Adult-FanFiction.org : Movies

That Stupid Fear of Thunder	By : Nightspore Category: 1 through F > Back To The Future Views: 8949 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Back to the Future series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
3) SAME MAN I
WAS BEFORE

I'm
not the same boy I was before
But
I've not changed my desires
I've
not extinguished the fires
I
haven't lost wide-eyed wonder
I
haven't lost, haven't lost, haven't lost -
That
stupid fear of thunder.

"Come up here, George. I
want to talk to you."
"No, thank you," he
replied with chill politeness. "I'm fine on the floor."
The house wasn't
air-conditioned, and the bedroom window was open, the small fan running. The
rattle of metal fan blades, the hum of the electric motor and the rain drumming
outside almost drowned out his thin, adenoidal voice. Marty hung his head over
the side of the bed.
He didn't look fine. His room
was fairly small, and he was wedged into the narrow space between the bed and
the wall. He lay facing away, his nose touching the wall, the picture of
stubbornness.
"Come on up," Marty
insisted. "I'm not gonna do anything. You know, I'm not mad at you. I was
trying to tell you before. When you, ah . . . you just kinda caught me by
surprise. That's all. I didn't want to really hurt you."
George's shoulders hunched, but
he didn't answer.
"We're still friends,
right, George?" Marty reached down and gently punched him in the shoulder.
"C'mon, you know we are. I'm still gonna help you with Lorraine tomorrow
night."
The other boy let out a faint,
derisive snort, echoing his father.
"George," he askedegineginning to worry. "You were, ah, you were pretty convincing. Beating me
up. You had me fooled. Hah-hah . . . uh, George? Lorraine's gonna be impressed.
Right? Think so? George?"
"I'm not going to the
dance."
"What? Why not?"
He flung his arm up in a wild
gesture, smacking Marty's hand away, and whispered fiercely. "Stop teasing
me! Just leave me alone, okay?"
"I'm not teasing. What's
your malfunction, huh?" He tugged at the other boy's collar, and George
responded by rolling over and burying his face in his pillow.
"I'm serious, man. If you don't come up here so I can hear
you, I'm gonna come down there, and I don't think there's enough room for both
of us."
"All right, all right
already," George said. He stood up and glared down at him. As warm as it
was, he was almost as fully dressed as he would be during the day, in long
sleeved cotton pajamas. He was even wearing socks. His mother had offered to
let Marty borrow a pair of George's pajamas, but the cuffs overhung by a good
three inches, so he went to bed in his briefs and t-shirt as usual.
He patted the bed and George sat
down stiffly, resolutely turning his head away.
Before he could think of a way
to start, the air was split by a crash of thunder. Both boys jumped. But as the
sound died away, Marty could feel the mattress shaking. George was still
shivering. In the flickering glare of lightning, he saw the sickened, drawn
look on his pale face.
"Are you afraid of the
thunder," he asked quietly.
He hung his head, hugging his
knees to his chest. "Pretty stupid, huh?"
"No, not really. I used to
be scared of thunder when I was a little kid."
"When you were a little
kid," he echoed, emphasizing the little
kid. In dead, flat tones, he continued, "I know it's just a loud
noise. I know that. I'm too old to be
scared. I'm just an idiot. A big wuss. A pansy. A chicken."
"No, no. Come on, grow up,
George. You need to, you know. Get over it. Be a man . . . "
:1'> Marty hesitated.
He remembered when he was a
child . . . being scared of thunder. Being scared and upset by a lot of things.
Mom wasn't very good at making him feel better. She would tell him to get over
it, to grow up. All three kids knew if they wanted to be comforted, they had to
turn to George. Always to George.
When Marty was ten he tore up
his knees falling off his skateboard. The cuts needed stitches. Every day
George would change the dressings and swab the wounds with disinfectant while
he instructed Marty gulp to down ice cream. When he was seven and sent home
from school for getting into a fight that had been started by kids in his class
who teased him because of his height, George listened to his tearful, angry
recounting of the fight then started to tickle him. Marty had smacked his hand
away. But George was still bigger and stronger than him. He held him down and
dug his bony fingers into the boy's ribs until he was laughing helplessly.
