Work Text:
now
"…You think we should what?"
Phainon pretends to fiddle with his ancient stereo system, second track of Mydei's first studio EP rollercoaster-ing in and out of volume. In his periphery, Mydei's bulk blocks the kitchen doorway, but Phainon knows that if he tilts his head, he'll see the Kiss me, I'm Elysian embroidered apron, his flour-dough-encrusted hands. Hair half-up, short sleeves taut around his biceps, tattoos peaking through the neckline—where Phainon also knows he could follow like a blood trail to the marks he left down Mydei's abdomen.
"I didn't say we should," he corrects. "I asked if you wanted to."
"That's your problem? The correct verb?"
"It's an important clarification." Phainon smiles coyly over his shoulder. "I thought you didn't hear me, anyway?"
The dial settles under his fingers, medium-soft, a younger Mydei crooning over a low thrumming base and guitar reverb. Older Mydei stares at him, gaze narrowing. On anyone else, it'd be suspicion. On Mydei, it's a frank assessment.
"No. I heard you. But it sounded so absurd, I had to be sure it was still you in here and not Cipher playing a prank."
Phainon stretches, spine arching with a series of soft pops. "I didn't know you and Cipher had that kind of relationship, Mydei."
"Don't change the subject."
"I would never." To prove it, he puts his hands up and grins.
Mydei remains unamused. "Then quit dodging."
Phainon tries again. He spreads his fingers, half-shrugging. "If you heard, I hardly see why it bears repeating—"
"If you've already said it once, what's the harm in saying it again?" Mydei parries.
Phainon contemplates this at the same time he notices a hole worn in the toe of his sock, and honesty wins out before he can construct any reasonable excuse. "…My pride?"
Mydei hpmhs. "Right. As if you have any of that."
"Ow?"
"It's a compliment," Mydei says, disarmingly sincere. He knows it, too; Phainon feels the praise like a trickle of heat in his chest. "Humor me."
Phainon lets his hands fall to his hips and contemplates biting into his tongue, or sinking through the floor, or walking out the 5th story window. He shouldn't have breathed a word. He shouldn't have woken up that morning to have the idea at all.
Phainon shrugs, all the nerve he worked up draining fast. "It was nothing, really. It isn't important—"
"If it was nothing, you shouldn't have a problem repeating it," Mydei says, unmoving, but Phainon knows if his palms weren't oiled and powdery, he'd be folding his arms over his chest. Instead, they hang, claw-like, in front of him. It'd be funny if Phainon had the upper hand. "Look me in the eye..."
Instead—in an obviously Pavlovian response—Phainon does.
"…And ask. One more time."
The song plummets into the bridge, petering out between them. Phainon inhales deeply, catalogues his crowded, eclectic dining/living room, at everything and everywhere except Mydei until he absolutely has to.
"Right…um. So. Mydei…" he nods, smiles, even, despite the dread. No point in backing down now.
"Do you want to make a sex tape?"
then
It was Phainon's birthday, and they were both blurry-faced drunk.
Summer in Ohkema meant the sun boiled all afternoon and simmered through the night—a sweet, bloated season, ripe with sweat and blooming hydrangea. Phainon had eight weeks and three nights in the city before he piloted the next flight to Taikiyan. An extended break to re-acclimate, which was standard practice if you flew intergalactic. It was ample enough leave to clean his cheap, shoebox apartment and enjoy the creature comforts of home; delivering souvenirs from his last stops on Lushaka and the Yuque, soaking in the public baths, and eating as much authentic Amphorean food as he could stomach. By now, some hundred-fifty years after opening to interstellar trade, there were pop-ups of their cuisine near everywhere he went. Few compared to the genuine article.
He arrived just in time to swing dinner at the Dolosian meat grill around the corner from his place. Cyrene insisted it would just be them, but Phainon knew better, beaming when Cipher leapt on his back, and everyone popped up from behind chairs and honeybrew crates as a surprise.
He hadn't seen Mydei in seven and a half months.
To be more precise, Mydei hadn't seen him, either. They talked often enough but were both busy people—a fact logical Phainon knows, but emotional Phainon conveniently forgets. So, he'd been petulant when Mydei went three days without answering his last message (a spa advert photo on a spacedeck billboard of a stern, chimera-ish creature soaking in a hot spring, towel folded over its ears, captioned simply: "you"). He was instantly less petulant learning they'd be in the same city for a night—the fifth stop on Mydei's tour, the last of Phainon's rotation.
So, seven and a half months prior to his birthday, Phainon went to the show on a backstage VIP pass. He remembers when the band was barely popular enough to fill a tiny club in Ohkema's entertainment district. Here, on Pier Point, they played a stadium.
Mydei met him backstage after the crowd filtered home—a routine from their younger years, surfacing like a drag path. Mydei waved off his band mates and crew, changed his sweat-soaked tank for hoodie and hat and sunglasses in the dark winding hallway while Phainon stood watch. Makeup smeared dark rings around his eyes until Phainon scrubbed them with his sleeve. It's weird you have security now, he'd said, noticing the duo trailing them through the heady daze of Pier Point's speakeasys and covert casinos. Growing up, nobody was stupid enough to challenge Mydei—not because he was a bully, but because he was cool, confident, and excelled at everything by default. Nobody wanted to get under his skin. Nobody except Phainon, that is. Which, in retrospect, may be why Phainon's the one ducking into a dive bar and failing to drink him under the table, and not one of Mydei's many secondary school admirers.
It was a good night. They weren't drunk this time, just pleasantly buzzed. Mydei didn't like drinking but he liked people, and Phainon felt the same. He'd loved the show. Mydei thanked him, politely, but Phainon saw the gleam of pride in his eyes, the same ochre color as the light overhead, catching on the gold rings gilding his fingers. They bemoaned their pitiful time off, packed schedules, and caught up on the family comedies. Gorgo and Eurypon were fighting (in disagreement, Mydei said, gentler, grimacing) over the cat again, but worse was the album. His father was especially devout, and considering the title track of "Broken Lance," the reception was never going to be stellar. His mother was sympathetic, if middling, unable to take a side. She loves us both too much, Mydei told him once, when they were younger. It tears her in two. Mydei had learned a long time ago to curb his expectations. Phainon's parents were well; they'd only just purchased the pricey IPC plan to talk to him off-planet, and his mom peppered him for photos at all hours to make the credits worth it.
The bar didn't close; if anything, it got more crowded with suits as the night ebbed to morning. They strolled the red light, shoulders brushing, Mydei's shadows never far behind. Pier Point dripped in orange light, jewel-like as its deity. They bought steaming cloud cakes and spiced tea from one of the many stalls still hawking. He'd heard how at its heart, capitalism never slept, which Mydei found grimly amusing. Mydei offered to walk him back and Phainon took the long way, lying when he said he'd have enough time to sleep before his flight. On the steps Mydei said I missed you instead of goodbye, to which Phainon said and now you can't wait to get rid of me, and Mydei rolled his eyes, launching halfway up the stairs just to poke Phainon's sensitive sides.
Phainon wanted to kiss him then—on the front steps of some nondescript hotel near the spaceport in a city where no one knew them. He didn't, of course, because if he did he'd have to bash Mydei over the head to make him forget, and then kill himself. It wasn't worth the hassle. Phainon had been telling himself that every time the urge arose, for years.
"Hey."
It wasn't worth it, even when Mydei watched him leave, and Phainon let all the warm air out with the door half-open.
"What?"
Mydei's hands found his sweatpants pockets.
"Nothing," he said. "Goodnight, Phainon."
Seven and a half months later, at the bottom of the winding stairs to Phainon's apartment, he asked to come up.
Seven and a half months later, they finished the case of honeybrew in Phainon's fridge. Phainon hadn't been this drunk since university, the sort that makes your teeth hollow and your vision soft. He was still in control. So was Mydei, who was coherent and coordinated enough to find a sponge and cleaner to scrub Phainon's kitchen, which had collected dust and residue from when Cyrene came to watch her subscription IPC shows and water his plants.
Phainon sprawled with his legs over the couch arm, listening to Mydei scrape syrup off the stove, the intermittent splish of water in the sink. At some point, the television flicked on, low volume, and Mydei nudged his feet to get him to sit up. They watched 1.5 episodes of an old soap rerun, close in a way Phainon could only bring himself to be with his inhibitions lowered; kneecap bent to the side of Mydei's thigh, curled toward him to keep both Mydei and the screen in view. Phainon's hair tickled Mydei's arm slung over the back of the couch. He'd got it off an antique site years ago and restored the ribbed, velvet blue upholstery with Aglaea's help, who thought it was more loveseat than kline. The couch was barely big enough for both of them.
It was as the male lead ripped the mustache off his rival to discover the woman he loved that he felt Mydei staring. Phainon lifted his chin and stared back, hot-faced and hungry. Mydei was, too; that's how the tension on his face read: starving.
You're wasted, Phainon complained, tongue papery, tugging at Mydei's earring. Look who's talking. They both laughed for no reason, and somewhere in the middle of it Phainon darted in and kissed him; except he'd missed, lips grazing the corner of Mydei's brow bone instead, and Mydei looked at him with hard, glittering eyes before leaning in and kissing him back.
He didn't miss.
now
The bread Mydei made is for the following day, so they order in.
Phainon flips the A/C on. The apartment smells like peppery grease from the burger place down the block. Mydei likes it because they let him add extra bacon. Phainon adds extra lettuce, but the additional water content doesn't help it go down. They cram into Phainon's antique cafe table and eat around stacks of old mail, Amphorean Spacepilot Association newsletters, and a box of strangers' postcards he got from an estate sale. Mydei swipes a fry from his plate—a crime Phainon would pay for dearly were their roles reversed—and breaks the silence.
"In theory," he says, tongue rolling over his molars. "How would this work?"
"Our…theoretical sex tape?"
"Our theoretical sex tape."
Phainon feels like he's already won, smile stubbornly lifting his mouth—but he knows better than to count his chimeras now, before Mydei's verbally said yes.
"What do you wanna know? Details? Specifics?"
A level stare, another stolen fry. "Am I fucking you or are you fucking me?"
Phainon fights the urge to squirm at the directness; the suggestion, the visual. Lately, all Mydei had to do was touch him in the right place to get him hard. It didn't even have to be for very long; the underside of his elbow, nape of his neck, the dimples at the base of his spine Mydei insists he has. Phainon learned more about erogenous zones in the last year than he had in any smutty book or comic. Probably, at least—he could never get more than a few pages into any sex scene before calling it quits. He told Castorice about this roadblock once—over a book she lent him, no less—and she just stared at him, pityingly.
"I…" he starts, wetting his lips. "Was thinking of deferring to you, regarding the…configuration."
"Bullshit." Mydei folds his arms, Phainon's bargain bin kitchen chair protesting when he leans back, as surprised as Phainon is at hearing Mydei swear. Mydei never swears. Not like that—not at someone. "It's your idea. What do you want?"
"Ah, you know me," Phainon says, so nonchalant he nearly fools himself. "It's not like I'm picky."
Mydei barks a laugh. Phainon tilts his head.
"What?"
"That's a good joke, Deliverer."
The old nickname's a jab of its own, rarely employed, but nice to hear after so long. It was better than Farmboy or Nursemaid, both toyed with briefly that summer Mydei made the long train ride through the mountains up the coast to Phainon's family farm. They spent a month helping his mom fix up the old back barn for her new goats. Only after he helped foal the neighbor's mare and the old man clapped him on the shoulder, said, that's our Deliverer, did the name stick. Mydei smirked at him over the stall door as the colt nuzzled the top of his head, mouth frothy with its first milk.
"I'm not joking."
"You wouldn't have sex with the lights on until a month ago."
"That…" Phainon trips over that word—sex—realizes he has no recourse, and decides to jump ship. When in doubt: deflect. "…is completely irrelevant, Mydei. Honestly." He thinks on it longer, despite how it smarts, squints at Mydei the short distance across the table. "Were you actually tracking when I turned the light off while we—?"
"No. Only when you didn't."
"Oh…" Words fail. He feels like Mydei's undressed him in a very un-sexy way. "I see."
Mydei sips his water, brow raising. Not for the first time, Phainon can't believe how good he looks doing something so simple. How somehow, he must see the wound Phainon hadn't meant to project on his face, because then Mydei reaches over and taps his knuckles with his index finger.
"If it was a problem for me, I would've told you," he says, avoiding the question in typical Mydei fashion—by addressing the root instead of giving in to Phainon's diversion.
"Well, that's a relief."
"I like having sex with you regardless of lighting."
Phainon fights the flush threatening to spread up his throat, the smile trying to lift his mouth. Everyone says he's so good at saving face, at being polite, at being pleasant. But the face has never worked on Mydei. Sometimes, Phainon wishes it would.
"You make it sound so clinical."
"It's called pragmatism," Mydei says, mildly. "You should try it sometime."
"Is it? Huh…" He plays along. "Can't say I'm familiar."
"I know. Your refractory period's too short for you to be realistic."
"Alright, that's—" Phainon rubs at a kink in his neck, a suggestive pulse throbbing south. He shifts, folds and unfolds his legs. "Seriously, Mydei—"
"I am serious."
"When are you not?" His smile goes wry. He's fishing, hoping Mydei will bite.
"You know there are records of Kremnoan gladiators doing it mid-tournament, in broad daylight."
It—worked? Now it's Phainon's turn to raise his brow. "Oh, are we gladiators now?"
Mydei's voice lowers a note. "We could be."
Oh—no, it didn't. Of course it didn't. Mydei's onto him.
Their eye contact holds. Phainon breaks first, hurrying to occupy his idle hands again by picking at their crumpled wrappers and balling them together, ignoring the knowing smile lifting behind the rim of Mydei's glass. He shakes his head and bites his own laugh down. It's ridiculous, but only before the situation hits him; as it does at least once a day, multiple if he's in Mydei's presence.
Sex—that's all it is between them. They only still have this—the friendship—because sex is its own thing, a separate force smashing them together when the want or need arises.
And Phainon's fine with that. He is. Completely, totally fine.
Having anything, no matter how murky or inconsequential, is better than having nothing.
"I want you to fuck me," Phainon says. Has to, before he loses his nerve.
Mydei nods, like this is reasonable. "You did buy dinner."
"I don't—not right now…" Although his dick makes a compelling argument. He shifts again, tries to stifle the heat building in his gut. Thinks about natural disasters and Cyrene's cooking, pictures Anaxa's withering stare cutting him down to size. "I'm answering your question. The original question."
Mydei's glass clacks back to the table.
"To be clear…"
His chair squeals again as he reclines, chest pillowed beneath those immaculate arms. One advantage to more-than-platonic benefits is getting to openly ogle without a hasty excuse; something Phainon had honed over the years into a skill. Now Phainon doesn't have to be "tired" or "spacing out"—he can stare at Mydei because he likes looking at him. And if Mydei catches him, they can work out the finer details in the shower, the gym locker, or in Mydei's bed, and Mydei doesn't ask questions.
"You want me to fuck you," Mydei repeats. "And you want to film it?"
Or, he doesn't usually ask questions. Honestly, this whole conversation isn't going how Phainon thought; which is that Mydei would either say yes or no (probably no) and Phainon would proceed accordingly. He picks at nonexistent gunk on the table with his forefinger, lowering his gaze.
"That's usually how sex tapes go, right? It's a fairly simple formula."
