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“Get that shit away from me!” Gary hissed, watching with rising alarm as Olson tried to sneak closer, the object of his terror bunched up in the boy’s hand.
“C’mon, man.” Olson’s grin was far too gleeful in the face of Gary’s threats. His cheeks were getting redder with every shot he took. “Anything would look better than the shit you’re wearing. Where’d you get that shirt? From the common room trash?”
Gary crossed his arms self-consciously, puffing up his chest at the same time, anger drumming through his blood.
“Fuck you! If you wanna dress up like a fag, that’s on you, shit face. But leave me the fuck out of this!”
Olson’s mouth tightened with distaste, but Gary didn’t care. He was ready to jump, bracing himself on the edge of the couch, spine curled like some feral animal. Fuck, he told them he didn’t want any part of this-
“Hank! Leave him alone.” Garraty was watching them warily from his desk. In front of him, the plastic surface was covered with half-empty glasses of cheap alcohol, snack packages torn open, and various makeup products scattered in disarray.
Gary couldn’t quite hide his disgust as he looked around. The whole room was in a similar state - the others lounging here and there, sitting on the floor or getting ready in the tiny bathroom attached to the dorm flat. There was glitter everywhere, and clothes in ugly, sissy colors like pink and neon blue. Harkness even had a purple, feathery boa from somewhere. The fucking queer.
Garraty probably noticed how much Gary judged the whole thing, if the faint disappointment in his expression was anything to go by when Gary looked back at him. The look made him feel small and ashamed all of a sudden, his hand twitching with the urge to connect with his temple, hard. Shit. He didn’t want Garraty to hate him for this - or at least, he didn’t want Garraty to hate him too.
Before the red-haired boy, McVries, Garraty’s boyfriend, was balancing in a half-crouch, looking up from painting Garraty’s face. (And honestly, how the fuck did they expect Gary to be okay with this? It was unnatural, dressing up like girls, the – shit, the makeup-) The boy was now glaring at Gary with open contempt.
He knew he was fucking this up. Shit, shit. He didn’t want Garraty to think… The boy was kind of Gary’s only friend. Garraty was the one who’d looked at him at the start of the semester and decided Gary wasn’t too off-putting or big of an asshole, and had actually taken a chance on him. He kept inviting Gary to hang out with his friend group and seemed to have endless patience whenever Gary slipped up, said the wrong thing, or got into fights with the others.
Garraty also wasn’t a sissy - not in the way Gary’s old man used to talk about “them dirty fags.” Sure, he was queer, and he didn’t seem to care about the basic decency that said a guy shouldn’t make out with another guy, especially not in the dining hall where everyone could see. But other than that, Ray was actually quite normal. He didn’t act like a fairy, he didn’t look like one either. He was tall, with a deep, confident voice and kind eyes that radiated a quiet sort of confidence. Gary liked him. And Garraty usually didn’t flaunt his queerness in his face, so Gary was happy to ignore that part of him if it meant he could keep a friend.
Tonight though, it was impossible to ignore that he was hanging out with a bunch of pillow biting fuckers.
It was probably McVries’s idea - and Gary wouldn’t put it past him that half the reason he came up with this shit was just to torture or punish him. For what, who knew - maybe for screwing up his perfect college experience by befriending his boyfriend, or by hanging around their group like some flea-bitten stray.
God knew that right now, Gary didn’t want to be anywhere near them.
Still, it was McVries’s idea. The club they planned to go to was about twenty miles out, hosting an “LGBTQ+ Night” every Friday, as the website proudly declared. Gary only knew that meant it was for queers because the page looked like it had thrown up rainbows in every corner. He found it ridiculous. But Garraty thought it’d be a good idea to invite him along, and Gary was so desperate to please the boy that he couldn’t find a way to say no.
That’s how he’d ended up here on a Friday night, in Ray and McVries’s dorm room, surrounded by his so-called friends: all of them dressing in queer clothes or putting on makeup to varying degrees, drinking and laughing as if it was the most natural thing in the world. It left Gary feeling like a judgmental idiot, as if he was the one who had something wrong with him.
