirty talk help? "What do you want? Tell me." It seemed to
work, judging by the moans as Patrick panted, "I want your cock. Up my arse."
"What does that make you?"
Pause. "A filthy - queer - gay boy. A shirt-lifter. An arse bandit. A..."
Before Patrick could think too seriously, Peter forced a little finger to join
the others. "Yes, it does. I want to fuck you, gay boy. My cock in your arse.
You all tight round my hot dick. You're so hot and gagging for it. I bet you
could take me now, you've stretched yourself so much, you filthy faggot. Oh
yes, I'm going to fuck your pretty arse now." Peter's voice and invective
surprised himself.
Patrick was letting the flow of words wash over him, and objected when Peter
paused to get another condom in place. "Uh-uh, we're doing this right. Now, bum
boy, open up for me. You know you want it." Peter got in position. He pushed,
and there wasn't as much resistance as before, Patrick thought. Peter's voice
was somewhere, asking if he was all right.

He recalled more biology lessons, mentioning the functioning of the anal
sphincter.
"Yes. I'll count to three, then you push in, hard, OK?"
He didn't wait for an answer. One. Two. Three. He pushed outwards, like trying
to crap all over Peter Marlow - wow, there was a sudden twitch to the cock, not
examining that thought too much - and Peter leant in to his task. Peter's cock
slid in another couple inches and he shuffled his knees forward to keep his
balance. Patrick felt as if he were being burnt inside, but his brain was just
thinking it never wanted this to end. He whimpered, then, as Peter took this as
a cue to withdraw, hissed louder, "Do not move!" Peter leaned over on top of
him, still in situ, chest to back, and kissed the back of Patrick's neck.
"Not going anywhere, boss. Let me know when you want more."

Patrick lay motionless, trying to relax, slowly getting his breathing down from
the rapid gasps he'd been making. He'd really done it - got someone to fuck
him. Even if it was only half way, a bit of an anti-climax, huh, climax, and
hurt like buggery - oh, not 'like' buggery because that's exactly what it was.
He gave a rueful chuckle and tried to enjoy the warmth of Peter's body lying on
top of him.

In that moment, he must have relaxed further inside, as suddenly the pain
stopped, and his legs turned to jelly and collapsed under him as Peter's cock
slid to its full depth, causing Peter to gasp and Patrick, face buried in the
blanket on the straw, impaled, screamed like the nanciest girl in the world.

Peter froze in sudden terror, then slowly interpreted Patrick's moans as
pleasurable, moved again, but - no good - the shock had shrivelled him
completely. It looked like Patrick was beyond caring, anyway. More to the
point, Peter figured he now had a clue how it might work with a girl.
Especially those bloody condoms. He lay still on Patrick's back, exalting. Not
a virgin, he thought, then chuckled at the odd definitions necessary to make
that both a new and true fact. He certainly would never be able to mention the
name. "A friend of my sisters’," he explained in later years as needed, and
left them to assume it had been Miranda, Esther or Pomona. At least no-one had
ever thought it might have been that dreadful Unity Logan! He snorted. Patrick
turned his head quizzically.

"OK?"
"Oh yeah," Peter answered. "You?"
Patrick laughed ruefully. "Hell yeah. Hell's probably where I'm going, too.
Sitting will be interesting for a while, but that was just... " He couldn't, in
all honesty, call it amazing nor wonderful. But it had made some things very
clear to him. "Life-changing."

Peter nodded, peeled his sweating body from Patrick's, removed the sagging
rubber, knotted it and dropped it in a beer bottle. He wiped his cock on some
straw and instantly regretted it, prickly stuff sticking everywhere, and sat
back against a bale. "Not put you off the whole concept, then? And don't clean
up with straw - use your clothes."

Patrick made use of his pants. "No." The full answer, which he wasn't sharing
even with Peter, was 'not completely - would do it again with someone I really
cared for. If they were safe, but seeing as the whole gay population is
dropping like flies, what's the chances?' On the plus side, there was one heck
of a lot of fun that could be had without getting nearly so intimate, and he
planned - somehow - to do more of that.

