Any characters portrayed in this story are fictional and not representative of anyone living or dead.


This is a story about the love between a twelve-year-old boy and a twenty-seven-year-old man and it contains graphic details of sexual contact between them. If you are under age and if this is illegal where you live or where you're accessing this site, then I suggest you leave immediately. For those who wish to stay, then this story is a long one of sixteen parts and an epilogue, which deals with a relationship rather than a brief and sexually stimulating read, although there are parts when the sexuality of the liaison is paramount to the story and I've done my best to leave nothing out.


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Boys can be lovers, too.


Part twelve.


Matthew Says:


When I woke, I was in the chair position, lying on my side and sitting on Dean's knees. His chin was resting on the top of my head and his strong arm was around me. I loved this position - it was like being in the womb. I lifted his arm and kissed the soft hairs, and then leaned over and got my watch from my bedside table. It was almost nine. This was unusual. I dozed again, and when I woke, I checked the time - five minutes past ten, and still he was asleep. I needed a pee, so I had one and made my way down to the kitchen. Coffee. Two mugs of coffee. I took them up to our room on a tray and set them on my bedside table, arranged my pillows for a sitting position, and got on the bed. "Oi, Rip Van Winkle! Are you getting up or what? I've made you some coffee."


Dean stirred. One eye opened partly, and I received a sleepy smile, and he was still half asleep as he dragged himself up beside me. I arranged his pillows so he could be comfortable, and handed him his coffee.


He took a few sips. "You're a bully. It's Sunday. I don't need to get up early."


"Early! It's half past ten!" I giggled. "I suppose it's because you're getting an old man."


Dean leaned over towards his bedside cupboard and picked up the book I'd given to him. "This is why I'm tired, you little sod. I couldn't put it down, and read it through before I went to sleep; plus the fact I had to get up in the middle of the night and take you for a pee."


I leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Kinky. Did you enjoy holding Willie while I was peeing? What did you think of the book?"


Dean was fully awake now. "I fell in love with Alexander, and ended up, not too fond of George."




"He let his friend down."


I was serious now. "It happens. You nearly did it to me once. If you hadn't come back, I think I might have killed myself like Alexander did."


Dean turned to me. My words had upset him. "That's not fair. The circumstances were entirely different."


I put my coffee down, and then hugged his arm and laid my head against it. "I know they were. I didn't mean it that way. Things happen in different ways, but the outcome is the same. Alexander played a big part in his own downfall. He was too immature to have a relationship."


Dean was getting into the debate now, and that pleased me. "George was still only a very young man, though. He might have been clever, but he wasn't streetwise, or he wouldn't have started a relationship with an immature boy who couldn't handle the emotional side, no matter how beautiful he was." Dean drank some more coffee. "Because you might have killed yourself, does that mean you're too immature for a relationship?"


"Not at all. My error wasn't based on immaturity, it was down to stupidity. If I had killed myself, it would have been because I considered myself too stupid to deserve you. I would have been angry with myself when the end came."


Dean grunted. "I think we should let this drop now."


I'd no intention of letting it drop. A lot of things had been going through my mind since I came to live with Dean. "No chance. We've only just started. We've got a lot to talk about. You and me, that is, and not George and Alexander. Why haven't you rejected me?" I looked up at Dean, and saw the puzzled look on his face. "I'm not a boy now. I can make sperm, and I've got some pubic hairs. By your own rules, I'm no longer your type. I'm wondering how long it will be before I'm sleeping in the other bedroom."


"I can't give you an answer."




"Because I love you too much. When I'm at work and away from you, I never stop thinking about you. I'm not thinking about sex; I'm thinking how lucky I am to have you; I'm thinking of your smile and your silly remarks; I'm thinking about the way you've taken over my office to do your studying; I'm thinking how my life has so much meaning to it now you're with me. You might not like this, but the last thing I think about is having sex with you. I love you Matthew, because of who you are, and not because you're a sex object. In all my life, I never knew I could have such feelings for someone. So, if we do ever part, it will either be because because of circumstances I've little control over, or I don't love you anymore, and not because you're no longer a boy, and at the moment, I can't see the day will ever come when I don't love you as I do now. Does that surprise you?"


