Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/68948.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      All-American_Rejects
  Relationship:
      Chris_Gaylor/Mike_Kennerty
  Character:
      Chris_Gaylor, Mike_Kennerty
  Stats:
      Published: 2007-05-23 Words: 6331
****** And Two Dudes Standing Over It (A Cautionary Tale Of How Not To Fall For
Some Random Dude At A Concert); Or, The Luck Of The Cosmic Draw ******
by fizzyblogic_(phizzle)
Notes
     Beta by laurelcrowned. For EL.
The first time Chris laid eyes on Mike, it was at a show, and Chris was really
concentrating more on listening to the music than anything else. He felt a bump
against his elbow, and turned to see a guy maybe an inch taller than him; who,
despite the grand tradition of random inappropriate touches in the crowd at a
rock show, just smiled at him and turned back to watch the stage again.
Seeing as Chris's favourite band were playing, he followed suit. But he kept
seeing the guy out of the corner of his eye, grinning away and singing along
with the music. It was pretty much involuntary, the amount of times Chris
looked over at him, he concluded. It was just that the guy was there and in his
line of sight, and sometimes he heard a voice over the crowd that he was almost
certain belonged to the guy, and he wasn't the kind of guy you'd hear singing
and want to put a bag over his head, so that was okay. They got pushed further
and further into each other's personal space as the show went on, but Chris was
pretty used to that happening, and this dude smelled a lot better than most
he'd ended up crushed entirely against for half a set. In short, Chris decided,
this random dude he was now pressed fully against, side-to-side, was making
this show just that little bit better.
When the show ended, Chris tried to turn and introduce himself, start up some
kind of conversation, but he was waylaid within seconds by three friends and
some guys who wanted to know if he had any stuff on him. He rolled his eyes,
pushed his way out of the crowd (followed by the clump of people who always
seemed to accumulate around him at things like this) and found some good space,
a nice way from the merch table and hidden half around a corner, to get to
work.
He didn't see the guy again for three weeks. He thought about him sometimes,
though. Wondered who he was, why he hadn't seen him before, that sort of a
thing. Until the day he walked into Target, just to get some batteries because
he'd just remembered he needed some, and as he reached for the packet the most
clichéd thing that ever happened to him, happened.
He saw a hand, coming into his line of vision and reaching for the batteries at
the same speed and pace as his, and some amazingly quick part of his brain
slowed the image down for processing; so it seemed like he was standing there
for whole entire minutes, watching two hands inching and inching towards the
orange and black packet, thinking Why am I not looking up? What's wrong with
me, look up! But he didn't, until both hands met on the packet, and his head
finally moved, and then he was looking into the face of the guy who'd been at
the show.
"Oh," he said, in an act of suavity sure to live in infamy, up there with the
highest and best, a Hall Of Fame for opening lines, destined for greatness,
"hi."
"Hey," the guy replied, and did he ever stop smiling, because Chris was
starting to think he might have hooks in his cheeks or something. "Sorry, I –"
And Chris only noticed their hands were still touching when the guy took his
away. "You first."
"I – what?" Chris blinked at him. He was having a little difficulty with
keeping up, there was a ceiling tile behind the guy's head that had come loose
and it was freaking him out a little. Damn Nancy and her fucking cookies, they
are so good.
"The batteries, you want – you take the first ones, man," the guy offered,
stepping back. Chris took a moment to marvel at his chivalry before reacting.
"Thanks," he said, as steadily as he could, and lifted the packet off its hook.
That wasn't so hard, he thought, and then wondered if he'd thought it would be
hard, and concluded he must have, else why would he have thought that? Having
established this, he came to realise that in the meantime his mouth had opened
and the words, "You were at that Hickey show, couple weeks ago, weren't you?
I'm Chris, by the way." had escaped.
"Um." The guy seemed taken aback for a second, but then relaxed again. "Mike.
And yeah, I was there. They were fucking rad. You see them a lot?"
"Few times, you know, whenever I can."
"That was my first." Mike was still smiling at him. Chris's head was swimming.
"They're good, you should check them out again, when they come back. Play
again."
