
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/15396.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      due_South
  Relationship:
      Ray_Kowalski/Ray_Vecchio, Ray_Kowalski/Original_Male_Character
  Character:
      Ray_Kowalski, Ray_Vecchio, Original_Characters, Louis_Gardino
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Alternate_Universe, Pre-Canon, Angst
  Collections:
      Due_South_Archive
  Stats:
      Published: 2009-11-18 Words: 3602
****** Just for Practice ******
by catwalksalone
Summary
     They lay on the bed there, kissing just for practice. Teen!Rays.
Notes
     Fic entirely inspired by the excellent Seeing Other People by Belle
     and Sebastian. (I promise there is no lyrics quoting in sight. Would
     I do that to you?) Insightful and excellent beta from belmanoir - all
     remaining mistakes are, clearly, mine .
Ray was a pretty boy; he'd given up denying it. When he looked in the mirror he
saw a kid in need of a growth spurt with delicate features, clear skin, sharp
blue eyes and red-gold hair that curled at his collar. His nose was straight,
his dimples curved and he had a killer smile. Leastways, that's what his mom
said. Father Dermot put it another way and was still screaming about cock-
sucking when Ray left him on the floor, clutching his balls and his rosary.
The other kids, the ones who'd called Ray faggot and queer and 'Santa Maria
full of jizz', seemed to take this incident as some kind of weird statement of
solidarity. Like, if Ray could take out one of the most hated priests at the
school despite being a fucking little fairy, then maybe he wasn't so bad. And
maybe, if he wasn't so bad they'd let him hang out more. And then there was
this freaky chain of events that steamed straight past hanging out to becoming
the confidant to half the hardest boys in the school about their girl-troubles
and then, by way of still not growing, and being, you know, still gay and
pretty, to being some kind of substitute for the real thing. Ray figured since
high school was all some fucked-up popularity contest, he might as well take
his fifteen minutes. It would be back to hiding in the gym closet soon enough.
What all this meant was this; every Friday Ray's mom baked fresh chocolate chip
cookies for all his 'friends' who would come over and play on his Atari before
one by one climbing onto the bed with Ray. (Not that his mom knew anything
about the bed part, like, he wanted her to be a burden to him in her old age,
he wasn't looking to kill her or anything.) They'd lie there, facing each
other, and make out. It wasn't actually called The Kissing Club because that
way lay black eyes and finding out what eunuch really meant, but that's what it
was in Ray's head.
It was practice, right? That's what they said. Getting it right on Ray before
they tried it out on girls. They didn't all kiss him kiss him, Ray would've had
to have incapacitated more than one pedo Jesuit before some of them would risk
gay cooties, but they let him stick a hand over their mouth and they kissed
that instead. It was hard to be objective without lip-on-lip interaction, but
Ray gave the best advice he knew how. It was one way to keep them coming back.
At least, to keep one of them coming back.
Vecchio was the life-blood of the school: Italian-American Catholic. He had an
obsession with ricotta manicotti, more limbs than he knew what to do with, dark
hair cut real short like he was in the army or something, and these big green
eyes that never closed. Not when he was kissing Ray, not when he was on lookout
at the window, not when he watched the others clambering on and off Ray's
rickety wooden bed. He was loudly, vehemently, for sure-certain-definite Not
Gay. And Ray wanted him more than he'd ever wanted anything.
Every Friday the faces would change. Some boys only wanted to see what all the
fuss was about. Some of them got girlfriends and just came back for the
occasional refresher, like when to move to full-blown tongue action and how to
do it without impersonating a washing machine. Some of them had games or band
or the church choir or whatever and came and went as the seasons ebbed and
flowed. Vecchio, though, was there every week.
Self-appointed lookout, he was there first and left last, just the blips and
bleeps of space invaders marching across the tiny TV screen to keep the two of
them company. They'd kiss a little - Vecchio was a proponent of the hand-over-
mouth technique - and then lie there together, side-by-side and Ray would say
yes, Vecchio was using his lips better, and maybe he wanted to think about
where his hands were going to go, and girls liked it when you touched their
hair. And then they'd talk about other stuff like how Vecchio was going to buy
his mom a mansion one day and he'd live there too, with his model wife and
three beautiful kids, and how Ray was gonna be a rock star if he could only get
this buttfuck F chord figured. By the time Vecchio was very carefully not-
explaining what a stupid-ass punk his pop was, Ray's head would be nestled on
Vecchio's shoulder and Vecchio would be twisting Ray's hair around his fingers,
letting his thumb rub across the curve of Ray's ear.
They weren't dating, though.
