#spreadsheet fill

Tommy doesn't spend a lot of time frequenting the club scene anymore. He's over thirty years old, and as much as he likes a party and has a grand old gay time with the right crowd, the right crowd is getting harder and harder to pin down. Too many variables on the table in most places, the public so often playing fast and loose in what's considered socially acceptable, and most of the time, Tommy doesn't even agree with where others start drawing that line. He doesn't mind public displays of affection, or tight spaces with undulating bodies and ringing laughter, or even particularly the presence of drunk strangers in a place where he's trying to relax.

He's not exactly sure when the right crowd started being at The Rabbit Hole in a lone standing building in one of the smaller neighborhoods of WeHo, but here he is, drink in hand as he assesses the crowd. He's not unknown around here, an often enough frequenter that he's recognizable but not regular enough that anybody expects anything of him yet. Sometimes, he's good at riding that line of trustworthy and mysterious. Well, only if he's working with a crowd he doesn't see particularly often. If such is not the case, it's only a matter of time before everybody there knows that the control he has here is something he must be given, trusted with, handed. It's not something that he commands naturally. He doesn't particularly want to, though.

There are plenty of doms at The Rabbit Hole that like to perform in front of others. The open display rooms are proof enough of that. It just isn't really Tommy's gig. He can't imagine vulnerability like that in front of people, not his own and certainly not that of his sub; that's part of the game, isn't it? Tommy is the only one who gets to see how they fall apart. It's a moment only the two of them share ownership of. Sharing it with someone else would defeat some of the purpose, if he's honest.

Not that he doesn't like the idea of playing with his sub in front of people a little. Teasing and touching and talking are fine, sitting his sub in his lap and holding them close as he whispers in their ear all the things he intends to do to them, how he'll take care of them and make them feel good and treat them so well for being so fucking good for him. Tommy's mind is still wandering as his eyes wander the crowd as well, but both his thoughts and his gaze freeze when the latter lands on a familiar face.

Damien.

He looks different than Tommy's ever seen him, the way he's sitting and talking animatedly with others familiar enough, but the outfit enough to give Tommy pause. Not in a bad way. Certainly not in a bad way. He looks good like that, a harness buckled across his chest with two o-rings vertically aligned between his pecs, framing everything in a way that is madly distracting. Even more so is the flash of light reflecting as he laughs, hand reaching up to comb back his hair; he's wearing untethered cuffs on both wrists, a shiny and dark purple snakeskin texture that pops against his skin. The chain hanging around his neck must be for the cuffs, because it doesn't look to be attached to anything, ends hanging loose on his bare chest. And then there's... the rest of it.

Like half the people in the building, Damien has his shoes off, likely lined up with the rest of the others by the door. He's wearing socks that go up to garters at his thighs, the creamy skin visible beneath the short flair of his skirt. His skirt. It's barely to his mid thigh and looks to be made of a soft cotton with a net material beneath, two pretty little layers of purple and black. It's high waisted. By the time Tommy's gaze makes it all the way back up to Damien's face, Tommy isn't the only one who has noticed they're sharing the room with a coworker. Anxiety is palpable on Damien's face and Tommy immediately wants to assuage it, reassure Damien and get him back into that relaxed happiness, free and social and having a good time. Damien is just staring at him, deer-in-headlights wide eyes not leaving Tommy's face, so Tommy jerks his head in the direction of the private rooms. Damien nods and stands shakily, so Tommy downs his drink, grabbing one of the admin keys from the bar with a nod to the bartender. She nods back.

Tommy's glad. He's not sure what he would have done if she had stopped him; the idea of making Damien wait for him rankles him for some reason, though in a situation that he won't be allowing himself to ruminate on, making Damien wait might appeal to him significantly. Not that just because Damien is here, Tommy must fit the criteria of what he's looking for. Hell, he might just be looking for a chill place to hang out. Clubs can be wildly overstimulating, and the overstimulating parts of The Rabbit Hole are mostly kept to the open display rooms. He finds Damien leaning against a wall in the hallway of private rooms, counting his breaths with closed eyes. The urge to reach out and comfort him is vivid in Tommy's mind. Instead, he clears his throat, leaning back against the wall opposite Damien.

"Please don't tell anyone," Damien rushes out before Tommy can get a word out, eyes snapping open just to give Tommy that desperate look again. Whether he thinks about it or not, Tommy slackens into a looser posture, willing Damien to mirror him. Damien, being Damien, does so whether he thinks about it or not too, breathing out a long sigh. Tommy hums.

"I won't tell anyone anything you don't want them to know. You're still safe here, Damien. I'm not gonna fuck this up for you," he promises, his voice in that low and soothing place he typically only takes it to when trying to calm his own submissive, out of place outside of his scene-self. He watches the tension unravel in Damien's shoulders and tries to push down the overwhelming sense of pride, the satisfaction of getting an anxious submissive back to peace. He can't help it when he's here, the natural desire to smooth out the edges and take control of the situation, make reality itself bend to his will in the interest of another. Of course, he's not actually capable of reshaping what is real, it's just that being in that space, in this place, makes him feel that he can certainly change enough to make things better.

That's part of why he likes this so much, isn't it? Being able to help. Being able to choose.

"Thank you," Damien rushes out, a grin pulling at his mouth now that relief can heave its way out of his lungs, "Like, it's not that I'm ashamed to be here, of course, it's just not something I'd really like to discuss at the office." Tommy shudders at the very thought of it, gagging slightly as the brutally clear image of being on I spent a day with BDSM 2 is beamed directly into his frontal cortex. Damien cackles like he knows exactly what he just made Tommy picture; Tommy rolls his eyes.

"You wouldn't see me at the office, you'd see me on the fucking news," he promises, quietly delighting in the shine of Damien's smile. Damien drops his gaze as soon as they meet eyes, though, and the shine of his smile is perhaps second only to that sweet reddening of his cheeks as he looks down at himself. Concern furrows Tommy's brow, his hand moving before he even thinks twice of it to be placed on Damien's elbow, ducking his head a bit to make Damien meet his eyes.

Huffing out a laugh, Damien acquiesces an answer without even needing to be properly prompted. "Dude, I'm wearing a skirt. And. Other things," he says, emphasizing his point by shaking the wrist of his free arm, the o-ring of his cuff thumping dully against pale skin on the swing. "This is surreal. It's like. I go to a BDSM club for the fifth time in my entire life and my hot coworker happens to walk in. This is surreal," he repeats, but that's fine; Tommy's brain stopped working somewhere in the middle of that anyway.

"Your what?" he asks, voice cracking. Damien blinks rapidly, very clearly having not thought through the consequences of his words and actions. Tommy's hand tightens on his elbow a fraction of a second before Damien jolts, an aborted attempt to make a break down the hallway. Remembering himself, Tommy drops his hand entirely, but Damien catches it in his own. It seems Damien too remembers himself, however, and drops it, but at least he doesn't run. He just sighs.

"Hot... coworker. Which is not two words anyone wants to hear in sequence with one another. I'm so sorry, Tommy, I promise I'm not gonna be weird about this, I-"

Tommy kisses him. Fuck.

It's barely a peck before Tommy breaks it, staggering back til his shoulders hit drywall, but Damien grabs his hands, pulling him back across the hallway to crowd himself back against the wall, encouraging Tommy to loom over him as much as their relatively small height difference allows. Indulging him and growing in confidence himself, Tommy cups Damien's cheek in his hand and dives in for real this time. This time, it's more like he's stepped out into the rolling wind of a hurricane, Damien's fingers gripping at his shirt at the small of his back and pulling him as close as he can manage, a hundred and sixty mile an hour winds in the way he goes soft and pliant for Tommy. This is the first kiss that Tommy will never stop thinking about, the first a trial run compared to the full send abandon Damien is giving him now. The way he presses up into the kiss like he's taking communion from Tommy's mouth takes Tommy out at the fucking knees. He presses Damien back against the wall, free hand coming up to rest between the back of his head and the wall. Damien makes a soft sound and Tommy actually pulls away this time, despite Damien's half-assed attempts to the contrary.

"I got a room," he says, pausing between clauses for a second too long and then closing his eyes as Damien snorts. He presses his face into Damien's shoulder, groaning. "If you want to talk, that is. Anything past that is up for debate," he finishes, firm in the fact that speaking further is nonnegotiable. He laces the fingers of one hand with Damien's and guides him to the Forest room, his personal favorite here at the club. The walls are a deep and calming green, the bedspread a warm mocha brown that contrasts again the cream of the folded back sheet. The lighting is low already when they enter the room, a standing lamp near the door and a table lamp on the far bedside table casting soft, yellowed light across the room. There's a loveseat and an armchair across the room from the bed, a chest at the foot of the bed.

"Why is this nicer than any hotel room I've ever gotten for a con?" Damien says, eyes catching on the tasteful artwork and painstakingly picked out details, informational books on the scene in a glass front bookcase with a delicate lock and deep green accents to its rich brown exterior, the matching inlays in all the wooden furniture. The bed frame has shelves built into it fitted with related accoutrements in airplane bottle sizes, like lube is a travel expense we're charging to the company card. Is this when Tommy pretends that all of this is unfamiliar? Is this where the lie starts?

"You should see the Ocean room. Actual, genuine article mother-of-pearl accents in there," Tommy blurts out, small talk taking over when he has no other conversational mode to lean into in this particular social situation. A slightly hysterical giggle falls out of his mouth like he's not sure when it got there, but Damien laughs as well, breaking the overwhelming tension that had grown over the Forest floor. He sits down crisscross on the loveseat, patting the cushion beside himself. Tommy follows without a thought, sitting back with his legs crossed.

"So you come here often?" Damien asks, following him on his small talk journey and sending them both into giggles again. Tommy presses his face into Damien's shoulder to stifle some of that laughter, reaching out to take Damien's hand as well when the impulse hits too heavy for him to ignore.

"Yeah, I guess I do. Not super often, but. Definitely more than five times," he says, just this barest edge of teasing encroaching upon his tone. Damien rolls his eyes and resettles, leaning back against the armrest so that he can face Tommy more directly, still crisscross. He doesn't drop Tommy's hand. His eyes are bright and shining even in the low light, the beauty of him something Tommy can no longer push down the appreciation of, even so much as he's tried. Like Damien, he hadn't wanted to be the guy who made a big deal of being attracted to a coworker. This is a big deal, but only in the best of ways, it seems.

"Well... what do we do now? I mean, there are several obvious routes this could go down, but. I don't know what to do," Damien admits quietly, the sentence losing steam as more of its meaning came into the light. Insecurity wraps itself around his shoulders like a shroud and Tommy can't stand for that, even as scared as he is too. He has to help. He has to choose.

"As many jokes as you've made about being a dom, is it safe to assume from the vibe and the getup that you aren't?" Tommy asks, first things first as always. Damien drops his gaze but nods, blush spreading to pink up his ears. It's cute. "Okay. Is it safe to assume that you would like me to kiss you again?" he asks, gentle and modulated. Blinking rapidly, Damien's blush darkens to red, but again, he nods. Tommy obliges, just a quick, delicate little peck so he doesn't lose himself within this before they've even put a name to it, and Damien follows him for a moment before sitting back, obedient. "Good," Tommy praises, noting the shiver down Damien's spine in response.

"Is this, like. A dom thing? Or do you actually want to kiss me? Like as regularly scheduled, see you at work Tommy, you also want me?" Damien asks, eyes snapping shut as vulnerability crackles into tension, his hackles raising again like he's expecting rejection, the acidic taste of it already twisting his mouth. Tommy resituates himself, making the angle less awkward so he can gently cup Damien's face, lifting it to make Damien's gaze meet his as his eyes slide open, almost lazy now that Tommy has a grip on him.

"I'm a dom, and yes, that sometimes means that I, by habit and by choice, put taking care of others before taking care of myself. But, Damien, I've wanted to kiss you since... I can't remember seeing your face and not wanting to, really. I want you. I always want you," he says, bald and honest in a way that feels like he's flaying himself open for Damien's examination. He trusts the steadiness of Damien's scalpel. He trusts Damien. The words roll through Damien like a tide, a full shudder to follow the shiver of before and Tommy is enraptured by the current within him, that natural disaster wonder that wreaks havoc upon him so beautifully.

"Oh thank god," Damien rushes out, startling Tommy into a snort. "No, really, dude, I'm... I'm so gone on you, Tommy. I wasn't even planning to pick up tonight, that's not really my thing, but you... you are very much my thing," he clarifies, the rapidity of his speech clearly catching up to him soon after his finishes. He tries to hide his face, turning into Tommy's palm and looking down, but Tommy slips his grip to grab Damien's chin, turning Damien's attention back to him. Tommy smiles a gentle smile and Damien relaxes just a bit in his hand, falling a little more into that sweet, syrupy laziness that Tommy is just realizing that he'd like to bring out in Damien as much as he can. He drops his hand but only to get to his knees on the couch, pulling on Damien's calf a little to get him to uncross his legs, now dropping them on either side of Tommy's hips, just as planned.

"What are you comfortable with?" he asks with fingers splayed on Damien's chest, leaning over him without getting quite close enough to box Damien in. Damien settles a hand on Tommy's hip, blinking as he takes in the options that lay before him. Too many options. Tommy can see it in the moment Damien scrunches up his nose, smiling apologetically, begging silently for guidance. "Well, do you want me to get you off?" he says, narrowing just a little. Damien looks to the side but nods, his gaze returning to Tommy's with just a tap of Tommy's fingers to his cheek. Cute. "Do you want to get me off?" Tommy asks, laughter spilling out as Damien nods faster this time. Damien laughs too, pressing his face into Tommy's shoulder.

"Wanna suck you off," he mumbles, muffled but clear enough. A shiver runs down Tommy's spine now, the flame lick of being wanted just too hot for him to ignore. He hums a deep noise of agreement and moves to stand, grinning outright at Damien's immediate noise of protest.

"Mm, settle down, pretty boy. Okay for me to start telling you what to do?" he asks, catching Damien's eyes. That doe-in-headlights look is back, the flustered smile breaking across Damien's face with the proliferation of a pretty pink blush. Tommy holds the instinct to kiss his nose behind his own smiling teeth. "You know the stoplight system?" he asks, humming at Damien's nod. "Good boy. You look very pretty tonight, honey. Let me see what you've got under your skirt, baby," he directs, less of a command and more of a request laced with lasciviousness, thick and sultry. Damien blinks wide eyes at him before seeming to catch himself, uncrossing his legs and smoothing his skirt out before pulling up the edge, flipping the bottom up to his belly to let Tommy see. He's so fucking pretty. His panties are lavender, a cute little bow seated over his cock like a present, and Tommy rubs his thumb over the little wet spot in the lavender lace, wishing deeply that he was pressing his tongue there instead. 

"Tommy," Damien whines, his fingers catching on Tommy's belt loop like a little kid in his desperation to pull the taller man closer. Tommy doesn't get undressed himself, too fascinated with the sight before him to move his hands to himself rather than touching fingertips to the masterpiece he's been entrusted with. Damien pulls a little more, and when Tommy catches his eye, it's pretty damn obvious that Damien wants to play the brat, and damn, he's everything Tommy could want in a sub. Pretty and pushy and mouthy and sweet and Damien, one of those golden tier people he never thought would give him the time of day, and he looks so good under Tommy's hands. He'd look even better under his mouth. He kisses Damien again, pressing between Damien's legs briefly before stepping back, grabbing one of Damien's hands to pull the other to standing with him. Damien follows fluidly but his eyebrows are drawn together, his head tilted in question. Tommy kisses him again just because he can, and he's always wanted to kiss taste that curious look Damien gets sometimes, as if the world itself is not bending to his rules, and Damien doesn't know whether to be disgusted or delighted, both in equal turn. He's very cute. 

"Let's take this to the bed. Lay in the center with your head on the pillows," he instructs, letting go of Damien's hand to allow him his leave. Damien smiles, his nose wrinkling, and for the love of God, Tommy wants to wreck him. There's something about a boy so pretty that makes Tommy wonder what he would look like if Tommy made him feel so good he cried. That's a question for another day, though. He climbs between Damien's thighs, dropping down so their chests lay against one another, the touch electric, before he leans up once more to place brief kisses on the swollen red of Damien's lips, his mouth a sin before Tommy's ever used it. "You're so fucking pretty," he mutters, trailing his hand from Damien's jaw down to his chest, touching skin he's only ever seen before, only ever dreamt of touching.  Damien makes a soft noise and arches his back, pressing his tits up into Tommy's face. Tommy laughs and presses closer, kissing Damien on the mouth briefly once again and trailing the kisses down his jawline, nipping at his throat and collarbones, careful not to leave marks. They both need to be in videos still, after all. Maybe they can leave some where no one else will see them. He sets his teeth against the meat of one of Damien's pecs, not biting but waiting, and Damien grabs him with impatient hands, a whine dragging its way out of his mouth. His cuffs are weighty against Tommy, the supple leather conforming to the skin rather than jutting out too harshly. 

"Please, Tommy, please," he begs, fingers pulling at Tommy's hair, and he doesn't want to reward bad behavior, but fuck if he could stop himself from biting down. He sucks a mark there, right on Damien's chest, and revels in the ways it affects Damien, his whole body rolling against Tommy's like he can't decide where he needs him most, the begging making way for whimpers that sound so fucking sweet, Tommy wants to taste them. Instead, he hooks his thumb beneath the bottom strap of Damien's chest harness, holding it down so he can take Damien's nipple into his mouth. He pools saliva on his tongue, flooding it so the slide of his teeth against the skin carries less friction, all pressure and no pain. Damien yanks at his hair again and Tommy bites down now, rough and punishing as he pulls back with the bud still between his teeth, Damien's noises climbing higher and Tommy can't help but smile around his prize, feeling both beastlike and more like a man than he ever has. And maybe feeling like a man when he's domming isn't real, and maybe it's weird, but with control so tangible between his fingers, how could he stand to let him go? 

He bites marks into Damien's stomach too, the first just beneath his chest harness and then three on the soft skin beneath his belly button, making him whine and squirm when Tommy bites into the tender flesh there, but he doesn't push Tommy away. He pulls him closer and Tommy comes where he's called, flipping his skirt up and dropping to his chest to bite marks now into his thighs, unable to focus on anything else for the pale white canvas stretched before him, ready to be marked. Damien sinks his fingers in Tommy's hair after the second one there, and by the fourth, he's pulling, trying to direct Tommy to his center without having to use his words. Tommy grins a shark's grin and focuses where his sub would like his attention the most. 

There's a heightened sense of eroticism, he thinks, to seeing not a naked cock, but one swollen behind delicate lavender, straining against the material in such a way that precum has made damp the entirety of the front of Damien's panties. Something goes quiet in his head at the sight of it, like instinct has beat out every overwhelmed thought in his head til it comes down to this moment: Damien spreading his legs for him, Tommy taking communion on his knees between them. He latches onto the darkened tip of it by instinct alone, suckling at it through the fabric. Damien whines again, high and sweet, and Tommy can't help but continue, flicking his tongue over it between hard sucks that make Damien pull at his hair, desperate whimpers and aborted thrusts of his hips making Tommy pull back with a chuckle, kissing his way down the outline of Damien's cock. He lifts the heft of Damien and beneath as well, tonguing the fabric over Damien's balls. He makes sure to stay there, mouth against the base of Damien's cock, when he lets out another laugh, one rolling into another with Damien pushing up into his face. 

"What, honey?"  he asks, patronizing but patient, delight sending a fissure through him at the light of desperation in Damien's eyes. Damien bites down on his lip, a clear debate running through his mind, though Tommy couldn't say what the dilemma might be. Damien blushes pink like Tommy can still embarrass him, and Tommy hides his smile against Damien's thigh, nipping at it. Damien doesn't push his head away, but he does pull his hair again. Brat. 

"Can you-" Damien starts, cutting himself off just as quick as he began, but Tommy just rubs soothing circles into his hips, holding him steady for this pause, for whatever purpose it has. Appearing to steel himself, Damien lets out a long breath. "Can you make an assumption about the skirt?" he asks, eyes closed as he forces the words out of his mouth. Tommy brows draw together and he taps at Damien's skin, communicating the question silently; Damien doesn't seem like a full discussion would help right now, but he still needs clarification. "The most basic assumption you could make, Tommy. Just a sex thing, not a regularly scheduled thing, but. Still." It hits Tommy all at once and blood rushes to his dick like it's got somewhere else to be. 

"Oh," he says, honest delight shot through him, "baby girl." He doesn't need a verbal response because Damien's hips cant up, pressing urgently into Tommy's mouth. "Need me to suck on your clit, princess?" he asks, that delight stretching itself into euphoria when he can see how much the question affects his partner, his panties dampening out to the lace. Tommy's mouth waters, and he dips back down, licking long lines up Damien's cock through the fabric in the same manner he would if it was pussy in front of him rather than dick, and Damien moans a long and pretty sound. Tommy pulls his panties down til the lace catches against the base of Damien's dick, taking the head of his cock into his mouth and flicking his tongue again, lapping the cum off the tip of it. He gets a few minutes there, close and worshipful, before he's interrupted. 

"Tommy," Damien gasps, this thighs closing around Tommy like he can't decide whether to push him away or pull him closer, overwhelmed by just this bit of pleasure. Tommy slips a hand beneath Damien to grab at his ass, digging his fingers into the flesh there and laughing at Damien when it makes him keen. He's so cute. Pulling a little, he spreads Damien out even more, teasing his fingers in a slow, rubbing circle over Damien's hole. He leaves his hand there, heavy but still, and moves back up to kiss Damien again, enamored with the way that Damien's mouth goes both soft and sharp against his, a bitey little brat matched equally by his own desire to be put in his place and held there. 

"I'll eat you out another day, if you want me to, pretty girl," Tommy promises, whispered low and hot against Damien's ear. He runs his nose along Damien's cheek, catching him in another kiss, using the hand on Damien's ass as well as his other relocated to Damien's side to pull him just a little flatter just for the fun of it, and he relishes in the raucous desire that moves from matchstick flame to roaring fire. The going to the gym bullshit, getting fit for the bit, fuck every other motivation for this besides the way Damien is looking at him in this moment. He reaches for Tommy like he doesn't know where to put his hands, desperate to find whatever placement is necessary to continue as they are. Tommy takes pity on him, huffing a laugh that he immediately apologizes for with a heated kiss to Damien's palm, moving it to cup his own face. 

"I'll hold you to that, you know," Damien replies, his voice much too even and his eyes far too unclouded. Tommy steals delicate kisses from his mouth plucked eagerly between his teeth, slow and languid as if they have all the time in the world. He was afraid of storms when he was a kid, cool logic just like any Floridian kid who ever lost a school year to flood water and property damage, and he hasn't gotten better with them as he's grown; he lives in California for a reason. Still, he kisses Damien and turns himself stormchaser for this, diving into torrential downpour like ocean water blue, fingers to the sky, make himself lightning rod so long as it means he gets to feel the electricity of Damien's touch. 

"Do you think you've been good enough to cum for me before I use your mouth, sweetheart?" Tommy asks, equal parts charmed and elated when Damien looks for a moment as if he's been hit with a two by four before the words sink in, his eyes softening to circles. Tommy smiles down at him, unable to help himself from placing fluttering kisses on Damien's brow, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks. The fondness is too loud, and Damien only looks more flustered, so really, where's the downside? 

"You're being so nice to me," Damien says, his voice somewhere between disbelief, awe, and incredulity that Tommy is not confident enough to place on his own. 

"Did you want me to be mean to you?" he asks, voice level; he's done a variety of domming, learned from others even when he wasn't sure he wanted to pursue himself, and he's more of a pleasure dom, sure, but he's willing to try anything twice. Damien shakes his head, clearly unable to verbalize farther, and leans up to kiss Tommy, pulling his face down as well. Damien kisses him like he has a point to prove, hard and fast and punctuated both with his tongue and with his teeth. It's a strange thing to pick out, perhaps, but he's always liked Damien's teeth; his mouth in general, sure, he's only human, but the cute little points of his teeth. Most of all, his kiss is sweet, unadulterated in its desperation and need, and Tommy is beguiled, he must admit, by the extremes of him. 

He pushes Damien down into the mattress, taking over the kiss and giving it his own message, patterns of wind and water he'll rely on Damien to be able to read. He flips Damien's skirt back up and dips his hand beneath the waistband of his panties quickly, wrapping his hand around Damien fully for the first time. Damien pushes into it in desperate little circles, like he really is trying to get Tommy to hit his clit right, and Tommy circles his thumb over the head of it roughly, barely pressing into the slit at the tip of it. 

"I'd be so nice to you if you let me, princess," he whispers, biting down on Damien's chest again right above his first dark and blossoming bruise. Damien's hips thrust up so harshly that he bypasses Tommy's hand entirely, rutting against Tommy's still clothed stomach and only rocking into him briefly before Damien is trying to strip the shirt entirely, openly horrified at the idea of getting precum on Tommy's shirt. It's sweet, not least of all because it's a nice shirt, but Tommy couldn't give less of a fuck if he tried. He pops three of the buttons yanking open the bottom of it where Damien had started unbuttoning the top for him already, losing his patience to feel Damien needy and pressing up against him. The head of Damien's cock rubs against his belt buckle and the noise Damien makes is music, a sound sweet enough Tommy feels lightheaded with how badly he'd like to make Damien make that noise again. 

He's realizing there isn't much he wouldn't do for Damien to need him so openly. 

"Needy little thing, aren't you, honey? Such a sweet boy for me," he breathes, wrapping his hand around Damien's cock more firmly this time. He goes for long, slow strokes this time, all the way from base to tip with a strong grip and a steady pace. Damien tries thrusting into it again and kisses Tommy when he realizes he can't, whimpering and whining like Tommy's fucking him hard and fast. "There you go, sweet thing," he says, quickening his strokes. It's his palm over the tip of Damien's cock that does it, the rough texture of calluses over the natural sensitivity. His hand doesn't stop as Damien cums, back to his languid pace of before til Damien whines against his mouth, pushing his hand away. 

"Now, I get to- now, I can?" Damien stutters, cutting himself off and waiting for Tommy's cue. Humming and pressing a kiss to Damien's cheek, Tommy nods. 

"I'm going to clean you up, and then you can have it," he promises, dropping another kiss on Damien's shoulder. He reaches into the bedside table and finds the usual ungendered and nondescript in branding wipes in the drawer, popping them open with one hand as intended and pulling a few out. He wipes his own hands, knowing damn well there's no point in trying to clean someone else with dirty hands, but Damien puts a hand on his wrist, staying him. He's not looking at Tommy when he looks up, eyes visibly tracing the pattern of the bedspread instead; Tommy tips his chin up with clean hands. 

"Wanna be messy for you," he mutters, pink in the cheeks but his eyes vibrant, desirous, rapturous. How is Tommy supposed to say no to him? Especially when he doesn't particularly want to- it would be better for Damien's skin, sure, for his cum not to sit, but realistically it's not going to be a terribly long time before Tommy cums as well, and they can renegotiate then. Nodding his head, Tommy tosses his used wipe into the bin tucked into the lower drawer of the bedside table, placing the other clean ones on the top of it. Waste not, want not, after all. All of this to distract himself from the facts of this situation. He's just gotten his coworker off, his coworker might be (read: definitely is) looking for a more permanent dynamic, he's the coworker that Tommy's halfway in love with, and apparently they're obscenely sexually compatible. If he lets himself think about this, there's no doubt he'll lose his shit. He cannot entertain the idea of leaving Damien messy for hours, refreshing his own cum as often as Tommy can get him off, til he's writhing and whining against restraints, begging Tommy not to clean him up, but to add his own marks to the mess. A shiver racks through Tommy. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. 

Damien grabs Tommy by the hips once his hands are free, bodily moving him til he's seated on the edge of the bed, Damien settled in front of him. When Damien goes to get down on his knees, Tommy stops him with a hand, pleasantly buzzing from the way Damien's hands felt hot and heavy on his skin. There's something awfully cute about his sub in this moment, how desperate he is to have Tommy in his mouth, the pretty haze in his eyes as Tommy grabs a pillow from the head of the bed, putting it on the floor before his feet. He like how Damien looks at him in this moment as well, like Tommy is taking care of him well. Damien kneels now, reaching up to kiss Tommy all teeth and neediness, slotting between Tommy's thighs like he was made to rest with one on either side of him. Tommy grabs him by the hair to pull out of the kiss, not yanking at Damien's hair really, but a firm enough grip to guide; the grin pressed to his mouth before they part is all amusement. Tommy drags him back in and bites his lip. Damien blinks at him, somehow flustered when this is hardly their most intimate moment thus far. 

"You're so cute," he whispers, unable to help himself. It just slips out, really. Damien colors darker, leaning forward to hide his face against Tommy's collarbones. Hands still in his hair, it's Tommy's first thought to pull him back again, but Damien makes use of his mouth that makes Tommy think differently, teeth biting down and hot tongue lathing over the skin. He kisses his way down Tommy's chest, thorough but fast, impatient as he makes his way down. He uses a hand to guide Tommy back a little, one of Tommy's own hands falling back to hold himself up, able to watch Damien as he sucks a mark into Tommy's thigh, a clear imprint of his teeth left there when he pulls back, grinning at Tommy. He tilts his head forward, breaking the eye contact to rest his gaze lower, asking permission in all but words. "Go ahead, sweetheart," he says, granting that permission gladly and running his fingers through Damien's hair. 

The first touch of Damien's tongue is tentative, exploratory, before he's laving over the head of Tommy's cock, chasing the taste of his pre. He looks up at Tommy as the head pops into his mouth, and the mix of the sensation and the sight are too fucking much, so good, so pretty. He doesn't mean to, but he thrusts his hips, pulling Damien back nearly as quickly as he did the damn thing in the first place, trying to mitigate the damage as best he can. Instead, Damien makes a pretty noise for him and leans into Tommy's hand, fingers wrapping hard around Tommy's hip like he's got a point to prove, and encourages Tommy to do it again. Instead of pained, or betrayed, or any of the other valid emotions there are to feel when sex accidents (even small ones, like thrusting when one hasn't actually, you know, discussed face fucking their brand new and obnoxiously precious sub) inevitably happen, his gaze is hungry. Desirous. Perfect.

"Do you wanna set the pace, or do you need me to fuck your mouth, honey?" he asks, trailing his fingertips to Damien's jaw, tracing his lips where they're stretched. Damien drags his hip forward just that little bit again, so Tommy takes him at his word, as nonverbal as those words may this time be. He thought Damien might be a lover like this, both desire and affections easiest told by actions rather than words, if he allowed to think of Damien as a lover at all. He had been trying to put the notion away for months, years really, but he never quite could. He's glad he didn't. 

He rocks his hips forward, testing the waters still with the gentle hand on the side of Damien's face rather than tangled in and pulling at his hair. Damien's eyes flutter shut and this look of absolute peace crosses him, the tension in his shoulders going slack. Pretty baby. Perfect. Insane. He thrusts, on purpose this time, and slides his hand back into Damien's hair, gripping it tight for another quick thrust. He isn't hitting the back of Damien's throat- doesn't wanna push him so early, really- but Damien is still pulling him forward, so he has an idea of what he's asking for. 

"Need it, don't you? Want me to fuck you up. Have you ever even had someone in your mouth before, sweetheart?" he asks, tugging Damien back with honest curiosity. Damien smiles at him a little woozily, and Tommy gives to temptation, cupping Damien's jaw and letting it happen when Damien immediately opens his mouth for his thumb to slide against his tongue. "Cute," he repeats, extracting it just as easily as he had allowed the capture. Damien kisses his thumb then, just shaking his head rather than responding verbally. Tommy hums and slides his hand to the back of Damien's head again, letting Damien come back in on his own. Eager, Damien immediately tries to bully him into fucking his face again, so insistently that Tommy can't help but chuckle at him. And follow his heed. 

