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One of the first times they kiss is the first time Matt tastes whiskey. It fills his mouth, strong, with the ghost of a burn; a hint of caramel. He hates it, the taste—and he hates everything else that comes with the liquor, too, but the taste is notably gross. None of that stops him from kissing Hangman back, though. One hand on the back of his neck, fingers pressing hard into Hangman’s skin, their lips clashed together, desperate and a little angry with each other. Hangman’s tongue swipes across his bottom lip, drawing a moan from him, and Hangman tugs him closer roughly by the lapels of his vest. The taste is almost overwhelming. It tastes like watching Hangman lose himself.
A loud crash from somewhere nearby backstage is what breaks them apart, the both of them breathless.
“I don’t know how you drink that stuff. It tastes horrible,” Matt says. It’s somehow easier to say that than ask him why he’s drinking at all.
Hangman wipes his lips with the back of his hand while Matt watches him with dejected annoyance.
“Shut up.”
And that’s that.
The second time they kiss, there’s not a hint of whiskey on Hangman’s lips. He tastes like mint, and a little bit like the arena’s backstage bad coffee. Again, Matt doesn’t care. This kiss is more tender than their last. It’s relief, it’s coming home, it’s i missed you so much and i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry.
Hangman kisses him with a smile on his lips and Matt sinks readily into the embrace Hangman pulls him into, like he’s been waiting forever for this moment. And, truthfully, he has. It's felt like a lifetime without him. Matt breaks the kiss to lean back and look up at Hangman, arms still threaded around his neck.
“You taste good,” Matt says.
Hangman laughs. “What, like bad coffee?”
Matt leans forward, pressing his forehead to Hangman’s, a rare, soft smile on his lips. “Yeah, exactly.”
The last time they kiss, the whiskey is on his lips again. It’s not nearly as strong as it was that first time it filled his mouth, but still unmistakably there. It softens the sharp edge of his kiss, but Hangman doesn’t notice. He has Matt pressed up against the locker room wall, his lips rough and teeth sharp, four months of anger and resentment pouring out of him into the kiss.
All Matt can focus on is the whiskey—its burn, the familiar hint of caramel, just like the first time Hangman lost himself. He thinks about the four months the cowboy spent alone in his own head most likely with a bottle of liquor in his hand. All because of the choices Matt made.
He allows Hangman to drag his teeth sharply across his lips and dig his hands into his hips hard enough to leave bruises, little reminders, one to represent each of his sins against the Hangman.
When they break apart, he mirrors Hangman’s anger. It’s easier to be angry than to be vulnerable. “The whiskey still tastes horrible.”
Hangman looks like he wants to tear into Matt, but instead he says, “Shut up.”
And that’s that.