His bleached blond hair by the sidelines is the only thing that catches your eye all day. It sort of irritates you; you never really look at another boy. But the other team's a bunch of idiots, your team's a bunch of idiots, and every girl in the stands is ugly. There's nothing else to distract you.

You chop a few arms and that's it. No one says anything when you leave the field the first five minutes of the game. They're used to this. You don't give a shit.

The other boy follows you to the school gates. "No fun, huh?" he says to your back.

No one talks to you like this. Hell, no one talks to you, period. Who is this piece of shit, anyway. You look over your shoulder and he pops his gum when you return his stare.

Up close his hair assaults you with its offensive yellow. The smirk across his face makes you think of trouble. You're not sure you don't like what you see.

He doesn't budge when you turn and say, "The fuck do you want," to his face.

"Your number," he says plainly.

You get it now. "Tough luck, fang boy. I don't encourage my stalkers -- unless they're pretty, which you aren't. Obviously."

"But I'm a virgin, hey," he smirks. "You gonna give me your number or not?"

"I am, after I beat the shit out of you."

"I knew it!" Then he laughs in a cackling sort of way, like he's fucking amused, or demented. Or that he knows he'll get your number whatever you do, anyway. The fool's got some guts; no one ever laughs at you. You're Kongou fucking Agon, for fuck's sake.

You squeeze your fingers in a tight fist. Something tells you blood will look good on this trash.

It's your turn to smirk. You seize him by the collar and raise your fist to his head.

That's when you realize what a cheap dirty son of a bitch he is. His hand closes around you so he's got you literally by the fucking balls. You have to breathe in and out sharply because he's got a nasty grip and it's killing you.

"Move, there goes one nut." He's got a cellphone in his other hand, thumb set to press buttons. "Your number?"

The fucker's viselike hold leaves you zero choice. You rattle off the goddamned ten digits and nearly choke. He lets go only after your cellphone rings in your pocket.

"Saved!" He grins, flips his phone shut, and stalks away.

You have to bend your knees a little and sort of cradle your nuts. It hurts like ten bitches, but you're starting to laugh through your clenched teeth. 'He's sick,' you think, looking over your shoulder at his blond head. 'He could be fun.'

+

Not shockingly, you get a call from him a couple of hours later. "Want some action?" he says. You can just hear the demonic grin in his voice.

"NO!"

"There's a pretty girl in the mix."

You wish you knew how you make it so easy for him.

+

You don't bother to find out his name until the next day, after you figure out why he has you beat up some scumbags and why he's got every stat you've chalked up down pat. Apparently he plays quarterback. You have to scoff when he tells you he's going to be your quarterback and then says he clocks in at a shitty 5.2 seconds on the forty-yard dash. But you're interested, in a distant sort of way.

Days into it, you haven't let his calls bother you until he starts calling you every fucking day. But there's always a helpless pretty girl to be had and you can't do anything in the end.

Weeks into it, the whole thing starts to bug you and you start to take this shit a tad too seriously. You don't know much about him when he knows so much about you. Not that it keeps you up at night, but it pisses you having that disadvantage. You don't really know what the hell you're doing with him. And it makes you furious to think he's fucking using you like a tool. It sort of works both ways, but he gets more out of this than you do.

You don't give this any obsessive thought until a little later. Until after you start looking at him in a screwy way and imagining him bent over and out of his clothes. It's suddenly a hell of an itch you've got to scratch. You'll get your compensation.

+

One time you're in the alley, you bring it up with him. "I need to fuck you."

He stops chewing his gum and raises his eyebrows. "Random."

You lose it. "Cut that shit out, trash. I know you've been checking me out too." And then you shove him to face the dumpster and pull his jeans down. He doesn't struggle; it doesn't really surprise you.

"I'm recording this," he reveals.

You look up where he points you to and see three cellphones fixed to the surrounding walls. This only makes you smirk. "That a threat? You think I give two shits if you get video of me fucking you? -- damn, yeah, I'll need a copy."

"Christ! Get some fucking spit on your dick at least!"

"I just did, goddamnit!" Then you plunge in, and holy shit he's so tight it burns. He pushes back, tries to push you out, but you're stronger and you want this and you thrust harder. The heat almost makes you pass out.

It goes down a little too fast and next thing you know you want to fuck him again as soon as you finish. So you do. You see his hands gripped to the lid, knuckles white and pointy. When he shoves you off him, you're too sated to protest. You watch him lean back against the dumpster, heaving, one hand mopping his brow and the other pulling his pants up to cover himself.

After this, you can't look at another dumpster without getting hard.

+

It's not the last time you fuck. You weren't anything like friends to begin with so the sex doesn't ruin it. This...whatever you've got between you.

+

You don't think this means anything until months into it, when there're times you hate that he isn't around to mess up your dreads or nibble your shoulder and you don't have your tongue down his throat or your hands tucked under his knees. You're not dating and shit, or any way in love, but this is the most time you've wasted with anyone and hell if that doesn't mean shit.

Early in the fall, he drags you to a high school football game.

"Who the hell are these losers, anyway?!" you say to him before the match begins.

"Watch the home team's quarterback and his running back," he grins, looking fiendish, "and tell me that ain't fucking awesome."

You snort, but you sit back and watch what he's getting off on.

But you get bored two minutes into it, so you yank him down under the bleachers and fuck him into the grass. He bites off one of your dreads, but then he smirks against your ear and says, "We're gonna fuck shit up at Shinryuuji." You don't disagree, because by now you know high school's bound to be wild with Hiruma fucking Youichi around.

END