The five important numbers of my life.

Chapter Title: 15.
Author: Darkling Willow
Pairing: Non
Rating: NC – 17. I'm giving it such a high rating, just because of language, and to cover my own behind.
Archive: Yes, please.

Feedback: Yes thank you very much. An author can only improve with criticism.

Disclaimer: This is an original work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

Authors Notes: This is just a long "stream of conscience" type of story, where a young man reflects over his life, and the one thing he misses the most.
Alright this story isn't really an AU/AR story, but there are things in it that have never happened in real life, but hey it's a story.
I do not know anything about the military, or its ranks, weaponry, or how life on a base is. I'm just making stuff up here, for your enjoyment.
My only intention here is to write a silly little piece of angsty prose, for others to enjoy.
No offense is meant by this story, to anyone in military service or anyone who has loved ones in service.
I (the author) live in a country that has no military and therefore have no idea how it works.
But I do have a great deal of respect for those who do serve their country.


Summary: Fear and hate can only destroy.
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15.
Hiding under the weeping willows, I’m hiding a black eye and a burst lip, but when my mother tells you I’m out in the back garden, you know just where to look. Your hands are soft, as you touch, stroke my cheek, asking me to stop being upset, to stop crying when the tears finally break through. With your soft grown up voice, you coax me into telling you what happened, and why I started this fight, drying my tears, and telling me I’m silly and maybe a little crazy for getting into all these fights lately.
But I can’t explain it to you. You’ve been my best friend for just over three years, and I can’t explain it to you.

I can’t tell you all the insane things that have been going through my head in the past weeks, I can’t tell you how your hands on my cheeks and my shoulders make me feel inside, I can’t tell you how the sound of your voice makes me calm, I can’t tell you that I think I’m in love with you, that I want to kiss you.

As our lips meet, I notice for the very first time how chapped your lips are, how sweet your breath is, and just how turquoise your eyes really are.

Your body goes ridgid under my hands, your lips quiver under my awkward ministration, I whimper as I bruise my already split lip, your hands grip me painfully around the shoulders, as you moan into my mouth, your tongue slips between my teeth and I go limp in your arms.

I love you.

My arms slip around your waist, and hungrily I open up for more, unprepared for your violent shove, the gasp you let out heartwrenching, and pushing me away, you stutter and stammer that you’re not like that, that you don’t like me like that, that you’re not a freak, a pervert, that I’m sick and disgusting, that I’m just a kid,

“I hate you”

Again I’m lying on the ground, hurt, cut, bleeding, missing my best friend.
You won’t speak to me at school, I’m back to being the little kid, the whiz-kid that everyone hates. Even you.

It is a month before I turn sixteen, you haven’t spoken to me in five.
There is a war going on in the world, in some unnamed country, that hardly anyone of us can remember or even pronounce, it’s been going on for years, laying quiet and low for years, then one country strikes out against another country, and the whole thing blows up all over again.

Covent Garden is a beautiful place, the idea of a peace concert is a rather good idea, so a lot of people show up.
You’re there, with the girl you now call your girlfriend, Laura.
Even though I’ve got my arms around Emily’s waist, and I’ve kissed her a couple of times I still can’t call her my girlfriend. All I want is you, so even though I’ve gone to bed with Emily I still love you.

Three of my four older brothers are here, the twins are having a hard time with each other, so the older one’s moved to Manchester, we all know it’s because Levi was attacked a year ago, and nearly died, but they don’t want to talk about it.
Mori is stuck in the middle of them, and he’s been acting out worse than ever, he’s so bad now that mum convinced him to try therapy and medication.

But you’re not there to help me get through it, you’re not here to let me talk about it, and cry over how badly screwed up my brothers, my heroes are now, and I can’t tell you that you make me feel safe.

So Levi is here with a date that Mori introduced him to, but Levi’s mind is stuck on his two year old daughter at home, Mori is here with his boyfriend, standing somewhere in a shaded spot, mouthraping each other with passion, his boyfriend rubbing Mori in all the right ways, until Mori is quivering and coming gasping his name, begging for more.
That’s my brother, a cheap thrills whore, that’s easy to pleasure.
Elam is here too, sitting at one of the café’s across the street, listening in the distance, maybe his girlfriend is still with him, maybe he’s there with his friends.

Of the 41 kids in our class, 37 of us are here, including you and me.
I stand there, my eyes trying to catch your eyes, but you’re always too quick, I can see you watching me, but as soon as I turn my eyes to you, you look away.
So I just stand here, listening to the music, arms around Emily’s waist, chin on her shoulder, her butt rubbing against my crotch, my eyes watching you holding Laura, kissing her, groping her, my heart aching to take her place, Emily thankfully understanding how I feel, telling me just to forget you and

the first bomb goes off.

