Work Text:
Addison kept sighing into the receiver—soft, deliberate, the kind of sound meant to make him feel guilty.
All night at the graduation dinner they had been the picture of a perfect couple. Smiling for every camera flash. Holding hands under the stiff white tablecloth. Laughing at the exact right moments in those matching teal gowns that scratched at the collar and never quite fit right.
Somewhere on his mother’s camera was a photo of the two of them locked in a side hug, Eric’s arm around Addison’s waist like it had always belonged there. He had played the part flawlessly.
“Let me cut that for you.”
“Hey, you still okay?”
“Wanna try my steak?”
The words had come easy when there were eyes on them. Now, alone on the phone in the half-dark of his bedroom, the performance felt pointless. Hollow. The only light came from the blue glow of the computer monitor and the small bedside lamp that cast long shadows across the unmade bed. The house was quiet except for the distant hum of the refrigerator downstairs and the noises of night outside his window.
Eric’s fingers moved across the keyboard while Addison’s voice continued in his ear.
rebdomine: gawwwwdd think As breaking up with me on the phone now
The reply appeared almost instantly.
wurmhole: huh wonder why that could b….
wurmhole: sux tho bc…..she’s the cover up lolz :P
“Eric, it’s like I’m talking to myself,” Addison said, voice tight. He could hear the faint tremor in it, the way she was trying not to cry. “I want to know if you want this or if I’m wasting my time. You’re so guarded I can’t get a read on you. This isn’t my Eric. Everyone gets the version I want. I get that you’re going through stuff—with the college applications and your dad pressuring you—but I would think… I would hope… that you’d feel more comfortable with me. That you’d be open.”
Eric stared at the screen, the cursor blinking.
rebdomine: i feel mostly relieved. can’t keep this act up. not fair to A either. she’s upset. can tell.
He cleared his throat. The sound felt too loud in the quiet room.
“I thought we had fun today,” he said. The words came out flat. “I’m sorry. I guess we’re not on the same page. I’ve been nothing but true and honest.”
He nearly rolled his eyes at his own bullshit.
Addison called him on it immediately.
“You and I both know that’s not true. Just forget it. I tried. I did. I'll miss your parents and brother. Have a nice life, Eric. See you never.”
Click.
The dial tone buzzed for a second before he hung up. He sat there waiting for the guilt, the sadness, the something that was supposed to come after a breakup. Instead there was only a wide, clean stretch of relief.
No more posing for photos. No more careful half-kisses that never lasted long enough to feel real. No more shopping trips or remembered dates or pretending his stomach didn’t twist every time she reached for his hand.
Just him.
And Dylan.
The computer chirped again.
wurmhole: got your new phone right? wierd you haven’t called me… don’t leave me hanging call me lolz
wurmhole: xxx-xxx-xxxx
Eric stared at the number for a second. Tossing his StarTAC back and forth in his hand. After a while, he flipped it open punching the digits in carefully, the buttons clicking softly under his thumb.
Dylan picked up on the first ring.
“How’s freedom?” His voice was half-drowned by the sound of rustling paper and the sharp squeak of sneakers on tile, like he was moving fast through a bathroom or a kitchen.
Eric scowled. “No way you told me to fucking call you just so you could put noise pollution in my goddamn ear. What are you doing?"
Dylan let out a low, easy sound of pure amusement that carried clearly through the phone, but he still didn’t answer the question.
“What are you doing?” Eric tried again.
Dylan hummed, the sound close even through the speaker. “Uh, Coming over. Obviously."
Eric’s eyebrows knitted together. He sat up straighter on the bed, the mattress springs creaking.
“Like hell you are.”
But the line had already gone dead.
Eric lowered the phone and stared at it. Outside his window the May night was still and cool.
He set the phone down, heart kicking harder against his ribs, and waited.
Fifteen minutes later Dylan’s tall frame came cutting through the dark, a long shadow moving fast across the side yard. Streetlight caught the edge of his jacket for half a second before he disappeared into the deeper blackness beneath the eaves.
Eric was already at the window, heart rattling against his ribs. He hurried to shove it open, half-afraid Dylan would slam straight into the glass if he didn’t.
