Celestia’s burning orb hung high in the sky marking the mid-afternoon. It was a cloudless day, not unusual for spring in Equestria, and the Trottingham school for the high arts was currently in its afternoon lunch period. The institute was home to a whole sleuth of aspiring artists of all sorts, and the aspired artists that taught them. From high above the students that walked the grounds looked like little caramel ants, the uniforms an ironically drab shade of brown; sometimes a particularly messy student may have a splotch of black ink on their sleeve or blotch of bright paint on their blazer pocket. The menagerie of colts and fillies, young mares and stallions, buzzed with a silent creativity, a silence which became regarded as an unwritten rule in such a prestigious establishment. Ponies acknowledged each other with nods in the spacious halls, respect a raised chin, camaraderie a slight curved smile, hate a scowl and prominent frown.
During the break period – one of the two allocated hours students had a day free from lessons and the burden of a teacher’s eye - wherever a student stood, it did not take astute ears to hear where the most volume emanated from. The dinner hall was filled with hundreds of voices, chatter and banter flew from the cantina and gradually dissipated after several bounces off the hall’s walls. If the dinner hall was the refuge from the teachers the students most sought, the teacher’s found respite from their pupil’s incompetency in the lounge at the complete opposite end; except no words left that room. Simultaneous emotions of envy, jealousy, admiration and hate kept the teacher’s jaws clamped shut – every mare and stallion sharing looks that would perplex any onlookers.
However, in the seldom used classroom of Professor Bastion, there were two colts seeking refuge from both…
Two colts around fifteen, nearing sixteen. Friends, assuredly of the best kind, of decently long standing – eleven months. Backs to a sideways turned desk, placed between their sat haunches a bottle of Applejack Daniel’s brand Whiskey, which glimmered brown from the rays of sunlight which protruded through the cracks in the window blinds. The whiskey was stolen, of course, but that didn’t sour either colt’s – somewhat exaggerated – enjoyment of the drink. It burnt both of their throats on the first sips, and continued to do so even when they got used to the unpleasantness of it. Their enjoyment of the drink was largely a façade. To appear ‘grown up’ and ‘mature’ to the other, the irony of their gushing and faux enjoyment was lost to them both, and they appeared anything but. But just like the burning of the whiskey, their reverence of the drink was forgotten; soon leaving the two in a quiet – the faraway noise of the cafeteria making complete silence impossible.
“Not long now,” Lexicon remarked suddenly. The alabaster colt, quite stocky in frame – topped with a mop of untidy ginger locks – looked lazily with a single blue eye to the colt beside him. His monotone voice, implacable accent – despite his assurances of his Trottingham place of birth – and seeming lack of finesse in his words betrayed his talent as a writer. Emblazoned upon his flank was a type writer, a tool for even the most heavy and clumsy of hooves to bring life to a page, and what the unassuming Lexicon had a talent for. “To, ya know, summer.”
“Yep,” Mix-up replied flatly, not looking back. The colt, on even the most sparing of glances, exuded the aura of a proficient artist. His mane was an distinct shade of blue – ultramarine – which fringed above his eyes. His muzzle was quite similar to a splotch of white paint upon a cerulean backdrop, a trait which his hooves shared to just above the fetlocks. Most distinctly and obvious about him, was that he was a Pegasus. It was considered by many unusual for a painter to come from a tribe which lacked the precision of unicorns and their magic, or the deftness of an earth pony’s hooves. However, what he brought to his talent – assuredly marked by his cutie mark of two paint buckets expelling two colours that seamlessly weaved together – from his tribe, which was very much seen in flight, was grace. “It’s a lot time away from this place.”
“Yeah. Long way you’ve got to travel isn’t it. Prance, right? Not as simple as a train ride, is it?”
“Hmm. In Prance, there’s an art school on every street corner. But my parents wouldn’t settle for anything less than the best,” Mix-up explained, tapping his hooves together, “also meant sending me the other side of Equestria,” he spoke with a sombre tone, pursing his lips.”
