... Sammy stares down at him as Michael backs him firmly up against the wall
and kneels in front of him, unbuttoning his fly. Michael's not sure just
what the look in his eyes is, (though he knows that it's too old for his
age,) but he knows that Sammy won't look away.

And sometimes he thinks he does it just for this. For the way Sammy looks at
him. Not just looks, but sees. He'd wondered about how David and the others
got away with it, flaunting their monstrosity like teenage boys with
souped-up cars, but David had just laughed at the question and said, "People
see what they want to see."

And apparently he's become one of the things that people don't want to see.
When he walks through the halls at school, people look right through him. He
can't remember the last time someone other than Sammy met his eyes.

Maybe they can sense the lies. Feel that the under his surface of at least
relative normality he's falling apart. Hopelessly corrupt. As monstrous as
David had ever wanted to make him. They can sense it, and they just... Don't
want to know. So they avert their eyes.

"Mom's in the kitchen," says Sammy softly, warningly, but he doesn't try to
stop him. He almost never tries to stop him, even times like this, when he's
peering nervously off down the hallway. And Michael tries not to think too
hard about that. There's love in the look in Sammy's eyes, but there's other
things too, fear, and a helpless sadness, and an unreadable distance that is
far too adult for his years, and Michael knows that he's at least partly
responsible for this.

Sammy's cock is hard in his hand now, and Michael leans in close and in one
swallow takes it as deep as he can. Sammy gives a carefully muffled gasp,
his hands closing tight on Michael's shoulders. And there's still this, it
still makes Sammy's cock hard, the things he does to him. Sammy *sees* him,
in all his helpless, hopeless corruption, and still holds on tight, still
opens his mouth to Michael's desperate kisses, still comes to him and seeks
out his touch some nights when Michael has sworn to himself that he'll leave
him alone.

And Sammy's right, this is ridiculously risky, Mom's hardly five yards away,
but he can't ... sometimes he just can't stop himself, it feels like he'll
disappear if he can't have this. But he knows it has to be fast this time,
and he's working Sammy with all the little things he's learned, all the
things that make him sweat and writhe.

"Michael," whispers Sammy, and then he's jetting down the back of his
throat.

Michael pulls off, and sits back on his heels, wiping at his messy mouth,
staring for a moment at the ground. When he looks back up, Sammy is still
looking at him. "I'm  - I'm sorry," he says, and Sammy nods, buttoning his
pants. Then he reaches out and, with a gesture that reminds Michael horribly
of Mom, gently smoothes Michael's hair back off his forehead.

"Sammy!" Mom suddenly calls from the kitchen, making them both jump. "I
think your ride is here!"

Sammy looks at him a moment longer, and then, without a word, walks away.