He's gentle with him at first, careful rolls of the hips that he slowly builds into longer thrusts, even if Damien would have liked Tommy to get along with it, obvious in his little whines, the way he grabs at Tommy like a favorite toy. One thrust pushes a little further than he means for it to and then Damien is whining if he stops hitting that far, and before he knows it, he's hitting the back of Damien's throat and the other man is still pulling him in, still whining. Such a pretty, needy little thing. He fists his fingers in Damien's hair, holding him in place as Tommy fucks his pretty face. 

Seeing Damien between his knees with tears in his eyes and his mouth full of Tommy's cock and looking up at him like Tommy could move mountains for him with his own two hands, Tommy feels both more powerful and more powerless than he's ever felt, lost in the tide of this beautiful ocean and those big brown eyes. Adrift. "My pretty baby," he says, the rasp of his own voice not lost on him. Damien's fingers dig into his hips, nails longer than Tommy's but not by much, his nails barely cutting in more than the tips. Tommy grabs his hand and laces their fingers, letting Damien squeeze as hard as he likes so long as it means they'll still be locked together like this. Damien gives a happy hum that he can feel in his dick, so fucking cute and so fucking sweet and so fucking good for him. 

There's spit dripping down Damien's chin, that glaze in his eyes at full force, and Tommy can't help but to be obsessed with him. He's so fucking beautiful. He looks obscene, still sucking Tommy's cock but also with his mouth a little too open, fucked out and pretty. He can imagine the bruising Damien is causing on his hip bones, the roughness of Damien's lips after this treatment, the bites already growing purple on Damien's chest, all their little evidences of one another left everywhere. They'll both have marks to press their fingers into after this, long enough to last weeks even if they don't do this again. There's no way Tommy can go back to their regular interactions and never do this again. The suction closes around his cock again, a long hard pulse of pressure as if Damien knows his mind is wandering, and when Tommy looks back down on him, unsure when he had looked away, there's that light of mischief again. Those pretty eyes shouldn't be so focused, though, should they? 

Tommy snaps his hips quick into Damien's mouth, holding Damien in place to make sure that he won't fuck in too far, but far enough to make a point. Remind his pretty boy exactly who's in charge here. Damien just gives him one of those dopey looks again, everything in him relaxing as he takes Tommy’s cock like a goddamn champion. Fuck, he's cute. He's perfect. Fuck, he's close. Fuck. 

"Fuck, you're doing so good, baby. Making me close. Where do you want me to cum, sweetheart? You want it on your chest? I could cum on your tits, sweetheart, you'd look so pretty," he rambles, dirty talk making way for desperation. Damien pulls off and he can't help the noise he makes, groaning as Damien's hand wraps around him, replacing the soft wetness of his mouth with the tight roughness of his palm and fingers. It racks shivers through him immediately, his hips twitching in reflexive thrusts against the friction. 

"Cum on my face, please, I've been good, please," Damien begs, whispering it into Tommy's palm, nuzzling into it. His pace in stripping Tommy's cock doesn't fall for a moment, fast and rough and perfect. He leans in to lave his tongue over Tommy's slit every few strokes, digging into it in a way that feels so fucking good Tommy can barely keep his eyes open, and certainly not his mouth shut. 

"You can have it, sweetheart, you can have whatever you want," he says, high and reedy, and Damien looks him in the eyes when he tongues his cock again, and orgasm hits faster than Tommy expected it to, white spreading across his vision, forcing his eyes closed. He doesn't open them til he feels Damien move, yelping. God, it's too much. Fuck, that's too much. He doesn't want Damien to stop; he's cleaning Tommy up with his tongue, licking off the cum that had run down his dick rather than shooting across Damien's face. He's so pretty. Fuck. 

"You okay?" Damien asks, low and sweet, as he pulls off. Tommy nods and pulls him up, heedless of the cum if it means he should do anything other that kiss Damien. He can feel his own cum in his beard but he doesn't care, exchanging languid kisses in the lambency of this night together, this moment, before he grabs the wipes off the table and starts cleaning the both of them off. He runs a quick wipe over his own face but lingers on Damien's, careful swipes that cut across the planes of Damien's face evenly, his hand held and turned with his chin in Tommy's palm. Damien grins up at him and leans up to steal a kiss, but Tommy doesn't let him derail taking care of the mess. 

Unclipping the various harness and straps from Damien with gentle hands, a quick swipe over the leather so it won't salt cure or some bullshit like that; God knows, if it's real leather (and with Damien, he has no doubt that it is; he may very well have made this harness himself), it'll get fucked up just to spite them both. He finishes with Damien and then gives himself a cursory run over, not nearly so attentive when it's just him rather than caring for Damien. There's room for the afterglow in the yellow-pink of the gentled lights that Tommy hadn't even bothered to notice before they got to this point, too wrapped up in Damien and thoughts of him that thoughts for the light fixtures weren't even remotely on the radar. 

"You did good, baby," Tommy whispers, laying back on the pillows and tugging Damien into his side. 

"I did well," Damien says, giving up the ghost immediately with loose giggles that make Tommy want to sweep him up and never let Damien leave his sight again. He wants to make Damien happy; he wants to keep Damien happy. He relaxes into Tommy's side, even stays that way for a moment, but all too soon he tenses, a slow rigidity that culminates into frozenness. Tommy strokes his hand down Damien's back, pulling him a little closer. 

"What's up, honey?" he prompts, wanting to make Damien show him his face but wanting him to speak more, so he doesn't say a damn thing when that's how it stays. 

"So... what next?" Damien asks, his voice just as small as Tommy's ever heard it, his face hidden against Tommy's shoulder. Tommy presses a kiss to the side of his head, more reflexive than reassuring, but he still smiles when Damien relaxes against him again, and he can feel the returned smile pressed against his collarbone. 

"How do you mean?" he asks, always striving for clarity if nothing else. 

"I mean- what happens after this?"

"I'd like to take you home and do some more aftercare with you, but after that, that's really up to you, Damien," he levels, far too cautious to put vocalized hope on one side or the other. He's willing to make decisions for Damien if Damien would like him to, but not this one. Never this one. 

Damien hums. Tommy raises an eyebrow. "Called me Damien again. Guess I'm wondering where baby went," Damien says, his lips pulling into a grin as he tucks his face against Tommy's throat, huffing out laughter. Tension runs out of Tommy quick enough to have him lightheaded and laying down, but he just his eyes, putting his arms around Damien's shoulders and holding him close, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.

"Well, baby," Tommy begins, immediately followed by a snort, "what I would like to do is spend the night with you. Maybe try going to breakfast in the morning. Lunch if you're not sick of me by then." He breaks it off with a laugh of his own, small and free.

"And to be entirely clear and pedantic so no one gets hurt or anything-"

"I would like to pursue a romantic relationship with you," Tommy clarifies, reaching out for the words and finding only the most proprietary way to say it and make it as clear as he means, to declare intent without question.

"Oh, thank God," Damien says again, "Sorry I'm all-"

"Anxious about underdiscussed topics? How dare you?" Tommy quips, kissing Damien on the nose, which he immediately hides again at Tommy's collarbone. "You worry about it, I interrupt you when you talk about worrying about it. Autism/ADHD solidarity, baby." Tommy can't get through the whole sentence without laughing, but that's more than okay; Damien is giggling that shotgun laughter against him and Tommy's heart is bursting in his chest, supernova, dying star, sunshine smile. A galaxy boy and Tommy's affection for him the universe. He's so beautiful. 

"I like you so much," Damien mutters like he can hear the sappiness of Tommy's own internal monologue and matches it with his own.

Okay so like, it's not Shayne's fault when shit gets weird. Damien knows that he's the one who is getting caught up in the details, as per usual, and Shayne is just rolling with the punches because he's fucking incredible, the best friend that Damien has ever had. Which is part of why he's so fucking terrified of whatever the fuck they have going on right now. Because he has no idea what the fuck they have going on right now, to be honest.

"Hey Dames," Shayne says, dropping a kiss on Damien's shoulder gently as he walks past him. Okay, maybe it is Shayne's fault. Run it back.

There's no fucking telling when something changed between the two of them. They didn't have a conversation about it, there was no inciting incident of note, they hadn't even done anything particularly bonding in the last year besides just hanging out. And Damien doesn't want to diminish the divine power of hanging out with your best friend, but come on. He's not being weird about this, right? It's weird. They should have at least talked about it before they started going whole hog on the affection thing, right? They haven't kissed on the mouth, and they only sleep in the same bed like once or twice a week, so it's probably nothing. Right? They haven't even had to explain anything to anyone at work, even though they're just as weirdly affectionate on the clock as they are off of it. And Damien has no idea why. Like, he likes it. Of course he likes it. But what in God's green earth is going on right now? Because he sure as fuck does not know.

He ends up following Shayne to his desk; he's not doing much right now, waiting for one shoot's set up to come down so that the next shoot he's involved in can begin. Might as well engage in the best part of working at the same company as your best friend: bothering your best friend. Not that Shayne ever makes him feel like he's actually bothering him. Does he need his meds adjusted? He braces on the clear half of Shayne's desk, not quite sitting on it but not quite not either. Shayne, seated, looks up at him as if he was expected, a fond smile gracing his face. Sometimes he feels as if he and Shayne are magnetized to one another, unable to be in the same space without reaching for one another.

"Come over later?" he asks, not really thinking about it at all beforehand, the question just slipping out. Shayne shrugs his shoulders loosely, relaxed and languid.

"What's in it for me?" Shayne asks in return, head tilted up and just the barest edge of something that could be called flirtation behind the shine of his smile. Damien rolls his eyes and reaches for one of Shayne's hands, the other meeting him in the middle and tangling their fingers. He holds Shayne's hand in both of his and makes a contemplative noise. He always wants Shayne around. He doesn't always know what he wants the reason for Shayne being around to be, but... they've been best friends over ten years. Does there have to be a reason? He kisses the back of Shayne's hand anyway, looking at Shayne through his lashes.

"I could make it worth your while," he says lowly, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. Shayne makes a show of looking him up and down, checking him out in the most overt way possible. Heat moves through Damien's chest. What the fuck are they doing? The weight of those eyes makes him feel grounded, like as long as Shayne is looking at him, everything's good. This is not how someone feels about their best friend. Anyway.

"Don't write any checks you can't cash," Shayne cautions, eyebrow raised. Damien kisses the back of his hand again, smile stretching across his face.

"What if I'm not?" he asks, humor dropping from his voice as he regards Shayne with more gravity than the situation should call for. Shayne looks him up and down again, slower and lingering on their hands, before he pulls one of Damien's hands to his mouth, kissing the back of it in return.

"Then expect to see me at 6:30. I have a few things to handle after work, but we could do dinner?" he proposes, and they both know what will happen if they have dinner together tonight. They'll end up talking, and the conversation will go a little too long, and Shayne will end up bullying him into letting him do dishes, and then they'll remember something they wanted to watch together, and then Shayne will be there til 10:30 and it's already kinda late, what if he just spent the night? It's happened once or twice a week for the past several months. Sometimes more than twice a week. That is neither here nor there.

"Dinner sounds good. You got any cravings?" Damien inquires, raising an eyebrow. Shayne hums.

"You remember the rice we got from that one place that you tried to do but accidentally made it better? Can we do that?" he counters, looking up at Damien innocently like he's not openly making fun of him. Damien rolls his eyes.

"Phrasing it like that is so totally not necessary," he says exasperatedly. He still doesn't take his hand from Shayne's. He still doesn't want to; Shayne is leaning his face onto their hands absently, the knuckles of Damien's hand still laying against his lips. It is... incredibly distracting.

"Stop failing up and I'll stop phrasing things like you're failing up," Shayne replies, the hum of his voice and the slant of his smile so, so nice beneath Damien's hand.

"You're a menace, Shayne Topp," he says fondly, knowing damn well he's not keeping how much he just fucking loves Shayne off his face. Best friend he's ever had. Most important person in his life. Menace to society.

"I learned it from watching you."

"Fuck off, get back to work," Damien says, pressing a kiss to the top of Shayne's head and extracting his hand from Shayne's, vacating the surrounding area immediately before Shayne can pull him back in. Either verbally or physically, seeing as both are definitely options. What the fuck did he just agree to? He's gets out of here at 4:30 today, and that's only two hours to emotionally prepare himself for whatever the fuck is going on. He starts mentally putting together a list for a quick grocery run he has to do before he can make the rice Shayne is asking for; he does, in fact, know exactly what Shayne is talking about, but only because that's always how Shayne refers to this particular dish. Damien doesn't even cook that much. Still, being with Shayne makes him want to reach for things he would otherwise leave alone. It's very troublesome to be the nervous best friend of a man who makes everyone around him want to do better, be better.

It's a good thing he already knows he has the apartment to himself tonight; his roommate is visiting his parents, won't be back for another week. Not that he and Shayne are going to do anything they need full free roam of the apartment for. They're two friends having dinner. Two or three things added to his cart during his quick grocery run definitely make the clerk attending the self check-out at the grocery store think it's something more than it is, eyebrows raised and smirking as they made small talk with him about a big night and third dates.  He's been on more dates with Shayne with probably any romantic partner he's ever had, maybe even all of them combined. He and Shayne are just friends. There's never been anything just about the relationship he has with Shayne.

When he gets home, he just lays face down in his bed for a few minutes with his nose pressed into Zelda's fur. Freyja curls up on the small of his back when he doesn't move for a few minutes, apparently deciding he'll make a safe seat after so long stationary. The cats communicate back and forth for a moment, steady mrrp sounds vibrating the belly fur beneath him. God, he loves them. They're such good little creatures. He lets himself have this for maybe half an hour, closing his eyes and desensitizing from the typical, every day kind of overstimulation, his phone plugged in and playing music from his bedside table. 

He gets up carefully to shower, dumping Freyja onto the comforter gently. She mrrps at him and rubs against his hand when he reaches down to pet her. He puts off showering for a few minutes just to pet and hold her, Zelda watching from the head of the bed looking very much like she's already had enough of Damien. He still scritches the top of her head before heading to shower. She's just a little creature.

Showering is quick and somewhat mechanical; he has a contentious relationship with experiencing water on his skin, but it's not as bad as it could be today. That's not to say that he's having a great time, because that is not the truth either. Whatever, doesn't matter. He's been learning to be more careful with his hair since he bleached it again, drying it gently, just enough so that it's not dripping anymore. Air drying is apparently more healthy than what he was doing before. He had a very long and informative talk with a group of cosmetologists while going through the silver dye process. They had taught him a lot about an industry he had only ever known minimal information about, so it was interesting to get their perspectives.

Knowing that he's autistic has made it so much fucking easier to interact with people he doesn't know well. At least now he knows why he doesn't get some stuff socially, and he can figure out how to navigate the discussion without stepping too heavily on anyone's toes. He dresses in comfortable clothing, throwing on a hoodie that possibly might have been Shayne's once and contemplating not putting pants on with it. He can go grab pants when Shayne texts that he's on his way. He leaves his room just in his boxer briefs. And the hoodie. And it's not like he's putting together some fanfiction-esque situation in his head, some sexed up nightmare version of them fucking on his kitchen table just because Damien didn't feel like putting on pants. The thought does make him laugh though, which is to say that it does occur to him.

He had left the majority of the groceries on the counter during his sabbatical from behaving like a normal human person, being as they're all produce and dry ingredients and why bother putting them in the crisper and cabinet if he was just going to get them back out? He puts on a Youtube video to make noise in the background, not too picky about his selection given that he's not going to be paying much if any attention to it. Some video essay or another. Corporate greed and the destruction and decay of the trust of the American people, et cetera, et cetera. Possibly something about some cartoon animal or another. He's measuring beans from a can before deciding that the whole can is fine, actually, so it's not like he knows what's going on. It's just weird to be alone with his thoughts. Not that he, like, avoids that. He just also doesn't typically seek it out.

Cooking is formulaic to the point of being soothing, step after step of a routine that's already set out in his head, no real decisions to be made. He listens to the droning tone of some Youtuber that he's sure he's seen before, but he doesn't know if it's in a met them at Vidcon way or more of a saw them on Tiktok situation. Drone, in this case, is not a particularly negative descriptor for the voice; their cadence is constant and their tone is just animated enough to not have the flatness of an underpaid college professor. A noise startles him out of his reverie and he pauses the video somewhat automatically, overly cautious when alone in an apartment in Los Angeles. Actually, he thinks that's pretty normal. People in LA are fucking weird.

Shayne hadn't texted him, and yet Damien hears a key in the lock, and really, Shayne is one of the only people in the state that have a key. It hadn't been two hours since his roommate responded to his how's home? check in text with an exaltation of spending time with the children in the family, so it's not him. The only person Damien has ever given a key to besides Shayne is his mom, and that's not terribly likely. His parents still have a house phone, and he called her this morning before work to ask her about something he could swear had been real, but did she remember it or was it maybe a dream?

It had been a dream. Apparently a recurring one he's had since he was a little thing. Love to hear it.

More to the point, Damien is standing in the kitchen of his own apartment pantsless with a considerably large knife in his hand when his best friend walks in the door. Reaching to pull his key out of the lock, Shayne looks up to see him and immediately bursts into laughter. He struggles to get the key out of the lock and closes it behind him once he does, sliding down it with the weight of his laughter. Damien huffs out a laugh of his own and puts his knife down on the cutting board. He starts heading to his bedroom, wanting to at least make this less awkward for Shayne if possible. It's a weird position to be in, right? Showing up at your best friend's place and he knew you were coming over and he still doesn't have pants on when you arrive, that's gotta be an odd one. Shayne puts up a finger, still laughing but apparently having a point to make before Damien can make his exit. Damien pauses with a put upon sigh. Making a big show of collecting himself, Shayne picks himself up off the floor and gives Damien one of those big, stupid smiles, and he makes it hard to be annoyed or embarrassed, even when Damien should be.

"This is so not what I expected to see when I opened the door," Shayne says helplessly, still breathless with laughter. He's looking at Damien with those stupid, sparkling eyes, and grinning with that stupid, pretty mouth and Damien knows he's bright red, but still, all he feels is fondness. Safety.

"Yeah, yeah, if you had texted me like I thought you were going to, this never would have happened," he says, huffing another laugh out through his nose. He feels dumb, he feels shy, he feels flustered. It's certainly not a collection of feelings that a person has about a man who is simply one's best friend. They should talk about this. Grown ups talk about things, right? They're in their thirties. They should be talking about things. But even if they do, that should maybe happen when he has pants on. Damien moves toward his bedroom again but Shayne once again holds up his hand, staying him.

"Hey man, it's your place, you're obviously comfortable. I don't mind if you don't," he says, one eyebrow raised and shrugging a shoulder. Damien blinks, considering it for a moment. In the end, he shrugs back and returns to the cutting board, dicing an onion in preparation. He always gets all of his ingredients together before he starts cooking, even if it would ostensibly make more sense to do some of the knife work while other things are getting their start on the heat. He's boiling water! That's the best he can do without his anxiety running riot. Focusing on other things while things are actively cooking freaks him out. Shayne walks into the kitchen and hops onto one of the counters Damien isn't using, immediately starting in on a story of something that happened at work when Damien was otherwise occupied, then about a video game he had discussed with Spencer, then about getting Tommy to break in a new TNTL. He likes the way Shayne also wants to tell him everything he doesn't experience without him, like things aren't written in stone until both of them know what happened to the other.

Like they're a team. It's pretty fucking cool.

He tells Shayne about his day too, cooking the two of them dinner in a yellow-lit kitchen in Shayne's hoodie and his underwear, casual as anything. In a time before Shayne, he never really let his friends get too close. It hadn't really been negotiable with Shayne, but Damien found himself not wanting to negotiate change anyway. Spending time with Shayne is so fucking easy, whether they're talking or gaming or sitting in silence and scrolling their phones in the same space, it's easier just for having Shayne around. If he were a cheetah, Shayne would be the dog they pair with cheetahs to alleviate their anxiety. He says as much to Shayne, who barks a laugh.

"Happy to help?" he says, looking over at Damien like he's said something absolutely insane, tinged with affection and disbelief. Damien grins at him, open and wild, before refocusing on the task at hand. He always cooks the vegetables almost all the way before he stirs in the rice; that had been one of the problems he had wanted to fix while making it the first time. The restaurant they ate at hadn't sauteed the vegetables first, so they were still crunchy and the rice texture with the fresh vegetables was fucking awful, so when he recreated it, that was the one thing he made different on purpose. And you know, he was mostly cooking for himself back then, but cooking for Shayne and cooking for himself, they're practically the same thing in his head.

The conversation moves on and they bicker about video games for a bit, moving from topic to topic with the grace of two people who have spent far too much time together and don't plan to stop any time soon. When Damien makes a joke that inspires a particular exasperation in his best friend, Shayne does that thing where his mustache puffs out, sending Damien into hysterics. 

The fondness that stupid fucking mustache inspires in him would be embarrassing if it were for anyone else. He's used to feeling this way about Shayne- so fond he's fit to burst. That's his best friend. It's nice to see Shayne playing around with his appearance, finding stuff that makes him smile, figuring out who he wants to be and how now that they're in their thirties. He likes watching Shayne grow, in a way. Sometimes, he wishes that he and Shayne had known one another as children, wants to know what it would have been like to play on the playground with him, to pass him notes in class, just have him there. If he's thinking about who he was before he met Shayne though, he's sometimes glad they didn't meet that young. Kids totally shouldn't be blamed for the decisions they make when they're eleven years old. However, this is him, and oh my fucking god.

Making dinner doesn't take long in the grand scheme of things, and certainly not long in the scheme of how much time he and Shayne can waste just bantering back and forth. It's even worse at home than it is at work. He knows that he and Shayne can get a bit... distractable when they're allowed to be in proximity of one another in what is supposed to be an at least semiprofessional setting. Has he made any conscious effort to change that about the two of them? Absolutely not. Being silly with Shayne is one of the best parts of his life, and if part of that is being silly in front of a camera and getting paid for it, he isn't hearing a downside.

"Watch something or eat at the table?" he asks once he's started serving up the food, pouring rice into a bowl that he thinks of as Shayne's bowl despite the fact that it's not something they've ever discussed. Shayne shrugs a shoulder and so they eat at the table, flitting through topics in the way only best friends really can and not lingering too much on any one thing. It feels like a date. It feels like every other time they've ever had dinner together in their lives. They're sitting on the same side of the table and way too in one another's space. Comfort diffuses through his chest with a warm honey thick sweetness, the air heavy with something more than tension; this apartment has never felt more like home than it does when Shayne is in it. By the time they finish eating, they're pressed against one another shoulder to thigh.

He lets Shayne pick out what they're watching after- there's no way that Damien is going to be able to focus on anything but Shayne right now, so he doesn't want to put on something he actually wants to watch. He says as much to Shayne (perhaps leaving out the cause of his short attention span), and there's nothing quite as good as making him laugh like that. Shayne lives up to this challenge by putting on a fucking documentary, shoving Damien down onto his own couch and all but climbing into his lap. He doesn't even pretend that they're going to sit somewhat separated from each other, instead leaning into Damien's chest and looking up at him with big blue eyes til Damien wraps his arm around him. He really does love this motherfucker so much. Shayne adjusts to be even closer to Damien's chest, turning a bit so that he can lace his fingers with Damien's. For love nor money, Damien would not be able to tell someone what this documentary is about.

With Shayne leaning against his chest and Shayne's fingers between his own and Shayne's other hand on his bare thigh and being able to feel when Shayne laughs at his own jokes while making fun of the creation of the documentary they're watching (because Shayne is fucking adorable and has opinions about how documentaries are shot), Damien feels brave. He presses a kiss to the top of Shayne's head before nudging him, gesturing for him to lean against the back of the couch instead. Shayne raises a curious eyebrow, somewhat disgruntled at being displaced.

"I'm in love with you. You're aware of this, yes?" Damien asks, blank and honest.  Shayne barks a laugh but presses his face into Damien's shoulder, so Damien is only a little worried, such is his nature. Shayne presses a kiss to his shoulder before lifting his head.

"I hate you so much," he says, voice dripping with fondness. When Damien snorts, he continues, "I'm in love with you too, asshole. You're ridiculous." His grin is so wide and so pretty and Damien is fucking in love with him, the bastard.

"I want to kiss you. That cool with you?" Damien asks, bringing his hand up to cup Shayne's jaw. Shayne nods, still grinning, and meets Damien halfway. Kissing Shayne is just as good as Damien always thought it would be, just as warm and just as perfect and just as unbelievable. There's other things he didn't think of when he imagined this before; he didn't anticipate the mustache, for example. There's just as much warmth and solidity to Shayne as there always has been, familiar and tantalizing, a foreign homecoming. The first kiss is long and languid, but Damien can't help but follow it with another, and another, and another, soft and worshipful little kisses he just can't help. Shayne gives him just as good as he gets, turning completely so he can sit with a knee on either side of Damien's hips, the firm pressure pushing Damien down into the couch weighted blanket comforting. His hands are cupping Damien's face now, thumbs sweeping broadly over Damien's cheekbones and jaw like he can't get a good enough map of Damien's face, navigating it purely by touch. 

His greedy hands rest on Shayne's waist, keeping him in place with the kind of desperation typically associated with starvation. He's hungry in his pursuit of Shayne if nothing else; he knows damn well that his fingertips are fit to leave bruises, but he can't force himself to care if Shayne doesn't, and Shayne most definitely does not. When Damien loosens his grip a little, Shayne drops a hand to press down on one of Damien's, encouraging to hold on just as hard and then harder than before, only coming back up when Damien squeezes him hard enough to make him squeak a little. Adorable. It's not a particularly sexual kind of possession in the rest of his hands, but the possession itself is undeniable. Shayne is Damien's person. He'll hold onto him with both hands til they're both long gone, dig bruises into his bones when the two of them are nothing but skeletons. 

I would rot with you is a terribly intimate and macabre sentiment to give another person, and yet Damien is sure that Shayne would know exactly what he meant. He always does. 

The press of their mouths grows lazy with time, too tired and too comfortable to dip into something more heated. Love lays heavy in Damien's chest, his heart straining from his chest if it means that love can be closer to its subject, its reason, its lord. Love is its own kind of religion, right? Affection meets its maker in the palms of Shayne Topp, two fingers hooked in the neck of Damien's hoodie now, the other hand flat on his chest. He wonders idly if Shayne can feel the heart that beats with him in mind, but perhaps Shayne could feel that anyway. He hopes Shayne could feel that anyway. Shayne presses kisses to his mouth that feel different than the last few, a needful kind of goodbye, and Damien isn't having any of that, even when Shayne pulls away. 

"I should probably head out," Shayne says with palpable reluctance, standing up with the cracks of a few joints. Damien stands up with him, unwilling to part with his touch.

"Come to bed with me," he whispers, his nose tucked down under Shayne's ear. Holding Shayne to his skin like this, sure, is enough to make him feel as if he's holding a flame, warm and comforting but so dangerous if you're not careful. Shayne is beneath his hands and still there's a yearning in his chest that tells him that Shayne could never be close enough. Shayne rubs his back with sure fingers, pulling him closer like that's possible without the two of them fusing into one being, and it's so reassuring, the idea that Shayne's feelings and his are in the same ballpark. They stand there for a moment just breathing the same air, feeling the heat of each other near, temptation palpable in the air.

"Dames," Shayne says, his voice ragged as he pulls Damien down to rest their foreheads together. Damien grins, dipping down to kiss him again, just a quick little thing. Shayne chases him when he breaks it, so he gives him another, another, another, just little flutters of affection.

"What's up, baby boy?" he asks, the rasp of his voice nearly unrecognizable as his own. Shayne scans his face, looking for an answer to a question Damien doesn't know. Shayne leans up to kiss him again, open mouthed but quick.

"You're making it really fucking hard to be a gentleman, dude," he says, another kiss on Damien's lips when the words are barely out of his mouth, impulsive. Damien's laughter breaks the kiss again, leaning into Shayne as he snickers.

"Nobody's asking you to be a gentleman, Shayne," he replies, suggestion heavy in his tone. Shayne leans back to look up at him, that studying look on his face again. He doesn't have any idea what to do under that scrutiny, doesn't even know where to start, but he would happily live under it for the rest of his life if it meant that Shayne was looking at him.

"I'm asking me to be a gentleman. I wanna treat you right, Dames. I don't want to rush anything with you," Shayne explains, looking down and away from Damien. A delicate feeling swoops in Damien's stomach, like butterflies, like doves, like hope is the thing with feathers. He cups Shayne's face in both hands, tilting his head up til he's looking at Damien again. The kiss that follows is soft, gentle. Careful. Slow. It's over a decade of friendship with still the romance taken slow, it's a very first date with the person who knows him very best. Shayne's hands are heavy on his forearms, holding him in place like Damien would ever want to be anywhere else. They exchange several more short kisses, trying halfheartedly to separate the entire time. It's not even heated or anything. It's just now that Damien knows he can do this, he doesn't know how he and Shayne are ever going to get anything done ever again, because this is- it's everything. It's Shayne under his hands, tongue in his mouth, overwhelming all of his senses.

Slow or not, he still doesn't want Shayne to go. He still doesn't want Shayne to leave his sight, really. Like everything will revert to normalcy if he takes any chances, like this is something too good to be true and too wanted to be believed. He pulls back from the kiss anyway. He doesn't want Shayne to do anything he doesn't want to do. He rests their foreheads together again, trying to get his breathing back into check.

"Is sleeping in the same bed antithetical of not rushing things?" he asks; the worst that can happen is that Shayne laughs a little, says yes, and goes home. The best? Shayne stays. If he didn't say it at all, Shayne would leave anyway. Shayne chuckles, but what follows is not confirmation.

"With you? No," Shayne says instead, pulling Damien in for another quick kiss. Damien's smile is a little too wide for kissing to be comfortable, but Shayne works around this by holding Damien's face in his hands, sprinkling kisses on his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, even his chin. Damien is abruptly hit with the reminder that he hasn't been wearing pants this entire evening. He giggles, pressing his face into Shayne's shoulder. Shayne makes a curious noise, pressing a kiss to the side of Damien's head.

"We finally had an adult conversation about our feelings and I'm not even fucking wearing pants," Damien says, laughs really, a snort or two in there because there's nothing dignified about this. Shayne joins him in laughter, hand on the back of Damien's head as he peppers kisses on Damien's face. Even more flustered now than before, Damien stays in place. He doesn't want this to end. He doesn't want to lose this extra thing with Shayne. He catches Shayne's mouth in a kiss, turning it into something slow and gentle. Shayne kisses him back but ultimately pulls away, sliding his hand from Damien's face to his collarbone to his shoulder and down to his hand. He lifts Damien's hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it.

"I love you," he says, like he knows doubt when it makes its way across Damien's face, and maybe that's because he does. Maybe Shayne knows every stupid thing about him and maybe Shayne is still standing in front of him, loving him, wanting him, keeping him. Maybe it's that Shayne is the best fucking friend he's ever had in his life, and here he is. 

"I love you," he whispers. Not too; he loves Shayne, not as a matter of reciprocation but as a matter of simple fact. He's loved Shayne so long it's a part of who he is. They built their whole worlds around one another. "Come to bed," he murmurs, his fingers fisted in the bottom of Shayne's shirt, pulling him closer to kiss him again, gentle and wanting. Shayne kisses him back with just as much delicacy, a transferal of warmth and feeling. He pecks Damien on the mouth when he pulls back, flashing him a lazy grin. 

