The first time had been an accident.

Eric had simply gone to the bathroom during fifth period on a Tuesday to escape his history teacher's droning, monotone lecture. He had no more than shut the door when he was caught in a flurry of kisses and sharp nails digging into his neck and gliding through his hay-colored hair.

His talk came in short bursts after that because there was no Sam to tie up his loose thoughts and he was too breathless to say much more. "It's actually a good thing Sam isn't here," Eric thought as Roger backed him against the sinks, and his lips -and his teeth, his brash, biting teeth- moved to his throat.

After that, it became a regular thing. Every Tuesday, fifth period history class, Eric made his way to the bathroom. There was rhyme or reason to it, no good could come of it, but Eric didn't care. All he cared about was the rough lips pressed to his, the intruding tongue sliding over his teeth, and bodies pressed close together.

He always left the bathroom with his jeans feeling a little tighter than before.

Each Tuesday night as Eric undressed for a shower, he found new bruises where hands had pushed and squeezed and pressed, and spots where teeth had rubbed skin raw.

And it didn't make sense. Why Eric kept going back, why Roger said barely two words to him every other occasion but showered him with twisted affection on those Tuesdays. Why each kiss felt so good, but only when he closed his eyes. But still, Eric went to the bathroom every Tuesday during fifth period.

Maybe he liked to hurt.