#wembanyama

victor recognizes you by the back of your head; which is inherently stupid.

there are hundreds of people here, enough bodies packed beneath low amber lighting that he has spent the last half hour politely pretending not to notice how many phones keep turning in his direction. music pulses through the floor and crawls unwelcomed up his legs. someone beside him is talking. he only knows this because every few seconds he remembers to nod.

then someone moves.

and there you are.

not even your face, just your hair falling smooth and freshly blown down your back, one shoulder bare where the thin strap of your top has slipped toward your arm. you're listening to somebody speak, head tipped slightly to the side.

victor stops hearing whoever is talking to him.

no, impossible.

he hasn't seen you in years.

long enough that he can't remember exactly how many without counting. long enough that the last version of you he knew had braces you hated, and wore the same little gold hoops nearly every day because your great grandmother had given them to you before she passed. long enough that whatever he remembers shouldn't have survived whatever you've become.

still, something old inside him recognizes you immediately.

not your hair, it was the tilt. you have always done that with your head when you're pretending to listen. your head is a little to the left, chin lowered, eyes attentive. very convincing unless someone knows that your thumb starts worrying the side of your index finger when you're bored.

his eyes drop.

your thumb rubs against your finger.

once, twice, putain. he's unlocked memories of you he tucked away.

"you good?"

victor doesn't answer, he can't quite make out the words of what-ever-manager was next to him without his spine half folded to be ear level anyway.

he sees you laugh at something, he knows that too, or he thinks he does.

the room is too loud for him to hear it properly, but he watches your shoulders lift and your head fall forward, and suddenly he is sixteen again with your hand clapped over your mouth because you're laughing somewhere you're not supposed to.

there had been a summer when he knew every version of that laugh.

the pretty one you used around adults, the breathless one. the ugly one that made you snort and hit whatever happened to be closest to you.

him, usually.

there had been a summer when he knew your mouth, too.

victor swallows to stop his mouth from going dry, tongue swiping his lips and almost his half-shaved goatee. he can taste the sweat forming above his upper lip. it's salty, combined with the ocean breeze scent of his aftershave.

that was a long time ago, he has kissed plenty of girls since. you probably have too. the thought arrives without invitation and leaves something unpleasant behind.

it's truly ridiculous, he doesn't even know if it's you.

then you turn. and victor's entire body goes terribly, horribly still.

it is, of course it is.

you're older.

that's the first thought, obvious and useless.

the second thought he manages to form is that america has been good to you.

your skin is warmer than he remembers, kissed golden-brown beneath the lights. your hair is longer, more carefully placed than the wildness it once had when you'd run around the garden of your old place back home. the braces are gone, replaced with a smile with such radiance it's almost breathtaking. there is something delicate resting at the hollow of your throat, a little chain catching when you move. you've grown into your face in a way that makes something deep in his stomach pull tight.

but your mouth is exactly the fucking same.

he shouldn't notice that first. but he does. soft, glossy, moving around words he cannot hear. he remembers kissing that mouth badly.

both of you had been bad at it, though he thinks you were worse.

you'd bumped teeth once and laughed directly against his lips, which had offended him enough that he'd kissed you again just to prove he could do it without making you laugh. you'd laughed anyway.

victor had thought about that for months after you left, then less.

then hardly at all.

eventually, not at all. until now.

keldon steps between you and his line of sight, and something ugly and instinctive flashes through him. he shifts before he can think better of it, leaning just enough to find you again over keldon's head. he's wearing that ridiculous fucking cowboy hat, the one that would end anyone else's line of sight. but thankfully, victor can see right past it.

you're still there, still talking.

still completely unaware that something you left behind years ago is standing across a room staring at you.

"victor?" keldon's hand catches his arm to pull him back to reality.

victor finally looks down, "hm?"

"i asked if you wanted a drink."

