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Brian is acutely aware of the rapid beating of his heart; it’s vaguely uneven and probably loud enough that people can hear it as he tries to slip past. He knows that, really, nothing will have changed after their Saturday detention — yet he’s still hopeful, praying for some sign of change, something to show that even those few people are different, willing to acknowledge Brian in the crowded halls of Shermer High, rather than just in the secluded detention room.
However, when he’s not greeted in the halls before class by anyone from the Saturday prior, his previously rapid heartbeat slows — albeit just a little. When he sees Claire over a sea of heads in the canteen at lunch, and her eyes dart away as soon as they connect with his, he feels a pit open up in the bottom of his stomach and he carefully pushes his soup forward on the table. He's not hungry anymore.
When he sees Andrew as he’s walking through the halls after the last period, he nods at Brian, lips curling up ever so slightly in more of an acknowledgement than anything else, he smiles back though he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. At least it's more than would have happened before Saturday.
When he doesn’t see Bender, he figures he must have been skipping. No one else had seen him that day and as much as everyone hates to admit it, John Bender is perhaps one of the most noticed persons attending Shermer High School, Illinois.
Brian’s parents don't greet him when he gets back, too busy fussing over his younger sister who had come 1st place in the spelling bee at her middle school. He would be lying to himself if he said he doesn't miss the attention, the love his parents used to give him. Now, he's just a shell of a person; stupid Brian who can’t even pass a shop class.
There's a weird feeling that settles in his chest as he walks past them to his room, trying not to notice how they don't even spare him a glance, it tugs at his heart and makes the rest of him feel empty. Brian doesn’t slam the door, but he shuts it with enough force to shake the doorframe a bit and flops down on his bed, lying with his limbs splayed out, letting a wave of emptiness wash over him. Claire had been right — they weren't friends, just because they'd spent hours together on Saturday the cliques of High School hadn't suddenly dissolved, Brian is still on the lowest tier of the social hierarchy, still a loser. He breathes, long and hard and just wants it all to go away, high school, and feelings, just wanting to pass his fucking shop class, but no amount of willingness will enable him to build a lamp.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs makes him sit up, tripping over his feet in haste to get his homework out of his bag and onto his desk. However they carry on past Brian’s door, and he breathes a sigh of relief, knowing that they would never really stop there. Since his homework is right in front of him, Brian figures he may as well start it — get it over and done with. It’s something that's become an unconscious habit of his, doing his homework first — he knows that it started thanks to his parents — who used to stand over him as he completed it, never offering their help, just watching, silent. While now he may give himself half an hour to sit and stare at nothing in particular before starting on it, the habit still stands.
It's only physics and maths so it doesn't take him too long, but that does mean there's more time for him to sit and wish he had the guts to stand up for himself: at home and at school, to wish he had friends who were interested in going out to do something not academic, to wish his life were different.
He thinks he must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knows his sister bursts into his room, “Mom says dinner is ready,” she doesn't say anything else, she doesn't even wait for him to sit up and get up from his desk.
Dinner is always an awkward affair, Brian’s mom and dad don’t even look at him as he eats so he shovels the food into his mouth — he wants to get out of there as soon as he can. It's not even been 10 minutes before he’s done, which is fast, even for him, but still, he thanks his mom, and takes his plate to the sink, disappearing up to his room and pretending not to hear how conversation starts in his absence.
He manages to bargain his way into getting a make-up assignment from his shop teacher with only a ‘don’t let it happen again’ to send him on his way. But if Brian can’t even make a lamp, he’s got no hope of making his new project. However, he’s not willing to admit defeat, to let his grade be tainted by one F, to ruin his perfect GPA. His new assignment isn't much different to the old one, he thinks that maybe his professor took pity on him, especially after the whole gun in his locker situation, even though he can’t make a normal lamp, let alone one that goes from on, to flashing, to off at the touch of a button.
He walks, hunched, into the lunch hall, trying to avoid any unwanted attention. Almost not noticing John Bender, who’s sitting at Brian’s table, making idle conversation with his friends, who look like they'd rather be anywhere else in the world and frankly, quite terrified.
“Look who it is,” he says as Brian takes his place — the only seat left open — right next to Bender.
“This is where I normally sit,” Brian pointedly does not meet Bender’s eyes and spins around to take his lunch out of his school bag.
Bender brushes it off, attention caught by the containers Brian is pulling out and placing in front of him, “what have we got for lunch today Bri?” Bender asks, clapping him on the shoulder with the familiarity of old friends. Brian pretends not to notice how his actual friends are eyeing him with concern and confusion.
He pushes the flask forward on the table, “soup, I think it’s tomato,” Bender hums, waiting for him to go on, so Brian taps gently on the tupperware container at his sandwich, which is just visible through the translucent plastic, “PB and J, an apple,” he moves his hand round to where the apple is sitting, “and some celery sticks.”
Brian knows his lunch is boring. He has the same goddamn thing every day, but he doesn't dare ask his mom for anything different in case she decides to stop ever making him anything at all.
Bender takes the sandwich, “not a fan of the soup Bri, but I'm sure this’ll do,” he bites into the corner of the sandwich while pushing the other half towards Brian — who’s too busy opening his thermos to notice the outright concerned gazes from his friends.
Bender only eats half of the sandwich, leaving the other half for Brian. He does, however, take the Apple and Brian pretends he’s not staring at the way Bender crunches through the thing in about four bites.
“I hear you've managed to wrangle your way into getting a makeup assignment from Mr Miller,” Bender speaks up once he’s tossed the apple core into the nearest trash can.
“Yeah, just.” Brian lets his head fall into his arms. By this point, his friends have all left the table leaving him and Bender alone, feeling too intimate for Brian's comfort, (but he can’t blame them for having their extra-curricular clubs or being scared away by Bender, god knows he would be to had it not been for the events of the Saturday prior.)
“Still, pretty damn good, I heard he hasn’t given out one of those in years,” Bender is looking at him, a smirk playing over his lips, “you must be very special Bri—”
“Shut up,” Brian lightly swats at Bender's arm — which is limp on the table.
“What?” Bender tries (and fails) to fake his innocence and Brian can’t help the smile that rises on his face.
