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In his cut-offs and army surplus boots, Andre almost looks ready for a mission.
Instead, he’s sprawled out across the damp dirt and staring up at the canopy of trees, forearm slung over his eyes to shield himself from the setting sun. There’s a faint pink tinge to his face that Cal clocks immediately: try as he might to hide it, Andre is totally and utterly fucked up.
“Your dad’s gonna kill me,” Cal grumbles as he peers across at Andre. He’s got his own back to the cool bark of a young tree, relishing how it wicks the heat right from his skin even through the cotton of his tee-shirt, “You’re totally fucked up.”
The late summer evening curves in with arcs of golden sun through the coppice of trees, dappling the dewy grass beneath them. The pontiac’s parked along one of the pedestrian pathways but they’ve moved far enough away into the forest that it’s completely out of sight. They’ve got an emptied six pack and a bottle of vodka between them, mixing right into soda cans. Cal can feel the heat like a second skin: close, tight, suffocating.
It feels like they’ve been wading through this summer for years, even if Cal knows it’ll never be long enough: their last summer alive. It feels like it should be more cinematic than this. More than nights in Andre’s basement watching kitschy slashers and babysitting Eric and Maddy.
He feels like he should be doing something big, maybe, bigger than this.
“Yeah,” Andre agrees, voice half slurred but all mournful, “He’ll kill me first. Bring me back to life just to kill me over again. And then he’ll spit on my grave.”
Andre’s just close enough that Cal can card his fingers right through Andre’s hair. It’s a little sweat-damp down to the scalp but mostly soft, downlike. There’s the beginnings of stubble bristling right at Andre’s jaw that Cal wants to touch, too, feel under his fingertips, but he doesn’t. Andre leans into the scratch of Cal’s fingers against his scalp like a cat into touch.
“Hey,” Cal’s lips twitch, even if Andre can’t see it, “We were gonna see the end of that carbine either way.”
“Fuck off,” Andre groans. He pushes up just an inch on his elbow, just enough for Cal to catch a proper look at his face: he’s flushed right across the cheeks, all the way up to the ears, with a thin sheen of sweat that’s half heat sickness. He takes a sip of coke. He grimaces around the mouthful, swilling it around for a second before gulping loudly. It almost looks like it hurts.
“I don’t,” Andre starts, pauses, scrunches his eyes shut as he wobbles a little on the pivot-point of his left elbow. The other hand comes up to rub at his cheek, “Shit, Cal, I don’t feel too good.”
He keens then, tilting on his side to press his head down to his forearm, inches from the ground. His shirt clings to the wiry muscle of his back until Cal can almost see the flex of his deltoids, the sharp cut of his shoulder blades. He makes a noise then, something like a hiccup- no, a gag.
The heat prickles right over the surface of Cal’s skin, a little sunburned at the arms where not even the strongest Rite-Aid sunscreen could keep him safe. Andre’s got that same farmer’s tan, wears it a little easier (when he’s not teetering on green, at least). He looks like he was born to be in the sunlight, dark eyes and hair made just to glow in summer.
He feels the warmth burn over his skin and- watching Andre’s body tremor, he’s not entirely sure it’s from the sun overhead. He swallows the dark, heavy feeling in his throat down like rising bile.
“You think you’re gonna throw up?”
Andre groans.
“I dunno,” He says, muffled into the small pocket of air between his face and the dirt, “Maybe. Not- I don’t know.”
The dark heat building right at the pit of Cal’s stomach at the sight of Andre is really, really, nothing new. He’s kind of- learned to avoid it, learned to redirect every thought and skipped heartbeat for moments alone. But this is new, this dirty-heat of shame that Cal can’t even feel the way through, like a hollow-frame shell. There should be embarrassment here, maybe, disgust. But there just isn’t.
The thought hits Cal like a fucking freight train: full force, rippling right across the front plane of his body. Andre’s gonna be sick, and Cal wants to see it happen.
“Just- just not on me. Dude.” He tries. It’s weak.
Andre tosses up the finger, but it’s to little effect.
He inhales then like he’s going to speak, but it gets caught right in his throat. Half-lidded, Cal watches right as Andre buckles forward an inch, head ducking deeper beneath the canopy of his hunched shoulder, and he retches.
