Disclaimer: These are not my characters. They belong to Chris Carter. Who really should use them more often. This was not written for money or any other return but making a friend smile. Which is not to say that I wouldn't do it for money if given the chance...
Rated NC-17.
***
AN ANECDOTAL STUDY ON THE APPLICATION OF MEMORY PERTAINING TO AROUSAL IN THE MODERATELY REPRESSED HUMAN MALE
We can't go to parties
No one will invite us
We can't go to zoos
The animals bite us
But we gotta have some fun
With someone...--Jim Betts, "Losers"
//"You can strip Byers naked."//
He couldn't get those words out of his head. What was worse, every time memory replayed the words, it replayed the physical sensations as well. All involuntary functions shut down for an instant -- cardiopulmonary, respiratory, neurological, everything -- then all started up again at once leaving him feeling light-headed, sweaty, and slightly nauseous. And embarrassingly erect.
When reality had snapped back into play that afternoon at the hospital and he'd realized that the only thing Fox Mulder had been interested in was his suit, the thought of what Frohike would say should his condition be noticed had been quite enough to take care of the problem.
Then.
Lately, even the thought of what his mother would say wasn't helping.
//"You can strip Byers naked."//
Damn.
He closed his eyes for a moment and found himself falling into the depths of a full-lipped and speculative smile. Mulder's smile. The feel of Mulder's mouth around... //All right. Fine. Stop it.// Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes, pushed himself away from the computer, and was very careful to turn away from his companions as he stood. "I'm going out for a while."
Pushing back his hair, Langly looked up from the screen he was reading. "What about...?"
"Look, the ferrets will run fine without me, okay. I'll check what they've flagged later."
"But..."
"Later."
"What's with him?" Langly demanded when the door closed behind Byers with as close to a slam as temperament would allow.
"Boner."
"What?"
With most of his attention still on the mother board he was reconfiguring, Frohike grinned. "He's been carrying a boner around for the last month. He doesn't do something about it soon, he's going to be able to pound nails with it."
Langly glanced from Frohike to the door. "You think he's gonna..." Then back to Frohike again. Their eyes met and they answered the question together.
"Nah."
***
//"You can strip Byers naked."//
Under the circumstances, walking wasn't exactly comfortable but it beat staying inside and trying to hide the pup tent in his pants. He was pretty sure Langly hadn't noticed but, looking up from his breakfast bowl of cornflakes, he thought he'd caught Frohike leering. That wasn't unusual, of course, but this morning the leer seemed directed at him. He didn't think he could stand it if they found out; they'd never let him live it down.
//"You can strip Byers naked."//
Not that *down* seemed in any way applicable to his condition.
A couple of teenage girls walked by, giggling loudly and he felt his ears begin to burn. He shouldn't be out in public like this. He should just go home and take a very cold shower and read those new FCC regulations they'd intercepted.
He should.
Instead, he took a deep breath and began walking a little faster. The friction helped in a vaguely masochistic way.
***
It was dark by the time he reached Mulder's apartment building. He stared up at it in amazement. He hadn't planned on coming here. At least, he hadn't consciously planned it but there had been studies among the so-called social scientists as early as 1965 proving subconscious factors were the major influence on decisions even at the highest levels of international affairs. Given the personal subconscious factors that had brought him here, he had a whole new perspective on the arm's race. All those missiles and submarines and nuclear warheads. Had they ever made a weapon that wasn't longer than it was wide?
All right. He was here. Now what? Craning his neck, he could just barely see the flickering blue light of the television lapping against Mulder's window. He couldn't just go upstairs and knock on the door and say...
//"You can strip Byers naked."//
All at once, he smiled and straightened his tie. He had his opening and a perfectly valid reason to be here. Mulder'd invite him in. They'd talk. And then...
Well, he'd figure out a way to get to the next step later.
***
"Here's thirty, keep the cha... Byers." A gray-green gaze flicked up and down the hall then back to the lone Lone Gunman.
"Mulder. Uh, you're probably wondering why I'm here."
"I'm guessing that you're not delivering my Chinese food." Cinching the ratty bathrobe a little tighter around his waist, Mulder leaned against the doorframe, blocking the view of the apartment.
"Chinese food?" Byers looked down at his empty hands then up again. "No."
"Then you won't mind if we talk tomorrow..."
"Yes."
