“Are you kidding me?” I ask Professor Valero, and he actually chuckles. “I’m passing? For real?”
He leans back against his desk. “Not only that, but I just finished grading the last final. You earned yourself a B.”
I must be grinning like an idiot. “Seriously?”
“Indeed.”
This is the first time I’ve ever left a meeting with a teacher feeling good about myself. I never had to worry about it before because I’m a fucking great cornerback when my ACL isn’t fucked. Okay, also it was easier to cheat in high school. Here, people get really mad if you fuck off during a group project. But, like, it’s feels fucking amazing to have tried and gotten a real result. I got a B on a Stat final! I gotta celebrate.
Who can I tell first? It’s Friday; nobody’s on this side of campus this hour except for the exchange students and two people heading back to the quad. One’s in so much flappy fabric I know it has to be fucking Viera, but the taller one is in jeans and a quarter-zip, curly black hair, light brown skin—I'll bet that's Dillon. And you know what? I'm happy to see him. I got a motherfucking B on that fucking Statistics test, he helped, and I'm going to tell him. So we made out a little. So what? He and Aaron both confirmed that making out is not a sign of sexual orientation. Dillon helped me study, and now I might actually pass my toughest class.
Jogging up to them, I call Dillon’s name. They turn, and Crispin leans over to say something to my study buddy. I can’t hear Dillon reply as I get closer.
"Oh, I've known he was gay since high school," Crispin is saying all sassy. "All that pent-up repression."
Dillon shuffles a little bit.
“Oy, it’s Young Bicurious!” Crispin snaps at me, and then the next part is in Brazilian or whatever, but it sounds mean.
He told. Dillon fucking told Viera. That’s how Viera knew about the thing with Brantley, right? Dillon told him, then he told Aaron. And now it’s going to happen again, but worse because I was sober and still hung out with Dillon after. Crispin hates me, so he’s definitely going to tell everyone, and then no matter how I respond I’m fucked socially. I’m so stupid. That good feeling of my grade disappears, and instead I’m having full flight or flight.
“Fuck you both,” I say through my teeth.
Dillon looks confused for half a second before I shoulder check my way past them. There’s a rushing in my ears. I can’t believe I trusted that goddam homo. Fucking Asshole. Bastard.
“Jay,” he yells after me.
Shit. I’m going to have to, like, beg Viera not to spread anything, because if Carter finds out then he’ll tell, and then it’ll get back to my folks, and I don’t have an older brother like Aaron does to keep me out of conversion therapy. This fucking sucks. I wish I’d never met that stupid fucking fairy. Being the manager of a QuikTrip pays okay, I heard. So maybe one semester of passing Statistics will be enough to get me a job there, and then I can work my way up. I don’t know how to budget though. But if my parents cut me off, maybe someone from St. Louis would let me stay with them during the holiday long enough to get a job—
"Jay!" Dillon must have followed me all the way back to my dorm.
"Back the fuck away from me!"
Dillon grabs my backpack strap, bringing me to a stop. "I didn't tell him anything!"
I throw him off, and maybe I use a little too much force because Dillon hits the ground and skids a little bit. I point a finger in his face. "Don’t touch me, you fucking faggot."
I only see Dillon's expression darken before he surges upward and decks me in temple. My teeth hit each other so hard that they squeak like styrofoam, and then two things are going on at once. I clock Dillon right back, and we stumble backwards, holding our faces. "You're a fucking jerk," he says, but he's smiling a little bit. But that isn't what's happening. Instead I grab Dillon by the throat and kick his legs from underneath him. He goes down without a word; he just looks at me with his big, bright eyes when my grip tightens, like, "Is this going to make you feel better?" When I add another hand to his neck Dillon just pats my ankle all comfortingly, and says—
"Jay! Oh my god, please wake up."
I blink.
"Are you okay? Hey, talk to me."
My vision is swimming like a school of fish, but I can make out Dillon's head blocking out the evening sun. So at least I'm not choking him. Good.
"I'm so sorry—I never thought I could hit anyone that hard— you went down like a soccer pro."
I want to laugh, but I kind of feel like I'm about to throw up. Words are a struggle. "I pass out?"
"Yeah, for like, a few seconds. Can you sit up?"
"Uh huh. You got an arm on you."
He pulls out his phone. "I'll call the nurse just in case, but let me help you back to your room."
"Okay."
I'm dimly aware of Dillon hauling me upright. He's very strong. I shouldn't have called him a faggot. I was just scared that Crispin would go telling everyone because of how much we hated each other in high school, when I couldn't figure out what that brief make-out with Dillon even meant to me. Did he kiss a lot of straight guys? Did Brantley even remember that we had gotten caught? I couldn't remember the actual making out with him, just part of the three-way discussion and then the door bursting open. Dillon smells like Old Spice. Do all gay guys smell good? Aaron always smelled really good.
