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Vance Hopper had always considered himself the toughest guy at Northwest High School. He was undefeated in every fight that he was in (even against Robin Arellano, who was pretty much second to him.)
Not to mention that he had fought almost every teenage boy in North Denver.
He said almost, because apart from the few bullied ones (such as Finney Blake or Griffin Stagg) there was still one—Bruce Yamada.
Bruce who was perfect. The golden boy. The boy with the most striking eyes he had ever seen—no, scratch that.
Which he didn't think, at all.
Anyway, Vance only had one goal—beat Yamada in a fight—which was totally not at all because he wanted to feel the dark-haired's slightly muscular body slamming him into the ground.
Nope. He definitely just wanted to prove he was the strongest and most harrowing in the school.
Since the semester had just begun, he had plenty of opportunities to execute his plan. Although, he was feeling anxious for various reasons which he does not wish to explain. He thought about this carefully, unlike his normal self, who would just go for it.
He studied the way Bruce took his notes in Chemistry—organized and focused. When the teacher would ask a question, his hand was the first in the air. Often times, Vance hadn't even noticed he was staring so long, until the teacher noticed; which would lead him to become very red in the face. During lunch, he would observe that Bruce rarely ever sits with his popular friends, instead he would sit with Finney in the library and read a book. Vance would even trail behind him after school, where Yamada would walk his sister home or head straight to baseball practice.
He was very intrigued, to say the least. It didn't seem at all that he would have any logical reason to want to fight Yamada. But again, this only made him think, because oftentimes, there'd be even a simple reason, such as someone bumping into him or a fellow student being pushed around.
Although, Vance didn't find him boring. It was conceivably possible that it was because of how perfect he seemed, or how he somehow knew Vance was there, but never spoke on it. Or perhaps it was because of how badly he wanted to feel Bruce's soft-looking lips clash onto his, and feel his hands in his hair pulling him closer.
Later that week, on Friday night, Vance stood behind the bleachers at Bruce's baseball game. He watched attentively, not understanding much of what was happening at all, except that Bruce's team was in the lead.
Bruce pulled his arm back—eyes closed and the ball in hand—and exhaled, trying to focus on avoiding the batter hitting the ball completely. He knew his team would win, but he still felt extremely uneasy, as any other pitcher would. He opened his eyes, looking around to avoid making eye contact with the other players, when he suddenly saw Vance Hopper at his game. This was shocking to Bruce—as everyone knew Vance never ever showed up to sports games—nevertheless played in a sport.
He watched the blonde turn away, arms crossed and hands gripping his biceps so hard, that even from afar Bruce could tell they were reddening. His attention returned to the game, and before his mind could trail away once more, he threw the ball as quickly as he could.
Bruce's pitch was different (according to teams they'd been against, and his coach.) It had been described as a very distinct loud cracking sound, almost as if a window was in the process of being shattered, or even the sound of thunder. To most people in North Denver, he was the best pitcher around.
The batter missed the ball by only a few centimeters, so because it was their last strike, and Bruce's team had obtained the most runs, they had won.
His whole team had surrounded him at record speeds, cheering for him in support. A few people from the opposite team even pat him on the back or gave him a thumbs up while they thanked one another.
When the game ended, as Bruce was headed toward the changing room, he felt someone tug him into a small alleyway.
“Dude, what're you doing? Let go of me!” Bruce called out, his eyebrows arching in confusion.
“Yamada, shut up!” The stranger's voice, which he could name as Vance Hopper's, whisper-yelled.
“Oh, hey, man.” Bruce said as the former began to grip his collar tighter.
“Don't talk to me like that. We're not friends, I'm not here to hold a conversation with you, I'm here to mess up that stupid ‘perfect’ little life of yours, maybe even chip one of those perfectly lined up teeth.” Vance grumbled, his voice aggressive and assertive, looking down at Bruce's tempting lips.
“Sorry. Look, Vance, I don't want to fight. That's just not who I am. I'm the only one you haven't fought, right? How about we just leave it that way?” His back was pushed deeper into the brick wall behind him, which was becoming increasingly painful. He closed up his fists—nails digging into his palms—and chewed on his bottom lip.
“No.” The curly-haired boy said, before pushing Bruce onto the ground and straddling him.
Vance grabbed his collar with one hand and Bruce felt a sting on his cheek, which he began to realize was Hopper's fist colliding with his face. He was almost hit again, before he reacted first by grabbing the side of the other's head and smacking it against the wall.
“Fuck…” Vance hissed, his eyes squinted as he clutched his now bloody head.
Now he was the one being manhandled, his wrists being clasped together with one of Bruce's hands. Bruce's thighs on either side of his waist.
“No. I said I wouldn't fight, and I won't continue this, Vance. That's enough.”
It made Vance feel a certain way that both of his wrists could be contained by only one of Yamada's hands. He was unsure if he was even still here for the fight or because he wanted something else.
Bruce watched as Vance looked back and forth from his eyes onto his lips. He looked back at those blue eyes, the ones that had always looked like they held back too many emotions that could never be said aloud.
Their faces inched closer, hearts beating in sync, their breathing ragged and shaky. Finally, their lips met, slow, at first, almost like they were afraid either one of them would pull away. It was strange to feel each other's lips, the ones they'd dreamt about for years.
Once it became apparent neither of them wanted to stop, the kiss deepened. Their teeth clashed—a feeling that would've made Vance cringe if it hadn't been with Bruce—and Bruce's hands moved from holding onto Vance's wrists to grasping his hair, wanting to pull him closer. Vance tilted his head, now holding onto the back of the other's neck.
Neither of them knew how long it had been before they pulled away.
“How long?” Bruce whispered, his lips red and swollen.
“Years, Bruce. So many years.” Vance murmured, avoiding eye contact, fearing he'd scare him away.
“How about I go get changed and we talk about it while walking home?” Bruce suggested, a small grin displayed on his face.
Vance looked at him and nodded, examining the glint in his eye. The raven-haired boy stood up—patting the dirt off his pants—and reached his hand out to assist Vance in getting up.
“Let's go, Hopper.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, dude.”