onward, forward

He’s sure his gasp is audible through the door because Griffin looks up, squinting like he can see through it to Sascha on the other side. He looks… like shit is about the kindest way Sascha can put it. His hair a mess, the collar of his shirt askew, dark circles prominent under his eyes. From the half-beat Sascha looks at him he thinks he’s swaying slightly. What the hell.

Sascha has a decision to make, and quickly. If anyone sees Griffin hanging around outside his hotel room—he can’t even consider it.

He decides, and unlocks and jerks his door open, hands shaking only slightly. “Griffin, what the fuck?” he hisses, trying to keep his voice low, darting his head out to look frantically up and down the hall. Where’s his entourage? The cameras?

Where is anyone? Griffin can’t possibly be here alone. They haven’t been alone since—

“…hi,” Griffin says.

Sascha’s gaze snaps to him. Griffin hasn’t moved away, still standing exactly where he was, so Sascha is leaning further into his space than he realized. He breathes in sharply to speak and nearly gets his nose hairs singed off: Griffin reeks of alcohol. And he’s looking down at Sascha like…

He doesn’t want to think what Griffin is looking at him like. Where anyone could see!

He’s moving before he even realizes it, hand lashing out to fist in the collar of Griffin’s shirt.

“Oop,” Griffin says. Never a sound Sascha thought to hear coming from Griffin Reign’s lips. Not one he even realized he could make. Maybe Griffin didn’t realize it either because he starts giggling, and keeps on giggling as Sascha drags him inside and shuts the door.

Shuts, not slams. No need to draw even more attention to whatever nightmare he’s living in currently.

Unfortunately he didn’t think to alter Griffin’s trajectory any, so he comes staggering straight into Sascha, who has to wrap an arm around him to keep him up. There’s no doubt about it that Griffin’s wasted; if the smell weren’t enough, he goes practically boneless, draping himself over Sascha with a contented hum. He’s heavy and hot, burning through his clothes. He nuzzles the side of Sascha’s head, arms winding loosely around him. Beneath the alcohol he catches a whiff of his cologne, cool and smoky, right where Sascha’s nose brushes his neck. It shoots awareness through his whole body, tingling all the way out to his fingers and toes.

“Hi,” Griffin says again. His sigh flutters Sascha’s hair, hot against his scalp. “Sorry.”

Annoyed and aroused, it’s a bad mix. The annoyance wins out as the less complicated of the two. “For what?” Sascha asks, trying to peel Griffin’s hands off his waist. He rolls his eyes at the resulting whine. “Showing up at my door in the middle of the night piss drunk?” he continues. “You should be. What were you thinking?”

Griffin lets his hands be pulled away, though he goes on leaning against him with his whole body, practically sagging. He might be too drunk to easily correct that. “I wasn’t,” he mumbles. His lips brush Sascha’s ear and he shivers. It’s so unfair he can still be sexy like this, when Sascha is trying to be mad at him. He doesn’t even think it’s intentional, which is the worst part. “I couldn’t…” Griffin’s struggling to put words together. Sascha puts a hand on his back and waits, unsure why he does. He’s not sure why he does anything when it comes to Griffin Reign.

“Couldn’t think of anywhere else,” Griffin says finally, so quietly he wouldn’t have heard if it weren’t directly into his ear.

It takes a moment for that to sink in, but when it does, Sascha nearly scoffs. Yeah, right. There are any number of places or people Griffin could have found his way to that wouldn’t have spelled immense fucking trouble for Sascha tonight, and he had to choose the one place that did. He’s Griffin Reign. He’d be welcome anywhere he wanted! People would roll out the red carpet just for him to cross the street! He can’t really expect him to believe that Sascha was the only—

Oh.

Guilt comes creeping in, dousing the annoyance like a bucket of water over an open flame. If Sascha was the only person Griffin could think to come to…

God, that’s fucking sad.

Griffin shifts in his arms, dropping his head listlessly onto Sascha’s shoulder. “Say something.”

He opens his mouth. What the fuck am I supposed to do? “Something,” he says.

Griffin doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t make any noise at all, not even a pity chuckle. For a moment he’s so still he doesn’t even seem to be breathing. Then he leans back, lifting his face off Sascha’s shoulder. He’s not looking at him. “I can go,” he says.

What? “Hold on.”

