Diamonds, Loose: Part Five
It’s always a text that starts it off, sparks the chain that eventually leads to thumping bass lines and alcohol-soaked carpets, some poor fuck’s parentless house bursting at the seams with school kids looking for a good time, trashing everything in their wake and generally making a mess of themselves and loving it. And you know, most of the time, before you open it, that it’s going to be one of those messages, the kind that make you grin to yourself and leave a night free.
So when my phone goes off with a new message and I check to see that it’s from Pete, I raise an eyebrow, open it expectantly. ry some chick is havin a hows prty 2nite were all gna be ther tht means u too il let u no the adress is all it says, and I can feel the spontaneous smile creeping onto my face, breaking the stony composure that’s been lingering ever since I left Brendon in the cabin a couple of days ago, setting in ever more insistently every time I’ve passed him at school and blanked him, overcome.
cool,sounds good. =) I send back, and as I pocket the phone again, leaning back in my bedroom desk chair and placing my hands behind my head to contemplate. It’s been a while, I’ll admit, since I did something like this; with the guys from school, I mean. In recent months, parties have meant guys - like, guys - and secrecy and the thrill and bite of necessary lies that won’t leave. It’ll be a little strange having to adjust, to change myself like that, but I can handle it. With Pete and everyone else alongside me, it’ll be a breeze.
Though I’d never admit it to a soul, I spend the most of the rest of my Saturday daylight time figuring out what I’m going to wear. I always know what to put on when I’m going somewhere with the intentions of hooking up with a guy, sure, because I know what guys like, what makes them fall easy and kiss hard. I’ve learnt. But this is different, and I have to be careful around these people. I can’t wear anything too... well. Not ‘gay’, but. You know.
Pete drives us to the party later when night has fallen and sufficiently meaningless excuses as to where I’m going have been thrown in my parents’ direction. I hear him pull up outside, the failing rumble of his engine cutting through the still night, and I wrench open the door to flash them a smile as I amble towards the car. Pete’s the only one of us who can drive - well, Jon can, but he doesn’t actually have a vehicle, so he doesn’t count - and that’s the only reason we put up with this tiny, puttering pile of crap he calls a car. I squeeze in the back seat with an uncomfortable grin, too-long legs squashed into no space at all, and I grumble out a complaint that doesn’t go unheard.
“My car is a fine size, shut the fuck up, Ryan,” Pete snipes from the front seat.
We pull away and head for the girl’s house as Gabe retorts for me, “You wear children’s jeans, of course it’s a fine size to you,” and I laugh with the rest of them at Pete’s scowl in the rear-view.
* * *
The girl’s house is big.
Like, really big. I wouldn’t even call it a house, myself, I’d lean more towards the mansion-castle-palace side of things, but hey, that’s just me. Stretching out before us after we’ve parked the impossibly small car and piled out is a wide, winding path, a long strip of grey leading from where we’re standing, awed, to the imposing white house. It seems like the kind of place that should be sitting on a hill, looking down its nose at the rest of the town, but then I don’t think it really needs that.
It towers over us when we come to a stop at the door, intimidating, and Pete’s the one who presses the doorbell, following a second or two of hesitance hovering over all of our heads. He’s always the confident one. We weren’t exactly invited, see, we often aren’t, but us being us, it usually doesn’t matter. We’re still greeted warmly, welcomed in, praised, smiled at. If I could only guarantee that everything would be that way forever, maybe I could be content with life.
The door is opened quickly, and a girl in killer heels and a too-short dress covered in glitter stands with her hand resting on the handle, black curls bouncing around her shoulders. “Hey there,” she says expectantly, voice raised over the inside noise.
“Mind if we come in, or...?” Pete asks, giving her his most dashing smile.
She simpers a little, preens, says, “Sure, if you can find space,” with a laugh, and she turns and retreats back into the house as she motions for us to follow.
“What’s her name?” I mutter to Bill, feeling a little shitty for crashing her party when I don’t even know who she is on any sort of level, but he just shrugs.
“Does it matter?” he replies. I shrug, too. Guess not.
The girl leads us to the kitchen, pretending not to notice Pete checking out her ass and her toned legs in that dress as he walks close behind her, and once we’re there she squeezes past several noisily laughing people to get us some drinks. A bottle of some unheard of brand of beer is shoved into my hand, and I unscrew it quickly, rushed.
“Slow down, Ryan Ross, we’ve got all night,” says William in my ear, and I notice I’ve got my drink pressed to my lips already while everyone else’s remain unopened still. Feeling myself flushing, I look down, shame pulsing hotly, but they leave it to be forgotten and move on.
It’s times like this, like that moment right there, that I remind myself too much of my dad - the eagerness, the ease with alcohol, the way I’m so damn reliant on forgetting my troubles and worries and problems with the help of a drink in my hand, on my tongue. Just like him.
I shove that thought aside, though, because I’m here to have a good time.
The party’s jumping, crappy music filtering through all the walls and mingling together between rooms, but no one really cares what tunes are playing so long as it’s something to dance to, something you can pull another person up into and hold them close, share their space. Everywhere I look, there’s people; the house is massive, but it’s still bulging with people, overflowing.
A lot of them are kids I’ve never even seen before, a few pretty girls who flutter their eyelashes in my direction and a lot of good-looking boys who don’t really glance at me except to nod their heads or shout a quick, “Hey, Ryan.” It leaves a cool, empty feeling, like something’s missing, but I ignore it and take another drink.
