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I don't know what gets me first, the thumping beat of the club or the fourth drink I'd just downed, but here I am. Middle of the dancefloor.
In the middle of a dance club.
No, wait, scratch that (or just carrot in) gay dance club.
You might be thinking “Simon Snow, why are you in a gay dance club, and where the hell is your shirt?”, to which I'll respond with a hearty shrug. Because, frankly, I don't know.
Three hours ago, I wouldn't even let my mind wander off track of the life I’d thought I'd had. Pretty girlfriend, stabilized life, no reason to not buy an engagement ring. For crying out loud, we’ve been together since we were 15, and now we're finishing up uni and it makes a bit of sense to plan a future. When we got together, we were stupid teens and I was doing reckless things, but now what? I'm just some bloke in his mid 20s who doesn't want to be alone.
So, I planned it. Nice dinner, pretty ring, propose, lifestart. She was my endgame. She was the one I'd accepted as fate.
She had different plans, though. California. Not settling, not accepting life as how it could be. Not some picturesque life.
I'd left the restaurant with a ring box in my pocket and down two whiskeys that I'd shot back. Something in me on the cab home must've broke, because I'd instinctively told the cab driver to drop me off at a bar that I'd seemed to have past a million times.
Standing outside of it felt surreal. The bitter wind of early January slammed into my side as I just stared at the glowing, pink, neon sign of the gay club.
Nearly everyday, on my way to work, I'll go past here and just steal forlorn glances despite never truly drinking it in. It’d always pulled me in a way that I never quite wanted to come to terms with.
But now, I'm here. In the middle of it. Dancing to Cher.
My stuffy button down is fully undone (I'd only worn it since it was Agatha's favorite), hanging half untucked from my trousers. With hands above my head and bodies knocking into me left and right, I bask in the flashing club lights.
That is, until I notice him.
He sits at the bar, drink in hand and looking quite like a mysterious businessman of some shitty romance novel's dream. Hair slicked back, cigarette in hand, and sipping a hard drink. It's funny, he seems like he should be older; holds himself with the air of someone who's lived decades upon decades. Yet, he's only my age (maybe a year younger), devilishly handsome, and looking right at me.
I think I've lost control of my limbs, or they're simply playing wingman for my drunk brain, because they bring me right in front of him.
Standing so close makes him feel so familiar; like a face I've always seen, but there must be something in the lights or maybe I've had too much, because I can't pinpoint him to anyone.
His lips upturn at one side, flashing a bright-teethed smirk as he taps his cigarette.
“Care to dance?” My voice is just loud enough to go over the loud thumping beat that my heart now mimics.
The cigarette flairs red as it’s held in his lips, drink swirling in hand. “I don't dance to this sort of music,” he says flatly, stubbing out the burning end. His voice is velvety and posh, which quite fits the rest of him. I'd joke and say that, perhaps, he's a vampire, but I'd fear that’d actually be true.
“I don't go to clubs. Tonight's a night to try new things.” The extended hand between us glimmers in the purple bar light, hitting the glitter that’d fallen onto me. I suppose Friday nights are most definitely the nights to come here.
His gaze falls to my hand, trailing back up to my face before locking back to my palm, my fingertips, then my knuckles. His face must've been trained steady, because even as he rises to his feet and downs his drink, he doesn't lose his composure.
Once he finally slips his hand into mine, my throat clogs and mind goes wild. Not only would a gay bar have sounded unheard of earlier today, I'm now threading through a crowd with some random man linked to me.
I don't really have much mind to think, though, because my body's working faster than my thoughts ever have, even when sober. Hands sliding against hips, dancing to the mind-numbing music pulsing through the club.
He doesn't take long to reciprocate, sliding his long, nimble fingers into my curls as pressing up onto me until we're doing what I think would be called “grinding”. Like some horny schoolboys, too. Breaths mingling and shoulders waving together, we step in beat and bump bodies all at once. He dips his head, nearly meeting my face as I keep my eyes on him.