Lexicon smirked, trying to brighten the tone which Mix-up had set, like a dark paint. “My parents just sent me to the closest there was. Laziness runs in our family. We’d do anything to do less, ironically, even if it means paying out the wazoo.”
Mix-up scoffed, a smile forming on his lips. “That’s right. But it’s a vice that paid off in the long run, didn’t it?”
Lexicon curled his bottom lip, nodding. “True. If I didn’t pick the first and closest room to the main entrance in the closest dorm, we wouldn’t have met,” Lexicon knew immediately what Mix-up was inferring, “but if your family weren’t so bent on getting the best for you, they wouldn’t have sent you all the way to Trottingham.”
“Yes, yes, they really did help to ensure you were lazy. Bringing your best friend right to you rather than have you go look for on your own.”
“How thoughtful of them,” Lexicon laughed, as Mix-up took a swig of the bottle, like some cultured pirate. “Give me some of that,” he requested, taking the bottle from Mix-up’s hooves.
“Yep, yep,” Mix-up scrunched up his expression, the burning liquid trailing down his throat. Despite how little of the liquid he had already drank, he found that his head had grown heavier.
“…” Lexicon didn’t give any vocal cues after he drank, instead his body opting to cringe in on itself, immediately following with a curt nod of the head; eventually followed by a sigh. “Ahh, s-smooth,” he stuttered, awkwardly smiling.
Quiet immediately followed again. Like an unwanted third wheel.
Lexicon thought for a while, as did Mix-up. Intermittently, they’d take a drink, getting drunker. Mix-up’s mind was at conflict with itself, wondering if anything would change in the time between leaving and coming back. Would his skills diminish, would he be different, would Lexicon find another best friend? The latter-most caused him to look coyly sideways, at Lexicon’s furrow browed expression.
“What are you thinking about?” Mix-up asked, intrigued by Lexicon’s squinted eyes.
“Hmm? Oh, umm,” Lexicon pouted as he was broken from stupor, looking sideways. “I was just wondering something about the ancient Equines.”
“What about?” Mix-up knew of Lexicon’s love of history. It was one of the three major likes of the colt, the other two being writing and eating.
“The ancients, right, took cocks up the bum,” he spoke unabashedly, his words slurred. “I wonder why?”
Mix-up, despite his featureless expression, was left in a state of surprise. “U-Um…” slack jawed, Mix-up simply blinked, his brain scrambling to find a retort or suitable answer. “’Cause they liked it?”
Lexicon tightened his expression, as if in deep comprehension of what was just said. “Yeah, I suppose. I mean, what’s a penis for besides peeing and fun, right? I’ve heard you on the top bunk, psh,” he suddenly began to snicker, uncaring of Mix-up’s reddening face. “B-but wait,” he suddenly interrupted himself, looking at Mix-up dead serious – marking such a look with another sip of the whiskey – before he spoke, “what about the stallion taking it up the butt.”
“Uh…” Mix-up teetered off. He wasn’t a prude. He had painted bared mares and stallions in class all the time. However, his actual experience and knowledge of the lewd was lacking. He didn’t even know how two stallions would ‘go at it.’ “It’d have to feel good for him too… shouldn’t it? Otherwise why would he do it.”
“Huh,” he replied, giving the bottle of whiskey to Mix-up, “that does make sense. Otherwise why would he let somepony stick something up there…”
Quiet reared its ugly head once more; the two colts resumed sitting side by side in silence, drinking. Minutes passed, but by this point time had been forgotten. The duo hadn’t even acknowledged that the distant chattering of the cafeteria had become mute, and now, truly, silence manifest.
“I…” Mix-up started, feeling awkward in his drunkenness; his hooves pressed together twirling circles.
“What?” Lexicon probed, voice audibly slurred.
“I’ll miss you. When I’m in Prance, I mean,” he clarified, cheeks a hue of red from the alcohol.