Eventually, as time goes on, I get sucked into it all; the vibe and the atmosphere. Pete’s disappeared upstairs with the hostess and I can see Gabe right over the far side of this room, leaning against the wall with one flat-palmed hand and leering slightly at an obviously tipsy girl, smiling at her lazily.
Jon, Spence and William have disappeared somewhere, I’m not sure where, but the point is: I’m alone. Looking around, all I see is people having a good time with other people, and my head feels light, and there’s no reason why I can’t do that too.
I’m on the verge of asking a petite blonde in a low-cut top to dance when it hits me through the alcohol-induced haze that I can’t do that, of course I can’t. I have a girlfriend. Which, hey, shit. I didn’t even ask her to come, she doesn’t know. She’s never liked me going places and doing things like this without her, and, to be fair, when I look over recent events I can kind of see her reasoning. God, I wonder what she’ll say, because there’s no doubt in my mind that she’ll find out: she will find out.
Tipping my head backwards, I groan quietly in frustration and annoyance at myself, my brain unhelpfully providing scenarios in which she kicks my ass for this.
The thought train is derailed by a hand closing too-tight around my wrist, pressing against the bone, and I gasp involuntarily, tugging my hand on instinct and spinning around to see who it is, losing my balance a little.
I’m met with a glinting grin, dark eyes that glitter in the low light of the party, and his hand’s still on my wrist. It takes a couple of seconds, but I soon recognise him as a guy I messed around with a while ago at some party out of town. Out of town, exactly, so why the fuck is he here, grasping my wrist and pressing with his thumb and saying over the music, “Ryan, remember me?”
Yeah, I think so. “Uh,” I say, my mouth dry. “Eric, right?” I fucked him in a spare bedroom upstairs, with the door locked tight and his voice muffled in a pillow.
“That’s me, yeah,” he breathes, his mouth practically on my ear, and I subtly push him back, twisting my hand free at the same time. He smells like liquor. “I remember you, too,” he says.
I swallow, eyes darting around, because fucking shit, this isn’t meant to happen. “Oh. Yeah?” I reply belatedly, and he smiles.
“Mm,” he slurs, “could never forget you, baby,” his hand gliding up my arm, and I can’t stop looking all over for the rest of them, searching anywhere but his face.
“I have to, uh, find my friends,” I say shakily, distracted.
“So soon?” he pouts, pressing further into my space. “I was hoping we could...”
“Stop,” I hiss at him, shoving him a little, but he’s still smiling, eyes glazed a little from the drink. “Shut up, you need to stop.”
“Why?”
I struggle a little, there’s so many reasons, and I blurt out unwillingly, “I have a girlfriend.”
“Hey,” he says seriously, gripping my wrist again, “no, hey, I get it, you know? I get boys like you. You don’t want people to find out, huh?” I just glare at him, saying nothing, and his lips curl seductively. “We could be real secretive.”
I try and tug my hand away but his hold is tight, and I say, “No,” meeting his eyes.
Sucking his own bottom lip into his mouth, he studies me and I stand there, conspicuous and thrumming with the need to get away. Finally, he licks his lips, says, “Your friends are here?” I nod. “You know I could tell them, if I wanted, right?”
“Yes,” I growl, and he smiles playfully, like there’s anything game-like about this.
“I’ll keep quiet, if you give me one more kiss.”
I stare at him, my jaw set, let my gaze wash over his darkhairdarkeyes, the prominent bridge of his nose. I check, and there’s no one around that I know, but there’s plenty of people that I don’t, and sometimes that’s just as bad. But I don’t want to risk anything, no, so without another word I roll my eyes, crowd him into the corner nearby and smash our lips together, off-centre and rough, keeping my mouth tightly sealed even as he licks over the seam. My heart is hammering, so nervous, anyone could see.
Jac’s face and Brendon’s face linger at the edges of my psyche and my eyes are wide open to keep watch as much as I humanly can because the guys could be close, they could be anywhere and I pull away later than I want to, his hand in my hair keeping us pressed together. When I look at him, he looks satisfied and dazed, so obviously hammered, and he says, “Thanks, baby.” His hand lingers at the join of my jaw to my neck and I shake it off.
I don’t watch him walk away, don’t care where he’s gone, just wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and let the relief that at least no one saw settle in. At least there’s that to hold on to as the party plays on and I wonder when I became so cheap.
* * *
School on Monday drags itself along agonisingly slowly. Everyone’s talking about the party, how many hook-ups were had and with whom, loads of hype and, “Yeah, it was crazy, man,” and Jac’s pissed at me all day for going without her.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Ryan, I just want to be fucking included!” she rants at me at the end of morning break, and I stand there helplessly.
“I just forgot to tell you, it’s no big deal. Baby, come on, next time I’ll totally take you.” I try to take her hand but she whips it away.
“Oh,” she says, her cheeks flushed, “so you think I can’t take myself along to parties? You think I can’t go on my own just like you can, is that it?”
“What, no-“ I start, but she’s already stormed off, and I feel no real inclination to follow her. A desperate twist, maybe, somewhere just below the surface, something telling me to run after her and make this better because I need her, for my reputation I need her, but I let it go.
The rest of the day passes by begrudged, and by the time the last bell rings my whole body slumps with relief. I get to my locker double-fast, narrowly dodging Mr Phillips on my way, and as soon as I’ve slung my bag across my shoulder I know I’m not going straight home. I head out of the town, walking quickly so as not to lose the light too fast, and before I know it I’m at the cabin, pushing open the door and scuffing the mud off my feet a little.
Brendon’s already there, and I’m not startled.
“Hi,” he says cautiously, looking like he doesn’t quite know how to act around me.
