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Naim watches the bathroom door swing shut behind Ryan, frozen in place in the middle of the hallway. Really? Here? Now?
He looks around, grasping for a sign that someone else had seen the other boy. It was almost funny, the way that he would be grateful for someone to catch them staring, to grace them with the confirmation of their mutual existence in the form of a slur.
No one does, though, so he tucks his thumbs into the straps of his bag, turning towards his next class as the bell rings.
He’s interrupted by a loud bang, and he flinches, turning wide-eyed towards the source of the noise. It’s just another student, hurrying out of the bathroom at the sound of the bell. The swinging door creaks away from the wall, a balding indentation left where the brass knob had been violently slammed into the paint. Ryan’s alone.
It’s as much of an exciting realization as it is a frightening one. Students file into the classrooms on either side of the hallway, and suddenly he’s alone, too. It’s the sudden urgency of the situation that leads him through the door.
Ryan’s leaning against the sink, hands in his pockets. His white uniform shirt is wrinkled, untucked, and Naim wants to sneak his hands up under it, to feel the broad warmth of him, the solidity of his toned stomach.
“Are you-” The question tumbles from his mouth, clumsy, unintentional. What would he say, anyway? Are you… real? Or, maybe, Are you serious? It’s the middle of the day, after all. They’re at school. His face heats, and he pulls at the straps of his bag.
Ryan just chuckles, easy as ever, the corner of his mouth pulling upwards ever so slightly. Naim’s feet move of their own accord, caught in his gravitational pull. They’re face-to-face before he realizes it, the dusty toes of their sneakers bumping.
“Gonna be late for class.” Ryan’s eyes are a little red around the edges. It makes the blue of his irises stand out, almost supernatural in the watery lighting of the tiled bathroom. Naim is enthralled. “Don’t really care,” he breathes, watching those blue eyes flicker down to his lips.
Naim knows he should be scared. His heart is hammering in his chest, beating against his ribs, already bruised where he’s been fooled before. He should be terrified, but there’s something in Ryan’s gaze, in the soft brush of his hand against Naim’s, that he can’t bring himself to fear.
The first touch of their lips is soft, barely-there. A noise forces its way out of Naim’s throat, thready and high, and he turns his head, deepening the kiss. He feels Ryan’s hand make its way into his hair, long fingers curling against his scalp. He holds his breath, counts to ten, and the touch is still there, careful and reverent.
Ryan exhales shakily, evidently coming to the same conclusion as Naim. It’s you. The realization emboldens him, and he slips his tongue between Naim’s lips, swallowing the needy sounds that the action elicits.
A warm, solid thigh pushes between Naim’s legs and he leans in to chase the friction, Ryan’s hand on his lower back urging him closer, faster. He’s rock-hard in his slacks, probably has been since the first touch of their lips, and he feels lightheaded, helpless to do anything but let himself be guided, hips rolling under the push of Ryan’s hand. He breaks away from the kiss to nose into Ryan’s neck, panting open-mouthed kisses behind his ear.
There’s a sound from the hallway and they jump away from each other, straightening their shirts and wiping their mouths as they listen to the footsteps thump closer, then farther. Naim giggles once the noise has faded completely, feeling his stomach fluttering with nerves.
“Maybe we should-” Ryan gestures to the door. Naim’s still so hard he can feel his pulse in his belly. He fixes Ryan with a disbelieving stare. “You’re not really going to-”
“We’re at school!” Ryan takes a moment to fix his hair in the mirror before crossing the room and reaching for the door handle.
A bolt of panic shoots up Naim’s spine and he grabs at Ryan’s wrist. He’s reeling from the loss of contact, and he knows that if Ryan leaves, he’ll have to finish himself off, alone, and-
Ryan turns around, the shit-eating grin on his face screaming Got you! “You’re such a dick,” Naim whines, but Ryan’s already back in his space, making it up to him.
“M’ sorry,” he murmurs, hand already finding its way to Naim’s fly, feeling him through his pants. “You’re just so gullible.”
“Fuck off,” Naim breathes, and there’s no malice behind it. His eyes flutter shut as Ryan presses more firmly, the fabric between them dulling the sensation just enough to keep him off the edge.
“Let’s, um-” Ryan steers them into the biggest stall in the corner of the room, taking his hands off of Naim briefly to fumble the lock into place. He lifts Naim’s bag off his shoulders, hanging it on the hook on the wall before sliding to his knees.
Naim’s breath catches and he stares, wide-eyed, at Ryan on the floor below him. They’ve never-
The thought runs away from him as Ryan’s deft fingers are on his belt, unzipping his fly, and suddenly he feels the cold air, and then heat, and his hands are clutching at Ryan’s platinum curls before he can even register the feeling.
Then Ryan starts moving, slowly at first, then faster, and the slippery heat is so good that Naim’s knees are threatening to buckle underneath him. “Oh, Christ, fuck, Ryan-” he gasps, and Ryan hums in response, the vibration almost too much for Naim to take. He feels like he might explode, every cell in his body leaping, completely aflame.
He barely manages a garbled warning and a sharp tug on Ryan’s hair before he’s coming long and hard down Ryan’s throat, held in place by a firm hand on his hip. He shudders as Ryan’s throat works around him, tears welling behind his eyes as he comes down, letting the waves of pleasure roll over him.
It could be seconds or minutes later when Ryan stands, pinning Naim against the wall with the solid weight of his body as he reaches for his own belt buckle. Naim is brought back to reality by the scrape of teeth on his neck, a wet tongue darting over his skin. Ryan is panting into his ear, whispering “Fuck, Naim, so fucking good,” and Naim feels an arm moving between them, the rustle of fabric frantic and loud in the quiet room. He gathers his wits, reaching between them to bat Ryan’s hand away, replacing it with his own. Ryan is hot and so hard, fucking into Naim’s hand desperately the second he closes his fingers around him.
“That’s it,” Naim whispers, nuzzling into Ryan’s hair, his lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “That’s it, honey. So good.”
Ryan keens at the praise, hips losing their rhythm as he thrusts into Naim’s hand. Naim flicks his tongue over Ryan’s earlobe before biting, sharp and sudden, and Ryan comes, muffling his cries into Naim’s shoulder as he spills over his fist.
Naim’s surprised when Ryan’s mouth finds his, kissing loosely as they catch their breath. The slide of their lips is unhurried, now, soft and slow, and it reminds Naim of their first time shotgunning, too scared to close the gap until they weren’t.
Ryan does up their pants while Naim wipes at the mess on his hand, grimacing at the wet tissue paper as he drops it into the toilet.
“Your fault,” Ryan teases, but he checks Naim’s shirt for stains before zipping up his windbreaker, his hand lingering on the collar as he leans in for another kiss.
Naim doesn’t bother protesting. He rests his hand over Ryan’s, their fingers intertwining over his heart, and lets himself feel safe.