And It Came to Pass

by Laura Stone

  All thoughts were driven out when Christensen laid a strong, firm hand between his shoulder blades to hold Adam still while he worked. Everything, every thought and feeling, and heck, the very universe was centered on those minuscule points of contact between Christensen’s hand and Adam’s bared skin. Adam chanced a look after a while but shut his eyes again when he was confronted with his companion squatting directly in front of him, squinting at Adam’s sideburns to ensure they were the same length. Christensen’s breath moved over Adam’s lips, they were so close. He kept his eyes screwed shut; his heart beat a wild tattoo in his aching chest.

  Christensen’s hand suddenly cupped the side of Adam’s neck, and, at the shocking sensation of a thumb sweeping softly over Adam’s pulse point, he let out a tiny gasp.

  “Oh, my gosh,” Christensen said, his voice worried. “Did I nick you?”

  “Hmm? Oh, no, no, sorry. It’s fine. You’re fine.”

  Christensen laughed. His voice was still soft as he teased, “Oh! So, you’re just afraid I’m doing a bad job?”

  “N-no?”

  “Then relax. You look like you expect me to punch you.” He patted Adam’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “Just need to taper this bit in the back and you’re all done.”

  Christensen rubbed the palm of his hand over Adam’s head to dislodge any hairs. The friction centered itself in Adam’s skull, radiated in sensual ripples down his spine, then settled low with a pulse to match Adam’s heartbeat when Christensen leaned over to blow a few pale blond strays off the backs of his ears. Adam’s skin stippled with goose bumps. Was he imagining it? Was Christensen making an extra effort to get things just right, making sure every possible stray hair was carefully blown away or brushed off his neck and shoulders with the flat of his hand, merely in order to keep touching Adam? Or did Adam just hope so?

  “Okay, man,” Christensen said, moving back. “Torture session is over.”

  “No, it’s just…” Adam shrugged, sent his companion a sheepish look, then stood up and looked at his reflection in the mirror. In it, he caught sight of Christensen right behind him with his gaze shifted down as if he, too, was reading the curly script, “Can you see HIS image in your countenance?” Shifting slightly, Adam was better able to see Christensen’s hard and chiseled chest, the dark hair that spread from its center, the dusky little circles of his nipples.

  Brandon looked into the mirror; his gaze connected with Adam’s.

  “Well?”

  Adam swallowed thickly, nodding at Christensen’s reflection. “I, uh, I like it. Looks good.”

  “I told you I knew what I was doing.”

  “I’m glad. I mean, thanks… Brandon.” Adam held his gaze in the mirror.

  Christensen blinked, then cleared his throat. “Why don’t you hit the shower while I clean up this mess? Wait, I don’t think I got everything off your neck back there.” He brushed the tip of his finger behind Adam’s ear, trailing down the thick cord of muscle in his neck and over Adam’s shoulder. Adam looked down to avoid seeing their reflections, afraid of knowing that he looked as raw and exposed and needy as he felt. After a breathless moment, he finally turned away to head for the shower. He felt claustrophobic in their empty apartment.

  He stood in the water’s spray, letting the hot water rush over his shoulders, with his head down and eyes screwed tightly shut. He turned the hot water up even more, needing the heat to replace the sensation of Brandon’s fingertips hot and shocking against the tender skin of Adam’s nape. He touched his neck where Brandon had; he let his fingertips following where Brandon’s had trailed over his shoulder. Then he pressed his hand flat over his erratically beating heart, as if he could still it. He didn’t want to think about why his companion gave him such feelings, or whether Brandon might share those same feelings. He didn’t want to think about Brandon; he needed Brandon to go back to being Elder Christensen, Man of God and his mentor.

  It would make everything so simple if he could. He wanted—he needed—simple, not this growing confusion that clouded his mind, permeated every one of his thoughts, prevented him from simply having faith that everything would be fine, would be as it should.

