Simply a reflection of your own self - FNL, Tim/Landry.
Simply a reflection of your own self.
Friday Night Lights, Tim/Landry.
NC-17 for sex and cursing. Mild spoilers through "Blinders."
Thanks to fearlesstemp for reading it over; all remaining mistakes are mine. Title randomly taken from here.
At age ten, Landry Clarke's Pee-Wee football coach told him he was a sorry excuse for a girl, and that his grandma was better with a football. Landry just stood there, sweating inside his helmet, and when Coach was done he went back to the end of the line. Waiting, while the other boys ran and got screamed at and trotted back to do it again, Landry came to the conclusion that he didn't really give a shit about football. At about the same time, he realized that life in Dillon was going to be one long, sad montage of him getting his ass kicked. It wasn't a real pleasant realization to make. Once he got to high school, when his best friend got onto the football team as a backup QB, Landry thought that maybe he could relax. When Jason broke his back and Matt started being the Next Greatest Thing, he figured out that the universe was going to find another way to bite him in the ass.
This is the long way of saying that when he wakes up from a dream about sucking Tim Riggins's dick, he's not too surprised.
He doesn't really wake up from it at first, to be honest. His little sister yells something to his mom, and he surfaces for a moment, half-awake, still reeling from the sensation of Tim's thighs under his hands, the dry, stubbled grass that prickled at his knees. The dream is more warm and interesting than his room, and he falls back asleep. When he wakes up for real, the dream's relocated to a spaceship that's also kind of a horse ranch. Debbie from chemistry class is handing him a plasmagun when his mom shakes his shoulder.
"Yeah," he says, opening his eyes and raising himself up on his elbows. He tries to look alert and awake, like his whole world isn't centered on his dick. His mom stands in the doorway for a while, telling him what he has to do after school, reminding him that he’s manning the stall at the church social next Sunday. When she finally leaves, she shuts the door behind her -- bless her heart -- and he kicks down the sheets, licks his palm, and slides his hand in his shorts. Fifteen minutes before he absolutely has to get out of bed and into school clothes. He's gotten into a good rhythm when he remembers the dream.
"Huh," he says, opening his eyes. His hand slows a little bit.
Outside his room, his mom tells his sister that yelling isn't ladylike. Somewhere out on the street, a kid shouts, loud and excited, and the neighbor's dogs start barking. The air shifts slowly through the window. He closes his eyes and remembers the look on Tim's face. The field -- like the field near his grandpa's place -- and the wind on his face, the sun bright in a cloudless sky. His hand speeds up again and he comes into a tissue he grabs from the box beside the bed.
That's when he thinks that he's not all that surprised about the dream, when he's tucking himself back into his shorts. This isn't even the worst thing he's thought about. After Jason's accident, he had a fantasy about what Jason and Lyla's sex life might be like, one that still makes him a worry that he's a bad person. Are you supposed to jerk off to a former golden child turned cripple and his girlfriend? Maybe a dream about sucking Tim's dick is a step in the right direction, he thinks. Maybe he's resolving his issues. He should probably go look in that dream interpretation book at the library again.
"Honey?" His mom taps the door and peeks in. He sits up, puts his feet on the floor, and smiles at her.
"I'm up, Mom," he says.
"I was starting to worry."
"No need," he says, and tosses the tissue in the trash.
---
It's not like he actually wants to suck Tim's dick. It's like thinking about Lyla and Jason having sex; he doesn't actually want to watch them getting it on in a wheelchair.
Which is a bad comparison, since he doesn't want to watch Jason and Lyla fucking because it would be creepy, being in the room while people were having sex. Where would you put your hands? He doesn't want to suck Tim's dick because he's not gay. He was afraid he was, for a little while, because he didn't like football and he liked to read, but eventually the hormones kicked in and he started staring at girls during rope climbing in gym. Not gay. Therefore, he does not want to suck Tim's dick.
Just Say No, he writes in the corner of his notebook.
"Landry?"
"What?" Around him the class shifts, a giggle rising and falling again. He coughs. "Sorry, Mrs. Adamson. Could you repeat the question?"
"I asked you for the coefficient of x."
"Two," he says, and she nods. He draws a robot in the corner of his notebook, opening its razor-sharp jaws to eat Just Say No. He gives it a Crucifictorious tattoo on its chestplate. Seriously not gay.
---
Tim says hi to him in the hallway, which he's still not used to, and Landry catches his arm before he breezes past. Tim looks down at Landry's hand on his arm, and back up. Landry grins. There is nothing better than pissing off Tim Riggins. "Do you have another book assignment?"
"What, Mrs. Taylor's on your back again?"
"Always," Landry says, and leers. Tim laughs.
"I guess--" Someone shouts from down the hall, and Tim lifts his hand to acknowledge them. "Maybe after practice? I'm kind of swamped, games and everything--"
"Fine," Landry says, and shrugs. "I'll pick you up."
Tim looks at him a little funny, but then he nods and turns away. Landry lets the crowd carry him down the hall.
---
He sits in the parking lot for ten minutes, but it feels like an hour. Matt comes over, and they talk for a little bit, make plans to eat later. Matt bumps his hip against the car door and keeps looking up around the parking lot, like he's expecting someone's going to come calling for him. Eventually he makes some noise about his grandma, and slouches off, headed on the way home. Landry looks at his back in his rearview mirror, and wishes he could give him a ride.
He's startled when Tim taps on the window, and he nearly spills his Coke when he leans over to unlock the door. Tim slides himself into the car and waves a copy of The Color Purple. "Gay black women," Landry says as a greeting, "awesome." He puts the car in drive and eases out of the parking lot. Matt's still walking.
"Damn," Tim says, and tosses back his hair before he leans his head against the window. The sun is bright, and he squints. Landry tightens his hands on the steering wheel and keeps his eyes on the road. "I think Mr. Evans is trying to kill me."
"Because everything is about you," he replies. "What'd you do in practice?"
Tim sighs, and just then Landry decides that they're going to read over sundaes at the Artic Freeze. He could use some ice cream, and Matt doesn't get there until seven. "We ran a lot," Tim says. "Matt was whining about something, and it meant we had to run the same drill over and over."
Used to be a time when Landry would know exactly what Matt had been whining about. When he would have been able to defend him. "Sometimes I kind of want to punch Matt in the head," he says instead.
"Sometimes I kind of do punch Matt in the head," Tim says. Landry throws him a sharp look, and he laughs. "Don't get all defensive, he likes it," he says, smiling easily. "Look at who he’s dating."
"You think Julie's kinky?" The thought hadn't occurred to him. He tries to stifle the mental images that float up. You are not supposed to think about your best friend’s girlfriend. It’s a rule.
"I think Julie can own his ass any time she wants to," Tim says, "I know, I can spot 'em. Hey, are we going for ice cream?"
"Nah," Landry says, "I'm going for ice cream. You're sitting in the car."
---
Tim pouts prettily at the girl behind the register, says something about how he needs his energy for the game, and gets what looks to be a fourteen-pound sundae for two dollars and change. It has extra walnuts and strawberry syrup. It is maybe the grossest thing Landry has ever seen, not including that time Matt ate four hamburgers and barfed in the creek. Tim tucks it away like a champ, though, while Landry sips on his milkshake and reads him The Color Purple. Tim handed him the book while he was settling the sundae in his lap, and looked expectantly at him. Tim gets a lot done by looking.
