by Shiawasena Ryokō-sha

The sound of a groan brought John groggily around, the sound strangely expansive in his ears after the confines of his helmet.

Oh no, his helmet. 

The last he remembered, they’d been out on the ice, getting a core sample so they could pick a good spot to set up the drill, teammate chattering glibly in his ear about some nonsense. Who’d been with him again? His mind swam, remembered faces and names mashing together incoherently. He made an attempt to crack open bleary eyes.

The… room?… was strangely pristine – white furnishings with decoratively visible stainless steel frames scattered oddly throughout, like a child’s building blocks abandoned mid-construction. There was a sheet under him, but from the slick way it shifted and the lack of give, it felt like the bed underneath was made of leather. And there, sitting on the bed-couch monstrosity across from him, looking as dazed as someone waking from a hangover and distinctly out of place in his dingy brown coat, was Robert Trout.

They made eye contact. It lingered awkwardly as details of memory trickled back into John’s head.

A routine day on the Ganymede mission: After ages of surface scouting, they were finally preparing to make a long-term bore they could lower equipment larger than a sensor array through, but that meant weeks of scouting for the location least likely to crack and shift on them. So, another day spent on the ice-scooters, this time with Trout, taking surface core samples until the material-science team decided to stop being picky.

There hadn’t been anything extraordinary about it – just the blue-white ice under them and the black-blue void above; the slightly sweaty warmth of envirosuit interior only slightly less irritating than the sound of Trout yammering on about whatever sports broadcast had been included in the last data packet; baseball or football or goddamn water polo, it didn’t really matter – if Trout had the least bit of situational awareness, he would have known John didn’t care for sports in the slightest, and wouldn’t be listening.

Yes, just them, the endless sheet of ice, the hum of the speeder engine between his thighs, and the promise of most of a day’s work before they made it back to the station.

Had they ever reached the sample site? John couldn’t remember. Thinking about pulling to a stop at the registered coordinates, partner’s machine silently mirroring him in the corner of his vision as he dismounted, didn’t spark anything. But, at the same time, he had the vague ghost-sensation of fumbling with the drill unit through thick suit gloves – and what had happened after that? It was all a fog.

A sound broke through to him. “John. John, what are those?” Trout said urgently, gesturing upward into blackness.

He looked up through thick glass into the dimness beyond.

The things clustered around the dome looked rather like sea anemones or hydra, but much, much larger. Their tentacles fluttered slightly in some unseen current, arrayed around what was either a mouth or… well, the opposite of a mouth. Or, if they were like their earthly analogues, both those at once. Several members of the crowd crept incrementally along, suction-cup-like base undulating, snail-like. 

John found himself staring straight into the flat of one ‘flower’, frozen in horror by the realization of just how much the orifice looked like an anus. The sphincter pulsed once, twice. He was flattened by the overwhelming hallucination of a man pressing hard into him from behind, balls-deep in his ass and grinding slightly. He’d have assumed it was a memory, except the sensations thrust upon him were far too enjoyable to reflect the collegiate attempts he’d made at expanding his sexual palate.

“Uh, Trout,” he stuttered, “these things, they’re…”

Trout turned back to look at him, an expression of vague, resigned dread on his face. “Don’t – don’t ask why I’m sure, but – the damn things are telepathic. And they want us to fuck.”

John stared back blankly for a second. He should have been dismissing the statement out of hand; it was patently ridiculous, the plot of juvenile scribblings in a discarded composition notebook, illogical and unfounded and unprovable and – but somehow he knew, just knew in his deepest gut, that Trout was absolutely correct.

It wouldn’t have been such a terrible proposition, if Trout were not so very… Trout. 

He was a big, broad man; thick around the middle in a way that made John think of college rugby, and gifted with a pleasantly expressive face – the only reasoning John had for why his eyes tended to slide over the man in distaste was, well, everything except the visuals.

Trout wasn’t a mean man. To possess meanness would require a level of drive and intentionality – Trout, to his credit, did artfully retreat if he found himself pressing fingers into someone’s old, lingering pains, which was not often. Not for lack of doing it – for lack of noticing. If John had a nerve somewhere, Trout had struck it so often just seeing their names listed together on the day’s schedule made a hot pool of irritation start to bubble in his core, and he didn’t even have a justification for that!

No, poor, blameless Robert Trout – it wasn’t his fault for making the best of John’s tendency toward the tacturn by being an accidental pest. But now, apparently, they were going to be having sex. Somewhere in the corner of his vision, a tentacle wiggled. He was struck with a vertiginous view of the room as it might have been several minutes before, two familiar human bodies limp on its strange furniture; for some reason, that left John awash in a mixture of rage and guilt.

