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It's been five months since Camus came into town. An escape from his chaotic life. An escape from his own self, maybe. The town was awfully small, the silence surrounding his house was enough to irk him at times. He sees the same faces everyday. Hears the same steps. The same bland greetings from people he barely knows. Faces come and pass, and Camus hardly pays any attention to them. Weirdly enough, the whole monotony makes him feel safe.
He locks the front door and hurriedly walks down the small garden. It's close to midnight, the stars are vivid, easy to see. Camus stops to take a look at the sky. Over his head is a bright star, its blue, cold light somehow manages to send a chill to the young man, despite the extreme distance. Vega.
When he arrives at the local bar, it's calm and not different from any other night Camus spent there. The air smells of alcohol, there are a few people on the stools almost sleeping, cheeks flushed red, and in his ears is the humble melody of a guitar. He carefully listens to the song, trying to recognise it. It's futile.
He orders a glass of cocktail, soon to be followed by numerous others. The bartender smirks as he hands him the cold glass "Dreamy as ever, Camus. Is this shirt new? Your hair shines like the rays of the sun." He touches his own hair to emphasise. In a matter of seconds, Camus gets his daily dose of compliments.
Camus laughs very slightly and takes the drink, already walking towards the corner of the bar "Cut it off." The bartender keeps smirking, takes new orders, enthusiastic.
The cocktail is sweet, almost unbearably so, but it's just the way Camus likes. He considers adding extra sugar, but he has left his packet back home and he's too lazy to get up from his chair. It's nice enough, anyway. A few fruits with vodka and lemon. It's sugary, sour and rich, the blackberry gives it a distinct taste. As he sips on his drink, watching the people around him nonchalantly, he spots the same face he has been seeing every time since the first day he stepped in this bar. Light, shining eyes stare at him from tables away. The bronze skin glistens, reflects the violet lighting. The man keeps looking at him for a few seconds more, before turning to the television, which has a volleyball match on, smoothly, as if he wasn't eyeing a complete stranger just now. Somehow, Camus feels they're more than strangers at this point. He doesn't know his name, yet he is sure he could distinguish the fiery gaze anywhere, any time. The way his slender fingers wrap around the chalice, elegant, formal. The way his shapely lips drink in the alcohol. The staring sessions they share are unsettling and last short, but Camus feels stuck whenever their eyes meet, and it makes him afraid.
Camus drinks a few more glasses of other cocktails and gets up, deciding he'd go home, earlier than intended. He isn't exactly feeling it, the guitarist seems unskilful and the way he plays half-hearted. As he strides down the bar, he sees the tanned man looking at him once again, but he avoids the gaze this time. He ignores the bartender bidding him goodbye. He ignores the urge to turn back and stare into the mesmerising eyes once more, volunteering to get lost within them.
The next night is almost identical. He takes his spot next to the thin walls decorated with posters of all sorts, movies, old bands, performers he never heard of. The bartender tells him flattering compliments, flirtatious and unashamed, which Camus successfully shrugs off. There, again, are several people passed out. And there sits the same man, a glass of wine at hand. Wine was a peculiar choice at a place like this, where almost everyone had beer. Too formal. Too composed. It was not suiting of the spirit of small bars, they needed a certain amount of sloppiness, carelessness and ultimately, ease. The man, frankly, stood out. The thick air of mystery around him was impossible to miss… And the way he kept looking at Camus, exceptionally brave. It took a lot of courage for most strangers to pree his eyes even for a split second, and this man was barely looking anywhere else.
The clock hits 01.30 and Camus deems his alcohol intake enough for the night. He isn't drunk, not even dizzy, but his skin feels hot and he's fond of the sensation, maybe because he's usually cooler than normal. He wishes the bartender good night as he steps outside, he has caught the young man off guard. The blond stops for a few seconds at the entrance, trying to adjust his eyes to the light, or rather, lack of it. This area wasn't exactly the most well-lighted, and the face of the moon was now almost hidden beneath blue clouds. He starts walking, the subtle noise of the bar gets more and more distant, the quiet song and the clink of the glasses.
It has only been a few minutes since he left the bar, and he hears a voice right behind him, unknown, yet familiar "Sorry, you forgot this." Camus stops and turns around, the green eyed man from the bar stands right in front of him. He hands Camus his phone. "I thought I could catch you." The blonde nods. It's funny how he looks away, despite having memorised the eyes of the stranger by now. "You walk fast, though," continues the other.
