Fic: Primavera 3/?
Title: Primavera, part 3, WIP
Pairing: Pre-slash BB Pinto
Rating: Light NC-17
Word count: 5200
Warnings: Non-Pinto sexual activity. Angst
Summary: teenage Chris goes to live with the Quinto family when his mom is sick
A/N: Some sort of slash may occur (look at me being all coy) once they're both legal. They'll get a little older with each chapter. Part 1, Part 2
A/N2: I need to say a big thank you to emmessann who has endlessly discussed with me theories and ins and outs and ZQ trufax and pretty much everything there is to know about ZQ and how various things may have affected his life/personality... everything. Her patience and freakishly precise knowledge of every ZQ interview ever is uncanny, she's like an unofficial ZQ canon generator. This whole story so far would've been just so much more PWP about teens smexing on each other if it hadn't been for her interest and input.
His irises are this insanely bright blue against eyes that are all piggy and red, nose rubbing across the knees of his jeans where he's tucked up in a ball against the wall of the kitchen, the phone on the floor in front of him. Chris squints up at me for a second as he notices all of a sudden that I'm there, too, looking down at him with no idea at all what I'm supposed to do now. He clears his throat, wipes across his face with the heel of his hand.
“Uh, sorry. Give me a sec.”
“Sure. You want me to go?”
“No. No, I'm good. Can I have a sheet of - thanks.”
He takes the roll of paper towel, tearing off a sheet and scrubbing at his eyes then nose.
“You could've taken the phone up to your room.”
“I didn't know it was going to be that kind of call.”
“Your mom? Did she get worse, you want to talk about it?”
“Yeah. No. Maybe, I don't - Oh. My god. What the fuck.”
He starts laughing, sniffing into the paper towel as he does.
“What?”
“Your mom is going to beat your ass for a month.”
“Oh. You like it?”
“Man oh man, she's going to freak the fuck out. Nice job waiting till she's away for the weekend, I guess you're living on borrowed time.”
I reach up to touch around the pierce, which still feels all weird, like the skin's bunched up too tight or something. Like that whole eyebrow's not even a part of me anymore.
“Won't it, like, limit your roles, or something?”
“I figure I can always take it out for auditions, once it's healed and everything.”
“I guess. Gimme a hand, my legs are cramping.”
I reach out to him and he pulls himself up with my hand. He's heavy and then he's standing beside me, always a shock these days when I notice he's almost my height, eyes practically on a level with mine. He was such a squirt before. I don't like to look at him too long, as usual. There's something so fucking aggravating about Chris, about his face, the way he looks at me, talks to me, I don't know.
“How come you did it? Did it hurt?”
“A little, not that much. I guess I wanted to do something different.”
“Right, right. Living dangerously, I get it, the whole teen rebel thing. You're leaving it a little late.”
That tone, god, I swear every single thing he says to me these days is like he's being this sarcastic little asshole. I tell him to go fuck himself in the most patronizing way I can manage and go back up to my room, ignoring that I had offered to talk about his mom. Fuck him. Almost two and a half years now, on and off, here, being aggravating. It had been bliss, total perfection when he'd gone back to CA for four months and the house was peaceful again, just Mom and me. I didn't miss him at all, not really. Not like Mom did. Things are easier without Chris around, he gets under my skin in a way even Joe can't at his most asshole-ish. I threatened to move out when he was moving back. I know, it's snotty and mean because his mom's still sick and that's not his fault but he pisses me off.
“Hey, Zach!”
“I'm reading.”
“Hey, c'mere!”
“Quit shouting. You come here.”
His feet stomping up the stairs, he always stomps everywhere. That was another thing about how this place was so much more peaceful while he was gone, his constant footsteps thudding through the place now, exactly the same way that they used to. Mom's said it to me over and over, He's playing up because he misses his mom and is worried about her, sweetheart. You have to try to be nice. I know it's tough, Lord, I really do, teenagers are hard work at the best of times but he's got a lot on his mind. Just remember that. He's changed, though. Before he could be a total little fuck but he was funny with it and sort of looked up to me. Now . . . I don't know. He's really different since he left. Even the way he dresses, everything. He came back just after his sixteenth birthday and ever since it's been like he's got something to prove by getting in my space.
His face appears in my doorway followed by the rest of him, tee shirt and jeans that are way less baggy than he used to wear them.
“So, your mom's away . . .”
“I had noticed.”
“And it's the weekend.”
“No.”
“Oh, come on, lighten up. I swear, I'll keep the place tidy.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“Chris, I said no.”
“You can invite some of your college buddies.”
“Yeah, there's nothing college students love more than a high school party.”
“They do when it means a bunch of high school girls will be throwing themselves at them.”
He's got a point. I'm just starting the new school year and, while I made some nice friends and stuff last year, we're not exactly the in-crowd. I put my Ibsen down because it's kicking my ass anyhow, scowl over at him.
“Fine, if it'll stop you whining. I'll call Mom and say I'm having some friends over because, that way, it won't freak her out too much if the neighbors tell her they heard music coming from over here. But if anything gets fucked up, I am not taking the blame.”
“Don't sweat it. She'll be way too busy losing her nut over your eyebrow pierce to care about some stupid party.”
I bump into him again later before bed, sitting on the kitchen counter, on the phone again with it tucked between his ear and shoulder, telling someone about his awesome rockin' party tomorrow night while stuffing a sandwich into his mouth. All the stuff it took to make the sandwich including a long, heavy trail of crumbs is scattered all over the counter area not covered by his butt, and I frown at him, throw it all into the sink louder than I need to. Like it makes any difference to him, he just looks over at me briefly, grins into the phone as he keeps talking. Cocky little fuck. He covers the phone with his hand,
“You think you could get Joe to bring some weed over for tomorrow?”
“Chris, I don't know . . .”
“Otherwise I have to ask this dude to ask this other dude and it starts getting complicated.”
I think he's actually trying to make puppy dog eyes at me. I snort, turn away, stick my head in the fridge for a snack and notice immediately how good the cold feels on my piercing, which is feeling a little sore now, a little hot and throbby.
“Fine. Sure. Whatever.”
