Taming Marcus(BoyXBoy)

Chapter Two

"Hey, yer spacin' on me, Dill."

"I told you, that is NOT my name, midget," I growled. This got a reaction out of the red head. I didn't even see him tackle me, and pull his arm back to punch me. But before he could, I heard the teacher blow his whistle, and two of my straight jock friends pull Red off of me.

"Wha' did ya call me you bloody bludger!" He struggled, then yelped as Brandon, a fellow just bigger then me with dark brown hair, glasz eyes, and handsome for a teen aged boy with serious acne, pulled back on his arm, causing him to glare venomously at the larger male. The other was Jorgen, who wasn't much bigger than Marcus, with sandy blond hair, green eyes, and the skin color of freshly fallen snow. I swear the kid is an albino who dies his hair and wears colored contacts!

I sneered at Marcus, before standing up. "Oh, you heard what I called you," I said, chancing a glance over at Mr Bunin, who is our fashion challenged gym teacher. He was now standing so close, that I could feel his breath.

"What's going on here?" he asked, eyes narrowed to thin slits. Yuck. He needs a new toothbrush or something. His breath is nasty.

"Nothing," I replied coolly, as Marcus glared my way, "Marcus just slid, and fell on me. Brandon and Jorgen helped him up." I flashed my award-winning smile, and Mr Bunin's body seemed to relax slightly. 

"This what happened Red?" the teacher asked the supposed trippee. Since Bunin's gaze was no longer on me, I gave Marcus a glare that signalled for him to play along. Our eyes met, and it was as if the hatred in them would send the school up in flames. Finally, after a few minutes of silence, Marcus responded.

"Yea. That's what happened mate," Marcus snarled, pulling his arms free of my two croonies. 

And that, is basically how my day went for the rest of the day, all day. I do mean all day.

English. A time of poetry, and flirting with the girls. Of course, since I'm gay, it's not really true hearted flirting. 

The desks are two by each other in a row. I was contentedly running my hand up and down this one blonde's leg, who was giggling at my actions. Everything was going good. Besides my jock and cock arguing about where the hell my cock wants to go. Of course, the jock always wins out. Ever since eighth grade. So, for any out there wondering, not all gays are terrified of woman parts. As my hand was travelling farther and father upwards, my chair was suddenly jerked back.

"Fuck!" I yelped, jolting upwards, standing. I turned around to glare at the poor asshole who had just done that. The English teacher cleared her throat, but I ignored it. Green-blue eyes met mine. I was seeing Red. Literally!

"Alexander! Sit back down, or I will send you to the principle's office!" My eyes narrowed to thin slits, and Marcus sent a cocky smirk at me. That damned bastard had done that on purpose. Using my better judgement, I returned to my seat, but did not resume my game of firetruck.

Class continued on, almost as if nothing had happened. Well, the teacher tried to make it seem so. Everyone was shooting me and Marcus worried glances. Teenagers are like that. They can just sense a dangerous, tension filled situation. Like a bloodhound is used to track down prey, teenagers can be used to find druggies, and so on. The police should employ us to crack down on the drug rates. Either way, I digress.

After the bell went, it was lunch time. Where one can truly see how the status quo works. I, of course, am at the head of the popular table, seated with Jorgen to my left, and Brandon across from me.

"So what's this I heard about Marcus pushin' your buttons?" a kid named Brent asked, poking at the slop he called a sandwich. I shrugged, swallowing the salad in my mouth.

"He's just being a lil' runt. Don't know what's good for him," I said, glancing around the cafeteria. I saw no sign of Red, which was both a blessing, and a curse. If he was here, the chances of me having to damage that pretty face of his was higher. But with him not here, the chances of me admiring that nice ass of his was totally gone. Brandon grunted, looking past me, at something. What a coincidence. Just as we speak of him, the devil walks in. 

I crane my neck around so I can see him. Picture that movie were the kid is new to the school, and has no friends. It's a busy cafeteria, and the tables are crowded. There are the cheerleaders, the nerds, goths, loners, dorks, geeks, preps, and so on. Leaving the new kid all alone. So, he is faced with the worse decision ever-- choosing his status position. This, is an age old rite that has been passed down from generation, to generation. Others are looking at him, waiting for him to make the first few steps that could quite possibly alter his future.

Biting his lower lip in thought, he begins to maneuver his way through the crowd, until he reaches the desired table he has decided to join. Misfits. A group of people who don't really fit anywhere else. So different in personality and appearance, but yet they are the best of friends. Lead by their queen, Maria.

Maria is actually pretty hot, but a tad chubby with glasses. Not the dorky kind. She is always wearing hoodies though. Serious self-esteem issues. She is normally quiet in school, but from chance sightings outside of school, she is extremely friendly, and has a pretty good personality. I wonder why she isn't with the more cooler kids. Some things are just never meant to be understood. High school statuses are just one of those things.

"Did he really just sit there?" Jorgen asked, frowning slightly. I nodded, in disbelief as well. I would have expected him to fit in with the tough guys, or the basketball players. Heck, even the popular table seemed a better fit then the misfits. 

"He is a freak," Brandon grunted, spooning Jell-o into his mouth. I nodded again, still dumbfounded. Then, I remembered my lunch, and began eating my salad again.

"Poor Alex. If he joins that crowd, ya ain't gunna be able to lay a hand on him," Brent snickered. I really felt like just killing him right then and there. Screw it all! I want to dress up in an Adam Lambert worthy outfit, with make-up and everything, and just fucking punch Brent! Okay, that made no sense. Let's all forget that. In fact, let's just skip the rather bad ending to this tale of lunch. 

Mop in hand, I trudged through the cafeteria, grumbling crossly to myself. Food fights were fun, but I'm still unsure as to why I was blamed as being one of the people too start it. Though, it was technically my fault. I had been the one who had flung the pudding at Marcus as he walked past, heading to the juice machine. Then he had decided to dump my salad on my head, and things just got uglier from there. 

Leaving Marcus and I to clean the mess up after school. Cruel, unusual punishment. I mean, if he is even wearing what I think he's wearing, I'm going to end up forcing myself onto him. God, all these pent up emotions, and years of hiding my preference is starting to make me go crazy. I am already talking to myself, am I not? Kill me.

"Yo! Dickhead! Pass the cleaner?" I glared down at Marcus, who's face wasn't really showing much emotion, before sliding the bottle down the table to him. "Thanks."

"Fuck you."

"Only if ya want the honors."

Oh lord...