Beach Boys

Beach Boys

By: Spectrotica247

...

Summary:

Two young pre-teen boys, Miles and Chandler, spend the day at the beach cleaning the mess Miles' prank has caused as punishment. But they would later sneak off somewhere private where they would engage in intimate acts without prying eyes... or so they thought.

Main Characters:

Miles Nichols: 12 years old, Caucasian cis male, has short, messy black crop hair with bangs that never obeys the brush, green eyes, has a cute boyish face and his lithe body was a blend of youthful exuberance and the beginnings of masculine strength. Cock size: 5 inches and uncircumcised.

Chandler Smith: 12 years old, Caucasian cis male, golden curls that shines in the sunlight, soft blue eyes, had a body that was still transitioning from boy to young man with an angelic visage. Cock size: 3.1 inches and circumcised.

Keoni Palakiko: 19 years old, Polynesian cis male, jet-black hair styled side-swept with a careless charm, deep-brown eyes, lean, athletic build with a golden tan that spoke of countless hours spent in the sun, and his chiseled features looked like they were carved by a master sculptor. Cock size: 6 inches and circumcised.

CONTENT WARNING!

This story is 18+ and may involve themes of pedophilic sexual intercourse between two underage boys and a grown man. If this story offends you, or if you live in an area where it is outlawed, or if you're under the legal age, then please do not read and click yourself out of this site, just to save yourself from a life of sin. This is supposed to be 100% fictional, any similarity to individuals, living or dead, is entirely accidental. Thank you!

- Spectrotica

Chapter One - "Prank to Punishment"

...

Miles Nichols didn't just wake up messy-haired; he was born that way. His mother claimed his first coherent sentence was "Why not?" while trying to climb a bookshelf at 18 months. Chandler Smith, meanwhile, emerged from the womb looking vaguely concerned about the brightness of the delivery room lights.

The two protagonists of this story were toddlers when their moms, who were friends back in high school, reunited with each other at a pediatrician's waiting room, both boys clutching identical stuffed sharks after flu shots. They remembered how their doctor's receptionist chuckled at the coincidence. "Shark twins!" she'd declared, snapping a Polaroid neither family ever threw away. That photo lived on both fridges: Miles grinning gap-toothed while Chandler hid his face behind his shark, only his golden curls and one wide blue eye visible.

Miles' mom ran a chaotic pottery studio; Chandler's mom taught silent yoga retreats. The two Caucasian boys absorbed those rhythms—Miles throwing "experimental" mud pies that splattered fences, Chandler meditating under oak trees pretending to be a "calm wizard". Their friendship solidified during backyard barbecues where Miles would dare Chandler to eat ghost peppers while Chandler diplomatically negotiated peace treaties over stolen popsicles.

By sixth grade, Chandler learned that Miles' smirk meant involving risky situations. The raven-haired boy collected bruises like merit badges—skateboard wipeouts, ill-advised tree jumps, heck he would be willing to climb onto their neighbor's roof to retrieve Chandler's frisbee when it accidentally landed there. Of course he got grounded for not asking the home owner, but it was worth making his blonde friend happy. The Smith boy meanwhile cultivated a pristine sketchbook filled with delicate seashell studies. Miles's impulsiveness landed them in detention weekly; Chandler's meticulousness earned him library monitor badges.

Yet Chandler never quit Miles. Why? Because when his bully, Darius, shoved Chandler into a locker, calling him "Poofy-haired pansy", Miles didn't hesitate. He launched himself like a feral car, fists flying despite the brute being twice his size. Miles emerged with a split lip and a triumphant grin.

"Nobody calls you names," he panted, blood staining his teeth. "Except me."

Chandler had laughed then—but later, alone in his bed, he pressed his face into the pillow and screamed. Because Miles didn't know. Couldn't know. About the way Chandler's stomach flipped when Miles climbed trees shirtless, how he'd memorized the exact shade of green in Miles' eyes like some pathetic poet. Worst of all? The stupid, secret hope that maybe, when Miles ruffled his hair or tackled him playfully, it meant something more.

Speaking of tackling, Chandler noticed something unsettling whenever Miles wrestled him onto the grass—there was always this firm heat pressing against his thigh through Miles' denim pants. At first, he thought it was just a knee or maybe Miles' stupid pocketknife again, until the rhythmic pulse against his leg made his own stomach tighten in confused recognition.

Is Miles... no. Probably just a weird coincidence, Chandler told himself, scrambling away before anyone noticed his face burning.

Little did he know, he'll soon have his chance to make a discovery—one that will flip their world upside down.

... He can thank his bully, Darius, for that one.

Darius Maddox was the kind of kid who chewed pencils down to splinters and left teeth marks in his desk. Dark-skinned, dark-brown eyes, built like a fridge with a mohawk on an otherwise shaved head, and two grades ahead our two protagonists. He had a permanent scowl etched between eyebrows that met in the middle. His "genius" plan? Strong-arming Chandler into doing his homework by threatening to send a video to every student in school, including Miles, unless Chandler give him the answers for his work.

