Flowers For Algernon

Me!Me!

2009-12-02T21:54:15Z

gakked from not_a_lamb

I WILL BE COMPLETELY HONEST FOR 24 HOURS... You can ask one question. Any questions, no matter how crazy, sinister, or wrong it is. I WILL answer no matter what, you have my FULL honesty, but I DARE you to put this in your Lj and see what questions you get...

...you know...as opposed to all those other times when I lie, cheat and steal.

I'm leaving this unlocked so you can ask anonmousely (ha ha, get it? anonMOUSEly) too.

Fic: Empires - Sean Van Vleet/Tom Conrad, Louis the Roommate

2008-05-27T02:14:05Z

Pairing: Sean Van Vleet/Tom Conrad, Louis-the-Roommate
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Drunk frot; sexualizing public monuments.
Word Count: 3230

Beta: secrethappiness, as usual; poor girl.

It only takes Sean a few nights to decide that going to sleep with the closet light on is better than waking up to the sounds of Tom cursing and tripping his way across Sean's room at two in the morning.

The first time Tom stumbled into Sean's room, fumbling and muttering his way towards the bed, Sean had lifted his head, confused. The second time Tom collapsed in bed with Sean, jeans half unzipped and only one arm freed from his hoodie, Sean had actually sat up and said, "The fuck are you doing? This is my room."

Tom hadn't moved and after a few confused seconds, Sean had flopped back down onto the mattress and fallen asleep to the sound of Tom snoring next to him.

There was a third and a forth time too. There was even a fifth time. Sometime after that though, Sean got smart. Now, on nights when Tom goes out drinking with Louis, Sean goes to bed with the light on and the closet door propped half-way open with a balled up sock.

Still, he wakes up some nights regardless. Usually it's when Tom crawls into bed clumsy with too much wine, and accidently nudges his knee into the soft spot under Sean's ribs, or on one particularly unexpected occasion, the nuts. Sometimes, if Sean's still awake, they'll talk until Tom passes out, still absently patting the pillow next to Sean's face and mumbling sounds that don't quite pass for English.

Mostly, though, Sean lies awake in the empty apartment while they're gone wondering what the fuck and thinking ahead to how awkward it's going to be in the morning. Morning boners are never a good thing after you've spent the night with your roommate's arm draped over your chest.

Sean's never asked Tom why he crashes with him instead of in his own room, which, as far as Sean can tell, is a perfectly good room even if it does look like it came straight out of an IKEA catalogue. Another thing Sean doesn't like to think about is why he won't ask.

Louis comments on it though because Louis comments on everything, and this is no exception.

They're eating breakfast one afternoon when Louis, stuffing his face with Cheetos, looks at Tom and says, "Are you boning Van Vleet?"

Sean goes a little still (and by 'a little' he means perfectly) and catches Tom's noncommittal shrug out of the corner of his eye.

Louis' reply is to grab his crotch with his free hand and push his tongue against the inside of his cheek before he makes jokes about Tom and Sean being butt-buddies. Tom only smirks and kisses Louis loudly on the lips before he grabs his Canon off the countertop and walks out of their apartment for the rest of the day.

If Tom knows why he keeps passing out on the empty half of Sean's bed, he's clearly not saying.

*

The night that Tom turns 24, they all go out to celebrate. They drink cheap beer, make dirty jokes, and dance with girls wearing low-cut tops that show off their pretty lace bras. Tom hooks up with a little blond who reminds Sean of the Melissa-chick from Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Louis manages to squish himself into a booth with two girls who alternate between jerking him off under the table and making out with each other. When Louis gives him a smug thumbs up, Sean shakes his head and heads straight to the bar where he asks for two tequila shots, straight up.

It's not that Sean doesn't support lesbians, even pseudo ones who make out with each other to impress boys. He totally does. It's just that it's hard to enjoy hot girl-on-girl action with Louis' shit-eating grin smack dab in the middle of it.

Afterwards, they take the El home and Sean's head bobs forward against his chest until Tom elbows him. "S'our stop," Tom says. Sean struggles to get to his feet. When they're outside, Sean looks around for Louis. He opens his mouth to say something, but Tom just shrugs and says they lost him back at the last transfer station.

Sean walks a few feet before it fully sinks in. When it does, he pulls to a stop. "Lost him?" Sean echoes.

Tom shrugs again, like it's not a big deal. And maybe it isn't; after all, Tom should know.

Sean stands there a minute longer thinking it through.

The thing about Louis, he decides, is that he's always stumbling off on his own. Whenever they leave a bar, Louis is usually long gone. He's either caught a ride home with some girl who'll fuck him in a public parking lot, or he's off humping city monuments.

Louis has a goal, he says, to dry hump every statue in Grant Park.

Sean had always brushed it off until Louis came home one morning, triumphant, with a homemade video featuring The Hanig Cow and a position straight from the Kama Sutra that required far more flexibility than Sean ever thought possible.

"That isn't at Grant Park," Sean had said, stunned.

Louis had cackled. "Dude, whatever. It's a bronze cow. Don’t tell me that's not fucking awesome!"

It's a really random thing to remember all of a sudden, Sean thinks, which then gets him thinking about the word random and how it just rolls around in your mouth like a loose marble. Sean tries the word out loud, "Random" and giggles.

Tom stops walking, and turns around to stare back at Sean. He's giving Sean the look that usually gets reserved for practice spaces. "Are you coming, or what?"

Sean blinks and looks down at his shoes. They seem very far away, and the pavement does this weird swoopy thing which makes him feel like he's going to throw up. "Yeah," Sean says, although it doesn't sound very convincing.

Tom gives him another obvious look and Sean forces his feet to move.

*

The walk home from their stop is only three blocks, but it's somewhat sobering and definitely cold. By the time they get to the front of their house, Sean's teeth are close to chattering. On the steps, Sean hangs back with his hands balled up into fists in his pockets. He lurches forward a bit and pushes his face into the space between Tom's shoulder blades, resting, while Tom fits the key into the lock.

It feels like Tom's taking forever. Sean turns his head to look over his shoulder, down the street. The denim of Tom's jacket scratches across his eyebrow. "You should have been born in July," Sean grumbles. "Fuck, why is it so cold? It's May."

After that, the door swings open and Sean hisses, "Thank God" under his breath as he pushes past Tom. Inside, he toes his way out of his shoes and then trips over one of Tom's ten thousand flip flops before he weaves his way down the hall. He bumps on and off the wall a few times until he rounds the doorway into his room. The closet light is still on, and Sean gives his bed a determined look as he kicks his way through piles of dirty jeans and plaid shirts on the floor.

His bed is gonna feel so fucking good when he finally gets to it. Three steps to go Sean thinks 'fuck it' and dives forward.

The bed bounces when Sean falls onto it, face first. Almost two minutes later, it still feels like its bouncing. Bouncing and spinning. Spinning a lot actually. Sean moans into the pillow and tries not to breathe through his mouth because that makes him feel like he's definitely going to throw up.

The mattress dips another minute later and, when Sean cracks his eyes open a slit, Tom's face is freakishly close. Sean can smell the mint on Tom's breath without even inhaling and thinks that Tom's mouth right now would probably feel wet and cold against his.

Sean licks his lips. "The room is spinning," he says flatly.

"It's not really spinning." Tom's mouth turns up into a half-smile on one side. "You're just really fucking drunk."

Sean snickers. "Which is your fault."

"Harsh," Tom grins.

"But fair." Sean rolls forward onto his side and presses his face into Tom's shoulder. Tom's shirt still smells like the bar, which is gross, and Sean wrinkles his nose. Underneath there is an odor of sweat and deodorant. "Happy Birthday, shut the motherfucking light off," Sean mumbles.

When Tom snickers and shifts away, Sean buries his face back into the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. On the way back to bed in the dark, Tom asks, "How come you always leave the closet light on?"

"How come you always sleep with me?"

It just sort of slips out and Sean has a crystal clear moment where he thinks: WHOOPS.

Tom doesn't answer and Sean snorts over his own laughter. "Sleep in my bed, I mean. Not sleep-sleep with me. That would be weird."

"Would it?"

"Um?" Sean's brain blanks and after a long second he says, "What was the question again?"

"Never mind."

Sean falls asleep a split second later and when he wakes up sometime before six, he has to piss so bad it hurts. In the bathroom, he wrinkles his nose at the mustard stain on the leg of his jeans before dumping them onto the floor in the corner. It's weird that he can taste hot dogs when he burps, but he can't remember stopping to get any after they left the bar. There are more gross stains on his t-shirt, so he strips that off as well and chucks it on the floor next to his pants.

