
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13306818.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fall_Out_Boy
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz
  Character:
      Patrick_Stump, Pete_Wentz, William_Beckett
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Teacher-Student_Relationship,
      Masturbation, Forced_Orgasm, Premature_Ejaculation, Cigarettes
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-01-08 Updated: 2018-03-26 Chapters: 11/? Words: 27156
****** Rose-Colored Glasses ******
by moochymochi
Summary
     Patrick is a junior with Pete as his English teacher. They begin to
     see one another in a new way, though blind to their reasons why.
     High School AU. Moral dilemma and non-canon age difference.
     Horny!Patrick and Struggling!Pete.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
“Hot, aww, fuck,” Patrick groaned. From behind the final splash to his face, he
fumbled to shut the sink off. He succeeded, and moved to squeegee the drops
from his eyelashes.
The sick feeling hadn’t passed. The cold water was gone. It was time to go to
class. If he was going to be good today, which, he supposed, he had already
failed at. Stopping to dry-heave and mope in the bathroom easily took up the
passing period plus the first few minutes of class. That was fine, he supposed.
It hadn’t been intentional. Another tardy on his attendance record. He paused.
Naturally, he had named it a ‘tardy’ and not an ‘unexcused’. He still wanted to
go to sixth period.
Replacing the woozy, dizzy bullshit in his stomach was nervous flip. It was,
like, the sensation he felt when stealing an extra brownie square at midnight
or using a sharpie to write obscenities on the stalls behind him. His brain
became electric with this idea that he was about to do something he shouldn’t.
In the hallway, he wiped both hands on the sides of his jeans. The green fabric
soaked what lingered and he worried if it would seem as if he had pissed his
pants. The overwhelming fear knocked out the rationale that, no, it wouldn’t
seem that way because piss doesn’t flow out and upward. At the door, he tugged
his jacket further down over his sides. He managed to hold it there while
turning the handle for room 710 to step inside. He squinted at the river of
fluorescent lights above him.
“Sorry, I--”
Patrick’s silence came with the rolling motion of Mr. Wentz’s wrist. He knew
now he shouldn’t have said anything to begin with and took his seat. The chair
squeaked. He shuffled out his composition book and and mechanical pencil.
Looking at the whiteboard, he read today’s prompt and avoided that patient
stare. Catching it would cause the sickness from earlier to bubble back up.
Undoubtedly. He reread the prompt. A fear you face on a daily basis, including
ways you have attempted to work past it.
He had no answer for this. At least, not immediately. And for him, that was
equivalent to nothing. He had a solid 80% in this class, with no intent to fret
about it. English wasn’t a subject he found useful or interesting. Especially
not during these Mondays when they were supposed to scribble any nonsense came
to mind with the help of a prompt. No. He preferred band or even history, since
they had structure. Structure was such a necessity for him. He had proven to
himself over and over and over that he needed to have a solid direction to feel
comfortable. Instability was the stuff of nightmares.. Wait! What if he wrote
about that? Instability was a fear he faced on a daily basis, vague enough to
be deep without actually having to delve down or whatever. He wrote the date at
the top of the next blank page.
September 3, 2008.
“About two more minutes, guys.”
Patrick slumped. Nevermind, that wasn’t enough time. He would simply suffer the
docked points. He glanced toward the front of the room again. Mr. Wentz had
moved to stand in the middle.
Taller than Patrick by a few inches, he was able to hold a sense of authority
over the class. There were some teachers in the school who could pass for high
schoolers themselves with their shorter height and youthful sense of style. Mr.
Wentz wasn’t among them. He stood straight and wore a different colored necktie
each day, the beard covering his chin kept trimmed. He always had on a belt and
a ballpoint pen in his shirt pocket. His hair was dyed a yellowish blonde, but
he maintained it with frequent cuts and pomade. He told the students that this
was its natural color, laughing and never expecting anyone to follow suit. He
didn’t care. Juniors were a tough crowd.
“All right, let’s move on,” Mr. Wentz called out over the murmur of the class.
He folded his arms and gave a keen smile, “I hope we’re ready to review some
poetry terms. I am! Well, doesn’t matter really, I get paid either way.”
The class shifted. Last week’s reference sheet on poetry terms was retrieved,
hands were raised here and there to answer Mr. Wentz’s requests for examples of
the terms. He would nod, perhaps adjust what had been said, then write it on
the whiteboard. Within the next half hour, they had created a frankenstein poem
containing everything from an assonance to verbal irony. It was odd, possibly
funny, and Mr. Wentz called for a volunteer to read it aloud.
Patrick looked away. He hadn’t contributed earlier, making him a prime target.
And he had been late! With his mouth covered by one hand, he shut his eyes. His
tense posture lessened when he heard another name called. Didn’t matter who, it
wasn’t him. He opened his eyes and listened. Students chuckled, and Mr. Wentz’s
voice was full of little cheers the entire time.
“Done! Very nice, I liked it,” Mr. Wentz said, clapping. He rallied for
support, and the boy that had read the poem did a dramatic bow. “We’re nearly
done, so, let me remind you that there’s tutoring today after school. I’ll be
here from three to four. Oh, and hey, and your composition check-up is in a
week. Okay?”
“Mr. Wentz?” a girl from the front row asked. Her hand was a perfect line into
the air.
“Yes ma’am?”
“Is the composition check-up gonna be twenty points like last time?”
Voices stirred, feet shuffled nearly in unison. The clock claimed it was a
minute and a half until the bell.
“Twenty points. It’s always twenty points, guys, come on.”
Patrick ignored this conversation and waited for the bell. He even dared to
hover over his chair a bit. He would be back here later, anyway, to apologize
for being late. Better that awkward interaction than risking a phone call to
Mom and Dad, he had decided. He just didn’t want to apologize in front of other
students. The tutoring sessions would be good time to catch Mr. Wentz, since he
assumed no one came to them. Yeah, that should work. He bolted with the first
chime of the bell.
---
From across campus, Patrick’s ending period was chemistry in the 200’s
building, he was at Mr. Wentz’s door at five minutes past three. The door was
cracked by less than an inch. He breathed out, the air a weight on his tongue.
He didn’t feel well. It was similar to his urge to dry-heave from earlier, only
it was higher. Physically further up his body. It was in his chest and head
rather than his stomach. He rested against the wall. The edge of a bulletin
board spewing something about Homecoming scratched at the underside of his
thighs.
Voices could be heard within the classroom. It was Mr. Wentz and a student.
They were speaking with inflected tones and the tapping noises of fingers on a
desk were mixed in. No words could be discerned.
Patrick had never been to tutoring, although he imagined it was what he was
hearing. His brow briefly furrowed in disappointment, soon relaxed upon
realizing he wouldn’t have to talk to Mr. Wentz with this uneasy feeling. What
if he suddenly became nauseous? Worse, what if he remained unforgiven for the
tardy? Should he walk in or wait until the other student exited?
There were too many questions, and he momentarily bowed to the floor. God, this
was so stupid. He turned to stare at the bulletin board. The school was
lulling, footsteps taking the shortcut behind the baseball field and cars
maneuvering the parking lot. He would have sat there, close to slipping into a
stress nap, if he hadn’t heard giggles passing him by. He looked around to
notice two cute girls. They hurried on with louder giggles. His face became
flushed and he left the building in the opposite direction.
Pete finished the tutoring session, which, honestly, wasn’t so much tutoring as
it was reassuring an overachiever that their essay was going to be fine. He
offered several caring shakes of his head with the reminder that extra credit
would be available at the end of the quarter to convince her to leave. Behind
her at the door, he glanced into the hallway. It was empty.
He returned to his desk and wiggled the computer’s mouse. The screen awoke and
showed him a few unread emails from his department head, PTO, and other people
he had no interest in. He clicked out and scrolled through his class rosters.
Derrick Moore and Patrick Stump. Those two had given him multiple tardies this
quarter, the latest for both happening today, and he supposed it was time to
call parents. He sighed, one hand reaching for the desk’s phone. The contact
information for the two boys was pulled up. Among the parents’ phone numbers,
he noticed the home addresses. Particularly Patrick Stump’s.
“Great,” Pete said. He leaned away from the screen.
His own home address was on Junie Avenue, whereas Patrick’s was on Jylon
Avenue. A quick mental map revealed that they lived quite close. Only a handful
of streets apart. Sharing a neighborhood with a student made him uncomfortable,
and he had hoped to be safe in the lower East side of the city. Apparently not,
this kid must be a boundary exception. The school was a half hour drive!
The hand on the phone was removed and folded into his lap with the other. He
made a face at the computer screen. He hadn’t lived near a student since he
himself was one, completing his final semester at the university. Since his
move to the lower East side, he had grown to savor the freedom of being
separated from this school; on the weekends, he would jog around the block
several times, shirtless and in dorky running shoes, or on Thursday mornings he
would drive to the Starbucks across the street for a mocha Frappuccino, which
was his motivation to finish strong for the week. He couldn’t risk being seen
doing these things by a student. Cruelty was inevitable.
Leaning once again, this time to knock his head against the whiteboard, he
loosened his necktie. His fingers hung at the collar of his dress shirt, the
cheap fabric strained.
No parents were called.
---
Pete stood in his kitchen. His necktie had further unfastened itself between
earlier and now, the sloppiness catching his gaze. He had been painfully, extra
careful coming home today. Like an idiot, he had kept his sunglasses on during
the drive home, despite the overcast sky, and had hustled from his Subaru to
his welcome mat. His shoulder bag dropped on the tile rather than hung on its
hook. He was distracted.
The refrigerator made a low buzz to signal that it was creating ice. It perked
Pete to refocus and he remembered what he was doing.
Fettuccine, a jar of store-bought sauce, garlic, and some chopped portobellos
and onions were simmering in a pot. The preparation time was much faster
without cutting and cooking any meat. He was vegetarian, at the moment, due to
a slight weight gain. He drained the contents, the small kitchen window made
foggy. Before plating the dish, he switched on the main lights that extended to
the living room, and then flipped on the television. He scooped out a serving
and filled a clean glass with sink water, not bothering with ice cubes.
Besides, the house was cold. He listened to the television’s announcement of a
new sitcom arriving this fall while waiting for the news segment and blowing
the excess steam from the pasta.
He ate slowly, in silence. He unbuttoned his pants when he began to bloat.
A wool blanket sat folded on the couch cushion next to Pete. It was his dog’s,
though he didn’t really have one. His girlfriend had taken the dog earlier that
year, around spring break, if he recalled correctly. She had packed her things,
dog riding shotgun, and driven off to her sister’s place. She had never
explicitly stated that they were broken up, no texts no calls no emails
afterward, either, so he joked that he still had a girlfriend. He wasn’t
seeking a relationship, thanks. And that blanket would hold its spot on the
couch until both of those bitches came home. At least, that’s what he expected.
He might get over it or want to warm his feet with the blanket, though.
His laugh caught in his throat and he choked it down, arms spreading over the
back of the couch to grip the leather.
Patrick had a similar pattern of dropping his shit by the door and plopping in
front of the television to eat. Alone. However, he chose to retreat to his
bedroom after finishing instead of lounging in the den. He didn’t want to have
his parents immediately explode on him, in case Mr. Wentz had called their cell
phones on the way home. He frowned at the thought.
Without more thinking, he grabbed his iPod from his dresser drawer, Mom
insisted it be left at home, and rolled into his bed’s blankets. The earbuds
pinched him in his horizontal position, and he had kept on his socks, probably
sweaty from today, but he couldn’t be bothered. He was done. William Beckett’s
voice filled him at full blast, his eyes automatically training toward the
poster of the leader singer. The shiny magazine freebie pictured William with
black frames and pouty lips.
It made Patrick shy. Especially due to this poster being a new addition to his
wall, it had been released along with the band’s latest album. Listening to
that gorgeous voice melted Monday’s monotone. His exhaustion became a shiver
that quickly travelled to his lower spine. He tucked the iPod beside his head
and went to undo his jeans. His left hand went to grip the base of his cock,
the right scrolling through the album to find a gentler song. He wanted to get
off to a steady, almost sensual sound.
He had no trouble getting hard with his sensitive cock. William’s singing, on
repeat once he found what he wanted, perked him to full height, and the
surrounding blankets were soft enough to tempt dribbles of precum. His hips
twitched. He rolled to lay on his back, the strokes remaining in rhythm with
the song.
In his fantasy, he imagined front row seats to the most fantastic The Academy
Is… concert. They would be the headliner, the crowd screaming for them with
pyrotechnics and huge, lighted screens blasting their logo behind them. He
would know every single lyric and would share the microphone during the grand
finale. People would cry because they wished to be him. Applause would make it
impossible to hear the band’s ‘Thank you all, thank you. Thank you, Patrick’.
Security would take him to the tour bus, past the barricades, and personally
deliver him to William. A spark igniting their first touch. They would whisper
secrets and kiss necks, lips, tongues. Patrick’s mouth wet and thirsty for
more, encouraging for a drop to his knees. His own erection tight, too tight--
“Sorry, I--!”
Mr. Wentz’s stern expression and rolling wrist, languid and strong, replaced
the whole William fantasy. No transition. One mental image slammed into the
other with no fucking consideration.
Patrick was dazed, spilling cum past his closed fist and onto the hem of his
jeans.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Legs crossed, Patrick smushed his cheek against his right hand. He glanced
around the classroom. People began to itch, realizing that the bell would ring
in a minute or two. Pens clicked, feet scuffed the linoleum floor, whispers of
the latest rumors and plans drifted above. Patrick used the extra noise to
grunt, a sound that had been stuck his throat for the past half hour.
It wasn’t a complete boner. It was about half-way there, threatening to bounce
to its full height if Mr. Wentz kept looking at him. Like that. This steely,
almost curious expression that he swore he had never seen before. He loved it,
his cock loved it, and he was grateful for his seat being near the front. He
leaned in.
Although, Patrick’s brain, that one irrational part, told him that Mr. Wentz
knew. He knew about how Patrick had been picturing him all week long. This
dirty portrait of his English teacher rolling past his eyelids when he squeezed
them shut, cumming in his hand, on the wall of his shower, and in his briefs
after he woke up. A tangible lust. He had been dreaming of him, too. Nothing
lucid, just flashes, enough for him to feel as if he was going through puberty
for the first time all over again. It sucked. But it was hot, and he was fine
with admitting that.
“It’s the weekend! Be safe, don’t be stupid,” Mr. Wentz beamed at the students.
He received a few head nods in response. “I’ll see you, oh, and I’ll see your
poetry paragraphs, on Monday.”
The students took this for their cue to stand and clamor near the door. Patrick
felt his arousal diminish, the previous view blocked, and he shifted. The
weekend meant he would have a good amount of free time.
If he could make that free time better, then he could find some courage. For a
moment. He heard the bell.
“... Mr. Wentz?” Patrick was at the edge of the teacher’s desk.
“Hi, Patrick, what’s going on?”
“I, well,” he started, “I don’t really get what you’re looking for in the
paragraph. We’re supposed to say things in our own words? Right?”
Pete sighed, more sympathetic than annoyed, “Yes, you are. Let me get the
assignment and we’ll check it out one more time. Here.”
From his desk’s side drawers, he grabbed a folder and opened it. He needed to
poke through it a bit, papers being pulled from a large paperclip.
Patrick stared. At less than a meter away, it was easy to drink in the details.
Those eyelashes were the first thing he noticed, long and, he assumed, soft,
flitting in concentration. He wanted to smile. Instead, his gaze navigated
toward that pair of hands to see clean nails and prominent knuckle bones. He
poured the image into his memory, flooding it for later when he was alone. He
could already guess that tonight’s fantasies would involve being in the grace
of that hold.
“I saw you today.”
Ripped from his thoughts, Patrick replied, “Huh? Wait, what?”
“I saw you daydreaming today. You need to keep your head out of the clouds, I
can’t re-explain every single thing in here. So listen up,” Pete said. He
tapped the paper for emphasis.
“Yeah, my fault.”
Pete went over what needed to be done, and handed Patrick an extra copy of the
assignment. Just in case. His pad of late passes was soon in his hand.
“Mr. Wentz?” Patrick ventured. He wanted to continue ogling. Not much came to
mind, so he attempted the second most overused topic after the weather, “Do you
have any plans this weekend?”
“Ah, no, not really. I’m more of a homebody these days,” Pete said, his voice
careful to not be too casual.
“Oh.”
“Why do you ask?”
Patrick hadn’t planned this far. He figured it was worth it, since he had extra
seconds to stare. And he couldn’t tell whether or not he had imagined the desk
shrinking between them. Nervously, he pushed both hands into his jacket
pockets, glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. He shrugged.
“Nothing interesting, I can tell you that,” Pete affirmed. He read the time on
the computer screen and wrote it on the pass.
“You’d love it in my neighborhood. Nothing ever happens there,” Patrick said,
reaching for the pass. The paper crinkled in his sweaty palm. He was forced to
hover, the conversation taking a pause.
Pete hesitated, “Yes, that’s… my type of neighborhood. You're all set, have a
nice weekend. Get that paragraph done, okay?”
“I will. Bye.”
Pete waved and sat down once he was alone. This was he prep period. He wasted
it by wondering why the hell that interaction gave him such a wave of
suspicion. Patrick was a student who had never approached him prior to today,
and he happened to make comments about his neighborhood? That was a heavy
coincidence.
