Title: Wrong Side of the Tracks
Fandom: Boy Meets World
Author: Blood White Panther (aka whitepanther16)
Pairing(s): Cory/Shawn
Rating/Warnings: This has an M (or R) rating for mature themes, sexual content, denial, confusion, and slash themes. This has not been beta-ed.
Notes: This story takes place immediately following the episode "Wrong Side of the Tracks". The first scene is Cory's point of view and past tense. The next two scenes are Shawn's point of view and present tense.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything that is recognizable from Boy Meets World, and I'm not making any money off of this.
xxxxx
I picked Shawn Hunter for my biography assignment because Mr. Turner said it didn't have to be some one famous, it just had to be some one, anyone, I liked. And there's no one I like better than my best friend, right? When he picked Cory Matthews, I figured we'd be hanging out, doing the assignment together, and pretty much goofing off like always. That's what friends are for. And when Jill's friend Mindy said Shawn's family, Shawn's home, Shawn's whole life (outside of school and me) made him gross, it was the first time since preschool that I wanted to hit some one so bad I didn't care she was a girl. I got rid of her before I lost control, but when Shawn got that look worse than a kicked puppy, when his whole chest slumped and he looked at the ground, said he should've known he didn't have a shot with a girl like that, all I wanted to do was run after Mindy, and Jill, too, grab them by the hair and smack their faces in. I might've, too, but I had some one more important to take care of.
So I floundered and joked and reminisced until I thought I'd managed to talk Shawn back from wherever he was headed, I really did. Until I didn't see that last lifeline in time. He wanted me come over to his place for a change. Eat fish off the radiator of his dad's car. I've done it before, and I should have realized what he was asking me before I turned up my snobby-assed nose. What's a little antifreeze in the way of validating a friend's life?
When Shawn said people like us shouldn't be friends, wouldn't be friends later on anyway, it kind of felt like Harley had slugged me in the stomach. Only, for the first time, Harley and his goons weren't throwing the punches. When Shawn said he knew where he was going to end up, that people like him don't have friends like me, I figured out which of them had the better right hook.
So when Dad told me Shawn still needed me, needed me more than ever, and that's why he was pushing me away, it wasn't only for him that I showed up to steal the bat. See, I didn't just stop him from vandalising Mr. Turner's bike, or from doing it without me, anyway, because Shawn needed me. Or even because I respect Mr. Turner. I took the bat away because I still need Shawn—and I think I always will. When Shawn said we won't stay friends, that I'm going to leave him behind some day, he was being a real low-class moron for the first time in his life. Because if Shawn's planning to stay a trailer park thug forever, guess who the white trash roommate's going to be?
See I know Shawn Hunter, raised-by-wolves, better than I know myself. And I saw the scared sort of hope in his face when Mr. Turner told him he was worth something, that he shouldn't have to ask to know he was, that low-lifes don't have friends like me. I heard Shawn when he said I can't tell him what's going to happen to him. And I heard the tremor in his voice when he was asking Mr. Turner to say he was alright.
It took the whole walk home, the rest of the afternoon, supper (which I didn't actually swallow), and three hours lying awake that night, before I knew what Shawn needed from me (although, I knew he didn't know yet that he needed it and might not take to the idea all that well when I told him). And it took a bike ride in the dark, to the rough end of town (which was more than a little terrifying, this time of night, even if it was only two blocks) before I knew for sure I wanted to give it.
Throwing pebbles at his window seemed a little cliché, so I knocked on the pane instead. Wouldn't want to scratch the plexiglas, anyway. And here's how it went:
"Shawn! Hey, Shawn!"
"Wha- Cory?"
"Yeah, so come around out back to the old Chevy, okay?"
"Cor, it's the middle of the night!"
"Just come."
So I heard him rustling around for some jeans and his shoes. And half a minute later I heard him curse when the screen door banged shut. And before I knew it he was standing in front of me, panting and wrestling to pull on a leather jacket over his old T-shirt.
"Cory, man, what are you doing in the trailer park after dark? Is everything okay?" He rubbed a hand across his face and yawned a little.
"Shawn, I-" my voice cracked and I swallowed nervously.
"Is that your bike? You biked here in the middle of the night!?" Suddenly he looked considerably more awake.
"Trailer park trash, Shawn? Is that what you are?"
"What?"
"Just because you started here, doesn't mean you have to stay here, alright?"
"Yeah, but-"
"And I don't care if you do, alright? So shut up and listen to me!"
"O-okay, Cor." He swallowed. And I know him well enough to catch that same little tremor in his voice.
"I'm not going anywhere, Shawn. And I don't care what circle you run in, or if I don't fit in perfect in your neighbourhood. I'm always going to be here."