When Sean finally shuffles back from the bathroom Tom is angled across Sean's half of the bed. "Hey," he hisses. "Hey, move the fuck over." Sean pokes at Tom's shoulder with two fingers until Tom lifts his head.

Tom's hair is sticking straight up at the back and he stares at Sean like he's grown three heads while Sean shifts in place beside the bed. The room is cold because the heat is off. Sean's nipples are stiff, and he crosses his arms over his bare chest. "You're on my side."

Tom looks down at the pillow, then over his shoulder at the empty space beside him. Slowly, he turns his head back towards Sean. "Oh. Sorry."

Sean watches as Tom lifts up on his elbows and shifts back over, then he climbs into bed again. The covers and sheets are bunched around his knees and Tom's body jostles beside him as Sean fights to unknot them.

"Christ," Tom mumbles, after Sean flips around for the third time. "You're like sleeping with a bear."

"It's cold in here," Sean complains.

"Stop whining."

"Fuck you when I wake up dead in the morning."

Tom laughs. "That doesn't make any sense. Like. At all, dude."

"Hypothermia," Sean sighs, sounding resigned. "That's how I'm going to die."

"Better than drowning," Tom mumbles into the mattress.

Sean hums in agreement, looking up at the ceiling. "Yeah. At least with hypothermia you just fall asleep and never wake up. I never want to drown. That shit is fucked up."

"Me neither." Tom's quiet for a minute and Sean thinks he's drifted back to sleep until Tom says, "Or die in a fire. Fuck that would suck."

"Totally." Sean yawns so wide that his jaw cracks, then tingles. For a second the joint feels hot and prickly and Sean licks his tongue around the inside of his mouth.

Tom rolls from his stomach onto his side and re-bunches the pillow under his face. Sean twists his head to the side. If he strains, he can make out the line of Tom's head and shoulders, and the slope of his nose in the shadows.

"Are you still drunk?" Tom whispers.

Sean thinks about it. "No, I don't think so. Maybe? I dunno, fuck. Why?"

Tom doesn't answer, but he shifts again and the next thing Sean knows, Tom's lips are brushing over his nostril. It tickles and Sean snickers. Tom re-adjusts and tries again. This time his lips find the corner of Sean's mouth and Sean stops laughing. Actually, he also stops breathing, which feels a bit like drowning, in fact. His heart is pounding against his ribs and it feels like all the air is being squeezed out of his lungs.

Sean definitely doesn't want to drown, he decides.

"Are you freaking out?" Tom asks against his mouth.

Their lips are dry and snag together. Sean shakes his head. It's surprising that he can feel how chapped Tom's lips are against his.

This time, when Tom nudges him, Sean tilts his chin forward and opens his mouth. Tom's a good kisser, in a lazy, thorough sort of way. Sean's not surprised. He's seen Tom making out with enough girls in dark stairwells before to have guessed as much.

Sean's lips are starting to feel oversensitive and raw and his dick is tenting against the insides of his boxers. The skin on the back of his neck goose pimples and when Tom makes a low growling sound in the back of his throat, Sean's breath catches. Then Tom is shifting up on one arm and unfastening the notch of his belt.

Sean's stomach flutters.

The nervous feeling reminds him of the first time he made it to third base with Caroline Northey in the ninth grade. He was fucking certain her older brother was going to walk in on them, finger fucking downstairs on the basement couch.

"Are you freaking out now?" Tom asks. The tongue of Tom's belt is hanging open and it brushes against Sean's stomach. The metal and leather makes Sean shiver and Sean's shocked laugh comes out through his nose.

"No, but I'm still fucking cold."

Tom smirks against his mouth and reaches over Sean to flip the blanket back up over their shoulders. It ends up covering most of their faces too, and Tom's breath feels warm against Sean's cheek.

"Pussy," Tom says from under the blanket tent he's made.

"Fuck you."

"Maybe. If you're good."

Sean can't see Tom's grin, but he can hear it. Sean rolls his eyes and then the bottom completely falls out of his stomach. Tom bites the pad of Sean's bottom lip, and this time when they kiss, it's more than a little aggressive. By the time Sean feels the back of Tom's knuckles accidently brush against his dick, he's panting.

Tom strokes himself with a slow, easy rhythm. "C'mon," Tom says, on an exhale. "I wanna feel you touch yourself."

Sean groans, drops his hand to his own dick, and pushes his boxers down and out of the way. After a few erratic pulls, Sean wraps his hand around the base of his dick and settles on massaging his balls with the pads of his fingers.

His dick is leaking precome and when Tom slides just the crowns together, Sean bites his lip and sucks in a sharp breath. "Oh, Jesus. Fuck. Yeah."

Tom muffles a sound against Sean's throat and rubs their dicks together again. The motion is small and controlled, and the friction is so light that Sean holds his breath through it.

"Tom, Tom. Tom," Sean's hips snap forward and his eyes squeeze shut. "Oh, oh, fuck."

"Not yet." Tom's whisper sounds quiet and choked, and Sean drags in another deep breath until his lungs burn. "Not yet," Tom pleads. "Just. Wait for me."

Sean lets out a shaky laugh and nuzzles his face into the crook of Tom's throat. The stubble on Tom's face scratches his cheek and leaves a hot mark down the side of his face. Sean pinches the base of his dick, trying not to come, and rubs his nose against Tom's Adam's apple.

The skin there is damp with sweat and Sean can feel Tom swallow.

"Now? Are you?" Sean squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that colours spark behind his eyelids. There is a baseline twitching in his lower back, a hitch, low in his belly that he can't ignore. "Fuck, are you close, 'cause I can't—"

Sean's whole body goes tense with his orgasm. His dick pulses and Sean doesn't even try to choke back the groan that rips from someplace deep in the back of his throat.

Tom's fingers wrap over the heads of their dicks, and Sean twitches sharply, feeling Tom go rigid against him.

Afterwards, Sean wipes the mess off his stomach with a dirty t-shirt that might actually be Louis'. When he looks up, Tom is staring at him, carefully.

Tom clears his throat. "Because I'm a coward."

Sean makes an uncomprehending face.

"I keep coming in here drunk because I'm a coward."

"That's not true," Sean says, automatically. "You're not a coward. You do some pretty fearless shit. I know, I've been there for most of it."

Tom doesn't answer. As he nudges his face deeper into the pillow, Sean loops his hand over the back of Tom's neck, pulling him forward, and kissing him.

"I left the light on for you, dickwad."

Sean can feel Tom's lips curve up into a smile against his mouth.

"I figured," Tom says, grinning.

*

When Sean gets out of bed in the morning, Tom is still sleeping, splayed width-ways across the mattress. The light from the window looks cloudy and grey. Sean scratches at his chest and yawns. His boxers are twisted and sticking to his thigh with a dried spot of come, which is disgusting. In the bathroom, he strips them off and throws them onto the pile with everything else before climbing into the shower.

After his shower Sean brushes his teeth and finger combs his hair in the mirror.

Louis is watching cartoons on the couch in last night's clothes by the time Sean finally makes it out in a t-shirt and a clean pair of shorts.

Sean wrinkles his face. "You fucking stink, dude." Louis flips him off with a smile and goes back to stuffing his hand down into the open box of Apple Jacks between his knees.

In the kitchen, Sean pours himself a large glass of tomato juice and then bends over the sink, drinking water straight from the tap. The water dribbles down his chin and Sean wipes at it with the back of his hand. When he stands upright again, the vertigo hits him hard. Sean fumbles for the Tylenol and when he walks back into the living room, Louis grins at him, holding up his digital recorder.

"Buckingham!" he says proudly.

Sean stares at him. "But that's a fountain," he says, finally. "How'd you? No wait," Sean says in a rush. "I don't want to know."

Louis grins and Sean sits down on the end of the couch, throwing Louis' feet off. Louis grins at him again and fishes for another handful of cereal.

Sean shakes his head, disbelieving. "Dude, that's sick. You know that, right?"

"Says the guy boning Conrad."

Sean rolls his eyes. "Whatever, you don't know that."

Louis' laugh comes out sharp and loud. "I do know you weren't in the shower long enough to rub one out, Van Vleet."

Sean shakes his head again.

"Don't fight it, dude," Louis says, smug. "It's a gift."

________________________________________

A/N: For violetfaced

I'm not sure why, but Louis-the-Roommate is quickly becoming my favourite character to write. Maybe because there is so little canon surrounding him he feels like an Original Character, I dunno. Mostly I think I like him because it's cool to have someone you can write as obnoxious as you want. Obnoxious boys in fic = so much fun. Real life, not so much.

