Archive of Our Own

Week after week blends together. 

Henry is grateful beyond belief that they’ve finally moved past spat-out debates about ethics and money and eternal philosophical quandary re:re:re: who pays. The verdict is a system, finally, that allows them to at least make it to medium-nice hotels, on Gansey’s credit that he has never been too shy to accept and that Sargent has finally allowed. His own money is still forbidden, which is grating, but all progress is progress, so it is good. He’s already survived this long without a gaming console or chauffeurs, another night of trying to sleep in the too-small backseat of a car dreamt with built-in magic turbulence might have killed him. 

There are no successes, though, without immediate cons. A car means constant movement, a constant flow of excuses to avoid phone calls with conveniently dropped connections. His mother is persistent, and too acutely aware of far too much. She knows, and he knows, that now there is no yes I know they won’t understand what I say but what if they Google it and what if he remembers a phrase that translates to crime, organized, return-to-sender Seondeok of Seattle, or what if I sound too much like myself and scare them off, no I promise I will remember to call you back, Mother, there is a roadside attraction here that is so egregiously American and fake that I must be seen witnessing it or allow this entire charade/facade to crumple. No, I wouldn’t lie to you. You don’t trust me? Yes, Laumonier is still in Alberta. Or dead. Noー I have no proofー well he’s not in fucking Oregon! 

No, now he has to pick up her calls. This is more attention than she’s ever offered him in his life, and his body recoils at the change, a pure and instinctual distrust. Dissociating through the worst of it comes easy, but even that is a muscle overstretched, overtaxed. He’s tired. He was tired a month ago, he’s tired today, he will be tired for the weeks to come. He will not abandon post. He clinks the thick edge of a glass against the shiny table, circling it around and relishing the horrible creak of fiction. There is no illegally-acquired alcohol left. He takes a moment to curse United States law, and then his mother, for forcing him into the region in the first place. 

Henry unmutes the phone, pressing it tight enough to his ear that it makes his cheekbone ache. “Yes,” he replies, tightening his fist. White rage foams, bubbles off the edge of drink, frustration pressing tight against the thin walls of the mid-tier hotel glass, so stubbornly solid until it isn't; splitting with a crack that gets swept up in the morning sounds of birdsong. There's a shake to his breath, still, so he lets his fingers wrap around a facet of broken glass, squeezing it tight enough for it to slice into his palm, pain barely overtaking the discordant sound in his brain. He knows what is expected of him: it rarely has ever come easy. “I have been.” 

Now, Seondeok changes her language: her voice is lower, still pleasant ーan Aside with the cast still on the stage. A threat, but in good company. He wonders how many suits, what colors, which shoes. Absurdly, he recalls sitting in the Ganseys’ white-walls-white-interior-white-tablecloth dining room again, and isn't quite able to stop a sharp sound escaping his mouth. “Hm. Are you being difficult, Henry?”

“No, mother. Of course not.”

A low intonation of acknowledgement that doesn’t edge to approval. Who else would know him better than a woman that is both his mother and an off-brand psychic? “That is good, if so. I will call again, when you are needed. Do not pick up any calls from the East Coast, that's no longer our business. Forward them, if you must. You remember, yes? Do not interfere.” 

She cuts the call before anything as redundant as pleasantries. Whomever she is around will mistake any Korean phrases they don't understand as a doting mother. Henry supposes he is not surprised, but it never is a pleasant experience, either. He turns his hand and grinds an irritating piece of glass down with his knuckle, if only to silence the shrill tinnitus in his ear that would have him fling the table over the balcony of this very medium hotel. That is being difficult. In a nicer place, the hotel staff are more used to the whims of entitled teenaged boys. In a nicer reality, he does not have two sensitive dictionary examples of nervous young love to mind. For a moment, petulantly, he regrets everything: a childish, spoilt thought: I want to go home. And then he exhales, and lets it go.

The pain is beginning to set in, with each breath that loosens the adrenaline in him. Now, he leans over the mess of glass to toss his phone on the table, to begin the burdensome task of picking shards out of his ruined hand. The scratches will vanish, eventually. But they still singe now, beading red in growing pinpricks. A familiar longing ache starts up again immediately, filling the space left in his empty chest. Robobee turns itself back online, falling out of his shirt pocket; collapsing on the table with a clink and then shifting itself to blink menacingly at him. His phone lights up with map data on ERs in the vicinity and medical professionals he assumes will not ask questions. His mother's work won't take time. The thought of a stranger touching him feels too much like sharing a secret, today. He can get stitches later.

He gets to work.

“I don’t know,” Blue mumbles, glancing at the curtained balcony Henry’s left through. He’s been out for a minute, but she’s learned by now that it’s impossible to predict how long his calls will last. Gansey’s hand dragging up her stomach feels nice. Would it be worth the humiliation of being caught like this? No. He huffs, unoffended, still weighed down by sleep. She’s perched on the edge of the bed, Gansey’s bare arm around her like she’s a particularly opinionated teddy bear. His voice is muffled by the pillow he has his face pressed against. 

“It’s not like he’ll mind. Why don’t you go check on him? See if he'll be long.”

She frowns, flattening her palm over his back, the feel of his skin sending a shiver through her. She pauses at a patch of clustered freckles, running her fingers in a circle just to feel him shift. His voice strains pleasantly. “Go talk to him. He'll get another room if you ask.”

“I don’t want to kick him out forー forー this!” For the sake of her principles, she abruptly stands, stalking away from Gansey’s quiet laugh. 

Shoving aside the copious amount of curtain, she manages to get a grip onto the edge of the sliding door, shoving it open with more effort than it seems to take either of the other two. “Say, Henry, I wasー oh, Hell! ”

It feels a bit like she's caught a child with his hand down a jam-filled cookie jar. Cheng's arm jerks a bit like he wants to hide it, but between the diffuse morning light and the stained white plastic table, there's not really anywhere he can go. He shrugs. 

