I promise I'll make you moan.

It wasn't always the spur of the moment.
The buildup starts from early morning when you walk to kitchen in your soft robe.
A silver of leg here, bared torso there;
Cheeky grins and lowered lashes.

There was the deliberate bumping of hips,
The scrap of chest against chest, lips inches away.
Mint breath clouding up glasses, winks threw behind shoulders.
Lick your dry lips, run you hands across your body, hungry eyes stare.

Finally, you were isolated; catch your breath sweetheart, there's his call.
"Baby baby, I miss you."
Barely an hour smartass.
"I bet you think about me too. I can't wait to taste your skin. To lick across your inner thighs, I want to feel you writhing under me. God, you make me so hot. I'm still driving baby-"
Please... a gasp of pleasure, turn back. I'm calling in sick.
"You don't get away so easily baby. I'll call you."
Your moan was recieved by the dialtone.

Scrambled thoughts, heated sex, you could barely think. Confident fingers grazing and probing, sweet God.
A co-worker passes by, "Hey man, you okay?"
An animalistic growl in response. Surried footsteps and a moan of pleasure pain.
Tick tock tick tock.

Finally; you hurry out the office door, clicked footsteps on the cement stairs.
The sharp ringing penetrated your whore hazed mind.
"Hey baby, where are you?"
On my fucking way.
"I love it when you swear." and he hangs up.
Good God, that man was infuriating.

Change was everywhere as you paid the cab driver in front of your loft.
You rolled your eyes when he cursed at you and stumbled out, attacking the elevator with force.
You growled at the ding! and ran out, briefcase a distant second thought.
The door was unlocked, fucking exhibitionist.

He was fully dressed, smirking.
"Hey hun, how was work?"
Fuck you, you threw your briefcase somewhere off to your right.
"That's the general idea."
You loved this man.

Stalk, step by step, he stood like a Greek God, waiting.
You grabbed his hip, pressed it to yours and gyrated to the beat of the honking cars downstairs.
You rocked forward and he followed, the friction undoing you.
His mouth attached to yours, tongues fighting for dominance.
You shivered as he pulled on the hair at the nape of your neck.

Unbuckling, unzipping all to the sweet lilt of his moan.
Swimmer's build spread across swimmer's build.
Tongue swiping across ears, nibbling on necks.
Legs tangled together, across hips and sex.

Sweat slicked body up and down up and down.
Remember to breathe, pant, groan oh God.
Lick, suck, nibble, pound in a variety of order.
The whole loft shook.

Your hands ran up and down his frame,
post-coital cuddle, dinner forgotten.
His tanned stomach flexed as he dozed.
Pretty, pretty, I love you.

"Me too."

Talk Is Cheap.

Nobody could lie and say the back alleys of America were clean. Once in a while, you could hear grunts and short, breathy moans. There was the obscene sound of skin on skin, the sound of tongues sliding against the other. If you turned the wrong corner, you could see a boy on his hands and knees. You could witness people being slammed into walls while their clothes were ripped open. Stay long enough and you could hear the squelching of fluids and the work of a tongue lapping his work up. The rolling of coins follow, clinking on the cobblestone floor along with hurried footsteps; and then they were gone. Upstanding citizens vanishing to where it was acceptable. That was where you stood, wiping your mouth on your sleeve, on the corner of Fourth and Fremont.

Fetching your coat from behind a small loose brick on the wall, you wrapped it around your small body, your last piece of clothing, ripped into pieces. Uniformed men always needed to take something from you to justify their cause. Your body felt numb; there was an aching throbbing at the bottom of your spine. You arched yourself up, trying to loosen your muscles but it caused a sharp stab of pain right there and ohfuck.

Curling into yourself, you half wanted to walk away and sleep already. But pay was pay and you were living hand to mouth as it was. Stumbling out from behind the alley, you leaned against your corner; face a betrayal to any pain you felt. You were calm, cool and collected, as though a real pioneer in this trade. Inside, you were shivering and tearing yourself up into two, knowing you were nothing more than a week old whore.

An unusually loud moan came from somewhere to your right. You ducked your head down as fellow pedestrians turned to stare. This business, it was supposed to be a silent affair. Hushed up sounds and sloppy kisses to cover up for orgasming moans. You avoided their accusing stare, reminding yourself that half of the people in disgust were serviced by one of your kind before. Nobody was perfect, the others said. You believed them.

A man walked past. Your “friends” on all the other corners watched the brunet with the smart suit and tie. His hat was perfectly positioned atop the luscious head of hair. He walked with an air of confidence. This man was not new.

You pushed yourself off the corner, trying to make a good impression. This customer knows exactly what he wants but you don’t. You decided to back off at the last minute, let Bryan from the corner after have him but too late. The man stopped in front of you, your corner, and grinned.

