Date: Tue, 7 Feb 2017 18:40:12 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Beaux Thibodaux 3

Please see original story
(www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/) for warnings and
copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex
between adult and young-adult men, some of them related to one another. Go
away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my
characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of
future stories. Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html
to keep the cum coming.

*****

This time he just stared and I could read nothing from his eyes. It was the
longest, oldest, deepest stare I ever endured. He finally blinked and
looked down, but not before I saw a tear form. He stood and turned
abruptly, "Back to the Hotel, then, sir?" That single tear and the way he
turned to hide it ripped another little bit of my soul away, but I found,
suddenly, that I'd been wrong. Beaux had not been dropping bits of my soul
across Louisiana; every single piece was stored in that tear, his
expressions of hope and fear and worry and loss, the firm shoulder-set that
screamed of stoic resolve and desperate loneliness and a reluctance to
believe that, perhaps, just this once in his entire life, things would turn
out right.

*****

Beaux Thibodaux 3: Mud Bugs

By Bear Pup

M/T; no sex yet (just plot)

We left the courthouse and that walk was basically silent. Beaux looked at
me often, but not in the eyes. He said little and made it clear with his
body language that he needed time to process. Regardless, it was crystal
clear that he was still floored by the scale and complexity of New
Orleans. It was a classic city of a bygone era, slowly being eaten alive by
modernity. The courthouse we'd just left was all sparkly glass, but had
replaced one six blocks away that was still a beautiful, crumbling
throwback to the grandeur of the times where folks like Huey Long ruled the
South.

When we got back to the Place d'Armes, the packages from Godchaux's were
waiting in the sitting room. I looked Beaux over and suggested that he
looked really great for the evening. He went into the bathroom to freshen
up. Again, I was surprised that no loud splash of exuberant adolescent piss
echoed against the plaster walls. I heard a deep sigh, though, of release
and relief.

As I sorted the merchandise, I also found a wallet, tooled much like the
boots we'd bought. It was empty save for a note, 'It was truly a pleasure
serving you and your nephew,' signed by the flaming queen of a salesman. I
made a mental note to drop back into Godchaux's and really thank him. I
pulled out the folder that Harold had made for Beaux and folded a couple of
documented into the wallet. One acted as a temporary ID. Another identified
me as his guardian. I slipped in one of the cards from Judge Banks, my own
business card and a plaque with the hotel info. I added about $50 in
miscellaneous bills in the fold.

As I set about transferring Beaux's clothes into the dresser, I made a note
to stop by one of the luggage merchants who preyed on tourists who'd bought
one too many French Quarter souvenirs. His stuff could never fit in the
small case I'd brought. I smiled when I found that Mr Flaming Queen had
even steamed out the underwear; I got a smile and a wicked idea of just how
enthusiastic he must have been at that chore!

Beaux emerged, scrubbed and refreshed, and I took to the bathroom myself. I
let go with my normal vigour and sighed loudly in relief. I was frankly so
used to living alone that it didn't occur that I would embarrass of
discomfit Beaux. When finished, I took a minute to fondle and caress MBF
(My Best Friend), thinking of both Henri and the Judge's
Hunka-Hunka-Harold. I got a chub which is all I really wanted and put MBF
away, washing my face and hands.

When I emerged, Beaux was sitting stiffly on the couch. I sat next to him,
with clear separation, and reached for the bulky TV remote. He watched me
and jumped when I turned on the babble-box, head on a swivel between it and
me and the remote control. I had seen no evidence of a television, and he
had never been in a car, so I rehearsed what I would say.

"If television is new, no problem. It is a broadcast medium with both
picture and sound, but oddly there seems to be almost nothing worth looking
a or listening to."

I turned and Beaux was looking down. "I know what TV is, Kevin, I've just
never seen one, you know, up close like that. And it's loud."

"I am really sorry, Beaux. I know that your mother and G-Ma had... odd
habits. I just don't know what to explain and what not to. I promise you,
Beaux, that I will never patronise you or talk down to you." He looked up
at me. "If I explain something you already know, please know that I'm sorry
but you have to tell me I've done it. If I don't explain something you
don't already know, you have to say something, too. If not then, like if
we're around strangers, please ask me later?"