The old frame stuck hard, swollen from the spring humidity. Eric braced his palm against the top rail and pushed. For a moment nothing happened—just the strained creak of wood and the frantic thud of his own pulse in his ears. Then it gave with a low, protesting groan that seemed far too loud in the sleeping house. Both of them froze.
Air rushed into the room in a single soft wave, carrying the wet-earth smell of damp grass.
Dylan climbed in carefully—long legs first, then the rest of him—and the moment his feet touched the floor Eric froze.
Dylan was in nice clothes. Actual nice clothes. Dark jeans that weren’t ripped at the knees, a black button-up that looked like it had seen an iron, and a fitted jacket that actually followed the line of his shoulders instead of hanging off them. His hair was even somewhat tamed into a low ponytail, the usual mess of curls forced into temporary submission.
Eric’s whisper came out sharp and incredulous. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
Dylan grinned, already toeing off his sneakers so they wouldn’t scuff the floor. God knew how much Kathy loathed dirty floors. Least he could do. “Clothes.”
“You look like you’re going to church. Or a funeral. Or—Jesus, DK, are you trying to get us caught?”
“Shh.” Dylan stepped closer, still smiling, voice barely above a breath. “It’s a date.”
Eric stared at him. “A date?” He leaned against his desk.
“Yeah. Real fucking one too. Dammit. Sneak out with me. Not just to some crappy place. Somewhere we spend more than 30 minutes.”
Eric opened his mouth, scoffed, then whisper-yelled again, the words tight with disbelief. “You’re insane. My parents are right down the hall. You show up looking like that and—”
Dylan cut him off with a quiet, almost lazy, “Reb. Don’t be a little pussy.”
That did it. Eric pushed off the edge of the desk hard enough to make the chair roll backward an inch and started shoving his feet into the first pair of shoes he could find—scuffed black high-tops, still half-untied from earlier. Dylan laughed under his breath, the sound soft and warm in the dark room.
Eric glanced up, still wrestling with a knotted flannel. “Should I also be dressed like they’re about to lower Meemaw into the ground?”
Dylan snorted, then immediately clapped a hand over his mouth. Both of their eyes snapped toward the closed bedroom door.
The hallway beyond it stayed silent—no creak of floorboards, no cough, no shift of weight. After a long second Dylan dropped his hand, still grinning.
“Whatever you think would be nice,” he whispered. “Maybe try not digging through the dirty-clothes hamper.”
Eric huffed, yanking the flannel tight. “Haven’t had time to do laundry.”
Dylan’s gaze drifted past him to the computer monitor. The screen was still on, the bright DOOM logo glaring in the otherwise dark room, a half-finished game paused mid-demonic slaughter. His mouth twitched.
Eric caught the look and pointed a warning finger. “Don’t. I just got on. Before that. No time. Trust me. ”
Dylan failed to hold in his laughter, then held both hands up in mock surrender. The glow from the monitor painted the side of his face pale blue, catching on the clean line of the button-up collar and making the whole outfit look even more ridiculous—and somehow perfect—against the familiar mess of Eric’s room.
Eric finished tying his shoes and straightened, heart still thudding too hard against his ribs. The house felt heavier than usual, every familiar shadow suddenly capable of movement. But Dylan was already turning back toward the open window, one eyebrow raised in silent question.
Eric grabbed his phone off the nightstand, shoved it into his pocket along with a couple of folded twenties, and followed.
Two blocks later the dark shape of a truck loomed under a low-hanging tree. A Bronco—big, boxy, older model, the kind that sat high off the ground.
Eric slowed, eyes automatically searching the street for Dylan’s usual ride. Nothing.
“Get in,” Dylan said, already moving toward the driver’s side.
Eric stopped completely. For a second the only explanation that made sense was the one they’d joked about a hundred times.
“Look, I’m all for taking some dumb shit’s car,” he whispered, “but we have to pl—”
The sharp click of the power locks cut him off. Dylan pulled the door open like he owned it.
Eric raised an eyebrow, still not moving. “Can you even drive this thing? Where’s your car? Where are we going?”
“It’s Byron’s. I, uh… borrowed it.” Dylan’s voice was low but amused. “Woulda stop asking so many freaking questions and get in. Of course I can drive it—some of us aren’t five-foot-one. Need help climbing up, Rebbie?”
