This isn't happening. This is not happening. I am not in a cupboard with Rupert and he is not touching me like that and his breath isn't ghosting over my cheek and his hair isn't tickling my face. He doesn't have his hand on my hip and he isn't pushing me against the wall and most of all I am not responding, I am not leaning up to him and I'm not freaking melting under his hand.
Only I am. This isn't one of those freaky wet dreams I've been having for the last few weeks. No no, this is real. I've got enough uncomfortable pieces of plastic digging into my neck to prove that.
Kill me now.
Rupert's hand moves forward, closer to him and closer to that and my breath hitches and he laughs.
"Calm down," he whispers into my ear, his breath heavy with moisture and it smells like ready salted crisps. It's hot on my skin, too hot. Rupert Becker should not be able to do that to me.
"I..." he cuts me off with his teeth biting down lightly on my earlobe, causing me to curl away from him. He still stays pressed against me and I'm cringing against the wall and his fingers edge up my shirt.
"Shh," he hushes me with pursed lips pulled slightly back as he watches one hand crawl up my shirt and the other getting closer to my crotch.
"Rupert," I manage the word before he interrupts me and he looks up from his hands to watch my face. His deep brown eyes flicker across my face. I look at the freckles across his nose and I swallow. He seems to appreciate this and he leans closer to me, if it was possible. My hand flies up from my side and presses against his chest. "Don't," I say, and he smiles, those brilliant white teeth being flashed at me. He leans closer and presses his forehead against mine and speaks almost directly into my mouth.
"You want this as much as I do." And with that he carries on where he left off and my hand grows weak and falls to my side. My fingers brush his side on the way down and he moans and I'm so taken aback that I blush, and he takes my slight gasp as a "proceed" sign, his lips touching mine and his hand slipping inside my waistband.
I try to grab his hand but clasp his shirt instead, balling it in my fist.
"Oh Ryan," he smirks, his teeth grazing my lip. "You're so hot for me, aren't you?" I don't know what he means until he grabs me and I'm suddenly aware of how hard I am, how much I want him, and how turned on he's making me. But he's aware of it too, he knows how much I want him and it's like he knows what to do to get my breath stuttering and my fingers trembling and my shoulders shaking.
I'm not even a nervous guy. But then his plush lips press against mine and I am acutely aware that my face has flushed faster than a toilet and my skin feels like its burning when his fingertips graze along my arm. The ends of his fingernails touch the roots of my arm hair and a million hot needles are suddenly being pushed into my stomach and I gasp.
He grins and slides his tongue into my mouth and it's a strange feeling because it feels like I'm kissing myself, there's no sticky, slimy gloss and no sweet tasting breath and no baby soft lips. There's bare skin and a hot mouth and firm lips that press insistently against mine and his breath just feels like humidity, his own microclimate on the inside of his lungs.
He grabs the hem of my t-shirt and tugs downwards. I open eyes that I wasn't aware had become closed and look to him. His stunning hazel eyes look at me with an expression I read as permission seeking, and I look back at him with my own dark ones and then I'm thinking that he isn't looking at me with hazel eyes, he's looking at me through little black holes that technically don't exist and when he actually looks at me the sight his brain sees first is upside down.
"Stop thinking," he commands me and then tugs my t-shirt up and over my head, unfastening the buttons on his own shirt with one hand as he kisses me, stroking the underside of my face, arm curved in what must be an uncomfortable manner. His smooth hand caresses the space beneath my chin, then slides down my neck to rest in the middle of my chest. He shucks off his shirt and smiles briefly at me.
Rupert's hand slides down, down to the inside of my jeans and I moan so loud. I cover my mouth out of embarrassment and he kisses my hand until I drop it away and replaces my breath with his again.
What happens next is almost too difficult for me to explain because I can hardly recall it for the way that I more or less melted beneath his hands. All I can envisage is him grabbing and stroking and teasing and biting, being so gentle and so insistent, pushing me up against the wall as he made me succumb to his entire being, losing every atom of myself to him as he caressed me over the edge of all I've ever been.