"Yeah, yeah, I will," Mike nodded, turning the battery packet in his hands over
and over. "Well, I'd -"
"We could go," Chris said, though he more blurted it than said it, "like, we
could – there'd be – y'know, and it'd be fun. I'd buy you a beer, something."
Mike ducked his head to smile at his shoes. "Okay," he began, taking something
out of his pocket and doing something Chris couldn't see because he was
watching the way a few strands of Mike's hair were falling across his forehead,
"you call me when you're not high, alright? Then maybe." He pushed something
into Chris's hand, and he looked down to see a torn part of an envelope with
'MIKE KENNERTY' and a phone number written on it. Underneath the number was
scribbled 'Hickey show. Target. The dude with the batteries.'
Chris's brain, at this point, sent two messages to his mouth. One was Tell him
he didn't need to put who he is and the other was Let him know you'll call, but
what actually came out was, "I won't forget you." A small part of Chris's mind
sat down with its head in its hands and decided to fire the rest of it.
Mike made a noise that was part laugh and part snort and complete amusement.
"Okay then," he said, pointing to the paper in Chris's hand. "Use that." And
then he was gone, probably off to the checkouts, which was where, the small
logical and rational part of his mind informed him, he himself should now head.
"Right," Chris muttered, immediately getting sidetracked by a display of
spoons. "Shiny," he admired, nodding slowly, and then walking off towards the
beeping sounds of the checkouts.
A week later, he was sitting on his shitty-ass couch in his shitty-ass
apartment holding a phone to his ear and feeling his stomach drop as it rang
five and a half times before someone picked it up.
During those five and a half rings, his thought process went from Dude had nice
eyes via Shit, he won't want to talk to me now to Just fucking pick up the
fucking phone, Kennerty with a Does it normally take this long? thrown in for
good measure. And then, Mike's voice was on the line.
"Hello?"
"Hi. Uh." Chris swallowed. "I – this is Mike, right? It's Chris, the guy at the
– at the show, and last week in Target. And I'm, uh. I'm calling."
"I noticed that," Mike said, and it took Chris a second to work out that Mike
wasn't laughing at him. "Hi Chris. What took you so long?"
"You said to call you when I was sober," he said, feeling stupid and somehow
put together wrong and entirely ridiculous because he was making a fucking ass
of himself and he should have got over this four fucking years ago when he was
fifteen and could get away with blushing.
"And that took you all week?" Mike asked. Still amused. Good sign?
"Uh, yeah? Well, not really, but I just didn't think you'd," his voice trailed
off.
"Didn't think I'd what?" and he just sounded curious, now. I've fucking blown
it. Nice one, Gaylor.
"Never mind. Look, can we just forget I called? It was nice being an ass around
you, see you later," he sighed, and the receiver was leaving his ear when he
heard a tiny voice say,
"Wait."
Chris put the phone back to his ear. "Yeah?"
"You weren't an ass, man," Mike said, and Chris could hear him still smiling.
Seriously. Hooks. "Really, it's okay. You thought, what, I wouldn't want to
talk to you? Why do you think I gave you my number?"
"Because I asked you out and you were being nice?" Chris hazarded. Mike seemed
like he was a nice guy.
"No, because you asked me out and I wanted you to do it when you actually knew
what you were doing, jerk." He sounded fond. He said it fondly. Maybe Chris
hadn't fucked this entirely up.
"Oh." He swallowed. "Well, uh, want to go – see a show or something with me,
some time? I did offer you a free beer."
"Well, I was going to say no, but if there's free beer involved," Mike said,
and he was practically chuckling.
"Fuck you," Chris rolled his eyes. "Do you want to go on a date with me or not,
Kennerty?"
"Yes, you ass," Mike replied, and he was grinning. Chris could hear it. "What's
your last name, anyway? So I know what to call you when you're pissing me off."
"It's Gaylor. One word and I'll fucking punch you when I see you."
"Not if I dodge fast enough," Mike said.
"Yeah, we'll just see about that," Chris countered, starting to grin a bit
himself. Maybe the hooks were catching. "When are you free?"
"For a punch-up, or a date?"
"Same thing," Chris retorted.