“Tonight’s a good night.” You hesitated a while, glancing around. The other boys were staring at him, malice in their eyes. You gulped down fear.

“I suppose sir, it depends on your whereabouts.”

“Then I’m pretty lucky myself.”

“Where are you headed to mister?” he asked, hoping the man would go away. His voice was too smooth, too comforting for it to mean anything more than lies.

“Five blocks from here. Just pass the corner. Do you happen to know what’s there?”

“It’s two for the price of one sir,” you answered, almost feeling disappointed. The man knew what he wanted, but what was not you. The men on that corner, they were effeminate. They were beautiful and graceful and delicate. And they were never hurt. Their heads weren’t bruised by a too hard slam against the wall- their knees weren’t scratched from the cobblestone floor. They were well taken care of. You were about to turn away, to dismiss the classy man who wanted something other than yourself, when you felt a soft hand on your chin, making you turn back.

“And what say you if I pay for two but I only get one?” His voice was spinning silk in your ears. Unable to turn away, you stared at the glossy lips and the full eyelashes; into the deep, brown eyes and past the pale skin.

“I would say you were easily cheated mister,” you licked your lips self consciously, fully knowing the other man was watching your tongue like a hawk.

“Even if it’s you?” Your heart stopped for a beat or two or five. Double the pay means one less customer to take. Looking at the man, you decided this is not a mere hour fuck, he would take his time, it would take a whole night. That could cover you twice. That man caressed your face with one hand as the other hand wandered lower. It ran up and down your sides, probing and threading over sensitive skin. Even through the material of the coat, you felt the determined fingers slide past bruises and bones to rub on skin. You couldn’t help it, you gasped and he gave a chuckle in your ear.

“Please sir, there is only yes and no. You cannot frequent for a trial,” you groaned out, your eyes fluttering close. “His hands were made of magic,” you thought as some sort of current jolted across your body, under your skin and you let out a sigh of pleasure in the middle of the street with everyone else watching. Instantly the man backed away a step and you felt a yearning for his body heat a second before relief hit you.

“How much do they pay you sir?” his voice held real curiosity but it still shamed you into looking away. Your slight chest was heaving; you were still short of breath. No other man has managed to extract such reactions from you in the one week.

“Enough mister.”

“Surely not, with that pretty face of yours. You’re worth more; I can give it to you.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary to flatter sir. I’m just a common whore.”

“I’m making you an offer. I ask you to work with me,”

“Under you, I guess was sir’s initial thought.” You didn’t try to hide the scorn in your voice just as he didn’t try to hide the jolted yearn at your voice sensually moving and hinting at the innuendo filled words.

“For me. We work five blocks away.” You felt your guts curling and twisting with every syllable of his words. Instantly, you tried pushing yourself as far back into your corner as possible, the ridges of the uneven bricks scratching into your back.

“I work alone,” you muttered.

“Even so, I can treat you better.”

Soothing Whispers For Panicked Ears.

Fasten your seatbelts ladies and gentlemen
Stop your airway; we’re going down the road.
Your past, your present, near ending future.
You’re just a picture for your dearly beloved.

Would choking work, do you like pain?
Get a Magnum 5, buy a Swiss army blade
Whip your marble skin, drown in a lake.
‘Cause nobody cares honey, nobody cares.

I’ll assure you baby, I’ll make sure you know.
Don’t you fear the unknown, go out and put a show.
Maybe you’ll get lucky; maybe you’ll miss your mark;
Close your eyes to see what’s behind the white door.

Drink your poison, ignore what people say.
Grab a knife and push it through your head.
Thoughts are running at miles in a minute,
You’ll bleed right through, you’ll bleed right through.

I’ll assure you baby, I’ll make sure you know.
Don’t you fear the unknown, go out and put a show.
Maybe you’ll get lucky; maybe you’ll miss your mark;
Close your eyes to see what’s behind the white door.

Honey, your room goes bang boom crash,
Baby, I’m warning you you’re such a mess.
Honey your room goes bang boom crash
Sweetie one word, the word is Death.

I’ll assure you baby, I’ll make sure you know.
Don’t you fear the unknown, go out and put a show.
Maybe you’ll get lucky; maybe you’ll miss your mark;
Close your eyes to see what’s behind the white door.

Loverboy.

They call you loverboy.
But I don't mind;
It is I who has your attention,
It is I who wins your smile.

We spend hours and hours once in a while,
Laughing and blushing, we danced throughout the night.
Saying goodbye has never been so difficult;
I think back on out moments, I wish to be your other significant.

The clicking in silence, I don't want to get caught.
I bite on my lip as you crack out another joke.
Do you feel the same way, do you smile as I say
"I less than three you too. Are you up for chess today?"

I know you might think of me as just a girl.
But you're definitely more than just a boy.
You left me smiling in my sleep,
You make me pine for our first kiss.