Ebony brows flicked upwards.
"I mean, no. I mean..." He took a deep breath. "I mean, I know it's late and all and uh, that is I was just wondering, you know, uh, about my suit."
"Your suit?"
"The suit you borrowed to get out of the hospital." He recognized the expression on Mulder's face. Guilt. He'd seen it too many times to mistake it now. "It didn't survive, did it?"
"No. Not exactly." Mulder dragged a long fingered hand back through his hair.
"What do you mean by not exactly?"
"Basically, not at all."
"Mulder..."
"Look, I'll make it up to you, Byers."
It was the perfect opening. But before he could think of what to say, before he could do anything but fidget with his tie and clear his throat, the entire focus of the evening changed.
"Mulder would you get the fuck back in here, this handcuff is starting to chaff..."
Byers eyes widened. He knew that voice. What was Alex Krycek doing handcuffed in Mulder's apartment?
"...and the ice cream's melting into the crack of my ass."
Oh. He could feel himself blushing.
Managing to look simultaneously sheepish and aroused, Mulder stepped back. "Sorry," he said, "but I've got to go... uh..." When the weight of the following pause made it perfectly clear that both men knew pretty much exactly what he had to go do, he smiled, shrugged, and closed the door...
...leaving Byers staring up at the number 42 and thinking, //Two times twenty-one, three times fourteen, four times ten point five, five times... I wonder what flavor of ice cream?// He was a vanilla man himself. Neapolitan if he was feeling especially frisky. Mulder'd be using something rich, with fudge sauce swirled through it, and marshmallow, and pieces of dark bittersweet chocolate that he'd suck off Alex Krycek's body with those incredible lips.
Turning, he crossed the hall and pounded his head against the wall.
It didn't help.
Neither did intercepting the delivery boy, paying for the Chinese take-out, and walking off with it. Five blocks later, he was feeling so incredibly petty he handed the bag off to the first street person he saw and headed for home, her words of appreciation filling the night behind him.
"What? No Sichuan pork?"
***
Headphones on, working out the complexities of a Danish multi-player game he'd gotten involved with, Langly didn't even glance up as Byers picked a path through the piled equipment to the other side of the room but Frohike's nose twitched. "You go out for Chinese?" he asked carefully marking his place in the 1972 copy of Playboy he'd been studying.
"Not exactly."
"Bring us any back?"
"No."
As the door leading up to their shared living quarters closed behind the younger man, Frohike snorted. "You get any?"
Before he could answer his own question, the phone rang.
He glanced over at Langly, sighed and stood. "Never mind, I'll get it." Tucking the receiver between shoulder and cheek, he twisted the top off a bottle of Molson's Canadian -- the good stuff, made in Canada; they had a connection who brought it across the border. "Make it short," he growled. "I have a life."
"Since when?"
"Hi, Mulder. What's up?" As the agent spoke, Frohike’s eyes widened then he started to grin. Leaning back, he poked Langly with the bottle to get his attention.
***
//"You can strip Byers naked."//
It hadn't stopped. In fact, the cold shower only made him think of Mulder and Krycek doing God only knew what with ice cream. He brushed. He flossed. He tried not to rub against the curve of the sink, the chill of the porcelain through his cotton pajamas a sudden additional turn on.
"Which is just what I need," he muttered at his reflection. His reflection, staring out at him with a look of hungry desperation, offered the only solution. He was going to have to take care of it himself. Again. And there were some things a man could only do in the locked privacy of his own room.
Whirling around, he headed for the bathroom door, leaving the bathmat in a wet and crumpled heap on the floor and toothpaste spatters still marking the mirror. The hell with cleaning up. It wasn't like the other two would even notice. One hand on the door knob, he paused, sighed deeply and returned to pick up the mat. There were just some things a man had to do to maintain his self respect.
Now, if he could just get to his room without running into...
"Well, hel-lo Hopalong."
Heart in his throat, Byers realized that the expression Frohike had shot him over the cornflakes had not been a leer. *This* was a leer. Eyes wide, he followed its direction and saw that the head of his penis had worked its way out through the open fly of his pajamas. Due to an accidental positioning of the pattern, it looked as though Hopalong Cassidy was extremely well hung.
Ears burning, he jerked at the cloth, managed to cover himself, and found he had nothing, absolutely nothing, to say.