“Haha, I’ll miss you too,” he replied jovially, wrapping a hoof around his friend’s neck, “things won’t be the same without you in my day to day.”
“Yeah…” Mix-up replied, quietly, his face scrunching up as he looked away. He pondered his next words semi-carefully, his clouded mind – or rather the part of him that would dictate his next words were he sober – wasn’t able to offer clear judgement on what he wanted to say next. Rather, it gave a weak fart, to words that would irreversibly alter his life. “I think… I think I love you.”
“Haha, I love you too, Mixxy,” he replied with a laugh, his hoof tightening to something considerably warmer.
“Y-yeah,” Mix-up stuttered, looking away, embarrassed. He kept his gaze lowered, until he felt breaths on the side of his cheek, and he looked back in reflex.
“I l-love you too…” he reiterated, blundering his words drunkenly, before lurching his muzzle towards the unsuspecting colt.
Very much like the prime ingredient in the whisky, which was knocked over by Lexicon’s sudden act, their lips mashed together. In reflex, Mix-up leant backwards from the contact, whilst Lexicon compensated by leaning forward to keep the two mouths connected. There was no prodding of the tongue, no vocalisations of pleasure, and instead the intimate gesture was one of profound innocence. The two kept their eyes wide apart, an expression of their shock or surprise, yet neither tried to break the kiss; the simple act of pulling away was lost to them both.
The moment was allowed to stew, cook hot, like their cheeks; brightening red like hot metal. Lexicon was the first to pull away, bashful casting his eye to the floor as he resumed sitting back against the desk. Mix-up remained frozen, alike the many models he had sketched in class, lips puckered and eyes wide. When his senses caught up to the present - very much like Lexicon - he nonchalantly resumed his previous sitting position and had his eyes pointed anywhere but the colt sat next to him.
Silence was allowed to gather again between them, a blundering reminder of the situation.
“So…” started Lexicon, puncturing the quiet.
“Yeah…” replied Mix-up, tentative.
“That was…”
“Yep…”
“…”
Awkward tension was allowed to grow, yet the formation of silence’s cumbersome form was disallowed by Mix-up tapping his hooves together.
“That was my first kiss,” Lexicon admitted, looking to Mix-up out the corner of his eye.
“Mine too,” Mix-up revealed, forcing a tug at the corner of his lip, a measly smile.
“Huh, really? With you being Prench and all…”
“Yeah, no. I don’t really live up to that particular stereotype,” Mix-up giggled.
“It isn’t the only one,” Lexicon followed up, wearing a coy smile, “you smell good.”
Mix-up chuckled at the remark. “You always smelling me?”
“Not always. It’s something I’ve always thought of you, I just never thought it appropriate to say,” Lexicon shrugged with a smirk. “Sure, I can complement your art, maybe the food on your plate. But complementing… personal stuff? Complimenting looks and whatnot? That’s something chicks do.”
“Well, you could do with exploring more of your feminine side. Since you’ve already got a hoof into ‘chick’ territory, what other stuff would you compliment me on?” Mix-up inquired, leaning slightly toward Lexicon, half-smiling and giddy; which correlated with his ever increasing heart rate.
“Well, uh,” Lexicon began, nervously chuckling, shifting were he sat. The shortened gap between him and Mix-up had given him a feeling similar to that of kissing the painter. “W-well for one, I think your mane is… cool,” Lexicon fumbled the word out, his entire vocabulary seemingly haemorrhaged by sudden pressure he felt.
“What else?” Mix-up probed, ravenously curious.
“Uh, you’ve got a good pair of eyes – in colour, I mean. Like the sky!” he blurted, trying to capture fragmented memories of cliché, trying desperately to avoid the word that was commonly ascribed to such dialogue. “And I… I admire you,” he squeaked - as much as somepony with as deep a voice as he could – wearing a nervous smile. “I mean, I think that’s the word. You’re a lot better at me in some things, and your always there, I mean… I don’t think I’ve ever felt alone the entire year I’ve been here. I also could never imagine living so far away from home, like you have. I mean, heh, I’ve never even left Trottingham until I came here. Meanwhile, you’re a thousand miles from home…” he gushed, the mental barrier holding back his vocal tide snapped like a brittle stick.