Dear Louis: I'm sorry? Again?

Fic - Original

2007-11-19T16:04:27Z

Author: algernon_mouse
Pairing: Dave/Joe (Sophia)
Rating: O for Original Characters
Word Count: 13, 098
Betas: tarteaucitron & sinsense

Dave has known Joe since they were eleven and a half.

On a July morning, three weeks after the last of their boxes had been unpacked and then dumped in their New Jersey garage, Joe jammed on his brakes. His BMX skidded on the sidewalk in front of Dave's shitty little house leaving behind a long, impressive black streak of tire. "Hey," he'd said and grinned. He had light, summer-red hair that flopped across his forehead and freckles over the bridge of his nose and fingers.

Dave smiled back. "Hey."

They'd spent the rest of the summer swimming down at the public pool. Later, on the way home to nothing Dave wanted to talk about, they would throw rocks at the windows of an old, abandoned warehouse on Holly Avenue. Dave's aim was always best. "Third row down, third one over," Joe said, and then missed. The stone chinked off the aluminum windowpane and dropped with an impotent rattle against the metal awning underneath.

"What the fuck? Are you new?" Dave laughed. He smirked then and when the rock left his hand it found its mark with a satisfying crack; third row, third one over.

"Mrs Perkins is such a bitch," Joe said afterwards. Sometimes his mouth twists up in a way that makes Dave's stomach flip over. It does that now, so Dave bites down on his lip and glares ahead at the television. He's not sure why it happens or what it's supposed to mean, only that he feels guilty and ashamed when it does, like he's been caught stealing.

They are lying on the floor in Joe's room watching The Cosby Show. Onscreen Rudy is lip syncing along to Ray Charles’s ‘Night Time is the Right Time’. Rudy scrunches up her face and wails, 'baaaaby, baaaaby.’ The studio audience laughs and Joe pauses to watch before he finishes, "I had her last year."

Joe failed last year and has to repeat which means they're going to be in the same grade this September. Dave doesn't care if he gets Mrs. Perkins or not because he's pretty much good at everything, but he's hoping they'll be in the same homeroom at least.

Since moving from Santa Monica, Dave doesn't know anyone, outside of Joe.

He and his mother moved to Pitman over the summer because Dave's mom said she didn't want to ruin his school year. Not that it fucking matters anyway! Dave had shouted at her over the boxes in his bedroom, over his racecar comforter balled up at his feet, past the Cubs pennant hanging limp in his hand, You ruined my whole life! You always ruin everything!

Only it's not her fault.

He knows this, but it's hard to take out your anger on someone who isn't there. It's even harder when all you really want is for them to come back. He doesn't talk about it though, not even when his uncle comes over to hang out (just us guys, right buddy?) as though they've always done that kind of thing or something.

"Baaaaby," Rudy mouths. "Baaaaby." The studio audience applauds and Dave gets up. "I gotta go," he says. Joe doesn't look away from the television. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says, like it's a sure thing. "Yeah," Dave says, because it is.

At home Dave hangs his jacket on the hook inside their front door and kicks his shoes into the corner. There's a note on the table and the clock on the wall is ticking loudly. It's nine o'clock, and his mother will be home soon. Dave stands in front of the fridge looking around the room. In California their kitchen was big and bright. They had a cat that used to jump on the counters and they took vacations to Chicago every spring to catch the season opener.

Dave hears his mother, late that night after he's gone to bed, whispering over the phone to her brother. He rolls onto his side, pinching his hands between his knees and staring at the chipped paint on his bedroom wall. It's a dingy painter's beige, pock-marked with nail holes and scared with leftover adhesive from somebody else’s old posters. It's nothing like his bedroom back home.

New Jersey sucks, he thinks. He hates it here.

After that he squeezes his eyes shut he tries to block out the sound of his mother’s choked sobs sneaking under the door. He can hear her talking about how she 'just doesn't know what to do' and that 'he's so angry all the time' and how she doesn't 'know how to reach him anymore.' All that does is piss him off even more because, seriously, maybe he just doesn't want to be reached, you know?

Still, he starts crying at Joe's house one afternoon and can't stop.

"I'm such a fucking baby," he sniffs, and Joe shakes his head – almost violent – in that eager way that seems to remind Dave of Labrador puppies. He says, "You are not. You're not a baby."

Joe leans into Dave and puts his arm over his back. It feels heavy and hot on the back of his shoulders and Dave feels his cock twitch in the pocket of his Bart Simpson underwear. Dave jerks away – shocked – then lunges forward just as quickly punching Joe in the face. It's barely a punch, and mostly it just glances off his chin and skids upwards into his lip. It's enough to split the skin.

They both back-pedal away from each other on their butts after that; Joe presses up against the footboard of his bed where they'd been leaning and Dave's back is fighting against the corner edge of Joe's desk. He can feel the wooden pinch of it down the middle of his shoulder blades. There is a Hot Wheels roadster lying overturned at Dave's foot. He stares at it, swiping his forearm across his face. His eyes feel puffy and swollen and raw. He's panting sharply.

"M'sorry," Dave mumbles. He's still not looking at Joe. Instead he picks up the dinky car and rolls it around between his fingers. It's a 1958 Thunderbird, blue with orange flames painted down the side, tail fins like wings.

If Dave had a car like that, if he could fucking drive, he'd be outta here so fast.

"Yeah." Joe says it softly, like maybe it makes him kind of sad and Dave jerks his head up. He's watching Joe poke his tongue out past his bottom lip, licking at the spot of blood Dave put there when it happens; three things:

1) Dave's stomach turning over.
2) Joe mumbling, Dude, the fuck?

and

3) The kiss.

It was barely a kiss, Dave tells himself afterwards. And it was only because Joe looked so – so something; something Dave had never seen before.

*

It turns out that Mrs. Perkins really is a bitch.

Two months into the term she switches up the class seating plan and Dave gets partnered up with a girl named Terry Morris who smells a lot like Elmer's glue and another boy named Simon Hall who smells a lot like pee. The whole fucking universe is against him, he swears to god damned god. They're following the cow path behind the gas station and Joe throws his head back and laughs which makes Dave grin.

Instead of going home – back to Joe's for sandwiches and Atari – they head down to the creek that cuts through the industrial park to get high. It's early November now, and getting cold. Dave walks along with his shoulders hunched up under his ears and his fists balled into his pockets, complaining. "It never gets this cold in California," he mumbles.

Neither of them has mentioned the kiss since it happened three months ago, but Dave is thinking about it right now. Their shoulders keep bumping together while they walk and Dave has to take an extra half step to keep up with Joe. Joe is, like, a million times taller than Dave and his shadow looks long and twisted stretched out over the ground in front of them. Joe's cheeks are red from the cold and his breath is steaming in front of him. He smiles and Dave feels a strange jolt of heat in his stomach and looks away again.

There's a spot under the bridge, right near the mouth, where someone has dumped an old set of tires. That's where they both settle in to squat with their knees pulled up to their chests. Dave presses his back against Joe's shins and tucks his chin down into the collar of his jacket. It's nice because sitting here they're out of the wind and everything feels secret and safe, like maybe Dave's not as bruised and left behind as he feels sometimes.

They can see an old beat up shopping cart lodged in the middle of the creek, wheels up, and the basket is clogged with a whole mess of shit: old wrappers, cups, twisted strings of plastic shopping bags. Dave can't even guess where it came from because the nearest grocery store is at least ten minutes away by car. "How the fuck?" he says, and points. Joe blinks and looks at the cart too. "I don't fucking know," he shrugs and then offers Dave the paper bag they've been sniffing from. Dave waves him off. His eyes are already itching and burning and if he inhales anymore he'll probably throw up. He can never decide if puking is better or worse when you're high.

They were talking about Susan Boyne. She has the biggest tits out of all the girls in their grade. Her older sister, Heidi, came to school last week with hickeys on the side of her neck. Dave tells Joe he's going to ask Susan to the Christmas mixer next month. The fucking SOCK HOP. Dave makes a prancy little motion with his hands out in front of him, like he's a bunny or something, and Joe cracks up. He leans forward against Dave then, giggling, with the top of his head pressing against Dave's temple. Joe's hair smells like Head and Shoulders and something spicier, like maybe his dad's cologne, and his breath fogs a little in the cold air next to Dave's ear. Dave feels that funny little twist again in his stomach and his balls get hot.

"Get the fuck off me, fuckin’ fag."

