Chapter 2: Echoes of the Wager
The water hit his shoulders like a thousand tiny fists, hot enough to sting, and Ender gasped—actually gasped, out loud, no pillow to swallow it, no lip to bite—before he could remember to be embarrassed.
Gene heard it. Of course he heard it. He was standing right there, one hand braced against the tile above Ender's head, the other working a bar of lavender soap into a thick lather. Steam curled between them, fogging the mirror, softening the edges of everything. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, flickering once, twice, before settling into its usual hum.
"Something wrong?" Gene asked. His voice was mild. His eyes were not.
Ender shook his head. Water streamed down his face, plastering curls to his cheeks. "Just—hot."
"It's supposed to be hot."
"I know."
"You're shaking."
"I'm not."
Gene smiled. That slow, knowing thing that made Ender's stomach flip. He reached out, brushed a wet curl off Ender's forehead, let his thumb drag down the side of Ender's face. "You are," he said. "But that's okay. We're not done with you yet."
Behind Ender, the shower door creaked open. Zenix stepped in, already naked, already grinning, already crowding Ender against the wet tile before the door had even clicked shut. His chest pressed to Ender's back, his hands finding Ender's hips like they belonged there.
"Miss me?" Zenix murmured against Ender's shoulder.
"You were gone for two minutes."
"Felt longer."
Gene passed the soap to Zenix without a word. They moved around each other like they'd been doing this for years—which, Ender supposed, they had. Before him. Before this. There was a choreography to it, a rhythm, and Ender was only just beginning to learn the steps.
Zenix's hands slid around Ender's waist, slick with soap, and Ender's breath caught. He tried to swallow it. Old habit. Reflex. But Zenix noticed—Zenix always noticed—and laughed low against his ear.
"Nope," Zenix said. "None of that. We talked about this."
"We didn't talk about anything."
"We're talking now." Zenix's fingers traced the line of Ender's ribs, the dip of his navel, the jut of his hipbones. Each touch sent a shiver up Ender's spine that had nothing to do with the water temperature. "You're gonna let us hear you. All of it. Every little sound."
Ender's throat tightened. "I don't—"
"You do. You've been doing it for months. Holding everything in." Zenix's teeth grazed the shell of Ender's ear, and Ender's whole body jerked. A whimper escaped before he could stop it—small, cracked, mortifying. "See? There's one."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't count them."
Gene laughed. He was watching them from under the spray, water beading on his chest, his hair slicked back. He looked like something out of a painting—something classical and cruel. "Too late," he said. "I've been counting since the bedroom."
Ender's face burned. "That's—you can't—"
"One," Gene said, holding up a finger. "When I kissed your neck. Two, when I got your sweats off. Three, when Zenix walked in just now. And that's not even counting the ones in the shower."
"There haven't been any in the shower."
"Four," Gene said.
Ender blinked. "What?"
"That little sound you just made. The indignant one. That counts."
"It does not."
"Everything counts." Gene stepped closer, until he was a wall of wet heat in front of Ender, Zenix a wall of wet heat behind. Trapped. Ender was trapped between them, and his heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth. "Every breath you try to hold. Every time you bite your lip. Every little hitch and gasp and whimper you think you're hiding. I hear all of it, Ender. I always have."
The words landed somewhere deep in Ender's chest. Always have. All those months. All those nights with his face buried in a pillow, his knuckles white, his jaw aching from keeping it all in—and Gene had heard anyway. Had known. Had been waiting.
"Why didn't you say something?" Ender whispered.
"Because you weren't ready." Gene's hand found his jaw, tilted his face up. "But you're ready now. Aren't you?"
Ender couldn't answer. His throat was too tight. But he didn't pull away, either. Didn't hide. And that, apparently, was answer enough.
Zenix's hands started moving again. Slower this time. Intentional. He soaped Ender's shoulders, his arms, his chest—palms flat, fingers spread, dragging over every inch of skin like he was mapping it. Ender's breath came faster. He tried to keep it even. Failed.
"That's five," Gene murmured.
"Stop counting."
"No."
Zenix's hands dipped lower. Over Ender's stomach, down his hips, skimming the tops of his thighs. Ender's knees went weak. He sagged back against Zenix, who caught him easily, who laughed and bit down on the curve of his shoulder.
"Six," Gene said.
"That one hurt."
"Did it?"
No. It didn't. It felt good. It felt like being claimed. Ender's head fell back against Zenix's shoulder, and he didn't try to hide the sound that came out of him—a low, shaky exhale that was almost a moan.
Gene's eyes darkened. "Seven."