After a time, I say, “Hey,” quietly. He’s sitting on the couch, and I sit on it too, leaving space between us. Silence falls, but it’s not the mutually-accepted silence that I’ve come to associate with us and here; this time it’s begging to be filled, broken, anything, I can’t stand it, just listening to the seconds roll by and watching him stare at the floor in the corner of my eye. “So, this feels awkward,” I offer, and immediately want to smack myself in the face.
He gives a hollow laugh, and I look at him properly; looks like he’s had a rough day. “You made it that way.”
He’s referring to the kiss, and I fight the urge to hit him, kiss him, something other than words. “Uh, no, that was both of us,” I correct slowly, heat rising in my cheeks. He can provoke me so easily.
He scoffs, then, shaking his head.
"Look, what the fuck is your problem?" I demand, at the end of my patience with him. "So, okay, I made a mistake. Or, whatever. I'm apologising, God, what more do you want? It was just a fucking kiss, grow up!"
"My first," he bursts out in an almost-shout, then draws back in on himself and bites his lip, avoiding my eyes. Time stands still, and I realise I’m not breathing, tense atmosphere suffocating me.
"You, uh. What?" I think I might be staring at him. He sinks down further on the bench, looking anywhere but into my face, his lip still caught between pearly teeth.
"It wasn't just. It was my first kiss, Ryan, okay?" He mumbles it, cheeks burning with shame or embarrassment or probably both, a far cry from the cocky attitude he usually puts on display and flies high on a fucking flag for all to see. The dynamic shifts, I can feel it, and I wonder if he can too.
"Oh, like. With a guy?" I’m not sure why I’m still talking.
Brendon grits his teeth. "With anyone." Oh, so. So that’s why he pushed me. He sighs tiredly, staring into his lap. "It's meant to be, like. Amazing, or something, right? Your first kiss. But you just came and fucking... took it from me, ruined it with all your stupid gay crisis shit."
"I'm not gay," I reply automatically, then shake my head as soon as the words are out of my mouth. "No, I. Brendon. Hey, I'm sorry." It feels like a slap in the face, then, because I realise I am being truthful, I mean it; I’m sorry.
I don't tell him that he’s lucky, really, that mine was in a dingy alley after a house party I was too young to be at, with a girl who tasted of cheap lip gloss and cheaper alcohol, mascara smeared over her drunken face as she cornered me and our tongues and noses and teeth clashed awkwardly. She turned away from me and vomited quietly onto the ground right after, mumbling wasted nonsense, and that was my first kiss over and done with. I don't care about that, not really. Kisses come and kisses go. But I don't tell him that, no, because he's-- he's a fucking nice kid, that's what he is, one of the rare people who still have faith in all the childhood fairytales about relationships, and things like this actually mean shit to him. That might have something to do with the uncomfortable feeling twisting in my stomach, but then that might be something else altogether.
I clear my throat, wanting to prove myself, prove something. "I am sorry, Brendon."
"Yeah?" He sounds disbelieving, incredulous even, and when I look at myself I can understand that, but he cocks his head and meets my eyes now.
"Yes, fuck." He's also an annoying kid. "Look, I didn't know, alright? How was I meant to know?" When he doesn't say anything but instead runs his tongue along the seam of his lips, the feeling in my stomach curls tighter, and I don't know why I say what I say next, but. "Would you-- I mean, you don't have to count it. You could pretend it never happened, start over. We... we could."
His breath catches. "What are you even trying to say?" he asks quietly, timid, and I pray to God I’ve judged him right, all this time.
Because that’s it, I’ve reached the end of my tether, and I want him so much it blows my fucking mind every time I look at him, and I just don’t care anymore. "I'm trying to say-- let me give you a proper first kiss, damnit." His eyes widen impossibly, locked on mine. I'm kind of shocked at that myself, but in another way I'm not surprised at all.
With one eyebrow raised, he looks at me for a long moment before he narrows his eyes and says, “I don’t know what to think of you, you know.”
“I could say the same to you,” I reply quickly. “I just. Let me.”
His expression flashes suddenly, something akin to defensive anger, and he mutters, “You’re not the only one who doesn’t need pity, Ryan.”
"It's not pity." And it's not, it's not pity at all, God how I'd love it to be, but it's not, it's. It's something that's been dormant inside me ever since I first saw him that's only just awakened, and now it's clawing at me, desperate and wanting. If this is what it takes to kiss him again, then so be it.
"Well," Brendon's voice has dropped an octave or two, and he visibly gulps as he peers into my face. He lets me scoot closer to him on the couch so our thighs are touching through the regulation clothes, and I decide not to waste any time, no time for thoughts, no doubts, no, just go, just make this right. I lean in, cupping his jaw with my hand as gently as I can manage, and I see his eyes flutter closed a heartbeat before mine inexplicably drop shut too. Lips brush lips and he's hesitant and tentative, so I do the only thing I can think of doing and pull him in closer, tangling my hand in his hair and God, it's so soft, threading through my fingers like fucking silk. It’s him, of course it fucking would be. I coax his mouth open and the moment his tongue curls around mine shyly is the moment it hits me what the hell I'm doing.
I pull back abruptly, and I don't feel like myself at all. I’m not used to this, this fluffy interpretation of things; the feeling of taking your time and the gentle touch of his hand on my knee. I stare at him, stare at the lips I was just lavishing attention onto. And this time I can't blame it on anger or a reckless whim because I was fucking enjoying it, I know I was - the kid’s a natural, I could have carried on till I died. From the dreamy look in his eyes when he opens them I can tell his thoughts are awfully similar - and this has so many implications, consequences, all of this, my head is spinning dizzily. "Oh. Ryan," he murmurs, surveying me as if from a new point of view.
