#devilstrip

Even though it’s been one hell of a long day, there’s no sign of his energy dissipating anytime soon; he keeps flitting from one end of the room to another. One moment, he’s crouching down to let one of Keith’s nieces push a handful of flower into his hair; only a few seconds later, he’s talking up Becky’s mom. Once he’s left her with a smile stretching across her face, he effortlessly spins around, impossibly graceful as always, grabs two flutes of champagne off a table, and crosses the dance floor to stand beside Zach.

“Your flowers are crooked,” Zach says, taking one of the flutes when Eugene offers it to him and waving his other hand at the daisies threaded into Eugene’s hair. Eugene shrugs and reaches up to prod one with his finger.

“Probably. Do they still look cute though?”

There’s only one real answer to that question, and Zach doesn’t hesitate to say it. “Fuck yeah.”

Eugene smirks and raises his flute in a toast. “Well, that’s all that matters then.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Tipping his head back, Zach dumps the contents of the flute into his mouth. The champagne burns a line of fire down his throat and adds another layer of warmth to the pit of his stomach. He lowers his head and wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand just in time for Eugene to take the empty flute from his hand and stash both of them on the nearest table.

“Maybe we should grab you some too,” Eugene says, gesturing from the flowers to Zach. “Could braid them into your chest hair or something.”

“Don’t say that too loud,” Zach says through a laugh that veers dangerously close to being a giggle. “If Keith hears you, you know he’s going to somehow work that into a video.”

“I see nothing wrong with that.” Overhead, the music changes from a shuffling pop beat to something with a slower tempo, a song Zach remembers hearing in a movie once upon a time, almost saccharine in tone. If he concentrates on it for too long, he’s bound to fall into a self-pitying hole, but before he can come up with some kind of creative reason to excuse himself from the room, Eugene’s fingers wrap around his wrist.

“What are you doing?” Zach asks, stumbling slightly as Eugene tugs him away from the tables.

“We are going to burn up this fucking dance floor,” Eugene says, moving backwards, practically bouncing with each step that he takes.

Zach laughs helplessly. This is a horrible idea; his coordination is suspect at the best of times, never mind when he’s this drunk, and if he doesn’t trip over himself, he’s going to trip over someone else, or maybe a table leg or chair. At the very least, he’s bound to stomp on Eugene’s feet.

But Eugene looks utterly delighted as he spins them around and maneuvers Zach’s arms up into a textbook waltz pose, and even if Eugene would forget it in seconds, go off and find some other form of amusement, Zach doesn’t want to be the reason that happiness flickers or fades. So, tightening his hand on Eugene’s waist and laughing all the while, he lets himself be pulled around the dance floor, lets himself be dragged into exaggerated motions and evermore dizzying spins.

Amazingly, he manages to keep up for most of the song. That’s not saying that he dances well; he’s sure that, if he ever happens to see footage of this moment, he’s going to be embarrassed for years to come. But, by some minor miracle, he doesn’t stumble over Eugene’s feet or kick him in the shins, doesn’t crash into anyone else or lose his balance when Eugene twirls him around.

But as Eugene tries to dip him, during the last moments of the song, he fucks up.

The movement catches him off guard, and as Eugene drops him low, Zach’s feet slip out from underneath him. In his frantic struggle to stay upright, he hooks his fingers into Eugene’s jacket, but rather than the grip serving as a way for him to haul himself upright, he ends up tugging Eugene down instead. They land on the floor in a sprawl of limbs and surprised laughter, and Zach can hear the people around them laughing as well. Someone even starts applauding, and without looking around to see who it is, Zach fires off a half-assed salute, since pulling a bow isn’t exactly possible at the moment.

The floor is warm and smooth and absolutely unforgiving underneath his back. He’s sure that, come morning, once the alcohol and the giddiness fighting for space in his body have worn off, he’s going to feel the throb of half a dozen bruises, not to mention an ache in every bone lining his spine, from the impact. But for the time being, that’s a distant thought, one that breezes into his brain just as quickly as it leaves.

For the time being, he has more important things to focus on. Namely, the fact that Eugene is half-sprawled on top of him, heavy on Zach’s thighs and hips and showing no sign of moving anytime soon. He’s propped up on his hands and laughing, so close that Zach can smell the champagne on his breath.

Or maybe it’s on his own breath. Either way, he can smell champagne.

“You were doing so well!” Eugene says, dark eyes sparkling. One of the flowers has come loose and is barely clinging to his hair, hanging over his forehead like a gargoyle clinging to the outside of an old church. “I’m proud of you.”

“Hey, the only reason I ended up down here is because of you,” Zach retorts, leaning up on his elbows in an attempt to lever himself away from the undoubtedly filthy floor. “You-”

What he plans on saying is you gotta warn a guy before you do that, but only the first word leaves his mouth. The rest disintegrate in the back of his throat, because as he leans up, Eugene leans down, and their mouths skim together in a kiss.

Immediately, Zach freezes, and his heart starts beating a tattoo of fear and anxiety and outright panic. He’s dreamed of this for years, came dangerously close to confessing it on camera a time or two, but he was never stupid enough to think that it would actually happen. But, while he’s sure they’ll be able to laugh it off tomorrow, for now, unless he immediately starts drinking more, he’s going to spend the rest of the night trying to stay away from his friends, and-

That thought process comes to a screaming halt, thanks to the sudden realization that Eugene is kissing him back.

One of his hands is pressed firmly against Zach’s face, warm and slightly sticky with sweat, and he’s kissing him back. His eyes are closed (which makes Zach realize he needs to close his own), his thumb is skating back and forth against Zach’s cheek, and Zach feels like, if it wasn’t for Eugene’s weight atop of him, he’d simply float up and out of the room.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, fumbles them through midair for a few moments before he settles one on Eugene’s shoulder and the other on his lapel, grasps the fabric tight between his fingers. In the back of his mind, he’s vaguely aware that they’re being whistled at, but that isn’t important. The only thing that’s important is that he kiss back.

He’s not stupid. He knows that this is absolutely a dumb move, a move with potentially earthshaking consequences. This could fuck up everything: his friendship with Eugene, the entire dynamic of the Try Guys, their very jobs. Not only that, but this could very well break his goddamn heart.

But he also knows that, even under the influence, Eugene is almost painfully logical. He excels at thinking things through, at following the correct path and making the right decision. If Eugene is doing this, it must mean that he’s thought about it before, that he’s weighed the pros and cons, the positives and the negatives, and decided to kiss Zach anyways.

Really, for now at least, that’s all the reassurance Zach needs.

By the time Eugene pulls away, face lit up with a grin that looks almost out of place, Zach’s lungs are aching with the need to breathe. Even as he inhales deeply, he finds himself mirroring Eugene’s smile, feels it creeping across his face wholly of its own accord.

“So,” Eugene says. Carefully, he rolls up onto his feet and extends a hand to help Zach up. “We’re gonna have to work on that.” Zach doesn’t know whether Eugene is referring to the dancing or kissing or both, but he nods rapidly all the same.

What he does know is that he isn’t ready for the night to end.