Disclaimer: I do not own Honeydew Syndrome, one of the best webcomics ever produced. I wish I were that skilled.

Author's Note: Written for Dualism, an author who is amazing to the infinite degree.

So Funny You Forget To—

So what if it's one in the morning and you've only just begun the project? Those hours spent on the internet messaging about unicorns and male Japanese cheerleaders were worth it, even if you don't remember how you got on to that in the first place. Blame it on Jay, since it was his fault you aren't working in person (his fault for the car-squirrel-crash accident), and his fault for suggesting cooperation over IM, and his fault for getting you distracted.

He's getting you distracted a lot lately, which isn't so so bad. It's only been for a little while, maybe a few little months, but you don't bother counting because you're not some lovesick girl in heat. (Josh, you laugh to yourself, while secretly vowing to key his car if he messes with May too much.)

So at least you and Jay have finally started work, real work, not "researching the Loch Ness monster because hey, Nessie's a sea creature" for marine biology work.

It's two before you decide to stop, and in that time the two of you have compiled one paragraph, but it's a main body paragraph, which is not horrible progress. Of course, most of the time was spent on tangents and Jay sending you music from bands you've never heard of, bands that Jay'll forget in a day or two because by then they're way too old. It's times like this you wonder, listening to whatever Ima Robot song he just sent you, whether you're not just a little too sick in the head—whichever one—as you slip your hand into your boxers and jerk yourself off while you're still having a perfectly civil conversation across the glowing screen.

He can't see you tighten fingers around your throbbing cock, can't see you thrusting into your fist that you envision his mouth replacing. It's all in the hair, really, all in those black bangs that you'd love to see bobbing up and down as he sucks you off. Twirl your fingers in it, get a grip, force him down until he can barely take you any further, force every drop of come down his throat.

The best, most disgusting thing about instant messages is that it is an isolated contact. Jay cannot see you, cannot hear you moaning to his synth pop, cannot feel the hot wetness against one of your hands. It's like a game, all this time you've been keeping an intelligent (for all its stupidity) conversation, every letter properly capitalized and every period in place. One hand's free to type, after all, and he has no idea in his pretty styled head that you've done this almost every time you're "alone" together.

Although, you'd love to do it right in front of him, just to see the shock. He's always been friendly, but never been close, and you just know that if you actually made a move he'd probably avoid you altogether, project or no. That's the problem, that for all his little trends, making out with guys doesn't seem to be on the list, or if it is, then something about you just isn't right.

You laugh as he signs off, left with a cold screen and a cooling wetness against your legs. It's so funny it's sad: you can get under anyone's skin but his, let alone get under his clothes. (And that's a lie. You know you get under his skin. It's just not the way you want to.)

That's the only reason you're interested. Nothing more. You just want to get him hot and bothered and frustrated and leave him frustrated. You just want to play a little, because he's a tough playmate.

The next time you meet, it's in person, so you can't play out your favorite twisted fantasy, but it's not so bad watching him in the flesh. You finish your essay this time, finally, even if it took a freakish number of hours, two bags of chips, five sodas and about four prank calls to Metis for kicks. (Jay argues it's five, but since May hung up immediately on the fifth call, you're still saying it doesn't count.)

So it's whatever-o'clock in the morning and you don't feel like driving home (cops don't have anything else to do, would probably stop you anyway). Whether he likes it or not you're staying over. He doesn't seem to care either way.

Doesn't seem to care. That's the problem. You need to annoy the hell out of him, freak him out, sarcasm him out, something. Because that's what you do, what you're here for, to be utterly acerbic and delightfully derisive.

So you're both pretty wiped, even after the caffeine, and you just bashed his face with a pillow. Pillows are never to be underestimated, because like marshmallows, if thrown with enough force, they can really hurt. And for some reason, you want him to have some piece of pain.

He hits back, not so surprising, but you are surprised when you both slam into the floor (you fell, pulled him down with you). Carpet has no right to be that hard, but then again, neither do pillows and you've smacked each other up pretty well, feathers flying.

It's the light of the neon green lava lamp (only in Jay's room, only with Jay's style sense, Jay with the neon green hot pants that you've seen hidden in the closet) that makes the black stand out against the blond that makes you finally lose it.

Maybe he is worth it, because that shampoo apparently does do wonders for his hair as you grip strands corroded by dye chemicals but so soft, the contrast to what your doing with your mouth. It's the shock, probably, that his mouth is open and you're not so much kissing as you are raping him with your tongue, but you don't think it would have as much kick without a little pain and—

Your shirt's somewhere in the corner while Jay is still clothed and somewhere along the line he started kissing back when he wasn't supposed to. You're not really doing things for shock value now, since he's obviously not too shocked by this. There's no shock at all, just a hot tongue sliding over your chest and somewhere, in that mechanical part of your brain that you (so methodical, so calculating) can never turn off, somewhere, you think, He's probably tracing that stupid unicorn song. (Him biting your nipple? A period, probably, and you'd laugh at it all if he hadn't started kissing you again, and you're both using skill this time, and it's good enough to go to hell for.)

Playing with yourself in front of a computer screen is nothing compared to actually seeing that mouth close around you, those strips of black among the blond between your legs, and nothing, nothing, is like that wet tight heat around your shaft and you will never see him eat a popsicle the same way again.

Those fingers, slipping inside and Jay really needs to stop protesting his girly taste in toiletries, because even if he denies being picky about the shampoo, you smell that cucumber melon lotion. But he could be throwing daisies on you for all you care right now, as long as those slick fingers don't stop stretching, don't stop pressing that spot that makes you grind against him and go blind in a field of white hot light.

And finally, he enters, too quick, but the pain doubles the pleasure, triples it, makes you moan. You're both still on the floor, but your arms are gripping the bed sheets, bodies twisted into each other and you don't want it any other way. He reaches a hand down, cocktease, barely running his fingers over your dick when all you want him to do is jerk you off while he jerks against your hips. And even though you're not that vocal, he finds such a good angle that you actually moan out (a thousand flashes of cheesy porno in your head), and not just moan out, but moan his name.

The mouth that's been bruising you neck stills. A strand of black over your shoulder (you like it there, that single strand against your skin) disappears as Jay draws his head back, moves his palm off your hip, pulls himself out of you completely so you can't even feel a ghost of him against you. In all the years since you've hit puberty, you've never felt this level of frustration, of emptiness, of total defeat as he grabs the pants hanging off the bedpost. He says he's sorry, and he's going for a drive, as if it was his fault in the first place (damn him, damn him, damn him, yes it's his fault), and as if his car isn't in the shop anyway (goddamn squirrels, goddamn Jay, goddamn why can't he even look you in the eye?).

That open door and empty silence, you fill them with your laughter.

And that's really it, isn't it, the real reason you're interested. You're selfish, you'll admit it. All this time, you haven't wanted to just get under his skin; you've wanted to stay there. And even as that open door mocks you, you don't waste a perfect drop of irony. Because the next time you see him, it will be like nothing has happened, and nothing the next time, and nothing the next, and for once, you don't push things. And Jay is his normal stand-offish self around you, and you don't ever say anything about this incident to May.

(What's the point, because everyday it's more and more like it never happened, and you're the only one remembering it, might as well have been another fantasy played out before a computer screen.)

Jay's under your skin, and it's so funny you forget to laugh.