Didn't want to know, Didn't need to know.

Sometimes, Gabriel hated being so observant. It was great on the job, for sure, but when it came to life and the people around him, it wasn’t so good at times.

Sylar was acting different. Not anything alarming. He still sang obnoxiously along with the radio, he still gorged himself on bacon cheeseburgers and pie. And he was still shy about public displays with his lover, or boyfriend, whatever they wanted to call each other.

When it was just the three of them talking, Sylar spoke softer, hung his head slightly. He was still Sylar, just a bit more subdued. The biggest change that Gabriel noticed was that he was calling his lover Peter, not “Petey boy” like he used to.  Gabriel was burning with curiosity, but he knew better than to ask either of them. It was obviously something between lovers, and Gabriel had a strict “Do Not Need To Know” policy when it came to their love life. They were both happy, so Gabriel was happy. He just didn’t want to know any of the details.

Sylar came out of the motel office with a worried look on his face. Gabriel and Peter exited the car. “Only one room left. Two queens, at least, but we have to double up tonight.”  Sylar’s eyes flicked nervously between his brother and his lover.

“We’ve had to do it before. It’s no big deal.” Gabriel said, watching his brother closely.  Sylar was biting his lip, looking pleadingly at the other man.  Peter cupped Sylar’s cheek and looked questioningly at him.  Sylar closed his eyes and nodded. Peter took the keys and made his way to the door, leaving the brothers alone.

“Uh, Gabriel,” Sylar started as he popped open the trunk to get their bags. “I, uh.  Peter and I, um. Things are different between us now.” Gabriel grabbed his own bag and the emergency bag.

“Okay,” Gabriel said, not wanting to push the subject.

“No, Gabe. Things are really different between Peter and I.” Sylar picked up both his and the Peter’s bags. “I just wanted to give you a heads up, you know. So you don’t, like, freak out or anything.”  Sylar shut the trunk and started towards the open motel room.  Peter was waiting for them just inside the door.

As Sylar crossed the threshold, Peter brushed his arm. “You’ll be fine, I promise.” He whispered so that Gabriel almost couldn't hear it.  Sylar nodded, and made his way to the bed closest to the door. He placed the bags on the bed then walked back to Peter.  Peter removed his coat and held it out. Sylar took it and placed it on the coat rack before removing his own.  Gabriel went to the other bed and started unpacking his bags. He tried not to watch as Sylar unpacked both bags.

“Sylar,” Peter said with a bit more authority than his voice usually held. “We forgot the beer in the car.”  Sylar nodded and left the room quickly.  Gabriel watched, unbelieving as his brother made no smart assed comment, nor even argue about doing it. He returned to the room and placed the case of beer in the fridge.  Sylar caught his brother’s confused stare and flushed a little before looking away.  Peter sat on the comfy looking couch.

“Gabriel, come join me,” Peter said.  Gabriel made his way over to the couch and sat beside the other man. His brain had processed what he was seeing, but he didn’t want to acknowledge what exactly was happening. “Sylar, a beer for myself and your brother. You may have one if you wish.”  Gabriel shifted uncomfortably, focusing his attention on the channel surfing Peter was doing. The two of them had settled on an interesting documentary about recent religious discoveries in Israel.

Sylar handed Peter an open beer, then handed one to Gabriel. He opened his own bottle and sat on the floor. He wedged himself between Peter’s feet and rested his head on the inside of his thigh. Sylar was blushing badly, avoiding looking in Gabriel’s direction.  Peter began stroking the side of Sylar’s face.

The three of them began discussing the authenticity of the new relics being found.  Gabriel had almost forgotten witnessing his brother’s submissive behavior. After the documentary finished, Peter announced he was going for a shower.  Sylar went to stand up, but was stopped by Peter.  Sylar sank back to the floor and watched his boyfriend walk to the bathroom.

The brothers did not speak or even look at each other for a few moments.  Sylar was picking at the label on his empty bottle. It was Gabriel who broke the silence.

“Are you happy?” He asked.  Sylar smiled slightly and nodded.  Gabriel nodded. “Then I’m happy for you.”  Sylar’s shoulders sagged in relief.  Gabriel walked into the kitchen, grabbing them each another beer.  Gabriel handed Sylar’s down to him and sat back in his original spot. “I just don’t want details. Period.”

Peter emerged from the bathroom, hair more of a mess than usual.  Sylar smiled up at him.  Gabriel kept his attention on the television.

“You can take your shower now, babe.”  Peter said as he took his seat on the couch. “Thank you.”  Sylar said, giving Peter a kiss on the cheek. His face still a little pink, he retreated to the bathroom.  Gabriel and Peter remained in silence until they heard the water running.

