This story deals with gay subject matter, love, affection and potential intimacy. If that offends you too fucking bad.

Of course if you are to young to read this material don't and if you do anyway try your best not to get in trouble.

If its illegal in your state, country, whatever, save yourself the trouble. I hear the human imagination is a hell of a thing.

Beyond that enjoy the story.

What Would You Do


Here we were as always, reviewing an assignment, correcting mistakes, sparring with words, me the witty pretty boy, and him my best friend for life, world class geek/ football phenomenon and Greek god. What a pair we made. If I hadn't known him my whole life the notion that I stuck to him like glue only to benefited from his popularity may have been viable. Only, I didn't care really for the numerous whores that threw themselves at me, the sidekick, to get to my best friend and popularity was something I always shied away from. Why? Pretty obvious. What 'ten foot deep closet' queer, totally infatuated with his straight jock, best friend would want the spotlight constantly upon him. I don't know bout you but if they figured out that my constant invasion of his personal space, my inability to leave when a cute strumpet attempted to flirt with him, my apparent desire to dominate all his free time was purely selfish in nature, I wouldn't know how to deal. I wanted him for myself.

Kienne seemed oblivious to it all. He always has been. He never seems to mind when I come up with an alternative plan to the mindless teenage high school rituals. He was an intellect, a fact that no one could get over, no mother could disallow, no eligible high school girl would turn down, if he'd ever chanced to acknowledge them. I'd always thanked whatever deity was out there for this particular character trait. It meant that I didn't have to fight too hard to divert his attention from a possible threat to our relationship. Hmmm... our relationship. Sad as it seems whatever it was we had or didn't have was the extent of my social involvement. I had no need for much else. All I wanted was Kienne, however I could have him and for as long as possible.

His ability to lose himself so completely in something, usually a book or a concept or theorem, was inspiring. I wish he'd lose himself in me that way. He maintained the same intensity on the field. It was always amazing to watch the play of emotions over his face as a thought turned over in his mind. His brows tightly knit, his fingers flexing continuously, releasing and grasping the book. I could almost feel those fingers on my flesh, in a moment of heightened passion, when his need for me became so strong that his nerves were frayed and left him on end. It was the way he looked right now. Deep in thought, his glasses perched just on the edge of his nose, yes... specks. He is totally unashamed. No sense of false pride. He wore contacts only for games but found them so uncomfortable that he preferred not to wear them off the field. He had tried it once when I had asked him to, claiming that he'd be even more of a catch without it. After a week of irritation he finally fessed up and begged them off, I was so smug over the fact that my opinion meant that much to him that I conceded and was content with his be-spectacled face.

Sometimes he'd read a few lines out loud to me, even knowing that, for the most part, the information went straight over my head, wanting a sounding board nonetheless. He'd rake his hand through his chocolate brown hair, and sigh in contentment when `conception' was fully realized. By him not by me. In those moments you could see straight through him, to the core of him. How the simplest to the biggest things impacted his life. His present state of being altered somewhat from the added knowledge. Not conceit but awareness and understanding.

I'm lucky in a way that he's so engrossed, as he has no clue how much of our time together is spent with me gazing longingly and what by now I'm sure is lovingly at him. It's the personality behind the image that really gets to me in a way that nothing else ever has. He shows me how much he cares for me, as a friend everyday, he treats me like the little brother he never had, although I wish for more. He may be a bright spark intellect but he's never made me feel inferior or inadequate. He'd try to teach me thing's from his passions even knowing that I was pretty much a hopeless case.

When we were transitioning from middle to high-school he helped me add muscle to my flyweight. Big guys would always look at me as an easy target and he didn't want me to feel less of a man with him constantly coming to my defense, as he had done fearlessly all through grade school. He'd always find time for me and to date has never forgotten an important event in my life although I am certain I've skipped on a few of his. It's not that I'm selfish and expect him to give more than he gets, it's just that sometimes, certain situations are not conducive to happy living. And rather than being a whining sissy bitch about it I'd prefer not to be there at all.

It was in the way he laughed out loud when I make a silly quirk, or how a smirk would tug at his lips, when I've said something outrageously stupid. Which of late is pretty often. I can't seem to think logically or utter intelligible sentences around him. The way he unconsciously licks his lips in the middle of a conversation. Or the way his face breaks into a brilliant smile when he opens his door to find me on his door step, or when I come up to a lunch table full of his jock or intellectual friends. I of course, fall into neither of those categories. It's also the way my heart speeds up when he looks my way and acts like my presence is the pick me up he's been waiting for all day long. Oh god he's so beautiful.

He's stretched out now before me shirtless, his jeans riding low on his brief clad hips, and his white socked toes wriggling with anticipation. I want to reach out and touch him, press my lips to his and have them bruise from the sheer force of it. He's reading some theoretical mumbo jumbo to me right now, but he might as well have been reading sonnets. His eyes shine with excitement, his lips, red with a delicate curve caress each syllable. His words wash over me in forceful waves. There is a constant roar in my ears which I'm sure is the blood rushing from my head to... other places. I feel the deep bass of his voice rumble through me putting me in a state of semi-orgasmic bliss .

He'll never know what he does to me. I'll never tell him. But god I wish he'd figure it out.

Responses would be greatly appreciated.