You wake up to the sound of your obnoxious cell phone ring (You remember quite distinctly changing it to something a bit easier on the ears just two days ago, but it seems to have magically changed back after you lent Metis your phone. Odd.), and mumble something incoherent before picking it up and checking your text messages.
good luck!!! my mom says if u win, u can stay over tonight, so u had better win. or else i’ll sic charles on u.
You stare a bit more at the screen before you notice that the clock in the corner says 5:45 rather clearly. After making a mental note to throttle Metis for waking up early for the sole purpose of annoying you, you turn off your phone and roll over.
When you wake up again at 8:30, you re-read the message, and are actually capable of comprehending it this time. You grin to yourself a little madly (It happens a lot when it comes to Metis), and decide that you are winning this game, no matter what. It’s been two whole weeks, as in plural, and Metis’ mom is either a really heavy sleeper, or she knows about everything and doesn’t care. Frankly, you couldn’t care less which one it is.
You really do love playing football. Metis never gets tired of asking you why, and you can never really come up with a good answer. You just love it, the way you love chocolate and Guitar Hero and Metis.
However, at this particular moment, football could be chopped liver for all you care. Okay, not really true. The chopped liver playoffs are probably not all that fun. But that’s not the point here, the point is that right now you’d much rather be pushing Metis up against a wall and kissing him senseless (among other things), and that’s sort of not really an option.
And it’s the playoffs, goddammit. You need to concentrate, or a good chunk of the school will be silently mad at you until the next season starts. And there is no way in hell you’re going to lose a chance to stay the night at Metis’ house.
It’s just not fair that Metis looks so good when his hair is all mussed up from the wind.
Why in the world does he sound so sexy when he’s cheering for you?
This doesn’t bode well for your sanity.
Focus. Catch the ball, run, make a touchdown. Don’t stare at Metis and end up getting hit in the head with the ball (again). Lather, rinse, repeat.
...and holy shit, your team just won the playoffs. While you were completely spacing out trying not to look like a complete and utter moron.
Except that Metis is still cheering from the bottom row of bleachers, and you know what, nobody should be allowed to look that good. Ever.
Maybe this is what being high is like, because your mind feels a bit foggy and you are not thinking at all, you just walk over and pull him out of his seat and kiss him for all he’s worth. It feels like you’re the only two people in the world.
The spell is broken, or more accurately, shattered into a million small fragments that are never, ever going to be put back together, when you break apart for air. Because then it kind of hits you that no, you’re not at your house, or Metis’ house, or anywhere of the sort. You’re in the middle of a crowded football field full of high school students, and every single one of them is staring at you.
It doesn’t help that it’s eerily quiet.
Metis is giving you his I-am-so-going-to-kill-you-do-you-have-any-idea-how-long-Charles-is-going-to-mock-me-for-this look, and most of the people in the bleachers are giving you their holy-shit-did-that-just-happen looks, and some of them are giving you these ew-boys-kissing looks, and what really freaks you out is the we-are-fangirls-oh-em-gee-om-nom-nom looks some of the girls are giving you.
“Um,” you say, intelligently, because what exactly else is there to say? You just kissed your boyfriend in front of the whole entire school, pretty much. Said whole entire school is now staring at you. Charles is laughing his ass off (You really, really preferred the eerie silence), and will probably continue to do so for quite a while. You just looked up to see what kind of look your mom is shooting you, and lo and behold, she’s sitting next to Metis’ mom and they’re both wearing identical knowing smirks, what the fuck.
So what’s a boy to do?
You grab Metis’ hand and pull him towards the locker room. Two whole weeks, dammit.