Meet You Again

Chapter Two

He didn’t mean to come back.

He didn’t want to come back.

He had to come back.

It had been a good three weeks since his last visit, enough time to forget and delete and focus. He couldn’t, Jesus Christ, but he couldn’t. The barista’s, John’s, voice was in his head and his smile was seen behind his closed eyelids and his chest would grow warm and tingle with the simple thought of him and it wasn’t right. None of it was right and he had to go back and fix it, demand what the boy had done to him. Maybe the blond teen had slipped some kind of slow killing poison in his coffee? Hypnosis perhaps? Something? Hell, it could be witchcraft as long as he had an explanation for all of these...these feelings and tingles. They were distracting and irritating and a nuisance to his Work.

And bloody hell he needed his Work.

He couldn’t afford another...distraction like John in his life.

***

Victor Trevor had dark chocolate eyes and a nice smile.

   He would pull Sherlock behind the building after classes and whisper in his ear how amazing and beautiful he was. How he was special.

Sherlock took those words and locked them away in a special compartment.

On warmer days, where the sun was shining bright, Victor would take his hand and pull him towards the park, where they would lie on the grassy bank of the pond and Sherlock would tell him the life stories of the others around them, basking in the soft praises he would utter, hand still held tight in the other boy’s and he felt like he belonged for once. Because someone liked him, for him. Nothing else.

Then, one day, Victor kissed him.

It wasn’t chaste, by any means, and Sherlock had no idea what to do. But Victor seemed to enjoy it and Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, telling himself over and over that if Victor liked it, maybe he could grow to like it as well.

So, he let Victor kiss him and he pretended that he liked it too.

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Victor said they were dating.

So they were dating.

Victor would tell him he was amazing and kiss him.

Sherlock let him.

They still lied on the bank on those warmer days, though Victor would rest his head on his chest and tell him he was beautiful and Sherlock wouldn’t say anything because he didn’t know what to say and Victor would eventually stop and ask him to tell him about the couple across the pond and he would. He would add extra details and lies just so Victor wouldn’t have to kiss him again, but it never stopped him and he would let the other boy kiss his lips, his cheeks his neck, resisting the urge to shiver as he felt a warm hand slide up his shirt.

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“Stop.”

Victor blinked, lips swollen and pupils blown wide, a too eager hand sliding past the waistband of his trousers. “What?”

Sherlock shook, scrambling to sit up more. “Stop. Please. Stop.”

“Wait, why?” Victor asked and Sherlock could hear the frustration in his voice, could see the way his lips turned down.

“I can’t...I’m sorry, I can’t.” he stood, grabbing his shirt and his bag and left quickly.

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