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Vincent knocks back a glass filled with an unknown drink of brownish color, only to cough at the heat of syrupy spice. Not unknown anymore—whoever decided eggnog is suitable enough to be mixed with alcohol deserves to be executed.
He sets his drink down on a side table, next to other half-drunk glasses left abandoned. There’s always a few that use work parties as a chance to make connections, to schmooze the higher-ups, and not just as an excuse to blitzed on company money. Vincent likes to count himself as one of those people; he has places to go, things to seize, a destiny greater than talk show host. By God he’ll get it, he’s sure of it. But this studio? Everyone here is boring. Plain. Average.
Who would imagine that Hollywood could ever run out of interesting people?
A few people greet him as they make their way to the doors—it’s getting late, and people are flaking away. He smiles at them in return, his picture-perfect screen smile, but it drops as soon as he turns. Backstabbing snakes, most of them. They can only wish they had his position.
He sticks his hands in his pockets, wandering towards the table of snacks. It’s been picked over by now, all but a fourth of the dishes gone, the display of holly and decorative candles—very Christmassy, Vincent had assured the frazzled interns who put it together earlier—empty without much to fill it. He stares at it for a moment before picking a little dish of shrimp garnished with a pathetically pretentious leaf and popping it into his mouth. Cold. He wrinkles his nose, swallowing it as quickly as possible.
It’s certainly time to leave. This is an awful party, anyway.
Vincent takes his coat, which he slung over his arm instead of taking to the coatroom—he doesn’t trust a soul with his white suit—and pulls it on. A very clear sign that he’s leaving and no one should talk to him except to say a brief goodbye. But as he turns towards the door, someone grabs his arm.
Because of course they do.
Vincent whips around, about to bite the head off whatever intern wants to butter him up now, only to falter in his anger. He stares incredulously down at the person bracing on his arm, in a shockingly dramatic red suit and blinking at him from behind round glasses.
Wait.
“Alastor?” he exclaims, trying to pull his arm back.
“Vinnie!” Alastor trills, a messy smile scrawled across his face. A rosy flush sits high on his cheeks as he stumbles against Vincent, unbalanced by the movement of his arm. “Oh! Whoops!” Alastor snorts something between a giggle and the shriek of a distressed bird.
Vincent’s mind takes a good moment to process that, just looking dumbly at Alastor. Alastor, his coworker by technicality and his showman rival, the blasted radio host he’s forced to listen to on and off the air every single day, who’s practically charmed everyone into his trap with that ugly smile of his. Alastor, who’s currently half-leaning on him, very out of it, and giggling, still in his incredibly over-the-top Christmas suit. Alastor, who’s calling him Vinnie.
What the hell?
“Mr. de Rivière!” calls another voice. Alastor waves, and Dean—one of the other radio station guys, one that Vincent can actually tolerate—pries him off Vincent, all while Alastor laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.
“Sorry about that,” says Dean apologetically. “He got away from me. As you can probably tell, he’s—”
“Plastered?” Vincent finishes.
“Yes, that.”
“I ain’t drunk!” Alastor slurs in protest, nearly tripping over himself in his effort to stand straight. Is that a Southern accent? It mellows his voice, despite the slurring of his words. Much nicer to listen to than that tinny radio voice—wait, where did that come from?”
“You’re drunk, Alastor,” Dean insists.
It isn’t exactly a surprise. Alastor’s energetic, flamboyant, annoying, and definitely the kind of person to get carried away on the alcohol at a party. Or, at least, he is to people that don’t know him well enough to know that he’s sly and always needs to control something. But regardless, he’s got a bit of a reputation for being quite the partier behind the veneer of gentlemanly charm—certainly not unusual in Tinsel Town.
Still, Vincent would assume Alastor would have enough composure to not overindulge. But who is he to judge?
“Am not,” Alastor counters, completely undermined by the fact that he’s pouting like a child who just got his toy stolen. “I’m fit as a fiddle! I’m not… dans les brindezingues.”
Vincent and Dean share a look. Vincent gestures at Alastor. “Do you have any idea what he’s saying?”
Dean shakes his head. “You’re the fancy one here! Shouldn’t you know?”
