First Kiss
The first punch splits George's's lip and sends pain ricocheting through his jaw. It's nothing like what he expected being hit, really hit, would feel like. It's a million times worse, and he swipes blood off his face with one hand while he tries to get his bearings.
Elliot doesn't hit him again yet, even though he could. George appreciates the few extra seconds to stand up straight and lift his fists. He's not a fighter, but he'll do his best, even if it does mean putting a few marks on Elliot's face.
Not the time, George. Not the fucking time.
Not that it helps when Elliot has stripped off to his undershirt, and there's a little voice in the back of George's head going you know you want to lick those biceps. Because he does, and that's just fucked up when those biceps are exactly what's going to make this end with a black eye and a bloody nose to match his lip.
Elliot cocks his head, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a restless boxer. "Ready to go again?"
The other guys standing behind him just laugh. George frowns, spitting out as much blood as he can. "Fuck you," he hisses, lunging in. His fist lands hard against Elliot's diaphragm, and he hears the hard oof above his head.
George only has a few seconds to enjoy the adrenaline thrumming through him before Elliot grabs his shoulders, slamming him hard against the back of the P.E shed. He hears his shirt rip when Elliot gives him a little shake, pressing their faces close together.
"Fuck it, George, I'm trying to go easy on you," Elliot whispers.
Too late. George hooks his ankle around Elliot's and uses his own weight to throw them backwards, landing hard enough on Elliot's chest to knock all the air out of him again. The dusty gravel digs into George's knees, but he ignores it, grabbing the front of Elliot's undershirt and hauling his face up to the catcalls of the other boys. He draws back his fist, considers not doing it for a split second before he remembers how fucking hard Elliot punched him, and drives through with all the strength he can muster.
He hurts his knuckles on Elliot's cheekbone, but the dull thwack is satisfying enough that he doesn't care.
"You're such a fucking asshole," Elliot wheezes, bucking his hips and throwing George off him.
They both scramble up, panting, circling each other slowly. "I'd rather be an asshole than an idiot who doesn't know the difference between Mary Shelley and Marie Antoinette," George says, trying to watch for the slight shift in Elliot's weight that'll give away when he's planning to lunge next.
"I'd rather be an idiot than a fucking lightweight nerd," Elliot growls, darting in and landing another good punch on George's jaw.
George's ears are ringing too hard to tell the difference between the rush of blood in his own head and the cheers from their audience.
The gloves are fucking off.
If there's one thing George's sure of, it's that he's actually faster than Elliot. So he waits, shakes most of the fuzzy feeling from his brain, and then steps in close again.
He ducks Elliot's swing and comes back up with a hard right hook, and yes, fuck yes, blood that isn't his splatters the dirty gravel.
"Okay, okay, blood for blood is fair," Elliot mutters, tweaking his gushing nose with a grimace. "Let's finish this shit, okay."
George just glares. He didn't want to fight in the first place, but no. Elliot is an asshole who pays too much attention to his stupid friends. A gorgeous asshole, who has no problem talking to George when said stupid friends aren't looking, but a fucking asshole all the same.
"Yeah!" One of the guys behind Elliot says. "Just knock the fucking faggot out and let's go home."
Suddenly the air between them feels too still, like time has slowed down. George watches the blood gather and drip from Elliot's lip. His nostrils flare, and in less than a second George understands.
Holy shit.
Elliot swings around, and the punch he throws drops the guy behind him to the gravel before he has a chance to realise what hit him. Fear laced with a weird, warm sense of pleasure kicks through George's stomach when the guy crumples. Shit, if it really is that easy for Elliot to drop someone, he has been going easy on George. For him, at least.
The ringing in his ears is even louder in the sudden silence.
"Go away," Elliot says. "Seriously, just fuck off, all of you."
George watches, mouth half open, as they help their woozy friend up and do just that.
There's blood dribbling down Elliot's chin when he turns back around, and George figures he probably shouldn't have hit him quite so hard.
