always - short story, original characters
Always
By Nihilism
Lee was not looking for anything to change in his life. He was not content where he was, but he was complacent with his life, and that was a huge step up from recent feelings. His mother was dead, but he did not see her every time he closed his eyes; he did not dream about her every night; he had even become strong enough to wear her Japanese kimono-inspired white silk dressing gown. He was living with his aunt, his mother's sister; he did not like her but she had taken him from that terrible orphanage and that was something to be thankful for. Besides, she more or less left him alone. He had a steady supply of weed and Xanax and, most importantly, he was speaking again.
Oh, sure, he wasn't declaiming in great detail about anything. His conversations were terse, but there were conversations. On some occasions, he could even stand up for himself. And he was going to school. Once the team of psychiatrists decided that his psychoses were not completely debilitating and that he was certainly in no danger of harming others, they had agreed that school was possible. It may even be good for him, they said: maybe he could make new friends here in Jersey, come out of his shell some and begin to heal.
Aunt Lillian ignored him most days. He liked it that way. He hated how she'd hovered when he'd first shown up, feigning concern for his inability to speak and the hours he'd spend curled in the corner of his bedroom. Now that he could talk back, however, she seemed not to want to have any conversation. Lee knew why: in a two-sided conversation, she didn't get to hear her own voice so often, and that was every actor's reason for talking, wasn't it?
He had been in school for about three months. He had reached his thirteenth birthday. He still felt at odds with his surroundings, out of place and unwanted, but he was talented at staying out of peoples' way and most granted him the peace of staying out of his, in return. Except Kevin. Kevin was the one boy at school that had consistently engaged Lee in conversation, and tried to include the shy, smaller-than-average teen in activities which Lee constantly made excuses not to attend.
But he did allow Kevin to walk home with him. They lived in adjacent apartment buildings; it only seemed natural to have companionship on the way home. Even though Lee would have welcomed a mugging, an attack, or even a motiveless rape and murder, Jersey City wasn't a safe place. Not for a tiny imp of a boy with a fringe that covered his eyes and a suspiciously sketchy nature. Those people who like to take advantage, those predators; they smell weakness. It's a sixth sense, singling out the one person in the crowd who will be easiest to break down. Though having Kevin, full of bravado and bursting with physical strength and always ready for a fight, had saved Lee from becoming such a victim for now.
It happens as they walk home from school, once more. It's just after three, the street is full of vagrants and unsavory types and unemployed loiterers. They hang on street corners, looking for entertainment at the expense of others. Lee keeps his head down and his hands in his pockets, a don't-ask don't-tell position he assumes more often than not. Next to the diminutive boy, Kevin is jabbering hormonally away talking about the girl in their math class: Cassandra. She's an early bloomer and Kevin claims is already in a C-cup. When Lee asks if she's pretty, Kevin has no answer: He hasn't ever gone so far to look at her face, not when her uniform shirt stays unbuttoned to the point of indecency and her skirt shows far too much thigh. Lee has noticed these things, too, of course; they're impossible to miss. But the fact that he doesn't care, doesn't feel any stirring in his pants when she bends over too far doesn't concern him. He's post-pubescent himself and probably has just as many hormones as his one and only 'friend,' but never displays them, never succumbs to them even in the dark of his own tiny bedroom. He has his suspicions why: he'd long ago learned what the Mexican neighbors of their old Boston apartment building meant when they'd leer at him and call him maricon, and he understood what older Jersey men were asking for when they found him smoking outside the apartment building and asked in a low, but shameless whisper - Business, pretty boy?
Once he had spat in one of the man's faces after just such a question. He knew he was weak, knew he appeared feminine and underage, and knew he had a certain air of neglect that may lead people to believe he'd do anything for affection. But he vowed to himself long ago that he would never, no matter how bad circumstances became, succumb to the all too easy temptation of selling his own body to skeezy older men. The man with the mucus across his cheek had backhanded him hard enough to send the tiny form sprawling to the pavement, hitting hard, cracking his wrist. That was nearly a year ago and his wrist had healed, but he won't ever forget the shame and the anger it produced in him. He hated the man, who lived two doors down from his aunt's apartment, and had since nailed a dead mouse to his door. A warning he'd never be able to back up, but he'd be damned if he didn't try to protect himself. No one else was about to do it.