And don't think I don't know that's a big first step,
But I want to go there, to have that.
Because you mean a lot more to me,
Than I could ever mean to myself.

Can't figure out if I want you to find this.
Its revealing but isn't that what I want to say?
Yeah, its out in the open, I love you.
Tell me, do you feel the same way about me too?

Not A Morning Person (2/3)

Brendon wakes up sweating and panting with his bed sheets a tangled mess at his legs. He thinks maybe he should check under his bed. Maybe he should pinch himself a few more times to be sure he really was awake. He dismisses them all, knowing it was his own little, overactive imagination that got him in this predicament; to put or to not put his one’s feet on the floor. He debates on whether the cheestos monster from his nightmare will attack him or if it’s just a dream. He wonders and he whimpers slightly. Almost whining, clearly shivering (he dared not put his blanket over him for he fears those tiny Sour Patch Kids will attack him).

He finally gives in and pushes his feet gingerly on the floor. Face slightly tensed, praying to all the Gods and Saints he knew to help him save his feet. Twisting his upper body, Brendon sees the clock and runs. He barely had time to think about those manic cheestos and just dashes for the bathroom. Then, under the hard hitting warm water from the shower head, Brendon realises again, like he does every morning, that maybe he wasn’t such a morning person.

He gets dressed efficiently, mistaking socks for his underwear. So maybe Brendon isn’t a really big morning person. He doesn’t like late mornings. He’s not a day person. But he gets dressed anyway. He puts on a blue shirt and black jeans. He never really thought much about what he wore. Brendon thinks that maybe he never thinks. By the time he finishes getting ready; Brendon gets more confused than before he knew about the three body problem.

After saying bye to his Mormon mother and father, Brendon leaves the house to turn into their neighbour’s driveway. He knocks on the door and out comes a somewhat harried looking woman

“Hey Mrs Siska; Sisky coming?” Brendon charms old woman. He charms young woman too. But the older ones would pinch his cheeks and coo about how a lovely boy he is. The younger chicks just wanna get into his pants. But Brendon treats them all the same. Old and young. But his pants are his. So nobody gets near them. Brendon likes to think that but he knows it’s not true.

“Oh yes Adam is just about finished getting ready. But Brendon, Sisky is such an awful name. Makes Adam sound like a drug dealer.”

Brendon doesn’t wanna tell her that her son is actually a drug dealer. He doesn’t think he could too
because at that moment, drug dealer Adam T. Siska flies out from behind his mother onto the sidewalk. He waves at his mother and then drags Brendon before he could even say bye to that sweet woman.

They walk to school silent. Brendon doesn’t skip. He thinks just being with Sisky leaves him exhausted. So he just walks on the sidewalk and counts the cracks in the pavement. But Brendon doesn’t like to stay silent so he speaks. “Dude, your mom thinks you work in the high trade.”

“Don’t I man? By the way, Navarro’s asking for the white, class A bull. I got some extras. You want some? I’ll give you the five finger discount and I promise I’ll look away.” Brendon snorts before missing a step in walking. He almost falls but gets up again. Brendon is not a morning person.

“No thanks bro. Bull, class A or Z, is so not my cup of tea, nor is it my pill or powder of choice. I pass.”Sisky shrugs and continues walking. Brendon thinks maybe he should jog to catch up with him. Sisky seems to be rushing. Brendon checks his watch and becomes confused. At that speed, they would be in school before the doors are even open. He sighs but follows anyway.

Surmise to say, Brendon was not entirely surprised that he was slightly earlier than before. After the short disturbance with Mike Carden and his gang, they made their way into the school. As he was about to turn into his homeroom however, Sisky grabs his shirt sleeve. He pulls Brendon close. Their chests were touching; Brendon felt Sisky’s breath in his ear. Brendon could feel the other guy’s heartbeat. He found it hard to breath but he tries not to think about it. He feels Sisky’s hand travel up his arm towards his shoulder. Brendon thinks of Audrey. But he sees Sisky so he stops thinking. He knows its not his fault he leans into the touch. It was the pushing crowd. Sisky’s other hand was... where was it? Brendon thinks that he felt it on the nape of his neck, twisting the hairs. But Brendon doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. So he doesn’t think. Brendon just acts. He pushes against the gangly body behind him. He thinks maybe they should find an empty room. Tantalisingly slow, Sisky leans into his ear, tongue swiping at the shell.

“You’re socks are mismatched.” And he was gone. Following the crowd amidst calls for Sisky.

Brendon gapes for a while. He stares at the fading figure and gets pushed around. He stares at his socks. And Brendon thinks he gets the shock of his life. One was zebra-esque inspired black and white sock on his left foot. His right foot had rainbow and stars. Brendon thinks that maybe he was an owl in his past life.

