Warning: This story is not intended for innocents, smut virgins, or anyone who tries to avoid sexually explicit content. This story was written while listening to "Livin' in the Fridge" by Weird Al, as if it needs an additional layer of crack.


Mitch:

Lachlan quietly shuts and locks the front door, looking anxiously around the dark house while he pockets the spare set of house keys and clutches the precious brown paper bag. The Uber driver pulls away from the curb and the headlights flash one last time on the windows of the house across the street before the black car turns around the corner and disappears. He checks around himself once, twice before he quickly creeps down the hallway to his temporary room and locks the door with a soft click. He thinks he's home free. Whenever he sneaks out at night to go on one of his secret Chipotle raids, he always comes back acting more suspiciously than the time before – ducking around corners, hiding behind furniture, peering out into the hallway before he hurries over to the bathroom hours later. He acts like an abused dog, preparing for its owner to whip it with a ruler. I give him a few minutes to settle down, waiting until the crinkling of the bag has stopped before I walk from the window seat in the empty sunroom to the kitchen down the hall. Jerome has been asleep for a while, and now that Lachlan will be occupied for at least an hour, I have the kitchen all to myself.

The Bacca really outdid himself this time: he ordered a precooked (and, thankfully, unburnable) Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings from some catering company, his attempt at a pity-ploy when I left for the weekend to visit my family and Lachlan refused to put his burrito down long enough to go with him to a high-class buffet for the afternoon. It would be almost pitiful, if Jerome could make a facial expression that looked anything remotely close to 'pitiful.' Every selfie he sent me over the weekend looked more hideously disturbing than the last, and the final picture was just his unfocused nose covered in chunky cranberry sauce. It was his choice not to go on the cruise with his extended family, and there was no way I was going to hear Dad rant about the importance of family again this year. I would rather try to take a bite out of Lachlan's beloved chicken burrito than go through all that again.

I turn the dim surface light on the microwave on to avoid attracting Lachlan's attention, then I grab a paper plate from the cupboard and head over to the fridge. I run my fingers up and down the cool, smooth metal handle while I consider the available options, pausing when I see that there is still a small cut of roasted turkey left. Jerome must be sick if he left this beauty in here this long, especially now that I'm home. I snatch the container of chilled meat and the styrofoam cup of gravy, listening closely in the near-silence for the soft pad of slippered feet on the wooden floor. Satisfied with the quiet, I peel open the cardboard lid of the turkey and take a big whiff of the perfectly seasoned bird, the chill of the refrigerated container gently burning my cheeks. I don't bother warming the food up; it would dry out the thin slab of meat, and the noise would probably give me away and start a heated argument with a tired, hungry Bacca. He was still salty about my trip home without him when my flight landed this morning, so I don't want to push my luck tonight when the neighbors are trying to sleep. I pop open the cup of gravy and carefully drizzle it over the smooth, slick, rounded cut of meat. It looks appetizing in more ways than one. This is one of those beautiful moments when there is no one around to ruin the fun, and I'm going to take full advantage of it.

I lean back against the cold metal of the fridge, gently rubbing the space between my shoulderblades on the ridged handles. This is better than a masseuse, and it doesn't complain or ask for anything in return. I suck the stray droplet of turkey gravy off my left thumb, using the reflection in the glass patio doors to peer around the corners. I feel like Lachlan, creeping around in the middle of the night, doing unspeakable things that no one should ever be forced to accidentally walk in on. Yeah, we have a pretty good idea of what goes on behind that closed door at the end of the hallway, whether he wants to admit to it or not. At this point, Jerome ships Chipotlan harder than he ships Vikklan, which is really, really saying something. He even persuaded Lachlan that Americans give gifts at Thanksgiving just so he could get him to take the glittering Chipotle gift card he bought him to run his little experiment. I might have felt bad about joining in on the lie if he hadn't started fidgeting in his chair thirty seconds later, with his eyes glazed over and his hands moving down below the table to supposedly put the card away in a wallet that should have been in his back pocket. Apparently, I'm not the only one who gets creative when he gets lonely.

My fingers slowly trail through the pool of ice cold gravy as they pull the edges of the chunk of turkey breast apart, forming a sharp crease down the middle of the slab. A plan immediately begins to form. I tear off a small piece and immediately know that any consequences of letting my stomach betray Jerome are beyond worth it. The rich, salty flavor fills my mouth as I lean back against the curve of the fridge, resting against the perfectly shaped door handles. The meat is sweet, cool, and glistening wet, reflecting the glow from the microwave light in its topmost layer of thick juices. It reminds me of an experiment my last girlfriend and I did when I visited her over the summer, except this gravy isn't smeared over fries or warm body parts and this meal doesn't expect me to buy it lunch tomorrow as a bribe. The intoxicating scent of the turkey draws me in and I carefully set the tin foil pan down on the counter and get to work.

