Chapter Text
Caleb has never been the type to do anything in moderation.
“I fucking hate you,” Caleb punctuates his statement with a particularly vicious thrust, turning that infuriating chuckle into a throaty groan.
He works, fucks, and hates like it’s the only thing that matters, twisting and reshaping his soul to fit his life into the neat little boxes he’s created for himself.
That's why he hates Sylus.
The searing heat wrapped around his cock like a vice, the slap of his hips meeting skin, and the heavy breathing filling the room builds the atmosphere to something nearly suffocating—and Caleb’s aversion to it comes out in outright hostility.
Sylus turns his head to the side, no doubt to come up with some witty retort. Before he can, Caleb grips silvery white strands in between burn-scarred fingers, shoving the other man’s face into the pillow and effectively silencing him.
Caleb slows down his hips to lean forward, caging Sylus’s back underneath him, and sinks his teeth into the meat of his shoulder. It blends with the other marks left there, some old enough to have faded to a deep yellow, some as recent as this morning, stark and purple against smooth skin. At this point, Caleb’s mouth has been damn near everywhere on Sylus’s body, just not his lips. Never his lips.
They don’t kiss. That’s not what this is.
This position prevents Caleb from having to look at Sylus’s face when they fuck, a fact that easily makes it his favorite. It’s not the arch of Sylus’s thickly muscled back or the swell just above his hips that traps the beads of their combined sweat. It’s not the way that Sylus pushes back into his every thrust or the way that Caleb’s fingers and teeth leave prints like a painting across a canvas.
It’s not.
Everything that Sylus is and does pisses him off. That’s all. It’s just sex.
“Are you going to fuck me, or do I need to do it myself?”
He hadn’t realized he’d slowed down to a near grind in his musings, that Sylus had escaped his grip and now peers lazily over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised and red eyes glinting with amusement.
Damn it.
“You would, wouldn’t you? Whore.” Caleb wrenches Sylus onto his back, shoving his knees nearly to his head, and sinking his cock slowly back inside—strangling a moan of his own before it can crawl out of his unwilling throat. Sylus tosses his head back in pleasure, but doesn’t flinch, even as Caleb pushes down harder. The display of flexibility only serves to put another sneer on Caleb’s face. “Did you spread your legs to get into the group too? Or just buy your way in?”
Caleb watches, entranced, where their bodies meet—at the way Sylus’s hole stretches and twitches around his length. In, then out. Measured and unhurried.
“Would that bother you? To know if I did?” If the accusation aggravates Sylus, his unflappable expression only shows warm amusement. Caleb snarls, his pace picking up. He changes the angle slightly to hit his prostate and is rewarded with a glimmer of satisfaction as Sylus’s mask of indifference breaks around a moan—if only for a second. The slight but noticeable tremble in his thighs reveals more than his expression, and a sense of smug satisfaction unfurls in Caleb’s guts.
“Or would it bother you more to know that I didn’t? That the only one who gets to see me like this is you.”
Damn him.
“Nah, I’m more annoyed that you won’t shut up.” Caleb’s hand slides from the back of Sylus’s knee, pausing on his throat, to his mouth, tendons flexing as he covers it. A wet press of lips to his palm has him adjusting to shove three fingers into a waiting mouth and push down on a slick tongue.
He has to admit, Sylus looks good like this. Caleb already knows Sylus is attractive, beautiful even. Deep-set brows, aristocratic cheekbones, and a sharp jawline—topped off with plush lips that are perpetually tilted into a smirk. It’s something that drives their fans wild, all of them thinking about what it would be like to have Sylus in their bed.
The idea that Caleb might be the only one to see him like this fills him with a possessive hunger, a yawning ache that gets harder and harder to define as animosity each time they fuck. He wants to tattoo his bite marks into Sylus’s bones and carve his name into his skin. Caleb’s. His to fuck, his to hate, his to own. It’s precisely what Sylus wanted by saying that, and Caleb hates himself for falling for it.