"Good. Arse, this straw's stuck all over me! Don't suppose you could lick me
clean?"

Patrick glanced over and clocked the situation. "No. Couple days' time, sure."
Peter nodded and dressed. Patrick pulled his still-damp jeans on, shoving his
briefs in a pocket. They slung the empties and blanket into Peter's holdall,
Patrick grabbed the fresh cans, and they were about to climb down when they
heard noises.
***** Chapter 4 *****
The small door rattled and clanged. "Best lock it, Bob. Miss Rowan said there
was folk setting fire to barns, 'cordin' to the Mail." There was a grunt, and
the door was shut behind the pair who had briefly popped in, and the
unmistakeable sound of a padlock going on.

Patrick flew down the bales, but too late - the farm manager and young Bob were
gone.
"What now?", Peter asked of his host.

Patrick ran through the options. "Well, there's that gap between the walls and
the tin roof. Could get out, but you're thirty feet up. I didn't bring a rope;
did you?" He walked round the open floor of the barn - nothing but straw
inside. They probably could make a rope if they used every scrap of clothing,
but given the barn wasn't on fire: no, Peter determined, glad for the excuse to
avoid the height.

They could wait for a search party and bang on the walls. Patrick started
thumping experimentally, seeing what made the loudest clang on the metal. Peter
walked round the straw and idly kicked at the floor. They passed the time this
way for half an hour or so, and Peter squeezed round the bales to complete a
circumnavigation of the barn floor. Suddenly, he called out from down the far
left side, "This concrete's all crumbly, here." Patrick looked, helped Peter
move a dozen straw bales out of the way. The exertion paid off; indeed the back
corner of the barn had the floor falling away. It wouldn't take too much to dig
out enough dirt to crawl through - their clothes were mucky already. Patrick
picked away cobblestone-sized chunks of concrete, exposing more ground.

Peter started digging at the earth with a pencil, then dug out one of the
empties so he could flatten the metal beer can into a spade, and passed another
to Patrick. Within twenty minutes the boys had made a gap easily big enough for
one of them. Peter, shorter, went for it, wriggling down under the corrugated
metal and up the other side into a soggy trench. He stood up, cursing but
relieved, and Patrick passed their possessions through before allowing Peter to
help haul him out.
"We're filthy. Best each run home and clean up, I reckon," Peter said. Patrick
nodded.
"Maybe, come over in a couple days? Tell me what your ma said."
Peter had forgotten. Time to face the music. "OK. But Patrick... can Nicola
come by tomorrow? She doesn't say, but she misses you dreadfully. Just
don't..." He wasn't sure what to say.

"I'm going to have to tell her, aren't I?" He took a deep breath - saying it
would make it horribly, irredeemably true. "Being gay, I mean."

Peter didn't respond immediately with a flippant comment. Eventually he
replied, "She's read all the Mary Renaults she could track down. I think she'd
be OK. Andwouldn't immediately accidentally tell the whole world. Unlike, say,
Lawrie..."

"Mary who?"
"You didn't hear about that hoo-ha? Woman wrote novels set in Ancient Greece,
about Alexander and Hephaestion and all those heroes, and let's just say that
the relationships are all the ones between the chaps, in finestGreek tradition.
Nick got one from the library, took it back to school, Mum got the late fine
slip forwarded to her, so Nick got it in the neck for being in possession of
such ideas as deemed fit for Sixth Form And Staff Only..."

Patrick laughed in spite of himself.
"So Nick was made to spend the rest of term reading all sorts of dry improving
stuff, you know, Dickens, Tolstoy, but then she churned through at least three
more in the hols. Obviously I had to see what the fuss was about. The one I
looked at wasn't too bad, actually."

Patrick was thoughtful. Maybe, sometime, he'd talk to Nick about it, but
tomorrow they could just talk hawks and history. He shivered, anxious to get
out of his wet heavy clothes. "Don't get her hopes up, is what I meant. Don't
ask me why, but my tiddy sister still thinks of you like Ginty used to. Loyal,
I suppose. Just make it really clear that there's nothing doing on that front,
please? The daft moppet needs to get over you."

