White petals . Funeral flowers

The most popular types of funeral flowers are lilies, chrysanthemums, orchids, and carnations. / . ///

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AM.

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There was a small white orchid outside of Hermes’ room when they arrived.

“Another one,” Hermes mumbled, leaning down to pick it up.

Cam leaned in and read the card. “This one’s from Shear.”

“He is thoughtful,” Hermes said. “I have not gotten him anything yet.”

Cam felt the corner of his mouth lift. “I’m sure he understands. Besides, there aren’t any flowers left.” He’d already tried to arrange for flowers to be sent to Shear and found the gardening quarter was empty—and the gardener quite stressed. Cam sent Captain Shear a box of condolences chocolate instead. “You can get something for him when we dock at Thetis next week.”

Hermes absently stroked the long thin stem of the orchid, brows pulled together in thought. After a moment, he shook his head and turned to his door, opening it with a beep. Cam hesitated at the threshold until Hermes gestured. “Please, come in.”

Cam exhaled and stepped through. The room was filled with flowers—much like Cam’s own, though the flowers were “glad you didn’t die” flowers instead of condolences—but it was otherwise pristine. His window blind was open, revealing the stars outside, and Cam was drawn over, looking out. He’d lived in space for many years now, but it never got old, seeing the stars like this. Being in Hermes’ room, blanketed in the dim light of the stars outside, brought an unexpected sense of calm to Cam’s frantic thoughts.

Hermes placed the orchid on the only available surface left—at the top of his refrigerator—and then stood, stiffly, as if awaiting instruction. Cam blinked over to him and raised one eyebrow in question.

“I do not know how to practice my telepathy,” Hermes explained.

Cam thought back to them jogging side by side in the training quarter. “We can practice together. You can try closing the connection on me.”

Hermes tilted his head, considering the idea.

“If you want,” added Cam.

“Okay.”

The chairs on either side of his dining table were both occupied with floral arrangements. Cam pointed to Hermes’ bed instead and willed his face not to blush. As he sat with Hermes, side by side, he wondered if maybe this were a terribly dumb idea.

But Hermes held out his hand between them, fingers opening shyly to invite Cam’s own, and Cam’s hesitations vanished—just like that. Gently, he corded their hands.

Hermes winced and Cam leaned in to examine his face. “What is it?”

Hermes just shook his head, brows pinched. After a moment, his face relaxed again, and he nodded very subtly, as if everything was okay. Cam tightened their hands together, thumb stroking Hermes’ fingers.

Hermes was warm and soft and although he’d been on his feet and active all day, he still smelled of the cedar cologne he often wore. Cam found himself appreciating everything in this one singular moment in time: holding Hermes’ hand, alone with him where it was safe, surrounded by flowers and stars.

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During the rescue, as the team from Soter lifted them from that giant pit, Cam was filled with one specific–irrational–thought. He was frantic—unhinged, basically, from a lack of water and sleep—and he had a fear he would never get to hold Hermes again.

He was getting distracted. Cam looked up, into Hermes’ face, and asked, “What am I thinking?”

“When we parted on T-446 during the rescue, you thought that you would feel cold for the rest of your life, because you never felt as warm as when you held me.”

Cam smiled. “Okay, so, it’s working.” His thumb stroked the long, smooth line of Hermes’ forefinger. “Can you try blocking me out, now?”

He watched Hermes, staring into his smooth, handsome face. “Alright.” A moment of silence passed as Cam thought of mathematical equations. Hermes squinted.

Cam asked quietly, “Do you see anything? Hear anything?” X equals negative B…

Hermes shook his head. “It’s working. I cannot read your thoughts,” he whispered.

They were very close. Nearly sharing air. “I figured you’d be able to control it. Here.” Cam held out his other hand and Hermes took it without question. “What now?”

Hermes looked at their joined hands and shook his head. “It is harder to block, I believe, when we are touching more. You are reciting the quadratic formula.”

Cam smiled at Hermes’ face in deep concentration. “Keep trying.”

After a moment, Hermes said, “When I concentrate, I cannot hear your thoughts. Even now.”

Cam squeezed his hands.

“It appears the more contact I have with the individual, the harder it is to control the telepathy. It is like—” He bit his bottom lip briefly, pulling together the words. “A tap of water that is always on. And when we touch more broadly, it flows more strongly, and a simple block does not work as well.”

“We can keep practicing,” Cam said.

“I believe it is stronger when contact is skin to skin as well,” said Hermes. He dropped one of Cam’s hands, and grasped his wrist instead, covered by fabric. Hermes’ tilted his head back, concentrating. “This is easier to block. Perhaps I could wear gloves.”

Cam’s heart thundered beneath Hermes’ palm. Could he feel it? Did he know? “We can practice skin to skin for better control,” Cam whispered—like he would wake himself up if he spoke at volume.

He took Hermes’ hand and guided it down, to the hem of his shirt.

Cam was, in this moment, awash with want. He pulled Hermes’ hand beneath his shirt and up to his stomach. And before he could question it, Cam rid himself of the shirt entirely, lifting it over his head, pulling off his Soter comms armband on the way. Hermes’ fingers gently stroked from his belly to his ribs, up his naked torso. Cam didn’t have to take his other hand—Hermes reached out, his long fingers wrapping into Cam’s now unclothed middle. Hermes pulled him forward—until Cam was sat upon his lap, thighs spread.

Cam began to unbutton the top of the shirt Hermes wore. Their noses brushed as he pulled it off, shoving it smoothly down Hermes’ arms. Naked from the waist up, Cam whispered, voice hoarse with want, “Are we touching enough?”

Hermes kissed him. Cam felt like a faucet opened. He moaned into the seam of Hermes’ mouth and Hermes’ hands spasmed against the planes of his back before tightening, hard, and pulling Cam into every available inch of skin. Hermes gasped for air as Cam tightened his legs, pushing their clothed erections together, and Cam took the opportunity to lick into his mouth.

It was Hermes who made a noise this time—a soft, wanting sigh. Cam’s hands began to tremble and he frantically pushed back enough to pull down his pants, unbuckle his leg bracers, and fumble with Hermes’ slacks after. He kicked their trousers away, unconcerned where they fell in a wrinkled lump nearby, and they were finally naked—touching chest to chest, hip to hip, and thigh to thigh. And still they kissed, breathlessly, tongues wet as their mouths collided in quiet want.

They shifted down, side by side, until they were laid across Hermes’ bed together. Cam slid one leg up, hooking his knee over Hermes’ hip, holding them close, skin to skin. He moved one hand from Hermes’ face to his neck, then to his shoulder, and finally his side, savoring his warmth and the hard, smooth lines of him. Cam’s thoughts guided Hermes–so his strong, soft hands slid into Cam’s hair and then down, to the small of his back, and over the swell of his ass.

Gasps turned to sighs.

They continued to kiss, all thoughts of practice—all thoughts of anything—gone. The frantic pace fell into a comfortable embrace, their lips gently pressed together, moving slowly, their want simply simmering in a slow, continual kiss.

Perhaps it was relief and exhaustion in one that did it, but after a half-hour of their warm, saturated kissing—they fell asleep. Hermes first, eyes fallen shut as exhaustion took over, and then Cam, his hands tucked against Hermes’ chest, lips kiss-stung and swollen.

That night, the stars blinked down at them from the open blind.