“Gabriel, I would like to ask you a question.”  Gabriel swallowed, not entirely sure that he wanted to know. He nodded. “I wish to take my relationship with your brother to a more serious level. And keep human customs, I wanted to have his family’s approval.”  Gabriel looked at Peter with the same tilted head expression the man was famous for.

“You want to get married?”  Gabriel chuckled slightly. “I don’t think that Sylar likes the whole idea of marriage.”

“No, I do not think marriage is what he would like. Something a bit more like what our relationship is like.”  Gabriel held his hand up to stop Peter from saying any more.

“You have my blessing. Do whatever it is that you want to do. You are happy, my brother is happy, I am happy for you both. Just, I don’t want to know.” Gabriel shook his head and downed the last half of his beer in a single gulp.

“Thank you, Gabriel.” Peter said, taking a sip from his beer.

“Oh, man or not,” Gabriel glared at him. “You break his heart and I will fucking kill you. Understood?”  Peter stared at him with his signature confused look.  Gabriel sighed. “Just, treat him right, okay?”

Sylar exited the bathroom dressed in just track pants and sat between Peter’s feet once again. The other man ran his fingers though the damp hair affectionately. Both looked much more relaxed then when they first entered the room.

Gabriel, however, finished the rest of the case of beer, mumbling “Didn’t want to know, didn’t need to know” until he passed out.

(I am not in the mood to be naming this anything elaborate)

Samuel pauses to take another sip from his flask, and this time, he hears breathing.  Samuel pulls the flask from his lips slowly. There's a blinding streak of light, and an explosion of pain just above his right eye. What feels like a rock slams into his face and clatters to the floor, causing Samuel to drop his light. He bends over to retrieve it, wondering about his drunken state, and that's when the upper cut to the face shatters Samuel's nose and knocks the breath from his lungs.

Samuel gasps, runs into the wall, and falls to the floor. There's another painful explosion right between his legs; Samuel gags and clutches at his throat, trying to see in the dark, but all he sees is blackness. There's a heat on his face. Someone has knelt beside him.

"Where is she?" a voice asks.

"Who?" Samuel manages.

"Avery Jaro."

"Upstairs. In her room."

"YOU FUCKING LIAR!"

Samuel would recognize that blood curdling screech anywhere. Gabriel. He feels a sharp toed dress shoe slam into his ribs. There's the splintering crack of bones breaking, and Samuel falls onto his side, gasping like a fish out of water for his next breath.

"You're a real man, Gabriel," Samuel says. Knuckles hit his face again, this time, cracking his front teeth. Aching pain radiates from Samuel's nose. "Beating a man already down. That's so like you." Gabriel punches Samuel again and Samuel feels his bottom lip splitting in half.

"You raped my sister," Gabriel says. He grab Samuel by the hair and slams his head against the floor, causing Samuel's jaw to crack off the marble floor. There's a warmth now, all over the side of Samuel's face and he can't feel anything. He feels like he's drowning. "You raped Lyla. You raped..." Samuel feels the dress shoe, again, kicking him in the ribs, over and over again. "HOW MANY GIRLS, SAMUEL?"

"Many, many girls," Samuel says. "They all wanted it. Every last one of them." Gabriel screams and kicks Samuel more, until finally Samuel can feel nothing but the cold floor beneath him.

"You aren't worth the next painful breathe you take," Gabriel says. He spits in Samuel's face, and then drops something soft on his face. Gloves. "Go fuck yourself, Samuel."

"But it's your turn," Samuel offers.

Gabriel yells something inhuman and Samuel feels the cold bite of a blade rip through the skin and muscle on his side, dealing a decisive blow. Heat sprays from the wound as Gabriel pulls the knife back out, and Samuel finally lets out a whimpering sob, certain this is the end. Then Gabriel is running away. His footsteps pound through Samuel's mind until there's silence once more.

Samuel opens his eyes, there's a bright light, just out of reach. Samuel tries to reach it, once, then twice, and then, he succumbs to a cold and lonely blackness.

football players

Dear football players,

Does beating up (and nearly raping) my brother and his friend and tying them up to a fucking goalpost make you feel better about yourselves? How do you sleep at night knowing that you did that to them?  He's been through more stuff in one week then you stupid assholes have in your lifetime. And I know you probably think that I'm saying this because he's my brother but if I had caught you guys doing that to anyone else I'd still be saying this.

Twelve to two. Really? Really?? I don't give a fuck if you think they can take it. They can't.

Tying them both (naked, might I add) to the goal posts. That's not funny. At all. That's ridiculous and really fucking stupid. What were they doing anyways? Holding hands? Holding hands is so high school....I mean....OH MY GOD TWO GUYS ARE HOLDING HANDS!!!!!!!!!!! What is so wrong with that anyways?