McVries, who was wearing something god-awful, a black fishnet tank top and a leather skirt (of course he was, the fucking fag; that pink dress Olson had tried to throw at Gary earlier was probably his too), was now saying something low to Garraty, his eyes never leaving Gary. Sudden panic clawed up his throat, cutting off his air. His fingers jumped to his neck, scratching at the soft skin until the sting cleared his head a little. Whatever. Fuck them. At least Olson had gotten off his back.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, picking at the torn label of a beer bottle, wishing he could shrink into the worn couch cushions or disappear entirely. The laughter and easy camaraderie of the others only made his isolation feel heavier, like he was watching a party from the wrong side of a window.
He was pulled from his thoughts when a shadow fell over him. He looked up, just to immediately regret it.
Collie Parker stood above him, his arms glowing in the half-lit room, his face set tight, carved in stone. Gary felt something wedge itself in his chest - something burning and alive, something greedy and big.
Parker was wearing a black, sleeveless top that pulled tight across his shoulders, showing the smooth ripple of muscle in his arms. His long dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, exposing his sharp jawline and the shimmer of silvery eyeshadow glittering against his lashes.
Gary had to take a moment to tamp down the heavy, ugly feeling rising in him, to look away. Before he met Parker, he’d never really felt jealous of other guys for their looks. Sure, he sometimes wished he were taller, bigger, manlier. That he looked less like a pansy. But not like this. Not like when he looked at Collie Parker’s perfect fucking face and felt something dark and hungry lift its head inside him.
Parker was still staring, so Gary shoved the thought away and sneered.
“What are you looking at, fucker?”
Parker’s frown deepened, as if it was him trying to start a one-man staring contest. Gary felt his blood pressure spike.
“If you’re gonna keep acting like a little bitch, maybe you shouldn’t come, Barkovitch,” the boy finally said.
Aside from being ridiculously good-looking, the thing that annoyed Gary most about Parker was that he was an obnoxious asshole. He jumped off the couch, squaring himself against the guy, muscles drawn tight and ready to fight. His beer sloshed dangerously, staining his shirt.
“Don’t have to butt in every conversation, asshole! The fuck’s your problem?”
Parker looked completely unamused by Gary’s outburst. He just shot a condescending grin and shrugged. “All of us know you’ve got a homophobic streak, man. We could mostly tolerate it when you behaved, but you’re acting like a real asshole tonight and it’s making everyone uncomfortable.”
“No, I fucking don’t -”
“We don’t want you to act like a douchebag and pick up fights, Barkovitch. So chill, okay? You will make everything more difficult, if you’re gonna act like this.” Parker interrupted, sounding exasperated. The bastard.
“Fuck off.” Gary gritted out, turning away from the boy, and taking a swing of his drink, feeling his face flame up in shame.
He felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder. When he looked up, he saw Garraty standing beside him, his face painted soft and girlish, lipstick shining faintly under the dim light. For fuck’s sake, lipstick. His expression was full of concern and disappointment.
“Maybe Collie’s right, Barkovitch,” Garraty said gently. “Maybe if all this makes you this uncomfortable, you’d feel less on edge if you stayed here.” His voice was kind, but Gary understood the message behind it. He’d fucked it up again - opened his big, stupid mouth, been too rude, too much, and now even Garraty thought they’d be better off without him.
Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. He turned his face away quickly, not wanting Garraty to see. “Fine,” he muttered. “If you all wanna make fools of yourselves, then go. The fuck do I care. What a bunch of sissies.”
He said the last part under his breath, but apparently Parker was still close enough to hear. He growled and lunged forward, grabbing the front of Gary’s shirt, his fist twisting the worn fabric tight.
Gary’s heart kicked in his chest, a sharp thrill rushing through him, triumphant. Finally. This was something he understood. Fighting, throwing punches - this he could do. This, he deserved.
But before Parker’s first punch could land, Garraty yanked Gary back by the scruff of his neck. “Enough,” he snapped. His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried. “We should go if we want to be there before midnight.”
He let go, and the tension seemed to leak out of the room. Slowly, the rest of the group started gathering their things, their chatter subdued as they trickled out toward the hall.
“Look,” Ray said quietly, still standing beside Gary. “I’m sorry about this. I guess I didn’t think you’d be this… distressed by – by all of it, I guess.”