On this particular spring day, Lee and Kevin make their way slowly down the sidewalk. Kevin's eyes are constantly moving, taking in the scantily clad ladies roaming the adjacent sidewalk. Lee can't stand to look at them; he knows what they are and it makes him nauseous. Which one will be the first to be shot while her killer is balls deep in her? He doesn't want to see their faces, doesn't want to recognize them if they ever manage to end up in the paper beneath a headline about a Jack the Ripper copycat and a rash of dead hookers.
Then, he hears a voice. It carries easily across the street, loud, boisterous. It sounds unhealthy. Scratchy, like the man swallowed sandpaper - definitely a male voice - but also smooth, like that sandpaper throat had been overlaid with honey. He does not sound angry though his voice is raised, and in fact there's laughter beneath his tone: a sickly amused, careless, dark laughter. Lee cannot help himself; he looks up finally and across to the cafe on the other side of the road.
The object of his attention is spotted immediately: gesticulating expressively with his hands, his whole body, he holds captive an audience of street folk and junkies. He is the cleanest person of the group, in his wife beater and torn up jeans. No belt, Lee notices. Adidas adorn his feet. The thin white material of that shirt lets bright colors on his back radiate through, and on his bared shoulders and arms Lee can see more of those luminous tattoos. Lee doesn't realize he's stopped, doesn't realize he's staring. He's taking in everything he can about the scene.
He notices the muscles of his arms, not overly bulging but certainly toned. Even his neck seems muscled, or perhaps just tense. His head is shaved, but most of the scalp is not visible, tucked beneath a battered black baseball cap. The man's words aren't audible from this distance, but the tone is - amused, but sneering; sardonic. Like he expects everyone near by to be grateful to be graced with his presence. He's stopped talking now, and his comrades are responding, trying to match his tone but sounding nervous; they are not confident in his presence, with the exception of one. Silent, red-haired, and easily as inked as the charismatic man, he sits on the right-hand side of a low wall that boxes in the cafe, next to where the first man was giving his scriptures.
Though the fascinating man no longer speaks, Lee continues to observe. He notes the fluid movements he makes; digging into his pockets to retrieve a small cardboard box, flicking it open, practiced, and retrieving a Zippo to light the cigarette pushed between thin lips. It's all one liquid action. He leans into the low wall next to his buddy, then, perhaps craving a more comfortable position, slides back onto to sit as well. It's obvious he's not listening to the other people grouped around him, his head turns this way and that as if looking for something more entertaining. He looks bored, and haughty, but very sexily so.
Abruptly, the unnamed, inked man stands and strides away from the cafe. His gait is not exactly graceful, but thoughtless and unfaltering. Lee is put in mind of a large jungle cat, a tiger or panther, when stalking his prey but feigning indifference. He halts at a nearby street corner, tilting his face to the sky. Only then does Lee realize it has begun to drizzle. But still, he cannot stop watching.
"Hey, fag," Kevin's voice interrupts his thoughts. "You wanna take a picture so we can get outta this rain, er what?"
Lee blinks, shaking his head absently for the question but not taking his soft blue eyes from the figure across the street. The man had apparently heard Kevin's strictures, because now that face is turned to look at the both of them. Though he's far away, Lee imagines he can see the precise, pale color of those eyes and the mischievous, impervious light emanating from them. His face is more weathered than Lee would have expected, smattered with stubble.
"Lee," Kevin repeats. "Let's go."
This time, Lee nods. It is only slightly more coherent. He can feel the blush rising in his cheeks as the man across the street continues to watch them, faintly amused, but still cannot tear his gaze away. Then, slowly, every tiny muscle movement calculated, the man's thin lips twist into a crooked smile, a toxic grin, and Lee feels something like a meat hook slip beneath his sternum and tug sharply. He actually takes a step forward, off the curb, and the honking of a speeding Subaru finally breaks the spell. He steps back, shaken, and drops his head to stare at his white rubber-covered toes.
"You comin', or what?" Kevin prompts.
The car has passed and Lee looks up; the man is still watching him, still grinning, but even sicklier now. Lee swallows, his throat suddenly very dry, but rasps towards Kevin. "Nah. You...you go 'head. See ya later."
Kevin, with one last incredulous look between his school friend and the diseased man across the street, snorts his disapproval but sets off on his own. If Lee wants to get himself killed, it is his own business.