Had he been seen?
---
“Geez, that wasn’t even worth the effort,” Patrick teased. He dodged a kick and
moved to walk on the building’s curb. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he
continued teasing, “Boooo! I want a refund!”
“Then good thing we didn’t pay, asshole.”
“So ungrateful!”
Robbie and Liam laughed, voices muffled on the cement walls. They jumped to
walk ahead of Patrick.
Their mission of sneaking themselves and Patrick into the only R rated movie at
the theater, Death Spiral 2, had been a partial success. No one had caught them
- quite a feat considering the kid could pass for a preteen - with a trio of
seats snagged at the back. The horror flick, unfortunately, was poorly acted
and failed to frighten.
“Can we go eat?” Patrick asked. He was pressed to the wall, tufts of hair
dirtied from the contact. Buttered popcorn could be smelled from where they
lingered at the rear of the theater. Probably due to the dumpsters out here,
but still. Having to lie about today’s plans this morning to his parents, he
had forgotten breakfast.
“You got money?” Liam chimed sarcastically. He tugged on his bill of his Cubs
cap, pretending to think.
“Nope. Broker than your daddy’s condom,” Robbie said.
Patrick sighed, “Fine, I’ll wait ‘til I’m home. Next time let’s steal some
food.”
“Sure, Stump,” Robbie said. “We’ll do whatever you want. You seem to be able to
run this shit.”
Again, they were laughing. Robbie and Liam didn’t mean much harm, truly, they
were Patrick’s mentors, in this weird way. They enjoyed being tough on him and
demonstrating how to not give too many fucks. Currently seniors at the same
high school, they had met each other in a remedial gym class last year, where
Patrick first began to learn the techniques of a future apathist. The three of
them hung out on the weekends, mostly, since they were in different grade
levels.
Apathy aside, Patrick had slowly become more comfortable with being rebellious.
Shoplifting candy bars, graffiti in the school bathrooms, flipping off
pedestrians while in the car, and, of course, movies that hadn’t been paid for.
Fun stuff. Being rebellious was what Patrick craved, and he needed the little
push that Robbie and Liam provided. To do it on his own would be difficult. And
depressing, he assumed.
“I’ve got smokes, that’s pretty close to a meal,” Liam offered, shaking a
bundle of cigarettes from a carton. “Try not to cough on us.”
Patrick frowned. Cigarettes weren’t a favorite of his, the burning and the
taste preventing more than a couple puffs. Regardless, he accepted what was
offered, saying, “I’ll probably use this later. It takes the boredom away at
home.”
Liam encouraged him, “I only got four left. Keep the carton and we’ll have
these two.”
Robbie brought out a lighter. He watched Liam toss the cigarettes to a bumbling
Patrick, the flame a soft glow above his fist.
Wary of the smoke, Patrick watched the pair inhale and exhale like living
chimneys. He absently checked his cell phone for the time, a quarter past five,
and wondered if they were going to find additional trouble after dark. He hoped
the answer was a ‘yes’ - the darkness made him feel less guilty and more
adventurous. Willing to misbehave.
He thought of Mr. Wentz.
“Did either of you have Wentz last year?” Patrick asked. He pressed further
into the wall behind him.
“What, for history?” Robbie blinked.
“No, for English.”
“Oh, duh, uh huh. I did.”
Patrick, thankful that he had been bullied into revealing his tastes, told
them, “I swear he was making eyes at me yesterday. It was kinda cool.”
Robbie brightened, “Stump! You perv, of course you’d think that. Did you offer
to suck his dick for extra credit?”
“Maybe!”
“Whoa, and I thought I was bad for dating that freshman! You're over here
aiming to be jail bait,” Robbie said. He pointed at the younger boy with the
lit end of his cigarette. “What are you gonna do about it?”
Rolling his shoulders, Patrick spoke above Liam’s cooing, “Die, I guess? He’s
way hotter than me.”
“Plus, I doubt he’s into high schoolers,” Liam said.
“Mm. He’s definitely a good-looking guy,” Robbie said, his hooked nose
sniffling. Personally, he had experienced bisexual tendencies, and did in fact
remember having fantasies sparked by the way Mr. Wentz stroked his beard. “I
don’t even know how you’d try that. Hey! Did you know he has tattoos?”
Patrick gasped, “He does? Where?”
“On his chest and arms, could be more elsewhere. He keeps it hidden with the
way he dresses, but I’ve seen it.”
Patrick’s lips remained parted with surprise.
“Robbie, gross,” Liam said.
“I figured he’d be interested, ha ha.”
Tattoos, where they could be hiding and what they depicted, consumed Patrick
until his head hit the pillow that night. He needed Robbie to be telling the
truth.
---
Pete unlocked his front door. It was Sunday morning, and the weather was sunny
with a soft breeze. He didn’t want to waste this opportunity. Soon, he wouldn’t
be able to run due to the cold.
The soles of his shoes touched the porch and he breathed in. He was being
stupid.
“It’ll be quick.”
A fresh route was created in Pete’s mind, nowhere near Patrick’s home, and he
scanned the street because his anxiety made him. No one in sight. Obviously. He
tugged at the hem of his ratty Metallica tee and popped in his earbuds.
He eased into a power walk, his feet stepping lightly. Around the corner of his
street, he changed to a jog with his line of vision straight forward. There
really wasn’t a need to be moving cautiously or trying to notice any familiar
faces, no, everything was normal. Confidence swelled within. This was where he
lived, and damn it, not being able to go do his weekend exercise would be
unfair. He increased the volume of his music while mouthing lyrics.
Despite the Metallica tee, he was listening to a band called blink-182. Rock
music from the 70’s and 80’s was his preference, however, he had been exploring
this pop punk genre lately. It was catchy and powerful, and, to be perfectly
honest, it made him feel younger. He had considered attending concerts for
these new bands, and ultimately decided that he would feel out of place.
Colleagues at the school had told him that, without the beard, he could pass
for a teenager rather than a man close to thirty, which was definitely a
compliment. He was always able to remain gracious. Yet his gut instinct won,
and he hadn’t to seen a pop punk band live.
The route Pete was on included a small park. It was grassy and had a sugar
maple grove on the West side, the low, dense leaves giving it potential for
mischief.
Patrick exited the grove. He had finally managed to light one of the
cigarettes, holding it at the edge of his lips. He was simply allowing it to
smolder. His friends weren’t there to harass him into deep drags, content to
first master the cool appearance. He wished his cell phone had a camera, a
better profile photo for Myspace would be great.
He plucked the cigarette and held it away from his face to inspect. Ashes
fluttered, his body involuntarily moving toward the park’s sidewalk.
“Oh my God.”
An underaged student smoking at the mercy of his teacher, who was in workout
clothes that included a layer of sweat. Strangely, each had been in the other’s
subconscious.
Pete halted, headphones removed and jaw slack. He said the first thing that hit
him, “Put that out. Right now.”
“Oh my God,” Patrick repeated. He immediately dropped the cigarette and stomped
it to bits. “I, I’m sorry.”
“What are you--?”
“Mr. Wentz, I--”
Pete put on his classroom tone, clear and cordial, “I see you’re out for a
Sunday stroll, as well. We’re not going to be messing with more cigarettes
after we part ways? Can you assure me of that?”
“Sure, I can, err, assure you. Sorry,” Patrick babbled in response. He didn’t
know what to do. Holy fuck.
Mr. Wentz was in streetwear, exposing those tattoos Robbie had mentioned. No
necktie or ballpoint pen, instead earbuds and a trail of chest hair. Had it not
been for the shock of being caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to, all
the blood would be rushing to his cock and not his cheeks. He was redder than a
cherry pie splattered on a firetruck.
“I don’t want to have to worry about seeing one of my students smoking on my
morning jog.”
Patrick nodded dumbly.
“Does that make sense?”
“Y-Yeah.”
“Good. Thank you.”
Moving his right hand to touch the shorter boy’s shoulder, Pete held a gentle
expression. He understood that his previous suspicions of Patrick knowing they
lived in the same neighborhood were unreasonable. And he was trusting that this
meant they they were on even terms; he himself wouldn’t call Patrick’s parents,
and Patrick wouldn’t gossip to his classmates regarding his tattoos, suddenly
such a blaring item he wished to hide, or exercise outfit. This situation could
be neutralized.
“Are you going to be in school on Monday? Or will you be too embarrassed?” Pete
asked, certainly not about to admit his personal embarrassment.
Patrick knew what he was supposed to say, and bowed his head, “I’ll be in
school. I’m sorry again, Mr. Wentz.”
“All right,” Pete said, removing his hand and missing the whimper that went
with it. He sidestepped. “Stay in school, don’t do drugs, et cetera.”
Patrick stood in his wake. A thousand questions sprang forth. Did Mr. Wentz
actually live nearby? Could he tell that he was hiding the final cigarette?
Were his parents going to be called? How was he going to function in class? Was
this a divine punishment for masturbating in excess?
Had Mr. Wentz been listening to blink-182?
***** Chapter 3 *****
Pete swallowed his final bite of breakfast and moved to place the bowl and
spoon in the sink. Corn flakes and almond milk splashed out as he rinsed it,
his hands washed with the soap. The clock above the oven told him he had less
than an hour to get to work. He had been sluggish lately. He had been weird.
At the front door, he completed his usual routine of pulling on his shoes,
adjusting the strap of his shoulder bag, and tightening his necktie. One, two,
three - shoes, bag, necktie. It felt good. Stable.
He got in his car to drive to school with a lock on the fifty miles per hour
speed limit, despite the consequence that he wouldn’t have time to make copies
this morning. His students would be fine to simply do writing exercises on
notebook paper.
“Shit,” Pete whispered, a sharp right turn causing him to swing out into the
next lane. There was a honk.
Seeing Patrick Stump on that Sunday run, a student, wide-eyed with a fucking
cigarette, had been such a punch to the gut. Two punches, honestly. And he had
been debating to go out that morning, too! Add a divine cosmic slap to that
double shot. The calm demeanor he had displayed was his own way of panicking.
It’s how he had survived his first few months of professional teaching.
Even if he had chosen to call the kid’s parents, he knew that wouldn’t bring
any sort of peace. The strange little situation of them being neighbors had
been acknowledged. Worse, the indecency brought on by his workout clothes had
been mixed in. He hung his head at the following red light. Oil from his
forehead created a smudge on the steering wheel’s leather.
Weird.
Maybe it would have been less painful if he had been jogging with someone else?
Perhaps a friend or girlfriend? Or if there hadn’t been any smoking involved?
Not that he was going to lord a moral high ground over Patrick.. He had
participated in his fair share of drug-related nonsense in college. No
cigarettes, though. Nicotine stirred nausea. He had preferred things from the
earth like weed or mushrooms. For a moment, he was reliving a blissful memory
from his sophomore year. Then he reached the school’s main intersection,
‘Newfound Chicago Public High’ visible in its matte black lettering.
Pete made a pit stop at the teacher’s lounge. He wasn’t ready to step foot in
his classroom. He had parked in the further end of the lot and power walked to
the lounge straightaway. Thoughts of the past weekend continued to steam up his
mind’s mirror.
Inside, he was alone. Of course he was, it was a quarter to eight, first period
was soon to begin, the hum of the vending machine like an eclectic coworker. He
glanced at it.
Several coins were dug from his pocket, and he slotted them into the vending
machine. The selection buttons illuminated once a dollar’s worth had been
entered. He brushed his fingers over them, realized they couldn't be very
clean, and stopped. He tapped the button for a Coke. Hopefully its fizzy
sweetness would fight off his fuzzy bitterness. A beep sounded, his drink
falling to the gap at the bottom. Except, it appeared to have gotten stuck.
Bent down, he could see that the can had fallen diagonally and was wedged in
the crevice where it was supposed to drop from.
Pete tried to retrieve the Coke by pushing his hand into the gap and toward the
crevice. No, it wouldn’t fit. Still, he tried again. He scowled, coming up
empty and with tiny abrasions on his knuckles. He stood and knocked the machine
with his foot. The screen near the coin slot displayed an error message, a
message requesting money quickly replacing it. Another kick was given, this
time harder. Nothing happened. He swung his leg backward to build momentum. His
shoulder was held by an unknown grip and he faltered, a breath released. In a
lick of hysteria, he thought he would find Patrick there.
“Good morning, Peter,” Mr. Bremont said, a pause taken to lift his grip. “Are
we having trouble? This thing is old, you know.”
Pete was startled, answering, “G’morning, yes, my drink got stuck. Just wanted
a caffeine fix.”
Also from the English department, Mr. Bremont taught the underclassmen. He saw
Pete often enough, and was surprised to watch him kick and be so transparent
with anger. It was concerning.
“How about I get a drink, too? It should bump yours down,” Mr. Bremont said. He
took out his wallet.
Pete nodded.
The vending machine obliged, both cans promptly where they should be. The older
teacher took his Brisk Iced Tea and passed the Coke to Pete.
“Rough week?” Mr. Bremont asked. It was small talk.
“It is.”
“Those juniors starting to get senioritis?”
Pete’s nostrils flared with false thoughtfulness. A replay of his encounter
this weekend happened behind his murky brown eyes.
“They’ve been troublesome, yes. But I can handle it.”
---
A soft spring to his step, Patrick exited the main building from the East hall.
He had waited for the immediate afterschool crowds to thin before heading
toward the driver’s education area. The circular section of asphalt was
typically empty, its orange traffic cones arranged in different patterns each
week. It’s where he would meet Liam and Robbie.
“There he is!”
A wolf whistle accompanied the shout.
“Shhh!” Patrick bared his teeth at them. He hustled to move closer, not wanting
their voices to carry. He had texted them the story of his weekend. “Shut up! I
shouldn’t tell you freaks anything.”
“No, no, you really should. It’s great,” Robbie chriped, patting the shorter
boy on the head. He laughed.
Liam, finishing his laughs, agreed, “Yeah, this is crazy. You should make this
into, I dunno, a daytime soap opera.”
Patrick huffed, “No thanks.”
“What are you gonna do? Nothing?”
“Uh.. I guess?”
Robbie and Liam exchanged smirks. Both were taller than Patrick, effortlessly
towering over him for a bit of coercion. Their favorite.
“Don’t you want to see him again?” Liam asked. Dramatically, he rocked his body
and faked a moan. “Get a better look at those tattoos and chest hair?”
“I didn’t say he had chest hair!”
While Liam had an immature fit of giggles, Robbie said, “I’m free this Friday
night. Maybe we could get into some shit?”
“What?” Patrick was confused. He was wary of a teacher moving along the
adjacent sidewalk.
“Yeah, we could go spy on him. Get a good view.”
“Oh, God no, I don’t even know where he lives.”
Patrick had been utterly stunned after the incident. Tased from head to toe. He
hadn’t seen where Mr. Wentz had come from, or where he went. Clueless as to
what part of the neighborhood he might live in. He had made a direct path home,
gaze aimed at his feet in a shameful adrenaline. Now figuring out which house
was his would be a challenge, and definitely high risk. Though part of his
brain reminded him that it would be high reward. Probably. There were other
factors, but he had been lucky so far. His mortified expression lessened.
Robbie continued, “I’ll figure out where he lives, leave it to me. So, it’s a
date?”
“Gay,” Liam said. Giggles aside, he was kicking at a split in the sidewalk.
“I’ve gotta watch the pipsqueak on Friday. My mom’s going to group therapy,
I’ll be playing babysitter.”
“Isn’t she eleven now? Can’t she watch herself?” Patrick wondered.
“No, my mom found out about that fight I was in, this is my punishment. If I
ditch, I think she might kick me out for real.”
“Hey, I’ll be babysitting, too. We’ll have a blast, and I’ll have him in bed by
midnight,” Robbie said, nudging Patrick in his belly. It was sort of lame that
they wouldn’t have their normal trio. But they would be able to sneak around
more easily, that was for sure. Liam was the loudest and had the highest
potential to be an idiot. Case in point: getting into that fight.
Gravity was weighing into Patrick’s jaw. No objections given. He wanted to cut
this plan short, he didn’t know how he would manage it, despite Robbie’s
confidence and company. Rebellion was fun when it was nonspecific. To pursue
Mr. Wentz at home, to spy for personal pleasure was terrifying. His mouth
opened, a protest lost on his chapped lips.
“Text me once you’re home from school on Friday. I’ll come get you later. Oh,
and my camera! I’ll bring that,” Robbie said. He was bouncing. One heel
switched with the other, his dusty sneakers creating a beat.
“Your camera?”
“Seriously, c’mon, be cool.”
Liam grinned, “You’ll have to tell me all about this later. Don’t get arrested,
ha ha.”
Patrick tensed at the possibility of trouble with the law. Wait, would they be
trespassing? Stalking? He swayed, rubbing his eyes in frustration.
“We won’t get arrested,” Robbie said. “We’re not the ones into violence. How’d
that fight happen, anyway?”
“Some pussy called me a pussy.”
---
Patrick was impressed. However stomach churningly, heart bangingly anxious he
was, Robbie’s handiwork had him impressed. He squinted at him, a smear on his
glasses adding to the weak visibility from the setting sun.
“You.. You stole this?” Patrick questioned.
“No, no,” Robbie said, “I didn’t steal it. I copied it from the principal’s
directory yesterday. I was getting yelled at for whatever, and he had to go
talk to Ms. Hesch. I found Mr. Wentz’s at the back. Did you know his middle
name is Lewis?”
