A Riff on Smitty's The Best Things in Life are Free Spoilers: for the first two chapters of smittywing 's The Best Things in Life Are Free , which you must read because it's awesome. Rating: NC-17 Characters: John/Rodney Two teenage boys. Two tapes they watch. You do the math (John sure can).
	Maybe John, who can't quite categorise this whole thing but who isn't stupid, not by a long shot, at first thinks it's simple, that he just likes hanging with Rodney -- not so bad, after all, for a geek -- but there's something else, something that catches him by surprise one sunny afternoon when they're in his dad's kitchen and he passes Rodney a soda from the fridge, when his fingers brush Rodney's -- no, not a spark of electricity or any of that nonsense, but when he ducks his head, he catches the look in the other boy's eyes, and it's -- it's strange and weird and sends a fucking rush through him. With a click, all things fall into place, all the wide-eyed smiles and quick frowns and that tiny quiver of Rodney's lips when he talks to him; it makes sense now, he knows, he *knows*.   And John feels something strange, right there, the drops of condensation still on his fingers and the sound of Rodney opening the can in his ears, a sensation in his stomach that's almost like he's feeling sick, only there's this burst of excitement flushing his body, hot and cold -- which is all wrong, really, not so much because Rodney's a boy, dammit, but because he's just...well, a geek, badly-dressed and fast-talking in a smart-ass way, whose harebrained ten-steps programme to get rid of being so desperately uncool he had to accept to avoid getting into trouble, only because of that -- Rodney's embarrassing, if one really looked at it, only that John hasn't really done that before, but of course, now it's different, personal because he doesn't just have a fan but a boy with a crush on his hands (or, Jesus, other places).   And a part of John wishes he could un-realise it, not that there is such a thing, and he's so acutely aware of Rodney, Rodney close by, drinking his coke with the blissed-out expression John's only seen with other people in -- other circumstances, and now it's really hard for him not to think of Rodney -- then. But, he gets a hold of himself, takes a deep breath, and manages to grin at Rodney, asking some inane question he forgets the second after; and they leave the kitchen and watch Flight of the Intruder together, Rodney's eyes very blue in the glare of the TV screen. And John shouldn't, really, but he sees them now, the not-so-furtive glances Rodney sends his way, because really, Rodney isn't subtle -- brows furrowed in concentration when he watches John on his board, bendy, quicksilver in the sun, or the slightly glassy-eyed stare when his gaze drops to John's lips, even glassier when he checks out John's ass. It's a complete coincidence that John finds his old blue jeans in the back of the closet when he's rifling through his stuff, washed and worn and very tight-fitting, but he snags them and wears them, and totally doesn't notice the surprised "oh" of Rodney's mouth, soft and open for just a moment too long.   John thinks he can't be blamed for that last bit, really, because Rodney has this insanely expressive mouth, ready to smirk or do that funny little down-turn in one corner at a moment's notice, and that's not mentioning the way it looks when Rodney is eating a chocolate bar, all but inhaling it, enthusiastic, happy, and that very image -- well, if John wonders how Rodney's mouth would look wrapped around other things, it's only the next logical step, right?   John's a man of action, of course, so when his father is gone for the weekend, he invites Rodney for a Saturday night at his place and gets his hands on some porn -- this is what guys, do, after all; watching porn together and jerking off, and hey, if Rodney has other ideas that involve his mobile mouth and John's dick, that'll be just fine, too. Rodney lets out a little gulp when John smirks and shoves the tape at him, telling him to start the vid already, but John drops his voice, makes his eyes linger on Rodney's face for an extra second because he definitely doesn't want to spook him. And Rodney nods, bites his lips, broad hands -- hands that John has seen handle wires so fine they could barely be seen without a microscope with grace and ease -- trembling just a little when inserting the tape. And when the sights and the sounds from the TV fill the room, John leans back, hands dropping onto his stomach, feeling excitement uncoil slowly, deliciously. He's still looking at and listening to the TV, but he can't help but hear these familiar