“We had two kinds of love. Our race did. We explained them as pity and hate; it made the humans think we were crazy. But there was admiration in black rivalry, and our pity wasn’t contempt, it was compassion.” He cups your face with a hand that shakes like he’s on the third day of an amphetamine bender. “You always tried to handle everything yourself. Your problems and everyone else’s. You had nowhere safe in your head to go when it got to be too much, it followed you, you were angry all the time because you couldn’t let anything go. And I. I wanted. To be your safe place. Your home base. But I didn’t understand it until there was no time to do anything about it —”
His voice dries up as your hands touch his cheeks. You push his glasses up with your thumbs on the frames until they rest on top of his head. Then you kiss him. As briefly and innocently as the child-you in your dream kissed the boy with no eyes. And just like in the dream, he tastes like tears.
“I didn’t even get to say it back,” you say hoarsely.
He smiles like it hurts in the best way. “It’s okay, KK. I knew.”
You lean in again, and this kiss is a lot less innocent. He opens his mouth to you, groans softly as your tongues slide together. You scoot closer, straddling his leg, making him tilt his head back. Your hands stroke the long, vulnerable arch of his neck, the wiry breadth of his shoulders. You’ve never found male flesh sexual before, but touching him is making you want so much you’re shaking.
His long hands wrap your hips, and he pulls you against his thigh. You growl and tug his lower lip with your teeth, grind on him so he can feel how hard you are already, and both of you shudder.
You throw your head back with a gasp. “Wait.”
You immediately regret saying it, because his eyes instantly fill with shamed regret. “Sorry. Sorry, I should’ve —”
“No, fuck, shut up.” You grab a fistful of his hair and bruise his lips with a toothy two-second reassurance. “I just want to move my present off the bed, dumbass.”
He laughs weakly. “Oh.”
You get up to do that, trying to ignore the way his eyes lock onto your hardon. You drop the robe on the floor and turn out the light. There’s plenty of orangey-purple snowlight coming in from the window. He belatedly tosses his glasses at the bedside table, misses, and doesn’t even look away from you at the sound of them falling on the floor. You climb back on the bed, slowly pushing him down.
“I should ask,” he gulps, “I should ask if —”
“Shut up. No.” You loom over him, pinning his shoulders with your hands. “No, I’m not sure, I haven’t thought through my sexuality, yes I’m going to be weird about it, yes my dad will throw a shitfit and probably disown me, no I haven’t remembered anything more than those few dreams, and no I am never letting you go again. Any more stupid fucking questions?”
His adam’s-apple bobs. “Do you believe me?”
He slides his hands around your waist and pulls you gently down. “Then you know I’m used to you freaking out,” he smiles.
You smile back, the sappiest smile of your life. You sink into kissing him. It’s like coming home.
You don’t really know what to do with a male body, but he does, and he’s eager to lead. He drives you crazy with those sharp little eyeteeth, nipping at your lips, your ear, your neck. With those long, delicate hands. Stroking your back. Carding your hair. When he drags his fingernails lightly over the tent in your boxers, you almost come in them. You grab the waistband of his sweatpants and yank them down impatiently; he does the same to your shorts.
He moves back a little and pushes on your hip, wanting you to turn over. You bare your teeth at him; skepticism, warning. He shakes his head slightly. “No, not that. Just. Um.”
“Okay.” You turn. He spoons up behind you. You’re shaking so hard. You weren’t planning to flip out about your sexuality until after you bang him, but there is a hardon way too close to your asshole right now.
Then he reaches down, adjusting your leg and himself with a twist of his hips, and instead his dick is pinned between your thighs. He pulls you back against his chest. Presses a kiss to the side of your neck. Hands flat against your stomach.
“You’re shaking too,” he whispers. “I thought it was just me.”
“Ditto.” You roll your head against his shoulder, suck in a long breath as one of his hands slide downwards. “Oh fuck. Why is this so hot.”
His hips twitch. His cock sticks on the skin of your thighs, then suddenly slides slickly; precome, sweat. His hand cups you, feather-light, frustrating. His other hand teases a nipple, his teeth tug an earlobe, and wow, you’ve never made a noise like that in your life.