Joe's face clouds over and he pulls back as though it wasn't Dave who leaned in and kissed him in the first place. If he had any balls, he'd probably point that out. Dave is grateful that he doesn't.

They get up after that and Dave brushes the stray bits of gravel from the seat of his pants. His jeans are cold and slightly damp. His fingers shake slightly and he twists around, stuffing them back into his pockets so Joe can't spot the nervous way they're twitching.

"I don't know what your fucking problem is," Joe says eventually. They've been walking for over fifteen minutes and now they're back on their street; their shitty little street with the busted up streetlights and rusted out cars.

"Maybe you're my fucking problem," Dave spits out.

Joe rolls his eyes, but he's smiling again. "Riiiight. What the fuck ever, man."

A minute later they stop on the sidewalk outside of Joe's house and Joe says, "Well? Are you coming in?"

It's a Friday night and Dave's mom is working late at the IGA, so he does, even if he is still a little angry. Joe's mom has made hamburger helper (which Joe hates and Dave actually loves) and he nods his head when she offers him seconds, the spoon already full and hovering over his plate. He washes down the noodles and meat with a slice of bread and drinks another large glass of milk.

Later he and Joe share a bag of Doritos between them on the basement floor. Joe's dad has rented Wayne’s World from the video store over on Holland. He says that next weekend, if Joe passes his history test, he'll give them each ten bucks and drop them off down at Broadway to catch a show.

Dave is going to make for damn sure that Joe passes that test. He figures this is exactly what Joe's dad is counting on. Beside him, Joe is playing air guitar along with the movie. Dave laughs at him, muffling the sound against the back of his hand. He's pretty sure that Joe doesn't even know he's doing it (this is confirmed when Joe looks up, blank-faced and says, "What?") which makes Dave laugh even harder and then wave his hands around his face helplessly.

After that Joe says – dead serious, as if he actually could – that he'd fuck Tia Carrere if he ever met her in person. Dave snorts cola out his nose. Joe can be such a douchebag sometimes.

"Are you sleepin' over?"

It's late and Joe's parents have gone off to bed. Joe's hovering in front of the VCR with Lethal Weapon 2 in his hand, and Dave shrugs. After Joe shoves the tape in the machine he plods over to the tiny, slanted closet under the basement stairs and pulls out an old camping bag, tossing it at Dave and then crawling back onto the couch.

Dave is sleeping over.

*

Susan Boyne doesn't put out, so either that means the Boink-a-Boyne thing is a total myth or Dave is a failure with the ladies.

They've been going steady for three weeks now – a middle school record, probably even state-wide - and so far the only thing he's been able to hold is her books. Dave is complaining to Joe about this bitterly in his front drive way. It's the first mild day of spring and he's hanging off the basket ball net over Joe's garage door when it happens; a boner the size of Lake Michigan.

Dave fucking hates Michigan.

He lets go of the rim and drops to the ground with a soft thud so he can squat over his shoe pretending to re-tie it. When he looks up Joe is still flipping through his comic books on the porch, completely oblivious.

It figures.

Joe has an entire collection of them in his room, catalogued, in little plastic sleeves and everything. Sometimes on Saturday mornings they take Joe's allowance and go down the shop in the strip mall near where Dave's mother works to check out the latest stock. Afterwards they usually split a bag of gummie worms and pore over the magazines in Joe's room while Dave flips through his baseball cards. Dave, to Joe's horror, is a certified Mets fan now that he’s shunning the Cubs. He can even recite every stat for the entire starting line up.

For a minute Dave fidgets with his laces and watches Joe carefully. He's sitting cross legged, his shoulders hunched over in a way that Dave figures is supposed to make him look smaller. Joe is always trying to do shit like that. He's always trying to disappear, or blend in, or whatever. Dave watches the way he chews on the side of his thumb nail while he reads. Later the skin will be shiny with blood, Joe probably won't even notice.

Joe is easy to wind up and Dave, for fun, coughs into his fist and casually says, "You know, Superman is my favorite super hero, hands down." Joe snaps his head up and Dave grins back at him. The vein in the side of Joe's neck has turned bright blue and it's bulging.

"That's ridiculous!" Joe half shouts at him. "No one likes Superman best!"

Dave arches his eyebrows and feigns innocence. "Superman is the man of steel," Dave says, blithely.

"You can't be serious, man! Superman is a do-gooder pussy. You take it back, Dave. Take it back right now." Joe looks like he'd throw the comic book right at Dave's head if it weren't for the fact that it's his mint Spiderman #359.

Dave laughs and picks up the basketball again. He bounces it a few times listening to the elastic ting it makes against the driveway. "Okay. I'll take it back if you tell Susan I don't want to go out with her anymore."

Three days later Joe tells Maria who tells Susan that Dave's breaking up with her.

*

After junior high Dave's mom gets him a job working part-time at the IGA. She's the manager there now, and Dave gets hired under the table to stock the shelves in the evenings after school. When the store is empty Dave lets Joe in through the back door stamped EMPLOYEES ONLY. Joe sits on the floor eating gummie bears from the bulk candy bins while Dave spins cans of Heinz beans from their boxes into pyramids at the end of the aisles.

Dave says he's a pro, a fucking Frank and Beans guru, and Joe laughs, throwing the yellow gummies at his head while he works. Dave bats them out the air with the palm of his hand. After awhile Joe gets bored and starts arranging them into sticky illustrations of the karma sutra. Dave rolls his eyes and says, "You better clean that shit up, fucker."

Joe looks down and so does Dave. The floor is littered with yellow, gelatin pornography.

When Dave is finished (and Joe has kicked all the gummies under a pallet of Ritz crackers) they go down to the pizzeria on Broadway and blow his paycheck on Super Mario and chilli cheese fries. After that they go back to Joe's.

Joe's parents are out of town this weekend, and in a show of misguided parental trust they've left Joe with the keys to the house. There's a note on the kitchen table about the tuna casserole in the fridge. Dave eats the casserole standing up against the counter and talks with his mouth full while Joe makes himself a peanut butter sandwich.

It's the first time they're drunk; really drunk.

Since seven pm they've been drinking pretty much anything they can find in the liquor cupboard above the fridge and mixing it with raspberry Kool-Aid. It's a little pussy of them, for sure, but they both agreed that the whiskey and coke tasted like shit. On a dare, Dave winces through a shot of tequila and Joe collapses onto the floor, clutching his stomach, as Dave spits into the sink.

Afterwards they crash in the basement, with Joe on the couch and Dave on the floor in front of him. The basement is mostly dark - even though they've left the bathroom light on - and it smells like the back of a closet. Joe hangs his head over the edge of the cushion; he's squinting down at Dave's face. His lips are stained red from the Kool-Aid and they're sort of chapped around the edges from where he's constantly licking at the corner of his mouth. The skin there looks a little rough and for a split second Dave wonders what it would feel like brushing against him.

Dave blinks against the sudden feeling of vertigo.

"Have you ever had a hand job?" Joe says. He's grinning down at Dave and Dave flinches in his sleeping bag. He still feels like he’s trying to get his bearings. Dave kicks his feet, restless in the small space. The sleeping bag is practically too small now that he's bigger and, like, not in elementary school any more. Joe doesn't wait for Dave to answer. He says, "I have."

"The fuck you have," Dave barks sharply.

"No really." Joe's voice cracks slightly and he's peering down at Dave earnestly. "Joanna Paccinni. Last week."

"Where?" Dave demands. He's been with Joe twenty-four seven and there is no fucking way that that douchebag has gotten a hand job Dave doesn't know about. He says as much and Joe laughs, ducking his head against the side of his arm and hiding his face. His shoulders are shaking while he laughs and Dave struggles to sit half-upright on his elbows. Dave jabs at him with his index finger. Joe's shoulder feels solid and warm. "Where?"

"Remember that field trip I went on? For history with Mr. Sharma's class?" Dave doesn't have history with Joe; he's in third period marketing instead. "We went to The Grove. It was actually kinda cool. In, like, the 1800s the whole place was, like, a summer camp for Jesus, dude. And --"

Dave shakes his head like he can't believe what he's hearing and flops down onto the floor, holding his head in horror. Joe's still rambling on about all the fucking really neat Methodist churches as if they even fucking matter. "So how was it?" he interrupts.

"How was what?" Joe sounds confused.

"The handjob, you asshole." Dave rolls his eyes so hard they hurt.

"Oh." Joe flops back down onto the couch and Dave can hear the spring’s creek under his weight. Joe sounds deflated somehow and Dave can almost hear the furrow of his eyebrows coming together over his nose while he thinks. "It was okay, I guess. She just sort of, you know, rubbed it a bit through my jeans."

