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When Prax turns back to Amos, his breath catches in his throat.
He’s been distracted by the process of bandaging Amos’s shoulder, by thoughts of Mei and the protomolecule monster, and now he's suddenly caught off guard by the sight of Amos. By the sheer amount of skin Amos is showing, his unzipped jumpsuit riding dangerously low on his hips. Prax finds he can’t help staring. For a long, frozen moment, his eyes trace the shapes of Amos’s muscles, his heart skipping in his chest.
He shouldn’t feel this way, right? There are greater things at stake right now – Mei, their own lives, the future of the solar system – and yet he can’t look at Amos without feeling like a flustered teenager.
Forcing himself to breathe, he draws closer to Amos, who wordlessly offers his arm. Prax affixes the bandages as neatly as he can around Amos’s shoulder. He feels hyperaware of all of Amos’s bare skin, of each time his fingers brush Amos’s shoulder, the contact jolting through him like an electric shock. But Prax has always had steady hands, and he makes sure the bandage is secure.
“There,” he murmurs, stepping away, and then suddenly Amos reaches up and catches his wrist.
Prax falls still, his heart pounding. He searches Amos’s face for what’s going on – did he make a mistake, hurt Amos somehow? - but Amos’s expression gives nothing away. He doesn’t let go of Prax’s arm. His touch is gentle: a request, not a demand. With everything they’ve been through, times Amos has helped him and times Amos had to stop him, Prax can distinguish the two at this point.
Without meaning to, Prax’s eyes skip down to Amos’s chest, bare and thick with muscle. They’re standing very close, he realizes. He could take one step forward and press himself right against the hard planes of Amos’s body. His stomach does an eager little flip, and, swallowing, he forces himself to look back at Amos’s face.
Amos’s expression is neutral and it’s easy to imagine he can see right through Prax. Prax feels his cheeks heat. How is he supposed to defend himself against the magnetic pull of Amos when he’s so overwhelmed by everything else going on? He feels stressed and tired and full of an aimless need for action, like a pile of dry kindling ready to go up at a single spark.
And Amos’s hand is hot around his wrist, and Prax can’t decide if he should just give in and let himself burn.
He’s been wanting Amos since the first time they touched and maybe that’s enough to mean that he should –
He should just –
He should what, he thinks, letting his eyes slide down to Amos’s lips. Kiss Amos? Start a relationship with him? He has no clue at all if Amos would want those things.
And if Amos doesn’t want those things, then Prax is risking losing his best ally on this ship. The one person he trusts to help him find Mei. Guilt twists in his stomach and, swallowing, he steps back. “Okay, I think that should –”
Amos doesn’t let go. “Hey, wait,” he says, gently, tugging Prax in and curling an arm around his waist.
Prax breathes out a long, shaky breath. Okay, so maybe –
Amos leans in and kisses him.
Prax closes his eyes.
There’s a plant called the Mimosa pudica, the shy plant, so called for its seismonastic response to touch – the lightest touch will cause it to shrink away, leaflets folding themselves up one by one, a chain reaction to protect itself from harm.
At the press of Amos’s mouth, Prax feels like M. pudica in reverse, unfolding himself piece by piece. His lips part, his spine straightens, his stomach unknots. The reaction is fast, a trembling openness that sweeps through his body, all the way down to uncurl his fingers. M. pudica makes itself small and sharp in response to touch, but Prax finds himself open, defenseless.
So this is what he needed after all, the heat of Amos’s body pressed to his, the slow warm press of his mouth. It doesn’t make everything okay but it makes Prax okay, just for a moment, heat blooming in his chest and spilling through his whole body.
He presses as close to Amos as he can, curling his hands around Amos’s arms. Amos’s hand slides down to his lower back, pulling him in tight so they can feel every shift of their bodies together, every breath. Prax shudders, leaning in, kissing Amos eagerly and tracing Amos’s biceps with his hands.
