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Harry’s face was dark as he watched them. Separated by a pane of glass too thin and too clear for Harry’s liking—if only it was a brick wall, Harry thought, as something foul curled in his chest. He wondered what his face would look like, if anyone cared to look—but no, they were all focused on the scene playing out in front of him, at two bodies almost pressed together, two tongues almost meeting.
That tightness in Harry’s chest made him do stupid things far too often, just like the liquor, so when he saw a chance he took it: anything to get Ethan’s eyes back on him. And they did turn to him, scrunched with laughter—Harry loved that, how Ethan laughed with his eyes, his whole body—and Harry knew he’d keep doing stupid things as long as it’d get Ethan to look at him with that much joy. As long as it kept him from pretending to kiss anyone else. As long as it kept his attention on Harry. Whatever it took.