The motion wracks his entire body. Head to tail, like there’s a string pulled taut up through him that Cal’s just plucked, Andre reverberates all over. Cal watches the motion travel up from the small Andre’s back to his skull like rising bile, tracks the jerk off his head forward-down with a sick fascination. The sound is-- well, sickening, Andre’s own body revolting against him.
“Christ,” Andre stammers, hand shot up to press the back of his forearm to his mouth. The words come out muffled. He scrunches his eyes shut tight.
“Drink more,” Cal suggests. He looks to the can of coke in Andre’s hand, “That’s clean, right?”
“If I drink it, I’ll just-” Andre hiccups, a half-gag, “-Just puke it up everywhere.”
But Cal knows, and Andre must know it too. Cal can almost feel it, a contact-high, the rolling of Andre’s stomach into tight-tied knots, that sinister pulse where you know you’re going to throw up, it’s inevitable, but you’re clamping down and praying you won’t.
Eyes trained to the curve of Andre’s spine, Cal pushes forward off the tree and leans forward. The cotton of his tee-shirt sticks right to the skin of his wiry back where he’s been sweating all evening. The hairs right along the stretch of his forearms prickles with that familiar cool excitement as he moves forward, over the damp earth, to Andre’s curled body.
“Turn over,” Cal suggests. Curving his fingers right over Andre’s loosened shoulder, it’s easy to roll him right over onto his other side and get his head up against Cal’s thigh. He’s still curled up like a young thing, all soft-delicate insides, but here Cal can see the soft fuzz of the nape of Andre’s neck and the way his skin seems to quiver like a taut drum.
The way he hovers right over Andre feels vulturine. Predatory, as he leans to press a hand right to the nape of Andre’s neck: the skin is sheened with sweat, too, hot-cold cold-hot. Andre flinches right under it like Cal’s fingers are scalding hot.
“I hate it,” Andre groans, pressing his forehead to the globe of Cal’s knee but not moving to shake Cal’s hand away, “Cal. Wish I could just- just get it over with. I fucking hate feeling sick.”
Andre’s voice is just the wrong side of small, the kind that gets Cal’s stomach stirring again. That awful, shameless heat, dark and intense as the summer night crowding in on them. He wants to turn the moment over in his palm like a river-smoothed stone, familiarise himself with the sensation by rote.
He knows, too, that if Andre were to look up at Cal right now, the game would be up. Andre would see right through him. There’s no way his face isn’t flushed dark with how much his skin burns warm all over, no way his eyes aren’t blown wide. Even just breathing feels like a fucking giveaway, like he’s a half-step too fast and Andre will somehow, someway, just know.
“You could,” Cal says, the words sparking on his tongue unimpeded, because he’s a fucking idiot. He feels delirious, “You’re not even trying.”
“What?” Andre groans, face nuzzling against the rough hem of Cal’s cargo shorts. Cal can feel the fucking heat of him, radiating right off the plane of his skin and up against Cal’s own, and the closeness of it feels addicting. He wants to feel that buzzing contact all across his body.
Mindless, he moves his hand until he can squeeze the sides of Andre’s neck with the pads of his thumb and fingers, feeling the rapid rabbit-hammer jerk of Andre’s pulse in his throat. He’s like a baby bird, maybe, all hollow bones and delicate where it counts most.
What he really wants, really, is to press his mouth right there: teeth sinking into the flesh of the nape of Andre’s neck. Wants to taste the stale, bittered salt of Andre’s sweat. Andre would tremble like a bathed dog.
“To- to make yourself sick,” Cal starts, “There’s ways to.”
Because, well, Andre really isn’t trying. There’s ways, Cal knows, to make yourself sick. He’s tried before. Sometimes, when the weight of food feels too much in his stomach or when he just wants to feel empty, hollowed out. It’s a good reminder that his body is just a container, just flesh, dead weight. Sometimes, well- sometimes, he’s just curious.
Andre shakes his head, right up against Cal’s knee.
“I’m not gonna-” He hums, “It wouldn’t even work. I don’t even know how.”
“I could-” Cal starts, and it’s the worst thing he’s ever done. He doesn’t even know how to finish that sentence without damning himself. The only way out is through, though, he supposes- “-Help you. It’s easy.”
There is a brief but terrible moment where Cal’s certain he’s been caught out. Maybe there’d been just a little too much forthcoming in his voice, there, just the wrong side of enthusiastic. It’s hard to gauge much of anything with how his head is spinning, all the blood seeming to rush south just at the thought of getting to touch Andre so intimately, if only for this.
