Date: Mon, 11 Aug 2003 18:14:09 -0700 (PDT)
From: M D <equinusscorpius@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Silent Violin - Chapter 2 (gay/highschool)

Legal Notice:

The following story contains descriptions of graphic sexual acts.  The
story is a work of fiction and has no basis in reality.  Although the names
of places used DO exist, they are in no way reflected factually in this
story.

Don't read this story if:
* You're not 18 or over,
* If it is illegal to read this type of material where you live,
* Or if you don't want to read about gay/bi people in love or having
sex.

The author retains copyright to this story.  Placing this story on a
website or reproducing this story for distribution without the author's
permission is a violation of that copyright.  Legal action will be
taken against violators.

Note:  This story will be slow moving, and plot oriented.  It is not a
porno, though sex will happen.  It's a fact of life.  Words in between
<> are sign language, as text formatting does not support italics.

E-mail responses to the story, questions, suggestions, criticism, and
comments to: EquinusScorpius@yahoo.com   Thanks for the feedback so far!

THE SILENT VIOLIN

CHAPTER 2

	Bastian sat back from his mother and wiped his eyes on the sleeve
of his turtleneck.  He smiled tremulously at her to show he was okay.  <One
day I'm really going to have to stop doing this>, he signed quickly, hands
flickering in the now familiar patterns.  Marjorie watched his hands
carefully, and finally nodded.
	"Its okay to cry, Bastian," she began, but he cut her off with a
severe negative gesture and resumed signing.  Mouthing the words to make it
easier for her to understand him.  <I need to get over my fears and sorrow.
It has been ten years, and I'm still caught up in that day>.  He paused for
a moment, weighing his next few symbols.  <I want to go back to Tilson.  I
need to see where it happened.  I want to get my life back>.  His eyes
began to tear up.  <I don't have any friends here, only you and Gramps and
Granny.  Rouses Point is a little retirement town.  There's nothing here
for me.  I hate to ask you, but can we go back?  I haven't asked anything
big of you, before>.
	"I'll have to think about it, Bastian.  I don't know if I can
afford it or not.  Let me talk to my parents, okay?  Are you really sure
you want to go back?" she asked.  Bastian nodded firmly.  She searched his
pale gray eyes and nodded.  "I'll try, Sebastian."  Bastian pulled his
mother into a hug.  Thank you, he mouthed.
	Marjorie got up from his window seat and patted her black hair into
place.  Bastian noted with some sadness the strands of silver at her
temples and the lines around her eyes and face.  She looked tired and worn
out.  For a moment he almost wanted to stop her and tell her not to do this
for him, but she smiled at him and left his room, shutting his door behind
her.
	Bastian hopped down from the window seat and surveyed his room.  It
was very neat, as far as teenage boys' rooms are concerned.  His full-sized
bed, neatly made with a dark blue comforter was on one wall, next to a
small table with a lamp, alarm clock, and the book he was currently
reading: J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
	Across from his bed, his desk with a lap top computer and a printer
sat uncluttered.  He didn't have internet access, but didn't really miss it
either.  He had no one to talk to.  His knapsack with his schoolbooks
inside was propped open against the leg of his desk chair.  The wall to the
left of his door was covered floor to ceiling with built in bookshelves,
filled with books of every sort, mostly fantasy and horror.  To the right
of his bedroom door stood a music stand and the violin his grandfather had
given him.  The closet behind it was filled with neatly organized clothes.
He wasn't a brand-name wearer, his clothes came from the more inexpensive
stores, like J.C. Penny's, but he had a few nicer things from this past
Christmas.
	He walked across his bedroom floor.  The hardwood floor was
appreciatively warm beneath his socked feet.  He stood across from the full
length mirror on the back of his bedroom door and looked at himself,
wondering what all those people he had left behind in Tilson would think.
He was slight and slender, at 5'5" and weighed in barely over the 100-pound
line on his mother's scale.  He stripped off his turtleneck, mussing his
thick black hair.  His skin was pale and unblemished but for the scar at
his throat.  His chest wasn't as defined at he'd like it to be, but he was
a casual exerciser.  He ran his hands over his chest and concave belly,
watching himself in the mirror and smiled to himself.  A hint of dark hairs
started at the waistband of his boxer-briefs.  He stripped out of his
boxers and grabbed a towel hanging from the doorknob.  His flaccid penis
hung a few inches over a tight hairless scrotum.  A small patch of black
pubic hair arced over the base of his penis.  He wiggled his hips back and
forth and his penis responded by filling out slightly.  He wasn't well
endowed by any means, but it was enough for him.  His legs were long and
slender, and his calves were dusted with a sprinkling of short black hairs.
He stripped off his white socks as well and headed for the shower down the
hall.
	Bastian stepped into the bathroom and flipped the switch to turn
the exhaust fan on, setting his towel on the chrome towel stand next to the
shower.  He turned the hot water on and let it warm up as he eased his
bladder in the toilet.  He tested the water and found it to be nice and hot
and pulled the knob to start the shower.  The shower released its cascade
of water and the bathroom quickly began to fill with steam, despite the
exhaust fan.
	He bathed slowly, luxuriating in the heat of the water on his head
and back.  He closed his eyes and tilted his head under the water to soak
it before picking up a bottle of peppermint scented shampoo and lathering
his hair.  The aroma of peppermint tingled in his lungs and energized him.
He brought one soapy hand down to his crotch and began to slowly stroke
himself, delighting at the cool tingly sensation the peppermint shampoo
triggered.  His right hand toyed with his sensitive pink nipples, kneading
them gently and rubbing circles around his areolas.  His stroking brought
about the familiar tightening of his loins and his muscles clenched as he
ejaculated several thick strands into the tub.  He turned into the spray
and let it rinse his sensitive flesh.  He rinsed the shampoo out of his
hair and lathered body-wash under his sparsely furred pits, across his
chest, his crotch, ass, arms and legs.  He let the hot water rinse away the
soap, leaving him smelling faintly of peppermint before shutting off the
water and stepping from the shower.  His pale skin was flushed from the
heat and self-induced pleasure and he began to dry himself off.  His
earlier sorrow was all but forgotten.
	Bastian returned to his room and donned a fresh pair of gray
boxer-briefs, a pair of baggy, black corduroy pants, and a black
form-fitting turtleneck.  He often wore turtlenecks to hide the scar at his
throat.  He finger combed his black hair back from his face, arranging it
artlessly; it wouldn't be controlled anyway.  He pulled on a pair of
comfortable black sneakers and headed downstairs.
	Granny Eleanor looked up from her knitting as he thumped down the
stairs.  Her pale gray hair was neatly coiffured in gentle waves back from
her face.  She slowly rocked herself back and forth on the rocking chair
she had had Grandpa Guy make for her.  She looked over her glasses at him
and teasingly said, "You sure took a long time in that shower, Bastian."
Bastian smiled and blushed.  Granny Eleanor was no stranger to the habits
of boys, having had two of her own.  Uncle Louis had been killed in the
Gulf War.  Uncle Adam lived out in California and ran a successful
advertising company.  She made no bones about giving him the birds and the
bees talk, while his mother had been away at work.  Marjorie had been a bit
scandalized at a ten-year old knowing how to give himself pleasure, but
Granny Eleanor had told her to get over it and grow up.
	Bastian shrugged innocently and grinned, showing even white teeth.
<Good morning, Granny>, he signed.  He bent to give her a kiss on her cheek
and inhaled her perfume, rose oil.  <Where are mom and gramps>?
	"Your grandfather is out in the workshop fiddling around with
something or other.  Your mother went to run some errands, now that the
snowplows have gone by.  She tells me you want to go back home to Tilson?"
She resumed her knitting.
	<It's okay>? He signed, looking anxiously into her piercing blue
eyes.
	"It's about time if you asked me.  You've always been a strong boy,
Sebastian.  Rouses Point is a little town, and there is nothing here for a
boy your age.  It's a tourist town, a retirement town.  You can't just have
seasonal friends.  I know you're having a hard time making friends, and I
think you need to go back to your roots and reestablish those old
connections."
	Bastian smiled, relieved.  <I was afraid you'd be mad that I wanted
to leave.  You know I love you guys.  But, I am lonely.  The school here is
too small to have an orchestra, and I know I'm not well liked at school>.
	When Marjorie first brought her son to live at Rouses Pointe, she
had enrolled him at Chester A. Arthur Elementary School in the first grade.
He was ostracized immediately, this silent boy who already knew how to read
and write.  He kept to himself and did as his teachers asked him.  The
teachers never pushed him, and wrote glowing letters of praise home to his
mother about how well he was doing, but Bastian was miserable.  As he grew
older, it was easier for him to act, than to correct the misconceptions of
his peers.  He pretended to be deaf as well as mute, all the while hurting
inside at the comments his peers made right in front of him.
	Bastian was also slightly effeminate, both in appearance and in
behavior.  He didn't enjoy contact sports but instead ran or swam to keep
in shape.  In his secret heart of hearts, he suspected he was gay, finding
himself physically attracted but emotionally repulsed by some of the other
boys at school.  He never let on to anyone about this to anyone and kept
his body under strict control so as not to get an erection at inopportune
times.  He found an outlet for his frustration in his violin, playing
violent and angst- ridden strains when he came home from school.  His
