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színész szeretnék lenni, mondja neki ficsúr egy este, a csatokat igazgatja épp egyre hosszabb hajában és úgy vigyorog hosszúra, mintha ő tette volna fel az égre a csillagokat. hosszú eltátja a száját, lelki szemei előtt szinte látja őt a színpadon, hát hihetetlen, ficsúr mintha arra született volna, hogy szerepeljen, kreol bőrén aranyos csillámmal és glitterrel a hajában, az arcát vakító reflektorfényben, mint valami tündér, földöntúli lény állva, és hosszú hirtelen túl forrónak érzi a testét, ahogy csillogó szemekkel a barátját bámulja és teljesen elfelejti, mit is kezdett el csinálni. az kurva jó volna, mondja kis fáziskéséssel, és őszinte jókedvvel nevetnek össze.

 

régi vas játszótér, hosszú a libikóka tetején ül, leér a földre a lába és a gyújtóval babrál. kócos, ápolatlan fürtjei a mellkasát súrolják, meggyújtja a foga közé szorított csikket és ügyetlenül a füle mögé tűr egy hullámos tincset. szép így, kettecskén.

letüdőzi a füstöt és köhög, tekintete végig ficsúr finom, gyűrött pamut ruhába bújtatott alakján pihen. ficsúr gyönyörű, mint mindig.

minden rendben, kérdi ő, és hosszú érzi, hogy forróbb lesz az arca és még inkább köhögni kezd, már szinte fáj, fáj a szíve. de azért mosolyog és bólint egyet, és ülnek csendben tovább, ficsúr a lemenő nap színes fényeiben úszkáló felhőket nézi, hosszú meg őt.

ki tudja, mióta ülnek ott, egy órája talán vagy kettő—a komor, hűvös sötétség felélénkíti őket, indulásra készek; ficsúr füttyentve pattan fel a helyéről és komiszan derengő vigyorral pördül oda hosszúhoz, hogy meghajolva és kezét nyújtva felsegítse a libikókáról.

talán elmehetnénk a kisboltba, morfondírozik, meghalok éhen, hosszú meg hümmög, egy kanyi vasuk sincs, de ő sem bírná már sokáig. ficsúr belékarol, cigit vesznek elő, amit aztán felváltva szívnak, és közben ficsúr mesél meg magyaráz, fennhangon, nem zavartatja magát. hosszú pont így szereti.

az utcákat zuborgó sötétség öleli, hosszú a lámpák piros-sárga-zöld fényében barátja arcát figyeli, és fel sem tűnik neki, hogy ficsúr azóta már az ujjaival játszik, tenyere biztonságos melegébe vonva őt, szavai halkabbak és egybefolynak az éjszakával.

 

azt hiszem szerelmes vagyok, mondja egyszer, és hosszút nézi azokkal a hatalmas mogyoróbarna szemeivel, és hosszú szíve összeszorul és aprócska szilánkos darabokra törik, de ficsúr nem mond többet, bambán lógatja csak a lábát és mered maga elé. hosszút egyszerre vonzza és taszítja a mellette kuporgó test melege, ki szeretne futni a világból, el messzire, fáj, nagyon fáj hirtelen minden, de nem tud nem ficsúrra nézni. elképzelni sem tudja, ki lehet az, talán örülnie kellene, de nem tud, sírni szeretne, de nem tudja, miért.

lányokra gondol, szép, magas lányokra hosszú szőke hajjal és babakék írisszel, lányokra a parkból a térdig érő korom fekete szoknyájukkal, ami porfelhőként lebeg körülöttük a hintán és néha-néha megvillantja a hófehér bugyijukat, lányokra a plázából, akik mézédesen nevetve és karöltve veszik a vizes zsemlét, és olyan szépen mosolyognak rá, mintha nem lenne holnap. lányok. ficsúr szereti őket, mindig viccelődik velük és puhán a vállukra teszi a kezét, játszik a hajukkal és elcseni a rágójukat, de mindig bocsánatot kér.

hosszú észre sem veszi, hogy elhúzódott tőle, talán már tíz centi is van köztük, nem ér össze a térdük és az ujjai között görcsösen szorongatott csikk is leégett. felszisszenve rázza le ujjbegyeiről a hamut, némán megrázza magát és felhúzza hosszú lábait, de már nem néz ficsúrra. nem tudja, miért fáj, de fáj nagyon, rettenetesen, csomó van a torkában és úgy érzi, bármelyik pillanatban elhányja magát.

lányokra akar gondolni, de nem tud, csak ficsúrt látja maga előtt, ficsúrt az őzbarna tincseivel és világító szemével, ficsúrt a térdig érő szoknyájában, ahogy direkte úgy ugrik le a gátfalról, hogy a suta tavaszi szellő belekapjon és meglibbentse az anyagot, hogy kivillanjon az alsónadrágja, ő meg szemérmesen röhögve kapja oda a kezét, ficsúr a sarki ábécé mögött, ahogy cigit vesz a pétertől és diadalittasan lengeti a pakkot hosszú felé és olyan szépen mosolyog rá, mintha nem lenne holnap. ficsúr.

nem őt szereti, ezt tudja, biztosra tudja mert azt nem lehet, olyat nem szabad, hogy férfi férfit szeressen, még ha ficsúr más is. hosszú nem egészen érti, micsoda ő, mi csoda, ficsúr kívül-belül olyan, mint az a német rejtjelező gép, nem emlékszik a nevére, de kétségtelen, ha akarná sem tudná megfejteni.

ficsúr nem őt szereti, de ő szereti ficsúrt, erre most jött rá. ölébe temeti az arcát és mélyen beszívja a koszos, városi levegőt, de nem talál megnyugvást.

 

láza van és köhög, csúnyán, literszámra teát iszik és alig tud beszélni, az ágyat nyomja. ficsúr mellette ül a földön és úgy csinál, mintha a leckéjét írná, de csak a ceruza végét rágcsálja már talán negyed órája. hosszú a szeme sarkából látja, ahogy barátja ujjai a füzetlap sarkaival babrálnak, ismeretlen dallamot dúdolgat csendesen, talán magának, talán hosszúnak is.

mikor hosszú köhög, ficsúr ijedten kapja fel a fejét, őt nézi és a szemében csillog valami, valami, amit hosszú nem tud se megnevezni, se hova tenni. ködös tekintete ficsúr hosszú szempilláin pihen, a szeplőket figyeli az orrán és az ajka vonalát, ahogy résnyire elnyílik, mikor levegőt vesz. forró a teste, de nem csak a láztól.

nem tud nem rá gondolni, pedig próbálja, ő igenis próbálja, minden erejével azon van, hogy ficsúrt a fejéből kiverje, de nem megy. nem tud nem ficsúrra gondolni. a lázra fogja, beteg, azért akarja megcsókolni, ízlelni a puha száját, csókolni akarja és a hajába túrva közel tartani magához, ölelni és saját ajkával teste minden részét érinteni, akarja akarja akarja.

