Entry tags:

fic, lds original fic, mature fic

Fic post (original fic) "And It Came To Pass: 1/7, Adult/Mature
Title: And It Came To Pass, [1/7]
Author: Stoney
Summary: Two guys on an LDS mission come out of the closet and put their houses in order. About as blasphemous (to Mormons) as it gets, so leave your religious piety at the door, or move along.
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Lots of meta in here, but I tried to not make it too hard to follow. And… it needs it. *shrug* The reference to “Wally Kestler” is from a popular Mormon musical, “Saturday’s Warrior” in which a girl swears to be true and “wait” for him to come home on his mission so they can marry. They’re weirdoes. Oh, Mormons go on missions at 19, generally, give or take a few months to a year-ish after that, but not earlier. I'll shut up now.

This is AUSTIN YOUNG and this is BRANDON CHRISTENSEN. I have taken MASSIVE liberties with the dudes on the Mormons Exposed Calendar, including making up last names for them, their family life, etc. Everything here is from my own head; anything resembling real people is purely coincidental.

* * * * *
Chapter One
* * * * *

"[Sacrifice] helps us become worthy to live in the presence of God [. . . .] We must also believe that we will receive the promised reward" (Fifth Missionary Discussion)


“Thou wast chosen before thou wast born.” (Abraham 3:23)

Barcelona, Spain: Mission Field

Austin Young sat quietly in the back of the car, his finger absentmindedly tracing over the embossed gold outline of his name in the lower corner of his scripture set. His Mission President was too engrossed in conversation with another church member riding along in the front seat to pay him any attention. He didn’t mind; the city on the other side of the window was beautiful. Barcelona was a long way away from the cement walls and blocky houses of Provo, Utah.

Austin, or Elder Young as he tried to refer to himself, was now officially a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. He hadn’t wanted to serve on a mission, and he couldn’t put a finger on why that was. He had grown up knowing it was expected of him, and that it was a “choice.” A choice that he would have to make, or face being ostracized by the church. He kept pushing off the inevitable as his nineteenth birthday rolled around.

He was in school at the U, even though all of his siblings and parents had attended the Y, just a few blocks from the family homestead. He claimed, when his mother tearfully asked why he wouldn’t go the Church’s University, that the University of Utah had a better business program than the Y. When that failed to stop her tearful prayers to the Lord to change his mind, he told her that secretly, he wanted to be thrown “into the Lion’s Den” and set an example to the apostates and non-Mormons that attended that college in droves. She told him that she had never been prouder of him. It was the first time either of his parents had used that word to describe their feelings for him.

After a full year at university, his father started in on the “talk.” His father explained that either he would go and serve the Lord as he was required, or his parents would stop paying for his tuition. And his dorm fees. And his car.

So, Austin filled out the paperwork, his bishop expedited the matter, and his family took him to Garcia’s, the local Mexican food restaurant, to celebrate his call to the Spanish mission. Two days later he became Elder Young, and would take flak for that misfortunate title for the next 104 weeks.

There was a Missionary Farewell at his home ward the week before he left for the MTC that had left him shell-shocked. Lots of random girls from his home ward that he barely knew in passing told him they’d write and “wait for him.” He hadn’t given any of them much thought while they were growing up together, so he didn’t know why they felt the need to make him Wally Kestler all of a sudden.

Young’s childhood home was only three blocks away from the Missionary Training Center, or MTC, so he didn’t experience the culture shock that a lot of the incoming missionaries suffered at the overwhelming “churchiness” of the place. His first shock in the field was about the mission’s required closeness to his companion. They were never to leave each other’s sight, unless showering or taking care of other toilet needs, period.

Hi first companion was Elder Watson, a frail, hard-line Mormon boy from Boston. He was a TBM, a True Blue Mormon. While Young waited to be taken to his new apartment outside Barcelona where Watson was waiting for him, he bumped into the leaving companion who told Young that “the guy is nuts.”

Watson toed the line and expected nothing less from Young and stuck to his new “green” companion’s side like glue. If they woke up a moment later than the required 6:30 am rise-n-shine time, Watson had them praying extra hard to be “more diligent to serve the Gospel to the fullest.” If they didn’t get any new contacts that day, they would fast, even though it was only required the first Sunday of the month.

Watson contracted some kind of infection that was antibiotic resistant soon after Elder Young arrived. Since Watson had been only one month shy of completing his mission,, the Mission President decided to send him back stateside to “work his last four weeks” while undergoing treatment at Beth Israel.

