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“Why do you let him do this to you?” Praxis mutters under his breath, gently dabbing at Abel’s sore and swollen cheek with a damp rag dipped in antiseptic. It’s not anything close to the level of care he’d receive if only he’d let a trained medic attend to his wounds, but there’s no way he’s going up to the medical bay looking like this. Everyone will know why he’s there, and Abel isn’t sure he’s got it in him to lie for Cain right now.
He swallows hard and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to look at Praxis and see the judgement in his eyes; that look that’ll only confirm what Abel already knows—that Praxis thinks him a weak, naïve little fool; someone who allows himself to be abused by someone like Cain because he thinks he deserves it.
“He doesn’t mean to do it,” Abel says finally, unsure why he’s trying to defend Cain and ashamed he’s even bothering. “I know how it looks,” he adds, fiddling nervously with his hands, “but really, he’s not always like this. He just doesn’t know what he’s doing when he loses it like that.”
“He doesn’t hit you by accident, Abel,” Praxis chides him, resting a cool hand against Abel’s cheek. He gently rubs his thumb along Abel’s cheekbone, and Abel winces.
“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” Praxis asks quickly.
Abel opens his eyes and regards Praxis in surprise. He isn't sure why, but Praxis’ kindness is shocking to him after so many months spent in Cain’s prickly company. Cain never says sorry for anything—well, not directly at least. He has his own little way of letting Abel know when he thinks he’s done something he needs to apologize for: By being unusually smothering in his physical affection, for example; or even by bringing Abel some of those raspberry candies he likes so much and leaving them by the bedside. But telling Abel he’s sorry and why? Never.
Praxis isn’t like that. He doesn’t behave as if the very act of apologizing is more painful than pulling teeth, and his openness, his candour, is refreshing after so long spent with Cain and his whiplash-inducing mood-swings. Abel’s tired of walking on eggshells around Cain, constantly panicking about whether something or other is going to set him off, and so being here with Praxis feels like breathing again after having his head held underwater for too long. Here in Praxis’ room, he finally feels safe.
“It’s fine, you don't need to apologize,” Abel replies after a while, and flashes Praxis a shy smile.
Praxis smiles back at him, though there’s a hint of sadness in his expression. “Will you do something for me?”
“Of course,” Abel tells him earnestly. “Anything at all.”
“Stop making excuses for him,” Praxis says firmly, though his tone isn’t unkind. He keeps his hand on Abel’s cheek and shifts closer along the bed, so that their knees are touching. “You deserve so much better than him; I wish you could see that. He doesn’t know how lucky he is to have you, and not just because you’re the best navigator in the fleet. You’re gentle and sweet and loyal and he’s never done a damn thing to deserve you; that’s why. Forgive me for being so blunt, but I don’t want to see you get hurt like this again.”
Abel feels his face burn hot. He knows Praxis wouldn’t say these things if he knew him— really knew him, and all the things he lets Cain do to him. But Praxis sees Abel the way Abel wishes he was; the way he used to be, before he met Cain. And it’s nice to have an opportunity to pretend he’s that person again, if only for the moment.
It’s Abel who makes the first move. He knows that if he doesn’t then things will stop right here. Abel has the impression Praxis is far too honorable to take advantage of him right now, even if all Abel wants is to be taken advantage of.
He leans into Praxis’ touch, nervously chewing on his lip, and puts a hand to Praxis’ hip. They stare at each other for a moment, Praxis regarding Abel with a questioning look, as if he’s hopeful but doesn’t want to push his luck, and Abel’s face relaxes into a smile.
He closes the rest of the distance between them, pressing his lips to the corner Praxis’ mouth. The other man lets out a muffled noise of surprise before his posture relaxes and he cups Abel’s face, kissing him back in earnest and gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind Abel’s ear.
He strokes the silky underside of Abel’ chin as he kisses him, lips soft and yielding, letting Abel set the pace. He doesn’t kiss anything like Cain—whose kisses are always firm and demanding, more like another attempt to own Abel than be affectionate with him—and not once does Abel fear Praxis will try and bully him into doing anything else. He’s sure that if all he wants to do is kiss, then Praxis won’t dare try anything more.
That alone makes Abel want to give him more; give him everything.
He takes firmly Praxis’ wrists and guides the other man’s hands beneath his shirt. Praxis’ touch is hesitant at first, as if he’s unsure whether or not he wants to go through with this, before he makes a little noise at the back of his throat and slides his hands up Abel’s bare chest, lips mouthing Abel’s jaw, fingers brushing his nipples.