talán álmodik. ficsúr az ágy szélén ül, az a kopott piros inge van rajta a narancssárga csíkokkal, meleg tenyere jéghideg hosszú arcán. ez így nem lesz jó, suttogja, biztos felment megint a lázad, és indulna a konyhára gyógyszert és teát kérni, mikor hosszú remegő keze önkéntelenül is a csuklójára fonódik. maradj, akarja hosszú mondani, maradj, ne hagyj egyedül, félek, annyira félek. ficsúr csendben áll és nézi őt, nem lehet leolvasni az arcán játszó érzelmek sokaságát, hosszúra mosolyog és a fiú szorításából kezét kihúzva elindul, megy, eltűnik.

talán álmodik. forró minden és kapar a torka, a pólója izzadt mellkasára tapad, viszket és ég a teste, nem bírja már, ő ezt nem bírja. ficsúrra gondol, ahogy a haját fonja és finom ujjbegyei a tarkóját masszírozzák, ficsúrra gondol és a kis tenyerére, mely mégis képes hosszú hatalmas kezét elrejteni és melegen tartani egy-egy hűvös őszi estén, ficsúrra gondol, azokra a telt, puha ajkakra, melyek mostanság véresek és kevesebbet beszélnek, a nagy, barna szemére és azokra a mindig pírral hintett fülekre a kis készülékkel, mely segít neki hallani, ficsúrra, csak ficsúrra gondol.

talán álmodik, és álmában őt csókolják azok a cserepes, cigaretta ízű ajkak, nem a lányt a színjátszókörből, őt szeretik és ölelik azok a vékony, mégis erős kezek, őt tartják, szorítják, test a testnek. ő ő ő, csak ő és önzőnek érzi magát, betegnek, lélekben betegnek, mert ilyet nem szabad, az ilyen nem normális, hallotta egyszer a metrón meg benne volt az újságban is, nőt kell szeretni, asszonnyal kell hálni, aki majd gyereket szül neked, hogy aztán mindennek gyorsan vége legyen. hosszú az oldalára fordul, minden porcikája fáj és talán könnyek csorognak csendesen az arcán, de nem gondol rá, nem tud ficsúron kívül másra gondolni.

 

aznap este ficsúr mellette alszik, szolid hőforrás az ágya szélén, hosszú az egyenletes lélegzet vételeit figyeli, halk szuszogásának dallamára próbál álomba szenderülni.

mindketten a hátukon fekszenek és hosszú nem mer megfordulni, nem mer megmozdulni. lángol a teste, pedig bevette a gyógyszert, forró, éget a bőre, ahol ficsúr könyöke összeér az övével, és egyre hangosabb körülötte minden. az éjszakai város zaja tompán beszűrődik a zárt ablakon át, hosszú agyában kattognak a fogaskerekek, egyszerre érzi üresnek és csordultig telinek a fejét.

mikor ficsúr vékony karja a mellkasán csattan, hosszú szíve majdnem megáll. mintha betonba volna öntve, már fizikailag képtelen megmozdulni és talán percek telnek el, mire engedi a tüdejébe szorult levegőt egy hatalmas sóhajként távozni. félszegen pillant oldalra, ficsúr közel van, nagyon közel, apró pihegései csiklandozzák hosszú vállát és a testét mázsás súlyként átölelő kéz alatt hosszú megborzong, pedig körülötte forró minden. nagyot nyel, mikor ficsúr ujjai finoman a pólójába markolnak, és minden lelki erőfeszítése ellenére lassan közelebb húzódik, még közelebb. sötétben mindent szabad.

 

[itt lenne egy kulcsfontosságú jelenet, amelyből kiderül, hogy ficsúrnak barátnője van—a sára—de lusta voltam megírni rip. sétálni mennek a partra, vagy valami hasonló, és ficsúr ragaszkodik hozzá, hogy hosszú is jöjjön velük, mert hát az teljesen normális, hogy elhívod a haverod is, mikor randizol a barátnőddel shdjgdkdbkd no homo aztán hosszú ott szerencsétlenkedik, mint harmadik kerék és kissé látványosan szenved (én), pedig mindketten tök kedvesek vele meg bevonják mindenbe (de azért na. mégiscsak potyázik egy randin). sári amúgy transz!!! :-)) igazából nem tudom, mit akartam ide, de lett volna sok beszélgetős szegmens, eszméket cserélnek meg merengenek az élet nagy dolgairól, aztán itt-ott belevágtam volna egy-egy disszociálós hosszú részt, szóval igen. ja és a sári az a "lány a színjátszókörből", hehe, nem valami effektív módszer egy szignifikáns plotpoint kidolgozására, de azért megpróbáltam lmao]

 

hétvége van, egy órával tovább tart a kijárás, fülledt meleg az idő és a levegőt kora nyári zápor meg frissen nyírt fű illata fűszerezi. sétáljunk egyet, hajol ki ficsúr derékig az ablakon. csokoládébarna haját felborzolja a szél és fülében csilingelnek az egymásnak koccanó, aprócska csillagok. hosszú ruhástul fekszik az ágyán, unalmában a vart kapargatja a csuklóján, persze, mondja, sétáljunk, de nem mozdul.

aztán sétálnak.

ficsúr a színjátszó körről magyaráz, felültünk a magas lóra, mondja lelkesen, suttyó mach bethet akarnak eljátszatni velünk, és hosszú csendben hallgat, nem figyel, csak ficsúr hangjára koncentrál, és mikor a fiú megkérdezi, eljönne-e egy próbára, gondolkodás nélkül vágja rá, hogy persze, miért is ne. nem tudja, miről van szó, de ficsúrért bármit, bármikor. (...)

 

[ott fentebb lett volna azt hiszem egy shotgunnolós jelenet, de már nem emlékszem őszintén 😳 jus dudes being bros! smoking weed, doing the intricate rituals, nothing to see here]

 

(...) remegő ujjaival végigsimít frissen nyírt fején, legszívesebben rágyújtana, csak hogy érezzen valamit.

ficsúr az íróasztala előtt ül a földön, telefonja kijelzőjének tükrében igazgatja magát és elégedetten hummog. hosszú a vékony, apró karcolásokkal borított ujjakat figyeli, ficsúr rövidre rágott körmeit és a félig lepergett fekete lakkot, ahogy finom mozdulatokkal felhelyezi katica szív alakú fülbevalóját, és hüvelyk ujját végighúzza arca szépen ívelt élén. hosszú érzi felforrósodni az arcát, de nem hajlandó elfordulni.

na, gyere ide, te görény, hallja ficsúrt nevetni, és egyre pirosabb arccal veszi észre, hogy barátja is őt bámulja. lassú léptekkel hagyja ott az ágyát, hogy helyet foglaljon törökülésben ficsúrral szemben.