God says it's wrong. 

God says two guys holding hands is wrong?

No, God says being a fag is wrong. 

According to the urban dictionary a fag is a person who frequently rides a Harley.

And the real dictionary?

A tiring or unwelcome task.

...God said being gay is wrong. 

Being happy is wrong?

No, loving a person of the same gender is wrong.

"Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love."
1 John 4:8

"But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."
Matthew 5:44

God also said to love everyone so if you're going to bring God into this you should really rethink your strategy.


Did you break Sylar's arm cause he can chuck the ball better then you? If so...that is so pathetic of you and not to mention very petty.

Peter didn't do anything. He doesn't play football. Calling him a 'Rapist'....What The Hell is Wrong With Your Stupid Fucked Up Brain? He's not the one shoving his cock in a very unwilling person. He would NEVER do that. He knows firsthand what it does to the victims. Way to be a big ass hypocrite.

Sylar's always been a good sport about these things so I highly Really don't think he rubbed their winning in your faces or anything. He honestly doesn't care who wins he just likes playing. And you ...you took that away from him, as if you hadn't done enough already. He deserves to have something that makes him happy. He did have Peter. But...everything has to end sometime.

Six years. They have been together for six years. I hope to God your stupidity hasn't done anything to change that. I don't think it will. They've loved each other way too long to call it quits after another thing bad happens. That's right...Another thing. What? You thought you were the first to break their relationship down? No, my friends, you are by far not the first. I think that what makes them so close though, and I have you to thank for that. No, I'm not glad this happened. But I'm trying really hard to look on the bright side of things.

And about my brother....

He's not strong but he certainly isn't weak.

Love,

Dexter Jaro

P.S.
Sorry if this makes little sense, but I am at the hospital waiting to hear whether or not they're going to be okay.

  

  I find this funny.

YAY

A DAY OFF...FINALLY.

Since I've been gone there's been quite a few Tuesdays....

only me

What would it feel like,
To just disappear.
You wouldn't know,
If you just weren't here.
There is no feeling,
Because you can't feel.
You can't interpret.
You just aren't real.
It's so lonely here,
Where you used to be.
I look around,
But it's only me.

My not so fake death

Our death was a rather untimely one. Dying on the battlefield. There was too many of them. Too few of us. Peter and I died on August 4^th, 2013. This is the truth. Would you rather I tell you otherwise?

As many of you have already figured out, I don’t lie. However my job sometimes requires me to alter the truth so as to keep the people I love safe. This is the truth. Would you rather I tell you otherwise?

On August 4^th Peter and I found ourselves in quite the predicament. We had gotten a call from our captain saying that we were supposed to report to our stations immediately. So…we did. I am unable to recall most of what happened during our time there. This is the truth.

Peter and I were accidentally dropped in the wrong drop off zone and landed in the village. We ran for cover in a nearby building. It was, coincidentally, a church. I had never really believed in God but I found myself praying anyways.

Peter suggested that we crawl through the underbrush until we reached our campsite. I for one did not find that this was a good idea for we had been informed that there was an enemy camp somewhere in the surrounding forestation. We remained at the church until the tank’s playground became the village.

Somehow Peter and I had separated and I wanted him to stay with me. Always. I had to get out of there. I made my way through the jungle as fast as I found physically possible dodging branches and tree roots that were spread out like the many courses I had trained on during Hell Week.

Thoughts ran through my mind, thoughts that kept me moving, thoughts that kept me alive. Sylar. Sylar needs me. He needs me to make it out of here. He needs someone to tell him that everything will be okay. That somebody still loves him. Peter. I have to find Peter. He better be okay. He has to be okay. He is okay. I need him. Need him to make it out of here with me. Alive. Somehow I’m still alive.

I could hear someone in the distance. Someone. Someone singing. Where did it come from? Peter. Peter’s blood is singing. Where’s Peter? He has to be okay. Please let him be okay. Your breathing sped up as you began running with renewed vigor.

No. Nonononono…this can’t be happening. You were surrounded. Peter’s battered body stood before you, as though giving you your last chance to make something of it. SAVE HIM. You ran right in front of him.

Bang. Bang. You were shot. You fell down alongside him. The fallen soldier. Gotta get back up. I always get back up. The hero in me didn’t want to give up now. I have to keep fighting. If only I could pick myself up off the ground.

“Peter.”

I can tell that Peter can’t really hear what I’m saying. And it doesn’t help that weapons are going off all around us, from handguns to automatic weapons and tanks rolling down the street. A few gunships crossing the sky above us adds to the chaos of noise.

“Peter,” I say again. My lips are now against Peter’s ear, making it easier for him to hear me.
 

Peter closes his eyes. Every breath hurts, shifting around the pieces of metal in his body that don’t belong there.