Patrick hesitated. In his hand, he held the index card where Mr. Wentz’s
alleged address had been printed in Robbie’s blocky handwriting. It was close
to his parents’ house. Only a few streets over. His tone was curious, “How are
we doing this?”
“Quietly and without the flash on.” Robbie wiggled his camera in order to
stress his words. It was digital, and hung around his neck with a gray lanyard.
In case of photo opportunities, their cell phones wouldn’t be enough. “Let’s go
scope the place out.”
Junie Avenue was a long street, and they needed a solid fifteen minutes until
locating their destination. It was in the middle, lofty wooden fences
decorating the neighboring homes. Heaven forbid they had to make a break for
it. They would be simultaneoously exposed and trapped. Street lamps glowed in
the air, the scent of wet brick reminiscing of an afternoon drizzle.
“I don’t see any lights,” Patrick said. They had triple checked the address
and, yes, this should be Mr. Wentz’s house. The garage was shut, all windows
lifeless.
“We could wait?” Robbie offered.
“Uh, should we?”
“Fuck, lights!”
Robbie yanked them to a squatting position, their backs finding a wall. They
were crushed against the stucco of a neighbor’s fence with hedges on each side,
directly across from the house. It had suddenly become occupied.
Patrick had tugged his hoodie over his face, voice muffled, “Is he there? Can
he see us?”
“No, we’re out of sight. I think he’s there, though. Someone’s moving around by
the front window,” Robbie said.
“Let’s stop. I can’t--”
“Stump!”
“Robbie.”
“We’re already here. This is gold.”
Their path was a straightshot, Robbie leading with Patrick clinging at the
rear. It would have been hilarious in different circumstances. In the yard,
they dipped to their elbows and knees for an army crawl. It was uncomfortable.
They kept low and propped themselves at the line of shrubs beneath the window,
necks craned for a peek. The living room was theirs to behold.
Mr. Wentz stood at the television. God, they had gotten the right house! He
appeared to be trying to change the channel, repeatedly tapping his remote and
aiming it at the box. Hips jutted in focus. A second later, he had abandoned
his attempts, instead switching the channel manually. He returned to the couch.
Patrick realized two things. Shorts and no girl.
Nested among the cushions, Mr. Wentz was slumped with his legs perched on the
coffee table. The gym shorts he wore, faded and susceptible to sliding,
outlined Patrick’s thirstiest desires. He could see a bulge. There was a cock
and balls under those shorts and he had a pretty good idea of their size. He
definitely hadn’t spotted that last weekend. It took serious willpower to not
daydream of how eagerly he would slurp that bulge. Make it hard and taste its
cum. He unconsciously clawed at the shrubs’ leaves. And no one else was in the
house! Patrick had checked for a wedding ring in the past, and had been annoyed
by the chance for a girlfriend. He felt relieved. Kind of disgusting, too.
Robbie hit the camera’s power button. He gestured for silence when Patrick
noticed the device blinking, the screen automatically fixating on the
foreground. He raised it to eye level and zoomed in slightly, his pale fingers
dancing this way and that. Had Mr. Wentz turned to the window, he would have
seen them. He didn’t, and the photoshoot carried on.
“Hm,” Robbie murmured. He clicked through the last couple and pursed his mouth
in anticipation. “The most interesting thing we have is his legs. Not much.”
Patrick, wary of the television’s faint drone, murmured in reply, “Who cares?
This is plenty for me. We should go.”
“His tattoos are tough to make out.”
“It’s fine.”
A noise drifted into their conversation, a yawn from inside. They froze,
recognized that there was no danger, and looked over. They watched. Mr. Wentz
was stretching, his spine arched and his torso pushed skyward. The shirt he
wore lifted with him, revealing more ink at his navel. It was a heart shaped
design that appeared to chase his happy trail.
Patrick couldn’t help himself. His reaction reflected that of the run-in at the
park.
“Oh my God.”
Pete jerked. His body abruptly upright. He stared out the window. There had
been a gasp and a shushing sound and he swore there was glint of something
silver. What was going on?
He decided to take action rather than wait to be murdered. As he rose from the
couch, he saw the fucking plants move outside his window and he booked it to
the front. Who was there!? He grabbed an umbrella from the corner and flung the
door open, bellowing so intensely his throat burned.
“GO AWAY! I HAVE A GUN!”
The shrubs were ruffled, although no major harm done. A kid was fleeing the
scene across the street, and another was crumpled, cowering, twigs caught in
his dirty blonde hair. He took a wild guess regarding their identity before he
demanded an explanation.
“Mr. Wentz, pl-please, I didn’t mean to."
***** Chapter 4 *****
“Patrick Stump,” Pete said aloud, his brain coming down from its frightened
high. The words had been forced out. “What happened? No, wait.”
He realized that the kid was most likely flustered beyond what could be
considered healthy. Collapsed by the shock of being caught. And caught doing
what, exactly? He needed to know. His tactics changed from a lawn interrogation
to a more inviting setting.
“Here, get up. Let’s go inside for a minute,” Pete said. He paused, wondering
if that might not be enough and Patrick would take off once his back was
turned. So he added, “I don’t want to have to tell your parents that you failed
today’s quiz and you wrecked my yard.”
He gestured loosely toward the ruffled shrubs and scuffy footprints in the
grass.
Dumbstruck, Patrick obeyed. He didn’t dare not to. He couldn’t care less about
a conversation Mr. Wentz might have with his parents, definitely not, he was
more concerned about being hated even more after what he did. At this point, he
was sure running away would be the worst course of action.
On his feet, he walked to the front door, which was held open for him. It was
freaky. Inside, his shoes seemed to echo on the hardwood floors with the few
steps he took. Then he was motionless.
Pete was soon behind him, though he didn’t close the door. It wasn’t done
consciously, but rather a habit. From the first day he attended his educator’s
classes, he had been taught to never shut a door when alone with a student.
Always ajar. This was because it could give an outsider the wrong impression.
“Mr. Wentz, I’m sorry. We, I, we were being stupid,” Patrick babbled. His hands
were clasped together, slowly losing color from the pressure. He watched Mr.
Wentz walk toward the kitchen area. Unable to watch that backside move in those
shorts, the sheer tension he felt pushed his gaze to the ceiling. “Me and
Robbie didn’t know you were home. We weren’t trying to--”
“Robbie? As in.. Robert Finnegan?”
“Uh-Uhm, yeah.”
“Hah, I remember him. I had him last year.”
Patrick didn’t know what to say. Should he bother answering at all? Mr. Wentz
had kind of sounded amused. The type of tone used while talking to oneself.
Pete looked over his shoulder and noticed Patrick rooted to the spot. He
pointed to the couch, saying, “Have a seat and we’ll chat a bit. Would you like
a drink?”
Doing what he was told, Patrick hovered above the edge of the couch, and said,
“No thanks. I don’t drink.”
Pete laughed, “I meant a non-alcoholic drink.”
“Oh. Uh, no.”
“I think you could at least use some water.”
Of course, there was no argument to be heard. Pete filled two glasses with ice
and water from the refrigerator, a piece of ice jumping from the second glass.
He watched it break on the floor, eyes noticing his own legs. Fantastic. If his
his legs hadn’t gotten enough attention in their previous encounter, they
definitely would now. Fuck, were his thighs really that hairy? He winced at
himself. Still, he wouldn’t go put on his robe or anything. He knew it would be
perceived awkwardly, and he couldn’t have that. This was his home, he was the
victim who had his privacy invaded. He shouldn't have to change outfits.
Pete exited the kitchen and set both glasses on the coffee table. He grabbed
the remote from its surface and switched off the television. Instead of the
couch, he sat at the rocking chair. The wood creaked with his body, and he
stared at the unexpected company.
“Please tell me, why were you and Robbie Finnegan outside my window at,” Pete
glanced at the clock above the oven, “eight o’ clock on a Friday night? The
truth would be great, and, if not, a believable excuse is enough.”
He smiled and leaned into the chair.
Patrick squirmed, his hands having shifted to grip his elbows. He would be an
idiot to give the truth, “I don’t know. Robbie had found out that you lived
near me and thought it might be interesting to go poking around.”
“He thought it might be interesting? Only him?”
“I mean, I guess, I follow him around because he’s my friend.”
“Were you dragged into this, then?”
“Not literally. But yeah.”
With a nod, Pete mulled over what he had been told. It sounded fair, not
terribly outrageous. And he assumed the continued expression of fear on
Patrick’s face was fair, too. He couldn’t blame the kid.
Curious, he asked, “Does you coming here relate to seeing me last weekend?”
Patrick was unable to give a reply. His cell phone had begun to ring, loud and
to the eight-bit version of a song Pete didn’t recognize. They glanced at each
other.
Pete sighed and dropped the last question, “Answer it or don’t. I’m not going
to tell you what to do.”
“N-No, I won’t,” Patrick said. Before he hung up on the caller, he went to see
who it was. Robbie. What a jackass - he couldn’t be bothered to help him escape
earlier, and yet he decided to call him? What, to check up on him? He hit the
‘end’ button and returned the cell phone to his jacket pocket.
“Sorry, Mr. Wentz.”
“You’re fine, don’t worry.”
“No, like,” Patrick licked the corner of his mouth, thinking of what he wanted
to say, “I’m sorry for what me and Robbie did. We shouldn’t have been..
sneaking around your house.”
Pete nodded again, “Thank you for apologizing. Honestly, I don’t understand why
you two would do this.”
“I don’t know. We were being jerks, that’s all.”
“I’d have to agree.”
Patrick wasn’t going to make Mr. Wentz aware that there had been a camera
involved. It appeared that the camera had gone unseen, and he wasn’t going to
discuss it if he didn’t have to. This whole thing would only become creepier
with that information. Couldn’t he get arrested? His lips were sealed, he
wanted to get out of this with the least amount of trouble possible. On the
couch, he scooted more to the left. His knee bumped a folded blanket, and he
settled his hand on top of the woolen material. It was reassuring.
“I want you to understand that I won’t be calling your parents, and you won’t
be going in on Monday to tell everyone about where I live or how I look outside
of school. I’ll talk to Robbie later,” Pete said, observing the nonchalant
touch on his dog’s blanket. He scratched at the side of his cheek, nails
swirling against his beard. The weekend’s scruff hadn’t set in quite yet.
Patrick’s voice was small, “Okay. I won’t say a word on Monday. Or, I won’t say
a word ever. Sorry.”
Finally, Patrick reached for the glass of water. The condensation required him
to adjust his grip before he could take a drink, and he was relieved to soon
have a chill coating his parched throat. As he drank, he took in the finer
points of the house. It was modest; no harsh colors or tacky knick knacks, the
most prominent details being a record player near the television and a framed
photo of Mr. Wentz shaking a young lady’s hand. The photo was placed on the
wall of a hallway that lead away from the main area. Creamy white paint and a
single light fixture allowed him to see further down the hallway. He swore he
could make out the shape of another door. Probably a bedroom door.
Patrick’s throat returned to its parched state. Mr. Wentz had said something,
and he hadn’t been listening. Shit, whoops. He put down his glass and tried to
make eye contact. It was difficult, his mind already wandering along a path of
what he was desperate to do with this man beneath the sheets. He would bet Mr.
Wentz’s bed smelled nice. Fabric softener and whatever shampoo he used.
“So, you don’t want to share?” Pete asked. He rested one leg over the other and
wrinkled his forehead.
Patrick blinked twice, “Wait, what?”
“Robbie. Why be friends with someone who gets you into to trouble?”
“Because.. It’s fun? We usually have fun.”
Under the guide of Mr. Wentz prompts to better understand what had happened -
it reminded Patrick of the discussion circles they performed in class - he
explained his friendship with Robbie. Had Robbie, or Liam, for that matter,
heard how he was spilling the beans, they would be livid. No one else was
supposed to know about the little crimes they committed, the disdain they had
for the school system. It’s what bonded them together! It wasn’t meant to be
shared, especially not with a teacher!
By the time they had hashed out the reasoning for Patrick’s rebellious streak,
he was a hot mess. Whenever Mr. Wentz would reach for his own water or roam his
gaze in thought, Patrick fed his imagination. Discreetly. He stole looks of
those arm tattoos and that bulge in his shorts. He did this without lingering,
the anxiety of popping a boner stronger than his need to stare. Though his cock
did manage to shiver in excitement, and he wound up crossing his legs. He would
explode once he was safe in his room.
He couldn’t hide his frown at the suggestion that he should get going.
Pete, certain the last half hour they had spent talking was plenty, wondered,
“Is everything all right at home?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, it is. I just know Robbie is gonna smack me upside the head
next he sees me,” Patrick said. It was partially true. Liam would do the same.
Pete wrinkled his brow in concern.
“Kidding,” Patrick chuckled uneasily.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
They walked to the front door, where it remained slightly propped open.
Outside, the air was quiet, the squeak of the doorknob beneath Pete’s fingers
almost startling them both.
“Thanks for being cool about this,” Patrick told him shyly. He had moved to
stand on the porch, fists clenched and stretching the pockets of his jacket. “I
owe you. I promise I’ll and get an ‘A’ in your class.”
Pete’s response was gentle, “I appreciate that. Try your best to behave,
please. I know rebelling is something you want to do, but I don’t want to see
you getting hurt.”
“Okay, Mr. Wentz.”
“Goodnight then, I’ll see you on Monday.”
The door shut, and Patrick wiped sweat from his hairline as he fixed the
alignment of his glasses. He turned and took deep breaths with his first
several steps toward the sidewalk. He was smiling.
---
Sunday morning found Pete laid up in bed. The only movements he had made were
to take a piss and grab his laptop. He couldn’t be bothered for a run, his mind
simply wasn’t there.
Rather, his focus was on touching himself.
He was feeling lazy, cock lulling in one hand with the other scrolling through
clips of porn. His favorite website had heaps of new material, suggesting that
he hadn’t recently visited. When he did find a video of his tastes, typically a
younger girl giving a blow job, he struggled to enjoy it. His Internet
connection was lagging, the girls acting overly cheerful and working to
maintain their perfectly scrunched ponytails. He grumbled.
Pete lifted from his pillows for a stretch. The laptop was closed and he headed
into the den, half-flaccid cock drawing an outline at the front of his briefs.
He sat at the middle of the couch and kicked his feet onto the coffee table,
careful to not have his sock-clad heels slide along the glass. He tilted back
with his eyes shut.
The incident from Friday night was fresh in his mind. It caused him to be
paranoid and triple check that each surrounding window had their shudders
secured. He needed a good five minutes until he was was able to attend to his
budding erection without worry.
While he stroked, he remembered how his old girlfriend rarely allowed him to
cum where he wanted to. He loved to shoot his load on her face. Not
maliciously, no, he wasn’t trying to blind her. It was just his preference. He
found it hot. Tightening his grip, he replayed the handful of times when she
had taken it in the face. He groaned, mouth slack with pleasure.
The mental image of her faded. The tip of his cock was wet with pre-cum, and he
concentrated on the idea of dripping his release down a face. He gave a louder
groan and moved his unoccupied hand to steady himself with a cushion. He
accidentally caught the blanket.
Patrick appeared behind his eyelids.
“Ah, no, f-fuck..!” Pete’s teeth were snapped into a tight grimace. He could
picture Patrick seated on the couch, leg against the blanket, gaze wide with
guilt and neck flushed with embarrassment. It was a sinister spark, gone in an
instant. A yelp escaped him, and he removed his hand from his cock. “Fuck!”
His swear reverberated off the hardwood floors, and he bolted from the couch,
panting. Sick.
He shoved his erection back into his briefs and paced for a moment. That was a
fluke. An unintentional fantasy. He would never view a student in a sexual way,
and obviously not a male student. No. He had experienced an odd past couple of
weekends, and he blamed it entirely on that. He was stressed from dealing with
kids inside and outside of school, from getting older, from being lonely -
everything.
The shower he took was so cold, he couldn’t think.
***** Chapter 5 *****
The bathroom mirror showed Patrick’s bedhead and faded pajamas. He tapped his
chin thoughtfully and looked at the shower behind him. Nah. He had showered
yesterday morning, he was clean enough.
Teeth soon brushed and face washed, he changed into something new. It was cool
in the mornings, nearly October, and he made sure to pull on fuzzy socks under
his jeans. It took him a good ten minutes to choose a shirt, the rejected ones
creating a pile in front of the closet. He settled on navy blue polo with a
high collar and thin gray stripes. The stripes were horizontal, which caused
his only concern to be his weight. Weren’t horizontal stripes supposed to make
you look fatter? He did a double take in the mirror, spinning all the way
around, before snagging his jacket. He zipped it an inch past his belly button.
Patrick’s final challenge was his hair. Not allowed to wear hats in school, he
attempted to style it. First, he wet both hands and ran them through the dirty
blonde strands, which simply stuck to his scalp. Gross. He yanked the old
blowdryer out from under the sink cabinet and plugged it in. After drying his
hair, he then tried using the gel his mom had bought him last Christmas. The
purple goop was expired, unbeknownst to him. Combing it through his hair was
like spreading marshmallow fluff on bread - it bunched together and failed to
blend evenly. He scowled.
