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“Who needs Plato these days,” Paul says, more out of slightly drunken mischief than sincerity, and he likes the effect.
“You're way behind the times,” Carlos snorts, his extremely lively facial expressions interesting to watch. “Plato was mainstream many times in the history of mankind, but, believe me, he is always relevant. Especially relevant now.”
“If it is still studied in universities, then it is something at the level of basic arithmetic and the alphabet.”
Paul watches as Carlos pours himself this stuff, which isn't worth the money, in his humble opinion, but is nevertheless considered something elitist, with a protected geographical name. Calling alcohol toponyms in a language not too phonetically close to any of the Indo-European ones is pretty reckless for a producer if they want to enter the interstellar market, but Paul respects the healthy nationalism in alcohol production. In any case, to explain to the robot at the checkout what they wanted, Paul had to point his finger, because he didn't know how to read even the name of that star system correctly. Carlos watched his torment and arguments with the robot for a long time and finally asked for it himself. Liquor stores in this blackhole are not nearly as comfortable as delivery in more settled and civilized systems, but there is some romance in it.
So Carlos pours out this relatively unnamed stuff that tastes like a mix of tequila and beer, or rather, what is now called tequila and beer, and Paul winces. He didn't like this stuff in the first place, and he won't take another sip. He will just watch Carlos get drunk, he likes to see Carlos drunk and, as a result, less arrogant.
“Just because it's natural for your culture, it doesn't mean it's natural for everyone, and by the way, Arabic numerals and the English alphabet aren't natural for everyone either.”
“Do you really like Plato that much?”
“How can I explain…”
Paul is a little annoyed by this condescending tone, but he loves listening to Carlos's voice too much.
“Explain it somehow,” he grins.
Carlos finally looks at him. Paul sees his reflection in those black eyes and finds himself wishing those eyes were looking at him during sex. Sex is a pleasure for the poor, the real intellectuals groan from mental anguish, and Paul does not think he’s poor or an intellectual, so he alternates periodically. He hasn't really considered having sex with Carlos before seriously, and he doesn't consider fantasizing while masturbating as something serious.
“You see…” Carlos seems to read the mood, and his voice sounds different, without the old haughtiness, languid, soft. He takes another sip and sets the glass down on the table, sitting up on Paul’s lap. “I'm naturally curious…”
“I'm not really interested,” Paul admits, exhaling hotly against his lips. He knows Carlos can feel his boner.
They kiss like they've done so many times before, and it doesn't seem even remotely exotic to him, even though there's a lot mixed in Carlos. The mother is a Martian, the father is from somewhere in the Trappist-1 system, and Paul sees no reason to be surprised, because he hardly considers himself an Earthman, he has not lived on the Earth so much. He doesn't have many variants what he could see when Carlos will take off his shorts, and it's unlikely that any of them will surprise him.
“I thought you mentioned you had a vasectomy,” Carlos grins, burying his fingers in Paul’s hair and letting him caress his neck. Carlos' skin is thin and pale, he smells tart and smoky, and Paul remembers that they've smoked on the porch long enough to look out at the woods in the rain. It takes him a moment to figure out what the comment is about, but when it does hit him, he's momentarily distracted by some strange uneasy feeling, some ghost of nonexistent responsibility, some bittersweet daydream that he quickly pushes away, because it seems like the wrong time.
***
Paul likes to think of himself as an antique collector, even though he's not very careful with his collection. In his head, a whimsical combination of awe of things with history and a desire to use them for their intended purpose. And of course, he doesn't care that taking collectibles with him on trips is a dubious idea, just like trying to upgrade them for this purpose.
“Play something for me?” Carlos takes a bite of the persimmon, and Paul absently wonders if it's sweet or astringent. Persimmon is well established here. This planet is generally terraformed quite decently, although it is not a very popular resort, so rather for ecotourism, and then from the original here almost nothing is left. An artificially created island of naturalness, as it is imagined by planners. However, this place really inspires Paul. They still have two weeks left, local time, and there's not much of a rush, and Paul is glad that of all the people he might know, it was Carlos.