The clip showed Chandler's fingers trembling around that crumpled notebook page, his voice cracking as he whispered, "I think about your laugh too much... and... it makes me feel warm. That's not... normal, right?" to an empty space under the bleachers where he'd practiced confessing to Miles a dozen times. Darius had filmed it sideways through the slats, grinning with his gap front teeth with the Smith boy being none the wiser. Now that footage lived in the bully's greasy fingertips, ready to detonate Chandler's life with one tap.

And so, the poor boy silently transcribed the brute's failed English essays every Tuesday in the janitor's closet, rewriting clunky sentences about "Of Mice and Men" until they barely passed as coherent. He never told Miles. One, because Miles would absolutely fill Darius's gym shoes with fire ants: the same prank he'd pulled on their science teacher last spring, and two, because Darius will weaponize the video against their friendship.

"Bet your best friend'd love to see you like this, faggot." Darius had said with a cruel smirk. God, he HATE that ugly smirk.

Then Friday came; the day of the history midterm. Darius slid Chandler a note during study hall: "Write my exam or else... the video."

The blonde 12-year-old did. He just didn't account for Darius forgetting to erase the cheat sheet taped to his thigh. How does one miss peeling off an entire handwritten battle summary of Gettysburg? The teacher however spotted the crinkling paper when Darius stood to turn in his test, and the idiot panicked, pointing at Chandler with spit flying from his mouth: "HE gave it to me!".

Chandler's heart plummeted when Darius pulled out his trump card: fake tears. Really? "I was scared to say 'no', Mrs. Shapiro! He threatened me! What else could I do?"

Mrs. Shapiro's nostrils flared, her glare locking onto Chandler's shaky hands still clutching his pencil. No proof existed to contradict Darius's lie, not with his crocodile tears and the blonde kid's flushed, guilty face. He couldn't bring himself to tell the truth, knowing this would mean revealing the whole class his homosexual feelings for Miles being the reason Darius had him under his thumb.

That evening, his mother confiscated his phone while his father lectured him about integrity, their disappointment like a physical weight pressing his shoulders into the couch. "Two weeks, no leaving the house except for school," his dad muttered, rubbing his temples.

But as for Darius? Of course he got away with it. The teachers ate up his performance: poor kid, "pressured by the quiet one," they murmured in the faculty lounge while Chandler sat outside the principal's office picking at a loose thread on his backpack. And Miles? He'd been absent that afternoon because his mom scheduled a doctor's appointment right when the storm hit, blissfully unaware of the bomb Darius still clutched in his grubby fist. Chandler could picture it now: Darius lounging on his bed, re-watching the video with that same nasty smirk, knowing he had Chandler trapped for the next time he needed a human spell-check.

Poor Chandler lay in his room upstairs staring at his glow-in-the-dark constellations (peeling at the edges since third grade) when his window hissed open suddenly. It was Miles. He tumbled in the smell of cut grass and stolen menthols from his older sister Taylor's stash, knees scraping against the sill.

"I've been away at the doctor for a few hours, and I return home to hear about my best friend being grounded. You wanna elaborate?" Miles flicked on Chandler's dinosaur-shaped lamp. His voice cracked mid-word, that stupid puberty thing Chandler secretly found endearing.

Chandler curled tighter around his shark plushie. "Miles, please. You can't be here, go home."

Miles snatched the shark and held it hostage. "Not until you tell me what happened. Your mom told me at the door that you've 'assisted cheating'? Bullshit." His eyes narrowed, the same look he got right before jumping into dumb ideas like the time they stole Taylor's car keys. Only now, Chandler saw something else: anger. His calloused thumb rubbed at the shark's frayed fin—the one Chandler always worried between his fingers during thunderstorms.

The truth bubbled up Chandler's throat like acid. "Darius forced me to help him because he'll—" He immediately stopped himself before he could get to the part he didn't want the Nichols boy to know. "Wait, no, just—"

It's already too late. Hearing the bully's name was enough for Miles' entire body to go rigid. Chandler can hear him inhale sharply through his nose, the same way he does before launching himself off the playground swings mid-air. "That gap-toothed bastard blackmailed you?" Miles scowled. I KNEW IT! He spun toward the window, his black sneakers squeaking on hardwood.

Chandler lunged, catching Miles' wrist. "Don't."

Miles stared at their hands. Chandler yanked back like he'd touched a hot stove.

"You should've told me." Miles' whisper sounded foreign.

Chandler's laugh came out jagged. "So you could get expelled?" And probably hate me once Darius shows you why, he didn't add.

Miles exhaled through his nose, and something shifted in his expression. He stepped closer, close enough for Chandler to count the grass stains on his shirt. Close like when they shared headphones on the bus. Except now Miles' palm cupped Chandler's jaw, rough and steady. It felt really nice, Chandler thought stupidly, until the raven-haired boy tilted his face up.