He reached out again, meaning to rest a hand on Gary’s shoulder, but the boy shrugged him off. He couldn’t help it - the gesture made him feel even more abandoned, small and insignificant.
“If you change your mind,” Garraty still continued, his voice soft, like regret, “just give me a call, okay? Me and Pete can come back and pick you up.”
Gary didn’t answer. As if McVries would want to come back for him - like the guy would rather play his personal chauffeur than queering out with his boyfriend for the night. Gary’s fingers twitched against his temple, the urge to dig, to hurt buzzing through him like static.
Fuck them all.
Out of the corner of his eye, Gary caught Parker still watching him. The look in his eyes -something like pity, or disappointment - made Gary’s blood boil. As if he kicked Parker’s dog. Or rather as if he was Parker’s dog that had just chewed up his favorite couch cushion.
The anger returned tenfold. Gary clenched his jaw, ready to throw another insult, but before he could speak, Parker turned and followed the others out.
Soon, the door shut behind them, and Gary was left standing alone amid the mess: the trash, the spilled drinks, the smell of makeup and sweat hanging heavy in the air. The noise of laughter and footsteps faded down the hall, leaving behind only the buzzing light above him and the hollow ache in his chest.
He felt awful. The kind of awful that sat against his lungs like a stone, heavy and choking. His breath came quicker by the second, each inhale sharper, more desperate, until the edges of his vision began to blur and tilt.
He couldn’t believe he’d messed up this badly again. But of course, he did, the voice inside his mind hissed. He always did. He was a fuck-up. A waste of space. A fag-
The word tore through his mind like glass. He didn’t even realize he’d thrown the beer bottle until it exploded against the wall with a sharp, ringing crash. Brown glass scattered across the linoleum like tiny, glittering shrapnel.
He stared at the mess for a moment, chest heaving. The beer was dripping down the wall in sticky trails, pooling on the floor. He’d made a fucking mess of everything - of the night, of himself - but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Gary sank down to the floor beside the couch, curling in on himself, shoulders trembling. His fingers found their way into his messy, bleached hair, tugging harshly until his scalp burned. The pain did little to clear his head, it just made everything feel sharper instead. The sound of his breathing, the hum of the dying light overhead, the faint echo of laughter still hanging in the air from the others who had left him behind.
He pressed his forehead against his knees, trying to hold himself together, to quiet the static building in his skull. His chest hurt. His throat hurt. Everything inside him hurt.
Gary wanted to scream, to break more things, to stop feeling like this. But instead, he just sat there, shaking, surrounded by broken glass and beer, and the sound of his own ragged breathing filling the empty room.
It took some time before Gary came to.
He was still curled up in a ball at the foot of the couch, his body stiff and trembling, his cheek pressed against the scratchy denim of his jeans. His eyes opened slowly, blurry and heavy, taking in the chaos around him, left by his ‘friends’.
Makeup tubes rolled across the carpet, glitter shimmered faintly in the low light, shirts and scraps of fabric were strewn everywhere. Mostly Harkness’s and Olson’s stuff - Harkness had borrowed half a wardrobe from his sister for the night, and Olson’s girl, Clementine, had lent them some of her dresses too. The whole place looked like a war zone of sequins and spilled beer.
From the corner of his eyes, something caught Gary’s eyes: next to his worn-out Converse, in a crumpled, pink heap lay the dress Olson had tried to force at him earlier.
It looked pathetic now, limp and tangled, the soft material catching the light like a wound. For a long moment, Gary just stared at it. Then, in a daze, his mind still hazy and raw from the panic, he reached out, his fingers closing around the fabric. He flinched at how soft it felt – the fabric light, delicate, soothingly crushed in his fingers. The texture scraped gently against his skin, grounding him, calming the frantic pulse still hammering in his throat.
The dress was made of chiffon, Gary thought. He was almost sure that that’s what his Meemaw called it once. This type of textile. Or maybe it was something else - he couldn’t remember exactly. He’d been so small back then. Five, maybe six.
The memory came to him in fragments - warm light, dust motes floating in the air, the faint smell of rose soap and old tapestry. His Meemaw, laughing softly as she opened the old, battle-worn closet in her bedroom.
