Archive of Our Own

On Andrew's first day at his new school in Chicago, when he's standing at his open locker getting his books out, someone shoves hard at his back, sends him crashing into the locker.

When he looks there's a bunch of football jocks sauntering down the hallway, laughing. He clenches his fists and focuses very hard on getting out the right books for his class schedule, because otherwise he's gonna chase them down the hall and do something stupid.

He used to get into a lot of fights at his old school in Belleville. He never got expelled or anything drastic like that, but he got a lot of detentions, and it stressed his mom out majorly, and with the move and all he doesn't want her worrying about him now. It's hard, though, because it's always there, simmering under his skin, but he's determined to at least try.

Except the jocks keep picking on him, keep giving him shit about being Canadian and not playing football and being small even though he's built, fuck them very much, and he hasn't even been there a week before he gets into a fight. It happens in the parking lot after school, and he fucking shows them, he gets a fuckton of good punches in, and takes a few himself, one hard right in the eye that will leave a massive shiner. He's viciously glad about it, because they know now, they know he's not a pussy, and he likes wearing the bruises because it makes it obvious, likes the cuts and scrapes on his knuckles for the same reason.

He gets detention for approximately the next forever, but everyone starts giving him a wide berth instead of giving him shit, which is better, even if he still doesn't have any friends, either.

He tries out for the hockey team eventually. He makes it, of course, because he's scrappy but good, and somehow ends up spending his lunchtimes with a bunch of guys from the team, Sharpy and Leddy and Bicks, and this sort of intense dude called Tazer, as well as Tazer's best buddy slash possible boyfriend, Kaner. It's cool, they're cool, and he's actually pretty happy, even if he does still itch to get in fights with the asshole jocks. Hockey's good for that though.

It's always been a good outlet for how he's constantly itching to fight, to prove himself. It's part of the reason he loves it so much, part of the reason he got so good at it. The itch never completely goes away, of course, but it still helps, keeps him more or less in line (sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on the day or the situation), like some really awesome ointment that soothes everything but the deepest, most hard-to-reach irritations.

.

His other problem not two days in is that he's crushing super hard on the most unattainable person in the school: Brandon Bollig, captain of the football team.

He's intensely mad at himself over it, because yeah, Brandon may not be one of the douches on the team who ever actually shoved Andrew around or said shitty things to him, but he still hangs out with those douches, and either way he's so far out of Andrew's league it isn't funny.

.

The first time Brandon talks to Andrew is in the changerooms after the fight, and he says, "Hey. Nice eye, mutt."

Andrew startles so hard he drops his shirt, and says, "Mutt?" glaring to mask how surprised he is that Brandon's talking to him.

"I saw the fight," says Brandon, grinning. "So yeah, mutt."

Andrew blushes and mutters, "Whatever," turning away to finish getting dressed.

.

After that it's like-- Brandon never actively seeks Andrew out, but when they pass in the corridors or are changing at the same time in the locker rooms he always grins at Andrew and says "Hey," and Andrew always ends up blushing and ducking his head and saying, "Hey," back kind of brazenly. It's just-- he just can't stop staring at Brandon when he's changing, because the dude is ridiculously built for a highschooler, and he has a fucking tattoo, what the fuck.

It's all insanely hot and driving Andrew crazy and he's never jerked off this much in his life.

.

There's a party a few weeks into the semester, a sort of hey it's a new school year let's get trashed instead of doing homework thing. Basically everyone at school goes; Andrew's there with his hockey guys and Brandon's there with the football team. Not that Andrew cares or anything.

Andrew gets pretty drunk pretty quickly, and he loses his shirt on some kind of dare from Sharpy, so then he's just wandering around with no shirt on. He stumbles into Brandon getting another drink in the kitchen, which might be embarrassing if Andrew were more inhibited.

Brandon blinks at him slowly and says, "Why are you naked, mutt?"

Andrew tips his chin up defensively and says, "'m not naked."

Brandon laughs, which makes Andrew hot all over, fuck, fuck his stupid grin all bright under his stubble, and then he says, "Close enough. Lookin' good."

He winks and leaves Andrew in the kitchen, gaping after him.

.

Later Brandon finds him among a crowd of sweaty, dancing, kind of gross teenagers, curling a hand around his elbow and leaning down to whisper in his ear, "Come with me."

Andrew lets himself get dragged from the room, because Brandon's hand is really warm on his bare skin and he looks gorgeous with his hair a little bit damp, cheeks all alcohol-flushed.

He has no idea what Brandon wants, and Brandon ushers him out to the back porch and into a dark corner, nudging into his space and ducking his head, and then, holy shit, he's brushing his lips over Andrew's, the tickle of his beard making Andrew shiver.

He whispers, "Wandering around without your fuckin' shirt on, mutt, driving me crazy."

Andrew says, "You-- really?" because, well. Really?

Brandon groans and bites down on his bottom lip, tugging his mouth open, and Andrew clutches helplessly at Brandon's solid, muscled sides and pushes back, turns it into a proper kiss, hot and frantic.

Brandon scrapes his nails up and down Andrew's bare chest, and it's cold outside but Andrew can't feel it with the alcohol and Brandon's weight pressing him into the wall. Brandon's kiss is so heavy, so dirty, lots of slick tongue fucking into Andrew's mouth and stubble scraping him raw.

They kiss until Andrew's lips are bruised and buzzing, until he's so hard in his pants, hitching his hips up against Brandon's and making helpless little noises into his mouth, needing to get off, needing more. Brandon curls his hands over Andrew's hips and holds him against the wall, stilling him, and Andrew makes this stupid mewling noise he'll never admit to being capable of, which makes Brandon grin wolfishly. "Come on," hisses Andrew. "Let me get off, asshole."

"Oh, I'm gonna," promises Brandon. "Wanna get you naked. Come back to my place."

Andrew just stares at him, because what-- what is going on, Brandon is-- he's Brandon, he's the captain of the fucking football team and so fucking hot, this isn't-- he doesn't take guys like Andrew home. Andrew hadn't even thought he took guys home, period.

Brandon raises an eyebrow and says, "Thought you wanna get off?"

"I do," says Andrew quickly, recovering and sticking his chin out. He still has no idea what's going on, but fuck, he's drunk, and this is awesome. He's not gonna turn it down. "I wanna."

"Good," says Brandon, stepping away from him. "Coming, mutt? It's cool, my parents are away."

"Yeah," says Andrew, and stumbles after him.

.

They go back to Brandon's place, which is just a couple blocks away, and Andrew's brain is a confused, messy haze of alcohol and disbelief and arousal. Brandon leads Andrew up to his bedroom and starts shucking his clothes, so Andrew does the same, kicking his shoes off before he drops his jeans and boxers and lies back on the bed, waiting for Brandon.

Brandon says, "Fuck," when he takes Andrew in, and Andrew swallows, feeling himself flush hot, but he meets Brandon's gaze fiercely, and then remembers that Brandon is naked now and he can look, so he does, and it's-- oh God, he's seen him in the changerooms, but not like this, not with his dick hard and flushed, curving up towards his cut-out abs, wet at the tip.

Not with a dangerous grin and burning eyes, like he wants to eat Andrew up.

Brandon crawls over him, holding his weight off of Andrew for the moment, ducking down to brush their mouths together almost unbearably lightly, teasing.

Andrew groans and arches up, trying to rub off against Brandon.

Brandon sits back on his thighs and thumbs over his hips, and Andrew writhes beneath him, spitting out curses, and Brandon says, "You wanna get off?"

Andrew just glares at him, which makes Brandon chuckle, and he wraps a loose fist around Andrew's dick, stroking lightly, swirling his thumb over the head, through the precome there.

"Fuck," groans Andrew, pressing up with his hips immediately.

Brandon presses him back down hard, his free hand digging painfully into Andrew's hip. It's not-- it's not a bad kind of painful, though, it makes Andrew gasp and his dick jerk in Brandon's fist, more precome leaking out of the tip, and Brandon sucks in a breath.

"You like that?" he says. "You want me to mark you up? You look good with bruises. Look better if they came from me."

Andrew moans and says, "Yes, fuck, please."

They get to the sex then. Brandon sucks marks all over Andrew, biting stinging hickeys into his neck as he jerks him off and mutters, "Don't come yet, hold on for me, Shawzy," and Andrew groans and squirms and sweats like crazy, itching and insane, it feels like, fuck.

He doesn't come, though, and eventually Brandon starts moving his mouth, down over Andrew's chest, still sucking bruises: on either side of his nipples, his abs, low on his belly, spreading his legs apart and worrying his teeth over the soft insides of Andrew's thighs.

Then, oh God, he sucks Andrew's dick into his mouth, fingers digging into Andrew's hips to keep him still, and he fucking goes to town, sucking tight on the head and pushing down until Andrew's nudging into his throat, sloppy and messy, spit everywhere, his beard scratching over the already raw skin on the insides of Andrew's thighs.

Andrew comes down his throat, groaning loudly, and Brandon sucks him mercilessly through it and then surges up to start jerking himself over Andrew's chest, and Andrew is so out of it but reaches out to touch Brandon, get his hands on everything he can reach: his shoulders, his chest, his thick thighs, his dick, the wet tip of it pushing through his fingers.

Brandon groans and comes all over Andrew's chest, working himself through it, and he collapses onto the bed next to Andrew, panting harshly. He reaches over, after a moment, to rub slowly over Andrew's stomach, rubbing his jizz into the marks on his skin.

Andrew ends up passing out there in Brandon's bed before he can get it together enough to leave, still naked and covered in Brandon's jizz.

.

When he wakes up Brandon's still asleep next to him, pink-cheeked and soft-mouthed and so fucking gorgeous it makes Andrew's hands twitch. He wants to run them all over Brandon's hot skin but that's-- the morning light is spilling in brightly and they're sober now, and everything looks different to how it did last night.

Apart from Brandon, who is still just as gorgeous.

So instead he stretches out, come flaking off his stomach, which is kind of gross, and he screws up his face, registering the sort-of familiar hangover headache as he does.

He sits up, wondering where the bathroom is, and the movement jostles Brandon enough that he blinks his eyes open.

"Hey," he rasps. "Heading home?"

Andrew hadn't actually thought that far ahead, but yeah, he should. Brandon won't want him around making things weirder than they already are. "Yeah," he says.

He stands up, tugging on his boxers and jeans as fast as he can, toeing into his shoes, acutely aware that Brandon's watching him. He pauses sort of awkwardly when he's done, staring down at his chest and realising that he doesn't have a shirt to wear home.

"Here," says Brandon, sounding sleepy and amused, and reaches over the side of the bed to snag a jacket and throw it at Andrew.

Andrew catches it and says, "Thanks," pulling it on and zipping it up, and then, "Uh, I'll-- I'll give it back at school or whatever."

Brandon shrugs, rolling onto his back, and says, "Keep it, I've got tons."

Andrew ducks his head, because right, of course Brandon doesn't want anyone to see Andrew giving back his clothes. He says, "Thanks," again, and, "I'll-- see you," and flees, hating himself a bit for still being kind of glad he gets to keep the jacket, to remind him that this actually happened, or something. He feels super pathetic, but also-- well, also good, because fuck, he got laid, and he's sore all over, used and satisfied, the marks from Brandon's mouth and fingers stinging deliciously every time a piece of his clothing rubs against them.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and starts walking back in the direction of the house the party was at. He calls his mom halfway there to come pick him up; he told her he was probably going to crash there or with a friend, so it's all good. There's also a message from Sharpy waiting, since he was supposed to sleep at his place. It says, what happened to you did you pick up???

