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Leon is spectacularly drunk.
The room is spinning, he thinks, or the ground underfoot might be slanted. He can’t be sure which it is. There’s a hand at the small of his back, palm warm and placating. Trying to find the owner of said hand makes his head hurt. There’s a series of faces that might all be the same, just divided amongst themselves like a funhouse mirror.
“Oh, Leon,” one of Claire’s mouths sighs, and then the other two echo the sentiment.
“There’s too many of you,” he tells her, pulling his focus in to just one of her swirling faces.
“We’ve got to get you home,” she replies.
Leon doesn’t really want to go home. It isn’t like anyone is going to notice if he stays out all night. He thinks he might tell her that, too, from the frown pulling at her several mouths. But his voice sounds garbled to his own ears, so perhaps she just can’t understand him.
“Claire,” another voice in the fog. The hand on his back is replaced by a much larger one. Claire’s chair screeches back, out of reach, and it makes Leon flinch. “I’m here, I can take him home.”
Yikes. Called in the cavalry. Leon must’ve really done it this time.
Claire says something Leon can’t quite understand. He’s afraid it’s something vulnerable, something he’s told her in the small confessional of their bar booth, but then he’s being unceremoniously hauled to his feet. “Alright,” the same deep voice cuts through, “I’ve got you.”
He knows it’s Chris. There’s a reverberating timbre in his tone that Leon can feel through his chest, warm all over, the arm around his waist pulling him against a much more stable body. The world goes a little wobbly, funny at the edges. His feet are not cooperating, extremely ungraceful in their movement, but he’s being shuffled toward what he imagines is the door. “Oooh, big, strong man,” Leon says out loud. He wishes he hadn’t, but when he finally chances shifting his eyes upward to finally find Chris’ face, he thinks that Chris might be blushing.
Thankfully, there is only one of him. Surprising, since Leon feels worse now that he’s relatively upright. Maybe it’s because Chris’ frame is already so large, there’s not enough room in Leon’s vision for multiples. “You’re a wreck,” Chris informs him.
Leon knows.
The wind bites at him, not enough to be completely sobering, but enough to leave pinpricks across his flushed cheeks. Chris deposits him into the passenger seat of a car. Chris’, judging from the scent of smoke sticking to the worn fabric of his seats.
“My car,” Leon protests, but Chris is a step ahead of him, fishing into his pockets. His searching fingers startle Leon into motion, batting at his hands.
“Claire’s going to drive it back,” Chris says, rolling his eyes before making another attempt.
“Oh,” Leon replies dumbly, realizing with a delay that he’s looking for his keys and unfortunately not trying to make a move on him. It’s enough of a tease, though, that Leon can’t really take it, so he pats at Chris’ hands to get his attention.
Chris must get the picture. He sits back on his heels, the warm light from the bar spilling around him, framed by it in the open car door. He looks pretty, Leon thinks. He wonders if that would be flattering to someone like Chris, all muscle and brawn. But the broad width of his shoulders seems softer in the light, and his dark eyes trace all of Leon’s clumsy actions, something like fondness in them.
Leon finds his keys on his own, dropping them into Chris’ waiting palm. Then he says, thoughtlessly, “you have nice eyes.”
The blush is back, Leon’s sure of it this time. Chris exhales through his nose, a deep, measured breath. “Thank you,” he says, like it hurts him. “Legs in. I’m going to run in to give these to Claire. Your apartment key isn’t on here, right?”
Leon peers at the ring of keys in front of him. For fuck’s sake. He knows they don’t all look the same but they all look the same. He makes a noise of frustration, and Chris pushes Leon’s unresponsive legs into the car.
“Don’t worry, Claire and I will figure it out. Just– stay, okay? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The door shuts. It sounds much, much louder than it actually is. Leon’s nose scrunches and his head tilts back against the headrest. When he closes his eyes, it feels like every breath makes the world tremble a little.
He should’ve refused. Claire’s only in town for the weekend, but he could’ve left it at dinner. He should’ve said No, thank you, but I have a drinking problem when Claire had suggested the bars. He’s surprised she didn’t already know – after the mess he’d been in Colorado, he’d assumed that Chris would have told her.
Turns out that she had the luxury of finding out the hard way. Leon scoffs, curling his legs up into his chest. He’s not exactly little, but the prickle of guilt climbing up his throat makes him wish he were.
