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There’s nothing Sylvain loves more than arriving at the airport two hours early.
Which, now that he thinks about it, is really fucking sad.
But still, Fhirdiad International is not a bad place to spend an afternoon! He can get an overpriced drink, he can take a little nap, and the best part is that nobody knows him and nobody cares. It’s kind of like a nightclub, except it’s clean and lit and no one’s fucking in the bathroom.
Sylvain rolls his appropriately-sized carry-on to the gate, already a little silly from his $15 glass of wine. He smiles at the empty rows of chairs. That’s the other great thing about arriving early: you get to sit in the best seat.
Except.
Except.
Someone has beat Sylvain to the gate.
Someone has arrived even earlier than him.
And he’s sitting in Sylvain’s favorite spot.
Close enough to the gate to hear the agents call his boarding group, far enough away to block out their repeated pleas for someone to give up their seat. Not facing any of the TVs that only play the news, and right at the sunbeam apex where you get natural light without any glare on your laptop.
Oh, and he’s also in one of the, like, three seats that has a place to plug in your phone.
Sylvain rolls his appropriately-sized carry-on to a halt, already a little peeved from his $15 glass of wine. Who does this guy think he is, sitting there with his perfect posture and expensive-looking headphones? He looks like he’s working too, which only infuriates Sylvain more. Who comes to the airport early to work? What’s the point of putting your life in the hands of a hollow metal tube if you can’t even be a little drunk while you do it?
Clearly this guy needs to be taught a lesson, so Sylvain decides to break one of his own rules. Something he swore he would never do, the cardinal sin of liminal space society—
He chooses the seat directly across from him.
Sylvain makes a big show of putting down his bag, just to make sure the airport offender notices him. He sits in his seat with a loud, exaggerated yawn and digs around in his backpack for the noisiest fucking pack of chips he can find. Sylvain smirks to himself as he tears open his nacho cheese Doritos. He’d like to see this guy ever try showing up to the airport earlier than him ever again. Sylvain sneaks a glance in his direction just to see how mad he is and—
He’s fucking hot.
His bangs slash across his face like scars. He’s got cheekbones sharp enough to cut the marble they were carved from, and a mean little mouth that looks like it could tell Sylvain to go fuck himself. His intense eyes burn into Sylvain’s, communicating nothing but contempt.
Sylvain snaps a Dorito, already a little horny from his $15 glass of wine. If this dude looks at him like this for a second longer, Sylvain thinks he might have to kiss him.
* * *
If this dude looks at him like this for a second longer, Felix thinks he might have to kill him.
There has to be, what, a hundred other seats for him to choose from? Felix gets to the airport early to avoid exactly this. And now this idiot—this tall, well-dressed idiot—has decided to put himself in Felix’s periphery for the next two hours.
Which annoys Felix. A lot. Why wouldn’t it?
Okay, so this guy is a little bit hot. But only a little bit! And that’s not even why Felix is staring—uh, glaring. He’s glaring because he sat down right across from him. And maybe also because he’s never seen hair that red before. It’s like asking Felix not to notice a fucking stop sign. What’s he supposed to do, just roll right on through the intersection and hit someone with his car? Excuse him for having an eye for safety!
Felix turns a blind eye to safety and pretends Stop Sign isn’t there. He looks down at his laptop and struggles to respond to his boss’s email with anything but “fuck you”. Every so often, his eyes dart to Stop Sign. He’s stopped looking at Felix and has started reading some sort of book. He’s also put on glasses, which has done nothing to help the fact that this guy is really… fucking…
Noticeable.
Felix grits his teeth. He can’t imagine how someone so noticeable could be so relaxed after sitting in the worst seat possible.
* * *
Sylvain is freaking the fuck out. His palms sweat like he’s just run a marathon on his hands. His toes curl in his boots like he’s the Wicked Witch of the East and some bitch stole his ruby slippers. At least he’s opened his book so it looks like he’s doing anything but, you know, freaking the fuck out.
Sylvain wants to move. Sylvain is frozen in place. People act like it’s a good thing to run into an attractive stranger. At best, everyone is wrong, and at worst, everyone is a liar. This does not feel good at all. How is Sylvain supposed to go about the rest of his life knowing he’s already seen the hottest person he is ever going to see, and he wasted any chance he had by sitting directly across from him in some wine-fueled display of airport-related dominance?
Sylvain isn’t reading the words on the page. He’s not sure he can read at all anymore. This guy has made him illiterate. That’s how hot he is.
He pretends to flip a page in his stupid little paperback book. Sylvain made his economy-class bed, and now he has to lie in it. All he can do is hope the next two hours pass by quickly.
* * *
It’s the longest two hours of Felix’s life.
Which is saying something, because he once took his niece to see the Paw Patrol movie. In theaters. Felix hates that kid and the way he would literally do anything for her.
Felix had hoped that once more passengers filtered in, it would be easier for Stop Sign to blend into the background and fade from his periphery. But no, this dude is like the fucking Golden Gate Bridge bleeding through the fog of average-looking people. And sure, Felix could move. He could definitely move. He could move at any time! But he didn’t show up to the gate two hours early and nab the perfect spot just to get intimidated by Some Guy in a tight sweater.
Felix peers over his laptop for what must be the thousandth time. Stop Sign is still engrossed in his book. It must be good. Felix refuses to admit how hot that is. He cranes his neck, trying to get a better look at what he’s reading.
* * *
Sylvain has forgotten the name of the book he’s reading.
* * *
Finally, fucking finally, the gate agent announces they’re now boarding Sky Priority members. Felix, whose bags have been packed and zipped since Stop Sign put on those glasses, bolts up. He speedwalks to the gate, weaving through the crowd like a border collie at a dog show. He throws himself into the line, panting hard like a bulldog on a hot sidewalk.
