Work Text:
It was a massive joke round the bar: this man—near a DILF, weren’t he so morose—had been coming in to get sloshed on and off for months, and he’d forgot the bartender's name so many times Hickey had to wonder if it wasn't all some elaborate ruse to fuck him.
Francis, his name was, and Hickey had snickered about it until Solomon told him he hadn’t ground to stand on, being a Cornelius. Hickey only smirked, being, in fact, not truly a Cornelius at all.
“What an absolute hellhole of a week,” Francis said, tossed back two fingers’ good whiskey at once and swayed. “What day is it?”
Hickey smiled. “It’s a Wednesday, sir.” Not yet 3:00 p.m., he didn’t say. “And a bad one for you, looks like.”
The man grimaced, cut off a phlegmy groan. “Got rejected, I did. Frigged up and good in Platypus Pond and jettisoned right off.”
“At least he got you off first, eh?”
“She.”
“A man might hope, no?” Who’d fuck a man in some tepid pond and then ditch him? Why not jettison him before the pond? Had to have an unmissable dick, Francis.
A phlegmy scoff to match the groan. "Wish she hadn't bothered."
Hickey leaned across the bar and patted his hand, lingered. Francis scowled and blushed and slouched.
“What’s your name, lad?” Francis said, and Hickey snorted, coughed to hide it.
“Hickey,” he said.
“Well, then. Would you take a drink, Mr. Hickey?”
Hickey grinned.
“Could go anywhere,” he told Billy, leaning dreamily against their countertop. “Anywhere!”
“He won’t remember you tomorrow, Cornelius.” Billy glared into their pot of risotto.
“Well. Maybe I’ll fuck him in the bathroom, see if that makes the name stick. Hmm?”
Billy stirred, silent, and Hickey schemed.