“I was holding a glass. I am no longer holding that glass.” 

She stares down at him. He's shorter than her like this, but not by much. Discomfort swirls in the pit of her stomach. She's reminded of standing in a convenience store last year, made aware, for the first time, of how far Henry Cheng would go to protect secrets. “I'm looking at an accident?”

An out, offered. He can decide if he wants to take it, Blue thinks. By the prolonged silence between them, he wants to. He stares into the middle distance, at the foggy trees and clouded sky of the indistinct tourist town they've stumbled onto. This is a concession, she understands. An allowance to see him sift through words and phrases, to put thought into something concrete. “I try not to get angry,” he says. He side eyes her, a bit like he’s waiting to be reprimanded. “Sometimes it is stupid. Often, yes. Don’t think too hard about it?” 

Blue thinks she might have been upset, if she'd thought he was a threat, if it wasn't complete chance that she'd even caught him like this. It makes her a bit nauseous, thinking about his life, but… something about the steady drip of blood tugs at her, making her duck back inside and then back out before he can even settle back against the plastic chair.

“Let me help,” she demands.

“Presidー” 

“Give me your hand.” 

“Why?”

“Your hands aren't small enough,” she says, and knows she's got him when his mouth tightens up, dipping at the corners. “You can't do it on your own. And you'll just hurt the other one diggin’ at it like that. Give it to me.” 

It takes him a minute of watching her like a rehomed dog, nervous yet wanting. She says nothing more, watching the wind pick up overgrown hair from behind his ears, obscure the gentle dip between his brows. She likes that it's ungelled, loose. It feels correct somehow, better suits how stern the rest of his face is, with the grey hollows of his cheekbones. It must look good on camera, but he looks a little gaunt to her, more stern with his hair out of his face. She tilts her head, when she feels something tap against her face, pressing Robobee between her cheek and her shoulder in a faux hug. It whirs at her before vanishing again. She keeps watching him.

Henry gives her his hand.

She's despicable. She should be humiliated. Or feel some more measure of shame than she does, really. It sparks a heat up her spine, as he watches her, even as she justifies to herself that he’s probably looking more at the growing gashes on his hand than her. Exceptー well, her and Gansey have had very little time together of the personal, unsensible sort, and the stretches of waiting make her… acutely aware of how close they are like this. The balcony (terrace?) is already cramped, barely up to the boys’ elbows yet just tall enough for the walls to feel oppressive like this. The air is still bitingly cold, and she knows her chest is hard and obvious under the useless cotton of her chemise. If she leaves to get a coat, she'll ruin the moment. She’s used to dressing reactionary and unsexed: it’s difficult to equate the concept of Blue Sargent, real human girl; Blue Sargent, adult woman with a kiss curse no longer; to herself. She’s no Orla, will never be, but feeling two familiar pairs of eyes on her is… well, not unpleasant. 

She brings up her knee, uses it to stabilize Henry’s hand as she digs for a slippery piece of glass. It must hurt, but he makes no sound. The feeling of his warm wrist against her skin makes all her hair stand on end, the tweezer in her hand trembling, an electric jolt down her spine that makes her jerk. She thinks she wants to cross her legs again, doesn’t. When she looks back up at him, he’s looking at her with that complicated expression again, but it passes as he clears his throat. “I don’t know if I am supposed to tell you this, Wendybird, for feminism’s sake and whatnot, but I can see up your shorts. Are those shorts? Do they even count? Does the negative part of negligee apply here?”

She glares, but knows it lacks heat. “Pick glass out of your own hands if it’s a problem, youー youー”

“Aglionby bastard,” he finishes for her, cracking into a real smile, something that relieves her even if it makes his face fall into sharp, attractive contrast. Gansey smiles like he’s sharing a secret with the world, like everyone’s in on it. Henry smiles like he knows something she doesn’t. It’s sweet, even if that faraway look in his eyes hasn’t quite left. “I was. ”

“Shush,” she says instead, stretching out her free leg, knowing his eyes are following it right up. Her panties are dark. He probably can’t tell if she’s wet. Still, something in her stomach throbs at his unsubtle path up. “It’s not any worse than Gansey’s shorts.”

“You’re right, these probably have a longer inseam.” Despite herself, her mouth quirks. It makes the silence comfortable again, easy. Making fun at Gansey’s expense is familiar, and Gansey himself is prone to acknowledging it with a bright smile. Besidesー his shorts are near-obscene, especially now that he seems to have shed his senses of stringent propriety. Legs splayed, curled up, stretched over the back seat… it thrills her, a bit, that Henry’s noticed it too. 

She tries to ignore the weight of his gaze on her ー and the heat it sparks up her spine. She holds her breath as he leans in closer, dark eyes straying from their joined hands. She barely feels the thin strap of her vest fall. It's only when Henry reaches out an easy hand that she notices, the edges of his knuckles just barely brushing her shoulder, fingertips sliding up her arm. She catalogs herself: disintegrating braids, old gel still sticking up her too-short layers in inconsistent spikes, bare face. Her mediocre slip, the cold air, the light, shocking brush of his fingers. He smells like aftershave and inoffensive hotel soap, entirely in her space as he drags the bit of fabric back up her shoulder. His thumb presses against her collarbone a moment too long, lingering in hot brand. Blue doesn’t mean to gasp, but her sigh is entirely too breathy to be anything but. She knows his eyes are lingering on her peaked chest, which is a surprise to her somehow, enough for her to cough, cross her legs. The motion brings their joined hands to rest at her thigh. “I noticed you and Rich courting like medieval peasants this morning,” he says, with a laugh that should make her feel more offended than it does. “If you want me to get out for a bit, I don’t mind.” His abrupt grin jars her a little, feels a bit too full of teeth to be real. “I can get another room, too. Far be it for me to interrupt young love.”

