Title: Beyond the Pale
Author's Name: Scarlet
Author's Email and URL: scarletsfiction@yahoo www.oocities.org/karenmnick
Disclaimer: The Breakfast Club and it’s characters are in no way owned by me, so there!
Distribution: Sprinkle like dust on the wind; just let me know where it lands so I can visit from time to time.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Andrew/Brian
Feedback: Yes! (What? You thought I was going to say “no”?)
Dedication: Endless thanks to Katie, the best beta in the world.
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The party, like most things, is his dad's idea. A couple of kegs arrive at seven, already signed and paid for. "I'd rather you cut loose in a safe place, kiddo." Said with affection Andy hadn't heard since kindergarten. It might have been that moment that he'd finally agreed to the graduation party.

If Andy had his way, he'd spend Grad Night on the top of Pike's Bluff, sharing a bottle of whatever Allison could scam from her folks' bar. Car stereo tuned to whatever. The Cure, Aerosmith, it wouldn’t matter. Talking about school and family and whatever shit had her twisted up this week. Wet kisses before dawn, comfortable. But Allison's at some school in Chicago and the weekly letters have turned to monthly postcards and Andy can't quite remember what her skin tastes like anymore. Things change, always change.

He paces the empty house as the sun goes down. His house is the only one on the block with every window lit. Like moths, they flock to the light, trickling in after eight, finally free of family dinners and congratulations. Andy stands at the front door and plays host. He’s good at that: playing.

McCaffey comes first.

"Dude! Don't you have any food? I could eat my own ass!"

"Kitchen."

Then Beeker.

"Clark! Clark! It's finally over, man! Finally over..." Beeker looks dangerously close to puking. Most of the partying stared earlier that day, under the unwatchful eye of visiting relatives.

"Surprised you took your head out of your ass long enough to pass, McCaffey." The two high-five over the kegs. Then McCaffey proceeds to tap the first one as Andy walks away. The broad, easy Clark grin slides off his face when he leaves the room.

It’s not that he’s not glad that high school is over. Andrew just has his own way of showing relief that his old man and most of Shermer High wouldn’t understand. Shit, it’s hard for Jack Clark to understand a lot of things, the least of which is the difference between a couple of beers between good friends and a kegger with a couple hundred of his shallowest fellow Shermer alumni. Andy has to take deep breaths to keep from getting too pissed off these days. He tells himself that his dad grew up in a different time and in a different place and that that’s why he’s such a tool most of the time. It seems weak when he tries to explain it to Allison, so he doesn’t mention his dad anymore.   

Around ten he drifts to the kitchen. It's quieter there. Most of the “Happy Graduation” cups have been used, but the dainty “Happy Graduation” napkins sit practically untouched. He folds them into neat triangles and practices flicking them off the end of the counter. Then Andy grazes from the bags of chips covering the counter, wondering if it’s possible to die from apathy, until his ear perks at a familiar voice.

"Really. They did these tests on rats and the ones that ingested the 23% alcohol solution were found to be 78% more impaired than those ingesting a solution of 17% alcohol--"

"Did someone *invite* you, dickweed? Or are you just crashing? 'Cause you don't look like you were invited."

"—and what's with the hair? My buddies and I could shit a better haircut than that."

Andy takes a moment to cringe. He doesn't know who he's more embarrassed for: Brian--who *does* seem to be growing out one pussy haircut--or himself, for calling apes like McCaffey and Beeker friends.

"I invited him."

Andy's presence is, apparently, a surprise.

"Dude! We didn't know he was a friend of yours, Clark. If we knew that..."

Andy is already shoving a bag of Doritos at Brian and guiding him back to the kitchen with a hand on his shoulder. Brian doesn’t waste time or humility on thanks, just shoves a Dorito into his mouth and says, "Nice house, Andy. It looks a little like mine, but ours was built circa 1969 so the porticos are a little different."

Andy doesn't know what a portico is, but thinks that he'd like to know. Maybe he'll check it out later, after everyone's gone home. Maybe not.

"Glad you came."

"Yeah, I was sort of shocked to find the note in my locker. I was just getting back from Trig--well, I was getting back from the orthodontist, but on my way to trig because that's where I'd have been if I hadn't been getting my braces off. Some people misrepresent themselves in anecdotes and I didn't want--"

"Will you excuse me, Brian?"