ficsúr mosolyog, komiszan, de valami más, valami megfoghatatlan is ott ragyog a szemében, és hosszú halkan sóhajt, el kellene már felejtenie, fel kellene már adnia. ehelyett óvatos vigyorra húzza a száját és megpaskolja ficsúr térdét, jól nézel ki. te, görény, mondja. ficsúr csilingelve nevet fel, és megrázza kissé magát, csak úgy leng a fülében katica fülbevalója. hosszú szerint illik hozzá, pont olyan lágy árnyalatú, mint a ficsúr kreol bőre, a virgonc forma pedig őrá emlékezteti. tulajdonképpen bármi, ami a keze ügyébe akad, mostanság ficsúrra emlékezteti.

hé. hadd nézzem. ficsúr meleg tenyerét érzi a csuklóján, és beleborzong a gyöngéd gesztusba. tekintetével követi ficsúr ujjait, ahogy azok játékosan masíroznak végig az alkarján, és szelíden apró köröket írnak le a kézfején. ficsúr a homlokát ráncolja és furcsa, kellemetlen hangot hallat, ahogy felnéz, egyenesen hosszú szemébe és hosszúnak úgy tetszik, abban a pillanatban belelát még a veséjébe is.

ficsúr elengedi a kezét és kissé megemelkedve az asztal teteje felé nyúl, majd egy tégelynyi kézkrémmel csüccsen vissza. nyomatékosan hosszúra néz, miközben az ujjaira nyom egy keveset a hideg fehér masszából, aztán előre nyújtja a kezét és vár. hosszút figyeli továbbra is, és a fiú érzi, belevörösödik a neki szánt nagy figyelembe. ó jaj.

hosszú tétován helyezi vékony csuklóját ficsúr invitáló tenyerébe. pillantását arra a pontra szegezi, ahol a bőrük először összeér, saját, vibrálóan fehér végtagját nézi és az azt borító, halvány rózsaszín és vörösben derengő karcolásokat, karmolásokat, ficsúr légies mozdulatait, amint lágyan applikálja fel csuklójára a kenőcsöt. szinte belehajol az érintésbe, érzi ellazulni az izmait és biztos benne, hogy a füle tövéig el van vörösödve. ficsúr minél nagyobb felületet fed be, hosszú légzése annál egyenetlenebbé válik.

mindig elfelejti, ez a baj. naponta kenni kellene őket, hogy gyorsabban gyógyuljanak a sebek, de a helyzet romlik, mint sem javulna. ficsúr sokat bosszantja, ma megvolt már ugye, te vadbarom, kérdi mindig és hosszú felszisszen, meglesz, persze, de aztán úgyis elfelejti. az ilyet bezzeg mindig elfelejti.

rossz szokás, kényszeres, impulzív mozdulatok sorozata. nem fáj már, talán ezért van, hogy észre sem veszi, mikor idegességében mint prométheusz mellkasába, keselyű karmaként mélyednek körmei a bőrébe. nem fáj.

ficsúr motyog valamit, de hosszú nem hallja, mintha vákuum volna a fejében, teljesen eltompulnak az érzékei, csak mered maga elé és kis híján kiugrik a bőréből, amikor érzi ficsúr puha száját a csuklója és kézfeje találkozására egy leheletnyi csókot hinteni.

 

hosszú kétségbeesve érzi magát, egy pillanatra a sárikára gondol, de csak egy pillanatra, mert ficsúr olyan intenzitással és olyan hirtelen hajol előre és tapasztja össze a szájukat, hogy hosszú azt is elfelejti, hol van.

képtelen regisztrálni az eseményeket, csak ül ott tágra nyílt szemekkel és alig hiszi el, alig hiszi el, hogy ficsúr orra találkozik az övével és olyan tisztán látszanak a leszorított szemei körül táncoló szeplők, mint még sohasem. gyönyörű, mégis ijesztő és ficsúr, amennyire a köztük lévő távolság engedi, egész lényével hosszú testének feszül és szinte vibrál és a kezét szorítja és hosszú alig hiszi el, de némán sírni kezd, szeméből suta csermelyként vágnak utat maguknak kipirosodott arcán a könnyek.

ficsúr ijedten húzódik hátra és tekintetében hosszú valódi félelmet vél felfedezni, ahogy egymást nézik. elszorul a szíve, mikor érzi ficsúr ujjait elengedni az övéit, ne ne ne ne, akarja mondani, ne menj el, de okosabbnak látja, ha szavak helyett inkább barátja feje után kap és sötétbarna hajába kapaszkodva rántja vissza magához, hogy megcsókolhassa, visszacsókolhassa, de most már úgy istenigazából.

ficsúr megszeppent hangot hallat és testét borzongás rázza meg, de összekulcsolt ujjaik melegéből és a száján invitálóan szétnyíló ajkakból hosszú tudja, jó helyen jár. megérkezett, otthon van végre.

szelíden tartják egymást, hosszú ügyetlenül mozog, izzadt tenyere ficsúr szépen ívelt állán pihen és teste minden porcikáját boldogság tölti el, mikor helyéből felemelkedve pozíciót vált és ficsúr követi őt és nem ereszti. úgy tetszik neki, egy örökkévalóság telik el, mikor levegő után kapva elválnak, ficsúr hangosan szuszogva nézi őt és tágra nyílt szemei ragyognak, hogy hosszúnak hunyorognia kell.

ficsúr a szemöldökét ráncolja, ujjai vakon simogatják hosszú vágytól égő arcát, elmaszatolva az ártatlan könnyeket. hosszú szipog egyet, aztán mindkét kezébe veszi ficsúrt és újabb csókokat hintve a szájára, pozsgás orcájára, ahol csak éri, a földre dönti őt és ficsúr nem ellenkezik. karjai hosszú dereka köré fonódnak, közel tartja és nem ereszti, nem ereszti.

hosszú talán még sosem volt ilyen boldog—a szenzáció ütemes gyorsasággal terjed szét a bőre alatt és oldódik bele a csontjaiba, mint vízben a cukor és érzi, hogy libabőrös lesz ficsúr minden érintése után. legszívesebben sírna megint örömében.

