Callum still thinks this has got to be some kind of sick joke.

As soon as he realized that Austin was not, despite all appearances, on an extended acid trip, he'd gotten as far as printing out DIY flyers —ARE YOU MISSING A 6-FOOT TALL BLOND MAN?—except Austin kept insisting he didn't have a home and didn't belong anywhere in particular, which Callum was strangely inclined to believe in a straightforward way and not in a philosophical existence kind of way, but that could've just been because of Austin's cherubic face playing mind tricks on him. Calling around to his mates and accusing them of wasting money to hire someone to fuck with him hadn't panned out either, and contacting emergency services didn't seem appropriate since Austin seemed to be of sound mind even though he also seemed completely insane. So now it's been a full week, Callum is no closer to figuring out what the hell is going on, and Austin is still here. In his apartment. Living with him.

"No, that's—those are the arm holes again. This," Callum stresses, "this is your head hole. See?"

When he shoves the tee down over Austin's head, Austin emerges on the other side looking puzzled. Callum wrangles the rest of it on properly and ignores the way this strange little newborn in a grown man's body is just letting all this happen.

"It's short," Austin observes.

He holds out his arms, demonstrating the widening gap between the pathetic reach of the shirt's hem and the waistband of his sweatpants—those are Callum's too, kept around along with the tee because of vague plans to repurpose his old clothes, but that required learning how to sew in the first place and these days he was just wiling away any free time on the couch, riding high on a bunch of edibles.

The gap also shows a glimpse of sharp hipbones and divots of muscle sloping downward, which—whatever. Callum doesn't even notice.

"It's old. Must've worn it about a decade and two stones ago, but at least it's not drowning you," he says. "You think you might be able to dress yourself on your own tomorrow?"

Austin blinks at him.

"Stop it," Callum orders.

"Why?"

"'Cause a face like that's gonna get you in a world of trouble."

Austin blinks again. "What kind of trouble?"

"Just—trouble, alright? Quit asking me. Are you decent?"

"Am I?" Austin asks back.

"Oh my god," Callum exhales.

The walk to Ralph's takes about an hour longer than he's used to, solely because Austin stops every two steps to cup his hands against any and all windows and peer through inside, or to kneel down and poke at stray ants traversing the sidewalk, or to crane up onto his tiptoes while fingering a leaf like it's the first fucking time he's seen one. Callum runs out of patience and hauls him the rest of the way, wondering aloud if they need to get him some Adderall, to which Austin asks, "What's that? Do I?" Thankfully he stops asking questions when Callum shoves a basket into his hand at the entrance, then immediately wanders off to the cereal aisle.

"Jeez," he says, staring dreamily at the rows of boxes. "There are so many."

“I just want you to be happy,” Austin says. Which is the truth, whether or not Callum believes him.

Callum shakes his head, frowning, cheeks bulged. “Temptress liar,” he says with effort, releasing a cloud of watermelon sour. “Ugh. It tastes like bubble gum.”

“Alright, so give it back,” Austin says, holding out his hand, but instead Callum snatches it away.

“I want you to know that I was a saint when I took this job. Now I’ve got two things I need to quit.”

Austin scoffs. “Ha. Are you calling me a vice? That’s rude.”

“No,” Callum says, chewing on a forkful of carne asada fries. “Stop fishing for compliments.”

“Gimme the vape back, then.”

Teasingly, Callum holds it out of reach. Austin grapples for it without success. Pretends to give up and crosses over him to get some food, then grapples for it again once Callum’s guard is down. Their arms tangle, vape and utensils and bits of meat dropping everywhere. Austin doesn’t know what happens next, but Callum is wincing all of a sudden, and they both freeze.

“What?” Austin asks, studying him. “Did I hurt you? Did you bite your tongue?”

“No,” Callum says thickly. “Ah, fuck. It’s this—this fucking thing.”

Maybe it’s instinct, or just the fact that Austin is the only one who has a hand free; either way he finds himself tucking it up against Callum’s chin like he’s a kid. What’s crazier still is how Callum obediently spits into it without hesitating.

After a pause, Austin says. “Cal. Is this your tooth?”

It’s a dumb question, because it’s very clearly his tooth. A molar, cradled on Austin’s palm, spit-shined and porcelain white. They both stare at it.

“Implant got fucked. I’m supposed to get it fixed next month,” Callum explains. “I guess the bridge got loose.”

Austin tucks the tooth into his fist. “Show me,” he orders, and Callum obeys again, pulling back on the corner of his mouth with a hooked finger. Austin ducks in closer. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for but it seems like the right thing to do.

