11Hey it's Blank Sky!
I'm killing myself you know, with all these stories. xD
But I get excited when I think of new ideas.
I might not update this one a lot though, because Nickie yells at me because he's already in The Charlotte Virus and stuff.
He's so kyoot 8D And he's really really soft XD;;
DISCLAIMER/WARNING:
This story contains SLASH, as in yaoi, as in BoyxBoy. It also contains MILD incest and curses. If you have a problem with these, DON'T read it!
Seriously D:
"Come on, wake up."
Words roll out of someones lips, a voice I know so well. A syrupy voice, with added sweetness and something bitter to create an exquisite sexiness.
Then again, I shouldn't talk. My voice was the same as his- a butchered up, squeaky version; but his all the same.
Uneasily, my arms stretch out to feel a face; which licked my fingertips and freaked me out. My body springs up furiously.
"REAGAN!"
...Yeah. It wasn't him. Another face, which was smothered in kisses from past and present met my light-deprived eyes, blocking out whatever the hellwas blinking behind him.
What the fuck blinks?!
"Nickie's a cutie, ain't he?" Anthony cooed, stroking my stomach and fluffing my hair.
I'm too sleepy to respond, just attempting to push my so called 'friend' out of my way.
Friends don't try to molest you via-waking up, do they?
Besides, he was dating the other me.
The other twin.
Reagan has a small hissy fit, lovingly shoving his current 'squeeze' away so he could bring me back down to the stupidly soft leather seats that made me oh so sleepy in the first place.
"Reaga-" he makes a face at me.
Oh yeah, pet name. Ever since I lost my front tooth and was word-disabled from the letter R, I've been calling him one thing.
"Weegan," I start sleepily. My eye needs a decent rubbing, but he's pinned me down-ish. My legs were slipped out of who knows what we were in.
His lips brush against mine lightly.
You're probably thinking, 'WHUT DA FUXXX TABOO I'MA CALL 'DA COP-IOS ON YOUUUUUU.' by now. But honestly, I could care less. So my brother was a little touch-y feel-y. It didn't mean anything. And since our town is such a screw up, you either get highly aroused, completely freaked out, or don't give a shit.
Choose wisely, young Jedi.
I guess he knows I'm mad at him, so he gives a last cuddle and gets off of me.
Retreating back to said 'squeeze'.
I take my time rubbing my eyes before deciding to function properly.
To know where the hell I was.
We were in a car, weren't we? I crawl out of a charming deep-blue van.
No shit we were.
And no shit that we were at a fucking carnival.
Not a fucking carnival, children.
A stupid mo-fo fucking carnival with noises and people.
Oh yes, gotta hate them 'peeps. Who the hell was with me this Saturday night? Besides big headed 'Wee-Wee-gun' and Sir Isolovebeingarapisttomyboyfriendstwinbrother.
Try saying that five times fast.
Anyway, it's mostly just all Reagan's friends. They're nice, I guess. But they try too hard to get me to talk.
I don't like connecting much. I'm like a crappy cell phone.
As I shut the van door and join with the Nickie-Abandoners, I notice Robin came too. I know him a little bit, we greet eachother in the hallways.
He likes painting on a canvas, while his sister likes painting on me with a thing called "makeup". And I guess she does a pretty damn good job because when I get home Reagan jumps me like some fan-boy.
Our mother said I was naturally pretty, whatever that meant. I was exactly what Reagan was, minus my thickly-rimmed zebra striped glasses and scrawny figure. He was a little more built from soccer; I was a little more sissy with drawing. It kept us in balance, I guess. But I still think I don't exist as much as he does.
I'm always mistaken for "Reagan-babyy" or "Ree-smex" or another of those fucked up pet names.
It was odd that I was the only one who called him Weegun.
But I didn't care. It was just a name.
Reagan left me near the food stalls.
I'm obviously not fit for public show because when a little girl rushed past me I shrieked and stepped away. Where were the food stalls anyway? If it was near the entrance I could make a quick getaway like Batman or something.
I found myself wandering around the stalls, staring at all the junk that would make the American obesity club happy. But ohhh they had cinnamon buns, lathered generously in sugary icing and piping hot and ohhh I want one. They came with- homigod they came with vanilla ice cream.
