When his mother was in one of her rages and he was scared from the house by the shattering of glass, he’d turned up at Bryce’s door. It’d been raining. Justin could picture what a sad, wet puppy he’d looked with his wet cheeks and shaking legs. He’d been so grateful when Bryce had let him stay in his pool house. What a good friend , Justin had thought.
Fuck you, he thinks now as he makes his way inside. There’s a blanket on the couch, which he knows Bryce had the maid leave out for him. He curls up under it even as he hates himself for it. Why does he keep crawling back here? Justin dreams of teddy bears ripped open to reveal nothing but rot and worms. He tries to sew it back together, but the scraps crumble to dust. His hands are stained black, and Justin can’t wipe them clean no matter what he does. He’s wiping then ripping and tearing then bleeding then-
He gasps awake only to find that the TV is glowing with Saturday morning cartoons. He hugs his chest, heart beating fast, as someone shifts next to him. Bryce is in nothing but sweatpants and a white wife beater. When he leans up to stretch, Justin can see his Calvin Klein boxers peeking through.
“You were squirming and moaning a lot in your sleep, bro,” Bryce says and shoots him a smirk. “Sweet dreams?”
Justin weakly smiles back: “Heh, yeah. I’m gonna...gonna go shower, okay?”
The shower fails to soothe him. Justin scrubs hard, but he can’t seem to clean himself. Instead, he presses his forehead against the glass and closes his eyes. No, no...please don’t... It’s Clay and those stupid tapes. He can’t get Jessica’s voice out of his head. Can’t stop himself from falling back inside that hallway. Regret tastes like bile, but Justin can’t throw up when his stomach is empty.
“Hungry?” Bryce voice has a special quality when he’s just speaking to Justin. It gets soft like he’s soothing some wounded animal, and Justin hates the sound. But what is he supposed to say? Don’t be nice to me?
The couch angrily squeaks as he sits back down next to Bryce. He eats the cereal and stares blankly at the TV while Spongebob hammers a nail into his forehead. Bryce texts and shifts next to him. Justin wants to leave, but he doesn't want to go home. When he finishes the cereal and Bryce slings a hand over his shoulder, he feels trapped.
“There’s a party tonight. Marcus says his parents will be gone the whole weekend, so…”
“I already invited Jessica-”
“You what ?” He snaps, jaw clenched.
“In the group chat. Chilll,” Bryce snorts and punches his shoulder. “You really need a smoke, huh? You’re, like, on edge."
Justin shoves him a little harder than is playful, but Bryce only smiles like he’s his bratty, little brother.
“You’re such an ass,” Justin mutters under his breathe like the coward that he is. He wants to slap away that smug smile. Instead, he unclenches his fists and obediently fetches the bag of weed from the drawer. He jumps back onto the couch, stiffening as Bryce possessively slings a hand over his shoulder.
Justin rolls up a blunt on his knee and jerks when Bryce takes it with his free hand. Bryce takes it with the self assurance of a boy who’s never been told ‘no.’ He takes it with the self assurance of a boy who knows he can get his way.
“What’s yours is mine,” Bryce happily hums his fucked up motto as he pulls his hand away for a moment to toy with the lighter. Then his body re-drapes itself over Justin's, and the heat makes Justin’s chest tighten. Bryce leans in and mockingly blows the smoke in his face. Bastard.
“What the fuck bro? What do I look like?” Justin coughs and snatches the blunt back. He needs a hit like yesterday. He shifts as Bryce’s thumb soothingly rubs the nape of his neck. They’re pressed up close, nothing but smoke filling the small spaces between their bodies. Bryce has that look in his eyes, the one he gets when they’re alone in the pool house. In his dark eyes, Justin can see his own distorted reflection. Justin knows how he must look: his eyes are red, his hair is mussed, and his lips are parted with smoke.
“You look like a little bitch,” Bryce confirms as he fumbles for the blunt, fingers bumping into his. But the way Bryce says it...all soft like...
Justin hates that he’s been trained so well that the tenor makes his stomach tighten. He only associates that low grumbling voice with one thing. Justin squirms, feet curling in his socks. Suddenly, he becomes aware of how tight his jeans are. How both of their breathing has become slow and synchronized.
“Dude,” Justin protests, wary, as he reaches for the blunt, but Bryce holds it just out of his grip. He wonders if this is the same rush that Bryce had felt that night when he purposefully pushed Justin out of the room. Locked the door.
“Uh uh. What’s the magic word?”
Justin flushes at the taunting and refuses to play along today: “Fuck off.”