“I—” Vincent scoffs. “Doesn’t matter. Good luck with that, and—”
“Wait, Mr. Whittman!” Dean stops him. Vincent resists the urge to groan, forcing a smile back on his face.
“Yes, Dean?”
“Could you, uh,” Dean wets his lips, “take him home?”
Vincent’s smile falls off his face. “What?”
“I mean,” Dean stutters, smiling sheepishly, “I would do it, but the wife’s expecting me home by ten-thirty. You know how it goes with women! And I, uh, live on the other side of town, so I don’t really have time.”
Dean’s actual problem remains unsaid, but Vincent sees it in his eyes. He doesn't want to be alone with Alastor—that’s why he mentioned “the wife.” It’s not exactly a unique sentiment. Many have come under the impression that Alastor is, well, a homosexual. They claim they can just feel it, despite him never exhibiting any interest in a man that’s more than friendly. Something about his dandyish style just has their hackles raising in fear. Vincent doesn’t think it’s a completely unfounded assumption, but he’s not going to boycott the presence of his rival just because some old fool thinks having special outfits for holidays makes you a queer.
But does that mean he wants to drive Alastor home? Hell no! Why would he take time out of his night to drag the drunken behind of the most annoying man he’s ever had the misfortune of meeting all the way to his house—which he doesn’t even know the address of, anyway. He wants to go home. He’s going to fall asleep on the couch with a TV dinner on his lap and remain utterly unconscious until morning.
But that’s not what his mouth says.
“Sure, Dean,” he grits out.
Fuck him.
“Great!” Dean practically drops Alastor on Vincent, surprising them both. “Thanks so much, Mr. Whittman!”
“Dean—” Alastor stumbles into him, cutting Vincent off with another deranged giggle.
This is going to be a long night.
✷
“Alastor,” Vincent begins slowly, “I have to go now. I have to get home.”
“No,” Alastor insists. His glare is too drunken to have any real bite. “Stay.”
Why in the world Alastor, who hates his guts when sober, has gone from giggling like a fool about Vincent’s “dumb face” (which he does not have, by the way) to clutching his arm to prevent him from leaving is beyond Vincent. It doesn’t feel real. It can’t be.
He’s half-crouched on the floor in front of the couch, where Alastor lays, too drunk to be vertical. His hand is firm around Vincent’s wrist, his grip surprisingly strong considering how much of a struggle it was to get him up the stairs to his apartment earlier. He’s been at this for… who knows how long, honestly. Alastor still won’t let him leave. Or even get up.
“Alastor,” Vincent tries again. His frustration is mounting, but it never boils over—not with Alastor’s big, shining brown eyes staring down at him, framed by thick lashes.
Wait, why is he thinking so much about Alastor’s eyes?
That aside, he tries to pull his arm away again. Alastor makes an unhappy noise and tightens his grip around Vincent’s wrist, digging his nails into skin. Needling pinpricks of pain erupt from them, and Vincent yelps.
“Jesus!” he tries to shake Alastor off. “Why are your nails so sharp?”
Alastor doesn’t comment on that. “Stay,” is the only thing he says, spoken with deathly seriousness despite how absolutely wasted he is.
“Alastor, I have to go home.” Why is he begging for his freedom?
“No!” Alastor’s voice only grows more insistent. “‘S too cold outside! Ice on the roads! ‘S not safe.”
They live on the California coast. Even in the dead of the winter, it’s barely cold enough at night to freeze, let alone ice enough for it to be unsafe to drive at night. Either Alastor is too drunk to remember that or not sober enough to care.
The realization crashes over Vincent all at once. He’s not getting out of this. Not a chance.
He sighs. “Fine. Fine, I’ll stay.”
Alastor’s face brightens. “Really?” he asks.
“Really,” Vincent assures.
A smile breaks out on Alastor’s face, loose and unfiltered. He looks at Vincent like a child who’s just been presented with a choice of puppies for Christmas.
His hand loosens around Vincent’s wrist, so Vincent stands—if he’s going to stay, he’s at least going to take his shoes and jacket off and get comfortable. But when he tries to move, Alastor once again makes an offended noise and tries to pull him closer.
“Alastor!” Vincent rushes to explain. “I’m not leaving! I’m just taking my shoes off, alright?
