WORLD'S FORGOTTEN BOY Title World's Forgotten Boy Written By:sonofabiscuit77 Timeline: AU Rating R Warnings AU, smut, some angst. Summary This is a high school fic, yeah I know. But in my defence it's set in a British boarding school in the late 1970's and was (partly) written to satisfy a personal kink for flithy-mouthed boysex with uniforms! Any inclusion of a plot is purely accidental... Author's notes Thank you so much singlewoman for your brilliantly useful comments and corrections! To note both Brian & Justin are over the age of consent here. Theme Well, it's mainly about the Justin!worship/lust.
Brief explanation notes of cultural difference!
Sixth form - final two years of high school culminating in A-levels which lead to university places. Lower Sixth = ages 16/17, Upper Sixth = ages 17/18. LSE is the London School of Economics (elite college of the University of London) and pontoon is what Americans call black jack. The age of consent for same-sex couples in the UK was 21 in the 1970's, this was finally lowered to 16 (and equal to heterosexuals) in 2000.
World's forgotten boy
Present Day…
August 1978, Piccadilly Circus
The boy leans against the statue of Eros, he's smoking a fag, face mostly hidden by a wall of dark hair and the turned up collar of his leather jacket.
He ignores the steady stream of traffic and passers-by, concentrating on smoking, occasionally raising his eyes at a flash of blond drifting across his eye line, expression briefly becoming hopeful before subsiding back into blank watchfulness.
He finishes the fag and drops the butt to the pavement, grinding it under the heel of his combat boot, scuffing his feet against the birdshit-soaked pavement.
He glances up towards the neon Coca-Cola sign, the digital clock reads 2.17. He's late. Perhaps he's not coming…
*********
Six months earlier…
February 1978, Sanditon College…
"Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky." Now, that is poetry." Pickford leans over the ancient record player, lowering the stylus with a hiss and crackle. "I want you to listen very carefully."
Brian rolls his eyes. On his left, Claude "Eggy" Fitzgerald leans and whispers: "Is he fucking kidding or what?"
"Not kidding."
"Jesus, what a cock."
Brian smirks, working his mouth soundlessly over the words. You're a cock Pickford. A big, fat, dirty old cock…
"Something to say Kinney?"
Cue innocent expression: "No Sir."
"Good. Because we don't want to hear it." Pickford spins on his heels and slaps the board duster against the blackboard in a chalk dust cloud. "I want you all to close your eyes." A glare. "That means all of you."
He lowers his eyelids reluctantly, sliding down in his seat. He stares at the back of Robert "Two Shits" Reynolds' head directly in front of him: small flecks of white dandruff in gel-slicked hair. His eyes slide over the rest of the class; on his right, Ian "Lay on" Macduff is mouthing along to the music, pale-lashed eyes closed. "Come on you target for faraway laughter…"
Fucking Floyd. Fucking talentless bunch of wankers.
Something catches his eye: there's a blond and burgundy blur through the door's frosted window. A knock.
The door thuds open, jerking the needle from the record with a comedy screech. For a moment, there's a terrified silence broken only by the ominous hiss as the needle scratches mercilessly across the LP. Then Pickford dives, arms outstretched to save his work of musical poetry. He cradles the record against his chest like a vinyl child, sliding it into the sleeve with reverent eyes. "Yes? What, what is it boy?"
The newcomer is still standing in the doorway. "Mr. Tulliver said he'd told you. About me - I'm Justin Taylor."
"What about you?"
"I'm in the Lower Sixth but Mr. Tulliver said for me to join your A-level English Lit group. Um - this is the right room?"
"It is." Pickford finally raises his head, placing the record cautiously on his desk. "Well, what're you waiting for? Take a seat."
The newcomer, Taylor, nods and moves to the empty desk one row ahead and to Brian's right. He's trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible as he sits, pulling out the chair without the usual piercing shriek, removing each object from his bag: exercise book, pens, pencil, ruler, Tess of the d'Urbervilles with exaggerated carefulness.
Brian looks away, Pickford has finally picked up his copy of Tess of the d'Urbervilles and is brandishing it with pointed disdain. "Soooo, lit-er-a-ture. Thomas Hardy's Tess of the d'Urbervilles. Not his best work, though certainly his best known. Who's read this then?"
A few hands go up. Brian watches Taylor glance around before tentatively raising his own.
"Aha. And who's read all of this?"
Most of the hands stay up.
"How about you Kinney?" He turns a bland stare on Pickford. "Have you read it?"
"Yes."
"Right, right. And what's your oh-pin-i-on" Long derisive vowels.
Brian leans back in his chair, returning Pickford's sneering gaze. "It was okay."
"Okay? Praise indeed!" Pickford spins away to lean over Taylor's desk: "How about you - our new resident genius?"
He watches the boy flinch at the epithet, hiding a rapidly colouring face under a sweep of blond fringe: "I liked it… it was, um, poignant."
"Poignant? I can see why Mr. Tulliver wants you in this class." Sarcastic inflection, sniggers from the back of the room.
Brian crosses his arms and leans forward, resting his chin on his forearms, shaking his hair over his face. Cock, he murmurs to himself. He looks back at the new kid, he's writing something, pen darting inkily across the page of his exercise book, hand propping up his cheek. The burgundy cuffs of his blazer are dirty, blotted with ink and when he looks up, he pushes the hair away from his face with a swipe of his hand, leaving a matching blue trail across his cheek.
