Kyle really isn't that sick. Yeah, he took the day off school, but not for anything major, no pneumonia or strep, no copious amounts of vomiting or exhausting bouts of diarrhoea. The most he has is a cold, one easily knocked out by a couple capsules of over-the-counter meds taken every five to six hours. Hell, the medicine probably does more to make him feel that tiny bit high than wipe out the germs infecting his systems. Come to think of it, he probably could've gone into school without a problem, so long as he kept his mouth covered and shoved a couple Kleenex packs in his pockets. He really isn't that sick.
But Kenny didn't quite believe the text sent him, dropping by anyway to check him, because those little emoji symbols could either mean Kyle's genuinely okay, or that he's withering away under piles of comforters, laid to rest in a coffin of pillows, but too proud to say there's a problem. Naturally Kyle teased him, when he walked into his room—"Didn't believe me, Ken'? I thought you knew me better."—subduing his sniffling as he watched Kenny slide off his backpack—"I'm your boyfriend, dude. I'm supposed to do this shit."—sling it on the floor beside his desk. And Kyle smiled, because Kenny walking in was the most interesting that happened to him all fucking day, detained in his bedroom, forgoing any hope of productivity and simply staring at the posters on the walls, too lazy to even go the three feet to his computer and load up the Sims.
Yeah, he smiled till he sneezed, mucus clamouring to leave his congested nostrils, nose red and sore from constant wiping, blowing, wiping. Kenny sat on the edge of the bed, pulling a tissue from the box, handing it to him with that charming smile, the one only someone with their backwoods upbringing can truly appreciate. Kenny kept talking, resting his hand on Kyle's thigh—"Now, how's about we try a lil' holistic approach. I know one that I bet'll make ya feel way better."—while Kyle cleared the translucent goo before it dripped onto his upper lip. Kyle balled up the tissue, raising a brow at Kenny's suggestion—"I don't remember you getting a doctorate in medicine."—but a smirk teasing at his lips. And Kenny leaned in real close, so his hot and healthy breath brushed Kyle's lips, reminding him of the warmth his blankets can't match, of the comfort his aspirin can't imitate, of the medicine Kenny makes with his mouth, his teeth and his spit and his tongue. He didn't need to tell him what his prescription was; Kyle knew from the way his exhales planted spectral kisses on his lips, wishing the layers of illness could quit interfering so they could kiss passionate and deep, but aware of another place his lips can go without worrying about the mucous taste in his mouth.
"But if you're not all that sick…"
Kyle couldn't cough fast enough.
His heavy chest rises and falls, each breath audible, verging on a pant. His fingers lazily comb through locks of blond, goading Kenny on as his head bobs between his legs. The day of idleness left him numb and dumb, but Kenny helps bring the life back into him, awakening feeling as he splotches maroon and mulberry across the inside of pale thighs. The fog of sickness in his green eyes lifts, the veil slowly receding as teeth pinch the skin, a wet ring surrounding, letting Kenny warm him up, make him come. Kyle licks over his lips; he isn't too sick to enjoy this.
He shuts his eyes, breathes out, hears his heartbeat. For the first time all day, he feels something moving him, feels the blood flowing through his veins, rushing down low, pooling under Kenny's mouth. His muscles tense, so thankful to be freed from languid anguish, tight with the excitement of Kenny's hands gliding over his hips, rough and calloused skin caressing the dips and curves of the bone. This is a haze, but not the one he loafed in as the hours ticked by, but one that nurtures him, reminds him of the sweetness and the heat, his own private fever dream.
Kenny's tongue licks along the veins, following their current upwards, but his stop is not the heart. One thumb strokes over the contours of his waist, a reassuring pet, and Kyle's breath hitches. His toes curl, straighten, and he bucks his hips forward, up, needing a mouth around his cock so he can think clearly again. His exhale comes out in an elongated sigh, a drawn-out moan. He twirls some hair around his fingers, grips, pulls gently, asking for Kenny to start his treatment at the head.
Kyle savours this; moments like this, when Kenny cups him and guides him along. When his eyes open, pillows propped so he stares at where the ceiling meets the wall, he feels how his lips curve, forgetting the germ and Gatorade flavour coating his tongue, the stuffiness of his nasal passages, the light aching of his back from spending so long sleeping in an odd position. No, he just feels Kenny's lips drawing back, saliva drying on his skin, his skin still tickling. And his breath, he feels his breath against his balls, his shaft, his head, Kenny moving to meet his erection. He bites his tongue, head lolling back as he waits for Kenny to take him in his…
BVVVRP! BVVVRP! BVVVRP!
Kyle perks up, eyes widened with surprise, caught off guard. He wades through the primordial ooze of grey matter, sifting through his thoughts to place the sound. He blinks, and sees two light blue eyes staring back at him, Kenny choosing to pause, wait for an explanation. His mouth hangs open, jaw slack, and he raises his brows, inquisitively: a question, silently asking what it is. Kyle's eyes stay fixed on Kenny's, his fingers tracing absently over the crown of his head, before his epiphany:
"My phone."