"Hey, look at me." Miles demanded, and Chandler did, his blue orbs staring at his green orbs.

"That fucker thinks he can mess with my best friend?" Miles' grin was electric in the dim glow of Chandler's dinosaur lamp—the kind of smile that usually preceded fireworks in trash cans or frogs in gym lockers. "Like hell," He then walks over to Chandler's bed and flops himself on it with the grace of a thrown backpack. "We're gonna wreck his ass."

"Miles, please," the curly blonde pre-teen pleaded. "It's not worth it. I just got grounded today—"

"Over something he forced you to do," Miles interrupted. He dug his fingers into the comforter and exhaled sharply through his nose. "You think I care about getting in trouble? My whole life is trouble. But you?" His voice cracked again, softer this time. "You're not supposed to pay for his crimes."

"Well what am I supposed to do, huh?" Chandler's whisper cracked like thin ice. He yanked his shark plush back, fingers worrying the frayed stitching.

Miles rolled onto his stomach, propping his chin on fists. "Easy," he said, eyes glinting like sunlight on broken glass. "Darius and his ape-brained squad are throwing a 'beach party' tonight. Halona Cove." His grin widened. "Imagine their faces when their little sausage-fest gets rained on by this—" He dug into his pocket and tossed Chandler a smoke pellet the color of radioactive grape soda.

Chandler caught it instinctively, then recoiled as if it burned. "Are you insane?" His whisper was strangled. "These things reek like burnt rubber! They'll know it's us!"

"Not if we're ghosts." Miles shook his head. "My dad's golf cart's silent as a fart in church. We pop the smoke bombs from the cliffs, zip back before anyone sees us, and—" He mimed an explosion with his fingers. "Poof! Darius spends the night looking like a melted crayon."

Chandler clutched his shark tighter. "Your parents grounded you last month for joyriding that cart—"

"And?" Miles sat up. "You gonna let Darius win? Or you wanna watch him choke on purple smoke while his stupid friends piss themselves?"

"But my parents. They'll come up here at any minute to check on me." The Smith boy hissed, pressing his back against the wall like it might swallow him whole.

The other 12-year-old snorted, already yanking pillows free from Chandler's bed with the precision of a demolition expert: one under the comforter, another strategically dented to suggest the curve of a sleeping shoulder. He even stole Chandler's shark plushie, wedging it just right so the fin poked out near the "head." The effect was unsettlingly convincing... if you didn't know Chandler slept curled tight as a fern shoot, knees to chest.

"You're literally the worst," Chandler whispered, but his fingers were already tugging on sneakers.

Miles grinned in response, wild and wolfish, then tossed Chandler a hoodie. "We'll be back before your mom finishes her moon-salutation-whatever-the-fuck."

The window screen popped loose with practiced ease. Miles had pried it open so often the screws were just for show. Chandler hesitated, one leg dangling over the sill, when Miles leaned in close enough for their noses to brush. "Trust me, Chan-Chan," the dark-haired boy murmured, and Chandler's stomach did that stupid flip again, from the cute nickname Miles called him since their toddler years. Then the two Caucasian pre-teens were dropping into the hydrangea bushes below, Miles landing like a cat while Chandler stumbled into a crouch, heart hammering loud enough to wake the neighborhood.

Miles wasn't wrong. His dad's golf cart was indeed silent... if you ignored the way the plastic seat cracked under their weight or the occasional squeak of unoiled wheels.

The Nichols boy drove like a getaway driver in some cop movie, cutting through backyards and alleys while Chandler white-knuckled the "oh shit" bar. The mid-August night air smelled like cut grass and the salt-tang of the ocean grew closer, Miles whooping as they hit a bump that sent them momentarily airborne. Chandler bit back a scream, but when Miles glanced over, eyes alight with mischief, something reckless bubbled up in his chest. A laugh, sharp and startled, torn from him like a confession.

Halona Cove appeared suddenly; a crescent of moonlit sand wedged between jagged cliffs. Below, Darius and his cronies clustered around a sputtering bonfire, their shadows stretching long and distorted against the rocks. Miles killed the cart's momentum with a jerk, parking it behind a thicket of sea grape trees.

"Look at them," Miles scowled, crouching behind a jagged outcrop. The bonfire below cast flickering shadows across Darius's group of eight boys passing a flask, shoving each other into the surf. One of them, a lanky kid with dark-brown curly hair, was unbuckling his belt before pissing into the fire while the others cheered. "Like a pack of drunk seagulls. Celebrating the night that doesn't belong to them... Not if we have a say in this."

Chandler, still nervous, uttered out, "Miles, I still don't think this is nec—"

Miles cut him off with a sharp grin, already digging into his backpack. He pulled out three smoke bombs: one purple, one neon green, and one that looked suspiciously like a makeshift pipe bomb. "Here," he whispered, shoving the purple one into Chandler's shaking hand. "On my count. Three... two..."