"Hey, Jay, count backwards from ten." Dillon interrupts my brain for a moment.
"Ten nine eight seven six five four three two one zero." It comes out like I'm drooling words, but Dillon seems to think it was okay. I’m very hot. It’s hot out here.
"What year is it?"
I'm going to make a joke. "It's showtime!" Dillon does not think I'm funny. "I'm just kidding; gimme a minute…" But Dillon is back on the phone with the nurse. He's frowning, and it gets all wrinkled between his brows. Does it feel rubbery?
Dillon knocks my hand away from his forehead. "We’re going to the emergency room right now. I’ll drive."
"Tomorrow. I'm tired. You got an arm in you."
"You can't sleep for a while," he says.
"I can't sleep." That's not…I didn't mean to repeat him. I might throw up.
"Is Carter here this weekend?"
"No."
"Any of your friends?"
I know where he's going with this. "No!" I poke his handsome face. "You stay. You're staying, because you're Jason Statham. You got an arm on you."
Dillon sighs in disgust.
"And you can't be mad at me anymore." I add.
"Fine. Use your legs, then."
Time is kind of fuzzy between now and when we get back to the dorm room. Dillon’s car is tall. Was it an MRI or a CAT scan that I had? Dillon's shoulder is a terrible pillow. He calls my mom, probably, because I have the sound of her trying-not-to-yell-at-me tone in my head going, “And did he say that you’re friends?” I think she helped Dillon fill out a form.
From the tall car to the dorm feels forever, and then Dillon has to guide me to my room because everything looks the same.
"What the fuck, Montgomery?" Carter yells when we stumble through the door.
It's kind of funny that Carter knows that whatever happened, Dillon did it. "Not my first big bonk; I just need to sit down for a little," I say.
"Dude, go to a hospital."
"We did," I say slowly. "He knocked me out, so he's going to make sure I don't fall asleep for the day and wake up every hour at night. You break it, you buy it."
As soon as I see my bed I slump onto it. I barely register Dillon looking around. There is shit all up on the desk chairs, so he moves toward the only free space.
Carter stops him. "Don't sit on my bed, f—"
"Don't!" I interrupt loudly. "Don't call him names, dickweed. That's how I am concussioned."
Carter looks at Dillon, who shrugs. "I know how to throw a punch," he explains, all cool and offhand. "This asshole had no idea, because he's just my lab partner, not my friend."
I get that he's trying to save face for me, but come on, man. That hurts. I figured we were even by now. "No, no, Carter, he's cool. We are bros now, because I'm cool, and he's cool. So don't worry. You can be friends, too, and talk about football…"
”Wake up!" Dillon shouts, and I do.
I nod in gratitude. "That was a close one." Yup, yup, yup. I can't sleep.
Carter looks between us like we both grew an extra head. "You sure you got this, Montgomery? I was headed to Columbia for the night, but I can stay."
"Dude, it's not hard. I'm sure your number's in his phone; I'll text you if anything happens."
I want them to quit talking like I'm not there. "Give Dillon a Red Bull," I order.
Rolling his eyes, Carter says, "They're in the fridge over there."
Dillon nods. "Cool. Thanks, man."
"Tell Ashlyn hello," I say.
"I will. Take care, bro." Carter grabs his backpack and leaves, but he seems a little reluctant to shut the door behind him. He's a good friend.
"I'm sure he is," Dillon agrees.
Dillon leans against my desk, looking through the papers we got from the ER, until I call him over to stand by me.
“Hey. Hey.” I grab his wrist. “Hey. Are you still mad at me?”
He sighs. "Yes, but I'm sorry I hit you," he says.
"I'm really sorry that I called you a faggot," I mumble.”I knew I shouldn't say it, but I did anyways because I was feeling vuner bunder. Vulny buerr…uh, vulnerable. I won’t do it again.”
"Thanks."
He's quiet while I try to think of some more words.
"I seriously didn't say anything to Cris. He…Whatever you did to him in high school stuck; that was just, like, a preemptive verbal attack. Like, didn’t he used to call you ‘Young Bicurious’ in high school?"
Is Dillon trying to make me feel worse?
"And it’s not even that we were talking about you. Of course, it's hard not to talk about someone you spend all your time with. I didn't tell him we—that I kissed you. I swear. For Cris, I think it’s weird for him to see you be less homophobic here than you were back home. But, shit, Jay. That’s something you’re going to have to live with, because you’ve never tried to make amends to him."
“You’re right.” I pat his hand. "You’re always right. I'm sorry I called you a slur. I’m really sorry. That’s not okay."
Dillon's soft laugh could put me to sleep. "So you said."
Oh. Man, I must have hit my head on a tree root or something, or Dillon has fists like Muhammad Ali. "You should be a boxer."
"Ugh, Jay," Dillon groans, putting his head in his hands. "You're killing me."
