Wobbling against the city in the centre of the globe in the middle of the future, his calf catching the tower, scratched by its corners, nearly bringing the whole thing down, Sammy struggles to keep still.
“Cmmmfwffmf,” Tracy mumbles and Sammy can’t make out a thing around his fingers, still caught in his mouth and feeling near to dissolving, worn away by the tide of his tongue. His eyes are shut, a purple burn splashed across his eyelids, fading like the one on his hand.
He prods Tracy in the side with his free hand, the one that still has ink stains and fingerprints, and lets his fingertips linger against his ribs, slides them a half inch under his shirt. Tracy’s shoulders twitch and his breath huffs and Sammy turns to smile into his neck and says, “Can’t hear you.”
Tracy releases his fingers with a wet, popping sound that alarms Sammy with its specificity, its attached train of imaginations that leap unbidden, unknown into Sammy’s throat. His eyes open and close in the dark and his fingers are cold, bath-shrivelled and he doesn’t know what to do with them. He fumbles for Tracy’s jawline. “I said,” Tracy starts, but Sammy finds his mouth, slides his own lips alongside his fingers until Tracy is willingly silenced.
Carefully, aware of the ease with which a casual kick of their feet, a stretch of Tracy’s arms, could crush the imaginary little lives in the model city, holding his breath like it’ll keep Tracy’s bluff, careless limbs still, Sammy shifts until he’s lying along, over, not covering him entirely and hardly a weight at all. Tracy groans, shudders from his chest up to his mouth and Sammy kisses deeper, with intent, like he can chase down every noise with his tongue.
His hands move down in the dark and it’s not difficult for Sammy to find his way, not the step into thin air he imagined. Tracy’s muscles and broad surfaces are the most foreign thing to his touch but, as Tracy Bacon’s belly draws up under his hand, quivering a small, startled animal thrill before relaxing, deliberately uncoiling against his palm as he strokes an inch forwards then a half inch back, it’s the most familiar, the most inevitable thing in the world.
He can see a little now, the roll of his shoulder, the sweep of his elbow as he reaches up to scuff the heel of his hand across his brow, his eyes crinkled closed and that slow, tentative smile that fills Sammy with disquiet and inexplicable longing.
Sammy, feeling like a giant, an emperor suddenly and rightly invested with powers beyond his dreams, unfastens Tracy’s belt and thrusts his hand inside. Tracy’s hard, Sammy knew but it’s surprising all the same, they way his fingers curl around him automatically, the way the mere presence of Sammy’s touch sends Tracy’s legs sprawling apart. Sammy strokes, not sure of the weird, backhanded angle at first, wobbling forward on his knees to take his weight on his left arm as he mouths at Tracy’s chest. Tracy gives a low whine from the back of his throat and says, “Clay, Clay, fuck,” before he tenses and comes, Sammy stroking him a couple more times before sitting back on his heels, pressing his clean hand against his trousers and wanting to topple forwards and kiss Tracy Bacon until the dopey slack mouthed grin he has right now melts away. He sits and almost moves, his knees folded tight and his toes numb.
Tracy reaches out a large, scoop-shaped hand and drags Sammy down, clashing their noses before he tilts Sammy’s head and locks their mouths together. Sammy’s ears rush, his body full of blood and drained of air, the Perisphere itself thrums close to his head and Tracy releases him, lets him retreat less than a half nose before speaking. “What I was saying,” he shifts his palm against the crown of Sammy’s head, “Was, come home with me?”