Disclaimer: The characters belong to the Robert Rodriguez, etc etc. No profit is made nor offence intended.
Summary: Casey is Casey and Zeke is Zeke
Rating: PG15 for language, etc
Pairing: Casey/Zeke
Feedback: Always appreciated - perhobfan@yahoo.co.uk
AN: Okay, first Faculty fic, just experimental. If there is a part 2 it will be much darker and meatier.
Casey is jittery, but he always is, no big deal. He made it across the track and up on top of the bleachers where the air is fresh and he can pretend he is all alone in the world. For a time.
Down below, the school is getting on fine without him. To most of the students he is the geeky photographer kid, totally ignorable and nameless. To some he is a punch bag or a human battering ram when they feel like teaching the flagpole a lesson. To no-one he can think of is he a person, Casey Connor.
Lunch is soon consumed and he stretches out on the seats for the remaining time before classes restart. Its quiet up here and safe. Sun warms his pale skin and he closes his eyes and drifts.
He opens his eyes because for a moment he feels that he is being watched. Goosebumps time. Man, he must stop with the paranoia. No one is watching him.
"Hi Casey, how you doing?" The voice is so near, he nearly falls off the seats down the aisle in his haste to get up. It's Zeke.
"Sorry, man, didn't mean to scare you," the older, bigger man takes a seat next to Casey and stretches out those long legs of his, hooks his feet in a comfortable position on the seats in front and clasps his hands behind his head. Casey looks around him, wondering where this is going. He has never had a conversation with Zeke that went beyond six or seven words and now does not seem like a good time to engage in witty banter.
Zeke has closed his eyes and Casey thinks he might just slip quietly away, back to the comparative safety of the school yard and Gabe. He makes to stand and immediately feels a hand on his arm which is anything but tentative. He sits back down and waits.
"Casey, why are you rushing off? I need you to do something for me, one friend to another," Zeke has opened his eyes now and they are fixed on Casey and are as authoritative as his hand had been.
"I don't do drugs, Zeke," Casey says, breaking eye contact and setting his thin shoulders. He needs to take a stand, he decides. Take a beating, more like, decides his inner self. He waits.
"No drugs, man. Do I do drugs?" Zeke is hurt and sad and laughing at him all the same time. He sits up and shrugs in that "down to business" way he has and Casey groans inwardly. He looks all round to see if any of the faculty are nearby but help is not imminent.
Overhead a bird, some kind of hawk, is hovering, way up high. Casey thinks the bird will live longer than him and will have achieved something before the end; he himself will have crashed and burned before he reaches eighteen. He looks down to see Zeke's hand is on his arm again; not this time to restrain, but to caress. No way, he thinks, and he looks up to see Zeke's eyes are new too.
"Casey, I need you to suck my dick."
The words are said conversationally, like the big guy is asking for help with an assignment or a loan of $10. Casey waits for the – literal – punch line – but it doesn't come. He is squirming on the seat and edging away and all the time Zeke's hand is rubbing his wrist, methodically as if he has all the time in the world.
"Go to hell," Casey says finally and he makes it all the way out of the seat and halfway down the aisle before he realises he has left his bag up there. His bag is up there tucked down by Zeke's big feet, and Zeke is reaching down and retrieving it.
Casey's heart flutters and his breath comes in a rasp. Then the bag is sailing down, describing a graceful arc through the air, to land squarely in his arms. There is loud laughter and Casey looks up to see Zeke standing, silhouetted in the midday sun.
"Today not convenient? That's okay, I can wait, Casey. I have all the time in the world." The words are said with a total lack of malice.
As Casey stumbles down the steps and across the field, he clutches his bag and his brain computes the conversation as best it can. It is an alien concept.
He almost misses the weird growth in the grass by the running track. As he bends to examine it, he thinks of Zeke and nearly cracks a smile. Weird growth - Zeke. Nearly but not quite.
The End