Our Dead Gay Love

2

The further Kurt runs, the clearer his head feels. He grinds out a solid three miles before he feels something drip onto his shirt—

What, rain? Bullshit! The weatherman said there would be nothing but sun this whole week, what kind of sunnuva-bitch... Awe shit, it's getting harder! Damn, I should be dripping with pussy, not this crap. It's only been an hour and my underwear is already soaked again!

He runs under the nearest tree and ducks for cover, reaching to pull the hood of his raincoat up, only to remember his mistake.

Well, damn, it's still on the coat hanger. Looks like I'm stranded.

He leans out from under the tree and glances up and down the street. Two options. There's his house, three miles away, and a hell of a lot of rain along the way. Or...

He turns his head left and looks up the street a second time. Ram's house is five minutes away, max.

God, it's not gay if it's only to get out of the rain. Besides, now that his hangover is gone, he could really go for another ten beers.

———————

He shakes the rain out of his hair as he stumbles through the bushes outside of Ram's window. Alright, maybe he is still a bit hungover, but that won't stop him from having a rad sleepover with his best bro! 

Hell yeah! Pop some bottles, bust out the chicks, lets get this party starteeed!

He peeks in through the window and raises his hand to knock, but pauses after a glance inside.

What, Ram actually has a book out? What the hell is he reading at 3 AM? We aren't even in school bro, I swear those science geeks are rubbing off on— Oh, fuck.

That's a magazine. He has his hands in his pants, he's totally jerking it right now, oh God... What do I do? I can't look away, fuck, he's got the page open to some bondage scenes, I didn't know he was into that!

Against his better judgement, he leans in closer to the glass, crouching lower to avoid being seen.

He should leave. He could just turn around and pretend this never happened, go back to bed, get some sleep...

And what? Be forced to buy a new pack of tighty whities by the end of every week? Do the laundry every single goddamn morning?

Curling his fingers around the edge of the panel, he popped the lock and slowly slid the window open, trying to be as silent as possible.

His still-wet hands, clammy with a combination of the cold and his nerves, shake against the windowsill. As he lifts himself out of the bushes, he puts a little too much pressure on one hand and sends himself to the floor with a crash, limbs smacking into the hardwood floor with a bang.

Ah, shit shit shit! Fuck, Ram is going to freak out, I'm such a pervert, what the fuck am I doing?

Eugh, I swear if I'm all bruised up tomorrow because of this shit...

"Kurt?"