From when I was young, she’d said, smiling down at him, pulling out faded dresses and scraps of fabric.
He remembered the way it felt. Like he was in an all-you-can-eat candy store, with infinite money. The way the soft weight of the fabric brushed against his arms, the thrill of it, spinning and squealing as the hem of an old dress swirled around his feet. His Meemaw’s thin, gentle hands guiding him, combing flower-shaped clips into his hair.
He remembered the mirror - the way the reflection had made him smile. For a moment, he’d thought he looked just like his mom. Gary’s only ever seen a a handful of photos of her, now hidden away in his father’s desk drawer.
He also remembered his old man coming home early that day.
He remembered the sound of the front door slamming open and his father’s voice, low and dangerous. The heavy boots on the linoleum.
He remembered the look on his father’s face when he walked in, the flash of disgust, the rage distorting his features until Gary could hardly recognize him. He could still feel it - the shock that bloomed through his ribs, the way the world went white for a second. He hadn’t caught many beatings before or after that hurt quite as much.
I will not raise a fag, his old man had shouted, kicking at him again, the man’s shoes tearing into the soft folds of his Meemaw’s dress. Gary had curled around himself on the floor.
He remembered Meemaw crying, her voice shaking as she tried to pull his father back. It was just a game, she’d pleaded.
He was just playing. Just dressing up.
The memory faded, leaving Gary sitting there in the silence of the present, the soft fabric clenched in his fists, his chest aching with something old and raw.
He hadn’t thought of that memory in a very long time. Not before tonight, not before Olson had pulled out that stupid dress and decided to make Gary his new target for hazing.
Now, with his mind still foggy and exhausted, Gary unvoluntary thought about his old man, what he would say if he saw him like this. Sitting in a room littered with makeup, rainbow-printed shirts, and glitter on every fucking surface. Surrounded by queers. Yeah, his dad would take one look at him and think his son had turned full-on fag. Whether he wore a dress or not, it wouldn’t matter.
The thought somehow made Gary want to laugh. He suddenly felt deliriously wild and reckless, grinning to himself in the empty room. His fingers clenched tighter around the chiffon, dragging the pink fabric into his lap, his heart racing from excitement. Fuck it, he thought. Why should he sit here wallowing while the others were out there, clubbing, drinking, not giving a single damn about him? No one was here to judge him. No one was left to care about what Gary did.
Fuck, he just wanted to see - to feel how the fabric would move against his skin, how it’d feel on him. That didn’t make him a queer, the exhausted fuzz of his mind supplied.
Or even if it did, Gary wasn’t in the right headspace to care. He just wanted to see.
To do something. To say fuck the consequences.
(And maybe, just maybe, Gary wanted to feel how he’d felt when he was five. When his Meemaw was still alive, and close, and smiling, calling him pretty and nice. Gary certainly wasn’t nice anymore. But maybe, for just one moment, he could feel pretty again. He could feel good again.)
His hands trembled as he started to strip, yanking his faded T-shirt over his head with one arm while fumbling with the button of his jeans. His heart hammered in his chest, each beat loud and uneven. Clothes flew somewhere toward the couch. He didn’t bother to look where they landed.
He only slowed down as he picked up the pink dress again, carefully, almost reverent, afraid to tear the delicate fabric. He eased his legs into it, shivering against the sudden cold of the room. The chiffon brushed against his knees and he felt goosebumps raisning in its wake. He flinched when the material slid up over his belly: feather-light, smooth, the touch so gentle it almost hurt. It was all so alien, so soft, that he had to pause for a moment, fingers curling and uncurling around the hem.
The dress was sleeveless and a little too big, the neckline drooping, the back hanging open like the broken wing of an angel. Gary stood there for a moment, feeling breathless, before hurrying to Garraty’s desk, his eyes deliberately avoiding the mirror.
On the cluttered tabletop lay a vanity glass surrounded by a battlefield of makeup products. Gary reached for it hesitantly, then for the first familiar thing that caught his eye - mascara! He knew that one.
From there, he was running on feeling rather than sense. He found concealer, a smudge of glitter that he tried to apply across his eyelids, something called a “primer”. His hands shook, leaving uneven streaks and flecks of shimmer on his cheeks.
