Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4679699.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Lord_of_the_Flies_-_William_Golding
  Relationship:
      Jack_Merridew/Ralph
  Character:
      Jack_Merridew, Ralph, Roger
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting,
      Pyromania, Pining, Underage_Drinking, Underage_Smoking, Masturbation,
      Frottage, Blow_Jobs, Anal_Sex, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, lots_of
      references_to_indie_music_and_90s_movies, ralph_brings_meaning_into
      jack's_life_and_jack_falls_head_over_heels_for_him, ralph_is_a_prius
      driver, jack_and_ralph_are_16_years_old
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-08-29 Words: 14249
****** help me know the hours I would've left behind ******
by pigblood
Summary
     Jack’s gradual desire for the boy boiled beneath his skin like a pot
     of water left unattended on a kitchen stove. It started out warm yet
     unmoving, but as time went by it began to quiver underneath the
     developing heat until it bubbled over the rim and scorched down the
     side to drip into the very flames that aroused it. And by then there
     was no way of calming it down.
     (Also known as the one where Jack is a teenage pyromaniac, and the
     blonde boy that frequents his convenience store is more than okay
     with that.)
Notes
     Warnings for underage drinking, underage smoking, references to self-
     harm, a little bit of creepiness on Jack's part, and the briefest
     mention of burning dead animals
     Title inspired by the song "Hard to Find" on Wavves' and Cloud
     Nothings' joint album, "No Life for Me", which I listened to nearly
     non-stop over the course of writing this. It pretty much encapsules
     Jack's teen angst in this fic, so there's that.
See the end of the work for more notes
If Jack was asked later on to pinpoint the moment he’d first laid eyes on the
object of his desire, he wouldn’t be able to recount the surge of possessive
need that ripped through his stomach, his knees buckling as he forced himself
to withhold from taking what was offered right then and there, because it never
really happened that way. In order to fall for someone you have to know they
exist before anything else, and up until halfway through junior year, Ralph was
only a mop of blonde hair amongst a flush of nameless faces crowding the
hallway. He might’ve heard a muttered apology for bumping into him on accident,
might’ve seen him out of the corner of his eye as he and Roger claimed their
seats in the back of the bus, but he never felt anything remarkable that made
his breath stop short. The boy was just background noise, another human with a
life of his own that Jack never even registered he might become a part of.
No, Jack’s gradual desire for the boy boiled beneath his skin like a pot of
water left unattended on a kitchen stove. It started out warm yet unmoving, but
as time went by it began to quiver underneath the developing heat until it
bubbled over the rim and scorched down the side to drip into the very flames
that aroused it.
And by then there was no way of calming it down.
                                      |||
The first time he sees Ralph, there’s a flimsy black apron tied around his
waist and a plastic name tag clipped to the breast pocket of his shirt that
reads, “Hello, I’m Jack. How may I help you?”, with his name chicken-scratched
into the blank with a dry pen.
He’s working the graveyard shift tonight, and there’s a backpack full of study
guides waiting for him in the breakroom, most likely to be filled out the
following morning on the freezing cold bus stop bench, via assistance from his
“friend”, Roger. Finals are next week, and that plus the pressure from his
father to maintain an English grade teetering on the precipice between a low C
and a D, not to mention the added late nights at the convenience store, has a
purple hue blooming underneath his eyes and his fingers itching for something
to relieve him.
The monotonous beeping of barcodes being slid across the scanner and into his
hands to be bagged creates a dull rhythm that he focuses on to keep himself
awake. It’s a real bummer that the company doesn’t allow him to keep his
earbuds in while he’s working, as they pride themselves on “service with a
smile!”, which Jack hardly understands. People don’t come into a convenience
store when their lives are falling apart hoping the employees will renew their
will to live, and even if they did, a smile and a thank-you from the bag boy
wouldn’t really make much of a difference. Having his music playing would at
least allow the customer the pleasure of not watching him keel over from
exhaustion and lack of sleep.
It just goes to show how tired he is when he doesn’t realize he’s been stuffing
package after package of dry ramen noodles into the bag until he’s at least
jammed ten of them into it, squished together like sardines in a can. He looks
up and hums quietly to himself in amusement as they continue to get pushed his
way - he likes ramen just as much as the next guy, if you’re not counting
outliers like this kid.
He’s blonde, about his age, with a lean face and a slightly upturned nose and a
backpack slung across his shoulder, fiddling with a ten dollar bill in his
hand. He’s not conventionally attractive, not like anyone would be turning
heads and taking numbers if he walked by, and there’s a little dusting of acne
near his hairline that he’s trying to cover up with his bangs. But hey, he’s a
teenager, sue him.
The kid doesn’t look up from the bill in his hands until the shrill voice of
the cashier breaks the soothing pulse of barcode beeps. “Can I see your ID,
sir?” she asks, uninterested but going through the motions, reciting the
required phrase memorized since day one.
Jack pulls his attention from the third can of Arizona iced tea he’s cramming
into the bag and raises his eyebrows at the two-pack of bic lighters she’s
holding between her chipped nails. His eyes dart to the boy, who’s nervously
plucking the sleeve of his baggy green cardigan, cheeks flushed, breathing
sharply through his nose, looking so guilty he can almost smell it rolling off
him.
“I-I’ve bought one here before without one. There, um, isn’t any law against
it. That, ah - that I’m aware of, at least.” He stammers after a moment,
sounding like he wants a hole in the linoleum floor to swallow him up and get
him out of the store. Nervous. Jack leans forward just the slightest bit,
packing up the last of the Arizona cans while watching the scene in front of
him in his peripheral, keeping his eyes low.
The cashier sighs and drawls out her practiced speech. “We’ve been making some
changes in our stores the past few months, I’m afraid that I can’t sell you
these unless you can give me proof that you’re over eighteen.” The boy gulps
visibly. Jack feels a light sheen of sweat gather on his palms.
“Then I, um - I guess I can’t buy one ‘cause I don’t really have an ID or
anything.” he replies.
The cashier yawns and Jack tracks the boy’s line of sight as she places it next
to her keyboard to be returned to its shelf with the rest of the wood,
charcoal, and various fire paraphernalia the store carries. He might’ve
imagined the way the boy’s eyes glaze over longingly at the lighters before he
straightens himself up and awkwardly hands the crumpled bill over to her, eager
to get the money out of his hands as if it burned the tips of his fingers.
“Just the ramen and stuff then, I guess.”
Jack snorts softly at this for who knows why - the kid’s got an arsenal that’ll
last him for at least a week if he doesn’t intend to eat anything else. Their
eyes meet for a moment when he transfers the multiple plastic bags into the
guy’s arms, and he takes note of how quickly he fixes his eyes to the floor and
refuses Jack’s mandatory offer of assistance to his car.
It isn’t until the boy is out the sliding double doors that his nostrils flare
at the lingering scent of mountain ash and lighter fluid hanging in the air.
And it isn't until after he's back at home abandoning his stack of study guides
for the warmth of his hand on his groin that the fact that the kid still had
his backpack at eleven o'clock at night registers in his mind.
                                      |||
He proves himself correct the following morning when he’s hunched over himself
on the bus stop bench in the thickest hoodie he could dig out of his drawer,
Roger’s half finished homework perched on one knee and his own blank copy on
the other. His fingers are most likely literally frozen to the pen at this
point, and he can see his breath as it fans out over his lap and crystallizes
in the air. It’s pretty mild for an early January morning, and he feels like he
should be grateful he doesn’t live in an area that snows or even rains all that
much, but it doesn’t change the fact that his balls are blue despite excessive
masturbation that morning, as Roger so eloquently put it.
He and Roger aren’t exactly friends, but they’re the closest substitution
either of them have, and Jack’s okay with that. Roger’s quiet and keeps to
himself, shadows Jack in a lurching gait that he claims is due to a severe
condition of scoliosis - although Jack’s had his suspicions - and helps him
feign a sense of companionship. It’s an arrangement that works for him, no
dependence, no responsibilities further than sharing notes and picking fun,
just someone to keep him from feeling alone. Jack’s glad to have the silent
company as the bus rolls up to the curb and Roger fills the empty seat next to
him after their fares have been paid.
Roger’s ears are plugged up with his headphones as soon as he sits down and
Jack kicks his feet up onto the metal rung framing the seat in front of him. He
rests his head against the windowsill, content with watching the people blur
into the distance as the bus rumbles along.
He can still smell the charred burn that clung to the blonde boy’s skin as he
rushed out of the store. Since last night he’d been catching himself taking
sharp intakes of breath in hope that some of the smell had clung to his nose
and it might filter through his senses again. The boy had been so strange, so
unsure.
