Sixty-one days to motherfucking graduation and they almost do some serious shit. It’s been a rough go for a while, studying for tests, taking them, more studying, trying to plan a whole future before you turn eighteen. It’s no wonder Nate TKOs Brad with one punch.
Brad’s used to scrapping with Nate and this isn’t his first time riding the blackout train so he’s not out for long. Just long enough to hit the ground and let Nate climb on top of him.
He wakes up when Nate slaps the shit out of him. The last time someone slapped him it was because he told Kelsey Danson he’d rather lick a toad than date her. It hurts more this time.
Even though his brains are half-scrambled Brad still manages to shove at Nate, calling him a bitch, trying not to puke. Nate laughs, but they scrabble around anyway, kicking up dust, crushing what little grass is left in the field. It’s inelegant, nothing like the fights in movies, too much grunting and too many glancing blows, hardly anything getting done.
This is supposed to be that story, with the timeline and the predictability. Same shit, different day. So we know what happens next: they make out and frott in the grass.
But wait.
I told you I fucked this story up.
They don’t.
Instead, Brad gags and Nate rolls away like Brad’s on fire. Brad doesn’t puke but it’s a near thing. That would be pretty fucking embarrassing, considering the fantasies Brad’s been entertaining in the shower, Nate’s dick in his mouth and better.
"Goddammit, Nate!"
Nate’s up on his feet before Brad calms his roiling stomach, trying to brush the dirt off his brand-new Levis.
“Are you okay?” he asks, holding a hand out for Brad.
Brad takes it. “Fuck off.”
Nate smirks. “You’re just mad because I won.”
“Isn’t there a rule about hitting faces, you dumb dick?”
“My face maybe. Your face isn’t worth it.”
Brad shakes his head and starts dusting himself off too, although he doesn’t really care. No one’s gonna be home at his house until six. He can do laundry. He just needs something to do in the meantime.
Nate dusts himself off thoroughly though and comes out pretty clean, then he scratches his face thoughtfully.
“Sorry,” he says. “I really shouldn’t have punched you like that.”
“Won’t bruise.” Brad shrugs, although it will. He still feels queasy.
Nate shrugs too, sticking one hand in his pocket. “Sorry anyway.”
“You have a lot of decisions to make. It’s stressful, I bet.”
Nate looks at the dusty circle around them and back to Brad. “Don’t you?”
Brad shrugs again. He feels strange, wound up like they didn’t fight at all. He doesn’t like to talk about this shit, especially not with Nate, who has options coming out of his ass.
Nate nods like an idiot. “Do you,” he asks slowly, “want a ride home?”
That’s new. Usually Brad walks his ass home every Friday afternoon, cataloging all the feelings he’s feeling, the pain and the other complicated stuff. His first instinct is to say no, and probably to tell Nate to go to hell.
But he wants so he swallows the first instinct and goes with his second, the same one that told him to meet that jock assprick in the field the first time, and says yes.
“Cool,” Nate says, running his hand through his hair, looking relieved.
Brad’s used to scrapping with Nate and this isn’t his first time riding the blackout train so he’s not out for long. Just long enough to hit the ground and let Nate climb on top of him.
He wakes up when Nate slaps the shit out of him. The last time someone slapped him it was because he told Kelsey Danson he’d rather lick a toad than date her. It hurts more this time.
Even though his brains are half-scrambled Brad still manages to shove at Nate, calling him a bitch, trying not to puke. Nate laughs, but they scrabble around anyway, kicking up dust, crushing what little grass is left in the field. It’s inelegant, nothing like the fights in movies, too much grunting and too many glancing blows, hardly anything getting done.
This is supposed to be that story, with the timeline and the predictability. Same shit, different day. So we know what happens next: they make out and frott in the grass.
But wait.
I told you I fucked this story up.
They don’t.
Instead, Brad gags and Nate rolls away like Brad’s on fire. Brad doesn’t puke but it’s a near thing. That would be pretty fucking embarrassing, considering the fantasies Brad’s been entertaining in the shower, Nate’s dick in his mouth and better.
"Goddammit, Nate!"
Nate’s up on his feet before Brad calms his roiling stomach, trying to brush the dirt off his brand-new Levis.
“Are you okay?” he asks, holding a hand out for Brad.
Brad takes it. “Fuck off.”
Nate smirks. “You’re just mad because I won.”
“Isn’t there a rule about hitting faces, you dumb dick?”
“My face maybe. Your face isn’t worth it.”
Brad shakes his head and starts dusting himself off too, although he doesn’t really care. No one’s gonna be home at his house until six. He can do laundry. He just needs something to do in the meantime.
Nate dusts himself off thoroughly though and comes out pretty clean, then he scratches his face thoughtfully.
“Sorry,” he says. “I really shouldn’t have punched you like that.”
“Won’t bruise.” Brad shrugs, although it will. He still feels queasy.
Nate shrugs too, sticking one hand in his pocket. “Sorry anyway.”
“You have a lot of decisions to make. It’s stressful, I bet.”
Nate looks at the dusty circle around them and back to Brad. “Don’t you?”
Brad shrugs again. He feels strange, wound up like they didn’t fight at all. He doesn’t like to talk about this shit, especially not with Nate, who has options coming out of his ass.
Nate nods like an idiot. “Do you,” he asks slowly, “want a ride home?”
That’s new. Usually Brad walks his ass home every Friday afternoon, cataloging all the feelings he’s feeling, the pain and the other complicated stuff. His first instinct is to say no, and probably to tell Nate to go to hell.
But he wants so he swallows the first instinct and goes with his second, the same one that told him to meet that jock assprick in the field the first time, and says yes.
“Cool,” Nate says, running his hand through his hair, looking relieved.
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HANDJOBS. PORTABLES. YOU.
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I AM A BAD MAMMA-JAMMA. THIS IS A REALLY QUIET PARTY POST. WE NEED TO LIVEN THIS SHIT UP.
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"My face maybe. Your face isn’t worth it."
LOL, after seeing that nip/tuck screenshot, this is so very apt :D
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Hee!
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