"How would I know? I've never made one." A pause. "Have you?"
Phainon's heartbeat climbs up his throat and into his ears, full-bodied and loud. "No. I haven't."
Mydei's jaw works and Phainon braces, despite how everything else softens; Mydei's arms unfold, shoulders squaring. He clears his throat, leans in, broad hands flat on the table.
"Two questions."
Phainon swallows. Hard. His laugh comes out nervous. "Only two?"
Predictably, Mydei ignores his attempt to make light.
"Are you unsatisfied with what we've done up until now?"
"What?" Phainon's laugh bursts out before he can stop it, part relief, part disbelief. "Am I—? No. No, no, Mydei, I can—I can guarantee my satisfaction has nothing to do with it—"
"Do you think I'm unsatisfied?"
"No!" Although he's thinking about it now, obviously, a previously unknown door of guilty possibilities now blown wide open. "No. Of course not."
"Good," Mydei says, before Phainon spirals too far. "Because if you did believe that, for some…unfathomable reason—I hope you would talk to me instead of contriving a reason not to."
"I promise you, Mydei, that's not what this is."
Phainon feels the rest on the tip of his tongue—his reasoning, no matter how pathetic, for wanting tangible proof. Mydei stares, the logical follow-through burning between them. What is it, then? he would say, and Phainon would have no choice but to fess up pieces, at least.
But Mydei doesn't ask. He draws a measured inhale, slow and deep. "Okay. I believe you."
The ensuing silence acts like a vacuum, broken up by the tiny squeak of Mydei's chair when he shifts forward. Phainon, for his own part, doesn't move.
At least this line of questioning killed his hard-on. Small mercies?
"Are you planning to post it anywhere?"
Compared to what came previously, this question is toothless.
"No." Phainon huffs, shakes his head. "No, it would just be for you—I mean, for us."
Mydei's gaze narrows. "For me?"
"I'm almost certain that's more than two questions, Mydei."
That earns him a scoff, but nothing else. It's rare Mydei doesn't push back.
"Fair enough."
He holds his palm out, callused fingers flat against the table—a peace offering.
Phainon bites down his smile and takes it with a soft smack. Mydei draws him forward wordlessly, out of his seat and around the sanded table edges until he's standing between his knees, Mydei tugging him into his lap by the hips. The chair protests at the additional weight, but holds. Phainon gives in to gravity, letting his shoulders cave to kiss him. There is no gentle lead-in or caress; just Mydei's insistent mouth, a hand snaking over Phainon's leg to squeeze his ass. Phainon's knees jerk, tightening around Mydei's pelvis. He rolls against him on instinct, a new flood of arousal dropping fast into his belly. For a brief and beautiful second, Phainon thinks he's gotten away with it; the only sound is their kiss, the rustle of clothes, Phainon's heavy breath. He's struggling with the tongue of Mydei's belt when the kiss breaks.
"You really want this?" Mydei murmurs, a part of Phainon relieved he sounds as turned on as Phainon feels.
This isn't about the sex right now—it could be, but Phainon doubts it. Taking Mydei's hand was as good as saying yes, and sometimes neither of them spoke about it until after the fact. Once, Mydei spread his legs and fucked Phainon against his ridiculously fancy washing machine, the hang-dry wets only half-sorted. Phainon came all over the clear-front door, red-faced and keening into the stainless steel. Mydei apologized afterwards for interrupting him in the middle of laundry. Phainon did some scrolling on his phone in the days that followed, realized he might be into "free use"—and that maybe Mydei was, too. Consent between them was rarely revoked, and often implicitly given.
Which means Mydei's still talking about the video.
Phainon takes a breath. Holding it makes meeting Mydei's gaze easier.
"Yeah," he sighs it out. "I do."
Mydei looks him over, eyes flitting over Phainon's face, his shoulders, his chest. "Alright, then."
"…Alright?"
"Alright," Mydei says again, a twinge at the corner of his mouth. "Let's make a sex tape, Deliverer."
then
On Phainon's couch that night nearly two months ago, Mydei got on his knees and sucked his cock.
Phainon arched into Mydei's mouth and whimper-choked his name when he came, didn't let Mydei spit or wipe his lips before Phainon slid to the floor and dug into his tented pants. They jostled the coffee table on the way down, coasters spilling over the rug, but Phainon was too busy with Mydei's zipper, Mydei too busy sucking the air from Phainon's lungs. He gasped in the brief respites Mydei took to kiss his neck, lightheaded on something far more intoxicating than the alcohol. He managed a grip on Mydei's cock, not registering until after that he had to peel his underwear off, that Phainon's knuckles dampened with pre-cum as soon as he touched him.
Lying on his apartment floor five minutes later, pants half-down his thighs, tip still tingling, Phainon configured this fact as some sort of proof that Mydei didn't accidentally give him the most mind-shattering blowjob of his life. Mydei must've wanted him, too, even just physically. It became a sick, perverted echolalia in his head, listening to their panting breath echo and syncopate.
Mydei's dick got wet for you. Mydei's dick got wet for you. Mydei's dick got wet for—
"Hey…"
Mydei's hand on his stomach, rucking his shirt, then his mouth, his tongue. Hot. So hot. Up Phainon's chest to his collar, his neck, t-shirt rolled up to his armpits, nipples so hard they ached. Humiliating, if it had been anyone but Mydei and his hot mouth touching him. So hot he shivered, hot, so hot—
"You're so hot," Phainon moaned, cupping Mydei's perfect jaw in his hands. He still, to this day, isn't sure if he said it out loud or not—but banks on it being yes, because he remembers Mydei's smile, the crinkle in his nose before he asked, still hoarse from sucking Phainon's cock.
"You wanna fuck me?"
Phainon's throat closed. He swallowed hard. He was a deer, and these were the headlights. "Didn't we just…"
"No. I'm asking…" Mydei took Phainon's shaking hand and pressed it against his ass. His hips moved, ground against Phainon's fingers. Closer this time, enunciated so deep and clear, Phainon's chest prickled. "Do you want. To. Fuck. Me."
And instead of saying yes, or a more appropriate please, gods, yes, I've been jerking off to you since we were seventeen, are you actually asking? Am I dead? Is this a dream—
"I don't have any lube," he blurted.
Time stopped. Mydei blinked slowly down at him, comprehension descending to a crease between his brow. A thousand years of silence passed in excruciating agony.
"You're lying."
"Or condoms!" Phainon remembered. He nearly smacked a hand over his mouth, voice softening in horror. "I don't have any condoms…"
At this, Mydei appeared more amused than affronted. Phainon had a difficult time taking it as a win.
"Are you serious?"
Phainon whined, threw an arm over his face; overheated and embarrassed and aroused. A little drunker than he thought.
"Phainon—"
"Why would I lie about that?" He muttered into his elbow. "I don't…do this sort of thing…"
"You don't what? You don't have sex?" Mydei huffed in obvious disbelief, peeled the arm off Phainon's face. He's braced over him, straddled across Phainon's leg. Mydei's thigh pressed hard against his cock, lazing out of his underwear, smearing Mydei's jeans. Phainon was already half-hard again.
"No…" he said, unsure if he was agreeing or protesting, what was even true about himself.
Had he had sex before? Yes. Was it semi-recently? No. Was it anything like how Mydei made him feel in the twenty seconds Phainon lasted in his throat? Not even close. Could he tell Mydei that?
A soft, spearmint-y laugh gusted against his warm face.
"Come on."
Mydei patted his cheek and sat up, faster than Phainon could comprehend. He stayed frozen on the floor; listened to Mydei's belt clink as it buckled, watched the toned peaks and valleys of Mydei's chest disappear beneath his slim-fit tank top. Was it over? Just like that? Mydei nudged his hip with his foot.
"Get up. Make yourself presentable."
Phainon sat up. A strange numbness flooded him, an emergency coolant for his sparking nervous system. He tucked himself back into his dress pants, unwincing at the discomfort. Isn't this how car crash victims respond after impact? The shock and adrenaline making them walk with broken legs or pick things up with broken arms? Is that what he was? In shock?
He didn't realize Mydei put a hand down to pull him up before almost smacking his forehead on it. Phainon rolled onto all fours and climbed to his feet that way, instead. He couldn't. A bomb hitting the building would be preferable to looking Mydei in the eye, and Phainon did everything in his very limited power to avoid it, to keep the sting of tears and defeat at bay. Or, at least keep Mydei from seeing them. He was smoothing his wrinkled t-shirt when Mydei caught him by the chin, kissed him like he'd been wanting to for years.
Phainon kissed him back. It was nice; he didn't know why it was happening, but it felt nice. Mydei's lips were soft and mellow, bitterness stronger on his tongue. Phainon chased it, pressed into the firm warmth of Mydei's body, kept stepping until they couldn't anymore, until Mydei's back hit the door, and Phainon kept him there by the hips. He felt the words against his mouth as Mydei spoke, low and teasing.
"Like your own taste that much?"
As if on command, Phainon swiped his tongue over his lips, along the back of his teeth. His head buzzed, still stumbling on Mydei's potential rejection, snared in the awful idea he'd got it all wrong, that he'd fucked it up forever.
"Are you leaving now?"
Mydei's hands were in his hair, on his neck, thumbing his pulse point.
"I was hoping you'd come with me."
He'd braced for the worst: yes, of course I'm leaving, you think I'd stay after that display? Phainon was so immediately, deliriously happy that Mydei hadn't said those things that he giggled, grinned wide enough to make his face hurt.
"Where are we going?"
Mydei kissed him once, so brief it was basically chaste.
"Where do you think?"
The deadbolt clicked—Mydei, unlocking it without a glance. He pushed Phainon's chest until he stumbled back, bracing on the corner of his kitchen counter, stone corner poking his back. From this viewpoint, Mydei looked the same as he had during dinner, a little to the left; hair shaggy at his shoulders but mussed by his ears, clothes clean but disheveled, lacking his leather jacket.
"We've got an errand to run," he said, slipping on Phainon's sandals he used for the public bath.
Mydei barely gave Phainon time to slip on the spares before dragging him collar-first out the door.
now
They agree it should be at Phainon's place. On the very off-chance any of those Punklorde hackers decided to tear through Mydei's digital data and release the recording to the public, at least there'd be reasonable doubt when the bed wasn't a Kremnoan king-size, and there was no linen drape-framed penthouse backdrop, just Phainon's blackout curtains. He couldn't dwell on this possibility, no matter how remote, without spiraling a little; he hadn't thought about Mydei's celebrity status, but clearly Mydei had. He wasn't famous like Mydei—but he was respected enough in his field for it to matter if a video of him allegedly banging the front runner of L4NCEOFFURY happened to surface. Phainon just hoped they'd have the decency to blur any identifying features.
"No way," Mydei said as they did the dishes, leaned close, nose pressing to Phainon's ear. "You make the best faces when you come."
They also agree it should be shot on Mydei's phone. He has the newest model and, more importantly, the best camera. And seeing as the whole point of the video is that it ends up in Mydei's hands before Phainon leaves at the end of the month—it seems only logical.
"Are you ever going to tell me what inspired this?"
Phainon picks the tripod from the ground shelf, squatting to read the price. He winces.
"I'm a little surprised, Mydei," he answers, crab-walks to the next tripod case. Pointedly, not looking anywhere in Mydei's vicinity; especially not at his thick-soled boots, his long and elegantly tapered legs. Mydei leans forward, maybe checking a price on one of the cameras above.
"By what?"
"That it took you so long to ask."
Mydei kicks him—not hard, not even enough to knock him off his crouch. Phainon groans like he's been round-housed, hears the eye roll in Mydei's voice.
"Here I was, concerned you were overthinking, as you usually do. Glad to see you so unbothered."
"Hey—" Phainon can't resist glancing up. He wobbles on his sore toes, catching a hand on the shelf. "Patience is a virtue."
Mydei grunts, not really confirming or denying. Just acknowledging. "With you, especially." He peers from under his cap and pulls a mid-line model camera off its stand, retractable tether whirring.
Ordinarily, Mydei covers up more—today, though, it's just one of Phainon's OC School of Aeronautics hats and a pair of sunglasses hooked on the lip of his tee. The odds of being recognized in a tiny electronics shop in Phainon's neighborhood are low, after all, but never zero. Phainon keeps looking over his shoulder, expecting a surreptitious lens aimed their way.
No one's peering down the photography and video aisle, so Phainon takes the chance to peek, watch Mydei turn the camera over in his broad, careful hands. He'd gone through a photography phase in their last year of school together, before he left to study history and music, and Phainon stayed for an internship with an engineering firm. The camera, like most gifts from Eurypon, was used judiciously to document things his father wouldn't approve of: the band's late-night practices, a new piercing, all the boys Mydei kissed that summer. Phainon assumes, anyway—he never saw the photos, just the camera in Mydei's bag. He wonders what became of it.
Phainon shuffles further down the shelf, scanning the black and white pictures and coded product descriptions before pulling out a long, white tripod box. Based on the features, it's exactly what they need; adjustable height, cell compatible, a convertible flat or vertical stand support. Mydei could even keep it if he ever decided to get back into photography. It's multipurpose. Like you. A decent lay and a decent friend.
But not much more than that.
Phainon props the tripod up lengthwise for Mydei to see. "How about this one?"
Mydei reads the box blurbs, camera still cradled in his palm. It's sleek, black, and angular, matte lens cap dangling from a loop at the bottom. "Good with me."
The price is reasonable, too. Discounted with a red 20% off sticker. Phainon stares at the number until it swims a little, his heart stinging.
"Great. Think we found the one, then." He clears his throat, and the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, as casual as small talk, like he's talking about the weather: "I don't want you to use a condom."
Next to him, Mydei goes still. He wasn't moving in the first place, which means he must be holding his breath.
"When we…" Phainon clears his throat again.
"I got that," Mydei says, tersely, and Phainon's attention sharpens—if Mydei's trying to castigate him wordlessly, it's working.
He feels chastised already, but not enough to stop the word vomit.
"Sorry, I've been thinking, it's—it's been—on my mind—"
"In public?" Mydei hisses, leaning over him so Phainon must tilt to see his face. "In the video store?"
"I'm sorry, alright?!"
—Is what he says when he can't think of anything else.
"Gods, stop apologizing."
All at once, Mydei's crouching at his side, their knees bumping, knuckles grinding hard into the top of Phainon's head. Phainon squawks at the sudden rocking, grabbing Mydei's shoulder and jostling to keep his seat on his heels. Mydei scrubs at him, ruffling Phainon's hair until he sputters and paws at his face, a choked laugh breaking the tension threatening to crack between them.
"I yield—!" He gasps. Mydei stops, leaves him rumpled and hot all over. "Titans below, Mydei—"
"If it's been on your mind, don't hold it in. Tell me, for gods' sake."
Phainon smiles up through his tousled hair, sticky with static. "Or what, you'll noogie me to death?"
"Next time will be worse."
"Oh, I'm terrified."
A huff, haughty as ever. "You should be."
They stay like that—squatting on the floor, heads bent together, the silence a lighter layer than before. It's clear Mydei's waiting him out.
"I…" Phainon blows out through his lips. "Look, there wasn't an easy way to ask, and…"
"Seemed easy enough just now."
"You know what I mean, Mydei." And he hopes Mydei does, hopes he's not making an ass of himself only to sow more confusion. "I'm not…experienced, like you are. Not at this, anyway."