The next time I see Rupert is on a makeshift stage in the city centre. It's the day after he reduced me to something with the brain power of a three pence packet of angel delight, and he's acting out a scene alongside some other kids from school, and he catches my eye as my friends pause to look at them. One of my friends, Alfie, his girlfriend is there, pretending to be a piece of furniture and he grins at her and she tries to remain focussed but a smile spills onto her lips like an ink stain.
Rupert watches me as he says his line, his voice loud and imposing.
"This is how fast your life can turn around. How the future you have tomorrow won't be the same future you had yesterday." I stare at him and his mouth quirks up in the corner. He looks away and I burn crimson, wishing that I had hair like him. His hair frames his face and covers his ears and I bet if he wore it a certain way it would cover his cheeks. My hair is short, cropped close to my head, and the only way it would cover my flushing cheeks is if I was to shave it all off and sprinkle it over my face.
Alfie insists that we stay there so he can talk to his girlfriend afterwards. She's a pretty girl and up until yesterday afternoon I knew her name but such mundane things have been replaced with actual thoughts and feelings now, things that I wasn't really sure existed until Rupert inspired them in me.
I stand there with my hands in my pockets and wish that I'd dressed nicer. My jeans are two days old and my t-shirt has a small tear above the label in the back, and it's baggier than I would have liked. My black trainers are tatty and I have a spot growing just beneath my hair line and I just want to run away.
Rupert approaches me, smiling with his bright teeth showing. His light brown hair looks silky smooth and styled, his mint green shirt is tucked into a pair of chocolate brown pegged trousers. On his feet are dark brown loafers. He looks great. Gorgeous.
"Ey, look who's coming over," jeers Kieran. "Alright gayboy?"
"Shut up, twat," I snarl at him, smiling back at Rupert.
"You gay too?" He sneers, and I shove him in the arm and tell him to fuck off. He scoffs and goes to stand with Dylan.
Rupert stops in front of me and smiles again, broadly. His presence there makes me blink and take in a deep breath; his scent invades my air and I can taste soap, and some kind of expensive hair product.
"You alright?" he asks me, cocking his head slightly. I nod, my hands sliding into my back pockets. I pinch my skin through the denim. "Jesus, Ryan," he chuckles. "You don't have to be so fucking nervous."
"I'm not nervous," I protest. He raises a perfect eyebrow.
"I don't believe you."
"I'm not nervous!" I exclaim. "I'm not a nervous guy!" There's an amused smile on his lips and I want to mash it off. Preferably with my lips.
Shut the fuck up, Ryan.
He smiles, his nude lips stretching and his face just looks so perfect. He seems to be studying my own face, his eyes flickering across my features. I swallow. I wish my nose wasn't so snub, my brow so low, my face so thin.
"Do you want to grab a coffee or something?" he asks in his smooth voice and I nod, although I can feel my money in my palm, and there's only a few quid there, and I don't even like coffee, can't stand the bitter taste it leaves in my mouth.
Rupert begins to walk and I follow him. We're roughly the same height, though he just seems to stand taller. His shoulders aren't as broad as mine but his back is ramrod straight and he walks like he's proud of himself. Like he enjoys who he is. I admire that, and as we walk I watch him.
His arm keeps brushing against mine, and it would be okay if his hand wasn't too. It wouldn't be a problem if it was just the top of his arm, because although mine wasn't covered, his was. But his hand isn't dressed, and neither is mine, and his skin slides against mine and I have to swallow and stare straight ahead.
He walks into Starbucks, and I swear it's like he belongs there, with his light brown wavy hair and his rich hazel eyes, he looks like he belongs in with the coffee. He looks perfect.
He withdraws his wallet; it's one of those brown leather ones, a popper fastening. No crap logo on the front, like my own. I'm glad that I forwent the wallet today and just brought cash. That saved me from having to brandish a tacky black wallet with the Spurs logo on the front.
"What do you want?" he asks. I look up at the board but the words swim and I can't understand what any of the words even mean. Why is it all written in some European language? Is that Italian? Or French, maybe? My dry tongue comes out in a feeble attempt to wet my equally dry lips, and I rock on my heels.
"What are you having?" I decide I'll just have what he has, and just pretend to drink it to save the embarrassment.
