Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

Chasing a Butterfly	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2592 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
- 41
- 42
- 43
Wednesday December 4th 1991 (9.51 p.m.)
Arriving back at his apartment, Booker found Tom curled on the couch, his gaunt face a mask of misery. Dressed in ill-fitting sweats, the borrowed clothing swamped his slender frame, giving him the appearance of someone much younger than his twenty-five years. There was a bucket next to the couch that smelled faintly of vomit and Booker averted his eyes, unable to stomach the sight of the foul smelling liquid. His lower body ached, and all he wanted to do was take a hot shower and go to bed. For the first time since Tom’s arrival, he was aware of the enormity of what he was taking on. He could say goodbye to his carefree bachelor life, he was now responsible for a sick and emotionally damaged man, a man he was still in love with, which only added to the complicated situation. Life as he knew it would never be the same.
Tom lifted his head, and his expression immediately registered surprise. “What happened to your face?” he asked, his body struggling to a sitting position.
In no mood to recount his beating, Booker threw the vials of medication across the room, hitting Tom in the chest. “Take your meds,” he instructed in a weary voice and discarding to the floor the small bag of clothing he was carrying, he walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer.
The uncomfortable silence that followed had Tom fidgeting self-consciously in his seat. "You're angry," he finally muttered into his chest.
It was a statement, not a question and Booker took a large swig of his beer before responding in a strained voice. "I met someone at your apartment, a man named McLeod. Ring any bells?"
Tom's eyes twitched nervously and clenching his fists, he lowered his gaze to the floor. “He’s the building super, he—"
“YOU SUCKED HIS FUCKING COCK!” Booker exploded, the force of his words sending spittle flying from his lips. “IS THAT HOW YOU PAID YOUR RENT? IS IT? IS IT?”
Tears filled Tom’s haunted eyes, and his face crumpled. “I w-was lonely,” he choked, “and he g-gave me things… th-things I couldn’t afford.”
The word whore hovered on the tip of Booker’s tongue, but he quickly swallowed it down. “I don’t want to hear it,” he muttered and draining his beer, he slammed the empty bottle down onto the kitchen counter. “Take your medication. There are blankets in the closet. I’m going to bed.”
“Dennis, please!” Tom implored, his voice rising with emotion. But the only answer he received was the wall-shaking slam of the bedroom door.
**
Thursday December 5th 1991 (2.36 a.m.)
The dull ache in his lower back woke Booker from a restless sleep and gingerly rolling over in bed, he gazed down at the strip of light flickering beneath his bedroom door. Muffled voices floated through the closed door and glancing at the clock on his nightstand, he wondered why Tom was watching TV at such an ungodly hour. A pang of guilt colored his face and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he sat up with a groan. Pain flared in his back, but he ignored it and struggling to his feet, he shuffled across the room and silently opened the door.
Tom was still on the couch, the light from the television illuminating his pale, tear-stained face. He lay on his side, his body pulled into the fetal position with his hands tucked between his thighs and his lackluster eyes staring blankly at the flickering screen. He was the very picture of wretchedness; a lost soul whose life was a litany of physical pain and psychological suffering.
He was broken.
As Booker’s eyes traveled down the lifeless body, his gaze settled on his ex-lover’s bare feet, and the memory of him suspended from a pulley in the warehouse flashed into his mind. He stared at Tom’s crooked toes; each one of them broken in the vicious assault six months before and his heart filled with empathy. Too often throughout their tumultuous relationship, he had blamed Tom for not being the type of man he wanted him to be, but in reality, it was little wonder that his friend was so screwed up. Tom’s life had steadily spiraled out of control when he began taking illicit drugs, and it now appeared he would spend the rest of his life reliant on prescription drugs. It was a sequence of reciprocal cause and effect, the proverbial vicious cycle and Booker could only hope that in time, his friend would once again find happiness.
Rubbing a hand over his bleary eyes, he emitted a heavy-hearted sigh. His feelings for Tom were so complicated; on the one hand, he was totally and completely in love with him and on the other, he found it difficult to accept him for who he was. He had overreacted and he needed to accept that it was not his place to mold Tom into his ideal of the perfect man. If he wanted their relationship to flourish, he needed to love him regardless of his indiscretions and move forward. The Tom Hanson he had initially fallen in love with was now just a romantic fantasy and the man lying on his couch was the harsh reality. He needed to forget the dream and focus on helping his friend because otherwise, their relationship would once again, end in tears.
A painful twinge in his lower back had him gasping for air, and he jerked involuntarily. Two dark brown eyes, hooded by heavy lids turned in his direction and, despite his mental pep talk, his heart immediately fluttered with longing. But he quickly pushed the feeling aside and stepping into the room, he managed a watery smile. “Hey.”
