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There’s mint on Prax’s tongue, sweet and sharp and heady, and Amos lets himself go dizzy with it, dissolves the space between them until there’s nothing but touch, the hot air an invisible blanket and the plants a little more shelter should someone walk by.
Prax always tastes like the earth, but Amos wants to put his lips to his fingers and work out where one ends and the other begins.
He only realizes he’s said it aloud when Prax groans and lifts his hand, the pad of his thumb brushing the corner of Amos’ mouth, and Amos sighs and traces the curve of Prax’s knuckles with his tongue, revels in the catch of Prax’s breath. He tastes like soil and herbs, thyme or sage or something else Amos can’t identify, and Amos wants to drink it all in, keep the memory in his throat to anchor him on cold, space filled nights.
The greenhouse hums around them, the Ganymede sky overhead, and it feels as familiar to Amos as the sounds of a ship settling into place. Prax feels as familiar, responding to Amos’ touch with the speed and efficiency of a well-cared for engine.
He probably shouldn’t say that aloud, knows it’s the sort of thing Cap would sigh over, but to Amos it feels like a good thing. Sex is sex is sex. He’s known the ins and outs of pleasure for as long as he can remember, and some of it’s good, a lot of it’s not, but it’s a maintenance list all the same. Doesn’t mean people respond identically; there’s a lot of trial and error involved, and Amos knows some people don’t like it when you try and guide them, say what’s in your head so there’s no misunderstanding, but he also knows Prax will listen to all of it and change course accordingly.
Amos doesn’t need to say much of anything, though — not here, not now — because Prax understands him in a way precious few people in the universe ever have.
Or maybe Amos just wants him more.
He’s always viewed sex as a necessary thing. Not for everyone, obviously, but for him it’s just another chore to take care of when the feeling bubbles under the surface. If all parties involved have fun then that’s all that matters, and he can tick it off his itinerary until the next stop at port.
This is different.
He wants Prax all the time.
It’s a distraction he’s started wishing for, wasting time in his bunk on the Roci or months away facing down another grand fuck up. There’s something like a future there, in the corner of his eye, and he doesn’t let himself stare at it for too long lest he starts getting ideas.
When he’s here though, when Prax is pressed against him, the slide of his thigh between Amos’ and the damp heat of his mouth breathing perfect marks into the curve of his neck, then Amos lets himself sink into all of it.
Their overalls comes off easily enough, and Amos tugs at Prax’s undershirt like it’s a personal vendetta, Prax laughing a little until it’s on the floor and Amos’ mouth is able to find a new path to trace. Prax tips his head back, lets it knock against the pipes behind them, and his fingers skitter over Amos’ cheeks, his arms, his chest, searching for grip and coming up empty as Amos refuses to let them settle.
They’re not even naked yet, and Amos is as turned on as he’s ever been, desperate for more, more, everything, whispering promises against Prax’s skin without conscious thought and leaving bruises the shape of his fingers against the sharp dip of his hips.
“Yes,” Prax says, and answer to any one of a million questions, tilting Amos chin up gently, and Amos leans into his hand, his pupils blown. “Anything you want. All of it. I’m here. I’m right here.”
Amos presses kisses to his palm, reaches out shakily and strips the last layers from between them. It’s all too much, overwhelming and messy and perfect, and Amos doesn’t think he ever really knew that this is what love could feel like, that all that lust and respect and adoration could shift into worship and leave him praying for more, always, more.
He didn’t know love could focus down to the taste of his favorite person’s skin on his lips, and their fingers in his hair.
Prax tries to stay a gentleman as Amos takes him in his mouth, and they can’t have that, not when Amos is relying on him to anchor them both to the here and now, and so he places his hand over Prax’s on his head, squeezes encouragingly, and yes, there, he’s got it now, Amos knew he would.
He’s learnt a lot of tricks over the years, he knows he has, but right now he’s working on instinct, letting the hitch of Prax’s breath take him where he needs to be, and feeling pleasure course through his own body in tidal waves.
Sex is sex is sex, he thinks, and wonders when the universe taught him so wrong.
He thinks he could do this forever, just make Prax feel good, and he wants to, wants to learn all the things that make him moan and stutter and smile. Wants to learn how he tastes at morning, noon, and night. Wants to know how to bring him down from a long day, and how their bodies fit when they’re just sleeping; to fix the broken shower head in his apartment and learn how to help with homework and mealtime.
Amos has never let himself want much of anything, and now it’s the only thing he can think about.
“Hey,” Prax says, tugging at his hair, pulling him back, and Amos groans in thanks and looks up in time to see the soft, wishful expression in Prax’s eyes.
Anything you want, he hears again, and knows it’s an extended invitation.
He pulls back, feels bad about it for a moment, but right now he needs to be kissing him, needs him to know—
Prax sighs shakily against his lips, and yeah, yeah, yes, he knows, of course he knows, he can read Amos like an open book.
Amos slides his leg between Prax’s thighs, lifts him just a little until, yeah, there, and Prax keeps kissing him, breathing becoming secondary to the unspoken agreement they’re coming to, one that makes Amos feel carefully tied together, not brand new — never — but whole, maybe, and God—
“Love you,” he says, the words little more than a shape on the air blurred by heat, but Prax freezes, just a little, and then melts, his body moulding to Amos’ the way no one’s ever has, ever could, and Amos catches him and holds on, and knows the reply before he hears it, believes it before he hears it.
“Amos,” Prax says. “So much. I love you so much.”
It takes him a moment to realize that there are tears somewhere in there, mixed with the sweat — for both of them — and that’s okay, too, it is, because here and now Amos doesn’t have to be anyone else, doesn’t need to try, he can just hold Prax tighter and rock them closer, and feel his body balance on a precipice for just a little longer, a little—
Prax comes apart, and Amos follows him over the edge, the smell of earth and mint and sex sinking into his memory and taking up residence.
Prax falls apart, and Amos follows, and doesn’t that just sum them up.
Amos is pretty sure he'll never want anything else.