“What do you want me to play?” Paul finds himself staring at Carlos as he chews.
Carlos shrugs. “Something you already have for the soundtrack, for example. I don't expect you to perform anything ethereal on this instrument.”
Paul has to admit that the vintage Les Paul at his disposal won't give even a fraction of the allure of the turn of XXIst century sound after a self-made upgrade, but connects the guitar to a smart speaker.
Carlos finishes his persimmon while Paul remembers a monotonous riff from a dream a couple of nights ago. When a video game is tied to an era, it is difficult to write something for it that does not repeat what already exists. Paul looks up from the fingerboard to watch Carlos toss a persimmon tail into the aquarium, where the eel-like creatures, whose names none of them can remember, immediately devour organic matter, just like any other that gets there. There was no ostentation in the gesture, just natural grace, and Paul recalls the concept art for the game, where the character for whom Carlos became the model and voice, stands with an apple in his hand just as Carlos stood with a persimmon, only, of course, not in a bathrobe. But to this day, this gothic, dominant, and ridiculous image from the game looks generated by an AI, although neural networks were cut down on generative functions even before he was born.
“Who even thought of making a video game about musicians?” Carlos is watching the aquarium, but he's clearly listening.
“Me,” Paul grins, not breaking the rhythm. “Did you forget?”
“I'm making fun,” Carlos says coldly. “At least you didn't design the characters, that's good.”
***
Carlos' skin is soft, without a single scar, with a few moles scattered around, but it doesn't look natural. After replacing the lens, Paul can see much more than a couple of months ago, he insatiably observes every detail. He notices a subtle difference in color at the junction of Carlos' real skin and the scraps of synthesized skin. This is noticeable on the forearms, on the phalanges of the fingers, on the hips, on the knees. The knees in all this are somehow mistaken by their innocence, it's natural, and Carlos’ desire to hide this naturalness from others, to erase this seal on the idea of a mischievous childhood as well as something terrible and cruel, suggests to Paul that Carlos's childhood was hardly mischievous.
When Paul thinks about it, he wishes the world around him was as blurry as it used to be. The newfound clarity of vision sometimes plunges him into a sense of unreality, simulation. He flees that feeling, ironically, into creating simulations.
He kisses Carlos' neck and belatedly realizes the difference between a kiss and a lovebite. Carlos lets out a ragged breath, his wet pussy clenching on Paul's fingers.
It's raining outside, raindrops slapping the thinning foliage in a range of colors from lemon yellow to wine red. Paul likes the name of these trees. Liquidambar…
Paul doesn't know why he thinks about trees when he fucks Carlos with his fingers. Not to say that the sound of rain distracts him…
He gently rubs Carlos’ clit with his thumb, and Carlos arches up with a soft moan.
“What if I lied about the vasectomy?” he loves to get Carlos emotional, and he even finds it terribly interesting to watch Carlos' face, his gestures, his intonation... He knows that Carlos can easily detect a bluff, but he hopes to at least irritate him.
“I don't give a fuck,” Carlos whispers with a grin. “I’m infertile. It's a miracle I was born at all. Is that what you want to talk about now?”
“I don't know,” Paul leaves another hickey and pulls his hand away. Carlos sighs in frustration, and Paul pulls back to undress. Carlos sits up, letting the open robe slide off his broad shoulders and tossing it lazily to the floor.
“You know what you do best, Paul? Harsh the buzz.”
“I'm sorry.”
“You're not sorry, and I know it. You can't get enough of playing naturalist, that's all.”
“C'mere,” after getting rid of his trousers and underwear, Paul leans over him and kisses his thin lips so hungrily that he feels awkward. Carlos’ response is reserved, distant, but the way he spreads his thighs makes it clear that all he's interested in right now is Paul's cock.
***
“Dan suggested removing the possibility of romancing the main character with the rest of the band members.”
Paul takes the sandwiches out of the pack and hands one to Carlos. Carlos takes his breakfast with a sigh.
“He's just jealous.”