“Genuinely fuck off.”
Eric grabbed the handle and hauled himself into the passenger seat. The interior smelled like mint, some cheap floral air freshener, and the ghost of someone’s cologne that wasn’t Dylan’s. His sneakers scraped against a floor mat that had seen better days. He adjusted himself, groaning as he tried to get comfortable in the seat.
“Giant fucking car,” he muttered, pulling the door shut as quietly as he could. “Are we moving shit or what? We’re gonna have to stop for gas every three minutes. This thing’s a goddamn gas guzzler.”
Dylan only shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. He turned the key; the engine rumbled awake, low and throaty. He didn’t touch the headlights. They rolled forward in the dark, tires whispering over the asphalt, until the last familiar porch light of the neighborhood disappeared behind them. Only then did the beams flick on, cutting through the quiet night.
Eric kept glancing over. The dashboard glow painted Dylan’s profile in soft green as he studied him—the clean line of the button-up collar, the way the jacket sat properly on his shoulders, the faint smell of whatever soap he’d actually bothered to use tonight. Eric couldn’t help but be fascinated.
“You seriously dressed up for this,” Eric said. “And you’ve got this U-Haul of a car. I have so many questions. Question one. Hey this should be easy. Where the fuck are we going?”
Dylan’s hand left the wheel and found Eric’s thigh, palm warm and casual through the denim. “Hey Reb? Can you just go with the flow for once? First real date. Figured I should look the part.”
Eric snorted, but he didn’t push the hand away. “Christ. Yeah, well, just make sure you put whoever’s shirt back when you get home. Because that sure as shit ain’t yours.”
Dylan laughed with actual volume, bright and unrestrained. Because it was funny, but mostly because fuck, finally he could be loud with Eric again. The sound filled the cab and spilled out the cracked windows into the empty road.
“It’s my shirt from prom,” he said, still grinning. “You don’t recognize it?”
Eric turned his face toward the dark glass. “Tried not to look at you and your little date.”
“Someone was jealous.”
Eric didn’t answer right away. The tires hummed under them. Cool night air slipped through the window and carried the scent of cut grass and distant rain. After a moment he looked back over.
Dylan’s voice had gone quieter, softer around the edges. “I was too. Thought about sweeping you away. You know… that bathroom on the second floor. Barricading the door and going crazy.”
Eric let his eyes close for a second, the image blooming easy and vivid: the muffled thump of music through the walls, Dylan’s back against the locked door, the two of them away from everyone.
“What excuse would you have used?” he asked. “To get us away and shit.”
Dylan’s fingers tapped a loose rhythm on the steering wheel. “I’d say I had to take a call. Give you a look. You’re smart. So, you’d know. Then you’d pull that kicked-puppy face of yours and go, ‘Gotta check something,’ or whatever clever Reb-lie you came up with.”
Eric felt the corner of his mouth lift. “You think I’m a good liar?”
Dylan glanced over, eyes catching the dash light, expression open and a little fond.
“The best.”
Eric glanced at the dash: 10:45. It felt much later than that. As if the night had already stretched past any reasonable hour.
Dylan turned into the nearly deserted Safeway parking lot. The big fluorescent sign hummed overhead, washing everything in flat white light. A couple of employee cars sat near the back, but otherwise the place looked abandoned.
Eric stared at the automatic doors, then at Dylan’s ridiculous nice clothes, then back at the store.
“This hardly counts as a date, you know. You’re severely overdressed.”
Dylan rolled his eyes and killed the engine. “This is not the date.”
“Oh, mommy give you some errands?”
“Get out of the fucking car.”
“Shit feels like a hostage situation,” Eric muttered, but he shoved the door open anyway. It shut with a solid thunk of his shoulder. The night air felt cooler out here, carrying the faint smell of cardboard and wet pavement from the loading dock around the side.
Inside, the store was too bright for how dead it was. Overhead fluorescents buzzed like angry insects.
A lone cashier at the far end tracked them the second the automatic doors hissed open, eyes flat and uninterested, no greeting, no nod.
