Not The Sun - 3. Chapter Three: Abominations

03 ~Abominations~

Leia finally showed back up at school, though she looked tired and pale for most of the day. Brandon never really got a chance to speak to her alone; to talk to her as Jordan had suggested. But even if the opportunity to do so had arisen, he didn’t think he would have. What right did he, as her friend, have to dredge back up those painful memories, so painful she supposedly had to block them behind a story that was not only plausible, but made a whole lot of sense? And that thing about the baby being some kind of mutant... That was just fucking ridiculous. He thought it would be a better idea to wait and see what Leia decided to do. And if there was something wrong with the baby, it would turn up in an ultrasound or something and they would have to remove it anyway, right? The more he thought about it, the more Jordan’s earlier story seemed further and further out of the realms of reality. And regardless of all that, he didn’t think it was appropriate for him to ask her to abort. What if she asked him why he thought she should? Lie? He couldn’t even imagine trying to tell her the truth. So he fell to his standard stand-by... watching and waiting. Jordan didn’t approach him at all that day to talk about anything, and by Friday, Brandon was optimistic that he wouldn’t approach him again before the weekend.

Andrew grinned at Brandon as he walked into Shop, the last class of the day. “Hey. Alexis is having a rave tomorrow night. You wanna go? You can be my date.”

“Okay," Brandon said, adopting a coy expression. “But I’m not going to put out.”

Andrew pouted. “Not even if I get you liquored up and buy you a sno cone?”

Brandon laughed. “Sorry.”

Brandon loved raves at Alexis' house. He knew that Andrew didn't care for them and only endured them because Alexis would miss him if he didn’t show up, and because there would be booze-a-plenty. Alexis held a rave almost every time her parents were out of town, because she had a big house with plenty of room and an unlimited supply of liquor.

Brandon was already having a good time before he even got there. His older sister had left some of her makeup --high end quality stuff-- behind so Brandon had filched some of it. He wasn't sure if he liked to wear makeup, it seemed too girly, but he was feeling adventurous that night and decided to go all out, and damn, he looked good. He pulled on his boots, securing the numerous straps and buckles and hooked some chains and collars around his neck. He didn't know if it was the fact that he had to wear a school uniform with a necktie ever since he was young, but he felt strange without having something around his neck. His collars and chains weren't allowed at school, so he might as well wear them when he did have a chance.

Andrew was in a hell of a mood, too, when he picked Brandon up, driving fast with the windows down and messing up Brandon’s carefully styled hair, with the radio turned all the way up and the accelerator on the floor. They were lucky they didn’t pass any cops on the way.

The party was still pretty mild when they arrived, with little groups gathered and talking, but the music was loud, the drinks were already circulating and people arrived pretty steadily. The party got into full swing around eleven. The floor was vibrating under Brandon’s feet with the force of the music and someone passed him a plastic shot glass filled to the brim. Vodka. He swallowed it all at once, hating the flavor of it, but enjoying the way it burned down his throat and into his belly, hitting him with a dizzy punch. Alexis was nearby and she smiled and winked at him as she downed a shot. She was dressed up in bright colors and miles of glitter and glitz and looked fabulous as well. Everyone looked fabulous. This was Alexis’ party; no stick thin cheerleader blonds or tanned football jocks crushing beer cans against their foreheads here. Just beautiful people looking beautiful. He loved it.

He looked around briefly, eyes scanning the crowd. He didn’t see Andrew, but that was okay. Andrew would usually head outside after a few hours inside, preferring to talk and smoke away from the loud pump of music and putting on a freak show for anyone unfortunate enough to be out on the streets at that time of night.

