what is my life, what are my choices

He came back from class one afternoon to find Barton’s running shoes thrown in front of his room. A green Post-It note was stuck to the door that read, come 2 my room.

Phil huffed loudly and dumped his messenger bag in the hall without unlocking his room. He scooped the disgusting shoes off the floor and yelled, “Damn it, Barton, I told you to stop leaving your fucking shoes in front of my--”

Barton’s door opened, and he wandered out into the hall in nothing but a towel around his waist. His hair was wet and sticking up in all directions. Phil’s mouth went dry.

“I had to leave ‘em or you wouldn’t know it was me,” Barton said, blinking innocent blue eyes at Phil.

“You--” Phil stopped and cleared his throat. “The rest of the human race leaves a name, not fungus.” He threw the shoes at Barton, whose shoulders were still damp.

“I had to ask you something.” Barton reached up, scrubbed a hand through his wet hair.

“So, ask.”

“In my room.”

Like a flip of a switch, Phil felt a tightening in his stomach. He wanted to say no, or that anything Barton needed to ask him could be said in his own room, but every inch of his body was on alert, hyper-aware, and instinctively Phil knew. He knew.

They were going to do this again.

“Okay,” Phil said very calmly, very slowly. He tried to look completely at ease, save for the twitch of his hand tugging at the hem of his t-shirt.

Barton apparently saw that small tell and smirked.

I don’t want to talk about this, Phil thought as the door closed behind him, and luckily, neither did Barton. He was on Phil in heartbeat, kissing him fast and deep, his hands shoving their way under Phil’s shirt to splay over his stomach, his chest. Phil shivered and sighed into Barton’s mouth, feeling as if a missing piece had slotted into place, a piece that had been missing for four days, and wasn’t that a fucking stupid thing to be thinking right now?

/COLLEGE BOYS

*HANDS*



(Current mileage for this week: 12)