onward, forward

Huh. Sascha scoots closer to him on the seat, intrigued. “What’s happening?” he says. “I like it, don’t get me wrong, but this?” He touches the bruise blossoming on Griffin’s cheekbone, then runs his fingers through his hair. Griffin’s eyes shut and he leans into the touch. “Seems new.”

“Not new.” Griffin lowers his hand. His chin and mouth look like a murder scene but it seems like the bleeding has stopped. He gives a cautious sniff, then spits into the towel. “I don’t like people fucking with you,” he says plainly, tossing it onto the floor of the car.

Sascha feels his brows arch so high they disappear into his hair. “Who was fucking with me?” he asks. It’s news to him—he left for drinks and returned to absolute chaos, security dragging Griffin off of someone Sascha didn’t even know. It wasn’t the angriest Sascha has ever seen him, but it was close: he’d kicked hard at the guy on the ground before they managed to haul him out of range.

Of course it was fucking hot—that goes without saying—but it’s also a little concerning.

Not to mention bad press; Sascha has no doubt the story will be everywhere tomorrow, if it isn’t splashed all over Twitter already. He doesn’t check. He’d rather not know. That’s tomorrow’s problem.

Griffin looks away but doesn’t hide his scowl. “No one important. Don’t worry about it.”

“Now why would I worry?” Sascha tilts Griffin’s face back toward him with a finger under his chin. “I have you to defend my honor,” he teases.

He watches Griffin’s face flicker through several emotions—lingering outrage, reluctant amusement, guilt—before it settles on the last one. “It’s not funny, Sascha,” he says quietly.

He presses a light kiss to his temple. “It’s a little funny.” Before Griffin can get in a huff about it Sascha leans over to the door, plucking the complimentary water bottle out of its holder. Thank god these company cars always have water bottles and tissues in them. The height of luxury. Griffin silently watches him wet the tissue and lean back in, dabbing delicately at the bloodied skin beneath his nose. With his other hand Sascha cups his chin, turning his head as needed. Griffin lets him, staring the whole time.

“What’d he even say, anyway?” Sascha murmurs halfway through the second tissue. There are small splashes of blood on Griffin’s shirt that will just have to be left for later. He swipes gently around his mouth, tracing the divot beneath his lower lip. “Can’t remember the last time I saw you so pissed.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He glances up into Griffin’s eyes, holding them steady for a moment. “Kind of seems like it does.” As the silence stretches on and Griffin refuses to break it, Sascha gives a little shrug. “I’ve probably heard worse, anyway.”

Griffin grabs his wrist before he can go back to cleaning what little blood remains. “Can you not do that?”

“Do what?”

“Pretend it doesn’t bother you. Pretend it’s okay.”

“But it is. And it doesn’t.”

“Sascha.”

“Griffin,” he returns, mentally forcing himself to hold onto his patience with both hands so it doesn’t abandon him. He hates being handled with kid gloves. His parents did it, always acting like his outbursts came from nowhere and were totally irrational, even—especially—when they weren’t. The band did it, treating all that fucking bullshit with Seven like a field of landmines that would set him off if they took one wrong step. If Griffin starts doing it too he might fully lose it. “I’m a big boy,” he continues, pointed. “I made my choices. People can think what they want, but they don’t know me.”

Griffin’s face twists. “That easy, huh?”

Sascha frowns. “No. In fact it’s really fucking hard. But that’s reality.” He leans in with the tissue again for an excuse to stare at Griffin’s chin and not his eyes as he says: “I wouldn’t trade you for any of it, anyway.”

He seems to have struck him speechless, because he gets no response as he finishes cleaning off the last of the blood. He crumples the tissue up and drops it to join the towel on the floor, then glances at Griffin’s hands, still stained from trying to stopper his bloody nose. Wordlessly Griffin holds a hand out, and Sascha passes him the pack of tissues.

“I don’t…” He stares down at his hands as he wipes them clean, slow and methodical. Sascha tucks his feet up beneath him on the seat and waits, watching him work. It takes a minute for him to find a way to continue, and the sound of the road passing beneath them fills the silent car.

Sascha is good at waiting when it comes to Griffin. He waited twelve years to even know him—what’s a little more?

“I don’t know if I’m…” Griffin swallows and clears his throat. “Worth that.”

“Oh,” Sascha says. “Oh, Griffin. You break my heart.”

He flashes a forced grin that falls away as quickly as it came. “Sorry. It’s not intentional, I swear.”

He only shakes his head and pats his thigh. Griffin glances from his hand to his face and back again, hesitant, but after a moment he slides down. Sascha shuffles over so Griffin can comfortably lay across the backseat, resting his head on Sascha’s folded legs. He’s tense like he’s waiting for a trick, for a shoe to drop. Sascha only cards his fingers through his hair, saying nothing.

Gradually Griffin relaxes, his eyes drifting shut in the quiet. Sascha feels it when the last bit of tension leaves him with a small, tired sigh.

He rests a hand on Griffin’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “I should tell you,” Sascha says, in a half-whisper so as to preserve the serenity of the moment, “that it was really hot.”

He feels Griffin’s shoulders start to shake against his thigh as he laughs silently. “Yeah?” he manages.

“Oh, yeah. Enjoy the peace now ’cause when we get home you won’t be able to pry me off you.”