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The alarm clock glowed 3:17 AM in dull red numbers, casting a faint hue over the clutter of Andre’s bedroom. Empty soda cans, crumpled chip bags, and loose bullets littered the floor like some kind of apocalyptic still life. Andre sat cross-legged on his bed, methodically cleaning the barrel of a handgun with an old T-shirt, his fingers moving with a quiet precision that bordered on ritual. The scent of gun oil hung thick in the air.
Cal shifted under the tangled sheets, his arm flopping lazily off the edge of the mattress to brush against the cold metal of something—another gun, probably—left carelessly on the floor. He blinked at Andre’s silhouette against the dim glow of the laptop screen. "Mm-…Andre…What time is it..?" His voice was sleep-slurred, half-dreaming.
Andre didn’t look up from the disassembled pistol in his lap. "Three-something," he muttered, twisting a small brush into the barrel. Cal moaned softly, adjusting his position. “..Whaddya doin,”
Andre exhaled through his nose, the sound barely audible over the hum of the laptop fan. "Prepping," he said, like it was obvious. The click of metal parts slotting together punctuated his words. Cal squinted at him, the haze of sleep making Andre's movements seem slower, deliberate—like watching someone underwater.
“Take a break..” Cal mumbled, rolling onto his stomach and pressing his face into Andre’s pillow. The fabric smelled like cheap shampoo and gunpowder. His fingers curled into the sheets, knuckles brushing against Andre’s thigh. “You’ve been doing that shit for hours.”
Andre's fingers stilled for a moment, the brush hovering halfway out of the barrel. He glanced down at Cal, whose face was half-buried in the pillow, his dark hair sticking up in sleep-mussed tufts. "Can't," Andre said, voice low. "Not yet." But his knee nudged gently against Cal's wrist where it rested against his leg, a quiet acknowledgment. The laptop screen flickered, casting jagged blue shadows across the wall where Andre had tacked up a hand-drawn calendar—May 1st circled in red marker, the days counted down in uneven tallies.
Cal exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound muffled by the pillow. He didn’t lift his head, but his fingers flexed against Andre’s thigh, pressing just slightly harder. “You’re gonna fucking burn out before we even get there,” he muttered.
Andre's lips twitched, something almost like a smile, before he returned to methodically reassembling the pistol. The slide clicked into place with a finality that made Cal's shoulders tense beneath the sheets. "Burn out?" Andre echoed, thumb running along the grip. "Nah. Just getting started." He tilted the gun toward the dim light, inspecting the freshly oiled mechanism.
Cal groaned, finally lifting his head from the pillow to squint at the gun innow in Andre’s hands. “Fuckin’ psycho,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it—just exhaustion and something fond buried under the grumble. He dragged himself upright, scrubbing a hand over his face, the other still resting on Andre’s leg like an anchor. The room swayed slightly as sleep clung to him, stubborn.
Andre smirked, sliding the magazine into the pistol with a soft *click*. "Come on, baby, you’re a psycho too.”
Cal’s fingers dug into the meat of Andre’s thigh, his grip tightening just enough to make Andre’s smirk falter. “Don’t call me that,” he grumbled, but his voice lacked conviction—more habit than actual protest.
The laptop screen flickered again, casting Andre’s face in jagged blue light as he set the reassembled gun on the nightstand. Cal watched him, the sleepiness in his eyes giving way to something sharper, something restless. Andre reached for another pistol from the duffel bag at the foot of the bed—a smaller one, sleek and compact—but Cal’s hand slid up his thigh, fingers pressing into the fabric of his sweatpants. “Hey,” Cal said, voice rough. “Seriously. Stop for a minute.”
Andre's fingers paused on the pistol's grip, his breath hitching just slightly at the pressure of Cal's hand moving higher. He didn't pull away, but his shoulders tensed, the muscles in his forearm tightening beneath the skin. "I *am* stopping," he lied, thumb tracing the safety switch absently. The laptop screen dimmed, plunging the room into near-darkness save for the faint red glow of the alarm clock—3:24 AM now, the minutes slipping by unnoticed.
Andre’s pulse jumped under Cal’s fingertips where they pressed against the inside of his thigh, a quick rabbit-thump betraying the steady rhythm of his breathing. Cal exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, like he was counting the seconds between the beats. The gun stayed forgotten in Andre’s lap, his fingers slack around the grip.
“Andre, come on.” Cal mumbled, gently pulling his leg.
Andre’s breath hitched again, sharper this time, as Cal’s fingers curled insistently around his thigh. The gun slipped from his grip entirely, thudding softly against the mattress before rolling onto the floor with a dull clatter. Neither of them moved to pick it up. The laptop fan whirred louder in the sudden quiet, filling the space between them with white noise.
Andre turned his head slowly, the red glow from the clock cutting shadows across his cheekbones. His throat worked as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing against the taut skin. "You’re gonna make me fuck this up," he muttered, but his voice was rough, uneven—like he’d been running.
Cal’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more like a challenge, lazy and knowing. His fingers didn’t stop their slow crawl up Andre’s thigh, nails scraping lightly over the thin fabric of his sweatpants. “Already fucked it up,” he murmured, nodding toward the gun on the floor. “Might as well lean into it.”
Andre exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching where they hovered above the fallen gun. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, his hand found Cal’s wrist, gripping just tight enough to stall its progress up his thigh—not pushing him away, just pausing him. “You’re such a fucking distraction,” he muttered, but the words lacked heat, the edge worn down by something unspoken.
Cal grinned, slow and lazy, his thumb brushing the crease of Andre’s thigh where the fabric bunched. "Yeah? Then why’re you still looking at me like that?" His voice was low, rough with sleep, but there was a lightness underneath—something teasing, something alive. The gun on the floor seemed irrelevant now, just another piece of clutter in the mess of their shared space.
Andre's grip on Cal’s wrist loosened, his fingers sliding down to tangle with Cal’s instead. The calluses on his palms—from hours spent handling gun parts, from the friction of rope and wire—were rough against Cal’s knuckles. He didn’t answer, just held Cal’s gaze in the half-light, his pupils wide and dark, swallowing the red glow from the clock. The laptop screen flickered once more, then went entirely black, leaving them in near-darkness.
Cal’s grin widened, his teeth catching the faint light as he leaned in, pressing his forehead against Andre’s shoulder. “You’re such a fucking liar,” he murmured, breath warm against the fabric of Andre’s shirt. His free hand lifted, fingers brushing the side of Andre’s neck, tracing the jump of his pulse there. “You love it when I distract you.”
Andre's breath stuttered when Cal’s fingers traced his pulse point, the touch light but deliberate. He didn’t pull away, just let out a slow exhale, his shoulders sagging slightly under the weight of Cal’s proximity. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper, like the word had been dragged out of him. “Maybe I do.”