It's dark out and Edgar breathes deep.
He can hear nothing but the rustle of clothes falling and the faint hum of the engine down below, a steady vibrato that creeps into his heart and curls around his soul.
Sabin rocks against him and Edgar moves with him and he digs his nails deeper into Sabin's taut flesh, squeezing his eyes shut. He's drunk on Sabin's heat, Sabin's breath heavy and fast on his throat, Sabin's strong hands grasping his hips. The callouses on his palms are rough against Edgar's skin and so are his lips and teeth as he kisses Edgar over and over and over again, frantic kisses that Edgar strives to keep up with but can't.
Sabin is too fast but Edgar doesn't tell him to slow down. He needs this as much as Sabin does; he wants this, this fire, this passion, the cycle of pain and pleasure that starts and ends with Sabin.
Sabin thrusts and bites and Edgar loses himself again and again and again.