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Everything moved so fast the day it happened. Cain had been expecting that, had been expecting the surreal quality to everything from the moment he woke up. They'd been shipped out into space early to fight, and it was always a bit like walking around in a dream when his mind was set so far away; set on strategies and plans and that always-lurking knowledge, the thought that he told himself to never think about, that never quite disappeared.
But Cain had made it back. Abel had made it back. Even that little fucker Phobos had made it back.
Deimos hadn't.
And it happened so fucking fast, which Cain knew he should have been happy about, all things considered, since a slow death was only something he wished on Deimos during his more cruel moments. But he wasn't happy, couldn't even find it in himself to feel grateful for that small mercy.
Cain hadn't been expecting it. Despite that lingering thought, that knowledge that he never thought about, always thought about, he hadn't expected Deimos to die. But he had, and that was it.
The funeral—if you could call it that—was quick, simple. Abel didn't go; still recovering in medical and knocked out on drugs. Cain stood stiffly beside Deimos' sniveling navigator, who had somehow managed to make it out of the Ares and the fighting unscathed. He was crying, but Cain could see that his eyes were focused across the room; focused on the sleek white coffin that carried his navigator boyfriend.
Then Deimos was put away, pushed back and hidden inside the wall, the panel closing after him and storing him until he could be shipped home. Cain turned to leave. The navigator stayed, brushed past Cain to the next panel where Porthos had just been entombed. Cain watched him do it, wanted to fucking punch him for the tears that he was wasting on that blond dick when Deimos had been his fighter; the one he should have been crying over.
But Cain had just left instead because he didn't have the energy to do anything else.
#
When Abel got out of medical a few days later, he found the energy to welcome him back. Abel didn't want it when Cain fucked him, that much was obvious, but he didn't put up a big enough fight to make Cain stop, and in the end he just lay there and take it, turning his head toward the floor, his gaze faraway and unfocused. He didn't do anything when Cain gave it to him too rough, didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't do anything when Cain leaned down and bit his neck until he bled. He was unmovable, unshakable, and it wasn't until Cain thought vaguely, disgustedly, that it was like fucking a corpse that he came.
Abel was soft, had only been hard for a brief moment when Cain had first jumped him. He just waited for Cain to pull out, then suddenly he was up. Blood trickled down his chest from the bite to his neck, and there was more blood between his legs when he limped away. Cain watched him go, couldn't even pretend to care; too much other stuff inside him for Abel and his feelings and hurt and problems to ever take up any room.
The bathroom door had barely closed before the lock clicked. The shower turned on, and Cain didn't quite know what he was doing when he got up off the bed and grabbed at the upper bunk. It was metal and didn't want to be pulled away from the wall no matter how hard Cain tried to pry it off, so fucking fed up with everything in their cramped little room he couldn't stand it.
Even though the metal creaked and groaned, it stayed attached. Cain punched it instead, drove his fist upward and made it bounce around, made his knuckles crack and pop and ache. It was only the start though, too much, too fucking much, everything like a whirlwind inside him; the quick, zippy little tornadoes that spun around on Mars, multiplied by a thousand, a million, buzzing around inside of him until it burst free.
He destroyed the room. There wasn't any other way to describe it; everything Cain could break, he did, everything he could ruin, he did. He made a mess, made so much noise that someone came by to bang on the door, but he didn't answer, didn't give a fuck, too busy tearing down everything he could get his hands on, some part of him listening for the shower to turn off. It never did.
Abel was in there so long, too long, and Cain knew that he the water must have run cold at this point, so either Abel was still in there toughing it out, or he was out, doing something else. Or he was out, and not doing anything at all…
He couldn't be in the room anymore, not with how he'd ruined everything. He was on his way out the door, about to go somewhere, do something—fuck knew what—but then he paused. He grabbed the overturned dresser and pushed it upright, dragging it in front of the bathroom door. Their room was lacking in other heavy furniture, but Cain thought that would do. If Abel was still alive in there, he wasn't going anywhere.
