by Claire Davis
“You’re so fucking hot,” Bear breathed and began stroking Oskar’s skin from the top of his legs up over his hips and stomach. All he could do was push forward and up, again and again. Bear’s hands seemed enormous and everywhere as he moved Oskar this way and that. He lifted his arms up above his head and then explored his chest and sides. Oskar panted.
As Bear climbed on top to straddle his thighs, Oskar risked a look down at his naked body and the embarrassing dick, jutting out. He saw his flat stomach and hard nipples, and he saw Bear looking too. He couldn’t tell if it was being naked which was most arousing, or the realisation that he liked being overpowered, and anyway, it didn’t matter.
As Bear reached out to fondle his balls and dick, Oskar arched up and allowed the noises to spill out. From half-closed eyes he watched Bear’s hands manipulate and twist, gently squeezing and alternately stroking. Silly whines and noises were teased from him. There was no way he could be still as what felt like expert hands pulled him nearer and nearer.
“Come on,” Bear said hoarsely, “that’s it.”
Being spoken to like he was a good boy seemed to make Oskar jerk even more. He even reached up to hold onto the wooden headboard for leverage, knowing he was giving Bear more view of his body. Fleetingly, he imagined Bear turning him over to look at his arse and back.
It was different from how Oskar had imagined. He had no control and no time to pout and look gorgeous because he was pushing up into Bear’s hand frantically, body arched tightly like a bow. He heard himself scream and then he was thrusting into strong hands. He came and came for what seemed like ages.
Finally, he collapsed into safe arms, allowing himself to be cleaned and petted. He didn’t wonder if his hair was OK, but he grinned and giggled back at Bear. A few seconds ticked by and no-one spoke—until he woke up from whatever horrible lust-induced state it was.
He shot up off the bed and zipped his jeans up violently. “Get out. Now!” he ordered. His face was burning.
“What?” Bear’s face collapsed into a mixture of horror, sadness and surprise. Oskar told himself it made him feel good. What did Bear expect?
“Go on. I’ve got work to do,” he said frostily, pushing Bear out the door. “And so do you.” Bear tripped and almost fell against the opposite wall. The noise of the door slamming was deafening.
“Oskar.” Bear knocked quietly. “Please let me in? Let’s talk.” His voice shook, and that was the final bloody straw.
Oskar turned up the music so he couldn’t hear if there were any more knocks, because he really didn’t want to see shameful shows of no dignity. He threw himself onto the bed and closed his eyes for the duration of five songs, trying to get a hold of his thoughts and emotions. After a while, he ripped off his jeans and stared in the mirror in his underwear, relieved to see he still looked drop-dead gorgeous. “Crap,” he said mournfully. “What have you done?”
As he decreased the volume, music from down the corridor blasted against his own. It was Pink’s awful modern shit. No-one else in the hostel had the nerve to play anything as loudly. Oskar threw open his door. “Shut the fuck up!” he hollered. “Some of us have work to do.” The music carried on because Pink was a rude cow and everyone was too selfish to shut her up. “Are you listening to me?” he shouted, feeling better with each word.
No answer, so he ran down the corridor and banged her door until she pulled it open. Waves of cheap perfume and cider wafted out. It smelled like Aunty Kath’s flat.
“Hi, Oskar!” she said brightly. He waved his arms up and down meaningfully. It could have been nostalgia, or general upset, he couldn’t tell. Pink giggled. “Where’s the rest of your clothes?”
“Oh god. I’m such a moron.”
“Yeah. But you’re cute.” She kissed his cheek. “What’s the emergency?”
“How do you know there’s an emergency?”
“Oh, you always play those five songs when Planet Earth’s pissing you off, love.” She pointed at Bear’s door. “That’s where you need to be, I expect. That poor bugger you just threw out your room.”
He took a few paces towards Bear’s door. Pink nodded encouragingly. In nothing but grey underwear with green piping, Oskar knocked three times. He could hear Bear moving around. Pink made faces and mimed cutting her throat. He knocked again sharply, before kicking the door. “Bear!” He shouted. Pink shook her head furiously. He tried again. “It’s me.” Pink put her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry.” He said it so quietly it was doubtful even an ant would have heard, let alone Bear.
