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Oftentimes he was exceptionally adept at keeping his thoughts in check. Nothing rather perplexing about a wandering voice that lingered to the back, voices he often silenced the moment they reared their ugly heads. He knew how to quell the obsession. He’d long given up quenching the thirst outright, powering on with fortitude no one, not even he, could effectively break.
But lately, the looming fog was ever present, as it had never been in the past. It crept quietly, like a predator hidden amongst the brush, quietly stalking its prey, and yet, he always caught sight of it at the last moment, willing it out of existence before it could reach to touch him. This he was accustomed to doing, more often than not, and he could remain content so long as the voices did not fester. So long as he remembered just why he was doing all this in the first place, then it was simple enough.
It was for Carlo. All of this had always been for Carlo.
It was why he could push the thoughts away, always, anytime he set eyes upon that boy. Admittedly, he regretted at the start giving the puppet his son’s likeness, even knowing it was necessary for his goals, he knew placing Carlo’s heart into a vessel that resembled him was going to be the easiest way that he regained his memories, for that puppet knew nothing.
A machine. A well polished, exceptionally, capably designed machine, unlike anything he’d ever built before, could describe that boy. The puppet could do anything a normal human could, even feel emotions, yet each time he set eyes upon that boy, at least in the beginning, a nettlesome, prodding aggravation would crop up, pestering him in manners he was quite unused to.
Was it guilt? No—he’d long relinquished any feelings of doubt or fear. He knew this was necessary. The boy wasn’t at fault for any of it, and even seeing his son’s face, perfectly crafted by his own hands, seeing it come back to life on this puppet pained him in many ways. At least when this all started.
Now, he had grown used to the puppet’s presence at the hotel, the way he would venture into his office, the way he would approach his desk, meekly ask him for guidance, something he was always more than willing to provide. It gave opportunities for him to try and unearth Carlo’s real memories that he knew to be buried deep down. The hope of one day rekindling the happier times with Carlo gave him the drive to continue on, knowing everything would be worth it in the end.
Because he would have his son back. Nothing would make him happier.
Though at first, he was distant with the puppet, for it acted nothing like his real son. It may have walked around with his son’s face, but even he could disconnect enough to remember it was only a puppet. And it was an it. At first.
Each time it came into his office, each time it drew close to ask for advice, he used to avoid eye contact with it. Carlo’s warm brown eyes weren’t there. He’d given the puppet blue eyes, knowing it would help to distance himself. And it did at the very start. But the longer the puppet carried out its tasks, the more time dragged on, the more he began to notice its mannerisms and quirks.
Carlo had always been rather aloof and cold, at least when he’d gotten older, but the puppet was inquisitive, curious and willing to learn, giving it quite a childlike quality that he hadn’t intended. It was charming, he had to admit, and even watching it meander about his office, attempt to play with the cat that sometimes lounged in front of the fire, watching the puppet now as it did these little things—
Geppetto smiled. For he was beginning to see remnants of Carlo within it.
“Son, come here.”
The puppet turned, having been trying to coax the cat from under the sofa, in which she promptly hissed him away. At Geppetto’s behest, the puppet stood to his feet, crossed the room to stop by his desk, his eyes always somewhat vacant, a peculiar sight Geppetto never remembered Carlo having. Perhaps sometimes?
“Yes, Father?”
Geppetto smiled, turning in his chair to link his fingers together, slouching right after. “How are you getting on?”
The puppet nodded. “Very well. I have experienced no difficulties in my travels.”
Geppetto nodded. “Good. Do be sure not to grow careless while you’re out. You know how much it pains me to send my precious son into such danger like this.”
The puppet shook his head, and Geppetto could even catch the glimpse of a small smile forming. “I do not mind, Father. I know that everyone relies upon me to help clean the mess of things. I am willing.”
Immensely pleased, Geppetto deflated in his seat, having to stare up at the puppet where he stood, and he hadn’t meant to let it linger, but there was so much of Carlo in the likeness—so much of his son’s beauty in this puppet’s face, his son’s very visage so alive right before him that he couldn’t help to stare. The puppet almost reminded him of a time when Carlo had been little, eager to please, easy to please, gazing up at Geppetto with admiration, worshipping him even, when he’d been small, because Geppetto knew he’d thought of him as bigger, smarter, better than everyone else. He often missed it when Carlo had been small like that.
When he’d been easy.
Before he stopped smiling. Before he grew cold. Before he brushed off Geppetto’s advances. Nothing could ever dampen his son’s beauty, but he hated thinking that Carlo was much better when he smiled, and he simply stopped.
But this puppet carried some of that immaturity about him. Not even in a bratty sort of way, but in a very naïve manner, pilfering about, playing with things, asking questions, relying on Geppetto to lead him in the right direction, which he was very glad to do. And did he love being relied on. He loved that the puppet coveted his word. His love for Carlo bled out into the open sometimes, before he had to catch himself and remember—this wasn’t Carlo.
“Father?”
He’d been staring. Not meaning to. But he smiled, smiled up at his son. “Pardon—I’m glad you're doing well, son. Remember not to hesitate to come to me should you need anything.”
The puppet hadn’t even seemed to mind Geppetto’s prolonged, unnerving silence, only nodding, that little small smile almost rising again.
“Yes, Father.”
The times the puppet entered his office, Geppetto found he was failing to take his eyes away. In many instances, the puppet still puttered about like a curious child, still determined to make friends with the cat that was not at all interested, and even Geppetto found he chuckled at the puppet’s failure.
“Try not to worry, son. Animals, especially cats, are quite fickle. You really must earn their trust first before they give it back.”
The puppet turned, the cat having run away yet again when he presented his hand, only to be swatted at and rejected. He appeared so downtrodden by the events, standing from his spot and sighing. He even made a childish pout, one that gave Geppetto pause, because—the puppet did not realize how such small things like that reminded him of Carlo. Not a day passed by he didn’t think of his son, and with every visit from the puppet, Geppetto was staring longer and longer.
“I do not understand what I am doing wrong. I am gentle and soft spoken, yet the cat still hates me. I do not mean any harm.”
He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that Geppetto had paid nary a mind to the puppet’s grievances. He smiled and nodded, having not even absorbed what he’d said. “Son, come here.”
The puppet obeyed, curious. “Yes, Father?”
Once he was close enough, Geppetto could plainly see every freckle dotted across his face, the shadows cast by his own long eyelashes, the sparkling blue of his eyes. His mouth.
His chest tightened.
His lips.
His boyish frame.
His wavy hair.
Geppetto had to swallow. So much of Carlo he’d put into this puppet, and yet it was hardly any of him at all. He didn’t act like Carlo. He didn’t talk like Carlo. His real son didn’t have those freckles. Nor those blue eyes. His real son no longer had that adulation he radiated, something this puppet still possessed, thankfully.
The puppet trusted him. He trusted Geppetto to guide him, to lead him along the right path. The way fathers were supposed to.
But.
His stomach soured still. The sight of this puppet—this boy. He wasn’t Carlo. He wasn’t. He wasn’t his son. Not his real son. But there was just enough in the face. Just enough to tease the edges. To make his heart pound. Palms sweaty. Just enough—Carlo had always teased him too. Carlo was always, always teasing Geppetto.
“Son,” his voice was shaky, but Geppetto quickly swallowed it down, having not meant to lose himself just from the mere sight of Carlo—no, it wasn’t Carlo. This thing wasn’t his real son. It wasn’t. It was an it. A thing.
His palms trembled.
‘Move into me, son.’
Dark nights with the curtains drawn. Carlo beneath him.