"You should've told us, man," Langly murmured over Frohike's shoulder. "Keeping this sort of thing pent up can cause all sorts of internal damage. Way back in the first Kinsey report..."
"A report that was seriously compromised," he sputtered. Eyes straight ahead, which put his gaze considerably above Frohike's and just to the right of Langly's, Byers pushed his way out of the bathroom and started down the hall. Over the roar of blood in his ears, he heard two sets of footsteps fall in behind.
"Why are we going to Byers' room?" Langly wanted to know.
"His sheets are probably clean."
"*We* are not going to my room. *I* am going to my room." With the door open and sanctuary beckoning, he turned to face his companions. "*You* are going to go off and do... well, do what ever it is the two of you are going to do."
"You."
"What?"
"We're going to do you," Frohike told him calmly and stepped forward, Langly at his heels.
Byers jerked back, away from the sudden warm pressure at his crotch. The pressure followed. Looking down, he saw Frohike's hand disappear into his pajama fly, then he felt the scratch of wool as the fingerless glove got a grip. He jerked back again, then forward, then back, his hips moving under their own volition as the two of them shuffled over the threshold and into the room.
//This is Frohike!// his brain kept screaming at him. //Melvin Fro-hike!//
His body didn't care and his body was definitely winning the argument.
He was sucking in air in great ragged breaths, heading toward hyperventalation when the back of his knees finally hit the bed. Maintaining his grip, Frohike gave him a gentle shove with his other hand. Attempting to formulate some sort of protest, Byers fell backwards.
Vectors, angles, and anatomy being what they were, he felt a rush of cold air across the exposed head of his penis as the whole damn thing popped out of his pajamas. Unable to stop himself, he bucked up into Frohike's hand. He thought he heard the older man chuckle and then he couldn't hear anything but whimpering as a broad thumb traced swirling patterns of pre-cum over the glans. Around and around. The edge of the thumb nail flicked the slit. He couldn't keep still. He bucked up again and again. Around and around. Again and again. And...
He couldn't breathe. His back arched and his fingers dug into the quilt his mother had made for him out of his boyhood clothes. The perpetual ache in his balls tightened to edge of pain. The pressure that had been building behind his eyes released in a spray of red and gold sparks. The pressure that had been building a little lower down released in a warm, arcing pulse of semen that soaked his pajama top and splattered one or two drops into his beard.
***
Stepping back and methodically pulling off his sweater, Frohike nodded toward the trembling body half sprawled on the bed. "Nice distance, I'm impressed."
"Hey!" Langly's protest sounded almost sulky. "I thought we were *both* going to do him."
Head emerging from its cocoon of gray wool, Frohike snorted. "You don't think he's done do you? That just barely took the edge off."
One finger holding his glasses, Langly bent down for a closer look and slowly smiled. "You've got hand it to those classic westerns, they've got staying power."
"Yippee kie aye yay," Frohike agreed with an evil grin.
***
//This is not happening.// Still trying to catch his breath, Byers opened his eyes, saw Frohike's bare torso at the foot of the bed, and closed his eyes again. //Oh god. It is happening.//
Fingers hooked into the waist band of his pajamas.
He opened his eyes again.
Naked body gleaming like alabaster in the dim light of the bedside reading lamp, Langly grinned at him like a demented elf. "Upsa-daisy," he said and pulled.
Byers felt the fabric slide over his hips, pulling his still erect penis with it then releasing it to bob up and down. Staring at it down the length of his body, it reminded him weirdly of the felt dog his uncle had kept in the rear window of his car, it's head nodding mindlessly, continually...
He wasn't sure how Frohike got the pajama top off him, Langly's hand on his balls was too great a distraction but his mind cleared for a moment as he heard his last piece of clothing hit the floor and the bed sagged on both sides of him.
"Wait!" Fighting to form a coherent thought, he managed to gasp, "Laundry basket."
The other two exchanged an incredulous look over his prone body, shrugged in unison, then got up to throw his discarded pajamas in the basket labeled, socks, underwear, and nightclothes.
"You know," Langly said thoughtfully, settling back onto the bed. "That kind of compulsive neatness probably isn't healthy." Scooping up Byers' balls again, he pulled them out away from his body, scoring the underside lightly with his fingernails.
