Aware

Aware is a 4k Friends to Lovers ficlet. Note: This short contains explicit material. (apologies for any typos, they’ll work themselves out over time)

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This close to the stage, what probably appeared like merely lackluster lighting effects to the crowd further back were bright white strobe lights directed right into Bry’s face. There should have been epileptic seizure warnings on the doors, for fuck’s sake. The lead singer moved around the stage in practiced, precise moves completely lacking in spontaneity or genuine emotion. The crowd roared when the man hopped onto a box then jumped off, knees bent. Stiff. Fake. Intended to woo the crowd.

Bry was not impressed. He wanted genuine, honest, impulsive action. The band’s songs were much like the singer’s stage choreography. The music was good. Practiced. But there was a distinct lack of uniqueness that made Bry feel like he was being pandered to. He nodded his head to the beat, wishing the opening band would finish and get the hell off the stage.

Bry seemed to be alone in his apathy, however. The crowd jumped around whistling and calling out “fuck yeah”. There was a disturbance behind him, then a couple men, both with beautiful muscled shoulders shown off by pristine white tank tops, shoved and bounced their way through the crowd towards the stage. Bry gave the nearest a hard shove forward. The crowd was rowdy—more so than he preferred. Only thirty minutes in and the band was being heckled for favorite songs. “What the fuck is this new shit?” the guy behind him shouted in the relative quiet between songs. “Play Stranger Danger!” If slurred shouting hadn’t made it obvious the man was well past sloshed, him spilling beer on Bry’s shoulder and down his back made it clear. “Oh shit, man, sorry!” Bry gave him that fake, lift one side of the lips smile. “Dude, I am so sorry.” Bry turned back to the stage wondering how long it would take his shirt to dry.

Scott hit his arm and said something, but Bry couldn’t hear over the obnoxiously loud guitar that sounded like the previous thirty minutes and thirty years of rock. He waved at his ear. Scott leaned closer. “That happened sooner that usual.” Bry rolled his eyes. It wasn’t a concert if at least one beer wasn’t spilled on him. “But hey,” Scott went on, “at least it’s out of the way, right?”

“There’s nothing that says it won’t happen again.”

Scott leaned in close again. Close enough Bry could smell the subtle scent of aftershave. “While some things are good enough to happen again and again and again, beer spillage is not one of them.” Bry wasn’t sure what Scott meant by that. He had a strange way of teasing that Bry had learned over time to just accept. “What do you think of the band?” Scott yelled.

Bry very intently did not look at Scott to answer. He was already half hard at Scott’s proximity. Bry shrugged, brushing Scott’s arm and causing tingles to run along his skin. “I think they have no soul.”

Scott punched his arm and stepped back, taking the comforting scent of his cologne with him and leaving Bry with the smell of beer. Somehow Scott always managed to avoid spills, collisions, and bands that he disliked. Or maybe he just had all the luck and liked every song he encountered.

The opener started yet another song. Bry liked the main act, but the torture of the opener wasn’t worth it. He hated this venue; it held way too many bodies. The only real reason he came was for the opportunity to stand close to Scott for three hours in a crowded, hot, dark arena. Where if they wanted to talk they had to stand so close Bry could feel the heat radiating off Scott’s body.

Scott was Bry’s one unattainable crush. He knew Scott wasn’t going to happen, he accepted it, but the man had the deadly combination of rich blue eyes and a mega-watt smile complete with the sweetest little dimples. Bry wanted to do all sorts of things to those dimples with his lips, fingers, cock.

He took a deep breath. God, he was hard and the vibrations of the bass line traveling through the floor into his legs and up his body were not helping the arousal that thrummed through his veins. He hoped no one pushed into him because that would be awkward.

Bry concentrated on the wasted woman falling and flailing into everyone around her, the crappy music, and the smell of beer now mixed with the smell of weed. He did multiples of two in his head until 16,384. Finally, he was under control again.

He glanced at Scott who was pumping his fist in the air in time to the heavy beat that, to Bry, lacked drive. The singer ended a line and yelled into the mic “Thanks for coming out today! You were a great crowd.” The music died and the band exited the stage. Thank fuck.

“Didn’t like ‘em?” Scott asked.

“No. There was nothing unique about them. Well… maybe the God awful lightning.”

