Black Underwear Makes Me Feel Sexy
Dr. Pepper 14
Beta'd by my lovely assistant Collar de Espinas!…
Summary: Slash. Fighting leads to kitchen kisses and nervous touches.
"I brought you something," I say as I sit down next to him on the bench overlooking the pond, feeling his rough jeans brush against my leg through the fabric of my pants and liking the feeling more than I really should.
If he feels me next to him, he makes no indication that he does, only continues to stare at the pond as if I'm not even here.
I already know something's wrong, no need to waste my breath in asking such a pointless question. He always comes here when he's upset, as if the small ducks in the pond give him comfort that nothing else can. So, when I searched for him earlier and couldn't find him, I knew exactly where to come.
His eyes won't meet my gaze, his face is turned away.
"Here," I hand him the multicolored bracelet I made today when my little sister forced me to 'play' with her. "I thought it might brighten up your persona," I tease, referring to his all-black apparel.
It's okay that I say this to him though. I have the right as his best (and only) friend. But my humor is lost on closed ears and vacant eyes.
That's all anyone ever sees when they look at him. Black hair. Black nails. Black eyes and lips. That's all they want to see- a freaky little Goth boy. Too skinny for his age, too pale, too cold.
That's not what I see though. Never what I see. There's so much more to him than that- this crude label he has been subjected to by them. They, so shallow. I see… my best friend since first grade. I see a wonderful, beautiful person worn down by so much hardship that it hurts me to even look him in the eyes, so much sadness lying there. I see the boy that I've been in love with for so long, that every day I can't touch him and tell him I love him feels like it's the last day of my life.
People gawk and stare at his heavy mascara and thick eyeliner perfectly drawn around his lids, but I think it brings out such a beautiful shade of blue in his eyes. They look so bright and alive, though I know he feels so dead inside. Even then, it almost looks as if… a fire has burnt out in them. But sometimes, when he sees me, his eyes will light up like a small child on Christmas, and I remember why I get up every morning.
People scorn his choice of clothing, but I think it's damn hot. Chains, tight black shirts, choker necklaces.
They call him a whore. I think he's beautiful.
They hate his cruel personality, his quick rude wit, his biting tongue, but they don't know. They don't know anything. All that he's been through, I know, is all too much. They see his black lipstick, frown at seeing a boy wear make-up, but I'm sure, under that thick layer of black, are warm, soft lips that would feel so good against mine…
"Ben, what are you doing here?" he asks, still staring out at the flat blue water, fiddling with the bracelet I made him on his skinny wrist laden with old scars.
"I came just to give you that bracelet- isn't it sexy?" I joke, nudging him with my shoulder. "Maya and I made them this morning so I thought I'd bring you one."
He shakes his head, throwing a rock into the pond, "No, why are you here, with me? Why aren't you out with your other friends?" he spits out like it's a disease on his tongue.
I sigh. He's back on this again. It's always been a touchy subject for him.
"Ross, I…" but I have no idea what to say and it's not just because of his distracting warmth so close beside me.
While the whole school seems to hate him, they worship me like a god. I'm their golden child. I play just about every sport known to man and am good at them, I'm president of almost every club including student body president even though I hate public speaking and always choke on my words… but not by choice. All my parents care about is getting me into a good college, so they push and push and push. The school loves me. The people love me.
But they mean nothing to me.
Ever since we were children, I've always been drawn to him, like a moth to a bright light, and once you've had a bit of him it's too late, you're addicted- you can't get enough. And perhaps he will be my downfall, but if so, then I will gladly give in, if only to be near him.
He doesn't let many get that close, though. He really has no one. No one but me. While he's my best friend, I still have all my 'preppy jock friends' as he calls them.
But they mean nothing to me.
I turn down their offers to sit with them at lunch. Why would I want to sit with them when I can sit with Ross? Everyday, we sit under a tree in the courtyard and trade our lunches, chitchatting and making fun of the week's latest drama. I love being around him. He's quite depressing at times, but I'm always there to pick him up- and I need him to realize that I always will be. He can be so funny when he wants to be, but only around me. Around others, he turns into that cold hard bastard everyone hates.