Blue hesitates. She swallows. Feels his gaze on her throat. Sees his teeth scrape over his lower lip, like he can barely resist the urge to bite. She thinks she wants him to. “What if,” she murmurs, “You stayed anyway?”

“Wendy,” he says, long on the vowel. Slow, a warning. Careful. His smile doesn't change, but his eyes are sharp. She thinks she likes complicated.

“We can ask Gansey right now.”

That, finally, breaks his tension. “Fuck,” he laughs, shaking his head. His clean hand presses warm against the side of her cold neck, his tee gaping just slightly as he stands, leaning in to kiss her forehead. He leaves dry, chaste kisses till her ear, voice low: “You two. As much as I want to, I’m not going to finger you with glass in my hands.” Oh. “But I would like you to ask Gansey what he thinks. I’m going to leave now, and you two are going to have a nice long talk, and we’ll see what happens tonight. If it’s nothing, it’s nothing. If it is not, then it is not. Easy? Good. Easy.”

It sounds far less difficult than it is. Henry leaves her on the balcony alone after that, and is actually gone by the time the cold forces her back inside to wash her hands off. Gansey is still dozing, flat on his back now, awake enough to sigh contently when she throws a leg over him and settles against his chest. “Hi,” he murmurs, voice raspy, nose crinkling with the force of his smile. It makes her feel warm, enough to lean into his hands as he brings them up to hold her. He’s still nervous, uncertain, but he gets a little bit bolder every time. It excites her, because as much as he is irritating, Gansey’s also always at his best when he’s not too busy thinking. She likes him when he’s just himself: sour, dramatic, earnest. “Where’s Cheng?”

“Out,” she says, betraying herself with the breathlessness in her voice. It isn't as if anything about this is subtle, but she'll hold tight to that visage of propriety until the end of days.

“Oh,” Gansey says. His hands shift from the dip of her waist to slip under her shorts, light, thoughtful. He skates looping patterns along her skin, along the little indents left by her waistband. She shivers. “For how long?”

“He said he’d be back tonight.”

Finally, wide hands drag her forward, her short shorts and underthings just shy of Gansey’s collarbone. He squints up, so she dips her face down to let him see her, relishing his little hum of pleasure. “Will you consider what he said?”

“Howー”

In place of an answer, he just tugs her forward, licking over her, through her shorts and panties, nearly zero pressure, still warm enough to make her curl forward. “Because we talked,” he says, like it’s anything casual. “Because, Jane, I don’t need to be this close to see how your conversation went.”

“Did itー” he kisses her again, and she nearly chokes, “Did it go like that for you too, then?”
He nips at her clit through the fabric. “Yes,” he says, gripping tight, flipping their positions. She oofs against the too-plush bed, letting him tug fabric off her. He leaves her slip on. Gansey sits up on his knees, gently kissing the side of her bare ankle. “We didn’t… want to do anything, not without your approval.” He runs his fingers up and down the fuzz on her calf, slowly making his way further down. “But in all truth… Christ, Blue, I don’t think I’ve ever been that hard in my life. Lives.” 

“You didn’t say,” she murmurs, tongue numb in her mouth as he drags his teeth down the back of her knee, inching closer to where she wants him. His cheek is soft against her. He hasn’t shaved, but his stubble doesn’t poke. Henry's does, in the rare times she leans across the center console to poke at his cheek, laughing at his distressed, focused frown ー too many mirrors, he'd said about driving once. 

“You were asleep,” Gansey sighs. “In that hideously indecent set, mind you.” 

“It’s,” His thumbs dig into the soft skin of her inner thigh, barely dipping into the mound of hair between her thighs. Her voice is low, genuinely confused. “Inappropriate?”

“Jane, far be it for me to deny feminist self-expression, but it doesn’t cover a damn thing. Agonizing, the entire night.” He dips his head before she can argue, dragging his tongue up her soaked folds to suck at her clit, hard. His hand reaches up to tweak her nipple through her shirt, slithering down to wrap around her hip, keeping her movement controlled as he makes contact. She’s worked up enough that it nearly hurts, oversensitive against her aching cunt. She wonders if she'd mind waking up to this, and then immediately files away the thought for later use. “You’re so wet. You soaked through your shorts, too, did you know? I could see. Do you think Henry saw?” Heat pulses in her stomach, her thighs clenching tight around Gansey’s head, unable to squirm away from his firm grip, relentless pressure where she’s most vulnerable. “Would you like it if he did?”

Heー he might have. She isn't sure, but the thought makes her cry out anyway, toes curling, lunging to grip Gansey's hair to stay steady. He holds himself still, his grip on her loose enough to let her get herself off, not looking up, focused entirely on what he can see, which is her cunt, slick and hot as he nudges two fingers into her, crooking upward. She curses, panting, fluttering around his thicknessー his hands aren't huge, but she’s irritatingly small, something she’s all too aware of when they’re like this. “He’s probably bigger than this,” he frowns, almost in faux-thought, before bullying a third finger into her, strong arm now stopping her from bucking off the bed. She squeezes her eyes shut. She comes near the instant she realises that Gansey’s thinking about it, visualising Henry fucking her, and itー it should be horrifying, misogynisticー shockingー demeaningー but she hears herself whine instead, clenching down as much as she can on his fingers as it goes on and on. She actually sobs when he laps at her clit, making it start all over again when she’s barely gotten over the first one. The second crest almost hurts, makes her jerk violently, only kept down by the rowing muscle still desperately clinging onto Gansey’s arm.