At this point, his alarm clock declaring a few minutes past seven, he gave up
and rinsed out the gel. He placed the hood of his jacket over his head, the
strings tight to hold it in place. It was a decent touch, especially with his
bangs visible across his forehead. In his opinion, he looked effortlessly cozy.
And he would wear his hood until a teacher told him to lower it. Stupid dress
code. Of course, he would be able to wear it in Mr. Wentz’s class, he was lax
about those types of school policies.
Mr. Wentz.
God, despite the utter fear his misadventure had sparked, seeing that man in
his casual clothes at home had been a wet dream for Patrick. They had this
weird, fantastic connection now. He knew it. He tingled just thinking about it,
managing to skip his usual stare at the William Beckett poster while he grabbed
his backpack. Downstairs, his mother waved him toward the kitchen.
“You missed your bus,” Mrs. Stump chided. She was up to her elbows in dish
water, scrubbing a particularly greasy pan.
Patrick pointed to his damp bangs and shrugged, “Mom, I was showering. Sorry.”
“Well, that’s good. You get so sweaty sometimes.”
“.. Yeah. Anyway, since you don’t work today, can you give me a ride?”
“Mm, I suppose. Let me get my keys, sweetie.”
Mrs. Stump wiped off on a dishtowel and straightened the shawl on her neck. She
smiled and went to find her purse.
In the family Volkswagen, Patrick toyed with his glasses. He sat in the
backseat, rubbing his fingers across the frame. He wished he didn’t have to
wear them. Of the two boys he had kissed, both had complimented his eyes. It
was difficult to recognize their lovely color unless there was close proximity.
He wanted Mr. Wentz to notice his eyes. But when he removed his glasses, he had
trouble reading the ‘Hold Your Head High Heavy Heart’ he had penned onto his
wrist last night. The glasses would have to stay.
Really, he would be fine being noticed in whatever way. He needed to relive
that rush of being the absolute center of Mr. Wentz’s attention.
“Thanks!” Patrick called to his mother as he hopped from the car. From the
curb, he saw the main gate was open. He walked past it and entered the building
where he had first period.
The hallways were snug, a heater humming somewhere in the ducts above, and
mostly empty. Students didn’t visit their teachers for fun or for help with
homework the way they had in junior high. Everyone was too good for that at
this point in their education. According to his parents, it would start again
in college.
Alone and with time to spare, Patrick camped outside the door for his first
period class. On his cell phone, he reread the separate conversations he had
been having with Robbie and Liam. They were unable to have a three-way
conversation on their cell phones. That was solely possibly via IM, where Liam
would constantly snicker about the phrase ‘three-way’. Heh. The glow of the
screen illuminated his smirk.
Liam had gone on and on about how much of a lucky idiot Patrick was. It was
funny, and Patrick had to correct a couple of details on what had happened. For
example, everyone involved had been clothed. He texted Liam that he would tell
the full story next time they saw each other and reminded him that none of this
was meant for the rumor mill. Robbie was the single soul aside from himself
that Liam was permitted to discuss this with. Speaking of which.. He
backtracked and opened the thread with Robbie.
A set of four photos from Robbie’s camera had been sent. None of them were
exceptionally stunning; the first two were blurry, the third was mainly a shot
of the ceiling, and the fourth was a reflection of the lense in the window
pane. Gazing at them, on his shitty flip phone, he couldn’t help reminiscing.
He had gotten so much from that experience, and he craved more. He might dare
to try a riskier move if given a second opportunity, though he wasn’t ready
with any specifics. Guess that’s why he had the friends he did.
Blaring its three chimes, the bell for first period snatched him from his
daydream.
---
Patrick’s demeanor shifted day by day during that week. From hopeful to
annoyed. By Friday, he was silently seething in English class. Poetry be
damned.
He didn’t understand. It was as if he were being ignored. As if their little
run-in had slipped out of Mr. Wentz’s memory. Was that truly the case? Or was
this on purpose? He grappled with these questions instead of completing his
classwork. He couldn’t concentrate.
The following week was worse.
Frustrated, he endured sixth period. He would arrive late and simply be pointed
to his desk, chew gum and receive no more than a sideways glance, raise his
hand when asked and always have another student chosen. He didn’t want to be a
total delinquent to get an ounce of acknowledgment. Nor did he want to approach
this in a peaceful, one-on-one manner. He didn’t know what to do.
Mr. Wentz seemed to be unlike himself in other ways, Patrick observed. His
yellow-blonde hair was less bright, his neckties looser. Although the most
obvious change was how unfunny he had become. Generally, he enjoyed being silly
or too excited about the mundane parts of an English class. Making the students
laugh or at least roll their eyes sarcastically. There hadn’t been a sliver of
humor since they returned from that weekend. Not that anyone else cared.
Patrick felt cheated, owed. He had left Mr. Wentz’s house on what he believed
to be a positive note! This was ridiculous, he hadn’t done a damn thing wrong!
He had apologized after being caught and talked the situation out, and, of
course, he hadn’t spread gossip. Why was he treated this way?
He was caught up in his own head. His righteous reasoning spiraled his brain in
the wrong directions.
Pete was uncomfortable. Watching Patrick fuss for attention stressed him out.
He didn’t want to discipline him, he thought he had already taken care of that!
He was done.
The path he chose, disregarding Patrick, was a solid option. Or so he expected.
What else could he do? It was difficult to be normal at this point, and he
certainly wasn’t going to change into this friend for Patrick. And so far, he
was surviving.
What’s more, he had begun a new morning and night routine. He would work out, a
pattern of stretches accompanied by jumping jacks and push ups, then douse his
body in a cold shower. Yes, he showered twice a day every day now. It made his
hair dry and he was often late for first period.
He had to, he was terrified. He didn’t want a repeat of his imagination running
wild. There could be no risk of Patrick. The exhausting exercise combined with
the frigid water was enough to maintain control.
Pete was doing fine up to the third week past their encounter. It was Tuesday,
school had ended for the day, and he was grading composition books. A stack
half his height, bulky with teenaged musings. They were nearing the end of the
first quarter, which meant he needed to check his students’ personal writing
progress. Most were unsurprising, and he typed numbers into the computer with
lazy strokes. Patrick’s was found at the bottom of the pile. He read it. He
didn’t want to be petty.
October 11, 2008
Prompt: A crime you have suffered, what was the outcome? Have you grown
differently because of it?
This was the latest entry, written yesterday. Patrick had scratched out:
You speak and make time stand still,
And each time you walk right on by,
Like violence you have me forever,
And after,
Like violence you kill me forever,
And after.
Pete read the words once, twice, and on the third time, he recalled where he
knew them from. Blink-182’s most recent album, the song “Violence”. He frowned
and supposed this was related to the prompt. Not that he was going to reward
points for regurgitating lyrics. Maybe Patrick had been hoping he could pass
them off as his own? Earn some credit for creativity?
No, wait.
Patrick had purposefully used lyrics his teacher would know.
---
“May I speak with you for a moment?”
Pete couldn’t stand to watch Patrick put away his pencil and grammar booklet in
his backpack. Leisurely and somehow spitefully. The kid was determined to be
tardy.
Patrick’s reply was rude, “What? Oh, you mean me? No.”
“A moment, please. It’s about your composition book.”
The stubbornness Patrick had been glued to melted a bit, his ears perking at
the plead. It was sincere. Plus, he was curious to see if this was about what
he wrote yesterday. He moved out of his seat and looked at the door. Backpack
over his shoulder, he walked forward and reached for the handle.
“Listen--”
“I’m just closing it. I’ll talk,” Patrick said. He did so, and wished he could
lock it. That would be a little extreme, he guessed.
On his desk, Pete leaned with his arms folded. His posture was straightened and
he nodded for him to sit at the shorter desk in front of him. A pause was
taken. He had what he was going to say prepared, he did, it was a matter of
putting it delicately. He sensed Patrick would benefit from that. He pursed his
lips before parting them.
“How are you?”
“..”
“Patrick?”
“God, uhh, fine? Wondering why you’re picking on me now after ignoring me so
much,” Patrick huffed.
Pete swallowed a sigh and unfolded his arms. Steady. There were high intensity
emotions being experienced here, it would be best to remain tied to that
delicate approach. He rose his eyebrows in sympathy.
“I apologize if I’ve made you feel picked on or ignored. That’s not what I’m
trying to do.”
“It’s not?”
“Of course not,” Pete said. He caught Patrick’s stare, became distracted by a
smudge on those glasses, and continued, “It’s been tough for me, as well. You
and Robert invaded my privacy, and I’m working to move past it. Forgive and
forget.”
Patrick sniffed, “Yeah. Sorry. We fucked that up for sure.”
“Language.”
Patrick shrugged.
To return to his original point, Pete asked, “Why did you write those lyrics on
Monday? You didn’t answer the prompt, along with a few other entries. You’ll be
losing a considerable amount of points.”
Pete, interested in a reaction, saw the younger man slump. He added to the
defeatist stance by tightening the hood of his jacket and wrinkling his nose.
“.. I thought you’d like them. I do,” Patrick said quietly.
“Well, I know them, yes. They’re viciously personal, and I’d say borderline
inappropriate.”
While he spoke, Pete could hear the song playing in the back of his mind. The
moody guitar and drums licked over what he needed to say next. He couldn’t
remember. The song was short, and he could hear the vocals cutting through
outside world. But it didn’t blind him. He could still see Patrick. Leaving the
desk and stepping within a foot of him.
Patrick could almost taste the blood rushing to his face, saying, “I wrote the
stuff that matched the prompt. It’s all I could think of. I didn’t put in the
beginning or end parts.”
“Yes, you did only put the chorus,” Pete answered. His hands flattened on the
edge of the desk behind him. For a second, he questioned why he hadn’t fought
the door being shut.
“How does the song start, Mr. Wentz?”
“It, it’s pretty upbeat.”
“Something, something.. Down the drain, waste of time.. I’d ask if you feel the
same?” Patrick sang.
Pete listened. The tune didn’t ring true to the original, kind of crass
version. Patrick’s singing was a sugared molasses. It sounded good. Warm. On
the brink of sensual, actually.
“Still pushing that chance to try.. And..?” Patrick wondered. His voice had
cracked on the finishing note. Though it wasn’t an easy mistake to catch, the
song barely above a whisper at this point. His toes curved inside his shoes,
his chin tilted upward.
“I’m,” Pete hesitated, “I can’t remember the rest of the song. Either way,
don’t write lyrics in your composition book.”
Stomping his right foot, Patrick grunted in anger. He was being disregarded
again! Immediately and unabashedly! What the fuck did he have to do, belt out
feelings in a multi-part musical act!? His eyesight watered and he must have
cursed aloud, because he suddenly had hands on his shoulders. Holding him.
“Tell me the next verse,” Patrick shuddered softly. He was crying.
Pete didn’t sing, the words tumbling out in a prayer, “Your breath in this cool
room chill.”
Patrick heard the verse and hiccuped. Hearing it caught him off guard, his
hysterics calmed. Rather, the crying shrunk to the size of a small sob. His
desires remained insane.
He rolled his shoulders, currently in Mr. Wentz’s grip, and said, “C’mon. If
you’re gonna do something, do it now.”
***** Chapter 6 *****
A steady, delicate approach. That’s what Pete wanted to show here. So when he
kissed Patrick, he held him by the back of his head. Fingers at the roots of
his hair, the jacket’s hood falling from the action.
Pete had shut his eyes. He couldn’t see those opposite of his own, couldn’t see
its reaction. He could only feel plastic glasses frame between their noses. The
tears, too. Their streams stamped somewhere over his cheekbone. Shit, he hated
that there was crying. With his lips moving, the rest of his body tensed.
Patrick was swooning. Absolutely melting on the spot. He had gotten in Mr.
Wentz’s face, dared him to make a move, and it had worked. Yes, he had been
right, there was a connection! He would be smug if he weren’t in the middle of
living out a fantasy. Here was his best case scenario. This was light years
beyond the head pat or hug he might have expected. He groaned didn’t care how
desperate it sounded.
Being surprised by the kiss left Patrick open-mouthed for the first couple of
seconds, followed by a scramble to act like he knew how to kiss. He did.
Obviously he couldn’t compare past experiences to this older, hotter man
holding him in an empty room 710 at Newfound Chicago Public Fucking High. A
space where they played the role of teacher and student. He exhaled sharply.
“Mr.--”
“No.”
It didn’t matter what he was going to say, Pete didn’t want to hear it. He
deepened their kiss, tasting Patrick and turning his head further to one side.
He pressed their chests together. The adrenaline he was experiencing increased,
though it helped that the door, with a poster shielding its window, was
completely shut.
If they were caught, his career would be shattered. Even if they weren’t, the
potential was still there. Despite Patrick seeming to enjoy what he was doing,
he didn’t know how he was actually internalizing it. He could have this whole
thing flipped on him in an instant. He kissed him harder, arching them.
Pete wished he had a reason for doing this. Initiating physical contact was the
worst offense. And for what? Because the kid liked him and had been crying? He
winced until he began to grimace, then forced his features to relax. No excuse.
He wasn’t acting out from being under some kind of influence from drugs or
alcohol. Nor was he being seduced by a lusty young lady with a killer body.
Either scenario, he knew, would make processing this easier later on. A
legitimate blame he could use. But no, he couldn’t say what this was besides an
emotional break brought on by provocative song lyrics. It was strange. Beyond
that, of course, it was unethical and disgusting. Greater than the sickness he
had experienced brought on by the accidental mental image of Patrick while
masturbating.
Hand were fumbling around him. He would focus on that disgust later.
Finally, Patrick had decided that he couldn’t hang limp any longer. He didn’t
know what to do with his hands, and his uncertainty reflected in how they
trembled, regardless of how many times he had played this out. From where they
originally lay at his sides, the highest he managed to raise them was to Mr.
Wentz’s hips. He clung to the belt he found. Before settling his grip between a
pair of belt loops, he brushed over the smooth material and wondered how
quickly he could undo the buckle.
Once the initial shock had worn off, Patrick’s cock was awake and starting to
swell. After a good minute of kissing, which, he was happy to say felt more
similar to making out now, his jeans couldn't compress his excitement. His cock
was looking for attention, fully flushed against his lower stomach. He reversed
their arched stance by a few degrees, allowing himself to rub his crotch on Mr.
Wentz’s thigh in an effort to find relief. It worked for a moment, and then he
became harder and wanted more. His cock was fat and almost painful, his balls
crushed by its throbs. He needed the fingers wrapped up in his hair to move
downward. Seriously, just a stroke or two and he would be over the moon.
“Can, can I,” Patrick spoke without any idea as to what he was going to say,
“uhm..?”
Pete was gruff, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I, I just thought maybe..?”
“You’re fine.”
Pete had meant to be comforting in his response, incorrectly assuming that
Patrick was voicing his fears, although his words had an aggressive tone to
them. He shook it off and used the pause to explore Patrick’s neck with his
lips. He touched the soft skin, careful not to leave a mark, and didn’t stop
until he was at the collarbone, where he realized how harsh the breathing above
him had become. Not that he was terribly surprised, the erection he could feel
having already told him how aroused Patrick was.
Ready to get busy again, he put his right hand beneath Patrick’s chin. Those
eyes captured the nasty fluorescent lights brilliantly, turned them into stars.
It reminded him of how he had looked after getting caught outside his front
window. Delinquent and subdued.
Pete’s desk phone rang.
It was difficult to tell who jumped higher, both startled by the noise. They
came close to knocking the phone from the desk, their instinct to untangle
themselves bumping the desk several inches out of place.
Pete lifted the receiver on the last ring, having taken time to stabilize his
voice. He had been shaking.
“Ms. Benny asking for essay resources,” Pete said in response to the question
that Patrick’s frightened expression asked. The call had ended. “Nothing else.”
He sighed and glanced at the young man on the other side of his desk.
“I’ve done enough to ruin everything,” Pete said, gesturing around the
classroom for emphasis. He dropped his head, lowered to a whisper, “And all
this guilt will punish me until the time comes.”
“Wh-What?”
“Can I see you Friday? Eight o’ clock, my place, it’ll be parallel to a few
weeks ago. Except, come alone. Robbie and whoever else you hang out with don’t
need to be a part of this.”
“I, yeah, okay.”
Patrick was so elated when he accepted the offer, he forget to snag a late pass
for his next class. He was overwhelmed.
---
Five minutes to eight, Pete dimmed most of the lights in his home, save the one
on the porch, the lamp near the television, and the television itself. The
volume was in the single digits, the channel changed to the mundane evening
news. He stood in the middle of the room, waiting.
Presently, he was in a clear state of mind. Logical, and, frankly, fairly
hetereosexual. And, through mysterious means, tonight’s plans remained intact.
This couldn’t be a mistake - and in case it was, he couldn’t undo it at this
point. He was going to take what he could.
He had exited the shower a half hour ago, beard trimmed and cologne sprinkled.
Dinner had been eaten early, as soon as he had come home, the dishes done and
put away and the refrigerator stocked with sodas. Thinking about how they were
meant for his guest, should he want a drink beside water, made him
uncomfortable. An enticing treat for a forbidden fruit. Fuck, that was fucked.
At least it wasn’t alcohol. That would undoubtedly scream bad intentions.
“Argh,” Pete grumbled involuntarily. He couldn’t do this. Or rather, he
couldn’t do this if he was going to pick apart each piece. He shoved both hands
into the pockets of his sweatpants and paced. He had never been patient in
romance department.