There’s something enticing about the way Bender’s lips curl up in corners, and Brian finds himself unwittingly enraptured by it, eyes following the movement. They flick back up to meet Bender’s own, a slightly bemused look in the crinkle of his brow on his forehead. It makes Brian’s heart jump in his chest, an elevated pace that he’s sure is visible in the rapid rise and fall of his chest. For a minute Brian’s half convinced he’s going to do something irrational like lean in and—
“I’m gonna fail again,” Brian says, desperately trying to think of anything but the gentle curve of Bender's lips, and the way his eyes were filled with an emotion more sincere than a vague sort of teasing at Brian’s expense.
“You need to chill out Bri,” Bender says, absent-mindedly drumming his fingers over the pocked wooden tabletop, “I can help you, you know.”
And Brian really wants to accept his offer, reach out and grasp Bender's metaphorical extended hand, but he can’t. Brian can’t bear to admit he needs the help, it’s emasculating and somewhat demeaning accepting help from John Bender of all people.
“No,” Brian stutters out and doesn’t miss the brief look of confusion and something akin to amusement moving across Bender’s face. He quirks an eyebrow, an obvious ‘why?’ to Brian's abrupt refusal.
“No?” Bender drawls, letting the last sound linger on his tongue.
“I can’t accept your help,” Brian says, not meeting Bender’s inquisitive gaze with intent.
“Oh fuck off Brian, what’s stopping you besides your weird sense of self-pity and resentment towards being seen as less than perfect.” It’s said with a teasing lilt, yet Brian can feel the underlying maliciousness — it slaps him around the face because Bender is right. Brian is too fucking pathetic to ask for help, he can’t let it happen, won’t let anything belittle his intelligence more than it already has.
“I — um — don’t want to take advantage of you.” He knows it's stupid, even before the words leave his mouth he’s scrambling to stop them.
At that Bender merely smirks, “I’d hardly say you’re taking advantage of me, it’s not like you’re repaying me by sucking me off or some other lewd thing.”
It has the intended impact on Brian as he feels the tips of his ears blush, the pink melting down his cheeks.
“Why would you say that,” Brian says somewhat meekly.
Bender just shrugs and somehow it’s infuriating and enticing at the same time.
“If it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll let you do something for me in return,” Bender sing-songs and Brian knows he isn’t alluding to anything, yet his mind still wanders.
“Like what? Because I am not doing your math homework, no matter how much you hate trigonometry.” Brian tries to stay serious, but he can’t help the smile that leaks into his words.
“Aww Bri, you know me so well,” Bender drawls, patting Brian on the back with an over-exaggerated and unnecessary swing of his arm. He can’t help the grunt that comes out of him on contact, and Bender's snickering from beside him doesn’t help at all.
“I could help you with it?” Brian says, tentatively. He doesn’t want Bender to think he’s pitying him, or treating him like a child.
“If when you say ‘help me’, you actually mean ‘do it for me,’ then I am more than happy to oblige,” he says, mock-serious.
“No,” Brian says and it comes out firmer than he intended.
“No?” Bender says incredulously, “you drive a hard bargain Mr. Johnson, but just this once I shall make an exception for my favourite dork.” Bender finishes with a fanciful flourish of his hand. Brian just sighs; this is going to be a long week.
They meet in the shop room after school on Tuesday as agreed. Bender listens intently to the requirements for Brian’s new project with more calm and clarity on his face than Brian has ever seen before.
After watching Brian fumble the intricate wiring of the circuit board at least four times Bender heaves a sigh and gently shoves Brian out of the way. Instead of ‘helping’ as Bender had reassured, he starts Brians's project again, from scratch, this time not letting Brian even touch it in case he ‘fucks it up’.
Three hours pass quickly and Brian’s make-up assignment is already better than his original one ever was. And he should be thankful, but he can’t help feeling indebted to Bender (who hasn’t let Brian even look too closely at the circuitry for fear of him messing it up with his eyes alone.)
“It’ll be done before next week at this rate,” Bender admits when they’re clearing up.
“That’s a week before the deadline,” Brian says. He can’t help but worry, it might seem unreasonable for him to produce a fully functioning lamp in only one week, especially after the spectacle of the last one.
“Hmm,” Bender pretends to think, “maybe you’ll get extra credit.”
“I don’t know — might it seem a bit unlikely that I finish a fully functioning lamp in one week. What if — what if — he thinks I cheated.”
“I don’t think Mr. Miller gives a shit.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
The silence that ensues isn’t quite awkward, but it also doesn’t have that casual familiarity that Brian is used to with his other friends. When he looks up, he finds that Bender is already looking at him, something Brian can’t quite place in his gaze.
“Bring your math homework tomorrow,” Brian says as an excuse to break the weird kind of tension between them.
And he does. On Wednesday Bender is late to the shop room, not overly so, but enough that Brian starts questioning whether he’s being stood up in fucking shop class of all places.
Bender uses his foot to open the door, his heavy boot leaving a muddy footprint in the centre. Brian tries not to wince as the door connects with the weak plaster wall, white flecks of paint raining down after the impact. With a flick of his wrist Bender's math homework is plastered across Brian’s face. It smells faintly of cigarette smoke and must and it makes Brian wrinkle his nose in disgust.
“One math homework for Mr. Brian Johnson,” Bender says, hopping up to sit on the counter at the side of the room, putting out his cigarette on the off-white porcelain of the sink.
“Are we gonna have time to do both,” Bender says, swinging his arm in the vague direction of the cupboard where Brian’s ‘lamp’ is stored, and then to the mess of homework that Brian is hastily trying to shuffle into a pile.
It’s not like Brian particularly wants to, but he doesn't want to feel indebted to Bender, who is wholeheartedly doing Brian’s project for him, so he’s resigned himself to just doing Bender's homework. It’s not like he’s averse to the work itself, more just the concept of Bender cheating, though he supposes he’s not that much better.
“I’ll do this,” Brian pats the now neatly stacked pile of paper in his lap, “you do the lamp.”
“Going back on your word so quickly. I didn’t expect that from you Bri,” and it is said playfully, yet Brian doesn't miss the sinking feeling in his chest.
“Well, I just thought, because you're doing the lamp, I could repay you in this way.”
