Fever

The drive down is quiet. Peter doesn't dare switch the radio on, too afraid that he'll come to his senses and turn the car right back around to his dorm. His blood is thrumming, despite the obvious doubt at doing this in the middle of the week. A two and a half hour drive away and Peter just couldn't resist. The clock on the dash provides the time, 10:53pm, and a soft green glow that serves no real purpose other than making Peter's blood thrum harder, louder, faster.

It doesn't matter that he's writing exams or that he might have flunked the one he wrote that very morning, because somebody decided to inform Peter's libido that he hasn't had any company in nearly four months. Four. Months. All that time spent with his right hand and those sneaky pictures Neal had taken with his phone over the summer before Peter started college. His phone's memory is completely taken over with innocent, yet exotic, erotic, chest-clenching-loneliness, sexy, dirty, lovely glimpses of skin. Skin Peter spent nearly two years lusting secretly, only to those who didn't know what to look for, after. Skin he spent only a few months mapping, tracing, savoring with lips, tongue, fingers and cock.

They haven't talked much in the last two weeks and Peter misses him, much more than when they were constantly texting or calling, so much more than those first few weeks where Peter couldn't sleep because there was a familiar weight and warmth missing, but now, as Peter clenches his fingers tighter against the steering wheel of his average four door sedan, he's home alone for two days because Ellen is at a seminar and somehow he managed to wheedle her into letting him stay home alone. Information that he emailed to Peter.

He doesn't question the oddity of it anymore, of Neal texting him silly things or the two of them spending an entire phone call laughing, or Neal emailing him the important stuff, the stuff neither of them can utter just yet. Somehow Peter knows that Neal knows that Peter knows that he'll take longer to read his emails, because he's shit at technology and his laptop might just hate him back. He knows that Peter will smile at the 'I miss you' and 'remember when' messages, but this one, this email was spectacular.

Ellen is going out of town.

It was all he needed and now, now he's driving into his old shithole town where he met Elizabeth, Diana, Jones, Mozzie (begrudgingly and under noted protest) and Neal. Neal, who grinned at him that first day of Peter's junior year (Neal was a freshman and gorgeous) with a twinkle in his eye and a witty remark on his lips. They became tentative friends and finally, finally before graduation, Peter drunkenly confessed that he wanted to strip Neal naked and have his way with him at a party where alcohol was plentiful and inhibitions (and dignity it would appear) were left by the coat rack.

Neal kissed Peter and they awkwardly, sloppily, amazingly make out under the old tire swing. Now though, neither of them are awkward anymore (except about feelings), Peter muses as he slows to a stop a few houses down from Neal's. His blood is singing and his dick is getting angry at how Peter isn't moving his ass up to Neal's front door yet, but Peter knows he won't be going through the front door because that's a little too grown up for them. They aren't ready to be grown up just yet.

No, they're not grownups yet, Peter thinks as he locks his car and jogs up to Neal's perfectly middle class two-storey house he shares with his pseudo-aunt, Ellen. Peter slips into the back yard and climbs the tree he frequented over the summer, to perch precariously on the branch nearest to Neal's window. He whistles the signal they worked out, before Ellen caught Peter climbing half naked out the window one morning and scolded him into using the front door "because that's what it's there for!"

Barely a minute later, Neal yanks the window open with an exclaimed "Peter, what the-" before lips and tongues meet as they struggle to get Peter through the window without breaking the frame, a wrist or a neck.

"Lights are on," Peter starts, sidetracking himself by kissing Neal again, sliding his tongue in and out of Neal's mouth so that little doubt remains as to what exactly the intention of the visit is. "But Ellen's not home and I'm sick of laying down alone." He finishes, pulling away from those tempting lips to lay a string of nips down Neal's jaw and neck.

Neal catches on quickly, making Peter grunt with the force of his shirt being yanked off. Neal's intellect and razor-sharp whit isn't the only reason Peter has a pretty small soft spot for the younger man. Returning the favor, excruciatingly slowly, Peter peals Neal's shirt off. His dick cannot possibly get harder, but it clearly has a mind of its own and it does manage to get harder as each delectable inch of skin is revealed. Neal whines when Peter wraps his lips and teeth and tongue around a nipple and Peter is almost certain that Neal is cussing him out in French because Neal is still half trapped in his shirt because he's sophisticated like that, swearing in French and writing his course notes in Latin.

Peter can feel his grin turn almost feral when he tugs on Neal's nipple before leaving it covered in a sheen of spit as Neal fights his way out of his button down still around his head. Peter grips Neal's hips and pushes him against the closest wall, sliding his thigh in between Neal's toned legs and presses up into Neal's dick. Peter levers him up so that Neal balances on his toes and has no other choice but to rest and rut against Peter's thigh. Neal manages to free himself of his shirt and stares at Peter for a fraction before he speaks.

"You gonna give me a fever I can sweat out?" There's mischief dancing behind his eyes and Peter presses his thigh harder against Neal, earning him a loud moan.

"Yes, I do." Peter whispers, leaning forward to catch his teeth against Neal's jugular when Neal bears down, finally, finally, with his weight, riding Peters thigh like he hasn't gotten laid since the last time Peter had his fingers and his dick inside Neal. Maybe it says something about them, maybe it doesn't. Peter doesn't mind right now.

There's a flush high on Neal's cheeks and his neck as it slowly travels down his slightly freckled chest. Peter sucks on his collarbone and watches Neal slide his hips forward and backward, forward and backward. His thigh, like his dick, decides that it too wants to move and sets up its own rhythm, countering Neal's thrust forward with a grind backward so that Peter can feel his knee press harder and harder into the wall.

Neal digs his nails into Peter's biceps, head thrown back against the wall and his neck just a delicious inch away as Peter marks his collarbone with teeth and nips and sucks. When Neal comes, head thrown back and nails digging impossibly deeper into already abused flesh, Peter jots it down as being the single most beautifully erotic thing he has ever seen. Neal's lips form a perfect 'O' and his breath stutters past his parted lips, with his hips jerking to an abrupt stop as Peters thigh carries him through his orgasm.

Peter noses his way up Neal's throat, over the side of his face to press his lips to Neal's ear and just breathe with him. A minute turns into two, turns into ten, turns into Peter losing count ant not caring. His thigh is starting to burn slightly and the adjustment Peter attempts makes Neal whine and smooth his fingers over angry red crescent shaped marks.

"I'm glad I got you alone." Peter murmurs. "We have all night."

:::

AN: So, it is my first attempt at smut. Hope it doesn't disappoint too badly. Lemme know if you're interested in another chapter. Please review and let me know what you thought?