The plump curves of the turkey breast make the gravy flow toward the crevice in the middle of the slab, where it slowly pools in a thick, tangy puddle. I start at the top, cleaning out a portion of the liquid before it can cling to my face and slide up my nose like a syrupy drug. I'm almost finished with the deep end of the pool when Lachlan starts choking on something down the hall, causing me to jump and splatter a few drops of brown gravy on the front of my white t-shirt. I curse at him under my breath, grabbing the collar of my shirt and bringing the lost drops up to my lips, sucking the salty sauce out of the fabric while the faint chemical scent of laundry detergent and body spray overpowers the sweet smell of the meat. I glance down the hallway and in the reflection in the patio doors, checking to see if Lachlan's spluttering coughs had woken the raging Bacca up. The coast is clear.

My head dips back down towards the rapidly warming turkey, my tongue carefully cleaning up the spilled juices while my teeth gently graze the slick meat. No fights, no drama, no crying – just ecstasy.


Jerome:

Fuck. So this's gonna be a thing now, huh? Lachlan's bright idea spread, and it spread in all the right ways. The only bad thing (other than the fact that I'm only gonna be eating dry stuffing and gloopy cranberries for dinner now) is Lachlan's little kink is hilarious and all kinds of fun to feed, but this… This isn't funny. This's something else entirely. And I can't stop watching.

I heard Mitch head downstairs like half an hour ago when he thought I was sleeping so he could wait for Lachy to come home, and I snuck in the hall closet to catch him because I knew he was gonna come down here and tickle the fridge's pickles. But I didn't think I'd walk in on him making sweet, sweet love to my fucking dinner. I mean, I knew he was really into this kinda thing with his ex-girlfriend because she somehow didn't know about his… his situation even though I spent the whole time she was here with ultra-mega-noise-cancelling headphones on to drown the two of them out. Seeing him do it's a whole other thing. Part of me wants to jump outta the closet and scare the holy living shit out of him for stealing the rest of my sad excuse for a Thanksgiving dinner, but that's only like one percent of my brain right now. The other ninety-nine percent doesn't wanna go anywhere.

Dammit, Mitch. I expected to come down here and bust you red-handed mutilating my poor, limp turkey. I didn't think I'd end up in the hall closet watching you pole dance against the fridge and tongue the poor bird. This isn't what most people mean when they say they eat turkey at Thanksgiving.

I can't ignore the painful pressure in my suddenly too-tight jeans and I give in to the burning and undo the zipper. It's not the first time he's made me do something like this. This's just the first time it happened over dinner. Usually it's behind closed doors or on the couch during the five-day-long winter when it's fifty degrees outside and I can break out the blankets and not look completely nutso. Just another reason to hate Floor-fuck-land. Here, though… He can't look up and catch me slamming the Spam over here. I can just sit back and enjoy the show.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if this turned into a thing.

Might as well get something out of it, now that I don't have anything good to eat.


Mitch:

It doesn't take long before the gravy is gone and the once smooth surface of the meat is jagged and rough from the top layer being ripped away. I back a step away from the side of the countertop and the small, sharp drawer handle I had been leaning forward against, and I feel the stinging cold of the wet spot in the front of my underwear against the sensitive flesh. Now, even if someone walks in on me legitimately eating, they won't know what actually happened here tonight. I peel the remains of the turkey breast apart and snack on it while I dig around in the fridge for a second course to this meal. I pull out the half-eaten chocolate cream pie and turn to grab a knife to cut a slice when I see him standing there, his arms crossed and his face scrunched in a comical scowl. He magically appeared when my back was turned, as silent as ever.

"Goddammit, Mitch. Did you really hafta do this? And with the turkey! You had to do it with the turkey? What the fuck are we gonna eat, Mitch?" Jerome rants under his breath, trying to keep the noise down to avoid disturbing Lachlan.

"What are you talking about, dood? There's plenty left to eat." I self-consciously wipe the back of my hand across my face, making sure that I don't have gravy everywhere. He doesn't look remotely convinced.

"I saw what you did to my turkey, Mitchell." I try to keep my face as blank and unimpressed as possible, but things just got really nasty. How much did he see? "Don't you give me that eyebrow. You can say whatever you wanna say but we both know what happened in here." I see him glance down at the spot of lost gravy on my t-shirt, and I know that if I wasn't standing behind the bar, his eyes would be travelling lower than that.

"And what exactly did you see, Jerome?"

"Well, it looked like you were slurping its udders pretty good. Pretty impressive for a Monday night."

"Yeah, I might've been having a little late night fun after the week from hell, but what were you doing watching me? Were you choking next year's turkey?" He has the decency to look uncomfortable, but he doesn't deny it. Is this why he's so interested in Lachlan's Chipotle kink? Does he get off to that, too, or does he just have a thing for me? Fuck. I thought we settled this in high school.

"Touché. Don't touch my cheddar taters. Last good thing left." At least he changed the subject. He never does that.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't grind it in the carpet or you'll-" Before I know it, the rest of the cream pie filling is clinging to my face and he's peeling the tin off to smear it through my hair. He leaves the empty foil tin perched on top of my head and pats it a few times before he wipes the whipped cream from his hand on the front of my shirt.

"Hey, Mitch. Sssssssllllluuuuuurrrrrppppp."

"Fuck you, dood."