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The Tres Leches cake, Andrew thinks to himself, was a mistake. The sun hangs directly above him—resplendent, unnecessarily bright, and completely unobstructed by any clouds at all—and Andrew has never felt so personally victimized by a celestial body in his entire life. He can feel the factor 70 he’d slathered on before leaving Fox Tower begin to lose traction on his epidermis and migrate south down his face as he slams the boot of his car and picks up his bag. The cake, however, could wear no other protection other than the tinfoil wrapping Andrew had hastily provided it before placing it in his bag. He cradled the entire thing like a baby, feeling vaguely annoyed at South Carolina for being subtropical instead of being something more sensible, like Tundra.
Keeping in the shade by heading slightly off the track, Andrew curses whatever geological incident has been responsible for “The Knob” and checks his watch. He’s late. Andrew hates nothing more than being late to a picnic. It’s terrible. Awful. Execrable. Anathema to him.
But.
It is just too hot.
By the time Andrew manages to pull himself up to the hill’s summit, he feels wet in a disgustingly diffuse way and his t-shirt is plastered to his skin. Not because he’s found the fifteen minute walk particularly strenuous—He’s far too fit for that—but the summer heat has a way of making just existing a chore.
The Knob, as the hillock is called by the students of Palmetto State University, is a favourite place for star-gazing, drinking, and most importantly, knob polishing and other activities that just so happen to not be particularly legal on public property. There’s an oak in the middle, with a plaque beneath it, in memory of some now defunct campus official no one gives a damn about. A perfect place for a picnic. If it were about twenty degrees cooler, and the tree’s shade did more than slow sweat production down from eccrine dysfunction to moist and sticky.
Neil has already arrived, and is sitting between the roots of the tree with his bag next to him, his sleeves rolled up almost to his shoulders. His hair is damp and the scars on his arms glisten under a layer of sweat. He looks up when he hears Andrew’s footsteps and sticks his tongue out. Only Neil would be insane enough to run on a day like this.
Andrew shoves the cake towards his outstretched arms and sets about laying out the fox-stamped picnic blanket Renee had gotten him last Christmas at Abby’s.
It isn’t really a very nutritious picnic—more like a sweet treat to end the term with. It consists only of Andrew’s experimental cake, which is hopefully still maintaining it’s original shape after the climb, strawberries for decorating it, and a bottle of ginger ale Kevin had left in the fridge.
Neil goes to sprawl on the blanket, and it’s only Andrew’s lightning fast reflexes that stop him from flattening everything. Andrew watches as Neil takes a strawberry by its calyx and bites in to it, his eyes fluttering closed at the burst of cool sweetness in his mouth. He pulls the strawberry away to chew, and Andrew can’t help but stare at the juice on Neil’s mouth, at the pink droplet that escapes from the corner of his lips and slides down his chin. He tells himself it's just the heat as he watches the bob of Neil’s throat when he swallows. When Neil finishes the strawberry—groaning as he licks the juice off his fingers in a way that definitely doesn’t make Andrew’s blood flow in new directions—he tells himself that the tightening in his stomach is due to his march up the hill. Obviously.
Neil reaches for another strawberry, and Andrew just manages to shake himself out of his daze in time to smack his hand away before Neil gorges himself on fruit and leaves the cake ugly and sad and topped only with semi-flaccid whipped cream.
The cake is too sweet, Andrew thinks when he takes his first bite out of the slice Neil cuts him. It’s saccharine and disgustingly moist, just like the air around them. The crumb forms a stodgy wad in his mouth and now he feels sticky outside and inside too. Disgusting. He looks up at Neil, knowing all too well that a face of absolute disgust awaits him.
Neil doesn’t look disgusted.
Neil has whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.
Neil smiles at him, and Andrew watches the movement of Neil’s throat as he swallows his mouthful.
Andrew can’t breathe.
He swallows hard—reflexively—and the cake in his mouth slides down his throat, leaving a milky film on his tongue. Andrew would much rather something else on his tongue, as he watches Neil finish his cake and immediately cut another slice for himself. Andrew resigns himself to his cruel fate and sits back under the shade the tree casts to watch as Neil demolishes the glucose monstrosity he’s concocted. He adjusts his trousers, which all of a sudden feel tighter than before.