"Um." Our thighs are still pressed close, his hand is resting comfortably on my knee, way too comfortable. "Um," I repeat stupidly.
Brendon smirks happily. "So, like. Are you always this eloquent?" He still sounds slightly breathless and the kiss didn't even escalate that far, fuck, I can see his chest moving as he takes in the air.
I stand up, fast. Panic. “I need to, I have to be somewhere, I’m-“ The words lodge in my throat as he reaches for my hand and squeezes, running his thumb along my skin in this oh-so-fucking-nice way. “What,” I enunciate clearly, focused on our hands, “are you doing?”
He stands, close enough to feel his body heat with his hand still holding mine. “Dickhead,” he whispers fiercely, “stop running.”
Swallowing thickly, I let my hand curl around his loosely, simple instinct, and I say, “I’m not running.” Because that’s the truth. I don’t run, I hide, and I’m really fucking good at it, thanks.
I’m expecting some kind of explosion, yelling, noise, but he just shakes his head again, flicking his hair out of his eyes. Breathes a couple of times, in and back out, and my gaze is fixed on him. As soon as he looks up I’m taken aback by the heat in his eyes, and he’s searching mine for something, like he wants permission, and I must give it or at least give him something because he tilts his head up, leans in and kisses me again, harder than before.
And I kiss back without thinking about it, revelling in the way his lips and his tongue fit against mine, wanting to taste more of him and know every inch, always wanting. He pulls himself away the second I begin to consider stepping back myself, and he licks his lips slowly.
“I, uh. I actually do have to get home,” he says reluctantly to me, running his hand through his hair like he really doesn’t want to go. “I don’t, like.” He hesitates, then mumbles, “I wish I didn’t, but.”
Lost for words, the only answer I can croak out is, “Yeah, sure,” and he leaves with a quick, shy smile and another press of his mouth to mine that takes me by surprise. On the sound of the door shutting I collapse down onto the couch, feeling thoroughly exhausted and out of my mind.
I don’t know what this is meant to mean, but I know it’s something. I don’t leave until night has fallen, spotting his footprints in the undergrowth and stepping in them one by one.
* * *
That night, long after I’ve gone to bed - although I haven’t slept a wink - Jac texts me. My phone clatters incessantly on the nightstand. I reach for it only to turn the vibrate setting off, placing it back face-down, and I ignore it.
* * *
“You never replied last night.”
I jump, jolting in surprise, and whirl around from talking to Jon to see Jac standing there, looking fixedly at me. She has those shadowy purple smudges under her eyes that mean she hasn’t slept well, badly covered up with make-up, and I do feel a stab of guilt at that because I could have given her something, no matter how much I wanted to pretend she didn’t exist. “Didn’t I?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well.”
And now, see, I’m faced with a decision, and one I didn’t think I’d have to make so soon. The way I see it, I’ve got two options.
I could act as cold as I feel towards her; tell her straight that I didn’t feel like talking to her, no beating around the bush. And that, yeah, that would end things between us, would push us and her past breaking point. Alternatively, I could apologise and suck up to her and do everything I know she wants me to do, in order to keep her.
In the end, it all comes down to how brave I am. “Sorry, baby, my phone was totally dead last night,” I tell her, and she pouts for a little more time before forgiving me with a kiss and a cuddle.
The bell rings out for next lesson, and I stay with her as long as possible before Jon grabs my arm and hauls me off, muttering, “Damn lovebirds, making us late,” as we go off to Music.
* * *
After the Music lesson and an hour of Latin, it’s lunch, but I’m feeling a need to unwind that has me stuffing my books into my locker super fast and jetting back down to the Music rooms. My guitar’s in school today, stored down on a rack among others probably better than mine, and I figure I can just sit and play anything that drops out of my head.
I choose the practice room at the very end of the corridor, the last one, and as soon as I walk in I ponder exactly what makes me constantly do things that end in me running into Brendon. He’s sitting with his back to the door on an old piano seat, his shoulders curled in slightly as his hands rest on the keys. He’s thinking, I can tell, and his fingers flex and then they’re gliding over black and white, delicate tune and uplifting chords filling the entire room as he plays with everything he’s got. I didn’t even know he... well. Fuck.
An involuntary step forward causes me to bump into a cello propped against the wall, and he stops abruptly, an ugly note hanging in the air as he swivels round in the seat, startled.
“That’s, uh, really good,” I say, to break the tension.
He raises his eyebrows but replies, “Thanks.” After a pause, he cocks his head at me, staring expectantly. “Do you want me to leave?”
The unspoken addition of, ‘or are you going to?’ rings clear, like he knows me now, knows what goes through my mind and knows how I work. I stand my ground stiffly, letting myself look him up and down, and yet I say, “No. It’s okay. I can find somewhere else to, you know.”
He smirks a little, probably at my predictability, and I bite the inside of my cheek as I turn to the door. “Hey, wait,” I hear from behind me, and when I turn back he’s stood up, one arm drawn across his middle and clutching kind of awkwardly at the other arm, a sort of nervous barrier as he looks at me intently. “You can stay.”
I’m thrown. “Huh?”
“Yeah,” he says, like an admission. “I. Is it okay if I want you to stay?”
I let out a rush of air as he steps closer. “I thought you hated me. Even when... I always think you hate me.”
He chuckles quietly, once, and mumbles, “Yeah, wonder what that feels like.” Another step forward and he says, lower, “I’ve been thinking about you. Since.”