"Cory, man, I-"
"Look, I may not know exactly what's going to happen to you in ten years, but I'm still going to be a part of it. And I can tell you exactly what's going to happen to you this year, this minute." I paused now. Licked my lips a little nervously.
"What are you talking about Cor, my man? How can you even know that? Are you going to hit me or something?" He tries to laugh it off. To brush his self-doubt under the carpet and achieve some kind of normalcy. But I'm not having it.
"Shawn?"
"Yeah?"
"In the next minute you're going to realize why I'm not going anywhere (I moved closer, but he wouldn't meet my eyes), you're going to see how Goddamn important you are (his breath hitched as I grabbed his shoulder and leaned closer), and you're going to see how much I don't care about houses vs. trailer parks and running in the right circles (my voice was low and verging on hysterical and my eyes were stinging and I was leaning closer and he was shaking when I pressed our lips together for the first time)."
xxxxx
There's an unspoken understanding between best friends. A sort of Golden Rule you don't even have to think about. It goes something like this: You don't kiss your best friend. Not when you're both guys. And if, for whatever reason, your best friend goes temporarily (I hope) insane and decides to kiss you, you don't let him. You're supposed to shove him away, slug him in the jaw, ask him 'What the Hell, is going on!?' You're not supposed to like it. It isn't supposed to make you feel loved for the first time you can remember, and it definitely isn't supposed to give you an erection.
It started with a girl, like most of the stories I tell. I think it had something to do with Jill rejecting me on the grounds of where I live, what Dad does for a living. It definitely had something to do with deciding I wasn't good enough to be Cory's friend or hang out with the in crowd. After a close call with Harley and Mr. Turner's motorcycle, and a little reassurance from Cory and the owner of said motorbike I was on my way to getting over it. I still didn't feel all that good about myself, but I wasn't trying to deny my friends anymore. To tell you the truth, I'm not so much concerned about Jill and my whole social status identity crisis anymore. Right now I'm a little more worried about Cory kissing me and me letting him.
For however long it was we stood there (it felt something like forever or a nanosecond), me shaking, with my hands clenched at my sides, Cory's hand on my shoulder, and our lips pressed together, it actually felt good. Cory didn't just touch our mouths together, peck me on the mouth, and smack his lips like a little kid kissing his grandma. And it wasn't about hormones, not at first, at least not entirely. As twisted as this is gonna sound—the way he moved his lips against mine—it sort of felt like love. Like he was worshiping me or something. It was awkward and all—they say every first kiss is supposed to be. Not perfect technique or anything, but it really felt like he was trying to show me exactly how much I mean to him. So freaking girly and tender that I was about one second away from kissing back.
Shit. I'm sitting at the table with my head dropped into my hands and my fingers tangled in my hair. And somehow that's the worst part. The hardest part to admit. I had liked the kiss. Cory had done something weird and crazy and stupid. Something that should have felt disgusting and weird. And as disgusted and nauseous as I feel now, sitting here and thinking about it, it hadn't felt gross at the time. I just stood there and let it happen. I even wanted to kiss back. If you want to get technical about it, that kiss had me harder than the dream I had last week about Veronica Watson making out with Jill.
The only reason I hadn't started kissing Cory was the arrival of the neighbour's truck. It was out of our line of sight, but the short-lived rumbling of an engine and the clacks of two truck doors slamming shut had been more than enough to break the spell. To divert a little blood back to our brains. Before I'd had time to realize it, Cory was mumbling jumbled, almost hysterical-sounding excuses about getting home. Before it sunk in that Cor was going to bike home in the dark, the jerk was already peddling out the gate. I remember sinking to the ground and sitting against the old Chevy with my arms wrapped tight around my knees. I don't remember much after that, including when or how I snuck back into the house.
And things have been weird ever since. We haven't talked about it. We still hang out and play video games and catch and do homework and watch TV and pig out. We act exactly like before, like best friends, like just two of the guys. Talk about it? I don't think either of us even wants to think about the kiss in each other's presence. We pretend it never happened. Something's off, though. And we sure as Hell don't wrestle anymore. The first time an innocent game of keep-away with Cory's homework ended up with me stretched out flat on the couch and Cory sort of straddling my lap and pinning my wrist above my head put a stop to that. Sure, it was completely innocent. And we've probably been in a similar position millions of times before and never noticed. But it doesn't feel quite so fraternal anymore.
Actually, we try not to touch each other at all.
I remember cursing the audible hitch in my breath when Cory forgot himself last week and clasped my shoulder the same way he had that night. And I tried to ignore it yesterday when Cory ended up red and when we accidentally reached into a bag of chips at the same time and our fingers brushed.