puffs of breath, too, watch -- out of the corner of his eye -- how Rodney wets his lips. It gives him a thrill, welcome if a little frightening, but looking back at the screen, it's familiar enough, big boobs and naked female bodies and the loud moans that never fail to send shivers down his spine and to make him hard, gloriously hard. John slides his hand down, down, past his stomach; it's not just his imagination, the hitch in Rodney's breath when he touches the first button, pops it open, moves to the second one -- he has to close his eyes for a moment, but then, his pants are open, and he's freed his dick. He wants to close his fist around it, go rough and fast -- but it'd be over to quick, and he wishes to draw this out, stretch the time spent here with Rodney like salt-water taffy. Only when he's exhaled and started with a lighter touch, using three fingers to slide up and down in a gentle motion, he allows himself to look at Rodney again -- Rodney, who still has his pants zipped but whose fingers are clutching at the carpet, whose eyes are not at all on the screen, not watching anything but his, John's dick, and who wears an expression on his face that makes John swallow, clench his teeth, go a little faster.   Rodney's hard, there's no doubt, not a little bit, but he makes no move to open his own pants, instead looking down at John, only at John, who in turn glances at the slack curve of Rodney's lips, wondering, wishing, wanting; not that this isn't good, it is, he just thinks it'd be fair if Rodney would -- look at him, and Rodney's is looking at him, straight into his eyes now, and this, finally, is too much, and John gasps and comes, fast and hard and good. He opens his eyes again -- Rodney's jumped to his feet, breath too quick and eyes feverish, but before John can make himself move, can open his mouth, tell him to relax and take it easy, Rodney is already bolting out of the door, mumbling something about homework and physics and watering the garden, and he's gone. Gone, leaving a dazed John who'd thought it'd be easier to get a blowjob from the gay neighbour's boy who carries the sort of torch that can probably seen from the other end of town for him. John knows that Rodney liked it, liked *him*, and just like that, too, but it seems this isn't so simple, not even between buddies, which they aren't by default or shared football jacket, and he realises that maybe Rodney's too freaked although, really, why would he be, but still, maybe their deal is off now, and -- and there it is again, a sliver of of fear, sharp and cool and making something clench painfully. Because yeah, Rodney'd want his money back, or an exactly calculated fraction of the sum, and John would have to explain to his father, which'd be a minor apocalypse and can't happen, ever.   John would apologise, only he doesn't know how because his father laying down the law of manners and proper behaviour didn't include saying I'm Sorry For Jacking Off In Front Of You (And Oh, Hoping You'd Blow Me), so he's a bit at a loss, there -- still is when Rodney rings at his door the next morning, not looking him in the eye, not looking at any part of his body, in fact, but when John's just about to say something, Rodney's already launched into this tirade about the duties of a future supergenius of America -- yes, yes, never mind the fact he's Canadian; research grants and facilities tend to be better in the good old US of A, so this is the most promising option -- which segues into the physics *and* chemistry homework for today, and how he wanted to stay but totally had to run and how he reallyreally couldn't stay. Rodney's voice is like water, a never-ending stream of it, and John lets it wash over him, cool and surprisingly gentle, smoothing out edges he hadn't known were there, and he relaxes and smiles and they walk to school together. They're good and easy for four days or so, when it's suddenly the weekend again, with John's father gone (not for all of it but Friday night for sure), which Rodney knows because he's memorised the travel schedule on the board next to the door the first time he came around, after a fleeting glance at it, and when he tells John that, perhaps, watching a movie would be the cool thing to do, his cheeks are flaming, but his eyes are fierce, and right there, John thinks Rodney's pretty damn awesome. Rodney even rings the doorbell in a determined way, and John wonders fleetingly if he'll have to bite back a laugh, but when he opens the door, Rodney looks resolute and all-tough and so damn hopeful that John's grin softens into a smile. Rodney steps past him -- damn if he didn't take a deep breath while