Mix-up was smiling like a fool. His prudishness seemed to dissipate the longer Lexicon spoke, and now he was laying his head upon the white colt’s shoulder – who continued to speak, oblivious painter stuck to his side – the action came naturally to him, oddly, and he remained there half-listening to the writer ramble.
“…And that isn’t even to mention your great taste in pottery! Oh,” Lexicon glanced down, neutral expression at the feeling of Mix-up’s head resting on his shoulder. “W-what are you doing?”
“Just what’s coming natural to me,” he answered, looking up at Lexicon from his position on the colt’s shoulder. “Like you did.”
“Like I di- oh? Right,” he replied, suddenly bashful. “Yeah, that was something else. I didn’t think I had it in me, heh…”
The kiss was, indeed, spontaneous. The colt’s mind reeled. Never would he have predicted something as prophetic as the plethora of kisses shared between all the lovers in the seemingly unending cascade of novels his eyes had scanned. Friendship into something else borne of love. The spontaneity of which the act occurred was eerily similar to how it happened between all those couples he read of. Yet, it can be said of all acts driven by passion; which motivated nothing more than the sheer will to ‘do,’ and from looking down on his friend’s wide eyed visage – which he discovered a newfound appreciation of its adorableness – he felt more passion begin to arise in his stomach.
“What are you thinking about now?” Mix-up asked, noting his friend’s long and sudden silence.
“C-can I kiss you again?” he requested, an obvious red tint on his white cheeks.
“Oh!” exclaimed Mix-up softly, surprised by the request, a more subtle pinkness glowing on his cheeks. “U-um, yeah, sure, whatever…” he replied, trying to sound nonchalant. However, what he conveyed in his voice was utterly failed in his expression – the colt’s wide eyed stare and slightly ajar mouth showed his thinly veiled awe and excitement; too frozen by emotion to even to swallow back his nervousness.
“I-I’m going to try something though,” Lexicon informed, nervously, as he leant his muzzle closer to the colt.
“Wha- oomph!” the painter failed to speak, their lips joined together just as suddenly as the first kiss. Near immediately Mix-up went wide eyed as he felt something intrude his mouth: the slippery moist slug of a trespassing muscle, the limp writhing of its owner trying to prod Mix-up’s own tongue to life, inexperience lagging his reply… or maybe just the alcohol still very much in his system.
Mix-up noted that Lexicon had closed his eyes – the writer doing so out of embarrassment, rather than pre-read conventions of kissing – and the painter mimicked, just as his own tongue began to copy the other’s slippery dance. Lexicon went with the flow, remembering from memory how such a kiss was described. He sucked on his friend’s tongue, wrestling – which was surprisingly reciprocated by the smaller colt – and soon, with some coaxing, the two muscles became inseparable. Like tangled chains.
It came very naturally to Lexicon when he brought Mix-up closer to him, wrapping his forehooves around the colt and leaning further into him; pressing together their barrels, and the buttons of their blazers. Mix-up joined his friend in embrace, hooves like gentle vices around his larger friend, gracefully falling onto his back; wings splayed as Lexicon’s weight pressed down into his body.
“Ow, ow, ow,” Mix-up broke the kiss, shifting under Lexicon, uncomfortable.
“W-what? I’m not hurting you am I?” Lexicon asked, concerned.
“No, the position is a little awkward on my wings,” he answered, writhing under the colt, rolling the joints of his wings. “Ah, there. All better.”
“Keep going?”
“Keep going,” he encouraged, smiling up at Lexicon. However, as the ivory white colt puckered his lips, Mix-up became acutely aware of a second uncomfortable sensation. This time, it was situation between their bodies, thick and hard.
