Work Text:
One.
Two.
Three shots of tequila down the hatch. Not a typical night for Gris, but an eventful one. He sighs as he looks up at the TV hanging above the bar from where he sits, letting the alcohol slowly wash over him, creating a relaxing buzz. A music video is on display for anyone who cares enough to sit down and watch. He notices a man in a ridiculously baggy black hoodie take a seat on the left of him from his peripheral, but he pays him no mind, keeping his eyes on the screen and wondering how long it's going to take Tomme to come out of the bathroom. He's really here because of her, after all. Don't get Gris wrong, he very much enjoys a Friday night at the bar with coworkers, indulging in drinks and laughs while bopping his head to whatever music is blaring, but he would be a liar if he said he hasn't been tired. They say "journalism never sleeps," and unfortunately, Gris accidentally tends to follow this phrase to a T. He gets swept up in the mystifying world of music, itching to articulate every note into real thought-provoking words, analyzing each image that an artist sings, and, more importantly, getting to know the real them. That's what Gris has been so busy doing, and that's also why he's skipped a couple of bar meetups.
He's really passionate about music, and by association, the people who help it come alive. Everyone at the office loves his enthusiasm. Tomme loves it so much that she feels that Gris deserves a break. He believes her exact words were "You deserve to enjoy some hard liquor to warm your big heart." She's a funny girl and an even funnier intern, that's for sure. A sweetheart to offer to be Gris's ride to the bar so he can drink as much as he wants, which started with three shots of tequila ordered from the bottom of her heart. Again, she's a funny girl.
"Sooo, you come here often, or what?"
Gris immediately tears his eyes away from the screen to look over at the mysterious man who not only dons a black hoodie… but a pair of sunglasses. In a bar. A dimly lit bar. Gris's eyebrows shoot up in amusement, and he grins as he takes in the details of the stranger. His hood covers most of his hair, but Gris notices a couple of strands of curly blonde hair poking out from underneath his hood. He looks at the way the gold horizontal eyebrow piercings glimmer in the warm bar lighting. He can't help the way his heart leaps at the oddly familiar lazy smile, and even more so at the gold snake bite rings. Gris probably stares at the man's lips a bit longer than he should, but who cares? The alcohol is coursing through his veins nicely right now, and he's feeling a little brave.
"Is that your attempt at a pick-up line?" Gris jests, and he feels his grin widen as the stranger barks out a hearty laugh. It's loud, proud, and boisterous, drawing some attention over to the pair and a roll of the eye from the bartender, but Gris can't bring himself to care much. The man shines a sharp smile at Gris, leaning back in his chair as his laughter dies out.
"Depends, is it working?" The man wiggles his eyebrows, and Gris snorts. Funny. Maybe even cute.
"Try again," Gris chuckles as he leans his into the palm of his right hand. He feels amused at the way the other man dramatically clears his throat and smooths over his black hoodie. Gris's brain is trying to connect dots that are potentially glaringly obvious, but he's too busy being entertained to care right now. He's a simple man, and his friend is taking way too long in the bathroom, so why not talk with a guy who not only wants to talk to him, but is so fucking funny. What Gris doesn't expect is for the stranger to scooch in closer to Gris, barely leaving any room to breathe. Gris's smile drops, leaving his mouth ajar.
"Hey, stranger, you come here often?" The man purrs, and Gris didn't realize how gravely and low his voice was until now. He can feel the air grow thick and hot, and prays that even if the stranger does manage to notice the blush on Gris's face through those ridiculous sunglasses, it's because of the alcohol, not because Gris is taking in his cigarette and seemingly expensive perfume scent. Gris's brain is swimming, and he feels more drunk on this short interaction than on those three tequila shots.
"Too close," Gris blurts as he gently presses his palm against the stranger's chest, effectively pushing him away, but not far enough for Gris to be devoid of his heat. He feels the way the other's chest shakes as the man silently chuckles, and Gris watches him teasingly stick his tongue out. Gris damn near stops breathing when he sees the gold tongue piercing. Tongue… piercing? If he wasn't staring before, he's definitely staring now, but he can't help it, ok? A giggle interrupts his thoughts that were on the road to something quick and dangerous.
