You end up staying in because it’s supposed to rain, which Dom of course won’t let you hear the end of, but whatever. You’d rather have Dom rag on you all night about how wussy everyone here is about rain than go out to some stupid club where you’ll just feel nervous and awkward and probably jealous, too.

If you go, you know Dom’ll dance with, like, twenty hot guys, and maybe hook up with someone. Or someones. And you’ll just be having a drink and lurking over by the bar or something, and Dom will take pity on you every once in a while and say come on, Lij, you just have to put yourself out there, like it’s that easy.

Everything’s easy for Dom. He doesn’t have to think about what “putting yourself out there” would mean. He doesn’t get how fucking scary that is or how pointless, because it’s not like you could hook up with some dude at a club, and Dom knows that. Or he should.

So you stay in, because of the rain. Because you suck. Because you really just want to hang out with Dom anyway, not spend the night being in the same building but not really interacting at all, because what’s the fucking point in that?

But staying in involves going out, too, at least for a few minutes. You hit up the store for beer and Coke and chips and other snacks, and find Dom waiting on the doorstep when you get home. He’s got a bottle of something in one hand and his phone in the other.

“I ordered pizza,” he says, waving the phone at you.

“You told ‘em to come up the back?”

“‘Back house. Gate’ll be open.’ How many times’ve I listened to you order?” He hooks an arm around your neck, bonking your heads together. “You think I’m stupid?”

You elbow him in the side. “No comment.”

After extracting yourself, you unlock the door for Dom and dump the shopping bags inside before going back and opening the gate. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if the pizza guy went to the front door of the main house, but then your mom and Hannah would know Dom is here and Hannah would probably want to hang with you (or with Dom, rather) and you get along with Hannah a lot better than most guys probably get along with their little sisters, but even though she means well and is good about things 99% of the time, it’s still too much of a reminder, especially with someone like Dom, who’s never known you as anyone but Elijah. You just don’t need that stress.

The bottle Dom brought turns out to be scotch, and the beer gets pretty much ignored in favor of scotch and Cokes. Which was maybe a bad idea, because even with like half a fucking pizza in your stomach, you’re feeling way too woozy. You always drink more at home than anywhere else, except maybe at Dom’s because that feels like home, too.

You’d never get this wasted at a club. God knows what you’d do. Probably make a fool of yourself on the dancefloor or some shit and try to get some guy to suck your dick and then have to be all these are not the genitals you are looking for when he gets in your pants. Here it’s just you and Dom and no matter how touchy-feely you get or he gets, it’s just friendly, no worries. Dom knows about you, so you know there’s no chance.

You say as much when you’re in the kitchen refueling. (You think you might barf if you have another slice of pizza, but it’s never as good the next day, so the temptation is too great to resist. And of course you need another drink to go along with it.) You try to explain the catch-22. You can’t flirt with guys who don’t know, because what if it really turns into something and then they’ll know whether you tell them or not and that’ll be the end of that. But you can’t flirt with guys who do know, either, because aside from creepy-ass chasers (and you get enough of those online), who the fuck would be interested if they knew?

“Me,” Dom says.

“Fuck off. I’m trying to be serious.”

“What makes you think I’m not serious?”

He leans in, crowding you against the kitchen table. There is a bit of pizza sauce at the corner of his mouth and wow, he is really close and there is nowhere to go and oh my, isn’t that spot on the floor fascinating.

“Lij.” He is really close now. Like lips touching your ear close. “I am totally serious.”

And then his lips aren’t on your ear but your mouth and he tastes like pizza and alcohol and he kisses you until you are both hard, though he probably can’t feel yours through two layers of jeans like you can feel his. He sweeps the glasses and plates aside and pushes you back against the table. He undoes your fly and his hand is halfway in your pants when he stops, fingertips brushing the too-ticklish skin above your pubes.

“Is this okay? I can touch you, right?”

“Please.” God, that sounded desperate, but you kind of are. There’s, like, a fucking river between your legs. Your shorts are probably soaked through. It’s usually embarrassing; getting wet sounds like such a girl thing. You actually get wetter more now than before, even though all the websites you read and videos you watched said the opposite would probably happen. Thanks a lot, body. Way to find yet another way to fuck things up.