"Thursday. There's a midnight showing of that horror thing, you know, the girl
with the tits, someone knows what you did something? Was thinking of seeing it.
We could grab some beers before it, maybe some food. Sound good?"
Chris's head started wading. "I – yeah, that sounds great. How about the
Mexican place, on Boulevard? They do good nachos."
"Sounds like a plan," Mike said. "I'll meet you there about … how about nine?
We don't have to do the movie, man, if you don't want to."
"Well, it sounds good, but maybe, yeah. I'll see you at nine, we'll have some
food, see where the night takes us. Okay?"
"Yeah. See you then, Gaylor."
"You will, Kennerty."
                                       *
"It is a truth universally acknowledged," Lizza began, "that a single man in
possession of a free night must be in want of a date."
"What the fuck, who let your sister in here?" Chris called out.
"Don't look at me, dude, I have no control over that girl. I'm just her
boyfriend's roomie," Stoker called back.
"Shut up, you're my stupid older brother whoever you live with," Lizza yelled.
She sat down on Chris's lap. "I hear you got a date with some guy. You're gay
now?"
"No," Chris carefully tipped her off his thighs, "I just happen to like some
guys some times. That doesn't make me gay."
"Here we go," Stoker rolled his eyes, returning with three cans and a long
joint. "It's Gaylor's I'm Not Gay speech."
"Well, I'm not," Chris pointed out. "If I looked at generic dude's bodies and
got hard, then I'd be gay. One or two guys who happen to be fucking attractive,
that doesn't count."
Lizza took the first hit from the joint and stretched out along the floor,
arching her back. "That's called bisexuality," she informed him. "It's fun."
She wriggled her hips.
"I do not need to know about your adventures with girls, Elizabeth, you're my
sister," Stoker shuddered. "It's really disturbing."
"Benjamin, just because I've banged some chicks –"
"Not listening, not listening!" Stoker yelled over her. Lizza passed Chris the
joint and he took a drag.
"Is your new boyfriend gay?" Lizza asked, when she and Stoker had finished
their shouting match.
"He's not – we're just going on a date, okay?" Chris put the slight pink tinge
he could feel start in his cheeks down to the hash.
"But you like him, right? You want to suck his dick, fuck him in the ass,
right?"
Chris twisted to look at her. "Those are pretty personal questions, Lizza."
"What? I'm just asking."
"Lizzy, stop pushing," Stoker poked her with his toe. "I know what you're
doing, just stop it."
"What's she doing?" Chris asked him, watching her giggle on the floor.
"She's trying to get you to say that you're gay. She has this bet on with
Roach, that you'll come out before, what is it, November?" He poked her again
with his toe.
"Stop poking me. Roach has before Christmas, I said November." She smiled
sweetly at Chris, marred only slightly by the joint she carefully placed
between her lips as she did so. "It's for your own good, Gaylor."
Stoker snorted, a high-pitched sound. "Gayboy, more like." He giggled.
"Right, that is fucking it," Chris growled, waving away the offer of the joint.
"Don't fucking make jokes about my fucking name, Stoker, okay?" He stood up.
"I'm going home. I'll see you guys later."
"Touchy subject?" Lizza called after him as he shut the door. "I told you,
you'll feel better if you just come out and say it."
"Get fucked," Chris called through the closed door. He turned to go down the
stairs, and came face to face with the nice old British chick who lived across
the hall. "Hi, Mrs Johnson, how's the leg?" he asked.
"Better, thank you," she replied. "No more of that language, there's a good
boy."
"Need any help with those bags?" He pointed to the three paper grocery bags at
her feet, but she just shook her head.
"You are a dear, Christopher." She shuffled forwards and patted his cheek.
"Thank you for offering, but I'll manage."
"Alright, well you know where to find me, Mrs Johnson, if you need help with
anything." He smiled at her and started jogging down the stairs. "Have a good
day, Mrs Johnson."
"You have a good day too, Christopher," she called after him. "And drink some
coffee, your pupils are all over the place."
Chris threw a thumbs-up over his shoulder and reached the bottom of the stairs
in time to hear her door close above.
