Chapter Text
The splitting headache wakes him up. He normally doesn't get hangovers, but he also normally doesn't forget what happened either and he can't find the memories on how he got home.
They had a Gig. They had been celebrating. Celebrating months of work and their album and, of course, the Tour.
They're going on tour again! His little band of misfits. He still can't believe it. They worked so hard for this and now it's real.
So there had been dancing, and drinking. So much drinking.
He tries to form a picture of the night in his head. Hamid had busted out some proper moves. He talked to Barnes at some point maybe? They had been at one place, than another. Then at the first again but different. Or was that before?
No use. It's all scrambled up, and the headache is killing him. This is probably the worst hangover he's had in years.
At least he doesn't feel like he's going to throw up, but he hasn't opened his eyes yet so that's subject to change.
He does a quick mental check and he seems to be in his pants. Apparently he at least undressed at some point even though the dull pain at his knee lets him know he did not take of his prosthetic. He shifts a bit to try and relieve at least some of the pressure from it and...
There's someone next to him.
A head of familiar brown curls is buried into the pillow beside him. Luckily still passed out.
Oscar Wilde is in his bed. In his bed, asleep after a night of lots of drinking that scrambled his memories a bit so he doesn't know how he got there.
Zolf dares to look again.
Wilde is still there, still asleep, and seems to not be wearing a shirt either. It's hard to tell anything more than that as he's buried under most of the duvet, which explains why Zolf is fucking freezing right now, but it doesn't explain how he got there. Or what happened.
Occam's Razor might say one thing but there's no way he hooked up with Oscar Wilde, his friend, his manager, the biggest annoyance he's ever met, the man he's definitely not been pining for at all for way longer than strictly necessary. Definitely not. There's no way right?
He closes his eyes to stop the spinning in his head and tries harder to put his memories in the right order. But what he comes up with isn't very satisfying.
The Show
Hamid's lovely speech
Drinks
Dancing
Complaining about the DJ
Shots with Hamid and Sasha
Shots with Wilde
Complaining to the DJ
Dancing with Wilde
Now we're getting somewhere. He thinks, but the images get spottier from there
Looking for Wilde after trying to find the bathroom for way too long
More shots?
Something about stairs
A Taxi. Did he call it? Did he pay for it?
A faint picture of hands in his hair and a mouth on his neck and the taste of a drink from someone else's lips creeps up in him but before he can untangle familiar dream from unfamiliar memory the spinning room catches up with his guts and he is sprinting to the bathroom, silently thanking whoever is listening that he didn't take off his leg last night or this would have been even more of a mess than it is already.
A lot of cold water and a desperately needed tooth brush later the spinning is calming down and he's staring at himself in the mirror. There's no way Wilde is in his bed right now.
There's no way they... is there?
He scrubs his hand over his face.
Focus.
But the tugging at his beard just brings up more dreams. Or memories. He's pretty sure they're memories at this point.
He can almost still feel the touch of long fingers raking through his beard, a mouth sucking bruises right under his...
His eyes snap back open and he turns his head to get a better look in the mirror.
Starting underneath his ear there's a curved line of messy hickeys right down his throat, ending in full on bite marks in the crook of his neck. More still are scattered over his chest, like someone had tried to colour in his tattoos with their mouth.
So the 'Wilde didn't make it home so he just crashed here' theory is out.
A muffled "Fuck" from the bedroom pulls him out of his thoughts.
He braces himself to face the consequences of his own actions. There's no way this is not going to be a disaster.
He tries to swallow his anxiety and slowly makes his way back to the bedroom. Somewhere, stashed somewhere incredibly convenient he can't remember right now, is his cane. But for now, he limps, trying not to make the soreness at his knee any worse.
All these thoughts leave him in an instant when he walks back through the door and his eyes land on his now awakened... guest.
Wilde looks like a picture out of a magazine. The blanket pools around his waist where he's sitting crosslegged on the bed and an honest to god beam of sunlight is shining right through the window and is highlighting where his hair is falling into his unshaven face and his palms are pressed into his eyes in an effort to rub out the hangover. This is so far removed from everything he's ever seen of him. Even during their first tour Zolf had never seen him so unkempt and far from his polished facade. He has never seen him so beautiful.
His breath catches in his throat and the half-baked speech about mistakes and professional relationships and alcohol and the questions of did we? fold in on themselves and come out as a choked cough.
Wilde turns his head and winces with what Zolf assumes a similar headache to his. Wilde's eyes widen a bit in surprise? Disgust? Concern? Zolf has never felt more exposed in his life. He's painfully aware that he's just in his pants, weight awkwardly shifted to one side to not put more pressure on his bad leg, a complete mess.
He looks everywhere but on his bed, mapping where his T-shirt was flung across the room, his Jeans lay crumpled on the floor, where Wilde's clothes are in one pile right at the footend of the bed, like he had stood there while someone else on the bed might have taken them off...
He swallows again, beating down the images he still can't place quite between reality and fantasy, and finally focuses on Wilde again, who's still sat there. Just looking at him with that strange look on his face.
"ummm... Coffee?"