"Venti 1 pump caramel, 1 pump white mocha, 2 scoops vanilla bean powder, extra ice frappuchino with 2 shots poured over the top, apagotto style, with caramel drizzle under and on top of the whipped cream, double cupped." He looks at me and giggles. My utter confusion must have shown, because he bats my arm and grins. "I'm kidding, Ryan. I'm having a tall vanilla bean frappucino, with caramel." I nod, and he laughs again. "Lighten up, babe."
Babe? Since when was I Rupert Becker's babe?
"I'll have one those too, I guess."
"I'm more of a tea drinker." Rupert smiles, and his eyes flit over my face.
"You look more like you consume..." he pauses and cocks his head. "Red Bull? You know, what with how jittery you are." He finishes his sentence with a cheeky grin and I cross my arms over my chest defensively.
"I'm not jittery. And I don't drink Red Bull either."
"Yes, I'm sure. Don't they put cow sperm in that or something?" Rupert hesitates. Then he laughs far too loudly for me to be comfortable.
"I don't think cows produce sperm," he giggles. " And I think there are laws against that kind of ingredient." I shrug, rubbing the surface of my nails against the skin of my upper arm. He finishes his laughter, and shakes his head. He looks at me and then nudges me with his elbow. "Don't be grumpy!"
"I'm not grumpy," I sigh. "Though I wish you wouldn't just shoot me down."
"I'm not shooting you down," he tells me. "I'm conversing with you." The skinny black man behind the counter calls 'next' and Rupert and I shuffle forward.
"Two tall vanilla bean frappucinos, both with caramel, sit in." The guy disappears to make the coffee, and Rupert leans against the counter, his elbows on the edges.
"You really think I'm being mean?" I find myself shuffling my feet, and scratching the inside of my elbow. He isn't being mean to me. That much I know. It's not anything he's done, either. It's me. It's the effect that he's having on me, and I don't understand it. This is Rupert Becker I'm standing next to. A flat chested brunette with no make-up on and a love for coffee. Not some hot blonde with a massive rack and a passion for getting off her head on Scrumpy Jack every night. But when I look at him I know exactly which of the two I'd go for, because suddenly he looks less like the 'dramatic buttslut' I used to think of him as, and more like the perfect human being. And that scares me.
"I don't know," I tell him. "It's nothing you've done, though. Don't...don't think that you've done anything, okay?" He looks at me for a few moments before letting out a yawn.
"Sorry," he says, covering his mouth with a hand. "That was rude of me."
"It wasn't rude," I tell him. "You're not a rude person." His eyes linger on me for slightly longer than I feel comfortable, then he stands up straight, turning around to face the coffee guy, who passes him our cups. Rupert pays for both drinks before I can even protest. He sees me clutching the coins in my pocket and shakes his head, handing me the clear cup.
"No. I insist." I drop the coins and wrap my hands around the big white drink, which I'm surprised to find is cold, following him up the stairs. He looks around and selects a table for two, the table pressed right up against the corner, the chairs next to each other. It looks quite cosy. I can feel my hands beginning to sweat.
"Perfect," Rupert declares as he sets his cup down and draws his chair out. I do the same, but more awkwardly, catching my foot on the chair leg, pulling it free to smack against the pole holding up the table. "Easy does it," he grins. I smile sheepishly and look down at the surface of the table. He leans back in his chair, his elbows on the back. I look at his arms and wonder if he's a goddamn contortionist.
"What were you performing out there?" I ask, nodding my head towards the window.
"An adaption of a Palahniuk novel," he tells me.
"He wrote Fight Club."
"Oh. Awesome." Sometimes I wonder if Rupert thinks I'm stupid. I know I definitely feel stupid around him. He's this clever, A* student who's loved by all the teachers, who is going to have a bright future. I'm more or less his opposite, no matter how hard I try.
He leans forward to get his drink, and his knee knocks against mine under the table. It doesn't retract back to its previous position, it just stays there, leaning against my own knee, and I need to consume some of that drink before I go completely hot and flustered.
I grab the cup and knock a good mouthful of it back. It's only after I'm swallowed it all that I realise just how cold it is, and I grab at my forehead when that godawful brain freeze sets in. Rupert shifts his chair closer to mine as I squint, not sure what to do about the fact that it feels like I'm about to have a brain aneurysm. His body twists in his seat and his hand covers mine, pulling it away.