Seeing the other boy leave, the enigmatic tattooed cretin watches him go, but only briefly. Instead, his sharp gaze returns to Lee; it grazes his form pointedly and appraisingly, before he finally finds the eyes that, even from here, are bright as a bottle of Windex. The man shakes his head, drags hard on his smoke and then tosses it into the street.
He walks away. His friends re-welcome him with glad greetings, as if he'd been gone for weeks instead of moments. Lee watches him go, wondering. Wondering who the man is, how he can be so strong, why he can be so dangerous and still so alluring. Wondering what it must be like, to be him - to be the sort of person who can make someone stop in the middle of the street, nearly walk through traffic, simply to inspect him from a closer vantage. Biting into his lower lip harshly, Lee ignores the tears that spring to his ducts and turns away, disheartened. Whoever the man is, Lee knows that the single look he got from him is all he'll ever get. He should feel lucky to even have received that amount of interest, but he cannot help wishing, hoping, even as he accepts the futility of trying, that he, someday, will find someone who looks at him the same way. who is just as fascinated by Lee as Lee is of the beautiful, dangerous stranger. And he vows, if ever that person comes along, that he will do everything in his power to keep their interest.
But he knows it won't be enough. No one would look at him that way, the stranger would never look at him again, and no one will ever consider himself to that extreme point. Even his own mother would not stay alive for him.
'The object of his attention is spotted immediately: gesticulating expressively with his hands, his whole body, he holds captive an audience of street folk and junkies. Lee doesn't realize he's stopped, doesn't realize he's staring. Lee is put in mind of a large jungle cat, a tiger or panther, when stalking his prey but feigning indifference.' Rating: mild. It is worth noting that this is unrelated to the story I recently posted, unless considered as some very old backstory. I'd really appreciate comments, as always, but if you could give me something more than 'this is great' or 'i liked it' I would really love it - tell me why you like it, what doesn't fit, etcetra. Please.
P.S. I am trying to form a group of original character, slash fiction writers for the purpose of sharing, critiquing, reviewing and editing since it seems none of my previous readers are interested in my original works. If you do write original slash fiction, please comment here, and we can decide whether we need a community for this or not.
By Nihilism
Lee was not looking for anything to change in his life. He was not content where he was, but he was complacent with his life, and that was a huge step up from recent feelings. His mother was dead, but he did not see her every time he closed his eyes; he did not dream about her every night; he had even become strong enough to wear her Japanese kimono-inspired white silk dressing gown. He was living with his aunt, his mother's sister; he did not like her but she had taken him from that terrible orphanage and that was something to be thankful for. Besides, she more or less left him alone. He had a steady supply of weed and Xanax and, most importantly, he was speaking again.
Oh, sure, he wasn't declaiming in great detail about anything. His conversations were terse, but there were conversations. On some occasions, he could even stand up for himself. And he was going to school. Once the team of psychiatrists decided that his psychoses were not completely debilitating and that he was certainly in no danger of harming others, they had agreed that school was possible. It may even be good for him, they said: maybe he could make new friends here in Jersey, come out of his shell some and begin to heal.
Aunt Lillian ignored him most days. He liked it that way. He hated how she'd hovered when he'd first shown up, feigning concern for his inability to speak and the hours he'd spend curled in the corner of his bedroom. Now that he could talk back, however, she seemed not to want to have any conversation. Lee knew why: in a two-sided conversation, she didn't get to hear her own voice so often, and that was every actor's reason for talking, wasn't it?
He had been in school for about three months. He had reached his thirteenth birthday. He still felt at odds with his surroundings, out of place and unwanted, but he was talented at staying out of peoples' way and most granted him the peace of staying out of his, in return. Except Kevin. Kevin was the one boy at school that had consistently engaged Lee in conversation, and tried to include the shy, smaller-than-average teen in activities which Lee constantly made excuses not to attend.
But he did allow Kevin to walk home with him. They lived in adjacent apartment buildings; it only seemed natural to have companionship on the way home. Even though Lee would have welcomed a mugging, an attack, or even a motiveless rape and murder, Jersey City wasn't a safe place. Not for a tiny imp of a boy with a fringe that covered his eyes and a suspiciously sketchy nature. Those people who like to take advantage, those predators; they smell weakness. It's a sixth sense, singling out the one person in the crowd who will be easiest to break down. Though having Kevin, full of bravado and bursting with physical strength and always ready for a fight, had saved Lee from becoming such a victim for now.