"Did you come?" It comes out quieter than he means it to and Dave feels a catch in the back of his throat that makes it hard to breathe. Joe is quiet for a long minute and Dave's starting to think maybe he's passed out. He's about to elbow up again and hook his chin over the edge of the couch when Joe finally says, "No."

It sounds soft, like a soap bubble or something.

They're both quiet after that. Joe doesn't say anything when Dave struggles out of the sleeping bag and onto his knees. He hovers there for a second, bent over the couch with his hair hanging in his face, before crawling on top of Joe, forcing his thighs apart with his knees. Joe's breath is warm and wet against Dave's cheek. It smells sweet like the Kool-Aid they were drinking and their cocks are both hard in their pajamas as Dave grinds their hips together. When he feels Joe shudder underneath him, Dave pinches his bicep sharply and comes with a twisted sound in the back of his throat.

Later Joe falls asleep with his hand curled loosely over the edge of the couch. Dave knows he's asleep because he's making that weird whistling sound through his nose. It's not exactly like snoring; it's softer, more high-pitched. Usually it's kind of soothing but right now Dave wants to press his hands over his ears and cry. His cock is still sticky and damp and his pajamas feel crusty against his thigh.

He tries to ignore the fact that he feels like throwing up when reaches down and folds his hand over his crotch. Dave jerks off for a second time after that; eyes squeezed shut, deliberately thinking about Joanna Paccinni and the long, dark drape of her hair.

*

There is a small orchard between their houses and the high school. It's an old strip of farmland that's been eroded away by contractors and cheap track housing. Whenever they pass under the trees Joe reaches up and snags two apples, tossing one to Dave. The apple is tart and it makes the inside of Dave's mouth water when he bites into it. When he's finished Dave takes two short running steps and fires the apple core as far as he can. His shoulder pulls in a familiar way and the core arcs high in the air, lost in the sun.

Dave is taking the AP classes in school this year and Joe's talking about how his parents want him to apply to Kean. He's thinking about marketing or communications. Dave doesn't even know. Part of him thinks he’ll just end up going wherever Joe goes as long as they've got a decent PE program and scholarships he can qualify for.

Lately his dad has been saying that there's UCLA to consider. Truthfully Dave likes the idea of UCLA but he won't go because - well - fuck him. Two years ago Dave's dad finally started flying out once a year to visit. For two days every October he stays at the Radisson and they have awkward conversations about school over dinner at the hotel.

On Dave's birthday they drive a rental car downtown to see the Knicks play. After they park the car his dad keeps shooting him incredulous looks as they walk towards the stadium. He shakes his head like he can't believe Dave's not still eleven, calls him names like ‘tiger’. It gets old fast and Dave feels sullen and shoves his fists into the pockets of his jacket. His dad keeps commenting on the cold and Dave grunts.

He’s used to the cold now. Part of him even likes the grittiness of Jersey. There’s something about growing up here that gives you an instant toughness everywhere else. Later his dad suggests that Dave fly out to California for a visit. He says, "We'll talk to your mom about it, eh, pal?" and slings his arm over Dave’s shoulders.

Dave makes a non-committal sound but that summer he spends a week away from Joe in a place he doesn't recognise anymore. He's got a step-sister now. She's twelve and there's a Cubs pennant hanging in her bedroom on the wall. They have a cat and there are pictures of the three of them on the fridge: his dad, her mom, and her. All of them are blond and smiling around a BBQ. His dad is wearing a lame KISS THE COOK apron and Dave has to tamp down on the urge to put his fist through the guest room wall.

He refuses to go back after that. Joe nods his head while they’re walking and scratches at the back of his neck with his thumb. Neither of them says much about it.

They have second period gym together and Dave tries setting Joe up for the easy passes whenever they're on the basketball court at the same time. Joe fumbles the ball some but mostly looks okay. It's sort of a relief and Dave shoots him a quick smile when he drives in for another lay-up. He knows he looks flashy bent over the ball but he doesn’t really care because he loves how it feels when he hooks the ball through the hoop.

It's like flying, like living in freeze frame. He’d tried telling Joe about it once and only managed to fumble the words all up, sounding stupid. It was embarrassing but Joe only smiled and said, "No, man. I get it. That’s cool."

In the shower, afterwards, Mike Reinhart drops the soap at Joe's feet. When Joe stoops automatically to pick it up he says, in a loud voice that echoes off the tiles, "You wanna suck me off while you're down there Peterson?" There are a few soft snickers and Joe's eyes go rounder than usual; Dave's face goes hot.

Joe just stands there with the bar of soap in his palm looking like a lost point guard and Dave feels a sudden rush of anger. He hates Joe's milk-white skin and the muted blush that starts at his throat and works downwards; he hates the soft angle of Joe's mouth, the trusting way he laughs at everyone's jokes. Mostly he hates the way Joe turns to Dave, expectantly. After that, Dave walks out of the showers to towel off. He can hear them in the shower; the wet slap of skin hitting the tiles and Joe's raspy, muffled grunts. When Mike comes out a few minutes later, with Joe trailing behind, he's smirking. He looks at Dave baldly and Dave turns his shoulder and opens his locker like nothing's happening.

From the corner of his eye he can see that Joe's lip looks bruised and there's a scuff mark high on his cheek. It'll probably bruise too. Joe is stuffing his legs into his jeans roughly when he leans over and growls, "You're such a fucking coward." It's low enough for only Dave to hear but he might as well have shouted it.

Dave forces himself not to flinch.

It takes him two weeks; two weeks of patiently watching and waiting before Mike gets introduced to the business end of Joe's old little league bat.

They're in the park shooting hoops when Dave deliberately throws the ball off the court. It rolls down the grassy slope toward the shrubs and Mike laughs. "Fucking homo shot there, Davey." Dave laughs too, only it's a hollow sound that comes from the middle of his chest, like an echo. Dave tracks his movement and then follows him off the court, veering sharply into the shrubs where he's hidden the bat.

"What the fuck?" Mike's face droops in confusion and his mouth finally pops open when Dave smiles at him. The bat is hanging loosely at his side. It feels ridiculously small in his hands, and light. It makes him think of the summer when they were twelve and how Joe's dad would pitch to them in the back yard, the barbeque smoking on the porch, the smell of hamburger grease heavy on the evening breeze. Dave, for a moment, thinks that if he closes his eyes, he'll be able to hear the melting rattle of ice against glass and Joe's mother's laugh as she sets her iced tea back onto the picnic table.

He lifts the bat then, fingers curled over the grip like he was taught, wrists loose.

It's a practiced swing and when he winds it back he hits Mike square in the belly, a line drive marked for the down the third base line. It’s a beautiful hit, an easy double, and hard enough to knock Mike over. He rolls a little, slipping down onto his shoulders, knees sliding out from under him. Dave pulls himself up short and refuses to let himself imagine what it would feel like to really unwind, how sweet it would feel to open his face with it and turn the grass red with blood.

He steps back when Mike pushes up to his knees. Mike's wheezing, fingers shaking from the shock. Dave smiles at him and arches his eyebrow, pointedly. "You wanna suck me off while you're down there, Reinhart?"

Dave says it softly and Mike makes a thick, disbelieving choking sound.

He returns the bat two days later and Joe doesn’t say anything as Dave pulls open the bedroom closet, dumping the bat back into the mess of sneakers and turned out jeans on the floor. There have been rumors floating around school - stories about how Mike got jumped in the park by five, eight (some guy heard it was ten) guys from Glassboro; it’s the birth of an urban legend.

Dave sits down on the floor next to Joe and they both stare over at the way the closet door is hanging open like a mouth. Dave picks at the knee of his jeans with his fingers and when Joe finally speaks, it’s not what he was expecting.

"That’s not what I meant," Joe says quietly.

*

Dave is seventeen when he loses his virginity in the back seat of his mother’s Plymouth.

It’s early October and they’ve driven the girls out to Alcyon Lake. It’s too cold to be sitting out on the hood of the car but they are anyway. Joe wandered off with Ali, leaving Dave alone with Carrie and a knowing wink. Dave had steadfastly ignored the jealous way his stomach turned over when Joe and Ali'd bent their heads together and then announced that they were going for a walk in the woods.

Now Carrie and Dave are passing a can of beer back and forth between them, talking. Dave is making jokes about how Joe and Ali are probably going to get lost in the woods and eaten by bears. Carrie laughs out loud and Dave feels a shock of pride at the sound. He drains the last of the beer staring out at the lake. It looks black, like an oil slick, under the moonlight. Carrie fidgets next to him. Dave tosses the beer can into the dark, then inches his way across the hood of the car until their fingers are brushing.

