Date: Sun, 23 Feb 2003 04:10:26 +0000
From: tommy nofeet <tommynofeet@hotmail.com>
Subject: Brothers and Lovers, part 3

DISCLAIMER: the following FICTIONAL story may contain vivid descriptions of
sex between young boys. If this is offensive to you, or
viewing of such material is illegal where you're at, DON'T READ IT!
Otherwise, enjoy it.
And e-mail me comments if you have anything nice to share.


The author would like to point out that this is a story of love, and the
realisation of something hidden deep within. Yes, there is sex involved in
some areas, and yes, it is between boys, but I don't think it would be the
same without it. In other words, boys are horny, and they get up to
things...


Brothers and Lovers Part 3

Chapter 7 - The Bit You'll Hate
A small, shaking, sobbing bundle. Soaking my shoulder, then my chest, then
my stomach. And then my other shoulder. My own tears added into the mix
couldn't help, but I was only crying because he was. He had a good reason,
my excuse was simply that I loved him. Of course, I didn't realise that at
the time. Well, not in so many words. But then I was a few days into my
eleventh year on this planet, and you don't understand these things at that
age. Like I said, he had the reason to cry.
The suddenness of it all was the reason the tears had not come earlier. Mike
had been, still was, in shock, and there was nothing which I could do about
it. Not for lack of trying, but I wasn't able to help. I cried my own tears
of frustration. All I wanted to do was wrap him up and take him away from
the pain, but I was unable to do so. And so, while he remained resolute, and
would not (or rather could not...) cry, I bawled like a baby. He didn't
know, because I never did it around him, and that meant spending less time
together. I couldn't let him see me crying. I couldn't let him down like
that. He needed me to be strong, and while on the surface it looked like he
was coping, I knew that inside he had died with his mother.
The tumour had been diagnosed the previous summer, while Mike and I were on
holiday in Crete. Sarah hadn't wanted to tell Mike, but it was obvious that
something was wrong with the frequent headaches and time off work. It was
only two days after he had found out, when hope was still alive that it
might be operable, that Mike's mum didn't wake up. It was a school morning,
and he had spent the night at his house. In fact, he had not left the place
since his mother had admitted she was ill, and I had been called home by my
parents to leave them to be together. I'd not understood, of course, but
then I was going through a very selfish, possessive phase with Mike, and
almost couldn't bare to share him with his own mother. My father had sat me
down and explained, and though I pretended to understand and accept the need
to allow them to be together, it didn't stop the anger at our separation
that I felt inside.
I woke suddenly that morning, from a grim dream. Sitting bolt upright with a
sharp intake of breath, I knew something was wrong. The sun didn't seem to
be up, but looking at my bedside table told me that it certainly should have
been. The reason was an early autumn fog, rolling heavily from between the
trunks of the nearby woods and covering everything in its path with a
sticky, freezing dew. As I came properly awake, I realised why I had woken -
Mike needed me. Shoving a pair of tracksuit bottoms on over the shorts I
wore to bed and finding a hoodie from the 'almost clean' pile on the floor,
I stumbled from my room, still barefoot, and downstairs. In the kitchen, my
mum was already up having an early breakfast. She never did sleep well. I
passed her without a word, and she just watched me leave. I'm not sure where
she thought I was going - I never asked her afterwards - but she let me go
without saying a thing. Crossing the street, I tried the back door of Mike's
house, and as expected found it unlocked. It was amazing that even as late
as the early 90s it was possible to be that lax about security, but the
nature of our insular little community allowed it. I went straight to Mike's
room, but he wasn't there. The kitchen I had passed through was empty also,
and the bathroom door was open with the lights off. And then I realised the
only place I'd not checked was Sarah's room. My heart dropped. I don't know
why, and I don't think it will ever be explained, but somehow I knew in my
heart what I was going to find when I walked into the large bedroom.
Mike was knelt by the bed, staring at the lifeless form of his mother. Her
