Chapter Sixteen: Drake

A nson’s been off since breakfast. I can’t put my finger on how or why, but it feels like he’s guarding his interactions with me. Despite our multiple talks about where we both stand, this already feels like he might not actually feel the same way that I do.

Is it possible he just said what he thought I wanted to hear? I mean, we’re effectively trapped in my cabin for the next couple of days, so I can understand if he felt under duress.

Oh, God, does he feel under duress?

The last thing I want is for him to feel pressured to act a certain way or agree to a relationship with me.

No. No, he was genuine when he told me that he does want this as badly as I do. I know he was. I could feel it.

But I can also feel him acting strangely now, too.

We’ve spent the morning playing board and card games with the TV playing random stuff in the background just for some casual background noise. We’ve talked about some of the people we’re both friends with from The Grove and The Little Community Center, and glossed over our respective backgrounds and families.

He’s got an older sister who lives overseas, but he doesn’t speak to his parents anymore. He said they weren’t the most supportive of his sexuality, and he let me fill the pieces in from there. In turn, I told him that my Dad, who raised me on his own since I was born, died five years ago, and that because of my job and my generally introverted nature, I don’t have a whole lot of close friends. It was embarrassing to admit that.

I mean, I get along fine with the two people I hired to help staff the bakery, and I do have some friends courtesy of The Grove and The Little Community Center, but I haven’t really made any close connections with anyone since my last breakup. I’ve actually become more of a recluse because of it, not that the breakup was a bad one. I originally just wanted to give myself some space to recoup and then…well, I fell into the habit of being alone.

It wasn’t until I started crushing on Anson that I realized I didn’t like being alone all that much. Sure, it had its perks sometimes, but…I didn’t like feeling lonely.

I slap us together some sandwiches for lunch and we each drink a beer and continue on shooting the shit. It’s nice having someone to just talk to about random crap. To laugh and crack jokes and feel as though my company is appreciated.

And, even though he’s acting strangely, I do feel like he’s enjoying my company.

When he excuses himself to use the bathroom, I think back to my promise to make this place more Christmassy for his Little side to enjoy and I push my own chair back, groaning as my back protests from having been stationary for so long. Then I head into the tiny hallway and stop outside my bedroom, reaching for the latch that leads to the small crawlspace between the ceiling and the roof. The cabin is insulated, so there’s not a lot of room up there, but I know I’ve got some boxes of decorations and maybe even some toys hidden away.

I grab my step ladder from my wardrobe and then climb up until my head is through the square opening. I disturb a bunch of dust, which rises up in small clouds and makes me sneeze, wobbling my footing on the ladder.

“Hey,” Anson’s voice sounds out beneath me before I feel his hands on my legs, steadying me. “What are you up to?”

I’ve got my arms through the hole, too, and I reach for the first of the three boxes I can see. “It’s a surprise,” I tell him, dragging the box towards me. It jingles. That’s a good sign.

“A surprise?” he sounds intrigued and amused.

“Yep. Hold on, I’m coming back down.”

It takes a little maneuvering, but I get the first, dusty box out safely and turn to pass it down to Anson. He takes it, scrunching up his nose. “It’s dusty!”

“We’ll fix that in a bit. Hang on.”

I repeat the process with the next two boxes, which he quickly sets on the floor beside his feet, next to the first one. He wipes his hands on his sweater and huffs. “Eww.”

“Go wash your hands, baby,” I instruct, remembering his admission about his sensory issues too late, “and I’ll take these into the living room and clean them off.”

He doesn’t need to be asked twice, scarpering back into the bathroom while I close the hatch to the crawl space and lean the ladder against the wall. Then I grab the two lightest boxes, stacking one on top of the other, and head into the living room. Anson joins me with the third, carried with a towel wrapped around it, moments later.

“Good thinking,” I praise, taking the towel from him to wipe the dust off the boxes. “You’re Daddy’s clever boy, aren’t you?”

The moments the words are out, I want to facepalm. I keep doing that! He’s not Little right now, but I just can’t turn the Daddy side of myself off around him.

His cheeks flush pink and he squirms. “I really like it when you call me your boy. Especially when it comes with praise. I’m gonna need more of that.” I watch as his hand pushes down over the front of his crotch. “Turns out it’s a thing for me.”

Once again, I’m relieved that he doesn’t mind me lapsing like that. I grin back and gesture shamelessly to his crotch. “If you were Little, I’d remind you of the rules.”

