TW: Cucking, phone sex, some more Presley-Lee voyeurism

Micah sat in the back of Presley's Audi and spent the bumper-to-bumper holiday traffic on his new Switch. He felt like a kid on his Gameboy asking, "Are we there yet?"

Lee, hereto-forth appointed the title "Control Freak" by Presley, drove. Micah preferred this, as he'd driven upstate with Presley before and been terrified for his life. Lee was calm, cool, and collected as they waited in the queue to leave the city.

From Micah's vantage point lying horizontally across the backseat, he could see Presley's phone. Whenever they got into a discussion, Micah would see him still scrolling on Instagram.

And then he saw it.

Micah's hand immediately went to his own phone. He paused the game, sitting upright, and opened Instagram.

It was the first post on his feed. Benny.

In the Bahamas.

Standing next to Hunter.

They were gridlocked on the highway and Micah wanted nothing more than to get out and throw up in median. A wave of nausea put his head in his hand.

The motion prompted Presley's attention. "Hey, you feeling okay?"

It took a second for Micah to come up with an excuse. "Carsick. I'll be fine." He was salivating. He swallowed it back, harshly, over and over. The sensation persisted.

Not only had Micah not gone to the Bahamas, but his spot had been replaced by Hunter. Infiltrate the friend group, why don'tchya? Take my place in Benny's life too while you're at it!

Micah leaned back with a shaky exhale, hands to his knees. He left the phone facedown on the seat beside him. Presley was watching him and whatever he saw prompted him to tap Lee's arm and say, "See if you can take the next exit."

What should have been a thirty second exit swiftly became fifteen as Lee wove them through traffic and to the offramp. At the gas station, Micah didn't hesitate. He took his phone, got out, and hightailed it to the restroom.

They hadn't had breakfast, though. Just coffee. What came up was acidic bile and Micah's will to cope. A scream was bubbling up as he washed his mouth out with water and tore a towel off the dispenser to dry it. As he did, he reopened Benny's profile.

There were six new photos from Harbour Island. The gradient ring was on his profile picture, which struck Micah like Benny had taken two clamps and wrenched his ribcage open. It was of Benny hugging Hunter, smiling into his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut against a camera flash.

It took a second for Micah to decide, and two to block him. The grid of Hunter's face vanished into the white screen of death.

Still, he was tormented by the profile picture. Blocking should block that, too! I don't need to see this shit!

It took him several minutes longer to be able to pinch the color back into his cheeks. He'd gone pallid like death and his eyes were a bit too pink for his tastes, but there was only so much he could manage in a gas station bathroom.

He opened the door. Presley was leaning against the wall across from him, arms folded.

Micah spared him a glance before turning to leave. "I feel better now. Let's go."

"Alright. Here." He extended a pack of gum to Micah. He took one to get the acrid taste out of his mouth.

Lee was filling up the car when they returned. Another minute of silence in the backseat lead Micah down the dangerous path of knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Benny would know within twenty-four hours what he had done.

He could hope that Benny wouldn't care, that Benny's grief had transitioned into anger. But what was most likely would be that Micah... Micah had just ruined Benny's entire trip to the Bahamas.

Even if Micah unblocked him now, what could he do? They would each mutually no longer be following each other. Benny would know what happened instantly, and it would be no better than if Micah kept him blocked.

Micah scrubbed his hands over his face. Why did I do that?! he thought. Humiliation was already seeping in. It wasn't like he was on Instagram that often anyway. He could have avoided Benny's photos for another week, maybe even two.

When he looked up, he saw Presley tapping away at his phone, typing. The grey bubble on the left read, "What's Micah doing rn?"

You've got to be fucking kidding me, he thought, because Presley was writing, "Pitstop. He got carsick."

Micah lunged against his seatbelt, choking himself out. He cursed, causing enough of a ruckus that Presley stopped. Micah managed to unbuckle himself and snatch his phone from over the center console.

"Whoa, watch it! Driving, sort of," Lee said.

"Hey! My phone—!"

Micah looked properly at the message. In the scuffle, his hand had touched the send button. The conversation was with Kennedy, and she was already typing.

Logic told him that Presley wasn't doing anything nefarious by speaking to her, and there was nothing inherently wrong with Kennedy texting Presley about him either. But Micah wasn't feeling particularly logical.

"She was just asking about you," Presley said.

"Why would you tell her anything about me?" Micah said and, embarrassingly, his voice cracked.

Presley said something that was lost on the buzzing in Micah's ears. Kennedy had responded with, "Tell him to unblock Benny NOW. I'm not kidding around."

"Oh my God," Micah moaned, tears already in his eyes. He felt the car shudder, but it was just his body shaking.

He must have been looking at my profile when I did it, he realized, hands unsteady enough for Presley to take his phone back.

