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Linhardt leaves the bar with a different guy every week.
Professionally speaking, this isn’t any of Ashe’s business. He’s paid to serve drinks, not stare at the pretty boy sitting at the far end of the counter and perpetually staring at the bottom of his glass. But it’s hard not to notice, when it’s been almost a month since Linhardt started visiting the bar regularly and always leaving with someone wrapped around his little finger. Which Ashe can’t blame them for—Linhardt is attractive in the sort of way poisonous animals are. Obviously deadly, but too beautiful to steer clear of.
Ashe thinks all this as he wipes a glass clean, though he’s barely paying any attention to it and he honestly thinks enough time has passed for him to have cleaned three glasses by now. It’s hard to focus when Linhardt is just there, not even asking for a drink or anything, just staring blankly at some spot on the counter. Should Ashe do something? Linhardt usually calls for him before Ashe approaches, but maybe this is a sign, a call, for Ashe to do something else—
A different bartender, one of Ashe’s coworkers, leans over the counter to smile at Linhardt. “Evening. How can I help you?”
Ashe sighs and turns away. Not today, then.
The bar is a little emptier tonight, probably because it’s the middle of the week. Ashe takes care of the regulars sitting by the counter quickly and efficiently; a few ways away, Linhardt drinks, as heavily as ever. Ashe tries not to stare.
There is no other difference in the pattern tonight: an hour or two later, someone else drops into the seat beside Linhardt, and Linhardt’s dark blue eyes assess them like a researcher observing something through a microscope. Then they talk, and Linhardt tilts his head just so, his long green hair draping across his shoulders like a curtain, his glimmering eyes and curving smile as tempting as a siren’s song.
Then they stand up and leave together, a silent agreement passing between them, and Ashe is left to stare at their retreating backs.
Professionally speaking, this isn’t any of Ashe’s business. But personally speaking?
“Can I get a glass of… the strongest thing you have?”
Ashe blinked at the man over the counter. “Sure, but that’ll be around—”
The man waved his hand dismissively. “Price doesn’t matter. Just get it to me.”
“A-Alright.” When Ashe returned with the glass, the man had folded his arms atop the counter and was resting his face on them, his long hair in disarray. “Here you are,” Ashe said, pitching his voice just a bit louder to get the man’s attention over the noise of the bar.
“Mm.” The man accepted the glass, then sighed as he reached into his pocket and fished out a fistful of bills. One glance and Ashe could immediately tell it was far too much for the drink—maybe double the price? He nearly salivated at the sight. “This enough? No, I know it is. Take the rest as a tip.”
“Huh—what?”
“Tip,” the man repeated, as if speaking more than one syllable would kill him, then downed the glass in one go. His expression twisted into mild disgust. “Hm. Truly terrible. Get me another.”
“Would you, uh. Would you like the bottle?”
“Mm, and you can have my wallet. Just hurry up, please.”
Even after finishing an entire bottle of their heaviest alcohol, the man still looked more or less sober, or at least sober enough to think and speak coherently. The only evidence he had drank at all was the flush to his cheeks that really only made him look prettier. “Are you sure about spending this much money?” Ashe asked, although he was already pocketing the sizable change. “You might regret it in the morning.”
The man shook his head. “It’s my father’s. I stole it.”
“O… Oh.” Like, in a petty way, or in a felony way? “Well, that’s… nice to know.”
He snorted. “Ashe,” he drawled, blue eyes blinking at the nametag Ashe had clipped to his uniform. “Cute name. I’m Linhardt.”
“Nice to meet you, Linhardt,” Ashe said, vaguely nonplussed. What kind of name was that? Then again, with this much (stolen) money, Ashe was fairly sure Linhardt could pay anyone who disliked it to shut up. “Um, do you need anything else?”
Linhardt propped his chin up on the edge of his palm. “I’m… bored. Point out someone interesting in here.”
“Interesting…?”
