FIC: The Application Process, West Point Slash, Andrew/Chris
TITLE: The Application Process
AUTHOR: veuki
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Andrew Ruddock/Chris Hutson
DISCLAIMER: This is part of an original series. All of the characters belong to me and originate entirely from my imagination. These events are fictional. I don't own nor do I claim to own the United States Military Academy.
WARNING: Graphic slash.
NOTES: This is part of the "West Point Slash" series. See the cast of characters here.
SUMMARY: Andrew Ruddock, class of '02, comes to speak at Chris' high school. Chris ends up learning a few things.
Chris slid a stack of textbooks in his locker and turned around to continue rummaging in his Jansport, only to narrowly avoid a slap to the crotch from Tyler Ferguson.
"What the fuck, Ferg," he said, irritated. He took a swing at Tyler's head but Tyler ducked out of the way, grinning madly.
"Come on and skip French with me," Tyler pleaded.
"Isn't Lanier giving another subjunctive quiz?"
"Yeah, and I'm not ready to fail another one. Come on. Come on," Tyler screeched as Chris wrinkled his nose. "Don't be such a little girl."
"Oh, I'm a little girl 'cause I keep getting easy hundreds? Why don't you stop being such a fucking retard and study the material?"
"Because I'm too busy fucking your sister," Tyler retorted.
Ignoring the jab, Chris extracted his most US History AP exam from his bag; a "98" was scrawled in red at the top of the page. Stuffing it in between the pages of his pre-calculus text, he closed his locker and turned around to look at Tyler. Tyler was shifting from one foot to the other and eyeing a blonde senior's mile-long legs. He was reedy with flaming red hair, freckles, bad acne, braces and a nearly constant cracking voice. They studied together often, which of course meant eating large amounts of nachos that Tyler demanded his mom make them and screwing around on Tyler's PlayStation.
"What are we going to do instead?" Chris asked finally. "I don't feel like getting detention if we get cut slips."
"You underestimate me," Tyler said with relish, his eyes starting to gleam. He brandished two passes and waved them in front of Chris' face. "We're gonna listen to some guy talk about college. Perfectly legit, C-baby."
"Like that's better than French?" Chris said disgustedly. Sometimes he found it hard to believe that Tyler was really the only person in school he could tolerate.
"Fuck yeah," Tyler said fervently, thrusting one of the passes at Chris. "If I bring home another D my mom said I'm grounded for a month. I need more time to study."
Chris made a face but took the pass anyway. "You're not going to study for it anyway."
"I know, so call it staving off the inevitable." Tyler's eyes widened and he whistled as a red-haired girl in a short uniform skirt passed them. She gave Tyler the finger.
Chris checked his sports watch. "C'mon, this dumb thing is in the cafeteria and I want to grab some food if the breakfast bar is still open."
The two of them set off down the hall to the cafeteria. There was still a trickle of students hurrying into classrooms, as the fourth period bell was about thirty seconds away from sounding. Chris hoisted his backpack strap more securely on his shoulder and glanced down at the pass in his hand.
"'West Point'? What is that again?"
"Do you live under a fuckin' rock or something?" Tyler asked in disbelief, hitting Chris hard in the back of the head with the palm of his hand. "It's the military school, genius. Hey, what's an oxymoron?"
"You... moron," said Chris, but relented and continued, "what?"
"Military intelligence."
The fourth bell rang. Tyler whipped his head around and bellowed at the red bell above a set of mud-brown lockers, "Shut the fuck up already!"
"Language, Ferguson," roared Mr. Vanni.
"Oh, Jesus Christ," Tyler muttered as the hall monitor approached them. Chris desperately tried to stifle a smirk.
"What are you two doing out in the hallways? The bell just rang. Where the hell are your passes?" Mr. Vanni demanded. The prominent vein in his forehead began to swell.
"We're going to hear the West Point cadet talk about the United States Military Academy," Tyler bellowed, snapping his heels and saluting. "Sir!"
"Like you have half a chance of getting into West Point," Mr. Vanni scowled half-heartedly. "Show me your passes."
"Sir, presenting my pass! Sir!" Chris yelled, mostly to take the heat off Tyler and partly because he too hated Mr. Vanni.
Tyler began to shake with repressed laughter and pressed his lips together. Chris stared straight ahead at a spot three inches above Mr. Vanni's ear. He knew if he looked at Tyler he would completely break down into hysterics.
"Do we need to take a trip to the principal's office?" Mr. Vanni stepped closer, his voice becoming dangerously soft. "Do you really want that, Hutson? Do you?"
"No," Chris said meekly. He bit his lip hard, making a valiant attempt not to tack a "sir" on the end of his response.
"Then I suggest you both get moving," Mr. Vanni said menacingly. "If I catch you roaming the halls I'm going to see to it that you get in-school suspension. Both of you," he added.
"Thanks, Mr. Vanni. Have a great day," sing-songed Chris, and both of them set off at a fast walk down the hall, leaving the hall monitor behind them.
"Think he's gonna report us for insubordination?" Chris muttered, still trying to keep from laughing.
Tyler checked carefully behind them to make sure Mr. Vanni was out of earshot. Making an unbelievably sour face, he pretended to jack off with a loose fist. "Probably. That guy's such a dick. Him power-tripping as a stupid hall monitor is so fucking gay I can't even begin put it into words. I guess St. Francis is where you end up when you fail out of police academy because you were busy sucking too much cock," Tyler screamed, his voice echoing down the hallway.
Chris made a beeline for the breakfast bar as they entered the cafeteria. He paid for two packs of strawberry-frosted Pop Tarts, a blueberry muffin and a carton of chocolate milk with a crumpled ten-dollar bill. Juggling his purchases in his arms, he walked to a group of chairs arranged in a semi-circle. There were already a few kids seated, talking loudly amongst themselves. He plopped into the seat beside Tyler and inserted an entire Pop Tart into his mouth, half of it hanging out unattractively as he opened his milk.
John Campbell, vice president of the St. Francis Preparatory Academy student council, was sitting erect, his ankle crossed over his knee and a folder open on his lap. "Hutson," John said haughtily, apparently unable to hide his disdain for Chris. There had been bad blood between them ever since Chris had beaten him in the election for student council president. "I didn't know you knew anything about the Long Gray Line."
Chris rolled his eyes and removed the Pop Tart from his mouth. "Give it a rest, Campbell. It's too early for this bullshit."
Ignoring him, John turned to Tyler. "I definitely didn't know you wanted to go to USMA."
Chris leaned forward and smiled. "He's in it for the academics. We all know you want to take it up the butt from your fellow squad mates like a real military man."
"Faggot," John barked.
"You wish." Chris turned his attention back to Tyler, who was laughing with his knuckles against his mouth.
"I hope this thing ends late and we can miss fifth period," Tyler said once he'd stopped snickering. "If I hear Mangia mention John Hancock-and-balls one more time again I'm gonna blow my brains out."
"What do you care? You're just going to go to sleep anyway." Chris offered Tyler the pack. "Want one?"
"Thanks." Tyler ignored Chris' proffered Pop Tart and grabbed the other unopened pack instead.
"Fatty," Chris said mildly, and Tyler grinned because he probably weighed about three-quarters of what Chris did soaking wet.
