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Brett opens the door with flour all speckled over his cheekbone, and Eddy just sighs, reaching up to wipe the white from him before he even takes off his shoes. It earns him a kiss—open-mouthed and messy from the beginning—as Brett grabs a handful of his t-shirt to reel him in.
“You smell nice,” Brett murmurs against his mouth with tiny nibbles to Eddy’s mouth. “Were you out somewhere important?”
“Meeting with my producers.”
“Sounds like fun.” Seeming to realise they’re still standing at the threshold, Brett pulls away and slides a hand down Eddy’s chest, grinning. “I’m making cake.”
“Should I help?”
“No,” Brett replies. “You can tell me about your day, instead.”
Eddy follows him inside and locks the door behind them, taking his time in ridding himself of his light jacket and socks. He can hear Brett humming as he wanders back away and, more distantly, the sound of his phone blasting some symphony or the other that Brett lowers the volume of. By the time Eddy joins him in the kitchen, Brett has stopped the music altogether and stirs some lumpy looking batter with pure focus. Eddy sits backwards at one of the chairs in the kitchen, his chin resting on the spindled back as he tells Brett about how the final piece had just been approved of today.
“I’m happy that it’s over,” Brett says, when he gets to the part about showing Bong-Qiu the last piece and the appointment with a visual artist for his album cover. “You’ve been stressed about it for a while now.”
“I have,” Eddy agrees.
“Now you just have a few more things and then you’ll be done for real,” Brett notes. The batter that he’s awkwardly filling the loaf pan with is suspiciously lumpy, but Eddy doesn’t really know that much about how cakes are made anyway. “And then you’ll be trending all over Twitter and I won’t see your face for ages because you’ll be too busy giving interviews.”
“Now that’s just something you’ve made up.”
“I can see the future, Eddy Chen,” Brett tells him solemnly. “I know your successes will come to you.” Brett sucks a batter-wet finger into his mouth, getting it on his lower lip, adding to the mess that had been created by the flour. “Have you thought about what you want to do once the whole ordeal is over?”
“Not really. I’d probably be going around touring with my work. Minjin’s been booking me in for as many things as she can.”
Brett’s nose wrinkles and his eyes dart away to the flimsy bulletin board mounted on the wall where their keychain from their last date at an anime cafe hangs. There are also, Eddy notes, several of their challenge card envelopes from ‘Hitched!!!’, all of them neatly pinned next to each other in a train.
“I’m going to miss you,” Brett says, gaze flicking back to pin Eddy in place.
“You’ll be touring too,” Eddy says, lightly, and he subconsciously reaches a hand up to play with the new chain he had bought recently entirely at Nathaniel’s behest. “We can miss each other.”
Brett stares at it when Eddy takes it out from under his shirt, and then, hands still covered in cake batter except for his index finger, he crosses the kitchen to touch it.
Eddy grabs his wrist to stop him. “Your hands are too messy,” he says.
He’s thinking about bringing Brett’s hand up to his mouth, then licking up the line of Brett’s thumb, lapping at the batter, but Brett is a step ahead of him. He smears the sticky substance straight onto Eddy’s hand and, without looking away, lifts it up to lick it.
His tongue is hot.
Eddy watches in a daze as Brett licks their joined fingers. Heat simmers low in his belly.
He and Brett still haven’t moved past kissing with how busy they’ve been since the show started airing. The few times they get to hang out are usually dominated with innocent cuddling and some heavy make-out sessions that they end when things get too hot.
But Brett doesn’t step back this time. He untangles their hands and presses his damp fingers to Eddy’s mouth, resting the first two of them on Eddy’s lower lip for a moment before dragging them, wet, down Eddy’s throat, all the way to his original goal of the necklace.
Eddy shivers as Brett lifts it from his chest. “I think,” Brett says, deliberately, “that we should make the most of the time we have, then.”
“What were you thinking?” Eddy asks breathlessly.