It happens as they walk home from school, once more. It's just after three, the street is full of vagrants and unsavory types and unemployed loiterers. They hang on street corners, looking for entertainment at the expense of others. Lee keeps his head down and his hands in his pockets, a don't-ask don't-tell position he assumes more often than not. Next to the diminutive boy, Kevin is jabbering hormonally away talking about the girl in their math class: Cassandra. She's an early bloomer and Kevin claims is already in a C-cup. When Lee asks if she's pretty, Kevin has no answer: He hasn't ever gone so far to look at her face, not when her uniform shirt stays unbuttoned to the point of indecency and her skirt shows far too much thigh. Lee has noticed these things, too, of course; they're impossible to miss. But the fact that he doesn't care, doesn't feel any stirring in his pants when she bends over too far doesn't concern him. He's post-pubescent himself and probably has just as many hormones as his one and only 'friend,' but never displays them, never succumbs to them even in the dark of his own tiny bedroom. He has his suspicions why: he'd long ago learned what the Mexican neighbors of their old Boston apartment building meant when they'd leer at him and call him maricon, and he understood what older Jersey men were asking for when they found him smoking outside the apartment building and asked in a low, but shameless whisper - Business, pretty boy?
Once he had spat in one of the man's faces after just such a question. He knew he was weak, knew he appeared feminine and underage, and knew he had a certain air of neglect that may lead people to believe he'd do anything for affection. But he vowed to himself long ago that he would never, no matter how bad circumstances became, succumb to the all too easy temptation of selling his own body to skeezy older men. The man with the mucus across his cheek had backhanded him hard enough to send the tiny form sprawling to the pavement, hitting hard, cracking his wrist. That was nearly a year ago and his wrist had healed, but he won't ever forget the shame and the anger it produced in him. He hated the man, who lived two doors down from his aunt's apartment, and had since nailed a dead mouse to his door. A warning he'd never be able to back up, but he'd be damned if he didn't try to protect himself. No one else was about to do it.
On this particular spring day, Lee and Kevin make their way slowly down the sidewalk. Kevin's eyes are constantly moving, taking in the scantily clad ladies roaming the adjacent sidewalk. Lee can't stand to look at them; he knows what they are and it makes him nauseous. Which one will be the first to be shot while her killer is balls deep in her? He doesn't want to see their faces, doesn't want to recognize them if they ever manage to end up in the paper beneath a headline about a Jack the Ripper copycat and a rash of dead hookers.
Then, he hears a voice. It carries easily across the street, loud, boisterous. It sounds unhealthy. Scratchy, like the man swallowed sandpaper - definitely a male voice - but also smooth, like that sandpaper throat had been overlaid with honey. He does not sound angry though his voice is raised, and in fact there's laughter beneath his tone: a sickly amused, careless, dark laughter. Lee cannot help himself; he looks up finally and across to the cafe on the other side of the road.
The object of his attention is spotted immediately: gesticulating expressively with his hands, his whole body, he holds captive an audience of street folk and junkies. He is the cleanest person of the group, in his wife beater and torn up jeans. No belt, Lee notices. Adidas adorn his feet. The thin white material of that shirt lets bright colors on his back radiate through, and on his bared shoulders and arms Lee can see more of those luminous tattoos. Lee doesn't realize he's stopped, doesn't realize he's staring. He's taking in everything he can about the scene.
He notices the muscles of his arms, not overly bulging but certainly toned. Even his neck seems muscled, or perhaps just tense. His head is shaved, but most of the scalp is not visible, tucked beneath a battered black baseball cap. The man's words aren't audible from this distance, but the tone is - amused, but sneering; sardonic. Like he expects everyone near by to be grateful to be graced with his presence. He's stopped talking now, and his comrades are responding, trying to match his tone but sounding nervous; they are not confident in his presence, with the exception of one. Silent, red-haired, and easily as inked as the charismatic man, he sits on the right-hand side of a low wall that boxes in the cafe, next to where the first man was giving his scriptures.
