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--If you want, you can view the full, NC-17 rated version of this story at my LiveJournal at http:(DOUBLE SLASH)nachzes-lit(DOT)livejournal(DOT)com. Please leave a comment of what you thought, and put your fictionpress username at the end. The part you're looking for is titled EITHER "of family bonds, autumn, and growing love (part 2/2; clean)" OR "of family bonds, autumn, and growing love (part 2/2)". The first is rated R, the second NC-17. READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION.--
Of Family Bonds, Autumn, and Growing Love
Nachzes Black-Rider
Nicholas stumbled backwards out onto the dark porch with the force of his father’s shove, cursing loudly as he tripped on the doormat and landed on his back, knocking the wind out of himself. Coughing and breathing hard to try to regain lost oxygen, he glared up at his drunken father, split lip trickling blood down his chin.
“…no fucking faggots allowed in my house!” his father yelled, and slammed the door in Nick’s face.
“FINE!” Nick shouted back, hoarse voice cracking. “I DON’T WANT TO LIVE IN THE SAME HOUSE AS A PATHETIC ALCOHOLIC, ANYWAYS!” There was the sound of a glass bottle shattering against the closed door, and a muffled curse from inside as his father reacted, and Nicholas pushed himself up from the ground, wiping the blood from his chin and spitting on the splintering wood at the foot of the door. Angrily, he turned, hunching his shoulders and stepping off the porch, beginning to walk in a random direction.
Shuffling along, he looked up as he passed the dilapidated liquor store near the tracks, and slowed, then stopped, glaring through the stained brown windows to the dimly-lit area within. Above him, the yellow light of the street lamp wavered, and died; Nicholas swore and looked away from the shop, then glanced back. Another whispered expletive made its way past his lips, and the brunet shoved the door of the liquor store open with and open palm, his skin making a satisfying smack against the glass pane as they connected. However, instead of lessening his sour mood, this sound seemed to make it more intense, if anything, and Nicholas stalked into the shop and seized the first bottle that caught his eye. “How much is this?” he barked to the frightened-looking sales clerk, who jumped, eyes wide.
“Twenty dollars, sir,” he said quickly, and Nicholas grunted, walking over to the sole till and slamming the bottle and his wallet down on the belt, shooting a glare at the clerk. The obviously flustered man rang in the alcohol and glanced at his ID, stuttering madly as he saw Nicholas’ age. “I’m sorry sir,” he said, “but I can’t sell you alcohol. The drinking age is twenty-one, and you’re—”
“Shut up. Just bag it; I’ll pay you cash.”
“I can’t just—”
“I said, ‘bag it’.”
“Right away, sir.”
Nicholas grunted as the clerk handed him the bottle, wrapped up in a brown paper sack, and pocketed his wallet again, stalking out from the shop.
A while later, Nicholas found himself in the park, without any real recollection about how he got there. Staring blankly at the paper bag he still clutched in his hand, he pulled the bottle out by the neck, and stared at the label for the first time. Vodka. Good, strong drink. He laughed bitterly to himself, and wrenched off the cap, immediately tilting his head back and taking a long swig of the drink. Suddenly, he coughed, liquid spraying from between his lips as he curled over, his mouth burning. Bottle dangling in a limp hand, he turned his head up to face the sky, taking another gulp of vodka as he stared at the white, winking stars above.
A breeze came by, and Nicholas shivered in his thin black T-shirt, the forgotten paper bag skittering away like dried leaves over concrete. Another swig from the bottle, and Nicholas noticed, dazedly, that the vodka level had gone down by several inches.
He laughed again. Bitterly.
Again.
And again, and again, and again.
Couldn’t stop…he didn’t know what was so funny—just that it was. And for some reason, that made him laugh harder.
Still giggling slightly, he raised the mouth of the bottle to his lips again, the neck slippery with condensation and saliva. One swig. Two. Three. He removed the bottle with a loud noise much like a plunger, and toasted the empty air, the sky, the stars.
Several minutes slipped past without notice, blending together in a whirl, and Nicholas felt his grip on reality beginning to distort, and loosen. Detached, he allowed the almost-empty bottle fall to the grass beside him with a muted thud, and let his head fall back against the park bench.