It wasn't like the kid was clouding his mind, but brief flashes of slender
fingers crinkling a dollar bill, a heavy backpack dragging a cardigan off slim
shoulders, and the scent of burning pine needles on an oily flame were cropping
up in his thoughts and catching him unaware. They certainly didn't have any
business wandering into his head when his hand was wrapped around his dick.
But nevertheless, a low-burning craving to see the boy one more time was
settling into the corner of his brain. Jack was used to monochrome days that
passed without any significance of ever occurring, the monotony of routine and
the overwhelming loneliness that could only be cured by a blazing flame that
burned color back into his skin. The pain of scalding fingertips and scorched
knuckles where the embers dig in, the scent of singed nails and fine hairs
wafting into the night sky, the warmth that tingles underneath his skin for
hours after he's returned to the coolness of his bedsheets.
This boy made the slightest chip in the lonesome everyday pattern that only
Jack’s obsession could break through. He was new. He was interesting.
And all Jack really wanted was to see him again.
He couldn’t remember when his eyes slipped closed to the tempting pull of
sleep, but he could certainly recall the utter shock that causes his muscles to
clench around his bones when he’s stirred awake by the creak of the bus turning
into a stop. His jaw sets in a firm line, fingers going cold and rigid in his
pockets.
Because right there, sliding a yellow bus pass across the scanner, is a set of
long nimble fingers poking out from a familiar pool of dark green fabric. Soft-
looking blonde hair on his head.
Jack blinks. Speak of the devil, and he doth appear.
Looking back, he probably shouldn’t have been so angry that the next few
moments passed in a muddled haze before vanishing into past-tense. There’s the
ding of the machine as it accepts the kid’s card, the thrumming acceleration of
the bus following suit, tired footsteps tracking a grimy residue on the floor
and growing louder as they approach, and the overwhelming flood of nervous
recognition in the boy’s eyes when they lock with his own. The other averts his
gaze quickly and pushes past him towards the back of the bus, and Jack finds
himself turning in his seat to chase the possibility of a lingering burnt scent
that’s long gone. When Jack realizes what he’s doing, his eyes widen and he
spins around and faces straightforward, spine stiff against the back of the
seat, eyes burning a bald spot into the back of the head sitting in front of
him.
His sudden behavior is enough to draw Roger’s attention, and he plucks one
headphone from his ear to ask him if he’s okay. It takes a moment for Jack to
reply, and when he mutters a soft “yeah, ‘m fine”, it comes out like a
question.
                                      |||
After that, Jack starts seeing the blonde boy everywhere. Every morning, the
bus skids to a halt just outside a gated neighborhood, and the kid steps on
five days a week with a nose flushed pink from the cold. Over the next couple
days, Jack finds himself waiting in anticipation for the grinding of brakes
against the asphalt when they approach the boy's usual spot, craning his neck
to see him shuffle into his seat. There's one day when the bus just drives by,
and Jack is taken aback by how unsettled he feels by the lack of his presence.
When he first sees him curled up in a grassy patch near the field at lunch,
nursing a can of coke and flipping through the battered pages of a paperback
book, Jack stops and stares because it's the only thing he can think to do. His
lungs empty and it feels like he's been punched in the gut and he's reeling
back in shock, except he's standing perfectly frozen, in complete confusion as
to what he should do. When the kid shifts to look up, Jack's legs make the
decision for him and he's pivoting on his heel to walk in any direction, just
somewhere away from here. It takes him half an hour to get his hands to stop
trembling.
He sees him fairly often after the first few incidents, and in a high school
consisting of over three thousand sweaty, pimply, painfully average teenagers,
that says something. A glance in the crowded hallway where Jack can only see
the blonde hair on top of his head, always the look at the bus stop and the
inner discomfort when his stop comes before the other boy’s, the hitch in his
breath when Jack caught a glimpse of him pulling a shirt over his head when he
ran into the locker room to talk with his Phys Ed teacher that one time. It’s
funny how much you can see when you know what to look for. Who to look for.
According to Roger, Blondie’s been attending their grubby little public school
for a few years now, made the transfer from middle school to high school right
alongside them, but that’s all he knows. Jack starts asking around, talking to
people he thinks might respond to him without it being too strange, and he gets
a name - Ralph.
It’s kind of a run-of-the-mill name, wouldn’t be on Jack’s top ten list, but it
belongs to the boy, therefore it’s perfect. After he sees the kid again - Ralph
- in the corner of his eye during a passing period, he decides that it actually
does suit him, and he tastes the name on his tongue as it passes his lips in a
whisper.
It’s not enough, though. Jack can’t explain the newfound - god forbid -
fascination he’s discovered in some random sixteen year-old kid. There are so
many things he needs to know, past his birthday and his favorite color and
whatnot - the heave of his shoulders when he’s drenched in sweat, the stretch
of his smile when it’s directed at you, the scent when he’s fresh out of the
shower with a towel wrapped around the circumference of his slim waist, the
sound of his laughter when something’s really funny. What he’d look like with
the light of a fire flickering across his skin, those supple-looking hands
dripping in diesel and shaking with adrenaline.
Of course Jack realizes this isn’t normal behavior, at least for him, but he’s
never really had anyone he considered a real friend so perhaps this is how he’s
supposed to feel.
But then again, probably not.
                                      |||
The anger’s been building for half an hour when Jack throws his backpack into
the dark mass of night outside the window and hears the clank of his supplies
jostling against the turf. The joints in his fingers are locking and unlocking
without his permission and his teeth grind grooves in one another as he
struggles to finish tying off the last knot on his sneakers before gripping the
edge of the window and climbing onto the sill. The cold air slams into him
immediately and sinks beneath the layers of a flannel, sweatshirt, and t-shirt
to prickle his skin with goosebumps. He doesn’t think twice about kicking his
feet out from under his weight and his fingers scrape on the chipping paint of
the frame as he propels his body towards the ground, shirt slipping up his
torso from the momentum. He’s so amped up he can hardly feel it when he lands,
the transition between falling and running nearly seamless, stopping only to
scoop up his backpack and throw it over his shoulders.
And then all he knows is moving. His shoes have worn a familiar path into their
soles so he’s not even thinking as he runs through the night like a knife
cutting through the air. His feet hammer against the pavement in time with his
ragged breathing, now borderline painful as he sucks the frigid cold into his
lungs. He grits his teeth and forces himself to go faster.
When he turns off the main road and breaks through the first line of trees, the
muscles in his legs are screaming in agony and he’s hunched forward, shaking in
bottled-up anger, teeth bared and lips twitching. A line of saliva drips from
his chin and joins the glaze of dew on the forest floor as his clenched teeth
rattle his gums sore. He feels weak, tired, and the pain in his knees from the
fall earlier starts to register when his jeans scratch against the open skin.
The flesh of his fingers is red and raw, the pull of his backpack an anchor.
But that white hot anger is still throbbing inside him like a jar full of bees
fighting to be released, so he pushes himself further. Faster.
After a few minutes of running he comes to a halt at his usual spot, lungs
heaving, his mouth twisted into a snarl. It’s a comparatively small clearing,
maybe thirty or forty feet in diameter, encircled by a ring of frosted trees
that spear the night on their stalks. He’d been coming here ever since he found
it two summers ago on a drunken night with Roger, although his friend had long
forgotten it. This place was made for Jack, or at least what he always does
with it - most of the ground is bare and the grassy patches are thin and dry,
not to mention the weak stream only a stone’s throw from the perimeter. Just
looking at it makes his heart speed up in anticipation.
He scouts out for a dry spot - it’d rained yesterday so the ground is damp and
pushing up around the white rubber trim of his Converse. There’s one on a
slightly raised mound of earth near the center, and Jack drops his backpack and
wastes no time digging his fingers into the dirt to rip out chunks of grass. He
plunges his teeth into his bottom lip and growls, animalistic with the thirst
for what’s to come, to satiate this all-consuming anger. He thrusts his fingers
into it, mud forcing itself between his nails and the pads of his fingers as he
claws at the ground until there’s a large shallow circle cleared before him.
He has to leave the clearing in search of dry wood he can use for tinder, which
turns out to be a  difficult task. Every moment he spends idle is an
opportunity for the rage he harbors to grow restless, to overwhelm him with
anticipation and anxiety and a pain that’s all too satisfying. By the time he
has a small armful of bark and branches, he’s crying with the emotion of it
all, growls ripped from his throat between wet gasps.
His hands are almost useless when he sets to work building a teepee from
sticks, smaller pieces of wood lining the base of the little structure, some
cardboard scraps and printer paper for kindling that Jack pulled out of his
bag. His patience has long since run short once he finishes off the circle with
some stones, just to be on the safe side.
He’s sloppy with the lighter fluid, sobbing and near the point of
hyperventilation, sloshing it messily over the teepee, probably dousing the
ground more than the wood. He fiddles with the matches, his fingers shaking as
he strikes it and throws it into the center of the pit.
