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'...I'm scared!'
He was born in 1899, died in 1918 - a week before the armistice. The First World War was revealed to be venturing into a new level of horror, the death of many young men who never had the opportunity to live longer. There were thousands of soldiers enlisted, to be sent to war. Given flowers during their send-off ceremony, women standing on the sides as they cried and shouted 'we'll be right here when you come back!'. How painful that sounded, how long must the soldiers spend without the embrace of their beloved. Through the crowds, he could see 'him'. During that motion so slow, he could spot a trickle of tear fell from his beloved's eye. He motioned a finger wiping an invisible tear at the corner of his eye, and he knew 'he' saw it too.
'They' said it was an honorable thing to do, sacrifice yourself to save your country. But going through the days, weeks, the months and years on the battlefield, his perspective of reality was replaced.
The war had changed for the worse.
Crimson, black and grey denied all colours. Smokes, dirt, the awful stench of the trenches and piled corpses. The whistling shells, the shrieks and the tuttering machines frightened his frantic heart. He used to love watching the open sky, he couldn't see the sun nor the stars as something beautiful anymore. He felt betrayed, the two only watched him writhing in pain and tortured by reality. This new level of horror, as he ran, trudge and crept through the hellish battlefield, made him realised that he was afraid to die. He longed to be in the arms of his beloved, how 'his' touch could wash away all of his worries and pains. How he wished to see 'him' for one last time.
"...I don't want to die," he wheezed in pain, it was hard to breathe. Something had probably punctured his lungs, his broken ribs perhaps. The medic's dull shouts, the hands on his open wounds trying to stop his bleeding. He wanted to say, sorry he couldn't hear what he was trying to tell. He tried to move his left arm, where'd it go? What about his leg? There was only one, his limbs were missing. He thought, could someone probably fetch them for him somewhere up there? Becareful when searching, you could die.
Die...
Despite the missing limbs where he knew was not enough to cause the medic and his comrades to dote on him like this, there must be something else. Ah yes, his stomach.
"Christopher...!" the medic screamed, he'd spent so many morphines to try to shove Christopher's sputtered guts back inside. His intestines were jutting, his young friend was losing way too much blood, where they had laid him on - this old trench - was vulnerable to explosions. "C'mon!! You're gonna get back home in one piece, do you understand?! You'll be home, just stay with me!"
The pleas that embedded through Lee's prideful shouts, Christopher curved a small painful smile. His surviving arm tucked into the medic's coat, he had just wasted his ounce of strength before it fell to the slimy, muddy ground. He heard the Lieutenant's roar, he'd better be fuckin' alive. The medic stopped, Christopher's intestine slipped out from his hand and its supposedly home. His friend's eyes had lost their shine, no more screams. No more struggles. No more pain, No more tears. No more. The piece of letter in his coat, a promise and a beg, Lee had to do this for Christopher. He was the only one he could trust.
But Christopher's final letter to Thomas came very late, maybe his death certificate was sent simultaneously too.
The tragedy at home was more or less the same like the war his lover had faced. Christopher's burial was not honored, criminals deserved to be tortured both alive and in hell. His home was raided into, the police dragged him outside from the safety of his house, declaring him a criminal to the society. Fine, but please, make it quick. Through the cries of his mother and sisters, his father and cousins, he was beaten to his death. Die and die, please kill him right now! Bones shattering, bruising skin, blood spluttering, broken limbs. The police mercilessly deconstructed his face, yanking the sockets of his arms, smashing his head on a nearby stone. Loving someone truly was a crime, it seemed.
By that brief one second he landed flat on the ground, he was pulled back up again to be bashed with cold batons that busted his upper lip.
'Mother, please close your eyes. Lock away all your senses. I don't want you to see me like this, this being you called 'son'. I apologise, for ruining the family's name.'
Thomas was glad he didn't survive to go through the gallow. His soul was more important than his body, let it rot somewhere, he didn't have any use for it. Be it so, he realised there would be scars by the time he woke up again. He asked for dreams so sweet about his lover, but Thomas was afraid he couldn't remember how Christopher looked like when he opened his eyes.