As Mix-up exchanged saliva with the larger colt atop him, he paid it no mind. To him, likely as a result of his clouded mind, he perceived the hardness as the whiskey bottle situation between them. After all, the characteristics were similar. It was hard, heavy feeling, and warm after prolonged exposure to sunlight and the combined warmth’s of their bodies. Mix-up didn’t pay it much more mind, as Lexicon alternated his actions, his hooves brushing the lither colt’s aquamarine mane, breaking the wrestling of their tongues to plant wet kisses on the cheek. This continued for a while, until Mix-up felt a wetness upon his belly.
“I… think… the cap… has come loose,” Mix-up informed between kisses and breaths.
“What… cap...?” Lexicon asked, similarly distracted by intermittent kissing and gulping for air.
“The… whiskey…”
Lexicon momentarily stopped, and looked over his shoulder. The whiskey bottle had fallen over, unnoticed by either. “Looks tight to me,” Lexicon remarked, looking back down at the colt, brow raised.
“Then what’s wet?” Mix-up asked, looking down, the pressed together chests obscuring his vision.
Lexicon felt his cheeks blazon. He pushed himself off his friend, looking beneath himself to see a recognisable beige length – only slightly darker than his coat – bobbing beneath him and leaking a clear liquid down onto his friend’s stomach.
“…” Lexicon was quiet, his lips pursed together in silent humiliation. Passion was no longer present, the situation leaving him cripplingly embarrassed; still as stone.
“T-that’s your… thing,” the prudish colt said quietly, gawking at it. The lumbering phallus, large and dark white – appearing almost grey – was oddly intimidating to the colt. Yet, much alike Lexicon and his kiss, Mix-up was filled with a similar kind of passion, which directly fuelled something the teen colt only experienced when a particularly attractive model bared themselves to be painted, or when he was alone in the shower… and occasionally late nights when he was sure Lexicon was asleep: arousal. “That’s your thing,” he repeated, something akin to fascination in his voice.
“Yeah…” Lexicon responded flatly, pursed lipped and blushing.
“It’s… nice?” Mix-up commented, smiling lopsidedly. Complimenting was something of his forte – he was, after all, Prench - yet how to remark upon the phallic, a piece of distended throbbing meat, was quite out of his area.
“Does this mean you want to keep going?” Lexicon asked, a revitalised hope evident on his expression: a small smile, and widened eyes.
“…Just be slow,” Mix-up requested timidly, his fetlocks curled close to his chest.
“O-okay,” Lexicon acquiesced quietly, nodding, before reconnected their lips as passion coursed within him once more.
For a good while only the audible wet smacking of lips sounded in the room, however, it wasn’t too long before they vocalised their pleasure.
“Mmph?” the confused moan emanated from Lexicon’s throat, who pulled free from the kiss after uttering the involuntary hum from his throat. Similar to before he looked between their bodies, seeing a dark blue hued member joining alongside his own. Mix-up’s cock was a lithe thing. Not as thick as his own, but Lexicon paid the difference in size no mind, simply happy he was no longer the only one of the pair sporting an erection. “Wow…” he remarked simply, looking at the flat head of Mix-up’s leaking cock.
“W-when I saw that you had one, and the kissing, and the… friction,” he murmured the last word. Languid from kissing, Mix-up surmised that the larger colt was simply unaware of his own back and forth up the colt. Mix-up couldn’t ignore the feeling of Lexicon’s hot, girthsome member sliding up and down his stomach. Thinking on what Lexicon was doing, what he was using his body for, was enough to coax his own rigid shaft from its sheath. The blue rod bobbed as it pulsated to life, hardening and elongating into something that made Mix-up feel a small modicum of shame. “S-sorry, they touched.”
“…It felt good though, didn’t it…”
“…”
Undeniable to them both, the pleasurable twang that they felt remained at the forefront of their minds, being teetered around by each of them. Wordlessly, either as a result of Lexicon’s lessened inhibitions or simply to avoid any more awkward silences, he lowers his hips until the full length of his cock pressed down upon Mix-up’s; smothering the turgid poles together and prompting quiet moans from both as their medial rings squashed against each other. Any inhibitions the two colts might have had about going this down this road dissipated, their twin cocks throbbing in mark of the occasion.