‘Papa, wait—’
‘No, son, be quiet.’
Trembling palms. Sweat beading his neck. It was just like Carlo. He looked just like Carlo. His beautiful son. His gorgeous, beautiful son.
‘Carlo, be a good boy. Hold me.’
Wrapped in a warmth he missed so much. God—
Carlo.
‘Carlo.’
Carlo.
He’d reached out, taking the puppet’s hand, his own creation somehow emitting body heat, making him all the more lifelike. He wanted him. He wanted Carlo. He wanted to hold his son in his arms again. He missed him so much. Carlo had no idea how much he missed him. How often he dreamt about him still, even after all this time. How he couldn’t wait to hold his real son in a tight embrace once this was all over.
And he took a breath, exhaling slow and even, closing his eyes, if only for the moment he held onto this puppet who said not a word while Geppetto squeezed his hand in his. He could pretend this was Carlo. His boy was right by him. His boy was back, safe and sound, those wide, brown eyes lighting up with nothing but love and adoration. He would see his son again. He just had to be patient.
This puppet was merely the incubator. It held Carlo’s heart, the memories he knew dwelled deep within, that Geppetto was more than prepared to drag out by force if he had to. All he had to do was be patient.
But from the moment he opened his eyes again, the boy before him resembling Carlo so, so much, his head tilted to the side, much like a cat, having probably taken the quirk from the cat he so desperately wanted to befriend, awaiting Geppetto’s requests, he lost himself for those briefest of seconds. Geppetto squeezed his hand, smiling a lamenting smile meant for Carlo, if even his real son could still sense him from inside this puppet.
“Son,” he said finally, heaving a sigh that dragged his whole body downward, his face falling with it, where Geppetto looked at his own shoes. “Do you trust your father?”
No hesitation. None whatsoever. “I do, Father. I trust you.”
That made him happier than it probably had any right to, Geppetto unable to will away the smile, especially when he raised his head to gaze upon the puppet. He could pretend this was his real son speaking to him. “You know you’re precious to me. I know that Krat is desolate and all seems lost, especially now. To send my son out into such danger pains me each and every time it must be done, but I want you to know that Krat used to be a wonderful place. I’d do anything for you to remember how happy we once were, before all of this happened.” He searched those vacant eyes for any signs of clarity. “Son, do you remember anything from before?”
To his disappointment, but not to his shock, the puppet shook his head. “No, Father. I am sorry. My memories are very vagrant—I remember hardly anything before awakening on the train that day.”
He nodded, smiling despite what small hopes he might have had being snuffed out. “It’s alright. I’m here for you. Never feel as if you can’t come to me if you have questions.”
The puppet nodded. “Thank you. I am curious, though, what was life like before? Did we spend time together?”
Ah. Geppetto wasn’t expecting such a direct question and slouched in his seat, finally letting go of the puppet’s hands, and he could recall such vivid memories of Carlo returning from school, being that happy, bouncing little boy he once was, excited to see Geppetto, boundless and full of energy, growing into such a gorgeous boy the older he got, Geppetto unable to keep his hands from wandering when he finally noticed it.
“You were…” But he trailed off. It might have been better to let Carlo come to terms with those memories when they began to properly come back to him. He feared saying something that would activate the more tumultuous scenarios, as he saw his son cry more when he was home than anything else. Geppetto took a breath, shaking his head and hoping his words were not dredging up unseemly memories. He wanted Carlo happy, and in order to make his son happy, he had to remind him that there was even happiness at all. “You were always such a good boy, and you still are, son. I know that no family is perfect, but I swear that most times, I was convinced we were. Your eagerness always astounded me, you always had a penchant for learning, always with your face in a book. You don’t have to like reading now, as I know it’s hard to regain your older memories, but life was pleasant. Before the disaster, I had even planned for us to venture out of Krat on holiday, and take you wherever you wanted to go, so long as you could see new sights and appreciate other beauties for once.” Closing his eyes, Geppetto’s smile softened, because even he knew this was false, but he wanted Carlo to know that there could still be peace, even if he couldn’t provide it for him before. “I truly miss the old times. I wish I could go back.”
“I wish that I could give it to you, Father.” The puppet had stayed quiet during Geppetto’s spill, only speaking up when silence finally befell them, and he looked up at it, seeing a gentleness about its face he hadn’t really noticed before. The puppet did not appear put off, nor confused by Geppetto’s ramblings, but determined. “I am sorry that I cannot remember what it was like, but I will do my best to give you back whatever happiness you have lost.”
“All I want is you, son.” He’d said it without meaning to, but it was true. It was the truest statement Geppetto could say about anything, especially about his son. He missed him. He wanted him. He loved him so, so much. It had slipped, but at the same time, there was not much shame in admitting that, because it was the truth, and having said it so bluntly, Geppetto found that he calmed some then, hoping that if Carlo knew nothing else, if absolutely nothing else, that his father loved him dearly.
The puppet’s soft features rose into a tender smile. “I am right here. I am still with you.”
That gave him pause, in a way he wished it hadn’t. Because his chest tightened all over again, the feelings—the memories of a time long ago when he’d held his real son close, crawled on top of him after creeping to his room, where his son had whined at him to leave, but Geppetto knew it would pass. There had been happiness. He was sure of it. His son had loved him. His son had simply teased him, because he was young and embarrassed.
This puppet, his words of kindness, his smile, his face—Carlo’s face—Geppetto almost broke. His vision blurred with—but that was quickly buried deep, deep down. He could not afford to be so sentimental. He could not afford to forget—this puppet was not actually his son. His real son was locked away, awaiting the day his heart would be full enough to bring him back to life. Carlo’s heart was inside of the puppet, growing, gathering Ergo, swelling with life and memories, memories Geppetto knew were there, of happier times, of wonderful times, of smiles and laughter, kissing, holding, naked nights, he knew it. He would get it back. He would.
Little could he do other than nod then, nod and smile, because he could convince himself that Carlo was reaching out, somehow, someway, through this puppet, his real son was trying to reach him the only way that he could.
His real son was still there. Still within reach.
Geppetto leaned back in his chair, amid the small peace, knowing it wouldn’t be long before Carlo was back with him.
All he could say to that was, “Thank you, son.”
It really was all he could say.
Morning fog seeped through the streets, a dark, cloudy sky canopying the rest, with the promise of rainfall soon. It was cold that early morning, and he had awakened from a dream in a despair not unfamiliar to him, unfortunately. He was used to dreaming about Carlo, as he’d done it a lot in the recent days, but this one left him with a lingering dread he could not shake, even after rising from bed, having a coffee, washing his face, milling about. It followed him like some sort of shadow, mocking him, reminding him of the reality that his real son was dead. Even though he knew he would soon see him again, it still hurt just the same.
He had fallen into a silent slump of sorts for the remainder of the day. With no sign of the puppet, Geppetto watched the sky from his office grow darker and darker, twilight descending. Rain never came. The fog that had lifted away that morning had returned, and even the weather seemed to mock him of his misery.
He’d dreamt that the last thing Carlo had done before passing away was cry. Cry until his eyes were bloodshot. Cry in an endless void with no one there to comfort him. It was surreal dreaming of his son in such a faraway space, a vacuum of utter darkness that couldn’t have existed, his poor young son even seeming as if he himself were some evil entity or spirit that could not move on. Geppetto hadn’t been present in the dream, only an observer. He couldn’t run to comfort him. How could he console his crying son when he didn’t even exist in the same place as he?
It worried him. It already pained him terribly to think that in Carlo’s last moments, he had been alone, or worse yet—in pain himself.