At 8:09, convinced that he was being ratted out to the police, he heard someone
arrive. Knock, knock, knock!
Like a paranoid junkie, he used the peephole. He saw Patrick.
Unlocking the door and swinging it open, he greeted, “Hey. Kick your shoes off,
they’re pretty muddy.”
“Geez, uh,” Patrick said, taken aback by the order. Now untying the laces on
his old combat boots, he went on, “I had to hop my backyard fence. Dad said I
couldn’t leave because I was back-talking yesterday. Had to be sneaky.”
Pete scarcely heard him, occupied with how he had demanded shoes be removed.
Was that overly-authoritative? He didn’t want to constantly reinforce to the
kid that he was his teacher. There had to be a sort of power balance. He turned
around.
Patrick, in his socks and nose dusted pink from the cold weather, appeared to
be untroubled. He scratched the side of his head and moved his earbuds from
around his neck to his jacket pocket. He asked, “Do you have the heat on? I
hate wearing this jacket, it makes me look puffy.”
“It’s on. You can put it on the hook there.”
“Thanks.”
“Here, have a seat.”
At the couch, Pete took the closest cushion and reclined into a decorative
pillow, hoping to relax. But when Patrick sat within arms reach, he fixed his
posture. He couldn’t help it.
“Do I have to silence my phone?” Patrick joked. He was nervous. From his pants’
pocket, he took out his cell phone and iPod. He placed them on the coffee
table. They were bulky and awkward when he was sitting, he didn’t need any
extra irritations.
“No, no you don’t,” Pete said. He bit his lip. “Let’s not talk about or make
references to school.”
“Sure, Mr. Wentz.”
“.. Patrick?”
“Yeah?”
Pete was going to tell him that ‘Mr. Wentz’ could be considered a reference to
school, decided his first name wouldn’t be better, and he let it slide. No, it
was fine. Being called by his first name would add a whole other level to this
situation. Instead, he shook his head, “Why did you let that happen on
Wednesday?”
Patrick, toying with a loose thread of his t-shirt, replied, “I guess because..
I couldn’t believe it.”
“It was, yes, it felt surreal.”
“I wanted to kiss you so bad. I’d been daydreaming about it forever.”
The couch squeaked under Patrick’s weight, his body perfectly facing Mr. Wentz.
His feet tucked between the bottom of the couch and the rug.
“You had?” Pete wondered how stupid that sounded. Yet he continued, “Why?”
“I don’t know, you’re really handsome? More than anyone I know..”
Flattered, Pete soaked in the compliment. He didn’t want to be pushy tonight,
and he could sense that Patrick didn’t want to be, either. However, there was
more ground to cover. It was necessary.
“Mr. Wentz?” Patrick asked, beating him to the next punch of the conversation.
His eyes were on the television.
“Hm?”
“Are you going to kiss me again?”
Pete nodded, “If that’s what you want to do. We won’t do anything you don’t
want to.”
Patrick mirrored the nod, and noticed a balloon of heat forming in his gut. It
rose to his throat, and he couldn’t speak. He tried to swallow it and got a
mouthful of cotton. More nervousness.
“Are you thirsty? Here,” Pete said, standing. He realized that he was also too
anxious to shift from talking to physical contact. At least, not completely. He
grazed Patrick’s shoulder on his way up.
Whether or not he was invited to do so, Patrick followed him. The kitchen tile
was cold, even on his covered feet. He reached for the man in front of him,
catching the hem of those sweatpants. The fabric stretched in his hold, and he
didn’t know what the next move should be. He waited and watched a hand take his
own.
“I’m fine, don’t worry about it,” Patrick murmured.
“I worry,” Pete told him, keeping their hands together. “It’s hard not to.”
“They won’t find out.”
“ ‘They’?”
“Everyone.”
Pete kissed him. He went in a little fast and received a yelp, their teeth
scraping, and drew him in by the waist to apologize. Smacking and sucking and
loving Patrick’s lips. The flavor from earlier that week became fresh on his
tongue, a vanilla frosting on this cupcake. It was more delicious than he dared
to admit aloud.
“Do it,” Pete said. There were timid fingers roaming his clothed spine. “Touch
me.”
Patrick pushed past the shirt, scrunching it in the middle. Exploring the
muscles and rib bones, he forgot to return the kisses. He was fascinated. He
wished he had better lighting. Did that tan cover his entire body? Speaking of
which, he was dying to see him naked. His sense of touch could only map out so
much. It definitely couldn't show him where more tattoos could be hiding.
“Sorry, you feel really good,” Patrick apologized. His ass was being grabbed,
his stiff cock pressed to tight Mr. Wentz’s hip. He was embarrassed by what a
small amount of friction he needed.
“‘S’okay.”
Truthfully, for Pete, having a boner burrowing into his side was a sensation he
wasn’t used to. He had never gotten this far with another guy. He maintained
the kiss, sizing Patrick with the pressure he created, and stopped short to
lift him up. They had stepped toward the countertop, and he was able to heave
Patrick onto the granite surface. They broke apart to gasp.
Patrick was enamored, “I’m lucky you’re so strong. Seriously.”
Pete smiled, his happiness indistinguishable in the dark kitchen. The biggest
source of light was that of the streetlamp beyond the window above the sink,
made bleary by the drawn curtains. He spread Patrick’s legs to be on either
side of him and leaned in.
“You’re sweet when you moan,” Pete said, tempted by the voice that answered his
strokes. He had his hands on Patrick’s thighs, his mouth near that gentle
jawline. He meant what he said, stuck on that day in the classroom, “It’s like
you’re singing.”
“You think so, o-oh?”
“Mmhm, do it louder.”
Patrick thought he was going to pass out. And into what? His dreams had become
his reality. He supposed he would fade to a blissful abyss. He felt kisses
trailing down and obeyed. He moaned, shivered. Had they been in an embrace, he
would have been able to notice that he was no longer alone, those sweatpants
beginning to tent.
His t-shirt was pulled away from his stomach and his moan hitched. Oh God, oh
God! His cock ached with anticipation. Was he gonna get a blowjob?
He couldn’t wonder for long, thrusting and cumming while Mr. Wentz’s hands
caressed him through his pants.
***** Chapter 7 *****
“Cold? I can get another blanket.”
“No, just thinking about heading home.”
“Why? It’s-- Shit, you’re right.”
“Yeah,” Patrick nodded. He lowered the cell phone screen with the current time.
Now in a sitting position, he scratched at his face, his peach fuzz sideburns
seemingly stealing more space every day. He muffled a yawn. It was a quarter
past midnight. Sunday. A little past two weeks since this had begun.
On the couch where he sat, Mr. Wentz lay in a heap; blonde tips contrasting
with dark eyes, a tiny cut on his lip, still shiny with blood Patrick’s teeth
had drawn, and his sweater wrinkled beyond belief. He mumbled a complaint about
his neck being sore, the words nearly lost in the record player. He had put the
album Four Minute Mile by The Get Up Kids on repeat. The classic pop punk, if
there was such a genre, floated through Mr. Wentz’s den. It was a nice break
from hearing the television’s babble, and of course better than no sound at
all. They couldn’t do this in silence.
Pete thickly pushed air out his nose, sniffled, and asked, “You’re all right,
then? Nothing bothering you?”
“I’m good. You’re amazing, though.”
“I’d have to disagree. But to each his own.”
Pete watched him remove his jacket from where it hung on the back of the couch.
Out of a pocket, Patrick took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He opened his
mouth to object. Then closed it. He wanted to laugh at how ridiculous it would
be. Smoking was a mere drop of sin compared to the ocean of unholiness they had
created. This was the third or fourth time they had met at Pete’s home, not
counting the spying incident with Robbie, and there were no intentions to stop.
It was becoming a habit that they were powerless to stop. A hushed, dirty
fixation.
What Pete did feel he controlled, however, was the speed. He had more
experience, and he knew that it was best to walk through this relationship in
small steps. He wasn’t pushing for sex or anything that Patrick wasn’t ready
for. The kid was a virgin in most regards, and he was in no hurry to change
that. He was actually a bit squicked out by the idea of dominating all the
‘firsts’ of a person this young. He couldn’t dwell on it too much, otherwise he
would freak and be unable to perform.
Tonight had been the first time Pete had made Patrick orgasm with his hand.
Before, it had been by dry-humping or strokes over his clothed cock.
Pete had been pinning him to the couch, whispering about how soft that body
was, when Patrick began to undo his own pants. Fast and without a hint of
hesitation. He had them shoved to his thighs with a few grunts, aching as he
brushed against Pete’s sweater. His erection nestled into the woolly material.
He had sworn that he wasn’t going to make a mess on himself tonight. It made
him feel fucking childish.
“I want you-your hands on me.”
“.. Are you sure?”
“Please. Please jerk me off.”
The slow touches Patrick received had him close to cumming in under a minute.
He wanted to last longer, and he managed to hang on by kissing so roughly that
he sliced Mr. Wentz’s lip with a canine tooth. He had apologized and soon
sensed a thumb at the tip. In circles, it smoothed his cock’s pink head and
held firm during the bursts of cum. Mr. Wentz caught the spill, Patrick’s huffs
of exhausted pleasure filling the room.
And somehow, the following hours had slipped away. Sandwiched between cushions
and the weight of their actions.
“I’ll do it on the way home,” Patrick said quietly, replacing the cigarettes
and lighter in his jacket pocket. “It’s cold out, anyways. Gotta stay warm,
huh?”
Pete was concerned, “You do. Patrick, you understand I would drive you home if
I could, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I understand.”
“I’m sorry.”
Patrick waved a hand at him, he couldn’t think of anything else to do. It
sucked that he was being made to trudge home after sundown in Chicago’s late
October weather. Alone. But he would survive. They couldn’t risk being seen in
a car together, mainly due to the fact that none of his friends owned or were
allowed to borrow a vehicle. Their immediate thought would be that Liam had
hotwired his neighbor’s truck. He looked at Mr. Wentz, midriff exposed and
tattoos peeking out. The sight made walking home in the cold worth it.
“You know what would make me feel better?” Patrick teased. “You putting your
number in my phone.”
“Ha ha. Very cute,” Pete said, pinching the nearest ear he could reach. He let
go once he was standing, “You’re hilarious.”
Swapping phones numbers was dangerous, in Pete’s opinion. While having Patrick
send him texts or photos could be fun, he wasn’t going to fall victim to such
concrete evidence should this agreement turn sour. No, they were to communicate
strictly face-to-face. Additionally, he didn’t want to be accessible outside of
their meetups. He needed to dodge the perception of a solid commitment. That's
not what this was.
Patrick went on with his teasing, “It was worth a shot. Maybe one day.”
“Definitely not.”
“Sure, Mr. Wentz.”
Patrick got his kiss goodnight and was homebound soon enough, his jacket’s
collar pulled high for extra warmth. He could live without having the phone
number. He would probably abuse it and screw this up, he figured. What he
craved the most was seeing Mr. Wentz fully undressed, hard and ready to fill
him.
He wondered how he could make that happen. Through seduction? Aggression? He
wasn’t particularly talented at either, and he was already aware of how Mr.
Wentz was taking the lead. Waiting was probably ideal. Again, he didn’t want to
screw this up. He had it good, no need to be greedy.
The cigarettes and lighter were unbothered for the remainder of the walk home.
---
On the kitchen countertop, Patrick sat with his legs crossed, eating quietly.
There had been about a fourth of his mother’s homemade coconut cream cake
leftover in the refrigerator, which he plopped onto a plate. He inhaled gobs of
frosting, the layers crumbling at the might of his fork. He was hungry!
Besides, he had earned it. His nighttime activities pretty much counted for
exercise. The walk home, too.
During the largest bite yet, his father appeared at the bottom of the stairs
and flicked on the lights. He had a direct view of his son.
“Patrick? Why are you awake?” Mr. Stump questioned immediately. He padded
toward him, squinting and rubbing the corners of his eyes. He stopped. Getting
a better look at what he was seeing, his mood shifted from irritated to
suspicious, “Why are you dressed?”
“‘S’cold,” Patrick swallowed, the cake like glue on the back of his throat. “I
dunno.”
“Were you out?”
“No.”
Mr. Stump sighed, calling upstairs, “Honey, come down. I need your help with
this.”
“Dad,” Patrick protested. He put his plate in the sink and stood, tugging at
the hem of his jacket. He watched his mother, shuffling in a pair of slippers,
enter the kitchen area. How quickly she had joined them told Patrick that she
was worried and had been waiting for a signal.
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Stump went to stand at her son’s side, a hand on his
shoulder. She hated the idea of him being driven around after dark by kids who
were barely legal. “Did something happen?”
“No, Mom. Nothing is going on.”
Mr. Stump interjected, “Oh, he’s safe and sound. Down here eating without a
problem. But he says he’s dressed for the ‘cold’.”
Together, Patrick felt his parents observe him. Doubtfully. He knew he had to
think of a lie - any lie would do, really. The truth was crazier than whatever
he could pull out of his ass.
“I.. I, err..”
“Were you out or not?” Mr. Stump repeated. His arms were folded, pale skin
beginning to brighten with anger.
“We just want to know, sweetie.”
Patrick nodded slowly, “I was. I got back, uhh, I guess ten minutes ago. I’m
sorry.”
“Don’t tell me you were with those two seniors,” his father fussed, ignoring
the reassurances given by his wife. “Idiots will be in jail before they
graduate.”
“No, I, it was a different friend. A girl, I swear. I snuck out because we had
a date, she wanted to see a late movie. Her name’s Katie,” Patrick lied. Shyly,
he clasped his hands and gazed at the floor. He heard them both make murmurs of
surprise, swore he sensed them turning their heads at one another. He stirred
in a final detail to convince them, “I met her in my English class.”
Patrick was relieved when his mother put a hand on his shoulder for a second
time, a squeeze and a ‘Thank you for telling us’ added. He then dug in for the
safe sex lecture as his father shifted his hands to the pockets of his
bathrobe.
Next time, he would be more careful.
---
When next Friday came around, Patrick was pissed. It was the perfect night for
him to slide over to Mr. Wentz’s place, his parents out of town until Sunday
for a wedding, but he had to hang back. He had been forced into a host position
by his friends. Why? Because they could fucking text him and make or change or
cancel arrangements.
Of course, with no way of telling Mr. Wentz what was going on! This is exactly
why they needed to exchange numbers! God, he hoped he wasn’t labeled as a
ditcher inside and outside of the classroom. He was half-considering showing up
tomorrow to compromise for lost time.
He knocked the bottom end of his cell phone against his forehead for emphasis
on how stupid this was. He could hear his friends arriving. Loud as usual.
“Okay, okay! Geez,” Patrick said, opening the front door for his friends. They
had been banging their fists on the door and making pornographic ‘Ooh!’ noises.
Psychos. Cockblocks.
“Who puked in your Froot Loops?” Liam immediately attacked him with. He would
have tackled the kid if he hadn’t been carrying two cases of beer. “We didn’t
come here to have you pout at us, ya Froot Loop.”
Patrick snorted, “I didn’t invite you guys.”
“Sure you did. Telling us that your Mommy and Daddy aren’t here for a couple
days is the plainest invite I can think of.”
“Whatever.”
Trailing behind them, Robbie had been cackling and asking what there was to
eat, Patrick gathered the discarded clothes. Liam’s beanie and Robbie’s scarf
were coated in a perfume of cigarette and weed smoke, prompting him to toss
them on the porch’s bench. He didn’t care how cold they would be later, he
wasn’t going to be blamed for a stinking house. Which reminded him.
“Hey, don’t light up in here. I’ll get busted,” Patrick told them firmly.
From where they were tearing apart the living room couch, Liam answered, “We
know. And didn’t you already get busted this week? You snuck out?”
Patrick shrugged, “Yeah. It wasn’t that bad, I played it off, had to tell them
I was seeing a girl.”
“That’s a funny lie. What were you doing? Spying on that teacher again?”
“Aha, no, no. In my dreams, maybe.”
Liam became distracted by their cushion fort’s layout, an interesting sight for
someone over six foot. He didn’t care enough to ask where his buddy had been,
his assumption being that it was lame. Exciting stuff was rarely mixed into his
life without their company.
Feeling that his laughter was a weird response, Patrick ducked into the
kitchen. He pretended to be busy with a bag of chips from the pantry. Eating
and drinking wasn’t such an awful idea. The television was switched on, and he
failed to hear the footsteps that followed his own. He jumped.
“Whoa!” Robbie said from where he had chosen to lean, the countertop pressed to
his studded belt. He blinked at what a spaz he was dealing with here. “I was
going to check if there was any soda to wash down that cheap-ass beer, but
damn. Why are you all scared?”
“Sorry.”
Patrick was short of breath, his neck rigid. He waved a hand at Robbie, though
didn’t utter a word. Even if he knew what to say, he wouldn’t say it.
Robbie grabbed the chips, further ripping the seal and said, “You look
stressed. We’re supposed to be the opposite right now, right? Right? I mean,
Trick, relax.”
“I’m always like this,” Patrick tried to joke. “Especially when we’re getting
drunk at my parents’ house.”
“Yeah, but, is there a problem? We’ve done this before.”
“I’m good.”
“Crap day at school?”
“Same as always.”