“Th-that’s it. There. Faster,” Sylus demands.
He pistons his hips even faster, lewd slapping sounds filling the room, as he hungrily chases his release. The coil in his stomach starts to burn red hot, threatening to scorch him. Caleb adjusts his angle, sending Sylus’s eyes into the back of his head as his voice cracks around an unholy moan. The sound tips Caleb over the breaking point, his hips shuddering and his breath shaking while white sparks fly across his vision—only vaguely registering Sylus reaching his own completion below him.
He slides out, suppressing an overstimulated whine, and locates their clothing on the floor. He wipes the cooling cum off with Sylus’s shirt, then tosses it over to the other man. For how unaffected Sylus is, he looks undeniably debauched. Hair tousled, white streaked torso, and Caleb’s seed dripping out of his puffy, wet hole.
Caleb tears his eyes away, but not before his spent dick gives a valiant twitch.
“It doesn’t seem like you’re quite satisfied,” Sylus chuckles.
“I know you don’t care, but I have practice to get to.” Caleb slides his t-shirt over his head. “Some of us have to actually work and can’t just buy or sleep our way to fame.”
Tightening the drawstring on his pants, Caleb leaves without a backward glance, the hallway outside empty. It’s a poorly kept secret that they fuck, but the lack of judgmental eyes is a relief. Something about sex with Sylus always leaves Caleb feeling raw and wounded—just as scarred as the rest of him.
His relief is short-lived when Zayne emerges from his dorm room.
“Is he going to at least make it to practice?” Zayne asks.
Caleb shrugs. “Do I care if he does?”
“We do. It would be nice if you cared about the rest of us instead of being selfish and childish. Ever since the accident—”
Caleb throws his childhood friend up against the wall with a thump, his hand gripped into the front of his shirt.
“Do not finish that sentence.” Caleb gives a shrug and a grin like a knife. “Or do. See what happens.”
A flicker of anger crosses Zayne’s features, but verdant eyes dodge to the side. Caleb releases him with a final shove as a warning, but it seems as if Zayne knows better today.
Rafayel and Xavier are already inside, and Zayne follows him in. Their manager shows up, as cheery and excitable as ever—her infallible presence helping to soothe some of Caleb’s misery. She’s a large part of why he became an idol, and he’ll forever be grateful for their friendship.
The minutes tick by as he stretches, long limbs pushed to the brink, but eyes fixated on the wall clock. Sylus is late. If he’s lucky, he won’t show up at all. Unfortunately, even that might not be enough to kick him out of the group.
Sylus slinks in at the last possible minute, looking mostly unrumpled—aside from the purpled skin peeking out from the top of the high collar and the slight limp in his step.
Dance practice is a grueling, exhausting affair, but a much-needed distraction that Caleb throws himself into wholeheartedly. He’s half a step behind on one move, and a second too fast for another. He could blame the ache in his hips or the constant tingle in his arm, but that’s not enough of a reason. Failure tastes like ash in his mouth.
This is what he gets for losing out on months of practice. Even Rafayel is better than him, and although he’s a good singer, the man has two left feet.
“Um… Manager? Can we … take a break?” Xavier pants. Caleb glances at the wall clock and grimaces. The manager quickly agrees, cutting the music and taking notes. Xavier slumps to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, but even Zayne and Rafayel quickly follow him down to the ground.
Only Sylus looks like he can keep going, but his bangs are plastered to his temples with sweat, and his limp is even more pronounced.
“We have our comeback concert as Deepspace in a month. If you’re too tired, you’re free to leave.” Caleb’s concern is a trap. “You’ve got thirty minutes.” He doesn’t stick around to hear Rafayel’s complaining and doesn’t care either way.
He used to. He used to be a kind and thoughtful leader, one who knew how to encourage and guide the others. That was before.
