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The sky is an open wound above them, and down below, his sister doesn't ask him to walk her down the aisle.
Reality as they know it is ending, and he doesn't get invited to the bachelor party.
There's ten people left alive in the entire stinking, rotten universe, and six of them can't even deign to give him a chance to say I'd rather rip out every single one of my fingernails than sing Bohemian Rhapsody with you losers.
And they all keep bringing up the other Ben like it's going out of style.
He stews about it, nursing the anger with shrimp cocktail and champagne, which makes him feel like a desperate housewife. So he switches to rum and Coke, which invites too many sense memories of the shitty teenager phase he went through with Jayme, before she figured out that Alphonso was way more fun to be around.
And they're both dead, dead, dead.
So he switches to beer, which goes down smooth for a while. And then, he looks over, mid-swig, to see Diego taking a pull from his very own bottle, like someone who's only ever seen glasses as a hindrance.
Ben takes a full bottle of whiskey from the bar after that, and makes it his best friend.
Klaus comes to try and bond at some point, and gets a full-throated burp in his face for his efforts. He calls Ben a puckered asshole and mentions his Ben again (gross), and Ben really wishes he'd started some kind of bingo card for this wedding, because he'd be winning in no time.
He goes to dance with everyone else, anyway. He'd be damned if he missed the chance to get one last dance in before the universe ends, and to prove that he has a better sense of rhythm than all the rest of them put together.
Sloane barely spares him a second glance, too busy with her new husband. The bottle of whiskey that has already been lubricating Ben's throat, and his social skills, for a very unhealthy amount of time tells Ben that it's a good idea to go dance with Klaus, and so he does.
Klaus moves like he's doing a dance interpretation of a sixties cult leader, which checks out. (Ben's read things.) Ben tries to follow along, and just the trying makes his blood spark happier, makes the clouds of discontent clear just a little.
Later, they're in the back garden. The sky is an open wound above them, and they're watching it eat itself. Ben is sitting right next to his sister, but he's given up trying to get her attention, since Mighty Joe Young is right there, his thighs as big as Ben's entire torso.
Klaus' arm is looped around Ben's. His head is nonchalantly tucked under Ben's chin. He smells like sweat, perfume, and Ben's cigarette, and when he tilts his face up, the swirls and churns of a dying universe, red and orange and more red, are reflected in his eyes.
Five heaves, from his mouth and to his feet, and Ben snaps his gaze away. Diego and what's-her-name, Murder Barbie, stumble after, and if this were a play, it would be the beginning of a new act — the one where everyone goes off to a private corner to rut and sweat and fuck. (Or, in Five's case, blow chunks in a potted plant.)
Getting away from the molten sky, from the inevitability of an end where nobody cares about him as much as he deserves, sounds like a fucking gold star idea. So Ben follows Diego and… Lila, that's right, because he doesn't want to be the last deer staring into the headlights of annihilation.
"Scrabble!" he says, not slurring at all this time, and Klaus is on his heels, sauntering not because he's pissed, but because it's the only way Ben's ever seen the guy walk.
"Karaoke!" Klaus counters, and Ben doesn't insist on Scrabble. He's heard how badly Klaus sings, he's so blitzed he can't read for shit right now, and he wants to win.
The opening notes of I Got You Babe make Ben so glad that his tunnel vision has fully taken over, and that there's nobody within earshot to hear how committed he is to his Sonny, or the falsetto that Klaus gives to his Cher impression.
It's cringe at the start, karaoke always fucking is, but that's the point, Ben thinks as Klaus grabs his hand and twirls around him like it's their first dance at prom night.
He gets into it because Klaus is into it, and Klaus is just about the only person who doesn't want to throw Ben off the side of the world, and as sad as it sounds, Ben really needs that right now.
If anyone asked him, Ben would say that letting Klaus sing Kiki Dee's part in Don't Go Breaking My Heart is taking the path of least resistance. But there's no better time like the end of time to face facts — there's just something charming about the way Klaus does it.
If Ben were sober, that thought would make him nauseous. But he's not, so it just makes him laugh.