There's only so much of Brian Johnson that Andy can take. He's not Saint Andrew, after all. Instead he greets some guys from the basketball team that have just arrived, but he does manage to catch Brian's smile as he tips his head back for a chip. Bright white and straight—no more braces. Appealing smile. Noteworthy, even.

Andy doesn't expect Bender to show up at all and, under strict definitions, he doesn't. Not exactly. It's more like he slides in unobtrusively. Like he's embarrassed that he's actually been invited and has a right to the front door. He’s more comfortable ducking through the back, a paper-wrapped bottle sticking out of his long duster and a pierced piece of tail hanging on. She looks a few hits ahead of Bender tonight. Before long, Andy can see her all over Todd Mursky, tongue in his ear and hand in his lap. Bender doesn't seem shocked. He doesn't seem much of anything.

Around midnight, and sporting a nice buzz, Andy sends in the pizzas. He makes a big show of it, the "good guy" feeding the hungry masses. But the money's his dad's and the idea's his mom's. He thinks of the Bluff and cheap wine and how everyone wishes they were somewhere else. Wonders where Brian and Bender wish they were tonight.

Beeker is about six beers ahead of him and crossing into his affectionate stage. Brian and Bender aren't anywhere around and that feels more comfortable, in a way.

“Stellar fiesta, Clark!” Beeker belches.

“Glad you’re having a good time.”

"Fuck, Clark! I'm gonna miss you so much, man!"

Beeker's a tool. Wedgies and fag jokes. He’ll be fat in a year.

"Gonna miss you too, man." This is not the best Andrew Clark he knows, just the Andrew Clark he knows best. "Beeker, I dare you to take down McCaffey!"

"Your ass is mine, Mc-C!" Beeker shouts and the match commences.

Andy can provide entertainment, too. He can play host. He can play wrestler. He can play Andrew Clark. Most of the time.

When the second keg's nearing empty, it's almost 2 a.m. Some drift to find more alcohol, some just go home. A few have curfews that they actually intend to keep. Andy looks for Brian and finds him cleaning in the family room—tonight dubbed the Makeout Room by those less sober than himself—with a plastic bag in one hand and a used condom pinched between the fingers of his other hand.

"That yours?"

Brian sputters, protesting without forming words.

"Relax, Johnson. I'm just kidding."

"Brian."

"Huh?"

"It's Brian." His mouth is soft and serious and Andy realizes that for a second he just forgot. Forgot how things can be different with some people. Better.

"Sorry. Brian."

"Your house is trashed. Is it always trashed when you have parties?"

"Pretty much."

"Yeah, well my mom would have kittens."

"I think my mom's just glad I'm not boning some guy in the back of her Jag." He lets Brian draw what he will from that sentence. He's tired of editing. And the Jaguar Incident, as it has come to be known in his head, was a formative part of his senior year, even if it never got around school. Somehow it seems wrong to go through all of Grad Night and not mention it at all. Brian might not have been the best audience for this anecdote, though. His mouth gapes. Andy takes the condom from him and sighs. Remembers that he'll have to clear everyone out of the upstairs bedrooms before he goes to bed.

"Did she really do that? Uh, find you? Like that?"

"Yeah. I think..." He's quiet for a moment. "I think she was more pissed off that we were using her car than the 'boning a guy' part." He covers the tension with a forced smile.

"Wow. I just--I mean, I never knew." Brian’s face is red.

"Could we not talk about this anymore?"

"Sure.” A beat. “I mean, I want to respect a guy's privacy--"

"Thanks."

"And that's really big news you've got there, and I'm the last one--"

"Brian, shut up."

"Sorry."

He tips two half-empty cups of beer together to form one full drink and sips it slowly. "You know, you don't have to clean up. You're a guest, right?"

"Right."

They're quiet for a while. It seems odd, too quiet, with Andy's confession hanging between them.

"I mean, if you *wanted* to help, you could."

"I want to."

"Good. That's good." Andy nods his head, appraising Brian. It really *is* a pussy haircut he's got. And a pink Polo with a belt cries “in-crowd” as much as syphilis. And Jesus H. Christ, could he be any gayer? Checking out another guy's clothes—he might as well check out another guy’s package. He wonders if he’s normal. Abnormal. A big horny deviant. Allison would tell him to chill the fuck out, so he scrubs his hand over his face and decides to let it go.