Abel can’t stifle a groan. Cain never touches him this way—it’s usually quick and hard and bruising when they fuck; Abel on his hands and knees, ass up, while he waits for Cain to be done with him. No foreplay. No time to kiss or caress one another. Now Abel feels as if Cain has been cruelly starving him of this—starving him of loving touch and gentle kisses, when that’s all Abel’s ever wanted from him.
Praxis presses his fingertips into Abel’s sides, firmly squeezing his flesh, though not hard enough to bruise, and Abel tips his head back as Praxis’ lips find his throat. He fingers the hem of Praxis’s shirt, urging him to get rid of it, and with a grunt Praxis peels it off, tosses it to the floor, and pushes Abel back onto the bed, covering his body with his own.
The first press of hot skin on skin is intoxicating. Abel can feel Praxis hard against him, and with a soft moan he lifts his hips to grind up against him. Praxis steadies him for a moment so that he can tug Abel’s pants and underwear down over his thighs, and sighing, Abel wraps his arms around Praxis’ neck as Praxis reverently palms the bare skin of his legs with rough and calloused hands.
Praxis tells him all the things Cain never does—that he’s beautiful, perfect, wanted. It causes a lump to rise in Abel’s throat, both because he’s never had anyone tell him those things—Cain is the only person he’s ever slept with—and because Cain will never tell him those things, despite how desperately Abel wishes he would.
Trying to squeeze Cain out of his mind now, Abel brings one of Praxis’ hands to his lips and sucks on his fingers, just the way Cain taught him, and guides the man's hand between his legs. Praxis fucks him with one finger first, gentle and careful, and never once tears his lips from Abel’s.
Abel’s never felt so close to another human being. Even when Cain’s inside him, fucking him, there’s still a distance between them—a curtain Cain won’t ever let Abel look behind. But Praxis seems to want to give him everything, and Abel’s never felt so overwhelmed, like a raw nerve each time Praxis kisses his skin, whispers into his ear, or hits that spot inside of him.
When Praxis finally pulls away from him, bends Abel’s legs up and pushes into him, Abel’s almost ready to lose it completely. Biting down on his lip, skin throbbing with heat, he throws his head back and drags his nails down over Praxis’ arms as the man slides in and out of him, slick and hot and hard.
He wants to scream out loud with the raw pleasure of it all. He’s finally allowed to revel in it—he’s always too reserved, too afraid of Cain’s nastiness to ever fully let go when they’re having sex—because he trusts Praxis; trusts him to share this moment with him free of judgment or scorn.
Praxis almost bends him in half trying to kiss him, and Abel hooks an arm around his neck to pull him closer, opening his mouth as Praxis’ tongue slides against his. Abel fingers the string of the other man's eye-patch, silently wondering whether Praxis would ever trust him enough to show him what’s beneath it.
Praxis turns his head to kiss Abel’s inner wrist. “You saved me,” he whispers, lips moving against Abel’s sensitive skin as he speaks. Abel lifts his head to drag his lips along Praxis’ jaw, lips tingling when they come into contact with the other man’s rough stubble, and Praxis quietly adds, “I wish you’d let me save you, too.”
Abel doesn’t know what he can say to Praxis that’ll make him going back to Cain after this okay, and so he says nothing at all. He leans back against the mattress, fixing Praxis with an intense stare, and reaches down to touch himself.
Praxis watches him transfixed, skin flushed red and a light sheen of sweat on his brow, and lets out a low moan. He hauls Abel’s legs up and starts to fuck him again, picking up the pace now, and Abel urges him to go faster, harder. He wants to be sore. Needs to remember this.
Praxis comes with a strangled groan. Abel lets go the second he does and comes into his own hand, biting down so hard on his lip he tastes blood. Praxis collapses against his chest, pressing little kisses to his collarbone, and Abel holds him there while they try to catch their breaths, stroking his back.
The guilt weighs heavy on him when he thinks about what he’s just done behind Cain’s back, though he refuses to regret it. He knows he’ll need several showers, will have to scrub himself down thoroughly, before he crawls into bed beside Cain tonight—because Cain knows him too well, knows his scent, and he’ll smell the truth on Abel in a second.
Abel knows as well that if Cain tries to hurt him again he’ll let him, will allow him to do anything he likes, because at least this time Abel’s done something to deserve it.