But when your jeans and shorts are down around your knees and Dom’s fingers slip and slide over your dick, you really don’t care anymore. You wrap your fingers in his hair and kiss him again, thrusting into his hand. It takes about two seconds for you to come, and that should be embarrassing, too, except for how into it Dom is.

Dom wipes his hand off on his stomach, shoves his own jeans down so he can grind his dick against yours. He licks your ear and groans a little too loudly when you reach down and grab his ass. He doesn’t last much longer.

Hours later you are both in bed and Dom is snoring, but you’re still too keyed up to sleep. Your ass is pleasantly sore and your thighs are slippery and Dom’s jizz is drying on the small of your back.

It feels kind of gross, but more in a need to take a shower kind of way than a hating yourself way. In fact, this is the least you’ve hated yourself after sex in maybe ever. You listen to the rain as it starts coming down harder and try to hold on to that feeling.

Pretty much everyone is good about calling her Jinora. One of the perks of being the former Avatar’s grandchild, probably.

People on the island come and go, but there are plenty who’ve been here as long as she’s been alive or longer. There are plenty who know. But they also know that if her dad catches them calling her anything but the name she’s chosen, there’ll be consequences.

Maybe they gossip. She doesn’t know and she doesn’t care, really. Well, maybe a little, because she’s never sure if some newcomer is staring at her because of who her dad or grandpa is or because they’re thinking that boy thinks he’s a girl or something stupid like that. It makes her a little nervous not knowing.

Anyway, she doesn’t think she’s a girl. She knows it. End of story. She doesn’t know if it really is a reincarnation thing or if it’s just how she is, but looking at it that way is what helped her dad come around, so she can roll with it.

“You were obviously female in your previous life and still have issues to work through. To prevent you from dealing with those issues would only hinder your spiritual progress,” he said, after lots of sighing and meditation. He tells her to meditate on it, too, and she’s pretty sure he hopes it’s something she’ll grow out of, but even if he’s just humoring her, she’ll take what she can get.

Mom wasn’t thrilled, either, but she’s okay with it. She’s got Meelo, anyway, so it’s not like there’s no son to carry on the family line. And maybe the next baby’ll be a boy, too.

Ikki’s the best. She loves having a big sister, and maybe it’s just ’cause they’re a little older, but it really feels like they’re closer now. Being sisters is different than being brother and sister. Especially when the so-called brother is secretly seething with jealousy and all jumbled up inside. Being happy kind of makes a big difference.

Basically everyone is great, really. Everyone old enough to know better, anyway. The problem is Meelo. Meelo is young enough that he doesn’t even remember her not being Jinora, at least she doesn’t think he does. But he’s also young enough that he has zero filters and just blurts out whatever he’s thinking.

So when they’re all sitting there meditating one day, her and Ikki and Meelo and Korra and Dad, and Meelo suddenly says, “Korra, guess what!” Jinora is already bracing herself for whatever might come out of his mouth.

She opens her eyes and immediately cringes, because her stupid brother is somehow wearing no pants and pointing excitedly between his legs.

“Look!” Meelo laughs. “My penis is hard!”

“Um,” Korra says, trying to look anywhere else.

Jinora’s kind of surprised Meelo hadn’t tried to show Korra before, actually, considering how obsessed he’s been with it lately. Maybe it’s a boy thing, because Jinora can’t remember ever being that excited over hers.

“Meelo,” her dad says in that way that makes everything sound like a sigh. “Put your pants back on. We are meditating right now.”

“No, we’re not!” Meelo shouts. “Korra! Do you have a penis, Korra!?”

“Meelo,” Ikki and Dad say at the same time.

“Of, of course not,” Korra says. “I’m a girl.”

Jinora knows what’s coming next and she wants to scream or run or strangle Meelo or maybe all three, but she can’t move. She can barely breathe.

“Some girls have penises,” Meelo says, looking at Korra like she’s dumb. “Jin–”

“Meelo!” Dad grits out. “That. is. enough!”

“–ora has a penis.”

Everyone is quiet for what feels like forever, and then Korra bursts out laughing. “Oh, Meelo,” she says, gasping for air. “You are such a funny little kid.”

And suddenly Jinora isn’t scared anymore, or embarrassed. She’s angry. Korra thinks she’s so smart because she’s the Avatar, but she doesn’t know anything.

“Actually,” Jinora says calmly, “he’s right. Some girls do have penises.”