“Fair enough,” Bender says and jumps down from the counter, moving toward the cupboard where the lamp is.
Brian finds a pencil in his pocket and allows himself to just focus on the question sheets.
This time the silence between them isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable, only ever broken by Bender’s frequent, out-of-tune humming. But Brian finds he doesn’t mind — he enjoys the comfort of having someone else just present in the room with him, even if it is Bender.
Just as promised, the lamp is finished by Friday. They only spend 45 minutes in the shop room after school, having only the finishing touches left on the lamp; it doesn't warrant enough time for Brian to finish Bender's physics homework for him.
“When do you have to hand this in?” Brian asks as they walk out, gesturing with the papers in his hand.
Bender doesn't look up, he’s too busy trying to light a cigarette on a nearly dead lighter, “Monday morning.”
Clasping the cigarette between his index and middle finger, he reaches to take a drag of the cigarette, tilting his chin up and slowly blowing the smoke out over Brian's head, “why Bri, you scared you won't finish it before then?”
“No — uh — it's just, how am I gonna give it to you in the morning — especially when you’re always late,” Brian says, turning away from the cloud of smoke that was definitely just blown his way on purpose.
Bender shrugs noncommittally, “why don’t I just wait for you to finish it?” And it’s said more as a statement than a suggestion, like Bender has already decided that’s what is going to happen, no matter how much Brian might refute it.
“Wait where?” Brian asks. He doesn't want to spend hours sitting in the cold just to finish Bender’s stupid physics homework.
“Wherever,” Bender pushes the door open, and Brian doesn’t wince at the blast of frigid air in his face, but it's close.
“Not helpful,” Brian shakes his head.
“I don’t fucking know man, just somewhere that isn’t this shitty school,” Bender tries to kick at the ground, but his boot just skids along the pavement, leaving a streak of dirt instead.
“We could go back to mine?” And he doesn’t know why he says it, maybe just as an excuse to stop standing, shivering, in front of the school entrance. He’s not sure if Bender really wants to come back to his place — they’re not even that close, just using each other for a mutual benefit. And besides, Bender might not want to, he might see it as a step too far in their not-quite-friendship.
“And see Brian the brain’s room? Of fucking course.” Bender is unusually enthusiastic and Brian has to fight to hide the smile he can feel tugging on his lips.
“Okay well you can’t smoke in my house, my parents would, I don’t even know—”
“Lead the way.”
Brian’s parents aren’t in (which is good, especially with Bender trailing behind him, looking like the exact kind of person his parents would want Brian to stay away from.)
It’s somewhat thrilling, bringing John Bender into his house. It feels like a rebellion, a slight ‘fuck you’ to his parents who would faint at the sight of Bender's dirt-caked boots casually propped up on his desk, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth.
“It’s very… bare in here,” Bender states after a minute of just letting his eyes wander. He’s right of course, Brian’s walls are blank, a harsh white against the blue of his carpet and bed covers. There are a few certificates displayed above his desk — which is the only thing in the room that looks like it's been used — covered in papers, textbooks and a few pens. Brian knows it must look sad, especially to Bender, whose room is probably exponentially more lived in, even though Brian spends ninety per cent of his time at home in his room.
Looking up from the physics homework, Brian meets Bender’s gaze — filled with some semblance of concern and maybe pity, “I know.”
“Not even a cassette player,” Bender tuts, shaking his head incredulously, “how do you listen to music?”
“I — uh — don’t.”
Bender’s eyebrows jerk up on his forehead, mouth opening enough that the cigarette falls onto his lap.
“What the fuck Bri,” he says, shaking his head, locks of hair falling too far into his eyes, “next time we’re doing this at mine.”
And Brian takes it for the confirmation that it is. There will be a ‘next time’. Sure Brian is enjoying himself, but he can’t help but wonder if Bender is as well, or if he just likes Brian for his willingness to do his homework. Besides, he has his extra-curricular clubs after school, and Bender usually ditches before the day is over. It’s weird though, how, ever since Bender started helping (read: doing) Brian’s shop project, he hasn’t ditched (or at least not before coming back for Brian.).
“How do you have so much free time, aren’t you going out with Claire anyways?” Brian doesn't know why he says it, maybe it's his self-consciousness catching up to him, bringing into question why Bender wants to spend so much time with him, despite having other friends and stuff to do.
“Nah, that was never going to last,” Bender says, swinging his feet off of Brian's desk and swivelling to face him properly.
“So you broke up with her?” Brian asks, setting his pen down on the top sheet of the homework pile.
“She dumped me, probably off fucking some other guy now,” there’s malice in Bender’s tone like he’s still caught up on her, despite what he says.
Brian knows how Claire is, all the ‘popular’ girls are the same, still he winces when he says, “well she was a bitch anyway.”
It startles a snort out of Bender, loud and cut off like he’s genuinely amused by Brian.
“Exactly Bri,” and it comes out fonder than expected, but Brian doesn't mind.
The next time they see each other is the following Tuesday.
Their eyes meet above the heads of everyone else in the lunch hall, and Bender smirks before sidling over towards Brian and his friends.
He barely has time to mutter a ‘sorry’ to his friends before Bender is barging his way into the space beside Brian on the bench — there isn't enough room for them both to sit comfortably side by side so Bender’s thigh is pressed against his, dark grey jeans a stark contrast against Brian’s light blue ones. It’s like there’s a hot poker pressed against his leg — the physical contact between their legs and shoulders, squished tightly together, is burning a hole through Brian's clothes. He’s sure his whole face is as red as his tomato soup if the rapid heat spreading over his cheeks means anything.
This time Bender doesn’t ask before he takes half of Brian's sandwich and scarfs it down in a few bites. Subtly, Brian nudges the other half towards him. He’s not that hungry anyway.
“Don’t you have anyone better to eat lunch with?” Brian asks once Benders finished off his sandwich, and is mid-way through slurping Brian’s apple juice.
“I do.”
“Then why are you here,” Brian asks, deftly ignoring the lurch of his heart in his throat.
“Am I not allowed to see my favourite dork?”
“I am not a dork,” Brian tries — and fails — to protest.
Bender just hums, reaching his hand up towards Brian's head, however before his hair can be ruffled, Brian swats Bender's hand away with a ‘don’t you dare.’
