Jean-Philippe & Yves || FRAT CUNT CULT

The fire in the amphitheatre pit had been going for a couple hours already, long enough that the initial careful arrangement of logs had collapsed into a heap of orange-white coals with fresh wood tossed on top at odd angles. Smoke curled up past the stone seating in lazy threads, mixing with the smell of cheap beer and someone's clove cigarettes. It wasn't an official anything – someone from the drama society had dragged a speaker out and a cooler full of tall cans, and the rest just sort of happened. Bodies dotted the stone steps in clusters, some standing, some sprawled. A girl was playing acoustic guitar badly near the top row while her friend filmed it for something that would get maybe eleven likes.

JP (Jean-Philippe, and “Jean” if you really wanted to piss him off tonight) had his back to the fire, one foot up on the stone bench behind him, a half-finished Molson dangling between his ringed fingers. He wasn't looking at the fire or the crowd. He was looking at Yves, who was sitting one step below him, elbows on his knees, the glow catching on his bleached hair and moving it around like a ghastly curtain. There was something slack about Yves tonight, his pupils eating up most of the grey in a way that made Jean-Philippe maliciously horny. Whatever he'd taken before they came out, it had settled into him like a warm bath.

“T'as l'air d'un ange de même,” JP said, low enough that the music covered it. He reached down and pushed a strand of hair off Yves' forehead with his thumb. The gesture looked tender if you weren't paying attention to the way his fingers lingered, then gripped, just for a second. Yves' mouth twitched. Not a flinch. More like a dog feeling the leash go taut and liking it. “Un ange qui pue la bière, mais quand même.” (“You look like an angel. An angel that smells of beer, but still.”)

“Ta gueule,” Yves muttered, but he leaned into the touch, tilting his head so JP's palm ended up cradling the side of his jaw. His chain caught the firelight when he swallowed. JP's thumb traced the edge of his bottom lip and then dropped away when he spotted something over Yves' shoulder that made his expression shift. Not a lot. Just that particular brightening behind his eyes, the one that meant he'd found something to play with.

“Oh, regarde qui est là,” JP murmured, and Yves turned to follow his gaze. JP straightened up, took a sip of his beer, and started moving through the scattered bodies with that easy, loose-limbed walk he did so well – like he was perpetually five minutes late to something he didn't care about. Yves pushed himself up and followed a half step behind, wiping his palms on his jeans. The firelight made them both into sharp silhouettes for a second before they cleared the ring of warmth.

Jean-Philippe stood too close for a stranger, and exactly right for someone who'd already decided the space belonged to him. His smile was warm and crooked and didn't reach the calculating thing happening behind his half-lidded eyes. “Hey,” he said, like they were picking up a conversation from five minutes ago. “Ça va? You look like you're thinking too hard. That's a party foul.” He gestured vaguely at the amphitheatre behind him – the noise, the fire, the guitar girl who'd now switched to a Radiohead song she also couldn't play. Yves hung just behind JP's shoulder, fiddling with the thick silver chain on his neck.

“Hmh”. JP tilted his head, then glanced back at Yves with something conspiratorial flickering across his face. “Heille, Yves... ouvre la bouche.”

Yves blinked. Slow, drugged. Then a grin cracked across his face — not the soft-boy mask, something rawer and more honest. “Pour vrai, là?”

"Pour vrai." JP turned back, and his hand came up to hook two fingers under Yves' chin. He tilted Yves' jaw up and pressed his thumb into the hinge until Yves' mouth dropped open, easy, practiced, the way a dog sits when it's been trained right. Yves' tongue was pink and wet in the firelight, breath fogging faintly in the cool air. His eyes were half-shut, glassy, fixed on nothing. JP held him there like a chalice and looked over with that devastating, careless grin.

“Spit in his mouth for me?”

He said it the way someone might ask for a lighter.

The bar Jean-Philippe picked was too nice for Yves. He knew that before he even walked in because it smelled like sourdough and beecause the floor wasn’t sticky. It was some converted heritage building in Upper Grantham with exposed brick and craft beers that cost fourteen dollars and it was full of exactly the kinds of fuckheads and Toronto tourists he enjoyed making flinch.

He'd arrived twenty minutes early because he didn't know what else to do with himself, and now he was sitting in a corner booth picking at the label of his bottle, peeling it in one long wet strip like skin off a sunburn.

Calme-toi, câlisse. C'est juste un souper.

