Chapter 12: Whiskey and Wildfire
Spring break had finally begun and after Dante’s hectic month, Dre thought it would be a good idea for them to go camping. The had loved camping, and he always noticed how relaxed Date was when they went.
The last of the sun bled orange across the lake, turning the water to liquid fire. Dante knelt by the stone ring, carefully arranging kindling under a tepee of thicker logs. The scrape of his knife against the ferro rod was the only sharp sound in the quiet. Across the clearing, Dre drove the final tent stake into the soft earth with a solid thunk of the mallet.
Their movements were a silent dance perfected over a dozen camping trips, but the air between them hummed with everything left unsaid since his mom left for rehab. Dre passed him the flask, their fingers brushing. A spark jumped from the rod, catching the dry tinder. Flame licked upward, eager and yellow.
"Almost didn't think you'd come this year," Dre said, his voice softer than the crackling fire.
"Where else would I go?" Dante replied, not looking up. He fed a small stick to the newborn blaze. The light carved shadows under his eyes. "Needed this. Needed…" He trailed off, staring into the flames as they grew.
He finally looked up, his face open and vulnerable in the flickering light. "What if I'm not strong enough to be who you need me to be?" The question hung there, fragile as a moth near the flame. Dre stopped adjusting the guyline, his hands going still.
Dre moved to sit beside him on the cool ground, their shoulders almost touching. "You said you were tired of hiding," Dre reminded him gently. "So don't start now." He took the flask back, took a slow sip, and passed it. The whiskey burned a warm path down Dante's throat.
"The world's gonna have opinions, D. I can't lie about that." Dre poked the fire with a long stick, sending up a swirl of embers. "But you facing your dad for Damon? You telling me the truth in my living room?" He shook his head, a small, sure motion. "That's the strongest shit I've ever seen."
Dante stared at him, the fire reflecting in his dark eyes. He leaned in, closing the scant distance, and this time the kiss was slow, deliberate, a promise etched in the quiet dark.
The fire popped, sending a cascade of sparks swirling up toward the indifferent stars. Dre’s hand came up to cradle the back of Dante’s neck, his thumb stroking the short hairs there, and for a long moment there was only the whisper of their breathing and the lake’s gentle lap against the dock.
Dante pulled back, just an inch, his forehead resting against Dre’s. The cool night air felt sharp on his damp lips. "I have to be honest, Dre."
He took a few deep breaths to steady his nerves, the air shuddering into his lungs. The confession clawed its way up, raw and unpolished. “I’ve….. never…..huh.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, the words finally tumbling out in a rushed, soft exhale. “I’ve never had sex.” The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the relentless crickets. Dante opened his eyes, bracing for a shift, a laugh, anything.
Dre didn’t pull away. His thumb kept its steady rhythm on Dante’s skin. “Okay,” he said, the word simple and solid as a stone.
“Okay,” he said, the word simple and solid as a stone.
Dre’s thumb still hadn’t stopped its slow arc on his skin. “So all those stories…” he began, his voice careful.
Dante let out a tight, humorless laugh that dissolved into the night. “Was that even a question?” Dre shifted to face him more fully, the fire painting his features in warm, moving light.
Dre chimed in, so what about all the girls at school.
Dante’s gaze fixed on the pulsing embers at the fire’s heart. “Well we would only make out, I would use my fingers, but honestly every time I was nervous as hell.” He swallowed, the admission bitter. “The girls lied about what we did, because sleeping with me made them popular, and I was able to feed off of it enough to stay in the closet.” Dante looked away, his shoulders tense.
The lake water lapped softly at the dock pilings. Dre was quiet for a long moment, absorbing the sheer mechanics of the lie. He thought of all the locker room talk, the whispered accolades Dante had endured like a punishment.
“You built a whole person out of that,” Dre finally said, not a judgment, just a realization. Dante nodded, a sharp jerk of his chin.
“And he was fuckin’ exhausting.” Dante picked up a pebble and tossed it into the dark beyond the firelight. They listened for the plunk. “You were the only thing that ever felt real.”
Dre caught his chin gently, turning Dante’s face back toward him. The fire reflected in the wet sheen in Dante’s eyes. “You don’t have to feed off anything now,” Dre said, his voice low and certain. “You can just be.”
“You can just be.” Dre’s words hung in the cooling air, a permission slip Dante had waited a lifetime to receive. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, a shaky plume in the firelight. Dre’s hand slid from his neck to his jaw, a slow, grounding touch.