He’d seen his son cry plenty of times. It faded over the years when Carlo grew older, bolder, when he developed an attitude all of a sudden, and fussed the way bratty teenagers often did. Their relationship had grown strained, but Geppetto hadn’t loved him any less for it, knowing there would come a time when his son would understand things from his perspective. It was normal for children to defy their parents when they reached a certain age.
Children always went through stages thinking they were smarter, better, that they had everything figured out before their parents did. Every teenage boy would argue with his father over petty nonsense. He knew Carlo would grow out of it. He always knew Carlo would eventually run back to him, beg for his attention, beg for his acceptance, and Geppetto had always planned to give it to him without hesitation.
But in the year leading up to his death, Geppetto hadn’t seen Carlo at all. He didn’t find out until it was too late that he’d even been sick.
Had he known, he would have brought him home and kept him there away from school, no matter how much Carlo pushed him away, he would have rather dealt with his son’s outbursts than have him dead.
But the dream had unearthed so many memories that were once faint, now alive again in his mind, of times Geppetto had rocked Carlo while in bed, holding him close to his chest, shushing his crying, whispering that he needn’t cry over it. Carlo used to allow it. He used to let Geppetto hold him that way, for however long it took for those overwhelming emotions to purge.
And then he stopped.
As if something snapped, as if Carlo awakened one day to suddenly decide he would make Geppetto’s life as difficult as he could, if he could, he stopped cooperating. He stopped sitting quietly, lying in whatever position Geppetto wanted him in, he stopped kissing him when he knew he was expected to. Geppetto could not even embrace him without Carlo shoving his chest, spitting curses, sometimes crying, but mostly just angry. It always devolved into a yelling match, from both of them.
He just wouldn’t listen anymore.
Geppetto had gotten too tired to try to reason with him, letting things lie as they were, and that was the worst mistake he’d ever made, because it ended with his only son lying in some hospital wing at school, sick and helpless, until he succumbed. All he’d wanted was for Carlo to smile, just once, to hold him back, to recognize all the sacrifices his father had made for his sake. He just wanted Carlo back.
“Father?”
The puppet’s voice startled him so much that he jolted in his chair, having not even heard him enter the room. Geppetto had been staring out the window beyond his desk, up at the dark sky, the fog that slithered around the streets so eerie, his mind so far gone into his daydreams, but he quickly gathered his composure, sitting up straight once again.
“Forgive me, I was lost in thought.”
The puppet was a sight for certain. From the moment Geppetto set eyes upon him, he could tell he’d been fighting. His hair was disheveled, his clothes covered in both blood and oil, the sleeve on the right side of his shirt torn to tatters, his face dirty, but the boy appeared no worse for wear despite the mess. Geppetto was used to seeing him carting around the evidence of his battles. This was nothing new. He often returned to the hotel to clean up and have the technician girl tinker with his sword.
He leaned in somewhat, his brow twitching slightly. “Are you alright? You have been awfully quiet today. You did not even acknowledge me when I came in earlier to ask if you would like to eat supper.”
Geppetto was driven to disquieted silence, only able to look to the random objects upon his desk before he finally shook his head. “I’m sorry, son. I hadn’t even noticed you. I haven’t been myself today.”
“If there is anything you wish to talk about, I will do my best to listen.”
He had to laugh through his nose, a small smile forming out of instinct. This puppet truly was kind-hearted, the way Carlo used to be when he’d been little. It wasn’t there at first, but the longer Geppetto saw of him, the more his real son was starting to materialize in the smaller aspects of the puppet. It could ease his worries, and even in that moment when the puppet offered his sympathies, Geppetto felt the comfort from it, and it moved him.
He looked up from where he sat, the puppet standing at the ready, just in case he was needed, always so eager to assist Geppetto if and when he could, a remnant of how Carlo once was so long ago. Geppetto missed him more and more everyday, and he swallowed, that tightening wrapping around his chest all over again.
It was getting harder and harder the longer this dragged out. Because each and every time the puppet came back, Geppetto found he longed for those times it came here to talk to him, to comfort him, to remind him of Carlo. Even the nightmares he’d had all through the night were put to rest by the sight of this puppet alone.
“Son.” He just wouldn’t wish to burden Carlo. “Will you do something for your father?” He missed him too much.
The puppet nodded. “Yes, Father. What is it?”
He always hated it when Carlo cried, even when there’d been no reason for him to. Geppetto always comforted him afterward, assuring him what a good boy he’d been, assuring him that— because Carlo would sob how disgusting he was —that he was beautiful. Geppetto knew the puppet wasn’t Carlo. Not truly. Even if he carried his heart. He was the vessel for the memories and nothing more.
But.
“Will you clean yourself and return to me? There is something I want to discuss with you.”
But he was the closest thing he had to Carlo, and Geppetto wanted him right now. So long as he remained mindful of what he was doing, he didn’t think the puppet would care, just so long as he did not accidentally dig up any of those turbulent memories. The goal was for Carlo to remember how happy they once were. Not what came after.
The puppet nodded, having never contradicted Geppetto thus far, something that gave him peace of mind, because the longer the days waned, the more he could see how the puppet was coming to rely on him more and more, even though he was out doing such dangerous work. The puppet still valued Geppetto’s word. “Yes, Father.”
”Thank you. Do hurry.”
No more was said, with his objective given, the puppet hurried from the office, making way for any of the free rooms Antonia was gracious enough to give them where anyone was allowed to rest and wash, and Geppetto was left with nothing else to do but wait. Pensive and solemn as he’d grown accustomed to being, he just couldn’t fight it anymore.
All he could think about was Carlo. His own son haunted his thoughts, now his dreams, to see this puppet who had his face, but not his face, who showed scraps of who Carlo once was, but grew out of—it drove him mad. He hadn’t wanted to risk upsetting his real son by putting his hands on him so soon, but Geppetto just couldn’t fight it anymore. It wouldn’t matter if it was the puppet.
He could still convince the puppet to obey, not to resent, when it came from his father, because his father loved him dearly, and he always would.
He leaned back, staring aimlessly at the ceiling, quite nervous if he were honest, if only for how the puppet would handle it. He knew how to be gentle, even if this wasn’t truly his son (not yet), he was still ever vigilant of just what was about to happen. The puppet still possessed Carlo’s heart, and his likeness. Geppetto could never bring himself to hurt him. Not purposefully.
Time dragged by while he waited for the puppet to return, but Geppetto was patient if nothing else. He was used to it, after all, but he perked from his spot when he heard footsteps from outside, and not a moment too soon, the puppet had returned. Geppetto smiled, pleased he’d obeyed and done as he asked, even combing his hair and dressing in a rather loose white shirt, but it was as if the dirt and grime had never been there. He was as pristine and tidy as a young boy should be, though even now, Geppetto couldn’t help but think he was beautiful.
Of course, anyone, even a puppet, who resembled his son would be beautiful. His son had been perfect. Perfectly dainty yet boyish still, and Geppetto had once been able to call him his. His son. His perfect son.
Before the puppet could open his mouth, Geppetto said, “Welcome back. Close the door. And lock it. I don’t want any disturbances.”
“Yes, Father.” The puppet did as was asked, barring the office off before bolting the doors shut, giving them much needed privacy. Once this was finished, he met Geppetto’s side, standing so close that he could even catch the scents of cleansing soaps wafting from where he’d washed. He’d really gone above and beyond to please Geppetto, and he relaxed at this realization. The puppet stood at attention. “Is something wrong?”