Phainon almost gestures between them, like a pathetic wave of his hand encompasses it; their fifteen years of friendship garnished with two months of hook-ups at every open hour, on every available, fuckable space in both their apartments. Of Phainon pretending he hasn't loved him since they were twelve.
"I thought, since we're both clean, we might as well, and…" he bulldozes through the doubt, the tiny tear in his heart. "…it's not as if either of us are seeing other people, so…"
Mydei's eyes soften, unmoving from Phainon's when he smirks.
"You're ridiculous," he says, like he has a thousand times, to any number of Phainon's quirks and tics. Only to you, Phainon wants to say. You make me ridiculous.
"As if you aren't just as—"
Bad. Just as bad, except in the five seconds Phainon's talking, Mydei checks their empty surroundings, pulls the cap off and cups it over their faces to kiss the words off his mouth. Phainon stills, surprised, before sighing through his nose, and Mydei pushes against him, easing the remaining tension still tight in Phainon's stomach.
They break apart with a soft, wet sound. The shop door tings, but neither of them moves, held in the shadowy pocket under Phainon's ball cap.
"What was that for?" Phainon asks.
"Because I wanted to. Do I need a reason?"
He'd rather not answer if Phainon's honest. His hand's on Mydei's thigh; he grips harder, thumbs the flat of his kneecap.
"Can I take it as a yes?"
"It's about time," Mydei says, lids lowered. Phainon can't see the smile, but he hears it. "You've already had me raw more times than I can count."
With that, their bubble of pretend-privacy pops, and Mydei jams the cap onto Phainon's head. There's barely time for the words to sink in, in all their dirty glory, before a group of teenagers rounds the aisle, chatty in a beeline for the record shelf behind him. Mydei's already standing up. The moment slips away faster than Phainon can grab it. He peers at Mydei from under the bill, stunned into red-faced silence.
Although he's never been edged before—all his past partners were more of a one-and-done deal, and Mydei lacks patience the same way Phainon lacks stamina—but he imagines this must be how it feels. Like climbing up a summit and sliding back right before the satisfaction of seeing the other side.
Mydei frowns, nods to the tripod box. "Get two."
Phainon processes this as the residual heat of Mydei's head seeps into his, watching Mydei pull the camera—a purchasable one, still in its blue-black box—from the shelf above.
"Do I dare ask what for?" He's already thumping the second tripod on top of the first.
"You're the one with all the strange requests today. What's one more?" Mydei murmurs, and Phainon shoves at him, flush steaming into his face. Mydei doesn't budge. "Ever heard of b-roll?"
Phainon laughs. "Why would we need b-roll for a—"
"Don't."
Over his shoulder, the teenagers have begun to glance and whisper—which in Phainon's experience, is never a good sign. One girl stares covertly through hair-clipped bangs, recognition gleaming in her eyes, aimed at Mydei's back.
"You claim this is for me." Mydei's voice draws him back, quieter than before. The words hang an indisputable truth between them. Phainon could argue, but what would be the point?
"So?"
"So." He nudges Phainon on his way by, signaling him to follow. "Trust me."
then
At some point, on the third or fourth flight down the apartment stairwell, Mydei took his hand. He let go as they pushed through the door to the street. Took it again when Phainon loitered at the corner for too long, and Mydei decided he was tired of waiting.
The night was thick and humid, sky a warm, deep blue. The streetlights didn't scald his sensitive eyes, which made Phainon wonder if he was dreaming; maybe he fell asleep on the couch, the heat of Mydei's body sparking into this lurid fantasy, and when he wakes up none of this will have happened, and they'll have toast and milked-down juice for breakfast, and Mydei will go back to his life writing songs and sticking it to Nikador, and Phainon will go back to running from him and every other problem, which is why Cipher said he became a pilot in the first place. As if she had any right to lecture him.
Mydei's hand felt real, though. Too real. Like a burning coal in Phainon's palm, scorching down his fingertips.
They round another corner, a gust of cold air blasting as the doors slide open with a chirpy chime, and Mydei lets go a second time.
Phainon squinted against the overheads. A pulse in his temple told him the honeybrew was still working. He'd been in this corner store a thousand times, but his swimming vision water-colored it strange and unfamiliar. The neat rows of snacks and necessities, the resident chimera curled up in a stack of old sagelore boxes. Mydei surveyed for what felt a fraction of the time Phainon would need, and marched straight to the back of the shop.
Phainon hurried to follow; a little unsteady, more than a little dazed. He stared at Mydei's hand, wanting to hold it again. Could he do that now? Would Mydei pull away? Did a drunk handy on the floor equate to hand-holding privileges? Did putting someone's dick in your mouth mean you had feelings for them? Probably not, but Phainon had no idea. He was like a newborn; naked, on the verge of screaming, desperate for physical contact.
They slowed, the little sign clipped to the shelving labeled "Health"—cold medicine, bandages, cushy shoe insoles—and another, a further step down the aisle way, "Sexual Health."
Mydei stopped. Looked at him. Looked down. Their eyes met on the way back up; Mydei's gave nothing away, but Phainon felt the pinpricks of blush stippling over his entire body, heading south. Like now that he'd given in to the possibility of having Mydei, his body expected him, anticipated the next time, whenever it was meant to be.
"What?" He asked, trying to sound casual. He rubbed his jaw. "Is there something on my face?"
"I'm trying to guess what size you are."
Mydei obviously wasn't asking about his shoe size.
Phainon dared a meandering step closer and glanced at the modest selection of condom boxes, a strange mixture of anticipation and dread pestling his insides. For the second time that night, instead of answering like any friend being graciously permitted to hit, he said:
"What size do you think I am?"
Mydei crossed his arms, looked sidelong. "Hard to say. My mouth's not the best measurement tool."
"What size do you use?" Phainon asked, before he could think better. Maybe this conversation was so absurd, so surreal, that all his normal decency took a vacation.
Mydei leaned into his space and fired back, no hesitation.
"What size do you think I am?"
Phainon fought the incredible urge to look down, as Mydei had done. It was impossible to gauge with their clothes on, anyway, when Mydei was soft—which wasn't something Phainon could claim with so much certainty about himself. The arousal churned like an unstoked fire in the pit of his pelvis, and anything Mydei did or didn't do wasn't stoking so much as it was like dumping gasoline. Phainon recalled how Mydei felt in his hand; firm, thicker than his own, girthier and hotter than any dildo Phainon could've bought in a pathetic attempt to replicate him.
He scanned the options, thumb on his chin. He thought he heard Mydei snort. Miraculously, Phainon doesn't fumble the box as he hands it to him.
"'Magnum XL Bareskin,'" Mydei read in monotone, batting Phainon away when he reached to cover his mouth. He laughed. "Extra Thin, Lubricated'—Phainon, stop—what are you, twelve?"
"That's my line!" He hung halfway around Mydei's shoulders, grinning, stupid with happiness and pretending he wasn't. "We're in public!"
Mydei might've been protesting, but he was smiling, too. A hand wrapped around, hooked over Phainon's waist. What happened next was hazy—he might've blacked out for a second—but later he'd picture Mydei closed-mouth smiled at him. His lashes were so long. Phainon wanted to kiss him right on the eyelids.
"What are you so shy about?" Mydei taunted, pressing the condoms to Phainon's chest. "You guessed right."
Phainon huffed. "Really?"
"Really."
And then Mydei pulled away, plucked another box and added it to Phainon's clutch, along with two pink tubes of lubricant from the shelf below. Phainon was juggling at this point to hold it all, half pinned to his stomach, the rest snaggled in his fingers.
"Two?"
"One set's for you."
Phainon darted between his suggestive haul and Mydei, not registering, at first, that he'd begun to walk away until it was too late.
"Mydei—"
"Go pay. I'll meet you up front."
Unsure if he wanted to say what or but Phainon settled on:
"Bwu…"
This, understandably, did nothing. He continued to stand, a deer in a second pair of headlights, watching Mydei stroll away.
It was a great view. A fantastic view.
What was Phainon doing, again?
"Mydei!"
"It's a surprise," Mydei said over his shoulder, then walked backwards, hands on his hips. How he had the balance, Phainon couldn't comprehend. Mydei nodded to the register. "Go on."
For more than a second, he thought about following him. Were it any other night, was he holding anything else, anywhere but this new precarious place between friend and something-else—Phainon would've chased him around the whole store, pestered until Mydei snapped and lunged. It was what they did; both of them too competitive to admit when they took it too far—and they had, before.
Which might've been why, this time, when Mydei told him to go, Phainon went.
The cashier didn't blink twice, bored but courteous when she asked if he'd like a bag, only Phainon was too distracted craning for a glimpse of Mydei through the aisles and she had to ask again. Sir? The courtesy startled him. Yes, please, thank you.
The hitch came when he patted his empty pockets—nothing. He had nothing on him. Nothing. How? Not even his phone! Was he so weak? He'd let Mydei lead him to a second location without a second thought.
"I've got it."
Mydei shouldered him out of the way, obscuring the counter and Phainon's incriminating bag. Phainon tried to shuffle around but Mydei blocked him. The cashier blipped one item, then another, and another.
"Who doesn't carry their wallet with them?"
"You didn't give me the time to—!" Phainon left out the extenuating circumstances, more for the sake of his own sanity than anything else.
"Don't blame me."
"Oh my—" They were still shimmying around each other, toe to heel, but Phainon knew he'd have to win some other way. Mydei was too aware of his physicality to let him slip by. "I'll pay you back, alright?"
"As if."
"Why not?"
"25,000 credits," the cashier said, completely unperturbed, if tired. "Do you have an IPConvenience card?"
"No."
"Would you like to register for one?"
"No, thank you."
"Mydei…" Phainon whined, nudging the top of his head between Mydei's shoulder blades. It was easier to touch him with his back turned; Phainon's hands on the straight column of his torso, head still fuzzy with honeybrew. It was too late to wonder if he was allowed. He sighed, watched Mydei's shirt ripple with his breath.
"No peeking."
The words thrummed from Phainon's palms to his shoulder joints. He swore he felt Mydei's heart beating right between his eyes.
now
Phainon wakes up early to clean.
It's still dark when his eyes open. A strip of yellow streetlight hits the wall opposite his bed. He waits for it to move, for the minutes to tick by, but Oronyx is unusually cruel. The two tripod boxes gleam, unopened against the closet door.
What may be more accurate: Phainon can't sleep and decides to put his jittery hands to work.
He starts in the bathroom, which is easiest because he cleans it most often anyway. It's large for how tiny the apartment is, with a bathtub that comes at a premium in the neighborhood. Phainon scrubs the sink and mops the floor, opens the window above the shower to let air circulate. The sky's beginning to lavender as he vacuums the living room, the dining nook, the runners in the cramped kitchen. He makes coffee and cleans the fridge of leftovers for breakfast.
Cyrene often compares his house to a magpie nest; full of old odds and ends, antique seller finds, and discarded family heirlooms. Phainon prefers to believe its a little neater than that, but the state of his bedroom now is a hard sell. His stuff—and there's no better word for it, unfortunately—is everywhere. Collectibles; jade from the Luofu, a ruby-hilted dagger from Oceton, a crystallized net from the skyfishers of Salsotto. Various ancient amphora replicas, currency of the old imperium, Styxian blown-glass figurines. Most he just hasn't put away properly, whether in the display case or one of the many floating shelves he installed on move-in.
Phainon changes the bedsheets and starts a load of darks. The sleek, full-length mirror—one of his concessions to Aglaea, who insisted it a necessity of true adulthood—taunts him from the corner. He'd been using it as a coat rack or extra drying space for months; but if he's going to clean enough for his room to appear on camera, he may as well go all out. Phainon drags it from timeout to sit more centrally, dusts and wipes it down. He pulls back the curtains and dusts the windowsill, too, sun glinting off the glass of Marmoreal Palace in the distance.
At half past eleven, he gets a text.
From: Mydeimos [11:32]
Let me shower before you.
I'll be there at 5.
You [11:33]
You want to shower here?
Phainon's foot bounces. His fingers hover over the screen, unsure. He resists the urge to chew his cuticles.
I don't see why not
But I am curious…
Mydeimos [11:33]
?
You [11:33]
It's a very specific instruction
Makes me wonder what you're up to
😋
Mydei's response doesn't come for another ten minutes. Phainon's dresser reeks of spray bottle cleaner, the washcloth he used to scrub it thin and overworked. The emoji, at second glance, makes him physically recoil.
Mydeimos [11:45]
The gym showers have all been
full lately when I go.
Plus, I like smelling like you.
Phainon stares at the sentence, self-directed disgust fading, replaced by the concept of what parts of Mydei's body his bar soap may or may not have touched.
then
They hardly made it inside the door before Mydei unzipped his pants. Like they never took a fifteen-minute detour for Phainon to humiliate himself even more than he already has, like some earthly force had shifted, and Mydei still found him attractive enough to take his clothes off. It should've been impossible.
Mydei seemed intent on proving him wrong.
They stumbled through the entryway, the kitchen, half-kissing, half-shoving, losing clothes along the way. At one point, their teeth clacked so hard Phainon felt it in his nose. Mydei's grunt dissolved into laughter as they fell into Phainon's bedroom. He was so solid, heavy when he pressed or pulled against him, like when they'd roughhouse on Mydei's living room floor. Everyone Phainon had been with before was smaller and lighter. The back of Phainon's knees found the bed frame, but Mydei held him upright like it was nothing.
"I'm gonna shower," he said, their noses brushing.
Phainon's lips were kiss-swollen and stinging. He felt strung between exhausted and exhilarated, the most alive he'd ever been. "Okay…"
Mydei pulling away was like ripping off a layer of skin. Phainon shivered at the raw-nerve tingling of it, blinked hard at the bathroom light flicking on, the squeak of the shower head. He felt naked and cold without him and realized it was half-true; all he had left were his heart-pattern boxers and thin cotton t-shirt.
Phainon sank to the edge of his own bed, afraid to lie back, to relax. The sheets were wrinkled, his comforter like crumpled white foil. Had he known this was going to happen, he'd at least have made his bed.
Had he known. How, in the name of every Titan dead and alive, could he have known?
Could he do this? Did he deserve to do this? Twenty-six years to the day, and what had he done but shied away when it mattered? He'd done the rest right—valedictorian, the best on-planet university, mathletes, extra credit and high honors. He hadn't dated, but tried to treat anyone he slept with with respect and dignity. He'd tried to be good his whole life. He was still trying. Most of the time, it felt like it wasn't enough.
This was Mydei. His track and field rival, his gym partner, his sexual awakening and first heartbreak. His best friend. That Phainon had been in love with him the whole time felt incidental, like a footnote, always asterisked by Mydei never liking him back. Loving wasn't even a possibility—Phainon would take a passing physical interest, just one night where he looked good enough to maybe kiss on a dare.
Because the problem was that Mydei did love him. Just not the way Phainon did. Not the way Phainon wished he would, even just a little.
The floor creaked; Mydei leaned against the bathroom doorway, black briefs clinging to his hips like they were made for him. Yellow light haloed his hair a rusty gold.
"If it wasn't clear enough before," he said. "That was an invitation, Deliverer."
Does it really matter why it's happening? Phainon heard in the back of his mind, his long-unrequited weakness given voice. Isn't once enough?
It wasn't, Phainon knew—but he could reckon with it later, when Mydei didn't smirk as he pulled his shirt and underwear off and stumbled into his arms. When Mydei didn't run his hands over him like it meant something, like he enjoyed Phainon's softened muscle beneath his touch.