"oh," he looks toward you again. "no. i'm good."

the conversation around him resumes but he doesn't.

this is strange. he doesn't like it.

it's the immediacy he doesn't like. the horrible familiarity of it. how quickly his brain has begun pulling things from places he'd forgotten existed. your old phone number, the street you grew up on.

the perfume you'd stolen from your mother and wore too much of because neither of you knew yet that perfume wasn't supposed to announce you from three rooms away.

the taste of cherry lip balm, your voice saying his name in french. his bedroom with the window cracked open.

your knee between his.

how once innocent your skin felt against his.

your sharp inhales.

stop.

victor scratches his jaw, trying to lock it into place.

you are a childhood friend, that's all. an old friend he used to kiss and other things sometimes because you were teenagers and bored and liked each other enough to experiment.

there had never even been a relationship. no petite amie, no petit ami.

nothing to mourn when you moved across an ocean for university in america.

you cried when you told him, he didn't. you cried when you left, he didn't then, either.

three days later he'd found one of your hair ties beneath his bed and stared at it until his mother called him downstairs; that had been the worst of it.

he got over you, he knows he did. so victor isn't entirely sure why he's still watching.

maybe because you're familiar. maybe because seeing someone from home here, of all places, is strange enough to warrant staring.

maybe because you look good, he can admit that. you look very good. there's no crime in noticing. his gaze slips down the line of your bare arm, wondering what color bra is between your bare skin and the fabric of your t-shirt, and immediately returns to your face.

enough.

he turns deliberately toward keldon once more, shaking his head as if it'll make the thoughts stop.

"what were you saying?"

keldon barely opened their mouth when he hears it.

"victor?"

everything in him tightens. because, fuck.

he knows that voice.

he turns.

you're standing much closer now. close enough that he can see the little differences, and close enough that you can see his.

for a second, neither of you says anything.

your eyes travel upward to meet his eyes, remembering how he was always too tall for you. tall enough that to make eye contact you'd have to move your head with your eyes.

victor watches disbelief slowly rearrange your face, then your mouth falls open.

"oh my god."

he can't help it, he smiles.

"you've gotten fucking ridiculous."

and just like that, years collapse. a laugh punches unexpectedly out of his chest.

"hello to you too."

you're staring shamelessly now, one hand pressed to your chest as though personally affronted by him.

"no. what the fuck happened to you?"

"i grew."

"you were already tall."

"i kept going."

"clearly."

you're laughing. the ugly one, the real one. victor feels it somewhere he shouldn't. it pools in his stomach. it's a black hole, suddenly aching for fullness.

then you're stepping closer, and he realizes approximately half a second too late that you're going to hug him. his body remembers before he does. he bends, you rise onto your toes. his arms go around you, and there.

there it is.

something small and vicious sinks its teeth into him. because you smell different.

of course you do.

something warm and expensive now, softened by whatever you've put in your hair. no stolen perfume, no cherry lip balm. but beneath it there is something horribly familiar about the way your arms fit around his middle, even if they don't fit around much of it anymore.

your cheek presses against his chest.

"vic," you laugh softly.

vic. nobody here calls him that quite like you do.

his hand spreads over your back. he should let go, but you aren't. so he doesn't. not yet. he needs to inhale you a bit more, find out what notes of the expensive perfume you have on is prominent. he needs to relearn the feeling of your arms draped across his neck once more. delicate, soft, almost light as a feather. but that skin to skin contact awakens a flame in him he thought burned out a long time ago.

but worse, perhaps, is how quickly it catches.

you pull away first, of course you do. you have self control, as he slowly feels his slip away.

your arms loosen from around his neck and victor lets his hands fall from you a second too late, fingertips dragging lightly over the fabric at your waist before losing you completely.

it's nothing, really it's barely anything.

still, his fingers curl once at his side, thumbs memorizing the texture of your skirt within seconds. the worst part of him wants to see if it'll feel the same when he's taking it off you.

"look at you," you say, taking half a step back.

there's enough distance between you now that victor can breathe without getting you with every inhale, and he should appreciate that.

instead, his eyes follow your hands as they reach for one of his, turning it over as though inspecting something you've purchased.

"you're huge."

victor snorts, smile not disappearing. "you've mentioned."

"no, but this is actually disgusting."

you press your palm against his. something in him scratches. your fingers barely reach past the base of his.

his fingers could have will ruin you.

"what are they feeding you?"

"food, usually."

"very funny."

