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It's Tuesday night. 6:13pm, to be precise. And Joe's sitting on his bed, staring at this godforsaken calculus worksheet, pencil eraser held in his mouth with his teeth. His brow is smooth, apparently locked in transitive thought, rather than actually concentrating on homework. It isn't like Joe to slack off or procrastinate. But... it's going to be one of /those/ days, he thinks, and he isn't really sure that he wants to deal with homework of all things, just yet.
And Tom hasn't even come in through the door yet, although you wouldn't notice with the way Joe is already nervous, pencil still in his mouth but now teetering up and down between his teeth. He's a calm and collected guy, compared to Tom. But he still grimaces at the thought of the next couple of hours. Tom called Joe nearly two minutes ago, spitting out some shit excuse about 'needing help on number 23.' And Joe, of course, saw through the lie. I mean, there were only 18 questions.
Leave it to Tom to be a shit liar when it comes to his best friend. In the fifth grade, during recess, Tom and Joe usually played together. Tom was a bit of a jerk, even then in his younger years, always so crass and annoyed, and unmistakably rude to anyone and everyone that wasn't his mother or Joe. And as for Joe, he was quiet and introverted to an extent, but he often found that wasn't the case as long as Tom was around. Tom was the one who was made fun of, and teased slightly, but Joe always smiled at the end of each jeer, and Tom's anger always dissipated at the sight of it.
Joe hears the sudden raps at his door, and notices only the rustling of the handle before-
"-What the fuck? Open up!"
And Joe rolls his eyes, waits a moment longer. He hears Tom sigh melodramatically. And then he finally, pushes off his bed, crosses to the door, and opens it.
Tom is leaning against the wall, head down. But Joe knows him, and he knows he's smiling. What should be only a few seconds is lengthened by Tom's wily theatrics. He fakes a yawn, raises his shoulders, as if waking from a nap. He smacks his mouth a few times and his eyes slowly flutter open, the bright brown eyes startingly focused on Joe's feet. Slowly, he looks his way up, admiringly attentive to the black trousers and the way they've wrinkled after the long day. Tom notes the untucked school uniform, and the two buttons that have come undone. And Joe can feel the thickness of his saliva in the back of his throat at the way Tom's staring continues after lingering on his neck.
Joe can't look him in the eye, and he tries to remember the way-
"Hey," Tom says coolly, voice demanding recognition.
"Hey," Joe returns. And he makes the mistake of glancing at Tom's eyes. Tom's still staring, glaring, almost seething. It looks as though he's trying to process something, or trying to put something into context when the line of his hair raises with his brow. His whole demeanor has shifted and there's that smile. It must be exhausting, Joe thinks, to be so fucking tempestuous. But before he can say anything, Tom starts with:
"Well, well, Joseph, how kind of you to invite me in. Such a nice gentleman, you are."
"Oh, fuck right off. The door /was/ open, you know?" Joe remarks, nonchalantly, and then adds, with all the necessary breathiness, "Asshole."
Tom feigns shock, "What vile language you use. Does your mother hear the words you say?" His smile still plastered to his goddamned face.
Joe snorts. "Right, well I'll have her know I've learned it all from you. But, lucky for you, she's at work."
"Mmm, lucky for me." And Tom pushes right past Joe, his shoulder akwardly rubbing against the other boy's.
It's only then that Joe notices Tom is here empty-handed. Great, he thinks.
"Where's your book?" He asks pointedly. He thinks that if he can just get the tutoring matter over with providing that his mom will be home by then, he can ease all this tension. Push it aside.
Tom's not going to make this easy. Nope, why would he? This is his favorite fucking part of the whole thing.
Tom sits on Joe's computer chair and answers, with a bit of an edge to his voice, "Don't need it."
Joe closes the door and then closes his eyes. "I suppose you also don't need to pass."
"The thing is, Joseph," Tom says lazily, and Joe will never admit it, but he can't help but shiver involuntarily at the sound of his name in that tone, "I have more, uh, pressing matters at hand."
Joe listens at first, and then opens his eyes to watch Tom adjust. His legs are now apart, elbows on his knees, his hands not-so subtley indicating to his half-hard cock pressing through his school trousers.