"Why?" It actually comes out like a statement, like my voice just won't work right.
Blue eyes peek at me through his brown fingers. "Look, I am so, so sorry for giving you a concussion, and I will never do that again, but you are being adorable right now."
I don't know why that's funny, but it makes me chuckle. "I'm sorry."
"Stop it, you're making it worse."
That's even funnier. I am like, fucking giggling. It's like being high, except with more nausea and a splitting headache.
"I can't; I can't handle it. Go to sleep."
"You go to sleep." I reach to shut his eyes for him. Dillon catches my hands and puts them on my stomach. My brain is heavy. Oh my god, if I go to sleep, will I die?
“I’ll make sure you don’t die,” Dillon says, and I’m not sure if I was thinking aloud or if I just looked concerned. “And I was kidding: you can’t sleep for two more hours.”
I pat his—I don’t know, thigh, maybe—and shut my eyes. “You’re a good person.” He really is. For all the smartassedness and secret-keeping and knocking me out, Dillon is a good person. He’s still putting up with me, after all, and I’ve been a fucking dick to him. “I’m sorry I called you a faggot. That was wrong. I’m sorry. You can kiss anybody you want. You’re a good kisser, so you can kiss anybody. I’m sorry.”
Dillon puts his hand on my chest, right over my heart. It’s warm.
“Hey, Jay,” he says, kinda shy, “can I—”
“Yeah, sure,” I interrupt. I figure I owe him at least that much.
Dillon doesn't kiss me, though. He kicks off his shoes and climbs into bed next to me. He sits against the headboard and puts an arm around my shoulders so that I'm propped up enough to see the TV when he flips it on. Dillon finally settles on some dumb network comedy and just kind of holds me upright for a little bit until he figures I can sit up by myself. I say 'a little bit' because my sense of time is still soupy, but I do know that the sun has been down for a while by the time we decide to get food.
"How are you feeling?" Dillon asks once we're strapped in his car. It's a Jeep. His tall car was a Jeep the whole time. I never would have pictured him in a Jeep. Is Dillon more outdoorsy than his style would have him appear? Jesus.
"Better," I answer honestly. "I mean, I still feel loopy, but better. My head hurts."
"Good," he says.
I watch him drive in silence. This feels like we're back to normal. Normal was short for our weird little buddy-ship, but I enjoyed it while it was there. I am glad that Dillon didn't give up on me. It sucks that I had to get a concussion to figure that out, but maybe, "I got mad because I thought you had just been messing with me this whole time, like your deal was turning straight guys and laughing about it." The words just come out. This is worse than when we were drunk and he called me a dumb shit, because we were at least on the same level of functionality or whatever. Now I can't think straight, and Dillon's all level-headed and chill.
Dillon looks at me. "I would never do that, Jay."
"I know, I just got…scared."
He's focused on the road, but Dillon reaches over to clasp my shoulder. We're cool. And his hand slips down my chest to rest on my leg, and I don't get that oh-no-what-gay-shit-is-he-gonna-try-on-me tingle. Dillon's fingers aren't moving, he isn't pressing down or caressing or anything like that, and I don't think he's thinking about anything more than getting to Taco Bell and shutting me up. It's kind of comforting.
"Can I sleep for about five minutes?" I ask.
He smiles a little bit. "Sure."
"Thank you." I kind of get why girls like alpha males, I think. I mean, I knew why I tried so hard—girls responded to a dude who was at the top of his game and a little cocky. I didn't have LeAndre's smarts or easygoing confidence, or his looks, or his build. I wasn't funny like Carter, and I didn't have Aaron's…okay, he didn't count because he had everything and still wasn't as popular as he should have been. But Dillon is kind of like that. Not just because he thought dudes were hot, it was more like he was cool, confident, and nice. Like, he, I don't know…I never figured out how to be cool and not be an asshole, but Dillon manages it. If he did girls, he'd be the one they always talk about as making a good husband. I'm just the bad boy they get bored with when they realize I'm not fixable. Because—
“I am broken as shit.” I wake myself up when I say it out loud.
Dillon gives me a look like that's the saddest thing he's ever heard.
“It's what I heard from this girl I hooked up with senior year,” I explain.
“She told you that, to your face?” Dillon asks with a frown.
Actually it was when I overheard her telling another girl why I was just for fun, not for keeps. Now I can say that she might have just been protecting herself since I was the one who didn't want to make it official, even though we’d both said we liked each other. Afterwards I told everyone exactly where and when we'd fucked, or she’d blown me, and she got labeled as an easy lay for the rest of the year. It was a shitty thing to do just because my little feelers got hurt. I got drunk and knocked some mailboxes over; she cried in the bathroom between classes. Turns out she was right about me.
Fingers snap in front of my nose.
“Jay!”
I shake my head, which is a terrible idea, and look at him. “Sorry.”