Something glinted beneath a half-empty food wrapper. Gary’s breath caught as he reached and pulled free the pair of hair clips - cheap plastic decorated with ruby-red rhinestones. His hands shook as he tried to twist his messy strands behind them, trying to remember how his Meemaw’s worn-soft, thin hands used to this.
Finally he clipped them into his hair, then he stood slowly, cautiously. His body felt strange, weightless. Forbidden.
It felt right.
He turned toward the mirror slowly. The person looking back at him wasn’t someone Gary had seen in a long time, nor someone he recognized.
Logically, he knew the red lipstick was crooked. The foundation was uneven and that’s probably not how it was meant to be applied. The dress hung off him in weird places. His grey-blue socks peeked awkwardly from beneath the hem. He knew all this. He knew. None of it mattered.
For the first time in a very long while, he saw someone in the mirror looking back at him, someone Gary liked seeing.
Someone Gary liked seeing.
The feeling rose inside him, swelling like a bubble, light and dizzying. It filled his chest, his throat with infinite light. He was so lost in it - so full of that strange, impossible joy - that he didn’t notice the door to the room open.
Not at least, until he saw, reflected over his shoulder in the mirror, Collie fucking Parker’s wide, shocked eyes staring right back at him.
Gary felt as if someone had doused him with a garden hose in the middle of January. He spun around, panic slicing through his chest, his arms flailing in a useless attempt to cover himself, cover the dress - as if that could somehow salvage the damage already done.
“What the fuck are you doing here?!” he screamed, the words bursting out shrill and sharp, his nails digging deep crescents into his palms.
Parker stood frozen in the doorway, one hand still clutching the handle, eyes wide and unblinking. For a long, unbearable moment, neither of them moved. Gary’s lungs burned. He was seconds away from crying - or punching something, or both - but before he could decide, Parker seemed to thaw. His mouth opened, but the only sound that came out was a soft, strangled “Uff.”
It was the same noise he made when someone punched him in the gut, Gary thought - and then immediately hated himself for thinking that. Who the hell cared what Parker sounded like right now? He had just found Gary dressed like - Jesus fucking wept - like one of those drag-wearing queers, and he was going to tell everyone. Of course he was.
“Uh-” Parker stammered, blinking rapidly. He seemed to come back online quite slowly. It was very uncharacteristic of him. “Shit, sorry. I just – I left my phone. It’s. It’s there- ” He pointed vaguely toward the bathroom, his voice somehow small and awkward. “Didn’t mean to – uh - yeah.”
He started moving again, quick and clumsy, gaze darting anywhere but Gary. Now that the initial shock was over, he seemed determined not avoid his gaze. Gary understood why. He looked ridiculous. Standing there like some pathetic caricature, frozen between shame and mortification. If the floor opened right now and swallowed him whole, he’d be very grateful, thank you very much.
His self-loathing spiral was broken when Parker emerged from the bathroom a minute later, phone clutched tight in his hand. The silence between them was so thick it practically suffocated Gary. Parker still didn’t look at him, and he didn’t say anything either.
That was what scared Gary the most. Parker always had something to say to him, some dig to make at Gary. He was the first to jump to a fight, the most eager to mock him. They’d been at each other’s throats since the first week of the semester. For him to say nothing meant that – that he was so disgusted, so unnerved by how Gary looked-
Probably, Parker couldn’t even look at him without wanting to vomit.
Maybe that was fair, Gary thought, suddenly and cruel. Maybe he really did look that awful.
(Somewhere, buried deep under the shame, he had hoped – hoped that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t matter to everyone. Ray and McVries were queer, and the guys didn’t hate them. He thought that maybe they wouldn’t care if someone else also-
What a fucking idiot he was.)
Parker reached for the door. His fingers closed around the handle, but he didn’t turn it. For a heartbeat, he just stood there, shoulders stiff, back half-turned away from Gary.
“I - ” he started, voice hoarse, cracking around the edges.
Gary felt every cell in his body tense, coiling tight like a spring. He would’ve done anything, anything Parker asked him in that moment. As long as the boy didn’t tell the others. As long as he didn’t hurt him.
But Parker just shook his head, a faint, an unreadable expression flickering over his face like tension going out.