Brian holds open a trashbag while Andy tosses in cups. The house will still be trashed in the morning, but they can get the obvious things out of the way at least. Then again, it might make his dad happy to come home to a shithole. Proof that his all-American kid is still normal, even when he’s secretly sucking cock.

Andy’s reasoning is perverse and backward tonight. It could be the beer.

"So...people had fun tonight?" Brian asks.

"I guess so."

"You don't care if people have fun at your party?"

Andy thinks. Does he care? He doesn't want anyone to have a *bad* Grad Night, but does he give a flying fuck whether they have a good night? "Not really."

"Oh." Brian looks disappointed.

"Well, I care if *you* have a good night. But McCaffey and Beeker?" He shrugs.

"Oh." 

“Yeah.”

Later, he finds Jill Murphy puking in the downstairs bathroom, a wine cooler clutched in each hand.

“You’re such a nice guy, Andy,” she sobs as he wrenches the half-empty bottles from her hands. It makes him feel guilty. He just wants to take a piss without an audience. She stumbles to the hall and he kicks the door shut behind her. No one said he had to be the nice guy. He isn’t the nice guy. He’s just…Andy.

He unzips and takes a leak, punching the wall above the toilet in the meantime. He strikes it again and the plaster cracks just a little.  His hand is sore but he’s alert. The pain feels good. Clarifying.

When he leaves the bathroom, Jill is gone.

“I called her mom,” Brian explains.

“See? *You’re* the nice guy,” Andy hiccups. He fills two cups with the foamy dregs of the last of the beer and gives one to Brian, who sips at it with a grimace.

“How can you like this stuff? It tastes like shit. You know that, right?” Brian sniffs into the cup and Andy shakes his head.

“You are such a spaz, Brian.”

“Hey, all I’m saying is that—“

“Naw, I’m glad you’re here. Spaz is…good.” He paws the back of Brian’s neck affectionately and shakes him a little. Brian stiffens, then smiles and takes a large foamy chug of beer.

Clearing out the upstairs takes a lot longer than Andy anticipates. Beeker’s passed out in the hall closet and has gone from affectionate to belligerent.

“Fuck, Clark! I’m fine! Gimme my keys…”

“I told you, I don’t have your keys. Just walk home. You’re three streets away, man.”

“Gimme my fuckin’ keys, asshole, before I mess you up!” There’s a little vomit drying on his chin, a splash on his shirt.

“Are you going to walk or do I call Teeger?” Coach Teeger is a bigger threat than the cops are, even. Thankfully Beeker isn’t able to process the fact that, as of 2 p.m. that afternoon, they’re all officially off the wrestling team. He grudgingly shakes off Andy’s attempts to help him down the stairs and stumbles to the front door.

“It’s been real, man,” he hiccups.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Andy stands at the door, breathing night air and car exhaust. Then he drags his heals upstairs. Checks the master bedroom—rumpled but empty. He stretches out as he walks down the hall, hearing his joints pop pleasantly, and opens the door to his own room. He can smell pot as he pushes the door open and the source is sitting cross-legged on the bed, heavy boots rubbing mud onto the bedspread.  His mom will wig.

“I thought you left, Bender.”

“Well, I was going to. But *Johnson* here has been entertaining me with tales of your sexual conquests.”

“I was not!” Brian’s leaning uncomfortably against the dresser and exhaling a shallow drag from the joint.

“Did you, or did you not, say that Andrew was worshiping the one-eyed monster in the back of his mother’s Jaguar?”

“Thanks a lot, Brian,” Andy slurs, but doesn’t mean it as scornfully as it sounds. Somehow he doesn’t think Bender’ll care the way Beeker or McCaffy or *god forbid* Teeger would care.

“So….Andrew here is packing fudge.” Bender’s eyes are twinkling and Andy isn’t sure whether to be concerned or relieved. “Pillow biting after hours.”

“You know I would *never* have said anything if you told me not to tell anyone,” Brian interrupts, “but Bender made me.”

“*I* made you?”

“You gave me pot.”

“And…?”

“Both of you just forget it. It’s no big deal.”

“Well, I beg to differ, Cappy.” Bender takes back the joint, taking another deep drag before continuing. “When Andrew Clark starts boning frat boys instead of cheerleaders, it’s time to call Ted Koppel.”