___________________________________________________________________________________

“SISKY BEE-ZY-NESS!” Brendon shouts from across the cafeteria. He rushes towards the brunet who was cringing slightly. Brendon knows the name sticks. He will stick it with super glue himself if it needs to but Sisky Business is Sisky Business.

After he gets to Sisky with his lunch tray, they make their way to their huge long table they acquired from a long time ago. Brendon doesn’t say much in that twenty second walk. He’s too busy blushing. He sees that Mikey, Frank, William, Pete, Greta and Vicky T are already there. He grins at them brightly still red. William was draped over the chair, long limbs stretched out. Brendon swears he can see Bill’s toes sticking out from the other side of the table. Mikey and Frank were conversing with each other. Brendon thinks they’re so disgustingly in love that it’s almost lovely. The other four who were not in love were... just talking. But maybe they were just making noise. Brendon doesn’t know the difference. Pete was constantly distracted though. Brendon could see that.

“So Mouse, you finally here eh? Sisky, any new pros man?” Pete greets them. Brendon grins while Pete and Sisky talk business. His eyes scanned the room. He sees Gabe walking in with Chislett. Brendon grins even more when he sees William straighten up. Right behind Gabe though, he sees two other guys walk in. He knows them slightly but he doesn’t know them know them. Brendon thinks he would like to know them though. He follows them with his eyes. The two boys, one slightly tall and gangly, a bit like William but much shorter, with brown mousy hair; the other slightly chubby with the same shade of brown hair but maybe not the same same. Maybe slightly lighter. Brendon doesn’t know.

“My Muse, Mouse, what you looking at man?” Brendon shakes his head a bit. He didn’t realise Gabe was already here. He looks at the Hispanic boy who has his arm draped behind Beckett’s chair. William has his head leaning against the other boy’s arm.

William is not gay. Maybe he is. Brendon doesn’t really know. He thinks maybe William is but he did see William and Jac kissing. Then of course on the same night, he sees William and Travis kissing. So maybe William is bisexual. Or maybe William is just horny.

“No, that guy.” Brendon said, discreetly pointing at the brown haired, blue eyed one. “ Spencer Smith. With that other. Who are they?”

“Aww man. Ryan Ross. He has the tightest ass since frigging virgin Britney. But he pretty much is asexual. Bloody guy doesn’t understand a pass if it danced in front of him like Pamela Anderson!” Brendon had to stifle a giggle. He turns back towards the two boys. Brendon thinks that maybe someone died. There are four seats but only the two of them. And nobody else seems to want to sit with them. Maybe they don’t want anyone else. But Brendon feels that maybe he should. He thinks that maybe he wants to sit there. So he moves.

“So, where’s the other half?” Brendon feels the heat from two pairs of eyes and he wonders if its too late to run. He thinks he missed his chance when he heard Frank covered snort from somewhere behind him. Let them think he can’t do it! He can! So he gives a winning smile.

“Excuse me?” The blue eyed wonder said. Really feminine, Brendon thinks, asks. There’s an air of bitchiness if that’s a word, surrounding the boy. But there’s something positively masculine about how protective he is. Brendon is reminded of a lioness.

“Your seat. There’s two of you. Where’s the other two?”

“What makes you think there is anyone else?” This time, its Ryan that answers him. Brendon thinks that maybe this is where feminine or androgynous people sit because, God, Ross was such a girl. He has the boniest face since forever, Brendon thinks, and his whole body was a stick. A nice stick, Brendon compromises, but a stick all the same.

“I don’t... um what I mean is... it was just” and Brendon trails off still looking at Ryan. There was submission in him. But Brendon knows the submissive aura is not because of him. He doesn’t know who Ryan is submissive for. Somehow, he likes that even more. Then Brendon realises that he was just thinking of liking Ryan Ross, so he thinks of Audrey Kitching. He thinks and maybe he got his blush to calm the heck down.

Nobody spoke for a while but the cafeteria din makes up for their silence. Brendon looked down at the table with his tray, Spencer looks at Brendon with those blue eyes. Ryan’s gaze shifts between him and Spencer, looking slightly unsettled. At this Brendon wonders if he should be afraid and just run for it. Instead, he gulps down his fear and speaks.

“Can I join you for lunch then?” He fetchingly bites on his bottom lip while Spencer turns to Ryan. They seem to be conversing but there were no sounds. They just stares into each other eyes and nobody moves. They stared. Brendon stares at them. Brendon thinks that maybe he’s intruding. But then Ryan looks away and he doesn’t feel that way anymore.

“Yeah okay. Join us. Fine. Whatever.” Brendon breathes a small sigh of relief that he hopes will go unnoticed by them. He pulls the chair and right before he turns to sit down, Brendon looks over to his mates at the other table and winked. There were clapping and catcalling even though Brendon had no idea why they are celebrating. They just were. Brendon smiled at that. When he turned back, Ryan and Spencer were looking at him as though he grew two heads.