Brushing a fluff of hair from his face, Patrick returned to the pantry. That
had better not be their only bag of chips! He didn’t want to be interviewed for
a minute more, and, for once, he wished to be forgotten about. His thoughts of
Mr. Wentz and what they could be doing tonight seemed to be leaking, and he
didn’t understand how to handle them. Or himself. He felt so obvious he
couldn’t stand it. Hiding among the snacks and canned goods was the best plan
he had.
Robbie continued with his crescendo of a question, “Who did you sneak out to
see last weekend?”
“.. No one important. It’s a fling, nothing else.”
***** Chapter 8 *****
Pete looked at his grocery list. The note had been scrawled after finishing a
bit of early morning grading, a coffee stain on the top edge. All he needed was
in the cart, minus the vegetables. His stomach remained flat and toned, knowing
he couldn’t keep it unless he continued with his healthy diet. He frowned and
headed toward the produce section. Spinach, kale, broccoli.. He counted off the
items, painfully green compared to the red meat and white bread he craved.
Sweets were high on his cravings list, as well, and glanced over his shoulder
when thoughts of Patrick sprang forth.
One more thing.
At this grocery store, there were several aisles at the front dedicated to
medicine and personal products. He navigated quickly, the condoms on one of the
bottom shelves. He chose the first box he saw and tossed it in the cart. The
last time he had bought condoms was probably in college, his ex having used
birth control once they began going steady. He hurried away, both from those
memories and the aisle, the check out lines not far off. Involuntarily, he
patted his back pocket for his wallet. He found a spot in a shorter line,
forced to take in the decorations that had been spewed throughout the store’s
entrance.
Despite it being November, late in the month, Christmas trimmings eclipsed any
traces of Thanksgiving. It was obnoxiously festive. Inflatable reindeer and
clipped holly berries welcomed customers, signs declaring sales for holiday
dinner fixings hanging above. He was glad that he didn’t have to deal with any
of this beyond the pre-winter break party for the school’s staff. Yet how was
it already that time of year? How long had it been?
He shifted from foot to foot, hearing his hip pop somewhere in between. The
running shoes he wore shaped to his movements, the soles ready to fray further.
It was tough to feel grounded.
Patrick had been more vocal about expressing his desires with each visit. His
voice gentle while his flesh tightened with lust. They had been together for
close to two months, their sessions growing lengthier and more intimate. The
kid wore him out. In a good way. It hadn’t been a surprise to have sex put on
the table in the past couple of weeks. And to do it, he was going to do it
right. Respectfully, earnestly. The condoms were equally as important as the
timing.
A Cosmopolitan magazine on a packed plastic rack screamed ‘SEX: Are you getting
what you need?’. His eyes rolled to the ceiling.
Pete hadn’t had actual intercourse in almost a year. And that had been with a
woman whose age wouldn’t disgust modern society. Of course he was anxious,
terrified even. Nevertheless, he would try, because, yes, he was dying for some
action. He had been masturbating on a daily basis to deal with the building
frustration. Imagining those plump lips calling his name to help him finish.
Patrick adored his kisses and touches, their moments so tender. He didn’t want
to fuck that up by being a bad fuck!
On that note, he realized he should buy lube. He was certain that nothing would
make sex with a male virgin worse than poor lubrication. He excused himself out
of the line and returned to the previous aisle. The lube he grabbed was the
only one that didn’t have something along the lines of ‘For her pleasure’ or
‘She’ll tingle on contact’.
Dropping it in the cart, Pete felt the need to glance over his shoulder again.
He was paranoid. Of what, exactly, he couldn’t say. His relationship with
Patrick in general? Buying items for the bedroom in a public space had always
been awkward, being a teacher for high schoolers. The worry of being spotted
was a constant one. It had become extra uncomfortable with a forbidden lover on
his plate. A chance of being exposed on Patrick’s part was forever a
possibility. A final glance over his shoulder. His guilty subconscious told him
people were judging him, that they were aware of what he was doing. They
weren’t. A laugh from a young woman on her cell phone passing by startled him.
He damn near clutched at his chest.
Sometimes, it was hard to be the adult. He had to be brave for them both.
---
Nested in the sheets of Mr. Wentz’s bed, Patrick waited. He wasn’t quite
undressed, his briefs kept on and a borrowed sweater the replacement for his
own t-shirt. It smelled like Mr. Wentz and had a threaded image of Cookie
Monster on the front. The bed smelled great, too, fabric softener and shampoo
tickling his nose. He loved it.
He had arrived around twenty minutes ago, freshly-showered and a lie about a
date with a non-existent Katie dropped into the minds of his parents. The dim
house had greeted him per usual, Mr. Wentz stuck in his teacher clothes from
earlier that day. There had been an offer to join him in the shower, and he
shakily declined on the basis that he was already clean. Which he realized was
lame and wished he had been cool and gone with the flow. Steam slithered out
from the connected bathroom, the water tunneling down the drain on the other
side. The goosebumps on his calves peaked higher and he shuddered. He was
eager.
Patrick noticed the iPod docking station on the facing the bed, and he perked.
Oh, music would be a lifesaver! Without a television or a record player in the
room, he had become aware of the dead air. He wondered if he could plug in his
iPod, the device on the nightstand beneath his cell phone. Stretching for it,
he saw the box of condoms at the furthest edge. He would be lying if he said
they didn’t intimidate him. He toyed with the idea of taking one out.
No time, he snatched his hand back at the sound of the bathroom door opening.
He pressed deeper into the mattress.
“Hey,” Mr. Wentz said. The towel tucked at his waist hung low, the one at his
shoulders rubbing at the droplets behind his ears. He turned off the light
above the sink, now only illuminated by lamp in the opposite corner.
“Hey.”
Patrick adjusted, straightening his posture and folding his hands together. It
reminded him of being in class. He stared.
“Mr. Wentz?”
“Hm?”
“Can I put on some of my music?” Patrick asked. “I promise you’ll like it, and
I won’t turn it too loud.”
Pete smiled, gesturing to the docking station. There was a pause before Patrick
lifted himself from the bed.
“I keep telling you about these guys, and I know you haven’t listened to them.
So here, hah,” Patrick scolded playfully. He clicked his iPod into place and
scrolled through his collection of The Academy Is… and waved off the excuse he
heard. Fast Times at Barrington High is what he settled on, pushing play after
decreasing the volume. It became a hum.
“Is this the band with the ‘hot’ lead singer?” Pete chuckled, the towel dropped
from his shoulders. He was sitting on the bed. “How do I know you won’t be
imagining him instead of me?”
Patrick shook his head, “No way. William’s hot, but he’s not you. You’re, like,
you’re real. I have you here.”
“That’s true.”
“And you look so good.”
Taking Patrick’s closest wrist, Pete pulled him in for a kiss. As he stood, he
had sweaty fingertips touching at the hem of his towel. He leaned away,
testing, “Can you give me a stronger adjective than ‘good’?”
Teacher-student dynamic. There were times that he couldn’t help it.
“.. Handsome, gorgeous..”
“That’s better. Tell me more.”
Patrick stumbled, the description a challenge with new kisses planted along his
throat, growing into a blush like tiny roses. He tried, “Stunning, a-and
sumptuous..”
“Perfect. Get in bed.”
With the first chords of “His Girl Friday”, fitting for the end of the week,
they lay down. Groping and smacking, the music wasn’t enough to bury their
noises. Patrick’s sweater was suddenly more snug than he would prefer, heat
consuming him, and Pete’s towel clung by the dips of his hips. Their mouths
busy tasting the familiar flavor of one another.
Curtains drawn, cell phones on silent, and focus locked, the world eluded them.
They were alone in the best way. Innocent.
Pete had yet to be fully stripped for Patrick. The gasp he heard when he
slipped off the second towel wasn’t a surprise, although it flattered and
aroused him. From his position on top, he reclined to give an improved view of
what he was offering. He flexed a bit, muscles and tattoos on display. Anyone
with a dating history beyond their teenaged years would find this pretty
douchey, but he was confident his audience would enjoy it. He dared to bask in
the immaturity.
“Patrick,” Pete whispered, guiding hands to trace from his nipples to his ribs
to his navel. He reached out to cup Patrick’s cheek. “You meant everything?”
Patrick was confused. His hands were currently touching the velvety hairs at
the base of Mr. Wentz’s cock. He raised an eyebrow, barely managing to look up.
“How you were describing me. You meant it?”
“I meant,” Patrick started, wanting to be articulate. He couldn’t. Living a
fantasy within a fantasy made words the least of his concerns. “Fuck yes. Fuck
yes. You’re exactly what I said. And all that, the stuff I said about you being
real - that’s the one part I’m not sure on. To me, you’re.. you’re a dream.”
For the cloud-dwelling romantic in Pete, the words were a feast to be devoured.
To have it affirmed that this wrong was a right because of how intensely
Patrick felt was the most beautiful thing in the world. He was delighted by the
genuine given affection, his brain weak due to the dopamine rush. He had needed
this. What they had was important to him, and ignoring the fact made it worse.
The rest of him, his outer self, sensed how desperately horny they both were,
and he lunged.
There were a few hitches in Patrick’s breathing when they fell backward. A
warmth of anticipation spread across his skin. Mr. Wentz squeezing his ass with
one hand, and shoving the sweater above his stomach with the other. It was
weird having clothes on as someone’s nude body was flattened against you. He
supposed that’s why he was being undressed. It would be better to be on equal
ground. Lips were on his exposed chest, wet and full of pressure. Dizziness
blurred forth from the back of his head without warning. There were spots in
his vision.
He remembered the day he had been late to Mr. Wentz’s class, the following
afternoon causing him to recognize his attraction. The nausea he had
experienced before turning the door’s handle and being directed to his seat.
Right now, he could taste that similar sickness bubbling in his stomach,
creeping toward his throat. He ignored it. Whenever he was misbehaving,
breaking the rules - his natural instinct, this nausea, kicked in and told him
to stop. He was always able to fight past it, though this was the most
rebellious thing he had ever done. Sex with a partner that was much older,
experienced, authoritative..
Pete was moving fast. He wasn’t thinking beyond his own satisfaction. Well,
sort of. He wanted to make him cum and then fuck him until he did the same. The
first part wouldn’t take long, he knew that was a given. He wasn’t smug about
it, either. The kid was just sensitive and suffering from severe fascination. A
fascination that was important to him.
At Patrick’s cock, the briefs clinging to those buttery thighs, he steadied his
gaze. Sucking dick was an act he had done for the first time last week, the
success he found due to a lack of experience on the receiving end. He had done
what he himself enjoyed for a basic blowjob, like the careful avoidance of
teeth and swallowing. Gulping a burst of cum hadn’t been his favorite thing
they had done, and it only went over smoothly because he there hadn’t been much
of a choice. Patrick had shot his load so abruptly, it had rushed past his
tongue. Not a taste to be found.
Pete hadn’t completely cleared the mental hurdle, years of reinforced
masculinity demanded that he be ashamed. He put the tip in his mouth. A whimper
begged him to keep going. He slid to the base, an easy task without it being
too stiff.
Wait.
Removing his mouth after a minute, Pete asked, “Is this okay? I can, you know,
change what I’m doing.”
Patrick snapped into an awareness of his flaccid cock. On his elbows, he tried
to make a face that didn’t seem emotionally pained. He wavered.
“No, I-- You’re doing great. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“I don’t know why I can’t, uhm, get hard.”
Pete used the leverage he had to roll to the left side where he had some space
and a pillow. He covered his lower half with the sheets, the swell of his
erection fading at Patrick’s hesitation. He should have been going slower, damn
it. Before he turned to the younger man, he knocked the box of condoms into the
nightstand’s drawer. He figured that was part of the issue.
Patrick’s teeth were grit in nervous frustration, “I don’t want to be a virgin
anymore. I’m done.”
Classroom voice coming out naturally, Pete flatlined, “That’s fine.”
“Mr. Wentz!”
“What?”
With a scoff, Patrick dramatically shrugged his shoulders and said, “So does
this mean we’re not doing it? Really? That, that’s complete bullshit and you
know it.”
Pete faced him. No, there was no way he could do this. Not tonight. He wasn’t
the best at reading people, he preferred books, of course; but Patrick was a
simple case. A small soul with a big heart on his sleeve. And he couldn’t
ignore what it was showing him.
“We can’t,” Pete started, “and I’m sorry. I know I promised for tonight and
everything.. You’re not ready. I can see that.”
“I am ready! I want it! You’re supposed to take my virginity,” Patrick argued,
his tone whiny.
“Hush. Virginity is a social construct.”
“Ugh!”
With that last line, he had flashbacks to teaching The Bell Jar to an advanced
group of seniors during his first year. The novel dealt with issues such as the
exploration and empowerment of one’s sexuality, especially for those who are
naive. It had been a difficult unit, with the light bulbs he had watched
flicker on for his students worth it in the end. They had been able to take the
mature themes and positively internalize them. That had been the first time a
student thanked him for sharing and studying a piece of literature.
Maybe he could lend Patrick a copy? It might interest him more than their
argumentative essay unit. He could persuade him by telling him that it was a
turn-on to have an understanding of Sylvia Plath’s truths about human passions
and the fears that intertwined with them.
Groaning and hating how he continuously reversed into a school reference, he
added, “I’ll fuck you next time.”
***** Chapter 9 *****
Pete didn’t know what to do.
It was the second to last day before winter break, and Patrick hadn’t been to
his house in over two weeks. He hated it and, unfortunately, he was the one
saying ‘Now’s not a good time’.
His parents were in town for the holidays. The heating was broken. He had a
cold.
Those were the excuses he had given. Word vomit smeared down his chin for each
Friday Patrick approached him after class. A shrug and a suggestion to get
going to the next class usually following. It was pathetic, and it was working.
So far.
Eventually, he was going to have to fuck him. To claim his spot as the first to
fully have him. He had promised. And he wanted to, truly, he did. An unstained
part of such a young, supple body, waiting for him to dig into. Shit, he was
disgustingly excited. There was just a lot of.. Guilt? Fear? An swarm of
uncomfortable emotions buzzed at the reasonable part of his brain whenever he
considered it.
For now, making out and feeling up in his locked classroom would have to
suffice.
Pete had Patrick up against the supply cabinet near the set of spare desks.
Hard metal and fluorescent lighting ruining much of the romantic vibe. At a
quarter to eight on a Thursday. His hands were in that dirty blonde hair, his
own erection squeezed through his pants. He wanted to take them off. He
grunted. No. Instead, he dropped his hands and undid the maroon skinny jeans in
front of him. Patrick’s gut was freed, and he immediately began to touch along
the skin where the jeans’ waistband had left its mark. Little patterns on that
baby fat. He reached inside the briefs below.
“What, stopped shaving for me?” Pete said huskily, fingers caressing the curls
around the swollen cock. “Not that I mind.”
Patrick spat, “I don’t care what you mind. ‘Sides, we haven’t been regular or
whatever.”
“Sorry?”
There was a thrust in response.
Annoyed with the attitude, though he couldn’t completely fault him, Pete kissed
him and began to work in quick jerks. The silky veins pumping with warmth,
balls brushing past his wrist. He felt the kid throb in his palm and continued,
personal needs on hold. This would be easy, and, sadly, reminiscent of pity
sex. He had to remember that this was temporary.
“Mr. Wentz, you, fuck, slow down,” Patrick hissed. He sucked in air so fast it
became chilled and made his teeth ache.
“Shh.”
“You’re goddamn attacking m-my dick.”
“Shh!”
Patrick fell back into the kiss. He had to. It was fierce and focused, the
hairs of Mr. Wentz’s beard no longer seeming to tickle him. Huh, he figured he
was used to it. He tried to turn his head slightly, only to be reeled in by a
slithering tongue. He gulped a mouthful of saliva and savored the backwashed
bitterness of today’s coffee.
“Look at you, so happy to share your morning wood with me,” he heard Mr. Wentz
say. His lips remained parted in surprise and Mr. Wentz’s were below his left
ear, creating condensation as he spoke. Unnatural dewdrops that he wasn’t over
the moon about. The rhythmic rubbing of his cock was sharpened with each word.
He didn’t understand why things were being, almost, sort of, forced along here,
and he wanted to ask. The question began to form.
“Wha.. Why..?”
Pete dipped into the crook of Patrick’s neck, in no mood for further
conversation. Or even looking at him. He knew their intimacy hadn’t been at its
strongest lately, and he doubted that a hand job before first hour was the best
time to start repairs. They would have time to figure this out over winter
break. Probably.
A spill of precum dampened his closed fist and encouraged him.
“I know how much you need this, Patrick,” he breathed. The pink tip of that
cock slapped to his full lower belly for every jerk. “Soon, soon I’ll be too
busy to touch you. I’ll be in your ass, blowing my load long after you think
you’ve had enough. So enjoy. This.”
A few more cooed obscenities, and Patrick released into the waiting hand, Pete
promptly walking to the classroom sink and washing off. Gaze averted, water
blasting. It had ended, and they were briefly alone with their thoughts while
they tidied up.
Patrick, wiping a smear of sweat from his forehead, asked, “This weekend,
right?”
“Yeah..?”
“I can come over?”
Pete coughed, the back of his hand covering his mouth. He then turned toward
the door, close to wishing someone burst through and wreck any attempts at
making plans. It didn’t happen, and he became responsible for addressing the
issue. He tightened his necktie.