“You know.” Linhardt made that dismissive wave of his hand again. “If I had to pick someone to go home with…”
“Oh! Oh.” Ashe scanned the crowd. Already he could see one or two people with nice faces, but who knew if Linhardt shared his type? Ashe thought it over a little more, then finally decided, “That guy over there, with the red jacket…”
“Urgh, I hate red.” But Linhardt turned anyway, sizing the man up. His eyes lingered on his arm muscles, an intricate tattoo weaving across his skin and disappearing beneath the rolled-up jacket sleeves. “Hmm. I’ll trust your judgment for this one then, Ashe. I paid, didn’t I?” Without waiting for an answer, Linhardt slid off the stool, spoke lowly with red-jacket-man, then took the seat across him and the round table he occupied.
Ashe watched them for a little longer, just to make sure no one was slipping anything into anyone’s drink, then went back to work once they stood up at the same time and left together.
The next week, Linhardt returned, only this time he seemed more prepared for an… encounter—he’d brushed his hair, for one, and he was wearing a splash of makeup that only made his eyes look prettier, his lips more plush. “Thank you for last time, Ashe,” Linhardt said, after getting the same drink and giving the same amount of money. “I quite enjoyed our time together. Well, with you, and with the other man.”
Ashe smiled. “That’s good to know.” When Linhardt was completely sober, he sounded… sophisticated was one word. Refined was another. Attractive was, too, but Ashe didn’t want to acknowledge that just yet. “Did you two get to know each other?”
“Only in one way,” Linhardt hummed, staring down at the ice cubes in his glass clinking together. “I left after a little nap. Hopefully he doesn’t come back, because that would certainly make things more than a little awkward. Anyway, I’ll try and see if I can find someone else to get along with tonight.”
Ashe meant to hold it back, but he ended up blurting out, “Someone else?” all the same. “Ah, s-sorry—you don’t have to answer that—”
“It’s fine.” Linhardt didn’t respond for a while longer, gaze fixed on the ice cubes and how the bar’s lights bounced off their surfaces, before finally sighing. “I don’t do well in actual relationships. My partner never seems to be enough for me. Or perhaps it’s me who is never enough? Either way, I crave physical touch, but I’m awful at dealing with the emotional baggage. I have enough of my own.”
“Oh…” Ashe couldn’t say he understood, right then. It would have sounded nice, but it would also have been a lie. He liked the… physical part of a relationship, sure, but emotions weren’t so bad either. “Do you need someone to listen? I’m always here. Literally.”
Linhardt smiled wryly, and Ashe could not, for the life of him, look away from the glossy-pink curve of his lips. “Not now,” he said, “but maybe some other time.”
He said it in a way that made Ashe think he might actually mean it. “I’ll look forward to that time, then.”
Linhardt left soon afterwards with, as promised, a different man—only this time Ashe watched them leave, and couldn’t stop thinking about Linhardt’s smile.
Okay, so. Personally speaking, maybe it’s a crush.
That’s a big maybe. And even if it were a crush, it would be a tiny one. Not a regular-sized crush: a tiny, minuscule, microscopic one. Small enough that Ashe can just pretend it isn’t there at all and go on with his life without ever—
Who is he kidding? It’s not a tiny crush, or a regular-sized crush. It’s the largest crush you can possibly have, the sort of thing on the menu that says it can serve three people but is actually enough for a small country. And Ashe cannot pretend it isn’t there at all and just go on with his life, because God help him, every time he so much as glances Linhardt’s way during work, he finds himself spacing out and daydreaming and eventually getting yelled at by the customers he’s supposed to be serving.
“Daydreaming?” Sylvain chokes out. He’s been laughing so hard, his face is almost as red as his hair. “Oh, man, now you’re daydreaming. Alright, that’s the literal only piece of evidence I need to know you’re in deep, Ashe.”
Someday Ashe is going to kill Sylvain and no one will ever find his body. “This is the first and last time I ever ask you for anything. Please just help me out here.”
“Alright, alright! Leave it all to me.” Sylvain takes a long sip of his smoothie while Ashe fidgets in the seat across him. He’d managed to catch Sylvain during his break in the beachside restaurant he works in, but he doubts they have much time left before Sylvain has to get back to his job. Actually, why had Ashe even thought it would be a good idea to approach Sylvain about this in the first place…?
Sylvain claps his hands, which is never a good sign. “I got it.”
“…Yes?”