“Wait for me after school,” Bender says and swings his legs out, walking off to harass some other poor student.
Brian would be lying if he said he didn’t miss the feeling of Bender next to him. The once burning area of contact now feels like ice in contrast.
“What?” He asks, making pointed eye contact with his friends — who are all staring at him with a range of bewildered and concerned looks.
Physics class runs late. Or well, Brian is running late; he had stayed behind to talk to his physics teacher and ask for some more extra credit work. So he finds himself jogging to the school doors, trying to catch Bender without running too late.
Before he sees Bender, he smells him. The distinct smell of cigarette smoke hits him as soon as he steps outside, and there Bender is waiting, leaning casually against the wall, the offending cigarette hanging lazily from his fingers.
“Look who finally shows up,” Bender says, and he’s really just asking Brian where he was.
“I was in my physics class,” Brian says, and he’s embarrassingly out of breath after his short jog.
Bender just shrugs on his coat that was once balancing precariously against his shoulders and begins walking — long strides that Brian can barely keep up with.
Casual conversation comes easily as they walk — just mindless chatter about nothing in particular. Once or twice Brian gets an accidental lungful of second-hand smoke, he has to cover his mouth and breathe deeply for a few moments to stifle the cough. He doesn’t think Bender notices (thankfully).
They get to the place that Brian assumes is Bender's house, seeing as he bypasses the front door and kicks open the back gate. Brian feels awkward just following behind Bender who shows no respect for the building.
He flings open the back door and Brian follows tentatively, shutting it behind him.
Bender’s room is in the basement — dark and somewhat dingy yet it suits him.
Without concern for the cleanliness of his room, Bender collapses onto his bed, muddy shoes placed straight on top of the cover. Brian almost flinches when he sees the streak of dirt it leaves.
The smell of cigarette smoke clouds the air, more condensed and noticeable with an overt lack of windows — it doesn’t help that this time when he accidentally breathes in the smoke after Bender blows it out, he coughs. It only causes Bender to snort — ugly and curt — like he finds Brian’s suffering genuinely amusing.
“I’m gonna show you some real music now Bri,” Bender says, rolling off his bed and moving towards his cassette player. There is a box of tapes underneath, yet Bender doesn’t go searching through it, instead just playing the one already inserted in the player.
It starts with a faint almost static-y groaning, “this is just the lead-off,” Bender says, and Brian’s sure that’s supposed to mean something to someone who knows about music.
His confusion must be evident as Bender continues, “basically it's just an intro track.”
“Oh,” Brian says because he’s not sure what else to say. He’s never really listened to the kind of music Bender likes, his parents always said it was ‘satanic’ and Brian's fears aren’t eased when the vocals start screaming about ‘shouting at the devil’.
“Calm down Bri, it’s just Mötley Crüe.” Brian isn’t sure who that even is, but he’s too scared to say anything else. If you’d told Brian two weeks ago that he would willingly sit in John Bender’s bedroom listening to metal music, he might think you were having some kind of mental episode because Brian — ever perfect — wouldn’t dare do anything rebellious, yet here he is.
“This isn’t that bad,” he says after a while because, truthfully, it isn’t.
“It’s fucking good,” Bender says. He’s lying flat against the floor, back pressed against the faded rug, head angled towards where Brian’s feet are dangling off the side of his bed.
He takes a long, slow drag of his cigarette, gently moving his head in time with the beat of the music, and Brian is definitely not mesmerised by the way his hair pillows around his head, lock splayed out waiting for Brian to touch them, or by the way Bender’s mouth curves around the cigarette, lips pink and slightly wet from where Bender had just run his tongue over them.
If Brian weren’t so fixated on Bender and his stupid face, maybe he would have seen the cloud of smoke being blown in his direction. He splutters, coughing to try and get it out of his lungs, and Bender’s bark of laughter only makes Brian cough more.
“You’ve never smoked before have you?” Bender asks.
“I have,” technically it’s not a lie. He and Andrew had gotten high in their Saturday detention the week prior, but Bender wasn’t talking about drugs.
“Yeah,” Bender drawls, bordering on sardonic, “I bet it was on the same night you lost your virginity.”
“I—uh—“ Brian can’t even defend himself, he’d already failed to convince Bender and Claire about his Canadian girlfriend.
“Brian the brain is still a virgin, what a shocker,” it's obviously said to poke fun at him and it works; Brian can feel the tips of his ears heat up.
“I bet you’ve never even had your first kiss,” Bender draws up air quotes around the words.
“I— no,” Brian says, because Bender can judge him all he wants, but it’s not like Bender doesn’t want him there.”
“Not surprised with those pieces of metal on your teeth. You’d probably fuck up some girl's mouth with those,” it’s not like Brian is super self-conscious about his braces, but it still isn’t nice to have attention drawn to them. Besides, he’d never even thought about that: could his braces cut someone’s lip? Is Brian destined to spend his teenage years still a virgin in every sense of the word?
“I never thought about that,” he says, casting his gaze down and away from Bender’s watchful eyes.
The dismay must be visible on his face as Bender shifts, sitting up, arms propped up on his knees and he looks at Brian with one eyebrow raised, “you’ll get the hang of it eventually.” Brian figures that’s supposed to be comforting, but it’s not. Brian doesn’t want to screw anything up with his first girlfriend (if he ever even gets one.) So he says as much, but Bender only laughs at him.
“It took me a while to get good at that shit,” Bender says, exhaling a lungful of smoke and taking care not to blow it in Brian’s direction, “I had a lot of practice.”
“Yeah,” Brian mumbles and misses Bender standing up and moving to sit on the bed next to Brian. For a minute they just sit side-by-side, music playing faintly in the background and it strikes Brian that this might be the first time he’s ever hung out with anyone without the pretence of some academic reason hanging over him. He finds he likes it. He enjoys Bender’s company, surprising as that may be.
“I’ll teach you,” Benders says, and he draws it out so casually that Brian doesn’t even register what he’s asking at first. When Brian whips his head around to stare at Bender after he’s finally realised what he meant, he finds Bender with his head tipped back, tendrils of smoke leaking out of his slightly parted mouth.
“What?” Brian stammers after a long moment just digesting Bender’s words.