Byers' hips came off the bed. Then there were hands all over his body. Frohike's blunt fingers, still in the fingerless gloves, proved that a dexterity with precision electronics translated amazing well to nipple manipulation. Pinching, twisting, flicking, he tuned them both to such a high degree of sensitivity Byers was sure he could feel air molecules impacting and sending signals directly to his groin. Langly continued working his balls and inner thighs, drawing burning lines of sensation into, under, his skin.
But neither of them touched him where he needed to be touched. He began to twist and thrust, searching for friction, any kind of friction.
"Enough."
Byers' eyes snapped open as the quartet of hands left his body and he stared at Frohike in disbelief. "Enough?" he gasped.
Breathing heavily, face flushed, Frohike tossed a condom and tube of lube onto the bed. Byers looked down and his eyes widened. Langly leaned over for a closer look and whistled softly. "Plus ten war hammer," he murmured, clearly impressed.
The shortest of the three by a considerable margin, it suddenly became obvious where Frohike's missing inches had gone.
"Move up on the bed and roll over on your side."
Byers wet lips gone suddenly dry and did as he was told, only vaguely aware of Langly moving beside him. It was all right. He could relinquish control as long as somebody told him what to do. He could let himself be swept along back to a time before the Lone Gunman, back before the questioning, back when he was content to do only what was expected of him.
He moaned low in his throat as pressure wrapped around his penis and wet warmth engulfed the head. Something moist and heated bumped against his chin and without opening his eyes, he drew it into his mouth as a finger, slick with lube, opened him up from behind. He pushed back, crying out even as he sucked greedily at Langly's cock. //If it's mine, it's a penis. If it's in my mouth it's a cock. The first biological, the second sexual. Rules of etymology that govern fucking.// A moment later, as a second finger joined the first, he added, //I think I'm losing my mind.//
"Hey man, don't take too long."
Langly's words were a heated buzz against his skin.
"Teach your granny to bypass a firewall," Frohike grunted.
A third finger eased its way in, stroked at his prostate, and the world threatened to erupt.
The grip around the base of his penis tightened.
Byers cried out in frustration.
"The Kama Sutra on line," Langly announced triumphantly.
"Another victory for the information age," Frohike muttered and lifted. "On your hands and knees."
Unable to do anything but follow the direction of the fingers inside him, Byers obeyed. "What's happening?" he moaned as he straddled Langly who shifted over without losing his hold.
"You're about to get fucked to within an inch of your life," Frohike told him cheerfully over the soft crinkle of latex being unwrapped.
"Actually..." He had to pause while Langly's tongue lapped over his glans. "...that was..." Strong thumbs spread the cheeks of his ass apart. "...in the nature of... Oh god. ...a rhetorical question."
Frohike entered slowly. All things considered, he was probably being careful but it was torture as far as Byers was concerned. Exquisite torture, but torture never-the-less. He tried to rock back but two pairs of hands held him immobile and all he could do was suck desperately at Langly's cock, rub the spit-slicked length of it against his beard, and bite at the soft golden hair that dusted balls and inner thighs.
When Langly finally cried out and lost his hold, Byers took advantage and pushed back as hard as he could, driving Frohike all the way inside in one painfully glorious thrust.
To give him credit, Frohike took the hint.
Over the next few frenzied moments, feeling as though he were about to be pounded in half and welcoming the feeling, one fragmented thought chased itself in heated circles around Byers' mind. //...open to extreme posibilities... !!// Who'd have thought that Frohike would be so... Or that Langly could...
Then the world exploded and cognitive functions were abandoned for the duration.
Later, lying on his back, Langly's hair spread silken soft across his chest and Frohike breathing heavily into his shoulder, all he could remember was that the quilt square framed by Langly's legs had been from the vest he'd worn to church when he was ten. The smell of sweat and semen and fabric softener was strangely comforting.
For the first time in weeks, he felt relaxed. The pressure was gone. The need had dissipated. He had his life back again. It was good to have friends.
//I wonder if I'm cured.//
Eyes closed, he called up a vision of Mulder in the hospital bed, full lips slightly parted, eyes half closed, lean body barely covered by the hospital gown and then he deliberately replayed those fatal words.
//"You can strip Byers naked."//
***
"Hey, Frohike." Grinning, Langly raised himself up on one elbow and pushed his hair back off his face. "Looks like we're going again."
Frohike grunted and reached for the lube. "What the hell, Buffy's a rerun anyway..."
[end]