“You can come over.”
“Well, what time? Tomorrow?”
Patrick’s brow wrinkled, the gap widening between them with Mr. Wentz’s
footsteps. A murmur had been given for an answer, and was magically interested
in unpacking his shoulder bag. He was stalling, undeniably. He lay his cell
phone and a thick folder out on his desk, the mouse of his computer wiggled to
wake it from stand by.
“We’ll talk about this more after class today. I’ve got to run to the copy
room, stay here if you like,” Pete said flatly.
Abandoned a moment later, Patrick huffed to himself. What did he have to do to
get a piece of action? He didn’t know what game was being played here, what
avoidance, only knew that he was sick of it. He refused to be ignored. Nodding,
he moved to the desk, a plan at the edges of his mind.
4, 5, 6, 8.
He was correct, the screen unlocked. Having watched Mr. Wentz fidget with his
cell phone enough times allowed him to decipher the code. He simply hadn’t had
the chance to test out the numbers. A smile brightened his expression and he
instinctively glanced at the door handle. He had to hurry.
Tapping the keyboard’s envelope icon, he opened the text messaging function. He
was tempted to scroll through the inbox to see who Mr. Wentz had been talking
to, with several interesting names at the top. He resisted, deciding to save
that for a rainy day, and created a new text to his number, nothing more than a
single frowny face in the message box. The tiny buttons of the Sidekick
actually made typing a pain in the ass, and he wondered how the man did it so
well.
Once his cell phone had received it, he deleted the thread from Mr. Wentz’s
sight. Evidence was his nemesis. He quit the inbox and relocked the screen with
a click on the sidebar, a pitstop made at the volume control to crank it to the
max. Should he have a bit of luck, that would go unnoticed. Finally, the layout
of the items was fixed to appear unconcerned. At a desk, he sat with his head
pressed to his folded arms and his backpack slung to the floor, bored. In
reality, he was hiding a smirk.
God, at last. He had his number.
---
Late to sixth period that same day, Patrick sighed when he was waved to his
seat. He ignored Mr. Wentz’s instructions to take out his composition book, his
hoodie pulled up. He thought about the supply cabinet and what they had done in
here, wishing he had gotten his jizz on the man’s clothes. Would have been
funny to have him clean a goop-stained shirt prior to a day of teaching.
“Again, I need your composition book out. Oh, and I’ll take last night’s
reading comprehension questions, as well,” Pete said, his voice low. He didn’t
want to disturb the other students during their work time. His right knuckles
involuntarily rapped on Patrick’s desk.
“I didn’t do the homework,” Patrick told him. He dragged his tattered
composition book from his backpack, most pages blank, and put in in his lap.
The pen he had been clicking went to his mouth, where he bit the tip. With
direct eye contact.
Those who sat within earshot perked their heads. They had heard the tone, the
defiance in the kid’s words. It was known that he could be disrespectful. And
the more time Pete took to return fire, the more amused stares and muffled
giggles he sensed around him. He straightened his posture, arms folded and
garnering fresh attention.
“Any particular reason why you didn’t do it?”
“Uh, I dunno. This class gives me nightmares.”
Had any other student not been alerted to what was happening, they were now.
Patrick grinned, several of the gigglers becoming louder and his name said in
curiosity. A girl at the front scoffed.
“Hilarious. I’ll be sure to let your parents know that with a phone call after
class. Get started on the assignment,” Pete said, returning to circulate the
classroom. Everyone aimed their noses at their composition books. “The rest of
you, I appreciate you working hard.”
Free write Mondays had been replaced with reflection Thursdays. Obviously, it
was an analysis of how the week was going, what they liked, what they didn’t,
plans, blah, blah.. It was more structured than what they had previously done
in the composition books, although nobody cared to complain. They did what they
were asked of, took their grades, and had the weeks slide by. Aside from
Patrick. Especially today.
The pen he had bit while sassing Mr. Wentz was, at this very second, half-way
into his mouth. Plastic and salt from his fingerprints coated his taste buds,
his legs lazily spread and heels rolling. For the split-second he had those
frustrated teacher eyes on him, he puckered his lips against the pen and then
popped it loose. The squirm of embarrassment he saw outshone his own.
Patrick waited. He wanted to have Mr. Wentz immersed in conducting the class
before diving into the real fun. Since, supposedly, his parents were going to
be called, he was going to go ahead make it a good story. For friends and
classmates alike. His stomach churned in anticipation. Disappointing Mom and
Dad wasn’t his preferred way to spend an afternoon, it was unfortunate
collateral from his behavior choices. He didn’t have to do this, the burning
plan could be extinguished. But.
His cell phone was snuck from his hoodie’s pouch. It was hot in his grip.
Pete was soon occupied, the whiteboard filled with an example outline of a
comparison essay, which they would begin writing after winter break. To the
sarcastic joy of the class, per usual. He had made a joke about their lack of
excitement. Patrick’s obnoxious outburst was already shooed from his mind.
Professionally, and without a misstep. Less than twenty minutes in the period,
he hustled through the major points he needed to cover. Using his favorite
green whiteboard marker, he drew an arrow to tie together two sections of the
example that should correlate with each other. Suddenly, both shoulders
crinkled in visible distress the instant he heard it: Incoming text messages on
his cell phone, perfectly audible and glowing beneath a spare worksheet.
Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing!
“Ooh! Busted!”
“Geez, that’s loud.”
“Hahah!”
Gracelessly whipping toward the source of the noise, Pete was bombard with
comments from students and an overall shuffling of butts in chairs. The calm he
had established was gone. He set down the whiteboard marker and reached for the
phone, any student who hadn’t realized it was his fault for the disruption
joining in on the heckling. He held his free hand to the ceiling in a command
for silence. It didn’t help much, requiring him to clear his throat.
“Thank you all for being mature and--”
Cut off, Pete’s cell phone was ringing due to an incoming call. A generic
ringtone he had set ages ago, without the expectation that it would be fodder
for this nonsense. More jeers, of course, were the reaction. He dropped the
phone’s volume to zero and checked who in the name of all that is sane was
bothering him in the middle of a school day. It was an unsaved number, local
area code. He ended the call and the screen shifted to display the text
messages from that same number. His expression narrowed upon reading them,
swiftly and unintentionally. Fucking fantastic. He understood what was
happening. He dropped the stupid device into an open desk drawer and slammed it
shut, several kids jumping to silence.
He pointed at Patrick, whose cell phone was so blatantly in his hand. A rough
gesture was made to the door. Everyone was watching.
“Apologies for my phone going off. But that’s not an excuse for yours to be
out. Get to the detention room,” Pete commanded. Even behind his desk, the
irritation he projected towered over the students.
The young man didn’t budge, “It’s important, okay? I just need to send one more
message. My girlfriend’s being a bitch lately, she won’t put out.”
“Language!”
“.. She’s a bitch.”
“Patrick Stump,” Pete directed, barely keeping below a roar, “get out of my
classroom! That, your attitude has no place here.”
Pissed and ashamed and horny, a torrent of feelings drowning him, Patrick
stood. He yanked his backpack off the floor and dumped his composition book and
pen on purpose. The pages exposed and the pen clattered. The tunnel vision he
had prodded him to continue lashing out, a snap decision needing to be made.
Make it hurt for Mr. Wentz, like how he was doing to him, fuck, he was craving
some self-perceived justice. His legs were shaking.
A skinny boy in the seat ahead of him scooted away to make room, both
frightened and intrigued to witness what happened next. The room had
transformed into a field of eggshells, difficult to navigate. More so because
this lunatic still had to walk past the teacher.
Pete didn’t move, receiving daggers glared in his direction by Patrick. Rusty,
flaming daggers. He had nothing else to say, and he prayed that Patrick didn’t,
either. They would be discussing this later in private. Or that’s what he
assumed, anyway. Who knew? This could be a way of signaling that they shouldn’t
have anything to do with one another. Worse, it was the beginning of their
relationship’s reveal. His heartbeat pounded blood to his ears as pale fingers
clutched the doorknob.
Patrick exited into the hallway quietly. It wasn’t until he had closed the door
behind him that he screamed. It echoed in the hallways, a vicious serenade.
“Fuck yooouuu! Cocksucking son of a BITCH!”
***** Chapter 10 *****
Two hours after their little show in front of the class, Pete and Patrick were
seated in Mr. Watts’ office. The principal, affectionately known as ‘Sunshine’
among the staff, was a portly man with slicked gray hair and an affinity for
peace. Unaffectionately known as ‘Dickhead’ among the students.
The final bell for the day had rung ten minutes ago. Patrick scowled in a chair
angled at the wall, Pete keeping his fingers laced and posture perfect in the
chair beside him.
“I read the write-up, Mr. Wentz, quite the incident,” Mr. Watts puzzled, a nod
given to them both. He pressed his lips, stiff with apprehension, and cleared
his throat. “But there seems to be some issues on your end, too. Your tone in
this write-up is less than ideal.”
Pete’s mouth opened, a hand pointing to himself in silent disbelief. His tone?
Less than ideal!? He spoke carefully, “Sir, I’m, I apologize. I don’t
understand.”
“He’s saying you’re a goddamn--”
Mr. Watts silenced them with a sweeping gesture. Above, the heat rumbled on and
created a background hum within the boxy office. He warned, “Patrick, enough.
I’ll let you know when I need you to speak your piece.”
Irritated, Patrick didn’t push it. He saw the directory on a shelf behind the
principal's desk, where he remembered Robbie had snatched the address that had
shoved this story into motion. On the floor, he noticed that the heel of his
right combat boot was an inch from Mr. Wentz’s shiny, shitty dress shoe. He
jerked away. Dirt was smudged into the carpet, a sizeable stain.
“You were very aggressive in this,” Mr. Watts said, tapping the write-up. It
was ironic that Patrick’s aggression on the floor went unseen. “That’s unusual
for you.. Has this been building up? Lots of trouble in class lately?”
“No, he’s, no. I wouldn’t say so.”
“Then what’s going on?”
Pete was stuck, the air around him too hot. He had been emotional during the
paperwork to send Patrick to the detention room and then to the principal’s
office, yes, but he shouldn’t be on trial here. Why require an explanation of
him? That should fall on the stubborn shoulders of the misbehaving student. He
heard a snort next to him.
Patrick was raising his hand, wrist limp and stare glazed.
“Go ahead. Mind your mouth,” Mr. Watts warned him. His focus was now shifted.
He leaned back and watched the kid’s hand drop.
“I try to ask him for help on stuff,” Patrick said, pointing rudely at Mr.
Wentz, “and every time he brushes me off. Pretty sure he’s hoping I’ll just go
away. So, today I had it - I got mad.”
“Mm, that’s very articulate of you,” Mr. Watts said. He was being genuine,
though the young man’s scrunched features radiated disbelief. “Really, that
feels fair. However, is it true you were texting in class? Mr. Wentz asking you
to stop and you began swearing, especially on your way out?”
“.. Yeah, I guess.”
“You and I both know that’s uncalled for. If you feel you’re not getting the
help you need in class, you should be coming to a counselor. Lashing out isn’t
the answer.” Mr. Watts turned to Pete and continued, “I’m inclined to believe
Patrick when he tells me you’ve been ‘brushing him off’. The way you spoke
about him in your write-up feels cruel.”
“Yes, Sir,” Pete flatlined.
“Now, what can we do to solve this?”
Pete smiled awkwardly. What could he say? The strains on their secret
intimacies was the root cause for this madness. He had to be mature and suggest
a solution, one that didn’t involve the truth. Fucking the kid was career
suicide if heard by the principal’s ears, not a solution. He wished he had
already done it, this situation avoided altogether. He was in deep, honestly,
why wait? That’s what Patrick craved from him, an unhealthy mindset for a
relationship that shouldn’t exist. His smile faltered.
“Hm, Mr. Wentz? He’s yours, you should decide,” Mr. Watts said.
“What?” Pete blinked.
“I said he’s your student, you should decide.”
“Oh,” Pete murmured. Fixing his posture, he offered, “I don’t believe he should
be formally punished. The behavior and language he used were inappropriate, of
course, but I’ll take responsibility. I’ll do after school tutoring with him to
help him thrive in my class.”
Mr. Watts scratched at the side of his neck, the wrinkly skin wobbling. He
listened, and looked to the pouting junior for an opinion.
Patrick rolled his shoulders, “I dunno. If I have to.”
“It’s either that or a parent conference and a suspension.”
The anger Patrick had experienced was fading. It took a lot of energy to stay
pissed, and it didn’t help to watch Mr. Wentz be somewhat reprimanded and still
choose to support him. He quietly appreciated it. And he hoped that after
school tutoring would be done in the raw, under sheets. His grade in the class
was the absolute last thing on his thirsty mind. His ankles uncrossed and he
agreed to the terms. He was soon dismissed and went to wait outside of the
front office area, the adults discussing whatever it was that he wasn’t
supposed to be a part of. He rounded the corner that led to the 700’s, squashed
against the stucco wall. He mulled over how to say thanks without sounding
grateful, his heart rate spiking a bit.
Pete walked past him. Not a flash of acknowledgement, footsteps echoed and
hurried on the linoleum.
---
Outside.
The text beeped on Patrick’s screen. He was frightened for a moment, the
sender’s name something out of a fever dream. It was Mr. Wentz.
He rolled out of his duvet, the threadbare patterns clinging to his legs. He
kicked free and moved to his bedroom’s single window. Its square shape was
small and poor at providing much light from the streetlamps. Not that he had
particularly wanted that, he had been busy sulking, the best way to enjoy the
first weekend of winter break. Christmas was the following Wednesday.
He squinted out the window. A car was idling across the street, someone inside.
He double checked the text message.
Outside.
Yanking on a sweatshirt and not bothering to change his plaid pajama bottoms,
he escaped downstairs. The knitted gray socks given to him by his grandmother
as an early gift were crammed into his snow boots at the front door. No actual
snow had been seen lately, it was just fucking cold out. He was a mismatched
mess, ruffled hair and sleep-sprinkled eyes included. It didn’t matter, though,
he had to see if this was really happening. He silently stepped past the
welcome mat.
He waved at the car and walked forward. At a meter away, the doors clicked
unlocked.
“Wow, it’s you,” Patrick said, the passenger door opened and his ass sliding
onto the seat. “Interestin’.”
“I’m the one who texted you, aren’t I?” Pete grumbled. He turned the heat to
its highest setting.
“I was worried it was a trap. Maybe some kidnappers or something.”
“You’re hardly a kid.”
Pete sighed and stirred, the soft chuckle he heard from Patrick giving him a
shiver. He was on edge, the zipped collar of his old Volcom coat a noose around
his neck. What were the chances of them being caught? Of course, it depended on
so, so many things. Mostly on how this conversation was going to play out, in
which he supposed laughter was a steady start. He exhaled, nostrils flaring.
Jumping the gun ahead of his anxiety, already stretching its prickly neck, was
terrifying for him. The drive alone had taken an hour of mental preparation,
choked paranoia aside. He faced him, dark gaze catching the glimmer of a
stoplight up the street.
“I’ve been ignoring you,” he said. His chapped lips were licked, “I know you
have needs and I haven’t been paying attention.”
Patrick tilted his head.
“And I’m sorry. It’s not right for me to do that to you.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow.
“It must be tough, being a mess of hormones and all..”
“Hey, gross!” Patrick chimed in with. He pretended to wretch while folding his
arms. “No one wants to hear ‘bout that!”
Pete reached to touch that dirty blonde hair, saying, “Well, you weren’t
answering. I can’t do everything here. You need to help, too.”
The strands were oily, stuck together in certain spots. He liked it, his
fondness increased by the fact that he wasn’t being rejected. He stroked the
hair he managed to gather into a neat bundle behind Patrick’s ear.
“Mr. Wentz,” Patrick said. There was a pause, his body leaning in. He figured
the touches meant that getting fully physical was up for grabs. No pun
intended. “Kiss me. Fucking kiss me, okay?”
“Let’s talk first.”
“No!”
Patrick missed, having swung in. He was now hovering over the emergency break
with Mr. Wentz’s back to the window. It was a bad look for him. Confused, he
legitimately was at a loss for what he had done wrong. They should be
forgetting what had happened in school this week, in the way they knew best.
Pete was adamant, “Patrick, don’t. We have to talk. Sit.”
“All right, geez!” Patrick fussed, completely uncaring in how he kicked at the
dashboard. “Don’t tell me to sit. I’m not a dog.”
“Fine, you--”
“And according to you, I’m not a kid! So what am I? Huh!?” Patrick’s inflection
was hostile. His breath was heavy, fogging his window and flecks of saliva
hitting the glass. He was mimicking his classroom antics and desperately wanted
a reaction. A better one than being sent to the detention room.
It was unpleasant to watch, Pete swearing the tingles in his scalp were his
hairs graying with stress. Or the onset of a headache. He tried to remember
that this wasn’t entirely his fault, that there were growing pains involved.
“What fucking ever,” Patrick growled as he leaned out of their shared space.
Blindly, he fumbled for the door handle to make an exit. He heard the locks
click and was gripped by the crook of his elbow. “No, you’re, no--”
“We’re going to talk!”
Pete felt like an absolute creep. A first-rate slimeball; preventing a minor
from leaving his vehicle in the middle of the night, manipulating him through
his words and actions. He almost let go.
