Karl cracked open an eyelid. He and Orlando were taking full advantage of the burst of sunshine that had come after days of incessant rain and were lounging on the grass in the commons area near their dorm. Neither one had a class for another hour – Orlando had Professor Blanchett's Advanced Economic Business Models of the 21st Century next, and Karl was headed to Professor Mortensen's Art Studies class. Technically speaking, Karl could skip his, since Professor Mortensen never bothered with anything as plebian (as he put it) as attendance – according to him, art was a calling, not a requirement, so show up when it moved you to do so – but he liked his art class first of all, and second, Orlando couldn't skip his (Professor Blanchett most definitely insisted on attendance, and prompt attendance at that), so there wasn't much point. "Peru?" Karl blinked in confusion, certain he'd heard Orlando wrong. "The hell's in Peru, dude?" "Incan ruins and mountains?" Orlando rolled on his stomach and reached for his backpack. His jeans were so faded they were almost white, and his t-shirt was a bright red with a smiley face that had its mouth taped shut that said "Silence is Golden. Duct tape is Silver." His hair was a riotous mess of curls that was the product of Orlando constantly running his fingers through it. He tossed Karl a bag of Doritos and started munching on his bag of Red Hot Cheetos. "I dunno, man, just seems like someplace exotic," Orlando continued, between crunches. His lips and tongue immediately turned orange. "There's no baseball in Peru," Karl said, pointing at Orlando with one of his chips. Which was a really important consideration when it came to buying real estate. "They have football." "Soccer football, not football football." Orlando frowned at that, brows coming together in an almost cartoonish display. He had the most expressive face of anyone Karl had ever met. "Okay fine, maybe not living in Peru. But we could visit," Orlando added, with a wide grin that showed off his dimples and never failed to make Karl a little weak in the knees. (Not that he would ever admit that out loud, except maybe when he was plowed or talking to Drew. Or both. He tended to be drunk as hell when babbling to Drew about things.) "Yeah, I'd be down with that," he said, instead, and settled back on the grass. He could really go for a burger right about now, but he felt too lazy to trek across the campus to the V for one. Besides, he had time after his art class and before football practice to grab something to tide him over. "And I think we should form a band." Once again, Karl opened his eyes, shielding them from the sun with his hand. Orlando wasn't even looking at him; he was too busy thumbing through his notes for Professor Blanchett's class. Karl didn't blame him. She had a reputation for pop quizzes and putting people on the spot, so everyone learned to show up prepared and ready to rock. "Because we have so much free time between baseball and football and track?" Karl asked, in what he hoped was a teasing and not a 'you're out of your fucking mind' manner. As it was, they barely had time to study. Orlando slapped him on the arm. "To pick up chicks, man." "Athletes pick up plenty of chicks," Karl argued, fishing for his sunglasses out of his bag. Screw tan lines, man, the sun was blinding him anyway. "Besides, being a rock star's hard work." "How much work can sex, drugs and rock & roll be? You show up, jam the wah-wah pedal and watch the crowd go wild and chicks show you their tits." "Well, your life's a three-ring circus, complete with lions, tigers and dancing bears, oh my, for one," Karl said, ticking his points off on his fingers. "Then you've got all the travel and the endless sound checks and a new venue every night and crazy fans and the pressure of not repeating yourself on each album and the shrinking recording industry and greedy managers and creating music, and all the cities you visit blurring together and you never get any time to yourself." Orlando made a sour face. "You know how to take all the fun out of something cool, you know that?" "We all have our talents," Karl replied genially, and tugged Orlando to sprawl on top of him. Orlando took the hint and lowered his head for a kiss that tasted of corn and processed cheese by-product – not a bad combination, all things considered. "Besides, man, getting back to the athlete thing," Karl continued, when they parted lips, "you can play baseball. You can't play an instrument to save your life." "I could sing." "You're worse than I am at karaoke," Karl pointed out. Which was totally God's truth. Frogs had better voices. Orlando shrugged, conceding the point. "I'm not as bad as Chad." "No one's as bad as Chad," Karl agreed. "Except maybe Misha." Orlando maneuvered around until he'd made himself at home next to Karl, both of them touching in one long line from heel to shoulder. "Misha's got his good qualities." "Directly related to the quality of the weed he grows, I take it?" Misha was one of those people that completely confounded Karl. The dude was so Zen he made the Dalai Lama look intense. It was weird. And sort of creepy. Karl'd always thought true artists had to have some sort of inner passion and fire to be truly great, but Misha was the best artist Karl'd ever seen outside a museum, and he was practically a Vulcan. "That and he keeps Professor Mortensen from hitting on you," Orlando said. Karl nudged at Orlando's shoulder with his own. "Professor Mortensen does not hit on me." "Dude, get real." Orlando turned his head enough to give Karl a disbelieving look. "He's always asking you to model for the class during the nude studies. You know he does it just to ogle your naked ass." Which, okay, maybe Orlando had a point, but it wasn't a big deal. "It's not like I mind being naked." "Yeah, well, what if I minded?" Karl flipped his sunglasses down to get a good look at Orlando. He couldn't be serious. "Are you jealous?" "I dunno, maybe," Orlando mumbled, ducking his head into the vee of Karl's shoulder and arm. Karl draped his arm around Orlando's waist and squeezed. "That's pretty cute." The punch to his side was just hard enough to make a point. "Shut up." "I'm serious." Karl nuzzled at Orlando's curls, and smiled. "It's sweet. And unnecessary. No one knows what I look like naked with you and that's the important thing." "Yeah, okay, maybe." "Definitely," Karl replied, and he knew he'd said the right thing when Orlando lifted his head for another heart-stoppingly thorough kiss. Professor Mortensen could hit on him until the cows came home, but he'd never be Orlando.
Onto The Art of Redefining Chemistry
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