“What? Have you not realised that we,” Brendon waves his arm around to mean the school. “are surrounded by insanity? Might as well join in the fun.” Ryan thinks about it for a while before shrugging and going back to his food. Spencer stares at him a bit more before turning to his... what was it?

There was silence. Brendon hates silences. He could never understand a funeral. He never been to one, but when he watches movies, funerals make him cry. Brendon still hates silences. So he figures he should start a conversation.

But Brendon shuts up. He doesn’t know what to say. He clears his throat. He opens his mouth. He takes a deep breath. He took a bite of his sandwich and chews. He sighs a bit.

“So Brendon, you’re in Spin’s classes right?” His eyes snap up to Ryan. He tries to tell himself that its common courtesy to look at the other person in the eye. Brendon knows he’s bullshitting himself.

“Yeah I am. But not all though; right Spencer?” Brendon’s not stupid. He knows and he sees that Spencer has the bitch-face on. He totally gets Spencer’s dislike at the intrusion. So maybe Spencer doesn’t like him. Doesn’t like him a lot. But Brendon can so live with that. He totally is okay with that.

Spencer grunts through his potato ship that he was chewing. His face was on full blast as though just waiting for the shit to hit the fan. Brendon knows he’s the shit that Spencer so wants to slap back. But he tried not to think about it.

Brendon really wants lunch to end.

For the next forty five minutes, Brendon and Ryan make stilted conversation. Spencer grumbles and sulks a lot. Brendon ignores him. But he can’t really because Ryan isn’t. For Brendon to pay attention to Ryan, he has to talk to Spencer. Because Ryan can’t tear his eyes off him. Every other minute, he’ll glance at the pouting boy to... confirm? Brendon has no idea why. He thinks he shouldn’t though. But what Brendon shouldn’t do Brendon will because he can. So he fights down those monstrous seconds of... jealousy? And continues to talk to Ryan. And he thinks maybe he should have spoken to Ryan earlier because Ryan is really really awesome. Not like oh-you-listen-to-the smiths-awesome but more of an I-want-to-have-your-biologically-imposiible-babies-with-my-child-bearing-hips-awesome. Not that Brendon has child bearing hips. But his mother always said he inherited her hips. Brendon shakes his head to stop think about his mother for once because it so wasn’t the right time.

So the bell rang and Frank so did not have to pull him away from the table. So not. He just walked off by himself; all cool and jock-ish with a smirk playing across his face. As if. Pete actually pulled him away. After repeated screams of his names that is. But Brendon made it away. He turns around once, after almost tripping on his foot with Mikey and Pete and Frank all dragging him; only to see Ryan smirking at him. But it wasn’t really a smirk. More like a half smile that he never seen before. Spencer was just looking bored and bitchy as ever. But Ryan. He turns to face his three goons and hisses.

“I hate all of you.”

“You cannot hate the Cobra!” Brendon feels like head-banging into Gabe.

The next few days there was a pattern. There was almost a schedule. Brendon would get his lunch, make a pit stop at his own table; giggle with Vicky at Frank and Mikey, roll his eyes and William’s flirting and then skip-literally wizards of oz skips- to Ryan’s and Spencer’s table. He always has a full on grin no matter what. And Ryan will smile back. It would be a three quarter smile. Not the half smile he rarely gets but the kind of smile a parent would give their kid after they did something unnaturally stupid or just adorable. The half smiles were all, Brendon notices, saved for Spencer. Brendon dreams of Ryan’s half smile for him. The half smile so full of something; So full of admiration; Of safety. Brendon wants safety. He wants Ryan’s safety encasing him. Brendon should get his head checked.

“Brenny, get your boy toys to join us.” Sisky gins toothily at Brendon. Brendon smiles a small smile, blushing from everywhere. Greta winks at him. He feels a giggle bubble up at his throat and he laughs loud and obnoxious. He glances at Ryan’s and Spencer’s table to see Ryan’s head cocked to the side, watching him. Spencer was watching him too; but Brendon sees that Spencer was watching Ryan first. Ryan was always first.

“Hey you guys! Over here,” he tries to shout across the cafeteria. They understood him but Spencer gives a imperceptible shake of his head. Ryan catches it and frowns deeply. Brendon lost them so he grins and waves and motions for them to join him. Spencer finally turns to Ryan and Brendon could see him deflate as he sighs.