“Good thing I’m not, huh, Daddy?” his smirk turns lewd and he rubs himself, making a show of it for me until his jeans are bulging with the evidence of his excitement.

My bratty little tease.

He doubles down on the teasing by turning his attention back to the boxes. “What is all this, anyway?”

Struggling to ignore my own filling cock, I clear my throat and give the cardboard a quick wipe down with the towel. “I remembered that I had some stuff up there to decorate with, assuming it’s not all motheaten.”

He doesn’t need to fake interest now. Blue eyes gleaming, he drops to his knees and reaches for the folded tab of the box nearest to him and pries it open. “A train!”

I’d honestly forgotten about the little train set. The track is just long enough to set it up to travel around the base of a small Christmas tree. I wonder where I’ve hidden my stash of spare batteries…

“Oh, Daddy, look!” Anson has already pulled the plastic engine out and placed it aside, reaching into the box again.

He pulls out a large snow globe detailing a scene outside a building declaring itself Sana’s workshop. It’s filled with a large, heavily decorated Christmas tree, a couple of elves, reindeer, and a few brightly colored toys. He turns it upside down, prepared to flip it over to watch the snow fall, and gasps when he sees the little windup key underneath the base. Turning it carefully, he flips the globe back over and puts it gently down on its feet, watching and listening in awe as a version of ‘Carol Of The Bells’ tinkles away soothingly.

“Oh,” he sits back on his heels, his eyes misting over, “that’s really nice.” He gives himself a little shake and reaches for the box again. “What else have you been hiding away, Mister Scrooge?”

Allowing him to ignore whatever the hell that moment was, I laugh and sit beside the third box. This is the one that jingled and, when I pull it out, I find a tangled web of Christmas bunting, lined with tiny bells.

“Oh, that’s going to be pretty!” Anson declares, and the higher set to his voice immediately has my focus, even as he seems solely interested in the muddled decorations in my hand.

It strikes me that maybe, as comfortable as he is being Little, he doesn’t know how to ask for Little time yet. It’s not like we’ve discussed setting a routine, or how he might want to explore his kink.

“Honey,” I ask slowly, “do you want to be Little for a while?”

He nibbles on his lip. “Would that be okay? I know you asked me over to just hang out…”

“Anson,” he jumps at how firm my tone just got and I do my best to soften it, “if you want to be Little for the whole time you’re here, we can do that. I’d enjoy that just as much as I enjoy spending time with you in your adult headspace.”

“It…it wouldn’t be too much? Not that, um, not that I want to be Little twenty-four-seven. I just…you’d be okay if I was Little more than I was Big? Just…just while we’re here? While it’s just us, and the outside world can’t ruin it?”

Whoa. Where did that come from?

Something tells me we’re going to be having another deep and meaningful conversation before too long.

Before I can assure him, he barrels on, “Because, y’know, I think I’m most comfortable getting Little Little, and that’s a lot of work for you. I’m really needy, remember? High maintenance? Like, you have to do pretty much everything for me, and then there’s the changing and—”

“You weren’t bothered by me changing you last night,” I interrupt, frowning. “Has your traffic light color changed?”

“No! It’s still green. So green. But…I mean, a little bit is fun and kinky, right? But a full holiday of taking care of my every need? You didn’t sign up for that.”

I can hear how much he wants to let go. His eyes are tearing up again and his hands are trembling. “You need it, don’t you, baby? Need to just let go of being an adult? I bet your job is super stressful, and the long hours probably don’t help.”

“And I’ve been trying to be a Daddy…” he adds quietly, and it’s a lightbulb moment for me.

“You’ve been taking on extra stresses and responsibilities for your Boys,” I realize out loud. “Oh, sweetheart. No wonder you think I’m going to resent it. It made you feel even more stressed out, right?”

He nods morosely and looks down at his lap, a small sniffle escaping him.

It breaks my heart a little.

“You’re not wired to be a Daddy and there’s nothing wrong with that. But, baby…Anson, I am . I do find relaxation in looking after a Little. No matter how Little you wanna go. No matter how long you need to be Little for. I love helping my Boys —helping you — feel relaxed and happy and free. Including multiple changes, if you’re really worried about that.” When he doesn’t respond, I ask, “How did it feel yesterday, being Little and letting Daddy help you?”