“And for the record,” Dre added, a faint, understanding smile playing on his lips, “you don’t have to know what you’re doing.” Dante huffed a soft, self-deprecating laugh and looked away toward the dark water. “I just don’t want to mess this up,” he admitted, the confession almost lost to the crackle of the logs.
“We’re not a play you can mess up, D.” Dre leaned in, kissing him again, a brief, steadying press. “It’s just you and me figuring it out.” When they parted, Dante ran a hand through his hair, frustration and nerves warring in his expression. “I swear, because if I have one more fucking wet dream about you, Dre, I’m gonna lose it.” He glanced over, expecting judgment, but Dre just laughed, a warm, rich sound that echoed over the water.
“They laugh!” Dante finished, mimicking their friends’ hypothetical jeers, but his own smile was finally real, if tired. Dre shook his head, still grinning. “Let ‘em laugh.” He stood up, extending a hand down to Dante. “Come on.” Dante took it, his palm warm and sure, and let Dre pull him to his feet. They stood for a moment, fingers intertwined, the vast, star-dusted sky stretched above them.
Then Dre nodded toward the dark shape of the tent, its fabric glowing faintly with the fire’s borrowed light. Without another word, he led Dante away from the flames, toward the waiting dark and the unknown, their linked hands the only compass they needed.
Without another word, he led Dante away from the flames, toward the waiting dark and the unknown, their linked hands the only compass they needed. The chill of the spring night bit through Dante’s hoodie as they reached the tent’s dark mouth. Dre unzipped the flap, the sound violently loud, and crawled inside first.
Dante followed, the world narrowing to the close, nylon-smelling dark and the rustle of their bodies on the padded floor. He zipped the flap shut, sealing them in a private, breath-held pocket of universe. They arranged themselves side-by-side on the spread sleeping bags, the silence between them now a charged and living thing.
Dre turned onto his side, facing Dante in the dim light filtering through the tent fabric. “Well if it makes you feel better Dante,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the confined space. “Ask me who I’ve been with.”
Dante froze, staring at the shadowed curve of Dre’s jaw. His mind scrambled through a roster of faces, names, rumors. “What do you mean?” he finally managed, the question a dry whisper.
Dre let out a soft, uneven breath. “I mean exactly that.” He shifted, the sleeping bag crinkling. “All those parties, all that talk.” He paused, and Dante could hear him choosing his words with immense care. “It was just one guy. Last summer. A visiting artist’s assistant.”
The admission hung between them, simple and devastating. Dante’s chest tightened. All Dre’s easy confidence, the charm that seemed so effortless—it wasn’t a performance. It was just him. “Once?” Dante asked, his voice barely audible.
“Once,” Dre confirmed, the word final. “And it was… fine. It wasn’t you.” He reached out in the dark, his fingers finding Dante’s wrist, tracing the prominent bone. “So you don’t have a damn thing to prove to me, you understand?” Dante turned his hand, lacing their fingers together in the warm dark, and brought them to his lips.
Dante kissed his knuckles, a soft press in the dark. The question left him in a whisper, stripped bare. "Can I touch you, Dre?"
Dre’s breath hitched, a shallow intake in the close quiet. He shifted, turning fully toward Dante. "Yeah," he murmured, the word warm and sure. "You can."
Dante’s free hand lifted, hovering in the space between them. He let it fall slowly, palm flat against Dre’s chest, over his heart. The beat thudded steady and rapid under his hand, a frantic bird caged in bone. Dre covered Dante’s hand with his own, holding it there.
The tent fabric glowed dimly with the fire’s dying light. Dante traced the ridge of Dre’s collarbone, his touch experimental, mapping unknown territory. His fingers whispered over the cotton of Dre’s shirt, learning the slope of his shoulder, the hard line of his arm.
"Like this?" Dante asked, his voice rough.
"Just like that," Dre breathed out. He guided Dante’s hand to the hem of his shirt, his own fingers tentative. "Your hands are warm."
Dante slid his palm beneath the fabric, finding skin. The heat there was a revelation. Dre’s stomach muscles tightened under his touch, a sharp flutter of response. A low sound escaped Dre, part sigh, part surrender.
"Okay?" Dante whispered, his movements pausing.
"More than okay." Dre’s hand found the back of Dante’s neck, pulling him closer until their foreheads touched. Their breathing synced, a shared rhythm in the dark. "Don’t overthink it."
"Impossible," Dante murmured, but he was smiling. He let his hand slide higher, exploring the planes of Dre’s chest.
The muscles there jumped under his fingertips, a live-wire reaction. Dre’s breathing changed, deepening against Dante’s palm. “You’re sure?” Dante whispered, his own voice unfamiliar to him.