"You know Mrs Johnson?" said a voice behind him, and Chris whirled around.
"Mike? What the – what are you doing here?"
"Some buddies of mine," Mike jerked his thumb at the door he was leaning
against. "I was just hanging out here, going to head home. Heard you coming out
of upstairs." He raised an eyebrow. "Friend of Mrs Johnson's?"
"Some friends of mine live across the hall from her, I've helped her out a
couple times. She's nice," Chris replied, relaxing against the banister. "She
made me cookies once, just because I carried groceries for her."
"Yeah, she's a total sweetheart," Mike nodded, ever-present smile in place.
"Well, I guess I'd better head off. See you tonight?"
"Nine o'clock," Chris nodded. "See you then."
Chris was at the Mexican restaurant early, but he'd just happened to be on
Boulevard at forty after eight, so it wasn't like he'd been hanging around
waiting for the date to start or anything. That would have been lame, but it
definitely wasn't that, he was just … there. Kind of early. Mostly because he
was hungry.
"Did you order coffee?" Mike's voice asked, startling him out of staring at the
wall the booth was butted against.
"You gotta stop doing that to me, your voice just comes out of nowhere," Chris
said, turning his head to watch Mike sliding into the opposite side of the
booth.
"Sorry," he smiled, picking up a menu. "Been here long?"
"I was hungry, okay?" Chris shifted on the bench. "And yeah, I got coffee."
"Two cups," Mike noted as Chris pushed the second one over. "Thanks."
"I, uh, I don't know how you like it, so I didn't do anything to it, it's just
black."
"That's good." Mike spooned in some sugar and stirred. He sipped. "Hey, this is
pretty hot, when did you order?"
Chris shrugged. "Couple of minutes ago. You're on time." He looked over at the
large clock on the wall, jaunty hands pointing to the nine and the twelve
decisively.
"Yeah, that's what my mom always used to say. Could never do anything with me,
but at least I showed up on time."
Chris laughed, soft. "My mom always tried to get me to be on time for stuff.
Didn't really work, though. Even now, she'll call me and be like, Are you late
for anything?" He mimed rolling his eyes. "No, Ma, good to hear from you
though."
Mike laughed. "Yeah, I still get shit from my parents sometimes. I mean, I
still live with them, but y'know, they're really cool about a lot of stuff. As
long as it's not like, a school night."
Chris blinked. "Wait a second. You're in school?" He paused. "You mean college,
right?"
"No, I'm in high school," Mike said, sipping his coffee. I am going to hell,
Chris noted. "Don't look like that, I'm a senior, it's cool."
"You're in high school? How old are you?"
As if knowing the exact worst moment for it, a waitress materialised at their
table. "Are you ready to order?" she asked, not looking at them.
"Yeah, I'll have a burrito suizo and refried beans and a large Coke, please,"
Mike said, eyes skimming the menu.
"Same for me," Chris added. He didn't take his eyes from Mike's face. The
waitress scribbled what he presumed was their orders on her tiny pad, and left.
"Seventeen," Mike answered, when she'd gone. "How old are you, anyways?"
I am definitely going to hell, Chris thought, realising he'd been watching the
way Mike's mouth moved. "Nineteen," he replied. "Are you gonna … are you like,
almost eighteen, or what?"
"No, I just turned seventeen in July," Mike said, taking another sip of his
coffee.
"So a few months ago, you were sixteen?" He had to get this clarified. It was
important.
"Chill out, man, it's just a number."
"Not to the cops it isn't," Chris hissed across the table, gripping his side of
it. Mike just raised his eyebrows.
"And you're such a law-abiding citizen," he smirked. "Quit freaking out on me,
dude, it's not like I'm a kid. I know what I'm doing."
Chris stared at him for a minute. Somewhere in there, the food arrived, but he
wasn't really paying attention. "You're a virgin, aren't you?" he asked, quiet.
"Come on, Gaylor, give me a fucking break," Mike sighed, picking at his refried
beans.
Chris thunked his head against the table. "I am going to hell," he mumbled into
the formica.
