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Anthony was on the couch when Coy entered the kitchen, digging through a bag of stale Doritos. Coy made his way to the counter and leaned against it.
"Geez, Anthony. You look like a raccoon who’s given up on dignity right now." His tone was light, but his fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against his coffee mug. He took a sip from it.
Anthony didn’t look up. "Dude, raccoons are smart as hell. I’d take that as a compliment." He pulled out a chip, held it up like a proud kid showing off his science lab project, then dropped it on the ground.
"Right. You’re gonna leave that there, aren’t you?"
"Well yes," Anthony brushed crumbs off his shirt, a graphic tee with a faded meme on the front. "It’s biodegradable."
"Biodegradable in, like, five hundred years," Coy muttered, already crouching down to clean up the mess. Anthony watched him with an amused tilt to his mouth, as if Coy were some kind of intriguing documentary subject. Coy tossed the paper towel into the trash harder than necessary.
"You’re lucky I’m not Bon. She’d make you lick it off the floor."
Anthony snorted. "Hanbon’s all talk. I caught her eating cold spaghetti straight from the pot at 3 AM last week. No fork." He stretched, arms over his head, causing his shirt to ride up just enough to reveal a glimpse of skin above his waistband, happy trail visible. Coy looked away.
"You’re both animals," Coy said, sounding more fond than exasperated. He turned to the fridge and yanked it open. "We have actual food, you know. Not just—" He made a vague gesture at the bag in his hand.
"Actual food takes effort," Anthony was now lounging against the kitchen island like a discarded jacket, his voice muffled against the marble. "The Doritos were right there. Instant gratification. Basic economics."
Coy rolled his eyes and inspected the fridge: inside were half-empty condiment bottles, a wilted head of lettuce, and a container of leftover Thai food that might actually have been older than their last collab video. He chose the least suspicious-looking takeout box and sniffed it carefully. "You’re an adult who unironically uses ‘basic economics’ to justify laziness." Anthony lifted his head slightly to squint at him.
"And you’re an adult who still alphabetizes his spice rack."
"Oh! So you hate gay people, like, openly like that," Coy deadpanned, popping the container in the microwave.
“Bro, shut up.” Anthony’s laugh echoed through the kitchen. Coy could feel Anthony’s gaze on him, not the usual half-distracted glance. He looked like he was trying to decode tiny print on Coy’s skin for some weird, unknown reason.
The microwave beeped, startling Coy. Steam curled up into his face as he opened it, grabbing the container without waiting for it to cool. The heat bit into his fingertips, but he barely noticed, too aware of Anthony’s gaze still fixed on him.
"So," Coy started stirring the noodles aggressively. "You gonna tell me why you’re staring like you're itching to tell me a riddle? Or is this, like, another one of your weird observational phases?"
Anthony didn’t answer right away. He pushed himself onto the counter, legs swinging like a kid on a park bench, and tilted his head. "You ever think about how weird it is that we do this?"
"What? Eat leftovers like freaking heathens?"
"No," Anthony said, lightly kicking his heel against the cabinet. He sounded embarrassed. "I mean, how we just... exist like this. Like, you clean up after me. I steal your fries when you're not looking. Or, y'know, like, y'know—" Anthony was stuttering. "How you always know when I'm about to say some stupid shit before I even open my mouth."
Coy's chopsticks paused mid-twirl. "Well, I m— yeah. That’s called friendship, dumbass," he said, struggling to stay composed. After a few beats of silence, Anthony hopped off the counter and moved closer. Not quite invading Coy's space, but close enough that Coy could catch the faint citrus of his shampoo beneath the stale chip dust.
"Is it, though?"
The question hung between them like a heavy and strange secret. Coy decided to stay focused on the noodles; a sesame seed was clinging annoyingly to the edge of the container.
"What do you mean?"
Anthony shrugged, his shoulders just touching Coy’s as he reached past for a noodle. "Dunno," he said around a mouthful. He was acting so weird tonight. Maybe he’d hit his head somewhere. Coy should ask if he was okay, or playing some sort of sick game—
"It just— jus’ feels different sometimes."