“John. John Yew. Earth to John, what’s your status?” Trout was standing in front of him now, peering at his face with the sort of concern of an observer who thinks they’re about to witness someone pass out. It took John several heartbeats to realize neither of Trout’s hands was touching him; for once, he wished Trout hadn’t apparently noticed John avoiding such things.

“Well, Dr. Trout, I find myself wanting to think through the situation somewhat. It is a first-contact situation. In some sense of that phrase.” John paused. “I’m not playing skeptic. But! This is absurd! After all these years, humanity gets confirmation that there’s something out there approximating other consciousness and – and it wants… what it wants is a B-movie, schlock-grade gay porno!”

Trout stared back at him for a moment, cow-eyed, then blinked rapidly, clearing the sheen of incredulity from his eyes. With some humor, he wheezed out, “And it’s the implied production quality getting you, I’d never have–“

“Look, if I’m going to become an adult star, it should have been on my own terms,” John huffed. “I’ve got standards!” Trout actually chuckled at that – John was surprised he’d registered the statement was intended to be a joke. “All right – having had a moment to… evaluate, how are we planning to address this situation?”

Trout licked his lips and John braced for some statement most obscene. “Well,” he said, “While you were… evaluating, I did a little scan around. I think I can see some kind of break in the wall panels over there” –he gestured– “that’s presumably a door; they didn’t just… lift the dome off the place to drop us in. Or teleport, or whatever.” They both glanced upward to the audience of gently waving, pulsing forms. Taken in abstract, the things looked like a forest of warped, grotesque arms. “So, uh, I think we should try that first?”

John felt so flabbergasted he might as well be disappointed. The heated itch of discomfort he’d felt vanished so fast he felt cold. “Oh. Yes, that would be logical, let’s just–” He hopped from the strange table-bed and started to walk to the indicated structural weakness.

Together, they tapped and intermittently hammered on the panel, checking for irregularities. The center of the area had a promising kind of hollowness to the resonation, perhaps the hint of a corridor beyond. The whole time, John could feel the inscrutable gaze of a hundred anuses on the back of his neck. It prickled.

The back of Trout’s neck was getting sweaty. He stepped back to lean against a nearby table. “Okay, so – if we could find something to use as a prybar, or a sort of chisel–” He’d taken off his coat at some point and slung it over one shoulder. Between the slightly high warmth of the room and the exertion, his cheap white undershirt clung to him, translucent in patches. John’s eyes traced the curve of his ribs, the contour of his belly, wondering how a man could look so strong and yet so velvet-soft.

The tentacles swayed in the corners of John’s vision.

“Are you all right? I feel like I lost you,” Trout asked.

“…I’m fine.” That wasn’t precisely true, and John knew it. He felt emotions, mahogany-red and bilious, churning deep in his gut. So what if he didn’t like Trout; he could be honest with himself, and the man’s profound disregard toward lustful gazes was… itself inviting. How nice to look, without the indignity of eyes pressing back into you, making assumptions.

It was lonely in space. Sure, more people like him than average chose to work out in the vastness of the field – space-age dreams for the people always a step too far into the future for the bland palate of heterosexuals – but… crews were small, the people one met limited, and political solidarity didn’t get you laid.

He’d made that mistake, once, when he was younger and stationed on a Mars installation: a man who’d looked at his “stuffy academic” clothing, his mannerisms, and his admitted queerness, and seen a facade to be ripped off for a core of needy submission. After the eager anticipation of having someone look twice, when said man pitched at the revelation that no, John’s heart wasn’t hidden somewhere deep inside, he’s simply like that, well. After such a slap to the face, John was fairly sure he’d never separate the thrill of being wanted from the notion a skewed image might be preferred over the man inside it.

What a joy not to fear that particular kind of judgement or the implications it might have. Unfortunately, in the stretching silence that enveloped the faux living-space, it occurred to John his lack of elaboration might generate other kinds of judgements.

Trout crossed his arms. “You don’t look fine. John, we don’t know how we were knocked out. If you pass out again because you tried to work through feeling sick–“

“I’m fine. Just distracted.” John turned his back, contemplating a nearby half-armed ‘chair’ for potentially useful parts. “The aliens want us to have sex. Perhaps we open this door and escape, no further problems. But what about our hosts? They’re not likely to be pleased by the situation, and they’ve already demonstrated an ability to manhandle us rather completely. This could all be quite a waste of time.”

