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It was difficult to forget the sight of it, the date on Flayon’s calendar covered completely with wild, dark pen markings, blacking out the day. Stripes of deep score lines cut across it, like an angry child had been cornered into this little square of paper.
Bettel had remembered it, even if he thought he shouldn’t. Saved the date without ever lending it conscious thought, letters and numbers projected on the inside of his skull: January 20th. He anticipated it without drums or music.
Watched his precious pilot out of the corner of his eye as if he were a timer slowly ticking down.
No matter how much he hoped to avoid it, the slashes of pen ink across each date eventually met with the tangle of scribbles. Bettel’s bed gasps out a dry creak as a single hand, splayed over his chest, pushes him slowly into the mattress and corresponding mess of white sheets.
“Keep looking, Bettel.” Flayon says, uncharacteristically demure. As if a sudden noise will disrupt this scarce intimacy, send it running.
“Keep looking. Just at me.” Like if Bettel’s gaze drifts slightly he’ll cease to exist altogether, choker and thigh high socks in a puddle over Bettel’s crotch where his warm, tightly wound body once was.
His hand still rests with fingers spread wide over the flat stretch of Bettel’s chest, above his thrumming heart. He can’t deny to himself anymore how he’s been bewitched, had his mind fucked by every delicate, coy smile, inch by inch of exposed skin plunging him into fever. Especially not now, as he does exactly what Flayon says, eyes flickering across each part of him, watching. There's dark magic laden in every fiber of Flayon’s being that he knows well how to manipulate. In the hollow curve of his ankles, in his soft thigh flesh, in the swell of his chest, in his big, bright, iridescent eyes that shine every colour. Every motion begins as a step in a complicated dance, breaking his body across this need, now burning him up like a fever, but they spin apart and fall out of control the longer he goes. His coy gestures have been replaced with desperation, with fear. Like he really will stop existing the moment Bettel stops looking.
Is this all to make me love you? Bettel thinks but doesn’t say.
I already love you, a delicate touch finds the spaces between his ribs before leaving just as fast, forcing the internal confession. Maybe he’s being so reckless in the comfort of his own head because he doesn’t know how much time he has.
“That’s right…” Flayon shudders, his voice quivering, “you’re being so good.” His hips grind down hard and their dicks rub into each other a little too rough, wrenching a sharp gasp from Bettel. Flay grins, white, drool-covered fangs peeking from between his lips.
Flayon’s not nearly as calculated and manipulative as he thinks he is. He is, but not as much as he believes. He plays the long game - wants you to think that he’s got you in the palm of his hand, dancing to a beat that he hums with the intuition of his soft pink lips. When he wants something, he pursues it with all the relentlessness of a bratty little brother looking for a new toy, but it’s when Flayon’s grip softens that Bettel finds something he thinks is truth. It’s not magic, it’s just him; the reality upon which he builds his fantasy. The soft, leaking core surrounded by something hard and dark and ripe. The thought makes him shudder. Of pressing his thumbs into Flayon’s flesh and tearing away the layers of obfuscation until all that’s left is him, in ugly, vulnerable glory. Let me see you, Bettel wants to say, but he doesn’t. The you you don’t control.
He’s been waiting for it for a long time now. He'd come to know the truth in moments, nights spent alone together that collapse the walls in slow motion. Bettel thought he’d fallen for people before he met Flayon, and now all he could think to do was laugh at his past selves, who had never wanted something like how he did now. Permanent enough that he’s started waking up every day wishing he would see Flayon asleep next to him.
With enough lube, Bettel is able to slide into Flayon with minimal resistance, his ass getting used to accommodating him, wet heat stretching around him perfectly. He gasps.
“Are you watching?” Flayon asks, voice pitching up. “Closely?”