Lexicon, inexperienced with such lewd matters, simply resolved to pursue pleasure. An almost… primal resolve. He nudged his hips up, shivering from the pleasurable grind, and shifted back immediately after. Same reaction. The friction of the flesh, very much like a match to course sandpaper, was enough to spark euphoria within them both.
Lexicon mimicked the action on auto repeat, but not before instinctually embracing the smaller colt as to give him better grip; their cocks smothered even closer together. Lexicon adopted a rhythm. Thrust forward, stop and slide back, repeat. Meanwhile Mix-up didn’t know what to do with himself, wondering if to simply remain still and allow the good feelings to come to him. Whilst he was lay there, he felt himself fluster at his friend’s feral like snorting and huffing, as he thrust his hips back and forth. The painter felt Lexicon’s large seed churners weighing down on his own pair, the sack feeling full and heavy. Virile was the word that popped into his head. Soon thereafter, motivated by the cacophony of sensations and lustful thoughts, Mix-up lurched his neck forward – locking lips with the larger colt, fighting tongues.
The scene became truly one of lust and passion. They were both sweating, still trapped within their stuffy uniforms, uncaring of the discomfort due to the presence of the each other. From behind, Lexicon gave a truly enticing sight. His hind legs kept most of his weight off Mix-up, and they were spread, giving a delicious view of his flank and virgin ponut. Lexicon vocalised his pleasure, moaning into Mix-up’s mouth as they grinded cocks. Mix-up was more physical than vocal, his wings twitching, hind hooves quivering like a pleasured mare; writhing beneath Lexicon. When he did moan, usually after Lexicon rubbed over his medial ring, they were drowned out by the grunts of his lover.
It wasn’t too long until Lexicon’s cock could glide up his friend’s seamlessly, now slicked with his own pre-cum. Mix-up’s own pre pooled and created a damp spot on his shirt, and a gossamer like stickiness on his tie. Steadily, unnoticed by Lexicon but felt by Mix-up, was the larger colt’s increasing tightness in his embrace and hastening thrusts. Mix-up threw his hooves around the other colt’s next, bringing him deeper into their kiss, his own member beginning to throb and twitch as the pleasure mounted. Soon, Lexicon’s thrusts became akin to a punches. Lexicon’s face began to scrunch up, snorting and grunting with increased volume as he rapidly approached the peak of ecstasy.
“Umm… Umph!” Lexicon grunted, his hips making a spasm forward, his dickhead flaring and his rump flexing as his balls emptied. His warm sticky cum fired from his white column of a cock, hitting where Mix-up and his chest met, the reactionary orgasm prompted thrusts left his seed splattering over Mix-up’s uniform and twitching phallus.
Mix-up himself came partway into Lexicon’s, suddenly seizing up in Lexicon’s tight embrace, paralyzed by bliss. His own member offered a few furtive flexes, a couple of spurts from his flared tip, joining the mess of cum on his now thoroughly ruined uniform. Mix-up’s post-coital bliss, which consisted of a few seconds of a new and inexperienced high, was cut short by the full weight of Lexicon’s body falling upon him.
“Heavy, heavy!” Mix-up exclaimed, wheezing, flailing under the colt.
“Sorry, sorry!” apologised Lexicon, nearly breathless himself; mustering some strength and rolling off Mix-up.
“My wing, my wing!” Mix-up yelped.
“Sorry, sorry!”
The bumbling display served as an embarrassing end to an otherwise fond moment. After the fidgeting and shifting, the end result was two colts lay side by side, looking an absolute mess. Both of their cock were left softening on their bellies. Again, much like afore, they were left in silence. One that was particularly tinctured with the awkwardness of inaction.
“So…” started Lexicon, glancing to the colt by his side.