“You,” Sylvain says, enunciating each syllable painfully clearly, “should fuck hi—”
Ashe stands up sharply, chair legs scraping against the floor as he pushes it back. “Yeah, I should go,” Ashe says. “Nice talking to you. Bye.”
“Aw, come on, sit down! I was kidding! Sorta.” Sylvain stirs his drink with an impish grin on his face that Ashe has come to absolutely abhor after seeing it far too many times. “I mean, you should fuck him. But that’s, like, a step five. Step four could be to feel him up. Step three—”
“Can we start chronologically, please?”
“Okay! You should talk.” Sylvain spreads his arms like it’s the easiest, most obvious thing in the world. When Ashe just stares blankly back at him, Sylvain sighs and places his hands on his hips instead. “You have talked to him, right?”
“O-Of course!”
“Bar talk doesn’t count.”
Bar talk takes up a good 75 percent of Ashe’s interactions with Linhardt. He furiously scrounges up what little he can remember, and eventually manages, “He, uh, asked me to look for a good-looking guy for him a few times.”
Sylvain smacks his face with his palm. “Are you kidding me? You’re Ashe! You’re a bartender! Aren’t you supposed to be good at talking?”
“That’s the thing,” Ashe mumbles, resting his forehead against the table. The metal is cool against his warm skin, but instead of relaxing him it only makes him think about the cold metal of Linhardt’s earrings, or the clink of ice cubes in a glass. “Supposed to be.”
“Hmm… okay, clearly you’re just a little shy,” Sylvain says, like he’s diagnosing Ashe with the common cold. “Next time he comes around, talk to him! Just about whatever. You think I got Felix by just staring at him from afar?” Ashe opens his mouth, but Sylvain immediately adds, “Don’t answer that,” so Ashe supposes he’s at least self-aware.
Ashe sighs. “You make it sound so easy.” And Ashe supposes it is—what’s so hard about walking up to someone and talking to them? Ashe has done that hundreds of times before, and most of them had all turned out pretty well. Talking to Linhardt shouldn’t be so different. Probably.
“Alright, I’ll… try,” Ashe settles, and Sylvain pumps his fist in the air. “Maybe this visit wasn’t so useless after all. I’ll let you get back to work now, then.”
“What, you won’t even thank me?” Sylvain pouts.
Ashe rolls his eyes to the next dimension. “Thank you, Sylvain, for your valuable advice.”
Afterwards, Ashe catches the next bus back to the city and wanders aimlessly for a few minutes. He’s in no real need to do anything until tonight when his shift at the bar starts, which is why he had decided to meet Sylvain in person rather than just text him—the man is infamous for ghosting anyway—but now he doesn’t really have anything else to do or anywhere else to go.
He wanders aimlessly around the familiar streets near his apartment for a few minutes before catching sight of the new ice cream parlor that had opened up recently. Maybe he can indulge himself, as a treat? Ashe’s wallet has definitely been getting fatter with all the extra change Linhardt insists on giving him.
Predictably enough, the first thing he sees as soon as he steps into the store is the very person he had just been thinking of.
“L-Linhardt?” Ashe blurts out, before he can think better of it.
Linhardt turns, slowly, to look at him—he had his face buried nose-deep in a book, but what surprises Ashe most are the pair of reading glasses propped up on the bridge of his nose. “Oh, Ashe,” Linhardt says, in that soft, sleepy voice of his that Ashe finds himself thinking about far too often these days. “From the bar.”
“Y… Yeah. From the bar,” Ashe agrees, before immediately wanting to beat himself up. “I-I didn’t know you like ice cream?”
Linhardt plucks his glasses off, folds them, and tucks them into a pocket of his sweater—which is both a relief and a disappointment, because while he looks criminally good in them, Ashe doesn’t think his heart would have lasted another second without spontaneously combusting. “I like sweets,” he says, like this isn’t the single most adorable detail about himself he could have given. He tilts his head, giving Ashe a look that makes him feel like he’s being examined. “I must say, you look… different when not in uniform.”
‘Different?’ What is that supposed to mean? Good different? Bad different? ‘Not my type’ different? Ashe is this close to tearing all his hair out. Instead of voicing any of that aloud, though, he just goes with, “Thanks?”
