by Jenn Abiding
It's close in here, the air is hot, thick, a little damp. They're even closer, breathing each other hotter and damper than air, they're in each other's hands and Duo presses his mouth to Quatre's, to hush him, because the soft keening gasps are exciting him, fuck yeah, but he's afraid the others will hear. No, not afraid; he just doesn't want them to. So he goes into Quatre's mouth, scoops out the sounds before they can escape, swallows down Quatre's sounds.
But he can still hear them. He lifts his mouth from Quatre's and tells him to quiet himself.
And Quatre looks at him, eyes glazed, open, mouth open, just looks at Duo and doesn't understand this new game Duo's playing at, pretending those grunts and whines are coming from Quatre. Quatre doesn't know the rules of this new game. But he never knows the rules: Duo doesn't tell him the rules or explain them, ever, he just plays. Quatre doesn't understand, doesn't have to, doesn't care, just loves being played with by Duo.
He looks at Duo now and swallows and nods. Opens his mouth to Duo's again.
Swallows Duo's cries when heat spills liquid over their fingers.