“Not yet,” I tell him, insistent, and I slowly move closer. When Peter opens his eyes, my face is blocking the sun that’s attempting to pierce the sand and smoke floating in the air.

Peter can’t help but smile at the saintly glow around my head. 

My body is resting partially on his now, creating new waves of pain, but Peter doesn’t care. Not this close to the end. It would be rude to complain after I stepped in front of him to take the mortar shots meant for his already battered body. 

I know now that Peter isn’t going to be getting up anymore; that he isn’t healing right. After months of getting torn to pieces and putting himself back together again, it’s getting harder each time, and now it’s failing completely. His body is tired. Peter knows I’m not feeling much better.

I smile down at him and bow my head, resting our foreheads together. Peter wants to kiss me, one more time, but he isn’t sure if he wants to taste the blood and sand. As he contemplates that, my hand finds his, fingers entwining. I’m missing a few of mine, Peter notices, and there’s warm blood everywhere.

Peter squeezes my hand anyway, and briefly regrets ever coming to this battle zone. What were they thinking? 

“We are heroes.”

My thoughts echo in his head, feeling familiar, and Peter looks at me, eyes locking.

 

“Heroes aren't supposed to die,” Peter ponders. It feels wrong.

I stay quiet, but my emotions are clear. My feelings and last thoughts… Peter reaches towards them, and comes to a wonderful conclusion:

“Of all the people who have died, we’re the ones who don’t have to do it alone. Because we have this…”

Our eyes close at the same time as our minds meld together. Every feeling, every memory, every shared experience; no words compare to a simple shared sensation.

When the impact of the last shot comes down on us, it isn’t so horrible when it all disappears because during that last fraction of a second, we had each other.

I woke up. In my mind I could feel Dexter starting to stir.

What the…?? Where the hell are we?! I thought we were dead.

Zane looked around the room frantically.

G-gabriel?

What?

I…I thought you left me.

I won’t leave you Zane. And Dexter’s here too.

Don’t scare me like that.

I ignored the smaller thought and wondered what had happened to us instead.

Our arm was in a cast, hanging from a clip on the ceiling, our fingers were mostly gone, and there were stitches running from the top of our shoulder blade to the small of our back. Examining further, I noticed the bullets had been removed and the wounds were closing up nicely.

I’ve seen this on a movie once.

Yeah so have I. Dexter twisted our body around.

Ow. You idiot.

How are we going to get out of this thing?

Why the hell would we have to get out?

Because we’re trapped, Dexter thought, as if it were completely obvious and that we were both morons for not thinking of it.

Let’s just calm down and think this through.

CALM DOWN?? WE’RE TRAPPED IN SOME HOSPITAL GOD KNOWS WHERE AND YOU WANT ME TO CALM DOWN???

Zane started sobbing in our head and I clenched my teeth at the sound.

Now look what you’ve done!! You idiot! You scared Zane!

Shit. I’m sorry Zane. Are you okay buddy?

n-no.

Guys, let’s all just take a deep breath and figure out what day it is.

I don’t wanna know what day it is.

Come on guys. We could’ve been asleep for years. Wouldn’t you want to know?

I guess.

I’m pretty sure they would’ve redesigned their hospital gowns by now…

Shut up and click the blue button over there.

Dexter looked where I was pointing and froze.

I followed his gaze.

There was a man was on the hospital bed next to ours, unconscious. He looked...familiar. Like we had known him for years. He looked worn out and aged beyond his years. His hair was a darker shade of brown, and he was wearing an army green jacket over his regulation hospital gown.

Hey, what does his uniform say?

I turned our body a bit to get a better view of the last name that was bound to be on his jacket.

It looks like it says G-A-B something.

Probably Gabara or Gabriels.

Probably. You two should get some rest.

Okay.

Yeah, sure. I suppose.

They retreated to the back of our mind and I was left alone.

So I laid there. Thinking. What would I tell the people back home? Would they be understanding? I hoped to god they would. If they weren’t…what would I do then? Sylar would understand. Wouldn’t he? What will I do if they hate me for putting them through this? Would they think I should’ve stayed dead? They probably will. How long have I been asleep? I looked around the room until my eyes were fixated on a calendar on the far left wall beside the door.  

August 31st.

I had been asleep for twenty-seven days.

I reached over to the right side of me. The button was barely out of reach. I leaned as far as I could without falling…click…..WHAM.

That ought to send the nurses running.

Every bone in my body ached. I was afraid that if I moved I would fall apart. Please don’t let me fall apart.

Peter. I could hear Peter’s blood singing. Please let him be okay. Running. No. Please no. Peter. SAVE HIM.

I remembered, and suddenly I realized why I had forgot.

Blood, our blood, had sung one last time.