The driver’s side door swings open and then rattles closed again. Leon doesn’t open his eyes.
“Leon,” Chris says, quietly.
Leon groans pathetically.
Chris’ chuckle is low. “Call her tomorrow, yeah? She’ll worry.”
The car roars to life. Leon thinks it’s probably not that noisy, but his head vibrates where it rests and he makes a face. Nothing happens for a moment, just the sounds of Chris adjusting the radio, the AC. Comfortable.
Then the strange sensation of being watched. Leon’s eyes flicker open; he squints at Chris.
Sighing, Chris reaches over, across the center console, into Leon’s space. Leon jolts, narrowly avoiding smashing their skulls together. “Relax,” Chris coaxes; he deftly maneuvers the seatbelt from behind Leon, pulling it across his chest. He taps at Leon’s knees, and Leon obediently unravels his body from the fetal position so Chris can buckle him in.
It all happens too quickly for Leon’s alcohol-laden mind to keep up with. One moment, Chris is hovering over him, smelling like tobacco and aftershave, and then he’s gone and Leon’s brain is buzzing.
And it’s nothing, not to Chris – an easy, familiar movement. Like he’s taken care of plenty of drunk people, and what’s one more? Maybe it shouldn’t be anything to Leon either. He’s ashamed that it isn’t.
Chris pulls out of the parking lot. He knows how to get to Leon’s. He’s been there often enough; they’re friends, after all, Leon thinks somewhat bitterly. The sway of the car makes his stomach object; he tangles his fingers around the shoulder strap of the seatbelt just to have something to clutch at.
“Still with me?” Chris asks. He’s not far away. But it seems like he might be. The few moments of stilted coherence that Leon had are beginning to slip through his fingers like sand. His eyes slide shut. Chris’ soft laugh sounds too affectionate for their situation. “Yeah, okay. Just don’t get sick in my car.”
Leon won’t. He doesn’t think he will, at least. His mind starts to wander away – back to the booth, the tightness in his chest, the small admission that maybe, just maybe, he’s too good at being alone. And he’s tired of it. Maybe Claire has known for a while, maybe she always has. Maybe she’d just realized it in that moment. All Leon knows is that she’d called Chris, a plea for help, Leon’s out of control probably. And Chris had come, like all of Leon’s best dreams and worst nightmares.
The mechanical hum of the window breaks him from his doze. Chris has been singing along to the radio, under his breath, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. A cigarette rests between his lips. Leon doesn’t think he’s ever been jealous of a cigarette before, but there’s a first time for everything, he reasons.
Chris tips ash out of the cracked window, smoke curling from his nose, from his mouth, stolen away into the night air. Leon wants to croak You know those will kill you but it seems his voice has gone the same route as the smoke.
“If it’s making you sick,” Chris says, breaking the comfortable silence, “I’ll put it out.” He’s watching the road, his profile taking up all of Leon’s attention. Biceps the size of Leon’s head, the veins in his forearm where he’s resting his wrist against the wheel. He glances over at Leon when Leon doesn’t reply, and his mouth half smiles around the cigarette, showing off the wispy beginnings of lines around his eyes.
Leon thinks he’s blushing now. He grasps at sentence fragments, thinking of ways to piece them together. What escapes is: “Only if you do it on me.”
Oh.
Oops.
“Wait,” Leon says, closing his eyes again so that he doesn’t have to see the damage he’s caused.
He can hear it though – Chris coughing in shock, fumbling the cigarette out in the car ash tray.
“Okay,” Leon tries again, a touch of desperation in his tone, “let’s–”
“Oh, no, definitely not,” Chris is laughing. Leon opens his eyes. “No, no. You’re usually a mean as fuck drunk. I think I prefer this.”
Weakly, Leon waves him off, twisting in his seat to rest his forehead against the cool glass of his window. “Yeah,” he mutters, “we’ll see how long that lasts.”
–
Leon expects to be left on the curb to fend for himself, but instead, Chris parks in the street outside of his building. The car quiets, and Chris comes around to the passenger side before Leon’s fully gotten his bearings.
