Random Stories

sorry
to look at {omg the gimp brushes on their faces are so pretty}

Tap. Tap. TAP.

I can't concentrate on my Anatomy work.

Tap. Tap. TAP.

Every time I press my pen against paper, it's shaken off.

Tap. Tap.

Before the last, stronger tap, I turn around. A pair of blue eyes is staring at me with such intensity as if he may look through my skull. A half smirk is spread across his face. I flush and turn around, shaking my hair out of my sight. I should probably cut it, the black curls were in my eyes, distracting me.

TAP. TAP. TAP!

"Could you stop kicking my chair?" I hiss at him. He responds with a wider smirk. He's the new student in our school, and I would've never guessed that he studies to become a doctor, not with his spiked up blond hair, varsity hoodies, tattooed arm, piercings on his eyebrow, nose, tongue (I guess) and multiple ones on his left ear. He looks more like a DJ than a college student. And he isn't paying attention to the class now, either.

Tap. Tap.

He starts kicking the chair as soon as I turn back around. I feel something bounce off of my hair onto the table. A paper, squashed into a small, aerodynamic ball. What are we, kindergartners? I unravel the paper ball to reveal a note, written in a slanted, long handwriting in thin, black tint.

Hello gorgeous. Care to meet me after class? My eyes widen, breath catches in my throat. I glance at him again and he winks at me.

I focus my eyes on the teacher, but I can't pay attention to it, even though he stopped kicking the leg of my chair.

I hear his breath. I feel it circulate through the air, half-clashing, half-mingling with oxygen, nitrogen and carbon dioxide, reaching the hairs on the back of my neck, which stand on their ends.
His heart pumps. I can't see it, and I can't feel it, but it does. His blood, the life-giving liquid, the cells, both red and white and the platelets, rush through his body, from his heart, to his heart. Making him function.
I look at his hands. Well kept nails, unique fingertips, leaving prints on the pen, paper, desk, eraser, everything he touches.
He blinks three, four, five times a minute, a wet, thin layer, a veil, covering his ages, protecting them from dryness. Making his eyes bright and clear, like oil in a glass cup or the sea, peaceful in its vessel. His eyebrow and nose studs shine in the sunlight.

All that, all those things, so ordinary, so individual.

I realize I'm staring, I've been staring for a few minutes. And I also realize he blushes, ever so slightly, just some red blotches on his cheeks. Yes, he is the so-called 'bad-boy', but I was the valedictorian, for goodness' sake! He had reasons to be ashamed. Flirting with me... I square my shoulders and clear my throat. He has no right to flirt with me!

Why would I want to do that? I jot down a short message and throw the ball back at him. It takes him longer to write a note this time. I guess I puzzled him with my staring. He hits my shoulder with the paper ball this time.

I am sure you are aware of my intentions.

Why should I? I write but never throw it to him, because the professor looks our way. I don't dare to throw the ball again.

H₂O

I take my time packing up, closing the books, putting my pen in my pencil case as slow as it was possible. When I finish, I am alone in the classroom so I stormed out. I don't see him until after the bell rings for class, when I'm rushing to the classroom. I run into him, which is a considerable challenge, since he's a head shorter than me.

"What?" I come off as rude. He doesn't notice. Or ignores.

"Look..." he starts peacefully."I just think there's chemistry between us." Before I could complain and / or yell at him, he looks at my chest, and I notice that I'm holding my Chemistry books against it, sandwiched between me and him.

I don't have to word it out for you to know what happened in the school bathroom after that.

And there WAS chemistry. Both real and metaphorical.

(Actually, no, not real. We skipped the next class, which was, indeed, Chemistry.)

"Welcome home. Well, not actually home, this is just the suburb. Heaven or whatever the Hell is this has pretty nice architecture, I wonder who designed the-" Luckily, she stopped me. Thank goodness she stopped me. She ran into my chest. Red hair found its way under my lips. And tears,  hot tears, dropped on it.

"Ben", she bit down these words, which were muffled by my white shirt. Everything was white here, goddamnit, but I didn't mind. It could have been in the colours of the gay pride flag, and I wouldn't mind. It could have been a black box, and I wouldn't mind. We would make use of it nicely.

She was here. Oh my God, she was here. With me.

She pressed her hands on my stomach.

"No, not even a scar", I answered with a faint laugh. And then I looked into her eyes and she looked back.

It hurt. It wasn't alright. But we were getting there.

"How fucking dare you!" she punched me and I stumbled backwards. Took me by a surprise, for the first time in my life. Well, not my life. My death. "How dare you, go out and DIE like that?!"

"Believe me, I didn't intend it to be like that." And then we just broke. That hug before was nothing. Was air. This, this was a gripping, clutching, desperate action, which knocked out all air from my chest. I felt her warm sob in my ear before she kissed me, she kissed my face, not caring where the kisses landed. After a few seconds, I grabbed her face and pulled her into a kiss, a proper one.

It struck us like a lightning. Our actions were primal, animalistic.

If you were to create a need list, what do humans need to survive, you'd put air first, then water, then food. She was my need. She was my priority.

"Ben." She needn't say anything else. Her voice was raspy, breaking, like the emotions fractured the mask. I pressed a kiss into her hair.

"If I was more selfish than I actually am, I would've told you to kill yourself sooner." She laughed quietly.

"You're still quite selfish", she bumped me looking up. There were tears in her eyes, and there were probably tears in my eyes, too. I saw her through the misty veil of sad relief.

"You'll like it here", I noted as I looked around, she still in my arms. I never wanted to let her go.

"Anywhere with you", she said, but she glanced about too.

"And guess what, my leg's better, so I can frolic around in the meadow with puppies", I told her. She laughed at me.

"Of course. Meadows are the most important things."

"Amelia?"

"Ben?"

"I want you to meet my parents." She smiled. And how I missed that smile. I saw perfection here, I saw perfect people and perfect places. But it was only her.