Once Mydei decided he'd had enough—then Phainon could hate himself for surrendering.
In the shower, though, he didn't have to think about that; didn't have to think of anything but the taste of Mydei's tongue in his mouth, the hair thickening down his navel, the flow of red ink from the notch of his throat to the top of his feet. Mydei dug his thumbs into Phainon's nipples and didn't touch his cock. He let Phainon grind against him, let Phainon shove his back against the wall, water flecking their chests. Mydei pushed him down and down Phainon went.
Sucking cock was harder than he thought. The tile dug a chill into his knees, and his gag reflex balked at anything more than a subtle nudge at the back of his teeth. This all but forced Phainon to rely on his hand, to use his mouth sparingly. He kissed Mydei's shaft between strokes and suckled at the head—an incredibly inferior imitation of what Mydei did to him not an hour before. Whatever he did worked; eventually, Mydei came with a low groan onto Phainon's tongue. He spread his fingers over Mydei's thighs, panting. Warm water misted Phainon's eyelids, a shiver rippling down his chest when deprived of Mydei's attention. He eyed Mydei's softening cock, a pearl of cum still clinging to the tip. Mesmerized, Phainon dipped his head and licked it off in one swipe, Mydei's calf twitching under his palm.
"How'd I do?" He rasped.
After what felt an eternity, Mydei's head rolled forward, cocked down at him. Ruddy under the eyes, lids heavy. He drew Phainon's chin up. Thumbed his wet lower lip before dipping into his mouth. Phainon let his sore jaw fall open, breath quickening as Mydei probed his lower mandible, lifted his upper lip to smear spit on his canine.
"You're all teeth," Mydei said, eventually, softly. He pulled Phainon's tongue between thumb and forefinger. Tugged it through his teeth and rubbed as Phainon had against the slit, just before. Phainon's cock throbbed so hard he whined, grip tightening on Mydei's legs.
"Thowwy…" He tried apologizing around the intrusion. Mydei's taste lingered on the ridged roof of Phainon's mouth.
Mydei released his chin and hooked his fingers into Phainon's nape to guide him up.
"We'll work on it."
We will? Phainon thought as he stood on aching, shaky knees, surrendering to the wave of Mydei's kiss washing over him with the water. They kissed their way out of the shower, grappling against door frames, Phainon groaning into Mydei's open mouth, and fell into bed still wet. Mydei kissed him to his back and climbed over his lap, their only point of separation when Mydei rooted somewhere over Phainon's head for the convenience store bag before tossing it to the floor. Phainon grabbed for his face, not ready to be apart yet. But then the lube bottle clicked open, and he had to break apart to gasp, hips twitching at the hot tug of Mydei's fingers on his cock, the chilled contrast of the lubricant.
"Should've warned you." Mydei breathed hard against his temple. "Too cold?"
"No," Phainon exhaled. His voice felt too small for what was happening, what they were about to do. "I'm fine. Keep going."
Mydei stroked him, unhurried and torturous. He sat up, muttered something Phainon couldn't catch. What he did catch was the frown. Phainon pushed onto his elbows, a hole widdling in his chest.
"What's wrong?"
Mydei reached over his head again, the pack of gold-wrapped condoms unfurling from his fore and middle fingers.
Phainon watched in speechless wonder as Mydei broke the serrated edge and tore the packet open with his teeth. He spit the tab into the sheets and gripped the base of Phainon's cock. It looked obscene in Mydei's hand; he was leaking all over himself, harder and wetter than he'd ever been in his life. Phainon couldn't hold eye contact for long.
"Moment of truth," Mydei said quietly.
"What—Ah—" Phainon started, but then Mydei had already placed the condom tip between his lips and swallowed him down. Phainon grabbed at his hair instinctively, hips trying to thrust deeper into Mydei's mouth. Mydei pulled off just as quickly and rolled the rest down with his fingers, spitting onto the head and spreading it down his shaft. Mydei's gaze lifted, still hovering over Phainon's cock.
"It fits."
Phainon swallowed the moan at the back of his throat into a strangled whimper. Even his ears were hot. "You're such a show off…" he managed, once he caught his breath.
"You like it. In fact—" Mydei straightened, loomed over him, and lifted his hips. "—I think you've always liked it."
Something roared in Phainon's ears. He realized it was his pulse, jack-hammering into his head, trying to shoot out his neck.
"Shouldn't…" he choked out—because he had to speak. Anything. "Shouldn't you put one on, too?"
"You want me to?"
"How else am I supposed to know my guess was right?"
Mydei dipped to kiss his abdomen, the narrow trough between his ribs, and looked up through his lashes when he said, "You won't take my word for it?"
It was so genuine Phainon immediately felt guiltier. Mydei's hands skimmed his chest, touching for the sake of it, and for the first time, Phainon made the leap to reciprocate; dig into the bunch and flex of muscle, feel where Mydei softened at his pecs, a thin layer of give over his abdomen. He was wider than Phainon, torso short where Phainon's was long. His skin looked smooth from a distance, but up close was covered in gossamer peachy hair. A short puckered scar cut the center of his back from the spinal operation he had when he was ten. Facts Phainon had observed, but never thought he'd experience up close.
He worked his way up to Mydei's chin, his mouth obscured in the relative dark. Phainon tread lightly, fingertips just grazing Mydei's lower lip.
"How are you real?" He whispered.
Mydei's smile spread under his touch, a puff of laughter hot in the shell of Phainon's hand.
"That doesn't answer my question," Mydei said, already leaning in to kiss his breath away.
now
He listens to the water run through the closed bathroom door and tries not to vibrate out of his skin.
Mydei had arrived without incident a little before five, kissed Phainon once before making for the shower. It wasn't all that different from how things usually went. Mydei came over, or maybe Phainon went to his. They ate a meal, or out somewhere if they each had errands to run or shopping to do. They had sex—usually more than once, but occasionally not at all. Occasionally, Phainon fell asleep curled around him, woke up in bed with a view of Mydei's back.
He doubts anything like that will be happening tonight, though, considering Mydei's instructions.
He'll shower first, and "set up" while Phainon takes his own. Over text, Mydei was adamant in not needing Phainon's help, and sitting in his freshly cleaned bedroom now he can't help but wonder what exactly Mydei's planning to prepare. Neither of them knows what they're doing. The tripods lie on the floor by his dresser, de-boxed but folded. Phainon thought about situating them himself before the possibilities became overwhelming. Were there more alluring angles than others? How close or how far? Is his duvet too light for the cool, dark tones of the room? Are the yellowy lamps around the room better or worse than the overhead light? Naturally, all of this just circles the more pertinent questions of how. How would Mydei touch him, move him? How would Phainon touch him back?
It's not like they haven't done this before. Mydei had seen him naked far before they started sleeping together—that isn't the issue. The issue, the meat of it, is that Phainon's shame has never needed much fuel to knock him off balance. There's something in the extra layer of scrutiny, the impersonal eye of the camera. Through its lens, would Mydei still like what he sees?
Would he like it enough to stay?
Phainon stops himself from leaping to his feet as Mydei steps through, towel tucked at his waist. The bathroom door leaks heat, gusts over him even with the fan on. Water drips from Mydei's hair into rivulets he swipes at with his thumb, distracted as he walks.
"Hi," Phainon says, for no particular reason.
Mydei looks sidelong at him, amused. "Hi?" He unzips his bag, casting periodic glances. "It's all yours."
"Great!" Phainon scrubs his palms over his shorts and stands, pretending his vision doesn't pulse at the edges. They pass each other in silence, and Phainon catches the lemony linen of his soap, the cheap synthetic coconut of his shampoo and conditioner. He nearly keels over, gets on his knees, and swears he'll forget all about this if Mydei promises him—just one thing. Phainon doesn't need proof, just his word, and that'll be enough. He swears.
Only Phainon can't do that. Not without unearthing an insecurity he'd hidden so long it burrowed deep, hardened, decayed, and seeped into the very core of him. And what good would it do him?
No. He'd proposed the idea in the first place. It's too late to back out now.
"Phainon."
He stops short, catching his balance on the doorframe. "Yeah?"
For a strange split-second, it's almost like Mydei hesitates.
"We don't have to do this. You know that, right?"
A prickling lifts the hair at his nape and shivers down Phainon's back. It's a little scary how well Mydei reads him.
"Look, Mydei, if you're chickening out, you can just say so," Phainon says, entirely too light to be serious.
Mydei's voice goes grave anyway. "There is no chickening out."
"Alright, alright, I was kidding. Am I allowed to shower now?"
"Never said you weren't." Only now does Mydei turn to face him, and Phainon feels his opportunity for escape slipping away. "But I will count this as you avoiding the question."
Phainon reminds himself not to grimace. He smiles, pleasant as ever.
"Remind me, whose idea was this again?"
"It doesn't matter whose idea it was." There's give now, understanding. "You're allowed to change your mind."
The door hinge digs into his shoulder as Phainon leans. "Did I give you that impression? That I'd changed my mind?"
Mydei doesn't budge. "You're deflecting." His arms bracket the doorway, face leaned close enough to kiss. Heat hems Phainon in on both sides.
"Do you want me to admit it?" Phainon asks.
"I want you to stop asking questions and start giving answers."
"Alright," he says, quieter. "I'll stop."
It hits Phainon then that any lesser man probably would've given up on this a long time ago. He wonders how many thanks he owes Mydei for all the times he should've rightfully thrown in the towel. Probably too many to count.
"I'm alright. I still wanna do this, it's just—" He blows out hard. "—nerves. That's all."
"Do I make you nervous?"
Of course you do. "Of course not." Phainon huffs, heart palpitating at the slight smile teasing Mydei's mouth. There's a brief, heavy pause.
"I'll take care of everything," Mydei says. "If you want."
The offer settles between them; gaining friction, gathering momentum. Phainon senses it's a little more complex than Mydei's consideration for his state of mind, a proposal out of more than simple kindness. Desire thrums, like a thready pulse through skin.
"I certainly wouldn't stop you," Phainon says, as close as he'll come to granting permission.
Mydei holds his eye a moment longer before pinching Phainon's ribs—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make his stomach jittery at the contact.
"Go shower. I'll bring you a change of clothes."
Phainon sinks backward into the bathroom. "I need clothes where I'm going?"
Mydei waves him off, and Phainon decides to cut his losses and shut the door. He strips, turns the faucet and steps under, the water still hot. At first, Phainon sits under it unmoving, lets the stream pour over his head and into his ears, snaking and spattering down his chest and legs. He hears the door open and close, the soft plop of a bundle on the counter—the promised change of clothes, most likely. Phainon swipes the water from his eyes and gets to work.
He scrubs from nape to toes, preps and double-checks his shave job before drying off. There's a clean set of clothes folded on the counter; his usual white long sleeve, black trousers, even boxer-briefs and socks. Disappointingly, no belt or garters.
What is he thinking?
"Are the socks necessary?" He asks the empty bathroom, toweling his hair.
Mydei's voice comes muffled. "What happened to not asking questions?"
"I'm just saying—" He calls back, wiping the steam from the mirror with the flat of his hand. It's only half a mistake; his reflection's pale as ever, but less obviously anxious than he feels. It's almost reassuring. Phainon tilts his chin, slicks his damp hair back before ruffling it forward, counts the moles down his neck to his shoulders until his heart rate settles. "—seems superfluous, all things considered."
Considering Mydei's going to take it all off. Or, Phainon hopes he still is.
Through the door: "Big word."
Phainon forces his grip to relax on the counter. "Need me to find a dictionary for you?"
Mydei barks a laugh. "Asshole."
The sound acts like a pin pricking into Phainon's sensitive nerves. He breathes out, deflating, looks upside down at the soft definition of his abdomen; the jut of his lean hips, splotches of skin still red from the hot water, the shiny scar running diagonal from clavicle to chest. Mydei likes to trace it with his forefinger sometimes.
"…Come out when you're dressed," breaks Phainon's attention back to the present. Mydei sounds closer, but Phainon has no proof.
He pulls the shirt over his head, underwear and pants to his hips. It's too humid for the socks; he'll put them on outside. The bathroom door opens directly to the bedroom, so there's no delay or preparatory 3-second intervals before Phainon must face what lies ahead.
Mydei sits at the foot of the bed—notably more dressed than before. That may be a matter of opinion, though, the longer Phainon looks. The towel's gone, replaced by clean gray sweats. Still shirtless, the light hits just right on the silver barbells at his nipples. The ones Mydei kept saying he was unsure about keeping, and which Phainon couldn't admit he'd mourn if Mydei ever took them out. He's all warm-tones in the light, tattoos a dark crimson. All things considered, Phainon feels overdressed.
"What have you got there?" He nods to the symmetrical black box, just visible in the shell of Mydei's hands.
Mydei places it behind him, out of Phainon's sight, says, "Are you not going to put your socks on?"
Phainon tilts his head, eyes narrowing. "You're really hung up on these socks, aren't you?"
The prized clothing article rolls in his fingers, still folded together.
"They're part of my directorial vision."
Phainon stifles a laugh, cocks his hip. "Your vision?"
"Every film has one."
"Oh, and it's a film now! How fancy."
Mydei leans back, his knees wide and planted, expression so casually commanding that Phainon suddenly doesn't know why he's on the other side of the room and not on top of him already.
"Are you opposed?" Mydei says. Phainon swallows the spit pooling in his mouth.
He puts the socks on. Tugs each over his foot and tries not to break from Mydei's gaze. They're nothing special; the same everyday socks he wears with his sneakers, crew cut and off-white. Pulling the cuffs of his pants back down over them, aware of Mydei checking him from head to toe, it's hard not to feel like they were picked for a purpose. He's completely dressed save for a pair of shoes, and Mydei's already almost naked.
"I didn't think you were into this sort of thing," Phainon says as he straightens, fiddling with the tuck of his shirt at the button of his pants.
Mydei doesn't move. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Right."
The space between them seems negligible, now. Phainon sits tentatively to the foot of the bed, still an arm's length from Mydei, who regards him with obvious amusement.
"What are you doing?"
Phainon shrugs, but he's too tense to move fluidly. It's more of a jerk. "Waiting on your directions, obviously."
Mydei makes a low sound that's not quite a laugh. He shakes his head.
"Get over here."
He could play hard to get, and maybe Phainon should. Sometimes, he wonders if he'd made it too easy for Mydei to do what he wants with him. At least half—if not more than half—of this situation between them is Phainon's fault, he reasons. It takes two to be fuck-buddies, as they say. Phainon's never stopped Mydei, either, from the very first night they spent together. He never brought up anything more, because the sex hinged on friendship, which hinged on their history, and Phainon wasn't about to risk losing all of it for Mydei to reject him. So really, it's better this way. Phainon's alright with giving in, considering this night might be their last.
He sidles closer before swinging a leg over Mydei's lap, hands catching his hips. There's a brief moment of hesitation, halting as Phainon leans in. Should he kiss him now? Do people kiss when they film sex tapes? The question barely forms in his mind before Mydei cups the back of his neck and tows him in, kisses Phainon like he normally would. Unhurried, initially, then the slip of his tongue at the seam of Phainon's mouth, licking languidly when Phainon parts to let him in. He always lets Phainon come to him, in the beginning. This time is no different—and why would it be? What difference does a few cameras make, right? Phainon lets his weight sink, relaxing, the first stirrings of arousal rising to easy attention.
