There’s a lot of shit in the world that Benrey doesn’t understand, if he were to really think about it. Like how to tie a tie right the first time around. And how Black Mesa can afford a resident mixologist (and, you know, nuclear weapons) but no dental plan. But one of the more frustrating things that he has a hard time wrapping his head around is Gordon.
He doesn’t really get why Gordon’s such a pissy little baby all the time. About, like, everything. Ask for passport, mad. Say something nice about his ass, mad. Eat the nihilanth before it can bother Gordon so Benrey can play with him instead, extra fuckin’ mad. Benrey doesn’t know where he gets the energy to be that pissed off all the time. Doesn’t even know what an energy drink is. And, okay, maybe Gordon doesn’t always have a stick up his ass now that they’re out of Black Mesa, but he’s still… weird. And sucks.
Now that they’re, like, hang-out guys - dudes who hang out, just chill, whatever - he’s got a lot of time to really pay attention to all the weird shit Gordon gets up to. Like, eating? Seems like he’s always eating something. Sometimes he does it, like, more than once a day. Benrey doesn’t get what the point is. If it were up to him, he would simply eat everything he needed for the next week or whatever in advance, and not waste a bunch of time that he could otherwise spend showing Gordon how bad he sucks at Street Fighter.
(Gordon just laughs when he suggests this, and he wants to be mad about it, but man. It’s hard when he’s doing that.)
In the grand scheme of things, though, that’s not so bad. At least he gets to watch. Though not too closely, he quickly figures out, after Gordon tells him to stop fucking staring at him while he eats. It’s just… it’s kind of good. To watch. Gordon bites and tears and swallows and licks his fingers, and it’s good, if you ask Benrey. Especially when he’s spending more time doing that instead of, God, burning shit or whatever. If he pushes Gordon enough, maybe goads him into another round, and then another, he’ll get so into it that he’ll forget about “eating”, and Benrey can bully him into ordering obscene amounts of takeout in the middle of the night. Watch him tear into it and go completely overboard. That’s the good shit.
“haha wow gordon mukbang,” he says, once, before getting slugged on the shoulder.
It’s not like watching Gordon sleep. Which he does, again, sometimes more than once. The fuck else is he gonna do? Jerk off? Ha ha. Joke.
Keeping his eyes on the rise and fall of Gordon’s chest isn’t the worst thing, either. It tickles something deep in the back of Benrey’s mind. Keep an eye out for him. He’s weaksauce. Fuckin’, goblins and aliens and whatever still out there, you never know. There haven’t been any aliens for him to watch out for in a long while, but still. Feels good. Like a… like a big cat. Lion King. Despite this, it’s still super boring.
Sometimes Benrey can’t help himself. Drops something in the kitchen to shake him awake faster. Jabs him in the stomach with an insistent finger when he’s drifting off, just to see how long he can stay up. Sometimes Gordon’s delirious from it, mumbling and slurring, eyes fluttering closed and jerking open in turn as he pleads with Benrey for him to buzz off, and that big cat in Benrey’s chest curls up and licks its teeth.
He wanted to hang out anyway, right? With good friend? Friend Benrey? What’s the big deal.
All that said, the number one thing he doesn’t get is why Gordon goes ham-bananas-apeshit whenever he goes into the bathroom. Just because Gordon’s in there first shouldn’t mean shit. Hasn’t he ever been in the locker room before? Probably not, actually. Gordon’s too much of a nerd bitch for that. Why’s he gotta get all worked up about Benrey brushing his teeth while he’s got his dick whipped out. Gotta keep those pearly-whites clean.
No matter Benrey’s excuses, though, it’s the same shit every time. "That’s fucking weird, Benrey! Privacy! You ever heard of it?" Big fuckin’ deal. They’re both dudes, it’s not like it’s anything he hasn’t seen before. And all this human stuff’s weird to him, too. It’s just a million weird, arbitrary rules, and if he doesn’t have to follow them, he doesn’t know why he’s gotta remember them. It seems like more of them crop up every time he looks.
Whatever. It’s stupid. At this point he just does it out of spite.
It’s not like he goes over to Gordon’s place every time. Just a lot of the time. His TV’s bigger, and he’s got cool games that Benrey doesn’t, and the whole place smells like him. Not like Benrey’s place. His apartment smells like chalk. But Gordon must have decided that chalk-smell is cool, because Benrey gets back home in the middle of the afternoon to a message on his PS3. Actually, a lot of them.