Chandler never heard "one". Miles reared back and launched the neon green bomb like a major league pitcher, his entire body twisting with the force of it. The canister arced beautifully through the night air before plummeting directly into the bonfire with a pffft—followed immediately by a geyser of toxic-looking emerald smoke that mushroomed upward, swallowing Darius and his friends whole. Someone screamed like a stepped-on seagull.

"Oh shit," Miles wheezed, gripping his blonde friend's shoulder as he doubled over laughing. "Did you see that? They scattered—"

The Smith boy didn't have time to respond before Miles was up again, hurling the pipe-bomb-looking thing sideways toward the tide pools. It hit the rocks with a crack and detonated into a rolling crimson fog that smelled like burning tires. The gang of bullies stumbled blindly through the smoke, coughing and cursing, their shadows looming monstrously in the haze. One guy tripped over a cooler and face-planted into wet sand. Chandler, against every sensible instinct, felt a wild laugh bubble up his throat.

But then Miles grabbed the other smoke bomb. And then another. His backpack seemed bottomless. More bombs, each one larger and more volatile than the last. Chandler watched in horror as his best friend transformed into some manic, cackling phantom in the moonlight, his black messy hair sticking up in every direction as he lobbed canister after canister. The beach became a warzone: sulfur-yellow plumes mingled with inky black tendrils, swirling around the shrieking bullies like some demented children's cartoon.

"Miles, stop!" Chandler yanked at his wrist, but Miles twisted free, eyes wide and pupils blown. "They get it, okay? We won—" Another bomb left Miles' fingers before Chandler could finish, this one erupting in a noxious violet cloud that sent two boys gagging into the surf.

Miles was howling now, hands clawing at his own stomach like the laughter was tearing him apart from the inside. He staggered backward—one foot, two—until his heel connected with the golf cart's accelerator pedal.

... Shit.

The cart lurched forward with a whine, tires catching on loose gravel. Chandler's scream got lost in the chaos. The cart careened down the slope, picking up speed as Miles flailed, his sneakers kicking uselessly at the dashboard. The smoke parted just enough for Chandler to see the cliff's edge looming—too close, way too close—before something massive stepped into their path.

Keoni Palakiko, the 19-year-old lifeguard, materialized from the colored haze like a specter, arms outstretched. The cart slammed into his thighs with a sickening thud, flinging both boys into the sand at his feet. Silence. Then the lifeguard reached down, plucking a still-sparking smoke bomb from Miles' limp fingers.

"Well," Keoni said, his voice dripping with the kind of calm that made Chandler's stomach drop to his knees. "Guess we know who turned my beach into a fucking unicorn's fart." He pulled a radio from his hip, thumb hovering over the call button. "Your parents are gonna love this."

NO! Chandler closed his eyes. He had just gotten grounded today over something he didn't even do, and now it looks like his unjust punishment just got worse.

Chandler's mother didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. Her silence was the heaviest thing in the room (thick enough to suffocate in) as she stood with her arms crossed, the glow of Miles' confiscated smoke bombs casting jagged shadows across her face from the kitchen counter. His father, usually a man of endless dad jokes, just rubbed his temples like he was trying to erase the last two hours from his memory.

"One month," Mrs. Smith finally said, each syllable sharp enough to cut glass. "No TV. No video games. And certainly no after-school hangouts anywhere fun with Miles."

Chandler opened his mouth, "But Darius", and immediately shut it when his mother's stare turned arctic.

"You snuck out. You vandalized public property. You almost killed yourselves!" Her voice cracked. "Do you have any idea what could've—" She turned abruptly, pressing her palms flat against the sink like she needed to physically hold herself together.

Meanwhile, two streets over, Miles was getting a different kind of lecture. His dad's voice didn't crack with quiet devastation—it boomed, rattling the framed Little League photos on the walls. "You STOLE my cart!" Mr. Nichols roared, pointing at the freshly dented golf cart parked lopsidedly in the driveway like a wounded animal. "And look at these scratches! You think money grows on trees, Miles?"

Miles' mother, usually the peacekeeper, just leaned against the fridge with her arms crossed, her lips pressed into a thin, disappointed line. She didn't even react when her son muttered, "Maybe if you watered them," under his breath—which was how he knew he was really in deep shit.

The punishment was swift and brutal: no electronics, no leaving the house except for school, and definitely no going out anywhere fun with Chandler. "And you're paying for those damages," his father added, jabbing a finger at the cart. "Every. Last. Scratch."

Miles slumped onto his bed that night, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars peeling from his ceiling. He didn't regret the smoke bombs. Not really. But the look on Chandler's face when Keoni pulled out that radio, like his entire world had just crumbled, that alone stuck in Miles' ribs like a dull knife.

Morning came too soon.

