He's My Boyfriend

By: MagicMushrooms

-()-Introduction -()-
Author's Notes: Characters are original. If you've already read this far, you might as well read a little farther. Unless the thought of two guys kissing makes you sick to your stomach, you'll like it. If you don't, then let me know. I don't know a THING about skating, punk music, or destroying public property, so you'll have to help keep me in line about some things. For now, I'll do the best I can with the small amount of information I have stored inside my brain. I hope you like it, anyway!

Ta!

"Hey, Ryan, are you going to skate or what?" Sam looked down at me, his lip pricking up to one side, like it always did whenever he smiled.

"I'm serious. I can't skate."

He seemed disappointed. He really couldn't believe that no one skated in Utah.

But soon that same smile that seemed to cause his whole face to light up returned. I'd really just met him, and I could already read him like a book. Maybe he would have kept the conversation alive somehow, just as most people would, or maybe he was thinking of a way to change the subject. I wouldn't give him that chance.

"So how do you do it?"

Sam looked up at me, with green eyes that were brighter than Christmas morning. Color rushed to his pale face as his brain pondered over the subject.

"Maintaining balance." He glanced up trying to find words to describe this activity that he clearly emulated, "you have to find your center."

"So is this what you do every day after school?" I almost mocked.

He just kept looking forward, a crooked smirk on his face. White teeth worried his bottom lip. "You've been here all week and you still can't tell? That's all I ever do."

I breathed in sharply. Okay. This was new for sure. I still didn't understand the concept of skateboarding. I wondered silently if I would ever become one of those make-up wearing, punk rocking, sk8er boi's. The thought alone was enough to make me smile.

"Hey, well, if you don't care to watch me skate, we can go down to The Metal and hang out. Maybe you could meet some of the guys." The Metal was code for some gothy-social hangout. I had never actually been there, but I had heard enough about it from people at school.

"No thanks. My mom wants me home early today." I lied. My mom wasn't even at home.

Sam's lip pricked up, "maybe some other time then."

He nodded his head and took off, skating down the road. It was weird how Sam had this unspoken way of saying things. I shook my head, had to. I had to shake him off of me.

I stood up and stepped over the curb onto the sidewalk. Sam and I had met in homeroom. He was the only goth in there. Excuse me, he was the only P U N K in there. Sam hated being called a goth. Because, as he informed me, punk and goth were two very different things. I caught myself laughing and suddenly felt ashamed for thinking that way. I tried to shrug off the thought. It was all just so strange to me.

I was unaware as to whether or not I had any other classes with Sam. He had only showed up in homeroom my third day of being there. Sam hated school. He was all into that Anarchist's Cookbook, fight the power, the man bringing me down kind of thing. He assured me that he hardly ever came to school.

He must have gotten bored with that though, because the next day I watched him stumble into Intro to Art. His head was slumped down, dark black hair jetting over his pale green eyes, and he had that same stoned posture, soft spoken way about him.

He nudged me, "Beasley". I shuddered. My dreaded last name. That shrimp and caviar, Hamptonesque, 'honey, will you pass the chardoney?' dreaded last name.

Mrs. Harley didn't say anything to the truant punk who had just casually walked into the room and seated himself in the chair next to mine. She only shook her head as Sam yawned and plopped his arms over the table.

"Decide to come in today?" I inquired.

Sam just smirked and turned towards the front of the class as Mrs. Hartley flipped the lights out.

"Shape," she stated plainly.

Oh, great. She had only uttered a single word and I was already finding myself distracted. I tried to focus on the paintings on the wall. None of them were all that eye-catching. Reproductions of classic paintings like the Mona Lisa and the American Gothic. I sighed inwardly. Damn. This was going to be a fun class, I could already tell.

I followed Sam into the parking lot after school.

"It's not much," Sam muttered over the roof of his clunky '78 Mustang with a shrug, "it gets me from 'A' to 'B'."

I followed his gestures and managed to make a place for myself on the passengers side. I was careful, however, as I slid onto the worn leather, desperately trying not to let any part of me get caught on an exposed, rusted spring peeking out from the corner of a violent-looking hole.

Sam was already comfortably seated, fumbling around inside of his pocket, before he managed to retrieve a soft-pack of cigarettes with a brand name I hadn't heard of.

Sam held one out in my direction, but my disgust must have been well read because he quickly twirled the cigarette back into his palm. His expression suggested amusement.

"Dammit, I didn't say no." My voice was a little less agressive then I had intended for it to be.

I had never smoked before, but I lit the cigarette with ease, breathing it into my lungs deeply. I would inhale it as long as I could manage, I decided. I hoped Sam was watching me, that he would be impressed with how easily I had managed the situation. But when my long drag ended in an even longer coughing fit, I knew Sam wasn't fooled. My next few puffs, however small, were easily managed.

"I hope your mom's cool with you staying," he smiled crookedly. "So, do you want to go somewhere or something?"

It was a simple enough question, but the nicotine had left my thoughts clouded, "um, sure."

The situation was rapidly going awkward. The sudden silence was making me feel self-conscious and vulnerable.

Abruptly, the engine roared and my heart burst into little bite-sized pieces all over my lap. You would have thought I'd never even known what a car was. What is this space age technology?

Oh no, Ryan. Just a car. Oh, you didn't know? Everybody has one nowadays.

Dumbass.

I inhaled sharply. Sam didn't seem to mind too much that there was a strange guy he barely knew sprawled out over his cracked leather car seat with bloody, bite-sized chunks all over his lap. I glanced at him nervously, exhaling slowly, shakily.

Sam kicked the car into gear as I began attempting to inwardly reassemble my shakey self.

When we pulled out of the school parking lot he was still smiling.