Alright, I have to use an editing system called Q10 so the format is forever jacked up. I won't fix it ever so stfu. Sorry for spelling and shit. I rushed the last half of this. Sort of a giftfic for Nautical since she was rightfully crying about the lack of shitty DC fics lately. See if you guys can piece this together. This was originally like angsty no love thing but that got tedious and I'm like ugh already. It also had porn, but I erased it all on purpose. Here.

EDIT: Okay, I lied. The format was really fucked up so here guys. It's fixed now.

"The fuck, man?" MacCoy was fuming, arms raised to make himself seem larger, lips pulling back to show his teeth and a forming snarl.
The person he was expending all his rage upon was seemingly ignoring him, face attached to the glowing screen with half-dead, writhing bodies. "Tch". He hadn't even looked in the other's direction, too busy scowling and angrily smashing buttons.

MacCoy didn't stand down. "I'm talkin' ta ya."
Mo paused his game, the sound of gunfire instantly muted, and he slowly turned to stare at the other. "So, now ya wanna talk?" Lips pressing together in a fine line, he promptly faced a random direction so the blond wasn't in his sights. The game started up again and he muttered out, "I'm busy."
MacCoy took a couple step towards him, instead of heading to his room to mope, and that's when Mo knew he wasn't going to simply let him off the hook.

The goggled male's tone was borderline pleading, like he needed him to understand something that was blatantly obvious, and Mo switched the TV off via remote while tossing the controller to the side.
"Well, shiiit, man," MacCoy halted to run his fingers through his hair, attempting to comb out the apprehension fogging up his mind, "ya jus' ignore me all week then ditch me at the club when we do chill. I needed ya tonight."
The way Mo tilted his head at the other before leaning back all while wearing a look of 'how fucking dare you' made MacCoy feel as though he were talking to Taye-this feeling frightened him.

"Apparently I wasn't as important as you gettin' yo' dick wet was."

That statement was what set the other off and Mo watched with a pitiful satisfaction when the other was unable to snap back a retort. Blond eyebrows were drawn together and baby blues flickered to everywhere but his room mate; his guilt was palpable. Guilt was what fed his next ten steps from the door to the couch and the rising and falling of his voice.
The darker male shot up instantly, on instinct, knowing to never let anyone yell from above him, much less approach. Trying to contain a bitter laugh, and failing like nobody's business, he opened his mouth to mutter a flippant remark, "I don't need this shit, 'specially from yo' sorry ass."

The blond visibly flinched because Mo actually insulted him, an insult that wasn't an innocent jab at his ego, and this crushed him. Humbled by Mo's harsh words, his tone softened, and he attempted to make amends before shit blew up in his face. "Ya know how hard it's been fer me since after the break-up."
Even while thinking the words Mo felt childish but he'd had enough hiding and fighting and he just wanted everything to stop. "Well, ya don't know how hard it's been fer me since b'fore the break-up."

"The hell does that even mean?" He repeated the words but Mo shook his head, a sign for him to stop asking questions.
Mo's mind backpedaled. "It ain't nothin'."
MacCoy was so close to Mo now that he could feel his breath every time he spoke and the tagger wasn't sure whether he wanted to roughly kiss the other or slug him in the jaw. He nearly decided upon the latter when a condescending look was aimed at him. "Nah, motherfucker, it's somethin' and we're gonna deal wit' this shit right now."

Heat bubbled in the pit of his stomach at his friend's new display and he pushed the other back with his chest, looking down and challenging him. A toned chest met his, as well as an equally intense glare, and it took all the power in his being not to hold his friend to him in a fierce manner.
"I'm tired," Mo admitted, his words running much deeper than the physical meaning of being 'tired'. MacCoy couldn't tell the difference and inwardly gloated about this small victory. It was pathetic how cocky he became after a small boost of confidence from a faux victory. He actually thought Mo backed down.
"Ya bein' an ass cuz ya dunno how ta take a nap?"

Dark hands gripped his shoulders roughly, loosening when 'Coy tensed and changed his stance. Touches softening, he splayed his hands out over the broad muscle, stroking with his palms. "This ain't gonna work out. I'll move tomorrow."
Choking on a breath, whole body suddenly feeling lighter than air, he jerked away from Mo with an injured expression. "What? Why?"
"Ya need yo' space," he answered simply.

His eyes flashed towards the hallway and he mentally prepared a map on how to rush to his room without setting off any more emotional mines. He triggered one with his first step.

A pale hand was holding his chest back, he'd forgotten how strong MacCoy was, and the feeling to throw up nearly overwhelmed him. "What's the real problem?"
The African-American ignored him, chewed on his cheek and adverted his gaze to the happy pictures of them mocking him from the hallways.
"It's me, isn't it? Cuz I'm always mopey and cuz it's always 'oh poor MaCCoy, his girlfriend dumped him but he's not allowed to be sad cuz Mo's an asshole."