From: CERNibleBenefits93
Got the day off. Hopping into SF4. Are you down?
From: CERNibleBenefits93
I know you can see my messages, asshole. You’ve been playing Heavenly Sword for 12 hours!
From: CERNibleBenefits93
Hello?
From: CERNibleBenefits93
Okay, if I don’t hear from you in an hour I’m coming over to make sure you’re not dead. And if you’re actually still playing HS I’m going to kill you myself.
The last message came… oh, about an hour ago. Benrey rubs his eyes. He must’ve forgotten to turn that shit off. What’s even his problem? Can’t a dude go browse the DVD section all day in peace? The A/C’s better at the library, anyway. He doesn’t get but fifteen minutes to drop his haul on the floor and chug the rest of his Powerade (for the, uhhh, electric lights or whatever) before Gordon’s hammering on his door. Benrey swings it open mid-knock and laughs when Gordon stumbles forward, caught off-guard.
“Benrey? What the fuck, I’ve been messaging you all day, I thought you fucking—”
“whu? i just got home man. primo DVD haul. they got john wick at the library. isn’t that crazy.”
“The— The li— Since when do you go to the library? When was the last time you even read a book?” Gordon sputters.
“ain’t gotta read shit to enjoy the premium cinematography of the john wick series. i got all 3 of ‘em. they even got blu-rayyy,” says Benrey, picking up one of the aforementioned DVD cases and waggling it at Gordon. For some reason, he doesn’t look impressed. “get inside loser. lettin’ out all the cold. it’s hot as a— as a fire in a— volcano.”
That look on Gordon’s face melts from exasperation to confusion, and then he breaks out laughing, and whatever his face does next, Benrey doesn’t catch it because he’s too busy staring at the wall suddenly. His ears burn. Stupid. Gordon does as he says anyway, and shuts the door behind him.
Then he cycles right back to his default pissy baby mode when he turns Benrey’s faucet for a glass of water just a few minutes later, and is rewarded with a dry hiss.
“Benrey, where’s the water at.”
“huh? i dunno. don’t use it,” he shrugs.
Gordon sets down his glass and pinches his eyebrows. “You don’t… use it.”
Benrey shrugs again.
“Do you— Jesus, Benrey, please tell me you shower, at least. Or brush your teeth. Or… or drink it? Like a normal person?”
“uhhh duh i brush,” Benrey says, rolling his eyes. “check out these chompers.” He bares his teeth after that, flashing his gums. He even runs his tongue over a canine for emphasis. Gordon blinks, then squints in suspicion.
Whatever he sees there doesn’t seem to make him drop it. “No, c’mon, quit bullshitting me. How do you do that without any water?” he pushes.
“i’m not showin’ you how to brush your teeth gordon. aren’t you like… 35 or some shit. sounds like a personal problem at this point.”
“I’m 27,” says Gordon tiredly. “Whatever. Forget it, I don’t wanna know.” He grabs an energy drink out of Benrey’s fridge instead.
Good enough for him.
He doesn’t feel like Street Fighter yet when he can feel Mr. Reeves a-calling, so that’s what Benrey prods Gordon into doing with him instead. They’ve barely gotten through the DVD menu of John Wick 2 when Gordon gets all butthurt again over the stupid water thing - he heads into the bathroom, and then there’s a muffled "motherfucker" coming from behind the closed door.
“You didn’t tell me all your water was cut off,” Gordon bitches as he steps back into the room. “Did you not pay your water bill or something?”
“what?”
Gordon looks at him like he’s the dumbest motherfucker on Earth, and it rankles. “Don’t tell me, actually. I don’t care. Just tell me if there’s a bathroom I can use somewhere around here,” he says.
At that, Benrey feels his lip curl, all nasty and mean. “can’t you just hold it? gonna piss your pants, lil’ baby bitch? i’m not walking you to the fuckin’ laundromat right now. it’s too hot.”
“What— seriously, Benrey? I’ll just go by myself. Tell me where it is.”
“ha ha, what, so you can go and uhhh… get lost again? won’t have friend benrey to get your ass out of black mesa this time. you’ll be all… bawling ‘n’ shit. it’ll be sad,” Benrey snorts. He rubs at his eyes to imitate it for good measure.