"See, you can't be happy
and sad at the same time. It's impossible. They're opposite poles," his
father had said, swinging his arm like a compass needle to illustrate. "It
has to be one or the other."
And when he was four, awakened
by a thunderstorm, Marty had gone into his parent's bedroom and hovered there,
too afraid to sleep alone, too afraid to bother them. But George did wake up,
and led him back to his own room. He sat in Marty's bed and pulled the boy into
his lap, wrapping his long arms around him snugly. Resting his sharp chin on
the child's bed-touseled head so each warm breath ruffled his hair, George
rocked him. Every time the thunder growled, he would hug him tighter,
whispering something silly and comforting.
"Listen, the giants are
bowling," he would say, the vibrations of his voice sending shivery
feelings down Marty's spine. "It's a big, friendly dinosaur roaring. Oh
no, someone knocked over a bunch of blocks . . . "
Eventually, the soothing
combination of his quaking, breathy voice and the steady motion lulled Marty
back to near-sleep. Even after he carefully unwound himself from the little
boy, tucked the quilt back around him and went back to his own room, Marty imagined
he could still feel his father's warm embrace sheltering him from the terrors
of the night.
As he got older, though, Marty
became resentful of George's attempts to deflect bad feelings with jokes and
displacement. It seemed shallow, a cop-out. It embarrassed him to see his
father knuckling under to people like Biff. Whenever Mom began to nag him,
George would shut himself off from the rest of the family, focusing on some
inane tv show and forcing out hideously fake, mirthless laughter just to avoid
becoming involved in an argument.
It scared him to see his father like that. Dads were supposed to
be strong so they could protect you. But George wasn't strong. He was
submissive, retiring, quiet. The man who'd protected him from the thunder was
gone.
Just get angry, Dad, Marty would yell when watching his father
cowering became too painful. Fight back!
It didn't work any better then than it was working now, and it didn't work
better when he did it than when his grandfather did at the dinner table
tonight. The more he tried to persuade and force George to be aggressive, the
more he retreated because he knew the truth as well as Marty did - that just
wasn't him. If it hadn't been for his other Granddad hitting George with the
car and putting him helplessly in his mother's control, they would never even
have met, much less gotten married. It was a freak accident of the freakiest
kind.
And now it looked like things
were going to continue as they would have if that accident never occurred.
Lorraine would date and marry someone else, and have other kids. He was sure of
that. But George, he had no idea what would happen to him
Whatever happened, it meant that
Marty was done for.
He wanted this whole insane mess
to be over with. He was afraid he would die . . . he didn't know if he believed
in heaven, but he believed in something,
and if you never even existed, you couldn't even be a soul, or a ghost. He
would be nothing. Marty was staring
into an abyss of oblivion, and he began shaking, too. All he really wanted now
was for his Daddy to hold him again and make the terror and pain go away.
He reached out and hugged
George, letting his head fall on the other boy's shoulder.
"What are you doing,"
George asked.
Marty began to rock him, just
the slightest shifting of weight back and forth. George didn't stop shivering,
but he didn't resist either.
The thunder blasted again,
rattling the window glass. George tried to jerk away but Marty just squeezed
him tighter, getting as much solace as he was giving. In the dark, the other
boy was enough like Daddy - the hard angularity of bone, the knobby shoulders,
even the faint scent of Vitalis in his hair - that it worked. Gradually, he
felt his calm returning. George still looked miserable, but Marty could think
clearly now.
"We'll be okay," he
whispered. "We'll get through this. Thunderstorms always end, and I'm not
going anywhere."
"Okay, yeah," George
said, hushed.
"And tomorrow we'll go to
the dance and do our little act, just like we planned."
It was the wrong thing to say.
Marty felt him knot up, pulling away from him again. He was losing him.
"I dunno, Marty, I still
don't think - "
He silenced George with a kiss.
It was an act of sheerest
desperation. He didn't want to kiss George - another boy, his father! - but he
wasn't going to listen to reason. George was smart and incredibly stubborn and
Marty knew he just wasn't up to beating the boy in an argument.