The cafeteria door opened quietly, but shut with a loud echoing bang. Everyone turned their heads to look at who had entered the room. The West Pointer walked with precise, confident strides to the table set up near the horseshoe arrangement of chairs.
He was tall and good-looking with dark hair cropped closely to his head. He had thick eyebrows, a straight nose and masculine, chiseled features. He resembled the handsome, rugged military men that were prominently featured in Hollywood war movies and Army advertisements. The gray top of his uniform seemed barely able to contain his broad shoulders. Neatly creased, spotless white pants ended at black dress shoes, glossed to a mirror shine. He laid the thick folder embossed with the West Point crest on the table set out for him, removed his white hat from his head and smiled.
Chris stared. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he probably looked like a besotted teenage girl, but he was unable to stop himself.
John Campbell, ever the eager student, stood swiftly as the soldier faced them. Tyler rolled his eyes and made soft slurping noises.
"At ease," said the West Pointer, grinning. His voice was husky and deep. He didn't say anything as he observed his audience, his gaze moving from person to person. When he finally looked at Chris, Chris dropped his eyes to his lap. Immediately he felt his ears start to burn. Stupid! You're so fucking stupid, he thought. He chanced a glance at the soldier and to his surprise, saw that a slow grin was spreading across the man's face. He winked at Chris and began to speak.
"Hey, everybody. As you guys know, I'm here from West Point to talk to you today," he said easily, his voice confident and smooth. "My name is Andrew Ruddock and I'm an alumni. I actually graduated this year in May of 2002. So I came to West Point when I was..." He squinted, trying to remember. "In... 1998? Yeah, when I was seventeen. Man, that seems like ages ago."
John's hand flew into the air, his arm ramrod straight. Andrew stopped speaking and called on him politely. "Sir, my grandfather graduated from the Long Gray Line. What was your major?"
Tyler shot Chris a disgusted look and elbowed him in the ribs.
"Nuclear engineering," Andrew answered.
"That's some pretty heavy stuff," piped up a black kid sitting a few seats away.
"Well, it certainly wasn't philosophy," Andrew said good-naturedly, and a few kids laughed. "I'm just kidding, I'm not trashing any future philosophy majors out there. It was a lot of work. I'm just really happy to have my degree."
"What are you planning to do now?" John persisted.
"Well, I've got my five years of duty, but after that... who knows? Maybe NASA. We'll see."
Andrew paused, looked purposefully around the room and continued. "If you get into West Point and get through all four years, you owe five years of active service in the United States Army and three years of inactive duty. It's a relatively small price because you're getting a 250,000-dollar education for free. That's right," Andrew said, the corner of his mouth kicking up as a few kids whistled low, clearly impressed.
"Most people will have student loans hanging over their head years and years after they graduate. Many of your classmates' parents take out second and third mortgages on your houses so they can put you and your siblings through college. I knew a lot of people who couldn't go to graduate school because they simply couldn't afford it. When you graduate from West Point, you don't owe anything except your time. On top of that, you're paid an annual stipend... you're paid to go to school. I know, it blew my mind too."
Everyone laughed. Chris looked at Andrew's hands. They were large and a little pale. The class ring on his right hand was gold with a dark red jewel in the center. He glanced up only to find Andrew looking at him again. He felt his face get hot and shifted, embarrassed.
"So, you're all wondering... what do I have to do to get into this fantastic institution?" Andrew leaned against the table, smiling easily, hands loosely gripping the edge. "West Point wants to see good grades. There's a common misconception that because it's the military, no one cares about your GPA because it's all athletic. Let me tell you right now, that's far from the truth. You're dealing with an intense, highly academic course load. I think half of my graduating class were in the top ten percent in high school." He smiled. "Don't be scared. I got in with a 3.8. It's not the only factor, but it's a large part of it. Your SAT scores also count, too-West Point likes high math scores because they're primarily engineering."
"This place sounds like a concentration camp," Tyler whispered. Chris ignored him, studying Andrew.
"Above all, West Point wants to see extracurricular activities-even more so than places like Harvard and Yale and Stanford. They want to see leadership because when you graduate, you'll be a second lieutenant in the United States Army. They want to see student council presidents, team captains, Scout award winners."
Tyler poked Chris in the side, hard. "Aren't you in the Girl Scouts?"
"Eagle Scouts, for the hundredth time," Chris hissed. "Now shut the fuck up, I can't hear him."
"Do you want the rest of your food?"
"No!"
Tyler made a jubilant noise and scooped Chris' remaining Pop Tarts and muffin into his lap. Chris handed over his chocolate milk at Tyler's urging, fighting the urge to fiercely and repeatedly poke Tyler in the small of his back.
"Athletics count, too," Andrew continued. "A lot. Each semester, everyone participates in an intramural sport of their choosing. Twice a year you take the APFT-that's short for Army Physical Fitness Test. You also take the IOCT, also known as the Indoor Obstacle Course Test. If you make it far enough in the application process, you take a physical aptitude test, administered to you by West Point officials."
"What's the application process like?" Chris blurted.
Andrew slowly turned his head to look at Chris. He looked at him with a confidence that was overwhelmingly intense. Chris dropped his gaze to his lap. "What's your name?" Andrew asked after a few long moments.
"Chris," he answered quickly, clearing his throat. "Hutson." Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered he was the only one for whose name Andrew had asked. Warmth wriggled in the pit of his stomach.
"The application process," Andrew said, their eyes locked, "is a bitch." Everyone laughed. Andrew finally looked away and went on, "The best advice I have for everyone thinking about applying is to keep a folder, because there are so many recommendations, nominations, essays-you name it-that you have to keep track of. There's really an obscene amount of paperwork you have to complete."
Andrew continued speaking for the next half-hour in a strong, steady voice. He never wavered or lost his train of thought. He did not shuffle through his folder, as if he were searching for his confidence or words that did not immediately come to mind. It was startlingly clear that he had learned how to lead, and had learned it well.
I want that, Chris thought. I want to do that.
He felt as though he had only been listening to Andrew talk for a few minutes, which was why he started when Andrew glanced at his watch and put his hands together.
"That's all the time I have for today, so I guess I should wrap it up by saying thanks so much for letting me talk to you guys and good luck if you decide to apply to USMA. I'll be here for a little bit if you guys have any more questions or want my e-mail address."
Everyone applauded and Andrew grinned, waving one hand in acknowledgment. As expected, John Campbell was one of the few kids who approached Andrew. Most were slinging their backpacks over their shoulders and leaving without a second glance back.
Tyler crammed the rest of Chris' muffin in his mouth and stood up. "History time," he groaned.
Chris kept one eye on Andrew as he fiddled with the buckle on his backpack strap. "Go on without me," he said. "I'll be there in a bit."
"Alright. Later, man." Tyler bumped his fist against Chris' and ran to catch up with a few friends at the cafeteria exit.
Chris took out the wrinkled class schedule he knew by heart and pretended to study it as he waited for the chance to speak to Andrew alone. John was speaking in a loud voice and firing questions at Andrew. It took all of Chris' willpower not to roll his eyes and punch John in the back of the head.