“Didn’t say he was a frat boy,” Andy says, then plucks the joint from Bender and takes a hit himself.

“Whatever. Claire know?” Bender is straining for nonchalant. He fails.

“God, I haven’t talked to Claire in…” He tries to remember. February? March?

“She’s pregnant, you know.”

Bender’s words hit the room like lead. Like a dare. Andy doesn’t know what to say. Brian’s eyes are huge and silent in the ensuing awkwardness.

“Congrats, man—“

“—‘s not mine.” Bender takes another hit and kicks his boots to the floor where they land with a thump. Andy stares at the mud crumbled on the carpet, at anything except Bender’s face because it’s not really a surprise and it’s not really fair, but it just *is* and maybe that’s what’s most shity. And maybe he just needs to sleep or fuck or take another hit because his skin is prickling with tension.

“Does he go to our school?” Bender and Andy both swivel their eyes to Brian. “Your guy, you know? Do we know him?”

Four eyes fixed on him and Andy realizes Brian’s not talking to Bender. “Naw.”

“Pool guy?” The tension eases and Bender seems relieved. Maybe amused. The looks are so similar.

“He’s older. Construction worker,” he adds as he stretches back across the end of his bed. ”And, uh, not adverse to using his tongue.” Andy laughs and blushes but refuses to lower his head when he realizes he’s just, basically, come fucking out to two people in one night.

“He build your family a new maid’s quarters?” Bender asks with only a little sulkiness behind the jab.

“Guest bath.”

“The one downstairs?” Brian asks.

“Yeah.”

Brian nods. “Good workmanship.” That earns twin sniggers and a pair of pillows strike him hard in the face. “What? I appreciate skilled craftsmanship.”

“So Andrew here is banging construction workers. What about you, Johnson?”

“Me?“

“No, let me guess.” Bender crawls forward onto his knees. “Brian here has the look of a man who’s recently lost his cherry. Admit it, Bri. Was she a choirgirl? Captain of the chess club?” Brian doesn’t answer, just begs Andy with his eyes. “She keep her knee socks on when you fucked or did you get to Full Ankle?”

“Leave him alone, Bender.”

“Why would I do that?”

Brian’s face is red and his chest is heaving.

“You’re pissing him off.”

“I thought that was the point.”

“If Brian doesn’t want to tell us—“

“Oh, but he does. Don’t you, Johnson?”

Brian’s face gets redder and he mutters “Shut up,” under his breath. 

“There’s no one, is there?” Andy asks in a surprising moment of clarity.

“Shut up.” Brian’s teeth are clenched together and he looks ready to cry or hit or possibly throw up.

“Andrew was just trying to enlighten me, Johnson—“

“Yeah, well *enlighten* each other on your own time. I’m leaving.” Brian’s pissed—really pissed—and Andy’s slow to react. He does manage to get a foot out to Brian’s path, banging their shins together. 

“Hey, Bender’s just being Bender. We’re all cool, Brian.”

“Maybe you are, but…” Brain’s staring at a spot on the wall. Andy looks. Three shelves of neatly framed photos, trophies, ribbons. Andy’s choice of words was…unfortunate.

Shermer High School All City Wrestling Champion, 1983.

1984.

1985.

His Homecoming King scepter collecting dust under a worn-looking yearbook that’s only a few days old.

“Brian—“

“I have to go.”

“No. You. Don’t.” Bender exhales slowly.

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t *have* to go,” Bender drawls. “You *want* to go ‘cause we embarrassed you.”

“The difference?” Brian’s all puffed up now. He looks ready to fight and the mental image makes Andy giggle—a really spastic giggle that causes him choke on his own spit and cough. Then he imagines Brian in a gray singlette, smooth Lycra on pale skin and lean limbs. A half-nelson that could be more. The giggle dies unexpectedly.

“Stay.” His voice is husky. He coughs a little and that helps. “Stay, man. We’re sorry.”

“I’m not—“

“—Shut up, Bender. Come on, Brian…” He kicks Brian with his extended foot just a little so he draws closer to Bender and the top of the bed. “Stay a while.”

“Yeah, Brian. Andrew has so many things to teach you. Isn’t that right, Captain?”