It was just practice. They were seeing other people, Vecchio said. And by
"other people" he meant girls, and by "they" he meant Vecchio. Ray wasn't
seeing anyone. Ray was watching Vecchio leave and then giving into the sin of
self-love with the fierce desperation that could only be brought on by having
to hide a raging hard-on for the last few hours. He was so ready to pop he
could be done in the time between Vecchio's cheerful 'Bye, Mrs. Kowalski!' and
hearing the door to the apartment building slamming behind Vecchio two hallways
away. Sometimes Ray couldn't decide if it was the pounding of Vecchio's feet as
he ran home or the pounding of his own heart in his ears that he could hear as
he came his brains out. It didn't much matter.
On Friday nights, Ray would clean himself up, put on some chapstick he'd stolen
from his mom and pull out his comics collection, wondering how this had become
his life.
                                     *****
"Seeing other people?" said Thomas, tapping idly at his drum-kit while Ray
picked at a couple of chords. "You gotta do that, too, you know? This guy ain't
into you, you need to find someone who is. Dig?"
Ray did dig. He dug real good, like a champion shoveler. He just wasn't so keen
on dirt. "I know, Tommy. When you're right, you're right, I just-"
"Don't give me any of your bullshit, Kowalski. You've got to be as sick of your
fist as I am of your miserable fucking face. Go out. Get laid. Use your mouth
for something other than whining."
Ray thought about being offended, but Thomas's place was the only escape he had
from the icons and the Child Jesus ornaments so it wasn't worth the risk. "I
love you, too, asshole," he said.
"Scottie's Bar. Across from the convent school and no, the irony is not lost on
me. They won't ask questions and they won't check ID. Don't be dumb, don't let
anyone buy you a drink and if someone tries to get you into a car and you don't
wanna go, kick 'em in the cojones. - I think you got that down already."
Usually Ray was a think-last-do-first-kinda guy. This was different, though.
This was stepping up, becoming a man. Maybe not exactly the kind of man his
parents were hoping for, maybe not the kind of man he'd expected when he was
four and asked Lena Markowski to marry him because she had orange sneakers and
black hair, but it was the kind of man he was, and that's who he wanted to be,
freak or not. Most days, anyway. Well, some. Today. So instead of heading
straight out to Scottie's, he practiced.
It wasn't Friday so he had a mirror instead of a warm body, but he pressed his
lips against it all the same. Soft at first, then harder, his tongue pushing
against the cold surface, nose squashed against the glass. He sucked and nipped
at his arm, varying the pressure, trying to get his hairs to rise and his skin
to ripple. He stole a carrot from the vegetable crisper and watched himself
slide it between his lips, flushed and wide-eyed. He hollowed his cheeks and
rubbed the carrot up and down along his tongue. Ray felt a rush of blood to his
dick and embarrassment brought him up sharp.
He kind of hoped it wouldn't be so easy to bite the end off the real thing.
Ray ate the rest of the carrot as he ransacked his closet for what to wear. Ten
outfits later, when he'd cycled back to the original black t-shirt and jeans
combo, he was ready to go. He looked at himself in the mirror once more and saw
a terrified kid staring back at him. It would be so easy to stay home, to
finish his homework (there was a first time for everything), and try not to
think about Vecchio or the guys down at Scottie's. He frowned at his reflection
then smacked himself around the head.
"Come on, Kowalski," he told himself. "Those guys can't wait to meet someone as
good with a carrot as you. You will blow them away with your vegetable-matter-
related skills." He mimed finger-guns and held the pose for a second before
laughing and turning away. "Later," he said over his shoulder and blew a kiss
at his departing reflection.
Ray's bravado lasted just as long as it took for some guy to slobber into his
mouth, breath stinking of onions and beer. He had time to wish the man had been
to his lessons before he was being pushed to his knees on the stony ground.
Okay, so maybe Ray was never going to be a straight A student, but it was the
work of a second to figure out that a carrot and a cock were two entirely
different things. For one, a carrot didn't have a whole human being on the end,
trying to get more of it in Ray's mouth than was physically possible.
It wasn't so easy to bite the end off the real thing.
Not that there was any blood. Or much biting, really. And the guy was nice
about it, once he realized what the problem was. Seemed he was a born teacher,
not that Ray had much brain left to appreciate the technique. Still, it gave
Ray lots of ideas for a whole expansion of his Kissing Club, that is, if he
could persuade some of the other guys to go along with it. And by some other
guys, he meant Vecchio. Not wanting to disappoint his mom, who'd brought him up
polite, Ray'd done his best to return the favor. There was no gagging this time
and the guy had been enjoying himself if the constant stream of "Oh fuck, oh
fucking god, you're so fucking pretty. I want to fuck your pretty mouth so bad,
oh fuck, oh god, oh jesus god fucking hell damn fuck," was anything to go by.
