Work Text:
After work, Thomas walks into a bar with a desperate urge to get drunk.
He has a throbbing headache. His bag feels ten times heavier. He probably should’ve gone straight home and caught up on weeks of lost sleep. Instead, he sits at the counter and orders a tall glass of beer.
Here’s the thing: Thomas is supposed to be patient. He works well under pressure. People praise him for it, admire him for it. Twenty years of handling obnoxious coworkers, meetings and impossible deadlines had trained him to smile through almost anything. Rarely does he wish to crumple into himself.
Alas, he’s only human. And when everything crashes together and piles up like dirty laundry, he thinks he deserves a little treat. It’s either ice-cold beer or unemployment. He sticks with the saner option.
He speeds through his first glass. The mellow buzz settling into his veins brings an odd sense of calm by the time he’s halfway through his second. He takes a slow, steadying breath. He's surrounded by strangers who don’t know him, idle conversations he doesn’t have to involve himself in, and best of all, an R&B playlist hums softly in the background. Thomas taps his fingers against the dull rhythm.
Yeah. This is exactly what he needed. Some peace. Some quiet. To play it even safer, he powers his phone off completely. So what if he wants to be unreachable for one day? One evening to himself sounds fairer than anything else.
Briefly, he considers calling Flux, then remembers he's out of the city. It’s been well over a month since they last talked face-to-face — Thomas’s erratic schedule and Flux’s constant business trips made it nearly impossible. That, and ever since him and Saps started living together, seeing Flux had become a miracle by itself. Thomas should feel bitter, really. His friend of twenty years abandoned him for a man he’s known for three.
But then he sees that softened look on Flux’s face, how he settles and turns docile whenever Saps talks, as though caught in a trance. And because Thomas has quite literally never seen Flux like that before, he lets it slide.
Last month, Thomas and Bird put down a hundred dollars each on a bet. Thomas fully believes they’ll be married by next year, while Bird insists Flux is going to drown in misery and overthinking, and the two of them will end up living together unmarried until their sixties. As much as Thomas hates admitting it, that is a plausible argument. But for Thomas’s sake, for the sake of their friendship, Flux needs to do this one thing for him.
He calls the bartender over for another refill. One more glass and he’ll head home, he promises himself.
As he does, a quick flash of movement catches to his right. A streak of white hair, bright and unnatural. Then the sound of wood scraping against wood, and an intentional, lingering presence settling beside him.
"I’ll have whatever he's having.”
Thomas follows the trail of the deep, husky voice. He blinks. And a couple more times.
The stranger is already staring at him. A lazy Cheshire-like grin rests at the corner of his lips. At most, he has to be in his twenties. Bleached platinum hair spills down his neck and rests at the tops of his shoulders. Similar to Saps’, but glossier, messier, wilder, carrying a bold i can do whatever i want in every inch of it. Silver glints decorate his face — brows, nose, lips, cheeks. Slowly, Thomas’s gaze drifts lower, to the washed black shirt hanging off him two sizes too large, draped loose over one shoulder, revealing a stretch of porcelain-pale skin. And there, Thomas spots another piercing — right below his collarbone.
“Hey, my eyes are up here,” the guy says, finger tapping against the wood. Thomas looks back up, to those dusty gray eyes. “You with anyone?”
Thomas takes a moment. Then, “No.”
“That’s depressing. On a Friday night too? Ouch.”
Thomas shrugs. “I enjoy my alone time.”
“When you could totally be having a blast with someone?” He bumps his shoulder lightly against Thomas’s. A whiff of cologne, musky and spicy, brushes Thomas’s nose. Lower, the guy adds, “Yeah, fuck that. You know what? I think I’m gonna keep you company. How about that?”
Thomas raises a brow. “I’d rather converse with people my age.”
"'mkay, terrible opening statement, dude. That makes you sound so old."
"Well, I am forty."