Finally, John shook Andrew's hand and left the cafeteria, leaving Chris alone with the West Pointer.
Chris' stomach churned as he approached Andrew. He wet his lips before speaking. "Hi."
Andrew smiled at him. It wasn't a polite smile; it was slow and genuine and made the corners of his eyes crinkle and Chris' stomach do backflips. "Hey," he said. "What'd you think of all that?"
"Well... I've never really considered going to West Point before today," Chris admitted. "You've pretty much got me sold, man."
Andrew laughed. "I'm glad to hear I did my job, but God have mercy on you if you decide to go. It's the furthest thing from a picnic, let me tell you." He tugged at the collar of his uniform. "Fuck, this thing is so hot and itchy."
Before Chris knew what he was doing, he had reached a hand out and touched the cuff of Andrew's gray top, right above his wrist. "Yeah... it feels pretty uncomfortable." His thumb slipped from the thick sleeve and dropped to the back of Andrew's hand. Chris jerked back too quickly, his face burning. "Well, um... I thought you gave a really good speech," he finally managed.
There was a pregnant pause. Chris kept his eyes on his Pumas, tried not to dig his nails into his palms and thought, Fuck, fuck, fuck, you are so fucking awkward. Damn it. Nice going. Fuckwad.
Andrew broke the silence. "So... you're a senior?"
"Um... yeah. Well, no. I'm a junior." He was vaguely aware that he was babbling but unable to stop himself. "I'm almost a senior. The end of the school year is in June. So... almost, but-"
"Are you free right now? Do you have class or anything?" Andrew interrupted.
Chris still had US History, pre-calculus and English to get through. He considered the prospect of hanging out with Andrew and answered, "No, I'm done for the day," without missing a beat.
"Oh, nice. Wanna go grab a bite with me?"
"Sure," Chris blurted.
"Awesome," Andrew said, putting his hat back on. He gathered up his things and the two of them set off for the parking lot. "So, you play any sports?"
"Yeah. I'm the captain of my track team," Chris said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "We're pretty good. We won regionals this year."
"Oh? That's outstanding." Andrew opened one of the main doors at the front and held it open. "After you," he said.
"Thanks," Chris mumbled, squeezing past Andrew. He could feel the older man's eyes on him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
As they approached a dark blue BMW, Chris whistled lowly. "Nice car."
"Yeah, it's my baby," Andrew said, grinning. He unlocked the car with his keychain remote and it beeped twice. "Paid off the down payment the day I got my cow loan."
"Cow loan?" Chris asked, sliding into the passenger seat. The smell of leather and traces of expensive cologne filled his nostrils.
"You'll have to excuse me," Andrew grunted as he twisted around to chuck his folders and hat in the backseat. "I've been away from society for so long that sometimes I forget I'm around civilians." He started the car and grinned at Chris. "It's the $20,000 loan we get during cow year."
"Cow year?" Chris dared to ask, feeling completely lost.
"Freshman year is plebe year, sophomore is... that's second year, right? Yeah. So... sophomore is yuk, junior is cow and senior is firstie," Andrew answered, putting the car in reverse and pulling out of the parking lot.
Chris considered admitting to Andrew that until today, the mention of "West Point" would have brought to mind the image of a compass. He thought better of it and kept quiet.
"Hey, you mind if I swing by my hotel and change before we go?" Andrew asked after a few moments of awkward silence.
"Oh, sure. Of course. Not at all," Chris said.
"Thanks. I hate wearing my uniform in public."
They drove for ten minutes before finally arriving at a Holiday Inn. Andrew parked and grabbed his things from the backseat. They got out of the car, made their way inside and took the elevator to the eighth floor.
Andrew's room was right by the stairwell. As Andrew fumbled with the room key, Chris' heart began beating erratically. Jesus Christ, calm the fuck down. What the fuck is wrong with you?
The lock beeped and briefly flashed green. Andrew pushed the door open with his shoulder. "Here we are," he muttered, tossing his things on the hotel desk.
Chris stood awkwardly behind Andrew, fiddling with his backpack strap and breathing in the smell of lemon cleaner. "Um... should I just wait outside?"
Andrew turned around, fingers already undoing the buttons at his collar. "Huh?"
Chris' stomach was twisting itself into knots. "While... while you get changed?"
"What? Oh. Nah, it's cool. Just take a seat," Andrew said, nodding in the direction of the queen size bed. "I'll be done in a sec."
"Okay." Chris moved quickly to the bed while Andrew disappeared into the bathroom. Setting his backpack down by his feet, he sat slowly and looked around the room. It was spotless; aside from the rolling suitcase near the nightstand, he could barely tell that anyone had even been in the room before now.
Chris looked up at the sound of soft footsteps. Andrew was standing just a few feet away from him, clad only in his white dress trousers. His bare chest rose and fell imperceptibly with his even breathing.
Heat bloomed in Chris' face. He tried to speak but found that his mouth had gone dry. He simply sat and stared at Andrew, eyes wide.
Tense silence stretched between them. Chris could hear the blood roaring in his ears as Andrew slowly moved over to the bed. Andrew placed his hands on either side of Chris' thighs, whispered something unintelligible and touched his mouth to the rough skin underneath Chris' jaw line.
In an instant, Chris was blindingly, achingly hard. He gasped and gripped the knees of his jeans till his knuckles turned white.
Andrew mouthed at Chris' neck softly at first, but it wasn't long before his breathing became heavy and he began sucking at Chris' throat insistently. He slid his hand down Chris' chest and over his hard, flat stomach.
When Chris felt Andrew's hand cup his cock through his jeans, he went rigid. He had never come even remotely close to doing anything like this with another guy. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought vaguely, Am I really going to do this?
"Take this off," Andrew murmured, fingering the hem of Chris' T-shirt.
Chris met Andrew's dark, steady gaze and made his choice. Hands shaking, he pulled his shirt off. No turning back now.
Andrew flashed a predatory smile at Chris. Leaning in again, he cupped Chris' jaw, fingers digging hard into his cheekbones. Chris felt Andrew's breath feather across his mouth. He let out a soft sigh and angled his chin so he could touch his lips to Andrew's.
Andrew jerked back before Chris could kiss him. "Don't do that," he ground out.
Chris felt the color drain from his face. "Oh," he whispered, stilling. "I... I didn't-" He was on the verge of stammering an apology when Andrew dropped to his knees, yanked Chris' jeans down his hips and swallowed his cock.
Chris made a strangled noise and braced his hands on the bed. Behind the sound of his pulse beating hard in his ears, he registered constant, steady groans and realized they were coming from him.
In truth, this was the first time Chris had ever really gotten a blow job. Sure, he'd received more offers for head than he could remember, but he'd turned them all down or stopped before he even had his boxers off. Somehow, it hadn't felt right before now.
The sensation of Andrew's hot, wet mouth sliding up and down his cock was electrifying. The pressure of supporting his upper body on his wrists sent spikes of pain down his arms, but he barely felt them. He panted raggedly as Andrew took his cock into his mouth again and again, toes curling at the slick heat. When Andrew stopped briefly to spit on his hand so he could suck Chris and stroke him in tandem, Chris felt molten heat prickle at the corner of his eyes.