At least he stuck to his word, there aren't that many people here and it's not nearly as bad as that one party I had once. Still, I can't seem to settle, walking from room to room with my beer, nodding at some of my guys where they're in the process of hooking up. Even Matt, which is a surprise although I suppose I've done it before. Sometimes a tongue can just be another tongue, I guess. Chris sure seems to know a lot of hot girls. There's a bunch of Chris's basketball buddies in the kitchen, all of them already taller than me, crowded around a bong.
“Yo homes, Chris's bro, wanna get blazed?”
“I am not his brother. Hand it over.”
“Man, your brow pierce is dank. That shit hurt?”
The low grass buzz doesn't help much as I look across the living room now at Chris who is grinding himself against some slutty looking dark-haired girl to some Boyz II Men shit, slopping some of his beer down her arm but she's too wasted to even notice. There's beer and cigarette ash all over the carpet and one of his baseball buddies broke a picture frame already, and I know I'm being totally uptight. I didn't used to be like this, I used to party way harder than Chris or his stupid friends. I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me anymore. A group of kids fall out of the hall closet laughing their asses off and I feel a twinge of annoyance, like I'm my fucking mom or something, it's ridiculous. I walk over to where someone's handing out vodka shots a dollar a piece, down four in a row and grab another beer. Fuck this bullshit, fuck feeling like a responsible adult when I'm only fucking nineteen.
“What up dawg? You doing okay?”
“I'm fine, dawg. You need to put out more stuff for ashtrays.”
“C'mon, admit it - this party is mad slammin.”
“Are you a rapper now?”
Chris laughs, slops a little more beer.
“Hey, don't get shady, it's all good. Diz all the shiznit right here, you needs to quit wiggin and chill.”
“I have no idea what you just said.”
“Don't be trippin, we cool, we cool. And you totally know what I said. Hey,” the backs of his fingers warm against my arm. “I'm sorry I didn't hook you up.”
I frown at his fingers, which tugs at my brow pierce making me wince a little.
“What?”
“There's this cute gay junior, I totally invited him for you but he had a thing with his parents.”
“You did what? Why would you even - ?”
“I figure I'd have found out about it if you had a boyfriend or whatever yet because, let's face it, you suck at keeping secrets. Dude, we have got to get you laid. What are you, like, thirty and still a virgin or something?”
“I'm not a virgin!” Too loud, three girls look over at me and giggle.
“You still have your gay cherry, though, right?”
“Please stop talking to me and go the fuck away.”
“Hey, I just got your back, bro. Don't hate on a playa. Anyway, I gots ta dip, I gots that fine hoochie mama over there all over me, I just wanted to check you were doing okay cuz you looked kind of pissed.”
“I'm fine. Quit annoying me and go mack on that fly beeotch, or whatever. Hey. Not that I want to encourage you or anything but, you got rubbers?”
“We're not - yeah. Yeah.”
Stupid question, I guess, as they're dancing again now and it's pretty clear she's having trouble staying on her feet. She'll probably pass out before he even gets a chance. He's all hips and thrusting, athletic pelvis when he's dancing, that wide grin breaking out over his face, eyes slightly unfocused, his cheeks flushed with booze and the humid heat of a room packed with too many drunk, sweating bodies. Looks over at me with that wide, sunny smile and he winks at me, fucking winks at me and the exact same time as a spasm of total exasperation with him crosses my chest, I notice it. I notice him. Properly, for the first time, with my whole fucking body.
I can't stop looking. The tufted hair that I know he took forty minutes getting just right, the wide blue eyes that always seem to be laughing at me. The broad cheekbones that he's beginning to grow into and, god, that mouth, his fucking smiling, laughing, cussing mouth and I groan under my breath as I start to get hard. The shoulders that are getting seriously broad now, his arms muscular, his stomach flat and taut where his shirt rides up as he dances, lifting his arms above his head. His whole tight, sporty body. I break out in a sweat, arousal igniting throughout every part of me as I watch him move and run my mind around the idea of him dancing like that with me. I want it so bad I hurt.
Panic. Shit, I can't - this is bad. I'm rock hard, panting under my breath, unable to take my eyes off him now so I force them shut, lean my head back against the wall as another hot wave of lust washes over and through me. Breathe in and out, in and out, stretch my fingers out to relax them but all that makes me want to do is touch him more. I can still see him in flashes of white light under my eyelids, like he's burned there. How the fuck did this happen. How the fuck did I - this can't happen. I can't get a crush on Chris, I can't. Shake my head, try to shake it out, worried that I might freak out or something but I'm drawn back to him again. Then he turns as someone taps him on the shoulder, leaning over to talk to them, laughing at a joke or something and I look at it, at his ass in those snug Levis that fit him like a second skin. I want to touch his hot little ass and I make fists of my hands, trying to will the want away. He's sixteen. He's supposed to be, like, my little brother or something. He's sixteen.
Something in me busts, breaks apart because this is so fucked up beyond all fucking belief. I shove my beer at the girl next to me ignoring her surprised yelp as some spills onto her jacket, walk through to the family room fast as this is really not good and I'm sick of this, sick of being so constantly fucking horny and alone that I'm even going to start like Chris. He's an annoying little fuck, I can't stand him most of the time, this is bullshit. The light's off in here since it was designated the official make out room but there's enough spilling in from the doorway that I can make my way around the squirming bodies until I find Matt. Nudge him on the foot, once more harder, practically a kick until he looks up from the blonde he's sucking face with.
“Zach? I'm, uh, a little busy here.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Seriously, now?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” An obviously insincere smile at the girl who gives me a bitchy glare. “Not here. Come up to my room.”
I have to kick two couples out of my bedroom, another one from my bathroom while Matt sits on my bed with a beer.
“Some party, huh. What did you want to -”
“Okay. Right. Look. I know this is probably a fucked up idea.”
“Uh-huh. What is?”
“Aren't you sick of it? Like, girls, man, I don't know. I need to hook up with a guy, I seriously just need to hook up with a guy and well, there's Pres but fuck going down that particular avenue, you know how he is. And I know we're buds and whatever but I figured if we're both wasted and whatever . . .”
“You want to make out?”
“Yes.”