Mydei tilts his head, kisses the corner of his mouth, says, "Turn around."
Initially, Phainon hesitates again. He swivels in Mydei's lap and tries to rearrange his limbs without flailing. He ends up sat between Mydei's thighs, back to front, and—
Oh. The mirror.
Mydei must have moved it while he showered. It sits square in front of them, and after a beat of uncomfortable eye contact with his reflection, Phainon notes the tripods—one next to the mirror with the camera from the store, the other situated to Phainon's left, Mydei's phone already clipped in. Each captures different angles, both the side and front of the bed. Mydei notices him noticing. Something about seeing Mydei's arms wrap around him in the mirror makes Phainon's stomach jump.
"Are they…already recording?" Phainon asks.
Mydei's hands roam, touching apparently just to touch. "Yes."
"Well—" Phainon glances down at the socks, overlapping where his feet sit atop each other. "That's a little embarrassing…"
"What's embarrassing?" Mydei chuckles, the soft sound so close to Phainon's ear.
Phainon would've explained if not for the brush of lips at his neck that followed, the winding grip around his chest and waist. He grabs for Mydei's hands to have something to hold onto, tracing with him as he goes. The brush turns into a kiss at the junction of his shoulder, just inside the collar of his shirt. Phainon tenses, leans into it. He feels his nipples start to firm, the beat of Mydei's heart through his back, and all the while he can't tear his gaze from the reflection of Mydei in his mirror—eyes heavy-lidded, the firm definition of his biceps, his bare feet bracketing Phainon's.
Mydei works his way down before slipping under Phainon's shirt, cupping the slight curve at Phainon's lower abdomen before dipping beneath the seam of his pants, straight past his underwear to palm his cock. Phainon inhales sharply, legs squeezing together on reflex, already half-hard at the rough rub of Mydei's guitar calluses fingering his shaft. Mydei's voice at his ear startles him.
"I thought we could try something."
Phainon breathes properly for what might be the first time in several minutes. "You'll have to be more specific than that, Mydei."
Instead of speaking, Mydei reaches back and presents the box.
It's bigger than Phainon thought at first glance. Black and unadorned. For a terrifying fraction of a second Phainon wonders if its a ring box—what kind of ring Mydei would even want to give him is far too much to comprehend, and it's too plain and utilitarian to be that sort of ring, anyway, or at least Phainon thinks so, hopes so (does he?)—but by the grace of a merciful Titan somewhere Mydei wrenches the pull tab and dumps the box's contents into his palm before Phainon has a chance to descend into hysterics.
And—it is a ring. A few thumb widths, with a thick band of red silicon. Phainon throws a raised brow over his shoulder, but Mydei's silence persists—so, Phainon does what anyone would do and takes the ring from Mydei's waiting hand. It stretches a little, but otherwise holds its shape.
"Uh…"
"It's for your cock," Mydei says. What a way to break his vigil.
"Oh…" Phainon feels his face go pale, then blistering hot, curdling down his throat. "Wow…"
"It's supposed to help you last longer."
Mydei turns the ring over, their fingers tangling around it.
"Hope I got your size right," he mutters. "Maybe I should've bought the variety pack…"
What would you need that for? Bubbles unwarranted to the front of Phainon's mind, burns on the tip of his tongue. He knows it's too jealous, too possessive. So, he exchanges one form of suffering for another, turns to look Mydei in the eye when he asks:
"Do you not like that I'm…quick?"
"No," Mydei answers instantly, punctuated by a kiss to Phainon's shoulder. "I think it's hot."
Relief hits him like a chemical release. Phainon sags closer, leaning into Mydei's chest. Everything he says passes through Phainon's arm pressed to his ribs, a low thrum reaching Phainon's lungs.
"But this way," Mydei continues, his voice dropping, the hand at Phainon's waist squeezing. "We don't have to stop. We can go as long as we want."
Phainon turns his head to the ring. He can't even gauge if it's too large or small, if it will fit, or what it'll feel like once it's on him.
"…You don't have to."
He doesn't. He knows that. Mydei wouldn't ask him to do anything he doesn't want to, that he knows Phainon isn't capable of.
Phainon nods before he manages to summon the words.
"Let's do it. I want to do it."
Mydei huffs through his nose, drops his gaze to Phainon's lips, and Phainon's hindbrain tells him it's a sign of approval, even when Mydei hasn't said so, doesn't speak until after he kisses him soundly, fingers at the button of his pants, tugging at his zipper.
"Good boy," Mydei whispers, and cinches Phainon's budding erection tight in his hand.
A silent switch in both of them flips.
Phainon grabs to kiss him harder, sucking on his tongue, nipping Mydei's lip until he bites back. He's too clothed, and Mydei isn't close enough. They only break apart for Mydei to push the ring down Phainon's cock, his pants and underwear around his knees. He's not fully hard but the ring's already tighter than he thought—a vibrant red at the base of his cock. By the time he kisses Mydei back onto the bed it sits even tighter.
He truly feels it when Mydei flips him onto his side and rips his pants the rest of the way down. Phainon's cock pulses, and the ring squeezes harder, holding him on the verge of pleasure even as Mydei starts to hump against him. He kisses Phainon's jaw until Phainon turns his head to meet him, moaning into his mouth.
Mydei slots behind him, bulge pressing between the cheeks of his ass. Phainon tries to chase the kiss, but Mydei buckles down, grinding into him. They face the other camera now. Phainon feels its gaze—voyeuristic, in a sense. Maybe this is why people do this.
"Spread your legs," Mydei says, low and hot in his ear. Phainon does, shakily, breath catching when Mydei takes his hand to hook beneath his knee. "Hold here."
Mydei's still mostly clothed. The seam of his sweatpants rubs into Phainon's sacrum, everywhere below his own waist so comparatively exposed. Then there's the brush of Mydei's fingers, the fabric giving way to the hot prod of his cock. Mydei kicks his pants off into a pile on the floor. A fresh rush of heat twinges low in Phainon's abdomen. He lifts his knee a little higher, nudges his hips back. Mydei's arms wrap around his torso and pull them flush together, touching Phainon under and over his shirt. His teeth graze the top notches of his neck before sinking in, sucking down until Phainon's hold on his hand crushes his knuckles.
Phainon can't see it, but he feels Mydei's cock graze his upper inner thigh, nudging under his sac. His first tentative thrust sends a spark racing up Phainon's spine, a feverish itch settling under his skin everywhere they touch. He thinks about closing his leg to let Mydei fuck his thighs—but Mydei doesn't ask for that, doesn't say a word. He nestles his front flush to Phainon's ass and kisses around the side of his neck, worrying his teeth before lifting to Phainon's ear.
"I should check the camera."
—And just like that, he withdraws. Phainon's motionless as the mattress shifts, as it becomes obvious that Mydei really intends to leave him like that: legs spread, shirt mussed, hickeys starting to darken on his throat.
It's funny, almost—Mydei completely naked in front of him, cock at heavy attention, focused so seriously on the camera settings for their amateur private porn shoot. Phainon, bare and wet from the waist down on the bed—save the socks—alone in the viewfinder. He has a hard time finding anything erotic about the last part, but maybe for Mydei—
"For someone so initially apprehensive about all this," Phainon says, toying with the bottom edge of his shirt. "You seem eager to get your way, Mydeimos."
He'd been thinking it since their back-and-forth in the bathroom doorway. Mydei keeps his eyes on the screen as Phainon removes his shirt and walks on his hands to sit back on the bed. He wants Mydei to see him, the desire a hot, aching thirst in his throat. Phainon stares at Mydei's jawline before dropping to the glint of the camera lens.
"It took time to come around to the idea." Mydei doesn't look up, but it feels like their eyes meet through the phone's thin electric barrier.
Phainon steadies his breath and pulls his legs apart. Mydei's eyes only flicker up before refocusing, tapping the screen. Phainon props his foot on the edge of the bed, tries not to linger on the pink head of his cock leaving a wet smear on his thigh. The ring sits snug at the base, a shock of red against his smooth skin. If he hadn't shaved, it wouldn't be nearly as obvious.
"You didn't take much convincing," he notes.
Mydei nods to him. "Tilt your hips in."
Phainon stills, shimmies forward. "Like this?"
This time, Mydei meets his gaze. "Other way."
Phainon rounds the other way, realizing too late how exposing the angle is. Like this, Mydei sees everything; how messy his cock is, the cinching ring, the smooth stretch of skin to the tight furl of his hole.
The air shifts, abruptly heavier. Mydei's gaze lingers. Phainon's blood pumps harder, races south, his cock flushing even darker. He could shift, try to hide himself. It feels pointless when Mydei's already devouring him. It's too late.
Phainon bends his other knee and plants his heel—spreading himself open even as his face burns.
"Like…this?"
He holds his breath, and all at once Mydei unclips his phone from the tripod, closes the space, and drops to his knees.
"O-Oh, whoa—Mydei—"
Mydei mouths the junction of his thigh; a hot, startling prick. Phainon fumbles to catch the phone pressing into his hand, glances at the screen to see the recording still rolling. Mydei's bright eyes look up at him, his tongue the same dark, glistening pink as the head of Phainon's cock as he teases against it.
Phainon can't breathe. His inhale stutters, his exhale a heave. "S-Should I…?"
"Hold still," Mydei murmurs. It's the last warning Phainon gets.
Mydei licks down his cock, tonguing the ring before kissing the tender skin of his balls. It takes every drop of Phainon's concentration to hold the camera steady, to not abandon it in favor of grabbing Mydei's hair and holding him there. With nothing to impede him, Mydei holds his cock side to lick and suck down Phainon's perineum, thumb testing the give of Phainon's hole before sealing his mouth there with a wet, sucking squelch. Phainon feels it at his very core, unable to stop his throaty moan when Mydei fucks him with his tongue, alternating with a pump of his thumb to spread him wider.
He has to lean back, partially fighting the urge to shove away, to tell Mydei to stop. Mydei would listen—he always does. And he looks so good like this, framed by Phainon's thighs, lashes long and dark, eyes shut in concentration. Phainon doesn't want him to stop, but he wonders if he won't break apart under Mydei's tongue alone, if he won't come with Mydei lightly gripping his cock, before he even has a chance to put it in.
As quickly as Mydei started, he stops. His head lifts, face in full view.
"Fingered yourself without me?" He asks, a sheen of spit from nose to chin.
Phainon's mind blanks. He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Feeling the flush in his face only makes it worse, and the half-smirk on Mydei's reddened lips makes it catastrophic.
"I didn't—" Phainon all but squeaks.
"Oh yeah?" Mydei squeezes the ridge below the tip of Phainon's cock, the two opposing points of pressure throttling him, making his hips jerk.
"Mydei—"
"You're so soft down there already. I barely did a thing, and you're ready for me to fuck you."
A tremble starts in Phainon's legs. He stares at Mydei, unmoving, breath coming faster, whimpering as Mydei's hand begins to move. His hold is so light, just cradling Phainon's cock. Phainon's about to open his mouth to say—say something, although he's no idea what, when Mydei beats him to the punch:
"You get all that?"
Phainon can't keep up. Get what? Get that he's finished, done for, so gone there's no coming back. Eloquently, Phainon sums this all up with one word.
"Huh?"
Mydei nods to Phainon's right. The phone's loose in Phainon's hand, lilting almost into landscape—but the recording still running, timer ticking away. Mydei's askew in the video frame, and maybe when he looks back, he'll admire the unintentionally artistic angle. Surely, avant-garde sex tapes exist. Phainon's just never seen them. Not that he's seen sex tapes at all—a fact that's never been more painfully obvious than it is now.
"Yeah," he breathes, nods.
"Ready to keep going?"
Phainon nods again, sighs into the kiss when Mydei pushes up to claim his mouth.
This one's not unlike the first—careful, languid, if a little headier. Phainon remembers where Mydei's mouth just was and grunts against his lips. Mydei licks behind his teeth before he pulls back.
"Relax. Forget about the cameras. It's just me."
Phainon drops his gaze, too flighty to meet him yet. Eventually, he plucks up the courage.
"Just you," Phainon repeats.
"Just me."
Awareness clears his vision, sharpens his senses. Mydei's hand on the curve of his neck, his cock poking low against his stomach. They breathe against each other, Mydei's exhales tingling on his lips.
"Now…" Mydei's voice lowers. He plucks the phone from Phainon's nonexistent grip, tucks a lock of hair behind Phainon's ear. "On your knees."
Slowly—without breaking eye contact until he absolutely has to—Phainon rolls to his side, clamors onto all fours facing the foot of the bed. Realizes too late that he's facing the mirror again. He should turn around, try to salvage some of his future dignity; but the sight of Mydei behind him is a vice-grip keeping him in place, only malleable to Mydei's touch, the gentle pressure between his shoulder blades that sends Phainon's chest down, head pillowed in his forearms. A burning skim over Phainon's tailbone, over the curve of his ass. The clack of the lube cap, the slick flick of Mydei's stroke, a glob of collected spit landing and spreading over his hole; Phainon holds still for all of it, waiting, wanting.
He exhales shakily as Mydei pushes in. His breath thins fast into a punched-out moan, the feel of Mydei's bare skin against him almost too much to bear. Phainon knows he thinks this every time, but the fact never changes—Mydei's big. Not just length but girth, too, and he feels even bigger and thicker when Phainon takes him from behind. Every inch splits him apart, pulls another strangled, wanting noise from his mouth. Mydei works into him with shallow, searching thrusts, only grabbing hold of Phainon's hip once he's deep enough to stay inside without his hand.
The first strike of Mydei's hips against his ass snaps through him, and Phainon moans long and loud against the bed, sheets humid and damp with his breath. Mydei drives in, a little deeper every time, before setting the pace—steady, punishingly hard, ploughing through whatever resistance his hole provides. It always hurts at first, at least for a minute. But this time the pain gives way like it's nothing, the weight of arousal dropping into his stomach, a physical knot rolling over his insides. It feels good so fast. Phainon sneaks a hand down just to tug at the head of his cock, pushes his hips back, chest flat to the bed, knees wide.
"Phainon…" Mydei strokes up his spine, sends his hips bucking. "…Look up for me."
His neck twinges with the strain—but Phainon obeys.
In the mirror's reflection, Mydei drives into the pale rise of his ass so hard it shakes with every thrust. Phainon's face is barely visible—a quarter profile hidden by his forearm, by the way he's pressed into the bed. He's an arched, freckled back, a pale shoulder, a single blue eye. One Mydei meets through the mirror, hair falling over his brow. Just to the left of him, the camera light holds a steady red. In Mydei's hand, the phone's a silvery-black sliver, aimed down, at the steady in-out of Mydei's cock.
Phainon quickens his stroke, eyes watering with the weight against his chest, every moan rasping and wet. His back's so bent the tip of his cock brushes the bed—the lightest scratch of friction. He watches, feels Mydei's palm skim his ass, pull his cheek apart for a better view.
"U-Ugn—Mydei, I—Hah—"
Mydei buries inside him before hooking an arm under Phainon's and yanking so they're back to chest, hardly giving Phainon time to loop a hold around his neck before he's fucking him again, the sound filling the room. Phainon's forced to hold on, unable to keep a hand on himself, and in the mirror his cock jostles with every thrust, scatters droplets onto the sheets. Mydei's relentless, unyielding even as Phainon moans at every bottom-out, his cock an alarming shade of red. He grunts softly into Phainon's ear when his head falls back, their temples almost together when he whispers:
"Think you can ride me after this?"
