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  “Love and War”

  M/M First Time Gay Romance

  Max Hudson

  © 2017

  Max Hudson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is intended for adults (18+) only. The contents may be offensive to some readers. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adult situations. Please do not read this book if you are offended by such content or if you are under the age of 18. All sexually active characters are 18+.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner & are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Cover images are licensed stock photos, images shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are models.

  Edition v1.00 (2017.02.19)

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter One

  “Okay, Charlie?”

  I don’t even raise my head anymore to greet the nurse at the front desk. She’s seen me every day for three goddamn years. You think if I was ‘okay’, I’d be visiting this godforsaken hospital every day, every goddamn day, like I have nothing better to do with my time? I suppose I shouldn’t be rude, it’s not her fault. She’s just doing her job. I shouldn’t be angry at her.

  I look at her. For the first time, I really look at her. As a woman. Her long dark hair is scraped back in a bun, held tight with pins, but a few stray hairs have escaped. She moves to tuck them behind her ear as she works, but they just bounce back to where they once were. She perseveres, knowing that attempts are futile, and yet, she doesn’t stop. She has shocking green eyes, like a fresh-cut lawn, hidden behind thick rimmed glasses. She mustn’t be married, or else she wouldn’t be working, but a pretty girl like her can’t be alone either. She would be pretty, beautiful even, out of her uniform and on a dance floor. I take a second and imagine taking her out dancing. I’d curl her hair around my fingertips, and her laugh would tinkle louder than any ivories as I dip her head back, kiss her neck.

  That can never happen. Not anymore. Not ever. I scowl, not at her, but at the ground. It’s not her fault. It’s Hitler’s fault. I shouldn’t be upset with her, with me, with anyone over what that blasted, stupid, communistic tyrant did! That bloody bastard, and his war, and his deaths, and his atrocities and…

  Enough! Charlie. Calm. Calm. Calm. You know what the doctor said, Charlie. “It’s okay Charlie. You’re allowed to be angry Charlie. Just don’t lose your head, Charlie.”

  “It’s okay Charlie. You’re allowed to be angry, Charlie. Just don’t lose your head, Charlie.”

  “Are you okay Charlie?” I jump, as I realize that the pretty nurse has moved from the desk and is now kneeling beside me. She’s finally managed to get that twist of hair secured in her hat, but I can see now that she’s close that it’s just itching to get free. Just the same as me.

  “Uh, yeah. I guess. Thanks, uh…”

  “Betty, don’t you remember?” Her laugh tickles across the room, the way it would a dancefloor, the way it would a bedroom…

  “Uh, yeah. Betty. Right. Sorry.”

  “Hey, it’s okay Charlie! Everyone forgets sometimes! Say, I think I have a message for you anyway.”

  She bobs back to the desk, high heels clicking on the hard tile floor. As she moves away from me, I watch her walk. Hips slightly swaying, a shimmy in her shoulder and her ankle slightly wobbles with each step. Teetering on a tight rope with every stride. I’m envious of her leg muscles, working hard to keep her upright. God, is this really what my life has become? I’m jealous of a woman’s legs.

  “Uhhuh, uhhuh, I knew I had something for you!” Her exclamation jolts me from my thoughts. “A memo from a Mister Avery. He wants you to see him in room 27. Uhhuh, let me just check and see if the doctor wants you to see him before or after Mister Avery. Just hang on, don’t go running off on me!”

  I give her a smile, half laughing and half hurt by her remark. I couldn’t run if the building was on fire. She dials the number quickly and with precision, the precision I can only someday pray to have back in my hands. The shaking never stops, not even for a second. It’s taken me three years to be able to hold a glass of water, to cut my dinner with a knife and fork, to shakily write my name. Another three years and I might be able to use a telephone again. Maybe, someday, sometime.

  “Charlie!” Her sing-song voice echoes across the reception area. “Uhhuh, just as I thought. Go see Mister Avery in room 27, and then the doctor in room 83, same room as before. Do you need a little hand?”

  “Nah, I’ll be alright. Thanks, Betty. You’re a doll.”

  She smiles at me as I reach down the sides of this godforsaken chair to get a firm grip on the wheels. The wood is smooth beneath my hands, well-worn from use. I remember first getting my chair and thinking it was my key to freedom. Now, it’s nothing more than a memorial to the long-forgotten days of independence, a cage to which I’ll be forever tied.

  The corridors are long and winding, the only saving-grace being the lack of doors to negotiate. Room 27 is in the North Wing, reserved only for mothers giving birth and psychology. This Mister Avery is not my usual psychologist and his summons is unusual. I probably should have asked Betty for his job title. Why does he want me? I knock on the door, feeling the cool walnut beneath my knuckles. The soft, sanded-down grain only interrupted by cold, hard steel in the nuts and bolts of a lockable door handle. I move back, allowing the hallway free access should someone need to pass.

  Is it appropriate to say a prayer in a hospital corridor while waiting to see a new specialist? Or are the soft and silent tears of grieving widows, the pleadings of new fathers, are those the prayers that God listens to? Those that seep through windows and under doors like a heavy fog, like smoke. Even if God isn’t listening to me, and God knows He hasn’t before, I should pray. Even just to make myself better. Under my breath, I begin my mantra.