eyes were closed, and she would have looked almost peaceful in her sleep
were it not for the fact her skin was grey and her lips blue. I'd never
before seen a corpse, but instinctively knew that this was my first
experience. I couldn't talk. I knelt by Mike, tried to put my arms around
him, but he didn't respond. He too was cold, sat there in only a pair of
shorts. Normally I would have found this attractive, but now it only bought
pain. He wasn't shivering, though he certainly should have been. He was
hardly breathing, in fact, and was stone cold. Quickly I went to his room
and grabbed one of his own hoodies. Absently, I noticed that it was the one
my parents had bought him as a present from me. It was my favourite piece of
his clothing, mostly because it was so oversized that it dwarfed him, which
made him look all the cuter. But I didn't stop to think how well he would be
dressed. Hurrying back to his mother's room, pulled one limp arm up into the
air and threaded it into its sleeve. Then the other, and finally I was
dragging the neck over Mike's head. I have no idea how long it took, but by
the time I was finished, my mother was standing in the doorway. As I turned
to face her, I saw the retreating form of my father, clearly heading to
phone for the ambulance that would come several hours too late for Mike's
mum. My own mother had tears rolling down her cheeks, and just sagged
against the doorframe as if she were suddenly exhausted. I suppose she must
have realised where I was going, and that it was important, so she followed.
Distantly, I could hear my father speaking urgently to the 999 operator.
Mike was glued to the floor, unresponsive. He didn't move when the
paramedics arrived, he didn't move when I tried to get him to come to the
hospital, and he hung like a rag doll when my father lifted him from the
floor in his strong arms. He didn't speak all the way to the hospital, he
didn't even move his head. His eyes remained unfocussed, and he leant on me.
By the time of the funeral a week later, Mike was close to joining his
mother. He lay in a hospital bed, a drip the only thing that kept him alive.
He'd not eaten a single thing since the day he'd found Sarah, and after four
days had been rushed to hospital, having simply fallen off his chair
sideways one morning. He didn't even put his arms out to stop himself, and I
went pale at the sound of his head hitting the floor. He was unconscious for
two days, of which I spent all but three hours at his bedside. My parents
understood that I needed to be there as me as he needed me there, but when
Mike had regained consciousness, there was still nothing there in his eyes.
He remained unfocussed, uncaring of the sharp intrusion into his slender,
blemish-free arm that the drip caused. I tried to speak to him, but couldn't
hold a one-way conversation for long, so I stopped. I, too, took up staring
for a hobby, though I had more focus in my glare. My attention was entirely
devoted to my boyfriend, who I don't think even realised that I was there.
But I wouldn't leave. Even when my parents dragged me, exhausted, from his
room a week later, I protested. It was a weak argument, since I was weak
myself, but I had to make a stand. Around the fourth time I attempted to
escape my house and get the bus to Mike's hospital, my parents relented,
agreeing to take me back as long as I got a good night's sleep. And so I
ended up banging on their door at seven the next morning, frantically trying
to get my parents to drive me to the hospital. My dad, bleary-eyed hero that
he was, stumbled from the shower five minutes later and into clothes I
virtually threw at him, and we were off. As soon as I reached the hospital,
the matron of the night shift tried to stop me seeing Mike, but I was past
her in a flash and into his room. The day matron, just coming on to her
shift, restrained her colleague and explained the situation, and I was left
to sit with my boyfriend until he woke. I must have failed to have the sleep
I promised to take, because I had drifted off when Mike woke. The first I
knew was a gentle squeeze of my hand, which I had wrapped around his as I
sat in the chair that almost had an imprint of my bottom on it from the time
I had spent there. I opened my eyes slowly, forgetting for a second where I
was and looking instead into the eyes of my love. I'd never before, and
never since, had the level of joy sweep through me as I did when I realised
that the life was back in Mike's eyes. He was home.