He looks to the end table, his iPhone advancing towards the edge with each vibration, metal and plastic banging against synthetic wood. The screen illumines, light bursting from beneath the glass. A picture appears, of his best friend Stan, his dark blue eyes crossed for the photograph, wearing Kyle's bright green hat askew. He took that while they were messing around; playing Guitar Hero Live, too busy jokingly impersonating one another to notice the game soft-locked. Stan has a similar one of him, wearing his hat so the red brim aligned with his eyebrows, his red curls barely contained by the poof-ball cap. On the top of the image is his name, in plain white text, while on the bottom is the green circle and its path, slide to answer, and two other, smaller options, send a message or ignore call.
Kyle looks back to Kenny, listening to the phone cycle through its vibration pulse. Kenny raises his head, lets a grin dominate his mouth. His eyes shine, with the glint of broken bottle glass, an idea entering his mind, taking root. An audience, to witness the miracles of his fantastical cure, like the peddling quacks who told how their piss-based elixirs and violet wands could eradicate all ailments and then some. This, this could be fun.
"Answer it."
"What?"
"You heard me."
Kyle reads the look in his eyes, decoding the features of his face to find what his words omit. The angle of his smirk, making it that slightest bit uneven, proposes his game, a conditional offer, one of a lifetime. He picks up the phone, and he swears to blow his mind, make it so the pills aren't the only thing making him dizzy. His eyes, soft and caring, assure him that it's his choice, in no rush to abandon the hard dick in front of him. He ignores it, and he'll still duck his head down, suck him off and swallow his come. It's up to Kyle whether he wants that addition, of talking on the phone like everything's normal, battling the moans brought on my Kenny's obliging mouth.
It's up to Kyle.
He grabs the phone from the table, the device jumping in his fingers, almost dropping it to the floor, but managing to keep his grip. His thumb hovers over the green circle, and he lets out a breath. From beyond the curved edge of his phone, he sees Kenny lower his head, open his mouth. His thumb swipes the screen, answering the call, and he holds the phone to his ear.
"Hello?"
Kenny's lips ring around his cock, sliding down the length, claiming more and more of him. The warmth of his cheeks, the caress of his tongue; the feelings replace thoughts, conquer his mind. His body trembles, lightly, under Kenny's fingers, and Kyle feels them drag across his skin, moving to further pamper.
"Hey, man. You alright?"
Alright, Kyle thinks, so alright. Nothing can be wrong with Kenny sliding his tongue along the side of his cock, humming softly for the added sensation. He feels the flexes of the muscles, in his cheeks, in his lips, hard at work to please; and his hands. One settles on his ass, fingers splayed across the tops of his cheeks, wriggling between flushed skin and cushy mattress, there to support and to stimulate. The other pets his thigh, easing over the fresh marks he left, encouraging the blossoms of red and of purple, gliding over indentations made by his own set of teeth.
"Fuckin' sick. What do you think?"
He realises how breathy his voice is, so much air in his words, each one a balloon flying away as they roll off his tongue. He talks in gasps, but tries keeping them down, supressing the verbal. He channels those energies, instead, to the kinetic, the physical, thrusting into Kenny's mouth, out of want, desire, need. He needs to be taken, yearns for Kenny to seize control over him, steal it from the cold, imbue him with his tender loving care so Kyle melts into the sheets.
"Wow, sorry for making sure you're still alive."
Kenny smiles, relieved, feeling Kyle's fingertips press against the top of his head, hairs wrapped around tugging at the roots. He presses his hand against his ass, pulling Kyle up, so Kyle lets him suck more of him. His humming continues, evolving into a satisfied purr, happy to have him, and have him. He knows what little motions indicate the transfer, show when Kyle gives up his power, gives him the power. Because that's what he likes best, having someone else take the responsibility, the responsibility of him, and only Kenny knows how to handle it, expertly.
A groan draws out from the back of Kyle's throat, running out of his mouth as Kenny raises his head, so his lips only wrap around the head. Kenny's hand deviates from his thigh, darts for the base, fingers curling around him, skin over saliva over flesh. Parts of him are wet, parts of him are rough, parts of him are humid, and all of him is hot.
"What was that?"
Kyle forces a cough, taking the huskiness of his groan, warping its coarseness. His act grows more convincing as Kenny starts tugging on his dick, swiping his tongue across his head. The tip of the penis is the most sensitive part of the body, the one fact in Sex Ed that rings too true now. The moans brew in his chest, and he turns them into symptoms.
"I told you, I'm sick."
Not as sick as he was of waiting, letting Kenny daub kisses on his legs, his dick standing hard and ready, waiting but impatient. Make it last longer, make it that much more satisfying when Kenny makes him writhe under him. All damn day Kyle's body has produced fluids, so much unnecessary secretion, but for the first time he feels his body making something he wants.
"Right…"
Up and down, up and down, Kenny pumps him up and down. Right into his mouth, so his lips keep brushing up the edge of the head, his tongue focused centrally. Kyle releases his hair, takes another clump in his palm, and Kenny knows to go faster, faster please, please. Make him forget about everything with a few seconds relief, make him buoyant in afterglow for the rest of the day, motivated to cleanse his systems if only to have Kenny go further, pepper kisses on his torso and hickeys on his stomach, suckle on his neck and nip the lobe of his ear, press their mouths together sloppily and put his tongue down his throat.