Phainon resists the urge to laugh; he can't even feel his legs right now. He digs his fingers into Mydei's forearm hard enough to bruise, clinging to reason by a tenuous thread.
"You're—crazy—" He says between thrusts. "If you think—I—ah—ah—"
"I'm an optimist," Mydei rumbles against his neck. "I know you're strong enough."
It's a command—plain and simple. I know you can do it. Don't disappoint me.
From here, Phainon's vision blurs. He's aware, distantly, of Mydei releasing him, pulling out, the sheets threading a line into his cheek. Over his shoulder, Mydei sits back, and in Phainon's mind nothing matters but getting up and sitting on his cock. His perfect cock; foreskin pulled from the thick head, hard and curving against the dark blond nest of curls at its base.
Weakness smarts down Phainon's inner thighs, his hole raw, stinging as he pushes up and crawls over, kisses the shit-eating grin off Mydei's mouth. Phainon shoves him all the way down, realizing, distantly, that he doesn't know where the phone is, that the camera behind him captures everything when he grinds his length against Mydei's. Mydei groans against him, reaches down and strokes them together, hand crushed between their bodies.
He can't wait any longer. He fumbles down, their lips ghosting, soldiers through the tremor in his glutes to lift his hips, draw Mydei up and over his hole.
Phainon sits up and comes down hard on his cock—too hard. His whole body jolts, clenching, closed-mouth groan smoothing into a hum as Mydei holds him still, thrusts slowly, gently, until Phainon matches his pace. In all but a minute, Phainon melts, sinking to the base. He rocks, keeps Mydei deep inside until the pressure eases. Then—faster. A little faster. He tips his head back. When he looks down again, Mydei's eyes meet his over the top of the lens and Phainon moans, biting his lip until it stings. The phone hides Mydei's face from the nose-down, makes him aggravatingly inscrutable.
Kiss me. Phainon imagines projecting the idea into Mydei's head, whining, dying for it. He doesn't know if Mydei will let him; it won't be a good shot, just Phainon's pale back rolling as he rides him. No. That won't work. Phainon wracks his sex-soupy thoughts for anything else, any way to improvise.
He slides his hands from Mydei's shoulders to the ample rise of his chest. He cups his breasts, squeezing, the piercings hard and warm against his palms. Mydei sighs as Phainon thumbs his nipples, rubbing until they perk enough for Phainon to flick over them. He knows Mydei likes this, knows how sensitive he is here. Maybe that's why his next sentence surprises him.
"Move your hands," Mydei asks, softening, less command and more challenge. "You can do it, can't you?"
Phainon thinks on this—as well as he can, given the cock grinding into him, anyway. How far is Mydei trying to push him?
"What should I…do with them?"
Mydei takes hold of his left wrist and presses Phainon's hand over his breast. He rubs until Phainon's nipple stipples and peaks, hardening to a dull point under his palm.
"You do what I can't," Mydei says. Then, lower: "Touch yourself."
Phainon shivers. He'd been so overwhelmed by Mydei's strength set against his—the grip of his fingers, hot probe of his tongue, teeth at the nape of his neck. He doesn't know how long he'll last like this. His cock gives constant dull throbs against the ring. Without it, he definitely would've come already. Maybe more than once.
He keeps his left hand on his chest when Mydei lets go, lifts his right hand to his torso, resting at his navel. Phainon has to slow to do it, swaying on Mydei's cock, sinking lower to keep his balance. He flicks his gaze down, digging fingertips into his abdomen lightly, unsure if this is what Mydei means. It feels strange—like he's using Mydei for his own pleasure, barely touching him save for the hand anchored at his thigh. Phainon lifts his chin just enough to catch Mydei's attention. Mydei's eyes meet his with a thick throb, and Phainon almost crumples, curves around it.
But then Mydei nods. Permission. Reassurance.
Phainon bites his lower lip and slips a hand around his cock.
The contact's electrifying. Phainon shivers, a moan shuddering from the pit of his stomach. He pulses in his hand, the pleasure rippling out as he starts to stroke; slow, at first, but quickening easily, and soon Phainon's fisting his entire length, rocking his hips, pinching his nipple between thumb and forefinger. It's addictive—the wet friction of his hand, Mydei's cock an unrelenting tap inside him. Sweat drips, catching in the curve of his lower back. One bounce Phainon hits everything just right, orgasm winding tight, cock twitching when he looks at Mydei through the camera, this time, instead of over it.
Suddenly, though, the circular eye of the lens disappears. The phone bounces onto the mattress once, twice, and Phainon's still looking at it when Mydei surges forward, tongue a hot stripe over his untouched breast. Phainon yelps, cry strangling at the bruising grip Mydei settles on either side of his ass.
"Wait—What—mm—What are you doing?" He mumbles as they kiss, as Mydei brings him down on his cock over and over again. I'm gonna come, he doesn't say, doesn't dare when all he can think is don't stop, touch me, touch me, touch me.
"This part's just for me," Mydei murmurs, pulling Phainon flush against his lap and holding him there.
He's so full now that the momentum's stopped, the firm heat of Mydei's balls pressing between his legs, hole aching, twitching on his cock.
"It's all for you…" Phainon points out, breathlessly. "Even if…your future self—uhn—"
Mydei takes him in hand and pumps in long, luxurious strokes. "I don't care about him," he says, voice rumbling. "I'd much rather dedicate myself to you, here…" Phainon puts an arm out to catch himself, but he buckles, pulls Mydei impossibly deeper. "…in the present."
Phainon shivers, moans long and loud as his head falls back. His knees try to close, the pleasure winding tighter behind his cock—but Mydei holds his knee with one hand and keeps him open, straddled over his hips. The same hips Mydei moves with agonizing slowness underneath him, rubbing over Phainon's prostate with every gentle thrust. Phainon's cock throbs, drooling all over Mydei's fingers.
Mydei sighs shakily, rubs his thumb over Phainon's tip until he sits up and protests, grabbing Mydei's wrist.
"D-Don't," he sputters, whimpers, saliva pooling in his mouth. "I'll come, I'm gonna come, Mydei—"
"Then come."
Mydei thrusts harder, and Phainon winces at the friction, how the pleasure-pain makes his hole clench. Mydei must sense his reluctance, somehow—like he always does. It must be what drives him upward, a hand braced back to keep their pace even.
Close up, Phainon sees the delicate line of sweat darkening Mydei's brow, red-dipped tips of hair skimming his collar bone, his nipples brown-pink and peaked. The hand on his cock strokes lightly before working to a steady flick. Mydei's gaze pierces his when he says, low and clear:
"You wanna be good for me, right?"
Phainon bites down a moan, steadies himself on Mydei's shoulder. He's so close. Phainon nods, a slick spill of drool dripping from his open mouth to land on Mydei's chest. "Yes—"
"So—" Mydei grunts, digs his heels in, bed frame creaking. "Do as you're told, and come on my cock."
The words don't just push him over; they drag him, choking, pleasure arching into Phainon's spine. "W-Wait—Mydei—U-Uhn—"
Mydei catches the first shot of cum with his thumb. Only—it's not cum. It's clear and thin, leaking back down his cock, until Phainon starts coming in earnest and drenches Mydei's hand, squirts a stream up his chest as Mydei starts to stroke him, slowly. His moan turns to a stuttered keen, overtaking Mydei's heavy breath, the sound of Phainon's heart in his ears. With a jerk his cock fountains, sprays droplets as far as Mydei's chin. Phainon's insides clench—so good it's blinding, sending shivers through his legs, knocking him off balance. He catches himself on Mydei's shoulder, gripping like it'll slow the pleasure because he can't stop, can't think about stopping as Mydei tightens his grip, coaxes another watery gush of fluid onto his abdomen.
By the time Phainon comes back to himself, there's a damp outline in the sheets around them. Shallow puddles fill the dips of Mydei's chest, a wet warmth seeping where Phainon still sits on his cock. He's—He—
Had he peed himself?
It's the only thing that makes sense. Mydei fucked him so perfectly, and Phainon repaid it by peeing all over him. He'd even gone after the shower so they wouldn't have to stop in the middle—and that was before this was even a remote possibility in his mind, considering he'd never in his life—
Dizzily, Phainon takes in the wet sheets. The sheen on Mydei's chest, dripping down his sides. His own reddened, still-hard cock weeping feebly between them.
"I…" He can't make himself say it. Phainon's face burns so hot it hurts, his breath still heavy and shallow. "I am—so sorry, I don't know how I…"
But Mydei's already reaching for him, shaking his head. Phainon sees the kiss coming but isn't prepared, whimpering as Mydei catches his mouth. It's gentler than he thought, careful, the tip of Mydei's tongue just touching his teeth.
"Damn," Mydei said against his lips, smiling. "Nice job."
Phainon thinks about biting his nose. "Is this…funny to you…?"
"I mean it. You did well."
Against his will, the praise shoots straight to his groin.
"You don't…"
Phainon squirms, tries to smooth the tremor from his inner thighs, unable to escape the insistent press of his cock. Mydei's hands, still holding him upright, roam Phainon's back, cup the arching curve of his spine. How he's still rock hard after that is a mystery. Phainon's next words come out sheepish, squeezed by the arousal stirring, stoked by Mydei's stillness—neither of them has really come yet, and Phainon's beginning to think of the pressure on his sensitive prostate as a special form of torture.
"Don't you think it's…gross?"
Mydei scoffs, so close the air puffs against Phainon's face. "There is nothing gross about you."
"C'mon, Mydei, that's just not true—"
"It's impressive. I can't even do that."
"I don't know why you'd want to," Phainon grumbles.
"Phainon…" Mydei's eyes gleam in the low light, flicking to Phainon's lips when he says: "You've never thought about me squirting all over you?"
They stare at each other in silence, any retreating heat immediately rushing back into Phainon's face.
"N-No…" he says, although it sounds like a lie. Because now, of course, he's thinking about it. He shrinks back as Mydei leans in.
"Liar."
"I'm not lying," Phainon whispers, like a liar.
Mydei's smile widens. He noses under Phainon's chin, kissing the soft underside of his jaw and down his throat. Kisses Phainon all the way down, until their rearranging limbs force him to pull out. Phainon feels his hole gape, trying to cinch around the sudden emptiness. He runs his hands down Mydei's chest, itching to reach lower and guide him back inside.
"Do you know…" Mydei says, kissing up to his ear, touch smoothing down Phainon's leg to flatten his thigh. "How honest your body is, Phainon?" Fingers slide to his hole, breach him in one shuddering breath. "When I'm inside you, it's so easy to know what turns you on." They curl, pull apart slowly, spreading him. "…You start twitching like crazy."
Phainon opens his mouth to deny it, but then Mydei brushes over that spot, and he feels the proof of Mydei's claim, his own hole tightening around his knuckles. It's unbearable. He's overworked, overstimulated. Still hopelessly hard. Every inch of him is on fire.
"Just like that," Mydei murmurs, lips at his earlobe. "You know how incredible you are?"
A shudder wracks him. A flinch in Phainon's chest carves a jagged path to his gut. He digs a hand into Mydei's hair, tries to tug him back, says to the damp heat of his cheek: "Aren't you sick of teasing me?"
Those amber eyes slide over the horizon, holding on him. "Is there something else I should do?" Mydei whispers.
Phainon wraps his arms around his neck as Mydei cups his face, fingers tangling in his hair. His kiss sears the air from Phainon's lungs—deep, probing, intoxicating. Spit strings between them as Phainon gets the words out.
"Fuck me." Like I'm yours. Like you love me too. Like you'll never leave me. "Please."
Mydei breathes a hoarse laugh, a hot gust against Phainon's nose. He pulls his fingers out but lingers, thumb trailing up to Phainon's groin, rolling softly over his sac and flicking over the ring at Phainon's base until he moans, clawing for a hold at Mydei's nape. He's aware of Mydei moving, aligning himself, the blunt tip pressing at his rim.
"Since you asked so nicely."
Phainon gasps at the first full stretch of Mydei's cock sheathing. Pain throbs with the new angle, a brief, burning pressure pulsing straight to his cock. Taking Mydei on his back has always felt different; the blistering intensity, how tight and narrow his body feels, the friction. Phainon groans, shuddering at Mydei's tightening grip on his hips, adjusting, fingertips digging into the meat of his ass.
The pace starts slow again, building until Mydei pounds into him into the mattress, the snap of their bodies together cresting into a wet slap. Phainon shivers, back arching off the bed even as Mydei presses him down, deeper. He hooks his ankles around Mydei's hips, digs his heels in to temper his thrusts—but it's no use. Phainon's hips bend easily, his hole loose and leaking, sucking Mydei in. His thighs quiver with exertion, feet curling with every strike, pinched in the fabric of his socks.
"M—Mhh—Mydei—" His red-flushed cock pulses hard against the ring, the pleasure tipping into agony. "Let me come—Please—"
A hand snakes down to hold him, thumb rucking into his sensitive tip. It both stifles and stokes the tightening heat in his groin, every thought and feeling rounding around the moment when he finally gets to finish. When Mydei will allow him.
"Not yet…" Mydei murmurs.
Phainon whimpers and clamps down on his cock, squeezing with each thrust until Mydei grunts, curses softly at Phainon's ear.
"Stop."
"Stop what?" Phainon says, breathless.
"Don't play dumb." He curses in Kremnoan this time, pushes up on his unoccupied hand to meet Phainon's gaze. At the same time, his thrusts gentle into a roll—still good, but in a wholly different way.
Their eye contact holds as Mydei fucks him slow and deep, pulling out to the tip before sliding back in. Phainon can practically taste him at the back of his mouth. Were he to press a hand low on his abdomen, would he feel Mydei rearranging him there, too?
As if on cue, Mydei drops to rest their brows together, shared breath wet and hot on Phainon's face. The hand on Phainon's aching cock loosens, brushes the smooth stretch of skin leading to the base before flattening. Mydei's thumb digs in the hardest, right below Phainon's navel. Pressing Phainon tighter around him.
"Ah—fuck, Mydei—" His breath heaves, stutter. "Mydei—" Phainon shuts his eyes, gives in to the sensation; the thick glide of Mydei's shaft, his hands, the focus of his gaze. He feels suspended there, pinned beneath his touch, meant for nothing else but taking Mydei's cock. Mydei's words filter back to him: be good for me.
The heat of Mydei's mouth meets his neck, kisses up to his mouth.
"Want me to film when you come?"
Blearily, Phainon lifts his lids. The tip of Mydei's nose knocks his, Mydei's hair brushing his face. He wants to be good. He can be good. What does he have to do to make Mydei say that again?
"Are you close?" He whispers.
"Yes," Mydei says, strained.
Phainon's stomach flutters. His breath catches, slips into a stifled whimper. "Let's—do it together."
Somewhere at his side, Mydei's already fumbling for the phone. Phainon frowns at the loss of Mydei's body over him, cock only half-inside as he flicks the camera on. The view almost pacifies him; the broad v of Mydei's waist, thick-veined arms, his gaze sticking to Phainon's, honed to him like a bloodhound.
"Not—Not my face—" Phainon manages, seeing the lens tip further up his body. Mydei moves lightly, maddening compared to the steady drive of his hips from before.