To say that Tommy never thought he'd be stuck in a locker room shower stall with Shayne Topp trying to outrun some fuckheads from the baseball team who think they're funny, to say that would be an incredible understatement. Hell, if you'd asked him ten minutes ago, he would have said he'd rather do anything else than get that close to Shayne Topp, who he has never called his nemesis aloud but has in his head a nonzero number of times, which is still embarrassing. It's just his luck that he happened to run in here right after track practice, and just his luck that Shayne Topp happens to be on the track team, and the longest showerer on the track team to boot. Track... cohorts? Are they a team? Running on a track does not seem like a team sport, but Tommy doesn't know enough about sports nor teams to have a genuine place to argue from. Like a lot of the athletes who make use of the campus locker room showers, Shayne Topp has white shorts on in the shower, slaking himself of sweat without exposing himself entirely.

"I'm so sorry," Tommy says, stepping into Shayne Topp's shower stall like he was invited to be there. He stalwartly is not looking at Shayne Topp's abs, nor his defined pecs, nor even the way his shorts cling to his thighs, though all of these call out to Tommy like a siren song. He keeps his head tilted upward, studying the ceiling like his next exam will be nothing but fiberglass and gypsum. The locker room door slams open, the smack of the door handle against the stopper evidence enough that Tommy's pursuers truly don't give a fuck about anything, not simply particularly lackadaisical concerning Tommy's personal comfort and safety.

"Why are you here?" Shayne Topp asks, high but blessedly quiet, and if they're going to be in proximity, it may become relevant at some point to stop addressing Shayne Topp even in his head as perpetually in need of formal address. He's used to looking at Shayne from across the bar they do trivia at, psych department versus theatre geeks (as well as a group from the hockey team, the pathetic math department of a fine arts college, and a group entire comprised of TAs who drink til they're pickled, whom Tommy has never seen win a single point in his two years of attending trivia), and despite also being in theatre (where Tommy learned to hate Shayne Topp in the first place), Shayne plays for the psych department. They had poached him before Courtney had been able to beg Shayne onto their team, and a dark part of Tommy had been glad, even if Shayne is terribly good at going toe to toe with just about anyone. Even when he's wrong, he's so fucking charismatic that Tommy is almost embarrassed to beat him, which is infinitely worse.

Footsteps are echoing in the locker room, the slap of wet feet getting closer as the speed of Tommy's heart climbs higher and higher.

"Come on, Tommy," one of the baseballers calls out, singsonging on the on just as good as any theatre major playing villain; Tommy doesn't know any of their names, and he won't. It's one of the tiny things that he can safely do that digs at their skin. He thought he was leaving this genre of man back in high school, but alas. Looking at the curtain of the stall as if it will show him the secrets of the universe, glancing back at Tommy every few seconds, Shayne considers him visibly before giving a silent shrug of his shoulders.

"Wrap your legs around my waist," he says, apropos of nothing as if that isn't the most in need of explanation sentence that has ever been uttered in Tommy's general direction.

"You're wet, not to mention the fact that we barely know each other. Are you insane?" Tommy asks in return, the whisper-shout of his voice a little louder than he intends; Shayne puts a hand over his mouth, gentle, before retracting it.

"Probably, but do you trust me?" Shayne is grinning at him, wide open and crazy, and if Tommy wasn't so scared at the minute, perhaps he'd be charmed. He'll tell himself he's not charmed right this second til the day he dies, however.

"No!" he says, because he's a normal human being. Footsteps grow louder til it sounds like they're a single turn down the corridor of showers, ten seconds away if Tommy's lucky. Fuck.

"Just jump, put your fucking legs around my waist and hold onto me, Tommy," Shayne commands, his voice hard but his head tilted forward, giving Tommy that pretty eyed trust me look like he's a fucking paid actor. Tommy sighs but complies, tilting his weight back against the tile so Shayne can crowd him against it. Shayne follows like it's the most natural thing in the world, making handholds of his hips with broad palms spread like brands across Tommy's skin, his shirt riding up beneath the grip. Hands hit the curtains of other shower stalls, the impact loud and the strain of the curtain rods louder, the rings straining against the sudden movement. Tommy holds onto Shayne a little tighter than he means to, his fingertips digging in when he flinches at the next big impact.

"Sorry," he murmurs, embarrassment as tangible as Shayne against his skin. Shayne, flustering as all hell, bounces him a little, moving him an inch up the wall with the hard grip of his hands. He’s pleasantly warm against Tommy’s front, far too close and yet Tommy wants to lean closer, fold himself into all that body heat and skin. 

"Why are these guys coming after you so hard?" Shayne asks, his voice a barely there whisper against the side of Tommy's throat. By instinct alone, Tommy's head tilts back to accommodate him, granting more access to his skin. It's just reflexive. It's not because he loves the feeling of Shayne trailing his nose down the side of his neck, the way his hair brushes against Tommy's collarbones. Still, Tommy laughs a quiet but dark chuckle.

"Because I dared to tell one of them no, of course," he says, rolling his eyes harshly and tipping his head fully back against the tiles now. The bitterness runs thick in his throat like the burnt aftertaste of the coffee Shayne brought him this morning, an apology for “accidentally” knocking Tommy’s books out of his hands earlier. 

"Fucking what?" Shayne snarls, lifting one of his hands from their vice grip on Tommy's hips to grab his jaw and make Tommy look him in the face. Shayne's mad, the lines of his face sharper than Tommy's ever seen him be at trivia, his jaw clenched hard. He has no idea what would have made Shayne this pissed off, and for Tommy's sake no less. Mind boggling. Oh. He's not sure why Shayne cares, but he's sweet. 

"Not like that, dude. One of them asked me to come to their party tonight is all. I guess his boys are trying to force the issue," Tommy remarks, though something bubbles up in his stomach, soda bubbles effervescent, at the idea of Shayne being so protective of him. His shirt is wet and it feels weird where it's bunching against the tiles, but there's no way he'll be able to move without Shayne feeling it. As if he can sense it, Shayne bounces him up again, lifting him from the wall for long enough for his shirt to fall back down. Tommy opens his mouth, but another speaks before he can start. 

"Sweet of you to turn on the shower for us, Tommy, you were so easy to find," a voice says directly outside of the stall. There's the shadow of a hand against the side of the curtain and it's over, Tommy just knows it's over. He screws his eyes shut and hides his face against Shayne's shoulder, controlling his breathing more out of a natural sense of self preservation than caring about his volume anymore. 

Shayne reaches out to grab the curtain himself, pulling it open just enough to look out, Tommy's face (and, well, the rest of him) still hidden by the bulk of him. "Can I fucking help you?" Shayne asks, his scowling derision much harsher than any playact vitriol he's ever thrown at Tommy. It had never felt playact before, but Shayne isn't smiling. He's not smug. He's mad. Whatever baseball player is unfortunate enough to have that look leveled on him stumbles back into the stall across from theirs, the curtain rod screeching when he presumably grabs onto the curtain in an effort not to trip over his own feet and crack his skull open. 

"Woah, Shayne, that's our bad, dude! You seen a tall, brunette guy in here? His name's Tommy- Tommy Bowe- like, gay Tommy, you know?" unnamed baseballer asks, terribly chipper in the face of a clearly pissed off, mid-shower guy who is built like a brick shithouse. He's not sure whether it's bravery or stupidity, here in his place tucked against Shayne’s chest. Fucking surreal. 

"Get the fuck out, Vinny. I don't give a fuck who you're looking for, if you're not using the locker room like a locker room, get out before Coach catches you, dude. Doesn't the baseball team already have an afterhours trespassing strike this semester?" Shayne asks, his voice in that bro cadence that Tommy has only ever heard Shayne do as part of a bit, and it's taking everything in Tommy not to burst into laughter. It's the kind of sportsguy comradery that smooths Shayne's vitriol and curses into casual, into anything less than a threat against whatever person is immediately in Shayne's line of fire. Tommy hides his grin against Shayne's skin. 

"Oh, dude, you're so right, we didn't even think about that shit. Don't tell Coach, alright?” apparently Vinny says, turning tail and running before Shayne even says anything in reply, sure that the bro code will save his ass, or whatever. His gaze meets Shayne’s face far too close to his own, blue meeting brown, and for a moment, he cannot move. For a moment, Shayne is everything he can see, everything he can feel, everything he can think about. For a moment, his mind, perpetually overrun as it has always been, goes quiet. For a moment, Tommy has this. Only for a moment, though. 

Tommy removes himself from Shayne Topp's person gingerly, carefully putting one foot on the ground and following it with the other, Shayne's hands on him still keeping him steady as he refamiliarizes himself with standing on his own two feet. Shayne reaches out and turns off the water, grabbing a towel and throwing one to Tommy as well, because of course Shayne Topp is the kind of person who brings a backup towel to the locker room. Obnoxious, Tommy thinks, but it's miles fonder than it would have been hours ago. 

"Why did you help me? I thought you hated me." Might as well get it out of the way, right? No sense in thinking that just because Shayne is a half-decent guy that that means he wants anything to do with Tommy. Shayne startles like Tommy hit him in the dick. 

"Why would I hate you? Because- because of trivia? That's just a little healthy competition, not something I'm gonna leave you to the wolves over, dude," Shayne says, scrubbing the towel through his hair and regarding Tommy as if he's just said something particularly out of pocket and not something Tommy has assumed to be their shared understanding for the past two years. 

"Really?" he blurts out, immediately embarrassed by the childish nature of the question. 

"Yeah, Tommy, we may not be friends, but I've got nothing against you. We're cool, cool?" Shayne asks, brows furrowed now. Tommy furrows his back, confused and in need of perhaps three thousand words of explanation with its thesis statement highlighted and paragraph summaries provided, and fuck, a bibliography. 

"I thought you were being-" he trails off, unable to find the words, but it seems their meaning is picked up anyway. 

"You thought I was like those assholes on the baseball team. You thought I was homophobic? Tommy," Shayne implores him, those big blue eyes desperate as they bear into his. He doesn’t really think they’re homophobic, the baseball team, but he understands that gay Tommy probably reads as more offensive to some straight guy who wants to preach ally status. "Why would Courtney hang out with me if I was homophobic, dude?" he asks, and the illusion crumbles. For a second, he thought something different might be happening here. Tommy breathes out through his nose, closing his eyes to hide the disappointment he knows he wouldn't be able to disguise. Courtney. That makes more sense.

"Right. Making nice with Courtney's annoying, gay friend. Do you guys have a date scheduled yet? I can put in a good word for you," he says, and he's proud of himself for keeping the bitterness in his voice to a minimum. He gets it, okay? He's met Courtney. They're beautiful, and incredible, and funny and talented and she lights up the room. Tommy's not a room-lighter. How else was this gonna go? His eyes fly open when a hand rests on his shoulder, Shayne's face twisted in confusion taking up the majority of his field of vision.

"In what fucking world- you're not fucking annoying, Tommy, and I'm not into Courtney, and Courtney knows that. I'm into you." As soon as the words come out of Shayne's mouth, he's backing out of Tommy's space, leaving room that Tommy doesn't want for Tommy to have a response he doesn't think he's having. Shayne swallows visibly, smoothing his hands down over his stomach then his thighs, wiping himself off as if he's not still mostly naked and somewhat damp. His towel is cinched at the front over his shorts, twisted into a comfortable hold on his hips. 

"You what?" Tommy asks, because looking at Shayne won't make this make more sense. He can stare at Shayne all he wants- and it even seems like Shayne may invite him to do so- and none of this will ever make enough sense. 

"It doesn't have to be a big deal, dude, I've been into you since I saw you at your freshman orientation, I won't make it weird now," Shayne insists, and it's strange how an hour ago, Tommy wouldn't have said he knows Shayne Topp very well at all, but he can see the way he's sewing himself back together. Pulling himself back up so that Tommy can't reach beneath the armor and remove him of his heart, grab it between his fingers and bring the red flesh to his mouth. All it once, it hits. He's capable of breaking Shayne Topp's heart. He catches Shayne by the wrist when he tries to step past him, still dripping and still shirtless and still perfect when Tommy pulls him in, standing chest to chest.

"Two years?" he asks, nose to nose with Shayne once again, pressed too close for the other to run. Shayne's hands find their homes on his hips again, his forehead falling against Tommy's collarbone, his breath a hot fan against Tommy's chest.

"Ever since I first saw you, I think. Tried to introduce myself to you, but I guess I cracked a joke or something, and-" Shayne's mid sentence but Tommy cuts him off, unable to let him finish. He remembers this. He might remember it differently, though. 

"I thought you were making fun of me. You weren't?" he asks, head tilted to the side. Shayne pulls back to look at him, shakes his head several times and a bit too quickly, like Tommy's being ridiculous. Is he being ridiculous? 

"Never. I- I'm still on the psych department trivia team because of you. After that first misunderstanding, Courtney was sure we would butt heads on the same team, but she said maybe I could... show you my good side, I guess? By getting you to compete with me. Which is stupid in retrospect. Look, dude, I'll go, I'm sorry about all this. I'll talk to the baseball team about leaving you alone, okay?" Shayne explains hastily, the quickness of his speech speaking of an anxiety that Tommy has never known Shayne to have. He doesn't know Shayne really well at all, does he? He likes what he's seen so far, though, this quick-witted and well-meaning young man that looks at Tommy like he trails stars behind him when he moves, like he can't stand to look away. 

"You could tell them to leave your boyfriend alone?" Tommy offers, hoping that the limb he's going out on is stronger than it looked from the base of the tree. Shayne's head snaps up, his eyes meeting Tommy's with confusion. So, Tommy clarifies. "You're so pretty it pisses me off. And. I'd like to give it a shot, if you still want to. Maybe not boyfriend right away, but... will you go out on a date with me, Shayne Topp?" he asks, slipping into a grin far more comfortable than the anxiety that preceded it. Shayne's bewilderment lasts a moment more before melting into something pleased and warm, his hand finding one of Tommy's and lacing their fingers.

"Give me a chance, Tommy, and I'll take you on the best first date you've ever been on, swear down." Tommy shakes his head once and feigns a wince, pursing his lips. Shayne's eyes drop to his mouth, and it's a long second before he's meeting Tommy's gaze again. Shayne Topp wants to kiss him. Holy fuck. 

"No can do, boss. I beat you to asking, so I guess you'll just have to take me on a banger second date if you wanna impress me that bad," Tommy teases, grin falling to smirk as mischief moves him closer to the older man, til he's looming over Shayne a little. Shayne raises an eyebrow and presses him back, walking Tommy back into the position he had held not ten minutes ago, and yet it feels worlds different. He doesn't even have to ask this time for Tommy to let Shayne pick him up, his thighs closing around Shayne's hips. A nervous little thrill chases its way up Tommy's spine, a giggle falling from his mouth despite himself. Shayne raises his eyebrows, crowding Tommy back against the tiles even a little more, pressing chaste kisses to his clothed shoulder.

"Already planning on going on a second date with me, Tommy? Must be pretty confident this first one is gonna knock my socks clean off. It's gonna be hard, I'm not even wearing socks," he says, eyebrows raised in challenge. Tommy looks down and finds both their feet bare, which he figured was the case, but what can he say? He's a little bit gullible. He still shoves Shayne a little. 

"You're so dumb," Tommy says, quietly delighted at the fact of it. He's always liked a guy with a little silliness in him. He’s always loved someone who could make him laugh. 

"I don't know, I think I'm having some pretty good ideas here," Shayne says wryly, grin cracking open something in Tommy's chest, press and release, the curve of his lips a key to a lock Tommy didn't even know he had, tension running out of him. Shayne's grin goes soft, sweet as if making Tommy relax is enough to alleviate the weight from his shoulders. Tommy swallows the flustered giggle that wants to make its way out, alight with the idea that Shayne wants to treat him well. That Shayne wants him. 

"You're gonna be insufferable, aren't you?" 

"Oh yeah. I've wanted you for years, Tommy, I'm about to be the most obnoxious person to ever live. Though, I'd bet Damien and Spencer would say anything is better than when you were dating that guy last year," Shayne admits, laughing to himself. It genuinely takes Tommy a second to remember the guy Shayne's even talking about; they dated for like, two months, maximum, and not many people even knew about it. Not many people would fucking care about that, right? 

"You were aware of- Damien and Spencer know- what?" Tommy asks, blinking rapidly and trying to figure out how to hide his flushed face when Shayne is all up in his business like this, catching Tommy with his pretty smile and his pretty eyes and the menace of him. Shayne's closest friends know that he has feelings for Tommy. This isn't a repressed jock and his dirty little secret. This is a beautiful boy who wants him, and he's funny, and kind, and protective, and likes Tommy so much he held onto that torch for every single exploit of Tommy's freshman and sophomore years of college. He's smart, and wild, and guileless. He's audacious and tenacious. And Tommy likes him so much it makes him look fucking stupid. 

"Damien knows everything about me whether I want him to or not, but yeah, I did tell Spencer. Courtney also figured it out without me telling her. I'm not exactly a subtle guy, Tommy," Shayne claims, and Tommy sputters. His dick, Shayne was obvious. Fuck off. Fuck all the way off, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, just fuck right off. 

"What do you mean? How was I supposed to know?" he asks, indignant, but Shayne just snorts. 

"In what world does being your trivia rival mean I pay your bar tab, Tommy? Or finding you whenever our friends hang out, or spending an hour arguing with you over proper tie colors to wear to a gala neither of us were fucking invited to? I was scared I was making you uncomfortable, it's all because of Courtney's encouragement that I didn't try to move on sooner and stay out of your life. She's the one who said you weren't catching any of the vibes I was pretty sure I was putting out pretty heavily," he explains, listing separate items that Tommy has never thought about before in tandem, and it does sound obvious when he puts it like that. It's not standard trivia night practice, but Shayne buys his drinks whenever Tommy beats him. And... whenever he beats Tommy. And on the off chance that the hockey meatheads or the math geeks pull it. Maybe he is an idiot. God fucking bless Courtney Miller. 

"I'll have to buy them something nice. She doesn't really seem like a gift basket person, but they've gotta have an amazon list or something..." Tommy says, trailing off when Shayne tilts his chin up, fingers gentle in their grip there. "What vibes were you putting out?" he asks, the real question of his mind even if he'd outrun this if Shayne gave him half the chance. Even when things are better than he ever expected them to be, he's scared. 

"What vibes am I putting out now?" Shayne asks him, inviting him out onto the plank of this, til the ship is just noise behind him, and he sees nothing but the ocean below. Tommy lets his own gaze linger on Shayne's mouth for a moment, before sweeping back up to meet those pretty eyes. 

"You... want to kiss me," he says, forcing himself confident. Shayne smiles proudly, like Tommy is some kid he's tutoring, and we're not entertaining that thought further. The thought of Shayne in those glasses he wears sometimes, giving him little kisses every time he gets something right. Punishing him if he gets off task... Shayne tilts his chin up like he can see Tommy's thoughts wandering. 

"That's true," he says, "Can I?" 

"Just kiss?" Tommy can't help but flirt, can't stop himself when he's this close to exactly what he hasn't wanted to admit he's wanted since that first joke; that's why he was so bothered when he thought he was being made fun of, right? Of course the first beautiful boy you see when you finally leave your hometown doesn't want you, Tommy, be realistic. But he does. He rests his nose against Tommy's, leaning close enough to breathe one another's air. 

"I should take you out before we get ahead of ourselves, Tommy." Shayne's voice is ragged now, worn through. Tommy rubs their noses, giving Shayne a teasing grin. 

"From what I hear, Shayne, you've been buying me drinks for two years. Isn't that a date?" 

"That doesn't count and you know it," Shayne says, grinning as he takes Tommy's mouth with his own. Shayne Topp kisses just how he looks: rough, at first, and then the most gentled thing you've ever seen, abject strength used for caring, force of will dedicated to the honed practice of making others feel good. He tilts Tommy's head in his hand, his kisses growing open mouthed and hot, the humidity of the showers turning up the heat of their proximity. Shayne pulls out of the kiss, but Tommy pulls him back and he allows it, holding Tommy in place with the hand on his jaw and the tongue in his mouth, teeth set against his lip. He gives Tommy several short, punctuated kisses then, pulling Tommy away from him and not letting him back this time, giving him a fond unimpressed look. 

"It could," Tommy proposes, but he removes himself from Shayne's person once more carefully, allowing the other man to keep a hold of his hand. This isn't least of all because he will never trust his ability to stay upright and that's a promise, but also because it so clearly delights Shayne to hold his hand that Tommy can be anxious about his palms sweating, just this once. As if he'll ever be able to say no to this. Shayne kisses the back of his hand. 

"You're more than just a shower fuck to me, Tommy. Now, come grab my jacket. I'm sure you, in all of your wisdom, didn't think to bring a change of clothes before stepping into someone else's shower." 

The first time really is just a case of wrong place at the wrong time. They've both been on set all day, even Spencer spending most of his time on camera, and neither of them are awake enough for this by the time four in the afternoon hits. Ian had taken a long look at Shayne a few minutes ago and told him to maybe take a minute? A few minutes, even. Maybe go sit in a dark room, drink a hot beverage, whatever he needs. The bags under his eyes must be purple. Ian only gets that worried look to him when somebody is getting bad. Worrying when there's nothing to worry about isn't really his thing.

Not that Shayne is in any condition that needs worrying about. He just gets it, right? He looks like death warmed over.

Spencer's not in dissimilar condition. It's been a busy fucking week, and it's only Wednesday. So he drags Spencer with him to take a break so he feels less like a piece of shit for not working the entire time he's at work because he'll be making sure that Spencer takes some downtime too. It certainly has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Shayne just wants Spencer around, no thought to what he's doing or how Spencer'll be involved, he just wants him there. It's like the whole world is a little too quiet without Spencer Agnew's color commentary. The world is certainly not quiet now, for instance, as Spencer makes his displeasure clear.

"Dude, you and Ian are totally over-blowing this. I'm fine!" he insists, but honestly, Shayne has to wonder: exactly how much of Spencer's protesting is token? How much of it is productivity guilt? He pulls Spencer into a dark office, knowing he'll find a couch there. It's been the office of two or three people in the company, depending on how long qualifies as having an office. Less than two days is probably too short to say it was their office, right? But they, this last person, had been shuffled to another office, and still the couch stayed behind. Between the seclusion and the comfort factor, this was definitely the best place to go.

"One couch and two dudes, looks like I'm gonna have to go back to work," Spencer says, and Shayne supposes there's that one thing. He's shared a couch with Damien so many times it didn't even really occur to him. He doesn't need a whole couch. Sleeping at a 45 degree angle is totally normal and fine and has never, ever hurt his neck. He shrugs at Spencer.

"Share?" he suggests, raising an eyebrow. The room is dim, but Spencer can still see that and Shayne can still see the eye roll he gets in return as well.

"Shayne-" he starts, but he cuts off when they make eye contact again, something on Shayne's face stopping him in his tracks. "Fine," he says instead, walking over to the couch and laying down. Shayne tilts his head, but Spencer just opens his arms, gesturing for Shayne to lay on his chest. Blinking, Shayne is glad for the dimness of the room in this moment, because it's likely that he's gone a rosy scarlet. He clears his throat, about to decline, but he's the one who started this. And it's Spencer. It's not that big of a deal, right? He walks over to the couch and stands beside it for a moment, unsure of how to continue, but Spencer just pats his chest again, silent but encouraging. Might as well bite the bullet, right? He climbs between Spencer's knees and lays his head down on his chest, surprised when Spencer immediately puts his arms around his shoulders, pulling him just a little closer. He breathes a sigh of relief; he didn't know that he needed to lay down this bad. He didn't know he needed to be held this bad. There's a hand on the back of Shayne's neck, scruffing him like a kitten and massaging the muscle there, and Shayne can't help shuddering, consciously relaxing down against Spencer.

As many jokes and cracks as damn near everybody make about his stature, Shayne's never really been held like this. He's been the holder, the protector, the keeper. He loves holding people. He loves that feeling of knowing that he's providing comfort for someone, knowing that they feel safe to relax with him. He's never really thought about how it feels to be the other person. The held. It's really fucking nice. He feels suddenly and astronomically out of his depth, at the end of the pier and with no way to pull himself up, alone with the terrifying pull of the riptide.

"This okay?" he asks, needing to make sure. Spencer hums in the affirmative, hands smoothing over the planes of Shayne's back. Shayne can't help the way his body wants to magnetize toward that touch, that feeling, the buzzing sensation of skin hunger being fed. He's not an idiot, he's been somewhat aware of the fact that he's been touch starved probably... since the pandemic started, but he didn't know feeding it would feel so calming. Despite his earlier doubts, Shayne can feel his eyelids growing heavier, his breathing becoming slower as Spencer moves a hand up to his hair, tangling his fingers in it.

"All good. Get some sleep, Shayne," he says, the ghost of a smile haunting his voice. Treading water, Shayne does as he's told.

The second time, Spencer doesn't even bother with trying to make it seem like he wants anything else. He's tired, and foul, and he hasn't slept as well as he slept with Shayne on his chest in months. You never realize how shitty something is until you see how it feels fixed, do you? The weight of Shayne on top of him, the smell of his skin, his hair between Spencer's fingers, everything about it made that couch feel like a fucking five star hotel bed, with the chocolates on the pillow and the thousand thread count sheets. It was... distractingly good. As in, Spencer doesn't think he's gone more than an hour without thinking about it since it happened. In a lot of ways, he's just been trying to come up with how to make it happen again. That timetable has been moved up severely by a headache that Kickstart and ibuprofen just aren't killing, and something tells him that sleeping with Shayne would. Not that he's sleeping with Shayne. Not that he wouldn't, but it's just the fact that he's not. Yeah.

He makes excuses to get a few minutes alone with Shayne, dragging him by the hand until they're in the same office they had been in then. They've been touching more often in the past couple of weeks, not enough for Spencer to think this weird thing he has for Shayne is reciprocated, but enough that he keeps getting side-eyed looks from Tommy and Courtney and he can't even defend himself. He recenters himself back on Shayne as they enter the office, pausing in the doorway. If they're going to talk about it, they might as well talk about it where it started. Shayne raises an eyebrow at him, but goes with it when Spencer shoves at it his chest, pushing him around til he's laying out on the couch, arms open. He had thought about this arrangement last time. He doesn't know anyone that isn't at least a little obsessed with Shayne's chest, the roundness of it, the softness. The way you can see his nipples through his shirt sometimes, perky and pink. Everyone thinks about Shayne's chest a little too much.

Or maybe that's just him. No need to unpack that.

Shayne takes it in stride, carding his fingers through Spencer's too-long hair that needs to be cut so bad, but with Shayne playing with it, cutting it seems much less urgent. He likes the feeling of Shayne's hands touching him. His hands are warm and wide, the breadth of his palm nearly enough to cup the entirety of the back of Spencer's head. To be kept in those hands? For those hands to hold him and want him and keep him? Another thing he thinks anyone would be a little bit obsessed with.

"Comfortable?" Shayne asks, amusement coloring his tone. Spencer closes his eyes and hides his face against Shayne's pec, putting his hand on the other. God, Shayne smells good, holy shit. That's not what Spencer chooses to say, though.

"Perfect pillows right here, dude. No complaints from me," he says instead, humor a much easier distraction than anything else he could come up with on the fly. Shayne snorts, pulling his hair just the tiniest bit; it's obvious from the way he tenses that he's not expecting Spencer's reaction. He can't exactly blame him. Spencer whimpers. Shayne tries to urge him into looking up at him, but Spencer hides still, unwilling to be moved. Shayne hums, acquiescing in the form of relaxing his grip and rubbing his hand down Spencer's back. For a brief moment, Spencer is naive enough to hope that they'll be able to move past this without a word about it. Shayne does not agree to do so, however.

"Sorry," Shayne whispers, his breath warm against Spencer's scalp. Spencer shakes his head, effectively nuzzling into Shayne's chest.

"All good, man," he says, letting sleep take the tone from his voice, eyes firmly shut. He could swear he feels a kiss brushed across the crown of his head, but that's just wishful thinking, right? He falls asleep before he can collect himself enough to ask about it.

The first time? Technically on him, even if he wasn't expecting Spencer to take sharing the couch in such a manner. It was, indeed, the wrong place at the wrong time. The second time? Most definitely not his fault. As much as he had been hoping for it silently, Shayne can't say that he was expecting a third time. He rarely expects these things with Spencer, though.

"Hey asshole!" Spencer calls across the parking lot, pulling Shayne out of his head. He raises an eyebrow, not deigning to respond verbally. "Come over, I've slept like shit all week." Oh. So they're still not talking about it, but they're also not ignoring it? Jesus fucking Christ. Sure, why not? Well, except. He walks toward Spencer's car to maybe not have this conversation at thirty paces and eighty decibels. Spencer meets him in the middle, one arm crossed his chest, a little less confident than he was at a distance. Shayne can't help but take a softer tone with him, laying his hand on Spencer's wrist.

"Come over to mine. I have laundry to do," he says, immediately getting an expression of absolute protest.

"Just bring your laundry," Spencer whines dramatically, slipping his hand from beneath Shayne's to shove Shayne in the shoulder. He rolls his eyes, catching Spencer's hand and holding it where it is. He's half a step closer and looking down at Spencer from far too close a distance, using their barely there height difference to his advantage.

"Are you allergic to the idea of sleeping in my bed?" he asks, the mirth there but his voice perhaps pitched a little low to be casual. Spencer's hand briefly tightens, his thumb pressing into Shayne's collarbone. He's got this holographic look like a deer in headlights, Shayne only able to see his fear if he tilts his head a certain way or changes the angle he's looking, but Spencer doesn't linger on it, shaking it off. Shayne lets him.

"Well, no, but- I don't have an argument, but dude, my pillows are better. Your pillows suck," Spencer says, which isn't even true. And how the fuck would Spencer know if it was?

"You've never slept on my pillows, Spencer," he says, that fond little annoyance nearly enough to force him out of character on whatever bit they're doing right now. He's worked with guys where everything always felt like a bit with them. It has rarely in his life been a trait he cultivated in a lasting friendship. Sometimes, he needs a serious conversation. Sue him. But with Spencer, it's like... they can laugh about shit he'd normally need a serious conversation for. They've joked their way through every fight they've ever had, and even if sometimes the jokes could get a little sharp, it's not something Shayne thinks he'll get sick of. He doesn't know what the joke is here, why there's tension in the air that doesn't exactly feel comedic, what the fuck they're doing.

"I can make assumptions," Spencer insists. A giggle bursts from Shayne despite himself, unable to hold it in as he leans down against Spencer's shoulder. It takes him a second to realize what he's doing, just how casual he's being about touch with Spencer, just how much closer the two of them have gotten since they started occasionally sleeping together. Well, not sleeping together. But sleeping together? Between his contemplation and the intimacy of the action, Shayne is about to pull back and apologize, but then Spencer's hand is on the back of his head, blunt nails scratching his scalp.

"Just come over, Spencer," he says softly, a little more vulnerable than he intended to be. Spencer hums, not protesting this time or perhaps just waiting to do so, conscious of the fact that Shayne needs a second, maybe.

"I'll go home, pack a bag, handle my shit. I'll see you in like an hour?" Spencer offers, soothing his hand over the back of Shayne's neck. Shayne nods and backs out of Spencer's hold reluctantly, Spencer's hand catching his own as they separate. Their fingers are linked for a brief second before Spencer clears his throat, taking his hand away to rub at the back of his own neck. "See you, Shayne," he repeats, softer, heading off to get into the front seat of his car. Shayne shakes himself loose of the moment perhaps a second too late as he just watches Spencer walk away from him, flicking a wave at Spencer before heading over to his own car, watching Spencer leave the parking lot before resting his head against the wheel, unsure exactly what he just agreed to. Sitting here won't make him know, though. He starts the car and takes the familiar road home, already planning out something quick to cook for himself and Spencer that won't take long to eat either. He hasn't been ignorant to how tired Spencer has looked all week; he's actually glad Spencer came to him. He had been worried he would have to broach the topic himself.