Somewhere in the back a shopping cart wheel squeaked in slow, endless circles. The air smelled of industrial floor cleaner and the sweet rot of overripe bananas. Soft, forgettable music drifted from hidden speakers. It was some horrid soft-rock ballad that made the whole place feel even more wrong at this hour, like they’d stepped into a set that was only supposed to exist in daylight.
Dylan drifted down the snack aisle softly beatboxing and humming.
Eric followed a half-step behind, still half-convinced this was an elaborate joke, or worse—that Dylan genuinely had no plan and was just dragging him along for whatever bullshit struck him next.
The linoleum was sticky under Eric’s sneakers. He grabbed a handful of Slim Jims, a cold Dr Pepper that immediately left wet rings on his fingers, and a family size bag of Doritos, tossing them into the small red handbasket swinging from Dylan’s wrist.
He’d finally stopped asking questions. Going with the flow, just like Dylan had asked.
Then Dylan disappeared down the next aisle and reappeared holding a small, discreet bottle of lube.
Eric’s face went flush immediately. His eyes bugged.
“Oh, you’re forward as hell,” he mumbled, snatching the bottle and shoving it under the snacks like that would somehow make it invisible at checkout.
Dylan’s mouth curved. “I’m planning. Thought you liked that?”
Eric held a hand up between them, palm out, ignoring him completely.
He scanned the empty lanes, the distant electronic beep of the register, the old woman slowly pushing a cart near the frozen section. Nobody from school. Nobody who would look twice. Still, his shoulders stayed locked tight, the back of his neck prickling under the harsh lights.
They checked out without a word.
The cashier never glanced up from the conveyor belt. When the total flashed, Eric reached for his wallet, but Dylan shook his head and pulled out his own. He fumbled with the bills. He stood there counting twice, nearly dropping a crumpled five. All while Eric stood there feeling strangely exposed, the plastic bag already crinkling in his hand, the cold can of soda starting to sweat through the thin plastic onto his jeans.
Dylan finally got the money sorted, took the change and the bag, walking them back out into the cool dark parking lot. The Bronco waited under the single streetlight like a getaway car.
“Let's roll,” Dylan said as he unlocked the doors, the plastic bag swinging from his wrist.
The night was stretching out in front of them, still full of questions Eric was no longer asking.
They pulled into the Starlight Drive-In only a few minutes later.
The old neon sign buzzed overhead, the letter H flickering in and out.
Eric raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? Oh, for fuck’s sake. Yeah, I was right. Overdressed. Who wears a button-up to the damn movies?”
Dylan shrugged, already pulling into the line. “Someone who wants to look like they give a fuck. Besides, this is a perfect date. Nobody our age comes here. It’s all old people.”
He wasn’t wrong. The handful of cars scattered across the gravel were mostly sedans and station wagons. Gray heads visible through windshields. The big screen was already lit up, black-and-white, the opening credits of Casablanca rolling in that soft, flickering way only real film still did.
Dylan paid the old man in the booth with cash, rolled the Bronco into a spot near the back, and cut the engine. The speaker box hung on the window, crackling faintly. Despite that, Eric sank lower in the seat out of habit.
For a while they just watched. Eric had always talked shit about old movies, but something about the rain-slicked streets and Bogart’s tired eyes pulled him in. The whole thing felt strangely familiar—two people who weren’t supposed to want each other, stealing time in a place that didn’t care. He found himself leaning forward a little, elbows on his knees.
Dylan noticed Eric’s clear interest, but he didn’t comment.
He reached into the plastic bag first, the crinkle loud in the quiet cab, and pulled out the bag of Doritos.
The sharp scent of artificial cheese filled the space between them as he tore it open. Eric followed a second later, fishing out the cold can of Dr Pepper. He braced it against his mouth and cracked the tab with his teeth a quick, practiced bite-and-pull that left a faint metallic taste on his lip.
Dylan shook his head, already amused. “Barbaric. You know you have thumbs, right?”
Eric just snickered, the sound low in his chest, and reached for a Slim Jim next. He tore the plastic wrapper open the same way, with his teeth, spitting the plastic through the cracked windows. He bit off a piece and chewed, eyes still on the black-and-white figures on the big screen.
“Efficient,” he muttered around the mouthful. “Unlike some people who take forever just to open a bag of chips.”