When had that happened? The bench? He couldn’t remember…why was he outside? It was cold, he thought, he shouldn’t be outside, especially not in only a T-shirt and jeans. “Black jeans,” he mumbled, giggling.
Were black jeans funny? He didn’t know…everything was oddly blurry, and he couldn’t make his arm work…couldn’t raise his hand to rub at his eyes, and something must be wrong, because his limbs felt like lead, and the stars were so, so bright above him…winking…winking…winking….
“Niko?”
He spun, head reeling, and very nearly vomited (again, if the acrid taste in his mouth was any indication). Ryan immediately sprinted forward, putting an arm around the other to help him stay upright when Nicholas’ stance wavered dangerously. Shaking the other’s arm off impatiently, Nicholas glared at him. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he said. Ryan appeared to be affronted.
“I jog through the park in the morning,” he said, sounding insulted. Nicholas took in the other’s track pants, long-sleeved T-shirt, Nike sneakers, and the windbreaker tied around his waist. “What are you doing here?” Ryan continued, and Nicholas blinked. “You’re filthy!” The younger’s nose wrinkled and he backed off slightly. “You stink, too,” he added, and then said, suspiciously, “have you been drinking?”
“It was only one bottle—”
“Of what? Extra strong whiskey?”
Nicholas glared at him again. “Vodka,” he said imperatively, weaving slightly again.
“Vodka?!” Ryan exclaimed. “What were you thinking, Nik—you’re bleeding!”
“Huh?” Nicholas put a hand to his chin, and blinked when it came away wet with blood. “Where?”
“Your lip!” Ryan took several steps forward, fumbling in his jacket pocket for something, and pulled his hand out to reveal a Kleenex. “Come here,” he said, and Nicholas obediently took a step forward, allowing Ryan to dab at the abrasion, and wincing as it stung.
“Oww,” he whined, attempting to pull back slightly. Ryan made an impatient sound and pulled him closer, squinting at the cut as he attempted to clean the dirt out of it.
“Where did you get this?” he asked. “In a fight with another drunk?”
Nicholas laughed, and Ryan glanced up at his eyes, shocked. Still laughing slightly, Nicholas managed to wheeze, “I guess you could say that; Dad kicked me out of the house again. He said he didn’t want any faggots living under his roof.”
Ryan sighed, and put the bloody Kleenex back into his windbreaker pocket. “I told you that you could live with me.”
“Ryan, you’re fifteen—you’re still living with your parents; do you really think that they’d want their son’s nineteen-year-old boyfriend living under the same roof?”
“I don’t care!” Ryan exclaimed. “He’s hurting you, and I can’t just—”
“It’s not that bad,” Nicholas assured him, running a hand through his own tousled hair. “I just get knocked around a little, and it only happens when he’s drunk.”
“Which is all the time,” Ryan said bitterly.
“Well, yeah, but he’s hardly ever home, so it’s not like it happens every day.”
“Niko….”
“Look, it’s not like I’m going to be able to go back anytime soon, so it doesn’t really matter now, does it. Besides which, Ryan,” Nicholas sighed wearily, “it’s only a split lip.”
“But Nicholas…” trailing off uselessly, Ryan sighed as well, and leaned his forehead against the shoulder of the taller. “I just hate the fact that he does this to you,” he mumbled, voice muffled by the fabric of the other’s T-shirt. “I keep thinking of all those statistics…I don’t ever want you to be like him, Niko!”
An uncomfortable feeling creeping through him at the sensation of hot tears soaking through his shirt sleeve, Nicholas attempted to lend humour to the mood. “Idiot,” he said, “why would I do that.” Raising the other’s head with two fingers under his chin, Nicholas smiled at his boyfriend and kissed his forehead lightly, hugging him. “You’re so silly sometimes….” But Ryan remained still stiff and immovable against him, his back shaking slightly as he continued to cry, and Nicholas frowned. “Ryan,” he said, more seriously, “I’m not going to turn out like my dad. I promise you.” The elder let out a relieved sigh when he felt the other relax slightly against his shoulder, and he held him closer in response, enjoying the feeling of their clothed bodies pressing up against one another as the early-morning sun shone onto his back, warm and gentle.