Perfection isn't perfect with my little imperfection. Amelia.

Beep. I hear a beep. I think. Some shuffling, crunching paper. Flattening paper. A sharp breath. Nothing.

~

"But why. Why him. Why now." A reply I couldn't hear, a violent bark. A whimper.

I can't see. I can't feel. I can't think. I can hear.

~

"You should get him flowers."
"Flowers will perish before he wakes up."
"Get him artificial ones."
"I'll take him to a biology centre if he wants to see flowers, but I doubt it."
"Doubt he'll want to see flowers or doubt he'll wake up?" I don't hear a reply. Maybe there is none. I don't know.

~

"I love you. I know I never said it, I know I don't show it, but…" Silence. "I love you and I don't want you to go, even if it hurts. It will hurt less if you stay. I promise. I'll try to change." It doesn't hurt. I don't feel anything.

~

Until I do. Then I feel pain.

"Doctor?… Doctor!" Beeping gets louder, louder, stronger, faster, LOUDER—

Until it stops. I feel nothing again.

~

No, incorrect. I feel numb. I feel a weight on my hand, a careful, steady weight. I rely on it. It's my connection to reality.

My rock to the tide which washes away everything else. My clarity.

~

"I can't do this, Molly. I can't. Where is the life in his face, where is HE-" A bitten back sob.

~

"Don't you dare, Sherlock. Don't you dare. What do you think he'd say if he knew?"
"He doesn't know. He doesn't know how it feels."
"Two years. I think he does. Last just a week. Cross that option off your list."

~

I feel a hand on mine, slender fingers drawing circles on my arms.
"I can't do it. You were my only escape. I'm not that strong. You know I'm not that strong." Abrupt noise, rhythmic thumps. Hand gone. Door slammed shut. Silence. Beeping.

~

Sometimes the pain is a lightning, sometimes an avalanche. Equally destructive, but you don't expect the lightning. You expect the avalanche.

I expected the avalanche. I didn't prepare for it.

~

One high, constant note, sometimes trembling, a bit hollow, a bit fractured from the inside. It gets louder. Louder. Louder.

I realize it's me. It's me. I'm screaming. Why?

I don't know. I feel like I should.

I feel pain but I'm not in pain.

I'm floating.

~

"No. No you didn't."
"I-I-"
"You promised to John, Sherlock. You promised to me. I know you can't help it, but if you call Mycroft-"
"He's on more drugs than John and me combined."
"You're lying."
"Yes."
"Stop, Sherlock, before it's too late. We care for you. You're like an annoying dog we can't throw out because we're used to tripping over its tail."

~

It feels like my eyes are sewn shut. I try to open them, but the stitches are too thick. I see only the swirls on the back of my eyelids.

~


Then I can't breathe. I cough and inhale air with my mouth fully open, but I can't consume oxygen.

~

"Some of the fractures ended in his lungs. They can either risk his life to operate him or leave him, risking for the shards to penetrate the lungs."
"No win. I can lose everything."
"We're playing Russian Roulette with no chances of winning. We're playing a Dead Man Jackpot."

~

I open my eyes to white. People in white in a room of white surrounded by red. Red, pink, silver. One splinter of silver ends in my arm. I feel a needle. Then I feel nothing.

~

"You're shaking."
"Of course I'm shaking. I c-c-could've lost him." Teeth chattering, like someone was cold.
"Are you clean?"
"As a whistle. Drugs don't help me think."
"Maybe that's why you're shaking."

~

"A month. A month. 2 520 000 seconds. That's enough. Wake up." Harsh, husky voice.

I want to tell him that I'm trying, that I want to wake up, that I want to open my eyes.

I can neither open my eyes or say that I want to.

~

I try to count seconds, too. I get to 221, then I dissolve. I feel nothing.

No hand in mine. No voices in the room. No rhythmic thumping. Nothing.

Nothing lasts for three days. In those three days I counted 10125 seconds. I keep dissolving into nothing. I keep imploding.

I can't feel my clarity.

~

"Sherlock." My words aren't even audible. Aren't recognizable. Yet he comes, 2532 seconds later.
"John. John?" But I'm not there. I can't speak. I can't hear. I can't think. I can hear.

I hear crying.

~

I hear crying the day after that.

I break.

I break the stitches on my eyes, I break the stitches on my mouth, I break the chains which hold me in one spot.

I break nothing.

"John? Oh, God, John…" I see black. I see his black curls. I smell his hair. I feel his arms around me. I feel the tears on his face. I can't even imagine what's going on on his face. But now, I won't have to imagine it. I see him.

I feel pain, unnumbed. I feel the stinging somewhere in my chest zone. I feel the needles in my arms. I feel. It hurts, but that's how I know I'm alive.

My neighbour, John Watson, is a player.

He frequently invites women over, and, even more often, exits his flat all dolled up, and I'd decide that he's going on a date. Sometimes he returns quickly, with a girl I haven't seen before. Sometimes he returns the day after, in the morning.

I know, because I see it all through my window.

I live just across the street, with my husband. Yes, John had seduced me with his charm, as well, but that was years ago, in high school. We stayed friends, though, because, even though we didn't work as a couple, we still spent significant amount of time near each other. Small town, what can you do.

Why didn't we work? I wanted emotional, he wanted physical.

He was a womanizer.

Until.

xXx

Early on a Wednesday, while I was showing my daughter off to school, I glanced through the kitchen window.

An unusual figure, tall, elegant, with impeccable posture, stood on the doorway of John's building.

I didn't pay much attention to them, because I guessed it was just another one of John's hookups.

So wrong, so right.

They buzzed the first, top button. John's button.

They turned around. I recognized that it was a man. Odd, but, again, I didn't pay much attention to him. John was a doctor, and the man (younger than me, around 25 or so) was probably a college student, asking for an interview. He even had a pen tucked behind his right ear and a notebook pressed against his chest.