“You are an unbelievable jackass.” Andy smiles at Bender, though, and Brian succumbs to their prodding. Bender shoves the joint at Brian’s face and he carefully pinches it between his fingers before taking a hit and lying back between them to watch the smoke curl into the air above their collective heads.

“I just thought there’d always be time, you know?” Brian mumbles.

“Time for what?” Bender coughs and shifts so that the three of them are stretched over the width of Andy’s bed.

“To have sex,” Brian says, like Bender should have known.

“What, you’re dyin’ tomorrow? Shit, Johnson, just get up and go over to Suzie Simple’s house and tell her you’re looking to poke some dweeb cunt and then it’s all over.”

“You’re a prince Bender. Really classy guy.”

“Come on, Clark. You know you were thinking the same thing. Johnson’s not losing his cherry ‘cause he’s home watching Star Trek every Friday night.”

“Starman.”

“Huh?”

“I’m watching Starman—“

“I’m trying to help you here, man. So quit fucking interrupting.”

“Sorry.” Brian takes another hit and Andy watches him bite his lower lip and then exhale, the smoke making twin curls escape from between the edges of his lips. It’s so fucking sexy that Andy is confused and has to shift and stare at the ceiling while Bender continues to wax philosophical about Nerd Virginity.

“See, all you got to do is get yourself out there. Where do geeks go to cut loose around Shermer? The library? How about the bowling alley?”

“*I* go to the bowling alley,” Andy says defensively, then wonders what it might be like if Brian showed up there, all Regular Guy and anonymous. Thinks maybe he’d go there…just say hello, buy him a beer if Tanya was working the bar, and just…let things figure themselves out. He wonders if that’s why Brain is eighteen and a half and still untouched in the biblical sense of the word.

“Could we talk about something else?”

“Sure, John-son,” Bender taunts. “Let’s hear some more from Andrew over there.”

“How about hearing from you, Bender?”

Andy has to give it to Brain. He turns the tables so fast, even Bender is quiet for a second.

“What *about* me?”

“Claire’s out of the picture.”

“Yeah.” There’s a tone in Bender’s voice that has Andy a little nervous, but Brian pushes on relentlessly, apparently deciding he has a death wish. Or maybe it’s just that tonight is about coming out on several different levels. Apparently Brian has an inner Bender he’s been hiding for a while.

“And pregnant by some other guy. Doesn’t that upset you? Or piss you off? Doesn’t that make you, like, the biggest loser in Shermer, Illinois? I mean, you *had* Claire Fucking Standish and she gets it on with some guy at her father’s office?” Bender’s eyes open wider. “Yeah, I know about it. Her little brother’s on the debate team. The whole *freshman class* knows about it, Bender.”

Bender’s so silent, Andy begins to wonder if the guy fell asleep. Finally Bender offers a flippant, “Who cares.”

“*You* care.”

“I don’t give a fuck about anything, especially Claire, asshole.”

“Well then that’s the biggest lie of all, isn’t it Bender? ‘Cause if you didn’t care at all, you’d be out with some girl tonight and not laying here with us faggots talking about your sad, rich, pregnant ex.”

For the umpteenth time tonight, the gravity in the room tilts and Andy feels his stomach sinking to that odd place beneath his chest. He waits for Bender to hit Brian. He doesn’t. Then he waits for Brain to correct himself—one faggot and one genuine heterosexual—but he doesn’t.

Enlightening.

Andy leans up on his elbow and watches Bender. He’s staring at the ceiling and his chest is rising and falling heavily; his mouth is open. One hand reaches out toward the headboard and snuffs out the stub of the joint, leaving a singed circle on the wood. The corners of Bender’s eyes are wet.

Andy doesn’t know what to say.  Bender turns on his side and watches him over the rise of Brian’s body. His knees draw up and he’s truly speechless for the first time since Andy’s known him. Andy watches the light from his football lamp cast weird shadows on Bender’s face. He looks like something far less poetic than a kicked puppy. A kicked rat, maybe. Or just a sad kid that grew up way before he should have had to and is now finding the reality of his world just one too many kicks to bear.

“Brian didn’t really mean that—“

“—Yes, I did.”

“Shut up, Johnson.”

“My name is Brian, you asshole. You’re not Bender. You can’t call people by their last names unless they’re on a team with you.”