Presley had unbuckled himself and was swinging one gangly leg past the center console and into the back. Micah was sobbing by the time Presley scrambled into the seat next to him to squeeze him into a hug.

"Hey, hey, relax. Breathe," Presley said.

He didn't know what to say to explain why it made sense for him to have a meltdown in the back of Presley's Audi. Why he was crying at all. He wanted to believe the situation wasn't worthy of tears at all but there he was, sobbing harder than he had this entire time.

It was a week's worth of nights crying silently, trying not to sob and failing, condensed into one massive meltdown.

Holy shit, a part of him thought, the part that wasn't presently combusting. I ruined my own trip. Why would I do that? What the fuck is wrong with me?!

"I'm sorry," Micah tried, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Presley said, rubbing his back. "Talk to me. What happened?"

Micah shook his head, hand over his face. His cheeks were slick with tears. "I need a tissue," he managed, stuffy. A moment later, Presley produced one.

Micah wiped his cheeks down, swiped it under his jaw and chin, and then held it to his nose. His ears were hot with embarrassment. "Fuck. Oh my God, I'm so sorry."

"Seriously, it's okay." Presley hugged him again, and Micah sunk into the embrace, cheek to his shoulder. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." Definitely not.

"What do you want me to say to Kennedy?"

He thought for a moment. He leant away, hands fidgeting with the crumpled tissue.

Benny knew. Of course he knew. Unblocking now meant Micah would have to see Hunter's face again and Benny would still be living with the trauma on his psyche of having been temporarily been blocked by Micah. And then the guilt of forcing Micah's hand to unblock him.

Neither of them would win.

"Tell her I'm not doing it. I can't—Fuck," Micah said. His lashes were heavy with tears all over again.

He scrubbed the heel of his palm over his eyes as Presley typed the message. After, Presley rubbed his arm, his shoulder, and squeezed the back of his neck reassuringly.

Presley tossed his phone up front so Micah wouldn't accidentally see her response. Micah had returned to his seat, properly, and buckled himself back in. His entire face was stiff from the tears even as he unscrewed his water bottle top and started chugging.

Miraculously, neither Presley nor Lee pried during the remainder of the quiet trip, but Micah didn't blame them. He'd made the atmosphere stale enough as it was—he didn't want to sour the mood any further, nor did he want to talk about Benny.

And least of all, Hunter.

The Hampton House was already in action when they arrived. Food had been delivered just minutes before their arrival, and the crockpots in the trunk were instantly put to work. While Presley worked on prepping the chicken for a long cook in the oven, Micah and Lee assisted with the brisket.

Micah was surprised to find the place already decorated for the holidays. He thought to ask and, after debating an hour on it, he decided to ask Lee.

"Does Presley... hire someone to decorate his houses for the holidays?"

Lee blinked. "Yeah, I suppose he does. I've never seen him decorate."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

The doorbell rang, which was interrupted by the sound of Presley shrieking from the kitchen. "We aren't ready yet! Shit, shit, shit! We should've left, like, two hours sooner!"

"Oy vey," Lee sighed, passing Micah to get to the kitchen. There, he took over Presley's spot and said, "Cassian, it's fine. You greet the guests, I got this here."

"No, I can—"

"Respectfully, your guests don't know me. They're gonna say, 'Who's this sexy man answering your door? Do you have a butler now?'"

"Yeah, right," Presley snorted. He pecked Lee on the lips and said, "You are the sexiest butler ever."

And then, Presley hurried across the house. At the top of his lungs, he shouted, "COMING!" because whoever was at the door was ringing it incessantly.

Micah's phone buzzed in his pocket, as it had been since the car. He hadn't talked to Kennedy since her apartment where, on the walk to the hotel to meet Lennon, he'd unshared his location from her and Benny alike. She had given up texting him until now, which confirmed his suspicions.

Benny was well and truly heartbroken, and it was all Micah's fault.

With monumental effort, Micah held himself back from beating his fist against his forehead and chanting, Idiot, idiot, idiot!

There were people in attendance that Micah vaguely recognized from events Kennedy invited him to, and every last one of them re-introduced themselves and said, "You're Kennedy's boyfriend, right?"

"Yeah, that's me," Micah said with a seemingly charming smile. His ability to lie with a smile was one reason Kennedy preferred to take him to family events, but that day, it was strained.

Which just made their pestering all the more difficult to avoid and ignore.

"Where's Kennedy? Shouldn't she be here with you? Not that—Not that we aren't glad you're here. It's just odd you two are separated from the hip for once."

"She's on a trip. With some girl friends."

"Ah... Without you?"

"It's not that weird," Micah said with enough vitriol to make it feel weird. He masked his sneer with a candy smile and said, "Excuse me," and left to take the trash outside as a means of escape.

The crisp, wintry sea air was cutting on his lungs. He didn't smoke, but he imagined if he did, now would be the time to crave it.