“You’re with me,” Pete said quickly, “that’s what you are! I don’t.. I don’t
know why and everything, but we’re together.”
Patrick wiggled his elbow loose, demanding, “Then why won’t you kiss me? Why
won’t you fuck me?”
“I mean, honestly?”
“Uh, yeah! Stop beating around the bush, asshole.”
On the street, a few speeding cars perked Pete’s ears. He realized that they
had been shouting, the world susceptible to hearing them. Worse, they could
wake parents. The dubious thought caused him to catch his reflection in the
side view mirror. Exhausted and lacking a youthful spark. No way would anyone
believe that they were close in age and free of suspicion. Definitely not with
Patrick’s baby face in the mix. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I’m afraid. I’m scared for us. It’s.. I’ve got a decade on you, I’m your
teacher,” Pete spilled, the anxieties brought to life.
“That doesn’t matter,” Patrick said immediately, quite aware that it did
matter. “No one’s ever gonna know.”
“I trust you on that,” Pete replied, only partially sure of that.
“Then what?”
“.. Your reception and perception of this. It’s hard to want to have sex with
you when you act out.”
Patrick was taken aback. He had no retort, effectively embarrassed. What Mr.
Wentz was telling him, how he was being viewed, yeah, fine, he got it - he was
immature and not worth the risk. Which he had proved all through his own
idiotic self. He couldn’t admit it, even if he had wanted to, this new grasp on
reality thrusted upon him. How dense, how unappealing he must seem. He had ice
in his gut, and he knew exiting the car would freeze him over. Tears pricked at
the corners of his eyes.
“Are you breaking up with me?” Patrick asked, the question so cliched, yet such
a fight.
Pete shook his head, “No, Patrick, please.. I need you to be patient for me.
We’re not breaking up.”
He wasn’t going to add that they couldn’t break up, there had never been a
formal discussion of them being a couple. Although, he was the one claiming
that they were ‘together’. The instigator of their relationship and willing to
drive here just to talk? A grown man gambling his livelihood for a bit of
action and reimagined adolescence? He winced, the young man’s glasses failing
as a floodgate for the tears. The glittery drops frightened him and he shifted.
“Don’t worry,” Pete said. He kissed Patrick’s neck and held himself there,
hands squeezing a thigh and continuing, “Patience, that’s it. I’m still going
through a lot with what we have. I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t. I would
feel like even more of a monster if I ruined this, that’s why I haven’t had you
at my place lately.”
The gentleness Mr. Wentz was displaying managed to bother Patrick in a way he
couldn’t explain. His anger had run its course, and he didn’t have much left
beyond a mild annoyance. He sniffled, “I think I can wait.”
“Oh, good,” Pete beamed, becoming visibly cheered. He watched the tears wiped
by the sleeve of the sweatshirt, the fabric dampened. “Maybe you can come over
next weekend, after the holiday? I can text you to make plans.”
Patrick grimaced, “Text? Figured you’d block my number after what I did.”
“I’ll reward your reasonable behavior by forgetting unreasonable behavior.”
“You what?”
“Since you stayed and talked with me,” Pete made a gesture between them, “you
showed how reasonable you can be. Therefore, I’m willing to let the whole cell
phone nonsense go.”
“Hah, that’s stupid,” Patrick laughed. He put his hands up defensively in
response to the glare he received. He couldn’t help the laugh, it was a good
distraction from how distraught he had been earlier. Being some kind of
reasonable sucked, and his whirlwind emotions made it nearly impossible.
“Sorry. You’ve got me feeling crazy, sometimes I wonder, like, how this isn’t a
dream.”
Yawning, Pete had returned to sit on his side of the car, the anticipation for
more kisses abandoned. He looked away at the phrase ‘feeling crazy’.
Patrick went on, “Hey, I’ll text you, okay? And I’ll try and be patient about
all this bullshit.”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah. Uhm, Mr. Wentz?”
Pete heard the nervousness and he frowned in concern, not ready for another
round of tears. He faced the young man and couldn’t discern his expression, a
strange blend of hopefulness and fear. Cautiously, he hummed, “Hm?”
“Let’s go on a date.”
***** Chapter 11 *****
Patrick sat on his bed, popping the same knuckles over and over. His pale skin
was pinched with color. He had already tried to upchuck the fear he was
experiencing, unsuccessful and dry heaving into the toilet. It had made him
feel nasty enough to rewash his face and rebrush his teeth. He smelled like
drugstore brand cleanser and mint.
Ten minutes until he was supposed to go.
Mr. Wentz had agreed to a date! A very secret, very brief date tonight. He had
been obscenely giddy all week, more so since the activity was kept a surprise.
He had been told to wear comfy shoes for his singular hint. It was Saturday,
the sun set hours ago, stars hidden by January clouds. This was the final
weekend before school was back in session, the weather frigid with
encouragement for most people to bunk in. His parents included. Fake girlfriend
or not, going out this late raised too much worry.
Slowly, Patrick had eased a hand into his briefs. He was fantasizing about the
date, and in the minutes leading up to their meeting time, his arousal was
bubbling to the brim.
“Uhn,” he grunted, his cock awake in his palm. The strokes he gave were
careful, ending with a tug on the head that reminded him of Mr. Wentz’s lips.
Strong, quick lips that were afraid of doing something wrong, concerned that he
might love sucking dick. He smiled, eyes closed and hold clenching.
Soon, Patrick fell back into old habits and was moving fast with his
imagination running wild. It was so good, a pang of excitement warming his toes
in a familiar way. He squirmed at the touches and chewed on his lower lip to
keep quiet. He thought about what he and Mr. Wentz might do at the end of their
date, how every time he touched him, he was amazed at the smooth muscles he
found. They were a delicious treat that he wanted to taste, to claim. A hard
body that had no problem getting hard for him. God, he prayed they would
finally fuck.
“Yeah,” he faintly exclaimed. He rested at the base for a split-second to allow
the orgasm to roll and float, caught somewhere in the depths of his hips. The
tease he forced on himself was unpracticed and weak, though it still rocked
him. “Yeah..!”
Another round of stroking had him in a half-moon shape, spine curved as he came
into his hand. He faced the ceiling as tremors of electricity prickled through
him, his neck exposed. He rushed to the bathroom on wobbly feet to prevent
drippage on the floor or his clothes. He was winded from the speed of
everything, pants around his thighs as he washed off the spatter. Hot water
splashed the hems of his sleeves during his reach to shut off the faucet.
“Whoops,” Patrick said in realization. In the middle of doing a mirror check,
he knew it was definitely time to head out.
Cell phone in his jacket pocket, he crept down the stairs and out the front
door. No sound was made, and the guilt was minimized to a bite-sized amount. He
had become pretty talented at this. Even better, his abilities in memorization
had also recently improved due to his text conversations with Mr. Wentz.
With their last encounter being in his teacher’s car, the date permitted,
Patrick had been instructed to delete their conversations any time they texted.
Which meant that the details for tonight, ten on the dot at the corner of Jylon
and South Somner, were in his brain.
He didn’t really get what the big deal was. He wasn’t going to ‘tell’ on Mr.
Wentz, no matter what their situation became. There would be no benefit to the
school knowing, because, yes, everyone would find out no matter which authority
figures he told, certain that bullying would be the most likely result. He
wasn’t fully out about his sexuality, and being exposed as having a teacher as
his lover was less than ideal. Shoved in the hallways, food thrown at him
during lunch, the typical crap. And the name calling would range from faggot to
jailbait, screeched by morons passing by on his path to sixth period, into a
classroom where he would find Mr. Wentz’s replacement. No thanks.
The walk to their meeting spot was brief, although he was unable to see his
house from the corner. He figured that was the point. When he glanced at the
clock on his cell phone, he read that it was three minutes past the scheduled
time. Wait, what type of car did he have again? Was it black, or navy blue? He
couldn’t recall the make or model, either. Just that it was a dark compact car.
Fortunately, he spotted it a moment later and hurried to the passenger’s side.
The bright headlights and slowing of its wheels had helped.
“Hey,” Patrick chirped, nearly hopping in the seat. His eyes widened at the
sight of Mr. Wentz, blurting, “Holy--! Whoa, that’s awesome.”
The beard had been shaved clean off. His blonde hair now a pastel pink.
---
In preparation for an evening out with a fucking student of his, Pete had
altered his appearance. Being recognized together had slim chances, and he
needed to make them as borderlined to zero as possible.
The shave had made him look younger, and the hair.. Well, he sort of had a
quarter life crisis thing going on. The color covered the top of his head and
trickled down in a few places, his hair mainly dark in the back. But the dye
was super temporary, advertised to wash out with two or three rinses. Plus, the
pink matched the Aéropostale skinny jeans he had on. They were a relic from his
early college days, and he had been ecstatic to have them fit the same. He had
considered wearing his old glasses, too, and dropped the idea once he had
chosen their date activity. Of which he had forgotten to warn Patrick.
“A concert?”
“Yes,” Pete confirmed. His hands were stiff on the wheel, driving to a venue
well past the neighborhood. “They’ll be carding because of the alcohol they
serve, so you’re going to have to follow my lead. I’ll get us in.”
Patrick had a thousand questions. More urgently, he was dying to touch him.
Knowing that they were headed to a concert stirred him further. Now, Mr. Wentz
was different, gorgeous, and he was sure it was all for him. His tongue pressed
to the inside of his cheek.
“Who’s the band?” Patrick asked. He needed to keep cool, lower his levels of
wonder.
“A couple of local groups. I think you’ll like them.”
“Okay.”
On the outskirts of Chicago’s East side, they parked in a tiny lot beside a
ripple of buildings. No lines were painted to create spaces, each car at a
crooked angle. There were people, clustered and loud, who had created a line at
the nearest door and spilled into the lot. A marquee sign read ‘Asterisk* Thtr’
in cracked letters, illuminated by a tired glow. The car was locked and they
stepped onto the asphalt. Barely having time to make small talk at the end of
the line, it began to move. A voice could be heard yelling towards the front.
“Let’s go,” Pete said, wary of the shuffling group. Patrick’s wrist was grabbed
and he added, “You’re with me, don’t stray.”
Patrick agreed and managed to remain silent until it was their turn at the
door. The sight of the bouncer caused him to gasp; the man’s face was coated in
tattoo ink, numbers and bones and words in cursive that he couldn’t read, the
massive muscles he carried somehow present in his neck and jaw. This guy had at
least a foot on them both, and he couldn’t stop staring.
The exchange was fast, Pete displaying his I.D. and making a point about how
Patrick wasn’t a liability. They were allowed in. Patrick was bewildered, his
thousand questions accidentally swallowed in a panic. Observing the ceiling’s
slack copper wiring with vintage smut film posters on the walls, he would be
lying if he said he was at ease.
“The openers are setting up, we should find somewhere to stand,” Pete
suggested, his voice raised due to the noise level inside. Punk music dominated
the speakers above, bouncing along the concrete floor.
“What? Isn’t there a place to sit?” Patrick responded hesitantly.
“No, this is the real deal. Standing room only.”
“Err, all right, where should we stand?”
Pete had noticed a less busy section at the venue’s rear, relieved to hear that
his date didn’t want to be pressed to the stage or anything. They made their
way toward it, and he was made aware of a set of sweaty fingers snaking through
his own. He shook away.
“Mr. Wentz,” Patrick said while he went for another grab, “c’mon. Isn’t that
part of a date?”
Pete was nervous, saying, “Yes, but-- Don’t call me that. You know, can you..
Pete’s fine.”
“Seriously?”
No, this should be a bad joke to Pete, yet he nodded in reassurance. He had to.
His school title would only make them more susceptible to unwanted attention,
his first name would have to do. And beating Patrick to the punch of repeating
the request, he held his hand. The stage lights suddenly dimmed and then had
the center ones reignite, a makeshift spotlight. A roar was created by the
crowd without regard to the gangly young man rallying for their attention. He
was an inaudible master of ceremonies and escaped offstage, racing the
curtains. Another roar.
“Hey! What’s this group called?” Patrick asked.
“Who knows? Let’s hope they’re good!” Pete replied. He cheered at nothing in
particular, his free hand in the air.
True to the setting, the opening band consisted of three dudes in ratty
clothing that had ears pierced beyond any fleshy recognition. Their drum kit,
bass, and guitar were also kind of fucked up, causing their songs to be
distorted. Maybe that was the point? Nevertheless, the reception was deafening.
Patrick was overwhelmed. It wasn’t in a bad way, no, he simply had a lot going
on that he had never experienced. The most prominent being the public hand
holding and basement show concert. He leaned on Mr. Wentz and made an effort to
relax.
“Here we go, fuckers! Scream for me!”
The vocalist - guitarist? - gave the command and the crowd obeyed, Patrick’s
feet made to roll with the people around them. Notions of relaxing were tossed
out and he was totally clinging to Mr. Wentz, fingernails caught on his
jacket’s collar. He assumed this wasn’t anything new for him, he was so steady!
There was a chick on the other side of them flailing to the beat, her
dreadlocks whipping dangerously close, and Mr. Wentz was unphased. In fact, he
seemed to be blocking what he could in order to protect Patrick. It was hot.
That, and the room was a furnace with everyone’s knitted body heat. The song
reached its climax and the final notes reverberated in a flood of static from
the cheap speakers.
Extended by a few crowd surfers causing havoc and the vocalist ranting about
capitalism, the band’s setlist was soon on its last leg. Pete had enjoyed them,
head banging when he wasn’t watching that soft golden crown tucked against him.
He was careful of Patrick, especially because of his glasses that he hadn’t
been mindful of during the planning. He had accepted them going on a date,
however, he had mandated that he was the one to make the arrangements. Nothing
cutesy or romantic, ideally a place where talking wasn’t the main focus. Going
to the movies was cliché, and they both were into music, which meant that a
concert was, in his opinion, the best choice. He beamed whenever he felt the
kid groove to a guitar riff, felt him stomp his feet to a drum solo.
The band hollered its gratitude and were ushered off the stage, picks thrown to
eager palms in the mosh pit. Patrick roughly rubbed Pete’s chest and they made
eye contact.
Those blue greens sparkling, he said, “I wanna go make out somewhere.”
---
Patrick had decided that the bathrooms were gross, and the cramped utility
closet with an off limits sign was decent. In a bramble of mops and push
brooms, they locked lips. To the contrary, the door was unable to be locked
from the inside, Pete gluing his back to it for security.
Like horny virgins on prom night, they were all sloppy kisses and fumbling
gropes. It had been a while. Their skin was salty from the heat, tasted by
parched tongues, and still better than a glass of water. Outside, the crowd was
revamping with the announcement of the headlining band.
“Pete,” Patrick was panting, “I, I’m..”
“Mmhm?” Pete had to admit, there was a pleasant thrill in being called his
first name. It was a turn on coming from that sweet tenor, almost begging him
for something.
Patrick went on, “I’ve n-never wanted anyone the way I want you.”
“Show me. Suck me off.”
Pete tucked him down, undoing his own belt to get this shit started. He was
breaking every rule, ignoring every red flag; he shouldn’t be bringing a
teenager into a club, they shouldn’t be in public together to begin with, he
shouldn’t be allowing his school title to be dropped, and he absolutely should
not be comfortable with how dearly attached Patrick had become in these past
months. It wasn’t a red flag, it was bloodied banner cresting the peak of their
relationship with the winds of false hope. He refused to see it.
His erection was freed and tapped to a waiting mouth in a matter of seconds,
the closet’s darkness keeping their flushed features hidden. He groaned in
relief, the wet warmth such a perfect sensation. The door behind him thudded
with his movements. Patrick’s knees were on the floor and he mumbled
incoherently, drooling.
“Fate fell short this time, your smile fades in the summer.”
Patrick removed his mouth and stood, exclaiming, “They’re doing a Blink cover!
Let’s go listen, c’mon!”
“What’re, Patrick, what are you talking about?”
“Outside! Let’s go!”
Frantically redressing, Pete was left alone while Patrick slipped away. Shit,
shit! He squinted out at the utility closet’s little hallway, and was alarmed
by the frenzied sound of the crowd. Among them a minute later, swearing up a
storm and with a half-hard cock, he scanned for his date. He stood on his
tiptoes and pushed through, finding no trace of him. The further in he went,
the higher his chance was for getting hurt. That rate tripled for Patrick. He
wasn’t a math teacher, but get real, the kid was no match for this group.
Someone kicked him in the head.
Pete looked for the offender, a crowd surfer, of course, and he put a hand
skyward to block another blow. This mess didn’t need a headache. With the band
telling them to jump, the crowd surfer was dropped in favor of this new
activity. A terrified face turned to meet his, not actually seeing him. He
watched the fall happen from a distance of about ten feet, and regretted
everything in the entire history of his pathetic life.
Smacked to the concrete and engulfed by a sea of shoes, Patrick disappeared.
Screaming his name, Pete plowed past those blocking his path. He was breathless
and struggling, arms outstretched in an attempt to show that he was coming for
him. To save him. From the problem he had caused.
When Patrick was yanked to a standing position, he couldn’t hold on - both
hands were clutched in a ball, his left thumb bent diagonally over his
knuckles.
End Notes
     Wow! I really appreciate everyone who's still here. I'm having fun :
     3
     Maybe 17 or 18 chapters in total? I dunno.
     **All characters are of consenting age. All portrayals are
     fictitious.
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their work!