He closes his eyes against the rays of sun that make it past the branches, unmoving against the windless sky. He can feel tension ebbing slightly. They have a month to relax and breathe before classes start again. He might even get Neil to take a weekend off training. The month of August stretches ahead of him in its infinite potential. Perhaps they’ll make their way to the coast and rent a beach house for a week, and spend time walking along the coast, eating ice-creams on the beach and fucking on hidden coves. Maybe he’d be able to take a page out of Neil’s book and throw his phone in to the ocean and forget the rest of the world existed, just for a bit. Or maybe—just maybe—they’d drop college and find a job somewhere and try living like that for a year, and earn some money on their own. Clean money, with no blood or mafia involved.
Neil sighs contentedly and sets his plate down too before rolling over and leaning his head on Andrew’s lap, gazing up at him through his lashes.
“I’m going to think of that cake when I go to sleep tonight.” Andrew doesn’t want him to thinking of cakes tonight.
He still has cream on his mouth and Andrew is beginning to get concerned. He is, unspeakably, inhumanly, uncomfortably, horny. And Neil is—as usual—oblivious, misinterpreting Andrew’s silence for something quite different.
He places a hand on Andrew’s stomach, his touch light enough to tickle Andrew through the layer of fabric between them. “Kevin’s going to be fine with Katelyn and Aaron.” He smirks slily at that, looking up at Andrew through suddenly lowered lashes “at least when he tells you he can’t talk because he’s all tied up you’ll know he’s enjoying it.”
He can practically smell the sweetness on Neil’s breath, and Andrew can’t help himself.
His lips close the distance between them and all of a sudden Andrew has twisted them around so that Neil’s back is pressed up against the oak, the rough bark digging in to his skin as Andrew deepens the kiss into something almost as hot and wet as the weather. It’s all Neil can do to grab on to Andrew’s shoulders in order to not loose his balance and slide sideways into one of the hollows carved out by the tree’s roots, and he almost falls anyway when Andrew pushes a knee between his legs and slides his body against Neil’s, taking his chin with one hand and helping his mouth open further.
Andrew’s mind is a void. No thoughts, head empty. Why think, when he can explore Neil on the inside, feel the wet heat of his breath and taste the sweetness of the condensed milk he’d soaked the sponge with on his tongue? Fingers comb their way across his scalp before fisting the hair at the nape of his neck, making him gasp at pain of it. The body beneath him shifts and Neil breaks away from him.
“Can I get a please before you treat me like a common whore? I was gonna say yes, but still.” Neil levers himself out from under the cage of Andrew’s body and scoots back on to the relative safety of the blanket. “If you’ve ruined my jorts by grinding me against the tree you have to come practice with me every morning for a week.”
“Your jorts are fine,” replies Andrew, glancing down. “I’m looking at them right now and they’re fine.”
Neil quirkes an eyebrow at Andrew. "You aren’t looking at my jorts, Andrew.”
Andrew huffs and flicks Neil on the forehead, causing him to yelp and rub the red spot left behind by Andrew's fingernail. "When we get home I'm going to eat you out on the kitchen table".
They gather their things embarrassingly quickly, the blanket a crumpled heap at the bottom of the bag, with two cream covered plates slung on top. It’ll have to go in the wash later.
Andrew floors it as soon as Neil closes the car’s door, making it back to the parking lot at Fox Tower in record time. The AC has worked magic and he’s feeling distinctly more in control of himself. He cuts the engine and there’s a moment of silence as they both look up at what’s been their home for the last few years.
And then—without warning—Neil reaches over the gearstick and squeezes his thigh, and Andrew’s dick twitches in his trousers. Neil’s fast at this. He has practice, and by the time Andrew’s twisted in his seat to drag Neil closer and slide his teeth over the velvety skin of his neck, Neil’s getting dangerously close to massaging his cockhead through his trousers.
“It’s not fair” gasps Andrew “that you always get to be the one committing gross acts of public indecency at my expense”. He breaks off at that point with an open mouthed groan against Neil’s neck as Neil drags his fingernails down the underside of his leg.