Daft moppet? Daft Marlow more like. It had never crossed Patrick's mind that
Nicola fancied him, despite Lawrie trying to seduce him a few times while
channelling her 'sophisticated Sophia' act or just being plain drunk. It had
been obvious it wasn't personal, just that he was a handy unrelated single
male. Patrick shook his head. "Bonkers. Nick and the whole bloody lot of you.
Yes, do tell her I'd love to see her, in a way that implies just that and
nothing else... Oh god, I need to get dry!"
Peter nodded, conspiratorially. "See you, soon? Five days of hols left."
Patrick met his eye. He nodded, the tiniest duck of his chin, and Peter
responded in kind. They both turned to run to their respective homes.

Rowan bumped into Peter as he eyed the entrances to the courtyard, assessing
his chances of avoiding his mother and ideally Ann or the twins.
"What the hell happened to you?"
"A ditch." Least said, the better.
"I'll stick the immersion on. Mum's just about simmered down, she's written to
Daddy to tell him your plans, and Ann got Kay to come over and wax lyrical
about the Grammar and what a good school it is, but, fees being what they are,
it's to be hoped you get a damn fine scholarship, my lad." His sister paused,
sniffed. "And that those clothes come clean." She went ahead of him, doing a
recce, and beckoned. "Mum's in the parlour still, so let's run upstairs."

Peter reached his bedroom without incident and took all his clothes off for the
third time that day. He hoped the mud would brush off once they were dry,
having hung them on the hooks behind his door, but Mrs Bertie was reliably
discreet when it came to laundry. He picked up Moonraker and headed back to the
bathroom, where re-reading chapters passed the time until a warmish bath could
be had. He washed and towelled his hair as fast as he could, so as not to look
newly-washed at dinner.

Finally, he sauntered back to his room, heart as light as he'd ever known. He'd
done it, whether 'it' was confirming leaving the Navy or finally fucking
someone. He whistled cheerfully on the way downstairs.

"Binks! Where have you been?" Nicola ran down from her landing to him.
"Thought I'd make myself scarce, after this morning. Went to Patrick's for a
bit. Oh, he said, would you like to come over tomorrow and do hawk stuff? Phone
him later and say?"

Nicola was clearly pleased, but then halted on the stairs, having noticed
Peter's phrasing. "Hawk stuff as opposed to what?" Somehow she thought Peter
was making a point, not just differentiating between hawking and the long, deep
chats she had with Patrick about things no-one else was interested in. She got
it. "Oh, Pete! Don't worry! I'm not... soppy on him! OK, I might have been. A
bit. Years ago," - one year, but who was counting? - "but to be honest, until
he got together with Ginty, I'd started thinking he wasn't interested in girls
at all! What do you think?"

Peter could only gulp and say nothing, realising too late what Nicola was
concluding from his traitorous silence. Finally Nicola realised how it must
have been, with Patrick seeing Ginty, held up as the true standard of female
beauty and charm, flirting with him, and him figuring to try it and convince
himself that it could work and he could fulfil the male role in Ginty's fantasy
romance. No wonder it had fallen apart like a house of cards, even without the
exams and phone calls to pull the rug from under them. "Poor Ginty."

"Mm. Poor Patrick, I think."
"You're not saying. I know, not your place to say. Yes; poor Patrick too. OK.
I'll go over tomorrow."