Geppetto shook his head. “No, son. Nothing’s wrong, but I wanted to make certain you’re doing alright.”
The puppet nodded. “I am doing well. I am working hard to clear out the rogue puppets that are still roaming around. I know it must be done.”
Geppetto smiled. “You’re a very good boy. It pleases me to no end to see how well you’re thriving. I hate that you have to experience so much violence, when all I want for you is peaceful happiness.”
That small, almost shy smile rose at his mouth, and even the sight of it caused Geppetto’s will to splinter some. “I do not mind. It is not your fault.”
Almost subconsciously, Geppetto’s hand reached for the puppet’s own, because when he held him, he saw signs of Carlo just underneath it all, and it broke his heart as much as it elated him to have a small part of his real son still here. He just missed him.
“Son.” His thumb drew circles around the knuckles, enjoying the warmth the puppet somehow managed to radiate, as if he were truly human, and with each visit he received, Geppetto swore he was slowly growing into that beautiful young boy he craved so much right now.
Gentle.
Be gentle.
Don’t frighten him. Don’t give him any reason to resent this.
Geppetto took a breath. “Son, do you trust me?”
The puppet nodded. “Yes. I trust you.”
He nodded, relieved. “You know that I care for you?”
“Yes, I know. I care for you too, Father.”
This could have been Carlo reaching out. He wanted it to be. Geppetto wanted his real son to still be in there, and in many ways, he saw him. His boy was right here.
“Son, do you remember how I once taught you what it meant to show care?”
The puppet tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
He lifted the puppet’s hand, bringing it close to his mouth. “We used to hold one another quite often. I would stay up all night with you sometimes, cradling you, rocking you.” He gave pause. Just to swallow. “Kissing you. You don’t recall?”
He feared by saying such a loaded question that the puppet would turn from him in disgust, yet his confusion only manifested all the more by Geppetto’s statements, and he shook his head. “I am sorry. I do not remember.”
“That’s alright. I’ll remind you. It’s nothing to feel nervous over—we would do this together a lot.” He made a small beckoning gesture. “Lean into me.”
The puppet obeyed, causing Geppetto’s stomach to uplift with a hopeful optimism. He was still listening. Such a good boy. Such a good, wonderful boy. Carlo had to be there, remembering this happiness. He had to be.
Geppetto smiled, sitting up just enough out of his chair that he could press a fast kiss to the puppet’s mouth. His expression never changed from that vacant confusion, but he didn’t pull away either. He took the kiss, awaiting Geppetto’s next move, and it pleased him to see his son so innocent and eager once again. But he was falling fast, Geppetto unable to wait anymore.
“Kiss me, son. Just like that.”
There was a hesitance he’d been fearing, in which the puppet did not immediately obey, rather slow at the start, his eyes darting to some nonsensical part of the floor before they met Geppetto’s once again. He thought he would question it, or protest in some way, as Carlo had been prone to doing in the past, but the puppet soon moved gingerly forward to kiss Geppetto’s lips, and he moaned, unable to help it when it happened. Carlo’s kisses were always shy and rather sweet, if not awkward, just the way the puppet was doing. He gave Geppetto merely a peck before pulling away, and his eyes trailed south once again.
He said nothing. And it bothered Geppetto when he didn’t. He wouldn’t wish to scare him off so soon, knowing this was very sensitive territory, but he lowered his voice, making certain should anyone pass by the door that none of what they did could be heard.
“Don’t look so scared. It’s alright, I promise.”
The puppet shook his head. “I am not scared. I just do not remember. Or if I do, I am very unsure of it.”
That wasn’t quite the rejection Geppetto was honestly expecting, thinking the puppet would have pulled away and tried to leave the room—but no, this was better than he could have hoped. There was still time for Geppetto to remind him that happiness for them both was more than achievable. He smiled, bringing the puppet’s hand close where he kissed the knuckles. He was met with no resistance whatsoever, and it gave him the push to keep going.
“Step back for a moment.”
The puppet took exactly one step backward, enough for Geppetto to stand from his chair, and when he did, he lowered them both to the floor, intentionally keeping behind his desk just on the small off chance someone managed to open the bolted door. He wanted absolutely none of these hotel fools to see what he was about to do.
The puppet sat upon his knees, appearing rather meek when he did, but awaiting Geppetto’s whims like the good boy he was. Geppetto leaned across, practically pulling the boy into his lap, both legs spread on either side of him to allow himself whatever room he wanted, and in doing so, he wrapped his arms around him, holding him as tightly to his chest as he could without being suffocating. The boy gasped, but did not return the embrace, only sitting there in a somewhat fumbled slouch while Geppetto held him close.
He could smell the soaps all the more from here. The boy’s hair was soft. Just like Carlo’s. So much of Carlo resided in him, maybe not all of him, but Geppetto had seen it blooming within him day after day. The boy was not Carlo. But there was the smallest spark of his son’s innocence, his blind devotion, his love, that Geppetto could not resist anymore.
He wanted Carlo. He wanted his son back.
He kissed the boy’s face, some of his truth spilling out when he hadn’t meant to. Geppetto was always calm and collected, but here lately, his defenses were beginning to crumble around this boy. “I miss you. Your father misses you so much.” Another kiss, this time to his mouth, holding his face in place by his round cheeks, watching those blue eyes stare on in blank confusion.
“I am sorry I cannot remember,” the boy said, turning slightly, forcing Geppetto’s kiss to press against his cheek instead of his mouth. “I-I do not remember this.”
“It’s alright. I don’t fault you for not being able to capture those memories. You aren’t to blame for any of what’s happened, son, please know that. And know that I care about you.”
The boy nodded. “I know you care for me, Father. I also care for you.”
He smiled, his chest warm, his longing for Carlo so immense that he couldn’t stand it—he wanted his boy so much. “Then kiss me.”
The boy did as he said, his kiss more purposeful this time, but no less reserved. He kissed because he’d been asked to, like Carlo used to do when he’d been younger. Those kisses were never full of enough passion. Never of Carlo’s own volition. Never enough. Not for Geppetto.
He pulled him back by the face the moment the boy broke away, giving him a real kiss, the way he wanted, exactly what he craved, and those lips on his were so soft and warm, giving way to the desire that had lain dormant within him for so long. Being this close with his boy again—he reached to his shirt, pulling the hem to reveal his pale skin, and the boy shivered when he placed his palm against his stomach. Even as capable as he was, despite the fact the boy had braved so many dangers, destroyed so many puppets, killed people even, despite how Geppetto knew the boy could kill him if he really wanted, as he was more than perfectly equipped to do so—his hand was large on his son’s stomach. He looked so small then. So breakable. As if Geppetto could ruin him if he wanted, and he wondered if the boy would fight him off should he choose to do so.
Of course, that was the very last thing Geppetto wanted. He trailed his hands up the boy’s stomach, lingering on his chest, indulging in the sensation of his soft skin, of his warmth that was unparalleled, kissing him over and over, the way they used to. Back when there was happiness. The boy did not resist, but Geppetto still sensed utmost uncertainty on his part. He knew he was getting ahead of himself, and had to force part them before taking a breath.
“I know you don’t remember this, but I promise it’s alright. You know that I’d never do anything to hurt you—you’re too precious to me.”
The boy nodded, and yet those once vacant eyes cast a shadow of doubt at Geppetto’s words. He said nothing, only sitting there, allowing Geppetto to kiss him, allowing his shirt to be tugged up and over his chest, allowing the hands that roved along his body to peel apart whatever they wanted. He sat unmoving, staring to spots on the wall here and there. It almost seemed as if he was bored—but no that was wrong. That was all wrong. Carlo sometimes pulled this face too. That faraway look in his eyes, keeping absolutely still until Geppetto had finished. He hadn’t minded when Carlo turned static like that, as he preferred it over the pushing and shoving, but it still put him off seeing the boy do it too.