  Instead, over and over in Adam’s mind played images of Christensen doing crunches on the floor mixed with how he looked kneeling in prayer, which blended into shadowed movements under a blanket as quiet moans spilled out of his companion played over and over in Adam's mind. He kept his eyes closed as the water poured over his body; the thundering in his ears was not loud enough to silence what he knew Brandon could sound like.

  If Adam didn’t look at what his hand was now doing in the rush of water, didn’t listen to the way his own breath hitched with every wet stroke, it would be as if it wasn’t happening.

  Chapter Six

  “Help them feel you are interested in their good. As they feel greater trust in you, they will feel greater confidence in what you teach them . . . building a relationship of trust must be a constant concern.” ~ (Missionary Handbook, Second Discussion)

  “Humbly kneeling, sweet appealing - ‘Twas the boy’s first uttered prayer - when the powers of sin assailing filled his soul with deep despair; but undaunted, still he trusted in his Heavenly Father’s care. But undaunted, still he trusted in his Heavenly Father’s care.” Joseph Smith’s First Prayer, LDS Hymnal p. 26, Text: George Manwaring, 1854-1889

  From then on, Adam no longer shied away from his companion, no longer avoided contact or allowed a moment’s guilt for wanting it so much. When they rode on the bus, Adam would find a cramped corner so they would be smashed in together. To get his comp’s attention, he would bump shoulders or squeeze Christensen’s biceps instead of saying his name. It was as if a floodgate had opened, and he wanted more: more interaction, more of Christensen’s attention. Christensen didn’t seem to mind, either. In fact, something relaxed even more in Christensen, as if he’d held himself back from being as affectionate as he’d wanted to be, as if he’d been waiting for a signal from Adam.

  If he was honest with himself, Adam would be forced to admit that he was trying to encourage more physical contact. He craved it; it just… it felt good, being touched, having someone not shy away from wanting to touch him, having someone seek him out. It was okay to want to feel good, wasn’t it? Okay to want companionship and camaraderie with others? With his companion? It was the two of them against the world, after all. They were supposed to be close.

  That was how the other guys treated each other. Adam no longer held himself back. It was thrilling, in a way, to be doing something he’d never allowed himself. Was this how other people lived every day? With joy and ease and camaraderie? He could have laughed at how stupid he’d been, how he’d interpreted every lesson, every raised eyebrow from his parents, as proof he, Adam, wasn’t worthy of any form of companionship.

  He was. And Christensen seemed pleased that Adam had finally dropped the barrier between them, allowing them to grow even closer.

  When they knelt for their evening prayers, it was usually at their small sofa in the main room. Adam didn’t know what came over him shortly after that P-Day, but, instead of kneeling at the sofa, he continued on into their bedroom and knelt at the foot of Christensen’s bed.

  “You that tired, then?” Christensen asked. “Just gonna roll over to your bed? Lazy.”

  Adam laughed softly. “Um, is this okay?”

  “Oh, sure,” Christensen said genially, dropping to his knees. Adam shifted on the pretense of adjusting his weight and pressed against his companion thigh to thigh.

  “Your turn,” he said softly, smiling when Christensen took a deep breath and nodded jerkily. His elbow brushed against Adam’s on the bedding as he folded his arms and began to pray.

  “Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for this day…”

  After that night, they often prayed together in that manner. Sometimes they said their own prayers in
their minds; other times they shared turns praying aloud. One such night, Adam had a flash to some unknown future where he and his eternal mate would do this very thing, share their intimate wishes and thoughts with each other and their God, and his heart ached.

  He hadn’t envisioned a woman.

  No, the person he pictured bore a striking resemblance to his mission companion. His heart ached because he could never, ever have that in the Mormon Church. It devastated him to think about the bleak future awaiting him. As Christensen’s soft voice continued with their prayer, “Help us always to spend our strength in serving Thee…” Adam jolted back to now, to what he was being granted now, this fleeting but momentarily perfect life with his mission companion.

  “Amen.”