Young thought Watson was pretty lucky. Watson’s family lived a short drive from the hospital and would be certain to sneak in on visiting hours to see their son. It had only been nine weeks since he’d left home; he had ninety-five weeks left. Ninety-five weeks before he could stand up in his home ward and tell them how this had been the best two years of his life, like all missionaries were expected to do. Like his parents were expecting him to do. He chastised himself for ever entertaining the idea of going home, too.

Even though Elder Young thought Watson was a bit too gung-ho, he believed in following the rules. When you don’t have to think for yourself, you don’t have to think.

*****

Young was “flushed,” or transferred the day Watson got aboard a plane to head back stateside. He had an interview with the Mission President, as was customary for all changes in personnel, and told the MP how dedicated Watson was, that he’d not seen any salacious behavior on Watson’s part at all, they had followed all the rules, on and on. The MP scribbled a note into his Franklin-Covey day planner: “Served honorably,” and Elder Young was given his new location, the north district, Barcelona. Even though Young was being transferred to his second companion outside MTC, he was still considered a “greenie.”

“Your new companion is quite the missionary, so I hope you take note of how he works. This is a tough mission. Not a lot of baptisms, not like those guys who have it easy in South America. The European missions are what make real leaders of the Church, Young. If Elder Christensen says jump, you ask how high, understood?”

“Yes, sir.” If there was one thing Elder Young was good at in his life, it was following orders without question.

After the MP drove him to his new apartment in the business center, he and the other church member wished him luck, and pulled away into traffic. Young hoisted his duffel and front wheel to his shoulder, picked up the rest of his bike in the other hand and tentatively kicked at the base of the apartment door. After a moment spent jostling his gear in his hands, the front door swung open wide.

“¡Holá! I’m Elder Christensen. Brandon,” Christensen took his bike from him, and they shook hands. “You’re Young, right?”

“Um, yeah.”

Young felt an electric shock pulse deep inside him when their hands met. When this had happened once before, he had attributed it to the Spirit, the strength of the other’s faith making itself manifest. It had been an older boy in his Priest’s Quorum that time; tall, commanding presence, soft-voiced, but with a strength to him. He was just one of those guys that you couldn’t help but want to hang out with, talk to, be like. A natural leader that Young had been willing to follow anywhere.

Young’s new companion was that same kind of guy, it seemed. It was like how Joseph Smith himself had drawn men and women to him. Tall and broad shouldered, obviously athletic and very fit, with a bright, handsome face framed by dark brown hair. The perfect Mormon man.

Christensen started walking through the small apartment, giving him a tour. Young quickly shut the front door behind him and caught up.

“And here’s the bedroom, quarters are cramped, but I guess the Spaniards don’t grow ‘em as big as we do out West.”

Young forced a laugh past the lump in his throat. It was just nerves, he remembered the stories from his older brothers about being stuck with horrible companions, lazy guys, guys that constantly broke the rules. Christensen seemed too jovial; he couldn’t determine what sort of companion Christensen would be just yet.

Christensen was saying something about the noisy neighbors above them; he reached up and held the bedroom door’s frame showing off broad shoulders that tapered down to a slim waist. Young shook himself slightly to get his brain back into focus.

“You were with Watson, huh?” Christensen shook his head. “That guy took things a bit too far, right? I mean, I heard he fasted at least once a week. Probably why he got sick. There wasn’t much of him to begin with.”

Young felt oddly disloyal listening to this and not defending his former companion, even though he had felt the same way about Watson.

“Aw, he was all right. A little over-zealous, but isn’t that what we’re here for?”

Christensen looked him dead in the eye, “No. We’re here to try and spread some joy to the local people. We’re not here to freak them out and make them hate Mormons more than the rest of the world already does.”

That sent another thrill through him; this was what he wanted to do on his mission, not just get numbers. He wanted to first find happiness, then share it. He had hoped to gain a stronger belief in the church while on his mission, something he had never told anyone. This might be the companion to light a fire in him.

Young let out a sigh of relief, “I’d always figured guys were already set with their testimonies before they left, you know? And I’ve been a little freaked by not being a zealot like Watson, like I‘m not worthy to be here.” He blushed. That wasn’t anything he had ever admitted out loud.

Christensen sprawled on the modest couch that came with the apartment. “Man, you and me both. One of my comps when I first got here only came because his dad threatened to stop paying for his college if he didn’t go. That guy was the laziest thing I’ve ever seen, and didn’t know half of what he was supposed to teach. That guy never frickin’ washed his clothes and stunk to all get out. I got sick of his cooking fast. He wanted nothing but Ramen noodles because all you had to do was heat water. Complete bum.”