Coy swallowed. The sesame seed was still there, stuck to the rim like it had a vendetta. He scraped at it with his chopstick, trying to keep his voice even.
"Different how?"
"Like..." Anthony trailed off, seriously uncharacteristically hesitant. He leaned back against the counter, his arms crossed and eyes on the ceiling. "Like when we’re filming, and you do that thing where you bite your lip to keep from laughing at my jokes. Or, y'know, when you hand me your coffee because you accidentally got two sugars instead of one, even though you’ve known my order for, like, years."
"Okay?" Coy slowly set the container down, trying to stall. "That’s just—that's basic human decency."
So lame. The words felt bitter in his mouth. Anthony just kept staring at him with that infuriating, unreadable look.
The silence lasted too long. Coy grabbed the nearest dish towel and wiped his hands, even though they weren’t wet. "Look, if this is about the editing thing last week—"
"It’s not about that." Anthony exhaled sharply through his nose, scratching his jawline, where stubble had just started to show. "I’m trying to say something here, and you’re deflecting like you always do when shit gets serious."
Coy looked surprised. "I don’t deflect.”
Anthony scoffed. "You literally just changed the subject."
Coy opened his mouth to argue, then snapped it shut when he realized Anthony was right. The microwave clock ticked from 10:42 to 10:43 in the quiet while a noodle slipped off Coy's chopsticks with a wet plop.
"Anthony, I don't get it. What is there to talk about?" Anthony rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at the floor between them. "Look, I—"
His phone buzzed loudly on the counter, making them both jump. Will's caller ID flashed on the screen, showing a badly cropped selfie as the contact photo.
Coy gestured wildly at it. "Go answer that." Anthony stared at his phone as if it had personally betrayed him. His thumb hovered over the screen close enough that Coy could see the tiny chip in his nail polish from when they’d filmed that failed ASMR video last month.
"Let it go to voicemail," Anthony said, shoving his hands into his pockets instead. The phone kept vibrating, skittering across the counter.
Coy's eyebrows shot up. "Since when do you ignore Will's calls? He's probably stuck in a McDonald's drive-thru again."
Anthony’s shoulders tensed under his T-shirt. "Since fucking— right now." He reached out suddenly for Coy’s wrist. Coy's pulse jumped at the warmth of his fingers against it. His grip was loose enough to escape, still firm enough to feel intentional.
"You were about to run," Anthony said quietly. "Again."
"Anth- I wasn't—" the lie faded halfway up his throat. Anthony’s thumb brushed the skin above Coy’s pulse point as if testing the rhythm of his heartbeat. The phone stopped buzzing, and Anthony didn’t let go.
"You always do this," Anthony’s voice was softer now. "Every time we get close to…" He cut himself off, shaking his head. The motion sent his bangs falling into his eyes, and Coy fought the insane urge to push them back.
“To what?" Coy flexed his fingers, forcing himself not to reciprocate the touch. This was crazy. Was he dreaming? The floor felt wobbly under his feet. Anthony sighed, his grip on Coy’s wrist not tightening but simply holding, like Coy was something he’d been trying to catch for years.
Anthony's thumb brushed Coy's wristbone, just once, before he leaned in and kissed him.
Coy didn't react at first. His brain short-circuited, stuck on the warmth of Anthony's mouth. When he finally managed to jerk back, he hit the counter behind him with a loud thud. The sound snapped the world back into focus.
Anthony just stood there, breathing steady, like this was normal, like he hadn’t just flipped his world upside down. His bangs were still in his eyes, of course. Coy wanted to yell. He wanted to laugh. Wanted to kiss him again to see if it would feel the same.
"You can’t just—" Coy’s throat clicked when he swallowed. His fists flexed, then unclenched. "We don’t do that."
"Obviously," Anthony said, dry as a dead leaf. But his eyes darted to Coy’s mouth, fast enough that Coy almost missed it.
Anthony’s grip shifted, his fingers sliding down to interlace with Coy’s, sending a shiver up Coy’s arm. He could feel the press of Anthony’s knuckles, the faint ridge of a half-healed papercut. "You know," Anthony said, "for someone who edits frame-by-frame, you’re really bad at hiding things."