**********
He raises his eyes to the horizon, letting them find that special faraway point. He knows where he's going to put the ball, he can feel it inherently, his eyes transmitting signals to his brain… his brain pushing them through his body down to his legs… his feet… He takes a breath and runs up to the ball, angling his foot… the solid connection of leather against leather… the tee spinning away as the ball curls into the air... arching, swerving… higher and higher into the grey sky, then falling, dropping… the angle perfect - just as he knew it would be - clearing the bar and dropping euphorically to the grass where it bounces away in skewed inelegant hops.
"Two down, one to go," he mutters and bends to shake the next ball out the mesh bag beside his feet.
"Good shot."
He turns quickly. Taylor, the new boy in Pickford's class, is standing about five yards away, hands on his hips, chest heaving with exertion. His face is red, hair plastered to his head with sweat and mud, rugby shirt clinging to his flushed skin.
"It's a kick, not a shot."
"Right," Taylor shrugs. Then, awkwardly: "You're Brian Kinney, aren't you?"
"Yeah."
"We're in - I've just joined your class, with Pickford - for English Lit."
"Yeah. I saw." He squats down on his haunches, concentrating on placing the tee, then the ball, tilting it carefully away from him. He straightens up, pushes the hair out of his eyes and backs away.
"You don't mind me watching?"
"As long as you stay out the fucking way."
"Oh, okay. That wanker McKenzie had me running laps - detention." He trails off and steps backwards, all the time watching him expectantly. He rolls his shoulders and takes a breath: inhale... exhale... He visualises the ball, seeing exactly where he's going to put it, finding that faraway point on the horizon… One more breath and he moves: runs, kicks, heart thudding in his chest as the ball soars upwards... He can feel that he's got it right… the ball falls, tumbles... clearing the crossbar with ease. A smile of victory slides across his face.
"Good kick," Taylor catches his eye and grins.
He schools his face back into its customary blankness and shrugs. "Good fucking job. If I'd arsed that one up, I'd probably've been out here till dinner."
"Oh. Why's that?"
"Got to do three in a row before I go back in." He retrieves the tee and twines the handle of the mesh ball bag around his fingers. "Have to go collect all the balls…" he nods towards the four balls lying under the goal posts.
"Okay, I'll come with." They drag the bag behind them, mud squelching under their boots. "So - why'd you have to do three in a row? McKenzie make you?"
"No. It's just what I do. The only way you get better."
He can feel Taylor giving him a side-long look. He shrugs. Taylor shakes his head and laughs. "You're insane! No one would choose to be out here if they didn't have to! Bloody rugby, I hate it! It's just an excuse to beat people up."
"Fuck off! No it's not!"
"S'alright for you. I've seen you playing. You're good - ace - at it. I'm crap and I hate it, so McKenzie hates me and makes me run round the field like a complete dickhead."
They reach the uprights, Brian untangles the mesh string bag collecting and dropping each ball back inside.
They turn back towards the building in silence. "Have you, um, decided where you're going next year - for university?"
"Why?"
"You know, this time of year, it's all everyone's going on about…"
"Not you. You're in the Lower Sixth."
Taylor laughs uncomfortably, ducking his head. "Yeah, but, um, I'm leaving when you are. That's why they moved me into Pickford's class - so I can catch up with you lot, take the exams a year early."
"Ahh. Wish I'd thought of that. Could've been out of this shithole already." He smiles darkly, casting a glance at Taylor whose shoulders frame an apologetic shrug.
"They probably wouldn't've let you go - for the rugby and stuff, you know?" There's a pause, Brian shivers and gives the ball bag a hard tug. The wind has cooled the sweat under his mud-caked rugby shirt and his skin feels clammy and cold. "So - where are you going then?"
"To the LSE," he replies flatly. "Then I'm going to get a job - haven't decided where yet, but as long as I'm filthy rich and able to tell cocks like Pickford to go fuck themselves, I don't give a fuck."
"That's very - decisive of you."
Brian shrugs. "So how about you - where you going to go then?"
Taylor's face brightens visibly and he grins, "The Slade. The Art School. Or, if not there, then another Art School. In London."
"You want to study art?"
"More than anything else. Though my dad, he's mad for me to go to Oxford - Merton, it was his college." He turns his head, catching Brian's eye, "I told him it wasn't my thing. He wasn't very happy."
Brian snorts in contempt. They've arrived at the back entrance and push the heavy door open, studs ringing on the cement floor. He unlocks the equipment cupboard, dropping the mesh bag of balls unceremoniously inside. "Hey - how come you've got the key to that?"
"McKenzie gave it me."
"Wow, he really trusts you, doesn't he?"
"He's a fucking idiot."
Taylor laughs and follows him into the changing rooms: "Your dad must be very pleased, with you wanting to go to the LSE and that?"
"My father couldn't give a shit. He thinks the LSE is some sort of hallucinogenic drug."
The changing room is cold, the air thick with damp and aftershave, the floor a scattering of athlete's foot powder, mud and grass. He wriggles out his rugby shirt with a jerking of his shoulder blades then drops to the bench to toe off his boots, flinging them across the room with an arch of his foot. Taylor seems to have gone quiet, finally shut up perhaps. He bends to pull down his thick socks, wincing at the new bruise on his ankle bone - bloody Cliff-Bentley, thinks he's the dog's bollocks… He straightens up, balling the socks up with one hand and freezes…
Taylor is staring at him from the opposite bench, half-naked, clutching his own rolled up rugby shirt to his chest with mud-encrusted fingers. His body is pale and hairless, weirdly translucent in the fluorescent strip lighting, there's a purple-blue bruise on one side of his stomach, incongruous against the white flesh. His eyes seem dark, shrouded - focused on him with an intense scrutiny that makes something flutter in his stomach, goose-bumps breaking out across his cold skin and a scary roaring sound in his ears. With a wrench, he tears his eyes away, tugging down his shorts and grabbing his towel.