“So you don’t fuck it up with your first girlfriend,” Bender just looks at Brian — his face is blank like he doesn't care either way about what Brian says.
“Okay erm— sure. Yeah.” Brian says because he’d be a liar if he said he hadn't thought about kissing Bender before — usually late at night on his own in his dark room when no one could see the blush rising on his face.
He is again acutely aware of Bender's presence beside him, infinitely more relaxed than Brian who feels like his entire world is crashing down around him. A million questions run through his mind, namely; why on earth would Bender offer to do something like this? He barely tolerates Brian, and then there is the question of sexuality. John Bender isn’t gay? He doesn’t like boys. Doesn’t catch his gaze lingering for too long on a sharp jawline or strong thighs. Not like Brian does at least. Because as much as Brian tries — and he does try — to convince himself otherwise, he’s not a stranger to ogling guys in the cafeteria. However, he doesn’t ask Bender for fear of being beaten up — Brian is struggling as is, he wouldn’t want to aggravate Bender with possibly sensitive questions.
“I’m not gay,” Bender says and it comes out harsh, the words falling off his tongue in quick succession like he hadn’t meant to say them at all. When Brian’s eyes find him, this time he isn't looking back, instead stubbing out his cigarette on the side of his bed frame, uncaring about the circular scorch marks it leaves.
“Me neither,” Brian says, and he’s aware it’s a lie, but he doesn’t want to see the disgusted expression that would be on Bender’s face if he admitted the truth.
“Good,” and there’s an almost awkward tension that settles over them, silent except for the dim humming of the cassette player and the sound of Brian’s heart knocking against his ribs, echoing in his mind.
“Don’t use your teeth,” is the only thing Bender says before leaning in — slow enough for Brian to just register his words and let his eyes flutter shut.
All it is is a brief press of lips — one moment Bender is there, warm and tangible against his mouth, and the next he’s not, pulling back and looking at Brian with a near soft expression on his face — eyes crinkled almost imperceptibly around the corners.
For a minute they just look at each other, bodies parallel but faces turned inwards. Instead of continuing to crane his neck, Brian swings his legs around, sitting cross-legged on top of Bender's bed sheet. Bender doesn’t mirror his movement exactly, but he shifts his body more towards Brian’s.
All of a sudden Brian’s lips feel dry and he watches as Bender’s eyes follow the movement of his tongue over them
“That wasn’t bad?” Brian asks after a moment too long of silence has passed between them.
“That wasn’t a proper kiss, I don’t feel like getting my mouth fucked up by your braces.” Brian thinks that right now might be the very moment that he most wishes his braces would just disappear; if they weren’t there would John Bender’s mouth be on his again, unapologetic and hungry like Brian wishes it was?
“Okay,” he says, dismayed.
“Look, just don’t move your lips too much.”
When Bender begins to close the distance between them again, he feels a hand move to grasp the hair on the back of his head, pulling him forward slightly.
“Close your eyes,” Bender says when he’s close enough to Brian’s face that Brian can feel his breath dust against his cheek. It’s warm and smells like smoke, but Brian doesn’t care.
This time when Bender closes the space between them Brian is expecting it and the press of Bender's lips against his is a welcomed sensation. Bender doesn’t pull away so suddenly this time, instead opening his mouth over Brian’s and running his tongue over Brian’s bottom lip. Under Bender’s touch, he’s lax, letting himself fall open. He can’t help but let out a breathless gasp when he feels Bender’s tongue slide into his mouth. It’s hot and he tastes like cigarettes, but even so, Brian licks into his mouth with renewed confidence. Their tongues slide over each other and even though Brian hates the taste of smoke he finds he doesn't mind it anymore — whether that's because it’s Bender or not is beyond him.
When Bender pulls away mere moments later, his mouth is shiny with spit — he moves his hand away from its clasp in Brian’s hair to wipe it dry.
“That was a bit wet Bri,” Bender says but he’s smiling so it can’t have been that bad. Brian can’t think about anything besides the fact he’d just kissed John Bender, notorious criminal of Shermer High, and Brian had just consensually made out with him (if you can even call it that). Many times the idea had crossed his mind, yet never did Brian expect that his wildest fantasies would come true, and he knows he’s blushing — the heat crawls up his face like a rising tide but Brian is helpless to stop it.
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, not looking up from his hands that are squirming in his lap because he’s not sure how Bender found it. He’s not sure if he’s disgusted by Brian’s lack of practice and shoddy technique or just by the fact it’s Brian — who’s lanky and dorky, with his acne-covered face — instead of some hot girl who was begging for his attention. He must pale in comparison to Claire, who would be miles better than him at this and isn't just some nerdy guy that Bender happened to take pity on.
“Don’t open your mouth as much next time,” Bender advises, pulling his hair back from out of his face.
So Brian does as he’s told and tries to follow Bender’s instructions. And it’s better for it. Brian loses himself in Bender, the press of his hand in Brian’s hair, grasping him and pulling him ever closer, Brian is pliant and malleable under Bender’s touch, rising up on his knees to shuffle closer, and Bender lets him, encourages it by snaking his other arm around Brian’s back. It’s still messy and unsure — at least on Brian’s part — but it’s miles better than it was before.
When Bender goes to pull away, breaking their contact to take a few breaths of air, Brian follows his movement backwards — it’s subconscious, he knows, but he craves the soft pressure of Bender's lips against his, he doesn’t want Bender to move away.
Brian is pushed back with a hand on his chest, gently shoving him enough so that he ends up with his back pressed against Bender’s bed sheets, the wind knocked out of him — though he figures that’s probably because of the kiss. His lips are red where Bender had bit at them a few times, and he knows his hair is messed up beyond reason but Brian can’t help the grin that tugs at his lips and spreads over his face.
Bender is busy trying to light another cigarette, taken from his seemingly endless supply, body hunched over the lighter as he flicks at it to turn it on. As he holds it up to the cigarette that’s dangling out of his mouth, his eyes meet Brian, who is still dazed and somewhat disorientated, and he grins, “that was pretty good Bri.”
“Yeah,” Brian says because it’s all he can get out in his breathless haze, “it was.”
Next thing he knows Bender is lying down next to him, long limbs splayed out beside Brian’s, blowing circles of smoke at his ceiling.
