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it's not like he's the most beautiful man force has ever seen—but he's exactly—the most beautiful man force has ever laid eyes on.
probably, it's the gentle twilight hues raining all over his body, like a crescendo of crackling fireworks and scattered confetti all over the squeaky floor, secluding him from the jeers and cheers of other partygoers in the club. he exudes such peace and serenity that is impossible to replicate in this sea of people, a mass of bodies dancing the night away with alcohol brimming in their bloodstream. it mesmerises force, this suave-like tenderness—of his smile and the faint twinkle in his eyes—everything about this nameless man makes force's heart race. and force doesn't even hear anything fluke is saying. too busy wishing upon the dangling lights above his head so their worlds could collide. if only if.
but he appears like a lone star, almost elusive, swaying just enough to the tuneful r&b, moving his hips to the rhythm of the beat, with a glass of champagne in between deft, longer fingers, sipping once or twice, and pink colours the rim—the shape of his full, heart lips—force doesn't know how he can even see that from this distance, but it is what it is—and this stranger right here is downright captivating. force never believes in the tales of romeo and juliet or the cliches of shakespeare. yet it feels like a mockery now—how he wants to string sentences with flowers and present them on a pedestal—because this guy deserves sweet promises and nectarine assurances. a bit of spice and all things nice. and, of course, force can give him this and everything (if he's ever down for it).
"heuy, meung. stop eyeing that guy like a fucking predator. it's creepy!" fluke elbows him, and for once, force wonders if he is being a weirdo. but he's just looking—admiring—god's finest work. what's so wrong about it?
thor chimes in, concern and amusement mingling in his words, "yeah. he's legit fidgeting whenever he looks in our direction. you aren't being subtle at all, force."
oh? he doesn't know that. but people say he tends to be so out there—a powerful and commanding presence, force embodies. it always works in his favour whenever he's presenting the proposal to the clients, but not this time.
shia. he really doesn't want to chase this little angel away.
force briefly sips his mocktail, frustrated at the fading sweetness on his tongue as bitterness takes over, of hopelessness and doubt and begrudging instances. "do i really look like a creep?"
fluke and thor look at each other before they simultaneously nod. comically, like a perfect duo, they are. "yeah. a fucking psychopath, to be exact," fluke is always so honest, and force like that about his best friend, but can he, for once, not be too straightforward? it fucking hurts.
force wipes his face with his hands, huffing a guttural breath. "fuck. that's so uncool," because it is, and he has never wanted to be someone who appears disrespectful or intrusive or anything in between. but now, it feels like he blew his own chance at getting to know his (potential) someone special. fish paste.
but fluke lifts his dimming spirit, patting him on the shoulders, expressing, "heuy! don't lose hope! you can still try. just walk over and talk to him! i think he's a nice guy. it won't be so bad."
thor massages the tension on his neck, and untangles the strained knots, smiling at force as he adds, "definitely! even his friends look nice. it doesn't hurt to try, force. if not now, when?"
and the devil, fluke is, he mercilessly pours more oil on the blazing fire. he leans close and whispers, "this might be your chance to get laid!"
and force—he kicks fluke in the stomach, shouting a very scandalous, "you bastard!"
they have a good laugh before the world tunes into the stranger in white, and fucking hell, force really can't see anything but him. is this love?
so he inhales a deep breath, glimpsing at fluke and thor by his side, gathering all the courage and power they're giving with their snarky grin and overly-assuring gestures, screams of su su! and you got this, tiger! ring in his ears like red noise, and force takes it in—because he knows— when he strides closer toward the man's direction, he won't hear anything but his palpating heartbeat.
so he begins.
every step force takes is like a gamble. he doesn't know how the guy will react. will he be okay if force comes to him and casually starts a conversation? or will he be so freaked out that he decides force is a lunatic and calls those muscular bouncers to kick him out of the club? oh, the thought of not getting even the stranger's name hurts force to the core of his existence. getting his initials is already good enough—so at this point—helplessly, anything is enough. force just has to know something about him. anything.
and it takes a moment for force to register that he's already standing a few steps away from the stranger. the murmur of the man's friends puzzled remarks, do you know him, phi? and not really, ohm, and phi mike, do you know him? and hm, not really, awakens force from the trance, and it's no longer a dreamless dream. it's no longer a scorching afterthought resounding like a ticking metronome in his ears, prompting force to make a move. and fuck, he's even more ethereal up close.
he's shaking. for a moment, force thought it was from all the jumping surrounding him, but it's the nerves accumulating underneath his skin, and they rupture like tiny ripples of thrown stones on the water. yet he's here, and it's so near, and force won't trade this chance with fear, so he adheres.
he squeaks a hesitant "hey," and everything pauses. or again—it's just his muddled brain making up scenarios to cope with the blur of emotions surging in his tightening chest. fuck. he almost can't breathe. but almost is never enough, and almost didn't kill him. not yet.
but force hears faint mumbles, book, we're getting more drinks, okay? and oh—his name is book? how delightful. force wants to read him right there and then—
"hi?" the man—book?—greets. the smile on his face is somewhat shy and reserved, a little surprised, a tiny bit fearful, but his eyes—force sees a gleam of interest in them. and that fucking makes him giddy, all of a sudden. as if they're standing on the same path—vibing with the same tune—resonating on the same wavelength—perhaps this is force's soul person—his one and only.
force never beats around the bush, so he says, "i'm sorry for approaching you out of the blue. i saw you tonight, and i just—i think you're so...beautiful."