Linhardt smiles, that tiny upwards curl of his lip that feels like an arrow aimed straight for Ashe’s heart. “You’re very welcome,” he just about purrs, and, okay, this is too much now. “There aren’t any other empty tables in here,” Linhardt observes, glancing around the still-small parlor. “Do you want to sit with me?”
“Oh! Yeah, of course!” Ashe decides to leave out the fact that he had been planning to just get a single cone and head back to his place. “Uh, do you want anything from the menu? Or is it fine as long as it’s sweet…? Which is basically everything…”
Linhardt somehow convinces him to get a family-size serving of peach ice cream, which Ashe assumes shouldn’t be so bad until he realizes the whole thing is about the size of his head. Linhardt, for his part, is ecstatic. “Thanks very much for this,” he says, gripping one of the spoons like a weapon. “I forgot to get my wallet before heading out, so I was mostly just sitting here and living vicariously through the other customers.”
“It’s fine.” The money Ashe had paid with had come from Linhardt, anyway. Ashe watches Linhardt dig into the ice cream with gusto for a few seconds, too endeared by the sparkle in his blue eyes, usually dark and dull with alcohol, to talk much…
Wait a minute. Talk?
Ashe’s heart feels like it’s pounding in his head. That’s right—he told himself (and Sylvain) that he’d at least try to talk to Linhardt the next time he saw him… which is right now. Oh, shit. Ashe doesn’t even know what there is to talk about—he had been planning on, well, planning conversation topics in the few hours before Linhardt usually drops by the bar.
And now they’re here, together. Eating peach ice cream, together. Well, mostly Linhardt, since so far all Ashe has done in regards to the peach ice cream has been to pay for it.
“Ashe,” Linhardt says, snapping Ashe out of his increasingly-panicky internal monologue. “If you’re not fast enough, I might end up finishing all of this myself.”
Ashe tries to come up with something to say, but his brain only jiggles sadly in his skull. The best he can come up with is, “Th—uh—uhhh, yeah.”
Not for the first time that day, Ashe wants to die.
Linhardt stares at him for a long second, then says, “Hm,” and returns to his ice cream. Technically their ice cream, Ashe supposes, but Linhardt’s already eaten half of it and he is showing absolutely no signs of stopping. Then, after a moment’s pause, “Are you going to the bar again later?”
“Ah, y-yes,” Ashe answers, glad to be presented with a fairly easy question. “I work a night shift, so I don’t really have much to do for the rest of the day. What about you, Linhardt?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Depends if I can get my hands on some money.” Linhardt stares down at the ice cream. “Aren’t you curious about that?”
Ashe blinks. “About what?”
“Why I have so much money,” Linhardt bluntly responds. “I know I would be.”
“Oh. Uh, well… it’s not really a problem,” Ashe says, “so I haven’t been thinking too much about it. Are you actually stealing from your father, though?”
“You could put it that way. He doesn’t suspect a thing, that’s for certain.” Linhardt nudges the bowl towards Ashe. Maybe a quarter of the original family-sized serving has been left unconsumed, which Ashe supposes is a generous amount. “Are you going to eat this or not? Last chance.”
Ashe smiles. “No, you go ahead.”
Linhardt squints at him. “You’re being strange. Are you this generous to strangers all the time?”
“You’re not a stranger,” Ashe tells him. “You’re Linhardt.”
Ashe doesn’t really mean anything by that, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, he has to fight back a blush that would have overtaken his entire face—he definitely sounds like he’d been trying to flirt there, hadn’t he? And Ashe supposes flirting is the whole point of talking, but maybe this is moving a bit too fast for Linhardt’s tastes? Or maybe—
“That’s very nice of you,” Linhardt says, sounding bemused. But he smiles again, and continues ravaging the peach ice cream, so Ashe supposes this whole talking thing hadn’t gone so bad.
Ashe had been preparing for an empty bar stool at the far end of the counter for tonight, but miraculously enough, Linhardt shows up. He’d changed clothes along the way, ditching the worn-out sweater and denim shorts from earlier into his typical high-necked blouse and black culottes… which is a bit of a shame, because although Ashe likes him dressed like this, he thinks baggy sweaters look cute on Linhardt too.