"thank you."

you look up at him through your lashes, still holding his hand. it's strange, the things time chooses not to change.

you used to do this too often; take his hands for no reason. inspect his palms, pull at his abnormally large fingers, complain about how cold they were in winter. once, bored during class, you'd drawn a tiny heart in blue pen against the inside of his wrist and victor had spent the rest of the day trying not to smudge it.

but he'd washed it off that night. he remembers staring at the blue water circling the drain, but he doesn't remember why that memory stayed.

"jesus," you mutter, finally releasing him. "i leave for a few years and you turn into this."

this.

his mouth twitches.

"you left."

the words come out before he can soften them, and your expression changes, only slightly. victor almost wishes he could pull the sentence back and inspect it, find whatever had made it sound heavier than intended.

you don't seem offended, instead, your nose scrunches.

"don't say it like i abandoned you on the side of the road."

"didn't you?"

"oh, shut up."

you shove his chest. it's playful, hardly enough pressure to move him, but victor looks down at your hand anyway. your palm is flat over him. you seem to notice at the same time.

there's one odd second where you don't move it.

the music keeps thudding around you. people squeeze past behind your back, close enough that victor instinctively shifts forward, making himself a wall between you and the movement of the room.

your chin tips higher as his lowers.

too familiar.

there used to be a particular point at which talking to you stopped being talking, he'd never known exactly where it was. one moment you'd be arguing about something stupid, and the next your voices would quiet. you'd move closer, his attention would narrow to your mouth.

then one of you would do something neither ever acknowledged afterward. he can feel the old path beneath his feet.

his eyes drop, your plump lips part.

"vic?"

"hm?"

"you're staring."

caught ya.

victor blinks slowly, then looks back into your eyes.

"you look different."

you smile, showing off the wonderful work of your orthadontist.

"well, good different?"

there's something almost teasing about it, or maybe there isn't. maybe he's already doing what he used to do with you, digging his fingers into every little word and searching for something underneath.

he should say something harmless.

you look nice.

you look grown up.

america did good on you.

instead, his gaze moves over your face once more.

"very."

your smile falters, it's just for a second. but, there. victor sees it.

something warm moves through him at the realization that he can still do that; he still knocks you slightly off whatever rhythm you've constructed for yourself.

then someone calls your name from somewhere behind you, prompting you to look over your shoulder.

victor hates how immediately his attention follows to find who's trying to grab your attention.

a man is waving at you from across the room.

young, probably around your age. victor doesn't recognize him. he dislikes him instantly. the thought is so unreasonable that he nearly laughs.

you turn back.

"sorry. my friends are waiting for me."

"friends?"

you raise an eyebrow. "yes, victor. i have those."

"surprising."

"connard."

there it is again. easy and effortless. years apart and somehow you're already speaking to him like you saw him yesterday.

you start backing away, but something inside him pulls taut.

"wait,"

you stop. victor doesn't know what he intended to say, that realization is humiliating.

you wait anyway, looking up at him expectantly.

"how long are you here?"

your eyebrows pinch together. they're plucked. laminated maybe? they're more expressive than before. they suit your face much more than they used to. thinner, darker, more mature.

"here?"

"in san antonio."

then you laugh, "i live here."

the thing inside him goes quiet. it's not satisfied. it's attentive.

"you live here?"

"yeah." you glance around like the answer might be written somewhere on the walls. "i go to school here."

"since when?"

"since i left, duh."

victor stares at you.

years. you have existed somewhere within the same city for months after he was drafted.

you've gone grocery shopping. complained about traffic. gotten coffee. slept in some apartment, in some bed, only miles from his own.

have you fucked anyone in san antonio?

he doesn't know why the curiosity settles so strangely in him.

"what?"

he realizes you're smiling.

"nothing."

"you're doing the face."

"what face?"

"the one where you think too hard."

"i don't have a face for that."

"you absolutely do."

your hand rises, victor sees it coming but doesn't move. two manicured fingers press gently between his eyebrows.

"this."

his breath catches so quietly you couldn't possibly hear it. your painted fingertip smooths over the crease there.

once, then again.

there is no reason for a touch so small to feel the way it does. victor's eyes remain on yours.

you don't seem to realize you've done anything at all, but that's worse. you drop your hand. his skin feels cold where it leaves.

