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Someone had tried to explain about the birds and the bees to Pyro, once. There had been a twee little book about a girl and a boy who held hands a lot. Babies were involved, somehow. Pyro was fuzzy on the details; it had been a long time ago, and picking the surviving pieces out of the burnt mess of ashes it had become had made for a confusing narrative.
Still, whenever Spy wanted to play that game, Pyro would try to remember how it was supposed to go.
Spy was making noises under Pyro, the sort of noises he only made when he was burning, and oh, Pyro hated the other Pyro, but how could someone blame him for that, for making Spy cry out and scream through his teeth?
Pyro held Spy's hand gently, like the book had said, and twisted it hard up behind Spy's back, like Spy liked. Spy bucked up into him, swearing in languages Pyro didn't understand. It had made Pyro feel stupid at first, whenever Spy had spat curses from countries Pyro did not know and would never visit, but then those curses would turn to pleas, calls for help, calls to god, and it made Pyro feel good all the way down to his boots that all those people in all those countries weren't there in that room, weren't there to stop the tank-buckle bruises from blooming across Spy's back in the morning.
Spy's back pressed hard up against Pyro's belly and he made one of those whining little noises that reminded Pyro of fireworks whipping up through the air, the sort of thing that Pyro just wanted more of, like the warmth of Spy's body leeching through his suit, or the way Spy would sometimes look at him after they had finished, just sitting there and smoking and looking at him. Pyro dragged a glove down Spy's stomach, past his belt, felt Spy shudder under him. There had never been anything like this in that little book, nothing that explained why Pyro felt concussion-blasted, off-balance, like there was a ringing in the ears down through his whole body. Maybe it had been in the burnt pages. Maybe one day he would burn Spy too, in case that helped.
Spy always came undone in Pyro's room, shirt rucked up and his pants open under Pyro, gloves all bunched up from digging his fingers into the mattress, tie messy and creased on the sheets like a thrown-down leash. For a sudden, angry moment Pyro both loved and hated how his own suit was harder to take off. One day he'd get Spy to do that to him, he thought, make Spy stay together and open Pyro's suit, let himself fray against Spy's hands. For now he pressed Spy down into the kerosene-smell of his mattress with one hand up behind Spy's back, and touched Spy all down his front until Spy was wordless and panting, making muffled Pyro noises of his own into the sheets.
Spy always clung hard when he came, digging his fingers into the mattress or the doorframe or the slick rubber of Pyro's suit, as if those things were lifelines or anchor points, anything to stop him from going down completely. When his panting breaths grew shorter and sharper, Pyro let Spy's shaking hand go from behind his back to grab and twist at the sheets. Spy breathed a little easier, and Pyro knew enough about Spy to know that easier wasn't always better. He picked up Spy's tie.
Spy jolted, jerked, looked up at Pyro as best he could, face half-hid behind his shoulder, like he'd be able to see anything through Pyro's mask. Pyro waited until Spy either found whatever he was looking for or just decided not to care, and turned his face back to the bed, then Pyro wrapped the tie gently around his hand, trying to not smudge it too badly, and pulled.
If Pyro had ever felt jealous of whoever Spy called out to in his other languages, it disappeared as Spy twisted underneath him, choking sweetly. There was no calls to god this time, nothing but an oh, oh, oh as Pyro held the gathered bunch of Spy's tie to the grate of his mask and pulled tighter. Spy bucked into Pyro's other hand without dignity, without breath, without anything except what Pyro was giving, and Pyro grew dizzy with it all, caught up in the inexplicable furnace of making Spy burn for breath. Pyro watched the scars across Spy's ribs stretch as he fought for breath, watched the muscles bunch and flex, and as his own breath came in choppy starts, he distantly thought that those burnt pages must have contained something so much more than holding hands.
Spy came with his bloodshot eyes open, looking dizzily back up at Pyro's mask. Pyro wondered it he was looking at Pyro or the twin reflections of himself, and could not bring himself to mind either way.
When no more interesting noises seemed to be forthcoming, Pyro unwrapped the tie from around his knuckles, smoothed it out, and handed it back to Spy, who took it with a rather wobbly hand. Spy wriggled into a slightly more dignified position, taking up his usual post-coital refuge of sarcastic silence and cigarettes. Pyro thought that it might have been more effective without the blotchiness of Spy's face and the wetness of his eyelashes, but decided not to mention it.
Pyro sat there while Spy dressed to leave, watching the moues of displeasure at the state of his suit. He always did that. Early on, Pyro had once taken care to hang Spy's jacket on the back of his door; Spy had given him such a look that he never dared do it again.
Pyro had had a cat, once. Spy getting his clothing in order reminded him of it, going over itself from top to bottom twice over, checking his cufflinks and collars. When Spy arranged his balaclava carefully over the hot red line around his neck, Pyro's toes curled inside his boots.
Once all visible proof of their arrangement was gone, Spy paused at the doorway. He did it for so long that Pyro thought he must have been listening for anyone outside the door, but then Spy spun on his heel and strode back over to Pyro.
Maybe the tie had been wrong, Pyro thought, and wondered how he'd feel if Spy never came to his door again, with that little code knock that he'd been so clearly proud to think up that Pyro never had the heart to tell him that he always knew it was Spy because no-one else ever knocked at Pyro's door.
Spy looked down at Pyro for a moment, then leant down. The first thing he did was to reach out with one gloved hand and pinch Pyro's oxygen line shut. The second was to inhale deeply from his cigarette. The third was to lean forward and press his mouth lightly to Pyro's respirator, and exhale smoke through the mask. That completed, Spy turned with a brief wave and a smudge of ash at the corner of his mouth, and left.
Pyro sat there for a while, enjoying the smell of smoke. Although time with Spy always made Pyro feel like he was out on the battlefield, full of fire and excitement and more than a little uncertainty, Pyro knew what that last gesture had meant. It was official, straight from the book and everything. A kiss!
Pyro smiled. He'd never been married before.