"I'm going-Andrew, I'm gonna c-come," he stammered, fingers hovering near Andrew's hair. Andrew knocked his hand away before Chris could touch him and sucked him harder, pressing a finger behind Chris' balls.
Tension seized Chris and crashed over him like a tidal wave. He choked on a long moan as he came in hard pulses down Andrew's throat. Andrew's fingers dug painfully into his hipbones as he swallowed Chris' come, lips tightening around the base of his cock.
The moment Chris finished riding out his orgasm, Andrew pushed him back on the bed so hard he felt the air swiftly rush from his lungs. Standing over Chris, Andrew clumsily undid his pants and pulled out his thick cock. He spat on his hand and stroked himself hard, the muscles in his arm straining. When he rubbed two fingers over the head of his cock and groaned, Chris shut his eyes tightly, his jaw dropping at the sensation overload. He felt as if his brain was on the verge of exploding.
At the feel of Andrew's come spattering wetly on his stomach, Chris' eyes flew open. He gasped as he watched pearly strings of come drip fast from Andrew's cock onto his clenched abdomen. Andrew fisted his cock hard as he spurted, clenching his teeth and groaning deeply.
As soon as Andrew finished, he was already moving. He tucked himself back into his pants and zipped up as he strode into the bathroom. He reappeared with a washcloth and flung it at Chris' chest. "Clean yourself up," he said brusquely, disappearing again into the bathroom.
Chris finally sat up, bracing his weight on his hands and wincing as his wrists ached in protest. He tried to clean off his stomach, but the dry washcloth just smeared most of Andrew's come across his skin. He absently scrubbed at his navel for a few seconds before reaching for his shirt and putting it back on, grimacing as the thin fabric clung to his stomach. As he shakily rose to his feet, his knees buckled; he gripped the bureau for support.
Andrew re-emerged from the bathroom, a white T-shirt tucked neatly into his dress pants. He appeared utterly calm and composed as he redid the buttons of his thick gray dress shirt.
"Um... Am I..." Inexplicably, Chris' voice died in his throat. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.
Andrew stared at him, looking completely unconcerned. Raising an eyebrow in silent question, he set to re-fastening the cuffs of his shirt.
"Do I-am I going to... to see you again?" Chris faltered and he briefly shut his eyes, wincing at how pathetic and girlish he sounded. Fuck. Way to go, Hutson. Grow a fucking vagina already.
Andrew made a sound of disbelief that made Chris' stomach roil. He could hear his heartbeat again, but this time it throbbed painfully in his ears like a runaway train.
"See me again?" Andrew straightened his shirt and waved his left hand in front of Chris' face. A gold wedding band caught the light filtering in through the curtains and glimmered brightly across Chris' vision. He felt as though he'd just stared directly at the sun. "I'm married," Andrew said unnecessarily, checking his watch. Sighing, he grabbed his folder off the desk, put his hat back on and strode to the door. "I'm late. See yourself out," he called over his shoulder. The door whooshed quietly behind him, and Chris was alone.
He stared blankly after Andrew's retreating form long after it had disappeared. After what seemed like hours, he threw the washcloth he'd forgotten he was holding hard at the dresser and swore lowly. "Fuck," he said, fire searing at the back of his throat. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-" His voice cracked. Breathing deeply, he steeled himself. When he opened his eyes again, they had stopped burning. He swallowed his humiliation and the myriad of feelings he couldn't quite name, and stooped down to grab his heavy backpack.
As he made his way to the elevator, fumbling with his car keys, Chris remembered that Andrew had driven him to the Holiday Inn. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration as he realized he was going to have to walk all the way to his car, parked ten miles away in the St. Francis student lot.
Chris slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped outside into the hot summer air. The heavy May heat shimmered in the distance, beating down hard on the back of his neck. He took a deep breath and broke into a brisk walk away from the hotel without looking back.
*
In the weeks following the debacle at the Holiday Inn, Chris sent his high school transcript and SAT score to the USMA admissions office, contacted his Congressional representative and Connecticut senators, and filled out the Cadet Questionnaire online. He didn't understand why he was even bothering to apply-not only had he started the process late, but he figured that after the Andrew incident, he'd never want to hear about West Point again. He had braced himself for the anger he was almost he'd certain he'd feel about USMA, but it never came.
He printed out the West Point crest and taped it next to his bed, staring at it until he could call the design to memory with his eyes closed. He knew the gold sword, the helmet and the eagle with its wings spread by heart-but it still didn't stop him from staring.
Since middle school, it had pretty much been decided that Chris would attend a private Ivy League college. His parents had stressed the importance of a good education, buying him a car so he could participate in extracurricular activities and hiring tutors when he struggled in physics and chemistry. They'd promised to pay his entire way through school, in return implicitly expecting him to do well. So far, Chris hadn't disappointed.
He already knew what he'd do at Yale or Harvard or Princeton: graduate with honors, plenty of accolades and internships under his belt, attend business or grad school and enter the work force with a hundred thousand dollar salary. Going down the "Ivy League road" practically guaranteed him an intricately detailed blueprint of his future.
He remembered exactly where he'd been and what he'd been doing when the planes crashed into the World Trade Center on September 11. Duty, Honor, Country-maybe it wasn't just a crock of "be all you can be" bullshit. Maybe it was his obligation to give something back. Sure, there were a lot of other people who most likely thought the same way he did-12,000 West Point applicants weren't in it solely for the free tuition-but maybe he really did owe his country something, even if it was just individual service that probably wouldn't make a difference in the long run.
Chris pushed himself hard in the overwhelming June heat to improve his one-mile run. He lifted weights until he outgrew many of his favorite older shirts, doing push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups and basketball throws until he was too exhausted to sleep well. When he passed the initial screening process, he paid cash for a physical at the family practice. He took the physical fitness test at a nearby public high school-administered by a West Point official-and did better on each of the six categories than he had all summer.
At the beginning of his senior year, Chris told his parents he was going to Vermont with Tyler for a weekend. Instead, he drove to Washington, D.C. and spent two days in a neatly pressed suit and tie, waiting in a run-down motel for brief meetings with his senator and House of Representatives member.
His acceptance letter arrived from Yale. Chris' parents brought home a sheet cake that read Congratulations Christopher! in red icing. His sister Meredith came home from Bryn Mawr for a party in Chris' honor. Chris smiled graciously, shook hands with everyone who congratulated him and kept the fact that he hadn't confirmed his spot in the Yale class of 2007 to himself.
He finished fleshing out the last bits of his application, revising the final drafts of his essays and sending in parts he'd accidentally skipped over before. He kept his application folder, with well over 200 pages of instructions and photocopies, hidden under his bed. He removed the West Point coat of arms from his wall, laminated it, and slept with the stiff plastic-sheathed design under his pillow; he knew it was stupid, but he regarded it as a "good luck" charm of sorts. After he received the confirmation letter telling him that his application was complete, he raced home after school each day to check the mail before his parents got in from work.
The last day before the deadline to formally accept his seat at Yale, Chris checked the mail and extracted a thick manila envelope with the West Point crest embossed in the corner. Feeling as though his heart would burst, he opened the envelope after three tries and pulled out the cover letter with shaking hands.
