This was meant to be a lot longer, but I can't seem to finish it. Here's a snippet for everyone that wanted it. Plot? Almost there. FFFF.

MacCoy woke up with an angry headache, brains sloshing around his skull like the alcohol he consumed too much of the previous night. He recalls going to a nightclub with Mo and leaving him to dance with a hot babe who had black hair. Her name might've been Charlotte or Claire-something with a 'C', maybe. 'Coy peeled his eyelids back slowly, quickly shielding and covering his blues when light burned them like acid. He clutched his head in pain, hands twisting in a nappy bedhead to distract him from the awful pulsing.

Scoping his surroundings the hung over teen realized that he wasn't in his bedroom and definitely not in his bed. He grinned at the thought of what might have happened with CharClaireLotte, whatever her name was, last night. When he felt around for his goggles and slipped them back on he came to the dark realization that he was in a guy's room. Long shorts and wife beaters littered the floor, basketball trophies for a male's team lined a dark bookshelf and the room definitely didn't smell like it belonged to a female. Frantic hands patted at his chest, already knowing his shirt was gone but wanting some clarity and he ripped the blankets from his lower half to reveal his khakis. MacCoy let out a tense sigh of relief, but consciously checked his mouth for any unusual flavor—besides the disgusting aftertaste of last night's drinks. Anxious eyes spotted a familiar teal-striped hoodie on the doorknob and he smiled in appreciation.

'Nice guy musta taken me home wit' 'im. Like I'm a stray puppy or somethin'.'

The last thing he remembered from last night was plopping down on a squishy couch with soft bodies pressing against him, lips whispering into his ears and caressing his bruises. He was more than surprised when Claire led him to a secluded area, where her other friends headed off to for drinks. Even more astounding was how instead of shunning the boy for his seemingly wimpy injuries and dorky attire the girls hovered over him cooing and batting their lashes. His usually pale face darkened considerably and he swiped his palm over his cheeks in hopes of removing his crimson blush.

In the middle of his hormonal musings someone entered the room, someone he was understandably expecting. Mo walked in with blackened toast and a couple bottles of the generic version of Gatorade, "Mornin', Sunshine. Here."
"Yer so fuckin' loud. What happened, man?" MacCoy complained, frowning.

"Ya went off and did yo' thing. Ya came back ta me all wasted and damaged." Mo explained softly, motioning for him to drink. MacCoy growled at him, refusing to waste energy by picking the bottle up, and Mo twisted the cap (MacCoy twitched at the sharp cracks) and held it to the Russian's lips.

"Drink it like the fish ya were last night," Mo ordered.
"Can't. Too tired." MacCoy made a half-hearted attempt at moving his arms, but only barely lifted his shoulders.

Mo sighed, jaw tightening. "Aight, fine."

MacCoy allowed his head to be tilted back and opened his mouth slightly as Mo tipped the bottle, allowing the liquid to flow over a dry tongue and throat. Blue eyes closed and two quick hands clasped the bottle, pinning Mo's hands and attention, and the blond drank greedily. He finished with a deep moan and licked at his lips.

"Fuck. I'm thirsty. What flavor was that?" MacCoy inquired, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Mo nearly crushed the bottle in shock and cursed himself for not wearing his hoodie. "Um. Red?"
MacCoy smirked, "I thought that was a color. My bad."

Mo hadn't laughed like he had hoped, in fact; the darker teen didn't smile the whole time he was standing there. "The hell, Mo? Yer usually all smiles an' shit," the blond nagged, a bit annoyed, and still grumpy, by his friend being a downer.

Mo's eyes widened at the prospect of being caught. MacCoy could never find out. "Ya got a headache and I'm tryin' ta keep my voice in check."

"Don't needa talk ta smile, homie," MacCoy teased, then hissed. Pressing his palm to his covered eye, he quickly flung his eyewear off and massaged at it.

Mo bit his lip in worry, unsure if he should touch the boy or not—though he didn't have much trouble deciding that for the both of them last night. He wasn't all teeth right now not because of what they did because, fuck, he wanted that to happen since the moment they'd properly met but because of how the it occurred. It wasn't as fulfilling if only one party enjoys it sober, according to him, and despite the fact that MacCoy should be the one upchucking the B-boy felt he needed to heave the contents of his stomach into chlorine water. Despite his unrelenting guilt, Mo managed to trudge on.
"Yer right." Mo flashed him a shining, forged smile and MacCoy barely missed it.