“What’s your goddamn problem?” snaps Gordon. “Fuck it, I’ll just— find a bush or something if you’re gonna be completely fucking batshit about this—”
“you’re gonna go piss in a bush? like a… like a dog? lil’ puppy dog? fuckin’ gross, gordon. nasty ass. knew you were into some weird shit.”
A moment passes where Gordon takes a deep breath through his nose, a palm pressed to his face. Then he slowly drags it down, asking, “Didn’t you get your mattress out of a fucking dumpster? You’re gross.”
“yeah… and. it was a clean dumpster. you coulda lived in it.”
Something in Gordon snaps, and his shoulders droop, and he sighs, guttural and long-suffering. “God. Okay, fuck it. This isn’t worth it. But once it cools down outside, you’re showing me where the hell to go, and I’m going to pretend none of this is happening right now. If I don’t, I’m going to lose my mind.”
Gordon sits back down, his spine rigid, as far opposite on the couch as he can get. There’s thunder in his face, but he lets Benrey start up the movie anyway.
Now, Benrey may have seen it a solid half-dozen times before, but that doesn’t fully explain why his eyes keep sliding off the screen. John Wick’s sweaty forehead and sick marksmanship just don’t seem to capture his attention as much as Gordon does. Whenever he shifts in his seat, or worries the hem of his shirt, or crosses (and re-crosses) his legs, Benrey glances. It’s… a lot better than John Wick 2. He takes a mental screenshot each time. Saves it to SSD. Quick and easy access. Every once in awhile, Gordon catches him looking, but it’s Gordon who flushes and stares back at the TV, pretending like he wasn’t trying to look at all. Huh.
Benrey’s mouth feels like it’s full of cotton balls. So he gets up to grab something to drink, letting the movie play without him, and downs an energy drink from the fridge in one uninterrupted pull. Out of the corner of his eye, Benrey spots Gordon ogling him, his foot tapping quickly but quietly. He smirks as he crushes the can between his palms and chucks it into the garbage.
Just to fuck with him, Benrey grabs another one before he heads back to the couch. This one, he takes his time with. Really savors it. When he slurps, loud and wet and deliberately gross, he can hear that tapping speed up, and he hides a mean little grin behind the can.
Eventually, the credits roll. Benrey hasn’t absorbed jack shit from the movie. There’s a different movie playing in his head, frames of Gordon squirming in place flickering past his mental projector.
He’s so lost in it that he doesn’t notice Gordon trying to get his attention until Gordon kicks his ankle, hard. “Hey, jackass, did you hear me? Let’s go already. It’s getting dark out,” he says.
“what?”
“Oh my God. Quit screwing around, let’s go.”
Benrey blinks. “huh? where we goin’?”
The question starts out genuine; Benrey just straight up forgot. But he doesn’t regret asking it when he sees the steam hissing from Gordon’s ears. “Is this some kind of game? I’m not in the mood for that shit, man. That’s sick. Just— just be normal for once, please?”
“’s all games, bro,” Benrey scoffs at him. “you don’t see me complaining. quit being such a baby and play the fuckin’ game. or don’t. like i care.”
There’s a drawn-out pause, ripe with tension. He could cut it with a knife. Gordon stammers out something at last, hot and angry, but it’s hardly recognizable as speech. Benrey’s mouth splits into a grin. It’s all teeth and gums and nasty, nasty, nasty.
“c’mon gordonnn. use all those smart boy words.”
“J— Jesus, fucking, fuck you, this is stupid, I’m not— Why are you— why are you doing this shit, Benrey, I just need to do, like, this one normal human thing, alright? I don’t wanna talk about it!”
“i dunno bro. i’m not too smart. didn’t go to college for,” he smacks his lips, “particles or whatever. gonna have to explain it to me.”
Gordon’s mouth hangs open, moving like he’s trying to form words, but nothing’s coming out. Benrey leans forward on his knees. His eyes fixate, right there, right on Gordon’s stupid face, and it’s so, so red. Makes his mouth water. For a PhD, he really is dumb as shit, huh.
“I’m,” he starts, voice cracking, as he crosses his arms defensively, “I really need to— oh my God, this is so fucking embarrassing, man, why— I— Can you just— Just take me somewhere so I can take a piss? Okay?” His eyes refuse to meet Benrey’s, instead focusing on the ceiling. Like he’s waiting for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
He should feel lucky that Benrey’s such a nice guy. A real good friend. Benrey claps him on the back and tells him to get a move on, they don’t have all night.
