Entry tags:

fic, lds original fic, mature fic

Fic Post: And It Came To Pass, R, [2/7]
Title: And It Came To Pass [2/7]
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: Meta on the LDS church within, but nice and buried so it doesn't (hopefully) read like an encyclopedia. If you want more info, I've posted here about the missionary rules and lifestyle, for those curious. This all started from the MormonsExposed.com calendar featuring these two guys (I've made up new last names for them here) AUSTIN YOUNG and BRANDON CHRISTENSEN. This is a made up story, anything resembling real life people is merely coincidental.

Previous chapters: [1]

* * * *
CHAPTER TWO
* * * * *

“Your goal is to help investigators become converted by the Spirit . . . .To do this you must help them feel and recognize the influence of the Spirit. As they feel the Spirit, you will be able to help them make and keep the commitments that lead to conversion” ~(Missionary Discussion Handbook, First Discussion)

*****


Two weeks in and Young still didn’t know what his feelings towards his new companion were.

He behaved like no other guy he knew. It wasn’t a bad thing, just . . . different. He was clearly a man’s man, tough, physically strong, but there was a gentleness to him as well. He really listened when a person talked, made them feel as if every word they said was important. Christensen was always hugging people, or clapping a hand to their shoulder. He behaved like no male in Young’s family behaved, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

The two woke up at the required time, made their beds, showered, dressed, ate, then sat at their small table and studied their lesson ideas for the day. Christensen would hum church songs under his breath as they pedaled through the streets of Barcelona looking for potential converts. They always arrived at church early to help families with many young children settle in and be reverent for the sacrament service. Christensen loved to be in the thick of things, and seemed to delight in forcing Young into the middle of the action as well.

Where Watson had been a reclusive zealot with no interest in intellectual conversation about the church’s doctrines, Rule number four: do not get into debates or arguments, Christensen was nothing but questions. Young had never spent a lot of time dissecting what his religion taught, what they really believed. Christensen had all sorts of ideas and questions and problems with the church’s doctrine.

“Why do we teach that nothing is more important than the family, yet everyone’s father is gone from sunup to sundown on the Sabbath?“

And,

“Why is it that we believe that the glory of God is intelligence, but we’re not supposed to ask questions that might be contradictory to the Church? Maybe the answers there would build our faith, instead of being blind and accepting.”

Or the doozy,

“If God will never lead our prophets to do anything contradictory to his will, then how do you explain polygamy, or the Laws of Consecration and Adoption, or blacks having the priesthood through Joseph Smith, then Brigham Young taking it away and calling them all fence sitters? Why does God change his mind so much?”

With anyone else, Young would have been outraged, or at least very concerned for his eternal salvation, but Christensen sparked an intense interest in Young to learn more about the gospel he was attempting to preach.

He began to wonder about the same issues, as well. Christensen always brought up how different the Church was in modern times than in the days of Joseph Smith. He questioned whether or not the old ways were better, and what gives the current leadership the right to negate the prophesies of old. There was something about Christensen’s sincerity that let those questions sink in, instead of Young automatically bristling and dismissing them as anti-Mormon b.s. Young’s parents had taught him to not doubt, but to trust, to not question, but to have faith, that if his faith was strong enough, he would know the answers.

“But how will I know?” he asked his father once.

“You’ll know, and you’ll know it’s from the Spirit, because you will have learned something,” was the reply from behind the newspaper. Deseret News, of course.

His mother had the annoying habit of arbitrarily interjecting into any faith-based conversation, “A popcorn is a just a tiny kernel that magnified its calling, dear,” as if that solved any lingering doubts. It didn’t. Young learned to simply not ask questions.

Light seemed to emanate from Christiansen when they had these study sessions. Everything seemed to make sense when he said it. Later in their day they’d go tracting either door to door or at the various parks.

“We aren’t making any headway with anyone because of … well, because we’re questioning the Church and not believing,“ Young worried. “If we could just have a perfect faith, we’d find the people that needed us.” What he didn’t say out loud was if he only would stop questioning, he could finally believe.

Christensen attempted to placate him, “Dude, we’re sowing seeds. Don’t let it get you down. Success is the progressive realization of a worthy goal.”

Young laughed, “Was that the daily quote in your Franklin Planner today?”

Christensen threw an arm over Young’s shoulder, laughing, “No! It was yesterday’s.”

It was comforting, if disconcerting, these random moments of affection and camaraderie. Young told himself that he didn’t do anything to encourage the contact, that’s just how guys were with each other, that he was just uncomfortable with male contact because of how his dad was, how he had grown up. He found himself hanging on Christensen’s every word nonetheless, and then became upset with himself for being so worshipful of his senior companion. God was not a respecter of men, and all that.

He felt the greatest confusion at night, when the two would kneel down together in their small living room, their knees almost touching, and pray together. Every night they would pray for their families, the other missionaries, the leaders of the church, but Christensen didn’t pray for baptisms, like Young was taught to do. He asked Christensen why one day.

“Because that’s not what it’s about, Elder.”