He nodded, looking a bit dejected by not sullen. "On another front, the
salesman from yesterday put another item in the delivery, for you. It's a
wallet and I've put some of your papers and a little money in it for you."
I handed it to him and he just stared at it. I literally held my breath.

"Thank you, but I can't take the money, sir."

"Yes, you can, and with good reason. If we get separated, you'll need cab
fare to get back to the hotel or to someplace else you feel safe." He just
nodded silently and refused to meet my eye.

I perked up in my best 'and onto the next subject' voice, "I am taking you
out for dinner tonight and I hope you like it. I don't know what you'll
like, but we're going just a block or so away and they have a bit of
everything that makes New Orleans special. Ask me or the waiter about any
dish you don't already know. New Orleans is a city built for folks from
other places who don't know the local food or culture or habits, so no one
will ever look down on you for asking a question."

He nodded again, not meeting my eyes. I pulled him up abruptly, "bro style"
which caught his attention. "Come on, Beaux, let's go have great food!" I
smiled and got a weak smile in return. I practically dragged him through
the Place d'Armes and up a block to one of my perennial favourites. Just a
block north, the corner of St Anne and Rue Royale had housed a phenomenal
restaurant since time immemorial. Not famous, and often changing hands and
name, some delicate magic kept the food sensational. I honestly don't
recall the name it sported at the time I took Beaux, but I *think* it was
already called Pierre Antione's.

A low-key but attentive maitre'd ushered us (after a nice and discreet tip)
to a window table and the far Rue Royale corner. The waiter was,
surprisingly, actual French, and was superb. I ordered water for each of us
and a bottle of wine (two glasses; a tip ensured no argument over age --
this was a long time ago, 'mon cher'). The man intimidated Beaux at first
until he said something in French and made Beaux laugh. When he left, Beaux
turned to me and said, "Have you ever heard such an accent? Where he think
he from, on-CLE?"

I laughed with him, which seemed to give him some backbone and I basked in
the smile he gave me. He balked at the menu as prices were shown and I told
him to ignore them completely; they didn't matter at all. Narrowed eyes and
a cocked head accompanied that announcement so I didn't press. I talked
Beaux into trying their gumbo; I hated seafood, but he loved it so we split
with me getting the Chicken and Andouille and him getting the Seafood
Gumbo. The waiter delivered the water and wine. I poured Beaux a glass and
he looked at askance. After the first sip, his eyes lit up like a
billboard. He admitted later that it was his first taste of wine; delight
kindled in my soul that I had taken the opportunity to select an uncommon
and favourite label.

A lot of discussion ensued over the entrees.  There were a number of dishes
that Beaux knew how to cook but most he'd never heard of. I convinced him
to try one of the unknown ones that had familiar ingredients. I, of course,
ordered what I loved most, Red Beans and Rice with an extra link of grilled
Andouille (is it even possible to have too much andouille?). Beaux finally
settled on Gaige's Crawfish Chicken, a true American original with a
creamy, roux-based sauce of crawfish meat (an ingredient unknown outside
the bayou at the time) over succulent grilled chicken marinated in magical
and mysterious spices.

When the gumbo arrived with steaming French baguettes, I thought Beaux's
eyes would explode. He tasted the gumbo and made a 'not bad' head motion
until he dipped a corner of that amazing, fresh-baked bread into it. I
beamed at the look of bliss that suffused his face. When the entrees
arrived, Beaux looked like he was going to object. The portions at Pierre
Antoine's were large for the time, almost to today's standards. Beaux
looked down on two healthy chicken breasts in a rich sauce filled with
crawfish tail meat. I gave him a taste of my own red beans and a slice of
the spicy and delicious sausage, using a crust of the bread as a 'bowl' to
hand it to him. He was in absolute heaven and polished his own plate
completely. We split one the PA's incomparable bread puddings for afters.

When we were done, I swear that boy looked pregnant. He'd eaten everything
put in front of him and loved each bite. He chattered happily about the
wonderful food and the wonderful people and the wonderful hotel and the
wonderful city. I just basked in his pleasure, such a contrast to 12 hours
earlier as we left the hovel he'd known as his only home. We got back to
the room just as the post-prandial drowsies caught him. I managed to get
him down to his skivvies and into bed and I basically face-planted myself
into my own bed a few moment later.