Before burn scars covered his right arm, and before he learned that all somebody needed to replace him was a wad of cash.
The hallway is blissfully devoid of other people, and the shared kitchen fridge is stocked with drinks. He pulls out four, then one more after a short consideration. He can try. Try to be the old Caleb he used to be, at least.
Logically, he knows it's not Sylus’s fault. Not entirely.
Deepspace had been in danger of being disbanded while Caleb spent months recuperating in the hospital. And even after his return, the scars weren’t something the company wanted to promote. Sylus did buy his way in, skipping past all of the training and audition prerequisites. His dancing is subpar at best, his singing even worse.
There’s no way they can have his microphone on during concerts; hooking it up to a rat being electrocuted would be preferable.
Often, long after everyone else has called it quits for the day, it’s just Caleb and Sylus left alone in the practice room, exhausted and with stress to blow. That’s how this whole sordid affair started. A night that should have never happened, much less keep happening.
Sylus never complains. Not about the long hours spent dancing, not about the scathing remarks Caleb throws his way, or about the way he unleashes his rage during sex. It can’t be easy to dance for hours after the way Caleb throws him around in bed, but Sylus hasn’t voiced his displeasure yet.
It’s not right, and Caleb knows that, but stopping is much harder than he thought it would be.
It’s worth a try. Or at the very least, bringing him a drink.
The walk back to the practice room clears his head a little and allows his still-elevated heart rate to slow into something manageable. The door is cracked but not fully open, and he can hear their manager’s voice.
“Look at you, it looks like he mauled you!”
She sounds upset and concerned. Caleb softens his footfalls, then pauses just outside the room.
“It’s fine,” Sylus hisses, then more gently, “You don’t need to worry about me, sweetheart.”
“Why are you letting him do this to you?”
“You know why,” Sylus says.
“I don’t get it. Is all this really worth it to you? I care for him too, but this—this is too much, Sylus. If you don’t fix this, I will. You know the company wouldn’t stand for this if they knew, they could disband Deepspace.” Caleb flinches. “You need to talk to him.”
He’s heard enough.
Caleb pushes the door open, far more forcefully than he needs to, his teeth bared, and his voice falsely cheery.
“Is there something I should know?”
Their manager flinches, then straightens and levels a glare at both of them, while Sylus pulls down his shirt. “You two, sort your shit out. Now.”
Caleb manages to hide his wince as she leaves, slamming the door even harder than he had. A glance around the room shows it's just the two of them. Caleb sets the bottles on the floor, wiping the condensation from his hands onto his pants.
“Anything to say to me, dear Sylus?”
“Not particularly,” Sylus evades the question, peering at his nails as if the question were unimportant. “It doesn’t concern you.”
But two can play this game.
“Okay, okay, so I should go ask her what that was about? Let her know that you refused to say?”
“Do what you like. It won’t matter. But I didn’t know you were so concerned about me. It almost sounds like you care. And here I thought I was simply a walking, fuckable, pile of cash to you,” Sylus’s voice is saccharine, dripping with sarcasm.
“I don’t. But if this affects Deepspace, I’ll—”
“It won’t. So don’t worry your pretty little head about it, dear Caleb.”
It’s all-consuming, Caleb’s rage, and he uses it to push down the slight pang of ache in his chest. Deepspace means everything to him, especially now. How dare Sylus put that at risk? How dare he not tell Caleb what that conversation was about?
The rest of the group chooses that moment to walk in, preventing Caleb from exploding.
It’s childish and petty, but when Caleb hands the drinks out, he keeps two to himself and snickers when Sylus is left empty-handed. Zayne catches on, and his judgmental side eye is lethal, but Caleb has had a lifetime of building his immunity.
For the rest of practice, Caleb ignores Sylus, refusing to interact with him, keeping even his snide remarks and abrasive insults to himself.