  “Dear my most gracious, most loving God. I know you cannot hear me, and if you can, you do not listen. But, my Lord, I am in desperation. I need your healing touch Father. I am nothing but an invalid and I am good to no one. My Lord, I know you have a plan for me, and I gladly participate in your plan. But my Lord, please, I must know. What plan of Yours involves an invalid, who is good to no one but You? I will never find a wife, Lord. I will never bear children, Lord. To what use is my suffering, Lord, my God? Please Lord, end my suffering. Heal my wounds or grant me eternal peace, I beg of you! I do not know how long I can continue, and yet I do, for I know that the gravest of sins is taking my soul before you are ready for it. Grant me peace, Lord. End my pain and suffering Lord. I cannot take it any…”

  The door lock unclicks and before me stands a man. He would be my stature, but with sun-kissed swarthy skin, a mop of jet-black hair and puddles of chocolate, puppy dog eyes.

  “Ah, Mister Harris, yes?” His slight French accent gives away his more Eastern-European roots, and for some reason, I feel my cheeks flush as he says my name.

  “Uh, yeah. That’s me.” I can’t lift my gaze from the floo
r. He’s looking right at me, waiting for me to lift my head, meet his eyes, smile respectfully and shake his hand. I’m not making a very good first impression. Then again, why should I bother? It’s not like this man is important to me, my God, I’ve only just met him! My head feels like a one-hundred-pound weight on my neck and the effort of lifting it a mammoth task. Yet, I find the strength and raise my chin to look him square in the eye. “It’s nice to meet you, Mister Avery.” I reach out my hand for him to take, and he does, in a very firm, yet pleasant handshake. His skin is soft like caramel, the warmth melting my very soul. What is happening to me? Who is this man? Another test sent from God, the devil in disguise?

  “Please, do come in.”

  He holds the door open as I wheel toward him and he moves so I don’t run over his toes. Expertly, he closes the door behind me almost as soon as I’m over the threshold, knowing exactly how much distance and how soon I can get through the door. This is a man who has done this many times before, met with an invalid. He ushers me over to a space beside his desk and it is only then I notice the room.

  A large stark white space is littered with what can only be described as gymnastic equipment. A large rubber ball faces the corner, with an examination table pressed up against the right-hand wall. The piece-de-resistance, however, is a set of two parallel bars, facing the left-hand wall, with a large mirror in front of it. I feel like I’m about to be tortured and my brow breaks in a cold, sticky, clammy sweat. Shivers run all over my body and my gaze slinks back to the floor.

  “Well, Mister Harris, how are you today?”

  “Um, well, um…” I fumble for the words in my mouth, but they don’t come.

  “Do you know why you are here today, Mister Harris?”

  “Well, no, I suppose not, Mister Avery. To be quite frank, I’ve no idea why you wanted to see me today…”

  “Oh, please, Mister Harris, call me Blaine.”

  “Oh, okay, Blaine. I suppose you can call me Charlie.”

  “Ah, Charlie.” He says my name like it is a fine wine and he’s tasting every single flavor at once, inhaling the aromas and becoming intoxicated. “Charlie, I am a physiotherapist. Do you know what that is?”

  Confused and baffled, I stall. He picks up on my lack of response and continues anyway.

  “Charlie, a physiotherapist is someone who deals with every aspect of the body and tries to heal it, not with medicines or surgery, but with the power you hold within yourself. I believe, Charlie, that with my help, you will be able to walk again. I believe you have that power within you. I’ve read through your notes, I know that you were in an accident at war. I know that you no longer have any legs beneath the knee. And yet, I believe I can help you to walk. But you must understand Charlie…”

  He pauses his monologue, deep in the moment, reading my face. He can tell that I am anxious, he can tell that I am not pleased and he can tell that I do not believe his words, his lies.

  “This…rehabilitation…is not just your legs, or learning to use a prosthetic or rebuilding the muscle you have lost over the years in that chair, no. This rehabilitation will take place where only you can control.”

  Blaine taps a finger to my temple, and electric shocks run through my body, as if I had just touched an open socket with wet hands.

  “Your rehabilitation will also take place in your mind. Are you ready Charlie? Are you ready to walk again?”

  I gulp, suddenly finding it hard to swallow. I had prayed to God to end my suffering, to heal me and cure me and finally, finally, here I was, sitting face to face with a man who claimed he could do just that. However, there was only one issue. The whole time Blaine was talking, all that was going through my head was watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down in his throat, watching his chest muscles tighten and loosen with each breath. The pitch of his voice was a lullaby that could almost soothe me to sleep.

  Please God, do not send me an angel with the power to cure my ails and then have my thoughts lust after them. Please God, do not have me lust after a man! Please, God, remove these thoughts from my head! I am not a sinner! I am not a sinner, I have revered you all my life. Remove these sinful thoughts from my head, lest I become the devil I so despise…please, Lord. I am not a homosexual!

