Nephilim

Brendon had to stifle the urge to lunge himself upon the older boy, his confusion on whether to pummel or grind against him the only thing keeping him from doing so.

Oh, Lord, was he angry.

His hand still held the crumpled note he had received only minutes before on his health-class desk, holding all of the strenuously nerve-racking allure of the first one. He hadn’t wasted a second on looking in Ryan's direction; he knew very well that Ryan's gaze would be locked upon his, drawing his quivering fingers to the paper while reining his sight. He couldn’t stand to be under his control again. Not again. He had his own strength. He opened the slip of paper, trying his hardest to look nonchalant.

Brendon,

Back building restroom, lunch.

You owe me.

Ryan

He could not stop himself from fingering the sharp edges of the note nervously, mouth dry and empty and very, very warm. His tips tingled upon the softening slice of paper for the entire period, eyes bolted upon the whiteboard, ears blocking all sound, mind screaming if he could just look at him, just look without feeling guilty for a moment. He was so tired of feeling guilt. It clung to him like a perfume, clotting his throat and drowning his breaths. Inescapable. It dripped from his body as if it were a paint of his sweat.

And his gaze faltered for one second, fluttering about him, scanning the hands that still held the wretched note. He wasn’t. He really wasn’t. He wondered if his brain was still trying to process the whole ordeal, moving slowly like a machine with too many tasks piled upon it. Perhaps he hadn’t even begun to feel the sting of the guilt he was supposed to be experiencing, or if it was gathering together to smother him in a wave of his sins. He smiled absentmindedly, noticing his knuckles had paled to a sickly shade of grey, chuckling internally at the idea that his entire body may be the exact same color. He must look terrible. He certainly was feeling terrible.

The bell rang. Lunch.

Brendon rose and shuffled his belongings into his bag, eyes low and dimmed in the glaze of his glasses. When Ryan brushed by him, laughing cheerily with one of the other classmates, a sigh fell from the Brendon's mouth freely. It was as if a weight simply melted to dust from his shoulders, his buckling, weakening shoulders. He slung the strap of his backpack around himself, securing the strip. Muttering a salutation to his health teacher, Brendon slid out of the classroom, the sound of the door opening and closing similar to silence.

****

The walls were stone and white, like a temple.

He did not want to stand against the wall opposite to the sinks, in plain view of the three people who had come and gone so far, but he did not want Ryan to miss him or think he had not come. He was much more willing to withstand the stares of strangers than to be branded “chicken shit” by someone as notorious as Ryan. His only saving grace so far had been that the intervals between the curious, wary looking boys were spaced graciously from one another. He began to pray that perhaps there would be no more strangers after this one. Perhaps Ryan would come next. Perhaps it would be over quickly.

Brendon sighed. A tawny-haired boy, one whose shade was much darker than Ryan's, walked into the restroom. He caught brief eye contact with his equally brunette orbs before the youth swiveled in front of an urinal and began to unzip. Brendon cleared his throat, averting his sight and trying to balance the flush of color in his face. He was beginning to feel stupid. More so, he was beginning to feel stood up. The droning of the falling liquid in the stark silence made his stomach turn to rot.

A set of heavy footsteps became audible, Brendon raising his gaze to the figure approaching. His entire face brightened at the appearance of Ryan, face paling from past laughter, hands slipped casually into his pockets as if he had no idea there was someone waiting for him. Brendon's eyes regained an intense shine as he smiled honestly at the familiarity. His face beamed, thoughts and worries of lateness forgotten almost instantly.

“Ryan,” he breathed in a steady relief.

Ryan flicked a brief wave before positioning himself in front of the urinal. “Hey.” He turned his back to him.

Brendon felt his chest sink into itself, as if collapsing. He felt foolish, oh, he felt very, very foolish. He had been expecting friendly words to compensate for his time. But how could he expect anything from this boy? He pressed himself against the cold wall and waited. The dark-haired stranger finished, stare daunting and lurking upon Brendon as he stalked closer to the sink. Brendon cleared his throat again, the sound retching.

“So, what have you been up to?” He murmured to break the string between their voices. Ryan cast a confused, yet somewhat amused look back at him. He forced an annoyed smile, the kind one gives to show that they really did not want to answer. The kind one gives to make the inquirer feel utterly stupid. The stranger boy stifled a chuckle. Brendon knew why.

“Nothing...” Ryan finished, a tone of superiority high in his voice. The unfamiliar boy shared a look of mockery with him as he left, shaking the water from his hands, the sound of its splattering as searing as their cruel smiles. Brendon could not figure as to why this was happening to him, why Ryan would leave him stranded in front of someone so perfectly unknown to them. His sight became steely with anger as he watched Ryan shake himself, flush, and walk to the sink.

There was the sound of water. Ryan began to whistle.

Brendon hit a fist against the tile, pain numbing. “Fuck this,” he growled harshly, adjusting his backpack before stomping toward the exit, eyes plastered to the ground. He did not want to know what would happen if he looked at him again. How could he? How could he make him feel so asinine? After he told him to come here; after he wanted him to be here. Brendon's cheeks reddened swiftly, the shade clotting and clawing. He made sure to have his shoulder hit Ryan's on his way out, despite the shock of stinging he would have to withstand as well.