“Good,” he gasps. “Good, Christ, you did so well, Jane.” He drags himself up to kiss her, mouth tasting of her, the thrill of the forbidden not yet gone entirely. His mouth is hot against her, a dance with every other step missed, messy, desperate. “Can Iー”

“Yeah,” she sighs immediately. “Tell me what he said to you.”

Gansey, already pink, flushes further, ducking his head a bit in shame as he pulls himself out. Blue watches the ruddiness spread to the tips of his shoulders, cock dark and leaking as he hisses under his breath. She enjoys seeing him spun out like this. It makes her feel bigger than her body, huge, high as the sky. “He saidー he said it’d be best for us to talk about it together. That he wouldn’t put me on my, Christ, on my knees. Not without youー there to watch.”

“Oh,” she sighs, wrapping her leg around him as he pulls her up by the hips, letting her legs rest along the tops of his thighs, dig into his sides. He’s put on a good amount of thickness to his body, but hasn’t lost his strength, and as much as he likes to talk about decency, it’s his shirtless lounging that she finds to be another curse. Every movement makes his skin shiver, the lines of his tan beginning to grow less harsh with how often his shirt vanishes. Less decorum, now. She likes how relaxation looks on him, pairing strangely with his innate obsessiveness fluttering around, fruitlessly attempting to find new avenues. These days, the focus seems to be on her and Henry. That’s fine. She’s happy to deal. “Do you want to be? On your… I mean.”

He agrees in a sigh, moving a little too fast, fumbling with himself. Blunt pressure, twin moans. They both sigh as he bottoms out, and for just a moment, she’s grateful for Orla’s stack of birth control and obnoxious wink, as humiliating as it’d been back then. “I wouldn’t… mind, er, receiving, too, if it’s alright.” She clenches around him at that, and he groans, low, pleased. There’s an ease to it, really ー innately, they both know it’s near-impossible to turn the other off permanently, a side effect to true love that’s far nicer than her previous self-imposed celibacy. Even if this is much the same as it always is, she still likes feeling him inside her. It’s comfortable, not nudging anywhere it could hurt, familiar and pleasant in the way a childhood bed is. He’s gentle, easy and reserved even in this, his own lip caught between his teeth as he already begins to buckle, eyes caught on her chest as she gets the hint and rucks up her top. He thrusts hard when he sees her bare for the first time, both of them gasping at the thrill it sends through her. 

“I’d like that,” she says, egging him on with a heel to the spine. “I bet you’d look nice.” She’s too ashamed to say it out loud, but she thinks it, and wonders if Henry would hold Gansey down for her, keep his plush, bitten mouth open for her to spit in. He might like that. Noー if she likes it, he absolutely will. She wonders if he’d settle behind Gansey like this, too, squeezing the parts of his body she can’t reach, leaving ruddy splashes. If he’d adjust his angle, his rhythm. Too fast, maybe, hands tight on his thick waist, so both Gansey and her’d whine the same. She slides her hand between them, tweaking her sore clit as he speeds up, brainlessly moving toward whatever makes him feel good. She likes how glassy-eyed and desperate he gets when he’s close ーwishes that she could keep him like that for longer. “I bet you think about it, even when you do this.” She reaches up a hand until he leans his head down for her to reach. His mouth is warm when she slides her fingers against his swollen lips, petting against his serrated teeth, his soft tongue. He sucks her fingers without being told, jerking his head back and forth, loud the whole while, shaky as he humps her with no rhythm or thought. He whines when he comes, the messy heat inside her warm and pleasant, mingling into her own quiet orgasm. 

He collapses into her after, all tongue and mouth and slow, thorough kissing. She’s so caught up in the novelty of it that she nearly forgets her morning ーnearly. “Gansey,” she whispers, letting him squeeze her as he dozes, arms fully wrapped around her in place of his pillow, his face pressed into her fuzzy stomach. “I seriously do think we need to talk about him. I don’t think he’s doing well.”

Gansey hums. “It’s his mother. She’s been calling a lot, lately.” 

“Do you think something’s happening?”

“None of our business if it is. But,” he raises his head, chin digging into the softness of her belly, “we can make him feel better about it. If you’d like.”

“I’d like,” she agrees.

They're showered and clean by the time Henry trudges back in, with a polite knock and entrance approximately 3 seconds after said knock. He looks a bit dour, blank face becoming bright as he turns around, letting the door slam behind him. He shoves his jacket off with a flourish, and it flies somewhere far over their heads, never to be found again. 

“Where were you?” Gansey asks, polite and smiling as he reaches over Blue's head in his lap to shake his hand. His fingers are cold, flushed at the fingertips, but his palm is warm, fitting well over Gansey’s own. 

“Working,” he complains, a little too low before he brings it back into overdramatic whinging. “I need a labor union, Sargent, shouldn’t you be doing something about that? She doesn’t even pay me, let alone for days off.”

“I don’t know if legal organizations would help with your illicit affairs, Cheng,” Gansey smiles, tugging him down by the same grip until Henry, too, ends up on the other side of Gansey’s lap. Blue smiles quietly to herself. Gansey busies himself with petting down his hair just as he’s been petting hers. Henry sighs, drawn-out, like it’s the first easy breath he’s taken today. He rubs at his nose with his other hand, which is packed with bandages but seemingly undamaged. Learned self-preservation means Gansey does not ask questions.

“You’d be surprised. I think the Yakuza has a nicer workplace environment than my mother does.” 

Gansey thinks he doesn’t want to debate how verified that statement is. It’s easier when they don’t ask questions, when his business is private, implied and hidden between several layers of jokey innuendo. “How terrible,” he says, aiming for teasing yet unable to keep the sincerity out of his voice. 