At first, it was like kissing a
corpse.
His jaw hung slackly open as
Marty pressed his lips down, running his tongue over his teeth, trying to do
anything to evoke a response. George's lips were stiff and unmoving, his tongue
laying limp as a dishrag. Just as he was starting to wonder if the earlier kiss
was some kind of hallucination on his part, George suddenly came to life.
He sucked Marty's tongue into
his mouth, curling his own around his son's, and lay back, pulling him down
onto all fours above him. George tentatively reached up and touched his face,
his fingers arched delicately on either side of Marty's cheeks.
Marty pushed his tongue out and
broke the kiss, smiling down at him. He licked his lips. He hadn't brushed his
teeth before bed, and his mouth was warm and still salty from the popcorn.
"See, George? I don't kiss losers. See, you're not so bad . . . you're not
bad at all."
George looked even younger than
before, astonished and needy. The other boy stroked his neck, fearfully, as if
afraid Marty would dissolve away under his fingertips. The ghost-light,
tentative touch made Marty's hackles rise, and encouraged, he bent down,
letting his nose bump into George's.
He couldn't resist a chaste
little kiss on the cheek, adding, "You're really good, you're great. And
tomorrow - "
George caught his mouth halfway
through the sentence.
He threw his arms around Marty
and wrestled him down, his mouth working hungrily over his son's. Marty
couldn't break out of the suddenly heated hug.
George might have slept in his
socks, but it was abundantly obvious through the thin cotton of his pajama
trousers that he was not wearing underwear.
And that he was enjoying this .
. .
This was more than Marty had
bargained for. He only wanted to assure George he wasn't totally unlovable.
This was asking too much. He squirmed, trying to break free of his father's
embrace, but all he succeeded in doing was rubbing himself against George's erection.
It wasn't helping.
"George, hey," he
whispered, beginning to panic. "C'mon, let me up, you're - "
Awareness suddenly sparked in
his pale, wild eyes. "Oh, god,"
he swore in horror. He shoved Marty away so hard he almost sent himself
tumbling off the bed. He rolled over onto his side and curled up, shivering.
Marty sat there catching his
breath. His mouth still tingled in the aftermath of those sloppy, chewing
kisses.
"I'm so sorry," George
gasped. "I didn't know."
"Wha . . . what?" It
was hard for Marty to think, somehow, harder to speak. He peered over George.
The other boy's hands hovered in over his groin, trying to shield it from
Marty's view but afraid to touch.
"I'm sorry, I'm bad,"
he quavered in an eerie, little-boy voice. He started to apologize again, but
his words were choked off by a shamed sob. "I don't want to be bad."
"No, no, you're not bad.
You mean you never . . . you know . . . did it? To yourself?"
"Never," he said,
still in that frightened, childlike tone.
"Jeez, wow." Marty
sighed. George was more repressed than he'd thought. And now he was all scared
and hating himself again. Clearly, he would have to take things into his own
hands. He lay down behind him, molding his own body to George's, and reached
over the boy's hip. There had to be something else in there. He'd gotten a
glimpse of it when George went nuts and nearly beat him up, and another peek
just now. He was almost there. If he kept going, he was sure he'd find the man
inside the kittenish, frightened boy.
"Don't be afraid, George.
You can't control it."
He gripped George's wrist and
guided his unresisting hand down into his pajama trousers.
"It's natural. Like the
thunder. It's not bad. It's just part
of being an adult . . . see, like this . . . "
He moved George's hand up and
down, a rhythmic stroking motion. George wriggled, trying to pull away,
splaying his fingers out to avoid touching himself. "No, no, no . . . let
me go, I don't want to!"
Marty responded by throwing his
leg over him, pinning him down. "Cut it out, George," he snarled. "You're going to do this."
He shifted his grip, his hand
covering George's, clamping down over his fingers, forcing them to curl around
his cock.
George let out a whistling,
clenched-tooth whine. "Don't touch me! Let me up! I'm gonna yell for
mom!"
"No, you're not. You know
why?"
Gullible as ever, he opened his
eyes and twisted his head around. "I'm not? Why?"