“Maybe don’t go to sleep again. I need your order.”
I want chalupas.
I want hot sauce.
I want Dillon to keep being nice to me.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks with a smile that I can’t figure out. “No caffeine.”
“Yeah, I need a Sprite.”
I need to be a better person.
I need to be the kind of person Dillon wants to be nice to.
We eat in the dorm lounge because it’s too fucking cold to stay in his Jeep (after Dillon refuses to leave it running. Because of the environment). It feels too quiet. There’s really nobody here; everyone’s partying down on Greek Row.
Is my head bonk going to ruin my grades? My last one got me extra time on tests for a semester, but it didn’t help much.
“Hey, I’m passing Statistics,” I remember to tell Dillon.
His whole face lights up. “Really! You fucking did it, Jay!” He moves like he’s about to hug me, but then stops himself—I see him look around the empty lounge like the walls have eyes—and turns it into a high five.
I knock his hand away. “You can hug me please,” I say, and before I can wonder why I phrased it like that Dillon has already grabbed me up and swung me around. Then he follows it up with a real high five, a good one that stings a little.
“I knew you had it in you!” he congratulates me. “See, you can do this.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you, but there are still finals.” Coming fast, too.
Dillon looks at me for a second, then his eyes do that slide away thing. “Is that why you caught up to us earlier? You were going to tell me about Stat?”
“Yeah,” I say, throwing my wrappers away. “I thought you’d be proud. Of your tutoring, I mean.” I don’t look at him, because I can feel the way he’s being so careful about choosing the right words.
“Sure,” he replies kinda quietly. “But I’m proud of you. And you should be proud.”
I am. I was prouder before I called Dillon a slur, but now it’s a little easier to be happy about it again. He should be around me more. Dillon’s nicer to me the closer he is.
“I won’t be very nice if my breath still smells like Taco Bell in the morning,” he answers my inside thoughts again. “Do you have an extra toothbrush?”
I wish I did. Dillon promises to come back as soon as he grabs some stuff. “I’m not going to keep this concussion vigil in hard pants,” he says.
Listen, I know I’m being a little needy. Kinda pathetic. Pouty like a little kid. Insecure, all “Don’t leave, stay here.” When girls do that to me I get annoyed. Dillon either thinks it’s part of me being concussed, or he likes it.
There is kind of a fear, right, that if I’m doing just fine that Dillon will go away and still be mad at me. He has every right to stay mad, but like, if I can convince him that I just slipped up. It’s not how I am anymore. All the shit he told me to read, I read, even if Kayleigh never finds out. Dillon says I gotta make amends to Viera, I’ll figure it out. It’s just…this semester I’ve spent more of my time with Dillon than anyone, and it would suck if he still thinks I suck, you know?
When Dillon makes it back to my door he’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, and socks with slides. Suddenly he really looks like an actual athlete, like the type of guy you’d see pull off his helmet and be like, god damn it, some people have everything going for them. I feel weird.
“I forgot to ask; do you need to shower? You probably shouldn’t do it alone,” he says all business-like. “Toothbrushing, bathroom, all that stuff, you need a buddy. Until six tomorrow morning, at least.”
I kind of remember that from my last concussion, but I just nod and let Dillon help me get some shit together for a trip down the hall to the showers. He takes the time to find matching socks from my basket of clean laundry. He also won’t sit inside the room with me.
“Jay, you’ll get distracted and then it’ll take forever.”
What happened between his dorm and mine? Like, he literally picked me up and swung me around twenty minutes ago.
“Are you still mad at me?”
His expressions change a whole bunch before he settles on nice. “No, I’m not. You apologized, and you meant it, and I believe you. I may still be a little hurt, but I’m not angry.”
“I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Dillon shrugs and stuffs his hands in his hoodie pocket. “I got my revenge.”
“And now I’m your problem on a Friday night. That’ll teach you about choosing violence,” I say, and then yelp when Dillon flicks me with my rolled up towel.
“If you’re not out in ten minutes I’m calling the RA,” he warns, and I get to it because Dillon is a hundred percent the type to confess to an authority that he punched me so hard that I need help in the shower.
"Sleep in my bed," I order when we get back to my room.
"No," Dillon responds immediately, climbing onto Carter’s bunk.
I shrug, collapsing on my bed. “Carter and his girlfriend have a lot of sex and he doesn't do laundry much.” I don’t know if they’ve fucked on those sheets specifically, but…
Dillon shoots off the bed, a look of horror on his face. He shoves me to one side and climbs on my bed like the floor is lava.
“Wait,” he says, one foot still on the floor, “do you—”
“I changed my sheets yesterday because I’m not gross.” Not like Brantley. Not like Carter. Maybe I should be Dillon’s roommate. Then he’d have to be nice to me. Carter will be in the Sig Ep house next year, anyway.