Just like Carlo. How was it possible that the smallest bits and pieces of Carlo’s personality were seeping through, but not the memories? Maybe he simply needed more time. And now was as good an opportunity as any to remind his son how good this was.
“Son,” he breathed, pulling away just enough to adjust their position. “I have to tell you, I know that you don’t remember what things used to be like, and that’s not your fault.”
The boy turned, his brow wrinkled, his shoulders raised slightly, stiffened as though bracing himself for some sort of outburst. Ugh —Geppetto frowned. Just because Carlo used to do the same.
“Stop making such a face. You know, you can hold me if that will help you remember. You often held me as if scared out of your mind that someone was trying to take me away. Hold me, son.”
Only for a small moment did the boy reach out a tentative hand, as though fearing Geppetto was asking him to touch fire, before his eyes trailed to his, almost asking for permission. Geppetto tried to offer an assuring smile, but it never came.
“It’s alright.”
There were no sweeping, overwhelming feelings of joy when the boy finally wrapped his arms around Geppetto’s shoulders, pressing his body against his. Geppetto did not immediately fall apart as he suspected he might, being held by his boy again, because it was such an empty hug, an unfeeling, cold mess, that wasn’t the boy’s fault. He knew he was trying his best. But Geppetto wished there had been more feeling to it. More feelings of affection. As if the boy would burst if he couldn’t get his hands on him fast enough.
Not even Carlo ever reached such a level, that he knew it was fantasy. His boy would probably never come to fawn over him the way he wished he would, to beg him for it, to offer himself up, whatever his father wanted, whether it be his obedience or his body. Geppetto longed for his son as much as he longed for Carlo to finally understand things from his perspective. This boy had none of that intuition. None of Carlo’s resentment. He had nothing, really, and though it was rather disappointing, Geppetto was satisfied enough.
When the boy drew close, so too did Geppetto. He cradled the boy, kissing his neck, burying his face as far into his throat as he could, where he gave in to the desires that had haunted him for so long, not caring for a few blissful seconds that he risked upsetting Carlo and scaring him away. The boy said not a word while holding him, while Geppetto kissed his throat, his cheeks, tousled his hair, pulled at his shirt collar to try and unravel it. He wanted him bare.
And without really thinking, he broke his kiss, pulling from the embrace only to steal a glance at the boy’s beauty. “Wait—take your shirt off.” Normally, he would have been the one slowly stripping Carlo while they lay upon the bed, but here at the hotel, with others only a flight of stairs beneath them, Geppetto’s only line of defense for some privacy being his desk and a bolted door, he was more than a little impatient.
The boy did as was requested, pulling his shirt free, exposing his pale chest, his flat stomach, his young body that was soft and warm, still young enough to carry a healthy glow to it, without having reached the age where he was becoming too broad. He was just as dainty as Carlo had been when he was this age. Still very much a boy.
Geppetto’s stare lingered. The boy’s mechanical arm upon the left side was a bit of an eyesore, but he could ignore such trivial matters when he gazed upon his body—his son’s body. Just like he remembered.
Without meaning to, he let slip, “You’re beautiful,” instantly swallowing the words, but they had already escaped.
The boy said nothing, still clutching his shirt, his face falling while he looked about rather aimlessly, unsure what to focus on. Whether he was nervous or embarrassed, Geppetto tried to reassure him.
“No need to be bashful, son. I know most boys don’t like being called beautiful—but you really are. Lie down.”
With no response given, the boy still silently obeying, he set his shirt to the floor before slowly reclining backward, until he was flat on his back. His eyes rose skyward to stare at the ceiling, never falling to Geppetto’s own more than necessary. Geppetto looked to the door, having heard no stirring or other sounds from anyone the whole time the boy had been here. With it being as late as it was, he wouldn’t have been surprised had the other hotel survivors retired to their beds, but that wouldn’t stop him from remaining cautious. The last thing he needed was for this boy to run out of the room, half dressed and in a panic.
He smiled, hoping the boy sensed the genuine attempt at comfort he meant by it, before leaning over his smaller body, until his palms were placed on either side of his head. “Good boy. You’re such a good boy for your father, you know that? I’m so proud of you—with all you’ve accomplished so far. I know it’s unfair what I’ve asked you to do, when you deserve a normal, happy life.”
The boy did not say a word, but Geppetto caught the subtle twitch of his eyes as he stole a brief glance his way, before he looked to the ceiling once again. He wasn’t running. Not like Carlo had. This was good.
Geppetto tried to swallow and compose himself, but it was much more difficult seeing his son’s bare chest lying beneath him like this, pliant and lax, a sight he hadn’t witnessed since Carlo had been younger. He reached over, touching the boy’s stomach, finding even his artificial skin had softness and heat, the texture very much like the real thing. Everything about this boy was much too lifelike, so lifelike that Geppetto squeezed what scarce loose skin he could, enjoying the feel of that boyish softness he so missed teasing.
The boy made the smallest gasp that did not go by unnoticed, Geppetto’s desire creeping further and further to the surface. He was getting excited. Already. The boy hadn't done a thing—not that Carlo ever had to either. Geppetto was always attracted to the mere sight of him alone. All Carlo had to do was stand there, be beautiful, and it drove Geppetto wild. He could ravage his son all night long sometimes, driven by his own lust, overcome by the feelings and sensation that being intimate with Carlo could bring.
Sometimes they were up until dawn, lying in bed. Before Carlo began to leave. Those instances were few and far between in which he allowed Geppetto to hold him, pull him close, and sleep at his side, letting Geppetto kiss his hair until they both fell asleep. He’d loved that. He’d love being so close with his son, sleeping next to his naked body, knowing the boy in his arms still thought the world of him, when he still needed him.
And this boy needed him too. He needed Geppetto to give him guidance, to remind him of the happier times, when there had been no resentment, only a flush-faced, gorgeous boy who pined for Geppetto’s affections, who did as he was told, who had loved Geppetto more than anyone. When his father’s word had been law.
“Kiss me, son.”
The pause only amplified his excitement. The boy took too long in reaching up to cup his face, until Geppetto grew impatient with his sluggish response, and bent down to take the kiss instead. But there were no protests. No shoving. No yelling. The boy stiffened, but that was all.
And Geppetto took that placidity while it existed, kissing the boy’s face, kissing his cheeks, his hands still roaming down his body, fumbling at the buckle of his belt. He was desperate. Having forced himself to cease this madness for so long, only to have the boy here and already half naked beneath him. Geppetto was losing his mind, ripping at his trousers as if he were a starving animal hellbent on devouring the meal before it—but he stopped just short.
Gentle. Why did he keep forgetting that? Be gentle with his boy. His perfect boy deserved to be treated gently.
“Son, you’ll have to excuse your father. I just can’t express how much I’ve missed you.”
The boy’s blank eyes fell to him, having not moved that entire time, and he finally spoke after what felt like hours of silence. “I-I do not understand. I have been here. I visit you often.”
He nodded, the buckle undone, the edge of his trousers pulled, until he’d had them loosened enough to drag below the boy’s hips. Even now, he had to catch himself from gasping at the boy’s naked sex—he knew he would feel it if he touched him. The boy could feel not just emotions, but sensations as well. “You do visit me often. But it’s your memories I miss more than anything. I really hope that you can get them back one day, and I promise I will be here with you until you do.”