The door opened. A boy stood there; tall and well built, with muscles to be proud of, should he be, say, a boyfriend. Brown eyes, freckles, and a smile that changed his serious expression to sweet and shy. He was handsome, and sexy, but not like in the songs or on TV. He was all mixed up, and like no-one or nothing Oskar had ever encountered or prepared for.
He stared at Oskar, who crossed his arms and shivered slightly. Oddly, his lip was quivering. “I’m sorry,” he said again. Bear frowned, smiled and then Oskar was back in his arms. In the background, he heard Pink laughing. “I’m a pain in the arse. I’m mental, and horrible. I can’t handle things and—”
“Contrary, yeah.” Bear hugged and hugged and kissed his hair. “Are you OK?”
“No. That’s the trouble. I never planned on having sex with anyone, ever.”
“Well that’s OK. We can stop if you want.” Bear smelled of oranges and lime.
“But I do want to. That’s the issue. See?”
Bear laughed into his neck and then Oskar was laughing too. “So to clarify—and please—stop me if I get this wrong? You never wanted a boyfriend and certainly no sex. No way! But then you get one and you start fooling around. You’re attracted to him, so naturally, you start touching each other. It’s good, right?” Oskar nodded vigorously. “And one day, he jerks you off and you come so hard it hits him in the eye.”
“I did not,” Oskar breathed.
“Yup. Then you have a total meltdown. Freak out! You kick him out the door and play the special songs.” He kissed Oskar’s ear. Tingles went up and down his back. He was out of his depth, big time. “And you realise that, after all, maybe things are OK. Is that it?”
“Yeah, just about.” He stood on tiptoes and whispered, “I have a few issues. To do with my past. But I don’t think they’re terminal. I’m sorry.”
“I understand better than you think. You don’t want to let anyone in and you think you can’t trust anyone. Huh? Each time you think I’m getting close, you back away.”
Oskar nodded. “I can’t tell you why.”
“It doesn’t matter why, does it? I mean, the fallout is the same. I sometimes think, if only people didn’t judge someone on their past, the world would be a better place. To me, you’re just Oskar. I don’t care about the rest, only if you wanna tell me. And this—it’s all new to me too.”
Oskar believed him, at that moment. He kissed back passionately. “Next time, I’m going to jerk you off,” he whispered. Bear groaned. “I’ve never been so horny. Now I think about sex day and night.” It was true. “I was never going to do sex!”
“Is that your stomach rumbling?”
“Yeah. Mental anguish always makes me starving. Shall we go get a burger?”
****
Oskar dressed quickly and ran to meet Bear by the hostel entrance. As he slid his hand into Bear’s, he noticed the stalker. “You see him?”
“Yeah. I dunno.” Bear shrugged. “Maybe we should forget him.” They watched the guy drive off. Just before speeding away, he turned and grinned cheerfully.
Chapter 13: What’s Your Damage?
Gareth
Dear Dad,
Exams started yesterday. Lots of the boys got good-luck cards from their families. John got a Rolex watch. I don’t know why but I keep thinking about my mom. Do you realise it’s five years since I saw her? That’s a lot of days. Is it enough days to have forgotten I exist? I guess it must be. And someth
ing else. Weren’t there some grandparents? I remember a lady, she smelled nice and once she bought me a teddy bear.
I feel very ugly today. Is that why none of you want me around?
I don’t have time for letters today, because of all the revision. I just wrote this to get away from everyone else and their stupid cards.
Love G
P.S. I wrote G instead of Gareth because today I’m not sure I’m still a real person with a proper name and all. At least I still have my lucky compass.
****
Oskar
Oskar bent double behind a car and waited a few minutes. The stalker had been taking pictures from his phone again, this time when Bear took yet more parcels from the postman in the lobby of the nurses’ hostel with the doors wide open.