Gordon follows Benrey down the stairs, down the street, down to the laundromat, all of it passing and none of it sticking. There’s something so goddamn weird about this, almost dream-like. Like he’s piloting himself from somewhere in the back of his skull. Benrey says something, and Gordon says something back, but he can’t for the life of him recall what it was, because he’s already finished up and stepping back into Benrey’s shitty apartment before his faculties return to him. And the first thing he thinks is why in the fuck is he doing this?
Benrey just— he just fucking does this to him, man. He exudes some kind of absurd, reality-bending force field. Just says the stupidest possible shit, all the time, and somehow, Gordon ends up taking it at face value and rolling with it. And now he’s here. Now he’s sitting in Benrey’s living room again, watching him pop Street Fighter IV into his PS3 like this is all totally normal. Gordon stares at him.
“Hey, Benrey. What the fuck?” he blurts out.
“what.”
“You know what!”
Benrey doesn’t even turn to look at him. His shoulders lurch in a shrug as he says, “it’s just street fighter. what’s the big deal.”
He feels a migraine creeping into the center of his forehead, and he wracks his brain trying to think of a rebuttal that would make Benrey give him a real answer, but comes up short. It would almost make him laugh if it wasn’t cranking up his blood pressure.
Are they just… gonna act like this didn’t happen? Well, fine. That’s better for his ego, anyway. Gordon resolutely does not think about it, and he refuses to think about it so hard that he flinches, caught off-guard, when he feels a controller land in his lap.
“get your shit together, gordon. wasn’t this what you came over here for?”
Oh. Yeah, he supposes it was. It’s that goddamn force field again, probably. It’s hard not to get sucked into it. Gordon selects his character with distressingly sweaty hands.
He plays, sure, but his head’s not really in the game. He keeps looking at Benrey out of the corner of his eye, and Benrey always seems to be looking back at him, every time. Benrey’s… Benrey’s observing him, Gordon thinks. Like a test subject. Taking long sips of his drink and peeking over at him to see if it’s getting a rise out of him. The back of his neck prickles with heat and sweat. Well, it isn’t, thanks. Gordon’s got his shit together. He lands his Ultra and almost fully convinces himself of this.
But time ticks along inexorably, and he’s just a humble human governed by the laws of homeostasis, like any other. Gordon crosses his legs again and tries not to wince. It's a little uncomfortable. He'll gladly suffer through that if it means not having to ask Benrey for a favor again so soon, though. Just thinking about seeing that insufferable fucking smirk on his face again makes Gordon grit his teeth.
Not thinking about it. Not thinking about anything. Just staring at the screen and fumbling to get his Shoryukens to come out. God, he could have punished Benrey's whiff if his useless, sweaty hands would just work. It gets harder and harder to focus as that pressure builds, though, getting him to squirm in his seat again. A full-body flush creeps up on him. Fucking Benrey. Why is he even— why is he doing this? Why don't you just go home and use the bathroom in your apartment, where the water's turned on, because you're a functioning adult?
Gordon thinks this, sure, but he doesn't let himself think the answer. He can't. He refuses to. Instead, he sets down his controller and turns to look at Benrey, who's scratching his nose.
"Hey. Benrey."
Benrey grunts at him.
Okay. He attempts to wet his lips to speak, but his mouth's so dry. It's not like he's had anything to drink in… a while. For understandable reasons. "We need to, uh, leave. Again," Gordon says, trying to be as vague as he can.
There's a drawn-out hum from Benrey, and then he says, "uhhh, i don't think so."
"Excuse me?"
"that's a no from me bud. you just wanna stop playing 'cuz i'm kickin' your ass so bad. scrub."
Gordon's fingers clench into the fabric of his slacks. "Are you fucking kidding me? This isn't— it's not about Street Fighter! Jesus!" he snaps. Then he sucks in a deep breath through his nose to calm himself. "I don't know what your damage is, man, but I'm not about to beg. Let's go."
Benrey looks at him for a long moment, then asks at last, "why not?"