He hurried down the stoop and to the bins. In the midst of flipping open a lid, he smelled the tobacco, and then saw the cherry glowing on the lips of one very exhausted Lee.

"Hey," Micah said. "I didn't know you smoked."

"Not often," he confessed. "Cassian isn't a fan, but it's a good excuse to take breaks at work."

Alistair, Micah thought. He wondered if Alistair's habits centered around smoke breaks and socializing at his company.

"Can I try?" Micah asked.

Lee's offered a slow grin instead and shook his head, cigarette between his lips. He pulled it out, exhaled, and said, "I have a question for you."

Micah tried not to feel insulted by Lee's denial, as if Micah were a teenager making mistakes. "Sure."

"Has anything ever happened between you and Cassian?"

Micah had anticipated something to do with his breakdown in the car. "No," he admitted, truthfully. "I usually see him when I'm pretending to be Kennedy's boyfriend."

Lee scoffed a little, amused. "So you're straight, then."

"Not at all, actually."

"Then why are you being someone's fake boyfriend?"

"I'm better at it than Benny, given the... crowd." He gestured vaguely to the house, the cars, the relatives in their "happy" nuclear families and conservative ideals.

"And Kennedy?"

"She likes having a distraction. And someone for other people to focus on instead of her," he confessed. He'd dressed himself that day, but had made a point to wear a wool sweater over his collared shirt. It was new as well. Micah suspected it was a Christmas present from Kennedy, but never properly wrapped.

"And you don't mind it?"

"No." It occurred to him that Lee may have been asking for advice. "Do you get along with their family?"

Considering he was outside smoking, Micah thought not.

"I just get the impression all my conversations with them are one-sided," Lee confessed.

"It's because you're dressed like Presley," Micah said. At Lee's blank stare, he explained, "They don't take you seriously if you're just a doll Presley's dressing up and taking around town."

"My style is completely different."

It was true, on the surface. Where Presley was bright, preppy, and eclectic, Lee was perpetually underdressed in oversized sweaters, all black.

"They're all of Presley's favorite designers," Micah said. "And do they ask about work?"

"Yes."

"Rich people don't want to hear about your job, they want to talk about their own work, if they have any. Even if it's just charity bullshit. They like to talk about themselves."

"Oh." And then, after a drag, Lee said, "Shit. That's right. You've been in this for a couple years."

Micah shrugged. He tucked his hands in his pockets to ward off the cold. Lee's fingers were red.

They lingered in silence for a while longer until Lee's cigarette was done. He stubbed what remained in a pocket of snow on a dead planter until all smoke fizzled out. He held it there a moment longer before tossing it in the bin.

Micah watched him pop a mint into his mouth and spritz cologne on his collarbone. Only then did Lee say, "Let's go inside."

A game of charades was in session when they returned. Micah and Lee lingered at the back archway, observing as Presley mimed climbing a tree while the kids screamed a variety of incorrect options: "Ladder!" "Stairs!" "Electrician!"

Visitors were still trickling in and before long, Presley had disappeared from the party entirely. It was easy to miss his absence—there were so many people that it was a shoulder-to-shoulder walk to the restroom.

Halfway through taking care of business, an uproar started outside. Micah hurriedly finished, washed his hands, and emerged to find a comical rendition of Santa Claus with Presley's hair creeping down the stairs while the kids started screaming bloody-murder for their presents.

Micah was quick to find Lee where he'd left him and together, they watched in wide-eyed amusement as the armchair next to the tree was vacated.

Presley as Santa Claus took a seat, setting the bag beside him. The beard wasn't convincing at all, and Micah wondered if he'd stuffed a pillow under the fluffy red coat.

The kids were feral, demanding to be next. Spoiled brats, Micah thought just as Lee said, "Spoiled little shits." They were a bit too tipsy to apologize when one of the parents glared back at them. Micah shushed him, laughing, as Lee swore under his breath, "Oh, shit."

The first kid was on Presley's lap. "Now what is it you asked for Christmas," Presley-Claus asked.

"A motorbike!"

"Well, that didn't fit in my sack, but I believe your letter said..." Presley rifled around in the bag with the help of one of his relatives. He produced a box, and the kid tore into it. Indeed, an iPhone 13 was on the kid's list.

"Who the fuck gifts a six-year-old an iPhone," Micah whispered to Lee, once again, a little too loud. People were clapping, though, so it was mostly disguised.

Lee snorted. They elbowed one another, and nearly went apeshit when the next kid received a Steamdeck and the next, an entire Versace outfit.

There were at least twenty kids present, so Micah and Lee escaped to the kitchen to empty the eggnog pitcher. They clinked glasses and sipped away at it while oohs and aahs came from the living room.

"Is it always like this?" Lee asked.