“Or he doesn't want his character to be romanced.”
“He knew what he was signing up for.”
Paul looks at him pointedly, and he raises his eyebrows questioningly as he takes a bite of his sandwich.
“Just let him not write romantic branches with the participation of his character, what is the problem, he'll have less work,” adds Carlos, “let him make his character asexual, for example. I only drew the locations anyway, I don't care who will fuck in them.”
“You can explain it to him yourself.”
“In any case, it is stupid to remove this feature if they will mainly play for it, and not for the sake of leveling up skills in historical songwriting.”
“Let's be honest,” Paul finally takes a bite of his sandwich, which isn't something he could buy at even the cheapest coffee shop. The bread is too loose, the sauce is too much, the filling is only in the center. He chews dejectedly and polishes it off with machine espresso. “You're willing to fight for this feature just to get our characters fucked.”
“Maybe,” Carlos frowns, he doesn't like the sandwich either. “Or maybe I just care about sales.”
They drink their coffee in silence, finishing their sandwiches without much enthusiasm. The star finally comes out from behind heavy clouds, and Carlos' black hair sparkles slightly in the light with countless dispersions. Paul wants to bury his fingers in them, bury his nose in them too.
“Would you like to take a walk?” he suggests casually, as if he doesn't want to remember Carlos in this fall, to take a picture of him in the leaves. As if he doesn't know that they won't meet again after finishing the project.
***
This couch is probably soaked in some pheromones.
Everything that happens between them in terms of sex happens on this couch.
Paul moves slowly, steadily, and smoothly. He knows Carlos wants it faster.
Paul has no idea how Carlos likes it to be. He's not entirely sure if Carlos likes sex at all. Their perception of sex is clearly different, but Paul is not in a hurry to think that it's just a matter of cultural background. He suggests that Carlos does not have a clear idea of his own pleasure, it is replaced by self-gaslighting and self-objectification. At least, that's what Paul thinks. Paul doesn't want to think about who fucked Carlos before him and how it was, he doesn't want to be the first and only one, but the falseness in Carlos's looseness, barely discernible but still unchanging, doesn't so much repel him as frighten him. A lot of things are really scary for him to imagine, and it's totally not what he should be thinking about right now.
Carlos fucks back impatiently. His eyes are closed, and there's a half-smile on his lips... Paul kisses him wet and smudged, picking up the pace a little.
Carlos moans contentedly into the kiss.
Paul doesn't care so much about his own pleasure. He wants to see Carlos’ pleasure. Real, sincere, not an imitation. He can't know for sure if Carlos is sincere at the moment, he would like to believe that he is, but he has to admit that it's unlikely that Carlos himself knows if he is sincere.
“Faster,” Carlos breathes, digging his nails into Paul’s back. Paul winces at the sharp, stinging pain and grins: Carlos wants him to be rough.
Carlos still doesn't open his eyes, and his long dark lashes look almost like a doll's. Paul tries not to feel like he's fucking a sex bot.
He likes to see the recoil - not emotional, but physical recoil is attractive.
Carlos groans, arching under him, his rapid and noisy breathing driving Paul crazy and for a moment it feels like more than just the body's natural response to stimulation.
Paul doesn't know if anyone else has thought the same thing, and he probably doesn't want to know.
A suffocating warmth spreads through his body, the tension in his muscles almost ringing, and Paul melts, feeling Carlos shaking.
“I want to come inside,” Paul says, trying to be polite. There's still something gentlemanly about him, he likes to think.
“Okay,” Carlos says absently, opening his eyes and looking up at the ceiling. His parted lips are red and Paul wants to kiss them until they start to sting.
Paul moans as Carlos' pussy squeezes his cock inside. Carlos looks him in the eye, and he doesn't stand a chance of holding out any longer.
***
Sam frowns, and Paul assumes Carlos is standing in the doorway. He turns around and Carlos is indeed there, a bottle of wine in one hand and glasses in the other.
“While I'm putting all this mismatched shit together, you guys are living your best life,” Sam grumbles. “If I were you, Paul, I would strangle this motherfucker.”