Coy’s whole body twitched. "I don’t—"
"—know what I’m talking about?" Anthony finished with a grin. Cruel. "Dude. You literally cut to B-roll every time I take my shirt off in videos."
Coy's face burned hotter than the forgotten Thai food. "Wh— That's– that's for continuity. The lighting was inconsistent!"
Anthony snorted, "Bullshit. You left in the take where I tripped over the tripod and face-planted into Hanbon’s lap." His thumb brushed the inside of Coy’s wrist. "Selective editing, Piso."
Coy was going to die. He stared at their joined hands like they were a physics anomaly: Anthony’s fingers tanned from their beach trip last week, his own knuckles dotted with freckles he’d spent years pretending not to notice Anthony noticing.
"Okay, whatever. Fine. Maybe I—" Coy’s pulse pounded in his ears. "Maybe," His fingers tightened around Anthony’s without meaning to. "I don’t edit those parts out because I’m a fucking masochist."
Anthony’s laugh was startled. His thumb stilled against Coy’s wrist. "Finally," he murmured, "something honest."
Coy could see the exact moment Anthony registered what he’d said. His eyebrows lifted and his lips parted slightly. The kitchen lights caught the light stubble along his jaw, turning it gold. He wanted to bite it. Instead, he jerked his hand away like he’d been burned, the sudden lack of contact leaving his skin tingling. He grabbed the abandoned takeout container just to have something to hold.
"This is— we shouldn’t–"
Anthony caught Coy’s wrist again before he could retreat, his grip insistent but not painful. "What?" he challenged, stepping even closer. "Shouldn’t admit that you cut my good takes because you’re scared other people will notice how red your ears get? Come on, Coy."
The container creaked in Coy’s hands. He stared at him for what felt like hours.
"You’re so goddamn insufferable, do you know that?”
Anthony fought back a smile. "Yeah, still obsessed with me, apparently."
The acknowledgment made Coy’s cheeks burn even hotter, feeling its weight pressing against his ribs. The takeout container finally slipped from his grip, hitting the counter. Anthony didn’t flinch, just kept staring at him with that stupid fucking smirk as if he’d already mapped out every possible reaction Coy could have.
"Prove it," Anthony said suddenly.
Coy blinked. "What?" Anthony jerked his chin toward the space between them, where their hands had been tangled seconds ago. His pupils were blown wide—
"You heard me." Anthony's smug smile stayed, but his shaking fingers near Coy's hip gave him away.
"Are you f- are you insane?" Anthony wasn't even into guys, as far as Coy knew. A while ago, Anthony had said something along the lines of 'sexuality is fluid, sometimes I'll see a guy and I'm like—' but never finished the thought. For the longest time, Coy thought he and Hanbon were a thing. So Coy, as of now, was understandably very confused. Also more turned on than he’d ever been in his life.
He tried to play it cool. "Or what? You'll edit me out of the next video?" he managed, forcing his voice steady even as his knees threatened to give out.
Anthony hummed and caught Coy's wrist again, guiding it down until Coy's fingers brushed the heat under his jeans. "Nah," he whispered. "I'd keep every frame."
Anthony’s corny line barely registered with Coy. The contact burned through the fabric and he could feel Anthony’s shape through it, his breath hitching as Coy's thumb pressed along the seam. He froze suddenly, brain glitching between okay this is happening and are we really doing this in the fucking kitchen. Anthony's hips twitched forward into the touch. Coy's pulse was now loud enough to drown out the fridge hum.
By this point, Coy was almost certain this could only be one of his sick late-night dreams. The kind that had begun shortly after he met Anthony and never truly left him. He might as well indulge.
"You're such a goddamn cliché," Coy muttered, his free hand finding the counter behind him for balance as he sank to his knees. Anthony made a noise above him, a mix between a laugh and a punched-out gasp as Coy's fingers worked the button of his jeans open.