“Have I seen you before?” I call out, knowing I can barely hear even myself in this crowd. He doesn't quite respond, the hand he's got on my back suddenly untucking the remaining part of my shirt before finding skin. His hands much stronger than Agatha's ever was.
Lips turning up into a smirk, he continues swaying with me carelessly as his head dips down more. “You're pissed.”
I can't help my ridiculous grin. I'm not even sure how long I've had it, but I know I can't stop.
I lean in, loudly whispering “Yes” into his ear before yanking him closer and pressing more towards him. His shirt's a bit wet from sweat, and I can feel the heat of his skin through it as I press forward.
He smells like liquor; like he’s been sat at the bar a while.
It dawns on me that he could've been waiting for someone to ask him to dance, and wanting to reject them.
Even with his arms wound tightly around me, I think of his initial rejection. His air of hierarchy. The motions of hiding.
I let myself pull back in the slightest, eyes washing over his face as he stares back in confusion to my sudden movements. Then, all at once, I press my mouth onto his and sloppily kiss a man for the first time in my life.
I think his composure was an illusion, because now I can taste the alcohol I'd smelled on his breath, and the wobble in his knees tells me that there's something that can keep going here. So, without much else to do, I keep snogging him like my life depends on it. Hands in his hair, tugging and pulling; slicked tongues rushing to taste each other as wet, sweat soaked bodies cram forward.
The club's suddenly too crowded; not personal enough.
It needs to be personal. If I'm making my first irritational drunk decision as a single man, I want it to be a little more comforting.
As we both pull back to find air, it shocks me that it comes from his lungs first. “Come back to my place?”
“Love to,” I admit, leaning back into his touch.
The cab ride back is all quite a bit of a blur. We started kissing again, at some point, and his hand went off stroking my thigh.
They're quite lovely hands, if I'm being properly gay. I want them around me; I want them clawing my back or his index and middle finger hanging in my mouth as I--
I want him in ways that I'd never quite explored before, but fucking hell, he's here latched to me in the back of a cab (I’m sure the cabbie wants us dead). He's got a throaty little growl, and each time I pull my head back, he lets it out as his mouth chases mine.
The our somewhat overly excited backseat make-out session comes to a close as the cab stops. He rushes to pay for it, quickly thanking them before yanking me out behind him.
I stumble at first, but his arms fly up and loop under mine. With a goofy smile, I turn my up and steal a kiss from his jaw. He smells like fancy cologne and like a scent I’ve known for years. He tastes like sweat and alcohol and fuck , I can't get enough.
Stumbling together, we get to the door and giggle against one another. His hand clumsily digs around before pulling out his keys and letting us in. Once inside, I can feel my back hit the wall as he attacks me again with a somewhat aggressive kiss. We don't stay long, though, as he tugs me backwards towards the staircase and hip bumps a door open.
Finding myself on my back with my hands in some random guy's shirt is a goddamn experience, and shit. I didn't even get his name, did I?
Does it even matter anymore? He's got his lips on my neck and--fuck, his hand on my dick. I'm gasping, somehow both needing it and not knowing what to do.
Slowly, his head rises off of me as his eyes meet mine.
We'd never hit the lights on, but the harsh glow of the city streetlights fill his figure. Well, sort of; most of his hair's falling into a curtain around his long, sharp face. I'm trying to drink it in; admire what’s in front of me despite the spinning feeling around me. Still, I can't quite shake the familiarity of what’s in front of me. It’s as if I've known him before--
“What’d you want us to do?” Oh. Straightforward, then. Right onto the one night stand.
“I'dunno,” I slur under my breath, eyes sort of glassy as I trace his features with a raised finger. He lets me. “You're fucking hot, though.”
I think for the first time tonight, I see his face crack into a smile; guardless and carefree. “Doesn't answer my question.” He's sounding ridiculously soft now, eyes settling shut as my fingertip drags over the crease of his eyelids.
I have to dig for a response. Mostly, my brain agrees with my dick and says go for it, but the smallest part of my conscious is calling the rest of me a dumbass. “I've never slept with a bloke,” I mumble openly, not focusing on his eyes. “Don't know how. Never tried.”