“Well,” he says. “It’s not bleeding or swollen or anything like that.”

“Thanks, doc.”

“I think you’ll survive.”

When Callum clutches his chest in faux relief, Austin experimentally sticks his finger into the empty space. Callum twitches back, but only just, with no hint of embarrassment or surprise.

“Babes,” he manages. “You gotta ask consent for that.” He pokes the tip of his tongue into the gap, crowding Austin out from the other side until a flash of pink winks through. It should be gross, except everything in the world seems to work when paired with that stupid grin. “Can’t just go around sticking fingers into every hole you see.”

“I can if you let me,” Austin counters, “which you just did.”

“And I’ll let you again later, if you pass me the vape one more time.”

“You have a problem,” Austin tells him, but he hands it over anyway. The tooth is still squeezed in his grip for some reason. “You’re addicted.”

Callum ventures further in. Austin trails him to the entrance of the en suite, retracing his steps like he's a realtor in his own fucking house. The counter is a mess, lotions and serums and toothpaste sprayed everywhere, a mouth guard abandoned in the sink where he'd dropped it that morning. There's even a mini-tube of clear mascara sitting in plain sight, which Callum nudges with his finger until it rolls to a stop against a bottle of cologne. 

Austin rubs his eye, then hides his hands in his pockets. "I told you, it's nicer in the other room. Smells better, too. I don't know why you even want to be in here, no one else has ever—"

"Hey," Callum interrupts, and he's right there all of a sudden, ducking in for a soft kiss before Austin can react, pliable and gentle like he's left his prickliness at the door, too. When Austin doesn't relax, he pulls back. "Aus. I still have a housemate. There's an old burrito under the couch that's basically petrified. I don't care about any of this."

"I care," Austin mumbles. 

The gap between wanting to believe Callum and truly believing him remains wide as ever. Callum seems to understand this. He simply says, "I know," and ducks in again, hands roaming, unzipping Austin's jacket and peeling it off. His button down is next. Pants, socks. Underwear, after sparing a long moment to rub mindlessly against Callum's thigh. Callum remains fully dressed, which Austin would have qualms about if not for the pace becoming more urgent. 

All he can think is, about time. 

They stumble toward the bed, crumbs and shoelaces and magazines digging in underfoot. Callum pushes him onto it, then drops to his knees, palms dragging over Austin's body as he goes. Clearly he has experience and enthusiasm—he swallows Austin down, no hesitation, hands-free. Austin props onto his elbows to watch, shifting into the role of grateful receiver, letting out a small moan and dropping his head back to bare his neck. 

Anyone else would take that as a sign of encouragement. Callum takes it as a sign to stop.

"Tell me what you like," he says.

"I like that." Austin rights his head to make eye contact. "It feels good."

"Tell me what you like," Callum repeats, holding Austin's cock out of the way to talk because he's actually trying to have a conversation about it. 

"I like what you're doing," Austin says desperately. "I like it, I'm telling you that I like it, are you listening to me? Are you trying to get on my dick or in my head?"

Callum's face flickers. "You genuinely think—"

"What?" Austin challenges. 

An ugly part of him wants to say, fuck it. Fuck this whole thing. He doesn't have to endure being whiplashed back and forth any longer than he already has, dick out or not. He can have Callum leave and jerk himself off alone in the safety and quiet of his own bed. 

Callum changes tack. Lets go, leaving Austin's cock to rest on his stomach as he licks firmly up the underside and all the way to the head, where he wiggles his tongue in rapid little darts before closing his lips over it and sucking. Austin's hips lift off the mattress in response, abdominal muscles crunching instinctively against the overwhelm. An ugly noise tears out of him.

"Shit," he breathes. "Shit, that's—wait, too much, too much."

"Okay," Callum agrees. "But better?"

"Yeah," Austin says immediately. "Just. Slower."

"Alright. Tell me, just like that." 

Callum takes him in again. After a few seconds, Austin untenses. Drifts his hand downward until it meets the fabric of Callum's hat and he palms it, moving in tandem with how Callum is bobbing up and down slowly now, using his fist to supplement. 

It's fucking good. More than good. Better than most, especially considering this is the first time. If Austin lets himself think about it, he's always preferred to begin less intense, leaving room for it to build. Inch by inch, he melts into the warmth of Callum's mouth. Callum keeps going, steady, occasionally quickening his tongue, only ratcheting up the overall pace every minute or so. When he cups Austin's balls with his free hand, Austin twitches. 

"Softer," he rasps. "Please." 

