Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time Swan saw the man of his (wet) dreams, he was standing next to his car, smoking a cigarette. His first cigarette in USA, his first cigarette in Henrietta, his first cigarette in Aglionby. His mouth quirked around the filter as he watched the man laugh and joke with his friends, leaning against a car, a Mazda, it seemed, flexing his incredibly muscular arms. Swan didn’t even realise he was sucking on the filter more than usually, hollowing his cheeks, wishing that instead of the filter, his lips were wrapped around the man’s cock.

Swan was so busy eyeing the boy - how the Aglionby sweater stretched over his arms when he moved or how it rose slightly when he laughed, showing off a sliver of brown skin - that he didn’t notice the bitter scent of his cigarette finishing itself and the filter burning to a plastic pulp. He frowned, then dropped the little nub, putting the fire out under the sole of his brand new Louboutin sneaker. It was the time to get back to class anyway. He couldn’t be kicked out of school during his first year, or at least during his first week there. Surely his grandfather, who paid for his schooling and who had given Swan an unreal allowance, would be upset with him and send him back to France.

He walked back to the schoolhouse, sticking his pack of cigarettes into the back pocket of his jeans, shoving aside a few freshmen who were blocking his way. Swan pulled his beanie more onto his head, fixing some strands of hair that peeked out under the black hat. It wasn’t like he wanted to go against the school’s dress code, but the back of his head looked like a mess, bruised and a big bandage stuck onto the skin. His grandfather had sent the school a cheque, telling the staff that they could use some more funds in their arts department and that they were not to question the dressing code disturbances Swan was to make. Swan didn’t care. He would’ve worn the beanie anyway.

Chapter Text

Swan had been in Henrietta for a week when he first heard of a substance party. Some seniors were talking about it in the bathroom and Swan paid no attention to them eyeing him as he pulled out a small makeup kit, getting in front of the mirror as he fixed the edges of the makeup around his eye and his nose. The concealer he had used was heavy enough to cover the still fading bruise, but it caked up and Swan hated seeing the lines of makeup on his face. That’s why he had come to the bathroom in the first place - to fix his makeup and go to his next lesson, to wish he had ran before the fight or that he had punched the person who gave him the bruise in the face.

As he took off some of the concealer and then reapplied it, he could feel the seniors looking at him even as they continued speaking. Swan paid them no mind, dusted some powder onto his face and then fixed his eyeliner; a simple white creamy liner on his waterline made his eyes look bigger and more alive than they probably were. Even though he had had a cup of coffee before school and a cup of it during lunch, it was one of those days where nothing could make him feel energetic.

Before any of the other boys in the bathroom could comment on his appearance or how he presented himself, Swan tucked his makeup bag back into his schoolbag and walked out of the bathroom, almost slamming the door into someone’s face. He didn’t stop to apologise, instead rushing to the Chemistry lesson. Even though he wasn’t the best in Maths, Swan liked Chemistry. What other way was there to legally learn what acids were strong enough to burn the skin off of someone’s face?

He took a seat, ignoring the teacher looking at him as he pushed past her, almost throwing himself onto his seat and his bag onto the table. Swan paid no attention to anyone, getting his workbook and his homework out. He continued solving the equations and problems from the last time, not listening to the teacher explaining how they were done or looking how his classmates tried to solve them on the whiteboard.

Someone coughed next to him and Swan paid him no mind. He checked something from a graph and then jotted things down, frowning when the boy coughed again. “What!?” Swan glared up at him, narrowing his eyes at the tall boy. Shit. It was the man of his wettest dreams. What the hell did he want?

The guy gestured to Swan’s homework and smiled a bit embarrassed. “I’m, uh, supposed to collect the homework.” He said, his voice low and charming. Swan wished that he could get onto his knees and make the guy moan with that voice of his. Instead he handed the homework to the other and then went back to his equations.

Chapter Text

The first time Swan went to a substance party Joseph Kavinsky was famous for, his bruise had healed and he didn’t need to use heavy duty concealer under his foundation and powder. His head had healed as well and his hair had grown enough so that he could leave his beanie home. Everything about him looked great, even if he felt like shit inside.

He drove to the party, hearing the music from about a mile away. The music was oddly alright, a lot of electronic music, a lot of heavy bass. Swan hadn’t been a fan of music that was out there to make him deaf, but over the time, he had learned to appreciate every kind of music. Sometimes music that made him deaf and made him unable to move the next day was good. Sometimes it was all he craved, all he needed - just to feel numb and just to let his body move instead of his brain having to give commands.

Swan parked his car, then walked over to where the main party was at, glaring at the guy who stopped him.

“This is a substance party,” A skinny pale guy said, smirking at Swan. “Nobody’s in unless you brought a substance.” The way he spoke made it clear he was in charge and if Swan was not going to give him a substance, his own brain matter would become said substance.

Still looking at the guy with narrowed eyes, Swan took out a little packet from his pocket, throwing it to the guy’s awaiting hands. “ Plaisir d'or ,” He said, putting his hands into the pockets of his jeans, then gestured to the packet full of golden powder. “Smoke it or snort it up your nose, I don’t give a shit, but you’ll be puking gold for days.”

