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hackthis_archivePart I
Part II
Get Some
"Oh thank God!"
Nate's startled awake by the loud exclamation. He opens his eyes and blinks for long seconds at his mom standing in the doorway, trying to process the enormous grin on her face and the huge cramp in his neck. "Whassit, Mom?"
He sniffs and tries to turn his head away from the pain only to find himself with his nose buried in Brad's neck.
"Wake up," he says, poking Brad in the ribs. Brad grumbles, opens one eye and bats at Nate ineffectively.
"I have never been so happy to see you two together in my entire life," his mom babbles. "Except for that time when you were twelve and you two wandered off to the arcade at the beach and didn't bother to tell anybody – I have to go call Rachel," she says, dashing off.
Nate yawns, trying to scoot away from Brad, but he finds himself restrained by an arm flung across his waist.
His mother pops back in. "Brad, did you want pancakes? Diane's cooking; I'll have her make more. I'm just so happy to see you two together, you don't even know."
As though needing to prove her point, Nate's mother comes into his room, crosses over to the bed and pats Brad on the cheek.
At this Brad finally sits up and smiles. "It's good to see you, too, Mrs. Fick," he says around a yawn.
Nate's mom nods approvingly. "Okay, you two come down whenever you're ready," she says, pausing and looking out Nate's open window. "And you brought the ladder! Oh, thank the good Lord."
Nate makes a disbelieving noise. His mom isn't normally this blasphemous. It's not like Brad and he -- "Mom, calm down, it wasn't that bad."
His mother gives him a wary look. "Do you want us to tell you how bad it was? Because Rachel and I would love to sit you boys down and tell you how bad this was. I've seen divorces with less drama."
Brad slides to the edge of the bed and punches Nate in the thigh. "Ow!" he protests.
"Nate, stop giving your mother grief; don't you think she's suffered enough with you for a son?"
"Shut up," Nate says, shoving Brad off the bed.
His mother laughs as Brad falls on the floor. "This is more like it," she says before walking off.
Brad looks up at Nate. "You think it was that bad?" Brad asks, brushing his hair off his forehead.
Nate thinks about Brad's hair sliding through his fingers and he swallows. "Don't you?"
Brad chuckles. "Yeah -- but don't tell them that."
Nate wakes up early on Monday morning. Too early. He doesn't have school for another two hours, but he can't just lie there. He's itching with the need to do something, go somewhere, feel alive. He pulls out some workout clothes and is just opening his bedroom door as his dad emerges from the bedroom he shares with Nate's mom.
"Isn't it a little early for you?" his dad asks, walking up the hallway dressed for his morning run.
Nate yawns. "Couldn't sleep."
"You want to go for a run with your old man?" His dad adjusts the sports band on his glasses.
Nate smiles. "Yeah, I could do that."
His dad ruffles his hair. "Okay, but take it easy. I haven't been 17 in a long time."
Nate's dad runs like a fucking racehorse. Nate remembers now that that's why he stopped running with him in the first place. His legs are like jelly by the time they get home, and he has to sit down in the shower just to get through it without falling over. It takes him a lot longer than normal to get ready and he's running late when he gets back to his room. He gets dressed in a rush and grabs some toast from his mom on his way out the door. He hopes he's not too late.
When Nate pulls up to the Colberts, Brad's at the curb, sitting on his motorcycle and pulling on his helmet.
Nate has to shift into park and lean across the car to roll down the passenger side window. "Want a ride?" he calls.
When Brad sees Nate his face creases into a huge smile. Nate sits up so fast he feels dizzy and has to grip the steering wheel. Brad climbs off his motorcycle and takes the two steps to the car. He pulls on the door handle, but it doesn't open. Nate's car was made far before automatic anything. "You going to unlock the door?"
"You can't reach in and unlock it yourself?" Nate asks, tossing empty tape cases, paperbacks and random tee shirts in the backseat. "When did you become such a lazy fuck?"
"Right around the time I met you." Brad's grin is all teeth as he unlocks the door manually and tosses his backpack in the backseat before sliding in beside Nate.
Brad's hair is wet, slicked back. He smells like coconut shampoo and Dial soap. The scents go straight up Nate's nose and down to his dick. Thankfully Brad's too busy playing Radio Commando on the drive to school to notice.
Nate's not about to admit he's missed Brad's addiction to REO Speedwagon and Journey.
Nate can feel the eyeballs on him when Brad gets out of the car behind him. It's exactly like his hellish November, only completely different. Where people would whisper when he passed, gawk and pointedly stare, now people are pointing, staring and smiling.
He and Brad run into Mike and Poke in the halls, and Mike's eyebrows raise so high they nearly disappear into his hairline. "What's up, white people?" Poke asks, looking between them blatantly.
Nate looks at Brad. "Are you white? I didn't know you were white."
"I'm not," Brad says. "My little Mexican friend has been misinformed. I am the few, the proud, the Jew. You might've seen our commercials on TV."
Nate can't help laughing. Poke just smiles. "That's the Son of Abraham I know and love; I can't help your Anglo-Saxon brothers, though."
Brad turns to Mike and Nate. "I'm sorry," Brad says solemnly. "You motherfuckers are on your own."
Nate's still laughing when Brad drags him away. "I have – have to get my Latin stuff," he wheezes, nodding towards the hall where his locker is.
"Cogito ergo, why do you still take that shit?" Brad says.
"Because we can't all be fluent in binary, asshole."
Brad shakes his head. "So unlearned, so sad," he says, following Nate and bumping into him every few seconds, sending him knocking into innocent bystanders until they reach his locker. Nate spins the dial and opens the door. His Latin text is in the footwell and he crouches down to get it, glancing up as Brad rests his arm on the top of the locker door and peers down at him.
When he stands up, he's summarily tackled directly into the door.
"Oh my fucking god, homes!" Nate studies Ray Person wrapped around his middle and gives Brad a look he hopes conveys his utter confusion at this moment.
"Thank fuck, y'all made up," Ray babbles. "Your star-crossed fuckers drama was getting on my last fucking nerve! You were giving me the itch like I got the clap or some shit. Acting like you were Dylan and Brenda on 90210!"
Brad shakes his head, reaching around the door and grabbing Ray by the scruff to extract him from Nate's person. Ray's litany carries on "-- with all this he won't talk to me, bullshit! I won't talk to him! He stole my Barbie and put her in a slutty dress! You're both fucking pussies!"
The Barbie thing is actually kind of funny.
"What have I told you about randomly humping people's legs?" Brad admonishes with a smirk. A pause. "And why are you dressed for a funeral?"
Ray brushes the wrinkles out of his suit jacket when Brad lets him go and straightens his tie. "Debate with Oceanside Prep, dude. You know we gotta take those prep school ass bandits down. Why don’t you listen to me when I tell you this shit?" he berates. "I see how it is: now that you've made all nice with your man, you just cast me aside – me, the captain of the Debate Team -- like a used condom, but I'll tell you now—"
Brad slaps a hand over Ray's mouth. "Ray, shut up."
Ray carries on talking, his words muffled, but his hands flying everywhere.
The warning bell rings. Nate looks from Brad to Ray and back to Brad. "This is your problem," he says. "You deal with it."
Brad nods. "I'll see you at lunch."
And for the most part, things go back to the way they were before. Before the kissing and the fighting and the endless nights of Nate looking at his homework, playbook and college applications and not processing anything.
Except things aren't quite the same.
There's a hint of something new and fragile pushing its way to the surface. It's there when they play catch in the yard until the sun goes down and street lights come on. It seeps into the space between them when they sit together at lunch and Brad leans across the table to drown all of Nate's fries in ketchup. Nate hates ketchup. He doesn't complain.
It's that unshakeable yearning that has Nate looking at Brad during every commercial when they gather with most of their friends to watch the 49ers become the first five-time winners of the Super Bowl.
This new thing fizzles between them when they do the dishes at Brad's house and when they're at Nate's locker, invading each other's personal space and then recoiling in case something combusts by accident. They get close, jerk away, and then get close again, ultimately inching nearer.
The itch is there.
No one in Nate's family celebrates Valentine's Day. It's something his mother instituted when she was still Barbara Coles and not Barbara Fick. Apparently, on their third date she told Nate's dad that if he didn't appreciate her the other 364 days of the year, one day wasn't going to make up for it.
So, Nate's parents go out the day before or the week after, but on Valentine's Day 1995 they go up to L.A. to visit Emily and meet her new boyfriend. This leaves Nate at home to fend for himself and Brad with leftovers, popcorn and Star Wars on VHS.
Brad's sprawled all over the dark green cloth sofa in the Fick family room, watching The Simpsons. Nate deliberately tosses the huge bowl of popcorn at him to get him to sit up. "Have some self control," he teases, shoving Brad's arms and legs out of his way.
Brad tosses a few kernels at him. "I know you short people feel jealousy, but it's just genetics -- blame your parents."
Nate pokes Brad in the temple. "If your body was as big as your ego, I might be concerned."
"You'd be surprised at how proportional things are in relation to my ego."
Nate looks at Brad and then back at the TV. It's a shame he has no idea what he's looking at, because for a minute he thought he saw a dragon. He picks up the right remote purely by luck and hits play.
"I was watching that," Brad protests as the movie cues up.
"Oh, really? And what was it?"
"A commercial."
"You're bitching about a commercial?"
"It was for the Marines. It had a dragon."
Well, at least Nate didn’t imagine the dragon part. "The few, the proud, huh?"
Brad tosses a few more kernels of popcorn at his head. "Nothing wrong with serving your country."
"Only if you serve it by getting sterilized," Nate says slyly.
He really should expect it when Brad tackles him, popcorn flying everywhere. He really should.
Brad's tackle is a little lacking, though, and Nate ends up half off the sofa with Brad sprawled between his legs and grabbing at Nate's arm to keep him from landing on his head.
"Clearly your tackling is why Godfather had you carrying the ball instead," Nate laughs, even as all the blood rushes to his skull.
"Oh, you think you're funny, don't you?" Nate's not expecting it when Brad hauls him back up on the sofa. He's so disoriented that for a minute he doesn't quite process Brad stretched over him.
Brad's eyes are bright, sharp. His smile is so broad, Nate can see his canines, and his chest is heaving with the exertion of moving Nate around. The blood in Nate's head starts moving somewhere else.
Nate's eyes are instinctively drawn to Brad's mouth. He licks his own lips, tasting the salt and butter from the microwave popcorn.
Brad's gaze is like fingers on Nate's face, and when Brad bites his own lower lip this sound escapes from Nate's throat -- if wanting could be classified as a sound.
Brad recoils, retreating to the other end of the sofa, and Nate struggles to sit up. He fights to push through the thick film of disappointment threatening to suffocate him. The disappointment that he threw this away without knowing what he had.
They begin preparing for Advanced Placement exams in March. In English, they begin reading Great Expectations, which Nate read three summers ago at his grandparents' house in Baltimore.