Dylan flicked a Dorito at him in retaliation. It bounced off Eric’s shoulder and landed somewhere near the gear shift. “I’m civilized. One of us has to be.”
“Civilized...you? Yeah. Alright,” Eric shot back, but there was no real heat in it. He took a long swig of the Dr Pepper; the carbonation burned pleasantly down his throat, sweet and sharp.
They ate in easy silence for a while after that the crunch of chips, the occasional rustle of plastic, the distant dialogue from the speaker box.
Halfway through the bag of Doritos, Dylan’s hand slid across the console.
His fingers found Eric’s and loosely laced through them, resting on the worn upholstery between them. His skin was warm, a little dusty from the chip dust. No one was looking. No one cared.
Eric didn’t pull away. He just tightened his grip slightly, thumb brushing once over Dylan’s knuckle, and kept watching the screen like nothing had changed at all.
On screen, Ingrid Bergman was saying something soft and aching about Paris. Then Dylan spoke, voice low enough that it barely carried over the speaker box hanging on the window.
“So… what are we doing?”
Eric kept his eyes on the screen. “Watching a movie, apparently.”
“You know what I mean.”
Eric’s thumb brushed once over Dylan’s knuckle, slow. “Yeah.”
Dylan shifted in his seat, angling toward him a little. There was a small creak as he adjusted. “I don’t want this summer to be just… sneaking into your room for twenty minutes and then bolting before someone checks the hallway. I’m sick of it.”
“Me too.”
“So what do we want?” Dylan asked. “From each other. From this.”
Eric was quiet for a long moment. On the screen Bogart lit a cigarette like it was the only thing keeping him alive. The tip glowed white, then faded. Cool night air slipped through the cracked windows, carrying the faint smell of popcorn from the concession stand and the sharper scent of rain that still hadn’t fallen.
“I want… more of this,” Eric said finally. His voice stayed low, rough around the edges. “Nights that aren’t just us shushing each other and leaping through windows. I want to be able to look at you without calculating who’s about to walk in. Sneaking out still has its risks, but… later. I just want more uninterrupted time with you. I need to be around you. When I am, shit feels fucking possible. Like this world isn’t a total goddamn wash. You brighten my days or whatever the fuck. I’m not good with words. You know that.” He let out a short breath. “I don’t know what that makes us. ‘Boyfriends’ feels like a word other people get to use.”
Dylan’s fingers tightened slightly around his. “We can use it. If you want.”
Eric glanced sideways. Dylan was watching him instead of the movie, face half-lit by the flickering screen—soft and serious in that way he only ever got when it was just the two of them.
“Yeah,” Eric said. The word came out quieter than he meant. “Okay. Boyfriends...”
It felt strange and good in his mouth at the same time.
Dylan’s smile was small but reached his eyes. “Okay.”
They sat with that for a full minute. Casablanca kept unfolding in black and white in the background.
“Summer’s gonna be harder,” Eric said eventually. “My dad’s already talking about more hours. As in a second job. My mom too. And Kevin’s home most nights.”
“Phones help.” Dylan nodded towards Eric's phone sitting in the cup holder. “You’ve got one now. I’ve got mine. We can actually plan instead of just hoping. Late shifts. Days your parents are both out. My place when my mom’s at work. We figure it out week by week.”
Eric huffed a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. “Listen to you. All strategic.”
“Someone has to be. You’re the one who claims to like planning, despite never doing it.”
Eric squeezed his hand, then turned fully toward him on the seat.
He tilted his head down but kept his eyes cast upward, looking at Dylan through his lashes. That same look that had started more than one dangerous night in his bedroom.
“What?” Dylan asked, a little stupidly, even though he already knew exactly what that look meant. Eric rolled his eyes leaning in, moving the chips out the way.
The kiss started slow. Careful. Then Dylan made a low, hungry sound in his throat and deepened it, tongue sliding hot against Eric’s, hand coming up to grip the side of his neck with sudden urgency. The speaker box kept murmuring about Paris, but the words dissolved under the wet sound of their mouths.
“Wait,” Dylan panted against his lips, already breathless. “Back. Let’s go in the back.”
