The tale of Kit’s Demerits comes from the same stable as ‘Destiny Calling.’ It was written in response to requests asking for a story focusing on Jon and Kit’s relationship.
Warning: it contains possible spoilers and is best read as a follow-on companion piece to ‘Destiny Calling’ rather than before it or as a stand-alone story.
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In 'Destiny Calling' Colin and Sam's budding relationship suffers a heavy blow on an evening out to celebrate Jon’s birthday. Sam leaves the table to use the restaurant facilities. Someone claiming to be his nephew takes the opportunity to confront Colin, and to impart some disturbing information.
Colin is shocked and upset by the encounter and leaves the restaurant to get some air. Sam subsequently disappears, which seems to lend credence to the story.
Sam’s disappearance from the restaurant provides the starting point for ‘Kit’s Demerits.’
Jon and Kit have returned home after breaking the news to Colin that Sam has apparently done a runner, rather than answer the accusations made by his nephew.
Jon disapproves of Kit's response to their friend Colin's misfortune.
Over the course of an eventful week, Kit's behaviour becomes increasingly confrontational, leading Jon to suspect he's concealing something
Excerpt
Cock-a-Hoop
“Thank you, keep the change. Goodnight.”
Jon closed the taxicab door after paying the driver. It drove off and he watched as Kit all but bounced up the garden path to the house. Unlocking the front door, he disappeared inside, leaving it wide open. Jon followed in his wake, closing the door, locking and bolting it behind him.
“I told you, Jon, didn’t I? I told you Sam was a using little shit. I had him sussed from the start.”
Kit was cock-a-hoop. Pulling off his jacket he flung it at the banister newel with such energy it sailed over the top and landed on the stairs instead.
“Pick it up,” Jon pointed at the jacket, “and keep your voice down. It’s late and you’ll disturb the neighbours. Sounds are amplified at this time of night.”
“Sorry.” Kit snatched the jacket off the stairs and flung it at the banister the opposite way. It missed again, sprawling wantonly across the hall floor this time, but at least he moderated his volume. “Well, good riddance to bloody bad rubbish I say.” His sapphire eyes sparkled from beneath the points of his gypsy dark fringe. It was the happiest he’d looked all evening. “Your birthday has turned out all right after all, Jon. I’m going to have a nightcap by way of celebration. Do you want one, brandy or a whisky?”
“No, I don’t want a nightcap, and you’re not having one either.” Jon took off his jacket, folding it neatly shoulder to shoulder before laying it over the banister ready to be taken upstairs. “You’ve had enough alcohol, too much in fact. You were knocking back wine like it was going out of fashion in the restaurant. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you finished off the second bottle of champagne, while I was outside talking to Colin. You’ll end up with a migraine if you drink any more.”
“Leaving the champagne would have been a waste of money,” said Kit, with an attempt at dignity. “Come on, ease up.” He looped his arms around Jon’s neck. “It’s not like I’m drunk, a nightcap won’t do any harm. In fact.” His eyes twinkled a sexy invitation, backed up by a thrust of his pelvis against Jon’s. “It might do us both some good.”
“I said no.” Jon loosed Kit’s arms and then stooped, picking up his discarded jacket, folding and putting it with his own. “I’m going to check the guinea pig pen to make sure it’s secure, in case those nuisance foxes come sniffing around again. You can get up to bed.”
Kit pulled a face, some of his effervescence subsiding. “Why so solemn? I thought you’d be pleased about finding out the truth about that parasite. I said all along he was a sponger looking to use Col as a meal ticket.” He rubbed his hands together with renewed glee. “Thank God Mario’s was fully booked and we ended up at The Cedar Tree tonight. It must have been fate.”
Jon gave him a stern look. “First of all, Kit, we have no absolute proof it is the truth and secondly, even if it is, do you think Colin wanted to find it out? He finally does what he’s wanted to do since the day that boy landed on his doorstep, and then this happens. You saw his face when we got out of the taxi instead of Sam, and you saw it again when we told him Sam had disappeared.”
Kit shrugged dismissively. “He’ll get over it. It’s not like they’d been dating forever. It’s for the best. I don’t know how he could stomach being near the freak-eyed, freeloading fairy. Jon!”
