stop. look. listen.

Breathe deep and hold on tight

Everyone wants to get in Nate Fick's pants.

If there was a fucking poll done that'd be the one thing that would get a hundred percent approval rate. There are some retards who think the food in school cafeteria is decent and there are some who'd tell you they like listening to Ray's Insane Radio Hour (that's not how his show is called but it might as well be), but everyone will agree on the fact they wouldn't kick Nate Fick out of bed. And even if they did, it'd be just so they could fuck him on the floor.

There's a graffiti in the boys' bathroom on the first floor, describing what someone would very like to do to Fick's mouth.

Underneath it, there is a note in neat letters, written in pencil. While I am very flattered by the interest, I'd be grateful if further sentiments were expressed in a less cliche manner. Nate.

It's not even the cheerleader thing, even though it probably doesn't hurt. There's plenty of evidence to how flexible he can be and how impressive his stamina is, and then he spends a few hours a day with his hands over some of the best-looking girls in the entire school.

That doesn't quite explain the phenomenon but it's a start.

Their sophomore year the whole school was suddenly bursting with gossip, the scuttlebutt having Nate caught on a steamy make-out session with Rick Sykes. Rick protested a great deal, maintained he was drunk or stoned or temporarily insane, and then he transferred to another school. Nate laughed when asked, rolled his eyes at the occasional spiteful comment, and then went and joined the cheerleading squad and started volunteering with the homecoming committee.

Few weeks later he dated the homecoming queen for a while and she was gushing about him to everyone who wanted to listen and to a few who didn't.

The entire school quietly wondered what the fuck.

"Bisexuality, look it up," Nate advised Ray earnestly, not a hint of mocking in his voice or on his face, just the helpful smile, like he was ready to lend Ray his dictionary.

"Is that when you get fucked up the ass while you're licking pussy? Because it sounds like something liberal dicksuck greedy assholes would make up to get some."

"As always, Ray, your grasp of human behaviour is impressive and awe-inspiring. Gents, good luck with the game," Nate nodded and walked away, soon swarmed by the crowd of girls in short skirts.

"I don't get it," Ray muttered, shaking his head. He sounded genuinely confused. "Why do I actually like this asshole?"

Brad's not sure, except that Nate is apparently impossible to dislike. Brad can't even muster enough energy to resent his awful choice of music and the way he drives like a soccer mom and that he owns his fourth iPod in a row.

"It has a touch screen," Nate says, like it's supposed to explain anything. Brad has a few chosen words to say about touch screens, too, except that kissing Nate seems like a better thing to do with his mouth at the moment.

It's Nicole Callahan's birthday party and they're in the bathroom, Nate's back against the sink and Brad's lips slick from the jello shots and raw from the way Nate's been nibbling on them. His head is spinning just a little, he just doesn't know whether it's from the booze, the loud and shitty noise that passes for music, or the way Nate kissed him, slow and lazy and gorgeous and like he didn't need oxygen at all.

"We have to stop meeting like this," he mutters and Nate gives him a quizzical look, eyebrows raised. He seems disturbingly sober, Brad realises.

"You mean bathrooms or parties? Or is it the kissing part you have troubles with?" There's no accusation in the words, no sting, no resentment. Brad had done this before, with girls, girls before Julie and girls after Julie, and they always wanted to hold his hand during recess and show up at his football games and shit.

Nate already shows up at his football games, of course, but he doesn't seem to give a shit about the hand holding part.


They had kissed for the first time some four months ago, when Lilley threw the now infamous pool party. Brad remembers finding him in the kitchen when he went to pick some more ice, remembers pushing him against the fridge and licking Nate's lower lip, mouthing the line of his neck. He doesn't remember how he got to this point, precisely, what exactly happened right before the kiss, but he remembers Nate's smile and warm hands on Brad's lower back, right above the edge of his trunks.

They never do this anywhere else, without the excuse cheap beer provides Brad. They hang out and Nate mocks Brad's liking of Air Supply and Brad tries to convince Nate his computer is the work of Satan himself, but they don't do this.

"I don't know," Brad says and he doesn't meet Nate's eyes. He thinks of joining Marines after he graduates. He doesn't know what this thing with Nate is. He doesn't know much at all, and all the jello shots must have been stronger than he thought because his stomach is turning and he feels there's a lot of puking in his near future.

"Okay," Nate says, like that's that, like he doesn't mind. His hand is still on Brad's shoulder, and he presses lightly, squeezes, before letting go. Brad feels the loss acutely.