Ray was grateful that the guy had pulled out and come in his own hand because
he wasn't quite ready to face spunk yet, and even more grateful when he'd
pressed ten dollars into Ray's hand and told him to get on home, the streets
weren't safe this time of night.
Ray stared at himself in the mirror for a long time, trying to figure out if he
looked different now that he was a man. He didn't. He filled the bath to the
top and slid down into the hot water, careful not to slosh it over the side.
Curious, Ray checked his dick to see if it had changed at all. It hadn't. He
let it rest in the palm of his hand and thought about the man's mouth on it,
wet and warm and sucking. His dick grew a little, like it was stretching after
a hard day. Ray's thoughts drifted and it was Vecchio's lips on him, Vecchio's
green eyes open and looking at him as he slid Ray in and out of his mouth. And
then Ray's dick wasn't in his hand any more because it was standing to
attention, standing for attention, and Ray had to touch it, hips snapping up as
his fist closed around it.
It took three towels to mop the floor.
As Ray drifted off to sleep, Vecchio's face floated behind his eyes. He looked
disappointed and Ray shivered and wrapped the comforter tighter around himself.
                                     *****
When Ray's room was again empty except for the two of them, Vecchio settled
himself on the bed. "I want to practice being on top. That okay, Kowalski?"
"Sure," said Ray, without thinking.
Vecchio rolled over and lay along the length of Ray, one knee forcing its way
between Ray's thighs. "Open your legs," Vecchio commanded. "And bend them up.
That's what girls do."
Ray obeyed and Vecchio's weight shifted on him as he settled between Ray's
legs. Resting on his elbows, Vecchio's belly pressed against Ray's soft dick
and Ray's stomach flipped as he realized the inevitable conclusion.
"I got a blowjob last Saturday," he gabbled, considering it was a good a way as
any to distract Vecchio from the movement in Ray's pants.
Vecchio's eyes widened. "You did? A blowjob? You did?" Vecchio's mostly-broken
voice cracked on the last word, sending it screeching up an octave. He hated
it, but it made Ray's stomach do back-flips and he had to forcibly stop himself
petting Vecchio's hair. He nodded instead.
"From a girl?"
Ray made a non-committal noise.
"That's so- I mean, I haven't- You're the man, Kowalski." Vecchio fidgeted
against him and Ray's smile strained. Was Vecchio trying to kill him?
"You wanna make- you wanna practice now?" he asked, desperate and, without
waiting for an answer, pulled Vecchio down and kissed him.
It took five seconds for Ray to realize this was the first time they had kissed
like this. It took another five to realize that Vecchio was not pushing him off
or punching or yelling 'inappropriate sexual conduct'. It took another five to
figure out that the hard thing he could feel pushing into him was Vecchio's
dick.
Oh.
Blowjobs. If Ray had known that's all it would take. He let the tip of his
tongue trace the inside of Vecchio's mouth before finding Vecchio's tongue and
sucking on it, hinting, advertising. He was rewarded by a choked off "Fuck!"
and Vecchio rolling off him to tug frantically at his belt. Oh god, he was
going to make this good. He was going to make this so fucking good that Vecchio
would be begging on his knees for more. For Ray.
Every time Ray looked up, Vecchio's eyes were on him, but he did not say a
word. Not a 'fuck' or a 'more' or a 'please' or a 'now' passed his lips, even
as he came in Ray's mouth. But as soon as the last spasm was done he started
talking.
"Stella, she's tall and blonde and so elegant. She's a real lady, my beautiful
angel. I told you I asked her to the dance, right? You wait till you see her,
she'll even blow you away, Kowalski. Everyone wants Stella and Stella wants me.
That's cool, right? Tell me how cool that is."
"Yeah, but will she blow you?" Ray muttered and he hated himself because his
eyes were prickling and he was hard for a guy who either didn't want him or
didn't want to want him and both ways made him feel like he was the one who was
kicked in the balls.
Vecchio didn't hear or pretended not to and in seconds he was gone, yammering
something about the dance and Stella and see you there, Kowalski.
Ray waited until he heard the door click and then smashed his fists into his
pillows over and over, not sure whose face he was pummeling, Vecchio's, the
perfect Stella's, or his own. When he finally slowed down he became aware of a
funny taste in his mouth. It was- That was-
By the time he finished throwing up, Ray's erection was long gone. Father
Matteus always said it was good to be grateful for small mercies.
