Better Than Expected

John's hands were sweating as he checked his watch for the fifth time in ten minutes, before mentally chastising himself for doing so.

Why the bloody hell were you so early? Idiot, he'll think you're so desperate. God, why are you here?

That thought just brought back up the blush on his cheeks at the excruciating memory of when he had finally brought the concept up to the other boy. He had felt ill, heart pounding, every nerve in his body screaming at him what a terrible idea it was. It was after class, when everyone was packing up their things and rushing to get out of the oppression of a constructive high-school environment, and the small trace of spontaneity he had in him had leapt up and convinced him to ask him. Just ask him. What's the worst that could happen?

Well, this. This was the worst that could happen. Somehow it would have been easier if he'd shot him down in flames and stepped all over his heart. At least then he wouldn't have doubt gnawing at him. I mean, what indication had he had that the other boy was at all interested? He didn't even know if he was gay, for Christ's sake. And why the hell had he said "as friends"? I mean, if he managed to pull it off, that just adds even more ambiguity, and if he didn't, how much more fucking obvious could he have been? People asking to go out with someone as a friend just ask them normally, like a normal person. They don't specifically mention that it's as friends.

In lieu of checking the time again he fiddled with the watch strap, sliding it around his wrist one way and then the other, back and forth. Leaving it alone again he fiercely scratched the back of his neck, unconsciously checking his hair with one hand. Idly he wondered what it would feel like sliding that same hand into a certain mop of dark curls. The portion of his brain that hadn't gone completely insane was suitably horrified and slapped the other part out of its daydream, stoking the fire burning his cheeks.

It was obvious how uninterested he had been. The disinterest in his eyes was clear, the distaste in his voice much the same. Even his reply had been laced with sarcasm, though to be honest, any words spoken from him directly to John made his head spin. I mean, how was it possible for a sixteen year old to have a voice that low?

His chest jumped when he saw the tall figure approaching from across the road, collar on his oversized Belstaff turned up against the wind. On anyone else it would have looked ridiculous, but somehow suited his tall, lanky form – though, that may have been the crush talking. He drew up next to John, his eyes shadowed.

"Shall we?"

John opened his mouth to reply, heard no words coming out, then awkwardly closed it and nodded mutely. He turned in a swirl of coat fabric and swept inside, leaving John to trail after him quietly.

"What do you want to see?" he asked. John shrugged, trying to maintain some semblance of normality.
"I don't mind, just whatever you want to see," he acquiesced. The younger boy studied him carefully, his eyes raking over John's face, then turned to the ticket office. Feeling rather as though he had just been left spinning in a washing machine for several minutes, he desperately tried to drag his eyes away from the younger boy's face, all angles and cheekbones and wide clear eyes.

Taking the tickets, he raised a delicate eyebrow at him, smiling mirthlessly. "We could go to the screen and watch the film we've paid for, or you could just stand and stare at me for ninety minutes. Your call."

Feeling his cheeks burn again in a scorching blush, he walked quickly ahead, waiting impatiently for the tickets to be confirmed and hurrying to the screen door. Eager to get inside the dark room and hide his flaming cheeks, he held the door open courteously. The taller boy looked at him askance, the hint of an actual smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Thanks."

"No problem," John half-muttered, then cleared his throat to eradicate the husky tone to it. As he swept by, John breathed in his musky cologne and felt his knees grow weak.

Once they found their seats John smiled nervously. "Want any drinks or snacks?"

"No, thank you." The reply was polite but icy. Uninterested.

"Alright. Just a second." John made his way down the steps, begging himself silently not to trip while in sight of his date and -

Woah. Woah, woah, woah. Too soon. Not a date. Just friends, remember?

Reaching the kiosk, he ordered his Coke, his mind swimming with Sherlock; his huge eyes, expressive yet guarded, his sharp cheekbones, his God-damn curls that looked so God-damn soft and God damn it, you sound like a twelve year old!

When he returned to his seat the room was already dark, the screen just finishing up with trailers and gearing up to the actual film. Taking his seat, he stole a glance at the boy next to him, noting that he hadn't removed his coat. Without warning the lights cut out completely, and the film began.

For a moment John watched the screen, the opening scene going completely over his head due to his distraction, then he gasped involuntarily, tensing up a little. He felt something brush gently against his hand; a bony knuckle. It was barely a touch, but he felt his hand grow hot where they touched and fought the urge to grab back. Instead he slowly and carefully clasped the hand, marvelling at the length of Sherlock's fingers and immediately shutting down that train of thought before certain routes could claim it. He thought he might have heard a sigh from the boy next to him (Relief? Confusion?), but was too caught up in the moment to analyse in too much depth, hyperaware of the tall thin boy next to him, holding his hand firmly yet gently with his eyes set on the screen.

Holding his breath, John moved his hand slightly, so that it rested on Sherlock's knee, then his thigh. A squeezing of his fingers encouraged him and he released the hand, slipping his own further back to his side. Dimly in the back of his mind he was reminded that he shouldn't do this, he was supposed to be the older one, the experienced one, the moral one... But Sherlock was breathing harder, and tensed under his fingers, and he could feel him shaking slightly.

When he touched his hip he heard a sharp intake of breath and paused, wondering whether the surprise was good or bad. Abruptly at his stop he felt a hand clasp his wrist and impatiently pull it down, so that his hand was resting on Sherlock's arse.

Oh. That happened. That's happening. Lightly squeezing, he heard a soft sound from the other boy, and encouraged he did it again, until he was actively feeling him up. Sherlock shifted in his seat to allow better access, turning towards him and then they were kissing, his chapped lips against Sherlock's soft plump ones, his tongue running over the younger boy's own as he silently cast up thanks for back-row seats.

"Excuse me! How dare you do such things in front of my children? They're far too young to be seeing that – especially from your type," hissed a plump middle-aged woman a few seats down, next to a couple of teenagers that looked about old enough to have experienced much more than a bit of kissing and arse-touching. Sherlock immediately broke away, shifting slightly away from John and leaning back in his seat. John withdrew his hands, feeling a blush rise on his cheeks again, and glanced at him. He fancied he could see colour marking those accursed cheekbones. Turning back to the screen, he tried desperately to focus on the film.

When the movie finally ended, they walked silently out, suddenly sheepish. Leaving the theatre, John turned to Sherlock, biting his lip.

"I guess this is where we go our seperate ways."
"I suppose." Sherlock studied him with eyes that showed a trace of embarrassment. John looked at him for a moment, then stepped forward, pressing him gently against the wall and kissing him deeply. The boy kissed back hard, almost feverishly, until they broke apart shaking and gasping.

"I should be horrified," Sherlock managed to get out, a rare genuine smile crossing his face. "An older boy, putting his hands all over me and taking all kinds of liberties..." He pressed one more kiss to John's lips, chaste in comparison to their previous ones, and looked him deep in the eye.

"Until next time."

John stared at him for a moment, then found his voice. "Right. Ok. See you at school, then, I guess." He grinned, unable to help himself, then felt it fade to a smile as Sherlock turned and walked away in the direction of the tube station. When he had disappeared around the corner, he leant back against the wall, closing his eyes and smirking. Today had gone better than expected.