In the shower area, he hangs his towel on one of the row of pegs, running his fingers over the thin worn fabric, steadying himself. There is no sign of Taylor, no sound from the changing room. He shivers again, he feels odd, weird in his own skin, his heart still hammering in his chest. He shakes his arms, twisting his shoulder blades, cracking his knuckles and focusing intently on the patch of black/green mould above the shower heads. He takes his favourite shower (second from the end), tweaking the ancient metal dial, jumping away from the icy stream, counting to thirty before it's safe to go back under, lukewarm water plastering his hair to his face, obscuring any vision above his knees.
He concentrates on his feet, the muddy, scummy water pooling around his toes. He reaches behind, finding the grey cracked soap. He works the soap with one hand, working up a lather good enough to wash his wiry, sweat-dirtied hair, closing his eyes and scraping his fingers against his scalp. He rinses off the soap and blinks open his eyes: there's another new bruise - a scrape really - on his elbow, courtesy of Cliff-Bentley. He lowers his arm and...
Taylor.
Standing right in front of him: strange, pale and naked. Something catches in his throat and he forces out a breath, hears himself exhale, blink the water out of his eyes. He shivers...
Taylor is staring at him, his eyes locked on him: dark, blue, intense, determined... He can feel his cock, twitching, thickening, betraying him. Taylor holds out one hand, slippery with soap-lather and his eyelashes flutter, staring at him, drinking him in... He feels himself inch forward, the water pounding his back, Taylor's hand stretches out and -
God, oh my God... he gasps as the long white fingers curl around his cock, squeezing, grasping, pulling. Taylor bows his head, his blond hair is darker, wet and heavy, a slick curtain across his face, hand tugging up and down in rhythmic thrusts, fingers fluttering against his balls. He presses one hand to the wall, bracing himself, biting his lip. His cock is hard, so fucking hard... his other hand scrabbling uselessly against his thigh; he raises it, grabbing for Taylor's shoulder and… a push and Taylor's thrust against the cold mould-flecked tiles, mouth open in surprise, head raised. They stare at each other, his lashes are dark, sparkling, lips parted, beaded with water, face flushed with arousal.
He leans forward, pressing himself against Taylor's hard bony body, groaning as the hand starts again, pulling at him, sliding, tugging, clumsy and impatient. Taylor breathes directly against his face - warm quick breaths, lips tantalisingly close, a shudder, and... he's coming: thin translucent-white threads on Taylor's pale-skinned stomach, the purple blue bruise. Taylor's answering tremble, a bead of sticky warmth in his pubic hair. He steps back, his breathing is steadying, slowing; he opens his mouth to say something but Taylor is already backing away, a small smile twitching at the corner of his wet mouth, white drops of cum still adorning his stomach... He feels his own mouth crook in response and he turns to rinse himself off.
***********
March 1978, Sanditon College
He's in the library. And so is Taylor, sitting with four other Lower Sixes. He's facing his way but he can't see his face, view obscured by the bulk of Kevin "Shithouse" Collinson-Wood, fellow member of Sanditon's Rugby First Fifteen - front row, and built like it, all shoulders and thighs, muscle and height and thick 13-stone impenetrability. They're bending over the table, heads together, loud whispers and stifled snorts of laughter. Shithouse moves and he catches a glimpse of Taylor's face: mouth twisted into a grin of amusement, blond too long hair flopping in his eyes. He feels a stirring low in his stomach and he curls his fingers tighter around his fountain pen.
Taylor pushes back his chair with a muffled squeak and pads towards the shelves. He's discarded his blazer and his shirt cuffs are half-rolled up, long-fingered white hands ghosting over a shelf of books... He pauses at the shelf nearest to him and turns.
"Hello."
He bites back the threatening smirk. "Hello. What're you looking for?"
"Nothing in particular." Taylor moves away from the shelf and leans against the table, hip jutting towards him. His fingers trail across the worn wood, slow intricate patterns. "Came to talk to you actually."
"Oh." Taylor is regarding him expectantly, lips half-parted. He leans back in his chair and pushes his fringe out his eyes: "You all working on something together?"
"Us all - no…" Taylor frowns, glancing behind him at the loud whispering group. "They're working on History. Roman military manoeuvres. Boring."
He feels his lip twitch. "Yeah. S'why I didn't take fucking history."
"Me too. So - what're you doing?"
"Maths."
Taylor pulls a face. "Poor sod."
"Yeah."
"Yeah. So… tonight? Are you still on for -" He quirks an eyebrow, leaning closer, voice low.
Brian smiles his best, most dangerous smile: "Yeah. After dinner. Usual place."
"Right." Taylor grins quickly, face reddening, backing away from him, knuckles dragging slow-motion along the table top in his wake.
He watches him slouch back towards the bookshelves - the curve of his spine through his thin white shirt as he reaches to pull a volume from the shelf, his hair falling over his face as he reads. The library light is dim - there was another power cut that morning, and the low light turns his blond hair lighter - luminescent, casting shadows over his bent profile. Brian watches him look up, pushing his hair out of his face, darting him a quick look. Caught out, he turns swiftly back to his assignment, lowering one hand to adjust his suddenly tight trousers.
*********
"That blond kid's watching you again." Eggy nudges him with his elbow, spoon laden with rhubarb crumble.
Brian freezes. "What kid?"
"That new one, in Pickford's class. He keeps staring at you. He's always staring at you. Reckon he fancies you, bloody arse-bandit."
"What the fuck you on about? No he doesn't."
Eggy's eyes narrow on him. "No need to be so bloody defensive mate."