Chapter 8 - Definition of Love
Of course, that could not be the end of the story. Mike was far from
alright. He came to live with us, his mother having signed over his
guardianship to my parents as soon as she was diagnosed as potentially
terminal, a move with which his estranged father had agreed. He still would
not respond to others, and I had to be there to feed him, since he refused
to do it for himself. It wasn't a cry for attention, he simply could not do
anything for himself. I would sit in the bathtub with him, washing him like
a baby. I would dress him, and then leave for the day to attend school, on
my mother's insistence. I knew she was only looking after me, ensuring that
I didn't miss more than I had to, and that I didn't mope around all day with
Mike, but I resented what I saw as her cold-heartedness. Mike needed me, and
I could not be there for him for up to eight hours a day.
It was about two months after Mike came home that the crying started. Not
his crying, but mine. Mike was still immovable, his face blank every moment
of the day, except for the odd occasion in his sleep when his brows would
furrow, and then relax once more. But my emotions could not be held back,
knowing that he felt so much pain that he simply could not express any of
it. The trigger was his eleventh birthday, which fell two months to the day
before my own. He sat in his bed, eyes seemingly uncaring, as my parents
brought in all the presents they had got him for his birthday. It was all
pretty standard stuff for an eleven year old boy - a new football, new boots
and the strip of his favourite team, Spurs. All passed before his uncaring
eyes. He thanked my parents, and I think they knew it was a genuine emotion,
but he could feel nothing inside. The final present was what, in truth, sent
me over the edge. It was a letter from Sarah to her son, to be read on his
eleventh birthday. Carefully, Mike slipped open the envelope and unfolded
the single sheet of paper. He read it aloud, the most words he had spoken in
nearly a quarter of a year. It was not a long note, but it had my parents
crying by its end. Mike still has it somewhere, ten years on, but I don't
think I will find it and repeat the words here. They were for Mike. At the
time, though, he was unaffected, at least on the surface. Having come to the
end of the letter, he carefully folded it up once more, returning it to its
envelope and announced he was tired, before rolling away from us and curling
up. I couldn't stand it any longer. I burned inside with pain at seeing him
like this, but refused to cry in front of him if he would not. And so I fled
the room we shared, running out into the garden. I didn't stop when I
reached the fence at the bottom. In one clear leap I scaled the inside
before dropping down the other and into the forest beyond. I didn't stop
running until I reached the hiding place that Mike and I had made our own
over the last six months. It was an old place, no more than a few sheets of
plywood erected into some form of shelter, and had clearly been the haunt of
many boys before us. It was enough, though, to keep the cold drizzle off me,
and as I sat hugging my knees, I started to cry.
I don't remember much after that. When I woke, I was in the guest bed,
wrapped up in my mum's clean white sheets. Moments later she came in to see
how I was doing, and smiled when she saw I was awake. I'd apparently been
found cured up in the foetal position by a neighbour's dog when they were
out walking in the forest. He'd carried me home, semi-conscious, and
explained how I'd been found. All the neighbours knew what had happened, and
how badly it had affected both Mike and I, and he was concerned for my
welfare. I was up and about a lot quicker than Mike had been. When I found
him, he was lying on his bed, fully clothed, staring at the wall. As gently
as I could manage, I slipped onto the bed behind him and shifted closer,
draping an arm over him. He lifted himself slightly, so that my other arm
could pass underneath. I hugged him fiercely, and his arms returned the
strength, grasping mine with as strong a grip as he could muster. We fell
asleep like that, me spooned into his back, and did not wake until the
middle of the next day. If we knew the definition of love, we would have
spoken the words.