Korra stops laughing, but she’s still smiling, still looking at them like they’re the country bumpkins. “What?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t know that.” Jinora rolls her eyes. “You must have been really sheltered down there at the South Pole.”

Korra gapes at her, then looks around at Dad and Ikki for support, but they both just nod. They’re smiling. Jinora is smiling, too. It feels good. Not taking Korra down a peg (though, okay, that felt good, too), but just saying it like it’s no big deal.

“I’m smarter than the Avatar!” Meelo crows.

Maybe he’s smarter than all of them.

“Look at me!” he shouts, whirling around on a puff of air. “Look at–” His shouts suddenly turn to wails as he loses control and smacks down hard on his naked butt.

Well, smarter about this one thing anyway. Jinora shakes her head and gets up to go comfort him. He is her stupid little brother, after all.

This isn’t the best part, because the best part is everything, but there’s something about lying here like this after, sleepy and sweaty and pleasantly sore.

This is the part Ewan thinks about, maybe not when he’s jerking off, but when he’s thinking about Jude and feeling goofy and lovestruck and wanting to take Jude home to meet his folks because this is something real and he wants it to be something that lasts.

He presses a kiss to Jude’s neck and Jude presses a thumb into a new bruise, and they both make little noises, happy noises. Ewan smiles.

John spends ten minutes wandering around the store, picking things up off the shelves and putting them down again without ever really seeing them. He probably looks like a shop-lifter.

He loops back around to the front again and this time there’s no one at the customer service. It’s now or never, and as tempting as it is to let never win, he takes a deep breath and heads over to the register.

The guy behind the counter looks up, blond hair flopping into his eyes. He looks bored and he doesn’t smile when he says, “Can I help you?”

This would be so much easier if John weren’t horny and nervous. Between the two of those, he’s got like three brain cells left. He bounces a little and takes another deep breath.

The guy gives him a look like John’s already starting to annoy him, but that does nothing to kill John’s hard-on. At least he doesn’t have to worry about hiding it. He’s more than a little bitter about that reality, but it does have its advantages.

“Can I, uh, get an application?” John says, cringing at how high and nasal his voice sounds, even after six months.

“We don’t hire high school students,” the guy says, and the only good thing about that is it means he thinks John’s a guy, not a dyke.

John lifts his chin. “I’m twenty.”

“Aim a little lower next time if you want to be convincing.”

“I’m not lying,” John says, and his voice takes that opportunity to betray him (again) by cracking.

“Let me see your ID, then.”

John looks away. “Don’t have it on me.”

“What are you really, like fourteen?” The guy laughs, fucking laughs, and John’s had it.

“Fine,” he snaps, “you want to see my ID?”

John digs his wallet out of his pocket and slaps it down on the counter. The guy stares at him, stunned by his outburst.

“Well? Are you gonna open it or not?”

Johns fists are clenched, nails digging into his palms. His chest feels tight and it’s got nothing to do with his binder. He is trying not to shake.

The guy picks it up slowly. The sound of the velcro is loud when he pulls it open.

The picture is old, but the resemblance is there. The guy looks at it and then back at John.

He says, “Oh.”

John snatches it back. His face is burning. “Can I have an application now?”

“Yeah, of course.” The guy ducks his head, lips pressed together. John still wants to fuck him so bad it hurts.

The guy holds out the application and their fingers touch when John takes it from him. If this were a book or a movie there’d be a spark or something, but it’s just like touching anyone.

John mumbles thanks, folds up the application and stuffs it in his pocket with his wallet. He just wants to get out of there, but the guy says, “Wait.”

John freezes.

“I…”

“What?” John says, trying not to get his hopes up.

The guy looks down at the papers he’s shuffling. “What’s your name?”

“You saw it,” John snaps.

“No.” The guy looks up at him then. His eyes are really blue. “No, I mean.” His mouth twists. “Not that name.”

“Oh,” John says. His heart is racing. “It’s John.”

“Cool,” the guy says, and then, “See ya.”

John grins. “See ya.”

It’s only when he’s lying on his bed later, jeans kicked off and his hand between his legs, that he realizes he never got the guy’s name.

The guy’s not there when John goes back the next evening. Maybe he should’ve come earlier. He’s half tempted to hold on to the application and come back another day, but the help wanted poster’s already gone from the window. The girl who takes his application says she doesn’t know if that means they’ve already hired someone, but it can’t hurt to try.

