TASTE MY ANGER (RJ)

[FREDDIE FOSTER]

“Score still tied after double over time, we’ve moved into round one of penalty kicks, folks, and it’s not looking good for Team Faggot. With their star goalie injured, no doubt rookie RJ Teach is finding himself struggling to live up to his predecessors. He’s held his own so far, though, keeping the playing field even against the division championship favorites, Manchester United. That was, of course, until now, as their number one forward steps up for his chance to make history—FREDDIE FOSTER!”

Imitating perfectly the sound of a roaring stadium chanting his name, Freddie scuffed his cleat against the penalty line, digging a miniature ditch that would no doubt be the difference between victory and perpetual humiliation once the imaginary whistle sounded. He’d made the exact same speech about twelve times over now, and at least one hundred times before then—once for every penalty kick ever taken during every one-on-one practice ever had with one RJ Teach. Naturally, it never stopped being hilarious. It varied slightly, when RJ was the one kicking and Freddie took his place in the goal, but only insofar as positions.

He didn’t care much, whether his roommate and best friend had grown tired of it. In fact, it probably would have made the whole thing a bit funnier if he had—or even better, if he found it annoying. Freddie lived to make RJ’s life miserable (or so his friend liked to insist), though the truth was probably more that Freddie lived to make the lives of anyone who’d bother giving him the time of day miserable. Or eventful. Or interesting. Certainly, RJ would be a downright shitheadded drone without him. Why, Freddie had saved him, RJ, with his reasonable athletic prowess and slight knack for leadership. Together, with these extra practice sessions and a hell of a lot of arguing about everything two teenage boys could possibly argue about, they’d become team captains.

And so now they practiced more often. Freddie usually won. Or, he usually said he did, even if he didn’t, and wouldn’t take any other result for an answer when they eventually reported back to Will, if she hadn’t been there with them in the first place. She always agreed with him. Always, even with RJ around. He liked that about her, he had to admit, even if sometimes it got to be a bit…much. Still, she’d helped him win these little competitions more often than once, even if she wasn’t always willing to admit it. Or there. Technically.

“Are you sure you can handle this, Captain Faggot?” Freddie mocked his opponent with all the necessary cockiness as he took a few steps back from the soccer ball’s perfect position, stretching his quads. “This right here—it could be your third loss running.” His wit, obviously, was unbearable.

With a grin the size of the sun, Freddie took a quick, false step forward in order to fake out RJ. It was a customary move, however, so chances were it did nothing.

The next, however, was not. Eyes wide, Freddie looked up in what could only be described as genuine surprise. As most things he appeared to be genuine in, however, it was completely fabricated. The words were only forming in his head as he said them, and once they found their way out, surprised and pleased and only slightly mirthful, well, he knew he was a genius. “Look! RJ, it’s Will! She came!” he pointed excitedly over his roommate’s shoulder, even going so far as to hop up and down a little bit until the poor bastard turned. It was then that Freddie struck. The kick was hard, but his aim—normally true to a tee—was off, and the ball careened not to the left hand corner of the goal, but directly at RJ, finding it’s mark…between his legs.

For a moment, Freddie just stared. His eyes widen, his mouth dropped in shock as he felt not sympathy for the best friend whose nuts he’d just busted, but something near joy. It was hilarious, if only because it hadn’t happened to him. Freddie actually sank to his knees. Consumed with the sort of gut-busting laughter that only ever made its way forth when he’d managed to humiliate RJ in some way, Freddie wheezed between attempts at breathing “Did you—Ohmygod—Your face—Your fucking face—“ among other such taunts. For a good minute or so this continued before he could even begin to think of collecting himself, grinning, from where he lay on the turf field.

“I got you so damn good…” Certainly, he wasn’t running just yet.

[RJ TEACH]

They'd been going at it for almost an hour and a half now. It was a normal weekend for the two of them, really. While the rest of the student population was content running off and doing other things throughout the city when they didn't have classes, the two of them were utterly devoted to the sport. Or at least, RJ was utterly devoted to the sport and Freddie was utterly devoted to annoying the fuck out of RJ. That's how it seemed every time the stupid motherfucker started to give his goddamn speech.

It had been a time honored tradition between the two of them for years now. It had all started the first weekend that RJ had come to the school. Far from the lost puppy that other new students seemed to be, RJ had been in his 'rebellious beast' phase of studentdom and had walked onto the field like he'd owned the place. As a freshman new to the team it had not gone well. Surprisingly RJ hadn't had his ego challenged by a senior or an upperclassman, however. It had been another freshman, Freddie, who had made it his personal mission to take RJ down a peg or two by showing him up at the sport that they both adored.

That weekend had been the first of many one on one games with both boys determined to show the other one up. Their only spectator, Will, had been dragged along by Freddie for what he assured them all was 'moral support' when he won. RJ had flirted, as he had been wont to do back in those dark days, and it had only seemed to further the competitive charge between the two of them.

The game that day had gone on for hours. Neither of them wanted to give up. Will, the referee for the day, eventually decided to call it a tie and go on home. Neither was perfectly happy with the score but both agreed that it was time to give it a rest. Freddie, in such a way that only Freddie was able to do, somehow twisted it around so that he told them all he had 'gone easy on RJ' and let him tie the game up because he liked the new player's attitude. He made it out that he was this great, benevolent guy who had given his greatest gift to RJ. RJ felt it was unnecessary to point out the fact that he had actually been winning for the majority of the game until Freddie had caught back up. He took the opportunity he was given and was accepted into the small group, turning the pair into a trio with a promise from Freddie that with a little help from him RJ would one day be as good a soccer player as he was.