“Or, like, have sex?”
“I don't know. Maybe?”
“With me?”
“I don't know! With a guy, I want to have sex with a fucking guy already and it's not like you'll come clubbing with me or whatever and I'm going freakin nuts. I don't want another hand job with another fucking chick, know what I mean? Shit. I don't know. Fucking hell, this - this is all such bullshit. I am sick of this lame bullshit. Aren't you?”
He takes a big gulp of his beer, looking at me where I'm standing in front of him, hands on my hips, still half-hard over goddamn Chris, of all people. Then he shrugs, puts his beer down on my nightstand and pulls his tee shirt off over his head.
“Sure, why not? You look kind of hot with the piercing.”
Finally. Thank fuck for that. I pull my desk chair across my door, turn back to him and take my shirt off.
It's not exactly everything I thought it would be but, fuck, it's different, it's good different. Licking across his Adam's apple and wishing he hadn't shaved for the party. The smooth skin of his chest, the soft hair in his pits and the way he shudders as I nose through it and over to kiss his nipple. His hand lifting my dick, his tongue in my mouth. The way his dick tastes and the way he can't help thrusting into my mouth no matter how many times it makes me gag. How strong his hand is in my hair as he guides me into another kiss. That I'm naked with him, his hairy thigh thrown over mine as we lie together afterwards, my fingers stroking his ass cheek although I don't dare go near his buttcrack in case it freaks him out. I let myself think about maybe fucking him one day, how that would feel, what he'd look like and, fucking hell, I think about Chris's tight little ass again, round and firm-looking in those low slung Levis. I tuck into Matt tighter, his skin warm against mine, kiss his chest and neck, reach down to stroke him till he's hard again.
It's past noon when I make it downstairs, the low fall sun too bright through a crack in the kitchen drapes as I try to avoid stepping on anything too gross and fetch myself a glass of water. Carry it through to the living room, which bore most of the brunt of the party, beer soaking into the carpet, crushed cups and potato chips and empty chip bags everywhere, cushions off the couch and chairs, two crooked pictures on the walls. It stinks of beer and smoke and an underlying note of cum. Although, that could be me. I scratch my stomach and chest, automatically reach up to touch the pierce but remember not to at the last minute. Fuck, it's sore this morning. I check the clock again, remind myself that it's okay, Mom's not due back till this evening so we've got, like, almost half a whole day to sort this shit out.
“Hey. I thought I heard you come downstairs.”
“Oh. Hey yourself.”
“Jesus, what a fucking mess. My head feels like it's going to explode. I got so wasted last night.”
Chris, in his underwear and tee shirt, limbs loose with sleep, fingers rubbing through his hair. His legs are still a little brown from the summer. I feel it again, that low tug towards him, wondering what his skin would smell like if I had my nose pressed into his neck and my hand sliding down under his shorts to cup his ass. I can't get hard over him again, fucking hell, this is so ridiculous. I clear my throat, look away from him, focusing on the mess of the room instead.
“You didn't look that bad.”
“I carried on after you, uh, went upstairs with . . . so. Is he, like, your boyfriend now?”
“What? Matt? No. I don't think so. It was just a party hook up thing.”
I'm not a hundred percent sure myself of how these things work with guys.
“Nice. He's pretty hot, for a dude. Was it . . . ?”
“. . . Was it what?”
“You know, like, totally different? Being with a dude.”
“Fuck this, I'm not talking about this with you.”
“Aww c'mon, I already said I got your back. Do you feel different? After, y'know. With a dude.”
“You know what? I think I do. A little.”
“Is he still here?”
“Yeah, he's upstairs in the shower.”
“Man. Gotta give you props. Way to fucking go.”
I roll my eyes but reluctantly bump knuckles with him, feel a blush starting so hang my head and return to the kitchen in search of cereal. It's still there. I still like him. I have no fucking idea at all what I'm supposed to do about it.
The house stinks more of air freshener than beer and smoke finally, the air chilled since we've got all the doors and windows thrown open to get fresh air in and to help dry the bits of carpet and couch we had to wash. Mom's going to know there's been a party the second she walks in but at least nothing got set on fire this time so I don't think she'll freak too much. At least, not about the party. My eyebrow's a little swollen, each end of the barbel a little crusty and I consider the idea of a band aid, just pretending like I bumped my head or something so she won't see it till it's settled down a little. But the guy said to let air get to it so I don't know. I use a Q-tip to soak it with salt water, trying to get some of the goopy, crusty shit off at least. Look into my eyes that gaze back at me in the mirror and I find myself smiling suddenly. It's been happening all day, a sudden memory of Matt's mouth or hands or something and I get hard again. Pure distilled relief every time I get hard over something to do with him rather than Chris.
Who isn't helping, the skin on his biceps going all bumpy in the cold where he's only wearing an undershirt with the same Levis as last night, barefoot, cute and messy-haired, still a little skinnier than he should be with shoulders that broad. I want to lick him. I want to stuff my tongue down his throat and make him moan. I want to tug his pants down and lift out his dick. I want to shove him against a wall and hold him there until I make him shoot. It pisses me off that now I've got all this in my head about him and I find myself thinking up mean little fantasies, keeping him from coming over and over again till he's begging, or, like, forcing him to blow me even though he doesn't like guys. It all feels wrong, nasty and shitty in a way that I'm not but I can't stop thinking about it all and hate myself for knowing I'll probably jerk off thinking about it later. I've been waiting too all fucking day long while we cleared up the mess. I already even decided that I'll jack off thinking about that, his mouth on me while he hates it the whole time but secretly loves it, and I'm gross, I'm like the worst person. It's so intensely fucked up, which makes it even more hot and it's like I can't stop it.
The car pulling up, the low clunk of Mom's door, the distant bleep of her central locking. Nerves bubble around in my upper gut and I breathe through them all, take one last look around the place, which might even be a little tidier now then when she left. Which is probably suspicious in itself. Chris's footfalls thundering down the stairs,
“Was that her car?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, alrighty then. Looks like it's show time. Good luck, man.”
“You too.”
“Worth it, though, right?”
“I guess.”
