Authors: E.M. Lindsey
Endless, Forever
Endless, Forever
By E.M. Lindsey
Endless, Forever
By E.M. Lindsey
Copyrighted © 2016
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, historical events, and characters portrayed are used fictitiously, or are the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual persons living or deceased, business establishments, locales or events are purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be printed, scanned or distributed in print or electronic form without permission of the author.
For Kamilla. Brussels, binders, and the best feedback. I couldn’t have done this without you.
Note from the Author
To my amazing readers,
Thank you for taking a chance on Endless, Forever. In this novel, I attempt to branch out of the norm, straying from what is so commonly found in the M/M Romance genre. This book discusses issues of abuse, neglect, gender identities, and the phobias that come along with them.
It does contain some drug usage, and instance of drug overdose, as well as characters dealing with the psychological effects of an abusive childhood. Some of the details may be considered graphic, and should not be taken lightly.
There is also a scene which portrays misgendering and transphobia.
Please be aware that these things can be triggering to some readers, and take caution when deciding to read this book. These issues are incredibly important to discuss, however be prepared for these things to come up in the context of this book.
I sincerely hope you enjoy the journey with Leo, Oliver, and Gabriel, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for purchasing my work.
Always yours,
E.M. Lindsey
Endless, Forever
Part I
“If you are not long, I will wait here for you all my life.”
Oscar Wilde
Chapter One
Every bone in his body ached. Like a violent, crackling thunder, he heard his joints popping which absolutely wasn’t normal for someone at the tender age of twenty-three. Probably had something to do with the fact that he had been completely trashed when he fell into his bed, and woke in an awkward position where half his body was hanging off the edge, one arm wedged between the mattress and the dresser. His fingers were completely numb from lack of circulation, and he flexed them a few times to restore the blood flow.
Scrubbing his face, he groped for the water bottle perched near his lamp, twisting the cap with his functioning hand, and gulped down half in one go. The water hit his gut hard, making it ache and twist. He breathed through the pangs of nausea, willing himself to rehydrate, and his body to forgive him for the horrible abuse he put it though every other night.
His phone on the nightstand was blinking with notifications. He knew they were all going to be from his roommate, asking where the hell he’d gone the night before—he remembered that much at least, leaving the club while everyone was dancing—so he didn’t bother with it.
Running his hands through his long hair, he twisted it at the back of his head and groped for a pencil. Pinning it tight, Oliver eased himself onto the floor, and grimaced at the ache in his feet as he padded toward the bathroom.
His piss smelled like straight vodka, kicking up his nausea again, but emptying his bladder offered some relief, and he decided nothing was more important than a shower. Luckily their house took less than thirty seconds for scalding hot water to pour from the tap, so he stepped under the stream and used some of his brother’s soap to scrub away the filthy scent of club, sweat, cigarettes, and booze.
As the water cascaded over his back, he pressed his forehead to the cool tiles and wondered if he’d ever come out of this phase. This reckless, showing up half an hour late to lectures, barely scraping by on Cs, trying to drown himself in booze, phase.
Wasn’t he supposed to be a
little
grown up? He had one degree under his belt, his graduate classes going smooth as they ever could for someone who rarely paid attention to anything. But he didn’t have a job, or any other responsibilities, and he knew damn well he should by now.
With a heavy groan, he turned the shower off, wishing he had washed
himself
down the drain, but he was feeling a little better. Dressing in sweat pants and a ratty old t-shirt, he stared at himself in the mirror for a bit, frowning at the dark circles under his eyes. It was bad, but he’d been worse. He scrubbed the last of the club taste out of his mouth—the cheap booze and random tongues—then headed for the kitchen where he saw his far too perky roommate sitting at the counter.
She had her dark brown hair done in a perfect coif at the back of her neck, wearing a pantsuit, meaning she was going to be working on her teaching hours. “Morning, Mr. Sasaki.”
“It’s too early for you to be last-naming me,
Hernandez
.” Oliver groaned his displeasure as he blindly reached into the cabinet for a mug. Coffee was sitting, hot and ready by the stove, and he gulped it down without caring that it seared off several layers of his tongue. “What time did you lot get in?”