The guy eyed him over, his eyes stopping on Swan’s shirt and his sneakers for a second before devouring the golden granules with a stare.

“French?”

Swan laughed, arching a brow. Merde , was this guy for real. “No, I bought some flour from the supermarket and dyed it with some paint. Duh, it’s French, idiot.”

The other guy smirked, then pocketed the drugs, wrapped an arm around Swan’s shoulders and led him to the dance floor, a part of the garden where a special tent had been set up. “The name’s Kavinsky,” He introduced himself and patted Swan on the back, shoving him into the crowd of people. “Have fun, sweetheart.”

Before Swan could tell him to go fuck himself, Kavinsky was gone and Swan was left with no drugs, in the middle of grinding bodies. The music was good though and he moved his body side to side, getting used to the heavy bassline and the odd notes that sometimes escaped the speakers. Swan was a good dancer, if he could say so himself. The years he had done ballet had given him strong muscles and an extremely good control over his body. The years he had danced contemporary had given him enough experience to know how to get attention and enough dance moves to come up with a dance on the spot.

As the music flowed through him, Swan slowly moved his hips and then went as close to the ground as he could get in his skinny jeans, running one of his hand down on his chest, then got back up, as slowly as possible, continuing to make little circles with his hips. He tugged on his own shirt, as if he was airing it out, and grinned to a girl that was watching him, dancing a bit closer to her, this time twirling slightly. His hands kept moving in waves, but when the music turned to more energetic beat, he gave all he had, grinding against an invisible person, making his hands move as quickly as possible, sometimes letting the palms of his hands caress his own face, his own chest, grabbing his crotch in a provocative manner once or twice.

By the time the song finished, a small group of people had gathered around Swan, all the people obviously intoxicated, but also cheering and hollering, some wanting to be with him, some wanting to be him. Swan grinned to them, then took off his shirt that was getting sweaty, threw it to the admirers, leaving them to fight over it as he bowed and walked away, deciding it was a good time to have a cigarette break. It had been a while since he had gotten to dance like that and every bigger social interaction seemed to make him crave for the bits of his old life that had been good - the other dancers, their support and the fancy cigarettes everyone smoked after rehearsals or performances.

Swan pushed past a few very drunk people, shoving one of the girls onto the ground as he went back to the cars, wanting to have a cigarette or two. Probably more than two… He pulled out his package of cigarettes and put one between his lips, finding that he didn’t have a lighter with him; he must’ve left it in a car. Swan quickly looked around, hoping that someone else was just lighting a cigarette as well.

A really tall guy who Swan couldn’t see well had a lighter in his hand and was lighting a cigarette. With a little smile, Swan walked over and coughed as loud as he could.

“You’ve got light for another lost soul?” He asked with a little teasing smirk, feeling his body give a little excited leap as the guy turned around and Swan could see him better in the lights of the car. It was the guy whose dick he had wished to suck when he first got to Henrietta. He arched a brow as no light was offered right away and repeated his request.

“Hello? Do you have light or should I go ask someone else for it?”

The guy took his sweet time, but then held up his Zippo and produced a lovely flame, lighting Swan’s cigarette. He inhaled some of the smoke and let the rest of it seep through his nostrils, eyeing the still silent man.

“What?” Swan put one of his hands to his hip and blew some smoke into his face, still smirking widely. The guy just swatted his hand to make the smoke go away and then smiled too, looking down at Swan.

“Nothing. You enjoying the music? I’m the DJ.”

Swan snorted - if this guy was the DJ surely he was supposed to be handling the music, right? He smoked for a while, then hummed. “Yeah? The music’s OK. Could do better.”

He did a longer drag and looked up into the sky, letting the smoke slowly out, letting it curl in the air and make little pictures before the slight wind carried it away. Swan laughed and shook his head, taking another drag, not saying anything as him and the DJ watched each other in silence. Oh how Swan wished to know his name… He had always liked tall and strong guys and this one fit the description so well.

They both finished their cigarettes soon and the guy got another one, a cig that was obviously rolled by human’s hands, not by a machine. Swan had rolled enough fags in his life to know which ones were done well and which would fall apart right after they were lit aflame. He leaned a bit closer to the guy, letting him hold the cig in between his fingers, then gestured to the little cancer stick.

“Mind if I take a drag?” Swan didn’t wait for an answer and instead wrapped his lips around the filter, taking what he wanted while the other boy held the cigarette for him. He hollowed his cheeks again as he sucked, wanting to turn the DJ on, hoping that maybe there was a chance that he would take him back to his place or at least his car and jerk him off to the beat of the music. Swan loved the taste of cinnamon in his mouth and when he pulled away, he smiled to the boy, gently plucking the cig from his fingers.

“I’ll take this.” He said softly, then took the boy’s hand, eyeing one of those fingers for a second before kissing the tip of it, sucking the finger into his mouth, his tongue gently tracing the pad of the finger as he sucked his cheeks in. Swan looked into the boy’s eyes, glad to see that his pupils were blown wide and that when Swan pulled away, winking and wiggling the cigarette around, the guy’s mouth fell open and he stumbled over his words, “I, uh, yeah?”

