The Stories Behind Five Scars of Ray's, Brown Cortina, Sytaxia
The Stories Behind Five Scars of Ray's
Author: Sytaxia
Words: 4683
Rating: Brown Cortina (slash and violence)
Pairings: Ray/Chris
For the old Five Things Meme, requested by
elfbert
1.
“They’re hard to grow, you know.” Chris idly stared at Ray as the larger man shaved, delicately pulling the edge of his razor over and around the prodigious moustache on his upper lip.
“What the ‘ell’re you goin’ on about?” Ray squinted as he turned his face and started to smoothly craft out his perfect sideburns.
“Moustaches. They’re hard to grow. ‘Member when I tried ‘aving one on, and it just wouldn’ take. Spent ages not shaving, and didn’t get nowt but fuzz.”
“Mmm,” Ray mumbled as he stared into the mirror, and into the hairs on his upper lip. There, buried underneath the patch of golden hair, was a long, thin scar that ran just to the top of his mouth. He stared into the mirror, his mind wandering deep into the past, and then looked past his own reflection, an image of a 1950 schoolyard coming into view behind his own face in the smooth surface….
…
“Carling, you little gobshite! What the hell do you think you’re about, telling ol’ badger legs about me an’ Tommy?” Andy Bradford was the school bully, and, after watching him take the piss and the stuffing out of Tommy Capshaw for two years running, Ray had finally worked up the nerve to tell the rather cantankerous deputy headmistress of the children’s home where they lived about it.
“He’s half your size, you bloody bastard!” Eleven year-old Ray had spat the words out at Andy’s feet, and then felt his chest burn with a fire he’d never felt before as Andy’s face twisted into a grinning leer.
“So are you, yeh little toerag,” the response had been punctuated by a fist into Ray’s gut, which had sent him spinning onto the ground, and then he felt fingers rifling through his crew cut, struggling to get a grip through the short cut that all of the boys in the home were required to have. He barely had time to think before the larger boy raised his head and smashed it into the ground, a large piece of gravel digging into his face and slicing into his lip…
Seven years later, as Ray had stood, wide-eyed and grinning, along with several other young shipmates in the Royal Navy, at the sights and sounds of the Portsmouth nightlife, his eyes found the prize that they were looking for.
“An’ she said it’s a new lipstick for the new Eddie Fisher record, nuffink to it, I mean, one’s a shilling unner the ovver, all shops that’s ‘avin,’ ain’t it, an’ not that no Jonny o’ mine wouldn’t tip that for a bit o’ French dippin’ on sides, Marlene,” the girl was short, curvy, brown curls cascading over one shoulder in the Rita Hayworth fashion. “I kin git a bit o’ extra wear from what I’s got for the ol’ red, anyway, an’ I do love that Outside of Heaven song, don’t you?”
Ray tried to put his best to affect a Marlon Brando swagger, and sauntered slowly up to the prostitute, steeling himself for a taste of a genuine southern pro, and then watched as her friend’s gaze settled on his face. “Looks like a bit extra now, Nell,” she said, walking away, and Ray watched her go, wondering if she was referencing the fact that he was a sailor, or the fact that he’d obviously only ever had his cock sucked, and never “gone dipping.”
“Well, ain’t this meh lucky night, nice young sailor boy comin’ over for a bit o’ nice bovver, ain’t he? What’s your name then, love?” The girl smile at him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and Ray felt himself respond to the touch of her smooth arms against the back of his neck.
“Ray. Raymond. Seaman Carling, at your service, Miss. From Manchester,” Ray tried to sound as confident and posh as he could, suddenly acutely aware of his heavy accent.
The girl giggled, “You don’t say? Well then, meh lanky manc, I bet I know what you’s after, an’ it ain’t a lesson on playin’ Chopin on t’joanna.”
“You’re a, a, er, you’re musical, then?” Ray felt his confidence start to falter under her predatory gaze.
“Mmm, they says I’ve a pretty song for any willin,’ that’s what they says. Half crown for a nice lil’ poke about, back my place, plus sixpence charge fer hairlip.”
Ray balked. “Plus what? I ‘aven’t got no ‘airlip!”
The girl laughed, “Oh aye, them doctors fixed it neat, they did, if that ain’t somefink I’ve seen a fair pickle of,” she lightly ran a finger across the scar on his lip.
“That’s no ‘airlip, jus’ a scar!” Ray pulled back slightly, indignation on his face, and the girl’s hands suddenly set on her hips, her face going stormy.
“Same charge fer all girls roun’ these part, you’ll find,” she said, and he crossed his arms over his chest in response.
“Ain’t no bleedin’ hairlip, you bloody slag!”
“Oi, jus’ you fuck off, you won’ find no one wants nuffink havin’ with a lying cunt like you, then!” The girl practically screamed it at him, and then walked away, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she went.
…
“Ray? Ray?” The memories dissolved back into the familiar surroundings of the bathroom in his flat, and Ray whirled around to see Chris giving him a questioning look.
“Whah?” Ray pulled his razor away from his face, just short of cutting too far into the edge of his sideburn, and possibly his skin.
“I said, ‘‘ave you ever tried going without?’” Chris gestured towards the moustache, and Ray set his razor down on the edge of the sink.
“Chris. Can you see this?” He leaned close to Chris, gesturing towards the moustache, and Chris squinted, then looked up into Ray’s eyes.
“’s a scar. You get that in a fight, then?”
Chris started slightly as Ray’s arms wrapped around his waist, Ray’s mouth forcefully pushing down on his, pulling him close and exploring the edges of his teeth, hands gripping at his backside and back as Ray locked down on him, and then pulled away for a second, “You’ve got a good set of eyes on you, Chris.” The two of them locked together again, fumbling at each others’ belts, both realizing that they were going to be late for work.
2.
