Okay, so this is the first thing I've ever submitted, you know, to face the masses, haha.
Its kind of nerve wracking actually. But i read peoples' stuff on here all the time, so i figured why not.
anyway, I don't know how far i'll drag this story along, depends on if anyone actually reads it ever :
There's slash in here, so if your not into that, don't read it!

I wake up to one of the most depressing songs know to man –A Beautiful Day by U2- at a quarter to seven in the morning. Loudly cursing the radio for having such an atrocity to music in their library, I slide out of bed with zombie-like speed.

I’m about to get in the shower when the phone rings, shrilly. I mosey on out to the hall and pick it up.

“It’s not even seven, what the fuck do you want?!” I shriek into the receiver.

“Jesus Christ Seb, you’re lucky it’s just me, or you’d be in some serious shit.” Jack says coolly into my ear, he sounds fully awake.

“I’m about to shower, I’m fucking naked and everything-“ as I say this, I realize the large picture (har har) window I’m practically standing in front of looks over the street below. I quickly turn back into the bathroom.

“That’s just how I like you. But bad timing baby, I won’t be able to make it over this morning, I’m running late.” Jack says, his voice all sexy. Unfortunately, I’ve known Jack long enough to know he’s joking.

Oh, yeah, I’m gay by the way.

“Stop, you’re making me blush.” I deadpan, not in the mood.

“I bet I could make you more than blush, baby.” Jack purrs, but he completely butchers the ‘mood’ by cackling with laughter at the end of it.

It’s pretty bad when your heterosexual best friend is making more passes at you ever dare to make at him.

Go fucking figure.

“What do you want, Jack?” I ask, adjusting the water in the shower.

“Man, you are grouchy in the morning.” Jack huffs, I can hear him fumbling with something at the other end of the line, probably the phone chord. “Anyway, do you think you could grab me something for breakfast on the way over?”

I sigh. “No, if you have time to call me up and talk dirty to me, you have time to get your own damn breakfast.”

“Don’t be like that, we both know you’d never play to have anyone talk dirty for you… I’m just doing my job at filling that void. And I also know for a fact that you were in the kitchen till eleven last night. My Seb-Senses know, man.” He says proudly.

“Fucking fine. I’m showering now. Bye.” I say, and hang up.

I toss the phone in the sink and jump into the shower.

How could he know I was baking all night? Mom was probably complaining to Jack’s mother again…

See, I have this “unhealthy” obsession with baking… not like cooking, or dinners or anything. But breakfasts, cookies, desserts, and my favourites: cupcakes and muffins. I’m always whipping them up. I’m actually known as “that muffin kid” in school, which is beyond pathetic, but I can’t seem to kick it. My mom sees it as mental instability, always baking, but I tell her the same thing every time, at least I’m not smoking pot, like half the people I know. She can’t seem to comprehend how I “stay so skinny”, what with eating all these snacks and whatnot.

I just have a high metabolism is all, plus, I pretty much give it all away to Jack…

I finish showering, dry off, fish the phone out of the sink and head back to my room to get dressed. I quickly pull on some black pants and my yellow t-shirt with the cupcakes on it: one of my many ‘hilarious’ inside-joke gifts from friends. They pretty much take up half my wardrobe.

I grab my bag and proceed downstairs. Tossing a few carrot muffins in the microwave, I attempt to mould my damp blonde hair into some kind of recognisable style. I don’t know why I bother; its just going to dry, letting the ends curl up randomly, and the font of it will just fall in my eyes as usual.

The microwave beeps, almost louder than the phone, and I jump. I dump the muffins into my kickass metal dinosaur lunchbox, slip on my shoes, and book it out of the house, and make my way to meet Jack.

X X X

Jack lives about ten minutes away from our high school, in this giant white mansion-esque house. His dad owns four Ford dealerships in the city, so they’re pretty fucking rich. Which makes me wonder why he would need me to bring his breakfast, but whatever. I make my way up the front stairs and reach out to ring the doorbell, when the door opens up and Jack rushes out. He grabs my arm and pulls me back down the stairs before I can even say anything. I just stare at him as I stumble behind him to the sidewalk.

To get one thing straight: Jack is gorgeous. Not just regular gorgeous, oh no, Jack is the epitome of gorgeous. He’s a lean 5’11”, with unruly black hair, these weirdly bright blue eyes, which stand out against his fucking long black lashes. His jaw has all these crazy angles that aren’t sharp, but aren’t smooth either. His lips—

“Dude, you got the shit?” he asks suddenly, sounding like a deals about to go down, he means the muffins.

“Huh?” I’m still coming down from my Describing-the-gorgeousness-of-Jack high. “Oh, yeah, I got them. What was all that about?”

“Meh, nothing…” he smiles (angels sing) “Anyway, I knew you were up all night baking. Wait till we get to school.”

We spend the next ten minutes discussing what happened on Ellen Degeneris last night—there was this eight year old opera singer, and Bob Barker.

“I honestly thought all of Bob’s wittiness was strictly prompter generated, but he’s legit! That whole running joke with the refrigerators was awesome.” Jack’s saying as we approach the front doors of the school.

“You had no faith in Bob Barker?!” I gasp, outraged, earning me a few snotty looks from freshmen. Cocky bastards.

“I know, I know… but thank god for Ellen, for she teaches us all to believe!” he clutches a hand at his heart, looking distantly at the wall, a wistful look in his fucking gorgeous eyes—ahem.

Laughing, I open the caf door, and we sit ourselves down at a table.

I place my dinosaur lunchbox on the table, and Jack laughs at it.

“Watch it, dude.” I mutter, handing him is muffin.

“Oh my god, they’re still warm!” he gasps, shoving half of it in his mouth. He gives me a sceptical look when he’s done chewing.