His grandmother, Mae, is a great believer in expanding the mind through reading. The only TV in her house is in the sitting room and it's only turned on for the evening news and 60 Minutes.
Of course, his grandmother also sent him to etiquette classes for six weeks. It was a long summer.
The thing about Great Expectations, though, is that Nate genuinely likes Dickens. He tells a good story. Sometimes they're about 300 pages too long, but if Nate had been getting paid by the word, he probably would've had the thesaurus open, too.
He's in his room, reading the next couple chapters, when there's a knock on the door. "Nate, Brad's on the phone," his dad's voice carries through the wood.
The mattress squeaks when Nate gets to his feet, and when he opens the door, his dad's holding out the only portable phone in the house. The phone is kind of big and unwieldy, but it's got enough range that you can actually leave the house and still use it. Well, at least as far as the driveway.
"Thanks," he says, before putting the phone to his ear. "You're calling me?" he mocks. "You couldn't just knock on my window like every other night?"
"My mom's got me doing the laundry," Brad grouses. "I need to take out my Dickensian frustrations."
Nate has to laugh. "What did Dickens do to you?" he says, flopping back down on his bed.
"For a start, why couldn't he just get to the point?" Brad bitches. "Why thirty words when five will do? And his predilection for crime is pretty evident. You remember A Tale of Two Cities in 10th grade? The man's obsessed with malfeasance. He should've quit writing and started robbing people -- it's clearly what he wanted to do in the first place."
Brad continues on with his rant, but Nate can't quite parse it because something strange is happening to his body. Actually, it's not strange in the slightest, it's just incredibly inappropriate.
Since when does Brad's bitching turn him on?
The more irate Brad gets, the harder Nate's dick gets in his shorts.
Nate presses the heel of his hand down on his cock, trying to calm it down, but that just seems to make it worse. The harder he presses, the thicker it gets. He bites the inside of his cheek and his cock jerks underneath his hand.
"And why the hell are we being forced to read about this bullshit?" Brad asks. "The man is dead. Who cares? Hustler is great literature, this is shit."
Nate worries his bottom lip. His cock is leaking in his boxers and of all the times to get hard this has to be up on the top five of Worst Timing Ever.
He swallows a noise when Brad says something about Pip being a pussy; Nate is truly not thinking about pussy at all. He gives himself a half-hearted squeeze through his shorts, which has to be the worst idea ever.
His head snaps back, and he grunts. "What happen, you run into the edge of your desk again?" Brad asks.
"Yeah, yeah -- I'm fine," Nate lies, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear so he can unfasten his shorts and get inside his boxers. He sighs in relief when he finally gets a hand on his cock. The head is slick, sticky in his fingers and he gives himself a preliminary stroke and his entire body fills with warmth.
He grunts again, and Brad stops talking. "Where are you?" Brad presses. "What's with the prehistoric noises? Are you taking a shit?" A pause. "That's so fucking inappropriate, I can't believe I haven't thought of doing that while on the phone before."
Nate slides his hand further down, rolling his balls between his fingers, tugging on them sharply before sliding his hand back up his dick. The precome is smearing everywhere, behind his balls, slicking the hair around his cock. He tries to kill the strangled noise that wants to come out.
"No, definitely not in the bathroom," he grits out.
Brad makes a hmming noise. "Where was I?"
Nate thumbs the underside of his cock, thinking of Brad's hands on him, Brad's mouth on his. His hips fuck into his fist. Hard. "You were, uh – uh, Dickens as a career criminal," he pants.
Brad makes another hmming noise and Nate wants to weep with frustration. He needs to hear Brad's voice; it's the only thing that's going to get him off.
He doubts Brad would be so nonverbal if he could see Nate right now.
"You know this makes me think of Moby Dick," Brad says eventually. Nate squeezes his eyes closed. The word 'dick' in Brad's mouth has to be illegal in this state.
"Talk about somebody chasing a white whale," Brad continues. "Pip's killing himself over some chick who doesn't want him, Miss Havisham gets stood up and stays in the same clothes for the rest of her life. Pissing and shitting in her wedding dress. Clearly she should've hooked up with Ahab. What is it with people falling in love with dicks?"
Nate barks out a laugh. "Point taken."
"I didn't mean you."
"Of course you didn't."
"You know that's not what I think of you."
"You wouldn't be wrong," Nate says hoarsely. This is wrong. Very wrong. He's going to go to hell for jerking off to Brad's voice on the phone. "Tell me more about your brilliant theory, anyway."
He struggles to shove his shorts and boxers further down his thighs and still keep the phone at his ear. He fumbles with the pillow to keep the phone propped up accordingly while one hand goes directly back to his dick and the other slides back behind his balls. The tips of his fingers brush over his asshole, stroking, learning; Nate's entire body spasms.
"Brilliant theory?" Brad's voice is strangely muffled. "Who are you and what have you done with Nate Fick? What is this? Invasion of the Body Snatchers?"
Nate's laugh gets strangled into a choking noise as he comes all over his hand. "Oh, god," he hisses, stroking himself through an orgasm strong enough to be worthy of a state football trophy.
He's totally fucked.
The phone goes silent.
"Nate."
Nate tenses up; he's only heard this tone once before. And the last time he ended up with Brad's tongue in his mouth and him locked in the bathroom.
His lips are dry and cracked, he licks them. "Yeah?" He sounds like his voice is broken.
"Did you just—"
Brad's question is interrupted by the click of the receiver and someone dialing the phone.
"Mom?" Nate says.
"Nate?"
That's not Nate's mom, but it's close enough. His balls immediately try to retreat into his body. He doesn’t blame them.
"Mom," Brad says in exasperation.
"Oh, Brad, honey. I'm sorry; I didn't realize you were on the phone."
Nate looks at his sticky hand and wipes it on the sheets. "It's okay, Mrs. Colbert," he says, shifting the phone again to grab some tissues from his nightstand. "I need to go do some homework anyway. Brad, I'll see you tomorrow."
"Nate, wait—"
Nate hangs up before he embarrasses himself further.
April brings April Fools Day and at least three invitations to prom -- all from Nate's starting line-up.
Nate respectfully has to decline the right to play Mrs. Mike Wynn for the evening. And Mrs. Jason Lilley. He pretends to give Walt Hasser's offer some thought, if only to see the interesting shades Ray's face turns, but in the end, he has to turn him down as well.
April also brings his parents stressed out over their taxes and the big push for AP exam studying. Despite all the worrying and drudgery, April 15th brings Nate something that he's been waiting a long time for: envelopes from Stanford, UPENN and Dartmouth.
His mother is waiting on the steps when he gets home, and he's barely killed the engine before she's in the driveway, thrusting envelopes through the open window of his Volvo.
"They came," she says, her excitement palpable. "Don't keep me waiting."
Nate laughs as he tries to juggle the envelopes and his car keys. "Can I get out the car first?"
"No, I'm your mother and you'll do what I say."
"Can I at least unfasten my seat belt?"
His mother rolls her eyes. "Kids today are so demanding."
Nate chuckles, taking the envelopes from her. There are two thick envelopes and one thin one. He opens the thin one first. It's from the University of Pennsylvania.
"Wait-listed," he says, handing his mom the envelope.
She tosses it over her shoulder. "I never liked Philadelphia anyway."
Nate opens the first thick envelope. It's from Stanford. "I'm in," he says, nodding his head and smiling.
"I've always liked Stanford," his mom says approvingly.
Nate holds the Dartmouth envelope for a long time. He turns it over and over in his hands, rubbing the school insignia with his thumb.
Dartmouth is his first choice. The minute he set foot on the campus last spring, he knew it was where he wanted to be.
"It's not going to open itself," his mother prods.
Nate slips his finger inside the fold and rips it open. And then he hands it off to his mom.
She opens the envelope and then hands a folded piece of paper back to him. "Your future, you do the honors."
Nate only has to read the first line, and then he's out of the car and squeezing the air out of his mom's lungs. "So, we're going to Hanover, I take it," his mom says, patting him on the back.
Nate ducks his head. He can feel the grin eating his face. "I have to go," he says, waving down the street.
"Tell Brad I said 'hi'!" his mom calls after him.
He bangs on the door loudly and without ceasing until it swings open. "Your ass better be on fire," Brad grouses, a plastic cup in his hand and faded grey shorts low on his hips.
Nate smiles broadly.
"Jesus, what's wrong with you?" Brad says, raising an eyebrow. "Why the deranged smile?"
Nate waves his acceptance letter. "Dartmouth. I got in."
Brad claps hollowly against his cup. "Is this a surprise?"
"They could've said no."
"I have yet to meet someone who's said 'no' to you."
Nate looks up at Brad from underneath his eyelashes. It's a dirty trick; he doesn't care. "You tell me 'no' all the time."
Brad's startled. Nate can see it all over his face; he recovers well. "Right," he deflects nicely. "I'm the only person in existence to tell you 'no' – besides your mom. Do I get a prize?"
Brad's wearing Nate's Joe Montana shirt, and Nate rakes a long look from Brad's face down to the slash of skin exposed between his shorts and his shirt. "Yeah," Nate says, stepping into Brad's house and pushing him back against the wall. "You get something."
Nate's acceptance letter floats out of his hand at the same time that Brad drops his cup in the doorway, splashing water on the doormat. The cup bounces out of the house and rolls down the stairs.
They both watch it come to a stop, and then Nate looks back at Brad.
Brad's eyes are wide and he inhales sharply when Nate leans in and nuzzles the side of his face. There's faint stubble along his jaw, which prickles Nate's skin. He mouths the long column of Brad's neck, tasting sweat and dirt, things he shouldn't find appealing at all.
Of course, Nate's cock does not agree with this summation and begins to swell rapidly in his shorts. Nate's head snaps back when Brad yanks his hair hard. "Don't start this," he warns. His mouth is a thin line, but his eyes are dark and lidded.
Nate licks his lips and Brad's eyes dart downward. "I think you started it," he says in a low tone. "So this is just a continuance."
Brad's grip on his hair relaxes, and then his fingers start massaging Nate's scalp. "Nate."
"I like the way you say my name," Nate says quietly, slotting himself against Brad's body. "I like you. It just took me a while to get my head out of my ass."
Brad licks his lips. "It's a nice ass; I can see how you'd get distracted."
The hand that Brad doesn't have in Nate hair grips his ass and pulls him in, pressing Nate's erection against his thigh. Nate groans, digging his fingers into Brad's shirt, rolling his hips and trying to get closer.
Brad turns his head just that little bit and brushes his mouth against Nate's. His tongue flickers out and licks Nate's lower lip.
Nate groans into Brad's mouth, and then Brad's fingers tighten in Nate's hair again. He wouldn't call it kissing, that seems too chaste a word for the way Brad sucks on his tongue and Nate humps Brad's thigh. Brad moves him back and something loud slams in his ear.
"Nuhh," Nate mutters against the corner of Brad's mouth.