"That's not it." His friend's voice was blank now.

Weary of their verbal ping pong MacCoy spat out, "Fuck off."
He turned to leave, reluctant as ever because he knew there was something off bothering his friend, but he was so sick of constantly being swatted away when he approached a way to fix the problem.

Mo searched for the right words, never quite finding them-only a flurry of vocabulary he'd rather hide forever. He was surprised by this revelation because a half hour earlier he wanted to cut his losses and book it. "It is you."

MacCoy's back was still turned to him, but he stopped walking away like the characters in Angel's cheesy novellas, and he found it so much easier to let his words flow. "It's you when ya take a shower and walk 'round the apartment in a towel fer an hour."
'Coy's face scrunched up in an ugly, disbelieving way. "My crib too, homie."

Mo ignored him, "It's you when ya sleep in my bed cuz of nightmares and use me like a teddy bear."
Shooting a hand out, finger pointing accusingly, "Ya said it was fine and that ya wouldn't say nothin!"

Instead of speaking, amber orbs briefly closed and a tongue slid over trembling, chapped lips. MacCoy didn't understand what exactly Mo meant when he said all this but the downrocker felt better than he had in ages. He was inadvertently venting to the blond about his feelings, even if the dope couldn't fully comprehend the meaning behind it.

"It's you when ya bring trick's home and I can hear 'em screamin'."

If MacCoy had been drinking anything, the substance would've been sprayed all over Mo's face and the carpet. All malice left his body, embarrassment settling and making a rosy home on his cheeks. "Ya can hear that?"
Mo awkwardly scratched at the nape of his neck, knowing how private a matter such as this was. "Ya only sleep, like, right next door, dude."

"I thought we were bein' quiet," he mumbled shyly.
His reply came out too quickly for their tastes, "I never heard ya, jus' the girls."
He shoved his fists into his hoodie's pockets, chest and face burning up like he had a fever, and fiddled with some spare lint. They both knew he was lying but it wasn't like MacCoy was going to call him out on it; that'd be stupid.

It was a while before MacCoy opened his mouth to speak again, "I'll do my whorin' at a hotel or somethin'."
"Ya ain't a whore and ya ain't gettin' it."
Confused and head throbbing from all their incommensurable screaming, he shoved at Mo yelling, "What the hell is there to get?"

Mo's first shove was a reflex but the next few became rougher and more frequent . Shoves turned into Mo losing his footing and skidding along the carpet via the coffee table express, wooden legs bunching up the stained carpet underneath.
Lunging at MacCoy, he tackled him into the sofa, causing it to tip backwards, carrying it with them. The blond bucked him off, using his right leg to bounce off the frame of the couch, and pinned his arms behind him.

"Get offa me, Mac!"he roared, shaking frantically.
MacCoy sat in the curve of his back unfazed by his common burst of anger. "I ain't lettin' ya go; can't lose ya."
His grip loosened when he felt the muscles of Mo's arms and back unwind. Mo's jaw was still clenched tightly, however, when he spoke again, "Jus' lemme go."
Having cooled at 'Coy's words, his tone was bordering on defeated.
A devious smirk found it's way on the retro dancer's face, "If I let'cha up ya gotta promise not ta run away or punch me in the nads."

Mo let out a heavy-hearted chuckle, "I'd never punch a guy in the nads."

"But ya'd leave me?"MacCoy challenged him again, the tension not quite dissipating in the first place, and Mo had enough fight in him to go another couple rounds until his friend laid himself flat on his back, letting his face fall in the crook of his neck.

"Promise me, Mo"

He felt a huge lump rise in his throat, suddenly wanting to crawl into the middle of a highway and lay there. He forgot MacCoy had spoken until warm liquid slid down his jawline. A hiccup resounded in his ear. "I can't stop ya, but I can try."
Sure, it was selfish of him to want to tie his friend down with guilt, but they've been the best of bros since third grade and MacCoy was never all that exceptional at making friends.

"I'm in love wit' ya." Mo replied. Nothing else quite mattered at this moment; what was seriously the worst that could've happened? He was going to abandon his best friend anyways, might as well let the blame lie on someone else's shoulders for once. If MacCoy kicked him out for mackin' on him, that'd be cool because it wouldn't be his fault anymore.

Mo took MacCoy's silence as a bad sign, knowing his friend wouldn't feel the same.
"Yea, I'm a fag," he spat out bitterly, glad he couldn't see the pure disgust he was sure was etched on 'Coy' face.
His friend wasn't disgusted but he did feel dirty and didn't plan on speaking a word until he was able to process everything. MacCoy lifted himself from Mo and sat a few spaces away from him with his knees drawn to his chest.

