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Peach had gotten up suddenly—so suddenly, in fact, that Thee had visibly lifted his head from the blue-tinted cover file of personal information on Aran, and had given him a questioning, maddening look.
Slate grey had met dark, shifting brown. Thee to Peach, a line of communication that shouldn’t have worked but kept Peach up at odd hours, not out of relentless romantic curiosities but because of the weight of his already overworked hours pressing down on his shoulders, now combined with Thee’s gaze and scent and accent and touch.
But it wasn’t just a touch, but a grip, and Peach could still feel the pulsing beat of it climbing up his nerves straight to the soft insides of his distress. He swallowed it down; it came back up.
Peach’s sudden departure left a quiet, bellowing sense of pending business behind. Slick hands went up through his hair, brows furrowed, an urge from somewhere darker within that wanted a cigarette in his mouth just for the smoke. Peach leaned against one of the walls of the mansion at an utter loss for what to pray for, and simply stared up at the sky, sweaty and disheveled and no doubt flushed from the neck down.
It'd just—come to him so easily. Sitting there opposite Thee, watching him flip though Aran’s files with methodical care, one leg crossed over the other, regal and closed off and maddening, infuriating—Thee was so impossible to pin down. He was like a brain worm and Peach could feel the pain of a wriggling at the back of his skull where he was being cracked, eaten, opened—like a shifting maze that Peach was running away from but kept spiraling deeper into.
Peach couldn’t let himself slip up like that. In a moment of pure frustration, he bowed his head and exhaled with his eyes shut tight. A headache pounded dully at his temple.
It had been shamefully easy to see the man that Thee was, even when he wasn’t looking at Peach but at someone else he was convinced he wanted. Long legs, strong jaw, broad shoulders—but it was those eyes that gripped you, that took you by surprise, not because it was new to you, but because you recognized it. Because you saw it, and it saw you too.
Being attracted to Thee was not part of the plan. It couldn’t be, even though his mind had somehow found the worst possible moment to remind him of what he could have if he let himself want it. But even that was a misinterpretation of the situation as a whole: Peach couldn’t have Thee; Thee was not the sort of person you had, whether in possession or promise.
Peach wished he could make himself understand that.
“Stop thinking he’s hot,” Peach muttered to himself, eyes closing against the brain worm in his skull. “Stop saying he’s hot.”
He felt pathetic and childish even as he did his breathing exercises, and he thought the world would end before someone finally came to escort him back inside so that Thee could get this whole thing over with and let him go home.
But when Mhok came to call him back in, Peach wasn’t taken to the living room where they’d been previously discussing Aran’s latest situation with Tawan, but upstairs to a set of lavish, intimidating-looking double doors that made Peach swallow with nerves for almost nothing.
Those nerves worsened when Mhok stepped aside with a respectful bow. “What-“ Peach pointed to the doors, trying for a laugh, “Am I—supposed to go inside?”
“Yes.”
Peach swallowed again, and finally reached out, gently pushing the doors open. The motion was soundless and inviting, opening to a bedroom that was equal parts breathtaking and scary—everything about Thee was like that. To an untrained eye, it might even appear thoughtless or cold, but Peach could see hints of Thee everywhere; the details that made up the bed and the walls, the half-open closet where Thee stood with his back to Peach, and the desks and chairs in the room overflowing with paperwork and trinkets.
Without turning around, Thee said, “Come in.”
Peach entered, and promptly jumped as the doors closed behind him. At the same time, Thee turned. They stared at each other for a small eternity before Thee started walking towards him, his shirt unbuttoned down to the chest, jacket and belt gone, sleeves rolled up, and the same steady, probing grey in his eyes.
Shit, Peach thought, panicked. I should’ve bolted when I had the chance.
“Is this making you uncomfortable?” Thee’s question held no malice, only a new earnestness underneath.
Peach looked away first, already warm in the face, “A little. Is there something you wanted?”
Thee continued to draw closer, and Peach forced his feet to stay planted at one place—his hindbrain was already suggesting a play of cat and mouse, and the last thing Peach wanted was to be chased by a tall and unpredictable man who could reduce him to smithereens both literally and figuratively. “I wanted to thank you. For all your help—and you said a thanks should be something personal, intimate.”
“Did I say intimate?” Peach wondered. “Never mind, go on.”