He’s nearly positive they were talking about him, but without the context, he can’t puzzle it out. He could, theoretically, chase down their manager and threaten her. Unfortunately, she’s far too used to Caleb’s shit and has a spine of steel and Sylus’s unwavering confidence in her refusal to say anything is concerning.
Raw jealousy spikes through him, tangled and thorny. That’s his best friend, his idol group, his dream—and Sylus is slowly stealing all of it from him. Logically, he knows that Sylus isn’t the problem. It’s him.
His frustration pours off of him as sweat as he dances to the point of exhaustion. He’s too slow, too uncoordinated, too broken, and it’s not enough. He’s not enough. At some point, he dimly registers that the others have left, leaving him alone. Caleb stumbles, tripping over his own ankle, and falls in a panting heap on the floor. An aggravated scream builds behind his lips and spills out—discordant with the thumping baseline of the music blaring from the speakers.
Caleb won’t let tears fall out, but it’s a near thing. There’s something wrong with him. Nothing is the same since the fire. He’s not the same. Maybe … Deepspace would be better off without him.
He pulls his legs back under him with a wince, straightening into a position that stretches the aching muscles, and lets his forehead fall into his hands. The music reaches the end of the track and stops, leaving only Caleb’s labored breathing to fill the room. The door cracks open, but Caleb keeps his eyes shut, palms pushing into them to the point of sunspots bursting behind his eyelids.
Footsteps move closer, thumping softly on the hard floor. Zayne, maybe. They’re too heavy to be the manager, and no one else would care. They grew up together—bonded through friendship with their now manager.
Something cold and wet touches the back of his neck, and Caleb flinches away from the sensation.
“She’ll be pissed if you land yourself back in the hospital. You should at least hydrate.”
“Maybe that’d be for the best.”
There’s a slight shuffling of clothes as Zayne slides down the wall across from Caleb onto the floor with him.
“Best for who? You? Our manager, who worked her ass off to get us here? For the group?” Zayne is soft-spoken, like always. Forever the calm and thoughtful one.
Caleb snorts and pulls his hands away from his face. Zayne slides a bottle of water over to him, and Caleb takes it, rolling it between his palms.
“You know what I think?” Zayne asks, after just enough silence for Caleb to nearly get lost in his head.
“No, and I don’t want to.”
“I think—”
“I said no.”
“—That you’re running away. You’re scared, and you’re lashing out.”
“You know I hate when you psychoanalyze me.”
“What’s really your deal with Sylus?” Zayne asks.
“I’ve told you, I hate him.” Caleb rolls his eyes, finally cracking open the water bottle and sipping on it.
“People don’t usually fuck the person they hate, Caleb.”
The plastic bottle crunches slightly in his hand, louder than it should be in the empty room.
“Doesn’t he piss you off too? Buying his way into the group? Thinking he’s better than all of us? Doesn’t it make you angry? That we could just be replaced any minute by someone with deep enough pockets and a pretty enough face? Why am I the only one who's angry? Why am I the only one who gives a shit?” Caleb’s voice rises with every question, leaving him panting and warm in the face, his knuckles aching from how tightly they’re clenched in a fist.
“Because you’re the only one that thinks that way.”
“Bullshit.”
Zayne’s exasperation starts to peek through his tone. “Have you ever, even once, asked Sylus why he’s here?”
“Why would I? It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Use your fucking brain, Caleb. What could he possibly gain from joining us and kicking you out?”
Caleb opens his mouth, then slowly shuts it. It’s true. It’s not like Sylus needs the fame or the money. And unless Caleb somehow ruined his life before they even met, there’s no real reason for Sylus to conspire against him. Or at least there wasn’t.
“Have you ever, even just once, considered that your animosity is entirely one-sided?” Zayne doesn’t even sound angry, just exhausted. “Nobody blames you except for you. You’re our friend, but you’re not making it easy. For your sake and ours, figure it out.”
With that, Zayne stands, brushes off the back of his pants, and leaves.