Entry #05 - "The Chance You Take"

[severina2001]

Title: The Chance You Take
Written By: siren_mage
Timeline: High School AU
Rating: M
Warnings: some violence and sexual content
Genre: AU, romance


The Chance You Take

August
I meet you by chance on a hot afternoon when I’m running late and you’re sating your curiosity about Liberty Avenue, Pittsburgh’s gay district. I don’t expect to see you and, technically, I don’t. I’m thinking about my job at the diner and about sticking my head in the freezer to cool off and I turn a corner and run into a solid body. I manage to stay upright but you fall backward and I’m not really apologetic until I glance down.

You’re all blonde hair and wide blue eyes and you recognize me before I recognize you.

"Brian," you breathe in an alluring voice and I blink.

The words ‘do I know you?’ are on the tip of my tongue before I realize that we go to school together. We don’t rotate in the same social orbit, of course. You’re rich and artistic and I’m just the white trash kid on scholarship. You’re quiet and I’m loud and brash. Before that moment I thought you were straight and I was the not-quite-out-and-proud homo. Before that moment I thought we were completely different.

"What are you doing here?" I ask before I can stop myself, but I’m holding out a hand to help you up. "You’re a little far away from your side of town, aren’t you?"

You grasp my hand firmly and there’s a blush rising in your cheeks and the sight of it warms me in an uncomfortable way. As soon as you’re upright I take my hand away, but I can still feel the warmth of your palm against mine and I don’t like it.

"I was just . . ." you trail off and glance away.

I smirk knowingly and lean in closer.

"Curious?" I say suggestively.

You lean back and swallow hard and I find myself staring at your throat, all smooth, white, creamy skin. Nothing like mine and I tell myself that’s why I’m fascinated.

"No," you say and then just as quickly, "Yes. I don’t know."

I make you nervous and I like that. I like the fact that I caught you here in Fagland looking completely out of place in your preppy clothes with your wide-eyed innocent look. I don’t believe in fate or shit like that, but I think it’s a pretty damn lucky day for me and maybe one for you as well, if we play our cards right.

"So, you just happened to find your way to Liberty Avenue on accident?"

You flush but shake your head.

"No. I just . . . I’ve heard about it and thought I’d check it out."

It’s an honest answer as far as I can tell and I pull away and rake you with my eyes, trying to figure out if you’re checking it out on a dare or if it’s something else. It’s something else, I decide, because you’re sending out all the right vibes. Definitely queer. And closeted.

I cock my head at you and my tongue finds its way to the inside of my cheek, something that I started doing to make my sister uncomfortable but that has become a habit.

"I’ll just . . . I’ve got to go," you say and before I realize what’s happening you’re turning away and my hand’s wrapped around your wrist.
You spin and look at me and I don’t know what I’m doing but that’s okay. Sometimes you just do things and you hope they work out.

"Come on," I say, and tug you along with me. "I’m already late. The least you can do is walk me to work and look pretty while I make up an excuse."

You follow without a sound and you stare at me in some kind of bright-eyed awe. And I like it.

::

"You seriously brought him in with you?"

The words are hissed and I look over at my best friend Mikey who is trying to look threatening but just looks confused. Which is a pretty common expression for him.

"Yeah," I answer shortly.

We’re talking about you of course. Justin Taylor. Little fag lost. You’re pretty talkative when you’re nervous and on the way here you babbled about nothing and everything. I listened when it was interesting and tuned you out when you went off on a tangent, but I already know more about you than I’d ever wanted to.

Your mom and dad are out of town and your sister’s with a friend and you’re gay but you’ve never been to Liberty Avenue and your friend Daphne was supposed to come with you but she got stuck babysitting and you didn’t want to puss out so you came on your own only you didn’t want to come at night because you’ve heard horror stories so you decided to check it out during the day and you didn’t expect to see me and we took freshman comp together, do I remember?

By the time we’re accosted by Debbie just inside the diner, I know your whole life story, or at least almost all of it. You don’t know much about me, just what you already knew after three years of going to school with me, but you don’t seem to mind. You’re too busy being smothered by Deb who’s ushering you toward a booth while I get changed in the back.

I know Mikey’s jealous. Mikey’s always jealous. He has been ever since I told him about blowing that teacher in the showers. He thought it was amazing what I’d done but he wished that we’d done it together first. I know it and I ignore it because what we have is more important that some random blow job or quick fuck. He’s my best friend and I don’t want to fuck with that because he’s hormonal and hot for me.

"Why? He doesn’t belong here."

I roll my eyes.

"So you’re passing judgment on fellow homos now, Mikey?" I ask sarcastically, closing my locker and walking over to him. "Don’t worry about it. I just decided to drag him along, it’s not a big deal."

I press a quick kiss to Mikey’s temple and that mollifies him. We walk back out into the dine. Mikey gets right to work but my shift doesn’t start for five minutes and I plan on doing nothing for the duration. I spot you immediately, talking animatedly to Debbie who’s looking at you like you’re the best thing since sliced bread. The first thing I notice is your smile and the second is that it makes my cock twitch. Not an unusual reaction except smiles don’t ever do that to me. Neither do little blonde twinks, either.

But you’re different and I find myself drawn to you. Debbie leaves you just as we approach and she leans down toward me, raising her eyebrows and cracking her gum.

