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His lungs are half frozen through but Carl can't find it within himself to give up yet, pulls strength from that last little bit of energy thrumming through his legs, runs just that much faster. The universe decides to work with him for once: his foot catches on an icy patch and instead of having him fall flat on his face it pushes him forward, propels him just enough so that his fingers catch hold of the hem of Frank's sleeve. That's enough for gravity to do the rest.
Frank eats asphalt and grey snow-flurries while all Carl gets a mouthful of Frank's grimy hair, his boney back cushioning Carl's impact on the otherwise hard paved road, for whatever that's worth. Frank's wheezing as he tries to squirm his way out from under Carl's larger bulk. Carl's plants himself down hard on the kids legs, wrenches Frank's arms back so that they're crisscrossed and pined right at the dip of his spine.
Carl keeps his grip tight while he yanks the cuffs from his belt loop one-handed. He slaps them closed on Frank's wrists, pressing the ratchets as tight as they'll go, uncaring if they chafe. Carl isn't about to risk Frank escaping, not again.
"Jesus, Carl," Frank groans, rocking his body from side to side, no doubt testing Carl's weight, gauging to see if he has the strength to toss Carl and run. Carl presses down just that much harder, grinds his ass on Frank's legs to prove a point; he's not going anywhere.
Carl stands and hoists Frank up by the chain of the handcuffs, switches his grip so that he's holding on to one of Frank's clinched fists when it looks like the kid might go tumbling down again, the black ice frozen overtop the road slick, dangerous.
Frank turns to look at him. Carl meets his gaze full-on, smirking with his mouth closed, teeth clinched tight. Anger clouds its way into Frank's gaze, cheeks and forehead stained pink from more than just the cold. Frank slips again, knee knocking into Carl's as he tries to find his footing, staves off from doing the splits. Carl glances down to make sure that Frank won't topple over for a third time and sees that Frank's pants are tented, obscene, fabric pulled tight enough that it's actually casting its own shadow, jesus christ.
"Frank," Carl says, stalls out after that because he doesn't know why he said anything at all, why he brought attention to it. Frank freezes and their eyes lock again. Frank gets that deer in headlights look all men get when they've been caught with their dick doin' something it shouldn't be doin'. Carl feels bad for the kid, knows that he should look away, make a joke, but he feels his own cock chubbin' up; breath racin' and heart thumpin' for something other than the thrill of the chase, or maybe it's still the chase thrumming through him, Frank's reaction making it just that much better. He tightens his grip on Frank's still-clinched fists and Frank's fingers twitch, loosening up slightly. Carl feels like somebody else is controlling his body, is a bystander rubbernecking when his fingers slip between Frank's, thumb stroking at the thin skin of Frank's wrist.
Squad cars race up and pull to a stop behind them, wheels screeching to find traction; Carl's backup finally arriving. Frank comes out from the daze he was in, turns skittish, presses his front to Carl's, hiding his body's reaction.
"I'm a fucking teenager okay?" Carl really hadn't needed that friendly reminder. "Don't think you're special or nothin'." He glances down and sees that the kid's glaring daggers at neck. He wonders if Frank's thinking about going for his jugular, like a goddamn wild animal.
Frank shifts and it's Carl's turn to get that look, the guilty look, because now Frank's dick is pressed tight to Carl's own half-chubbed one. Their eyes meet, like magnets in the way they're drawn, something greedy slipping into Frank's.
Frank stands up on his tip-toes and slots their mouths together; opportunistic little shit uses the way Carl's still huffin' and puffin', trying to catch his breath, to lick into Carl's mouth. Carl's just started to lick back when Frank drops down, hiding his face against Carl's neck yet, twisting his body so that their hips are pressed together.
"Shit Carl, you finally got him," Hughes says, clapping him on the back. The slight imbalance it causes has the ice beneath his feet giving out slightly, making it so that his dick grinds right up along the fucking pole Frank's got pitching his tent.
Carl bites back his moan, does a pretty good job of turning it into a cough. Frank's pitiful attempt at covering his goddamn mewl falls flat, but Carl doesn't call him out on it, and Hughes is too dimwitted to pick up on it for what it is, makes a comment about how no matter how pitiful Frank makes himself, there's no way they're falling for his tricks this time.
''Fucking slipperiest, luckiest shit in the world,' Carl thinks to himself. The fucking kid has the nerve to try and grind their dicks together a second time. Carl lets himself enjoy the slow, subtle drag of Frank's body against his for a few heartbeats before he subtly shifts his hips back from Frank's, hopes that Hughes' blind enough to miss that one too.