“Sorry.” Now it’s Griffin trying to disentangle himself and Sascha who isn’t letting him go, which would be funny if it were at all funny. There’s an odd, pinched expression on Griffin’s face, and he’s looking anywhere but in Sascha’s eyes. “Sorry,” he repeats, and keeps saying it. “Sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t—I keep—Sascha, stop—”

“You’re here now,” he says firmly. “It’s fine.” Maybe if he says it with enough conviction it’ll be true.

“It’s not,” Griffin says, growing angry. Sascha doesn’t know what the fuck he has to be angry about—it’s not his career (and entire life) hanging by a thread here. “I keep fucking—fucking it up for you. I can’t keep doing that!”

“Griffin, I said it’s fine!”

“Will you let go?!”

“Shh!” Panicked, Sascha claps a hand over Griffin’s mouth. They both freeze, staring at each other. It feels like they’re waiting for the door to be kicked down—or at least for someone to knock, asking what all the yelling’s about.

He finds himself staring at the faint freckles speckled on Griffin’s nose. He never noticed them before, probably because he’s always in makeup for the cameras. They’re cute.

Griffin is still as a statue against him.

As a minute crawls by and nothing happens, Sascha exhales and lets his hand slip away. “Sorry,” it’s his turn to say. “Just—you’re already here. I don’t think anyone would believe you were just dropping in to borrow my charger, do you?” He smiles wryly.

Griffin clears his throat. “Is that a euphemism?” he croaks.

There he is. Sascha relaxes slightly, relieved to be back on familiar ground with him. “Ha, ha,” he says. Griffin flashes a weak grin that falls quickly away. He leans back and this time Sascha lets him slide out of his arms, coming to rest back against the wall next to the bathroom door. Griffin rubs his eyes.

“I do mean it.” Sascha tilts his head, questioning, and Griffin clarifies. “I don’t mean to keep fucking everything up for you. It just…” He makes a helpless gesture with his hands.

“…comes naturally?” Sascha finishes for him, quirking a brow. Griffin’s face falls and he looks away. Shit. “Look, it’s—it is what it is. And I am happy to see you.” He tacks on that last bit impulsively, because he is. It’s stupid, and such a bad idea, and Oriana would—he actually can’t think of what Oriana would do to him if she knew because it legitimately frightens him. But a selfish part of him is glad that Griffin came to him, and it’s not even a small part. He likes being around Griffin. More than he should.

I can tell by the way you look at him, Seven had said, and only then did Sascha realize that he might be in deeper than he thought. The fact it took Seven to make him notice it is its own brand of mortifying that he won’t examine right now. Possibly ever.

“You are?” Griffin asks.

He thinks he’s fishing—mostly because it’s what Sascha himself would do—and opens his mouth to mock him for it before he gets a closer look at Griffin’s face. It’s tilted slightly away from him, making Griffin glance sidelong at Sascha to look at him at all. The glances are darting, flickering all over his face as if searching for something. He looks uncertain. He looks hopeful.

Sascha wants to shake him. You’re Griffin fucking Reign! Don’t look at me like a starving dog begging for scraps beneath the table, you deserve more! You should be at the table! You built the table!

He dreams of being alone in a room with Viktor White and a hammer.

“Yeah,” Sascha says, because that’s all a bit much to get into in the present moment. “I am.”

And the way Griffin lights up at just that little thing makes him want to cry. Or throw things. Or force Griffin down onto the bed and cover him with his body and never move again.

“You thought I wouldn’t be happy to see you?” he probes, as gently as he can.

Griffin’s expression goes flat. He shrugs, little more than a halfhearted twitch of his shoulders. He doesn’t say anything.

Sascha tugs at the stud in his earlobe, feeling a rueful smile pulling at his lips. “So the last time we were alone and I had your dick halfway down my throat that was, what,” he says. “A handshake?” Griffin jolts like he’s just been electrocuted, eyes snapping wide, but Sascha doesn’t give him a second to respond. “I mean, maybe it was to you—”

“What the fuck does that—”

“—but I’m not that much of a whore,” Sascha lies. He’s fucked guys he wouldn’t even use as an ashtray. He doesn’t know what he’s trying to do right now—he just knows he didn’t like that look on Griffin’s face. “So don’t fucking insult me.” He folds his arms.