"I don't think my mom would approve of us giving the Petersens a show," Brad says, tilting his head to the side as a suggestion.
Nate mouths at Brad's neck again, long, slow, sucking kisses. He feels drugged, and his cock is very happy with the way he's grinding against Brad. In another two minutes, maybe less –
Brad kisses his temple. "I know you're excited about Dartmouth," he teases, "but debauching me in the hallway seems a little tacky."
Nate untangles his hand from Brad's shirt and slides it down Brad's stomach, lower until he squeezes Brad's dick through his shorts.
"Shit." Brad thrusts in Nate's palm, his hand painfully tight in Nate's hair.
"Your mom's at work right?" Nate mumbles. His tongue is clumsy in his mouth.
"She's teaching Hebrew School tonight."
"When's she going to be home?"
Brad looks at Nate closely. "About two hours."
"Upstairs. Now."
Brad blinks. "Nate, we don't –"
"Now, Brad."
Brad's bedroom hasn't changed much since Nate's known him. The walls are the same pale green, the motorcycle posters have upgraded every year, but they're always in the same spot over the bed. The stack of computer CPUs in the corner and tool box have remained the same. The computers Brad really uses are housed in the basement. The only real differences are the football and baseball that now sit on Brad's dresser.
Nate observes them in the time it takes to walk in the door and have Brad slam him against the wall. His head bangs against plaster, but it doesn't matter because Brad's kissing him, again, dirty and wet, and his hands are all over Nate's ass, squeezing and kneading, fingers stroking the seam that holds Nate's pants together.
If it were physically possible for Nate to fall apart under the weight of want, it would happen now.
He rubs his cock against Brad's thigh, feeling Brad hard against his hip. He digs his fingers into Brad's shoulders and has to turn away to breathe, gasping for air and trying to have a real thought.
"Clothes off," he says between ragged inhalations.
Brad's grip tightens on his ass, his teeth nipping sharply at Nate's neck and Nate has to punch him in the chest to get his attention. Brad releases him immediately and staggers back.
His mouth is slick and Nate wants it. He wants to lick at it and feel it on his chest. Feel it wrapped around his cock. "What the hell was that for?" Brad complains, rubbing the place where Nate struck him.
"Clothes off now," Nate reiterates.
Brad's mouth falls open just a little bit. "Are you always this bossy in bed?" he sounds suspiciously hopeful.
Nate chuckles. "We're not in bed yet," he says, yanking his shirt over his head.
When he emerges, Brad's eyes are fixed on him. He smiles encouragingly, trying to keep the butterflies in his stomach and the shaking in his muscles to a minimum. He kicks off his flip-flops, unbuttons his khaki shorts and pushes them down his thighs, kicking them across the uncluttered carpet to join his shoes.
He stops when he realizes Brad's still not moving. "If you don't do it, I'll do it for you," he tries.
Brad's jaw is tight. "Nate, I don't want your pity."
Nate barks out a laugh. "Have you looked in the mirror lately?" he says, grabbing at Brad and tugging him close. "You must be out of your mind. I am not that philanthropic."
"You're not?" There's a hitch to Brad's voice that Nate doesn't like. An uncertainty he might've put there.
Nate leans into Brad, brushing Brad's mouth with his own. "No," spills out of his mouth and onto Brad's lips, and then Brad's kissing him again. Soft, light kisses that rapidly degenerate into a filthy mess of Brad fucking Nate's mouth.
His tongue is thick between Nate's lips and Nate sucks hard, licking and moaning. He groans loudly as Brad's knuckles brush over his cock, once, twice, repeatedly rolling his hips into the sensation and loudly disapproving when Brad pulls his hand away.
Brad's forehead is on his bare shoulder, his hair tickling the side of Nate's face. Nate feels the warm air when Brad asks, "Do you want this?" His voice is scratchy, worn. He rubs the back of his fingers over Nate's cock, knuckles dragging along Nate's erection as Nate drives his hips forward.
"God, yes," sounds like one long hiss to Nate's own ears, but instead of touching him again, Brad steps away. Nate stands there, impossibly hard in his underwear and wanting so much it's giving him a headache. Brad stares, studying him. Whatever he sees on Nate's face is enough to get him to take off his clothes. Finally.
Nate moves in to help, to bite at Brad's lower lip, kiss his jaw. Rake his nails down Brad's chest and swallow his guttural sounds. Breathing has become something Nate consciously has to do, because he can't bring himself to pull away from Brad's mouth.
He fiddles with the button on Brad's shorts, finally managing to get it and the zipper undone before he tries to shove them down Brad's legs.
"Ow, fuck! Zipper! Watch the zipper!" Brad complains.
Nate drops to his knees. "Sorry, sorry," he says, gently pulling Brad's shorts down the rest of the way. Brad's briefs are black and there's a wet spot near the waistband. Nate stares, jerking away when Brad's fingers brush his cheek.
"If you stay down there any longer, this is going to be over before it even starts," Brad says, grabbing Nate under the arm and hauling him to the bed.
Nate's bed is a twin. Brad's bed is twice as big and without a wrinkle.
Nate can't remember the last time he made his bed.
When Brad scrambles backwards on the mattress, all Nate can see is tan skin, faded scars and places he wants to put his mouth.
Places he wants to rut against until he comes and can do it all over again.
He pushes down his boxers and Brad's eyes go wide. "Jesus," he curses.
Nate kicks them off, smiling toothily as he crawls across the bed. "I thought your people didn't believe in Jesus," he says as Brad props himself up on his pillows and drags Nate on top of him.
Brad seems to be nothing but skin. Nate's nipples get painfully hard when he brushes against Brad's chest, his cock twitching when the head drags over Brad's thigh.
Nate hasn't felt this exposed since he lost his virginity, and he has to push himself up on his knees just to get his bearings. Precome – his --is dotting Brad's stomach and he can feel how hard Brad is through his briefs. He shudders when Brad's hands ghost over his ribs, rubbing his ass against Brad's cotton-clad crotch.
Still too many clothes.
He knows what Brad wants, can tell by the way he's arching off the bed. He leans down and meets Brad's kiss halfway. He breaks it off eventually, but can't move away because of Brad's hand curled around the back of his neck, anchoring him still.
"I'm not -- I'm not going anywhere," Nate insists. "I'm just trying to get your clothes off."
Brad rolls his eyes and releases him. "Why didn't you just say so?"
Nate sighs loudly as Brad pushes him away to kick his briefs off, and then Brad's naked, and all Nate can do is kneel beside him and stare. He runs his hands down Brad's chest, feeling the sharp intake of breath as his fingers brush over Brad's stomach.
Brad's cock is thick and long, and yeah, Nate's looked in the locker room, but this is an entirely different set of circumstances.
He can't help touching, just a light brush over the slick head. Brad's hips buck up, and Nate grins victoriously. "You like that?"
The way Brad says his name is somewhere between an order and begging. Nate can go with it.
He straddles Brad's thighs again. Experimentally rubbing his ass back and down, against Brad's cock. He can feel the wet smears against his ass, which are strange, but not necessarily unpleasant.
Brad rolls up against him, gripping Nate's hips hard, and every cell in Nate's body fires and he blinks down at where his dick is leaking all over Brad's chest.
"Huh," he says, reaching down and smearing his fingers through the mess he's making.
"This is going to end in about eight seconds," Brad warns, right before he grabs Nate's wrist, pulling Nate's hand to his mouth and licking at his wet fingertips.
Nate's cock jerks again, and he has to pull his hand away from Brad to squeeze his dick. One squeeze devolves into a stroke and then another and another. Nate grinds his ass against Brad's cock and fucks his hand, grunting and watching Brad watching him.
Brad's hands slide up Nate's thighs, cupping his ass, and then there are fingers brushing against his asshole, stroking, probing. Nate's whole world slows down as he falls forward, stopping himself with a hand next to Brad's head.
Brad licks at his mouth and Nate kisses him back hungrily, biting, sucking hard. He gets rolled into his back, and Brad's hand wraps around his dick. No. Wraps around their dicks. Nate thrusts into the circle of Brad's hand, the head of his cock rubbing against the underside of Brad's dick and that's all Nate needs.
He comes so hard he can feel his spine extending. His eyes squeeze closed and then he opens them to see Brad looking at him ruefully. Nate looks at the come on his stomach and runs his fingers through it before stroking the sticky mess along the length of Brad's cock and wrapping his hand around Brad.
Brad groans low in his throat as Nate begins jacking him off. "Oh, fuck, Nate," Brad moans, his hips fucking into Nate's hand. Nate swipes his thumb over the head of Brad's cock, feeling the slick softness, spreading his fingers to hold as much of Brad as possible.
Brad's head is tossed back and Nate can see the faint marks that he's left. They're not dark enough to last until tomorrow; he'll have to work on that.
"Brad," he says, tightening his grip more. He knows it has to be too hard, but Brad makes this keening noise in the back of his throat and comes all over Nate's hand and stomach. Nate can feel Brad's shudders vibrating in his own body as he strokes Brad through it. Nate's in so much trouble now.
Brad collapses next to him, skin flushed and sweaty, hairline damp.
Nate looks down at the semen on his stomach and pushes his fingers through it curiously.
"Five minutes," Brad says, forearm over his eyes. "Give me five minutes, and we'll do it again."
"You want to do it again?"
Brad lifts his arm and turns to look at Nate. "You don't?"
Nate blinks at him guilelessly. "You're so easy," he says with a smile.
Brad scowls at him, rolls over and kisses Nate viciously. Nate laughs into Brad's mouth, his body twitching when Brad's fingers slip though the slickness on his stomach.
"You okay?" Brad says when he pulls away. "You're not going –"
"Brad!" a familiar female voice calls loudly. "Brad, I'm home!"
Nate entire body goes into shock at the sound of Mrs. Colbert's voice and then he rockets out of the bed like somebody plugged him into a thousand volts of angry mom.
"I thought you said two hours," he hisses, trying to yank on a shirt. Was he wearing gray shorts?
"Shut up! Shut up!" Brad says flinging clothes in his direction. Nate's shirt sticks to his stomach, and he trips trying to pull up his shorts, going down hard on his knees.
"Bradley Colbert, what are you doing up there?"
"Nothing, Mom!" Brad calls desperately, trying to straighten the bed while pointing at Nate. Nate looks down to make sure his pants are zipped up and then around frantically. Brad's underwear is hanging from the dresser. How did that get there?
Nate grabs the underwear, uses it to wipe some of the mess from his stomach, and then shoves it under the bed just as the door swings open.
"Nate!" Mrs. Colbert says with a wide grin. "Now I know what's going on up here – you didn't break any more of my furniture, did you?"
Nate smiles; he can only imagine how he must look. "Would we do that?"
Mrs. Colbert puts her hands on her hips. "How can someone with a face so innocent be so devious? Are you staying for dinner? We're having roast chicken."
