This is the first of hopefully many chapters. Each will be written after feedback. Feel free to contact me: KurtSilvers@proton.me
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Ian's Extra Credit - Chapter 1
It's December 1979, and Ridgewood High School is a ghost town. The halls echo with the distant hum of fluorescent lights, casting a pale, sterile glow over the linoleum floors. My fingers are cold from the chill that seeps through the old building as I grip my clipboard a little tighter. It's late--far later than I should be here--but I promised Mr. Thompson I'd help with the extra credit assignments. I didn't think that would mean being stuck with Ian.
Ian's an interesting guy and the school's weed dealer. His dad's a long-haul trucker and rarely around. He never talks much about his mom. He lives way out in the country. He's just two years older than me, but the gap between us feels like miles now. Last year, Ian was the cool, laid-back guy everyone liked. He's tall, built, probably the best-looking guy in the school, even if he's not the brightest. Even after his girlfriend Tracey moved away last March, he still had a smile for everyone, a joke ready at a moment's notice. But that was before summer. Before everything changed. Since the new school year started he has been a total asshole.
I'm Chris, 15 years old, 5'4", and pretty average in the teenage boy department. Some people say I'm cute, but I think that's just because of my bright blue eyes and almost-black brown hair. I skipped a couple of grades, so I'm used to being the little guy. I'm the school theater tech, and I've known I'm gay since I was six. My dad's an international 747 captain, and my mom runs a bank.
The auditorium is eerily quiet, except for the faint hum of the backstage transformers powering the lights, casting long shadows across the stage. With the tape rewound, I press the feedback button. "One more time, Ian." I start the music and lean against the soundboard, watching Ian struggle through the dance routine for what feels like the hundredth time. His movements are stiff, jerky, completely out of sync with the music. He's frustrated--I can see it in the way he clenches his fists after every misstep, in the angry mutterings under his breath that echo through the empty theater.
I try to focus on the task at hand, but it's hard to ignore how much things have changed between us. We were never close friends but we were always friendly. Ian was always private, but still the kind of guy everyone liked, the guy who made you laugh even when you didn't want to. But now, that easygoing smile is gone, replaced by something harder, colder. I didn't get it at first--why he seems to have this chip on his shoulder, especially toward me.
"You're off the beat again," I lean into the mic, trying to keep my voice neutral, supportive even, though I can tell it's not what he wants to hear.
"Yeah, no shit," Ian snaps, glaring at me from the stage. "I'm not a dancer fuckwad. This is stupid."
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "It's just a few more tries. You're getting better, seriously. Just one step at a time."
He shakes his head, clearly not convinced, but I reset the music anyway. The opening chords blare through the theater's ancient speakers, and Ian starts again. I can see how much effort he's putting in, but his body just isn't cooperating. Every wrong move seems to tighten the knot of frustration in his chest, and I can practically see the storm brewing in his eyes.
When he finally stumbles to a stop, panting and looking like he's about to punch something, I decide it's time to step in. "Ian, maybe we should call it for tonight," I suggest, trying to sound casual. "It's late, and you've been at this for a while. We can pick it up Monday."
He doesn't look at me. Instead, he grabs his backpack from the edge of the stage and slings it over his shoulder. "Yeah, whatever. I'm done."
I power everything down and follow him out of the theater, our footsteps echoing in the darkened halls. I'm not sure what to say, or if saying anything would even help. The truth is, I'm not used to dealing with people like Ian--or anyone, to be honest. I'm more comfortable behind the scenes, working with lights and sound. I can count my close friends on... well, actually, I really don't have anyone I'd call close. I keep pretty much to myself, either in the booth at the theater or tinkering in my electronics workshop at home.
When we step outside, the cold air hits me like a slap in the face. I hadn't realized how much the temperature had dropped. Snow is already falling, thick and fast, covering the ground in a blanket of white. The wind howls through the dark, empty streets, making it hard to see more than a few feet ahead.
"Ian, wait," I call out as he starts across the parking lot. He doesn't stop, but I can tell from the way he's moving that he's not in a hurry to get anywhere. I jog to catch up, grabbing his arm just as he reaches his car. "You can't drive in this."
He pulls his arm away, but he doesn't argue. He just stands there, staring out at the snowstorm like he's seeing something far away. "I have to get home," he says finally, but there's no conviction in his voice. Just exhaustion.
"You're not going anywhere in this," I say, my voice softer now. "Come on, let's go back inside. We can wait it out, and when the storm lets up, I'll help you get home."
He hesitates, his eyes narrowing as if he's weighing his options. For a moment, I think he's going to argue, but then he sighs and nods. We trudge back to the theater, the snow crunching under our boots. By the time we get back inside, the cold has seeped into my bones, and I'm grateful for the relative warmth of the building.