I don't move at once, 'cause I can't. I need to see her eyes. I feel like I see her eyes my feets can let go the spot where they stuck.
"Well I'll be damned," Tim says. "You weren't kidding." He's got strawberry syrup smeared across one cheek, and a piece of walnut wedged in his front teeth.
"Seems like a logical choice to me," Landry says. "Shug's pretty hot, for a dying woman. Can we get back to your education, Mr. B Minus?"
Tim gestures grandly, getting syrup in his bangs, and Landry goes back to reading. He doesn't tell him about the piece of walnut.
Git moving, he say, sharp.
---
When Landry stops next to Tim's truck, Tim doesn't get out right away, just sits there. Landry starts to get paranoid, thinks maybe Tim can tell about the dream, that he's going to hurt him. Instead Tim just makes a noise, looking out the window at the stadium, something between a laugh and a grunt. He finally gets out of the car, leaning back in to fish his bag out of the backseat through the open window. "See you," he says, and puts the bag on his shoulder. He has got the flattest ass in three counties. Landry would swear that on a stack of Bibles, if anyone cared to ask him.
---
That night, when he jerks off again, he thinks about Julie in a leather outfit, with a whip and a sneer on her pretty face. It's not doing much for him, and he shuffles through his mental images again: Eva Longoria, the girl in Cool Hand Luke washing the car, Mrs. Taylor crawling under her desk to retrieve a pen, Lyla in Jason's lap. None of it works. He settles on the field with a sense of resignation. Tim's leaning back against Landry's car, now, parked in the middle of the field, his hands braced against the hood. His head is tilted back, and he is panting. Landry wonders what his cock would taste like, what it would feel like on his tongue. He has to bite a corner of his pillow to keep from moaning when he comes.
He turns on his side, after he chucks the tissue in the trash, and looks out the window. The streetlights make everything gray; the tree in the neighbor's yard looks like the cloud from an explosion. Mr. Cross's truck rumbles by, squealing a little when it pulls to a stop at the end of the street. The screen's bent outwards, a tiny hole in one corner. Landry puts his index finger through the hole and wiggles it a little to loosen the wire. He thinks about hell; what it's like to put your finger on a hot stove, the way it feels to stand outside on a summer day in Texas. It takes him a while to fall asleep, but he doesn't dream about much in particular.
---
A week passes. The Panthers win another game. Tim, from a half-assed summary in the hallway between classes, has actually finished the book, or at least read enough of the SparkNotes to get by. The day before his book review is due, Mrs. Taylor catches Landry in the library to remind him that he needs to check up on Tim. Landry nods and smiles at her cleavage, then goes to find Tim after practice is through.
Tim is the last guy out, ducking his head under the doorway. When he spots Landry, he's already got that damn shifty look on his face. It's not even worth asking. "You didn't do it yet?"
"I just didn't have any good ideas," Tim says, the picture of wounded innocence. "I was hoping--"
"You already tried that rally girl crap on me," Landry says. "You're just going to irritate me if you do it again."
"Where are you going?"
"We're going to the library," Landry says, and Tim actually follows, a few steps behind Landry, bitching and moaning the entire time. Landry points to a chair when they get there, and puts a pen and a piece of paper in front of him.
"What crawled up your ass?" Tim asks, but he squashes himself into the chair.
"Looks run out, Riggins," he snaps, without any provocation, no warning from his brain. Tim looks at him like he's finally gone around the bend, and Landry feels a flush prickle up his neck and across his cheeks. Apparently he's channeling his mother today.
Who knows the power of mothers, though; Tim actually picks up the pen, opens the book, and makes a few notes for an outline. His handwriting is cramped and skinny, uncomfortable-looking, like the way he looks folded into one of the too-small library chairs.
Landry hovers for a while, reading over his shoulder. "You call that a topic sentence?" he says, after a bit, and Tim sighs.
"If you wanted to write it for me, you had your chance," he says, and taps the pen against the table. Landry takes the hint and wanders off.
Tim eventually finishes, and Landry reads through it. It's mostly notes and outline, but it's not bad, with a few corrections, a couple of added sentences, and a reminder that Tim isn't allowed to call Celie a "big ugly dyke." Landry thinks it's C+ material, enough that Tim can stay on the team. He tells Tim he belongs in special ed, though. Can't go too soft on these football types, or they'll run all over you.
"So you gonna be a fair and impartial referee at the game?" Tim asks, like he's reading Landry's mind.
"Yep," Landry says, "and I will fairly and impartially allow Matt's team to win. Ow! Jesus!"
---
Mr. Evans apparently thinks the paper's worth a B+. "Were you sitting there while he was grading it?" Landry says, squinting at the paper.
"No."
"Because I thought maybe you were making that face you make."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Language, Riggins," Landry says, distracted by Mr. Evans's "good work here, Tim!" in the corner. "Are you sure you didn't have sex with him? By accident or something?"
"Don't be a jackass," Tim says, his voice a lazy, insolent burr. He swipes the paper back. "Someone told me looks run out, anyway, so I've got to support myself with my big sexy mind." The wide-eyed innocence looks incredibly stupid on his face. Landry snorts, hard, cupping his hand over his face to try to hide it, and Tim grins, unbearably pleased with himself.
---
The thing is, Landry kicks the habit of thinking about Tim a few nights after the dream. He's back to the usual stuff. Powderpuff’s started, for one, and Mrs. Taylor's been thankful about him helping out Tim so much. She keeps leaning over when she tells him he's a godsend, like she knows what her breasts do to him. The thing with Tim is just a brainteaser, a puzzle of where did that come from? He looks up sex dreams in a book at school, and it says that he might not be "reaching fulfillment" in his personal life. Considering that his personal life is his hand and a box of tissues, Landry thinks that maybe the book is on to something. He doesn't worry about it too much after that.
Then Tim shows up drunk on his doorstep on a damn Wednesday night.
It's pure luck that Landry's closest to the door when he knocks. "What are you doing here?" Landry hisses. He steps outside and shuts the screen door as quietly as he can.
"Thought I'd look you up, was all," Tim says. He's smiling, loose and stupid-looking, and he smells like cheap beer. Landry is suddenly, inexplicably hard, and just as suddenly pissed off.
"Well, now you looked me up. Did you drive here?" Tim looks away, and Landry has to remind himself not to yell. "Jesus, Riggins."
"I just felt like looking you up," Tim repeats. He moves away to list against the porch railing, frowning. His eyelashes are dark smudges against his cheekbones.
Landry closes his eyes for a second, decency warring with his goddamn dick, and says "okay, sit down and be quiet. I'm gonna drive you home."
"Baby you can drive my car," Tim warbles, loud in the quiet night, and Landry hushes him sharply. He at least has the good grace to look guilty.
"Mom, can I go out?" She's making his little sister's lunch; his dad's leaning against the stove, talking to her. They both swivel to look at him at the same time, and he tries to look trustworthy. "Matt got dumped, and he wants to go for a walk." He prays she doesn't tell him to bring him on inside.
