A/N: A fic explaining why Gary didn't have Petey attacked like he did Jimmy. It'll contain slash—Dan/Petey slash. Unusual, isn't it? I'm sure you're thinking that. Or something like that. Or maybe you're wondering why it's not Kirby instead of Dan. It's mostly because . . . I honestly just like Dan more. Kirby's just . . . too busy with Trent for Petey. xD Seriously though, I do love Dan, so . . . why not? Anyway, enjoy and, if you don't mind, review.

Being a nerd was hard. Being a jock who had previously been a nerd was also hard, though easier than it had been getting shoved into lockers or trashcans on a daily basis. Dan could handle being a jock; he missed being a nerd sometimes—he missed the games, the role-playing, his brother—but he liked playing football, and not having his head pushed into a toilet was definitely a good thing. He could even handle the realization that he was queer—him! A jock! Queer! It was who he had a thing for that he couldn't handle: Peter Kowalski, the dorkiest loser in the whole school.

Dan couldn't remember the first time that he had checked out a guy. It had probably been Ted or the preppy kid, Parker; most of the time that he spent by himself at night—the time his roommate spent outside of their room (Dan was beginning to suspect that Kirby had a girlfriend), the lone forty minutes or so he got to jerk off while Kirby was in the shower, the rare times in the year that he actually spent at his house—had been spent thinking of them—that is, until he saw Kowalski in the showers.

It had been a long day. Ted had pushed them hard; the coach had pushed them harder; Dan had pushed himself the hardest. Despite being on the team for more than a year, he still worried that he wasn't good enough, that he'd be kicked off and he'd end up back in his old clique. His paranoia was enough to make him work longer and harder than what was necessary. Because of this—because he stayed on the field later than any of the other guys were willing to—he didn't take a shower until darkness had already fallen and the other players on the team had shuffled off to their dorm. Kowalski, who Dan had seen bullied in the shower room on more than one occasion, had apparently also put off his shower, probably in the hopes that he wouldn't run into any of the bullies that usually got to him during gym.

Dan had known for a long time that he was into his own gender, a secret that he made sure to keep to himself; even his brother, who he had once been close to, didn't know. A good number of the nerds at Bullworth were queer or at least bi, but the jocks? You couldn't be a jock and a fag at the same time; you couldn't be a jock and a lot of things at the same time. It just didn't work that way. Because of this—he had decided that he would be a football player long before he figured out he was gay, and even if he hadn't, he wouldn't have let his taste in gender stop him—he kept his sexuality to himself. It wasn't difficult. The guys that he found attractive—Ted, Parker, Casey, Vincent—were guys who stood a fair chance of beating his ass and were, without a doubt, completely straight; there would be no sneaking around with anyone because he couldn't think of a single obviously gay person he was into that he could sneak around with. That is, until he decided to take a shower.

Kowalski was, with the exception of the little kids, the shortest student at their school—and that was including the girls. The kid had an ass that was pretty much nonexistent and Dan couldn't spot a muscle anywhere on his scrawny form. His hair was caramel colored, and though it wasn't the spot-on ginger red that Dan's was, it was close enough; Dan despised red hair. Looks aside, the boy was a dork; even the nerds wouldn't take him. The company he did keep was more than a little questionable—Gary Smith, the school psycho, and Jimmy Hopkins, the punk of a new kid. Peter Kowalski was not what Dan would consider his type. Despite this though, when Dan chanced across the smaller boy taking a shower, he crouched to watch instead of letting his presence be known. Even if he wasn't attracted to Kowalski, who knew when the next chance to see someone nude would pop up? Boys would be boys, as his mother would say, and boys weren't known for shying away from perversion. Of course, Dan didn't stop to consider the fact that he was being a pervert, but if he had, he wouldn't honestly care. That was the great thing about not being a nice person; you didn't even have to try to make yourself care about other people. Years of being bullied made it difficult to feel any guilt when it came to being cruel to others, and he had learned years before that if you want something in life, you should just take it. Because he had done this years earlier, life was good—or, at least, it had been before the little twink made his breath catch in his throat and his dick a little too interested for Dan's liking.

"They'll name a city after us . . . and later say it's all our fault . . ."

The kid also apparently had shitty taste in music. The words to whatever girly song he was singing were spoken softly, but Dan strained to hear; he could always use more ammo to bully the boy with. His voice—who sung in the school showers? Chances are, even if you think you're alone, you're probably not—was average. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't exactly unpleasant either. He could get used to it with time, assuming he ever gave the kid a chance—the idea that Petey might not be gay or interested never occurred to him—and they grew comfortable enough in their relationship to sing around each other.

"We wear our scarves just like a noose . . ."