“This would be easier if your bed was against the wall,” Dillon grumbles as we try to figure out how to fit on the narrow mattress. We end up with me stretched straight and Dillon on his side facing away from me. The plan is to finally let me go to sleep, and then Dillon will check on me every hour. Something something doctor’s orders, who cares, I’m just happy that someone’s making sure I don’t die.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” I tell Dillon as he shuts off the lights.
He kind of snorts and goes, “Stop being cute and go to sleep.”
The alarm goes off at one, and I wake up, turn it off and go pee. Dillon's back is to me, and I…I know what I'm doing. I just don't think about it. He wakes up when my arms go around him, but he just looks back at me sleepily.
"Jay?"
This is fine. We're both fully clothed. "There's no room," I reply. He makes a good little spoon, and this is way more comfortable than sleeping like a mummy.
At two Dillon turns over and pokes me. "Wake up."
"Okay," I mumble.
"Open your eyes so I know you're awake."
I do, only to have the flashlight from Dillon's phone shine right in my eyes. "Ah, shit! What the fuck, man?"
"They're dilating. That's good."
Grabbing the phone from him, I reset the alarm and lean over Dillon to put it back on the nightstand. It's easy enough to put my head down on his chest. After a little bit Dillon's arm goes around my back, and the steady thump of his heart puts me to sleep again.
Three o'clock. The alarm sounds again, Dillon checks my pupils, and then he watches when I pull my hoodie and t-shirt off.
"It's hot," I say simply, but then I lay back down on his chest. His heart beats slightly faster. It is hot, but I think it has more to do with my mind than with the actual temperature. I don't want to have to tell him to take his shirt off, but he's not making any moves here. Maybe he's scared.
Dillon's fingers play with my hair a little bit. Honestly, I think I go, "Mm." The arm I have on his chest drapes just a little over his side, so I can reach down and curl my fingers under the edge of his shirt. I don't do anything more, at least not until Dillon falls asleep again. He can pretend I was sleeping, too, when he wakes up and my whole hand is under his hoodie.
When the fourth alarm sounds I don't bother pretending that I was fully asleep. Dillon takes his hoodie off, and I sit up just enough to undo the knot of his sweatpants and push them down past his ass. He kicks them the rest of the way off, and then I turn on my back so he can get rid of my sweats.
"I feel like a fucking slob next to you," I tell him when he folds his clothes.
Dillon's smile is clear in his voice. "You are a slob," he replies as he lies back down. Both our voices are hushed. The darkness is close, and it's just us, sharing a secret. Dillon pulls me close and tangles his legs with mine, and it's just…it's good, to touch and be touched like this; it doesn't happen much. If Dillon were a girl I wouldn't be counting heartbeats to go back to sleep. I'd be trying to figure out how to fill my hands with some sweet titty. I'm not even worried about the usual where we'll go from here, like how I'm going to escalate things. It's like, I don't know, peaceful, I guess. Even at five when Dillon checks my pupils, I'm only grumpy because I was so comfortable before he moved. He lets me pull him back down kind of in a reverse of our last position. The weight of his body, breath tickling my bare skin, soft hair against my chin—Dillon's hair smells of musky shampoo, too—it doesn't even bother me that cloth-covered cock and balls are pressed against my thigh. He isn't hard, after all. I think I'd feel that.
Shit goes down at six, though. I got some good sleeping in during the hour, so I didn't even notice when I rolled over and Dillon spooned me. Maybe he didn't, either, but he unwraps his arm to reset the alarm, then checks my pupils again. I stay where I am, so Dillon doesn’t have room to do much else than spoon me again. This time he slides his hand back around to my stomach. I don't know—all the mostly-naked cuddling and touching I could chalk up to a dry spell with the ladies and being a little brain-damaged. It's weird, but it's just a night; a moment. Human comfort. But when Dillon's hand drifts up to my chest I get butterflies. No joke, my stomach is fluttery with anticipation, like, What's he gonna do? I don't want to know! I have to know. Oh my god oh my god what is he doing I'm so nervous!
Dillon's hand cups the underside of my left pectoral, maybe feeling the increasingly fast beat of my heart. I cover his hand with mine. Then his fingertips find my nipple and pinch.
I bite my lip to keep from saying it, but sheee-it that feels good. Dillon does it again, and again, and then there's this, like…the energy in the room shifts, like we went from rebuilding friendship to something else entirely. I don't know what it is yet, but when Dillon presses his whole body against my backside I reach back to pull him close. I still have no clue what the fuck I'm doing, but it feels good all over. My body is burning from the inside out like it does during really great sex. Except I'm not having sex right now. I'm stroking the underside of Dillon's thigh while his fingernails flick over my nipple, circling, grazing, pulling, and my mouth falls open and I breath the first heavy sigh into the dark.