Henry blinks up at him, the fatigue on his face clearing fast. It vanishes further as he pets down Cheng’s sternum, letting his palm linger in the center of his chest. There’s strength there, a different type of athlete than Gansey had been, hollow-boned and slender where he’s thick and solid. Track, tennis, or just tension. Gansey splays his hand, feeling up an expanse of heated skin through the thin shirt. “Can we make it up to you?” He can Henry’s heart like this, beating strange and uneven. Condensed potential, he thinks. Something starting. Something that can last, if they don’t ruin it first.

He coughs, suddenly embarrassed, shifting his gaze away from Henry’s unmoving, unlegible stare, flitting over Blue instead. “We, ah. We thought we mightー help you recoverー togetherー”

“Okay,” Cheng cuts him off. Amusement, encouragement. “Do.”

Fire sparks up Gansey’s spine, overwhelming, ember to blaze in the second it takes him to curl down. The kiss is awkward, sideways, their mouths wet and uncoordinated, his other hand fisting into Blue’s shirt. It’s a bit like trying to kiss a live wire, but he does his best anyway, shifting past the static charge to lick Cheng’s tongue, moaning in his throat at the taste of artificial strawberry and the bitten-through copper of his plush lip. It’s tart and sweet, distracting enough that he doesn’t register Blue’s gaze on them until he draws back for breath. 

She’s upright now, barely letting Gansey out of the way before she leans over Cheng. The sound they make together makes his stomach jolt, a low impact of skin that has his stomach searing hot. Gansey instinctively pets a hand through her hair, winces when it accidentally knocks into Henry’s. A momentary scuffle, then, before he’s positioning Gansey’s palm against the curve of her skull, pressing it down with his own. Blue makes a high sound in the second of space Cheng gives her, and it makes him dizzy so fast that he has to lean back on the bed, watching them nip at each other, still half on his lap. 

He wants to curse, but can’t think of what to say. “Christ,” He murmurs through a numb mouth, only barely catching Henry’s attention, who finally pushes Blue off of him. She looks wrecked already, wet-mouthed and wild-eyed. “Hey. Come up?” 

Blue half collapses over him as she does, clumsily knocking against his teeth before she settles, their kiss caught up with the inexplicable tastes of all three of them. Her hand rucks up his shorts, as always, eternally fascinated with pressing hard until she can feel the muscle beneath the softness. It always edges to the side of too painful; the indents pink against his flesh, but it makes something uncurl very pleasantly in his abdomen, so he will never argue against it. It feels shockingly good to be watched as he kisses her, even better as she drags her teeth over his neck, his trachea. Henry watches them for real this time, sharp, eyebrows knitted together. There’s a longing to it, for something more. Instead of saying anything, he tilts his head further in open invite.

It’s accepted. Henry accidentally puts pressure on his bad hand scrambling up, and Gansey isー ashamedー that the hiss of pain makes his cock twitch. And then it’s his teeth, biting harder than Blue is, scraping and sharp and so much so fast that he burns in his own skin. He manages to get his hand into Cheng’s hair and drag him to his mouth, equally full of teeth, a kiss that makes his mind spin out of his head. He follows it up, forcing Cheng back until Blue refocuses, and Henry hits the headboard this time, somehow seeming shocked at the change in position. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Wait, Iー” He's cut off by Blue's sunk teeth into his shoulder, a moment of silence where they all pull away to stop, blink ghoulishly at one another. Henry laughs. “Shit. Shit. Move back a sec.” They do. Cheng peels his black t-shirt off of himself, all pale and exposed as they scramble to follow him. It's not new for Gansey to be shirtless on this bed, but it is new to be watched openly, hot at the ears, appraised fully before dark eyes go over to Blue. Gansey watches his ribs through his skin, coming into and falling out of sharp contrast as he drags Blue close, skin to skin, sliding a wide palm up her freckled back. 

He settles himself along their side, flushed, slack-jawed, starstruck by the way she throws her head back, letting Cheng mouth at herー herー chest, the other side easily covered by his hand. She's small and pert, something he would never risk saying out loud but adores nonetheless. Gansey’s mesmerized by the splotches of red left by the grope; Blue’s skin is too dark for her to blush, but her lighter chest pools blood beautifully. A snap of Henry’s fingers make Gansey jump, blinking into himself as he’s beckoned forward to mouth at her spare tit. She keens beautifully, small hands snaking into both of their hair, squirming on Cheng’s lap, legs forced apart. He sneaks a hand down, hearing her pitch higher as he brushes though soaked folds, easily crooking two fingers up for her to grind down on. The back of his hand brushes something he belatedly realizes is Cheng’s hard cock, novel and thrilling and shocking. He likes it a whole lot, and is promptly horrified that it's taken them this many weeks to get around to it.

Blue’s nipples are slick and swollen by the time she shoves them off, shivering, oversensitive. She hasn’t stopped humping his hand, but he knows she can’t come like this, no matter how shaken and overwhelmed. Gansey disentangles from her slowly, both men struck dumb at the gorgeous pitch of her complaint. “She,” Gansey clears his throat, surprised by the grit in his voice. “She, ah, wanted toー to take you. In. Inー well. That way.”

Henry doesn’t speak, just nods once before he hooks his fingers into her fresh pair of sleep-shorts, ripping through the seam. There's complaints said, probably, but Gansey can't hear them, hearing muffled by the sheer impact of his arousal. He zeroes in on Cheng's pale hand against her warm, darker skin, movements sure, his fingernails more ragged than one would expect: once bitten raw, healed not too long ago. 

He sinks his teeth into her shoulder as he watches Henry fumble with his zipper. Cheng's taller than he is, so it shouldn't be a surprise that everything is proportional, cut and long, flushed the same shade of pink as his mouth. He hears a noise, realizes too late it's Blue's quietly pained little moan ー he unhooks his teeth from her skin, soothing a tongue over the accidental brand in apology. She turns her head to let him kiss her, wet and thick, both barely able to rationalize anything beyond tongue and teeth.

