Chapter 4 - Strawberry
Strawberry
What. The. Fuck?
"How does kissing a guy prove I'm NOT gay?!" Ashton snapped at the idiot he'd found himself stuck inside this closet with.
"If you're totally straight, then you've got nothing to fear. One kiss won't change anything. But we both know the truth, don't we, fresa?" Dylan said infuriatingly, as if that made any kind of sense at all."
Ashton blinked as Dylan's phone flashed on again to display the time. Then off just as quickly, leaving little spots wobbling in front of Ashton's eyes.
Or maybe it was him wobbling? Ashton was starting to feel the alcohol now, Dylan's ridiculous plan not doing anything to help his confusion.
"You're scared you'll like it?" Dylan mused, and Ashton shook his head quickly, forgetting the other man wouldn't see it in the dark. "And then you won't be able to keep lying to yourself any more."
"I'm not lying," Ashton spat.
"Then kiss me, and prove it."
With my fist, maybe.
"Fuck off."
"Such language, Ashton! You blow all the boys with that mouth?"
I will punch you in the dick.
"Screw you."
"Naw. Maybe if you ask nicely. And only after you kiss me. Y'know. If you're so sure of yourself."
And like, how dare him? How fucking dare him? He didn't know Ashton's life. He didn't know shit.
"You don't know shit," Ashton muttered, just to hear it out loud.
Because he didn't. Dylan kept saying all these things, calling Ashton homophobic and everything, just to get under his skin.
But Ashton knew that game. He was the champion of that game.
Deflect, diffuse, depose; dominate the conversation until the other guy was so twisted up they couldn't think straight, digging themselves into a hole deep enough for you to bury them in.
The only defense, really, was a strong offense right out of the gate. Or, failing that, to surprise them. Take the ball away and start chugging for the end zone, praying you could make it in time.
"What was that?" Dylan asked mockingly. Just like before, when he'd locked Ashton out of the lab, holding a hand to his ear like he — like he hadn't even been listening, when this asshole wasn't even a foot away, and —
"Shut the fuck up," Ashton growled, fury surging through him.
This jerk thought Ashton was a bigot, was a coward, was going to back the fuck down?
"Oh, that's real witty m— "
But then Ashton had him by the shirt collar with one hand, the other grabbing for Dylan's neck, curling to — to show him —
Ashton hadn't expected Dylan's mouth to be warm, or soft, or for him to taste like strawberry soda.
He couldn't have planned for the awkwardness of it either; teeth clacking and noses bumping as they jockeyed for position.
And Ashton really, really hadn't known how — just how fucking good it could feel?
To have Dylan's big hands pull him closer, sliding into his hair, gripping his shirt.
Yanking him down against the smaller man as —
Oh God.
Ashton grunted as Dylan shoved him hard up against the closet wall, cock thickening in his pants as the man's body leaned into him. Wanting more, needing more; surprise curling his hand along that strangely stubbed jaw and urging him to come closer still.
It was dizzying. It was electrifying. Dylan groaned into their kiss, and Ashton lapped it up, sighing as Dylan leaned in just a fraction more to — oh, damn — suck on Ashton's lower lip. Nipping it, teeth flashing hard and unyielding, no quarter given as he claimed Ashton's mouth once more.
Ashton gasped; shifting, shivering, submitting as Dylan slid his tongue inside him, seeking his own; drunk with need to see what else Dylan might do.
Sliding his hand up, Dylan's cropped burr met Ashton's fingers, the softly spiked texture an indulgence against his palm. His quest halted abruptly at the stiff-gelled seam of Dylan’s mohawk, running his fingertips wonderingly along its unfamiliar curve.
Like a cudgel, a knee wedged itself between Ashton's thighs, demanding entry, submission.
And for a moment, Ashton resisted. Bad enough Dylan was a guy, bad enough Ashton was enjoying this.
But to give in? To submit? He shouldn't, he knew he shouldn't.
Should shove Dylan off and storm out of this little closet, find the nearest sorority girl and…
Ashton moaned, shifted, thighs parting around Dylan's as he pulled this man against him. Into him. Dylan's tongue thrust hard between Ashton's lips as well, his grip tightening in Ashton's hair and shirt until Ashton couldn't even think of taking back control.