It roars up, swallows the tinder in it’s lapping flames, tongues of fire
reaching towards the sky and eating up the darkness to form a bright flickering
pillar above. Jack shuts his eyes and releases a heavy breath, feels his
muscles melt underneath his skin and his limbs go slack. He sinks to the
ground, eyes lidded, and basks in the content euphoria that washes over him as
the tendrils of flames lick at his hands, just out of reach. His anger becomes
fodder for the fire, charred to a crisp and replaced with mesmerized
excitement. It's warm, bright, the kiss of heat against his front sends sparks
up his spine.
Jack sits there for a long time, until he's poking at the dying fire with a
stick and twirling his fingers above the last flame. It singes his skin a bit,
raises color underneath his flesh. His body feels heavy and sluggish as he
drags himself to his feet and stamps out the last of the fire until the only
light is from the soft glow of the moon peaked in the sky. He's calm, tired and
content as he sweeps the lighter fluid and extra kindling into his backpack and
slings it on.
He’s floating on serotonin and dopamine and all that good stuff on the trek out
of the forest, savoring the relief that the fire gave him before he has to
return to reality. He trudges along, kicking at sprouting weeds that are in his
way. Checks his phone, a text from Roger - what was tonight’s chem hw? - to
which he responds, the finals study guide you fuckin dildo.
It’s not as easy getting back into his window than it was getting out of it,
and surprisingly not much less painful. By the time Jack’s pulled himself
through the frame into the heated warmth of his room, shucked off his muddy
sneakers and clothes, rubbed the bitter smell of sweat off under a cold shower,
and collapsed onto his bed, there’s definitely more bruises cropping up on his
skin than there were before he tried scaling the side of his house. The clock
beside his bed blinks 3:17 in bold neon letters after he reads Roger’s reply -
thanks a million shithead - and throws his phone to the foot of the bed. His
body is completely worn out - numb, aching, even his head feels heavy when it
sinks into the pillow, and he’s asleep in seconds.
                                     ||| 
Surprise, surprise, Jack’s alarm clock fails to go off the morning after, the
perfect opportunity for some anime opening scene shit to go down. The only
thing that ends up stirring him awake is the morning light and a cold breeze
blowing through the window he didn’t even bother to close the night before.
His whole body hurts and the vertebrae pop in his neck when he lifts it to rub
the salty crust out of his eyes. His hand flops around for his phone, and he
swipes past the lock screen and flips through it. He yawns and runs a hand
through the mess of red curls on his head before lugging his dead weight out of
bed and rummaging around in his drawers for a clean pair of jeans and a t-
shirt. He’s probably not going to make the bus this morning, which sets him up
for a forty-five minute walk through town. Oh, and English finals, the cherry
on top of his curdled ice cream sundae.
It takes Jack ten minutes to get out of the house and headfirst into the brisk
morning air. It’s weird how different a landscape can appear from night to day.
He’d walked - well, ran - this same stretch of the neighborhood last night. It
actually looked kind of interesting, if not depressing, when you stopped to see
the overgrown lawns and the loose shingles on the rooftops instead of a blur
through the dim light of a lamp post in your peripheral. If he was a poetic
kind of guy, he might say the same thing about Ralph. When you stop and notice
something for what it is, pay attention to detail and see it in a different
light, it gets much more intriguing.
He pulls his flannel tighter against himself as another gust of wind rustles
his hair and rouses some pink into his cheeks and nose. It’s one thing if
you’re waiting in the cold for the bus, but it’s a whole different story when
you’re walking into the belly of the beast - more like the ice cube up Mother
Nature’s ass.
The can of lighter fluid is still clanking in the bottom of his backpack as
Jack cuts across the street to take what will hopefully be a time-saving
shortcut. He doesn’t want to go through downtown anyway, and the forest wraps
around a good half of the town so he should be able to get back on the main
road fairly close to school.
It’s a much more picturesque walk once he veers away from the garbage cans and
ugly mailboxes in plastic pots, and Jack finds himself enjoying breathing in
the fresh scent of pine needles once he gets past how freaking cold it is in
the winter months. Dead leaves crunch underneath his feet while he looks up at
the towering trees splayed out in thin branches that create a lattice high over
his head, rays of soft sunlight streaming through the gaps and pouring onto the
ground. He thinks about taking Ralph here before nightfall, the colors of the
sunset must look beautiful falling through the trees onto the ground that time
of day. Probably even better falling onto his skin.
He stops at that thought, shocked enough to register his surroundings. He’s in
clearing, smaller than the one that he’s been using, and he’s a few feet away
from a small pile of charred ash and a crumpled candy wrapper, not a soul to be
seen.
His heart thumps a little faster. He bends down quickly, knees groaning in
protest, and skims the lump of ash with his fingertips. Dry.
Dry?
The pit around it is dry as well, the rest of the grass brushed with morning
dew.
It’s recent. Someone was here last night. Not him. Not his fire. Someone
cleared out a space, lit a fire, and left with only a mound of dust and some
litter to show they were ever there.
It couldn’t have been - ?
He grabs the wrapper, a deluxe Kit Kat bar with some chocolate crumbs melting
in the bottom, and shoves it into his pocket without another thought.
                                      |||
Jack wouldn’t have even cared if there was someone in the bathroom when he
burst through the door and slammed the first stall shut on its hinges. He can’t
calm the tremor in his breathing, the throbbing need pooling low in his groin.
He doesn’t even try. Just thumbs the lock on the door and grinds the heel of
his palm into the bulge tenting his jeans.
He wasn’t even looking for him. It all happened so fast that he could’ve
imagined it, maybe influenced by the paranoia that flared up after seeing the
remnants on the forest floor. Maybe it wasn’t his. Maybe Jack was drawing
conclusions too fast and pointing fingers at who he wanted to blame.
But that wouldn’t explain the ring of dirt soaking into the hem of Ralph’s
jeans and the smudge of ash on the sleeve of that green cardigan, now would it?
His groan is audible and bounces off the bathroom walls when he fully cups
himself through the coarse material of his pants. One hand braces itself weakly
against the door, scratching into the painted metal, while the other pulls down
the zipper and replaces the gust of cold air with a hot, sweaty palm. He shoves
his hips up toward his hand gracelessly, ripping a cry from his throat.
It was Ralph. He knows it with the same primal instinct that surges up when he
feels the need to burn, the desire for something he can’t control. He was
there, in the same fucking forest on the same fucking night, maybe only a third
of a mile between them. He imagines it, thinks about what he might have done if
he’d seen that wisp of smoke thinning out just above the treeline, calling to
him like a siren’s song. If he’d crushed his own fire under his feet and ran,
spotted Ralph’s body hunched over a sputtering flame, if he’d slammed him into
the ground and pressed him into the dewy grass of early morning. He thinks
about swallowing Ralph’s gasp as he licks into his pliant mouth, sucking his
bottom lip between his teeth, cradling his neck in one hand and feeling his
pulse thump like a rabbit’s foot beneath hot skin. His other hand would snake
down his body, ruck up that stupid cardigan to feel the flushed skin
underneath. That’d make him shiver, Jack’s sure.
Maybe Ralph would give in, melt into Jack’s arms and fist his hands in Jack’s
flannel, drag those red curls to the unmarred expanse of his collarbone. He’d
bite. He’d suck angry bruises to the surface as his hand abandons the smooth
flesh of his stomach to press against the seam of Ralph’s fly. Feel the fabric
soak up his precome, a damp, bitter-smelling patch on his jeans. He’d grind his
own clothed erection into Ralph’s, groaning with relief at the friction. And
Ralph would be pinned underneath him, blonde hair fanned out like a halo, dirt
smudged on his face, mouth red and kiss-bitten as he sobbed, canting his hips
to meet Jack’s thrusts. Helpless and wanting, gasping wetly around gulps of
air, blood filling his dick and the heat of the fire burning down his side.
Hot, too hot, almost to the point of pain.
Jack would make him come, unzip his fly and stroke the shaft a few times and
Ralph would be gone to the world, lost in a haze of pleasure as Jack’s lips
crashed into his. Jack would follow soon after, coming right there in his jeans
like a twelve year old watching his first porno. He’d collapse on top of the
smaller boy, all lanky arms and coltish legs tangled together in the light of
the fire, maybe suck him off lazily just to hear Ralph whimper.
He thinks about teasing Ralph’s skin with the heat of a burning ember, enough
to hurt a bit and leave a pink trail in it’s wake. How Ralph would press his
head into the ground and suck a breath between his teeth as his dick quakes in
response. Dirty. Soiled. Eyes lidded and gazing blearily at Jack’s lips.