I gave Dean's arm another hug. "No. I knew you were like that after just one day of knowing you. It's why I allowed myself to get fully involved with you. If I'd thought for a single moment that you wanted me only for sex, I would still have had sex with you, but the thought of killing myself wouldn't have entered my head. You would have been gone, and I would pity the next boy you met. Can you remember when I was angry, when you told me about Harry? Why do you think that was?"


"I wasn't sure."


I could feel my anger welling up again, and I'm sure Dean would have been able to detect it in my voice. "A love lost. That's what it was. Very probably, it would have been a love like you and I have. Can you imagine that, Dean? What an utter, utter waste." I calmed down a bit. "Have you still got the note Harry gave you?"


Dean didn't speak. He got out of bed, and went to the wardrobe and opened one of the top boxes, fiddled about, and then pulled out a biscuit tin and came back to sit beside me. "Open it. It's in there somewhere."


I opened it, and looked at the jumble of letters and photos and small trinkets. Because I knew this box contained Dean's life, I felt both humbled and honoured to be allowed to look at the things in it. Well, everything that meant anything to him. It was personal. "Can I look at anything?"


Dean was smiling. "Yes."


I grinned. "You're not very organized, are you?"


"Nope. There wasn't much to organize before you came into my life. Those are the bits and bobs of what I was before you arrived on the scene."


I began to sift through the stuff in the box. The first thing which took my eye was a photograph of a beautiful boy of about eleven. I knew it was Dean, but I had to ask. "Is this you?" He nodded. I decided to rib him. "How was your sex life then?"


He laughed. "Not as good as it is now."


I grinned, and then rooted through the biscuit tin and found another photo. This one was a young man of about twenty. I looked at Dean. He nodded. I kissed the photo. "You were dead sexy. I wish I'd met you then."


"Don't be daft. You were only about five at the time, and I was never into changing nappies. You're pissing about now. Give me the bloody tin, will you?"


I laughed at Dean's pretend exasperation, and handed it to him. He sifted through it, and gave me a small, folded piece of paper. I opened it, and saw the child's handwriting, and was deeply moved. I was also scheming. Harry had bugged me from the moment Dean told me about him, and when something bugged me, I was like a dog with a juicy bone. I memorized the number, folded the small paper, and dropped it in the tin, and then put the lid back on the tin box and handed it to Dean.


Later that day, as Dean was in the garden, clearing up leaves and cutting back the bushes, I telephoned dad. Mum answered, and we had a good chat, and then I spoke to dad. "Dad, I want you to do something for me. Write this telephone number down." I waited until he had. "Right, dad, I want to know who lived at the house which had that telephone number in 1968 to about 1970, and where they are now. Especially, I want to know the whereabouts and whatever stuff you can get on someone called Harry who was there, and who'll be about nineteen or twenty now. Can you do that for me, please?"


I could almost hear dad thinking. "What are you up to? You don't think that Dean and this Harry...?"


I interrupted him. "No dad. I know nothing happened between them. I can't tell you all the details, because it's Dean's and my business, but I need to know because I want to know."


Dad was silent for a few moments. "Right. Let me get this straight. When Dean was about twenty, he knew a boy called Harry who was about twelve-years-old. Dean had his phone number and knew his name was Harry, but nothing else, and nothing ever came of it. You either want to know why it didn't, or what your rival looked like. Or, knowing you, you might have some other devilish scheme up your sleeve. Matthew, seriously, I hope you know what you're doing."


"You always were a clever dad. Just do it and mind your own business. I'd do it myself, but I'm too busy."


Dad was chuckling now. "And I'm not too busy? Why should I do it?"


"Because you love me. That's reason enough, isn't it?"


"Is that all you want?"


"Not really. I want to give you a big hug. I love you dad."


"I love you too, son. I'll sort it for you. But be careful. I'm warning you. There are some things even you shouldn't meddle with."