“Hold on,” Chris tells him, unclipping the seatbelt and sliding a hand behind Leon’s shoulder blades. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
“You don’t have to,” Leon argues. He’s still drunk, a throb in his temples, but he’s sure he can walk straight. When he stands, he finds pretty quickly that he is wrong in thinking such a thing. His knees buckle and Chris’ arm slips down to his waist, going taut around him. “Okay,” he says, “you know what? My legs fell asleep, that’s all.”
Chris looks amused; Leon levels him with a withering glare, but even he knows it loses all effectiveness as he huddles into the warmth of Chris’ side at the first sign of a chill in the air. It’s fine. This is all going according to plan. To whatever plan Leon is making up as he goes along.
Chris helps him upstairs, slowly, navigating them to Leon’s front door and producing his key seemingly out of thin air. Leon realizes he’d completely forgotten to help Chris find it. Him and Claire must’ve figured it out.
The door swings open, creaking on its hinges, and they stumble into the darkness.
“Can you make it to your bedroom?” Chris asks him, untangling himself from Leon.
Fear grips Leon for a moment; he thinks Chris might leave, now that he’s gotten Leon inside, but he just moves into the small kitchen to pour a glass of water. Leon nods to himself, satisfied with that much at least, and feels his way along the wall to the hallway, down to his bedroom door. Wavers the few feet between the door and the bed. Then, he collapses face first on top of the duvet.
A tsk sound behind him makes Leon twist his head, blinking at Chris’ frame in the doorway. “You’re not going to bed like that, are you?” He places the water, and what appears to be painkillers, on the bedside table before flicking on the lamp. Leon grunts and buries his face back into the bed covers. “C’mon, stubborn ass. Help me help you.” There’s a tug at one of his boots, and Leon squints one eye open to watch Chris pull it off, followed by the other one. They drop to the floor with a thump.
“Careful, Redfield,” Leon says, sly despite himself, as Chris rolls him onto his back to unhook his belt, “you might give me the wrong idea.”
Chris flushes. It’s beautiful. Leon wants to keep teasing him just to see how red he’ll get. “Fuck’s sake, Leon,” he grumbles, “can’t you take anything seriously?” The belt slithers free, clinking to the ground with the boots.
Leon doesn’t know what to take seriously. He tilts his hips, eyebrows raised. If he’s not going to remember this in the morning, he might as well get brazen now. “Gonna let me sleep in my jeans?”
The blush sweeps down to Chris’ neck. Leon falls in love. “You’re such a fucking menace,” Chris hisses, but whether it’s out of true anger or momentary frustration, Leon’s not sober enough to tell. Regardless, Chris thumbs the button of Leon’s jeans open, tugging the zipper, and Leon generously lifts his hips so Chris can shimmy the scratchy denim down and off into the pile. “Happy?” Chris asks. He looks fucking grumpy, even red-faced.
“I’m never happy,” Leon says, airily, stretching his limbs like a cat. His shirt rides up, fabric crawling to his ribs with the arch of his back.
Chris makes a sharp sound and then he’s turning away to shut the light off. Moonlight filters in through the curtains. “Okay,” he says. The pitch of his tone rises a little with something that Leon can’t quite name. “I’ll check in on you tomorrow. Don’t forget to call Clai– you know what, I’ll leave you a note. You won’t remember this.”
“Oh,” Leon says. Chris is leaving. He’s going to leave. Leon feels unbelievably hopeless. “Wait, wait.”
Chris turns back to face him and Leon snags his wrist, foolishly. “Leon,” Chris warns.
“No, I just thought of something,” Leon says, the words quick, like they’ll anchor Chris here. He hasn’t had a single safe thought in hours. His mind draws a blank. “Um,” he says.
“It’ll come back to you, I’m sure,” Chris replies, dryly. “In the morning. You can tell me then.”
“No, no,” Leon sits up, too fast. His stomach rolls. He blinks rapidly, trying to correct the way that his room tilts in his vision, the way that Chris’ worried face blurs out of focus. “I can tell you now,” he says, tugging at Chris’ wrist.
“Leon, are you okay? You have to lay back down, c’mon, get under the–” Chris cuts off with a oof as Leon gives his arm another sharp pull, tumbling down to the mattress. He tries to catch himself with his hands, but Leon has twisted the one still in his grip, and Chris’ knee drops gracelessly between Leon’s legs in an attempt to right himself and not crush him.