There was a moment of silence, and then Ryan wriggled out of his arms and looked at him pointedly. “You need a shower,” he said.
Nicholas, feeling playful, purred, “Are you going to join me?” and smiled slightly.
Ryan blushed, and shook his head. Nicholas, pretending to be sad, pouted, but Ryan was unmoved, and grabbed Nicholas’ hand, pulling him along. “Come on,” he said, “you can camp out at my house for tonight.”
Nicholas clapped his hands in mock anticipation, and said, gleefully, “Yay! A sleepover!”
Ryan snorted in amusement, and continued to lead him along. “Okay, now you really are acting gay.”
“Thanks for that.” Sarcasm. Of course, Ryan took no notice of it.
“You’re welcome,” he chirped.
Nicholas sighed.
“They’re in the cupboard beside the shower,” Ryan shouted back from where he was lying—face-down on his bed, flipping randomly through a sports magazine. A cupboard door banged, and the fan in the bathroom was turned off, making Ryan glance up; Nicholas pushed open the door and walked out, towelling his hair. Ryan blushed madly, and propped his magazine up, trying to hide his flaming cheeks. “What do you think you’re doing?” he squeaked, and Nicholas grinned at him.
“What?” he asked. “I’m drying my hair.”
“You’re naked!”
“Well, yes, I mean…I did just come out of the shower….”
Ryan’s blush intensified, and he pointed towards a dresser behind Nick. “Put on some clothes, Niko.”
“Why?” Nicholas’ voice had taken on a familiar sultry tone, and Ryan shifted nervously. “Don’t you want me, Ryan? Don’t you want to feel me, inside you, stretching you, claiming you—”
“Ryan!” came the feminine-sounding call from downstairs, and both males jumped, startled. “Breakfast!”
“Okay, mom!” Ryan yelled back, and shot Nicholas a glare, jumping off the bed and stalking over to the dresser, yanking a drawer open and throwing a pair of jeans and a button-up top at Nicholas. “Put those on,” he hissed, “and then come down.” And, with those succinct parting words, he exited the room, the stairs soon ringing with his thumping footsteps. Staring after him, Nicholas sighed and held the jeans up in front of him, wondering how he was ever going to fit into jeans two sizes too small.
“Niko?” came the sleepy mumble from the bed, “What’s wrong? Why can’t you sleep?”
Nicholas was silent for a moment, then whispered, his voice seeming loud in the silence of the house, “I can’t stop thinking.”
“About what?”
“Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.”
Ryan was quiet, and Nicholas shifted uncomfortably, swearing under his breath as he tried to find a suitable position. The furnace kicked on, and Nicholas heard Ryan’s father’s snores halt, then a grunt, and then the snores started up again. Nicholas sighed.
“Ryan?” he asked, “Can I sleep with you?” He paused, listening to the house’s sounds, and then continued, in a whisper, “I won’t do anything. It’s just that the floor’s really hard, and I—”
Ryan rolled over in the bed and said something in a sleepy tone; Nicholas took that to be a yes, and slid quietly out of his sleeping bag, wincing at the sound of nylon rustling, and crawled into the bed behind Ryan, curling up next to the other and closing his eyes.
“Goodnight, Ryan,” he mumbled, yawning slightly, already feeling his thoughts begin to ease off.
“…’Night, Niko….”
“Niko….”
“Ryan, I don’t even have a steady job. How am I supposed to rent out my own room, let alone my own house or apartment?”
“Look, could you at least give it a chance? I just hate the thought of you living with him.”
Nicholas sighed and stood up, pushing his chair in and going into the kitchen. “The thing is, Ryan,” he said, “that him is my father.”
Ryan looked pained. “Niko, I know that,” he said. “I’m sorry, but….”
“Ryan, please, just let it go.” It was a whisper, and unlike last night, when their whispers had seemed loud and sharp in the darkness, this time, Nicholas’ whisper was hardly heard by either of them, seeming to fade away pitifully under the bright sunlight that streamed through the dining room window.