Or perhaps, he would ask that he didn't remember anything.
*
Chris' body was covered with birthmarks that resembled scars.
"...Hey, don't shut me out," Chris whispered, brushing the curly locks away from Tom's sweaty forehead. He met his lover's gaze, and read the tragedy that etched itself in the colour of their eyes. Chris' lips planted sweet kisses from his temple, down to the nape of his neck. Tom cried at the dull pain entering his cavity, pushing deeper into him, and Chris took the chance to award him with a bruising kiss.
Through his gasps, trembling hands wondering where to rest, Chris held him gently like he always did. Their hands linked, fingers kneading tightly on the sides of Tom's head. Mixture of pleasure and pain was dancing in between, as Chris was fully sheathed inside his lover. It felt so hot, so soft. So addicting. Though he could see, Tom would never get used to their intense love making. Settled in between, he hovered above his writhing Tom, pain was written on his face with a grimace. Chris wished he could wash them away, but he couldn't change history. He cupped his lover's face and brushed the birthmark on Tom's upper lip with his thumb.
"Chris...?" Tom breathed, gazing wearily at him.
It was a karma from previous life, Chris brought back the sadness with him many years later. They were surely reunited through the impossible. Their names remained the same, but through different lineage, their faces similar to the ones they had before though much more different. Despite their long awaited rebirth, Tom couldn't seem to remember his past life. Lee said Tom's memories were 'sleeping', locked away by some trauma. Maybe it was for the best, the 'old Tom' would say he didn't want to recall any pain from his previous lives if he were to be reincarnated.
Chris snapped from his thoughts at the gentle touches on the birthmarks on his left arm and stomach. The long stretch of his skin, as if it was burnt. Tom was trying to soothe away his worries, just like he did many years before. He hadn't moved yet, he wondered if he could right now.
Drawing Chris down for a kiss, just a peck but enough to make him fluster. Tom murmured, staring back into Chris' widened eyes, "Don't shut 'me' out, Chris..."
"What are you talking about?" he faked a coo, before he began to pull out and slowly push back in. It was slow at first, the pain then grew when Chris' thrusting became suffocatingly intense for him. Rough and hard, slamming into him as he muffled his cries.
Chris watched Tom's face contorted with pleasure, a tinge of pain and the colour red that brightened.
Red. Blood.
"Do you really want him to remember the past?" he remembered the reincarnated Lee's chiding voice, "Your death was like a trauma for him, Chris. All you have to do is to let it be. You can't force him!"
Tom wrapped his arms around Chris' neck; pressing his chest against his lover's. His neglected member rubbing against the muscular bumps of Chris' stomach as his hands gripped tightly on Tom's backside. Waves of pleasure ran through their naked bodies, glitters clouded Tom's vision when Chris pulled him into his lap and thrusting up into him. He couldn't get used to this, he couldn't stop whimpering and moaning, begging for more after this 'sinful' act. His breath hitched at the frantic pace, as Chris' mouth clamped on his shoulder. Claiming him, owned by his beloved at the slow lick on his fresh bitemark. Mere seconds later, Tom threw his head back as he came, crying softly when Chris' load filled his insides.
Too exhausted, he sat on Chris' lap, still holding onto him like his life depended on their warm embrace. There was something strange on the way Chris held him now, this obsessed hug. It was then that Chris cried, burying his face on tom's chest. Again. His body trembled and shook, sobbing as Tom rubbed his back. Tom didn't say anything, Chris always cried after each sex they had. He thought it was funny at first, but figured it was something much more serious. He slid away from Chris before dragging them down to lay on the bed, tucking his lover into his arms as Tom hushed him to sleep when he himself wept.
It was like a routine for them, staying in their position 'till morning, eyes swelled and bruised. And Chris trying to accept his 'old Tom's' decision to forget the painful memories.
Scooting closer to bask into Tom's love, Chris thought, 'If those memories are something Thomas wants to put to rest, then... they may just disappear. Let me keep this karma a secret from him... Just to see him smile, even a small one.'