"…Holy shit," the guy gapes, scans Thomas up and down with an unreadable look, a sly grin. "You are old, huh. That's like almost double my age." He leans closer, propping his chin on his hand. “Lemme guess. You gotta have some lame ass office job, right? That's literally the occupation of every dude your age. You probably also work every day of the week and spend your weekends at home. And when you do go out, like now, you sit all by yourself and have a drink or two before heading back.”
Thomas opens and closes his mouth.
“So? Was I spot on?”
He takes a long sip of his beer. Unfortunately, Thomas checks every item off that list. He couldn’t have gotten a more accurate reading of his life if he’d gone to a shaman. But he isn’t about to admit that.
“I was, huh? I totally was.” the guy snickers. “See? You have such a boring, predictable life, mister. I clocked you immediately.”
“And how do you suggest I enhance it?” Thomas asks. Morosely, he glances at his almost empty glass. He needs a refill.
“I dunno. Aren’t you supposed to be old enough to figure that shit out by yourself?” The guy scoffs. Then he twists Thomas’s tie around his fingers, absentmindedly playing with the fabric.
Thomas stares at him, incredulous.
“But maybe start by wearing something more casual to a bar. Try to fit in a little.”
“Half the people coming in here are still in their work attire,” Thomas objects. The two silver spheres below the guy’s collarbone catch his attention again. Eyes lingering there, he says, “Meanwhile, you look more suited for a club than a bar.”
His grin widens. “Do I, now? Is that coming from experience? You ever went clubbing before?”
Thomas winces as memories from his dark college years rise back to the surface. “I did plenty when I was your age.”
“Sick. What’s your craziest club story?”
In hindsight, Thomas shouldn’t entertain this guy. He isn’t stupid — even a child could tell he’s trying to flirt. Thomas has seen these little advances plenty of times before — the subtle touches, the questions, the glances, the batting of lashes. He knows them all too well.
Except it’s never been someone this young, nor someone this unpredictable. Which is exactly why Thomas should get up and leave.
But against all odds, against a voice deep in the corner of his mind, eerily similar to Flux’s, telling him he’ll so regret this, he chooses not to. He blames the alcohol. Each sip is leaving him more lightheaded, more buzzed and loosened around the edges. He also blames it on the guy’s scent — crisp, unfamiliar, alarmingly easy to sink into.
So Thomas starts talking.
He starts from his first day of college, how he met Flux first, then everyone else in their friend group. He talks about all the parties and clubs Bird and Gotoga used to drag them to. The drunk, hazy nights Thomas still doesn’t fully remember, reduced to scattered fragments and secondhand stories told back to him the morning after.
Somewhere in between, the guy orders another refill. Glass in hand, Thomas reminisces about bright purple-blue neon lights washing over packed rooms, loud music thrumming through his veins, losing himself to the rhythm on the dance floor, riding the rush of it all until hours blurred together. The memories come back sharp and vivid, clear as a crisp night sky.
"Damn. You can dance?" The guy whistles. "Show me your moves sometime?"
Thomas takes a satisfying sip. “I haven’t danced in ages. I’m probably rusty.”
The guy nudges him with an elbow. “We could change that. I can help you remember.”
“We could. But we won’t,” says Thomas. “You can go clubbing with your peers.”
Micro scoffs. "Psh. There you go again with that."
Only then — or more specifically, when he loops an arm around Thomas’s and rests his chin on Thomas’s shoulder, blinking up at him — does Thomas realize how close they’ve gotten. He must’ve shifted closer while Thomas was talking. Close enough to spot the black smudges of eyeliner around his eyes, his slightly cracked lips, shaded a pale pink. And he’s touching Thomas, shamelessly — bony fingers feeling over his suit, prodding curiously, kneading at the soft flesh of his arm.
Voice less steady, Thomas asks, “What are you doing?”
"I'm tryna show you, mister."
"Show me what?"
“That you’re hot as fuck,” he drawls, hand settling against the side of Thomas’s thigh. “That I’d rather hang out with you than — what was it you said? Oh, yeah — my peers.”
Thomas feels something dangerous stir in his gut. It’s the alcohol. It has to be. There’s no other explanation besides being under the influence. There’s absolutely no other explanation, because otherwise, why would he, to someone half his age, to someone worlds apart from him, ask:
"Your name?"