Scott laughed and a little thrill of happiness traveled through Bry, turning his innards to mushy goo. “Yeah,” Scott said. “I like ‘em, but that lighting was for shit. At least you got some eye candy, right?”—never we, just Bry—”Of course, that said, no one can really compete with this perfection.” Scott waved his hand from his shoulders to waist. Bry felt his face scrunch with confusion. Scott laughed and punched his shoulder hard, which sent him stumbling back into some guy behind him. “You should see your face.” Scott laughed more. “I’m just messin’ with ya.”

“Could you stop hitting me?” Bry rubbed his shoulder.

On the stage, roadies moved equipment off and on with practiced efficiency. “Any weekend plans?”

“Huh?” Bry was starting to feel closed in by the bodies of all the strangers and the loud buzz of conversation. The question finally processed in his brain. “Oh. No. Laundry.”

“You are so boring.” Scott raised his arms about his head and stretched, his shoulders popping. His shirt rode up and Bry allowed him exactly two seconds to study the skin revealed.

After his two seconds were up, Bry shrugged. “That’s me. Bryce Joseph Boring the Third. You?”

“Hiking.”

“Of course.” Scott planned to hike every weekend, and actually did when the weather was good for it.

“You should come,” Scott said with a suggestive lilt.

Bry’s mind was thrust right back into the haze of lust, but what the fuck? Scott started laughing again. Bry opened his mouth to say—what? So he closed it again, which caused Scott to laugh more.

“I fail to see what is so funny.”

“You’re easy to mess with. Sorry. Sorry.”

Bry was pretty sure Scott’s mission in life was to tease and confuse Bry as much as possible. It really wasn’t funny. Bry turned to watch the stage as the techs did the sound checks that filled the arena with random pops and crackles and cords on top of the pop singles being pumped through the sound system.

“Come on, Bry,” Scott said. “It’s supposed to be real nice Saturday.”

Bry sighed. “Maybe.” They both knew maybe was a good as a promise.

“Great! Windy Peak it is. Man, I haven’t been there since… Kelly Jones. God she had a rack on her. And watching her climb up the rocks. They swayed man. Swayed. And jiggled.” Scott sighed. “Best hiking trip ever.”

“Scott.” Bry had to stop this. “How bout getting some beers?”

Scott saluted. “Aye aye, Cap’n.” He held out his hand. Bry reached into his pocket and handed over a ten.

Once Scott left, Bry sighed and settled into stillness, watching the activity on the stage. Being around Scott was getting, once again, to be… difficult. He wanted to be around Scott, but he wanted Scott. Neither his cock nor his heart understood why they couldn’t take Scott home and show him exactly how he was wanted. Thankfully Bry’s brain ran this show, and it was thinking that perhaps another Scott-vacation would be a good idea.

When he’d first met Scott, Bry thought—was sure—there’d been the spark. The spark that meant sex and friendship and maybe more. The way Scott’s eyes crinkled in mirth, the way he smiled, they way he held Bry’s eyes and made those sinfully sweet dimples to charm the socks right off Bry. Scott had only to smile and Bry was stupid happy. He felt like the center of the universe and with that sensation a want stronger than he’d experienced with any other man. And he was sure he saw the same reflected in Scott’s eyes—want. Acute want.

But then came the buxom Kelly Jones and conversations about her well-endowed chest. The damage had been done—Bry wanted Scott. And it was devastatingly obvious that Scott wanted tits.

At least once every three months Bry swore that there would be no more Scott. He went out alone, got laid, ignored the man whose smile seemed to control his cock. It lasted, the longest time, three weeks.

Bry sighed. The stage was set and Scott returned with beers in hand. Bry took a plastic cup and drank it down.

“You’re not very talkative tonight.”

“Sorry,” Bry said. “Tuesday. I’m tired.”

The lights went down and the main act came on. The lighting was awesome, the music rocked, and Bry let himself get swept away in the sensory assault. Bry felt through the movement of air next to him Scott jump up and down along with most of the crowd. Bry stepped to aside to avoid the wasted girl falling all over the place. She probably thought she was dancing. Hands reached out and shoved her back the direction from which she came.

“Man,” Scott yelled in his ear. “That bitch is out of control.”

