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In retrospect, Fred is fairly sure that he should have been able to see this coming.
After all, it's not like the thunderstorm was unexpected; towering plumes of gray clouds have been gathering on the horizon all day, stacking up higher and higher, insides occasionally split by a flash of lightning. And it really shouldn't be a surprise that FP's truck decided to break down in the middle of said storm; they've had to run emergency repairs (usually involving liberal amounts of duct tape or parts 'borrowed' from the junkyard) on it at least a dozen times since school let out.
So really, he should have expected this.
But that fact doesn't do anything to change the fact that the two of them are soaked head to toe, dripping onto the front bench seat of the truck, which refuses to start, which means they're stuck in the parking lot of the drive-in for as long as it takes the storm to abate.
Which could be hours.
Thankfully, they managed to save most of their snacks (half of which FP stole from the counter when Hal had his back turned), but the blankets they were laying on are almost certainly written off (although they could use a wash, so at least there's that).
"What do you think broke this time?" Fred asks, biting into a licorice whip and waving his hand at the hood, which is almost impossible to see through the rain lashed windshield.
"Probably the carburetor," FP answers, grabbing the licorice from Fred's hand and chomping into it, sounding wholly unaffected by the whole situation. "Won't know until I look though." Finishing off the candy, he twists a little in his seat, and even though the rain is so heavy that the lights from the drive-in barely reach the interior of the truck, Fred can still see the grin FP is flashing him.
"You look like you have an idea," he says, reaching down into the plastic bag at his feet and grabbing another box of candy. There's a hint of excitement already starting to build in his stomach, but it's always more fun to pretend that he doesn't know exactly what FP is thinking about, even when it's written on his face as clearly as if it was in marker. It's fun to see how long he can string FP along before he finally just groans or swears and pulls Fred into a kiss.
Fred's personal record is half an hour, but he suspects that, based on the way FP has already slid over closer, he's not going to beat that record tonight.
"Got a few, actually." The drag of the zipper on FP's letterman jacket seems almost as loud as the thunder outside, and he shrugs out of it and drops it into the driver seat foot-well. His white t-shirt, which is littered with tiny rips and smears of grease, is stuck to the broad line of his shoulders, and Fred tries not to stare, tries not to think about gently sinking his teeth into the spot where the collar of the shirt meets FP's neck.
Based on the way FP's grin grows, Fred is pretty sure that he utterly failed at not staring.
He's definitely not breaking his record tonight.
"Looks like you might have an idea or two of your own," FP adds, reaching up to tug the collar of his shirt away from his skin.
"Maybe," Fred concedes. Getting out of his soaked clothes is definitely a good idea, so he starts with his flannel, pulls it off carefully so that the sleeves don't get stretched out, and tosses it up onto the dashboard. His own tee is plastered to his chest, but just as his fingers settle on the hem, FP's hand drops on top of them. He doesn't say anything; he just slides even closer, until their legs are touching, and glances at Fred, the question unsaid but there in his dark eyes.
Fred's never been good at silence, has never found it definitive enough, so he nods and says, "Yeah. Go for it."
FP wastes no time in tugging Fred's shirt up and over his head and tossing it over by his jacket. Before Fred can reach out, FP takes off his own as well. When he twists slightly to drop it to the floor, Fred leans over and presses his mouth to the firm line of FP's collarbone, scrapes his teeth over the jut of it. He tastes like rainwater, and the groan he makes as he twists back and drops one hand to the side of Fred's face, cradles his cheek and jaw, seems to sink right into the depths of Fred's chest.
"Was that one of your ideas?" FP asks, thumb smearing along the damp line of Fred's cheekbone. Fred nods, teeth skittering along FP's clavicle as he pulls back slightly. "Got any more like that?"
"Are you trying to make me do all the work?" Fred asks, dropping one hand to FP's thigh, scratching one blunt nail over the rough, wet denim. FP huffs out a laugh and tightens his hand on Fred's jaw.
"You ever known me to be lazy?" That's all the warning Fred gets before FP drops his free hand to Fred's hip and falls backwards, pulling Fred on top of him. It's not the first time they've done this, but it still takes a moment for them to get situated; FP's elbow smashes into the steering wheel, and Fred's foot manages to catch on the window crank, which momentarily lets in more cold rain until he scrambles back to fix it, FP laughing at him the whole time.
Thankfully, as soon as Fred moves back and kisses him, palms molded to either side of FP's neck, he shuts up.
By the time they finish up, the storm has started to slow down. The thunder is steadily growing fainter, and the downpour has downgraded to sprinkling. It's soothing, downright peaceful, almost, and Fred closes his eyes, face pressed into the side of FP's neck, FP's body warm and relaxed underneath him.
"We still gotta fix the truck," FP rumbles, mouth resting on Fred's hairline. "And you're too damn heavy to sleep on me like this."
"If you try and make me walk now, my legs aren't gonna hold me up," Fred mutters, lightly kicking FP in the calf.
"Taking that as a compliment." Slinging one arm over Fred's back, FP continues, "Ten minutes. Then we fix the truck, and I get you home before your dad kills me."
Fred has no way of telling the time, but he's pretty sure that he's already past his curfew by a few hours.
A few more minutes won't do any harm.
"Deal," he says, pressing his mouth to a hickie at the base of FP's throat and making himself even more comfortable.
(By the time they have a quick nap, wake up for round two, fix the carburetor, and pull into Fred's driveway, it's nearly three o'clock in the morning, and Fred can see the silhouette of his father sitting in the living room window, no doubt waiting to launch into the lecture he's been planning since midnight.
He ends up grounded for two weeks.
Two days into the punishment, FP climbs through his bedroom window. They have to stay quieter, but Fred's bed is a hell of a lot comfier than the front seat of FP's truck.
Besides, this way, there's no broken carburetors to deal with. Just broken off moans.)