Work Text:
“John Bender will stick his dick in just about anything,” says Adam.
“Anything?” Brian asks, imagining coconuts, water bottles, kittens.
Or at least that’s what Adam heard from his buddy Miller (who heard it from Donald the Beak, who heard it from his kid sister, who heard it from Claire’s sister, who heard it from Claire about a week after she and Bender called it quits) during Math Club.
“Yeah,” Adam says, “anything.” Then he snaps his fingers above his current mathematical stump, and says, “Oh shit, I think I got this one.” His pencil starts flying across the paper, cramped little numbers spilling over the margins.
“Anything,” Brian says again, with maybe a hint of reverence.
--
Later that evening, Adam and Brian are having one of their study-party-slash-Star-Wars-Friday nights.
“What do you think anything means exactly,” Brian asks, staring up at the ceiling instead of at his book or the movie. He’s twirling his pencil absently in his hand.
“Will you get off of it already?” Adam says around a mouth full of popcorn, his textbook abandoned for the time being too.
“No, it’s just...” Brian stumbles. “I mean, anything could be a lot of things here. Statistically speaking, there’s really no way that Bender would, or even could, stick his dick in anything. Car radiators are anything, wall sockets...ceiling fans!”
Adam looks at him with exasperation. On screen, Princess Leia wears her gold bikini with pizzazz.
“Watch the damn movie, would you?”
“I’m gonna go home,” Brian says, and gathers up his books.
“Yeah, all right. See you tomorrow at the pool.” Adam doesn’t look away from the TV.
They always go to the pool on Saturday, but Brian’s just not sure that tomorrow is a good day for swimming. There’s just...there’s just too much anything to think about.
--
Outside of Adam’s totally standard issue Colonial home, Brian shivers. He pulls the collar of his Members Only jacket up against his neck and then pushes it back down again. It’s cold for May, but he feels a nervous clamminess that makes him want to cringe, that makes his skin feel sticky.
Despite all of that anything, Brian hasn’t thought about the Breakfast Club in months.
That was mid-October, and in high school time that’s three decades ago. God, they’re almost done with senior year. He’ll be going to Harvard in the Fall. He got in early admission, so it’s been a dull few months. Studying with Adam, and by himself, is more habit than necessity. He’d have to be physically removed (probably with a fire hose) from the lap of the John Harvard statue if they tried to rescind his acceptance now. Talk about a flare gun.
Their prom is next week, and he doesn’t intend to go, but he bought a ticket anyway just to show his folks he had. He really can’t imagine getting all spruced up only to stand around being awkward all night; he’ll be the first to admit that he’s less of a spike-the-punch guy than a worry-blatantly-at-the-punch guy.
Bender. Bender on the other hand is exactly a spike-the-punch type of guy, which gets Brian started on anything again. He wants to....he wants to figure out the number of anythings Bender could possibly fuck.
If only I had a calculator, Brian thinks.
If only it weren’t so dark, Brian thinks.
If only I knew where Bender lived, Brian thinks, and squishes that thought quickly.
Where’s the punchline, Brian wonders.
--
If x is anything, then how many times will Brian have to remind himself to breathe before he calculates that anything is also him?
--
At five am Brian wakes up from a dream about...well, he suspects it was a dream about anything, except he was anything, and he doesn’t want to think about what, exactly, Bender was doing...to him.
There are three hours until eight am. Eight am is when Brian meets Adam at the high school's indoor pool (a real place, not a trick played on freshmen). Three hours is a long time to spend doing nothing.
Brian slips a hand into his boxer shorts and tries not to think about anything at all.
--
At seven-twenty, Brian pulls on his speedo and spends a long time looking at his body in the mirror behind his bedroom door. He's skinny, some might say scrawny, but his legs and arms are toned from years of swimming, and penchant for charity bike rides. He flexes goofily at himself, adjusts the spandex around his dick, and considers the hair crawling up his stomach to his chest. He has a pimple just to the right of his nose, comfily pressed against his nostril.
“Blah,” he says aloud, and scrubs a hand through his puffy blond hair. He throws on a sweatshirt (“Oakridge Science Camp: We’re Champions of Knowledge!”), and tugs the hood up over his head. Over his speedo he pulls on a loose pair of track pants, and then slings his gym bag over his shoulder, the requisite deodorant, goggles, swim cap, and post-swim boxers all present
When he gets outside, the air is cool enough that he he can see his breath puff past his lips. He shakes his head: Illinois, and decides to jog to the high school despite the chill.
--
At nine-thirty, flushed and tingling from an hour or so of strenuous laps, and playful-competitive racing with Adam, Brian hauls himself up on the edge of the pool, and lands his ass on the cold green tiles. He tugs the edges of his speedo down a little on his thighs, pulls off his rubbery cap, scrapes his hands through his hair, slicking it back from his face. He thinks, maybe, he might look attractive right now.
There’s no way to be sure. And he’s not going to ask Adam. Like, “hey man, do I look hot right now?”
--
Brian spends the rest of the day poking around downtown Shermer (four bustling streets) with Adam, and then with his little sister when Adam gets bored and heads home. They get TCBY and Brian gets M&Ms and peanut butter between layers of vanilla. He loves TCBY parfaits. He’s skinny enough to enjoy them pretty often. He and his sister post up in front of the community center, their backs to the shrubberies that line the concrete barrier between the center and the street.
“Are you really going to prom?” Cindy asks him around a mouthful of chocolate-vanilla swirl.
Brian shrugs.
“It’s like, kind of once in a lifetime,” she adds.
“There are many multiples of proms in everyone’s lifetime,” he tells her. “It’s the opportunity to attend one that’s hypothetically unique.”
“So you’re not going.”
Brian gives her a Look. Cindy has her bangs hairsprayed stiff into a barrel over her forehead like some kind of music video mall queen. She’s 12.
“I’m not going,” he concedes.
Cindy’s lower lips quivers. “But you bought a ticket and everything.”
“It’s not a big deal, Cindyloo,” Brian says placidly, tacking on her baby nickname for added comfort. “No skin off my back.”
An airplane passes overhead and Cindy grunts, an acquiescence older than her years. Brian leans a little more heavily against her shoulder. He’ll miss her in the Fall. He hopes she knows.
“Let’s go home soon,” he says.
--
The week that follows is status quo.
Brian is well beyond the point of being bullied, and when he thinks about the possibility of it now—of the proverbial swirlies he could be on the receiving end of—that just puts him on his knees in a bathroom. A bathroom where the bully is invariably Bender, and what happens to him next isn’t a swim in the toilet but rather...a fair amount of anything.
The week is status quo, except for the unexpected number of boners he ends up popping every time he walks so much as within ten feets of the boys’ bathroom.
Thank god for the patented boner shield that is science textbooks.
Thank god less for the blinding realization that he’s anything. Which means that where x is anything, Brian is equal to x. Which mean that Bender will also stick in dick in Brian, and jesus, does Brian want that.
He wants to be downright something.
--
His equation checks out.
Which is to say that on prom night the following Thursday (Seniors have Friday off), Brian sets fire to the odds and knocks on the garage door behind which he thinks Bender might be currently picking away at a bass guitar.
The music stops.
“What?” barks a gruff voice which belongs to John Bender.
“Uh,” Brian says, but the garage down is grinding and clinking upward before he manages a complete sentence. Then it stops half-way, and Brian has to lean down to see in.
“Oh, it’s you.”
Bender has a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth, and his bass slung over his neck, off-kilter and abandoned. He’s wearing his requisite jean vest and flannel shirt. His sleeves are rolled up, and his forearms are...regrettably toned. His dark hair looks damp. He’s either sweaty or just showered and both possibilities make Brian feel a little weak.
“Yep, just me.” Brian waves. Stupid.
“What’s the word, Brainiac? Don’t you have a dance to be at?”
“Not so much, no. Can I?” Brian gestures at threshold of garage and driveway.
“Be my guest,” Bender says, all fake-haughty aplomb. "Have a seat.” He must flip on a stereo, because Springsteen suddenly blares out into the night.
Brian edges under the garage door to find a startlingly well-refurbished ‘67 Chevy, two ratty lawn chairs, and the object of his affections putting his guitar down on the car hood with gentle care. He settles himself into a lawn chair, the plastic slats sagging under his ass.
Bender tugs down the garage door, picks up a long-necked Budweiser and stares at him. Brian tucks his knees together and stares back.
“So,” he says, at the same time that Bender plops down across from him and says, with marked suspicion, “what can I do you for?”
“A drink?” Brian tries.
Bender raises one of his dark eyebrows. “How’s this?” he says, and pulls a joint from behind his ear.
“Yeah, alright.”
Bender’s other eyebrow joins the first and his mouth pushes into a considering pout. He puts his beer down and lights the end of the joint. Lets it burn, hot red in the dim garage light, and then blows out the flame before taking a long drag. He’s holding his breath when he passes it to Brian.
“It’s good stuff,” Bender says, on his exhale, his voice tight with smoke. “Canadian. Better than the last bud we smoked together.”
Brian inhales. Then he exhales and concentrates on not becoming a total bozo like last time. A buzzing quiet sets in between them, Bender drumming on his knees in time to the music. Still Springsteen. He doesn’t have his fingerless gloves on. Brian starts to sway in time to the beat.