"I'll leave," Mo stated bluntly, brushing dirt from his shirt.
"Don't." He choked on his words, forcing them out, because it was so hard for him not to cry.
Mo warily plopped down beside the dumbstruck Russian and jumped at the sudden voice after a couple minutes of silence.
"Since when?" The question was nearly inaudible so Mo struggled to hear, but he had trouble with this regardlessly because the blood was pounding into his head so hard he couldn't hear period.

"Graduation," he stated simply.
"I meant how long have you been...gay," the blond clarified."But, wow, that's three years?"
Mo didn't dare move any closer or breath louder; his body was currently on lock down. "I never told ya."

"Oh." The word was an acknowledgment, nothing more, nothing less. Both awkwardly stared at their socks, old personalities seeping in their bones since their rage had finally receded.
When he chose to speak again, he sounded genuinely upset, "Why didn't ya tell me? Ya didn't trust me?"
Sighing loudly, Mo nodded his head. MacCoy cast him a sidelong glance and scoffed.
The B-boy chose to clarify. "I thought you were a homophobe."

The blond wanted to go off on another tangent but when he saw Mo chew his bottom lip and close his eyes as though he were waiting for a hate filled speech he decided that fighting fire with fire wasn't the way to go this time.
"I meant how ya felt 'bout me." he muttered softly, finally finding the courage to look his best friend in the eyes. "All this time I've been hurtin' and lookin' fer somebody and ya were always right here."

"Word?"
"Word."

Mo was suddenly kneeling in front of MacCoy, tracing comforting lines over tension stressed skin, stopping at the corner of his mouth. "I wanna kiss ya 'Coy."
The blond was the first to move in, pressing his lips to Mo's shyly—afraid that this was some sort of elaborate prank because that would be his shitty luck. He was brought into a pair of warm arms and this time it felt different from the times he was comforting women or the occasional man. It was nice to have someone else take care of him for a change.

Mo let him test out his newly discovered territory, responding to 'Coy's timid pecks with soft ones of his own before driving their bodies together, fingering the clean line of short hairs framing the blond's neck. Pale fingers explored Mo's face when dark ones moved down to rest on his hips. They paused for a moment, grinning, until a mouth was patiently pressed against a set of lower lips. They stayed like that, enjoying the feeling of each other, Mo's lips still haphazardly resting in the crevice until MacCoy's parted and his tongue flicked over Mo's upper lip to coax it further open.

The blond was certainly more enthusiastic than he imagined and hugged him closer, so tightly Mo thought his lungs would burst. Warm tongues brushed together slightly, twining in greeting best they could, with Mo's occasionally running the roof of 'Coy's mouth.
It didn't help when they parted for breath, though Mo would never complain. Grateful his friend returned home alone, he thanked him by sucking on his lip,unsure of who this was more of a treat for. His hands slowly inched up MacCoy's deep blue tank, halting at the broadest curve of his ribcage.

The panting geek moaned out his name, leaving Mo with the opportunity to taste again. Pale fingers scratched idly at his back, owner drowning in heated bliss. Finding himself needing more skin-to skin contact he quickly shed his shirt groaning from the light scratches. Curious as ever, MacCoy explored his torso, reveling in every dip and curve.
His hands traveled lower, admiring the curt dips of his lower back, and MacCoy moaned a dull sound in his ear that sounded a little too odd. The toprocker pushed him to lay on his back and accompanied Mo's hands with his own, pulling the hem of his sweat pants down. The fabric slid off until golden hair was partially revealed and MacCoy leaned over to nip at his jaw repeating, "Wake up."

"Huh?"

He could feel the devilish smirk pressed behind his ear when MacCoy whispered, "Psyche."

A cold press was held to his forehead and he sat propped up on the couch with MacCoy kneeling on the ground. His vision was blurry and his mouth and ears felt as though they were stuffed full of cotton. "What happened?" he croaked.
"I kinda knocked ya out," MacCoy explained with a smug expression.

"When was this?" Mo asked incredulously. It couldn't have been when they were fighting because that was part of the dream, right?
"After we made-up we made-out then kinda...things got heavy and I got nervous and kinda...I elbowed you in the face. So here ya are all beat up, ugly mug and all." MacCoy explained awkwardly, making a grand gesture towards the African American's whole body.

Wow, that's ass," Mo moaned. His luck was horrible today.
"Yeah, Happy Friday the 13th." MacCoy replied.

"But we made-out?" Mo asked hopefully, a tentative smile gracing his features.
The other beamed down at him, chipper as ever, "And then some." Light kisses comforted the bruise forming on his cheekbone.

"Sweet."

just. Okay. Try to figure out when exactly he was uh knocked out lol. It's not so hard. Some of its 'dream', most of it isn't. derp.