Felix tries to take deep breaths. For a second he regrets not taking Annette up on her offer to go to yoga, which really shows how dire the situation is. Felix makes a fist and rationalizes. It’s a full flight. The likelihood of Stop Sign sitting anywhere near Felix is probably lower than the likelihood of the plane going down (well, probably not, but there’s no room for something as frivolous as math in rationalization). Hell, Stop Sign might not even be getting on the same plane. Maybe he has a long layover and decided to spend part of it being a conspicuous asshole at a totally different gate.
For some reason, this makes sense to Felix. He unclenches his fist and breathes in, then out. See? He’s fine. He doesn’t need yoga. Fuck yoga.
Felix takes his phone out of his pocket to find his boarding pass. He looks at the reflection in his screen and jumps.
Okay, so Stop Sign’s right behind him. Standing in line. To get on the same plane as Felix. He must be Sky Priority too. And that’s fine. That’s reasonable. That’s totally his prerogative. Felix breathes in and out. Fuck yoga.
Felix braves another glance into the reflective black lagoon of his phone to confirm what he already knows. His hair is so red it’s almost offensive. It would probably still shine in a black hole. Fuck, he’s so tall.
Felix lights up his screen so he doesn’t have to look at the cosmic anomaly any longer. He finds his boarding pass and stares at his seat assignment like it’s the answer on a Magic 8 ball. 24B. A middle seat. Near the back of the plane. That’s fine. He’d take the bathroom at this point.
The gate agent scans his phone, and Felix walks a little too quickly down the jetway so he can get on the plane and sit between two terrifically average-looking people. A flight attendant greets him, and Felix would like to say his noncommittal grunt in response is due to his current predicament, but that’s his reaction to customer service even in his best of moods.
Felix marches down the aisle—which even he admits is a bit of an overreaction—tosses his bag in the overhead bin, and takes a seat in the refuge that is 24B. The row is empty, and Felix entertains the fantasy that he’ll somehow have the row to himself on this completely full flight. Maybe there was a glitch in the system. Or maybe the two people on either side of him just won’t show up. Or maybe—
“Sorry—”
Felix looks up and all fantasies drain from his head like the abrupt flush of an airplane toilet.
Stop Sign has just spoken.
He’s pointing to the window seat next to Felix.
And he’s still wearing his glasses.
* * *
Sylvain is mortified for three reasons:
- He has to sit next to the hot guy he just spent the last two hours committing horny thought crimes about.
- He could only squeak out a “sorry” before his mouth got too dry to continue.
- He’s pretty sure he’s been pointing at his seat for at least thirty seconds, and this guy still hasn’t gotten up.
Sylvain swallows air. The universal language of pointing has failed him.
“Sorry,” he repeats, because it seems easier than trying to form an entirely new word, “I think that’s my seat.”
Well, Sylvain doesn’t think that’s his seat. He knows that’s his seat. But for some reason saying “I think” softens the deadly blow of asking someone to get up so you can sit next to them for three and a half hours.
The Hot Stranger follows the line from Sylvain’s pointed finger to the seat next to him with a small twitch of his head.
“Oh. Okay.”
And those—
Might be—
The two hottest words Sylvain has ever heard in his miserable! horny! life!
Oh. Okay. OH. OKAY. Sylvain runs the words over his tongue over and over again, tasting the coarse saltiness with which they were spoken. Sylvain savors the flat affect, the way this Hot Stranger acted like he couldn’t give two shits about the fact that Sylvain is about to bump his elbow for three and a half hours. His teeth catch on the slight rasp and Sylvain has to actively stop himself from licking his lips. Forget Shelley Duvall, Sylvain is about to check out some picture books from the local library because he needs this Hot Stranger to read him some bedtime stories.
Hot Stranger gets up, which is something you’d think Sylvain had prepared himself for, but he didn’t, because he was too busy thinking about that voice telling him to shut up while he pulls his hair. But Hot Stranger gets up, his forearms flexing as he pushes against the armrests, and shuffles out of the row. He brushes past Sylvain, which, hey! Is probably something Sylvain will cling on to for the rest of his aforementioned miserable, horny life! And stands aside so Sylvain can take a seat.
Sylvain smiles at Hot Stranger because he’s forgotten how to do anything else and sidesteps into the row. He sits down next to the window and pushes his bag underneath the seat in front of him. He shuts his eyes and rests his head against the cool, hard, plastic of the airplane wall. He tries to remember what he learned in yoga and breathes in and out. Maybe in another life, things could have worked out with Hot Stranger, but Sylvain flushed those chances down the airplane toilet the second he decided he had something to prove and sat across from him at the otherwise-empty gate. So that’s the situation, and there’s nothing Sylvain can do about it. It’s spilled milk. Nothing to be done.
Sylvain’s eyes pop open.
Fuck, why didn’t he offer Hot Stranger the window seat?
* * *
Felix is mortified for a million reasons.
Well, probably less than that. But he’s still not in the mood to do math.
(He never is.)
But Stop Sign said words to him. Actual words. Six, to be exact. (Hey, Felix did math!)
And. All. Felix. Could. Say. Back. Was:
“Oh. Okay.”
Felix is so mad at himself he doesn’t even bother reading the safety information card in his seat back pocket. If the plane goes down, he deserves to go down with it. (Also because he’s already heard the speech a thousand times before, and if at this point he doesn’t know to put his own oxygen mask on before helping others, then he deserves to asphyxiate as the person he helped watches in horror and lives with survivor’s guilt for the rest of their miserable days).
(Felix doesn’t want to psychoanalyze why he automatically assumes this person wouldn’t just help him.)
Felix stares straight ahead and tries not to think about the proximity between himself and this person who knows at least six words. Someone whose face Felix will never remember sits down in the aisle seat, and they seem to be a thousand miles away compared to Stop Sign, who is just one tricky maneuver and two pairs of tight jeans away from straddling Felix right there in 24B.