That had been so long ago. Now RJ had grown up and matured while Freddie had stayed the same childish little monster that he always was. RJ had moved on from his 'rebellious' phase while he was pretty sure that was the only phase Freddie would ever know. RJ had learned to merely zone out and think about other things when Freddie started doing his stupid sportscast impression. RJ was sure the repetitiveness of the whole thing would drive him crazy. He could only listen to the same thing over and over and over for so long before it started to push him over the edge.

Finally it seemed like Freddie was gonna kick the damn ball. RJ tensed up, ready to jump at the nearest sign of movement. Freddie went for a fakeout but RJ was unfazed. He'd done it every time for the past 11 kicks. It was hardly anything new. It wasn't until his friend stopped and pointed that RJ relaxed and looked over his shoulder to see where Will was. RJ had thought she was at the dentist or something and couldn't make it. It would be great if she actually had been able to get out early and-!

By the time he heard the whistling sound of death, it was too late. The ball slammed into him and RJ collapsed almost immediately to the ground with a strangled grunt as the wind was both knocked out of him and he was filled with horrible - HORRIBLE - pain.

"Holy. Fucking. Shit." he managed to eek out in a pained whimper as his friend cackled loudly across the field. He was going to kill him. He was going to fucking kill him.

[FREDDIE FOSTER]

If the fact that he was winning hadn’t already been wonderful enough, Freddie could have argued that today was the best day ever. RJ hadn’t fallen for that one in years. Or maybe weeks. But it’d felt like years to Freddie’s wandering, perpetually childish mind. And now—well, this had made the wait so much more than worth it. Seeing RJ hunched over like that, hearing him squeak in agony only sent the slightly-calmed seventeen year-old into another fit of gut busting laughter. Freddie rolled on his back, legs tucked up to his chest as he struggled to breath amidst bouts of ab-wrecking hysteria. There may have even been a few tears trickling down his face. Possibly, he found the whole thing a tad bit funnier than he ought to have.

“That was so—Oh my God—” Freddie slammed his fist into the grass of the field over and over again as he attempted to calm himself. He was beginning to find it legitimately difficult to breathe. “I can’t believe you—you fell for that—You fucking idiot!” Oh, but he was pleased. He was so pleased with RJ’s stupidity, and even more so with the fact that he’d been injured. Grinning so wide it looked like it might possibly snap his face clean in two, Freddie rocked himself upright into a sitting position, facing RJ as he caught his breath and wiped at the joyful tears that had sprung up at the corners of his eyes. A few more chuckles escaped him before he spoke again, biting his lip as though in effort to keep the words from shoving their way out. It, as always, did not work. “So, you think this means I win again?” He was casual, innocent as though he’d just happened to score a winning goal the proper way, ballsacks-for-bull’s eyes be damned.

Freddie watched RJ for a moment longer before getting to his feet. He brushed the dirt off his shorts casually, as though just finishing up a normal match (it could certainly be noted, of course, that not once in three years had Freddie finished a normal match in such a seemingly calm manner), and threw RJ another one of his charismatic grins—the sort he knew full well RJ couldn’t stand, but still relied on anyway to keep them out of trouble. “Sorry,” he half snorted, clearly not sorry at all. Turning the corners of his mouth down slightly, Freddie continued in a manner that, were it not for the mirthful glint in his eye clearly begging for the hunt to begin already, might have sounded a bit like begging. “I just…Don’t hurt me. Please?”

There it was again, that wide-mouthed grin paired with surrendering hands. Freddie’s eyes didn’t leave RJ as he took a tiny step back, bracing himself for the sprint that he knew would inevitably come.

[RJ TEACH]

RJ's vision flashed red momentarily as he writhed on the ground in complete and utter pain. The only thing that he could think of was how he would catch that bastard and make him pay for that very literal low blow. Well, that was the only thing on his mind besides the very obvious, very tortuous searing pain that refused to subside or show any hint of stopping. For another moment or so, RJ just sort of lay there pathetically on the soft turf of the field, not capable of getting up from the humiliating position just yet. He could hear his bastard friend absolutely cacklin on the other end of the field and he wanted nothing more than to just punch him a few times really hard. Preferably in the nuts, but failing that he was sure that a dead arm or leg would be just as satisfying.

Finally, pain abating, RJ struggled to his feet. After panting for a minute more, he hit the ground running. He had a large distance to make up if he wanted to make that damn kid suffer, but he was sure that he'd have the element of surprise. By all rights, he shouldn't have been able to get up from a blow like that so quickly. It was pure adrenaline and the unadulterated, purified form of absolute hatred that filled him with the power he needed to make his lightning fast break across the field.

Of course, the bastard turned tail and fled, but that just made it all the better. It wouldn't really be worth it without the chase. Hell, RJ was convinced that their friendship was based on these types of events. RJ would get gradually more and more pissed off at Freddie over the course of a few weeks, ticked off by all the little annoying habits he had as well as all the major, glaring personality disorders and basically driven to the edge of insanity, and finally he'd just snap and take it out on him like a human punching bag and everything would be alright again. They'd laugh about it because they both knew that for that moment they'd be even, and then they'd go out for ice cream or something or get Freddie or RJ ice for his eye or something and it would be chill until the cycle started over.

"I SWEAR TO FUCKIN GOD I'M GOING TO KILL YOU THIS TIME YOU PRICK!" It wasn't the most eloquent battle cry he'd ever bellowed to the heavens, but it got his point across.