Tom sat up and pulling a cushion onto his lap, he hugged it protectively against his chest. “You were staring at me,” he mumbled self-consciously.
Heat flamed Booker’s cheeks and moving slowly forward, he eased himself into a chair. “Yeah, sorry. I got lost in my thoughts.”
“You’re hurt,” Tom stated, his laconic responses beginning to grate on Booker’s nerves. “He hurt you.”
“Tom,” Booker sighed and struggling to his feet, he moved over to the couch and sat down. “I don’t want to talk about him, I want to know if you’re okay.”
Lowering his eyes to the floor, Tom’s tongue flicked nervously over his chapped lips. “I took my meds.”
The urge to grab Tom by the shoulders and shake the words out of him had Booker’s hands curling into frustrated fists, but he relaxed his muscles and attempted to remain composed. “And?” he asked softly, his dark eyes twinkling with concern.
A tiny smile twitched at the edges of Tom’s lips. “I feel… calmer.”
Booker’s gaze turned to the television before settling back on Tom’s face. “Are you having trouble sleeping?” he probed gently.
Tom’s shoulders sagged, and he exhaled heavily. “I rarely sleep, not since…” His voice trailed off and several seconds passed before he uttered a sigh. “I have nightmares.”
Sadness filled Booker’s dark eyes, and he nodded his head. “Who wouldn’t?” he replied softly.
A long silence stretched out between them, and as the seconds ticked by, an idea formed in Booker’s mind. He was cautious about sounding too eager, and so he spoke in a low, calm voice. “Do you think you’d sleep better with me in the room?”
Tom chewed anxiously on his lower lip as his fingers picked restlessly at the frayed material of the cushion in his lap. “I don’t know,” he answered eventually. “Maybe.”
Booker knew it was not a prudent move to offer Tom a place next to him in his bed and, therefore, he sacrificed his own comfort for Tom’s peace of mind. “I’ll sleep in the chair; you can stay on the couch.”
A frown creased Tom’s brow, and he shook his head slowly from side to side, his long bangs whipping across his pale face. “Nuh uh, you’re in pain, I’ll sleep in the chair.”
Without thought, Booker’s eyes flitted down to Tom’s gnarled toes, and he wondered how much physical pain his friend lived with on a daily basis. When he imagined the extensive scars covering Tom’s once flawless body, he struggled to keep the pity from showing on his face. He lifted his gaze and tried to smile, but when he saw the wounded look in Tom’s eyes, he bit down on his lower lip and dropped his gaze. “Sorry,” he murmured, “I know I shouldn’t keep staring, but… Jesus, Tommy, I hurt for you.”
When his friend remained silent, he cautiously peered up through his thick lashes and what he saw caused his heart to beat faster. Tom’s trembling fingers held his gathered sweatshirt up to his chin, the grand gesture revealing the extensive damage to his torso. His expression was unemotional, but his chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, an indication that he was feeling a certain amount of anxiety.
For Booker, the sight laid out before him was so unexpected, his breath hitched in his throat. His wide eyes slowly traveled over the jagged scars traversing his ex-lover’s once smooth flesh and shocked by what he saw, he was unable to disguise the emotion in his voice. “Oh, baby,” he choked, and without thinking, he reached out a hand and lightly traced a finger over the scarred tissue. It was a powerful moment, each bump revealing its own tale of horror, and he took his time exploring every thick, raised scar. But when he felt Tom's flesh quivering beneath his touch, his cock hardened with arousal, and he immediately pulled his hand away. In his eyes, Tom was still the most exquisitely gorgeous man he had ever met and the scars in no way detracted from his beauty. He was and forever would be, his Tommy.
Embarrassed by the intense scrutiny, Tom lowered his shirt and wrapped his arms defensively around his chest. “So,” he muttered in a flat voice. “That’s me… that’s who I am now.”
Booker’s brow knitted into a concerned frown. “And you think that bothers me? Jesus, Tom, how shallow do you think I am?”
When he received no answer, he risked rejection by placing his arm around Tom’s quivering shoulders and pulling him against his chest. Tom’s body stiffened, but he did not jerk away and eventually, his muscles relaxed, and he took comfort from the embrace.
Encouraged by Tom’s response, Booker lay down on the couch and held his friend in his arms. “Go to sleep,” he whispered, his fingers gently caressing Tom’s hair. “You’re safe now.”
Minutes passed, and the soothing action eventually lulled Tom’s mind and he slowly drifted towards slumber.
Once satisfied that Tom was resting peacefully, Booker kissed him tenderly on the top of his head. “I love you,” he murmured and closing his eyes, he hugged him close and fell into a contented sleep.
- 41
- 42
- 43
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Chasing a Butterfly