Coco shook her head. “God, I don’t know. Three, maybe? Brandon let us stay after they locked up the doors, but that’s only because they were in the middle of a poker game. Which Leo won big, by the way. I told him dinner’s on him tonight.”
Oliver snorted as he opened the fridge door and glared at the stack of Styrofoam take-out containers. He knew they should start at least attempting to eat like normal, grown up people, but the effort that would take was too daunting. “Tell him I’m in the mood for a good curry.”
Coco rolled her eyes. “In the five years you two have been living here, you haven’t found a single curry place that matches your standards.”
“S’not my fault London does it better,” he muttered.
With a snort, she pushed her chair away from the counter. “You’re picky and obnoxious, and London does it better because they colonized the fucking east without giving a shit about people who didn’t
want
to be colonized. Prick.”
He widened his eyes. “Listen, darling, I’m not even
white
English. I’m…”
“You’re half white English,
and
you’re Japanese, which means you haven’t been oppressed by the English at all.”
“Excuse me!” he demanded. “It may not have been official but…”
“Are you
really
going to argue this with me?” Her brown eyes narrowed, challenging, and eventually when she saw defeat in his eyes, she grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “That’s what I thought. Anyway, Leo’s in bed and probably suffering from some level of alcohol poisoning, so you should go make sure he doesn’t need a hospital or something.” Crossing the room, she grabbed his shoulder and yanked him down to press a kiss to his cheek. “See you later.”
He watched her as she flounced out the door, winking before it slammed shut. Running a hand down his face, he put his half-drunk coffee on the table and headed up the stairs. His brother’s room was directly next to his, and the door was cracked. He could hear a gentle snoring, and he smelled traces of smoke and booze coming from the pile of clothes at the end of Leo’s bed.
Oliver had always been protective over his brother, and when he decided to attend a University in the States rather than follow his mother’s carefully planned out path, he made sure he had his claws in Leo. He wasn’t going to leave without him, not after what they’d suffered.
It was a funny thing, Oliver discovered, growing up getting anything you wanted. His father had come from Japan, accepted into Eton, finishing his degree at Cambridge where he made connections and started up a Publishing company. From there he’d met his mother, a straight-backed, aristocratic woman who’d come from money and extreme religious ideals.
Oliver hadn’t spent a lot of time with his father, even as a child, but he remembered from a very early age wondering why his parents ever bothered to get married. They didn’t have a star-crossed lover’s story. Once he’d asked his father who shrugged and said, “She seemed nice enough, and I thought we’d make attractive children.”
That hadn’t been a lie. Oliver had always been aware he was good looking. He was tall, thin, with his mother’s sharp cheekbones, and his father’s narrow, brown eyes, and straight black hair he refused to cut even under the most dire threats from his mother. His mouth was full, and he could pout like a professional to get his way with most anything.
Leo was much the same, though several inches shorter, but there was no mistaking the brothers were related.
They’d grown up with little regard for material possessions, and a deep hatred for their mother—the woman who did everything in her power to ensure they were stuffed full of internalized hatred for who they were as people.
Oliver discovered his sexuality fairly early, wanking in the wee morning hours at his boarding school to the images of the rugby team. It wasn’t long before he was being thrown in detention for having snogging sessions with some of the more curious boys behind the stands, and eventually when the Headmaster wrote home about it, he was given a sound beating and locked in his bedroom for three weeks during the Christmas holidays.
It didn’t stop him, of course.
Nothing
stopped him. Not being dragged to church, not the constant reminders that it was abnormal, that it would make him an abomination. Not the scars he bore from the farce of an exorcism his mother eventually ordered, years after his father left to start a new company in the States. The exorcism, which had come at the end of several silver knives, burning sage leaving blisters up and down his arms, and the belief that the gayness was a demon.
He walked away sick, half-mutilated under his clothing, and hateful.