Young picked at a piece of fuzz on the armchair he was now sitting on, not wanting to let on how close to home that had hit. “I’m not like that. I’m not lazy, I mean.” He laughed, “and I’m not a fan of Ramen, so no worries there. It’s just… well, there are some things I haven’t gotten that… that fire about, I guess.”

Christensen laughed, “You can’t know everything! How boring would that be, being a know-it-all by 20? Not to mention how many times you’d get your butt kicked by people sick of you preaching to them.” Christensen threw a pillow at Young’s head, smiling. “I figure there’s loads out there left to learn. I’m all about being open to new ideas and people. There’s a whole world out there we don’t know about, Elder.”

That was exactly what Young was afraid of.

****

Since transfers happened on Preparation Day, or P-Day as the church called it, the two decided to get all of their laundry done then meet up with the rest of the elders in the district for some basketball.

They dressed in their “civies. ” Young was careful to avoid looking as if he was watching Christensen change into his loose, nylon basketball shorts. They headed off to the basketball court in one of the city’s many parks; there were eight other missionaries there already. Christensen shook hands with several of them, and pulled two of them into bear-like hugs.

“Guys, let me introduce you to my new companion, Elder Young.”

As expected, several of the guys made cracks about the title, and the two guys that Christensen had hugged stepped forward and shook his hand with equally firm grips.

One of the guys, built like a linebacker and sporting a friendly grin, called out, “You better watch out, Young. Your comp’s a legend. He’s the only one of us that’s baptized anyone this whole mission.”

Young was astounded. “How long have you guys been here?”

A tall boy with a slight Caribbean accent said, “I’ve got eight weeks left.”

The linebacker popped the basketball off his chest and caught it. “You’re getting trunky, Elder. Me? I’ve been here 14 months, and thinking about extending. I can’t go home with a zero, no way. My little brother is in Columbia, and he says they’re like lemmings off a cliff. He’s baptized almost 100, only been there six weeks.”

The group gasped.

“I know. But then, we all know the real men go European.”

A few of them high-fived as Christensen smacked the ball out of the linebacker’s grip. He rolled the ball down his hand and arm behind his head, then spun it on his finger. “What are we playing, teams? Three-a-side?”

The Caribbean boy asked, “Yo, Young. You any good?”

“I guess.”

The boy laughed, “Greenie’s on your team, then, Brandon.”

Christensen slung his arm around Young’s shoulders genially and gave him a squeeze. “They’re good guys. You’re on my team. And really,“ he looked serious now, “are you any good?”

Young shrugged his arm off, his nerves jangling from the close contact. He tried to hide his unwanted reaction by grabbing the ball and dribbling it between his legs to warm up. He kept his face down, concentrating on the ball trying to force his face into something neutral. Large groups of guys made him nervous.

“Yeah, I’m all right. Don’t put me post, though. I’m a better guard.”

The guys played four games before the linebacker guy with the little brother begged off.

“We have a dinner appointment tonight, and you know how rare that is. Oh, the wife said she’s making us chuletillas.” He rubbed his belly, then grabbed his backpack.

Christensen hollered after him, “Elder Sorensen! Cava is not a type of grape juice!”

Sorensen turned, walking backwards, and smiled, “Hey, we’re supposed to respect the cultures of the native people. The Lamanites get to smoke peyote, you know.”

Christensen turned to Young and saw his worried face.

“He’s just joking. He knows it’s wine and won’t drink it.”

Most of the group decided it was time to get back; they all wanted to have dinner, hit some neighborhoods for potential members, and be back home in time for the required 9:30 pm check in. There were high-fives and firm handshakes all around as the groups left in twos, leaving Young and Christensen.

“Wanna play a little one on one?”

Young caught the ball that Christensen bounced to him and bounced it back forcibly, “Yeah, sure.”

Christensen bounced it back and moved in, arms wide, attempting to block Young’s shot. Young pivoted on his right foot trying to find an opening but Christensen shifted and blocked his jump shot, their bodies colliding. Young was knocked backwards.

“Here, sorry man.”

Christensen held his hand out to pull him back up on his feet. Young ignored the heat building in his core at the contact. The halogen street lights turned on with a loud pop, and Young jerked slightly. As Christensen jogged to the side of the court to retrieve their packs, Young looked up to watch moths swarming around the lights, attracted to their glow, circling feverishly.

He listened to Christensen talk about various basketball players as they pedaled back to their apartment, his companion‘s voice both soothing and heady.



****
Continues here