They never kiss. Kissing reminds Galen of Sharon, the she used to stretch up towards him, half-smiling, her eyes narrowing in anticipation just before their lips met. It reminds him of the way she'd tasted like water, fresh and clean, and how he'd smiled to himself when the news came that she had found the new water supply. Of course, he'd thought. Of course she had. Galen's never tried to kiss Helo, and Helo doesn't seem to mind. It's never intentional, Galen tells himself. He doesn't go out looking for Helo. They can pass by each other time after time, nodding, or eyes just sliding over each other. But sometimes, Galen will look up, eyes blurry from too long looking at the latest fuel-line rupture, or back cramping from too long bent over an engine, and Helo will be watching. Or sometimes, Helo will ask a question, and underneath the mild words about a Raptor or a Viper, something else will be lying. And Galen finishes his work, ties up loose ends, makes his excuses, and goes looking. He doesn't even know what word to use for what they do. Tryst sounds romantic and furtive, the frantic pattering of two hearts giddy with emotion; fuck buddies makes it sound like it's an amiable thing, helping each other out when there's no one else available. And now, as Galen lets himself be pushed against the wall, as he drags in a ragged breath, he knows it's neither of those things. It's nothing so innocent and unburdened. They're getting better at it, at this thing they're doing. At first it was awkward, fumbling, messy. Now, Helo tugs down the zipper of Galen's jumpsuit, and pulls it down around his waist. He works his hands, warm and hard, inside, under Galen's shirt. Galen's own fingers open Helo's pants quickly, carefully, even as he spreads his legs a little and pushes his hips out, balancing against the wall with his shoulders. And Helo leans in, his face pressing against the curve of Galen's neck, his breath warm against Galen's skin. He smells of clean sweat, enough that Galen can tell he's just come from a workout, maybe from running the corridors. The towel draped around the back of Helo's neck is slightly damp. Galen tilts his head back against the wall, and wraps his free hand – the one that isn't tucked just inside the band of Helo's pants – around Helo's waist, holding on. This time, Helo's brought some kind of lubrication, slick and scentless. His hand on Galen's cock is just as sure, but the stuff is better than saliva, better than the friction of skin against bare skin. "LT," Galen manages, as Helo twists his hand, circling his thumb around the head of Galen's cock, "give me some of that stuff." He holds out his hand, and Helo pulls his own hand back, away, just enough so that he can run his slicked-up palm along Galen's, once, twice, transferring the lube. It leaves Galen gasping with – something – because maybe he's getting used to Helo's body pressing up against him, to Helo's hand on his cock, but that stroke of palm against palm seems more intimate than anything else they've ever done. And then he's not thinking about it, because Helo's hand is back on Galen's cock, sliding and twisting, his fingers pressing in all the right places. Galen rocks into it even as he reaches into Helo's pants. He wraps his hand around the familiar weight of Helo's cock, uses the rough grip that always leaves Helo gasping. The room fills up with the sounds of ragged breathing, the slick sounds of skin and lube and skin muffled by cloth, the bitten back groans of pleasure and frustration. Helo shifts closer, one leg pressing between Galen's. Somehow that makes it even better, the contact, the heat pressing into him. And Galen can barely move his hand, they're so close together, but he doesn't care, because it's almost enough, Helo's broad hand on his cock, his face still turned in to Galen's neck. A couple more twists, abbreviated and stuttered, and Galen is grunting and coming. He closes his eyes against the pleasure, letting himself shudder. One hand clenches at Helo's waist as the other jerks once, twice, and Helo's coming too, the hot, liquid spurts against Galen's hand and wrist familiar, almost welcome. Galen's used to the rush of having Helo against him, body tensed with pleasure. He's used to the way Helo doesn't quite bite his neck, instead pressing his teeth into Galen's skin. They stay that way through the aftershocks and longer, pressed against each other, until Galen shifts and pulls the towel from around Helo's neck, using it to wipe off his hand. Helo steps back as he reaches for the towel. After, Helo straightens his clothes and watches as Galen shrugs back into his jumpsuit. The first few times, they'd been awkward with each other afterwards. Now, Galen nods once, stepping away from the wall. "LT," he says, one hand clenching at his hip, tugging at the heavy cloth that is starting, slowly, to wear thin. "Chief," Helo responds, nodding, his mouth quirking, not quite smiling. His lips are a little darker than usual. "I've got to get back." He gestures at the door, and Helo moves to one side. Galen walks past, already making a mental list of the things he needs to check, the work he needs to go over. |
| Pairing:
Helo/Tyrol Rating: NC-17 Summary: They never kiss. |