I awoke perhaps two hours later to the melody of abject misery erupting
from the bathroom. I didn't even make it to the door before I realise what
I had done. I had picked up a boy who'd never seen *McDonalds* much less
the magnificent cuisine of New Orleans, and fed him some of the richest and
most decadent offerings in a cuisine renown for extreme decadence.

I reached the door to the bath. Beaux either didn't know about the lock or
didn't care. I opened the door and he looked at me in utter and
irredeemable torment. Now, no one, especially no guy, wants to be seen
taking a shit. No guy would ever accept the idea of another guy, especially
one he'd just *met*, seeing him in the ultra-vulnerable stance of
sickness. Most would die before stomach trouble brought an older, respected
and unknown person into the bathroom as he voided himself. Beaux had none
of those phobias.

I reached Beaux as he exploded with a trumpet-sound of flatulence and
diarrhoea. He looked at me not as an interloper or adult, but as a
lifeline, face a mask of desolation. "Oh, lord, Oncle. Them mud bugs is
trying to kill me, true!" It took a minute for me to recall that one of the
many, many terms for crawfish was mud bugs. As you can guess, it is not a
complimentary one, especially when referring to food. I pulled the steel
waste-bin out and set it gently in front of Beaux.

"This is my fault, Beaux. I never should have pushed all that rich food..."

"Oh, God, Oncle, stop! Please I be begging not to talk bout no food right
now!" Beaux clutched the waste-bin, countenance distinctly green around the
edges, trying to decide whether he'd be more or less miserable if he
puked. He sat back and let loose with another volley into the bowl.

I walked up and stood beside him, holding his head and petting his back. I
could only imagine how badly his innards had objected to the sumptuous meal
and the misery he must be feeling. Beau turned his head into my undershirt
and I heard him mumble in agonised French (a language well-suited to
food-related regrets) what sounded like, "Marie, Mère de Dieu,
prends-moi maintenant. Laisse-moi mourir, mon Dieu." I had enough
high-school French to figure out the gist as he begged God and various
saints to let him die. I worked hard not to laugh, as I knew his suffering
was all too real, but the teen-aged ability to go straight for high
melodrama made it hard to keep a straight face.

It took about an hour for Beaux to rid himself of the last ghost of the mud
bugs. I got him cleaned up and put to bed, then cleaned up the bathroom as
well. It wasn't the poor boy's fault, and I kept kicking myself for lack of
foresight. I also, perv that I am, couldn't help but notice as I cleaned
him that Beaux was definitely *well* into his maturity. I couldn't help but
think of the line from the movie M*A*S*H, "I'd surely like to see that
thing angry!" before banishing the inexcusable and inappropriate (and quite
honest) thought.

I woke the next morning strangely rested after the disturbed night. I
looked over at Beaux who was curled up in a tight ball, covers thrown back
and shivering. I quietly went over and covered him up, relishing the
contented sigh he made in his slumbers. I went about my morning ablutions
as quietly as possible, but Beaux was up when I came out and gave me a
slight-horrified and completely-mortified look as he reclaimed the
bathroom.

Luckily, there was no explosion of misery this morning and Beaux emerged
looking human and dressed for the day. He had decided to try the sneakers,
and looked quite fetching in tan pants and a button-up shirt in a subtle
pattern of sage and deep greens. I could tell he kept looking for ways to
apologise, but I made sure that he never got the chance and acted as if the
night had never happened. Beaux slowly relaxed and even smiled
occasionally.

When I announced that we were headed to breakfast, he did pale somewhat. I
took the opportunity to apologise to him for overloading him the night
before and told him that we'd do better on introducing exotic foods from
now on.

I walked across in front of the Cathedral to avoid walking past Pierre
Antione's. Our destination was one block further from the hotel, just off
the same street as PA's. It was my favourite breakfast on Earth, with the
possible exception of a creperie I'd found in Aix-en-Provence once on
holiday to the Mediterranean. The Old Coffeepot on Rue St Pierre was a
treasure, slightly shabby as might be expected for a place that had served
amazing food for a century, but charming.