My finger dips towards his mouth and trails his lips, which slowly falls open. The warm, damp drag of his tongue hits the pad of my index, making my breath hitch.
“You do want to?” he utters against my wet skin, hands tempting up my bared chest. “We don't have to fuck if you don't want.”
My mind feels fuzzy. What’d he even say? Because fuck yeah, of course I want to stick my dick somewhere, but it might be a bit much (especially because we're both a bit trashed). “‘M happy snogging.”
His exhale hits my hand as he nods against my tracing finger. I feel his smile. “That's fine,” he sighs, lips pressing against my palm. “I was getting sort of tired, anyway.”
“Are'ya gonna sleep in club clothes?”
His hand trails up my arm before catching mine. “Not if you strip too,” he whispers.
Fuck, I'm blushing. “Down to what?”
“However far you want.”
Pause. A beat passes. “Undress me,” I whisper.
He freezes against me at first before I feel his lips close in against mine, stealing a quick peck. His hands push off my button down and tie, working on my trousers and shoes. Soon enough, I'm just laying back in my pants with his face in my chest. I can feel myself smiling, all big and wide, as my hands tug against his hair. His lips are soft and gentle, skidding across my skin with such tender care that I could mistake us as a long time couple. Hell, I can’t remember the last time Agatha and I did anything like this. I’m starting to think we never even did.
After a ridiculously indulgent minute that I’d spent completely spaced-out, I remind myself that the guy against me is still well dressed. For that, I finally open my eyes.
It doesn’t take long to get him undressed. A tug at his shirt, a yank at his zipper, and he does mostly the rest (except I get the pleasure of sliding off his shirt). His skin’s temperate, and I can feel his pulse as my hands travel down his chest.
“I think I’m second guessing if I want to fuck,” I breathe before I can even catch myself, studying his face as we shift over to him on his back. Exposed and beside me, with his hands up against his pillows and face turned towards me.
In absolutely no way, shape, or form is that a lie, that I want to fuck, but maybe it’s too much of the truth.
Our eyes catch, his breath clearly picking up as his elbows slide back against the silky bed sheets. Back slowly rising off and head picking up, he enchants me closer and sends me meeting him halfway.
He parts back too soon after, making me whine indecently. “Let’s see how you feel in the morning.”
I want to pout. I want to whine more and frown and say something because that wasn't quite the answer I wanted.
It isn’t that he doesn’t want to fuck right now, because that’s fine. I’m not that eager to get my dick sucked.
It’s just the very real possibility that he’ll wake up in the morning, take one sober look at me, and question why he ever brought me home. And, maybe there’s a tiny part of me that worried that I’ll be too much of a weak little cunt in the morning to actually go along with it if he doesn't kick me out
But, I won’t kick up a scene; I don’t. I just shrug, smoothing a kiss to his jawline as I relax beside him. “I curl to sleep,” I murmur against his skin, not bothering to open my eyes. Wordlessly, he tucks himself against me, back presses to my bared chest. His skin’s like an ice pack; I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so cold. Somehow, I’m far from hating it. He seems to have something against running a fan in his room, but I’m starting to think that he’ll keep me nice and cool.
I go to say goodnight, but he’s already asleep.
It doesn’t take long for me to be passed out too. A while later, I wake up to bright sunlight and a body pressed to mine.
At first, I'm in a slight panic. Where am I? How'd I get here? Why is my head pounding and stomach aching? Why am I pressed up against a man? Why is he ridiculously and unfathomably hot? Fuck, better yet, since my dick is half hard and pressed to his lower back, why do I like it so much?
Slowly peeling away proves somewhat easy, since he seems like a heavy sleeper, I think.
Wait. He… isn't just some random arse.
Oh. Holy fucking shit, did I go home with Basilton Pitch.
Fucking hell, I did. It's unmistakable and undeniably Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. The douchebag who I roomed with for two years before I moved to live off campus with Penny. The one who, in any class I ever took with him, would glare at me the entire time and make snarky remarks of how stupid I am.