Seamlessly, Callum obeys, crooking his fingers and letting the tender skin rest on his knuckles instead. Austin's mind zips into blank static, listening only to his own heaving breaths, each exhale breaking off at the end into a high whimper. Once he makes the connection that they're coming from his own self, he clamps his entire throat down tight to cut them off. They escape anyway when Callum readjusts his angle and takes him deep once more, thumb rubbing over his taint, tip hitting soft palate with a muffled choke before pulling off.

"Fuck," Austin grits through his clenched jaw. 

In between kitten licks and scraping a trace of teeth all over, Callum chides, "Don't do that."

"Don't—unh—don't do what?" Austin pants. 

"I wanna hear you. How else am I going to know what you like, huh?"

Austin's cheeks flare hot. "Come on," he manages.

"I need you to say it," Callum says, stubborn. He rubs his bottom lip over the slit, then sticks his tongue out to tap the flushed head against it, which doesn't feel particularly amazing but the image is fucking filthy and burns itself into Austin's retinas. Maybe that's the whole point. 

He alternates between staring at Callum's mouth and the MLB logo on his hat. "Can I," he starts. 

He trails off into a frustrated sound because Callum holds him at the base and doesn't touch him otherwise, the picture of patience. Austin is half-covered in spit and his own precome. The bottom half of Callum's face is equally as wet. 

"What if I fucked your mouth?" Austin gets out.

"Is that what you want?"

"Yes. Yeah, yes. Please," he says again. 

Callum scrapes his nails the wrong way over neatly manicured hair. "Happy to oblige, then." He raises up a bit, using Austin's hips for stability. Fits his lips around his cock and waits in yet another image that'll probably stay with Austin until his deathbed. 

Experimentally, he pushes in. Callum creeps down some more. Holds there. Austin flops fully onto his back and uses his shoulders as leverage to go deeper on the next. Callum rears back to cough but resettles to the same spot. Finally, Austin knocks Callum's hat off and buries his fingers in his hair, raising it out of its flattened shape as he sets a rough rhythm. 

Callum gets the hint; slides both hands under Austin's ass and helps him thrust up. He's making gagging noises every now and then but seems to pay no attention to them. They hadn't even closed the door. Austin would be worried about how sound carries on this side of the condo, except Callum's fingers are spreading and pulling his cheeks apart with a single flex and he really couldn't give a shit about anything else.

Austin's thighs start to shake. Without stopping, he warns, "Cal."

Callum's answer is to groan and knead at Austin's flesh. The span of his hands is huge. Austin shoves in for a last time and comes, hard, thinking about Callum fingering him, Callum holding him down and fucking into him. For what feels like ages, he bucks helplessly with Callum's nose jabbing into his stomach before going slack with a final grunt—

—which turns into cursing because Callum doesn't let him go. He just eases the pace, coasting and downshifting, throwing in brief moments of suction that make Austin’s legs kick. While Austin was thinking they were done, Callum is treating it like they've notched onto another starting line. 

Brand new territory. One where Austin isn't sure he can go. 

He floats through it. Swims with more effort when the delirious haze mutates into trickles of anxiety. There's orgasm and then there's this, some unknown beyond where he knows his foundational level of control would cease to apply. 

At length, he groans, "Cal. Jesus. I—fuck—I can't. Stop."

Callum does, popping off with a savoring glide. He rests his chin on the crease of Austin's leg and makes no move to clean his face up. There are tear tracks reflecting off the corners of his cheeks that Austin can barely look at.

"That was—" Austin drapes his forearm over his forehead and tries to catch his breath. He searches for a word but comes up short. "What the hell was that?"

A chuckle brushes over him. "I don't know. Was it good?"

Austin wants to laugh. That was great. He's said that to dozens of people over the years. Meant it every time, too, or at least he thought he did. He can't remember who that person was now, even though he had been that person up until they stepped over the threshold to his room less than half an hour ago. 

"Good," he echoes thickly. "Yeah. It was good."

"You made it good," Callum tells him. He clears his throat. Scrapes his nails over the hair on Austin's belly again. 

"Stop looking at me," Austin says to the ceiling. 

"What am I allowed to do, then?"

"Not that."

He needs to get up the energy to reciprocate. That, or kick Callum out. Instead he rolls onto his side and smashes his face into the folds of the comforter, inhaling the familiar smell of himself, his room, his house. He's an empty vessel, a slate wiped clean. 

The mattress dips as Callum crawls on and spreads his long body behind him. When Austin blindly reaches for his cock, Callum brushes him away. 

"Austin," he says. "Don't go back in there."

"Where?"

"Into your chrysalis or whatever. Okay? Just stay with me here for a little while longer."