The boy nodded, his gaze averted when Geppetto smiled at him with a hunger he would not be able to satiate until he’d stripped himself as well. The boy showed no signs of fleeing, only reluctant consternation, and even that wasn't enough to go out of his way to defy Geppetto. If he hadn’t panicked and tried to push him off by now, Geppetto was confident that the boy would lie there and let him finish.
In all of his haste, he never once forgot to think of Carlo first and foremost, should his son regain his memories now of all times, Geppetto knew that his actions could only be construed as loving affection. Carlo wanted this. He knew he wanted it. He just needed reminding.
“No matter how many times I see you like this, I can never come to terms with just how beautiful you are.” He gently touched the boy’s stomach, his hand trailing to the side, enjoying the soft feeling of the barely there muscle just beneath. This boy wasn’t toned so much as he was taut, everything still in its proper place, scraps of baby fat still here and there, mostly in his face, making him appear younger at a brief glance, but once naked, his boyish frame was quite lean.
In all of his handlings, the boy never stirred, never stole away, never so much as complained while Geppetto marveled his body, his son’s body, touching here and there, teasing himself, because he hadn’t done this in so long. He would have much rather preferred his real boy to be here, to gaze into those brown eyes, to smile when his cheeks flushed red, because Carlo often turned bright red when they did this.
This boy possessed no such flush. In all of Geppetto’s touching, his fleeting kissing, the boy remained still as a statue, only moving when spoken to, not even daring to turn his eyes from the ceiling. And Geppetto had to finally ask, when his fingers found his own belt buckle, when he fumbled with his trousers, struggling somewhat with his excitement right there for the boy to see. And he gave pause for a moment, hands frozen around his belt.
“Son, are you alright?”
At first, the boy said nothing, not even acknowledging Geppetto with the courtesy of a side glance. He stared at the ceiling, so still and quiet that he almost appeared dead, but he finally took a small breath, and blinked. “Y-yes. I am alright. I am—I do not know what I am feeling.”
That was somewhat concerning. Geppetto hadn’t meant for this to become a process akin to pulling teeth—he wanted his boy to enjoy it, to realize there wasn’t anything wrong with a father showing love for his only son this way. “It’s alright to be nervous. I know you don’t remember doing this. Just relax and let your father take care of everything. You don’t have to do anything but lie there.” And he may have been pushing it to add, “You can enjoy yourself. I’d rather you did.”
The boy made no reply, only a slow, painfully slow nod to show he understood. Whether or not it meant he was finally at ease was another matter entirely, but Geppetto couldn’t afford to spend all night trying to get him to open up. So long as the boy didn’t scare off from any of Geppetto's efforts, he would consider that progress. Perhaps Carlo was truly remembering this after all, and it was merely taking time for him to come to terms with those facts, whether or not he gleaned any good from it at all—Geppetto hoped he did. He wanted his son to be moaning underneath him, legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him in as far as he could go, holding him, suffocating Geppetto with his kiss, with those beautiful eyes that begged him for more, his beautifully pleasured voice that called for him over and over. Carlo was always so gorgeous when he was turned on.
He sighed, leaning away slightly enough where he had room to grab the boy’s thighs and adjust as needed. He missed his real son. He loved his real son. It was a strange taste in his mouth to think of this boy as a substitute for what he’d lost, but when he walked around with Carlo’s face, when he trusted Geppetto with that childlike innocence he found so charming, when he did as was asked of him like the good boy that he was—
How was Geppetto supposed to resist?
Slowly, very slowly, as if he were coaxing a terrified animal out of hiding, Geppetto reached for the boy’s sex, easily wrapping his fingers around it, and the gasp the boy made immediately upon being touched brought back so many memories—when Carlo was so sensitive. When Carlo was so noisy. Geppetto quietly shushed him, gently placing one hand to his chest to remind him he could lie there, because there was nothing to be scared of. He pumped a few times to test the waters, watching the boy’s reactions to gauge how he might have been feeling, but after the initial jolt of surprise, his boy had fallen still once again.
Geppetto smiled, hoping he was comforted by it. “You’re doing good, son. Just lie there. Don’t fuss. I’ll take care of you.”
The boy’s hands clawed about the floor, finding purchase in his blind reaching to his discarded shirt, where he squeezed it tight as if needing something to hold onto. Geppetto would have preferred if he’d been in his arms, holding onto him instead, but having the boy lie flat like this would make it easier in the end. He wouldn’t have to watch if he didn’t want to. Sometimes Geppetto hated it when Carlo turned away from him, when he’d wanted to stare directly into his eyes as he penetrated him—because Carlo was always so beautiful during those initial touches and invasions. He made the rawest sounds of pleasure, his face always red with blush, to the point he resembled a doll sometimes.
The boy twitched beneath him as he sped his movements, gripping just a bit harder, enough to give more sensation to what was probably new territory for the boy. Patting his thigh, Geppetto was honestly a bit taken aback when the boy grew hard in his hands, so quickly too, but young boys did often have a harder time controlling themselves. It wasn’t his fault his body was reacting this way already. “Good boy.” Every little coax he could manage, Geppetto would give him whatever his boy needed if it meant reminding him how wonderful this once was.
Even though this boy was designed by his own hands, crafted from years of meticulous work, so much detail and love and care poured into every last facet of his being, Geppetto was still amazed how much of Carlo was there. Artificial or not, his boy was within the puppet, reaching out in many ways. And the boy beneath him had no idea how those little idiosyncrasies drove Geppetto wild. From the way he bit his bottom lip, to the way he nervously glanced beyond at the nearby wall, to the way those quieted moans hummed in the back of his throat—all of it was just like Carlo. Carlo did these exact same things, in the exact same way.
“Son,” he said, unable to help it, his chest tight, “please remember the happiness. Please remember what good there was, and know how much your father cares about you—do you understand? Do you believe I want what’s best for you?”
The boy had closed his eyes, small hisses pushing through his clenched teeth, squeezing the daylights out of his shirt, just as he began to thrust into Geppetto’s hands, meeting him halfway. He nodded, not saying a word, but it was all Geppetto needed.
“You’re a good boy. You make me so happy.” This was Carlo responding. Carlo was still here, a faint presence, but his heart dwelled within the puppet, and he could hear his father’s voice calling. He knew it. Carlo still wanted this. Carlo missed him too.
No mess would be made if Geppetto kept this up, he knew. The boy may have felt the pleasure as he knew he would, but he was still a puppet, incapable of certain functions, if it were, not that it would stop his father from making sure he reached that high. The little moans he made were so fetching, driving him mad all over again, and he closed his eyes, his own hips rutting somewhat in time with his strokes, already feeling his own pleasure building. He hadn’t even touched himself, nor had he penetrated the boy yet, but from the scarce feelings all on their own, he could indulge simply from hearing his boy go through it. It never failed to get him off. Never.
His boy was that irresistible.
“Son, sit up for me.” He’d let go, knowing he had driven the boy to the edge, without letting him finish, but he wouldn’t deny him that outright. The fact of the matter was Geppetto was starving, and looming over the boy wasn’t the best position for that right now. He’d wanted to ease him into it, and he hoped by getting him hard that he would be more open to engaging a little, as forcing Carlo to participate was always such a struggle. His son had stopped cooperating so suddenly that it made their nights that much more difficult and less enjoyable.