"Too much? Sorry, I couldn't help it. Also, your little staring problem makes me wanna do crazy, stupid things to you right now," the man flirts, and Gris feels an error message flash in his brain, the level of boldness catching him off guard. Suddenly, Gris feels a hand lightly, yet firmly, grasp his wrist, bringing him back to reality. How long has his hand been pressed against the other's solid chest? Where the hell is Tomme? He notices an amused smile spread across the man's face. "Go on. Feel me up a little, I'm easy." In any normal situation, Gris would pull away as embarrassment threatens to eat away at his soul, but in this case, Gris takes a good, long look at the fingers that hold his wrist hostage. He studies the black and red rings on each digit minus the pinkie. He eyes the black nail polish on each finger nail except the pinkie once again. Gris isn't nearly drunk nor turned on enough to miss those important details. He looks back up at the now nervous face of the man and raises an eyebrow. The man offers a shaky smile. "You're not gonna rat me out, right?" He seems genuinely concerned, and that tugs at Gris's heart a tad. He provides a kind smile and closes the gap between them once again. He leans into the other's ear and stifles a giggle as he hears the other let out a soft gasp. Ok, maybe he is drunk enough to flirt back.
"I would never do that, Enjin, but you should probably be more careful before offering yourself up to strangers," Gris coos, and a nervous chuckle escapes Enjin.
"Can't this humble rocker indulge in some harmless flirting? I mean, this used to be my spot before I got all big and famous. I just wanted to stop by and have a drink at my old stomping grounds. Besides," Enjin leans back and gently tilts Gris's chin up, lips nearly touching, "It's easy to offer myself up to someone as cute as you." It's as if time stops, and whatever song is playing doesn't matter. This is reckless, beyond reckless, actually. It would be different if this were some random stranger and Gris was feining for a warm body, but this is Enjin. Thee Enjin of The Cleaners, world renowned rock band that has hits on hits on hits. He's here, right here in front of Gris, about to kiss him. He has to put a stop to this immediately, which is a pity, really. In another timeline, Gris has a lot more courage in him and is already pulling Enjin into the nearest bathroom just to have his way with him. Alas, he's too sober to have all this sexual tension with a rockstar in shitty disguise that's only fooling the drunkest of patrons. Not that Gris is any better, because how did he not recognize that gruff and sultry voice? Get it together, Gris!
Gris abruptly breaks free of Enjin's hold and looks up at the TV screen, which, shocker, has The Cleaners on full display. How funny is that? "I do come here often, in fact, I'm here with a friend, but she's been in the bathroom." For way too damn long is something Gris is itching to say, but he holds it because he is kind. Gris feels as stiff as a board as he makes a great effort to only stare at the TV screen. Is that really helping him? Not quite because he can feel Enjin staring at him through those stupid sunglasses. Don't get him wrong, Gris isn't new to running into celebrities, and he certainly isn't new to talking to a few, it's part of his job after all, but this? This is too much.
"Come ooooon, you're not gonna look at me now? Don't leave me lonely like this," Enjin groans obnoxiously. Gris feels his left eye twitch.
"Sir—"
"I'm a sir now? What's with the formalities?"
He's annoying. Gris is annoyed.
"Enjin," he hisses and turns back to look at the shit-eating grin, "I can't just kiss you."
"Why not? I'll make it worth your while," Enjin wiggles his stupid, perfectly arched eyebrows. Gris is going to have a heart attack before Tomme gets out of the bathroom. Gris swiftly pulls out his phone to send a quick "Are you ok?" text to her, then turns to face Enjin with a glare that clearly isn't affecting him at all. Enjin smirks at Gris and tilts his sunglasses down to reveal his deep amber eyes that only twinkle with mischief, which manages to irritate and arouse Gris further. It's the alcohol. It has to be the alcohol. It's always the alcohol. His glare deepens, or at least it tries to, but it probably looks more like a pout, seeing as Enjin is growing more amused by the second.