The zipper sounded ridiculously loud in the quiet kitchen. Coy hesitated for a second, his thumb hooked in the waistband of Anthony's boxers, before Anthony's hand tangled in his hair.
"Fuck," Anthony breathed, his voice wrecked already. "So pret—”
Coy didn't let him finish. The first taste was salt and cheap body wash, the head of Anthony's cock hot against his tongue as he took him slowly. Anthony's grip tightened in his hair, his thighs trembling where they straddled Coy's shoulders. Anthony's hips jerked forward involuntarily, the tip of his cock hitting the back of Coy's throat with a wet choke that made Coy whimper pathetically. He pulled back just enough to breathe, saliva already dripping down his chin, and glanced up through his lashes.
"Jesus Christ," Anthony's voice cracked halfway through the words, his fingers flexing in Coy's hair. Coy looked up at him again, the stretch of his lips obscene against Anthony’s cock, and dragged his tongue along the underside just to hear more of Anthony’s groans.
The ache of the tile digging into Coy’s knees faded under the weight of Anthony's gaze, tracking every movement. Coy hollowed his cheeks, swallowed him deeper, and Anthony's hips jerked forward again. The sudden push made Coy gag, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he reached up blindly, grabbing Anthony's free hand and pressing it against his own throat so Anthony could feel the bulge there. Moaned as he did it.
Anthony made a noise like he'd been punched. His thumb stroked Coy's Adam's apple before his grip tightened, just enough to constrict Coy's breathing for a dizzying second. "Shit," Anthony muttered, more to himself than Coy, "You—fuck, you look–"
Coy pulled off with a wet pop, dragging his teeth just enough to make Anthony hiss. "So eloquent," he rasped, as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand. His throat hurt, his knees throbbed, and Anthony's cock twitched, leaking precum against his flushed cheek. Coy innocently grinned up at him. "You gonna finish that sentence, or-"
Anthony yanked him forward by the hair, cutting him off with another thrust into his mouth. This time, Coy just let Anthony fuck into the heat of his throat in short, uneven strokes, his own hands scrambling for mercy on Anthony's thighs. The counter rattled behind them as Anthony braced himself.
Coy could feel the moment Anthony started to come undone. His rhythm faltered, his fingers tightening almost painfully in Coy's hair. He reached down, grabbed Coy's wrist again, and pressed his fingers against the base of his cock like he needed Coy to feel it too. "Close," Anthony gritted out, his voice raw. "Fuck, Coy, shit, I'm–"
Coy hummed around him, the vibration squeezing a broken noise from Anthony's throat. When Coy put his tongue on his slit again, it only made Anthony’s body lock up with that familiar, spine-tingling feeling. His hips jerked once, twice, before he came with a choked-off curse, spilling down Coy's throat. He swallowed with his nose pressed against Anthony's stomach.
For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was their breathing. Anthony slid down the cabinets to kneel beside Coy, his legs clearly unsteady. He reached out and gently wiped away a stray drop at the corner of Coy's mouth.
"You," he started, then stopped, shaking his head in disbelief, "Jesus Christ."
"Not my name."
Coy’s knees hurt as he shifted. His erection pressed against his jeans, but he ignored it. This wasn't about getting off—at least to him. It was about the way Anthony's pupils were still dilated and his lips were parted as he stared at Coy like he was seeing him for the first time.
Anthony exhaled loudly, then leaned forward, catching Coy's lips in a messy kiss, with his hand softly framing Coy's face. He tasted like something uniquely Anthony. When he pulled back, his thumb traced the curve of Coy's cheekbone. "You're fucking ridiculous,"
"Says the guy who just came in my mouth like a teenager. That was a world record, by the way."
Anthony groaned, dropping his forehead against Coy's shoulder. "Please shut up."
A few seconds passed. Anthony looked up at him.
"Your turn?"
God. Coy had to be dreaming.
He slowly shook his head. "Not like this," he said quietly, almost shy, as he caught Anthony's arm before his fingers could dip lower. "Not when you're still shaking."
Anthony huffed a laugh, "That's bullshit." His hand slid down Coy’s chest, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, skin brushing skin. "See?" he murmured, palm flattening against Coy's stomach. "'You're fucking shaking too."