"That was a fake ass smile and my gogs weren't even on." The blond called the other's bluff and fixed his eyesight.

Mo let a genuine grin overcome his face and slowly, as if he were savoring the forming of it, allowed his lips to stretch into a broad smile that he'd been holding back on. The Russian was just too damn adorable. Things were starting to look up again, if only for the moment.

"I love yer smile," MacCoy admitted proudly and Mo shifted around, thankful for MacCoy's dimmed senses. The color on his cheeks and nose was creeping down to his neck; Mo raised a palm to rub the forming goose bumps away.

"Thanks."

MacCoy groaned, he shouldn't have been talking as much as he was, but Mo was just so interesting. "Was it even worth it?" It was a rhetorical question he didn't expect to actually be answered, referring to his running off with Charlotte.

"I think so," Mo mumbled quietly.
"Why's that? Got me outta yo' hair?" 'Coy asked good-naturedly and Mo squirmed in his skin.

"Ya got alotta digits." Mo pointed out; waving his finger at the slips of paper he figured he should've destroyed earlier. Shittiest save ever.

MacCoy half-chuckled, nearly beaming at this new-found information, if he didn't presently look like a complete train wreck, "Dare don't know what she's missing."

Mo nodded in agreement. 'Sure don't.'

"Well, its noon already and I smoothed things out with yo' Grammaw. Wanna take a shower and head home or somethin'? Ya look pretty rough."

MacCoy scowled at Mo's teasing and sniffed himself, immediately regretting it.

MacCoy stepped out of the shower and was pleased to find a light grey tank top and a pair of beige shorts waiting for him on the bed. The shorts were a bit baggy on his waist and he had to grip the fabric to his hips to prevent it from slipping down. He quickly redressed and padded outside the bedroom. A short hallway connected Mo's room to the rest of the house. Pictures of perpetually smiling visages lined the walls and MacCoy admired every last one of them. He reached a pale hand out and traced the frame of one in particular; it was of Mo as a small child, maybe seven or eight and he sat on a tattered carpet smashing dinosaurs together. One was green and the other an impossible purple. The geek smiled and his fingertips lingered for a moment before he continued down the hall.

The Russian spotted Mo sprawled across the couch with his eyes glued to the television and he leaned against the arm of the couch, "Hey, man. Thanks fer the threads. The shorts are kinda loose but the shirt is tight." Mo turned to address him and eyed him hungrily; taking in the rarely exposed flesh and the clinging contours of the grey shirt he let 'Coy borrow.

"Different body types, I guess'" Mo muttered, eyes reluctantly leaving the other's body.

MacCoy remained standing, completely awkward now that Mo seemed so apathetic about him staying. "Hey, we cool right? I didn't do nothin' ta upset ya did I? Ya look real tense."

The tagger scratched his pinky with his thumb, wishing he could get rid of the other already—the guilt was consuming him. "Nah, yer fine. I just 'ain't feelin' like a champ, right now.' Mo teased lightly.

Now relieved of his fears, MacCoy laughed, "Naw. Ya look rough, dude, and I'm the one who drank." MacCoy's mood had flopped to completely positive now that he was semi-hydrated and he wasn't all sweaty and shit.
Mo shook his head with a small smile in response, "I made ya breakfast but it's kinda already time fer lunch." He blatantly ignored the other's observation.

When the situation permitted, usually whenever it wasn't him on trial, MacCoy didn't like to beat around the bush. If Mo wanted him to go then that's fine. Did they get into a fight? It was time to nip this shit in the ass already. "The hell's wrong wit' 'cha?"

"Nuffin' I'm cool, man." The breaker's word came out in a flurry, surprised that MacCoy jumped straight to the point. The eyes narrowing at him, coupled with a distasteful frown that shouldn't have done what it did to Mo's body, made him aware that the Russian wasn't buying his bullshit.

"Um," he replied oh-so-eloquently when he saw MacCoy move his lips to speak, "sorry, I just woke up too early." Okay, no, that was the shittiest save ever.

With his palms raised in defeat, as though he lost an argument, he laughed lightly—shoulders shaking and all. "Aight. I get'cha. No hard feelin's. I'm a bad guest. Since ya brought me back in one piece, I'll help a guy out. My friends back home prolly woulda left me."
Pain laced his last sentence and if Mo wasn't brain-dead at the moment he would've offered some consul. He missed his chance because by the time he caught his bearings, MacCoy was already stalking towards him with that usual cocky gait in his stride.

