Who: Mason Halloran, Layth al-Nabulsi What: Uhh....an encounter. When: Backdated to Tuesday morning, September 6, at precisely 9:45 AM. Where: The 2nd floor men's bathroom in one of the academic buildings. Rating: Definitely PG-13. Proooobably shouldn't read at work.
Shifting this way and that to make the most of the cramped space of the bathroom cubicle, Mason buckled up his belt and sighed. “Okay, that...” he murmured, glancing down at the front of his shirt, “is going to stain.” Reaching past Layth, the young poppet yanked a few handfuls of toilet paper free and started to dab at the fabric.
Managing to get rid of most of the mysterious mark, he frowned at what was left. If you squinted, it almost looked like it belonged on the ratty, worn-out old t-shirt. Like everything Mason owned, it was black. And streaks of grey worked together to pattern out a menacing-looking skull.
“Think people will notice?” He asked after a moment, smirking over at Layth.
Layth shrugged. “I’ll buy you a new shirt,” he said, distracted by his own belt and the buckling thereof. He checked his watch. “Fuck, it’s already 9:45? Fuck, I gotta get out of here. Fuck.” He bit his lip for a moment, thinking. 13 minutes was too long for two people to have been in the bathroom together. And anything longer than 13 minutes was too long for one person to be in a bathroom alone. This would require an exit strategy.
“All right, what if you left out the—and then I just waited for—” No. Staggering their exits would b too simple. That was exactly the sort of thing you would do if you’d just hooked up in a bathroom and didn’t want anyone to know. It was like hiding your life savings under your mattress. Stupid. “What if we pretended we’d got into a fight, or—or what if you’d dropped something into the toilet, and I had to—or what if—” He paused, bit his lip. “That’s stupid.”
Mason cocked an eyebrow, looking Layth over with a frown. “Seriously?” And just like that, whatever relaxation this little Mid-Morning Pick Me Up had achieved was gone. “Everyone’s in class... noone’s going to notice, loser.” Sighing, Mason set the seat lid down and sat, running a hand through his hair.
“I know!” He bit out, sarcasm practically dripping as he spoke, “You could make a fake beard out of toilet paper. You could say you’re a new teacher!”
Layth scowled and ripped a square of toilet paper off the roll, chucking it half-heartedly at Mason’s head. “I’ll show you new teacher, you little sh—” except by that point, he’d already leaned over him and laced his fingers through Mason’s hair, and so they wasted another 46.5 seconds making out. It was only when footsteps echoed loudly in the hallway that Layth was shocked upright, his hand reflexively reaching around to cover Mason’s mouth. “What was that,” he breathed, and then relaxed as the footsteps grew fainter again. “That was close.”
Reaching up to grasp Layth’s wrist, Mason yanked it away from his mouth and twisted sharply, “That was absolutely fuck all!” Scoffing, the younger boy shook his head, “Seriously, noone gives a shit about this kind of thing, you twat. They’re all too wrapped up in their own insane--”
Mason stopped, not even sure why he was still bothering. The hookup had been fun. Hell, it had been great, that was the one area Layth never lacked. It was enough to make him forget about all the bullshit with his soul and the doubts whirling around his head. Hell, it was almost enough to make him forget that he wanted to throttle Layth most of the time. But the older boy’s freakout had brought it all crashing back in.
There were times—lots of times, actually—when Layth wasn’t paying attention to a single word Mason said. It was in fact one of the things that kept their relationship alive, literally—because if Layth actually had to absorb every word of Mason’s frequent bitching and moaning and general insolence, he might’ve had to kill him in the most painful way he knew how. Now was one of those times. Layth’s attention was somewhere way over Mason’s head, by this point—in fact, it was on the ceiling.
“Ceiling vents,” Layth muttered. He looked back at Mason, his eyes shining with his epiphany. “It’s brilliant. I’ll just go out through the ceiling vent!”
Mason followed Layth’s gaze upwards, his lips slowly parting. By the time he looked back at the older boy, his jaw was hanging all the way open. “You--” His brow furrowed, he stopped, trying to figure out just how to explain that Layth was completely insane. “Are--” He stopped again, “Do--”
Then he remembered that he didn’t care. “You do that, great plan,” rolling his eyes, he glanced back up at the ceiling, “You want a boost?”
“Sure,” he said, and grinned the same grin he always did when he was about to do something incredibly stupid. He hadn’t expected Mason to be so charitable, anyway, so he gave him a quick, thanks-for-letting-me-climb-on-your-shoulders-so-I-can-escape-through-an-air-duct sort of kiss before doing just that. The grill covering the opening gave way fairly easily with only the aid of some lube (which, unsurprisingly....they had) and a few hearty yanks, suggesting to Layth that the whole system might be flimsily built. Which meant this might be beyond stupid, somewhere in the ballpark of “likely to cause serious bodily harm, you idiot.”
“Weeelll, it’s up, up, and away from here,” he told Mason cheerfully, once he’d braced each of his feet against the vertical metal walls. “Guess I’ll see you later, dollface,” he said, and disappeared into the duct before the other boy could retaliate.
“God Speed...” Watching Layth vanish into the vents, Mason shook his head and let out a pissy ‘tt’ before moving to unlock the door, “Retard.” Sullen and sulky, the young poppet stomped his way out of the bathroom, trying his best to block out the banging and rattling from above.
It’d serve the stupid cunt right if he fell out and broke his neck...