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It's perfectly normal, Dylan tells himself, to notice when your best friend gets new shoes.
He compliments the boots offhandedly when he meets Eric at school that morning. They're black matte rubber and leather, real military surplus. They're clean, too, since Eric hasn't had the chance to get them dirty yet. The laces are red, neatly tied, and—
And alright, fine, Dylan's been thinking about them all fucking day. That, he supposes, is probably a little less normal.
If Eric notices Dylan's distracted all day, he doesn't mention it. They head to Eric's house to fuck around with some dry ice bombs in his back yard since his parents aren't home — just for fun, this time. Dry ice bombs aren't exactly practical for NBK.
Dylan sits in his car for a few seconds once he gets to Eric's. He needs to get a goddamn grip. He's known somewhere in the back of his mind for a while now that he could maybe... Possibly be attracted to men, but Eric? Eric talks shit about gay people just as often as he talks about any other minorities. He'll beat Dylan's ass if he ever catches on. This has to stop.
Eric knocks obnoxiously on Dylan's window, jarring him out of his thoughts. Dylan opens the door and pretends to hit him with it, and Eric shoves him as he gets out of the car, laughing. They head into the backyard, Dylan trailing slightly behind Eric, and everything feels normal for... Oh, about twenty minutes.
Dylan has been pointedly looking at anything but Eric's boots as they shake up the dry ice bombs and throw them across the yard, both whooping and cheering at the little explosions that follow as a result. But when he does glance down again, he notices that one boot's laces have come undone, and before he can stop himself, he opens his big mouth to comment on it. "Your boot's untied, Reb."
It sounds casual, but Dylan still panics as soon as he's spoken. What if pointing out the undone lace makes Eric suddenly catch on? But it turns out he's freaking out over nothing; Eric just shrugs and leaves the lace undone.
It shouldn't bother Dylan. There's no reason it should grate on his nerves so much. It certainly shouldn't bother him enough that he feels the need to do anything about it, but he's dropping onto one knee in front of Eric before he can even consider all the reasons it's a terrible idea.
"What are you..." Eric trails off when Dylan yanks his foot closer. He watches in confused, slightly stunned silence as Dylan tightens and ties the laces for him.
"You should take better care of your shit," Dylan says as he sits back and stands up, avoiding Eric's eyes. His face is burning; he can only hope Eric doesn't notice.
"Thanks, man," Eric says, a beat or two late. "... Where did you put that last chunk of dry ice?"
Dylan feels strangely disappointed when Eric lets it go so easily, then internally berates himself. What had he been expecting? Even if Eric did catch on, he'd been nice enough to pretend nothing had been amiss. Dylan should be grateful.
Eric starts talking about pipe bombs once they run out of dry ice, and Dylan is swiftly distracted by thoughts of their future plans. He doesn't think about Eric's boots for the rest of the evening, nor does he think about the look of shock on Eric's face when Dylan had dropped onto his knees before him.
If he thinks about it when he's alone in bed that night, though — well. That's for him to know and Eric to never find out.
—
That Friday, Dylan and Eric go out bowling with a handful of friends after school. It's a good night; everyone enjoys themselves, Dylan and Eric both get pretty decent scores, and they all pitch in for pizza when dinnertime rolls around.
Eric injures his wrist somehow in the last round, though. Dylan had watched him throw the ball, hadn't seen him do anything different than usual, but Eric had insisted it twisted oddly, gripping at it with a grimace on his face. Perhaps even more unusual, he politely shrugs off the concern of the few girls with their group. Normally, Dylan thinks, he would play it up a little, let them baby him, bask in the attention — but he doesn't seem to care much about them at all.
Weird.
Their friends slowly filter out, and by nine o'clock, Dylan and Eric are the last two left. Dylan wonders why Eric didn't go home sooner, considering his wrist had rendered him incapable of finishing their last game. He's just been sitting at one of the tables, sipping at a soda and teasing their friends every time they got a bad score.
"Hey, V?" Eric asks once Nate is gone. Dylan finishes tying his boots and looks over to where Eric is still sitting. He has his injured hand cradled to his chest and his boots in his lap; his bowling shoes have been toed off and nudged aside.