And anyway, nobody will be asking Ben his opinion on much of anything, judging by Dad and Sloane, and so there's no need to have any, or dwell on why he's enjoying Klaus' company so much all of a sudden.
He stuffs Funyuns in his cheeks, washes them down with whiskey, and cleanses his palate with a cigarette, and spares not a moment's thought to anything that isn't immediate gratification.
In the instrumental break, they do the hand jive together, as much in sync as you can get when one of you (Ben, definitely Ben) is wasted out of his mind. It makes Ben long for something that's far too late to ask for.
Sweet Caroline isn't meant to be a duet, but whiskey makes Ben's voice smooth as old heartbreak, and Klaus just fits in all the places Ben never expected he would.
Like a fucked up jigsaw.
At hands, touching hands, reaching out, they touch palm to palm, Ben's bare skin to Klaus' HELLO and GOODBYE (an overrated song by an overrated band, if you ask Ben, but once again, nobody will), and at touching me, touching you, Klaus does something that would send moralistic parents covering their children's eyes, but that has Ben laughing so widely he feels his lips will split open.
Their eyes meet over the brilliant shine of Ben's grin, and for just that moment, the universe isn't ending. There's just the shitty karaoke speakers, the Funyuns crunching under Klaus' bare feet as he dances, and the dead old man's right, because Ben's good times never seemed this good before.
They're sitting on the pool table, one round of pool and three rounds of what Klaus calls Chaos Ping Pong later, when Klaus says, "You have his smile," with a lopsided grin of his own. Like someone's pulled it out of his face with a fish hook.
And man, it's a pathetic thing to say, because first of all? Of course Ben does, he's identical to their Ben. (His Ben. Whatever.) Secondly, it's pathetic, doubly so, because it works, because finally, someone is paying attention to Ben, and finally someone wants him around. It's not the someone he'd hoped for, but it's good enough.
"Yeah, yeah, I know that look," Klaus says, misinterpreting Ben's expression entirely. He flaps his arms like he's chasing away Fei's birds. Rest in fucking pieces, sister dear. "I've gone through the seven stages of grief, Benihana. I'm over it, you're not him, sorry, sorry."
"Five."
Klaus looks around, like he's spotted an angry bee. "Where?"
"No, there's five stages of grief."
Klaus scoffs. "For you, maybe." He cuffs Ben's shoulder. "You're still smiling, though. Suits you better than the eternal scowl." Klaus' own smile is full of teeth. "You don't wanna give yourself premature wrinkles, do ya?"
Ben sneers. "You're so full of shit, Klaus." He takes a pull from his just opened whiskey bottle, one of many. It's better than wasting any breath on saying that he'll be ash and dust sooner than he'll be able to grow old. (They all will.)
"I'll ask you the same thing the bartender asked the horse," Klaus says amicably, bright as morning dew. "Why the long face?"
Ben sighs, and then he's lying down on the baize of the pool table. He keeps the whiskey bottle, his best friend, in his grip. Glass clinks against a pool ball.
"No one ever listens to me. Dad yelled at me to get out of the room while he talked to you." He spits the word through his teeth. "It makes me feel like a fucking ghost." Klaus' eyebrows knit together at that, and for a moment, he looks like he's about to say something, but Ben's really not interested in hearing it.
"I wanted to save the world, but everyone else is more interested in partying while it gets obliterated." Ben makes a face at himself. If he's going to have a pity party, he should at least be allowed another cigarette. He reaches for it, and — Klaus is already holding out the pack to him, open, one delicate, exquisite cigarette sticking out, primed and ready for Ben to take.
He puts it between his lips, and the burn of the first inhale goes all the way down to the tips of his toes. He's taken his shoes off a while ago, stuffed them in the pool table's pockets in a round of Chaos Ping Pong.
"We're all just counting our blessings while we can, Benny-Ben-Ben," Klaus says. The rhyme rankles. "Might do you good to do the same."
Ben sucks on the cigarette. "Sorry for killing your vibe, or whatever."