“Just let it go….”
Nicholas smiled. “I’ll be fine, Mrs. Malcom. But thanks for asking.”
“Well…be sure to come anytime you want. We can even have a spare key made, if you‘d like.”
“I’ll think about it, thank you,” Nicholas said seriously, glancing towards Ryan’s bedroom window where the other’s face was pressed against the glass. “Will you tell Ryan I said thanks?” he asked, “And that I love him?”
“Of course I will, Nicholas,” Mrs. Malcom said, nodding. “I’ll try to explain some other things to him, too. I’m sorry he’s being so…childish…about this right now; I know it must be hard for both of you. Anyways, call if you need a place to sleep for the night, alright?”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Malcom. And thanks again,” Nicholas added, starting down the walk and raising a hand in farewell.
“Bye, Nicholas!” Mrs. Malcom called, waving. “Have a nice day!”
On the window seat by his bedroom window above, Ryan drew his knees up to his chest and began to cry.
“Go away!” he yelled as she burst into his room, face white. “I don’t want to talk about it!”
“Ryan! Nicholas’ father is in the hospital! They said that Nicholas asked them to call us.” Ryan stared at her, not comprehending.
Finally…“What?” he whispered, voice quivering.
His mother bit her lip. “They say that he probably slipped on something and hit his head last night, while he was drunk…there was a lot of blood, and he hit his head pretty hard…. He’s fine—or, the doctors say he will be—but…honey, Nicholas is the one who found him. He’s pretty shaken up right now.”
“I’ll go,” Ryan said shortly, standing up and running out of the room, bare feet thudding on their way down the stairs.
“Honey,” his mother yelled, starting down after him, “wait!” she insisted, hurrying into the front foyer where Ryan, pale-faced and shaky, was attempting to tie his shoes onto the wrong feet with tremulous fingers. “Ryan,” she said gently, “slow down. Get some socks on; pack an overnight bag; grab your jacket. I’ll make arrangements with a hotel near the hospital and call your father while you get ready. I’ll meet you in the car, okay?” She looked at him, eyes steady, and he made an odd, strangled sound, biting down on his bottom lip to keep it from wobbling. “Honey?” his mother asked, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. “What do I need? Toothpaste, clean underwear, and a new shirt?”
She nodded. “And try to pack a brush and deodorant, too,” she called, pulling the phonebook out of the cupboard and beginning to rifle through it, phone by her side and at the ready, as Ryan, upstairs, threw things pell-mell into his backpack.
Fifteen minutes later Ryan’s mom unlocked the car doors, sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the car, her son climbing shakily into the passenger’s seat beside her, face still chalk white, fingers tight and pale around the backpack he held in his lap. Backing out of the driveway, Mrs. Malcom glanced at him as she put the Toyota into gear and started down the road towards the highway, her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel in attempt to avoid slamming on the gas.
Scenery whizzed past as they sped down the Interstate; fields of tall, ripe, golden wheat and brief stands of crimson, orange, and yellow-leafed trees, all whipping past the window at a rate that didn’t seem fast enough for either of the car’s occupants. Ryan suddenly sat up in his seat as a sign flashed by, and stared, wide-eyed and alert, through the windshield. “Are we close now?” he asked.
“Soon, honey,” his mother soothed, eyes flicking towards her son briefly as she pressed down a little harder on the pedal. “Only a couple miles now until Jefferson City—look, you can see the buildings now. Just hold on a little longer.”
Ryan shifted restlessly and didn’t answer, wide ocean-green eyes fixated upon the slowly-growing buildings that flanked the horizon. He grit his teeth, glancing around and wondering when the scenery had changed from grasslands to lazy suburbs.
Finally (it seemed like hours later to the pair, even though it was really only minutes), a large sign proudly proclaiming Welcome to Jefferson City! rose into view, and Ryan heaved a sigh of relief, relaxing slightly in his seat. Almost there, almost there, almost there, he thought, repeating it steadily like a mantra in his head, until he’d begun to mumble it aloud. “Almost there, almost there, almost there….”