He opens his eyes, squinting to the side to catch a look on the other man that is so much it makes him break away from her with a rough sound. Henry doesn’t say anything when she turns back, except a quick motion of his hand toward Gansey that he just understands, somehow. He wraps an arm around her middle, easily lifting her up high. For a thrilling, guilty moment, he's intensely pleased that she's so compact. 

She nearly wails. It's haunting and erotic and a little humiliating, to hear a noise he's never once heard from her. She shakes like a leaf as he slowly lets her sink further onto Henry's cock, all her weight on Gansey, and it warms him, the trust. She pants when she gets it all in, spare hand nudging toward her navel, body squirming in little unconscious jolts as she slowly rolls her hips into it. There's a familiar tightness to the tendon of her throat, face scrunching in the way she does when she comes. “Hurts,” she mumbles, sounding drunk, shifting back and forth, like it feels too good to stop. His heart beats so fast in this throat he worries, vaguely, about dying another time before this is over. “Oh, God, Henry, move. ”

Cheng laughs, which bucks his hip harder into Blue, which makes them both groan. “You've got to go first, Birdie.” He bares his teeth. “No equestrian experience needed.”

“I hate you,” she hisses, letting her head fall back against Gansey’s shoulder. “Ganseyー you, ugh, could you…”

Feeling lightheaded, he hears her, drawing her back up, giving Henry room to spear upward. His forearm presses tight along her bare skin, squeezing her small breast, holding her weight but also keeping her pinned. She manages to get her knees stabilized, but she still has to splay wide for him, shaky as Gansey loosens his hold. He presses his fingertips into her trembling thigh instead, dragging his fingertips through the fuzz of body hair. He shifts his gaze to Cheng instead, sucking in a sharp breath. He looks good like this, eyebrows knitted together, jaw set. His eyes are narrowed in on Blue, at the point where they connect and Gansey can’t quite see. He flicks his eyes up to catch Gansey watching, pulling on a smile too late that doesn’t soften his expression whatsoever. 

There’s a hint there, subtle. Gansey shifts over to drag three fingers roughly over her clit, losing rhythm when she squeals, and Cheng hisses. Gansey knows her muscles are trembling by the way her face scrunches up as she comes. He presses a kiss to the soft of her cheek, and tries to remember to breathe.

Gansey needs toー he needsー more. He fumbles for his khakis’ button with numb fingers. He manages to pull himself out, zipper scratching the back of his hand as he hisses, oversensitive. He’s wetter than he would have expected, the slide of his palm easy and slick as he takes the edge off, dangerously close to losing it. It’s difficult to stop, though, mind aflame with the afterimage of Blue burned into his retinas. He forces his eyes open to watch Cheng’s face, distracted by lust, focused enough that it makes his traitorous hand speed up, hazy eyes only able to take in the expanse of Blue’s brown skin, Henry’s collarbones fighting to rip out of his skin, and it’s all entirely too much, he just needs a second moreー

“Gansey, stop. ”
It’s a strong tone. Worse, it hits some latent part of his hindbrain that obeys instantly, freezing him where he is, feeling a vein along his thumb throb in protest.
“Let go. Not yet.”

He peels his hand off his cock, panting, fumbling as he falls back onto the bed, barely able to get his palms under him enough to stay upright. Blue’s lying across Cheng’s chest now, cheek pressed to his skin, drunken eyes sliding over to Gansey behind her. He could say he doesn’t zero in his eyes between her legs, where she’s still clenched tight around the other man, the sight obscene yet shockingly right. Henry can see him better this way, enough to beckon him closer; knowing he’ll shakily follow, splaying a hand across Blue’s speckled back as he leans in to kiss him, unbearably hot, only able to rationalize that he’d been so close. They get caught up in that, until Gansey’s thinking more about the electric slide of his mouth again, the threat of teeth, whatever they have swelling, expanding, hole in the ground, wars of mettle waged and won and一 he is interrupted.

Blue shoves at him a little blindly, and he settles himself by their side instead, sinking his teeth into the blushed jut of bone along Henry’s shoulder as he watches her sit back up again. It’s an incredible sight, enough so that he groans quietly, so full and wired and unable to do anything about it. “You’re hurting my cervix,” she snarls at Cheng, and then yelps as he thrusts up in retaliation. “Bastard!”

“Where else would you have me go, bird?” 

Gansey has to wrench his teeth away from Henry's shoulder, or he's going to draw blood. He bites his own lip instead, cheek pressed to the thrill of Cheng’s skin, unable to take his eyes off of where her cunt wraps around him, buried to the hilt, their dark hair nearly melting into each other. He slides his spare hand up Cheng's chest, pressing deep to hear the thudding of his heartbeat. Everything is alive, sweaty and new and he's so hard he could die all over again. 

“Iー justー stay still!”

Gansey jolts a little when he can feel the exaggerated groan of annoyance vibrate out of Cheng’s larynx. He shakes further when a hand pulls at his hair, nudging him further toward a pale throat. The angle is awkwardー his own neck strains from the movementー but his skin blooms red instantly, and this gratification is different from seeing his work on Blue hours later. Despite the theatrics, Cheng does stay still, letting her get what she wants, little pants making every curve on her shift as she leans back, steadying herself on Cheng’s thighs. His abs tense with every squirm, muscle trembling, but he's resolute.

It’s a gorgeous sight as she gets herself off again, again. Some mild part of his brain wonders if he should feel offended, jealous, but it is quickly drawn away with a far larger part that instead speaks the ruefully colloquial: my balls hurt. “Henry. Henry. Let meー let me… you…”

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Yeahー yeah, B, off.”