We stayed at the hospital until we had fully recovered.

Our captain had given us a really important job. One that could only be done by someone like us. Someone forgotten. So I couldn’t tell anybody I was still alive quite yet...and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Because I was still scared. Scared of how they’d react. Scared that they would leave. Scared that no one could possibly ever care about us anymore. Scared. I was scared.

I was now a Navy Seal with a mission, a goal, a purpose. This was the life I had grown accustomed to. No reason to be scared of the familiar.

I agreed to take on the mission and it was finally completed yesterday.

So it’s now safe for you guys to know that I’m okay and so is Peter. He woke up on the 12^th and is now ALL MINE (and Sylar’s).

Sylar is now going through Hell Week so if he’s kinda cranky you know why.

SO YEAH.
 

If you’re going to be a bitch about us being alive don’t waste your precious time talking to us…cause I guess we aren’t worth a second of it.

"We live through each other, through our legacies, through our friends and families and works and the memories of others. That's the deeper spiritual meaning of our lives. And after we die, that's our afterlife, for however long it lasts. We never really die, or at least we're not totally gone, as long as someone remembers us and knows what we did we'll live forever." 

-Gabriel Jaro

Headstone

(If love could've saved you, you would've lived forever.)

This was my first (and hopefully last) time making a headstone. I don't know much about the process but I think it turned out pretty good (minus the fact that its a bit crooked). Also the photo's a little blurry. 

-Jordan the Pilot

It seems fitting

Talking to the Moon 

-Jordan

Gabriel is gone.

He senses the end coming, finally. It’s like a truth glaring down at him, letting him know that it’s time to prepare himself for the final journey.

The hero in him doesn’t want to let go, though. There is still work to be done. If only he could pick himself up off the ground…

“Peter.”

Gabriel's voice comes through a thick fog; like Peter’s underwater and can’t really hear what he’s saying. It doesn’t help that weapons are going off all around them, from handguns to automatic weapons and tanks rolling down the street. A few gunships crossing the sky above them just add to the chaos of noise.

“Peter,” Gabriel says again. His lips are against Peter’s ear, making it easier to hear him.

Peter closes his eyes. Every breath hurts, shifting around the pieces of metal in his body that don’t belong there.

“Not yet,” Gabriel tells him, insistent, and moves closer. When Peter opens his eyes, Gabriel's face is blocking the sun that’s attempting to pierce the sand and smoke floating in the air.

Peter can’t help but smile at the saintly glow around the other man’s head.

Gabriel's body is resting partially on his now, creating new waves of pain, but Peter doesn’t care. Not this close to the end. It would be rude to complain after Gabriel stepped in front of him to take the mortar shots meant for Peter’s already battered body.

Perhaps Gabriel knows Peter isn’t going to be getting up anymore; that he isn’t healing right. After months of getting torn to pieces and putting himself back together again, it’s getting harder each time, and now it’s failing completely. His body is tired. Peter knows Gabriel isn’t feeling much better.

Gabriel smiles down at him and bows his head, resting their foreheads together. Peter wants to kiss him, one more time, but he isn’t sure if he wants to taste the blood and sand. As he contemplates that, Gabriel's hand finds his, fingers entwining. Gabriel's missing a few of his, Peter notices, and there’s warm blood everywhere.

Peter squeezes his hand anyway, and briefly regrets ever coming to this battle zone. What were they thinking?

“We are heroes.”

Gabriel's thoughts echo in his head, feeling familiar, and Peter looks at him, eyes locking.

“Heroes aren't supposed to die,” Peter ponders. It feels wrong.

Gabriel is quiet, but his emotions are clear. His feelings and last thoughts… Peter reaches towards them, and comes to a wonderful conclusion:

“Of all the people who have died, we’re the ones who don’t have to do it alone. Because we have this…”

Their eyes close at the same time as their minds meld together. Every feeling, every memory, every shared experience; no words compare to a simple shared sensation.

When the impact of the last shot comes down on them, it isn’t so horrible when it all disappears because during that last fraction of a second, they have each other.

By Avery Jaro

Truth or Dare

A more pleasant memory I found in the drafts. From Gabriel's POV.

“I dare you to kiss me.” I tried to keep my face relaxed, features blank. There were too many emotions struggling underneath; Peter didn’t need to know about any of them. Hope was the most sickening, but self-loathing gave it a run for its money. A kiss was a small thing, easy, almost insignificant, but would Peter do it? Was he willing to get that close?

After a long beat, Peter shrugged and leaned forward. “Sure.” He put his elbows on the desk between them and extended his hands. “Stick out your hand.”

