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Eight thirty pm and Sylvain was currently flat on his back on the kitchen tile, arm up, fingers air-tracing scuff marks and the yellow fractaled reflections from their ceiling light. He didn’t remember getting here; perhaps the result of a third martini. The sound of the door handle jiggling had him perking up, and when Felix entered—haggard and gaunt and bone-achingly beautiful—Sylvain’s hand reached for him instead.
“Heyyyy, it’s my sweetheart-tart,” Sylvain slurred, throwing a sloppy wink in his direction. “Mmm’missed you.”
It became too exhausting to keep his hand outstretched, and it flopped against the sticky floor like a fish out of water. He turned his gaze back to the ceiling and heard Felix’s huff as he dropped his bags to the floor, a heavy thunk and the unmistakable sound of items rolling across the floor.
“Seriously?”
Step. Step. Step. The swish of liquid as a bottle was held to the light.
“Couldn’t wait a couple more hours?”
Step. Step. Step. Any other potential ceiling lines for him to find were blocked by Felix’s head tipping over and down at him.
“Mmm, when did you get so tall?” Sylvain quipped in response, grinning crookedly when Felix’s cheeks puffed out.
Adorable. He was so cute. Now he was pouting, and Sylvain heard himself giggle.
“How is it possible you’re already—”
“I dunnooo,” Sylvain sighed, lovesick, up to his face, “you weren’t here. And I got bored.”
He caught the cut of Felix’s chin when he lifted it to scan around the kitchen.
“And made a complete mess by the looks of things.”
Sylvain attempted to catch sight of this so-called ‘mess’, but the room spun dangerously and he decided it was best to take Felix’s word on it.
“Can’t break a cook if you have too many eggs, Fe. And the best news is: that book? Was definitely worth the twelve dollars.”
That book Felix was now lifting off the table, holding it gingerly by the corner with a look of disgust. What was most likely Contrieu dripped from the edge. Oops—but oh, that cocktail had been a good one. Sweet and tart, and he bet even Felix would like it. (He did have a secret weakness for oranges.)
Sylvain managed to flop onto his side, pulling Felix in by the sneaker and nuzzling the cuff of his jeans. A drip of sticky liquor plopped on his cheek.
“Let me make you one? I promise it’ll be go-o-o-od.”
Another huff but even in his state, Sylvain could make out the amusement hidden behind it.
“Fine. If you can make it to standing—” he yanked his leg from Sylvain’s grip, and rolled his eyes at the resulting whine, “—by yourself, I’ll let you.”
Sylvain squinted blurry into his sharp eyes. “That sounds like a challenge.”
Felix shugged, step stepping away from Sylvain’s eyeline. Sylvain hummed, cheek smashed against the tile. Why was it so white? Why had Felix agreed with his decision for such a bright, unforgiving shade? Sylvain should've stuck to his guns. Wood would have been so much better.
“I see it’s going well.”
Tilting his head a few inches he found Felix again, cross-armed against the island, watching. Head tilted, mouth thinned in a hard line so he wouldn’t smile. Cruel. But maybe Sylvain deserved it, a little. Because maybe he’d promised a single cocktail while he waited, but then Felix’s meeting went from ten minutes to half hour to an hour and maybe Sylvain went through the whole botanicals section faster than you could say rosé. No one could blame him for that.
Rosé, José. Heh, they rhyme. Thank goodness he likes rosé. Would be weird if he didn’t like his middle name. Felix’s feet scuffled against the spotlight flooring and Sylvain blinked. Right. Drink. Making for his boyfriend, but he has to get up.
With arms and legs wobbling like jelly, he clambered to his feet, inhaling deep as the room turned to neon spots and his head swirled into soup. A second later, hands were pressing into his shoulders.
“Hey, you good?”
Oh Felix. The spots cleared and his concerned face crossfaded into view. Of course Sylvain was good. He was more than good, with his boyfriend all worried about him. You know in retrospect, it was probably the lavender absynthe that did him in. His hands found their way to Felix’s hip bones, secured themselves, dug in. Felix settled into the hold.
A potted grin spread across Sylvain’s lips again. Felix always made him this way, completely helpless to both his sharp edges and the softness that lay waiting just under the surface.
So Sylvain went for his final drive two quarters too early.
“Love you, Felix,” he said in lieu of a proper answer, chuckling at the immediate response of Felix dropping his head to his sternum.
Six months in and he still couldn’t handle the voiced words of affection—Sylvain would use it to his advantage until Felix could. And would then relish in whatever came after.
“Make me that drink, you insufferable fool.”
Sylvain only held him closer. “Hmm, since you asked sooo nicely, I guess I can ‘quiesce your quest.”
But neither of them moved, just a slight shift for Sylvain to rest his cheek on warmed hair, miles better than the cold tile. Relished in Felix’s slow, deep breaths, exhales ghosting across his collarbones. Drank in his presence, headier and stronger than any cocktail.
“You smell like oranges,” he heard Felix say, soft and vulnerable in their private haze of domesticity.
Sylvain pulled back, taking in the sight of Felix so close, so unwavering in his presence in Sylvain’s arms and Sylvain’s life. The smile he offered now was just for them.
“You wanna see if I taste like them, too?” Sylvain asked, trying his luck, expecting resistance.
What he got was dexterous fingers through his hair and a firm fist gripping his sticky shirt. The dart of a pink tongue across parted lips before a soft collision, a hum that vibrated from their mouths into his bones.
An unspoken confession. Sylvain lingered in it, eyes remaining closed even when Felix stepped away.
“Let’s skip the drink,” came muttered words, laced with implication.
Sylvain’s lips curled with tipsy fondness as he was tugged unforgivingly toward the threshold.