"Well, you're talking bollocks."
"Am I?" Through a spoonful of pudding.
"Yeah." His eyes flash back towards the Lower Sixth table. Taylor is getting up, trying to leave, he's still not wearing his blazer and his eyes are drawn inexorably to his arse as he leans over the table: the perfect curve of his buttocks under grey polyester, flat, round and smooth.
"You're looking at him now."
"Only 'cause you keep fucking going on about it Claude!" His fingers clench around his spoon. His cock is thickening in his pants, defying him, teasing him. Taylor turns to leave, leaning into that sly-faced, ginger friend of his, the smooth curl of his neck as he tosses aside the blond hair… it's too close, he wants to bite that skin right there, he knows how it feels, how it tastes… and his arse, he wants to bite there too - press his cock against the smooth round curves, come all over him, on the pale white skin…
He jerks up from the table, ignoring Eggy's Don't fucking call me that! as he stalks from the dining hall, straightening his blazer over his half-hard cock.
************
"You've got to stop fucking staring at me all the time." He mutters the words through clenched teeth; hand inside the locker he pushes aside the pile of threadbare towels, reaching behind them for the - ah there it is! - bottle of Teachers, and isn't that fucking appropriate, good old McKenzie, so pathetically, reliably obvious, the stupid prick.
"What? What? I don't stare!" He turns. Taylor's staring at him now. Annoyed, pale fingers fiddling with the togs of his enormous navy duffle coat.
"Yeah. You do. People are saying stuff."
"What people? Who's saying stuff?"
"Doesn't matter. Just - stop the fucking staring thing. It's too obvious." He twists the cap off the bottle of whiskey.
Taylor scowls at him. "You're talking bollocks Kinney."
He takes a quick swig. The whiskey is harsh and sour; he resists the impulse to shudder as it slides stiffly down his throat. "No I'm not. You can't take your eyes off me."
"Yeah, cause you never look at me - like in the library, you weren't looking at me then, right? And when we're together - you're always so unwilling!"
It's his turn to scowl and he does, through another longer, harsher swig.
"McKenzie's going to know it's you, you know, stealing his booze - you're the only other one with the key."
"Told you already. He won't get rid of me -"
"Yeah, I know - he thinks the sun shine's out of your arse!" Brian flinches and they're glaring at each other now. Taylor's fingers still fiddling with the toggles of his coat. "I bet you never even noticed I existed until I walked into Pickford's class." His voice is laced with bitterness, feet kicking morosely against the mesh bag of rugby balls in one corner of the room.
He shrugs. "No. I don't know half the fucking Lower Sixth, 'cept those who're part of the team."
"Not me then."
"No," he states flatly. He takes another swig of whiskey. Taylor aims a kick at the pile of rugby balls, the sound reverberating through the cluttered claustrophobic room. He watches him, trying for dispassionate aloofness - but there's this nagging sensation low in his gut, an absurd contradictory desire to take it all back, unsay it, but at the same time, to have it out there, to hurt him - it is true after all: "I never noticed you."
Taylor raises his head and pushes his hair away from his face with that already familiar gesture; when he speaks his tone is accusatory, bitter: "I noticed you."
"Oh, right." He shrugs again and bends over, posing the bottle carefully on the floor. "Take your coat off."
"What?"
"Just - take it off. That's why we're here isn't it?"
"To get off?"
"Right. To get off. You wouldn't be here, if you didn't want to. So just - take your coat off. Or - fuck off. Whichever you prefer."
Taylor glares at him for a moment before reluctantly beginning to unwind his scarf and unpick the toggles of his coat. Underneath it, he's wearing jeans and a t-shirt - he must've got changed after dinner - it's a shocking red colour that makes him seem vibrant and unreal against the backdrop of rugby balls, odd boots, practice cones, threadbare shirts and lacrosse sticks.
He shrugs off his blazer and gets to his feet, approaching him slowly, though it really only takes four paces, so small and constricted is the room with its overwhelming smells of damp earth, sour alcohol and old sweat. Taylor is staring at him with a mixture of wariness and anticipation. He places a hand on the pale skinned forearm and in one swift movement pushes him back against the one uncluttered wall, Taylor pushes back; and for a moment they're locked in a clumsy push-pull-push, their bodies colliding and grinding together, hard and desperate.
"Wha - you..." Taylor grabs onto his tie, pulling his head down, grinding his crotch against his hip. He jerks forward and they're falling… tumbling to the floor in a rough clumsy heap, flailing legs catching lacrosse sticks and neon cones. Taylor pulls away and scrambles into a sitting position, his face screws up as he raises an elbow, "Ow." Brian adjusts his collar and turns to look at him, repressing the urge to laugh out loud as Taylor regards him with accusatory eyes. "That hurt."
He grabs Taylor's foot pulling him back to the floor in a spill of arms and legs, "For fuck's -" The words disintegrating as he pins him to the dirty dusty floor, arms either side of his body, he lowers his head to Taylor's neck, yanking aside the tough red fabric of his t-shirt, pressing his mouth into the soft pale skin. He feels Taylor gasp and arch beneath him, hissing as his teeth penetrate the, oh so easily, yielding skin. He grinds down against him, Taylor's belt buckle pressing metallic imprints into his stomach. Through the thick denim he can feel Taylor's cock, rock hard and insistent, his own matching. He shifts and Taylor groans again, "God, c'mon -" tugging him closer: one hand in his hair and one on his back, selfish, needy, greedy… The hand disappears, reaching somewhere between them, pressing at his cock through the fabric of his trousers, wriggling under his waistband. "Let me - Brian, let me…"
He freezes at the sound of his name, shocked: those two syllables so foreign, rusty with lack of use… He glances up, Taylor's eyes are dark, glassy, his lips half parted, pink… There's a rushing in his brain and he presses his mouth to Taylor's, kissing him with near desperation, their moans and groans mixing and he's saying something, rough incoherent sounds. Taylor pulls away, staring at him with shining eyes, "I want to -"
"What?" The word is barely out before he gasps out loud, Taylor has ducked down, pushing him back against the wall, head bending, mouth… oh God, mouth on his cock, a fucking blowjob, he's giving a fucking blowjob There is no more room for coherent thought, just sensation, every sensation expanded and increased and exploded and so so fucking incredible. His eyes squeezed tight shut, every muscle primed, every nerve ending a spasm, God, oh God, he's quick, too quick and it's already over… he's coming.
