Fox lay in the bed, the sheets up to his midline, while Falco stood by the observation window, putting his clothes on and bathed in the pale cold starlight.
"Falco," the fox said, his eyes downcast, drawing faint circles on the creases of the sheets with the tip of fingers; "You could stay and sleep here, you know, I'd be fine with that-"
"No," interrupted the falcon, as he put on his shirt, buttoning up until his lean feathered chest could no longer be seen. He thenturned around to look at him, before he reached for his jacket, which lay crumpled at the base of the bed. "It's alright," he continued, grabbing the jacket and putting it on.
"Oh. Well, okay," was the reply, though there was some disappointment in it.
Once Falco had finished putting on his jacket, he put on his boots; with that, he walked towards the bed, and hesitantly, almost awkwardly, he leaned over, and kissed Fox in the forehead. It was a quick kiss, and after he had done that, he walked to the door and exited without a word.
Fox stayed where he was, musing, and pulled up the sheets to his shoulders as he lay his head on the pillow. Some soiled sheets lay on the floor, and the room still smelled of something akin to saliva and sweat. He turned his head round; the pillow next to him was still warm from when Falco had been laying on it, and the sheets underneath were a little wet with sweat (or perhaps semen).
He sighed, looking up at the metallic ceiling of his starships' quarters.
What am I to you, Falco? he thought. Am I just a sex toy to you?
He didn't like to think he was just a toy: it made him feel dirty. Made him feel like a whore.
The sex felt good, but he wanted more than that. He wanted to be held, to be appreciated.
All Falco did was fuck him, and after that, leave. Sometimes, however, he'd kiss him.
And he loved it when Falco kissed him. It made him feel like more than a sex toy. It made his heart swell, it made him feel like teenager in love, as if his heart would burst or give out.
Only thing was, he rarely ever kissed him.