Nate darts a glance at Brad's perfectly impassive face. At the sweat beading his upper lip. "Yeah," he says. "That'd be great."
Mrs. Colbert's mouth twitches at the corner and she produces a crumpled piece of white paper from somewhere on her person. "And I believe this belongs to you," she says holding out Nate's Dartmouth acceptance letter. "Congratulations are in order; c'mere and give me a hug."
Nate smiles stupidly as he gets to his feet. He's going to hug Brad's mother after he debauched her son.
So going to hell.
Brad and Nate have their dessert sitting on the steps of the Colbert's back porch. Nate licks the chocolate ice cream from his spoon and shifts against the wooden railing behind him. Brad's on the step above him, already on his second bowl of mint chocolate chip.
"So," he says, "what about Cal-Tech? Or is it M.I.T. now?"
Brad slurps loudly on his spoon. "Is what Cal-Tech or M.I.T.?"
Nate makes a mocking noise. "C'mon, which one won the Brad Colbert lottery? I confess I'm feeling a little pro-M.I.T. – but that's just me being selfish."
Brad looks down at him. "You'd want me to go to M.I.T.?"
Nate turns away from the inquisitive look on Brad's face. "Yeah," he says to his bowl of ice cream. "I would."
"Would you want me at Dartmouth?" Brad prods.
Nate sighs. "Yeah, yes -- you know I would."
"I'm not going to Cal-Tech."
Nate's head snaps up. "You're going to M.I.T?"
Brad chooses this time to fill his mouth with more ice cream.
Nate waits. And then he waits more.
"I'm not going to either one," Brad says eventually.
Nate's flummoxed. "You're going to play ball somewhere?"
Brad's laugh is dry and throaty. "They don't give scholarships to people who quit the team."
"You're not telling me you didn't get in to Cal-Tech," Nate pushes.
"No," Brad says. "In fact, I got a call from the Dean of Admissions personally, saying she hoped I'd consider applying in the fall again."
"You've lost me."
Brad scratches himself; Nate's momentarily distracted. "Brad," he says.
Brad looks somewhere over the side of the porch. "I never finished my application."
Nate can feel the horror. "Just that one, though," he tries. "You applied to the other places, right?"
"No," Brad says. "I didn't do any of them."
"Oh, god, Brad," Nate says, his ice cream falling out of his hands. "Why? Is this – did I do this?"
Brad laughs hollowly. "Nate, as much I lo – no, Nate, this isn't about you."
Nate feels light-headed. He grabs onto the railing. First, he has sex with Brad, and then he finds out Brad's not going to college and it might be his fault. Now, Brad just said – Nate's brain throws on the emergency brake. "What did you just say to me?"
Brad sets his ice cream down on the deck, stands up, brushing past Nate as he walks down the steps to the backyard. Nate follows him. He reaches out to grab Brad's arm and instead finds himself sliding his hand along Brad's shoulder.
Oh, sex is making him stupid. This happened with Natalie, too, but this is like, exponentially times worse.
"I don’t want to go to college," Brad says to the oak trees lining his parents' property. "I don't know what I want, but I don’t want that. At least not right now."
"But you've always wanted to go to Cal-Tech. It was all you could talk about last year, going some place where the IQ was higher than Ray's weight soaking wet."
Nate can feel Brad's chuckling. The laugher dies away when he turns around. "I know you want to go to college, but that's not what I've wanted for a while."
Brad's gaze is steady. There's no uncertainty here.
"Then what do you want?" Nate says.
Brad shrugs. "Right now I have what I want. Beyond that I don't know."
Nate flushes and looks down at his bare feet. "I'm wearing your shorts," he says with something akin to surprise.
Brad smiles at him when he lifts his head. "At least you got the shirt right."
Nate runs his fingers through his hair. Today has been all over the place.
"Why'd you run away from me?" Brad asks.
Nate can feel the blood leaving his face. He swallows hard. "You're changing the subject."
"I've been patient," Brad says. "My people can be patient, but fuck it; sometimes you have to part the Red Sea. You ran away from me, and now you -- I'm trying to let you figure it out, but Nate, you can't do what you did today and then run away again."
Nate rubs the back of his head. His hair's getting too long. "I freaked out before," he confesses, frowning when Brad shakes his head. "What do you want me to say?"
"I figured that out on my own, you'll have to do better."
Nate can feel the sluggish determination in his veins; it's in every fiber when he deliberately runs his index finger along Brad's forearm. "I'm sorry we're not all as brilliant and self-aware as you are," he says quietly. "I'm sorry you made me come my brains out, and I freaked out because you're the most important person in my life and I wasn't thinking, 'oh and by the way, I can also get insanely pornographic sex in the same place where all my other needs are being met'."
Brad's eyes crinkle at the corners. "I despair that one day your stupidity is going to choke your brilliance to death."
Nate purses his lips. "Do you have any idea what I'd do to you right now if your mother wasn't watching us from the kitchen window?"
They turn around together and wave.
Mrs. Colbert waves back rapidly.
"You know she's on the phone with my mom right now, right?" Nate says through his teeth.
"Oh, definitely."
Nate gets home late. His mom's in the kitchen making something brown with sugar and eggs. She whacks him on the arm when he sticks his finger in the bowl.
"Yum," he says, sucking on his index finger.
"Natalie called," she says.
Nate's stomach rumbles. "Natalie?" he parrots, just to make sure he heard that right.
His mother smiles. She could sell bacon to a rabbi. "About an hour ago,"
Nate rubs his face and grabs the portable from next to the refrigerator.
He dials Natalie's number from memory as he takes the stairs up to his room. "This is Natalie, you may speak now," she answers.
Nate snorts into the phone. "You summoned?"
"Nate!" Natalie sounds happy to hear from him. Far too happy. Nate turns on the light in his bedroom and closes the door behind him. His room is a fucking disaster area. Especially when compared to Brad's. If you don't count the come-stained comforter.
"I don't have bail money," he says peremptorily.
"Like I'd call you if I was in jail," Natalie laughs. "You're like tenth on the list. First, I'd call Tommy, and then Neal, and then Pedro, and then Gina and then Tanya –'
"I get it, Nat," Nate interrupts.
"Of course you do," Natalie coos. Jesus shit, Natalie never uses that tone on him. Not since, well, not for a long time. "So, what are you doing for prom?"
Nate freezes in the middle of his floor. "Prom?"
"Yes, prom, that formal get together at the end of the year with the overpriced tickets, the tacky clothes, the DJ from your parents wedding and the alcohol in the bottled water containers."
"Nobody ever proved that I had anything to do with that," Nate says.
"Please, Tanya Andrews was so proud of you, Brad and Poke, she nearly came in her underwear in the bathroom at the Hyatt."
Nate has nothing to say to that. Having one ex tell you that another ex was proud of your juvenile delinquent ways can't even process in Nate's brain.
"I, uh, I don't think I'm going to go this year," Nate says. It's not like he has someone to take.
Well, he does, but that's just -- that's still a new thought.
"Oh, that's too bad," Natalie says breezily, "because Ray and I were thinking you and Brad could come with us."
"You and Ray," Nate repeats. "You and Ray Person?"
"Yes, Ray and me," Natalie says indignantly. "I know how you hate to share, but we thought it might be fun."
Nate shakes his head. Brad's going to love this one, but it makes sense. Ever since New Year's Eve, every time Nate sees Natalie, Ray Person's not far behind.
"I, um, that's a nice offer, Nat."
"Just think about it, that's all I'm saying."
"Okay."
"I have to go," Natalie says. "Ray's got band practice and I promised I'd bring his mom earplugs."
Nate stares at the phone for a long time after Natalie hangs up.
Nate forgets all about the weird conversation with Natalie until he's at his locker the next day. He woke up late, barely made it to homeroom before the final bell, and has to grab his Latin and Calculus books and still get half way around the school to second period in the next two minutes.
He looks up distractedly when a shadow descends over him. Brad's wearing a bright blue shirt, flip flops and khakis. His smile is contagious and Nate can't help grinning back.
"And what do you want?" Nate goads as he tries to shove his books in his backpack and keep eye contact.
"The prom theme is 'Under the Fucking Sea'," Brad says derisively. "What crack-addled, trailer-park dweller thought that that was a good idea? I think that might've been my parents theme. I could find better inspiration in the bottom of a used condom."
"Under the Fucking Sea," Nate repeats. "I must've missed the 'fucking' part."
Brad stretches his arm along the wall above Nate's locker, displaying a long line of muscle and skin. Nate's cock stirs in interest. "Seriously, can you believe this pussy ass archaic and misogynistic bullshit? I thought people got over playing dress up before puberty."
"You sound remarkably like somebody else I've spoken to recently," Nate says. "And yet, I seem to recall that you went last year."
"That was different."
"Yeah, you were fucking Helen Taylor at the time."
Brad's cheeks color slightly and the warning bell rings.
"I have to go," Nate says apologetically, but when Brad blocks his path he makes no move to go around him. He looks at Brad expectantly. "You have something on your mind?"
Brad leans in. "I'm not going to prom."
Nate grins. "So that means you don't want to go with me, got it."
Brad narrows his eyes. "Are you asking?"
Nate looks around; the halls are emptying out rapidly. "Not if you don't want to go," he says in a low, bland tone. "I'm not going to spend my hard-earned money on some 'pussy ass archaic and misogynistic bullshit' as you so eloquently put it, if you're not interested."
"I never said I wasn't interested."
"So you were mocking out of interest."
"I mock lots of things I'm interested in," Brad says, his voice equally low.
Nate can feel the blood in his body rushing in completely different directions as the final bell rings. What's not in his cheeks is going directly to his cock. Jesus. He lowers his backpack to his crotch. Of course Brad notices.
"You look a little flushed. Something wrong, Nate?"
Nate scowls. "You're a douchebag, Colbert," he says, ducking around Brad.
Brad walks alongside him. "Ask me."
"Ask you what?" Nate doesn't know where the surliness is coming from.
Brad grips Nate's forearm and pulls him into the water fountain alcove. "Ask me to the prom."
Nate's cock is showing a lot of interest in this conversation. "You don't want to go," he says.
"Ask me anyway," Brad insists.
"As an exercise in futile masochism?"
"Nate."
Nate hates it when Brad says his name like that. He can't believe he didn't realize this years ago. It's the "I want this and you're going to give it to me because you want to make me happy" voice. Nate leans back and looks around. The halls are totally deserted.
He is so getting detention from his Latin teacher.
He looks up at Brad intently, studying the pink mouth and blue eyes. He can smell Brad's soap, the detergent his mom uses. The urge to shove Brad down and rub against him and listen to the heady, pornographic noises Brad gives up for him is so overwhelming, Nate almost staggers underneath it.
"Just ask," Brad's voice is coaxing. Wanting.
Nate sighs. "Do you want to go to prom with me?"
Brad's smile is all teeth. "Yes."
The bottom falls out on Nate's stomach. Crap.