Towering over him from this particular angle Mo looked so vulnerable and frightened that MacCoy couldn't resist poking fun at him, so he did. Poking turned to the intent to tickle as the aspiring DJ let his fingers hover over Mo's sides. Having the B-boy exactly how he wanted him—eyes closed with a smile on his face, MacCoy tickled him. He had never seen a guy squirm that much in his life. Girls? Sure, but never boys.

Mo's face was caught up in the cutest smiles of glee, his eyes squeezed tight and mouth wide open from laughing so hard. Their laughter bounced around the room as they struggled on the couch trying to see who was more ticklish. MacCoy was totally winning.

"Oh God, okay stop. You, hah, win!" Mo was wheezing, lungs hurting from laughing so hard. His cheeks burned from excessive smiling, but it was a good pain, a welcomed pain.

Pale hands skipped over his torso, leaving bubbly feelings in Mo's belly, and never ceased—except when the powerhouse under the locker ran out of breath, even then he was given an abrupt moment's reprieve. MacCoy, always searching for an advantage, let his fingers glide everywhere, trying to figure out all of Mo's sweet spots. Hands slipped under Mo's shirt and then that's when the 'victim' needed to draw the line.

"No way, man. I dig havin' ya underneath me." The words were out too quickly and his face flushed bright pink because he so didn't mean it that way.

Mo's high was taken to a new level, thoughts from last night rushing back and landing straight in his pants. MacCoy's assault had lightened considerably, or maybe it vanished altogether, but Mo was too busy concentrating on willing his forming erection away to care. He couldn't fuck this up, not again. MacCoy's shifting and sneaky hands weren't helping though.

"I didn't mean it in a pervy way or nothin', homie. So, uhh…" MacCoy replied sheepishly, rubbing the heat from his neck. MacCoy relented, retracting his portable tickle monsters back to his sides and seated himself on Mo's belly. Mo was thankful for that. Sitting in silence, letting Mo catch his breath, he felt awkward again—sitting here on his bro's lap peacefully watching the rise and fall of his chest.

"Somethin' on my face?" Mo jested, finally smiling again, much to the blonde's relief.
"Only yer ugly mug."
"That hurts cuz my Momma says I'm handsome," Mo replied, feigning hurt.
"Momma's boy," he teased.
"Gramma's boy."

MacCoy stuck his tongue out, fresh out of lame comebacks.
"Put that away 'less ya plan on usin' it."
Shocked, the blond quickly retracted his tongue and laughed nervously.
"Yea, I thought s—"

Mo was silenced by a set of lips curiously pressing to his, noses clumsily smashing together until MacCoy had enough sense to tilt his head. After finally catching his bearings Mo was ready to act, the kiss caught him completely by surprise, but the blond was already pulling away.

"Nah, homie. Come back 'ere, I didn't get enough of ya," the darker B-boy pleaded, similar to the way the Russian whined when he wanted something just out of reach.

Unsure as to what compelled him in the first place, perhaps it was the sense of belonging Mo showered him with, the blue-eyed toprocker leaned in to give Mo a second chance—whom was utterly thrilled. Out of sheer excitement, his hands gripped golden locks while teeth nibbled away at a set of chapped lips, asking for permission until he barely managed to slip his tongue in before 'Coy pushed himself from the others tight embrace .

He wore the expression of a spooked deer, even the warmth of Mo's grateful eyes didn't absolve his fear, and he shyly croaked out a, "I don't know why I did that, I'm sorry. I should leave."
Mo tried pulling him back down, trying to reason with him and make him understand the fireworks that were popping from every nerve and how he could barely function as the other was struggling to move away from him. He'd been gripping his wrists too tightly, tight enough that MacCoy was cussing at him, and he broke them apart in astonishment.

MacCoy was breathing intensely, stress and confusion had built up to its max, and he was already reaching for the door—leaving too soon. Mo was tripping over the arm of the sofa, the coffee table, himself, and hardly noticed the ashtray and lamp clattering from the end table trying to reach the other.
"Ya felt it too, right?" he breathed out hastily, wanting MacCoy to know that, if he was in doubt, Mo absolutely fuckin' loved it.

"I ain't like that," he spat back in defense because, no, being a fag wasn't okay. Struggling to find himself as a definitely straight man was already hard enough; he didn't need anything crippling his currently shitty reputation any further.

It was tolerable when it was Mo, but not when its him.