 

[ez meg így nagyon befejezetlennek tetszik, de már nem volt erőm jobban kifejteni a végét 😔✌ tulajdonképpen annyi lenne, hogy szokás szerint fekszenek a földön (szorosan) egymás mellett és hol a plafont, hol a másikat bámulják, ficsúr hosszú ujjaival babrál és szép lassan felvázolja a helyzetet a sárával kapcsolatban—azt mondta, a lányokat szereti, mondtam neki, én is. meg a fiúkat. meg mindenki mást, de–főleg téged. azt mondta, erre már rájött. és aztán nevettünk. (off screen sára comes out as a lesbian hnghdjhdjhfg could've been done better but we love to see it) (akkor már talán egy-két hete, hogy közös megegyezés alapján szakítottak, csak hosszú erről nem tud, mert tudatosan növeli a távolságot ficsúr meg ő maga között, mert a buzi fejének pocsék védekező mechanizmusai vannak és szándékosan árt magának. nem, nem magamból indulok ki :●)) de megbeszélik! ezt szeretem bennük) nem hiszem, hogy kimondják Azt A Bizonyos Szót—de őszintén nem is kell. tudják ők anélkül is. szóval igen. végre fent van a pont az i-n sksbkfbdkkd

ps a cím amúgy a szeret-nemszeret sziromtépkedős játékra utal, igen ezt most találtam ki lmao]

Chapter Text

there's oranges and tangerines in the bag, some big and some little—but they all fit in his palms perfectly. they smell nice.

ficsúr sits in front of him on their worn out sweater, legs crossed and eyes fixated on hosszú. hosszú can feel his face grow hot as he takes the fruits from their gentle hold, one by one. something about this place makes his heart beat faster, his hands sweatier and throat drier. it's the kind of nervousness he cannot quite put his finger on, the kind that fills his stomach with a warm buzzing feeling—the one you feel when you open a present, when you meet a new friend. it's rather pleasant, actually.

ficsúr sets down a box of juice—the cheap but tasteful sort—a pack of crinkled and worn cards and a lighter with obnoxious decoration in the grass. lastly, with a satisfied grin dancing on their lips, they pull out a brand new kit of cigarettes and ceremoniously hand it to hosszú. the plastic wrapping is smooth and silky under his fingertips—excitement heaps over him, he can't wait to tear it open, to pinch it between his teeth.

they rest in silence; while he fumbles with the foil packaging, ficsúr begins peeling the tangerines, their movements cautious and tender—hosszú catches himself staring. his gaze lingers on his friend's slim fingers, on the flaking black nailpolish and the slowly unveiled citrus pulp.

it's like revealing a secret. it's inviting and sanguine. it's so intimate yet simple and when ficsúr looks up and grins at him, all sweet and playful, hosszú is drawn in, mesmerized and can't help but giggle.

they were on sale, ficsúr says absently, as a matter of fact and hosszú knows because he was there. he was there when they roamed around the corner shop, ficsúr complaining about the cold escaping from the frozen aisle the entire time, with a red basket on their arm and a cheeky smile on their lips. hosszú loves going shopping with them.

ficsúr prefers oranges—they adore their rough surface, their sour-sweet taste, the challenge of peeling them. hosszú thinks it's a nuisance and he finds it amusing—ficsúr and oranges aren't so different, after all. they exist only to create chaos.

maybe we should make juice one day—he shudders when ficsúr speaks again, their tone softer this time, like a breeze running up hosszú's spine. press the stuff out with our bare hands, they say and hosszú knows there's something deeper, more profound behind the words, something that could change his life even, and it weights on his heart and makes him want to scuttle away. that'd be nice, he tells them instead as he takes hold of the old deck of cards, eyes fixated on his friend's hands still.

comfortable silence settles between the two of them—hosszú doesn't mind it. he's heedlessly ruffling the carnets—just to have his hands occupied—while listening to the whispering of the nearby trees. they go here when they ache to forget, when life is too hectic to handle, when the sun is high and everything is warm and yellow, like his favourite sweater.

hosszú looks at the cards and examines their dog-eared corners and weather-beaten patterns. ficsúr bought it when they were fourteen—for him to have something to pass the time with in the hospital. it makes him smile, thinking back on it, the excitement he felt waiting for them to show up at the end of his bed every afternoon to play. ficsúr always let him win.

ha. hosszú jerks up at the sound and finds ficsúr grinning at him, all sweet and playful, with the peeled tangerine sitting in their open palms. they separated it in perfect halves, hosszú notices and it makes him beam like a child. he holds his hand out but ficsúr shakes their head—open up, they say in a singsong voice and hosszú doesn't understand it first, but when he opens his mouth to question, ficsúr gently places a clove on his tongue. yours, they say with a giggle, then take a bite of their own part.

there's comfort in sitting here and sharing fruit. there's comfort in ficsúr's big brown eyes and there's comfort in the way their knees touch. hosszú swallows the tangerine section by section, chewing quietly and watching ficsúr finish their own part. he thinks about it—it's an act of love of some sort. ficsúr feeds him another piece and he takes it like it's his last meal, like it's an offering, a sacrament. he thinks about it; it's an act of love they perform together and he gets this warm feeling blooming in his stomach that melts his insides like the sweet taste of the tangerines on his tongue.

you got something on your mind, ha, ficsúr says and hosszú jerks up from his thoughts, startled. everything alright? and ficsúr leans in a little bit closer, the smile tugging the corner of their mouth upwards all sweet and playful but now with a hint of worry behind their gaze. was thinking, hosszú says after a pause, uncertain—he has to look away, wants to hide from his friend's burning, consuming attention. ficsúr chuckles, didn't know you could do that. ah. you got juice dripping down your chin.

hosszú hasn't even realized. he feels embarrassed, heat growing behind his red cheeks and when ficsúr reaches out to gently swipe it off with the back of their checkered shirt hosszú grabs hold of their hand, aghast. they look at hosszú, eyes even bigger with surprise, then not even thinking about they launch themself at him. hosszú yelps as he falls backwards, arms still tangled with ficsúr's, his head hitting the ground softly—ficsúr's weight is heavy on his chest, thought not physically, but the pressure chokes him, floods his thoughts and makes him gasp out for air, mindless. they smile down at hosszú, teeth and all, their own fingers wrapped around his waist now—their touch is so warm it makes him quiver, so odd and absurd yet pleasant and welcomed.

you big baby, they say and bend a bit down, enough for hosszú to see even the smallest dots of freckles on their nose, using your brain so hard it makes you drool. hosszú wants to be mad so badly, wants to be upset with them, wants to kick back with something quirky—but all he manages is a muffled get off, before he sways himself and turns the two of them over with gentle force.

now he is on top and ficsúr lays helplessly under him, taken aback by hosszú's sudden boost of confidence but sporting that wicked grin nevertheless. hosszú frowns. he frowns but remains staring at ficsúr's heavenly fabricated porcelain face, at their dark chocolate roots poking through the bleach, at their slightly parted, soft and luscious lips and he can feel his face grow hot and his grip on their wrists tight.

don't be a baby now, they say and their tone is low and tender again, almost barely above a whisper and hosszú remembers the orange juice and loosens his hold to slide his sweaty palms against ficsúr's, asinine. hours have passed, he thinks, years, decades maybe but he doesn't mind. ficsúr looks back at him with eyes full of affection and warmth—it takes him a few minutes to pull himself together and close the space between them, finally pressing his mouth to theirs.

they both have kissed before, or so he supposes, but hosszú elects to consider this one his first. if he can call it that—it's nothing but sloppy movements of saliva slicked lips, a little bit uncomfortable even, yet this warm, jolly sensation heaps over his entire body like waves of the sea on a boisterous night. ficsúr kisses him back and it's so tender and sweet and feels like home. they taste like home too—when ficsúr changes angles for better access and opens their mouth invitingly, he hesitantly slips his tongue inside. hosszú relishes in the numb flavor of tangerines and cheap cigarettes, a shiver running down his spine when ficsúr pushes at his bent knees in hopes of him collapsing on top of them.