Now might be a good time to mention that Felix refuses to wear sweatpants on an airplane as a matter of principle.
He has never been more grateful for his own stuck-up ideals.
(He closes his eyes and tries to imagine anything but Stop Sign whimpering promises to be good in his ear.)
“Hey, folks.” The pilot’s voice comes over the loudspeaker, sounding so much like a pilot that it makes Felix suspicious. “Just got word from the air traffic control. There’s a bit of a jam on the runway so we’ll be sitting on the tarmac for a bit. So just sit tight and we’ll be on our way shortly.”
Felix does not sit tight. He hasn’t even fastened his seatbelt yet, because he’s not a sheep who straps himself into a seat before it’s necessary. He glances down at Stop Sign. He’s got his seatbelt fastened, low and tight across his lap, just like they tell you in the safety information card in the seat back pocket. Felix stifles a scoff. What’s this guy buckled in for? Does he think the plane is just going to take off with no warning? And even then, does he really think a seatbelt is going to save him in the event of an emergency? No, really, Felix dares this guy to give him one example of someone being saved from a plane crash because they fastened their fucking seatbelt—
“Uh, hi.”
Felix looks up. Stop Sign smiles at him, but in a nervous way. Like something has freaked him out.
And that’s when Felix realizes he’s been staring at this dude’s crotch for at least thirty full seconds.
* * *
Look, Sylvain didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself, but this dude had been staring at his crotch for at least thirty full seconds.
(Sylvain is very happy he stuck to his principles and did not wear sweatpants on this flight).
Hot Stranger looks at Sylvain as if he’s the one who just got caught staring at someone else’s crotch for a suspicious amount of time (although that being said, Sylvain is certain he’s been guilty of this at some point, so it doesn’t feel particularly unfair).
“You fastened your seatbelt.”
Hot Stranger says this in a punishing way, like Sylvain just came before he was supposed toooooo aaaaaaand whoops! Sylvain is committing horny thought crimes again!
Sylvain grips his armrest and wonders if someone can sign themselves up for the no-fly list.
Hot Stranger’s glare makes him squirm, but his eyes are like a car wreck Sylvain can’t look away from (Sylvain makes a mental note to never use that line, on anyone, ever). Sylvain searches for the words—literally any other words—to describe the eyes drilling into the part of his soul that can still feel something other than the fleeting joy of arriving early to the airport.
But these eyes have made Sylvain stupid. They’ve poured $15 airport wine all over the pages of Sylvain’s mental dictionary like it’s a banned book (and given some of Sylvain’s fantasies over the past two hours, perhaps it should be). So all he can think to ask is:
“Was I…not supposed to?”
Hot Stranger scoffs and turns a little red at the question, and Sylvain decides he would ask it over and over again for the rest of his life if it meant seeing that blush. He’s so pretty. He’s so fucking pretty. He could make Sylvain do anything. He could make Sylvain forget all other synonyms for the word “pretty”.
“No, it’s just—” Pretty Stranger gives an exasperated sigh that Sylvain tries really hard not to extrapolate into a sex noise, “We’re not even moving.”
“Oh, right.” Sylvain unbuckles his seatbelt so fast you would think it was on fire. “Better?”
Pretty Stranger looks down at Sylvain’s lap with a mixture of apathy and disgust, and Sylvain is starting to believe someone hired this guy to check off every single one of his kinks.
“I guess.”
Hot.
“I’m Sylvain, by the way,” Sylvain blurts out, temporarily forgetting that it would probably be better for Pretty Stranger to know as little about him as possible.
“Oh. Felix.”
Felix.
Felix.
Sylvain’s stomach flips so fast he considers re-buckling his seatbelt.
* * *
Sylvain.
Sylvain.
So apparently it’s not enough for this guy to have infuriatingly red hair, he has to have some stupid, sexy name to go with it. His parents could have literally named him anything. Like Jerry. Jerry is a perfectly respectable name, with absolutely no sex appeal. Jerry sounds like he’d be a firefighter. But not a hot one. Not one you’d put in a calendar or anything. Felix isn’t thinking about Sylvain as the type of firefighter you’d put in a calendar. Why would he be thinking about that? Who said he was? Felix is thinking about Jerry. Keep up.
But no, Sylvain’s parents couldn’t settle for ordinary . They couldn’t settle for Jerry. They had to name their ludicrously attractive son something so conspicuous, so lavish, so…so…so…
So French.
Felix went to Paris once. He got laughed out of the Eiffel Tower gift shop for using his broken French to ask if they spoke English. Which, sure, was a pretty stupid question to ask at the Eiffel Tower gift shop of all places, but it wasn’t as stupid as the Eiffel Tower-shaped pasta he was just trying to buy for Annette. He ended up buying her a block of fancy cheese at the hotel. It got seized by customs. He gave her a pack of airplane peanuts. She’s allergic. They’re not roommates anymore.
Sylvain probably speaks French. Sylvain could probably waltz into the Eiffel Tower gift shop and buy as many packs of Eiffel Tower-shaped pasta as his beefy arms could carry. They probably wouldn’t even make him pay because they’d mistake him for French royalty or something. Does France have a monarchy? If this were any other situation, Felix would just google the question. But this isn’t any other situation, and he can’t risk Sylvain reading over his shoulder and realizing that Felix is thinking about him so much it’s making him curious about French government. The bastard. He better hope Felix never encounters a situation where knowing whether or not France has a monarchy could have saved his life.
“Hey there, folks.” The pilot’s voice comes over the loudspeaker again, still sounding too much like a pilot for Felix’s comfort. “Control’s telling us it will be another 30 minutes before take-off, so just sit tight.”