“Dante,” Dre said, his tone a gentle command. He traced Dante’s lower lip with his thumb. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He kissed him then, dissolving the last of the question. Dante’s world narrowed to the taste of whiskey and lake air, the scent of woodsmoke in Dre’s hair, the incredible heat of skin under his wandering hand. He explored the contour of each rib, the smooth dip of Dre’s stomach.
Dante’s courage gathered in his throat. “Can I…?”
“Yeah,” Dre breathed against his mouth, the word more vibration than sound. His own hand found Dante’s waistband, a silent answer. A question hung between them, answered only by shifting fabric and shared breath.
Nervous energy buzzed beneath Dante’s skin, but Dre’s steady gaze anchored him. He kissed the corner of Dre’s mouth, his jaw, finding his rhythm in this new language. His fingers traced the line of Dre’s hip bone, tentative and seeking.
Then his hands slid to Dre’s hem of his shorts. The fabric was worn soft, warm from his skin. Dante hesitated, his fingers curling into the cotton.
Dre covered Dante’s hand with his own, applying faint, guiding pressure. “It’s just me,” he murmured into the dark space between their lips.
Dante’s hands grew bolder, as he guided Dre’s shorts down. His beautiful chocolate harness glowed in the moonlight filtering through the tent screen. He gently caressed him, wanting to savor this image forever.
“See that’s the thing Dre, it is just you.” Dante’s voice was hushed, awed. “That’s what makes this so nerve wracking because if this was anyone else, I wouldn’t care about making sure that they felt good.” He lowered his head, his breath hot. “I’ve dreamed of this for so long Dre that it physically fucking hurts.”
Then he licked the tip, and pulled back. Dre’s whole body went taut, a strained sound catching in his throat. “And trust me Dre, when you’re about to explode, I won’t stop.” Then his mouth took Dre’s entire cock.
Then his mouth took Dre’s entire cock.
Dante felt like a man possessed; Dre’s perfect cock was everything he had imagined and damn him if he didn’t fit the BBC stereotype. He licked under his shaft before engulfing him again, his throat working wildly to accommodate the thick length. The only sounds louder than Dre’s trembling groans were Dante’s gagging slurps, as his cheeks hollowed around Dre’s cock over and over.
“Fuck, tay” Dre rasped, his hips lifting off the sleeping bag in an unsteady rhythm. Dante gentled, one hand cupping and caressing his balls while the other gripped Dre’s thigh, anchoring them both. He pulled off, gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the slick, dark head. “This is better than any dream I’d ever imagined,” Dante whispered, his voice wrecked, before diving back down with desperate urgency.
He told him, between wet, sloppy strokes of his tongue along the veined underside, that he had been such a good best friend. “The least I could do,” Dante panted, his breath hot on Dre’s skin, “is make sure you remember the first time I make you cum.” Dre’s hand fisted in Dante’s hair, not pushing, just holding on as a broken litany of “yes” and “just like that” fell from his lips. Dante took him deep, his nose pressed into coarse curls, and hummed, the vibration wrenching a shattered cry from Dre’s chest.
Dre’s body bowed, every muscle pulling taut as a bowstring. “I’m close, shit, I’m gonna—” His warning dissolved into a guttural moan as Dante swallowed him down relentlessly, refusing to let up. The climax tore through Dre, a violent, shaking release, and Dante drank every pulsing wave, his own choked sound of satisfaction mixing with Dre’s cries.
Dante swallowed deeper, his throat working convulsively around the last thick pulses, refusing to waste a single drop. He finally released him with a wet, obscene sound, resting his forehead against Dre’s trembling thigh as they both fought for air in the close, humid dark. Dre’s hand fell from Dante’s hair, his fingers stroking the damp nape of his neck with a tenderness that felt seismic.
Dre’s hand fell from Dante’s hair, his fingers stroking the damp nape of his neck with a tenderness that felt seismic. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant cry of a loon on the lake. Dante finally lifted his head, looking up Dre’s body to meet his gaze in the shadowed tent.
“I may just be obsessed,” Dante said, his voice scraped raw. “Your moans, I’ve never heard a sound more beautiful and one that got my dick harder.” He chuckled, a shaky, breathless sound. Then silence swallowed them again, thick and waiting.
“Dre, have you ever thought about having sex with me?” The question hung there, stark and simple. “Because I am nervous as fuck right now because I really want you to.” He swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t really care about top or bottom.”
Dre didn’t answer with words. He hooked his hands under Dante’s arms and hauled him up, flipping their positions with a single fluid motion until Dante was beneath him, pressed into the sleeping bag. The sudden shift stole Dante’s breath. Dre looked down at him, his eyes dark pools in the faint light, and lowered his mouth to Dante’s throat, biting just hard enough to make him gasp.