Peter sat down to his dinner, realised he'd had three beers since his early
lunch, and consumed his plateful and seconds as efficiently as possible, in the
hope of third helpings. He was rewarded with the scrapings of the mash bowl
which Ann handed to him.
"Peter." His mother called for his attention. "Which A-levels were you thinking
of doing?"
"Double Maths, Physics, Chemistry," he recited. "Standard entry requirements
for Engineering or any sciences at Oxbridge or any of the other top
universities."
His mother looked relieved. "Ah. Sounds all very sensible. Not Art, then?"
"No. Art A-level is loads of essays and history and experimenting, and seeing
as I don't want to go to art college or anything like that, there's no point.
Blokes say it's really time-consuming. I can keep a portfolio on the side if I
want to do modules in Design or Architecture or something."
Mrs Marlow was nodding along. "You clearly have thought about it. Very well. If
Colebridge Grammar accepts you, you can go. You will need to pull your weight
around the house, but one hopes your Naval training will have taught you how to
look after your clothes, keep your room clean, and so on." Her daughters
chuckled. She looked a bit wistful. "It'll be nice to have a man around the
house."
Peter, Nicola, Rowan and Ann were all quiet as they recalled the tensions when
Mrs Marlow had tried to get their father to move to a desk job near home when
the Falklands War broke out, or at least afterwards. Lawrie, however, burst
out: "You can't call Binks a man! He's only fifteen!"
"Sixteen next month, thank you. Old enough to get a job, join a trade union and
ride a moped..."
The younger Marlows hastily changed the subject before anyone mentioned what
else became legal at sixteen - which, Peter realised, didn't apply to what he'd
done that day. Twenty-one. He couldn't imagine anyone waiting that long.
"It'll be nice having him. As long as he doesn't use up all the hot water,"
Rowan commented.
'Odd,' Mrs Marlow thought. Before Christmas, it would have been Ann saying
that, while Rowan would have had to be on the rack before publicly admitting to
having feelings for her siblings!

Nicola and Patrick took Regina out the next day, companionably discussing
Peter's future. "He'll be fine," Patrick assured her. "Making stuff work and
designing it and applying brain power - he'll get a good degree doing what he
loves. Maybe even from Oxford. He's done the martyrdom to the family's ideas
for five years, it didn't work, and he's best off far away from the Navy."
"What about you?" Nicola was curious.
"Me? Still not too sure. Enjoying History and French, so I'm planning to stay
at school for Seventh Term and apply for Oxford or Cambridge, but to be honest
I think I'd prefer to stay in London. That's about as far as I've got."
"London? I thought you found it too closed-in and crowded?"
"Used to. But actually, in a crowd you can be anonymous. Not like here, where
everyone knows your name." He shuddered at the memory of the pharmacist
recognising him the day before.

Nicola hadn't thought of that before. She'd always liked being recognised, so
long as it was for herself and not being mistaken for Lawrie nor 'one of those
Marlow twins' – too reminiscent of rubbish fiction stories she'd been expected
to be interested in just because they contained twin girls.
Then she realised that it was so like Patrick, wanting - needing? - to hide all
the time. And putting it together with what Peter had carefully not said last
night, it suddenly made perfect sense. "I suppose people have always gone to
London to hide or be anonymous." She took a deep breath. "Criminals, gay
people..."

Patrick looked at her evenly. "I think I managed to avoid a criminal record
despite all that bother with the Thuggery." 'Bother' - such an inadequate word
to cover murder, he and Jukie nearly both dying in a car crash, Jukie's soft
lips that he'd enjoyed restocking with cigarettes in that mad, fatal joyride...

Nicola nodded, cottoning immediately to Patrick's immense relief. "I had
wondered. Peter just didn't confirm you weren't." She sat down next to Patrick
and put her arm round him, companionably. He leant into her. "I guess this
makes me a 'fag-hag'", she said.

Patrick pulled back and eyed her with a pained expression. "Goodness, no! I
mean, you're great, but all the stereotypes and camp and that kind of thing" -
he flapped a wrist - "I can't do that. Just... ugh." He shuddered, only partly
for effect. Any more than I could have a proper relationship with your sister,
he thought.

Nicola laughed. "Can't you see me simpering round you while you strut your
funky stuff in a gay nightclub, to ABBA or the Village People? All spandex and
sequins?"

If at all possible, Patrick, classical and rock music lover, looked even more
appalled. "I'm very fussy what I strut to, thank you." Nicola clearly thought
the very idea hysterical, but when Patrick thought back to how he'd felt when
Peter looked at his naked body, or when he'd learnt of the men watching him and
Peter in that bookshop basement, he thought that, actually, he might manage a
bit of strutting some time.
But certainly not to ABBA. He had some standards.
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