Andrew hesitates a moment before replying, nah went home early sorry dude.

lame, sends Sharpy, and Andrew sighs in agreement, although it's not for the reason Sharpy thinks.

.

Things are normal for a couple of weeks after that. Or well, normal in that Brandon goes back to how things were before, grinning and occasionally teasing Andrew in the corridors and changerooms, but otherwise no more or less a part of his life. What's different is that Andrew jerks off constantly and helplessly not to fantasies but rather the actual memories of Brandon blowing him, Brandon jerking off over him, coming all over his chest, sinking his teeth into Andrew's skin and sucking marks all over him.

He's horrified at himself, because it's so pathetic, but if he ever entertained any hopes that the whole Brandon thing was out of his system now, it's laughable how wrong he was.

He throws himself into hockey and even schoolwork, and he gets into another fight too, although this time he doesn't get caught, so there's no added time on top of the detentions he's still serving out for the first one. He does get a super bad bruise all across his ribs, though, and walks around stiff and sore and reveling in the ache, the painful but gratifying reminder that he can handle himself, he can handle this shit and get on top of it eventually.

Except all of this means he's constantly in a rush and always just a little bit tired, and one time, about three weeks after the party, he's running super late for school and accidentally throws on Brandon's jacket instead of one of his own and doesn't realise until he's in homeroom.

It makes him squirm uncomfortably, because fuck, how fucking embarrassing, but it's too cold to take off and just be walking around in his t-shirt, goddamnit.

He gets a lot of weird looks, because it's one of Brandon's football jackets, and he probably could handle the cold if he gritted his teeth and ignored it, but well, he doesn't want to give fuel to the looks, doesn't want to show that he cares, that it bugs him, so he keeps it on.

.

He's walking down the corridor to his first class after lunch when someone grabs him hard around the elbow. It's Brandon, who tugs him into the bathrooms and locks them in a stall and kisses him stupid, messy and brutal. They end up rubbing off against each other desperately until they come in their pants, and Brandon is gripping Andrew's hair tight the whole time, biting his mouth and scraping his beard all over Andrew's face and muttering, "Fuck, you fucking brat, wearing my clothes around like-- fuck," against his temple.

Andrew shivers and aches and comes so fucking hard he hits his head on the stall and nearly blacks out, and afterwards he can't stop thinking about it, running his fingers over his scalp in echo of where Brandon had held on, and also just-- just completely blown away over the fact that maybe this is something, that Brandon wants him sober, that Andrew turns him on.

Or well, he thinks. Unless Brandon has some weird clothes kink, but that's-- Andrew doesn't think that's it. It's more than that, it's the way Brandon calls him things like "brat" and "mutt" and keeps grinning at him, the way his hands had palmed up hot and possessive over his bare sides in the bathroom, the way he'd groaned, "Come on, show me, show me, fuck, so hot, babe, you're so hot." The way he'd shuddered and creamed his jeans over Andrew.

.

He thinks it's still gonna be the same after, though, just go back to how things were again, because it's not like Brandon can actually date him or anything, even if he wanted to, which Andrew has no clue about. Like, finding Andrew attractive enough to get off with is not the same as wanting to date him, not even close. So he goes back to being sullen and snapping out one-word answers whenever Brandon talks to him, and eventually Brandon corners him in the changerooms, catching Andrew's chin between his fingers, and says, "What are you doing, mutt?"

Andrew says, "Uh. Changing?"

Brandon just shakes his head and doesn't let go and says, "You know what I mean."

Andrew hisses, "I don't know what you want," trying to wrench out of Brandon's grip, but Brandon holds firm, just watching him thoughtfully for a moment, head tilted.

"I wanna go out," he says eventually.

"What?" says Andrew, genuinely startled.

"Out," says Brandon. "Like a date. I wanna date you, mutt."

Andrew just stares at him, mouth open, something crazy and definitely dumb going on in the pit of his stomach. "Is this a joke?" he says warily.

"No," says Brandon. He swipes his thumb over the corner of Andrew's mouth and adds, "Go out with me."

"I-- " says Andrew. "But-- but what about everyone?"

"What about them?" says Brandon, raising an eyebrow.

Andrew stares at him some more, but eventually says, "Okay, fine," because if Brandon's not gonna be scared or freaked out then neither is he, goddamnit.

Brandon grins wide and lets him go then, and says, "Good," heading for the door.

"Yeah, good," echoes Andrew stupidly, staring after him.

.

His head is still all over the place the next day, because just-- what are they supposed to do now?

He's sitting at his usual table with Sharpy and everyone at lunch, but he keeps sneaking glances over at Brandon's table, even though Brandon isn't there yet, until Sharpy kicks him and says, "Paranoid, much? Don't go starting another fight, dude."

"Hey," says Kaner, "Leave him alone, he can fight if he wants to."

"Shut up, Peekaboo, you just wish you could fight at all," says Sharpy, smirking.

Kaner makes a face at him.

Andrew flushes and says, "I'm not," and focuses hard on his food instead, which is why he doesn't notice Brandon approaching their table until he slides into the spot next to Andrew.

"Hi," he says to the table at large, setting his tray down. "I'm Brandon."

"We know who you are," says Sharpy after a shocked silence. "Your asshole friends beat up Shawzy here. What do you want?"

"We're dating now, didn't he tell you?" says Brandon easily, glancing at Andrew.

"No," says everyone in tandem, staring at Andrew.

Andrew blushes bright red and says, "It's not-- "

"Hey, you going back on me?" says Brandon.

"I-- no, it's just-- it's not a big deal," mutters Andrew, not making eye contact with anyone.

Brandon grins and reaches over to squeeze his thigh.

"Uh," says Sharpy. "It's sort of the biggest deal? What the fuck."

"Shut up," says Andrew eloquently.

Kaner blinks and then turns to poke Tazer, pouting. "Hey, Jonny, Tazer," he says, grinning when Tazer scowls and jerks his arm away, "Look, Brandon's going out with Shawzy, how come you won't go out with me, huh?" He widens his eyes pathetically.

"Hey," says Andrew.

"Fuck off," says Tazer, and then, ducking his head, mumbles, "I never said I wouldn't."

Kaner just gapes at him.

Sharpy rolls his eyes. "I'm surrounded by morons," he says, long-suffering.

"Hey," says Brandon quietly to Andrew, while Kaner shouts, "Oh my God," and tries to climb onto Tazer's lap, "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"I-- yeah," says Andrew, honestly glad for the excuse to escape.

Brandon leads them to a quiet spot just outside the exit and then says, "What are you doing Friday?"

"Uh," says Andrew. "I have detention 'til five?"

Brandon clicks his tongue, smirking. "Cramping my style, mutt," he says. "How long you on detention for?"

"Every Friday 'til the end of semester," says Andrew, making a face.

Brandon chuckles. "Too feisty for your own good," he says fondly. "That's okay, I have tickets for Friday, but it's not 'til later. I can pick you up from detention?"

"Oh," says Andrew. "I-- sure? Tickets to what?"

Brandon just grins mysteriously and infuriatingly and says, "You'll see, mutt. Be patient."

Andrew glares at him, which just makes Brandon laugh and then kiss him, which Andrew finds reluctantly but helplessly awesome.

.

That's a Tuesday, and Brandon spends every lunchtime for the rest of the week sitting at Andrew's table with his knee pressed up against Andrew's, and sometimes when they're done eating he'll reach over and grab Andrew's hand and just-- just hold on, and it makes Andrew blush and squirm uncomfortably, but not enough to let go. Basically it's sort of awesome.

Brandon gets along stupidly well with Shawzy's friends, too, once they let their guards down and realise he's not actually an asshole. He's just so relaxed and easy about everything, it's pretty much impossible not to like him. Andrew can totally see why he got given captain.

Friday rolls around, and obviously Sharpy has wheedled the details of the date out of Andrew, not that Andrew really knows any details, because Brandon still refuses to say where he's taking them, but Sharpy shows up at Andrew's house before school, totally charming Andrew's mom and banging into Andrew's room to help him pick out an outfit.

"Kaner wanted to come," he says, grinning at Andrew's scowl, "So just be glad I convinced him to go make out with Tazer instead. Not that it took much convincing."

Well, Andrew can't argue with that.

He is a little ridiculously nervous about what to wear, and wishes he didn't have detention so he could save the freaking out until after school. He feels like such a girl.

In the end he takes Sharpy's advice and goes for something, "Simple, but classic," and wears his best jeans with a tight-ish black t-shirt, one of his hockey jackets thrown over the top.

He considers wearing Brandon's jacket for half a minute, grinning, but decides that would probably be a bit too much. For their first date, at least. He definitely wants to try it again sometime, to see if it was a fluke. Also, you know, because Brandon shoving him into things with hot eyes and bruising hands is always something he wants more of.

Brandon seems to like the outfit, anyway, if the way his eyes go dark in the corridor before homeroom is any indication. Andrew finds himself grinning, pleased, and Brandon brushes past with a hot hand teasing the small of his back and mutters, "Lookin' good, brat."

Andrew looks up at him through his lashes and says, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," whispers Brandon, rough. "You got a no-hands first date rule I should know about? Might have to take care of myself beforehand, if you do."

Andrew shivers and wills himself not to get hard right there. "No," he says. "No rule."

"Good," says Brandon, grinning. "I'll see you at lunch."

He lets his fingers linger in the dip above Andrew's ass before moving off.

Andrew turns back to face his locker and breathes slowly in and out until he feels slightly calmer.

.

The rest of the day passes distressingly slowly, especially detention. Usually Andrew manages to make the most of being stuck in school and gets a good portion of his homework done, but he's all over the place today, his head full of Brandon, and he manages next to nothing.

He can't bring himself to mind, though, because when he finally gets out into the parking lot Brandon is there waiting, leaning against the side of his car like some kind of insanely hot advertisement. He's changed out of what he was wearing at school, tighter jeans and a t-shirt that clings in all the right places, holy shit. Andrew swallows as he approaches.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," says Brandon, pushing off the car and grinning.

Andrew clenches his hands in the front of Brandon's t-shirt when he gets close enough. He can't help it, he looks so good and his chest is so solid and warm, and Brandon grins wider, leaning down to brush his mouth over Andrew's and whisper, "Ready to go?"

"No," says Andrew, trying to push up, turn it into a proper kiss.

Brandon chuckles. "Come on," he says, stepping away. "We got time after."

Andrew sighs and gets in the passenger seat, seriously curious about where they're going.

He blinks stupidly when he realises Brandon is driving them to the fucking United Centre, and doesn't quite believe it until they're standing in line for the fucking Hawks game.

He's just staring with his mouth open as they wait to get in, totally floored, and Brandon turns to him, says, "You like hockey, right?"

"I-- yeah," says Andrew. "I love hockey, fuck."

Brandon looks so fucking pleased, and Andrew kind of wants to climb all over him right there, but instead he just grabs his hand and squeezes and grins like crazy.

.