He didn’t feel movement behind him. Trout must have been still. “I know you don’t like me,” Trout said, “but just to be clear, I don’t return the sentiment. It’s the principle of a thing, you know? Besides, the grant committee doesn’t let people who buckle under that kind of stress go to planets where it’s you and the team or… dying. It was practically a third of the suitability evaluation” A pause. “John, I’m not going to assault you because it might be more convenient. You’re not on a timer to me attacking you.”

“Perhaps.” John considered his next words carefully. “But that’s not my fear. It’s… the not knowing, I believe. The unknown. It’s somewhat more comforting to imagine our choices have no impact on the outcome than to come away understanding… other options had been available. For the record, I don’t… dislike you.”

The following pause was longer. John heard a faint ticking sound, perhaps Trout fiddling with the zipper of his jacket. “So, if this has you spooked, what options would make you happiest?”

“Well,” John snapped, turning to face him with rigid shoulders. “If we’ll be having sex, I don’t enjoy things going into me. I’m given to understand that tends to be the reason many men are… inflexible about sexuality, so it doesn’t help the situation at all that I am gay.” His fists curled a little, defensively.

The look on Trout’s face fell somewhere between confusion and sadness. “Well, yes, then that wouldn’t be an option. You don’t want to, and that’s that. The, uh, good news is that, if what I’ve seen is accurate, the aliens aren’t set on a specific arrangement, so if you meant to imply going along in some other way would work for you–“

“Oh.” John stopped to contemplate his choices. “That – that would work.”

“‘That’, as in ‘sex’?”

“Yes. Having sex.”

“Well, that I can definitely do.” Trout rummaged through the pockets of his half-discarded jacket, eventually retrieving something with a triumphant noise and tossing it to John. 

John peered closely at the small foil packet. “This expired three years ago.”

“Oh. I, ah, haven’t had many reasons to replace it,” Trout replied sheepishly.

“You do know that you can obtain fresh ones from the infirmary stock, correct?” The only reply was an awkward cough. “Oh well. At minimum, no one currently on staff has a biosafety flag, so we have very little to worry about either way.”

“Yeah, I’m up on my shots,” Trout said, softly. When John looked back at him, he registered the man’s open expression. Waiting, for something.

John’s voice wavered slightly as he said, “You do, in fact, feel comfortable with… this? Having – well, some sort of sex, in front of aliens? Which, potentially, the rest of the crew will find out about? With me?” 

Trout smiled. “Wouldn’t have offered something I didn’t mean. So, uh, how would you like to do this, considering, well,” he gestured at their surroundings vaguely. “I think we’ve gotten to ‘not on the bottom,’ but even though the visions haven’t, ah, strayed from penetration, we could start with trying another way to see if that’s enough, if you’d rather not–“

“No. No, I… quite enjoy topping. I simply… don’t like to assume…” John stilled, his mind overlaying what he’d said before on his many memories of others describing the sort of person who said such things. A dozen phrases of apology, attempts to mitigate the grotesquery of having said he craved from others what he’d rather not provide, dried before they could ever hit his tongue.

A single finger stroked his cheek. “Okay! Wanted to make sure you’d thought of that. Is this – I mean, how do you feel about being touched, in other ways? Would a hug be… okay?”

The response to that hardly merited words. John wrapped his arms around Trout and buried his face in the thick muscle of his upper shoulder; after a moment, Trout reciprocated the motion, cradling him and softly petting his lower back.

So close, Trout smelled pleasantly masculine – mostly of the lightly almond-scented soap they all used, but with undertones of musky, animal existence. Before other parts of his mind came to life, John wondered absently at the fact they didn’t all smell alike, even in so tightly controlled an environment as the research base. He didn’t lose much time at that, however; while too old to sport an erection at the slightest provocation, the tactile confirmation that Trout was exactly as pleasant to touch as he looked constituted a magnificent stimulus. Exploratorily, John nibbled at his neck.

Trout chuckled, the vibration rumbling through John. “Oh, okay,” he said, and kissed back somewhere around John’s ear as he snuck fingers under his waistband. That seemed like an excellent point to work his way around to removing Trout’s slightly damp shirt; John briskly lifted its hem up, expecting Trout to follow along. Instead, he ended up mostly tangled in it, and they disengaged as Trout freed himself. Almost involuntarily, John reached out to stroke the fuzz of his chest hair. “Hey!” said Trout, smiling. Suddenly, John’s head was forced up by a string of kisses along his throat as Trout vigorously undid his shirt buttons.

“Alright, there’s the spot,” Trout said, leading John by the edges of his collar to one of the lower bed-couches and hopping up to sit on it. With a wiggle that made John’s dick twitch, Trout had his pants undone and halfway down before he thought to step in and assist in the rest of the way. As an afterthought, he undid his own belt, fumbling with the catch before Trout went in and took up the slack.