“Peeping Tom bastard,” Oskar muttered. He wasn’t scheduled to be on watch until later tonight, but the opportunity to follow was too good to miss. He’d been on his way back to the hostel after college when he’d spotted the man, lurking as always.
So far, their efforts to track him down had proved pointless, partly because Pink and Moira admitted to slinking off to the pub instead. Despite this shoddiness, tracking had been a lot of fun—waiting in the dark, kissing, using Bear’s gadgets. One of the parcels had even included infra-red goggles. Snogging while wearing the goggles had caused hysterical laughing, and then more snogging. Oskar giggled at the memory, and texted Pink:
In car park. Following dude. Get Bear. Come sly. O.
Being detective had also given Oskar every chance to wear his many scarves, all in a good cause. He’d arrived at college with a mere five, but the mystery benefactor had supplied ten more—all drop-dead gorgeous. His favourite was electric blue with a print of A-Ha, made of chiffon and light as the wind. At first, it was freaky the bloke knew about his intimate relationship with 80s music, but then Bear had pointed out anyone within a five-mile radius would know from his many musical broadcasts from the hostel. This had led to much discussion about the motives of the stalker, and whether, in fact, he was merely someone who also loved the 80s and only wanted to be around other fanatics.
More and more, Oskar didn’t care who he was, only after waking up when he knew the strangeness of being watched and receiving expensive—and gorgeous—gifts was not something with no significance. It would be cool if the guy turned out to be an 80s pop star, sadly slipped into decline. Later that night, he planned on a Simple Minds fest, loud and fantastic, bound to piss Stella-Artois off.
He stroked the scarf—fluffy grey—and pulled it gently against his neck, thinking.
Bear had a way of holding onto the scarf and pulling it, making Oskar move close. Not at all conducive to spying, yet leading to many hot sessions of street passion utilising available facilities such as street lamps and front gardens. Deftly and without looking down, he texted detailed instructions:
Tell Bear Scarf.
But there was no doubt the stalker was around less and less. If they didn’t catch him soon, he would vanish and they might never discover his identity. Oskar peered through the car window. The man turned away from the hostel, about to leave. “Halleluiah!” And better still, he appeared to be on foot and in a hurry. He rushed away without looking back, clearly not expecting or caring about being followed.
Oskar shot up and began half-heartedly trailing, wanting to get back to the hostel, Bear and Simple Minds. The sooner the stalker arrived at his house, the sooner they could all bugger off and go about their lives. Fortunately, he was wearing his least clacky sounding boots so was able to hurry along and easily keep up as the man wove his way through several streets and an alleyway. The boots weren’t built for hundred-mile trekking, but sacrifices had to be made, and at the back of his mind he knew Bear would be very impressed indeed at this progress. He puffed and carried on, hoping to avoid stitch. There were a few dodgy moments in a big, deserted park where, in theory, he could be murdered.
But no-one in their right mind would want to damage his coat or the fabulous rubber-soled platform shoes—red—which forced his arse to wiggle when walking, so he was probably safe. As predicted, the stalker exited the park without looking back. Oskar bolted through and then recognised the street as the most expensive in North Wales. He’d overheard the postman telling Moira that if he won the lottery, he’d choose one of the grand mansions there. He texted urgently:
Bear! The Crescent!
The houses were big and stylish. “If he’s a millionaire, he can adopt me,” Oskar panted, thinking the chances of confronting anyone that rich were reducing with every leap of his platform heels. Who was he to thwart a millionaire’s desires to bestow gifts on the poor and needy?
The man turned up a driveway lined with trees and disappeared into a Victorian place—clearly the biggest house in the whole street. “Oh my god!” It was dark and hidden by trees but probably belonged to the guy because he’d opened the door and gone straight in, rather than knocking.
Oskar dithered a while, unsure whether to wait for Bear or barge up the drive and bang on the door. Once confronted, it could be the end of presents in the post and feeling like a king.
“Where are you, Simon, when I need help?” he whispered. “What shall I do?”