The game is awesome, the Hawks are on fire and Andrew has Brandon right there next to him, cheering along. It turns out Brandon is pretty into hockey too.

"I used to play for the school team," he says during the first intermission. "Before I got captain and football took up all my time. Enforcer." He grins, just a tad dangerous.

"Oh," says Andrew. Fuck, that's awesome. Also hot. "That's cool."

Brandon's grin widens. "Yeah?" he says. "I'm gonna come watch you play sometime."

"You should," says Andrew, tilting his chin up. "I'm pretty awesome."

Brandon laughs and pushes his knuckles against the underside of Andrew's jaw. "I bet you are, mutt," he says, and Andrew ducks his head into the touch, grinning.

.

Afterwards, when they're filing out of the stadium and Andrew feels breathless with adrenaline and happiness, Brandon says, "Hey, you hungry?"

Andrew kind of is, besides which he doesn't want the date to end yet, so he says, "Sure."

Brandon drives them to a kind of shitty-looking diner, reassuring Andrew that, "The burgers are awesome, don't worry," as they pull in.

They go inside and sit in a booth across from each other and order, and Brandon stretches out to hook his ankle around Andrew's, shooting him a sly grin.

Andrew rolls his eyes, trying not to smile too stupidly.

Their burgers come then, and they eat companionably, chatting easily about football and hockey, and Brandon asks about his old school, why he came to Chicago, and it's so easy to talk to him, to tell him about his parents splitting up, his mom's new job, making the decision to move down here with her. The way half his siblings are older and doing their own thing now, and how weird it feels with so few people in their house. The usual automatic defensiveness just isn't there, with Brandon, and it feels really good.

Brandon insists on paying when they're done, even though Andrew makes faces and says, "No, come on, you got the fucking hockey tickets, dude. Let me get this."

Brandon shakes his head and says, "You can pay for the next date."

Andrew feels warm all the way down to his fucking toes, but he says, "How do you know I want another date, huh?" smirking and raising his eyebrows challengingly.

"Guess I don't," says Brandon, watching him carefully. "So what's the verdict?"

"Yeah, okay," says Andrew, shrugging and trying not to look too dumb.

Brandon rolls his eyes and kicks him lightly, says, "I see through you, mutt."

"Sure you do," says Andrew, kicking him back.

.

It's a Friday, which means Andrew's curfew is later, and when Brandon pulls up outside his house he still has a while to spare, so they scramble into the back seat to make out.

It's hot and heavy and breathless, and after a while Brandon gets his hand cupped over Andrew's dick, rubbing through his jeans, and says, "You want?"

"Fuck yes," hisses Andrew, arching into him.

"You look so good, babe," whispers Brandon, rubbing harder.

Andrew makes a dumb, garbled noise, screwing his eyes shut and trying to breathe, and he wants-- fuck, he has things he wants to do, he wants to get his mouth on Brandon's dick so bad, so he knocks Brandon's hand away and wrestles him onto his back, staring down at him, flushed and panting. Brandon is grinning, pink-cheeked, and he says, "You got ideas?"

Andrew says, "Gonna blow you," and Brandon groans, grabbing his hair.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Fuck, thought about that."

Andrew bites a grin into his neck and then slides down to push Brandon's shirt up over his stomach, getting his mouth on the skin there, scraping his teeth a little, down until he hits the waistband of Brandon's jeans. Brandon's hand is still in his hair, scrubbing restlessly, thumb sweeping over Andrew's temple, and he's murmuring, "Yeah, come on, like that. Come on."

Andrew gets his pants open and his briefs out of the way, and then he has an eyeful of Brandon's dick, hard and purple-red and wet, really fucking gorgeous. He sucks the head into his mouth straight away, testing, teasing with his tongue. He hasn't-- he hasn't actually done this before, is the thing, mainly just handjobs with teammates at his old school to help him confirm that yeah, he's into dick, but he doesn't want Brandon to know that, so he pushes down before too long, trying to take more, and it's kind of overwhelming, having his mouth filled up like that by Brandon's dick. It's pretty decently thick, too, so he chokes on it a little and has to pull off to breathe, eyes stinging. Brandon's staring at him, eyes wide, and he rakes his fingers through Andrew's hair again and says, "Easy, babe, easy, come on. You're so good, Shawzy, fuck."

Andrew closes his eyes and goes back down again, a little bit slower, jerking the base of Brandon's dick with his hand and focusing on the head, on making it tight and hot, on memorising the musky, salty taste. Brandon groans and tightens his hand, breathes, "Fuck yeah, God. That's perfect, that's-- fuck."

He keeps himself still, shaking with the effort, groaning and twitching as Andrew works him, and he comes when Andrew presses down again, as far as he can, meeting the circle of his fingers. Brandon doesn't get out much of a warning, so it's a surprise, and he chokes but swallows, pulling off to cough and get his breath back under control, realising belatedly how fucking hard he is and then wondering how he could've missed it, because God, he needs to come.

"C'mere," slurs Brandon, reaching out to tug Andrew into his lap, getting their limbs arranged in the cramped space and then sitting up and unbuttoning his pants, curling a hand around his dick and starting to jerk him tight and fast.

"You liked that?" he whispers into Andrew's ear. "Made you hard, huh? Fuck, that was amazing, your mouth feels so good, babe. Come for me, come on, let me see."

Andrew groans and shudders, shooting all over Brandon's hand, a little on his shirt.

"Fuck," he says, slumping forward. Brandon catches him, sliding a hand up over his spine.

"Yeah," says Brandon, laughing quietly.

Andrew pulls back reluctantly after a minute. "I should probably get inside," he says.

"Yeah," says Brandon again. He catches Andrew's chin, guiding him into a kiss, slow and wet.

Andrew licks his lips, dazed, when he pulls away, and says, "I-- sorry about your shirt."

Brandon just shrugs, grinning. "Don't be," he says.

He kisses Andrew one more time, firm, and then pushes him gently towards the door.

"Bye," says Andrew, ducking his head. "I-- I had fun."

"Me too, mutt," says Brandon, smiling. "I'll see you."

"Yeah," says Andrew, scrambling to get inside before he lets himself grin like an idiot.

.

He spends the rest of the weekend worrying about where to take Brandon for their next date. Like, he doesn't think he can match up to a fucking Hawks game.

He hangs out with Sharpy and some of the other guys on Saturday, and they're all super impressed when he gives in and tells them a bit about the date last night.

"Wow, man," says Kaner. "Dude must be super into you. Tickets aren't cheap."

"Yeah, I guess," says Shawzy, but he flushes, pleased.

Sharpy, because he's a perceptive asshole, says, "So you in charge of the next date?"

"Sort of," says Andrew. "I have no clue what to do, fuck. I don't even know this town."

"Long as you put out, man, he's not gonna care," says Bicks.

Andrew punches him hard in the arm. "Some people have standards, asshole," he says.

"Take him parking by the Lake at sunset," says Kaner, giggling.

"They're not girls, you freak," says Tazer, rolling his eyes.

"So? I'm pretty sure they still make out, dumbass," says Kaner.

"Yeah, but they have standards, Kaner," says Tazer, smirking smugly. "Unlike you."

"Whatever," says Kaner easily. "You're dating me now, you can't talk."

"You guys are actually useless," says Andrew.

.

He still hasn't figured it out by Monday. Brandon finds him by his locker in the morning, stepping between the open door and Andrew. He says, "Hey," quietly, smiling.

Andrew's heart stutters weirdly, and he says, "Hey," back, throat dry.

Brandon ducks his head a little, inches from Andrew's mouth, and says, "Is this okay?"

It's-- it's more than they've ever done at school; so far it's just been pretty surreptitious hand-holding at the lunch table, but. It's Brandon, so it's okay. "Yeah," he says.

Brandon grins and closes the gap, and it's just a quick kiss, but it's still a kiss, and Andrew can't help but notice the people staring as they walk past. "Okay?" says Brandon again.

Andrew nods, squaring his shoulders. Fuck everyone, Andrew doesn't give a shit-- as long as it's cool with Brandon it's cool with him. It makes Brandon smile, smoothing a finger over his jaw.

"Don't get in any fights over me, mutt," he says.

"Fuck you, I will if I want," says Andrew immediately.

It just makes Brandon laugh, shaking his head. "Impossible," he says. "Lucky I like 'em bratty."

Andrew rolls his eyes. "You're not making much sense," he says.

"No?" says Brandon. He shrugs. "Well, you do drive me crazy."

"Shut up," says Andrew, rolling his eyes again. Brandon grins and squeezes his hip.

"I'll see you at lunch," he says.

"Sure," says Andrew, grabbing his books and heading to class.

.

Brandon holds his hand all through lunch again, and there are more people looking at them this time. Gossip spreads just as fast here as it did at Andrew's old school, and he guesses the captain of the football team dating a dude is pretty big news, nevermind that dude being Andrew.

He straightens his back and ignores it, though, lets Brandon hold his hand tight while he chats and laughs with Andrew's friends. He does find himself glancing over at the table where the rest of Brandon's team is sitting, catching their frowns and feeling himself tense up.

"Don't you-- " he says quietly to Brandon, "Don't you wanna sit with your friends?"

Brandon looks at him, then shrugs after a moment. "I see those dumbasses all the time," he says. "I wanna sit with you. Is that okay?"

"Oh," says Andrew, biting down on his lip. "Sure, I just. Wanted to check, I guess."

"I'm fine," says Brandon, nudging him. "Don't worry about me."

"I'm not," says Andrew, scowling. "I'm fine, too."

"Okay," says Brandon easily.

.

The thing, Andrew realises when he thinks about it some more, is that Brandon's popular in a way Andrew's never experienced, so relaxed and easy about everything that it's hard for anyone to really give him shit. His teammates were assholes to Andrew, sure, but apparently they don't care enough to be assholes to Brandon about dating Andrew, and after a couple of days people have mostly stopped even glancing twice at them, even though Brandon meets Andrew at his locker every morning with a kiss and sometimes a quick grope, and holds his hand more confidently in the corridors. Andrew stops tensing up so much whenever Brandon grabs his hand, stops looking over his shoulder for people to glare at, and it's-- it's really good.

He hadn't thought Brandon would be so-- so into the whole dating thing, stuff like holding hands and sitting close with their thighs nudged up and kissing hello and goodbye, but it's kind of nice, Andrew doesn't hate it, is actually kind of into it. It's not something he ever thought about, whether he liked it or not-- he never even thought he'd end up dating like this while he was still in highschool-- but he does, and he might as well enjoy the shit out of it.

.

On Friday Brandon doesn't let go of his hand when Andrew gets up to go to class after lunch, and says, when Andrew looks at him curiously, "Pick you up after detention?"

"Oh, uh, no," says Andrew. "I mean, I'll drive. My turn, right?"

"Okay," says Brandon, grinning. "I'll be waiting."

It's nothing, but Andrew really likes the way he says it, just-- just likes the thought of Brandon waiting for him. He feels warm all the way to class, and even the thought of detention doesn't get him too down, not when he has a date with Brandon to get to after.

.

He decided a couple of days ago on going to the movies, because it's simple and classic and nothing can really go wrong. He still blushes as he pulls into a park near the cinema, and says, "It's not as cool as a Hawks game-- "

"I don't care," says Brandon. "Can't make out during a Hawks game, right?"