I snorted disdainfully. “I meant a real kiss.” Not my hand, moron. Angry, on edge, already anticipating being turned down, my lips pressed into a thin line despite my best efforts to hide my expression. I watched as Peter thought it over. Amazingly, Peter was thinking it over and not dismissing out of hand. Of course, dismissing would mean he’d lose the game and Peter was more competitive than he liked to admit.

Peter made a sharp exhale, really studying my face, eyes going over every part of it. I wondered if he was picking where to plant his lips, or deciding if it was a face comely enough to do it with. Was he reading how badly I wanted this? The long pause left me desperate to fidget, feeling i was being inspected, weighed, and- Peter got up, coming around the desk. Obviously, a decision had been reached.

I tilted my head up as he approached. He’s going to do it? My mouth relaxed, tension dialing back as relief rose inside of me and hope started to win out. I suppose it would be bad form to hang onto him and get a proper kiss. Plus he’d probably hit me. But would it be worth it?

“Closed mouth,” Peter said, leaving me to wonder if that was a question or a statement of intention. And whose mouth needed to be closed? The idea that I might have gotten some tongue if I'd only worded my dare more explicitly was maddening. I was distracted from it soon enough. Peter’s right hand came down on my right knee, on the top at first but then immediately sliding in … and up. I glanced down quickly, but there wasn’t time to react. Peter’s left hand came to rest on my right shoulder, giving him balance as he leaned in.

He’s definitely doing it. My eyes widened dramatically as the reality and immediacy of it hit me. Peter’s scent wafted ahead of me, an air so delicious I wanted to drink it in. Mere lungfuls didn’t do it justice; I wanted it distilled in liquid form. Peter paused in front of me, head tilted, only an inch or two away. While I wanted to lunge forward and take what was on offer, I held my place. I wanted no question of who initiated and I didn’t want to look as ridiculously eager as I really was. It was only going to be a peck, I knew.

Peter’s lips moved, loosening, protruding more; he was puckering up. His left hand glided up the slope of my shoulder to the back of my neck, fingers shifting to cup my head. The right settled slightly, bearing a tiny bit of weight. Peter closed that last distance between us, eyes sliding shut as his lips pressed gently into mine. I inhaled deeply, keeping my own eyes open. I wanted to see this, start to finish, no matter how brief it was.

It wasn’t brief. Peter’s lips pulsed against mine, warm and soft and human. Erotic energy flowed all up and down my spine; I felt my cock throb. My heart was racing all of a sudden. Peter wasn’t making this a fleeting thing; he was actually, really kissing me. Peter’s lips made one full motion against my still ones, then he repeated it once, twice, then thrice – taking his time about it. Both of his hands moved – a slight stroking of my scalp; small circles on my inner thigh. 

Peter pulled away only enough to part us, eyes opening before he came back for one last kiss. There was not a hint of revulsion, hesitance, or regret on his features. Mine, on the contrary, were stunned. I'd sat there unmoving, not participating, hardly even breathing the whole time. Floored was an understatement. That was everything I'd wanted and I'd just been given the tiniest sample. Hunger, lust, and desire roared to full life as Peter pulled away, leaving behind only a hot puff of breath to caress my lips. MORE! My brain screamed at me.

My fingers scrabbled at Peter’s arm, halting his departure. Peter looked back at me and smiled, smug at the degree of reaction he’d engendered. “That was a real kiss.” As he pulled himself free of my grip and returned to the other side of the desk, self-loathing loomed larger than every other emotion I had at the moment. Peter knew what he was denying him. That small taste of heaven reminded me that this really was hell.

Drawing

I'm such a fucking perv. Here's a drawing or two.

Peters

I know so many freaking Peters! Like seriously! I know Peter my brother, Peter my roommate, Peter my ex, Peter Jr. my stepbrother, Peter my stepfather, Peter my worst enemy, Peter my coffee buddy, Peter the blogger, Peter my blog follower, another Peter blog follower, and another blog follower. I don't know about you guys but I'm sensing some sort of pattern here. 

Just thinking

I can't stop thinking of the people who live so differently than most of us

And not in a positive way

Not in normal way or a way I can really relate to or many of us can

People so tangled up in their own shit they aren't thinking of doing other things people wrapped up in their own lives do like cut themselves or whatever

The small group of guys in the "underworld" smoking meth and going to sleazy clubs, addicted to risk and a myriad of other things picked up in lives others look down upon

What parents warn against

And for good reason

Half the people I message or try to contact online who posted stuff online in 1998 or 2001 have already died 

Their digital footprint being the only trace of them for the wider world, they being the friend who died for someone who changed their ways

Dates like May 16th, 1998 (made up completely) being a day someone or multiple people never forget

And others in their 40's then don't remember at all now, it being spent getting home from work and watching The King of Queens and eating dinner

Their faint craving for adventure and excitement not meeting the intensity of craving of those people in those times for routine (not usual for many of them)

And comfort and wanting those tethers to how people on sitcoms live

Wanting to be part of the backround noise they hear from tv which they sometimes watch

Eventually this fades

And the nature of people takes over

The slow return to the ways that they were born with

Which is something that is pretty timeless, despite the changing names and faces

And these thoughts make me comfortable

For that damn anonymous bitch.