When he looked up again, Mike was just smiling at him. "Like you weren't
before," he said, voice low and smug, and Chris was really seriously going to
hell for this. "And for the record," Mike's voice dropped even lower and Chris
had to listen carefully to hear him, "I'm not."
"Not what?" Chris asked, equally as quiet.
"A virgin," Mike said, and Chris was so relieved he almost hugged the table.
"You gonna eat that?" Mike pointed to Chris's burrito, and he sat up again.
"Yeah," he answered, though he paused for a second to look at him before biting
into it.
                                       *
"No way," Mike giggled, leaning against Chris for support. "No way."
"I totally did," Chris laughed, gladly holding him up. A breeze picked up,
sending a few strands of Mike's hair into Chris's ear. He brushed them away.
"You said that to the cop?" Mike laughed harder, until he had to stop and gasp
for breath.
"Yep. I promise you, I did." Chris grinned at him. "And the chick ended up
bolting."
Mike's laughter redoubled. "Shit, after all that?"
"She did!"
"I believe you," Mike wheezed. "Oh man." He leaned against Chris's side, and it
was kind of nice. "You have," Mike gasped out, "you have the most interesting
life, dude."
Chris felt an odd rush of affection, and shrugged roughly to cover it. "Nah,
it's mostly boring. Sometimes there'll be something fucking weird or just
fucking funny. And sometimes there's fucking," he added without thinking, an
exaggerated leer in place before he realised what he'd just said and it
crumpled. "Uh. Not that I think like, I'm not assuming anything, I –"
"You can assume," Mike assured him, and he said it so matter-of-factly, and he
looked at Chris so openly, that he didn't even realise what he was doing until
he was kissing Mike. And Mike was kissing back, smiling like he'd been waiting
all night for Chris to kiss him, and he probably had, and – and Mike's tongue
snaked out to lick Chris's bottom lip, so Chris opened his mouth and softly
sucked on it. Mike moaned and turned his body so they were standing flush, one
arm around each other's waists now, and when had that happened?, and Mike's
other hand was in Chris's hair and Chris had kind of been wanting to touch
Mike's hair for hours, so he ran his fingers into it, and it felt good, and
what Mike was doing with his tongue also felt good, and suddenly he could feel
brick against his back and Mike's hips were trying to make contact with his.
"Fuck," Chris murmured into Mike's mouth, receiving another smile. He kissed
Mike harder, hand in the hair at the nape of his neck, grinding slightly
against his stomach. He felt something hard against his thigh and moaned.
Mike slid his leg between Chris's knees. "This would be easier," Mike breathed,
"if we – how far is your place?"
"I can't … actually remember right now," Chris exhaled. "Um. Where are we?"
Mike looked around, breaking some of the contact, and Chris wondered when his
entire body had gotten so warm. "I think we're … about a block from the big
Starbucks. Where do you live?"
"Uh. Yeah. Uh. Let me think." Chris leaned his head back against the wall.
"Okay, this wall is kind of gross, and we're about seven blocks one way and
eight another from my place, so we should, yeah."
Mike leaned in quickly to flick his tongue out against the pulse point just
behind Chris's earlobe. "You live alone, right?" he murmured.
Chris swallowed. "Yeah," he breathed.
"Good." Mike broke contact entirely, moving away, and Chris was cold, and oh.
Right. He'd forgotten it was night time, and traditionally when it's night time
in October it gets cold. He forced his limbs to work again and carried on
walking in the right direction. "Seven blocks this way?" Mike asked, after a
minute of silence.
"Yeah," Chris said, pushing his hand into his pocket from where he had
definitely not been inching towards taking Mike's hand. "Then turn left and go
eight blocks and you're there."
"So not really far," Mike concluded, and he was smiling again.
"Don't you have school tomorrow?" Chris asked suddenly. He immediately decided
that he hated his brain. He hated his brain a lot. "I – shit, I didn't – shit."
"It's okay. I mean, I kinda do, but there's classes I can skip in the morning."
"I wasn't – it's not like I'm just assuming you'll stay over, or even that you
want to, or –"
Mike stopped him, hand on his arm, and they paused for a second on the
sidewalk. The light from a streetlamp glinted off a few strands of Mike's hair,
when Chris looked at him. "I'd like that. I mean, if it's okay with you, is
all."
