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Show Love (Feeling Nothing)

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Peem inches his fingers across the couch behind himself, disguising it as leaning further back until the tips graze the side of Mike’s palm.

He holds his breath and lets them just barely rest atop the knuckle of Mike’s thumb, the contact searing, and Mike—

Mike doesn’t pull away.


“Fuck,” Mike breathes into his neck, hands frantically scrabbling at Peem’s shirt to shove it over his shoulders. Peem clutches at Mike’s back for the briefest of moments, trying to moor himself, before letting his hands fall back down near his sides.

The palms that slide over Peem’s skin are warm and make him shiver. Mike pulls back at the movement, and he opens his mouth to tease, eyes dancing, but Peem doesn’t let him, pulling him into a kiss instead. For a moment, Mike freezes and Peem thinks, with sinking horror, that he’s going to break the kiss, demanding that Peem explain himself.

But it’s only for a moment, and then Mike is dragging his hand up Peem’s throat, grasping Peem’s chin between long fingers to angle the kiss and coax Peem’s mouth open. Peem gasps, shoving his hands under Mike’s shirt digging his nails into the skin on either side of Mike’s spine in a desperate bid to regain control, and that’s when Mike steps back.

“No marks,” Mike reaches behind himself to dislodge Peem’s hands and Peem is left grasping at air before he finally, tentatively, resettles his hands on Mike’s hips.

No marks, because Pear will see, Peem fills in, but he doesn’t dare say it out loud. Mike doesn’t let Peem dwell on it for long, crowding in close once again and leaning down to bite at the skin below Peem’s collarbone, worrying it between his teeth until it blooms red.

He flashes a grin up at Peem once he’s done, leaning back to flick open the button on his jeans and then Peem’s. Pushing his knee up between Peem’s legs, he lets out a small laugh when Peem lets out a shuddering moan, fingers flexing on Mike’s hips.

“C’mon,” Mike says after Peem recovers from the shock of pleasure, tipping his chin down. It takes Peem a moment to understand what he means, and then he’s scrambling to comply, reaching into Mike’s pants to pull out his cock.

It curves softly to the left and it feels just like his own. Mike groans into Peem’s shoulder, thrusting forward involuntarily and Peem tightens his grip in surprise, causing Mike to hiss. 

“Sorry,” Peem apologizes but Mike shakes his head, hips still rocking. He gives it a tentative stroke to make up for it, and Mike sets his teeth on Peem’s collarbone, exhaling heavily. 

“Fuck,” Mike swears. “Take yours out, too.”

Peem hesitates. He hadn’t—he hadn’t expected Mike to—

Mike lets out an impatient noise, shoving at the waistband of Peem’s jeans and boxers, trapping Peem’s cock under the fabric. Peem lets out a whine of discomfort, shifting back to carefully tug himself out and Mike lets out a satisfied noise, palming at Peem’s ass to pull him close.

Peem clumsily wraps his hand around both of them, trying to figure out the rhythm. There’s barely enough precome to keep his hand from chafing against their skin, and Mike is unable to keep himself from pushing into Peem’s fist, throwing him off.

It doesn’t matter too much though—both of them are too worked up, and when Mike tangles his hand in Peem’s hair, just on the side of too-tight, and pulls him into a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, Peem finds himself spilling over his fingers, knees buckling.

He slumps a little, clutching at the wall behind himself, and Mike quickly shifts to hold him in place with two large hands spanning his waist, rutting over Peem’s hipbone until he comes as well, smearing across Peem’s stomach.

They breathe heavily, Mike’s head tipped forward, his forehead on Peem’s shoulder, while Peem tips his back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

He’s never done that before.

Mike pulls away after a few minutes, eyeing the mess on Peem’s hand and stomach. He fishes Peem’s shirt off the ground, and before Peem can say anything, he wipes at Peem’s stomach before pulling his wrist towards himself and wiping off his knuckles as well.

“I like this shirt,” Peem says, looking down at it mournfully, and Mike huffs out a laugh, cuffing Peem’s head. He steps back to tuck himself back in and button up his pants, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I’m going to head out,” he says, and Peem looks at him, eyes wide.

“It’s late,” Peem points out, hesitating, “You could—”

“I’m studying with Pear in the morning,” Mike replies, and something in his posture changes as he does, eyes shuttering. It makes Peem cold.

“Oh,” Peem says and Mike looks at him for a long moment, considering.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says finally, and Peem nods, shifting so that Mike can get past him and to the door. 

He lets himself out without a backwards glance, the door thudding behind him, and Peem finds himself staring at it, clutching his ruined t-shirt in his hand as his heart squeezes in his chest, painful and sharp.


Peem says, “I love you, Mike.”

And Mike—

Mike doesn’t pull away.

But he doesn’t reply, either.