Right now, Jack’s hungry for him, crying with need, fucking up into his hand
like it’s going out of style. Ralph was there just this morning, he had to be,
feeding kindling into the mouth of the flame with hands trembling in
excitement. Jack can see it perfectly in his head. And oh god - he’s still
wearing the same clothes, he didn’t even change out of his dirty jeans or wash
that precious cardigan he wears all the time before coming to school. He
probably still smells like it, the smoky scent of charred pine still clinging
to his skin.
Jack comes. Releases into a handful of scratchy school-issue toilet paper,
knees shaking and tears in his eyes. He quickly wipes himself off and flushes
the evidence down the drain before he collapses onto the seat of the toilet,
and cries.
                                      |||
Finals come and go over the next few days - a six hour period of non-stop
testing followed by a shift at the convenience store, then hitting the books
before his head hits the pillow when Jack gets home at around nine in the
evening, then doing it all over again the next morning. By the end of the week,
he’s filled out more scantron sheets than he can count, written enough on-
demand essays to raise concern for carpal tunnel, and raked in a hundred bucks
by selling the answers to the trig final to some desperate kids in his grade.
It’s been a madhouse, he swears. Absolutely insane. If he has to fill out one
more multiple choice bubble, his brain is literally going to explode and the
janitor's going to have to clean chunks of Jack off the wall.
The school gives them a three-day weekend as a lame excuse for semester break,
but Jack isn’t complaining when he wakes up at one o’clock on Monday afternoon.
He dresses quickly and is out the door before his dad has the chance to say a
word to him, just the way he likes it. He tucks his headphones into his ears
and the intro of Sonic Youth’s Anti-Orgasm kicks in. The walk to the bus stop
isn't too far, fifteen minutes or so on foot, but it gives him a chance to
stretch his arms out and bathe in the glory of not being in school right now.
Not that spending his time off working an extra shift was a thriller, but it’s
better than being at school where Ralph could be lurking. Actually, Jack’s
probably the lurker in this situation, but who’s being politically correct
here?
It’s just that after The Incident in the bathroom last week, Jack had grown
nervous. Scared even, although he could only admit that to himself. Who can
blame him though, he’s gone sixteen years without having so much as a real
friend, let alone a crush, and he certainly didn’t expect his first one to be
on some guy he hardly knew anything about besides his name.
He figures that distancing himself and busying his head with distractions like
school would give him some time for the newness to wear off and the real
feelings to settle in, but he’s becoming more convinced that this constant need
to see Ralph, to learn about him, to touch him, isn’t going to go away. After a
few days, Jack’s finding some truth in the saying “absence makes the heart grow
fonder."
In fact, he’d never wanted anything more in his life.
When he gets to the bus stop, Jack sprawls himself across the bench - legs
splayed, arms flung out over the back of the seat - and hums along with his
music, content to watch the cars roll down the street. It’s hot enough that he
has to strip off his flannel and tie it around his waist like an idiot. It
doesn’t do much to help, considering his work clothes are made from a flimsy
polyester that cooks anyone who wears it like a Thanksgiving turkey. Jack sighs
and decides that he probably has a few minutes before the bus arrives, so he
digs around in his pocket until he finds his zippo and a crushed half-empty
pack of menthols.
He hunches over and his hand shields the flame from the wind as he lights the
cigarette. The effect is immediate - his muscles loosen while the nicotine
swells in his lungs when he takes a long, pleasing drag. He holds it in for a
few moments, then lolls his head back and blows it out in a grey plume that
gets carried away on the breeze. Another one of his guilty pleasures.
Jack spends the next few minutes sucking down the cigarette, occasionally
leaning forward to tap the ash onto the concrete. It's halfway gone when he
spots someone out of the corner of his eye. His breath stops short when he
turns around and confirms what he thought he saw.
It's Ralph, in a plain grey shirt like the ones you buy in packs of three
instead of the usual cardigan, probably because of the heat. His bangs are
pushed back off his forehead - looks like he got rid of his acne - and he's
carrying some of those reusable cloth shopping bags. Jack's staring at him, and
Ralph's staring at the lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. Jack tugs
his headphones from his ears and shifts to make room for Ralph on the bench,
which the other boy returns with a soft thank-you that has Jack gnawing on the
inside of his cheek. The blonde boy doesn't say anything about the cigarette in
Jack's hand, but he can't seem to take his eyes off it.
Surprisingly, it's Ralph who speaks first. "Uhm, you work at the Fresh-Mart off
State Street, right?"
He's even more lovely up close. Jack forces himself to relax against the seat
despite his pounding heart. "Funny you should say that, I'm actually on my way
over right now." He looks pointedly at the bags folded neatly on Ralph's lap.
"Looks like you are too." he finishes, taking a draw from his cigarette and
releasing the smoke through the corner of his mouth.
Ralph laughs awkwardly, scratches the nape of his neck then rests his arm
across the back of the bench. "Yeah, just runnin' errands 'n stuff." A pause.
So nervous. "You ah - we go to school together? I'm Ralph."
Like he doesn't already know. "Oh yeah, I've seen you around. 'm Jack." He
extends the hand that isn't holding his cigarette and Ralph takes it with a
look of relief on his face, like he was waiting for Jack to initiate it. The
press of his small, thin hand against Jack's larger one sends his heart rate
soaring. So soft.
"Hold up, I've seen you in the shop before! You're the kid who buys all that
ramen, aren't you?"
This prompts a real chuckle from Ralph - sweet and airy like a bird's song on
the wind, just like he imagined it would sound - and he props his chin up on
his hand as his lips turn slightly upward at Jack. "Yep, that'd be me. Hey, I'm
sure you were up as late as I was for finals, at least I was smart enough to
get sustenance."
Witty. He likes that. Jack rolls his eyes and puts his cigarette back up
against his smirk. He takes a long drag and blows the gust of smoke playfully
in Ralph's direction. That gets a laugh out of him, all scrunched up eyes and
hands batting the cloud away as he squeaks out "what the hell, Jack?" around a
bright smile. It's the kind of smile that pokes dimples in his cheeks, wrinkles
the skin next to his eyes, positively infectious, and Jack finds his cheeks
hurting with the wide split of his own grin. It's over all too soon when the
loud rumble of the bus breaks the clarity of the moment, and it grinds up to
the curb with an exhausted sigh.
Jack stubs his cigarette out on the bench's armrest and throws it onto the
sidewalk before turning to Ralph. "You're going the same way, right?"
Ralph nods shyly and steps through the sliding doors onto the bus, Jack
following close after and filling the empty seat next to the boy. Their
shoulders bump together lightly and it sends jolts of electricity through his
veins.
Hours later, he still feels the heat of Ralph’s side pressed against his own
crawling under his skin.
                                      |||
To anyone thinking that working the night shift for a big-name retail franchise
has any benefits whatsoever, this is a public service announcement : you’re
wrong. Just picture it. You’ve already been awake for twelve hours when you
clock in and your body’s resisting any manual labor you’re forcing it to
perform. The customers are either cranky, drunk or just as tired as you,
especially the older ones who always have a lecture to give or an insult to
throw. It might be somewhat bearable if the conditions weren’t twice as bad as
they are during the day, but it’s still the same low pay and the same shitty
coworkers, except it’s dark and spooky outside.
This is Jack’s current predicament - spending his wild Friday night staring
mindlessly at the computer screen as he scans the items and throws them
clumsily into a shopping bag. The usual chick called and asked if he could
cover for her last minute, so he’s working the register this evening - which
isn’t half as fun as he always thought it would be. He’s been working a lot
lately since the teachers seem to be easing them into the second semester and
he can handle the homework load enough to squeeze in a few extra shifts. This
is what his fleeting teenage years are worth, apparently - seven dollars and
twenty-five cents an hour. How pathetic.
There aren’t any customers in his lane after he checks the last person out, a
burly guy that looks like he should be sulking in the forest and chopping up
firewood, so he grabs a mop and sets about cleaning up the dirt tracks Mr.
Lumberjack had left. The asshole.
Occupied with something easier to do, he takes a moment to reflect on the past
week. God, the surprise on Ralph’s face when he’d walked into his new English
class and saw Ralph sitting in the back corner, tapping a pencil against his
pink lips. When the shock melted into a small smile and he made a motion for
Jack to take the empty desk beside him. Jack must’ve looked like such an idiot,
almost tripping over his own feet as he walked over and plopped into the seat.
They don’t have much time to talk in class - something seriously crawled up the
teacher’s ass and died there - so they pass notes, little blurry drawings or
questions like are you the kind of person who adds the extra milk and butter to
your easy mac?? because you sure seem like one which always make Ralph roll his
eyes. Sometimes he catches the skim of Ralph’s fingers when he hands the note
back and he’s always unprepared for it.