Eric nodded, scrambling after him. Dylan’s long limbs folded awkwardly over the console onto the bench seat; the Bronco rocked as they tumbled into the wider space behind. The fabric was cool against Eric’s shoulders when he landed.
“What about the actual back?” Eric said, panting, debating whether he should take his shirt off.
“No. Can’t. Would be ideal, but Byron’s shit is in the fucking way. Like, who keeps half the crap he does in their car?”
Before Dylan could launch into his usual “my older brother is so annoying” rant, Eric kissed him harder, already half-hard just from the taste of him and the fact that they finally had time.
Dylan climbed into his lap without breaking the kiss, knees bracketing Eric’s hips, the old suspension complaining under their weight. Eric’s hands shoved under the open prom shirt, palms dragging up the warm, smooth plane of Dylan’s back, then down again to grip his ass through the dark jeans—fingers sinking in deep, holding on like he might disappear.
“Fuck,” Dylan whispered against his mouth, rolling his hips once so Eric could feel the thick ridge of his cock already straining behind the zipper. “Been thinking about this all night. Every second since I put this stupid shirt on.”
Eric nipped his lower lip, sharp enough to sting. “Oh now you agree. The shirt's stupid hm? What exactly have you been thinking about?”
Dylan ground down harder, testing. “Having you inside me. Out here. Want you to fuck me until I can’t think.”
Eric’s cock twitched hard at the words. He shoved the button-up the rest of the way open, not bothering with the last buttons; one of them pinged somewhere into the dark.
His mouth latched onto Dylan’s collarbone, sucking a deep, dark mark just above the fabric, teeth scraping. Dylan’s head tipped back, a soft broken moan spilling out as Eric’s hand worked his belt open with practiced speed and dragged the zipper down.
They got Dylan’s jeans and underwear shoved only halfway down his thighs—far enough. Eric wrapped a hand around his cock and stroked him slow and tight, thumb swiping over the flushed head, spreading the clear slick already beading there. It made a filthy wet sound in the quiet cab. Dylan’s hips jerked helplessly.
“Shit—Reb—”
Eric kept stroking him, mouth moving hot along the column of his throat, tasting sweat and the faint leftover soap. “Look at you. All dressed up just so I could ruin it.”
Dylan laughed, the sound wrecked and breathless, and reached between them with shaking hands to get Eric’s jeans open. He freed Eric’s cock and wrapped his long fingers around it, giving him a few firm, twisting strokes that made Eric’s head drop back against the seat with a low groan.
“Want you,” Dylan muttered, voice rough as gravel. “Now. Don’t make me wait.”
Eric fumbled for the plastic bag, found the little bottle, clicked it open. At the same time Dylan kicked his pants and boxers off.
The sharp, clean scent of lube cut through the air. He squeezed a generous amount into his palm, slicked himself until he was shiny and dripping, then reached further back and pressed two fingers against Dylan’s hole.
Dylan was already soft and eager from pure want; he pushed back onto them with a quiet, choked-off sound, taking them to the second knuckle in one go.
“Fuck, you’re easy for it,” Eric murmured, twisting his fingers, scissoring them open, watching Dylan’s face in the flickering light from the screen flushed, mouth open, eyes half lidded and dark. “So fucking greedy.”
“Only for you.” Dylan’s voice cracked on the words. He pulled Eric’s fingers free with a wet sound, lined the thick head of Eric’s cock up against himself, and sank down in one long, slow slide.
Both of them went still, breathing hard. Dylan was tight and scorching hot, the perfect squeeze of him making Eric’s vision spark at the edges. Dylan’s thighs trembled as he adjusted, fully seated, the ruined prom shirt hanging open off his shoulders.
Eric’s hands locked on his hips, grip tight and unyielding, thumbs pressing into the sharp ridges of bone.
“Jesus Christ,” Eric gritted out.
Dylan leaned forward, forehead pressed to Eric’s, and started to move—rolling his hips in a deep, grinding rhythm that kept Eric buried all the way inside. The wet sound of it filled the cab, soft and filthy under the distant movie dialogue.