Thee seemed to hesitate, “I know you consider displays of affection to be a serious matter.”
There was a slight pause, almost a curve, a bend in a road Peach hadn’t realized they’d taken. “What?”
“If you’d allow it, I’d like to express my gratitude,” Thee was becoming more rhetoric the longer he spoke—which Peach had come to realize was an early hint of Thee being flustered, or nervous, “properly, with the care and gravity you deserve. And I want to do that by giving you something that’s suited to your tastes.”
Peach blinked, his pulse quickening. Something was not right, and his voice was almost faint with nerves when he asked, “What are you saying?”
He needed to tilt his head ever so slightly upwards now, because Thee had stopped almost a breath above him. The grey in his eyes was hypnotizing this close, and Peach was beginning to feel the iron grip of want—and memory, with cruel swiftness, was dredging up the same fantasies he’d fell asleep with countless times by now.
God knew how many times Peach had touched himself to Thee.
He ended up taking a step back, and like clockwork, Thee followed, and the distance between them closed up like a tight seal again. His lips parted, and Thee’s gaze slipped down to his mouth.
Some distant, voyeur part of Peach went—Well, shit.
“Are you going t-“ his throat tightened, and he had to start again, “are you going to kiss me? As thanks?”
Thee looked up into his eyes, unflinching but uncertain when he returned, “Are you going to let me?”
Peach’s heart was thundering so loudly in his chest he was sure he was going to die. Even death paled in front of Thee’s searching gaze, the montage of voices in Peach’s head that were on loop, and Peach knew he had no concrete assurance from Thee that he’d given up on Aran, but Thee was different, somehow. He wasn’t chasing Aran, not like he was supposed to, and Peach couldn’t remember the last time he’d had Thee seriously discuss Aran with him. Lately it’d just been—an excuse.
Oh.
Oh.
Peach met Thee’s gaze, trembling so slightly in his skin he thought he was imagining it, and a slew of words stuck in his throat, the new understanding of his situation had truly hit him. He really was going to die.
Thee didn’t say anything further, just kept looking at him with a patient, ticked-up jaw, eyes flitting across every inch of Peach’s face as if restless or scared like a little child, but his body steady like an adult. Almost as if he knew what Peach was thinking.
“Yes,” Peach said.
And Thee moved as if he’d been waiting for the word—not a single second of hesitation beyond the split-second of surprise that crossed his features before it got swallowed up by something hungrier—fingers immediately curling into long hair, tilting Peach’s head ever so slightly backwards. Peach’s breath hitched, heartbeat thumping hard in his ears as his body leaned back on instinct, as if making space for Thee to bend into him, to follow his curve, the road that Peach’d suddenly, inexplicably taken.
The other hand came to rest just over the rise of Peach’s left hipbone—where the hem of his shirt was in danger of riding up, a momentary slip up that could end with Peach spontaneously combusting. Because it felt that intense, riddled with pleasure and shock in equal measure, and Peach was standing mouth open under it, choking on the sudden gush of water under clear skies.
Thee’s face bowed closer, ever watchful of Peach, responding to Peach’s every unconscious movement with one of his own. The backward shuffle of Peach’s legs until Thee answered it with pressing him against the door; the awkward fingers trying to fit under Thee’s jaw, slotting perfectly into place as Thee leaned into the touch; the jerky, nervous squeeze at the swell of Thee’s bicep which received an almost feather-light hand at the low of Peach’s back.
They stared at each other almost in a complete loss, as if dealing with something alien and yet filial. Like their world had rearranged itself without changing much at all, and maybe that was what had happened. Peach was definitely out of tricks.
And they stayed close, holding each other, breathing together until Peach realized their breaths had synced, and the fierce burning at the nape of his neck was simmering down and spreading to other parts of him—lower.
“Um,” Peach almost squeaked, then continued after a discreet cough, “are you going to…?”
He made a high, cut-off noise when the hand at his back gathered him close so that their chests were pressed together, and fuck, Peach could feel a second heartbeat through their clothes. It was a firm body, not curvy, and it burned Peach like a blessing.
His breathing grew labored, dragging damp through the fog in his throat, and he couldn’t look Thee in the eyes because as soon as he lifted his head the slightest bit, they were going to kiss. They were close—closed in, and the captor was each other.