Swan laughed, turning away as he walked back to the dance floor, finishing the cigarette on his way and tossing the filter into someone’s drink. He found a good place to dance; right in the middle of the groups of people where he could see the DJ stand; and when a few girls and guys came to party with him, he happily showed them some moves. Swan kept his eye on the DJ stand though, noticing the guy, whom he had talked to, get back to work. He grinned and as soon as the music changed to a more cheerful tune, Swan moved his body in a way that would hopefully attract the eyes of the DJ.

He left after a few more songs, sneaking an unattended joint back with him to his apartment. For the first time in weeks, Swan fell into a dreamless sleep that did not agitate his mind or his body.

Chapter Text

‘I miss you. - Marc’

Swan couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe that after everything he had been through, this son of a bitch had the audacity to ask someone for his new number and to actually text him. The urge to throw his phone against a wall was terrible, but instead he reached for the pack of cigarettes on his end table, grabbing his lighter as well and then got up, going to the little balcony. He lit his cigarette and sighed, inhaling as much of the smoke as he could with one go.

It was still early - he had just gotten back from school, but in France it must’ve already been late. It was too early for all of this - for the text, for Swan to go though his entire package of cigarettes, for him to wish that he hadn’t given away the last of his drugs so that he could just have a nice serene evening. As he blew out some smoke, Swan leaned his elbows against the balcony railing and rested his head on his arms.

Even though he would never admit it to himself, he, too, missed Marc. Missed France, missed his friends, missed Marc, missed his old life, missed dancing, missed his friends, missed Marc.

He needed a drink.

Swan had heard that if you needed something, Kavinsky could get it for you. So he finished his cigarette and fixed his hair, quickly adding some eyeliner at the vanity table, then grabbed his keys and rushed out, driving to the racetrack outside of the city. Swan didn’t talk much, but he wasn’t deaf, he had heard people mention Kavinsky and races and Kavinsky and race tracks. He hoped that Kavinsky was there, or at least one of his friends. He needed a new fake ID - fucking US, not letting adults drink until they turned 21. Swan’s old one was good enough to let him purchase cigarettes, as many of them as he could carry, as many as he wanted to risk his health with, but as his age on that ID was 19, he couldn’t buy shit from alcohol stores for another two years.

As he got closer to the race track, he could hear the blaring of some foreign rap and trap music. Kavinsky’s gang must’ve been at the race track already. He pulled into the middle of the track, facing four cars, and lit a cigarette before getting out of the vehicle.

“What brings you around, sweetheart?” Kavinsky asked him with a smirk, leaning against his car and nursing a bottle of liquor. Swan eyed the bottle for a second, then pointed to it, blowing out another spiral of smoke.

“I need an ID. A fake one.” He was confident, more confident than he’d been for the last week and he knew it was all because he was upset and he needed a drink.

Kavinsky’s smirk widened and he arched a brow. “The service doesn’t come cheap. What can you offer me?”

Shit, Swan thought. He had not known there was a barter system. Sure, he had money, but what goods did he have to offer?

He finished his cigarette, his brain trying to rack up ideas on what to offer, but he only figured it out as he saw one of Kavinsky’s friends take out some weird pills and swallow them, washing the drugs down with some alcohol.

“I can get you the number for the drugs I brought,” Swan said, tapping on his cigarette so that the ash fell onto the ground. “I’m sure you liked them,”

“Not really,” Kavinsky laughed, looking at his friends for a second. “But they did. Give me the number and I’ll see what I can do.”

Swan had been looking at the DJ, one of Kavinsky’s friends, watched how he took a swig from a bottle of what seemed to be rum. If a week ago he had been dreaming of having sex with him, sneaking off to ride and to make out everywhere, now the sight made him sick. He hadn’t realised how much the guy reminded him of Marc…

“The ID. Then the number.” He turned back to face Kavinsky and glared at him. Kavinsky just kept smirking, but they shook hands and agreed to meet the next day.

The following day Swan gave Kavinsky a paper with the number on it; Kavinsky gave him a piece of plastic. Neither of them thanked the other, instead Kavinsky handed the number to one of his lackeys whose name Swan didn’t know. Swan just left. He had to get some booze and then drink himself into a comatose.

An hour later, Swan was so smashed that he picked up his phone again, read through the texts Marc had sent him during the day.

‘I don’t know if I got the right number. Is this Jérémie’s number?’

‘I think it’s the right number. Uh, it’s me, Marc. I miss you, Jér…’

‘I hope you’re well. I really miss you. Are you coming back to France soon?’

‘..Are you ignoring me? Jér?’

‘Jér, please don’t ignore me.’

‘I fucked up, oh God, I know I fucked up, but please, I really miss you. Please call me, text me, have someone tell me you’re alright. I just… I worry about you, Jér…’

‘I still love you.’

‘I love you so much and I wish I could change everything I did. Please call me.’

Swan read through them once, twice, even a third time as he emptied the bottle of rum he had bought, then let his fingers run over the screen, texting Marc back.

‘Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you.’