Part IV
Part II
"Oh thank God!"
Nate's startled awake by the loud exclamation. He opens his eyes and blinks for long seconds at his mom standing in the doorway, trying to process the enormous grin on her face and the huge cramp in his neck. "Whassit, Mom?"
He sniffs and tries to turn his head away from the pain only to find himself with his nose buried in Brad's neck.
"Wake up," he says, poking Brad in the ribs. Brad grumbles, opens one eye and bats at Nate ineffectively.
"I have never been so happy to see you two together in my entire life," his mom babbles. "Except for that time when you were twelve and you two wandered off to the arcade at the beach and didn't bother to tell anybody – I have to go call Rachel," she says, dashing off.
Nate yawns, trying to scoot away from Brad, but he finds himself restrained by an arm flung across his waist.
His mother pops back in. "Brad, did you want pancakes? Diane's cooking; I'll have her make more. I'm just so happy to see you two together, you don't even know."
As though needing to prove her point, Nate's mother comes into his room, crosses over to the bed and pats Brad on the cheek.
At this Brad finally sits up and smiles. "It's good to see you, too, Mrs. Fick," he says around a yawn.
Nate's mom nods approvingly. "Okay, you two come down whenever you're ready," she says, pausing and looking out Nate's open window. "And you brought the ladder! Oh, thank the good Lord."
Nate makes a disbelieving noise. His mom isn't normally this blasphemous. It's not like Brad and he -- "Mom, calm down, it wasn't that bad."
His mother gives him a wary look. "Do you want us to tell you how bad it was? Because Rachel and I would love to sit you boys down and tell you how bad this was. I've seen divorces with less drama."
Brad slides to the edge of the bed and punches Nate in the thigh. "Ow!" he protests.
"Nate, stop giving your mother grief; don't you think she's suffered enough with you for a son?"
"Shut up," Nate says, shoving Brad off the bed.
His mother laughs as Brad falls on the floor. "This is more like it," she says before walking off.
Brad looks up at Nate. "You think it was that bad?" Brad asks, brushing his hair off his forehead.
Nate thinks about Brad's hair sliding through his fingers and he swallows. "Don't you?"
Brad chuckles. "Yeah -- but don't tell them that."
Nate wakes up early on Monday morning. Too early. He doesn't have school for another two hours, but he can't just lie there. He's itching with the need to do something, go somewhere, feel alive. He pulls out some workout clothes and is just opening his bedroom door as his dad emerges from the bedroom he shares with Nate's mom.
"Isn't it a little early for you?" his dad asks, walking up the hallway dressed for his morning run.
Nate yawns. "Couldn't sleep."
"You want to go for a run with your old man?" His dad adjusts the sports band on his glasses.
Nate smiles. "Yeah, I could do that."
His dad ruffles his hair. "Okay, but take it easy. I haven't been 17 in a long time."
Nate's dad runs like a fucking racehorse. Nate remembers now that that's why he stopped running with him in the first place. His legs are like jelly by the time they get home, and he has to sit down in the shower just to get through it without falling over. It takes him a lot longer than normal to get ready and he's running late when he gets back to his room. He gets dressed in a rush and grabs some toast from his mom on his way out the door. He hopes he's not too late.
When Nate pulls up to the Colberts, Brad's at the curb, sitting on his motorcycle and pulling on his helmet.
Nate has to shift into park and lean across the car to roll down the passenger side window. "Want a ride?" he calls.
When Brad sees Nate his face creases into a huge smile. Nate sits up so fast he feels dizzy and has to grip the steering wheel. Brad climbs off his motorcycle and takes the two steps to the car. He pulls on the door handle, but it doesn't open. Nate's car was made far before automatic anything. "You going to unlock the door?"
"You can't reach in and unlock it yourself?" Nate asks, tossing empty tape cases, paperbacks and random tee shirts in the backseat. "When did you become such a lazy fuck?"
"Right around the time I met you." Brad's grin is all teeth as he unlocks the door manually and tosses his backpack in the backseat before sliding in beside Nate.
Brad's hair is wet, slicked back. He smells like coconut shampoo and Dial soap. The scents go straight up Nate's nose and down to his dick. Thankfully Brad's too busy playing Radio Commando on the drive to school to notice.
Nate's not about to admit he's missed Brad's addiction to REO Speedwagon and Journey.
Nate can feel the eyeballs on him when Brad gets out of the car behind him. It's exactly like his hellish November, only completely different. Where people would whisper when he passed, gawk and pointedly stare, now people are pointing, staring and smiling.
He and Brad run into Mike and Poke in the halls, and Mike's eyebrows raise so high they nearly disappear into his hairline. "What's up, white people?" Poke asks, looking between them blatantly.
Nate looks at Brad. "Are you white? I didn't know you were white."
"I'm not," Brad says. "My little Mexican friend has been misinformed. I am the few, the proud, the Jew. You might've seen our commercials on TV."
Nate can't help laughing. Poke just smiles. "That's the Son of Abraham I know and love; I can't help your Anglo-Saxon brothers, though."
Brad turns to Mike and Nate. "I'm sorry," Brad says solemnly. "You motherfuckers are on your own."
Nate's still laughing when Brad drags him away. "I have – have to get my Latin stuff," he wheezes, nodding towards the hall where his locker is.
"Cogito ergo, why do you still take that shit?" Brad says.
"Because we can't all be fluent in binary, asshole."
Brad shakes his head. "So unlearned, so sad," he says, following Nate and bumping into him every few seconds, sending him knocking into innocent bystanders until they reach his locker. Nate spins the dial and opens the door. His Latin text is in the footwell and he crouches down to get it, glancing up as Brad rests his arm on the top of the locker door and peers down at him.
When he stands up, he's summarily tackled directly into the door.
"Oh my fucking god, homes!" Nate studies Ray Person wrapped around his middle and gives Brad a look he hopes conveys his utter confusion at this moment.
"Thank fuck, y'all made up," Ray babbles. "Your star-crossed fuckers drama was getting on my last fucking nerve! You were giving me the itch like I got the clap or some shit. Acting like you were Dylan and Brenda on 90210!"
Brad shakes his head, reaching around the door and grabbing Ray by the scruff to extract him from Nate's person. Ray's litany carries on "-- with all this he won't talk to me, bullshit! I won't talk to him! He stole my Barbie and put her in a slutty dress! You're both fucking pussies!"
The Barbie thing is actually kind of funny.
"What have I told you about randomly humping people's legs?" Brad admonishes with a smirk. A pause. "And why are you dressed for a funeral?"
Ray brushes the wrinkles out of his suit jacket when Brad lets him go and straightens his tie. "Debate with Oceanside Prep, dude. You know we gotta take those prep school ass bandits down. Why don’t you listen to me when I tell you this shit?" he berates. "I see how it is: now that you've made all nice with your man, you just cast me aside – me, the captain of the Debate Team -- like a used condom, but I'll tell you now—"
Brad slaps a hand over Ray's mouth. "Ray, shut up."
Ray carries on talking, his words muffled, but his hands flying everywhere.
The warning bell rings. Nate looks from Brad to Ray and back to Brad. "This is your problem," he says. "You deal with it."
Brad nods. "I'll see you at lunch."
And for the most part, things go back to the way they were before. Before the kissing and the fighting and the endless nights of Nate looking at his homework, playbook and college applications and not processing anything.
Except things aren't quite the same.
There's a hint of something new and fragile pushing its way to the surface. It's there when they play catch in the yard until the sun goes down and street lights come on. It seeps into the space between them when they sit together at lunch and Brad leans across the table to drown all of Nate's fries in ketchup. Nate hates ketchup. He doesn't complain.
It's that unshakeable yearning that has Nate looking at Brad during every commercial when they gather with most of their friends to watch the 49ers become the first five-time winners of the Super Bowl.
This new thing fizzles between them when they do the dishes at Brad's house and when they're at Nate's locker, invading each other's personal space and then recoiling in case something combusts by accident. They get close, jerk away, and then get close again, ultimately inching nearer.
The itch is there.
No one in Nate's family celebrates Valentine's Day. It's something his mother instituted when she was still Barbara Coles and not Barbara Fick. Apparently, on their third date she told Nate's dad that if he didn't appreciate her the other 364 days of the year, one day wasn't going to make up for it.
So, Nate's parents go out the day before or the week after, but on Valentine's Day 1995 they go up to L.A. to visit Emily and meet her new boyfriend. This leaves Nate at home to fend for himself and Brad with leftovers, popcorn and Star Wars on VHS.
Brad's sprawled all over the dark green cloth sofa in the Fick family room, watching The Simpsons. Nate deliberately tosses the huge bowl of popcorn at him to get him to sit up. "Have some self control," he teases, shoving Brad's arms and legs out of his way.
Brad tosses a few kernels at him. "I know you short people feel jealousy, but it's just genetics -- blame your parents."
Nate pokes Brad in the temple. "If your body was as big as your ego, I might be concerned."
"You'd be surprised at how proportional things are in relation to my ego."
Nate looks at Brad and then back at the TV. It's a shame he has no idea what he's looking at, because for a minute he thought he saw a dragon. He picks up the right remote purely by luck and hits play.
"I was watching that," Brad protests as the movie cues up.
"Oh, really? And what was it?"
"A commercial."
"You're bitching about a commercial?"
"It was for the Marines. It had a dragon."
Well, at least Nate didn’t imagine the dragon part. "The few, the proud, huh?"
Brad tosses a few more kernels of popcorn at his head. "Nothing wrong with serving your country."
"Only if you serve it by getting sterilized," Nate says slyly.
He really should expect it when Brad tackles him, popcorn flying everywhere. He really should.
Brad's tackle is a little lacking, though, and Nate ends up half off the sofa with Brad sprawled between his legs and grabbing at Nate's arm to keep him from landing on his head.
"Clearly your tackling is why Godfather had you carrying the ball instead," Nate laughs, even as all the blood rushes to his skull.
"Oh, you think you're funny, don't you?" Nate's not expecting it when Brad hauls him back up on the sofa. He's so disoriented that for a minute he doesn't quite process Brad stretched over him.
Brad's eyes are bright, sharp. His smile is so broad, Nate can see his canines, and his chest is heaving with the exertion of moving Nate around. The blood in Nate's head starts moving somewhere else.
Nate's eyes are instinctively drawn to Brad's mouth. He licks his own lips, tasting the salt and butter from the microwave popcorn.
Brad's gaze is like fingers on Nate's face, and when Brad bites his own lower lip this sound escapes from Nate's throat -- if wanting could be classified as a sound.
Brad recoils, retreating to the other end of the sofa, and Nate struggles to sit up. He fights to push through the thick film of disappointment threatening to suffocate him. The disappointment that he threw this away without knowing what he had.
They begin preparing for Advanced Placement exams in March. In English, they begin reading Great Expectations, which Nate read three summers ago at his grandparents' house in Baltimore.