But, ahem, that’s not important. “Hi,” Ashe greets, hurrying over to Linhardt before anyone else can get to him. “The usual tonight?”
Linhardt hums, resting his chin on the edge of his palm again. A smile dances on his lips. “Sure,” he says, in a way that makes Ashe wonder if he actually wants something else. But Ashe can’t read his mind, and he’d rather not mess up an order, so he gets the usual and Linhardt hands him the usual money as well.
But the usuals stop there, because Linhardt doesn’t drink just yet—he barely even looks at the bottle when Ashe sets it down before him. Instead, he traces the rim of his glass with his index finger, and Ashe can’t help but follow the movement. “When do you get off?”
Ashe swallows. “Around two. Why?”
“Why?” Linhardt scoffs and rests his head against the counter, looking up at Ashe with half-lidded eyes. “I’ll let you figure that out. Now shoo,” he says, waving Ashe away with a lazy flick of his hand. “Get back to work. I can wait a few hours.”
“I-If you say so?” Maybe Linhardt has something he wants to tell Ashe. Or… maybe Linhardt wants to give him something in secret? Ashe mulls over the admittedly few possibilities as he returns to the rest of the customers sitting by the counter. There isn’t really anything he can think of… maybe Linhardt is secretly a serial killer, Ashe muses, and the men he’s been bringing home for the past month have all been his victims. Maybe that’s where he gets all his money, by killing people and stealing their wallets?
Ashe tries to wave that thought away with a little internal laugh, but of course, it sticks to his mind like glue and he starts wondering exactly where Linhardt may be hiding a knife on his person.
It doesn’t help that every time he glances Linhardt’s way, the other man is staring right at him, those ocean-blue eyes burning holes into his back. At first, Ashe assumes Linhardt’s just bored or something, or that coincidence has them making eye contact whenever Ashe happens to look at him, but when it’s been well over an hour (and past midnight) and Ashe still feels Linhardt’s gaze on him, he knows this isn’t coincidence.
Ashe retreats to the backroom, psychs himself up for a good minute, then returns back to the bar while doing his best to pretend he hadn’t just done that. Linhardt looks amused all the same. “Still here, huh?” Ashe asks, proud his voice doesn’t waver too much.
“I suppose I am.” The bottle of alcohol is still untouched—unopened—before Linhardt. “Perhaps I should have brought a book. Waiting here is very tiring.”
What are you waiting for? Ashe wants to ask. “Why haven’t you drank anything?” he says instead.
Linhardt looks disappointed, like he had been hoping Ashe would go for the obvious question. “I’m not feeling like it. Maybe if someone interesting pours it for me…” He bats his lashes, which should look ridiculous but only makes Ashe’s heart jump into his throat. How are Linhardt’s eyelashes so long? Is that legal? Who allowed that?
Ashe scours the crowd. It isn’t too filled up tonight, but it isn’t exactly empty either. “No one really stands out this time,” he says. “Maybe that guy over there, in the green shirt?”
Linhardt stares at him. “What are you doing.”
“Looking for someone interesting for you?”
“Oh, my God,” Linhardt mutters, staring down at the counter for a moment and shaking his head in despair. Ashe can only blink confusedly at him when Linhardt lifts his tired gaze back up. “You dunce. I mean that—”
The stool beside them rattles as someone sits on it, and Linhardt cuts himself off, blinking at the newcomer. It is, Ashe numbly observes, the guy in the green shirt he had pointed out not one minute ago. “Hey there,” the man greets, though he’s only looking at Linhardt. “You’re the one here every week, aren’t you?”
“Er.” Linhardt stares at him. “Yes?”
The man smiles. Ashe supposes he isn’t bad-looking. In fact, he’s good-looking, just on this side of interesting enough for Linhardt’s usual standards. “Let me get you a drink, huh? Bartender, can I get some of the best stuff you got?”
Ashe glances at the still-full bottle sitting in front of Linhardt, but when Linhardt looks too stunned to react, Ashe simply says, “Alright.” He hurries off to fetch another bottle, since the man hadn’t specified for a glass and he might as well squeeze out every bit of money he can from customers that rub him the wrong way, and slides it towards him across the counter.