Gansey is mind blown by how anyone could ever resist being inside her, but Cheng’s cock is still hard, and tastes like Blue’s cunt when he curls his tongue around it. Reasonablyー he knows there’s been logistics involved, some passage of time, Blue sliding off and crumpling onto the bed, Gansey being nudged off of it. He doesn’t care about the hotel floor digging into his knees right now, nothing except busying himself with cleaning him up, messy and mindless licks until a sharp tug on his hair returns the vaguest of mental clarity. 

He breathes. This is it. As lovely as Blue is, there's a profound satisfaction in working to please, mouth occupied in a fuller way, jaw burning and lips stretched tight. He fumbles a hand to jerk off what he can't comfortably fit, but thinks he'll have to let it go eventually. Cheng knows full well what he can handle, going hard, amping it up in a way that Gansey recognises is a precursor to being told to do nothing but take it. It feels good, slick and warm in his stomach, in his head. He squints up bleary eyes ー grateful he's wearing contacts, still unable to blink reflexive tears out of his eyesー to be rewarded with a sharply pleased expression. 

He does look beautiful like this. It’s not gentle, rough enough that Blue knows she wouldn’t have been able to take it, but Gansey does, only choking on particularly brutal upswings. She feels mildly guilty for depriving him of a clear talent, but this is reward enough, luring her in closer so insidiously that she barely notices it until her palm is sliding up around Gansey’s warm neck, feeling his throat work, seeing his glassy eyes turn to her. She wipes off a tear with her thumb, kneels next to him, feeling up his freckled chest. She only barely tweaks his nipple to tease, not expecting his abrupt moan and subsequent wet cough as he misses the rhythm. She does it again, shivering at the way he moans, makes Henry moan. 

She thinks she hears Henry say something sharp, some warning or other that she’s missing, wiping her thumb along his bottom lip, where he’s drooling down to his chin. It's strange, this messiness something she had no idea she could want so badly. He doesn’t speak ーcan’tー but she likes how the whole world has burned off, fog in her ears andー she loves this. She loves the two of them. She likes being here next to them, between them. She likes Gansey between them. 

“You’re good,” she says, or her mouth says, too busy watching Cheng’s slick cock slide through Gansey’s plush lips. She's a little too afraid to touch, today, but she wants to tomorrow, next week, next month. His throat will be swollen, his voice raggedー she’s excited to see it. She wishes to have seen it before. Wishes she’d thought to ask. “You’re being very good. Do you like that I’m here?”

He closes his eyes, and she wipes off a spare tear with her thumb. “You do. I like that I’m here too.” She's not sure for whose benefit she's talking, but she knows both of them like it. A violent upswing shoves Gansey’s head so far back that he nearly hits her, twin groans echoing in her ears far longer than she hears them. She feels her cheeks hurting from the force of her smile, can’t pretend to hide her delight. Blue Sargent, woman. It feels good. “I think we all do.”

A quiet hiss sounds from above them; a nasty, sputtered sound from Gansey, as Henry uses the tight grip on his crown to keep him steady, forcing Gansey to stay in place as he comes. She would spit, always does, but Gansey doesn't. Always resolute, even when red in the face, taking a loud, hacking breath as he's allowed to close his mouth. She wants to look at him more, see him struggle to put himself together, but she's distracted. Henry lets go of his hair to drag her toward him instead, an easy grip on her jaw tilting her head up high enough that her neck aches. The angle is awkward butー but she hasn’t ever had a kiss like this, harsh, thorough, rough enough to make her head rattle with the force of their teeth knocking together. It’s satisfying, in the dull way of rubbing a bruised shin. Aching, lasting, immediateー then slowing. 

A low whine interrupts them. Something in her jumps when she realizes it’s Gansey, wrecked beyond recognition. “Please,” he groans. “You’re killing me.”

Henry blinks at her, shifting into something more recognizable, an easiness returning to his body as he drops down to one knee. He reaches out gently for Gansey’s face, wipes at his wet cheek, kissing him low and slow as a hand disappears beneath them. Blue scratches her hands down Gansey’s scalp, restless, wanting badly to see this the next time. She knows what his cock looks like when he's desperate, can imagine it flushed raw. It's unfair that she can't see it disappear into a smooth, pale palm. Still, it’s thrilling to feel him lean his head back into her grip, seeking touch, even as he makes quiet, overwhelmed noises between the low smacks of their mouths, their tongues curling together, the hastening sounds of Henry’s hand on his cock. 

He comes with a low, pathetic sound. Henry kisses him too, wiping his hand off on the bed sheet. After a minute, Gansey manages to stand on weak legs, groaning low as he stretches out his knees. Henry sets him back onto the cleaner side of the bed with a light grip on his arm. Blue moves too, fixated by an unbearable urge to kiss him, smoothing her hands down his skin, faltering at his bicep. They’re all covered in sweat, but this is tacky, slick and rusty on her fingers as she turns to Henry. His entire palm is red ーmisplaced weight on the hand, probablyー visceral enough that it shimmers in the light of the lamp. Immediately, she reaches her hand out to grab his, but right as she grazes the back of his palm, he snatches it back. For a single second, Blue catches panic in his eyes, wide, feral. She blinks, and then he’s gone. The cuts had been bad, but not enough for her to think he’d need stitches. Though, only because he hadn’t seemed in pain, which means nothing, she recalls now. All of Henry's complaints are theatrical and meaningless, which means that if he didn’t complain… a horrible feeling makes her sway where she stands.

“Henryー”

He's across the room, abruptly, tossing a bottle of hand sanitizer at her that she only just manages to catch before it hits Gansey’s face. “First shower,” is all he says, his smile tight enough to be a grimace. “Sorry. Clean him up, will you, Jane?”

The bathroom door locks definitively shut. Discomfort, fresh and familiar, makes her stomach ache. She wraps the jacket tighter around her middle, freezing. Gansey reaches out to pull her into a tight, overbearing hug. She lets him.