He never knows how to bring shit up with Spencer. He's always been somewhat avoidant, fixing situations quietly so that no one will be inconvenienced by the mere existence of him. He's trying to get better with that. Smosh makes it easier in a way, taking up space and at the very least acting like he's confident in doing so. It's still hard to take up the time of people he loves. Being burdensome is part of the human condition. Society exists because of this. It's not easy.

Take off your shoes at the door. Go ahead and put a load of laundry together so you don't forget. Pull ingredients for dinner so you can make sure you don't need to ask Spencer to pick up anything. Try not to feel like you're getting ready for a date. Ultimately fail. Change clothes like Spencer didn't see you at work all day, change again so it looks like you changed to be more comfortable. Do a quick clean of the apartment. Talk yourself through worst case scenarios for a few minutes. Check and make sure that your bedroom doesn't have anything sexual out in the open for probably the fifth time. It's not as if you usually leave sex toys, lube and condoms spread out as decor, but you can never be too cautious, right? Tell yourself you're being normal about this. Be intimately aware that you are lying to yourself.

It's almost a relief when he hears Spencer knock on the apartment door, already aware of his approach seeing as he had to buzz him in. He smooths his hands down his sweatpants before he opens the door, conscious of the fact that his palms are sweaty. Why are his palms sweaty? This is just Spencer. He opens the door and Spencer rushes right in.

"Dude, I think I almost hit a former presidential candidate on the way here? Some guy in a suit, and obviously I know Beto O'Rourke is in Texas, but dude, running guy looked so much like him," he rushes out, turning to look at Shayne once he's standing in the living room. Fondness is overwhelmingly sweet in Shayne's mouth, candy melting beneath his tongue. Spencer is wearing different clothes than he was wearing at work too. He seems to have shot for comfort in the same way Shayne did, band cuffed black sweatpants and a hoodie, also black but with the logo of something Shayne's never heard of. Knowing Spencer, it could be anything from advertising material from some obscure manufacturer of novelty mechanical keyboards to a logo from a fictitious brand in a video game.

"I mean, almost hitting Beto O'Rourke with your car is pretty common in El Paso, from what I hear. Very against running on the sidewalk," Shayne says, grinning as he just jumps right into the batshit insane thread Spencer entered his apartment on. He was building it up in his head again, wasn't he? Spencer is one of his most comfortable people, inarticulable feelings or no. Well, truthfully, Shayne could probably articulate them well enough, it's just that putting a name to this makes it real, and that, he really doesn't know if he can handle right this second. Spencer shrugs a shoulder at him, unaware of Shayne's turmoil.

"Maybe it's a Beto O'Rourke cosplayer who is really committed to the bit," he poses, keeping it together just long enough to get the joke out before he's snorting, bursting into laughter.

"I hate you," Shayne says, not meaning it in the slightest. Spencer just grins at him, moving to sit cross-legged on Shayne's couch. Shayne crosses his arms, raising an amused eyebrow at him. Despite himself, he can't even pretend to actually be irritated with Spencer. "Wanna pick something to watch while I get dinner together?" he asks, to which Spencer frowns.

"I can help," he says, his mouth pulled down into something he would hate to have called a pout, but well, if the shoe fits. Shayne walks closer, bravery thick in his throat, or maybe that's just fear, maybe he shouldn't do this, but he reaches down and he cups Spencer's face, tilting his head up to look at him. Spencer is blinking up at him, pretty eyes a bit surprised but mostly just happy. He reaches out and fists his hand in the bottom of Shayne's shirt, just barely pressing back into Shayne's hand. There's something heady in being able to be this gentle with Spencer, in being able to touch him and have it be with as much care and affection as he'd like to touch him with. Spencer's hand twists in his shirt, pulling him just a bit closer. Spencer wrinkles his nose, embarrassed.

"Put on something brainless, it shouldn't take ten minutes," Shayne says, level and logical, the most persuasive version of him all wrapped up in practicality. Spencer frowns again but settles back on the couch, only keeping two fingers hooked in Shayne's shirt but putting his other hand on Shayne's, maintaining the connection.

"Alright," Spencer says, soft, before he clears his throat. "I'll hold you to that, you know. Ten minutes." There's something all too gentle in interacting with Spencer like this, too close and yet too far from what Shayne will dare to want. Kissing the top of Spencer's head, Shayne clears his throat and leaves the room followed by the sound of Spencer's laughter, likely delighted in the fact that he's made Shayne blush. Collecting himself, Shayne puts together their simple meal through the power of routine alone, following the instructions he had laid out for himself in his head ahead of time, knowledgeable enough of his own nervousness to account for the practical mitigation of it. He's humming to himself when he hears the fucking Friends theme, a smile stretching across his face. Spencer only puts on the dumbest shit when he's planning on talking to Shayne through it. Maybe he's just as ready for this as Shayne is.

And he'd wait. At this point, sometimes he's halfway to sure that Spencer returns his feelings at least somewhat, but feeling the same way is not the same as being ready for a relationship. It's not the same as being willing to open who you are to someone, let them look at the patterns and choices of your life and assess if they want to be part of it, however messier and more emotional that actually is when it happens. He likes the way Spencer reaches for him, the warmth of him tucked into Shayne's side or the comfort of resting against his chest, the thrumming trust Spencer has for him. That he has for Spencer. He knows how to open up around Spencer in a way that's really rare for him, that same old feeling of waiting and waiting and waiting til you feel safe enough to crack everything open to look at, but Spencer doesn't make him feel like that. Spencer makes him feel like letting someone reach into the cage of his ribs and feel around for his heart wouldn't hurt, just introduce that aching kind of newness, the shrapnel bomb spread of affection.

He's pulling a pan off the burner when he feels arms wrap around his waist from behind, Spencer's face pressed into one of his shoulder blades. A smile stretches across Shayne's face as he just continues moving with the weight of Spencer behind him, letting Spencer cling onto his back like a koala. Spencer is grinning so bright and wide that Shayne can feel it against his back. Putting down the pan now that their dinner has been plated, plates still resting on the cooling stove, Shayne puts his hand over one of Spencer's, resting on his stomach.

"Can I help you?" he says, his voice so warm it's hard to even call it a tease. Spencer hums and presses his face into Shayne's shoulder further, his nose tracing a line down the blade.

"'s been eleven minutes," Spencer says, just a little bit of sleep-slur in his voice, just enough to make Shayne feel like his spine is gonna melt out onto the floor. He imagines Spencer like that in the mornings, wrapped around Shayne's back with his nose tucked against the back of Shayne's neck, the heat of his breath on Shayne's skin. With a shudder, Shayne turns in Spencer's grip, making them far too close and yet neither of them moving in the interest of creating space.

"One minute more than I said, huh? Crimes?" he asks, referencing a post that he knows Spencer will remember; it was about cats, and he had been the one to show it to Shayne in the first place, and Shayne's rewarded with his laughter, Spencer's head dropping briefly against his shoulder.

"Crimes. Jail for Shayne. Jail for one thousand years," Spencer says, light and lilting fake Russian accent coating the words. Laughter is so easy in this space with Spencer, so natural. He loves it.

"You know you can't sleep in my bed if I'm in jail, right?" Shayne challenges, raising an eyebrow. Spencer meets him, grinning.

"Sure I can, I'll just also have to go to jail. You'll have to protect me, though, I think they'd probably eat me alive."

"Pretty boy like you? Absolutely, Spence," he says, mostly joking but able to see when it catches the other's attention.

"You think I'm pretty?" Spencer asks, perking up so obviously it's almost amusing, but mostly it just makes Shayne feel on top of the world, knowing he made Spencer look like that. He represses the desire to kiss him, too aware of the detriment of going too fast in a case like this.

"I think a lot of people on the internet would tell you that for free," he remarks, knowing exactly how much people on the internet do tell Spencer how pretty he is.

"I'm not asking people on the internet, Shayne. I'm asking you," Spencer says, taking out that last bit of joking aura they had both been holding onto, keeping Shayne in place with hands resting on the counter on either side of Shayne's hips. Taking a deep breath, Shayne dives.

"Yeah, Spence. I think you're pretty," he says, the rasp of his voice spreading it thin as he leans just a little closer to Spencer, resting their foreheads together. Spencer leans up into it, kissing Shayne so casually on the mouth that it's like they've done it a million times before, so practiced and familiar as it is. He lets Spencer control the flow of this, sleepy and languid, and Shayne just tagging along for the ride. Spencer moves a hand to his chest, splayed flat and holding him there, keeping Shayne right where he wants him. Heat shoots through Shayne's chest at the thought of Spencer wanting him like that, vulnerable and open beneath his hands. He can't help kissing Spencer a little deeper at the notion, his grip on Spencer's hip going just a little tighter before he makes himself loosen it back up.

"I don't mind," Spencer whispers, pressing into another kiss like he'd never broken it in the first place. Pliant, Shayne goes with it, turning them around so that he can lift Spencer onto the counter. Spencer hums, pleased, and closes his knees around Shayne's hips, clinging to him with arms linked around the back of his neck.

"Let me take you to bed," Shayne murmurs, his hands splayed across Spencer's lower back. Spencer pulls back from the kiss just to look at him, far too amused for the situation.

"I thought you wanted to eat dinner first," he asks, eyebrows raised.

"Fuck dinner," Shayne argues, kissing down Spencer's jaw and following the path of his moles, spreading kisses across all that he can reach. Spencer laughs, but his breath hitches when Shayne bites him again, worrying a little mark into his skin. Spencer threads his fingers through the hair at the back of Shayne's head, pulling at it just a little.

"Fuck me, dinner can wait," he says, pulling Shayne up for a kiss. Shayne laughs against his mouth, unable to return the kiss for the size of his grin.

"That was... I can't believe I like you so fucking much," he says fondly, not kissing Spencer but just lingering, their foreheads resting together. Spencer's smile is soft, and Shayne wants a picture of him in this moment, looking up at Shayne flushed and sweet, his lips kiss swollen and bruised, marks from his jawline down to his collarbones.

"Yeah?" Spencer asks, that look getting a little flustered as Shayne keeps the eye contact, and he kisses Spencer briefly, the desire too strong to push down.

"So fucking much, Spencer. 's embarrassing, really. Miss you when you're not at work, wanna sleep in your bed, wanna take showers with you just to wash your hair type bullshit, dude," Shayne promises, grinning widely between feather light and frequent kisses, unable to keep himself from that pretty mouth and that fucking tongue. Spencer's teeth graze across his bottom lip and Shayne picks him up off the counter, self control falling to the wayside.

"Oh, fuck you, why is this hot?" Spencer asks, complaining even as he makes himself easier to carry, clinging onto Shayne without impeding his steps and attaching his mouth to the side of Shayne's neck. Well, he's making himself easier to carry in some ways. Other ways, he's making things harder in more ways than one. 

"Let me fuck you," Shayne says, pressing Spencer to the wall in the hallway. He kisses his way into Spencer's mouth like he's trying to take him apart and maybe he is, maybe he wants to see inside of Spencer like he wants Spencer to see inside of him. Shayne kisses him, kisses him, kisses him, til he's pushed back a little, kiss broken with a grin.

"Eager?" Spencer asks, laughter shot through his voice making it light and airy, like Spencer's floating on air. Shayne tightens his grip on him, moving them into his bedroom and dropping Spencer on the bed. Stripping of his shirt, Shayne grins down at a wide eyed Spencer.

"You could say that," he says, helping Spencer out of his shirt, which becomes a lot easier once the other gets with the program. The desire to touch every inch of Spencer's skin, the desire to hold him and fuck him and make him happy and make him feel so good he cries, it all overlaps over itself, overwhelming rational thought with its ferocity. He kneels between Spencer's knees, pushing him back up against the pillows. "Is this too much?" he asks, suddenly very aware of the fact that they haven't really talked about this, joking aside. Spencer makes a frustrated noise, pulling Shayne closer with greedy hands. Shayne can't help laughing, though it turns quickly into a surprised sort of moan when Spencer grabs at his chest, running his thumbs along Shayne's nipples.

"Fucking obsessed with your chest, fuck," Spencer says. Shayne gasps when he pinches at one, fully moaning when he twists the other. He moves over Spencer til they're face to face, biting his way into Spencer's mouth. He whimpers when Spencer bites back, digging his teeth into Shayne's bottom lip and making Shayne lose some of his focus on holding himself up, thus making him drop to align their hips. Spencer gives him a pleased hum, knees closing around his hips just as they had in the kitchen, holding Shayne close.

"How do you want to do this, Spence?" he asks, pressing kisses to Spencer's jaw, down the side of his throat as Spencer tilts his head to give him room to do so. Spencer's still rubbing at his chest, not really so much his nipples, but rather just cupping the muscle in his palms. It's making Shayne feel something though he could not confidently say exactly what that something is.

"Want you to fuck me. You're gonna finger me, and then fuck me but before you cum, I'm gonna ride you. That sound doable?" Spencer asks, so blase about it, so confident. It's hot, which is surprising seeing as Shayne did not know he was into that. He presses Spencer into his mattress, kissing him hard and fast before he's leaning up, grabbing lube and condoms from the bedside table. The reach puts his chest over Spencer's face, and really he should have saw this coming.

"Fuck, Spencer," Shayne says, his hips canting against Spencer's as the other latches onto his nipple, his lips, tongue and teeth a visceral feeling, especially when unexpected. Though that isn't to say that it's at all unwanted.

"They're so soft, Shayne," Spencer says, looking up at Shayne with round eyes and an overwhelming eagerness, his tongue still laving at Shayne's chest.

"Soft?"

"Your tits, babe. So fucking soft," Spencer says, his eyes closing as he sucks at Shayne's nipple again; arousal shoots through Shayne violently almost, his cock twitching as soon as the word tits came out of Spencer's mouth. He has to move on with what they're doing or this is going to be how they spend tonight, good fucking God. Shayne grabs Spencer by the jaw and pulls him up into a kiss.

"You can play with them when you're riding me, baby. You still want me to fuck you?" Shayne asks, needing to make sure even if he's pretty sure Spencer would kill him if they stopped. Spencer nods, hands dropping from Shayne's chest to his hips. Shayne kisses him again just because he can.

"Get naked, I wanna see you," Spencer says, pushing Shayne up and off of him long enough to shove his own sweatpants down, boxers quickly following them off the side of the bed. Just looking at Spencer makes Shayne want to bite him, suck marks into his skin, make him cry with it. He wants to please Spencer, make him feel good and wanted and desperate and needy and he wants to see that look in his eyes like Shayne is the only person in the world, and he wants Spencer. God, he fucking wants him. He shoves off his pants and boxers as well, crawling back between Spencer's legs as soon as they're both bare. Kissing Spencer briefly on the mouth, he quickly moves on to biting at his jaw, kissing at his neck, sucking marks into his chest. Spencer is pulling his hair and it's keeping Shayne focused, maybe, or maybe it's that it makes him just that much more desperate to see Spencer come apart beneath his hands.

"Can I suck your dick while fingering you?" he asks, figuring you miss all the shots you don't take. Spencer snorts, pressing his face briefly into the pillow beside his head.

"Only if you want me to cum, and I cannot guarantee I will be any fun after that," he says, pretty grin stretching across his mouth.

"Making you cum will be fun for me," Shayne teases, even if he knows that he's gonna do whatever Spencer wants even if it means not having Spencer in his mouth for another night.

"That might be so, but I want your dick inside me, so how about you do as you're told?" Spencer says, probably aiming for sarcastic and joking, but Shayne's head is going fuzzy, and that might be the hottest shit anyone has ever said to him in his life, bar none. Holy fuck. Grabbing the lube from where it's been resting near Spencer's hip, Shayne coats the first three fingers of his right hand. He rubs over Spencer's hole for a few seconds, preparing him for the sensation before he sinks his first finger into Spencer, earning a choked off moan.

"Good?" Shayne asks, needing to be sure even as he continues in movement. Spencer nods again, two or three more times than strictly necessary, so Shayne circles a second finger around his hole, pressing in when Spencer presses down into it. Shayne curls his fingers; he's only ever done this to himself, but he's pretty sure-

"Shayne," Spencer moans, and Shayne grins against his thigh, pressing kisses to the pale skin there.

"Good?" he asks again, though this time more as a tease than anything.

"So fucking good, Shayne. Fucking me so well, can't wait for how your dick is gonna feel. Want you to fuck me, Shayne," Spencer says, like Shayne needs reminding of exactly what he's getting to do here. The praise makes Shayne shiver, but he focuses on the task, well. The task at hand, so to speak. He rubs against Spencer's prostate, biting down on Spencer's thigh. Spencer arches up into him, and so Shayne adds a third finger. Spencer moans, head falling back against the pillows.

"You're almost ready. Could stop now, but you're so tight around my fingers still. Would feel like I'm splitting you open on my dick," he says, teasing Spencer with the idea if not with following it through. Spencer's hands clench down on his shoulders, make Shayne look up to see Spencer's face. Spencer pulls at him.

"Fuck me now," he says, shoving Shayne up til he has to pull out his fingers to catch himself above Spencer. He looks down at Spencer with wild eyes, his mouth dry. Spencer kisses him, not lingering before speaking again. "I wanna feel you like that, Shayne. Make me feel you," he says, desire painting his voice so vividly that Shayne can't help himself, lining himself up to fuck into Spencer and only pausing when he's ready to push in.

"Do you want me to put on a condom?" he asks, not willing to overstep that boundary with Spencer even if it seems like they both want this. Spencer moves as if to pull at him, but stops as well, looking up at Shayne with an analytical eye.

"Do you want to put on a condom?" he asks, squinting at Shayne like that'll let him read his mind. Shayne smiles, kissing Spencer in an effort to get that look off his face.

"I'm cool with however you want to do this, Spence," he says, running his nose along Spencer's jaw. Spencer does pull at him then, giving Shayne that last shove he needs to thrust into Spencer, pushing into him slow and steady til he bottoms out. Spencer's face is tucked against Shayne's throat, his whines muffled against Shayne's skin. Shayne tries to give him a moment to adjust, possibly in need of a moment of adjustment himself, and resists Spencer's attempts to push him into movement before either of them are ready. He kisses Spencer instead, slipping his tongue into his mouth and mollifying his partner. Boyfriend? Partner? Guy he's having sex with? They really need to talk about this. Spencer bites his bottom lip and rolls his hips down, removing Shayne of all thoughts concerning anything but exactly what they're doing.

"Move," Spencer says, his voice going thin with desperation. Shayne follows immediately, pulling out in one solid stroke before pushing all the way back in, a quick snap of the hips. Spencer moans and bites down on his shoulder, so Shayne fucks into him the same way, again and again and again. The moans go ragged as Shayne changes the angle of his hips just a bit, and Spencer's grip on him gets tighter, his thighs around Shayne's hips near painful. He maintains that angle, focusing on Spencer's pleasure in an effort to ignore his own; Spencer feels so fucking good around him that Shayne wants to cum inside of him now, get him off with his hands and mouth instead. He's going to do as he's told though, and that means fucking Spencer for as long as he can before letting Spencer ride him. That might not have been exactly what Spencer said, but the intent was there. Or, there enough for Shayne to do it anyway. Flustered but wanting, Shayne grabs one of Spencer's hands, moving it to touch Shayne's chest. Moving to this desire eagerly, Spencer touches and squeezes and pinches and generally makes Shayne feel like his brain is coming out of his ears.

"Need you to ride me," he chokes out, not pausing fucking into Spencer til Spencer tells him to. Spencer clenches around him and Shayne's head falls down against his shoulder, hot breath fanning across Spencer's chest. Spencer grabs his hips and shoves him up again, just a little rough with him in a way that electrifies him as he pulls out of Spencer, rolling onto his back. Spencer follows pretty immediately thereafter, sinking onto Shayne's cock like this isn't the first time he's done it, like this isn't the first time they've done all of this. For a brief moment, Shayne is viscerally overwhelmed, not by the physical sensations as overwhelming as those are, but by having Spencer at all, by making it here. Spencer leans down and cups his face, pressing a kiss to Shayne's mouth. When he pulls back, he sits all the way up, proud like he's holding himself over Shayne in more ways than one. Shayne grins, all too willing to be in this position. Spencer splays his hands on Shayne's chest again, cupping his pecs.

"Fuck, you've got nice tits. I've thought that since the first time I saw you shirtless, and swear, they've only gotten bigger, fuck. And now I get to play with them? So hot, Shayne," he says, all low and rambling and Shayne tilts his head back against the pillows when Spencer puts his mouth to his chest. He arches his back and Spencer gasps, apparently so enraptured with Shayne's chest that he forgot he had a dick inside of him. Shayne grins, but it quickly falls to pieces as Spencer pushes up, grinding down on his cock and biting his chest in the same breath. Shayne's hand moves up to Spencer's hair, gripping at it instinctively.

"Spencer," he says, breathless. Spencer rises and sinks down on his cock again, a little faster this time as he gains his bearings with it. As soon as he seems comfortable, he grins down at Shayne, setting a fast pace and still playing with Shayne's- with Shayne's tits, and fuck it's hot, and Spencer is muttering praise against his chest and Shayne feels floaty, fucked out despite the fact that he's the one theoretically doing the fucking. Spencer makes him feel strung out on it, desperate to please and rung out by it too, vulnerable no matter their positions. His breaths are coming heavy and quick, most of his focus directed on not cumming before Spencer does. In the interest of that, he reaches down, wrapping his right hand around Spencer's cock.

"Fuck, Shayne. So good for me, aren't you, baby? So good for me," he says, the repetition falling out of his mouth as his cum paints Shayne's stomach white, and Shayne keeps stroking him through it. He's still got his hand around Spencer and he's fucking up into him desperately, eager to cum and eager to cum inside of Spencer, the idea of which is driving him just this shade insane. Whining, Spencer closes his teeth around Shayne's nipple, biting down and the pain enough that Shayne is cumming, moaning into Spencer's hair. Spencer stays in his lap, tucking his face down against Shayne's throat as they both work to catch their breath. Inexplicably, a giggle starts up in Shayne's chest, so quick and unexpected that he can't stop himself from bursting into laughter, head falling back against the pillows. Spencer picks his head up to raise an eyebrow at him, but he's smiling too, and there's no way that Spencer isn't feeling this too.

"I really fucking like you, Spencer," he says, Spencer chasing the words with his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to Shayne's lips. This is Spencer's way of saying it back. He lingers, but the kiss stays closed mouth, chaste. Reassuringly innocent with Shayne's dick softening inside of Spencer. As if aware of the thought, Spencer lifts himself off of Shayne slowly, both of them hissing as they separate from one another.

"Come shower with me. Then we can eat? I'm not really that tired anymore," he notes, shrugging a shoulder as if he has no idea why this could be, but grinning at Shayne at the same time, kneeling on the bed and reaching for Shayne.

The worst thing about fighting with Spencer is that he's nothing less than professional the entire time. They haven't had a real conversation in at least a month, a few days before they broke whatever they had going on off, and it's been all business ever since. He doesn't act like he's mad at Shayne, he doesn't ignore him, he just acts like Shayne is his coworker. Even if their relationship wasn't exactly what Shayne wanted it to be, they had always had a really good time hanging out together. It seems like that's over now. He's never been a particularly talented hand at losing and furthermore mourning friendships; he's been friends with Damien for their entire adult lives, friends with Courtney and Ian for years, friends with everyone on the goddamn cast because he has a nearly pathological need for everyone to like him.

That's not really what it's about with Spencer, though, is it? Things are fucked because of how different what he wants from Spencer is from the rest of his friends. He wanted more than Spencer could give. It is what it is. He's been a bit of a fucking wreck since everything happened. Since Spencer broke up with him. Whatever the fuck you want to call it.

"Hey bud, Spencer asked me to come grab you for the meeting that started a few minutes ago?" Damien says, knocking his knuckles against the desk Shayne has his head down on. He rests his hand on the back of Shayne's neck, squeezing briefly, comforting. He knows that Damien wants to help. It still cracks him in half that Damien needed to come tell him instead of Spencer opening up their text thread and messaging him directly for the first time since he fucked everything up. Still, he gets up, moving himself out from under Damien's hand, which is retracted out of his way. "You okay?" Damien asks, his voice far too gentle. Shayne forces a smile, nearto gritting his teeth from the effort of it. From the raise of Damien's eyebrows, the effort is most definitely wasted.

"I'm fine, man. Just tired. I'll head that way," he says, making that forced smile softer. He doesn't know why he's trying. Damien has always known when something was going on with him. It doesn't help that Damien was his first phone call when everything went down, his violent sobs moving Damien to be waiting at Shayne's apartment when he was finally able to calm himself enough to drive home. It was a casual thing. It shouldn't have hurt as bad as it did. We do not want the same things. Spencer had been so sure of it, so convicted, as if Shayne's feelings for him were plastered across the wall, bold font. Even when he had tried to argue his case, he could tell that Spencer just wanted him to go. To let it go. To let them go. To admit that there was never a them in the first place.

"Text me if you need me, okay? I've gotta leave for my thing, but I'm around for you. You know that," Damien says, pulling Shayne out of his head with that and a quick kiss to his temple. He gives Shayne one of those significant looks before he's heading out and a genuine smile pulls across Shayne's face for perhaps the first time all day. Not to be the allistic best friend, but quirks he's always fondly thought of as just Damien are apparently autistic traits (revelation to both of them, really) and his fondness for them has not waned in the slightest. That's his best fucking friend.

He's distracting himself. It's on purpose.

"Hey guys, sorry I'm late," he says as he ducks into the meeting room, directing an awkward smile to the entire room. Spencer is looking at him, eyebrows raised and eyes hard behind his glasses.

"Glad you finally decided to show up. Back to my thing-" Spencer continues like he hadn't missed a beat, such a clear dismissal that it pangs in Shayne's chest. He's not sure what would have been ideal for Spencer to do there, though. Interrupt the meeting to get Shayne back up to speed? Fuck no. Maybe it's that he covets what he used to have: that easy rapport with Spencer, access to his dumbest one liners and wittiest quips, front row seats to the way his eyes sparkle when he laughs at his own jokes. It's his fault. He made it weird. He did too much. This isn't Spencer's fault.

Take accountability for your actions. Follow the lead of the person you fucked up with. Be willing to earn their trust again. He doesn't know if he could be more willing, but it doesn't seem like Spencer is open to opening back up that door.

"Shayne?" Spencer calls, pulling Shayne out of his thoughts succinctly. Shayne clears his throat, sitting up straighter.

"Yeah, yeah. Got, uh. Got lost in thought," he stutters, not quite making eye contact with Spencer but coming closer than he has in a few days. Spencer hums, looking to everyone else in the room as if to commiserate with them. He puts his hand up beside his mouth and speaks then at full volume. Everybody loves a bit.

"This guy never listens when I talk, can you believe him?" he says. It shouldn't even bother Shayne. In fact, he had thought he would enjoy it if Spencer made fun of him again. Guess it's different when he doesn't feel like he's in on the joke. It is not that serious. So why does Shayne feel like he's about to start tearing up?

"I'm, um. I don't think I'm going to be of any use and I don't want to slow you guys down, so I'm just gonna head out," he says, smiling even though he knows it doesn't reach his eyes. He hears Spencer say his name but he's already out of the door, and down the hall by the time he hears it the second time. He stops in his tracks anyway. He never was good at taking the easy way out.

"Shayne," Spencer says again, quieter this time. Clearing his throat, Shayne turns around. Spencer is frowning at him. Despite everything, that little frown takes Shayne's guard right down. He's missed the warmth of Spencer's concern. "What's wrong with you?" Spencer says, and the guard goes right back up like it never came down in the first place. Be safe or be happy? Shayne doesn't know that either are in the cards for today.

"Nothing. Tired. Can I go?" he says shortly, brusquely. Spencer furrows his brow.

"Yeah, man? How the fuck would I stop you?" he says, still giving Shayne that analytical look like Shayne is a problem to solve. He clears his throat again.

"Cool," he says, turning back around and heading down the hallway again. Spencer isn't quiet in following behind Shayne, so he's almost expecting it when a hand closes on his elbow.

"Dude, what is your fucking problem?" Spencer asks, spinning Shayne around with more strength than Shayne knew he had. He pictures a wall between Spencer and his feelings. It's so much harder to be hurt when every soft spot about you is covered in stone. They never tell you how hard it is to be loved like that. Hurt is an ugly thing pacing the cage of his ribs, festering as it has been for the past month, and Shayne doesn't know how much longer he can keep making it smaller and making it smaller and making it smaller before the pressure of it kills him, his grief diamond hard and shiny. Sparkling.

"Why the fuck do you care, Spencer?" he asks flatly, steam shooting out the pressure valve as he moves out from under Spencer's hand, frowning. Spencer has the audacity to look like Shayne has said something out of pocket, as if there's a reason he should think Spencer cares what his fucking problem is. Like there's a reason he should think Spencer even cares if he's okay.

"We were in the middle of a meeting," Spencer says, even this protestation a little weak. Shayne closes his eyes for a second, breathing out through his nose deeply. Composing himself. Putting the pieces of armor back together.

"I know, and I'm sorry that I won't be able to be present, but you all should continue without me. They're waiting for you," he says diplomatically, pulling the public persona back together even if he is off camera. Spencer makes a face at him, his confusion plain.

"Who cares? They'll wait," he says, which is likely true. There's an hour booked out for this meeting despite everyone attending being aware of the fact that it would only take maybe forty minutes, if Spencer was slow about it. That's always how it is when Spencer is conducting a meeting. He gets nervous or excited or just Spencer and he starts talking a little too fast, running through trains of thought like he never has to change stations to get from place to place. Still, he's not sure why Spencer is protesting so much. Shayne's giving them both an out here.

"Why?" he asks, unable to just keep the question to himself even if he'd rather be anywhere else. If he texts Courtney, they'll almost definitely be willing to pick up whatever slack he'd be leaving by peeling out of the parking lot right now. Instead, it feels like he's frozen to this spot, caught in this moment.

"Because I want to know what your fucking problem is."

"Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to, Spencer," he begs, steeling his voice in the hopes that it sounds like something different from what it is, but to himself he can admit: it's begging. Spencer narrows his eyes and catches Shayne by the wrist, pulling him into an unused office and staring him down.

"Are you that mad that I'm not gonna fuck you anymore? We want different things, Shayne. I'm trying to protect us both," he insists; it's the same thing he said then. It's so fucking corny. Breaking it off with someone and saying you're doing it to protect them. From what? Just admit that you don't want it. He just wants Spencer back. Even if it's just as a friend. Still, he's not even nearly mentally collected enough to start this conversation, let alone end it, so he might as well cut it off now. The hurt turns to vitriol in his throat and he casts it out, bitter and rotten.

"Sure, Spencer. We'll call what I am mad. Like when I called what we had a relationship, and how you refer to it as fucking. I'm gonna head out," he repeats, ducking out of the office and making his way down the hall much faster than before. He hates that little part of himself that wishes Spencer would follow this time too. He makes it all the way to his car without interruption. He texts Courtney. He drives home.

In the coming weeks, it's more Shayne avoiding Spencer than it is the other way around. At least, according to Damien, that's the case. While Shayne is ducking out of rooms when he hears Spencer down the hall and taking his lunch at his desk so that he doesn't run into Spencer when neither of them are on the clock, Spencer is apparently looking for Shayne now. He doesn't ask all the time, of course, but Damien says they don't talk for more than a few minutes before Spencer asks where he is, how he is. Every time Damien tells him about it, that little bit of excitement ("He likes me, he cares about me, he wants to know how I am," bullshit) hits Shayne hard enough to make him nauseous, or maybe that's just the self disgust. He wants to be over this more than he's ever wanted to be over anything.

He wishes Damien was here. Everybody always seems to think it's him acting as a social buffer for Damien, but really, that shit is reciprocal as fuck. Even a thread of discomfort on Shayne's face, Damien is making excuses and flashing sweet smiles, charming enough that no one even thinks to get pissed off. Even when Shayne is the social buffer, it never feels like he does it so smoothly, so naturally. Years and years of acting, and all it's done is make him more comfortable in front of a camera than he is without one. It's easier when there's an audience to play to; he already knows he doesn't play well to this one.