Eric thrust up to meet him, short and hard. Dylan’s cock dragged against his stomach with every movement, leaving slick streaks. One of Eric’s hands wrapped around it, stroking in time, while the other stayed gripped on Dylan’s ass, spreading him open so he could fuck up into him deeper.
“Feel so fucking good,” Dylan panted against his mouth, voice already shaky. “Missed this—I didn’t know… being on the bottom… I like it. I like you in me—”
“Of course you do.” Eric turned his head and bit at Dylan’s jaw, harder this time. “Look at you. Taking it so fucking well. All mine. Aren't you?”
Dylan made a wrecked, needy sound and rode him harder, the Bronco rocking faintly. His thighs were already trembling.
“Yes—yours—” he gasped, the words tumbling out too easy. “Just yours. Use me, Reb, please—”
Sweat was starting to stick the open prom shirt to his back. Eric shoved it further off his shoulders so he could get his mouth on a nipple, sucking hard, teeth scraping until Dylan’s rhythm stuttered and a broken whimper spilled out of him.
“Gonna come,” Dylan warned, voice high and desperate. “Reb—gonna come on your cock—”
“Not yet.” Eric squeezed the base of Dylan’s cock tight, stopping him. “You don’t come until I say. Understand?”
Dylan nodded frantically, eyes glassy in the flickering light, hips still grinding in tiny, helpless circles like he couldn’t stop.
Eric kept fucking up into him, deep and relentless. “You’re so fucking pathetic like this. Say it.”
“Fuck I’m so pathetic,” Dylan whispered, the words automatic, eager. “I’m your—your hole. Please, Reb, I need—”
Eric felt it then: the sudden, involuntary clench, the way Dylan’s whole body tensed.
“Reb! Wait. I have to piss—” Dylan’s voice cracked with embarrassment. “I can’t. Fuck, I’m gonna—”
Eric’s cock throbbed hard inside him. Instead of pulling out or stopping, he wrapped both arms around Dylan’s waist and held him down.
“Do it,” he ordered, voice low and rough with pure want. “Piss on me. Right now. Let go.”
Dylan’s face burned, but his body obeyed. A hot rush of urine spilled out of him, soaking Eric’s stomach, his jeans, the already-messy seat beneath them. Dylan whimpered in humiliation, still full, still hard, still leaking piss in little spurts every time Eric thrust up.
“Oh my god—” Dylan choked, mortified and shaking. “I’m sorry, I’m—”
“Don’t you dare apologize.” Eric sounded wrecked with how much it turned him on. He stroked Dylan’s cock through the warm wetness, smearing it around. “Look at that. Pissing yourself while you’re full of my cock.”
Dylan sobbed once, a helpless, submissive sound, and let the rest go. The seat was soaked. Eric’s shirt clung to his skin. The wet heat of it only made him thrust harder, chasing the filthy perfection of it.
“Gonna come,” Dylan begged, voice completely broken now. “Please, Reb—please let me come—I’ve been good—”
“Yeah, you have.” Eric finally stroked him fast and tight, still buried deep. “Come on my cock. Make a bigger mess. Do it.”
Dylan came with a loud, wrecked cry, spilling over Eric’s fist and mixing with the piss still cooling on their skin. His whole body clenched and fluttered around Eric, milking him.
Eric followed a few thrusts later, groaning low against Dylan’s throat as he filled him, holding the taller boy close, panting.
They stayed locked together afterward, shaking, trading slow, messy kisses while the movie’s final fog-drenched scenes played out on the big screen beyond the steamed-up windshield.
The speaker box still crackled faintly with the last lines of dialogue, but neither of them was listening.
Dylan eventually eased off him with a low, heartfelt groan. “Fuck. This is gross.”
He twisted around, rummaging in the shadowy mess for anything useful. His hand came back with what looked like an old moving blanket. It was scratchy, half-folded, smelling faintly of dust and plastic. Eric couldn’t tell for sure; his eyes were still half-lidded, everything soft and blurred at the edges.
“Brother’s gonna kill you,” Eric mumbled, voice rough.
“Worth it,” Dylan answered without hesitation.
He did his best to clean the worst of the mess. The come, lube, and the cooling evidence of what Eric had made him do. Dylan sighing while wiping at their stomachs and the soaked seat with clumsy, affectionate strokes.