Cain left, broke into the training facilities and worked out all night, worked out until he puked up everything in his stomach and then some, until he couldn't move anymore; could only lay on the ground and listen to the ship's engines hum. He didn't sleep, didn't pass out. He didn't think, he didn't talk. He just was.
#
A few days later and Cain still couldn't look Abel in the eye. Abel, who was pale and hollow and closed-off, only broke the silence between to mention Deimos' things. "His family would want them," he said. "He—he does have family, right?"
And Cain didn't ask how Abel knew to ask him; couldn't even remember if he'd told Abel about his history with Deimos. He might have done, probably had done, and Cain briefly wondered when he'd started telling Abel anything at all, when it had started to be more than a partnership between them and words and feelings and all this other shit got in the way.
Then Abel's words hit home, and Cain swallowed, nodded. He watched Abel pick up his tablet and then type something out. A moment later, he glanced in Cain's direction.
"Phobos will have his things ready for you in a few days."
Cain nodded again, but Abel had already turned his head away to peer fathomlessly out the window into the depths of space, motionless after he curled around his knees, and silence fell between them once more.
#
He went and saw Phobos a few days later, only stopped by their room long enough after training to take a shower. Abel wasn't there when Cain entered the bathroom, and he still wasn't there when Cain exited. Cain wished he didn't care about where Abel was, Abel's feelings starting to become important to him again, starting to worm their way back in where something else had been before, where something else was starting to fade.
Phobos took a while opening the door when Cain got there, and when it did open he was fucking disgusting; thin and greasy and tear-streaked. Cain edged into the room around him, tried not to notice the stuffy, sour smell that hung around even with the vents on.
"It's all over there," Phobos said, gesturing to a small box by the bed. On top were clothes; neatly folded and totally fucking worthless, but Cain supposed Phobos probably didn't want them in the room anymore.
He glanced up when Phobos sank down onto the bed. He had made a little nest out of blankets and pillows, and he sighed when he nestled back into it, clenching his fingers around a piece of gray fabric that wasn't part of the bed.
"Is that…" Cain started to ask, didn't know why he'd think that Phobos was trying to keep some clothes of Deimos'. Phobos glanced up, then shook his head once he saw what Cain was talking about.
"N—no," he said, hands relaxing against the fabric, spreading it over his knees and smoothing out the wrinkles he'd made.
And no, it wasn't Deimos'; too big to be his, too big to be Phobos'. Cain stepped closer. Phobos, who had gone back to looking at the shirt in his hands, didn't notice. Cain sat down on the edge of the bed; didn't know what he was still doing here or why, but for a while they just sat together in silence, nothing but the vents and Phobos' occasional sniffle between them.
"He's not coming back for it, you know" Cain said, eyeing the way Phobos kept obsessively clenching and then smoothing the shirt in his hands, trying to rid it of all wrinkles. "Wouldn't matter if you pissed on it at this point."
Phobos blanched; pale skin somehow getting even paler. It seemed that when he looked up at Cain, he was trying for some of his usual venom, but it fell far flat; nothing nasty or sharp in his look except the visible undercurrent of pain, of something broken. "Fuck off," he muttered.
"He was a dick, anyway," Cain said. "Dunno why you're so upset."
Phobos' hands clenched again. He didn't look up at Cain. Cain just watched him, waited for something to happen. Something dropped from Phobos' face to the shirt; the gray fabric darkening in little drops. Phobos' breathing hitched, his shoulders shook.
Cain had made him cry. Cain didn't care.
"It's true," he said, just watching Phobos fall apart. He'd never liked him anyway, and this felt good, cathartic; just like breaking his room, like breaking Abel, Cain was trying to break him too.
"I—" Phobos gasped, and he was curling forward now, clutching the shirt in both hands, steady trickle of tears onto the fabric. "I—" Cain had a feeling he knew where this was going, and he was both waiting for it and dreading it, morbidly curious to see if Phobos was going to actually come out and admit it.