"No, no, no." Klaus raises a placating palm. GOODBYE looks down at Ben, in thick, shaky lines. He wonders how much it hurt getting that done, and whether Klaus is the type of guy who likes a bit of controlled pain. It's a fun thought to waste a moment on, and then discard immediately.
"We are just yo-yoing through the emotional rollercoaster of life, and I'm trying to meet you on the upswings," Klaus says. He presses his lips together, huffs. "Those were three different metaphors, but you're drunk."
"Why are you not?" Ben narrows his eyes at him. "The world's ended, man."
Klaus opens his mouth, delighted that he gets to talk about this, the way Klaus is delighted to talk about most things. He's in love with the sound of his own voice. "I'm—" He frowns, and closes his mouth. "Hmm." Ben takes a drag on his cigarette, and waits.
Klaus looks at him, all wide-eyed alarm. "Ben." It reminds Ben of the one, and only, time that Marcus ever smoked pot, how his eyes got so huge they looked about to pop out of his skull. Dead, dead Marcus. He wrenches himself away from that thought, and back to Klaus, who says, "I should catch up, shouldn't I."
This sounds like the best idea of the night to Ben. Slowly, he nods.
Slower, but gathering speed, Klaus nods back.
Still nodding, he extends a hand for Ben to shake, which Ben does, vigorously. Klaus' grip tightens, and he pulls Ben to his feet with the panache of a trapeze artist, the grace of a figure skater.
The moment when Ben is lifted off the pool table, and before his socks touch the ground, feels as long as a music montage. (Somewhere, Elton is singing about a rocket man.)
Stars glitter in Ben's eyes, from the rush of blood to the head, all the alcohol mixing in his system, and Klaus' attention fully and utterly fixed on him.
His socks make contact with the dusty hotel carpet, but his heart still feels too light, like gravity is merely a suggestion.
He grabs his best friend, the whiskey bottle, and hands it to Klaus, passing the torch.
Klaus catches up, and they get well and truly fucked up.
Like, dancing on the pool table without any music, taking off each other's clothes, throwing nuts and chips around like confetti, drinking whiskey like it's water, going cross-eyed with alcohol type of fucked up.
"How are you getting on with the…" Klaus pokes Ben's stomach. Ben is shirtless, but he's kept his jacket. Klaus has been discarding bits of his outfit all around the room, leaving it looking like a velvet and suede-based explosion had hit it. He's down to his briefs. "You know."
"My abs?" Ben says, deliberately obtuse, because he's learned that it's very fun to tease Klaus, especially when he's drunk.
They're taking a breather, leaning against the bannister that looks over onto the lobby. Well, Ben is taking a breather. Klaus is taking his whiskey in a highball glass, with a neon orange ping pong ball as garnish.
"Jesus," Klaus says, almost as an afterthought. His pointer finger is still prodding into Ben's stomach. "You do work out, don't cha." The muscle doesn't even dip, and damn, Ben is proud of the work he's done on himself.
"Or do you mean them?" Ben says. Klaus' reflexes must be out the window along with his sobriety, because he doesn't even flinch when a tentacle coils around his wrist.
It takes a lot more concentration to do this — to control the Horror into a touch that's not strong enough to grind bones and break skin, than it does to just unleash it like a hungry hurricane.
Klaus has been touching him a lot. He'll extend both his hands to Ben, like they're kids playing a chasing game. (What's the time, Mr Wolf? End of the world, children.) He'll squeeze his fingers around Ben's wrist, like he's feeling for a pulse. Or he'll clap his hand on Ben's shoulder, the way a salesman pats the hood of a car he's trying to hawk.
And then, the one that strikes Ben as the weirdest, Klaus will put a hand on the small of his back. It's the way you'd hold someone you were slow dancing with, which Ben knows because he was subject to seeing his sister slow dance with Curious George. (You know his name, Sloane, sweet, soon to be dead Sloane, would say.) To a ballad cover of Teenage Dream, of all the songs in the world.
