Author's Note: My reviewer Jay seemed to want this fic to be continued, so here we are. I don't know how many chapters I'll end up with. I'm conflicted whether to change the summary to more accurately reflect the expanded story; I do like the summary the way it is. Decisions, decisions.

Chapter 2

Although Kyle had not majored in fortune-telling at Milkweed Academy, he had made one successful prediction that night: he did hate himself in the morning.

He would have been less jarred to awaken in the talons of a griffin; somehow, waking with gloved hands holding him against a mask and unitard was far more shocking. A happy, gaping mouth snored upon his chest. An arm was wrapped around his abdomen, twitching every so often as if responding to something in a dream. Kyle was not so sure how to free himself from Fanboy's embrace without waking him. He wriggled a little, rolled, scooted, ducked…

A yawn. "Good morning, Kyle! How did you sleep?"

His first thoughts were, 'Why, I slept beautifully, love.' But he suppressed the lingering feelings from last night; it was time to rid himself of them now.

So his words were: "Unhand me."

Fanboy's smile immediately faded. "Oh. Okay." He released him, and Kyle tore away from the bed, dusting himself off and scanning the room.

"Please tell me Chum Chum isn't home yet."

"Oh yeah; he came by earlier," the chipper-again fan said simply. "I told him you were still asleep so he left."

"What?" Kyle was horrified. "He…saw us?" He cradled his head in panic, and Fanboy burst into laughter, rolling off the bed.

"I'm just messing with ya," he cackled. "He called a few hours ago and said he'd be home at ten, so I went back to sleep." He turned his alarm clock to show Kyle it was only 8:00.

Not amused, his sweet conjurer glared at him. As a gesture of apology, Fanboy opted to make an attempt at cheering him up.

"So whaddya wanna do today, my pagan pal? We got a couple hours to kill before Chum—"

"I'm going home," Kyle muttered, and strode out of the bedroom. "Good day."

He thought he heard the tiniest whimper—a ghost of a whimper—from behind him, and he looked back with a questioning "Hm?"

Fanboy stood in a slump, long arms reaching the ground at the knuckles. The aura he was exuding (Kyle was uncertain whether he was feeling the literal aura of the boy or just non-magically sensing emotion) carried the same longing that was with him the night before. And the last time he had seen that desire, Kyle was disgusted to think, he had climbed into bed with him. But morning brought different feelings; daytime was much less intimate. Still, seeing him like this made Kyle feel as though he should say something more.

"Um…thank you for sheltering me last night." He knew it wasn't the message Fanboy wanted, but Fanboy looked to the ground and accepted it.

"Okay. Bye Kyle."

The very idea of a night spent pressed against the grubby, wayward superninny made Kyle shudder to his very core. A shower was his first priority, to wash away that unabashed cuddling and—the kiss! Oh, they kissed. No, no, brushing his teeth had to be the first priority. Ugh, oh, who knew what that unhygienic hooligan's mouth had touched since its last cleaning? How many discarded lollipops from the ground had those horrid lips sucked on? Kyle could not fly to his bathroom sink fast enough.

Brush, brush, brush, brush, spit, rinse, repeat. Again, again; he soon lost track of how many brushing cycles he went through, but he didn't stop until he had brushed his mind clean of the kiss. Afterwards it was time to wash his body of the snuggling. He knew not what filth his idiot might splash and roll in daily, and his mind swam with the possibilities, forcing him to scrub harder.

After showering Kyle dressed and lay down upon his own bed, feeling the need to take in the softness of his oft-laundered sheets. This was his clean, rose-scented haven. His sanitary sanctuary that he would never have to share with Fanboy. This worked out perfectly: Fanboy's bed could hold Fanboy's fond memories of that night, while those same memories—which were sour to Kyle—would not be associated with Kyle's bed.

Home sweet home. Here the upright, classy young man would not have to think about his mistakes that unfortunate night; he wouldn't have to think about Fanboy's germy, tender lips; his goofy yet loving eyes; his filthy but protective arms…

There was no need at all to remember how shy but welcome he felt next to his superhero. It was totally unnecessary to recall how awkward and yet how right he felt in that embrace. Why should he give any further thought to that unrefined, spur-of-the-moment, clumsy, heavenly first kiss…?

Kyle Bloodworth-Thomason froze. That was his first kiss. A staple of youth that only happened once in a lifetime. He had always imagined his would be with a sophisticated student of Milkweed Academy; a cultured, like-minded lover of tea and literature.

Instead his first kiss had been with a boy whose underwear was his outerwear.

The memory of Fanboy's lips mashed against his was now stronger than ever, and to Kyle's chagrin, and delight, he was out of toothpaste.