Carrie is a pretty girl. She sits ahead of him in biology and has long hair that curls in loose waves over her shoulders. There's a small white scar on the underside of her chin. Dave noticed it when they were in the concession line at the movies earlier and he asks about it. She says it happened when her brother tripped her from behind when she was running up the stairs. She says she was seven or something at the time. She says her brother is an asshole now. "Do you have any brothers?"

Dave shakes his head, and then shrugs. "I have Joe." Carrie nods her head. It's a tiny little movement from under the collar of her jacket. Her fingers tighten their grip on his and Dave squeezes back. He likes her soft, doe-like eyes and the crooked slant of her mouth. He likes that she likes Pearl Jam and Nirvana. He likes the way she smells fresh like baby powder and sweet grass and cotton. She reminds him of summer laundry and how his mom used to dry their sheets outside in the sun when they were happy. Dave's palms feel clammy with sweat and he gives her a sudden, uneven smile.

Carrie is really just Ali's friend, and Dave - more than anything else - wants to want her.

"Can we just?" Dave motions with his head towards the windshield of the car and lets Carrie fills in the blank. She nods. "It's fucking cold out here," Dave says when he slides off the car. He rubs his hands together, a brisk efficient movement, then blows against his fingers to warm them up. It's a pretense, of course; something to say for the sake of saying something.

Carrie slips off the hood and they climb into the backseat of the car. When Dave leans forward, over the seats, he twists the key in the ignition. The car coughs to life and the dashboard lights up, orange and red, glowing in the dark. On the radio Crazy Town is playing. Carrie smiles and says, "I love this song," before Dave leans forward and kisses her. Her mouth opens easily under his and he slips his tongue past her lips.

They make out like that for a while, until Carrie takes his hand and pushes it up under her shirt. The skin there feels softer than anything else Dave's ever felt before. It's warmer too. Dave flexes his hand against her bra and thumbs her nipple. He can feel it stiffen against the palm of his hand and her breath against his mouth goes a little ragged.

Sex feels awkward. Dave blames the confined space of car. He fumbles with the wrapper of the condom, and Carrie twists under him, pulling him down on top of her. Her hands skate up under his shirt and Dave sucks in a startled breath.

"Your fingers are cold," he laughs. Carrie laughs too and then catches her bottom lip between her teeth. He feels a little uncomfortable under her steady, unblinking gaze and clears his throat. The sound comes out louder than he intended and he flinches a little. He can feel himself start to blush. Carrie brushes her fingers over his abdomen and Dave when whispers, "Ready?" she gives him serious look and nods. Her teeth glint and Dave finds himself swallowing past the lump in the back of his throat.

"Can you, um?" He pulls her leg up and feels her shift underneath him again. "Yeah, that's a little better." Dave tongues the corner of his lip and exhales slowly. "I don't really know what I'm doing," he half-whispers. When he glances at her, she smiles. "It's okay," she says quietly. Her hands are braced on either side of Dave's hips and she pets him softly. "You're doing okay." She pulls her knees up on either side of him and tilts her hips.

He tosses his head after that, throwing a strand of hair away from his forehead. The seat squeaks under them and Dave grips the root of his dick in his hand, his thumb pinched tight against the lip of the condom. He strokes at the wet fold between her legs with the head of it. Carrie's hand slips down between them and wraps around his dick. Dave sucks in a sharp breath, and lets her guide him in. "Yeah," Carrie says quietly pulling him forward, "Yeah, just like that."

"Oh," Dave exhales heavily. "Oh."

She's tighter than he imagined. Wetter too. When Dave arches into her he can the feel too-tight pull of his jeans against the back of his thighs. The tail of his jacket brushes over the naked humping motion his ass makes and he can feel it catching against his skin. Under him Carrie is making soft, breathless sounds. Dave figures they're meant to be encouraging and he tongues the shell of her ear in a way he hopes passes as sexy.

He comes quickly and the condom feels gross afterwards. He's pretty sure Carrie didn't come. After he pulls out and ties off the condom he lets her grind her pelvis against him until she goes stiff under him and makes throaty sounds against the side of his neck. They sit in the front seat, afterwards, waiting on Joe and his girlfriend to come back from their walk. The car smells obvious. Carrie flips through the radio stations and he smiles at her, a nervous flicker when she catches his eye.

He wishes they had more beer.

Continue to Part 2/2

MCR Drabble Fic

2007-10-28T14:18:30Z

7/25/2007: Auburn, Washington.

Tour Opener: Backstage Frank’s jumping in place on his toes. Gerard’s pacing around, shaking his arms out and rolling his neck in slow circles. Ray is bent over his guitar, his fingers adjusting the tuning pegs – more out of habit than necessity. Bob’s offside, drinking from a bottle of water. Frank watches him, watches the rhythmic bob of his adam’s apple in his throat.

A stage hand flashes them three fingers.

Frank jumps hard and kicks the wall with his foot coming down. He fucking loves touring. Loves the lights, and the noise, and the crowd. Loves this fucking band.

7/27/2007: Marysville, California.

Onstage Frank can feel the amps vibrating up through his vans to his feet. The floor is tacky with Gatorade but all Frank can think about is the way sound feels when it travels up his thighs, wrapping around his groin, electric and warm like a pulse – or a mouth - that’s been magnified a thousand times over. He can feel it in his arms and fingers, in the back of his throat, in his middle ear. It’s like being plugged in and tuning out all at once.

He doesn’t think onstage. He doesn’t do anything except inhale, and exhale.

7/28/2007: San Bernardino, California

“Matt’s cool but he’s not Mikey.” Frank’s not talking shit either, it’s just a fact. He puts his feet up on the bench and stares at the scuff mark on the toe of his shoe, waiting. Bob makes a soft grunting sound and Frank yawns.

“Gerard kissed you,” Bob says eventually.

“What? Oh. Yeah.”

“So. You guys a…thing…again?”

“No. Just. Y’know, stage stuff.”

Bob nods his head, a slow up and down motion, like he’s absorbing something big. Frank pulls his knee up to his chest and scrubs at his shoe with his thumb. The scuff mark won’t come off.

7/29/2007: Mountain View, California

It’s a strange dream, but vivid. Frank wakes up in his bunk, breathless and chilled under a thin sheen of sweat. He swallows, concentrating on the too-fast thump of his heartbeat against the cage of his chest and the ceiling overhead. It’s like sleeping a coffin.

He’d forgotten that.

“Little early into this shit for nightmares, isn’t it?” Gerard has popped his head through the curtain. Frank twists his face against the pillow to stare at him. Gerard holds out the short stub of his cigarette and Frank shakes him off, ungluing his tongue.

“I dreamt I was in prison.”

7/31/2007: Chula Vista, California

Frank makes a candy run while the bus refuels off the I-5. He stumbles back leaving behind a trail of twizzlers, gummie bears, Swedish berries, and sour patch kids in the parking lot. Bob follows after him – stopping every five steps to pick up something else Frank’s dropped.

“Fucks sake, Frankie.”

Frank stops his jog and turns to blink at him. He’s got a bag of Doritos pinched between his teeth but his eyebrows are arched and he manages a muffled, “Dude? What?”

“Never mind,” Bob grumbles. “Just go.”

Frank grins and climbs the steps. Bob catches the twizzlers midair.

8/1/2007: Phoenix, Arizona

It rains but it doesn’t take the edge off the heat.

Backstage Gerard is peeling off his jacket. There’s a black stain on the back of his shirt where the dye has bled through. Frank blinks at it. He’s so tired and hot that it feels like he’s seeing a mirage. He has a shower after that. It isn’t long but it’s cold. His nipples feel hard against his palms while he soaps up. Frank lets out an indecent groan and scrubs the shampoo out of his eyes.

It was over a hundred degrees, they’re told. Frank fuckin’ believes it.

8/3/2007: Selma, Texas

He sleeps on the red-eye and wakes with a crick in his neck. Frank tries rolling it out but the muscle only twitches. He slumps forward in his seat, pressing his face against the airline tray in front of him. The plastic is cool against his forehead and he licks the corner crease of his mouth.

Frank is thinking about the pale swatch of skin on his arm, when he closes his eyes. He mouths ‘mia famiglia’ against the tray and pays attention to the rough brush of plastic against his lips.

Outside the clouds are shifting from purple into lavender.

