Work Text:
Calvin always thought Andre was a little bit like a dog.
He navigated his emotions with clenched teeth, full of love and hate and the incessant need to bark; whine; gnaw; scratch— Like a dog, he would bite before he could think. Like a dog, he’d melt under Calvin’s hand, the only one who could handle him. Cal saw every side of Andre, just as Andre saw every side of him. He was well behaved when he needed to be—and quickly he had learned to train himself. He curated a perfect, collared, responsible Andre: Andre who maintained good grades, kept a steady job, never out too late, never too rash, outgrew therapy, fine without medication, fine without intervention, completely and absolutely rehabilitated.
Regardless, he hadn’t actually changed much. If anything, he was just quieter than he used to be in middle school. After everything he was still Andre.
Cal had heard it enough from the few friends he did have— apart from Andre, of course— that he was a bad influence. But Andre couldn’t influence Cal into something he already was. They were two sides of the same coin. If Andre was a dog, he was Cal’s dog.
"Can you take me to PetSmart tomorrow?" Cal asks between kisses, his bony hands cupping Andre’s sweaty face. He thought Andre looked hot as fuck like this, wet hair sticking to his forehead, furrowing his brow, big brown eyes fixed on Cal like he was the biggest idiot in the world.
They're tangled in each other on Andre's basement couch, kissing, basking in each other's heat. Watching Comedy Central— that's their excuse— not that Andre's family really cared what they were doing down there. The Kriegmans recently upgraded their living room TV, which meant the boys got to haul the old one into the basement. Now balanced on two milk crates and fully plastered with glow-in-the-dark stickers— Cal’s doing, of course— it was clear that the basement really was a second bedroom for Andre. It was definitely a privilege of being an only child, but Andre’s house was basically Cal’s too, so he wasn’t jealous.
“Why?” Andre clambers over him to grab the remote from the other side of the couch, lowering the volume. Cal stretches his arms over his head, falling out of Andre’s lap and into a more orthodox seating arrangement. He bites his cheek, calculating a response. “I don’t want to tell you.” He feigns innocence, a silly smile playing onto his lips.
“Listen, no disrespect to Mrs. Gabriel, okay…” Andre leans onto Calvin, tossing the remote hand to hand, “But Princess does not need another fucking outfit. She gets a new one every other week.”
“It’s not for Princess,” Cal playfully swats Andre away.
“Then what?” Andre lowers his voice, his tone laced with suspicion, straightening his gaze on the blonde. Cal wants to lie, to think of something funny to say to buy himself more time. He didn’t exactly have a plan on how he wanted to bring it up. They’ve fooled around plenty of times— but Andre was definitively the more confrontational of the two when it came to experimenting. They’ve fucked around with knives, ropes, even an unloaded gun— really, this shouldn’t be that weird. He thinks about bailing— the whole thing was stupid anyway. Before he can think of something clever, his voice betrays him.
“It’s for you.”
They stall. Cal braces for laughter, but Andre doesn’t laugh. His eyelids lower and his lips curl into a smirk. “That’s funny. I mean, cute.” Andre says, mocking sweetness. At this point, the TV is muted altogether. The thick silence, only penetrated by the soft buzz of the heater, hangs in the air. Cal, more flustered than he wanted to be, sheepishly turns away. He wants to die.
“What are you getting me? A fish tank?”
“Forget it Andre—”
Andre crawls on top of him and smashes his lips into Cal’s. They’re stuck together like glue, but Cal pushes him away like he didn’t want it at all. He really, really did. His face is flushed red, wisps of blonde waves covering his eyes, destroyed by Andre. He’s pinned onto the couch, Andre attacking him with little kisses all over his neck and collarbone, and Cal can’t stop laughing. “You’re a faggot—” Because Cal can roll out any more insults, he’s shut up by Andre’s lips on his.
“Okay, if you tell me what you’re getting me, I’ll get you a soda, or something. Just tell me or uhhh…. I’ll shoot your face off.” Andre jokes, pressing a finger gun to his forehead.
“A boy can dream.” He laughs childishly, pushing him away. He fidgets with the collar of his shirt “Um….I wanted to get you a…collar. Like, a dog collar.”
“Seriously?”
“You uh….you don’t have to. I just uh, thought it would be hot.” He murmurs in that slurred soft tone he always had, picking black polish off his nails. He plays the innocent one, bashfully looking away, awaiting a response. Andre was usually the more dominant one, but neither committed to a specific role in their relationship. “Thought I could fuck you with it on, you know.”
.
“Your music fucking sucks, Cal” Andre steadies one hand on the steering wheel, dark brown eyes focused more on the boy beside him than the road ahead of him.
“Whaaat…. you don’t like Barenaked ladies?” The blonde spoke in that slurred soft tone that he always did, reclined shotgun in Andre’s car, legs spread, skimming the tracklist of his ‘stunt’ CD and delicately inserting the disc with his opposite hand.
“Wanna see you bare-naked, bitchhh.”
Cal can’t stifle his laughter. “You’re a faggot, Andre.”
(Unsure if this was a timeskip or just scrapped dialogue? I think it was intended to be included later but I was working on the transition)