His grandmother, Mae, is a great believer in expanding the mind through reading. The only TV in her house is in the sitting room and it's only turned on for the evening news and 60 Minutes.
Of course, his grandmother also sent him to etiquette classes for six weeks. It was a long summer.
The thing about Great Expectations, though, is that Nate genuinely likes Dickens. He tells a good story. Sometimes they're about 300 pages too long, but if Nate had been getting paid by the word, he probably would've had the thesaurus open, too.
He's in his room, reading the next couple chapters, when there's a knock on the door. "Nate, Brad's on the phone," his dad's voice carries through the wood.
The mattress squeaks when Nate gets to his feet, and when he opens the door, his dad's holding out the only portable phone in the house. The phone is kind of big and unwieldy, but it's got enough range that you can actually leave the house and still use it. Well, at least as far as the driveway.
"Thanks," he says, before putting the phone to his ear. "You're calling me?" he mocks. "You couldn't just knock on my window like every other night?"
"My mom's got me doing the laundry," Brad grouses. "I need to take out my Dickensian frustrations."
Nate has to laugh. "What did Dickens do to you?" he says, flopping back down on his bed.
"For a start, why couldn't he just get to the point?" Brad bitches. "Why thirty words when five will do? And his predilection for crime is pretty evident. You remember A Tale of Two Cities in 10th grade? The man's obsessed with malfeasance. He should've quit writing and started robbing people -- it's clearly what he wanted to do in the first place."
Brad continues on with his rant, but Nate can't quite parse it because something strange is happening to his body. Actually, it's not strange in the slightest, it's just incredibly inappropriate.
Since when does Brad's bitching turn him on?
The more irate Brad gets, the harder Nate's dick gets in his shorts.
Nate presses the heel of his hand down on his cock, trying to calm it down, but that just seems to make it worse. The harder he presses, the thicker it gets. He bites the inside of his cheek and his cock jerks underneath his hand.
"And why the hell are we being forced to read about this bullshit?" Brad asks. "The man is dead. Who cares? Hustler is great literature, this is shit."
Nate worries his bottom lip. His cock is leaking in his boxers and of all the times to get hard this has to be up on the top five of Worst Timing Ever.
He swallows a noise when Brad says something about Pip being a pussy; Nate is truly not thinking about pussy at all. He gives himself a half-hearted squeeze through his shorts, which has to be the worst idea ever.
His head snaps back, and he grunts. "What happen, you run into the edge of your desk again?" Brad asks.
"Yeah, yeah -- I'm fine," Nate lies, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear so he can unfasten his shorts and get inside his boxers. He sighs in relief when he finally gets a hand on his cock. The head is slick, sticky in his fingers and he gives himself a preliminary stroke and his entire body fills with warmth.
He grunts again, and Brad stops talking. "Where are you?" Brad presses. "What's with the prehistoric noises? Are you taking a shit?" A pause. "That's so fucking inappropriate, I can't believe I haven't thought of doing that while on the phone before."
Nate slides his hand further down, rolling his balls between his fingers, tugging on them sharply before sliding his hand back up his dick. The precome is smearing everywhere, behind his balls, slicking the hair around his cock. He tries to kill the strangled noise that wants to come out.
"No, definitely not in the bathroom," he grits out.
Brad makes a hmming noise. "Where was I?"
Nate thumbs the underside of his cock, thinking of Brad's hands on him, Brad's mouth on his. His hips fuck into his fist. Hard. "You were, uh – uh, Dickens as a career criminal," he pants.
Brad makes another hmming noise and Nate wants to weep with frustration. He needs to hear Brad's voice; it's the only thing that's going to get him off.
He doubts Brad would be so nonverbal if he could see Nate right now.
"You know this makes me think of Moby Dick," Brad says eventually. Nate squeezes his eyes closed. The word 'dick' in Brad's mouth has to be illegal in this state.
"Talk about somebody chasing a white whale," Brad continues. "Pip's killing himself over some chick who doesn't want him, Miss Havisham gets stood up and stays in the same clothes for the rest of her life. Pissing and shitting in her wedding dress. Clearly she should've hooked up with Ahab. What is it with people falling in love with dicks?"
Nate barks out a laugh. "Point taken."
"I didn't mean you."
"Of course you didn't."
"You know that's not what I think of you."
"You wouldn't be wrong," Nate says hoarsely. This is wrong. Very wrong. He's going to go to hell for jerking off to Brad's voice on the phone. "Tell me more about your brilliant theory, anyway."
He struggles to shove his shorts and boxers further down his thighs and still keep the phone at his ear. He fumbles with the pillow to keep the phone propped up accordingly while one hand goes directly back to his dick and the other slides back behind his balls. The tips of his fingers brush over his asshole, stroking, learning; Nate's entire body spasms.
"Brilliant theory?" Brad's voice is strangely muffled. "Who are you and what have you done with Nate Fick? What is this? Invasion of the Body Snatchers?"
Nate's laugh gets strangled into a choking noise as he comes all over his hand. "Oh, god," he hisses, stroking himself through an orgasm strong enough to be worthy of a state football trophy.
He's totally fucked.
The phone goes silent.
"Nate."
Nate tenses up; he's only heard this tone once before. And the last time he ended up with Brad's tongue in his mouth and him locked in the bathroom.
His lips are dry and cracked, he licks them. "Yeah?" He sounds like his voice is broken.
"Did you just—"
Brad's question is interrupted by the click of the receiver and someone dialing the phone.
"Mom?" Nate says.
"Nate?"
That's not Nate's mom, but it's close enough. His balls immediately try to retreat into his body. He doesn’t blame them.
"Mom," Brad says in exasperation.
"Oh, Brad, honey. I'm sorry; I didn't realize you were on the phone."
Nate looks at his sticky hand and wipes it on the sheets. "It's okay, Mrs. Colbert," he says, shifting the phone again to grab some tissues from his nightstand. "I need to go do some homework anyway. Brad, I'll see you tomorrow."
"Nate, wait—"
Nate hangs up before he embarrasses himself further.
April brings April Fools Day and at least three invitations to prom -- all from Nate's starting line-up.
Nate respectfully has to decline the right to play Mrs. Mike Wynn for the evening. And Mrs. Jason Lilley. He pretends to give Walt Hasser's offer some thought, if only to see the interesting shades Ray's face turns, but in the end, he has to turn him down as well.
April also brings his parents stressed out over their taxes and the big push for AP exam studying. Despite all the worrying and drudgery, April 15th brings Nate something that he's been waiting a long time for: envelopes from Stanford, UPENN and Dartmouth.
His mother is waiting on the steps when he gets home, and he's barely killed the engine before she's in the driveway, thrusting envelopes through the open window of his Volvo.
"They came," she says, her excitement palpable. "Don't keep me waiting."
Nate laughs as he tries to juggle the envelopes and his car keys. "Can I get out the car first?"
"No, I'm your mother and you'll do what I say."
"Can I at least unfasten my seat belt?"
His mother rolls her eyes. "Kids today are so demanding."
Nate chuckles, taking the envelopes from her. There are two thick envelopes and one thin one. He opens the thin one first. It's from the University of Pennsylvania.
"Wait-listed," he says, handing his mom the envelope.
She tosses it over her shoulder. "I never liked Philadelphia anyway."
Nate opens the first thick envelope. It's from Stanford. "I'm in," he says, nodding his head and smiling.
"I've always liked Stanford," his mom says approvingly.
Nate holds the Dartmouth envelope for a long time. He turns it over and over in his hands, rubbing the school insignia with his thumb.
Dartmouth is his first choice. The minute he set foot on the campus last spring, he knew it was where he wanted to be.
"It's not going to open itself," his mother prods.
Nate slips his finger inside the fold and rips it open. And then he hands it off to his mom.
She opens the envelope and then hands a folded piece of paper back to him. "Your future, you do the honors."
Nate only has to read the first line, and then he's out of the car and squeezing the air out of his mom's lungs. "So, we're going to Hanover, I take it," his mom says, patting him on the back.
Nate ducks his head. He can feel the grin eating his face. "I have to go," he says, waving down the street.
"Tell Brad I said 'hi'!" his mom calls after him.
He bangs on the door loudly and without ceasing until it swings open. "Your ass better be on fire," Brad grouses, a plastic cup in his hand and faded grey shorts low on his hips.
Nate smiles broadly.
"Jesus, what's wrong with you?" Brad says, raising an eyebrow. "Why the deranged smile?"
Nate waves his acceptance letter. "Dartmouth. I got in."
Brad claps hollowly against his cup. "Is this a surprise?"
"They could've said no."
"I have yet to meet someone who's said 'no' to you."
Nate looks up at Brad from underneath his eyelashes. It's a dirty trick; he doesn't care. "You tell me 'no' all the time."
Brad's startled. Nate can see it all over his face; he recovers well. "Right," he deflects nicely. "I'm the only person in existence to tell you 'no' – besides your mom. Do I get a prize?"
Brad's wearing Nate's Joe Montana shirt, and Nate rakes a long look from Brad's face down to the slash of skin exposed between his shorts and his shirt. "Yeah," Nate says, stepping into Brad's house and pushing him back against the wall. "You get something."
Nate's acceptance letter floats out of his hand at the same time that Brad drops his cup in the doorway, splashing water on the doormat. The cup bounces out of the house and rolls down the stairs.
They both watch it come to a stop, and then Nate looks back at Brad.
Brad's eyes are wide and he inhales sharply when Nate leans in and nuzzles the side of his face. There's faint stubble along his jaw, which prickles Nate's skin. He mouths the long column of Brad's neck, tasting sweat and dirt, things he shouldn't find appealing at all.
Of course, Nate's cock does not agree with this summation and begins to swell rapidly in his shorts. Nate's head snaps back when Brad yanks his hair hard. "Don't start this," he warns. His mouth is a thin line, but his eyes are dark and lidded.
Nate licks his lips and Brad's eyes dart downward. "I think you started it," he says in a low tone. "So this is just a continuance."
Brad's grip on his hair relaxes, and then his fingers start massaging Nate's scalp. "Nate."
"I like the way you say my name," Nate says quietly, slotting himself against Brad's body. "I like you. It just took me a while to get my head out of my ass."
Brad licks his lips. "It's a nice ass; I can see how you'd get distracted."
The hand that Brad doesn't have in Nate hair grips his ass and pulls him in, pressing Nate's erection against his thigh. Nate groans, digging his fingers into Brad's shirt, rolling his hips and trying to get closer.
Brad turns his head just that little bit and brushes his mouth against Nate's. His tongue flickers out and licks Nate's lower lip.
Nate groans into Brad's mouth, and then Brad's fingers tighten in Nate's hair again. He wouldn't call it kissing, that seems too chaste a word for the way Brad sucks on his tongue and Nate humps Brad's thigh. Brad moves him back and something loud slams in his ear.
"Nuhh," Nate mutters against the corner of Brad's mouth.
