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Swimming

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He's in one of those states. One of those states that worries his parents and delights the teachers that know anything about him--but he couldn't care less about what people think of it. He's deep in thought, going about the school day through habit, ignoring lectures in lieu of pouring over his notebook, scribbling down the designs that come to his head. Scribbling down fixes to the defects that show themselves clear as day when he runs his machines through imagined trials. It's not anything--yet. The technology to make it doesn't exist.

Yet.

So he's barely there when he walks to the pool, taking his place at the top corner of the bleachers as the other boys jump in and start doing their drills, or...whatever. Even on days he isn't so far gone into his own head, he tends to shift his attention away from any physical education classes. The sight of the other boys and their sweat and muscles and...well. It's a feeling he'd shoved into a box labeled “jealousy” one day and left it intentionally unexamined since then.

So he ignores them, and their teasing, aimed at him or somewhere else, and stays buried in his notebook waiting for the hour to be over.

And then someone calls his name.

His heart leaps before his brain catches up with what so easily broke his concentration.

He looks up, and there is--him. The bane of his existence.

The gleaming, wet, dripping, beaming, bane of his existence. Danny.

Why the fuck is Danny here?

“Richard!” he calls again, a row of perfectly white teeth on display in his smile. He grabs the ladder and pulls himself out of the pool, his lean and muscular frame entirely on display as he does so, his all too small swim shorts doing nothing to hide his thighs.

It's infuriating. That must be it--that heat burning under Richard's skin. It's that jealousy. Never mind that the girls who constantly fawn and coo over Danny are nowhere to be found.

And never mind the tent forming in the front of his pants. He shifts his notebook in front of it, trying to seem casual in his haste. It's just--that's just how teenagers are. It's a weird reaction to an unrelated stimulus.

Obviously.

Danny walks--more jogs, in his excitement--over to the side of the bleachers, stopping next to them and resting an elbow next to Richard's feet.

"Why aren't you swimming?" he asks, voice full of simple curiosity and that damned charisma.

"None of your business," is the answer that comes out, terse and defensive.

Everything freezes. Or at least, it feels like it does, Richard’s shoulders tensing and the splashes from the pool settling. He just told off the Navy guy. On accident--reflex, really--but no one knows that. No one had ever dared bad-mouth Danny to his face. Disarming demeanor or not, that thin figure is all muscle and military training.

Danny’s eyes widen a fraction of an inch.

Then he laughs, clear and easy.

It’s friendly, not a hint of threat in it, but Richard still can’t relax--for a number of reasons, but one being his utter confusion at the reaction.

“Alright!” Danny answers, tone still bubbling with laughter. “I’ll get you in one of my classes one day.”

He winks. And then, if that isn’t horrifying enough--reaches up and claps his hand right above Richard’s knee, giving him a friendly pat there in lieu of being able to reach his shoulder.

The touch burns like a hot iron, though instead of searing in one place the heat spreads through his entire body, and thank God Danny turns back to the pool instead of sticking around to see Richard’s face no doubt turn strawberry red.

The world seems muted as Danny dives back into the pool, lithe body in perfect form.

Richard’s dick throbs for attention.

He can’t take this.

He stands up, abruptly, carrying his backpack in front of him as he hastily shoves his work into it and stumbles down the bleachers, navigating past his fogged glasses. Danny’s not the real teacher for this class, he obviously has no idea what Richard’s exemptions are, he won’t stop him from leaving. And if his escape is the most conspicuous thing in the world, well. That’s not exactly on his mind right now.

He hurries to the nearest bathroom, mercifully empty in the middle of the class period, and locks himself in the furthest stall, dropping his bag on the ground and fumbling with his belt until he finally undoes his pants and sticks his hand down them. He wraps his hand around his dick, and the resulting sensation makes him go weak in the knees.

He falls against the wall, propping himself up with his unoccupied arm as he presses his palm to himself. This isn’t the first time he’s done this, but it’s never felt so urgent.

He pulls it out and finds a rhythm, trying to remember what had felt so good the last time he did this. And he tries to steer his thoughts to what he’d been focused on last time, too--the girls on the cheerleading team, with their short skirts and all of their...jiggling.

But it keeps slipping away, giving way to the image of Danny stepping out of the pool, water dripping down his chest, swim shorts tight around his thighs, his hand on Richard’s leg. His hand maybe a little bit higher.

A desperate whine escapes from his throat at the idea of Danny’s hand moving up his thigh and replacing his own on his dick. He buries his face in the crook of his arm as his legs grow weak, giving in to the fantasy, vague ideas of hands and mouths and--

Danny slipping his thumbs under the waistband of those swim shorts, and pulling them down and--

He doesn’t get to imagine what comes next, because he does.

He gasps into his arm as his hips thrust forward, the sudden orgasm washing over him as he finally relaxes, practically melting against the wall.

He stands there, catching his breath, head in his arm. The pleasure fades, but the image of Danny does not.

A spike of anxiety accompanies his glance down, spreading his fingers and looking at the mess he’s made of himself. Facing the reality of what had just happened.

Oh.

Oh no.