Still not looking up, he says, “Good. Right . Like…like all the bad stuff was gone.”

“Well, that’s how I feel when I’m being Daddy.” I laugh a touch self-deprecatingly. “It’s why I can’t turn it off once I’ve been Daddy for someone. I like it too much to stop.”

I can see him swallow before he lifts his watery gaze to meet mine. “Really?”

“Really.”

He looks back down at the boxes and presses his lips together firmly before he takes a deep breath, looks back at me and declares, “I think I’d like unpacking these boxes a lot better if I was Little, Daddy.”

My heart skips a beat and I push myself back up to my feet, extending my hand to him with a warm, hopefully supportive smile. “And I’d like nothing more than to do that with my Little Sunshine.”

* * *

I’m convinced that Anson’s earlier tension had something to do with being Big or feeling stressed, because the second I’ve got him diapered and in his onesie, Oinky’s ear clutched firmly in his fist, it has melted away completely. With his free hand, he tugs at my shirt, pulling me towards the living room.

“Come on, Daddy,” he demands, sounding every bit like an impatient toddler, “we gots Kissmoose stuffs to unpack.”

His excitement is contagious, and it makes me glad that I have some form of ‘real’ Christmas celebration to offer him for our first holiday together. Next year, assuming our long-term wishes play out, I’ll do better. But he doesn’t seem to mind the paltry offerings I’ve got for him now, and I fall into my Daddy role with equal fervor.

He clumsily sets up the train set while I fiddle with the bunting, trying not to damage it as I untangle the knots. I’m distracted by that and don’t notice him rooting through the other boxes until there’s a spread of Christmas-themed detritus across the whole living room. Flaking tinsel, faded baubles, a couple of smaller snow globes and a few stuffed toys now litter the space. In the middle of the cyclone sits my boy, clapping his hands and beaming at the mess.

“Is like a Kissmoose wonderland,” he declares, sounding very proud of himself. Then he springs to his feet and bounces on the balls of them. “Oh, oh! I gots to draw a tree, Daddy! Where’s the paper ’n crayons?” He’s regressing so far that his ‘r’s are becoming ‘w’s again.

I can’t deny him anything when he’s like this.

That’s a terrifying realization to have, and I can only hope he doesn’t discover my weakness any time soon. I get the feeling his brattier, more brazen side would have a field day.

“I’ll go see if I can find some paper and crayons or something.”

My last Little was into toy cars and building blocks more than he liked drawing, so it’s been a long time since I had need to stock up for arts and crafts, especially in the cabin. I go digging through drawers in the second bedroom and in my own, then in the kitchen cupboards. Eventually, I find a couple of scraps of old printer paper with random finance stuff on one side of each, a handful of broken crayons and a couple of markers which hopefully haven’t dried out.

I place my findings on the dining table and Anson practically squeals as he wraps his arms around my waist. “Perfect, Daddy!”

He plops down to immediately start drawing. I watch for a moment, my heart feeling full. His tongue pokes out of the side of his mouth and damned if that’s not something else that makes him far too cute for words.

With him settled, I get him a bottle of juice and some sliced fruit to snack on, then I set about making some kind of order in his Christmas wonderland. In my travels to locate the spartan art supplies, I found some mounting putty and sticky tape, and I put those to use as I decorate the wall beside the fireplace.

My meager decorations look sad and wilted, but I decide it’s better than nothing. And, when Anson declares his masterpiece is complete, I help him tape the two halves of his messily sketched blue and orange Christmas tree together, and we use the mounting putty to stick it to the wall above the little train.

“Daddy,” his voice wobbles as he steps back to look over the finished product, “this is the bestest Kissmoose ever.”

I try to see it through his eyes, but I still feel like he deserves better for his first holiday as a Little. Nevertheless, I agree with him, and make sure to marvel over his amazing drawing.

“Will Santa like it?” he asks.

I think of the six pack of beer and the box of chocolate I bought for him as a token gift, sitting in my wardrobe without any wrapping paper, and my heart sinks again.

“Santa’s going to love it, sunshine.”

Anson observes me carefully through narrowed eyes before he shakes the entirely-too-Big for his current headspace expression off his face. He hugs me again and declares, “He’s already gotted me my present. I got a Daddy for Kissmoose.”

And, just like that, my heart gives up pretending that I haven’t completely fallen for him already, and I start formulating a plan to make this right.