And the thing is — Ben lets himself be touched, and coaxed into shapes that fit Klaus better. No one else is going to touch you like that, Ben's whiskey-sodden mind supplies.
And the thing is — maybe Klaus doesn't try to recoil away when the Horror grabs his wrist because he's not afraid.
Ben decides to test this theory. Another tentacle, one of the other three that have been oscillating in the air like snakes getting ready to strike, taps Klaus on the shoulder. Tap tap. A third one flicks his hair.
"Whoa," Klaus breathes out. He opens his palm, HELLO, and Ben squeezes his own fists tighter, nails digging into soft flesh. The tentacle around Klaus' wrist drags over the skin of Klaus' palm, HELLO, before retreating, coiling into the air. Klaus' eyes follow it, hazel and astonished. "Dad's been training the shit out of you."
Ben can feel the bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face. His fingernails dig into the heels of his palms. If he's good enough to easily control the Horror stone cold sober, he's good enough to do it drunk out of his skull.
"Not Dad," he says. The old man, doped up or not, doesn't deserve any credit here. "Me."
Klaus' eyes meet his, and when Ben grins at him, it's like the slice of a cold knife on warm skin.
The Horror looms, snakelike shadows dancing over Klaus' face. They rear. Beautiful is the furthest word Ben would use to describe them or their cruel, crow black oscillation, but it is a word that he finds in Klaus' expression, without having to look for it too hard.
It's entirely expected to elicit this kind of reaction from someone of Klaus' tendencies, and yet, it still feels fucking great. Ben deserves this. This is how a Number One should be looked at.
He allows himself a little indulgence, and Klaus a little treat.
With nothing but tenderness and mercy — terms that are as alien to the Horror as the intricacies of the space-time continuum are to an acorn — one of the tentacles traces the line of Klaus' cheekbone. And then his jaw. Klaus' cheek is smooth, except where his stubble is beginning to come in, and where his beard rubs and scratches in just the right way.
Klaus keeps still, eyes wide and dreamy. The tentacle pauses at his chin, and all the rest of them twitch and shiver, reeds in the wind. Or snakes ready to strike, because Ben almost, almost lets his control slip.
The rush of adrenaline he gets from that, the same way your stomach swoops when going down a rollercoaster, is guilty, but a pleasure still.
He could rip Klaus' jaw out without even trying. It'd be as easy as breaking apart a loaf of fresh bread.
He doesn't, though. He exhales, trying not to make it sharp and loud, and the Horror gets sucked back, and under his skin again.
There's sweat in the folds of Ben's stomach. He unclenches his fists, slowly and carefully, like he's holding fragile baby birds in his hands.
"You're really something else, huh," Klaus says. Ben only hears his voice waver because he's listening for it.
He feels like he's holding Klaus in the palm of his hand, too.
"I don't ever do this," Ben says, but it's the drink talking. He'd never admit it sober. "It doesn't freak you out?"
He doesn't mean to phrase it as a question, but it's too late to take it back. (It's the end of the universe talking, whispering, you have nothing else left to lose.)
Klaus' smile is small, and it disappears too quickly for Ben to have time to think about where it comes from.
Klaus says, "I was never scared of you."
Ben knows what fear looks like. He's had the Horror with him since earlier than he can remember, of course he knows what fear looks like. He's on a first-name basis with all its siblings, as well — revulsion, contempt, and dread are all familiar companions.
In the buttery lights of the Hotel Oblivion, at the end of everything, Ben can't see any of those in the way that Klaus looks at him.
Klaus is telling the truth. He's looking at Ben the same way he looked at him in the back garden, earlier, with a shine of gratitude, a twinkle of fondness.
And beyond that, there's something else — an awe, and a longing, that pours forth from his eyes and down Ben's throat, into the pit of his stomach, burning like whiskey.
There's an overbearing hush, like someone put a cosmic pillow over the speaker of the universe. Thin, muffled sounds of distant music come from the ballroom. For all Ben knows, the song could be playing to an empty room at this point. An orchestra on a sinking ship.
Klaus throws back his drink, skinny throat bobbing. He upends the now empty glass over the bannister, shaking out any leftover drops of whiskey, along with the ping pong ball that garnished it.
"Time for a top up," he says, by way of explanation. He saunters towards the pool table, where they'd left the booze sitting.
Below, the ping pong ball hits the tiled lobby floor.
Ben hasn't known Klaus for long, but he's well aware what it looks like when Klaus is trying to escape from a situation which, however trivially, is no longer going the way he wants it to. Well, Ben refuses to allow it this time. Ben's feet make no noise at all on the dusty carpet as he follows Klaus. He doesn't remember what happened to his socks.
"Did you want—" Holding the bottle by the neck, Klaus turns around as he's talking, and cuts himself off, surprised to see Ben right next to him.
Far beneath them, the ping pong ball bounces on the tiles, and out of earshot.
"— whiskey?" Klaus finishes. Both of Ben's feet are pressing into the ground so firmly, his toes might as well have sprouted roots. Klaus' eyebrows are knitted together, the remnants of an asked question now smoothing out again. The corners of his lips are pulled upwards in the beginning of a grin, because sure, it's a little bit funny that Ben is standing so close to him that their feet are almost touching.
"I like how you've been looking at me," Ben says to Klaus' mouth. His gaze travels upwards, to Klaus' eyes, which are wider now, just like his pupils. The lights here are too bright for that — and far too bright for all the other things Ben is thinking about doing, too.
He takes hold of the whiskey, his hand covering Klaus', and sets it back down on the baize. As he does, he takes a step forward, into Klaus' space.
Klaus doesn't lean back, or open his legs, or shove Ben in the chest to push him off. He just looks up from Ben's mouth, and their eyes meet.
This time, when he looks into Klaus' eyes, there's no dying universe reflected there.
Just Ben.
Ben leans in, close enough that his suit jacket brushes against Klaus' naked chest.
He leans closer, so close that everything goes kind of fuzzy.
Their noses brush, but Klaus still hasn't moved. His lips part on a breath, and Ben feels the exhale against his own mouth. Klaus' breath smells like whiskey, and not much else.
It's getting harder to keep his eyes open at this point, so Ben lets them slip shut. He wets his lips with his tongue, and hears the way Klaus' breath catches.
Ben asks, "Are you still looking?"
Klaus does move, then. His hand is warm when it cups Ben's jaw. Ben can feel his fingers linger on his neck for a moment, before they sweep across his cheekbone.
"I am," Klaus says, with unbearable care. He draws the curve of Ben's upper lip with his thumb, from his cupid's bow to the corner of his mouth. His beard rubs against Ben's chin.
Heat that he can barely blame on the whiskey pools in Ben's stomach. He reaches up to cup the back of Klaus' head, dragging his fingers through his curls. He presses his nose against Klaus' cheek.
He can feel how close Klaus' lips are to his own by the tickle of his facial hair. He knows Klaus' mouth is open, because he's breathing in his exhales.
Klaus' other hand lands on Ben's hipbone, and then he trails it up, until he finds bare skin under Ben's jacket.
Ben takes another step closer, until their chests are pressed together. Klaus' skin is hot against his, like he's running a few degrees warmer.
Ben touches his lips to Klaus', hardly applying any pressure. He opens his mouth, letting Klaus breathe into him, warm on his tongue. His tongue, which then touches Klaus', coaxing and soft.
Klaus' thumb traces the scar on Ben's cheek, like it's a teardrop he's trying to wipe away, and Ben's glad he has his eyes closed, but he still squeezes them shut tighter.
Klaus' tongue is in his mouth, then, warmth, whiskey and spit against Ben's tongue, and it's slow, and their lips keep slipping open, and Ben doesn't care that this is one of the messiest ways he's ever kissed anyone, because his head is spinning with it.
It's good, kissing when drunk. Ben's always been a fan. There's an immediate ease to it. His thoughts aren't so loud, as they haven't been ever since he started spending more time with his best friend, the whiskey bottle. There's just static snow and marshmallow fluff between his ears, and it's so much easier to focus on the things he wants, like Klaus' hands on his skin. And the things he needs, like the whimpering, surprised noise Klaus makes when Ben wiggles out of his jacket because his skin is burning, suddenly, a full body flush that feels like sinking into a hot tub, like bad decisions he won't waste time regretting.
All the pathetic, needy little parts of Ben clamour for him to hold onto Klaus longer and tighter than he dares, and so he does. His hand in Klaus' curls, he tugs. Klaus lets him pull his head back and expose the long, long column of his throat. He lets Ben lick at the skin of his neck, and latch his mouth onto him, tasting sweat and the last sticky vestiges of Klaus' perfume. The way Klaus gasps at the ceiling when Ben uses just a graze of teeth is electric. Ben laughs, delighted, against the wet patch of skin he licked.
He hooks his hands just below Klaus' skinny ass, and then he's lifting him onto the pool table, easy and swift, because Klaus is all wiry sinew and lean muscle. It makes Ben's blood pump faster, his grin linger, the thought that he can just so effortlessly pick Klaus up. And that Klaus will let him, that it makes Klaus puff out a little oh of breath and dive for Ben's mouth again.
Klaus runs his tongue along the seam of Ben's lips, and Ben lets his jaw relax, lets his mouth open. His hand is on Klaus' thigh, sliding up hot skin, gently but without stopping as Klaus kisses him like his hourglass is running out of sand. Like the pair of them have shrunk to just the feeling of Ben's mouth, and Ben's tongue against his.
Klaus wraps his stick bug legs around Ben's waist, sliding his ass closer on the baize until he's pressed flush against Ben's stomach. He fits so well between Ben's thighs — Ben feels the pleasure of it pulse from his lower belly through his whole body. Ben digs his fingers into the meat of Klaus' thigh, just shy of the seam of his briefs. He knows he's applying the right amount of pressure when Klaus' entire body twitches, curling into him.
"What the— what the fuck," Klaus says, mouth sliding away from Ben's. He's catching his breath. Ben isn't keeping score, but he's pretty sure this is the longest Klaus has gone without saying anything this whole night. "What are you doing?" His eyes are dark from how wide his pupils are, his lips swollen and red from kissing.
"I thought I was being pretty obvious," Ben says, and brushes his thumb over the front of Klaus' underwear, over his half-hard dick.
Klaus puts a hand on his arm to stop him. "Ben," he starts. When Ben meets his eyes, something in Klaus' expression changes. His fingers are gentle when they touch Ben's face. "Oh, that's just not fair."
Ben wonders what the hell Klaus is talking about — it's just Ben's face — and he's about to ask as much, but Klaus kisses him before he can. This time, it's just a press of the lips, delicate enough that for a moment Ben is almost thrown off balance. He has to brace himself against the pool table because his knees are suddenly pudding, and it's bewildering that this is what he's reduced to at the slightest hint of gentleness. Ben would usually think it embarrassing to boot, but that feeling is about as distant a concept as sobriety right now.
And besides, Klaus has him. Hands bracketing Ben's face to kiss him deeper, thighs bookending Ben's hips, chest arcing towards him, Klaus has him.
Ben doesn't want Klaus to disappear. He doesn't want to pass out and wake up alone.
Klaus kisses him like an old wound reopening. He shivers when Ben's hands smooth over his sides, and Ben's mouth muffles his moan when Ben squeezes his hips, when he drags Klaus forward. He wants friction between their bodies. He wants to hold Klaus steady and see him squirm.
"Klaus." Ben's voice sounds rougher than he expected. He tucks a strand of Klaus' hair behind his ear with slow, lingering fingers. They trace the curve of Klaus' neck, and he feels Klaus lean into the touch, his eyes still closed. "Look at me." Klaus does.
When the Horror wraps around his throat, Klaus' mouth drops open on a gasp. He grabs Ben's bicep, tight, almost tight enough to bruise, but the Horror clings on. Klaus' eyes are huge with surprise.
Ben strokes Klaus' cheekbone with his thumb. Soothes it with a kiss. Klaus' breath, hot and growing shallower, hits his face when Ben moves to whisper in his ear, "Still not scared?"
Klaus laughs, and it's breathless, and maybe it's even disbelieving, but it's delighted enough that it makes Ben grin with all his teeth. "Nooo," Klaus groans. "Oh, this is. Oh." Klaus lets his head fall back. "You do this often?" He leans back on his hands. He looks blissed out, grinning at the ceiling.
Ben runs his hand down Klaus' chest, feeling how it rises and falls with his breathing. "Never."
The Horror twists from Ben's torso, to behind Klaus' hip, up his back and around his throat. It's just one tentacle — it's easier that way, easier for Ben to focus on other things. Like kissing around Klaus' nipple and sucking it into his mouth, and feeling the way Klaus' stomach dips from under his hand when Klaus sucks a breath in through his teeth.
The Horror squeezes Klaus' neck a little tighter. Ben moves his hand a little lower, skating his fingers along the waistband of Klaus' underwear, to the jut of his hip bone. He wants to lay Klaus down on the baize. Climb on top of him right on that damn pool table, covered in Funyuns and peanut shells and spilled whiskey and God knows what else, and hold him down. He wants to grip Klaus' thighs so hard they bruise, and feel every time his muscles contract to pull Ben closer, to get more friction between them. He wants—
"You're so good to me," Klaus says, all but slurring his words, and Ben tries so, so hard to keep his cool about it, but he fails. He fucks up, and he shudders, and he has to close his eyes shut tight so he doesn't have to see Klaus' expression as Klaus hears the soft moan that escapes from his mouth.
Klaus' hands are careful when he reaches out to caress Ben's cheek. Their mouths bump against each other. Their tongues push together in what's more of a shared breath than a kiss, because Klaus' airway is being constricted by a tentacle, and he's trying to press against it so that it chokes him tighter, and Ben?
Ben doesn't stand a fucking chance.
Klaus lowers himself down on the pool table, all the way down, surrounded by the detritus of a drunken night at the end of the world. His hair haloes like smoke around his head. The Horror slides around his throat, slow and squeezing. He digs his fingernails into the baize. He digs his fingernails into Ben, clutching at his forearm. He digs his heels into Ben's back, and Ben holds onto his hips, so that Klaus can press against him harder.
And Ben watches.
The colour is high in Klaus' cheeks, from the booze, from arousal, from the way his oxygen is being slowly cut off. When the Horror slackens, Klaus' mouth hangs open, trying to gulp back as much breath as he can. before Ben makes it tighten again. And loosen. And tighten again, and loosen, and again, and again, building a slow, languorous rhythm that has Klaus lifting his hips up, eyes slipping shut like he can't help it. Ben strokes Klaus' lower belly, nails scraping the soft skin there, eyes on the wet patch on Klaus' briefs, on his dick tenting the flimsy material.
Klaus snaps his hips forward, and it has Ben's hard-on drag against his ass, the sensitive spot behind his balls, in a way that makes them both groan. Klaus is loud, shameless, and Ben is softer, his toes curling. Sweat bites at Ben's skin, almost making Klaus' thighs on his waist slip.
The Horror flexes, pressing into Klaus' spine, and pushes, and with very little input from his own muscles, Klaus folds at the waist and sits up. His arms go around Ben's neck like instinct, their lips connecting like a compulsion.
"Klaus," Ben gasps. Klaus' moustache tickles his cheek when Klaus kisses the corner of his mouth. He kisses a trail to Ben's jaw, then his neck. When he seals his lips around the skin of Ben's neck and sucks, slow and wet, Ben can't stop the moan that wrenches itself out of his mouth. "Fuck, there, fuck."
Klaus shudders against him, like the Horror around his throat and Ben's hands on his hips are the only things keeping him upright. At this angle, Ben can feel how hard Klaus is, how hot and heavy his dick feels.