"You don't even know my name," Gris shoots out with far less heat than intended. Enjin cocks his head to the side and hums in realization. His lazy smile returns quickly after that.
"Well? What is your name? Let's get to know each other."
"Why do you wanna get to know me so badly?"
"Because you're the only stranger who isn't starstruck by the sight of me, that means something to me. So, may I please know your name, or should I keep calling you 'stranger' until your friend shows up?"
Fuck him.
"Gris."
Fuck.
Enjin beams at the admission, and Gris wants to die. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket and checks to see that Tomme is caught up talking to a girl. Lovely. Gris stifles a groan and turns to look at the ridiculously beautiful man before him.
"Gris, huh? I like that. So, Gris, what's your story? Why is Canvas Town your spot for the night?" Enjin inquires, and Gris can't help but gift him a small smile at the eagerness of his questions. His charming smile shines bright, clearing away any remaining clouds of anxiety that once plagued Gris. Maybe Gris can indulge just a little bit, as long as it doesn't go too far. He takes a deep breath and relaxes, tense shoulders dropping, then gives Enjin a sheepish look.
"Well, first, sorry for getting so panicked. I usually can handle things better than that," Gris leaves out how something about Enjin makes him want to take that leap of faith into the spotlight, but that's neither here nor there. "And second, I'm usually here on Friday nights, but work has had me swamped lately, so my friend finally managed to drag me out of my cave to let loose," he jokes. Enjin giggles and leans forward.
"Keep talking to me, sweetness, I wanna hear more about you."
"Sweetness? Well, if you insist," Gris waves the bartender over. This should be fun.
𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚
There isn't much drinking going on, but they did decide to share a Long Island Iced Tea for reasons that Gris has yet to pinpoint. They don't do much talking about each other; more like people watch in their own little world. They spend the time coming up with little stories about people going through the most dramatic moments of their lives, like it's some soap opera. It's silly, really; going from almost making out with a celebrity in disguise to doing something as simple as people watching, of all things. It's so much fun, though. The combination of liquor and Enjin's soothing voice provides a comfortable shield away from all the outside noise; it's almost worrisome how easy this is. Maybe Gris is the easy one out of the two of them.
Enjin points two of his fingers over to a couple having a heated argument. "Those two just realized they aren't as compatible as they thought," he slurs. Gris chuckles and playfully nudges Enjin's side with his elbow. He then lets his body sway a bit in his seat and decides to rest his head on Enjin's shoulder, grateful that Enjin doesn't move an inch.
"What if they're just arguing over who should take the dog on a walk?"
"Nah, too much passion."
"I'm very passionate about dogs."
"You seem like the type to take your dog out on the beach."
Gris raises an eyebrow and glances at Enjin, who has the softest look in his eyes. Gris feels as though he may get lost in them if he stares for too long. Would that be a bad thing? To get lost in the pretty golden eyes of a rockstar who clearly wants Gris around? He should put that thought on the back burner. "Is that a bad thing?" Gris wonders. Enjin shakes head and lets out an amused huff.
"Nah, we need more people like that anyway," Enjin directs his gaze out to the crowd of people, and Gris follows suit. Despite all the noise, it feels oddly quiet where they sit at the bar. It's nice, peaceful even. Gris doesn't mind the idea of sitting in this exact spot for the rest of the night. Enjin is kind, humble, and not nearly as much of a diva as the tabloids tried to make him out to be when he was first coming up. He's funny, mysterious, perhaps a little foolish, but he's charming. He feels Enjin start to run his fingers through his hair, and lets out a delighted hum, his eyes threatening to fall shut. Yeah, this is good. "So, tell me, Grissy—"
"Grissy—?"
"You mentioned work, yeah? What's your job?"
"I'm a journalist."
It was like a record scratch. The fingers slowly withdraw from Gris's hair, and he feels this uncomfortable tension blanket them. That moment of peace that gave Gris the greatest amount of stillness he has ever had the privilege of feeling is nowhere to be found. He notices the uncomfortable shifting under his head and immediately removes himself from Enjin's shoulder to face him. An indiscernible expression paints his face, and Gris is confused. What happened? What changed? Enjin takes a deep breath while Gris holds his.