The boy sat up, entirely naked and bare, the shirt that was now wrinkled from his grasp falling uselessly back to the floor. His hooded eyes rose to Geppetto’s, the expression still so perplexing for his father to properly discern. He could never tell what this boy was thinking, as Carlo was one to wear his emotions on his sleeve, so unlike this boy who was reticent above all else. Geppetto didn’t quite know just what he wanted from him. A smile maybe? A bashful little blush? Maybe desire?
Everything felt off with this boy, even his reactions, because while he wasn’t rejecting Geppetto, he still wasn’t quite all there. Like a doll. He was just going through the motions.
He hated it. Carlo once did the same.
“Move close.”
The boy obeyed, sliding closer where Geppetto implored him to spread his legs.
“I’ll need you to work with me some. Can you do that for me?”
A nod.
“Good boy. Sit like this.” As he said to, Geppetto adjusted his own position, sitting on his legs so that he could get the boy to crawl on his lap, which he did. Now that the boy was effectively straddling him, holding onto his shoulders for support, Geppetto could catch the wonderful view of his face that much clearly. “You’re doing so good. It won't hurt, I promise, but you’ll let me know if you need us to slow down, won't you?”
Another nod.
“Good. You’ll have to move your thighs and meet me halfway. Just ease yourself into it until you get used to the movement.”
The boy’s eyes flashed with a glimmer of… fear? No. Maybe not. Geppetto stopped looking at his face as he pulled his erection free from his trousers, propping the boy up proper to keep a firm grip around his hips. He didn’t move a muscle. Not at first.
But Geppetto offered a smile. “I’ll be gentle, son. I promise.”
There wasn’t really much else he could say that would ease the boy’s reservations, but so long as he didn’t pull away, Geppetto saw no harm in continuing. With a bit of effort, having found what he was looking for, hands on the boy’s thighs, he slowly and carefully pushed inside of him. There was absolutely no reaction from the boy. None. Not even a small wince of shock, or a change in expression to show discomfort. He merely glanced once to Geppetto before turning away yet again, gripping his shoulders for support.
With no sign whatsoever, not even of any pain, Geppetto pushed further, testing the waters. This was much different than he was expecting. When it came to Carlo, his real son always fussed as if this was the most difficult thing for him to sit through, constantly whining that Geppetto was hurting him, when he knew damn well he wasn’t. He’d never hurt his son. There had never, ever been blood. Not when he’d taken Carlo’s comfort into consideration so many times. Not when he’d go the extra mile to prepare him, to always remain mindful that there was additional lubrication if need be.
Carlo could be such a little brat sometimes.
“Are you alright?” he asked, easing back out, watching for any signs the boy was upset, but he hardly moved a muscle. Not a peep was made.
But he nodded then, gripping Geppetto’s shoulders tighter, squeezing the fabric of his shirt sleeves between his fingers until his knuckles paled. “Y-yes, Father.”
That was all the answer he needed to keep going. At least pleased for now, Geppetto smiled before leaning in to give the boy a proper kiss to the mouth, so taken aback what a good boy he was, having not expected him to last this far. “Good. You’ll have to move with me from now on. It doesn’t hurt?”
A shake, the boy’s fingers relaxing from their grip some. “No. It does not hurt.”
“Then I’m going to continue. I want you to move with me.”
The boy nodded. With that said, Geppetto rocked back into him, almost moaning aloud at his warmth, at the weight of his body straddled around his lap, at the odd scents of soaps in the air. He could truly disconnect his brain then, close his eyes, confident now that his boy knew his task, and exist in the sensation of touch only.
And did his boy perform so admirably. With little direction given, only simple instructions, he moved just as Geppetto had asked him to, bouncing up and down in his lap, the only sounds escaping being small, choked grunts every once in a while. He squeezed his father’s shoulders for support, enough that he felt the pressure when he pulled up, meeting him halfway, as if already in tune with Geppetto’s own body, as if he already knew the rhythm to match, the way he was expected to move, exactly the way Geppetto liked it.
This was Carlo. It had to be. His real son had to know exactly what he was doing, and with his eyes slammed shut, his large hands on his boy’s thighs to keep him balanced, his boy using him as support while they rocked in unison, he was transported right back to those happy times. The happiest times he’d spent with Carlo. He even leaned in, blind to everything but his sense of touch, and kissed his boy on the mouth.
He was not expecting to be kissed back. It wrenched his eyes straight open, Geppetto choking from the back of his throat. His boy. His boy had kissed him back. Carlo had kissed him back. He—
He grabbed the boy’s freckled cheeks, pulling him in closer, still thrusting in and out of him while his boy worked to keep up the pace, admittedly getting a little sloppy with his timing, but Geppetto didn’t care. He didn’t even care as he kissed him over and over, entrenched in the feeling only sex with Carlo had ever given him. He was soaring, in such a surreal sense, despite being right here, his head was in the clouds, dreaming of Carlo who had kissed him back. It must have been him.
His boy was so salacious, as always. Carlo just loved to tease.
“Son…” He broke the kiss, and hadn’t meant to moan so loud, not even bothered should someone downstairs hear him, but he quickly swallowed, having forgotten just what he was doing. He held his boy close, tugging his face into his neck, cradling the back of his head, all the while his boy held him tightly by the sleeves, still trying to meet every thrust he made. His boy was trying so hard, and it made him proud. “Son, you’re such a good boy. You’re so good for your father. I’ll make you happy like this everyday—for the rest of my life. I would do it for you, son. Whatever would make you happiest.”
The boy only grunted when he thrust harder, having not meant to be so rough, but he was just a touch desperate. His boy was resilient, though. He knew his father meant no harm. He knew his father loved him more than anyone else in the world.
Geppetto closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of his boy’s hair, finding the vaguest hints of soaps to be most pleasant. “You’re all I have, son. Please remember. Please.”
Just a little desperate. Somewhat lost in his haste, in the pleasure Carlo always somehow managed to give him without even trying. He’d long stopped worrying, knowing his boy deserved the best, at whatever price he had to pay, even at the destruction of an entire city—Geppetto would have his son returned safely in his arms. Until then, he embraced the boy in his lap, his own pleasure building and building. It never took a lot for Geppetto to get off when it came to his son, even without Carlo having had to do a thing.
He was turned on by the mere fact this was his son.
Geppetto hissed through his teeth, squeezing the boy much tighter than he’d meant, actually causing him to gasp, and he quickly switched tactics, because he was close. He was already close, but before that, he reached down, having gotten so used to Carlo touching himself in the past that he forgot this boy had no idea what was expected of him. But this time, Geppetto would do it for him, to prove how happy he could make Carlo, because—see how attentive he was being to his wants? Surely Carlo could sense how earnest he was to please his son.
When he wrapped his hand around the boy’s sex, the gasp he received was much louder, his fingers digging so much into his shoulders that Geppetto actually feared for a moment he would forget the power of his mechanical arm and crush him by accident, but the boy was even more mindful than he, never using more strength than what was necessary. He was always so thoughtful around his father, knowing his skills far surpassed Geppetto’s, knowing his father was fragile in a sense, at least more fragile than he. The boy could have truly broken every bone in his body if he really wanted.
But he would never turn on his own father that way. Not like Carlo had. And it hadn’t been his fault—he’d been a moody teenager—they all were—all teenagers were mouthy and pushy and stubborn and naïve and ignorant and—
The boy’s moan brought him out of his drifting thoughts, Geppetto taking care not to finish before his boy did. He always gave Carlo the opportunity to come first, knowing he wouldn’t be able to control himself for long, until he got a bit older, and Geppetto always made certain he was first. Always first. Because he loved him.