Face Value

The thing with David Archuleta is that nobody understands him. They can’t differentiate his words from his meaning. This quiet shy kid everyone takes at face value. He’s just too submissive. Not many people can figure him out. But you somehow can. You can tell what he wants exactly even though his words betray it. By looking at those huge brown eyes so full of innocence and yet so full of contradictions, you can tell he wants some time alone even though he says he’s willing to help Jason for his song. His downward tilt of his head signals his uncertainty of a certain topic when he is questioned. His vague “I’m not too sure about that” actually means that he really doesn’t think anyone should try that. But his opinions never truly mattered because nobody thought they had any benefit at all. People took everything he says with about a jar full of salt because he’s so vague all the time. But you know he puts a lot of thought into everything he has to say; it’s just that the only problem is he doesn’t know how to voice out without hurting someone’s feelings or offending someone’s idea.

In short, David Archuleta is just too damn polite. And you feel maybe slightly sorry for him, poor kid.

It’s down to just the two of you. David A and David C. You hear wordplays all week long. Predictions were thrown out into the media like wildfire. He’ll win but you’ll be famous. You’ll win but only because you have those “emo” teens with a hell lot of money. Archie will win but that’s because they will screw up the voting. The new American Idol will be David... DavidDavidDavid.

“Oh, I’m thinking about all our younger years, there was only you and me, we were young and wild and free!”You mock serenaded to the youth in front of you.

A feeling of warmth tugs at your heartstrings as he gives a grin, wide and made of puppies and rainbows you think, and continues on the song. He really has grown. It was a slow and gruelling process you remember, but Archie has grown so much. You remembered from Hollywood Week-- The kid who stands at the edge of the big group, listening in to the conversation, trying to find his place. Then he made it into the top 24. And you remembered the glee so evident on his face. You remembered him smiling, ear to ear, and proud of himself.

It wasn’t so lasting was it? Behind that full voice, he was still Archie-- The barely legal boy who has seen too much. Week after week, he sings his heart out and for those five minutes, he was the star of the stage. But for the next ten thousand and seventy five minutes, he was just nobody following them; a small abandoned puppy that nobody wanted to kick but everyone was reluctant to keep.

There is so much potential in him. So much wit and personality that nobody ever gets to see because one hour on National television doesn’t show much. It’s not until you spend some time with him do you realise this boy is a gemstone surrounded by rubble. You listen to his soft voice every day, so innocent yet, there it is, laced with slight mischievousness of someone dishing out a quick one liner. Nobody will laugh at his pun except maybe you and for the next fifteen seconds, you will see a small smile dancing across his face. Somewhere along the line of this competition, you start to live off those small smiles.

***

You both sat fidgeting in hard-backed chairs in the dressing room. It was to be mere minutes before the performance of the season; the performance that mattered. You were seated across from the brown haired youth. His eyes were downcast, his lips silently moving to the melody only he can hear. His hands were clasped in front of him, twisting and making odd patterns on his pants. One of his leg was bouncing up and down. You take your phone out of your pocket and before you can think about it, you snap a picture. How can it simultaneously be so embarrassing and yet so ready for Hallmark, you may never know. At the default sound your phone makes as it saves a picture, David looks up.

For that split second, you expect to see that small smile he was always gracing you with. You expect it to shine and douse the room in its brilliance. But you expect too much because he barely lifts up the corners of his mouth. It was then when it hits you. He’s still just a kid. Archie was just a kid and all this pressure from the media, from his family. He doesn’t deserve this burden.

Without thinking about it, without daring to even dream of the consequences, you stand up and walk over to where he’s seated. You see him open his mouth to question but before he could get past mumbling your name, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and you pulled him into a hug. You felt him calm up for a minute and you half thought he’ll push you away. You just held on a little bit tighter, half wondering if this was for his or your sake.

Slowly, his hands come around to embrace you. And then it wasn’t about you hugging him anymore. It was him searching for something. He was pressed up against you, body wrapped around yours for comfort and warmth. His head was fitted against the curve of your shoulder, his breath tickling your neck. You felt his lips move mumbling something incoherent into your skin.

You open your mouth tasting his soft hair and you whisper back “Me too,” before kissing the top of his head affectionately. You rest your head there, keeping Archie’s body steady against yours.

This was how it was meant to end. This was everything you both have ever been put into a moment. This was the moment the competition ended for you no matter who won.

- All disclaimers and warnings apply.

Not A Morning Person (1/3)

Only psychos and insomniacs stay awake that early in the morning and Ryan is not an insomniac. He is not. He only stays awake because he can; just because he cannot sleep. That’s it - it’s a one time thing. He swears it.

Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he is insomniac. But he doesn’t have to admit it. He really does want to stare at his bald ceiling every night. He wants to stare and think. But what can he think about. Spencer. Spencer Spencer Spencer. He thinks about Spencer and smiles.

At 2.40am, Ryan is sound asleep with a grin on his face.

It's the only sleep he can get. Sunshine's in his face in the morning but he can sleep. He is asleep. Smile on his face, Ryan takes a shower. Ryan is a good kid. He gets dressed decently; at least fully (unlike that Hurley kid who goes around school half naked with just short shorts). He does all his homework. He doesn’t face girls sobbing to him because of unwanted pregnancies. He even aces Maths (but not English, surprisingly. He sucks in that subject.) Ryan Ross is a good kid. He's just a good kid with a problem.