This is for some stupid idiot. The one who keeps saying I'm stupid for leaving Foster...It is obviously about me and Foster. 

Bang, Smash, Scream, Cry,

All I ask is one question, Why?

Your constant fights killing me inside,

Everyday I want to run and hide.

You never think about what you are doing,

Never realise all the pain you're ensuing,

On me, the one you should protect and love,

But instead you prefer to push and shove.

Some days, I wish I was dead,

Finally have a life of peace instead,

One day you'll realise what you did to me,

One day, you might LET me be free.

The things I have seen and the things I have heard,

I wish I had never listened to a single word,

All of your hatred is left to sizzle,

Every single time, I'm the one caught in the middle.

The people don't help, I know that much,

They make everything worse by the sting of their touch,

Don't let them win, I'm begging you, please,

Think just for once about the shadow known as me.

As the fight dies down and turns to silence,

The walls of our house recover from the violence,

In our room I am left to cry,

My family is falling apart; now tell me... Why?

Gabe's Babysitter

By Avery Jaro

I was afraid to breathe. Mom and dad were pressed against me on either side 

on the hardwood of the pew. I could feel mom trembling, and she kept pressing 

tissues to her nose. There were trails of tears running down her face. Everyone 

around us was crying. Dad didn’t say a thing. He smelled like Brute and cigarettes, 

and I could tell he didn’t want to be here. I didn’t either, but mom said I had to come.

She and dad had fought about it. He said I was too little, and hadn’t I seen 

enough death already. Mom looked horrified when he said it. I didn’t know what 

he was talking about unless he meant the mouse I found under the refrigerator a few 

weeks ago. I thought it was a dust bunny, when I found its dried up furry little body.

 I hadn’t been scared until mom had started shrieking about the filth and germs. That’s 

when I started crying which was of course when dad came home. 

Dad always came home when something made me cry. He thinks I’m broken. I 

heard him tell the neighbors that he thinks I’m fucked in the head. I asked mom what 

that meant, and she slapped me for using the f-word. She wouldn’t explain what fucked 

in the head means. She never explains anything. She says god will show me the way. 

I sucked my lower lip between my teeth and worried at it. I wanted to bite my nails,

but dad would jab me with his elbow if he saw me bring my fingers near my mouth. 

No son of his was going to suck his thumb or bite his nails. I bet it'd be OK if I started to 

smoke though. He does enough of it. 

I didn’t want to be at a funeral. I didn’t want to remember Carrie Ann in a box. We 

played hide and seek. We played Candy Land, and she showed me how to play doctor. 

That made me press my chin against my chest. If mom knew about that, she wouldn’t 

think that Carrie Ann was an angel anymore. Good girls don’t show boys their bodies, and 

good boys don’t touch either. There were so many rules to get into heaven. I don’t think 

I’ll be able to remember all of them, and I try so hard. 

Father John went on and on about the spirit and Jesus, and how the angels would 

look after my cousin when she got to heaven. I wanted to know why God didn’t look 

out for Carrie Ann when she fell down the steps and broke her neck. I didn’t 

understand why he’d take my friend. She wasn’t bad not like the bogyman, not like 

Satan. Mom mumbled something about Carrie Ann’s mother being tarnished, but she 

wouldn’t explain that to me either. 

“Gabriel.” I looked up as mom yanked on my arm. I was thinking so hard that I 

hadn’t noticed her getting up at all. “We have to say ‘good bye’ to your cousin now.” 

I didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to look at her. I was afraid of what I’d see in the box. 

I turned to my father, but he pushed me towards mom. She wrapped her fingers around 

mine like a vice and took me down the center aisle toward the coffin. Dad flanked my 

other side like they were trying to make sure that I didn’t run away. I was so afraid that I 

had to pee. 

There were so many flowers, and so much incense that it was making me dizzy. The 

smell was so strong and sweet that my stomach turned sour. I wasn’t big enough to 

see into the coffin, and I breathed a sigh of relief when all I could see was the edge 

and the pink satin padding. 

Then my father scooped me up, one hand under each armpit to lift me off my feet, 

holding me so I had to look down at Carrie Ann's face. I let out a squeak when I 

wanted to scream. My eyes were clamped shut, but behind them I saw Carrie lying on

 the pink satin with a big gash in her forehead. There was blood soaking into her dark 

hair, and her eyes were staring at me as the light went out of them. 