Girls, or the girls I know, don't do this to you. Sure they love getting their titties sucked on and played with, and I like doing it to them, but never have I ever had a girl respond in kind. Porn didn't teach me about this. Every tug from Dillon's strong fingers send a little more blood to my cock. I know I'm breathing super loud, and I wish I had something—anything—on my dick with more pressure than my jockeys.
"Jay," Dillon whispers against my neck.
I press my head back against his shoulder. "Yeah?"
"I'm hard." He says it like it's a confession.
"Yeah?" I ask again.
"Yeah."
Rather than tell him, "me, too," I take his hand and guide it down to my crotch. I use this trick with girls, too. If you say it first, I'm in control, but I'll let you think I'm vulnerable by proving I feel the same way. I don't feel vulnerable now. Touching and being touched is my territory. Of course, Dillon might use this move, too, but at least I'm not the only one who's shaking. I press myself against his palm, like I'm too horny to help it, but the thing is that I'm not going to help anything—he is. Sure enough, Dillon's fingers wrap around the bulge that stretches my underwear and squeeze it. Now I don't hold back; my neighbors might hear repeated "ughn" noises coming from my room, but it won't be the first time. It's just damn good.
Dillon's hand is the biggest to be on my dick aside from my own. There's something to be said for having another guy touch you; no dude is gonna tug too hard on your balls or flick the head because they know how that hurts. Dillon does all the right stuff, and he shifts so that his other arm can hold my head. I should say "cradle my head," because he's holding me like I've done to girls before, in that I gotchu, baby hold that makes bodies melt together. Long fingers, strong and rough, run the length of my cock and down to caress my balls. Back up again, teasing the tip, and down; I don't know if the trembling is part of Dillon's usual technique or if he's still afraid I'm going to roll over and punch him.
This is what I do best, though—get people to get me off. Shifting my left leg upward and my right down gives Dillon's hand a little more room. I press against his hand, just a little, like I can't help myself, and of course Dillon squeezes a little tighter. His dick is pressed between my butt cheeks, and his hips begin to move in time with his hand on my cock. I know he won't just shove his underwear down and stick it in my ass, but goddam that's a big pole.
Hot heavy breaths puff over the base of my neck, and without even thinking I reach up to tug Dillon's head forward. He rests his open lips on my shoulder, and every so often his tongue will press against the skin there, sending more of that inner warmth through my body and into my cock.
Now I'm really shaking, because there's still a part of me that's like, What are you doing? The rest of me wants to fucking come. Dillon slips his hand underneath the waistband of my underwear. His skin is rough, but he's gentle, trailing his fingertips over the head, down the shaft, and then lightly squeezing my balls. It's like tiptoeing towards the finish line instead of running. Dillon's hands are fucking good at tiptoeing. Oh my god. His teeth pinch my shoulder, and Dillon grinds his hips against my ass so hard it makes my whole pelvis tingle.
"Don't stop," I order; my voice is hoarse. It's fine that I sound desperate. I'm so close to getting off, and if Dillon's breathing and how hard he's humping my ass is a sign, he's close, too.
I don't know what he likes here. We never discussed that, like if he's a dirty talker or if he's the silent type. It doesn't matter, I guess, because when I grab him this time my fingers slip under the band of his underwear, enough that I can reach to brush the crisp hairs of his ass, and…Dillon lets out this sigh, and it gets into my ears. It's throaty, needy, and it travels from my head to my chest, expanding until it fills my balls, then my cock, and I'm coming in his hand. So hard, shooting fast thick spurts into my briefs; Dillon doesn't stop jerking me, not even when he shudders and comes against me with a loud groan. I have to grab his hand because it's too sensitive.
"Holy shit," I huff. "Oh, fuck."
Dillon chuckles.
Ordinarily I'd be all, thanks for the handjob now bye, but even with jism cooling in my underwear and the new feeling of cock softening against my ass, I'm not done. Or I'm not ready to be done. I don't know which, and I don't know what the fuck's gotten into me, because this isn't my first concussion and I didn’t suddenly start hooking up with guys last time.
Rolling toward Dillon, I throw an arm over his side and nuzzle his neck. See, this is why I don't think about shit too hard, because I don't "nuzzle." I'm not a nuzzler. But Dillon feels good, all that warm skin and his crinkly chest hair, his whiskers against my cheeks. The voices that are like, shit, man, this is weird, shut up when Dillon sighs and pulls me closer. We can do this right now. I can pull his leg over my hip and fit the pillow under both our heads. It's okay. This is fine, just right now, in the shadows, just us.
Dillon tilts my chin up so he can kiss me, and it's kind of crazy how different it is from the first time that happened. I’m a good kisser, too, and I’ll show this guy exactly how good I am. I almost run my fingers up the base of his neck before I remember.
“Can I touch your hair?”
Dillon chuckles. “Yeah but…don’t, like, yank on it.”