“Yeah…” Mix-up followed, glancing back and returning a small smile.
“Yeah…” Lexicon reiterated, smirking as he looked back up towards the ceiling.
The two colts gingerly wrapped hooves, a silent confirmation of their newly elevated relationship. The grip was warm, and from it both colts felt a tenderness never before felt from the other. The silence of this moment was welcome, and the mere presence of the other made either colt content to just be. However, this was soon shattered by an unfortunate facet of reality: the passage of time.
“Do my eyes deceive, or is this debauchery?!”
Both colts immediately threw their eyes to the doorway, where the angry roar erupted from. Much to their humiliation, there stood a single Zebra in a tweed jacket, expression seething; the white between his stripes appearing as though coloured in with bright red. What made this stallion’s appearance even worse, was that he was not alone.
“Is that…?”
“For real!”
“Oh my Celestia!”
An entire class worth of students stood behind the teacher, who looked upon the two frozen colts like a gargoyle buttress, the colts and fillies trying to catch peaks of the pariah the colts had accidently put themselves in.
“Oh no,” Mix-up muttered, his reaction seemingly delayed to the sudden intrusion.
“Get up. Get up!” the teacher marched in, furious.
“Okay, okay, Mr. Zafiri,” Lexicon acquiesced, as did Mix-up, yipping like hided dogs as they ran from the classroom.
The dean was none too pleased to hear about the state the colts were found in. His displeasure rose when, in panic, Lexicon gushed in intricate detail all that occurred within the classroom. It was spoken too fast to be entirely discernable, however enough of the gist was understood that the dean silenced them prematurely, barring them from participating in the end of year celebrations and confining them to their bunks. The colts, despite their disappointment, were just relieved not to be expelled. After, they rushed back to their shared abode – committing another school felony by skipping class – and changed out of their clothes.
Afterwards, they just lay on their bunks. Mix-up on top, Lexicon below, and very quickly sleep had captured them tightly. Their exhaustion hit them like a freight train, and it wasn’t until dusk they both awoke, the last of Celestia’s sun illuminating their room.
“You awake?” Lexicon asked flatly, lay on his side.
“Yeah,” Mix-up replied, just as quiet.
“Um, do you want to…” Lexicon began his proposition, but teetered off, tightening his lips.
“What?” Mix-up probed, moving to the edge of bunk, looking over.
“…”
“What?”
“C-cuddle…” he failed to pass it off casually, his voice cracking.
“…Really?” Mix-up furrowed his brows, leaning off his bunk and looking under it, at the squeamish expression of Lexicon.
“…” Lexicon, again was rendered silent by his own embarrassment, simply tightening his jaw and looking to the wall beside him.
“…”
There was a lull, and a slight creaking from above, before Lexicon received an answer to his request.
“Like this?”
“Yeah, like that.”
Under the sheets, Lexicon lay on his back, and the smaller colt lay with his head on his barrel; hooves wrapped around him in embrace.
“This is… nice,” Lexicon commented, a hoof wrapped around his partner.
“Yeah, it is,” Mix-up agreed, snuggling into the larger colt’s neck.
“Want to do this from now on? We don’t have to sleep in separate bunks anymore, ya know, considering…” Lexicon veered off, smiling dumbly.
“I’d like that,” Mix-up affirmed with a squeeze, cosy.
“Me too,” Lexicon concurred, eyes closing as he sighed.
“…Are we coltfriend’s now?” Mix-up asked, assuming the same closed eyed expression of contentment.
“...I’d like that.”
“…Me too.”
Author's Note
I apologize if it's bad, I haven't wrote anything in about two to three months. This also took a lot longer than intended, and had a lot of what I initially wanted within it gutted. Regardless, I hope you like it, and I'll see you soon. I'll be putting all work back into 'Learning to Love'
P.S. Also, I don't think I've ever stated I'm British, so yes, there are a few things that may appear to be slept wrong - especially if they contain a 'u' or substitute 'z' with an 's' - so be aware of that. 