“This a new rule?” Bender asks, amused. Andy smiles, Brian sulks. They’re quite again. Andy tries not to watch Brian, but there’s a long, lean arm pressed against his and the atmosphere in the room reminds him that sometimes lust and anticipation win out over caution and good judgement.

“He just meant that it’s okay to admit that things are shity,” Andy says at last. “You’re not alone.” It doesn’t sound all that comforting when he says it, but Bender nods just the same. A car passes by the house and the headlights briefly illuminate the room; the criss-cross pattern of the window paints a momentary cross over a wall filled with swim trophies from junior high. He wonders if his mom would cry if he dropped them one by one into the pool and let the chlorine do its magic.

“That true?” Bender says, and pushes Brian with his elbow.

“Close enough.”

“Well, uh, thanks.”

“Sure.”

Bender’s free hand reaches out and drops onto Brian’s stomach. It doesn’t move and Andy stares at it, fascinated. Bender’s hands are smooth and tan and surprisingly delicate. There’s dark hair on the back, and small tufts on each knuckle. The nails are short and ragged, but clean.

“Bender?”

“John-son?”

Bender’s hand pushes up on Brian’s polo, tugging it from his pants. He’s grinning wolfishly at Andy over Brian’s body. Brian sounds like he wants to protest, but then Bender’s rough fingers are scraping along his bare stomach and he stops, inhaling hard. He holds incredibly still.

Andy is mesmerized by Bender’s hand, but more so by the pale skin underneath. There’s a thick trail of gold hair there and Bender is stroking through it. He swallows hard and breathes shallowly, trying not to pant. Brian’s abdominal muscles twitch and contract as Bender draws his fingers over it in light figure eights. Andy’s eyes flick to Bender again, but now Bender’s watching Brian’s stomach, his own hand, and seems miles away. The grin is different now. Soft.

Letting his guests get molested isn’t something he printed on the invitations. Andy knows that Bender’s upset and he knows that his own ability to make good decisions left about a half-hour ago. But when he looks at Brian, when he tries to offer escape and a somewhat drunken ride home, all he can see are blue eyes so pale, they look like the acid washed jeans he’s had since freshman year. And Brian’s eyes are watching him. Watching Andy while his body twitches with apparent pleasure. He licks his lower lip and leaves his mouth open while colorless eyelashes sink halfway. Andy’s cock rises hot and hard; he can’t look away.

Then Brian is still and Bender’s mesmerizing hand is on Andy’s neck, pulling him in, pulling him closer, until Bender’s lips are touching his own. It’s a strange reality where John Bender kisses dudes and stranger still when Andy’s the dude in question. Still, Bender’s got talent and a spicy taste that Andy decides he’s totally into. He opens his mouth, and laps desperately, grunting softly and very fucking grateful that his folks aren’t coming back from Chicago until the next day. 

Andy’s free hand rests on Brian’s stiff new denim and he lets his mind fall into the kiss until he feels another hand on his throat, slipping around his neck. The fingers are smoother, though. Longer and colder. He parts with some frustration from Bender’s mouth and finds another hand tugging at his arm. He allows himself to be pulled away and cool lips touch his. These lips aren’t as tenacious. They brush sweetly, softly. They’re hesitant and Andy blames the pot and the beer on the fact that he’s kissing Brian for four whole seconds before he really realizes it.

Honestly, he’s never really thought about kissing Brian before. Not until tonight. Somehow it seems like that’s all he’s thought about since the kegs arrived, though.  And now he’s doing it, hand sliding over Brian’s thigh and tongue in his mouth and it feels so goddamn good he could cry. He uses his free hand to pull at his sweatshirt and manages to get it about halfway up his chest before extra hands help peel him free. He swings his leg over Brian, straddling him, thinking only of probing deeper, kissing harder, and working his hands over the fair, freckled skin he saw earlier.

When a hot tongue touches his neck, he welcomes it. And when he sits up to stretch and a dark head takes his place, he returns the touch, pushing Bender’s hair out of the way to lay a long lick and a kiss to the sensitive skin on the back of his neck. Bender’s already stripped off his trademark flannel shirt; it lies in a puddle over the muddy boots on the floor. Andy sits up and smiles at the pile, imagining the fit his mother would have if she saw her carpet, and the simple, heavy sigh she’d give if she saw them on the bed. It makes him smile. The world has such a fucked up sense of irony.