A firm, wet hand on his wrist again. “Wait.”

“Fuck you,” he tugged the force away. Futile, he realized all too quickly as the grip shifted into a push. There was a pair of hands upon his own, and a hard shove against a bathroom stall against his back. A surprised yelp came from Brendon's mouth as the bolt of hot pain skipped up his vertebrae. His eyes watered at the sensation of his muscles dissolving into static from the nip of his back to the wide space between his shoulder blades. They seemed to melt into a whisper, making his knees buckle.

“Wanna play tug-o-war? Then let’s fucking play,” Ryan rasped throatily into Brendon's ear, the phrase barked harshly in one scorching breath. Shivers raced through Brendon's nerves, his face turned away from the mess of brown bangs clogging his lungs with their heavy, thick scent. His breathing became audible; he was becoming afraid again. Every time he was afraid with Ryan, he found darkness, and then light. He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t let himself become weakened. He tried to pull away. His hands felt massive and defiant.

“You keep pulling,” Ryan whispered, switching his stance and dragging Brendon by the arms into the stall he had been pushed upon. Brendon heard the squeaking of his shoes as they tried to cement themselves to anywhere outside of the plastic and metal stall. He heard them skid to a terrible stop behind the twist-lock door. He heard them take three small, feeble steps backward until the latrine denied any further means of escape. There was the slick of the lock shutting, and the swift cage of Ryan's arms around him. “But you don’t get away.” A hard kiss stealing his breath. He could still taste it. He could still taste him.

“Please, Ryan,” he tried, but again, his words were brushed aside.

“Please?” Ryan scoffed between brushings. “Bren, do you have any idea how much stronger than me you are?” There was an allowed silence, as if he wanted Brendon to realize in that moment. And he did. His eyes widened. “If you wanted to, you could have gotten out of here a lot sooner.” Then, another kiss, slower and softer than the ones before. Brendon nearly sighed. When they pulled away, Brendon's lips followed, begging for more contact. His eyes were closed, but somehow he saw Ryan smiling triumphantly. “But you don’t want to, do you?”

Brendon shut his lips and opened his eyes, wanting so much for his gaze to be fire. To just burn him away in his sight.

“Do you?” Ryan's smiled grew a bit bolder, the lids lowering over his eyes and his bottom lip curling under his front teeth as if in anticipation. The expression left Brendon confused, but in the haze, he could not help but think how cute it made him-

“Shit!” Brendon jolted under the slip of fingers entering his pants from the front, after deftly undoing the zipper. Vaguely Brendon tried to keep thinking why Ryan always seem to know how to do these things without blinking an eye, but when the feeling of a hot, eager hand cupping him came, Brendon found his breath lost to him, shivers sparking themselves through his nerves at a pace unknown to him. When he gasped to force a moan out, there were only jerking grips for air. His eyelashes fluttered as if he were in a fever.

“Do you?” Lips on his earlobe. Tongue. Teeth.

“No...” Remittance, remittance, just once more and it would be over for good. Just one more dive of darkness and he’d pray every day for forgiveness.

God could understand; he had to. He was only human. He was only a man. He made mistakes, and anyone could forgive him for such. He couldn’t be good all of the time. He didn’t know anyone who could. A pressing against his side, something hardened and held down. Ryan's breath like fire on his neck. He quivered in the heat.

“Not now, Bren,” Finger fondling all of him. He mewed in compliance, heart pounding in his temples. “You think you want it now, oh, wait until tonight...” Suddenly, gone. The warmth of his hand dissipating, leaving him panting emptily. Brendon fell to the side, leaning onto the right wall of the stall, face flourishing in and out of scarlet. He was trembling, sweating. Ryan smiled cruelly. “You didn’t think I’d fuck you in the boy’s bathroom, did you?”

His throat was tight. He swallowed.

A laugh. Brendon shut his eyes again, trying to concentrate on his breathing, trying to slow the shakings. Oh, he did. He did want it.

“Come to my house tonight.”

“Your dad...” Brendon heaved instinctively.

“He’s on a business trip, and Mom’s with my aunt. Besides,” Brendon heard him smile again. “We’re friends. Why would they need to be worried?” A pat on his crotch. A shuddering moan escaped. Another laugh. “We’re just two boys who’ve known each other for years. No need to suspect anything. Right?”

He had never wanted to feel like prey. He had never wanted to be under anyone else’s control ever again. He was free from that darkness. He had fought and fought and fought, and Jesus, he had gotten out of there alive. He was his own person. He had regained his right to listen to no one but himself.

Brendon nodded pathetically. Ryan lifted a hand onto his hair and ruffled it. “That’s a good boy.” As if he was a dog. A pet.

The door to the stall unlocked with a light click, Ryan slipping his hands into his pockets, a high tune permeating the air through his whistle. Brendon shook his head, hair hanging like daggers in front of his eyes. In a rush, he stuffed his sweat-clotted shirt back down into his pants, straightening the wrinkles pressed into it, or at least trying to hide them. Outside, there was the sound of the faucet again. Footsteps. Then a pause.

“Remember. Tonight. My house.”

“I know,” Brendon said, his voice softer than he had ever heard it before. His hands were still not quite still. He clenched them into fists. “I owe you.”