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Five Times Danny Told Jackson He Wasn't His Type

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One and Two.

"So, you're gay," said Jackson. He sat on the bed and stared at the floor of Danny's room. "How did you know?"

This was going so much better than Danny thought that he was giddy with it. "I guess . . . I thought some guys were hot. I didn't think any girls were hot."

"Do you think I'm hot?" Jackson asked, wrinkling his brow at Danny.

"No, dude, you're not my type."

Jackson smiled slightly, but the forehead wrinkles stayed. Danny didn't know what to make of that. Then Jackson brightened. "Hey we were going to do target practice, remember. First one to miss has to give me a blowjob."

Danny rolled his eyes. "I told you, you're not my type." He didn't miss, either.

 

Three.

He came out to the school after that, wearing a pride pin on his backpack for a while, until everyone got the idea, and then he took it off again. Pins on his backpack weren't really his style.

People asked him questions, mostly polite--he was still one of the most popular guys in school. Maybe if Jackson had been a jerk about it, everyone else would have been too, but he wasn't.

"How'd you know you were . . . you know?" the Stilinski kid asked him in Earth Science. "Was it--" Stiles jerked his head back at Jackson, sitting behind them with a carefully bored expression on his face "--'cause he does have great cheekbones. You know, if I noticed that sort of thing."

"No," said Danny carefully. "He's not my type."

Jackson smiled, self-satisfied. He probably liked this--it would feed his ego if everyone at school thought he turned Danny gay. "I'm everyone's type," he said.

Stiles made an expression somewhere between turned on and disgusted, and turned back to the lecture. Danny looked at Jackson for a moment longer, at the perfect veneer of smugness he wore. Some day Jackson would admit to caring about something. Danny wondered what it would be.

 

Four.

The first time Danny got drunk was his fifteenth birthday. Jackson provided the booze. Jackson had been drunk before, on his own, to see what it was like. Because Jackson was too much of a control freak to let anyone see his first time at anything. They'd left the party, and climbed up to the cliffs above the town, and now Danny's head swam too much to think about getting down. For a while. Maybe not until morning.

Jackson's leaned against him. "Can I blow you?" he asked. "For your birthday."

"I told you--"

"I know, I know, I'm not your type." Jackson smirked, because no matter how many times Danny said it, apparently he didn't plan to believe it. "Dude, I'm offering. You really going to say no?"

The next day he thought about what it meant, about if it changed anything, about whether he should have come out at all, since it seemed to mean that every questioning guy in Beacon Hills wanted his advice on the subject.

But he'd never even had someone else touch his dick, and here was Jackson offering.

He thought Jackson might wimp out, or this might be some kind of cruel joke, but Jackson went for it, and Danny lost at least a part of his virginity up there, outside, above the town, arms spread over the rock, grabbing at it, as Jackson gave him surprisingly competent head.

"Happy Birthday," said Jackson when he was done.

"You want me to . . .?" Danny asked halfheartedly.

"No man. I know I'm not your--whatever."

"Then why?"

Danny didn't really expect Jackson to answer. Jackson had been drunk before, practiced at hiding himself, even when alcohol made it harder. "I just wanted to know what it was like," he said, almost dreamily. Then sharper, "Don't tell anyone."

"Okay, man," said Danny. "No worries."

 

Five.

Jackson had been acting super weird lately. For a while, Danny thought he was about to come out too, and probably hated the idea of following Danny in anything more than he hated the idea of being gay. Danny could see it--Jackson would go to LA and date guys who looked exactly like him, like some kind of funhouse mirror of narcissism, until he lost his looks.

He watched the tape of Jackson sleeping on the video long enough that it looked like started to look only like shapes, and not his best friend. He had to watch it three times before he saw the blip.

Why would Jackson tape himself sleeping? Why would anyone edit it?

"You're not my type," he whispered to the form on the video. It was true, but it had also become a talisman now, the way he kept his distance from Jackson's bullshit. Jackson was into something really weird, something way harder to deal with than being the third gay guy at Beacon Hills High School. There was something dark circling around Jackson, and it would drag Danny down with it. He knew it, like he knew that blob of moonlit shapes was Jackson's body, even out of the corner of his eye.

"You're not my type," he said again. "But you are my friend." He picked up the phone and called Matt.