Marty fastened his mouth to the
boy's and rammed his tongue into his mouth.
Not letting go of George, he
crawled over them so they lay face to face, their mouths locked together as if
their spit were super glue. Now they lay face to face, hot, wet tongues
dueling, and he moved George's hand faster, pressing down harder. He'd never
had to do anything like this . . . but he couldn't believe George never had.
He couldn't avoid touching
George's skin. Their fingers were interwoven, and he felt the delicate, crinkly
skin shifting and sliding over the core of his cock, the heat from his body
making Marty's palms sweat, the wispy hair on his testicles brushing his
knuckles with every stroke. He curled his hand tighter, and he could feel the
blood throbbing under his fingertips, filled by the birdfast flutter of
George's heart.
He pulled out of the kiss and
tilted his head back. A long ribbon of spit stretched between them. George's
face was drained of color except for two bright pink patches on his cheeks,
like the painted rogue of a ceramic doll. His eyes had come unfocused and his
mouth hung open. He looked like he'd been pithed. Another blast of thunder shook the house, and the model airplane
fell off his nightstand, along with an avalanche of slick magazines. The covers
were colorful, a UFO firing a red laser beam at a dinosaur, a hundred-foot tall
robot tangled in a suspension bridge, a wild-eyed werewolf clutching a blonde
in a red dress with equal parts hunger and desire. George shivered and tugged
the hem of his pajama top down to cover himself. Even in the dim light Marty
could see his cheeks darkened with a blush. He leaned over to scoop gather the
magazines back up, muttering, "I'm sorry, Marty. I'm gonna lay back down.
Let's just go to sleep, okay?"
Thunder exploded like a mortar
round. He cringed and covered his face. Marty
hugged him, pulling the other boy close until they were practically in each
other's laps. Not caring that George's pajama trousers were scrunched down by
his knees.
George groaned in terror and Marty began to stroke his back,
whispering, "It's okay, it's okay."
He could feel George, even
through the thick cotton of his briefs, the boy rubbing up against the
sensitive skin of his inner thigh, his erection thrust between Marty's leg and
his own bulge. He was still shaking and whining, apparently unaware of what he
was doing. He held Marty so tight he could barely breathe.
The lightning flickered,
announcing another command performance by the thunder and George tensed again
in anticipation. Marty, determined to cut it off before George totally freaked
out, put his hands down on the other boy. He patted it like it was a timid
little animal he didn't want to frighten, curled his hand around his cock. An
oily droplet of precome oozed from the tip and his palm smeared it down the
length.
It worked, and much better than
the kiss. George didn't even appear to hear the thunder this time. He had
collapsed against Marty, leaning his entire weight on the smaller boy, and
making soft, wordless sounds deep in his throat.
He forced himself to sneak a
look down at what he was doing.
He'd never really seen another
guy, not like this. Sure, there were quick, sidelong glimpses in the locker
room at school. A couple of pictures in dirty magazines he found in Linda's
room. Those guys were scary. They were huge and hairy and seemed very sure of
themselves.
Then there was one time he'd
walked in on George in the shower when he was seven years old. He'd had to go
and hide in his room for a while after that. Not because he was in trouble. His
father had been shampooing his hair, eyes closed, not even aware the boy was
there. No . . . it was because it made him feel weird and he didn't want to be
around anyone until the weird feeling went away.
Now the weird feeling was back,
and he knew what it was this time.
No matter how meek and silly he
acted, George was definitely not a child. Even fully hard he'd barely blushed
more than a delicate shade of pink in sharp contrast to his hair, his cock was
as long and slender as the rest of him, the tracery of veins standing out in
pale purple, the dark hair soft and fine as a baby's, not coarse at all. He
wondered how he looked to George, who had even less experience than himself.
The sounds he was making
sharpened, broke into words, "Why, Marty," he gasped, begging.
"Why?"
"I like you . . . "
The storm was directly overhead.
Thunder and lightning came so fast there was no separation between the two.
Each roar threatened to shake the house apart.
