Page 53 of Puck You Both

I set the phone on the pillow beside my head, screen up, and lie back into the dark. "Done."

"Good."

The single word registers and my cock starts filling against my briefs. My body keeps its own records.

A soft thump. Phone landing on the mattress, maybe. Patrick's breathing organizes itself just above the microphone, close enough that every exhale arrives with weight.

Then, a click. Plastic. A cap.

A slick sound follows, lazily, and Theo sucks in a breath. "Cold," he accuses.

"You'll live."

"You did that on purp—" The sentence loses its footing. "Oh. Oh. Okay."

I stare at the dark, and the sounds starts building an image of a room for me. Theo on the bed. Knees in the sheets. Patrick behind him, wearing—

I stop myself there, because imagining what Patrick is wearing feels somehow more explicit than the rest of it.

"Knees wider," Patrick says.

Sheets rasp. Theo's next breath punches out of him, and my imagination doesn't need the diagram.

"How many is—" Theo starts.

"Two."

The answer isn't for Theo. Theo can count. The word is aimed at the phone, at the dark on my end of it, flat information in that even voice for the benefit of a man many miles away who asked not to be warned.

Patrick's narrating. For me.

Heat rolls down my stomach in a slow tide. My hand is already resting on my abs, and I leave it there, because their room has rules and I don't know mine yet. There's a version of this where I'm an ear in the dark and nothing else, and if that's my seat, I'll take it. I asked for exactly this blindness. My cock, fully hard now and tenting the briefs, has no interest in seating charts.

"He spread before I asked," Patrick reports.

"Snitch," Theo breathes.

"Wider."

The mattress complains. Theo's answer comes out as vowels.

Sounds resume and they’re wet now, deeper, and Theo’s breathing goes ragged around them. He keeps starting sentences and Patrick keeps taking the ends of them away. "You're— ah— you're showing off for— fuck. Yeah, there—"

"Three," Patrick says.

Theo's vocabulary reduces to one high, helpless sound, and my cock jerks against cotton, untouched.

Three. My brain supplies the image. Three thick fingers, slick past the knuckle, and Theo pushing back onto them, because Theo doesn’t wait for anything.

My palm settles over my cock through the briefs. Slow pressure, nothing anyone could hear. My hips have other ideas and I hold them down by force of will, barely, and being this careful about silence while two men take each other apart on my pillow speaker is its own insanity.

"Tell him," Theo pants suddenly. "Tell him how— you have the voice for it—"

"He can hear you."

"That's not the same and you know it, you—" A moan swallows the insult whole.

The crack of a palm on skin comes through sharp enough that my whole body flinches. Theo groans, long and shameless, not a molecule of pain in it.