His eyes are on my lips, and I swallow audibly. “Yeah?”
“Been wanting to kiss you again,” he admits hopelessly, false bravado clinging to the words. He’s still focused on my mouth.
“Brendon,” I mutter, and with the way it comes out it sounds like a warning, a way of warding someone off and away, but he’s still here, and still I want him closer.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Shit,” I breathe out, wanting so badly, and he-he knows I have a girlfriend, knows about me and Jac so that, that makes him as bad as me, right, so I can have this. I’m not an asshole, I can justify it and I can have this if I fucking want and, “Okay, yeah, fucking hell.” My hand reaches out and grasps at his hip through the uniform, yanks him forward so he’s flush against me and I can shoot him a helpless smile before I tilt my head down and kiss him without any more preamble, any more fucking waiting.
God, if anyone in their right mind would want to wait for this... I don’t even know. I can’t think. He does this to me, shuts my brain down and narrows my line of sight so it’s only him. The movements of his mouth are still hesitant, new for him, but it’s like I’ve lit a fire inside him because he’s on me, all over me, restless hands everywhere, he doesn’t know where to stop until he finally settles them on my upper arms.
He makes a small, held-back noise into my mouth and I walk him backwards forcefully until he’s pinned against the edge of the piano, gasping for breath I won’t give him until I absolutely have to. A music stand falls when his arm flies out for a second, and he laughs lightly but I don’t, just keep kissing him like it’s oxygen.
My skin is tingling and Brendon cups my face, fingertips fidgeting on my cheek and pushing so I have to stop, have to break away from his mouth but I just slide down to his neck and bite, hard. The grip on his hips tightens at the same moment. He gasps. I fucking love that sound.
“Ryan,” he says, almost frantic, as if he can’t believe this is happening; and I know the feeling, I do. His hand comes up to settle in my hair as I tease and abuse the skin below his jaw, vaguely wondering if leaving a mark is okay, is acceptable. I decide that as long as it’s not on me, it’s safe, and that’s good because the red under my mouth is already tingeing purple.
I’ve bruised him before, but this is entirely different.
“Ryan,” he says again, and I reply with a disinterested grunt. “D-do you,” he stutters, my teeth and tongue working on his neck, tasting him. “Do you play, then?” he finally gets out, and I frown, pulling back from him as much as his hands will let me.
I ask, “What?”
“Do you play?” he repeats. The eyes are still locked on my mouth, roaming all over me but it’s like he’s trying to get past that, the physical and the heat and break into something else. Like, what, he wants to know me. That’s not what I’m here for, that’s not. What I expected, it’s not.
I feel my eyes roll more than cause it, and I duck forward again, work on the same place, and he groans, hopeless and a little disappointed, if I had to guess. “Not piano,” I mumble reluctantly against his skin. “Guitar.”
He’s breathless, hands creeping down my back, but still he says, “Yeah?”
“Uh-huh.” I could elaborate, I could; I can tell he wouldn’t mind at all. Hell, maybe that’s what he’s angling for, even now, even during this. I could go into how I first started, why I like doing it, the songs I’ve written, but I don’t. We’re not that.
Before he can say anything else I catch his lips with mine once more, rough and fucking good, but it’s not close enough somehow. It’s not enough, so I growl a little against his mouth, drawing another gasp out of him, and my hands push his blazer off his shoulders; no asking if it’s okay. Just taking. His breath stutters as I pull his shirt from where it’s tucked into his pants - nervous panting, but all I do is slip my hand underneath, palm at his skin, burning hot to the touch and dangerous.
By the time his shirt’s rucked up and crumpled between us, both my hands are wandering all I’ll let them and the blood’s rushing in my ears. He lunges forward a little and impulsively takes my earlobe between his teeth, tugging and applying just enough pressure to make me crack. “Shit, h-how did you know-“ I stammer out, liquid bones, and he chuckles and breathes into my ear as his teeth keep teasing, “Lucky guess.” God, a groan escapes my lips and I shove him backwards and attack his mouth again because it felt good, yeah, but it’s just. That’s a big weakness, and I don’t understand how he found it.
“Shit,” he gasps, and I mumble an agreement until a split-second later when his hands are pushing urgently at my chest, pushing me off him while his eyes are boggling over my shoulder. I turn around and there’s a teacher standing in the door, struggling with a stack of songbooks that look like they’re about to topple.
She hasn’t looked our way yet, but she does as we’re staring at her, and one of my hands is still at Brendon’s hip. I yank it away like I’ve been burned, shooting a look at him and registering his messed-up hair and swollen lips, the marks on his neck, yeah, that’s not obvious.
The woman sets the pile down and evaluates us over horn-rimmed glasses, eventually saying, “It would be best if you left, now.”
“We weren’t, uh,” I start immediately, and she smiles confidentially.
“I didn’t see anything, ‘kay?” she says, zipping her lips as she holds the door open for us. I stalk out and Brendon follows meekly.
Outside, I don’t know if I should look at him, don’t know how to look at him as he wordlessly pulls his blazer back on, adjusts his shirt, smoothing out the creases that won’t go.
“So,” he says finally, “what are we...?”
“We’re not,” I answer firmly. Because anything he’s thinking; we’re not. My heart is still hammering, blood dashing through my veins, and we’re not.
He scoffs harshly. “Right.”
Some seconds of silence pass, and as I’m about to give up on any further conversation and leave, his hand darts out into an outside pocket of my blazer, the one with my phone peeking out the top. “Brendon,” I sigh wearily, but his eyes only flick to mine once before going back down to my phone in his hands, fingers flying over the keys.