"I don't think my mom would approve of us giving the Petersens a show," Brad says, tilting his head to the side as a suggestion.
Nate mouths at Brad's neck again, long, slow, sucking kisses. He feels drugged, and his cock is very happy with the way he's grinding against Brad. In another two minutes, maybe less –
Brad kisses his temple. "I know you're excited about Dartmouth," he teases, "but debauching me in the hallway seems a little tacky."
Nate untangles his hand from Brad's shirt and slides it down Brad's stomach, lower until he squeezes Brad's dick through his shorts.
"Shit." Brad thrusts in Nate's palm, his hand painfully tight in Nate's hair.
"Your mom's at work right?" Nate mumbles. His tongue is clumsy in his mouth.
"She's teaching Hebrew School tonight."
"When's she going to be home?"
Brad looks at Nate closely. "About two hours."
"Upstairs. Now."
Brad blinks. "Nate, we don't –"
"Now, Brad."
Brad's bedroom hasn't changed much since Nate's known him. The walls are the same pale green, the motorcycle posters have upgraded every year, but they're always in the same spot over the bed. The stack of computer CPUs in the corner and tool box have remained the same. The computers Brad really uses are housed in the basement. The only real differences are the football and baseball that now sit on Brad's dresser.
Nate observes them in the time it takes to walk in the door and have Brad slam him against the wall. His head bangs against plaster, but it doesn't matter because Brad's kissing him, again, dirty and wet, and his hands are all over Nate's ass, squeezing and kneading, fingers stroking the seam that holds Nate's pants together.
If it were physically possible for Nate to fall apart under the weight of want, it would happen now.
He rubs his cock against Brad's thigh, feeling Brad hard against his hip. He digs his fingers into Brad's shoulders and has to turn away to breathe, gasping for air and trying to have a real thought.
"Clothes off," he says between ragged inhalations.
Brad's grip tightens on his ass, his teeth nipping sharply at Nate's neck and Nate has to punch him in the chest to get his attention. Brad releases him immediately and staggers back.
His mouth is slick and Nate wants it. He wants to lick at it and feel it on his chest. Feel it wrapped around his cock. "What the hell was that for?" Brad complains, rubbing the place where Nate struck him.
"Clothes off now," Nate reiterates.
Brad's mouth falls open just a little bit. "Are you always this bossy in bed?" he sounds suspiciously hopeful.
Nate chuckles. "We're not in bed yet," he says, yanking his shirt over his head.
When he emerges, Brad's eyes are fixed on him. He smiles encouragingly, trying to keep the butterflies in his stomach and the shaking in his muscles to a minimum. He kicks off his flip-flops, unbuttons his khaki shorts and pushes them down his thighs, kicking them across the uncluttered carpet to join his shoes.
He stops when he realizes Brad's still not moving. "If you don't do it, I'll do it for you," he tries.
Brad's jaw is tight. "Nate, I don't want your pity."
Nate barks out a laugh. "Have you looked in the mirror lately?" he says, grabbing at Brad and tugging him close. "You must be out of your mind. I am not that philanthropic."
"You're not?" There's a hitch to Brad's voice that Nate doesn't like. An uncertainty he might've put there.
Nate leans into Brad, brushing Brad's mouth with his own. "No," spills out of his mouth and onto Brad's lips, and then Brad's kissing him again. Soft, light kisses that rapidly degenerate into a filthy mess of Brad fucking Nate's mouth.
His tongue is thick between Nate's lips and Nate sucks hard, licking and moaning. He groans loudly as Brad's knuckles brush over his cock, once, twice, repeatedly rolling his hips into the sensation and loudly disapproving when Brad pulls his hand away.
Brad's forehead is on his bare shoulder, his hair tickling the side of Nate's face. Nate feels the warm air when Brad asks, "Do you want this?" His voice is scratchy, worn. He rubs the back of his fingers over Nate's cock, knuckles dragging along Nate's erection as Nate drives his hips forward.
"God, yes," sounds like one long hiss to Nate's own ears, but instead of touching him again, Brad steps away. Nate stands there, impossibly hard in his underwear and wanting so much it's giving him a headache. Brad stares, studying him. Whatever he sees on Nate's face is enough to get him to take off his clothes. Finally.
Nate moves in to help, to bite at Brad's lower lip, kiss his jaw. Rake his nails down Brad's chest and swallow his guttural sounds. Breathing has become something Nate consciously has to do, because he can't bring himself to pull away from Brad's mouth.
He fiddles with the button on Brad's shorts, finally managing to get it and the zipper undone before he tries to shove them down Brad's legs.
"Ow, fuck! Zipper! Watch the zipper!" Brad complains.
Nate drops to his knees. "Sorry, sorry," he says, gently pulling Brad's shorts down the rest of the way. Brad's briefs are black and there's a wet spot near the waistband. Nate stares, jerking away when Brad's fingers brush his cheek.
"If you stay down there any longer, this is going to be over before it even starts," Brad says, grabbing Nate under the arm and hauling him to the bed.
Nate's bed is a twin. Brad's bed is twice as big and without a wrinkle.
Nate can't remember the last time he made his bed.
When Brad scrambles backwards on the mattress, all Nate can see is tan skin, faded scars and places he wants to put his mouth.
Places he wants to rut against until he comes and can do it all over again.
He pushes down his boxers and Brad's eyes go wide. "Jesus," he curses.
Nate kicks them off, smiling toothily as he crawls across the bed. "I thought your people didn't believe in Jesus," he says as Brad props himself up on his pillows and drags Nate on top of him.
Brad seems to be nothing but skin. Nate's nipples get painfully hard when he brushes against Brad's chest, his cock twitching when the head drags over Brad's thigh.
Nate hasn't felt this exposed since he lost his virginity, and he has to push himself up on his knees just to get his bearings. Precome – his --is dotting Brad's stomach and he can feel how hard Brad is through his briefs. He shudders when Brad's hands ghost over his ribs, rubbing his ass against Brad's cotton-clad crotch.
Still too many clothes.
He knows what Brad wants, can tell by the way he's arching off the bed. He leans down and meets Brad's kiss halfway. He breaks it off eventually, but can't move away because of Brad's hand curled around the back of his neck, anchoring him still.
"I'm not -- I'm not going anywhere," Nate insists. "I'm just trying to get your clothes off."
Brad rolls his eyes and releases him. "Why didn't you just say so?"
Nate sighs loudly as Brad pushes him away to kick his briefs off, and then Brad's naked, and all Nate can do is kneel beside him and stare. He runs his hands down Brad's chest, feeling the sharp intake of breath as his fingers brush over Brad's stomach.
Brad's cock is thick and long, and yeah, Nate's looked in the locker room, but this is an entirely different set of circumstances.
He can't help touching, just a light brush over the slick head. Brad's hips buck up, and Nate grins victoriously. "You like that?"
The way Brad says his name is somewhere between an order and begging. Nate can go with it.
He straddles Brad's thighs again. Experimentally rubbing his ass back and down, against Brad's cock. He can feel the wet smears against his ass, which are strange, but not necessarily unpleasant.
Brad rolls up against him, gripping Nate's hips hard, and every cell in Nate's body fires and he blinks down at where his dick is leaking all over Brad's chest.
"Huh," he says, reaching down and smearing his fingers through the mess he's making.
"This is going to end in about eight seconds," Brad warns, right before he grabs Nate's wrist, pulling Nate's hand to his mouth and licking at his wet fingertips.
Nate's cock jerks again, and he has to pull his hand away from Brad to squeeze his dick. One squeeze devolves into a stroke and then another and another. Nate grinds his ass against Brad's cock and fucks his hand, grunting and watching Brad watching him.
Brad's hands slide up Nate's thighs, cupping his ass, and then there are fingers brushing against his asshole, stroking, probing. Nate's whole world slows down as he falls forward, stopping himself with a hand next to Brad's head.
Brad licks at his mouth and Nate kisses him back hungrily, biting, sucking hard. He gets rolled into his back, and Brad's hand wraps around his dick. No. Wraps around their dicks. Nate thrusts into the circle of Brad's hand, the head of his cock rubbing against the underside of Brad's dick and that's all Nate needs.
He comes so hard he can feel his spine extending. His eyes squeeze closed and then he opens them to see Brad looking at him ruefully. Nate looks at the come on his stomach and runs his fingers through it before stroking the sticky mess along the length of Brad's cock and wrapping his hand around Brad.
Brad groans low in his throat as Nate begins jacking him off. "Oh, fuck, Nate," Brad moans, his hips fucking into Nate's hand. Nate swipes his thumb over the head of Brad's cock, feeling the slick softness, spreading his fingers to hold as much of Brad as possible.
Brad's head is tossed back and Nate can see the faint marks that he's left. They're not dark enough to last until tomorrow; he'll have to work on that.
"Brad," he says, tightening his grip more. He knows it has to be too hard, but Brad makes this keening noise in the back of his throat and comes all over Nate's hand and stomach. Nate can feel Brad's shudders vibrating in his own body as he strokes Brad through it. Nate's in so much trouble now.
Brad collapses next to him, skin flushed and sweaty, hairline damp.
Nate looks down at the semen on his stomach and pushes his fingers through it curiously.
"Five minutes," Brad says, forearm over his eyes. "Give me five minutes, and we'll do it again."
"You want to do it again?"
Brad lifts his arm and turns to look at Nate. "You don't?"
Nate blinks at him guilelessly. "You're so easy," he says with a smile.
Brad scowls at him, rolls over and kisses Nate viciously. Nate laughs into Brad's mouth, his body twitching when Brad's fingers slip though the slickness on his stomach.
"You okay?" Brad says when he pulls away. "You're not going –"
"Brad!" a familiar female voice calls loudly. "Brad, I'm home!"
Nate entire body goes into shock at the sound of Mrs. Colbert's voice and then he rockets out of the bed like somebody plugged him into a thousand volts of angry mom.
"I thought you said two hours," he hisses, trying to yank on a shirt. Was he wearing gray shorts?
"Shut up! Shut up!" Brad says flinging clothes in his direction. Nate's shirt sticks to his stomach, and he trips trying to pull up his shorts, going down hard on his knees.
"Bradley Colbert, what are you doing up there?"
"Nothing, Mom!" Brad calls desperately, trying to straighten the bed while pointing at Nate. Nate looks down to make sure his pants are zipped up and then around frantically. Brad's underwear is hanging from the dresser. How did that get there?
Nate grabs the underwear, uses it to wipe some of the mess from his stomach, and then shoves it under the bed just as the door swings open.
"Nate!" Mrs. Colbert says with a wide grin. "Now I know what's going on up here – you didn't break any more of my furniture, did you?"
Nate smiles; he can only imagine how he must look. "Would we do that?"
Mrs. Colbert puts her hands on her hips. "How can someone with a face so innocent be so devious? Are you staying for dinner? We're having roast chicken."