He’s still kind of nervous about public restrooms and he doesn’t even really have to piss, but he stops in anyway and it must be fucking fate or something, because the guy is standing at the urinal.

The guy glances over as he shakes off, and he says hey like he’s happy to see John, and maybe a little surprised.

John swallows and says hey back. He wonders what the guy would do if John went over and just dropped to his knees. He thinks the way the guy’s looking at him he might not complain.

The guy zips up slowly, eyes still on John, and John can’t help taking a step forward.

It’s not in front of the urinal and John’s not on his knees, but without a word they end up in the lone stall.

The guy has him up against the wall and at first John thinks the guy’s gonna kiss him, but he crouches down, goes for John’s belt. He pulls John’s jeans and shorts down, pushes his binder up, and he’s so close John can feel the guy’s breath on his dick.

Nothing about this whole thing seems to faze him. He’s got his hands on John’s hips and he looks up from under long lashes as he flicks his tongue out. The wall is cold against John’s bare ass, but that’s not why he rocks forward, pushing into the guy’s mouth.

John goes weak in the knees when the guy starts sucking, and he presses his hands flat against the wall to try and hold himself up. He hasn’t done this in forever, gotten head. Not since starting T, and Jesus fuck, it feels fantastic.

The guy’s tongue presses flat along the underside and he sucks hard on the head of John’s dick. John’s getting a blowjob, just like any guy.

In a public restroom. Where anyone could walk in any minute. And maybe they’re in a stall, but someone could still see through the crack, or hear, or just know.

He should probably be feeling anxious or worried or something, but it’s exciting. He grabs the guy’s hair with one hand, brings the other to his mouth and bites down hard, muffling a moan as he comes.

The guy sucks him through it, doesn’t move until John pushes him away, and then he sits back on his heels with a grin. No, a smirk. Definitely a smirk. The guy’s dick is out, too, one hand gooey. John never even noticed him jerking off.

This is kind of the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to John, but maybe the awesomest, too.

They get straightened up in silence, and the guy’s drying his hands when he says, “I’m off at eight.”

John says oh yeah? because he’s not sure if that means what he hopes it means. It’s five-thirty now. He could hang around.

“If you want to…”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Listen,” the guy says, “I’m sorry about–”

“Forget it.”

The guy opens his mouth, then shuts it. “Okay,” he finally says. “So. Eight?”

“Yeah,” John says, then, “Wait.”

The guy stops, one hand on the door handle. “What?”

“What’s your name?”

“Oh,” the guy says. “It’s Rodney.”

“Cool.” John grins. “See ya.”

1.

The door slides shut behind Rodney and he pads across the room, no shoes. It’s dark, but he knows his way around, knows which side John always sleeps on, and comes around behind him. He places one knee on the bed, one hand to brace himself. He bends down and kisses the back of John’s neck.

John’s breathing is deep and even. Under the covers he is naked, and soon Rodney is naked, too.

Rodney lifts the sheet and stretches out on his side behind John, no room on the narrow bed to do anything else. His chest is pressed against John’s back and his hard-on rests right in John’s crack, a perfect fit. John’s a light sleeper in the field, but he sleeps like a log in his own bed. Rodney knows because John told him.

John told him because he wants this. He is ready, after all.

Rodney lifts John’s knee, holds it up with his own. It’s an awkward angle, but he’s soon inside, and John is quiet still, breath hot against Rodney’s hand when he claps it over John’s mouth.

They lie there like that for what feels like forever until Rodney finally starts to move. Slowly. It can’t be anything but in this position.

In the dark like this there is no one else but them. No Atlantis. No Jennifer.

Rodney’s fingers dig into John’s cheek. He pinches John’s nose shut and waits. John can hold his breath a long time, but Rodney counts it out, keeps fucking him as he struggles for air, as he tenses and comes, pulling Rodney over the edge with him.

John is still shuddering and gasping when Rodney rolls away and wipes himself off on the sheet. Neither of them say a word as Rodney dresses and leaves.

2.

The room is bright. Too bright. But turning off the lights would look suspicious.

Rodney pulls the curtain shut, sits down by the side of the bed, and takes John’s hand in both of his. He bows his head and waits for five minutes, ten. There’s plenty of time. Jennifer is Giving Him Some Privacy and Teyla and Ronon have already been in to see John. He has the infirmary to himself.