But this boy was lasting much longer, and Geppetto was losing his own control. Having waited for so long for Carlo to return, not even touching himself that much while alone in his room, fantasizing of Carlo, to now being wrapped, entirely enveloped in this boy’s warmth—he was high off it. High off the pleasure, off the warmth, off the sounds and gasps and everything this boy was giving him. He didn’t have to be Carlo, because he was just enough like his real son that Geppetto was blinded by everything, only focused on the pleasure, eyes closed, one hand wrapped around the boy’s hips to keep him in his lap, his other touching him, the boy hissing and moaning, still meeting his thrusts to keep the momentum, never once stopping.
He was such a good boy.
And when he finally buried his face into Geppetto’s chest, hissing through his teeth at the start, the sound erupting into a loud moan that anyone standing right outside the door would have surely heard, Geppetto knew he’d taken him as far as he could go. Nothing would actually come out. His creation did not possess biological functions, even if he could eat and sleep, there were still things he was simply incapable of doing because he wasn’t actually human. But the pleasure was real. His boy’s moans were evidence of that.
He helped him to ride it out as much as he could, still rutting into him even when his boy’s limbs failed and melted just as his orgasm began to fade. It had struck him as it would have a real human, leaving him lightheaded and exhausted, his body only possessing so much stamina. Even when his weight fell onto him, Geppetto met him halfway. Now that his boy had finished, he finally gave into what he’d been starving for for so long, hissing as his own orgasm hit, as he purged every bit of his excitement for Carlo inside of this boy, holding him close, close enough that he felt the boy’s erection press into his stomach, and he kissed whatever he could reach—the boy’s hair. Kiss after kiss after kiss after breath after gasp after blacking out insanity emotional poison expelling from the deepest recesses his nightmares plagued him with night upon night—
And there was Carlo in the middle of it. When he finally closed his eyes, his orgasm dying away, Geppetto breathed in the calm, silent aftermath that sex gave. He breathed slow and even, his heart thumping madly before also steadying to a dull, rhythmic pounding, his limbs realizing they were numb from the position he’d insisted they be in, and his boy sat unmoving in his lap, holding him, breathing at his side, saying not a word. Geppetto let the moment stay for as long as he could, reveling the silence, the haze, the dreamlike state of being where his mind couldn’t conjure a single thought.
He only smiled, leaning in to kiss his boy one more time, patting his hair while he held him close. “You were such a good boy for your father. Are you alright?”
The boy nodded, his once heavier breathing now quieting. “I am alright,” he said, his voice so small then that Geppetto almost couldn’t hear.
He carefully maneuvered the boy so that he could pull out of him, the boy remaining mindful as he assisted him, rising off his lap until he was free, and even then, Geppetto had to pull him back down for one more kiss. He just couldn’t help it. It had been so, so long that he’d spent the night with Carlo like this, staying up into the early hours of the morning, wrapped in his arms, holding him close, kissing him over and over. He just couldn’t stop the utter joy that was coursing through his veins, especially since the boy had been so compliant.
That was better news than he could have ever hoped for, and there was no harm in pushing the boundaries just a little.
“Kiss me?” He’d phrased it as a question, and with no hesitation this time, his boy leaned in, kissing him back.
All the nights with Carlo could not have compared to the sheer bliss that burst throughout his body then, Geppetto forgetting everything in that moment, having spent so long yearning for that bright little boy Carlo had once been that he nearly exclaimed in unfiltered surprise to be kissed so readily like this. He hadn’t gotten Carlo to kiss him this way in years.
And he pulled the boy back when he broke away, wanting more of his kiss, hungering for it more than ever, even after what just happened, his body spent, knowing his boy was tired, but Geppetto kissed him again and again, grabbing his face, pulling away just for a breath, kissing again, harder this time, kissing his cheek, kissing his mouth, lowering to his neck just to steal one there as well, and then back to his mouth. He kissed as though he would die if he didn’t have his boy kiss him in return, knowing he was coming on too strong, but there was nothing that could stop him now.
He’d gotten a taste of what happiness Carlo could have once he returned. And he was selfish enough to want more of it.
“Son,” he whispered, finally pulling away to give them both room to catch themselves, knowing it was late by now, and it wouldn’t be long that the other survivors in the hotel would all be returning to their rooms for the evening, if they hadn’t done so already. “I want you to go wash up again.”
The boy did not respond right away, having moved out of Geppetto’s lap, he sat on the floor, frozen for the longest time before he began to reach for his clothes, pausing at Geppetto’s request. His eyes were glassy when he met his father’s own. “I… Yes, Father, but why?”
He did not even bother to lie, “I want you to come to my room when you’re finished and join me in bed. It might help jog your memory, and you’d be keeping your father warm for the night.” He smiled. “Do you understand?”
The boy’s movements were slow and deliberate, almost like those of a frightened animal, but he showed no signs of contradicting Geppetto’s whims. He only stared past his head at the desk, his face fallen somewhat, no less confused, but still so difficult for Geppetto to read. He did not look as though he were going to cry. But he simply looked lost. That was the only thing about the boy that Geppetto couldn’t stand—he could never truly figure out just what he was feeling, because he never spoke out of turn, only expressing frustrations that the cat didn’t like him, but no true matters Geppetto was interested in. He just wanted the boy to be more honest, like Carlo had been.
He wished he’d smiled, but there would be plenty of opportunities for Geppetto to remind him of their happiness, knowing the day would come that Carlo would return, his real son would run into his arms, crying tears of joy, lamenting the loss being apart from his father had brought upon him, and eager to be that good little boy that he knew he truly was. It wouldn’t be long. Carlo would come back. Bits and pieces of him already existed within this boy, and it pleased Geppetto to no end just how obedient he was, even now, even sitting there naked on the floor, staring on with vacant, glassy eyes, obviously confused, but having no clue what to make of what just happened.
Even if there were doubts, the boy nodded, grabbing his shirt, his trousers, dressing and standing to his feet along with Geppetto. He looked about as though fighting for something to say, before finally settling on a quiet, somewhat embarrassed, “Yes, Father.”
Just as he turned on his heels, Geppetto reached out to nab his shoulder, stopping him. “Do you remember where my bedroom is?”
The boy did not face him, but he nodded. “I do.”
“Alright. Do hurry and wash up. If you’d like to change into something else to sleep in, feel free to do so.” He squeezed his shoulder, just a gentle reminder, if nothing else. “Try not to keep me waiting, son.”
“Yes, Father.”
He let go, the boy shambling across the room not soon after where he fumbled with the bolt, quietly opened the door, and disappeared from Geppetto’s office. In the time Geppetto spent staring at the spot, he had no measure for just how long he stood there. He was still lost in the clouds, his body feeling lighter, his heart thumping, his nerves burning with excitement to have his boy come back and spend the night in bed with him. It had been so long. So, so long he’d been able to turn over under the covers and wrap Carlo close, share their body heat, and sleep in utter peace.
He couldn’t wait. Geppetto made certain he was dressed properly before he exited the office to make way for his bedroom. He just couldn’t wait—the boy would be with him again. He would hold him. Kiss him. Touch him all night. Pleasure him again. Wrap his legs around him again. Hover over him while he lay beneath him.
He had to hurry. His boy would return.
In the time it had taken him to travel to his bedroom, Geppetto hadn’t noticed the storm clouds that had rolled over Krat that night, heavy rain splattering the windows of the hotel, a rumble of thunder following after every sporadic flash of lightning. But even the weather couldn’t dampen his mood.
Because how could he possibly even care about anything else when his beautiful, perfect boy would be in bed with him soon?