The only other time that Young felt completely uncomfortable and tried to clamp down on the thoughts he had never let himself properly examine was when Christensen touched himself late at night, apparently thinking Young was asleep and wouldn’t notice. He knew guys did that, they didn’t all have the strict fathers Young grew up with. He just never expected a guy to do that in the same room as him, and he especially never thought it would happen while serving the Lord on a mission. He avoided eye contact with Christensen each morning after it happened. He struggled internally between his companion being the good guy that the MP praised as “one of their best” with being a sinner by abusing himself.

That’s how he had to think of it, because it had been beaten into him by his father that a man did not do that to himself, it was abuse and an affront. After family prayer one night, his father came to his room and had left him a pamphlet teaching him how to avoid masturbation. Young had no idea how his father had known he’d done that. It had been the first and last time he had ever touched himself, with the exception of cleaning. He even felt sick to his stomach if the thought of doing it entered his head, which unfortunately happened often.

The first time he heard movement from the other bed, he woke up. He’d always been a light sleeper. At first he worried that his companion was sick. Christensen’s back was to him and he was gently rocking and making quiet and desperate gasps. Before Young made up his mind to get out of bed and check to see if he was okay, Christensen moaned quietly, one arm spasmed quickly, then went still. When he turned over to grab a tissue from his bedside table, Young feigned sleep, his heart racing.

The shame and guilt he’d been taught came flooding back due to his spending the entire day thinking about masturbation. He had been conditioned to believe that thinking it was the same as doing it, and did that mean he had done it to himself, or to his companion because Christensen had been the one touching him in his mind.

He spent extra time that night with his own personal prayers and scripture study.

*****

After a solid month, the two were settling in to a routine. They had no success in making appointments to teach in people’s homes, but they were meeting a lot of people in the city.

Christensen clapped a hand to Young‘s shoulder, giving him a firm squeeze, his hand lingering, “We’re setting an example, Elder. We’re showing them we’re not pushy, that we respect their rights. Spaniards respect each others boundaries, and get offended when not offered the same. They’re not afraid to tell you to shove off, either.”

Young heard that some of the other guys in their district had been spat on; one of the missionaries took a face full of chewing tobacco.

“That would be Romney. He’s a jackass. Sorensen had him as a greenie, said he felt his ‘heritage and strength of spirit’ would bring the flock to him. Moron.”

Over the month Young had gotten used to all the physical contact and camaraderie that Christensen couldn’t help; he was just a handsy, friendly guy. Young’s family wasn’t demonstrative; his mother fluttered and fussed around her children, but never embraced them, neither did his father. At his missionary farewell, his mother had awkwardly patted his shoulder and his dad gave him a gruff handshake with an admonition to “do the Lord proud.”

Christensen had looked at him sadly when Young confessed that he couldn’t remember the last time his mom or dad had held him. Where Young hadn’t been close to his siblings or parents, Christensen came from a huge family of eight siblings and everyone hugged and kissed, he had said. He usually slapped someone’s hand in a high-five, then pulled them in for a hug, or constantly slung his arm around Young’s shoulders and introduced him as “my comp.”

It was P-Day again, and all the elders from earlier that hadn’t been transferred were coming over to their apartment to get hair cuts. Christensen was the designated barber for the district. A buzz suddenly twanged and Christensen showed off his clippers.

“My mom sent them to me a few months ago. She knows I like to keep it neat. Since then, everyone bugs me to cut their hair,” he shrugged, “Saves on bucks.”

The Caribbean boy, now known as Elder Johns, brought his new companion, a greenie fresh from the MTC in Provo.

“This here is Elder May, let’s show him the Spanish love, okay?”

A round of handshakes, ¿Como estas?, and the typical discussion of family trees revealed that May and Sorensen were third cousins. Sorensen proclaimed his new-found cousin to be his “protegé” and that no one should mess with him.

“Did your mom send you peanut butter, B?” Sorensen asked.

Christensen laughed and set a towel on the counter. “Yeah, and she told me not to touch one of them; it was for you. Man, quit working your mojo on my mom, dude.”

Sorensen threw open the cabinet doors looking for it. “Crunchy?” He found the plastic jar, ripped the lid off and jammed his finger in. “Ohhhhh,” he moaned.

“Nasty! Get a frickin’ spoon, Elder.”

Sorensen grabbed a spoon, scooped a huge amount out, and licked the peanut butter off it like a lollipop. Then, he whipped off his shirt and garments, spun a chair on one leg, and straddled it.

“I believe I get firsts this time, Gentlemen. Short on the sides, and as much of a faux-hawk that you think I can get away with, B.”

Young was scandalized at Sorensen being bare-chested in front of everyone, but tried to keep his face neutral. He took the covenant to keep his G’s on at all times, save showering or for some sports, very seriously. He looked around at the other guys and registered that no one else cared, not even the greenie. May was teaching one of the south district elders how to do a complicated handshake involving snaps and chest bumps and the others were pilfering the contents of their meager pantry.

Young kept finding ways to not take his turn at getting his hair cut. He washed up the lunch dishes, telling Elder May that he didn't need to worry about pitching in. He sat down to read a letter his mother had written earlier wondering if he’d been made a district leader yet, and to pray for his father who had just gotten a “very important calling” in the church. Young pulled out his stationary and replied back, asking what the calling was and spent several paragraphs detailing the architecture in the city before re-organizing the book shelf with all of their teaching materials and scriptures. Anything to keep busy and to keep his eyes from studying the other boys in the room too intently.