He reaches over, pushes down the blanket and slides his hand under the thin hospital gown. John’s dick is warm and soft. He gives it a squeeze and watches John’s face, half-hidden under the oxygen mask. Nothing, not even a flutter of eyelashes, but he knows this is what John would want.

Another squeeze and John’s dick begins to fill out. He lets go, spits on his fingers and wriggles them into John’s crack. John opens up easily, muscles slack and pliant as Rodney pushes in. If he could, he would climb up on the bed, push John’s knees up to his chest. He’d unzip his pants and shove right in with nothing but spit to ease the way. He’d slide his hand beneath the oxygen mask and keep it there until John woke up gasping for breath.

But he can’t. This is risky enough.

Instead he cups his dick through his pants, rocking against his palm, and he comes with his fingers still buried deep in John’s ass.

3.

Rodney curls one tentacle around John’s throat and another around his dick. He uses a third to pin John’s arms to his sides and two more to keep his legs spread.

The tank is shallow enough (or Rodney is big enough) that he can just manage to hold John’s head above water while resting comfortably on the floor. It means he is free to use all three remaining tentacles as he pleases.

He nudges John’s asshole with the tip of the sixth. It slides in easily, its slippery coating acting as lube. He curls the tip into a ball, rubbing against John’s prostate. John’s body is limp, but his dick is stiff and straining. Rodney pulls the tentacle out, twines the other two around it and pushes back in. It’s harder this time, but John’s hole stretches to accommodate the thick bundle of tentacles.

John starts to struggle then, and Rodney tightens his hold everywhere, including around John’s throat. John writhes and squirms, trying to get away. Trying to get more.

Rodney keeps pushing in, impossibly far. He lets go of John’s dick, runs his free tentacle over John’s chest and down again to prod at his slit (too small for even the tip of a tentacle) and squeeze his balls. And then John tenses and stills, arching his back as jizz spurts into the water.

4.

John wakes up hard. Not morning-wood hard, but fuck-me-now hard. His pajama pants are damp with pre-cum and he knows it wouldn’t take more than a couple strokes to get off, but he doesn’t touch his dick.

He’s given up jerking off, or at least jerking off to fantasies about Rodney, which means he’s pretty much gone cold turkey. He’s tried keeping his mind blank, but that works about as well as telling himself not to dream about it. Which is to say, not at all. The more he tries not to think about Rodney, the sicker he gets (weird things may happen on Atlantis, but Rodney’s never going to turn into an octopus).

He takes a cold shower instead, stands under the water until he’s shivering and limp-dicked, sings Athosian lullabies until the last wisps of his dream fade away. That always does the trick. It’s the foreign-language aspect or something; he can’t just slip into auto-pilot.

Rodney is already in the mess hall when John gets there, and John grabs a tray and some food and sits down across from him. He can smile and make small talk, no problem. He can look Rodney in the eye without looking away.

He couldn’t at first, and that was back when all he’d done was think about sucking Rodney’s dick. It’s laughable, really. You’d think it’d be harder to act normal now. What’s a little blowjob fantasy compared to the sort of twisted shit that goes through his head most nights? (Most days, too, if he’s honest.) But that was back when he thought maybe he had a chance.

He’s given up now, even if his subconscious hasn’t. Rodney could break up with Jennifer tomorrow and all that would happen is he’d mope for a while and then find another girlfriend. Any hopes of Rodney being secretly into guys or secretly into John are long gone.

He’s not going to fuck you, John tells himself for the millionth time, but he knows what he’ll dream about tonight, and he knows he’ll wake up hard and aching again in the morning.

“So you just want to be friends.”

That’s what Fumi-chan will say. It won’t really be a question at all. Her voice will be low, flat, and she’ll look down, her hair falling into her face.

Akira’s seen that look before. It makes her heart ache to remember Fumi-chan’s quiet despair when she told Akira she liked her that way. She’d do anything to keep Fumi-chan from looking like that again.

And it’s not like she hates kissing or, or touching or (it makes her blush just to think about it) well, or anything. It’s not like she thinks it’s gross, not like when she thinks about doing the same things with a boy. It’s nice, even, some of it. Having someone else’s tongue in her mouth is weird, but she likes kissing without tongues. And Fumi-chan’s hands and fingers and lips feel good, even in places Akira never imagined having someone’s lips before.

