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Jack Merridew woke in a puddle of his own sweat.
He wasn't aware of when he had woken up, just that it had happened again. “Roger,” he muttered out the name into his empty bedroom without much thought.
He sat up, suddenly wide awake and red in the face.
Oh god. He'd had another dream…about him.
His eyes flickered to the clock and Jack felt his heart drop. “Damn!” He cried out loud and stumbled out of bed.
He pulled on his uniform and tried desperately to calm his nerves and look presentable for classes. He was head-boy! Leader of the choir club! He can't afford to be late to school.
He just made the bus, hoping he didn't look too flustered. He gave the driver a few coins not out of kindness but because he needed the kids seated to at least think he was kind.
The bus stopped around the ever so slightly more wealthy part of town. The driver was just about to skip it before he saw there was somebody waiting. Jack liked to sit at the front of the bus…to listen to the drivers mumbling. Stay in control.
He cursed quietly under his breath. Damn Roger for coming to school only when Jack doesn't want him.
Jack watched silently as some little ones went quiet and Roger scowled at them before walking over and shoving Jack's bag onto the floor to sit next to him. Jack didn't comment on his best friend's aggressiveness.
Roger sat down and pushed Jack so he could sit beside the window. Jack rolled his eyes but moved over. Roger was silent like usual. Jack just stared as the bus began again. Jack would ask how Roger's weekend was but he already knows it would have been awful. Jack is the only good thing in that boy's miserable life and they both know it.
“Are you drunk or does your blazer smell like alcohol?” Jack muttered out so just the two of them could hear him. It was a very genuine question. Roger's hair always smelt like cigarettes and his clothes always smelt like vinegar. That's simply how he is.
Roger shrugged and leant back in the seat, “I don't know,” he said bluntly. Jack sighed, shifting on his chair. He knew that was the most honest answer Roger could've given him.
He looked awful, just like in Jack's dream, except he had more clothes in real life. His wiry black strands of thick hair looked like a dolls and the circles under his eyes looked deeper than last time.
“You look awful,” he found himself snapping, “I can't believe you show up to school like that.”
Roger rolled his dark eyes; "What, am I supposed to show up dressed like a peacock and act all prim and proper like you, huh?" – he paused, “Actually you don't look half-good yourself.”
Jack's eyes narrowed at Roger's retort. He looked down at himself. Did he really look bad? Ugh. Curse his stupid hormones.
"I look perfectly fine," he retorted, straightening his blazer. "I'm head boy. It's my job to set an example. But you look like you've been out partying all night again.”
“No, I was at home,” Roger said slowly, “I know that because I woke up on the stairs instead of Tammy Warner's house or wherever else.”
Jack winced, shifting in his seat, “Oh well isn't that depressing.” – it was a genuine statement, everything about Roger's homelife made Jack want to turn away and never look at him again. He was such a mess…and it was so goddamn attractive. He cringed, pushing the thought aside as he attempted to muster up some actual concern.
“How did you fall asleep on the stairs?” He asked, almost only so Roger would stop looking at him with those dark eyes of his.
“I probably passed out…maybe fell?” Roger awnsered miserably, eyes drifting to the bus window.
Jack's expression softened a bit as he heard the weary tone in Roger's voice. He knew that beneath the indifference and sarcasm, his friend was struggling.
"Jesus, Rog," he said, his voice a mix of exhaustion and disbelief. "You could've seriously injured yourself. You need to quit drinking so much."
He wanted to reach out and touch Roger, to offer some comfort, but he stopped himself. That would be too vulnerable, too obvious.
They got off the bus and went to their lockers. Roger told some twins to kill themselves but other than that it was pretty uneventful. They split and Jack made it to his first class on well-time.
He sat at the back of the class after making sure that that golden boy Ralph could see him scowling at him before stalking away. He checked the clock every few minutes, he felt the need to run to the bathroom and let all of his thoughts about Roger spill again…or at least just snap himself out of his thoughts about that stupid dream!
He finally broke when the bell rang. He sighed in relief and stayed firmly planted in his desk as people spilled out of the class.
Jack remained at his desk for a moment before hearing a voice.
"You look a bit flustered, Jack." Ralph said, leaning against the door frame. His expression was smug, as usual.
“Fuck off,” Jack immediately snapped back, sitting back in his chair. He could feel his cheeks growing red as his hair.
He stood up and pushed past the blonde, storming down to his locker, mind racing. Ralph knew something was up. He was letting his composure slip….
God what is wrong with him? God he was pathetic.
Fuck…he could imagine it. Roger, on his bruised knees, Jack in control, Roger worshiping him…
The air and noises of the other students buzzing like flies pulls him violently crashing back down to reality. He shook his head, fuck he was disoriented.
Roger. Ah shit.
He was supposed to meet Roger at the lockers. He checked his watch and his eyes widened. Had he really been zoning out for that long?!?!
Fuck!
He raced to his year levels locker bay only to find it empty. “Fuck,” he spat out loud and glanced out the window…only to see…
Goddamn Roger! He averts his eyes for fifteen minutes and he's in a fight?! Unfortunately he's not to surprised. He peered down at the oval and winced.
Roger looked like he was getting his ass beat. Jack could tell that by even where he watched from the third story.
He clenched his fists tightly, torn between wanting to rush down and intervene and not wanting to draw attention to himself. Oh fuck it.