He has a point. My skin tingles again, the idea of Matt's fingers on me, wondering if he'll jerk off on the phone with me later if his roommate's out. That might be pretty hot, if it's all I can do. The door opens and thoughts of Matt or jacking off or whatever disappear, my heart in my throat it feels like as Mom comes through, immediately looking around because she's a smart lady.
“Okay, alright. Looks like everything's survived in one piece, at least. You could've picked out a nicer air spray. What is that anyway, apple?”
“Mom, now, don't freak out.”
Perhaps not the best opening line. She frowns, eyes shooting to my face, back around the room in suspicion, over to Chris then back to me.
“Freak out about what, exactly? Zach, I left you in charge . . .”
“It's not a big deal. So not a big deal.”
Her face goes pale. Her eyes widen in total horror, hands flying to her cheeks.
“What did you do? What did you do to your beautiful face?”
“Mom, it's only a pierce, don't freak out.”
“Only a pierce? Look at what you did to my baby, you poked holes and stuck metal through your beautiful eyebrow, oh Zach. How could you?”
She steps up to me, reaching up high to cup my face in her hands, dragging me further down towards her level.
“Your sweet, handsome face. You idiot. It looks awful.” Drops her arms, steps back and folds her arms. “Take it out.”
“Mom, I can't, it has to heal for two months.”
“Take it out, Zach. You look like . . . you look like a hoodlum. How can you be Hamlet with that stupid ugly thing sticking out of your face?”
“We're not even doing Shakespeare yet. Mom, seriously, it's no biggie. It just has to heal up and then I can take it out whenever I want, you won't even see a mark. I swear.”
Her face is all crumpled, eyebrows drawn together as she chews on her lips, arms still folded.
“I'm not interested. You want to be some ugly big punk rocker now?”
Chris makes a muffled snort behind me and she turns her glare on him for a moment.
“Don't even think that I'm too distracted by this . . . whatever the heck Zachary has decided to do to himself to not have words with you about the party five different neighbors called me about last night. Go to your room, I need to talk with Sid Vicious here.”
“Sid who?”
“Do I look like someone you should be pushing right now?”
“No, ma'am. Sorry dude. Looks like you're on your own.”
His tread is heavy upstairs, floorboards creaking then nothing, I guess he's gone back to bed. Mom sighs, glares at me some more, at my pierce.
“I need coffee after that drive. We'll talk more in the kitchen.”
Then barely another word until we're sitting at the table, a cup each, my fingers wrapped around mine as the heat feels good, stinging a little.
“Okay. Explain it to me in words of two syllables or less. What got into your head that you thought this was acceptable?”
“It's just a piercing, I don't see the big deal. It's not like a tattoo or whatever.”
“Zach, I am telling you now, if you ever get a tattoo -”
“Mom, it's a pierce. It's fine.”
“You poked a hole through your head. Look at it, it's all red and . . . it doesn't look healthy. What if it got infected? What would happen then?”
“It won't, they tell you how to look after it.”
She nods slowly, taking a drink of her coffee and I'm sure she's working up to something. This is Mom, she doesn't ever pull her punches and, fuck. I don't know. I'm all nervous again, go back to watching the creamer granules clinging to the inside edge of the cup gradually dissolve.
“It worries me, Zach. What is this, what does this mean, it worries me. You promised me, you looked me in the eye and promised me that being an actor was a serious thing and that you were going to calm down. I know you try to be a good kid, I do, but is this a sign of something I have to worry about?”
“Like what? I am serious about acting, you know I am.”
“Then what is this? Are you going off the rails again? I can't go through that again, I can't, and I'm dealing with Chris and . . . sweetie, I need you to -”
“What? Not be myself? I don't see what I did, I don't get why you're being all -”
“Because I have been through this enough with you, and you know it. You know I love you and that I think you're just, oh, just wonderful but Zach, enough's enough. I thought once we got you into college you'd find yourself and quit all this acting out you do.”
“I don't get it, what, what did I do? One little pierce, that's nothing, some of the kids at school, you'd shit if you had any clue -”
“You know I don't tolerate cursing in this house.”
“Mom, I'm nineteen, I can curse if I want. I can get stuff pierced or tattooed if I want. I'm just now beginning to figure out stuff about myself, big stuff, important stuff and it's not fair of you to put pressure on me to not be myself because there's nothing wrong with me. I'm not a good kid, I'm a man, mom. And I'm a good person, even if I have a piercing you don't like. It doesn't change who I am.”
Her mouth folds in on itself in disapproval.
“So much of your father in you. You are so like him sometimes.”
“I know, Mom, you say it all the time, usually when you're mad and that's not fair. That's really -”
Fuck. My eyes sting, my nose burning and I am not going to fucking cry. I tighten my grip on the coffee cup, feel the heat seep into my skin.
“It's not fair, that's all. There's stuff I want to tell you and I can't because I know you'll just freak out on me and think I'm a bad person. I should be able to tell you anything and I can't, and that's not fucking fair.”
She's blinking rapidly and, great, I made my mom cry. I get up, move awkwardly around the table to try to hug her and say sorry but she brushes my arms away.
“I think it's best if you go to your room. I don't want to even look at you right now. "
"But -"
"I didn't bring you up to speak to me like that. Sometimes I wonder if I even know who you are any more.”
“Mom . . .”
“Just go.”
“Fine. You know what? Fine.” Sudden fury, it feels like an ice storm bursting across my lungs. I grab my keys from the hook by the back door, check in my pants for my wallet. “I'm outta here. I won't stay where I'm obviously not wanted.”
“Zachary Quinto, you get your butt upstairs.”
“No. Just - no, not this time, Mom.”
Joe opens the door before I even put the car in park and I can't see his face properly, the porch lamp broken and just a little yellow light coming through from the window of his apartment. Grabs me for a hug once I get up to the door then pulls away, hands on my upper arms as he looks right into my eyes.
“You tell her?”
“No. Came close. Can I stay?”
“Jesus, Zach. C'mere.”
Another warm, heavy hug and I close my eyes, lean into it until he moves away and pushes me down the hallway in front of him.
“How did you know I was coming? Did she call?”
“No. Chris did.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Told me some other stuff, too. Congratulations, I understand you finally became a man last night.”