"Right." Andrew grins and gets out of the car.

He buys them popcorn and soda, because he's not a cheap date, thank you very much, and Brandon picks a couple of seats right near the back of the cinema, throwing Andrew a wolfish grin. Andrew grins back and nudges his knee up against Brandon's thigh as they sit down.

It's the most insanely cliche thing Andrew's ever done, and he probably should feel more horrified about it than he does, but mostly it's just really nice, the way their hands bump when they reach into the popcorn container at the same time, the way Brandon sets the popcorn aside and lifts the armrest between them, about half an hour into the movie, cupping a butter-greasy, salty hand over Andrew's jaw and leaning in, whispering, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," says Andrew, and Brandon kisses him, deep and hot and wet.

He tastes like salt, and his hand slips on Andrew's skin as he shuffles onto his knees, leaning closer. Andrew closes his hands around his hips, stroking over the thick muscle there, and Brandon makes a muffled little noise into his mouth, the fingers on his free hand tickling along Andrew's collarbone, nudging under his collar. It makes Andrew shiver deliciously, arching into Brandon's warmth, trying to lick deeper into his mouth.

Brandon bites down on his lip, whispers, "Easy, come on, don't wanna get kicked out."

"Fuck you, maybe I do," says Andrew, grinning.

"Fuckin' menace," mutters Brandon, nosing along his jaw.

Andrew hums, slipping his hands under Brandon's shirt.

Brandon presses in closer, pushing his hard dick sort of awkwardly against Andrew's thigh.

"Fuck," breathes Andrew. "Fuck, Brandon."

"Mmm," says Brandon. He pulls away with one final nip to Andrew's mouth. "Okay, fuck."

He falls back into his seat, breathing kind of heavily. Andrew grins at him, reaching to curl a hand over his thigh, high up but not quite touching his dick, and Brandon twitches, but doesn't shake him off, and after a while he settles down, hand resting on Andrew's forearm.

They stay like that for the rest of the movie, Brandon's jeans beneath Andrew's hand turning hot and a little bit damp, his fingers warm and tight on Andrew's skin.

.

It's Andrew's turn to drive Brandon home after the movie, and they end up in the backseat of his car this time, making out until Brandon gets both their pants undone and their dicks wrapped in his huge, rough hand, jerking them messily, and then it's mostly just gasping and groaning into each other's mouths until they come, sweaty and shaking.

Brandon grins brightly at him as he cleans up, and says, "Come over after school this week, okay? Bring your homework or whatever."

His grin turns sly, like he knows they won't get much done.

.

It becomes a routine, spending their afternoons and evenings together, going on dates on Fridays. When Andrew has hockey practice he drives to Brandon's place after instead of going straight home, and when Brandon has football he stops by Andrew's.

Brandon comes to a few of Andrew's games, since most of them are after he's already finished football for the day, and Andrew tries really hard not to get distracted by Brandon sitting all sweaty and game-flushed in the stands. Andrew's planning on going to some of Brandon's games, too, as soon as there's an opportunity, with his hockey schedule and all.

.

They've been dating for about three months when he starts thinking about how they've had a lot of sex, but none of it has been actual fucking, and he maybe-- he really wants that.

For Brandon to fuck him.

He's not sure how to make it happen, though, how to like, make some kind of move while they're fooling around, so in the end he just goes for his usual method, which is straight-out brashness.

"Hey," he says, while they're in Brandon's room actually doing homework. Brandon's stretched out on the floor and Andrew's sprawled across his bed. "I want you to fuck me."

Brandon chokes and drops his pen, snapping his head up to stare at him.

Andrew blushes but meets his gaze.

"I," says Brandon. "You-- really?"

"Yeah," says Andrew. "Yes. I want it. You want to, right?"

"Fuck, Shawzy," groans Brandon, scrambling up to kiss him, sloppy and frantic.

Andrew grins, sliding his hands around to Brandon's back. "Now?" he says.

Brandon pulls back. "Anytime you want, mutt," he whispers, hoarse.

"Now then," says Andrew, nodding firmly. "Do you have stuff?"

"Yeah," says Brandon, kissing him again, getting him maneuvered around so he's spread out on his back, pushing his hands up under his shirt, smoothing over his hips. "You done this before?"

Andrew shakes his head. "But you don't have to go easy on me," he says.

Brandon huffs a laugh. "I know that," he says, digging his hands into Andrew's hips.

Andrew bites down on his lip and arches into it.

"Fuck, okay," says Brandon, letting go so he can reach for the nightstand, pull out a bottle of lube and a condom, throwing them both onto the bed and tugging Andrew up.

He gets him out of his shirt and his pants undone, then pushes him back down so he can tug everything off over his legs, leaving him naked and just staring for a minute, eyes raking all over Andrew in a way that still makes him flush hot and squirm, even after all this time.

"Look so good, babe," he rasps, jerking Andrew's dick slowly a few times.

Andrew moans and twists. "Fuck," he says. "Come on, do it."

Brandon chuckles. "Maybe I wanna make you wait," he says. "Make you beg for it."

"I'll beg when you get your fingers in me," says Andrew. "Gotta work for it."

"Pushy," says Brandon, but he lets go and reaches for the lube, spreading Andrew's legs wide.

Andrew swallows, because this is-- he's never done this before, and he feels so vulnerable, fuck. Brandon's hands are huge and warm on his thighs, though, and he keeps one anchored there as he swirls a lube-slick, slightly cold finger over Andrew's hole.

Andrew makes a face, because it doesn't feel like anything yet, mostly just weird.

He knows it's supposed to get better though, and Brandon glances up and says, "Patience."

"Or you could get a move on," says Andrew, as light as he can make it.

"Or that," agrees Brandon, and pushes his finger in, not fast but not slow either, long and firm.

Andrew hisses, breathing out. It's-- it's uncomfortable, but Brandon keeps pressing, twisting his finger, and he gets used to it after a minute. It starts to feel good, he starts to want more.

"Another," he grits out, pushing a little with his hips.

"Okay," says Brandon, smoothing his hand along Andrew's thigh, grip tightening, and pushing a second finger in, which hurts more, stinging and burning. Andrew screws his eyes shut, mouth open, and Brandon says, "You-- you good?" tightly.

"Yeah," says Andrew. "Just-- fuck, just-- "

Brandon twists his fingers, pressing carefully, and crooks them a little, and Andrew gasps.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, that. Fuck."

"Jesus, Shawzy," says Brandon, doing it again, making Andrew pant and squirm. "Look at you."

Andrew groans, eyes still squeezed shut, and Brandon scissors his fingers a little, and oh, that's-- that's just as good, still hitting that spot, but also more, more of a stretch, burning a little, and he likes it, shit, he really likes it. He's totally seeing the appeal of a dick in his ass now.

Brandon's not grinning, when he opens his eyes, but that's just because he looks so awed, eyes trained on where his fingers are disappearing into Andrew's ass.

"Hey," says Andrew, swallowing. His voice is so gone already. "More, come on, you can."

"I-- yeah," says Brandon a bit stupidly, blinking.

He pushes a third finger in, careful and slow, and Andrew realises vaguely that Brandon's hands are shaking, digging bruisingly into Andrew's thigh to compensate.

It burns a lot more than two, takes some more getting used to, but after a while of Brandon pressing and stretching carefully it feels awesome again, and Andrew-- Andrew's ready.

"Do it," he says, swallowing a groan, "Come on, you can-- I'm good."

"Fuck," breathes Brandon, but he doesn't move, still stretching Andrew with his fingers, the hand on his thigh moving up to press down on his hip as Andrew gets more insistent.

"Come on," says Andrew desperately, trying to twist his hips.

"Close," says Brandon. "But not begging yet."

Andrew groans. "Fuck you," he spits. "You wanna wait long enough for me to beg?"

Brandon huffs a hoarse laugh. "Good point," he says, and pulls his fingers out slowly, although it still makes Andrew gasp, still feels empty and uncomfortable.

He watches Brandon roll on a condom and slick himself up, and then he's gripping both of Andrew's thighs, pausing. "You want-- like this?" he says. "It's supposed to be easier on your front."

"Don't want easy," says Andrew, stretching his neck. "Come on, like this."

"Okay," says Brandon. "Okay, I got you." He keeps holding onto one of Andrew's thighs, settling the other around his waist so he can grab the base of his dick and guide himself up against Andrew's hole, nudging but not pressing in.

"Fuck, what are you waiting for?" says Andrew.

"Gonna fuckin' kill me," mutters Brandon, but he pushes in slowly, and oh, fuck, fuck-- he's not small, especially with just the head of his dick stretching Andrew wide, and it's more than fingers, more painful and also-- it just feels different. Hotter, dirtier. Something.

"Okay?" says Brandon tightly.

Andrew makes a noise, and when Brandon doesn't move, manages, "Yes, you-- more."

"Yeah," breathes Brandon, and pushes further, sliding all the way in until he's bottomed-out.

He doesn't move for a minute after that, which is good because it hurts, and Andrew breathes out slowly and hitches his hips as much as he can stand, trying to get used to it.

Brandon pushes a sweaty hand up over his side, thumbing his nipple and reaching up to scrape through Andrew's hair, whispering, "You okay, babe? Look at me."

Andrew opens his eyes and says, "Yeah, I-- gimme a minute, fuck."

"Okay," says Brandon, still stroking him carefully, nails scratching lightly at his belly.

It gets better, after a while, after Andrew jerks his hips just right and something clicks into place, and then the stretch is mostly good, the pain bearable and-- and making him want more, not less.

"Okay," he says. "You can-- move, come on."

"Sure?" says Brandon. His hand is digging hard into Andrew's thigh; it's probably killing him, keeping still like this. Andrew really appreciates it.

"Yeah," says Andrew. "Come on, I want it."

Brandon closes his eyes and starts thrusting shallowly. Andrew bites down on his lip; it's, God, he doesn't even know, he feels so full and overwhelmed, so stretched-open, more than just literally.

He reaches down to grab his dick when he realises he's only half hard, working himself back up, and that makes it better, too, the stretch in his ass going straight to his dick, making him leak.

It's-- it's still not great, but he's hard, and Brandon's face is kind of amazing, mouth shocked open and sweat beading on his forehead, and it's good, Andrew thinks he could probably come like this. Brandon makes a frustrated noise, though, after a while, and gets his hands around under Andrew's thighs, hitching him up, and that changes the angle, and when he thrusts in again it's-- that's it, fuck. "Oh yeah," groans Brandon. "Better?"

"Yes," gasps Andrew. "Holy shit, yes."

Brandon drops his head forward, speeding up, getting a bit frantic, and Andrew jerks himself faster, desperate now, feeling like his spine is melting every time Brandon hits him just right inside, and he still feels so full, too, so-- it's just awesome, fuck, sex is awesome.

"Come on," says Brandon. "Come on, babe, faster, make yourself come, show me."

Andrew twists his neck, turning his burning cheek into the pillows, and comes, shooting all over his chest, messy and sticky and so fucking good he feels like passing out.

"Yeah," moans Brandon, going even faster, obscene slick sounds and skin slapping on skin. It's crazy, it's almost too much now that Andrew's come, now that he feels so sensitive everywhere, like one more touch could send him actually insane. "Fuck, I'm gonna come."