“How much preparation do you think you’ll need?” John asked, voice rough.

“Just a little. I, ah, do regular enough anal play I don’t usually have an issue?” Trout looked a little embarrassed, so John squeezed his leg in an attempt at reassurance, then trailed his fingers a little higher, toward what had been revealed to be an enticingly plump cock.

“I think we can make do. Oh,” John winced, then rummaged in the heap they’d made of his pants for the condom. “But it would go better with some lube involved.” He fiddled with the freshly torn pack, getting as much as he could on the fingers of his dominant hand before he gently spread Trout’s legs. Trout leaned back encouragingly as John’s fingers traced down his balls and perineum and spread his cheeks for access. “Tell me how this feels,” John said, gently starting to stroke the ring of muscle with his lubed fingers as his other hand idly explored the base of Trout’s foreskin.

“Surely you can go faster?” Trout whined. John complied, pressing his first two fingers in almost to a knuckle before switching back to a pulsing, spreading motion. He looked up warily, and caught Trout gazing with acute interest at his dick. Logical enough. John pressed a relatively chaste kiss on the shaft of Trout’s as he delved to a second knuckle, testing the elasticity and resistance against his muscle memory. It seemed Trout had been telling the truth when he admitted to being in regular practice. Cheek still flush to dick, he looked up at Trout through his eyelashes. The man looked quite taken with the sight. John lipped it again, then ran his tongue firmly against it to a little sigh from Trout. “Shall I?” 

Trout nodded, and John nabbed the condom from its resting place on the leathery upholstery to roll it over his dick before insertion.

The press inward was almost silent but for their hushed breathing. John took it slowly, not quite trusting the condom’s lube alone. Every few inches, he pulsed forward and back slightly, testing how well he slid and whether Trout might clamp down and injure himself, but his fears weren’t realised. Blessedly, he had no trouble staying hard, not with Trout so all-consumingly, firmly present in front of him, and shifting into a test of what angle felt best seemed natural as could be.

“Oh!” Trout outright squeaked. John stopped.

“Are you all right?”

“No, that was good. You, uh, hit the spot.” Trout shifted his hips slightly in a way that felt downright divine.

“Then I’ll do it again,” John said, attempting to make good on his statement. Slowly, he settled into a rhythm, rolling his hips forward and back as Trout’s hands explored his face, his chest, his arms, his waist… he darted them back up, rolling at one nipple, before discarding the effort in the face of John’s nonreaction. For once, Trout seemed to have little to say, but the short pant of his breathing sounded far from distressed about the situation.

Finally, John found the right angle again, to a moan from Trout, and he dug into it with a vigor. Trout swallowed, hands on the back of John’s neck as his eyes slid closed, lost in the touch of their bodies, and John leaned forward to hold together as much of their length as he could while still thrusting. Trout’s cock was hard against his belly.

It wasn’t quite clear to John what, precisely, he did that worked so well, but it seemed only logical such sensation would prevent that kind of memory. Regardless, in the heat of touch, Trout came, and in the rhythmic tensing of his body, so did John. Limply, John tipped the rest of the way forward, letting himself rest against Trout’s strong chest while his body refused to do much more. They breathed deeply together, almost hitting an offbeat rhythm before John thought to withdraw enough to remove the condom. Spent fluid knotted into a durable compartment, he chucked the waste in a random direction before resting himself back on top of Trout.

Hands were rubbing his back. “Tired, huh?” said Trout. John didn’t respond, numb now with relaxation instead of fear. He could feel Trout move, and saw his face peer upwards. “Okay, so, the aliens are… confused.”

John made a puzzled noise in the back of his throat.

“Look, I don’t know. It’s the… mouthfeel of the stuff I start thinking if I glance at them.” Another pause. “Okay, now they’re thinking about the base. I hope that means they’re thinking about putting us back eventually…”

“How are you so awake?” John mumbled, to a light chuckle under him like a speeder passing by.

Fingers kneaded pleasantly at the back of his neck. “Not sure. Definitely not a knock on your go, there. That was… nice.” Trout paused. “Uh, if you didn’t guess from… implication, I’m not straight. And, well, I don’t know that you’d want to, but,” he continued, his great heart fluttering in John’s ear, “if this isn’t all just a very strange dream, perhaps, sometime, we might… try this again?”

“Yes. But no aliens.”

“Yes, no aliens.”

As John slowly brought himself back around to wakefulness, a state where he might have some profounder thought about that piece of it all, it occurred to him that, perhaps, Trout being so very Trout had never been a bad thing at all.