Date: Sun, 26 Oct 2014 14:19:55 +0100 From: Jasper Walton Subject: Year to Remember, Chapter 2 If you'd like to make a comment or give feedback on my writing, please use the email address above. I will do my best to reply to you. Please consider making a donation to Nifty. Thanks, Jasper. 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.