His brother, on the other hand, clung to his mother for years. Maybe afraid of going through what Oliver had, he couldn’t be sure. But when Leo was fifteen, Oliver walked in on him in a skirt, smearing read lipstick around his mouth, and he’d known Leo was just as different as he was.
His brother begged and sobbed, terrified of what their mother might do if she found out. So Oliver made it his mission in life to protect him because if he could, if he could save at least
one
of them from the horrific self-deprecation and gaping wounds of religious ideology and morality, he’d consider it a win.
His mother had wept, loud and publicly, when the brothers announced they were leaving. But they were of age and she couldn’t stop them. So they’d boarded the plane and lived off the trusts their father had set up, and now settled happily on the West Coast where no one was watching over their shoulder.
Not that they were exempt from the hate, but they were safe from it. Leo discovered a word for how he felt about himself—genderqueer—and a group of people who loved him regardless of how he viewed himself.
It left Oliver to keep watch over him, to continue his downward spiral because he couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut every time one of his lovers touched his scars. He couldn’t get rid of the memories of where they’d come from, and he’d done it in silence. For his brother’s sake. Because really, only one of them needed to suffer.
“What the bloody
fuck
are you staring at?” came a groggy voice from the burrito of blankets.
Oliver startled, then gave his brother a half shrug. “Just making sure you’re not dead.”
“No. Still here. In fucking agony if you really want to know, so you can show yourself out.”
Oliver leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. “Seriously, are you alright?”
“
Seriously
, mate, I’m fucking hung over and I just want to sleep. I can’t do that with you stood there all creepy and shit.
Go
.
Away
.” Leo picked up a pillow and half-heartedly threw it in the direction of his brother.
It fell several feet short of Oliver, who stared at it, then back at Leo who pulled the blankets mostly over his face. “Look, I’ve got class today, but I’ll bring something home for tea.”
“Soup,” came the muffled demand.
Oliver’s smile returned, and he backed up. “Fine. Text me when you get up to let me know you haven’t decided to die just to spite me.”
“I
live
to spite you, you fucking wanker. Now
go
.”
Closing the door behind him, Oliver headed to his bedroom and grabbed his bag. He only had one lecture, and it wasn’t until later, but if he stayed at the house he’d worry about Leo all damn day. He had a few papers to get through, so he figured the café on campus was his best bet.
Strolling out the front door, he locked it and wandered off for his morning routine.
***
The University café wasn’t crowded, to Oliver’s extreme relief. There were four baristas behind the counter looking more bored than anything, and only two of the tables were full. Oliver slid up to the counter, giving the woman at the register his most winning smile, and was rewarded with a faint blush across her cheeks.
“Morning, love.”
Taking a breath, she put on her Customer Service Expression. “What can I get you today?”
“I could really use a cup of hot tea,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “But
really
hot.”
She punched a few buttons, then turned to the barista standing behind her, nudging him with her elbow. “Gabe? Hot tea.”
“Extra hot,” Oliver clarified as he gave the man a once-over. He was taller than Oliver—though most people were—with a mess of black curls hanging just over the tops of his ears. His brows were thick, sitting low over golden-brown eyes, and his large nose wrinkled in annoyance with being interrupted, and the patronizing clarification from Oliver.
“Right. Extra hot. As opposed to
medium
hot,” he replied. His voice was higher than most, raspy like he spoke from the very back of his throat, and Oliver instantly liked it. He was cute, to say the least. Unconventional, but Oliver liked people who didn’t mirror the typical, California, over-polished, bleached-blonde.
The woman at the register made a frustrated noise at him and turned back to Oliver. “Sorry about him. We don’t usually put him up front because he’s
terrible
with people.”
“That’s okay, I’m only allowed out of the house on certain days of the week because I’m the same.” He winked, directing it to the one called Gabe who was giving Oliver a surreptitious glance. He grinned in vague triumph as he was passed over a large, steaming paper cup of hot water, and a bag of tea. He glanced at the brand and grinned. “Bloody
hell
, you’ve got Yorkshire here. I can’t find this anywhere.”
“It’s imported,” the barista said as she took the ten from his hand and made change. “It’s why it costs almost five bucks.”