“Peach.” The voice dripped swollen and liquid gold down Peach’s neck, curling roughly at the edges like Thee was losing control of his accent, “Look at me.”
So, Peach shut his eyes and raised his head, feeling a little bit like a sacrificial lamb. One of his legs slid in against one of Thee’s, and his mouth opened wider. He was hard, but that was not even the biggest sensation pervading his body; Peach could only best describe it as dying, if death paid visits in carnal ways. In the end, death was the only appropriate comparison his mushy brain could come up with: the most impactful event of a person’s life, the one they couldn’t come back from, the endgame.
Thee slid his fingers out of Peach’s hair and they danced over his cheekbones and jaw, less than a caress even, almost as if he were holding back.
Peach’s eyes fluttered open. He realized that they stared at each other a lot, for some reason, while other couples would’ve probably gotten over it ages ago.
You’re not a couple—
“Sorry that I’m making you wait like this,” Thee began, the soft-rough scratch of his voice lilting up at the end. He’s nervous, Peach thought with awe. “I just—want to make sure we are on the same page, so to speak. I don’t want to force you, Peach. You are—that is—I like you happy and safe.”
Now Peach felt guilty, stomach collapsing in on itself as his own insatiable, almost obsessive fantasies about Thee fluttered open in his mind’s eyes like a book’s pages being skimmed by unknown hands. Thee was probably actually super serious about kissing Peach to thank him, and here Peach was: begging for it every night and day in his own bed, and even moments ago. He wondered, a little disgusted at himself, if he was taking advantage of Thee.
But the part that was easy to mistake for lust was long overused. What Peach couldn’t examine were the reasons he felt the pull towards Thee, the reasons that had nothing to do with his dick, the ones that truly nailed his coffin.
Thinking about it as just sex simplified it. But Thee wasn’t thinking like that, clearly, and Peach was well and truly dead, wasn’t he?
He groaned softly, frustrated beyond measure, the same dull headache from before returning with a vengeance. Thee was infuriating. God, Peach wanted to be kissed by him.
“I wouldn’t be here if you were forcing me, Khun Thee,” he stated, matter-of-fact, and Thee’s eyes rounded like a puppy’s (no, not exactly—like a hunting dog’s). He curled his fingers around the back of Thee’s neck and pressed just enough to get the point across, “Please, thank me properly.”
The pleased, open smile that took over Thee’s eyes obliterated everything else for a brief moment, and then Thee was kissing him.
Warm, surprisingly soft, open-mouthed from the start, meeting Peach halfway between an exhale and an inhale. They bumped noses a few times until Thee gripped the back of his head by the hair and positioned his mouth correctly, swift and firm. Peach thought that he was probably moaning but he couldn’t really be sure. Their hips fit into each other, flawless, and Peach had never thought a man could feel like this against him, like hard and yielding at the same time if he cared to press into the right places.
They came away panting; Peach didn’t get the chance to open his eyes before he was kissed again. It was deeper now, wetter, and there was a playful tongue swiping at his bottom lip, then the upper, and the hand in his hair was tilting his head further back until his throat was arched like an offering. Thee’s chest pressed harder into him, and it felt like being eaten.
His thoughts were scattered like candy spilled carelessly on the floor. He clung to warm skin with both hands, mapping Thee’s sharpness with his thumbs while they exchanged little, sipping kisses, and then dragging his nails lightly against his nape as Thee slipped one of his pinkies under Peach’s shirt.
“Ah-“ the kisses were getting smoother, faster, like building up towards something, but Peach pressed his hands against Thee’s chest just to feel him, and that separated them a little, but Thee let him do what he wanted. He only dipped his tongue lightly into the opening of Peach’s mouth like a tease, and kissed him again.
Slowly but surely, they subsided, foreheads pressed together and breathing heavy between them. Peach’s fingers were tingling like he was about to burst out in blood-sprays from all five of them, and his chest was so loud with his heartbeat that it was a miracle he’d not had a heart failure by now.
Thee shifted a small bit, the inside of his pants brushing Peach’s crotch superstitiously, and Peach felt the brief press of something different before it was gone. Mindlessly, he petted the defined ridges of muscle under Thee’s button-up, sighing softly.
After another breath, his gaze locked with Thee’s, and a smile blinked on his lips, “You’re welcome.”
Thee smiled back.