"Why not?!" He uncrosses his legs out of sheer frustration and stands up, tapping his foot. "Fucking, power-tripping fucker… Because that's, like, insane? Hello? It's insane that I'm even playing this little fuck-fuck game with you, quit being an asshole and take me to the laundromat or I'll— I'll—"
"or you'll what, huh. probably can't even think of nothin'." Benrey smacks his lips, and the corner of his mouth turns up. "say please. then uhhh… then we'll go. cool?"
"No, fuck you, I'm not doing this." Gordon starts to pace, just to take the edge off. He's fine. He's totally fine. His blood isn't boiling under the surface of his skin, he's not feeling any kind of way about this, and he's especially not paying attention to the electricity that lances through his gut whenever Benrey pushes him.
Pushing him. Pushing him. Benrey does that a lot, doesn't he? Always trying to push his buttons, push him into trying weird shit, into going overboard, and into staying up all night even when it's 4 in the morning and he wants nothing more than to fall asleep in his armchair. Was that like this, then? Some kind of thinly-veiled power play? Just to get his rocks off? Gordon's suddenly aware of his breathing, and how it's gone shallow with… something. Anticipation, maybe. It takes a conscious effort for him not to pass out from lack of oxygen. Was it always this hot in here?
He tries - and God, does he try, pacing while he tenses his whole body as tight as he can - but eventually, he really, really can’t hold it any more. Dread drips down the back of his skull. Gordon crosses his arms impatiently, then spits out, “Okay, fucking, fine, please, can we go? This isn’t funny anymore.”
Benrey deliberates a long, agonizing while before he drawls at Gordon, “nahh. try harder.”
Frustration bubbles up under his skin. Slowly, the awareness dawns upon Gordon that, yeah, he really is going to have to beg. Like, for real. He could have ended this game a long while ago and just taken care of business outside, he thinks wildly. Like some kind of animal. It would have been weird and kind of gross, but it was always a possibility.
But for whatever fucking reason, he played along. Because there’s something sick and ugly nestled deep inside of him, and he's pretty sure he liked it. Gordon liked the heat that curled in his belly when Benrey made him ask. He liked the tense energy that crackled between them every time Benrey looked at him, like, really Looked at him. Observing him. Watching him struggle. Humiliation hits him afresh. And then again, when he comes back down to Earth and realizes that he’s sporting one of the worst boners he’s ever had.
Okay. Cool. Great. The wires in his brain must be twisted all to shit. If nothing else, at least it means that Gordon’s probably not about to piss himself in front of God and everyone, if his record with morning wood is to be believed. Gordon hopes against hope that Berney doesn’t notice. Unfortunately, when he wrenches his eyes back to Benrey’s face, the grin unfolding there tells Gordon that he totally does.
“let’s go, buddy. lemme hear it. i know you’re likin’ this shit, so beg real fuckin’ nice for me and you can go.”
“I can’t believe you,” Gordon groans. He can’t stop moving. If he does, he’s gonna lose it. “I don’t— this isn’t— I don’t know what’s wrong with me, and I sure don’t fucking know what’s wrong with you, and I don’t know how you’re making me do this—”
“boooo. you suck at this. shut up and ask nicely or go fuckin’, uhhh, go out in the alley or somethin’. get everybody laughin’ at gordon freeman’s lil’ schmeat, whippin’ it out in public, real nasty shit, gonna— gonna get public indecency. permanent record.” Benrey steps forward, approaching him.
“Shut up,” Gordon snarls, voice hot with anger and embarrassment.
He could. He could do that. Under ordinary circumstances, he would do that. But ordinary circumstances these aren’t, and all Gordon can think about is how badly his ears burn, still hot from Benrey’s voice going all low and smug to make him ask real fuckin’ nicely.
“c’monnn. gotta pick somethin’. what’s it gonna be? you in or you out?” he taunts.
Gordon’s mouth opens, then shuts. Then opens again. “I’m,” he starts, then he finds that he can’t finish it.
If he says it aloud, then this all becomes too Real, right, like it’s something that he’s just as much a part of as Benrey is. And honestly, if you had asked him just 24 hours ago if this was the kind of thing he ever saw himself getting into, Gordon would have laughed. Mostly out of nerves. Because, sincerely, who would even fucking ask that. But now he’s here, and he’s in. And he’s so morbidly curious to find out what’s going to happen when Benrey gets into his personal space. Gordon swallows past the sudden lump in his throat, and instead of trusting his knotted tongue right now, he nods.