His mother glanced at him again, but refrained from saying anything, instead concentrating on the scrap of paper in her lap which detailed which streets to take to reach the hospital once they had arrived in Jefferson. Slowing down to the speed limit once more, she glanced around and turned a corner, beginning to breathe easier when another street sign, this one decorated with a large green H and an arrow pointing east, passed them by. Ryan took to drumming his fingers on the dashboard in time with his chant, tapping the plastic with a finger for every syllable, so that it sounding like this:
“Al—tap—most—tap—there—tap, al—tap—most—tap—there—tap…”
“Ryan, honey, please stop that,” his mother said, half-cajoling, half-pleading. “It’s just half a mile.”
Ryan fell silent, but his lips still moved with the chant, fingers tapping out the rhythm soundlessly on his thigh. The sigh that left his mother’s lips when they pulled into the hospital parking lot was one of relief.
“Ryan,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder, “you can get out now. We’re here.”
Ryan jumped, dropping his backpack to the floor of the car and scrambling to get out, face once again white with worry. Mumbling to himself, he managed to get the car door to open, nearly tumbling out onto the asphalt, but managing to catch himself at the last minute. “Sorry,” he told his mother, who was looking concernedly at him.
“Ryan, please calm down; it won’t help Nicholas any to see you acting like this.”
The boy seemed to deflate slightly, shoulders drooping and beginning to shake as he let out a tiny sob, trying to muffle it in vain. “I’m scared,” he whispered, and his mother wrapped her arms around him, allowing him to lean into her. “What if he doesn’t love me anymore?” he whispered, starting to cry harder.
“Ryan, Nicholas does love you; he said so this morning when he left. This isn’t your fault, and he’s not silly enough to think that it is. Just let it all out, pull yourself together, and we’ll go in, okay?”
Silently, Ryan nodded, pulling away and wiping away the tear tracks on his cheeks, taking a few deep breaths for good measure.
“Ready?” his mother asked, and he nodded, squaring his shoulders and trailing after her as she led the way towards the emergency entrance, purse tucked under one arm and heels clacking, business-like. Perfectly poised, she pushed open the door and held it open for Ryan, then made her way up to the front desk where a nurse sat, shuffling papers and occasionally typing something into the computer that sat on her left.
Looking up when they walked in, she smiled and asked, “How may I help you?”
“Thank you. We’re looking for a patient named Harry Snow; he would have arrived probably an hour or two ago, and his son, Nicholas, was with him. Can you tell us what room he’s in?”
The nurse nodded and hit a few keys on her keyboard, clicked on something, and said, “Harry Snow…he’s in room one-thirty-three. It’s just down the hall to your left,” she said, pointing them in the right direction and flashing them a smile. “Have a nice day.”
“Thank you,” Ryan’s mother said, and led the way down the corridor. “Here we are,” she said shortly, stopping next to a room that had a brass plaque reading 133 on it, and a paper card with the name Snow, Harry in a slot next to the door. “Do you want to go in alone?” she asked Ryan, and he nodded. She smiled softly at him. “Then we’ll meet you back at the hotel, okay?” she asked, and Ryan nodded again, taking a deep breath and slipping into the room, looking tiny bit drawn once more.
“Niko?” he whispered, shutting the door behind him; the figure sitting on a chair by the bed looked up, and Ryan bit his lip at his boyfriend’s face—tear-streaked and pale, with a smear of crusted-on blood above his right eyebrow and one on his cheek.
Nicholas smiled, the expression wavering slightly. “Don’t bite your lip, baby,” he said, voice shaking ever-so slightly, “you’ll make it bleed.”
Ryan sobbed slightly, and the next thing he knew he was curled up in his boyfriend’s arms, the position uncomfortable and awkward and painful, and, somehow, perfect. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed, crying quietly. “I’m sorry, Niko. So, so sorry….”
“Shh,” Nicholas murmured, pressing shaking lips to the other’s hair. “It’s okay, Ryan. It’s not your fault; calm down, baby…calm down….”
Ryan sniffled and wiped his sleeve across his eyes, forcing a trembling laugh. “You probably think I’m such a wimp,” he said.