"Eurgh, that's…" Taylor raises his head, a tumble of blond dishevelled hair, mouth glistening and sticky. "It tastes disgusting." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
He stares, panting, trying to find his breath, heart hammering in his chest. "Feels fucking fantastic."
"Really?" A grin, wide, toothy, delighted.
"Yeah. We should've done it before." One hand around Taylor's neck, tugging him closer, a long kiss: salty, muggy, brackish, the taste of him. His hand creeps down, massaging Taylor's cock through the thick denim, tugging at the zipper, squeezing… Taylor gasps and bites his lip, Fuck, Kinney, Brian… He groans, pressing and layering kisses across his cheek, his neck, his ear, his throat, into the soft blond hair, his hand pumping, furious. Taylor groans loudly, crying out as he comes, hot stickiness coating his hand. He leans into Brian, resting his forehead on his shoulder, voice trembling: "God, that was… brilliant. Amazing."
He grins and pulls away, wiping his hand on one of the spare rugby shirts. Taylor laughs shakily, watching him. "Any chance you got a fag?"
He nods, realising distantly that he's still smiling. He fishes the packet out his trouser pocket - now somewhat flattened - and drops it into Taylor's half-clothed lap. He watches him light up, tucking his shirt back in, smoothing down his tie, retrieving his blazer.
"You want some?"
"Cheers." He bends down and takes the fag from Taylor's hands; the tip is wet, moist from Taylor's lips.
Taylor tilts his head up, quirking his lips: "Taste's almost gone now. It was disgusting, but… must get better. Else people wouldn't do it, would they?"
"Birds don't do it. They spit it out."
"I wouldn't know."
Brian casts him a quick glance before taking another drag: he looks debauched, sprawled against the wall, hair way past tousled, lips red and swollen, and eyes glazed. His t-shirt half-torn at the collar, wrinkled under his back, pale-skinned stomach with its faded purple bruises and gaping jeans.
"What's the time?"
Reluctantly, he lifts his arm, squinting at his watch: "Half eight."
"Shit. We should be going. I've got to finish an essay for tomorrow."
"Right."
He stubs out the fag against the wall, picking up the butt and hiding it under a pile of old lacrosse uniforms. He reaches up and cranks the window open.
"Will it get rid of the smell?" Taylor is straightening his shirt, looping his belt back into his jeans.
"Yeah, McKenzie's got no sense of smell anyway."
"What? Seriously?"
"Yeah."
Taylor laughs and picks up his coat, "How the hell d'you know that - wait, I'm not sure if I want to know."
"You don't." He shrugs back into his blazer. "You should leave first. Then I'll wait and go."
"Okay," Taylor nods, mouth twitching into a smile. "When shall we do this again?"
"Maybe Friday - there's no practice then?"
Taylor frowns, an almost pout. "That's four days away."
He smirks, "What? You can't wait four fucking days?"
"Can you?"
He shrugs. Point taken. "Maybe Wednesday - I don't know. But I'll see you in Pickford's class anyway."
"Make it Wednesday. And," he hesitates, "I won't look at you so much. I'll try not to at least."
"Right."
Taylor nods and turns to go, tugging the door open cautiously and peering outside, "All clear. See you tomorrow."
"Yeah… No - wait a minute."
Taylor turns, expectant. "What?"
He darts forward, hands cupping Taylor's face, tugging him into a kiss, sloppy and exhausting and he has no fucking idea why he's doing it but it just feels so fucking good. They break apart, exhaling into each other's skin, catching breath. A gentle push: "Go on. You should go."
Taylor nods, biting his lip and smiling widely. "See you later."
"See you."
********
The Sixth Form common room is busy, crowded and noisy. Two games of cards, fifty plus raised voices and some dickhead playing Hotel California on the ancient record player, as if that fucking song hasn't already been played to death.
"Where the hell've you been?" Eggy raises his head from the game of Pontoon.
"McKenzie had me doing extra practice." Slumping into the chair beside him.
"It's dark."
"Oh yeah, I never noticed."
"Alright, enough fucking sarcasm! Oi - can you lend me a couple of quid? They're bloody cleaning me out."
"What me - lend Eggy Fitzgerald of the Hampshire Fitzgeralds a couple of quid? What about the family inheritance?" Amused sniggers from the fellow players.
"Fuck off! You know I'll pay you back. What're best mates for?"
He rolls his eyes and takes the money out of his pocket, dropping it onto the table by Eggy's elbow. "If you actually manage to win anything I'm bloody well having half."
"That'll be the day!" Derisive snort from Anthony "Toska" Childes.
Eggy grunts and he takes up the discarded copy of last week's The News of the World, ignoring the inevitable sounds of Eggy loosing the rest of his money.