Alexis was dancing on top of her own coffee table... God, he hoped she didn’t break it. He maneuvered through the crowd, looking for a familiar face and settling for a semi-familiar girl he had met at Alexis' before, a pretty sophomore from the nearby community college. He couldn't remember her name, but that was okay. She smiled at him, her lip ring glinting. Long thick cords of black hair with a purplish tint hung to her waist, and she wore more make-up than he would ever dare to, but on her it looked good. She held out a joint and Brandon accepted it, took a hit and passed it back. They stayed like that for a while, passing it back and forth until it was gone, and then she was pressing up against him, kissing him slowly and luxuriously. Brandon’s body felt heavy and slow with the effects of alcohol and the marijuana in his system, and her body felt good, pressed soft and firm against his. Then his mouth was opening for her tongue, her scent filling his nose and the back of his throat until he felt like he was breathing her in. He felt overwhelmed by her, all of her, her perfume, the dry powder smell of her makeup, the faint greasy taste that her lipstick left on his teeth and tongue. He slid his hands up from her waist, underneath the fishnet and lace she wore, over the smooth skin trembling across her stomach and up to cup a warm breast in his hand, bringing her to moan and kiss harder. He let his thumb rub over her nipple until it hardened, catching it gently in between his fingertips and pulling on it slightly. She moaned again, digging her fingers hard into his hair, letting her head fall to the side and exposing the pale line of her neck. Brandon let his tongue slide over that long expanse of smooth white skin, continuing to toy with her nipple, the other hand roaming up her back. Her moans were sweet in his ear, one of her slim legs pressed between his own, the taste of her skin all over his tongue and in his mouth. All these things coming together, fueling the erection growing in between his legs, pressing hard against the seam of his pants, making the zipper an uncomfortable presence.

He didn’t know how far he would have taken this, fondling her out in the hallway in full view through the haze of alcohol soaked eyes and dim light if someone hadn’t stumbled hard into the girl, knocking her against Brandon. He felt the hard contact of her chin right underneath his clavicle and bit back a curse. Dammit, that had hurt.

“Are you okay?” he asked, dropping his hand from underneath her shirt and lifting her face. Blood trickled down from her chin and lips. “Shit. Are you all right?” he asked again.

She shook her head, held her hand up in front of her mouth and spat into it. Resting in a pool of blood and saliva was her lip ring. “Ah shit,” she said. She touched her other hand to her mouth, wincing. “I-I better go clean this up,” she said and glared at the girl who had bumped into her. “Thanks a lot, bitch.”

The girl who had bumped her smiled and blew her a kiss. “Anytime, you skanky whore,” she retorted, then turned on Brandon and waved a finger at him. “Naughty, naughty, Brandon, be careful. You could get her pregnant. Look at what happened to me.”

“Christ, Leia.” He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards the door, outside into the cool night. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nuttin’,” Leia slurred, stumbling in the dewy grass.

Brandon took the cup from her hand and smelled the yeasty odor of beer. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked again. “Jesus Christ, Leia, you’re pre--with your condition, you shouldn’t be drinking.”

“Why not?” Leia replied with an angry defiance. “Maybe if I drink enough, I’ll miscarry. Wouldn’t that be a lovely lil’ coni--coin--whatever the hell. It would be a good thing.”

“Listen,” Brandon said, turning her head towards him as his other hand surreptitiously emptied the cup of beer out into the lawn. He made sure to keep his voice low. “If you don’t want to have this baby, there are ways to take care of it. I will find you a way to get the money and go with you to the clinic if you want. But this is not the way to handle it.”

“I can’t go to a clinic and have them kill it. It goes against everything I believe in.”

“So what, you would rather drink and get high until it dies in the womb? You’re killing it either way, what’s the difference?”

She didn’t say anything and instead gave him a stinging slap across the face and rushed off, back into the house. Brandon sighed and rubbed his cheek. Fuck, this was just not going to be his night with women. He tilted his head back and stared at the night sky, inky black with the stars impossible to pick up because of the spotlights outside illuminating everything. He looked around for Andrew, didn’t see him and started around the side of the house to search for him.

He heard a noise off to his left and saw a couple half hidden in the shadows. There was a guy standing with his back turned to Brandon, one hand braced against the side of the building, and someone else, their face hidden from view, kneeling at the other man's feet. The noises and movement of the man’s hips suddenly made it clear what was going on, and Brandon felt his face heat up and he increased his pace, intending to keep on going and leave the two with their thin layer of privacy. He was about to turn around to the other side of the house when he heard a sound... the hard sound of flesh hitting flesh and a low muted sound of pain. He slowed down, listening. Another sound, similar to the first. He turned and ran back. The person who had been kneeling was now huddled on the ground, trying to curl up defensively, and the guy who had been standing up was now kicking every available part of their body he could reach.

“Hey!” Brandon ran forward and pulled the man away from the figure on the ground. “Cut it out, asshole.”

The guy glared at him. “Yeah, what are you going to do about it?” he slurred, swaying slightly on his feet.

“You wanna stick around and find out?” Brandon asked.

“Ah, fuck both of you,” the guy muttered and stumbled away, tucking himself back inside his pants.

“You okay?” Brandon asked, kneeling down and extending his hand to the figure on the ground.