Arching into Dylan's touch, a whine escaped Ashton's mouth, desperation filling him, the knowledge that he needed more.
And — oh God — Dylan yanked Ashton's head down at the sound, angling just so as he deepened their kiss, pushing him, challenging him, owning him. Hot and wet and firm and greedy and gasping and grasping; until Ashton's knees were weak with the fierceness of Dylan's claim.
It was all he could do not to just start grinding on Dylan's thigh, some small sliver of self shouting the urge down. That it'd be too far, that Ashton might never recover if — if he…
Dylan yanked Ashton's head back by the fist Dylan still had in his hair, roots aching, throat exposed to Dylan's closed-mouthed kisses and slick, sinful tongue.
Ashton moaned; he couldn't help it, as unable to hold back the sound torn from him as he was to resist this onslaught waged on him by the other man.
Wanting it, craving it too much to protest, to do anything but give in.
He needed to keep it down, though. He needed to get himself back under control. There was a whole Christmas party raging outside, and that door could swing open at any moment and —
And then there'd be a whole crowd to witness what he’s doing to me…
No. No, Ashton didn't want that. Didn't want any of this, except — Oh, Dylan's mouth was like a drug, like sweet honey, like a brawl Ashton was only happy to lose.
Dylan groaned, surging against him, pressing so close the studs of his leather jacket no doubt had impressed themselves on Ashton's skin.
God, he wanted that. Wanted to be marked and claimed; to leave here tonight with the tangible proof that someone thought he was worth holding onto, worth keeping, worth claiming — even if just for a short while.
Ashton licked at Dylan's bottom lip, slipping into the space Dylan granted him when they parted; kissing him deep and moaning, begging Dylan for more.
When Dylan broke their kiss, he took Ashton's whine with him, protesting the sudden loss of everything as reality came hurtling toward him at speed.
Oh. Oh shit.
What in the fucking fuck had Ashton just done?
"Clean yourself up, you look like shit," Dylan told him, and Ashton wanted to punch him, to kiss him, to drag him off into the bushes somewhere and…
He sucked in a sharp breath as Dylan leaned into him again, hands leaping to fit themselves to those satisfyingly grippable hips as Dylan whispered —
"See you in your dreams, asshole.”
Hands smoothed down the front of Ashton's shirt to tidy it, before suddenly he was gasping, squirming in surprise as his nipples erupted in sharp, delicious pain. But Dylen's pinching fingers dropped away just as quickly, leaving Ashton as confused as he was hungry for more.
"Ashton,” Dylan hissed. “C'mon, idiota – they're gonna open the door on us any second. Get your shit together, straight boy."
Oh. Right. A burst of laughter came from close by as Ashton adjusted his own clothing so things wouldn't be quite so obvious.
His head was filled with questions, but he couldn't seem to make his mouth move to ask any of them, lips and tongue still too busy tingling after Dylan's attentions.
And when the party outside finally wrenched open the door?
It was too late, much too late. Ashton had lost his chance.
The light was blinding after being in the dark for so long.
For a second, Ashton completely forgot where he was; eyes dazzled, skin buzzing, blood singing in his veins.
What the hell was he supposed to do with that?
"Hey, lovebirds!" someone shouted. "Time's up. Come on out."
"?Qué, cabrón!" Dylan shouted, ready right out of the gate as he exploded from the closet's confines, Ashton trailing him uncertainly.
"You all really just sit in there and say Hail Marys the whole time?
Lame! Thought you said this game was exciting.
Mi abuela gets more action on Sundays, may she rest in peace. "
The crowd in the living room ate that up, laughing and whooping as Dylan strutted out like the cock of the walk, with all the confidence and swagger of a man twice his size.
"So who blew who?" Benny called from the back of the crowd.
"You know I'm saving this load for that pretty ass of yours," Dylan snapped off just as quickly, cupping his junk and throwing a wink in Benny's general direction. "Now kiss your girlfriend goodbye, and be ready for me upstairs in ten minutes, princess. Daddy's on a schedule."
And that bought him even more laughter, smiles and cheer following Dylan as he made for the kitchen, and the booze that lay within.
Oh, now there's a good plan.