His mom's expression softens, like it always does when he brings up Matt. She calls him 'that poor boy' a lot, when she thinks Landry can't hear. "Sure, honey. But be home by your curfew."
"Be safe," his dad adds, expression still slightly suspicious. Landry tugs down at his shirt hem and nods. His dad always seems to know about these things, even if he doesn't say anything about it.
Tim's sprawled out on his front steps by the time he gets outside, propped up on his elbow, looking at the stars. He looks back over his shoulder and grins again, that same soft sloppy grin. "Hey there, Powderpuff."
"Come on," Landry says, and Tim follows him again. "Give me your keys," and Tim is surprisingly compliant, just hands him the keys, folds into the truck and watches Landry while he yanks on his seatbelt. "Seatbelt," Landry reminds him. Tim snorts, but he pulls the seatbelt out and snaps it with exaggerated care. "Why are you here?" Landry says again, and Tim shrugs.
"Didn't feel like being at home." There's a long pause. "You probably already know about practice"
Landry nods. "Matt said," though he doesn't mention that Matt only told him after he'd heard from everyone else. He and Tim sit in the dark for a little while, and Landry thinks about saying something comforting. He decides against it. "You need to go to the car wash, this thing is filthy," he says, and puts the key in the ignition. Tim doesn't respond.
They drive slowly, since Landry's done with tempting fate. The truck is too high off of the road, and the brake pedal sticks a little. Landry keeps his hands at ten and two. Midway down the main road, Tim elbows him hard and says "stop here, stop here, hey, left! Left!" Landry assumes he's got to puke, so he pulls over into the liquor store parking lot and turns the truck off. He turns to tell Tim not to hurl on his own upholstery, but Tim's already getting out, digging money out of his jeans pocket. Tim waves the money at him through the window and says "this guy always sells me beer."
Landry's got his mouth open to say something, but Tim's already inside.
Landry presses his eyes against the backs of his hands on the steering wheel. He knew that when Matt got popular that Landry would make friends with other members of the team. Maybe he'd get invited to parties, or something, and do more than hang out by the keg. He didn't think he’d be playing designated driver to the stringy-haired lunatic running back.
Tim whoops when he gets out of the store, like this is the first time he's gotten away with buying beer, and Landry jerks his head up, tries to make the international sign for "be cool" but just smacks himself in the face. Tim's ignoring him, anyway; he gets back up in the truck, puts the two six-packs on the floor, kicks his feet up, and says "whenever you're ready," like this is Landry's detour.
---
Tim tells him to pull off again at the parking lot out back of the old Green's feed store, and Landry doesn't even try to say anything this time. The tires crackle on the gravel. When he turns off the headlights and cuts the engine, it's suddenly pitch black; the only noise comes from the truck ticking to itself and Tim's muttered curses. Tim's hand bumps against the back of his hand, against his knee, and goes away again; then the dusty light in the dashboard flickers on and Patty Loveless starts mid-note from the radio. Tim sits back and pushes open his door in one smooth motion, dangling one foot out of the truck. "Put the headlights back on, genius," he says, and hops out.
Landry finds the lever again and pulls it on. The scraggly bushes at the edge of the lot cast long, bizarre shadows on the grass and the building. "Get the beer, too," Tim says, and Landry leans back over to grab the beer, grumbling enough that he knows Tim can hear him. He has a devil of a time getting the door open with two sixpacks in his hands. Tim starts laughing when he nearly takes a header getting out of the truck.
"Just for that, you aren’t getting any beer," he says, and sits next to Tim on the front bumper.
"It's my beer!"
"Possession is nine-tenths of the law." Tim kicks gravel over his shoes and reaches around him to grab a beer from the six-pack on the hood. Landry takes one himself, but he can't for the life of him see if it's a twist-off. Tim takes it from him before he can scrape up his palms and levers off the cap on the truck's grill.
"I could've used my bottle opener," Landry says, and it's true, he's got one on his keychain. "Isn't that hell on your insurance premium?" Tim just makes a non-committal sound, and Landry drops it. They drink for a while, silent, both looking out at the nothing beyond the lot. The beer is colder and better carbonated than anything Landry’s had before, at parties or over at Matt's, and he drinks two fast enough that his head swims a little. Tim seems to be going slower, sobering up a little, and Landry thinks for a moment hell, maybe he'll have to take me home. He laughs.
"What?"
"Nothing." Tim goes back to looking at the edge of the lot. "You know you're acting a little weird, right?"
"I guess," Tim says.
"You're hanging out with me, drinking beers in a parking lot," Landry says. "On a school night."
"Since when have I worried about school nights?"
"You're missing the point."
"Which is?"
Not gay, Landry thinks, and feels his cheeks get a little hot. "Which-" Landry pauses, fishing for his point. "Which is that you have friends, don't you?" Tim doesn't answer, but Landry keeps going, recklessly, "And a girlfriend, or girlfriends, I don't know, and rally girls-"
"Landry."
"What?"
Tim sighs and drains the rest of his beer, throws the bottle up and out towards the edge of the lot, out of sight. "I'd tell you to shut up, but I think you're incapable."
"Big word, there, football star."
"You're proving my point," he says. "Look, I'm just in a shitty mood, and everyone else would just piss me off. I figured you wouldn't holler at me for drinking or whatever," and he pops the cap off of another beer.
"I'm hollering at myself for drinking," Landry says, and Tim laughs.
"Are you going to be able to take me home?" Tim asks, and flutters his eyelashes. Landry's breath gets a little short.
"Sure," he manages, "I just need to quit now, while I'm ahead."
"Lightweight."
"I prefer the phrase 'cheap date,'" he jokes.
"Yeah?" Tim runs his eyes down over Landry's body, and just like that the conversation's well and truly jumped the track. Landry feels like someone's walked their fingers up his back and scratched their fingernails into his hair. He doesn't know what to say. He's talked shit like this before, but before he knew that Matt would start laughing first. Tim's a stubborn son of a bitch.
"Sure," he says, finally, because he doesn't like to back down.
Tim pulls his eyes back up to Landry's face. "So how many more beers until you blow me?" he asks, like he knows what's going on in Landry's head.
"About-" Landry holds his beer up, makes a show of examining the level, "-this much?" Tim grins, and Landry decides to go for it, really freak him out. He drains the beer, watching the foam jerk down through the neck. He drops it when its empty and falls to his knees. He looks up at Tim, grinning a little, sure he's got the edge on him now.
Tim's not laughing, though, or smiling. He's just looking at him; he hasn't moved, his hand is still curled around his beer, the bottle resting against his chest. Landry's knees hurt. Fuck, he thinks, I really fucked up. He starts to get up. His feet slide in the gravel, and before he can flinch away Tim's put down his beer and got a grip on his collar. He braces himself for the blow.
His nose squashes against Tim's. Their teeth collide, hard, and his lip splits a little on the inside, he can taste his blood. He stumbles a little when he pulls back.
"Christ," Tim says, scowling, still too close, "you make me do everything my goddamn self." He puts his hands up, warm and large, and tilts Landry's head to the side. Landry lets himself be tilted, lets himself be kissed, opens his mouth when Tim opens his.
He's making out with Tim Riggins.
Tim Riggins is a pretty good kisser.
He gets into it a little, slides his hands down from where they landed on Tim’s chest to his hips. Tim breaks away, breathing heavy, and Landry follows him, blindly, presses their spit slick lips together again. Tim bites at his lower lip, and their hips finally connect, and they both make stupid, strangled noises.
Landry doesn't really think a whole lot after that.
He folds to his knees, slower this time, and puts his hand on Tim's fly, over top of his dick. Tim blinks down at him, mouth wet and pink, and doesn't say anything, even when Landry tucks his fingers inside his waistband, even when Landry undoes the buttons of his fly. Landry pulls down his boxers, lets them bunch with his jeans around his thighs, and touches Tim's dick, unsure of himself now that he's done this. Tim makes another noise, then, and his hand comes up and touches the side of Landry’s face. His fingers curl against Landry's skull, pulling a little. Landry slides his fingers around the bottom of Tim's dick, licks the head and puts it in his mouth. The skin is hot and dry against his tongue, and his lips catch and drag a little when he moves down. There's barely any taste, just a little salty, like licking his wrist after a long run.
He doesn't try anything fancy, though he kind of wants to, just keeps his mouth moving, his hand curled. All he can see is the hair on Tim's belly, the muscles there moving in time with Landry's mouth. Spit works its way down his fingers. His mouth aches, his tongue gets tired, his knees hurt like crazy. He has to use his other hand to hold Tim's hips against the car so he won't choke. He has never been so fucking turned on in his life. Tim has been making quiet noises, but he suddenly says, "Jesus, fuck," and then "Landry," choked off, like he didn't mean to say it. Landry closes his eyes and moans, frustrated with wanting. Tim scrabbles at his head, yanking hard at his ear, and Landry backs off, confused, scared he's done something stupid until he sees that Tim is coming.
It's strange to see up close. He shuffles back a little - he doesn't want any of that in his eye - but he moves his hand, still, strokes through it, until Tim hisses and pushes at his wrist. Landry gets to his feet again, awkwardly. There's come on his fingers, and he licks it off. It tastes a little more like sugar than his. "Do you eat a lot of candy?" His mouth doesn't want to shape the words, and he works his lips a little.
Tim pauses in the middle of buttoning his jeans and just looks at him.
"Different foods affect the taste of sperm," he says. He read this online, he knows. "For instance, vegetarians apparently taste better than meat eaters. I thought about going vegetarian because of that, but my mom hates it when I don't eat her pot roast." Tim shakes his head and finishes buttoning up. "No? Not a lot of candy? Don't know what it is, then." He puts his fingers up to his lips, touches them gently.
Tim catches his wrist, pulls him forwards a little and then turns him around, like he’s leading him in ballroom. "Cha cha cha," Landry says. Tim doesn't respond, but he lets go of Landry's wrist to unbutton his pants, and Landry's pretty sure they never did that in ballroom class. This was never part of his dream. He lets his head tip back on Tim's shoulder and says "fuck," softly, when Tim slides his hand down around Landry's dick.
"Thought that might shut you up," Tim says, and Landry shudders hard at the hot, damp breath against his neck. Tim makes a thoughtful noise, takes hand off of Landry's dick briefly to spit in his palm, and puts it back. It's slow, slower than Landry usually likes, but the unfamiliarity of the hand makes it hotter, somehow. Tim mouths at his neck, and he feels like he's going to shake out of his skin, like he did when he first discovered jerking off and it was the most electrical feeling he'd ever experienced. He comes without expecting it, without any buildup, just suddenly jerking in Tim's grip.
He staggers slightly to the side and leans against the car. His lungs hurt. His mouth still feels strange. He feels used up.
Tim turns and braces his hands on the truck for a second, standing next to him, his head bent. Landry’s barely caught his breath before Tim’s talking again. "You know, this isn't something I do-"
"Shut up."
"What?"
"I'm not listening to the 'it's not me, it's you' speech until my dick's back in my pants," Landry says, reasonably. Tim just stares at him, mind blown by the logic, and Landry leans back to enjoy a few more minutes of mindless, blissful silence.
It's not in the cards, though, because Tim is impatient and handsy. "Get off," Landry protests, but Tim just tucks him in, snaps the waistband of his boxers and zips up his jeans.
"It's not either of us, Landry," he says.
Normally he'd agree, but he's starting to reconsider. "I was just trying to catch a little break," he says, "and you wanted to talk." He looks at Tim suspiciously, squashing a giggle. "Are you sure you're not a girl?" Tim glowers and goes to slap the side of his head, slow enough that Landry can duck. "Because we're talking about our feelings, I think, and you've got pretty long hair-"
"I think you know better than anyone that I'm not a girl," Tim points out, and then goes still like he's said something wrong.
"True," Landry says. "Well, better than most people. Most men," he amends.
Tim is silent for a second, just looking at him. "You've got brass ones, Landry, I'll give you that."
"It makes it pretty hard to walk," Landry agrees. "Come on, let's get you home."
"I'll drive," Tim says.
"You barely have enough brain cells when you haven't been drinking," Landry retorts, and goes around the truck to open the driver's side door. "Get the beer."
Tim looks at him for a long moment, expression unreadable in the dim yellow light, and then stoops to pick up what's left of the beer. His shirt rides up over his back, and there's an imprint of the bent truck grill in the skin at the base of his spine. Landry swallows. He almost touches his lips again, but he stops his hand just in time.
---
"How are you getting home?" Tim says. He catches the keys when Landry tosses them over the hood of the truck.
"I've got this great mode of transportation," Landry says, "I call them 'legs.'"
Tim squints at him. I sucked your dick, Landry thinks, and wants to giggle again. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Okay." Tim jingles the keys in his hand, his shoulders hunching, and then mutters something Landry doesn't catch.
"What's that?"
"I owe you one," Tim says, more clearly this time.
Landry blinks. He isn't sure how to respond. "Okay," he finally says, slowly. Maybe a little bit gay. Just a little. Tim's already looking away, edging toward his house.
Landry looks back when he gets to the end of Tim's street. The lights are off in the house. He can barely read the sign on Tim's lawn, but he knows what it says.
His own house is dark when he walks up. It's far past his curfew; he shuts the screen door carefully, and lifts up on the doorknob when he shuts the inside door so the hinges won't squeak.
"Landry?" his mom says, poking her head out of the doorway.
"Yeah mom," he says, "Sorry I'm late." His mouth tastes like beer and dick, and when she pads out to see him he concentrates on keeping his lips together and breathing through his nose.
"It's okay." She smiles at him and smoothes his hair down on his forehead. Her fingers brush against the spot on his ear where Tim's fingers had curled, and he thinks he must be shaking. "I'll see you in the morning."
"All right," he says, and waits for her to get back into the bedroom. He brushes his teeth quickly, and rinses his mouth out with his dad's Listerine. His mouth looks normal in the mirror; he can't even see the place where his teeth cut into his lip. He shakes his head at himself and snaps off the light.
That night, he dreams he's in math class, surrounded by cows. The only noise is their hooves on the linoleum and the soft smacking noise as they chew.