“Fine,” the figure snapped, slapping Brandon’s hand away before getting to his knees. Brandon felt a small jolt of surprise at hearing a masculine voice from the figure on the ground but suppressed it quickly. The guy got to his feet, pushing his greasy blond hair back, scowling darkly.

Brandon stared at him for a moment, recognition clicking in his mind. “I know you... Keith, right?” he said. He recognized his face-- muddy, close set eyes and pale, acne marked skin stretched tight over sharp angular features, most of it hidden behind his greasy blond hair. He had always been a school loser... the kid that sat by himself during lunch, hung out in the back of the class, slouching down and listening to his MP3 player. Brandon had always felt a little bit sorry for him--not enough to try to befriend him, but sorry for him all the same.

Keith spat on the ground. “Yeah. And you are?”

“Brandon.”

“Well, Brandon...“ Keith brushed some leaves and bits of grass off his clothes and sneered at him. "Did you get off on watching, pervert?" he said, wiping at the blood that trickled out his nose.

“No,” Brandon answered. “I just-”

“Was watching,” Keith interrupted. He grinned. “Did you like what you saw?”

“No.”

“You fucking liar,” Keith said. “C’mon.”

“What?”

“I don’t do debts. C’mon.” He hooked a finger into the chains and collars around Brandon’s neck and pulled.

“H-Hey. What the fuck are you doing? Let go.”

“No way, man. Follow me, unless you want that guy to come back with several of his friends to find us here.”

Brandon stumbled behind him; he didn’t have a choice. Keith had a firm grip, and while most of his collars would snap and break, Keith also had a grip on a thick metal link chain around his neck and that wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he figured it was better to follow and figure it out than take a spill on his face. Keith led him down a path lined with trees until they reached a utility shed far back in the property. He pulled him inside the dark quiet, pressing him up against the door as soon as it closed. Weak moonlight filtered in through the grimy windows.

“What are you doing?” Brandon said.

“Paying you back. I’m not going to have a debt to you hanging over my head.”

“I don’t want you to pay me back.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you want.”

“Listen, I didn’t do anything.”

“The hell you didn’t," Keith said. "I deal with shit like that all the time. How many times have I shown up at school with black eyes, split lips and no questions from anyone? You‘re the first one that did something about it. And I'm not going to owe you anything." Keith’s hand slid over Brandon's fly, unbuckling his belt.

Brandon shoved him away. “Get the fuck away from me.”

Keith chuckled darkly and pressed him back against the door, hard enough for Brandon to bang his head against the wood. “Play nice, Brandon. Just pretend I’m a chick. Works for everyone else.” His hands unfastened the fly of Brandon's pants, tugging them down. “See?” Keith traced a finger along the length of his cock through the soft cotton of his underwear. “Can’t say you’re not excited.”

Brandon felt nausea roll up in his gut. "No. Don't."

"Shh," Keith said, slipping his hands into the waistband of Brandon's briefs and easing them down. "Relax. I'm going to make you feel good."

Brandon swallowed. He placed his hands against Keith's forehead and tried to push his face away, but Keith simply grabbed his wrists, pinned them to the door. He couldn't believe this, that he was letting himself be harassed and intimidated by this creep, but he was a little afraid of Keith... enough so that he couldn't bring himself to struggle too much and only stood there, trembling with disgust and shame and anger... excitement... arousal... moaning as Keith leaned forward and swallowed all of him down to the very root. He felt the head of his cock, hard and straining, rub against the top of Keith's mouth, bump into the soft tissue at the back of his throat. Keith eventually released his hands and Brandon was whispering denials..."no no no no no no" at the same time he was winding his fingers in Keith's greasy hair, holding his head there, thrusting into that wet heat, the hard suction. Keith swallowed around him and the constriction made Brandon gasp and jerk his hips forward. Keith didn't pull away as Brandon expected and in fact gripped his ass to bring him in deeper, sliding his lips and tongue over his cock, bringing him down deep into his throat.

Brandon shut his eyes and heard a series of hoarse desperate moans coming from his lips, as unable to hold them back than he was unable to keep his hips from jerking, pumping into that mouth wrapped so tight around his flesh.

He was close to sobbing when he finally orgasmed with so much intensity it was almost painful, feeling Keith swallow as he shot load after load of cum into his mouth, Keith still working and sucking and swallowing, until there was nothing left but his limp cock sliding wetly out of Keith's mouth. Brandon leaned back against the door, trying to catch his breath while Keith bent over, still on his knees, coughed a little and wiped at his lips before staring up at him, a satisfied, smug gleam in his eyes.

