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Five things that Lucian Anderson isn’t sure are sex, (but Nikita Koshkin insists that they are)

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Spending an evening kissing Nikita, kissing him for hours, kissing until both of them are flushed and hard and panting and Nikita’s breath comes in these little bitten-off grunts, and he leans his forehead against Lucian’s, takes a few deep breaths, shakes his head and excuses himself to finish himself alone in the shower; then waiting for his own excitement to fade and going to sleep cuddled up to a half-naked Nikita only to startle awake sometime after midnight from a strange dream of a roomful of flowers where a smiling Nikita is bathing, handing him a pitcher of milk, a pitcher of honey, letting him pour them over his body and watch it run down his skin so sweet and viscous, startling awake to feel his dream-drunk hips twitch once more, twice, too late to stop now, choking on his breath as it happens and being so tired that he goes right back to sleep, and is only horrified in the morning.



Cooking dinner, dicing onions and mincing herbs for this new fish soup he wants to try while just a few meters away, on the couch, Nikita is… Nikita is enjoying himself, slowly, loudly, with great relish; knowing that if he were expected to join, Lucian would already be disgusted and terrified but since they agreed that his job is making dinner, and Nikita’s job is to occupying himself until dinner, he just cuts the shallots slowly and very carefully, focusing on the knife, knowing that as long as he keeps his conscious mind on the recipe, he can listen and let the sound wash over him, make him feel warm and satisfied and even a little excited, and when it gets too much, inhaling lungful of onions and distracting himself with the sting in his eyes.



Missing Nikita and wanting to touch Nikita and not quite knowing what to do about it and standing under the shower trying to touch himself without thinking about his hand or thinking about what he’s touching, just doing it without thinking, knowing that if he thinks about himself touching himself he’ll feel miserable and if he thinks about Nikita, about touching Nikita, he’ll feel like a monster, attempting to think of nothing but realizing that thinking of nothing is increasingly difficult and inevitably leads to him thinking about vapidly sexual body spray advertisements, so instead resolving to think of Nikita’s voice, his calm, reasonable voice saying nothing in particular, explaining something highly technical, maybe about gene knockout or post-structuralism, following the voice’s cadence and holding onto uncertain impressions that flow over him, the sharp smell of shallots, the smell of Nikita as he folds him in a hug after he comes home from work, the warmth of the sunlight sparking photosynthesis in plants, the warmth of sunlight on his own bare skin, the heat of Nikita’s body through four layers of clothing, the softness and comfort of it, of being held tight, crushed against his belly, hearing the quiet music on the radio next door, Nikita humming along, hearing Nikita humming, making the noise he makes when he tastes something he likes, appreciative and fond, remembering these sensations, remembering how good it is to feel them, to be surrounded by them, enveloped by them, pulling them around himself and sinking into them, deeper and deeper, faster and faster.



Sitting on the couch fully clothed with a shirtless Nikita next to him, touching Nikita, petting his hair, his back, his belly, pressing little kisses to his neck, tickling his sides, caressing his chest, touching his chest, touching his chest a lot because he knows Nikita is self-conscious about it, about the weight his carries there, wanting to reassure Nikita that he is lovely, but also in some secret unkind part of his heart wanting Nikita to be uncomfortable for once, wanting him to flinch and wince and be unsure, seeing Nikita flinch and wince and shudder and whine and get hard and bite his lips not to ask Lucian to touch him there because he promised not to change the rules halfway through, feeling victorious and vindictive and light-headed and pretending not to notice and touching him everywhere but still not touching him there, no, but then giving in, still not doing it but letting Nikita do it, opening his belt buckle for him but not touching him there but but letting him touch himself there, telling him, quietly, that he’s doing great, he’s so great, holding him through it and watching him do it, watching his face all the while, his flushed face, his closed eyes, his parted lips, watching and not taking off his own clothes, not even undoing a single button.



Kissing Nikita, both of them completely naked, but not really touching anywhere, all that really matters is the kissing, feeling dizzy and numb and oversensitive at the same time, feeling his lips tingle and biting Nikita’s lips to make him feel it too, swallowing the little sound Nikita makes and crowding in further, pressing him against the wall to kiss him even better, noticing that he is pressing against Nikita’s belly, deciding to ignore it, to focus on the kissing, on the exact taste and texture of Nikita’s lips, his mouth, so soft, so sweet like milk and honey, so generous somehow, like everything about Nikita, holding onto Nikita’s hair with one hand just to keep him at the angle he likes best, pulling gentle but firm, hearing the noise Nikita makes and ignoring the noises that tumble from his own mouth, putting his full attention into kissing, pushing his entire body into kissing, becoming a wind rattling against a window, a wave rolling over a beach, over and over again, losing himself in the chill of the rain and the salt of the seaspray that are, he knows, only the tears running down his own face, distantly hearing that the noises he’s making now sound very much like sobbing, silencing himself by sticking his tongue in Nikita’s mouth, feeling a bright photovoltaic joy shudder through his whole body as Nikita sucks on his tongue, and it should be sordid and disgusting but right here, right now it’s just Nikita, it’s just him, giving up, giving in, but it doesn’t feel like surrender, it feels like he’s doing something new and strange and clever and brave, smearing his sudden, unexpected orgasm all over Nikita’s belly.