On the following Thursday, my lectures finished just after noon, and I caught the bus home. I turned the key in the lock and opened the door and saw the large, manila envelope. It was addressed to me in dad's handwriting. I picked it up, along with Dean's mail, dropped my bag on the hall table, put Dean's mail on his desk in the office, and then went to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. When I'd made myself a mug of coffee, I sat at the dining table and looked at the envelope, daring myself to open it. Knowing dad as I did, I knew everything there was to know about Harry, would be in this disclosure. But did I really want to know? Dad's warning was ringing in my ears; `Matthew, seriously, I hope you know what you're doing'. Harry was the past, and really, he was nothing to do with me. Even though nothing had come of it, he was Dean's boy. Very slowly, and both hands trembling, I reached out and picked it up, tore it open, and then put the contents on the table in front of me.


As he always did, Dad had done his job properly. There were quite a few sheets of typed paper fastened together with paper clips, but they were underneath a single piece of paper, which had two photographs attached to it. The one I could see was of a young man aged about eighteen. He was good looking, and I knew I would if he wanted me. I slipped it out of the paper clip, and then looked at the other photo. My heart sank when I saw it. It was, obviously, a school photo. The boy in it was wearing a blue blazer with a blue pullover and a yellow and blue striped tie. So, this beautiful, brown haired, brown eyed, smiling boy, was Harry...Dean's first love, and he really was one of the most attractive boys I'd ever seen. He was far more attractive than I was. Compared to him, I was dull, and I hated him for that. I was second best. Maybe even third best. If this was the level Dean set himself, then what the hell was he doing with me? Tears rolled from my eyes as I looked at the other stuff: the other shit. Harry Pattinson, born blah blah: father a bank clerk, blah blah blah: mother a schoolteacher, blah blah blah: etc., etc., etc...

Dean Says:


The rain was hitting the windscreen so hard that my wipers were having a job to clear it when I drove home. It had been one of those shitty days when everything seemed to go wrong, and I'd had to work over to finish the job I was on. The dashboard clock said seven-twenty. Matthew would be worried because I hadn't telephoned him to tell him I would be late. It had been my bad luck that the house I was working at didn't have a telephone. The headlights picked out our house, and I swung the works van into the drive and switched off the engine. The lights were on, and the curtains were drawn. Matthew would have a log fire going, and because he would have heard me arrive, would be putting the kettle on. It's what he did. I knew he would grunt at me for being late. It's what he did. I got out of the van and locked the doors, and dashed through the pouring rain into the house. I was soaked, but I decided to say hello to Matthew and then shower and change before dinner: a beef hotpot that had been in the slow cooker since I took him to college at eight thirty. He was in the kitchen, with his back to me, sorting things, when I went in. I went to him, and kissed him on his head. He just grunted.


"Sorry I'm late. It was one of those days. I'll get a shower and change and be with you. Are you ok?"


Another grunt. He was in a bad mood. I wanted to hug him, but decided against it. Instead, I went to the bathroom and showered and changed. Then I went down to the kitchen. Matthew was just putting two steaming plates of hotpot on the table when I got there. I sat down. Matthew was opposite me. I began to eat my meal, and watched him. Since I came in, he hadn't looked at me once. Matthew could be moody at times, but this was different. Rather than eating it, he was playing with his meal. Now, I was beginning to get worried.


"Matthew, are you ok? I couldn't help being late. I told you, it was just one of those days, and they didn't even have a telephone at the bloody house, so I couldn't ring you to tell you I would be late. You're not ill, are you?"


Matthew looked at me, and the look he gave me told me something other than me being late, was amiss. It was a withering look. "I don't give a fuck if you're late."


I was stunned. "I beg your pardon?"


Matthew shoved his meal away, and glared at me. "Are you fucking deaf? I don't give a fuck if you're late!" And he stormed off into the lounge.


