Like To Be You ✓

forty

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o-o-o

That night, two hours after dinner, Tyler's nose is buried deep in his practice notebook. We're laying on the bed on our stomachs, working on the holiday homework Blackwell gave us. Holiday homework. The audacity of that man.

"I can't seem to find what I did wrong." He murmurs, peering at the long, tiring equations stretched out on the sheets. "The answer doesn't match. How?"

"Maybe you're stupid." I suggest.

"Hmm, highly improbable."

"Smartass." I nudge his shoulder with mine and pull his book over to my side, placing it over my own notes. "Let's see."

I trace the numbers and letters with my pen, mouthing whatever he's written.

"There!" I say, tapping my pen on the side of the page where he's done some rough calculations. "You used the wrong limits. When x is zero, t should be pi by two, not four."

Tyler squints at his messy handwriting. "Hmm."

"You've got shit handwriting, by the way." I remark, turning on my side to face him.

He smiles at me. "Science says that intelligent people tend to have shit handwriting."

"Does science also say that humble people outlive those who brag?" I say, wrapping my hands around his throat jokingly.

"Oh, this is getting kinky." Tyler says in a grave voice. 

"You've been reading Fifty Shades of Grey, haven't you?" I say, loosening my hold on his neck. My fingers sift through the hair at the nape of his neck, and he sighs against my lips.

"No, but maybe I accidentally ventured into the dark side of Tumblr."

"That's disgusting, Tyler." I say, pressing a kiss to his jugular vein.

"It wasn't my fault." He says. "I was typing in nasa but auto-correct changed it to gay boys."

I laugh into his neck. "You're such a little shit."

His smile cuts across his face. His fingers reach down and splay over my jaw, and he pulls me up and kisses me so softly, so tenderly, I feel like I'm floating in the orbit of his sun.

It's quick to turn urgent. His hands are in all the right places, while mine are stupidly stuck to his shoulders, like I'm trying to hold myself up with the last of my strength. His legs are strong against mine, and his chest is so warm, so warm, that I could sleep on it for days.

When he toys with the button of my jeans, energy zaps through my body. My bones tremble. 

In the other room, I can hear my mother shuffling around. I'm hyper-aware of everything: the scratch of denim on denim, my nails raking his zipper down, the whimper that catches in his throat.  

I've touched him here before, but everything feels new, even now. 

"Neil." His voice cracks with barely-contained restraint, and it sends something electrifying down my spine. 

I move lower, pressing kisses to his throat, then his clavicle, then his chest, then his taut stomach, and then where my fingers are.

Neil. I've never really liked my name. It's of Gaelic origin, and often ends up being the butt of many jokes. OMG, if I called you Niall instead of Neil, you and Zayne could make, like, a 1D ripoff. Cue obnoxious giggling.