8/4/2007: Dallas, Texas

Ray is the first one to push back the sleeve of Frank’s t-shirt.

“It’s awesome, huh?” Frank looks at him expectantly and Ray smiles.

“Yeah, yeah, man. It’s cool.” Ray’s voice cracks and Gerard pushes in behind him, peering at it. The skin is red and raised, and black with ink and clotted blood. “You should put some Polysporin on that.”

Onstage, the t-shirt covers the new tattoo but Frank can feel the hidden burn of it while he plays until they strip off their shirts.

He plays that night like he’s possessed, spine bending until it ought to snap.

8/5/2007: Woodlands, Texas

Frank is bored and takes it out on Bob.

He spends twenty minutes shredding and balling up Gerard’s discarded sketches into the tiny pea-shaped balls and then declares open war with a Bic pen.

The first spit ball misses. Ray gives him a look. The second, because Frank’s out of practice, goes wide too.

Bob quirks his eyebrows. “Hit me with that shit motherfucker and I will hurt you.” He says it mildly, turning the page of his magazine.

Frank giggles and reloads.

“Hey Gee?” Ray clears his throat, nervous. “Frankie’s gonna die. Can I sit over by you instead?”

8/7/2007: Atlanta, Georgia

Frank naps in the lounge and wakes up to the smell of toast and Bob's thigh nudging the top of his head as he sits down. "Shove over." Bob's talking around a mouthful of peanut butter. Frank rubs his face and yawns.

"Gimme a bite," Frank says. Bob scowls. "Get your own."

Frank thinks about it. "I'll blow you if you give me half."

Bob grins. "You'd blow me anyway."

"This is true but you should at least allow me the illusion of leverage."

Bob considers this. "No," he says after a minute.

"I always fuckin’ hated you." Frank grumbles.

8/8/2007: Charlotte, North Carolina

There are fights that spring up like tropical storms. Usually, like now, Frank’s fronting them. Pissed off. Shouting. Lips thin against his teeth, the vein in his throat purple with blood. Once Gerard drew a sketch of him like that: chin thrust forward, venomous stare.

Frank can be a prick.

He’s a miserable fuck and he never forgets a thing. It doesn’t mesh with everything else about him, he knows. He’s not proud of himself either when he knocks Gerard’s feet off his lap. Matt’s staring at him, mouth open and stupid.

Frank wants to kick him in the face.

8/10/2007: West Palm Beach, Florida

Onstage Frank leans into Gerard, rubbing his head into the back of his shoulder and giving him almost all of his weight.

The girls in the pit scream. It sounds like a distant roar, thick and muted. Frank feels Gerard’s arm come up around him, his fingers hooking over the sweaty curve of his neck. Frank pushes into it and then launches off again – back to his mic, back to his corner of the stage.

Afterwards, he’s pinned under Bob. Still sweating, still moaning – the noises still muted and thick. Through clenched teeth he rasps,

“C’mon-c’mon. Do it. Do-it, do-it, do-it.”

8/11/2007: Tampa, Florida

Frank’s eyes are raw and scratchy, as though he’s been standing too long in the middle of a sandstorm. And maybe he has.

He slides out of his bunk with a soft thud, opens the door to the fridge and drinks the orange juice straight from the container. His fingers are callused, his muscles stiff. There’s an ache – a soft, well-fucked ache – that makes him blush.

Bob’s in the lounge when Frank shuffles out.

“Oh, hey.” Frank stops and waves. He feels stupid.

“Is this?” Bob looks at him and falters. “Like a thing? It can be a thing, right?”

8/13/2007: Raleigh, North Carolina

Avoiding people, in the confined space of a bus, is difficult but Frank assures himself that Bob’s not going to confront him in the kitchenette. Frank is wrong and somehow he manages to get backed into a corner by the business end of a pineapple.

“You’re being, like, all confrontational.” Frank accuses.

“You’re being, like, all dickhead.” Bob gestures with his hands around his head. He looks like an air traffic controller.

Frank frowns. “Are those supposed to be air quotes?”

“Fuck you.”

“You already did,” Frank chirps.

Bob goes still. Frank can feel the colour drain out of his face.

8/14/2007: Virginia Beach, Virginia

Bob, angry, is surprisingly polite.

Frank’s not sure what to make of it and he finds himself hesitating whenever Bob stops and holds the door open for him. He’s pretty sure Bob’s not going to stab him in the back or anything, but then Frank’s been wrong before.

“You fucked him?” Gerard squeaks.

They’re in the back lounge and Frank is slumped forward over his knees fidgeting with the hole in his sock. Gerard makes a long, low whistling-sound. “I just. Wow. I never figured Bob for a catcher, you know?”

Frank rolls his eyes. “He wasn’t. You know, catching.”

8/15/2007: Wantagh, New York

Frank can feel Bob staring at him onstage. After their set he jerks off alone.

He jerks off all the time now: in the shower, in his bunk, in the bathroom. He’s even jerked off in the lounge into a tube sock that he’s pretty sure wasn’t his.

Usually he bites his lips to stifle the urge to groan out loud. Sometimes he bites his forearm or the back of his hand. It marks him leaving a perfect ring of teeth bruised into his skin for him to trace later.

Afterwards he feels wiped out; itchy for sleep and wide awake.

8/17/2007: Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio

“I’m a dick,” Frank announces. Bob shakes his head and moves to walk out of the room. Frank snaps his hand out, curls his fingers over Bob’s bicep, and squeezes him to a stop. “I said, I’m a dick.”

“Yeah. You are.”

“Well, I’m sorry I’m a dick.”

“Great. I’m sorry you’re a dick too.”

“You’re not making this easy.” Frank lets his hand drop and flexes his fingers for something to do.

Bob raises his eyebrows and sets his jaw. “I’m supposed to make this easy for you?”

“Um. It would be nice?” Frank winces at his hopeful tone.

8/18/2007: Darien Centre, New York

“If he were a chick I’d know what to do.”

Gerard twists his sketch pad and angles his head in the opposite direction. “If he were a chick he wouldn’t have fucked you up the ass,” he deadpans.

Frank halts his pacing and gives Gerard a sharp look and points out, “There’s always pegging.”

“I read a fic about that once.” Gerard sounds dreamy. He pinches his pencil between his teeth and grins. It makes his smile look wide and wolfish.

“You need to stop Googling yourself.”

Gerard smirks. “It was about you, asshole.”

“Then you need to stop Googling me.”

8/19/2007: Bristow, Virginia

“Enough!” He doesn’t yell it, exactly, but it’s terse enough to get Bob’s attention. It’s sharp enough to make him stop walking away.

Bob’s sneakers make a sharp squeaking-noise against the linoleum. He doesn’t say anything and Frank licks his lips. “Look, I’m sorry I was a dick. Just --” He drops his head and stares at the floor, his hand wrapped over the back of his neck, “just stop ignoring me.”

Bob’s shoes turn around. They take three steps forward. Frank inhales, holds it, counts the seconds in his head - ten of them --

“Okay,” Bob says.

and exhales.

8/21/2007: Toronto, Ontario

It almost rains.

All day long it almost rains.

Frank can’t stop himself from checking the cloud cover. If he’s not talking about the weather, he’s looking at it, forehead screwed up, accusing. Finally, when Frank paces past the couch in the lounge again, Bob reaches out and pulls him down. “Stop,” Bob says. “Stop it, okay?”

They sit like that, quiet and mostly still. Frank looks down at their thighs aligned together against the upholstery. Bob’s jeans are blacker than Frank’s. Frank can feel the moist heat from Bob’s leg bleeding through the denim.

It’s been an uneasy truce.

8/22/2007: Clarkson, Michigan

Frank’s never been good with apologies that stick; he’s not good at keeping his distance when he should. He’s shit at a lot of things.

They’re sitting behind the bus as it idles and Frank’s getting buzzed off the fumes. For a few minutes Bob listens to him rant and mostly nods.

Finally, when Frank runs out of steam, Bob leans in to kiss him. It’s tentative and soft and Frank’s hand comes up to bracket Bob’s chin as he does. They knock heads, a gentle deliberate bump, when they break apart and Frank blinks.

His thumb is bleeding again.

8/24/2007: Mansfield, Massachusetts

They fuck against the counter in the kitchenette.

It feels like a punishment and Frank opens his mouth under it. He asked for this - begged for it hard - and his eyes roll closed. His breathing has been reduced to uneven jags that flair - red and painful - in the middle of his chest. When he makes a high-pitched keening sound Bob fucks him harder.

Frank’s palms skid over the countertop, no longer bracing, knocking over dirty coffee cups.