All at once, Dylan realizes exactly what Eric is about to ask.
"I can't, uh..." Eric swallows. "I can't get my boots on. I didn't wanna ask in front of anyone else."
Of course he'd be embarrassed. It had to have taken a lot of trust for him to bring himself to ask Dylan even once they were alone. Dylan is a bad, terrible, horrible friend for getting a little hard in his jeans at the thought of helping Eric put on his boots, and he hates himself for it.
"Oh. Don't worry about it, man," Dylan says. He glances around once to make sure nobody is paying them attention, but the bowling alley is nearly empty save for a couple of families on the lanes at the other side of the building. He slides out of his chair and kneels before Eric, taking his boots out of his lap and setting them on the ground.
He can do this. He can. Eric needs his help, and it would be a dick move to just... Walk away because he can't control his own boners, for Christ's sake.
Carefully, Dylan tugs the laces loose and grabs Eric's ankle. He slides the other's black-socked foot into the boot and tightens the laces again, then ties them. Eric is still and quiet above him; Dylan can't bear to look up and catch his expression. Dylan repeats the motions with the other foot. When he's done, he sits back, and that's when he makes the mistake of finally glancing up.
Eric is looking down at him with distinctly flushed cheeks, eyes wide and pupils undeniably blown. Dylan freezes, shocked. He knows his face has got to be red, too, but that's because he's — because of his —
Why the hell is Eric looking at him like that?
Eric breaks the moment by clearing his throat and jumping to his feet. "Thanks, V," he says, voice a little strained. "I gotta go, my dad will lose his shit if I'm home late again."
Dylan scrambles up, turning to find his coat. He doesn't look at Eric, and he gets the feeling Eric is avoiding looking at him, too. "Yeah, uh — me too. See you tomorrow?" They have plans to test a timer mechanism on one of Eric's newest batch of pipe bombs.
"Oh. Yeah, yeah — tomorrow. Later, Vodka." Eric rushes for the door before Dylan can say anything else.
"... Later, Reb," Dylan replies several beats too late, watching Eric practically flee the building.
What in the actual goddamn hell was that all about?
—
By morning, Dylan's convinced himself he imagined everything the night before. There had been nothing strange about Eric's behavior, only Dylan's own weird projections. He forces the whole thing to the back of his mind, determined not to think about the feel of Eric's slightly sweat-damp socks as Dylan had slipped his feet into the boots. Determined not to think about the boots themselves, either.
(He's not doing a great job of it.)
Eric seems to be in relatively good spirits when Dylan gets to his house, manic and obnoxious. If Eric remembers anything weird about the night before, he doesn't say anything either — another point that leads Dylan to believe it had been all in his head, after all. They work on the bombs for a couple hours, the head inside for lunch and a movie break.
It's there, just inside the Harrises' front door, that Dylan realizes Eric knows far more than he'd given him credit for.
Dylan crouches to take off his own boots, leaving them by the door. But when he tries to get up, Eric drops a hand onto his shoulder and pushes him back down. Dylan laughs at first, but when he glances up, he sees that same look on Eric's face that he thought he'd seen at the bowling alley the night before. Dylan's smile slips off his face as their eyes lock, and for a moment, neither boy speaks. Then slowly, carefully, Eric places his right foot on the ground between Dylan's legs.
"Get that for me," Eric says softly. It's not a request.
Dylan knows then, instinctively, that he could laugh this off and get up. It might be awkward for a day or two, but Eric wouldn't push or bring it up ever again. Everything would stay the same. It's a comforting thought, sort of; knowing that nothing has to change right now.
He also knows that he has about five seconds to make a decision before Eric changes his mind and backs out, himself.
Equal parts flustered and humiliated, but feeling strangely grounded, Dylan lets his fingers fall to the red laces. Eric lets out a shaky breath, the first obvious sign that he's just as nervous as Dylan.
"Not what I meant," Eric says, trying (and only partially succeeding) to sound stern. "The mud, first."
Dylan glances up again. Eric meets his gaze unflinchingly. Something unspoken passes between them once again. Finally, Dylan bows his head, pulling his sleeve over his hand to wipe away the smudge of dirt on the toe of Eric's boot.