his mouth runs these intrusive notions faster than his brain can filter them, but it's too late to take them back—too late to unalive himself and dig a hole for him to reside forever—because the crimson on book's cheeks is the only colour force sees right now—his foreseeable future.
hell. he should've introduced himself first, no? like a decent member of society. but no. he blurted the thing he had been thinking about all night long and—fuck. just fucking fuck, force jirat.
but there's something so endearing about how book somehow senses his simmering nervousness. he's rolling his luscious bottom lip between his bunny-like teeth, fighting back the smile from stretching into a grin as he sways from left to right again, playing with the end of his dress shirt, not meeting force's expectant eyes.
and force almost cries. because feelings are nothing but a psychotic loser and force feels like an arse for making this beautiful stranger so uncomfortable that he—
"don't you think telling me your name first is more appropriate? but not that i mind, though. it's okay if you don't want me to know—"
"force," he intervenes, losing a fraction of his sanity when book stares at him, wide-eyed. "force jiratchapong. that's my name," he continues, just because this stranger has to know his name in one way or another—a beneficial transaction for them both (or so force thinks).
and book fucking giggles once he registers force's random burst of energy. he'd become goo and a puddle of dispersed jitters if it weren't for book closing the distance between them, leaning one palm closer as he introduces, smiling gleefully, "hahaha. i'm book, by the way. book kasidet."
oh. shit.
book offers a handshake that force never hesitates to take. it's an honour almost. fuck. he's already so far gone it's impossible for force to find a way out from this kasidet-hole. wait. that sounds weird—
"it's nice meeting you, force. thanks for reaching out to me. no one has ever done anything like this to me before, so i really don't know what to say or how to react..."
force wants to jump from the tiled floor to the underworld because of that pout on book's face? illegal. jail time for eternity. (but book needs to take force with him—just because.)
he waves his hands, denying everything book says because he's never wrong, and it's all on force for just acting out feelings without thinking, which is so unlikely of him, but love blinds a person, and he's not an exception.
"no! it's me. hahaha. i just—i feel like i should say hi. i don't think i'll ever get a chance like this after tonight."
and the tension thickens.
no one knows who started it, but their shoulders are brushing, and force's heart is leaping and falling, not knowing if he can survive another minute with book intently listening to everything force says, sometimes nodding, other times sharing his own thoughts. but then even the gap between their elbows fades as force musters the courage to be a bit more playful. it feels so nice because book does the same—always meeting him halfway.
when the music slows down, lines blur as the lights darken, only sparks of white and flickers of yellow moving around in circles. on the dance floor and across book's wonder-stricken face. force witnesses everything, and he's fascinated by book's existence in more ways than one. all over again, like a broken record playing on the dusty gramophone.
so he asks, "can i have this dance?" and hopes book won't say no.
the sound of book's laughter can heal the world. they flutter like butterfly wings and sway tall grasses, liberating and freeing, like running across a field of flowers or huddling into a blanket while it's raining outside. and force can't get enough of it—can't ever resist book's charm even if he tries.
"i don't know how to dance," book answers, sipping the last drop of his champagne while studying force's next move, bashful in tamed cheekiness.
"i can show you," force coaxes, carefully taking book's hands with his, lacing their ten fingers together. "only if you want to," he adds, displaying more options for book to choose from, but the outcome is the same—force hopes he'll say yes.
and book grips onto his other ten with a small smile. "okay. i would love that, force."
and their stars become twenty—and they're infinite.
it takes a while for force to adjust, now realising the mere inches of their height difference is another endearing trait to remember, and also their sweaty palms taking their designated position naturally—force's around book's waist—book's resting silently against force's chest. they slot like perfect puzzle pieces, some parts missing, still searching, but it's beautiful. they glow in this dark space, only the dim white lights shining on them, yet force still thinks book radiates the brightest glory.
"you're really beautiful, book," force mutters, prodding book to move with him with every step he initiates, pouring his heart and soul while looking into book's brown doe eyes.
book obliges, cheeks reddening, but still, he shyly responds, "you are too."
oh.
force doesn't know what to say—because he has so much to say—but words can never do this justice—his feelings for book and everything in between. he only wants to be here—to exist with book—for the time being—or at least until the sun is up. but—
"i know this is weird," book begins, looking at everyone else as a distraction, expertly avoiding force's gaze. when his eyes land on force anew, there's a new glimmer of confidence he didn't see before. "but i feel like we can be—you know—more than this," book gestures this with his eyes moving in all directions, and force can't help but laugh. it looks like destiny has set them up all along.
book's doubtful stare burns a hole in force's heart, an emblem of something so sweet and worthwhile. so force pushes himself closer, zeroing the nonexistent gravity between them as he agrees, "i feel the same, too," lips almost touching book's, and it takes the slither of sanity left in him not to claim those sinful pilgrims with his unholy ones.
he's seething—book is glowing in a multitude of colours—bedazzling. force is burning. everywhere is scorching and overwhelming, but book's hands on his chest feel so good—delicious even—and force can't really think straight.
the music goes on and on. book is still in force's arms, wrapped safely in a cocoon of brimming adoration. once in a while, their eyes meet, and both force and book will laugh at the odds—how too good to be true this is. because can ever a love story begin from pure admiration and an innocent crush? maybe.
and force prompts, "do you have plans for the night?" to which book quickly answers with a shake of his head.
and force knows exactly where he can take this voyage—maybe he can find out if there's ever a love story like theirs in the real world. he only has to take book's hands and exit the club to find out.