"You know, Murph, I'm not entirely sure about this."
Most of Charlie's life has been based on things that he's not sure of; his tendency has always been to try something and see if it works. He always figures that, if it doesn't work, he'll know not to do it next time.
He's not sure that that applies to a situation like this.
"Shut the fuck up, Charlie," says Murphy and he's not smiling but there's a fond look in his eyes when he shoves Charlie hard enough that his knees hit the desk and he ends up sitting on it which means that he's in the perfect position when Murph steps in between his knees and pushes his fingers into his hair and drags his head back and kisses him.
Charlie Bartlett has always been the sort of kid that things just happen to.
He leans his weight back on one hand and kisses Murph back, licks warmly into his mouth, and his free hand comes up to cradle the back of Murphy's head and his legs come up around his waist, which pushes their hips together and Charlie might not be a virgin any more, but that doesn't mean he's used to how quickly he feels dizzy with need.
The first time they did this, they were at Murphy's and Charlie found himself pretty summarily stripped stark naked but, for now, it feels like they don't even have time for that. It's easier for Charlie if it's quicker, somehow; that way, he doesn't have time to feel guilty about Susan, and he doesn't have time try to figure out how it's possible to end up in love with two people at once from a standing fucking start.
What Charlie has learned in the last couple of weeks is this: that sex on Ecstasy is amazing, that sex on Ritalin is also amazing (but also a little scary), that he doesn't care if he's going down on Susan or Murphy, he loves it and that either of them can get him to do anything they want.
And he's not sure that he cares.
"What do you want?" he asks, breathless, lips against Murph's jaw and what he means is how do you want me? Murph's head tips to one side and he bites his lip against a smirk, and, for a moment, Charlie's scrutinised. He can feel a blush starting and he's just starting to look away when Murphy grabs of a fistful of his shirt and drags him in for another kiss that's harder and sweeter and slower than the one before. He tugs on Charlie's shoulders under he's standing up again, chest to chest in t-shirts and jeans and the windows are open letting in warm, summer air and all he wants to be is kissed and kissed again.
"Bend over and drop your pants," says Murphy, and he says it almost gently, and he touches the side of Charlie's face with his thumb and Charlie turns his head and sucks a kiss against the heel of Murphy's hand.
"There's lube and condoms in the drawer," he says.
Murphy moves away from him and Charlie shifts like he was told because, fuck, sometimes it's easier to be told to do something and just do it, instead of being the one who's doing all the thinking and just trying to keep everyone safe. He turns his back on Murphy and undoes his jeans, pushing them and his underwear down around his knees. He leans across his desk almost lazily, and it took him a while to get used to feeling exposed like this but he's finding that he kind of likes it.
He's spent so much of his life screwed up tight.
Murphy's hand presses into the small of his back, shoving his t-shirt up under his arms and it ought to feel ridiculous, being naked like this, but, somehow, it doesn't. Somehow, it's the hottest fucking thing in the world.
Murph's hand stays in the small of his back so he's all but holding him down when he rubs one slick finger down the cleft of Charlie's ass and then presses against him with what has to be his fucking thumb.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" huffs Charlie, breathlessly, but, noticeably, his hips hitch backwards and one hand curls into a loose fist next to his nose while Murphy fucks him with his thumb and he rocks his hips back and, when Murphy pulls it out of him, he actually makes a physical sound of loss. He'd be ashamed of himself if it didn't feel so fucking good when Murphy replaces his thumb with two fingers, scissoring, pushing, and it's on the very edge of hurting and then Murphy must hit his prostate because pleasure spikes through him and his forehead hits the desk with a solid sound.
"Murphy, would you just fuck me?"
Murphy thrusts his fingers into him particularly hard and his free hand comes down hard against the flat of Charlie's bare thigh.
"What's the magic word, Charlie?"
Charlie huffs a laugh through his nose and bites his lip, hips hitching back and, if Murph keeps this up much longer, Charlie's going to come all over himself from just this.
"Now," he says.
If fingers felt good then Murphy's cock feels incredible. Safe in the knowledge that the house is empty, Charlie moans loudly, shoving his weight up onto his elbows so that he's got some leverage to push back with, already aching, his pulse throbbing in his throat. Murphy's fingers are against the side of Charlie's face and he turns his head, parts his lips and sucks on them, moaning encouragement and what he means is come on, I need you, I want you, fuck me harder than that.
Thankfully, Murphy understands.
Charlie comes pushing back against Murphy, squirming as much as he can in the tight space between Murphy's body and the desk and then Murphy's hands tighten on him and Charlie sucks his fingers in slow, strong strokes.
For a moment, afterwards, they lie together, Murph's weight pressing against Charlie's back, which is possibly the most comforting in the world, which is how he feels when he lies there with his head resting against Susan's chest and, one day, he's going to figure out how this whole goddamn fucking mess is supposed to work.
One day, when he can think straight again.
"Next time, I am fucking taping that," says Murphy and Charlie reaches back and swats at him with one hand.
"Get the fuck off me," he says, rolling his eyes and pushing up with his hands. "And then take your pants off and get into the fucking bed."
He needs to sleep.
He'll figure everything else out as he goes along.
It's always worked for him before.