Nate darts a glance at Brad's perfectly impassive face. At the sweat beading his upper lip. "Yeah," he says. "That'd be great."
Mrs. Colbert's mouth twitches at the corner and she produces a crumpled piece of white paper from somewhere on her person. "And I believe this belongs to you," she says holding out Nate's Dartmouth acceptance letter. "Congratulations are in order; c'mere and give me a hug."
Nate smiles stupidly as he gets to his feet. He's going to hug Brad's mother after he debauched her son.
So going to hell.
Brad and Nate have their dessert sitting on the steps of the Colbert's back porch. Nate licks the chocolate ice cream from his spoon and shifts against the wooden railing behind him. Brad's on the step above him, already on his second bowl of mint chocolate chip.
"So," he says, "what about Cal-Tech? Or is it M.I.T. now?"
Brad slurps loudly on his spoon. "Is what Cal-Tech or M.I.T.?"
Nate makes a mocking noise. "C'mon, which one won the Brad Colbert lottery? I confess I'm feeling a little pro-M.I.T. – but that's just me being selfish."
Brad looks down at him. "You'd want me to go to M.I.T.?"
Nate turns away from the inquisitive look on Brad's face. "Yeah," he says to his bowl of ice cream. "I would."
"Would you want me at Dartmouth?" Brad prods.
Nate sighs. "Yeah, yes -- you know I would."
"I'm not going to Cal-Tech."
Nate's head snaps up. "You're going to M.I.T?"
Brad chooses this time to fill his mouth with more ice cream.
Nate waits. And then he waits more.
"I'm not going to either one," Brad says eventually.
Nate's flummoxed. "You're going to play ball somewhere?"
Brad's laugh is dry and throaty. "They don't give scholarships to people who quit the team."
"You're not telling me you didn't get in to Cal-Tech," Nate pushes.
"No," Brad says. "In fact, I got a call from the Dean of Admissions personally, saying she hoped I'd consider applying in the fall again."
"You've lost me."
Brad scratches himself; Nate's momentarily distracted. "Brad," he says.
Brad looks somewhere over the side of the porch. "I never finished my application."
Nate can feel the horror. "Just that one, though," he tries. "You applied to the other places, right?"
"No," Brad says. "I didn't do any of them."
"Oh, god, Brad," Nate says, his ice cream falling out of his hands. "Why? Is this – did I do this?"
Brad laughs hollowly. "Nate, as much I lo – no, Nate, this isn't about you."
Nate feels light-headed. He grabs onto the railing. First, he has sex with Brad, and then he finds out Brad's not going to college and it might be his fault. Now, Brad just said – Nate's brain throws on the emergency brake. "What did you just say to me?"
Brad sets his ice cream down on the deck, stands up, brushing past Nate as he walks down the steps to the backyard. Nate follows him. He reaches out to grab Brad's arm and instead finds himself sliding his hand along Brad's shoulder.
Oh, sex is making him stupid. This happened with Natalie, too, but this is like, exponentially times worse.
"I don’t want to go to college," Brad says to the oak trees lining his parents' property. "I don't know what I want, but I don’t want that. At least not right now."
"But you've always wanted to go to Cal-Tech. It was all you could talk about last year, going some place where the IQ was higher than Ray's weight soaking wet."
Nate can feel Brad's chuckling. The laugher dies away when he turns around. "I know you want to go to college, but that's not what I've wanted for a while."
Brad's gaze is steady. There's no uncertainty here.
"Then what do you want?" Nate says.
Brad shrugs. "Right now I have what I want. Beyond that I don't know."
Nate flushes and looks down at his bare feet. "I'm wearing your shorts," he says with something akin to surprise.
Brad smiles at him when he lifts his head. "At least you got the shirt right."
Nate runs his fingers through his hair. Today has been all over the place.
"Why'd you run away from me?" Brad asks.
Nate can feel the blood leaving his face. He swallows hard. "You're changing the subject."
"I've been patient," Brad says. "My people can be patient, but fuck it; sometimes you have to part the Red Sea. You ran away from me, and now you -- I'm trying to let you figure it out, but Nate, you can't do what you did today and then run away again."
Nate rubs the back of his head. His hair's getting too long. "I freaked out before," he confesses, frowning when Brad shakes his head. "What do you want me to say?"
"I figured that out on my own, you'll have to do better."
Nate can feel the sluggish determination in his veins; it's in every fiber when he deliberately runs his index finger along Brad's forearm. "I'm sorry we're not all as brilliant and self-aware as you are," he says quietly. "I'm sorry you made me come my brains out, and I freaked out because you're the most important person in my life and I wasn't thinking, 'oh and by the way, I can also get insanely pornographic sex in the same place where all my other needs are being met'."
Brad's eyes crinkle at the corners. "I despair that one day your stupidity is going to choke your brilliance to death."
Nate purses his lips. "Do you have any idea what I'd do to you right now if your mother wasn't watching us from the kitchen window?"
They turn around together and wave.
Mrs. Colbert waves back rapidly.
"You know she's on the phone with my mom right now, right?" Nate says through his teeth.
"Oh, definitely."
Nate gets home late. His mom's in the kitchen making something brown with sugar and eggs. She whacks him on the arm when he sticks his finger in the bowl.
"Yum," he says, sucking on his index finger.
"Natalie called," she says.
Nate's stomach rumbles. "Natalie?" he parrots, just to make sure he heard that right.
His mother smiles. She could sell bacon to a rabbi. "About an hour ago,"
Nate rubs his face and grabs the portable from next to the refrigerator.
He dials Natalie's number from memory as he takes the stairs up to his room. "This is Natalie, you may speak now," she answers.
Nate snorts into the phone. "You summoned?"
"Nate!" Natalie sounds happy to hear from him. Far too happy. Nate turns on the light in his bedroom and closes the door behind him. His room is a fucking disaster area. Especially when compared to Brad's. If you don't count the come-stained comforter.
"I don't have bail money," he says peremptorily.
"Like I'd call you if I was in jail," Natalie laughs. "You're like tenth on the list. First, I'd call Tommy, and then Neal, and then Pedro, and then Gina and then Tanya –'
"I get it, Nat," Nate interrupts.
"Of course you do," Natalie coos. Jesus shit, Natalie never uses that tone on him. Not since, well, not for a long time. "So, what are you doing for prom?"
Nate freezes in the middle of his floor. "Prom?"
"Yes, prom, that formal get together at the end of the year with the overpriced tickets, the tacky clothes, the DJ from your parents wedding and the alcohol in the bottled water containers."
"Nobody ever proved that I had anything to do with that," Nate says.
"Please, Tanya Andrews was so proud of you, Brad and Poke, she nearly came in her underwear in the bathroom at the Hyatt."
Nate has nothing to say to that. Having one ex tell you that another ex was proud of your juvenile delinquent ways can't even process in Nate's brain.
"I, uh, I don't think I'm going to go this year," Nate says. It's not like he has someone to take.
Well, he does, but that's just -- that's still a new thought.
"Oh, that's too bad," Natalie says breezily, "because Ray and I were thinking you and Brad could come with us."
"You and Ray," Nate repeats. "You and Ray Person?"
"Yes, Ray and me," Natalie says indignantly. "I know how you hate to share, but we thought it might be fun."
Nate shakes his head. Brad's going to love this one, but it makes sense. Ever since New Year's Eve, every time Nate sees Natalie, Ray Person's not far behind.
"I, um, that's a nice offer, Nat."
"Just think about it, that's all I'm saying."
"Okay."
"I have to go," Natalie says. "Ray's got band practice and I promised I'd bring his mom earplugs."
Nate stares at the phone for a long time after Natalie hangs up.
Nate forgets all about the weird conversation with Natalie until he's at his locker the next day. He woke up late, barely made it to homeroom before the final bell, and has to grab his Latin and Calculus books and still get half way around the school to second period in the next two minutes.
He looks up distractedly when a shadow descends over him. Brad's wearing a bright blue shirt, flip flops and khakis. His smile is contagious and Nate can't help grinning back.
"And what do you want?" Nate goads as he tries to shove his books in his backpack and keep eye contact.
"The prom theme is 'Under the Fucking Sea'," Brad says derisively. "What crack-addled, trailer-park dweller thought that that was a good idea? I think that might've been my parents theme. I could find better inspiration in the bottom of a used condom."
"Under the Fucking Sea," Nate repeats. "I must've missed the 'fucking' part."
Brad stretches his arm along the wall above Nate's locker, displaying a long line of muscle and skin. Nate's cock stirs in interest. "Seriously, can you believe this pussy ass archaic and misogynistic bullshit? I thought people got over playing dress up before puberty."
"You sound remarkably like somebody else I've spoken to recently," Nate says. "And yet, I seem to recall that you went last year."
"That was different."
"Yeah, you were fucking Helen Taylor at the time."
Brad's cheeks color slightly and the warning bell rings.
"I have to go," Nate says apologetically, but when Brad blocks his path he makes no move to go around him. He looks at Brad expectantly. "You have something on your mind?"
Brad leans in. "I'm not going to prom."
Nate grins. "So that means you don't want to go with me, got it."
Brad narrows his eyes. "Are you asking?"
Nate looks around; the halls are emptying out rapidly. "Not if you don't want to go," he says in a low, bland tone. "I'm not going to spend my hard-earned money on some 'pussy ass archaic and misogynistic bullshit' as you so eloquently put it, if you're not interested."
"I never said I wasn't interested."
"So you were mocking out of interest."
"I mock lots of things I'm interested in," Brad says, his voice equally low.
Nate can feel the blood in his body rushing in completely different directions as the final bell rings. What's not in his cheeks is going directly to his cock. Jesus. He lowers his backpack to his crotch. Of course Brad notices.
"You look a little flushed. Something wrong, Nate?"
Nate scowls. "You're a douchebag, Colbert," he says, ducking around Brad.
Brad walks alongside him. "Ask me."
"Ask you what?" Nate doesn't know where the surliness is coming from.
Brad grips Nate's forearm and pulls him into the water fountain alcove. "Ask me to the prom."
Nate's cock is showing a lot of interest in this conversation. "You don't want to go," he says.
"Ask me anyway," Brad insists.
"As an exercise in futile masochism?"
"Nate."
Nate hates it when Brad says his name like that. He can't believe he didn't realize this years ago. It's the "I want this and you're going to give it to me because you want to make me happy" voice. Nate leans back and looks around. The halls are totally deserted.
He is so getting detention from his Latin teacher.
He looks up at Brad intently, studying the pink mouth and blue eyes. He can smell Brad's soap, the detergent his mom uses. The urge to shove Brad down and rub against him and listen to the heady, pornographic noises Brad gives up for him is so overwhelming, Nate almost staggers underneath it.
"Just ask," Brad's voice is coaxing. Wanting.
Nate sighs. "Do you want to go to prom with me?"
Brad's smile is all teeth. "Yes."
The bottom falls out on Nate's stomach. Crap.