"anyway," you say, reaching into the little bag hanging from your shoulder. "give me your phone."

he does it immediately. almost pathetic, but you don't notice. you're already tapping at the screen after he unlocks it, face illuminated faintly by the light. victor watches you type.

he could look away, he watches your mouth instead. your tongue presses briefly against the inside of your cheek while you concentrate. another old habit. another thing he apparently remembers.

"there."

you hand his phone back and your name sits on the screen. beneath it, a number. victor looks at it.

something cold moves down his spine.

"what?" you ask.

he knows this number.

not all of it.

not consciously.

but the last four digits sit somewhere familiar in his head, and suddenly he's remembering a cracked phone screen in france and your name appearing across it at one in the morning.

"nothing."

"you keep saying nothing."

"maybe nothing is happening."

you give him a look, "you're weird now."

"i was always weird."

"true."

your phone buzzes in your hand. you glance at it, groan softly, then look toward your friends again.

"i really have to go."

this time victor nods, "okay."

you hesitate and he sees it. he feels something in him lean forward, then you step toward him again. not another hug.

closer.

your hand settles lightly against his arm and you rise onto your toes, though even then he has to bend automatically when you reach for him.

your mouth brushes his cheek.

soft.

quick.

nothing.

nothing at all.

"don't disappear again, okay?"

your lips are still close enough that the words warm his skin.

victor turns his head. not much, truly barely enough to matter. but suddenly the corner of your mouth is there, dangerously near his. your eyes flick down, and his do too.

for one suspended second, he can almost taste the artifical cherry he used to steal from your lips.

then you step away.

"bonne nuit, vic."

victor watches you disappear into the crowd. he remains bent slightly forward for an embarrassing moment before straightening. but the place where your mouth touched his cheek burns, and his phone is still in his hand.

your number is still on the screen.

don't disappear again.

something inside him bares its teeth. victor tells himself it is nostalgia. then, he saves your number.

by the time victor gets home, he has almost convinced himself the whole thing was nothing. almost.

he leaves his keys on the counter, kicks off his shoes, and answers two messages he'd ignored earlier. his apartment is dark and blessedly quiet after hours spent beneath music loud enough to make his skull vibrate.

this is his normal. here, everything is normal. but then he catches himself checking his phone.

nothing.

the water of the shower is too hot, there's steam collecting against the glass while victor ducks his head beneath the spray. he scrubs the lingering smell of the night from his skin, somebody else's cologne, sweat, whatever had been spilled close enough to his shoes to leave them vaguely sticky.

your perfume survives all of it. not actually, he knows. what really does survive is his memory. and still, when he closes his eyes, he can find it.

it's warm, but slightly sweet. there's something deeper beneath it he hadn't been able to place before you'd pulled away from settling yourself in the crook of his neck.

he'd wanted another breath. he wanted a deep inhale. god, he wanted to consume you. that thought makes his hand still against the back of his neck.

he doesn't think about you again until he's pulling on a pair of sweats and discovers his body has apparently been doing enough thinking for the both of them.

he looks down at the tent that has ever-so-suddenly formed in his pants, then closes his eyes.

"merde."

there's an uncomfortable pressure against the front of his clothes, dull but persistent, and the realization of exactly when it must have started makes heat crawl unpleasantly up his neck.

it was when your hand was against his chest.

or your fingers between his eyebrows.

or your mouth against his cheek.

no, it was probably before that.

his fingers remembering your skirt.

will ruin you.

victor presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek. he could fix it, easily. rub one out, clean up the shame, then go to sleep. the thought comes and goes.

but, he doesn't touch himself.

some stubborn part of him refuses to give tonight that much importance. it refuses to stand here and make something sexual out of seeing a girl he used to know.

but he remembers you're no longer a girl, you're now a woman. it makes his jaw tight. that's another problem.

he goes to bed instead.

but, the pressure of his length against the plush of his pants follows him, and he ignores that too.

for approximately four minutes, then his phone is in his hand.

he doesn't search your name becausue that would be deliberate. instead, he opens instagram and looks through the handful of new notifications that accumulated overnight: tags, messages, new followers he'll never glance at again.

your name isn't among them. of course it isn't, why would it be?

he stares at the search icon, but doesn't touch it. he locks his phone.

the room goes dark again.

victor lasts another minute of the dulling ache between his legs before he lets out a shaky breath.