Chris felt Ray rip down his trousers, grabbing for the shaving foam that still caked one side of his face, gently rubbing it into his rear as a lubricant before edging a finger in, causing Chris to gasp. “Blimey, do I get this every time the boss says I’ve got a good set of eyes, too? ‘Cause I can keep track…”
Ray didn’t respond as he pulled his own unbuckled and unzipped trousers down and slid himself inside of Chris, eliciting a further gasp as he slowly edged his way in, the shaving foam tingling slightly at the edge of his cock as he dipped further inside, pressing Chris down against the side of the tub. His hands reached around and fumbled for Chris’ own organ, feeling the hard, stiffening organ twitch as he slid in and out, each time pressing slightly further, until his entire cock was embedded within Chris.
“Bloody hell. Yes… Ray…” Chris was gasping as Ray pressed him against the bath, both of them falling to their knees, Chris’ hands going white knuckled on the ceramic edge as Ray continued to raise and lower himself into his backside, his hands gripping Chris’ member, slickening with precum and pulsing in time with Ray’s own movements as the two of them bucked and swayed as one on the bathroom floor. Within moments, Ray felt Chris’ hot seed spill over his hands, a long, joyous moan escaping Chris’ lips, and he continued to press on, raising and lowering his body, moving his cock in and out of Chris until he came as well, and then he fell to the floor, not even noticing as his elbow collided with the smooth tile.
“Jesus Ray. That was… Blimey…” Chris turned around and slid onto his slick and happily throbbing rear, his shoulders resting against the edge of the bath, staring at Ray, who was still on his belly on the floor. He gasped once more, and then looked over at Ray, who was climbing slowly to his feet to grab the fags and lighter that were sitting atop the toilet roil that sat on the back of the stool. As Ray sat down next to him, a grin on his face, Chris stared at his arm for a moment, noting the fading and nearly invisible blue anchor tattoo, and, just below it, nearly as hard to see, a long, twisting white scar. “What’s that one from, then?”
…
“You bloody poofter!”
“Say it again!”
“I said you’re a bloody poofter, Carling!”
Ray took a swing at Manning’s face, feeling teeth meet his knuckles and watching the other man fall to the ground, no match for the massive blow that Ray had dealt him. “You’d better stay there, ‘less you want what for, yeh bastard,” Ray growled as Manning spit out blood and a half tooth onto the ground of their berth.
“Bet you’d like that. You like seeing all of us on the ground, or abunk, you bloody pervert,” Manning spit out more blood as he hissed the words, and Ray kicked him in the belly, grinning as he heard the other man gasp and groan.
“You say that again, an’ it’s more’n a tooth you lose, yeh daft shitheap!”
“You an’ Jimmy Lamb, don’t think I didn’ see youse!”
“You bloody shut yer gob, else you won’t be able to open it ‘fore next week!” Ray stormed out of the berth, feeling his face flush, and letting his mind slowly twist around what Manning had said…
Two weeks later, Charles Manning had returned to the berth to a rather interesting sight: Sherry, his fiancé, bucking hard and fast on top of Ray, moaning in pleasure as her ginger ringlets tossed and flopped about her face and shoulders, her hands firmly planted on the hard surface of Ray’s chest.
“You - you bloody - I’ll kill you!” Manning reached into his pocket, pulling out a knife and flicking it open, and Sherry screamed, tumbling away from the bunk that she had been riding Ray on, screaming and starting to bawl as she grabbed the blanket and started to try to cover her breasts. Ray raised up an arm and felt the blade sink into it, screaming in rage as his flesh was torn open.
Within a minute, Ray had ripped the knife from his forearm and dug it into Manning’s thigh, listening with a dark, guilty pleasure as the other man howled. “Who’s the poof now, eh?”
After his month in the brig was up, Ray had decided not to sign on for another term… It was almost 1960 now, and he could think of another direction his life could take…
…
“Jus’ a fight.” Ray placed two fags between his lips and lit them at once, then pulled them both out in an exhalation of blue-gray smoke, offering one to Chris.
“Right, then,” Chris nodded, taking a drag from the proffered cigarette. The two of them smoked in silence, and then dashed their fag ends out in the sink, Ray shaking his head with a wide grin at his half-stubbled face in the mirror, his shirt, thankfully, was still hanging on the hanger he’d placed it on after taking it off three days ago (no need to wash ‘em after every wear, he figured), but the trousers and pants he’d slid into earlier were kicked to a corner of the bathroom, next to Chris…
“We ain’t poofs, are we, Chris?” Ray asked, and Chris gave him a quizzical look then looked away, considering things for a moment, “I suppose that…”
“Chris.” Ray cut him off. “Just say we ain’t.”
“We ain’t poofs, then, Ray,” Chris felt his face fall as he hollowly said the words for Ray, and then felt a smile form again as Ray dove down towards him, burying his face in Chris’ chest, his mouth working quickly over the notch between Chris’ collarbones, forcing Chris to arch his back and moan in pleasure as he reached forward to grab Ray’s still sticky cock. Much as he hated the fact that Ray would never admit that they were a couple, Ray could always make it up to him…
3.
Chris twisted downwards, sliding on the tile floor of the bathroom, ducking away from Ray’s mouth and towards his crotch, his lips parted and his tongue sliding down the thick, muscled shoals of Ray’s chest and over the curve of his belly, down to the thick patch of golden hair, and then the prize beneath. He slid his tongue slowly up and down Ray’s penis, feeling the organ grow stiff again, tasting the odd tang of shaving foam, salt, and, perhaps, a bit of his own taste - he wasn’t sure if that should disgust him or thrill him, but it did neither. What did thrill him was the way that Ray swayed and bucked, raised up on his hands as if doing a push-up, and Chris took his lover’s cock into his mouth and started to suck, hard.
“Oh fuck, yes, bloody… Why’re you stopping?” Chris slowly slid Ray’s organ out of his mouth and stared at his thigh, sliding further down so that he could get a better look at it.
“What ‘bout this one?” Chris asked, and Ray gave him an aggravated glare, twisting himself around with a groan. On Ray’s right thigh, half way from the hip to the knee, was another old, barely visible scar, twisting and white against his skin.