Chris swallowed. He looked at Mike for a minute before saying, "Shit."
"What?" Mike tilted his head a little bit, and it was so fucking cute Chris had
to curl his hands into fists in his pockets to stop from touching him.
"I just," Chris exhaled, "I am going to fucking hell for this."
Mike laughed, and shot him a sideways look, starting to walk again. "What, just
for this?"
"Well." Chris jogged a few steps to catch up. "Maybe, maybe not just for this.
But this isn't helping."
"You don't have to," Mike said, almost too softly for Chris to catch it. "You
know, if you don't want to. Just because we had this great date and all, you
don't have to take me home and fuck me into the mattre--" He stopped, and Chris
couldn't tell in the dim light if he was blushing or not, but it seemed likely.
"Shit," Chris repeated, grabbing him by the waist and by the arm and yanking
him forward, meeting in the middle, kissing him hard. "Does it fucking look
like I don't want to?" he breathed, bodies pressed flush together, and it
really seemed, he really thought, that maybe Mike was shaking, just a little
bit.
"Fuck," Mike closed his eyes and slid his lower lip between his teeth and Chris
wondered what the likelihood of spontaneous explosion was. He decided he
probably wasn't entirely at risk from it, despite the small fizzing bomb that
was his stomach right at that second.
"Let's, uh." They broke apart again to walk, Chris trying with every step not
to rub his cock too much against his pants, because that felt a little bit too
pleasant and he wanted to at least last through getting in the door. They
walked almost entirely in silence for several blocks; Chris listened to Mike's
breathing, caught a hitch on an intake that sent another shoot of fizz through
his belly, and then he felt Mike – very cautiously, as if someone would jump
out at them with a gun if the world noticed it was happening – reach to take
his hand.
His palm nestled against Mike's. He swallowed.
"Uh." He used his other hand to gesture as he said, "We have to, this is where
we turn."
"Okay." Mike seemed to be having similar difficulties with deep and regular
breaths as Chris – so at least, he reflected, they were both short on oxygen.
That was a good thing. Something to do with balanced perspectives, but he
wasn't sure what, because Mike's thumb was running gently up and down his and
most of his brain was occupied with the tingling sensation this produced. The
rest was starting to give up half way through sentences. The small part of it
still functioning contemplated sending in a complaint about short-staffing.
"This is," he said, eight blocks of tingle later, "this is me. My place. Up,
uh, up here. I'm on the second floor."
"Cool." Mike dropped his hand, and Chris was disappointed for a moment until he
realised he'd need that hand to unlock the door. Which he did with the minimum
of fumbling, all things considered, and got it open and closed behind them and
locked again, and he was almost remembering how to function properly as a
working unit on the way up the flight of stairs, and unlocking his apartment
door, but then they were inside and Mike was pressing him up against the closed
door and what little work his brain had managed to do to put itself back
together was entirely undone when Mike slid one hand under Chris's shirt,
splayed his palm on his chest and murmured, "Take me to bed."
That was the point at which Chris short-circuited. His brain decided that its
services were no longer needed, and it was tendering its resignation, effective
immediately. Luckily, his throat still worked, because when he swallowed the
shock of sensation brought him back to the present reality, which was that Mike
was nibbling his earlobe and there was no way, Chris decided, that this guy was
seventeen. He was way too good to be that young, seriously, way too good. This
established, he noticed that his hands had moved without his say-so, gently
pulling Mike's shirt over his head. At some point in the last few seconds, he
realised, he must have groaned, but he couldn't remember doing it, even though
the echo tugged at him before it dissipated. He couldn't even keep a hold of
what was going on now; Mike's shirt was on the floor and his own was joining
it, and Mike's chest was fucking gorgeous, and Mike's tongue was doing things
to his nipple and he gripped Mike's hips and tried to guide him. Their
movements were clumsy, and the apartment wasn't perhaps the tidiest place in
the world, but they somehow managed not to trip over anything until they got a
few feet from the bed, when a rogue shoe got caught up with their feet and they
half staggered, half tumbled the rest of the way there.