"fuck."

the screen illuminates his face.

he types your name, your account appears before he's even finished. that annoys him somehow. why weren't you more careful with social media? anyone with your name could find you.

he taps it. public, of course. not safe again. your face fills his screen.

there are years here, that's the first thing he notices. it's years he wasn't there with you.

there's you in new york beneath snow, nose pink from the cold. you somewhere near a lake with the sun reflecting on the ripples, sunglasses pushed into your hair. birthdays, restaurants, university. a grainy photograph of you laughing with people victor has never seen before.

he scrolls. just once. then, twice. then, he stops himself.

he isn't going backwards, absolutely not. so, instead, he returns to the top. he sees you posted tonight. there's a ring around your profile picture, itching to be opened.

of course, his fingers react instantly, and there you are.

same skirt, same little top, same delicate chain at your throat. the picture must have been taken before he'd seen you because your hair is still perfect, falling around your shoulders exactly as it had when he'd recognized you from across the room.

he stares, longer than necessary. his eyes move down.

the skirt sits higher when you're seated. not much, but enough. enough to make him wonder what's hiding under it. what fabric is pressing against your bare skin and the skirt? do you wear anything at all under?

victor shifts beneath the sheets and immediately regrets it, the swelling in his sweats has become considerably less ignorable.

his thumb remains suspended over the screen, almost frozen as he continues to analyze the photo. his hips are moving on their own. he isn't trying to fuck his mattress; he's just trying to press down the mound in his pants.

your legs are crossed; one heel hangs slightly from your foot. there's something almost cruel about how little the picture is trying to be sexy.

you're just sitting there, smiling, and apparently that's enough to have victor lying in bed painfully aware of his own pulse.

his gaze travels upward again, and then stops at your ears. those small gold hoops.

your great-grandmother's.

you'd cried once when you thought you'd lost one; tearing apart your bedroom while victor sat cross-legged on the floor, insisting it couldn't have simply vanished. he'd found it tangled in your scarf; you'd kissed him for it.

right against the corner of his mouth, but he'd pretended afterward that it hadn't mattered.

victor lowers the phone slightly. something in his chest has gone strangely soft, whereas his body has not, and that combination feels considerably more dangerous.

because wanting your legs is manageable, wanting your mouth is manageable. he's wanted women before, he knows what to do with that.

but, this is different.

this is looking at your bare thigh and remembering the sound you made as teens when he hooked that thigh over his shoulder to get deeper inside of you.

this is wondering what your perfume smells like while knowing exactly why the jewelry in your ears matters.

lust shouldn't know things about you, but his does.

victor locks the phone, he places it facedown on the mattress beside him and stares at the ceiling. his body aches to relieve himself. just a few strokes, and that's all.

but, he leaves it that way. he lets the want sit there, hot and stupid and unanswered. after all, eventually it'll go away; everything does.

then his phone buzzes.

victor's eyes close. it's probably another useless notification. he doesn't move.

another buzz.

he groans. slowly, he reaches for it.

your name glows against the screen. and, for one humiliating second, relief moves through him so strongly it almost feels good. he opens the message.

"you made it home?"

victor reads it twice. there is nothing in it, four words. you'd probably send the same thing to any friend you'd unexpectedly found after years apart. he knows that.

his body doesn't seem interested in the distinction as he starts typing.

oui.

his thumb hovers, something about french feels too intimate now.

delete.

yeah, you?

stupid, you were probably home before him

delete.

he stares at the empty box. why is he thinking so hard about this?

yeah

send.

victor tosses the phone beside him but it buzzes almost immediately. he looks, and you've reacted with a heart. that's it; no second message, no secret meaning, a tiny red heart beneath a single word.

victor stares at it. then, against every piece of better judgment he possesses, opens instagram again, he tells himself he's only going to follow you. his thumb presses the button.

following.

simple, finished. time for bed.

then he looks at tonight's picture again, his gaze catches on your earrings, then your mouth, how your lips are curved, the lip gloss shining from the flash.

then lower. the thing that sank its teeth into him earlier seems to settle somewhere deep beneath his ribs. it's quiet now, somewhat fed.

victor doesn't recognize that as the problem yet.