There’s a collective groan in the cabin, and for the first time in his life Felix feels like he’s part of a community. He fidgets in his seat. He doesn’t care how many times the pilot says it, Felix will never sit tight. Especially as long as he’s sitting next to someone with a name that tastes like camembert on his tongue (Felix makes a mental note to never say that out loud, ever).
Sylvain reaches out his hand to Felix. Felix takes it because he’s an asshole, not a monster. The first thing Felix notices is that Sylvain’s palm is warm and a little callused—enough to suggest that yes, he has worked a day in his life, but still has the good sense to use some lotion every now and again.
The second thing Felix notices is that Sylvain’s hand is big. Like, really big.
Felix knows what Annette would say about big hands. He gulps. It doesn’t escape Sylvain’s notice.
“Everything okay?”
Sylvain has not let go of Felix’s hand.
“You’re big,” Felix blurts out.
“I’m sorry?”
Sylvain is looking at Felix like he just caught him staring at his crotch for a full thirty seconds. He doesn’t let go of Felix’s hand.
“Your fingers,” Felix explains. “They’re bigger than I’m used to.”
Felix’s words reach his ears and crash through his skull like a battering ram.
What did he say.
What the fuck did he just say?
The color drains from Sylvain’s hair to his cheeks.
He still has not let go of Felix’s hand.
“Mr. Gautier?” It’s the flight attendant Felix growled at earlier. Sylvain doesn’t look at her, his eyes still fixed on Felix’s grip. “On behalf of Kyphon Airlines, I’d like to thank you for being a Medallion member.”
“Sure thing,” Sylvain squeaks.
The flight attendant leaves, and Felix tears his hand away and shoves it underneath his thigh. It’s in time-out. Actually, all of Felix is in time-out.
He fishes his headphones out of his backpack (a difficult task with one free hand, but Felix is determined to carry out the full sentence of the offending hand’s punishment) and plugs them into the TV in front of him. Felix scrolls through the film options, scowling at each one. He doesn’t even bother to read the descriptions; he just needs to watch something— anything— that will keep his mouth away from Sylvain (and yeah, Felix hears that phrasing, and it only proves his point!). He finally picks something and taps the play button with enough force to make the woman in front of him turn around with a dirty look. Felix shoots the look back instead of saying “sorry” like a normal person and settles in to watch what looks like a promising documentary on weaponry.
* * *
Sylvain has never seen anyone look more pissed watching Knives Out.
* * *
Twenty minutes in, and Felix is 98% sure this is not a documentary on weaponry. The revelation is more than enough to justify removing his hand from its leg prison and tearing off his headphones.
“Didn’t like the movie?”
Felix turns to Sylvain, shocked that he would still want to talk to him after Felix’s egregious sexualization of a handshake. He looks down (but not for too long this time!) and notices the extreme grip Sylvain has on his own thigh.
Felix scoffs and sits back in his seat. He crosses his arms because he still doesn’t quite trust his hands.
“How could you tell?”
Sylvain laughs at that, and even an asshole like Felix can tell it comes from somewhere deep that doesn’t get a lot of use. Felix glows a little inside (which, by the way, is something he’s never done before, and it feels weird. Humans weren’t made to be bioluminescent, even metaphorically). Sylvain just used a genuine laugh on him, one that he maybe doesn’t use on anyone else. Which, now that Felix thinks about it, is probably a sign that someone is an asshole. Maybe it takes one to know one.
Sylvain’s laugh fades, and he gives Felix this look that Felix prays he’s never given to anyone else because it feels too special to be a lie.
“You were glaring at the screen—”
Sylvain’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and Felix is just a daft, glowing jellyfish at the bottom of a pitch-black trench. It’s almost enough to make Felix forgive that Sylvain sat directly across—
“—It was kind of cute.”
* * *
Sylvain has only known Felix for a couple of hours, most of them spent in silent objectification, but he already knows that Felix is a lot of things.
And cute is not one of them.
Or at least, he doesn’t seem to think so.
Felix shoots him a scowl, a sexy bullet that Sylvain would gladly leap in front of any day, and turns to select another movie. Sylvain watches him scroll straight past the movie musicals and decides not to mention that Felix is a fucking fool for not immediately clicking on Little Shop of Horrors .
Well just because Felix doesn’t appreciate the combined genius of composer Alan Mencken and lyricist Howard Ashman doesn’t mean that Sylvain can’t. He plugs his shitty earbuds into the TV and doesn’t even bother looking at the other options before selecting the best movie ever made.
Sylvain is one verse into the opening number when he feels a pair of intense eyes watching over his shoulder. Sylvain removes one earbud and looks at Felix, who’s looking at Sylvain’s screen with an adorable, morbid curiosity.
“What are you watching?”
“Little Shop of Horrors.”
Felix wrinkles his cute fucking nose. “It doesn’t look like a horror film to me.”
“It’s about a plant—”
“Weird—”
“—who eats people.”
The mention of vegetal bloodlust seems to get Felix’s attention. He arches one perfectly-groomed eyebrow, and Sylvain realizes this is the most interest he’s seen Felix have in their conversation thus far.
It’s intoxicating.
Intoxicating enough to make Sylvain ask a stupid, stupid question.
“Do you…want to watch it with me?”
Sylvain extends the earbud, wiping a bit of earwax off with his thumb and praying Felix didn’t see it. Felix regards the earbud like it’s a middle-aged stranger who’s come up to him at a family reunion and said, you probably don’t remember me, but—
Felix takes the earbud like the wrinkled leather of a forgotten relative’s hand and places it in his ear, which is where the convoluted metaphor ends. The wire is short enough that Felix has to lean on the armrest between them to keep the earbud in place. It’s the closest their faces have been, and Sylvain is furious to find that his skin is flawless.
Sylvain pulls at the collar of his sweater. He suddenly feels very, very warm.