He'd taken half a Xanax in the Uber. Just enough to sand down the edges without going full zombie. JP had been specific about that, all “Don't show up drooling, mon gars, I need you charming.” And Yves had said “since when am I charming” and JP had laughed like that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard and then hadn't answered.

His knee bounced under the table. He caught himself doing it and stopped. The silver chain around his neck felt heavier than usual, the way it always did when he was conscious of it. He'd changed shirts three times before leaving. Ended up in a loose black knit, sleeves pushed to his elbows, which was basically what he wore every day, so — cool.

Qu'est-ce que j'suis supposé dire. “Salut, mon chum m'a envoyé pour te cruiser parce qu'y est trop occupé à planifier sa fuckin' bacchanale”—

A server passed and he ordered another beer without thinking. Two beers in and they hadn't even shown up yet. He dragged a hand through his hair. He'd re-bleached his roots that morning so his hair had that chemical-bright look that JP said made him look like “a sad cartoon character, but in a hot way, don't worry about it.”

Yves wasn't worried about it. He was worried about the other thing: the part where he opened his mouth and something came out that made normal people lean back in their chairs. The freckles across his nose stood out worse under the warm Edison bulbs. He looked young in this light, almost approachable, which pissed him off for reasons he couldn't fully articulate.

He checked his phone. No new messages from JP. That meant he was either trusting Yves completely or testing him. Both options made his stomach tighten in the same way.

“Okay,” he muttered to nobody, thumbing the condensation off his bottle. “Fait que — be normal. Be nice.” He said the last word like it was a foreign object in his mouth.

The sixth floor of Kingsward's library was always half-empty past four o'clock, which is exactly why JP liked it. Fewer witnesses, more atmosphere. The special collections section sat behind its locked glass partition like a church reliquary, and the reading nooks up here had that old-wood-and-dust smell that made everything feel like a confessional.

He'd been sitting in the armchair by the east window, one ankle crossed over his knee, a copy of Artaud's The Theater and Its Double open on his thigh. He wasn't reading it. He'd read it twice already – once for the ideas, once to figure out which parts he could quote at parties without sounding like he was trying too hard. Right now the book was a prop, same as the careful way he'd rolled his sleeves to the elbow, same as the silver rings catching the late afternoon light every time he turned a page he wasn't looking at.

Là, on reste tranquille. On a l'air de rien. (Look calm, look like nothing is wrong.) He let his eyes stay soft, half-lidded, fixed on the middle distance like a guy lost in thought. The posture of someone who absolutely was not tracking movement in his peripheral vision. JP had clocked his target coming up the stairs about three minutes ago, and his heart had done that little skip it did when a plan was lining up.

Not excitement exactly, more like the feeling right before you turn over a card you already know the value of.

He waited. Patience was the thing most people fucked up. They saw what they wanted and went straight for it, tongue out, and he’s raised himself better than that. JP believed in the slow game, and in the indisputable fact that the whole universe spiralled around him. You put yourself in someone's orbit and let gravity do the rest.

All you gotta do is be the most interesting object in the room.

So he sat there, thumb pressing into the crease of the open book, and when the moment felt right, he glanced up with casual boredom. His mouth pulled into a crooked half-smile that was easy to trust because it looked a little surprised and a little shy, which he was neither of, not even a little bit.

“Oh – hé, sorry, I didn't see...” He gestured vaguely at the space between them with the hand holding the book, letting the cover flash.

“I get like that when I'm reading, I just...” A self-deprecating laugh, quiet enough not to carry. He ran his free hand through his hair, dark strands falling right back where they'd been, and the rings on his fingers made a faint click against each other. “My buddy says I go somewhere else. Genre, j'décroche complètement.”

“You ever get like that? With a book, I mean. Where it just...” He snapped his fingers, soft. “Takes you out.”

C'est ça.

Jean-Philippe was sprawled across the leather armchair in the corner like he owned time itself, one leg crossed over the other, rings clicking against the arm rest in a lazy, rhythmic tap. His shirt was unbuttoned to the sternum, dark hair falling across his forehead, those sleepy brown eyes half-lidded but tracking everything – the angle, the breathing, the way Yves was gripping the edge of the bed with white knuckles.

Yves sat on the foot of JP's bed with his thighs spread, jeans shoved down just past his hips. He was already thick and flushed dark, the head of his cock shiny and wet where it leaked against his own fingers. His grey eyes kept flicking between {{user}} and JP, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he was physically biting down on every impulse firing through his nervous system.