The clippers’ buzz snapped off, Elder Johns bent over at the waist and shook his head like a dog, knocking a few clumps of shorn hair off to the floor.

“We promised to help move boxes at the library in exchange for a Discussion, so Elder May and I are off. Thanks for the cut.” He and Christensen performed a complicated series of hand slaps and finger snaps ending in a giant bear hug.

“Two weeks left, Johns. If I don’t see you before you head out, write.”

“Will do! Later!”

A few of the other companions mentioned late afternoon plans and bugged out until it was just Young and Christensen again. Christensen reached behind his head and pulled his shirt and G’s off in one fluid motion, snapped the clippers back on, and looked into a mirror on the wall to clean up his sideburns.

“Hey, catch the back for me. Make sure it’s squared off, okay?”

Young took the vibrating clippers, his insides buzzing to match. Christensen straddled a chair, his arms folded over the back and his forehead resting on his arms. Young took a shaky breath and gently laid a hand on Christensen’s broad shoulder and did as he’d been asked.

Christensen stood and looked at the finished job in the mirror. “Could you get back behind my ears? I never get that right.”

Young felt bolder; nothing bad had happened when he touched his companion’s bare skin. Registering how warm he was or how firm he felt under Young’s hand didn’t cause the floor to split open, demons pouring out to cast him in with the Sons of Perdition. He almost laughed out loud at himself. He had half-expected to be struck down, the angry voice of God chastising him for being in the room with someone that had covenanted to wear garments, but wasn’t, for not being disgusted at touching a half-naked male in front of him.

For wanting to.

He stood behind Christensen who was tilting his head down, exposing the skin behind his ear. Young cupped his face and made a few, slow strokes with the tool and softly blew the hairs that fell away. He immediately pinked and snapped off the clippers.

Christensen turned and gave him a steady look for a moment, then said, “Your turn.”

“What? Um, no, I’m good.”

“Your hair’s touching your ears. You want people to think you’re some kind of granola-eating hippie that follows Phish? Come on, Elder. I promise I won’t jack your hair up.”

Young straddled the chair, same as the others, but kept his P-Day t-shirt on.

“We already did laundry today, Austin. You’re gonna get your shirt covered in hair. What gives? You got a third nipple? Poodle tattoo over your heart?”

Young barked out a nervous laugh. “No! Alright. Don’t go shaving pictures in the back of my head or anything, though.” He reached up and behind his head and pulled his shirt and garments off in one motion, leaving his arms bound by the fabric.

“You do have a third nipple, don’t you?” Christensen laughed, then tugged at the cloth, pulling Young’s arms free. Young turned and watched as his last protective barrier was dropped on the counter. Christensen made a point to check out his chest and abs. “Nope, no conjoined twin, either. What gives, man? You’re fit as heck.”

As he walked behind Young to switch on the tool, Young shivered slightly and closed his eyes.

This is wrong, what’s going on with me?

All thoughts were driven out when he felt Christensen lay a warm, firm hand between his shoulder blades to hold him still while he cut. He chanced a look after a while but immediately shut his eyes again when he saw his companion squatting directly in front of him, squinting at Young’s sideburns to ensure they were the same length. Young could feel Christensen’s breath move over his lips. He kept his eyes screwed shut.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, sorry.”

Christensen laughed, “Afraid I’m doing a bad job?”

“No.”

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

Christensen rubbed his hand over Young’s head to dislodge any hairs, then leaned over and blew a few pale blonde strays off the backs of his ears. Young couldn’t help his skin stippling over in goose-bumps. He also wasn’t sure if he was imagining that Christensen was making an extra effort in getting 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, or if he just hoped that was the case.

What am I saying? I’m not hoping. . . I’m not.

“Okay, man. Torture session is over.”

Young stood up and looked at his reflection in the mirror, catching sight of Christensen behind him, looking down. Young noted Christensen’s hard and chiseled chest, hairless and smooth. Christensen looked up and into the mirror and saw Young staring right at him.

“Well?”

“Looks good.”

“I told you I knew what I was doing.”

“I’m glad. I mean, thanks.”

“Why don’t you hit the shower while I clean up out here? Wait, I don’t think I got everything off your neck back there.” He brushed the tip of his finger behind Young’s ear, trailing down the thick cord of muscle in his neck. Young looked down to avoid seeing their reflection in the mirror, before finally turning away to head for the shower.

He stood in the water’s spray for several minutes, letting the hot water rush over his shoulders, his head down. He didn’t want to think about why his companion was giving him such unwelcome thoughts. He didn’t want to think about Brandon, he wanted Brandon to go back to being Elder Christensen, Man of God.

Instead, images of Christensen doing crunches on the floor mixed with him kneeling in prayer which blended into dark and shadowy movements under a blanket played over and over in his mind. Young kept his eyes closed as the water poured over his body. If he didn’t look at what his hand was doing in the rush of water it would be like it wasn’t happening.




Continues...