The Bad Boys' Soft Boys' Lonely Hearts Club - The Full Package

The Choosening

I'm having deja-vu all over again. Why dodgeball of all things? I don't want to have the shit balled out of my existence again. And that was against one supernatural being. Now I have to tango with beastmen and pixies and a magical dipshit. I'm not a jock, dang it! I'm a mysterious new kid bad boy, my face might as well be a magnet for balls.

"Dodgeball has long been used by our kind to settle differences, and show dominance," whispers Trevor the Man-man as he leans towards Hayden. "It is an ultimate test of leadership, making you think of strategies on the spot, resource management, team communication and delegation, and physical prowess. You can't brute-force your way to victory. It is a battle of both wits and strength."

"Hey, you mind opening up the floor for the rest of us who don't know what the hell is happening?" I ask as I insert myself in the convo, not unlike a pug at a house party begging for attention and maybe a slice of pizza.

Hayden doesn't even give me a glance or acknowledges my existence. Maybe because of the whole killing-a-guy thing. Can't really blame him. The nose-turn Trevor the Man-man gives me does tingle my grundle a little.

"I thought you didn't want my encyclopedic knowledge of the forest's social and historical norms, Master Ayden," says Trevor the Man-man, sneaking a snicker at the end there, and not the delicious nougat kind.

"Yeah, and I also thought I liked girls in season 1. I'm allowed a change of heart."

Trevor the Man-man gives me a ginger look of thinly-veiled contempt and sunburn, before smashing his cane/stick twice in what I think he thought is a dignified manner, but looks like a child in a park with a cool stick he found laying around.

"As you wish. If you want my wisdom, I shall give it to you. As you know, Dodgeball was invented by Bartholomew S. Dodgeball in 1897, when he was playing a game of Hitting-each-other-with-a-rubber-ball with his brother, Reginald F. Dodgeball, and he accidentally ducked at the last second to tie up his shoes. This simple act sparked the curiosity of both brothers, as dodging pain was an unknown and unmanly concept at the time. You were supposed to take it like a man, like their dad took that bullet in the second Afghan war. This little act would-"

"You know what? I stand corrected. Too much info, and I really don't care. Zip it, Wendy."

The red-haired baldy glares at me before bowing slightly. "As you wish, Master Ayden. I'll attend to Master Okayden now. If you would excuse me... dick."

"Joke's on you, pal. I've been called a dick so much that it lost all meaning!"

He has the audacity of not giving a fuck to my comeback and walks off, leaving me alone with Hayden.

Hayden crosses his arms, shifting his weight from side to side, not looking at his beautiful, hand-crafter-by-Jesus boyfriend. Is he mad at me? Oh, no, he's mad at me. I don't want the love of my life to be mad at me! Shit, think fast. Buy him flowers. Wait, can't do that here. Suck his weewee? Too public. Or maybe he likes adventurous stuff. I'll put a pin on that. Maybe a kiss. Yes, a kiss. I'll give him a kiss. Can't stay mad at me while giving your s.o a kiss. It's the law.

"Hey, babe," I tell Hayden while wrapping my arms against the huge Amazon rainforest tree-trunk he calls an arm, "I missed you. Can I have a kissy-kiss? Please? Kissy baby? Daddy mad at baby?"

Hayden, as if snapped from a daze, looks at me for the first time in a while, not with contempt or shame, but with surprise, as if the most beautiful boy in his life wasn't coiling around his arm like a naga. See? Not racist. Snake man is naga.

"Ah, yes, kiss," he splutters, giving me the saddest kiss I've ever been given. Granted, I haven't kissed that much yet, but this is a bottom-tier kiss, at best, only bested by the time Hayden started to experiment with a mustache. It was prickly and smelled of cheese, which makes me feel like I was kissing an elderly mouse.