…
“No turkey, ‘course, but guess what I’ve got fer us, my little love,” Ray’s mother was busy setting the table for Christmas dinner, a grin on her face, “Real cranberry sauce! Ought to make t’spam a bit more like Christmas, won’t it?”
Ray nodded, a wide grin on his six year old face, watching as his mother ladled the thick, red concoction over slabs of fried spam on each plate. “You go an’ get yer sister, tell ‘er dinner’s on t’table,” Ray’s mum smiled at him as he dashed into the back garden, searching for Gemma, who was colleting the scrap metal that she and he had salvaged into the old wheelbarrow.
“This’ll fetch a tidy lot, eh, baby brother?” Gemma’s golden braids bobbed at the side of her head as she piled the last scrap on. She stared at her dirty hands, “Nice sight I am, fourteen and covered in dust and grit, eh? Mum’ll ‘ave kittens if I don’t wash before dinner, right, Ray?” Ray nodded, trying not to burst and let his sister in on Mum’s secret Christmas surprise. Gemma smiled at the wheelbarrow and then started to move towards the house, when the night was suddenly split by the wretched howl of sirens.
Ray’s eyes went wide as Gemma grabbed his hand, dragging him into the old garden shed, ripping the gas mask off of her back and slamming it onto Ray’s face, her eyes frantic as the crawled underneath the empty coal bunker. “Where the bloody hell’s your mask?” she screamed at him, watching as he shook his head.
“Mum!” Ray screamed against the harsh scent of rubber that filled his nostrils, trying to climb out and run for the house, but Gemma held him back, locking him in an iron grip.
“Mum’s coming!” She hissed, and then there was a horrible, deafening crash that split the night with a far harsher tear than the sirens ever could, and the night went dark.
When Ray woke up, Gemma was trying to pry the iron trough off of the two of them, the weight of the shed’s collapsed ceiling bearing down upon it as she shoved. Ray tried to help, and eventually the two of them crawled out and into the frigid morning light of December 26, 1940. “Stay here!” Gemma commanded, but Ray wouldn’t listen. He ran through the rubble, tripped and feeling a sharp pain in his leg as a sharp bit of scrap steel dug into his thigh, and then he ran for the house, not even noticing that the roof was half collapsed.
“Ray! Come back! Ray!” Gemma climbed unsteadily over the mess, trying to move after him, as Ray darted into the gaping hole that made up half of their back doorway.
The first thing that Ray saw as he entered the house was that half of the roof, and the upstairs, had tumbled down upon the dining table. The next thing he saw was his mother, laying under the table, where she had obviously tried to take shelter. A long slab of wood protruded from her neck, a shatter piece of the table that she’d tried to use to protect herself. There was a broken plate atop the crushed table top, half of it on a ridiculously intact portion of table, the other half broken and sliding down through the torn wood, following the shard that had ripped its way through his mother’s throat. Cranberry sauce had dripped off of it, drying on their mother’s face, a dark red smear to match the blood that soaked the front of her frock and apron.
Ray heard Gemma gasp and wrap her arms around him, pulling him back, and then heard her shriek as she yanked him forcefully back out of the hole. “It’s not safe here,” her voice was quivering and unsteady as she ripped him out of the house. “It’s not safe, Ray…”
…
“Do you like cranberry sauce?” Ray asked softly, and Chris ran his thumb over the scar.
“Cranberry sauce? Blimey, I hate the stuff. Always have,” Chris said, and then pulled himself back towards Ray’s cock, surprised to find that it had already softened in the moment that he had pulled away.
Ray smiled then, his eyes closed, “I hate the bloody shite, too,” he said, gesturing with one hand towards the scar and the pushing his hand back under him, hoping that Chris would mistake the slight tremble that ran through him for strain caused by lifting himself up with one arm.
“Burned yerself cooking, that it?” Chris said, and without another word, he wrapped his lips back around Ray’s penis and continued to lick and suck, the sensations drawing Ray’s mind firmly back into the present. Chris bobbed up and down under Ray, who could barely keep himself lifted upon his arms and knees, which were deeply spread to allow Chris’ body to slide between them. The second climax took a considerably longer time than the first had, but when it was over, he managed to shove himself backwards enough so that Chris was lying under him, their faces next to each other. He buried his nose in Chris’ hair.
“I’m glad you hate it,” he said, softly, and Chris gave him a questioning look before kissing his neck.
4.
The two of them slowly twisted so that they were laying on their sides, facing one another, and then slid upwards into a sitting position, backs against the tub again, pulling out another pair of ciggies and lighting them. Chris gave a wide, lopsided grin as he nestled into the crook of Ray’s arm and took a long drag, then gazed down at Ray’s belly.
“This one I’ve noticed before, ‘cept I never asked. That’s from before I joined the force, ain’t it?” Chris let his free hand slowly drift across the puckered, long line on Ray’s stomach, and then looked up at Ray’s face.
“That was from the first year I were a DC, an’ all,” Ray said softly, thinking back to the way that the station had been at the time. DCI Harry Woolf, DI Gene Hunt, and DS Algie Morris, all leading the way for the young DC that had had a very nice career as a constable after leaving the navy.
“You took a blade for the Guv, right?” Chris nestled more deeply into the crook of Ray’s arm and let his fingers slowly drift over the scar, feeling the soft, downy hair on Ray’s belly lift up slightly in response to the touch.
“If you know, why’re you askin,’ yeh div?” Ray stubbed out his cigarette on the tiled floor and reached for another, grabbing a second one for Chris without thinking of it.
“You never talk about it…” Chris lit his own cigarette while still staring at the scar…
…
“There’s been a lot of shit on my streets for all of my bloody life, and I’m so sick and tired of all this fucking mess, and now you go and drum up new piles of it all over the bloody station!” Gene was fuming as he stalked back and forth across his office, not allowing himself to look at Ray.