“That little fuck.”
Next
Pairing: Pre-slash BB Pinto
Rating: Light NC-17
Word count: 5200
Warnings: Non-Pinto sexual activity. Angst
Summary: teenage Chris goes to live with the Quinto family when his mom is sick
A/N: Some sort of slash may occur (look at me being all coy) once they're both legal. They'll get a little older with each chapter. Part 1, Part 2
A/N2: I need to say a big thank you to emmessann who has endlessly discussed with me theories and ins and outs and ZQ trufax and pretty much everything there is to know about ZQ and how various things may have affected his life/personality... everything. Her patience and freakishly precise knowledge of every ZQ interview ever is uncanny, she's like an unofficial ZQ canon generator. This whole story so far would've been just so much more PWP about teens smexing on each other if it hadn't been for her interest and input.
His irises are this insanely bright blue against eyes that are all piggy and red, nose rubbing across the knees of his jeans where he's tucked up in a ball against the wall of the kitchen, the phone on the floor in front of him. Chris squints up at me for a second as he notices all of a sudden that I'm there, too, looking down at him with no idea at all what I'm supposed to do now. He clears his throat, wipes across his face with the heel of his hand.
“Uh, sorry. Give me a sec.”
“Sure. You want me to go?”
“No. No, I'm good. Can I have a sheet of - thanks.”
He takes the roll of paper towel, tearing off a sheet and scrubbing at his eyes then nose.
“You could've taken the phone up to your room.”
“I didn't know it was going to be that kind of call.”
“Your mom? Did she get worse, you want to talk about it?”
“Yeah. No. Maybe, I don't - Oh. My god. What the fuck.”
He starts laughing, sniffing into the paper towel as he does.
“What?”
“Your mom is going to beat your ass for a month.”
“Oh. You like it?”
“Man oh man, she's going to freak the fuck out. Nice job waiting till she's away for the weekend, I guess you're living on borrowed time.”
I reach up to touch around the pierce, which still feels all weird, like the skin's bunched up too tight or something. Like that whole eyebrow's not even a part of me anymore.
“Won't it, like, limit your roles, or something?”
“I figure I can always take it out for auditions, once it's healed and everything.”
“I guess. Gimme a hand, my legs are cramping.”
I reach out to him and he pulls himself up with my hand. He's heavy and then he's standing beside me, always a shock these days when I notice he's almost my height, eyes practically on a level with mine. He was such a squirt before. I don't like to look at him too long, as usual. There's something so fucking aggravating about Chris, about his face, the way he looks at me, talks to me, I don't know.
“How come you did it? Did it hurt?”
“A little, not that much. I guess I wanted to do something different.”
“Right, right. Living dangerously, I get it, the whole teen rebel thing. You're leaving it a little late.”
That tone, god, I swear every single thing he says to me these days is like he's being this sarcastic little asshole. I tell him to go fuck himself in the most patronizing way I can manage and go back up to my room, ignoring that I had offered to talk about his mom. Fuck him. Almost two and a half years now, on and off, here, being aggravating. It had been bliss, total perfection when he'd gone back to CA for four months and the house was peaceful again, just Mom and me. I didn't miss him at all, not really. Not like Mom did. Things are easier without Chris around, he gets under my skin in a way even Joe can't at his most asshole-ish. I threatened to move out when he was moving back. I know, it's snotty and mean because his mom's still sick and that's not his fault but he pisses me off.
“Hey, Zach!”
“I'm reading.”
“Hey, c'mere!”
“Quit shouting. You come here.”
His feet stomping up the stairs, he always stomps everywhere. That was another thing about how this place was so much more peaceful while he was gone, his constant footsteps thudding through the place now, exactly the same way that they used to. Mom's said it to me over and over, He's playing up because he misses his mom and is worried about her, sweetheart. You have to try to be nice. I know it's tough, Lord, I really do, teenagers are hard work at the best of times but he's got a lot on his mind. Just remember that. He's changed, though. Before he could be a total little fuck but he was funny with it and sort of looked up to me. Now . . . I don't know. He's really different since he left. Even the way he dresses, everything. He came back just after his sixteenth birthday and ever since it's been like he's got something to prove by getting in my space.
His face appears in my doorway followed by the rest of him, tee shirt and jeans that are way less baggy than he used to wear them.
“So, your mom's away . . .”
“I had noticed.”
“And it's the weekend.”
“No.”
“Oh, come on, lighten up. I swear, I'll keep the place tidy.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“Chris, I said no.”
“You can invite some of your college buddies.”
“Yeah, there's nothing college students love more than a high school party.”
“They do when it means a bunch of high school girls will be throwing themselves at them.”
He's got a point. I'm just starting the new school year and, while I made some nice friends and stuff last year, we're not exactly the in-crowd. I put my Ibsen down because it's kicking my ass anyhow, scowl over at him.
“Fine, if it'll stop you whining. I'll call Mom and say I'm having some friends over because, that way, it won't freak her out too much if the neighbors tell her they heard music coming from over here. But if anything gets fucked up, I am not taking the blame.”
“Don't sweat it. She'll be way too busy losing her nut over your eyebrow pierce to care about some stupid party.”
I bump into him again later before bed, sitting on the kitchen counter, on the phone again with it tucked between his ear and shoulder, telling someone about his awesome rockin' party tomorrow night while stuffing a sandwich into his mouth. All the stuff it took to make the sandwich including a long, heavy trail of crumbs is scattered all over the counter area not covered by his butt, and I frown at him, throw it all into the sink louder than I need to. Like it makes any difference to him, he just looks over at me briefly, grins into the phone as he keeps talking. Cocky little fuck. He covers the phone with his hand,
“You think you could get Joe to bring some weed over for tomorrow?”
“Chris, I don't know . . .”
“Otherwise I have to ask this dude to ask this other dude and it starts getting complicated.”
I think he's actually trying to make puppy dog eyes at me. I snort, turn away, stick my head in the fridge for a snack and notice immediately how good the cold feels on my piercing, which is feeling a little sore now, a little hot and throbby.
“Fine. Sure. Whatever.”