He wants to go slowly enough to feel every millisecond of this, to map the topography of Amos’s muscles inch by inch, to measure each and every angle that their mouths fit together. But at the same time he wants everything all at once, to jump right to the moment where they’re skin to skin, Amos’s hands on every bit of him. He wants to live this like a timelapse film, all those experiences compressed so he can take it all in, drown in it, before this moment inevitably comes to end.
Which it does, even sooner than he expected, with Alex’s voice on the intercom.
“Hey, Amos, you down there? We’ve got trouble.”
Amos pulls away. “Duty calls,” he says, zipping up his jumpsuit and giving Prax a grin. “But thanks for your help, Doc.”
And Prax is forced to hurry after him as they leave the med bay, his heart pounding and his stomach twisting itself into brand new knots over what might be waiting for them.
***
And then, what feels like much, much later, the monster is gone, the captain is safe, and Prax follows Amos into his bunk.
He’s not trying to impose. He mostly just wants to be with Amos, to linger in the feeling of safety that Amos gives him. The feeling is strongest when they’re close together. Sometimes Prax thinks he can actually feel Amos’s closeness, can feel the solid strength of Amos’s body the way a moon feels its planet. And he needs that feeling now. He aches for it.
And, also, he remembers the feeling of kissing Amos, the strange and unexpected thrill of it. He aches for that as well as that feeling of safety, both at once, the two desires too closely entwined in the pound of his heart to separate.
Prax steps forward, keeping his eyes on Amos.
Amos looks back at him, his eyes calm but sharp enough to spark a long shudder through Prax’s body. The air between the two of them seems thick, heavy with the memories of not just the kiss earlier but everything before that, Amos’s hand on Prax’s shoulder, the secrets exchanged in a the corner of a dark apartment.
Amos comes forward to meet him, and suddenly they’re very close. Prax takes a shuddering breath.
“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice quiet and intent.
He wants to ask it of himself, if it’s okay to want someone this much if you only just met him, when your daughter is missing and the world is falling apart around you, but he also needs to ask if it’s okay with Amos, who’s done enough and owes him nothing.
Amos gives a little shrug. “We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”
Which Prax gets. They chose this. They each fought to get this far, and along the way, they had plenty of differences that could have driven them apart. Plenty of chances to turn away from each other. But they didn’t.
And so they’re here, alive, together.
Prax curls his hands in Amos’s jumpsuit and leans in and presses his mouth hard to Amos’s.
Amos meets him. The kiss is slow and fierce, like a wave crashing in slow motion – the hard press of their lips peaking and then breaking, in one long moment, into something deep and open-mouthed. Heat rushes through Prax, sensation after sensation, Amos’s lips, his tongue, his hand pushing up into Prax’s hair.
Prax finds that he wants Amos with a kind of pure need, untainted by guilt or second thoughts. There’s no room for those things, not when Amos takes up so much space, the press of his body against Prax’s, his hands warm on Prax’s skin, the fierce steady rhythm of his kiss.
Amos has given him so much already, but Prax finds himself wanting everything Amos could possibly give.
***
They end up here: Amos’s fingers inside Prax, thick and insistent, working him open.
Prax presses his face to the pillow, his breath coming in gasps. The vulnerability of this is almost helplessness, the intimate push of it almost pain, but it’s neither of those and the gaps between them feel like freedom, like a soaring expanse of sky, lit in brilliant flashes by auroras of shivering heat.
“All right, Doc?” asks Amos, low.
And Prax answers: “Yes.”
And then Amos leans forward over Prax and lets his cock rest against Prax’s ass. Prax shudders at the thick weight of it. It’s been a long, long time since he did anything like this, but his nerves are gone and all he feels is need.
“Ready?” asks Amos.
Prax feels dizzy with how much he wants this. “Yes.”
Amos pushes into him slowly, slowly enough for Prax to feel every slick inch of him. This feels impossible, like there must be a law of physics against this, the pure hot thickness of Amos’s cock inside him – but it feels inevitable, too, like they’re being pulled together by gravity.
Amos doesn’t make any noise, just breathes out slowly, putting his weight beyond the slow push until he’s pressing Prax against the mattress, his body against Prax’s back, his breath rough in Prax’s ear, and then he mutters, “Fuck, Doc.”
And Prax – Prax has no words for the magnitude of this.
Amos starts to move, his hips rolling against Prax. There’s no gradual build-up, just a steady, hard rhythm, the hot slide of his cock in and out. Each thrust is hard enough to push the air from Prax’s lungs, so that Prax can only gasp against the pillow, his pulse pounding, his whole body alight.
On Earth, he recalls, there used to be a colony of Populus tremuloides covering a hundred acres, thousands of trees all connected to a single root network. All communicating with each other. That’s what Prax’s body feels like now, a miracle of connection – every nerve in concert, every move Amos makes resonating through every inch of him.
Amos’s thrusts start to grow faster, the rhythm building on itself, pushing Prax against the bed. Still, the movements feel controlled. Deliberate. This is the other side of the pure calm intensity of Amos’s violence, channeled instead through the warmth of Amos’s arms braced around Prax, the shudder of his breath against Prax’s neck, his voice low and hoarse muttering, “That’s it –”
Prax is swept along, breathless, pleasure swelling in him until it threatens to overflow. His mind is blissfully blank, filled only with Amos – the solid weight of Amos’s body, the ragged rhythm of Amos’s breath, the impossible push of Amos’s cock.
“Hey,” grits out Amos finally. “I’m gonna –”
Heat shudders through Prax and he makes a low, eager noise, pushing his hips back to meet Amos’s thrusts.
Amos’s breath catches, and his hips stutter, hard, as he breathes a long, low groan against the back of Prax’s neck.
Afterwards Amos lies still for a moment, breathing hard. Then he presses a kiss to Prax’s ear. “You all right there, Doc?”
Prax’s body feels hot, overwhelmed, his pulse still pounding to the rhythm of Amos’s thrusts. “Yeah,” he manages.
“Good.” Amos rolls onto his side and drags Prax in close so they’re face to face. He’s grinning.
Prax smiles back, breathless. Then his gaze lands on the bandage still wrapped around Amos’s shoulder. Suddenly worried, he reaches out to brush the edge. “This doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“Nope.” Amos catches Prax’s hand and holds it between them. “You must’ve done a good job.”
“Oh, well, I really just –” starts Prax, but then Amos lean in and kisses him.
It’s a slow, deep kiss, the now-familiar kind that drags all the breath from Prax’s lungs and sends heat sparking through his veins. The kind that Prax could easily lose himself in.
But after a moment, Amos pulls back. “Now. You took care of me, Doc, I’d better make sure that I take care of you.”
And, grinning, he reaches between them to close his hand around Prax’s cock.
Prax gasps, his whole body reacting to the touch. His heart starts up an eager drumbeat in his chest, pushing him closer to Amos, rocking his hips into the warm friction of Amos’s fist. Amos keeps a steady rhythm, tight even strokes that send heat rushing up through Prax’s body in waves.
Prax closes his eyes. His body is still overflowing with sensation from earlier, still echoing with rhythm of Amos’s cock inside him, and he can feel Amos’s strokes pulling him gently and inevitably towards climax, the way phototaxis pulls a plant towards the sun.
There’s so much they have to fight, so many challenges left ahead of them. But this, at least, is easy. This is nature asserting its age-old patterns, controlling the eager push of Prax’s hips, the stutter-stop of his breath. It takes only moments before orgasm surges through him, the rush of it shuddering through his whole body as he gasps and clings to Amos.
And then they both fall still, curled together in Amos’s bunk, with the Rocinante humming around them.
Prax isn’t sure if he’s allowed to be happy under his current circumstances. He probably isn’t. But just for a moment, he lets himself be, pressing close to Amos and taking deep breaths to feel every last satisfied ache in his body.