But that’s just it. She didn’t imagine it. She doesn’t, still. Fumi-chan tells her, whispers in her ear with her fingers buried deep inside, all the things she’s fantasised about, all the things she wants to do to her.

Akira tried it once, fantasising. She closed her eyes and pulled the blankets up under her chin and made herself comfy. She thought about what they’d done that afternoon, up in Fumi-chan’s room while her mom was out shopping, but at some point her mind wandered and she started thinking instead about that first time at the movies, holding Fumi-chan’s hand in the dark and hoping no one noticed.

Thinking about sex makes her blush, but it’s thinking about holding Fumi-chan’s hand that makes her heart ache with longing. Her arms feel empty without Fumi-chan to hold, but not the way Fumi-chan wants to hold her.

Someday maybe Akira will tell her. Someday when it’s been long enough that Fumi-chan will believe her when she says it doesn’t mean she just wants to be friends.

She doesn’t want to just be friends. She can’t. The very thought brings tears to her eyes, leaves her feeling shattered.

But she is a good actor, everyone says so, and someday the time will be right.

Someday.

“DAD!”

Yotsuba hurtles into the genkan. “Please can I keep him?”

“Can you what? Keep who?”

She holds up a hand, “Wait here,” and dashes into the living room.

“We had this conversation already.” He hopes whatever she’s brought home is more like a cicada than a stray cat. “No pets until you’re older.”

“But I found him!” she says, tugging something on a leash as she comes around the corner.

“Woof.” Yanda blinks a black-painted eye and wags his…butt.

“What…?”

Yanda glowers at him. “Don’t ask.”

“Dogs can’t talk!” She yanks the leash. “Can I, Dad!? Please!?”

“…We’ll see.”

Rodney’s first kiss happened when he was fifteen. His first real kiss, anyway, the first one that didn’t involve Mom or Grandma or Great Aunt Evelyn, whose perfume always left Rodney sneezing for hours afterwards.

He’d thought a lot about kissing before that. Like, really a lot. It generally involved Cassiopeia from Battlestar Galactica, or Jaime Sommers. And sometimes Princess Leia (dressed in the gold bikini, not the bounty hunter gear) was really enthusiastic after thawing him from the carbonite. Once in a while it was his old babysitter Erin (who still came over every once in a while to watch Jeannie), or Sandy from across the street, who never wore a bra even though you could totally see her nipples through those thin sweaters she liked. And then there was that one substitute teacher they’d had for the last half of grade eight when Mrs. Murphy was out on maternity leave.

When he thought about kissing, it always involved things like soft breasts and flowery perfume, and definitely not John Sheppard and a slightly-used issue of Playboy John had snagged from his brother’s (not so secret) stash.

It was pretty safe to say the thought of kissing John had never crossed Rodney’s mind. John had worse acne than Rodney, hair that looked like it had never met a brush, and on that particular day, Jos. Louis crumbs on his lips and fingers. And unlike most of Rodney’s crushes, he wasn’t blond, not to mention distinctly lacking in the breast department.

They were supposed to be brainstorming for their science project, but Rodney’s mom was out running errands and Jeannie was at a friend’s house, so it seemed like the perfect chance to get out the Playboy. It wasn’t the first time. John had smuggled it over last summer, but even though Rodney pretty much had it memorized by now, he still got a boner just pulling it out from its hiding place under the stack of old Popular Science and Scientific American issues in the back of the closet.

Anyway, there wasn’t anything weird about looking at Playboy with another guy, even if you got a boner and your hand ended up in your pants. That was, like, a rule or something. They were looking at girls, after all. And they were both fully dressed.

Rodney’s eyes were firmly on the page and his mind was filled with thoughts of Miss February’s D-cups and how he’d maybe like to titty-fuck her (the words alone were enough to make his dick jump in his hand), when suddenly John was grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him.

Rodney opened his mouth in surprise and John thrust his tongue in, and still half in his fantasy of titty-fucking Miss February (who now tasted chocolatey, something which Rodney didn’t find objectionable in the least), Rodney came in his pants.

If the squeaky moan was an indication, John did, too, though he kept kissing Rodney. And to be honest, Rodney was kissing him back by that point. It wasn’t bad at all, though it was getting harder and harder to pretend it was Miss February. Miss February almost certainly didn’t have patchy stubble.