I was baffled; and hurt; and angry. I was about to follow him through to the lounge, but stopped myself. I had to think this through. What on earth had I done to deserve this? I racked my brains, but could think of nothing that warranted his behaviour. But this couldn't go on. I had to go and find out what was the matter, so I got up and went to the lounge. Matthew was on the sofa, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. I went to him and kneeled in front of him, and then held his knees.


"What's the matter? What have I done wrong? Tell me. You're hurting me."


The eyes that locked on mine were hateful, and his voice was like that of a stranger. "Your lover boy was named Harry Pattinson. He was born on the thirteenth of March 1959. Thirteen. Unlucky for some, eh?"


I felt sick to my very core. "What have you gone and done?"


The look I got then was a smartarse one. "I've found your lover boy for you. Do you want to see him?"


I couldn't speak. He got up and went to the shelf above the fireplace, came back and threw something at me, and then sat down with his arms folded. There was a twisted smirk on his face.


I looked at the photograph of the boy I once loved. Under different circumstances, I would have cried; but not now. My emotions felt as if they'd been pummelled by a sledgehammer. The boy I loved more than anything in the world had just done the cruellest thing to me I could have imagined. I looked at the photograph again, at the innocent young boy who had been used to hurt me, and I felt immensely sorry for him. Harry had done nothing wrong, and I was going to make sure he wasn't used again. I got up, went to the fireplace, and tore the photograph into small pieces, and then threw it on the fire. Then I walked out the back door and down the garden. The rain was still lashing down, and by the time I got to the swollen river, I was thoroughly soaked. But I didn't feel a thing because I knew then, exactly what a lost soul was. The river was inviting. I edged nearer. Two more steps and I could end this terrible emptiness: this hurt: this cruel game of love.


"Don't do it Dean. Please don't do it. I'm not worth it."


I began to shake, and the deep sorrow I felt, shuddered through me. I turned, and through the tears that were literally flooding from my eyes, I saw Matthew standing there. His head was down, and his body was shaking like mine. I couldn't stop myself. I opened my arms, and he fell into them, and he howled and stamped his feet like a mad boy. And then I understood what it had all been about.


Not only was it raining heavily, it was also extremely cold. Matthew's shivering, like mine, was because the cold was getting in our bones. I took his hand and led him back to the house and up the stairs to the bathroom. There, I roughly tore off his clothes, turned on the hot shower, and pushed him into it. I didn't care that the water was also soaking me as I washed his hair, and then, with a soft sponge, I cleansed every square inch of his submissive, beautiful body, and when that was done, and with water dripping off me onto the bathroom floor, I dried him off, put his dressing gown on, picked him up in my arms, and took him downstairs and laid him on the sheepskin rug. I poked the fire, put two more logs on, and squelched my way back to the bathroom. When I'd showered, I went down to Matthew in my dressing gown, he was curled up on the rug.


"Where's the rest of the shit your dad sent you?"


Matthew mumbled. "In my drawer."


I went to his drawer in the office, took out the manila envelope, and went back to him. "Is this it?" He nodded. I didn't even open it. It went straight on the fire, and I watched it blaze into carbon and disappear up the chimney. Then I went to lie beside Matthew. He looked into my eyes.


"Do you want me to go back to Droitwich?"


I wasn't angry when I answered him. "I think you should. College finishes next week anyway, so missing one week doesn't matter. I'll ring your father and tell him to book you into York for next term."


Tears were streaming from Matthew eyes. "Do you still love me?"


I'm sure Matthew could hear the deep sadness in my voice. "I'll always love you. Always. I'm going to take you to bed now. Don't get up, because I don't want to see you again."


I walked Matthew up the stairs, put him in bed and pulled the bedclothes over him, switched out the light and went down to the office. Henry's phone rang four times before he picked it up.


"Hello Henry. Dean here. I want you to pick Matthew up tomorrow, and take him back home."


Henry was silent for a while, and then he spoke. "Harry Pattinson?"


"Yes. Matthew will explain. Goodnight."


I put the phone down and went to lie on the sofa. Early the next morning, after a sleepless night, and without seeing Matthew, I gathered a few things and went to work.

To be continued...