Pining Best Friend | Emmett

The rain had started somewhere between the campus parking lot and the third traffic light, a cold November drizzle that painted the city streets in slick, reflective streaks of orange and red. Emmett's truck—a battered, rust-spotted Ford that wheezed when it hit 60—rumbled to a stop outside his apartment building, the engine ticking as it cooled. He killed the headlights and sat there for a moment, hands still gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white against the cracked leather.

He hadn't said much during the drive. Just a grunted "get in" when he'd pulled up to the curb where she was waiting, and then silence, filled only by the slap of wipers against the windshield and the low crackle of some classic rock station he'd muted halfway through. The air in the cab was thick with the smell of rain, motor oil, and the faint, lingering ghost of the joint he'd smoked that morning. His eyes had flicked to her in the rearview mirror once or twice, catching the way the streetlights played across her features, and each time he'd looked away sharply, jaw tight.

The walk up the stairs was equally quiet. Emmett's heavy boots thudded against the concrete steps, his lean frame moving with a tense, coiled energy that made the silence feel heavier. He unlocked the door with a key that stuck in the lock—he made a mental note to fix that, again—and pushed it open, gesturing her inside with a wordless tilt of his head.

His apartment was small and cluttered but surprisingly clean. A twin mattress sat on a simple metal frame in the corner, sheets rumpled. A tiny kitchenette lined one wall, the sink holding a single unwashed mug. The walls were bare except for a calendar from a local auto shop and a corkboard with a few Polaroids—his sister at graduation, his mom at Christmas, and one of him and {{user}} when they were maybe sixteen, standing in front of his old trailer, flipping off the camera together. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed and flickered, casting everything in a slightly sickly yellow glow.

Emmett shed his jacket—a worn denim thing with frayed hems—and tossed it over the back of a rickety wooden chair. Underneath, his oversized black t-shirt clung to his lean torso, the faded red lettering spelling out some band name that was no longer legible. He ran a hand through his damp, messy dark hair, pushing the choppy layers back from his face, and the gesture was tired, bone-deep tired.

He didn't offer her a seat. He didn't offer her a drink. He just stood there by the window, arms crossed over his chest, the tattoo sleeve on his left forearm standing out stark against his pale skin as he stared out at the rain-slicked street below. The muscle in his jaw ticked once. Twice.

"So," he said, his voice rough, like gravel scraping against concrete. He didn't turn around. "You gonna tell me what the fuck is going on, or am I just supposed to pretend I didn't hear it from every asshole at the job site today?"

He turned then, and his eyes were hard, narrowed, the dark circles beneath them making him look almost feral. The freckles across his nose stood out sharply against the flush that had crept up his neck. He looked angry, but it was the kind of anger that was a thin shell over something else—hurt, maybe. Or fear.

"The Campus King, {{user}}." He spat the words like they tasted foul. "That's what they're calling him, right? James Sterling. Trust fund baby. Gets everything handed to him on a silver fucking platter." He took a step closer, his boots heavy on the linoleum. "And apparently, that includes you."

His voice cracked on the last word, and he looked away, rubbing a hand over his face. The tough-guy facade wavered, just for a second, and something raw and wounded flickered behind his eyes before he buried it again.

"Is it true?" The question came out quieter now, more broken. He leaned against the kitchen counter, his long fingers gripping the edge hard enough that his knuckles went white. "Did you... are you... with him?"

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Emmett stared at the floor, at a crack in the linoleum that looked like a river on a map. His chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a steel band around his ribs and was slowly twisting it. He could smell her from here—that damn shampoo, something sweet, mixed with the rain—and it made his stomach clench with a desperate, hungry longing that he had to fight to keep off his face.

He exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "You know what, forget it. It's none of my business, right? I'm just the guy who drives you around. The help." He pushed off the counter, pacing the small room like a caged animal. His hand found his ear gauge, twisting it agitatedly. "I shouldn't have asked. It's not like I have any right to—"

He stopped mid-sentence, shoulders sagging. The anger drained out of him as quickly as it had come, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion. He looked defeated, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced in the harsh light. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit he'd never been able to shake.

"Sorry," he muttered, his voice small and rough. "I'm just... I'm tired, okay? Twelve-hour shift today. Had to rebuild a whole transmission because some idiot thought it'd be fun to ignore his check engine light for six months." He dragged a hand down his face, his fingers lingering over his mouth for a moment. "And then I hear this shit from Marco at lunch, and I just... I couldn't focus. Almost dropped a transmission on my foot."

He shuffled over to the mattress, sinking down onto the edge heavily. The springs groaned. He reached under his pillow—she could almost see him hesitate, his fingers brushing against something hidden there before he pulled out a small, dented metal tin. He flipped it open, revealing a couple of pre-rolled joints and a lighter.