* * *
Felix feels very, very warm, and he’s pretty sure it has nothing to do with the bizarre events unfolding on Sylvain’s screen. He reaches up and tries to turn on his fan. No air comes out. He plops back into his seat with a grumble.
This is a weird movie, Felix decides. They’re five minutes in, and the plant in question looks far too small to consume anything larger than a house fly. Oh, and everyone keeps breaking into song, a feature suspiciously omitted from Sylvain’s original description of the film.
But Felix is close to Sylvain’s face, close enough to count all of the freckles that make constellations on his nose and cheeks. Felix tries to calculate how many he could count before Sylvain noticed he wasn’t actually watching the movie at all.
(Felix can’t believe that Sylvain is so hot he’s made him do this much math.)
Sylvain tugs at his collar for what might be the third time in a minute. In fact, it seems everyone is starting to overheat. The other passengers roll up their sleeves and fan their languid faces with the safety information cards. Felix thinks it’s probably the only time one of those cards has gotten close to saving someone’s life.
Sylvain reaches forward and hovers above the screen.
“Do you mind if I pause this for a second?”
Felix cannot fathom a single universe in which he’d ever be so immersed in a movie musical that he would object to a brief interruption.
“Go ahead.”
“Cool, thanks.”
Sylvain taps the screen to pause the movie. He carefully removes his earbud from his ear, setting it down on his lap so it doesn’t have to dangle from Felix’s chin.
And then Sylvain commits a crime.
An unforgivable, sexy crime.
Sylvain crosses his arms in front of him, grabs the hem of his sweater—
And
Takes
It
Off.
Felix clutches the armrest so tightly he worries it will snap and break down the only barrier keeping him from climbing onto Sylvain’s lap and dry-humping him before the Goddess, the world, and the poor bastard sitting next to them.
He’s not completely bare underneath the sweater. Instead he reveals a thin, tight, white v-neck clearly designed to remain an undershirt unseen by the general public. The paper-thin fabric clings to Sylvain’s broad chest, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
“Sorry,” Sylvain says, reminding Felix that his eyes are up here and to stop ogling his ridiculous tits, “I can’t sweat in this. Cashmere.”
Felix doesn’t respond. He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t even make fun of Sylvain for wearing a cashmere sweater on an airplane. He just looks away because if he has to look at Sylvain’s smirky little half-smile for one more second, he’s going to kiss it clean off his freckled face.
* * *
Sylvain has never been on a better chase.
He took off his sweater. He took off his sweater and exposed his tight little undershirt, and all Felix did was look away like he didn’t even care. Saints, his apathy is hot.
Sylvain may hate himself so much it’s made him numb to everything but the fleeting joy of arriving early to the airport, but he knows his body captures people’s attention. He forces himself to work out every day to make sure it does. But he doesn’t even feel the sting of rejection as Felix reacts to his tits like he’s scrolling through the movie musical section of the in-flight entertainment. Because Sylvain doesn’t really know Felix, but he already knows Felix doesn’t seem like the kind of person who watches Little Shop of Horrors with just anyone. He knows Felix isn’t completely uninterested.
And if he’s dead wrong? That’s fine! Sylvain can take no for an answer. He can even take “fuck off” for an answer. Worst case scenario, he got to watch his favorite movie with a beautiful stranger. And besides, he really was getting warm, and you really can’t sweat in cashmere, so the sweater was going to come off regardless.
“That feels so much better.” Sylvain cranks his arms back and puffs out his chest with a showy stretch. He catches a glimpse of Felix looking out of the corner of his eye and settles back into his chair with a confidence he hasn’t possessed since deciding to sit directly across from a stranger at an otherwise-empty airport gate. He pops the earbud back in his ear and poises his finger above the screen. “Ready to keep playing?”
Felix mumbles “sure” and scooches in a little closer so he can see the screen better. He’s close enough that Sylvain can smell his shampoo or whatever other shit he puts in his hair to make it so pretty. Sylvain glances down at the armrest between them, the one barrier keeping him from pulling Felix onto his lap and dry-humping him before the Goddess, the world, and the poor bastard sitting next to them. Felix grips the armrest like he’s bracing for a crash landing, his forearm flexed so hard it makes his veins pop. Sylvain tries not to think about those strong arms prying his legs apart as he returns his attention to the only movie that has ever deserved an Academy Award.
Sylvain doesn’t care if the plane doesn’t take off for another hour. He could sit here with Felix forever.
* * *
It’s been an hour and the plane still hasn’t taken off.
The temperature of the cabin has only increased, and it’s with a horror more chilling than anything in this movie that Felix realizes his bangs are sticking to his forehead. Some passengers lie in the aisles to distance themselves from everyone else’s body heat. And speaking of body heat, Sylvain’s thin undershirt clings to his chest even more now, and the little bit of rust-colored hair that pokes through the deep V is completely soaked.
Not that Felix has noticed. Felix is paying attention to the movie. Felix totally understands what’s going on and how this plant got so big.
“Sorry, folks,” the pilot’s voice comes over the PA again, interrupting a song about someone named Seymour and how suddenly he appeared, “Looks like it’s still going to be another half-hour.”
Everyone groans again, this time sounding less like disgruntled passengers and more like dying soldiers in a historical reenactment. Felix clenches his sweaty fist. His hair’s a mess, the back of his shirt is soaked, and he’s pretty sure he’s been stuck here long enough to become one with the airplane, just like that barnacle-y fuck in the Pirates of the Carribbean movie.
Part of the ship, part of the fucking crew.
And Felix is not about to become a pack of peanuts.
Felix peels his back from the navy pleather and rips his earbud out. Sylvain frantically pauses the movie.
“Hey, is everything okay—”
Felix growls and tears off his suffocating shirt before tossing it under the seat in front of him with a curse. He sits back up and stretches his arms overhead, arching his back so that his bare skin doesn’t have to make contact with the sticky pleather. He settles his forearms on the armrests and huffs.