“Mommy,” I whispered. 

“Gabriel.” She squeezed my hand one more time, and then patted me on the cheek. 

“You have to open your eyes to say ‘good bye’.”

I bit down on my scream and forced my eyes open. Carrie looked like she was asleep. 

Her bright read hair was in curls over the pillow, and she was dressed up like Alice

 in Wonderland in a blue dress with lots of white lace. There wasn’t any blood on her 

forehead, and she didn’t look anything like the face in my dreams. 

“Good bye, Carrie Ann.” My voice cracked when I said the words, and the second my 

father put me down, I raced for the bathroom where I locked myself into the stall to cry.

 I was there for a long time, and my dad was waiting for me when I was done. He didn’t 

say anything. He just took my hand, so we could walk home. 

They spoke in whispers for the rest of the day and night. Mom kept watching me and 

thanking god that nothing so horrible had happened to her angel. Dad kept trying to 

work on a clock at the kitchen table, while I pretended to watch TV.

“Gabe,” he said, looking over at me when the cuckoo clock counted down to 9:00. 

“It’s time for you to go to bed.” 

“I know.” I didn’t want to go to bed. I was afraid of having more bad dreams. “Dad, can 

you come with me, please?” I didn’t want to ask mom. She’d make me more afraid 

than I already was. She always did. 

“You’re a big boy, Dex. You’re not afraid of the dark, right?” He gave me the mean 

look, the one where he glared at me from under his big eyebrows. “You outgrew 

that a long time ago.” 

“Don’t forget to say your prayers, Gabe,” Mom reminded me. “I’ll come give you a kiss goodnight later.”

“No, sir, never mind.” I gave mom a quick hug and nodded at my father on my way to 

my bedroom. “I’m not afraid of the dark anymore.” I’m terrified of ghosts with red hair and 

bleeding foreheads. I’m not afraid of the dark at all. 

Thank you for reading. Comments are always appreciated.

Getting rid of the devil in my head

“You know you can’t trust anyone, don’t you?” His voice was barely above a whisper. The feel of his breath on the side of my neck made the hair on my arms prickle and a shiver run down my spine. “Sooner or later, Gabriel, Ashley or Avery will betray you. Hell you can’t even trust your mother. What would Georgia do if she knew what you’ve done? Her sweet, sweet angel is a murderer.” 

“Leave me alone!” I snapped, my hand slipping, and my razor sliced the corner of my lip. I watched in the mirror as my blood spread to stain the shaving soap on my skin, my tongue darting out to taste it. Lucifer was behind me, his black eyes boring into mine in the reflection. “You’re not real.” 

“I’m as real as you are, Gabe.” He stuck a finger into the blood and licked it off, soap and all. It made my mouth go dry as I swallowed. “Getting more real every single day. You can’t handle what you’ve done, and I can. You sure as shit can’t handle a little bundle of fire like Emma. That girl is so much better than you. Doesn’t it make you wonder how a loser like you could attract the attention of a hot piece of ass like that?”

“Don’t talk about her like that!” I dropped the razor in the sink, ducking my face to rinse off before taking a towel to dry off. The white cotton stank of too much bleach, and now I could smell the tang of my coppery blood mingled with it. “Emma likes me. She saved me! She saved me from you!” 

“Did she?” He smirked, following me back to my bedroom where I quickly got dressed. I didn’t like the feel of his eyes on me while I did it. “How exactly did she do that? I’m still here aren’t I? Face it Gabriel. I’m your one and only real friend. I’m the only person you can trust. I’m the only one that looks out for you.” 

“You want my life!” I snarled at him as I fought the buttons on my shirt. Then I nearly injured myself tucking my shirt into my pants a little too vigorously. “You want to take over. You want me dead!” 

“I don’t want you dead. I mean kudos for the whole suicide idea. You do know that’s a mortal sin, right? What would poor mom do if you’d succeeded?” He pouted as he sat with his ass on the edge of my dresser. “Whatever would she tell Father John about her angel committing suicide?” 

“It’s better than her finding out I’m a murderer!” I snatched up my comb and went to work getting my hair to behave. “I’m going to the shop. Then I’m coming home to spend the evening with Emma. I don’t want you here.” 

“I’m here because you need me, Gabriel. You’ll see.” He followed me to the door, watching with a smug look on his face as I tugged on my coat, running my finger tips over the worn corduroy to make sure there was no lint caught in the nap. “I’m the only one you need, and I’m the only one who won’t betray you. You’re naive, but you’re not stupid. If you’d start thinking instead of mooning over Emma, you’d see that I’m right.” 

I glanced at him over my shoulder as I undid the last lock on the door. “I will get rid of you if it’s the last thing I do.”