The sun was already brutal by 7 AM, heat shimmering off the sand like a mirage when Miles arrived at Halona Beach. Chandler was already there, arms crossed, glaring at the tide pools like they'd personally offended him. He wore a sleeveless tee that exposed his pale shoulders, already pinkening under the sun, and board shorts that hung loose on his hips. Miles, in his usual chaotic uniform; stained tank top, frayed cargo shorts, shifted uncomfortably.

The boys' parents had made a promise to Keoni that their sons would learn their lesson. Not just through empty threats, but through sweat, sand, and the unrelenting Hawaiian sun.

Both 12-year-olds stood squinting against the glare of Halona Beach, armed with trash bags and brooms instead of smoke bombs and schemes. Chandler's anger simmered under his skin, hotter than the sunburn creeping across his shoulders. He jabbed a stick into the sand with unnecessary force, sending a crab scuttling for cover. Miles, uncharacteristically quiet, kept stealing glances at his best friend, each one met with a glare sharp enough to puncture tires.

The silence between them was suffocating, broken only by the distant crash of waves and the occasional screech of gulls overhead. Chandler's jaw worked like he was chewing glass, clutching the trash bag like he's strangling someone's neck. Miles, for once in his life, didn't know how to fix this. He scooped up a piece of driftwood, turning it over in his hands before lobbing it into the surf with a frustrated grunt.

"Chandler," Miles started, voice uncharacteristically careful. He reached out, fingers brushing Chandler's elbow... only for the blonde boy to jerk away like he'd been burned.

"Don't," Chandler hissed, finally turning to face him. His blue eyes were stormy, his voice low and tight. "You knew I was already grounded. You knew my mom would freak. But you just HAD to drag me into your stupid—"

A sharp whistle cut through the air. Keoni stood a few yards away, arms crossed over his lifeguard tank, his expression unreadable behind mirrored sunglasses. "You two done with the soap opera?" the Polynesian teen drawled, nodding toward a pile of seaweed-strewn debris near the tide pools. "Because that shit isn't gonna rake itself."

Miles clenched his fists, suddenly furious. Not at Chandler, not even at Keoni, but at himself. He grabbed the nearest broom and trudged toward the mess without another word, his shoulders hunched like he was bracing against a punch. Chandler watched him go, something bitter and heavy settling in his chest.

Then Keoni sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look," he muttered, low enough that only Chandler could hear. "I get that the kid's an idiot, but he's your idiot. And he's been glancing at you like you drowned his goldfish."

The younger boy glared at a seashell, refusing to acknowledge Miles shuffling awkwardly in his periphery.

Keoni sighed again (louder this time) as he watched Miles stab at seaweed like it owed him money. The lifeguard reached into his cooler, producing two sweating sodas. "Break time," he announced, tossing one at each boy. Miles caught his grape Fanta mid-air; Chandler's Orange Crush thudded against his chest before tumbling into the sand.

"Drink. Breathe. Don't kill each other," Keoni muttered, walking backward toward the lifeguard tower. "You two have five minutes." His flip-flops left half-moon prints in the wet sand as he retreated, though Chandler noticed his sunglasses stayed trained on them like sniper scopes.

Miles cracked open his soda. He took one sip before grimacing. Too sweet, like drinking liquefied jellybeans. He then turned to Chandler, who was sitting 7 feet away from him while guzzling down his soda. "Look," he started, scooting closer until their knees almost touched. "I messed up. You were right. About everything." He dragged a finger through the condensation on his can, avoiding Chandler's simmering glare. "Shoulda listened. You're always..." His voice caught oddly. "Smarter than me."

Chandler's grip tightened around his unopened can. He wanted to stay mad. Wanted to hurl the soda into the surf and watch Miles flinch. But then the young troublemaker peeked up through his stupid black bangs, waiting, like Chandler's anger was a storm he'd decided to weather, and something in Chandler's chest splintered.

The silence stretched. Miles exhaled sharply through his nose, then lunged.

Fingers dug into Chandler's ribs like live wires. The Orange Crush exploded from his grip as he shrieked, sand flying as Miles bodily tackled him. "Say you forgive me!" Miles crowed, straddling the shy boy's waist and wiggling his fingers under his armpits like some derailed tickle monster.

Chandler bucked, wheezing laughter bursting through him despite himself. "Noooo! Stop it, Miles... hee hee... you... ha ha ha... asshole!"

A well-placed knee flipped their positions. Suddenly Chandler was on top, pinning Miles' wrists into the hot sand. Miles' laughter cut off with an "oof" as Chandler retaliated, digging into the sensitive spot beneath Miles' ribs that always made him shriek like a stepped-on seagull. "Hey, Chan-Chan—Hee hee ha ha ha... No fair, man! Cut it... HA HA HA HA HA... CUT IT O-OUT! I-I'M GONNA—"

"Not until... hee hee... you admit it!" Chandler gasped between attacks, the laughter making his voice wobbly. "Say it again!"