"What are you talking about? I am," Austin says. "Couldn't move even if I wanted to. I'm dead."

"You know that's not what I mean."

"Okay," he says, not even aware of what exactly he's agreeing to.

Obviously it's a joke, but Austin just says, "You are all those things," with such a straight face that Callum groans again. 

"Stop." 

"Fine," Austin says easily. "I'm going back to my original question then." 

Callum rolls his face into the pillow. It's been two months of shooting, two and a half months since they even met each other properly. One late night walk of shame and three mornings waking up like this in Austin's flat. All of it's been simple. Callum knows how to do that part maybe too well, which makes him feel proud of himself on some days and like a complete piece of shit on others. 

If he's being honest, he's not quite ready for this jump. Any other person their age would have a wall built out of their personal baggage, but Austin doesn't seem to differentiate between fucking around and staring deep into each others' souls. The first coffee they'd grabbed together, he'd sat back in his chair and asked, "Tell me about the most vulnerable you've been in the past year," which, in Callum's experience, was decidedly not a normal question someone asked right after introductions. 

In short, Callum's still getting used to it.

"What was I like?" he repeats, tilting his mouth free to talk. "I don't fucking know. Small. Stupid. Thought I was hot shit."

"I asked what you were like when you were younger. Not now," Austin says, and laughs when Callum snakes an arm out to push him. He grabs Callum's forearm with both hands, holding it there against his own chest to dig his thumbs into the muscle. "I could've taken you back then."

"I weighed like ten stone. You could've sneezed on me and I'd be laid up for a month."

"I could take you now, too," Austin declares.

"Oh really," Callum says flatly. He rears up and scooches his body through the tangle of sheets until he's hovering over Austin, eclipsing the sunlight coming in past the curtains. "You wanna say that again?"

"I could take you now," Austin says obediently. 

He's not making any move to get away. Just staring up at Callum with an overwhelming fondness, which—it's their third morning. Odds are high that Callum ends up tossing himself through a window by the time they wrap. 

"Uh huh," says Callum. "Right."

He leans against the dresser and crosses his arms over his chest. As usual, his outfit is frat boy lite: shorts, Sambas, a faded Amoeba Music tee, the everpresent plain black cap tilted high up on his forehead in indoor mode. Though Austin might not believe in the concept, he's listened to plenty of podcasts about body language and Callum is displaying all the red flags. 

But he's not making a move to leave. If Austin bends just a little more, Callum is bound to give in.

"I don't know how to ask for this," Austin admits.

"Never had to?"

"No, it's not that," he counters, even though he's never had to work this hard for it, as douchey as it may sound. At least in the beginning stages. Austin is aware of the effect he has on people, but the way Callum is looking at him, he's starting to second-guess whatever it is he thinks he knows about himself. 

"You know, I'm sorry but I don't get you," Callum says, gesturing to Austin as a whole. "I can respect it, but I really don’t understand it." 

"What’s there to understand?" Austin asks, bewildered, and Callum smiles. "That’s an actual question." 

At that, Callum takes a moment. He's still got a smile on, but his eyes are considering, like he's trying to decide how much further to drive the knife in, or how much more to pare away until he's at Austin's core. 

Not much, as it turns out, because all he says is, "Nothing. Kind of just feels like you've been in Hollywood for too long."

None of this is particularly funny. Austin laughs anyway, from the ridiculousness, sure, but also possibly from relief. 

"What kind of cliched shit is that? I don't know what kind of game you think we're playing. Seriously. I don’t know what you want from me." 

Callum points at him. "See—right there." 

"What, am I missing some kind of credential? You guys get that at a ‘real people’ convention that I’m not invited to? Jesus," Austin says, sharper than he wants to. "You're making this impossible." 

Bizarrely, this seems to soften Callum up. He uncrosses his arms and rests his hands over the edge of the dresser. "You want me to be here?" he asks throatily, still looking way too attractive for how much he's getting under Austin's skin. "You can tell me to go."

"Show yourself out if you want," Austin shoots back. For good measure, he adds, "Fuck you," in an awkward fumble, which makes Callum finally stride across the room and take Austin's waist in a firm hold. When Austin leans forward, Callum angles back out of reach. "Cal," he says, verging on a whine. 

"Just wanted to see you for a second," Callum murmurs.

Austin swallows. Tries to stay still, tries his best to look like what Callum is searching for. The proximity alone is making him sweat. Callum observes him for what feels like years, apparently no stranger to self-control. Eventually he slips a hand over Austin's ass and pushes their hips together, then spins his hat around backward by its brim as if he's got work to do. 

"Take me to your room," he says. "The real one."