posted these already on tumblr, more will be added as i do em

Love

"I stood there looking down at the tri-state area and, and…" he teetered before going on. "…and all I could think about was where you were and if you were as content with being apart as I wished to be… I did not think it would be that hard."

"Y'really missed me," Buford tried to tease indifferently, but couldn't hide the grin tugging up the corners of his mouth.

"D-do not flatter yourself," Baljeet sputtered quickly. He sniffed, wiped his eyes and dug his chin into his arms. "I missed us."

Place

Buford's car didn't have A/C. The engine made an uncomforting sound when he sped, the windows were manual, the tape deck was missing, and every day it somehow managed to smell even more like fish flakes.

But it was still that all important next step to independence, and Baljeet felt right at home in the passenger's seat.

Fifteen

At fifteen they discovered there could be an outlet to their frustrations other than fists. 'Boyfriend' hadn't been uttered just yet, nor had it even been considered. The new development hadn't quite needed a new name to go with it. In a way their make out sessions were just as aggressive as their arguments, just as intense, natural and trivial, still able to bounce between their affections and afflictions as easily as when they were ten.

Nice

"I knew you could be."

Buford hoisted the box of un-squirell-like squirrels up with a gentle care. However, he turned round on the nerd with a tight scowl and a raised, threatening brow. "I'm what?"

"…Nothing."

So

That first kiss was far from perfect, magical. Both sets of eyes shut tight, each boy somehow convinced that if they couldn't see it it wasn' t happening, that everything could just go back to normal once their mouths pulled apart.

Of course, noses bumped. Foreheads knocked. Lips were unaligned. They finally admitted discomfort and leaned away.

Their hands were still holding each other, fingers still laced and clammy. They were still inches apart with the same air between them.

And all that was left to do was open their eyes and try again.

Us

Crushed between the dark cotton of his shirt and a layer of twisted sheets, I am ten again; every single light out, curtains drawn tight across the windows, curled up on the floor of my room with blankets veiled over my face. Safe within my own shame, strangely comforted by that dull ache in my stomach and stinging heat across my face and neck.

I have never exactly liked these feelings. I had learned early on, while foremost to avoid them as often as possible, to be ready for and conquer them. The best way is to turn inward, to detach yourself from your surroundings and simply let the negativity take you. Dark and isolation only sharpen pain, but get straight to the climax of anything and the rest is just an easy ride until tears or exhaustion put you to sleep. Whichever comes first.

Somehow his touches stir me like that, give me a thrill that is not exactly unpleasant but some slick in my mind knows it should be. It is a rush in itself, realizing those hands that had once been an endless source of torment could now be the only escape from my own tortures. At first grudgingly tolerated, later to be arbitrarily challenged, later still to be outright rejected and fought back… only to overtake me anyway.

I really could not say why I keep going back, nor why he keeps opening the door. We are not together in the 'traditional' sense- that idea of going steady is as laughable as us being together at all in the first place. But, for as long as I can stand to think about it, I have never had to trick him and he has never had to force me into any of this. Any of us.

For whatever reasons, somewhere along the line we simply became 'us'.

Breakfast

Morning. When had it become morning. His eyes blinked away the confusion of sleep. The arm over him was heavy but limp. Snoring filled the room and hot, slow breath hit the back of his neck. He slipped out from under his bully and sat up in the bed that wasn't his own. His glasses weren't on the cluttered bedside table, so he leaned over and felt along the carpet. His cheeks went hot as he imagined them knocking to the floor.

Almost immediately his fingers brushed then hit against a chip bag. Sudden pangs of hunger gnawed his stomach and he grabbed it. He sat back up with the half empty, opened for who knows how long bag. He sighed once, but smiled.

Stale tortilla chips had never been so delicious.

Kama Sutra

"We gonna try some of these?"

"Of course not," Baljeet said firmly . Though he had been thinking about it, he hadn't expected the suggestion to come up so quickly. Or so bluntly. "I mean, how? We do not have the right parts."

Buford turned a page, sniggering. "Y'mean you don't have the right parts."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, I ain't gonna try bending like that."

"Neither am I. Some of those can be dangerous."

"I guess," Buford shrugged heavily and flipped through the end of the book. He stopped on a few pages, leer tugging back up as his eyes rolled over new instructions. "All this bitin and scratchin, though…"

"I am not exactly comforted by what excites you, Buford."

"S'not like it'd hurt ya. Said so right in there- if I do it in the right place it's 'erotic'."

"…Are you asking for my permission to bite me?"

Another page turned, another laugh roused. "Now when have I ever asked you fer anything."

Burning

"Well," Baljeet gave the white rope around his ankle a few slight tugs, not really expecting it to give way. Once his low expectations were confirmed he let himself go slack against the flagpole, wincing sharply as his bare back made contact with the hot metal. "…the swimsuit is certainly new."

Buford stood against the pole, ankles crossed as he dipped another finger into the jar of peanut butter. "Always gotta spice things up."

Baljeet had been told to just act like his bully's didn't really bother him. But, instead of boring Buford, the apparent indifference only made him want to try harder. He'd had his underpants strung up the flagpole, then he'd had himself strung up a few times. Being half dressed seemed like the next logical step down this spiral case of humiliation.

"I still do not understand why you need my peanut butter."

"'Cause it's yours."

"O-oh. Fair enough."