“I was doing what I thought you would do…” Ray stammered the same defense that he’d given before as Gene strode back and forth, his hands in his pockets, pulling his jacket back and somehow making him look harsher, as if his anger was inflating his form to more than it really was.
“What you thought I would do? What makes you think I would ram a pile of bleedin’ drugs up some daft little scum of the earth tosser’s nose?” Gene screamed it at him, and Ray felt himself flinch as Gene’s eyes finally rose up and rested on him.
“Anything for a result. When DCI Woolf asked you why you barged into that robbery when he told you not to, you said you needed a result. Anything for a result.” Ray let his eyes drift to meet Gene’s, and he saw a deep, haunted look in the other man’s eyes.
“You saved my life there, Ray…” Gene’s voice softened for a moment, and then his eyes blazed again, “And it weren’t nearly the same thing! Tyler wants your bloody badge, you soft-brained, damned, bloody…” Gene’s voice trailed off as he stared at Ray’s stomach for a moment, and then he pulled away, his jaw clenched. “Get out there. Get to work.”
“Guv… That’s it? That’s…” Ray wasn’t sure what to say.
“You’ll find out soon enough. This cost you the trust you bought with that knife, Ray, and it’ll take a damn sight of… I don’t bloody know what…. To buy it back! Now get to work!”
Five hours later, Ray had been feeling like it was business as usual, as if he could put the whole situation behind him, and the Guv had called everyone round before beginning his speech. Ray had barely heard a word that Gene was saying; every word registered, its sounds, its meanings, but part of him didn’t hear. Part of him had sunk to the deepest recesses of his heels and turned to ice there…
“That’s it? A demotion?” Ray’s head had snapped up when he heard Sam’s cry, and for a moment, he saw Gene turn back and look at him. He’d taken a knife for Gene, in 1965, but on that day, he’d stepped aside and let it slide into Gene. And it wasn’t aimed at his gut, it was aimed elsewhere. Higher, and to the left…
…
“What’s there to talk about? I took a knife once,” Ray curled his arm tightly around Chris, who slid sideways so that he was resting on his shoulder against Ray’s chest.
“For the Guv,” Chris said, looking up and kissing Ray’s collarbone, working his way to the side of Ray’s neck. Ray didn’t respond.
5.
Ray felt Chris’ tongue slide over the thin, barely noticeable line of mottled flesh on the side of his neck; it wasn’t as thick as a regular scar, it was more of a discoloration, a permanent lightness where the skin had seared away. A deeper burn would have left a much nastier mark, they’d said, although it would also have hurt a fair deal less.
“You don’t talk about that, either,” Chris said, softly, kissing the scar from the bomb blast gently with his lips, and then running his tongue along it again.
“Nothing to talk about,” Ray said, and then felt Chris pull away slowly climbing to his feet and picking up the scattered trouser off of the floor. Ray rolled his eyes and sighed as Chris started to leave the bathroom.
“Why do you have to do that? Just like a bloody bird, I swear! Damned Tyler’s rubbin’ his poncey arse ways off on yeh.” Chris turned around in response and shook his head at Ray, and then moved towards the bedroom, leaving Ray to groan slightly as he hoisted himself off of the floor and followed.
“Chris. Chris. Look at me,” Ray grabbed a hold of Chris and turned him around, staring at his face. “There’s nothing to tell. You were bloody there!”
“But I weren’t you! Were you scared? What did it feel like? What were you thinking?” Chris sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at Ray, a strange, sad echo of innocence in his eyes as he stared at his lover.
“What does it bloody matter?” Ray’s face contorted in a grimace of confusion as Chris looked down at the floor, and then Ray reached around and wrapped his arm around Chris’ shoulders. Several moments passed, and then Ray pulled his arm away and stared at the floor.
“I didn’ burn meself.”
Chris looked up sharply, a confused look on his face.
“I didn’… Bloody damned cranberry fuckin’ sauce…” Chris felt his own throat catch as he realized that there were tears in Ray’s eyes, and he moved closer to Ray, pulling him down and onto the bed, drawing his arms around him.
Four stories spilled forth, and the only tears that Chris had ever seen Ray cry, great, blubbering geysers of them, choking out stories in a mass of sobs, and then…
“I jus’… I didn’ feel anything, and it was bright, and hot, and, shit, hell, I dunno… Nothing. That was the worst part. For that split second, there were just nothin.’ And… I were so bloody terrified…” Ray’s voice dissolved for what must have been the hundredth time, and Chris wrapped his arms tightly around him.
“We’re gonna be late,” Chris said, softly, after what seemed like hours of holding Ray, and Ray started to chuckle, softly, his red, raw eyes lighting up slight as he did so.
“Chris. What day was yesterday?”
“Friday.”
“So what day is today?”
“It’s… Bloody hell, how’d we both miss that?” Ray grabbed Chris in return, and then slowly slid down the bedclothes, until his mouth was positioned near Chris’ cock, and he slowly started to kiss the insides of Chris’ thighs, drawing his tongue slowly down the soft, smooth flesh there and then reaching up, stretching his tongue behind Chris’ shaft and playfully licking at Chris’ balls, listening to the sounds of Chris gasping and whimpering in pleasure as he did so. Knowing that Chris couldn’t last nearly as long as he could, he took the twitching cock into his mouth and started to suck, slowly at first, feeling Chris’ hands grasping madly at his shoulders as he did so.
Chris squirmed and bucked underneath him, and Ray placed his hands on Chris’ stomach, forcing him down as he drew his mouth up and down, rewarded within a few minutes with the taste of Chris inside of him. He pulled back, and then moved towards the bathroom, earning a questioning and slightly saddened look from Chris as he left, and then returning with the forgotten fags in his hand. He tossed them to Chris and then sat on the bed, taking the lit cigarette that Chris offered him.
“Chris?”
“Ray?”
“You tell anyone about today, an’ I’ll bloody kill you.”
“Okay.”
“Chris?”
“Ray?”