Every casual, accidental touch we wouldn't have even noticed before feels charged now.
We make a point of not being completely alone together. I wouldn't be able to ignore the problem as completely without a buffer zone of a few pals, parents or siblings around.
It's incredibly disturbing when your knee brushes against your best bud's knee under the cafeteria table and you feel all hot and out of breath. It's weird when you let your leg linger there for a few extra seconds specifically because your heart is pounding. And it's about to get weirder.
I'm sitting at the lunch table with Cory, thinking about what I'm going to say and it makes me swallow kind of nervously. My mouth feels dry. My palms are sweaty. Actually, I pretty much feel like I did when Hillary asked me on my first date and I was just trying to keep it together. This is the first time, when Cory and I aren't fighting, anyway, that I'm not actually sure Cory will want to come over. I have to swallow hard against the nervous giggle that's trying to force its way out my throat. What if I ask Cory to stay over and he gets freaked out and says no?
Is there anyone else I can invite instead? Not really. I mean, I have other friends, but Cory's my best friend. The sleepover guy (not like I still have sleepovers, of course not). The only one who's ever actually seen where I live, come to think of it. My dad hadn't really needed to extract that 'no party' promise before he and Mom took off for the weekend. Truth is, there are very few people I'd invite to the trailer park. And fewer still who would have both wanted to show up and been allowed there after dark. Sure, I could have had some kind of rule-breaker-rebel party with the dangerous guys and the wild, reckless girls, but lately I haven't been able to concentrate much on girls and pairing off. That's not to say I've stopped looking—I don't ever expect I'll want to do that—just that things like fantasies always end up a little more complicated lately. I'm swallowing again, and darting nervous eyes over to study Cory's profile.
The 'no party' promise had been quickly followed by a stern, inflexible look, a forced meeting of eyes, and another promise. 'Shawn,' he'd said, 'I don't want a party. That means no more than one friend over. But absolutely no female friends, alright? I don't want any girls in this house while we're gone.' I remember biting back a smart comment about a certain lack of actual houses and gulping nervously. Chet Hunter is one heck of an intimidating guy when he wants to be, so I answered without hesitating. Said something along the lines of 'Yes, sir. No girls. No party. One male friend only,' at which point Dad had looked satisfied.
So, the folks are out of town. And they're letting me stay home alone. Overnight. On one condition, though: they want me to invite a friend to stay over. Just in case. All these rules and they probably feel like they've filled their annual quotas of concerned, parental behaviour. Why'd they have to start caring now?
Time to ask my best friend to stay over at the trailer. All night. Alone. No problem, right? I mean, it's not like Cory kissed me the last time we were alone together, or anything crazy like that, huh? Crap. I'm really starting to wish I didn't push so hard for the privilege to stay home alone. I thought maybe I could avoid inviting myself over to the Matthews for the weekend if my parents would only trust me enough to take care of myself. This is so much worse. And I can't exactly change my mind now. No way am I explaining to my dad that I'd be a lot more comfortable around Cory if we were supervised so nothing inappropriate could happen.
Alright, time to bite the bullet. I swallow one last time. My hands are shaking, so I take them off the table and into my lap. I clench them into fists around the material of my cargo pants.
"H-hey, Cor?"
"Yeah, Shawn?" Cory asks through a mouthful of macaroni and cheese.
"Mom and Dad went out of town for the weekend…" I have to trail off to clear my throat.
"Okay?" Cory prods questioningly.
"And they want me to invite some one over to stay with me at the trailer." Cory's hand shakes a little and he almost drops his fork. He swallows and I think he knows what's coming next.
"So, do- do you want to hang out at my place this weekend?" I force out through dry lips.
"Sure! I mean, yeah. That'll be great. Hanging out at your house. G-great," Cory blurts out in a rush. He says it a little too fast, and his voice is a little too high and shaky to be normal. But he still says yes, so I let out the breath I'm holding and unclench my hands. I put on a slightly shaky grin.
"Yeah. Great."
xxxxx
It's Friday afternoon and Cory came home with me after school. We stay out in the yard playing catch for as long as possible. Twilight rolls around and I realize we're both stalling. Neither one of us is eager to be confined together in a small room. It's getting cold and dark now, though, so I sigh and lead the way inside.
Cory sits on the couch in the living room and clasps his hands together so his knuckles are white. I tell him to put in the movie while I make popcorn. It's some R-rated flick with guns and blood and zombies. When I come back into the room with a giant bowl of popcorn and notice Cory pressed as far into the left corner of couch as possible, I tell myself it's ridiculous. Even though I really want to take the opposite armrest and stay as far away from touching as possible, for some reason I decide to be brave. I sit down to his right on the middle cushion with the bowl of popcorn between us. Cory starts and looks over at me like I'm plotting something, but I really have no idea what I'm doing. And then we settle in to watch the movie and both of us seem to forget about proximity for a while.