"Wait, run that back for me?" Enjin asks quite plainly.
"I'm a journalist?" Gris states in confusion.
"…Let's wrap this up," He says lamely, and then begins to get up from his seat.
What?
"What?" Gris asks as he watches Enjin check his surroundings and then look down at Gris with the most devastating scowl. Gris can feel his chest tighten. The swift change in demeanor takes him by surprise.
"Lemme guess, by tomorrow this whole conversation is gonna be in your shitty ass article where I'm portrayed as some flirtatious dickhead, right?" Enjin spits out. Gris's alcohol filled brain can barely register what's going on. All he knows is that what was once pleasant turned nasty real quick, and it's leaving a disgusting taste in his mouth.
"…I don't know what's happening anymore. Were we not just having a good time?" Gris begins to stand, swaying lightly, and steadies himself. He makes direct eye contact with those now fiery eyes that once held such a soft expression. He can feel his heartbeat quicken as he truly begins to process Enjin's words. His jaw tightens, and he tries to swallow as much frustration as he can. "Also," he takes a step into Enjin's space, "I don't appreciate you making assumptions about my work. I would never do that. This has been off the record, you know why? Because I'm. Not. Working," he emphasizes each word through gritted teeth. Enjin scoffs, and Gris can feel a vein start to throb.
"Oh, please. Do you know how many stalker journalists have tried to follow me places just to get a scoop and then make me out to be the bad guy?" Enjin sucks his teeth and rolls his eyes. "Should've known I wouldn't be able to have something real tonight."
Now, Gris is a patient man. He patiently waits for traffic to clear as he heads to downtown LA from Long Beach. He patiently waits for Kuro to answer his emails when he assigns him a ridiculous assignment. He even patiently waits for his friend Tomme to stop flirting with a random girl in the bathroom. Gris isn't sure how patient he can be this time. Because the second Enjin tries to walk past him, he blocks him and gets directly in his face. It catches Enjin off guard, but neither one of them moves. "Out of my way, Gris—"
"No. I'm not like that, I was never like that, and you're being stubborn and not listening to what I'm trying to say. God, you're so infuriating—"
"Save it, you're just like every other journalist —"
"I'm much better than every other journalist—"
"And that's all you care about, right? About your work and not the people?" Enjin sneers. Gris runs his hand through his hair and lets out a deep groan in exasperation.
"You don't know me!" Gris snaps, but Enjin doesn't back down. Of course, he doesn't, and Gris can't understand why he's getting so worked up over these. It usually takes a bit more to get under his skin, but Enjin is managing to push every button in the book to piss him off. The alcohol isn't helping.
"No, you don't know me. I know that this," Enjin gestures between the two of them, "was a mistake and a waste of time."
Gris tries to ignore the sharp pain in his chest that comes swiftly after Enjin's statement. He clenches and unclenches his fists in a repetitive motion. Breathing becomes such a chore for him; it's unbearable. What's even more unbearable is how much that hurt. They were having fun; so much fun. Laughing so hard that they were doubled over in tears. Sharing a Long Island Iced Tea and sharing glances that lingered because it felt right. It all felt right. Gris wasn't a journalist, Enjin wasn't a rockstar. They were just people enjoying each other's company. Not… whatever this is.
"You can't be serious," Gris lets out a sharp laugh. "You are so self-absorbed and insufferable, you know that?" A nasty smile rears its ugly head on Enjin's face. He presses his fist against Gris's chest, putting some distance between them, and Gris's mind blanks.
"And you're just an uptight, nosy fraud, just like the rest of your journalist buddies who are hell-bent on making me miserable."
Ok.
Ok.
Ok.
Gris forcibly removes Enjin's fist from his chest and pulls him in close. "Do you get off on pissing me off?" He glowers, and Enjin's smirk turns feral. Liquor hot on their breaths, noses almost touching, and emotions at an all-time high.
"Aw, don't flatter yourself, big guy."
