Date: Sun, 26 Oct 2014 14:19:55 +0100
From: Jasper Walton <jasperwalton@gmx.com>
Subject: Year to Remember, Chapter 2

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Chapter Two

February

Three weeks later.

I burst through the front door and run up the stairs, into my room and shut
the door. I sit on the edge of my bed and survey the chaos that I have made
my own in my bedroom and begin to cry. It's the first time since finding
out that my dad had been killed in a road accident that I have been able to
let my emotions out. Most of the people have gone now from downstairs, and
what started out as a sombre occasion did, eventually, lighten up into a
bit of a family get-together as these things inevitably do. I undo the
black tie that is threatening to cut off the circulation to my head, and
slowly undo the buttons of my shirt and shrug it off onto the ever-growing
pile of clothes already on the floor.  My emotions are all over the
place. I need to get out of these clothes. The clothes I've just worn to my
dads funeral.
	I sit there, shirtless and snivelling.  I wipe my snotty nose on my
cuff, and then realise I'm not actually wearing a shirt, so a snail-trail
of snot clumps the fine, dark hairs on my forearm. There's a tentative
knock on my door, and thinking it will be my mum, I mumble an
acknowledgement.  The door opens and I stare at my shoes, sparkling from
the over-zealous polishing my uncle gave them yesterday. A barely audible
cough.
	'Adam? Sorry.' I look up, a bit taken aback not be hearing my mums
voice. Instead of her standing there, there is a boy stood there, awkwardly
poking his tousled head round my door.
	'Oh,' is about all I manage.
	'Simon,' the tousled head says back quietly.
	'Simon?' I ask incredulously. Who was this lad, stood in my room,
watching my half-naked snivelling?
	'I'm Patricks son,' says the head, running a nervous hand through
his unruly, pale ginger hair. 'He used to work with, um...' he trails off.
It's as if he sensed what I was thinking. Or maybe my questioning glare
gave it away.
	'My dad,' I manage to blurt out before completely dissolving into
sobs.
	'Shit. I didn't mean to upset you,' he says.
	'It's not your fault,' I reply grudgingly. 'This is the first time
I've cried, since it happened.' I manage to say between heaving sobs. Simon
looks on nervously from the doorway. 'Are you just going to stand there?' I
ask, a bit too fiercely.
	'Sorry.'
	'Stop saying that.'
	'What?' he says.
	'Sorry. It makes no difference. Just come in and shut the door.' I
am by now just about in control of my emotions enough the be able to string
a sentence together. Simon comes further in, through the door and closes it
behind him. Like I was, he's dressed for the funeral, so I suppose his
parents must have brought him. I don't remember seeing him though, before
this peculiar introduction.
	'Look I don't mean to be rude, but what do you want? This isn't
panning out to be the best day of my life. We've not met before have we?'
	'No, we haven't. I can go if you want?' He runs his hand through
his hair again, and looks for somewhere to sit down. Of course, being a
fifteen year-olds bedroom, every available surface other than the bed is
covered with junk and crap.
	'No. It's fine you can stay. I'm guessing my mum sent you up here?'
I said sullenly. 'See if I am OK?'
	'Actually, my mum sent me up here. She's downstairs, talking with
your mum. She thought it might be a good idea if I said 'hi' and stuff.'
Simon talked so quietly, almost whispering the words, half afraid I was
going to jump down his throat again I expect. He finished off by saying,
'we're the same age.'
	'OK, right.' He looked younger than me I thought. Must be the paler
skin, but that goes with the ginger hair I suppose. Suddenly remembering my
manners, 'do you want to sit down? You're freaking me out hovering about.'
	'Sure.' He seemed relieved. And with that he came and plonked
himself right next to me on the bed. I mean right next to me. Our hips and
knees were touching. He, like me was wearing dark grey trousers, his school
trousers, as mine were on a 'normal' day.

What is going on? This lad I had met barely 3 minutes ago, is suddenly
sitting more or less on my lap. Cool as a cucumber. Well he seemed to be
anyway... I turn my head to have a look at him again, and as he so close,
I'm kind of inspecting his eardrum. He pulls away, startled.
	Now it's my turn to apologise, 'Sorry.'
	'Sorry,' he repeats.
	'Ugh! Shut up!' I say and my sullen, harsh voice dissolves into a
laugh. Thankfully he laughs too. His face, up until now a picture of
concern and worry, transforms into an open and bright vista – he has the
most perfect teeth I have ever seen, and tiny freckles that cross the
bridge of his nose and peter out on the tops of his cheeks. He throws his
head back, and then flops it back down again, in obvious relief that the
tension I created has now gone. In doing so I can't help but notice the
distinct bulge of his adams apple in his, pale smooth neck. So, maybe he is
my age then. Simon turns his boyish, bright face toward mine and we sit
there, looking at each other.
	'So. Simon.' Considering I am generally a well-mannered, if
atypical teenager, I try to be polite in my tone this time.
	'Adam... Look. I don't really know what to say to you. My parents
thought you might need a...' his soft voice trails off.
	Unfortunately the unexpected laughter just a few seconds earlier
has triggered another hormonal, emotional bomb to explode somewhere deep
inside me. I have started to silently cry. Tears are streaming down my
softly fuzzy cheeks and drip onto my bare, but hairless chest. I'm just
sitting there, letting it happen with this, this 'Simon' sitting
uncomfortably close to me. Normally I wouldn't be seen dead crying. Not
even in front of my mum. Somehow it seems OK with Simon. How can that be? I
am dimly aware that he is talking again.
	'A friend,' he says, in a voice more forceful than any he has used
before. 'They thought you might need a friend. To talk to. And stuff...'
	'Uucouggh.' I make a hideous noise, attempting to acknowledge his
comment, but it coincides with a huge sniff, to prevent whatever is running
out of my nose dripping down my top lip.
	'It's OK,' he says reassuringly, as he puts his arm round my
shoulders. He does it so deftly, I barely notice, but I can feel the very
slightest pressure from the grip of his hand. It feels nice. Safe. Warm. I
let myself go. I let my feelings pour out into the half-embrace from this
stranger. This warm and open teenager that has suddenly appeared to make me
his friend. My whole body is shaking with the grief and emotional turmoil
within me that has been buried a long way under the surface these past
three weeks. The tears continue to dampen my cheeks, my chin and ultimately
my chest.

