Chapter Text
The first time Leonidas Samuel Valdez messes around with another guy, he's twenty-eight years old, halfway through his masters and high as a kite.
It's Frank's birthday, and Leo's been in Salem since yesterday helping Hazel get everything ready for their stay-in date. Frank comes home with a pre-roll from the dispensary up the block, and he goes so pink at the setup it makes Leo fuzzy and warm before they even get the joint out of its childproof tube.
Leo doesn't smoke much. Funny enough, Hazel has the highest tolerance of all of them; as Leo hacks up a lung, she explains through her giggles that Grover is the one who suggested she get her medical license. Her daily pain, apparently, has been cut almost in half.
"You're too pretty to hurt so much," Leo tells her, his head in her lap and his feet in Frank's. He doesn't remember lying down. Her cheek is warm when he brushes his fingers over it.
She grins at Frank, who starts to stroke Leo's ankle with an almost sensual firmness.
"That reminds me," she says, although Leo suspects she planned it. "We've been talking since the last seder."
"You know how Annabeth was joking that polyamory is contagious?" Frank continues, smooth and practiced and confirming Leo's suspicions. "Well, we realized—"
"It's you," Hazel whispers, brushing one of Leo's curls away from his face.
"It's always been you," Frank adds, closing his fingers gently around Leo's ankle. His hand is huge— he could probably crush the bone with a squeeze— but it's no more threatening than Hazel's.
"If this is a prank," Leo replies, mouth cottony, after what feels like a year of dead silence. "It's a really, really sick one."
For a second, the silence stretches on. Then Frank pouts— honest to betsy fucking pouts, his (plush, pink) lower lip jutting out slightly and his dark brows knitting together.
"Come on, man," he says, plaintive. Imploring. "You know us better than that."
Leo's still trying to process it when Hazel starts to giggle again. Her hand is so tiny, especially compared to Frank's huge mitts, that it's hard to make sense of the feeling of being petted by them both.
"Maybe you should kiss him," she suggests. Before Leo can ask who should kiss whom, Frank makes the question irrelevant by leaning over.
The night sky above them bursts into a symphony. Leo can't actually see it with Frank above him like this, but it's how it feels to make out as he lies in Hazel's lap.
Overwhelming. Impossible. So huge it seems to defy words. It leaves Leo shaking, smelling Old Spice and vanilla and sandalwood and campfire smoke. Hazel's silky skirt is warm under his neck, and she never stops petting his hair, not even when Frank reaches down and—
"Holy shit," Leo gasps, bucking into the touch.
He comes like that, hard, with Hazel's fond laughter and Frank's warm hands filling up all the lonely places inside him.