I always hang out with him on weekends, never them. And though he hates school functions, he comes to all of my games. Just for me. Because that's what best friends do- they support each other. They know we're friends, I warn them to leave him alone and they do, for the most part, but sometimes when I'm not around…
I put the last boy that touched him in the hospital. Being the golden boy has its perks- they didn't even press charges.
"Because I don't want to be," comes my soft voice, as if he's an animal easily startled by the slightest increase in tone.
"Why?" he asks, voice is even quieter than mine, like he doesn't really want me to hear what he's saying.
He tries to scoot further away from me on the bench, but I won't allow him to run away again.
"Listen, Ross," I begin, grabbing his chin to force him to look at me, and am startled by the hiss of pain issued through his tightly clenched teeth.
My hand on his chin, softer now, gently turns his face towards mine.
"Jesus…" I breathe out.
His beautiful pale skin, smeared with black make-up from his tears, is now completely covered in dark, painful looking bruises. There's one huge bruise on the side of his face, reaching all the way down to his jaw, and his bottom lip is cut and swollen.
His eyes still won't meet mine.
"You better tell me who the fuck did this, 'cause I'm gonna fuck them up so bad, they won't even be able to-"
"Don't," he cuts me off, placing his hand on my knee. "Just don't."
I'm briefly sidetracked by the heat radiating from his hand, but get over it quickly and stare at him in complete shock, cold blind anger coursing through my veins like poison shot directly into my blood.
"Ross…" I begin warningly.
He just shakes his head and looks back out at the pond, again ignoring me.
I don't know what came over me but next thing I know, I'm yanking him up off the bench in an uncharacteristically rough manner, surprising even myself, tugging at his wrist and pulling him after me through the park and towards my car.
When we reach it, Ross looks at me questioningly, digging his feet into the ground to stop his forward movement, and says, "Ben, where are you taking-"
"Shut up and get in the fucking car," I order as I push him towards the door of the passenger's side. "Now."
I don't know what has caused me to be so angry, but god, I can feel it all throughout my body. Just the thought of someone hurting him and not being able to do anything about it sets my blood on fire. The need to injure someone is so strong that it overpowers my every thought.
We don't talk during the car ride. I'm glaring furiously at the road ahead and Ross is staring out the window, watching the passing scenery almost lazily. How can he be so calm? He looks like he got run over by a truck, and yet… he's still so beautiful. Always beautiful.
I turn on the radio to fill the silence between us. A song fills the car, one of those songs that is so annoyingly catchy, it resounds in my head even when it's no longer wanted, lingering like a bitter aftertaste in my mouth.
I stop the car just outside my house and turn off the engine.
My voice, kinder than before, orders him quietly, "C'mere," and I lead him inside though he knows the way just as well as I do.
He stops unsurely once through the doorway like he knows he shouldn't be here, but I won't let him go. His eyes plead with me, but I still won't let him go.
I tug harder at his hand, intertwining his fingers with mine, forcing him to come with me into the kitchen. I pat the top of the counter, motioning for him to sit as I push a roll of paper towels out of the way, and he does, bracing his arms on the white tile and hoisting himself up. I go over to the sink and wet a washcloth under the faucet with slightly warm water.
When I return back to him, he's staring at the ground. Why all of a sudden won't he look me in the eyes?
I cradle his chin very gently in my hand and lift his face up. And I see how close to tears he really is, but he tries so hard to hold them back. I part his legs slightly so I can stand between them, gaining better access to his face, and maybe I just want to be as near to him as possible, as near as he'll allow me to be. I begin to slowly remove the smeared black on his face, careful not to irritate his bruises.
"Tell me what happened," I ask, not ordering but pleading in a small voice, barely above a whisper, and wipe off his tearstained cheek.
The alarmed look in his eyes says it all.
"You don't have to tell me who did it, just… what did they do to you?" I plead for him to answer me, caressing his bruised cheek with the back of my hand, slightly startled when he closes his eyes and leans into my hand. "Please, Ross."
