calormen
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“What’s, uh, like,” Andre swallowed thickly, tongue dipping into the crevice of Cal’s collarbone, “The.. normal amount? The median?”
That breaks a bark from Cal that has his body jolting, carrying Andre with it. His fingers curl again.
“The median?” He hiccups, giggling, “I don’t fucking know, man. Two or three?”
“Is that the average? Or your average?” Andre pressed. His hands slid down to anchor on Cal’s hipbones, right over the waistband of his jeans. -
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“It doesn’t have to be complicated.” Cal’s thumb brushes over Andre’s throat, testing – how far can he reach before Andre pulls back? “We’ve done worse, haven’t we?”
Which is- sure, they have. There’s an undeniable intimacy in planning your joint suicide, Andre understands this, he does. The methodical planning of Zero Day, down to the minutiae, had felt like sex in its own sense: body aching with pent-up want, the thrill of imagination. Slivers of flesh, exposure, possession.
Sick pleasure, simmering excitement. Cal hones in on the shifts in Andre’s demeanor like a dog sniffing out blood. He grins, all teeth. -
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“Cal short for something?”
“Oh, fuck off,” Cal snickered, ashing his cigarette onto the porch steps. Back inside, Andre could still hear the distant, muffled chatter. He didn’t want to go back in, back into the heat and the noise and the closeness of bodies. -
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8:54 AM: Witnesses spot Kriegman’s gray 1991 Pontiac Grand Am. It is presumed that Calvin Gabriel and Andre Kriegman are both in the car at this time. They turn off a video camera they have brought with them. Their whereabouts are not known for certain for the next hour and thirteen minutes.
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Double click. Jackpot.
It’s a rookie error on Andre’s part, to hide his hardcore porn stash in a folder labelled 'English Lit'. Cal knows full well that Andre hasn’t cared about reading since sixth grade. So, really, this is Andre’s fault.
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