And a faint blush, when the reply came through a speaker above the buttons. He came through the door, when it opened, in a hurry.

I didn't think much about it, so I just shrugged it off, and continued with my day.

It wasn't until after I sent my child to school and prepared for work myself did the college kid get out of the building, with an even redder flush, pen sticking out of his hair, notebook upside down on his chest, and an untucked shirt.

I thought he walked in on John's adventures.

I didn't doubt anything.

xXx

About a week after that, he appeared again, without the notebook.

I still didn't pay special attention to him, for all I'd known, he needed to complete the interview.

John's window on the first floor was open, so I could see glimpses of John and the other one through it.

I didn't see them for long, they disappeared. The window was just so big.

This time it was in the afternoon of a Saturday.

After I heard a door slam shut to some questionable noises from the flat, I started doubting.

xXx

But a coherent doubt had formed when I heard giggles.

In retrospect, I'd've been blind for a month.

At first it was only giggles.

It escalated quickly.

xXx

I was unlucky enough to hear it, across an empty street.

They started talking. Through occasional grunts and moans.

"What do you think — ahh — my professor would say if she", brief moment of silence, "goddamnit, if she knew."

"That's why she", throaty noise", doesn't know."

"And we're doing a bloody good job, aren't we, to keep up her ignorance, by opening the windows, by choosing to ignore the lovely bed you've got there and doing it on — don't stop, right there, right there —"

Traumatized, I locked the door to my house. Twice. Just in case.

xXx

"John! John! Bloody fuck, John, I'm not going to wait here forever, I haven't all the time in this sodding universe, I've school!"

The loveliest thing woke me up that Monday.

"John, you fucking wanker! John!" The kid'd hissed at the closed door. Then he'd growled at the window. Then talked out loud. The window on the first floor stood still. The kid crossed his arms, called a random number, and waited.

The window opened.

"Holy fuck. Is it six am or pm. Did I sleep the day off. Sherlock, it's a Monday", John screeched down at him.

"John, I am aware", Sherlock kid replied in the same manner."But I'm also aware that you called me yesterday to come today, so I did."

"Didn't come just yet", John's voice was low, but I could still hear it. Sherlock choked. "What, aren't you going to serenade me, a la Romeo and Juliet, now that we're here in this position?" John was leaning against the window sill, Sherlock was glaring up at him.

"If love", he started, "be rough with you, be rough with love. Prick love for pricking and you beat love down."

"That's a nice quote you got yourself there."

"At least I read." Arrogant, Sherlock was. But John is a doctor. He knows stuff.

"Give me my sin again."

"You git."

"I believe I out-quoted you. Who doesn't read now?"

"Just open the blasted door."

And John did. That time they were decent enough to close the window.

xXx

But it wasn't until yesterday I got worried. What were the two men up to? I dared to ask.

John had hurried out to throw the garbage out, at eleven pm, in a long, long shirt.

And, just as a coincidence, so did I.

"Hello stranger." His feet were bare, but his legs were covered knee up by the shirt. There was no doubt it wasn't one of his."What are you up to tonight?"

"Nothing much, really", I replied as we threw the garbage into the trashcan.

"I guess you're wondering why I'm up so late", he said.

"No, not really, I'm up myself, aye, mind you, so I have no right to ask."

"Sarah, Sarah", he shook his head, "I know you're dying to know. Your curious little brain must be boiling. That's what I like about you. Never straight forward, yet you get what you want. You're a fox." I began to complain.

"I—"

"No, I mean it in a good way!" His laugh was terribly cheery. "You were the only one I ever considered for a long run. But, I suppose…" His gaze escaped to the first floor, to his flat. To Sherlock."I guess that's not a possibility now, right?" He winked at me."I've got a warm bed waiting for me as we speak, so goodbye." He headed towards his home with a smile.

And even if he wore a licence plate which said 'I went homo', it wouldn't've been more clear who kept his bed warm. It was that Sherlock kid.

I don't know where did he appear from, I don't know what events had happened that had connected them, but I know one thing.

I wish them luck, luck in this crazy, big ol' world. And I wish they close their windows.

"Ellie?"

"Zach, I've been out for half an hour, you didn't burn something, did you?"

"Ellie…"

"What's wrong?… Are you crying?"

"… Promise me you'll never leave."

"What did you do, Zach—"

"Just promise."

"I promise, why would I leave you? That's ridiculous."

"I— I've just thought about it, we're going to end up old, in a home, a hospital, and I'd have to read you a story, our story, because you'll forget and I don't want you to forget and I don't want you to leave, don't leave."

"Zach, you're thirty."

"So what, so were they. Once."

"You watched The Notebook."

"I did not."

"Liar, yes you did, I had it recorded on the same dvd as the last season of Toddlers and Tiaras, and I watched that yesterday."

"Fuck, I watched The Notebook."

"Zach the Mighty watched a cheesy movie based on the sappiest purple prose. Did it rot your brain?"

"Mildly."

"Did it touch you, emotionally?"

"I'd proven to you a million times, I've no emotions."

"Uh huh. Liar."

~

"Ellieeeee."

"Zaaaach. What now, I'll be home in a minute-"

"Ellie, this song."

"What song?"

"All the songs. All these sad songs. Listen, listen, this one's called Oblivion."

"Oh, I've heard of that one. Was it on the radio?"

"Then Stay then Stay With Me then Skinny Love-"

"Yeah, they're all on the radio, I'm listening to it in the car. I should teach you how to drive, when you're shotgun you always put the radio onto some classical shit and chemistry lessons."

"But the songs. It's so sad they're so sad I'm so sad please come back soon please don't leave me don't forget me I promise I promise I'll never leave you I promise I'll never forget you."