“Jesus,” Griffin says. His head falls back with a thump against the wall, and he looks at Sascha through his eyelashes. He wishes the visual weren’t as effective as it is. “You’re kind of a bitch.” The way he says it, it almost sounds like a compliment.

So Sascha takes it as one. “Thank you.” He smiles tersely. Griffin returns it after a moment, a small twitch of his lips. But it’s something.

He drags his gaze away and looks at his feet. “We haven’t…” His hands come up, tattooed fingers twisting his rings idly about. Sascha watches them for a moment, and glances back to his face. A strand of Griffin’s hair has fallen across it, black as ink, and he doesn’t fix it. He’s beautiful. Asshole. “We haven’t talked,” he says. “About it.”

When would we have talked? They’re never alone, and more importantly, they’re never not being filmed and recorded. It makes discussing your illicit extramarital affair slightly more difficult. They’ve only been able to communicate in charged, fleeting glances, and Sascha has even been avoiding those. He’s felt Griffin staring far more than Sascha has looked back.

“And we won’t,” Sascha says. Griffin looks up, startled. “Come on, Griffin. Why’d you really come here? Was it just to talk?”

As he speaks he steps forward—once, twice—until he’s crowding Griffin against the wall with his body. They’re close enough that he feels Griffin’s chest rise with the sudden, sharp breath he drags in through his nose, and just knowing he has that kind of effect on Griffin Reign will tide Sascha’s ego over for a long while. Not that it needs it—Iris once drily described Sascha’s high opinion of himself as self-sustaining. She wasn’t wrong.

He trails his fingers up his arm, tracing the sleeve of tattoos with his fingertips. Griffin presses his lips together, but his hazel eyes have gone dark and searching. He makes a minute, jerky motion with his chin, almost like he started to lean forward and stopped himself. Sascha sees it and smiles.

Griffin breathes out, and Sascha feels his hands slide over his hips and up beneath his shirt to touch the skin of his back. His stomach does an electric flip. He kind of wishes he wasn’t in his shitty oversized sleep shirt and pajama pants right now so the mental image could be a little more sexy, but he can make do. Griffin’s eyes drop to his mouth.

“I don’t know,” Griffin murmurs. His knuckles graze Sascha’s spine. He strokes them slowly up and down. “I just… I thought of you, and…” He cuts himself off with a self-conscious laugh. “I’m always thinking of you,” he admits.

That’s… more than he was banking on. It must show on his face in some way because Griffin blanches.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Forget I said that.”

Sascha forces a laugh, knowing it’s strained. “You apologize a lot, you know.”

Griffin makes a face. “No, I don’t.”

“Oh, okay, you don’t.” He raises his brows. “Glad we cleared that up.”

Griffin narrows his eyes at him playfully and Sascha laughs again, more naturally this time. His expression softens, and he makes that aborted chin-jerk motion again, larger, and sighs hard through his nose. “Can I kiss you?” he asks plainly, voice taut.

“Huh.” Sascha leans back into Griffin’s hands, tilting his head coyly up at him. “He’s a gentleman.”

He snorts. “Definitely not.”

“Why the courtesy? I didn’t ask you.”

Griffin’s gaze intensifies at the reminder. “Good point,” he murmurs.

A thread of nerves pulls taut in Sascha’s belly as Griffin leans down. It won’t be the same, he thinks, suddenly possessed by a panic he didn’t even know he had. The basement was an isolated incident, a fluke, and it won’t be that good again and we’ll both realize we risked all this for nothing, even more than we already were, and—

He shouldn’t have worried.

Their lips brush, tentative at first. Sascha catches his breath and Griffin draws back to look at him. His gaze is steady, intent. He dips in again, tugging Sascha into his chest, arms dragging the hem of his shirt up his back so the cool air of the hotel room chills his flushed skin. The second kiss heats up quickly. Sascha opens his mouth, a whimper he’d never admit to in the light of day leaving him, and Griffin hums. Sascha feels the flash of his teeth as he smiles.

He suspected it when they first made out that night in the basement, but this just confirms it: Sascha could kiss Griffin Reign for the rest of his life and not go wanting. Anything is worth this. He can’t believe he doubted that—and when he doubts it again, he’ll gladly take the reminder.

Sascha pulls back far enough to say “we should—” and is dragged back into a third kiss by the nape of his neck. He starts giggling, unable to help it, palms pressed to Griffin’s chest. “Hold on,” he whispers against his mouth, smiling. “Ho—hold on. Griffin.”

