A/N: Ok, this is not the story I've been way busy writing for the past year. I decided to do some major re-writing on that one. This is instead something that has been saved on my computer as Textbook Slash for about six months or so. It consists of eleven chapters, and due to irregular internet access, I'm not sure exactly when I'll be updating, but it'll be at least once every four days or so, on average. It's edited by the incredibly talented Ms. Falconer, without whose suggestions this story wouldn't have been half as good. So, yeah, hope you enjoy and have a happy summer! :)
I get back home from school just in time to see my brother jump on his bike on his way to football practice. For a moment, I consider calling out to him, but then I see him joining a group of his mates, and decide against it. Instead, I jump over the knee-high wall around our front garden, and make my way to the door. I'd got my keys out a block ago. It's one of my little habits. I like to be prepared. For some reason, it feels better to have my keys ready when I reach the front door than it would standing in front of it rummaging through my backpack. Just agree with me, ok?
The first thing I see when I open the door is the note from my mother. There's always one. Her notes usually always look the same; the only things that change are the date (yeah, my mother dates notes for me) and the information about what food she's left for me to heat up for dinner. I pick the note up and ignore the standard information ("hope you had a good day", "I'll be home later, not sure when but probably around ten", "phone my mobile if you need me") and go straight for what's new ("April 27th" and "Shepherd's pie – share equally with your brother!")
I push the door shut behind me, and walk through the front room, sneaking a peak into the kitchen to make sure my mother really isn't there before I stalk up the stairs. We've got the darkest stairs in England. There has to be something up with the design of the house or something, because there's absolutely no light coming in from anywhere. When we moved in here four years ago, there was a light in the ceiling, but it broke after a week and no one's ever bothered to fix it.
Upstairs is the landing, nearly as dark as the stairs but not quite. My mother's room is the one just to the left of the stairs. This is no coincidence. She's chosen this room for two explicit reasons. One, because she imagines that if she walked past my room or my brother's late at night, she'd wake us up, and two, because if me or my brother ever walk past her room late at night, we are bound to wake her up. She finds this practical because she thinks that she'll find out whenever either of us has been out drinking.
When I get upstairs, I look into my mother's room to make sure that she's not there. She's not, of course. All I see is her perfectly made bed, the fresh flowers and the dressing table stacked with various beauty products. I don't know what half of them are for, but I kind of like the look of them there. They're sort of...her, if that makes sense. I think if she'd ever remove or add as much as one item, I'd notice.
Next stop is the bathroom, mid landing. No one in there either. Our bathroom is carpeted. My mother hates it but she's not had the time or the money to do anything about it. When we moved in, there was even a matching cosy on the toilet seat. Soft pink. We got rid of that straight away though. I mean, come on, it was probably covered in the previous owner's piss.
After the bathroom, my brother's room. My brother, Bryan, is two years older than me. He turned 18 only a week ago. Bryan and I have always got along alright, you know? I suppose since our dad left ten years ago, and our mother working pretty much all the time, we've had to take care of each other a lot more than most brothers. Not that we've had it that rough or anything, but we've looked out for each other all the same.
Bryan is the next big football star, or so he claims. He's good, there's no denying that, but I don't see Sven-Goran Eriksson knocking on his door, if you know what I mean. He lives, sleeps and breathes football though, and I really hope it's going to happen for him some day. Otherwise, there is going to be one bitter gym teacher out there in a few years time.
Pushing down the handle on the door to Bryan's room always makes me feel really nervous. It's like I know that I'm not supposed to be there. And he'd probably kill me if he knew I as much as looked in. Normally, I'd knock first to be sure, but now I've seen him take off to his footie practice, so no need. I keep my hand on the doorknob as I peak in.
His room is plastered with football posters. All West Ham, of course. He's even got a West Ham bedspread. Amongst all the football posters is a huge one of Girls Aloud. Yeah, I know. I've heard his mates giving him grief about it as well, but Bryan just laughs and says that they can sing whatever the hell they want; the main point is the skimpy outfits. He's got a desk in front of the window, and his computer is perched on it. Bryan keeps his computer on 24-7, because he's always downloading stuff. I always check and double-check that I've turned my computer off, just in case someone would stumble into my room and stumble online and maybe stumble onto my... It doesn't even bear thinking about.
So despite the fact that I saw Bryan cycling down the street not five minutes ago, I still check his room to make sure that he hasn't magically returned. He hasn't, of course, so I close the door to his room again, and cross the landing to mine.
I walk into my room and drop my backpack on the floor with a thud. I kick the door shut before I hang my school jacket across the back of my chair. If Bryan's room is messy on the best of days, mine is pristine. Probably due to the same anal tendency that makes me get my keys out a full block away from the front door, I like to keep my room tidy.
I loosen the tie around my neck but leave it on. I do unbutton a couple of buttons at the top of my shirt though. I look back towards the door once more to make sure that it's really shut before I log onto my computer. It's password protected. Of course.
In this house we've got a computer each; I've got one, Bryan's got one, my mother's got one. It sounds a little excessive, I suppose, but we've only got one telly. My mother thinks it's better for Bryan and me to spend time on our computers rather than in front of the telly, because apparently computers are "interactive". Not that I complain, mind you.