Camus searches the face. The man looks like a painting, big eyes with long lashes, nose almost too perfect to be real. Thick lips a lively red. How he so eagerly drank wine every night suddenly makes sense to Camus for what he sees when he glances at the emerald eyes, now closer than ever, is nobility before all. Aristocratic, but not in a scary way, instead gentle, yet still strong. When Camus blinks, the sole image that appears to him is this stranger on a throne, menacing and alluring at the same time. An emperor he would die to serve, a king he would zealously fight in the name of. If only he could take the hands, pepper them with kisses and pledge allegiance.
"You're Camus, am I wrong?" The man talks. Camus squints "And you?" The stranger leans in just so slightly and smiles "Cecil." The ringing it leaves at Camus's ears is distinct.
The two man stay silent for a while, facing each other. Cecil eventually breaks the silence "You always drink weird cocktails. Like a teenager." Camus doesn't understand what connection it has with teenagers, but he accepts it. Cecil was certainly a good observer, even having caught his name. "I have seen nothing but wine in your hands, too," He responds.
Cecil laughs, his eyes squint and Camus would do anything to see that sight again. He scratches his head "I'm not the best with alcohol. Wine is a safe choice for me." He flashes Camus a smile, again "You're very handsome, you know." The whole universe seems to come to a halt. Camus miserably hopes he hasn't blushed.
"No. But you look surreal." He keeps standing there, not sure what to do. He wants to feel the dark hair tangled around his fingers, the breath now smelling of alcohol on his exposed skin, the lips pressed to his own.
"Is it okay if I join you for a walk?" The brunette lightly swings left and right on his feet, his shoes shine as he does. Camus nods. Like he could ever refuse. He feels like Cecil knows for a fact that he is absolutely irresistible.
Cecil somehow leads the way. Every step he takes is the sound of the mightiest legion marching, with every movement Camus feels the drastic change in air, every time he lays his eyes on the taller man, he steals his breath. His words are the cruel dance of absolute power and kindness, his gestures are lightweight, the way his ankles turn and his wrists bend is a quiet symphony. Camus has never met such a person. The idea of his existence, even, is terrifying. He could break the sky in pieces, but he chooses not to.
They walk in silence until Cecil decides to speak again, startling Camus. He looks at the man beside him, full mischief in his glance "Was it uncomfortable?" Even with the ultimate lack of context, Camus understands what he means. Staring into his eyes, back at the bar. For the green eyes were invincible, the tender gaze was almost a weapon and Cecil knew that.
Camus's lips lightly curve "Why would it be?" He gets a daring smirk as response. "Was it uncomfortable, for you?" He asks. When he instinctively takes a step towards Cecil, the other does the same, until their feet touch and that flawless face is only centimeters away from Camus's own. Camus exhales as Cecil moves a hand closer and closer to his face, it almost seems like he avoids the alabaster skin on purpose, teasing. He strokes the jaw, still looking at the taller's eyes awaiting a reaction. His hands swiftly glide down the neck, his touch is venomous and addictive, Camus instantly finds himself yearning for more. He feels a vague touch on his chest before the serpents that are the green eyed's hands move up again. Cecil pulls Camus down, towards himself, and kisses him. The taste of alcohol is still dominant on their tongues, and it gets overwhelming when their mouths connect. It's warm, sweet, something Camus didn't know he sighed for. The blond feels like he had been anticipating this, unaware. He has a hunch it has been the same for Cecil.
"You taste just as good as I thought," Cecil remarks, face still dangerously close. The pale man blushes at the comment, his brows frown. The other laughs as he wraps his arms around Camus's waist, unexpectedly small. His smile is attractive and fascinating, it makes slight wrinkles appear next to his eyes, and most importantly, it's earnest. Camus melts.
Without thinking much, he leans down and rests his head on Cecil's shoulder, inhaling the spiced perfume. Cecil kisses his head, and turns his head towards the sky "The sky is so clear today." Camus nods, head still buried on the crook of his neck.
"Camus. Do you know what this one is called?" Camus peeks at the sky, trying to understand exactly where Cecil is looking. "It's so bright. It reminds me of your eyes. Cold. Blue."
Camus scoffs, presses a kiss on the cuprous skin "Vega."