"OKAY! OKAY! I was WRONG!" Miles howled, thrashing. "HA HA HA, I GET IT! YOU'RE THE SMARTEST AND I'M THE WRONGEST!" His black hair was a wild tangle against the sand, cheeks flushed pink from laughter and sunburn.

Chandler's fingers stilled, Miles' pulse thudding wild and rabbit-quick beneath his thumbs.

He hadn't meant to stare—really, he hadn't—but the way sunlight caught on Miles' sweaty collarbones, the way his throat arched as he gasped between giggles, the way his stupidly long eyelashes stuck together in clumps from tears of laughter… Chandler's stomach did that thing again, that swooping, tilting thing that made his toes curl inside his sandals.

... And then warmth bloomed against his thigh.

At first he thought Miles had spilled his Fanta. But the liquid seeped through Chandler's red shorts too fast, too hot, spreading in a creeping patch across his crotch. Miles' laughter hiccuped into sudden, wide-eyed silence as they both registered the darkening fabric.

"Oh shit!" Miles scrambled backward like the curly-haired 12-year-old was radioactive, palms leaving streaks in the sand. His cheeks went from sun-pink to flaming scarlet. "I didn't... I-I mean, I wasn't... I must've had too many drinks this morning. Fuck, Chandler, I'm sorry—"

Chandler bolted upright, mortification scorching his ears. Worse than the piss soaking his shorts was the traitorous twitch between his legs, his body reacting to Miles' weight, Miles' scent, Miles' everything with humiliating enthusiasm. He crossed his arms low over his tenting shorts, but not before his best friend/crush's gaze flicked downward—then froze.

Sand gritted between them like shattered glass. Chandler braced for disgust, for horror, for Miles to bolt faster than he'd run from Principal Nguyen's office last month after the firecracker incident. But the Nichols boy didn't move. His breathing hitched, uneven, and Chandler watched with half-terror and half-fascination as Miles' own blue board shorts darkened in front, the fabric pulling taut over a thickening shape that made the blonde youngster's mouth go dry.

"You're..." Miles broke the silence, his usual bravado crumbling into something raw and unfamiliar. His fingers twitched toward his own erection before aborting the movement. "You're not... freaked out?"

Chandler gulped. The truth clawed its way up his throat, jagged as coral. "Are you?"

With a weak laugh, Miles shifted uncomfortably. Now clearly visible, his erection pushed against wet fabric. "Obviously not, dumbass."

Chandler's heart pounded behind his knees, in his throat, and in his wrists. Miles was aroused. Because of him. Because of them. Like a lighted fuse wire, the revelation unraveled in Chandler's stomach, igniting all the way down to his toes.

Miles stretched languidly, rolling his shoulders as if Chandler hadn't just been straddling him moments ago. His hand lingered, palm pressed firmly over the damp bulge in his shorts, fingers lazily tracing the outline beneath the fabric. A slow, deliberate rub. Chandler meanwhile stares at his friend's lewd act absentmindedly, pink-faced.

"Like what you see, Chan-Chan?" Miles' grin was all teeth, but there was something unfamiliar beneath it... an edge Chandler had never heard before. The troublemaker rolled his thumb over the head of his cock through the fabric, watching Chandler's blown pupils track the movement.

Wha—! Oh man, what have I done!? The blonde boy jolted like he'd been electrocuted, snapping his gaze up to Miles' face with a strangled noise. "S-Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"It's cool," Miles interrupted, shrugging like they were discussing skateboard tricks instead of... this. His fingers kept moving, slow and unashamed. "If you think it's hot."

Chandler's brain short-circuited. His mouth opened, then closed.

Miles chuckled—low, conspiratorial—and added, "Yeah, I had a dude perving on me one time before."

Chandler's spine locked. Dude? Did he just say 'dude'? As in... a BOY!?

The blue-eyed pre-teen looked at his friend like he was some stranger. This couldn't be the Miles he knew, the Miles who spent lunch period looking up beach girls in seductive crop tops on his phone when no adult was watching, who fake-groaned every time Miss Tamura's cleavage bounced during math class. He NEVER talked about guys.

Miles stretched, arching his back slightly. His erection looked like it was about to rip itself out of urine-stained fabric, and Chandler's throat went dry.

"You know how I'm always late to seventh period?" The raven-haired boy began casually, fingertips tracing the outline of his cockhead through damp fabric. Chandler nodded dumbly. "Well, first week of school, I figured out the gym showers empty out by then. So I'd wait 'til the last dude left, then..." Miles' smirk widened as he mimed jerking off with his free hand. Chandler swallowed hard, imagining steam curling around Miles' lean frame, water sluicing down his bare back. "Turns out some transfer kid, Paul, I think? He was watching from the next stall. Saw his reflection in the tiles when he started stroking himself too."