When John finally sat back, his mouth was open and his cheeks were red and he definitely looked like someone who’d had sex. Sex with Rodney. Though Rodney wasn’t sure if it counted if they hadn’t touched each other’s dicks.

They wiped their hands off on napkins and zipped up their jeans and the whole time, all Rodney could think of was that he’d kissed another guy. He stuffed the Playboy back under the bed and scrambled to his feet.

“I’ll just, uh… Coke! Do you want another Coke? ‘Cause I’m pretty thirsty and I think there are enough cans in the fridge that my mom wouldn’t notice if we had two, and if she does, I can always tell her Jeannie drank them and–”

“I wanted to tell you,” John said suddenly, and Rodney stopped, door half-open already, and turned back to look at him. “For a long time, I mean. I was just worried you might…” He trailed off, shrugging.

Rodney blinked. He replayed the sentence again in his head and no, it still seemed to be missing some important pieces that would make it actually make sense. “Tell me what?”

“You know…” John stared down at the floor, twisting the hem of his t-shirt into a knot and chewing his lip. “That I like you.”

“Well, I should hope so, we’ve been friends for ten years.” Rodney frowned, still feeling as if they were having two different conversations, and it was only when John grabbed his hand and kissed him again that it all suddenly made sense. “Oh,” he said, trying not to wonder whether John’s hand was sticky from snack cakes or something else. “Right, yeah. Is that my mom? I think I heard her car in the driveway.”

He extricated his hand from John’s and wiped it on his jeans. A few minutes passed and the front door didn’t open. John said, “Must’ve been the neighbors.”

“Yeah.”

They went down to the kitchen and Rodney got a couple more Cokes out of the fridge and set them on the table, then carefully rearranged the remaining cans and pushed a jug of apple juice and a head of lettuce in front of them so it wasn’t so obvious there were only two. He could hear John behind him, the crack of the can opening and the fizz of the Coke. He moved a few more things from another shelf and stacked them in front of the lettuce, but then decided that much rearranging was even more suspicious and moved them all back. He had a boner.

“Rodney.”

“I know, I know,” Rodney said. “I’m being paranoid.”

He switched around the apple juice and the lettuce. The boner wasn’t going away.

“Rodney, I…”

He straightened up and turned around and pushed John up against the counter. John said oh and his empty Coke can clattered to the floor. It took what felt like forever to get both of their jeans undone, but it was worth it to have John’s dick rubbing against his. Rodney wasn’t thinking about Miss February this time, or about Erin or Princess Leia or anyone else. He had John’s tongue in his mouth and John’s dick in his hand and John’s skinny flat chest pressed against his.

It was over in a few minutes. Rodney washed his hands and wiped Coke off the floor while John washed his. He was still crouched down when John said, “My mom’s cancer is back.” His voice sounded weird. “We’re…there’s a specialist in Chicago. It’s too far to be going back and forth all the time and she can’t. She can’t be alone there. Someone has to be with her.”

He paused then, like he was waiting for Rodney to say something. Rodney threw the Coke can and the paper towels in the trash and tried to think of something to say that wasn’t stupid, but all he could come up with was, “Oh.”

“My dad is…he won’t even consider it. He could get another job if he wanted, but he won’t leave, and Dave just started college, so that leaves me.”

“Oh,” Rodney said again, and then, “It’s the middle of the school year.”

“I know.”

“When are you leaving?”

John shrugged. “I dunno. Soon as we get everything packed up, I guess. We already, my aunt rented us a place.”

Rodney knew better than to ask how long.

“I should probably go. Finish packing and stuff.”

John ran back upstairs for his backpack and Rodney opened the other Coke. It wasn’t that cold anymore. He wondered if John would take the Playboy with him.

When John came back down, there was an awkward moment when he thought John was going to kiss him again. He wouldn’t have minded, but John just said, “Well, see ya.”

“See ya.”

He walked John to the front door and watched him get on his bike. He stayed there until after John was down the street and around the corner, and then he went back up to his room.

The Playboy was still on the floor.

“Fuck you,” he said to Miss February. To John. He picked up the Playboy and said fuck you again louder and ripped it in half. He tore all the pages out and crumpled each one into a ball and said fuck you, fuck you, fuck you until his wastebasket was full of crumpled magazine pages.