So it's no surprise when he walks into school with a small smile. People glide by, shrugging their shoulders. Maybe he just got laid. Maybe, Ryan smirks. But he didn’t. He was just happy he slept, and then he isn’t anymore. Turning the corner to his locker, Ryan’s mood turns sour because he sees someone leaning against it. Of course, said person always leans against Ryan’s locker, but this time Ryan doesn’t want him to. He doesn’t need the boy to remind him, but the boy does.

“Hey Ry, slept any?” He shrugs. He gives a non-committal grunt, somewhere between, “yeah-yeah-I-slept-get-out-of-my-way,” and, “no-did-you-think-I-could-sleep?”

"Yes," Ryan lies. He might be a good person generally but he still lies when he needs to. And this, he needs to lie.

“Whoa man. I was just wondering.”

“Hmm yeah okay, I need my History text,” he mutters, hinting at said boy to move away from his locker. Of course said boy knows what Ryan is doing and so he plants himself firmly on the spot. Come on, said boy and Ryan have been friends for close to ten years already. They won't not know each other.
“C’mon, Spin. No joking around. I need my text.”

So Spin moves. Ever so slightly, so that Ryan has to figure his locker combination sideways, squashed between Spin and a big blond guy, Bryar, next to him. Finally, after much struggling filled with Oriental fighting moves, Ryan gets his Maths notebook and Literature story out. No History though. He curses softly under his breath. Spin watches him.

“Here take my book, I only have History after common Lunch anyway. You can return it to me then.”

Of course the school corridors are always crowded; it’s a school corridor, and Ryan never minded; he just followed the crowd. But now, sides pressed up against his locker edge, back bruised by Bryar’s locker door, he hates it. He hates having to stare at those blue eyes. Having to watch them from so close.

He hates being only a hairbreadth apart. They're jostled and pushed. Spin's being bumped up against the girl behind him by the ever moving school. They're both in each other’s faces. Their toes are touching. If Ryan really wanted to, he could stop breathing. Spin would breathe for him. So staring into those shocking blue eyes, Ryan curses the world in his head. In his head, the world doesn’t play fair. But he can’t say much because he doesn’t know what game they’re playing. So he goes along with it.

“Thanks man. Yeah, um, I’ll see you at lunch.”

So Ryan lets the crowds pull him along. And Spin, the said boy with blue eyes by his locker, starts to fade until he is just a tiny speck; until he is no more. Or maybe that's just Ryan’s obsessive thinking. But they do part. And Ryan sits down for History still cursing.

Ryan Ross isn’t emo. He is perfectly normal with his brown hair and brown eyes. He is a normal, acceptable boy. He doesn’t sit at the back of the class cutting or writing poems Shakespeare will gag at. He sits in the middle seat of the middle row. So while he waits for the teacher to walk in and start on American History, Ryan stares at his borrowed History book. He stares at the cover page, illustrating the revolution. He stares and he sighs. Slowly, he flips it open.

There, on the bottom right hand corner, are printed words. Or are they? Upon closer inspection, Ryan sees that the words are handwritten, painstakingly copied in the exact font as the printed text above. Written are the words, “Property of Spencer Smith.”

Ryan seriously thinks he should join the people at the back.

So as Mr Toro animates the killing of soldiers, -"comrade in arms," he says to the boys, winking slightly - Ryan reads the cramped little notes in the book. He wonders how Spencer can listen and take down notes at the same time. He wonders whether Spencer has more than one coloured pen besides navy blue. He thinks maybe he should get Spencer coloured markers for his birthday. He wonders and he thinks till the end of lessons. By the time Maths starts, Ryan has a list of questions to ask Spencer during Lunch.

Maths leaves him very little time to think. Ryan was made into the teacher’s assistant which was just a sweeter name for goody two shoes. So after the twisted explanation Mr Joe Trohman gives on solving two quadric equations using algebra formulae simultaneously, Ryan is sent to tutor certain students who are lost. And he does. With Gabe Saporta and Travis McCoy flagging his two sides respectively, Ryan sets on using imagery of the crudest kind to theorise the problem. And it might work, Ryan doesn’t know. He is too busy wondering if Spencer will get his Fight Club mention. He wonders if Spencer remembers their movie marathons. He thinks maybe.And he adds those questions into his list.

