He curls up between Elias and Peter after the throes of their evening. To the left of him is Peter’s broad and hairy chest, pressed tight alongside his arm, and to the right Elias, lapping lazily at his wrist.
He’s bitten him again, Martin barely noticing after coming down from this last orgasm, and what’s one more sensation, more liquid and stickiness and fluid from his body for these two to take, to suck, to drink? Through half-lidded eyes he watches calmly, and his fingers twitch as Elias suckles at the skin, teeth barely locked in but drinking steadily, slowly – Martin can feel his own heartbeat rise and fall with the swell and pull of Elias’ hunger, and the effect is hypnotic, and both tiring and stirring.
He’s half a mind to close his eyes and dream when Peter is placing a chocolate at his lips, something tiny and nutty, ordered from a place he can’t pronounce, somewhere in France. Or maybe Switzerland.
“You should eat something,” Peter murmurs into his ear. “Elias shouldn’t be the only one to have dessert.” Martin chews and swallows dutifully, and as he does so he hears Peter do the same. The wrappers are tossed haphazardly onto the mess of their bed, and Martin begins to move and prop himself up, wiggling his fingers past Peter.
Elias follows his movements, silently, fulfilled.
“W-wine,” he gets out. “Something to drink.” He’s parched, and wine probably won’t help but it won’t not help, not when it’s – Peter passes him the whole bottle, almost empty – not when it’s this good, again, from somewhere south and rich and vintage. Elias had laughed when Peter had brought the thing, something about drinking Martin’s salary in one night.
He’d been off-put then, but after the night they’d just had, well.
Elias finishes as Martin does, kisses along his wrist and licks up the last remaining drops, skin puckered and pale for now, and even though the hand is numb Martin appreciates Elias intertwining their fingers, the chaste press of lips to his knuckles.
Martin finishes off the bottle and tosses it gently past Elias, drops of burgundy spreading on the sheets with a thread count stupidly high, and all three look over as it falls off the side. It lands on paper tissue and boxes, and Martin dearly hopes it didn’t spill anything on the brand new coat he’d been gifted by Elias, all dark peacock green, or the new trousers Peter had gotten tailored especially for him (somehow accentuating his curves without making him self-conscious that he even had curves).
“We can buy new ones,” Elias answers, a solution to his unspoken worries, and Martin supposes he should be worried about that, but he’s tired, and satiated, and accepts the strangeness of his situation easily (the vampire aspect had surprised him, certainly, but of all the things he’d seen these past few years it hadn’t been astounding; and besides, Martin’s always been a people-pleaser, and hadn’t wanted to offend one-half of this couple, and what was a cup or two of blood in exchange for some nice new winter-wear, anyways?).
“We will buy new ones,” Peter corrects.
“But I don’t need -” Martin begins to protest, but Peter cuts him off, shoves another chocolate in his mouth. Martin pouts while he chews. “You’ll need new trousers for that suit jacket that’s coming in. And new dress shoes to match.” Elias, at this point, has sat up, stretching one arm out, still holding Martin’s hand with the other. “Furniture too,” he ponders with Peter. “Your apartment is... quaint, but that couch has got to go.”
“Mm. Indeed. And I’m still not sure why you insist on keeping that armchair around.”
“I’ve had it ever since I moved out. It’s comfortable.”
“And how old is it, exactly?”
It had been a roommate’s before him, and that roommate’s grandmother’s before that, and somewhere before even then, but lest he be judged too harshly Martin wiggles down between them again, tugging Elias in close and pulling at Peter’s arm, until he gets the hint and lays it across his waist.
“I’m keeping the chair. And that’s that.”
Elias laughs and slides in next to him, smoothing down Martin’s hair – he leans into it, the familiar tickle and tug of those long fingers, and closes his eyes. Peter just grumbles but tucks in close too, his beard scratching pleasantly at Martin’s shoulder.
Martin pauses, and yawns.
“Could use a new oven though.”
He feels Elias’ teeth nudge gently at his neck, Peter’s weight at his back, and Martin has never felt so warm and adored in his life.