Work Text:
If you asked Acho Denholm what his favorite flavor was he'd be at a loss. He didn't have a favorite anything, too little to hold on to. Though he'd still say apples; remembering the pie his brother attempted to bake for him one time. Dry, not befitting of the title of 'food'. But a fond memory nonetheless.
As absurd as it was, star would mull over that question. Atleast for a little while. Hoping the contents of their mug would show star the right answer, before downing it in one go. A hedonist star was, really.
They would search for clues in the bottom of each glass. Before drunkenly meeting rich brown eyes beside to himself. It was here they would find an answer, they were sure of it.
If you asked Acho Denholm about his infatuation with Herons, he'd play dumb. Correction, his infatuation with one Heron. One who couldn't give him what he needed, nor wanted really. Acho would end the conversation there.
It was those nights, hot and heavy, with his hands clutching at the back of fine silk that Acho believed he'd find an answer in. Maybe something more. Only to be disappointed the next morning each time.
She still kissed him on the forehead before she left. Building up himself a home in Acho's chest.
They stared into his mug, thoughts mixing like the alcohol that shone a muddy copper. Choking down another mouthful he felt it burn in their throat, warming his body all the way down. As if they had swallowed the stars themselves.
..It still tasted like her mouth.
Acho flirted like a madman, as if having been struck dumb when she was around. Always on him, in the smile they wore when he was around. He made passes that held no meaning to anyone but himself. But he admired Owen in a way he couldn't place. And Owen? She allowed it. Despite it all, she allowed him to be near.
She did it on purpose, they were sure. Got their hopes up with sugary words and alcohol sour kisses. Little tugs to the sleeve of an ill-fitting coat as they slipped from line of sight. Star wore that disheveled look with a sense of pride. Wanting to ignore that little taste of longing.
It made that little thing in star's chest thrash childishly when star would watch him tug at someone else's sleeve like that. But star wasn't in love, no, too little to hold on to. The butterflies in star’s stomach were worms, goring star from the inside out.
If you asked Acho Denholm what his favorite flavor was he would pause. Ask if it was too late to change his answer? He didn't have a favorite anything; but the taste of oranges had grown on him recently. In a way that made him feel ill.