“I love you, you daft div.”
“Okay.”
“Cheeky little…”
Author: Sytaxia
Words: 4683
Rating: Brown Cortina (slash and violence)
Pairings: Ray/Chris
For the old Five Things Meme, requested by
elfbert
1.
“They’re hard to grow, you know.” Chris idly stared at Ray as the larger man shaved, delicately pulling the edge of his razor over and around the prodigious moustache on his upper lip.
“What the ‘ell’re you goin’ on about?” Ray squinted as he turned his face and started to smoothly craft out his perfect sideburns.
“Moustaches. They’re hard to grow. ‘Member when I tried ‘aving one on, and it just wouldn’ take. Spent ages not shaving, and didn’t get nowt but fuzz.”
“Mmm,” Ray mumbled as he stared into the mirror, and into the hairs on his upper lip. There, buried underneath the patch of golden hair, was a long, thin scar that ran just to the top of his mouth. He stared into the mirror, his mind wandering deep into the past, and then looked past his own reflection, an image of a 1950 schoolyard coming into view behind his own face in the smooth surface….
…
“Carling, you little gobshite! What the hell do you think you’re about, telling ol’ badger legs about me an’ Tommy?” Andy Bradford was the school bully, and, after watching him take the piss and the stuffing out of Tommy Capshaw for two years running, Ray had finally worked up the nerve to tell the rather cantankerous deputy headmistress of the children’s home where they lived about it.
“He’s half your size, you bloody bastard!” Eleven year-old Ray had spat the words out at Andy’s feet, and then felt his chest burn with a fire he’d never felt before as Andy’s face twisted into a grinning leer.
“So are you, yeh little toerag,” the response had been punctuated by a fist into Ray’s gut, which had sent him spinning onto the ground, and then he felt fingers rifling through his crew cut, struggling to get a grip through the short cut that all of the boys in the home were required to have. He barely had time to think before the larger boy raised his head and smashed it into the ground, a large piece of gravel digging into his face and slicing into his lip…
Seven years later, as Ray had stood, wide-eyed and grinning, along with several other young shipmates in the Royal Navy, at the sights and sounds of the Portsmouth nightlife, his eyes found the prize that they were looking for.
“An’ she said it’s a new lipstick for the new Eddie Fisher record, nuffink to it, I mean, one’s a shilling unner the ovver, all shops that’s ‘avin,’ ain’t it, an’ not that no Jonny o’ mine wouldn’t tip that for a bit o’ French dippin’ on sides, Marlene,” the girl was short, curvy, brown curls cascading over one shoulder in the Rita Hayworth fashion. “I kin git a bit o’ extra wear from what I’s got for the ol’ red, anyway, an’ I do love that Outside of Heaven song, don’t you?”
Ray tried to put his best to affect a Marlon Brando swagger, and sauntered slowly up to the prostitute, steeling himself for a taste of a genuine southern pro, and then watched as her friend’s gaze settled on his face. “Looks like a bit extra now, Nell,” she said, walking away, and Ray watched her go, wondering if she was referencing the fact that he was a sailor, or the fact that he’d obviously only ever had his cock sucked, and never “gone dipping.”
“Well, ain’t this meh lucky night, nice young sailor boy comin’ over for a bit o’ nice bovver, ain’t he? What’s your name then, love?” The girl smile at him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and Ray felt himself respond to the touch of her smooth arms against the back of his neck.
“Ray. Raymond. Seaman Carling, at your service, Miss. From Manchester,” Ray tried to sound as confident and posh as he could, suddenly acutely aware of his heavy accent.
The girl giggled, “You don’t say? Well then, meh lanky manc, I bet I know what you’s after, an’ it ain’t a lesson on playin’ Chopin on t’joanna.”
“You’re a, a, er, you’re musical, then?” Ray felt his confidence start to falter under her predatory gaze.
“Mmm, they says I’ve a pretty song for any willin,’ that’s what they says. Half crown for a nice lil’ poke about, back my place, plus sixpence charge fer hairlip.”
Ray balked. “Plus what? I ‘aven’t got no ‘airlip!”
The girl laughed, “Oh aye, them doctors fixed it neat, they did, if that ain’t somefink I’ve seen a fair pickle of,” she lightly ran a finger across the scar on his lip.
“That’s no ‘airlip, jus’ a scar!” Ray pulled back slightly, indignation on his face, and the girl’s hands suddenly set on her hips, her face going stormy.
“Same charge fer all girls roun’ these part, you’ll find,” she said, and he crossed his arms over his chest in response.
“Ain’t no bleedin’ hairlip, you bloody slag!”
“Oi, jus’ you fuck off, you won’ find no one wants nuffink havin’ with a lying cunt like you, then!” The girl practically screamed it at him, and then walked away, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she went.
…
“Ray? Ray?” The memories dissolved back into the familiar surroundings of the bathroom in his flat, and Ray whirled around to see Chris giving him a questioning look.
“Whah?” Ray pulled his razor away from his face, just short of cutting too far into the edge of his sideburn, and possibly his skin.
“I said, ‘‘ave you ever tried going without?’” Chris gestured towards the moustache, and Ray set his razor down on the edge of the sink.
“Chris. Can you see this?” He leaned close to Chris, gesturing towards the moustache, and Chris squinted, then looked up into Ray’s eyes.
“’s a scar. You get that in a fight, then?”
Chris started slightly as Ray’s arms wrapped around his waist, Ray’s mouth forcefully pushing down on his, pulling him close and exploring the edges of his teeth, hands gripping at his backside and back as Ray locked down on him, and then pulled away for a second, “You’ve got a good set of eyes on you, Chris.” The two of them locked together again, fumbling at each others’ belts, both realizing that they were going to be late for work.
2.