“You started it,” Griffin mumbles and goes for a fourth. Sascha makes a half-assed noise of protest and melts immediately into it anyway. He grabs fistfuls of Griffin’s shirt and stretches up onto his toes to get as close as possible, just trying to keep up, to not get shown up so completely, but it’s like trying to swim against the tide. It’s easier to just let yourself get swept away.

Sascha finally manages to drag his mouth away via a feat of, honestly, Herculean effort, turning his face to the side and trying to catch his breath. Griffin takes it in stride and goes for his throat. “Oh my god,” he says, and nearly goes up like a firecracker when he feels Griffin’s teeth against his skin. This is swiftly spiraling out of any hope of control, and Sascha hates how tempted he is to just let it go. Not smart! Not fucking smart! “Griffin,” he says, new urgency in his voice. He puts his hands on his shoulders. “Griffin, stop.”

That manages to get his attention. He snaps his head up, looking somehow even drunker than he had when he turned up at Sascha’s door. He sounds it, too, voice gone slow and thick as honey. It’s nearly enough to make Sascha ignore his own request and dive back in for him. “Huh?” Griffin runs his tongue along his bottom lip, then reaches up to thumb excess spit from the corner of his mouth. He somehow makes that hot, too. “What’s wrong?” He sways in, but doesn’t try for a kiss again; he only rests his forehead lightly against Sascha’s, eyes worried. “Did I do something?”

“What?” It takes him a moment to even follow the logic, he’s so distracted by the unexpected sweetness. “No. No, you’re…” He glances up into his eyes.

Perfect.

Dangerous word.

“You’re drunk,” he says, smiling softly. “I’m not gonna debauch you.”

“Ooh, he’s presumptuous,” Griffin says, grinning. “Who says I wasn’t gonna do you?”

That puts far too many images in Sascha’s head. Really good ones. Oriana, I pray to god you never learn about this, but you’d better be proud of me for my restraint anyway. “Still,” he says. “It’s…” His face twists, hating the words even as he says them. When did he get fucking boring? “Not smart.”

Griffin is quiet for a minute, but not still. His hands return to Sascha’s back, rubbing softly in circles as he thinks. It’s so relaxing that for a moment it’s difficult to keep his eyes open. “Okay,” Griffin says finally. A mischievous look flits over his face and he lifts his head away from Sascha’s. “But what if I reeeeally want you to?”

“I’m flattered,” Sascha says, deliberately smug, trying to deflect. “I was that good, huh?”

He expects Griffin to laugh it off, or take the chance to humble him a little. Sascha’s left himself wide open for it on purpose. What he doesn’t expect is for Griffin’s eyes to soften and a blush to rise in his cheeks. “You were amazing,” he says.

Sascha stares at him for a long moment, rendered speechless. “Well,” he says, reaching desperately for anything to use as a shield and landing, as usual, on hubris. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Griffin swirls a finger at his face, teasing. “You’re blushing.”

“I—” He touches his own cheek and quickly turns away to hide his smile. “No. Shut up.”

“Aww. Your ears get red too! That’s cute.”

Sascha covers them with both hands. “Stop looking at my ears.”

“Okay.” Griffin deliberately drags his eyes down his body and back up, leering. “Anywhere else you don’t want me looking? While we’re on the subject.”

“No, just those,” he says with exaggerated primness. Griffin snorts.

There’s a beat of silence, slightly awkward. Sascha rubs a knuckle over his lips to try to get the tingling out, trying to be subtle about it.

“I like the shirt, by the way.”

Sascha looks down, pinching the front of his shirt to pull it away from his body. It’s one of the oldest shirts he owns, not even fit for public use anymore. He stole it from his dad when he was twelve and just never gave it back. He can’t see what Griffin could possibly like about it.

Griffin arches a brow. “Superman, right? You like that stuff?”

He smooths a hand over the S decal on his chest. It’s been washed so many times that it’s fading away. “Everyone likes Superman,” he says defensively. “He’s the best one.”

Griffin laughs, something soft in his face Sascha doesn’t examine. “I wouldn’t know,” he says. “Never really had time for…” He trails off and flicks his fingers, like shaking droplets from his fingertips.

“Well, he is.” Sascha raises his chin. “And if anyone asks you that’s what you tell them.”