You loop an arm back to pull his head into kissing range. He fists the first slow, hard stroke as your lips meet; you whine through your teeth, bite his lip hard, suck his tongue, rutting back against him to make him work you harder. The slow phase is over already. You’re both losing your minds. Faster, needy and clumsy, breathless, whimpers harmonizing, eyes rolling back.
Your lips smear against his cheek as you come. Your shout is wordless because you’re too far gone to even call his name, but it’s in your mind. Blazing triumph. When you can hear again, what you hear is your name broken into sobs, and then he chokes silent and pours himself out between your thighs, trembling like a road sign in a hurricane.
The two of you lie still for a while. The moment he moves, you fist your hand in his hair angrily. “Don’t you dare,” you rasp.
“Don’t pull away. Or let go. Don’t… don’t go clean up. Don’t say things in a normal tone of voice or explain or ask questions or… anything people do at a time like this.”
After a split second’s hesitation, he presses himself to your back and wraps his arms around your chest as tightly as the post-fuck floppies will allow. “I love you,” he chokes. “Sorry. That’s a thing people say at times like this. What should I do?”
“Just hang onto me.” You finally begin to see the window you’ve been staring unfocused at since you opened your eyes afterwards. It’s snowing again. “Stay. And. Don’t let me talk bullshit.”
“And in a while we’ll do it again.”
He breathes a laugh against the back of your neck.
“I love you too, Sollux,” you murmur. “If I was the one who remembered, I would’ve looked for you. And I would’ve found you. Even if it took thirteen years.”
He kisses your spine softly. “I know.”
* * *
You keep waiting to freak out, and it keeps not happening.
When you wake up tangled together like a couple of paper clips, you don’t freak out.
When you suck cock for the first time, on your knees in the shower with Captor whimpering your name like you’re God, you don’t freak out.
When he finally tells you the story of your alien other-lives, sprawled on the couch with his head in your lap, you don’t freak out.
When you say goodbye at the airport and kiss him in public, gathering a lifetime supply of dirty looks (and one rather startled ‘aww!’ from a girl about your age), you’re annoyed at yourself for getting chokey, but you’re still not freaking out.
And finally, the time comes that you know is the most dangerous, the time when you fully expect some betrayer inside your mind to start talking seductive bullshit about ‘normal’ and ‘sensible’ to you, when you are really sure you’ll have a change of heart and Captor will have to talk you back around on instant messenger…
It doesn’t happen.
You talk with him like you always do, the usual awkward mixture of banter, bluster, and thanks-for-not-dying, and the only difference is that you add a ‘love you’ before ‘goodnight’. You go to bed, smell him on your pillow, whack off to the memory of his touch, and wait for sleep.
* * *
“Ffn. H’lo?” His voice is creaky with sleep on the other end of the phone connection. You close your eyes and imagine you can ruffle his hair if you just reach out.
“I still love you,” you say.
“Uh. Okay. I still love you too. And um… I still will in the morning? Actual morning? Not three-in-the-morning?”
“I didn’t freak out. I am okay with turning out to be bi or whatever. Also I still believe you. Also this long distance shit will not stand.”
“Uh.” A rustle. Sitting up, maybe. “Oh.”
“I have a mortgage but this duplex is a shitbomb and my neighbor’s a douche. Is Minneapolis nice?”
“It’s uh. Pretty awesome, yeah. Smaller than Chicago though. Do you like the big?”
“I don’t care. Do you have a spare bedroom? I need my own space.”
“You want the sunroom, or should I move my office in there? Fuck. KK, are you serious?”
“Because I believe this can work, but uh… do you believe it can work?”
“I will make it work by angry grubfuck power alone.” You pause. “What is a grubfuck, Captor. Explain to me why I said that. It’s disgusting.”
His laugh is warm and joyful. “Fiat Lux!”
“On second thought, I’ll call you in the morning, when you can make sense.” You hang up, smiling.
You fall asleep cradling your phone.
You dream of cruel, beautiful, hopeful, monstrous children. You dream they created the world. You dream that something so miraculous can never truly be forgotten. You’ll all find each other again someday.