Chris felt Ray rip down his trousers, grabbing for the shaving foam that still caked one side of his face, gently rubbing it into his rear as a lubricant before edging a finger in, causing Chris to gasp. “Blimey, do I get this every time the boss says I’ve got a good set of eyes, too? ‘Cause I can keep track…”
Ray didn’t respond as he pulled his own unbuckled and unzipped trousers down and slid himself inside of Chris, eliciting a further gasp as he slowly edged his way in, the shaving foam tingling slightly at the edge of his cock as he dipped further inside, pressing Chris down against the side of the tub. His hands reached around and fumbled for Chris’ own organ, feeling the hard, stiffening organ twitch as he slid in and out, each time pressing slightly further, until his entire cock was embedded within Chris.
“Bloody hell. Yes… Ray…” Chris was gasping as Ray pressed him against the bath, both of them falling to their knees, Chris’ hands going white knuckled on the ceramic edge as Ray continued to raise and lower himself into his backside, his hands gripping Chris’ member, slickening with precum and pulsing in time with Ray’s own movements as the two of them bucked and swayed as one on the bathroom floor. Within moments, Ray felt Chris’ hot seed spill over his hands, a long, joyous moan escaping Chris’ lips, and he continued to press on, raising and lowering his body, moving his cock in and out of Chris until he came as well, and then he fell to the floor, not even noticing as his elbow collided with the smooth tile.
“Jesus Ray. That was… Blimey…” Chris turned around and slid onto his slick and happily throbbing rear, his shoulders resting against the edge of the bath, staring at Ray, who was still on his belly on the floor. He gasped once more, and then looked over at Ray, who was climbing slowly to his feet to grab the fags and lighter that were sitting atop the toilet roil that sat on the back of the stool. As Ray sat down next to him, a grin on his face, Chris stared at his arm for a moment, noting the fading and nearly invisible blue anchor tattoo, and, just below it, nearly as hard to see, a long, twisting white scar. “What’s that one from, then?”
…
“You bloody poofter!”
“Say it again!”
“I said you’re a bloody poofter, Carling!”
Ray took a swing at Manning’s face, feeling teeth meet his knuckles and watching the other man fall to the ground, no match for the massive blow that Ray had dealt him. “You’d better stay there, ‘less you want what for, yeh bastard,” Ray growled as Manning spit out blood and a half tooth onto the ground of their berth.
“Bet you’d like that. You like seeing all of us on the ground, or abunk, you bloody pervert,” Manning spit out more blood as he hissed the words, and Ray kicked him in the belly, grinning as he heard the other man gasp and groan.
“You say that again, an’ it’s more’n a tooth you lose, yeh daft shitheap!”
“You an’ Jimmy Lamb, don’t think I didn’ see youse!”
“You bloody shut yer gob, else you won’t be able to open it ‘fore next week!” Ray stormed out of the berth, feeling his face flush, and letting his mind slowly twist around what Manning had said…
Two weeks later, Charles Manning had returned to the berth to a rather interesting sight: Sherry, his fiancé, bucking hard and fast on top of Ray, moaning in pleasure as her ginger ringlets tossed and flopped about her face and shoulders, her hands firmly planted on the hard surface of Ray’s chest.
“You - you bloody - I’ll kill you!” Manning reached into his pocket, pulling out a knife and flicking it open, and Sherry screamed, tumbling away from the bunk that she had been riding Ray on, screaming and starting to bawl as she grabbed the blanket and started to try to cover her breasts. Ray raised up an arm and felt the blade sink into it, screaming in rage as his flesh was torn open.
Within a minute, Ray had ripped the knife from his forearm and dug it into Manning’s thigh, listening with a dark, guilty pleasure as the other man howled. “Who’s the poof now, eh?”
After his month in the brig was up, Ray had decided not to sign on for another term… It was almost 1960 now, and he could think of another direction his life could take…
…
“Jus’ a fight.” Ray placed two fags between his lips and lit them at once, then pulled them both out in an exhalation of blue-gray smoke, offering one to Chris.
“Right, then,” Chris nodded, taking a drag from the proffered cigarette. The two of them smoked in silence, and then dashed their fag ends out in the sink, Ray shaking his head with a wide grin at his half-stubbled face in the mirror, his shirt, thankfully, was still hanging on the hanger he’d placed it on after taking it off three days ago (no need to wash ‘em after every wear, he figured), but the trousers and pants he’d slid into earlier were kicked to a corner of the bathroom, next to Chris…
“We ain’t poofs, are we, Chris?” Ray asked, and Chris gave him a quizzical look then looked away, considering things for a moment, “I suppose that…”
“Chris.” Ray cut him off. “Just say we ain’t.”
“We ain’t poofs, then, Ray,” Chris felt his face fall as he hollowly said the words for Ray, and then felt a smile form again as Ray dove down towards him, burying his face in Chris’ chest, his mouth working quickly over the notch between Chris’ collarbones, forcing Chris to arch his back and moan in pleasure as he reached forward to grab Ray’s still sticky cock. Much as he hated the fact that Ray would never admit that they were a couple, Ray could always make it up to him…
3.
Chris twisted downwards, sliding on the tile floor of the bathroom, ducking away from Ray’s mouth and towards his crotch, his lips parted and his tongue sliding down the thick, muscled shoals of Ray’s chest and over the curve of his belly, down to the thick patch of golden hair, and then the prize beneath. He slid his tongue slowly up and down Ray’s penis, feeling the organ grow stiff again, tasting the odd tang of shaving foam, salt, and, perhaps, a bit of his own taste - he wasn’t sure if that should disgust him or thrill him, but it did neither. What did thrill him was the way that Ray swayed and bucked, raised up on his hands as if doing a push-up, and Chris took his lover’s cock into his mouth and started to suck, hard.
“Oh fuck, yes, bloody… Why’re you stopping?” Chris slowly slid Ray’s organ out of his mouth and stared at his thigh, sliding further down so that he could get a better look at it.
“What ‘bout this one?” Chris asked, and Ray gave him an aggravated glare, twisting himself around with a groan. On Ray’s right thigh, half way from the hip to the knee, was another old, barely visible scar, twisting and white against his skin.