They pass the joint back and forth until it’s just a cherry and a pinch of paper. Bender stubs it out and scoots closer to Brian, tugging his lawn chair with him. It puts their knees close enough together to touch. He puts his chin in his hands and leans forward, narrows his bloodshot eyes.
“What?” Brian asks.
“This isn’t a social call.”
“Sure it is.”
“Nah,” Bender says, still close. “I’ve seen you get high, and right now you’re high but you’re quiet. Which tells me you’ve got something to say you ain’t saying. So.”
Brian takes a deep breath. “Listen,” he says, and then chews at his bottom lip. He’s high, that’s for sure. The room feels fuzzy, and he’s got that weight on his forehead, the kind of heavy-headed feeling that comes with this kind chemical reaction.
“I’m listening,” Bender says, drawing out the syllables.
“People talk,” Brian says.
“That’s about all they do.”
“They talk about you.”
“No shit, Sherlock. They talk about you too.”
Brian’s whole face scrunches up; he can feel it, and can’t stop it.
“Rumor has it,” Bender says, all quiet, like he’s letting Brian in on a secret about himself, “that you’re a fag. But,” he adds, before Brian can rebut, “I don’t put much stock in rumors.”
“Well, uh—” Brian’s mouth feels dry. He’s completely crazy. He’s completely crazy because what exactly did he think was going to happen here? Did he actually think he was going to get laid? Or get so much as a kiss out of this? Could he have seriously thought he’d get anything other than a fist to the face for his trouble?
“Nothing against fags, mind you,” Bender says airily.
Brian’s whole person decompresses. A sigh of relief so unintentionally dramatic that they can probably hear it all the way across town in the Ramada ballroom where prom is currently in full swing.
“That’s good,” Brian says, sibilant and slippery from the high.
“Is it?” Bender says, and lord, but he might sound coy.
“Yeah,” Brian breathes out.
“Why’s that?”
“Because,” Brian says, tipping forward. Tipping far enough forward that their knees clack together, and his lips land somewhere to the right of Bender’s sly mouth. Bender grips his shoulders and Brian prepares himself to get the shit kicked out of him. He’s got his face in John Bender’s hair and it smells clean, not sweaty. His neck smells like Old Spice. He smells masculine, dangerous. Death would be kinder.
Bender pushes him away, but keeps a hold on his shoulders, thumbs digging into his sweatshirt covered skin.
“Did you come here to put the moves on me?” He sounds blessedly not murderous, just deeply amused.
Brian nods. “I’d heard. I’d heard you’d. Ugh.” He drops his eyes.
“You’d heard what?” Bender demands.
“That you weren’t picky,” Brian mumbles, and finally his face has the good sense to blush.
Bender laughs. A short barking sound, and shakes his head. “Well that’s a lie. Because I’m fucking picky as hell. I’m the pickiest.” He shakes Brian to get his point across.
“Oh.”
“Just so happens.” Bender shifts one hand off Brian’s shoulder to lift his chin up. His eyes sweep over Brian's face, and down his neck. It makes Brian's skin tingle. Then Bender says, “just so happens you’re not slim pickings.”
“Huh?”
Bender rolls his eyes in that perpetually amused and worldly way he has. He shifts forward and keeps a hold on Brian’s chin, putting Brian's face exactly where he wants it, which Brian should have expected.
“I’m picky,” Bender says, his mouth a scant centimeter from Brian’s, his mouth meer molecules away. “I’m picky, but you’re alright.”
When Brian was fourteen he won the Cook County Science Festival with a very well-researched project on head injuries in professional sports. Biology has always been his thing, and he likes football but he’s small and getting hit seemed terrifying when he was even smaller. His project had been so well-received that he ended up competing statewide. He’d lost, but for a blinding moment he’d felt so monumentally successful, so completely on top of the world, that it was like he’d made a game-winning touchdown himself.
Kissing John Bender is a little like that; except his dick is hard and Bender’s pulled him completely into his lap, his knees on either side of Bender’s hips, his hands tangled up in Bender’s long, soft hair. He laughs helplessly into Bender’s mouth and Bender tugs him back by his hair to look at him.
Brian groans, because who knew he’d like having his hair pulled.
“What’s so funny?” Bender asks. He could sound threatening, but his lips are swollen and slick and Brian’s responsible for that, so he can’t exactly muster up any fear. Bender tugs at his hair again.
“I can’t believe you’re letting me kiss you.”
“One, I’m kissing you. Two, you better believe it, kid.”
“Wonders of the universe,” Brian says, before dipping back in again. He’s not quite anything yet, but he’s certainly getting there.