He practically feels him enter the room - like a draft on the back of his neck. He glances up from the paper: he's perching on the arm of one of the huge armchairs, still wearing the same worse-for-wear red t-shirt and speaking animatedly to that ginger kid; pale, talented oh so talented hands shaping gestures, face alight, laughing, blond hair shining in the crap strip lighting. So much for finishing a fucking essay.
He drags his eyes away, realizing distantly that he's scowling and that Eggy and the rest of the Pontoon players are staring at him expectantly. "Kinney - what do you think?"
"What?"
"What we were fucking talking about - the dance?"
He frowns. "What fucking dance?"
"With Queen Charlotte's. Weren't you listening to a bloody word we were saying?"
"What's this about a dance?"
"Queen Charlotte's, next month," Philip "Percy" Grantby breaks in eagerly, "I think that's the one with the really easy girls…"
"Oh yeah…" A patented Toska Salacious Wink: "My cousin goes there - seriously lads - they'll do it with anyone - right bunch of slags!"
"Excellent!" Eggy slaps the table with a snort. "You never know, you might even be in with a chance Perce!"
"I wouldn't put money on it," snorts Brian contemptuously.
"Hey!"
"Well, I've got a guaranteed pulling opportunity - I'm fucking deejaying all night." Toska sits back with a smug grin. "So get your requests in pronto 'cause on the night, I'll only be taking requests from anything over a B-cup."
"Oh so Fatso Strickland will be able to request then?" sneers Brian.
Eggy sniggers as Toska quickly amends, "Anything female over a B-cup."
"Right." Darting him a sarcastic smile. "So what the fuck did you do to Tulliver to get that gig? Not that I'm not fucking relieved we won't be tortured with Dark Shite of the Moon courtesy of Cockhead Pickford all night."
"That'll be for me to know and you wankers to guess about."
Brian snorts derisively, shifting to look at Eggy's cards and definitely not sneaking another look at Taylor. "You wanna stick with those cards."
"What? No, I'm gonna twist."
"Oh for fuck's sake - don't fucking twist -"
"Hey Kinney - I'm gonna need to borrow some of your LP's if that's alright," Toska plays a card, "I was thinking - Bowie, Stooges, Stones, get the fucking place moving."
"Really? In that case, I might consider gracing it with my presence."
"The easy slutty birds not enough of a pull for you?"
"Not him," Eggy snorts, giving him a pointed look. "He's far too… particular. Twist." The card's slapped down in front of him: "Fuck! That's - how much is that...?"
Brian glances down, "Twenty-three. You're bust you stupid twat."
**********
"Your kicking's gone downhill these last few days Kinney. Is there anything bothering you?"
He stills as McKenzie moves to stand behind him, that habitual slightly-too-close position. "Nothing Sir."
"Nothing at home? Parental problems?" A gentle squeeze to his shoulder.
He bites back the urge to laugh, "No Sir." He twists away, crouching to pick up the ball lying in McKenzie's thick shadow, distorted by the pale almost-Spring sun.
"Because if there is anything - then you know you can come to me. I know Mr. Tulliver is technically Senior Housemaster, but I like to think that we've developed a close relationship over the last few years."
"Thank you Sir. It's just - I think it's the game on Saturday, St. Crispin's are a good team," he lowers his head on the easy fluent lie.
McKenzie nods gravely, "Yes, yes, indeed they are. But you shouldn't fear them. We'll have them. Remember a positive mental attitude! And lots of sweat - good, hard, honest sweat…"
Brian hides a snigger as he pushes his hair away from his face, getting back to his feet. "Er - Sir?" A flash of his best, most winning smile.
McKenzie blinks in the merciless onslaught of charm. "Umm, yes?"
"You don't mind if I skive off tomorrow's practice? I have a lot of work to do and I think I need a break before the big game."
"Um, fine, yes, I think that would be fine…"
"Thank you Sir." Rounding off with one final perfect smile and a toss of hair.
**********
Tonight. After dinner. Usual place. Be there or be sexually frustrated for the rest of the week.
He slips the note into Taylor's blazer pocket as they cram into the classroom, quirking his eyebrow in his direction as he slides into his seat. He's rewarded with that sudden grin and is momentarily relieved Eggy is not beside him to get suspicious as he feels his mouth slide into a wide returning smile.
**********
Taylor huffs out a moan that is lust and anticipation and I-can't-fucking-wait-any-longer… He spits in his hand: glistening saliva string from lips to fingers; looming over him, folds of his shirt coming untucked, tie hanging free… Brian grabs it, fingers twisting in the fine silk, yanking him forward in a confusion of lips and teeth and bumping noses that quickly becomes breathless slippery kisses… Taylor groans into his mouth, hot sour breath on his tongue… Hands thrusting, tight, hard, the pat-pat of skin against skin…
"Maybe we should have sex?" Taylor's face is flushed, a slightly dazed expression in his eyes, though that could be the orgasms.
Brian quirks his mouth into a leer: "Fancy my cock up your arse, do you?"
Taylor blinks, his expression slightly coy, "Maybe."
The thought makes him catch his breath. He watches Taylor tuck in his shirt, fasten the buttons, and straighten his crooked collar. There's a mark on his throat - reddish-purple and bite-shaped. He imagines him sprawled in front of him: arse in the air, pale round buttocks exposed. He swallows.
"Next time."
"What?" Taylor frowns as he knots his tie.
He smiles wickedly. "I'll get some stuff. We can try it."
Taylor stares at him. "Make it soon."
**********
April 1978, Sanditon College
"You can't go dressed like that! Pickford's gonna do his nut!" Percy appears in the mirror behind him, mouth shaping outrage, fingers fiddling with an imperfectly knotted tie.