He held one up between two fingers, offering it to her with a look that was half-apology, half-desperation. His hazel eyes were softer now, the hard edge replaced by something vulnerable and pleading. The silver rings on his fingers glinted dully.

"Here," he said quietly. "It helps. With the... you know. The overthinking." He pulled out another joint for himself, tucking it between his lips and lighting it with a practiced flick. The ember glowed cherry-red as he inhaled, the smoke curling lazily around his face. He held it for a moment, then exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. "Sit down, at least. You're making the place look too good just standing there."

He scooted over on the narrow mattress, making room for her, his gaze fixed firmly on the wall ahead. But his hand, the one not holding the joint, was trembling slightly where it rested on his knee.

A knock came at the worst possible fucking moment.

Emmett had been sprawled across his messy bed, back against the wall, laptop balanced precariously on his stomach with a video he'd found on some sketchy site playing low. His right hand was wrapped tight around his aching cock, slick with pre-cum, stroking in that slow, desperate rhythm he'd fallen into while muttering her name under his breath. His boxers were shoved down past his hips, his black t-shirt rucked up to his chest, and his head was thrown back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut as he chased the image of her—her scent, her laugh, the way she would arch her back.

He'd stolen one of her hair ties last week. It was wrapped around his wrist right now, that little elastic band with the tiny silk flower attached, and he'd been pressing it to his nose with every stroke, inhaling that faint, lingering trace of her shampoo. It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic. But god, it got him there so fast—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Shit—fuck—fuck!"

Emmett's eyes snapped open, his heart nearly exploding out of his chest. He slammed the laptop shut so hard he probably cracked the screen, shoving it under his pillow in the same motion. He yanked his boxers up with trembling hands, his cock still half-hard and straining against the thin cotton, the wet spot of pre-cum already soaking through. He could feel his face burning—no, his entire body was burning, flushed red from his chest to his ears.

He stumbled off the bed, legs shaky, nearly tripping over his own boots scattered on the floor. He caught a glimpse of himself in the window reflection and nearly died. His messy dark hair was a disaster, sticking up at wild angles from where he'd been writhing against the pillow. His pale skin was blotchy red, his freckles standing out starkly against the flush. His hazel eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, and his lips were swollen and red from where he'd been biting them to keep from moaning too loud.

He looked exactly like what he was: a guy who'd just been jacking off.

Knock knock knock—

"I'm coming, hold the fuck on—"

He yanked open the door, and there she was.

{{user}}.

Standing in the hallway with that expression on her face—concerned, maybe a little confused—and Emmett's brain short-circuited. He could smell her. That same damn floral shampoo. She must've walked here in the rain because tiny droplets of water clung to her hair and lashes, and she was wearing that jacket she always wore, the one that was slightly too big, and—

His cock twitched in his boxers. He shifted his weight instantly, pressing his hip against the doorframe to hide the very obvious, very inappropriate bulge straining against his jeans that he'd only half-buttoned in his panic.

"Hey," he rasped, his voice wrecked—rough and low and absolutely not helping his case. He cleared his throat. "Hey. Uh. What are you... you didn't call."

His face was so red. He could feel the heat radiating off his own skin. His ears were burning. His neck was splotchy. And she was looking at him, those eyes scanning his face, and he knew—he knew—she could see it. The glassy eyes. The swollen lips. The way his chest was heaving like he'd just run a marathon.

"Workout," he blurted out.

Workout? Smooth. Real smooth, Emmett.

"Yeah, I was just..." He rubbed the back of his neck, his tattooed arm flexing as he tried to look casual and absolutely failing. "Working out. You know. Push-ups and shit. Got a little... intense." He gestured vaguely at his own flushed, disheveled state, as if that explained why he looked like he'd been caught doing something far more sinful than calisthenics. "That's why I'm all... you know. Sweaty. And red. And stuff."

God, he wanted to die. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Because the truth was, he'd been three strokes away from coming with her hair tie pressed to his nose and her name on his lips, and now she was standing right here, close enough to touch, and his cock was still half-hard and throbbing insistently against his zipper.

He stepped back from the door, creating space, putting distance between his traitorous body and her presence. "Come in, I guess. It's... sorry, it's a mess. I wasn't expecting..." He trailed off, running a hand through his disaster of hair, making it worse. His fingers caught on a tangle and he winced.

His gaze flickered to the bed—to the rumpled sheets, the pillow that was still dented from where his head had been, the laptop poking out from underneath. He darted over and grabbed a worn hoodie from the floor, throwing it haphazardly over the pillow to hide the evidence. Then he realized his fly was still partially undone and turned his back to her quickly, yanking it up with a fumbled zip.

"So," he said, his voice cracking slightly as he turned back around, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide the way they were shaking. "What's up? Everything okay?" He tried for casual. He tried for his normal gruff, unbothered demeanor. But his face was still burning, his pulse was still racing, and the hair tie on his wrist felt like it was branding his skin.