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C H A P T E R 1
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Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tick.

Wait. Did I lose a tock in there somewhere? Frowning, I squinted at the clock and strained my ears for the missing tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tick.

My eyes widened. It happened again! The fragile balance of time had been disrupted and now the entire world was going to be swallowed up in a pathetic parody of a black hole and it was all because I missed a tock. I swallowed, bravely fought tears, and waited for my (and everyone else’s) imminent doom.

It came in the form of a rather hard tap on the top my head.

I jerked awake and looked through bleary eyes at the scowling face of my Lit teacher. Her lips pursed and she placed her hands on her sagging hips, looking every bit the antagonized woman that she was.

“Mister Styne.” She hissed. “I’m afraid your position in…” and here she paused, leaning down so I could smell her TicTac scented breath, “…society…” she continued, “…does not account for sleeping in my class! What do you have to say for yourself?”

Now, there were a number of things I could have said. Indeed, I had already thought up of many sarcastic and cutting remarks that would’ve not only brought me respect from my peers, but also a sound talking-to. They ranged from insulting her multiple chins to commending her grasp on the obvious, but alas, what came out was, “I-I… I’m s-s-sorry. It won’t ha-happen again.” My stutter was even more pronounced than usual, and this seemed to be a great source of amusement for my classmates. I ignored the snickers and taunts and kept my eyes downcast. Appeased by my submission, Ms. Wilcock glared at me for a moment longer and then turned with a huff and went back to teaching about the joys of reciting Poe.

I chewed on my bottom lip and stared straight ahead, ignoring the whispers of ‘daddy’s boy’ and ‘fag’. Well, the latter was correct, at least. I had certainly done nothing to encourage the rumor, but with my constant blushing and stuttering, not to mention my scrawny frame and total lack of interest in girls… well, word gets around. I absently tapped my pencil against the edge of my desk, but a scathing look from the girl in front of me brought an end to that. Sighing softly, I lowered my head and proceeded to pretend I was somewhere (or someone) else.

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I let out a short cry as one punch caught my jaw. It was hard enough to make my teeth rattle, and I knew it was going to bruise. ‘Damn,’ I thought, ‘How will I explain this to dad?’ I hastily put my hands up in defense as more punches rained down on me.

“Hey, stop it! Hey!” a deep voice cut through the flurry, and I felt someone grab me by the shoulders and haul me up. I flinched as his arm brushed my jaw and looked up in time to see him shove my harassers through the door. He turned around and my heart leapt into my throat. Terry Diallo. If not the most popular and respected guy in school, he was definitely the most beautiful one. He had skin like dark velvet and the prettiest brown eyes I’d ever seen. His teeth stood out in stark contrast and his smile was contagious. I was instantly mortified. Of course he was the one that had to see me get my ass kicked!

"Hey, are you ok?" he asked, peering down at me from his rather intimidating 6'3".

"Those guys are real jerks...you need to go to the nurse or somethin?" he elaborated when all I could manage was opening and closing my mouth like an idiot. I coughed and looked up at him, trying and failing to meet his eyes. I returned my gaze to the floor and said, “I-I’m a-al-al… ok.” My voice was so soft, I could barely hear it myself. Terry gave me a weird look and I flushed, muttered a thanks, and hurriedly moved around him.

I was used to the weird looks by then, and even more used to the heckling. I’m not quite sure what my problem is, but I like to call it PSS. No, not the sound you make when you go to take a leak… but Painfully Shy Syndrome. I figured they have a syndrome for everything else, why not this? It has to be some sort of a disease. It isn’t normal, that’s for sure. I can be as sarcastic and rude and normal as I want to in my head but when it comes to talking out loud… well, you see how that went. Not only do I trip over my words and generally make a fool of myself, I also turn the color of tomatoes left out in the sun too long. Wondering whether I should laugh or cry at my plight, I made my way to the almost empty central hall.

“H-ah!” I gasped as I was roughly shoved into the wall. A large hand grabbed the back of my tee-shirt and pulled me forward. I winced as I hit the wall again, my body protesting the abuse. I looked up into the face my very own personal bully. Ryan Schwartz, second-class jock, first-class jerk.

“What’s this? Aww, Kenken… don’t tell me you beat yourself up to save me the trouble?” he sneered.

I winced as he lifted his hand to trace the rapidly swelling bruise on my jaw. He gripped my chin and turned my face to the side. The bruise was large, turning a nice mulberry color, and it hurt. So of course he had to jab it. I made a small sound that absolutely could NOT be classified as a whimper and tried to jerk my head back. To my surprise (har har), he just tightened his grip. When I managed to regain enough of my composure, I looked up at him with the meekest expression I could conjure up. Sometime during the previous three years of being bullied in high school, I’d learned that if you acted like you were scared shitless, you were more likely to get away with a quick punch than a drawn out beating.

“Who the fuck did this?” his angry voice brought me out of my inner monologue.

‘Worried that someone’s gonna steal your punching bag?’ I thought bitterly, resentment unfurling in my belly. It almost made him sound like he cared. Hah. As if.

“N-No one.” I managed to rasp.

“Don’t fuck with me, Styne.” he glowered, “I won’t ask you again.”

“F-fell off the s-s-stairs.” I used the most common excuse in the book, lowering my eyes and staring at his sneakers. I hoped he’d trip over his stupid laces and fall into a coma. His hand was still cupping my chin, and it spread uncomfortable tingles throughout my body. I tried to move away and he squeezed, jerking my face up so I had no choice but to meet his eyes. It’s not often I stare someone in the face, so I took this opportunity to study his. He had a bony, slightly crooked nose and strong eyebrows that slashed over his eyes. Said eyes were an odd hazel sort of color, with near black at the rim and flecks of green and gold in the middle. While I was cataloguing his truly astonishing coloring and wondering if I could paint it, I realized his mouth was moving. As in, he was saying something. Damn.

“…happens again, Styne.” I caught the end of his sentence. “But I think I’ll help the stairs along this time.” That said, he brought his fist back and landed it squarely in the middle of my stomach. The second punch clipped my ribs and while I twisted around trying to protect my more sensitive organs, he landed a solid kick to the back of my knee. I made a muffled noise and fell to the ground, still curling into myself. I held my breath, waiting for the next hit, but none came. I looked up hesitantly and saw him at the opposite end of the hallway, disappearing through the open doors. I gingerly moved my arm from my stomach and was surprised to find it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it usually did. I grabbed the wall for support and lifted myself up.

‘Was someone watching?’ I thought, glancing around. But no, the corridor was completely deserted, all the classroom doors closed. Unsettled, I frowned, grabbed my book bag, and made my way towards the exit. ‘What other reason could he have for going easy on me?’

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TBC.
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A/N: First of all, I won’t post a warning saying that this story is slash in the summary until people start putting up warnings for het material too. Fucking breeders. Anyway, for those of you that wanted to know, due to the fact that the main character is very, very gay, this story WILL be slash. If you’re not cool with that, then you know where the door… ah, back button… is. Use it.

Onto more important things, this is my first story, slash or otherwise. I enjoy feedback of all kinds. If you read this and thought it was nice/shit, tell me. You don’t have to tell me why. Just a simple, “I like/hate this.” will suffice. Of course, every author wants some constructive criticism, so if you have the time and patience for that, I’ll certainly appreciate it.