"I like this kid," she says, jerking her thumb in your direction. "Play nice with him, okay?"

She wanders off and I shake my head and slide into the booth across from you. You’re looking down at a lemon square dubiously.

"They’re good," I say and you look at me with those blue eyes that I just know will be the death of me someday.

"Huh," you mutter, glancing off to the side where Debbie’s berating a customer. "She’s weird."

I shrug.

"She’s an acquired taste," I shoot back. "Anyway, if you don’t come around here anymore you won’t have to deal with the scary weird woman ever again."

You blink and I look away casually.

"Of course, if you do come back you might get to like her a little better."
I have no idea what I’m offering but you pick up on it anyway. I can see it in your eyes. With a small smile I slide back out of the booth and ruffle your hair. It’s soft beneath my fingers and you grin widely at me.

"Later," I say and you nod at me.

You leave five minutes later and Mikey asks what we talked about.

"Your mom," I tell him and he frowns.

"Well, he won’t be back," he says with complete confidence.

I’m not so sure and when you do come back almost every day for the rest of the summer, I’m not surprised.

September
My parents are glad that I have friends now. When I tell them I meeting some guys at a diner my dad smiles at me and my mom gets all dewy eyed and they give me, like, fifty bucks and tell me not to spend it all in once place.
My dad probably thinks I’m off getting laid or talking about sex with a group of testosterone riddled teenage males. So does my mom, for that matter. And they’re wrong. At least about most of it. You and I do talk about sex quite a bit, though. You’ve actually had it and I don’t know why that shocks me. You’re gorgeous and you practically leak ‘fuck-me’ from your pores. I’d do you. I don’t say as much, of course. We’re friends and you don’t fuck your friends. Rule number one. Well, maybe it’s rule number three or four. I get them mixed up.

You’ve practically taken me under your wing and you explained the unwritten rules during one of our first meetings.

"I’m going to make you the best homo you can possibly be," you said with one of your smirks before snatching a fry from my plate.

I don’t know quite what that means, but if it means I get to spend more time with you I’m not going to complain. I go by the diner every day until school starts and you always spare time to talk to me. Sometimes I sketch while I wait and you think I’m a fucking awesome artist. Your words, not mine, but I know I’m good. I love to hear you say it, though.

Our school counselor might call it seeking validation, but I know it’s more than that. Maybe it’s less.

I’ve fallen hard for you in a short amount of time and I can’t figure out why. You’re an asshole and a dick and just a friend. You’re totally wrong for me. You’re a cynic and a sex-addict and I’m an optimist and a virgin (though you’ve offered more than a few times to relieve me of that particular affliction. You think you’re joking, but I’m not so sure). You don’t believe in love or anything like that it and I crave it. I want to grow old with someone and you never want to grow old at all.

For all that we’re total opposites, I love you. Or at least, it’s close enough. I never stop thinking about you and Daphne’s getting tired of it. She thinks I should either do something about it or get the fuck over you.
I don’t bother explaining to her that neither of those things will ever happen. She’ll just think I’m being a queeny little fag and sometimes I think it too, but then I’ll make you laugh and my stomach will flip long and slow and I know it’s true. I’ll never get over you, and I’ll never tell you how I feel. I like what we have too much.

"You should come over sometime," I say one afternoon as I shove my sketchbook in my bag and toss a crumpled five dollar bill on the table to pay for my milkshake.

You snort and raise your eyebrows at me.

"Oh, I bet your parents would just love that," you say and I wince.

You know all about my mom and dad. About their expectations for me and about how I’m pretty damn terrified of coming out because of what they’ll think. You think you’ve got them all figured out. You hate them already. I hope you’re wrong but a part of me thinks you know better. I don’t know your parents and you never talk about them, but your teammates have seen the bruises and the word has gotten out that your dad’s abusive and your mom’s a drunk.

If anyone would be able to sniff out bad parents, it’d be you, right? Or maybe your cynicism is just catching.

"My mom will love you and my dad’ll love it when I tell him that you’re the school’s soccer star," I say. "He’ll think I’m hanging out with jocks all the time, scratching my crotch and spitting and . . . talking about tits."
You snicker and then look at me, tongue in cheek and don’t say anything, so I decide to try another tactic.

"They’re never around anyway," I tell him. "And our fridge is always stocked with ice cream."

You’ve got a weakness for it, I know. You always end up devouring half of my sundae and smirking at me with sticky lips when I complain. I forgive you, of course. You’re too damn sexy when you’re licking your spoon and leering at me over the bowl of it.

"Fine," you say after a few more moments. "I’ll come over. But no family dinners or anything stupid like that."

I’m not sure either of us would survive a family dinner anyway, so I agree easily and leave just as Debbie yells for you to get your scrawny ass back to work.

::

Inviting you over while my parents are gone is easy, but Molly’s sick that day and so I have to babysit her. You’re predictably annoyed at the situation and she’s predictably annoying. She looks up at me pathetically when I try to send her to her room and then glares over at you with a sniffle.

"I’m sick," she announces and you just stare at her and say, "No shit."

She giggles and when you demand ice cream she follows us into the kitchen and sits next to you. You’re both looking at me expectantly and I sigh but serve up Butter Pecan Ice Cream in three bowls and hand one to you and one to my little sister.

"Thank you, my good man," she says, but her nose is clogged and the way she says it makes me snicker and you join me with a chuckle of your own, sliding off your chair and following me into the living room.