"What's the hand supposed to do?" he asks, dropping my hand onto his thigh. His hand comes back on top of it moments later, as he watches me. The way he looks at me is so...it's indescribable. But I know that he wants to kiss me, I can tell from the way his eyes are darting around my face but lingering on my lips, and I want him to. Is that bad? Is it bad that I want Rupert Becker to grab my face and kiss me? To push me against the wall my back is now facing and tangle his tongue with mine? To wrap his hands around the back of my neck and graze his teeth over my lower lip?
But suddenly the headache gets too much and I turn away, my hand leaving his thigh to cup my head, as I groan.
I put my head down on the table until the ache subsides completely. I turn it slightly to see Rupert smiling down at me in amusement. I think he's moved his chair again. Closer, obviously. Heck, the entire length of his thigh is pressed against mine.
"Have you never had a cold drink before?" he asks, and he laughs, and I sit up. I continue to look at him, and he looks back. For once I think I've made him nervous, and he looks away, sipping at his drink.
"You know what I think?" he says, leaning forward on the table so that his face is right up close to mine. "I think we should go back to my house." His eyes rake over my face, my body. "Yeah. I think that would be a really good idea."
Rupert's house isn't really what I was expecting. I was envisaging some stylish apartment in a rich area, but he actually lives in a regular 2 storey house, with his own garden. The house is a little less than new, in fact it looks like it might crumble at any moment. His bedroom is the kind you only ever read about in books about people living in impoverished areas. The walls are stark white, the floor that kind of paint specked bare wood that you get beneath carpets, and the one radiator on his wall is bare, painted white. His curtains are burgundy, quite thin and there are nets beneath them. Most of the net is ripped, and has been pinned back together with brass safety pins.
His bed is a cross between a single and a double, the kind of bed you get in a caravan that dares call itself a double, when in fact there is not much room at all. It's pushed against the far left hand corner, the window opposite it on the right wall. At the end of the bed is a burgundy ottoman, and there's a rail above it which has clothes hanging down. I can see though that despite his bizarre room, his family clearly has money. There are brands there I've never even heard of.
"So this is my room," he says, and I nod.
"It's nice." I return, and then Rupert slams me against the door, his mouth open, kissing me almost furiously. I kiss him back, pulling him closer to me, tasting him repeatedly on my tongue, gasping as he sucks my lower lip into his mouth and then sucks on my tongue. My shirt is up and over my head before I know it, his fingers toying with the hard nubs of my nipples as he continues to kiss me, rolling his hips into mine.
He's hard, and so am I, though I would never admit that to anyone, because this is Rupert Becker, and I'm pretty sure that right now, I'm not Ryan Drake, oh no, I'm some other kid, because Ryan Drake would never let anyone grab at him and touch him like this, he wouldn't be doing it back, his hand wouldn't be down Rupert Becker's underpants and he especially would not be getting naked with him, he wouldn't be moaning with him, he wouldn't be gasping and crying out with him, oh no, not Ryan Drake.
I'm lying in Rupert Becker's bed, on the side closest to the wall, and Rupert is lying next to me. He rolls over, resting his chin on my chest, and he smiles. It's not one of those sexy little smiles he's pulled at me before, no, it's one of those smiles that you only ever see in films. It's a content smile. Post-coital.
He drapes one leg over mine, yanking the duvet over us, and snuggles even closer into me. The side of his head drops down to rest above my heart, which, I'm sure, is still thumping like a nervous rabbit's foot.
"Calm down," he murmurs, his eyes drooping shut. "You don't have to be so nervous all the time."
I look down at his head, too tired to argue with him. I realise that sleeping with Rupert is going to have consequences. People are going to guess things. People are going to whisper things about me. I'm going to probably do it again. I can't exactly just avoid him now. I can't just walk on by, pretend it never happened because it did happen. It did happen. It happened, and I can't take that back. Do I even want to?
The line I first heard Rupert say earlier rattles through my head. This is how fast your life can turn around. How the future you have tomorrow won't be the same future you had yesterday.
It doesn't really sound so daunting anymore.
So I'm not sure where this came from. Should I write more? I already really like these guys, which is pretty uncommon, not going to lie.