The man takes one look at it and hands over a thick wad of dollar bills. “Keep the change,” he says dismissively, not unlike the person sitting beside him. Ashe stares at the money long enough for the man to shoot him an impatient look, at which point Ashe takes the cash with trembling hands. This is almost certainly much more than what he makes in an entire week…
“Well.” Linhardt smiles. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“It’s a little hard not to notice your presence in here, darling.” The man opens the bottle and pours a generous amount in Linhardt’s glass, the half-melted ice cubes in it rising to the top. Linhardt looks down at the drink incredulously. “But you always seemed so busy. I didn’t want to disturb.”
Linhardt takes the glass in hand, though he doesn’t drink it right away. “This is very lovely talk for a not-so-innocent request, isn’t it?” His thumb rubs against the ridges on the glass.
“Oh, you catch on quick.” The man’s smile widens, though in the lowlight of the bar, it just looks sinister. Ashe hovers uncertainly nearby, not sure if he should do something or leave now while he can. “Well, what about it? The less talk, the more time we have for… other matters.”
Linhardt gives the man a clear once-over, and Ashe does the same as subtly as he can. It’s clear that the man is much richer than the average worker—his clothes are fresh and crisp and whatever other adjectives Ashe has never related much to, and his expression is that of someone who knows they’ve already gotten what they wanted. Even the way he speaks reminds Ashe of Linhardt, if Linhardt had slicked-back hair and an oily face and a smile that isn’t half as pretty as his own.
But what does it matter? Ashe thinks forlornly, already slinking back to retreat to some corner of the bar where he can wallow in self-pity. The man is rich, good-looking, unafraid to ask Linhardt for what he wants… pretty much everything Ashe isn’t. Besides, it’s not like Linhardt is looking for a relationship—it’s the sex and whatever else comes with that, and nothing else. Why did Ashe ever think he had a chance?
He holds back a sigh, already turning away. Not today… and probably never, really. At least he’d tried.
But Linhardt speaks at last, drawing Ashe’s attention back to what is probably the last part of the conversation before they leave together. “A tempting request,” Linhardt is saying. He’s staring idly at some wood grains on the counter. “But I’m afraid I have to decline.”
Ashe does a double-take. The man’s grip on the bottle tightens. “Come again?”
Linhardt lifts his gaze back up. The apathy in his expression should not be as attractive as Ashe finds it. “I’m not interested.”
“You—” The man’s expression flickers for only a moment before he tries for a smile again, only the strain in it is only too obvious. “Now, now, no need to play hard to get.”
He reaches for Linhardt’s wrist, but Linhardt jerks away from him, the corner of his lip curling downwards in disgust. “Do not touch me,” he hisses, voice hard and cold. “I believe I made myself quite clear. I decline. I refuse. I am not interested. Now please leave me alone.”
“Sweetheart.” The man smiles wider, but it only looks like he’s baring his teeth. “Don’t make this harder for both of us. Just come with me already—”
“Hey,” Ashe snaps, “didn’t you hear him? He said no.”
Both Linhardt and the man look at him in surprise, but the man recovers first. “And what made you think this concerns you at all?” he asks, voice sickly-sweet. “Go mix drinks and mind your own business, boy.”
“This is my business!” Ashe very nearly shouts—only the general noise and chatter of the bar keep anyone from overhearing him. Linhardt blinks, looking shocked speechless for the second time in the past few minutes.
The man jolts back, clearly not having expected much of a response, but shakes his head and laughs under his breath. “Is it? How so?”
“Because—” Ashe casts a glance at Linhardt. He’ll understand, right? “Because he’s going home with me.”
Silence. For a brief, panicked moment, Ashe dearly hopes he isn’t violating any unwritten bartender laws by going home, or pretending to, with a customer. Probably not, right? Linhardt hasn’t taken so much as a sip of alcohol all night anyway, for a reason Ashe still can’t comprehend, so even if he does take Linhardt home tonight… oh, God, he’s actually thinking of the possibilities, and right now really isn’t the right time to start daydreaming, is it.