After a minute he gave up, tossed the blanket aside, and collapsed sideways onto the bench, pulling Eric on top of him.
Their skin stuck together in places, tacky and warm. The windows were completely fogged, thick white proof of what they’d just done, shutting the rest of the world out.
Eric pressed his face into the damp curve of Dylan’s neck and breathed him in sweat, sex, the faint leftover trace of Dylan's soap, and the sharper edge of piss that still lingered between them. Dylan’s pulse beat steady under his mouth.
For a long minute they just lay there, chests rising and falling in uneven sync.
Then Dylan tapped Eric to get him to sit up. Leaning forward, he stretched a long arm toward the glove box, dug around with a soft rattle of old papers and loose change, and came back with a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes and a plastic lighter. He lit one, the brief flare of the flame lighting the wrecked interior for a second. The ruined prom shirt, bare skin, the dark wet patch on the seat. He took a deep drag and passed it to Eric without a word.
Eric accepted it, the filter still warm from Dylan’s mouth. He inhaled, held it, and let the smoke curl out slowly toward the small crack in the window. Tobacco mixed with the heavier, intimate smells of the car.
“What did you think of the ending of the movie?” Eric smirked.
Dylan’s eyes had been permanently rolled back for the last twenty minutes of it; Eric knew damn well he hadn’t caught a single frame after the halfway point.
Dylan put on a deeply wounded expression, complete with a tragic little sigh. “Oh man… I think I missed it…”
Eric half grinned around the cigarette, the expression lazy.
Dylan’s stole the cigarette back, took another slow drag, then leaned in and kissed Eric—sharing the smoke between them until it burned soft on both their tongues.
“We’ll always have the Starlight,” he murmured against his lips, the joke stupid but not unwelcome.
Eric huffed a quiet laugh and kissed him again, deeper this time. “Dork.”
His fingers traced idle, aimless patterns on the sharp jut of Dylan’s hipbone while they passed the rest of the cigarette back and forth, the fogged windows glowing faintly with the dying light of the credits outside.
Eventually they climbed to the front. Dylan started the engine. The Bronco rumbled awake, still smelling like smoke and everything they’d done. He laced their fingers together on the wide console. Sticky, warm, easy and pulled out of the emptying lot.
He didn’t take the direct route.
Instead he cut toward the back roads that wound through the darker edges of town, adding a deliberate fifteen minutes to the trip. The headlights swept over empty stretches of asphalt and low mountain walls. Chilly air poured through the open windows, chasing out the last of the humidity inside the cab.
Dylan reached over and twisted the radio dial until he found a station still playing older stuff. The opening riff of a classic spilled out. He turned it up. Eric didn’t need convincing. By the second chorus they were both belting it—off-key, volume maxed, no shame. Dylan’s free hand tapped the beat on the steering wheel. Eric grabbed the empty Dr Pepper can from the cup holder, raised it like a microphone, and sang straight into it, eyes closed, head tipped back against the seat.
It was a rare stretch of pure freedom. No one watching. No performance. No tough guy armor. Not Reb. Just Eric. Not Vodka. Just Dylan. The wind whipped through the cab and carried their voices out into the dark trees lining the road.
At a red light on a deserted four-way, Dylan eased to a stop. Fleetwood Mac drifted through the speakers softly. “Dreams” was the kind of song that felt too gentle for a night like this and somehow perfect anyway. They locked eyes for a moment. For a second neither of them said anything. Headlights passed by and the traffic lights changed. Soft rain started to fall on the windshield. They both broke, giggling like absolute schoolgirls, the sound unrestrained and loud in the quiet intersection.
The light turned green. Dylan didn’t move right away. He just kept looking at Eric, still smiling, thumb brushing once over the back of his hand. Then he hit the gas again, slower now, like he was trying to stretch the last mile as far as it would go.
When he finally rolled to a stop a full block from the Harris house, the soft song was still drifting through the open window. Dylan shifted into park and caught Eric’s wrist before he could open the door.
“Boyfriends,” he said, quiet, like he was still testing the shape of the word in his mouth.
Eric nodded once. He tapped the side of the Bronco with his free hand, eyebrows lifting in a small, crooked confirmation.
“Boyfriends.”