Then he looks at Sylvain.
And that’s when Felix realizes he’s half-naked next to the guy he’s been fantasizing about fucking on an airplane for the past three and a half hours.
Sylvain’s lips are fully parted. He isn’t even pretending not to stare. Felix can feel his eyes burning into the narrow tuck of his waist and the V-shape of his hips. Sylvain’s gaze sends a spark that travels down, down, down those sharp angles, all the way to Felix’s stupid twitching dick.
“Sorry,” Felix says. “It’s just so fucking hot.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Sylvain’s eyes flicker back to Felix’s, too hungry to show shame. Sylvain bites his lip, and he has to know what he’s doing because there’s no way someone looks that fuckable unintentionally. His teeth release his swollen, pink lip, and somewhere in the black box of his brain, Felix realizes there’s only one way this was ever going to go.
* * *
There really is only one way this was ever going to go.
Without saying a word, Sylvain and Felix stand up, and Sylvain forgets all of his anxieties about asking people in the aisle seat to stand up as they shoo the poor bastard out. Felix grabs Sylvain’s forearm and escorts him up the aisle to the front of the plane, stepping over listless bodies and only turning back once to say “If you take those glasses off I’ll fucking kill you.” It does not make walking any easier. Sylvain isn’t sure if everyone’s too hot to notice or if he’s too horny to care as Felix pushes open the bathroom door and pulls Sylvain inside.
“Hey, this is just like the music video for Toxic—”
Felix pushes him against the sink and shuts him up.
With his mouth.
On Sylvain’s mouth.
With tongue.
(Britney can wait.)
Sylvain’s clumsy, cocky fingers find Felix’s belt loops and slam Felix’s hips flush with his, which doesn’t take much effort in the tiny metal box. His hands trail up those absolutely absurd V-shaped bones and grip his waist. Sylvain digs in his fingers, and Felix moans into his mouth. Fuck, his skin is so soft. Sylvain's touch is selfish, and he manhandles Felix’s body with all the gentleness of a TSA agent searching for a pocket knife. Felix breaks their sloppy kiss of prying tongues and clacking teeth and looks up at Sylvain, eyes electric and deadly.
“Shirt. Off. Now.”
Sylvain is so desperate for praise he doesn’t even hesitate.
* * *
Felix knows Sylvain is desperate for praise, and that’s precisely why he isn’t going to give it to him. Sylvain takes off his shirt the same way he took off his sweater, by crossing his arms and pulling it over his head by the hem. The move looks so natural that Felix instantly knows Sylvain has probably done this for hundreds of people. Felix doesn’t care, as long as he gets to be one of them.
Sylvain tosses his shirt aside and displays himself for Felix. He wants that praise so bad, and he just might get it, looking so pretty like that. Saints, he's big. He’s so fucking big. Felix grips the soft skin of Sylvain’s chest and massages the muscle underneath. He thumbs his chest hair and wonders what cruel, sadistic, wonderful goddess gave someone the right to be so red.
“Ridiculous,” he mutters.
“What’s ridiculous?” Sylvain asks, with a fucking smirk.
“You.” Felix squeezes his tits. “You’re ridiculous. These” —Felix squeezes them again, harder—“Are ridiculous.”
Felix brushes Sylvain’s nipple with his thumb, and the little gasp that comes out of Sylvain’s mouth is so cute that Felix almost forgets he wasn’t going to praise him. The gasp settles into heavy breaths, filtered through the half-smile of someone who’s too hot for their own good—or Felix’s, for that matter.
“Are you complaining?” Sylvain asks.
“Yes.”
Felix grabs Sylvain’s ribcage for support and leans into his chest to tease Sylvain’s nipple with the tip of his tongue. The featherlight touch is more than enough to send Sylvain into desperate, high-pitched sighs that build on top of each other. Felix’s uncontrollable smirk hampers his technique, but it doesn’t matter. He’s never had more fun making someone crumble.
“Who…told…you…” Sylvain struggles to get the words out, and Felix has no intention of making it any easier for him. He pinches Sylvain’s other nipple, hard. “ Fuck— how…do you…know”—Sylvain pulls Felix off with a bold tug on his hair and looks at him with hazy, lusty eyes—“ Exactly how to turn me on?”
Felix pinches him again and Sylvain crumples. “Maybe you’re just that easy to read.”
Sylvain looks up at him through his hair—through all of that red. “I think you just like my tits.”
“It’s not my fault you’re so big.” Felix seizes Sylvain’s lumberjack arms. “It’s infuriating.”
Sylvain’s mouth twists into a sly, dangerous expression. His hands travel down the small of Felix’s back until they land, predictably, on his ass. Sylvain traces the curve of his seat with a touch that’s less frantic, but somehow even more indulgent. His fingers edge closer and closer to exactly where Felix’s hot pulse wants them to go.
“That’s right.” Sylvain leans in, his breath tickling Felix’s ear as he whispers, “I know my fingers are bigger than you’re used to.”
He leans back and looks at Felix with a grin that’s eaten more than its fair share of shit. The bastard. The cocky bastard. He squeezes Felix’s ass in a way Felix can only describe as arrogant, and Felix glares at him with hard eyes. This guy is smug. He’s so fucking smug.
All the more fun to bring him to his knees then.
* * *
Sylvain fucked around, and now he’s about to find out.
Felix kneels on the floor without a word, forced to straddle Sylvain’s boots in the tight space. His impatient hands undo Sylvain’s belt buckle, his face set with determined vexation. Spite looks so damn sexy on him.
“Saints, Felix—”
Sylvain puts his hands in Felix’s hair and massages his scalp. His hair slides through his fingers like ribbons. Felix huffs at the petting but leans into the touch all the same, falling forward until his forehead almost touches Sylvain’s zipper. Felix looks up at him with those amber eyes that make Sylvain feel so damn senseless, then slowly, torturously, undoes Sylvain’s jeans.