Brett drops the chain, letting it bounce against Eddy’s chest, and Eddy hadn’t realised that he had been leaning forwards until Brett steps back a step. As Eddy watches, Brett wipes his hands on a tea-towel and puts the tin of cake batter carefully into the oven. It still looks lumpy—like there are pockets of flour and bitter baking powder that haven’t dissolved properly still in there—but all Eddy can think about is the way Brett’s tongue had felt on his hands.
“Ready?” Brett turns back to him and hunches forward again, resting his forehead against Eddy’s.
Eddy hums, and tugs on the hem of Brett’s t-shirt. “You still haven’t answered for what.”
“I want to touch you,” Brett says, and he licks across Eddy’s mouth, and then cups his cheek to lift his face to lick into it, curling the tip of his tongue against the palette of Eddy’s mouth in a spine-tingling move.
“You know,” Eddy murmurs, “there’s a sofa behind us.”
Brett laughs.
The sofa is also lumpy. Eddy doesn’t know where Brett gets off with having such lumpy furniture but then Brett is actually getting off against Eddy’s hip.
“Are you getting distracted?” Brett asks him. He doesn’t sound upset, but the nips he leaves on Eddy’s jaw feel sharper than they had a while ago. Eddy’s glasses blur with smudges from their faces pressing against each other. “Don’t want to go ahead?”
“I want to,” Eddy gasps. He takes the moment to drag his hands up Brett’s waist and to his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscles as Brett follows the hot press of his palm down.
Brett takes advantage of this new position to take Eddy’s mouth deeper, exploring between his teeth and skating along the insides of his cheeks. It’s ticklish. So ticklish. Small giggles bubble in his throat, hitching along the length of it, and Eddy catches his tongue to suck on it in an attempt to distract him. It earns him a groan as Brett shifts closer, hips thrusting down and sending shocks up through Eddy’s body all the way to his head, where a buzz as loud as the ambient traffic sounds that drift through Brett’s open window make it hard to think about anything but the push of Brett’s cock against his own.
It’s all Eddy can do to gentle his fingers so he isn’t clawing at Brett’s back. He ploughs them through Brett’s hair instead and thumbs his ears, mouth slack with arousal. Brett’s glasses are starting to slide with the sweat and slowly shift their way down his nose. Curling an arm around his neck, Eddy pushes his glasses up with a finger. Brett licks his palm.
“What was that—” Eddy laughs and then shivers as one of Brett’s hands finds his chest. The rest of his words get lost in a moan, and he’s bucking up again right when Brett is pushing down, gyrating against him, the material of their pants doing nothing to hide how hard they are from each other.
It gets quiet again after that. Neither of them have the breath to spare. Brett’s movements become sinuous and his lips keep brushing Eddy’s—not aiming for a kiss but unable to keep his distance.
The sweet smell of vanilla fills the room.
“I think the cake is on fire,” Eddy squeezes out, hands drifting to Brett’s ass and dragging him close towards himself, until they’re pressed tight from hip to toe. He fumbles a leg down, digging his heel into the ground to give himself more leverage to meet Brett’s thrusts. “Brett—”
Brett pants into his mouth. It’s all too hot and wet. Eddy twists his head to the side to gasp for air, glasses digging into the side of his head. Everything in him focused on how close he is to coming. He can feel the strain of it in his thighs, and he plants his foot better against the ground for more leverage as everything coils up.
Then he’s coming in his underwear, messy and embarrassingly loud, and Brett’s moan is cut off as he pulses against the crook of Eddy’s hip, spreading a wet spot against his upper thigh. As Brett collapses bonelessly onto him, Eddy reaches trembling arms around him to hold him close.
“I think the cake is seriously burning,” he murmurs against Brett’s sweaty hair, pressing small kisses against his scalp. “Doesn’t it smell too much?”
“Cake does that,” Brett sighs. "Just stay like this for a bit more."