Thomas simply isn't thinking straight.
"Huh?"
“What’s your name?” Thomas asks again.
“Oh, uh — Micro,” he says immediately, a little breathless. “Yours?”
“Thomas.”
“Thomas.” Micro echoes, deliberate. “Hot name.”
“You might be the first person to think the name Thomas is hot.”
“The person attached to it matters just as much.” Micro winks. “But I kinda wanna stick to mister. Or Mr. Thomas. Or…” Then Micro leans closer, toward Thomas’s ear. He whispers, “Sir?”
Thomas’s fingers twitch around the empty glass. All of a sudden, the bar feels a little warmer, the music too loud. He’s floating. He’s been floating for a while now, ever since he finished his fifth glass. And now this — Micro, taking a beat too long to pull away, giggling, touching and touching.
“Micro,” Thomas calls. The name sits hot and buzzing on his tongue. Instantly, Micro perks up. “Do you do this often?”
"Hm? Do what?"
"Flirt with older men."
A thick moment of silence passes. Then Micro bursts into laughter, loud and easy. Wiping at the corner of his eye, he answers, “I flirt with guys I think are hot, yeah.”
“You keep saying that,” Thomas presses. “When I’m old enough to be your dad’s age.”
“Nah. He’s older. I wouldn’t have cared if you were, anyway.” Micro waves a hand. “That’s another piece of info you got out of me. You’re good at this, mister. Do you do this every day?”
"Thomas," Thomas corrects. "I don't. Boring, predictable life, remember? Your words."
“Oh that got you, huh?” Micro taps the tip of his shoe against Thomas’s. “Shouldn't it be exhilarating by now? All thanks to me. And I know exactly how to make it even more exciting.”
"Really," Thomas says flatly.
"Yep. Really."
The drinks are long forgotten — everything narrows down to the pair of hot, dusky eyes watching him, waiting, expectant. Micro is flushed all over, pale skin stained pink and red. Thomas assumes he doesn’t look much different — less obvious maybe, but still there. And it is, admittedly, cute, being treated like someone completely unaware of the outside world. Micro watches him with what looks suspiciously like victory blooming in his chest, thinking he has Thomas wrapped around his fingers, that this is just another person already won over.
It makes something impulsive rise and bubble inside Thomas like angry, boiling water.
Thomas moves this time, forces Micro back until there’s nowhere left to go in his seat. He stops just shy of their noses brushing. He spreads his fingers over Micro’s thigh, over washed-out jeans, feels him tense beneath the touch.
“So, Micro,” Thomas says, low and smooth. “According to you, the key to making my life more exciting is sleeping with a college student?”
Micro lets out a trembling laugh. “I — Haha, w-where’d you even get that from?” He scrambles, stumbles over his own words. “But, I mean, maybe. Actually — yeah. Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m tryna say.”
“Despite our age gap,” Thomas reminds him, pointedly. “You want to have sex with me.”
A pair of eyes drifts over Thomas again, half-lidded, almost hungry.
“Yeah.”
"And you won't regret this?"
Micro shakes his head quickly. “I literally approached you first, dude.” A beat. “Will you?”
Probably. Probably, Thomas will, when he wakes up sober, head throbbing, and realizes he had a one-night stand with a college student. Regret will crash over him, and he’ll panic, and never step foot inside this bar again. He’ll try to move on and forget about the way light caught against the metal scattered like stars across Micro’s body, his permanent lazy smile, the heavy droop of his eyes.
But all of that is tomorrow Thomas’s problem.
He snakes an arm around Micro’s waist — hesitant, loosely lucid. Beneath the oversized shirt, he feels toned, solid muscle. Micro probably works out after class, after hanging out with friends from college, because he’s a goddamn college student.
Micro is already leaning into the touch, sinking against Thomas’s chest. The bartender throws them a questionable, head-tilting look, which Thomas pointedly ignores.
