Love means going to lunch with your parents and not telling your bf (for je_nesaisquoi)
A few weeks had gone by since the plane had touched down at O'Hare from Ye Olde Merry Canada. Long enough for them to get back into the swing of the important things in their Chicago life together. Like noisy sex most days and not just confined to the bedroom, bitching about whose turn it was to take out the trash, getting drunk on a Saturday night and spending the rest of Sunday figuring out exactly whose idea it was to shave STALLION into Vecchio's leg hair and who ran out of room so that one leg read STALL and the other LION. Monday was usually spent with Vecchio still moaning about Saturday; Tuesday with Kowalski groaning over a still-full stomach from dinner at the Vecchio's the night before; Wednesday was poker with the guys; Thursday was a choice for Kowalski between grocery shopping or watching his boyfriend shoot some hoops with a bunch of overweight sweaty cops, most of whom he didn't know (Kowalski chooses Secret Option C every time instead: read the comic section of the newspaper and nap in the car for an hour and then drag Vecchio around the supermarket as fast as possible so they can get back home and hop in the shower together because napping can get sweaty too, dammit, and sharing is envirowhatsitly-friendly); Friday is pizza and beer night, which is kinda like Tuesday and Thursday except there's more sex and less bitching because it's the weekend, and more chance of dragging an exhausted Vecchio to his feet for what passes as a late night dance slash groping session, which is what normally leads to the sex in the first place. Saturday comes again and if they're lucky enough not to be lumbered with the kids on a "fun" day out, the cars get a seeing too and Kowalski suggests grease might do the trick to cover up the bald patches on Vecchio's legs. Come the evening, the cycle starts again and Kowalski couldn't be happier.
Except today. Today was Sunday, a little after midday and Kowalski was more hungover than he'd planned to be, considering what the rest of the afternoon held for him. He hadn't drunk as much as he'd wanted to, which probably accounted for the fact that Vecchio was still in bed, him having taken up the slack like a supportive boyfriend and downed what Kowalski couldn't. Not that he'd probably noticed.
He kept his gravelly curses to a minimum as he pulled on socks and pants from the laundry basket and rummaged for a clean t-shirt at least. If he turned up at his parents' trailer smelling of sex and booze his mom would be straight round to clean his apartment before he'd even had a mouthful of roast chicken. Finding a snoring Vecchio naked in his bed wouldn't be her choice of dessert, he was sure.
Which was why he was being quiet, or at least trying to be. Stumbling into the bathroom, he simultaneously peed and put gel in his hair without a mirror, fumbled blearily for his toothbrush, any toothbrush, to take away the stink of beer on his breath and tried to put in his contacts at the same time.
At the third poking of his eye and the third stifled yell, he flicked them down the toilet and stumbled back out, trying to remember why the fuck he'd even given them a go in the first place. Glasses were his friend.
And currently, his friend was poking out from under Vecchio's sleeping form.
"Shit."
It covered all bases pretty well, Kowalski thought.
Hoping his partner would roll the other way while he searched through drawers and wardrobe for a scarf (three love bites on his neck screamed Look Ma! I got laid last night!), Kowalski started trying to remember who did what to who and paused his hunt long enough to roll up his jeans legs and check for shaving tattoos.
All was clear on his end. Now he just had to get out of here before Vecchio woke up and had a seizure after seeing Kowalski up before him. At least if he did that, he couldn't ask where Kowalski was going.