Andy shoves up Brian’s shirt until Bender catches on, sitting up and letting Brian sit up. Brian’s lips are kiss-swollen and red, as are his beard-burned cheeks. He wears a dazed grin and pants hard, scrambling for the nearest mouth, the nearest area of bare skin. Andy yanks the dreaded pink polo over Brian’s head while Bender laughs at Brian’s eagerness, rolling his eyes at Andy and then sucking hard on Brian’s neck. Andy strips off his own undershirt, tossing it over Bender’s, and kicks off his sneakers. Brian’s toeing off his own wingtips, wiggling to get closer to Bender’s mouth and Andy’s hands.

Bender flips his hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head and pulls Brian’s mouth to his. It’s fucking hot and leaves Andy with one option that he’s both terrified of and exhilarated by. His hands fumble excitedly at Brian’s fly and he feels Brian shudder when he carefully unzips him.

It’s not like he’s a slut. He’s not Hugh Hefner or Richard Gere. But Andy’s always been good at sports and tonight is no exception. He tugs down Brian’s jeans and then wrenches them the rest of the way off, laughing to himself as Brian’s hands automatically reach to cover himself. His dark red boxers are tenting out at an absurd angle and Bender’s hand is reaching out for it before Andy slaps it away.

Bender chuckles next to him and somehow, bizarre as the night is, it feels comfortable. Right, in a way Andy will try to explain to himself in the years to come but will never be able to accurately put to words.

Andy presses his mouth to the hard point stretching at Brian’s boxers. He sucks and rubs until it’s not just his own spit making a dark circle on the fabric. Brian is thrusting almost imperceptibly and Andy takes it as a good sign. He tugs down the elastic waistband and smiles as his lips bump up against Brian’s erection. Bender’s hand comes up behind his head, guiding him down, and the act makes his own cock throb harder. He imagines being directed like in the bad porn reels he and Beeker watched in the basement sophomore year.

“That’s right, Mr. Clark. Now suck him down. Make him cry…”

He’s really stoned.

He really doesn’t care.

Bender’s hand strokes the back of his head and it’s almost…gentle. Andy sucks Brian hard, knowing that Brian won’t judge him the way someone with more experience might. It’s nice. He wants to say it’s comfortable, but that’s not exactly the right word. Comfortable doesn’t explain the erection trapped in his jeans or the way his blood is roaring in his ears. It doesn’t explain the tiny cries from Brian’s mouth or the way Brian’s hips are pushing up, up, up.

Andy rubs himself through his jeans, enjoying the feeling of painful friction against his sensitive skin. He tongues the end of Brian’s cock and realizes the salty flavor there is getting stronger. Brian’s trembling now, and Andy knows he’s close. If he has to admit it, he’s pretty impressed that Brian lasted this long. He wraps has hand around the base of Brian’s cock and strips him roughly, up once, up twice, hard suck, and then Brian is coming.

“Oh fuuuck…!” Brian’s voice is raw and ragged. It hits a nerve and Andy’s cock dances under his own hand.

Bender’s other hand has been holding him upright, but he slumps forward a moment after Brian, obviously spent. His fly is open and it looks like he’s been humping Brian’s hip. Bender doesn’t seem pissed, though. Just satisfied.  

Andy crawls up the length of Brian’s body, taking note of the blushing skin and shiny sheen of sweat. Brian’s panting hard and twitching happily and they *made* that happen, which is so fucking amazing. Andy’s panting himself, still hard, but not complaining. Then Brian’s hand tangles in his own and it feels kind of…nice.

“Thanks.” Bender is succinct, as usual. After two tries he sits up and zips up his fly, taking a moment to nuzzle the side of Brian’s neck and whisper to him before he stands. Brian’s grin broadens but he doesn’t say anything in return. Bender leans back and leaves a wet kiss on Andy’s forehead.

“Thanks for the party. It’s been highly educational.” The words hold no contempt, though. Bender slides on his shirts, pulls on his boots. Leaves them untied and yanks on his coat.

“Are we good?” Andy asks, maybe too cautiously because he can see Bender roll his eyes through the back of his head. Bender turns.