At least he stuck to his word, there aren't that many people here and it's not nearly as bad as that one party I had once. Still, I can't seem to settle, walking from room to room with my beer, nodding at some of my guys where they're in the process of hooking up. Even Matt, which is a surprise although I suppose I've done it before. Sometimes a tongue can just be another tongue, I guess. Chris sure seems to know a lot of hot girls. There's a bunch of Chris's basketball buddies in the kitchen, all of them already taller than me, crowded around a bong.
“Yo homes, Chris's bro, wanna get blazed?”
“I am not his brother. Hand it over.”
“Man, your brow pierce is dank. That shit hurt?”
The low grass buzz doesn't help much as I look across the living room now at Chris who is grinding himself against some slutty looking dark-haired girl to some Boyz II Men shit, slopping some of his beer down her arm but she's too wasted to even notice. There's beer and cigarette ash all over the carpet and one of his baseball buddies broke a picture frame already, and I know I'm being totally uptight. I didn't used to be like this, I used to party way harder than Chris or his stupid friends. I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me anymore. A group of kids fall out of the hall closet laughing their asses off and I feel a twinge of annoyance, like I'm my fucking mom or something, it's ridiculous. I walk over to where someone's handing out vodka shots a dollar a piece, down four in a row and grab another beer. Fuck this bullshit, fuck feeling like a responsible adult when I'm only fucking nineteen.
“What up dawg? You doing okay?”
“I'm fine, dawg. You need to put out more stuff for ashtrays.”
“C'mon, admit it - this party is mad slammin.”
“Are you a rapper now?”
Chris laughs, slops a little more beer.
“Hey, don't get shady, it's all good. Diz all the shiznit right here, you needs to quit wiggin and chill.”
“I have no idea what you just said.”
“Don't be trippin, we cool, we cool. And you totally know what I said. Hey,” the backs of his fingers warm against my arm. “I'm sorry I didn't hook you up.”
I frown at his fingers, which tugs at my brow pierce making me wince a little.
“What?”
“There's this cute gay junior, I totally invited him for you but he had a thing with his parents.”
“You did what? Why would you even - ?”
“I figure I'd have found out about it if you had a boyfriend or whatever yet because, let's face it, you suck at keeping secrets. Dude, we have got to get you laid. What are you, like, thirty and still a virgin or something?”
“I'm not a virgin!” Too loud, three girls look over at me and giggle.
“You still have your gay cherry, though, right?”
“Please stop talking to me and go the fuck away.”
“Hey, I just got your back, bro. Don't hate on a playa. Anyway, I gots ta dip, I gots that fine hoochie mama over there all over me, I just wanted to check you were doing okay cuz you looked kind of pissed.”
“I'm fine. Quit annoying me and go mack on that fly beeotch, or whatever. Hey. Not that I want to encourage you or anything but, you got rubbers?”
“We're not - yeah. Yeah.”
Stupid question, I guess, as they're dancing again now and it's pretty clear she's having trouble staying on her feet. She'll probably pass out before he even gets a chance. He's all hips and thrusting, athletic pelvis when he's dancing, that wide grin breaking out over his face, eyes slightly unfocused, his cheeks flushed with booze and the humid heat of a room packed with too many drunk, sweating bodies. Looks over at me with that wide, sunny smile and he winks at me, fucking winks at me and the exact same time as a spasm of total exasperation with him crosses my chest, I notice it. I notice him. Properly, for the first time, with my whole fucking body.
I can't stop looking. The tufted hair that I know he took forty minutes getting just right, the wide blue eyes that always seem to be laughing at me. The broad cheekbones that he's beginning to grow into and, god, that mouth, his fucking smiling, laughing, cussing mouth and I groan under my breath as I start to get hard. The shoulders that are getting seriously broad now, his arms muscular, his stomach flat and taut where his shirt rides up as he dances, lifting his arms above his head. His whole tight, sporty body. I break out in a sweat, arousal igniting throughout every part of me as I watch him move and run my mind around the idea of him dancing like that with me. I want it so bad I hurt.
Panic. Shit, I can't - this is bad. I'm rock hard, panting under my breath, unable to take my eyes off him now so I force them shut, lean my head back against the wall as another hot wave of lust washes over and through me. Breathe in and out, in and out, stretch my fingers out to relax them but all that makes me want to do is touch him more. I can still see him in flashes of white light under my eyelids, like he's burned there. How the fuck did this happen. How the fuck did I - this can't happen. I can't get a crush on Chris, I can't. Shake my head, try to shake it out, worried that I might freak out or something but I'm drawn back to him again. Then he turns as someone taps him on the shoulder, leaning over to talk to them, laughing at a joke or something and I look at it, at his ass in those snug Levis that fit him like a second skin. I want to touch his hot little ass and I make fists of my hands, trying to will the want away. He's sixteen. He's supposed to be, like, my little brother or something. He's sixteen.
Something in me busts, breaks apart because this is so fucked up beyond all fucking belief. I shove my beer at the girl next to me ignoring her surprised yelp as some spills onto her jacket, walk through to the family room fast as this is really not good and I'm sick of this, sick of being so constantly fucking horny and alone that I'm even going to start like Chris. He's an annoying little fuck, I can't stand him most of the time, this is bullshit. The light's off in here since it was designated the official make out room but there's enough spilling in from the doorway that I can make my way around the squirming bodies until I find Matt. Nudge him on the foot, once more harder, practically a kick until he looks up from the blonde he's sucking face with.
“Zach? I'm, uh, a little busy here.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Seriously, now?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” An obviously insincere smile at the girl who gives me a bitchy glare. “Not here. Come up to my room.”
I have to kick two couples out of my bedroom, another one from my bathroom while Matt sits on my bed with a beer.
“Some party, huh. What did you want to -”
“Okay. Right. Look. I know this is probably a fucked up idea.”
“Uh-huh. What is?”
“Aren't you sick of it? Like, girls, man, I don't know. I need to hook up with a guy, I seriously just need to hook up with a guy and well, there's Pres but fuck going down that particular avenue, you know how he is. And I know we're buds and whatever but I figured if we're both wasted and whatever . . .”
“You want to make out?”
“Yes.”
“Or, like, have sex?”