Anthony pushed him further into the corner, his fingers hooking into Coy's belt loops. "Still deflecting?" Coy could feel the heat of Anthony's body pressed against him, the fabric of his shirt sticking to his skin from where Anthony had pulled him down earlier.
"I thought you wanted honesty." Anthony's hum was low and knowing, and he pulled back just enough to meet Coy's eyes.
"Then be honest," Anthony challenged, thumb pressing against the hollow of Coy's throat. His hand slid lower, one finger touching a nipple, his other hand tracing the outline of Coy's cock through his jeans. "Tell me to stop."
"Fuck you," he breathed, his words lacking any real anger. Anthony smiled.
"Mh, not tonight," Anthony shoved his hand down Coy's pants. The first touch was electric. Anthony's fingers wrapped around him with practiced ease, his thumb swiping over the head. "Fuck, you're dripping."
Coy cut him off with a whine, and Anthony's grip tightened. He felt insane. The rhythm was relentless from the start. No teasing buildup, just the firm, steady strokes Anthony somehow knew drove him crazy. Coy's fingers scrambled for grip on the floor, his hips jerking into every touch.
Anthony looked hungry. Coy has never seen him like this. His free hand spread across Coy's stomach to pin him in place. "Always like this," he whispered. His thumb pressed against the underside of Coy's cock, "So fucking responsive."
Coy could feel the heat pooling low in his gut already, the tension building with each stroke. Anthony's fingers were slick with precum, the wet sounds mixing with Coy's moans.
Then Anthony moved, his hand travelling lower until his finger brushed Coy's rim. The touch was so light he barely felt it, yet Coy jerked as if shocked.
"Hng—Fuck—" his entire body tensed.
Anthony stopped immediately, his hand still in place. "Okay?" he asked, his voice full with concern and something else Coy couldn’t really work out.
He could feel the press of Anthony, just millimeters away. Part of him yearned to lean into it, to beg for the stretch he'd fantasized about countless times at night in the dark of his bedroom, just a few rooms away.
He shook his head. Anthony didn't press further, withdrawing his hand and tracing gentle circles on Coy's hipbone instead. "Next time," he whispered, more a promise than a question.
Coy had little time to process the implication before Anthony resumed his cruel pace, his hand twisting. Coy’s brain was mush, his fingers were clutching Anthony's shoulders as he tried to hold out. Anthony observed him, his grip tightening just short of being painful.
"Look at you. Fucking gorgeous." His thumb swept over the slit again, smearing precum down his cock. The sounds sent heat rushing through Coy, his hips jerking into it.
Anthony sped up his strokes. "Come on," he provoked, "Let me see you."
The command shattered whatever restraint Coy had left. His back arched as he came with a wounded noise, spilling over Anthony's fingers. He mumbled through it, kept rutting into Anthony's fist. Anthony eased his grip gradually until Coy was shaking with oversensitivity.
Coy felt boneless and his chest heaved as he slumped back against the cabinet. Anthony wiped his hand on his jeans. A gesture so casual, as if this were just another Tuesday. He caught Coy's chin with his clean fingers and traced the curve of Coy's bottom lip, sticky with spit and sweat.
"You good?"
Coy responded with a hum, his throat still sore. "You're such an asshole," he rasped.
Anthony leaned down and kissed Coy's forehead, lingering a second too long like he was trying to etch the moment into memory, before pulling back and standing up abruptly.
Huh—?
"Yeah, well," he mumbled, clearing his throat and awkwardly scratching his neck. He motioned at Coy's open jeans. "You should, uh. Fix that. Before the others get back." The reminder snapped Coy out of it. He fumbled with his button, his fingers shaking from leftover adrenaline. The kitchen smelled like sex and cold takeout.
Anthony silently grabbed his keys and left, leaving Coy kneeling in the kitchen like an idiot.
Coy didn’t know how long he sat there. After he finally pushed himself up, everything felt automatic, letting the thought of what had just happened get nowhere near him. He took a shower, brushed his teeth, and slipped into sleep.