The Simon he craved for a dad would give advice such as, “Take the gifts, son, for they are what you would have got if the world was fair. You were born to be adored.” While this was true, life threw no free lunches. Everything had a price. He texted Bear for advice:
Number 10.
To his horror, the phone began ringing loudly. The Boy George song blasted, and gone was his quiet disguise. Oskar sped down the street and didn’t stop until he turned the corner.
“I’m coming back,” he gasped into the phone. “I know where he lives.”
Chapter 14: You’re in the Mix
Gareth
Dear Dad,
I still wonder how you are, and where you are. I think about what you eat and if you’ve put any weight on. I, my hands and heart, worry about Bubble. Every night before I go to sleep, I say goodnight to you. Do you hear me? John insists I have to move on now, same as he does. He thinks families are heavy anchors that only repress and kill. One time, he read me this poem by Philip Larkin about parents. It was kind of cool, but sad. Sometimes I think maybe his issues with his dad are more about him than his father.
I have a few things to tell, but if you ever get this then I guess you’ll know I’m no longer at school from the postal code; also because they won’t be billing you anymore. Yeah, my exams went OK, thank you for asking. I really appreciated that bottle of champagne, hah-hah, as if. Some of the boys got presents to celebrate—one even got a new car—I guess for some people, finishing school and exams is a big thing. Not for you, huh?
The night of my last exam, at midnight, John and I crept to the school office where all the files are kept and broke in. I have no idea how he knows to pick a lock, but anyway, we did. I was shitting myself, thinking, if they catch us they’ll maybe call the police, though John says they’d never do that because of the fuss.
We didn’t turn on the lights, but I shone John’s phone up so we could see well enough to open up the filing cabinets. Each kid actually has a file with information about parents, that type of thing. Seems amazing it’s still on paper copies but there you go. It was easy to find mine. John took out a few sheets he said was only details such as date of birth but I got to read the rest.
There was a log of all the interaction between you and them, dating right back to when I first came here way over a year ago now. Yeah, it’s been that long, Dad. I tried not to cry because John was there shining his phone for me to read, but still I did. It wasn’t really anything specific, just evidence that you did once exist and cared enough to tell them that I’d need antihistamines for hay fever. You even told them I like cats! That kind of stuff. And then it was mostly a series of payments from you to them, mixed in with school trying to reach you because turns out they were worried about me
.
I wish I’d known they were worried, or that anyone was worried! Back around Christmastime, I was so fucking low I read up on ways to commit suicide and stuff like that. Anyway, you never answered school’s calls, and the last record in the log is of some bloody agent I never heard of instructing school to carry on and that you wouldn’t be calling due to ‘work pressures’. After that, it’s just a line of payments. Is that all I am to you?
So there it is. All the evidence anyone could need to prove that you, categorically, do not give a shit about me anymore. John says you have completed your statutory obligations by providing me with bed and board until the age of eighteen but now it’s up to me to look after myself. Maybe I’m wrong, but I got the impression he was glad the file provided no real answers such as you were kidnapped by a gang or something. He didn’t even say he was sorry or anything like that. I had a few paranoid thoughts that maybe those sheets he hid from me were important but he said not.
He read his own file too, a load of stuff about his family that he didn’t know. He got mad, but I just kept crying.
The next day, we left school without anyone knowing. We didn’t bother staying for the leaving ball, and to be honest, I’m really glad about that because what the fuck would I wear? Huh?
If John’s family find out where he is, he says they will come find him and make him do that course he doesn’t want to do, and get his hair cut, and all the stuff he hates. It sounds kind of lame to me, because he is almost eighteen. But like he says, what do I know about families?
We’re in Lincoln but I won’t give the address just in case you:
Come out of the coma.
Get a conscience.
Grow up.
Call John’s family.
John says the place is a tip, but I kinda like it here after school and timetables, and always standing out. Here, no-one gives a damn. The work is very hard physically. At the end of the day I’m so tired I fall asleep the instant my head hits the floor. John is struggling doing the work more than me. I admit to doing half his, as well as my own. John’s bunk is above mine, which is kind of a nice thought.