Benrey laughs at him. “sick,” he says, as he backs Gordon into the corner and crowds him up against the wall.
This would probably be a lot more intimidating if Benrey was taller than him, he thinks. He clings onto that thought like a life boat. Despite this, he’s still radiating some of the most malicious goddamn energy Gordon has ever felt, and it makes sweat bead on his forehead. God, he’s, he’s gonna fucking lose it, right here, and the sheer embarrassment makes him winch his eyes shut.
“C’mon,” Gordon says, “don’t— don’t make shit weird. You’re the nasty one here, man, you know what’s gonna happen if you keep telling me I can’t—”
“shit’s already weird,” Benrey cuts him off. “who cares. just ask.” His voice comes out hoarse, and a little whiny. It almost makes Gordon laugh. Almost. But Benrey’s pressing forward, slotting his thigh in between Gordon’s, and that makes it difficult to think straight.
“I— I need to— You gotta let me go, Benrey, seriously, this isn’t gonna be funny anymore, it’s just gonna be— God, I don’t need to explain this shit to you! C’mon,” he pleads again, before stammering out, “Please.”
“hmmm. nah.”
Gordon makes an ugly, desperate noise. It bleeds into his voice as he asks, as nicely as he can manage, “Please? Can you just let me go, Benrey?” His whole face radiates heat, he can feel it, and it cycles back into a positive feedback loop of humiliation when Benrey runs his tongue over one of his canines.
“don’t think so. you’re not very convincing, friennnd.” Benrey leans in, pressing against Gordon’s dick with his thigh, and that grin ratchets up a notch when he feels it twitch.
God, Gordon’s going to die, isn’t he? He’s gonna die, because he didn’t want to stop playing this stupid game, and now he’s this close to either coming in his pants or pissing himself like a little bitch and he feels like he’s going to— to fucking explode. (Even though he’s not sure if either thing is possible at this point, what with his whole bladder-boner situation. It’s just science. Physiology. Words, words, words.)
Benrey braces himself on his arm, palm flat against the wall just above Gordon’s shoulder, and then he buries his face near the crook of Gordon’s neck and inhales deeply. Open-mouthed, like a cat. “smells good,” he slurs, muffled, “all fuckin’… desperate, huh. i can smell it.”
Get closer. The thought comes to Gordon unbidden - he’d let him, let him open his mouth wider and drag his tongue across his madly-fluttering jugular and bite down on the cords of his neck. But he absolutely cannot ask for that. No way. That’s a step too fucking far. Just thinking about it drives him wild with anxiety, his pulse skyrocketing.
But that thought quickly recedes to the back of his mind when Benrey presses closer in a different way, a palm flat and hot against his stomach. Gordon chokes on his words. Just that little bit of pressure makes his whole body tense up anew and gets his fingers scrabbling against the wall, because, God, he’s trying so, so hard not to— he’s trying, okay? And it doesn’t help that Benrey’s staring at him like that, either, irises jerking minutely from left to right in turn. Like he’s being scanned. Downloading all the shit he’s seeing. Maybe he is.
“God, please,” Gordon begs, like, for-real begs, breath coming too fast, “I’m gonna— you’re gonna make me— I can’t, I can’t fucking think straight right now, please—”
“yeah,” breathes Benrey, “yeah, i’m gonna make you, and what are you gonna do about it? huh? gonna cry? gonna piss and cum maybe?” He pushes harder, really leaning into it, and Gordon gasps out something unintelligible, and that dam starts to break.
It starts slow. Not what he expects. That tension deep inside of him releases with all the fanfare of a tea kettle whistling, and the noise Gordon makes as he realizes it’s actually happening is so, so ugly and high. Benrey’s eyes flicker down to the wet stain bleeding through his pants. Then he grins even wider, baring those rows of sharp teeth. Gordon can’t, he just cannot look right now, he can’t look at Benrey, can’t look at anything, because a boiling-hot wave of humiliation crashes over him.
"Oh God," he chokes out.
Benrey crushes Gordon against the wall, both with body and palm. It’s— it’s agonizing, slowly letting go, coaxed into more by the hand pressed flat against his bladder, and his boner’s smashed between his body and Benrey’s and that wave swells again, horrifying in its intensity, as he realizes that he’s not just making a mess of himself, but of Benrey, too. It's overwhelming. So much so that he feels something hot prickle at the corner of his eyes, and that doesn't fucking help anything. Benrey doesn't seem to care, though - he just keeps Gordon trapped there, his face close enough that Gordon has a hard time making out the details.