"You're such a role model to your children."

to listen to
this too
and lastly

Dull thumping, pounding in my head. A low groan. I don't even dare to open my eyes.

Instead, I widen my range of senses.

I hear the lazy shuffling of the cars and the buses on the streets. In a very Sherlockian way (I swear he's rubbing off on me) I deduce that I am in my flat, in 221B, but the placement of the noise is wrong, it's off, like it switched it's source of spring. The thumping gets worse.

It's the worst hangover I've had since... well, ever.

Someone's hand is around my waist, feet in a messy know. A chin in my hair. Skin cold against my warm. My muscles tense from the chill.

I realize all that, and I realize I haven't any pants on.

I flush furiously and turn away. The hand around me tightens, a scent, unfamiliar in its familiarness, gets closer. I smell after-shave, mintiness, and sweat, which shouldn't smell like this. It's... masculine, it's attractive.

I flush more. Masculine and attractive in the same sentence... I'm really hung-over.

I open my eyes...

And last night just rushes into my mind.

❖

"Now I might be bad but I'm perfectly good at it", Sherlock singing karaoke and swinging his head from side to side, and I should have filmed it on my phone, but I was otherwise occupied by some handsome young lad who danced with me to the beat of Rihanna, her third song that night. First this one, then some other, then Sherlock again, to the joy and endless cheers of the female as much as the male population. He twirled me around and pressed me against him — oh God what was his name what's his name I need his name to file charges against him what's his name what's my name o na na what's my name — whispering purring sounds in my ear, his hand heading south.

His voice was too high for my liking, I didn't like it, I pushed him away.

The song ended with a loud roar of applause when I chugged down the remains of my beer — first second third fifth ninth maybe tenth maybe thirtieth maybe I didn't even drink beer — and some other people invited me to join them. I ignored them when someone pulled me away. They ignored me when someone else grabbed the karaoke microphone and started wailing into it, nothing compared to the baritone, to the raspy, throaty, hot voice that had occupied it not a minute ago.

That someone who dragged me away had long fingers, long hands, long arms — what else what else was long hold me hold me with your long hands take me away from those epileptic lights take my shirt off unbutton my jeans do me in the streets do me rough against the brick wall — and I couldn't recognize who the person may be until he whispered a low, low voice against my neck — his purring chest against my back his hips against my back did he have a goddamned gun in there what what the hell was this bulge — and in the back of my mind, I realized it was Sherlock, growling, rumbling into my ear.

"You can be the boss, daddy, you can be the boss", his voice was a cascade, tumbling down my spine, it cut me off waist down — God forbid me I'm going to get him off right here in front of everyone oh God I've got the hots for my hot as fuck flatmate I've got the hots for Sherlock for Christ's sake oh God oh God — and white. The next thing I remember-

We were in a taxi, and I remember his shaky hand on my knee going up and I remember that, if we weren't in that bloody cab we'd do it — Jesus bleeding Christ kiss me kiss me bite me scratch me make me bleed fuck me — and we got out of the car, he fished out keys to the flat from the back pocket of my jeans, his hands lingering in it for longer than necessary and white again.

We ended up kissing on his bed, his knees between my knees, his tongue dancing with mine — he tastes of beer and blood and something else a deodorant maybe I can kiss the taste out I can certainly try I'm trying I'm trying — and I snapped his belt out of the belt rings and[ and he moaned and he ripped my shirt off and — breathe breathe Watson breathe I want to keep kissing him but I'm going to come I'm not going to last I'm gone — and sparkles. Tingles. White.

❖

I look at Sherlock, his nose still in my hair. He groans and straightens up, removing himself from me and grabbing his phone from the nightstand.

"Please tell me we didn't do what I think we did." I don't see him, I'm still turned away, but I know what face he pulls off.

"I don't have to tell you, I think we have it filmed", he showed me his phone. And I just...

Goddamn her.

"Oh, fuck you, I want to get in now, can I go home?" It was not exactly cold, if you presume cold is from 10 to -10 Celsius. No, it wasn't cold. It was Siberia. Damnit.

"Zaaach", she drawled on. "Family fun times, remember?" She made snowballs for the ducklings, one of which was sitting in the snow and drawing in it — Lily is a creative little soul, bless her — and one which ran around restlessly, while the two dogs, one older, one all giddy, struggled to follow. The cat said 'fuck you' to the snow. I like the cat. He makes all the good decisions, even now, when he's old as Methuselah.

"But it's wet and disgusting and you'll all get a cold and I'll have to miss work to take care of you all." Ellie gave me the look.

"You, sir, are a git."

"No way, seriously?" I waved my hand in her direction. The ring gleamed brighter than the snow around us. On what light, I wondered. I haven't seen sun since the Big Bang."Twelve years, Mrs Hewitt. Should've known better than to marry a git."

"But the git said such nice words…" Sarcasm was dripping out of her voice. Or was it just melted snow. It was probably the melted snow. Damn, I'd have to aid my sick family. The idea would've sound… Attractive… If it weren't for the kids. Oh shit, kids.

They knew that their parents bickered. But they also knew that their parents never fought. Yes, I — cringe — love Ellie, but we never had serious fights. I know her. And she, not mind how, knows me.

"Daaad?" Why must I always be called with vowel-dragging?

"Jaaake?" I replied in the same manner and turned around to face him.

Splat.

"Oh my god, Jay", I heard Ellie laughing, but only heard. Jake had hit me straight in my face. Wet water dripped down my neck. Wet COLD water.

"Ellie." My voice was trembling. Was it laughter or anger, I didn't know. Possibly both, but probably the former."Ellie control your offspring."

"Fuck no."

Splat.

My own family turned against me. Lily, too. My dear Lily. I thought she was on my side. And you too, Brutus? Even Pip. I never had a feeling that dog liked me, and even less so, when he shook his snow-covered fur at me.