But Andre just scoffs;
“Fuck off, it’s easy.”
Andre glances up then, just enough to let Cal’s hand slide off him like water. There’s a clear, pale tinge to his skin and slight glassiness to his dark eyes. His head must be swimming. He looks up at Cal with knitted eyebrows. It gets Cal’s words all tangled on his tongue.
“It is. Promise. There’s just- there’s, like, a spot in your throat. That triggers it.”
“How the fuck do you know that?”
And it’s easy to grin, then, when Andre’s watching – Cals’ mouth turns upon its own volition, flashing newly-straight teeth. Andre’s gaze wobbles down right to the curve of Cal’s lips.
When Cal pushes up, Andre follows – Cal steps back until he’s got his back pressed to the tree again. He tracks the motion in soft-dirt bootprints, this moment carved into the world under him. The smooth coolness of the bark seeps down beneath his skin with ease, a grounding point to circle back to whenever his pulse starts to ache with how hard it’s racing through his veins. His blood feels electrified.
It’s easy to lean down just enough to get his hand twisted firm in the collar of Andre’s tee-shirt and pull him up onto his knees properly. Andre topples and stumbles forward – his hands come flying out as he staggers to catch himself on Cal’s thighs. His grip is clenched tight, squeezing even through the rough denim layer of Cal’s jeans. Eventually he gets himself stable.
Seeing Andre at his knees in front of Cal is… Cal doesn’t even know. There’s no words for it. He’s dreamed about this exact tableau in a thousand interactions, folding the moment over in on itself in his head again and again until it becomes a matrix of hypotheticals. So entangled he loses sight of the original idea, the singular notion of a mouth around his dick. It’s more than that, now, it’s- it’s getting Andre beneath him, to give in and give something up, to have that power.
He’s thought about it a thousand times and jacked off to half of those: Andre on his knees in front of the couch, with Cal pressed right up to the side of the car. In the shower, in a toilet stall, in the locker rooms. Wherever Cal can picture him.
This, somehow, is the best yet.
He’s still got that dazed out look in his eyes, and even the dim light under the canopy catches the sweat on his face, makes him shimmer. His hair is all mussed up, damp right at the hairline where the wispy baby hairs have plastered to his face. Cal wants to- shit- he wants to run his hands through Andre’s hair and fuck it up good, tug on it and listen to Andre whine.
“That was easy for you, getting on your knees,” Cal teases, glancing down at Andre’s bare knees dug into the dirt. They’ll end up bruised, he thinks, “You’re a natural.”
The pink flush on Andre’s cheeks darken. He frowns.
“Shut up,” He insists, but he’s tracking the motion of Cal’s hands as Cal straightens the hem of his tee-shirt, eye-level with Andre. There’s a delay between each motion like it takes a moment for each action to process in his mind: with how snarky Andre gets, it’s staggeringly easy to forget just how fucked up Andre is right now.
Cal’s doing him a favour, here.
He can’t help himself: he drags the moment out. In slow-motion, frame-by-frame, Cal lets his fingers card right through the thick down of Andre’s hair and down past the sinew of his neck, strained from looking up at Cal. Andre’s skin is warm to the touch.
“You’ve gotta stay still,” He begins to warn as his hand curves over Andre’s jaw, thumb brushing right over the meat of Andre’s tensed cheek. A muscle jumps right under the pad of it, “Just let me do it, okay? Don’t jerk away.”
Just like he had imagined, the faint stubble bristles right under the soft skin of Cal’s palm. Tentative, Andre leans subtly into the press of Cal’s cool palm against his seething-hot skin. It’s almost cruel, Cal thinks, to ply him with such softness.
“Okay,” Andre promises. He blinks, and his spidery eyelashes brush right against the high points of his cheekbones. In the copse of trees, the moment feels… awfully cinematic, maybe, cemented in shades of hazy summer light and needlepoint sensation in Cal’s mind.
He pulls his hand forward until he’s squeezing right at the sides of Andre’s mouth: not that he really needs to, the way Andre opens up, obediently, to let Cal’s fingers slip right in. It’s a slide of dry skin to wet tongue, warm flesh, a graze of teeth where Andre doesn’t think to tuck them back. Of course he doesn’t, this isn’t-
Cal inhales sharp through his nose at the sight of Andre’s open mouth around his fingers, and just like that, the facade is up.