“I won’t,” I promise. Now I can gently pull his head to mine, do that thing where I hold him while sliding my tongue in his mouth. I’m not caught off guard this time, so I’m not just gonna let Dillon think my game is bad or just for dummies. I kiss down his neck, lick from there to his earlobe, suck on it a little bit, keeping my hands moving the whole time. He won’t be able to think straight by the time I’m through with him.
Dillon pulls me on top of him, wrapping his legs around me. That’s really sexy to me, that he’s so into this, that even though he just came, like, five minutes ago he’s grinding his hips on me.
“Turn the light on,” Dillon says softly.
After a moment to fumble for the remote, the soft light of the LED strip Carter and I installed glows. Dillon doesn’t look any different, but…I guess I have some new feelings about the way he always looks.
“There you are,” he whispers, and, shit, something about that makes me feel even gooier inside. Here I am. Concussed and horny as fuck. Everything else is getting buried deep in the background, but at least Dillon likes what he sees.
Pressing our bodies fully together, I tangle our tongues together. It’s good technique, of course, because I’m a fucking pro, but there’s a kind of weird, like, neediness to what I’m doing. Like I have to kiss him. I need him to make those little noises. I have to feel his hands run up and down my back, even down to squeeze my ass as I kiss him. I need him to want me.
"Oh, fuck me," Dillon breathes, and I don't know if he's just saying that instead of another 'mmm,' or if he really wants me to stick it in right now. Maybe he doesn't know either, because when I pull back a little he looks surprised.
"Turn over," I order.
Dillon immediately goes, "No."
"No?"
He puts his hands on my sides. "Like this, if you’re serious."
"You can't do it, like, doggy style?" I'm mostly joking.
Dillon shakes his head. "I don't want to."
We've about gotten to the end of my sexual knowledge base. It's not like I don't know where my dick goes, but that's a tinier, dryer hole than I'm used to working with. No girl has ever—
"Do you have condoms?" Dillon says.
I lean over him to open the bottom drawer. Condoms and KY, because I’m a gentleman. I pull a condom out and set it on the dresser, and toss the lube onto the mattress. Dillon pops the cap as I lever myself back onto the bed, and he reaches to grasp my wet, not-so-limp dick with a slick hand. This is fucking amazing, and weird, to sit here with my ass on my ankles and Dillon's legs over my thighs, my hands on his hips while his fingers slowly coax my cock back to life.
Our eyes meet, and he goes, “Is your head okay? If it hurts too bad we can stop.”
I can tell him to shut up, or I can put my tongue in his mouth. Of course my head fucking hurts, but that’s not a good enough reason to quit in the middle of whatever this is. So I kiss him, watching Dillon’s eyes close as I get close. He looks so relaxed, so happy, and he’s so good at making out. This is so nice.
He giggles a little bit when I lift myself on my elbows to tear the condom wrapper; my hands are right over his face.
“You know it’s not just like, a stick-it-in situation,” Dillon says. “The next part might gross you out.”
“Think I’ll pussy out, huh?”
This expression I can read because it’s the same one he had right before he kissed me that first time. Dillon one hundred percent thinks I’m gonna bail just because of whatever prep is involved.
He tells me, “I didn’t plan to get fucked, so I’m not stretched. So I—”
“I can do it,” I interrupt. “Middle or first?" I wiggle my fingers at him.
This excellent, like, you-cocky-bastard smile appears on his handsome face. He chooses. “Middle.”
I roll the condom onto my finger and give Dillon the bird. “Get those panties off, motherfucker.”
He laughs, but obeys, then scoots back into that vulnerable, wide open position under me. Hot.
“You can't blame this on the concussion,” Dillon warns, but he’s spreading his legs for me, so who’s blaming things on things, huh?
“I won't,” I promise as I slide my finger into him.
“Ooh,” Dillon moans.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just been a while.”
I run my other hand over his stomach, watching my fingers bump over his abs. “Not since your ex?”
“He preferred bottoming, so—okay, from there, curl your finger upward a little.”
That’s fucking sexy.
Dillon guides me to his G-spot, and then has me stroke it a couple times. Not even kidding, his dick leaks a little precum. Dillon’s not even fully hard, but like, this clearly feels fucking amazing even if it’s just the preparation.
“That’s wild, man,” I tell him.
Dillon has that challenging expression again. He sits up a little, with my fingers still inside him, you guys! and pulls my underwear down a little to look at my erection. “You’ll maybe need one more before I’m ready. Three would be too much.”
I shove him back down and adjust the condom over two fingers. “Three would be barely enough,” I growl, and Dillon giggles.
He’s like putty under my hands, melting and squishy and squirmy in spite of all that fucking muscle. And he’s hard now. I am, too, but like, Dillon’s always chill. This is a brand new version of the guy who told my roommate that we weren’t friends. Four-time All State wide receiver here is crying and begging because I’m scissoring my fingers in his asshole. He tells me “there it is, that’s nice,” and like he can’t help himself starts playing with his cock.
