Here’s the deal, I’ve wanted to write this story for a very long time. There are references to Numerology and Wicca. If this offends you, either because you are fore or against, then just don’t read it. Please don’t flame me for being inaccurate or insensitive or a heathen. -.- This is honestly not meant to offend anyone.

Chapter 1

Marcus Puck McGuire liked to think of his house as mostly empty. After all, he was in it. In fact, he liked to think of just about everything in “mostlys.” The world was made of angles, degrees, percentages. His parents were home 56 percent of the time (some of that asleep), so they were mostly there. His GPA was 3.6 out of 4, so he was mostly a good student. Only 1/3 of his house’s occupants were home, so it wasmostly empty. He had not decided, however, if he was mostly full or mostly empty.

The house seemed even emptier because each room could hold probably about 30 people. A few years ago he had searched for the blue prints, or something, to find out exactly how many people could fit into the cavernous living room without code violations, or knocking the flat screen TV of the wall. He hadn’t been able to find anything official, but had spent the week his parents were in New York putting little pieces of tape on the hardwood floor at comfortable intervals, seeing how many Marcuses he could fit. He learned then that, when he was in the living room at least, it was mostly empty, 1/37. He had not counted the space that the coffee table, large leather couch, or the two over-sized chairs on either side of these, took up. Neither had he ventured into the open kitchen just beyond the living room, but that would have easily added 20 people.

Marcus loved the kitchen most of all, probably even more than his own room. When he was younger he would pretend he was some kind of warlock (not a wizard, wizards and warlocks were two different things) and concoct all sorts of potions. A few months later he discovered that there were actually people like that in the world, not just in books, and learned that the proper term for both witch and warlock was “Wicca.” Then he read one of their “manuals” and discovered it was bull shit. Though he lost a dream, it did give him a new word: Numerology. This inevitably led him to think of math as a sort of a holy art, or more accurately, a saving grace. When everything failed him, his parents, his school, even himself, mathematics did not. Sure he didn’t understand everything right now, but every time he learned something new it was like enlightenment.

If he were being perfectly honest with himself about numerology (which was a surprising amount of time, considering his considerable amount of denial when it came to just about everything else), he would have to admit that he did still get that shot of electric happiness when his math homework had a significant amount of twos (his lucky number) in it, and that his memorizations of each number’s meaning and correlation with other numbers had not completely faded. Actually, and he had thoroughly admitted this to himself, the few times his math teacher had made up all the problems for their worksheet packets, he learned more about her doing the homework than any of the so-called teacher’s pets probably could in six months of chatting after class. He’d also learned a few things about his class mates, purely theoretically of course, when they would put to the teacher their own “what if” problems. Marcus viewed these what-ifs as fears and expectations, and thus translated them as such. He did not trust these predictions, except when they proved themselves to be true.

Marcus would sometimes look at his curly brown-black hair in his bathroom mirror and long to count every strand. He was sure, if he ever could, that the number would be something magical; the numerological solution to all his problems. But what problems were these? What could he possibly lack? Marcus had what most 17-year-olds only dreamed of. He was rich, his parents were rarely home, taking duel-credit courses at the local college, and he was almost (mostly) guaranteed to get into any university he applied to. But every morning as he tried to gel down the half-curls that plagued his short hair, in the back of his mind he would speculate about the secret number.

In his dreams, however, Marcus let his hair run wild. It was curly and free, the wind whipping through it as he lay in a field of mostly translucent pink daisies. He would stare up at the mostly translucent tree above him, and sigh happily, counting the leaves. Every night, it was the same dream, but tonight was different. Tonight someone was with him. He had short, blonde hair, and had a sturdy build, wide and muscled and tall. His face looked young and friendly, or he thought it must; he couldn’t really see it very well from this angle. The bigger man was kissing Marcus’ neck, and he reveled in it, gripping at the blonde hair and groaning at the feel. They were both naked.

Marcus woke up the next morning breathing heavily, and with the first erection he’d had for almost two weeks. He’d lay in his bed, waiting for his breathing to slow, arm slung over his eyes. He counted to one hundred. Then he counted in prime numbers to about one thousand. Then he tried to remember as many digits of pie as he could. It just wouldn’t go away!

It wasn’t that Marcus didn’t like the feeling of being hard or the explosion of pleasure when he finally gave in and let himself jack off. The thing that really made the whole thing feel wrong was what happened during these burst of delight: his mind went blank. It was very unsettling to a person whose thoughts were perpetually occupied. Sometimes he would even try to masturbate when he wasn’t in the mood because the orgasm wouldn’t be as intense as when he was genuinely horny, but would still feel good. But Marcus knew that he had to do it, had to touch himself, had to come soon, because this was the day his cousin was supposed to come over.

Ryan McGuire was 20, tall and muscular but in a basketball, not a football, way. This was probably because he was captain of the basketball team at his college (the same community college Marcus went to), and had also been in high school. He had red hair, and easy smile, and would notice a woody immediately and never let Marcus live it down. Ryan was supposed to come by every Wednesday and Saturday to check up on his little cousin, make sure that the list of chores his parents had emailed was (mostly) finished, and that he hadn’t been kidnapped, or burned down the house.

Marcus looked at his clock. It read 08:08:28. He wondered at the significance of this. It was realistic to imagine that it had been approximately 20 seconds from the time he woke up until he looked at the clock. The number 8 was commonly considered to be symbol of infinity. Weird.

He slipped his hand under the elastic of his pajama bottoms and took hold of his cock. He sighed at the pleasant warmth and tingles at the contact and began to rub himself languidly. Up and down, he stroked faster, hoping that he wouldn’t come too hard, although definitely wanting to cum. Faster and faster he stroked, his other hand yanking his pajama pants down so that he could gently probe his entrance. He never actually put a finger inside himself (he was essentially a little afraid to try); instead he pressed his fingers against the very outside, pushing and rubbing at the tight little hole, but never venturing further.

As he felt himself come closer, the images of the dream swept over him. The gorgeous blonde man, holding him, touching him, humping against him (they hadn’t actually had sex in the dream; it was mostly just intense making out…naked). He could feel the other boy’s thick cock against his thigh, and the memory made him press harder against his entrance, and stroke his cock faster.

“Ah-ah-ah! Caleb!” Marcus cried as he came, spurting thick cum all over his pajama top, and just a little on his sheets.

Marcus stripped down, thinking frantically as he headed to the bathroom for a shower. Who was Caleb? He didn’t even know a Caleb, let alone a

brawny blonde one. How he had somehow come to calling his dream guy (literally) by that name was a complete mystery.

He scrubbed his body furiously, as if trying to wash away the uneasiness othe name had brought him. As he stepped out of the shower and towel dried his hair, he was done freaking out about it. By the time he had his clothes on, he had decided it was just his subconscious creating a fictional guy to fantasize about. And when the doorbell rang he had forgotten about it enough to wonder why Ryan was ringing the doorbell when he had his own key.

“I lost my key.” Ryan announced as soon as the door was open, effectively answering his question “And the yard needs raking”

“The leaves need raking, you mean,” Marcus corrected.

“Sure.” Ryan grinned and made a b-line for the kitchen, “Feel like one of my famous kielbasa and potato omelets?”

“Only if there are green peppers in them too.” Marcus smiled gently to himself and went to the cupboard in search of potatoes while Ryan raided the fridge for everything else.

When the two of them had sat down at the bar in the kitchen, Marcus began the bi-weekly briefing.

“I got an 89 on that government paper.”

“Aw, crap.” Ryan replied emphatically, “only a point away from an A!”

“Yeah, but I’m going to go talk to my teacher and see if I can’t argue a point back on.” Marcus explained, taking a bite of the yumminess he and his cousin had prepared (yes, I know ‘yumminess’ is not actually a word, but it should be).

“I dunno, most professors would just bump you up anyways if it was that close.” Ryan gestured knowingly with a triangle of toast “the fact that he didn’t kind of says something.”

Marcus shrugged and took another bite.

“Any girlfriends?” Ryan asked cheekily, then added “…or boyfriends?”

Marcus’ mind went immediately back to that dream. The intimacy had been one of two people in love, not just lust. The very fact that it hadn’t been sex, but touching and rubbing, kisses and coos, had been proof enough of that. He only wished Caleb were real.

“So it’s unrequited, then.” His cousin concluded.

“Wha-What?” Marcus snapped back to the present.

“Rake the leaves.” Ryan said seriously, dropping his plate into the sink and running a little water over it.

His cousin stayed only long enough to watch Marcus take the rake out of the shed before he jumped back into his rickety old jeep and headed off to work. Marcus sometimes wished he could have a job. Not for pocket money or some semblance of freedom, he had more than enough of both of those. He just sort of wanted to be somewhere. Anywhere. He was bored. He imagined being a cashier would be amusing, if only for counting’s sake.

Marcus tossed a large, still folded, black trash bag on the sidewalk and marched into the center of the right side of the yard. The front yard was split into two parts by the side walk, with most of it on the right side. The grass was kept neatly trimmed, sometimes by Marcus himself, but usually he would save some money and hire one of the dozens of lawn care people who left cards. He almost always did the leaves and twigs himself though, since some people charged ridiculously extra for it. There were two large trees on either side which were the cause of this mess of foliage.

He brought the rake to one corner of the lawn and pulled it back again to the center. He always piled the leaves in the center. It might have been something about being picturesque, or just not wanting to get leaves off the lawn and onto the sidewalk. Whatever the reason, he diligently raked up all the leaves up on the right side of the lawn, and was beginning to stuff them into the plastic bag when movement down the street caught his eyes.

The block Marcus lived on was not what would be called very active. There were no single story houses, they were all at least two stories and left the distinct impression on the viewer that there were a couple HD plasma televisions inside. The lawns were all very well manicured, so carefully regulated as to not be tarnished by children playing on them (at least in the front). People who lived in this neighborhood did not take walks after 10 in the morning, and not without a dog, a stroller, or an ipod. That is why the movement of a fellow teenager moseying up the sidewalk toward him was enough to halt his progress in leaf bagging.

The teen, tall and blonde, stopped in his tracks two houses down when he noticed Marcus staring at him. They met eyes, and Marcus felt as though something should be making sense to him that wasn’t. The boy seemed familiar, or like he should be familiar, but Marcus wasn’t wearing his glasses (he rarely did. his near sidedness wasn’t very bad).

“Marcus?” the boy began towards him, coming closer into view, “Marcus? Is that really you? I can’t believe it!”

He was taller than Marcus, with short blonde hair and bright, happy blue eyes. He had a friendly, young face, of about 18 or 19, and his build was large, not with fat, but with muscle. He looked like an athlete, football, probably. Marcus just stared.

“Marcus, it’s me!” the young man cried enthusiastically, “It’s Caleb!”

Marcus’ last thought was that he was glad he was standing next to a pile of nice, soft leaves, before everything went black.

Muahahahaha! I think this qualifies as a cliffie!

My goal is ten reviews before I update…I’ll probably update anyhow, but ten reviews will mean faster!!

Love and huggles

renrunoren