He knows he should step back, move away and possibly get the fuck out of the bathroom, except that even in his state he realises that this will be it, last kiss they shared. Nate's not a fucking idiot, he never was, and maybe he likes kissing Brad as much as Brad enjoys kissing him, but he's not going to let Brad get away with this shit.

They'll hang out and Nate will probably tease Brad about Journey and he will watch Brad work on his bike, and Brad will optimize the firefox browser for him and that would be it.

Brad's not an idiot either. "Fuck," he says and leans in, captures Nate's mouth again, licks his way in, his hands on Nate's sides, pushing his shirt up, familiarising himself with Nate's skin. Nate arches, bringing his hardening dick in contact with Brad and Brad's fucking not ready for it.

Except he just pushes Nate harder against the sink and moves slowly, rubbing their cocks together through the layers of their clothing.

"Brad, how drunk exactly are you?" Nate asks with some degree of suspicion, even though now he looks drunk himself, his cheeks flushed, shirt half undone, eyes glazed over. Brad wants to rub himself all over him.

"I know what I'm doing."

Nate chuckles warmly and shakes his head. "Yeah, I can tell. But I don't want you to..." Brad interrupts him with another kiss and Nate's words get swallowed, by one of them at least.

"I want to," he says simply and Nate nods and reaches out, palms Brad's cock through his pants and starts stroking slowly and Brad thinks he's going to come in his pants if Nate doesn't stop. But it's difficult to tell him, with Nate's tongue mapping out his mouth, a familiar terrain to him now but not something Nate ever seems to tire of.

Someone knocks on the bathroom doors, forcefully, and moments later Poke yells he needs to fucking shit. Nate bites his lip like he's trying not to laugh and Brad yells back for Poke to fucking find himself some pot plant and shit there.

"Fuck you, Iceman, you of all people should be sympathetic to my plight."

"I don't think I can..." Brad starts quietly, when Poke's footsteps fade. Nate brushes his lips against Brad's and then drops to his knees gracefully, undoing Brad's pants, and Brad finds out that yeah, he definitely can. "Nate," he says, and he means stop and please and yes.

"I wondered what you'd taste like," Nate mutters, like he's wondering now and Brad is pretty much gone, can only reach out and steady himself, his fingers tightening around the edge of the sink, knuckles white. Nate's not very experienced, it's easy to gather, his technique is sloppy and awkward at times, except Brad had never been this turned on as when he has Nate Fick's lips wrapped around his dick. He comes embarrassingly fast.


Nate's pulling himself up and licking his lips, like he likes the taste. Brad doesn't know how the hell he manages to still breathe. "Come here," he mutters and pulls Nate in for a kiss, and he can taste himself. Nate's rubbing himself against Brad's thigh, his dick hard, and Brad fumbles to stick his hand down Nate's pants. It feels strange, to wrap his hand around someone else's dick, but Nate's making low strangled sounds straight into his mouth and Brad wants to hear more, feel more.

Nate bites Brad's shoulder when he comes, tries to keep quiet, but some sounds escape and Brad wonders if anyone can hear them from the corridor, do they know what's going on. He mostly doesn't give a fuck, but a part of him wants people to know that Nate fucking Fick just came for him, because of him. That he's Brad's.

He's not sure where did that come from.

"You were right," Nate says, and he sounds like he's laughing even though there's only a small smile flickering in the corner of his mouth. "We have to stop meeting like this," he adds and before the cold feeling has time to settle properly in Brad's stomach, he continues, "You should at least take me out sometime. Friday after the game would be good."

Brad breathes out, slowly. "Yeah. Okay."

It's a surreal week, to say the least. Ray seems to have hooked up with Pappy's ex-girlfriend at the party and it seems like a fucking train wreck in the making, especially if Ray doesn't shut his cakehole at some point, and Hasser spends the entire Monday trying to discreetly ask people why did he wake up wearing one of Mrs Callahan's dresses. With pearls. No one is quite sure, but Stafford's snickering a lot.

Brad doesn't see Nate all that much, one of the girls on the squad broke her leg skiing with her parents and now there are crowds of girls in uniforms talking animatedly wherever you turn, eyeing up every potential replacement.

"I'm gonna try out," Ray announces on Wednesday and Brad knows that any remark would only encourage him, but at least he's not talking about Ruby anymore, and giving Pappy a fucking heart attack.

"Not that I want to stomp on your dreams, Ray, and bring your white trash little dream of waving pom-poms to your heart's content in crashing contact with reality," Brad says, drowning his fries in ketchup, "but why would you do that?"

"It's a surefire way to get pussy, homes," Ray says, predictably. "You actually get away with putting your hand up a chick's skirt in plain view of the entire school and they like it, and bake you fucking cookies, and invite you to their sleep over parties. Just look at fucking Fick."