Alastor mutters, a bit grumpy, but lets go of Vincent’s wrist and allows him to take his shoes and jacket off. Vincent plops his shoes down a few feet away, beside Alastor’s coffee table, and tosses his jacket over the back of the nearest non-upholstered chair. Easy to retrieve when Alastor finally does fall asleep and so can go home like he intended. Maybe too late for a TV dinner, but not for some of the midnight programs.
He plans to just sit by Alastor and talk to him or whatever the fellow wants to do until he falls asleep. The alcohol will pull him into slumber soon enough, judging by the sluggish movements of his limbs and how deeply he sinks into the couch. He’s only staying for Alastor, after all, not himself.
But Alastor has other plans.
As soon as Vincent draws close enough, Alastor grabs at his arm. He pulls Vincent down onto the couch with him, shoving him between Alastor’s sprawled body and the back cushions. Vincent lets loose a curse, all while Alastor throws his head back and laughs.
Their bodies press together, Alastor’s drunken flush warm against Vincent. Heart suddenly racing, a similar heat rises to Vincent’s cheeks, his mouth rendered useless. Alastor’s right here. Touching him. They’re touching each other. Close, connected, on the same couch.
“Alastor,” he mutters, barely daring to speak, “what are you doing?”
“‘M cold,” Alastor mumbles. Sloppily, he throws an arm over Vincent, not minding the awkward position. Vincent doesn’t either, too dizzy with the sensation of feeling the gentle rise and fall of Alastor’s chest next to his. Why can’t he think? Why is he suddenly so hot?
“Get off me,” mutters Vincent half-heartedly. Some part of him insists he be firmer and wrangle himself free—he’s not supposed to do this. Certainly not with another man. While sober.
But the other part? The other part of him is overwhelmed in the best way possible. Alastor is warm and fits so perfectly against him, making Vincent’s heart flutter and stomach turn in ways that shouldn’t feel so good. His eyes sparkle with mirth, his breath ghosting near Vincent’s neck, and the low light of the apartment makes him look so, so handsome.
The other hums, uninterested. With some prodding from his bony elbows, he maneuvers so his head rests on Vincent’s chest, limbs thrown haphazardly about. Vincent can only let him, pulse pounding in his ears. He hasn’t felt like this in… well, since forever. His thoughts are too scrambled to remember correctly, swirling around his head permanently half-formed.
Suddenly, Alastor begins to laugh. Vincent’s pulled from his stupor and looks at the other man, only to be spellbound again. It’s a sweet sound despite the ungainliness of it, tinkling like bells; Alastor’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he makes it, his smile wide.
He’s gorgeous.
No, why does he find another man gorgeous?
“Your face is so silly!” Alastor hiccups out between titters, eventually dropping his head back on Vincent’s chest. Breaking free of their meticulous styling, loose curls spiral from Alastor’s head and fall over his brow. Vincent’s overwhelmed by the sudden urge to twirl them around his finger and feel their silky smoothness.
Where are these thoughts coming from?
He can’t be feeling like this. Not for another man. He’s not queer, he’s not homosexual, he’s a perfectly normal man who loves women and women only. And he does love women. He likes curves and lipstick, dresses that show just enough without giving it all away. But why does he also like this? Being pressed up against another man? Finding him one of the most beautiful sights he’s ever laid eyes on?
Even as the minutes tick by and Alastor begins to drift off, breath deepening, Vincent can’t rest. His heart won’t stop thumping in his chest, a constant drumbeat; his mind won’t relax. Whenever Alastor shifts or mutters, everything is ignited again.
It’s wonderful. It’s wonderful and torturous.
He feels Alastor stir again, eyes fluttering open. His lips part as he looks at Vincent, sleepy and soft.
“Vincent?”
His heart picks up again. He can’t look away from Alastor’s eyes, sure his cheeks are tomato red. “Yes, Alastor?”
“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs. Then Alastor tucks back down, head settling on Vincent’s chest, curling on his side as much as he can.
Vincent’s mouth is dry as sand. Something mysterious and forbidden inside compels him to rest a hand on Alastor’s head and run it gently over his hair, smoothing the mussed strands.
“Merry Christmas, Alastor,” he whispers back, delight swirling inside him even as Alastor closes his eyes.