Their faces are very close. Leon’s mouth is twitching. He wants to smile as Chris blinks owlishly at him for a moment, and then something extraordinarily bad happens.
There’s a weight against Leon’s hip, through the fabric of Chris’ pants. Heavy and, unmistakably, hard. Leon can see the moment it registers on Chris’ face. He yanks his arm free of Leon’s surprised, lax hold, mouth open, words on the edge of his tongue.
Leon wishes, for a brief moment, that he’ll remember this. He also wishes that he’d stop being a fucking idiot for five seconds, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, he fists clumsy fingers into Chris’ shirt and levers himself up into his space, pulls Chris down to meet him. He kisses him.
Chris goes frighteningly still. Leon thinks that’s important to note.
And then, like he’s suddenly figured out what is happening, Chris shoves him back. Not enough to hurt, not physically, but the sting of rejection swells in Leon’s chest.
“What the fuck is wrong with you,” Chris spits, nearly falling over himself as he backs away from the bed; his anger coiled, a caged animal ready to spring.
“What did it?” Leon asks. Or, the drunk demon in Leon’s brain asks. “Taking off my pants?” He wants to shut up. He does. But his mouth moves again. “Chris, what turned you on?”
“Fuck you, Kennedy,” Chris’ lip curls in what Leon thinks must be disgust. His heart tumbles into his sick stomach. “You’re such a fucking dick, you can take care of yourself.”
The bedroom door slams behind him, neighbors be damned.
Leon’s legs kick into gear. So does his mind, the demon quietly laughing at the chaos he’s caused. He can’t afford to remember this tomorrow; he has to make it right now. He stumbles out of his bed, takes three steps towards the door, and then wheels around to the bathroom. He hits the tiled floor on both knees in front of the toilet, and vomits.
He spends an hour there, emptying his stomach every few minutes, before he finally passes out with his cheek pressed against the porcelain seat.
–
It’s the crick in his neck that wakes him.
The headache is what fully brings him back to himself.
Leon groans, huffing a hot breath into the cool porcelain. A shift and a flop, back onto the floor. “Oh,” he mutters, once he’s gotten his bearings. His bathroom. A hangover. The night before comes in waves, lapping at the edges of his memory quickly before fading back out like the tide.
It’s another few moments before he finally pulls himself upright, using the wall as a crutch to get to his feet. His reflection in the mirror is a terror to behold. His hair is sticking up in all directions, and there’s a red mark along his cheekbone where he’d been using the toilet as a pillow. The blood vessels around his dull, lifeless eyes have all blown, crimson dotting the dark skin underneath them.
“Oh,” he repeats, his mouth dry and lips chapped. A shower. He needs a shower, and to brush his teeth, and to take stock of the damages he’s incurred to both himself and anyone else who’d been unfortunate enough to be in his vicinity.
Leon strips his sweat-slick shirt off, hands dropping to his briefs. He pauses, thoughtful. Tilts back on his heels enough to search his bedroom, lit only by the still rising sun. At the foot of his bed, his jeans lay innocently in a pile with his boots and belt.
“Huh,” he says, confused. That feels…important.
His briefs join his shirt, and he takes the coldest shower known to mankind, his skin cursing him for it, but his aching skull more grateful. Brushes his teeth at the same time, spitting toothpaste into the drain.
Afterwards, though, when Leon enters his bedroom to dress in sweats and a tee, he notices a glass of water and pills on his nightstand.
Drunk Leon is never that kind to himself. Drunk Leon is a monster with no regard for who he hurts, including (and especially) himself. Someone had been here with him, taking care of him.
Leon takes the pills gratefully, but it pulls at his memory, harder than before. Maybe Claire, he reasons. He’d been out with her last night, before everything had gone worn with alcohol. He wonders briefly where he’s left his phone; if it will have any answers.
Fumbling through the pockets of his discarded jeans, he finds it, but unsurprisingly, the battery has died. He plugs it in, runs a towel raggedly at his damp hair, and opens the bedroom door. Steps carelessly out into the hallway, down to the living room, and stops abruptly.
Chris fucking Redfield is asleep on his couch.