We are too far away to realize what just happened.
We hear the explosion, we see the glass shattering in the buildings, and we see the people who begin to rush towards us, from the edge of the Garden, towards the middle.

I look at you, fearful, there are so many things I want to say to you, when the second explosion rips me off my feet, throwing me twenty feet backwards into the rushing stampede of people, Emily still in my arms, dead before we even leave the ground.
Her x-ray’s showed a white butterfly where there should have been organs, her body shielding me from the explosion and saving my life, but the impact shattering thirteen bones in my body, the stampede taking care of another four.

There is a third explosion, near the exit to the Garden, close to the scattering crowd, but I’m buried under seven bodies, dead and dying, unconscious and broken, first tagged as dead when the emergency personnel get to me, while you stagger to your feet, only 18 and a half yards away from me, with a couple of broken bones, a horrible cut on your head, and a bad concussion, screaming my name, while you take in the nightmarish scene before you.

Of the 41 kids who went to our class, there were 37 of us in Covent Garden, you and me included.
14 died on the scene, 3 more died on the way to hospital and 4 more died in hospital over the following seven weeks.
Of the remaining 16, 2 were paralyzed from the waist down, one with permanent brain damage, though not severe enough to stop her from living a productive life, with work in a sheltered workplace, and assisted living, 1 lost her leg, 1 lost an arm and most of the motor functions in that half of his body, and 1 lost a hand and a part of a leg.
The last three all suffered bad injuries but they got better, ending up with horrible scars, limps, painful surgeries in the hundreds and memory or personality problems, 2 of them ended up killing themselves in the next five years, and then the final eight recovered without any permanent damage, other than scars and bad nightmares.
You and I both were in that group of final eight.
Of 41 kids, only 17 graduated from high school seven months later.
In Covent Garden there are fourteen hundred people between the ages of 3 months and 79 years, dead, dying or destined to die in the next five years, as a direct result of the triple bombing.

You are strong armed into an ambulance, when you refuse help because you have to find me, despite the broken bone sticking out of your right arm.
My mother and stepfather have to wait for three hours before Elam can finally get through to them, to let them know that he’s ok, and that he’s found Levi, who’s unhurt except for a couple of scrapes and bruises.
The four of them meet at the hospital where they find Mori two hours later, with broken ribs and a dead boyfriend, he’d been hit in the head by flying debris and died from a broken skull. Shattered, Mori told me years later, Mori had been able to see brain matter.
I’m still missing.
My mother calls my father in America, and he’s an hour out of London when my stepfather finds me at St. Joan’s, after yet another hour long wait at the crisis center, it’s been just over 24 hours since the bombings, and the city is still paralyzed.
It isn’t until four days later that Mori finally thinks of calling your family to check up on you, and tell you how I’m doing.

They tell me later that you came to the hospital, shaking, nervous, red-faced and calling my parents sir and ma’am, holding a pale pink arum lily.
My stepfather asks you what you’ve got there, and you answer him quietly,
-“He mentioned once that this is his favorite flower… He thinks it’s so funny that a flower with such a blatantly phallic symbol can be so pretty and popular. How is he anyway?”
My mother is almost crying when she answers you,
“The doctors say that he should have woken up by now, that he shouldn’t be in a coma, but he just seems to be slipping further and futher away. It’s like he doesn’t want to wake up. Maybe your voice can change his mind. Talk to him for us, Bernie, just talk to him.”
She squeezes your shoulder, Mori doing the same thing and whispering in your ear to tell me the truth, as the rest of my family files out of the sterile room, leaving you alone with the bedridden form that should be me.

You sit down on the edge of my bed, stroking a lock of hair from my forehead, talking awkwardly about the weather, how you’ve been getting better, and how many of our classmates are dead. As you run out of things to say, you lean over me, resting on your left arm, softly stroking my pale face with the fingers of your right, trying not to bump my face with your plaster.
You begin by haltingly telling me how dear I am to you, as a friend, how much you care about me, how beautiful I am, how much you are attracted to me, slowly sinking closer to me with every word, finally pressing your lips to mine, and whisper

“I love you”.

I wake up two days later, and leave the hospital just barely in time for my sixteenth birthday.
A few days later you tell me that you’ve decided to join the military, half in a way to sort through what happened and try and help with ending this bullshit, and half to follow the family tradition, and your father is so happy that you want to be a soldier like him, like your two brothers, like pretty much every male in your family since the Crusade.
I beg and plead with you to wait, to wait until I’m 18 and can go with you, it takes me more than a week to convince you, but I know that it was your father who settled the decision for you, when he told you he’s alright with you being with me, that he’s alright with us waiting until I can join up too.
So, we wait, and enjoy being together.