Though the fascinating man no longer speaks, Lee continues to observe. He notes the fluid movements he makes; digging into his pockets to retrieve a small cardboard box, flicking it open, practiced, and retrieving a Zippo to light the cigarette pushed between thin lips. It's all one liquid action. He leans into the low wall next to his buddy, then, perhaps craving a more comfortable position, slides back onto to sit as well. It's obvious he's not listening to the other people grouped around him, his head turns this way and that as if looking for something more entertaining. He looks bored, and haughty, but very sexily so.
Abruptly, the unnamed, inked man stands and strides away from the cafe. His gait is not exactly graceful, but thoughtless and unfaltering. Lee is put in mind of a large jungle cat, a tiger or panther, when stalking his prey but feigning indifference. He halts at a nearby street corner, tilting his face to the sky. Only then does Lee realize it has begun to drizzle. But still, he cannot stop watching.
"Hey, fag," Kevin's voice interrupts his thoughts. "You wanna take a picture so we can get outta this rain, er what?"
Lee blinks, shaking his head absently for the question but not taking his soft blue eyes from the figure across the street. The man had apparently heard Kevin's strictures, because now that face is turned to look at the both of them. Though he's far away, Lee imagines he can see the precise, pale color of those eyes and the mischievous, impervious light emanating from them. His face is more weathered than Lee would have expected, smattered with stubble.
"Lee," Kevin repeats. "Let's go."
This time, Lee nods. It is only slightly more coherent. He can feel the blush rising in his cheeks as the man across the street continues to watch them, faintly amused, but still cannot tear his gaze away. Then, slowly, every tiny muscle movement calculated, the man's thin lips twist into a crooked smile, a toxic grin, and Lee feels something like a meat hook slip beneath his sternum and tug sharply. He actually takes a step forward, off the curb, and the honking of a speeding Subaru finally breaks the spell. He steps back, shaken, and drops his head to stare at his white rubber-covered toes.
"You comin', or what?" Kevin prompts.
The car has passed and Lee looks up; the man is still watching him, still grinning, but even sicklier now. Lee swallows, his throat suddenly very dry, but rasps towards Kevin. "Nah. You...you go 'head. See ya later."
Kevin, with one last incredulous look between his school friend and the diseased man across the street, snorts his disapproval but sets off on his own. If Lee wants to get himself killed, it is his own business.
Seeing the other boy leave, the enigmatic tattooed cretin watches him go, but only briefly. Instead, his sharp gaze returns to Lee; it grazes his form pointedly and appraisingly, before he finally finds the eyes that, even from here, are bright as a bottle of Windex. The man shakes his head, drags hard on his smoke and then tosses it into the street.
He walks away. His friends re-welcome him with glad greetings, as if he'd been gone for weeks instead of moments. Lee watches him go, wondering. Wondering who the man is, how he can be so strong, why he can be so dangerous and still so alluring. Wondering what it must be like, to be him - to be the sort of person who can make someone stop in the middle of the street, nearly walk through traffic, simply to inspect him from a closer vantage. Biting into his lower lip harshly, Lee ignores the tears that spring to his ducts and turns away, disheartened. Whoever the man is, Lee knows that the single look he got from him is all he'll ever get. He should feel lucky to even have received that amount of interest, but he cannot help wishing, hoping, even as he accepts the futility of trying, that he, someday, will find someone who looks at him the same way. who is just as fascinated by Lee as Lee is of the beautiful, dangerous stranger. And he vows, if ever that person comes along, that he will do everything in his power to keep their interest.
But he knows it won't be enough. No one would look at him that way, the stranger would never look at him again, and no one will ever consider himself to that extreme point. Even his own mother would not stay alive for him.
'The object of his attention is spotted immediately: gesticulating expressively with his hands, his whole body, he holds captive an audience of street folk and junkies. Lee doesn't realize he's stopped, doesn't realize he's staring. Lee is put in mind of a large jungle cat, a tiger or panther, when stalking his prey but feigning indifference.' Rating: mild. It is worth noting that this is unrelated to the story I recently posted, unless considered as some very old backstory. I'd really appreciate comments, as always, but if you could give me something more than 'this is great' or 'i liked it' I would really love it - tell me why you like it, what doesn't fit, etcetra. Please.
P.S. I am trying to form a group of original character, slash fiction writers for the purpose of sharing, critiquing, reviewing and editing since it seems none of my previous readers are interested in my original works. If you do write original slash fiction, please comment here, and we can decide whether we need a community for this or not.