Gansey wrestles the sliding door open, creeping in quietly enough to not wake Blue. He’s a little shaken by the sharp chill, though not enough to complain. The light of the room bathes Henry half in yellow for a moment, before he’s shadowed and colorless in the moonlight again. It’s still cold enough to make his cheeks flush dark in the low light, always oversensitive, but he doesn’t ask for his jacket. He doesn’t turn around, either, hunched over and silent, bare elbows on the low concrete balcony. Something buzzes in the space below, sounds of nighttime he’s used to. Gansey settles himself behind the taller man, chin tilted up to rest awkwardly on a shoulder that's nearly too high to reach with comfort. He has to turn his head to make sure his glasses don’t dig in. But Cheng slouches, just the half inch more, and it becomes easier. 

He wraps an arm around the narrow dip of his waist. Henry tenses, the muscles in his abdomen suddenly hard against his forearm until he slowly loosens up, centimeter by centimeter. After a moment, he raises his lit, half-finished cigarette over his shoulder. Gansey takes a furtive glance at the sliding door, nervous in the space it takes for a single, shameful drag. He lets himself appreciate the acrid taste in his nose, smoke immediately making the back of his throat itch, lungs protesting as he exhales slowly. It’s terrible. It still feels like being fourteen again, pretending he doesn’t have asthma in a dust-filled mid-Europe quarry. He wonders if he can convince Blue to get a passport. 

Henry is careful not to turn his head, still staring out at the foggy nothingness of the little tourist town they’ve ended up in. Gansey pretends that the deliberate avoidance doesn’t burn a hole in his stomach. “I know your First Lady hates the smell but…” Cheng shrugs, and Gansey feels the muscle in his back move with it, “I forgot to charge the vape.” There’s an upturn to the edge of his sentence, like it’s a joke, but Gansey isn’t convinced. 

“Henry,” he says, in a near whisper into the back of his neck. “Are you happy here?” 

A sharp trill shatters the moment as cleanly as a bullet. Gansey closes his eyes in irritation, moving away to lean his hip against the wall while Henry fishes his phone out of his back pocket. He checks it, of course he does, face twisting a bit. Gansey’s been too busy looking at him, and only barely glances down enough to see a caller ID being silenced. Two initials, something that looks a little like a D in the split second he sees. He raises an eyebrow in question. “Aglionby associate,” Henry says, shuttering cleanly, “Kind of an ex, who will not refrain from asking for money. Leave it, G.”

He manages to keep his smile steady. “Okay.”

Cheng ashes, brings the smoke to his mouth again, frowning at nothing. The silence hangs for minutes. Too long. It takes effort to not ruin the tenuous string of something more that wraps around them. “Look. For eight years,” he mutters finally, “I’ve been doing everything I’m supposed to. I’m notー I don’t freak at the dark anymore. I sleep fine, I go to parties, I have…” He stops awkwardly at the word, finding it after a moment, gesturing vaguely outward with his dying cigarette, “ーfriends. I look at all this and I am supposed to think it is beautiful. I take pictures like it is.”

Horrible, roiling feeling sinks the pit of his stomach. Gansey clears his throat, wrapping the hotel blanket tighter around his chest. He's reminded, miserably, of a year ago, play-acting Roman emperors with bedsheet togas. Of potential, aching, fledgeling. Excitement for the year ahead. He swallows. “But it’s not?”

His monologue is quiet, a low and distracted musing that feels as much as a train of thought as every time Bee’s given them convoluted directions to the third-nearest-roadside-attraction. “All I can think of is that I’d… I would perhaps rather be looking at something else. Rather be somewhere else. When I am in that somewhere else, I think of yet another somewhere. We visit the Grand Canyon; I think, I want to be in Seattle. In Seattle, I think, fuck, LA would have been better. And all the time, I thinkー I wonder if Laumonier is still out there. I wonder who else will come for me. I wonder what she’ll ask of me next. Hm. Am I making good on that car payment, Mister Gansey?”

“I don’t quite know what to say,” Gansey says, because he does not. He recognises dissatisfaction, has felt it himself in country after country chasing lines and alleged phenomenon. But it's a time long past for him. He doesn't know what to do for it, can't make Blue mean the same to someone else. It's uncomfortable, he thinks, to see how abruptly young Henry appears now. Like Ronan, so much of him is bravado. With it stripped, he sees the bony curves of his fingers, cheekbones that stand out over sunken cheeks, hair unstyled and lank. He sleeps well, but his eyes edge red on the tearline, subtle when you don't look for it. So much of him is an illusion of age, helped by his wry humor, by confidence, by his height: Gansey thinks Henry might be younger than him. He hasn't thought to ask. 

The silence hangs between them, his pale throat jutting as it works. The black tee, inside-out, hides little of last night’s debauchery ー Gansey wants to put his mouth over each bruise, see if he can tell which ones Blue was responsible for. Count. Run a tally. Pen the score. A new journal, maybe, with space for meticulous columns and margins. Cheng’s sudden laughter is edged with something bitter, but it is sickly better than this uncharacteristic weakness. He feels abhorrent for thinking it. “Say nothing. Go back to bed. Your lover awaits.”

“Our lover,” Gansey says quietly. He amends. “Our lover? I was hopingー thatー for now, at least, we could be… something more than friends.”

Cheng puts the flame out on the fresh bandage of his other hand, blowing away the soot to watch the half-circle stain the gauze. “Sure,” he says, breath hitching when Gansey takes advantage of their closeness to pull him into a hug, wrapping both arms tight around the bony edges of his waist. Now he seems uncertain, nervous. Gansey presses the side of his face to his neck, imagines he can hear the pulse. “Ah. Oh.” 

“I need you to think about what it is that you want, Henry. But tell me later. Right now, come to bed,” he says, and then winces. “The untainted one, at any rate.”