“What?” he smiles, too-sweetly.
I struggle, reply, “You can’t just put your number in,” without any reason to back it up, and snatch the phone back from him, pocketing it after a brief glance at the ‘Contacts’ page with ‘brendon’ added anew.
He shrugs. “You can’t just do that,” he jerks his head back towards the practice room, “and ignore me after.”
I want to say he didn’t have to, that I wouldn’t, but I don’t know if that’s a lie.
“So now, well.” He bites his lip. “You don’t have a choice, really.”
I’m kind of being drawn closer to him, like after what just happened I can’t stand anything less, but I hold myself back. “I do. I could delete you. I could choose not to contact you,” I murmur, eyes boring into his.
Smartly stepping back, he smirks, confidence back. “Yeah, but you won’t.” The words spark a fuse, and my immediate thoughts are fuck you, fuck you for being so fucking sure of yourself, but they’re not voiced.
And with that and a last lingering glance, he walks away, and I have to remember to close my mouth as I watch him go.
* * *
“Ryan?” My mom’s voice breaks through my thoughts, quiet but attention-grabbing. Dad’s not home, out drinking alone, but she’s still accustomed to be quiet now, always. “You know a watched phone never rings, right?”
“I’m not,” I startle. I’ve been sitting in the living room, contemplating my list of contacts on the phone I’m holding in my lap while a reality TV show plays unnoticed in the background. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
It’s not what I’m doing because he doesn’t have my number, he can’t call me. Not that he’d want to.
Or maybe he would, I don’t know. God, I shouldn’t even care.
“Then what are you doing?” she asks, smiling and looking vaguely interested as she crosses the room and sits beside me, leaving a little space.
I sigh heavily, a couple of fingers rubbing at one temple. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Just... trying to make a decision, I guess.”
She nods sympathetically, and this is where she’d normally ask me about Jac, how things are, but she doesn’t. It’s possible she knows more than I think, just from that creepy Mom intuition. “Well, I’m sure you’ll do the right thing, honey.”
“What if I don’t know,” I stop, swallow. “What if I don’t know what the right thing is anymore?”
“Well,” she says, thinking. “Then you just have to take a risk, don’t you,” she tells me, and it’s not a question. It’s sure and clear, and yeah, well, I could do that, I suppose.
Taking a risk would be texting Brendon and keeping whatever this is going. And I’m not denying that that would be fulfilling, but it would also inevitably lead to breaking it off with Jac, and I have so many reasons not to do that.
“I’m gonna start dinner,” she says, giving me a quick one-armed squeeze. “You’ll be okay?”
I shake my head and mumble, “Yeah.”
Once she’s left the room, I don’t spend any more time thinking, just scroll through until his name is highlighted.
Options.
Delete.
Okay.
Dinner is slow and quiet, and Mom keeps looking at me and smiling, like she knows I’ve followed her advice, done the right thing. I keep looking away because I’m not sure if there ever was one.
* * *
It’s late, and I’m just drifting off to sleep when something disturbs me, a buzzing beneath the sheets. I fumble around, getting tangled up in knotted bedcovers before I find the phone at the foot of my bed. Picking it up reminds me of how I removed him and his name from the list, from the memory, and it feels cold and heavy in my palm.
There’s a new message, but it’s from an unknown number.
do i even hav 2 ask if u deletd me yet?
Well, there’s no question of who that is. I didn’t give him my number, though, so I’m slightly stumped, sleep-foggy brain trying to compute and my eyes squinting at the blinding screen. It’s suddenly a bit harder to breathe, like the air’s become closer.
After about fifteen minutes, give or take, I slowly construct a reply. howd you get this number???
The reply comes almost instantly, a cheeky line, ive got ways ;))
Propping up pillows behind me, I sit up straighter in my bed, perplexed at why he’s being so... casual, flippant. I can practically see him, sly smile on his face as he sits cross-legged on his bed. I type out, is there something you want?
you.
My eyes widen impossibly, hands reaching forward and placing the phone on the sheets, away from me, like that’ll help at all. I don’t know-I don’t get what he means, because that could mean so many things.
you’ve hadme, I reply, because he has. His mouth, as inexperienced as it may have been, reduced me to nothing, and it was his hands that made my skin burn and stayed in my mind long after we stopped, so yeah, he definitely had me.
The phone buzzes. more is all I get back, and my breath catches.
more....? I text back, holding my breath without realising it, and it feels like fucking forever before he replies at all.
yea. u dont kno how hot u are do u? I don’t reply, too freaked out to conjure up an answer to that. I know what I look like, what’s he getting at? I sit there motionless, and a new message comes in. ur gorgeous, it says. My stomach coils and my chest feels tight, because. No one calls me that. Jac doesn’t call me that.
And then, without me saying anything, he texts again, and when I pick the phone up my hand is unsteady. cant stop thinkin about u.ur mouth n ur hands n the sounds u make.
It sounds dirty, feels dirty and I can see pretty clearly where he’s going with this now, can see where we’re going to end up if we keep going, and I quickly tap out, stop it.
why? comes immediately and expectedly. Then, im just being honest.x
Frustration bubbles up, and I let out an irritated noise, not letting myself think as I hit the dial button with a shaking finger and press the phone to my ear firmly. I can’t do this over keypads and digital words. The dial tone sounds too loud, echoing off my eardrum, and I wonder what he’s thinking, seeing my name come up, wonder about assumptions and reactions.
“Ryan,” is what he says when he picks up. He sounds a little breathless.