"Hey, Shawn? I'm getting glare, can you reach over and turn off the light?" And just like that I'm back to being tense and wary.
"Er, yeah, man. Sure thing." I stretch my arm out and flick the switch. We are plunged into darkness with the sole exception of the flashing television. The air feels heavy and my skin feels uncomfortable—like it's too tight all of a sudden. I'm picking up the same tense sort of vibe off of Cory for the next couple of minutes. I think it has something to do with the nervous glances he keeps shooting my way. Eventually, though, we both get absorbed in the cinematic wonder that is blood, guts, and brain-eating-zombies. Things feel normal right up until our knuckles bump in the popcorn bowl. Cory starts almost violently and I hiss out a startled breath. I try to draw my hand away, but Cory glances sideways at me, swallows nervously, and runs his thumb over the back of my hand.
I suck in another sharp breath and my hand twitches, but for some unknown reason I leave my hand where it is. Cory is looking away and off to the left, no longer meeting my eyes. His buttery fingers skate over the back of my hand in a strange sort of caress. We both pretend to watch the movie for the next five minutes, but I know we're lying to ourselves. We're actually both focusing our attention on the brush of Cory's greasy fingers against my sweaty palm, on the gentle way his thumb is stroking at the back of my hand.
A few minutes pass like this and then Cory fully interlocks our fingers. I'm officially alone with Cory, holding hands in a dark trailer. My hand twitches and I want to pull out of that dangerous connection, but Cory holds tighter and keeps stroking my fingers. Both of our hands are clammy from nerves and greasy from popcorn butter, but he isn't letting me pull away. We sit like that for at least ten minutes, still pretending to watch the movie. Somewhere along the line Cory moves the popcorn out of the way with his other hand.
I fix my eyes on the screen and pretend my whole being isn't focused on Cory's fingers running over mine. I swallow convulsively and out of nowhere I get this scary impulse to stroke his hand how he's stroking mine. Before I can talk myself out of it I run my index finger along his and slide our palms together a little more firmly.
Cory lets out a panting sort of breath and I swear he can hear my heart beating, but my reciprocation must have made him braver. He still isn't looking at me, but he loosens his grip on my hand and rubs his knuckles on the inside of my wrist and then skates his fingers up and down my arm.
The entire left side of my body feels like it's on fire and I'm almost panting just from a hand on my arm. I try to focus on the TV screen, but the credits are rolling. And then Cory's leaning closer and sliding his hand up into my hair and I'm turning my face to look at him with my eyes half shut and his eyes are fluttering closed and our mouths are almost touching. Our breath is mixing hotly in the inch between our lips and then I lean that last fraction closer and Cory gasps and our lips are sliding together.
Cory's mouth is dry and soft and he parts his lips when I run my tongue along the seam. He tastes like salt and butter-flavoured popcorn and comfort. Like shared popsicles when we were seven and stolen suckers when we were nine. My memories make me nervous, like I'm going to break something sacred, and I go shy and still, but he's taking over now so it's still okay. He follows my tongue back into my mouth with his own and runs it over the inside of my mouth until I'm shivering like it's 30 below.
I blink when the credits stop and the TV flickers static light over our skin, but I don't worry about turning it off. The night feels surreal in the strange glow and it somehow helps me stay cool. When Cory starts to creep closer and we overbalance, it doesn't seem like a bad thing to find myself stretched out on the couch with him on top of me. My skin is singing with these hot, sort of vibrating chills and I slide my hands around his waist and chase his tongue back into his own mouth.
Cory shifts on top of me and my pants get tighter, but I'm not the only one and I moan into his mouth when he rubs himself against my hip. He rubs harder, grinding against me and I feel myself bucking up against his hip and pulling away from his mouth to pant against his neck.
The TV flashes grey like twilight against our skin and Cory's breath is hot on my neck. He nuzzles at the base of my jaw and his eyelids flutter in a sort of accidental butterfly kiss against the patch of skin behind my ear.
We pant and thrust and moan until it sounds like our worlds are ending, but it turns out they're only recombining into a place where it's alright for Cory's hands to wind into my hair and for his lips to fasten onto my neck when my cock stutters out an orgasm against his hip. Into a world where it makes sense for him to moan my name into my skin and follow me over the edge into oblivion.
We lay together in a tangled, sticky mess and it only makes sense to fall asleep while we're both still too relaxed and spent to freak out. One last lingering thought worms its way into my head as my heavy eyelids blink closed. If this is life on the wrong side of the tracks I hope I never have to live on the right side.