“Never mind,” he muttered. He opened the door and turned to leave.
Gary moved before he could even think. One second Parker was pushing down the handle, and the next, Gary was tearing across the room so fast he nearly stumbled, dizzy from the sudden rush. He slammed the door shut with a force that rattled the frame, cutting off Parker’s escape.
“You can’t tell them.” His voice cracked thin, trembling and small. He hated how it sounded. Like he was five years old again. He knew he was begging. He didn’t give a fuck. “Parker, please - I… I’ll do anything. Don’t tell them. Please, I’m sorry. Just – please don’t tell them.”
He thought he looked pathetic, standing there in a goddamn skirt, face painted and blotchy, chest heaving in short, desperate puffs of air. The humiliation burned like acid under his skin. He didn’t even notice he’d grabbed Parker’s arm until his nails scraped against warm flesh, leaving faint marks across his perfect skin.
They were so close Gary could see every honey-colored flecks in Parker’s brown eyes, the ring of darker color around the edges. Parker’s pupils were wide, his expression somewhere between shock and concern. He looked almost as scared as Gary felt.
“Please, man, I -” Gary’s voice hitched. A sound like a half-sob, tore out of his throat. He was losing. Parker was going to walk out, tell everyone - tell Garraty, McVries, the whole dorm. That Gary Barkovitch was a pervert, a freak, or something equally, fundamentally wrong and punishable. Parker-
Parker was kissing him.
Gary could feel the insistent pressure of it. It was a sudden, fierce heat - Parker’s mouth pressed hard against Gary’s closed lips, his breath hot, his long lashes brushing the boy’s cheek. It felt like being burned.
It felt like dying and coming back to life all at once.
The monstrous, restless thing that had always stirred in Gary whenever he and Parker were fighting, when Parker shoved him, cursed at him, pinned him down, when Parker looked at him - was roaring now, alive in his chest, tearing through his veins like fire.
Still, Gary couldn’t move. He stood frozen, stiff as stone, eyes wide open as Parker’s lips lingered for a heartbeat longer, then pulled away. Gary only realized how close they were when Parker stepped back, his chest rising and falling unevenly, leaving a sudden rush of cold in his place.
The deep skin of Parker’s cheeks had flushed dark, a warm glow under the harsh fluorescent light. His lips were shining wetly.
“Sorry,” Parker said, voice low and rough. His eyes darted away, then back again, flicking from Gary’s face to his throat, to the trembling hands still clutching at his sleeve. “I’m sorry. Fuck. You’re just-”
He broke off, shaking his head, a few loose strands of dark hair slipping from his ponytail. “I won’t say anything. I promise. And I shouldn’t have - shit.”
He took a step back, and once again the air in the room seemed to drop several degrees. The space between them widened, filling with the weight of things unsaid.
“I’m really sorry, Barkovitch,” Parker murmured. “I shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t -” His gaze flicked up again, landing squarely on Gary’s face. “You just. You look very pretty like this.” Gary’s breath caught.
Pretty.
Parker turned, reaching for the door again. The fluorescent light caught the tips of his ears—they were red, burning just like Gary’s ruined lips.
Very pretty.
Before Parker could take another step, Gary grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him back. The movement was desperate, clumsy, charged with too much feeling and not enough thought. Parker stumbled into him as Gary rose onto his toes, dragging the taller boy down and kissed him back, bruising his mouth against his.
Collie couldn’t quite believe this was real.
He was kissing Gary Barkovitch, of all people.
The boy’s mouth looked like sin, painted red with lipstick, smudged in uneven stains. Collie had Barkovitch beneath him, pressed back against the too-small couch, the cushions soft and sinking under their weight.
Barkovitch was breathing fast and hard, and the sound made Collie feel like he’d won something - something important. The kind of high that left you dizzy, weightless.
He felt drunk on the boy, on his mouth, on the heat of his body so close, on the hand gripping his shoulder, squeezing tight.
“Parker,” Barkovich moaned, his voice tight and Collie felt the sound go straight into his cock. He pressed closer, the rough denim of his pants scratching against Barkovich's pale thigh, where he bunched up the boy's dress. Fuck, but what a pretty dress. Barkovich looked like an angel this way, like something that needs to be ruined, with his porcelain skin and his hair floating against the ugly brown pillow.