He jerks back like he’s been shocked. The sensation had pulsed right through him from tip to toe, twisting cherry-stem knots right into the tangle of his stomach until he could barely breathe. He feels hot all over, like his bones are burning and fevered. The skin of his back scalds. His heart is pounding like a fucking kickdrum right in the hollow of his chest, hard enough he thinks he might be able to press his fingers to his skin and feel the mechanical thrum of it.
When he looks down, Andre is staring . He’s already got spit gathering at the edges of his mouth, Jesus Christ , like some girl plucked right out of a porno. All coquettish, faux-innocence. Except, well, there’s no way Andre could have known what he was doing.
“Shit,” Andre breathes. His gaze flickers down, and then back up to Cal’s face, and back again, “You like this.”
“Shut up,” Fuck Andre, Cal might be the one about to spill his guts right now. Andre frowns.
“No. You- you like this,” Impossibly, his hands slide down just an inch until he’s bracketing Cal’s thighs right above the knee, fingers pressed in right under the hem of Cal’s cargos, “You like me.”
There’s no disgust in Andre’s voice, no question either. Just solid statement, observation. It’s damning. If he were any more sober, this moment would play out differently, Cal knows.
Cal swallows the fucking boulder in his throat, wishing it could sink him to the bottom of some ocean instead. He brings his hand back to the side of Andre’s mouth, feeling the clench of Andre’s jaw. The world here is tilting on some indeterminate axis of intent and desire that Cal cannot chart, cannot track, cannot begin to turn-around into something legible in his mind. He feels- directionless. Like being thrown to the middle of the ocean, nothing below him for miles.
“I’m sorry,” he settles for, “I’m sorry man. I can’t help myself- you know-”
Andre’s fingers dig into the meat of Cal’s thigh so hard he actually flinches. He’s got his eyebrows knitted together right and his eyes screwed up hard like he’s trying to keep himself together. He waivers.
“Shut up,” Andre bites, face tight, “Shut up, if you regret it. I don’t want to know you don’t want it. Just- just-”
Cal feels it then like a tidal surge: the moment building, building, thrumming in the air, the moment before the strike.
The rush of vomit over Cal’s hand is sudden, hot, and has him almost flinching with his thumb pressed right to the split-wet corner of Andre’s mouth. Andre’s entire body jerks with it: he arcs forward, choking, spilling down over Cal’s hands and spraying sick down to his cut-offs.
“Jesus Christ,” Cal breathes, watching the heave of Andre’s chest as Andre stammers for breath, head ducked down – it’s thoughtless, then, to push his fingers right between the strips of Andre’s teeth, sliding over Andre’s hot tongue and pressing deep into Andre’s throat.
Andre gags immediately, right around Cal’s fingers. Cal presses deeper.
Andre’s gotta know that Cal can’t help it, not with how much they’ve talked about it, just like this: getting some girl all drunk, loose and pliant and malleable. They’ve- they’ve breached that carefully drawn line more times than either of them would admit, that facade of unfeeling: Cal can’t even count the times he’s caught Andre palming his dick when they’re watching some horror movie, half softcore, or jerking off in the shower when he thinks Cal can’t hear him panting. Cal can. This isn’t- this isn’t new.
For as long as there’s been that careful line, Cal and Andre have danced right along it.
He really can’t help himself when his free hand finds the tent of his cargos, palming roughly over swollen flesh. He’s so hard it actually hurts, at first contact, even through layers of jersey and stiff cotton, enough that he makes the awful, pained sound that Andre must hear too.
He blinks up at Cal, bleary-eyed, tear-wettened eyelashes grazing right at his eyelids. With his mouth agape, stretched open around the press of Cal’s fingers up to the base knuckle, the sight salts Cal’s tongue like a storm oncoming: exhaltant, lethal.
He works his hand over himself faster as he presses his fingers deep into Andre’s mouth. Andre’s drooling hard, now, spilling over Cal’s fingers and dripping down his chin, unable to do much else but tolerate it.
“Just look so fucking good like that, Jesus, Andre, you don’t even know-“ Cal hisses, working himself over: he’s so close already. Each stroke from root to tip through his pants feels like a ripple from the spine-up. It sends electric sparks dancing across the sweat-sheen surface of his skin, hot and dangerous.
Startling in its saturation, he can picture it: the tight clench of Andre’s throat around his cockhead. Tight, wet, hot with fever: better than any girl’s cunt, better than Cal’s dry fist. Andre’s got the perfect mouth for it.