mother and grandparents assumed it was merely his anger at being disabled,
and it partially was.  But at night, he softly played melodies that
elicited such sweet sorrow that he cried as he played.
	"I know, honey.  I know.  Why don't you make yourself a sandwich?
I can hear your stomach growling from here."  Granny patted his hand
comfortingly and then turned him around and swatted his but to head him on
his way to the kitchen.  She watched him go and sighed.  He was a good boy.
	Bastian made his way to the kitchen and searched in the
refrigerator for something to eat.  He found some vegetarian chik-patties
in the freezer and popped two into the microwave, topped with slices of
provolone cheese.  Soon the aroma of chicken- flavored soy product filled
the kitchen.  He slid the hot chik-patties on a pair of rolls and munched
away, thinking of what he could do for the rest of the day.
	Grandpa Guy came into the kitchen halfway through Bastian's second
sandwich, letting a gust of frigid cold in behind him as he stomped his
boots on the linoleum.  "Bonjour, grandson.  Have you practiced your violin
yet today?"  Guy removed his heavy winter parka and woolen cap, hanging
both on the coat-hook behind the door.  Guy was still in great shape for
his age, with a strapping barrel chest and thick arms.  His hands were
large and his fingers, once surprisingly slender, had become gnarled with
age and the onset of arthritis.
	<Not yet.  It's January 14th>.  Bastian signed, by way of
explanation.  Gramps nodded sagely.  His blue-gray eyes twinkled merrily
beneath bushy black eyebrows.  <How is the project going>?  He signed
again, referring to what his grandfather was working on in the workshop.
Grandpa Guy had been particularly close-mouthed about it.
	Guy just grunted and smiled, "When it's done, it's done, and not a
moment before.  No prying now."  He filled a pot with water and set it on
the stove to boil.  "You want some tea?  I need to warm my old bones.  Then
you and I can practice violin together."  Bastian nodded and finished off
his sandwich before putting his plate in the sink and retrieving two mugs
from the cabinet.  Guy handed him two tea bags and he placed one in each
cup.
	They sat in silence waiting for the tea-water to boil, and made and
drank their tea in silence as well.  Guy Blackmoore was not a talkative
man, and neither was his grandson.  The tea drank and dishes washed, Guy
accompanied Bastian up to his room and sat in his desk chair while Bastian
tuned his violin.  It took him a few moments to tune the instrument, and
Gramps just watched him work the keys.  Finally Bastian had it tuned to his
liking and rosined up his bow.  He looked expectantly at his grandfather,
one raven eyebrow raised.
	"Play your scales to get limbered up.  Then play Tchaikovsky's
Violin Concerto in D."  Bastian nodded in acquiescence and his fingers flew
over the strings as he slid the bow up and down the scales.  Guy grunted
his approval and Bastian paused before beginning the gentle strains of the
concerto.  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his grandfather
mimicking the fingering of the notes, he closed his eyes to block out the
distraction and concentrated on the music.  When the final chord drifted
away, he dropped the violin from his chin and opened his eyes.
	Gramps wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and smiled proudly.
"That was flawless, Bastian.  Absolutely flawless."  He levered himself up
from the chair and pulled Bastian into a tight hug.  "You have come a long
way, my wonderful grandson.  And you have proven to me that you deserve a
man's violin.  You still play a boy's violin.  Come with me."  Guy took the
violin from Bastian's hands and placed it in its case, automatically
loosening the screws that held the strings in tune.  Pushing his grandson
before him, Guy led Bastian down the stairs, through the kitchen and out
into the cold.
	 Guy's workshop was a few yards from the house connected by a
flagstone path.  It was heated by a coal stove in the winter and by window
fans in the summer.  A door lead into the double-car garage from the
workshop, partially hidden behind a rack of woodworking tools.  The
workshop was rife with the smells of wood oils, glue, rosin, and sawdust;
they were the smells of hard work and determination.  Guy's workbench was
scattered with tools, C-clamps, and coils of violin string.  Half-finished
violin frames and bridges were scattered around the room.  Lathes and
jigsaws, sandpaper and files, the tools of Guy's trade were in their place
around the room.
	Bastian's eyes lit on the finished violin illuminated by a
spotlight.  The gold- plated E-string glowed in the light.  He whirled
around to face his grandfather, eyes wide.  <Are those Pirastro Olive's?
Those are the best strings in the world!  Oh, Gramps>!  Bastian wrapped his
arms around his grandfather and squeezed tight, tears of joy spilling from
his eyes.  Guy Blackmoore hugged his grandson back and said in a low voice
full of emotion, "I'm very proud of you, and want only the best for you.
And I think what is best for you is for you to go back home.  Your Granny
and I are going to help out your mom so you can live the way you should.  I
know you'll make me proud wherever you go."

_______________

To Be Continued.