Collie dipped his head lower, scraping his teeth against the other's throat, just to feel Barkovich sink his nails into the meat of his shoulder. It was a good hurt, he could feel himself twitch as he pressed his hips to the boy, rubbing against him through his boxers and his own jeans. The friction was too much, Collie closed his eyes against it, the wave of it, the force of it all. He felt like he was about two minutes from blowing his load.
He needed more. He needed it all.
Barkovich arched his back higher, twisting against Collie's body. His eyes were closed and Collie watched greedily as the glitter around his eyes danced in the low light.
“Parker”, how Barkovitch was still talking, he didn't know. All Collie’s brain seemed to be able to focus was kissing the other boy senseless. But Barkovich sounded good right now, a little out of breath and already fucked out. His own hands found their way back to Barkovitch’s thighs, trying his fingers against the soft flesh there.
“Parker.” Tt sounded urgent, so Collie took the great effort to unstuck his tongue from Barkovitch's collarbone.
“Yes. Sweetheart, tell me.” Barkovitch made a high, keening sound. Collie wanted to eat him alive.
“We have to- Fuck, we need. Need something.”
“Something? Barkovich, what-”
“Lube. We need to find- or something. Something to help with – mhhh.” Barkovitch was struggling to get full sentences out, biting off his words with a soft, wet sound. On the other hand he already said enough to get Collie humping the couch underneath him, saliva pooling in his mouth, like a dog, hungry and desparate.
He needed a minute to collect himself. He closed his eyes against Barkovich's heated skin trying to get some air in.
“Barkov - Gary.” They were way past last-name basis. “Maybe we should take a second.”
He didn’t want to hurt the boy. Barkovitch clearly wasn’t in the right headspace to go any further. Earlier, when Collie had tried to leave the dorm, already half-hard and so turned on he could barely see straight, Gary had looked terrified.
Parker found the guy infuriating half the time, but in that moment, he’d felt horrified - and so fucking sad - to see the terror in Barkovitch’s eyes. As if he expected Collie to hit him. To punish him.
Maybe that’s what the boy thought this was. Some sick punishment. Parker didn’t know. Shit, he really hoped it wasn’t what Gary believed.
Somehow, his words seemed to have the opposite effect of what he’d intended. Barkovitch looked at him, startled, his whole body going rigid. Then, with sudden, jerky movements, he sat up. Collie scrambled back, giving him space.
Fuck, he was fucking this up. Gary’s eyes darted around, fleeting and restless, like a cornered animal. He looked anxious, jumpy. His voice sounded small when he spoke.
“You - You don’t want to?”
Collie felt his jaw clench, teeth grinding together in tension. He averted his gaze, staring at where his hand was still curled around Barkovitch’s knee.
“Trust me, I want to.” Of course he fucking wanted to. He’d wanted to since the first time Garraty had dragged Barkovitch up to their table and he’d seen the boy. Parker knew his type. He’d long since come to terms with liking both women and men - and he was especially weak for Gary Barkovitch, with his pretty face and light curls.
Then, the boy had opened his perfect mouth, and within two minutes, Collie was ready to punch him in the face.
Surprisingly, the fact that Barkovitch drove him up the fucking wall didn’t make Parker any less attracted to him. It was a paradox that confused the shit out of him; keeping him up at night, imagining what he’d do if he ever found his fingers wrapped around Barkovitch’s slim throat, or what other use he might find for that mouth, just to shut him up for a while.
But he would never hurt Barkovitch. Not like this. He knew the boy had issues - it was obvious from a mile away, to anyone who’s ever met the guy. But something about how shaken Gary was tonight didn’t sit right with him. It made an uneasy feeling settle in his chest, made him feel strangely protective of him.
He also didn’t want to ruin this with Barkovitch before they even had a chance to figure out what “this” was.
“Of course I want to,” he repeated, trying to sound reassuring. “But you seemed kind of freaked out before, and… I don’t know. I thought maybe we could take a breath before rushing into anything.”
“Don’t treat me like a fucking girl, I’m fine,” Barkovitch snapped, but his voice wavered and he was mumbling halfway through. There was no real heat behind the words, his fingers curling and uncurling in his lap, restless.