He wakes up smiling.
Friday Night Lights, Tim/Landry.
NC-17 for sex and cursing. Mild spoilers through "Blinders."
Thanks to fearlesstemp for reading it over; all remaining mistakes are mine. Title randomly taken from here.
At age ten, Landry Clarke's Pee-Wee football coach told him he was a sorry excuse for a girl, and that his grandma was better with a football. Landry just stood there, sweating inside his helmet, and when Coach was done he went back to the end of the line. Waiting, while the other boys ran and got screamed at and trotted back to do it again, Landry came to the conclusion that he didn't really give a shit about football. At about the same time, he realized that life in Dillon was going to be one long, sad montage of him getting his ass kicked. It wasn't a real pleasant realization to make. Once he got to high school, when his best friend got onto the football team as a backup QB, Landry thought that maybe he could relax. When Jason broke his back and Matt started being the Next Greatest Thing, he figured out that the universe was going to find another way to bite him in the ass.
This is the long way of saying that when he wakes up from a dream about sucking Tim Riggins's dick, he's not too surprised.
He doesn't really wake up from it at first, to be honest. His little sister yells something to his mom, and he surfaces for a moment, half-awake, still reeling from the sensation of Tim's thighs under his hands, the dry, stubbled grass that prickled at his knees. The dream is more warm and interesting than his room, and he falls back asleep. When he wakes up for real, the dream's relocated to a spaceship that's also kind of a horse ranch. Debbie from chemistry class is handing him a plasmagun when his mom shakes his shoulder.
"Yeah," he says, opening his eyes and raising himself up on his elbows. He tries to look alert and awake, like his whole world isn't centered on his dick. His mom stands in the doorway for a while, telling him what he has to do after school, reminding him that he’s manning the stall at the church social next Sunday. When she finally leaves, she shuts the door behind her -- bless her heart -- and he kicks down the sheets, licks his palm, and slides his hand in his shorts. Fifteen minutes before he absolutely has to get out of bed and into school clothes. He's gotten into a good rhythm when he remembers the dream.
"Huh," he says, opening his eyes. His hand slows a little bit.
Outside his room, his mom tells his sister that yelling isn't ladylike. Somewhere out on the street, a kid shouts, loud and excited, and the neighbor's dogs start barking. The air shifts slowly through the window. He closes his eyes and remembers the look on Tim's face. The field -- like the field near his grandpa's place -- and the wind on his face, the sun bright in a cloudless sky. His hand speeds up again and he comes into a tissue he grabs from the box beside the bed.
That's when he thinks that he's not all that surprised about the dream, when he's tucking himself back into his shorts. This isn't even the worst thing he's thought about. After Jason's accident, he had a fantasy about what Jason and Lyla's sex life might be like, one that still makes him a worry that he's a bad person. Are you supposed to jerk off to a former golden child turned cripple and his girlfriend? Maybe a dream about sucking Tim's dick is a step in the right direction, he thinks. Maybe he's resolving his issues. He should probably go look in that dream interpretation book at the library again.
"Honey?" His mom taps the door and peeks in. He sits up, puts his feet on the floor, and smiles at her.
"I'm up, Mom," he says.
"I was starting to worry."
"No need," he says, and tosses the tissue in the trash.
---
It's not like he actually wants to suck Tim's dick. It's like thinking about Lyla and Jason having sex; he doesn't actually want to watch them getting it on in a wheelchair.
Which is a bad comparison, since he doesn't want to watch Jason and Lyla fucking because it would be creepy, being in the room while people were having sex. Where would you put your hands? He doesn't want to suck Tim's dick because he's not gay. He was afraid he was, for a little while, because he didn't like football and he liked to read, but eventually the hormones kicked in and he started staring at girls during rope climbing in gym. Not gay. Therefore, he does not want to suck Tim's dick.
Just Say No, he writes in the corner of his notebook.
"Landry?"
"What?" Around him the class shifts, a giggle rising and falling again. He coughs. "Sorry, Mrs. Adamson. Could you repeat the question?"
"I asked you for the coefficient of x."
"Two," he says, and she nods. He draws a robot in the corner of his notebook, opening its razor-sharp jaws to eat Just Say No. He gives it a Crucifictorious tattoo on its chestplate. Seriously not gay.
---
Tim says hi to him in the hallway, which he's still not used to, and Landry catches his arm before he breezes past. Tim looks down at Landry's hand on his arm, and back up. Landry grins. There is nothing better than pissing off Tim Riggins. "Do you have another book assignment?"
"What, Mrs. Taylor's on your back again?"
"Always," Landry says, and leers. Tim laughs.
"I guess--" Someone shouts from down the hall, and Tim lifts his hand to acknowledge them. "Maybe after practice? I'm kind of swamped, games and everything--"
"Fine," Landry says, and shrugs. "I'll pick you up."
Tim looks at him a little funny, but then he nods and turns away. Landry lets the crowd carry him down the hall.
---
He sits in the parking lot for ten minutes, but it feels like an hour. Matt comes over, and they talk for a little bit, make plans to eat later. Matt bumps his hip against the car door and keeps looking up around the parking lot, like he's expecting someone's going to come calling for him. Eventually he makes some noise about his grandma, and slouches off, headed on the way home. Landry looks at his back in his rearview mirror, and wishes he could give him a ride.
He's startled when Tim taps on the window, and he nearly spills his Coke when he leans over to unlock the door. Tim slides himself into the car and waves a copy of The Color Purple. "Gay black women," Landry says as a greeting, "awesome." He puts the car in drive and eases out of the parking lot. Matt's still walking.
"Damn," Tim says, and tosses back his hair before he leans his head against the window. The sun is bright, and he squints. Landry tightens his hands on the steering wheel and keeps his eyes on the road. "I think Mr. Evans is trying to kill me."
"Because everything is about you," he replies. "What'd you do in practice?"
Tim sighs, and just then Landry decides that they're going to read over sundaes at the Artic Freeze. He could use some ice cream, and Matt doesn't get there until seven. "We ran a lot," Tim says. "Matt was whining about something, and it meant we had to run the same drill over and over."
Used to be a time when Landry would know exactly what Matt had been whining about. When he would have been able to defend him. "Sometimes I kind of want to punch Matt in the head," he says instead.
"Sometimes I kind of do punch Matt in the head," Tim says. Landry throws him a sharp look, and he laughs. "Don't get all defensive, he likes it," he says, smiling easily. "Look at who he’s dating."
"You think Julie's kinky?" The thought hadn't occurred to him. He tries to stifle the mental images that float up. You are not supposed to think about your best friend’s girlfriend. It’s a rule.
"I think Julie can own his ass any time she wants to," Tim says, "I know, I can spot 'em. Hey, are we going for ice cream?"
"Nah," Landry says, "I'm going for ice cream. You're sitting in the car."
---
Tim pouts prettily at the girl behind the register, says something about how he needs his energy for the game, and gets what looks to be a fourteen-pound sundae for two dollars and change. It has extra walnuts and strawberry syrup. It is maybe the grossest thing Landry has ever seen, not including that time Matt ate four hamburgers and barfed in the creek. Tim tucks it away like a champ, though, while Landry sips on his milkshake and reads him The Color Purple. Tim handed him the book while he was settling the sundae in his lap, and looked expectantly at him. Tim gets a lot done by looking.