"Okay stop stop stop!" I found myself on my back and nearly covered by snow. Needless to say, they didn't stop until they made me into a snowman. It was hard to breathe with all the frozen H2O. I was breathing in snowflakes.

❄

"I know, I know." She crawled into the blanket with me. I was shaking violently with my whole body. Cold. "You told me that we shoudn't have gone outside. I know."

"Then w-w-w-hy-"

"Shh. Because I like to contradict you, Mr Smartarse. And this time you turned out to be right, but I couldn't care less. You went blue for a second", she kissed a snowflake out of my hair, melted it with her warm breath."You are a special little snowflake, aren't you, Zach?"

I.

There was a boy, staring at John Watson, for a few weeks now.

Which wasn't the news, since people stared at John Watson constantly.

They stared at the bruises on his jaw. They stared at cuts on his lips. They stared at his limp. And most of all, they stared at him when he slept the night out, when there was shouting coming from his family house.

John, throughout the years, got used to it.


~


The boy staring at him had gang tattoos on both of his shoulders.

A sunny day came with a glum mood.

"They're at it again", John informed his friend, Molly. She was a bright personality and had been John's support for a couple of years, for as long as he'd been in high school.

"John, please", she pleaded,"you have to say something. You can't keep on living like that." John heard those exact same words a dozen time at least, and he knew that 'saying something' won't do him any good. He tried.

And he knew what would happen. Either absolutely nothing, or… John shuddered. No. One more year until he moves out. A year. Then everything will be okay, he told himself. Then he will get himself a shoebox apartment, save for college by working in a cafe for a year, and he'll find himself a nice girl from a nice family. Yes. Then everything will be okay.

"No, Molly. It's okay, I swear." He kept his voice as reassuring as he could."It's going to be okay."

"John", she just sighed. Shaking her head.


~


The boy staring at him had dark, messy curly hair.

"I don't know the second one", Molly admitted as they spread across the grass in the city park not too far from John's family house.

It was a place they went when they wanted to do their homework, when Molly practiced her flute, when they just wanted to get away. The people in their class suspected they're a couple, but it was always like that when there was a friendship between a girl and a boy.

"The second one is just a formula, see, here", John showed her an underlined box a couple of pages ago.

"Uh, I was never good at Maths."

"Neither." John had to lie to Molly. He knew how it depressed her to be on the bottom of the smart chart. And he didn't want to stand out.


~


The boy staring at him had pitch black Chuck Taylors with shoelaces fluffy with wearyness.

"Harry, Harry, no", John had his hands around Harry's shoulders pulling her away from John's family house. Fresh blood streamed from a cut on his cheek and her temple.

"I'm going to kill him. I swear to God, I'm going to kill him." Her voice scared John. So much anger in a person so young.

Harry was twenty one, but she looked more. She looked like she'd lived a thousand years, and had seen a thousand lives fade away in front of her eyes. She moved away from John's family house a couple of years ago, but still visited, because she just couldn't leave John alone. She, no matter how coldly, loved John, and she couldn't bear him hurt.

"You're not going to kill him, you have as much muscle in your body as he does in his arm." She smiled weakly at him. He'll always be her baby brother, no matter how much he'd seen or how old his soul got.

"Doesn't keep me away from dreaming. Nothing should ever keep you away from that."


~


The boy staring at him had a purple shirt, too tight on his chest, too big on his shoulders.

"I have to get my granny to knit you a jumper", Molly looked at the suspiciously rusty stain on the back of John's jumper. The 'rust' got into the wool and stayed through wash.

"You really don't have to", John smiled at her. He secretly enjoyed it, having Molly's grandmother knit him another one of her warm, cuddly jumpers with ugly, ugly patterns. They were also ridiculously big for him, which served in re John's attempts to hide the bruising on his stomach, ribs and spine.

"No, she likes to do it. She really likes you, you know. She asks when you'll visit her again. She needs your most recent measurements."

John had a sad titter of a smile, flickering on and off his face. If he went to Molly's grandmother, she'd have him on a piedestal and attack him with measuring tape, and of course he'd have to undress. And he couldn't let that happen. His troubles should be a silent call, not a shouted plea.


~


The boy staring at him had a black coat, with big shiny buttons and ragged fabric on its shoulders and back.

"Where do you plan to go to college?" Molly asked him, balancing a stack of pamphlets of occupations the school had provided them. She took all, and John took two. He only had two choices. His two options.

It was either military or medicine. The two dreaded ms. He didn't know what he would do if he didn't get into any of those.

"I don't know, really, I haven't chosen yet", he answered, uncomfortable with lying. But it was necessary, in his position. He had to keep quiet, otherwise his present and past would destroy his relative future.

"Maybe I'd like to work with animals. Cats, preferably. I like cats. Even if they don't speak, they tell you so much."


~


The boy staring at him had a leather bag, brand new, weighted down with numerous books.

"John, guess what happened yesterday."

"What?" John didn't have much will that day, and it wasn't hard to guess why. His lips were suspiciously red at corners.

"Guess."

"Queen Victoria and Margaret Thatcher emerged from their graves and formed a femme fatale league."

"What, no. Don't guess." Molly seemed unshook. "I made up with Brian! Isn't that good?" The relativity of the question confused John. Good for him, good for her, good for the world?

"Err, I guess? I mean, congratulations!" A weak smile flashed on John's face, but she didn't notice.

"I guess that's just the way of life. What comes around comes back around." John didn't have the heart to tell her that it was filled with cliches. Life wasn't a circle, it was a road, they travelled.


~


The boy staring at him had chameleon eyes, sometimes grey, sometimes blue, sometimes green, always looking at him.

John noticed than only when the boy got closer.

"I want to buy you coffee." His voice was melodiously deep, like he'd been a singer in his past life.

"Sorry?" John asked taking his time. He wasn't exactly hurrying to his family house.