Elliot just stoops to pick up his shirt, shrugging it on without bothering to do up any buttons. He drags the edge of one sleeve across his face. "Want a smoke?" he asks, fishing a crumpled pack out of his pocket.
"Uh. Sure," George says, taking the cigarette from Elliot's bloody fingers once it's lit. It feels awkward in his hand, and he tries to take cues from the languid way Elliot leans back against the shed and lifts his own cigarette to his lips.
If he chokes a little on the hot smoke, Elliot is polite enough not to mention it.
"So," Elliot says after a minute. "Is it true, or was Mark just being a bitch?"
George takes as deep a drag as he can manage, feeling the smoke burn in his lungs before breathing out slow through his nose. "It's true."
"I didn't know."
"I didn't know about you, either."
Elliot snorts. "Stereotypes. I don't fit 'em." He flicks ash and embers across the gravel, wiping his face again and only really succeeding in smearing the blood over his upper lip. "You're tougher than you look," he says, frowning at the red staining his sleeve.
"Yeah. Well. You're smarter than you look," George says, dropping the cigarette and kicking it into the gravel.
"I try." Elliot pushes away from the wall and chucks his own cigarette butt. He's such a fucking sight; dirty undershirt with the blood-stained button-down hanging open, blood smeared across his face. Even his hair is sticking up at wild angles, and somehow it's the hottest thing George has ever seen.
"Sorry about your nose," George says, instead of the filthy things hovering just on the back of his mind.
Elliot steps closer, lifts a hand slowly. Slow enough for George to back away if he wants to, but seriously, he doesn't. He really doesn't.
Elliot's hand is rough against George's cheek, too much shop and too much football, and George can't help the way his mouth falls open just a little bit when Elliot runs his thumb gently across his split lip.
"Sorry about your mouth," Elliot says.
"It's okay. Can barely feel it," George says, breathless and a little giddy from the leftover adrenaline and the soft pressure of Elliot's thumb against his mouth.
And okay, maybe he's a bit concussed, because he has no fucking idea when Elliot dipped his head and replaced his thumb with his own lips, except that he must have. He must have, because they're kissing and it's hot and wet and it stings, the pressure against the cut, and George can't bring himself to care.
He swipes his tongue across Elliot's lip and tastes blood and saliva that aren't his. And it's good, really good, the way Elliot's hands have dropped to George's waist and pulled him in.
Then Elliot is licking back. He tilts his head until their noses aren't squished together, slides his tongue right into George's mouth, and that... fuck. It always sounded kind of disgusting, the idea of letting someone lick your tongue, but shit. George's more than willing to take back every thought he ever had about kissing being gross, because the touch of Elliot's tongue goes straight to the pit of his stomach in a really good, toe-curling kind of way.
As far as first kisses go, it's probably kind of fucked up. Okay, so it's really fucked up. But he gets his hands on the loose edges of Elliot's shirt and holds him there, even though his lip hurts and he's pretty sure kisses aren't supposed to taste mostly of blood. Because Elliot is making little noises into his mouth, and they're breathing the same air, and it's slick and rough and kind of perfect anyway.
"You should go see the nurse," Elliot says finally, fingers still fisted in the hem of George's shirt.
George feels the words against his lips, and slowly opens his eyes. "You should," he says, and every little brush of Elliot's mouth just makes him want to start kissing him again.
"I'll agree that it was an accident if you do," Elliot does close the gap again, pressing one more kiss to the corner of George's mouth before backing off slightly.
"The nurse isn't an idiot," George says, licking his lips. They feel kind of swollen, in a good way, not just because his bottom lip is swelling up.
Elliot shrugs, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Let's go wash off at least then." He pauses, tucking his hands in his pockets. "Then... I'll walk you home, yeah?"
That's right. George's definitely missed the bus by now. "It's a half hour walk from here," he says.
"Doesn't matter. Owe it to you anyway, for all this bullshit." He waves a vague hand at the blood splattered gravel.
"Okay," George says, and they head to the taps in silence.