Work Text:
He doesn’t even remember what he took anymore, only that it wasn’t strong enough—nothing like what David has—and the alcohol’s no better, the two women passed out on the bed all but useless. One of them looks terribly familiar, familial, but more like his sister than his mother, and somehow, that disgusts him. He feels disgusting. He knows he’s a wreck but is having one of those horribly clear, cognizant moments of how incredibly, acutely pathetic he is.
He hears the hotel door quietly slide open. For all he knows, it’s a delayed Martinez assassin. The proper thing to do would be shoot off of the couch, pull his discarded jacket over his open fly, and come up with some excuse for the broken state of the room. Then Boxer appears in the corner of his vision, marching smoothly around the couch, and suddenly he’s looming over Oriol, standing tall and reasonable and handsome: like some figure from a dream. Oriol doesn’t remember calling for help. He’s not even sure where his phone is. But Boxer tends to find him one way or another, always playing the hero to his damsel.
He snorts derisively at his own inner monologue. How far he’s fallen. Not that he was ever up particularly high. His father hates him, his sister avoids him, his own mother—he cuts that thought off. Boxer’s amused gaze idly sweeps over the empty bottles and overturned furniture. “Went a bit wild, didn’t you?”
Oriol’s always wild when he shouldn’t be. And then too serious when Kika wants him to loosen up. He’s one step away from the king of misadventure, following in the footsteps of a long-dead enemy. He grumbles half too himself, “’Didn’t help.”
“You don’t say,” Boxer chuckles, dripping with playful sarcasm. “Drinking yourself into a stupor didn’t clear everything up?” Casting a sidelong look at the bed, he adds, “Not even they could save you?”
Oriol rolls his eyes. He doesn’t know why he ever thinks sex will solve things, especially with strangers. Boxer rolls the sleeves of his blue button-up past his elbows and leans down, as though about to pick Oriol up like some hapless maiden.
On a whim, Oriol grabs the chain around Boxer’s neck and leans up to kiss him, because Oriol’s never learned a damn thing in his life.
Boxer doesn’t even have the decency to dodge it. He lets Oriol flatten into him, moaning and desperate for something. Maybe the last time he did find true relief was in another man’s arms. He always told himself that was more the drugs than David, but maybe he was as wrong about that as he’s been about everything else.
Boxer’s lips are chapped, his stubble tickles, and he doesn’t open for Oriol’s probing tongue. Eventually Oriol gives up and collapses back into the cushions. He half begs, half orders, “Fuck me.” Maybe Boxer could actually do it rough enough to make him forget all of his problems.
Boxer gives him a fond smile that somehow brings in a wave of shame. He doesn’t say anything, but Oriol can practically hear the unspoken laugh and insists, “I’m serious, I need—”
“To get cleaned up, come home, and start acting like the grown man you are.”
Oriol wrinkles his nose and just barely holds back from retorting that Boxer’s the one living atop a nightclub, practically employed just to beat strangers up. And pick up trainwreck sons. He finds himself too grateful for it to say anything spiteful. Instead, he childishly counters, “Then you’ll fuck me.”
“Maybe if you buy me dinner first.”
Oriol sighs. He’s not going to win and knows it. He lets Boxer gently pull him up and wrestle his jacket back on, his fly up, even helps him into the one shoe that somehow wound up in the sink. Then Boxer half-carries him out like nothing’s wrong, and Oriol holds his head high and tries to pretend he’s not going to spiral so far down again next weekend.