"I want to buy you coffee." His tone was more insistent the second time. He smelt of mint cigarettes, brick walls, shady street corners and rebellion.

"No, sorry. I have to go home." John felt the distance between them was nearly nonexistent.

"You don't want to go home." The boy pulled his shoulder to a stop in front of a small, cozy coffee shop. "And I won't let you go home."

"Oh, really. And who might you be, forbidding me to go home?" John raised his eyebrows as he turned to face the taller, but younger boy.

"My name's Sherlock Holmes, I'm... A psychology major." John knew for sure he was lying. He couldn't've been older than sixteen, and a halt in his words was in an odd place. "I've been studying your behaviour for two months now."

"Because that doesn't scream 'stalker' at all."

"Listen to me." The boy's — Sherlock's — voice dropped to a husky, threatening growl. "This is what's going to happen. I'm going to buy you coffee, you'll have yours with milk and I'll have mine without sugar, and you're going to tell me everything, how long has it been going, why didn't you alert someone, have you ever been to a hospital, and after that I'm going to offer you a place in my flat—"

"Excuse me", John felt weak, his voice was jumpy and nervous,"but why are you telling me that when I'll just decline?"

"Because I can't stand someone like you being enclosured like that and both of us know you deserve better. Also", he looked down at John half-squinting,"I lied."

"Oh did you now."

"Shut up." The fondness in his now careful voice stunned John."I lied. I'm not a psychology major."

"Really."

"Shut up!" His voice was on the edge of laughter. But, no, not really. Mocking, teasing, laughing at him, not with him. "I'm just… Well. Curious. In people's lives."

"That's what I'd say if I was a stalker."

"I'm not a stalker!" A sudden uproar of his voice scared John and people walking around them. "I'm just worred for you and I don't want to see you spend the night out again, catching pneumonia and dying and I'd much appreciate if we had this conversation inside rather than here." Sherlock's bold and piercing eyes had a note of sadness. John let hinself be dragged away to the coffee shop.

"Why do you care so much?"

"Because I let myself not care for years and I've finally found a person I want to care for."

"Why me?" Sherlock came to a stop, seemingly not understanding the meaning of those two, small words."I don't know you, you don't know me, what's the deal here? I won't be your pity doll on which you can play the Good Guy, I'm sorry but no."

"I'm not playing the Good Guy. Isn't this was people are expected to do? Talk to strangers, make friends, don't social relationships go like that?" John nearly cracked a smile on that one. Genuine, nearly innocent confusion on Sherlock's face was ridiculous.

"So what you're saying is", John offered, stripping to the basics of the confusing conversation, "you want to be my friend?" If Sherlock was unable to understand any other way, John would explain it.

"Well, if you put it like that", Sherlock cringed.

"That was the most awkward friend proposal I've ever got."

"You get many, then?"

"You're actually the first." John couldn't help but notice the smug look on Sherlock's face.

"Then it's averagly awkward."


II.

"Please, John." He sat on a sofa in his brother's house, cleansing the wound on John's ribs."Please. Just move out. My brother can secure us a flat, and you'll never have to see them again. They won't hurt you."

"They're my family. I could run away, but they'll always be a part of me." Sherlock ran his hand across the faded purple and muted yellow bruises on John's bare chest.

"You can always try."

The boy staring at him carried hidden agony in his eyes.


~


"That's enough!"

"Sherlock, please-"

"No, that's enough! I had a line, John, and they crossed it!" The nurse hid Sherlock's view on John as she fixed his dislocated shoulder.

"We're in a hospital. Don't raise heads."

"I'll raise all the goddamned heads I want! John. That's enough. From this hospital you'll go directly!" Sherlock screamed the last word. "To our flat! I'll force you if I have to!" John went silent.

The boy staring at him had whitened, clenched fists curled into tight balls.


~


"I still dream of them, you know." John spoke against the pillow, turned away from Sherlock. They could only afford one bed, a mattress, but they didn't need the other one, otherwise Sherlock would have got some money out of his brother.

"It's natural for a victim to dream about their torturers. It's like a natural disaster. You can't stand to look. You can't look away."

"Oh, cut it with the cliches!" John responded fiercly. "I dream about them because I've nothing else to dream about. The past is all I got now."

"Dream about the future. Dream about how you'll become a doctor. Dream about how we'll be able to buy a bed frame soon. Dream about me." John turned to Sherlock and nuzzled into his chest instead of a reply.

The boy staring at him had love written on his face, love which was so glaringly obvious, love which was so desperately hidden.


~


"Where does this go? Sherlock, it's wobbly, did you do it how the instructions say?"

"The instructions are incorrect."

"How in the world…" John walked to Sherlock with a piece of wood that was supposed to be a TV stand assembled by Sherlock.

"They obviously gave us wrong parts."

"The parts are alright, you are wrong." Sherlock gaped up at him with a satyrical, drama look on his face and threw his book away.

"Are you even implying that I'm not right?"

"I'd say so, mister Holmes."

"Watson, you're a dead man."

"I'd disagree. See, I'm still breathing." Sherlock grabbed the stick of wood and chased John with it through and around the flat until they both landed face flat on the bed, out of breath from running and laughing. John had never laughed so much in his life.

The boy staring at him had a flushed face and a tilted smile.


~


"You didn't."

"I-"

"You didn't!" Sherlock threw his book onto the brand new kitchen table.

"Sherlock", John spoke through gritted teeth, equally mad,"You can't just distance me away from them for forever, keep me in your glass case away from the world! Why don't you get it, I'll always be connected to them and there's no way to cut the strings which tie us together!"

"Why not?" The tone of Sherlock's voice froze the room. Defeated tone. He picked himself up again. "What's so wrong with wanting to keep your loved ones safe, keep them whole, keep them bloody alive?! John, they would've killed you. Not far from now. They would've killed you."