Before the man can say anything else, Linhardt clears his throat and grabs Ashe’s arm. This makes for an extremely awkward position considering there’s a counter in between them, but Linhardt makes it work. “That’s right,” Linhardt says, nodding firmly. “I was just waiting for his shift to end. Now are you going to sit there and stare at us all night, or will you go mind your own business?”
The man opens his mouth, closes it, then spits out a single, eloquent, “Fuck you,” before grabbing his drink and retreating to some table out of sight.
Linhardt keeps his hold on Ashe’s arm a minute longer, still staring at the bar, before sighing and releasing him. “Thank you for that,” he murmurs, staring down at the glass the man had poured for him. “I was afraid he might attack or something, so I didn’t want to point the drug out.”
“It’s no problem,” Ashe assures, though his heart is still beating a mile a minute, both from what had just happened and how tightly Linhardt had clung to his arm. “I was just—wait a minute. Drug?”
Linhardt lifts his glass up. “Ketamine,” he says, like Ashe is supposed to know what that is. “It’s a general anaesthetic used for medical operations. In liquid form it has no color or smell, which makes it very easy to slip in someone’s drink.” He shrugs. “But you get used to it after a while. Also, he wasn’t very subtle.”
“I—I didn’t even catch him,” Ashe stammers, staring at the drink. It looks no different from the usual. “How did you…?”
“I’m a doctor,” Linhardt says, also like Ashe is supposed to have somehow known that this whole time. “Though besides that, I’ve had my fair share of date rape drugs. After a while I got sick of them and studied them for a few weeks, so now I like to consider myself something of an expert.”
Ashe gapes at him like a fish out of water. “You’re a doctor?”
“I thought you knew that,” Linhardt says, looking puzzled.
“How was I supposed to know that? It never came up in conversation!” All one of their conversations, anyway. But really, shouldn’t Linhardt be at work right now or something? Or… wearing a white coat? Okay, maybe those are both stupid generalizations, but still! How does being in the medical field somehow make Linhardt even hotter?
Linhardt looks amused, so at least Ashe’s current bewilderment is good for something. “Never mind my occupation, it’s hardly important. But did you mean what you said earlier?”
Ashe blinks. “What?” He doesn’t even remember what he’d said two seconds ago.
“That I’m coming home with you tonight,” Linhardt reminds him, his voice dropping into a low, sultry whisper that has Ashe’s heart careening out of his chest. “You were very gallant, saving me from the villain and all… though I could have just smashed this glass in his face, but that’s beside the point.”
“Th… uh… I…”
“You don’t seriously think I waited here for hours without drinking anything just to watch you from afar, do you?” Linhardt rolls his eyes in what is hopefully fond exasperation. “Really, Ashe. You already said it, so you might as well keep your word.”
“But—But I thought… I mean, I don’t do… one night stands,” Ashe eventually manages, casting his gaze downwards. He’s not sure if it’s from shame or shyness, but he can’t meet Linhardt’s eyes. “And you’re not looking for a relationship.”
Linhardt hums, sounding unbothered. “It doesn’t have to be a one night stand,” he says, “and I wouldn’t be… opposed to a relationship.”
“But you said—”
“Yes, I remember what I said,” Linhardt gently interrupts. “If you forgot, I also said that over a month ago. Now you don’t seriously think I keep coming back here to pick up someone new every week, do you?”
It takes around five long seconds for all the pieces to click together in Ashe’s brain. When it finally makes sense, all he can really come up with is, “Oh.”
“Oh, indeed.” Linhardt tilts his head, and, oh. It’s the thing he does, whether consciously or subconsciously, with all the other men he had charmed before—when his hair drapes over his shoulders like a dark green curtain, and his eyes sparkle in the lowlight like the sunset casting its rays over the ocean waves. “How about it, then? I don’t fancy going home alone tonight after all this.”
Professionally speaking, Ashe still has a few hours before the end of his shift. Personally speaking?
“Okay. Yes. Alright.” Ashe grins, already itching to get out from behind the counter and leave the bar together with Linhardt. “Just give me—one minute, I’ll be right there—” He stumbles on a loose floorboard and whimpers, but hurries into the back room to the sound of Linhardt’s laughter behind him.
Personally speaking, Ashe decides his shift can end right now.