I'm about to have an orgasm, please hold.
My hands snake around my pockets to search for my wallet, only to end up with virtually nothing but lint and an old pack of gum.
Eww, I throw that away straight up. I guess I left it at home.
This brings me down a lot... Those cinnamon buns look so...
Orgasmically fattening and yummy.
My mouth waters, but in defeat I end up sitting on a fake wooden bench and I must have looked pretty pathetic because an old man with his granddaughter walked up to me with a rather hefty vanilla cone.
"You look sad mister," The girl began. I softened up- little kids make me into mush. "We bought you an ice cream."
Her plump fingers hand me the cone, and I take it with a smile.
"Um, thank you very much... I was kind of sad. But now I'm not." I'm such a charmer, because she's smiling like my name is Jesus. The girl begins to walk away, but her grandfather lingers just to tell me something.
"Cheer up, boy. Girlfriends will come and go and your age." He smiles and catches up with his granddaughter.
I lick my ice cream and ignore his comment. OK, I'll admit it. Girls are gross, but I admire them because they can put on makeup and cross-dress and nobody gives a flying fuck.
That's about it. Other than that I'm pretty much asexual.
Now I'm spending fifteen minutes trying to finish this big-ass ice cream cone.
It's vanilla and the flavor is starting to become less appealing to my senses.
I still want that cinnamon bun. I know I'm a selfish asexual bastard, but I'm cute. that's gotta score me some points.
Not.
Holy shit this ice cream is making me nauseous. I'm halfway done, and I'm about to puke.
My body functions like that. If someone gives me something, I have to finish it or forever live in guilt.
Guilt please Guilt please Guilt-
"I'm not sure if you can finish that..." Stupid voice, where did you come from? Go away! (I'm so nice.)
I don't look up, but I know it's a guy by the tone of his voice. My voice cracks a little.
"I'm trying."
"Maybe something to go with it?" Oh god please no please-
Homigod cinnamon bun. My eyes widen as the smell hits my nose. I look up and ignore the whiplash in my neck. Shouldn't have done that.
The guy holding up my guilty pleasure smiles politely. He's got that kind of dirty blonde hair that sticks straight but if you don't brush it it looks wavy, and kind of pale skin with some freckles. I try to see his eyes past the hair and the evening, and they seem like a dark green. With a little shift downward I take it that he's not a lazy boy.
His body is toned, but not huge bulging muscle.
Homigod.
This kind of guy talks to me!? I start to panic.
"I can't... really I don't have any cash to repay you and-" And it looks fucking orgasmic! Take it bitch take it!
"It's fine. I work on the stall that sells them. It's my break, and you looked like you were in pain. Take it." He hands me the cinnamon bun and I hesitate before taking a small bi-
HOLY MOTHER OF PASTRY.
It's... It's so good. The bun is doughy and cinnamon induced, and the icing just makes it all perfect. I must have moaned a little, because the guy laughed a little.
"I'm guessing you like it?" He sits down next to me and even though usually I would flinch the cinnamon bun drugged my senses.
"It's really good... Um, did y-you make this...?" Uh, stupid question Nickie. You fail. He smiles at me and shrugs.
"Yeah I did, it's partially why they hired me. Baking is like my favorite pastime." I nod and lick some icing off my finger.
"You don't seem like the type who bakes... Do you uh, do sports or something?"
"Actually I'm part of Track and Field, plus soccer." He seems happy about that. I'm in track and field, but I don't tell him that because I probably look like a little sissy.
...Which I am. but, shut up I can run. Neh.
We spend a rather long time chatting about our hobbies and stuff. It's nice... I'm pretty comfortable too.
Both of us are dishing out lame iPod jokes when I-leave-my-brother-to-hang-out-with-my-friends Reagan stomps up to us and glares at my slight-friend.
"We're going. It's eleven." Looking at my Finding Nemo watch, it's only ten fifty-two, and I really don't want to leave...
But I still stand up and wave politely. The guy stands up quickly though to ask a question. I manage to stand my ground long enough to listen.
"What's your name...?" Reagan's tugging and the churning of carnival food in my stomach don't mix together. I feel lightheaded.
He's tugging harder and I think my arm is going to dislocate because it hurts really bad.
"My name is Nickie."