For a long time, they lie next to each other, pointedly not touching, just basking in the seldom-come-by quiet. At some point the cassette tape ends and Bender proclaims he ‘can’t be fucked’ to get up and change it, so they just lie in borderline silence. But it’s not awkward, not like you might expect it to be at least, because Brian just lets his mind wander, not thinking about anything at all.
“You didn’t want to actually kill yourself did you?” Bender asks eventually. And it's so abrupt that Brian sits straight up, gasping for air.
“What,” he tries but it comes out as more of an exhale.
“Y’know, the whole ‘gun in your locker’ thing. You weren’t actually gonna do it were you?” Bender says, propping himself up on one elbow, twisted in Brian's direction.
He pulls his knees into his chest, cradling them and rocking ever-so-slightly, “I don’t know, I definitely considered it” Brian admits, he hasn’t thought much about the whole situation since, but even so it still feels raw and recent in his chest. Really he was never going to go through with it, but the thought was nice, it felt good to hold his life in his hands, and have control of things for once. Maybe he just got sick of it; always having to be ‘perfect’ or living up to his parents' impossible standards, but despite what he thought, what he convinced himself, he would always be too cowardly to actually do it.
“Don’t,” Bender says, firmly punctuated with a drag of his cigarette and somehow that one word, one single word from fucking John Bender, provides Brian with more comfort and stability and possibly hope, than anything else ever has — its explicit confirmation that at least someone wouldn’t want him to.
“Okay,” he says, voice cracking on the last syllable, tears beginning to well up in his eyes. Brian tilts his head up, studying the mottled white of Bender’s ceiling, to stop the tears from falling. He doesn’t want to cry over it again, especially not in front of Bender, doesn’t want to appear weak and pathetic even though he knows he is.
Bender doesn’t say anything, perhaps that's because he hasn’t noticed that Brian is teetering over the edge, but maybe he wants to help Brian preserve some semblance of his dignity.
Eventually, Brian calms down, his tears turn to subdued sniffles and he lays his legs out flat again, letting his head fall forward into his chest.
“Stop it,” Bender says, breaking his silence. His words are harsh and bordering on accusative.
When Brian doesn't reply he sits up, twisting his body towards Brian’s.
“It would be stupid to kill yourself over a fucking F,” and it’s such a swift change from how Bender had been acting mere minutes ago, that Brian can’t help but just sit in shock, sniffles subsiding under Bender’s hard glare, “y’know how many F’s I get, how many the average student gets? It’s fucking normal, okay Brian. You think your life is so hard because your parents want their perfect little boy to have a 4.0 GPA. Your world won’t come crumbling down just because mommy and daddy are upset with your bad grade. Your life isn't really that bad; at least your parents are still present in your life. At least they don’t hit you.” The last sentence comes out quietly like Bender didn’t mean to say anything. Brian doesn’t say anything. It’s no secret that Bender’s parents are shitty — Brian is familiar with the small, circular burns littering Bender’s arms, he knows how Bender blew up about his home life in detention on Saturday, and he knows that in comparison with Bender’s his home life would seem idyllic.
Bender stays quiet after that, staring off into the distance, somewhere beyond his wall, letting his cigarette just burn in between his fingers and Brian can’t help the guilt he feels, like a green wave that creeps up behind him and swallows him whole, washing him away in its tide.
Eventually, it gets late enough that Brian has to go. It’s dark and Brian’s parents have no idea where he is, but he doesn't know how to bring it up and doesn't want to let the words linger in the palpable tension between them.
Brian shuffles towards the edge of the bed, trying not to disturb Bender — who hasn’t moved since — as he stands up. However when he looks back at him, Bender’s eyes are already on his, searching, and perhaps there is something apologetic in them. Brian doesn’t look too hard.
“I have to — um — go,” Brian says, moving hesitantly towards the door.
Bender just grunts, pushing himself up and off the bed. In silence, Brian follows Bender, footsteps heavy on the stairs under him which seem to creak with Brian’s every move.
“I’ll walk you back,” Bender says once they're outside, the pale moon painting the sky in an array of different hues; pink and purple streaked across a midnight canvas, only ever interrupted by tiny pinpricks of glitter.
“You don’t have to,” and his speech feels stunted, voice hoarse like he hasn’t spoken in weeks.
“It’s dark and you don’t want to be walking ‘round here on your own,” Bender says, not meeting Brian’s eyes, but it’s close.
“Fine,” Brian agrees, “but you aren’t walking the whole way.”
Bender just hums and starts walking, paces shorter and slower so Brian has no trouble keeping up. They still don’t talk even if the tension between them is considerably eased and Brian likes it. Brian likes just existing in Bender’s presence, as strange as it may sound.
Eventually, they get to the top of Brian’s road and bathed in the light of the street light overhead, they stop. There’s something in the air between them, like the words are there, hidden beneath the sounds of the wind swirling through the bushes and undergrowth, and Brian's heart pounding loud in his head.
“Thanks,” Brian says, not quite sure if he’s thanking Bender for walking him back or something else, but he figures it doesn’t really matter.
“It’s nothing,” Bender replies and he’s lying through his teeth because they both know it wasn’t nothing. What transpired between them was certainly not ‘nothing’, and while Bender may be willing to overlook it, forget it and move on, Brian isn’t. Brian wouldn’t.
And as Brian begins to walk down the road, toward his house, he thinks he hears a soft ‘sorry’ from Bender.
Bender isn’t in school on Wednesday. Or Thursday. Or on any other day that week and Brian is starting to get worried. It’s not like it's an unusual occurrence for Bender to skip for prolonged periods, but it’s never happened during their tentative friendship-adjacent agreement, especially not after one of Bender’s blow-ups.
It takes until Tuesday the following week for Bender to show up again. He finds Brian at lunch by ambushing him outside of his math class just as Brian is leaving (last, as usual). Brian almost jumps out of his skin when Bender emerges from behind the door, startling him into dropping the stack of papers he was holding. Bender just smirks and doesn’t bother offering Brian a hand in clearing up the mess.
“What was that for?” Brian complains once he’s stood up, papers gathered in a creased, pseudo-pile.
“What was what for Bri?” Bender asks, the epitome of faked innocence.