"Pickford can go fuck himself." He meets Percy's eyes and frowns at his reflection, running his hands through his hair, working it into tantalising dishevelment. He wants Keith Richards circa 1969… but too much gel and he's Two Shits Reynolds. "Anyway, I'm wearing a jacket for fuck's sake!"
"They won't even let you through the door. You'll miss the whole thing!"
"I'm not planning on going through the front door." Brian smiles dangerously at his reflection and pushes past Percy into the bedroom where Eggy's lying on his bed, smoking and reading a well-fingered copy of The Sun.
He ignores him and fishes a fag out of the silver family crest emblazoned cigarette case lying on Eggy's dresser. "On the scrounge again Kinney, you cheap bastard? - Jesus! What the fuck are you wearing?"
"Tell him to get changed." Percy's plaintive voice from the bathroom door. "He might listen to you."
"Not bloody likely!" He throws the "newspaper" aside, "So what's all this in aid of then?" A sweeping gesture with one fag-laden hand as he takes in Brian's apparel: tight black jeans, combat boots, distressed Bowie t-shirt and tight fitting black jacket. "Trying to impress someone?"
"Just felt like it."
"Bollocks!"
He smirks and shrugs, "Got a light?"
Eggy gives him a long look before seeming to give in, holding out his own smoking fag in answer. "Cheers."
"Are you after one of the girls then? Who is it?" asks Percy with quick eagerness.
Eggy throws him a withering glance. "Shut it Perce!" Percy retreats, hurt and sulky. "You're trying to impress him aren't you? Dressing up and all that?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Low and dangerous.
"For fuck's sake Kinney! I'm not a complete moron! It's not just the way he looks at you. It's you too… Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
"You're talking shite mate."
"Yeah, right - extra study sessions, practice? You never used to need that much fucking practice!" He grimaces. "Makes me feel sick when I think of it… Fucking unnatural."
A squirm of something in his stomach and he drags heavily on the fag. "So what're you going to do?"
"Ask you to fucking stop it?"
"And what if I say no? What will you do then?"
Eggy narrows his eyes, "Well I'm not going to fucking grass you up to anyone or anything. Thought we were mates."
He feels a jolt of warmth in his chest at the words. "So you'd still wanna be mates?"
"What's going on here?" Percy charges back into the room, "You two poofters arguing again?"
A hesitant exchange of glances, before they respond in synch: "Piss off Perce."
**************
He sits on his bed, McKenzie's stolen brandy cradled against his chest. He can't do this - it's too fucking stupid, social suicide… he'll be fucking destroyed and not just him… Taylor too.
He glances at the hastily scribbled sheet of paper, tapping his pen against his thigh:
Pros Cons
Getting expelled & leaving this shithole Getting expelled & having to live at home
A big fuck you to fucking Sanditon
He drops the pen. There, that's it. A big fuck you. Is there anything potentially sweeter than that?
He checks his watch and stands, taking one last long, very long swig before posing the bottle carefully under his bed. He smoothes down his t-shirt, smirks at his reflection and sets off.
The main entrance is deserted, likewise the side entrance. Muffled music seeping through the cracks in the door: …Honey, I'm the world's forgotten boy, the one who's searching, searching to destroy… Just as promised. Iggy and the Stooges. Nice one Toska.
Deep breath and… entrance. Keeping carefully to the back of the room, out of that beady-eyed cockstand, Pickford's view. He watches the dance floor: full of couples - stiff parodies of dancing, a couple of ill-advised Iggy Pop impressions.
Taylor is standing off to one side. He's not dancing but drinking the weak diluted punch, sharing a joke with that ginger git. He moves…
"Lovely weather we're having for this time of year."
Taylor spins around, "I thought you weren't coming."
A shrug. "I changed my mind."
"What the - hell are you wearing?"
Cue wicked smile: "You like it?"
"Course I bloody like it." Toothy grin. "Christ… if Pickford sees you now."
"I'm wearing a fucking jacket - it's what? Smart casual?"
Taylor snorts into the weak punch. "You're pissed?"
"Not enough, not nearly enough." He winks at the ginger git who gives him a slightly disgusted look before turning away. Taylor rolls his eyes - indulgent, amused.
The Stooges finish, twanging guitars fading away… to… good old Toska…
"You want to dance?"
He wrinkles his nose, evidently much confused: "What, to this, here?"
"Obviously."
"You're not fucking serious?"
"I'm always serious about David Bowie."
"Oh. Is this David Bowie?"
Eye-roll. "Give me strength. Are you dancing or not?"
Disbelieving snigger, a glance towards the couples-filled dance floor, and a nervous shrug: "Yeah, okay. Go on then."
They smile at each other. It's momentarily perfect. He leads him into the crowd, music crashing around them. I, I will be king, and you, you will be queen…"
"Just for the record, I'm not the queen."
He can feel Taylor's grin against the side of his face. "Well it's bloody well not me either."
They're pressed together, just one more couple amongst the others. Taylor's hand under his jacket: warm, almost unbearably itchy - a tingly magic sort of itchiness, stomach knotted - nerves and lust and desire and I can't believe we're fucking doing this…, cock hardening, straining against the tight material of his jeans; pressing closer, mouthing the words: …we could be heroes, just for one day, we can be us, just for one day…
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?"
Something snaps his head back, cruel fingers in his hair, tugging it out by the roots. Taylor backing away with a look of horror.
Pickford. Voice dripping with pleasure: "I knew you were a filthy common ponce Kinney - but I didn't know you were a dirty little poof as well."
He twists, snarling: "Poof and ponce - it means the same fucking thing… Sir."