He hates that he's not good at being alone with Spencer anymore. He hates that this feels like a skill he'd have to relearn.

Courtney had invited him out, said Tommy was coming too. Tommy apparently invited Spencer. Court said they didn't know, and it was all very sudden. He doesn't blame Tommy. Tommy doesn't even know. Probably? Oh god. Shayne definitely hasn't told him, but Spencer is closer with Tommy anyway, and he's already told Courtney he'd stay. If he walked out on them now, when Tommy and Spencer are supposed to arrive in the next five minutes? Never gonna fly. He sits next to her reluctantly, resignedly. He's nursing what may be the worst beer of all time, but Courtney ordered it for him to cheer him up, so he'll pretend to like it for as long as it takes to finish it. He didn't come here to get drunk anyway. He came here so Courtney and Damien would stop giving him that you can talk to me look, tiptoeing around him like Spencer broke his fucking heart or some shit like that.

Even if it's true, they shouldn't say it.

It's like he can feel it when Spencer walks in the room, his gaze pulled to the door just as Spencer crosses the threshold of it. Fuck, he looks good. He's wearing one of his stupid little button-ups, jeans that are just a little too long for him, the same boots he always wears. And yet, Shayne doesn't know if he could take his eyes off of him if he tried. He can't even make himself try.

He's grateful when Courtney grabs his arm, refocusing his attention on them. They raise an eyebrow.

"You gonna be okay? I'm not gonna make you stay here if you're not gonna be okay, dude," she says, words perhaps a little casual for the burning in his chest, but the sentiment appreciated all the same. Courtney has no idea that it's sentiments like that one that will keep Shayne in his seat, beer in his hand, for as long as she's worried about him. Court and Damien care about him so much. The least he can do is try to be okay for them.

"I'll be fine, Courtney. Don't worry," he says; Courtney meets Tommy's gaze from across the room, communicating silently for a moment before Courtney nods.

"We're finding a booth. Tommy and Spencer are ordering, then they'll come find us," Courtney says; Shayne just shrugs, following their lead. They end up choosing a table with high seats instead of a booth, picked for its distance from the nearest other patrons. Spencer and Tommy follow sooner than he expects, setting a tray of drinks on the table before claiming their seats. Courtney and Shayne are sitting next to each other, and Tommy takes the seat across from Courtney, so that leaves Shayne avoiding eye contact with Spencer fucking Agnew. He gives Tommy a lackluster smile, even the pantomime of his happiness water thin and washed out like this. The smile Tommy hands back to him is gentled, a little worried, but Tommy recovers quickly, sliding into a grin and passing Courtney a shot.

"This has been one hell of a week, babe. You deserve this," he says, grabbing another shot for himself, "And so do I." Courtney taps the table three times and they down their shots at the same time, their strange synchronicity bringing a smile to Shayne's face. There are four more shots on the tray, as well as Spencer's drink, likely a light soda but they use opaque cups here so who could tell, and a few fruity cocktails. Tommy likes to try specials when the bars in town have them, kitschy little gimmick cocktails and twists on old classics, anything that sounds fun. It's something Shayne admires about Tommy, his ability to step outside of his comfort zone. Speaking of which. Tommy and Courtney both stand, about to make their first pass over the dance floor. Their tenacity is admirable. Courtney goes immediately, but Tommy stays behind a moment, leaning on the chair he just vacated to support him while he speaks.

"Either one of you, feel free to grab a shot or a drink, but don't feel pressured either, okay? I only ordered as much as Courtney and I could drink ourselves if you're not feeling it, Shayne," Tommy says, addressing Shayne directly as everyone and their mother knows Spencer's not gonna get into any of what's available. He gives Tommy a grin and bear it kind of smile, waving him off when he pauses, brows drawn together. Tommy hesitates, but ultimately follows after Courtney, seeming to be able to spot her on the floor even when it just looks like a sea of people to Shayne. It's possible that he's just looking out at the crowd, after Courtney, after Tommy, because he doesn't want to look at the person right in front of him. He doesn't know how to start. They sit silently for a long time, neither of them leaving but neither of them speaking either, awkward tension an overbearing weight compared to the past frivolity of their interactions.

Something about that tips him over the edge of it, falling from that fear directly into resignation; he just wants it to be over. He just wants to know where the fuck he stands. He just wants to have an adult conversation about this instead of feeling like he's walking on eggshells in his own head trying to avoid the stovetop burn of this, the sting of hurt that he hasn't been able to make himself let go of. He wants to feel normal, and nothing has been normal since they broke things off, and he misses his fucking friend and he wishes they were talking about this. Talking about things is a two way street. Somebody has to start the conversation, though. Somebody has to be brave.

Tipping his bottle to take one last sip, Shayne fortifies himself.

"Can I say something?" he asks, unwilling to just ambush Spencer in public like this, but needing to know where the lines are anyway. Spencer heaves a heavy sigh but looks at Shayne for the first time all night, nodding and seeming to steel himself. “I have no idea what happened with us but even if you don’t want to date me, I still loved being your friend, and I’d like to go back to that,” Shayne rushes out all at once, not letting himself leave any of it out. Spencer is still looking at him, but his brow is furrowed, his eyes narrowed, his head tilted. Is it really that crazy of an idea? They were good as friends. They were happy, even. Before Shayne fucked everything up.

"Even if I don't what," Spencer says, his tone so flat that it doesn't really seem like a question. Shayne presses his lips together, unable to stomach the fact that the thought of it is apparently so outlandish that it had never even occurred to Spencer. He forces a calming breath out through his nose, forcing the hurt down into his stomach, leaching the cold from around his heart. Still, he stands. He doesn't want to do this anymore.

"I'll see you at work, Spencer," he says, final, but not final enough to leave Spencer with the idea that things won't be okay come Monday. Because no matter how hurt Shayne is, if Spencer wants to be okay, they'll be okay. If he doesn't, they won't. He doesn't know when he became so resigned to this. He turns around, but he doesn't even get a pace away from the table before Spencer's catching him by the shoulder, desperate fingertips digging into his collarbone. He stops. He turns. He looks at Spencer. He waits. Spencer is looking at him askance, as if Shayne should know what he's trying to say here. He shakes off the hand on his shoulder. Spencer goes with it, hand dropping to grab at Shayne's shirt, pulling him closer. Not expecting it, Shayne stumbles and follows the motion, lets himself be pulled close enough to stand between Spencer's knees. What?

"I didn't know that dating you was an option," Spencer says, pulling Shayne in to kiss him on the mouth, hard and claiming and not tentative at all, like they had never broken it off in the first place. Given his givens, Shayne thinks it's fair that it takes him a second to register what Spencer even said. He pulls back when he does, breathing hard and cupping Spencer's face between his hands. Overwhelmed. Both of Spencer's hands are balled in the fabric of his shirt.

"What?" he asks, a little too overwhelmed to articulate what he's asking better. Spencer kisses him again before answering, licking into Shayne's mouth. There's more desperation in it than either of them were aware they had to give. You always think the sexual tension is going to go away after the first good fuck, the first time you have sex and you really feel like you're reaching your full potential together. Spencer is kissing him like he's trying to climb inside of Shayne's mouth, knees closed around Shayne's hips, still pulling him in as if Shayne is going anywhere. Which, actually. He breaks the kiss and holds himself back from Spencer, not letting the other man try to distract him enough to let this go. The way Spencer whines, put out, is almost enough to make him go right back to it. Almost. "What?" he repeats. He's sure the desperation to know, to understand, is written all across his face.

"I didn't know that dating you was an option," Spencer repeats, his shoulders dropping. Hope flickers flame hot in Shayne's chest.

"You wanted dating me to be an option, though?" he asks, unable to crush that pathetic thing in him, that need to know everything in extremely explicit terms, just to make sure he's wanted. Spencer makes a frustrated noise, one of his hands unclenching from Shayne's shirt to slide up and grab Shayne's jaw, grip gentle, sure, but firm. He's holding Shayne in place, making sure he's looking at him. He doesn't know that he would be able to look away anyway.

"Yes, Shayne. God, dude. You're- you're everything. You're my everything. Of course I wanna fucking date you," Spencer says, his thumb sweeping over Shayne's skin, stroking his face. Oh. Shayne swallows around the lump in his throat, willing himself not to tear up. Everything. He leans forward, kissing Spencer carefully, gently, as if for the first time. Doubt still crawls in, insecurity as good a home for it as any.

"But you were okay," he says, frowning. Spencer's head tilts to the side, silent question communicated when Shayne can actually make himself look Spencer in the eye. "When you broke up- when you called it off. You were acting totally normal. Well, except not talking to me. That part sucked." He shrugs a shoulder, gaze darting across Spencer's face. He feels like he needs to memorize every feature of him this close, every flit and fancy of expression in case he loses this again.

"Broke up. You- you were serious. About us being in a relationship," Spencer says, muted horror taking over his features. Unable to make himself lie, Shayne nods. "I did a really shitty thing, didn't I?" he asks, though from his tone, he's already come to the conclusion of that thought by himself. Shayne looks down; it's not like he can say it didn't hurt. It's not like he can that in some ways it didn't shatter him like glass, shards falling to the ground. Spencer tilts his face up, studying him briefly. "I'm so sorry, dude," he says, pulling Shayne in for a hug not just with arms around his shoulders but knees closing around his hips as well. Tucking his nose into Spencer's throat, Shayne shudders as the scent of him hits for the first time in months. He can link his forearms behind Spencer's back when they're this close, an impulse he's always pushed down because it felt restrictive, but with Spencer holding on in such a way that it would be easier to pick Spencer up than to extricate himself from this embrace, he's a little braver than he's been in the past.

"I've really fucking missed you, Spencer," he admits, his voice breaking. Spencer hugs him closer like he's trying to pull Shayne into his chest. He's tearing up again, and swear to fucking God, he's cried more in the past couple of months than he has in the past couple of years. It hasn't been pretty. Spencer's hands are careful as he starts carding his fingers through Shayne's hair, gentler maybe than they've ever been with each other. He's not sure how long he stands between Spencer's thighs with his nose tucked against Spencer's skin, but it's likely more than is socially acceptable. When he tries to pull away, though, Spencer gives a protesting noise.

"I just got you back, dude, give me a minute," he says, his voice a low murmur against Shayne's throat that makes him shiver. He drops a kiss on Shayne's skin, not in any kind of suggestive manner, but like he just wants to feel Shayne beneath his mouth. Shayne chuckles, dropping a kiss on Spencer as well.

"We could get out of here," he says, no mind for the implication before it's already dropped out of his mouth. "Not that I think just because you would be okay with dating, then you obviously want to sleep with me, it's just-" Spencer laughs outright, interrupting Shayne by pulling back a little, leaning down to kiss him.

"We need to talk more, buddy," he says, peppering kisses on Shayne's mouth. It's overwhelming is what it is. Still, Shayne raises an eyebrow, a silent request for elaboration. Spencer sighs. "I wouldn't be okay with dating you. I would be fucking ecstatic to date you. I would be honored. It's really shitty that I made you feel like that was anything less than the truth. I want to do better. Treat you better. Actually act like we're dating instead of just bitterly pining for you while having you in my bed twice a week. I like you, like. An embarrassing amount, dude. I don't ever wanna hurt you like that again." That word, hurt, it makes it sound so serious. Already, Shayne's mind is putting it behind him, moving around the obstacle and running full tilt into trying to milk as much happiness from this as possible.

"Is that a yes to getting out of here?" he asks, pitching his voice low just because he knows it'll make Spencer laugh. It does exactly as designed, bringing a smile to Shayne's face as well before he backs away a little. Spencer actually lets him go this time, though his expression makes it quite clear what his real thoughts are on the matter. Stifling preemptive laughter, Shayne takes Spencer's hand in his, kissing the back of it and offering his arm for Spencer to use as a crutch when he slides off the high seat.

"You're going to be that boyfriend, aren't you?" Spencer asks, setting his hand on Shayne's forearm and actually getting up in the manner proposed. Shayne, trying not to react visibly to the thrill he gets at the idea of being Spencer's boyfriend, grabs Spencer by the belt loops, pulling him closer just to lean into his space.

"And what boyfriend is that?" he asks, amused flirtation coating his voice. Spencer grabs onto the lapels of his jacket, holding Shayne in his orbit. Shayne doesn't know if he's ever understood the tide so well.

"Chivalrous and shit. Guy who treats me right. The guy you wanna take home to your mom," Spencer explains, shrugging a shoulder as if this is all a very easy conclusion to reach and he's not sure why he's having to explain this to Shayne himself. As if that's just something that people say. Maybe it's growing up in a military family, but he's never felt quite good enough to be brought home to the parents. It's never been something so openly refuted. His face is getting red, he can tell, but it's not so embarrassing this close to Spencer's face. He leans down to kiss him again, careful, sweet. Spencer breaks it off with a smile and a roll of his eyes, shoving at Shayne's chest half heartedly. "You're only proving my point, you know," he says, and Shayne wants to kiss him again, so he does. Because he can. He can have this. He doesn't want to leave Tommy and Courtney's drinks unattended, though, so he pauses, leaning against the table. Spencer raises an eyebrow.

"I don't wanna leave their drinks unattended, alcohol is expensive," Shayne says, wrinkling his nose. He wants to leave with Spencer, yeah, but he's not gonna be trusted to watch somebody's drinks and leave. Spencer grins, sitting back down and patting the seat that was taken by Tommy previously.

"I'll text Courtney, because you know Tommy isn't gonna check his phone, and we'll wait til one of them comes back, okay?" he proposes, to which Shayne nods gratefully. Anxiety would eat at him all night if they just left without seeing Courtney or Tommy anyway. Losing someone while they're out always freaks him out, though. He sits down in Tommy's seat, turning toward Spencer to face him instead of the table. Spencer follows his lead, their knees in an every-other arrangement, denim against denim. It's so fucking nice just to have Spencer in his space again, beneath his hands. He wants to trace over every piece and part of Spencer, afraid of the things his hands might have forgotten. Spencer laces their fingers together on his lap, staring down at their hands in a way that makes it quite obvious he's only staring to avoid something else. Not knowing what to say and not wanting to interrupt this much more comfortable silence with something trivial, Shayne runs the conversation back through his head, matches it up with pieces of others.

"When you said we didn't want the same things... you thought I didn't want you," he says, piecing together this conclusion while speaking it aloud. Spencer's gaze snaps up to his, the unique, wild eyed look of being caught for something you never thought anyone would notice. Shayne squeezes his fingers, heart squeezing in his chest. "Spencer," he says, letting his hand go to cup his face again. Shayne couldn't tell you what song is playing, how many people are here, whether anyone else is close, his entire focus is narrowed down to this right here. The idea that Spencer fucking Agnew has been walking this earth under the impression that Shayne doesn't want him all the time, the idea that Spencer didn't know he's the only thing Shayne wants.

"Don't make a big deal of it, dude," he says, eyes darting to the floor. Shayne tilts his face up, about to kiss him again, when a hand claps down on his shoulder. Fucking Christ. It's just Courtney.

"Oh my god," they say, eyebrows raised and grin huge on their face. Shayne leans down against Spencer's shoulder, intimately aware of the fact that he's about to be roasted til he dies. "Finally!" they continue, "Fuck, I'm glad you guys got your shit together. It was getting sad. On both sides."

"Wait-" both he and Spencer say at once, sitting up to fully look at Courtney. Shayne looks at Spencer again, gaze shooting back and forth before he realizes.

"You told Courtney too, didn't you?"

"Too?"

"Too! Tommy, Damien and I have been trying to work this out forever," they say, loose lipped from the drink and shot through with laughter.

"Wait, you told Damien?" Spencer asks, not directed at Shayne but at Courtney. Why would Courtney need to- oh, did they tell Damien about Spencer's feelings, that's what they're talking about. Actually, Shayne wants to know that too. He's really fucking pleased with how it turned out, so he can't fault Courtney for meddling, but that is like. A little bit not cool. Courtney rolls her eyes.

"No, Spencer, Damien's eyes told Damien," she says, tone making it very clear that this should have been obvious. Spencer goes a flattering shade of pink, the spread of it disappearing beneath his shirt, and isn't that something he'd like to revisit.

"I didn't want to leave without making sure one of you guys had eyes on your drinks. Be safe, call me if you need anything, try not to need anything," Shayne rushes out quickly, kissing Courtney on the top of her head before taking Spencer by the hand and heading for the door. An excited trill Shayne honestly thinks he would recognize anywhere pierces through the sound of the music as Tommy walks into their path. He looks like the cat that got the fucking cream.

"Tommy, I love you, I haven't gotten laid in months, see you Monday," Spencer says, picking up the slack where Shayne had slowed down at Tommy's approach. Tommy laughs, loud and bright, and Shayne doesn't have to look to know that Spencer is grinning too. They make it out the door but don't let go of each other's hands, fingers staying laced and comfortable. Being able to feel Spencer there at the end of his fingertips settles some part of Shayne that he didn't know had been ruffled with the rest of it, something clingy and warmed by the connection, something insecure and small being fed for the first time in a while. He doesn't realize he's being led until they get to Spencer's car, looking over to find his companion looking as if he's bracing for an argument. Anxiety coils in Shayne's gut.

"I know you've only had one beer, but. Let me drive?" Spencer requests, leaning against his driver's side door trepidatiously. The release of tension is profound.

"Sure, Courtney and I ubered," Shayne says easily, crossing to the passenger side. When they're both settled in their seats, buckled, Spencer backs out of his parking space, clearing his throat.

"Yeah, Tommy ubered too, but I knew I'd still be able to drive, so. Anyway. My place or yours?" he asks, immediately cringing at how classic that line is. Shayne snorts, which can't have been attractive, but Spencer smiles at him anyway, ducking his head.

"Mine? If that's cool?" Shayne asks, unable to kill that tiny bit of fear that this isn't going to go in his favor, at which point he'd rather be at his own apartment than someone else's, even if someone else is Spencer. Spencer hums and turns out of the parking lot. He hasn't been to Shayne's apartment since their whole thing. Oh fuck. He hasn't cleaned his apartment in weeks. He can't help himself, so everything is relatively organized and nothing is gross, but like. There are dishes. Laundry in places where laundry should not be. Spencer reaches for him across the gear shift.

"Quit freaking out, I've seen you do way more embarrassing things on Games than having a messy living room," he says, tangling their fingers. Shayne rolls his eyes. "Talk or something, dude. I'll level with you, I'm trying very hard not to freak out. Not like in a bad way but in a like I thought I'd never have this again way, and I need you to just. Talk. Or whatever."

"Does talking about the last couple of months count as distraction talking, or is it too related?"

"Depends? I guess?"

"Well I mean.... you haven't gotten laid in months? Hung up, Spencer?" Shayne asks, shooting for teasing and landing somewhere between that and flirtation. Spencer breaks into a grin, openly relieved to be in less serious territory.

"Yeah, dude. Down completely bad. Tommy and Courtney kept throwing me little surprise parties in my own apartment like I didn't know it was an excuse to look for-" Spencer cuts himself off, abruptly going vividly red.

"Look for?" Shayne asks, halfways between curiosity and concern. Stopped at a red light, Spencer puts his head down on the wheel for a second.

"I write songs. With, like, big emotions, I just sit down and write a song. Get it out and get it over with and move on, you know? So, like. They were checking the trash, like I saw both of them do it. They're not subtle," Spencer says, shrugging as he lets off the break, hitting the gas when the light turns green. "I get it, like. I was acting weird. I would have been like that with either of them. It's just weird to be on the receiving end of."

"Weird to have someone care?" Shayne asks, familiar with that particular struggle. Spencer hums affirmatively. "Do you always throw them away? The songs?" he clarifies, stroking his thumb across Spencer's. Spencer clears his throat, squeezing Shayne's hand briefly. He squeezes back.

"Not always, I guess. If it's not, like, completely shit, sometimes I'll leave it in the notebook."

"There's a notebook?"

"Hey, don't make it sound like a thing. It's not a thing."

"I think it might be a thing, dude."

"Babe, you can just ask me if I write songs about you," Spencer says, shooting Shayne a grin. Shayne raises an eyebrow.

"Babe?" he asks, watching with delight as Spencer's face goes pink. Affection burns hot in Shayne's chest. "You really like me, don't you?" he says, halfway to wonder and not really a question at all. Spencer likes him. He writes songs about him and talks to Tommy and Courtney about him and he turns a sweet, rosy pink when called out on it.

"Yeah, man," Spencer says with a weak laugh, squeezing Shayne's hand in his own. Shayne lifts their connected hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of Spencer's hand. Spencer sputters, clearing his throat, but doesn't make any move to take his hand back, so Shayne isn't worried about overstepping.

A quiet settles over them with them both pink cheeked, pointedly looking anywhere but each other. Spencer can pretend he's fully focused on the road, but Shayne pulls out his phone to serve as distraction for himself. He snorts as soon as he wakes his screen, a text from Damien reading Don't do anything I wouldn't do reading across the top notification. Rolling his eyes, he types in response Dames, I'm planning on having sex with Spencer. Immediately, three dots pop up followed very quickly by Peace was never an option. Shayne looks up after typing a quick fuck you, looking over to find Spencer looking amused, eyebrows raised but eyes on the road.

"Something funny?" he asks, flicking on his turn signal. Only a few minutes til they reach his place. Holy shit.

"Apparently Damien has been informed of the success of their plan," Shayne says with a little bit of put on grandiosity. Spencer snorts, but then he hums. Shayne hums back a questioning noise.

"If Damien was in on this, why do you think he wasn't like. Present?" Spencer contemplates in that Spencer way where he's mostly just thinking aloud and not really expecting an answer. Unfortunately, Shayne is pretty sure he knows this one.

"Because Damien knows that if he was there, I would have hidden behind him. And he would have covered for me because that's what we do. I wouldn't have said anything," Shayne says, cringing at the idea of his own realistic assessment of how that situation would have played through. Spencer hums, nodding his head.

"Yeah, that makes sense. I don't think I'd have said anything at all ever, so you're braver than any U.S. Marine for that, my guy," he says, still nodding to himself as if this is the most sensical thing that has ever been said. God, he loves this idiot. He doesn't realize he's quiet and staring until Spencer cuts eyes at him, raising an eyebrow. He squeezes Spencer's hand.

"'s worth it, you know," he says, "being brave." Spencer parks in Shayne's guest space probably a little faster than would fly in a driver's ed class, but Shayne's not a fucking cop and even if he was, he doesn't know that anybody could remember to say something about it with Spencer's tongue in his mouth. Spencer unbuckles both of their seatbelts and slips his hand directly up the back of Shayne's shirt, solid on his lower back.

"You make me fucking crazy, dude," Spencer says, pressing the words into his mouth with teeth biting into his bottom lip. Shayne makes a noise equal parts laughter and overwhelm, dragging himself away from Spencer by opening his door, nearly rolling out of it in his haste. The soundtrack of Spencer's laughter cracks through the quiet as Shayne gets steady on his feet, walking around the car to open Spencer's door. The look Spencer gives him, pleasant bemusement or confused amusement maybe, is priceless as he offers him his hand.

"Well, I figure if I'm gonna be that boyfriend, I might as well go ahead and get a head start," he says, shithead grin wide. Spencer rolls his eyes but he takes Shayne's hand anyway, letting himself be pulled all the way up to Shayne's apartment.

His back hits the door maybe a second and a half after the lock clicks shut behind them. Spencer's hands are up his shirt, greedy in touching everything that's been unavailable to him, bold in rediscovering territory. Not exactly satiated either, Shayne flips them around, pressing Spencer against the door and up it a little, catching the back of Spencer's thigh in his hand. Spencer gives a pleased hum, wrapping his arms around Shayne's neck and pulling a little. Used to this kind of wordless communication from Spencer if not all others, Shayne hooks his other hand behind Spencer's other knee, lifting him to put his legs around Shayne's waist. Would fucking Spencer against the wall count as a day's cardio? Questions for a different day. For the first time, he actually lets himself imagine waking up with Spencer. Sleepy sex with the morning sun hanging low in the sky still, sharing a shower so they won't be late. His mouth goes soft against Spencer's, kisses becoming slower and more languid as he presses Spencer's shoulders back against the wood.

"I'm going to fucking kill you," Spencer says impatiently. Shayne grins, kissing him a few times in short, quick bursts.

"You're the one who asked me to pick you up," he reminds him. Spencer makes a skeptical noise.

"Well, actually-" 

"Do not buzz me on a technicality right now, Spencer," Shayne murmurs into his partner's neck, kissing his way down Spencer's throat.

"I might stop making fun of you if I was otherwise occupied..." Spencer says, his contemplative tone broken by a high gasp when Shayne bites down on his skin.

"Now, we both know that's not true," Shayne says, but he puts Spencer down anyway, taking him by the hand. Once they reach his bedroom door, however, Spencer releases his hand, turning to face him. Shayne raises an eyebrow but Spencer just grabs his other hand, backing up til Spencer's falling back on the bed, settling before he's pulling Shayne with him, on top of him, on his hands and knees with Spencer's thighs splayed around his hips. Shayne loses his shirt pretty quickly thereafter, thrown somewhere across the room in the mad scramble of kissing and touching and stripping off clothes to be as close as possible. They spend a silent second just looking at one another, taking in the sights. There are so many things he wants here, so many things he wants to give to Spencer and take from Spencer, and Shayne couldn't choose with a gun to his fucking head.

"Do you. How do you want to do this?" he asks, confidence waning now that they're actually here in his bedroom with Spencer's hands on his skin. Spencer's hands are heavy on his biceps, squeezing just a little bit like he's weighing them in his grip. He looks up at Shayne with this sweet kind of wildness, like a jar full of fireflies, light and alive and so incredibly precious. He can't help leaning down to kiss him. Spencer smiles against his mouth, biting down on Shayne's bottom lip.

"I want you in me, Shayne. I wanna feel you," he says, making Shayne's heart stutter in his chest. They've done it both ways, but he's always been somewhat under the impression that Spencer liked the other way around more. He was always quieter, his typical talkative-during-sex nature dulled by what Shayne had always assumed was a slight discomfort.

"Are you sure?" he asks, concern coloring his tone. Spencer closes his eyes, taking one of those long blinks that always means he's about to admit something he finds embarrassing. Fondness for him lights Shayne up from the inside out, so thick in his head that it feels like he should be seeing everything in washed out pink.

"I like it. Bottoming. I like it a lot," Spencer says, like admitting that he enjoys sex is something that he should be ashamed of. It's not about sex, though, is it? It's about the vulnerability of penetration, the construction of masculinity as a lack of vulnerability. Stepping back from the psychological lens, something that Shayne can only do so much to tune out, the words hit Shayne and his brow furrows, trying to figure it out in his head. Spencer sighs, opening his eyes. "Ask," he says, and Shayne nods.

"You're always quieter when I fuck you, though," he says, the question clear even if he doesn't exactly ask it. Spencer pulls him down to kiss him briefly, almost like he's gathering bravery in the press of their lips.

"I didn't want to make it a thing, but I get uh. I get overwhelmed. When you're in me. It always feels so good," Spencer answers, his face burning a brilliant red. Already hard, Shayne's cock twitches at that fucking word. Good. He wants to make Spencer feel good. He wants to be good.

"Can I eat you out?" he asks, kissing a trail down Spencer's neck. Spencer gasps, grip on Shayne going tight for a moment before he actively loosens it. He wants to make Spencer hold onto him like that all night, so lost in what Shayne does to him that he can't even keep up his usual color commentary. Even if he does want Spencer to talk during. Hard to admit the things he'd like him to say, though. Spencer's fingers slip into Shayne's hair and tug just a little, the pain of it so electrifying it hardly feels fair to just call it pain. Spencer uses that grip to guide him downwards, to hip level where Shayne hooks his fingers in the waistband of Spencer's underwear, raising an eyebrow in question. The pull he gets in return is communicative enough in that it pulls an embarrassing noise from Shayne's throat, flushing down to his chest as he pulls the garment down, tossing them off the bed to be found eventually. Sliding back between Spencer's knees, he gives Spencer one last look up, one last time to tell him no beforehand. Spencer's hand slips into his hair again, blunt nails digging in just a little. Shayne pushes into it, relishing the feeling.

"Yes, Shayne. I'm yours, do whatever you want," Spencer says, enough to make Shayne's head go a little fuzzy before he even starts. He holds Spencer's thighs open with a hand on the inside of each, lowering to his chest before he licks into Spencer's hole without preamble. The noise Spencer makes is high pitched and Shayne wants to make him make more like it, so he keeps up that energy, swirling his tongue and moving his hands to grip at Spencer's hips, sliding Spencer's thighs over his shoulders. "Fucking hell, so good, Shayne. So good," Spencer stutters, already overwhelmed from the tone of his voice. The words themselves have Shayne hips twitching, thrusting into the sheets and bringing more embarrassing noises out with it. Spencer laughs deep in his throat, pleasure mixed with pleasure. He sounds fucking incredible.

"You like that, huh, babe? You want me to tell you how good you are, how good you're making me feel?" Spencer asks, breathless. Breathless would be an accurate word to describe Shayne with as well, but that's mostly because eating someone out and being so fucking turned on you're groaning like you've been stabbed uses up the lung capacity a little. That laughter bounces off the walls again and Shayne feels drunk on it, drunk on being exactly where he wants to be. Making Spencer feel good. There's more he could be doing, though.

"Pass me the lube? Same place it always is," he asks shortly, not with any malice but just unable to string any more words together in a satisfactory manner. Everything feels that gentle kind of foggy and Spencer is pushing back his hair, stroking over his scalp. Spencer tries to hand him the lube, but Shayne is sinking his teeth into his thigh, sucking a mark into his skin. If Shayne weren't actively holding him down, the little rolls of Spencer's hips would likely be full on thrusts. He sinks his teeth in a little deeper before pulling off, just to be sure to leave a mark. Spencer's dropped the lube by now, so Shayne has to find it in the sheets, kissing Spencer's thighs while coating his fingers til they're dripping.

"Start with two. I want you," Spencer says, the command in his voice enough to send a shiver down Shayne's spine. Figuring that Spencer probably knows what he can and can't handle, Shayne follows that command, circling his fingers over Spencer's rim before pushing inside, steady and slow. Spencer's head falls back against the pillows, his groan loud and a bit higher pitched with Shayne's fingers pressing deeper and deeper. "Fuck, Shayne. I love your hands. God, fuck, right fucking there," he pants, pressing down onto Shayne's hand. Saliva pooling in his mouth at the sight of Spencer riding his fingers, Shayne meets him thrust for thrust, rubbing over his prostate with purpose. Spencer's hand clenches in his hair hard enough to pull him back a little. Shayne's vision gets a little fuzzier.

"Please," he says, nonsensical when he's the one who's theoretically in a dominant position here. The way Spencer looks down at him, soft eyed and smiling, warms Shayne down to his toes.

"Add another finger, Shayne. Fuck me open," Spencer says, halfway between teasing and soothing, even just the tone enough to send more shocks through his body. When he adds a third finger, Spencer cups Shayne's face in his hands, tracing his thumb over Shayne's bottom lip. Awash in the feeling of this, Shayne drops his mouth open, allowing Spencer's thumb to rest on his tongue. Spencer presses down on his tongue, so Shayne closes his lips around it, sucking gently. He follows it up with a purposeful brush of Spencer's prostate. "You're gonna fucking kill me," Spencer mutters, hand trailing from Shayne's face down to his shoulder, holding on tight as Shayne rubs at him. He's barely giving Spencer a break, sucking marks into his chest as he relishes in making Spencer's voice go up in octave.