Collie reached for his hand, bringing it to his mouth with slow, careful movements.
“Okay,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into Gary’s palm. “Okay. How about this? We won’t go any further tonight. You think about it, and I promise you that if you still feel like it next time, I’ll fuck your brains out.”
Barkovitch snorted, a quiet, half chuckle, sounding wet and off-key. It was a weird laugh. Collie found it endearing.
“Next time?” Gary asked, peering out from under his bangs, looking a bit more amicable than a moment ago. Maybe a little hopeful, too.
Collie rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite hide the softness in his voice.
“Yes, ČhaŋtéšičA. Next time.”
Gary smiled a bit wider. He leaned in, tilting his face upward. Collie indulged him, kissing him slow and warm. Thoroughly.
After a few minutes, he felt the tension start to leave Barkovitch’s frame. His shoulders loosened, his hands stilling as he sighed into the kiss. Parker pulled him closer. The boy's fingers came up and carded through Collie's hair, scratching his scalp and tugging lightly. He groaned against the Gary's mouth, pressing into the touch. He went a bit soft, his dick half-hard, nestled between their bodies. It didn't take much though, and he felt himself filling in the tightness of his jeans again. The kiss got dirtier, messier by the second. Collie was pretty sure that most of Gary's lipstick was smudged against his own mouth by now.
Barkovitch was shuffling closer, his own cock hard against Collie's knee.
“Come here,” Parker mumbled, his voice thick. He pulled the boy in his lap, Gary straddling his hips. The friction was delicious, the heat of proximity almost too overwhelming. Collie scraped his teeth against the shell of Barkovitch’s ear, revealing in how the other's breath stuttered.
The room’s door - that apparently no one had ever fucking thought to lock - slammed open with a bang.
“Parker, what in the shit are—Jesus!”
Stebbins’s voice went comically high with surprise, and Collie might have found that funny if the guy hadn’t just interrupted the most earth-shattering second base he’d ever experienced in his life.
“Get out,” he practically growled. His voice sounding like stone against gravel, low and violent.
It didn’t seem to faze Stebbins much.
“Sorry,” he said, not looking sorry at all, leaning against the doorway with an infuriatingly relaxed grin. “But I’ve been waiting for you for forty minutes now, freezing my ass off in the car. I thought Barkovitch murdered you.”
He looked them up and down, grinning so dirty and self-satisfied that Collie had half a mind to get up just to punch him in the face. He felt Gary shift in his lap.
Stebbins was going to ruin everything.
He felt anxiety swelling in his chest as Barkovitch turned more and more stiff with every passing second. So he did the only logical thing and grabbed the first object within reach to hurled it at Stebbins’s head. It missed by a few inches, bouncing off the doorframe with a sickening crack.
It was his phone, apparently.
Well.
Stebbins was still grinning, not looking even remotely concerned about Collie’s phone nor his own bodily safety, but at least he started to back out of the room, hands raised.
“Okay, okay, I’m going,” he said, sounding far too pleased with himself. Like a kid about to get caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Jeez, everyone’s getting it on today. What the hell.”
“Close the door!” Collie shouted after him. He was promptly ignored.
“Fucking traitor,” he muttered and Barkovitch snorted into his neck. “Fuck him,” Gary mumbled, still sounding a bit annoyed. His voice was low and scratchy, his breath sending goosebumps down Collie’s skin.
He couldn’t agree more with the notion.
“You okay?” he asked softly, after a few second of silence passed. He didn’t want to set Barkovitch off again, but the boy nodded, slow and thoughtful.
“Do you think he’ll say something?”
“I don’t know,” Collie admitted. “I… I can go after him if you want. Tell him to shut his mouth.”
Gary shook his head, and Collie was surprised to hear a small smile in his voice.
“Nah. Stebbins is usually chill about stuff like this.” He wrapped his arms tighter around Parker’s neck, clinging close like some weird, pale octopus. “I think we’re okay.”
Collie held him against his chest, running his hand along Gary’s back, feeling the soft fabric glide under his fingers.
A very warm, very comfortable octopus, he thought.
“Yeah,” he said under his breath. “We’re okay.”