***********
He's suspended. Sent home for three days. His father shrugs, not meeting his eyes, grunts something about what do you fucking expect at that fucking poncey school and sends him to work in his Uncle's shop. He's been working nights and he doesn't want to think about disciplining his wayward perverted offspring. His mother prays to Jesus.
Tulliver talks to him about "understandable perversions". You and Taylor are not the first Kinney, and you're not going to be the last… But Sanditon no longer turns a blind-eye to such behaviour. We have a zero tolerance policy...
He says nothing. Sitting in that claustrophobic office, the gas-fire hissing away, staring at the drab watercolour over Tulliver's head, it's of a harbour: dull nondescript fishing boats and fake blue sky. Still, you're predicted all A's for the exams, and you have your place at the LSE. The scholarship committee will have the final decision.
Of course it's the rugby that saves him. McKenzie's tearful character reference carries more weight than Pickford's bitter recriminations. The scholarship committee are all old boys, rugby enthusiasts to the bone, easily swayed by McKenzie's impassioned pleas: We're in spitting distance of a league win, but we're not going to do it without Kinney. He's my best player… He has a 92% conversion rate!
He thinks about the alcohol he's stolen, McKenzie's secret stash, and feels guilty. Then he remembers the lingering pats on the back, shoulder massages and "avuncular" chats and he grits his teeth.
************
Uncle Stephen drives him back to school in his van, dropping him off out of site of the school gates. He is already outcast enough, they don't need to see the Jamison's Fresh Fruit & Veg van.
His dormitory is deserted. Eggy's bed tellingly stripped. He sinks onto his own bed and tries to read Othello, their next English Lit text, but he can't concentrate, instead he listens to both sides of Station to Station on Percy's headphones, his face burrowed under his pillow.
Percy sits next to him at dinner. The rest of the Upper Sixth watches him with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion, Eggy ostentatiously ignoring him, Taylor's spot at the Lower Sixth table is ominously empty.
"How are you Kinney?"
"Fine." He spears a potato with his fork, watching the thick brown gravy drip onto his plate.
"Eggy said that you and that Taylor kid -"
He turns to face him, "Eggy's full of shit. Don't take any notice of anything he says."
"But everybody saw -"
"For fuck's sake Percy!" He lowers his fork with a hiss. Percy looks at him with reproachful eyes. He sighs. "Sorry. So - are you going to move to another dorm as well?"
"No. There's no one else who'd like to share with me."
Brian represses the urge to roll his eyes and tries to ignore the sound of laughter from Eggy's end of the table.
*********
The ginger kid, Taylor's friend, is called Paul Dwyer. He stares at Brian from under pale-lashed eyes and faint sandy eyebrows.
"He asked me to give you this." He holds out a letter. The back of his hand is covered in freckles so dense they look mottled, like the make-up his sister trowels onto her face.
"Why hasn't he come back?"
"His father didn't want him too. They've got him a tutor so he can finish studying at home. He's still going to take the exams. Though not here. Obviously."
"Oh."
"He wasn't expelled," the ginger kid - Paul - adds hastily. "Everyone's saying he was. But he wasn't. It was his father, he didn't like the fact that he was…" awkward tilt of his head, "you know, bent."
He represses the urge to flinch, it's not like he hasn't heard the word numerous times since he's been back, along with arse-bandit, cocksucker, poof, queer, shirt-lifter…"
"He's a bastard - his father, they always hated each other, you know?"
He doesn't know. He knows hardly anything about Taylor... except the way his eyes screw up when he comes, the way his skin tastes when he's aroused, the way his cock bends slightly to the left, the way he kisses - hard and desperate and needy, the way he moans when he runs his fingers over his spine. He swallows, ducking his head. "Yeah, I know."
Paul nods seriously. He seems to be a serious sort of person: quiet, studious, with pale watery eyes and pale ginger hair and that look that he'd always thought of as sly. He turns to walk away.
"Hey! Hey Kinney!"
He stops.
"Knock 'em dead on Saturday, at the match."
"Thanks."
Paul smiles, thin-lipped, lowering his voice, "Taylor always liked to watch you play. I remember last year, he used to drag me along to watch, he said you were sex on legs." He pulls a face. "He was quite disgusting like that." He laughs awkwardly and moves away, "Uh - see you around."
Brian watches him leave, then opens the letter.
*******
The present: September 1978, Piccadilly Circus
It's 2.25. He's been waiting 25 minutes. Precisely. A Japanese tourist approaches him with a big hopeful smile and a Nikon, mimicking taking a picture with a giggle of laughter. He shakes his head with a grimace: all disaffected, degenerate youth, and she backs away sharply, smile fading.
He leans against the railings and lights another fag, counting the buses and black cabs as they edge through the congested traffic.
"Brian?"
He twists around. He's standing there, holding a blue expensive looking suitcase in one hand, sports bag dangling from the other, blond hair shorter than he remembers but with the same wide all-encompassing grin.
There's a prickle across his skin - that bead of heat he remembers… His face crumbles into a smile, striding towards him then halting - suddenly awkward, flashes of all the times before, all the time that has passed since... This is, this has got to be -
"Sorry I'm late - it was the Bakerloo line, there were delays... Signal failure," he trails off, pulling a face. He drops the sports bag to the ground and bursts into loud nervous laughter: "God! I can't believe this. I can't believe we're actually doing this! Can you - are you sure it's going to be okay?"
He grins - wicked and artful, confidence flooding back to him. "Justin - it's going to be fine." He grabs the sports bag with one hand, dropping his half-smoked fag to the floor.
"Wow, I think that's the first time you've called me by my name." A grin - wide, toothy, excited.
"Yeah, well, you better get used to it. You ready to go?"