Scott nodded his agreement, and a woman behind them piped up, “Someone call her mother!” which made him and Scott laugh.

The beer had been just enough to make him feel loose, and he let himself fall back into the music. The sweet song of the guitar blending with the singer’s deep, dulcet tones. The counterpoint of the bass that vibrated through his body. The driving beat of the drum that brought to mind horses galloping across the wide-open planes, ever onward. This was music. Emotion and sound and energy and meaning shared from the musicians to the crowd.

A bony shoulder shoved into his chest hard, and he flew backward into another hard body with an “oomph”. The hand that landed on his stomach to steady him was Scott’s, and Bry was thankful he hadn’t been shoved into a stranger.

There was a twitch against his ass. At first he thought it was the bass getting heavier, sending stronger vibes through the floor, but it wasn’t. Bry’s breath stuttered and stopped in his throat. Scott’s cock twitched again and quickly filled, hard and there against Bry. Blood pounded in his ears, and as if in slow motion from a great distance, he watched a sweaty man in flannel shirt slowly drift between people, propelled by the crowd’s hands. Bry had always wondered—imagined—what Scott’s cock would look like naked and engorged. It felt… it felt amazing. Bry wanted to shift, wanted to move so they fit together and Scott’s dick nestled between his cheeks. Oh God he wanted to feel that.

He kept his body still, not wanting to do anything that would make Scott realize his very amazingly hard penis was pressed into the rear end of another man. The need to see Scott, overrode the logic, though; he couldn’t help turning his head to look into Scott’s face. The smile was absent, the dimples flat, but Scott’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes, pupils wide, stared straight into Bry’s.

And then that fucker, the same who knocked him into Scott, flew into Scott causing him to break away. Scott gripped the arms of the guy—he was barely more than a kid and high as a fucking kite—and shoved him far into the crowd away from them.

With a foot of empty space between him and Scott, Bry’s sense and self-preservation returned. And still, the only thing going through his head was What. The. Fuck.

Bry risked a glance at Scott, who was looking back at the crowded, then to their right, standing on his toes. “What are you looking at?” Bry couldn’t help asking.

“Trying to see if it’s possible to leave.”

Oh. Bry faced the band. They were playing one of their more mellow songs—a crowd favorite judging by the sing-along going on. It was also one of Bry’s favorites, but it didn’t reach him and grab his heart the way it normally did. Instead, his heart beat out of control against the giant bolder of dread in his stomach. Scott was looking for escape.

Bry hadn’t meant to do anything. He was shoved. Scott caught him. Scott was the one that grew hard. Was it because of Bry? Or was there someone else? Or just the physiological response of dick against body? But Scott wanted to leave. In the middle of one of his favorites bands.

Maybe leaving was a good idea. Some guys got really weird after accidental cock contact (ACC). While Bry did try to get over Scott, try to avoid him periodically, he did enjoy their friendship. He wanted that. But maybe this was better. Scott would avoid him. They’d never speak to one another again. The ACC would effectively do what Bry knew was best: separate from Scott and force Bry to get over the unattainable straight boy.

“It’s packed.” Scott had that wary look on his face that Bry knew well. The let’s-get-the-fuck-out-of-dodge look. He was afraid and he wanted to get away from Bry. The music had become loud noise in the background and Scott wouldn’t look at him.

Well, Bry thought, that is that.

The concert passed. Scott said nothing, only looked back at the crowd every ten minutes or so. To Bry, each song was interminable. Every joke by the singer flirting with the audience a needless prolonging of torture. Finally the show ended. Bry wished, for the first time ever, that the concept of encores did not exist. The band exited. The crowd kept cheering. The band returned. The crowd lost their shit. Two more songs. Ten minutes. It was over. Thank fuck, it was finally over.

To Bry’s surprise, when the arena began emptying, Scott did not charge forward and leave him behind. But, that was probably because Bry had driven them both. Scott hadn’t said anything since The Incident. The silence was awkward and made all the more poignant by the contrast of people talking happily around them.

Once they were outside in the chilled night air, Bry expected Scott to veer off towards the taxis or buses. He didn’t. Instead he stayed right next to Bry as they walked amid the boisterous crowd to the parking garage. Since Scott was willing to be in the same car with him, Bry began to hope that this bit of awkwardness would pass and there would indeed be hiking in their future—because at least that meant Scott still wanted to hang out.

There was nothing Bry could say to a freaked out, macho, not-quite-secure-in-his-heterosexual-masculinity man, so he said nothing. They got into the car. Bry slowly maneuvered the car around people and out of the garage. Scott fiddled with knobs to control the heat, the radio; he even knocked the fucking windshield wipers on when he tried to adjust the GPS map settings.

“Dude,” Bry snapped as he turned the windshield wipers off. “Chill. Out.”

“Sorry.” Scott sat back and leaned his elbow against the car door. Bry couldn’t remember a more awkward car ride. The roads were fairly empty once they got beyond concert traffic, and the night was clear. Normally Bry loved driving in the empty roads in the dark of night. Normally, he wasn’t sitting next to a straight guy whose cock size and shape Bry had mentally cataloged and had revisited about twenty times since getting in the car.

After twenty minutes of stifling silence, Bry pulled into Scott’s driveway and waited for him to get out. This was it. The end of their friendship. The beginning of the end of Bry’s one-sided crush. Bry would have to find a new concert buddy. And he’d have to make sure to return Scott’s skis that were still at Bry’s house. And remove Scott from his twitter and Facebook friends.

“Bry!”

“What?”

“I said, come inside.”

“Oh. Uhm. I don’t think… I need to get home. You know, sleep. Work tomorrow.”

Scott reached over, twisted the keys to the off position and pulled them out.

“Hey!”

Scott got out of the car and marched to the front door. Bry scrambled out of the car and ran after him. “Give me my keys!” Bry said, running up to the porch. “What are you—”

Scott grabbed him, pulled him inside, slammed the door, shoved Bry up against it and mashed their lips together. Bry stared at Scott. His eyes were closed and he didn’t move. After a stunned moment, Scott opened his eyes, looked into Bry’s. They were so beautiful. Deep sea blue with darker striations mixed in. Scott pulled away. Bry opened his mouth to ask— But Scott’s lips were back against his, his tongue sweeping into Bry’s mouth. He now knew what lingering beer and Scott tasted like. He relaxed and sighed into the kiss.

“Scott—”

Scott spun him around and used his body to press Bry into the door. This time, Scott’s cock was exactly where Bry wanted it. Scott’s hips undulated and his cock pressed and withdrew from his crease. Bry reached back to pull Scott tighter against him, but Scott grabbed his hand and held it against the doorjamb.

Bry could feel the precum overflowing from his own dick. Scott sucked and nibbled on his neck and shoulder and Bry didn’t want the sensations to stop. But at the same time, he wanted more. He wanted to be full of Scott and he wanted it now. They were way too many clothes between the two of them, and Scott would not let him move to fix the problem.

“Bry,” Scott rasped. “Can we—”

“Yes.”

Scott stepped back, but didn’t let go of Bry’s hand. He pulled Bry through the dark hallway and into the bedroom. Bry tripped over a shoe right into Scott’s arms. Scott kissed him again, and Bry wrapped his arms around Scott’s neck, determined to never let go. Who cared about work and responsibility? Bry was going to latch onto this man and never let go.

Scott grabbed the hem of Bry’s shirt, which still smelled like beer, and pulled it off. Then the button of his jeans and the zipper. Scott laughed. “It’s a little difficult to do this when you’re hanging on me. Take of my shirt—wait, hold on.” Scott went to the side of the bed, plugged a cord into his phone, and then the sounds of the concert music album filled the room. Scott returned to Bry. “Okay, shirt.”

Bry rubbed his cheek against Scott’s stubble, then quickly pulled off his shirt and pushed down his pants. Once they were both without a stitch of clothing, Scott pushed him to the bed and onto his stomach. He covered Bry with his body, and that perfect, hot, leaking prick was back in its proper place, resting in the cleft of Bry’s ass. Scott thrust his hips slightly, mimicking the motion of fucking, teasing with his cock and massaging with his hands.

Scott stilled, rose up, reached over Bry, pulled out a drawer and then lube and condoms. Scott’s heat disappeared entirely from Bry and he wanted it back. Cold lube drizzled onto and into Bry’s crease and Scott covered him again. “You feel so fucking good,” he said, sliding and spreading the lube between Bry’s cheeks and against his hole. “And have an ass that just begs for fucking.” Scott’s cock head slid up and down over skin, over his hole, bumping against balls.