"I hate you."
"You don't."
"I do. I hate you both."
Zenix's fingers curled around him, slow and deliberate, and Ender's whole body arched. The sound that tore out of him was loud—too loud, echoing off the tile, filling the whole bathroom. He clapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes wide.
Gene pulled it away. Gently. Firmly. Pinned it to the wall above Ender's head.
"None of that," he said. "Remember the dare?"
Ender's breath hitched. "The dare is dead."
"The dare is very much alive." Gene's free hand slid down Ender's chest, nails scraping lightly, and Ender shuddered. "You came to us. You asked. And now you're going to let us hear exactly how much you wanted it."
"I didn't ask—"
"You walked through the door. Same thing."
Zenix's hand moved faster. His other hand gripped Ender's hip, holding him steady. His mouth found the side of Ender's throat, teeth and tongue and heat, and Ender made a sound he'd never made before—high and desperate and completely, utterly shameless.
"Eight," Gene said.
"Nine," Zenix corrected, pulling back just long enough to grin. "That one was two syllables."
"Counting syllables now?"
"Might as well be thorough."
Ender wanted to disappear. Wanted to sink through the tile floor and never be seen again. But he also wanted—God, he wanted. More than he'd ever let himself want anything. His hips bucked into Zenix's hand, and the sound that followed was obscene.
"Ten," Gene said.
"Eleven."
"Twelve."
"You're not even keeping track anymore."
"I'm counting in spirit."
Gene's mouth found his collarbone. Sucked hard. Ender cried out—actually cried out, a broken, needy thing that bounced off the walls and filled every corner of the room. Gene didn't stop. He moved lower, teeth scraping over Ender's sternum, leaving marks that would bloom purple by morning.
"That's thirteen," Gene murmured against his skin.
"I hate you."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I mean it."
"Sure you do."
Zenix's fingers slid lower, pressing where Ender was slick with soap and water and want. Ender's whole body jolted. His hands scrambled for purchase on the wet tile, found nothing, ended up fisted in Zenix's hair instead. Zenix laughed against his throat.
"Easy, love. We've barely started."
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"I don't—I can't—"
"You can." Gene's voice was soft but absolute. "You've been holding back for months. Years, maybe. Let it go. Let us have it."
One finger. Then two. Ender's vision went white at the edges. The sound that came out of him wasn't human—it was raw and wrecked and it filled the bathroom like smoke. He didn't try to stop it. Didn't want to.
"That's fourteen," Gene said. "Fifteen. Sixteen. You're doing so good, baby. So good for us."
Zenix's fingers curled. Pressed. Found that spot that made Ender's knees buckle. He would've fallen if Zenix hadn't been holding him up, if Gene hadn't been pressed against his front, solid and warm and immovable.
"I'm—" Ender's voice cracked. "I'm close."
"We know." Gene kissed his forehead, gentle, at odds with the bruising grip of his hands. "That's the point. We want to hear you come apart. We want to hear every second of it."
"I can't—"
"You can."
"I'll be too loud—"
"The neighbors can deal."
Zenix's pace quickened. His thumb pressed just right, and Ender's whole body drew tight like a bowstring. He was shaking. Crying, maybe—he couldn't tell anymore. Everything was heat and pressure and the sound of water and Gene's voice in his ear, steady and sure.
"Come on," Gene whispered. "Let go. We've got you."
And Ender did.
The sound that ripped out of him was something he'd never heard himself make before—a long, broken, keening cry that echoed off the tile and filled the whole house. His body convulsed between them, hips jerking, hands scrabbling for anything to hold onto. Zenix held him through it, murmuring against his skin. Gene held his wrists pinned to the wall, watching his face, cataloging every twitch and shudder.
When it was over, Ender sagged. Boneless. Weightless. Zenix caught him, eased him down to the shower floor, where the water pooled warm around his knees. Gene knelt beside him, pushed wet curls out of his face.
"How many?" Ender managed. His voice was wrecked.
Gene smiled. "Lost count."
"That many?"
"That many."
Zenix pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "You did so good, love. So fucking good."
Ender's face burned. But he didn't hide. Didn't turn away. He sat there on the shower floor, wrecked and exposed and more seen than he'd ever been in his life, and he let them look.
The water ran cold eventually. Gene turned it off. They wrapped him in towels, dried his hair, carried him to bed. And when Ender finally found his voice again, hours later, curled between them in the dark, he whispered something he'd never said before.
"I don't want to hide anymore."
Gene's arm tightened around his waist.
"Good," he said. "Because we're not letting you."