"Err", John was still frozen, not because of his tone. Something else caught his attention. Even after they had this conversation a hundred times, he hadn't heard it from Sherlock's reserved, snappy mouth."Your-- your loved-"

"I know what I said." Sherlock had a furious flush on his cheek.

"Sher-"

"I know! What I said! Don't-" Sherlock choked. "I'm perfectly capable of keeping my emotions locked away from the reality. Don't. Don't mention it." John watched him carefully.

The boy staring at him had a fractured mask on his face, showing both halves of his face; one with emotions, and the one trying to hide them.


~


"Sherlock, just talk to me, please. Silence doesn't get you anywhere." Sherlock sat in his corner, John did his homework in his corner.

"You were silent for years, it got you somewhere. To a broken arm and shattered childhood." John looked at Sherlock, Sherlock looked at him. John's heartbeat thumped in his throat.

The boy staring at him was blank, his mask back on, whole.


~


"Sherlock." After a week of not talking to each other John broke. If Sherlock won't talk to him, he would talk to Sherlock.

"John", Sherlock replied flatly.

"I-- What do you want me to say?" John approached him and sat across, shutting closed Sherlock's book.

"I don't want you to say anything."

"Lies."

"Probably."

"Okay then." John took Sherlock's hand in his own."I won't."

Sherlock's lips were warm against John's.

John pulled away.

The boy staring at him had eyes which said everything John wanted to hear.


III.

The whole ceremony was comical.

"Why do I have to walk down the aisle? I'm not the blushing bride." John complained as Molly's grandmother fixed his tuxedo.

"You're the blushing groom." Molly was sitting down in her white, maid-of-honour's dress. She was sure to gain a lot of flirting her way. Of course, if John and Sherlock were anything but themselves, they would mind. But they didn't.

"I won't survive today."

"Having second thoughts, are we?" Molly had a smug expression John thought was familiar.

"Are you kidding me, just knowing Sherlock is a second thought."


~


"Let's just make something clear. We disapprove of you."

"Oh, good. I disapprove of you, too." Mr. and Mrs. Watson and Sherlock stared at each other, darts of hatred flying both ways. "Nevertheless, I'm glad you arrived."

"How is John?" Mrs. Watson managed to look timid and shy. Sherlock burst.

"Traumatized! Do you know how many times did he wake up in tears? Are you aware of the fact that your son flinches every time someone raises his hand or his voice?" Sherlock calmed down. He wasn't allowed to sweat in his tuxedo.

Mr. and Mrs. Watson didn't have a response.


~


"Molly locked me in a closet." John's voice was broken by the phone line.

"Not fair, I thought it was my time to have you in a closet." John laughed at Sherlock's comment.

"She says I'm not allowed to see you before the wedding."

"You know I'm waiting for you in front of the entire audience of people? All we need is the second groom."

"No."

"Yes. We're not even married, and you're already avoiding me."

"Molly!!"


~


When they finally got John out of the closet — metaphorically — it was already an hour past the time they were supposed to start, and it looked like this:

half the children were asleep, half were pouncing about like manic rabbits,

a third of the adults were on their phones, a third were chatting with their neighbours, a third were running around the room trying to catch wifi, John's parents uncomfortably sat in a corner,

John, panting, with hair sticked to his skull, trying to slow down his walk to Sherlock, but failing hopelessly,

and Sherlock.

John had no words to try to describe Sherlock's face.

The boy staring at him had a coal black tux, shoes shined to perfection, a tie nearly choking him, a lean figure in black and white.

The boy staring at him was his future.

The boy staring at him loved him.

"How was your flight?" Andrew asked, after a brief, but rather graphic, kiss. Isaac smiled, happy just to be back on the ground again. Happy to be with Andrew again.

"You'll never believe it." Never mind the fact they were standing leaned against a wall, blocking half of the way, holding each other after a week of not being able to, never mind the fact the looks they were getting screamed 'bloody murder', Andrew nodded.

"Try me." A not so innocent look from Isaac's side, but he started this story.

"So I'm entering the plane, and the luggage space in it was too tall for me to reach." Andrew snorted, which earned him a smack on upper arm. "And there's this guy, tall guy, taller than you, which I always believed to be impossible, and he helps me with my bag. Sure enough, I thank him."

"Can I already guess what's happening?"

"No. You'll ruin the story!"

"I'm sorry! Do continue." To encourage him, Andrew pressed a kiss on Isaac's nose. He smiled and continued.

"Thank you. And I bought myself a coke on the flight. Guess what."

"What."

"He was the one who got it to me. I then get where he was aiming that, so I take a little extra time to get the money from my wallet, so he could see that photo I got of us." Andrew frowned a bit.

"Which one?"

"You know, that one in Disneyland? That Ethan took, with the disney flowers and all."

"The shaky one?"

"Ye-"

"The one over which you complained about for at least half an hour?"

"Yes, shut up." They shared a wicked grin. "So, the guy doesn't see, and he continues walking close to me. I ignore him, because as much as I love tall boys, I have a tall husband." Another quick peck. "The plane lands, I get out and I have to be searched, you know, in case I carry knifes and guns and gasses and you know. Guess who searches me."

"Is it him again?" Isaac nodded. "Seriously?"

"Yes!" Laughter. "The searches are usually short, but…" Andrew's arms wrapped tighter around Isaac. "I know, I know, love. Tried to get away the fast as I could. "

"Good." Andrew's voice had a possesive edge.

"Don't be jelaus, hun. And when I had to take all my jewelry off, which meant my watch and my ring, I made a show out of it, but I think he promptly ignored it."

"Of course. They always do."

"And you know what the best part is?"

"No, not really, except for the fact that you're here with me now." Isaac shook his head.

"He has been watching this whole conversation from afar." Andrew raised his head and quickly looked around. "Blonde, stubble", Isaac gave him a bit more information.

"I see him. Not quite happy."