I lead him back to the stage, where I grab a couple of folding chairs and set them up in the wings. We sit in silence for a while, watching the snow fall through the small windows at the back of the auditorium. It's peaceful, in a way, the kind of quiet that makes everything else seem far away.
But we can't stay here all night. The storm's only getting worse, and I can't just leave Ian here.
"Ian," I begin, breaking the silence, "I think we should head to my place."
He glances at me, confused. "What? Why?"
"The streets are snowed under, and we can't stay here all night," I explain. "I live about a half-hour from here, walking distance. My parents are out of town for two weeks, so I've got the place to myself. You can crash there tonight."
He looks like he's about to argue, his shoulders tensing again. "I don't want to impose. I'll be fine."
"Ian, come on," I say, my voice firm but not unkind. "You're not imposing. It's just one night, and I'd rather you be somewhere safe. Besides, I can't leave you in the school. I've got the passkey, and I'm responsible for locking up."
He hesitates, his gaze flicking to the windows where the snow is now coming down so hard it's nearly impossible to see outside. I can tell he's torn, not wanting to accept help but knowing he doesn't really have a choice.
"Look," I add, "it's not far, and we can bundle up. We'll be at my place before you know it, and you can get warm and have a decent place to sleep. We'll figure everything else out in the morning."
There's a long pause before he finally sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Fine," he mutters, sounding defeated. "But just for tonight."
I nod, relieved. "Alright, let's get our stuff and head out."
We gather our things quickly. I double-check the building, making sure everything is locked up tight before we step out into the storm. The cold hits us like a wall, and for a moment, I wonder if this is really such a good idea. But there isn't much choice now.
"Stay close," I say, pulling my scarf tighter around my neck. Ian just nods, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as we start the trek to my house.
The walk is brutal. The wind whips snow into our faces, making it hard to see and even harder to keep moving forward. The half-hour walk feels like it's stretching into an eternity. I keep glancing over at Ian, making sure he's still with me, his head down against the wind, his breath coming out in visible puffs of steam.
We don't talk much, just keep our heads down and push through the storm. The world around us is quiet, muffled by the thick blanket of snow. It's like we're the only two people left in the world, trudging through this endless white expanse.
Finally, after what feels like hours, we turn onto my street. I turn to Ian to warn him, "Watch that ditch on your right," but before I can finish, Ian slides down into the ditch and is suddenly chest-deep in freezing cold water. I reach down to help him out, and we rush ahead to my house, a dark shape against the swirling snow. I fumble with my keys as we reach the front door, my hands numb from the cold. After a few tries, I manage to get the door open, and we stumble inside, the warmth of the house washing over us like a tidal wave. I quickly shut the door behind us, blocking out the storm. The silence inside is almost deafening after the roar of the wind outside. I turn to Ian, who's shivering, dripping wet with snow clinging to his hair and clothes.
"You okay?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
He nods, though he looks completely drained. "Yeah... yeah, I'm fine."
"Alright," I say, dropping my backpack by the door. "You can jump in the shower and I'll get you something dry to wear. Then we can warm up in the rec room. There's a guest room you can crash in."
He follows me up the stairs, still quiet. I know nothing I have will fit him, so I grab one of my dad's bathrobes and hand it to him. Ian takes it without a word and heads into the shower. I head back downstairs to the rec room and get a fire going in the wood stove, the flames crackling to life, casting a warm glow over the room.
A few minutes later, Ian walks into the room, now wearing the bathrobe, his hair still damp. He sits down on the couch, staring into the fire. He looks worn out--not just from the dancing, the walk, and the ice plunge, but like there's an emptiness inside him. I can't help but notice how good he looks, even in this state--his hair dripping, wearing nothing but the bathrobe, a light dusting of hair on his chest. Although I've been watching him dance for weeks for the first time I notice how big his feet are also noticing they look as good as the rest of him. That's weird. Why would I notice that? I sit down in the armchair across from him, trying not to let my thoughts wander too much.
"Thanks, Chris," he says after a long silence, his voice barely above a whisper.
"No problem," I reply, trying to keep things casual. "I've got pizza in the oven. I'm gonna grab a quick shower and be right back down."
I head upstairs, strip off my wet clothes, and jump into the shower. The hot water feels amazing after the freezing walk, and I take a moment to just let it wash over me, trying to process everything that's happened tonight. After a few minutes, I dry off, throw on my own bathrobe, and head back downstairs. This evening certainly didn't go the way I expected.
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, the power suddenly goes out, plunging the house into darkness. "Great," I mutter to myself. I fumble around until I find the junk drawer and pull out a flashlight. I click it on, the beam cutting through the darkness. "Here, Ian, help me light some candles," I say, tossing him a lighter as I shine the flashlight around the room.