Crumpled magazine pages he really didn’t want his mom getting curious about when she saw them in there, so he took the wastebasket downstairs and dumped everything in the trash outside. He didn’t say anything then, but he did kick the trashcan before he went back inside.

He went up to his room and threw himself down on the bed, and when his mom finally did come home, that’s where she found him. He didn’t even get up for dinner, which was enough to convince her he was telling the truth the next morning when he said he didn’t feel well.

He had no such luck the day after, but there was no awkwardness at school. There was no John.

Daisuke’s not sure when he started thinking of Yamato as Yamato and not Takeru’s brother.

It might have been the first time he was backstage like this, pleasantly buzzed and appreciating Yamato’s ass more than his singing, or it might have been after the show, the tipsiness a convenient excuse for an over-long hug and a congratulatory kiss the other guys took for a joke. Yamato’s cheek was stubbly under his lips. Daisuke had never kissed anyone with stubble before.

It was probably before he found himself at a love hotel, on his knees the minute the door was closed. Yamato said something about getting Daisuke’s hair gel all over his fingers and then he didn’t say anything at all, unless ah and hngh count as words. Daisuke wasn’t coordinated enough to get his own jeans open with Yamato’s dick in his mouth, but he was horny enough to come from the heel of his hand pressed to his crotch.

They made out on the bed after, got hard again while there was still most of their hour left. When Daisuke fucked him, Yamato was still half-dressed, his jeans hanging off one ankle. It was hot. Sexy hot, not temperature hot, though they were both pretty sweaty. Daisuke watched his dick slide in and out of Yamato’s ass and listened to the desperate noises Yamato made and thought I’m fucking Takeru’s brother.

So maybe it was after that, actually. Maybe even the second or third time they hooked up like this. It took a while to get used to it, this new thing between them. He’s not sure he’s used to it even now, to be perfectly honest, but he can go with the flow. He’s good at that.

This is the last song of the night, one of their old ones, from back when they were still The Teenage Wolves. Daisuke bounces on the balls of his feet and sings along under his breath. He downs the last of his beer as the guys all line up at the front of the stage and bow like it’s the fucking Budokan and not some hole-in-the-wall club. Yamato’s voice is hoarse when he thanks the crowd.

It is still hoarse when he’s splayed out on the bed not that long after, when Daisuke licks his way down Yamato’s throat, feeling Yamato’s adam’s apple move under his lips and tongue. It is still ragged when he comes, calling Daisuke’s name, and when he stretches and looks over at the clock and says well, I guess I’d better go. They never pay for a full night.

Daisuke feels like a groupie sometimes, the way they only fuck after a show. He wonders what Yamato thinks of him, wonders what Yamato would say if he actually asked him out, instead of just hanging around backstage.

Maybe tomorrow he will call and find out.

Wallace blinks awake, eyes gummy, mouth dry. He could really use a piss and a glass of water, but there’s an arm tight around his chest and a leg hooked over his thigh and–hello–a hard-on pressed right up against his ass.

Still half-asleep, he wriggles around until he’s facing the other way, and it’s only when he’s got his hand down the guy’s shorts that he remembers he didn’t bring anyone home last night. Scott makes a needy little noise, though, and pushes into Wallace’s hand, and fuck, not this again.

It’s not like Wallace is keeping track or anything, but this is the twenty-third time he’s woken up like this, and that’s a few too many to call a coincidence even for Scott Pilgrim.

Scott whimpers again, and this time he says Wallace and come on, and who is Wallace to resist?

He’s hard himself now, and he shoves his underpants down and Scott’s, too, and gets his hand around their dicks. Scott is kind of the worst kisser ever and he really needs to brush his teeth–they both do–but Wallace doesn’t really mind.

Scott comes first like he always does, scratching Wallace’s back with a ragged nail and moaning into his mouth. Wallace would like to do this when it’s not pitch dark some time, see what Scott’s stupid face looks like when he comes, but he knows better than to think it’ll ever happen. By the time he gets himself off, hand slick with Scott’s jizz, Scott’s already pulling away, making sleepy noises that are so obviously fake Wallace would laugh if he could catch his breath.

It’s not long before Scott really is asleep, though, sprawled out on his back and snoring, taking up more than his share of the bed. Wallace wipes his hand off on Scott’s t-shirt and gets up to go take that piss.

They won’t talk about it in the morning. They never do.