“Noted.” He watches Sascha for a moment more, smile shrinking. He breaks eye contact and rubs the back of his neck, exhaling. “I should probably…”

“Not be here?”

“Yeah.” Griffin frowns. “That.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them moves. After a moment they recognize how ridiculous that is at the same time and start to smile.

Sascha folds his arms, careful to keep his distance now. It would be so easy to ignore it all and lean in for Griffin again, and he has the sneaking suspicion Griffin has no more self control than he does. Less, even. The fact they’re not jumping each other’s bones a second time might be a small intervention by god. “Does it help if I don’t want you to leave?”

He doesn’t know why he says it, and immediately regrets it because the look Griffin shoots him is heartbreaking. Longing. Sadness. Pain. All so plain on his face it’s startling. It aches at the base of Sascha’s throat. “No,” he says softly. He cards his fingers through his hair, pushing the loose strands out of his eyes. He tries to smile but it falls flat. “It actually makes it so much worse.”

He winces. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for that.” Even pained, Griffin looks at him warmly. “Please.” He hesitates and bites his lip. He fishes for something in his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Okay. This is—okay.” He taps at the screen, gaze flickering up at Sascha and back down. It strikes Sascha as oddly shy, and the affection that swells in his chest threatens to choke off his ability to breathe. Griffin turns his phone around and Sascha sees a timer at 10:00. As he watches it ticks down to 9:59.

Sascha starts to laugh. He can’t help it. “Ten minutes?”

“Well.” He checks. “Nine minutes fifty-three seconds.” He drops his phone back into his pocket and spreads his arms. “I’m all yours.”

“How romantic,” he teases.

“Just being practical.” He lets his arms drop and hit his sides, smile small and slightly embarrassed. “Any longer and I don’t think I could make myself leave.”

“Any longer and I wouldn’t let you.” Griffin’s gaze darkens as Sascha closes the distance again, emboldened. His gaze trawls slowly from Griffin’s feet, up his legs, along his arms, to his face.

He doesn’t think he imagines that Griffin stands a little straighter.

“All mine?” Sascha asks.

He definitely doesn’t imagine the bob of Griffin’s throat. Cute. “Mmhm.”

“Hmm.” Sascha rocks back on his heels to examine his bounty. Slowly, he untucks the front of Griffin’s shirt from his pants with a hand. “I like that,” he says. “You can do a lot in ten minutes.”

Griffin sighs, satisfied with himself. “I’m a fucking genius.”

Sascha laughs and slips his hand beneath Griffin’s shirt, touching his stomach. Then he flips it, the backs of his fingers grazing Griffin’s skin as he pushes it upward, gathering the material of his shirt in his hand until his fingers come out the collar and he can clutch it all in his fist. He gives an experimental tug and Griffin lurches forward a step, eyebrows high on his forehead.

Sascha smiles. Without a word he walks back toward the bed, dragging Griffin after him. His chosen method of Reign-wrangling has the added benefit of baring Griffin’s midriff for his consideration, which is a duty Sascha takes very seriously. Griffin looks like he’s biting his lips in an effort not to smile, but his dimples betray him.

Once they’re close enough, Sascha turns them and pushes Griffin down onto the bed. He goes willingly, sitting at its foot, and makes an approving noise as Sascha wastes no time crawling into his lap.

“Hold on,” Sascha says, lifting his chin away as Griffin tries to kiss him. “This is my ten minutes.”

Griffin’s hands slide up the backs of his thighs, bunching the material of his flannel pajama pants. “Oh, is that how we’re playing this?” he asks, grinning.

“Isn’t that what you said?” He blinks innocently, steadying himself with his hands on Griffin’s shoulders and leaning in. “Anything I want…?”

He smiles indulgently up at Sascha, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry. “When did—?” He cuts himself off and laughs in disbelief. “Your favor? You’re using that here?”

Sascha shrugs a shoulder. “Not cashing it in, just reminding you it exists.”

“Ohh, okay.” Griffin gives his ass a squeeze and Sascha squeaks, trying not to laugh. “It’s blackmail, then.”

“Blackmail is such a dirty word.”

“Yeah? I know a couple more. Wanna hear them?”