“You may be snot-nosed and red-eyed, but that doesn’t mean you’re a wimp,” Nicholas insisted, hugging him tighter. He sighed, happily. “I love you, Ryan,” he murmured, lips brushing against the other’s hair.
“I don’t deserve it.”
“Mm, but I do love you,” he said, kissing the other’s forehead. “And unless you want to”—kiss on the nose—“break my heart”—one cheek—“and send me to an early grave”—second cheek, and Nicholas grinned devilishly—“…then I suggest you tell me the truth.” And he kissed him full on the lips, tongue snaking into the other’s surprised mouth and entwining with Ryan’s. Breaking the kiss, he pecked the other on the nose again, “So what do you say?” he asked playfully. Ryan smiled at him.
“I love you, too, Niko, you idiot.”
Nicholas blew a kiss at him.
“Asshole.”
“Dickhead.”
“Oh, that is just so old, you moron!”
“Jackass.”
“Fag.”
“Oh, but we all know that’s how you like them, Ry-an,” Nicholas said, adding a sing-song note to the last word. “After all, you are dating me.”
Ryan giggled and rubbed his nose against the other’s in a simple Eskimo kiss. “I don’t know,” he teased. “We don’t seem to have gone on a date in quite some time now….”
Looking scandalized, Nicholas dropped his voice to a horrified whisper, eyes wide. “No!” he breathed.
“Yes!” Ryan told him, smiling.
“Well, I guess we’ll have to fix that, then,” Nicholas said solemnly. “Won’t we?”
Ryan beamed. “Can we go to Luigi’s?” he piped up eagerly, eyes brightening when Nicholas laughed and nodded. “And to the movies?” Another nod. “For ice cream?” Nod. Ryan gasped delightedly. “What about the park,” he said. “Can we go to the—”
“Excuse me…Nicholas?”
Both boys looked up, startled, to see a nurse standing in the doorway to the room, holding a clipboard in one hand. “Yes?” Nicholas asked her.
“I’m sorry, visiting hours are over for today. If you want, I can have a special pass made up for you by tomorrow, since there’s no one else in the room.”
“I’d like a pass for tomorrow, thanks,” Nicholas said, and poked Ryan, who scrambled off his lap and stood.
“No problem,” the nurse told him, scribbling something down on her clipboard and smiling at him, then moving on down the hall to the next room. Nicholas groaned and got up from the chair, stretching out his aching back muscles and wincing as they popped noisily.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “That hurts like a bitch.”
“I’ll give you a massage at the hotel, if you want to share a room with me,” Ryan offered, and Nicholas grinned at him.
“Let me guess…if I take you to Luigi’s when we get back, right?”
“Damn straight.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” Nicholas said, and they both burst out laughing, Nicholas swinging one arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders as they walked out of the room, still chuckling slightly.
Once they were outside, both looking up at the bright, noonday sky—clouded with smog from the city’s factories—with their thin jackets hanging loosely off of their shoulders in the warm autumn breeze, Ryan said, “I was afraid I’d lost you today, you know?” Nicholas looked at him in surprise, and he went on. “I thought that…after what I’d said this morning…and then with what happened with your dad…I thought that you’d decide that it wasn’t worth it.”
“Oh, Ryan—”
“I thought…I thought you wouldn’t love me anymore,” Ryan said, sniffing a bit and shaking his head at Nicholas’ distraught expression. Ryan forced a chuckle and turned away, digging in his pocket for a tissue as he said, “Oh, ignore me. I know I’m being stupid…” he sighed, gave up on both the search for the Kleenex and the cheery attitude, and whispered, “I just thought that when I found somebody, everything would go nice and smooth, and now that I love you, it’s hard and rough and bumpy…and half the time we’re yelling at each other, and it’s just…not what I’d expected,” he finished lamely, looking down at the ground. Suddenly, he felt Nicholas’ arms come around him, and stiffened at the unexpected response.
“Nothing is perfect, Ryan,” Nicholas said, “not even love.” He smiled, and raised the other’s hand to his lips, laying a kiss on the appendage. “But I will always love you,” he told the other, “no matter how imperfect the journey is.”
Ryan smiled.
Fin