they moan softly when hosszú actually does—he lowers his torso and presses down gently, his hands coming up to cup ficsúr's face and capture their lips in another searing kiss. ficsúr wraps their thin arms around him, they're so close, oh so close.

this time making out feels like he's underwater—his emotions are pulling him down, it's fascinating yet intimidating, being so vulnerable and open with someone and he has to break away for air, panting softly. ficsúr is looking up at him with big, shining eyes and hosszú thinks he has to say it, he wants to say it but the words are stuck in his throat and it hurts, but he doesn't mind. ficsúr seems to know already.

so they stare at each other, content. after a while ficsúr opens their mouth to say something—hosszú pushes two fingers against their slightly parted lips, shaking his head. don't ruin it, he whispers, pressing down gently to feel the lips' silken texture and the delicate moan that slips through them, i know you would. ficsúr smiles under his hold and their eyes still glow with that mischievous yet adoring light and hosszú feels the need to bend down again and kiss them—so he does.

he keeps a finger there, at the corner of ficsúr's mouth, gliding it further in as their lips dance together. ficsúr's arms around his waist tighten and for a moment hosszú is shaken with panic that this might be a dream, a trick his mind has been playing on him, a deliberate illusion—anything but real. that when he opens his eyes he'll find himself sitting there on the grass with a deck of old cards between his fingers and a pang of pain in his chest.

withdrawing his hand hosszú is about to break away and lean back when ficsúr gently bites down on his bottom lip—as if to remind him about how certain, how real they are.

you are thinking again, prostuțo, ficsúr says after they both part to catch their breath, don't strain yourself. hosszú grins, delighted, then presses down, making them giggle and gasp out again. you are quite heavy too, they say and he gives ficsúr one last smooch before rolling off to lay next to them. all those big bones, yeah? your hefty wet bones. hosszú laughs, tenderly slapping their arm, you won't stop saying stupid shit, ha.

they rest like that for a while, just the two of them, talking and cracking up every now and then—like they always do. ficsúr suggests smoking a stub before going back home, so they do, passing it between them as they slowly pack up. hosszú watches ficsúr, like he always does—their thin hands, their big bright eyes, their soft and sweet lips with the cig pinches between them. he watches and smiles to himself as he helps putting the leftover fruit into the bag; it's an act of love they perform together.

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i.

hosszú says his r's in a funny way. his vocabulary isn't broad and he uses simple words that are easy to understand. he speaks nicely, in such a soft and kind manner that it makes them want to lean in closer, hoping they would hear everything better.

ficsúr loves watching his mouth when he talks—the way he forms letters and sounds, the way he parts his lips when he is lost in his thoughts or the way his tongue is poking out cheekily when he is trying to solve a task. hosszú doesn't seem to notice.

he makes an effort, obviously—his pronunciation is clean and he isn't obnoxiously loud. ficsúr tries teaching him a few hand signs, a secret language between the two—it's theirs only and the thought warms their cheeks with excitement.

(...) they don't often dream, but when they do, it's grim and horrid images playing pretend in their mind only. ficsúr tries everything—sleeping on their back, ideating pleasant, happy thoughts, pulling the cover all the way up to keep themself warm or not sleeping at all—it doesn't seem to work. nightmares are well fed in this place.

hosszú has them too, these bad dreams. sometimes he talks in his sleep, but he isn't loud enough for them to understand. still, ficsúr stays up to listen and drift back to sleep from his soft, calming voice.

(...) a high pitched scream shakes ficsúr awake—they're covered in cold sweat and their entire body is quivering. their throat feels dry and they must have been crying for a while now because the sheets under their head are wet and chilly. over the sound of their heavy panting ficsúr can hear something move next to them—they can't even think about how to act up when hosszú's palm comes up to their mouth to silence them. he leans in close, it's me, don't worry, he whispers and draws his hand back to point at himself. ficsúr knows and it makes them smile, how silly it is to try to sign in the dark. how silly of him to assume anyone else has a habit of climbing into their bed.

must've had a nightmare, he says quietly and ficsúr gasps out when his hand finds theirs under the covers. i can stay, if you want me—and they do.

 

ii.

the supervisor made them run in the rain again. it's chilly and wet outside, hard to see and hard to breathe but if one falls or breaks down they make everyone do another round.

ficsúr has been jogging with peter, slow but precise, not talking much. they ask if he has seen hosszú—peter shakes his head, pressing a palm to his mouth, trying to suppress a cough.

(...) hosszú looks weak, like his lean figure is about to fall to pieces—he is paler and thinner than usual and it makes ficsúr's stomach flinch in pain. it physically hurts to look at him laying hunched over on his bed, his body shaking as he tries to hold his tears back.

ficsúr wants to touch him, feel the warmth of his fever heated, red cheeks, brush the dark brown locks sticking to his sweat covered forehead away. they want to plant kisses on his tightly shut eyes, on the corner of his parched mouth—hold him close and calm him down.

the night is cold and quiet. they sit up and swing their legs over the bed, hoping that the old rusty frame doesn't make too much noise—but hosszú's eyes snap open as their bare feet set on the floor. ficsúr quickly moves to crawl next to him on the worn-out bedding.

hosszú looks scared and he's about to say something, or scream even, when ficsúr gently places a finger to his chapped lips. shh, it's alright, they whisper, it's okay. they take hold of hosszú's face and exchange loving, comforting gazes as they trace circles with their thumb on his skin—bit by bit, hosszú relaxes in their arms. his breathing becomes less laboured, muscles loosening as he scoots closer, allowing ficsúr to cling to him.

he hides his head in their chest and ficsúr can only hope he doesn't hear how fast their heart is beating right now. hosszú's tears and sweat wet their undershirt, but ficsúr doesn't care—the only thing that matters at this very moment is him.

better, they ask and hosszú mumbles something into the fabric, too weak and tired to form actual words but ficsúr understands. it's better. they'll have to remember to wake up before the supervisor's morning rampage, to retreat back to their own bed before anyone notices.

(...) it doesn't take long for hosszú to fall asleep. ficsúr listens to his hoarse little huffs of breath, he is so close and loud, and smiles to themself—maybe every night could be like this, with the two of them in each other's arms. maybe. they wouldn't mind, certainly, but as for hosszú? one can never know for sure. ficsúr sighs softly, tightening their arms around the boy in their hold, it's alright. it's okay, they murmur, planting a gentle kiss into hosszú's messy brown locks.

 

iii.

i think i'm sixteen today, hosszú tells them, or tomorrow maybe, i don't know. i like tuesdays. i'm sixteen today—and they both laugh at that, sweet and joyous. ficsúr grins at him as they grab the boy's hand and invitingly start pulling him towards the shredder to celebrate. hosszú does this every year—chooses a day in june, july when he feels like it, and declares it to be his birthday. most of the kids here don't know when they were brought to this earth; it's fun and easy like this, making up parts of yourself, no commitments.