"Ah, but see, my darling, he must have known not to touch someone who is somebody else's."

"And whose might you be?" They shared a smirk.

"Now you're just fishing for compliments."

"Yes, but I still want an answer."

"I am yours. And I always will be. But you gotta admit it, that guy's kinda cute."

"He would be, if he didn't try to steal my husband away from me. Otherwise I just dislike him."

"But that's just tells you you got yourself a pretty good husband", Isaac winked at him and Andrew kissed the top of his hair.

"Couldn't have wished for a better one."

Teenzellie- Texts.

Ellie

        Zach

He was there everyday, the boy with the guitar. The passerbyers never noticed him. His old worn out clothes were dirty, they were the same clothes he wore everyday. His hair, a colour that only reminds me of the sand from the beaches down south, was shaggy and unkept. But, even thougg his appearance was very much rough, lost and alone, his guitar had a certain shine. You could tell from one glance he loved that instrument. Everyday he would use a soft cloth to wipe its neck and body down with a hand more tender than a mother holding her newborn child.
With every strum of the strings, you could hear his heart being poured into the music, as if the beat of his heart flowed through his arm, hand and into the pick. Mixing with the music to create an angelic sound only heard by those who gave him a second glance.
The boy never played in English. His smooth rumbling voice expressing every emotion through the beauty of the French language. It was velvety smooth, I sat everyday just drinking in the sound, so much so it became my drug.
His eyes stare at where his fingers move about the chords. This meant I never had had the pleasure to see what colour they were. But I imagined they were grey, grey with patches of blue, like the blue of the sky trying to escape the stormy clouds shielding it from view. But, even though its rare, I could be wrong.
I wanted more than anything to go down and see him. But I never do. I never want to stop seeing him there, on the corner of the street. I loved the boy with the guitar. I truly did.

x
The morning was crisp. It was cool and calm, one of those days you needed to go outside and breathe it all in. Isaac had gone to his classes, and as much as I disagreed with him going to those classes and being separated from me for an incessant amount of time, I knew he enjoyed them. I decided to take my little shop outside to the park, using a flower trolley I had found on eBay (Isaac introduced me to this website a few weeks ago, it is amazing, why do we need shops now with this holy grail?). The trolley made it possible to make bouquets for random passer-byers, and it seems to be a real hit so far, and on a day like this, well, it is perfect for couples. Isaac would probably say the lighting is just slightly off for photography or something, but what do I know about that, any attempts Isaac has attempted to teach me has resulted in millions of photos of him (blurred) or the lesson ending quickly because of the best distractions. I found my main spot in the park, slightly off the main path, but a lot of people still come this way, and settled down on a chair.
"Tina! Look. Oh, Andrew would love this." I know that voice anywhere, but why is he in the park today? I watched as he trotted over to the trolley, obviously not spotting me. Tina was about to point me out, but I shook my head at her to keep her silent. Judging from the cameras in their hands, they were doing some practical work outside of the classroom, I guess the lighting wasn't that wrong. "Which flower would he like? I have no idea what his favourite ones look like. Or which would be the best to give him." I approached behind him, holding a red carnation in my hands (Carnation; Dianthus; The Flowers of God; fascination; deep love). I held the flower out in front of him, keeping myself hidden, my arms partly wrapped around him.
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" I nuzzled into his petal soft hair, placing a gentle kiss on top of his head, breathing him in. Even a few hours is too many.
"Ay, what are you doing here?"
"I would ask you the same question" He turned around so I could look down at him properly, and hopped to press a kiss against my cheek. I pulled him into a closer hug, making him giggle.
"Answer the question."
"You answer mine."
"I asked first."
"Fine, it was a nice day so I thought to sell some flowers outside the shop for once." Isaac nodded, the grin not leaving his face. "Why are you here?"
"As you say it is a nice day so the whole class is out to take photos. And at least three quarters of them are watching us right now."
"Are they?" I pulled him into a kiss, which seemed to surprise him as he squeaked, an adorable sound really. It was just a gentle peck, nothing graphic, but still a kiss.
"What was that for?"
"Now your class knows I love you very much, and it is important they keep their hands off."
"You get jealous so easily" Isaac laughed, "I remembered how you reacted to that  aeroplane guy."
"But he was looking at you."
"Can no one look at me?"
"Nope. Mine only."
"Okay, I can live with that." He stood on his tiptoes to reach for a kiss, which I gladly replied. Once we pulled back, I took the carnation, and gently placed it inside the button hole of the chest pocket on his shirt.
"Your buttons are skewiff again" I noticed, looking down at his shirt with a grin. He batted me playfully, looking down at his shirt.
"Oh shut up, if you woke up early enough you could fix them." I kissed his forehead, before stepping back from him.
"You're scaring my customers away, go take your gorgeous self elsewhere while I work."

"Andrew. I'm 25, and the teacher has set me homework." Isaac complained as he walked through the door.
"Hello, Isaac"
"Since everyone in my class seemed to think we make good role-models for their projects, this was by taking lots of photos of us in the park,-"
"We are pretty-"
"-the teacher is making me take lots of photos of us together, and get some our old photos for people to use as examples for how to have people posing in their photos." He said, as I took him into an embrace, noting the flower was still in place.
"We have plenty of photos together. Ooh, show them that one from Disney" I said, and Isaac smiled up at me. "How much clothing is allowed in this project?"
"Andrew"
"Reasonable question, is just underwear too little?"
"Yes"
"I thought you look absolutely gorgeous in just underwear, and even less."
"Shut up" He batted me away as I laughed, "Just photos of us in our everyday life"
"Is your teacher just wanted to see what you get up to in your spare time? They're not cute are they? I've never actually met your teacher"
"He's like fifty"
"Good" I pulled him into kiss, one much longer and more graphic than the ones in the park.
"I'm hungry. Take-out?"
"Yum"