Chris thought desperately, I have to get in.
He did.
AUTHOR: veuki
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Andrew Ruddock/Chris Hutson
DISCLAIMER: This is part of an original series. All of the characters belong to me and originate entirely from my imagination. These events are fictional. I don't own nor do I claim to own the United States Military Academy.
WARNING: Graphic slash.
NOTES: This is part of the "West Point Slash" series. See the cast of characters here.
SUMMARY: Andrew Ruddock, class of '02, comes to speak at Chris' high school. Chris ends up learning a few things.
Chris slid a stack of textbooks in his locker and turned around to continue rummaging in his Jansport, only to narrowly avoid a slap to the crotch from Tyler Ferguson.
"What the fuck, Ferg," he said, irritated. He took a swing at Tyler's head but Tyler ducked out of the way, grinning madly.
"Come on and skip French with me," Tyler pleaded.
"Isn't Lanier giving another subjunctive quiz?"
"Yeah, and I'm not ready to fail another one. Come on. Come on," Tyler screeched as Chris wrinkled his nose. "Don't be such a little girl."
"Oh, I'm a little girl 'cause I keep getting easy hundreds? Why don't you stop being such a fucking retard and study the material?"
"Because I'm too busy fucking your sister," Tyler retorted.
Ignoring the jab, Chris extracted his most US History AP exam from his bag; a "98" was scrawled in red at the top of the page. Stuffing it in between the pages of his pre-calculus text, he closed his locker and turned around to look at Tyler. Tyler was shifting from one foot to the other and eyeing a blonde senior's mile-long legs. He was reedy with flaming red hair, freckles, bad acne, braces and a nearly constant cracking voice. They studied together often, which of course meant eating large amounts of nachos that Tyler demanded his mom make them and screwing around on Tyler's PlayStation.
"What are we going to do instead?" Chris asked finally. "I don't feel like getting detention if we get cut slips."
"You underestimate me," Tyler said with relish, his eyes starting to gleam. He brandished two passes and waved them in front of Chris' face. "We're gonna listen to some guy talk about college. Perfectly legit, C-baby."
"Like that's better than French?" Chris said disgustedly. Sometimes he found it hard to believe that Tyler was really the only person in school he could tolerate.
"Fuck yeah," Tyler said fervently, thrusting one of the passes at Chris. "If I bring home another D my mom said I'm grounded for a month. I need more time to study."
Chris made a face but took the pass anyway. "You're not going to study for it anyway."
"I know, so call it staving off the inevitable." Tyler's eyes widened and he whistled as a red-haired girl in a short uniform skirt passed them. She gave Tyler the finger.
Chris checked his sports watch. "C'mon, this dumb thing is in the cafeteria and I want to grab some food if the breakfast bar is still open."
The two of them set off down the hall to the cafeteria. There was still a trickle of students hurrying into classrooms, as the fourth period bell was about thirty seconds away from sounding. Chris hoisted his backpack strap more securely on his shoulder and glanced down at the pass in his hand.
"'West Point'? What is that again?"
"Do you live under a fuckin' rock or something?" Tyler asked in disbelief, hitting Chris hard in the back of the head with the palm of his hand. "It's the military school, genius. Hey, what's an oxymoron?"
"You... moron," said Chris, but relented and continued, "what?"
"Military intelligence."
The fourth bell rang. Tyler whipped his head around and bellowed at the red bell above a set of mud-brown lockers, "Shut the fuck up already!"
"Language, Ferguson," roared Mr. Vanni.
"Oh, Jesus Christ," Tyler muttered as the hall monitor approached them. Chris desperately tried to stifle a smirk.
"What are you two doing out in the hallways? The bell just rang. Where the hell are your passes?" Mr. Vanni demanded. The prominent vein in his forehead began to swell.
"We're going to hear the West Point cadet talk about the United States Military Academy," Tyler bellowed, snapping his heels and saluting. "Sir!"
"Like you have half a chance of getting into West Point," Mr. Vanni scowled half-heartedly. "Show me your passes."
"Sir, presenting my pass! Sir!" Chris yelled, mostly to take the heat off Tyler and partly because he too hated Mr. Vanni.
Tyler began to shake with repressed laughter and pressed his lips together. Chris stared straight ahead at a spot three inches above Mr. Vanni's ear. He knew if he looked at Tyler he would completely break down into hysterics.
"Do we need to take a trip to the principal's office?" Mr. Vanni stepped closer, his voice becoming dangerously soft. "Do you really want that, Hutson? Do you?"
"No," Chris said meekly. He bit his lip hard, making a valiant attempt not to tack a "sir" on the end of his response.
"Then I suggest you both get moving," Mr. Vanni said menacingly. "If I catch you roaming the halls I'm going to see to it that you get in-school suspension. Both of you," he added.
"Thanks, Mr. Vanni. Have a great day," sing-songed Chris, and both of them set off at a fast walk down the hall, leaving the hall monitor behind them.
"Think he's gonna report us for insubordination?" Chris muttered, still trying to keep from laughing.
Tyler checked carefully behind them to make sure Mr. Vanni was out of earshot. Making an unbelievably sour face, he pretended to jack off with a loose fist. "Probably. That guy's such a dick. Him power-tripping as a stupid hall monitor is so fucking gay I can't even begin put it into words. I guess St. Francis is where you end up when you fail out of police academy because you were busy sucking too much cock," Tyler screamed, his voice echoing down the hallway.
Chris made a beeline for the breakfast bar as they entered the cafeteria. He paid for two packs of strawberry-frosted Pop Tarts, a blueberry muffin and a carton of chocolate milk with a crumpled ten-dollar bill. Juggling his purchases in his arms, he walked to a group of chairs arranged in a semi-circle. There were already a few kids seated, talking loudly amongst themselves. He plopped into the seat beside Tyler and inserted an entire Pop Tart into his mouth, half of it hanging out unattractively as he opened his milk.
John Campbell, vice president of the St. Francis Preparatory Academy student council, was sitting erect, his ankle crossed over his knee and a folder open on his lap. "Hutson," John said haughtily, apparently unable to hide his disdain for Chris. There had been bad blood between them ever since Chris had beaten him in the election for student council president. "I didn't know you knew anything about the Long Gray Line."
Chris rolled his eyes and removed the Pop Tart from his mouth. "Give it a rest, Campbell. It's too early for this bullshit."
Ignoring him, John turned to Tyler. "I definitely didn't know you wanted to go to USMA."
Chris leaned forward and smiled. "He's in it for the academics. We all know you want to take it up the butt from your fellow squad mates like a real military man."
"Faggot," John barked.
"You wish." Chris turned his attention back to Tyler, who was laughing with his knuckles against his mouth.
"I hope this thing ends late and we can miss fifth period," Tyler said once he'd stopped snickering. "If I hear Mangia mention John Hancock-and-balls one more time again I'm gonna blow my brains out."
"What do you care? You're just going to go to sleep anyway." Chris offered Tyler the pack. "Want one?"
"Thanks." Tyler ignored Chris' proffered Pop Tart and grabbed the other unopened pack instead.
"Fatty," Chris said mildly, and Tyler grinned because he probably weighed about three-quarters of what Chris did soaking wet.