…
“No turkey, ‘course, but guess what I’ve got fer us, my little love,” Ray’s mother was busy setting the table for Christmas dinner, a grin on her face, “Real cranberry sauce! Ought to make t’spam a bit more like Christmas, won’t it?”
Ray nodded, a wide grin on his six year old face, watching as his mother ladled the thick, red concoction over slabs of fried spam on each plate. “You go an’ get yer sister, tell ‘er dinner’s on t’table,” Ray’s mum smiled at him as he dashed into the back garden, searching for Gemma, who was colleting the scrap metal that she and he had salvaged into the old wheelbarrow.
“This’ll fetch a tidy lot, eh, baby brother?” Gemma’s golden braids bobbed at the side of her head as she piled the last scrap on. She stared at her dirty hands, “Nice sight I am, fourteen and covered in dust and grit, eh? Mum’ll ‘ave kittens if I don’t wash before dinner, right, Ray?” Ray nodded, trying not to burst and let his sister in on Mum’s secret Christmas surprise. Gemma smiled at the wheelbarrow and then started to move towards the house, when the night was suddenly split by the wretched howl of sirens.
Ray’s eyes went wide as Gemma grabbed his hand, dragging him into the old garden shed, ripping the gas mask off of her back and slamming it onto Ray’s face, her eyes frantic as the crawled underneath the empty coal bunker. “Where the bloody hell’s your mask?” she screamed at him, watching as he shook his head.
“Mum!” Ray screamed against the harsh scent of rubber that filled his nostrils, trying to climb out and run for the house, but Gemma held him back, locking him in an iron grip.
“Mum’s coming!” She hissed, and then there was a horrible, deafening crash that split the night with a far harsher tear than the sirens ever could, and the night went dark.
When Ray woke up, Gemma was trying to pry the iron trough off of the two of them, the weight of the shed’s collapsed ceiling bearing down upon it as she shoved. Ray tried to help, and eventually the two of them crawled out and into the frigid morning light of December 26, 1940. “Stay here!” Gemma commanded, but Ray wouldn’t listen. He ran through the rubble, tripped and feeling a sharp pain in his leg as a sharp bit of scrap steel dug into his thigh, and then he ran for the house, not even noticing that the roof was half collapsed.
“Ray! Come back! Ray!” Gemma climbed unsteadily over the mess, trying to move after him, as Ray darted into the gaping hole that made up half of their back doorway.
The first thing that Ray saw as he entered the house was that half of the roof, and the upstairs, had tumbled down upon the dining table. The next thing he saw was his mother, laying under the table, where she had obviously tried to take shelter. A long slab of wood protruded from her neck, a shatter piece of the table that she’d tried to use to protect herself. There was a broken plate atop the crushed table top, half of it on a ridiculously intact portion of table, the other half broken and sliding down through the torn wood, following the shard that had ripped its way through his mother’s throat. Cranberry sauce had dripped off of it, drying on their mother’s face, a dark red smear to match the blood that soaked the front of her frock and apron.
Ray heard Gemma gasp and wrap her arms around him, pulling him back, and then heard her shriek as she yanked him forcefully back out of the hole. “It’s not safe here,” her voice was quivering and unsteady as she ripped him out of the house. “It’s not safe, Ray…”
…
“Do you like cranberry sauce?” Ray asked softly, and Chris ran his thumb over the scar.
“Cranberry sauce? Blimey, I hate the stuff. Always have,” Chris said, and then pulled himself back towards Ray’s cock, surprised to find that it had already softened in the moment that he had pulled away.
Ray smiled then, his eyes closed, “I hate the bloody shite, too,” he said, gesturing with one hand towards the scar and the pushing his hand back under him, hoping that Chris would mistake the slight tremble that ran through him for strain caused by lifting himself up with one arm.
“Burned yerself cooking, that it?” Chris said, and without another word, he wrapped his lips back around Ray’s penis and continued to lick and suck, the sensations drawing Ray’s mind firmly back into the present. Chris bobbed up and down under Ray, who could barely keep himself lifted upon his arms and knees, which were deeply spread to allow Chris’ body to slide between them. The second climax took a considerably longer time than the first had, but when it was over, he managed to shove himself backwards enough so that Chris was lying under him, their faces next to each other. He buried his nose in Chris’ hair.
“I’m glad you hate it,” he said, softly, and Chris gave him a questioning look before kissing his neck.
4.
The two of them slowly twisted so that they were laying on their sides, facing one another, and then slid upwards into a sitting position, backs against the tub again, pulling out another pair of ciggies and lighting them. Chris gave a wide, lopsided grin as he nestled into the crook of Ray’s arm and took a long drag, then gazed down at Ray’s belly.
“This one I’ve noticed before, ‘cept I never asked. That’s from before I joined the force, ain’t it?” Chris let his free hand slowly drift across the puckered, long line on Ray’s stomach, and then looked up at Ray’s face.
“That was from the first year I were a DC, an’ all,” Ray said softly, thinking back to the way that the station had been at the time. DCI Harry Woolf, DI Gene Hunt, and DS Algie Morris, all leading the way for the young DC that had had a very nice career as a constable after leaving the navy.
“You took a blade for the Guv, right?” Chris nestled more deeply into the crook of Ray’s arm and let his fingers slowly drift over the scar, feeling the soft, downy hair on Ray’s belly lift up slightly in response to the touch.
“If you know, why’re you askin,’ yeh div?” Ray stubbed out his cigarette on the tiled floor and reached for another, grabbing a second one for Chris without thinking of it.
“You never talk about it…” Chris lit his own cigarette while still staring at the scar…
…
“There’s been a lot of shit on my streets for all of my bloody life, and I’m so sick and tired of all this fucking mess, and now you go and drum up new piles of it all over the bloody station!” Gene was fuming as he stalked back and forth across his office, not allowing himself to look at Ray.