He raced down the hallway and the two sets of stairs, almost tripping an embarrassing four times.
Finally he got to the oval. The fight seemed to be just finishing off, Jack winced as he watched the older guy throw Roger onto the floor like a rag doll. He waited until people started filing away before he worked up the courage to go over to his best freind.
Roger looked awful, face down in the grass with his blazer ripped and his hair a mess. Blood running from his nose and lip, legs together like he'd been kicked in the dick, a bit of his dark hair ripped out.
Jack scowled and knelt down, “Jesus Christ, I was gone for ten minutes. What is wrong with you???”
Roger groaned and slowly propped himself up on his elbows, wincing as he did so. "It's not like I go looking for trouble, alright?" he mumbled defensively, wiping at the blood dribbling from his nose.
He let out a huff, his eyes meeting Jack's. "Not my fault you took your damn time, though. What were you doing?”
“None of your business,” Jack scowled and hoisted Roger into his arms. Roger groaned and Jack went red.
Maybe it was confidence knowing that he wasn't as weak as Roger, or the fact that that dream had made this day stop feeling real. But he made the decision. He pulled Roger behind the building and sunk to the floor with him, red faced and once again itching.
He glared at Roger, “How out of it are you?”
Roger groaned and rubbed his eyes, “I'm fine.” – his eyes seemed to focus. “What's wrong? You look like you're gonna explode.”
Jack tried to steady his breathing, feeling a mix of irritation and... something else he didn't want to identify as desire.
"It's nothing," he muttered, averting his gaze from Roger's face. "Just... stressed out, that's all."
He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, aware that his red face and restless demeanor were giving him away. He couldn't help but admire how Roger's eyes had gone from slightly unfocused to sharp and observant.
“Roger, you ever kissed a guy?” He asked, immediately cringing. The words felt so off in his mouth.
He flinched as Roger seemed to switch up in an instant, “No!” He practically yelled, “I'm not a fucking faggot, Jack!”
Jack winced at Roger's sudden outburst, realizing that his question had clearly struck a nerve. He cursed himself for being so stupid and clumsy with his words.
"Jesus, Rog," he muttered, trying to backtrack. "That's not what I was implying. I was just... curious, ok? Relax."
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to collect his thoughts. "You're not a...a-" He hesitated.
Roger leaned forward, their faces practically inches apart, “Jack, you know I ain't queer, I ain't funny in the head like Simon. Are…you?”
Jack's heart rate quickened as Roger leaned closer, their faces suddenly so near that he could feel his friend's warm breath on his skin.
He tried to keep his expression neutral, but he knew he was failing miserably. And then there was Roger's question, the words hitting him like a ton of bricks.
"No, of course not," he managed to say, his voice sounding less convincing than he would've liked. "Why the hell would you ask that?”
“Cuz’ you want me to give you a kiss,” Roger hissed, only seeming to press his body closer, “You know my family doesn't play with all the gay bullshit. You're blushing and sweating bullets.”
Jack tried to calm his panicked breathing.
Roger's body was pressed up against him, the close proximity sending shivers down his spine.
He shifted awkwardly, trying to create some distance between them.
“You're imagining things mate,” he muttered, “It's the adrenaline from the fight,” – he hesitated, “Plus. I'd never go for you,” his shame bubbled over, “Even if I was gay I'd go for somebody who ain't so sadistic. White too, like Ralph. Blonde n’ blue eyed and uh-hot.”
Roger's expression darkened at the mention of Ralph's name, his face hardening at the comparison. He bristled with anger and jealousy, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Jack.
"Is that what you're into then?" he retorted, his voice filled with bitterness. "Blondie little boys like Ralph? You'd rather have him than me?”
Jack groaned a little at the breath on his neck. Fuck, fuckfuck… “Course I'd rather you…” he whispered, “I can't stop dreaming bout'cha.”
Roger's anger suddenly dissipated as Jack's soft, whispered confession reached his ears. The intensity in his eyes softened, replaced by surprise and a hint of vulnerability.
He pulled back slightly, staring at Jack, searching his friend's face for any hint of deception. "You... you dream about me?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. "You... fantasize about me, mate?”
Jack's cheeks flushed even deeper red, but he held Roger's gaze, his voice steady despite the fluttering in his chest
"I.... yeah," he admitted, "I can't help it, Rog. It just... happens."
He fidgeted slightly, shifting his weight as if trying to ease the tension in the air.
"It started a while back. I... I don't know why, but... lately it's been every damn night--your so…” he trailed off, gesturing toward his freind as he was unable to provide the words.
“Me?” Roger repeated, “Just me?”
“Yeah.” – Jack averted his teary eyes. This felt unreal.
He gasped like a girl as Roger pressed himself against him, black hair almost getting in Jack's eyes as their lips hovered inches apart, “Right then,” Roger muttered, closing the gap.
Jack melted. It felt…clumsier in real life but he didn't hate it at all. He lifted his arms and rested his elbows on Roger's shoulders, grabbing his cigarette smelling hair as bunches in his fingers.
Jack groaned. Roger tasted like alcohol and vinegar.
Roger then pushed away, standing up and ruffling Jack's hair. “I'm not gay, right?” He said quietly.
Jack gulped, “Yeah. Yeah sure mate.”