He snickers. “That’s bad.” He cups Griffin’s face in his hands, stroking his thumbs over the strong lines of his cheekbones. Then gentler, beneath his eyes, like he can swipe away the dark circles there. It’s surprising to realize he wants to. That he doesn’t just want to kiss Griffin or fuck him, but take care of him too. When did that start? With whose permission?

Suddenly he doesn’t want to tease him anymore.

Griffin is staring up at him with that softness that’s so hard for Sascha to look at. He can’t see it without thinking of all the things it might mean—for Griffin, for Sascha, for the uncertain new thing between them that has the potential to ruin them both.

Well, mostly Sascha.

“Fuck.” Sascha shuts his eyes.

“What?” Griffin’s voice is hushed. A little nervous, unless that’s Sascha’s imagination.

“I like you.” He huffs an annoyed laugh at himself. “I just realized.”

There’s a beat of silence that still manages to sound bewildered in nature. “You just—? Hang on.” Sascha yelps as he’s hoisted out of Griffin’s lap and tossed onto his back on the bed. He doesn’t even have a moment to consider how hot that was before Griffin is on him, pinning his arms to the bed above his head. “Didn’t you just throw a bitch fit about me thinking you didn’t like me,” he says, nosing at Sascha’s jaw, “like, five minutes ago?”

“Obviously I was lying, Griffin,” Sascha says, attempting to twist away and feeling a thrill shoot down his spine when Griffin simply doesn’t let him. How strong is he? Sascha wants to find out.

“‘So don’t fucking insult me,’ those were your words.”

“What can I say?” He tilts his head back to let Griffin at his neck, shivering as he takes the invitation gladly. “I am that much of a whore. Oh fuck. Honestly the thought of liking the guys I—shit—the guys I fuck is kind of a novelty to me. This is all new territory.”

“No kidding,” Griffin mutters against his pulse. “Can I…?”

Sascha pauses, trying to drag enough sensibility—and air—back in him to think, to figure out what he’s asking, and when he does he laughs. “Are you seriously asking if you can mark me up right now?”

“Just a little one,” he purrs.

“Not there.”

“Okay, then where?” Griffin touches his lips to a spot lower on his neck. “Here?”

“No.”

He tries his collarbone. “Here?”

He hums in the negative.

“Damn, you’re picky.” Griffin releases his wrists, hands trailing down his arms as he sits back on his heels to examine Sascha laid out for him. For once he decides to behave, mostly because he really likes the way Griffin’s eyes feel on him—that heated, evaluating look. He crosses his forearms over his head and puts a little arch in his spine, just for show. He knows he’s pretty. It’s nice to see the responding intensity in Griffin’s eyes anyway.

He slips his fingers beneath the hem of Sascha’s shirt and drags it up, exposing his stomach. His eyes catch on the piercing in his navel, glinting silver, and he breathes out. “You are…”

“Yeah?” Sascha goads him.

He flashes a grin at him, both sharp and amused. “Gonna fucking kill me.”

“But what a way to go.”

Griffin hums and bends over him, his breath ghosting over Sascha’s skin and making his lower stomach tighten a moment before he kisses the sensitive skin there. Sascha shudders, lowering his arms, not even sure what he wants to do with them before he’s gripping Griffin’s shoulder. “Here, I think,” Griffin says, and nips him.

“Fuck,” Sascha says in a tiny voice. “Okay.”

“Okaaay?” He draws it out teasingly.

Sascha’s skin heats. “Yes, okay, can you just—we’ve got like two minutes left.” His hand slides from Griffin’s shoulder into his hair.

Judging by the noise he makes, he likes that. He licks his chosen spot low on Sascha’s belly, slicking it with spit, then seals his mouth over it. Sascha’s hand tightens in his hair as he sucks a hickey into his skin, and Griffin hums his muffled approval. He bites, sucks, and bites again, and it’s all Sascha can do not to lift his hips off the bed. He muffles himself by biting his wrist, right over his rosebud tattoo.

Griffin releases him with a ridiculous pop that had to be on purpose, licking his lips as he surveys his work. “You bruise easy,” he says, thumbing the damp, reddened skin. The way he says it, Sascha knows it’s information he’s cataloguing for later.

“Convenient, huh?” He hears the breathiness in his voice but he can’t help it.

Griffin hears it too, his gaze snapping up to his face. Sascha grins at him, knowing it’s shaky, and watches the way Griffin’s eyes darken. He levers himself up, moving up Sascha’s body, never dropping his gaze—

The alarm goes off.