                                     *****
"Sucks, man," said Thomas. Ray scowled at him. "Sorry, bad word choice. That
was a shitty thing to happen. But we've been through this before. If he can't
see what it is he's got in you, then you've got two choices."
"Okay, hit me," said Ray and caught the drumstick that came flying towards him.
"How many times do I got to tell you you're not a comedian, Tommy? Choices.
Give 'em."
"Choice number one," said Thomas, ticking it off on his finger, "you give up,
wait till college and pick up a nice, easy Protestant boy. Or an atheist.
Someone with less guilt, anyway. Unless it's the liberal kind. The liberal kind
is your friend."
"First, I have no idea what you're talking about, freak. Second, I got two
years nearly. I do not like this idea. Spin me another."
"Choice number two: you change. He wants tall, golden and elegant. You do your
best to give it to him. Start praying for your growth spurt, short stuff."
Ray twirled the drumstick between his fingers. "So all that stuff people say
about 'being yourself' and 'you are God's special unique daffodil', that's
bullshit, is what you're saying?"
"You catch on quick, my son," said Thomas, leaning back, hands clasped behind
his head. "Women want you to change for them. All of them do. And they change
for us. You think they wear cute lacy panties every day of the month the way
those things ride up?" Thomas paused, but Ray signaled 'got nothing' and he
continued. "No, they do not. You check a woman's dresser and you'll find the
big panties. The comfy cotton ones that've gone grey 'cos they got in with the
dark clothes. The ones they haven't thrown out because they like wearing them.
I'm telling you, mon ami, they do what they have to do to catch us."
"I'm not a woman," Ray protested.
"In this case, you are. You really are."
Change for Vecchio? Be something he wasn't to compete with Stella or the next
girl or the next? How would that even work? How could it end any way but bad?
Every morning he put himself on with his clothes, the shoes a little scuffed,
the tie knot too short for regulation, the shirt untucked. It had taken a long
time for him to figure out who he was and to start to accept it. The clothes,
the hair, the I''ll-be-your-girltoy-attitude, it was all part of it. If he
changed that, any of it, how would he know who he was any more? It was himself
or nothing and that thought made Ray clutch his chest with the pain of it.
"I can't," he said, through clenched teeth. "I can't. I gotta- I need to hit
something. Now."
"Sure," said Thomas, holding out his drumstick with a sympathetic look. "Beat
the living hell out of my drums. You'll feel better. You know," he added as Ray
took the stick from him, "are you sure you don't want to sleep with girls? At
least they know which hole to stick your dick into."
Ray kicked the bass pedal so hard he tore through the skin.
                                     *****
On Friday it was business as usual. The numbers were small, only four this time
and Vecchio wasn't one of them. A new kid, kind of sharp looking, Gardino,
stood lookout. When it was his turn he didn't want the hand and he kissed with
a whole lot of enthusiasm if no particular skill. Ray gave him some pointers
but his mind was elsewhere. Was that it now with him and Vecchio? Had the
blowjob taken it too far? Were they not even friends now? Were they ever?
Gardino showed signs of wanting to hang around and hinted that there was
something he wanted to talk about, his legs jittering up and down. Ray couldn't
be bothered to shoo him off and lay with his arm over his face, as the other
boys got ready to go home. He said his goodbyes without moving.
"Bye, Gardino," came another voice and Ray's heart skipped a beat.
"I'm not-" Gardino whined.
"Fuck off, fox-face," said the voice, cheerfully. "Unless you want me to hang
you and your over-sized jacket on the hooks in the showers on Monday."
Ray heard the sounds of a hasty retreat and then felt the mattress dip
underneath him as Vecchio sat down.
"No date with Stella?" asked Ray, wondering if he managed to keep the
bitterness out of his voice. He was too tired to fight.
"Nope," said Vecchio, and the bed creaked as he swung his legs up and lay
alongside Ray. "Had somewhere else to be."
Ray took his arm away from his face and turned his head to look at Vecchio. His
mouth was settled in a relaxed smile but his eyes were closed. His eyes were
never closed. Ray's head raced with questions that he couldn't ask. He stayed,
frozen, staring at Vecchio for a long minute, neither of them speaking, then
Vecchio yawned and stretched his arm behind Ray's head.
Carefully, carefully, Ray shifted until his head was resting on Vecchio's
shoulder, same way they'd done so many times before. There was another brief
pause and then Vecchio started telling stories about his little sister
Francesca's latest fight with his mom. Ray felt Vecchio's hand in his hair,
twisting it around his fingers and he let himself smile, just a little. Maybe
later he'd tell Vecchio he was seeing other people. Just for practice.
                                        
                                        
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