The one dick I never thought I'd ever have to see again.
Yet, here I am, hungover in his bed as we're both stripped to our pants.
I try to get up; to grab my clothes and make a run for it before he wakes up and realizes we both made a huge mistake. But, as I sit up fully, he starts shifting awake.
Once his eyes flutter open and land on me, I can feel the room get warmer and go still. His mouth starts to open and close, a bit like he's starting a word then cutting himself off.
For once, he doesn't have a cocky look on his face.
I do the next closest reasonable thing and start to gather my clothes, turning my back to him. “Shit. Holy fuck. I'm… shit. I'm leaving. Fuck--” his arm flies around me and rests against my wrist, not keeping me back but just holding onto me.
“You don't have to go.” At first I'd thought I'd imagined it. It sounds to foreign, so out of character, that I'm convinced it's not real.
But, the slowly traveling hand takes the clothes from my hands and slowly slides across my chest, making my heart race faster.
Oh fuck. This is real.
With the pace of a snail, I turn my shoulders around, then my hips, to completely face him.
He's still unguarded, eyes up as me as I gape. At first, I think of all the questions I could ask, I should ask, but then his lips are against mine and I can't think of anything.
I melt into it completely, head immediately tilting into him and taking a bit of a lead. The hand pressed to my chest feels its way to my back and trails, only stopping above my boxers. It takes me a moment to nod into him, barely even breaking back.
His hand rounds around and grabs a handful off my ass, making my breath hitch and hands grab hold of something--anything.
That anything is his sides.
His mouth lets go of mine, starting to spend an immeasurable amount of time kissing at my neck and chest as I gasp at any of his movements.
“Holy fuck,” I ramble, eyes shut and back arching. “Holy shit, you're so fucking hot, what the fuck ?” With each word, he bites my skin.
Minutes tick away, and suddenly I feel my stomach bubbling. Forcing him off, I run off to the opened
bathroom and puke.
It takes a moment for him to come to me, padding footsteps behind me before I feel his hand brush my back. “Are… you alright?”
“Drank too much,” I mumble, trembling. “Shit, this isn't sexy.”
He’s a good fucking spirit, because he actually laughs at that.
Soon enough, he goes off and brings back a glass of water, some buttered bread, and a stomach settler before kneeling on the ground beside me and rubbing my back. Even after I'm finished puking, we stay sitting beside each other on the bathroom floor, not speaking.
At first, he just sort of stares at his hands, but then I take them. Then pull him in. Then, I guess, cuddle him (what am I doing?!)
“I thought you hate me,” I brave after a full sip of water. “You've hated me for years.”
“Have I?”
“I'd say so.” I sound a bit bitter, but he doesn't take it too poorly.
“I never hated you, Simon. Just hated how much I like you.”
Oh. Well, fuck.
“ Liked or like ?”
“Like,” he whispers, finally dropping his coward act and meeting my eyes. “Why else am I doing this?”
“Common courtesy for a one night stand?” I guess, hands starting to play with his silky hair (now, I do know how much he puts into it, so it makes sense why it feels so good).
His gaze remains unwavering. “We never fucked.”
“Still.”
“Not still. That's not how this works, Snow.”
“Simon. I like you calling me Simon.”
He seems to start a protest, but drops it the moment his eyes fall onto my petting hands. “What about Agatha? Why the hell were you in a gay bar?”
That. That… well, that. “We broke up last night, and sort of abruptly at that. I, uh, have a ring in my jacket.”
“You were going to propose?”
“Did I have a choice?” I know I sort of did, but it feels unfair. I really didn't, at the time, because I didn't want to think of anything but the expected.
The unexpected, though, is something I just have to embrace now. Especially the unexpected brush of Baz's hand against my cheek, smoothing and rubbing my skin.
“You can leave, if you want to,” he says after a while of silence, “I can’t make you stay.”
“I… I think I'd rather stay,” I whisper, glancing down at him. “I think I like this.”