"What now?" you ask and I shrug.

"We could play Barbie’s Great Mall Adventure," Molly suggests.

I raise my eyebrows.

"You hate that game," I remind her, but she’s already setting the video game up and handing you a controller.

She explains the rules while we eat our ice cream. It’s still freakishly hot and I had to turn the AC down for Molly, so it’s melting pretty rapidly. My little sister is too busy setting up the game to care much and she sets it aside after about five minutes, but you just keep eating and I end up staring. You’re dripping ice cream off of your spoon and onto your chin accidentally and I watch you extend your tongue to lap it up.

I imagine licking ice cream off of you, imagine the taste of your skin beneath the milky sweet and that’s a wholly inappropriate thought to be having when my little sister’s in the same room.

You play with her for a while and then she hands me her controller and puts away our bowls for us. We mute the gratingly high-pitched music and voices and keep playing, adding in our own commentary to game. Molly comes back and curls up on the couch and I can tell when she falls asleep because she stops laughing every time one of us says the word ‘fuck’.

"Let’s go up to your room," you suggest a bit later, turning the game off and looking at me with raised eyebrows.

I lead the way and we sit on my bed in silence for several long minutes.

You’re looking around and then glancing at me and being disgustingly obvious about it. I finally look over at you with a small, quizzical smile.
"What?" I ask.

You just shake your head and then say, completely randomly, "I think Hobbs is gay."

I blink at you.

"Chris Hobbs? No way. He’s disgustingly heterosexual."

He is, even if he is too damn hot for his own good. He plays football and he does all the things my dad wishes I would, fucks around and makes rude comments to assert his manhood. If I didn’t love staring at him sideways so much, I’d hate him.

"Trust me," you say and I raise my eyebrows. "I always know these things. You’re going to have to learn to figure them out on your own, you know."

"One," I retort, ticking off the item on my hand. "You didn’t even know I was gay. And two, as long as I have you around it’ll be fine."
You stare at me for a few long minutes and I get lost in your gaze. Sometimes you stare at me like that, all serious and your hazel eyes expand and become my whole world and I stop breathing. This crush is a ridiculous thing, but I can’t help it and you don’t shy away from me. Instead you shrug.

"Well, I figured you out fairly easily once I knew what to look for," you say, ignoring my last comment.

I snort and lean back against my headboard.

"Whatever."

You just smile at me and my stomach does another slow flip and I’m so far gone already, I know I’ll never be saved.

October
School’s in full swing and all of the happy highschool breeders are being appropriately revolting with each other since Homecoming is right around the corner. I hate having to navigate my way through the hallways because girls and boys are shooting ‘come fuck me’ signals out in all directions, and none of them are the kind that draw me in.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

I zero in on you. You’re facing away from me, talking to Daphne. All I can really see is your hair, blonde and bright and comforting after a shitty first period. With a small smirk I stroll over to you. Daphne notices me just as I draw near enough to wrap an arm around your shoulders and whisper, "Hey, lover," in your ear.

"Hey, Brian," you say in a tone of endless patience, but I didn’t miss your full-body shiver.

I draw away from you with a shit-eating grin and lean forward to peck Daphne on the lips, just to make her day. She flushes adorably and it’s really weird how much I like her. I never even noticed her before you introduced us at the beginning of the school year, and it’s only taken a few weeks for her to grow on me with all of her bluntness and shyness and the way she stares at the pair of us like we’re a wet-dream come true.

Which we are, of course. I’m gorgeous and you’re almost as gorgeous and Daphne would love to be the middle of a Brian and Justin sandwich. I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t considered it a couple of times. But you’re completely off-limits and she’s a chick and I’m very gay and so we keep things as uncomplicated as possible. Which is just the way I like it.

"Hi, Brian," Daphne says with a giggle in her voice.

I smile at her and loop my arms around her shoulders and yours as well, marching you away from your lockers and toward our second period classrooms.
"How was AP Chem?" you ask, looking up at me curiously.

I blow out a breath and shake my head.

"Fucking terrible," I answer.

It’s not that it’s hard or anything, but it’s fucking boring as hell and the teacher treats me like shit because I’m a blue-collar bred jock. I wonder what she’d say if she knew I could probably make a bomb and blow her shit up, if I were so inclined.

Between that, the rough soccer game I played the day before and dealing with my drunk mother after that, I’m exhausted and in no mood for school. It’s probably a good thing you and I have that art class together next. I’ll get a chance to relax and whenever I have a bad day you draw stupid comics about fellow classmates and cunty teachers which never fail to make me laugh.

"Aw, I’m sorry," Daphne says, pulling a face. "If it’s any consolation to you, my AP History class is total bullshit and while you and Justin are having fun drawing stick figures, I’ll be taking notes on I don’t even know what."

"Sucks to be you," you tease, smirking at her around my body.

She sticks out her tongue and the shifts out of my arm with a wave, walking into her classroom. It’s just the two of us and you ask about my soccer game as we make our way into the art classroom.

It was a close game. A lot of fouls that didn’t get called unless we’d committed them, and our defenders played like pussies. We went into double overtime and if it hadn’t been for the last minute goal that our hot striker scored (with my assist, I might add), we would have lost our spot in first place.

"Our team sucked before you came along and you know it," you say as we sit down. "They’d still suck if it weren’t for you."