Chapter 9 - Eleven
Two months passed, but things were not getting any better. Christmas had
been ignored, on my request. I couldn't stand to celebrate when I knew that
Mike would not respond. Silently, he thanked me with a hug when I told him
we would not mark the occasion. My parents would not let it pass entirely,
though, appearing on Christmas morning with a gift for each of us - one of
those pendants split in half, one piece for each of us, to add to the chain
with our keys. Mike's eyes briefly flashed gratitude to my parents before
returning to their uncaring natural state. I think my parents knew he
appreciated the gift. I had nothing for him, having thought that since we
were not celebrating, gifts were unnecessary. When I tried to explain, pain
flashed through Mike's eyes, and I thought I had really messed things up
until he leaned forward and grabbed me into a rib-crushing bear hug, and
whispered in my ear,
'You are my present.'
I had to force myself not to cry.
My birthday approached, and I hoped that it would pass without mention. I
had already asked my parents if they could pretend that I did not have a
birthday, because I would not be able to enjoy it without Mike, and they had
agreed. There was a strange look in my mother's eyes as she agreed, but I
couldn't read it and thus forgot it almost immediately. And then the day was
upon me. I woke alone in my own bed. Mike and I had taken to sleeping in
separate beds, since he would have bad dreams and throw his arms around a
lot. I didn't want to be hit, and he didn't want to hit me, and so we had
silently agreed to the separation. But I was not alone for long. As soon as
I rolled over to look at my clock, another weight joined mine on the bed.
Rolling back, thinking my mum had come in to wish me happy birthday, I
instead came face to face with Mike. He leaned forward and kissed me, a
strong kiss and our first in many months. I was shocked, but reciprocated
when I remembered how. He broke the kiss first, and leaned back slightly.
'Didn't think I would forget your birthday, did you?' he said. And then, an
even bigger shock, the corners of his mouth turned up into a tiny little
smile. It didn't last for long, but it was there. I knew that simple display
of emotion was a huge effort, and it struck me how much Mike was going
through just to see me happy. And then all of the love I felt for him came
up at once. It rose through my stomach, butterflies flapping up toward my
throat, and through into my mouth. I sobbed. I couldn't stop myself. Making
my excuses, I tried to leave so that Mike wouldn't have to see me crying,
but I couldn't move. Mike's hands were on my shoulders, holding me down on
to the bed. When I stopped struggling, he pushed me down onto my back, and
lay down on the bed beside me. I stopped trying to hold it in, and heaved
huge sobs into his shoulder.
My crying was Mike's trigger, just as his mum's letter had been mine. I felt
his body shake, and then the tears came properly. He was silent, but the
tears soaked me to the skin through the t-shirt I wore to bed. When he had
flooded one area, he moved on to the next, and then another, until my whole
upper body was wet with his tears. Not that I cared. I was crying, too, to
see his pain, and also a little out of relief. Finally he was able to let it
out, and the months of saved up emotions all poured out in one go. I had no
idea how long we were there, but eventually awoke to see my mother standing
in the doorway. Her eyes were red, but if she had been crying she'd now
stopped. She met my gaze for a moment, gave a brief smile and then turned
and left. I heard her running a bath, and woke Mike to see if he wanted to
bathe. Utterly exhausted as he was, he could only nod, and supporting each
other more than anything else, we stumbled to the bathroom. Once there, mum
left us to give us a bit of privacy, shutting the door behind her. As I'd
done innumerable times in the last few months, I started to take off Mike's
bedclothes. This time, however, a hand stopped me. Mike looked me right in
the eyes, and said,
'Allow me.'
I couldn't exactly refuse, and stood there mutely as he lifted the now dry,
but crusty, t-shirt over my head, and knelt down to remove my shorts. He
herded me into the bath, before quickly stripping himself and joining me. I
felt like I couldn't move, now that Mike had found the ability to do so
himself. He washed me slowly, lovingly. For once, I didn't become erect as
he cleaned my most intimate areas. It was too important a moment to spoil
with something that crude. When he was done, he allowed me to return the
favour, though my hands were shaking so much that I found it hard. Mike just
sat there patiently with a hint of a smile on his lips, watching everything
with the same eagle eyes he used to use when he watched me build model
airplanes. Then it had disturbed me, but now it was a wonderful thing to
see. It meant that he had purpose once more, and that filled me with a warm
feeling. Unfortunately, it also filled my eyes with tears, and I cried as I
washed him. Gently, with love, Mike wiped the tears from my cheeks, before
giving me a light kiss on each closed eye.


That's the end of part three. I've got more on the way, just as soon as I
find the time (I stayed up until four in the morning to finish this
part...). Hope you enjoyed it, and remember to e-mail me if you want to say
anything (tommynofeet@hotmail.com).