AN: Yay, I'm doing a thing! SO, this is the closest I've ever gotten to writing smut. S'weird. I've been reading a lot of Homestuck fan fiction lately (which is why this is in second person.) To any other fandom, the whole second person thing may look weird. I tried really, really hard to write this in third person, actually. But each time I started, it drifted back into this format without me noticing. Sorry about that. I kinda' like it this way, though, so whatever.
This story's actually inspired by a Homestuck fic. It's on AO3, called 'Tonight Alone' by thatonelesbianyouknow. It's pretty choice.
You wake up, hear the chirping of crickets outside of your apartment, and see the soft glow of your handheld — still on— the theme music of the game reaching your ears. Or, wait, no. That's your phone. Slowly sitting up, you feel blindly around your bed for the device, wanting to shut it up and get back to sleep as soon as possible.
It stops, and you feel the vibration notifying you of your missed call. Sighing and finding the phone to your left, you pick it up and examine the screen.
Mello, it says. You wonder what he could be calling about. From what you've gathered in your sleepy stupor, it's pretty damn late. You check your phone for the time, but before you get a good look, your phone's ringing again. He's calling.
Putting the phone to your ear, you clear your throat and mumble, "Mello?"
Silence on the other end. The soft creak of a bed. He grunts.
You begin to worry. You're guilty of jumping to worse-case scenarios, and you can't help the cold feeling that creeps upon your spine. Clutching the phone now, you whisper. "Are you there?"
You look around your room and calculate how long it'll take to get to your best friend. The fear doesn't leave and your chest feels heavy. You figure it won't take long, and you speak once more. "Mello, are you okay? I'm on my way over—"
"I'm here," he grunts again, and you breathe a sigh of relief. But there's still something off, and you're not quite sure what.
"You okay?" you ask again, seeing as he hadn't answered the first time. Your brow furrows and you let out an involuntary yawn.
"I'm," a short pause, "I'm fine." And then he chuckles. He chuckles and you feel confused and worried and frustrated all at once.
"Then what the hell is this about?" You're growing impatient.
"What are you…"
"What?"
"What are you doing?"
You lower the phone and look around the room, your expression practically shouting 'Are you kidding me?' as you run a hand through your hair.
"Mello, what the fuck?"
You hear him breathing through the phone, and it sends goose bumps up your arms. You lick your lips and think. This isn't like him. Why would he call at—you look at your phone—3 AM to have small talk? It's stupid. Really fucking stupid.
And then something clicks in your head.
"Mello, hey, listen."
"Hm?" he responds. It's low, so very low that you almost don't catch it.
"Are you," you shake your head in disbelief, "drunk?"
You hear him scoff. "You catch on fast," his sentence drips with sarcasm and mirth that only his drunken state could bring.
A moment goes by and you consider hanging up the phone. It's incredibly dumb, what's going on right now, yet you'd feel guilty if you just abandoned him like that. Yes, he's safe, so there's no need to stay, but a part of you wants to.
His voice is airy, "You still there, Matty?"
You sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm here."
He moans. Moans. You feel your heart sink to your stomach and it doesn't take you long to figure out what's going on. But, after gathering enough courage, you ask anyway. "What're you doing?"
You hear him move on the bed, his breathing becoming heavy. You ignore the feeling of warmth in your stomach.
He speaks. "I want you here with me."
Your eyes widen. "Mello…"
You hear him sigh. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I love you, you don't love me. Blah, blah, blah. I get it, Matt."
The guilt continues to plant negative thoughts in your mind and you frown. You love Mello. You really, really do. You're just unsure of how much, and in what context said love may be. And you know you aren't being honest with yourself nor with your friend. You know this isn't fair. You know Mello may not even remember it all in the morning. But you can't help but feel that's its necessary, needed, important, to play along. You feel you owe him this. So you give it to him.
"What can I do?"
He lets out a muffled groan, "Just speak."
"Um, alright." You think. "What are you thinking about?"
"You."
You shouldn't be surprised, but you are. There's something playing in your gut, some kind of emotion you can't quite place, and it feels both familiar and pleasant. You rack your brain for more to say, but you come up blank. This is dumb. I'm dumb. What the hell are we doing—
"You're…lying on the bed and you're touching me and—" He weeps. "Fucking shit, I want you to touch me."
It's suddenly warm. Everything's far too warm and you yank the blanket from your legs. "Mello, I—"
You're cut off by a loud groan. There's a familiar tightness in your boxers that you try your best to ignore.
"Would you do it?" he asks.
"What?"
"Shit, Matt, I need you to touch me. Tell me…tell me you'd touch me."
You stare into space. And after a beat you respond. "Yeah. I'd touch you, Mello."
He moans again.
"Tell me what you want," you demand. You're caught up in the moment and part of you is afraid. A part of you is shocked. But you know, deep down, that another part of you wants this.
"I want—"
"What is it?"
"I want you to fuck me."
"Mello…"
"Fuck, Matt."
You shut your eyes, tug at your goggles, fiddle with the sheets. You listen to him climax. You hear his breathing become heavier. He sobs and grunts, mumbling your name.
After a moment the bed creaks some more, and he laughs dryly. He sounds tired.
"I love you," he whispers.
You smile despite the fact that he can't see it. He says goodbye. You do the same.
You both hang up.
You lie back down in bed, the ache still present in your boxers. It's impossible to ignore. You avoid thinking of your best friend when you get rid of the problem.
You can't help but feel guilty.