"Yeah, I know," I say and you shake your head at me.

The teacher for this class is some hippie looking dude who shows up, takes roll and then leaves us to our own devices. Five minutes after the bell, we’re messing around with shading and I lean over.

"So, got a date to Homecoming yet?" I ask softly.

You snort.

"No, you?"

"I’m being appropriately anti-establishment and refusing to attend," I say.
You make a soft hum of disappointment and I smile to myself.

"I’ve got a better dance in mind for us," I tell you, catching your start of surprise right before you turn your head to stare at me. "If you’re interested."

You think about it for a moment, but I know I’ve got you. Sure enough you turn back to your picture with a casual shrug.

"What’d you have in mind?"

::

Getting into Babylon is disgustingly easy because we’re both so hot and I’m so charming. Your shitty fake ID helps, but barely.

Mikey’d be with us but he’s too busy pretending to be a breeder at his highschool’s Homecoming. The thought of him going with some girl just because he almost got caught kissing a guy after school in the locker rooms still pisses me off. We had a huge fight about it, too. I called him a sell-out and a few other things.

"Like you’re any better," he shot back. "Going to that rich-ass school, playing for them like a trained monkey and acting like you’re one of them."

"At least I’m not pretending to be straight," I’d said, trying to be cool and failing.

"Yeah, but you’re not out, either, no matter how much you like to act like you are."

And then Mikey’d stormed off in one direction and I’d gone off in another and that was that. We haven’t spoken since so I assume we’re still fighting. The thought of not talking to Mikey has kept my stomach twisted tight for days but the minute we step into Babylon and the thumpa-thumpa washes over me, I relax.

You’re looking around with wide eyes and I smile.

"It’s great, isn’t it?" I say into your ear.

You just nod. The look on your face makes me grin and I hate the way I get all warm inside. I’ve had crushes before and the way I feel around you has all the symptoms of one, but that’s no good. Crushes are useless. Love is useless. I have to keep reminding myself of that when I’m with you and I hate it.

Tearing my mind away from that train of thought, I curl my fingers around yours.

"Let’s dance," I say, tugging you toward the dance floor.

You follow obediently and we find a small patch of floor. Bodies press in on us from all sides and you look nervous. Smiling encouragingly at you, I slide my hands from your wrists to your shoulders and back down, lifting your arms and laying them over my shoulders. We shift closer and . . . you dance.

I suck, I know it. I’m a horrible dancer, but at least here it’s not about that, it’s about letting loose and getting laid or just having a good time. But you move like you were born to do it, fluid and sexy as hell. A part of me considers the fact that you probably make me look good. The rest of me is too occupied with the way you grind against me, our bodies moving together and apart and back together in a way that’s too natural and that feels too damn good.

I should probably put some distance between us. We’re close enough that our bodies are practically melded together and our foreheads are touching. Your eyes are half-closed and I’m staring at your features, hollowly lit by the flashing lights of the club. It’s a weird sensation after that. I’m watching the play of lights over your pale skin and the flutter of your eyelids and your long, flaxen lashes are caressing your cheek and . . . I fall.
The floor tips beneath my feet and I have to squeeze my own eyes shut and cling to you because you’re the only fucking solid thing in the world now. The fabric of your shirt bunches between my fingers and you’re still moving against me to the beat of the music and other bodies press against my back but I only feel you. And from behind my closed eyelids all I see is you. And as we dance and the music lifts my arms and shifts my hips . . . all I want is you.

I open my eyes after what feels like an eternity and you’re staring at me, heavy-lidded and rapt. I think that maybe you know, that you can see it in me. If you were to lean in now and kiss me, I wouldn’t fight. If you were to press your lips to my ear and beg me to fuck you, I’d do it. You could ask anything of me and I wouldn’t hesitate to give it to you and maybe it’s the lights or the music or the heavy unrealness of the atmosphere but I’m not as terrified as I should be.

And then some dick who has been watching us wanders over, sneers at me and leers at you and asks if you want to dance. You look at me with wide eyes and a small smile and you’re asking for permission and reality returns. My stomach turns but I nod encouragingly and wander off, leaving you to dance with a man who definitely isn’t me. I’m at the bar, wondering who I should try and charm into buying me a drink when a kid a few years older than me taps my shoulder.

I look over at him, take in his full lips and almost feminine features and I’m ready to write him off but when he speaks, he doesn’t sound like some weak little queen. He sounds like he’s just what I need.

"You’re hot," he says and his voice is deeper than I expected, no lisp and no lilt.

I raise an eyebrow and lean against the bar.

"Wanna suck my dick?" I ask, knowing that he won’t say no.

I’m not disappointed. He smiles, smooth and slow as honey, and the next thing I know my earlobe is between his lips and the words, "Lead the way," are hot in my ear. I don’t hesitate, but I do look over my shoulder and I think that even in a crowd of thousands I could see you, know where you are. You’re dancing, full of abandon and the bastard with you is fucking lucky to be in the same area code as you and I know he doesn’t know it.

This guy’s mouth is talented on my cock, perfect pressure and application of tongue and I sigh in appreciation but it’s you I’m thinking about. I come fast and hard but the sick feeling in my stomach is still there.

