Tradition (written for Memorial Day)

He looked into his young husband’s eyes with seriousness.  “Who decides on the punishment?”

The blue eyes were pleading.  “You do, I know, but please don’t ground me this weekend.  If I’m grounded we can’t celebrate like we normally do…and it’s tradition.  It’s important!”

The older man sighed, having forgotten about the holiday weekend, but he couldn’t let his man off either.  “It’s a week’s grounding or a paddling then, kid.  Your choice.”

The blue eyes flinched, but the handsome mouth took a slow breath.  “Paddling,” he decided in a whisper.

He hated to do it, but it was his husband’s choice…and the younger man was right, this tradition was important.  He was glad that it wouldn’t need to be disrupted.  He retrieved the small paddle they kept hidden in the linen closet and used it to point to the back of the couch.

“Pants down.  Over.”

Already looking penitent, his man undid the slacks that denoted a work day and dropped them and his briefs to his feet.  He took another minute to settle himself over the back of the couch, his face now hidden from view.

The sound of the first swat was loud.  So was the second.  Already the twin cheeks were turning red.  The third brought a gasp.  The fourth a whimper.  By the tenth and final smack, there were tears and the shaking of shoulders that showed both remorse and that the punishment had been effective. 

The older brought the younger into hug, neither worrying about the lack of clothes to cover one very heated behind.  There were tears and quiet sobs for a couple minutes, and the soft whispers of reassurance as a large hand gently rubbed the red cheeks.

“Sorry,” a sad voice murmured.

“I know.  It was a bad choice, but choosing the paddling was a good one,” the older man said with wholehearted approval.

Three days later, the two men followed through on their yearly tradition.  Dressed in their best, they entered Arlington National Cemetery as soon as it opened to the public. 

No talking.  Only the sound of their footsteps accompanied them as they made their way to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.  They stopped near to it, but still at a distance that held a silent respect, the same respect held in not running up to royalty.  It was an honor to approach this grave.

After several long minutes, they knelt together, each laying a lily near the memorial, and then stood holding hands.

Both of them had served…reserves, not career soldiers…but they knew the trauma of fighting, and the honor of duty and service.  Both had lost friends. 

They lived peacefully now, but they understood the cost of peace more than others.  That’s why this tradition was important.

They were still silent as they left the cultured grounds, although outside the gates the younger man, hand still in his husband’s, dropped his head to his partner’s shoulder as they walked. 

“Thank you,” he whispered.

The older man knew what he meant.  “You were right, hon.  This tradition is too important.  Thank you for reminding me.”  He paused, both in words and in step, and brought the younger man around to stand in front of him.  “And thank you for serving,” he said unreservedly, but barely above a whisper as his voice strained with emotion.

The younger man brought his hands up to cup his husband’s face, the thumbs running lightly along the cheeks before his grip dropped to the taller man’s shoulders and squeezed with strength, love, and sincerity. 

“Thank you for serving,” he replied just as earnestly.

They stared at one another for a long minute, then once again found each other’s hand and walked home to continue in their other traditions for Memorial Day.