Sascha lifts his hand between them, stopping Griffin’s mouth scant inches from his, fingers on his lips. “And that’s time,” he says, smiling. Griffin’s hazel eyes widen, and then he rolls them.

He draws back far enough to say, “Five more minutes?”

Sascha cups his chin in his palm. “You’re cute. But rules are rules.”

“So we pick and choose which rules we follow now?”

He pouts at him playfully. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Griffin ignores that and tries to lean in again. “Just one more.”

Sascha laughs, leaning back and turning his head, trying to keep him away with a forearm braced across his chest. “Griffin.”

“Ugh, fiiiiine.” Griffin rolls off the bed, popping up onto his feet and making a show of dusting himself off and fixing his clothes. Sascha lounges back on his elbows, shirt still pushed up around his ribs, just watching. He grins, victorious, as Griffin has to adjust himself in his pants. He doesn’t know when the effect he has on him will stop feeling rewarding. Probably never.

“Okay,” Griffin exhales, running his hands through his hair to correct the mess Sascha made of it. “I’m definitely going.” He says it like he’s trying to talk himself into it. He glances at Sascha over his shoulder, does a double-take, and comically shields his eyes, flapping a hand at him. “Put that away.”

He snickers and tugs his shirt down with a careless flick of his wrist. “Shall I walk you to the door, sir?”

“If you think we’ll make it there,” Griffin mutters.

“Guess we’ll see!” Sascha shuffles off the foot of the bed, lingering close to Griffin long enough to look up at him through his lashes before flouncing for the door.

“Christ,” Griffin says. “You’re in a good mood.”

He spins and leans in the door to the bathroom, watching as Griffin ambles after him at a more casual pace. “Of course I am,” he says. “I just spent seven minutes in heaven with Griffin Reign. Give or take a few.” He gives an airy shrug. “I’m over the moon.”

He snorts. “Right.” As he nears where Sascha stands he slows, looking down at him with an oddly indecipherable expression on his face. Sascha tilts his head. Griffin exhales sharply and stops. “Look,” he says. “About—”

“Ah.” He holds up a hand. “You’ll ruin it.”

“Can I just say one thing?” he says, exasperated.

Sascha considers him for a moment. There’s a lingering flush in his cheeks, his dark hair tousled, and still a faint shine on his lips. He notices the freckles again, easier to spot now he knows they’re there. Slowly, he nods, and lets his hand drop.

“I—” Griffin chews on the corner of his lip for a moment, gaze conflicted. He shrugs, and there’s something helpless in the gesture. “I like you too.”

How very high school. And how devastating, even so.

Sascha wants to laugh. He wishes he felt like laughing. Instead he feels just as helpless as Griffin looks. What can he say? What can he do? They’re both trapped in webs that extend far outside themselves, with ramifications for every little move they make. And this—doing what they’re doing, whatever it is—is no little move. It has the power to tear Sascha’s career to shreds and his entire life with it.

Is Griffin worth it? Is anything?

Griffin clears his throat. Sascha has been quiet too long. “Okay,” he says, sounding so tired, and reaches for the door.

Sascha grabs his wrist. Before he can think about it, before he can stop himself, he steps into Griffin and stretches up, finding his mouth again.

Somehow it’s different. He’s kissed Griffin enough by now that he thought he knew how it felt, but the one they share now is nothing like the ones that came before. Griffin doesn’t reach for him. He barely moves at all, mouth soft but still, the hand not in Sascha’s grip limp at his side. He drops Griffin’s wrist to cradle his neck, then his face, trying to say—he doesn’t even know. Something that Griffin needs to hear. Something Sascha doesn’t know how to put into words. Please understand me.

Like something dead coming back to life, Griffin responds. He does it haltingly, as if—unsure? But that can’t be right. His touches are light, indecisive, first at Sascha’s waist, then his sides, then his fingertips brushing Sascha’s cheek.

That’s his cue to break away. “Um,” Sascha says, dropping his hands and backing up a step. “So. Yeah.” He twists the hem of his shirt, not meeting Griffin’s eyes. “Good night.”

Griffin stares, his dazed look resolving into something Sascha doesn’t know how to name, and he moves forward. “One more,” he says, and Sascha huffs, and then he can’t say anything at all.