(...) summers are nice, he wonders, warm and happy, and ficsúr hums in agreement, eyes fixated on hosszú's soft pink lips. the two are sitting in the shadows of the stamp engine, hidden from the outside world by large willow trees and a thick wall of mist and fume. so, what do you want, hosszú asks as he turns to face them—the cheeky grin pulling the corners of his mouth upwards telltale of the fact that he already knows the answer. ficsúr smirks, it's a surprise, they say and lean back a bit, to put some more distance between the two of them. hosszú eyes them with genuine curiosity and maybe subconsciously, maybe on purpose—he slowly moves his body closer to them and ficsúr feels embarrassed about how easily they get flustered. it's my birthday, hosszú pouts, c'mon, don't choose today to be a little bitch.

he is so easy to get worked up, ficsúr muses.

(...) they lazily fish around in the pockets of their uniform, one eye still on hosszú and his aloof impression—he's cute like this, furrowed brows and mouth hanging open, his short curly hair slightly tousled; what a sweet boy. ha, there it is, ficsúr calls out, their attention back on the present and they yank out a pack of expensive cigars. hosszú gasps in excitement, holy fuck, and they can tell he's never seen anything like this before—satisfation warms their insides like a hearth in a winter salon.

hosszú eagerly reaches out for the cigarettes, but they pull their hand away, shaking their head. ah–a, take it easy, ficsúr giggles, but clearly, hosszú doesn't want to. it's my birthday, he insists as he shifts closer, be nice to me, and looking at his angelic smile ficsúr would give anything to him in a heartbeat—but they want to fool around. what if it's tomorrow, they inquire in a mocking tone, progressively leaning backwards more and more still, because hosszú doesn't dare to retreat. it's today, i can assure you, and he holds his arm out again, his warm palm just an inch away from touching ficsúr's flushed cheeks.

they're certainly not used to this, to him being so bold and confident. perhaps it comes with the age, what getting older can do to you—they find it endearing, and amusing nonetheless. examining hosszú's determined expression, ficsúr smirks to themself, alright, i can give that to you. have to earn it, though.

hosszú lets out a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes as he moves even closer. his arms are so long, they realize, he doesn't even need to stretch himself out to reach the pack in ficsúr's hands—doesn't mean they'll allow it to happen. they both keep up eye contact and ficsúr can't stop grinning; it's thrilling, having their body heat and breath mingled from being so near to one another, having hosszú's big brown eyes being dedicated to them and them only, having him lean in so close like they're about to kiss.

time slows down in their head, it's kind of funny, like in a play before the main protagonists cross their invisible boundaries and the distance between each other—expect ficsúr loses balance and falls backwards, pulling hosszú with them like a magnet. he lands heavy on their chest, barely a beat away from ficsúr's face and they can't help but let out a soft moan; it's the pain.

their hand is spread out over their head, with the cigs still in their gentle hold. hosszú effortlessly lifts the package from their fingers and grins down at them—impressed enough? they can feel their face heat up and heartbeat quicken and just as they open their mouth to get back at him, hosszú bumps his nose with theirs and giddily sits up. letting out a loud sigh ficsúr remains laying on the ground, eyes on hosszú and his slender hands as he opens the pack and takes a stub out.

he's focusing on the cigarette and his face is growing redder and redder by the minute—ficsúr cannot not notice it. crossing their arms under their head they lightly kick hosszú in the back of his neck, bid me one? groaning and cussing under his breath hosszú tosses the kit at their face and ficsúr is sure he has that satisfied smirk dancing on his lips.

where you got it, hosszú asks after they've been smoking for a while, still not looking at them. the blotchy pink hasn't faded away from his cheeks yet but it only adds to his charm—they have their eyes glued to him unabashedly. peter, they say, taking a drag of their cigarette; it's excellent, quality work and tastes like heavens. hosszú turns to them, his eyes wild, he must've asked for a lot in return, this shit costs lives! ficsúr giggles at that. offered to suck him off, they say, voice soppy, but he was like, i don't want that rascal mouth of yours anywhere near me, so i simply ran off. gonna get my ass for it, but, and they look at hosszú, eyes all bright and shiny, was worth it.

it catches him off guard, them looking at him like that, and hosszú turns away, his face hot and red again. it really was, i guess, he mumbles, but you do have a rascal mouth though. ficsúr grins, and you love it. in response they get elbowed, but hosszú is smiling to himself behind the curtains of smoke—i guess i really do.

 

iv.

it has happened before, and they knew very well it could happen again—but not like this, not so gravely.

the boys get beaten when they're caught committing anything that goes against the rules; be it missing work hours, immoral behaviour, or stealing from supervisors. ficsúr happens to do the latter often—it's their only source of cigarettes. they're fast and sharp, conversant with such business, or so they thought.

hosszú has been sitting on a bench in the common bathroom, his bare feet on the floor covered in mud as he anxiously stomps his legs. you really don't want me to help, he asks out, perhaps a bit too loud but ficsúr can hear him through the rippling water perfectly.

the shower is uncomfortably cold but it helps their heartbeat to calm down. fresh blood tints the delft red and they wonder if hosszú has turned around, if he can see how weak and helpless they look. i can manage, they respond quietly.

it must be past sack time, they hear hosszú mumble, look, man, i don't want you to get any more trouble. let me help. ficsúr stops the water and steps out of the stall, making hosszú jump up and run to them—he almost falls on the slippery floor. you can help me dress up, ficsúr says, not daring to face him yet. don't look at me like that, it's not so bad.

it is, though—split lips, a swollen eye, their cheekbones and forehead covered in bruises, just like their shoulders, back and thighs. red and purples against the soft brown skin, they feel numb and paralyzed.

hosszú's presence is comforting, they got to admit that. he is standing fairly close, his arms open so he can catch them if they were to fall, and ficsúr can feel his gaze burn into the back of their neck. he always stares when he thinks the other isn't looking—there's something exciting about it, something that makes ficsúr's blood boil hot, even in a state like this.

dressing up is a slow and painful process, but they make it work, the two of them. hosszú gently holds onto them by their waist, his palm warm and heavy and makes ficsúr quiver a little every time he shifts it at their side; and he has a hand out for them to grab when they lose balance. ficsúr just wants to spin around and get their busted lips on his, no questions asked.

the lights are still on in the corridors, it's cold and silent out here. hosszú's arm remains hooked around their waist as the two head to the sleeping areas, being a supporting weight for ficsúr to lean on and they're grateful for it. they want to say something, want to tell him how much their friendship means to them, how fortunate they are to have him by their side—they stay quiet, however.

as they enter the room, ficsúr can feel their mates' gaze bore into their body in the dark. beating happens every day, happens to everyone; it's nothing new—perhaps lending a helping hand is.

hosszú makes sure to hang around until he's certain they've settled on the bed and that everything is fine. ficsúr feels like shit.