  Adam lingered at Christensen’s bedside, with their legs touching, unwilling to move and unsure of what he expected to happen if he didn’t. He told himself, You’re waiting for the Spirit to enter your heart. He awaited a sign that could guide him, maybe reveal some insight into what this all meant and why he couldn’t help but picture the wrong person with whom he’d spend an eternity. That’s all he was doing: holding still, waiting, feeling strangely at peace with whom the Lord saw fit to match him here in Barcelona, though a deeper part of him wanted more.

  He remembered a letter the prophet Joseph Smith had written about one of his dear friends, how the prophet had said that it was “pleasing for friends to lie down together, locked in the arms of love, to sleep and wake in each other’s embrace.”

  As soon as the image of being held in Christensen’s arms flashed across his mind, he realized that wasn’t exactly fitting the definition of a “godly” relationship, that this wasn’t the way he was supposed to behave. His face grew hot as he quickly got up and into his own bed, then switching off his bedside lamp.

  “Um, g’night,” he murmured.

  “Goodnight, Adam.”

  His eyes closed at the use of his first name instead of the formal and expected “Elder,” or just “Young” as all the others called him, or the casual “dude” or “man” that Christensen usually used. Strange that his own name could sound so intimate. He bit his lip, flipped over to face the wall, and punched his fist into his pillow to get it into the right shape. Why was he thinking about this? Why couldn’t he stop? Why couldn’t he be satisfied with the life mapped out for him by his parents and the Church? He forced himself to take a deep breath in and let it out slowly. A half-formed thought kept darting to the surface of his consciousness, but would slip away before he could grab it and throttle it to death.

  He woke after a few hours of fitful sleep to a painful erection. He couldn’t think of a single hymn, a single scripture, to drive away the carnal thoughts filling his mind. The room was dark, but an outside light gave just enough light for him to make out Christensen’s face; he seemed to be sound asleep. All the other guys did… it, he thought, and they’d gotten their mission calls. They even went through the temple. The Lord had allowed it. Maybe… maybe the Lord doesn’t really care as much as they say He does.

  Nothing had happened to him after that indiscretion in the shower. He’d been telling himself that it was just a by-product of thoroughly cleaning himself. Of course, he hadn’t intended to do anything. It just happened. Like waking up to messy sheets and pajamas. This, however, this would be intentional. And again he told himself: The others do this; Brandon does it.

  Feeling exceptionally bold, Adam kicked the thin sheet off his overheated body, let out a shaky breath and slipped his hand under his pajama bottoms, cupping himself through the silky fabric of his sacred undergarments. He wasn’t ready to touch his actual skin, not with his companion in the same room. If he just did this much, it was like… scratching an itch through a shirtsleeve, not… not—

  Christensen shifted in his bed, threw one arm up over his head and breathed deeply. Adam’s heart skipped a few beats, but Christensen was only moving in his sleep, that was all.

  Barely exhaling, Adam drew the pads of his fingertips over the satin fabric with jerky, tentative movements, tracing his hard length. He wasn’t quite sure what to do, not just to himself physically but what mental gymnastics he could perform to allow this to happen. He forced himself to breathe slowly. It was just his body, after all; he could touch his own body. That was okay. He held himself in the palm of his hand; the garments made a protective barrier so his flesh wasn’t touched. He kept telling himself that would make it all right. As long as he didn’t actually touch himself he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He curled up on his side to hide his body’s movements in case Christensen woke up and kept his eyes on his companion as a precaution.

  At first he just held himself; the tight grip on that most intimate part of himself was satisfying in its own way. His pulse, aching and bone-deep, beat between his legs and against his palm. His thumb slipped over the rounded crown where a growing wet spot soaked the fabric of his garments. Rubbing a circle over it felt so shockingly good it made his eyes close. His breath stuttered out, and he barely bit back a moan. He could not make any noise.

  He focused on Brandon’s sleeping face and continued to stroke himself over the slippery fabric, squeezed himself at the base only to stroke upward, circled his thumb at the top, worked the moisture gathering there into the material, where he could feel it spread. Adam’s eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he noticed every feature on his companion’s face, reveled in the freedom to look his fill for once, to take in his companion’s imposing frame while asleep.