“Hello to you, Sam,” Carlos steps closer and sets the bottle and glasses on the coffee table. “Envy silently. An artist can hurt anyone.”
“Well, all in all, I'll need another week or so if nothing goes wrong. Back in the old days, games were made for years, by fucking huge teams, and now there are four fuckers with a bunch of fancy programs…” Sam flinches at something that only he can hear and looks aside, answering to somebody. “Yes, I'm here, I’m coming. All right, guys, I’m begging your pardon,” he looks back at Paul, “I need to look after my child here.”
“Okay, see you,” Paul waves his hand at the screen and puts the tablet down as soon as the call ends.
“This asshole has ruined my mood,” Carlos says, having already poured the wine and sitting down next to him.
Paul puts a hand on his thigh. He doesn't want to answer, and he doesn't know what to answer.
It's getting dark, and the fog is coming down.
Paul can't get this stupid song constructor out of his head, which he's been tinkering with for two days now. Sam's going to have to redo it all, definitely.
“I’m so fucking tired,” He sips his wine and takes a long time to figure out what's wrong with it.
“Too sweet,” Carlos says.
“Rather too synthetic.”
“Martian wine is incomparably better.”
“Haven’t ever tried,” Paul takes another sip. Wine without appetizers is not very interesting, but they have only sandwiches, fruits and pickles. There's something charming about this lazy, adolescent lack of organization.
“My mom used to make domestic wine,” Carlos adds flatly.
“She doesn’t make it anymore?”
“Now she lives where there are no grapes. And there's nobody to drink.”
Paul doesn't ask questions.
They drink their wine in silence, and Paul promises himself that next time he'll get a regular vodka at the liquor store.
***
Paul tries to focus on the gentle way Carlos rubs his nose against his cock and to push any thoughts away.
He suspects that to Carlos sex is just an addiction, as self-destructive as smoking.
But he can't stop Carlos. Whether out of his own egocentrism, or from the habit of taking if offered, or from a painful desire to be as close as possible.
Paul stares at Carlos, his eyes lingering on his lowered lashes, and wonders if his bangs are bothering him. He strokes Carlos's cheek with his knuckles, and Carlos smiles before taking the head in his mouth.
Paul loves the wet warmth of someone else's mouth, and for a moment he didn't care whose mouth it was. When he first fantasized about Carlos, blowjob was the only thing he could imagine. To be honest, he still feels bad about himself, even more so now, despite Carlos suggesting this. But the greater the shame, the greater the pleasure, paradoxically.
He strokes the back of Carlos's head thoughtfully, not pushing, not rushing, and tries to lose himself in the pleasure, but something stops him. He watches Carlos take his cock all the way, he notices the slightest physical sensation, but this awareness only seems to get in the way. He'd like to be drunk.
He feels good, but it would be even better if it wasn't for the thought that it might be humiliating for Carlos, even if Carlos doesn't fully understand it.
Paul has no illusions. He is no better than those who were before him. Perhaps someone was much better than him. More gentle and caring. More capable and experienced. More empathic.
Carlos sucks wet, diligently, as if he really likes it.
Paul wants to kiss him so badly. Wants to pull him away from the cock and kiss him endlessly, so that nothing remains in head but the wet sounds of lips and tongues touching and hot breathing, so that it will haunt for a long time, be remembered at the wrong moments.
He doesn't want to come in Carlos' mouth, but he doesn't have time to pull him away.
***
Paul wakes up in the middle of the night and stares at the starry sky above the forest for a couple of minutes, trying to catch his breath.
Carlos is curled up asleep, and it takes Paul a moment to notice that he's shaking.
He lies back down, hugging Carlos from behind under the covers and nuzzling the back of his head.
It doesn’t really matter to him that he's too obsessed with this game, too immersed in it, takes the lore too personally, as if he could live in that time and be necessary and interesting. It doesn't really matter to him that in some branches, Carlos' character leaves the band, although he thinks too often about storylines where their characters are in love or hate each other, or all at once. It doesn't really matter to him that the dream that the real Carlos is disappearing without a trace scared him.