"You're so pretty," he says, pressing it into Spencer's skin, taking Spencer's nipple between his teeth. Spencer's nails dig into his collarbone, sending a shiver down Shayne's spine.

"I'm ready, Shayne. Fuck, I'm ready. Come on," he says, pulling Shayne up with his grip on his shoulder. Shayne chuckles and pulls his fingers out, following the direction of Spencer's hands til they're face to face, close enough to kiss. So, Shayne does. Kiss him, that is, or rather, Spencer kisses him, licking into Shayne's mouth again, taking up that space inside of him that has felt so empty in Spencer's absence. He reaches to grab a condom, but Spencer grabs his wrist.

"Condom?" he says, reminding Spencer if nothing else. Spencer brings Shayne's hand to his face, pressing a kiss to his palm.

"Do we- uh. Do we have to?" Spencer asks, visibly cringing at the vulnerability. Shayne furrows his brow.

"Are you sure?"m

"I mean, yeah, if you're cool with it. I got tested before we started- anyway- and I haven't been with anyone but you since. You, um. Obviously I wouldn't be mad because I'm not an asshole but in the interest of the concept of sexual safety-"

Shayne can't help taking pity on him, briefly putting his hand over Spencer's mouth. "I haven't been with anybody else either." Spencer just stares at him for a second, eyes round, before he nods, continues nodding, nods for perhaps a bit too long. Shayne grins, huffing his amusement out through his nose. He trails his nose up Spencer's jaw. "You don't want a condom, then?" he asks, his voice gravelly with arousal. Spencer nods and then shakes his head, confusion furrowing his brow.

"I'm not sure how to answer a don't question, dude, just fuck me," he says, exasperated. Chuckling, Shayne lines himself up obediently, pressing in slowly. Spencer's nails dig into his shoulders and Shayne shudders beneath that attention, a grounding point to anchor himself in the rolling waves trying to crest over his head. He goes slow, because he's not an asshole, but he can admit to being relieved when Spencer tries to hurry him with eager hands. He bottoms out in a single, solid push, sinking into Spencer not just at the point they're connected but all over, tucking his face against his throat as he tries to calm himself down. Spencer's nails scratch gently at his scalp, soothing, and Shayne presses kisses against his collarbones, grateful if nothing else. Spencer's other hand on his lower back, steadying and gentle, sends Shayne chuckling, tucking his face against Spencer once more.

"We're about to have the sappiest missionary sex of all time for a while, aren't we?" he asks, as cognizant of his own desire as he is of the weight of Spencer's hands on his skin. Spencer pulls him up, meeting him in a kiss that is equal parts sweetness and languid desire, sure of itself. He pulls away smiling.

"Well, we've fucked nasty enough times, I figure we have some catching up to do in the sappy bullshit department," Spencer quips, giving him a shorter kiss before he's rocking his hips down, moving Shayne to move. "Doesn't mean we can't hurry things along, though." Shayne laughs but follows directions, pulling out about halfway before rocking his hips, a short thrust enough to brush against Spencer's prostate, based on the noise he makes alone, sweet and high and pretty. He rolls his hips, grinding against it as best he can and dragging a longer moan from Spencer's chest. He bites down on the pale skin beneath his mouth, marking Spencer's shoulder with the imprint of his teeth. Spencer pulls his hair but doesn't protest, instead encouraging him to stay exactly where he is. He fucks into Spencer faster, the tight heat of him too tempting to stay at that slow pace. Spencer digs his heels into Shayne's ass impatiently still, making Shayne pull back a little just to laugh at him, pressing kisses to Spencer's face and eventually his mouth.

"Tell me how you want this," he whispers against Spencer's cheek, the mingling of their breaths warm and so, so intimate. Spencer turns his head just a bit, catching Shayne's lips with his own. He licks into Shayne's mouth like he's got something to say and only this to communicate it, a claim to stake and only this to make it. Shayne, for his part, lets himself be claimed, lets Spencer do whatever the fuck he pleases and goes along with the ride. Spencer puts a hand on his chest.

"Make me feel it. Make me feel you. Wanna feel you for fucking days, dude," Spencer says; heat pools within Shayne, the snap of his hips less purposeful and more instinctual. Spencer's responding laugh turns quickly into a moan, continuing at a low level as Shayne loses himself to this, to obedience and feeling and the biting desire to make Spencer feel good. His thrusts are getting rougher, less controlled, but Spencer doesn't seem bothered by it, in fact still pulling at Shayne, overt in trying to move him to go faster, be rougher, fuck Spencer like he means it. And, well. Who is Shayne to tell him no? Spencer is so tight it feels like Shayne is being pulled in, like the piston of his hips still isn't enough to satisfy either of them. Pulling out makes Spencer whine, hands tight in Shayne's hair and on his shoulder, knees unforgiving around his hips. Shayne presses a chaste kiss to his mouth.

"Let me up," he says, his tone gentle enough to make it clear that nothing is actually wrong, just in want of change. Reluctantly, Spencer releases him, frown making his displeasure clear. Amused, Shayne rolls off the bed and onto his feet, grabbing Spencer by the hips and pulling him to the edge of the bed. Spencer always goes a little breathless when Shayne manhandles him, and this time is no different.

"Woah," he says, legs wrapping around Shayne's hips and dragging him closer. Shayne goes willingly, still standing but pressing into Spencer, now able to get enough force behind fucking into him to make Spencer keen. Both of Spencer's hands wrap around his forearms, grip probably hard enough to bruise, but Shayne is just far gone enough to hope it does.

"Spencer," he groans, wishing he had a better angle to hide his face against Spencer's skin. Spencer looks up at him with a wild grin, the expression quickly dissolving in the torrent of pleasure given by Shayne's relentless assault against his prostate. When Shayne leans down to kiss him, Spencer bites into his mouth, teeth and tongue aggressive in their pursuit of overwhelming Shayne even more than he already is. Shayne pours worship down Spencer's throat, his hips rough, almost mechanical, but his mouth open against Spencer's, recipient. There's always a sort of thought that comes with pleasure like this- if I could do nothing but this- but never before has it felt so potent beneath his skin, the electrifying desire to serve and the fulfillment of that desire in Spencer's moans and eager hands and sweet little whimpers when Shayne thrusts into his prostate just a little too hard.

It's one of those particularly hard thrusts, hard and fast, that has Spencer shooting across his own stomach untouched, bearing down on Shayne's cock. He looks so pretty when he feels so good he can't speak, with his lips pretty and parted and pink and his face flushed red, blush trailing almost down to his nipples. Remembering himself, Shayne starts to pull out, but Spencer's legs around his hips do not loosen, holding him in place.

"Want you to come in me," Spencer says, his voice shaky but sure. Shayne's hips rock, involuntary.

"You sure?" he asks, his hips still moving in micro fractions of inches at a time, unable to stop himself from seeking out that steady pleasure. Spencer squeezes his forearms, pulling at him until Shayne is brought up on the bed with him, kneeling between his knees.

"Please, Shayne, fuck," Spencer says, voice going high and reedy as Shayne brushes over his prostate. Something animalistic in Shayne goes crosseyed at that and he fucks into Spencer hard, holding his hips in hard hands. Spencer is laughing, but the breaths between are high pitched and overwhelmed, the laughter itself aroused and strained. Shayne loses himself again to the motion of it, to the sound and feel and taste of Spencer, eyes closed as he bends close to bite into Spencer's shoulder again, grounding himself. Spencer's hand is on the back of his head, encouraging, when Shayne cums, biting down hard enough that it likely wouldn't take much more for blood to flood his mouth. Spencer pulls his hair and digs his nails into his back and Shayne is afloat in this, lost in it.

It takes a few minutes for Spencer to pull him back down, stroking his fingers through Shayne's hair and holding him against his chest. He's still inside of Spencer, for fuck's sake. Shayne clears his throat, pressing kisses to Spencer's chest. Spencer gives him a pleased hum and tilts his head back, inviting Shayne to trail more kisses up his throat as well. Shayne follows as directed and kisses his way up to Spencer's mouth, kissing him slow and gentle before pulling back with a smile.

"I'm gonna pull out now," he says. Spencer rolls his eyes.

"If you must," he says, though he's smiling as well. Shayne kisses him again and pulls out slowly, not wanting to jolt Spencer too much. Spencer makes a high noise, which is very cute, and Shayne's outright grinning as he goes to his en-suite, grabbing a washcloth and wetting it before bringing it back to the bed. Spencer is amenable to having his own cum cleaned off his chest and stomach, the sweat as well, but protests when Shayne goes to clean between his legs.

"Babe, I've gotta clean you up. You'll be so pissed off if you wake up like this," Shayne says, raising his eyebrows at Spencer. Spencer sighs, likely knowing he's right but not wanting to admit such a thing.

"But I like it," he says, pink and looking blankly up at the ceiling. Shayne hums and bites his hip, not particularly hard, just for fun. Spencer hums back.

"We can do this whenever you want, you know," Shayne says, dropping kisses where he had just bitten.

"Oh, you do not want to tell me that," Spencer laughs, fingers curling in Shayne's hair. His knees fall open anyway, letting Shayne wipe at the mess of his cum spilling out of Spencer slowly, dripping onto the bed sheets.

"How much of a fucking horndog do you think you are?" he asks, half distracted by the sight of it but still amused. With a final swipe, he tosses the washcloth across the room and into his dirty clothes basket. He does so just in time for Spencer to drag him up to kiss him, gentle but forceful.

"Dude, you've only dealt with don't wanna look too eager Spencer. Now that you know that I'm stupid for you? Don't expect to get much done," he says, grinning and kissing Shayne again, again, again.

Check your front door. It's a text from Shayne, so honestly, it's not as weird as it could be. He's just standing in his kitchen and trying to make himself focus for long enough to make himself something actually good to eat and not just order takeout for the third time this week, so it's not like the front door checking is interrupting anything important. Still, he takes his time making it through the apartment, not rushing in the hopes of not aggravating his already irritated joints. This always happens when he doesn't sleep enough. He overdoes it and then his body tells him all about it like he wasn't there the whole time. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

It's never easy to remind himself that he's just an animal. That he's doing his best. He pulls open the door to something he does not expect for some reason, like Shayne's mother-henning ass hasn't always been like this. Virgo man motherfucker. Psychology degree asshole. Damien hates how warm and cared for the hovering always makes him feel, how it makes him feel so close to something that he still doesn't know how to ask Shayne for, even as long as they've been friends.

He leans against the door frame, tired but as happy to see Shayne as he always is. "What are you doing here, Shayne?" he asks, not really harsh but not as nice a tone he would typically take with Shayne either. Guilt immediately stirs in Damien's stomach, but Shayne just pushes past him, not lingering on it in the slightest. He has two grocery bags hanging off his arm like a middle aged mother of three, his hip cocked out when he turns around to look at Damien completing the image. There's a moment of silent communication, Shayne looking at him with that irritating (incredible, incandescent, inspiring) optimism and Damien looking back with fatigue dripping from every piece and part of him.

"Dude, I'm sorry, but if you say on fucking Twitter that you're so tired you're dizzy, me not coming over is not how this is going to go down," Shayne says, shrugging his shoulders. He claps his hands together once and moves through Damien's apartment like he owns the place, no regard for whether Damien actually intended for him to stay or not. Something warm sits in Damien's chest at his insistence, but really, he can handle himself. It's been a good little while since he and Shayne lived together, and he's been totally fine. Mostly fine. Adequately fine.

He's gotten medicated and he thinks that's a good start.

"Shayne, you know I'm a grown up, right?" he asks, raising an eyebrow as he follows his best friend into the kitchen, watching as he pulls groceries out of the two bags he brought in. This bastard. Shayne stacks comfort food after comfort food of Damien Haas onto the counter, almost exactly what Damien would have bought if he had energy to go to the store earlier. There are even some things he would have forgotten or just missed, little candies and a drink and a bag of chips that he loves but never would have occurred to him, but Shayne picked them out for him anyway. Embarrassingly enough, tears prick at the corners of Damien's eyes. Maybe he isn't as grown up as he thought; adults cry, adults cry, adults cry. When he sniffs, unable to help it, Shayne looks over from his bounty with concern.

"Hey, hey, bud, come here," he says gently, pulling Damien into his arms and rubbing his back soothingly. Damien can't fucking help it. He clings to Shayne and just starts sobbing, not really upset but just so fucking tired. He feels like a toddler, crying just because he's overwhelmed, but Shayne is just pulling him closer, making soothing sounds as he guides Damien over to his own couch. He's suddenly but viscerally glad that he has the apartment alone for the night. Shayne seeing him in this condition is bad enough, but anyone on this goddamn planet who isn't Shayne Robert Topp? So much fucking worse. Shayne has seen him through a twelve hour flight to Tokyo, through every bad phase he's had in his adult life, through struggle and thriving and everything between. Now, he cards his fingers through Damien's hair, sitting back against one of the arms of the couch with Damien so close he's almost in his lap.

"'m sorry," he says, muffled against Shayne's t-shirt. Shayne wraps his arms around him a little tighter, pulls him a little closer, and it's so fucking nice. Like how dogs with anxiety are given thunder vests. The thought startles a raspy giggle out of him, a sound like laughter went through the dishwasher.

"No need to be sorry," Shayne says, hands firm on Damien's back. "You should tell me what's funny, though. Letting me in on the joke always makes you feel a little better," he jokes, but honestly? It's true. A joke can be great, but it will always be better followed by Shayne's laughter. Even in public, he can't help the way he looks to make sure that Shayne laughs at things he says, can't help but tune his humor exactly to his best friend's tastes. They typically have a fairly similar sense of humor anyway, but there are some jokes he would never make without Shayne in the room, just because he knows that he could save it and make his best friend laugh so hard he cries. And that's awesome. Unlike the way that Damien is crying into his shoulder right now. Totally not awesome. He does this a lot, extracting himself from the situation mentally so that he can view it through a detached, analytical lens. His therapist says it's fairly typical for autistic adults. Still, Damien's body does not agree with the lack of attention that he'd like to give it. He makes himself fully tune back into Shayne.

"You're my thunder vest," he says nonsensically; it startles some giggles from Shayne anyway, a cute little snort too. Shayne is already being so nice to him, he shouldn't fuck it up by thinking of him like that. That's something that he's pushed down his entire adult life, he can push it down again now. Repress, reframe, repeat.

"Are you a Pomeranian having an anxiety attack?" Shayne asks, voice shot through with that tender humor, that tone he takes when he's trying to make Damien laugh for his own sake rather than for humor itself. He huffs a laugh against the side of Shayne's neck, hiding his face. He can feel himself returning to equilibrium, thankfully not lingering in that teary, fragile place that he can get stuck in sometimes. Mostly when he's overwhelmed. Shayne helps with that, though. Thunder vest.

"Nah, just a really tired dude. Pressure's still nice, though," Damien says, snuggling deeper against his best friend. Shayne rests a warm, steady hand on the back of his neck.

"You wanna get in bed with your weighted blanket and I'll come sit with you after I make you a little snack?" he suggests, making it abundantly clear that Damien's choice on the matter will be whatever they're doing tonight. They hadn't even planned to hang out tonight. Shayne is so ready to throw away his entire evening for this. For him. Damien makes a protesting noise.

"You're comfy," he says, his words so close to a whine that he's a little embarrassed. Shayne chuckles, the hand on the back of Damien's neck squeezing for just a second.

"What, you want me to come lay down with you?" Shayne asks, and it's obvious that he's joking, that this is a bit, but does Damien want that? Absolutely. He wants to be in bed with Shayne, he wants the comfort of Shayne holding him, he wants to fall asleep with Shayne's arms around him. He must tense, or flinch, or something, too tired to keep himself in check and masked, because Shayne pulls him up by the back of his neck, hauling him up just enough to look him in the eye. Still, Damien avoids eye contact. Shayne dips his head, just looking at Damien for a moment. "We can do that, you know. Nothing's stopping us," he says, still so fucking gentle, so quiet it's practically a whisper. Damien still can't make eye contact with him, gaze resting on the calming blue of Shayne's shirt. Everything about Shayne is calming to him. He just wishes he didn't need him so much.

"You don't have to," he says, fist balled in the bottom of Shayne's shirt. Shayne hums, smoothing a hand over his back.

"Well, I don't really have to do much of anything, but you've never been something I had to do, Damien," he says, brushing his lips over Damien's temple before he starts pushing him up, manipulating him physically to move if he can't do so verbally. A wet laugh cracks out of Damien as he gives into the direction, standing and offering a hand to Shayne to help him do the same. Shayne takes the help, keeping their hands linked as he leads Damien to his own bedroom, as if this isn't an apartment Damien could traverse with his fucking eyes closed. He follows anyway, because he would follow Shayne anywhere, and isn't that the truest thing about him, that dedication he's had to his best friend for his entire adult life. He and Shayne have been defined in relation to one another so many times over their years together, and while with most people, Damien minds, in this, he's settled. He's so fucking tired. He really does close his eyes for a long second before they reach his doorway.

"You don't have to," he repeats softly. Shayne turns to look at him, not releasing his hand but just looking at Damien, reading his face and his body language, reading all of these signs he knows better than anyone Damien's ever known. He lifts his free hand to Damien's face, palm warm against his cheek. Damien can't help leaning into it.

"I want to," Shayne says softly, sounding more like a reminder than anything, and really, it is. He knows that Shayne loves him. He knows that Shayne cares. He knows that Shayne wouldn't be here if Shayne didn't want to be, that it's always one hundred percent easier to do nothing than it is to do something, but still. Shayne's hand moves to the back of his neck. "How do you wanna do this, Dames? Your circus, your monkeys," he says; Damien snorts, unlacing their fingers to push at Shayne's chest. He stumbles back a little, the dramatic shithead, grinning at Damien as he sits on the edge of the bed. God, he cannot fucking look up at him like that. Sleepy eyed and ridiculously fond, Damien scratches his nails through the hair at the nape of Shayne's neck.

He clears his throat. It's never been easy to ask for what he wants. Shayne's hands are steady on his hips, too comforting for words. "Can I, um," he starts, stopping himself to clear his throat again. Shayne pulls on him a little, not enough to knock him at all, but enough to keep him in the moment. Damien's not sure he knows how to be anywhere else. "I wanna lay on your chest, dude. Is that, like. Is that cool?" he asks, his speech stunted and apparently his emotions too, fuck. Shayne's smile gets wider before it gets softer- he knows the look of Shayne Topp choosing kindness, and this is one of those times. Shayne lets go of him and lays back, kicking off his jeans before he's scooting up to the head of the bed and looking at Damien for his next cue. He looks pretty against Damien's pillows. Impatient with his hesitation, Shayne reaches for him.

"Come on, man, lay on me, let's do this," he says. Damien can't help laughing, tension breaking as he rids himself of his pants and kneels on the edge of the bed, lowering himself down over Shayne carefully. Shayne pulls at him, quick and confident where Damien's slow and hesitant, always compensating for one another whether they mean to or not. Damien curls his fingers in Shayne's shirt, the fabric soft between his fingers. Pulling Damien's weighted blanket over them, Shayne shuffles a bit til Damien is pulled close against his side, finally settling when their legs are slotted together, Damien's knee between his own. Between the warmth of Shayne beneath him and the weight of his blanket across his shoulders, Damien is probably the most comfortable he's been in weeks if not months if not years. He presses his face into Shayne's shoulder.

"Thank you," he says quietly, unable to make himself louder but needing to say it anyway. Shayne's arm tightens around his lower back briefly. Damien occupies himself drawing shapes on Shayne's chest, circles and patterns and just feeling the warmth there, feeling Shayne's heartbeat beneath his fingertips.

"Any time, Deem," Shayne whispers back, rubbing his hand across the small of Damien's back, rucking up his shirt a bit. Damien doesn't even mind the slight discomfort of the bunched fabric for the way Shayne's hand on his skin makes him feel. He doesn't know how to describe it, the absolute safety he feels with Shayne holding him like this and the undercurrent of electricity that flows through it, how the safety and the fog of attraction do not argue with one another in the slightest, but rather make Damien drowsy and comfortable, secure where he lay. He doesn't fall asleep immediately, rather floating in this comfortable place where the sound of Shayne's breathing is the only noise he needs. The fingers of his free hand have trailed just a bit under Shayne's shirt at the jut of his hip. His face hidden, his senses tuned almost completely out. He doesn't even recognize the comfortable arousal for what it is, pooling at the base of his spine.

He doesn't realize he's essentially dry humping his best friend until he's already doing it, and he couldn't say for sure how long he's been doing it, really. Fuck. Shayne catches him by the hip when Damien freezes, holding him in place. Damien's heart nearly stops in his chest. Leaning back a bit to face the music of this actually able to see one another's face, he starts to try to pull back even more, equal parts not wanting to make Shayne uncomfortable and sure he already has. He's held in place with a firmer grip.

"No, can I-" Shayne starts, big blue eyes looking up at Damien with so many emotions it's like a kaleidoscope of sky and sea. "I wanna take care of you," he murmurs, sliding his hand back up the back of Damien's shirt. It's only with the touch of skin on skin that Damien even understands what he's saying, blinking rapidly. Oh. Oh? Oh. Damien clears his throat, gaze locked somewhere to the left of Shayne's face.

"You really do not have to do that," Damien says, too afraid that this is just another thing that Shayne would be willing to do for him but not strong enough to tell him no outright. Shayne's hand is on his jaw again. Fuck.

"I really want to," he breathes, kissing Damien softly on the mouth. If they were younger, maybe this would have been a surprise. Maybe he would have freaked out and shot out of bed and not spoken to Shayne for a couple of days, maybe if they were younger, he would press Shayne into the mattress and take care of this himself, but. They're older now, and even if neither of them really feel fully grown, the growing they have done has been with each other in mind, and Damien relaxes into Shayne so reflexively, so naturally. There's something about your best friend that will always make you feel safe with your heart in their hands. Their kiss is gentle and slow, Shayne's hand holding him steady and Damien's eyes close, safe. It's so fucking safe. The hand on his back pulls Damien forward a bit, just enough to rock his pelvis against his best friend's hip and holy fuck.

"Shayne," he says raggedly, breaking the kiss to hide his face in Shayne's shoulder. Shayne guides him forward again, Damien going willingly this time. He can't help the soft whine that tears itself out of his throat at the new contact, desperate to rut against Shayne's hip til he cums, but too embarrassed to just... reach out and take what Shayne is offering. When Shayne next speaks, his mouth close to Damien's ear, the deep rumble of his voice makes him shudder.

"Go ahead, Dames. Come on," he urges him, pulling Damien to roll his hips forward again; Damien sinks his teeth into Shayne's shoulder through his shirt, not really a choice but an instinct, a desire he simply cannot push down. Shayne gives him a pleased little noise, not quite a moan and not a hum either, really. He encourages Damien forward again, pulling him in like getting Damien off is just as good for him as it is for Damien himself. Damien resettles the weight of his hips, making himself more able to grind his thigh against Shayne's crotch. The other man keens, high and clear, and there's no way Damien can keep going under these conditions.

"Dude, you're gonna make me cum both touching me and sounding like that," he teases, lazy grin pressed against Shayne's skin.

"Are you sure? I could finger you open, fuck you to sleep," Shayne offers, his surely lascivious smile painting the words even dirtier than they are. Damien groans, even his arousal tinted with laughter when it's with Shayne. Holy shit.

"Jesus fucking Christ, yeah, we're definitely doing that at some point in the future, but I don't know if-" he cuts himself off, not really sure why he doesn't want to, but just that he doesn't. He's looking up at him when Shayne's expression softens and he busses a kiss across Damien's temple, pulling him forward gently again. He kisses Damien's head again, hands so careful on his skin, like Damien is delicate, like Damien is precious. He rolls his hips slow, almost tentative, like Damien wasn't the one who started this. Damien's fingers curl in Shayne's shirt; Shayne pushes him up a bit for a second, whipping off his shirt before pulling Damien back down. Immediately overwhelmed by all of the freshly available skin, Damien does the first thing that comes to mind: again, he bites. The muscle of Shayne's peck is fucking satisfying between his teeth, the noise Shayne makes even more so. Even as tired as he is, desperation pulls at Damien, not just to feel good himself but to make Shayne feel good, to be the reason his boy makes those noises.

"Oh fuck, good. Good, Dames. Take what you need," Shayne coaxes him. Heat shoots through Damien at the praise, the encouragement, all of it. He wasn't even really aware that was something he liked partners to give him, really. Praise has never been high on the priority list. From Shayne, it makes pre-cum spill into his boxers. He ruts against Shayne til his breath comes short, Shayne's hand firm on the back of his neck. So turned on, and sleepy, and comfortable, and safe, Damien trails his fingers beneath the waistband of Shayne's, pausing for long enough to look him in the eye.

"Can I?" he asks. His voice breaks a little, lust shot through it. Shayne hums, pulling off his own boxers and then raising an eyebrow at Damien, fingers hooked in to take Damien's off as well. Damien nods, and Shayne follows through immediately, such is his nature. He guides Damien out of his shirt as well, quick and efficient. He's never known Shayne to disappoint him, to take any more time than was needed. With that said, he doesn't expect a calloused hand to wrap around his cock immediately, thumbing over the head with practiced ease.

"Jesus, baby boy," Damien says, halfway between a gasp and a whimper, embarrassing if Damien gave a single fuck right now at this moment with his cock leaking in Shayne's hand, feeling so good and calm and taken care of that there are tears pricking at his eyes again. Shayne cups the back of his head, fingernails scratching through Damien's hair a little harder than before, enough to make Damien press into it.

"You sound so pretty, Deem. Come on, baby. Take what you need. You're doing so good," Shayne praises, coaxing and encouraging and so, so sweet. Affection drips from him like making Damien cum is just another way to take care of him, and maybe it is. Maybe all they've been doing for years is taking care of one another, maybe Damien loves Shayne more than he's ever loved anybody in his life, maybe Shayne is so deeply beneath his skin that Damien doesn't know where he ends and Shayne begins. Damien drops his head to lean against Shayne's collarbone, hot breath fanning across Shayne's chest is as he thrusts into Shayne's hand, shivers rolling down his spine in droves.

"Shayne," he says brokenly, his voice coming more ragged by the second. Shayne lets go of his dick and Damien can't help the whine that follows, though it turns quickly into a moan as Shayne pulls at him, encouraging him to continue rubbing off against his best friend. The syrupy pleasure of it makes Damien's head feel more thick with sleep rather than lessening its hold on him. Still, he grinds down against Shayne as well, never a selfish lover, but Shayne redirects his motion.

"I'll take care of me later, okay? Let me take care of you right now," he whispers, fingers carding through Damien's hair. Damien blinks down at him, head tilted toward the side and motion stopping all together. "You're tired, Deem. You'll get a chance to touch me, but this is about you. Let me make this about you, okay?" he requests, and how can Damien deny him anything? He tucks his face against Shayne's throat and rolls his hips, obediently losing any and all focus to the sensation of thrusting against Shayne's skin. Shayne's nails dig into his scalp a little harder, reflexive, and Damien bites down on Shayne's shoulder, reactionary. A soft, pleased noise falls from Shayne's mouth and then there's a kiss pressed to Damien's hair, that one spot of innocent affection in the middle of all of this sex and friction sending Damien right off that deep end.

He knows that Shayne is praising him and rubbing his back, hands careful on his skin, but Damien feels a million miles away. Love, love, love beats a tattoo in his chest, overwhelming and cosmic, so overwhelming in fact that it rolls back around to feel like the most natural thing in the world. He pulls Shayne in for a desperate kiss, starting to get a little bit overstimulated but not enough to stop, not enough to know better. Even coming down from the high of cumming on his best friend, Damien knows that this was not the solution to making him more able to actually get to sleep. The need to touch Shayne is buzzing beneath his skin, thick and heavy, obvious and reckless, and Damien presses down onto Shayne with a gentle kiss to his mouth, enthusiastic but careful. Shayne sighs against his mouth, lacing his fingers in Damien's hair. Damien gives him another kiss, but ultimately pulls back to look at Shayne's face.

Shayne tries to push himself back to get up, but Damien grabs onto him, not entirely on purpose but not really an accident either. Shayne raises an eyebrow at him. "I want-" he stumbles over his words, unable to make himself just be honest, even when Shayne so obviously just wants to make him happy. He pushes his face into Shayne's shoulder, sure that the other man is getting impatient with him, but Shayne just cups his face, pulling him in to give him such a fucking gentle look.

"What do you want, Dames? Anything you want," Shayne promises softly, not breaking eye contact with Damien. He can feel his face going red, and he knows that he's flustered and embarrassed, but it's what he wants. He wants to be able to tell Shayne what he wants. He clears his throat.

"Can we, um. I've thought about something, like. A lot. Like at least once every time we've ever sat on a bed together maybe, a lot," he says, finally able to externalize some of it but still unable to look Shayne in the eye for more than a split second at a time. "I'm exhausted. But keyed up. So I'm probably not going to be able to sleep yet so," he pauses again, distracted as Shayne's fingers card through his hair. Though, that's probably just an excuse. "When you're sitting back against the headboard of a bed, reading or what the fuck ever it is that you do," he says as if he's not the most informed person on what the fuck Shayne does at all times, "I want to put my head in your lap. And. Your dick in my mouth. And. Suck your dick but like slow? I'm explaining this really badly, dude."

"Baby, that's called cockwarming, and we can definitely do that," Shayne says with a grin, his eyes practically sparkling as he looks up at Damien.

"Oh, he knows the word for it," Damien teases, happy to be back in the sphere where he and Shayne tease each other. He wants the sex, and he even wants the romance if Shayne wants it too, but he doesn't want either if their friendship would be the collateral. Shayne smiles back, kissing Damien's cheek as he pulls himself to sit back against the headboard as referenced. He leans over to grab the book he had left on Damien's bedside table last time he was in here. That probably should have been something of an indicator shouldn't it be? When was the last time a friend who isn't Shayne was in his room, let alone leaving their belongings in it? He knows that if he looked around, he'd only be able to find more of Shayne's belongings, certain things he owns that neither he nor Shayne are sure of the origin of anymore, and all of that is far too overwhelming to think too much about right at this moment, sleepy and finally getting something he's wanted a long, long time.

"Ian was into researching BDSM for a while, I got caught in the infodump," Shayne clarifies a few beats late, casual. Damien squints up at him.

"Never say Ian's name when I'm about to suck your dick ever again," he says, wrinkling his nose for dramatic effect. It doesn't occur to him that he's just assumed this is going to become part of their relationship, not a one time affair, until after it's already come out of his mouth. He doesn't even have time to start spilling apologies in a deluge, conscious of being presumptuous, because Shayne just raises an eyebrow at him, hands holding and stroking Damien's face between them. The affectionate attention makes it easier to relax, Damien's blinks coming slower, his somewhat elevated heartbeat coming back down from the high. Shayne gives a breathless little chuckle, adorable, and Damien can't help the open adoration he looks up at him with.

"You just said his name when you're about to suck my dick, so really, equal offense," he says, rubbing his thumb over Damien's bottom lip. It presses just a bit and Damien drops his mouth open, allowing the digit to rest on his tongue. It's not what Damien wants, but it still feels far too soon when Shayne pulls it out.

"Shayne." It comes out as a whine, Damien's patience running thin when all he wants it right in front of him and he just... needs Shayne to tell him to actually do it. For some reason. Consent maybe? He's already expressed being okay with this, but it still feels like Damien should wait. Shayne smiles down at him, his expression soft as he runs his fingers through Damien's hair. He guides Damien forward and down, gentle as he controls the pace at which Damien takes him down his throat. That is what he wanted. Everything's already gaining a fuzzy softness, all of his senses tuning down to this one sensation, this one thing. One of Shayne's hands stays resting heavy at the nape of his neck, the other moved to genuinely read his fucking book. He doesn't think this is weird. He doesn't think Damien is weird for wanting this. He's just reading his book. He lets go of a tension he didn't realize he was keeping, his shoulders dropping and a slow breath blown out through his nose. Shayne's nails are dull scratching through the hair beneath them.