doing so -- and they head for the kitchen first, by unspoken agreement, where they stay for a while to decide on the pizza to order because with Rodney, that always takes *ages*, most of which are spent on listening to a detailed report on his allergies that are, really, if you poke a little, food sensibilities...except for the actually dangerous citrus fruit thing, which John has made sure to make a mental note of because giving CPR to Rodney in the lunch room isn't high on his To Do list, although, of course, the part of that *not* about life-threatening conditions isn't as unappealing as it should be, and the image stays with John, in the back of his mind, until they finally move over to his room with its TV set, its VCR, and the new tape John got -- if he chose more carefully this time, namely one that features a foursome of two girls and two guys, okay, that's just to make Rodney, who obviously isn't all that into girls, a bit more relaxed.   And they settle down in front of the bed, John already feeling that low-grade hum in his body, even before Rodney snags the tape out of his hands with a quick look that's all dare -- and pops it in, strong fingers steady. John leans back against the edge of the bed, the screen flickers to life, and there isn't much preliminary action, which is good because John doesn't think he can wait, definitely doesn't want to wait; he stares at the screen, and yes that works, sex and heat and more sex, and no, he doesn't look over yet, doesn't yet glance at Rodney, instead works open his zipper, teasing his himself only for a moment -- letting his fingers drag over the length of his cock, once -- before taking himself out and stroking, gently, with a hiss he can't hold back, and now, now, he'll turn his head a little and look at Rodney who -- who has opened his own pants, is actually shucking them down a little in order to touch himself more easily, leaning on his elbows and lifting his ass a little, and John's mouth feels dry, and he cannot *not* watch these little Rodney-movements, the annoyed sound he makes when his pants don't disappear as quickly and easily as they did on the screen.   Rodney's still looking down, but he glances over at John's dick again, tongue darting over his lips, and John grips himself tighter -- Rodney has finally freed his own cock, thick and blunt and shiny, and John has to tear his eyes away, stares at Rodney's face instead, only that this doesn't help, not at all; John stares at the blush spreading there, the sheer film of sweat reflecting the light from the tv set, the wide eyes fluttering shut for just the fraction of a second. It's -- John feels light-headed, almost like that time he managed a back-flip on his skateboard, because Rodney's impossibly -- John can't look away, wants to make him feel even better, and the realisation that hits him like a freight train is hotter than hell and even scarier, or would be if John wasn't already half-there, scooting down, ignoring (only, not) Rodney's gasp of surprise when he reaches out and touches the other boy's dick, smooth and startlingly foreign under his fingers, and when he hears the sounds Rodney makes when he starts jerking him off, he's already gone too far, can make the last step, too, and lower his head: Salt, musk, an explosion of *heat* on his tongue, and swirling his tongue around the head is not half as weird as he -- hadn't really thought about; the utterly best thing is the way Rodney's hands ghost over his hair, touch the side of his face, graze the curve of his ear, which sends shivers down his spine, shivers that John can feel all the way down in his own dick, and Rodney's panting now, moaning loud enough to drone out the TV, and that, again, is making John so hard he tries settling his weight on only one arm so he can touch himself -- but Rodney's tugging at him now, frantically, amazingly strong, and he manages to drag John back up, pushing him half-up against the side of the bed, and then, he has only a second to stare into Rodney's face, soft lips and blue, blue eyes, and then, they are kissing, licking into each other's mouth, fierce and so good, and that's Rodney's hand on his dick, and yeah, he's dexterous, alright, dragging John's hand back to his, Rodney's dick, and John knows he's never come so hard in his life. And when, after what does feel like an eternity of just lying there with Rodney's mouth against the side of his neck, each breath stirring the fine hairs there, making him tingle pleasantly, he turns his head and really looks at Rodney, who stares back at him with something like wonder, he knows he's totally not alone with this.
	Send Feedback! Main Menu