They’re not really good friends yet - Jack’s never going to be able to think of
him as just a friend anyway - so they always split up after English. Jack goes
begrudgingly to sit with Roger under the bleachers, but he always finds himself
watching Ralph and his fat friend on the other side of the field, wishing
beyond hope that he could be the one keeping him company. Sometimes he swears
he sees Ralph staring back.
The angels must be shining down on him today when he shakes himself out of
dreamland to see Ralph walking down the aisle he’s finishing mopping up. How in
god’s name did he go so many years without at least registering his existence?
The kid’s everywhere he goes. Jack leans against the mop in an attempt to
strike a nonchalant yet boner-inducing pose, waving. “Hey, Ralph!”
It catches Ralph’s attention and he walks over, carrying a basket full of carb-
soaked junk. He rolls up the sleeves of his green cardigan - does he ever wear
anything else? - and smiles as a greeting. “Oh hey, Jack.” His eyebrows bunch
together. Cute. “It’s kinda late, isn’t it?”
Jack snorts. “Look who’s talking.”
“Oh, shut up. Why are you working so late? You’ve mentioned hating your job
like -” He stops to pretend to count on his fingers. “- a bazillion and one
times since I met you.”
Jack shrugs. “What can I say? Consumerism never sleeps, so neither will I.”
Ralph blows out an exasperated sigh and looks like he’s trying to give Jack a
serious look, but his eyes are glinting with amusement. He reaches out to pat
Jack’s shoulder and says, “Whatever makes it worth the minimum wage, man”
before he turns around to head towards the checkout lanes.There’s a buzzing
warmth thrumming under his skin in the shape of Ralph’s handprint on his
shoulder, and he scrambles to say something that’ll continue the interaction.
Before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “Wait! Let me check you out!" Ralph
raises an eyebrow. "Um, your - uh, items, I mean. I’m on the register tonight.
I can, you know. Check them out. If you want.” Nailed it, Merridew.
He plucks up his mop and awkwardly rushes to his lane, fiddles with the hem of
his shirt while Ralph chuckles and unloads his basket onto the conveyor belt.
He rings each item and stuffs it into the bag - more ramen, cans of soda, a
microwave pizza. What a dork.
Then he scans the barcode on a deluxe Kit Kat bar, and his fingers freeze as
he's thrown back to the morning he spotted the evidence of a fire. Ralph's
fire. He knew it.
Ralph’s pulling his wallet out when Jack gets the idea, abandons Ralph at the
register with a quick “I’ll back in a sec” and runs towards the back aisle.
He’s true to his word, and he’s back moments later holding a dark green bic
lighter in a little plastic package. Ralph’s eyes go wide and his eyebrows
shoot towards his hairline, but Jack pays him no mind as the scanner beeps and
he drops it into the bag with the receipt. Ralph is still staring at him
nervously, plucking at his worn cardigan and biting his lip even when the bags
are safely in his arms.
Jack's looking right at him, close enough that he can notice the flecks of
brown swirling around his otherwise green eyes. It makes his heart flip. He
leans forward and whispers to him, even when there’s nobody within earshot.
“It’s cool, Ralph. I get it. Like, I get it.”
In the next few seconds Jack takes notice of the way Ralph’s shoulders melt
when it dawns on him that Jack really understands, how his eyes glaze over with
something Jack’s afraid to identify, his pink tongue darting out to swipe over
his bottom lip. Then he reaches over the counter in one fluid motion and takes
Jack’s hand in his. The metal chain attached to the store pen jingles as he
turns Jack’s sweaty palm up, grazing his thumb across his wrist, and writes out
his phone number on his skin in a tall, looping font. It’s the closest he’s
been to Ralph since that day on the bus. If he leaned forward an inch, he’d
have his nose buried in that soft blonde hair.
Ralph squeezes Jack’s hand once with his own and it lingers for a moment after
he drops the pen back on the table. His voice is low and shy when he whispers
something that rings deep in Jack’s ears for hours after the boy smirks and
leaves the store without another word:
“Nice choice, green’s my favorite color.”
                                      |||
After that night, it’s like the floodgates burst open and Jack couldn’t put
them back up even if he wanted to. Gone is Ralph’s shyness, the hesitation in
his smiles, the tremor in his voice when he says something sharp and hopes Jack
catches the sarcasm. Jack gave him the validation he needed in those few words,
and Ralph picked up on all the undertones - he understands Ralph’s desperate
hunger for the bright flare of a fire as it gulps down the tinder, hell, even
the flickering light of a flame held close to the skin, because Jack feels the
same craving that keeps them both awake at night.
Jack’s not sure if Ralph completely trusts him yet, but he’s more than willing
to wait. He’s got him, it all fell into place perfectly and half of it happened
by chance alone. Ralph’s social circle is just as embarrassingly lacking as
Jack’s is - consisting of only that fat kid who Jack later learns goes by
Piggy, and a soft-spoken Indian boy named Simon who squeaks at the lightest of
taps on the shoulder, both too unaware to share the knowledge of the drive that
burns inside of their friend. It’s easy for Ralph to break away from them and
spend his lunch periods fucking around with Jack under the bleachers, and Roger
couldn’t care less.
Jack’s infatuation never falters, only grows more passionate as the
conversations passed back and forth in English continue over text. His phone
will vibrate in the middle of class with a text from Ralph asking for a
screenshot of his trig homework, or he’ll open up his messages app in the
breakroom at work to see a picture of some tree bark that Ralph claims looks
exactly like Vincent Vega from Pulp Fiction. Sometimes they stay up until the
early hours of the morning texting back and forth until one of them falls
asleep, and they pick up right where they left off when they meet on the bus to
school a few hours later.
It’s not long before they start hanging out after school hours, going anywhere
as long as they’re in one another’s company. Sometimes they don’t have to look
further than Jack’s room when his dad’s away, watching cartoons on Jack’s
laptop with bowls of cold cereal in their hands or laying side by side on his
bed and copying off one another’s homework while a CD’s playing. Ralph’s scent
is everywhere even after he leaves, burnt pine and oily hair hovering
underneath a fresh soap smell, and Jack finds himself breathing it in as he
tries to fall asleep at night.
On paydays he splurges, spending a good chunk of money on what he’d like to
call a date if he ever had the chance. They’ll spend Saturday nights stuffing
their faces with pizza and sodas at the bowling alley even though they have no
idea how to bowl, and always end up having to raise the bumpers so they don’t
get gutterballs every time. The bus only runs until ten o’clock at night, so
they’ll end up having to trek back to Jack’s place on foot when the employees
finally kick them out. Ralph will usually crash at his house on nights like
this, sprawling across the foot of his bed because “my house is too fuckin’ far
away, Jack”, and Jack is so totally on board with that idea.
But most of the time, they hang out in the forest. Jack hasn’t shown him his
spot yet, where he’s burned more wood into the ground than he can fathom, but
they discover places that they can share. There’s one spot deep in the woods
that has really tall, spindly trees with branches reaching out in all
directions that are great for climbing, and they can spend hours at a time
sitting high above the ground, straddling the tree’s limbs and holding
cigarettes to each other's mouths.
They haven’t really introduced fire, although Jack lets him play with his zippo
and teaches him how to do tricks with it. It’s a step up from the green lighter
Jack got him all those weeks ago which is now covered in stickers and filled up
with diesel. Ralph carries it everywhere he goes, and seeing him use it fills
Jack with a strange sense of pride.
It’s so nice to have something to be excited about again. To long for someone,
to look forward to seeing them. He misses Ralph the moment they part ways, his
heart soars when he sees his phone light up with a new message and feels the
disappointment plummet him right back down when it’s just his dad reminding him
to be back before curfew. He feels things other than anger, things that can’t
be fixed by running into the forest to release them, emotions that cling to him
and rush to the surface at the strangest of times. It’s like Ralph’s pulling
back the curtains and shedding light on a range of emotions he didn’t know he
could experience, and he feels drunk on the new found happiness in his everyday
life. But he’s greedy, so greedy, and Jack knows he wants more from Ralph then
he’ll ever be willing to give him.
                                      |||
The three boys are spread out in a striped sort of sunny spot under the
bleachers, taking turns sipping the cocktail they'd created from Ralph's usual
can of coke, Jack's 7-Up, and three Rockstars Roger had stashed in the bottom
of his backpack when the bell interrupts them. At Ralph's question of "what are
we going to do with the rest?", Roger knocks the last of it back with a
straight face, gathers up his things, and heads in the direction of his next
class without a word.
Ralph wrinkles his nose. "Ugh, I know he’s your friend, but he gives me the
creeps. How did he do that? I only had a few sips and my hands are shaking -
look!" Jack grins at Ralph's dramatic display of thrusting his hands into the
air like a B-horror film monster. He matches the blonde's enthusiasm and makes
a show of lowering Ralph’s hands back down.