Mike laughed as his back hit the bed, awkwardly, and he almost slid off before
hoisting himself and Chris further up on it. "Imagine if we'd had to deal with
walls," he giggled, and Chris really liked the sight of him against the covers,
laughing.
"Good thing I have one room for everything," Chris agreed, breathless.
"Chris." Mike had stopped laughing now, sliding one hand over Chris's chest,
down his stomach, resting on the waistband of his jeans. "Can I?"
"Whatever you want, the answer is yes," Chris told him, eyes fluttering closed
as Mike unzipped and unbuttoned and pulled down and then, then, Mike's hands
closed over Chris's cock and Chris threw his head back, whimpering.
"Lie on your back," Mike murmured into his ear, and he turned over to flop down
and stretch out without thinking. Which was lucky, since thought was beyond him
at that point. Mike's hands slipped and touched all over, his chest, his
stomach, his thighs, and then Chris felt something hot and wet close over his
cock and realised that Mike was going down on him, that he'd asked to, and
arched his neck up on the pillows. Mike licked him, long strokes interspersed
with sharp sucks, and Chris could only make small noises in his throat. He
groaned when Mike sucked hard, a long good fucking suck, and bucked up into his
mouth, trying to be careful of his throat, trying, trying, but Mike fucking
took it and that was enough, that was too much, and Chris came, a shuddering,
moaning and cursing wreck.
"Fuck," was the first coherent word he managed when he'd stopped twitching.
Mike was leaning over him, smiling that soft fucking smile Chris was coming to
decide he liked best; and then he was doing something else, something with his
jeans, something from the pocket, but Chris couldn't see what because he'd only
just regained the use of his vision and it wasn't quite one hundred percent
there yet, so when Mike was suddenly very, very naked and slathering lube onto
his cock, head tilted to the side and mouth open just a little, Chris wasn't
exactly prepared. "What?" he asked.
"Want to fuck you," Mike panted. "That okay?" He very slowly, very carefully
eased two slick fingers inside Chris's ass, and Chris arched off the bed.
"Yes," he said, and he tried very hard to formulate other words, something like
'please' or 'fuck' or just 'Mike' or anything at all, but the drag of Mike's
fingers and the sight of his cock – looking down, Chris could see an expanse of
stomach above it that he wanted to just get on his knees and lick – chased the
entire English language from his brain. He managed to come out with a sound,
approximating nnnunnggggmmn, but even early homo sapiens couldn't have called
it language. He thought of cave paintings, disjointedly, but then Mike's
fingers left and Chris saw stars when he felt Mike's cock slide, slowly, so
fucking careful, inside him.
"Oh holy shit," Mike exhaled, obviously trying to go slow, obviously finding it
hard, and obviously Chris spread his legs as far as possible to help. "Oh holy
shit. Does it hurt?" he asked, brow furrowed.
Chris tried to simultaneously shrug and shake his head, something to indicate
Stings a bit without actually saying the words. The message seemed to get
across, though, because Mike went a little bit faster. Chris was glad at least
one of them had been functioning enough to apply plenty of lube.
"Oh, fuck," Mike panted, dragging his cock so fucking slowly in and out, and
Chris felt like he might just fucking explode if Mike didn't speed up some
more. He grasped Mike's hips, palms flexing on them, tipping his own upwards.
Mike got the gist, pushing in harder, a little faster, and Chris groaned.
"Fuck," Mike repeated, keeping his eyes open with what looked like an effort.
"Not gonna last – long, fuck."
Chris arched his neck back and moaned, long and loud, because Mike's eyes were
dark and heavy and fixed on him, and he felt it when Mike came, a buck and a
press. Mike shuddered and gasped on top of him, and Chris squeezed around him;
Mike's head dropped to Chris's exposed neck, licking and leaving tiny soft
bites.
"Fuck," he panted, falling against Chris's chest. "That was, I mean. Fuck."
Chris just nodded.
Mike kissed his chest. "Did it hurt a lot? I hope it didn't, but I've heard it
does."
Chris blinked at him, very slowly, and found his voice. "You mean you haven't –
Mike, had you done that before?"