Chandler made a noise like a deflating balloon. He couldn't believe this is his best friend of eight years since the pre-school era, the same boy he had a crush on, telling him this story in person. It felt more like a dream than reality... that some random boy in their school got to see Miles touching himself raw in the shower. His fingers twitched at his sides, torn between wanting to punch this imaginary Paul and beg Miles for more details.

"S-So what happened then?" He asked.

"Caught him staring like a creep," Miles answered. "Told him if he wanted to jerk off that bad, he should man up and do it where I could see. Kid practically tripped over his own feet getting into my stall... ended up blowing his load all over the drain before I could even get a good grip on him. You should've seen him."

Chandler's ears burned hotter than his sunburn. His shorts tented painfully as he imagined Miles, wet and flushed under the spray, muscles flexing as he worked himself, being watched by some lucky pervert who got to taste what Chandler had only dreamed about. "Did... did he ever touch you?"

"Duh, course he did," Miles smirked. "Every day 'til he moved schools by the third week. Never told anyone though..." His expression softened into something almost shy as his pinky finger hooked around Chandler's. "Just you."

The Smith boy's stomach twisted, jealousy sour and sudden, scalding his throat. "But you... you always talk about girls," he blurted, voice cracking. "Miss Tamura's tits, the volleyball team—"

Miles shrugged, fingers still lazily tracing his erection through damp fabric. "Yeah, but I think boys are hot too. Landon Paulsen from algebra? Those thighs when he squats during dodgeball?" He grinned at Chandler's stunned expression. "And Darius. Yeah, even that stupid-ass jerk."

"WHAT!?" Chandler squawked, jaw-dropped. "D-Darius!? Him too!?"

"I know. Big shock, isn't it?" Miles shrugged like it's no big deal. "Gotta admit, the way his bicep flex did made my cock hardened. Snuck one of his jockstraps out the locker room last week. Dude came in it hard, you can tell by the crust." He licked his lips, eyes dark. "Took it home, sniffed it raw while I jerked off. Bet that's how his nasty dick tastes like. Not like that meathead would ever know."

Chandler recoiled. His erection pulsed treacherously against his thigh. "That's... that's disgusting."

Miles' grin widened. "Oooh, is somebody jealous?"

"I'm NOT!" Chandler protested. "You're... you're such a fucking pervert."

"Sure." Miles' voice dripped sarcasm. "Tell that to your dick leaking through your shorts like a broken faucet."

Chandler's fingers dug into the sand, grit lodging under his nails. The wet patch on his crotch pulsed with every heartbeat, hot and undeniable. Across from him, Miles lounged back on his elbows like some lazy cat, his own erection throbbing against soaked fabric, unashamed, proud even. The sight short-circuited Chandler's brain. He'd spent months choking down daydreams in the dead of night, convinced Miles would recoil if he ever knew. And now here he was—not just unbothered, but flaunting it.

"Relax," Miles murmured, kicking Chandler's shin lightly with his bare foot. His toes left a smudge of wet sand on Chandler's knee. "You're acting like I just told you I skin puppies for fun. It's normal, dipshit. Every dude jerks off. Half the guys in our class probably popped a boner during that dumb abstinence lecture when Nurse Lyle said 'penis' too many times." He flicked a piece of seaweed off his thigh. "You think Landon and them aren't sniffing their mom's panty drawer? Or humping pillows pretending they're getting titty-fucked by Miss Tamura? Pleeease."

Chandler opened his mouth—to protest, to deflect—but what came out instead was a shuddering exhale. "I don't... think about girls like that," he mumbled, staring fixedly at the peeling label of his abandoned soda can. "Ever." The admission hung between them like a live grenade with the pin pulled.

Miles didn't blink. "No shit," he snorted, rolling his eyes. "You practically drool every time Coach Kawena raises his shirt to wipe sweat outside during P.E."

Chandler's head snapped up so fast his neck cracked. How the hell did Miles notice that?

The dark-haired boy stretched again, deliberately this time, letting Chandler see the damp outline of his cock twitch against his shorts. "Relax, Chan-Chan," Miles chuckled, his voice dropping into that low, teasing register that always made Chandler's stomach flip. "Boys are hot. Girls are hot. Some dudes wanna lick Darius' sweaty armpits—gross, but whatever." He leaned forward, sand sticking to his bare knees. "Point is, your dick doesn't lie. And right now, yours is screaming 'Miles Nichols is fucking delicious.'"

The whole body of the blonde boy stiffened. Grains embedded beneath his fingernails like little accusations as his fingers delved into the sand. Every denial, every terrified night spent hoping these emotions would go away—all of it crumbled under the weight of Miles' sly grin.

With a forceful swallow, Chandler tasted guilt, salt, and something terrifyingly like relief. "I... yeah, okay. Alright. I am—" Like thin ice, his voice broke. "I'm a pervert. Only for boys... especially you." He was left wounded and trembling when the confession finally tore free like a splinter.