A memory swells to Bettel. It’s about midnight on the streets of Vegas, the fall air blushes their ears and cheeks darling pink as he and Flay strut alongside their pack of familiar, smiling faces. They can’t seem to keep away from each other, Bettel matches his pace with Flay’s involuntarily. They say nothing. Through a haze of drunkenness, their bodies seem aware of something they’re not. Hands keep brushing together from the closeness and Bettel makes an intention out of it, gripping Flay’s fingers clusmily in a gesture that he hopes, hilariously, is mistaken for a joke. Flay jumps, continuing to walk even as he takes in the gesture, suddenly so serious, so still even in motion. By his own admission, he’s more drunk than he’s ever been in his entire life, and he can’t bare to look at Bettel as he wriggles his fingers out of Bettel’s grasp and into full, flushed intertwinement. It’s a side of him he didn’t so easily show, the alcohol fog in his head reducing his coy, commanding flirtiness to the mere reciprocation you give as the realization overwhelms you that this is something. Something and not nothing. Their twin heartbeats a silent, pulsing rhythm, they march forward, a glittering shot in the dark. This something-and-not-nothing is born between them without a name.
Bettel, with sudden strength, grabs Flay by his ass and picks him up momentarily, pinning him down, cock still inside him, all the movement making him gasp. Their positions are flipped, Bettel now holding Flay down in missionary, eyes half-lidded and needy to undo the laces to Flay’s head. Needy to see into him.
“Aaah, fuck—“ Flay softly sobs as he gets used to the stretch of Bettel holding his legs back. He laughs and looks up at Bettel, a determined look all over him, “I’ve b–een waiting,” A familiar, though slightly exhausted smirk returns to his face before it breaks on a little gasp. This is good progress.
Flay’s eyebrows knit together, his glossy eyes meet Bettel’s. “I’ve been waiting for you to- to make a fucking move. Go on… show me, Bettel.”
Show me what you’re made of. The phrase rings clear and precise in Bettel’s head like the hypnotist’s fingers snapped.
Bettel starts again with a slow, deep thrust, staying in balls deep in Flay’s tight, tight pussy for a moment too long before beginning the drag out. Flay makes a strangled little noise as his cunt desperately clings to Bettel’s cock, red rising to his face in response to his own body’s reaction. Bettel drives it into him again, faster this time. His breathing becomes more and more laboured as he adjusts once more. Then he angles his hips slightly differently, then again, another slightly different angle. Flay is watching him, dazed but certainly knowing and yet he does nothing to stop Bettel from seeking that special little spot inside him, and finally Bettel fucks into it. Flay legs shiver as he tries to grit his teeth before he lets out the most disgustingly erotic moan, his face scrunches in a way that can’t be voluntary. Bettel can’t help his own stupid grin as he memorizes that exact angle of his hips with repetition, fucking into Flay recklessly. Catlike eyes slammed shut in a wince of pain and pleasure and premonition, his mouth hangs open and drool drips from his fangs down his lips as a string of undignified, involuntary noises careens into the air, becoming more desperate, more broken, more needy as Bettel outpaces him. Flayon’s gymnast figure goes soft and pliant in his grasp, muscles drugged tender, squeezing him, like a hug from a life-sized doll. He can’t keep up, Bettel leans on his elbows so his face hovers directly above Flayon’s as he presses into him over and over and over, the snap of skin on skin sure to leave his hips and Flayon’s ass blushing. Flayon’s breath, his skin, his scent, the inside of him, it’s all so hot and perfect and, in this moment, free and dedicated exclusively to him. Neither of them can bite back moans anymore, so it all comes out: Flay babbles incoherently in his precious voice, letting every part of it spin out of his control. Bettel rips out Flayon’s wires and laces with his dick until he’s raw, shivering, vulnerable, tears in his eyes and drool down his chin. Then Bettel bottoms out in him and stays there for a moment. A long moment, catching his breath. With his nails Flay cuts across his back, sobbing “Bettel, Bettel, Bettel, fuh– ffuck you, pleaase don’t—”
Bettel holds either side of his face, “L… look at me, Flayon.” Flay’s wet eyes pry open, doing as they’re told. Look at me looking at you. “I love you.”
A gasp.