He trembles. He never thought he was the trembling sort, but he does. He hasn’t been kissed like this before. Careful. Cupped in someone’s hands not to be felt but to be held. He doesn’t know what to do with it; where it should go, where he’s allowed to touch, how he should move. Maybe he’s just in free fall, hoping that anything will catch him at the end.

He does know one thing: for the first time in three years, Sascha feels understood.

It doesn’t last long. Griffin draws back to look at him, thumb stroking down his cheek. “Good night,” he says. Then he’s gone, slipping out the door before Sascha can even find his tongue again, let alone use it.

What a way to get the last word.

Sascha watches the door shut. He grins, then tries to frown, pressing the back of his wrist to his mouth. It’s not good. It’s not. It would be stupid to pretend otherwise. Really, catastrophically stupid.

Still, the corners of his mouth won’t stay down.

The concept is so foreign, so embarrassing, it has her grasping for a different excuse. She was reorganizing her computer. She was waiting for an email. However, it’s half past nine and Oriana’s desktop is and has always been in pristine, alphabetized condition. The truth is her carpal tunnel has her muscles in a vice grip. For the past ten minutes she’s been watching her hands twitch.

“Working hard?” Jackie teases. The bus seating is so close their knees knock when Jackie slides in the booth across from Oriana.

She blinks. “I…no, actually.”

“Oh.” Jackie looks almost as surprised as Oriana feels. “Is everything alright?”

The urge to say no is weak and that scares Oriana more than the procrastination. She’s too comfortable around Jackie. Even now, with her night half-wasted, Oriana wants to shut her laptop and ask what’s kept her singer up. The conversation would be mundane, but maybe Jackie would make Oriana laugh. Maybe it’d be the reverse and maybe it’d be enough to make her forget her trembling hands.

Is she so pathetic she fantasizes about platonic conversation? Oriana massages her wrist. “My hands are a little sore.”

“Oh no,” Jackie says with full sincerity. If it was anyone else Oriana might have rolled her eyes. If only to shake off the feeling of pity. Jackie extends her own hands palm up. “May I?”

Oriana can’t bring herself to object. She places herself in Jackie’s hands.

She starts by examining. Carefully turning Oriana this way and that and it makes her wonder what Jackie sees. Does she take note of her moles? Of the scar on her pinky? Jackie runs her fingers down Oriana's knuckles, around her palm, and across her wrist. “Does it hurt the worst here?”

Oriana nods.

Jackie smooths her thumb up from the ligaments of her joint to the center of her palm. The pressure aches the perfect amount. Oriana exhales.

“You okay?” Jackie pauses her ministrations.

Oriana flushes. “Yes. Please continue.”

Once satisfied with the left hand, Jackie moves to the right. Her gaze stays down and Oriana allows herself to watch Jackie shamelessly. Her hair settles loose around her shoulders, stray pieces curled around her cheeks. Her pajamas consist of flannel boxers, a blue tank-top, and bunny slippers. It's far more adorable than Oriana knows how to cope with.

Jackie finishes only a minute or so later. Oriana's hands tingle pleasently and somehow the sensation has spread throughout her entire chest.

“You should turn in for the night.” Jackie says. “You’ll ruin all my hard work otherwise.”

The smile on her face is sweet. Oriana feels possessive of it.

“I’ll just run to you if I start hurting again.” Oriana can’t. It’s inappropriate but also too demanding. Too reliant on a woman who may be her friend but will always be her client.

“Am I expected to indulge you forever?”

Oriana’s breath hitches. “Won’t you?”

It's banter. A joke at best and Oriana still finds herself breathless as she waits for an answer.

Jackie twirls a lock of her hair. “If you beg me, I might.”

Oriana striaghtens, folding her hands in her lap. "I’m not that desperate yet.”

Jackie’s laugh is breezy. Like wind chimes in autumn. Staring for a beat too long, she looks as if she's starting one sentence, before she cuts herself off and switches to another.

“Well, I’ll be here until you are.”

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SO GUYS GUYSSSSS IK THERES SUPPOSED TO BE SOME AUGLET CONTENT HERE BUT I LITERALLY HAVE THE WORST TIME WRITING AUGUST POV THEY ARE AN ENIGMA GIVE ME MORE TIMEEE MORE TIMEEEE

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this is pre feelings pre anythigg no but still shows their dynamic they are just so sweet on each other i LOVEEEE THEMMMMM

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