(...) he tries to position himself on the bed in a way to take up as little space as possible—it makes ficsúr smile. there's enough room for you too, they whisper, clasping an arm around his torso and pulling their own body closer to his, thank you. thank you for being here. they can feel hosszú's hesitant fingers slowly entangle themselves in their damp and disheveled hair—calmness settles in their bones from every touch. the pain is still there, buzzing under their skin, but hosszú's presence and closeness makes everything better. thank you, thank you.

 

v.

hosszú sleeps on the windowsill in the left wing, next to the stairway. it doesn't look comfortable, but he insists on staying here; he has a view looking down the village and the thought of looking out for the children makes him feel more safe.

ficsúr takes turns on the sofa, sometimes lets the little ones rest with them—kuksi loves dozing off in their arms, the little sweetheart. they pretend they don't care for him, but seeing how much the boy means to hosszú, ficsúr has learnt to love the kid. it's an ambiguous relationship but ficsúr finds joy and pride in it too.

(...) szeplős will keep watch tonight, alright? come with me, please. they're holding a hand out for hosszú, who falteringly takes it after a moment of silently gazing into ficsúr's big amber eyes. alright, he sighs and they can tell he is exhausted, drained and distressed, if the dark circles decorating his face and his shaking, bony limbs aren't enough of indicators. you need a good night's sleep, need to take shit off your mind for a minute, they whisper and pull hosszú towards the empty armchair in the corner next to simon peter's piano.

at the sight of it hosszú laughs quietly, this is too small for the both of us, then looks at them with curious eyes, begging ficsúr to say it, to affirm to him that they are going to be sleeping here together. that's what you get for being so long and lanky, they tease, playfully poking hosszú in the nose, but then they go to sit in the chair, gently patting the hand rest, telling him to come too.

think we can make this work, ficsúr questions, grinning at the boy besides them and hosszú sighs again, perhaps we could. he settles first, it's warm and comfortable, then he lets ficsúr curl up in his lap, wovening his arms around them. he snuggles his head into the crook of their neck, softly mumbling something against their skin but ficsúr is too focused on the heat blanketing them, on hosszú's fingers gently tracing nonsense patterns on their back and on the warm feeling filling their stomach to hear him—it's almost perfect like this. good night, they whisper, hinting a kiss to his disheveled curls and hugging him closer, i love you.

Chapter Text

ficsúr gently pats him on the shoulder.

hosszú eyes them up and down; they're wearing a striped olive shirt with a black tuxedo—it's a little bit worn, hand-me-down from a relative perhaps, but fits the attire just perfectly. ficsúr is like a baroque painting, all tension and drama with a gentle touch of delicacy. it's truly charming and hosszú can't seem to look away.

isteţule, recunoști că ești frumoasă, ficsúr says and hosszú doesn't know what it means but as he tucks the words away in his back pocket he feels his face grow hot and his lips tug upwards into a smile. thank you, he says in response, a little bit unsure as he adjusts his tie—making ficsúr laugh, eyes bright like thousands of stars.

 

 

have you tried it yet, ficsúr asks, not even looking at him. hosszú shakes his head, mesmerized as he watches his friend's bony fingers crumble up the hashish—such delicate, calculated movements, as if they were born for this and hosszú can't make himself look away.

it's the little things that make ficsúr divine; the bitten nails, the petite moles and freckles decorating the back of their hand, the wicked stray locks of dark brown hair falling into their eyes that have hosszú yearn to gently tuck them behind ficsúr's ear. it's their slightly parted lips and tongue poking out as they concentrate, their long eyelashes casting soft shadows over their rosy cheeks, it's the pleased hum ficsúr lets out when they get the job done. hosszú doesn't even notice the amber eyes staring back at him—ficsúr raises a brow, their features kind and sweet and hosszú quickly leans back, flustered.

it's quiet for a moment, then he realizes, no, no i haven't tried it yet, he says and ficsúr smirks at him, content. alright, they say and turn to sit on the engine hood, come–come.

hosszú weights down on the bonnet next to them, slowly gliding closer when ficsúr takes a drag of the joint and nods at his direction. he watches ficsúr grin and blow the smoke out, he watches the mist float away and blend into the landscape created by the forest behind them. close your eyes, ficsúr tells him suddenly, their voice low and gentle and hosszú shuts his eyes tight, not thinking about it twice. he hears ficsúr snicker, their body heat hugging him like a blanket and when they say, open up, hosszú reluctantly parts his lips, waiting.

then everything seems to slow down and hosszú forgets to breathe as he feels ficsúr's mouth softly touch his, it's almost like kissing—he gets a lungful of smoke exhaled into his mouth.

they're surprisingly warm, ficsúr's lips, and their breath fills hosszú's mouth like a promise, like something that has been created just to be under his tongue. still, he busts out coughing, a shaking hand coming up to his chest as he struggles to breathe. the soot burns his throat and the sensation of his friend's phantom lips still lingers on his mouth, making him shiver. ficsúr moves closer—he can feel it—gently patting him on the back with their palm, you alright? if you suffocate from a little weed i'm going to feel bad, hey, fuck, hosszú, and he can hear the nerves acting up in ficsúr's voice.

so he tries to gather himself together—straightening his back he inhales sharply, eyes still shut tight; he hawks lightly, perhaps for the drama of it all, perhaps to untangle the knot in his throat. then he finally turns to look at ficsúr and it takes up all his willpower to not start laughing right then and there—they stare at him with concern and fear written all over their face, as if they committed a federal crime, not smoked marihuana with their best friend. i'll live, he says softly, just–just wasn't expecting it. ficsúr visibly relaxes, huh, was it that shit? no, it wasn't really, actually, he rather enjoyed it for a particular reason, but hosszú doesn't tell them that—instead he's about to say something more atrocious. he looks away, cheeks flush, i suggest we give it another try? just to make sure, and ficsúr grins at him like it's exactly what they wanted to hear.

Chapter Text

branka doesn't let go of his hands until they arrive at the stage doors. hosszú swallows as unease settles in his bones—he has never been here, they would never let him in here. branka must've sensed his uncertainty because she bursts out laughing, pulling him closer by their invined fingers; silly, my silly boy, have no worry, she sings, kissing hosszú's temple, we have an arrangement. they reserved us a baignoire, she tells him with excitement, her smile shining brighter than the streetlights around them.

alright, hosszú says, alright, and he lets out a heavy sigh as branka pushes the wooden door open. when they greet the lodge-keeper she trots out a piece of paper from her overcoat's inner pocket and exultantly shows it to the old man behind the counter. have a ball, the porter waves, tired and unimpressed, letting them go.

as they step into the mildly lit corridors hosszú notices that they're still holding hands—it makes him feel safe and warm. branka's enthusiasm taints him too. (...)