"I'm gonna go downstairs," Eric says quietly, watching him. "You have two choices. You can go home, or you can get a damp rag from the kitchen and then meet me down there." He steps around Dylan, leaving him kneeling in the foyer. Dylan watches him head for the basement stairs; Eric doesn't look back once. Then he gets to his feet and heads for the kitchen.
He never even considers the other option.
—
When Dylan goes downstairs, Eric is sitting on the couch in front of the TV. The boots are still on, and Eric is seemingly focused on whatever the TV is playing — a quick glance confirms that it's the movie Pulp Fiction. Eric's gaze doesn't leave the TV as he spreads his legs and gestures vaguely between them.
"You want out at any time, you know where the door is," Eric says. Then, with a harder edge to his voice: "What are you waiting for? Come clean my fuckin' boots, V."
Dylan hurries across the room with an eagerness he'd be a lot more embarrassed of if Eric weren't clearly so turned on by it. He chances a glance at Eric's crotch as he kneels on the floor between his legs. He's hard, just as Dylan suspected, but having the proof right in front of him is surreal. Dylan lifts one of Eric's boots into his lap and sets to work immediately, cleaning dirt out from the bottom and wiping down the rest of it.
(They'll probably need to vacuum later, he thinks. Sorry, Kathy.)
Dylan is meticulous and careful, taking his time. When he's done with the first boot, he switches to the other one. He's hard as fucking diamond, and Eric still isn't even looking at him.
When Dylan is just about finished with the second one, Eric finally moves. He nudges Dylan's hands away with his foot, then presses the sole of his boot between Dylan's legs, right up against his aching cock. Eric rubs the sole slowly and carefully against Dylan's length through his jeans, and Dylan breathes out harshly.
"Let me—" Dylan cuts off, clears his throat, and tries again, quiet and uncertain. "I wanna use my mouth on you." He can't make himself word it any more blatantly than that.
That finally makes Eric glance down. He examines Dylan's face for a second, then looks back up to the TV. Dylan wonders if the ignoring is for his benefit or Eric's. "Sure," Eric drawls, unmoving. "While you're down there, I guess. Might as well make yourself useful."
Carefully, as if afraid Eric will change his mind, Dylan raises his hands to undo his belt. Eric sighs quietly as his button and zipper are undone by Dylan's shaking fingers. Dylan hesitates by, glancing up; Eric still doesn't look at him. Dylan's not sure if he wants him to.
"Don't have all fuckin' day, Vodka," Eric says, snapping his fingers. Dylan dutifully ducks his head again and pulls Eric's cock out through the hole in the front of his boxers. It's not the first time he's touched someone else's dick — he'd meant it when he said he and Zach did everything for the first time together — but it's the first time in a long time.
Dylan doesn't let himself overthink it, lest he psych himself out. He scoots forward a little to settle better between Eric's legs, then leans in and drags his tongue over the head.
"Shit," Eric hisses, losing some of his carefully measured composure immediately. He drops a hand onto the back of Dylan's heads, fingers sinking into light brown curls. Dylan licks along the underside and back up to the tip, then takes an inch or two into his mouth, slow and careful.
As Dylan starts to bob his head, trying to find a decent rhythm to settle into, Eric shifts until he can work his foot back between Dylan's legs. It's a bit of an awkward position, but he gets the toe of his boot right firm up against Dylan's dick again, which makes Dylan muffle a moan around his mouthful.
"If you wanna come," Eric says, voice low and tight like he's embarrassed to be saying it, "You're gonna come on my boot, and then you're gonna clean it off with your tongue. Take it or leave it."
Dylan makes an eager, acquiescent noise, pulling off Eric's cock a little and just mouthing at the head while he scrambles to get his own jeans undone. He gets his dick out of his boxers and rocks his hips forward against Eric's boot. The sole is hard and unforgiving, and Dylan has never been so turned on in his fucking life.
"Make me come first," Eric orders, and Dylan obediently takes more of his length into his mouth again. Eric drops his head back against the couch. "Fuck. Then you can rut on my boot like a bitch in heat." Dylan makes a little pleading noise in the back of his throat, and Eric laughs incredulously. "You like that, don't you? Jesus Christ, V."