I'm just about to log onto one of those sites when my mobile phone rings. My heart stops for a millisecond and then I get up and locate the phone amongst my books and stuff in my backpack. It's Shane. Best friend, partner-in-crime, unreciprocated love interest.
"Hullo?" I answer, my heart still beating like a drum in my chest.
"Alright there, Chris," he says cheerfully. "You're sounding a little out of breath, mate. Was I interrupting something?"
"No, don't worry," I say, forcing myself to calm down. "Another five minutes though..."
I hear Shane laughing on the other end, and I move back to my computer.
"Anyway, mate, I was just wondering if you're up for doing something later? We could meet up in the park, kick some ball or whatever?"
"Yeah, sure," I reply, feeling butterflies in my stomach all of a sudden. "Meet you there in an hour or so? I need to eat first." Eat and work off a bit of excess energy, as it were.
"Park in an hour. Gotcha. Have a nice wank, mate," Shane says and hangs up. Bastard.
Suddenly I've lost all reason to scan the internet for any visual stimuli. Shane's voice alone is enough to get me hard. Yeah, I know how pathetic that is, but if you could hear him talk you would understand why I'm that pathetic.
Shane is Irish. Irish...
I flip my laptop shut and walk over to my bed. With Shane's Irish voice ringing in my ears, I fall to my back in the bed. My right hand immediately travels down my belly to grind against the hardness in my trousers as Shane's voice wraps my heart in cotton.
Have a nice wank, mate... Well, doesn't he just have a way with words?
I lose myself in thoughts of Shane's voice, of his silky soft skin, raven black hair and dark blue eyes as my hands reach down to undo the buttons of my black school uniform trousers. I push them down only so far that I can reach to wrap my feverish right hand around my cock, pretending that it's Shane's hand. I've imagined this so many times the fantasy is completely effortless; Shane's soft Irish voice telling me he wants me, whilst I plant kisses all over his lean body.
If I'd ever last long enough to finish the fantasy, I'm sure it would end with Shane making sweet, sweet love to me whilst whispering words of passion in my ear. I don't ever get that far though. Normally, like today, I only have to get to the point where I mentally strip Shane naked before I come.
This is why I don't make fun of Bryan's Girl's Aloud poster. I wish more than anything that I would be able to dig up enough interest for their soft hips and bulging bosoms for things to even begin to stir, but it's futile. Nothing ever happens.
I can't even begin to tell you how scared it makes me. If anyone finds out, I'm going to kill myself, I'm not kidding you. If my mum found out... Bryan... Shane... If Shane ever found out how I feel about him, I don't think I'd have to kill myself, he'd do it for me.
I've had a crush on Shane since he started in my class two years ago. He had just moved to our little Hertfordshire town from Dublin because of his dad's job. The headmaster brought him in and introduced him one morning. I could tell that the girls all fancied him, because they started giggling as soon as the headmaster had left the room, and poor Shane was standing at the front of the class whilst our teacher kept asking him a load of embarrassing questions. At long last, she released him and he took the vacant seat next to mine. We've been pretty much inseparable ever since.
So we were 14. I had just started realising that girls weren't so much my cup of tea, but I'd yet to really acknowledge what was, if you know what I mean. When Shane asked me if I wanted to hang out after school, I tried to tell myself that the butterflies in my stomach were just excitement over a new friend. Shane was different from my other mates. A lot cooler. There's just something about him that is carefree and relaxed. I can't really explain it. It's like every other guy I know always need to prove something. Shane is nothing like that. And he always sees through other people's bullshit. Well. Almost always.
He's yet to see through mine. Otherwise he would never talk about football with me whilst we're in the shower together after gym. It's torture. I don't know how I survive. Shane will stand in the shower, stark bollock naked, the water streaming down his body, and he'll talk to me about football. Fucking football! I will stand in the pouring water in the shower next to him, trying to avoid his wet, smooth alabaster skin, and think of the least sexy things I can imagine.
When we're done, I'll always wrap my towel around me, trying to dry off in the most modest manner possible. Let me tell you how Shane does it. He'll grab his towel from the rack in the shower room, take it in his hand and wipe at his hair whilst not caring in the least that his body is exposed for everyone to see. Well, everyone in the boys' changing room, I guess. And out of the 16 of us there, I don't think anyone cares about Shane's body like I do.
A couple of times over the past two years I've lost control and let my eyes wander over his skin. The last time was only a few weeks back. Shane was talking to me about some party we were going to the following day, whilst I was absorbed in the soapy water floating down his smooth back. For a few heart-stopping moments, I followed the water far enough down to see the cleft of his arse, the rounding of his cheeks, and I couldn't look away. Not even when he turned around and I saw his cock, big even when flaccid, nestled amongst curls as black as the night.
I don't think he noticed. I tried to be as believable as possible when I said I just needed to send a text to Bryan and darted out of the shower. I sat down on the bench, my towel securely covering my burning shame as I was pretending to send a text to Bryan. You see the emotional stress I'm under.
Back in my room on the 27th of April. I pull my school tie over my head, and put it on my nightstand. I reach out for one of the man-size tissues (yeah, I know, the joke writes itself) that my mother started putting in my room without a word about the same time as what I've learnt in school to refer to as "nightly emissions" started happening to me. I wipe yet another fantasy about Shane off my chest before I go downstairs to heat up the Shepherd's pie that I'm supposed to share equally with my brother.