The cafeteria door opened quietly, but shut with a loud echoing bang. Everyone turned their heads to look at who had entered the room. The West Pointer walked with precise, confident strides to the table set up near the horseshoe arrangement of chairs.
He was tall and good-looking with dark hair cropped closely to his head. He had thick eyebrows, a straight nose and masculine, chiseled features. He resembled the handsome, rugged military men that were prominently featured in Hollywood war movies and Army advertisements. The gray top of his uniform seemed barely able to contain his broad shoulders. Neatly creased, spotless white pants ended at black dress shoes, glossed to a mirror shine. He laid the thick folder embossed with the West Point crest on the table set out for him, removed his white hat from his head and smiled.
Chris stared. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he probably looked like a besotted teenage girl, but he was unable to stop himself.
John Campbell, ever the eager student, stood swiftly as the soldier faced them. Tyler rolled his eyes and made soft slurping noises.
"At ease," said the West Pointer, grinning. His voice was husky and deep. He didn't say anything as he observed his audience, his gaze moving from person to person. When he finally looked at Chris, Chris dropped his eyes to his lap. Immediately he felt his ears start to burn. Stupid! You're so fucking stupid, he thought. He chanced a glance at the soldier and to his surprise, saw that a slow grin was spreading across the man's face. He winked at Chris and began to speak.
"Hey, everybody. As you guys know, I'm here from West Point to talk to you today," he said easily, his voice confident and smooth. "My name is Andrew Ruddock and I'm an alumni. I actually graduated this year in May of 2002. So I came to West Point when I was..." He squinted, trying to remember. "In... 1998? Yeah, when I was seventeen. Man, that seems like ages ago."
John's hand flew into the air, his arm ramrod straight. Andrew stopped speaking and called on him politely. "Sir, my grandfather graduated from the Long Gray Line. What was your major?"
Tyler shot Chris a disgusted look and elbowed him in the ribs.
"Nuclear engineering," Andrew answered.
"That's some pretty heavy stuff," piped up a black kid sitting a few seats away.
"Well, it certainly wasn't philosophy," Andrew said good-naturedly, and a few kids laughed. "I'm just kidding, I'm not trashing any future philosophy majors out there. It was a lot of work. I'm just really happy to have my degree."
"What are you planning to do now?" John persisted.
"Well, I've got my five years of duty, but after that... who knows? Maybe NASA. We'll see."
Andrew paused, looked purposefully around the room and continued. "If you get into West Point and get through all four years, you owe five years of active service in the United States Army and three years of inactive duty. It's a relatively small price because you're getting a 250,000-dollar education for free. That's right," Andrew said, the corner of his mouth kicking up as a few kids whistled low, clearly impressed.
"Most people will have student loans hanging over their head years and years after they graduate. Many of your classmates' parents take out second and third mortgages on your houses so they can put you and your siblings through college. I knew a lot of people who couldn't go to graduate school because they simply couldn't afford it. When you graduate from West Point, you don't owe anything except your time. On top of that, you're paid an annual stipend... you're paid to go to school. I know, it blew my mind too."
Everyone laughed. Chris looked at Andrew's hands. They were large and a little pale. The class ring on his right hand was gold with a dark red jewel in the center. He glanced up only to find Andrew looking at him again. He felt his face get hot and shifted, embarrassed.
"So, you're all wondering... what do I have to do to get into this fantastic institution?" Andrew leaned against the table, smiling easily, hands loosely gripping the edge. "West Point wants to see good grades. There's a common misconception that because it's the military, no one cares about your GPA because it's all athletic. Let me tell you right now, that's far from the truth. You're dealing with an intense, highly academic course load. I think half of my graduating class were in the top ten percent in high school." He smiled. "Don't be scared. I got in with a 3.8. It's not the only factor, but it's a large part of it. Your SAT scores also count, too-West Point likes high math scores because they're primarily engineering."
"This place sounds like a concentration camp," Tyler whispered. Chris ignored him, studying Andrew.
"Above all, West Point wants to see extracurricular activities-even more so than places like Harvard and Yale and Stanford. They want to see leadership because when you graduate, you'll be a second lieutenant in the United States Army. They want to see student council presidents, team captains, Scout award winners."
Tyler poked Chris in the side, hard. "Aren't you in the Girl Scouts?"
"Eagle Scouts, for the hundredth time," Chris hissed. "Now shut the fuck up, I can't hear him."
"Do you want the rest of your food?"
"No!"
Tyler made a jubilant noise and scooped Chris' remaining Pop Tarts and muffin into his lap. Chris handed over his chocolate milk at Tyler's urging, fighting the urge to fiercely and repeatedly poke Tyler in the small of his back.
"Athletics count, too," Andrew continued. "A lot. Each semester, everyone participates in an intramural sport of their choosing. Twice a year you take the APFT-that's short for Army Physical Fitness Test. You also take the IOCT, also known as the Indoor Obstacle Course Test. If you make it far enough in the application process, you take a physical aptitude test, administered to you by West Point officials."
"What's the application process like?" Chris blurted.
Andrew slowly turned his head to look at Chris. He looked at him with a confidence that was overwhelmingly intense. Chris dropped his gaze to his lap. "What's your name?" Andrew asked after a few long moments.
"Chris," he answered quickly, clearing his throat. "Hutson." Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered he was the only one for whose name Andrew had asked. Warmth wriggled in the pit of his stomach.
"The application process," Andrew said, their eyes locked, "is a bitch." Everyone laughed. Andrew finally looked away and went on, "The best advice I have for everyone thinking about applying is to keep a folder, because there are so many recommendations, nominations, essays-you name it-that you have to keep track of. There's really an obscene amount of paperwork you have to complete."
Andrew continued speaking for the next half-hour in a strong, steady voice. He never wavered or lost his train of thought. He did not shuffle through his folder, as if he were searching for his confidence or words that did not immediately come to mind. It was startlingly clear that he had learned how to lead, and had learned it well.
I want that, Chris thought. I want to do that.
He felt as though he had only been listening to Andrew talk for a few minutes, which was why he started when Andrew glanced at his watch and put his hands together.
"That's all the time I have for today, so I guess I should wrap it up by saying thanks so much for letting me talk to you guys and good luck if you decide to apply to USMA. I'll be here for a little bit if you guys have any more questions or want my e-mail address."
Everyone applauded and Andrew grinned, waving one hand in acknowledgment. As expected, John Campbell was one of the few kids who approached Andrew. Most were slinging their backpacks over their shoulders and leaving without a second glance back.
Tyler crammed the rest of Chris' muffin in his mouth and stood up. "History time," he groaned.
Chris kept one eye on Andrew as he fiddled with the buckle on his backpack strap. "Go on without me," he said. "I'll be there in a bit."
"Alright. Later, man." Tyler bumped his fist against Chris' and ran to catch up with a few friends at the cafeteria exit.
Chris took out the wrinkled class schedule he knew by heart and pretended to study it as he waited for the chance to speak to Andrew alone. John was speaking in a loud voice and firing questions at Andrew. It took all of Chris' willpower not to roll his eyes and punch John in the back of the head.
Finally, John shook Andrew's hand and left the cafeteria, leaving Chris alone with the West Pointer.
