This week's hundred words for open_on_Sunday
Ten
It was one of those trading-stories nights. Spike had told Wes, as they were under the covers, about how the his father first discovered the stash of poetry he’d written. His dad was angry, he’d taken the pages as Spike (Will) wept and thrown them into the fireplace, going on about how it was so useless and not manly at all, and then had pushed him onto the floor and beaten him with a belt until his tears were dried up.
Wesley placed his hands on his lover’s cheek, and asked when that had happened.
“I think I was ten.”
It was one of those trading-stories nights. Spike had told Wes, as they were under the covers, about how the his father first discovered the stash of poetry he’d written. His dad was angry, he’d taken the pages as Spike (Will) wept and thrown them into the fireplace, going on about how it was so useless and not manly at all, and then had pushed him onto the floor and beaten him with a belt until his tears were dried up.
Wesley placed his hands on his lover’s cheek, and asked when that had happened.
“I think I was ten.”