“I was doing what I thought you would do…” Ray stammered the same defense that he’d given before as Gene strode back and forth, his hands in his pockets, pulling his jacket back and somehow making him look harsher, as if his anger was inflating his form to more than it really was.
“What you thought I would do? What makes you think I would ram a pile of bleedin’ drugs up some daft little scum of the earth tosser’s nose?” Gene screamed it at him, and Ray felt himself flinch as Gene’s eyes finally rose up and rested on him.
“Anything for a result. When DCI Woolf asked you why you barged into that robbery when he told you not to, you said you needed a result. Anything for a result.” Ray let his eyes drift to meet Gene’s, and he saw a deep, haunted look in the other man’s eyes.
“You saved my life there, Ray…” Gene’s voice softened for a moment, and then his eyes blazed again, “And it weren’t nearly the same thing! Tyler wants your bloody badge, you soft-brained, damned, bloody…” Gene’s voice trailed off as he stared at Ray’s stomach for a moment, and then he pulled away, his jaw clenched. “Get out there. Get to work.”
“Guv… That’s it? That’s…” Ray wasn’t sure what to say.
“You’ll find out soon enough. This cost you the trust you bought with that knife, Ray, and it’ll take a damn sight of… I don’t bloody know what…. To buy it back! Now get to work!”
Five hours later, Ray had been feeling like it was business as usual, as if he could put the whole situation behind him, and the Guv had called everyone round before beginning his speech. Ray had barely heard a word that Gene was saying; every word registered, its sounds, its meanings, but part of him didn’t hear. Part of him had sunk to the deepest recesses of his heels and turned to ice there…
“That’s it? A demotion?” Ray’s head had snapped up when he heard Sam’s cry, and for a moment, he saw Gene turn back and look at him. He’d taken a knife for Gene, in 1965, but on that day, he’d stepped aside and let it slide into Gene. And it wasn’t aimed at his gut, it was aimed elsewhere. Higher, and to the left…
…
“What’s there to talk about? I took a knife once,” Ray curled his arm tightly around Chris, who slid sideways so that he was resting on his shoulder against Ray’s chest.
“For the Guv,” Chris said, looking up and kissing Ray’s collarbone, working his way to the side of Ray’s neck. Ray didn’t respond.
5.
Ray felt Chris’ tongue slide over the thin, barely noticeable line of mottled flesh on the side of his neck; it wasn’t as thick as a regular scar, it was more of a discoloration, a permanent lightness where the skin had seared away. A deeper burn would have left a much nastier mark, they’d said, although it would also have hurt a fair deal less.
“You don’t talk about that, either,” Chris said, softly, kissing the scar from the bomb blast gently with his lips, and then running his tongue along it again.
“Nothing to talk about,” Ray said, and then felt Chris pull away slowly climbing to his feet and picking up the scattered trouser off of the floor. Ray rolled his eyes and sighed as Chris started to leave the bathroom.
“Why do you have to do that? Just like a bloody bird, I swear! Damned Tyler’s rubbin’ his poncey arse ways off on yeh.” Chris turned around in response and shook his head at Ray, and then moved towards the bedroom, leaving Ray to groan slightly as he hoisted himself off of the floor and followed.
“Chris. Chris. Look at me,” Ray grabbed a hold of Chris and turned him around, staring at his face. “There’s nothing to tell. You were bloody there!”
“But I weren’t you! Were you scared? What did it feel like? What were you thinking?” Chris sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at Ray, a strange, sad echo of innocence in his eyes as he stared at his lover.
“What does it bloody matter?” Ray’s face contorted in a grimace of confusion as Chris looked down at the floor, and then Ray reached around and wrapped his arm around Chris’ shoulders. Several moments passed, and then Ray pulled his arm away and stared at the floor.
“I didn’ burn meself.”
Chris looked up sharply, a confused look on his face.
“I didn’… Bloody damned cranberry fuckin’ sauce…” Chris felt his own throat catch as he realized that there were tears in Ray’s eyes, and he moved closer to Ray, pulling him down and onto the bed, drawing his arms around him.
Four stories spilled forth, and the only tears that Chris had ever seen Ray cry, great, blubbering geysers of them, choking out stories in a mass of sobs, and then…
“I jus’… I didn’ feel anything, and it was bright, and hot, and, shit, hell, I dunno… Nothing. That was the worst part. For that split second, there were just nothin.’ And… I were so bloody terrified…” Ray’s voice dissolved for what must have been the hundredth time, and Chris wrapped his arms tightly around him.
“We’re gonna be late,” Chris said, softly, after what seemed like hours of holding Ray, and Ray started to chuckle, softly, his red, raw eyes lighting up slight as he did so.
“Chris. What day was yesterday?”
“Friday.”
“So what day is today?”
“It’s… Bloody hell, how’d we both miss that?” Ray grabbed Chris in return, and then slowly slid down the bedclothes, until his mouth was positioned near Chris’ cock, and he slowly started to kiss the insides of Chris’ thighs, drawing his tongue slowly down the soft, smooth flesh there and then reaching up, stretching his tongue behind Chris’ shaft and playfully licking at Chris’ balls, listening to the sounds of Chris gasping and whimpering in pleasure as he did so. Knowing that Chris couldn’t last nearly as long as he could, he took the twitching cock into his mouth and started to suck, slowly at first, feeling Chris’ hands grasping madly at his shoulders as he did so.
Chris squirmed and bucked underneath him, and Ray placed his hands on Chris’ stomach, forcing him down as he drew his mouth up and down, rewarded within a few minutes with the taste of Chris inside of him. He pulled back, and then moved towards the bathroom, earning a questioning and slightly saddened look from Chris as he left, and then returning with the forgotten fags in his hand. He tossed them to Chris and then sat on the bed, taking the lit cigarette that Chris offered him.
“Chris?”
“Ray?”
“You tell anyone about today, an’ I’ll bloody kill you.”
“Okay.”
“Chris?”
“Ray?”
“I love you, you daft div.”
“Okay.”
“Cheeky little…”