The ghost of a smile touches Mydei's lips. "Why not?" He drives in deeper, a little faster. "You've got a great one."
Flush creeps up his neck, so hot it clogs behind his nose. "Gods, don't—Ah—"
Mydei hits his stride, tips his pelvis to hit a new angle, and Phainon forgets about protesting. It's all he has to keep his voice down, each thrust pulling a tamped moan from low in his throat.
"My bad," Mydei says, soft enough to wound. "I did agree to stop teasing you."
Wet drips down the junction of Phainon's thigh, the pressure at his cock a tortuous twist. He needs to come. Mydei hasn't touched him in minutes, just fucked him closer and closer to the edge.
"Mydei—" He swallows around a pant. The camera's still steady in Mydei's hand, trained where their bodies meet. "Come inside me—Mydei, come inside me, come inside me, please—"
Mydei moans short and soft, a sliver of teeth barred as he thrusts long and even, concentration furrowing his brow. His fingers go white on the phone, and if Phainon flutters his eyes half shut he can picture the recording; his dripping hole and bouncing cock, the glimpse of tattoos as Mydei fucks him.
The first twitch of Mydei's orgasm against his rim is all it takes. The pleasure slinks low, squeezes tight before it bursts. Phainon's cum splatters up his abdomen, speckles the underside of his breasts. Mydei pumps into him hard a handful more times before slowing, then stilling, sheathing with a low, breathless groan.
Their heavy, shared breath fills the silence. Phainon swallows a whine as Mydei's hold on him curls tighter and his cock rallies, jerks another shot of cum onto his waist. Mydei fumbles with the phone, jamming his thumb down until it meets the bed, hunkering over Phainon's chest. At the same moment, Mydei's eyes meet his. Phainon reaches up and pulls him in without thinking. The kiss makes his thoughts swim, Mydei's mouth slow and insistent.
When it breaks, Mydei drops lower, butts the crown of his head to Phainon's chest.
"Sorry…"
Phainon blinks the blur from his vision, rasps, "What?"
Panted breath fills the silence before Mydei answers. "…I came inside. Sorry."
It's a line straight out of a teenage Phainon's sex-crazed musings. When they were younger, Phainon had wet dreams about Mydei all over him, the details always foggy thanks to Phainon's lack of education. Except, this isn't some nebulous fantasy—it's real. The wetness between his legs isn't just lube or spit. It's Mydei's cum. He tries to clench tighter. Phainon winces, a stifled groan rising up his throat; already too loose and sore.
"It's fine…" he wheezes, shame engulfing him. "I…told you to…" I begged you. Like some kind of desperate—
"Still." Mydei's voice is careful. "You've never done this before. I should've…"
This. A had-me-come-inside-you sort of this. Phainon wipes the sweat and saliva from his face and half-hides behind his hand.
"Sorry," Mydei says again, kissing the dip between his breasts before lifting his head. "I'll take care of it."
"No—" Phainon curls around him, squishing Mydei's nose back against his chest, squeezing his arms and legs over whatever he can reach; anything to keep Mydei from seeing his face, from pulling out. Mydei knows him too well. One good look and it's all over. He'll know.
"Mm—Phainon. Relax."
"It's—It's fine," he breathes against Mydei's ear, voice so much smaller than he means. "I asked you to—I said you could, so…You can come inside me, just…stay. Don't go yet."
"Alright, I get it—just—" Mydei's face twists. "Stop clenching."
"Right…Sorry…"
Slowly, painstakingly, Phainon attempts to unwind. They stay like that, Mydei's hips slotted between his legs, cock softening inside him. Mydei waits until Phainon's ratcheting breath quiets to a soft pant before pulling back. Just a little, but Phainon almost reels him back in. Only almost—it's well past time for him to be so selfish.
"I'll take the ring off first," Mydei says.
Phainon's struck with the weirdest urge to punch him for being so careful. He doesn't move as Mydei reaches down, works the ring gently from his cock. The relief's immediate, a rush of blood to the head that makes his vision speckle. The ring lands somewhere out of sight. Phainon doesn't try to follow; he's still sensitive, flinching at the slightest touch. Mydei pulls out of him with quick, unusual mercy. It probably wouldn't matter how he did it—Phainon feels Mydei leaking out of him already, and suddenly it's all he's capable of thinking about, neural pathways flooding over, reason and common sense abandoning him to drown in the pit of it. Phainon squeezes his eyes shut, tries to block the tears behind his lids, then with the heel of his hand. It's no use. The words are out before he knows how to stop them, voice small and pathetic as he is.
"…I can't do this anymore."
Above him, Mydei goes very still. Phainon can't see him, doesn't know what face he's making; only hears the even tone, feels the careful skim of palm against his knee.
"You can't do what, Phainon?"
It's agony. How can he be so calm? So coherent? Phainon grinds his hands in until darkness blooms, salt from the tears stinging his eyes.
"Hey…Hey…" Mydei pulls his arm back. Phainon doesn't put up a fight. "What's going on—"
"I can't…" Phainon takes a breath. He has to look, even if it hurts, and it's like the words bubble out of him, finally boiling over. "I can't do this. I can't sleep with you when it doesn't mean any more than that. I can't, Mydei. I thought I'd be fine if we were still—if it was just us, but I'm leaving next week, and I know you'll have to find someone else and it's—" Another breath, a heavy swallow. "—killing me, it's killing me, Mydei, and I'm sorry—"
"Phainon, stop, what're you—"
Mydei's hands frame his face, trying to keep him steady. It's a cruel punishment, even for him.
"I thought the tape would help," Phainon barrels forward. No stopping now. "Me, or…maybe you? I don't know, I—I thought maybe it would be enough. But nobody stays friends with benefits long-distance, I mean, there'd hardly be a point to th—hwuh—?!"
There's a sharp pinch on both his cheeks, squishing his face.
"Phainon."
Mydei's voice snaps through him. Phainon's throat closes. He blinks into focus to find Mydei's steely gaze fixed on him.
"Slow. Down."
So, Phainon does—tries, anyway. He tries to slow his breathing, his heart rate, the race of his thoughts. Mydei releases his face but doesn't take his hands away, still cupping his chin and trailing his neck. There's a clenched line where his jaw grits as Mydei looks at him, another feeling Phainon can't quite place.
"What," Mydei enunciates carefully. "In every Titan's name are you talking about? Why are you saying that like we're…"
The rest fades to nothing. Phainon could count on one hand the times he'd seen Mydei speechless. He was often reserved, but rarely at a loss for words. Yet the plain confusion on his face is as good an indication as any.
"We're…what?" Phainon dares. It feels like stepping on black ice.
Mydei stares a beat longer. "As if we're not together."
"What…What do you mean?"
"Phainon..." Mydei's gaze narrows, a perplexed crease in his brow when he says: "We've been dating for two months."
then
Phainon thought that after the third time he'd pass out, but Mydei coaxed a fourth orgasm from him with nothing but lube and fingers between his legs.
He was weightless by then—knees open, fist death-gripping the pillow by his head. Phainon melted slowly on the comedown, still breathing hard when Mydei crawled up to lie beside him. Phainon's eyes fluttered shut at the kiss against his jaw. He was, by all metrics, fucked out of his mind and ready for bed.
"Don't fall asleep yet."
Phainon tried to speak, but all that came out was a low groan. He doesn't even know what he'd say if he could talk. Hours pass, or maybe it's minutes, the request becoming harder to keep by the second. Only Mydei stirring pricked his attention—body heat leaching away, the mattress shifting with redistributed weight. His voice comes out roughened and slurred:
"Where're you going?"
At first, Mydei didn't answer. There was the crinkling of the corner store bag, a grunt, the crack of a seal breaking. Eventually, Phainon's curiosity wins out over the exhaustion, and he sits up on his elbows and opens his eyes right as a bottle appears, inches from his nose.
"It's open," Mydei said. "Careful."
Their fingers brushed over the bottle ridges; Phainon's favorite sports drink, apple pear flavor.
"You think I'm too weak to handle it?"
Mydei shot a withering look over his shoulder. "Can't do anything for you without flak."
Phainon took a swig. "Nope."
"And you wonder why your mother never calls."
They both laughed, Mydei's stronger than his. Mostly, it was funny for just how untrue it was; part of the ongoing joke about how much they loved their moms, how their moms never left them alone. Phainon was boneless and happy, sobered by the sex but drunk on Mydei's presence. His legs went noodle-y when he nudged his foot at Mydei's back. Mydei had his own bottle of pomegranate lime unopened on the bed. He's still faced away from Phainon, toying with—something. Phainon couldn't see what.
"Do you remember when we were in Styxia for semi-finals?"
Phainon mulled as he drank. "In second year, right?"
"Right."
"We snuck out…" Phainon recalled, tipped his head to the ceiling and watched the fan blades spin. "Because we'd won the 400 metre and wanted to celebrate, and…" The final puzzle piece snaps into place. "It was your birthday, too, wasn't it? That weekend. We got this cheap cake-thing from the convenience store and made ourselves so sick, it was—" Phainon huffed. He'd almost thrown up on Mydei's lap during the bus ride the next morning, but luckily his filter kicked in to keep from confessing so now. A flick, a soft glow. "I'm not thinking of something else, am I? Honestly, I'm still feeling it, I don't know if I even trust what I'm saying right now—"
In Phainon's periphery, Mydei turned around; in his hands a small, round tin. Phainon sat up. Mydei moved to sit cross-legged in front of him.
It was one of the shoddy convenience store cakes, with sugary-white piped icing. A singular, lit candle wilted in the middle, dripping cheap red wax. Mydei held out one of those clear plastic forks from the coffee station. Phainon had been there last time he was home from work, saw the same utensils as he stirred too much milk into his paper cup.
Mydei gazed right at him. The candle flickered yellow-y splashes over his bare skin, held them softly in the pearl of its light.
"Happy birthday, Phainon."
The beat of Phainon's heart swelled in his chest. He felt it knocking painfully against his lungs, crowding his voice box and stomach, spreading to each of his limbs.
"Mydei…" he starts. Stops. "You shouldn't've gone to the trouble—"
"It wasn't any trouble." He offered the fork again. "I was more worried about you finding out as you spooned me in the check-out line."
Phainon went hot. It sucked all the air out of his nonchalant laugh like a fire. "I wasn't—I wasn't spooning you."
"Sure you weren't," Mydei said as Phainon finally stopped acting like an imbecile and took the fork. "Blow your candle out, birthday boy."
The command stirred something in him that Phainon didn't want to confront just yet. His curdled mouth offered his only resistance before doing as he was told. The cake was moist and overly sweet, a spongy vanilla with buttercream frosting. They worked at it from opposite ends of the tin; Phainon hadn't realized how hungry he was until the third or so bite, and by then half the cake was already gone.
With his mouth full, Phainon said, "This is really terrible."
Mydei nodded, licked icing off his thumb. "Far too sweet. The icing-to-cake ratio is off."
"You could bake so much better."
A scoff. "Is that a request?"
"Are you saying you can't do it?" The taunt fell off his tongue so easily. Too easily. Phainon sipped his drink and watched Mydei watch him over the rim.
"You just want more free cake," Mydei said, unflinching.
"I'll take anything, so long as it's from you."
He heard how it sounded too late—but Mydei just laughed, shook his head and cracked his bottle open. They were getting too close to outright flirting, and maybe it was a weird line to draw right after Mydei sat on his cock and had his fingers inside him, but Phainon couldn't think about that without the risk of getting hard again, and it wasn't like any of this meant anything beyond tonight. This was how Phainon kept his sanity. This was how he could still win, even if he knew he'd lost to Mydei years ago. He'd gladly fight the rest of his life if it meant keeping him, in whatever way Mydei would allow.
They ate the rest in silence. Phainon, decidedly, didn't stare at the bob of Mydei's throat as he chugged half the pomegranate-lime in one go. He definitely didn't worry the fork prongs into his lip as Mydei wiped his mouth on the thick-veined back of his hand.
"We should do this again."
Phainon froze. Internally, at least. On the outside, he was fairly certain he was still chewing, swallowing, fork poised for another bite. It was such a vague question, and it wasn't like Mydei to hide his meaning. Uncertainty began to gnaw.
What was Mydei referring to—drinking? The cake? Sex? All of it? It had to be the sex, right? It was the only outlier. How else was Phainon supposed to make sense of that? But then Mydei was talking again, and—
"I know we're both busy, but…I think if it's us, we can make it work."
Phainon steals a glance at his profile; Mydei's proud nose, sharp jaw, the heavy fall of his brow. He sips his drink, and Phainon's heart rabbit-thumps against his ribs.
"You think so?"
"Won't know unless we try."
Knowing Mydei, he was probably this thoughtful with all his drunk hook-ups. Not that Phainon had any earthly idea if Mydei had done this before or not, and frankly, he didn't want to know—especially not with whom. But Mydei's reputation was irrefutable; he was always more caring than outsiders assumed, kind at the core and never just for show. He'd give you the shirt off his back if he thought you needed it. Assuming he was wearing a shirt, which was 50/50 chance, in Phainon's experience. Phainon remembered being sick and opening the door to containers of soups and throat-coat bottles, and sinus relief capsules. He remembered drinking Mydei's water at meets when his own ran out. Mydei was the friend who footed bills without asking, picked you up from the airport, and never asked questions about why you needed him—he would come, ready to do first and ask questions later. Mydei was just like that. Selfless in a silent, unobtrusive way.
It wasn't like Phainon was special.
"Yeah," he exhaled, a heady dose of grief and giddiness at seeing Mydei smile back. "I'd like that."
now
"…and you assumed I was talking about fucking you again?" Mydei asks from the edge of the bed. "You…" he trails off, hand scrubbing over his mouth, muffling when he continues: "Did you think I was sleeping with you out of convenience? Out of pity?"
Phainon's stomach makes an awful, churning attempt to exit from his mouth. What's worse is that he can't deny it. The perceived rejection from two months prior sits as a rotting, sour lump in his throat.
"I guess. I…"
Mydei waits for him to speak, but nothing else comes. The sheet pools in his lap—a pitiful attempt at modesty, considering what they'd done to each other minutes before. Phainon picks at a stray thread and doesn't think about the feeling of Mydei inside him. It's entirely possible he'll never fuck him again after this, so best preserve the memory while he can.
"We're both back in Okhema for a few months," Phainon starts, voice small. "We're both—I thought—The timing makes sense. I was there at the right place and right time for you to…"
"To what?"
"Fulfill a need…?"
Mydei's face pinches. A flash of hurt. "Is that the kind of man you think I am?"
"No. No, that isn't—" Phainon shakes his head, scrubs at his brow in frustration. "You didn't do anything, Mydei. It's me, I'm—" The rest comes out as half a laugh. "There isn't any other reason you would want this with me!"
"Is that what you assumed?"
Phainon shrugs, defeated. "I don't know. Does it matter?"
Glancing up, he finds Mydei staring at him—plainly, openly. It takes all Phainon has not to flinch beneath it.
"Yes. It matters, Phainon. It matters when I'm trying to understand why you believed I was sleeping with you as a friend instead of dating you. For months."
The truth of it hangs between them, a near-tangible weight. The longer Mydei stares the thicker the tears press. Phainon had never put the fear into words before; hadn't dared try. In all their hook-ups he'd tried not to think about what it could mean, only what it didn't. Mydei's a physical person, aware of his body and desires in a way Phainon never was.