Unmoored and drifting, Ashton tried reaching for his usual swagger and brass that carried him through uncertain times, only to find them gone, fucked off to who knows where. Well, fake it till you make it, right?
And if anyone knows how to fake it, it's me.
"Dude!" Ashton snarled, following Dylan into the kitchen as he snagged a strawberry soda from the stack of twelve-packs on the kitchen table, popping the top with a click and a hiss. "What the hell was that?"
"You tell me, dude." Dylan rolled his eyes over the edge of the can, nodding his head at the couple making out in the corner. "You really wanna do this here?"
Ashton opened his mouth, because — for a second? — yeah. Yeah, he fucking did, and who the fuck cared who knew, right?
But then he snapped it shut, just as Logan leaned in the doorway like Ashton's enormous, muscled hunk of a guardian angel and —
Wait, what?
Logan said something, but it was hard — not hard, dammit, NOT HARD — difficult to hear him over the ringing in Ashton's ears.
"What?" Ashton blinked in confusion.
Probably something about Oz. It's always something about Oz.
"Uh, no?" Ashton tried. "Maybe check the porch?"
"Alright, thanks," Logan said absently. And see? Ashton had already been forgotten. Again. His eyes landed quickly enough on Dylan's fluorescent pink mohawk, jumping to his face, his studded black leather jacket, down to his skinny jeans, then back to Dylan's hair.
Has he always been so cute when he tilts his head like that?
"Do I know you?" Logan asked, and Ashton cursed internally. "Before the lab this morning. You look…familiar."
"Logan, this is Dylan. Dylan, Logan," Ashton told him, gesturing with a carefully crafted offhanded casualness between them.
"You into punk music?" Dylan asked. "Could've seen me at one of the clubs."
Logan's eyes jumped back to Dylan's mohawk as a furious blush lit up his cheeks, and he'd barely choked out a strangled “No,” before he abruptly disappeared.
What in the world…?
"You've got weird friends," Dylan said, and Ashton vaguely nodded, unsure what had just happened to make Logan bolt like that. Was it something Ashton had done?
"Man, you are so twisted up," Dylan said in a low voice. It pulled at Ashton's attention until he finally dragged his eyes away from the door and back to Dylan's smirk. "You don't even know what to do about it, do you?"
Ashton scowled. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"No?" Dylan cocked his head. "Tell you what. I made a very loud promise to princess out there, so people will be watching if I try to head upstairs in the next ten or fifteen minutes. But if you really want to prove yourself? Come find me in the second bedroom upstairs in half an hour."
"What? Why the hell would I do that?"
"You tell me, straight boy," Dylan murmured, and then the damned devil winked. "You want to show me, to show yourself — hell, to show him — that you aren't into guys? Thirty minutes, asshole; that's all it'll take for you to get your answer."
Ashton stared at him, at a complete loss for what to even say.
No, obviously. Followed by a 'Screw you.'
…Wait, not that.
But, like, seriously? Who does this guy even think he is? Just because we —
Oh God.
We kissed.
We kissed.
I kissed back.
I kissed a guy, and…
…
And the world didn't end.
He barely registered it when Dylan squeezed Ashton's shoulder before walking off, presumably somewhere deeper in the party for something like a cover. Like Ashton should be doing, instead of still staring at the place Dylan had been, his mind going round and round in wild circles.
On autopilot, he grabbed a red plastic cup from the stack, filling it to the brim.
He looked down into its dark pink depths — wrong shade, wrong shade — and licked his lips.
He set the cup down, reaching for Dante's abandoned soda instead.
The taste of strawberries hit his tongue instantly as he took a sip.
The can was reassuringly real in his hand as Ashton followed his feet, taking the steps two at a time.
There was a bedroom right at the top of the stairs, and a bathroom down the hall. The third door was shut, giggling and groaning coming from the other side.
Sliding to the floor beside it, Ashton leaned against the wall as he took another sip of soda. Not usually his thing, but… not bad. Interesting. It wasn't as sweet as he'd assumed, and he liked the way it fizzed on his tongue.
Why the hell he'd come up here… he couldn't say.
He couldn't.
He couldn't.
He took another sip of soda and let his head fall back with a thunk against the wall.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited…