Work Text:
The title is from the song Australia by The Shins
* * *
“Trixie, I am so scared,” Katya says.
There’s a tiny laugh in his voice, a little bubble of hysteria that’s been there all day. It’s kind of starting to piss Trixie off, now. Nothing is funny. They’re nose to nose in a too-small hotel bed, and Katya’s eyes are huge in the darkness.
On the other side of the room, a guard is sitting in a chair watching them sleep. Every two hours, the door clicks open and unpleasant yellow light floods in from the hallway and the guards swap over, an endless rotation of square-jawed facsimiles. It’d make them jerk awake, panicked, if either of them were able to even entertain the idea of sleeping right now.
“Literally don’t,” Trixie whispers back. “You have got to keep it together, Katya. I can’t. . . I can’t do this if you go full Casey Becker on me right now.”
It’s too hot beneath the sheets with Katya. It’s too hot in this entire country, and isn’t it supposed to be the winter here right now? The back of Trixie’s neck feels prickly and pink, which is impossible since they haven’t even fucking been outside at all in the handful of hours since their plane landed. Katya had caught him at it earlier, touching his fingertips to his tender skin one too many times, and told him it’s psychosomatic, to which Trixie had shot back you would know, you psycho.
His entire body fucking hurts from fourteen hours spent on the airplane, especially with a reanimated classroom skeleton wriggling around in the seat next to his. His entire body hurts all the time these days — he’s booked and busy, thank you so much — and exactly none of it is helped by transpacific travel. And now he’s in a tiny bed, and Katya’s sharp knees keep digging into his thighs because he has his legs curled up like he wants to make himself small. It makes Trixie have the strange urge to shield him, throw his body over Katya’s.
“Hey, remember four days ago when we were taking selfies with Miley Cyrus?” Katya says lightly, and Trixie bites the inside of his cheek to try to temper his laughter a little bit.
Some of the panic has started to leave his system now. He is no longer convinced that he and Katya are about to be summarily executed, and even though his breath is still shuddering in his chest a little bit he does feel like he’s coming down from his crying jag, finally.
“Yeah, I guess now we’re just Two More Lonely People.”
Katya wheezes as quietly as he’s capable of, so at a thousand decibels. “That is such a deep cut, you absolute fag. You fuckin’ criminal.” His eyes get wide and he fumbles for Trixie’s hand beneath the covers, wraps all of his fingers around Trixie’s index and squeezes twice. “Oh hey! Now you’re an actual criminal.”
“Shut up!” He knows that they’re being loud. It’s always like this, with them. Being near Katya makes it feel like the lacing has come loose around his ribcage and he just cannot stop screaming. And anyway, it’s not like having a conversation is going to get them deported any fuckin’ faster. “Can’t Be Tamed sold like 350,00 units. And you got the reference, you cunt. You’re just as faggy as I am.”
Trixie can feel how wiry Katya’s body is, how he vibrates on a higher frequency than everybody else, how his skin is so warm to the touch. He thrashes around in the bed, squirmy with pleasure, and Trixie chews on the inside of his own lip. “Trixie please do not make me hate crime you here in front of Bruce Campbell and God.”
“Pretty sure God abandoned us the second those wheels hit the tarmac, but go off sis,” he says just to hear Katya’s barely-muffled yell.
It’s been one of the worst days of Trixie’s whole life, and mama, he has baggage. He got eliminated from Rupaul’s Best Friend Race twice last year. And that’s not even counting his assorted childhood traumas, all hidden away in various compartments of his overcoat and glinting in the sunlight when he moves just the right way.
He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if the idiot lying nose to nose with him right now hadn’t been here. When they’d separated them to be interviewed — interrogated, Trixie! that was a full interrogation, I thought they were surely going to shine a flashlight in my eyes — it’d been cinematically pathetic. As soon as one of the border force officers had given them a second glance, Katya had grabbed Trixie’s hand and he hadn’t let go until they’d had to. He’d clung so tight that Trixie’s fingers had been red for hours afterwards, so tight that Trixie had thought they might need to be physically separated. The realisation that they’re two grown-ass men had passed over his face, and he’d finally let Trixie go with a last double squeeze.
It’s strange that his hand feels empty now.
“Katya,” he whispers, and gets a little hmm? of acknowledgement. “If you weren’t here right now, I don’t-”
For once, Trixie is not the one doing the interrupting. Katya lays his palm flat against Trixie’s chest, right over his heart. “I am here, mama. The universe said ‘oh, you want to bond with Trixie over another shared trauma?’”
It’s supposed to be a joke, Trixie’s fairly certain, but nothing is funny anymore. He could cry again, which should be impossible because he has a dehydration headache behind his left eye and blooming insistently across his nose. Still, everything feels pink and watery like he has myxomatosis.
“Do you think it’ll always be like this for us?”
“I think so, yeah.” Katya drums his fingertips against Trixie’s chest in a funny little rhythm. “I like it though. I’m not really interested in doing stuff that’s regular.”
Trixie snorts, and the guard watching them clears his throat. “No fucking shit, you actual carny. Nothing is regular about you.”
“Except my bowels,” Katya says cheerfully, and Trixie smacks him in the gut. He isn’t expecting the soft little noise Katya makes, or the way he empties his lungs in surprise. Or how his own dick twitches in his sweatpants.
They lie in the quiet for a little while. Somebody is yelling outside, several floors away, and there are footsteps padding up and down the hallway. Trixie closes his eyes and tethers himself to the heel of Katya’s palm against his chest and his five fingertips. In the morning, they have to fly home again. They are getting deported from Australia. Kim is literally never going to shut up about this.
It’s so still in the room. The guard is making these little wheezing noises on each breath like he left his CPAP machine at home, and the AC unit is whirring, and Trixie actually jolts when Katya says, “I really wanna jerk you off right now.”
Trixie’s face goes hot right away and he opens his eyes. Katya is so close to him now that they’re sharing the same pillow, and he can feel Katya’s breaths on his own face. It’s kind of gross, and it’s also kind of making him hard. Just the tiniest bit.
“That’s just the adrenaline, you fucking lunatic,” he manages to say.
“Maybe,” Katya says brightly. He is always like this. No matter how many times Trixie tries to crush him beneath his heaviest, butchest boot he is always right there, scuttling out from beneath the furniture with all his many limbs to say Trixie can I please blow you. He sounds totally unfazed when he says, “I still want to.”
Trixie lifts his head up from the pillow to look at the guard, who grunts and then goes right back to his death rattle. There’s no clock in here, and some Lego with a God complex took his phone right out of his hands earlier. Changeover could be in the next five minutes; he has no concept of how long it’s been.
“It might be dangerous.”
Katya’s stupid perfect smile flashes in the darkness and the rest of his body dissolves like the Cheshire cat. He’d look fucking great in magenta and violet stripes, the cunt. They aren’t touching at all, apart from Katya’s hand still on his chest, but it’d be so easy to scoot closer and get Katya’s knee between his thighs. To rock his hips down against him.
“Don’t you think that’s sexy, though?” Katya says. Trixie is furious at how level his voice sounds, how completely unbothered he seems. “I think that’s really hot, Tracy.”
Trixie wants to kiss him. Fine. He’s not blind, Beth. Katya is so cute as a boy, and Trixie knows how much he likes it. How he suddenly becomes a person who is able to focus, when he’s focusing on having his tongue in somebody’s mouth. They’ve kissed a couple times, because they’re drag queens and Katya has kissed a solid eighty percent of their colleagues. Trixie doesn’t really. . . do that. He doesn’t like to get other people’s lipstick on himself, and he isn’t looking to contract other people’s venereal diseases at this time, either. With Katya though, it’s easy and fun and it feels nice. With Katya he likes it a lot.
“It’s- fine. Yes.” Katya makes a noise in the back of his throat that Trixie fully ignores. “That’s hot, in a would bookmark the video on Pornhub way. Not in a let’s risk actual Australian jail way.”
“You’d let me jerk you off?” Katya fucking banshee-shrieks.
Trixie clamps his hand over Katya’s mouth, and immediately regrets it when the wet heat of his tongue licks a long stripe across the meat of Trixie’s palm. He goes snowblind for a second and has to close his eyes again and swallow roughly. “I would. But I am not super into voyeurism. Or like, seventeen years hard labour in the Outback.”
“I think I got laid in the bathroom at The Outback one time,” Katya says, and then bites Trixie’s palm. He whines without thinking through the consequences, and both of Katya’s eyebrows lift. “But okay. Yes. You’re right, Tallulah. I’m not trying to have a threesome with this fuckin’ Easter Island head.”
Trixie takes his hand away from Katya’s mouth, his palm prickly with drying saliva, and he curls his fingers into a fist. Like, he was awake before, but now he’s awake. And they have to sit next to each other on another fourteen hour flight tomorrow, and Trixie knows it’s fine but he’s also not entirely convinced they won’t have an air marshal accompanying them.
“When we fuck,” Trixie starts. Katya’s eyes get enormous, and the mattress shivers when his hips twitch violently. “I wanna be able to touch you properly. I want- your skin against mine. I want you to make me be loud.”
Katya makes a rough, ragged noise. He fists his hand in Trixie’s shirt but doesn’t do anything with that grip, just stays right there with the material pulling uncomfortably at Trixie’s neck and biceps.
“You, um. . . you sound like you’ve been thinking about it.”
“I have,” Trixie says immediately. He’s really trying to keep his voice down; the guard is still whistling through his nose on every breath. “I do. Think about it. How it’d feel, to have you inside me. God, I want you to fucking ruin me.”
“Shut up, shut up!” Katya says. His voice is low and frantic. “You have to stop talking. I’m gonna ruin my fucking underwear and I don’t think they’re gonna let me into my luggage for a fresh pair.”
“Like you brought more than one pair anyway,” Trixie snorts.
Katya makes a small, scandalised noise in response to that, and Trixie doesn’t push it any further. He can’t, actually, think about Katya’s underwear right now. Not when his dick is so hard and straining against his own briefs. Katya lets go of Trixie’s shirt and rests his hand on the mattress, between their bodies. Trixie covers it in his own and strokes his thumb back and forth across Katya’s knuckles, and they exist together in the quiet for a little while.
“Will you come back with me?” he blurts eventually.
Katya doesn’t live in Los Angeles. He doesn’t have a flight back to Boston arranged — because they’re being fucking deported — and he doesn’t have anywhere to be, once they’re home. Trixie kind of wants to lay low for a while and wait for the shame to dissipate. And he wasn’t kidding. He thinks about fucking Katya. He has been thinking about it.
“To your den of sin?”
Trixie rolls over onto his back and flings his arm over his own face. “To my house, yes.”
“I don’t think the ankle shackles are gonna leave us with much choice, Tracy. I think you might be stuck with me.”
* * *
Katya had been quiet for most of their journey home. There was no armed guard with them; in the daylight, Trixie was ashamed that the idea ever even crossed his mind. He had felt almost normal, once they were in their airplane seats. Katya had contorted his way through a flow right at the gate, created a little clearing for himself just through earnestness and perfect teeth. They haven’t yet travelled together enough that Trixie is completely comfortable with it. He felt a strange little zap of self-consciousness when Katya got done and folded himself into the seat next to Trixie’s, wiry body angled towards him.
Trixie got hardly any sleep the whole flight, Katya even less. The recycled plane air makes Katya’s sinuses dry; he popped about seventeen Claritin before they boarded. Trixie had been drifting, head against the window, letting his body be buffeted by sleep, when Katya had sneezed himself and Trixie awake.
His eyes had unglued and he’d blinked at Trixie a few times. Trixie had flexed his fingers against the armrest so he didn’t do something wildly inappropriate for the airplane, like touch Katya’s lips or the bulge of his semi in his sweatpants.
“You’re safe,” he’d said instead, very quietly.
Katya had scoffed and said, “Uh, yeah, Tracy. Duh,” but he’d nuzzled in a little closer to Trixie before he fell back asleep.
They don’t talk about it at all, but at the baggage carousel they stand elbow to elbow waiting for their suitcases and then Katya just follows him over to the Uber pickup point. In the back of the car, Trixie leaves his hand casually on the seat between them and Katya takes it, plays with his fingers, strokes over his nails. He’s agitated and absent, and he bends one of Trixie’s fingers back so hard it makes him yelp.
His eyes leap to Trixie’s face and he says, “Oh, shit. I’m so sorry, Tracy. I’m not really. . .”
“Mm-hmm,” Trixie tells him. “I’m not either.”
It takes three trips to get all of their luggage upstairs. Katya stays out on the street guarding all of it and chain smoking while Trixie goes up and down, up and down, up and down. By the time he’s done his skin feels prickly with sweat, and he lifts his baseball cap up off his head, lets it drop again because he can’t imagine the state of his hair and he feels shy about it.
Katya’s been prattling on, mindless, exhausted, all the way up the stairs and right into the kitchen. Trixie dips one hand into the river of his consciousness to disrupt the flow, says a little too loudly, “Hey,” and has to temper his voice to ask, “Did you wanna shower first?”
“I do not want to shower first,” Katya says, and then nothing else after.
Trixie stares at him for a beat, two, and then turns around and opens the refrigerator, sticks his whole head inside. It’s showroom-empty and smells clean and plasticky; he was supposed to be gone for weeks. He doesn’t even have a Diet Coke to offer. He closes the refrigerator door and Katya is right there, eyes cartoonishly enormous in his lean face.
“I fucking hate flying,” Katya says very seriously, and Trixie honks a laugh.
“I know, girl. That ain’t news to anybody. Especially me.”
Katya leans back against Trixie’s countertop, his hands braced either side of his hips. It makes his elbows stick out at harsh angles, makes him look unbothered, self-assured. Trixie gets a little waft of day-old cologne, and he knows Katya clocks the way he gulps.
He’s running out of ways to stall. He could say that he wants to shower, or unpack, or go to bed, but he doesn’t love lying. Especially not to Katya. He’s a ghoul, and he’s Trixie’s favourite person in the whole world. Trixie takes a couple of loud, clomping steps towards Katya, still in his sneakers. Katya just watches, his face totally smooth and serene.
The room is noisy with their twin breaths and the street sounds coming in through the open balcony door. God, he has to prioritise fucking central air in his next apartment. This is no way to live. It all feels peripheral, like Foley sound and not people living their real lives. He’s made roofless with want and he lets himself shift just a little closer. Certainty stretches out long and comfortable between their bodies.
Trixie brings a hand up and fidgets with Katya’s shirt. It’s an older one, worn soft, and the cotton is pilled at the insides of his arms and around the neck He touches, can’t stop touching, his hand drifting all over. Katya says nothing, just watches him. He’s looking right into Trixie’s face, so when Trixie brushes his knuckles over Katya’s dick in his sweatpants, he gets to see the way his eyes widen, the way his mouth opens.
He does it again, just to see what happens, and he earns a little shuddering breath from Katya. Trixie rotates his hand so he can get his fingers around Katya’s cock and his hips jump forwards into that small touch. They’re both wired from the last few days of travelling, but having his hands on Katya makes something inside of Trixie go still.
“I meant what I said,” Trixie murmurs. It’s so quiet in the apartment that it feels like church, like he ought to go to his knees. “I’ve thought about it. I do- I think about it.” He tucks his fingers inside of Katya’s waistband, not seeking, just keeping him steady right where he is. “I think about you being inside me. How it would feel, the first time. You holding my legs up, touching my thighs, my ass.”
“Oh my god, Tracy, you gotta let me, please.”
Trixie gets his hand all the way inside Katya’s sweats and his underwear to his dick. His skin is slick, hot and slippery in Trixie’s hand. Trixie jerks him slowly, listens to the strange cut-off way Katya is breathing, the little gasps each time Trixie squeezes. “You’re so wet, Katya,” he says, his voice coming out awed. “This always happen? Or is it just because it’s been oh, what, at least six hours since you’ve pulled the padge? Hmm?”
“It’s been forty seven hours!” Katya shrills. His hips are rocking now; he’s fucking into the circle of Trixie’s fingers. “It’s not because of that. It’s because it’s you.” HIs head tips back and he groans loudly. “Fuck, Trixie.”
“God, it’s like it feels good or something,” Trixie says blithely, like that’ll do anything to disguise the wetness he feels blooming a dark stain on the front of his own sweatpants.
Katya lets him stroke his dick a little more and then he jolts, gasps, circles Trixie’s wrist in his fingers and tugs on him. “Jesus, fuck, oh my god. Trixie, you’re gonna make me come.”
“That’s the whole point, honey.”
“I don’t want. . .” Trixie lets Katya pull his hand out. His fingers are slicked with precome and he goes to shove a couple of them into Katya’s mouth, but Katya stops him. “You haven’t even kissed me, yet. And you said you wanted- I wanna touch you. Take your fucking clothes off, you stupid sexy bitch.”
He doesn’t do it, not right away. Instead, he threads his fingers through Katya’s and uses that grip to lead him down the hallway and into the bedroom. Trixie’s out of all of his clothes before Katya even gets his shoes off; he’s bent over in concentration, grappling with the knotted shoelaces. It makes him feel adolescent, overeager. He climbs onto the bed and gets a hand around his own dick, starts tugging lazily at it while he waits for Katya.
“God, you look so pretty like that,” Katya says when he finally looks up at him. “Look at that thing. No wonder they wouldn’t let you into the country. You can’t bring weapons through customs, Mary.” He’s gotten his shoes off and he’s wriggling out of his pants and underwear, squirming on the fucking ground like a grub. He strips his t-shirt off over his head, knocking his baseball cap off with it, and finally stands up. Somehow, impossibly, it’s not even six o’clock in Los Angeles. All of the golden light comes spilling in and Katya is an Adonis, so fucking chiselled that Trixie is actually angry about it.