“Felix—”
“You keep saying my name,” Felix says. His eyes are relentless.
“It’s a pretty one.”
Felix makes a little disgruntled noise but offers no other protest. His fingers hook under the elastic of Sylvain’s underwear, and without any further warning, he pulls them down. Hard.
He breaks eye contact with Sylvain to stare at his cock. It’s a shameless look, and in the cramped space he’s only millimeters away from touching it with the tip of his nose. In another life, Sylvain might have been embarrassed at how hard and wet he already is, but Felix’s wide eyes don’t seem to think it’s an issue.
Felix carefully studies it, as if trying to calculate how to fit it all in his pretty little mouth. The intimacy of the attention makes Sylvain shiver. Someone as beautiful as Felix has probably made a hundred people feel this way; but here, right now, in the airplane bathroom, with Felix looking at his cock with such tender curiosity, Sylvain feels like the most special bastard in the world.
Sylvain cradles Felix’s cheek to sweeten the incoming tease. “Still bigger than you’re—”
Felix doesn’t let Sylvain finish. Instead he stops him mid-sentence by wrapping his fingers around the base of Sylvain’s cock and licking a light, precise line on the head with the point of his tongue.
“Fuck—”
Felix smirks at Sylvain’s outburst, far too pleased with himself to do either of them any good. He parts his lips, not wide enough to take all of Sylvain in his mouth but enough to make Sylvain think about it, and lavishes the tip of his cock with soft, open-mouthed kisses. He looks up at Sylvain in between each one, flashes of mischief trapped in amber.
“Fuck, Felix, you’re gorgeous—” Felix ignores him and licks the sensitive spot under the head, sending a jolt of electricity through Sylvain’s bloodstream that must have been strong enough to fry the last of his remaining brain cells because he then says:
“—You’re a fucking car wreck.”
Felix stops his ministrations, his mouth hanging open in the perfect shape and size of Sylvain’s dick. Sylvain tries to reboot his brain, but the battle is futile with Felix’s lips still so close to cock.
“I just mean, your eyes—I can’t look away…you know, like a—” It’s no use. Felix’s little pink tongue has put him on autopilot. Sylvain grimaces. “Sorry, I’m usually much better at this.”
Something flickers in Felix’s eyes like a passing siren before he narrows them at Sylvain.
“I don’t believe you.”
And then he puts all of Sylvain’s cock into his mouth.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Sylvain has forgotten all other words and forgotten any other feeling but more, more, more . Felix clutches the back of Sylvain’s thighs and pushes him further down his throat, closing his eyes like he’s just tasted something too sweet to put down. His wet lips slide back, and Sylvain’s legs nearly buckle when he feels what must be Felix’s tongue teasing that sensitive spot under the head again.
“That feels…so good…Felix…”
Felix’s right hand flies to his belt, and he pumps Sylvain’s cock with his mouth even faster as he frantically tries to undo his own buckle. There’s a muffled, frustrated moan before the belt tip finally comes free. Felix digs his nails into Sylvain's ass with one hand for stability and raises his hips to unbutton his jeans.
“Felix—”
He undoes the zipper and slips his hand under the elastic of his underwear. He pulls out his cock with an urgent tug and Sylvain will be damned if it isn’t as pretty as the rest of him. Felix takes Sylvain even further into his mouth, which Sylvain didn’t even think was possible, and begins to feverishly stroke himself, hips snapping into the air with uncontrolled abandon.
Saints, and Sylvain thought he’d never meet anyone who likes sucking cock as much as he does.
Sylvain tries to say something—anything—but the everything-about-the-situation makes it impossible for him to do anything but whimper. Felix moans desperate, incomprehensible nothings in reply, and his voice sounds so beautiful with a mouthful of Sylvain’s cock that it pulls Sylvain right to the edge.
“Felix, please, don’t stop—”
Felix doesn’t stop. He strokes himself harder, faster, erupting into uncontrollable whines that vibrate around Sylvain’s cock and kindle every last nerve in his body. Sylvain tangles himself in Felix’s hair with one hand and holds that delicate jaw with the other. Spit drips down Felix’s chin, and Sylvain is just about to come as suddenly as Seymour when—
Knock, knock, knock!
“Ah—!” Sylvain doubles over as he comes. He shoves his finger in his teeth to stop the high, needy sound that escapes his mouth and looks at the door.
“Sir?”
Shit.
Sylvain looks down at Felix for help, but his mouth is still full of cock, and his stomach is sticky with cum. Felix looks at the door. Then he looks at Sylvain. Then he swallows.
Knock, knock, knock!
“Sir? The pilot has asked everyone to return to their seats for take-off.”
“Ah! Uh…” Sylvain looks at Felix for answers, and Felix gives Sylvain a look that he can only interpret as don’t ask me, I’m the one who still has a dick in my mouth, which is a very fair point. Sylvain turns to the door and yells, “Be right out!”
Their bodies catch up to their brains with a snap, and Sylvain and Felix scramble to dress themselves with the urgency of two people who just realized they came in an airplane bathroom. Felix flips on the sink and frantically wipes the evidence off his abs. Sylvain pulls up his pants and looks around for his shirt. When he can’t find it, he panics and flushes the toilet.
“What are you doing?” Felix hisses.
“It’s a diversion tactic!”
Felix rolls his eyes and stuffs his deflating dick back into his underwear. It truly speaks to the gravity of the situation that Sylvain doesn’t immediately start kissing him again.
Knock, knock, knock!
“Is everything alright, sir?”
Sylvain squeaks and flushes the toilet again.
“Stop doing that!”