Literature sends him running to the toilets. Literally. They're studying the works of Mary Higgins Clark. Mr Butch Walker, a big fan of group discussion, sends them all in threes to discuss Clark’s latest heroine. Due to bad timing, or good luck, Ryan is sent off with Patrick Stumph and Gerard Way. He sits and does all the work. Silent while the two debate from across of him on the ironic comedies of comics.Ryan wonders while he takes down notes. He wonders what Spencer thinks of it. He wonders if Spencer would bring up his Calvin and Hobbes theory. He wonders if Stumph would laugh. He wonders if it would just cause Stumph and Spencer to debate on Garfield. He wonders and he sighs. He adds those questions to his list. He adds the debate topic to his list. He runs off, faking a stomach ache and wonders. On the toilet seat he wonders if maybe he should just go away. He should just float away and not come back. Maybe he should have just listened to that Ryland Blackinton on his hippie theory and fly away with love or the doves or the pigeons.

Finally, it's lunch. Ryan doesn’t know if it's a good thing or a bad thing. He doesn’t want to think about it. He shuffles towards the cafeteria. He shuffles and maybe drags his feet a bit. He would crawl but the hall is too cramped. He walks over to their usual table for four, right in the corner. He never understood why it was a table for four. It was only them two. But he never questions it. He just sits. He sits and he waits. Seconds - maybe minutes - later, he sees an outstretched hand. He looks up and sees Spencer, in his hailing glory with blue eyes and brown hair. Gingerly, Ryan stands up thinking it was similar to a first date. He blinked owlishly at the thought and shook his head.

“Thanks for the book. I mean yeah. I owe you one.” And as Ryan passes the book on to Spencer, he feels the tips of their fingers touching. Immediately, he thinks time slows down, maybe time stopped. He stares into those blue irises and he thinks he’s drowning. He feels himself blush, he feels himself shake. He wonders if he should let go. He stops wondering and just does it. Ryan thinks maybe it’s a stupid thing to do because he has to sit back down. Sitting means he will have to stop staring at those blue blue eyes. He sits down anyway.

He waits for Spencer to call his bluff. He waits, tense as hell, for Spencer to call his game. He knows Spencer knows. Spencer knows he knows that Spencer knows. Ryan knows Spencer is just waiting to catch him off guard. He knows it.

Ryan is wrong.

“So Ryan.” Ryan busies himself with unwrapping his sandwich, he doesn’t think he can bear eating lunch on Mystery Thursdays. “Heard Trohman made you tutor.”

Ryan nods, his mouth full. He still thinks those eyes are all he needs. He then thinks he should maybe ask for a time out from the game. The world is killing him. The world never plays fair anyway. He thinks maybe it is a way to get back at him for not being able to sleep. He thinks that Spencer was sent from some other planet to fill Ryan up with guilt. He thinks Spencer was accidentally switched as a baby so Ryan is actually friends with a baby genius who knows exactly what’s going on. He thinks and he believes but he doesn’t know. So he stays that way. Chewing slowly, trying to not avoid looking at that face but avoiding looking at it anyway. Ryan thinks he is slowly going crazy.

As he walks to his next science class, Ryan remembers his list of questions for lunch conversation.

Not one of those questions made it past his back jeans pocket.

At home, Ryan stares at the television screen. He has no idea what sitcom it is even after 10 minutes of supposed watching. Ryan thinks one of the girls looks like Spencer. Ryan thinks that maybe he thinks about Spencer too damn much. He realises he doesn’t care. He thinks of all the things he should know about Spencer. Spencer’s birthday is on the 2nd of September. He smiles. Ryan was born on the 30th of August. Spencer has two sisters. That's common knowledge. He sits and he thinks and he realises he doesn’t know a thing about his best friend of ten years. He doesn’t know what Spencer’s favourite food is, he has no idea which colour Spencer prefers, he doesn’t think he knows where Spencer’s favourite holiday destination is. After ten years, Ryan only knows Spencer hates wasting food because underprivileged people have nothing to eat. Spencer doesn’t believe in favouritism because there is no equality. Ryan knows that Spencer would rather be in a dark cave with his mad second aunt twice removed than alone.

Ryan feels slightly better. He still thinks their relationship should not be based on just fears. So he jumps up, like a spring, off the couch. He sprints to his room and sends the door open with a flying kick complete with sound effects. He feels a bit stupid doing that so he stops pretending to be a Secret Military agent on a recon mission. He rushes for a piece of paper and a pen. Then, with the television still blasting recorded laughter downstairs, he starts to set himself a pop quiz: Do You Know Spencer James Smith (the fifth)? After half an hour, he ends up with a paper filled with anything and everything he could think to ask about Spencer Smith. Ryan is ready for it.

Two hours later, Ryan realises he fails it.

At 3 am, Ryan surrenders. He spent the whole of his night actively trying to not think about Spencer Smith. He falls short badly. He needs Spencer to sleep. So he gives up, waving a white piece of paper above his head.

“Enough! You won. Take Spencer back to planet Qwerty. I’m going to sleep.” And he does; thinking of Spencer all the while.