Neither boy had any idea what to
do, really. They were a writhing bedlam of groping arms, greedy mouths panting
with need, unsure what they wanted but needing to do something. George fastened
his mouth on Marty's nipple, soaking the
cloth of his t-shirt with his saliva, working the flesh between his teeth until
it was hard as an eraser nub. He responded by hooking his fingers into George's
pajama top and ripping it open. His hands groped over George's lean torso,
feeling the amazing contrast of soft flesh pulsing and stretching over angular
bone.
George slid his own cool hands
across Marty's sweaty skin, pushing his t-shirt up under his arms, trailing his
tongue down the center of his belly, down further. He slipped his fingers under
the elastic waistband of Marty's briefs.
He hadn't realized how tightly
he was packed in there til George peeled down the damp, tightly stretched
cotton, exposing him, and the cooling swe swept over his throbbing erection.
Then, to his complete surprise,
George put his mouth down there . . . Marty threw his head back and was just in
time to choke back his yell of surprise. That felt incredible, better than
anything Jenn had ever done to him. They'd never gone all the way but once in a
while she would use her hands. It felt okay, but never exactly right. Too dry,
too cold, too abrasive. He grabbed fistfuls of the sheets and went stiff as a
board, shivering as George worked his mouth, hot and wet, his tongue squirming
over Marty's skin. How the hell George ever figured something like that out,
he'd never know. He may never have touched himself before, but you couldn't
help thinking about these things, and the lonely boy had plenty of time to
himself and imagination to spare.
He didn't know enough not to use
his teeth, though, and the scraping of his incisors was torment contrasted with
the delicate curl of his tongue teasing the underside. Marty didn't know
whether to cry out in pain or pleasure. He let out little snarling, panting
grunts, shaking his head and back forth.
George looked up, his pale eyes
wide behind a dark curtain of bangs. His mouth was wreathed with saliva. He
ducked his head and wiped it off on his sleeve.
"I'm sorry. Am I hurting
you?" His warm breath tickled maddeningly across Marty's wet skin.
"What?" It was all he
could do to keep from grabbing George by the ears and forcing his head back
down."No! No! Don't stop!"
"All right," he said
agreeably, and ducked his head again. This time he ran his tongue down the
length of him first, then did something that Marty couldn't even begin to
describe, his tongue delicately probing the slit at the tip. He couldn't resist
bucking his hips, a reflex action, and George gagged. His throat muscles
clenched around Marty's cock, his tongue churning as he struggled to pull back,
and the hot grasp was almost too much to bear.
Somehow, they found a rhythm
together. Marty drew his knees up, kicked out once. His face was burning and it
felt like his temples were being squeezed in a vise. George was sucking like he
was trying to find the center of a Tootise roll pop.
Marty had just enough warning to
push him away and roll over, clutching a bundle of sheets to himself. The
orgasm was like nothing he'd ever felt before. When he did it to himself he
could never just let go and be carried away like this, and god, oh, god, he
wanted to hold onto it as long as he could.
The mattress bounced as George
crawled up over him. When he could open his eyes again, he saw his young father
looking down at him with a horrified expression. He was blushing, glistening
with beads of sweat on his cheeks and forehead.
"Are you all right?"
In a hoarse voice, he whispered,
"George? Know what?"
"Y - yes?"
"I think . . . " Marty
grinned widely, showing the pointed tips of his teeth. "I think we're
going to have to do the laundry again."
"Oh?" And then he got
the joke and choked, barking out a laugh of disbelief as he collapsed. He tried
to lift himself off Marty but was seized by a fit of hysterical giggling, too
weak to raise himself. Marty laughed, too, brushing the hair out of his face
and pounding on the mattress.
Spaced out, little flashes of
pleasure still fluttering in his chest and belly, he started humming. His
fingers traced up and down the arc of George's back, tapping out the lead
guitar chord progression as if the knobs of his spine were frets. His other hand
slapped the beat on George's flat butt as he sang softly, "The temperature's rising, how a cool drink
would help. I've been thirsty for years, I've been thirsty for years . . . "
"What? You want a drink of
water?"
He spanked the next few beats
just a little harder than necessary, then closed his eyes, caught up in the
song.