"That's 'cause you don't drink 'em often like he does. You don't think the dark
circles under his eyes are fake, do you? Kid never sleeps." After a moment, he
tacks on, “He’s not my friend”, and slings his backpack over his shoulder.
Ralph cuts him off by catching his wrist and stuttering out a soft "wait",
which immediately gets Jack's attention. Ralph lets go as soon as he turns
around, to Jack’s dismay, and he savors the tingle on his skin that lasts for a
few moments before fading away. "You're ah, you're free tonight, yeah?"
"Free as the United States." Jack quips back.
Ralph groans. "Really? Is that the best you could come up with? That's a
horrible analogy. You're losing your touch, Merridew." He pauses, pushes his
bangs back, and continues. "And you're going to work after school too?"
"Yeah." Jack gives him a suspicious look. "No? What's the answer supposed to be
here? I can try to change my hours if you have something planned."
Ralph holds out his hands like he's trying to stop Jack's train of thought
physically. "No, nothing like that - I mean, it's good that you're working
today. I was going to ask you for something.” He licks his lips. “A favor."
Jack can feel his own excitement building. "Ask away."
"Do you think you could get some vodka?"
"From the store?"
Ralph tugs on his fingers. "Yeah, from the store. You see, my mom's out of the
house this weekend and you've never been able to hang out at my place because
she's always there. I, um - had an idea for something we could do, but I know
she'll notice if I have to water any of her alcohol down. You don't have to if
you don't want to, I mean it's no big deal -"
It's Jack who cuts him off this time. "I can try. If I have the opportunity to
get some, I will."
He gets a classic Ralph smile in response, stretching from ear to ear, crow’s
feet crinkling by his eyes.
                                      |||
Agreeing to bring the alcohol, it seems, is a lot simpler than actually getting
his hands on it. When Jack usually gets drunk, it’s off some cheap beer he
bummed from his brother, who in turn bummed it from his older friends, so he’s
never had to face the drama of an attempt to obtain some himself. There’s a
display case behind the counter that Jack doesn’t have the key to, and there’s
no way he could find the time to crack into it with the amount of customers
that are pouring in. He briefly considers paying someone to buy it for him, but
immediately shoots the idea down. They all know him as the underaged bagger at
Fresh-Mart, and there are enough snooping senior citizens around that would be
glad to tell his father that his sixteen year-old son is bribing strangers for
alcohol at his place of work.
In the end, he takes the bus to a corner store on the outskirts of town when
his shift is over, and arrives at Ralph’s place around eight o’clock with a
stolen bottle of Smirnoff in his backpack.
Ralph’s house is big, but it doesn’t have the air of grandeur you’d expect from
it. He just shows Jack around the first floor, because upstairs is only his
mother’s room and a ton of empty closets, and Jack can’t imagine how much it
must cost to heat all that blank space. It feels lonely. He knows Ralph’s dad
died during his service to the Navy, but Jack never thought he’d be able to
feel the hole he left in the house. No wonder Ralph spends so much time away
from home, he looks like he hates it. Well, the memories at least.
“- and last but not least, drum roll please… I’m serious Jack, it’s not that
hard -” Jack makes an exasperated groan but leans forward and pats his thighs
nonetheless, which seems to please Ralph into continuing. “- the backyard!”
Jack’s jaw drops the moment he swings the double doors open. It’s huge; the
patio is made from slabs of granite that probably weigh a thousand pounds
apiece, and the tiles flare out around the circumference of the yard. There’s a
hammock and some garden chairs spread out on the grass next to a deep pool, and
when Ralph flips a switch on the wall, a string of hanging lanterns spark and
illuminate the area in soft light.
“Are you planning to stand there in shock all night? Because it’ll be much more
comfortable if you take a seat and then gawk.” Ralph teases, snapping Jack’s
jaw closed with his hand.
Jack chooses to ignore his sarcasm this time, still frozen to the spot. “Shit,
Ralph. Why didn’t you ever tell me your family’s loaded? I wish your mom was
gone all the time, this is awesome!”
“Believe me, the feeling is mutual. I wish she was gone more often, too.” He
grabs Jack’s hand, the one that’s holding the vodka, and Jack doesn’t know if
the way Ralph’s fingers overlap his as they clutch the neck of the bottle is
supposed to mean anything. Ralph drags him to the edge of the pool, kicks his
shoes off and dips his feet in the water. “Come sit.”
Jack follows suit, rolling up his jeans so they don’t get wet and plops down
next to the other boy, who takes the vodka and peels off the red foil. “Ooh,
this was your plan? Are we getting drunk next to the pool and gazing at the
stars? How cute”,  he jokes - not really. He sucks in a breath when his feet
skim the cold water. “You could’ve asked for something classier than vodka,
though. Like wine.”
Ralph unscrews the cap and holds the bottle to his nose, which scrunches up at
the smell. “No, we need something strong enough for this to work.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “For what to work?”
Ralph digs his lighter out of his pocket and holds it up so Jack can see it.
His eyes are gleaming in the artificial light of the lanterns with something
mischievous, and an excited grin cracks across his face. “We’re gonna make a
flamethrower.”
Jack’s cheeks split to make room for a smile that mimics Ralph’s. His heart
rate accelerates and he can already feel sweat gathering on his palms. There’s
energy rushing through him even at the suggestion, Jesus, and he pants out,
“You’re kidding, we totally shouldn’t”, praying to whatever god’s out there
listening that Ralph will do it anyway.
“I saw it in Inuyasha one time. Renkotsu did it, no problem.”
He stands up and takes a long swig, right from the bottle, cringes at the
taste. It brings a soft blush to his face that makes Jack dig his nails into
the flesh of his palms. So pretty. “You’re supposed to spray it out between
your teeth and make sure it goes through the flame,” Ralph says, clicking his
gums for emphasis.
He takes another drink - this time his cheeks swell as he holds it in - and
flicks on his lighter. It flares up significantly higher than your typical bic,
thanks to the modifications he’s made. Ralph is careful to hold it an arm’s
length away from his face, and when he spits the alcohol out it blasts a hot
stream of fire that balloons up into the air like a mushroom cloud. He chokes
back the rest of the vodka when the flame gets close to his face and he drops
his lighter, falling to the ground with it in excited laughter.
They lose themselves in the adrenaline of the moment, taking turns gulping down
the vodka that scorches down their throats and makes their mouths dry,
squirting out lines of alcohol over the pool and gazing wide-eyed at the plumes
of hot fire that stretch up towards the black night. Their words turn into
shouts and whoops and cackles, all lidded eyes and lips wet with liquor,
dancing around their flames in drunken disarray. The fire licks so close to
Jack’s face one time that Ralph swears he’d burnt his freckles clean off. The
touch of Ralph’s hand on his cheek is hotter than anything he’d experienced
that whole night and holy fuck, fires are so much better when you have someone
to light them with.
Jack wakes up the next morning on the steps of the pool, half-in half-out of
the water, and his entire lower body is wrinkled and pruny. He’s got a killer
headache and he feels sluggish as he lays out on the dry lip of the pool, the
empty Smirnoff bottle at his feet and Ralph’s sleeping form by his head. They’d
both stripped down to their boxers when they’d finished half the bottle, pushed
each other into the water and floated on their backs to stare at the starless
sky.
Jack rolls over to Ralph, tucks a strand of blonde hair behind the shell of his
ear, still soft as ever even when soaked in chlorine and vodka. He would have
given in to temptation and pressed their lips together right there, but he
wanted Ralph to be fully aware the first time they’d kiss.
                                      |||
The tone of their relationship shifts after that night, so subtle that Jack
would’ve missed it if he wasn’t a pro at obsessing over Ralph’s actions.
There’s more fire, which they’re both completely ecstatic over - even if it’s
just tinkering with the mechanisms on Jack’s stovetop so the fire flares up
when you turn the gas on, “extreme cooking” as Ralph calls it. Sometimes they
hike deep into the woods in search of dead birds or squirrels to light up,
although Ralph’s always a little squeamish when it comes to that sort of thing.
The upfront sharing of their - let’s face it - pyromania isn’t what feeds
Jack’s desire when he’s got his hand on his dick though, even if he much
prefers Ralph grinning in the glow of a flame than not. It’s the small things
that changed - the way Ralph sits next to him so their sides brush if they’re
not sitting perfectly still, how he seems to sink into Jack’s touch when he
dares to wrap an arm around the curve of his shoulders, the lingering glances,
the increased intimacy. When spring break rolls around, Ralph just packs a
suitcase and crashes at Jack’s on Friday and doesn’t leave until the next
Sunday evening. It’s notable to mention that he didn’t mind sharing Jack’s bed,
and Jack always has to wake up at the crack of dawn to take care of his boner
under a cold shower stream before Ralph gets up.
