Title: Clumsy (remix)
by: Chrissy MINE
AN: So like we all know Boyd and Stevie 4 Eva and hearts and beanie babies and all that shit. BUT.. what if in the Beautiful Child universe there was SOMEONE ELSE who was watching the whole thing play out and was like, "Wait a minute... what about me?!"

--

Boyd grasps onto me, unsure. He moves his hand down my shaft, just an inch, and I can feel his hand shake. Small little tremors, and he exhales a shaky breath. He takes a deeper breath and grips me tighter--a kind of false confidence, and if I could, Iíd reassure him. If I could, but I canít. I canít tell him that everything will be okay, that other men have stood where he stands now, just as nervous, but theyíre okay now: theyíre normal; theyíre successes. He wouldnít believe me anyway. He lacks the very experience he so desperately needs, that he so desperately fears.

He stops, and I can tell heís afraid of making a mistake. If I was the impatient kind of person, Iíd push into his hand. Iíd force him to face his fears head on.

But Iím not. I wait with him until heís ready.

He moves, and I nearly shiver as Iím slicked up. Cold and wet, and then Iím sliding, and itís the most amazing feeling in the world. Above me, I can feel his every move. A slight lean to the left, and I imagine his muscles stretching and moving; heís beautiful. Heís breathing harder, and then suddenly he stops.

Iím slightly confused, from the thrill of it all, and didnít we just get started? And then I realize heís stopped breathing as well. Is he scared? I want to tell him he was doing just fine, but then he lifts me up, and I realize he was just pausing and taking a break. Enjoying the view and taking in this entire experience. Iíve done this before, of course, butÖ never with him. Never here. I want to drink it all in, and burn it into my memory.

I wait for him to move again, but he doesnít. His eyes widen instead, and he looks over me. I donít have to turn to look. I know whatís behind me.

I know who.

I should have known. He holds me like a foreign object in his hands, and isnít that what I am? Just a thing to pass the time until /he/ came along? Heís never looked at me the way he looks at him. Oh, maybe he did, once. When he was younger. But never with the same intensity. Never with the same amount of love.

Iím a hypocrite though. Because Iíd love to have Stevieís hands all over me too. Itíll never happen though. The planets would have to be all lined up, and every stick in the Joe would have to be broken, and a black cat would have to start screeching a country tune. Iím not bitter though.

Not very.

Boyd grips the boards and nearly falls down. I nearly stifle a laugh. I donít laugh though so I know, at least, I wonít be adding to his embarrassment. I wish I could tell him everything will be all right, that he should have more confidence in himself, that Detroit is nothing like EdmontonÖ At the very least that he shouldnít make his staring so obvious.

But I canít. Heís scared enough of Stevie; I canít imagine how heíd react to a talking hockey stick.

end