His laugh is bitter and humorless as he says, "It's the same old same old, Ben, what do you expect?" A solemn grin twists his sweet lips. "A bunch of stupid fuckers decided that a disgusting fag like me shouldn't be allowed to hang out with you."
I admit, we do make a strange pair, him with his big black boots and I with my trendy collared shirts, but who are they to judge our friendship? If only he'd tell me who… and then I'd… I'd fucking kill them…
With a few shuddering breaths, I try to calm my fiery thoughts, needing him for support just as much as he needs me.
"A few of them cornered me outside and… got in a few punches, noticed that I wasn't quite breathing, and then left." He takes a deep, shaky breath and sighs. "I wish they'd just finish the job and be done with it."
"Shut up," I say, and it's not like me to be so forceful and Ross knows it.
He looks at me in surprise at my harsh tone, but I can't take it anymore. His words cut into me sharply, sting like a dull blade. Am I not worth living for? He's the only reason I live, the only reason I do anything…
"I shouldn't be here," he sneers. "I might pass my fag germs onto you," he says, his eyes are cruel and unforgiving.
"Shut the fuck up," I order, but despite my cruel words, my hands are still tender on his face. "It's not true."
"Ben, we just can't… you don't understand…"
I silence him with a finger to his warm lips. Against my will, the finger stays there a little longer than is really necessary and I hope he doesn't notice. His eyes lock with mine as I take the washcloth and remove his black lipstick very, very cautiously, painfully aware of his obviously swollen and sore lip. After I've finished, I put the washcloth down and trace his bottom lip very lightly with my thumb. It's soft and pliant under my finger, making me ache even more, knowing I can never taste his lips, only touch, never taste…
"What they say doesn't matter," I declare, voice noticeably shaking. "None of it mattes anymore."
An open statement: "Ben…"
We just stand there for a moment, neither daring to breathe. I don't know if I like the look in his eyes, but I've never seen it before, so I can't really say. The silence isn't uncomfortable, rather… anticipating. When his tongue licks his bottom lip, I follow the movement with my eyes.
I don't know who moved first, and really, it doesn't matter, but his lips are on mine, or maybe mine on his, and it's everything and more than I ever hoped for. I kiss him and he kisses me back just as hard, uncaring of his hurt lip. I love the way his legs wrap around my waist as if to bring me closer. I love how his arms encircle my neck. And when my arms slip up the back of his shirt and tongue hesitantly touches his, he gives a small breathy moan and I know I've never loved him more.
So maybe his lips don't really taste like heaven (maybe they do since I don't know what heaven tastes like) and maybe his skin isn't the softest thing in the world, but to me they are, and I wouldn't trade anything for the feelings coursing through my body at this moment.
And then we have to breathe, but that doesn't stop me from immediately moving to kiss his bruised cheek and down his smooth neck. His head tilts to the side, his mouth parted slightly, and fuck if the sounds he's making mean he doesn't like it.
The front door opens and closes loudly enough to break us from our trance and for me to stumble slightly in surprise, his legs still locked around my waste as we crash to the ground.
"Fuck!" we both screech loudly as bodies meet floor.
My older sister walks in just in time to see us in a more compromising position than we were in before.
She blinks, "I'm not going to ask," she says, grabbing a box off the counter to the left of the refrigerator. "I'm just going to take my stuff and go," she tosses over her shoulder and walks out of the kitchen.
"Yeah?" he pants, both of us still breathing harshly.
I look up at him almost hesitantly, and mutter, "I'm already short of breath and you're kind of squishing my lungs."
"Oh, sorry," he apologizes, moving to get up and I decide that I don't really want him to after all.
"It's okay," I repent, my hold preventing him from moving. "But do you think you could squish my lungs on the couch instead…?"
He nods, "I could…" and gets up, lending a helping hand so I can as well.
"You cow," I huff after sweeping him up into my arms and attempting to carry him to the couch in the living room, not expecting his weight.
"I don't need you to carry me," he says with a small grin only for me.
"I know," I reply and shift him in my arms. "Maybe I want to carry you."