Gordon says something that might be Benrey's name, but he's not sure, because there's nothing but static buzzing in his ears. "Please," he thinks he says again, stammering and begging, "harder, Jesus," and Benrey takes a rattling breath before doing just that. Pushing harder. Gordon lets out a high, nasal whine. Please kill him. Please.
And then, before he knows it, it's over. There's nothing left to wring out of him. Gordon sags against the wall, face buried in his hands. His breath comes in ragged pants. Wet warmth trickles down his legs, and he's terrified to look down and confirm what he feels. And to confirm visually that, Jesus Christ, he's still painfully hard despite everything. Despite, his mind whispers cruelly, like you weren't just getting off on that. His head spins.
If there's any kindness in the world, any decency, the floor will split open underneath him and swallow him whole to get him out of whatever in the fuck just happened. This doesn't happen, however. After a long moment, he chances a glance through slotted fingers. Somehow, Benrey isn't actually grossed out about this - in fact, his eyes are wild, pupils blown out, and his tongue lolls out of his mouth as he rocks his hips against Gordon's. "good," Benrey groans, "fuck, man. s'good. you— hhhh— play real nice, get everything i want— fuckin', platinum trophy over here—"
"Benrey," he gasps, more out of exasperation than anything.
Benrey slows. "why you hidin' your face," he says, then tugs Gordon's hands away. When their eyes meet, it punches Gordon right in the stomach. Oh. Huh. Benrey's really, really into this, isn't he, he thinks dizzily. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, especially when Benrey rolls their hips together again, so he just settles them on the outside of Benrey's arms and hopes for the best. Every furious rut of his hips wrangles a mortifying noise out of Gordon.
Gordon's shaking hands claw at his shoulders and his neck as Benrey first grinds against him, then shoves both of their pants down to fish their dicks out. He's fucked. He's so fucked, he still wants to die, he wants to evaporate, but he doesn't want Benrey to stop, no, not when he's wrapping that big hand around him and tugging. Gordon turns his face away in shame, until Benrey grabs his jaw and yanks it down to look at him again.
"look at me," he mutters, "who's the real sick fuck now, gordon. you're so fuckin'… hard for this, god. gonna come for me aren'tcha, lil' gay-ass?"
Somehow, some-fucking-how, that's what pushes Gordon over the edge, and he spills into Benrey's hand with a desperate, strangled sound. It hits him like a freight train. No thoughts, no energy, no nothing. He clings to Benrey's shoulders like he might actually slip and fall if he lets go. Benrey quickly pumps himself, mumbling Gordon's name all the while, and not long after he's coming, too, groaning as he blasts rope all over the front of Gordon's shirt.
They linger there, nothing but the sound of their heaving breaths around them. Benrey rests his forehead against Gordon's shoulder. It would be nice, even tender, but he's wiping off his hand on Gordon's pants as he does and that shatters the illusion a little.
"nice," Benrey says, muffled into the crook of his neck. "nice. good. cool."
Gordon's head leans back against the wall. "Yeah," he says, hoarse, "good. Cool. Can I— Can I get out of these pants, or something?" It's not the smartest thing he's ever said, but he doesn't think he can physically flush any harder than he already is, so whatever.
"huh? oh. yeah. i got sumn clean. you can wear it… or, uhhh, don't. it's your life."
He agrees to this in a daze, and lets Benrey lead him to the bathroom so he can get toweled off. That curious sense of watching himself from outside himself bleeds back into him. Gets him to let Benrey strip him, dry him, and offer to scrub him down with Hawaiian Punch instead of water. (Gordon's still got enough of his wits about him to steadfastly refuse that last thing.)
This is— this is weird, right? All of this? It must be, and yet he can't bring himself to work up enough of a fuss. This part is kind of nice. And so was the part before it. And a lot of parts, actually, but Gordon's making the informed choice to not fucking think too hard about it right now. He'll save that for later, when he's standing under the flickering fluorescent lights of his shower and regretting all of his life choices as he does every other day.
For right now, resting his forehead against Benrey's and mumbling "Please shut up" is fine. Probably.