“Stop fucking with me,” I hiss, and I hear the hitch in his breath.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he says slowly.
“You’re-“ and I pause. “You. I can’t deal with this, all this trying to figure you out, what you want from me, I can’t do it, Brendon.”
“I’ve already said.”
“What?”
“What I want. I’ve already said, i-it’s you.”
“Look, I.” And then, something slides into place, and everything crystallises. Because before, see, I knew I wanted him, but I didn’t know how far that stretched, didn’t know in what way or context I wanted him. And now I know a little more. Something about the dead of night and his voice, his breaths crackling down the phone, something in the way he says, “You,” made it clear.
“Ryan?”
“I want you too.” Words tumble out, rushed and unplanned. “But I-No one knows, you know? I want to-to carry this on, whatever this is, I want it, but.”
A rush of breath down the phone line. “But?”
I close my eyes, running through what I’m about to say and not believing I’m going to say it. “No one can know. If we’re... if this is going to be a thing, no one can know. And that’s final,” I add, like a parent or a teacher, like an order, and I hate it. I feel vaguely sick.
“Right,” he says, sounding a little hurt, enough hurt that I search for an answer to why he says, “I can do that.”
“So, we’re...” I trail off.
There’s silence, and then he says with a half-laugh, “You think you can handle this without, like, hitting me every time I say something?”
I have no idea what I’m getting myself into. This is... really fucking treacherous ground, I barely even know the kid. I know he can kiss like an animal if he wants to, and I know his hair’s always effortlessly flawless, and I know how he looks when he wants to be touched. But that’s not really knowing, at all.
So this. This, right here, is me taking a risk.
“Yeah,” I mumble, keeping my voice low and serious. “I can try.”
* * *
It’s surprisingly slow to come to a head, really, considering. Considering the circumstances, the personalities and the clashing fire that seems to surround us and engulf us whenever it’s us as us. I might not know a lot, but I know I set him off as much as he triggers me too; he might hide it better, but it’s true. So I was really expecting something faster, more of a whirlwind, but.
Even though we’ve got it down, categorised it and got it figured out - kind of, I don’t know, but more clear-cut than it was - we don’t actually get a chance to put it into practice for a while. High school is consuming, and I’m swallowed up by work and sandwiched between friends and home, with no air for another person to share my breathing space.
It’s almost as if there’s no confirmation that that late night conversation ever took place, really, with all the lack of physical contact going on. But I can find it, the confirmation, it’s in the small, secretive smiles he shoots me if we pass at school, the way I can feel his eyes on me sometimes, and if I turn and stare back neither of us looks away. Yeah, confirmation, it’s there.
By the time a few days have crawled by, I’m kind of-I’m not desperate, never that, but I feel like I’m now being deprived of something I have full rights to, and I’m getting pretty fucking impatient.
Now, I’m sitting drowning in boredom and pretending to pore over a map in Geography with Gabe and Pete, trying to keep my mind from wandering to thoughts of Brendon-Brendon-Brendon.
“Dude,” Pete groans, “we should be able to label the fucking states.”
I drop my head onto folded arms and huff out a laugh as Gabe points out idly, “I think that’s Ohio.”
“We’re all not getting out of here for a few years anyway,” I muse, “might as well not even bother ‘till then.”
“Always the cheerful one, Ross,” Gabe grins, punching my shoulder light-heartedly, and I smile wearily, forcing my eyes to focus on the map.
“Was that your phone?” Pete says suddenly, looking my way, and I shrug. I never heard anything, but I was kind of zoning out. Keeping an eye on the teacher at the front of the class, I slip it out of my pocket to find the screen lit up and one new message just arrived. It’s from Brendon, and my whole body locks up. I open it discreetly, and Pete and Gabe turn back to the map spread out on the desk.
meet me in bthroom in math coridor.x My breath comes out in a shaky exhale, possibilities already flying about inside my head, and I feel like everyone’s looking at me, staring, working it out. I look around and everyone’s head is bent over their work or tilted towards someone in conversation; not paying attention to me, no matter how conspicuous I feel, the phone burning in my hand.
“Uh, may I be excused?” I ask as politely as I can manage, catching the teacher as she walks past, and she sighs but nods, waving her hand towards the door. When I stand up I almost send the chair flying, eagerness accidentally showing, and I’m out of the door in seconds flat, Gabe and Pete’s protest falling on deaf ears.
After barely keeping myself from breaking into a sprint, I make it to the bathroom; push open the door as my pulse races. It’s empty, quiet apart from an echoing drip somewhere, and a sour taste of disappointment dances, immediately convincing myself that this is a trick, he’s not coming, he’s not. I hang my head, hair falling over my eyes.
“Hey,” I hear behind me, and I startle, turn to see him standing there, the door swinging shut behind him. His tongue darts out to nervously wet his lips and his eyes travel down my body and slowly back up again, settling on mine.
“Come here,” I say, my voice cracking already, and he does, walks straight up until I can reach out and grasp his tie, pull him into a kiss. He’s pliant and willing under my hands at first, going where I lead him and letting my tongue curl around his, but suddenly he grins against my mouth and kisses harder, burying fingers in my hair and pushing gently with his whole body until I have to step backwards, once, twice.
The bathroom is long and narrow, and he eventually backs me right up to the end of the room where cheap, cracked mirrors cling to the walls, lewd language scrawled across them in Sharpie. His fingers dig into my shoulders and when he kisses me desperately, clumsy but hot, his hands snake around to drag his nails down my back, chasing the shivers running down my spine. Grunting quietly, impatiently - God, he’s been waiting as long as I have - he shoves his thigh in between my legs and latches onto my neck as he moves against me, full of little sounds and insatiable energy.