Simon says nothing. He picks up my hand in his free hand. I lift my chin
off my chest to look at him, kind of surprised at what he has done. Holding
hands with another lad? What the... But all he does is look at me. I look
down at my hand in his. He squeezes it. His hands are white and soft,
completely hairless, with perfect, unchewed nails. I look back up at him,
and he just looks at me again. I take a massive breath in, about to protest
at the intimacy that has occurred. Fifteen year old lads don't hold hands
in my book.
	'Adam. Don't.'
	'What?' I ask, on the defensive.
	'Say anything. You don't need to,' Simon says quietly, but still
squeezing my hand. His other hand, resting on my bare, right shoulder I
realise is now also squeezing me. I decide not to protest. I am relaxing
into his more certain embrace now. I just have not got the energy to do
anything else. We sit there for what seems like hours. Him holding me. Me
crying, then sniffing, then just breathing. Eventually I am calmer. Simon
hasn't released me from his grip, he's still holding me. I shiver. It's
beginning to get dark outside. I shiver again and feel my nipples stiffen
against the cold air, and the dampness from the tears that have rolled down
my front. Simon squeezes me harder and then lets go of my hand and
shoulder, rubbing his hand over my hunched back as he does so. I shiver
again, and not because I am cold this time. Why did he do that? I am
thinking to myself.
	'Sorry.' He looks away, a guilty gesture.
	'What for this time?' I ask quietly.
	'Er... Shit!' he mumbles.
	'Simon. Simon?'  He finally turns back to face me, and if he is
surprised to find my face just an inch away from his he doesn't show
it. That beautiful face. The only bright thing in my day today. I look him
straight in the eyes and move my head even closer. I can feel his breath
escaping from his nose and mouth. He even smells like me, I suddenly
think. He must use the same shower gel as I do. Then, unaware I had paused
in my movement toward him, his lips touch mine. The merest touch. Almost as
if he asking a question with that exploratory, feather-light touch. In
reply I edge another half inch forward, pressing my lips to his in a more
definite kiss. Once again I feel his hand on my bare, broad back, caressing
my spine, running slowly up and down the bony outcrops between my
shoulders. I raise my own arm, and my fingers find the back of his stiff,
shirt collar. I walk them up into the dense, thick hair that falls on the
back of his neck. Simon responds by pressing his lips harder against my
own, and our stubble-less chins and faces glide easily over each other, I
feel my own lips parting, apparently of their own free will. There is a
clatter as our teeth crack against each other and we pull away from each
other, far enough to grin and smirk out a tiny giggle between us. Then our
tongues are darting over each other, writhing and jostling, our mouths
melding into one, sloppy, wet and messy whole. Gently grabbing a fistful of
Simons hair, I pull his face onto mine, exploring deep within his mouth
with my tongue, lowering his whole head toward me.
	'Fuck, Adam.' He quickly pulls away from me. Wiping his mouth with
the back of his hand. I sit there, breathing deeply.
	'What?'
	'Nothing,' he says, too quickly, unconvincingly. He looks down
toward my crotch, where my grey trousers have ridden up into a pyramid of
fabric, the zip barely concealing my aroused dick. 'Look, I better be
going. My mum will wonder what's happened to me.' He gets up off the bed
and turns away from me, Leaving me staring at his back. He thrusts his
hands in his pockets and then turns back to me.
	'Simon?' I ask. 'What's the matter?'
	'Nothing. It's cool. Look, be in touch yeah?'
	'Yeah. OK' I admit. He walks gingerly across the minefield to the
door and turns toward me again. This time I can see what the matter
is. Simon has his own grey pyramid erected in the front of his school
trousers.
	'Adam?'
	'Yes?' Now hanging on his every word.
	'You know you have a snot trail on your arm, right?'
	He flashes me that beautiful smile again for a split second and
then is gone.  I can hear him padding down the stairs, and the front door
closing not long after.