He gasped, shuddered, and he was just so fucking pathetic all hunched over and shaking that Cain didn't immediately scoff when he finally managed, "I loved him," in a choked voice.
"Well, now you don't have to think about it anymore," Cain said.
Phobos looked up; face wet and eyes puffy, tears clinging to the long blond eyelashes. "Like it's that easy," he said, sniffling when he sat up straighter, and his venom was suddenly back in spades, and when he looked at Cain, the look was filled with hate. "Like you're not thinking the same about him."
He continued before Cain could say anything else, sitting up, hands still clamped down on Porthos' shirt. "I saw your face when they put him away," he said. "You try so fucking hard to hide it—but you're just a baby, you're a fucking coward, you wouldn't know anything about love if it kicked you in the balls."
They stared each other down, and it was odd for Cain to feel something other than the numbness he'd felt over the past few days. Even his flurry to destroy his room didn't quite feel like rage to him; it was insanity, not anger.
"So?" Cain said. "Look at you. If that's love then you can fucking have it, pansy."
Phobos lunged at him. He hit Cain head-on and bowled him over, pushing him back to the bed. He obviously didn't know what to do once that had been accomplished though, was slapping and shoving and throwing weak little punches at Cain's face, and if Cain hadn't been so fucking done with everything at that point, he might have laughed.
Instead, he pushed Phobos back to the bed, rolled them over so Cain was leaning over him. It was painfully easy, Phobos following without a sound. He wasn't crying anymore, which was a relief because Cain still hated him and liked to see him suffer, but it was better this way; Phobos less sniffling and annoying.
"So?" Phobos asked, tilting his chin up and looking down his nose at Cain. "What now?" And he couldn't look any less pretty if he tried—snotty and blotchy and dirty, but Cain didn't give a shit about pretty at this point, and they both knew that.
"Turn over."
Phobos just looked at him for a long moment, and Cain almost started to wonder if he'd misread this, if Phobos was going to back out. Cain started to wonder what he'd do if Phobos did say no. He couldn't forget Abel and what had happened between them if he tried—and fuck, he tried, adding it to the ever-growing list of things he was never-always thinking about—but in the end, it didn't matter.
Phobos turned over, lifted his hips for Cain to bare his ass, and Cain just had to wait for himself to get hard for a while, gripping his cock and stroking himself while Phobos just waited, face-down in the mattress. He gave Phobos the little preparation he deserved, then pushed into him in one hard thrust, so tight and gripping it was almost uncomfortable, Phobos all clenched down around him.
He pulled out as soon as Phobos relaxed, pushed in quick because he was already on the verge of getting soft again and that wasn't good at all—that wasn't what Cain wanted at all. He gripped Phobos hips and fucked him steady and hard, nothing but the slapping of their skin and Phobos' little breaths.
Cain didn't know how long they'd gone at it—couldn't focus on anything except how fucking bored he was, how wrong and awkward and stupid he felt, when suddenly there was another sound. Phobos had gotten his hands on the shirt again and brought it up to his face, fucking crying into it while Cain fucked him.
Cain forced himself to keep going, to pick up the pace before he could go fully soft. He managed to come, barely, and there wasn't anything good or nice about it—hardly even felt good with Phobos' shoulders still shaking, crying into Porthos' fucking shirt.
He dropped back to the bed when Cain pulled out, scurried under the covers and kept sobbing, rocking back and forth on his side, and Cain was certain that he was breathing in Porthos' scent when he managed to breathe; had Cain fuck him and smell Porthos as if he was fucking who he wanted one last time. Cain wanted to punch him, Cain wanted to fucking kill him, Cain wanted to curl up in a dark corner of the ship and wait for time to end.
Instead, Cain just buttoned his pants back up. He didn't leave right away, though, waited until Phobos' crying fit calmed down. Phobos stayed curled away from him, huddled little lump under the sheets.