“I don't know. Maybe?”
“With me?”
“I don't know! With a guy, I want to have sex with a fucking guy already and it's not like you'll come clubbing with me or whatever and I'm going freakin nuts. I don't want another hand job with another fucking chick, know what I mean? Shit. I don't know. Fucking hell, this - this is all such bullshit. I am sick of this lame bullshit. Aren't you?”
He takes a big gulp of his beer, looking at me where I'm standing in front of him, hands on my hips, still half-hard over goddamn Chris, of all people. Then he shrugs, puts his beer down on my nightstand and pulls his tee shirt off over his head.
“Sure, why not? You look kind of hot with the piercing.”
Finally. Thank fuck for that. I pull my desk chair across my door, turn back to him and take my shirt off.
It's not exactly everything I thought it would be but, fuck, it's different, it's good different. Licking across his Adam's apple and wishing he hadn't shaved for the party. The smooth skin of his chest, the soft hair in his pits and the way he shudders as I nose through it and over to kiss his nipple. His hand lifting my dick, his tongue in my mouth. The way his dick tastes and the way he can't help thrusting into my mouth no matter how many times it makes me gag. How strong his hand is in my hair as he guides me into another kiss. That I'm naked with him, his hairy thigh thrown over mine as we lie together afterwards, my fingers stroking his ass cheek although I don't dare go near his buttcrack in case it freaks him out. I let myself think about maybe fucking him one day, how that would feel, what he'd look like and, fucking hell, I think about Chris's tight little ass again, round and firm-looking in those low slung Levis. I tuck into Matt tighter, his skin warm against mine, kiss his chest and neck, reach down to stroke him till he's hard again.
It's past noon when I make it downstairs, the low fall sun too bright through a crack in the kitchen drapes as I try to avoid stepping on anything too gross and fetch myself a glass of water. Carry it through to the living room, which bore most of the brunt of the party, beer soaking into the carpet, crushed cups and potato chips and empty chip bags everywhere, cushions off the couch and chairs, two crooked pictures on the walls. It stinks of beer and smoke and an underlying note of cum. Although, that could be me. I scratch my stomach and chest, automatically reach up to touch the pierce but remember not to at the last minute. Fuck, it's sore this morning. I check the clock again, remind myself that it's okay, Mom's not due back till this evening so we've got, like, almost half a whole day to sort this shit out.
“Hey. I thought I heard you come downstairs.”
“Oh. Hey yourself.”
“Jesus, what a fucking mess. My head feels like it's going to explode. I got so wasted last night.”
Chris, in his underwear and tee shirt, limbs loose with sleep, fingers rubbing through his hair. His legs are still a little brown from the summer. I feel it again, that low tug towards him, wondering what his skin would smell like if I had my nose pressed into his neck and my hand sliding down under his shorts to cup his ass. I can't get hard over him again, fucking hell, this is so ridiculous. I clear my throat, look away from him, focusing on the mess of the room instead.
“You didn't look that bad.”
“I carried on after you, uh, went upstairs with . . . so. Is he, like, your boyfriend now?”
“What? Matt? No. I don't think so. It was just a party hook up thing.”
I'm not a hundred percent sure myself of how these things work with guys.
“Nice. He's pretty hot, for a dude. Was it . . . ?”
“. . . Was it what?”
“You know, like, totally different? Being with a dude.”
“Fuck this, I'm not talking about this with you.”
“Aww c'mon, I already said I got your back. Do you feel different? After, y'know. With a dude.”
“You know what? I think I do. A little.”
“Is he still here?”
“Yeah, he's upstairs in the shower.”
“Man. Gotta give you props. Way to fucking go.”
I roll my eyes but reluctantly bump knuckles with him, feel a blush starting so hang my head and return to the kitchen in search of cereal. It's still there. I still like him. I have no fucking idea at all what I'm supposed to do about it.
The house stinks more of air freshener than beer and smoke finally, the air chilled since we've got all the doors and windows thrown open to get fresh air in and to help dry the bits of carpet and couch we had to wash. Mom's going to know there's been a party the second she walks in but at least nothing got set on fire this time so I don't think she'll freak too much. At least, not about the party. My eyebrow's a little swollen, each end of the barbel a little crusty and I consider the idea of a band aid, just pretending like I bumped my head or something so she won't see it till it's settled down a little. But the guy said to let air get to it so I don't know. I use a Q-tip to soak it with salt water, trying to get some of the goopy, crusty shit off at least. Look into my eyes that gaze back at me in the mirror and I find myself smiling suddenly. It's been happening all day, a sudden memory of Matt's mouth or hands or something and I get hard again. Pure distilled relief every time I get hard over something to do with him rather than Chris.
Who isn't helping, the skin on his biceps going all bumpy in the cold where he's only wearing an undershirt with the same Levis as last night, barefoot, cute and messy-haired, still a little skinnier than he should be with shoulders that broad. I want to lick him. I want to stuff my tongue down his throat and make him moan. I want to tug his pants down and lift out his dick. I want to shove him against a wall and hold him there until I make him shoot. It pisses me off that now I've got all this in my head about him and I find myself thinking up mean little fantasies, keeping him from coming over and over again till he's begging, or, like, forcing him to blow me even though he doesn't like guys. It all feels wrong, nasty and shitty in a way that I'm not but I can't stop thinking about it all and hate myself for knowing I'll probably jerk off thinking about it later. I've been waiting too all fucking day long while we cleared up the mess. I already even decided that I'll jack off thinking about that, his mouth on me while he hates it the whole time but secretly loves it, and I'm gross, I'm like the worst person. It's so intensely fucked up, which makes it even more hot and it's like I can't stop it.
The car pulling up, the low clunk of Mom's door, the distant bleep of her central locking. Nerves bubble around in my upper gut and I breathe through them all, take one last look around the place, which might even be a little tidier now then when she left. Which is probably suspicious in itself. Chris's footfalls thundering down the stairs,
“Was that her car?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, alrighty then. Looks like it's show time. Good luck, man.”
“You too.”
“Worth it, though, right?”
“I guess.”