He presses just right, and Andre buckles forward. He spills hot right over Cal’s knuckles, down onto the damp earth at his knees. Andre’s fingers clamp tight around Cal’s thighs. They might bruise, Cal thinks.
The sour tang hits Cal’s nose immediately. He knows it must be a thousand times worse for Andre, rancid in his mouth, but he’s doing a good thing here, helping Andre out- he presses his fingers harder, deeper, feels Andre’s throat convulse at the sensation. It’d feel so much better around Cal’s cock, he knows, jesus.
There’s a thrill tanging the air that might be adrenaline. Maybe just bloodlust. Cal’s a hound, here, following Andre to the ends of the earth with a burning intensity. Everything hones down in that moment to simple sensation: the flutter of Andre’s pulse, sweat-slick skin. Cal has always lived like this: in excess, indulgent where it mattered. He knows what he wants and he takes it. And what he wants now is this.
“Taking me so fucking well,” Cal babbles, fully aware that Andre’s face is barely inches from where he’s rubbing himself off through his shirts. It’s close enough that he really could get his dick out, get Andre to slide over it with that tight heat of his mouth, or maybe even just- get him mouthing at Cal right through the fabric of his cargos.
It’s the thought of Andre breathing hot-wet, cheek pressed right up against Cal’s thigh, that has him tipping right over. The pleasure hits him light but fast, all-over, a flash-freeze across the surface of his skin. He comes hard in his jeans, fingers clamped so tight over himself that it aches as the pleasure seeps into aftershocks, displaced by the sting over oversensitivity.
He pulls his fingers right out of Andre’s mouth. They’re slimy with sick, burning hot, already starting to prune right at the pads from the wet heat of Andre’s throat– instead, Cal curls them right in the short hair above Andre’s ear and pulls, surging down onto his knees.
Their mouths crash together in a mess of teeth and tongue. Its unpracticed (on both ends, Cal knows, Andre’s never kissed someone before now, no way-) and awkward, two halves not quite interlocking. But when Cal’s knees dig right into the soft dirt and he presses right up to where Andre can barely keep himself upright, something clicks and they’re there . He licks into Andre’s mouth, feverish, over white-enamelled teeth and across the seam of Andre’s lips where there’s nothing but the sour tang of bile.
“Cal,” Andre murmurs right up against Cal’s mouth, “Cal, Cal, Cal-”
Andre staggers forward until they’re pressed together even closer, hips dragging right against the dip of Cal’s own thigh. It’s unmistakable, the swell of Andre’s hardened dick brushing against Cal, strained against his shorts.
His free hand finds Andre immediately. Squeezing between the tight space of their bodies, Cal loses all finesse as he grapples for Andre and curves his fingers over hard flesh.The stifled sound Andre makes then is easy to swallow down.
Cal pulls back, fingers still curved against Andre’s skull. He looks down at Andre, wide-eyed and paled out, the golden sun behind him cutting him in shadow. His lips are wet, tongue darting out to sweep across the swollen flesh.
“Fuck, Andre,” Cal hums, hand trailing down Andre’s cheekbone until he can get his thumb pressed right at the corner of Andre’s mouth, “Jesus. You’re so-”
He doesn’t even know, trails the sentence off into nothingness as Andre’s hips press forward, chasing the steady pressure of Cal’s fist. Andre surges forward again to get his mouth back on Cal’s. His nose presses hard right into Cal’s cheek with the force of it, desperate and then some.
In another moment, Andre probably wouldn’t let himself get touched like this. All tight and achey and desperate to get off. But- Andre can barely stay upright. The dizziness keeps him pliant but eager, canting forward right up against Cal’s palm until he’s just rutting mindlessly. It is- god, it’s maybe the hottest thing Cal’s ever seen.
When Andre comes, it strips the life right from his bones– Cal feels it, the way Andre shivers all the way down. His mouth quivers right up against Cal’s own, a little staccato of breath that echoes between them. It’s the best thing Cal’s ever fucking heard, better than those stifled breaths Andre makes when he’s getting worked up watching movies. He slumps hard against Cal with the entirety of his body weight, head crashing into the crook of Cal’s neck.
“Jesus christ, Andre,” Cal groans, staggering to keep himself upright. Andre’s skin is burning hot, “We gotta get you home. Shit. Your dad’s gonna kill me.”