"Good, Dames. You're so pretty like this. All sweet and relaxed. So good for me," Shayne murmurs. Damien closes his eyes, swallowing around Shayne's cock reflexively. Shayne's fingers flex in his hair. There's a sweet little gray space that Damien wasn't aware existed in his mind; it envelopes him now, warm and calm, the world only lit by the lamp at his bedside and the world itself small, centered in his best friend's lap. Everything is smaller like this. Calmer. His eyes slide shut. Damien couldn't even hazard a guess as to how long they stay like that, how long he lays between Shayne's knees rapturous, at peace. Shayne's always been his safe place to land. This feels so much like an extension of that idea that he isn't sure what they had been doing in the first place.

Shayne starts reading to him somewhere in the middle of the book, at no specific marker in the story or in the passage of time that Damien can puzzle out. He doesn't want to attribute it to the fact that Damien had been getting somewhat restless, hands bracing Shayne's lower back and nails digging into his skin every once in a while. The sounds of his voice is soothing; it's some old Russian classic, maybe, Tolstoy or Dostoevsky or maybe Chekhov. He's seen the book probably a hundred times, but past registering that it was Shayne's, he hasn't really looked at it much. For this, he's glad that he never picked the book up. The characters' stories mean absolutely nothing to him because he doesn't know who Kostya and Kitty even are, let alone what they're doing, so his thoughts aren't getting snagged on trying to follow the story.

It's just Shayne. He's getting sleepy again, but he doesn't want to go to sleep without making Shayne cum. It's not even the theoretical idea of reciprocation. He knows without discussion that Shayne wouldn't hold it against Damien if he wanted to go to sleep right now. He just wants Shayne's cum in his mouth, really. He swallows around the cock in his mouth, bobbing his head just once before waiting for Shayne's response. Shayne hums, fingers flexing in his hair again before he removes his hand entirely. When Damien opens his eyes to look up at him, Shayne is putting a bookmark in his book, setting it back on the bedside table before returning his gaze to Damien, his hand following quickly to cup Damien's jaw. Damien leans into it but doesn't pull off. Shayne hums again.

"Getting sleepy again?" he asks softly, thumb stroking over Damien's cheekbone. It's barely even a question, really, so Damien just swallows around his dick as a response, figuring it will communicate enough of a message to get his point across. To Shayne, at least. Anybody else and Damien would never have gotten here in the first place, but especially he wouldn't have gotten here in so few words. "You wanna get me off before going to sleep, huh?" his companion asks, this one even less of a question than the one before, but Damien hums in agreement anyway. Shayne chuckles, not something that Damien can actually physically feel, but still enough to make his heart flutter in his chest. The weight of approval is heavy on his shoulders, comforting. Weighted blanket. Shayne strokes his fingers through Damien's hair. "Go ahead, baby."

It's the third time that Shayne has called him that. He's surprised by how much he likes it.

He clears his mind by coming most of the way off of Shayne's dick, playing with the head with his tongue in slow, broad strokes. Shayne groans, his head listing back against the wall above the headboard. Damien digs his tongue into his slit and drops down, taking Shayne all the way down to the root in one fluid movement. Shayne's fingers are laced in his hair again, loose fist just barely pulling. Damien hums, reaching a hand up to press on the one on his head. Shayne grips his hair tighter, pulling tentatively and then much more confidently as it brings embarrassing noises from Damien's throat. The weight of Shayne in his mouth is only made better when Shayne's hips twitch up, just a little bit of pressure on Damien's head keeping him in place as Shayne hits the back of his throat. The sensation makes him choke a little, but it's fucking hot too, Shayne losing that little bit of control to the heat of Damien's mouth enough to have him whining and moaning, desperate to please. Fuck.

"You're so fucking good for me. Gonna make me cum, Dames," Shayne breathes out, a warning that only makes Damien redouble his efforts. Shayne grabs the back of his head, holding Damien in place as he thrusts up into Damien's mouth once, twice, three times before he's shooting hot down Damien's throat. Damien groans and holds Shayne and his cum in his mouth for a second, not wanting to give up the feeling yet. Shayne's fingers stroke through his hair, gentle again, and he did not need to know that this is a way Shayne can be in bed. Certainly not on their first time. This hot and cold of gentle and rough is making him actually dizzy now, not even hyperbolically dizzy but dizzy, in the best way possible.  Once he's sufficiently calmed, he swallows down the cum, pulling off of Shayne's dick. Shayne pulls him up and kisses him on the mouth before the taste is off Damien's tongue, pulling him in to taste it for himself.

"Thank you," Damien says as he pulls away from the kiss, not exactly sure what he's thanking him for but grateful all the same. His nose is pressed against Shayne's collarbone, knees on either side of the other man's hips. Shayne pulls him even closer, dropping kisses across Damien's shoulder chastely.

"You did so good, Dames. Love you. Love you so much," Shayne repeats before gentle kisses, his words so comfortable that it doesn't even reek of confidence, but rather a sense of being at ease. He wouldn't be able to count how many times he's heard those words come out of Shayne's mouth, and this time is no different than all the rest, really. Maybe they're doing different things now, loving each other another way, but the love he feels for Shayne? That's been star bright and distracting in the corner of his version for nearly his entire adult life. That's his best friend. Everything else is window dressing.

"Love you," he whispers, lips brushing against the skin of Shayne's throat. Shayne presses another kiss to his skin before leaning over to grab a wet wipe from Damien's bedside table; of course he knows where Damien keeps his fucking wet wipes. Have a chronic nosebleed thing and suddenly a guy knows where you keep the stuff you use to clean up blood. Now, there's an air of reverence to Shayne as he wipes away the cum on Damien's stomach, on his own hip, and when he catches Damien looking at him during his perfunctory sweep over Damien's cock, he grins, closing his hand around Damien loosely. He chuckles when Damien lists against his collarbone, a whimper small but detectable coming from the back of his throat. He finishes wiping both of them off and throws the wet wipe into the trash. Damien catches his mouth in a quick kiss. Well, it was intended to be quick, but Shayne is as thorough in this as he is in everything else. Damien can't help grinning as he peppers kissing on Shayne's face, giggles pouring out of both of them. Shayne slips a hand in his hair and holds Damien still, just looking at him.

"I love you," he says again, kissing Damien just once before pulling back again. "Food or sleep, baby? If you just wanna take a nap, I can set an alarm," Shayne offers, shrugging his shoulders. Damien hums, leaning forward to kiss him, kiss him, kiss him again and again. The taste of Shayne's smile beneath his tongue is the sweetest thing to ever cross Damien's lips. Besotted doesn't even begin to cover it. He feels like he's floating. He feels the most settled he's ever been.

"Snacks and blankets in the living room? A movie, maybe?" Damien suggests, resting his temple against Shayne's as they breathe one another's air. Shayne hums in the affirmative, another kiss gentle on Damien's mouth.

Augustus apologizes every time he touches the Chosen. Every. Single. Time. If their shoulders brush, if they grab for snacks at the same time, if Chosen is leaning over him to retrieve something and their bodies happen to touch one another. At first, it struck Chosen as courteous- Augustus respected his space, and, as such, Chosen respected his in return. However, they've been spending more time together as of late, and if not for the constant apologies, Chosen would be sure that this was leading somewhere. He's incredibly out of his depth. Give him an apocalypse to stop any day, boys are fucking scary.

Not that Augustus even scares him. That's kind of part of the problem. With most people, Chosen flinches back from exposure; he's so attuned to the space around him that sudden physical touch can overwhelm his acute senses. He does not feel this same instinct with Augustus St. Cloud. When Augustus enters his space, it feels as if he belongs there, so much so that Chosen is sure that Augustus can feel it as well. He doesn't know why Augustus returns again and again to apologizing to Chosen. To thinking that Chosen doesn't want him.

He knows he isn't the most affectionate person, but Augustus is one of the most important people in his life. He should be able to assure him, at least, that he is safe from suffering the same poor treatment and neglect by Chosen's hand that he has suffered from his fathers. Augustus will not go without care in his presence. Chosen's door is always open. Chosen's arms... well, they would be too. If Augustus was even remotely comfortable with him. He'll never say aloud the real rub of it: it's hurting his fucking feelings. Embarrassing. It's not even that he's really under the impression that Augustus is actually sorry for touching him either- sometimes, these apologies are accompanied by teasing little grins, expressions that make Chosen want to kiss the smile right off him.

He doesn't know if his reason for not doing so should be called chivalry or cowardice.

He is enough of an adult to admit that he has been avoiding Augustus for the past several days, trying to convince himself to confront this head on. He had extraordinarily subtly manipulated their manager into giving them opposing shifts, truly one of his best works of human machination. He did this by vaguely implying that his and Augustus's relationship is slightly different than it currently is to their ever so slightly homophobic manager, but he knows Steven isn't the dangerous sort. He's just an idiot. Some men still think in their father's voices, after all. He's the sort of homophobe that flushes pink when the idea of two men being together is mentioned, too afraid of his own desire to confront the desire of another. If Chosen were a more empathetic person, that might make him sad. Luckily, he isn't.

The topic at hand. It might be that he has not sufficiently communicated to Augustus the change he has observed in their relationship. This isn't least of all because Chosen has the tiniest, smallest insecure little fear that he is allowing to overtake his desires, which is completely and totally lame. It's just like. Augustus is the only person besides his mom and Brianna that he's ever been able to read with any degree of accuracy. But. Well. What if he isn't reading Augustus with accuracy? What if he's building a narrative in his head again, telling himself a story just to make things quieter in his head? What if Augustus apologizes because he's uncomfortable, and he assumes Chosen is too? What if Augustus just doesn't like him as much as it seems? What if Augustus is just as tired of him as anyone one else has been after spending enough time with him?

It takes quite a bit of energy to keep up with his sheer power.

He's organizing the chaos that is his bedroom, going back and forth between there and the living room, organizing that as well, all in the interest of Augustus coming over to hang out. They haven't discussed it yet, but Chosen is going to call him. He's going to be normal about it too, casual and put together. He is not going to embarrass himself. These self affirmations do not end when he picks up the phone to contact Augustus, but he does chicken out of part of it. He's doing most of the action. He's just texting Augustus rather than calling him. Shoring up his energy for the actual event, of course. A warrior knows his own limits.

It takes ten agonizing minutes for Augustus to answer him. It's a yes, of course, because Augustus loves hanging out with him and the Chosen is experiencing insecurity for no discernible reason. It certainly has nothing to do with silky dark hair and pink lips, wide hands and the most interesting opinions he's ever heard. That's probably the biggest thing. It never feels like he'll run out of things to talk about with Augustus. God, this is pathetic. Staring at his bedroom wall with his head in the clouds, thinking about some boy. He sounds so fucking weak. His living room and bedroom as clean as they're going to get, Chosen lays down flat on his back in his bed, trying to calm his heart rate. He doesn't have to inform his mother that Augustus is coming over; she's at work, and she assumes Augustus and/or Brianna are there most of the time, anyway. That's not to say that she's wrong. They usually are around. It's been really nice.

It had just been him and Brianna since elementary school. Well, on his side, that is. As a teenager, it felt like Brianna had hundreds of friends, dozens of parties a week that she was invited to that she skipped out on half of to watch cartoons in bed with Spencer, stubbornly pushing him into socializing, even if it was just with her. Sometimes, she was still the little kid in his mind's eye pulling him across a playground by the hand, introducing him to her popular-girl friends and climbing a tree with him when they openly didn't like him. She said they were stupid for that, that he was the most interesting person here. It seems that opinion of him hasn't waned within her even in all these years.

Then, they met Augustus. This, strangely enough, they did apart, unlike most everything else. Chosen met Augustus at work, started an argument with him that lasted their entire six hour shift, exchanged numbers to keep the debate going. Augustus's taste is truly fucking abysmal. Brianna met him in a local group of some sort, mostly online from what Chosen can understand of it, but he doesn't really do the social media thing. From what he understands, Bri's followers are very interested in him as a person. It is very disconcerting.

Mom is at work, which means that the Chosen will have to answer the door. Considering this, he rolls out of bed, hitting the floor in a crouch. He grabs his katana, the smooth leather of the saya cold and soothing in his hand as he adjusts the strap compulsively. He pulls it over his head, conscious of the idea of forgetting it in his bedroom. He isn't scared of not carrying a weapon. He's a highly trained combatant professional. It is simply that any warrior is attached to their weapon, more comfortable with it within their grasp. He divests himself of the katana once he reaches the living room, setting it down on the side table. Then, he sits cross legged on his couch and waits. He contemplates setting up some video game or another, but in the privacy of his own mind at least, he can admit that he would like Augustus to weigh in on that decision. That he cares about Augustus's opinion. That he cares about Augustus.

In an amount of time so short that the other boy should be embarrassed for how quickly he comes to Chosen's beck and call (and doesn't something pleased and prideful puff up in his chest with that thought) when he might have at least pretended to be busy with something else, Augustus arrives, knocking in the same manner he has knocked since he and Chosen had began associating. Chosen waits several seconds before walking over to the door; there's no way he can look more eager than this idiot, but he should at least preserve some of his cool. He opens the door slowly, like his heart isn't beating a bit faster just for knowing who is on the other side of the door. God, they're embarrassing. If they had better dialogue options, they would totally be able to do this like adults. Unfortunately, it seems like neither of them has been able to find the words for it.

"Greetings, Chosen. In what game do I need to prove your inferiority today?" Augustus asks as he sweeps in dramatically, annoyingly, adorably. Chosen is glad of his sunglasses in this moment, sure that his infatuation with the other boy shows clearly in his eyes. He presses his lips together to keep the smile off his face. He will not be the one of the two of them to break, to admit to wanting more than they are. He will just have to make Augustus do so. Not that he has any idea how to do that.

"You can't prove something that isn't true, idiot," he says. He has no idea how to introduce asking Augustus what he wants to play into a conversation. Is that just a question? Is that something he should playact having a convicted opinion about and engage Augustus in debate about the topic? He has never wanted so badly to know the correct answer in a social situation. He has never cared this much about what another person thought. He clears his throat. "Racing?" he proposes, offering an entire category of gameplay to make it less obvious that he's trying to accommodate Augustus's wants. Caring this much is fucking embarrassing.

"I will choose from your selection of Mario games. Do we have any snacks?" Augustus asks, and Chosen doesn't know if he does that round eyed sweet look on purpose but either way it is not a fair tactic. Fully aware that he is absolutely simping for the most embarrassing man of all time, Chosen pads his way into the kitchen and grabs the Doritos and french onion dip he had picked up from the store for this exact occasion. He's simping over a freak. He's so fucking cute.

"Water?" he calls in question to the other room, not waiting for an answer as he grabs one for himself and one for Augustus anyway. Hydration is an important element of health. He's pleased still when Augustus calls back in the affirmative, being as bringing it when he hadn't expressed want for it might be read as motherhenning, which the Chosen does not do. Just because he would prefer that Augustus hydrates and purchases snacks specifically in his interest does not mean that the Chosen is motherhenning. He doesn't know who the fuck he's kidding either.

He gets back into the living room and immediately tosses a water bottle at Augustus, which the other boy actually catches, surprisingly. The way he blinks several times in a row, surprised as well, is fucking adorable. Chosen can't help the smile that spreads across his face then, instead choosing to mask it with an amused huff of air. Augustus cuts a quick glance at him (which Chosen only knows because he's already looking at him, but that is neither here nor there) before selecting a game on screen. Chosen sits down on the couch and loses himself to his back and forth with Augustus, the squeak of Augustus's laughter, the way being with Augustus feels. As they play, both of them are migrating closer to the center of the couch, not that either notices; they stop moving closer less than a foot away from one another, and keep their distance measured with that. It's not even that awkward this time.

They're doing well. Several rounds of racing have gone by, Chosen taking victory in all of them save one, during which Augustus cheated anyway, so it should not be counted. Augustus doesn't know he cheated, per se, because it's not like he did it on purpose. Chosen took his eyes off the screen for a moment and couldn't pull his gaze back to it. Embarrassing. Besides Chosen's occasional staring problem, they're doing well. And then Augustus bumps his elbow against Chosen's on accident.

"Sorry, Chosen," he says absently, maneuvering around the track. Chosen, fed up, pauses the game entirely. Augustus looks at him finally, brows furrowed in question. Irritation builds in Chosen's throat. Turns out, that kind of thing comes out a bit vitriolic when you cough it up.

“Stop saying sorry! It’s always ‘I’m sorry,’ When you really aren’t. And I don't want you to be. I don't want you to be,” Chosen repeats, his face immediately flushing dark as he loses steam. Augustus, asshole that he is, raises an eyebrow at him, that smarmy little smile stretching across his face. God, he's the worst. He's too pretty for his own good. Chosen puts his controller down on the coffee table, taking the other controller from Augustus as well. Taking it from the other boy isn't difficult at all, being as Augustus is too busy staring at him to stay his hand. No longer given the distraction of their game, they sit now facing each other on the couch, cross legged with their knees within inches of one another. Augustus recovers admirably, soon reaching up to rest his hand against the Chosen's face for a brief second, warm palm immediately gone as fingers close around one of the arms of his sunglasses. He looks at Chosen for a long second just holding the edge there, only taking them off when he dips his chin to nod, putting them down on the coffee table with the controllers.

"Chosen..." Augustus breathes, leaning back into Chosen's orbit tantalizingly. Chosen tilts his head. He doesn't want to push Augustus into anything he doesn't want to do. "You have really pretty eyes." Of all of the things he could have said, that sentiment would never have occurred to Chosen. He's always hated his eyes, the way they were still sharp like his father's, just another way he takes after him. Nothing like his mother's dark brown eyes. His hands itch to reach across the space between them, to lay his hands on Augustus's skin. He keeps that behind his teeth.

"Touch me," he says instead, which is no less embarrassing once it has already come out of his mouth. Augustus stares at him blankly for a moment, blinking in confusion. Patience wearing thin, Chosen reaches out and takes one of the other boy's hands in his own, pulling it back up to his face. He leans into Augustus's warm palm, closing his eyes for a moment. His skin feels like it's buzzing beneath the touch. He wonders if touching him makes Augustus feel the same way. Based off of the open marvel on his face, it's not half bad for him either. Chosen's face warms again. To inspire such a feeling in another person. In Augustus. There's a heady sort of power to it, to the idea that Chosen is making Augustus want in the same way he wants right now. This is happening. This is reciprocal. He hadn't mislead himself terribly. "Touch me," he repeats, low as a whisper.

Augustus moves his hand from Chosen's face to run his fingers through the back of the other boy's hair. When he scratches at his scalp, Chosen has to quiet a noise that wants to rip itself out of his throat. His other hand began on Chosen's knee but moved quickly to his thigh, rubbing up and down the outside seam of Chosen's shorts. He gets up on his knees to get better access to touch more of Chosen, to run his hand down Chosen's neck and down to his collarbone, palm rough as it slides over the fabric of Chosen's wolf shirt. He wants, suddenly and powerfully, to feel that touch without fabric between. He does not know how to ask for that. He doesn't know if he's allowed to touch back, and neither does he know how to ask that. He feels inexperienced and overwhelmed. He never thought either of those feelings could feel quite this nice. Quite this safe. There's no fear here. Augustus traces his collarbone over to his shoulder, down his bicep to his wrist to grab Chosen's hand, leading him to place it on Augustus's oblique, soft but firm beneath his hand. Immediately, Chosen's fingers curl into a fist in the fabric of Augustus's shirt, pulling at Augustus to bring the other boy closer to him, pull him into his lap. He wants Augustus as close as possible. He wants Augustus beneath his skin.

"Woah," Augustus says, settled with his knees spread across Chosen's lap, looking down at Chosen with something like awe on his face. Chosen has no idea what sort of emotion he's currently expressing himself, given that his mind is currently choosing to experience every positive emotion at once. He feels so fond that it burns in his chest. He feels like he could laugh, keep laughing, laugh for the rest of his life. He feels like running a lap or five around the house. Just having Augustus here, touching him, simple and sweet and gentle a touch as he had given him so far, is overloading his fucking brain. He has no idea where to go from here. He never expected to get this far, he does not have a plan of action developed for this scenario. He doesn't know how long he's just been looking at Augustus, wide eyed and rapturous, but it's most definitely longer than socially acceptable. Augustus is holding Chosen's face in his hands, thumbs stroking over Chosen's cheekbones every once in a while, just looking back. He hadn't even realized that this sort of appetite for just looking at Augustus was something he had; he had been deeply aware of the skinhunger, the yearnings of that nature, but he's never let himself stare at Augustus long enough to make it weird.

It does not feel like they are making it weird. This is perhaps the least weird their relationship has ever felt.

"We're gonna be so weird about this, aren't we?" he groans, leaning his forehead down against Augustus's collarbone. He can feel the little giggle he gets for that. Augustus's hands have migrated from Chosen's face to the back of his head, fingers tangled in the short hair there. It is quite overwhelming. He shudders beneath the attention.

"Oh yeah," Augustus replies, scratching his nails along Chosen's scalp. Chosen, embarrassingly enough, leans up into the sensation. With him already moving, Augustus guides his head back to look at him. "You like me so much, dude," he says, giving Chosen a shithead grin that for once, Chosen does not resist the urge to kiss that fucking look off his face. He pulls Augustus down to kiss him a little slower, maybe, than a particularly confident person might have done it, giving Augustus time and opportunity to eject himself from this situation. Augustus emphatically does not take this opportunity, using the time to lean down to meet Chosen a little too enthusiastically. It hurts a little when they collide, but the way it hurts is, well, it's certainly not bad. This feels like a very intense first kiss. He can't imagine one more fitting of their relationship.

"You like me too," Chosen says, pulling back from the kiss only to pull Augustus back in again, again, again. The weight of Augustus on top of him, the warmth of his skin, the reassuring nature of the constant physical reminder that Augustus is there with him. How is he ever going to be in Augustus's presence without touching him again? Just the taste of it and Chosen knows how deeply he'll soon be addicted to it, in need of Augustus's hands on his skin in the same way he became in need of Augustus's presence in his home. Augustus pulls his shirt out from where it had been tucked into his shorts, sliding his hand up Chosen's lower back beneath the fabric. A shiver runs down the Chosen's spine, his back arching off the arm of the couch to give Augustus better access to his skin. Augustus pauses in kissing him, pulling back to look at Chosen with the barest hint of nerves on his face. Chosen's brows furrow.

"Do you think we could-" Augustus begins, cutting himself off as his face flushes dark. When Chosen tilts his head, encouraging him to continue, Augustus tilts his head pointedly in the direction of the Chosen's bedroom. Oh. He nods with a quickness that would likely be embarrassing if Chosen gave a fuck about anything right now. Augustus likes him. He wants him. He didn't make it up. Augustus climbs out of his lap and holds a hand out for Chosen, pulling him off the couch with a surprising strength. Augustus is a lot taller than him, but Chosen outweighs him by a large margin completely filled out by his muscle mass, so he just doesn't expect Augustus to throw him. Not, like, fully throw him throw him, but the other boy pulls him up with a velocity that sends Chosen rocking onto his feet, not entirely steady. Augustus grabs his waist to stable him, big hand covering down to Chosen's hip. He feels short of breath. He's never known himself to be particularly attracted to the idea of a partner matching him for strength. He swallows, looking at the floor before grabbing Augustus's hand.

"Come on," he says, leading Augustus down the hall with a dusting of pink on his face. Augustus squeezes his hand, quick and firm, and Chosen squeezes back. He pulls Augustus into his bedroom and closes the door behind them, boxing Augustus back against it. The other boy doesn't look displeased to be there, looking down at Chosen with a lasciviousness bordering on lechery that makes Chosen feel more wanted than he's ever known how to feel. Blushing, Chosen finds himself unable to maintain eye contact. Augustus dips his head a bit to get Chosen to look at him. When Chosen does meet his eyes, he gives him a soft smile.

"We don't have to do anything you don't wanna do, Spencer. If you wanna go back into the living room and play games, we can do that. If you wanna lay down and talk, or whatever, we can do that too. I- you-" Augustus pauses, kissing Chosen briefly on the lips like he can't help himself. "I'm cool with whatever." And Chosen knows why Augustus is putting this decision in his hands, and it's very sweet, but what he wants... he wants whatever Augustus wants. He wants to be what Augustus needs, wants to be essential to Augustus's day, wants to be the first thought on his mind when he wakes in the morning and the last when he goes to sleep at night. It's such a big feeling. Perhaps it's just because this is the first time that Chosen has felt this way about another person. Maybe it's because Augustus is the only person he's ever wanted to be in this situation with, the only real person he's ever even imagined kissing. He knows why Augustus is hesitant to push him, though.

It's not really something they've ever talked about, but it's never been a secret either. If the alarm for Chosen's T-shot goes off while Augustus is over, he just goes and does his T-shot. Once, both Augustus and Brianna had been over when the alarm went off, and when Chosen had gone to leave the room like he typically would with Augustus, Brianna questioned the process. He's always done his shots in front of her, not least of all because she's been there for everything, and it felt weird not to have her for this. She even did his shots for him a couple of times, back when he broke his arm in the 11th grade. He still hasn't done his shot with just Augustus in the room. Still, he knows. And he's never, not once, been weird about it. And maybe Chosen wants to live in the world where that's always true, doesn't want to enter this space where Augustus might let him down. It's the trusting him not to let him down that's the hardest part for Chosen, maybe.

"I want you to touch me," he says, because that's still true and it's the most uncomplicated version of the maelstrom of thoughts competing with one another in his head. He backs off of Augustus a little and takes his hand, leading the other boy to sit down on the edge of his bed. He's glad he cleaned up in here earlier. He had no idea this was an option, let alone known enough to prepare for it, but it's the nice kind of surprise. He sits down on the edge of his bed as well, closer to the pillows while Augustus is next to him, closer to the end of the bed. They're still holding hands. Chosen leans his face into Augustus's shoulder. He allows himself to be moved and manipulated by Augustus's hands as soon as the other boy begins gently pushing him to relax at the center of the bed, propped up on the pillows. Augustus comes closer but hesitates beside him.

"Touch you like hold you or touch you like we're taking clothes off?" he asks bluntly, which is such a goddamn relief. Any time Chosen had engaged with media containing sexual encounters, all of the language seemed so flowery, obstructed by the human inability to confront vulnerability directly. He takes Augustus by the hand and pulls him closer, leading him til he's on his knees between Chosen's legs. Immediately, he's tracing his hands up under Chosen's shirt, fingers catching on the patches of thicker hair from the injection sites on his stomach. His nails scratch through them gently, sending shivers down the Chosen's spine. He looks Chosen in the eye, pulling up the edge of his shirt with a raised eyebrow.

"Yours too," Chosen says simply, batting Augustus's hands away to handle his shirt while Chosen handles his own. The top surgery scars rarely get achy anymore at this point, and Chosen is used to other people seeing them anyway. He does half of his training with his shirt off, and Brianna is a big beach goer besides. He whips off his shirt and tosses it onto the floor with little regard to where it ends up. Augustus pulls up his shirt a bit slower, picking at his fingers in a way that Chosen knows means he's anxious about something. He's not always good at this part, but he's going to try. Augustus deserves someone who tries. "I want to see you," he says, voice low and level as he smooths his palm beneath both of the layers of Augustus's shirts. Purple is such a good color on him. Embarrassing to notice. Definitely pretty fucking gay. Chosen uses his free hand to pull Augustus down for a brief kiss.

"You like me," Augustus says, seemingly mostly to himself. Chosen nods anyway. Now that he doesn't have to hide that from Augustus, he wants to shout it from the fucking rooftops. He wants to tell Brianna (who likely already knows). He wants to tell his mom (who most definitely already knows). He never wants Augustus to move from on top of him, from between his legs, from right in Chosen's face. Augustus nods in return, pulling off his flannel and quickly following it with the shirt beneath. Chosen is immediately overwhelmed by how much available real estate there is to look at, to touch. Soft stomach, pink nipples, lightly toned arms. Augustus has a hairy chest. Not at all something Chosen ever thought of himself as being into, and yet. He swallows and looks up at Augustus's face after a long second of staring at his chest, thinking deeply about putting his mouth to the skin there. Chosen blushes, but he doesn't let the embarrassment take over the desire.

"Can I-" he starts, but Augustus is already nodding vigorously, apparently not needing clarification on what the Chosen might be wanting to do. He leans forward and pulls one of Augustus's nipples into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth. Augustus makes a high noise, squeaking ever so slightly. God, he's fucking cute. Chosen sucks briefly before moving upward, carving a path up Augustus's chest with biting kisses. By the time he makes it to Augustus's throat, the other boy has apparently grown impatient, grabbing at Chosen's hair and pulling him back up and into a rough kiss. Chosen gives back as good as he gets, letting his teeth skate over lips and soothing the sting with his tongue. Augustus presses down against him and Chosen can feel the thick outline there, the fantastic sensation of Augustus thrusting down against him overrunning Chosen's senses for a moment.

He could not tell you how long they spend right there on Chosen's bed, making out against the pillows and holding onto one another. He knows that things slow down for a little while, gentle kisses exchanged more to maintain the contact than to lead anywhere. Augustus remains hard against him, unhurried and steady, and it's Chosen that ends up putting out the desire to do more. To touch more. He hooks his fingers in the belt loops of Augustus's jeans, pulling him down to thrust against Chosen again and dragging a moan out of Augustus. The other boy breaks the kiss, looking down at Chosen in question. He looks so fucking pretty, lips kiss bruised and pink, hair more of a mess than usual, shirtless and on top of Chosen. He leans up to kiss him one more time before continuing. He uses his grip on Augustus's belt loops to pull his jeans away from his skin, raising an eyebrow at Augustus in silent request.

"Yours too?" Augustus asks, a much less confident echo of Chosen's request for him to take off his shirt. Chosen nods anyway. Augustus rolls off of him to take off his jeans, the opportunity of which Chosen uses to divest himself of his shorts as well. He tosses them off the side of the bed just in time for Augustus to climb back on top of him, boxers tented in a way that's bordering on obscene. Chosen cups Augustus's cock in the palm of his hand as soon as he's settled, making the other boy gasp and shudder as Chosen finds a comfortable grip. He ends up rubbing the head of it through the fabric, playing with the tacky texture of his precum and how it makes the fabric stick there. Augustus whimpers, his forehead falling against Chosen's shoulder. Chosen moves his hand to Augustus's hip and manipulates his body just a bit, bringing their anatomy back into alignment and encouraging the movement of Augustus's hips. The first solid thrust with only the layers of their underwear between them pulls gasps from both of them.

Chosen's boxers are sticking to him as well, wet with slick. That sensation typically freaks him the fuck out. Right now, he doesn't even notice. Instead, he pulls Augustus down on him and into a kiss, setting a pace to the movement between his legs that Augustus begins to follow without direction when Chosen grinds up against him in return. Holy shit. Chosen's eyes roll back in his head when Augustus happens to push down against him just right. They could probably both get off like this, as desperate as Chosen feels for stimulation and as affected as Augustus seems by the sensation of just grinding his cock into the warmth of Chosen's wet boxers. Augustus watches Chosen's face as he starts moving downward, kissing and biting at the Chosen's skin all the way down Chosen's throat, his chest, his stomach. Augustus runs his thumb up under the lowest seam of Chosen's boxers, stroking over the hair on his thigh and looking up at him like he's awaiting instruction. Chosen runs his fingers through Augustus's hair.

"Can I?" Augustus asks, tilting his head down to indicate his intention to drop to his chest between Chosen's legs. Oh. Chosen had never been kissed before today, let alone anything else, so it's no surprise that this would be a first for him as well. Needing to reduce the anxiety suddenly bubbling in his chest somehow, Chosen cracks a rough smile.

