Love is a Four Letter Word (boyxboy)

I tiptoed down the long corridor, moving towards my classrom, when I hear a noise coming from one of the rooms. I stop and quietly turn the knob on the door to my left, assuming that's where the sound came from, opening it just a crack so I could peer in.

"Get up, man!" A man yelled, standing over a boy who couldn't have been more than a few years younger than him, maybe 19 or so. About my age.

"Ugh," the boy groaned, not moving. He was sprawled out on the exercise mat, his face contorted in pain. "That thing hit me in the gut, it hurts."

"Quit whining. No pain, no gain," the man, who I guess must be his trainer, says harshly.

"What if I don't want pain or the gain that I get from it?"

"No gain means no winning. No winning, no scouts. No scouts, no college. No college, no cheerleaders."

"No cheerleaders?" The guy on the floor asks, a bit upset at the notion.

"Yes. And you don't even want to think about that. Get up, man. Get up."

The boy scrambled to his feet, positioning himself so he was in a defensive stance. He's a boxer from the look of him, muscular and tall in stature.

"Hit the punching bag and don't let it swing back at you this time. Start with your left fist. Go," the older man instructs.

I watch for a moment, fascinated by how quick an strong the boy was, before backing away and closing the door. I make my way back to the arts center, moving quietly so as not to disturb the people in the study hall.

"Magic! Where ya been? I need you over here!" My friend Westley calls, waving me over. I skip over, ignoring the weird looks my peers give me.

"What'd you need help with?" I ask, sitting down next to him in front of the canvas and folding my legs under me.

"The art show is next week and I can't decide what painting I want to enter. I thought I could just make another painting, but now I can't decide what to paint," he pouts, playing with the paintbrush in his hands.

Westley's never been very good at making decisions and kinda relies on me to help him. That's how we became friends, actually. He didn't know if he shoud stay after class to do the rest of his homework or to just go home, and I hauled him out of that classroom and down the road to my house faster than he could protest. At the time I'd intended for us to play video games together, although we never did turn on the Wii. We ended up sitting outside, painting together, and our friendship developed from there.

"Why not just do abstract?" I suggest, pulling out my own paintbrush from my back pocket. He face-palmed himself, shaking his head.

"Now why didn't I think of that?" Westley groans childishly, picking up a set of paints.

"Cause you're an absolute idiot. Obviously," I tease, squirting a glob of paint on my hand and smearing it all over my fingers.

"Well maybe you're an absolute jerk for saying that," he says, laughing. I slap my hands all over my black jeans, leaving stains of paint all over them.

"Maybe," I agree. "Are you gonna start painting?" Westley nods and dips his paintbrush in the red paint on his palate. I turn my attention back to my now-splattered pants and squirt more orange paint onto my hands, patting them onto the material that covers my legs.

"Won't your dads get mad about you covering your new jeans in paint?" Westley questions, eyeing me between strokes of his paintbrush.

I snorted in response. "Nah, I bought them with my own money so they can't be mad about it," I reassure him. "Hey, will you put some purple handprints on my butt?"