In a way, he still isn't.
"Let's—Let's just forget about it, Mydei. I don't even know why I said all that it was…silly, really, and…" He's not even sure where he's going, only that he shouldn't stop. But again, the words catch. "If this changes things between us, then—I understand." If you don't want me—
Mydei's expression hasn't changed; the same unwavering, unreadable intensity.
"You want me to forget about it?"
Phainon can't answer. All Mydei's done is ask questions, and all he's done is dodge them. Phainon doesn't trust himself enough to do what's right. How could he?
Phainon flicks his eyes between Mydei and his lap, the sheet gnarling in his fingers. "It would be easier in the long run, wouldn't it?"
"I don't care about what's easy. I care about you."
"I care about you, too," Phainon says, and it feels like tearing the roots out of something deep inside him. "But Mydei—"
Instantly, Mydei's up and walking, picking his discarded clothes from the floor. Phainon's breath goes shallow. A wave of nausea crashes into him, sends his ears ringing. If Mydei leaves now, they'd never speak again, and if they hadn't just made love and Mydei wasn't still leaking out of him maybe Phainon could be more rational about this and stop catastrophizing, but in that split-second, it's apocalyptic, the end of everything. He half-stands, half-crawls down the bed.
"Mydei…" he whispers. "Mydei, wait—"
He doesn't know why he's shocked when Mydei actually does. Mydei pauses mid-pants retrieval (Phainon's pants?), brow furrowing. He comes back, soft-spoken, like he's coaxing an animal, and as if Phainon doesn't feel wretched enough already, the careful skim of fingers on his temple nearly undo him completely.
"Hey. I'm not going anywhere, alright?"
"Oh…" Phainon wonders if he's about to dry heave. The sheer relief makes his eyes swim, the bounce-back of shame at his own reaction immediate and sickening.
"Let's clean up." Mydei scratches idly behind Phainon's ear, and Phainon lets himself lean into it. "Put some clothes on. Then we'll talk. Sound good?"
Phainon nods. Eventually, says, "Okay."
Mydei thumbs a wavy lock of hair smooth into Phainon's cheekbone before pulling away.
Phainon tracks him around the room, anxiety at bay but not abated. Mydei switches the camera off first, unclips it from the tripod, and tucks it into his bag. Phainon doesn't even have time to process that it's all been caught on video before there's a shirt and fresh pair of shorts in his face. Then Mydei disappears into the bathroom, returning with a wet washcloth.
Phainon should do something to help. He stands up. Pulls the shorts on despite the twinge in his tailbone and tugs the shirt over his head.
"Let me—"
"It's fine." Mydei pulls the sheet back, out of his hands. "Sit."
"I can…"
"Sit down."
Phainon sits down. "…Yes, Your Highness," he gripes. Mydei grants him nothing but a crooked half-smile and an eye roll—which, Phainon concedes, is better than nothing.
Mydei fishes a fresh blanket from the closet, wipes the spit and cum and lube from his chest before handing Phainon the washcloth to do the same. He hooks every step together seamlessly, like he's somehow done this all before. Which isn't possible, Phainon convinces himself. Mydei just knows how to move confidently, how to take up space in a room, how to win people over without really trying. Phainon, on the other hand, has spent his whole life playacting. At being friendly and uncomplicated, at being a person who is easy to love. The difference between them couldn't be more obvious.
The shirt's loose in the chest, snug at the shoulders. Only then does he realize it's one of Mydei's.
Inevitably, Mydei runs out of ways to fuss. He sits beside him; close, but not touching, the silence tenuous. Mydei relaxes, half-turns to face him more directly. Their eyes meet, hold until Phainon cracks first and looks away, avoiding the sliver of his reflection in the mirror over Mydei's shoulder.
"Do you wanna start?" Mydei asks.
Phainon draws a deep breath. Lets it out. His pulse throbs like a wound. "Honestly? Not really."
"Okay," Mydei says—so even and painfully understanding. "Then I'll go."
He doesn't leave Phainon in anticipation for long, at least.
"I didn't think it was a secret that I like you, Phainon."
Phainon burns a hole into the fold of his hands and pretends his heart doesn't smart, doesn't do some horrible acrobatic routine at the cruelty of those words together. Tries, as casually as possible, to say: "We've been friends a long time, Mydei. It may actually be concerning if you didn't—"
"I mean as more than a friend."
The room is suddenly very quiet. Not even the sounds of traffic below break through the blood roaring in Phainon's ears.
"…You do?" He asks, surprised by how tentative he sounds.
Mydei smiles at him so gently Phainon wants to die, preferably painfully. "I do."
"But…" Phainon's thoughts, previously dead in the water, begin to race. "You've dated other people?"
"I've had…situations with other people. I've had sex with other people."
A familiar, ugly feeling pumps into his chest without warning. "That sounds like dating to me."
"I doubt they would agree with you. All of them knew I had feelings for someone else." Phainon must make a face, because then Mydei says, "I was upfront about it. Didn't want to lead anyone on."
That someone else is him. Him. The revelation lands like a bomb going off very far away—Phainon hears, but doesn't comprehend all it means, doesn't think about the aftershock about to rock his world. He shifts to sit closer, unable to help himself. Their knees bump—Phainon's rougher, scarred compared to Mydei's perfect one, but for the first time, he doesn't care.
"What about Hephaestion?"
Mydei lifts a brow, amused and—if Phainon didn't know better—surprised.
"Hephaestion? Hephaestion, who has only ever dated women?"
Phainon blinks. "Is he not…?"
"If you ask, he would probably say he doesn't care. But in all the time I've known him, he's only had girlfriends."
"So—" Phainon's tongue trips over what logically comes next. "You two were never—?"
"No." Mydei scoffs, shaking his head. Then, more firmly: "No. We weren't."
Phainon can't believe this. An instrumental part of Phainon's carefully constructed argument for why they couldn't be together just crumbled over a single question, and that's how Mydei reacts? Phainon gapes at him. "Are you…laughing?"
"It's funny," Mydei says. "Considering how invested Hephaestion's become. He pesters me for details every time I come back from being with you."
Phainon's sigh blows through him, peters into a nervous laugh. "Why would he do that?"
"I told you, Phainon. It isn't a secret."
For some reason, this is when the impact hits. Phainon feels it like a two-time punch to the gut, then his chest. The tears he'd stifled so successfully beat back hard against his eyes, blurring his vision before they spill over two at a time. He wipes at them before given time to fall properly—a pointless endeavor when he finally dares a look at Mydei's face and sees his reddened nose, his glassy eyes.
Phainon chokes, unsure if it's a sob or a laugh. "Why are you crying?"
"I'm not," Mydei snaps, sniffling.
They stalemate, both wanting to move but unwilling to yield. He wants to throw himself into Mydei's arms.
He doesn't. Slowly, Phainon reaches forward and offers his hand. Mydei eyes him for only a moment before he takes it, runs his thumb over Phainon's knuckles.
"You could've told me," Phainon whispers.
Mydei chuffs, fond, if derisive. "You are such a hypocrite."
He can't stop the laugh from bubbling out of him, wet and breathy. Mydei has him there. Luckily for both of them, Phainon lacks the endurance to argue just for the sake of it. Another day, it might've been fun to needle him, to pick a bone over what he means, press him for details.
"Besides," Mydei continues. "I was willing to wait. I didn't know if you were ready. But that first night, after not seeing you for so long…tested my resolve. I almost told you. But then…"
The memory surfaces—the black and white embrace of the television, the burning in his belly, the sweet tang of honeybrew and dromas steak sauce.
"…But then I kissed you," Phainon finishes, quieter.
Mydei sighs through his nose. "But then you kissed me," he echoes.
Their hands turn over, Mydei's pliant in his, letting Phainon trace the lines of his palm. Cyrene taught him how to read them when they were children: the heart and head, sun and fate. Phainon hadn't ever believed in it—not like she did. But it's hard to stay neutral and rational with what Mydei's said. That he's been waiting all this time for Phainon to notice, to know, to say something. Anything.
It was never impossible to Mydei. Only to him.
"Would it be better if I asked this time?"
Mydei's smile tipped knowingly. "Ask me what?"
In answer, Phainon surges forward and closes the gap.
after
From: Mydeimos
[22:01]
fych101010.zip
You
[22:01]
Mydei…
😳
I'm in public!
From: Mydeimos
[22:02]
It's not that.
Open it.
Phainon flops onto his empty bed, still in uniform. His first flight out of Ohkema was delayed by customs and snowballed into the latter leg of the trip from Asdana-b to Asdana-k.
He'd been to this planet only once before, on a brief stopover to Penacony. It was mostly a way station; a few low-slunk hotels and restaurants, a cluster of necessity shops owned by off-planet commuters, and the space station, for the ships to restock and refuel. Asdana-k's still classified as primordial, only just suitable for organic life. Algal plains wink orange-red beyond the docking ports, brightest in the planet's 13 Amphorean-hour twilight. Phainon's whole lodging room glows, as if cast in amber.
He taps the .zip, leaves his phone face-up to unbutton his jacket and toss it over the handle of his suitcase. He lies back again, the mattress so soft it cradles him.
The file's bigger than he thought. Some of the photos—which are all the zip contains, he realizes—are still just blank squares when he opens the folder. Phainon flicks through slowly, but the pictures all share an obvious pattern.
It's him. Smaller and leaner—younger, but definitely him. Phainon in his track clothes, stretching an arm over his chest, the sky orange and pink. Phainon with his hair curling and unruly to his shoulders, then after he cut it too short. Phainon splayed dramatically over the outdoor bleachers in his favorite old sweatshirt, candid shots pouting over a textbook in the library, chewing on his erasable pen, bent over, braced on his knees after a run. Some are more staged, more intentional. The arch of his body over the high jump at a meet. Posed next to Cyrene in a terrible wig she'd worn for a school play, carrying Hyacine on his back through the hallway after she sprained an ankle.
In a rare almost-selfie, a younger Mydei frowns in the foreground at Phainon behind him, attempting to balance a basketball on top of his head—and failing, judging by the blur. Another message banner rolls over the top of his screen.
From: Mydeimos [22:06]
These are all the good ones. Not that my
photography career was very prolific. Or
lasted very long.
There must be at least 200 here. Phainon scrolls and checks the count at the bottom—336.
{22:07]
I remember your face all over our
yearbook this year, but maybe Cyrene
had better luck getting you to hold still.
Maybe you were only camera shy with me.
In a few, Phainon's ducking out of frame. Hand shoved over the camera, the flash brightening his eyes a shocking light blue, blanching all the freckles from his half-face. Hand over his mouth to hide his crooked front tooth, a hood pulled low to cover his bedhead.
Looking at these, I can't help but
think a part of me must have known
how I felt about you, even then. How I still feel.
I'm only sorry the rest of me didn't catch
on sooner.
Phainon watches the speech bubble blink in and out, light burning his retinas, hands trembling.
[22:07]
I miss you.
Talk soon.
"When I said talk soon, Phainon—" Mydei's voice comes through after two rings, clear and deep, a hint rough with static. "—I didn't mean this soon."
He smiles, chokes down the lump of tears in his throat. "Whatever happened to 'hello, my favorite boyfriend, how was your day today?'"
"You're my only boyfriend."
Phainon preens, rolls onto his side to kick his shoes off and tuck his feet up. "And?"
There's a pause, the creak of a rolling chair. "We've been texting since you landed. I know how your day was."
"And that means I couldn't call to talk now because…?"
"Because I'm busy, HKS."
Phainon can't hold his laugh in any longer. "You're so cruel, Mydeimos. I didn't know there were terms and conditions to missing you."
The line buffets, music tinny and faint in the background.
"…I thought you were in public."
Phainon imagines the dark recording booth, an idle pen between Mydei's ink-spotted fingers. He probably tastes like stale black coffee, or one of those sugary strawberry milkshakes, if he's let himself indulge. Phainon's chest aches.
"I just said that to tease you," he says, not bothering to keep up the lie, not wanting to. He's spent half his life pretending not to crave Mydei's attention. He's sick of pretending. He wants Mydei to know. "You're still at the studio?"
"How'd you know?"
"It's not very late in Castrum Kremnos, right? A little past 10?"
"We've been here since noon. It's late enough for me, but Peucesta wants to get this one—I don't know, five bar interlude down. Said it's too important to leave for tomorrow."
"Well, if Peucesta said so…" Phainon trails off with intention.
Mydei huffs. "Exactly. Best not to push our luck."
It's quiet for a moment before Mydei continues. "How'd you know what time it is in Castrum Kremnos?"
"I have my ways."
A scoff. "Mhm. Right."
Phainon turns his face to the window, the sky an orange spill laced with lilac. The honesty comes easier, now that he knows Mydei doesn't mind it. Which—he admits—might be an understatement. Mydei does much more than not mind him.
"Clocks not on the galactic time table aren't very useful for space pilots. That's why we have special devices for our schedules—so we don't get caught up in different planes of space while we work. It'd be all too easy to lose track with how much we jump around the star systems."
Mydei's gone silent, but Phainon doesn't worry; he knows he's listening.
"…Which means I can set my personal phone to any time zone on the planet, if I want. So, I'll always know what I'd be doing if I were home. But I…well. I shouldn't say recently. For years, I've kept a rather bad habit of changing it to wherever you are, instead. That way, even when we spent months apart, it was…it was like I was still with you."
The silence stretches. Almost long enough for Phainon to start running his mouth just to fill it; he's got plenty of pining secrets to spill. He could probably go all evening. Thankfully for them both, Mydei beats him to it.
"You call that a bad habit?"
"It used to be," Phainon admits. "Maybe not anymore."
Mydei's sigh blows through him like a punch to the chest. Phainon laughs.
"Come on, that line wasn't so terrible. I've said worse."
"I know. Believe me."
For no apparent reason, Mydei's curtness makes him giddy. There's reassurance in knowing they're still them; that part of Mydei caring is the laconic sense of humor, the bait and switch, the thrill of the hunt. In knowing, with certainty, that Phainon will always let Mydei catch him.
"I wish you were here."
It lands less playful than he means—more raw, the swallowed tears seeping through despite Phainon's efforts.
"Me too."
Phainon rolls onto his back, free hand resting on his stomach. He fiddles with the buttons of his shirt, tries to push the image of Mydei's fingers from his mind. Tattoos peeking from his sleeves, carving over his knuckles, thinning over his digits. Mydei's voice—low, tickling in his ear—startles him.
"There's this movie I keep meaning to see. Maybe we can watch it together when you get back."
"Really?" Phainon says, shocked at his own evenness. "I thought that was more of a…solo-viewing experience. Doesn't watching it with me defeat the point?"
"Considering its original purpose was completely unnecessary—" At which point Phainon nearly protests, but bites his tongue. "—I've taken it upon myself to do what I want with it."
Phainon lets his hand slide an inch lower. "Sounds like you have plans."
"Maybe."
The sound of a door closing, snips of distant voices. Phainon recognizes Perdikkas shouting to someone. He pictures Mydei nearby but out of frame; observing without interfering, leaning against a doorframe or wall, phone pressed to his ear, suspended like a candid shot. Maybe his eyes are downcast when he smiles, one foot crossed at an angle over the other.
"So," Mydei says. "It's a date?"
Maybe he's picturing Phainon, too, doing the same thing, light-years away. Maybe he has been for years, and Phainon just never knew it.
"It's a date, Mydeimos."