Miss Pearl recognised me when I walked in. I have no idea how. I get to the
Crescent City perhaps every year or two, but she has never failed to recall
how I take my coffee (cold cream and lots of sugar) and I added a
mostly-milk cafe au lait for Beaux. Miss Pearl was an older but handsome
black woman, and one of the nicest people I'd ever met. She fussed over
Beaux and I watched as he melted under her charm and grace.

I ordered Eggs Creole, aka world's-best-heartburn, and asked Beaux if he
liked grits. He nodded shyly, so I ordered some for each of us. I got him
pain perdu, literally 'lost bread', French toast made of a split baguette
in soaked some sort of magic egg mixture with powdered sugar, pecans and
maple syrup.

He looked slightly green when the food arrived, but a blissful smile
appeared after the first bite. The tiny jolt of caffeine from the beverage
seemed to help him as well. We made short work of the meal. As always, I
tipped lavishly; not only was Miss Pearl a true gem and the food fantastic,
the prices were ridiculously out of date. I'd spent more at McDonald's the
day before!

Today's agenda was hazy. I'd accomplished the legal stuff far more quickly
than I ever expected, and was not planning to head back home until the
following day. I decided that Operation Know Beaux needed to be launched. I
walked with him down Rue Royale, eying the shops that were slowly waking
for the day, and started asking gently-probing questions.

Beaux was quiet and just looked at me quizzically at first, then shrugged.

"I cooked and cleaned for Mama and G-Ma, and did all the little repairs. We
had a bateau..." I was familiar with the flat-bottomed canoes first
introduced by French fur traders in North-eastern America, what was then
Nouvelle France and became Canada. The original Cajuns of Louisiana were
their descendants; when France ceded most of Canada to Great Britain, the
many "Acadiens" chose to move to what France kept, the area that would
eventually be the Louisiana Purchase. The well-to-do settled in New Orleans
and the backwoodsmen began trapping in the bayous. Over generations, the
latter became more and more insular and their French evolved (or degraded,
according the Frenchmen). Acadien morphed into Cajun.

I shook myself out of my reverie, "...so I fished the Bayou most days. Mama
and G-Ma were real protective. When I got older, G-Ma would send me to the
dry-goods store or the grocery, but warned me that it was really dangerous
to talk to anyone more than required. She went in once a month to the
library and brought books back that she wanted me to learn. So I read
mathematics books and understood them pretty well. History, some. Lots of
books in English and French, lots of classics."

"I know your life has been completely uprooted. I can't even guess how it
must feel. Are you leaving a girlfriend behind? Best buddies? Teammates?"

"Oh, no sir! No one else who lived on our stretch of the bayou had kids,
and the town folk down there are right dangerous, especially the kids and
younger men." His face shone with sincerity and concern.

"Dangerous how?"

"Oh, G-Ma told me the awful things that happened to kids in the
town. Getting beat upon, robbed, all sorts of things -- even killed
outright. Young folk alone are just easy pickins for young folks in
packs. It's why the schoolbuses are yellow with black stripes, to warn
people, just like the prison vans are always white with blue stripes so
people knows they're carrying dangerous criminals. Even when G-Ma sent me
into town, she made sure that I only went to stores run by older
women. 'sonly way to stay safe off the bayou! I'm not as worried here in
the real city, people seem nice and mannered and all, but the towns? Oh my
no!"

Well, that explained the school issue and so much more. At the time,
'home-schooling' was not an accepted practise, but not unheard-of in remote
areas. Beaux could have gone to school, and frequently saw the buses
passing filled with laughing kids, but his female wardens had prevented any
real contact. They even convincing the child that he's be beaten or killed
for having friends or other simple human contact. No walking-along
conversations about cars and stereos and phones and TV shows and movies, no
exposure that was not controlled by his bat-shit crazy mother and his
monstrous grandmother. What a seriously fucked-up family.

He knew nothing of modern life, or any history past the American Civil
War. It was shocking and I felt a real rage brewing. How could anyone raise
a child like that? I think Beaux sensed my anger and he gradually ran
down. We shopped for a few minutes and I got my face (at least) back under
control.

