A/N: TRIGGER WARNING — Mention of suicide and sad themes.
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Saint squinted through the smoke curling upward, his eyes immediately finding ebony legs lazily kicking in crystal-blue water as Cerise lounged atop a pineapple-shaped float.
A soft, musical laugh carried over the pool, and he smiled before flinching as tongs were clapped in front of his face.
"Oi! Focus. No one likes dry chicken," Ricky chastised, "Give your meat some love."
Taken aback, Saint shot the other man a look, "Qu'est-ce que tu viens de dire?"
[What did you just say?]
"Kiss—huh?" The older man raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, I think I got this one," Jackson piped up from where he was tying the bag of charcoal, flashing a tilted grin. "He said 'pause.' And I agree, man. Never say that again."
Saint was still standing, absolutely puzzled as he examined the man before him.
Richard was dressed much like Saint imagined most suburban dads did at a summer cookout, down to the goofy apron reading Mr. Good Lookin' Is Cookin'. The man even took it upon himself to bring Saint an apron, too.
Not that he was particularly enthused, but actually now slightly suspicious that Cerise's father actually hated him after reading the vinyl print: 'This guy rubs his own meat', paired with the unnecessary arrow pointing up at his chin.
The man was truly testing him today, that was certain.
"I bet he has an apron that says it," Saint shook his head, calibrating himself away from the tongue he easily slipped into while cooking, "I'd put money on it."
"Pfft... no," Ricky denied without much conviction, flipping a few drumsticks and pointing out which were perfect versus nearly done as if the conversation was over.
Meanwhile, Jackson wasn't buying it either, "How much you talkin'?"
"Save your money, he never loses," El chimed in as he strolled over, joining the trio huddled by the grill, "I thought we talked about your lil' gambling addiction, man? You're better than this."
"Like I don't see you reaping the rewards," Saint countered, smacking El's hand away from snatching his third "sample" pork rib. "Greedy fuck."
"Who are you calling greedy, you troglodyte?" El shot back, clutching his hand to his chest like Saint had actually broken it. "I came over to politely offer to replenish drinks... in exchange for sustenance."
Elliot raised his empty beer bottle as proof, the other hand making a show of wafting the barbecue smoke towards his nostrils.
"Sure," Saint muttered, "At this rate, I'll need to go buy more meat."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" El's gaze dropped pointedly to his apron.
Saint watched him with unblinking eyes, his gaze flickering between El and the foiled tray of grilled meat. He managed to close the grill with an unsteady hand, diminishing the smoke and aroma.
"Tu veux un os de poulet dans le cul?" Saint deadpanned, raising the steaming chicken leg that was to be set aside with the other finished ones.
[Do you want a chicken bone up your ass?]
"...I sense beef," Ricky said with a raised eyebrow.
Saint shook his head, "No beef. Just two chickens."
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Please, with a Cherry on top? | 18+
Romance"Tell me you don't want that," his darkened eyes clashed with her dazed ones, "Say it, and we'll stop right now. Tell me, and I'll go." Silence hung in the air, the distant hum of passing cars and crickets fading into the night. "Cause I have every...