I don't move at once, 'cause I can't. I need to see her eyes. I feel like I see her eyes my feets can let go the spot where they stuck.
"Well I'll be damned," Tim says. "You weren't kidding." He's got strawberry syrup smeared across one cheek, and a piece of walnut wedged in his front teeth.
"Seems like a logical choice to me," Landry says. "Shug's pretty hot, for a dying woman. Can we get back to your education, Mr. B Minus?"
Tim gestures grandly, getting syrup in his bangs, and Landry goes back to reading. He doesn't tell him about the piece of walnut.
Git moving, he say, sharp.
---
When Landry stops next to Tim's truck, Tim doesn't get out right away, just sits there. Landry starts to get paranoid, thinks maybe Tim can tell about the dream, that he's going to hurt him. Instead Tim just makes a noise, looking out the window at the stadium, something between a laugh and a grunt. He finally gets out of the car, leaning back in to fish his bag out of the backseat through the open window. "See you," he says, and puts the bag on his shoulder. He has got the flattest ass in three counties. Landry would swear that on a stack of Bibles, if anyone cared to ask him.
---
That night, when he jerks off again, he thinks about Julie in a leather outfit, with a whip and a sneer on her pretty face. It's not doing much for him, and he shuffles through his mental images again: Eva Longoria, the girl in Cool Hand Luke washing the car, Mrs. Taylor crawling under her desk to retrieve a pen, Lyla in Jason's lap. None of it works. He settles on the field with a sense of resignation. Tim's leaning back against Landry's car, now, parked in the middle of the field, his hands braced against the hood. His head is tilted back, and he is panting. Landry wonders what his cock would taste like, what it would feel like on his tongue. He has to bite a corner of his pillow to keep from moaning when he comes.
He turns on his side, after he chucks the tissue in the trash, and looks out the window. The streetlights make everything gray; the tree in the neighbor's yard looks like the cloud from an explosion. Mr. Cross's truck rumbles by, squealing a little when it pulls to a stop at the end of the street. The screen's bent outwards, a tiny hole in one corner. Landry puts his index finger through the hole and wiggles it a little to loosen the wire. He thinks about hell; what it's like to put your finger on a hot stove, the way it feels to stand outside on a summer day in Texas. It takes him a while to fall asleep, but he doesn't dream about much in particular.
---
A week passes. The Panthers win another game. Tim, from a half-assed summary in the hallway between classes, has actually finished the book, or at least read enough of the SparkNotes to get by. The day before his book review is due, Mrs. Taylor catches Landry in the library to remind him that he needs to check up on Tim. Landry nods and smiles at her cleavage, then goes to find Tim after practice is through.
Tim is the last guy out, ducking his head under the doorway. When he spots Landry, he's already got that damn shifty look on his face. It's not even worth asking. "You didn't do it yet?"
"I just didn't have any good ideas," Tim says, the picture of wounded innocence. "I was hoping--"
"You already tried that rally girl crap on me," Landry says. "You're just going to irritate me if you do it again."
"Where are you going?"
"We're going to the library," Landry says, and Tim actually follows, a few steps behind Landry, bitching and moaning the entire time. Landry points to a chair when they get there, and puts a pen and a piece of paper in front of him.
"What crawled up your ass?" Tim asks, but he squashes himself into the chair.
"Looks run out, Riggins," he snaps, without any provocation, no warning from his brain. Tim looks at him like he's finally gone around the bend, and Landry feels a flush prickle up his neck and across his cheeks. Apparently he's channeling his mother today.
Who knows the power of mothers, though; Tim actually picks up the pen, opens the book, and makes a few notes for an outline. His handwriting is cramped and skinny, uncomfortable-looking, like the way he looks folded into one of the too-small library chairs.
Landry hovers for a while, reading over his shoulder. "You call that a topic sentence?" he says, after a bit, and Tim sighs.
"If you wanted to write it for me, you had your chance," he says, and taps the pen against the table. Landry takes the hint and wanders off.
Tim eventually finishes, and Landry reads through it. It's mostly notes and outline, but it's not bad, with a few corrections, a couple of added sentences, and a reminder that Tim isn't allowed to call Celie a "big ugly dyke." Landry thinks it's C+ material, enough that Tim can stay on the team. He tells Tim he belongs in special ed, though. Can't go too soft on these football types, or they'll run all over you.
"So you gonna be a fair and impartial referee at the game?" Tim asks, like he's reading Landry's mind.
"Yep," Landry says, "and I will fairly and impartially allow Matt's team to win. Ow! Jesus!"
---
Mr. Evans apparently thinks the paper's worth a B+. "Were you sitting there while he was grading it?" Landry says, squinting at the paper.
"No."
"Because I thought maybe you were making that face you make."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Language, Riggins," Landry says, distracted by Mr. Evans's "good work here, Tim!" in the corner. "Are you sure you didn't have sex with him? By accident or something?"
"Don't be a jackass," Tim says, his voice a lazy, insolent burr. He swipes the paper back. "Someone told me looks run out, anyway, so I've got to support myself with my big sexy mind." The wide-eyed innocence looks incredibly stupid on his face. Landry snorts, hard, cupping his hand over his face to try to hide it, and Tim grins, unbearably pleased with himself.
---
The thing is, Landry kicks the habit of thinking about Tim a few nights after the dream. He's back to the usual stuff. Powderpuff’s started, for one, and Mrs. Taylor's been thankful about him helping out Tim so much. She keeps leaning over when she tells him he's a godsend, like she knows what her breasts do to him. The thing with Tim is just a brainteaser, a puzzle of where did that come from? He looks up sex dreams in a book at school, and it says that he might not be "reaching fulfillment" in his personal life. Considering that his personal life is his hand and a box of tissues, Landry thinks that maybe the book is on to something. He doesn't worry about it too much after that.
Then Tim shows up drunk on his doorstep on a damn Wednesday night.
It's pure luck that Landry's closest to the door when he knocks. "What are you doing here?" Landry hisses. He steps outside and shuts the screen door as quietly as he can.
"Thought I'd look you up, was all," Tim says. He's smiling, loose and stupid-looking, and he smells like cheap beer. Landry is suddenly, inexplicably hard, and just as suddenly pissed off.
"Well, now you looked me up. Did you drive here?" Tim looks away, and Landry has to remind himself not to yell. "Jesus, Riggins."
"I just felt like looking you up," Tim repeats. He moves away to list against the porch railing, frowning. His eyelashes are dark smudges against his cheekbones.
Landry closes his eyes for a second, decency warring with his goddamn dick, and says "okay, sit down and be quiet. I'm gonna drive you home."
"Baby you can drive my car," Tim warbles, loud in the quiet night, and Landry hushes him sharply. He at least has the good grace to look guilty.
"Mom, can I go out?" She's making his little sister's lunch; his dad's leaning against the stove, talking to her. They both swivel to look at him at the same time, and he tries to look trustworthy. "Matt got dumped, and he wants to go for a walk." He prays she doesn't tell him to bring him on inside.