Katya climbs up into the bed and settles himself between Trixie’s thighs immediately. Their dicks are pressed together and Katya ruts against him, holding himself up over Trixie on one forearm. Trixie lifts his chin, and Katya leans down and finally kisses him. It feels so good that Trixie shivers, pleasure-stung, and brings a hand up to the side of Katya’s face to angle him. He opens up, lets Katya lick into his mouth. They’ve kissed before, but not like this. Not fucking naked, not in one of their beds, not with their dicks red and dripping and trapped between their bodies.
Trixie gets his hand between them and around both of their cocks, starts jerking them together, and Katya says, “Trixie, Trixie, oh my god, yes.”
Trixie feels frantic, staticky with need, and when Katya bites down on his lip he gasps in shock and pleasure. He’s right on the edge already, because it’s been an insane couple days, and because it’s Katya. He didn’t think they were going to die, not really, but still. . . he’s so glad that of all his sisters, it was the fucking Mayor of Halloweentown himself that Trixie had right there with him. He hasn’t ever liked anybody this much in his life.
“Wait,” Trixie says. Katya stops immediately, peers down at Trixie. He looks so calm and kind. “Wait, wait. Can I blow you?”
Katya makes a strange, indiscriminate noise and rolls off Trixie, stretches out on his back next to him instead, one arm bent behind his head. Trixie hacks a laugh and leans down, takes Katya’s cock into his mouth. He kind of wants Katya to take him by his stupid huge ears and fuck his face, make him choke on it, but he doesn’t think Katya would do it. Not without being asked, and Trixie is not that girl. Not the first time.
He comes off Katya’s dick with an obscene slurp and looks up at him, a thrill of satisfaction zipping through him when he sees how wrecked Katya looks now. “Would you, like. . . can you tell me? I want to hear you.”
“You’re so sexy I want to hate crime you. I want to fucking strangle you.” Katya’s voice is coming out strained, because Trixie’s got his mouth around him again. “That’s it, baby. Just like that, you’re doing so good. Can you take it a little deeper, huh? You think you can do that for me?”
Trixie groans and swallows him down, presses his nose to Katya’s stomach. He’s so hard it aches, so hard he could come just like this, hearing Katya tell him how good it feels, choking on his dick. One of Katya’s hands has settled at his head and he tugs on his hair, holds him still while he rocks his hips, fucks into Trixie’s mouth.
“There you go, that’s good. You look so good with my dick in your mouth, baby. I can’t wait to fuck you. I can’t wait to pound your fuckin’ perfect ass. I bet you want it, too, don’t you? You said you want me to ruin you.”
He’s glad for the weight of Katya’s cock in his skull so he doesn’t have to try to respond to that. His eyes are watering, streaming, and he can feel how red and blotchy he’s gotten all over. He knows Katya’s close because he’s gone quiet, and his hips are tight and tense under Trixie’s hands. Trixie swallows around him again, hollows his cheeks.
Trixie moans just to hear the noise that bursts out of Katya and feel the way all of his muscles clench. He’s trembling, his abs so tight, and he’s gripping Trixie’s whole head now. It shouldn’t feel good, that crushing pressure, the stretch of his mouth around Katya’s cock, but he’s so fucking hard now that he’s pretty sure anything would feel good.
“Oh, Trixie!” Katya slams the flat of his hand against the mattress, and comes in Trixie’s mouth with a long, guttural moan. He pulls Trixie off him by the hair and throws an arm over his face, jerking himself slowly through it.
Trixie lets him have a minute, waits for him to stop breathing in open-mouthed gulps like a fish, and then he says, “Katya, you have to make me come. Please. I’m gonna die if you don’t touch me right fucking now.”
It’s funny to see Katya be graceless, clumsy even. He gets his fingers around Trixie’s dick and he doesn’t even have to do anything, not really. Trixie’s whole body feels pulled taut and he shudders, lets himself fuck mindlessly into Katya’s hand. It’s embarrassingly fast, and Katya arches up to kiss him messily while he comes all over Katya’s fist and his own stomach.
They’re both so fatigued from their ordeal that when Trixie suggests a shower Katya makes a noise that sounds like he might start actually crying. He rolls onto his stomach and traps Trixie there with one heavy arm over his waist, is out cold right away with his face mashed into the pillow. It takes Trixie a little longer. Katya’s so deeply asleep that he can stroke over his stubbly cheek, his goofy half-eyebrow, the little folded point of his ear. His heart wells up with fondness, spills over.
He’s not sure what this might mean, what will happen to them now. He’d like to sleep for a day and a half and then take a long shower, order food for them while Katya takes a shower of his own, spend the day on the couch watching a movie he’ll let Katya choose and annoying him with the squirm of his toes beneath his thigh. He looks at Katya’s sweet, serene face, and he lets himself believe they can have that.