He makes the Horror squeeze tighter, pressure equally distributed, and it makes Klaus shudder again, and he stops kissing Ben's neck so he can make breathy moans, aborted little gulps of air into Ben's skin, almost drooling on Ben's collarbone. His hips stutter. His stomach muscles clench.
Ben grabs a handful of Klaus' hair, and Klaus is so pliant his head just lolls back at the gentlest tug on his curls. His eyes are slipping shut again. His lips are red, shining with his own spit. His mouth is open, just enough for Ben's tongue to slip in when they kiss. Klaus kisses languidly, like everything is slower, richer, denser for him.
"No one," Ben pants against Klaus' lips, "no one else is gonna touch you like this."
Klaus sighs, sharp and quick, ah, ah, ahh, like the breath he's trying to catch has run away from him, and Ben holds him, and the Horror holds him tighter as he comes, shaking, in his underwear, without Ben having touched his dick at all.
Ben presses a long kiss to Klaus' jaw, fingers in his hair, and doesn't let go until Klaus has stopped twitching, until the Horror slackens and slithers down and away. Klaus' legs drop, and he slumps against Ben, letting himself be held, humming in his throat when Ben starts kissing the angry red marks on his throat, soothing them with lips and tongue.
"Fuck." Klaus sighs, pleased. "I wanna blow you," He says it with such a combination of sluggishness and determination that Ben giggles into the crook of his neck. Klaus laughs back, like it's infectious. "Yeah? You're up for it?"
"Oh, you fucking bet I am," Ben says, and drags Klaus off the pool table, and down to his knees.
Klaus' mouth is slick and hot, and he does everything right. He glides his lips up the side of Ben's dick, licking the oversensitive skin, making it wet with spit. He takes Ben as deep into his throat as he can — he gets too ambitious and chokes, once, and Ben doubles over and has to grab the pool table so he doesn't fall over, because, fuck, that's hot. Klaus sucks at his balls, and at the head of Ben's dick, and he tries being slow, to make it last longer, but Ben's so keyed up and so sensitive that every touch sends sparks up his spine, making him shiver. He can feel every bead of sweat on his body, every point of contact between him and Klaus.
He squeezes his eyes shut when he comes, gasping for breath, and Klaus keeps him in his mouth, letting the come hit the back of his throat, swallowing it all down.
Klaus wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and folds down to the floor, like a deck chair collapsing. Ben pulls his trousers up, the adrenaline crash hitting him like a wall, and crawls up to sprawl on the pool table.
From under the pool table, Klaus sighs. "There's so much come in my underwear."
Ben groans, rolling over onto his stomach. Something crunches in the region of his belly button. A bottle cap digs into his thigh.
"Good thing I always keep a spare pair on me," Klaus continues amicably. There's a shuffling sound, like a cat trapped in a bag. "Learned that from my time in the Boy Scouts." He laughs at his own joke. "Come cuddle."
"On the floor?" Ben snorts. "No. Come up."
"Are you kidding me?" Ben can't see him, but he can imagine Klaus holding an offended hand to his chest. "My soul just came out through my dick. My limbs are spaghetti. You cannot ask me to move. You have no conscience, Benerino." He pauses. "I'm so co-o-oh-old," he sing-songs, in his worst Kate Bush falsetto.
"Jesus, do you ever stop bitching," Ben grumbles into the baize, trying to will his grin away. It doesn't work. "I'm staying here." He pats the pool table, and his hand hits soft fabric. He opens his eyes to find himself face to face with the jacket he took off earlier. He throws it down, and hears it land with a whump. Hopefully, on Klaus' face. "Wear that. It'll keep you warm."
"Asshole," Klaus says, voice muffled by fabric, and Ben laughs. "What is that cologne you're wearing?" He sniffs. "It doesn't suit you."
Ben's still laughing as his eyes fall shut, and then there's darkness, and nothing.
He wakes up an indeterminable amount of time later, with a pounding headache, no memory of anything past burping into Klaus' face, and the sinking feeling that he's alone. When Klaus answers him from the floor, looking almost as bad as Ben feels, the relief is as all-encompassing as it is embarrassing.
He hates that guy.