"Nice, almost alliterative," Nate says, sitting down across from Brad. Ray, amazingly, scoots over to make room. It's another thing with Nate, he fits in with the football team and the chess club and no one seems to think twice about it. "I'll bring you the forms after Calculus, Ray, you can fill them and give them to me, Annika, or the coach."

Ray blinks confusedly. "Forms?"

"Application for the squad. The girls are really excited that you want to join up."

Ray gapes like a retarded fish, like he's waiting for some kind of epiphany and it doesn't come. He glances at the table where Annika and her court are all sitting, the sea of short skirts and long legs and pink glossy lipstick. Brad shakes his head and doesn't dare look at Nate because he knows he's going to see the smirk lurking under the earnest expression and he's going to spoil the thing by laughing too hard.

Because right now, it looks like Person is actually going to go and fucking try out for the cheerleading squad. It's sort of brilliant.

"Well played," he tells Nate when they're gathering their trays and Nate steals his last fry. Nate shrugs and smiles and Brad just wants to hook his fingers into the belt hoops of his jeans and pull him close. He doesn't, but his fingers itch just the same.


The tryouts are on Thursday and Nate looks like he's fighting a splitting headache, a fixed polite smile on his face. Brad looks for him at lunch, his eyes scanning the crowd intently, and Nate's listening to whatever Annika is saying, her hand on his arm as she's trying to convince him of something and Nate begins to nod his head. Brad realises it's ridiculous but he can't help the cold sting of actual fucking jealousy.

Yeah, sure, he realises the entire school wants in Nate's pants, common fucking knowledge, but he wasn't taking it personally before.

Now he tugs lightly at Nate's sleeve when he passes him in the corridor and Nate obligingly follows him into the thankfully empty bathroom. Most of the classes are over and everyone's gone, and Brad's going to be late for his practice but he needs this. It's new, he didn't get this worked up even over Julie.

"Bathroom, Brad? Again?" Nate asks but he's laughing, mouth open and lips slick when Brad kisses him, pushes him against the wall next to the sinks. Nate's head hits the wall with a soft thud, right below the ode to his mouth in black sharpie, his fingers tangled in Brad's shirt.

"It's like having our own song," Brad offers dryly.

"Sure. Only really fucked up." He places a kiss in the hollow of Brad's neck and then gently pushes him away. "You have practice, I believe. And we're figuring out how to make our routine work without one of our best."

"Take your shirts off, no one will notice."

"Yes, I can see why everyone is so impressed with your intellect, Colbert," Nate shots back but he's smiling.

Ferrando tears him a new one for being late, but Brad's pretty pleased with himself anyway.

The good mood lasts him till the Friday evening, till the half game, when he's listening to Ferrando rasp out the instructions and holding the cold water bottle to his neck, trying not to look too conspicous when he searches the cheerleading group for Nate. Finds him leaning against the railing and talking to Mike, who's sitting in the first row and smiling too widely for Brad's liking.

Annika passes and stops by them, says something to Mike who laughs at it, but her hand is on the small of Nate's back. Brad seriously starts to fucking hate her.

"So, which pisses you off more? The guys or the girls?" Ray asks him and Brad gives him a long look of carefully studied puzzlement. Ray snorts. "Yeah, sure, homes, you have no fucking idea what I mean, and you'd advise me to lay off crack. I hear you. So, the fact that both Megan Alderson and Jane Tang asked Nate Fick out to the prom already and more is soon to follow doesn't bother you at all. Fuck, maybe I'll ask him out myself, there's been some graffiti with very good ideas around..."

"But what would your second cousin's goat say to that, Ray? I thought she had the dress all picked up," Brad says through gritted teeth. He's pretty sure his face is flushed more than ten seconds ago, he can't even blame it on the game.

"We have an open relationship." Ray pats him on the back and Brad doesn't break his wrist. He kind of wants to, though. "It's fine, Brad," he says, uncommonly serious. Ferrando calls on them and the game starts again, and Brad has to force himself not to look into the sidelines.

Nate's voice isn't louder than anyone else's on the squad, and yet, during cheers, Brad hears only him. It's just that side of distracting. Thankfully, the other team is fucking crap and Dave McGraw seems to not recognise what a ball is for.

"Good game, Brad," Annika tells him cheerfully, later, when Brad is one of the last players leaving the locker room. She's leaning against the wall right next to Nate, playing with the end of her ponytail and Brad thinks this is really going too far.

"Yeah, thanks. Nate, if you don't mind, I have something I need to talk to you about."