"That sucked," Cain said, eyes landing on the box of Deimos' things, the folded clothes on top. Either Deimos or Phobos had folded them last, and the realization that either of them could have done it; that it was either Deimos' hands that had put them together, or Phobos had taken the time to put them away nicely, made Cain clench his jaw.
"This sucks," Phobos said quietly. He sniffed wetly, then said, "Everything fucking sucks."
And it was nice, in a way, to have someone, maybe, who understood—better than Abel who was too sweet and comforting before Cain had broken him, better than anyone else on board who either didn't give a shit or gave too much of a shit; giving Cain sympathetic looks when they passed.
It was nice to have Phobos—nasty and bitter and so fucking broken because it was easy to see his pain, and it was real, and Cain understood that.
#
The dimming hallway lights cut a square across the darkness of their room when the door opened. Abel was there on the floor, huddled under the blankets; sweep of blond hair peeking out from the top of the sheet. Then the door closed, the light disappeared. Cain dropped the box of Deimos' things to the floor and shuffled over to the bed, collapsing onto it.
He partially missed; half of his body falling against Abel's. Abel jolted, shifted under Cain's body; turning to face him.
"Hey," he whispered, so quiet and sweet, and even that was too much, so Cain didn't say anything. He grabbed Abel and dragged him closer, ignoring the muffled sound of surprise Abel made. He went, though, warm and pliant, curving around Cain's body and sifting fingers through his hair when Cain pushed his nose against Abel's neck and stayed there.
He didn't want to think about what he'd done, what had happened, but Abel's calm acceptance of him seemed almost worse; like he wasn't even going to attempt to punish Cain—like he knew it'd be fruitless. Maybe Cain was too broken to be chastised anymore, too old to be taught any new tricks like how not to be such an asshole.
"What happened?" Abel asked then, and Cain couldn't stand it, everything way too fucking much; overwhelming in the quiet of the room, with Abel's smell strong around him, sleeping in their bed.
"What happened?" Abel asked again, a little louder. Cain wondered if Abel could smell Phobos on him; the sex. He knew it must have been obvious, and he felt guilty; couldn't deny it if he tried, way too fucking burnt out on everything else to try to hide it.
He just shook his head against Abel's shoulder and pulled him even closer, couldn't even explain to himself how he felt when Abel didn't push him away; when he stroked his fingertips against the back of Cain's neck. All he knew was that it was overwhelming, that feeling; pressing hard and tight against the inside of him, as though it were trying to break through his ribcage.
Cain sank his teeth into Abel's neck, into the bite mark he'd put earlier; deepening and changing it, hoping to blot out the earlier hurt with this new one. He tried to hold himself together, to stop feeling Abel's hands down his back, petting and soothing at him, to stop hearing the silence of the ship; the emptiness of the rooms around them. It didn't work, somehow never worked with Abel, no matter how hard Cain tried or tried to deny it.
Cain rolled away, too close to losing it, thought back to Phobos and all his tears and crying into the mattress and maybe he'd be that just not so fucking obvious. He rolled away from Abel and pressed his face to the pillow, hard pressure behind his eyes that he couldn't push down, could only work to keep his breathing even so Abel wouldn't know.
He didn't know how long he lay there before anything happened. Cain thought Abel had fallen asleep when an arm suddenly wound around his chest, Abel's palm flattening against his collarbone. Abel must have thought Cain had fallen asleep as well, perhaps had been waiting for him to drift off so he could do this. Abel's fingers dug into his chest, holding him tight at the same moment his lips ghosted over the back of Cain's neck; so fucking sweet and gentle.
"It'll be OK," Abel whispered, hot breath wafting down Cain's back. "It'll be OK." He nudged closer up against Cain's back and just held onto him, kissing his neck and whispering to him in the darkness. Cain just let him do it, focused on keeping his breath even while he broke; letting Abel hold him tight and keep him together.