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Praxis finally allows himself to relax enough to flop down on his back onto the mattress, bouncing a little with the force of it. Sore and thoroughly fucked out, he lies there catching his breath, watching the other two arrange themselves beside him. He frowns when Abel leans up and tries to kiss only to have Cain growl and manhandle him until they’re spooning, with Abel facing Praxis and Cain behind him, a possessive arm draped lazily over his waist.
Praxis suspects that Cain has his own reasons for this particular position, and his suspicions are confirmed when Cain bares his teeth at him over Abel’s shoulder, making faces at him because Cain is a goddamn child apparently.
Praxis doesn’t rise to the bait, because he’s twenty-five and not an immature baby, but mostly because Abel’s looking up at him, smiling faintly through sweat-drenched bangs. Praxis feels his face redden.
“That was…. nice,” he tries. “You were amazing, Abel.”
Cain rolls his eyes so hard Praxis would be surprised if he didn’t give himself a headache.
“Heh, you were quite something too.” Abel smiles, and Cain makes an annoyed noise, but Abel just reaches back and pinches him, making Cain jump.
“Yeah well, you know what my favourite part was,” Cain cuts in, his lips lifting in a smirk as he looks straight at Praxis. “When cyclops here fell off the bed.”
Abel gives a little ‘pff!’ sound of stifled laughter at the memory, unable to help himself, and Praxis feels his face redden even more.
“You kicked me off,” he snaps, and Cain's just snickering now, the little shit, “and we both know it wasn’t an accident.”
“Doesn’t sound like me,” Cain shrugs, the smugness in his voice making Praxis want to throttle him, and fuck it, he’s twenty-five and he’ll rise to any bait he likes.
“At least I lasted longer than three seconds–”
“Hey, we were in the middle of shit when you came in, and it wasn’t three seconds–”
“Sure looked like it to me, with how fast–”
“– what kinda creep does that anyway, counting when someone’s–”
“Fighters, please,” Abel interrupts them with a sigh. “you’re cutting into the afterglow.”
Praxis shuts up then, and after some grumbling, Cain does too.
“Sorry–” they both say, Cain half a beat later, and then they’re glaring at each other again.
“Don’t fuckin’ copy–”
“I wasn’t, you were slower–”
And so on and so forth, except Abel reaches out and tugs Praxis close with a firm hand on the back of his neck, kissing him on the mouth, and Praxis’ train of thought runs up a wall and out the window.
Abel pulls away first to moan at Cain sucking hard on his neck. He swats at Cain, mumbling, “More later. Tired now.”
Cain grunts, and catches Abel’s hand in his to rest both on Abel’s hip. Giving Praxis a final glare, and pressing one last kiss to Abel’s shoulder, Cain closes his eyes.
So he doesn’t see it, doesn't bitch about it when Abel’s other hand snakes out to seek Praxis’ own, intertwining their fingers. And as Praxis watches Abel’s eyes flutter shut, he thinks that falling off any bed is worth this.