Jack might be reading too deep into it, and maybe Ralph’s just desperate for a
close friend who relates to him, but there’s a pulling feeling in his gut that
tells him he isn’t over-analyzing this.
Today, Ralph’s supposed to take his behind-the-wheel test for his license and
Ralph is freaking the fuck out. They’ve both had their permits for a while now,
too lazy to do anything about it and their parents too absent to take them
driving for practice. Although Ralph probably has a few more hours under his
belt than Jack does and he’s a pretty decent driver, he’s forgotten half the
rules of the road. It doesn’t really help that Ralph’s been digging through
Yelp reviews written as long ago as 2006 on the instructor that’s supposed to
take him out on the course. Three and a half stars seems a lot worse when
you’re focusing on the negative.
To be honest, Jack’s surprised when Ralph’s god damn Prius pulls up to the
curb. He really didn’t expect him to pass, but there he is honking obnoxiously
outside the house, so Jack pulls on his jean jacket and laces up his shoes to
dart out the door.
Ralph looks overly pleased with himself when Jack slides into the passenger
seat, waggling eyebrows and all. “Looks like we won’t have to be taking the bus
anymore, you’re welcome.” Ralph chimes.
We. The corner of Jack’s mouth quirks up slightly, and he straps on his
seatbelt. “Isn’t there like a certain amount of time you gotta have your
license before you can just take people with you, like a provisionary thing? ‘m
pretty sure it’s illegal.”
Ralph turns, a smile playing on his lips. “Only if we get caught.” he says,
putting the key in the ignition and flooring it onto the road.
Jack scoffs and leans his head on his hand, elbow hanging out the open window.
“Whatever you say, man. I sure hope you’re a good driver. Wait, wait, let’s see
the license, shall we?”
Ralph crams a hand into his pocket and fishes his wallet out, throws it into
Jack’s lap. Jack opens it up and there it is in all it’s glory, already in the
tab protected by that sacred plastic sheath made just for licenses. The
picture’s good, but you can tell that Ralph’s forcing an awkward smile at the
camera, and it makes Jack reminisce to the times before he’d coaxed the sweet
kid out of his shell.
Jack whistles, strokes his hand over the back of Ralph’s neck in a joking
manner that’s totally not a joke at all. “Real cute. You clean up good, Ralph.”
The fucker just exaggerates pushing back into the touch, puckers his lips and
winks at Jack, then pops a CD into the slot and ends the conversation.
                                      |||
Ralph ends up pulling into the parking lot of a movie theater - not your
average health-inspector-approved cineplex, but a shady run-down establishment
that sells hard candy instead of popcorn and projects the movie onto a pull-
down screen like they have in portable elementary school classrooms. Jack would
complain, but the tickets were dirt-cheap and they get into an R-rated movie
without getting carded. It’s mediocre at best, some independent horror flick
with a film quality only slightly better than the Blair Witch Project. It
doesn’t matter, they don’t even pay that much attention to it besides the parts
where the serial killer ups the body count. It’s nice getting out and doing
something different, even if it’s just wasting time in a different location
than usual.
The last sliver of sun is just slipping under the horizon when they walk back
to the car side by side. There’s hardly anyone on the road - either because
they’re on the edge of town or because the high school’s big football game is
tonight, probably both. It’s easy enough to find a drive-through that sells
them some sodas and fries absolutely dripping in grease, and after scarfing
them down in the parking lot like the growing teenage boys they are, Jack and
Ralph make the unspoken unanimous decision to just drive until they run out of
gas.
It’s too cloudy to see the stars, but it’s oddly reassuring for Jack to know
that they’re up there. There’s a quiet aura around them, a comfortable silence
neither wants to break. Ralph is next to him, drumming his fingers on the
steering wheel, cardigan knotted around his waist.
It’s probably contradictory how physically beautiful someone can look once you
get past their actual appearance. Ralph was good-looking to start out with, but
Jack realizes that the more he got to know him, when he decided to shut up for
once and listen to what Ralph had to say, the more gorgeous he looked. Because
he started to see his mind in his features, he saw his wit in the curve of his
nose, his happiness in his cheeks where Jack was always waiting for the dimples
to cave in, that spark of mischief in his eyes that flared up in the smoke of a
dead fire when their hands brush together by accident. And now, even in the
car’s harsh interior lights, Ralph looks as beautiful as ever.
And it’s that beauty that makes Jack want to drown his heart in lighter fluid
and set it ablaze, what makes him want to burn his eyes into the sockets and
perish in his own shortcomings. Because Ralph is everything he isn’t, perfect
on the inside and the outside, melded together in one fascinating creature that
Jack thinks was made for him to want but never to have. God, how he yearns. Not
just the physical closeness, the ability to touch and kiss and feel, to claim
and belong. He wants to be the blonde hair that spills onto his forehead, the
bones that structure his features, the blood pulsing in his veins. Engulfed,
consumed by the boy who stirs life in his heart, who makes him die a little
every day in the knowledge that he’ll never deserve him.
“What are you thinking about?” Ralph whispers.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
The car jolts a bit and Ralph blinks, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Jack claps a hand over his mouth. Fuck. He didn’t just say that. He didn’t just
say that, not to Ralph’s face.
It’s over, it has to be, all those months of earning Ralph’s trust and sharing
his company - oh god, he’d never even thought about what it’d be like to lose
him after getting a taste of what real happiness feels like.
The silence stretches on for what seems like an eternity, each second filled
with agonizing panic on Jack’s part - what could he say to shrug it off? Just
fucking with you? Just joking?
But when he dares to look over at Ralph, he doesn’t look angry. Not the firm
line his mouth presses into when he’s pissed off or even irritated. Instead
it’s slightly open, shuddering out deep breaths and he looks just as nervous as
Jack feels. When he speaks, his voice sounds dry and wrecked.
“Thank god.”
And that’s it. That’s all it takes for everything Jack knows as truth to be
thrown out the open window and into the night behind them. Ralph is looking at
him, teeth dug into his chapped lips, eyes soft and holding so much meaning it
chills the very marrow in Jack’s bones. Jack gulps, heart rate soaring up into
the heavens, and he asks quietly, “Can I try something?”
Ralph nods mutely, and without skipping a beat, Jack presses a feather-light
kiss to the boy’s jaw. His skin is soft and supple, just like he knew it would
be. Ralph’s response is immediate, a breathy gasp, and Jack was going for
something classy and sweet, but he just can’t hold the moment.
He melts into Ralph, arms curling around the small frame, lips latched to the
column of his neck. Jack groans at the feel of Ralph’s warm body trembling in
his arms, how he whimpers and tilts his head for Jack to suck bruises into his
flesh. "God, you're fucking perfect..."
The car jerks forward, and Ralph’s panting out “fuck, Jack, Jesus Christ” into
his red curls, trying to keep his hands steady on the wheel. And Jack doesn’t
care, can’t help the way his hand smooths over Ralph’s fly and pops open the
button, drags down the zipper, feels the swell of Ralph’s dick as it presses up
towards his hand. He’s waited so long, been so patient, and even if he never
sees Ralph again after this, he’ll at least have this memory.
Ralph keens at his touch, a high whine in the back of his throat, and that’s
all the permission Jack needs to close his fist around the other boy’s dick,
his cold, sweaty palm twisting up the hot shaft in a way that makes Ralph catch
his lip underneath his teeth and his breath hitch. Jack licks a wet trail up
his neck, muttering Ralph’s name around gasps of air. He can feel his own cock
filling up his his jeans and he squeezes his thighs around it to relieve some
of the pressure. He’s making Ralph feel good right now, that’s his first
priority. Just wants to make him come.
Ralph jolts when Jack dips down to taste him and he bites out “Oh god, Jack,
you’re gonna make me crash the fucking car” through clenched teeth. He’s
muttering out nonsense, blissed out as Jack wraps his lips around the head, the
hot slide of his erection over the roof of his mouth. Ralph’s fingers are
tangled in a mess of Jack’s hair, and Jack fucking growls when he manages to
suck him down to the hilt.
His fingers are digging into the curve of Ralph’s hips, delicate as bird wings.
Ralph is worked up, so ready and willing and needy, and only minutes later the
car nearly veers off the road when he spills out his release.
Jack groans, tastes him as it hits the back of his throat while Ralph’s hips
are still pumping upwards in desperation, slides his tongue over his teeth to
savor it. Ralph moans, nails sinking into his scalp as he comes down from the
high, pets over the back of Jack’s neck with trembling fingers. Jack collapses,
head resting on Ralph’s thighs, mouthing at any skin he can reach as he looks
up at Ralph’s face - wet with tears and eyes filled with adoration.
The car grinds to a stop on the side of the road and it’s Ralph who yanks Jack
up by the shoulders and shoves their lips together, all teeth and tongue and
raging with pent-up desire. Jack’s hands hook under Ralph’s jaw and he strokes
his thumbs over his cheekbones, while Ralph’s got a fistful of his jean jacket
that he uses to drag Jack closer until he’s got a lapful of Ralph in his arms.