One things we could talk about was fishing. I had been an avid angler in my
youth, exploring the creeks and rivers of the corner of Nebraska where I
grew up. Beaux chatted happily about the ones that got away, the
fat-bellied and angry bass, the monster catfish that would occasionally
latch on, taking hours to coax off the bottom and into the boat. I talked
about a time with the neighbour's sons when we decided to fish an old
farm-pond on their property. Our hooks would barely touch the water before
a bluegill struck. It was like the neglected pond had become so packed with
the small, beautiful fish that they were just begging for someone to
finally turn them into dinners. I doubt we (or the farm cat) had ever eaten
so well.

"Do you like science?"

"Science, sir?"

"Hmm, okay. We'll come back that one. You liked math? What sort of stuff?"

"Pretty much all of it, but it's real hard to when you get to differentials
and the like. The books have to go back each month, and not all of them
have indexes with sine, cosine, tangent and such. Some you can do in your
head, but not many. Then I got really into stuff that that Indian fellah
with the Brit friend, Ramanujan and Hardy. You know their stuff? And the
other theorists. That's much easier to follow cuz you never really need to
use the actual number values, just the math itself."

Well, fuck me! As an architect and builder, I live and die by maths but I
only vaguely recalled Ramanujan from an advanced maths class toward the end
of my university years! This was a 16-year-old from a fucking backwater
bayou who'd never set foot in a school talking about, if I recalled
correctly, hyper-something-metric functions as the 'easy stuff'!
Oooooookay.

I let the sound of maths wash over me for a while until Beaux noticed my
glazed look. He blushed hard and looked down. "That's probably
boring. Sorry. I guess every kid knows that."

"Beaux, I don't think you could be more wrong. I personally know professors
who could not have followed that. Honestly, I use maths every single day
for what I do, and you lost me right after mentioning Ramanujan! We've got
a lot to work on, s- Beaux. We're going to need to sit down with an expert
and find out what you need help with to keep up at school, and things like
maths where you'd just destroy other students!"

Beaux stared at me for the longest time as we paused outside the gaudy
tourist displays at Toulouse Royale. He bit his lip, one of the first signs
I'd seen of real uncertainty -- not nerves or fear like yesterday, but
puzzlement and worry.

In a very grave voice, Beaux said, "You don't have to say things like that
to make me feel good. I know I don't understand what I need to. I'm not
educated well, but I am smart. All day yesterday, all I could do was watch
as you did just wonderful things that I couldn't even follow, much less
do." His head hung like a beat puppy. I reached out and grabbed his chin,
which seemed to both startle and comfort him.

"I'll make a deal with you, Beaux. I am never going to lie to you. I might
refuse to tell you things that I think might do more harm than good, but if
I say something I mean it. I'll do that on the condition that you do the
same. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, but let's
neither of us ever lie to the other, okay, s- buddy?"

Again with the ancient-man's stare. Beaus was not going to give me a flip
answer; he was considering carefully. I somehow knew he'd abide by the
agreement.

"Okay, Kevin, but I got a condition back. You lie to me even once, about
anything, and the deal is off. I'm not gonna trust a liar, I had
too... Anyway, you okay with that?"

"I swear to you, Beaux. And I have to tell you, the thing with the maths
really threw me. Someone your age with that brain is really, really
rare. But all that stuff you don't know can really get you in trouble, s-
Beaux. You're going to be embarrassed, even humiliated by other kids (they
aren't monsters like you've been told, but teenagers say pretty hurtful
things). I'm going to do everything I can to help, but you have to start
asking about stuff you don't understand."

Beaux mumbled something I couldn't hear, then looked up and heaved a sigh,
"You almost called me 'son' like four times in five minutes and changed to
Beaux. I, I don't mind you calling me 'son' if you want."

I couldn't help the shuddering breath I took, and Beaux noticed. "That's
only if you want to, sir."

"For only having three letters, I know it's a big word, Beaux, and
important. A lot of people, me included, use it to mean 'young man' or
'buddy' or 'guy' or 'boy'. Some young guys find it insulting. I want you to
know two things: First, I'll be using it that way cuz it's a hard habit to
break. Second, though: One day I hope to use it to mean that you're really
my son, that we see each other as pure family. That's going to be a lot of
work for both of us, Beaux."

 He looked back down. "Yes, sir, it surely will," he said softly.

<eof>

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