Kyle's teeth dig into his lip, as he shifts his attention, to regulating his breath, regimenting his gasps into a pattern, creating a semblance of normalcy. But leaden sound weighs down his exhales, deepens his inhales, and he realises how much he relies on his mouth, for air. Another moan crawls from the depths of his diaphragm, his whole chest resounding as it makes its way out, escaping through the open doors of his lips.
"Just remember to, like, medicate, 'kay?"
And his lips, his lips lower on Kyle, tighten around him. He knows how to hold him, hold any part of him, with any part of him. He can use his little finger to graze over his balls, use his other three to rub along his shaft, use his tongue on every inch of his head.
Kyle manages a weak hum, breathes it into the receiver, hoping the microphone picks it up, that it resonates clearly on the other line, obscured transparency, staving off Stan's natural scepticism. Just because Kenny blowing him barrages his mind with only raw feeling, monosyllabic bursts of thought, doesn't mean that Stan needs to know, listen in and imagine Kyle raising his hips at Kenny's subtle direction, his skin no longer stained by pallor and instead flushing rubicund, his back sinking into the pillows as he ruffles already tousled golden hair.
"Kyle?"
Hand and mouth, fingers and tongue, good and better. Kenny turns his head, letting Kyle slide into his mouth at an angle, poking at his cheek instead of going down his throat. Kyle's close, and for all the love he gives him, love that makes him die and resurrect and die and keep living, choking on semen on his sickbed isn't on his agenda. No, he needs to look up, as he wipes the white dribbling from the corner of his lips, throat sticky all the way down, and see Kyle revelling in orgasm, pleasure lingering, green eyes wide and bleary but seeing only him, only the ghetto-trash hood-rat whose mouth spoils him more than the rich Greenwich boys with their bricks of coke and wallets stocked with credit cards.
One hard gulp, wad of spit rolling down, and Kyle figures he's almost there, almost. So close to culmination, his nails can lightly scratch it, the way he absently scratches the hard back of his phone. He notices how awkwardly he holds it, practically flat, so he can talk with ease, but struggle hearing Stan on the other end. His wrist just started moving, Kyle too captivated by the thrill to give a shit, give a shit that he can scarcely hear a word on the other end of the line.
"Dude, are you still there?"
"There—!"
The phone slips from his hand.
"What?"
"—Fuck!"
His back arches, shoulders burrowing into the soft pillows, their plushness cradling him. He feels it in waves, throughout his body, desert winds blowing off the dunes of sand, uncovering untouched tomb. He's gold and he's silver and he's silk and he's satin, bronze spearheads and ceramic jars and ancient coins and glittering treasure. His voice rings in his eyes, groaning tinnitus, all he stifled manifesting, unleashing with his release, his sweet, sweet release.
As his head fills with joy, he fills Kenny's mouth. He empties into his cheek, splashing warm red with lusty white. It follows the curve, flooding under his tongue, levels rising between and around bottom rows of teeth. His tongue flicks, dipping in, for a taste—that taste—and adding a few dots his palette. He steadily tilts his head back, as he backs away, managing his gulps, measuring each one, so he can savour and swallow, swallow and savour; spitters are quitters, after all.
"Kyle?!"
He blinks, basks, relaxes. In the sudden clarity, he can't feel the clogged breathing passages, the pressurised temples, the latent nausea churning his stomach; he just feels Kenny, cleaning off the extra off his cock, before it trickles and stains the blankets. His fingers stay entangled in the blond, his absent toying tying his palm down, only able to give limited pets, listless signs of gratitude. He breathes unhampered, reinvigorated, and, no, he isn't that sick. If he was, then Kenny made him better.
He wears a small tired grin as Kenny's fingers tap against his cheeks, leave to find stability in the memory foam. His other hand rises with his head, Kenny covering his mouth as soon as he cranes his neck up. He catches what escaped his mouth, blue eyes locked with green as he redirects the splotches on his chin back to his lips. And he doesn't need to talk, need to say anything, it all in his eyes: Feel better?
Kyle brushes his hair back, ensuring no locks interfere with his view of Kenny's face. His breathing starts evening out, reverting to its normal function, no need for harsh gasps or deep groans. But his heartbeat is slow to temper, his brain seconding the notion, both inspired by Kenny's medicinal wonders, too determined to restore his body to regularity, so he can indulge in over-the-counter addiction. And he laughs, sounds like typical, healthy Kyle: Much better.
The phone sits upright, leaned against the pillows. The counter keeps track of the seconds, even though Kyle assumed the thing shut off somewhere in the midst of things, and even though Stan doesn't say a word. Not for a long, long time, giving credence to Kyle's conclusion. At least until, finally, Stan has the words to react to what he heard:
"Dude, SICK!"
A/N: Mistakes were made on Stan's part. I'm hoping reading this wasn't a mistake for you. Thanks for reading!