“Oh,” Leon says, with rising horror. It doesn’t come back all at once, but there’s a razor sharp flash of the smell of smoke, large hands warm against the denim of his pants, a frozen mouth against his own. He wants to turn around and go back to his room, call Claire and ask what the fuck her brother is doing in his apartment, but he falters.
The threadbare blanket barely covering Chris shifts with his movement; falls around his waist. He makes a low noise, and then his eyelids flutter.
Leon wants to run but he’s rooted to the spot.
Chris leans up on his elbows, rubbing at his eyes, and then swings his legs around to sit up with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
“Um,” Leon says, clearing his throat. “Sorry, I…didn’t know you were here.”
Chris nods, stiffly. Leon wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. “I, uh,” Chris begins, his voice hoarse and thick with sleep. A jolt of fire races down the bend of Leon’s spine at the sound. “I heard you throwing up. Didn’t really feel…like it was smart to leave.”
Leon looks away, guiltily. “I appreciate that,” he tells him.
“How’re you feeling?” Chris asks. He stands slow, stretches languid. Leon’s gaze goes hazy on his movements and then refocuses.
“Like I’ve been shot, stabbed, and run over,” Leon admits. He hesitates. He doesn’t know how to fill this space, misplaced in his own home.
“Remember anything?” Chris’ tone isn’t heavy, but it is careful. Almost like he’s giving Leon a chance to make a decision: say no and move on or apologize.
Leon’s pretty bad at both of those things. He’s stubborn, and his heart thumps painfully in his chest when he considers that he must have kissed Chris and it had been…bad. Chris hadn’t been interested, or he’d been angry– he’d stayed anyway, slept on the couch, but not come back to the bathroom to check on Leon. Leon has no idea what any of that means, but he’s trying to puzzle it out.
He decides to be honest. It’s garbage, is what it is, but he imagines he owes Chris that much. Probably that apology, too. “Not everything. Not– it’s all kind of in pieces.”
“Maybe for the best,” Chris says. He doesn’t look angry. Just…tired. And something else. Something Leon doesn’t quite have a word for yet. “You were an asshole.”
“Did– did I–” Leon licks his lips; Chris is watching him with a measured look. “I did something, yeah? To…to you.”
Not with, he sighs. To.
“Yeah, that’s a way of putting it,” Chris says. He doesn’t seem to want to be very forthcoming.
“Fuck,” Leon murmurs, pressing the heel of his hand into one eye. “I…okay. I’m…I’m sorry. That was fucked. You’re not– look, it’s– however I feel, no matter how drunk I was, there’s no excuse–”
“However you feel?” Chris is staring at him. That Something Else emotion is back, twisting his mouth into an unhappy line.
Ah, shit. Leon feels helpless, looking around like a distraction is just going to sweep in and change the course of the conversation. When nothing of the sort happens, he lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah?” He says, refusing to address it further. “Okay, I’m fucking this up. I’m sorry for last night. You’re not, you, you didn’t deserve that–”
“Jesus, Leon,” Chris interrupts him again, running a hand through his hair. It’s a mess, staticky from the couch pillows. “You’re really– you really don’t…”
“I mean, I’m trying to apologize–”
“No, shut up for a second, I’m thinking,” Chris says, sharply, and Leon’s mouth slams shut. His thumbs rub at his temples. “You started flirting with me the moment that I got to the bar. The ride here. And then–”
Oh. Clarity. Pants off, Chris hard against him. Leon pushing every button he can possibly think of, winding him up, wanting desperately for him to stay. To say something dangerous and affectionate instead of biting. “Right,” he says, weakly. “Yeah, so…not my finest moment.”
“You think?” Chris mutters, crossing his arms, finding a very interesting spot on the rug. “I don’t get you, Leon. What was the point of all of that? Were you just fuckin’– making fun of me or something?”
Leon holds his hands up, confused. “Why would I do that? I know I can be…abrasive, but what would I even be making fun of?”
Chris’ ears go red. Then the tip of his nose. He glances up at Leon and then finds an even more interesting spot on the wall. “Why else would you kiss me?”
“Because I–” It’s right there, Leon thinks, it’s the perfect opening, but his voice fails.
Chris’ shoulders sag. “Whatever,” he says. He starts towards the door, shoving his feet into his shoes.