I resist the urge to just dump him on the couch as I normally would and gently set him down instead. He doesn't sit on me and squish my lungs like I said he could, but we do sit closer than normal on the couch. He's practically sitting in my lap. I can't seem to stop myself from slightly nuzzling his neck as he sighs in delight.
I decide I want to kiss him again, except this time I don't really know how to go about doing it. Our first kiss was sort of spur of the moment and I didn't really have to think about it, but now, with him so close that I can pretty much feel everything, I have no idea what to do.
He turns around in my lap.
He surprises me by asking, "Can I, uh, kiss you again?" and looking daringly into my eyes.
"S-Sure, w-why not," is all I can think to say.
I said it so fast that I'm not sure if he really heard me until he moves closer. Breath lost for a second, I grasp his chin to lead him towards my lips, but all I succeed in doing is making our noses bump almost painfully together.
And he laughs.
"Don't laugh at me, asshole," I pout.
He captures my stuck-out bottom lip between his teeth before I have time to think about it and screw everything up. Our lips moving together are fumbling and inexperienced, but I don't care and I don't think Ross does either judging by his smile. We're both smiling so big that our teeth keep clashing together. I still can't stop though, even if I wanted to (which I don't). My hands are a little more daring than before and reach out to caress the skin of his side underneath his shirt.
His breath hitches and he hisses in pain when my hand brushes against a bruise underneath his shirt I didn't know was there.
I pull away, and say, "Sorry," leaning my forehead against his.
"Don't be," he whispers, breathe tickling my face.
I watch him blush and fiddle with his bracelet and guess that maybe he's just as nervous as I am. It makes me feel a hell of a lot better.
"You really like that thing, don't you?" I tease and reach out to touch it as well. "I bet it's the only thing of color you have on."
"Maybe," he says and his eyes sparkle. "I bet you don't have one ounce of black on you save the thread of your clothes."
"So you think," I challenge.
"Oh yeah?" he says, looking me up and down and I try not to blush when his eyes linger. "Where's the black?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" I taunt my friend, raising an eyebrow coyly.
He shrugs and says, "I would…"
"Well, okay then. I," I declare, poking myself in the chest. "Happen to be the proud owner of a pair of black cotton boxers."
"Really?" he says, and now he's pinning me to the couch, staring down at me in a predatory way. "Let's see them then."
"Gah! Don't rape me!" I yelp as the top button of my jeans is unbuttoned.
We both know it's just a joke, but my sister doesn't as she again walks through the door and finds Ross and me with my zipper down halfway.
She stops short in her tracks, staring at us with her eyes almost literally bulging out of their sockets, before turning and walking towards the staircase.
"I didn't see anything," she says and continues on her way.
"Phew," I breathe out and wipe my forehead dramatically.
She stops midway up the stairs to say, "Ross, what happened to your face?"
His smile fades for a second and he replies, "Nothing."
It seems as if she's still in a daze from seeing her gay brother doing gay things in multiple places, so she just blinks and nods, leaving us in the living room.
"I won't ever let them touch you again," I promise, placing soft kisses along his jaw as if trying to reassure him.
He sighs, says, "You can't promise me that," and then, thank god, the happy glint returns to his eyes. "But hopefully the only touching that will be going on will be between me and what's underneath your boxers."
"You wish," I say, but I laugh.
"Your black boxers are sexy," he says, and now the zipper's all the way down.
"I know. I feel sexy in them," I say and kick a pillow off the couch.
His mischievous grin should scare me, but it doesn't.
"I bet you'd feel sexy out of them."
I don't feel as awkward as before, but I still gasp at what happens next. We both are anxious and overeager, our hands no more experienced, but the result of our tangled limbs and sloppy kisses is beautiful. It is to me, at least.
If you're still wondering what happened, let me just say that when my mom came back from the grocery store, she screamed loud enough to wake the dead and dropped her bags (one including eggs) onto the floor.
Messy kisses never tasted so good.
I like Ben as the narrator for a change. He's so poetic and awkward and I just love him. I hope you guys like him too!
Please review? I'm really trying to improve. I need input.