"Do it," says Andrew. "Brandon, please-- "

Brandon groans and stills, pushing all the way in and shaking as he comes.

He collapses next to Andrew, sweaty and grinning, and when he's got his breath back under control he rolls his head to look at Andrew and says, "Made you beg," still grinning.

Andrew laughs, rolling his eyes. "Shut the fuck up," he says.

"Mmm," says Brandon, turning into Andrew, so he's pressed warm against his side, and wiping his chest off with a stray t-shirt before he pulls the covers over them. "You love it."

Andrew tucks his head into Brandon's arm and doesn't answer, but yeah. He does.

.

That weekend he finally gets around to going to one of Brandon's football games, since there's only a morning practice session in lieu of a hockey game. He makes Sharpy and Tazer and Kaner come with him, and Bicks and Leddy overhear them talking about it as they change after practice so they end up tagging along too. It's pretty awesome. The atmosphere is amazing and Brandon is great, all rough precision and strength. Andrew likes football, even though he was never great at playing it, so it's cool to watch. He wishes he could come to games more often.

Kaner isn't quite so into it; he whines a lot and spends most of the time trying to make Tazer go make out with him under the bleachers, and Tazer's method of dealing with Kaner today is ignoring him, which doesn't get Kaner to shut up at all because of how he's so used to it.

Not that Tazer even cares, the totally smitten asshole. Andrew can see his lips twitching whenever he thinks Kaner isn't paying attention.

Sharpy just rolls his eyes a lot at everything and says, "At least you're not wearing his jersey."

So it's pretty great until the game is nearing the end, when someone in the row ahead of them turns around and says, "Hey, aren't you that dude Bollig's dating?"

Andrew blinks and then narrows his eyes. "Yeah, dude," he spits. "You got a problem?"

The guy-- Andrew doesn't know his name, but he recognises him vaguely from the corridors around school-- looks him up and down and then says, "Nah, I'm just surprised, is all. Woulda thought the captain could do a bit better, you know?"

Andrew clenches his jaw and his fists.

"Shawzy-- " starts Sharpy warningly.

"Fuck you," hisses Andrew, glaring at the dude.

"Uh, no thanks," says the guy. "Not into that, you know?"

Andrew lurches forward, to-- he doesn't even know, hit him, probably, but someone's holding onto the back of his shirt, and then Brandon says, "Whoa, Shawzy, cool it, come on."

Andrew snaps around to look at him, blinking. Apparently the game is over, huh.

"Oh hey," says the dude. "Big bad boyfriend here to protect you now, huh, loser?"

Brandon lets go of Andrew then, and Andrew's about to jump in, but Brandon gets there before he can do anything. He throws a fucking hardass punch, right in the eye, and the dude reels back, swearing, before throwing a punch of his own, catching Brandon in the mouth and splitting his lip. Brandon looks like he's going to keep going at him, growling and starting forward, but then the coach appears and hauls him off, dragging him back down to the field and shouting something about detention and suspension and fuck, Jesus.

Andrew sucks in a breath and lets Sharpy lead him away from the guy and his friends, Kaner and everyone following behind.

"Jesus Christ," says Sharpy, stopping when they're closer to the field.

Andrew scrubs a hand through his hair. "Sorry," he says.

"Not your fault," says Sharpy, shaking his head. "Your boy throws a pretty mean punch."

"Yeah," says Andrew, grinning. "He does, hey."

"Here he comes," says Kaner, and Andrew looks up to see Brandon approaching.

"Nice one, man," says Leddy approvingly, slapping his shoulder.

Brandon grins. It looks a little feral, with the split lip. Mostly Andrew just finds it really hot, which he probably shouldn't, but whatever, fighting has always been a-- a thing for him.

"Thanks," says Brandon. "I got detention for a week and suspended from the next game."

"Rough," says Bicks, wincing in sympathy.

Brandon just shrugs, glancing over at where the team is heading into the changerooms. "I'll live," he says. "I gotta go, but I'll meet you guys after, yeah?"

He drags Andrew aside real quick before he goes, and ducks down to brush their mouths together, muttering, "Worth it," against the corner of his lips, grinning.

.

Brandon meets them for lunch at a nearby diner, and it's cool, he seems pretty relaxed and happy, leaning back in his chair and shooting the shit with Andrew and the guys. He makes faces about the suspension, mostly; he shrugs the detention off like it's nothing, which-- well, Andrew's on detention for an entire semester and it's not that bad, so it kind of is.

"It won't look great on my college applications," he muses. "But it's only one game. Shit happens, and I'm still captain." He grins, but Andrew still feels kind of bad. He should've jumped in there faster, before Brandon managed to land a punch. It's not like he has much to lose.

Brandon kicks him under the table and says, "Not your fault, mutt, stop that."

Andrew scowls at him, and Sharpy laughs. "So obvious, right?" he says to Brandon.

"Yeah," agrees Brandon, smirking at Andrew.

Andrew hates his friends.

.

He hangs back with Brandon after, grabbing a couple of milkshakes to go and hanging out in the parking lot, perched on the hood of Brandon's car. Andrew can't stop staring at Brandon's lip, especially now he has it wrapped around his straw, the clotted-over cut.

Brandon catches him looking and grins, poking his tongue into it. "You like that?" he says.

"Yeah," says Andrew honestly, because well. There's no point fronting.

Brandon's grin widens. "Come on then," he says, turning his face to Andrew.

Andrew laughs and leans in to kiss him, careful not to press too hard. He knows what a freshly cut-up lip feels like. Brandon opens his mouth, and Andrew licks inside, still soft.

He tastes like his chocolate milkshake, slick and a little cool.

"Hey," says Brandon after a minute. "You think I'm soft?"

"Fuck no," mumbles Andrew.

"Come on then," says Brandon again, and Andrew grins, gives him a little sting of teeth, scraping over the cut and making him hiss, then licking more messily inside, pressing harder.

"That's the stuff, babe," says Brandon, and Andrew laughs some more, breathless and happy, steadying himself with a palm on the warm hood of Brandon's car.

.

Winter break rolls around so fucking fast, after that, and Andrew's heading back to Canada to spend Christmas with his family. He hadn't thought about it at all, but now that he does, and realises that's two weeks he'll spend away from Brandon, it kind of sucks, even though he's missed his family.

Brandon rolls his eyes, when Andrew tells him about the trip, and says, "Always have to do better, huh? Going back to Canada to freeze your ass off."

"Yeah," says Andrew, laughing. "Winter down here is a fucking cakewalk."

Brandon socks him lightly in the arm. "Just don't actually freeze your ass off," he says. "I kinda like it."

It makes Andrew snort and grin like crazy, and Brandon pulls him close, after a moment, laughing into his mouth, and says, "Have a good Christmas, okay, mutt?"

"Yeah," breathes Andrew. "You too."

Brandon nods and kisses him, slow and easy. "I'll see you when you get back."

Andrew nods.

.

Christmas is really nice; it's awesome to see his whole family again and he spends a lot of time texting with Brandon, and it goes by fast enough that he doesn't really have the time to miss him too badly. Still, when they get back to Chicago the Sunday night before school starts again he drives straight over to Brandon's, ignoring his mom's eyeroll and shouting an absent, "Yeah, yeah," when she yells at him to make it quick, it's a school night.

He parks outside Brandon's house and texts, come outside.

you come inside dumbass it's fucking freezing, Brandon replies.

Andrew rolls his eyes but gets out of the car and meets Brandon at his front door, lets Brandon tug him upstairs to his room and press him back against the door, kissing him.

He's warm and rough against Andrew's chilled skin, and he mumbles, "Missed you, mutt," into Andrew's mouth.

Andrew breathes, "Yeah," and clutches at his hair, and Brandon kisses him for ages, until his lips feel all used and swollen, and then he pulls back and says, "Want your Christmas present now?"

"I-- sure?" says Andrew, blinking. Shit, he didn't know they were supposed to do presents.

"Don't worry," says Brandon, catching his look, "It's not that kind of present, don't freak out."

He pulls a-- a condom from his back pocket and hands it to Andrew.

"What-- " Andrew stares down at it, then up at Brandon. "Fuck, really?"

"Sure," says Brandon, shrugging. "Cash it in whenever."

Andrew bites down on his lip. "What about now?"

Brandon laughs. "Sure, now is good," he says, and tugs Andrew towards the bed.

He strips off, and Andrew does the same, hands shaking a little in anticipation, as Brandon gets more of his skin bare.

"Fuck," he says, stepping into Brandon's space when he's done, sliding his hands up over his chest and around his neck to tug him into a kiss, bruising and wet.

"Come on then," says Brandon, grinning when he pulls back. "Show me what you got."

Andrew makes a low, strangled noise in his throat and sort of half rugby-tackles Brandon back onto the bed, which makes Brandon cough out a startled, happy laugh, and Andrew grin like mad. He holds his weight over Brandon, braced on his arms.

"God, look at you," says Brandon, running his hands over the hockey bruises perpetually littering Andrew's torso, the shapes of his muscles, his biceps straining to hold him up. He lingers over the dip above Andrew's ass, which Andrew has noticed he particularly likes.

"Yeah?" breathes Andrew, licking his lips.

"Fuck yeah," says Brandon. "C'mon."

He stretches to grab the lube from his nightstand, passing it to Andrew and settling back with his hands behind his head, flexing his thighs a little and saying, "Do it."

"Holy shit," says Andrew stupidly.

Brandon smirks at him. "Come on, mutt," he says.

"Maybe it's my turn to make you beg," says Andrew.

"Never gonna happen," says Brandon, and oh, fuck him, okay.

Andrew gets his fingers slicked up without any more fucking around, rubbing them slowly over Brandon's hole while he strokes his dick with his other hand.

"Mmm," says Brandon, stretching his neck.

Andrew stretches him open as carefully as he can, and it's-- he's not sure if it's more or less than Brandon can take, but it's all he can manage, with the way he's so stupidly turned on.

Brandon doesn't say anything, just keeps his eyes on Andrew, stroking his dick slow and firm when Andrew loses his rhythm, too caught up in twisting his fingers, fucking him open.

"Are you-- " says Andrew when he can't take it anymore, when he's got three fingers inside Brandon and he can't think from how bad he wants to get his dick in there. "Brandon, you gotta-- "

"Do it," says Brandon, flexing his hips and biting back a groan. "I'm good."

"Okay," says Andrew, scrambling to get the condom on. "Tell me if it sucks."

"It won't," says Brandon, and Andrew bites down on his lip at how sure he sounds, before he says something really dumb, or-- or comes.

He pushes in as smooth as he can make it, but it's-- holy shit, it's so fucking hot and tight, nothing like he could've imagined, and he doesn't quite manage it, hips stuttering jerkily until he bottoms out and lets out a long breath, blinking his eyes open to look at Brandon.

He's got his closed, mouth open and a little furrow between his brows. There's sweat dampening gorgeously over his chest, on his hairline, and Andrew wants-- he wants to touch him all over, wants to fuck him, wants to make this good, even though he doesn't really know how.

Brandon's got his thighs squeezed tight around Andrew's hips, and for a minute Andrew doesn't know where to put his hands. In the end he leans over Brandon a little and braces them on the solid muscle of his chest, starting to thrust shallowly, whispering, "Okay?"