 

he doesn't find the house at first—hosszú is surprised to see that they live in the same district. illustrious figures, like an actor, would reside a somewhat more opulent place, he supposes, but well, he doesn't know much. he's never seen ficsúr around, he muses as he roams up and down the street—no sight of the hidden gateway still.

it's cold outside and he's sweating, the chilly breeze burns his eyes and he just wants to run away. dawn is upon him—the streetlights are litten, tiny balls of light glowing through the mist and fog that's been blanketing the borough. hosszú sighs.

and as he turns in his heels to flee in shame—he sees a little girl slip through the ivy-mantled walls at the corner. (...)

 

and then ficsúr's lips are on his, warm and gentle like the hands holding him close, oh so close and hosszú kisses them back, eager. he opens his mouth and lets his tongue feel along their cherry sweet lips before being granted admittance—ficsúr moans between them, their grip tightening on hosszú's shirt. they taste like wine, saccharine and intoxicating.

he slowly takes a step forward, softly maneuvering them in the direction of the salon's wall—a faint thud, a low sigh of pleasure. ficsúr's palms travel down his spine and arrive at his ass the same time their back hits the side. hosszú kisses them again and again, savouring the little sounds escaping ficsúr's mouth, and when the two break away for air they're both panting and breathless.

they have done this before, will do it again and he knows it, but being so intimate and tender with someone makes his heart beat faster and looking down on ficsúr's flustered cheeks and kiss-swollen lips hosszú can't help but smile and hunch over for another peck on the mouth. ficsúr giggles and grinds up against him, sending a jolt of pleasure through him—with a sharp inhale and moment of gazing in ficsúr's eyes full of bliss, hosszú slowly drops to his knees in front of them.

may i, he asks, voice hoarse and ficsúr shudders as they guide his hands to their waist to untie the laces of their pants. yes, you may.

when he takes them in his mouth and sucks gently, hosszú can see ficsúr's world explode—it's their arching back, their lust filled, half lidded eyes, it's their thin fingers tangling themselves in hosszú's dark curls and the soft gasps escaping their lips that make him want more and more. so he takes them deeper and deeper, relishing in the heat and the way ficsúr's legs shake, the way they cry out when he moans around their length. it's beautiful, truly.

slow down, dearest, ficsúr breathes, their warm palms on each side of hosszú's flushed red cheeks, enough, it's okay, they say, voice tight with desire, i want to take you, i want– and their eyes are fixated on hosszú, on his freckle plastered, crooked nose, on his dark, clumsily chopped waves that stick to his sweat covered forehead, on his pink and shiny lips and on the saliva dripping down his chin and hosszú knows he could come from this alone—from ficsúr's undivided love and attention they shower him with.

swallowing hard he rises to his feet—he feels dizzy and drunk and he craves more. ficsúr smirks at him, their features mirroring hosszú's arousal and excitement and he ducks down to kiss them again with barely controlled need. it's a sloppy dance of lips, warm and tender and then ficsúr moves against him, unhurried, leaving his body burning up in hot flames. come now, they breathe into hosszú's mouth, let's go, and that's all he needs to hear.

(...) ficsúr goes down easily when he gently pushes them onto their back and straddles their hips. they moan softly at the contact but it's not enough—with shaking hands hosszú helps them get out of their pants. impatient, huh, ficsúr asks cheekily as they hook their fingers under the waistband of his trousers and start yanking it down. who's talking, he says between peppering kisses to their lips, cheeks, neck and any place he can reach while he blindly fumbles with ficsúr's shirt buttons. they both gasp in union when hosszú sits back and rolls down his hips—the skin to skin contact is making him crazy.

ficsúr runs their hands up his thighs, settling their warm palms just below his abdomen and they look at him with eyes filled with so much love as if he had hung the stars in the sky. you're beautiful, they whisper, voice raspy and hosszú smiles down at them as he gingerly entwines his fingers in their disheveled hair, you ain't look bad yourself, beloved.

(...) there's–there's oil in the top drawer, they breathe and hosszú kisses the spot where their neck and collarbone collide, i know. he hunches over ficsúr and the bed to get the lubricant. they hold their arm out and intvine their hand with his over the small bottle, alright if i just watch? he sheepishly smiles, yeah, enjoy the show, he wants to say but ficsúr's other hand sneaks up his inner thigh, and his words die on his tongue in a loud moan. maintaining eye contact he dips his fingers in the oil and reaches behind himself, slowly pushing a digit in. he wants to keep his gaze on ficsúr's bliss painted expression but his eyes flutter shut as he moves his hand in further—the heat pooling in his belly is burning up his entire body now and ficsúr's palms on his side feel like they're made of ice, cold against his hot skin.

while he keeps opening himself up at a growing pace, ficsúr moves to tenderly wrap a hand around his dick—hosszú's head falls back and his mouth parts in a high pitched groan; he gets more and more desperate by the minute, adding another finger and picking up speed. he rolls his hips into their touch and he feels like the sounds his movements drag out of ficsúr could make him finish without an effort.

exhaling sharply he draws his hand back and wipes it on the sheets—he knows ficsúr will have a few words about it later but he doesn't really care—then bracing himself on ficsúr's chest he slowly sinks down on them. the tingling sensation melts his insides and he's sure he can see stars; and by the look of ficsúr's tilted back head and parted lips, the feeling is mutual. they're both panting softly as hosszú seats himself, and after a beat he finally starts moving.

pleasure fills his veins and his blood flows south and he reaches a shaky, sweaty hand down to lock fingers with ficsúr on the beddings. fu–fuck, they moan and thrust up to meet his movements and hosszú can't help but cry out. perhaps he should keep his voice down a bit, to not disturb the neighbours and all, but ficsúr doesn't seem to mind—love it when you're vocal, they told him once, kissing the corner of his mouth, angel boy—hosszú feels encouraged. he dips down and attaches his mouth to theirs, gently sucking on ficsúr's bottom lip. they free their hands and put them around his waist, helping him go down as far as possible, baby, i'm going to switch our positions, is that alright, they murmur into his mouth and when he breaks away to catch some air ficsúr tips them over—having ficsúr look down at him with hunger burning in their eyes, his head is spinning and he wants to scream, mo–move, beloved, he manages to get out and then ficsúr tightens their hold on his hips and begins to fuck him hard into the cushions.

hosszú's back arches from the bed and his whines blanket the two of them as ficsúr thrusts into him, you're perfect, honey, ah, they hum and let go of his waist in favor of taking hold of his length and he is eliciting sounds he didn't know he could make.

his entire body is trembling now and he's so close, so goddamn close, and it takes one last squeeze of ficsúr's warm palm for him to come between them with a silent scream on his open mouth. they fuck him through it, rough and tender at the same time and it's so overwhelming yet welcome and he almost doesn't realize that ficsúr has finished too.

time seems suspended and the two of them lay there breathing quietly—he moves to tangle a hand in ficsúr's messy hair, caressing the back of their neck comfortingly. they look at him, eyes bright and filled with so much love it makes hosszú forget to exhale and they duck down to kiss him lazily and it feels so good, so perfect—he wishes he could live in this moment forever.