He has a point. My skin tingles again, the idea of Matt's fingers on me, wondering if he'll jerk off on the phone with me later if his roommate's out. That might be pretty hot, if it's all I can do. The door opens and thoughts of Matt or jacking off or whatever disappear, my heart in my throat it feels like as Mom comes through, immediately looking around because she's a smart lady.
“Okay, alright. Looks like everything's survived in one piece, at least. You could've picked out a nicer air spray. What is that anyway, apple?”
“Mom, now, don't freak out.”
Perhaps not the best opening line. She frowns, eyes shooting to my face, back around the room in suspicion, over to Chris then back to me.
“Freak out about what, exactly? Zach, I left you in charge . . .”
“It's not a big deal. So not a big deal.”
Her face goes pale. Her eyes widen in total horror, hands flying to her cheeks.
“What did you do? What did you do to your beautiful face?”
“Mom, it's only a pierce, don't freak out.”
“Only a pierce? Look at what you did to my baby, you poked holes and stuck metal through your beautiful eyebrow, oh Zach. How could you?”
She steps up to me, reaching up high to cup my face in her hands, dragging me further down towards her level.
“Your sweet, handsome face. You idiot. It looks awful.” Drops her arms, steps back and folds her arms. “Take it out.”
“Mom, I can't, it has to heal for two months.”
“Take it out, Zach. You look like . . . you look like a hoodlum. How can you be Hamlet with that stupid ugly thing sticking out of your face?”
“We're not even doing Shakespeare yet. Mom, seriously, it's no biggie. It just has to heal up and then I can take it out whenever I want, you won't even see a mark. I swear.”
Her face is all crumpled, eyebrows drawn together as she chews on her lips, arms still folded.
“I'm not interested. You want to be some ugly big punk rocker now?”
Chris makes a muffled snort behind me and she turns her glare on him for a moment.
“Don't even think that I'm too distracted by this . . . whatever the heck Zachary has decided to do to himself to not have words with you about the party five different neighbors called me about last night. Go to your room, I need to talk with Sid Vicious here.”
“Sid who?”
“Do I look like someone you should be pushing right now?”
“No, ma'am. Sorry dude. Looks like you're on your own.”
His tread is heavy upstairs, floorboards creaking then nothing, I guess he's gone back to bed. Mom sighs, glares at me some more, at my pierce.
“I need coffee after that drive. We'll talk more in the kitchen.”
Then barely another word until we're sitting at the table, a cup each, my fingers wrapped around mine as the heat feels good, stinging a little.
“Okay. Explain it to me in words of two syllables or less. What got into your head that you thought this was acceptable?”
“It's just a piercing, I don't see the big deal. It's not like a tattoo or whatever.”
“Zach, I am telling you now, if you ever get a tattoo -”
“Mom, it's a pierce. It's fine.”
“You poked a hole through your head. Look at it, it's all red and . . . it doesn't look healthy. What if it got infected? What would happen then?”
“It won't, they tell you how to look after it.”
She nods slowly, taking a drink of her coffee and I'm sure she's working up to something. This is Mom, she doesn't ever pull her punches and, fuck. I don't know. I'm all nervous again, go back to watching the creamer granules clinging to the inside edge of the cup gradually dissolve.
“It worries me, Zach. What is this, what does this mean, it worries me. You promised me, you looked me in the eye and promised me that being an actor was a serious thing and that you were going to calm down. I know you try to be a good kid, I do, but is this a sign of something I have to worry about?”
“Like what? I am serious about acting, you know I am.”
“Then what is this? Are you going off the rails again? I can't go through that again, I can't, and I'm dealing with Chris and . . . sweetie, I need you to -”
“What? Not be myself? I don't see what I did, I don't get why you're being all -”
“Because I have been through this enough with you, and you know it. You know I love you and that I think you're just, oh, just wonderful but Zach, enough's enough. I thought once we got you into college you'd find yourself and quit all this acting out you do.”
“I don't get it, what, what did I do? One little pierce, that's nothing, some of the kids at school, you'd shit if you had any clue -”
“You know I don't tolerate cursing in this house.”
“Mom, I'm nineteen, I can curse if I want. I can get stuff pierced or tattooed if I want. I'm just now beginning to figure out stuff about myself, big stuff, important stuff and it's not fair of you to put pressure on me to not be myself because there's nothing wrong with me. I'm not a good kid, I'm a man, mom. And I'm a good person, even if I have a piercing you don't like. It doesn't change who I am.”
Her mouth folds in on itself in disapproval.
“So much of your father in you. You are so like him sometimes.”
“I know, Mom, you say it all the time, usually when you're mad and that's not fair. That's really -”
Fuck. My eyes sting, my nose burning and I am not going to fucking cry. I tighten my grip on the coffee cup, feel the heat seep into my skin.
“It's not fair, that's all. There's stuff I want to tell you and I can't because I know you'll just freak out on me and think I'm a bad person. I should be able to tell you anything and I can't, and that's not fucking fair.”
She's blinking rapidly and, great, I made my mom cry. I get up, move awkwardly around the table to try to hug her and say sorry but she brushes my arms away.
“I think it's best if you go to your room. I don't want to even look at you right now. "
"But -"
"I didn't bring you up to speak to me like that. Sometimes I wonder if I even know who you are any more.”
“Mom . . .”
“Just go.”
“Fine. You know what? Fine.” Sudden fury, it feels like an ice storm bursting across my lungs. I grab my keys from the hook by the back door, check in my pants for my wallet. “I'm outta here. I won't stay where I'm obviously not wanted.”
“Zachary Quinto, you get your butt upstairs.”
“No. Just - no, not this time, Mom.”
Joe opens the door before I even put the car in park and I can't see his face properly, the porch lamp broken and just a little yellow light coming through from the window of his apartment. Grabs me for a hug once I get up to the door then pulls away, hands on my upper arms as he looks right into my eyes.
“You tell her?”
“No. Came close. Can I stay?”
“Jesus, Zach. C'mere.”
Another warm, heavy hug and I close my eyes, lean into it until he moves away and pushes me down the hallway in front of him.
“How did you know I was coming? Did she call?”
“No. Chris did.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Told me some other stuff, too. Congratulations, I understand you finally became a man last night.”
“That little fuck.”
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