His mom's expression softens, like it always does when he brings up Matt. She calls him 'that poor boy' a lot, when she thinks Landry can't hear. "Sure, honey. But be home by your curfew."
"Be safe," his dad adds, expression still slightly suspicious. Landry tugs down at his shirt hem and nods. His dad always seems to know about these things, even if he doesn't say anything about it.
Tim's sprawled out on his front steps by the time he gets outside, propped up on his elbow, looking at the stars. He looks back over his shoulder and grins again, that same soft sloppy grin. "Hey there, Powderpuff."
"Come on," Landry says, and Tim follows him again. "Give me your keys," and Tim is surprisingly compliant, just hands him the keys, folds into the truck and watches Landry while he yanks on his seatbelt. "Seatbelt," Landry reminds him. Tim snorts, but he pulls the seatbelt out and snaps it with exaggerated care. "Why are you here?" Landry says again, and Tim shrugs.
"Didn't feel like being at home." There's a long pause. "You probably already know about practice"
Landry nods. "Matt said," though he doesn't mention that Matt only told him after he'd heard from everyone else. He and Tim sit in the dark for a little while, and Landry thinks about saying something comforting. He decides against it. "You need to go to the car wash, this thing is filthy," he says, and puts the key in the ignition. Tim doesn't respond.
They drive slowly, since Landry's done with tempting fate. The truck is too high off of the road, and the brake pedal sticks a little. Landry keeps his hands at ten and two. Midway down the main road, Tim elbows him hard and says "stop here, stop here, hey, left! Left!" Landry assumes he's got to puke, so he pulls over into the liquor store parking lot and turns the truck off. He turns to tell Tim not to hurl on his own upholstery, but Tim's already getting out, digging money out of his jeans pocket. Tim waves the money at him through the window and says "this guy always sells me beer."
Landry's got his mouth open to say something, but Tim's already inside.
Landry presses his eyes against the backs of his hands on the steering wheel. He knew that when Matt got popular that Landry would make friends with other members of the team. Maybe he'd get invited to parties, or something, and do more than hang out by the keg. He didn't think he’d be playing designated driver to the stringy-haired lunatic running back.
Tim whoops when he gets out of the store, like this is the first time he's gotten away with buying beer, and Landry jerks his head up, tries to make the international sign for "be cool" but just smacks himself in the face. Tim's ignoring him, anyway; he gets back up in the truck, puts the two six-packs on the floor, kicks his feet up, and says "whenever you're ready," like this is Landry's detour.
---
Tim tells him to pull off again at the parking lot out back of the old Green's feed store, and Landry doesn't even try to say anything this time. The tires crackle on the gravel. When he turns off the headlights and cuts the engine, it's suddenly pitch black; the only noise comes from the truck ticking to itself and Tim's muttered curses. Tim's hand bumps against the back of his hand, against his knee, and goes away again; then the dusty light in the dashboard flickers on and Patty Loveless starts mid-note from the radio. Tim sits back and pushes open his door in one smooth motion, dangling one foot out of the truck. "Put the headlights back on, genius," he says, and hops out.
Landry finds the lever again and pulls it on. The scraggly bushes at the edge of the lot cast long, bizarre shadows on the grass and the building. "Get the beer, too," Tim says, and Landry leans back over to grab the beer, grumbling enough that he knows Tim can hear him. He has a devil of a time getting the door open with two sixpacks in his hands. Tim starts laughing when he nearly takes a header getting out of the truck.
"Just for that, you aren’t getting any beer," he says, and sits next to Tim on the front bumper.
"It's my beer!"
"Possession is nine-tenths of the law." Tim kicks gravel over his shoes and reaches around him to grab a beer from the six-pack on the hood. Landry takes one himself, but he can't for the life of him see if it's a twist-off. Tim takes it from him before he can scrape up his palms and levers off the cap on the truck's grill.
"I could've used my bottle opener," Landry says, and it's true, he's got one on his keychain. "Isn't that hell on your insurance premium?" Tim just makes a non-committal sound, and Landry drops it. They drink for a while, silent, both looking out at the nothing beyond the lot. The beer is colder and better carbonated than anything Landry’s had before, at parties or over at Matt's, and he drinks two fast enough that his head swims a little. Tim seems to be going slower, sobering up a little, and Landry thinks for a moment hell, maybe he'll have to take me home. He laughs.
"What?"
"Nothing." Tim goes back to looking at the edge of the lot. "You know you're acting a little weird, right?"
"I guess," Tim says.
"You're hanging out with me, drinking beers in a parking lot," Landry says. "On a school night."
"Since when have I worried about school nights?"
"You're missing the point."
"Which is?"
Not gay, Landry thinks, and feels his cheeks get a little hot. "Which-" Landry pauses, fishing for his point. "Which is that you have friends, don't you?" Tim doesn't answer, but Landry keeps going, recklessly, "And a girlfriend, or girlfriends, I don't know, and rally girls-"
"Landry."
"What?"
Tim sighs and drains the rest of his beer, throws the bottle up and out towards the edge of the lot, out of sight. "I'd tell you to shut up, but I think you're incapable."
"Big word, there, football star."
"You're proving my point," he says. "Look, I'm just in a shitty mood, and everyone else would just piss me off. I figured you wouldn't holler at me for drinking or whatever," and he pops the cap off of another beer.
"I'm hollering at myself for drinking," Landry says, and Tim laughs.
"Are you going to be able to take me home?" Tim asks, and flutters his eyelashes. Landry's breath gets a little short.
"Sure," he manages, "I just need to quit now, while I'm ahead."
"Lightweight."
"I prefer the phrase 'cheap date,'" he jokes.
"Yeah?" Tim runs his eyes down over Landry's body, and just like that the conversation's well and truly jumped the track. Landry feels like someone's walked their fingers up his back and scratched their fingernails into his hair. He doesn't know what to say. He's talked shit like this before, but before he knew that Matt would start laughing first. Tim's a stubborn son of a bitch.
"Sure," he says, finally, because he doesn't like to back down.
Tim pulls his eyes back up to Landry's face. "So how many more beers until you blow me?" he asks, like he knows what's going on in Landry's head.
"About-" Landry holds his beer up, makes a show of examining the level, "-this much?" Tim grins, and Landry decides to go for it, really freak him out. He drains the beer, watching the foam jerk down through the neck. He drops it when its empty and falls to his knees. He looks up at Tim, grinning a little, sure he's got the edge on him now.
Tim's not laughing, though, or smiling. He's just looking at him; he hasn't moved, his hand is still curled around his beer, the bottle resting against his chest. Landry's knees hurt. Fuck, he thinks, I really fucked up. He starts to get up. His feet slide in the gravel, and before he can flinch away Tim's put down his beer and got a grip on his collar. He braces himself for the blow.
His nose squashes against Tim's. Their teeth collide, hard, and his lip splits a little on the inside, he can taste his blood. He stumbles a little when he pulls back.
"Christ," Tim says, scowling, still too close, "you make me do everything my goddamn self." He puts his hands up, warm and large, and tilts Landry's head to the side. Landry lets himself be tilted, lets himself be kissed, opens his mouth when Tim opens his.