January
Time seems to fly when you’re a senior in highschool. Suddenly you don’t have your whole life ahead of you, it’s here. My parents stopped nagging me about my SATs once I buckled and took them in December. Now they’re nagging about my college applications. They know where I’m going, but I’m not so sure. I don’t want to be a businessman. I want to be an artist. But if I can’t even tell my parents I’m gay, I can’t imagine telling them I want to practice art for a living.

I’m not honestly sure which they’d be more offended by.

I hadn’t spoken to you in a while. For whatever reason you got distant, started pushing me away. You focused on soccer and you weren’t as friendly during class. I stopped visiting you at the diner because you were always busy and I think a little part of me died.

I know, it’s overly dramatic, but I’m being honest. I liked you. A lot. I was in love with you, sure, but I liked you. By the time school broke for the holidays, I’d gotten used to not having you around but that didn’t make it any easier. Just . . . sort of unavoidable.

Which is why I’m shocked when you show up at my front door a few days before the new semester is supposed to start at nearly ten o’clock at night.
You look bad enough through the window when I check to see who would show up at my house this late. When I open the door, you look even worse. There’s a bruise blooming on your left cheekbone and blood’s crusted at the corner of your lip. For that matter, it looks like your lip might be split. My heart stutters to a stop and I’m scared for you because the look of relief on your face when you see me isn’t normal. You’re not supposed to look so . . . weak. So defeated. So lost.

A part of me insists that you shouldn’t be coming to me at all, not after everything. Not when it seemed like you didn’t give two shits about me, that I was just your pet project or something. It isn’t fair for you to show up like this. But I let you into the house anyway.

"Justin, honey," my mom says, coming into the room and stopping short at the sight of us.

I turn to see her staring over my shoulder at you, her eyes wide. She’s only met you a couple of times and she’s never been in the same room with you for very long. She used to say she didn’t like me hanging out with you, eyes glancing at me suspiciously and I think that was when I figured out that she knows. About me. About you. Maybe about how I feel about you.

"Brian," she breathes before shaking herself visibly and going into full-on mom mode. "Come on. I’ve got a first aid kit in the bathroom."

She spins on her heel and walks off with purpose. I move to follow her but you’re not walking so I turn and see you leaning against the door, eyes squeezed shut. I walk forward and place a hesitant hand on your shoulder. You wince but when I try and take it away, you shake your head.

"Don’t," you whisper and the sound makes my insides shiver with something too powerful to name.

"Can you move?" I ask. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"

You snort breathlessly and shake your head.

"Don’t be such a dama queen," you say, cracking your eyes open and locking them with mine.

You stare at me for an endless moment, looking for something maybe. I don’t know. I stare back and I’m worried about you, glad you’re here, pissed off because you tossed me aside and I had to just accept it. And I love you. God, I love you so fucking much and you care about me, I can tell.
"Come on," you finally say, straightening.

My hand drops to my side and we walk to the bathroom together, so close our hips bump and I’m afraid of hurting you but when I try to move away you snake an arm around my waist and hold me to your side.

::

Mom takes care of the split lip and takes a look at the bruise on your cheek. She offers you an ice pack but you refuse. She doesn’t say much at first. Her lips are pursed and I’m sure it’s because you’re here, but then she speaks and there’s a steel edge to her tone.

"Who did this to you?" she asks and you stiffen and frown.

"No one," you answer. "It doesn’t matter."

"Yes it does," my mom insists and you look uncomfortable and cornered and I step in.

"He can stay here tonight, right Mom?"

She glances over at me and starts to say something about the guestroom but stops herself.

"Of course you can stay, Brian," she says, obviously not entirely happy with that. "I can get the extra bedding from the closet if you want, Justin."

"It’s okay," I say to her and she narrows her eyes. I roll mine. "I can handle it, mom. Just get some rest."

She finally leaves and we sit in silence in the bathroom for a few minutes. Eventually I stand up and we make our way to my bedroom. You walk in and sit on my bed and I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room.

"Do you want me to . . ." I gesture vaguely toward the hallway with my head and you shake your head.

"I mean," you say, frowning a bit. "Is it okay if I sleep with you?"

I shrug and relax a bit, closing my door behind me.

"It is with me."

You smile and it’s got a bit of its old edge to it. I feel stronger seeing it and that’s probably a good thing because next I know you’re stripping off your shirt and your chest is peppered with bruises. Your chest and your sides and your stomach and the thought of anyone hurting you hurts me and I’m angry and concerned and you make a face at me.

"It looks worse than it is," you say, standing up and walking over to me. You take my hand and place it on a bruise near your sternum. "See?"

The word is whispered and I feel too warm, your skin beneath my palm hot and smooth and everything I’d ever imagined it would be. I glance up at you and you flash me a quick, lopsided grin.

"It wasn’t a big deal," you say softly, but the pain in your hazel eyes belies your words. "My old man got drunk and my mom was off at some prayer meeting. Not that she really defends me, but he might not have gone for my face with her telling him to think of our reputation."

You frown again and I want to smooth away the wrinkles in your forehead with my lips.

"Anyway, I should have just left but he was pushing all the right buttons and I snapped. Yelled at him and it felt so fucking good, Justin. You wouldn’t believe how good. Next thing I know he’s hitting me and I hit back as long as I could but . . ."

You trail off and look away. My eyes find their way back down to your chest. I’ve seen you shirtless a few times and I always loved to look at your lean torso and the wiry muscle beneath your tan skin. Now I wish I could look away. I can’t, of course. I could never look away from you.