“I don’t… hang out, you know? But we’re cool. Thanks,” he adds as an afterthought. “Thanks.” And it’s sincere, which is also unbelievable. Andy smiles, though, and Bender smiles, too.

Then it’s just two.

It’s different. Not worse. Not better. Brian’s cooling down and Andy’s heating up. He stands, jeans open and dangling from his hips, and moves to the window. When the door slams downstairs he watches Bender crossing the lawn, arms and jacket wrapped to protect himself from the chilly dawn air. Andy continues to stand and stare because he doesn’t really know what to say to Brian. There’s so much there, and so few words that seem adequate.

Abruptly, hands slip around his hips, sliding beneath his BVDs and liberating his cock. It’s so unexpected that he leans forward without thinking, bumping his forehead against the cold glass. It feels amazing. Hot on his dick and cold on his face. Brian’s body is pressed against his back, warm and smooth and strangely confident. Andy leans back and lets his arms dangle. He steps back again, spreading his legs wantonly and letting his loose jeans slip down enough to allow Brian free reign.

Smooth lips on his neck bite and kiss. One hand holds him still at the hip while the other pumps his cock easily.

“I’m glad I came tonight,” Brian whispers as he strokes. Andy smiles.

“Me too. Hey, double entendre,” he gasps.

“I know.”

“I bet you do.” Now Andy does feel like a slut, in the best sense of the word. He’s doing nothing, just standing. Letting it happen. Letting Brian Johnson have his way{comma here?} and isn’t *that* a crazy idea, too.

“This isn’t the way I thought about doing this.”

“Uh-huh.” Andy’s coming close. His balls are tightening expectantly and his heart is racing.

“I mean, I don’t think about this all the time or anything.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But when I do, it’s always with you.” Brian whispers it in Andy’s ear and tonight—this morning—it’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard. He climaxes then, comes *hard*, and Brian seems surprised that he made it happen. His hands shy away and he steps back as Andy groans.

Andy has to reach out to steady himself and clutches Brian firmly, before he can flee. Brian looks oddly confused, as if he’s not sure how he came to be standing naked in Andrew Clark’s bedroom at the ass-crack of dawn. So Andy kisses him. Kisses him fiercely, which leaves no room for discussion. Brian looks no less dazed when they part, but he does smile.

“You don’t have braces anymore,” Andy wisely notes.

“Uh-uh.” Brian’s turn to be speechless now.

“I noticed earlier.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. You look good.”

“I do?”

“Yeah.” Andy’s not really a man of many words.

“Did you know over 70% of the teenagers in the United States wear braces at some point in their life.”

“No.”

“It’s true.” Andy’s not going to debate him. A quiet silence falls over the room. It’s the kind of silence that can only be found at dusk. The sky is pink in the distance. Andy hopes Bender’s coat is warm enough.

“I meant it before.”

“What?”

“I’m really glad you came.”

“That’s just because you had sex,” Brian says after consideration.

“Maybe.” Andy tugs his jeans up the rest of the way, but stops Brian when he reaches for his own. “You cold?”

“Kind of.”

Andy tugs back the covers on his bed and Brian hesitantly crawls in. He’s never had another guy in his bed before. It’s a strange kind of taboo that stirs his libido that much more. Andy follows him in, not protesting when Brian nervously tugs at Andy’s jeans.

“Be fair.” On someone else it might be a flirtatious comment, but Brian sounds like he’s protesting a cheated move in Battleship.

“Help me.” Long cold fingers work the jeans off and Andy kicks them out from under the bedclothes and onto the floor. Skin to skin and he feels really naked now, and not just in the physical sense.

“I didn’t really want to have a party tonight.”

“Why did you, then?”

“My dad.”

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet for a while. Brian doesn’t seem to need any more explanation that that.

“I really just wanted to go to Pike's Bluff,” Andy admits.

“I know that place!”

He decides that childish excitement works for Brian. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, my dad took us hiking there once.”

“That sounds cool.”

“I had a trig test to study for. He made me take the book.”

A flicker of mutual understanding passes between them. 

“We could still go there. Later, you know?” Brian says shyly, then smiles one of his new brace-free smiles. “We could talk. Or we could just…you know?” Brian blushes so red that Andy imagines he can see it color his toes. “Or we could listen to music. I have a new boom box. It takes these CDs and the sound is really amaz—“

Andy has to kiss him.





The End