“I won't if there are less prying eyes on us,” Thomas whispers, lips brushing against Micro’s temple. “The bartender shot me a look. High chance he thinks I drugged you.”
"Shit. Did you, though?" Micro teases, laughing, and the sound rattles through Thomas’s chest, through the quick thump thump thump of his heart.
“Obviously not.” Thomas pauses. “Possibly.”
“Look at that. He’s a prankster too.” With a mumble, Micro adds, “I gotta thank Neptune for showing me this place. I struck gold.”
“Neptune? Is that a friend — ”
Micro crashes their lips together.
It’s hardly slow. Almost entirely impatient, hungry, aching: one hand yanks Thomas forward by the tie, the other tangles into his sprayed, once neatly slicked-back hair. Strands fall into Thomas’s eyes. Thomas takes only a second before giving everything back with equal fervor. His hand climbs to Micro’s face, tucking pale strands behind his ear, securing his hold around Micro’s waist.
Like this, Micro is practically half in his lap: one leg thrown over Thomas’s thighs, arms around his neck, keeping him there. And Thomas lets him. Lets himself sink into this rush of pure adrenaline, into something stripped down and instinctive. He can barely think straight, let alone consider pulling away from this warmth — kiss-bruised lips against his.
In that harrowing moment, he wants to dip lower, and lower, toward bare skin, toward bone peeking through, toward silver and metal and —
“Ahem.”
They break apart with a loud pop. Thomas blinks through the haze, confusion first, then slow realization, then surprise settling in after.
The bartender is standing at the opposite side of the counter, arms crossed, deeply unimpressed, brows drawn tight.
“Sirs,” he says, voice flat. “I see you’re already done with your drinks.”
Thomas straightens a little, or tries to — Micro is stubborn about not letting go.
“Yes.” Thomas glances at Micro, then back at the bartender. “We are.”
“And I assume that’s all for tonight?”
“…Yes,” Thomas says again, and quickly understands what’s happening. Politely, they’re being kicked out. Thomas is actually being kicked out of a bar for the first time in his life. From anywhere, actually.
Somehow, they make it outside. The streets glow beneath dim yellow streetlights, calm and still, the noise of the day long settled away. It’s only the two of them here — arms around waists, steps uneven, Micro’s head tucked against the crook of Thomas’s neck.
“You better not think of heading home.” Micro slurs his words, and somewhere beside them, a car honks down an empty road.
“It’s too far,” Thomas answers honestly. “I won’t make it back in one piece.”
“Good.” He reaches for Thomas’s hand and intertwines their fingers. Thomas squeezes back. “Because I know a hotel just down the street.”
In his drunken state, Thomas almost asks, How do you know? How many people did you take there? And then, by some graceful miracle, he remembers he’s barely known Micro for a couple of hours, and that he made out with Micro, who he’s known for a couple of hours. He’d sound like a hypocrite interrogating him.
“So? No answer?” Micro nuzzles against his cheek. “You’re not backing out, right, mister? Don't tell me old age caught up to you already.”
Stupidly, that’s what gets him.
“Lead the way,” Thomas says, and he’s already being pulled along by the hand. Slow steps fold into quicker ones. Thomas feels young and carefree all over again.
Against the wind, they run.
Thomas wakes to a ceiling he doesn’t recognize: off-white, plain and colorless. Groggily, he blinks, then instantly hisses at the morning light peeking through the curtains. His head is killing him. Confusion and pain crash over him simultaneously like a bucket of ice water. He scans his surroundings: A TV sits across from him on top of a drawer. To his right, there's a a blue couch, scattered with clothes.
His… clothes. His shirt and pants. The ones he wore yesterday.
Immediately, flashes of memories hit him in waves. Him going to a bar. Him having far too many drinks. A guy approaching him, invading his personal space. A guy much, much younger than him. Incredibly gorgeous, a smooth-talking flirt. Then he floats elsewhere, to a toned body, to calloused hands holding him steady, keeping Thomas close, plush lips against his, against his neck, his chest —
Only then does Thomas spot the trail of blooming marks stretching down his torso. Different sizes and shades, some redder, some paler, but undeniable there. And with them comes the name blaring through Thomas’s brain like an ambulance, a police car, a siren — loud, echoing, sinking:
Micro.