My hand begins to move of its own accord. I trace the edges of your bruise with my fingertips, soothing away the pain. Or at least that’s how I feel in my mind. I like the idea. You sigh so softly I can barely hear it, and then you trap my fingers in yours. I look up at you and you’re gazing down at me with the most serious expression I’ve ever seen. My stomach drops and my breath quickens. I’ve got no idea what’s coming next, but I’m tense with anticipation.

"I’m sorry," you say softly and I blink up at you.

"What? Why?"

"Because I was a dick," you tell me with a look that says that should have been obvious. "I just . . . abandoned you. Because I was scared and when I get scared I run."

I shake my head and say, "Whatever."

"Shut up," you say, smirking. "I’m only saying it once. Believe me or not. I missed you."

You press your forehead to mine and we both close our eyes, you first and then me. Your breath ghosts warm and moist over my lips and the tips of our noses brush and I think, just before our lips touch, that this is what a first kiss feels like. A real one. A first kiss where you mean it.

And I do. We do.

Your lips are slightly chapped and hesitant. I can practically taste your fear sliding, drop by acid drop, into my own mouth. I don’t care. I want this. I’ll banish your fear.

Our lips flutter against each other, slow movements, tender and chaste. I cup your head
in my hands when you would move away and hold you to me. You groan, a helpless sound, and kiss me one last time before pulling your lips away and resting your cheek against mine.

"You terrify me," you whisper.

"You’re not running," I whisper back.

March
It’s raining outside, cold and miserable, so we’re having gym in, can you believe it, the gym. This is simultaneously a blessing and a curse because when we’re inside, the teacher doesn’t give two shits what we do. But inside it’s nothing but forced close-quarters with Chris Hobbs and he’s been a fucking douche ever since you gave him that hand job back in December.
Something that makes me incredibly jealous. Granted we weren’t speaking much back then and you’d been lusting after Hobbs for months and you worked up the guts to do it and I should be proud of you, but I’m not. Both because now he harasses you every chance he can, and because I think I’m getting a little territorial.

After that night back in January things went back to normal except for the fact that we’d changed. You were more willing to touch me and I was more willing to kiss you and we would talk, seriously talk, for hours. That’s how I found out all about your college applications (and how you still haven’t sent one into PIFA) and your having sex with Daphne (something that amuses me more than anything) and your handjob with Hobbs (unlucky fuck probably thought, in his closeted little mind, that it meant something) and how much you missed me.

You found out about my ongoing fight with Michael and how that night was the first time my dad had beat me in almost a year and how I’d been offered a soccer scholarship and how much I’d missed you.

The thing is, we don’t have any secrets anymore. And we’re not playing a game, either. We’re taking things slow because I’m still scared, but for all intents and purposes you’re mine. And Hobbs knows it. Or at least, if he doesn’t, he should. I glare at him when he sneers at you and grabs his crotch and then pull you to the bleachers where we sit and watch the hot, sweaty boys play with their balls.

"He wants you," I say and you roll your eyes.

"He does not. He’s just a homophobic asshole."

"Well, he can’t have you anyway which would be why he’s crankier than a bitch on the rag," I say with a smirk.

You grin widely at me and then turn your attention back to the court.
"Planning to duel to the death for my hand, Mr. Kinney?" you tease and I snort.

"Hardly, Miss Taylor. But if he tries anything funny I won’t hesitate to resort to blackmail and harsh threats to fight him off."

You snicker and glance sideways at me.

"Yeah, you love me so much."

I just shake my head and ignore your sunny smile, but secretly enjoy the way my stomach still flips every time I see it.

::

"Here, let me see."

"I’m fine."

"You’re bleeding, you stupid little shit. Let me see."

"I’m fine."

The glare I’ve got leveled on you would usually strip paint off a wall. At the very least, it would send anyone else running with their tail between their legs. You just glare right back up at me, blood trickling stark crimson from the corner of your pretty mouth.

"Shit!" I finally yell, turning away from you and fighting the urge to kick your bedroom door. "I miss one fucking day of school and what happens? You get jumped."

"I didn’t get jumped," you say with endless patience. "Chris called me a dirty fag and so I punched him. And then he tackled me and violence ensued." I turn just in time to see you eyeing me carefully. "I’m not some silly little faggot, Brian. I can handle myself."

"Yeah, obviously," I mutter, but I walk back over to you and raise my fingers to your chin, wiping away the blood.

I got the call while I was on my way home. You sounded okay, but the words, ‘I got in a fight with Chris Hobbs and they sent me home’ brought me here. I was worried, I’ll admit it. Hobbs is harmless, nothing but muscle and a dick and way too much testosterone, but as far as I know, you’ve never been in a fight in your life. I was fairly certain you’d be sporting more than a bloody lip and some mussed hair.

You insist that your jaw hurts too, but you’re one lucky fucking bastard if that’s all that’s hurting you.

Your tongue darts out to lap up the blood still at the corner of your mouth and brushes over the tip of my finger and I decide to stop thinking. You’re fine, just like you said. That means I’m fine. We’re fine.

When my finger slides over your lips you look up at me, eyes alight with lust and anticipation and question. I’m not sure what the answer is and you try to convince me by sucking my finger into your mouth. Your hands, knuckles slightly red, come up to hold my own hand in place. Your eyes are heavily lidded and your mouth is soft and wet and warm. You suckle softly at first and then harder, your teeth closing over the second knuckle, scraping over the bone and it’s painfully erotic.