Chris' stomach churned as he approached Andrew. He wet his lips before speaking. "Hi."
Andrew smiled at him. It wasn't a polite smile; it was slow and genuine and made the corners of his eyes crinkle and Chris' stomach do backflips. "Hey," he said. "What'd you think of all that?"
"Well... I've never really considered going to West Point before today," Chris admitted. "You've pretty much got me sold, man."
Andrew laughed. "I'm glad to hear I did my job, but God have mercy on you if you decide to go. It's the furthest thing from a picnic, let me tell you." He tugged at the collar of his uniform. "Fuck, this thing is so hot and itchy."
Before Chris knew what he was doing, he had reached a hand out and touched the cuff of Andrew's gray top, right above his wrist. "Yeah... it feels pretty uncomfortable." His thumb slipped from the thick sleeve and dropped to the back of Andrew's hand. Chris jerked back too quickly, his face burning. "Well, um... I thought you gave a really good speech," he finally managed.
There was a pregnant pause. Chris kept his eyes on his Pumas, tried not to dig his nails into his palms and thought, Fuck, fuck, fuck, you are so fucking awkward. Damn it. Nice going. Fuckwad.
Andrew broke the silence. "So... you're a senior?"
"Um... yeah. Well, no. I'm a junior." He was vaguely aware that he was babbling but unable to stop himself. "I'm almost a senior. The end of the school year is in June. So... almost, but-"
"Are you free right now? Do you have class or anything?" Andrew interrupted.
Chris still had US History, pre-calculus and English to get through. He considered the prospect of hanging out with Andrew and answered, "No, I'm done for the day," without missing a beat.
"Oh, nice. Wanna go grab a bite with me?"
"Sure," Chris blurted.
"Awesome," Andrew said, putting his hat back on. He gathered up his things and the two of them set off for the parking lot. "So, you play any sports?"
"Yeah. I'm the captain of my track team," Chris said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "We're pretty good. We won regionals this year."
"Oh? That's outstanding." Andrew opened one of the main doors at the front and held it open. "After you," he said.
"Thanks," Chris mumbled, squeezing past Andrew. He could feel the older man's eyes on him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
As they approached a dark blue BMW, Chris whistled lowly. "Nice car."
"Yeah, it's my baby," Andrew said, grinning. He unlocked the car with his keychain remote and it beeped twice. "Paid off the down payment the day I got my cow loan."
"Cow loan?" Chris asked, sliding into the passenger seat. The smell of leather and traces of expensive cologne filled his nostrils.
"You'll have to excuse me," Andrew grunted as he twisted around to chuck his folders and hat in the backseat. "I've been away from society for so long that sometimes I forget I'm around civilians." He started the car and grinned at Chris. "It's the $20,000 loan we get during cow year."
"Cow year?" Chris dared to ask, feeling completely lost.
"Freshman year is plebe year, sophomore is... that's second year, right? Yeah. So... sophomore is yuk, junior is cow and senior is firstie," Andrew answered, putting the car in reverse and pulling out of the parking lot.
Chris considered admitting to Andrew that until today, the mention of "West Point" would have brought to mind the image of a compass. He thought better of it and kept quiet.
"Hey, you mind if I swing by my hotel and change before we go?" Andrew asked after a few moments of awkward silence.
"Oh, sure. Of course. Not at all," Chris said.
"Thanks. I hate wearing my uniform in public."
They drove for ten minutes before finally arriving at a Holiday Inn. Andrew parked and grabbed his things from the backseat. They got out of the car, made their way inside and took the elevator to the eighth floor.
Andrew's room was right by the stairwell. As Andrew fumbled with the room key, Chris' heart began beating erratically. Jesus Christ, calm the fuck down. What the fuck is wrong with you?
The lock beeped and briefly flashed green. Andrew pushed the door open with his shoulder. "Here we are," he muttered, tossing his things on the hotel desk.
Chris stood awkwardly behind Andrew, fiddling with his backpack strap and breathing in the smell of lemon cleaner. "Um... should I just wait outside?"
Andrew turned around, fingers already undoing the buttons at his collar. "Huh?"
Chris' stomach was twisting itself into knots. "While... while you get changed?"
"What? Oh. Nah, it's cool. Just take a seat," Andrew said, nodding in the direction of the queen size bed. "I'll be done in a sec."
"Okay." Chris moved quickly to the bed while Andrew disappeared into the bathroom. Setting his backpack down by his feet, he sat slowly and looked around the room. It was spotless; aside from the rolling suitcase near the nightstand, he could barely tell that anyone had even been in the room before now.
Chris looked up at the sound of soft footsteps. Andrew was standing just a few feet away from him, clad only in his white dress trousers. His bare chest rose and fell imperceptibly with his even breathing.
Heat bloomed in Chris' face. He tried to speak but found that his mouth had gone dry. He simply sat and stared at Andrew, eyes wide.
Tense silence stretched between them. Chris could hear the blood roaring in his ears as Andrew slowly moved over to the bed. Andrew placed his hands on either side of Chris' thighs, whispered something unintelligible and touched his mouth to the rough skin underneath Chris' jaw line.
In an instant, Chris was blindingly, achingly hard. He gasped and gripped the knees of his jeans till his knuckles turned white.
Andrew mouthed at Chris' neck softly at first, but it wasn't long before his breathing became heavy and he began sucking at Chris' throat insistently. He slid his hand down Chris' chest and over his hard, flat stomach.
When Chris felt Andrew's hand cup his cock through his jeans, he went rigid. He had never come even remotely close to doing anything like this with another guy. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought vaguely, Am I really going to do this?
"Take this off," Andrew murmured, fingering the hem of Chris' T-shirt.
Chris met Andrew's dark, steady gaze and made his choice. Hands shaking, he pulled his shirt off. No turning back now.
Andrew flashed a predatory smile at Chris. Leaning in again, he cupped Chris' jaw, fingers digging hard into his cheekbones. Chris felt Andrew's breath feather across his mouth. He let out a soft sigh and angled his chin so he could touch his lips to Andrew's.
Andrew jerked back before Chris could kiss him. "Don't do that," he ground out.
Chris felt the color drain from his face. "Oh," he whispered, stilling. "I... I didn't-" He was on the verge of stammering an apology when Andrew dropped to his knees, yanked Chris' jeans down his hips and swallowed his cock.
Chris made a strangled noise and braced his hands on the bed. Behind the sound of his pulse beating hard in his ears, he registered constant, steady groans and realized they were coming from him.
In truth, this was the first time Chris had ever really gotten a blow job. Sure, he'd received more offers for head than he could remember, but he'd turned them all down or stopped before he even had his boxers off. Somehow, it hadn't felt right before now.
The sensation of Andrew's hot, wet mouth sliding up and down his cock was electrifying. The pressure of supporting his upper body on his wrists sent spikes of pain down his arms, but he barely felt them. He panted raggedly as Andrew took his cock into his mouth again and again, toes curling at the slick heat. When Andrew stopped briefly to spit on his hand so he could suck Chris and stroke him in tandem, Chris felt molten heat prickle at the corner of his eyes.