He tackles Bryce, and tries to wrestle it away from him. But Bryce is bigger than him. He easily pushes him back and pins him down hard into the soft cushions.
“Nah, I don’t think that’s it,” Bryce mocks, body flush against Justin’s, as he holds the blunt between his fingertips, still out of reach. He must think Justin is playing along because his eyes have lit up. Justin knows how these sort of games end, and he hates that his body is responding to the pressure. He hates how his cheeks flush red with memories. He hates that Bryce can see through the firm line of his lips to the trembling trepidation below.
“Gedoffme,” he grumbles but doesn't make an effort to push Bryce off. He just looks up at him through his lashes, waiting. If anything, Justin knows the more he protests the more dilated Bryce’s eyes will get. The sick fuck gets off on it. Bryce’s lips twitch up in a knowing smirk because he knows Justin has never refused him anything. Not even this.
“You want to shot gun,” Bryce states firmly, matter of fact, and this is crucial. It must be Justin who has to ‘ask’ for it. Must be him who’s the needy one.
“I…yeah.” Justin bites his lip and nods. This pathetic attempt at consent is good enough for Bryce because... of course it is.
Bryce has all the logic of the frat boy he’s destined to become, so a broken ‘yeah’ is the same as a ‘yes’ to his ears. But if he was listening, he would hear the resentment bubbling under Justin’s skin. If he was listening, he would hear the echo of Hannah’s tapes that loop behind Justin’s eyes. He would hear the end of these games drawing nearer and nearer.
Bryce shifts forward as he takes a hit, and Justin can feel Bryce’s hard against his leg. He looks up at the ceiling even as he obediently parts his lips. Always obedient. Always.
Their lips don’t touch, but it’s close enough that it doesn't matter because the point isn’t to kiss. This isn’t an act of love. That’s never been the point of their games and it never will be. What matters to Bryce is that he has Justin exactly where he wants him- under his thumb.
His thumb rubs against Justin’s neck, a signal that means good boy. Justin’s cock twitches at the positive reinforcement. From what he’s gathered from psychology class, Bryce has trained him like Pavlov's dog. Except instead of a bell, Justin’s salivating for scraps of his friends approval, willing to even degrade himself to earn it.
Justin starts to rock his hips forward. Bryce makes a small guttural noise in the back of his throat; he likes it when Justin does all the work. Justin’s only semi himself but every soft moan his rocking motion draws from Bryce’s lips makes his treacherous cock stiffen. He hates how easily he begins to crave his captor’s affections. The guilt makes his stomach tighten almost as much as the arousal. He won’t be able to make love to Jessica for a week, not with the memory of Bryce’s heavy breathing against his ear.
“Shit. Yeah, that’s...good,” Bryce mummers, unusually chatty, and even the small admission of what’s happening makes Justin bite his bottom lip. Oh god, he speeds up his pace, let it be over.
Bryce takes another hit, and Justin obediently parts his lips. Their eyes meet, and the intimacy is like a jolt of electricity, a shock collar to his system. He’s fully hard, and drops of cum rub against his boxers; the fabric grows wet with his desire. The pressure of Bryce’s hard body grinding down against him, the helplessness, makes his eyes flutter. Then Bryce lets his lips cover Justins. Oh! That feels nice and soft like Jessica except-
“What the fuck?” Justin jolts out of his trance-like state. “Don’t kiss me. T-that’s pretty fucking gay.”
“Accident,” Bryce reassures him in that soothing voice he’s used earlier, and he could have easily tacked on a baby or sweetie by his tone. Because he’s played this game too often, Justin knows it wasn’t an accident. Bryce is flirting with the boundaries between them, testing to see how hard he can push Justin before he snaps. Is it the power he’s high off and not the weed? His thumb’s back at the nape of Justin’s neck, trying to rub away the worries. They’re too far gone to stop without making it more weird, so he bites back his protests with a ‘yeah, well, don’t do it again.’
Bryce’s buried his face into his shoulder, and he’s whispering incomplete thoughts. Justin tries to ignore the dirty fragments he catches. So good...such a good boy...Justin...
He feels Bryce's body stiffen as he cums, and the humiliation of his own arousal forces a defeated whimper from his lips.
"Want anything else?" Bryce asks as he kicks off his sweat pants and boxers to put on a fresh pair. Justin just shakes his head and buries his face into his hands. The cum smeared against his boxers makes his cheeks burn. He's made a mess of himself and, knowing Bryce, he'll do it again.