Brandon opens his eyes to look at him. "Yeah, mutt," he whispers, hoarse. "Keep going."

Andrew nods shakily and does. It feels good, leaning on Brandon like this, steady and reassuring. He likes that, the way Brandon is letting him do this but also still holding him up.

It feels like the kind of compromise Andrew can handle.

He doesn't know if he's got the angle right, but he's not sure if he can change it without collapsing or coming or-- or doing something awkward and wrong, so he just hopes and keeps on thrusting, trusting Brandon to tell him if it's really not working for him. He doesn't say anything, though; actually lifts his hands to card through Andrew's hair, over and over, before he slides them down to cup over Andrew's hips, not guiding him or anything, just settled there, firm and warm.

"That's it," he whispers. "Come on, Shawzy, show me, show me how much you like this."

Andrew groans, speeding up, driving in with more weight behind his hips.

"Fuck," hisses Brandon. "Fuck yeah, that's it."

"Are you," grits Andrew, "You gonna-- you gotta come, Brandon, can you-- "

"I got it," says Brandon, squeezing Andrew's hips a little and dropping one hand to jerk off.

"I can't-- " says Andrew, "Fuck, you feel so good."

"God," moans Brandon, throwing his head back as he speeds up his hand. "Right there, babe, come on, make me come, make me-- " He's cut off when Andrew ducks in for an awkward not-quite kiss, hands probably too heavy on Brandon's chest, mouths sliding together in a mess of harsh breathing and spit. "Fuck," says Brandon, biting Andrew's lip. "Fuck, I'm gonna-- "

He groans and comes, Andrew can feel it, clenching around his dick, and it doesn't take him long after that either, thrusting in a few more times, hard and graceless, before he slumps onto Brandon and shakes out his orgasm, sweaty and desperate and perfect.

"Can you stay?" mumbles Brandon after, when Andrew's pulled out and got rid of the condom, stretched out and breathing hard next to Brandon. He throws a hand onto Andrew's stomach.

"Nah." Andrew sighs. He really wants to. "I'm already late."

Brandon turns to smile at him, slow and lazy. "Use me and lose me, huh?"

"You know it's not like that, babe," says Andrew, smirking.

Brandon grins and rolls over so he's got Andrew pinned to the bed, holding his wrists above his head. "Guess you can make it up to me next time, right?" he says. "Maybe use that pretty mouth?"

Andrew licks his lips. "Sure, maybe," he says.

Brandon drops his head to kiss him, wet, then rolls off and nudges him. "Go on, mutt."

Andrew sighs again and clambers off the bed to get dressed.

"Thanks for the present," he says, smirking, before he heads out the door.

Brandon's grin is wide and bright and just a tad dangerous.

.

It's sort of insane, all the sex they end up having the next few weeks. Andrew has no idea how they find the time, how they even manage to escalate from where they were before.

On top of that, he just-- he hadn't ever known-- or well, now he does, now he knows that being fingered open and sucked off at the same time won't actually kill you, but it'll come pretty fucking close.

Or like this one time they're rutting against each other on Brandon's bed, damp and naked, and Brandon's got his hands around Andrew's wrists above his head, and just when Andrew's starting to feel desperate and feverish he thumbs over the bones and says, "Hey, do you mind if I-- can I tie you up?"

Andrew jerks and groans. "Oh my God," he says, and then, "Yes," because fuck, he doesn't think Brandon could make him feel any more crazy and vulnerable than he already does most of the time, so why the hell not, and also-- also apparently his dick kind of likes the idea.

It's nothing super kinky anyway, just a couple of old ties looped around Andrew's wrists, keeping them pressed together above his head. Brandon fingers him open slowly, and Andrew loses track of time, after a while, loses track of everything except the press and stretch of Brandon inside him, and how he needs more.

Brandon murmurs, "Yeah, I'm gonna give it to you, don't worry," and fuck, God, Andrew is going to die, he can't breathe, all the air sucked out of him by how intense it all is, how turned on he is, how it feels like everything, like everything that matters is right here between Brandon's fingers on him, in him. Like his skin is on fucking fire and he just wants to shudder into ash.

He comes for the longest it's ever felt like, and he can't remember Brandon coming too but he must because the next thing Andrew notices is Brandon slumped on top of him, his weight a little crushing but also good, also sort of the best thing ever.

Brandon smirks at him after and says, "You liked that, huh."

Andrew says, "Fuck you, it's sex, of course I liked it."

He gets his own back, though, of course he does, when he discovers that the craziest he can make Brandon-- visibly, at least-- is when Andrew rides him.

He's never had anyone look at him like this, like he's the best thing ever, like they're so surprised and pleased and turned on by him. Brandon runs his hands all over Andrew when they fuck like this, settles them above his ass and sometimes slides them down to hold on, guide Andrew over his dick a little, and Andrew likes it either way, likes the way Brandon's face goes awed and almost pained when he shoots all over Brandon's chest, the way the clench makes Brandon shudder and come.

It's basically the best. Brandon is intense and insatiable, and Andrew isn't any better, he loves it any way he can get it, loves Brandon fucking into him slow and sweet on the mornings he stays over, loves getting his mouth around Brandon's dick, loves the way Brandon touches him.

Maybe just-- maybe just loves Brandon, period, even though he can't say it yet, it's too huge, way too huge for fucking highschool.

It's probably a good thing, then, objectively or whatever, that as they get more seriously into the spring semester he has to start focusing hard on getting his grades up and keeping them there. It's not necessarily what he wants to be doing, but hockey is, and he needs to get into a good college if he wants to be serious about the hockey thing, needs to get himself the best opportunity to get scouted.

It means that after a few super intense, super awesome weeks, he can't actually see Brandon that much, although they still do the date thing every Friday after school.

They have more time for it, too, now that Andrew's finally out of detention.

Other than that, though, it's just-- teachers start talking a lot about colleges and the kind of grades they need and Andrew worries, okay, because he's-- he knows he's not the most academic dude ever, he knows he probably won't be able to do good enough for a full scholarship, but he has to try, he has to give himself the best chance he can.

Brandon is cool about it, even if Andrew thinks he maybe doesn't get it. He's as laid back about the whole college thing as he is about everything else, and it's-- Andrew's not gonna lie, it bugs him a little bit, that Brandon doesn't have to worry because he'll probably get an awesome football scholarship to an awesome college and have an awesome, easy career.

He's not mad at Brandon, exactly, because Brandon got himself where he is, got himself the C because he's good and because he deserves it, and Andrew's happy for him.

Mostly he just thinks colleges are lame.

He does kind of wish, though, that Brandon was with him on this. That he got the clenching anxiety gripping Andrew's chest whenever he thinks about not making it with hockey, instead of just laying a heavy hand on his back and saying, "You'll be okay, mutt, you're gonna do great."

It's-- Andrew knows he means it, and it makes him feel better, in the moment at least, but it's still not the same thing as really getting it. Knowing it. Maybe it's just because they're not in each other's space as much as they have been so far, but he feels a bit-- lonely, or something.

Which is dumb; so dumb that he doesn't say anything about it, obviously.

He figures once he's through exams and the college stuff is sorted, it'll be okay again.

.

"Hey," says Sharpy, slumping gracefully into the seat opposite Andrew in the library. Andrew's on a study period, and he's spent the last ten or so minutes caught somewhere between concentration and panic as he stares uselessly down at one of his English texts, trying to make sense of it. "Not hiding in the stacks making out with Brandon?"

"Fuck you," says Andrew, scowling. "I gotta study, asshole."

"No SATs back in Canada, huh?" says Sharpy.

"You're from Canada," says Andrew, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, but I've been here longer than you," says Sharpy. "Sat the SATs, master at blending in."

Andrew snorts, because if Sharpy is anything, it's definitely not inconspicuous. "Whatever," he says. "You-- you'll get drafted no matter where you go to college, it doesn't matter."

It's true. Sharpy is precise and graceful and devastatingly accurate in a way Andrew never has been and never could be, doesn't even try to be because it's just not the way his body works on the ice, but it does mean that he's-- more obviously talented, or something.

Sharpy leans back in his chair, looking at him consideringly. "Is that what this is about?" he says.

"What's this?" says Andrew suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.

Sharpy waves a hand, indicating Andrew and the book in front of him. "The freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out," says Andrew reflexively.

"Yeah, okay," says Sharpy, smirking.

"Fuck you, asshole," says Andrew. "I just-- I gotta give myself the best shot I can."

"I know," says Sharpy. He doesn't sound placating this time. "You'll get there, you know. You're not pretty out there, and that doesn't get you noticed as quickly, but you're scrappy, and that's important too. You play your guts out. People want that, even if it takes them a while to see."

Andrew scrubs a hand through his hair. Sharpy's right, and he knows that, he does. He's never been good at patience, though, and this, this studying, trying like this, is something he can do right now, some small way of fighting as hard as he can to get where he wants to go.

He's always liked fighting, never been great at backing down. It's just, he's a lot better with his fists than he is with his head.

Sharpy seems to realise his train of thought, because he smiles kind of fondly, kicking Andrew's ankle under the table. "Go find Brandon," he says. "Make out with him somewhere you might get caught. It'll make you feel better."

"That's dumb," says Andrew, although, well. He's heard worse ideas.

.

He gives himself the next Saturday off instead, shoving aside all the college bullshit for just a day, because for once Brandon has a game scheduled later than Andrew's hockey, so he can play and still make it in time to watch Brandon. Besides which, he just wants to not think about it for a while, and Brandon is always good at distracting him from stuff, especially when they're not in school or surrounded by piles of homework and college applications.

He wears Brandon's jacket to the game, partly because fuck everyone and anyone who wants to give him shit, and partly because it's an extra distraction, something to think about other than school and homework and colleges. Sex is definitely a distraction, an awesome one, and he hasn't forgotten how he wanted to wear the jacket again, see if he can make Brandon just as crazy as last time. It's totally a coincidence he's doing it now, when he misses Brandon, or whatever.

Sharpy and the guys come with him again, which is really nice, since they probably have better things to do on a Saturday than tag along with Andrew to watch his boyfriend play football.

Kaner makes faces at the jacket and says, "Really, man? That's so-- so-- college chick."

Andrew elbows him hard and says, "Fuck you, you wish you could wear Tazer's jersey on the ice."

"I do not," says Kaner immediately. "Nineteen is the lamest."

"Hey, fuck you, it is not," says Tazer.

"Well then, you're the lamest," says Kaner, smirking.

Tazer just rolls his eyes. "No one believes you when you say that anymore, Kaner," he says.

"Oh my God, you are the most superior douchebag I've ever met," says Kaner incredulously.

"We definitely believe that," agrees Sharpy brightly.

"Fuck you all," says Tazer, folding his arms and scowling.

"Aw, baby," says Kaner, leaning into his side with a grin. "Don't be like that, come on. I'll wear your jersey in bed if you want."

"Oh my fucking God," says Sharpy.

Tazer rolls his eyes again, but he looks at Kaner sort of consideringly, which makes Kaner laugh and lick his lips. Andrew shakes his head and looks away, back at the field.

Brandon doesn't notice him in the stands until halftime; Andrew watches him tug his helmet off, palms itching over the way he looks, sweaty and flushed and eyes fixed on Andrew, burning.