He catches the lighter and starts lighting the candles I've placed around the room. The soft glow of the candles adds a cozy feel to the space, despite the storm raging outside. I head to the kitchen, grab the pizza and a couple of cokes, and return to the rec room.
We eat in silence for a while, the only sounds coming from the crackling fire and the storm outside. Eventually, Ian looks up at me, his expression serious. "Chris, why are you so nice to me? I've been a total dick to you lately."
I swallow a bite of pizza and take a sip of my drink, trying to find the right words. "Yeah, I was kind of wondering about that. But as far as tonight goes, it wouldn't have looked good if I just let you freeze. So... did I do something to piss you off or something?"
"No, fuck no. You didn't do anything." He looks down at his hands, fiddling with the edge of the bathrobe. "I haven't told anyone at school, but my mom... she tried to kill herself this past summer. I came home the last day of school and found her... hanging from the ceiling. I got her down, but..." His voice breaks, and he dissolves into sobs.
I feel a lump form in my throat as I watch him break down. I'm not sure what to do--should I reach out? Touch him? No, I'll just sit and listen.
After a moment, he regains some composure and continues, "There was too much damage. She's been in a coma ever since. If I had just gotten home a few minutes earlier..." He trails off, his eyes glistening with tears.
We talk back and forth for about an hour. I'm not really good at this kind of thing, but I try to just listen, offering a word here and there when it seems right. Twice I start to reach out, pulling back each time, unsure if it's the right move. Then, finally, I let my hand rest on top of his. He looks at me, surprised, but then he turns his hand over and grips mine tightly.
"Thank you," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "I haven't talked about this with anyone, other than some doctor."
"What about your friends?"
"I don't have any real friends," he admits, wiping his eyes. "People like me because I can get them weed, but I don't really trust anyone."
"What about me?" I ask softly.
"What about you?" he echoes, looking at me with those intense, glistening eyes.
"You just showed trust in me."
"Yeah, I guess I did." He wipes another tear from his cheek.
"So... you still haven't told me why you've been so hard on me, out of all the kids at school."
"What? Oh, that's nothing really," he says, a bit nervously. "I guess I just had to pick on someone. Sorry it was you."
"Apology accepted," I say, though I can't shake the feeling there's more to it. Why me? He definitely targeted me more than others for his abuse.
"Oh hey, wanna smoke a joint? I forgot I have a big bag of weed with me," he says, pulling out a rather sizeable bag from the pocket of his bathrobe.
I hesitate for a moment, then shrug. "Sure, but first help me get this sofa bed open. This is the only room with heat, so we'll have to sleep here tonight."
We work together to open the sofa bed, and I grab a ton of thick, heavy blankets to make it up while Ian rolls a joint. The storm still rages outside, but in here, the warmth and soft candlelight make everything feel a little less bleak.
I stoke the fire and sit with Ian passing a sweet, sweet doobie back and forth. He grows this stuff in a greenhouse on his property and it is wicked. After one joint the two of us are in giggles taking about his skill or rather lack of skill for dancing. Ian stands and yells, "Give me some music." I yell, "there's no fucking power idiot!"
Ian begins humming the tune for his dance number. He begins to sway and then spins around. Holy fuck. I don't think he meant to give me that show but I appreciate it. I just saw Ian's cock. My heart is racing. Long, thick and uncut. I'm uncut too and as our school is located in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood we are a rarity.
After about ten minutes of the two of us dancing around like fools Ian drops onto the bed falling back. He is staring at the ceiling breathing heavily. Thankfully his robe is just covering his junk. I say thankfully because I may have exploded if I got another glance. I fall on the bed beside him and roll on my side facing him.
Ian turns to face me, "Fuck Chris, thank you. Talking to you about my mom had me crying like a baby and now I feel better than I have in months. Years actually. Is this what it is like to have a real friend?"
"I think so Ian. I don't have a lot of experience with friends either but I really like being around you and I don't think I would have so easily said that this morning."
"I really like you...I mean I like being around you too," he stumbles, rolling onto his back and staring again at the ceiling.
I'm watching him, his chest quietly rising and falling, his breathing quiet. A couple of times his lips start to move as if to speak but he remains silent.
"I'm falling asleep."
"Me too, better get under the blankets."
"Good night Chris."
"Good night Ian."
How did this happen. In one day I've gone from having something of an enemy to a new friend, have gained his trust and have been able to not go fucking insane or pop a goddamn stiffy. Pretty proud. Pretty...
I don't know how long it has been since I feel asleep but I wake up to a movement beside me. It is Ian returning from the bathroom. As I drift off again I feel a light kiss on my cheek and Ian softly whispering, "I really, really like you Chris. That is why I treated you like shit. It was the only way i could be near you."