  Brandon slept with his mouth slightly parted. Adam stared at the lush curve of Brandon’s full lower lip, at the strong, square line of his jaw, at the long, dark eyelashes resting on his cheek. Adam had to urge to touch them; he wondered what they would feel like if Brandon came close enough to have them brush against Adam’s cheek. He turned his face into his pillow and let out a tiny sigh; he ached between his legs and in his chest and wanted so, so much.

  Tugging his pajama bottom down to his thighs, he then slipped his hand through the opening in the front of his garments and touched himself fully. He bit his lip to keep a groan at bay—how good it felt to hold himself, how his hips were shifting forward. He was driving himself almost mindlessly through his own hand. It was natural, wasn’t it? Wasn’t his body doing what it was created to do?

  He bit the edge of his pillow and looked across the room once more. Christensen slept only in his garments—he didn’t wear pajamas over them as Adam did—and the blankets had shifted, exposing Brandon’s white-clad shoulders and chest, stark against his darker skin tone. Adam’s hand moved faster; his left hand gripped his thigh through the silky fabric. He bit his lower lip as the unfamiliar sensation of sexual gratification built. The front neckline of Brandon’s garments scooped low enough to show the hair on his chest. Through the thin, flimsy material of his garments, Adam could make out the dark circle of Brandon’s nipple and had the powerful urge to bite it, put his mouth to it, suck at it through the slippery fabric. He knew the holy marks stitched into the material would frame it perfectly under his tongue.

  An unstoppable pressure was building up. Helplessly, he bucked into his loosened fist and looked down in shock at his obscene and unfamiliar and fascinating body. Just before his climax, he glanced up once again at Brandon’s sleeping face… Brandon wasn’t sleeping anymore.

  Brandon’s brown eyes stared right back into Adam’s blue gaze, and the intensity in his companion’s face had Adam climaxing with a jerk and a shudder. Sickening shame flooded him at the grunt he couldn’t help but make. As his body’s spasms came to a stop, cold sweat broke out all over his body. His lip wobbled, heck, his hands were trembling, still holding himself under the fabric now wet with his own come. He’d been caught. He’d been caught doing that and by his mission companion. He could be sent home for this. He would be disfellowshipped, he was sure. And, everyone would know what he’d been doing.

  Everyone would pro
bably guess whom he’d been thinking about while doing it.

  Brandon didn’t move. But then, he also didn’t stop looking right at Adam’s face. “Hey.”

  Adam swallowed, willing his voice to work. He wanted to cry. “Hey.”

  “I was beginning to think you were a machine, or something.”

  “W-what?”

  “I don’t know, just, you never did that before that I could tell. You take showers like you’re in the Army, too, in and out in less than five minutes. I just… thought that was kinda crazy.”

  Adam grabbed a few tissues off the dresser jammed between their beds to clean himself up, tugged his pajamas up over his stained garments roughly, stared up at the ceiling and wished he could disappear.

  “Are you okay?” Brandon asked, his voice soft and filled with concern. It somehow made this all worse, as if he thought Adam was on the brink of becoming hysterical. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you or anything,” Brandon continued. “I thought you said you have older brothers?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Brandon sat up, propping himself up with one hand. “Are you telling me that you’ve never busted in on one of them by accident, or been woken up by them doing it, or had one of them bust in on you?”

  “Of course not! We don’t— I certainly don’t… I mean, you’re not even supposed to—” Adam groaned and threw an arm over his face, keeping it covered when he heard bed springs creak, signaling that Brandon had gotten out of bed. A weight settled next to his hip, shifting his body into it.

  “Adam.”

  He sighed in exasperation and humiliation. “What?”

  “Adam. It’s okay.”

  “Can we not talk about this? Can we just go back to bed?”

  Every nerve in his body tingled as Brandon laid a hand on his hip; his thumb casually rested on the crease between Adam’s thigh and hip.