Dylan would be more embarrassed about it, but Eric sounds almost fond. And this is all his fault, anyway.
"You looked ready to do it right there in the middle of the bowling alley," Eric taunts, answering the question Dylan has been wondering about for the past twenty minutes. "I'd have forced you onto your knees in the parking lot if I was sure you were into it."
The choice of words doesn't escape Dylan — forced — but he's not exactly opposed to the idea. He glances up at Eric's face through his lashes and sees that Eric still isn't looking at him, has his gaze focused somewhere on the ceiling. He wonders if Eric is pretending Dylan is someone else, some girl. Wonders if he can pretend he's someone else, with the way Dylan's dick is pressed up against his boot.
Annoyed by the thought that Eric might be trying to avoid thinking about who, exactly, has his dick in his mouth, Dylan redoubles his efforts. He strains to take more of Eric's length into his mouth, but miscalculates and triggers his gag reflex. Dylan coughs a little as he pulls back, but quickly goes down again. He knows what the limit is now, at least.
"Shit," Eric says again, and when Dylan chances another peek upwards, this time he's sort of proud to see Eric is looking back at him. He runs his fingers through Dylan's hair, giving a little experimental tug, and Dylan shivers. "Gonna come. You gonna swallow, or are you gonna pussy out?"
Dylan's not a pussy. He narrows his gaze into as much of a glare as he can, tracing the crown of Eric's dick with his tongue, and that's all it takes before Eric's coming in his mouth with a choked-back groan.
It doesn't taste good. Dylan already knows this. He also knows that Eric is trying to goad him into swallowing, but — well. It works. He pulls back and swallows, grimacing briefly at the taste. It could be worse, he supposes.
Dylan looks up at Eric after he swallows, a little anxious. Eric drags a hand over his face, then gestures vaguely downward. "Well? Hurry up. Didn't I already tell you I don't have all fuckin' day?"
Dylan's face burns as he adjusts his position so his cock is lined up with the softer, leather part of Eric's shoe. He keeps his gaze trained downward as he starts to grind, limbs trembling with some combination of nerves and suppressed arousal. Eric is having none of that, though; he slides his hand back into Dylan's hair and yanks his head back up.
"You don't get to pretend this isn't happening," Eric says. "With me. You don't get to pretend you didn't just suck dick like a fuckin' gay porn star just for the chance to hump my shoes like a dog."
There's something in the ferocity of Eric's gaze that makes Dylan's dick leak against Eric's boot, and he swallows hard, forcing himself not to look away from Eric's face. "Not trying to pretend. I just..." Dylan licks his lips, glancing briefly down to Eric's mouth. Eric seems to catch on, and he hesitates for a moment — Dylan supposes he did just have Eric's dick in his mouth — before leaning in and kissing him just this side of too roughly.
It's all Dylan needs. He ruts forward against Eric's foot once, twice, three more times before he's coming, muffling an embarrassingly loud moan against Eric's lips as he does. Eric pulls back when he hears it, glancing down between them to his shoe. If the sight of the laces splattered with white bothers him, it doesn't show. He leans back again and gives Dylan's head a little shove.
"Clean it up, V," Eric orders. Before he can convince himself not to, Dylan slides backwards and drops down to eye-level with Eric's boots again. At the first drag of his tongue over the leather, Dylan hears Eric's breath catch, and he realizes that Eric must have half expected he wouldn't do it at all.
Suddenly determined, Dylan licks every drop of his own cum from Eric's boot. There's not much, thankfully — his doesn't taste any better than Eric's — and when he sits up straight again, Dylan wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. He avoids looking at Eric as he tucks himself back into his jeans, though he hears Eric doing the same. Dylan starts to get to his feet, but Eric catches his shoulder again.
"Take them off," Eric says. Dylan doesn't know why he's still playing along, they both got what they wanted, but — he obeys, unlacing Eric's boots and setting them aside.
Apparently satisfied, Eric nudges him back and stands, stooping briefly to scoop up the boots with one hand. "C'mon, I'm fuckin' starving," is all he says, and with that, he heads for the stairs.
Dylan blinks after him for several seconds before, once again, scrambling to his feet to follow.