Disclaimer: This story contains drug culture, male/male and female/female sexual references. Don't like it, look at something else. Or play some tennis. Buy a goldfish. Indulge in some heavy alcoholic drinking. The world is your oyster. I in no way infer the sexuality of the members of the band Jebediah. They do a pretty good job of it themselves. Fan mail to webtrash@unpunk.com
-2-
"Shit!"
I fumbled with the needle in my hands, managing to flush the entire fit, needle and all, down the toilet, and the voices grew louder in my ears.
"Trent? Are you Ok in there?" Martin called, knocking on the door.
"Yerrr, I'm uhh - finnne" I slurred, shoving the armband into my bag as I swung the door open. Losing my footing, I fell forward and landed in the arms of the school football hero, Martin Snow.
"Man, what you on?" Snowy asked, but I wasn't sure I heard him. He helped me lean against the sink, his tanned monsters of arms holding me still as I trembled.
I had been sold a bad hit. Probably cut with aspirin or ant powder or some shit. I felt the alien tingle through my veins, in my head and even in the depths of my palpitating heart.
"Snowy - can't tell - anyone..." I gasped, my eyes becoming hard slits of pain. My blood turned to dirty acid, ripping through my body, the roaring in my ears deafening. A trickle of blood ran from my nose.
"Oh shit mate, we gotta get you to the nurse."
"No nurse! No nurse.." I managed.
Martin thought quickly, then opened the toilet door, looking around for teachers or students.
"I'm gonna take you back to my place, OK? But tell me, what is it? Trips, speed, tabs?"
In my pain, I heard only the familiar and loyal words of one of my only friends at South Kelmscott Senior Campus, his cobalt-blue eyes begging me to trust him.
"Hammer." I whispered, and the world began to spin away in a thousand shards of black and red and finally oblivion.
Kevin was lying next to me, his hand idly tracing my jawline. The room was dark, but one dirty window allowed a thick, muddy beam of light frame the object of my desires. I smiled, and weakly lifted my head, feeling my shirt lifted off. Kevin took his shirt off and held me, kissing me over and over, on my chest, my neck, my arms. Light and skin, skin and light, dancing in the cramped room. But a roaring sound, back and forth, and .. birds? I slept.
My eyes opened and I sat bolt upright in bed. The roaring was the beach, the birds seagulls. Kevin wasn't in the room... where was I? I looked over to the desk, and saw "COUNTRY WEEK 1999, FAIREST AND BEST (FOOTBALL), MARTIN SNOW", etched into a trophy. This was Snowy's place. I was in Scarbourough.
"Snowy!" I called out, ripping the flannels off my chest and forehead.
Thump thump thump thump. The door swung open and Martin bounded in, dripping with water, a towl hung loosely around his hips.
"Shit man! You OK? You look like shit."
"How long have I been --" my voice trailed off, and I realised I was burning up, too weak to even finish a sentence.
"A few hours. I brought you home, then called the school, saying you were throwing up, or some shit. How are you feeling?"
I laughed bitterly.
"Like someone took a leak into my veins."
"Piss, heroin, same difference." But he seemed to catch himself, and cocked his head, carefully examining me.
He sat down and placed a cool hand on my forehead, bent forward over my hunched form.
This was the closest I'd ever been to Martin, and I can't say I was unimpressed. Chiseled arms, huge shoulders, a chest to die for. Big hips, a long scar across his stomach and a long trail of dark hair down his belly. He was hot, no doubt about it. But still, a voice in the back of my head. "He's not Kevin".
"You're running a fever. I have to call someone, at least your olds."
"Martin, listen. If they-"
"Find out you're using heroin? I won't tell them, if you promise me one thing."
"What?"
His face moved from concern to a stony, unreadable glare. I guessed this was what his opponents saw on the field seconds before being dragged to the ground in one of Snowy's classic tackles.
"I don't ever see you touch that shit ever again. Smack is for losers and wankers who don't know better."
He licked his dry lips and turned one more time as he stalked from the room.
"And you're better than that."
The door closed behind him, and I was left alone, for the moment, with my thoughts. What did he mean? I was better than that? Did he feel more than friendship for me? Impossible. Look at yourself, Trent. Face full of metal (I hated my braces), dirty brown hair that would look better on a german shepered, pale bruised skin, and a body seemingly constructed of twigs and blue-tack. Not an ounce of muscle on you.
I fell back into the warmth of the bedding, and looked in shame at the track marks down my arms. I had escaped detection this long, nine whole months, and now the most popular guy in school new I was a smack head. But he was willing to help me. I forced my gaze away from the tiny black bruises and looked at the room around me. Casual clothes were strewn over most of the furniture, and there was a derelict couch in the corner, it's stuffing cheerfully poking out one of the armrests. Old Blaupunkt TV in the corner, and a Macintosh computer complete with modem and printer on the other side of the desk.
It dawned on me that I was lying in Martin's own bed. There was a stirring under the sheets and I reached down, pawing at my hardness. I stretched back even further and sniffed deeply at the pillow my head rested on. I could smell Snowy all around me, in the sheets, on the pillow, even in the air. I was now jerking off, tossing my head, turning myself on more and more with the thought of being surrounded by so much Martin.
The door swung open and Martin took a step forward, beer in hand. He froze, his eyebrows lifted.
... To be continued.