Notes: For hc_bingo, using the prompt 'sexual extortion (to pay for something)'. 'Sigh like this' bit nicked from Carol Ann Duffy's 'Stealing'.
Lyle steals things when he's bored. Nothing big, nothing flashy, nothing identifiable. Small things, mostly stationery - pens, pencils, rubbers. Not from stores, you understand: they've got cams everywhere now, so it's too risky. Instead, he's become light-fingered enough to slip things off people's desks, including the teacher's. He only occasionally goes into the desks, though, because he's not usually left completely alone in a classroom.
One Tuesday lunchtime sometime in May, however, he's bored: he's eaten, run around and now he's bored. It's not particularly warm, so he goes inside. The heavy breeze rattles the blinds of windows that have been left open along the corridor. The only places that junior school pupuils are allowed at lunchtime are the dining room, the computer room and the library. Lyle wants the soothing hum of machines and taste of static in his mouth, but on his way he idly checks the handles of the doors that he passes. The classrooms are always locked at lunchtime, but he likes to test them anyway.
One door opens.
It's a fifth-form classroom. To Lyle, who will be going into the first form next year, this makes it full of promise and possiblity; they've all heard stories about what the 15-16 year olds bring into school (and get reprimanded for).
No-one's around, so he waits for a moment, listening for footsteps, before going in and closing the door behind him. He daren't turn the lights on, but there's dim light coming through the drawn screen blinds, just enough to see by. The pane of glass in the door is small; if he keeps to the front of the classroom, no-one should be able to see him from outside.
The key to a successful theft, he has learnt, is time. With this in mind, he doesn't linger over the contents of the desks - as soon as he's rifled through one, he's onto another, ever heedful of time slipping past his sharp eyes. He's surrounded by the ridges and dips of old fake-wood desks, the smell of board-polish and the faint taste of static in his mouth.
At the seventh desk, Lyle strikes lucky.
Cigarettes. Almost a full pack of Camel Lights, one corner slightly crumpled. He picks them up and sighs like this - ahhh.
Lyle doesn't smoke, doesn't much want to; he just wants something inherent in the cigarettes - maturity, rebellion - something that sets him apart, his and his alone.
"Oi."
The bottom drops out of Lyle's stomach.
Slowly, he turns around. It's a tall, brown-haired boy that Lyle doesn't recognise. His face is remarkable only in its blandness; neither handsome nor ugly, features neither prominent nor weak. He is neither slender nor stocky, and his shoulders are not notably broad. He is tall, but not overly so, although he towers over Lyle, who is short for his age. He is utterly ordinary, unmemorable. Right now, he's also terrifying.
"Going to nick my cigs, were you?" he asks, scowling. Lyle shrinks back. He should have heard this guy come in, he knows - there wasn't nearly enough noise to mask an intruder's footsteps. But it's too late for that now. He stays silent. If he's quick, he might be able to push past, squeeze around him - but even if he does, he could still be accused of theft, a serious offense in this school, and with his track record they won't believe him if he claims innocence. He swallows heavily, and waits.
"You could get into trouble for that," says the boy, advancing. Close up, he looks vaguely familiar; Lyle thinks he might be on the rugby team. Davies, or something. He stands his ground.
Davies (or whatever his name is) stares at him for a while, eyes squinted. The silence is uncomfortably charged, and Lyle does his best not to squirm.
"Tell you what," says Davies at last, "tell you what: I won't tell anyone about you trying to pinch my fags if you suck me off."
Lyle does.
Davies tastes like salt when he gets his mouth on him, and his cock is so hot, but Lyle likes that. This is the first time he's done this, and it's overwhelming - the taste, the smell, the heat, and the desperate desire to be good enough. He wants Davies to put his hands in his hair, pull him forward, be vicious, call him names - instead, his hands are braced on the desk behind him, and the only sound in the room is his light panting. Lyle sucks harder, wanting something more, although he doesn't know what.
Abruptly, Davies grabs his hair, yanking his head back - and comes all over his face. Miraculously, none of it gets in his eyes as, wide-eyed, he watches Davies' cock twitch and jump. His mouth is open, and some of the come gets inside it, on his tongue. It tastes a lot like salt and metal - and, weirdly, a little like almonds. The texture is unpleasant, but he swallows it anyway, because it's rude to spit. It's filthy, and he loves it.
They stay like that for a moment, gathering their breath - Davies slumped against the table, Lyle crouching in front of him, trying not to come in his pants. He can feel semen dripping from his fringe to roll down his cheek, but he doesn't feel dirty.
"Look," says Davies, "you can have the fags. Just - don't tell anyone, yeah?"
Tell anyone? Lyle just got what he's wanted for the past year - almost. It's the wrong person, but a cock is a cock (and he's probably too young to think that, but they can't see inside his head and they don't notice that he doesn't really talk anymore).
"'Kay," says Lyle, standing up and taking the proferred pack of cigarettes. His head feels funny, his mouth is dry and there's still come on his face. He feels brilliant.
A couple of minutes later, Lyle wanders into the boys' bathroom in a daze, vaguely hoping that it's empty.
It's not.
Neil looks up from the sink and makes a wheezing sound. Lyle turns on his heel to leave, but Neil leaps over to seize him by the collar and walk him backwards until he's pressed against the wall opposite the door.
"Lyle, what-" he begins.
"Shut up, Neil," he says tonelessly.
"No!" Neil's face is drawn into an upset frown. "Tell me!" he demands, looking as if he'd like to shake his brother.
Lyle presses his lips together and stares back. The semen on his face is starting to itch.
Neil sharply expels air through his nose, then takes one hand from Lyle's collar to reach for the nearest tap, fumbling his way along the edge of the sink because he won't take his eyes off Lyle. He gets to it and turns it on, and the sudden rush of water is loud and echoing. To Lyle's left is a paper towel dispenser, and Neil takes one to dampen it.
He makes as if to wipe Lyle's face with it, prompting him to jerk back - but Neil is stronger, so he submits stoically to his ministrations. Neil's gaze is intent upon him, and he's suddenly aware that the bathroom lighting has a faint blue tinge to it.
Neil is surprisingly gentle with the towel; smoothing it over his face in long strokes. The hair's a bit more difficult - he'll have to wash it when he gets home - but at least there's none on his clothes. Neither of them say anything more while he does it; the only sounds are the rushing of the tap and their synchronised breathing. Lyle tries to fall out of step, but it's more difficult than it sounds.
At last, Neil finishes, throwing the paper towel into the bin without looking. He still hasn't let go of him, and Lyle opens his mouth to tell him to fuck off -
Neil kisses him.
It's clumsy, open-mouthed but without tongue, and lasts only a few seconds before Neil tears himself away to stare at Lyle again. He looks anguished. Lyle doesn't know why - this is what he wants, what he's wanted ever since he started wanking - he can't get off without imagining his brother, he wants to suck his brother's cock until the taste of Davies is washed away. Lyle feels dizzy.
Neil's face crumples, and he buries his face in Lyle's shoulder as he bursts into tears.
Lyle just stands for a moment, stunned. Then, slowly and gingerly, he puts his arms around his brother. He puts his face in Neil's hair and inhales - it smells exactly the same as his, because they use the same shampoo. He holds him more securely now; one arm around his waist, the other hand in the middle of his back. Neil is still sobbing, but it sounds like relief. Lyle feels a strange prickling at the corners of his own eyelids.
Together, they breathe.
(He starts smoking the next year).