Andrew licks his lips and gives him his best shit-eating grin.

Brandon keeps on staring, and the corner of his mouth curls up, after a moment, like a promise.

"You fucking brat," is the first thing Brandon says when he meets Andrew in the parking lot after the game. He grabs two fistfuls of the jacket and hauls Andrew into a hard kiss.

Andrew grins against his mouth. "Wanted to see if it wasn't a fluke," he says.

"I like you in my clothes," mumbles Brandon, pushing him up against the car. "Like you in anything. But especially my clothes." He gets his hands under Andrew's shirt, on his skin.

Andrew slides his up Brandon's back, tugging the damp ends of his hair. "What you gonna do about it?" he says.

"Gonna fuck you til you can't think," says Brandon, and Andrew bites back a groan, shivering. "So you can't imagine up any more ways to make me crazy. You're a fuckin' liability."

Andrew rolls his eyes. "You won," he points out.

"That was a fluke," says Brandon. "Couldn't fuckin' concentrate. You need to stop wearing my clothes in public."

"I don't think you mean that," says Andrew, smirking.

Brandon pulls back to look at him, tracing the skin under the collar of the jacket. "Maybe not," he agrees. "Get in the car, mutt. Gonna take you home."

"Fuck yeah," says Andrew.

.

Brandon takes him straight home, like he promised, and spreads him out on his front on Brandon's bed and rims him until Andrew's sobbing and begging, then fucks him with one hand anchored low on his back and the other holding his hips tilted up.

"You look so good like this, babe," he rasps as he thrusts. "Just for me, all mine. So fucking good-- your ass, fuck, so gorgeous. Love it, Shawzy. God."

Brandon comes first, not jerking Andrew off or letting him do it himself, giving him no friction with the way he's holding him up, and when he pulls out, and Andrew's strung-out and wrecked, unable to talk or form thoughts, he flips him over and swallows him down.

Andrew comes down his throat, mouth working noiselessly, completely boneless.

He stretches out after, feeling so good, used and sore and mind totally blank.

He falls asleep with his face pressed to Brandon's shoulder, Brandon's arm heavy over his waist.

When he wakes up the sun is setting outside Brandon's window and Brandon is still asleep, his legs tangled up with Andrew's and his face pressed into his pillow, warm and sweaty.

Andrew sighs, running his hand along Brandon's spine and enjoying the quiet, the break.

"Hey," mumbles Brandon sleepily.

When Andrew looks at him his eyes are cracked open, looking at him. It reminds Andrew a lot of that first morning they woke up together, and he smiles, small and tired.

"Hey," he whispers. "Go back to sleep, if you want."

"Mmm," says Brandon. "You gonna?"

"Should be getting home," says Andrew reluctantly.

He doesn't really want to leave Brandon's room. It feels like an escape right now, like a safe, breathless space suspended from reality, and he doesn't want to break that.

"Okay," says Brandon. He rubs his eyes and rolls onto his back. "Hey," he adds, a little awkwardly, "Are you okay? The college stuff or whatever, it's all good?"

Andrew sits up, frowning and ducking his head so Brandon won't see. "It's-- it's fine," he says. "I'll be fine."

Brandon reaches up to squeeze his shoulder and says, "Yeah, you will be, mutt."

Andrew nods and tries to pull away without making it obvious that's what he's doing. It's-- it's nice and all, but it's just-- fuck, Andrew doesn't even know, except that the tightness Brandon had fucked out of him is creeping back into his chest, and he feels suddenly, weirdly distanced from Brandon again.

He's unreasonably pissed at Brandon about it, and he leaves before he can start an actual fight.

He doesn't want to fight with Brandon. He just-- he wants this dumb shit to be over with so things can be easy and stress-free like they were in the first semester, when everything was just awesome and new and there was no uncertain future to think about.

.

The other, more specific thing he's really worrying about, obviously, with the way it's all wrapped up in the college stuff, is SATs, since, like Sharpy said, he never had to take them in eleventh grade in Canada. He gets more anxious the closer the reality of the tests loom, worse than how he was already freaking out over the abstract idea of college, because these are going to determine whether he actually even gets into a school at all, and just.

It's one more thing Brandon's not going through with him, and Andrew hates it, probably unreasonably, he realises this, but they were never really on even footing to begin with. Not with the way Brandon was so popular and gorgeous and seemingly unattainable, and he feels-- weird, he feels different, and he hates it, hates that he's feeling this way and letting himself care about dumb shit that shouldn't bother him, but he can't help it, doesn't know how to make it go away.

Brandon notices him getting distant and sullen, and it comes to a head one day when Andrew's particularly freaked over how he just doesn't get his dumb English text, and decides to skip lunch in favour of holing up in the library instead, trying to make sense of it.

"Hey," says Brandon, catching his wrist when Andrew starts heading in the direction opposite the cafeteria. "Where are you going?"

"Library," says Andrew, trying to tug his wrist away, but Brandon holds firm. Andrew frowns. "I have to study, okay, let go."

"You have to eat," says Brandon, frowning back.

"I'm fine," says Andrew.

"No," says Brandon. "Come on, this is dumb. You're gonna be fine, you don't have to skip lunch."

"Fuck you," says Andrew fiercely. "What would you know? I'm fine."

Brandon growls and drags him into the nearest bathroom, ignoring Andrew's struggles and slamming him into the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him, pinning him there.

"Fuck you," says Andrew again, struggling against his hold.

Brandon just pushes harder against his hips and shoulders, and Andrew glares at him, still trying to fight him off, breathing hard.

"Shawzy," says Brandon. "Come on, stop it."

Andrew gives one final, useless buck, and then deflates, panting and sullenly not looking at Brandon.

Brandon catches hold of his chin, forcing Andrew to look at him, and Andrew thinks, weirdly, about the time he asked Andrew out. "What are you doing, Shawzy?" he says quietly.

"Trying to study," says Andrew, glaring.

Brandon's mouth twitches, but his hand also tightens. "You know what I mean," he says, low.

Andrew glares some more, then sighs when Brandon just stares levelly back, and scrubs a hand through his hair. "It's not-- I'm not doing it on purpose," he says.

"Look, is it-- is it-- us?" says Brandon, and Andrew's never heard him sound so hesitant.

"No," he says. "I mean, it's-- it's me, not you."

Brandon's brow furrows, and he drops his hand slowly. "Are you breaking up with me, mutt?" he says.

"I-- what?" says Andrew, genuinely surprised.

Brandon shrugs, but there's a ghost of a smile before he turns serious again. "Seemed worth checking," he said.

"No," says Andrew fiercely. "No, okay, fuck. I just-- it's dumb, can we just forget it?"

"No," says Brandon firmly. "It's not dumb if it's making you look like this, come on."

Andrew sighs. "I just-- it's the college stuff, you know? Like, I'm not-- I'm not that great, I'm probably not gonna get a scholarship and I need to get in somewhere good to make the hockey thing work. I need to get in at all. I didn't-- and you, like, you've got football and decent SATs and a pretty much guaranteed scholarship, so it's different and you don't-- it's not your fault, but it's just. Different."

Brandon just stares at him for a long moment. "I'm sorry," he says eventually. "You're right, I don't get how that feels, but I-- you shouldn't hide it from me either, mutt. Get pissed at me if you wanna get pissed, I don't mind. Just. Don't do this, okay? This won't work."

Andrew nods, biting down on his lip. "Yeah," he says. "I just don't want-- I know it's not fair, and it's not your fault, and I don't wanna be mad at you about it like some-- some dumb kid."

"You are a dumb kid," says Brandon, smirking. "I can take it, Shawzy. I want to take it."

Shawzy lets out a breath. That's-- that's true, he supposes. He hasn't actually come across anything Brandon couldn't take, yet. "Okay," he says. "Yeah."

"Good," says Brandon, drawing him into a quick, warm kiss.

.

Time passes pretty fucking quickly between then and the SATs. Probably because Andrew stops feeling wound quite so tight, stops feeling like he resents Brandon and subsequently hating himself for feeling that way. He's still worried, obviously, and there's still this vague, itchy-- something he can't quite figure out, but overall it's better.

Brandon especially is pretty fucking great, actually.

Or well, obviously. Andrew has never thought he was anything less.

He starts this thing where he'll pick Andrew up a few times a week and take him to the empty football field so they can wrestle, and it's awesome, Andrew doesn't even begrudge admitting that Brandon is sort of a genius, that somehow he knows exactly what Andrew needs.

He gets out all of his restless energy in the sweaty, bruising weight of Brandon's limbs, pushes all his frustration into Brandon's solid chest, and Brandon doesn't pull his punches, makes him ache and sting like Andrew likes, leaves him breathless and loose and good.

He's still freaked out of his fucking mind when exam week comes around, and Brandon leaves him pretty much alone then, lets Andrew come to him, which-- again, he just knows.

Like, when they're heading to the parking lot once school is out on the last Friday before exam week, Brandon walking quietly alongside Andrew, Andrew says, "Where are we going?"

Brandon glances over at him. "You don't have to study or anything?"

He doesn't say it in a mean way, just kind of curious, and Andrew's actually really-- just pleased.

"Nah," he says. "Friday's my night off, you know? Why, you saying you got nothing for us to do? It's your turn, man, you know that. Pretty poor form." He smirks.

Brandon elbows him lightly. "Never said I had nothing planned," he says. "Get in the car."

He drives them to a run-down looking diner, not the one they'd been to on their first date; smaller this time, a little more out of the way. Andrew shakes his head as he gets out of the car.

"Man," he says. "What is it with you and the shitty diners?"

"They're not shitty," says Brandon. "Never heard you complaining about the food."

"Maybe I was just being polite," says Andrew.

"No way," says Brandon confidently.

"Fuck you, are you saying I'm not polite?" Andrew crosses his arms.

"That's exactly what I'm saying, mutt," says Brandon, grinning at him.

Andrew rolls his eyes. Whatever, politeness is overrated.

They end up squashed in a tiny corner booth, legs slotted together. Andrew doesn't mind. It's nice, the two of them so close between the noise of the place, Brandon leaning forward a little so Andrew can hear him when he talks. He tells Andrew about the card tournaments he's been playing with the football team on their bus trips, and Andrew just listens, mostly, content to concentrate on Brandon instead of on worrying and homework.

He does smirk when Brandon's finished, which is right around when their food arrives, and say, "So are you a total sharp or a total sucker?"

Brandon grins and pulls a pack of cards from his pocket. "Wanna find out?"

"Now?" Andrew laughs. "Okay, fuck, bring it. What are we playing for?"

Brandon tilts his head. "Fries," he says.

"Oh my God," says Andrew. "This is so lame. Fine. I'ma wipe the floor with you."

"Sure you are," says Brandon, dealing out the cards.

Andrew ends up with less than half his fries on his plate, and Brandon has to keep eating his own so they don't fall onto the table.

"Fuck you so hard," says Andrew in disgust, throwing a pair of kings down to Brandon's full house.

Brandon just laughs. "You gonna bite me?" he says. "I know what starving mutts are like."

Andrew scowls and kicks him. He still has his burger, thank you very much. "Bad streak," he says, tipping his chin up. "Rematch after finals, I'll kick your ass."

"Never know when to back down," says Brandon fondly.