Kit gave a cry of fright when he was yanked sideways, and Jon’s right hand swung smartly against his bottom, landing a short series of stinging smacks to both cheeks. He clutched them, as he was about turned, his eyes wide with puzzled indignation. “What was that in aid of?”
“You, more than anyone, should know how hurtful and degrading it is to have someone pick out a physical point to make mockery of. Don’t let me hear you refer to Sam as freak-eyed again. Using such an unpleasant and juvenile expression illustrates you’ve had more than enough to drink.”
“It’s not like he could hear me.” Kit had the grace to blush slightly, but his voice revealed his resentment at being chastised. “He called me plenty of bloody names, and to my face.”
“Sadly, I have no influence over his behaviour. Yours is another matter. It pains me to say this, Kit, but Sam conducted himself with far more propriety and grace than you managed tonight. You sulked and moped all evening and the only thing that’s brought a smile of pleasure to your face is the unhappy misfortune of our closest friend. You ought to be ashamed. Go to bed, before I decide what you really need by way of a nightcap is a trip over my knee for a good dose of the slipper.”
Kit didn’t argue, but his disaffection was evident by the way he stormed up the stairs, doing something he wouldn’t have considered doing if he were more sober. He slammed the bedroom door hard behind him. It said ‘fuck you, Jon,’ more eloquently than words.
Jon made sure the guinea pig hutch was locked up tight and then he locked up the house and headed upstairs with a purposeful stride. Kit’s clothes were strewn around the bedroom floor and he was in bed, curled up under the sheet. Whisking the cover back, Jon gripped his wrist, pulling him to his feet, ignoring his squawk of protest about being naked. “Come with me please, Christian.”
Kit’s heart sank at the sound of his detested full name. It indicated he was out of favour. He was taken back to the foot of the stairs at a brisk pace.
“What don’t you do in this house, Christian?”
“Stamp and slam,” muttered Kit, covering his genitals with his hands and making a show of examining his bare feet, hating the way Jon could make him squirm like a rule breaking sixth form student.
“So your memory holds true. I’m much relieved. To save time, I’ll jog your memory on another thing you don’t do in this house. You don’t throw petulant tantrums when you’ve been given a much deserved reprimand.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, nevertheless you’ve earned a demerit and if the neighbours do complain about the noise you’ll get another one on their behalf. Now walk up those stairs properly.”
Kit walked up the stairs in a decorous manner, conscious of Jon following behind him.
Once in the bedroom, Jon went over to the chest of drawers. Opening the top one he extracted a notebook and pen and held them out.
Kit reluctantly took them. “I did apologise, Jon, and you already punished me with a spanking.”
“A few slaps across your clothed backside for bad attitude hardly constitutes punishment, and besides, the demerit is for stamping and slamming. You’re well aware of the consequences such behaviour brings. Record it and then let’s get some sleep. It’s been a long and trying night. I’ve had enough of it.”
Kit resentfully made note of the demerit along with the reason for it. Thanks to that bastard Sam Taylor, he’d accumulated six now. Another four and he’d reach the magic tragic number of ten, the numerical bringer of punishment. He’d end up writing lines until his hand fell off, or spending a week being sent to bed straight after dinner like a naughty child, or even, he shuddered, being assigned ironing duties for a whole month. He loathed and despised ironing. It was a horrible, tedious chore, which ought to be classified as a form of purgatory, requiring the prayers of the pure to release one from the agony.
He handed the book and pen back to Jon, resisting an urge to throw them on the floor as an expression of disgust. Jon deemed such expressions to fall under the category of a tantrum. It would earn him an additional demerit, and probably a sore backside into the bargain.
In Kit’s personal view, throwing an occasional tantrum was an acceptable and healthy way of letting off steam. Sadly Jon didn’t share his view. He had no objection to letting off steam as such, but he had every objection to it being accompanied by flying objects or things being kicked, punched or slammed. To Kit’s mind, no decent tantrum was complete without throwing, slamming, punching or kicking something. It was the nature of the beast.
Jon took possession of the book and pen. “Take that sullen expression off your face or you’ll be recording another black mark in this book tonight.”
Kit tried to rearrange his features into a neutral aspect, but it was hard going. He got into bed as fast as he could, pulling the sheet up over his head, so he could scowl in peace. He also took the opportunity to mentally indulge in a full-scale temper outburst in an alternative universe where Jon wouldn’t dream of disciplining him for it.
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Contains scenes of a sexual nature.