We make love for the first time when I get out of the plaster on my triple broken leg.

Once again I’m lying flat on my back, looking up at you.
This time you lie ontop of me, our lips brushing against soft skin, teasing, biting, tongues tracing jawlines and necks, hands gripping taut muscles and soft skin.
You pull my shirt over my head, without a word, tracing my chest with your tongue, nibbling at my skin, towards the waistband of my jeans. I squirm and mewl, and beg you for more, but as you pull my jeans and shorts off me, I fall quiet, staring at you in awe.

I love you, so much. I want you so much it hurts.

You pull your own t-shirt off, falling down on me, claiming my lips with your own, claiming me with your hands and mouth, my own hands clawing at your back, my back arching, pressing my chest against your chest, and I moan into your mouth.
You let go, looking at me,

“I need to tell you something… I don’t bottom, Lys. I don’t like it.”

I look into your eyes, with a smile I tell you not to worry because I just want you inside me, because I’m the one who likes to bottom.

“So, you’ve done this before? You’ve had sex before.”

I tell you sure. With a girl, once. With Emily during those five months you wouldn’t speak to me, I slept with her about seven times.

“So, you’ve never been with a guy before?”

I look away, as I shake my head no, feeling too young and unworthy of you. You laugh, making me look into your eyes, asking if that was a no, and when I affirm that, you kiss me softly and ask if I know what you mean.
Instead of answering I ask you if you’ve been with men before.

“Yes, I have, Lys. I’m eighteen already, I started having sex when I was fifteen. I’ve only been with a guy twice though. The same guy, twice. I’ve been fighting who I am for a long time, Lys, so I’ve been trying to be with girls… I was afraid of what my dad would say… he’s alright with us, he told me the other day. I love you, short stuff.”

Again you claim my mouth with yours, tracing your way down my body, until you reach my cock, rubbing it gently before you take me into your mouth, and make me moan your name, quivering and mewling on the bed, gripping at the sheets, arching my back and thrusting my hips into your mouth.

When I’m convinced that I’ll never be able to move again, you ask me for lube, and I cry out when two of your fingers force their way into my body.
You’re not nervous, or shaking, you just look at me as I press down on your fingers, begging and moaning, your fingers pulling out, pushing in, pulling in, pushing out, then you hit a spot that I never knew was there.
My chest rises into the air, my back arching almost painfully, my hands clutching at the sheets, my eyes rolling back in my head, and my voice breaking against your name, and some rather indecent blasphemies.
You rub that spot slowly, varying the pressure, trying to figure out just the right combination as you suck my cock into your mouth again.
Before I can fully appreciate the feeling I’m coming into your mouth with more painfilled pleasure than I can ever remember.
Limp as a dead fish I fall down on the bed, breathing hard, hands spasming against sweat soaked sheets.

“Turn over, Lysander.”

You whisper to me, your fingers still inside of me, gently pushing in and pulling out, brushing over that spot, making me shake with every stroke, my entire body becoming hypersensitive.

I didn’t notice when you took your jeans and shorts off, but suddenly you’re laying above me, I’m on my stomach, and your fingers are being replaced by your cock.
Your thick, rockhard, throbbing cock.

My body is still hypersensitive, and aching, still riding the aftershock of my orgasm, but as you slowly, painfully sink into me, my body wanting and refusing more all at once, I start to feel turned on again.
By the time you’re slamming into me, hard, steady, and rythmically, I’m rockhard again, and nearing another orgasm.
You have me flat on my stomach, my hips slightly raised to give you better access, your right arm draped under my upper arm, your fingers tangled in my hair painfully tight, your left hand gripping my left wrist in a bruising grip, as you slam into my body, driving your cock deep inside me.
You rest your forehead on my left shoulder, moaning my name,

“Lyssie, Lyssie, Oh, my God, oh, Lysander.”

I moan your name as I come into the sheets, and feel you following me only moments later, pumping your seed deep into me, milking yourself into my body, and for a fleeting moment it crosses my mind that no matter how often we do this we will never have a child, but the thought is gone before I even realize it.
We lie there panting, wrapped in each other’s arms, I fall asleep, when I wake up again it’s dark outside and you’re gone, my body is hurting, I can barely walk straight for three days.

But we are great now, you stay over whenever we feel like it, and my mom and my stepdad are perfectly alright with us being together.
My American real father hadn’t been alright with me being gay, because I’m his only son, but when he met you, while I was in the hospital, he realized that we are meant for each other. So, even though he doesn’t like the thought of it, he accepts us, as we are.
The next two years we are happy together, and there are many weekends that I can’t walk straight.
You really meant it when you said you didn’t bottom, but it doesn’t matter because I like to take it from you, and you love giving it to me.