“I love you, Flayon–” He cuts himself off with a low moan as he thrusts into him, devastatingly rough. Flay hiccups, bright eyes wide. “I love you,” he matches his pace again, still holding Flay’s face, speaking almost directly into his mouth “I love you, I love you, I love you–”
Flay throws his head back, crying out, melting as his whole body arching off the bed and into Bettel as his hands reach and grasp and dig into his back, orgasming with his whole body as he cums between his and Bettel’s tummies. His cunt tightens, perfect and right around Bettel’s cock and sucks him in for good. Kissing and biting down into the first place his mouth can find on Flay’s body, his neck, Bettel fills him up with his cum. Flay’s hips shake as he takes it all, a couple more desperate pumps of Bettel’s cock and he’s stuffed, impossibly warm and so, so full. Flayon’s breathing sounds like a series of gasps as he still clings to Bettel, coming down. Bettel’s breath still wets the fresh bruise blooming on Flay’s throat.
“Bettel,” His voice is thin, throat evidently tight, “I love you so much.” He takes a wheezy breath in, his soft chest rising high to take as big of a gulp of air as he can.
He delays momentarily, awestruck by the revelation in Flayon’s voice, before reaching over and grabbing Flay’s inhaler from the pocket of his coat, long discarded on the edge of the bed, shaking it quickly. “Breathe out,” He’s watched Flay do this hundreds of times, the reminders may be more or less necessary as he drifts back down from his orgasm. He holds the mouthpiece to Flay’s lips, and he obediently wraps them around it. Bettel knows not to instruct further as Flay breathes in, hands shaking while he hopes he's doing this right, pushing down the canister. Flay’s eyes flutter shut. He pulls it away and watches him hold the breath, before opening his eyes and letting it go.
He breathes slowly, deliberately, in and out, in and out– Bettel wants to praise him for letting him help, but stops knowing Flay will scold him for treating him like a kid. His gaze meets Flayon’s, glassy eyes staring up into his, his lips smeared with drool and parted as he breathes deeply. Exhausted, Bettel practically collapses on top of Flay. He wraps his arms around him, wishing they could be somehow closer, even as the places where their skin meets burns, and from each glowing site an unfamiliar (or, maybe, forgotten) feeling nestles into the silence. Bettel guesses this is more than something-and-not-nothing. Flay hums a satisfied hum at the contact.
“You mean it, right?” It comes out soft, muffled in Bettel’s hair.
“Of course.” Bettel responds, without hesitation. “What do you mean, ‘do I mean it’? I wouldn’t say something like that without meaning it.”
“Prove it.” Flay says, quickly.
He thinks about it for a moment. “I mean, I haven’t pulled out yet.”
Flay laughs. It started out a small, sweet giggle, that picks up momentum as he hiccups short little breaths– cut off by his own laughter– into his bright, warm cackle when you know something is thoroughly hilarious to him. To Bettel, it sounds whole.
Flayon’s life is long, Bettel thinks to himself as he pulls the exhausted other up to go shower, because he can anticipate the complaints from Flay about feeling disgusting, sweaty all over with cum still leaking out of his ass, in the morning. Flay’s life is terribly long, he knows that much and little more. He’s like a star, burning up thousands of light years away, glowing hotter and brighter than the sun, forever only half-understood by humans. Sometimes drifting in to meet us, sometimes further away, to a cold and lonesome future.
This is the drive of all performers, he supposes; to put smiles on people’s faces. But now, he feels less of a need for people and more of a need for one lone star.
As Flay’s hands rub slow, soapy circles into his back, Bettel realizes he could never know what all 18,433 years have taken from him. He knows it can’t be fixed. He knows that, in the grand scheme, he could just be a flash; a comet setting the sky on fire for just a moment before disappearing forever. It becomes his turn to massage rose-scented shampoo into Flay’s scalp, and in seeing Flayon’s sleepy smile form the words I love you, Bettel, one thought erases all others: I don’t mind fading away, even in your own mind, if it’s you I can make happy, now. If it’s just you and me, hold my hand until the flash is gone.