"You're so—"
"Gris! Sorry, I took so long, but I just had to chat up that really cute girl, I mean, God, Gris, you should've seen her!" Tomme calls out from the distance, effectively halting whatever… this mess is. It's as if the world suddenly clears, and Gris is painfully aware of the situation. He's up close and personal with Enjin, who still has that stupid smirk, and is currently looking at him with half-lidded eyes that make Gris feel filthy. Gris lets go of Enjin and runs his hand through his hair with a huff. He notices the way Enjin looks him up and down with a smug look.
"Let's hope we don't see each other again, ok?" Enjin says, patting Gris on the cheek and smoothly walking away, seemingly fading into the distance as Gris turns to look towards him. He lightly touches his cheek, mouth ajar. There's only one thing he has left to say.
"I fucking hate him."
𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚
The line between love and hate is a thin one. So is the line between want and need. It's simple like that. But after meeting Enjin, being tender with him, and then wanting nothing more than to push him against a wall and show him exactly who he's dealing with, Gris realizes he has needs. Deep desires that have him tossing and turning at night.
He needs to drag him into the nearest bathroom. He needs their lips to brush ever so slightly until they both give in to temptation. He needs to pull at his scalp and hear what sweet melody he'll produce. He needs to suck the air out of that reckless mouth and taste the alcohol that dances on his tongue. He needs to bite his lip. He needs to tug at Enjin's sweatshirt. He needs to hear Enjin say his name.
Gris.
Gris.
Gris.
Gris hates as much as he loves. He wants as much as he needs. Enjin is tearing him apart from the inside with the way he's wormed his way into his very being. An enchanting parasite whose only purpose is to push Gris to his very limits. No, to push him past his very limits. Enjin playfully danced on Gris's patience, thinning it out, waiting for it finally to snap, and Gris almost gave it to him. Gris would give it to him. He hates that. He despises that. He despises him. Gris despises how his mind wanders to his hands, and paints the most perfect picture of them clinging onto Gris's back. His brain wonders what song the two of them can come up with if they just let themselves blend into each other. Oh, Enjin. Enjin. Enjin.
Dreams are dreams for a reason, now aren't they?
Gris's eyes shoot open, and instead of looking at an obnoxious blonde rocker, he's looking at his ceiling fan. If he's being completely honest, the gap between him telling Tomme that he needs another drink and him ending up in bed is a big one, but the pounding in his skull is a testament to how much he drank. Damn, he must have been really worked up. Gris isn't the slightest bit relaxed; he feels like he got hit by a semi truck, and his mouth is drier than a desert. He makes a serious attempt to rise from his bed to at least let some sun come in, but unfortunately fails as gravity brings him back down with a low groan. He rolls onto his stomach and buries his head in his pillow, his mind replaying the events of last night. Meeting Enjin, talking to him, people watching, his hands in Gris's hair, the fight, then the dream.
"Oh, my god…"
Gris feels his body start to heat up. He would be stupid to deny the obvious: Something sparked between the two of them that night. Did that spark go up in flames? Yes, but it was a spark nonetheless. It's fine because if Gris is lucky, he will only have to deal with looking at his face on various screens and billboards. He looks over to his nightstand and finds a bottle of water, a Liquid I.V. packet, and his phone on the charger. Tomme must have been a great help last night; he should get her a gift for driving him. He reaches for his phone and immediately checks his inbox. The first thing he sees makes Gris want to sleep for 30 more minutes… or years.
Sat, February 8 at 10:30 AM
FROM: Kuro Cuervo ([email protected])
TO: Gris Rubion ([email protected])
SUBJECT: You're going on tour!
Gris, I have an excellent opportunity for you! I'm assigning you the very important task of covering The Cleaners' upcoming tour! Exciting, is it not? You were specifically sought out by the band manager, and I couldn't say no. You're the best we've got, Gris. I hope to read some great things from you.
Kuro Cuervo :)
P.S., there's a meeting with the band at 12:30, fix yourself up :)
…
He rereads the email three more times and then stuffs his head back into his pillow.
No.
No.
He has to see him again.