He hugs Carlos tighter, kissing the back of his head. He has an idea of why Carlos is interested in Plato and what exactly from Plato is interesting to him. This is just a guess.
Carlos stops shaking.
Paul doesn't know if it will be nice for Carlos to wake up in his arms. He doesn't know if he'll still be hugging Carlos in the morning or if he'll roll over in his sleep.
Carlos’s feet are cold. Paul tries to warm them with his own.
“Leave me alone,” Carlos mutters.
Paul flinches and pulls away.
“Leave me alone,” Carlos repeats. “You're dead... I don't miss you…”
Paul sighs and snuggles up to his back again, gently kissing the back of his head again. He has to pull away when Carlos tries to lie down on the other side.
***
Burying his face in Carlos' wet pussy, Paul finds himself thinking that this is indeed the breakfast of champions.
They still have time to pack up, check out and catch their maglev, they have time to drink a normal coffee at the spaceport before departure. The time should be dawn, but the rain drowns everything in dusk.
Paul did not waste this time in vain, by no means, the beta version of the game as a whole is ready, except, perhaps, for voice acting, but they will do this already in the studio. Also, Paul remembered something about himself that he thought was hopelessly lost.
Carlos groans low, burying his fingers in Paul’s hair. Paul eats him even harder, almost with abandon, inhaling the spicy, salty and tart smell, hypnotically natural, deliciously animal, maddening... Sex smells musky, it's normal, it's familiar, but Paul didn't pay much attention to it before. Carlos doesn't smell like Earth people or anyone else Paul has ever had, conceptually similar, but not like that. Perhaps this is the reason.
He pays special attention to the clit, which Carlos obviously appreciates.
“Fuck, Paul... More…”
Paul is happy to get smeared, happy to feel this light and soft taste. He's greedy, he's gentle, he's burning up at the thought that he doesn't even need to be touched, just knowing that Carlos has come is enough for him.
“I want your fingers,” Carlos is breathing heavily, his face flushed, his thighs shaking. Paul gently inserts two fingers, and Carlos grins, “How modest. Modesty is a great virtue. I want four…”
Paul exhales hotly into his pussy and adds more.
He loses all sense of time, and when Carlos squeezes his fingers with a lecherous moan, he belatedly realizes that he came without touching himself.
“Sorry, I need… I'll be right back,” he leaves Carlos lying on the couch, recovering, and goes to the bathroom to wash and dry his underwear and trousers. He doesn't remember the look on Carlos' face, but at some point, he gets frustrated with himself. The clothes might have waited.
***
They sit on the couch, watching the rain, and Paul gathers his thoughts.
“I love you,” he finally breathes, his eyes still on the forest.
“Suddenly,” Carlos's voice sounds incomprehensible, Paul hears... embarrassment?
“Just as it is.”
“It all started with drunk kissing, and here we are. Are all Earthlings like this?”
“It started the way it started, there’s nothing we can change, no matter how much we wish,” Paul isn't ready to say outright that he needs to understand whether it's mutual or not. He hopes Carlos will understand.
Carlos stands up. Paul doesn't have time to guess what's going to happen next, because Carlos is sitting on his lap. They have to look at each other.
Paul can see Carlos' features even against the light, but he can't figure out what they express.
“In my culture, it's not customary to declare your love. We don't have that concept,” Carlos says, stroking Paul's cheek. Paul understands with some sadness that it’s about the Trappist-1 culture. He's not sure if he feels rejected, but Carlos doesn't let him think about it. “But as I already said, I'm naturally curious. “Symposium” made something clear to me.
“Does that mean yes?”
“Depends on what the question was. You still haven't asked.”
“You love me,” Paul says, more like a statement than a question.
“I suppose so,” Carlos kisses him.
Paul has never wanted to be so hopelessly late.
He doesn't know what's next. He doesn't really care. He is more concerned with the current moment, which is similar to the ending in a video game.