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When the phone in the kitchen rings just after midnight, Fred, thankfully just so happens to be only a few feet away, putting the finishing touches on a sandwich.
He drops his knife into the sink with a clatter that seems loud as a gunshot in the otherwise silent house, lurches across the linoleum and manages to grab the phone before it can ring for a second time (and wake up his parents). Before he actually lifts the receiver to his ear, he pauses for a few moments with it cradled against his palm, just to see if he’s too late, to see if the floorboards overhead creak as someone gets out of bed.
After ten seconds pass in silence, he brings the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
There’s not much point in asking who's calling; at this time of night, there’s only two people that it could possibly be, and chances are the two of them are together.
“We didn’t wake you up, did we?” FP says. Fred can hear the smirk in his voice, and somewhere close to the receiver, Alice’s sharp laugh briefly cuts in.
“No. And you didn’t wake up anyone else either, by the way,” he answers, keeping his voice pitched low.
“Well, that’s even better then.” Alice isn’t the only thing Fred can hear in the background; there’s music playing, loud enough that he can identify it as the same damn hair metal band she's been listening to on repeat for the last few weeks. “You doin’ anything tonight?”
“Was planning on sleeping sometime soon,” he replies cautiously, taking a quick glance at the clock hanging over the stove. “Why?” The possibility that the two of them are just calling to socialize is extremely low, basically non-existent; FP has never been one for beating around the bush, for just fucking around, and Alice isn’t much different. There has to a be a purpose to them calling so late.
Fred’s pretty sure that he doesn’t need three guesses to figure out that purpose.
“You picky about whether it’s your own bed you’re sleeping in?” FP asks. His voice is pitched low too, but it’s not from trying to keep quiet; it’s just what he does when he’s trying to reel Fred in, when he’s trying to talk him into something, when he’s trying to light a fire in the pit of his stomach.
Even though Fred knows exactly what the tone implies, what its purpose is, he’s never been able to stop it from working on him, even when it would really be in his best interests to do exactly that.
“Not really,” he says, swallowing heavily, fingers curling around the phone. “Bed’s a bed, I guess.”
“See, I told him that you’d say something like that,” Alice says, voice getting louder as she presumably yanks the phone away from FP. “It’s my parent’s anniversary. They’re staying at some bed and breakfast over in Greendale. We have the whole place to ourselves until tomorrow afternoon.” She says it like she’s referring to some grand place, something like the Blossom mansion or one of the massive cottages that dot the shores of Sweetwater River, rather than her parent’s small trailer on the South Side, with its omnipresent cloud of cigarette smoke and parchment thin walls and stained carpet.
But despite all of its flaws, it’s certainly more spacious and private than Fred’s bedroom. Even if they’re overheard by Alice’s neighbors, chances are that there will be fewer consequences than if it was Fred’s parents overhearing them.
“I have to be back early tomorrow,” he says, glancing up at the ceiling. “Sunrise early. I’m supposed to help Dad with the lawn.” Even if he went to sleep within the next ten minutes, he’s not going to be rested enough for tomorrow. While he has no doubt that Alice and FP will get him back on time, if only so that Fred doesn’t get grounded and have to stay away from them for a week, he has a feeling that any sleep he gets between now and then will be in fits and starts, probably whenever Alice’s music pauses for a few seconds.
It will have to do.
“I figured,” FP says. “Don’t, fuck, don’t worry, we’ll get you back on time.” He ends the sentence with a sharp gasp that sounds the very opposite of pained.
Fred grips the phone a little tighter.
“Everything alright?” he asks, trying to sound unaffected, even though he has an idea what that gasp means. “Did Alice burn you with a cigarette again?”
“She’s doing something to me, that’s for sure,” FP laughs, a little breathless. “Fuck.”
“First of all, I’ve only burned him once, and that was an accident,” Alice says, speaking over another one of FP’s gasps. “Also, I’m giving him a hand-job. That’s what he means by something.”
Even though he suspected exactly that, Fred’s mouth goes dry.
“I can leave in five minutes,” he says, glancing over at his sandwich. He can bring it for the road. “Think you can pick me up on the corner? Or should I just keep walking?”
“We’ll meet you,” FP answers. “We’ll leave just as soon as Alice lets go of me.”
“Sorry,” Alice says, the eye-roll loud and clear in her voice. “Tell you what, Fred. You can take up where I left off when we get back here. Sound good?”
They’ve done it so many times that Fred knows exactly how FP’s cock feels in his hand, knows the weight of it against his palm, knows how rubbing his thumb across the head is one sure way to make FP’s teeth sink into his bottom lip (or Fred’s, or Alice’s, whoever is closest).
And while he’s sure that the two of them won’t leave him high and dry while he’s doing that, he doesn’t know exactly what they’ll be doing to him.
That thought brings about a little bit of fear.
But mostly, it just brings about such a strong wave of longing that it’s all Fred can do to resist simply dropping the phone and booking it to the South Side.
“Yeah,” he answers instead, absently pressing the heel of his hand to the front of his jeans, against his half-hard cock. “Sounds good.”