Felix crouches and tosses Sylvain his undershirt. Sylvain pulls it over his head, and the two look at themselves in the mirror for a moment. Their lips are red and swollen. Sylvain’s glasses are askew, and his hair is a mess. Felix still isn’t wearing a shirt. Sylvain is pretty sure there’s a little bit of cum in his hair.
It has never been more obvious that two people just fucked in an airplane bathroom.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!
“SIR!”
Sylvain and Felix look at each other, and with the simultaneous, resigned sigh of two people who are about to face the most mortifying inevitability possible, they pull open the door.
“Thank you, sir—”
The flight attendant stops short as not one, but two troublesome sirs shuffle out of the 24” x 48” box. Sylvain gives her a half-wave and a sheepish smile. Felix mutters at him to “keep fucking walking.”
And keep fucking walking they do. Everyone has returned to their seats, and they all watch in shock and silence as two disheveled, half-dressed men take a long, slow walk of shame down 24 rows of seats on a full flight.
(If this were Felix, he would do the math and tell you that means they walked past 144 strangers at equal levels of perturbation, but this is Sylvain, and all he’s thinking about is if it’s obvious that his dick is still a little hard.)
After what feels like the entire runtime of Little Shop of Horrors, Sylvain and Felix arrive at their row. They pause in the aisle. The poor bastard sitting in the aisle seat looks up at them. It’s clear from his expression that he has lived the equivalent of a thousand lifetimes since he had the misfortune of sitting in 24C, and that getting up to let them in one last time will cost him a thousand more.
With the stoicism of a pallbearer, the hardened veteran wordlessly stands and steps into the aisle so they can take their seats. Sylvain is about to enter the row when he remembers something.
“Wait, Felix, do you want the window—”
“Just go.”
Sylvain shuffles in, his long legs knocking into the seatback tray tables. He mutters “sorry” to the plastic. It doesn't respond. He takes his seat, and Felix hurries in after him. They both stare at their shameful hands in their shameful laps. Everyone’s eyes are still on them.
The PA dings, and the captain comes over the loudspeaker again. “Heya, folks, change of plans.” He exhales loudly into the microphone and lets it reverberate through the cabin before continuing. “Looks like we’re going to have to evacuate the plane.”
Felix throws his head back against the seat.
“Fuck!”
* * *
Felix emerges from the jetway to a deserted gate. It’s one in the morning. His favorite seat is empty.
He’s only a little surprised when Sylvain picks up his pace to walk alongside him. They walk in silence through the terminal. Felix doesn’t know what airplane bathroom sex smells like, but they sure do smell like it.
“Do you have a way to get home?” Sylvain asks, and Felix swears there’s a little bit of hope in his voice.
“No,” Felix lies. Pack of peanuts be damned, he knows Annette would come pick him up and somehow immediately know that Felix sucked someone’s dick. It’s just a superpower best friends have.
Sylvain tries really hard not to smile at that. The effort is almost cuter than the smile itself.
“My car’s in short-term parking.” Sylvain hesitates and rubs the back of his neck with his hand. Felix put this guy’s dick in his mouth one time and he’s already completely flustered. “I could, uh, give you a ride.”
“I live kind of far.” Felix’s apartment is ten minutes from the airport, seven if you’re speeding. “I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way.”
“Oh.” Sylvain visibly falters. Come on you beautiful freckled idiot, connect the fucking dots. He exhales. “Well, uh…”
Just say it.
“...You can crash at my place. If you want.”
Thank Sothis.
“Oh.” Felix feigns surprise, because it’s polite to pretend you don’t already know someone would do anything to fuck your mouth again. “Are you sure?"
“Of course, it’s the least I could do after—”
Sylvain stops mid-sentence; his face flushes. Felix barely swallows a smirk. It’s good to know that Sylvain is very aware that Felix did most of the work, and that if Sylvain is half as good at giving head as he is at kissing, then the two of them are going to spend some quality tonight leveling the playing field. Besides, Sylvain doesn’t have to know just how much Felix loved sucking his cock. Yet.
“Well, thanks,” Felix says. “That’s, uh, nice of you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
They walk in step past the empty gates and shuttered storefronts. Felix has to admit there’s something nice about walking next to Sylvain, even if he doesn’t know what it is yet. Felix’s arm dangles close to Sylvain’s, and his hand twitches with an impulse that Felix suppresses for the time being.
One thing at a time.
Felix almost laughs out loud at his own absurdity.
Thankfully, it’s outdone by Sylvain’s.
“Does it still count as the mile-high club if we only got to third base?"
Felix scoffs. “I don’t think it counts as the mile-high club if we never left the ground.”
Sylvain laughs at that, and it’s so real and warm that Felix tells his inhibitions to fuck off and grabs Sylvain’s hand. Sylvain’s laughter stops, and his face flushes again as he looks down at their hands in disbelief. His fingers fumble around Felix’s. They’re cautious and timid, like they’re not quite sure what to do. Felix takes charge and rests the pads of his fingers in the soft divots between Sylvain’s knuckles.
“Sorry,” Sylvain mumbles, smiling weakly. “This is probably where I have the least experience.”
And it’s Sylvain’s surprise that someone would actually want to hold his big, callused, lovely hand that cracks Felix’s heart enough to say what he does next.
“Come on.” He gives that hand a squeeze, because it deserves it. “You’ll have to tell me how Little Shop of Horrors ends on the way home.”
Sylvain smiles at the floor. “Are you sure? It’s actually a surprisingly long story.” He looks at Felix, lighting up in the special way people do when they want to share something with you. “There’s two endings, because test audiences thought the first one was too dark. It’s really hard to find the original these days, but give me ten minutes with an incognito tab and I could probably find it for you.”
Felix looks at Sylvain, who six hours ago was just an insolent stranger and now is probably the only person in the world Felix could look in the eye after sucking their cock in an airplane bathroom. He smiles.
“Can’t wait.”