A fox cried out into the night, a faint scuffle resonating in the deserted cul-de-sac. The boards on the windows of the houses creaked ominously from an invisible force, litter strewn across the once well-kept gardens. The street lights that had once shone brightly over the proud little homes, stood broken and bent, twisted from years of neglect. Not a figure stirred among the dead, their bodies left to rot on the stained concrete, stripped bare of any possessions and abandoned in post-massacre haze.
The only movement, the only sign of life bar the animals who had tentatively crept from their hiding holes in hope of food, was that of a flickering fire behind the boards of the furthest house. A slight trembling of light which spilled through a single gap; difficult to see to anyone who wasn’t looking.
Hidden in the house, pressed in the corner of the ghost of a living room, sat a slight character, his eyes fixed on the burning rubbish in front of him. Redness had crept in from lack of sleep, the salt from tears irritating the delicate skin and giving him a pained expression. His thin, bony fingers dug into the thin blanket around his shoulders, and the torn uniform that he had once worn with pride, now hung loosely over his body, like a child who had tried on its parents’ clothes.
Lips, blue and cracked, parted slightly, as the flames danced and spat. The warmth would not come, he had decided, if his eyes were open. And so, so very reluctantly, he let his eyelids droop, pain exploding in his head, so unfamiliar had the movement become. As the darkness swam in front of him, and the cold threatened to consume him, the man briefly considered how he had come to be here, in this place, in this hell that, not ten months previously, he could only have imagined.
***
It was summer. The grass was freshly cut in the distance, and the trees rustled in the warm breeze that had settled itself firmly in Stonybridge. Callum opened his eyes, sunlight flooding his vision and blinding him momentarily. And in that moment, there were legs twisting around his waist, lips pressing against his neck in fevered abandon.
“Miss me?”
The low, almost guttural sound to the voice sent chills up Callum’s spine, and as the stars cleared from his eyes, his lips turned upwards, staring up at the face looking down at him. Hal Wyatt’s face was tanned and freckled – work at his uncle’s farm had caused the older boy to become more toned over the summer, weeks of hard labour without his shirt on meaning that Callum, more often than not, would spend the evenings rubbing lotion into the tight knots in his skin. Working his hands lovingly, whispering gently in Hal’s ears when he caught a particularly burnt piece of flesh.
“Thought you were working late,” Callum murmured, capturing Hal’s lips with his own and propping himself up on his elbows. His fingers worked their way into the thick brown curls which sat upon his lover’s head, bringing him closer and closer until their hips were flush against each other’s.
“Got let off early,” Hal replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “Knew you’d be here.” Callum smiled faintly, lying back on the grass. Of course he’d be here. Of course he’d be here in the safety that the field brought, far away from the prying eyes of his neighbours. He liked to think of this as his and Hal’s place. Where they could be together without facing the prejudice of others, and where – Callum thought with a thrill – they could kiss until their lips were numb and their breaths were laboured.
Hal settled beside him, bracing himself on his shoulder so that he could take Callum in. The younger boy pretended not to notice the way in which Hal’s eyes roamed over him, pretended that he couldn’t feel the penetrative gaze of Hal’s intense brown orbs. He was much happier to pretend. Pretending was, of course, second nature.
“What’ve you been up to?” he breathed, his calloused finger trailing over Callum’s plump lower lip. Without thinking, Callum parted his mouth, taking the well-worn digit into the wet heat of his mouth and sucking it lightly, smirking at Hal’s sudden stillness. Callum brought a hand to Hal’s wrist, forcing him to keep his hand where it was as he worked his tongue along his finger, a hardness growing in his battered jeans.