"Um. No," Mike admitted. Chris squeezed his eyes shut.
"But. You said you're not a virgin," he pointed out.
"Well, I'm not. I'd had sex, just, always with girls before."
Chris opened his eyes and looked at him.
Mike sighed. "Fine. One girl. That still counts as not a virgin," he added,
obstinate. Chris closed his eyes again.
"But you were an ass sex virgin. Are still, actually, an ass virgin. Fuck."
"Why does it make a difference, anyway?" Mike asked, clambouring off him and
leaning over to dispose of the condom Chris hadn't noticed him putting on.
"Everyone starts out the same. How many guys have you been with?"
Chris hesitated. "To be honest, you're the second. But still. I mean I – I
guess it doesn't make a difference, it just – you're seventeen, fuck."
"So? What's wrong with that?"
"I just," Chris sighed. "I just didn't want to be your first, is all. You could
do better."
Mike was silent for so long that Chris opened his eyes to look at him. "You're
a fucking jerk," Mike said, but he was smiling in that kind of why-the-fuck-do-
I-like-you-so-much? way and Chris relaxed. "I like you, okay? I don't want to
do any better. Some time, not right now but some time, I want you to fuck me.
If, you know, if you want to."
"Oh." Chris looked at him for a minute, and maybe it could be categorised as
gazing, if you wanted to put that fine a point on it. "Yeah, I really kind of
do want to."
"Good." Mike settled, curled against his side, head on his chest. "Right now,
though, I want to sleep."
Chris kissed his hair. "Yeah. Yeah, okay, good plan."
                                       *
"I still keep thinking I'm going to be arrested." Chris shuffled his feet.
"What, for meeting me out of school?" Mike rolled his eyes as they fell into
step.
"I guess not," Chris shrugged, sheepish. "You want to go get some Sonic?" He
unlocked his car as they got to it, and Mike threw his bag into the back seat,
settling next to Chris.
"Yeah, I like the sound of that," he agreed. "So a bunch of us are going to see
the new Alien movie on Saturday, you want to come? Arnold said I could bring a
date."
"I told Stoker I'd help him out with a job, painting a house," Chris said,
checking all the mirrors before pulling away from the kerb. "That's just the
afternoon, though, what time's the movie?"
"Eight thirty, I think. You could do it after painting," Mike cajoled.
"Sounds awesome." Chris smiled at him, and it was kind of nice, really, the way
they always made plans for the weekends. He looked back at the road. "And hey,
are you free Sunday night? There's this band, they're playing that new club,
the all-ages one? Anyway, they're friends of mine and I said I'd show. The
music's not bad, there'll be drinks. Could be good times. You wanna come?"
"Sure," Mike nodded, as the Sonic sign crested into view. "You know, I'm
thinking of ordering one of those chicken wraps, make a change."
"You're changing your Sonic order?" Chris placed one hand over his heart,
turning off at the parking lot entrance. "Who are you, and what have you done
with my boyfriend?" He got into line, behind a blue chevy.
Mike didn't say anything for a moment, he just beamed. Then he countered, "Says
the dude who orders the same pizza from the same place every Tuesday."
"Shut up, that is excellent pizza, my friend. Wednesday breakfasts at my place
are why you skip Spanish, and don't you forget it."
"Maybe," Mike murmured, "I skip Spanish because you give fucking amazing head.
Cold pizza doesn't come into it."
"I knew it," Chris crowed, suddenly tickling him with one hand for a few
seconds, until he squeaked. "Alright," Chris muttered, suppressing a grin, "I'm
going to stop doing that now."
"Yeah," Mike muttered back, "this isn't stuff we should be doing while you're
driving, right?"
"Right." Chris paused, looking up at the menu boards, and said, "Want to head
back to mine?"
Mike slid his hand from Chris's knee up his thigh and leaned over, whispered in
his ear, "Yeah. Alright.", and Chris mentally counted up his cash and decided
to buy Mike the biggest Dr Pepper they had, for licking off his chest later. He
made a further mental note to try not to ruin the sheets this time, but didn't
get any further before the car in front moved, and he was asked what his order
was.
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