"I'm hungry for something, just the touch of your flesh, to soothe
and refresh, to soothe and refresh."
One day, many yearom tom this
moment, George McFly would be driving the family home from the mall. Marty
would rip the cellophane off the new cassette he'd bought and stick it in the
tape player. And George would startle everyone in the car by suddenly and
without conscious thought belting out (perfectly in key albeit in a higher
pitch) the chorus to a song he first heard twenty three years before the band
that would record it was even formed:
"You
gotta help to make me somebody! You gotta help to open my eyes!"
He would whip around to look at
his youngest child, staring back innocently from the back seat, and in this
moment of inattention George's Thunderbird would perform on the AMC Eagle in
front of him a procedure that normally rees ges gloves and a speculum.
But that day was thirty years in
the future. Seventeen year old George McFly simply cut Marty off with a little
nip on his earlobe. He started, suddenly a bit guilty. After all, this was
supposed to be for George, and the poor guy was still red-faced and struggling.
And that was wrong. George was
still being submissive, yielding. He needed to be something else.
He rolled over and stretched
luxuriously, his lithe, smoothly compact body flexing against the jutting bones
of his father's gawky gauntness. George let out a stuttering sigh.
"Come on," Marty
moaned, "Come on, do it."
"I don't know . . . "
Hurt me, George.
He felt his father's erection
prodding him in the small of his back and scooted up higher, shamelessly
rubbing his bare rump up against him like a cat asking to be petted.
He got what he wanted. When
properly provoked, George's instincts kicked in . . . but he wasn't a fighter .
. .
At first it hurt, hurt bad. It
felt like he was being torn open and he tensed up, pulling away despite his
resolve. A cry of pain caught like a rusty gear in his throat, tears gushing
from his tightly closed eyes. This wasn't like what happened before. That was
strange but good. This was too fast, too painful and invasive. But George was
gripping his shoulders now, pushing him down onto the mattress.
And then the feeling came again,
burning, tearing, George's narrow hips grinding against his bottom, the other
boy's thighs clamped around him, his sweaty hands hooked into the curve of
Marty's hip bones as he braced himself to thrust. He went in farther this time,
and it felt like he was piercing Marty's guts.
It was like a switch had
suddenly been flipped in his brain. He struggled up onto all fours and tried to
crawl away, but George grabbed the back of his t-shirt and pulled him backwards
into his lap. Marty gave up and braced himself, head dropping, hair falling in
his face, gripping the pillow, praying it would be over soon.
But George was surprisingly
gentle. Although he had the smaller boy pinned and unresisting and could have
done what he wanted, he stopped and stroked Marty's back affectionately.
Slipping his hands across Marty's chest, George lifted him, gently encouraged
him to sit up. He looked around,nkinnking away the tears blurring his eyes, and
glimpsed George's face, briefly illuminated by the lightning.
>

The same face that he'd known
all his life, sometimes aggravating and embarrassing but always there. The same
loving expression on the man who'd chased the thunder away.
Daddy, he thought. And then, help
me.
He pulled Marty backwards onto
his lap. The warm, trembly feeling in the pit of his stomach intensified as he
felt George slip inside him again. His chin dug into Marty's shoulder, his soft
murmuring purring in his ear, and they rocked back and forth, locked together.
Marty couldn't make out the words over his own harsh, strident breathing, but
the tone was infinitely soothing.
It still hurt. It felt too big,
like it was stretching and rubbing him raw. But George went slow this time, and
just when he thought it couldn't go any further in there was a last, hard push,
and then in the midst of the pain and fright there was a sudden and totally
unexpected burst of pleasure, like an oasis in the middle of a desert storm.
Marty focused on that, arching his back, grinding his hips back into George,
encouraging him.
Then the pleasure became a wave
crashing over him, too powerful to resist, and swept him away with wild
exhilaration. The pain was still there, just as the disinfectant poured over
stitches still stung and the taunting still shamed him, but good feeling closed
over his head and drowned it out. Marty bit his sore tongue to keep from
screaming and waking his grandparents. George was making noise, too, a
high-pitched, breathy ah, ah, ah, but
the rain sounded like an avalanche of gravel on a tin roof and the thunder was
a continuous deafening rumble.