Hell, nothing I’ve ever done with anyone has been as arousing and sexy as you right now.

You finally slip my finger from your mouth and the way it glistens in the sunlight drifting in through your window makes my cock go from half-hard to fully erect.

"I want you," you say in a voice low and rough.

And I’m not going to say no. I doubt I could. I lean forward and down and capture your lips with mine in a kiss that’s full of passion and purpose. I suck your bottom lip into my mouth, nipping at the soft flesh before releasing it. You force your tongue past mine, slide it over my teeth and my palate and I shiver and pull you closer until our cocks are pressed against hips and we start a slow grind.

I let you explore my mouth, kissing you back and suckling on your tongue because I know you like that. The sound you make shivers up my spine and makes my skin tingle. We pull away and strip out of our shirts and fall onto your bed. I just stare at you for a few moments, taking in your blue eyes, pupils blown wide with arousal. You’re flushed and your lips are parted as you pant and sigh.

Before you can say anything I lean down and press open-mouthed kisses to your jaw and then to your throat. I want to bite down, to mark and claim but I know that it would be dangerous if anyone saw. So I wait until I reach your chest before my mouth blooms over your skin and I suck and nip, leaving a series of small, red marks on your pale skin. You groan and buck up against me, hands roaming over my back, inducing trembles and sighs of my own.

I get as far as your nipples before it’s too much. I worry one with my lips and teeth, flick it with my tongue and you make this sound that’s almost a whimper and grind up against me and I don’t want to bother with exploration anymore. We’ll have plenty of time later.

We don’t even slide out of our pants. I just kiss you again, sloppy and wet and we thrust our cocks against each other. All of it, the sounds of our kisses and our moans, the friction of my cock against yours, the way your fingers clench in my skin . . . it all coalesces into this moment where it’s just you and me and it’s not perfect but it is because it’s us. It’s you. I come with a shout, going stiff above you and seconds later you’re coming too.

When we come down from the high I have to slide off of you and my pants are sticky and disgusting and the way your nose wrinkles indicates that yours are the same but it doesn’t matter much. You turn your head to look at me and then you kiss me, slow and hot, before pulling away. I echo your smile with one of my own and can’t wait to do this again.

April
The sun’s setting, casting shadows on my walls and bathing my bed in a dimming glow. My parents are gone for another hour or two and we’ve already taken advantage of their absence once. You fucked me, made love to me, slow and easy and after we both came you tucked yourself around me and we fell asleep together.

I’ve been awake for a few minutes, watching you sleep. You look peaceful and if I could tear myself away, I’d grab my sketchbook and draw you just like this. But I can’t move and you’re beginning to stir, anyway. With a small smile I lean down and press a kiss to your throat. You make a vague, sleepy sound and I repeat the gesture, adding a swirl of my tongue to it. You tip your head back and I press kisses along the strong column of your throat before I come to your chest.

Your skin tastes good. Salty and rich and smooth and I could probably kiss your chest for days. My hands roam over your sides, teasing at your most sensitive spots and lightly caressing everything in between. My lips and teeth and tongue find first one nipple and then the other and you groan, hands finding my head and resting there.

I pull away and rest my chin on your chest. You look down at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Why’d you stop?" you ask, practically pouting.

I shrug and you glare, but it’s half-assed and I’m not scared. I just grin up at you.

"Cocktease," you groan, arching your hips upward so that your hard cock slides pre-come slick over my stomach.

"You love it," I shoot back and you roll your eyes.

I decide to have mercy on you and slide my lips over your torso, pausing to tease your bellybutton with my tongue before sucking twin bruises in the hollows of your hips. When I’m satisfied with the way blood blooms beneath the skin, I take your cock in hand and mouth, slipping the head into my mouth and sucking gently.

I glance up to see you, head thrown back and neck arched. Your hands are a soft pressure at the back of my skull and your cock is heavy in my mouth as I take more in. You taste so good, salty and bitter and Brian. I run my tongue over the head of your cock, lick at the leaking slit and then pick up a steady slide-down-suck-up rhythm. The tightening of your hands on my head is the only warning I get before my mouth is flooded with your come.
You groan in your orgasm, thrust up and go still and I swallow every last drop of you. When I slide back up your body I’m smug and you’re out of breath.

"At least I always deliver," I say with a smile.

You turn and kiss me, tongue in my mouth dragging the taste of you from me. You pull away after a few long minutes and I’m hard and you don’t seem to care.

"Brian!" I whine, grinding my cock into your hip.

"Hold on," you say, amused. "I’ve got a question to ask you."

I look up at you, unamused and you just raise your eyebrows.

"What are you doing prom night?" you ask.

I blink and frown, my lust cooling slightly.

"I don’t know. I thought we were going to Babylon." It was just an assumption on my part, but I hadn’t made any other plans.

"Well," you say. "How about we don’t?"

I’m not following and you roll your eyes.

"I’m asking you to be my prom date, asshole," you say and I guess my eyes are comically wide because you start laughing at me.

"You’re joking, right?" I finally say. "Don’t you want to be anti-establishment and . . . not go?"