“Y’know, you surprising me like that,” Brian says, not bothering to hide the weariness seeping into his voice.
“Oh,” Bender cocks his head to the side, futilely still trying to convince Brian of his innocence, “I didn’t mean to,” he drawls it out in a wholly unconvincing manner.
“Just— never mind,” Brian gives up.
Bender starts walking in the opposite direction of the lunch hall, and Brian, out of some weird obligation, decides to follow him.
After they reach the back entrance to the school and emerge into the biting air Brian finally pipes up, “where are we going?”
Bender just tosses his hand over his shoulder, a sort of noncommittal gesture, not even dignifying Brian with a verbal response.
“Fine then, don’t tell me,” Brian mutters to himself and there’s a slight awkward fumble in Bender’s next step like he heard Brian’s mumble and is trying hard not to respond.
They turn round the corner into a section of the campus that Brian has never heard of, let alone been in. It’s littered with a few tables that look like they’ve been there for the past 30 years, and scattered with litter that almost hides the dry yellow grass underneath.
Bender goes to sit on the table, using the bench as a step up to sit on the actual tabletop. He lets his legs dangle from the top, tilting his head backwards and reaching into his coat for what Brian assumes is a cigarette. Brian tries to follow Bender, using the table bench as a step, but instead of moving with the same practised elegance as Bender had, Brian’s movement is clumsy and he manages to catch his foot on the underside of the table and fall headfirst into the wood.
However, before Brian’s face can make a dent in the tabletop, Bender reaches out an arm to catch him, pulling Brian into his side. So, instead of coming into contact with the hard, brittle planks, Brian falls right into Bender’s chest.
For a moment neither of them moves an inch, that is until Bender starts laughing, a low rumble coming from his chest, and Brian can’t help but follow, sitting up carefully before letting the giggles spill out.
“You’re actually useless Brian,” Bender says, laugh subsiding.
“Shut up,” Brian says, pressing his cold fingers into his red cheeks from the physical exertion and because he’s just had his face buried in between Bender’s pecs for half a minute.
“Come over after school,” Bender says eventually when the blush has gone from Brian’s face and he feels more embarrassed about his fall than amused.
“Okay,” Brian says, and everything between them feels good, perhaps better than it ever did before.
Bender’s room looks almost exactly the same as it did the week prior — the same clothes are still slung haphazardly over his chair, the same half-attached poster hanging on the wall, the top left part flopping over and obscuring the name of the band. It‘s an almost comforting feeling to Brian, who let the small details bring him right back to being in this room the week prior, Bender’s tongue down his throat. The thought is so obscene that Brian felt the heat rising high in his cheekbones.
He cracks open the can of coke he’d bought from the vending machine after school — usually, he wouldn’t, but Bender was late and he was bored. It is warm and artificial tasting but Brian doesn’t mind, the taste brings back the fading memories of the detention that feels months away now.
Bender gestures for Brian to give him the can, before taking a ‘sip’ that’s more akin to half the whole damn thing. He just smirks as he hands Brian back the can and Brian finds the smirk so fucking attractive that he can’t even hold a grudge.
Bender takes a long slow drag of his cigarette, blowing a careful stream of smoke into Brian’s face. He can’t help but cough at the concentrated funnel of acrid smoke he breathes in by accident, “what was that for?” he splutters out between coughs.
“You should try it one day,” Bender offers, not giving Brian a proper answer and holding out the offending cigarette in Brian's direction.
“No,” Brian says once his coughs have quietened, “it’s unpleasant.”
“It’s not that bad once you get used to it,” Bender says, sitting up from where he was previously lying on the top of his bed, legs dangling off the side.
“I don’t know,” Brian says slowly, “how would I even go about y’know—“ he mimes putting a cigarette to his mouth.
Bender just snorts, “not like that,” and for a minute Brian thinks he’s about to lean over and manhandle Brian into the correct position, Bender's hands warm over his, but he doesn’t.
Instead, Bender moves closer to Brian, who’s sitting on Bender's comforter with his back pressed up against the wall and takes a long breath from his cigarette before placing his mouth gently over Brian’s.
Under Bender’s mouth, Brian stills, letting his mouth fall open. He wasn’t expecting Bender to kiss him again, but Brian’s glad he does — he’d spent too long locked away in his room thinking about the feeling of Bender’s lips over his, of the slide of their tongues, hot and wet against each other. Brian is broken away from his thoughts by Bender releasing the smoke from his cigarette into Brian’s mouth, who can’t help but breathe it in as he does. Bender pulls away, letting Brian breathe it out again with only a small cough.
“How was that?” Bender asks, sitting back like nothing had just happened.
“Not bad,” Brian’s voice comes out horse and a lot deeper than usual.
“Yeah?” Bender asks, leaning in again.
Brian mirrors his movement, only pausing while Bender takes a drag from his cigarette. This time Brian is expecting it, he breathes in the smoke and exhales it again without a single cough.
“Not bad Bri,” Brian says, a smirk playing over his lips as he leans in again. This time Bender just covers Brian's mouth with his own, cigarette hanging loosely from his hand. Brian responds enthusiastically, pushing himself off the wall and back into Bender, who receives Brian’s response by moving his hands around Brian’s waist and hoisting him up so he’s straddling Bender, whose hair is knotted and thick under Brian’s fingers. Eventually, they break apart and Brian takes the moment to breathe in deep lungfuls of air, while Bender takes one last puff of his cigarette before putting it out and throwing it on the floor. If Brian weren’t sitting in such a compromising position, his thoughts on Bender and Bender’s mouth alone he might say something disapproving about the litter, but instead, he just lets himself be pulled in and enveloped in the cigarette smoke.
He doesn’t know how, but they end up lying flat on Bender’s bed, Brian on his back against the comforter, Bender on top of him, arms straightened so Brian has to reach up to close their mouths. And Brian finds it inappropriately arousing and tries not to think about the heat pooling in his gut.
However, instead of letting Brian kiss him again, Bender just flops down beside Brian reaching over to grab a cigarette off his nightstand. This time when he lights it, he offers the second drag to Brian who takes it, somewhat hesitantly, and sucks in the smoke. It’s still harsh and unfamiliar against his lungs but Brian manages to exhale without coughing, an achievement for him even if he isn’t sure if it's something to be proud of.