Joe just stands at the door, eyebrows quirked upward with his mouth slightly agape, hands in his pockets. And how he ended up with his best friend and his best friend's half-hard cock in his bedroom at 6:18 pm on a fucking Tuesday night, he doesn't know.
"Well, you offered to help." Tom leans back now, and locks his hands behind his head. That skinhead haircut with the small tuft of hair on top, which he was so famous for, had been his choice of haircut for the last couple of months. His rebellious locks often mocked Joe and his flawlessly slicked-back hair.
"With your calculus, Tom. I'm not fucking sucking you off." And he sounds braver than he thought he would. He sighs, practice makes perfect.
Tom isn't dissuaded, instead he leans up out of the chair and walks towards Joe. His eyes are dark and his hair, the small bangs he has, fall just past his forehead. He's ruggedly good-looking, Joe can't deny. He just doesn't want to fuck his best friend. But Tom isn't used to hearing 'no,' and Joe suspects he probably doesn't even know what it means.
Joe suddenly realizes that he's been stepping back when he feels the doorknob against his spine. He lets out a small grunt, and Tom doesn't miss a beat. He slides in. One hand possessively on Joe's waist, his long thigh in between Joe's legs and the other hand is inconspicuously AWOL until Joe feels it, pressing, squeezing, tickling, driving him fucking mad in all of two seconds.
It takes a lot of heavy breaths and 'nonononono's to finally open his eyes. And Joe sees it. The longing in his best friend's eyes. He's always so scared to see it, but it's been there for years. It's the one trace of vulnerability he's seen in all the years he's known Tom. And that misplaced love is the one reason Joe won't take advantage of him.
Tom is suddenly not touching him anymore. There are no hard hands, no hard cocks, no trace of Tom on his person. He doesn't look away. Instead he holds his gaze and when Tom moves his hands to Joe's face, to cup his jaw and hold him in place, and maybe lean in, Joe leans his head back and with one firm hand pushes Tom off hard.
Tom's face is downcast and Joe feels like shit. Of course he does. The guy's "in love with him" and hard, and just felt him up and Joe doesn't know why he even let him in his room in the first place.
"For fuck's sake." And Tom isn't so much annoyed, as he is pissed.
"You don't even have to do anything. Just fucking sit there. I'll like it. You'll fucking like it. You won't be able to stop."
And this conversation is Tom's defense mechanism.
"And that's why you're so fucking scared, huh? You're afraid you won't get enough."
Joe says nothing. Just runs a hand through his hair and opens the door.
"I think you should leave, Tom."
"Well, I think you should fuck off."
And Tom does leave, but not before snarling at Joe like a rabid creature. Joe's leg is shaking, and pretty soon the rest of his body follows suit as he hears the door open. But Tom couldn't be downstairs already. Shitshitshit.
"Hello Thomas! Are you- oh!"
Doors slam. And he hears silence.
He rolls his shoulders, trying to calm himself before heading out the door to greet his mom.
"Joseph. What's going on? Are you two okay?"
"We're fine, mom." He says, lying through his teeth, to his own mom. He opens the fridge and packs away the groceries.
"I know it's hard, Jose-"
"Mom, please."
"It isn't your fault he's in love with you."
"Mom!"
Her hand is on his shoulder and he turns to look at her.
"He isn't in love with me."
She snorts and smiles, her brown eyes he inherited from her twinkling just as his tend to. Obviously she sees things he can't because she her face is somber now and she's searching his face for something. "Remember Ellen? She was nice. Smart, too."
Joe chuckles a bit, before placing the orange juice on the door and closing the fridge.
"Yeah, Tom hated her. Called her a, uh, 'condescending twat,'" Joe said, bracing himself for a slap.
"Joseph! Stop mouthing off! And I suppose he had his reasons for not liking her.."
"Mom! You're not seriously insinuating that /the/ Tom Hardy is madly in love with me, and therefore was jealous of the one and only girlfriend I've ever had in my life."
"I didn't say a thing."
"He just wants to be able to say he's screwed his best friend, mom. I'd just add to his number count."
"I think it's a lot more than that, babe. And, jesus, where do you get off calling Thomas some kind of floozy?"
"Uh, because he is. And he does not limit himself to one gender, no ma'am." He smirks as he says this, a wide generous smile.
"Honestly, you two. I don't even- Just go do the homework I know you haven't finished and I'll call you when everything's cooked."