Disclaimer – All characters within belong exclusively to GhostHelwig and darthelwig. Steal anything and she'll spank you. I say this a lot but it's still true – you don't even want to know what I'll do to you.
And this story belongs entirely to me, having come only from my warped little brain.
Rated PG-13 for some foul language, some violence, and (Spoiler!!) death.
He didn't wanna fight, y'see. That was always the thing. He never wanted to fight.
But I had to. The guy'd been hitting on him all night, and my lover took it and ignored it, but I couldn't. So when I got the chance, I hit the guy. Broke his nose.
When I smiled over at my boyfriend, he looked pale, wide-eyed, sick - heartbroken.
I took him home. He wouldn't speak, but he coughed up bright red blood for an hour. And for the first time in our life together he refused to touch me, or let me comfort him. He silently scoffed at the idea of a doctor, and fell into a sodden sleep as soon as the blood coughs stopped. I spent all night awake, swathed in blankets but feeling cold.
The next morning, he kept staring at me as I ate breakfast. When I was done (he didn't eat; truthfully, he rarely did), he finally spoke.
"Don't ever do that again."
Goaded by his long silence and the closest thing to a command he had ever given me, I blurted, "why the hell not?"
"Because if you do, I'll have to go."
His tone was so serious, I couldn't mistake the words for a threat. They sounded instead like a statement of fact. I believed them.
I'd love to be able to state right here that I never raised a hand to anyone again. I'd love to say that I obeyed my lover's only ever request to me. I'd love to.
But I can't.
It's not the truth. And my love - he gave me a deep, abiding desire to only deal in truth.
I did hit someone. Another guy who hit on my boyfriend. They did that a lot, guys did. Girls, too. Only recently had I begun losing my temper with them. The longer I was with the love of my life, the less and less I could handle other people wanting him too.
'Seven year itch?' How 'bout 'seven year twitch?'
Sounds stupid, but I mean it. I'd twitch and spasm with the need to hit the person who came on to him. I gave possessive a whole new meaning.
And he just stood by and watched it happen.
I'd never hit anyone before that one night. And for awhile I learned my lesson. I didn't do it again for another two years.
I wish I'd never done it at all.
We were at a mom-and-pop type of grocery store a block from our house. The fluorescent lights turned his golden hair pale, made his ice blue eyes lighter still. He looked like a very beautiful ghost.
People stared. They usually did. I used to glory in that, to flaunt it, to flaunt him. That day, though, I seethed with inner rage.
He was mine to gawk at. Only mine.
A man walked over to him, his face awed and incredulous. "You're beautiful," he said in a strangely distant voice. My boyfriend's lips quivered into a slight smile.
I can't remember what I said, or what the man said, or what finally made me lose it. All I really remember is my clenched fist connecting with his stubbled cheek, the scrape of his rough hair against my skin, the feel of his flesh bending under my knuckles, his blood splattering on me. He collapsed.
And in the stunned silence, I heard my lover cry.
I turned to see him kneeling behind me, his hands clasped over his heart, his hair sparkling with the light of a million diamonds. Perhaps the sparkle is why I didn't immediately notice the blood.
It dripped between my lover's fingers, drenching the knees of his jeans. I fell by his side, my lungs choking with fear, my head spinning with confusion.
Had he been shot? Stabbed? But how? No one else was near us; only the man I'd hit had been in our aisle, and he couldn't have done anything. Even then, he was bent over himself, clutching his bleeding face.
And it was late. The rest of the store was quiet, cold. Empty save for a bored clerk or two.
I reached out to pull my lover's hands away from his chest, to see how he was injured, but when I did I had to tell myself that there was too much blood to see anything clearly, because it almost looked like he bled through his pores.
I lowered my love backwards, laid him flat on the floor, my arm beneath his pale head. His hands returned to his chest. He made a soft sound, little more than a whimper, but that freed my own voice.
"Call a doctor!" I screamed as loud as I could. "Please! Someone! A doctor!"
"It's... too late..." My lover whispered, his voice soft, a gentle rasp. "It's already broken."
"What?" I blurted. "What's broken?"
He reached to cup my cheek with one slender, bloody hand, his eyes bloodshot but still vividly blue and full of love. He told me he loved me in the most beautiful voice possible, and I leaned to brush his lips with mine.
"I love you, too," I sobbed, my chest clenched in pain. "So don't leave me. Please."
"I have to go," he murmured, dark crimson blood pooling on the floor beside him. "I'm sorry."
"Because it's broken."
"What?" I cried. "What's broken?!"
And he died.
I miss him. Always, I miss him.
Even right now, when these rednecks are beating me for being a fag, I miss him. I'm thinking of him all the time.
I want to tell him - "I'm not hitting them, love. I can feel my own death coming, but I'm not hitting them."
I hope I'll get to see my lover again when they're done.
I wonder if he'll be proud of me.