“Well you know what? I’m not stopping you. Go on.” And Neil spreads his legs open. Andrew bites him—hard—sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of his trapezius and snaking a hand down between Neil’s legs. Neil’s body temperature runs degrees under the average, but Andrew’s hand feels hot from it’s place above Neil’s cunt. It feels positively melting as he grinds the heel of his palm against Neil’s trousers in time to Neil’s own squeezes as the redhead resumes his favourite method of torture, and Andrew feels his underwear begin to get moist with his own precum as he licks his way up Neil’s jaw.
Enough.
Andrew pulls away and yanks Neil’s hand from where it’s making a beeline to his cock.
“Get. Out.” He spits the words out as if they were bits of grizzle, and Neil undoes his seatbelt and winks at him.
Andrew virtually hurls Neil onto the kitchen countertop when they get in, displacing papers, the salt and pepper, an open tin of seasoning (which scatters everywhere), and an errant plumb. Clothes start getting hurled at random, and havoc is wreaked upon the once pristine room.
Neil bangs his head against the cabinets and they move to the kitchen table, which is just slightly to high for Andrew to grind against Neil comfortably. In a stroke of genius, Andrew kneels on one of the chairs, and they find that it gives him the perfect vantage point to look at the view. The view being Neil, from the bottom up, shirtless and spreadeagled on the table. Andrew knows the feeling of the scars that mar the body in front of him, from the rugged texture of the ones on his abdomen to the smooth lines just beneath his chest.
The jorts come off, along with the disgusting orange boxers beneath. And just as Andrew goes to fulfil his promise with the supreme inevitability he’s known for, Neil squeaks and goes in to bridge position.
“The fuck.” Says Andrew, almost pissed but not quite, because Neil’s raised his pussy right up and into Andrew’s face, and the wet lips are practically within licking distance.
“Get me off this table right now Andrew there is chilly powder and pepper all over the surface and I’m not fucking seasoning my cunt with it.”
“I think,” Andrew murmurs, as he takes Neil’s right leg and puts it over his shoulder, “that you’re exactly where I want you.”
He doesn’t let Neil complain again before he leans down and begins to lick his way up Neil’s leg, cleaning away the red powder that has stuck to its underside, and dragging his teeth over his inner thigh as he gets closer to what he really wants. Neil gasps, his breathing fast and heavy, just as much from the way he can feel Andrew’s breath between his legs as from the strain of being contorted above a powdery mess of fiery doom. He uses his knee to hit Andrew on the head, squarely.
“If you so much as breathe on me without brushing your teeth.”
Andrew stops immediately. He hadn’t really thought about the potential consequences of reverse-felching spices over his boyfriend’s clit, but upon reflexion it probably wouldn’t end well.
“Then wait for me.”
Andrew stands, levering his arms under Neil and pulling him off the table and carrying him to their room, promptly dropping him on Kevin’s bed. What Kevin doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Andrew brushes his teeth faster than usual. He’s been leaking into his underwear since he’d snogged Neil against the tree and humping him in the kitchen has just made him even more frustrated. He spits into the sink and drinks a handful of water and is just opening the cabinet when he hears a moan. He snatches a condom out of one of the already open boxes—he doesn’t know if they’ll have the energy to bother with clean-up once he’s finished—and walks back into their room. Neil’s lying on the bed, legs spread, index and middle finger of one hand working their way around his clit, holding one of their dildos in his other hand. Andrew huffs and throws the condom at his head. The purple square bounces off his forehead.
“I told you to wait.”
Neil looks up at him, eyes dark under his lashes. “I got bored of you deepthroating your toothbrush.” He inspects the foil square that’s fallen on his chest. “Ribbed for my pleasure.”
Andrew stalks towards the bed and snatches the dildo from Neil’s hand. “I’m confiscating this,” he picks up the harness that Neil’s somehow managed to lie on, “and this. And I’m not going to use either of them—” he shoves Neil down on to the bed and pries his legs apart with a knee “until you beg.”
Something hits the bedroom door like a battering ram.
“Andrew Minyard I’ve called you five times already are you ever going to get better at using that damn phone of yours!” Andrew blinks himself awake, his eyes gummy from sleep. Allison Reynolds is standing in the doorway wearing her “I hate men No.63” face and the sun is streaming in through the windows. Most heartbreakingly of all, Andrew isn’t inside Neil.
He’s slept in.
Again.