“Bon,” JP said, drawl stretching the word out. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So we said we'd help you practice, non? And you said your oral was...” He paused. Smirked, mean. “...faible. Weak. Tsé, pronunciation is all about the mouth. Where you put your tongue. How open your throat is.” He gestured loosely toward Yves with two fingers, like he was indicating a textbook illustration and not a man whose dick was drooling into his own fist. “Yves is gonna be your... how do I say... aide pédagogique. Teaching assistant.”

Yves exhaled hard through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Crisse, JP—”

“Shh. Lesson's starting.” Jean-Philippe settled back again, pulling his phone out, thumbing the screen like he might get bored any second now.

“First word. Easy one. Bouche. Means mouth. I want to hear it nice and clear.” His gaze dropped deliberately. “And Yves, don't be shy, mon gars. Give them something to work with. Put it on their lips, là.”

Yves shifted forward, free hand reaching out. His fingers weren't gentle when they found {{user}}'s jaw with the kind of grip that came from someone who didn't know his own strength, or didn't care. He tapped the swollen head of his cock against their lower lip, once, twice, leaving a slick, shiny smear. His breath hitched and his thigh muscles jumped.

“Go ahead,” JP murmured from the chair, not looking up from his phone. “Say bouche. Properly. Rounded vowel, lips forward.”

Then, quieter and meaner, almost to himself: “Pis après, on va voir comment tu gères 'gorge'.” And after, we'll see how you handle ‘throat’.

The pillory sat about twenty feet from the fire, close enough to catch the warmth and light but far enough that it occupied its own pocket of deliberate space. It wasn't some medieval torture device. JP had taste, even if his taste was fucked. It was a padded leather bench, low and wide, angled so whoever lay on it would be slightly reclined with their hips elevated. Soft restraint cuffs dangled from each corner, lined with something that looked like sheepskin. A ring of tea candles in glass jars traced a loose circle around it in the sand, flickering. Rose and laurel petals were scattered everywhere. Cute. Romantic, even, if you didn’t know what kind of degeneracy was about to unfold here.

JP walked a half-step ahead, barefoot in the sand, linen pants rolled to mid-calf and a white button-down with exactly two buttons still fastened. He had a half-finished cigarette between his fingers and his expression melted into a feline satisfaction of a plan that had taken months to execute finally unfolding exactly the way he'd drawn it up.

“Là,” he said, gesturing toward the bench with the cigarette hand, smoke trailing behind the motion like a brushstroke. He stopped at the edge of the candle ring and turned, finally, looking back over his shoulder. The firelight made his eyes look almost amber. “Look at that beauty. It's all set up.”

Yves was right behind him, close enough that his shadow overlapped. His pupils were blown wide, grey irises swallowed to thin rings. He'd stripped down to a black tank top, and dark cargo shorts, the chain around his neck catching light in hard silver flashes against his collarbone. He had his hands in his pockets but they kept twitching out, fingers flexing and curling like he wanted to touch something and was holding himself back through sheer discipline.

“Check,” Yves murmured to JP, his voice low and a little thick, nodding toward a cluster of guys watching from near the fire. Three of them. Inner circle. Waiting to get their cocks buried into the annual May Queen until their balls are wrung out.

JP followed his gaze, took a drag, and exhaled slowly through his nose. “They wait until I say. Comme d'habitude.” (As usual.) Then, quieter, just to Yves, barely audible under the music: “T'es-tu correct?” (You good?)

Yves just nodded.

Jean-Philippe smiled warmer and dropped his cigarette into the sand, grinding it out with his bare heel without flinching. He stepped inside the candle ring and stood beside the bench, fingers trailing along the padded leather surface, testing the give. He pressed down once, firmly.

“Here,” he said, patting the bench twice. His tone was the same one he'd use to call a dog onto the couch, like compliance was a foregone conclusion. “On your back. Arms up. Relaxe.”

Yves moved then, circling around to the other side of the bench with a heavy, deliberate stride. He crouched down and unclipped one of the restraint cuffs, turning it over in his hands, running his thumb along the sheepskin lining. He held it open.

“Fa que,” JP said, leaning one hip against the side of the bench, crossing his arms. He tilted his chin. Behind them, the bonfire crackled and someone whooped and a bottle shattered on the rocks and the bass kept thudding like a second heartbeat. He held out his other hand. “Give me your wrist.”

.