let them boys be

(5 times they did it, and 1 time he stopped counting)

Summary: The five times they couldn't stop themselves, and the one time he stopped counting.
Themes/Tags: 5+1. boys being (horny) boys. nameless. "unscripted."
Warnings: boys getting some action. cough. my first try, don't laugh too hard.

(5 times they did it, and 1 time he stopped counting) -

i.
The first time was a surprise, as first times usually go. They were both drunk and their friends were evil little bastards. Besides, when teenagers played that game with an empty bottle, things never end up as planned. So they stumbled into the closet and there was a couple seconds of silence and mutual staring. He'd never even talked to the guy before; did they even share a class? Then the boy shifted closer, almost by accident and his eyes sort of triggered something in him, because the next thing he knew they were on the floor of that tiny closet and hands, hot hands and hot breath and heavy breathing and pounding hearts and the knock on the door came all too soon.

ii.
They didn't speak to each other for weeks, barely glancing when they passed each other in the hallways. He was right, they didn't share any classes, and to be honest, that was a sort of relief. So when he was the last one to pack up one faithful Tuesday, he was frozen when the classroom door slid shut and the boy whose face and hands he still had dreams (or nightmares, depends how you look at it) about stood there staring at him almost expectantly. They barely spoke three words to each other before the ground was in close proximity again and those lips against his skin, damn, did that fellow know how to tease.

At least they knew each other's name this time.

iii. 
The other two times were unplanned but one could argue that it was fate. The third, however, was purely on a whim. 

He didn't even like detective movies. But in the end, it didn't really matter, because he couldn't remember anything after the last preview. Correction: he couldn't remember anything about the movie. He could, however, remember the other's hot breath fanning across his neck, the sly hands that somehow found their way south, the soft lips that seared his nerves as they travelled along his jaw. He would always remember the burning sensation of nearing bliss but he had to--had to---keep it locked behind his tightly pressed lips because while he might have hated poorly made mysteries, some people actually wanted to enjoy the movie without the sound of two boys making out dangerously in the back row.

He never did finish getting the rest of the things on the list after running (quite literally) into the other boy. 

iv.
They never defined what exactly their "relationship" was, if it was a relationship at all. They did talk, now, more than just the occasional nod as they passed each other with friends on each side. They happened to agree on certain punk rock bands and disagree on certain fast food restaurants. Sometimes they even ran into each other in a few clothing brand stores and yeah, why not grab a couple of burgers or tacos to eat while they talked shit about their classes because what else did teenage boys talk about? They never strayed to red topics such as the type of girls they deemed a ten or who do they fantasize about only to wake up sweating and panting and needing to take a cold shower. 

So it wasn't that much of a surprise when they met up in the near empty parking lot at seven fifty-six one mutually shitty night and finally settled on a soundtrack with lots of pumping bass before making their way backseat and doing a lot of shifting around in the dark. They didn't talk about labels or confess deep dark secrets or draw clearly defined lines. But his hands felt good on his skin. Too good.

v. 
When they finally realized that all their friends sort of knew that they were sort of friends but sort of did things that more than friends did, they laughed about it over a couple of drinks. Life is a circle they said, and their friends honestly couldn't care less, all too busy messing around with sort of friends of their own. He bit his lip when he caught the other's smile, but ignored that dumb twinge in his heart that was starting to appear every time they met up accidentally-on-purpose. It was getting a bit annoying, honestly. And he was tired. Or horny. Or both. It was hard to think with all this in his head.

That was the first time he saw the inside of the other's bedroom. He wasn't even sure if he knew what he was doing, because their hands were kind of fumbling with the buttons and zippers more than usual, but maybe that was the alcohol, or maybe it was the fact that his heart was pounding way too loudly and when he whispered those goddamn words against the boy's stomach, he wished with all his might that he could have taken it back if it meant those mesmerizing hands didn't immediately freeze and let go of his head.

et i.
He never knew he would sink down to a level where he understood those stupid songs they kept playing late at night on the radio stations, when they thought nobody was listening or were too drunk on misery to listen because their own lonely desperate pathetic excuse of a love life was mocking them with those lyrics that he used to belt out in the shower when he was home alone.

Then the doorbell rang and there stood a beautiful boy with flushed cheeks and wild eyes and three words thrown back in his face and he was still in shock----was this real? could this even work? what? were they even friends?-----And the next thing he knew he was pushed onto his own bed and lips were on his neck, his shoulders, his hips; his own hands exploring skin he had already charted a map to, committed to mind from all those times before he even realized he was memorizing this boy's past scars and untanned skin and the weak spots where if he pressed hard enough caused the other to make an unholy sound that he didn't mind at all.

He stopped counting the times they created static electricity with their bare skin on skin after that.