They kiss until their mouths hurt, and they break apart with twin smiles on
their faces. They don’t bother driving back home that night, content to share
one another’s heat as the world keeps turning outside the fleeting moment
between them.
                                      |||
It’s the last day of school when Jack finally takes Ralph to his little
sanctuary in the forest. While all the other kids are loitering outside the
school gates signing yearbooks and making carpool plans for the end-of-the-year
house party, Jack grabs Ralph’s hand and they run to his used Hummer -
purchased as soon as he got his license a few months after the other boy - and
they take off in the direction of the woods.
God, it’d all passed in a whirlwind since that night in the car. Jack had woken
up pressed against the smaller boy in the passenger seat, one arm supporting
the mess of blonde hair on Ralph’s head, the other slung across the small of
his back. The car had been silent for a moment once Ralph had stirred awake
shortly after Jack, neither of them focused on anything but the soft breathing
of the other. He’ll never forget Ralph’s question, “Do you - is this… can this
not be just a one time thing?”, nervous as the day they first saw each other in
the convenience store. Jack had just smiled and tightened his arms around the
body pressed to his chest and whispered, “I don’t know about you, but I could
get used to this.” It was really as simple as that.
The shift from friends to boyfriends had been as natural as the rest of their
relationship - it just fell into place for them to pick up where they’d left
off. Homework assignments abandoned for make-out sessions on Jack’s bed, tree-
climbing in the woods substituted with scraped knees from blowjobs on the
forest floor, that sort of thing. As expected, they became “that one gay
couple” at school, which made their teachers protect them and would’ve made the
girls fawn over them if Jack and Ralph were more popular.
It was all he ever could’ve wanted, and then some.
He parks the car on the side of the road when dusk hits, the last of the day’s
light pinking up the sky. Jack grabs the shopping bags full of firestarter logs
and iced tea from the backseat, and leads Ralph to his spot with a hand around
his wrist.
It seems like a long time since he’s been here when they break through the
thicket of trees to the clearing. It has been a long time, at least five months
since his last fit of anger that drew him into the forest to light up a pile of
dry bark in a crackling fire that burned his sorrows away with it. Ralph
changed fire for the better, steered him away from getting caught in the throes
of rage that only a flame could satiate, and replaced it with excitement and a
rush of buzzing energy. And now he would get to literally burn away the bad
memories this beautiful clearing held, alongside the boy that made it worth all
the pain.
It doesn’t take a long time to find a good patch of ground to set up the
kindling, and Ralph joins him in clearing the area of weeds and shrubs until
there’s a clean circle before them. Jack throws a few firestarter logs into the
shallow pit and splashes them with half a can of fluid - way more than enough
to spark a blazing bonfire. The adrenaline is pulsing through him already,
something that’s never going to wear off, and it looks like Ralph’s high on it
too - flushed and jittery and smiling from ear to ear, crouched next to the
circle.
When Jack fishes out the matches, Ralph speaks, breathy in anticipation. “Can I
light it, Jack?”
Jack digs a blanket out of the bag and spreads it out a few feet away from the
pit. “Have you ever lit up a fire like this?”
Ralph snorts in response. “Don’t be stupid.”
Jack laughs and tosses the matchbox over, which Ralph barely manages to catch.
“Be my guest.”
“Prick.” Ralph quips, but there’s no real bite in his words. He strikes the
match, leans back as he throws it onto the log. It flares immediately and a
great wall of fire soars upwards, spitting out embers that pierce the swirls of
smoke with tiny pinpricks of light. Ralph cries out in elation, eyes shining in
the lapping flames. Jack grins at him and pats the empty spot on the blanket,
holding out an unopened can of Arizona that Ralph takes after curling up next
to him.
Jack loops an arm around his shoulders and kisses his temple, murmurs “Good
job, ‘s pretty” against his skin. “You’re pretty.” he tacks on after a moment.
Ralph playfully elbows him in the gut, tells him to shut up, but there’s a
blush spreading over his cheeks that Jack knows isn’t from the fire. He hums,
holds Ralph’s head as he kisses him - from the curve of his cheekbone to the
ridge of his jaw, a teasing one on the corner of his mouth before he licks
those plush lips open, the wet slide of their mouths slotting together.
Ralph’s so easy, just moans into Jack’s mouth and braces his hands on Jack’s
shoulders. Somehow this always happens when they light things up, but who’s
complaining? It’s the heat probably, the press of lapping flames by their sides
and the suffocating warmth their bodies emanate when they’re molded together,
the leftover endorphins from the buildup begging to be released. Jack groans,
pushes his weight more fully onto Ralph until they’re on their sides, arms
wrapped around one another like they’d be ripped apart at any second.
Jack breaks the kiss, trails his lips down to suck at the pulse point hammering
in his neck. “Let me have you, Ralph,” he mutters wetly. Ralph whimpers,
fingers raking back the red hair that curls along his hairline. “Please, let me
have you... let me touch you, let me make you feel good…”
He can feel it when the last shreds of pride and modesty leave Ralph, when he
goes boneless and pliant under Jack, just nodding and babbling “yes, please,
anything”, trying to get his hands beneath Jack’s shirt so he can feel the
bare, warm skin. And then Jack’s hovering over him, bracing his forearms on
either side of Ralph’s head. His knee slips between Ralph’s legs, and both of
Ralph’s thighs spread around it.
Jack releases him for just a moment to pull his own t-shirt over his head,
unbuttons his jeans to relieve some of the pressure on his growing erection.
Then his fingers are sliding underneath Ralph’s shirt and cardigan, rucking up
the fabric to see the expanse of pale skin that seems to stretch on for miles.
He cant help it - his lips latch onto Ralph’s nipple the moment it’s exposed to
the night air, and he runs his hands greedily over Ralph’s naked chest.
Ralph cries out and thrusts his hips up, squirming in his jeans. He pants as
Jack divests him of the rest of his clothes, lets him peel off his jeans and
tug down his boxers. Jack’s there the whole time, whispering praise into his
ear, plastering his body with his own like he’s trying to shield him from the
rest of the world, and with what a freak Jack is, that’s probably what’s
running through his mind.
Jack kisses him while he prepares him with spit-slicked fingers, moves his lips
sweetly over Ralph’s, tries to pour all of his feelings into it and suck all
the discomfort out of what he’s doing. There’s sweat gathering on Ralph’s brow,
a thin layer between his thighs and over his stomach. Jack swallows the boy’s
moans and thrusts his fingers deeper.
By the time he’s done, Ralph is writhing underneath him, overstimulated and
desperate, clawing at Jack’s shoulders, begging for him to take him.
Jack gently brushes his fingers against Ralph’s cheek to calm him as he
searches through his backpack for a condom. He rolls it on and cradles Ralph’s
head in his hands, asks if he’s ready. Ralph arches his back and cries,
“Please, Jack! Want you, love you…”
And that’s all Jack needs.
He holds his hips up with shaking hands and sinks in slowly, just the head at
first, then inch by inch until he’s completely sheathed in Ralph’s tight heat.
And Ralph’s completely ruined beneath him, begs him to move between whines and
gasps, and Jack pushes him into the sweat-dampened blanket, the fire still
scorching beside them. He works him with all he has, lets his love bleed into
his touches, and he knows Ralph understands completely. Jack has never been
very good at emotions beyond feeling them, and he has no idea how to handle the
tender drag of Ralph’s lips on his.
When Ralph comes, he’s sobbing and messy and smiling, hugs Jack and holds him
close after he finds his release soon after. They’re both spent, too tired to
do anything but exchange soft, lazy kisses and tease each other in a
comfortable manner they’ve been used to since their friendship began.
They stay that way for a long time, tangled in one another’s arms until their
roaring fire is down to a pile of glowing embers and mountain ash. The
moonlight pours over the clearing in soft rays that illuminate their naked
bodies, but for the most part, Jack’s eyes are closed and his nose is pillowed
in the hair on the crown of Ralph’s head. He listens to Ralph as he talks about
anything, everything, plays with Jack’s fingers when he runs out of things to
say.
Then it’s silent, save for their soft breathing mixing in with the sound of the
forest at night, which eventually lulls Ralph into a soft sleep. God, he loves
him. More than Ralph will ever understand.
So Jack counts his blessings, thanks whatever divine being that put him in this
moment with this boy, and prays for more times like these to come.
End Notes
     I started this story in early July, and I just got a burst of
     inspiration to finish it before school starts back up. I'm a really
     slow writer, so this took me so many hours to get down and I'm so
     invested in this story by now that I'm almost sad to see it come to
     an end. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
     Comments are always appreciated!
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