Nate gives him a look that clearly conveys he's not fooled in the slightest. Brad thinks it would annoy him on almost anyone else, but on Nate it looks good.

"Sure. Annika, I'll see you at practice on Monday."

She nods and smiles and walks away, fucking finally. "So, did she ask you to the prom yet?" Brad asks, in what he hopes is actually his mocking tone.


Nate shrugs. "Not as such, but she's been bemoaning the fact that she has no one to go with loud enough. Not that, you know, most of the guys in school wouldn't gladly carry her books every fucking day."

"Most of the guys?"

"Well, judging from the way you continue to look at her like you're imagining running her over with your bike, I don't think you would. And Poke doesn't see the world beyond Gina. And, well, two of Annika's brothers go to our school and I don't think they'd be interested. That's of the top of my head. Did you have something you wanted to discuss with me? Or is it just that you became strangely interested in the prom attendance?"

Brad's starts to answer but he's interrupted by Rudy and Pappy, leaving the locker room. They were the last, Brad thinks, it's empty now. "Brad, my man, good game," Rudy tells him and nods at Nate. "This was an impressive stunt you finished with, even without Dana."

Sometimes Brad just wants to hit his head against the wall.

He waits until they're gone and turns back to Nate, who looks like he's holding back a smile, even though his arms are crossed. "So?" he prompts.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he mutters and pulls at Nate's shirt, drags him inside the locker room and presses him against the doors. "I don't like other people touching you," he mutters against Nate's lips, before he drags his teeth over them, before he kisses Nate hard and rough and just on the edge of painful.

"Cheerleading is a rather close-contact discipline," Nate offers, while his fingers are already pushing Brad's shirt up.

"Don't get fucking cute," Brad mutters and reciprocates, tugs at Nate's shirt and pulls it over his head, discarding it to the floor. His knee spreads Nate's legs, just a little, and he can feel Nate hardening against him.

"I am assured I am fucking cute," Nate says, flashing a wide theatrical grin, like the one plastered all over his face during the cheer routines. Brad bites at his shoulder and Nate's smile melts into something softer.

"I don't like other people touching you," he repeats against Nate's neck. "And if anyone else asks you to the fucking prom, they're going to find themselves unable to access anything but lolcats on their computers for the rest of their lives."

"Some people like lolcats."

"Well, some people are retarded. Why would you want to go out with any fucked in the head drooling moron who thinks the height of the entertainment is a fucking cat eating a fucking invisible sandwich?"

"You get forwarded those a lot, don't you?"

"Ray. He's fluent in lolcat and retardese, which might be members of the same linguistic family."

"I'm not going out with anyone but you."

Brad groans and presses harder against Nate. His dick is straining against his pants, bordering on actually painful, and Nate moves against him, maddeningly slowly, like his entire goal in life is to fuck with Brad, drive him absolutely fucking insane. "What did you..."

Nate places a hand on the side of his face, makes Brad look at him. "Not going out with anyone but you. Don't want to. Technically, not going out with you either, but you're the only one I have a habit of making out with in the bathrooms. Alright?"

"Alright," Brad mutters, warmth spreading through his chest, and tugs at Nate's pants, busying himself with the zipper. "As long as it stays that way."

"You're such a fucking moron," Nate tells him fondly and his fingers join Brad's, closing around Brad's dick, stroking it so it lines up with his own. Maybe, Brad thinks, but he's a moron who gets to have Nate fucking Fick, gets to have his fingers pull on his cock, gets to mark Nate's neck and shoulders with his teeth and sooth the marks with his tongue.

Gets to see Nate come into Brad's hand, his head thrown back and his body going limp as he moans Brad's name, lips swollen and red, mouth open and eyes closed. Just the noises he makes are enough to push Brad over the edge, less enough the sight.


"Though, you know," Nate says a few moments later, when he's actually able to form words, his face stil flushed and his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. "This doesn't fucking qualify as an actual date."

"You put out."

"Still not a date."

Brad smirks and runs his hand over Nate's back, to the curve of his ass. Nate's pants and underwear are pushed down, tumbled around his thighs, and Brad's really enjoying the view. "You're such a fucking girl, Fick."

Nate makes a thoughtful noise. "Funny. I think as someone who hopes to suck my cock on regular basis you really should rethink this comment."

Brad wants to ask how the hell Nate knows he wants to suck his cock, but the idea makes his breath hitch. He wants that, too. "Fine, you little shit, get your stuff, I'll take you out to dinner."

"Deal. And if you are nice enough, I'll let you suck my cock in the bathroom afterwards."

Brad wants to slap him on the back of his head but settles for kissing him instead.