Miles didn't laugh. Instead he lunged, not with tickling fingers this time, but with arms that wrapped tight around Chandler's shoulders, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "Fucking finally," he muttered into his friend's sunburned neck. "Took you long enough, dumbass."

Chandler froze, then melted into the hug, his nose pressing into Miles' sweaty collarbone, inhaling the scent of salt and sunscreen and whatever cheap body spray Miles stole from his older sister.

Miles pulled back just enough to cuff Chandler's shoulder—too gentle to be playful, too rough to be tender. "You're brave as hell, y'know that? Most guys would rather eat glass than admit they wanna suck dick."

The 12-year-old's face burned hotter than the midday sun. He wanted to crawl into Miles' skin. Wanted to bite the sharp jut of his Adam's apple where sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat. His fingers twitched against Miles' hips, thumbs brushing the waistband of those stupid blue shorts where Miles' erection strained against wet fabric.

Curiosity overrode panic, Chandler pressed his palm flat against Miles' crotch before he could stop himself. The hardness beneath his fingers wasn't just stiff; it felt... different. Ridged. Almost segmented, like something coiled tight beneath the fabric. "Why does yours feel—?"

The whole body of the blonde boy stiffened. Grains embedded beneath his fingernails like little accusations as his fingers delved into the sand. Every denial, every terrified night spent hoping these emotions would go away—all of it crumbled under the weight of Miles' sly grin.

With a forceful swallow, Chandler tasted guilt, salt, and something terrifyingly like relief. "I... yeah, okay. Alright. I am—" Like thin ice, his voice broke. "I'm a pervert. Only for boys... especially you." He was left wounded and trembling when the confession finally tore free like a splinter.

"That's why..." He gulped, bracing to tell Miles the truth behind Darius' blackmail. "That's why Darius forced me to do his work. He recorded me talking to myself about... you."

Miles didn't laugh. Instead he lunged, not with tickling fingers this time, but with arms that wrapped tight around Chandler's shoulders, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "Fucking finally," he muttered into his friend's sunburned neck. "Took you long enough, dumbass. That dickhead thinks he can ruin our friendship? Well guess what, he just strengthened it."

Chandler froze, then melted into the hug, his nose pressing into Miles' sweaty collarbone, inhaling the scent of salt and sunscreen and whatever cheap body spray Miles stole from his older sister. Man, does he love making that girl mad.

Miles pulled back just enough to cuff Chandler's shoulder—too gentle to be playful, too rough to be tender. "You're brave as hell, y'know that? Most guys would rather eat glass than admit they wanna suck dick."

The 12-year-old's face burned hotter than the midday sun. He wanted to crawl into Miles' skin. Wanted to bite the sharp jut of his Adam's apple where sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat. His fingers twitched against Miles' hips, thumbs brushing the waistband of those stupid blue shorts where Miles' erection strained against wet fabric.

Curiosity overrode panic, Chandler pressed his palm flat against Miles' crotch before he could stop himself. The hardness beneath his fingers wasn't just stiff; it felt... different. Ridged. Almost segmented, like something coiled tight beneath the fabric. "Why does yours feel—?"

Miles' grin turned feral. He grabbed Chandler's wrist, forcing his hand down harder until the blonde boy gasped at the unnatural heat radiating through the damp shorts. "Because," Miles breathed, "what's in here isn't just some sad little middle-school boner." His free hand shoved past the waistband, not into his own shorts, but Chandler's, fingers tracing the leaking slit of Chandler's cock with clinical fascination.

"You're all smooth, like a baby's. But me?" Miles' hips jerked forward, grinding that strange rigidity against Chandler's palm. "I grew early. Real early."

"W-what do you mean, 'grew early'?" Chandler stammered, fingers twitching against the alien ridges under Miles' shorts like he'd touched a live wire. The rebellious boy of the duo just smirked, hooking two fingers into Chandler's waistband and yanking him close until their foreheads knocked together.

"Somewhere with less audience, dumbass," Miles murmured, nodding toward Keoni's distant silhouette pacing the lifeguard tower. His free hand dragged Chandler's thumb deliberately along the throbbing outline, one slow stroke that made Chandler's knees buckle. "Bet I can show you better than tell you."

Chandler's eyes flicked between Miles' darkening shorts and the distant tower where Keoni's binoculars glinted in the sun. "He'll see the trash bags. He'll think we ditched."

"Pfft," Miles rolled his eyes, already tugging Chandler backward toward the jagged lava rocks framing the cove's eastern edge. "Dude's gonna be busy for at least twenty minutes arguing with those surfers about reef safety. You wanna keep pretending you don't wanna suck my dick? Fine. But if we stay here for one more second, I'm gonna cum in my shorts like some preschooler who can't hold his piss."

Chandler's mouth watered. His pulse rabbited in his throat. And then, quieter than the tide pulling back over broken shells: "... yes."

...