"Christ, don't you understand no?" Brandon said, his voice breathless and trembling, revealing how shaken he felt.

"Oh please. Stop being such a girl."

Brandon pulled his pants back up, his face burning, and his eyes on the ground. His vision blurred and he prayed he would not start crying. Not yet, anyhow.

"C'mon," Keith said, a little softer. "You liked it."

"That's not the point."

"What is the point then? I just wanted to make you cum. It's just sex." He slid his fingers in the loops of Brandon's pants, pulled him closer. "Tell me you didn't like it."

"I didn't want it."

"That's not the same. You liked it; I know you liked it, so what's the fucking problem?" Keith lifted one hand to push back Brandon's hair, studying his face. "Maybe you don't like feeling good. Maybe I should have tied you down and beat you with my belt." He smiled. "I bet you look pretty when you're about to cry."

Brandon wrenched away from him. "Come near me again and I'll fucking kill you," he rasped out, then spun on his heel and left. When he was sure that he was out of sight, he started running, sprinting past huddled groups of people, into the empty street, and didn't stop until he reached the bus stop.

He caught one of the last city buses before they stopped running for the night and spent the ride home curled up in one of the seats, staring at the dark scenery flashing by the windows. He felt strange. Dirty, used, violated... excited, exhilarated, hating it and wanting more at the same time. He dug his fingernails into the skin of his arms, pressing through the flesh and drawing blood. He was disgusting, a freak, and a deviant. He didn't even think of himself as gay. He didn't want it to happen, but it did anyway. He was too freaked and cowardly to stop it, and then he had liked it.

He started to cry for real, tears streaming down his face, ruining his makeup. He raked his fingers through his hair, nails scraping the scalp, and buried his face against his pants, hating himself more and more with each heaving, sobbing breath. When the bus pulled up to the stop near his house, he ran, relishing the cold snap of the evening air against his face, blowing his hair back and his tears off his face as he raced towards home.

Brandon stayed holed up in his room Sunday, claiming a migraine to get his family to leave him alone, and ignored the calls on his cell that came in: three from Andrew, one from Jordan. He slept late then drew, first a picture of someone who looked remarkably like him on his knees, pulling his own skin off, revealing muscle, tendons and wire thin blood vessels underneath. Then a picture of Keith, that smug satisfied look on his face as he crouched down on his knees. One of Jordan sitting on the hood of his car, wearing his school uniform. Then the face of a young unknown boy, a skull and crossbones emblem taking the place of his pupils.

God, he hated fucking Sundays. He went to his dresser and looked at his reflection in the mirror. His face, pale and sad and hideously ugly, stared back at him. He had felt so beautiful last night, so sexy and dangerous and glamorous. Now he was just empty and ugly... so ugly. He looked down at the surface of his bureau, slid his finger over a safety pin, then picked it up and opened it, staring at the sharp point. He imagined driving it into his eye, imagined the sharp, stabbing pain of it, and wondered if his eye would pop like an overly ripe grape, spilling vitreous humor down his face. He didn’t bring it towards his eyes, however, and instead drove it into the flesh of his lips, and drew it down, splitting his bottom lip down the middle, a thin trickle of blood welling up.

He touched the wound and looked at the small smear of blood on his finger. He looked at his face. He pressed the tip of the pin against his cheek, near his ear, drew it down, drawing a small shallow line down his face. It didn’t bleed, though; just made a thin red mark and itched. He dropped the pin, went to his desk and rummaged in one of his cubbyholes until he found an old X-Acto knife, pulled it out and slashed it across his biceps hard, feeling the burning sting drawing across his arm like a red hot wire, and watched with empty fascination as blood welled from the wound. He drew it over his skin again and again, leaving tracks down his arm, stopping when he got down close to his wrists where thin blue veins snaked their way near the surface. Blood was smeared all the way up and down his arm, and Brandon felt wonderful, deliciously empty and clean in a way that the shower earlier could not accomplish. He went to the bathroom to wash and clean up his arm, but before he left his room, he grabbed a handful of straight pins from the collection scattered on his dresser, pressed them against the skull and crossbones in the eyes of his latest drawing, pushing them in hard with grim satisfaction.

“Take that you fucking bastard,” he grunted out before rolling his sleeve down to cover the marks so he could get to the bathroom and bandage them up before anyone could see.