Marty heard himself whimpering,
"Daddy . . . daddy . . ." but if George heard he didn't seem to
understand.
He was safe, safe now from the
thunder and the bullies and the grip of oblivion. George was so much taller, so
long-limbed, when he wrapped himself around his son it was as though Marty was
being caged, trapped in a straightjacket of his flesh and bones. Trapped, but
also protected, caged in safety. Daddy was here, inside and out, and all was
safety and love.
Suddenly George tensed up,
grabbing fistfuls of Marty's t-shirt and twisting them. His cries trailed off
into a throaty moan and he bit down on Marty's exposed shoulder, leaving a
perfectly crescent-shaped bruise that would last for days. He heaved once, and
then melted against him, all the tension draining away in a rush. Warm semen
trickled down the inside of Marty's thigh. He felt totally drained, chewed up
and spit out. It felt great. He just lay back in George's sheltering arms,
feeling little and beloved, savoring the Daddy-feeling that didn't make the
other feelings go away.
The boys slumped down to the
mattress, still clinging together as tightly as two swimmers lost in the middle
of a vast, cold ocean. Marty squirmed around in George's arms and burrowed his
face to the other boy's chest. He was crying, and he didn't know why. Not
sobbing, but there were hot tears burning salty tracks down his face. He
sniffed them back, wiped his face off, and propped himself up on his elbows to
look at George.
He was gazing at the ceiling and
gasping for breath, his cheeks and throat mottled with a blotchy blush, his
eyes feverishly bright, his dark hair standing up in matted spikes. George
resembled someone who'd just washed ashore from a shipwreck - soaked, stunned
and very, very happy to have made it through alive. Marty smiled and snuggled
back down again into his willing arms again.
They lay tangled together for a
long time in a drowsy aftermath, heartbeats slowly returning to normal, cooling
as the sweat evaporated from their taut, trembling bodies. Occasionally they
would reach out and touch one another, fingertips to swollen lips, tongues
lapping over dewy skin, enjoying the illicit thrill, knowing somehow that
neither would get the chance to do this ever again.
"&quo" Marty told him.
His voice was husky and crackling with strain. "You're pretty damn good
when you try. You just have to try."
"Mmmm-hmmmmm." George
nuzzled his neck, nibbling him, teasing.
"Okay, slow down, tiger.
Save some for tomorrow night. It's gonna be even better with Lorraine."
He let out a little laugh and
smiled, an uninhibited, incredible grin like nothing Marty had ever seen before
on his father, old or young. "If you say so. I like this."
"Yeah," he admitted
after a moment. "This wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Nope."
He shifted, curling up so his
head rested on Marty's chest, and he had to forcibly remind himself, this is my father. Not just gentle, sure
hands, a goofy smile and blue eyes brimming with cautious passion. My father. If he didn't get George back
on track, all the self confidence in the world wouldn't help him.
"But still, you gotta trust
me."
"All right. I guess
so."
"Ummm . . . " He
rapped his knuckles on George's head until the other boy looked up and met his
gaze. Marty bent over and fondly kissed the little dent on the tip of his nose.
"I know so."
"Okay, Marty, okay. I trust
you."
He laid his head back down and
Marty stroked him, combing the tangles from his fine, damp hair. He wondered
what he'd done. To George, to himself. Something had definitely changed. He
didn't know what, except that at this moment, he never wanted to leave George's
sleepy embrace.
It was totally wrong. But
somehow, he doubted it could be all bad.
The rain pattered on the window,
now a gentle sussuration. "And listen, the thunder's gone."
His father was silent for a
moment. Then, he admitted, "I'm still afraid."
"Ah, George," he said
sadly. "If you get scared when it thunders again, just imagine me holding
you. And I'll do the same thing."

*end*

Author's note: The lyrics at the
beginning of each chapter and the one Marty sings ("Help Me") are
from songs by Oingo Boingo. Titles
of the chapters are titles of their respective songs. Listen to them - they're
much better with the music behind them.
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

That Stupid Fear of Thunder