The room had a fair amount of steam in it, but Dan could still make out patches of the boy's skin. His eyes followed the drops of water cascading down Kowalski's back—Petey was turned so his front was facing away from Dan—and rested on the tight looking ass beneath it. He had heard the boy muttering to himself—every single kid at their school had a problem with talking to themselves, it seemed—about being a virgin until the day he died, and the thought of changing that for him made Dan's slacks tighten. Maybe Kowalski was his type.

"Hold me close, I'm falling faster . . ."

Dan had kissed girls—Beatrice once, back when he had been a nerd, Christy a few times, Angie once or twice—but it had never done anything for him, try as he might to become aroused. It was pathetic, and Dan hated to be considered pathetic, even by himself, but he was becoming desperate, as hormonal teenage boys were prone to become when they couldn't find an outlet other than their own hand. Even if Kowalski wasn't his type, Dan would settle for him. The only questionable part about it was how he was going to approach the boy . . .

". . . tell me this could last forever."

If Dan could be considered anything, it would be determined. He had wanted to shake off his old clique to become a jock, and what had he done? Just that. How many other nerds had transformed into football players? He hadn't heard of any. Getting laid should be a piece of cake. He would just go up to Kowalski and . . . And what? Shove him against the shower wall and proceed to molest him? Hot as that would be—his bulge still hadn't gone away—he doubted it would go over well. The kid would probably just think of it as a cruel joke. What else could he do then? Try to romance the boy? That wasn't likely. Dan, for all his smarts, couldn't think of anything. He would tell the guys that he needed help with a girl and ask for their advice. Until then though . . .

"And if Cupid's got a gun then he's shootin'. . ."

Kowalski was attractive in an odd way, Dan supposed. Cute, feminine. It was true that the kid wasn't really his type, but maybe he was better than the guys Dan usually got off to. He had worked hard for his body type over the last few years—Dan was proud to say that he was no longer scrawny or weak—and maybe instead of going for guys with muscles, maybe he should go for someone who would, without a doubt, be the girl in their relationship. It was a thought that had occurred to him before; he was attracted to both muscles and fem, but the reason he targeted jockish boys was because of habit—he had, after all, once been considered the "fem" type of guy. Now that he was butch, it could be time to break the habit . . . It was ridiculous, even to him, but it made sense in an odd way. Peter Kowalski, he decided, fit the bill of his new type.

"And love until we bleed . . ."

Because he was focused on Kowalski, he didn't notice someone moving beside him. The fog and the kid's singing helped cover the other person's movements and it wasn't until Dan felt a hand cover his mouth that he realized he had company. Acting on his first reaction, he thrusted his elbow out, hitting whoever had ahold of him in the stomach. He made a move to turn, but his attacker—if they could even be called that—pressed their weight fully against his body, keeping him from turning around to see their face. It was another guy, he could tell; he could have shaken any of the girls off, except for maybe Eunice, and her weight pressing down on him probably would have knocked him out already from lack of oxygen to the lungs.

"Hold still, Wilson."

Though the voice had been urgent, the speaker had made sure to keep it quiet. Dan had been right; it was a guy. He would have preferred Eunice.

"What do you want, Smith?"

He was still struggling; it wasn't smart to let the school sociopath get too close, and from their position, the creep could strangle him. Other than a few grunts that sounded more from irritation than pain, Dan's elbows to the boy's stomach, head, and arms didn't seem to have much of an affect. Dan was about to start kicking, no longer thinking about the fact that the louder he got, the more likely Kowalski could hear him, but something the brunet said caused him to go still.

"If you don't stop, I'll tell Femme-boy you were jerking off to him."

Smith was dangerous; it was a well-known fact around the school. He could have threatened anything—he was going to slit Dan's throat, he would punch him in the crotch—and Dan would have believed it. He wouldn't put it past the boy to actually kill someone. Dan was smart enough to realize though that Garry had said "If you don't stop" though, which meant that he might not tell. Not wanting the whole school—because rumors spread like wild fire, he knew—to think he was a fag, Dan grit his teeth and went along with what the boy wanted; he stopped struggling.

"What do you want?"

He half expected not to get an answer again, but he knew that Smith liked to talk—and talk he did.

"Femme-boy's been a pain in the ass lately. If you distract him, keep him away from Hopkins, I won't let the whole school know you were fantasizing about becoming his wife."

"I wasn't—"

"Is it a deal, Danny-Boy?"

"How am I even—"

"I'll help you, of course. No one knows Little Petey's heart like me. Now, the first thing you've gotta do. . . ."

Smith was grinning by the time he said he'd help; he had never had any doubt that Dan would agree with him. The red head was slowly warming up to the idea, like Gary had expected him to. Dan wanted Kowalski, and if the kid's best friend was willing to help . . . It didn't matter that Smith was dangerous; Dan was under the impression he could take care of himself. He was, after all, a jock—a jock who got what he wanted. Determination was key, after all.

Peter Kowalski, Dan decided as Smith's ideas and the steam of the shower surrounded him, better be ready, because in a few days time, he'd have a boyfriend.