Positioning his legs between Bry’s, Scott spread his leg and in turn spread Bry’s as wide as possible. In that position, legs spread and Scott’s weight holding him down, Bry had no leverage to push back against Scott’s cock so that it would fill him up and stop the incessant teasing. Scott paid no attention to Bry’s pleas or whimpers, he teased with delicious slowly strokes until Bry fought to get Scott off so he could take what he wanted.

“Shh shh,” Scott whispered into his ear before nipping the lobe. “Stay there, right there, for five seconds.” Bry stilled, willing to do anything to move things along. Scott moved off him for only a moment, then his finger trailed down Bry’s crease. He didn’t tease; he worked on finger in, moved it around to get Bry loose enough, and then recovered him.

He rubbed his cock in the same infernal teasing movements for seconds or hours, Bry couldn’t tell. He wanted. Finally, finally, the Scott’s cock caught against Bry’s hole and stayed there.

“Arrrugh” Bry groaned into the mattress. “Do it already!”

Scott laughed into his skin. “Shush.” Scott barely moved, barely exerted any pressure. Bry pushed back, trying anything to get the cock into him. The slow song about love started playing. “This,” Scott said, as his cock passed over Bry’s hole once again, “is what I wanted to be doing at that never-ending concert.” Bry nodded his agreement. Finally, finally, the fat head of Scott’s prick slid into his body, and then with excruciating slowness, the rest followed.

Next time, Bry was going to ride Scott. There was taking time to savor, and there was slow. Scott groaned as pushed slowly in and pulled slowly out. Bry couldn’t move, only take the measured steady drag of Scott moving in and out of his body. Scott grabbed Bry’s hands, threading their fingers together high above their heads. Never had Bry felt so connected to a lover. Maybe it was because it was Scott. Maybe it was because he was surrounded by Scott, from feet to hands, but this night of passion would ruin Bry for any other.

“Feel that, Bry?” Bry nodded, breathing out heavy whimpers. He turned his head upwards to meets Scott’s lips. They kissed. The kisses matched the slow fucking. Scott’s tongue slowly moved in and out of Bry’s mouth, keeping the languid pace set by the solid, slow trusts of hips. The sweet feeling of sharp pleasure settled in Bry’s chest and belly. He broke from the kiss and dropped his head to the mattress, unable to concentrate on anything other than feeling of his body becoming blissed out by Scott’s movements, which were slowly but surely becoming faster, more insistent.

An upbeat song started playing. Scott sat back, left Bry’s body. Bry whined as his hips were pulled up and his knees bent. He couldn’t summon the energy to raise onto his arms, so he let Scott move his limbs and body into whatever position suited him. When Scott re-entered a new jolt of pleasure rushed along his nerves. This time, he wasn’t slow. He pounded into Bry, skin slapping against skin, moans mingling with the driving drums of the music. Scott’s thrusts became frenzied and then stuttered with a long groan.

He fell forward against Bry’s back, slide one of the lands holding Bry’s hip around a gripped his cock. It took all of three pulls of Scott’s hand and the bliss already overwhelming Bry’s body exploded into brilliance.

Scott fell to the mattress next to Bry. Bry was vaguely aware of Scott moving, pulling off a condom, and pulling a blanket over him. Scott wrapped an arm around Bry’s middle and held them close. Scott’s breath tickled along Bry’s ear and through his hair.

The music went on, another three songs or so. Songs about triumph and tradeoffs and growing up. Bry’s heartbeat returned to normal. The paranoid thoughts of ending friendships and a freaked out Scott were conspicuously absent.

“So,” Bry said once the music stopped. “Just to make sure I’m reading things right… you’re not straight?”

Scott laughed low into Bry’s shoulder. “No.” Scott nipped a bit of Bry’s shoulder. “What put that idea into your head?”

“Kelly Jones’ tits.”

Scott shifted so he half lay on Bry. “Her tits have nothing on your ass. Or that smile of yours.”

Bry blushed and couldn’t help the giant grin that took over his face. Scott gave one in return, one of his mega-watt dimpled grins. Bry caressed the dimple, like he’d always wanted to, already making plans to fulfill every other dimple-related desire.

- End -