"Do you even know what you're doing down there?" he teases lightly. Augustus scoffs, but Chosen can tell that he's not really offended; he's pressing absent kisses to Chosen's chest and stomach, not looking away from his face. It is an overwhelming way to be looked at, to say the least. Chosen never wants Augustus to stop looking at him like that. A rush of comfort works its way through Chosen, settling his nerves with Augustus's touch. He breathes out nice and slow, taking Augustus's hand and guiding it to the elastic band of his boxers, pulling down a little before letting Augustus take over. The other boy does as guided as soon as Chosen releases his hand, still looking up at his face to maintain his focus on Chosen's comfort. If he wasn't busy with other things, Chosen would pull him up to kiss him. Alas.

"I don't want to rush this, but I did do some research," Augustus says, hand on Chosen's hip and his face still level with Chosen's stomach, soft kisses landing still on his abdomen. Chosen raises an eyebrow. This fucking nerd.

"Research?" he asks, knowing the vast breadth of activities that Augustus is willing to call research. Augustus nods, hiding his face against Chosen's skin as he replies.

"I've only ever handled... cis guy anatomy, in the past. I wanted to make sure that I knew how to make it good for you. If this ever came up. Which it did. Not that I assumed it would-" Augustus is working himself into a panic over something that didn't even offend Chosen.

"Babe, you're literally about to suck my dick, I think we can safely say we're assuming we're about to have sex," Chosen interrupts wryly, glad to be back on the even footing of teasing his... they're going to have to talk about what they are to each other, now. Fuck. They'll get there. Augustus trails kisses beneath Chosen's bellybutton, lower than he had gone before, emptying any contemplative thought from Chosen's head. Oh god. Chosen has never really bothered to do anything about his pubic hair, at first because the concept of having a blade that close to something so intimate without being comfortable enough to sustain looking at it did not sound exceptionally safe, and then because he liked the way the hair looked, blond curls covering a lot of the bottom dysphoria he had previously gotten from looking down there at all. Augustus runs his fingers over the hair there like he's sensory seeking, lowering himself onto his stomach as he trails kisses even lower, along Chosen's hips and thighs. Chosen's hand clenches in Augustus's hair mostly accidentally, but given the sweet little noise that Augustus makes, it becomes not so accidental expeditiously. It's nothing that Chosen hasn't thought about at length, fisting his hand in Augustus's hair and guiding his head where he wants it, bracing his thighs against the other boy's shoulders.

"Holy shit," Augustus says, halfway to awe, and long before Chosen can think of something teasing to say in reply, Augustus dips his head to lick directly up Chosen's core. He should be embarrassed about the noise he makes then. Augustus does so well beneath the weight of approval, though, throwing himself into making Chosen make more noises like that enthusiastically. When he pulls Chosen's dick into his mouth, lips closing around the base of it, another noise rips its way out of him, his hips shamelessly rutting upwards. Augustus moans when he does that, like the desperate way that Chosen holds onto the back of his head happening at the same time that Chosen is pushing his hips into Augustus's face does just as much for him as it does for Chosen. The steady stimulation on his dick is enough to get him a little dazed, a bit less aware than his typical hypervigilance, and when Augustus's fingers circle his entrance, Chosen hisses.

"Touch me, touch me, touch me," he repeats nonsensically; Augustus chooses to interpret this as an invitation to thrust a finger inside of Chosen up to his second knuckle. This is a good interpretation. Chosen can't help the way his thighs close around Augustus, some instinct of wanting to keep him there that he's completely unable to suppress.

"Do you want-" Augustus starts, and Chosen can't help but interrupt him again, pulling Augustus's hair just a little to get the other boy to look up at him with round, surprised eyes.

"Augustus, assume I want. If there is anything I do not want, I will communicate that to you as soon as such occurs. You are doing wonderfully so far," he says, hand moving from Augustus's hair to cup his face. Augustus blinks up at him, his face flushed a deep red. He presses his face into Chosen's palm.

"I just want this to be good for you," he whispers, sounding overwhelmed. Reassuring people doesn't come naturally to Chosen, but he'll try.

"You're being so good for me, Augustus," is what slips out of Chosen's mouth in reply, not exactly what he meant, but exceptionally true and apparently enough to make Augustus squeak, hiding his face against Chosen's hip. Chosen strokes his fingers gently through the other boy's hair, letting him have as long as he needs. So Augustus needs to be told when he's doing well. Chosen can do that. Augustus moves beneath his hand, sinking back down to his place between Chosen's legs. It's so fucking hot to see him there, looking up at Chosen like he's a fucking god, lust open on his face. He wants him so bad. Now, he actually gets to have him. Augustus goes lower than before, pressing his tongue into Chosen's entrance. The grip Chosen has on his hair must hurt, but Augustus just gives a pleased groan when Chosen pushes his head down, grinding his hips up into Augustus's mouth again.

"Fuck, your tongue," Chosen exhales, so turned on it feels like he's going to fucking die. He loses time again, honestly. He's not even remotely cognizant until Augustus moves back up to suck at Chosen's dick, his fingers teasing at his entrance again, the movement and change enough to rouse him from the waves of pleasure he'd been happily losing himself beneath. Chosen gives into the impulse to push himself down into that feeling, the tips of two of Augustus's fingers just barely pressing into him now.

"You ready for my fingers, Chosen?" Augustus asks, grinning widely as he presses kiss after kiss up Chosen's thigh. This is sex, this is intimacy, and still looking down at Augustus, the look and feel of him is so comforting. So safe. His fingers are still circling Chosen's entrance, dipping in to tease him before coming back up just to rub over Chosen almost absently. Like any of this makes it easier for Chosen to answer whatever the fuck he just asked. His head is so fucking fuzzy. Fingers. Fuck.

"Now, Augustus," he says, steeling his voice to try and blot out his embarrassment. Augustus snorts, moving to press his fingers down against the sides of Chosen's cock, pulling a noise out of Chosen that he doesn't want to admit to having made. Chosen thrusts up into his hand.

"Are you ready for my fingers, Chosen?" Augustus repeats, rubbing the tips of his fingers in little circles around Chosen's dick, just short of stimulating him but close enough to make his hips twitch. His fingers are wet with Chosen's own slick. Chosen makes a frustrated noise, pulling at Augustus's hair gently, making a noise that is shamefully close to begging without words. Under the penalty of death, Chosen would never do this in front of anyone else, he thinks. Doing this, being this, in front of Augustus is just. It's safe. He's allowed to need things. It's so weird. He runs his fingers through Augustus's hair gentler than before, pushing the baby hairs that have fallen out of his hair tie and down around his face back behind his ears. Augustus's teasing expression has gone slack, almost, his expression soft as he looks up at Chosen.

"Please, baby," he says, testing out how the word feels in his mouth, watching as it sends a shiver down Augustus's spine. Chosen gasps when Augustus slides two fingers into him, sinking all the way in all at once. Any time that Chosen has gone this fast with himself, it has hurt. He surprised when it doesn't, almost embarrassed at how smoothly Augustus is able to push into him. Sex being this different from masturbation is a surprise to him; it's not that he's ever actively thought that masturbation and sex were the same thing, but he never thought a partner would make things so much... easier? Almost? He's certainly not thinking as much as he typically does by himself, losing himself to the feeling of Augustus's hands on and in him, the way Augustus dips back down to suck Chosen's cock, flicking his tongue over the head of it while slowly beginning to thrust his fingers in and out, spreading them to stretch Chosen as well. He really did research about this. Holy fuck. He's even curling his fucking fingers without overdoing it. Of course, it's Augustus. The amount of research he did was likely exhaustive.

Augustus is rolling his hips against the bed, hot and slow little movements, and that's just about more than Chosen can handle. It's hot how much Augustus cares about him. He likes the fact that Augustus is just as intense as he is, he likes the fact that he knows he'll never wonder if Augustus likes him again, he likes that this is his friend, that this is Augustus, that he's doing all of this for the first time and this is how it feels. Soon after Augustus pushes a third finger into him, Chosen pulls the other boy up by the hair a little, not really trying to hurt him but observing with great interest the way that the pain makes Augustus whine. He doesn't want to cum until he can feel the weight of Augustus inside of him, heavier and more substantial than just his fingers.

"Come on, pretty boy, take these off," he says, hooking two fingers on Augustus's boxers and beginning the task of dragging them off of him. Augustus picks up where he lets off quickly, his boxers soon joining Chosen's on the floor in the great void of somewhere. Chosen wraps his hand around Augustus, making the other boy groan. "Desperate for it, aren't you, pretty boy? You want it so bad," he coaxes, grinning as precum drips down his fingers. Augustus thrusts up into the circle of his fingers. Chosen tightens his grip, slowing the pace of his strokes. Augustus presses his face into Chosen's shoulder, a shuddering breath racking his chest.

"Please tell me you have condoms," Augustus commands, leaving very little room for error. Chosen had been embarrassed at the time that he had acquired the condoms and lube now kept in his bedside table drawer, but only because Brianna had just thrown them at him, for when you and Auggie finally fuck it out. So to say that Brianna probably knows is a bit of a misnomer. Half curious, half wanting to bring a reaction out of the other boy, Chosen rubs his thumb through the slit of Augustus's dick, playing with the texture of the head. Augustus shudders again; it's so fucking pretty. Chosen presses a kiss to Augustus's cheek.

"Condoms and lube are in the drawer," he offers shortly, nipping at the soft skin beneath Augustus's ear. Augustus laughs, getting his knees beneath himself again so that he can lean up and grab their supplies. Chosen lets him focus on the task at hand for the most part, running his fingertips down Augustus's back, grabbing his ass, that kind of thing. Augustus evens himself back out to his hover over Chosen, smirking down at him before pressing a hard kiss to his mouth.

"You're a little shit," he says, his voice so fond that Chosen can't breathe, and so Chosen strains up to kiss Augustus again, a pleased hum rumbling in his chest. Augustus gives him several more quick kisses, light and fun, before holding up the condom between two of his fingers, held like how a magician might present a card. Chosen snorts, smothering his smile against Augustus's shoulder before stealing the condom from his hand. He tears it open cleanly, pinching the tip of the condom to make sure he slides it on properly. Augustus is almost holding his breath for this entire process, like Chosen is going to stop touching him if he moves too much or makes too much noise. Once Augustus's cock is fully covered by the condom, Chosen strokes him again, just to make sure he's comfortable, of course. Augustus bites down on a gasp.

"I want to hear you," Chosen reminds him in a hushed tone, speaking close to Augustus's ear as he guides Augustus forward to rest the head of his dick against Chosen's entrance. He only has to guide Augustus a little more before he's pressing in on his own accord, pushing in slow and steady til he bottoms out. The steady push of him is overwhelming in the best way, Chosen's head falling back against the pillows with a groan. It's an incredibly new sensation. Chosen owns toys, because of course he does, but they've never felt so warm and heavy inside of him, never been connected to hips unconsciously twitching to get even deeper inside of him. Augustus is mostly still, eyes closed as he visibly tries very hard to hold himself together. Chosen bites back a smirk, leaning up and pulling Augustus in to buss a kiss across his temple. A shiver runs through Augustus.

"You- you okay?" he asks, his voice a little strangled. Chosen rolls his hips downward, pulling a keen out of him. Augustus pulls out tentatively, an inch at a time like he has to be as careful pulling out as he was pushing in, so careful with Chosen beneath his hands. Once just the head remains inside of Chosen, Augustus begins that slow descent again, careful. Impatient, Chosen rocks down, pulling Augustus in with the same motion. They're both moaning with Augustus settled snugly inside, fully engulfed in Chosen again. Chosen reaches up, cupping Augustus's face to make the other look him in the eye, kissing him quick.

"Fuck me."

And whatever they say, the boy can follow instructions. The snap of his hips is quick and deep, enough to punch Chosen's breath from his chest. Holy shit. He doesn't even notice how his legs wrap around Augustus's hips and pull him in, drawing him closer and closer faster and faster as they make their way into a rhythm. He also doesn't notice the noises coming out of his mouth, which is probably for the better. He'd be terribly embarrassed if he had any cognitive awareness right now to speak of; Augustus is unexpectedly good at this. Probably because he's done it before, whereas Chosen hasn't. Augustus wasn't even the one to tell him that, Bri had because she thought he already knew (he didn't), or that it wasn't a big deal (it shouldn't have been), or maybe she just wanted to torture him by making him think of Augustus sexually when he was trying to eat french fries (extremely possible). He doesn't even realize he's trying to distract himself from the onslaught of sensation until it all stops.

"Hey," Augustus says when Chosen seeks out eye contact, smiling down at him. So he's not pissed. This is part of why Chosen has never done this with another person: he's prone to distraction, and from what he's read, that can be somewhat offensive to sexual partners. But Augustus does not look offended. Instead, he's smiling, a hand on Chosen's face and looking down at Chosen like he's done something sweet and not something rude, and this was not covered in any reading material he has ever consumed trying to understand the mechanics of romantic and sexual relationships. Augustus rolls his hips, snorting when it sends Chosen blinking. One moment of Augustus looking at him like that and he lost track of what they were doing. That is a dangerous power for another person to have over him.

"Hi," Chosen says a beat late, probably coloring a deep red if he wasn't so already. Augustus gives him a quick kiss.

"I have an idea. Trust me?" he asks, eyebrow raised like Chosen would have ever let him get this close without this disgusting and explicit trust, this belief he has that everything will be okay if it's just him and Augustus. Chosen nods anyway, completely unaware of how his blue eyes are wide when he looks at Augustus like that, how he looks like something to ruin, how he looks like something to keep. Kissing him again, Augustus pulls out gently, pulling a protesting noise out of Chosen. "Trust me, Spencer," Augustus repeats, low and soothing, and so when Augustus rolls onto his back and pulls Chosen on top of him, he allows it. He catches on once Augustus starts trying to position them correctly, moving to lower himself back onto Augustus's cock with the guidance of the other.

"Oh, this feels different," he says once he's fully seated, mostly because it's true. It's like he can feel Augustus in his fucking dick like this, his cock pressed up against whatever mechanics Chosen has inside of him that he's always been too squicked to look at too many of the details of. He knows the basics, stuff taught in sex ed type shit, but they don't teach about the pleasure of people with cervixes in most academic settings. Pity that, because this is fucking insane. When Chosen rolls his hips, he pulls a groan out of himself far too loud for his own comfort, and one out of Augustus as well. If his mom was home, he would drop dead where he sits. Augustus makes a noise under him and pulls Chosen down, hiding his face against Chosen's shoulder. Chosen rocks down on Augustus's dick and he makes another overwhelmed noise, his nails digging into Chosen's back. Chosen smirks, stroking his hair.

"Feels so good," Augustus whispers against his throat, staggered just by the feeling of him. It makes Chosen feel powerful in an odd way, being in control of Augustus's pleasure in that manner. He rolls his hips down again and pulls another noise, this one higher in pitch, from Augustus, surprised and wanton. Chosen grins, reining in the instinct to tease Augustus about it before realizing that he doesn't have to; this is Augustus. All they've ever done is make fun of each other and Augustus likes him anyway, wants to be around him anyway, wants to stay anyway. He doesn't mind that Chosen is kind of an ass. He even told him once that that was one of his favorite things about him. This had been after Chosen had frankly and efficiently verbally destroyed a rude customer, but that is neither here nor there. 

"Feels good," he agrees, running his hands over Augustus as he gets up on his knees, rocking onto Augustus's cock before setting a slow pace riding him. "Are you even going to last long enough to make me cum, Augustus?  Or am I cumming on your face after this?" he asks, knowing that the vulgarity and challenge will make Augustus flustered despite the fact that Chosen himself is quite attached to the idea of cumming on Augustus's cock. His hips stutter just once before he's thrusting up into Chosen to the best of his ability, hands pulling Chosen's hips down to meet his own. Teeth clench down on Chosen's shoulder and a moan punches out of his chest, like a fully fledged moan, like the type of thing that Chosen wasn't aware happened in real life.

"Both, both, I wanna do both," Augustus says, his mouth moving from the bite on Chosen's shoulder over to Chosen's throat, biting there as well, soothing the sting with his tongue. Again, not something that Chosen knew himself to like, but the idea of evidence? Of being able to see how much Augustus wants him? Fuck. He only remembers Augustus said something in the split seconds between the flow of stinging bites, Augustus's tongue, and soft kisses that make his stomach flutter.

"Both?" he asks, having completely lost the thread of the conversation to the way Augustus is pulling him back onto his dick. Augustus giggles, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"I wanna make you cum like this," Augustus says, emphasizing his point by thrusting up harshly. Chosen keens. "And then... and then I want you to- I've never said this selection of words aloud before and getting flustered while I actually have my dick inside of you is very frustrating," Augustus says, far too articulate for Chosen's tastes. He collects himself and leans down to kiss Augustus, thrusting his tongue into his mouth and taking it over, the kisses growing more aggressive as Chosen presses down with his hips as well.

"You want me to cum on your face?" he asks, grinning with an overly casual bite to it, arrogant and cocky as grinds down on Augustus, tight little circular motions that are fucking incredible for him, but probably aren't doing much for Augustus, save for making him that much more desperate. Augustus's grip on his hips gets deliciously tight again, the other boy taking control of the motion of their bodies. He grinds his cock up into Chosen much like Chosen had been doing himself, but a little more overwhelming because he's no longer focused on moving, just being moved by his partner's hands. It's... fucking insanely hot. Augustus has dominion over his body and is choosing to use that power to make Chosen feel good. He presses his face into Augustus's shoulder, trying to muffle some of the constant noise coming out of him unbidden.

"You sound so pretty," Augustus whispers into his ear, one of his pointed canines finding a place there digging into the helix of Chosen's ear, not biting down but just grazing. It sends a shiver down Chosen's spine, one that Augustus obviously notices because he leans up to actually catch the helix between his teeth, biting down gently. If Chosen could stop finding out things he did not know about his own body during this single, first encounter, that would be incredible. As it is, a pitchy hum scratches out of Chosen's throat at the pleasurepain of it all, the bite of Augustus's teeth, the bruising grip of his hands. The feeling of overwhelm is looming over him once again, loud enough in his head that he can feel tears in the corner of his eyes, but not in a bad way. It's so good, and so safe, and it's quiet in his head and Augustus is holding him in his hands like Chosen is meant to be held, like fear didn't make him into a weapon a long time ago.

It's a lot, to say the least.

One of Augustus's hands moves from his hip, the other staying in its place to continue guiding Chosen downward, encouraging the movement. With his newly free hand, however, Augustus trails centerbound, lingering over Chosen's pubic hair for a second again before moving on to touch Chosen's dick. He gives a sharp inhale at the sensation, clenching down on Augustus's cock in a way that is mostly involuntary and yet satisfying as it pulls a groan out of Augustus as well. Augustus makes circular motions over the head of Chosen's dick, wringing more noises out of the man on top of him. The gradual build of the intensity of pleasure comes to a peak; Chosen bites down on Augustus's shoulder and cums, sharp and bright and so much more intense than when he's done this alone, holy shit. Augustus pauses in the roll of his hips, though he doesn't pull out. Chosen doesn't want him to; he wants to feel it when Augustus cums, even if through a condom, he wants to feel like the reason. He rubs his thumb over the bite mark he's just left on Augustus's shoulder, red imprint of the outline of the pressure delivered by Chosen's maxilla and mandible, it's incredible. Maybe he likes that- leaving a mark on Augustus- as much as he likes the idea of it being vice versa.

"I'm gonna be- everything is going to become extremely sensitive in a minute, so I may have some problems with volume control, but if- I want you to- to finish. In me. I want to feel it," he stutters out, voice coming through thready and stilted as he tries to regulate his breathing. His face is pressed against Augustus's skin, hidden while he tries to calm himself down. Augustus reaches up to put a hand on either side of his face, pulling him up to make reluctant eye contact. Swear, eye contact sucks with most people. Not with Augustus. Not like this.

"If I keep fucking you, will you be too sensitive for me to give you head again? This does not influence the fact that I'm going to fuck you, but more on, like, you know. Autism. I need to plan out my actions in my head sometimes," Augustus says. He just says that. Chosen bursts into laughter and presses into Augustus's hand, giving it a quick kiss. He's so fucking dumb. Chosen likes him so fucking much. He likes that he's blunt and that he's communicative in a way that Chosen understands and he's pretty and nice and likes him, and this is fucking insane. More to the point.

"It'll hurt for you to put your tongue or fingers in me or anything, but you could probably still suck my dick and it be good, if you're that set on it," he says, a teasing smile pulling across his face. Augustus grins, taking his hands from Chosen's face to reach down and rub up and down Chosen's thighs.

"You're the one who put the idea of making you cum on my face into my head. Hard image to keep scrolling on once it's popped up in the feed, you know? I'm kind of obsessed with you, dude." Chosen sighs, pretending to be put off but unable to keep himself from smiling. "Speaking of which," Augustus continues, squeezing his thighs, "do you want to stay where you are, or can I turn us over again? I want- um." Augustus's throat clicks when he swallows, and he's still stuttering over his words when his dick has been inside Chosen for a fucking while and he's so fucking cute. Chosen gives him a wild grin, made bold by the other's nerves.

"You want to fuck me like you mean it," Chosen provides, pulling up and off of Augustus and rolling onto his back next to him. Augustus follows him naturally, climbing steadily between Chosen's legs and getting a nod of confirmation before he pushes back into Chosen. It's so fucking much. When they weren't moving, it was mostly just a weight, you know? Comforting, almost. He thinks briefly of sitting in Augustus's lap while they watch TV or something, play video games even, maybe, Augustus's dick settled inside of him. It sounds nice. Chosen has had more varied fantasies since this encounter began than he has since he started first puberty maybe. There's no distracting himself from how this feels, though, and it's not that he's trying to distract himself because it's bad, but more so that it feels extraordinarily good in a way that makes his brain feel like he's got a firm grip on an electric fence. Augustus gives him a few more beats to get used to it.

"Should I go slow?" he asks with a small measure of concern, likely awash with anxiety that he's hurt Chosen or something like that. Chosen shakes his head, a sharp noise tearing itself from his throat as Augustus's hips twitch closer to him.

"Like you fucking mean it, baby. Let me feel you cum. I want to see you," he says again, needing Augustus to know. He wants to see him fall apart, he wants to see him smile, he wants to see him every day, he wants to see Augustus. He always wants to see Augustus. When Augustus starts pulling out, it feels like a tugging sensation within Chosen, like his body wants Augustus to stay as much as Chosen himself does, like on this front, they are united. Augustus fucks into him faster than before, and it really is fucking, the way that he holds Chosen in place and thrusts into him over and over and over again. The electrified feeling is still coming in waves, the current carried with the movement of Augustus inside of him. Fucking overwhelming is what it is.

Little huff-gasps make their way out of Chosen's mouth unbidden, the noise near constant as he tries to muffle it against Augustus's skin. The press of his thighs around Augustus's hips has grown vice tight, his nails scratching for purchase down Augustus's back. His legs keep twitching and being this reactive is so fucking vulnerable and it feels so good and Chosen does not know how to reconcile those feelings, but he's not really coherent enough for the internal debate either. He doesn't realize he's about to cum again until he's halfway over the crest of it, clenching down on Augustus inside of him. Augustus groans and he can feel it when he cums, satisfying that need inside of Chosen. Rolling his hips slowly still, Augustus is careful as he pulls out of Chosen, gentle. His touch is light on Chosen's hips like there won't most definitely be bruises, and like Chosen isn't enamored with the idea of them already.

Dropping to his chest between Chosen's legs again, Augustus looks up at him with a raised eyebrow, not yet touching him again. Chosen shivers at the feeling of his breath against sensitive skin. "Can I?" he asks again, sweet yet leering and exactly what Chosen wants. He's so fucking eager, he wants Chosen so fucking bad, he likes Chosen so fucking much. Chosen doesn't know if he's ever felt something quite so reassuring as being wanted like this. He closes a fist in Augustus's hair, pulling just enough to direct him down.

"It won't take much," he admits, not wanting to add that he doesn't know if he can do another one after this. The idea of Augustus fucking him til he's oversensitive and delirious with it does occur to him, but now is not the time. The appetite of his sexual imagination is growing worse by the minute. Such thoughts leave him when Augustus goes directly for it, sucking the tip of Chosen's dick into his mouth. Chosen bucks against him again, trying to keep it to a minimum at first before Augustus makes a sweet little noise on an accidental and yet still particularly forceful thrust. Keeping the roll of his hips slow, Chosen tentatively grinds down. Augustus gives him a pleased hum and raises a hand, giving him a fucking thumbs up. He's too fucking cute to be sucking cock like this, holy shit. He holds onto the back of Augustus's head and fucks into his mouth, Augustus letting himself be moved rather than controlling the movement himself anymore. So fucking hot.

It really doesn't take much. It's something stupid and sappy that sends him over the edge; Augustus finds his free hand with his own and laces their fingers, and with how he flicks his tongue at the same fucking time, all of it just sends him over. The thrust of his hips becomes erratic in that moment, spasms mixing with rolls mixing with overstimulated little twitches. Augustus sits back a bit and puts a hand on the inside of each of Chosen's thighs, pressing them apart to look at Chosen, borderline awestruck at the slick pouring out of Chosen and onto the sheets. Fuck, he's going to have to do his laundry. The thought quickly goes to the wind when Augustus dips close to him again, giving Chosen those big, round eyes again. Chosen pushes Augustus's hair back out of his face. He doesn't know if he could deny him anything right now.

"Can I- I want to- let me taste you. Not if it'll hurt, but. You're so wet, babe," he says, still looking at Chosen with open fascination. He's such a fucking freak. He weighs the options in his head- a little bit of discomfort, sure, but for Augustus to look like that? For Augustus to look at this part of him that he's never been comfortable with and look at Chosen like if he were able, Augustus would swallow him whole, and what a perfectly overwhelming way to be regarded. He nods, his fingers curling loosely in Augustus's hair now, no longer interested in guiding. Slowly, as if Augustus is trying to give him time to say no, Augustus dips down and presses his tongue into Chosen's sensitive hole. His thighs close around Augustus's ears as soon as he makes contact.

"Holy fuck," he says, pulling Augustus up to lay down at his side. Augustus is running his tongue over his lips like he's trying to chase the taste of Chosen, to savor it. Chosen presses a kiss to his mouth. They separate just a bit, needing to recover their breaths.

There's a comfortable silence between the two of them as they lay there, both flat on their backs for a time before curling together like matching parenthesis, heads tilted toward one another even if they're both still too sweaty to want to by more physically proximal. He reaches out for Augustus's hand, lacing their fingers in the space between their stomachs and avoiding Augustus's gaze. Augustus doesn't press him on it, likely lost to his own overwhelm. He knows that Augustus has more romantic experience than he does, but he somehow doubts that this moment is one that Augustus has experienced before. This quiet and comfort, how fucked out and satisfied Chosen feels, the absolute trust he has for this boy and the space they occupy together. Chosen has certainly never felt like this. True to form, he interrupts the moment to dissipate some of the terribly vivid sexual energy of the room.

"Don't think that just because you're my boyfriend now you'll be winning more often," Chosen says, pushing his face into the pillows beneath his head. Augustus leans further into his space, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Chosen had never liked feeling small before this encounter. Logically, he knows that his fighting capabilities outclass Augustus by miles, but he likes this. He likes the way Augustus makes him feel protected, safe, like he doesn't have to be the savior of the universe all the time, just Chosen. Just Spencer.

"Well, dearest, I think you might be discounting one thing in your estimations of how things will proceed," Augustus says, pulling Chosen out from that spiral of thoughts. Chosen breathes out a huff of a laugh and tries not to be embarrassed of the flush that colors his face over the pet name, leaning forward to kiss Augustus's shoulder.

"And what's that?" he asks, indulgent and fond.

"I have so many news ways to distract you," Augustus says, grin splitting his face open. Chosen doesn't suppress the smile he wants to give Augustus in return. The kiss Augustus gives him then is plenty reward. Quiet falls over them again, and they're both most of the way to asleep when Chosen nudges Augustus in the shoulder. The other boy hums, opening one eye and raising the eyebrow above it. Chosen grins.

"You lasted, like, a really long time. Obviously as the guy reaping the benefits, I'm not complaining, but holy shit, dude. I really didn't think you were that much more experienced than me," he says outright, knowing that Augustus will take it as the judgement free attempt to rectify perception that it is. Augustus opens both eyes just to close them again, breathing out a laugh. He's got pretty eyes too, Chosen can't help but think about it when he opens them again.

"This was the third time I've ever had sex in my life. I just- you know that thing where you put physical overwhelm into a box so you can continue functioning even if sub-optimally? It was like doing that, except the thing that I was focusing on instead was getting you off, and that was also pretty fucking hot." Chosen rolls his eyes, looking away from Augustus.

"You compartmentalized your way through a hair trigger?" he says wryly, making Augustus snort.

"I mean, yeah, I guess."

"Your autism fascinates me," he admits, brows creased and head just a bit tilted. Augustus nudges him, amused.

"Buddy, it is so mutual."

"Are we buddies? What, um. What do you want from this?" Chosen makes himself ask levelly, keeping his expression neutral. Augustus leans forward, catching Chosen in a kiss that derails the conversation for several minutes. Not a derailment that Chosen disapproves of, obviously. When he composes himself enough to pull away, Augustus clears his throat.

"That is to say, I would very much like to do this again. And the other stuff," he spits out fragmented. Chosen smiles, leaning forward to rest his nose along Augustus's jawline. 

"The other stuff?" he asks, though he's pretty sure he has a good idea of what Augustus means. Augustus doesn't disappoint him.

"Dates, holding hands in public, PDA as a whole actually, if you're like, comfortable with that, it's not a deal breaker, obviously," he says, rambling a bit. Chosen can't keep the fondness off his face.

"I've never thought of myself as someone who would participate in public displays of affection," he says. Augustus's face falls, but he recovers quickly, clearing his throat.

"That's totally cool, we don't-" he starts, but Chosen shakes his head. That's not where he was going with that.

"I've never thought it would be something for me, but things are quite different with you. I've never felt the way you make me feel before. It's equal parts incredible and distressing," he admits, startling a laugh out of the other boy. Augustus tips forward to kiss him again, just a quick little thing this time. His smile is soft, his gaze even softer.

"So, you wanna date me?" he asks, batting his eyelashes at Chosen like that was a completely normal way to ask that question. Nothing about the two of them is completely normal. It's kind of awesome. He kisses Augustus as quick as the other had him a moment ago.

"It would be an honor," Chosen says, looking away from Augustus as his face heats up. Maybe one day he'll tell Augustus exactly how much he's thought about this, how he thought about it before ever knowing this was an option, before he ever realized he was capable of being romantically attracted to another person. Today, though, he goes with it when Augustus pulls him to his chest, maneuvering Chosen around until they're both comfortable. He presses a kiss to the bite mark he left on Augustus like a neon sign that just says mine. They're quiet for another few minutes before Augustus is the one to nudge Chosen, the other lifting his head.

"Can we go get dinner tonight?" he asks, blinking at Chosen with far more innocence than someone who just did what they had done should be able to possess. Chosen hides his fond smile against Augustus's shoulder, placing a kiss there before he pushes up off of the bed, rising to stand straight. He's shaky on his feet for a second, but he manages to find an equilibrium. Augustus raises an eyebrow at him, tilting his head.

"Come take a shower with me and we'll go get dinner," he clarifies, making it clear with his tone that he, mostly in jest, thinks this should be obvious. Augustus rolls his eyes, climbing out of the bed as well now that it's clear what exactly is going on.

"You could have just said yes, you dramatic bastard," Augustus says, but he laces his fingers through Chosen's and lets himself be led to the en-suite. Chosen presses a kiss to his knuckles, affection bursting supernova bright in his chest.