“Microwave” I say simply, picking at my own muffin.

Jack nods, stretches, and regards me fondly, “Sebastian, my friend, you are my drug dealer of all things baked. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d probably just go hit up someone else in Foods to make you your muffins.” I tell him, handing him another.

“Now who has no faith! I would not sink so low!”

“You totally would!” I say, flicking my hair out of my eyes. Yes! Score one for Seb, the ever effective Hair Swish.

Which Jack doesn’t notice.

“Say what you want Sebby… anyway, are you coming to Amanda’s party on Friday? Because I really need someone to get drunk with.” He says, oblivious.

Sigh. Field parties… super fun… They’d be more fun if me and Jack when together instead of going together and then him leaving for the next bimbo that walks past, shoving her boobs in his face.

“Um, yeah, I’m gonna try, I could really use something to do…” I say, shutting my lunchbox dejectedly.

“Wow, way to sound excited.”

See, I’d like to think Jack would completely 100edly accept me coming out to him that I’m gay, hell, some times I let myself imagine him confessing his undying love for me that he’s kept hidden all these years in fear of being shot down. But as soon as I start contemplating my plan of action (ha, in more ways than one!) he says something completely retarded, running the mood entirely. Something like…:

“Anyway, Hillary’s going to be there, and judging from the looks I’ve been getting from her in Law, I think my chances of getting some on Friday are looking pretty good, you know?”

No, you idiot! I don’t fucking ‘know’! When was the last time you remember me having a girlfriend, or ever ‘getting some’ with one! Hello! I want to yell at him so bad, but instead I say:

“Hey man, nice!” because I’m such a hetero jock.

I have a feeling it won’t get any better.

“Anyway, you need to make sure you stick around… I can probably snag Rachel for you, keep you company—“ gagvomitslutew—“ ‘Cause if I get shot down you need to be my designated crying shoulder.” He says, folding up his muffin wrappers in crazy designs.

“Dude, I have no doubt in your scoring abilities. So please, no Rachel.”

That’s gotta be the biggest tip-off I can give, refusing the school bike.

I’m starting to lose hope in Me and Jack ever happening… I sigh louder than I intended to, and Jack looks at me.

“Fine, no Rachel… I’ll just let you loose and we’ll see what happens.” These last two words are accompanied by Jack’s eyebrows wiggling suggestively at me.

Goddamn it fuck—even his retarded eyebrow wiggling face is hot. I find my hands gripping on the edge of my chair.

Thankfully, at that moment, the bell rings, and we grab out stuff and head our separate ways, Jack’s locker being on the other end of the school.

XXX

I slide into my AP English class with minutes to spare—because that’s how much of a loser I am. As I make my way to my quite little corner in the back of the room, I look up to see someone already in my seat. Instead of standing there staring at them like a complete moron, I quickly take the next seat, while sneaking a few glances at my seat-stealer.

I figure he must have transferred from another high school in the area, because I’m sure I’ve seen him around before, at shows… either that or he’s stoned and went to the wrong school.

Believe me, that wouldn’t be the first time… Our rival high school is just two blocks away, and we’re always getting perma-fried kids trying to open lockers they think are theirs, or sitting in your seat in your AP English class. The entire school goes in to lock-down mode, because no one knows what those crazy fuckers from Ryne will do.

Anyway, this guy is gorgeous (at it appears about half of the class agrees with me, judging by all the eyes trained on him). He has this crazy dark, dark red hair (with some random colours streaked here and there) that falls in his face just right, a lip ring (sexy points right there), navy blue hoodie, some black pants and red converse. To sum it up, he’s smokin’ hot—but not as smokin’ as Jack, God no.

I guess he caught me staring, because suddenly he’s right up in my face, blinking at me with smudgy-eyeliner eyes (they were green)

“I’ve seen you before.” He tells me.

I back off a bit, “Oh?…” Nice Seb, smooth.

“Yeah… do you ever go to shows at the Glass?” he asks, referring to our cities underground music generator, our Scene scene, where local bands play basically. This is also where I work five days a week.

I tell him this and his face lights up.

“Ha! I knew that cute door man was you!”

Yeah, I take tickets and money and draw entrance X’s on peoples hands for half my shift on show days.

“I always admired the way you grab peoples hands and attack them with sharpies with such assertiveness.” Seat boy says, with a grin.

Did he just call me cute back there? Am I blushing? Oh fuck, I am…

“Um, yeah… thanks?…” I say, kind of floored by the verbal assault.

“Anytime, I’m Quinn Josephs.” He says, holding out his hand.

I shake it, noticing his wicked grin. “Ah, just like at the shows!” he says, in a voice I can only register as orgasmic. I pray to god he’s joking.

“Hah, yeah… I’m Sebastian.”

“No last name Sebastian? That’s pretty badass.” He says, leaning back in his (my) seat.

“So,” I say, trying to gain some control over the conversation. “I’m guessing you’re supposed to be here?”

Mission: fail.

He gives me this crazy ass look… not that I blame him.

“I mean, you’re not stoned, right? You wouldn’t believe how many stoners stumble in here by mistake.” I say desperately, as the final bell rings and the teacher comes in, telling us to shut up for the morning announcements. This cuts mine and Quinn’s conversation off short.

Five minutes into the half distinguishable announcements of sports teams and year book committees, a crumpled piece of paper lands on my desk:

“Hah, I love those stoners, they get the ninth degree when they finally make it back. I hear you guys go into Lock-Down when such events arise. LMAO.

I transferred from Ryine.

I love your shirt by the way!

Quinn!

PS: You’ve gotta be the worst case of closet-gay I’ve ever seen! ”

… He signed his name with a heart…

And he knows I’m gay!

This should be interesting.

Ugh, there it is...

reviews would be awesome! Let me know what you think.
xx