There it is again: the sting, the fear. “Wait, wait,” Leon is moving before he realizes it. He doesn’t reach out to touch Chris; that’s not a mistake he can make again. “I was…I was very, very gone. That is not how– that’s not how I ever wanted that to happen, okay? Not like that. I’m bad at self control, I think we both know that.”
Chris pauses, head tipped thoughtfully, like he’s trying to find something in Leon’s words that he hadn’t actually said. Then he says, “But you did want it to happen?”
Leon’s brain resets. He panics, blanching. “Hold on–”
“Leon,” Chris says, calmly, “just answer the fucking question.”
He feels stupid. He supposes he deserves this, since he’d not been able to keep his shit together. “Uh,” he says. Chris raises his eyebrows. “Well. Well, I was flirting with you, so– okay, yes. But, but, listen, it’s not– I know you didn’t want that, and I’m pretty fucking good at compartmentalizing shit as long as I’m not drunk, so this won’t be a problem–”
“You are stupid,” Chris says in awe. Like he’s reading Leon’s mind. “It isn’t that I didn’t want it.” His hand catches Leon’s wrist; he presses his thumb to Leon’s absolutely thundering pulse. “I’m not going to fucking kiss you while you’re smashed off your ass, what kind of a person do you think I am?”
Leon stares down at the fingers encircling his arm. “Oh,” he murmurs, “see, I didn’t think…”
“I know,” Chris snarks, “you so rarely do.”
Leon glances up at him with venom, but it wavers at the hint of Chris’ smile.
“Like, I felt bad enough,” Chris continues, more seriously, “you kept flirting, and I didn’t know what to do with it. Well, I knew what I wanted to– but that’s not the point, it felt like taking advantage to even enjoy it. Your attention. And then you made me take off your pants, and you can be such a fuckin’ show off.” He pauses, torn between exasperation and maybe something else, something just shy of embarrassed. “Anyway, I– I felt worse. I was pissed off because you looked good and you were being such a fucking brat about it.”
“Yeah,” Leon breathes, “I can be like that.”
“You can. And I was even more pissed off that it turned me on. And humiliated, for fuck’s sake, because you latched on to that, and the whole time, I thought– you knew, you knew it was driving me crazy and you were just making fun of me for it.” Chris loosens his grip, sliding his fingers up to Leon’s elbow. He exhales slow, testing, stepping closer into Leon’s space.
Leon’s more than okay with that. Desperately so. “Oh,” he says, belatedly, “so it was the pants?”
Chris’ hand drops; he shoves Leon’s shoulder, but he laughs, too. “God, you’re the worst.”
“And you still want to kiss me anyway, yeah?” Leon asks, a little smug. Secretly, he’s checking, trying to be certain. But Chris’ blush is a pretty good answer, and god, it’s beautiful.
“Only if you’ve brushed your teeth,” Chris says, mildly, lips twitching at the corners like he’d do it anyway but he doesn’t really want Leon to know that. Really fucking beautiful.
Leon bristles, but it doesn’t really mean anything – he does reach, now, a bit more bold. Brushes his fingertips against Chris’ knuckles. “You’re going to have morning breath,” he says, flippantly. His fingers twitch and close around Chris’ hand.
“Somehow, I think you won’t really mind,” Chris laughs. “It’s a far cry from whiskey and vom–”
“Okay!” Leon interrupts loudly, pulling him closer. It’s enough time wasted, really. He doesn’t think he’ll get the same reaction he had last night, though it’s still an anxious twist in his chest to lean in, lean up. A relief when Chris tilts his head like he’s ready this time.
And he is. Chris is the one to close the gap, a hand at the hinge of Leon’s jaw, lips pressing to the curve of Leon’s mouth. Leon can taste the tease of his smile and kisses him slow, consuming, breathless, until they stumble back against the door, breaking apart.
“Maybe,” he says, when Chris’ eyes flicker back open, hazy and unfocused (he did that, he did that to him), “you can stay a little longer? Y’know, this hangover is making me a little unsteady on my feet, I could use the help getting back into bed, maybe getting these pants off again–”
“Oh, will you just shut the fuck up,” Chris mutters, but there’s a thread of laughter in his voice and he’s got both hands around Leon’s face and he’s kissing him again, walking him backwards toward the bedroom.
Leon’s pretty confident that that’s a yes.