"Plus, you like it when I bite," adds Andrew, looking through his lashes the way he knows makes Brandon just a little crazy.

Brandon's cheeks go gratifyingly pink under his stubble, and he grins wolfishly. "Yeah, I do," he says easily.

He packs up the cards then, and they finish their burgers in companionable silence, Brandon's thigh pressing just slightly harder into Andrew's under the table.

Brandon pays, when they're done, and he keeps a hand on Andrew's lower back until they get back to the car, turning him around before Andrew can get in and kissing him thoroughly.

"Mmm," says Andrew, licking his lips when he pulls back. "Your place?"

"Not tonight," says Brandon regretfully.

Andrew says, "What-- " but Brandon just adds, "Get in," firmly, so he scowls and does.

"Seriously?" he says, when Brandon pulls up outside Andrew's house.

"You gotta sleep, mutt," says Brandon. "I'll wear you out."

"Shut up, you don't wear me out," says Andrew, glaring at him.

"You wear yourself out, then," says Brandon.

Andrew deflates a little, sighing. "Walk me to the door?" he says.

Brandon rolls his eyes. "I know you just wanna make out," he says. "I'm onto you."

"Quit stalling then," says Andrew, jumping out of the car.

Brandon laughs, catching him halfway up the path to his house and tugging him around, drawing him into a wet, messy kiss, palms pressed flat against his back.

He walks Andrew backwards, towards the front door, and Andrew should stop him, make him fight for it, but he doesn't want to let up kissing him either.

He ends up with his back to the door, pressing forward into Brandon, and Brandon lets him, for a while, lets Andrew bite at his lips and squeeze his sides hard, but eventually he pulls back, nudging a little against Andrew's cheek, stubble stinging, and says, "You gonna promise to go straight to sleep, or do I have to come up and tuck you in?"

"Fuck you," says Andrew, pinching his side, and also, "Like you could do that without jumping my bones."

Brandon smirks, ghosting his mouth over Andrew's. "Presumptuous," he whispers, and Andrew tries to arch up into him, but Brandon keeps it light, short, stepping back and adding, "Seriously, get some sleep. I know how important finals are for you."

Andrew sighs, kind of torn, because ugh, fuck him, he can't get Andrew all worked up like this and then leave, but it's also super considerate of him, and Andrew really appreciates it, especially considering what a massive dick he's been to Brandon about this whole thing.

Like, fuck, Brandon is kind of an amazing boyfriend, and Andrew is kind of terrible.

"Okay," he says in the end. "Good luck with football, yeah?"

"Thanks," says Brandon. He presses his thumb to the middle of Andrew's bottom lip. "Night."

"Night," says Andrew, ducking into the touch.

.

Andrew's actually shaking when he leaves the room after sitting the SAT, and Brandon meets him with a smile, lets Andrew just sag against him, rubbing a firm hand over his back.

"You did good, mutt," he says against Andrew's hair.

Andrew just lets out a breath. "Yeah, we'll see," he says.

He has no idea how he went, honestly, what to expect, but well, it's over, and that's something.

"Want me to take you home?" says Brandon.

Andrew thinks about it. "No," he says eventually. "No, can we just-- chill?"

"Sure, babe," says Brandon, and Andrew smiles into his shoulder before he lets go.

Brandon drives them to Lake Michigan, which makes Andrew laugh, remembering how Kaner suggested coming here for their second date. They wind up in an empty parking lot overlooking the water, between a bunch of run-down apartment blocks. It's actually kind of pretty, in a strange, unexpected way, the orange-pink glow of the approaching sunset.

Brandon climbs up onto the hood of his car, sprawling his legs wide, and Andrew takes the invitation, settling between them and letting Brandon hook his chin over his shoulder, his arms around Andrew's waist, and Andrew lets himself relax into it.

It's not like anyone's around to see, anyway.

They sit mostly in silence, watching the sun inch down, which is serious chick-flick levels of lame, but again, it's not like anyone has to know. Brandon mouths at his neck, slow and warm and wet, not really going anywhere with it, and it's-- it's really nice, but also heavy with something Andrew can't name, that vague, uncertain feeling creeping up on him again.

He doesn't even know if it's just him, or if Brandon can feel it too, so he doesn't say anything, just closes his eyes and concentrates on the feel of Brandon's mouth on his skin, the slight, gratifying sting of his stubble.

Brandon drives him home not long after it gets properly dark, navigating quietly through the lit-up streets. He even walks Andrew to his fucking door, which makes Andrew roll his eyes.

"You know I'm not actually a girl, right?" he says, pausing on the front step.

"No?" says Brandon, raising an eyebrow.

Andrew punches his shoulder, but Brandon just steps closer.

"Hey," he says lightly. "Prom coming up soon."

"Oh," says Andrew. He hasn't even thought about it. "Yeah, I guess."

"You wanna go?" says Brandon, shoving his hands into his pockets. "With me?"

"I-- " says Andrew, and stops, which is just-- it's stupid, and unexpected, because they've been dating for ages now, and he doesn't know why he'd ever hesitate over saying yes to Brandon.

About anything. Except, well.

"What? You don't wanna go?" says Brandon, frowning.

"No, I-- I don't know," stutters Andrew.

Brandon just stares at him, for a long moment, then says, "What's the problem? You let me kiss you at school all the time."

Andrew shrugs helplessly and wishes he could just-- just run away, for one of the few times in his life. "This is different, though," he says. "It's-- fuck, I don't know."

"Is it me?" says Brandon quietly. "Would you go if it was someone else? If it was a girl?"

That makes Andrew snap his head up. "No," he says. "That's not-- no."

Brandon nods slowly. "Okay," he says. "Well, I'm trying, but I-- I don't know what else you want from me, Andrew, so." He shrugs. "Get back to me when you have an answer, I guess."

He walks away, back to his car, and Andrew stares after him, fists clenched uselessly at his sides, and realises with a pang that that's the first time Brandon's ever called him 'Andrew.'

.

Andrew sleeps like shit, which is to say he doesn't sleep at all, staring up at the dark ceiling and feeling like the absolute worst person in the world.

He just-- he doesn't even know what that was, doesn't know what is wrong with him.

Except that clearly he'd been right, way back at the start of this whole thing, and Brandon is way out of his league, deserves someone so much better than Andrew.

.

That's a Friday, and when Andrew finally crawls out of bed around six Saturday morning, it's to no impending hockey game, since the season ended a couple weeks back, and the prospect of a miserable, self-loathing, Brandon-free weekend ahead.

He wishes, in the absence of Brandon, that at least hockey could still be around, so he'd have some way of burning off his frustration. He sulks into his coffee for ages, growing more and more restless, and in the end he heads to the gym near his house, forking out for a day pass so he can go in and use the punching bag. It's that or punch someone.

He goes at it until his knuckles are raw and bleeding, but he feels better after, spent and sore, and goes home to collapse into bed so he doesn't have to think.

.

Brandon doesn't call or message the rest of the weekend, not that Andrew blames him or even expects him to. It sucks, though, it really fucking sucks, and he feels constantly, gnawingly sick, just so completely off.

He looks like shit, he knows, at school on Monday. Sharpy takes one look at him over the-- loudly, conspicuously empty of Brandon-- lunch table, and says, "Fuck, what happened?"

"I'm a dumbass," says Andrew, shrugging, and shoots a glance over at the football team's usual table. Brandon is there, sitting with his friends like it hasn't been almost a year since he last spent the lunch break with them.

Sharpy doesn't press, which Andrew is pathetically grateful for.

.

He goes back to the gym after school, and the next few days are the same: moping over his lunch and not talking to anyone, trying and failing not to stare at Brandon with his friends, barely sleeping and fucking up his hands on the punching bag.

He just-- he should apologise, he knows that, and he wants to, he will, but Brandon deserves an explanation, and Andrew just-- doesn't have one.

He's a fucking mess, and he has no idea why.

Friday is the same again, going through the motions by now, picking at the shitty food on the tray and trying his best to concentrate on the conversation at the table, even if he can't bring himself to participate. It's better than staring at Brandon like the pathetic moron he is.

"You guys gonna go?" Kaner is saying.

"Are you, Peeks?" says Sharpy.

"Of course I'm going, it's a fucking party," says Kaner, sounding affronted. "Plus it's like, I dunno, the last chance we'll have to see a ton of people, have fun with them, you know?"

Andrew snaps his head up and stares at him, because-- oh. Oh, fuck.

"Why do you care?" Tazer is saying. "You're still gonna see the important people."

"Are you jealous of people now?" says Kaner. "Like, people in general? 'Cause that's kinda insane, dude. Even though I find your jealousy totally hot."

"Of course not," says Tazer, rolling his eyes.

"Uh, Shawzy?" says Sharpy carefully. "You okay, man?"

Andrew snaps his gaze to Sharpy, blinking. "Huh?" he says. "Oh, yeah, I'm-- I'm good."

He stands up abruptly, ignoring everyone's looks and stalking towards Brandon's table.

It's just-- it's so obvious, fuck, he's so fucking dumb, but he just-- he doesn't want this thing with Brandon to end. Which, God, of course he doesn't, how did he-- how could he not realise that's what he's been freaking out about: the fact that prom just feels so final.

"Can we talk?" he says to Brandon as he approaches, keeping his eyes fixed determinedly on him.

Brandon blinks slowly, then shrugs and says, "Sure," in this horrible neutral voice, standing and heading for the exit without waiting for Andrew.

"Hey," says one of Brandon's friends before Andrew can follow, "If you don't fix it, we're gonna beat you up again, and just so you know, this time it won't be because you're a punk-ass Canadian freakshow, it'll be 'cause you're an asshole who made our friend feel like shit."

Andrew swallows and heads out after Brandon.

"What's up?" says Brandon, still in that same awful, flat tone.

Andrew bites down on his lip, and mutters, "I just-- fuck, it's not you, it's not, I just-- I just don't want it to be like this-- like a goodbye, okay, it's dumb but I-- I'd rather not go."

Brandon stares at him for a long time. Eventually he says, shaking his head, "Who said anything about goodbye, mutt?"

"You-- really?" says Andrew slowly, chest clenching painfully at the nickname and-- and everything.

"Just because I'm still in highschool," says Brandon, stepping closer, "Doesn't mean I don't know what I want. You know what I want, Shawzy?"

"What?" says Andrew, even though he thinks he might have a clue.

"Guess," says Brandon, smirking a little and leaning in to kiss him breathless, one hand curling hot and possessive around the back of Andrew's neck.

"Fuck," says Andrew, when Brandon finally pulls away. "Okay, yeah, I'll go to prom with you. I-- I'm sorry I was a douche. And a dumbass."

"Don't sweat it," says Brandon, thumbing at the corner of his mouth. "We good?"

"Yeah," says Andrew, breathing out and smiling. "Yeah, we're good."

.

Later, sprawled and sweaty on Brandon's bed, Brandon says, "What the hell happened to your hand?" sweeping a thumb over Andrew's cut and bruised knuckles, frowning.

"Got in a fight with a punching bag," says Andrew, shrugging.

Brandon rolls his eyes fondly. "You win?" he says, smirking.

"Not this round," says Andrew, and Brandon laughs, leaning in to kiss him.

"You're a dumbass," he says, but he doesn't sound mad, so Andrew doesn't mind.