"Jesus Christ," I gasp, "how does your right hand keep up with you?"
He chuckles lowly before pulling back and regarding me, curious and caught off-guard a little. "How would you know if I'm right-handed?"
I shrug, avoiding his eyes. "I just notice, whatever," I tell him, deftly pulling his zipper down and licking into his mouth before he can say anything else.
And yeah, okay. Maybe I have been 'just noticing' a lot of things recently. Like the way his hair instantly flops back over his forehead every single time he pushes it out of the way, or the way his mouth parts slightly and his eyes grow cloudy when he's thinking especially hard. The way his eyes are the same colour as chocolate, but deeper, richer; the way they can glitter or become cold and shuttered with anger, with disappointment. I notice how his pants hug his fucking ridiculous ass just the right amount, not too obscene but not hiding anything either. I notice the way his hips sway naturally, fluid, some sort of underlying confidence that's squashed under the self-conscious hunch of his shoulders when he forgets to hold himself, but it is, it's there.
I'm trying with all my might not to notice anything of the sort, but it's like he's everywhere, intoxicating, suffocating.
His hips are rutting against mine, little jerky movements like he can’t control it, and I groan, nosing along his jaw to bite at his neck again, thinking back to where the mark was before. I flip us around so it’s him against the wall, and his eyes are full of challenge. My hand is still at his zipper, and I flick open the button as well, mumbling, “This okay?” as my fingers play with the band of his underwear.
“Yes, yes,” he pants out, hurried, mouth sliding against mine, and well, okay. He moans outright at the first touch of my hand on his cock, swallowing the sound halfway through, and I smirk at him despite the way the noise makes my eyes threaten to roll back in my head, is like fucking music to my ears. I jerk him slowly, rubbing my thumb generously over the head on each upstroke until he’s a wreck, leaning against me, flushed cheeks and quick breaths, because I know how to tease and I can tell a person who likes that when I see one. “Ryan,” he groans, trying to regain some composure, I think, and just my name tripping off his tongue like that makes my pants considerably tighter than they already are, have been since his first breath on my mouth.
Keeping one eye on the door and one eye on his face, ridiculous beautiful ecstasy glowing in the line of his slack jaw and the eyes fluttering shut, I tug my hand faster, faster, and he’s gasping and clenching his hands into my shirt, feverish hands that trail down now to cup me through the fabric. And I groan, unexpected, the rhythm of my hand never faltering even as shaking fingers rub at my dick through my pants, undoing the fly at the same time, fuck.
He hesitates, then, still pushing into my hand and pressing closer to me, but his hand pauses, and it occurs to me that he probably hasn’t done this before. Subtly, subconsciously, my hips buck towards his hand and I catch him shake his head a little before he plunges his hand inside, fingers wrapping around my cock and falling into beat with me. And yeah, yes, he’s stalling and fumbling, obviously inexperienced but so goddamn good, and I blindly sink my teeth into his neck, tongue soothing the bite, and he gasps and jerks and comes, sudden and hot over my hand as he mumbles something incomprehensible against my shoulder. In the shock of it, his hand squeezes tight around my cock, and I choke on air.
Brendon’s turned liquid, hand slowed to a stop, and I’m so close, embarrassingly so, and I tip my head back against the cool wall as I push my hips into the circle of his hand. Blinking dazedly, he gets the picture, pulls tight and fast and it really doesn’t take long, especially as his other hand drags through my hair and he nips at my earlobe, fuck, he remembered that, and I can’t hold on any longer, edges of my vision whiting out as my eyes squeeze shut and I come across his fist, holding back a moan.
“Shit,” I pant out, when I’ve got my breath back. He’s peeled himself off of me, and I crack open one eye to see him quietly wiping off his hand on some tissue. “That was. Shit.”
He looks at me, raises an eyebrow. Smiles. “It was shit?”
“No,” I hurry to say. Because woah, no. “It was...” I grin at him. “A whole fucking lot better than Geography.”
Brendon laughs, shaking his head, and yeah, I could get used to this. Behind closed doors, I could get so used to it. He walks back over to me, his hand travelling downwards, and I’m momentarily confused but he just tugs my zipper up properly, patting at the waistband of my pants once before pressing a rough kiss to my mouth that leaves me chasing his lips after he pulls away, wondering who’s really got the upper hand here.
I feel like I owe him something, but I don’t know what. I mean, on the orgasm front, we’re pretty equal. And there’s not much else to this, this thing that we’ve got; it’s just convenient, just a hook-up, so unimportant that no one needs to know, and yet I still feel indebted. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me. Intense, searching.
He drops his eyes, though, before long, and he looks almost disappointed when he says, “We should get back. To class.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Hey, I mean, thanks.” And that... that just slipped out. I just thanked him. For jerking me off. Jesus Christ.
His eyes narrow for a second, calculating, the colour in his cheeks rising a little, but he replies placidly, “Any time. S’what we’re doing now, right?”
“Yeah,” I repeat, not trusting myself to say anything else, and he nods, throws me a half-smile and a, “I’ll see you later, Ross,” before walking to the door and leaving me to slump against the wall, smoothing the creases out of my clothes and waiting for my heartbeat to slow down. My harsh breaths echo off the tiles.
* * *
“Ryan, what the hell, man, you took ages,” Pete says as soon as I walk back into class. I laugh it off, shrug and don’t say much of anything, just concentrate on sitting down because my knees are still weak.
* * *
Part Six