"I'm going-Andrew, I'm gonna c-come," he stammered, fingers hovering near Andrew's hair. Andrew knocked his hand away before Chris could touch him and sucked him harder, pressing a finger behind Chris' balls.
Tension seized Chris and crashed over him like a tidal wave. He choked on a long moan as he came in hard pulses down Andrew's throat. Andrew's fingers dug painfully into his hipbones as he swallowed Chris' come, lips tightening around the base of his cock.
The moment Chris finished riding out his orgasm, Andrew pushed him back on the bed so hard he felt the air swiftly rush from his lungs. Standing over Chris, Andrew clumsily undid his pants and pulled out his thick cock. He spat on his hand and stroked himself hard, the muscles in his arm straining. When he rubbed two fingers over the head of his cock and groaned, Chris shut his eyes tightly, his jaw dropping at the sensation overload. He felt as if his brain was on the verge of exploding.
At the feel of Andrew's come spattering wetly on his stomach, Chris' eyes flew open. He gasped as he watched pearly strings of come drip fast from Andrew's cock onto his clenched abdomen. Andrew fisted his cock hard as he spurted, clenching his teeth and groaning deeply.
As soon as Andrew finished, he was already moving. He tucked himself back into his pants and zipped up as he strode into the bathroom. He reappeared with a washcloth and flung it at Chris' chest. "Clean yourself up," he said brusquely, disappearing again into the bathroom.
Chris finally sat up, bracing his weight on his hands and wincing as his wrists ached in protest. He tried to clean off his stomach, but the dry washcloth just smeared most of Andrew's come across his skin. He absently scrubbed at his navel for a few seconds before reaching for his shirt and putting it back on, grimacing as the thin fabric clung to his stomach. As he shakily rose to his feet, his knees buckled; he gripped the bureau for support.
Andrew re-emerged from the bathroom, a white T-shirt tucked neatly into his dress pants. He appeared utterly calm and composed as he redid the buttons of his thick gray dress shirt.
"Um... Am I..." Inexplicably, Chris' voice died in his throat. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.
Andrew stared at him, looking completely unconcerned. Raising an eyebrow in silent question, he set to re-fastening the cuffs of his shirt.
"Do I-am I going to... to see you again?" Chris faltered and he briefly shut his eyes, wincing at how pathetic and girlish he sounded. Fuck. Way to go, Hutson. Grow a fucking vagina already.
Andrew made a sound of disbelief that made Chris' stomach roil. He could hear his heartbeat again, but this time it throbbed painfully in his ears like a runaway train.
"See me again?" Andrew straightened his shirt and waved his left hand in front of Chris' face. A gold wedding band caught the light filtering in through the curtains and glimmered brightly across Chris' vision. He felt as though he'd just stared directly at the sun. "I'm married," Andrew said unnecessarily, checking his watch. Sighing, he grabbed his folder off the desk, put his hat back on and strode to the door. "I'm late. See yourself out," he called over his shoulder. The door whooshed quietly behind him, and Chris was alone.
He stared blankly after Andrew's retreating form long after it had disappeared. After what seemed like hours, he threw the washcloth he'd forgotten he was holding hard at the dresser and swore lowly. "Fuck," he said, fire searing at the back of his throat. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-" His voice cracked. Breathing deeply, he steeled himself. When he opened his eyes again, they had stopped burning. He swallowed his humiliation and the myriad of feelings he couldn't quite name, and stooped down to grab his heavy backpack.
As he made his way to the elevator, fumbling with his car keys, Chris remembered that Andrew had driven him to the Holiday Inn. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration as he realized he was going to have to walk all the way to his car, parked ten miles away in the St. Francis student lot.
Chris slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped outside into the hot summer air. The heavy May heat shimmered in the distance, beating down hard on the back of his neck. He took a deep breath and broke into a brisk walk away from the hotel without looking back.
*
In the weeks following the debacle at the Holiday Inn, Chris sent his high school transcript and SAT score to the USMA admissions office, contacted his Congressional representative and Connecticut senators, and filled out the Cadet Questionnaire online. He didn't understand why he was even bothering to apply-not only had he started the process late, but he figured that after the Andrew incident, he'd never want to hear about West Point again. He had braced himself for the anger he was almost he'd certain he'd feel about USMA, but it never came.
He printed out the West Point crest and taped it next to his bed, staring at it until he could call the design to memory with his eyes closed. He knew the gold sword, the helmet and the eagle with its wings spread by heart-but it still didn't stop him from staring.
Since middle school, it had pretty much been decided that Chris would attend a private Ivy League college. His parents had stressed the importance of a good education, buying him a car so he could participate in extracurricular activities and hiring tutors when he struggled in physics and chemistry. They'd promised to pay his entire way through school, in return implicitly expecting him to do well. So far, Chris hadn't disappointed.
He already knew what he'd do at Yale or Harvard or Princeton: graduate with honors, plenty of accolades and internships under his belt, attend business or grad school and enter the work force with a hundred thousand dollar salary. Going down the "Ivy League road" practically guaranteed him an intricately detailed blueprint of his future.
He remembered exactly where he'd been and what he'd been doing when the planes crashed into the World Trade Center on September 11. Duty, Honor, Country-maybe it wasn't just a crock of "be all you can be" bullshit. Maybe it was his obligation to give something back. Sure, there were a lot of other people who most likely thought the same way he did-12,000 West Point applicants weren't in it solely for the free tuition-but maybe he really did owe his country something, even if it was just individual service that probably wouldn't make a difference in the long run.
Chris pushed himself hard in the overwhelming June heat to improve his one-mile run. He lifted weights until he outgrew many of his favorite older shirts, doing push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups and basketball throws until he was too exhausted to sleep well. When he passed the initial screening process, he paid cash for a physical at the family practice. He took the physical fitness test at a nearby public high school-administered by a West Point official-and did better on each of the six categories than he had all summer.
At the beginning of his senior year, Chris told his parents he was going to Vermont with Tyler for a weekend. Instead, he drove to Washington, D.C. and spent two days in a neatly pressed suit and tie, waiting in a run-down motel for brief meetings with his senator and House of Representatives member.
His acceptance letter arrived from Yale. Chris' parents brought home a sheet cake that read Congratulations Christopher! in red icing. His sister Meredith came home from Bryn Mawr for a party in Chris' honor. Chris smiled graciously, shook hands with everyone who congratulated him and kept the fact that he hadn't confirmed his spot in the Yale class of 2007 to himself.
He finished fleshing out the last bits of his application, revising the final drafts of his essays and sending in parts he'd accidentally skipped over before. He kept his application folder, with well over 200 pages of instructions and photocopies, hidden under his bed. He removed the West Point coat of arms from his wall, laminated it, and slept with the stiff plastic-sheathed design under his pillow; he knew it was stupid, but he regarded it as a "good luck" charm of sorts. After he received the confirmation letter telling him that his application was complete, he raced home after school each day to check the mail before his parents got in from work.
The last day before the deadline to formally accept his seat at Yale, Chris checked the mail and extracted a thick manila envelope with the West Point crest embossed in the corner. Feeling as though his heart would burst, he opened the envelope after three tries and pulled out the cover letter with shaking hands.
Chris thought desperately, I have to get in.
He did.