You lean over the side of the bed and the way your body brushes against my cock brings my attention back to the fact that I’m still aroused. You sit up suddenly, straddling my hips, and wave the tickets in my face.

"You and me, this Saturday, St. James’ prom. What do you say?"

You’re serious and a bit nervous and I smile widely.

"I say fuck yes," I tell you and you grin.

"Good, because otherwise you’d owe me a hundred bucks."

And then you’re kissing me and grasping my cock in your hand and the moment’s perfect and I’m reminded, for the millionth time, how much I love you.

::

My mom offers to rent your tux. You’ve grown on her, apparently. Which makes sense. She’s always been a sucker for a charming smile and a sob story, no that you’ve ever told her yours. She knows about us and I’m surprised that she hasn’t panicked yet, though she throws around the word ‘therapy’ every few days.

My dad still doesn’t know. He’s oblivious and that’s the way I like it.

The night of prom we meet at Debbie’s house. You and Michael have since made up and
he’s dating somebody now, an older guy you warily approve of. They’ve got their own party to go to, something thrown together by all the outcasts at his public school instead of prom. We’re all dressed up and Debbie takes pictures of us. Michael and I get along okay and Ben’s great and we part ways smiling and laughing.

The actual dance is a bit nerve-wracking. We walk in together and people don’t get it at first. We find Daphne and her date and he’s cool with us, says something about having a gay cousin and you retort, "Doesn’t everybody?"

When we actually dance together, everyone catches on and it’s hilarious. They give us a wide berth and stare. Some people laugh, some are smiling and we don’t care. This cheesy old song comes on and you look down at me with a wide smile.

"Let’s give the good people a show," you say and I play along.

It’s the sort of thing that people live their whole lives never experiencing. The dance is perfect. You lead, I follow and we’re good together. And at the end you spin me around and you kiss me, tongue-deep, in front of everyone. And the world disappears and it’s just you and me and I’ll remember this forever.

We leave after that because we did what we arrived to do and we’ve got another party to go to. Daphne and her date tag along and we make our way out of the hotel and into the parking garage.

"That was amazing!" Daph is gushing. "You guys were so hot."

"We still are," you say over your shoulder, dropping a kiss on my lips.
"We’re parked down that row," Daph says, smiling and pointing a few yards away. "We’ll follow you out?"

We both nod and Daph and her date walk away. You grab my hand and twirl me around and I laugh.

"They’ll be talking about us for years," I say and you snicker.

"Well, we did give them something to talk about." You pause and then what you said catches up to you and you make a face.

I laugh and loop my arms around your shoulders.

"This has seriously been the best night of my life," I say.

"Even," you say, wrapping your arms around my waist. "If it was ridiculously romantic?"

I nod and we kiss, long and slow before parting and walking over to your car. We don’t hear him and I don’t know how we don’t. We should have. I mean, you’re supposed to hear things like a fucked up classmate coming up behind you with a baseball bat.

There’s this whistling of displaced air and I turn my head to see what the sound is right before my feet go out from beneath me. I land on the ground hard and look up just in time to see you take a hit to the chest with the bat. There’s this nasty cracking sound and it takes a moment for everything to catch up to me. And then it does and I see Chris Hobbs standing there staring at you as you fall to the ground, a baseball bat held loosely in his fingers.

There’s this shriek and the sound of a car door opening and Daphne’s date runs forward and punches Chris in the jaw and Daphne’s yelling something.

"Call 911!" I yell back, crawling toward you.

Your eyelids are fluttering and you cough wetly and there’s blood in your mouth and I think that you’re going to die.

"Brian," I whisper urgently. "Stay awake, okay?"

I’m afraid to move you so I kneel beside your head and my hands are on your forehead and in your hair. You try to speak and I shut you up because I’ve seen the movies and this is always the part where you would say you love me and then die and you’re not going to die because then I’ll die too.

No, we’re both going to live and you’re going to go to college on scholarship and I’m going with you until I can talk my parents around to PIFA. We’re going to graduate in a week and spend the summer doing nothing but laughing and fucking and hanging out. I’m even optimistic enough to think that maybe . . . maybe this will be a forever kind of thing. But you have to live for it to be a forever kind of thing and you will.

And you do.

You have a punctured lung and broken ribs and internal bleeding, the doctors tell me later. Michael, who is the first person I can think to call besides my mother, rushes to the hospital and has a mild panic attack until I can calm him down. The doctors say you should be fine once your condition stabilizes. It takes hours for you to be announced in stable condition.
I’m at home when you wake up the first time and at your side when you wake up next. You’re groggy and you look around blearily before frowning at me.

"You’re okay?"

I roll my eyes.

"Yeah," I say and you snort.

"Ungrateful little shit," you say and I just smile and take your hand.

"No," I tell him.

"He would’ve hit your head," you continue and I nod. "You could’ve died."

I want to shake my head but how the hell do I know? The good thing is that I didn’t and you didn’t and I press a kiss to your forehead.

"Love you," I whisper and I almost think I’m hearing things when you whisper back, "Love you."

But I’m not. You caress my face with your fingertips and whisper it again and I don’t cry but I want to.

I will ask you, much later, what happened to the boy who didn’t believe in love, who didn’t believe in trust or forever. You’ll just shrug and say simply, "You made me want to take the chance."

"Yeah? Worth it?" I’ll ask.

You’ll just smile and kiss me.

"I’m not running, am I?"