He's making out with Tim Riggins.
Tim Riggins is a pretty good kisser.
He gets into it a little, slides his hands down from where they landed on Tim’s chest to his hips. Tim breaks away, breathing heavy, and Landry follows him, blindly, presses their spit slick lips together again. Tim bites at his lower lip, and their hips finally connect, and they both make stupid, strangled noises.
Landry doesn't really think a whole lot after that.
He folds to his knees, slower this time, and puts his hand on Tim's fly, over top of his dick. Tim blinks down at him, mouth wet and pink, and doesn't say anything, even when Landry tucks his fingers inside his waistband, even when Landry undoes the buttons of his fly. Landry pulls down his boxers, lets them bunch with his jeans around his thighs, and touches Tim's dick, unsure of himself now that he's done this. Tim makes another noise, then, and his hand comes up and touches the side of Landry’s face. His fingers curl against Landry's skull, pulling a little. Landry slides his fingers around the bottom of Tim's dick, licks the head and puts it in his mouth. The skin is hot and dry against his tongue, and his lips catch and drag a little when he moves down. There's barely any taste, just a little salty, like licking his wrist after a long run.
He doesn't try anything fancy, though he kind of wants to, just keeps his mouth moving, his hand curled. All he can see is the hair on Tim's belly, the muscles there moving in time with Landry's mouth. Spit works its way down his fingers. His mouth aches, his tongue gets tired, his knees hurt like crazy. He has to use his other hand to hold Tim's hips against the car so he won't choke. He has never been so fucking turned on in his life. Tim has been making quiet noises, but he suddenly says, "Jesus, fuck," and then "Landry," choked off, like he didn't mean to say it. Landry closes his eyes and moans, frustrated with wanting. Tim scrabbles at his head, yanking hard at his ear, and Landry backs off, confused, scared he's done something stupid until he sees that Tim is coming.
It's strange to see up close. He shuffles back a little - he doesn't want any of that in his eye - but he moves his hand, still, strokes through it, until Tim hisses and pushes at his wrist. Landry gets to his feet again, awkwardly. There's come on his fingers, and he licks it off. It tastes a little more like sugar than his. "Do you eat a lot of candy?" His mouth doesn't want to shape the words, and he works his lips a little.
Tim pauses in the middle of buttoning his jeans and just looks at him.
"Different foods affect the taste of sperm," he says. He read this online, he knows. "For instance, vegetarians apparently taste better than meat eaters. I thought about going vegetarian because of that, but my mom hates it when I don't eat her pot roast." Tim shakes his head and finishes buttoning up. "No? Not a lot of candy? Don't know what it is, then." He puts his fingers up to his lips, touches them gently.
Tim catches his wrist, pulls him forwards a little and then turns him around, like he’s leading him in ballroom. "Cha cha cha," Landry says. Tim doesn't respond, but he lets go of Landry's wrist to unbutton his pants, and Landry's pretty sure they never did that in ballroom class. This was never part of his dream. He lets his head tip back on Tim's shoulder and says "fuck," softly, when Tim slides his hand down around Landry's dick.
"Thought that might shut you up," Tim says, and Landry shudders hard at the hot, damp breath against his neck. Tim makes a thoughtful noise, takes hand off of Landry's dick briefly to spit in his palm, and puts it back. It's slow, slower than Landry usually likes, but the unfamiliarity of the hand makes it hotter, somehow. Tim mouths at his neck, and he feels like he's going to shake out of his skin, like he did when he first discovered jerking off and it was the most electrical feeling he'd ever experienced. He comes without expecting it, without any buildup, just suddenly jerking in Tim's grip.
He staggers slightly to the side and leans against the car. His lungs hurt. His mouth still feels strange. He feels used up.
Tim turns and braces his hands on the truck for a second, standing next to him, his head bent. Landry’s barely caught his breath before Tim’s talking again. "You know, this isn't something I do-"
"Shut up."
"What?"
"I'm not listening to the 'it's not me, it's you' speech until my dick's back in my pants," Landry says, reasonably. Tim just stares at him, mind blown by the logic, and Landry leans back to enjoy a few more minutes of mindless, blissful silence.
It's not in the cards, though, because Tim is impatient and handsy. "Get off," Landry protests, but Tim just tucks him in, snaps the waistband of his boxers and zips up his jeans.
"It's not either of us, Landry," he says.
Normally he'd agree, but he's starting to reconsider. "I was just trying to catch a little break," he says, "and you wanted to talk." He looks at Tim suspiciously, squashing a giggle. "Are you sure you're not a girl?" Tim glowers and goes to slap the side of his head, slow enough that Landry can duck. "Because we're talking about our feelings, I think, and you've got pretty long hair-"
"I think you know better than anyone that I'm not a girl," Tim points out, and then goes still like he's said something wrong.
"True," Landry says. "Well, better than most people. Most men," he amends.
Tim is silent for a second, just looking at him. "You've got brass ones, Landry, I'll give you that."
"It makes it pretty hard to walk," Landry agrees. "Come on, let's get you home."
"I'll drive," Tim says.
"You barely have enough brain cells when you haven't been drinking," Landry retorts, and goes around the truck to open the driver's side door. "Get the beer."
Tim looks at him for a long moment, expression unreadable in the dim yellow light, and then stoops to pick up what's left of the beer. His shirt rides up over his back, and there's an imprint of the bent truck grill in the skin at the base of his spine. Landry swallows. He almost touches his lips again, but he stops his hand just in time.
---
"How are you getting home?" Tim says. He catches the keys when Landry tosses them over the hood of the truck.
"I've got this great mode of transportation," Landry says, "I call them 'legs.'"
Tim squints at him. I sucked your dick, Landry thinks, and wants to giggle again. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Okay." Tim jingles the keys in his hand, his shoulders hunching, and then mutters something Landry doesn't catch.
"What's that?"
"I owe you one," Tim says, more clearly this time.
Landry blinks. He isn't sure how to respond. "Okay," he finally says, slowly. Maybe a little bit gay. Just a little. Tim's already looking away, edging toward his house.
Landry looks back when he gets to the end of Tim's street. The lights are off in the house. He can barely read the sign on Tim's lawn, but he knows what it says.
His own house is dark when he walks up. It's far past his curfew; he shuts the screen door carefully, and lifts up on the doorknob when he shuts the inside door so the hinges won't squeak.
"Landry?" his mom says, poking her head out of the doorway.
"Yeah mom," he says, "Sorry I'm late." His mouth tastes like beer and dick, and when she pads out to see him he concentrates on keeping his lips together and breathing through his nose.
"It's okay." She smiles at him and smoothes his hair down on his forehead. Her fingers brush against the spot on his ear where Tim's fingers had curled, and he thinks he must be shaking. "I'll see you in the morning."
"All right," he says, and waits for her to get back into the bedroom. He brushes his teeth quickly, and rinses his mouth out with his dad's Listerine. His mouth looks normal in the mirror; he can't even see the place where his teeth cut into his lip. He shakes his head at himself and snaps off the light.
That night, he dreams he's in math class, surrounded by cows. The only noise is their hooves on the linoleum and the soft smacking noise as they chew.
He wakes up smiling.