“Every day since I was sixteen,” Dre whispered against his skin, the admission a hot brand. He rutted against him, the hard line of his cock, already firming again, dragging against Dante’s through their clothes. Dante’s head fell back, a choked sound escaping him as his hands scrambled at Dre’s back, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt.
“Then fuck me,” Dante panted, the words a desperate plea. “Please, Dre.” Dre’s hand slid between them, popping the button on Dante’s jeans, yanking the zipper down with a harsh rasp. The cool night air hit Dante’s overheated skin, followed by the scorching wrap of Dre’s hand.
“Lube’s in my bag,” Dre muttered, his mouth finding Dante’s again in a deep, claiming kiss. He reached blindly, one-handed, never breaking contact, until his fingers closed on the small bottle. The click of the cap was obscenely loud.
The click of the cap was obscenely loud. Dante was nervous. He knew there would be pain because it was his first time. Dre was so gentle. After peeling off Dante’s shorts he poured lube down Dante’s cock until it dropped to his anus. “Man you’re being extra, bruh,” said Dante, and they both laughed before Dre captured his lips in a groaning kiss.
“I’m extra because you have the sexiest cock and balls that I’ve ever seen, Tay.” Dre dragged his finger over his cock down to his anus and used his finger to tease the rim. Then without warning he pulled at Dante’s legs, pulled him where his hips were angled upward and had his face hovering over his ass. “Damn Dante, for a quarterback you look terrified of a little back door action. Let me ease that for you.” He demanded Dante watch him, as his tongue slid over Dante’s tight pink hole.
Dante’s head fell back, a sharp gasp tearing from him at the warm, wet intrusion. “Fuck, Dre…” he choked out, his hands fisting in the sleeping bag. Dre’s tongue worked him open, slow and deliberate, a filthy, soothing rhythm that made Dante’s thighs tremble. The coiled tension in his gut melted into a deep, aching throb.
Dre slid a slick finger inside alongside his tongue, curling it just so, and Dante saw stars behind his clenched eyelids. “More,” Dante begged, his voice shattered. A second finger stretched him, a bright burn that made his breath catch. Dre scissored them carefully, his mouth still working, and the pain began to blur into a fullness that felt terrifyingly right.
“You ready?” Dre murmured, withdrawing his fingers, his own breath coming in ragged pulls. Dante could only nod, his throat too tight for words. Dre positioned himself, the thick, blunt head of his cock pressing insistently against him. The pressure was immense, a splitting, impossible stretch. Dante gritted his teeth, a ragged sound escaping his clenched jaw as Dre pushed slowly inside, millimeter by agonizing millimeter.
“Breathe, baby, breathe,” Dre whispered, his own forehead damp with sweat. The burning stretch crested, then blurred into a deep, filling ache as Dre slid home. He held still, buried to the hilt, letting Dante adjust. Tears welled in Dante’s eyes from the overwhelming sensation of being so utterly split open and possessed. “I got you,” Dre said, echoing his words from the living room, and began to move.
The initial glide was slow, a thick, stretching drag that made Dante gasp into the crook of Dre’s neck. “Oh fuck, I feel so full,” Dante gasped, the words shuddering out of him. Your dick is huge, Dre.” Dre buried his face against Dante’s throat, his hips establishing a deep, rolling rhythm. “But you’re taking me so perfectly, Tay,” he groaned, his voice ragged with effort. “Your asshole is practically sucking me back in every time I pull out. You have a very greedy asshole.”
“I can’t joke right now, Dre,” Dante panted, his nails biting into Dre’s shoulders. “This feels… incredible.” Dre held his face, their eyes never leaving each other’s as he slid in and out of Dante’s tight heat. Then he started going deeper, angling his thrusts with a focused intensity. One particular, grinding thrust had Dante’s whole body jump against the sleeping bag. “Holy fuck, Dre, what was that?” Dre was confused, wondering if he’d hurt him. “No,” Dante said, his voice a broken moan. “That feeling was fuckkkkk.”
Dre chuckled, a low, breathless sound of dawning realization. “I think it’s your prostate.” He withdrew almost completely, the sudden emptiness making Dante whimper. “Let me try again.” He did, aiming with precision, and Dante’s eyes rolled back as he let out a deep, guttural moan that seemed to start in his soles. “Jackpot,” Dre said, a grin of pure wicked triumph spreading across his face as he began hammering that same spot with relentless, perfect accuracy.