"I don't know. I've never been to Presley's Christmas parties before," Micah confessed. "Kennedy downplays it."

They fell quiet as the next kid shrieked with delight. And then, Lee leaned in close to whisper-scream, "Versace?"

Micah cackled, covering his mouth.

"When I was that age, I wanted a pair of light-up sneakers, not—"

Someone cleared their throat at the entryway. Micah stifled his laugh as Lee cursed under his breath. It was some woman Micah knew to be a Karen with a stick up her tight ass.

"You two should be grateful," she said, clicking her tongue. She refilled her glass of wine and stalked off.

Micah and Lee watched her go, only to turn to one another and mock, soto voce, "YoU tWo ShOuLd Be GrAtEfUl."

Lee swatted his hand dismissively, leant back in his chair, and chugged the last of his eggnog.

After presents, the families started to disperse. Kids were whining about not wanting to share toys, others were throwing over-tired tantrums, and Micah just wanted to sleep off the stiffness still in his cheeks from crying earlier that morning. Thinking about it sent a flinch through his body, a wince on his face, and a chant in his head that said, Don't think about it. Don't think about it. I said stop thinking about it!

Luckily, no one was staying the night. Though the Hampton House had a living area conducive for large parties, there were only two bedrooms, both of which were occupied. With the promise of cleaning up the following morning, Micah claimed the first floor guest bed before the last of the guests were even gone.

A shower did wonders to restore Micah's mood and, after brushing his teeth and dressing, he collapsed into bed with a groan of exhaustion. His muscles were warm from exertion and his heels were sore from standing.

He was nearly asleep, not thinking about anything for once, when it became clear to him that all the guests were gone.

Because the floor creaked overhead.

Micah turned onto his back and laid still. A thud, thud, thud, on the wall behind his head confirmed his suspicions. He folded his arms over his eyes, thinking, Again?!

Though he couldn't hear their voices, the main bedroom's headboard was beating a rhythm into the wall that, when Micah put his hand to the paster, he could feel. The vibrations grew frantic after a minute, quick and punishing.

In the midst of considering whether or not to jerk off for the second time that day, Micah phone lit up on the comforter beside him.

He grabbed it, one hand still tossed over his forehead. It was a text from Alistair with a hidden photo.

How poetic, Micah thought as Alistair's coworker was busy railing his best friend's godfather upstairs.

He scrubbed his thumb over the bottom half of the secret photo. The pixelated blur dispersed along the track, revealing one raised knee and the hint of Alistair's inner thigh tattoo beyond.

The remaining bare skin of his thighs was bitten up and bruised with spotty hickeys. The rest was criss-crossed with straps that disappeared under the blurred-out pixels.

Micah brought his other hand up to scrub away the rest of the pixels, posthaste. The straps were connected to a cage around his half-hard cock.

"Oh my God," he breathed, because why was Alistair so goddamn good at taking nudes when all Micah could think about were the logistics?

Though Alistair's face wasn't in the shot, his tattoos were damning enough. A hand without ink held Alistair's other thigh away, harsh enough for the thumb to dig in, tendons and veins on display. And there, where Micah's dick was supposed to be, was a toy glistening with lube.

The accompanying text came a second later: "Merry Christmas."

Micah's brain short circuited. He sat upright, back to the headboard. The vibrations were softened by the wood, but he could still feel it in his shoulder blades.

Micah hadn't even responded when the thought bubbles appeared again.

"He isn't allowed to come until you send a pic."

"Suffer," Micah responded.

He tugged the hem of his boxers down, slipped them past his ass and down his thighs. He kicked them aside and reached for the toiletry bag on his nightstand. In the midst of fetching lotion, a voice memo appeared.

Micah put his phone to his ear to listen. A voice he'd never heard before, deeper and darker than Alistair's, said, "Say it."

Alistair's heady breaths trickled down Micah's spine. There was a hefty, muffled slap followed by Alistair's frayed and hoarse voice begging, "Mica-hah—"

"I said say it."

"P-Please."

Oh my God, Micah thought.

Alistair had never begged for him like that before.

The note cut out, and he hastily pressed the "Keep" button. With the audio memo saved, Micah held the end of his phone to his lips, thumb hovering over the mic button. He pressed down and whispered, "'Please' what, Alistair."

He watched the voice memo get saved.

Another photo, this time of the disembodied hand extracting half of the toy. Somehow, Micah's brain was still there enough to consider opening the photo fullscreen. Indeed, it was a live photo and on the playback, he could watch the toy pull in and out, watch the stretch of Alistair's ass sucking around it.

Micah typed out a response. "I think he needs a dick in there."

"Agreed," came the reply.

The wall had stopped rattling behind him. By then, likely balls-deep and fucking Alistair—Micah's imagination was running wild—a new reply arrived. "You're good at this. Do you have time?"

"Yes," Micah assured, "I have all night."