We do get up to three fingers before Dillon stops me.
“Okay, come on,” he says, sounding almost as needy as I’ve been feeling, and shoves my underwear down so that I can kick it to the floor. We rearrange ourselves quickly. Dillon puts my pillow under his back, I roll on a condom and add extra lube. Oh my god, this is actually happening.
I've never been more cautious, pressing slowly, hesitantly as Dillon’s hands on my ass guide me into him. His eyes are shut. I watch his tongue wet his lips, then disappear when the head of my cock slips into his ass, and then reappear between pursed lips. I hold still. Or at least as still as I can when my whole body is shivering. Holy shit. Dillon’s ass is clamped onto my dick like a vise. Oh my god, this feels so fucking good already.
Finally Dillon nods a little, which I take as an okay to start moving. Half a thrust and he immediately groans.
“Shit, Jay.”
“You like that?”
I must sound too cocky for him, because Dillon narrows his blue eyes. “I’ll bet you’re having more fun.”
“I’m having a great time,” I reply, rolling my hips so my cock sinks into him a little more. Dillon’s head slams back against the pillow. He does like it. “You said you like to focus on your partner when you fuck.” I thrust a little harder. “So pay attention.”
Looking up at me, Dillon props himself on his elbows and wiggles his hips a little farther onto my dick. Holy shit.
"Come on," he says again, like I can't.
I lean over to brace my hands by his head. I'll fucking show him.
He's a guy, he's supposed to be able to take it hard. And he does; Dillon's voice gets super high, like I'm fucking his balls off. He doesn't say oh yeah, oh yeah. Dillon says, "Yes, oh yes!" with a full S at the end, his voice quavering, like he can't handle how good it is. It does feel fucking amazing. Fucking. Amazing. My cock has never been so powerful, forcing the sound from him every time I bury it inside him. I'm hot, the room is hot, it's so hot inside him; a furnace that Dillon has been hiding inside his body. His abs clench as he fucks back at me, trying to give what he gets. I'll beat him at this. I'll be so good that he can't keep up. He'll lie beneath me, crying "Oh, yes!" and saying my name, until the only thing he remembers from this whole day is my cock inside him.
I shift a little bit. Fuck it feels so good, so fucking tight. Sweat rolls down my body as I fuck Dillon as hard as I can, holding his hip with one hand and his shoulder with the other. I’ll fucking fuse our pelvises together. Fuck I’m so hard.
"Oh, that's it," Dillon says suddenly.
This is not the angle I expected, but Dillon is going crazy, like, riding my cock from beneath me. Oh my god, it feels so good. He's rolling his hips, and his ass is squeezing me like he wants me to come in him. Holy fuck. Dillon is pulling at his dick with one hand and his other grabs the back of my head. He pulls me to his lips, and I let him.
His breath is hot in my mouth, the taste of salt on his lips pricks my tongue; my eyes squeeze tightly and my fingers curl into his hair. Dillon sighs, begs me, says "yes," and I'm coming, pounding him so hard; it's like my body can't stop fucking him. Even when there's nothing left in my balls and my head is clearing, my hips still thrust like I'm trying to crawl inside him.
It feels like forever, but my pelvis stops seizing and my muscles relax. I'm about to pull out, but Dillon grabs me. "Wait, wait wait," he says quickly, "just let it go soft." He says it like it's for safety and comfort. I would never have thought about that.
"How was that?" I ask, because I can't think of what the fuck else to say.
Dillon laughs, one of those out-of-breath laughs like he's been running suicide drills. He pats my back. "Seven and a half. Almost an eight."
I lever myself up to sit on my heels, still attached to him. My cock keeps trying to get hard again. "What the fuck is a ten?"
His eyes roll upward in thought, then Dillon responds, "Coming without touching myself?"
"You're full of shit," I laugh. "What's a nine, then?"
"So you're saying it was higher than a seven for you," he says with a grin.
What?
Holy shit. What have I done? Am I gay? I can't be. I've been straight my whole life. This is bullshit. This lying, scheming sack of shit lured me into fucking him. I'll kick his ass.
A pillow smacks the side of my face.
"It's okay if you want me to go," Dillon says in that tone he uses when he's trying to tell me what I want to hear. "It's fine; we’re out of the concussion vigil by now."
At least now I'm soft enough to pull out.
The thing is, I know he wants me to stay and be all, "I’m a new man and I love ya so much, so let's be boyfriends forever. I wrote a song about you." Why else…you know what? I'm just not going to think about it anymore. So I clean myself up, grab my clothes, and go to the showers. I think I say bye. Maybe I don't. Either way, by the time I've washed all the evidence from the night down the drain, Dillon is gone.
He changed my sheets.
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