While college students Toby Meyer and Derek Tremaine only have eyes for each other, neither will make a move---will they be over before they began?
Toby Meyer and Derek Tremaine are university undergraduates, and for his part, Derek has written off relationships so he can focus on his studies and grad school...until he spots Toby. Then he can think of nothing else. Unfortunately neither man will make a move, despite the urging of friends and roommates. A house party proves pivotal, but by the time Derek summon the nerve to approach Toby, he's already hooked up with a dangerous man. Can Derek intervene to save Toby from himself?
This story is also available in Mixed Tape Series Volume #2.
Derek Tremaine swung his backpack off his shoulder onto a table at UC Davis's Memorial Union, destabilizing the already precariously balanced food in his hands. "Oh goody," he muttered to himself, "I only spilled part of my lunch."
He knew it could've been worse. He could've spilled all of it, and at least he found a table in a quiet corner. As a history major, a stack of books demanded his attention. Sure, the noise in the MU threatened to deafen him, but his stomach demanded his attention, too, and the librarians frowned on eating in the library. Something about bugs. He respected that, since he all but worshiped books.
With a sigh he pulled out his first tome and started reading, or tried to. The problem with the MU, besides the renovation that turned the funky old coffee house into something that looked like a car dealership, was all its distractions. All the pretty boys. He pulled his Robert Smith hair down to cover his eyes, insofar as it could go down all blendered out as it was and fixed in place with ozone-destroying amounts of hairspray. He hadn't gone the full look that day--no eyeliner, lipstick, or rouge. Just blendered-out hair, and his usual concert tee (today it was the Dead Milkmen) stretched across his muscular chest and camouflage army surplus pants tucked into combat boots. He saved the full Cure look for evening events.
Derek sighed and forced his attention back to his schoolwork. Assigning Foucault's The Order of Things to undergraduates surely constituted cruel and unusual punishment, as well as professorial malpractice, and his wandering eyes weren't helping make sense of the deliberately opaque book. There just wasn't any point to cruising. Casual sex wasn't his thing--he'd been mortified when he'd learned what the holes in the bathroom stall walls were for--and next year was his senior year. After that was grad school, and he could end up anywhere. Why set himself up for heartache? Better to keep to himself and focus on his studies and his friends.
Derek put his book down again to scan the room, and that's when he spotted him. Wow. He'd always thought his physical ideal was someone tall like he was so the guy could fuck him up against a wall, the blond volleyball player type, light to his dark, but in that moment he knew how wrong he'd been. His physical type, the man who turned his crank, was shorter than he was, slender and dark-haired. Well, glad we've straightened that out, he thought. As it were.
He stared openly at the other guy. He looked young, really young, almost a twink. Wow. Was he a freshman? But he was kind of hairy. Good going, Derek. You've gone and gotten yourself a crush on a really hairy freshman.
Derek rested his chin on his hand, drinking in all there was to see. So that guy was young, so what, he thought. Everyone was young once, and people pretty much grew out of it. The hairless look, so popular these days, left him cold. He was no Castronaut, but he dug the look of a man with hair. One more reason to curse Reagan's name. The senile old bastard had let AIDS rage out of control for most of his reign of error because of his own hang-ups about gays, and so the age of the Castro Clone was over, if only because so many of them were sick or dead. No more tight jeans, flannel shirts, and body hair--the pendulum seemed to be swinging the other way. Derek had to grit his teeth and soldier and soldier on, ignoring the fact that the new masculine ideal resembled a plucked chicken. The fact that the object of his--crush? infatuation?--seemed to have a lot of body hair based on his beard shadow and exposed arm hair, struck him as a bonus feature.
Then the other guy looked up and met Derek's eyes and Derek froze. Shit! Caught looking. Sure, he jerked his eyes back to Foucault, but with his face aflame, he knew he'd been caught. He tried to focus on his reading, but between hormones and mortification, he knew that was a lost cause and gave it up. Instead, he stuffed his books back in his bag and finished his lunch. The out of the way desks in the periodicals stacks in the Main Library would be free of distractions, and it looked like he needed the help.