Bender seems to share the same sentiment, reaching over and ruffling Brian's hair despite Brian’s admittedly lacklustre protest, “aww little Bri is growing up,” he mimes wiping a tear from his face and Brian has to fight to keep the smile off his face before he replies.
“Shut up,” he says, but there’s no malice in it whatsoever, and Bender recognises that as he just snickers, rolls onto his side and, subsequently, onto the floor.
“Fuck,” groans Bender from his place on the floor. Brian peeks out over the top of the mattress and finds that, despite Bender gazing daggers at the rug like it was the one to grow arms and pull him down, he’s still so damn attractive.
“You doing alright down there?” Brian tries to say but his heart leaps in his throat when he tries to get the words out and so it comes out as more of a garbled nonsense. Even so, Bender lets out a long deep, “no.”
Taking pity on him, Brian rolls to the side of the bed, stopping just before he can make the same mistake Bender did, and then carefully stepping down. He has to fight to stifle the laugh building in his chest at the sight of John Bender sprawled out over the floor, looking one moment away from giving up entirely. However before he can move over Bender's limp body, he reaches out a hand to grab at Brian’s ankle.
“What are you doing?” Brian asks, shaking his foot around in the air in a futile attempt to dislodge Bender’s hand. Instead of responding to Brian’s indignant question, Bender just tugs hard on Brian’s ankle, sending him toppling down right on top of where Bender is lying.
As their chests collide Bender lets out a winded sound that’s barely audible over Brian’s shriek. When Brian lets his eyelids flicker open from their previously tightly scrunched closed position, he sees Bender, eyes on his mouth and out-of-place blush on his cheeks. For a minute they just stay in that position, Brian lying chest-to-chest with John fucking Bender, who is looking at him like he wants nothing more than to close the space between them.
This time when it happens Brian leans in first. It’s a complete pivot from their positions only a week ago, but in that specific moment Brian feels it's right — there’s no other way it could have happened, should have happened. And it’s saccharinely sweet and slow, like a declaration of love as opposed to the needy, desperate kisses they were exchanging earlier.
For some reason, it’s these slow kisses that make Brian’s heart really stutter, chest rising and falling with the power of his beating heart as Bender’s tongue explores his mouth. Brian has his hands in Bender’s hair pulling him ever-closer, and dragging him back when he goes to pull away.
Everything about these kisses feels different, like somehow they’re more sincere, like Bender is kissing him because he wants to. Because he finds Brian attractive and perhaps because he craves Brian’s touch like Brian craves his.
Time passes quickly. Or perhaps it passes slowly. Brian thinks that maybe no time has really passed at all because when Bender pulls away all he can think about is going back in, hesitant to waste another second that he could be spending with his tongue in Bender’s mouth.
Eventually, Brian has to roll off of Bender — it was starting to get uncomfortable staying in one position constantly, and though he doesn’t want to take his hands out of Bender’s hair, his back is cramping too much to let him think about much else.
So they lie, side by side, chests heaving, on Bender's floor. At some point, he takes out a cigarette and they pass it between them, but the thought of Brian's mouth over where Bender’s had been moments before still manages to make him blush and feel vaguely flustered. There's no music, nothing to provide an ambient atmosphere except the beating of their hearts — uneven yet strangely in sync.
For a long while they just lie together in silence that rests over them like a blanket, encasing them in it’s comforting folds.
“Are you gay?” Bender asks abruptly, punctuating it with a drag of his cigarette. He doesn’t sound accusative or disgusted or any of the other negative emotions Brian can think of, he sounds weirdly bored, like he couldn’t care either way about Brian’s answer. But Brian is so shocked by the suddenness of the question that he doesn’t even try to stammer out an answer.
Brian doesn’t reply for a long time, just letting the silence build up between them, and trying his best to ignore the mounting tension. He’s not sure how Bender will react if he tells the truth, yet Brian feels like he owes him it.
“Yeah,” he says eventually, but it comes out as more of a whisper, hanging faintly in the tension between them.
“Okay,” Bender says, a blank look on his face as he blows a ring of smoke.
Brian does not reply.
“Good,” Bender replies after another long moment, and it's only just louder than Brian’s initial response.
“What?” Brian asks, voice cracking in shock but he can’t find it in himself to care, especially not now there’s even a small chance that his feelings could not be so one-sided.
“I said good,” Bender says after a long, deep breath. He’s still lying motionless on the floor, looking up with a vacant sort of expression, like he’s looking through the roof and staring into the dimming sky, “because I like you Bri,” Bender says eventually.
This time, when Brian’s breath hitches he’s certain that Bender can hear it as his head quirks slightly to the side, a ghost of a smile after Brian’s hic.
“Yeah?” Brian asks, but it comes out breathy and embarrassingly high-pitched.
“Yeah,” Bender replies, and it comes out firm and steady, a stark contrast to Brian’s own voice.
“Are you,” Brian starts, considering his words carefully. He doesn’t want to assume anything, doesn’t want to jump to conclusions or scare Bender away by being so forward, “are you asking me out?” It comes out rushed, the words tumbling off Brian’s tongue.
“Do you want me to be?” Bender asks, exponentially more practised and eloquent than Brian.
And Brian can’t get the words out fast enough. He’s been thinking about this moment for a long time, waiting wishing that Bender would return his feelings; anything to show that the countless kisses, hot and messy, or slow and full of a tender meaning that Brian could never put into words, actually meant something more to Bender than mere practice, “yes.”
“Then yes. I am asking you out, Bri.” Bender says, and when he turns to look at Brian there is a smile on his face, and though Brian has seen the exact expression on Bender many times before, somehow now it is unspeakably the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
“So,” Bender trails off, smile faltering ever so slightly when Brian doesn’t immediately say anything back — his head is too full of celebrations and fireworks and the sound of his blood pumping rapidly through his body to answer straight away, but when he does, it’s like he’s floating.
“I’d love to go out with you John Bender.”
This time when their mouths meet Brian forgets every thing he has ever learned about kissing because the feeling of Bender’s mouth on his, the knowledge that his feelings aren’t unrequited, is perhaps better than anything Brian has ever felt before.