Thomas turns to the empty side of the bed and runs a hand over it. As he thought: it's cold. Micro must’ve left a while ago. Thomas is, apparently, getting the full one-night stand experience: waking up alone, rattled, bitter and prickly and in desperate need of a shower.
His disappointment lasts all of a second. There, resting on top of the vacant pillow, sits a sheet of paper folded neatly in half. Thomas picks it up and opens it.
forgot i had a project meeting w classmates
they wldve kill me otherwise
please save my number ok
There's a messily scratched phone number with a smiley face and an xox that, clearly, Micro had gone over multiple times until that part of the paper wrinkled beneath the pressure.
The corner of Thomas’s lips twitches upward. He mentally slaps himself for it immediately after.
He grabs his phone from the bedside drawer and powers it on.
<Thomas>
I got laid
Not even a minute later, a ding comes through.
<Flux>
good morning to you too
gross, first of all
second of all, congrats?
<Thomas>
Thanks
But you might hate me for this
Three dots bubble up and disappear and reappear. Thomas chews the inside of his bottom lip and waits for the next message to come through.
<Flux>
how bad could it be thomas
just don't give me nitty gritty details. i don't want to know
A long pause stretches taut between Thomas and him tapping his fingers against the screen. It’s already too late to back out.
<Thomas>
He's in his twenties
For twenty whole minutes, not a single message comes through. Thomas remains frozen, pretending to read through emails from coworkers and business partners when, in reality, his mind is racing, impatient and nervous.
Until it finally appears at the top of his screen. It kickstarts an entire flood of messages.
<Flux>
no fucking way
Thomas
are you, by any chance, a moron?
a guy in his twenties. Twenties
what were you thinking?
oh my god thomas
<Thomas>
In my defense, he initiated it
And I did try to shut him down
<Flux>
sure buddy
you're lucky i'm out of the city
oh saps is with me btw, and he's laughing his fucking ass off rn
<Thomas>
I hope it's out of kindness and sympathy, unlike you
<Flux>
saps says, word for word "this might be the best day of my life. holy shit. thomas is an idiot"
<Thomas>
Well that's not very nice is it
<Flux>
what do you think
look, as long as it was the first and last time
and it won't happen again
because you're a normal functioning member of our society
mistakes can happen. i guess
Thomas glances at the note again. At the number, written there deliberately for him, the wrinkled corner of paper.
<Thomas>
Right
I agree
Thanks for the support
Naturally, Thomas should agree. Last night was, indeed, supposed to be a mistake. A lapse of judgment. A need for something exciting and thrilling to break apart the copy-paste routine of his days. So what he should do is rip the paper into tiny little pieces, throw it in the bin, and forget any of it ever happened.
He should. He really should.
<Thomas>
Hello
This is Thomas
<???>
holy shit
u actually texted me
listen i'm sorry i had to leave without notice
we have this stupid project to do for this stupid class and i had to leave for our group meeting
final year and everything
i'm sure u already got all that from the note tho
<Thomas>
I did
It went well, I hope?
<???>
sure. we're almost done w the project so it's chill
but i've been sore all morning
i think i don't have to state why
Thomas doesn't know how to respond. Hotness grows inside his cheeks, dusts them in pink. Before he could scramble anything, another message comes through.
<???>
i want to see u again mister
<Thomas>
I have a name
<???>
whatever. mister
save my number, kay?
i mean, if u want to. but u should
i'm not kidding when i say i wanna see u
As long as it was the first and last time. Objectively wise words from Flux. Thomas still has time to end this conversation and block the number. Easy as that. In a city as vast as this one, the chances of running into each other again were abysmally low. He’ll go back to the boring, monotone life waiting for him, days blurring into weeks, and rinse and repeat.
<Thomas>
When are you free?
<Micro>
literally whenever u want me to be
He'll have to apologise to Flux.