Afterwards, they sleep in Bob’s bunk, Frank’s nose buried in gray cotton and his hand tucked between Bob’s thighs.

8/25/2007: Hartford, Connecticut

Frank wakes up with his hand already threading down the front of Bob’s boxers. Bob makes a tired sound but shifts into it; his hips torque forward and he stifles a groan against the side of Frank’s neck. Anticipation turns over in Frank’s stomach, slippery and wet.

Bob is breathing sharply against Frank’s throat – hot and moist - and Frank holds him there with the back of his hand. “Fuck you feel so good,” Frank mumbles. “Love your cock, dude. Love feeling you fall apart like this. Love feeling you come in my hand.”

Frank smiles against Bob’s closed eyelids.

8/26/2007: Syracuse, New York

They fuck with their mouths hung open; their breath ragged and muffled. They fuck with callused hands in hotel rooms, at radio stations, in bathrooms. They fuck in the back lounge, and in their bunks.

Once they fuck in Matt’s bunk and then feel shitty about it afterwards.

They fuck standing up, kneeling over, and in cramped closets that smell like chemicals. They fuck with Frank’s fingers stuffed into Bob’s mouth, and Bob’s hand around Frank’s cock. They bite, pinch, grab, and choke orgasms from each other.

They fuck with their jeans half off.

And in Syracuse, they get caught.

8/28/2007: Holmdel, New Jersey

Frank has always been called a faggot. It doesn’t mean he likes it, but he’s used to it. Gerard doesn’t say much. He’s been stunned into a stupid silence that makes Frank want to vomit.

Bob still looks ill and Frank wants to sit down and say that it’s not a big deal, but it kinda is. Even he knows that. They all know it.

There are text messages to Brian, terse-sounding phone calls, and Bob’s fist through a door.

Ray makes worried face from the back of the bus; Frank goes to bed alone.

8/29/2007: Noblesville, Indiana

“It’s cool if you want to end it.” Frank says.

His head is down and he can feel a red stain creeping up his neck when he takes a deep breath. “Okay, it’s not cool. It’s probably the only thing I’ve ever wanted in a long time. But if I have to give up then fine, I will. But yeah. It’s not cool. Not fucking cool.”

Frank shifts his weight around and lets out a choked sound that is supposed to be a laugh.

“I don’t want to end it,” Bob sighs. “I just didn’t want my dick on YouTube.”

9/01/2007: Tinley Park, Illinois

Frank comes too with Bob breathing against his cheekbone. Bob whispers, “Hey. C’mon. Wake up.”

He’s rented a car and they drive the 30 minutes into Chicago in silence. Frank has propped his feet up on the dashboard and he’s mostly asleep when Bob finally parks. They spend the next half hour at some mill drinking coffee and watching the clouds break up overhead.

“So where are we?” Frank asks.

“Just this place I used to hang out at sometimes.”

Bob blushes in his seat. Frank grabs his hand. It feels warm and he curls his fingers around it.

“S’nice.”

9/03/2007: Englewood, Colorado

There is something soft and quiet about Bob that Frank never found in Gerard; something stable and solid that at the end of the day lets him sleep. Bob is easy in ways that Frank hadn’t known he was looking for.

He feels guilty, sometimes, about comparing them – disloyal even.

It’s just that there is something about Gerard that makes Frank feel like he’s in cyclone of perpetual motion: before the storm, during the storm, after the storm. It’s exhausting, like being a dove looking for dry land.

Not that Frank’s a bird; he just wears swallows on his skin.

^{Note: Thanks to eloquentice for tracking this last photo down for me.}

C'est fin.

A Birthday Present - One That's On Time, Unlike That Other One.

2004-09-02T03:07:05Z

For your information: I'll be in the bathroom, scrubbing my own eyeballs out of my head, and amputating my fingers for having the audacity to write this. (Blech) But Happy Birthday, lugonn ...after this, I’ll be sending my therapy bills to you, love.

Oh yeah. And Cat? There’s nothing here for you, best you be moving along. Just email me and I’ll say lovely things to you instead.

***

Luke can’t remember not being angry. Portland sucks. It’s always fucking raining here. And he hates Newport because it’s fucking Newport – which doesn’t leave him a lot of options. He’s angry at his Dad, and he won’t look that guy in the kitchen in the face, because if he does he just knows he’s gonna snap and start punching him and then he’ll just end up in someplace like juvie with pretty boys in jumpsuits. So he slams the drawers shut, and bangs the cupboards closed, and he gets up off the couch and stalks to his room whenever *he* comes into the den and uses one of those soft-lip smiles on him and says things like, 'hey Bud,' as if Luke is supposed to want to talk to him.

Luke can hear them talking, whispering things like, ‘give him time,’ and ‘it’s a tough adjustment,’ and ‘he’ll do fine. He just has to make a few new friends, you’ll see.’ Which makes Luke sneer to himself, because what the fuck do they know?

The thing is, Portland isn’t so bad. There isn’t a water polo team at his new school, but he’s playing soccer again and their striker was a bit of pansy, so Luke snagged his spot without much effort. He’s even dating a girl. Blonde, stacked, with long, painted fingernails. And she gives decent head, so there’s that too. Marissa gave rotten head, now that Luke thinks about it. She always brushed his hands off the back of her head whenever he tried to get her to take him a little deeper. And she mouthed the head of his cock in the most irritating way.

***

Luke masturbates. A lot. But then, all teenage guys do, he thinks, letting his fingers spider walk down his torso and past the waistband of his pajama pants. So there isn’t anything wrong with him cupping his balls, and rolling them between his fingers. Nothing wrong with slipping his hand up the hard length of his cock and thumbing the sensitive ridge there. There isn’t anything wrong with settling into a steady rhythm, one that makes the warm buzzing deep in his belly start humming in his ears. And certainly there isn’t anything wrong with letting his other hand, the idle one, trail little patterns across his chest, until it is circling his nipple and pinching it sharply between his thumb and forefinger.

All guys masturbate. So most of them don’t think about Ryan Atwood, naked and wet in the locker room after soccer practice, but they definitely masturbate.

Luke doesn’t think that it makes him queer. After all he did come (loudly) with Julie Cooper arching under him, her back slick with perspiration, her hips pushing back to meet him, eager. Julie fucks like someone who’s gonna die if they don’t come. Julie also pants, baby, baby, baby, in his ear, riding the hand between her thighs hard. And Luke thinks that it doesn’t make him queer if for a second Ryan flashed in front of him just before he buried himself a little deeper in her ass. He’s not queer because he knows what a clit is, and he knows what to do with it. And what he does is make women whimper, and groan words like, fuck and harder and oh yeah baby. There, right there.

He’s a little proud of his track record, truth be told. He’s lost count of the number of panties he’s felled, lacy little things dropping to the floor, the crotch of them wet with a little want. He has *actually* lost count. So maybe he’s just a little bored. Not queer. Bored.

And besides, if anyone around here (there, he thinks irritably. Newport’s there now, not here) is queer, then it’s that little fucker, Cohen. Cohen with his shit brown, curly hair and wide lips that look like they need to be wrapped around a cock. Preferably Luke’s. Or Atwood’s.

Luke sometimes, in the shower with a bar of soap, thinks that Seth already knows his way around on his knees. And sometimes (with the radio playing loudly in the background) he works himself up thinking about Seth on his knees, and Ryan groaning, tipping up on his toes and pushing deep, deep, deeper into the back of Seth’s throat. He thinks about Ryan, his ass cheeks clenched tightly, and everything shaking and quivering. Luke would be willing to bet that Ryan comes grunting and biting back the urge to say, fuck, fuck, fuck, over and over again. He bets that Cohen's never made him come, without much more than a soft whimpter. Luke would definitely be willing to bet that Ryan would come screaming if Luke fucked him, slamming into him hard and fast, lifting him off his feet and fisting his cock at the same time. Luke comes in the shower, listening to the sound of his own panting bouncing off of the tiles.

***

Luke’s not sure if that makes him queer. Probably not. They’re just bodies fucking and slipping against each other. But when his fingers are spider-walking down his torso, and he starts thinking about Ryan’s lips, ghosting over his own…when his stomach flips in tight knots, and he comes wetly in his boxers with Ryan’s face smiling in front of him, he thinks he might be just a little queer. But queer might be better than angry, and so he’s not sure he gives a damn.

A/N: Poor Marissa. That bitch can’t do anything right. Heh. Thank you to shoshannagold for dusting off the stupid for me, in what was perhaps the worlds quickest beta. Lovely chatting with you dear.