  Chapter Two

  Dear God, why have you done this to me? Have I not suffered enough? Why, God, why?! Why do I feel this way about another man? A man! My physiotherapist! A man, who will see me every day, and have his hands on my body, and see me struggle to do even the most basic and simplistic of tasks. Why do I feel this way?

  My appointment yesterday had been fruitful. I had agreed to take on his challenge. I had agreed to work to walk once more. I knew the road would not be easy, but life as an invalid is harder than any muscle rebuilding or physical pain I should ever be unfortunate enough to suffer.

  I dreamed of him last night. I know it is wrong and I shouldn’t have, but I did, and it was a dream. I could hardly control it, right? There was a man in my army barracks who was…who felt like I did for Blaine. Our sergeant found out that he was…doing unspeakable things…with one of our junior runners. That poor child was no more than fifteen years, and to have a grown man of almost thirty…my God, is this what I am turning into? Nothing more than a dirty, sinful person who takes advantage of whoever I can find? No, God. Please, don’t do this to me.

  I have another appointment today. With Blaine. With him. Alone, in his room. No prying eyes, no wondering stares, just us.

  What is wrong with me?

  What have I done to deserve these feelings?

  Who have I wronged?

  I have always been a man of faith. Of justice. Of righteousness. Who would never, even for a second, dream of defiling my body, committing the most disgusting of sins. Sodomy. The word itself is ugly and feels like acid in my mouth, burning away at my teeth, irreparable damage.

  “Alright Charlie?” Betty smiles her sweet smile, but I feel disgusting. She has no idea the thoughts of my mind, the dreams of my sleep. If only she knew what I was feeling, what I was thinking. She would never speak to me again. This beautiful woman, who I have pondered often taking her dancing, kissing her, loving her. And yet my mind cannot even bear the thought anymore. I feel embarrassed and my mind, as well as my body, has defiled my thoughts and ruined my brain.

  I knock on the door of room 27. My new and personal hell. Blaine opens the door and my eyes almost fall out of my head. He stands before me in nothing but a tank top and the tightest pair of slacks I’ve ever seen. Barefooted, he walks towards me, smiling, reaches out to clasp my hand.

  “Ah, Charlie. I did not think you would come back today, but I am so glad that you did. I am so proud of you, Charlie. So very, very proud. Let us begin, no?”

  He takes the handles of my chair and pushes me into the room. Does he feel it too? Does he know of my sinfulness?

  “Ah, okay Charlie. Those clothes you have on, they will not do. Did you bring a change?”

  What? “Uh, no.”

  “Ah, okay. Well, since it is just you and me here today, and we are both grown men, hopefully you will not mind when I ask you to remove your pants and shirt?”

  He’s asking me to undress. Surely this cannot be happening. But, my body will let me down. He will see the thoughts I have been thinking all this time. He will know how I feel, and he will be disgusted, and he will never see me again.

  “You…you’ll have to help me.”

  He lifts me up, scooped in his strong arms and sets me on the side of the hospital bed. He stands back and lets me undo my belt buckle, button and fly. He moves to behind me and lifts me again from under the arms, just enough to allow the trousers to fall away from my buttocks, and I wriggle them off. My body is not showing my thoughts yet, but I feel like it will not be long. That familiar coil of heat is bubbling in my stomach. It takes every ounce of will that I have to subdue myself.

  It is only now that I realize what he is about to see. My frail, cold, saggy body, ended o
nly by two rough, haphazard, disgusting stumps. I feel my cheeks burn as he stands in front of me, looking me up and down.

  “Ah, Charlie, I want us to do something special today for your first visit. You see those parallel bars over there? I want you to push yourself up on them and straighten your body. Will I show you?”

  Blaine doesn’t wait for my reply, just happily saunters over to the bars, gets a grip on each one, and slowly and steadily lifts himself up off the ground, floating about two inches above a soft, blue mat. He faces away from me, towards the mirror and the wall, leaving me to revel in the brilliance of his back muscles. He must notice that I am staring because he starts to talk me through the work his body is doing to keep him floating.

  “The deltoid muscle – the one over my shoulder – is doing a lot of work, Charlie. It must be strong enough to hold my weight, but flexible enough to allow movement. Without the pronator quadratus of the wrist, however, I would not be able to stay suspended like this. My wrist would simply snap. The trapezius – here…” He flexes the muscle at his neck that extends down to between the shoulder blades. “…it also does a lot of work Charlie. Can you tell me what it does?”

  My cheeks flush again, this man knows I’ve been ogling him, dreaming of him, and he is purposefully making me uncomfortable.

  “Uh, no. I, uh…was never very good at human anatomy in school.”

  “Ah, Charlie. That is okay, I’m only teasing. I don’t expect you to really know. It holds my shoulders together, so I don’t split down the middle!” He chuckles, a deep, silky laugh that radiates off the walls, lights up the room and warms my core. “Charlie, I would like you to try this. I will hold you too, for your muscles are not yet strong enough to hold your whole-body weight. But I would like you to try and straighten yourself as much as possible, as if you were standing tall. Will you try?”