Escaping Reality For A While

Things had been tenuous between them of late. But this went beyond propriety. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He snarled. Lifting his arms just in time to ward off the glancing blow of Sebastian’s punch. Pain jarring through his forearms. Even so, he knew – a snaring sort of ire within his gut – that Sebastian had pulled the punch a substantial amount. A strange mercy. Down right out of place, what with the vehemency in which Sebastian had just flown him. Like a rabid dog turning cruel.

Vincent didn’t need the man’s sympathy…or whatever the hell it was.

He needed Sebastian off of him. He needed space to breathe. To regain the ability to think straight. To think at all.

Sebastian changed his tactic, refusing to throw a third punch and instead dropping forward, catching his weight on his palms that were stationed either side of Vincent’s head. A cage of leather and lithe muscle. A swathe of dark hair falling into Sebastian’s eyes, concealing his expression somewhat. Though it was no less cocky for it. Bastard.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Sebastian inquired with a voice of grit-and-gravel. Not exactly anger, though there was certainly a trace of it behind the brown of his eyes.

Vincent countered the question with one of his own. “Why did you hit me?”

“Why not?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Because I felt like it.”

That was even less of an answer, really. Or, maybe it was all the answer Vincent needed. 

He bared his teeth, a rather pathetic show of irritation. A lurching sensation behind his naval when Sebastian sat back, settling against Vincent’s thighs and sighing as if it had been Vincent acting the prat and not the other way around.

“You pissed me off,” the man supplied, rifling in the inner pocket of his leather jacket a moment before pulling free his carton of cigarettes. Davidoff Golds. Pretentious fucker. He fished out his lighter too. “You act like you’re better than me.”

Am I not? Vincent bit it back behind the barrier of his teeth. In many respects one might look at the pair of them and come to the conclusion that Vincent was the better off of the two. It would not be entirely inaccurate. Though, he was not so egotistical to play at ignorance when it came to Sebastian’s qualities.

The man was as nihilistic as one could get. He drowned his liver with cheap beer. He travelled like he had the money for it and whored himself out in La Villette whilst getting shit-faced. He seduced – groomed – Vincent’s kid and fucked him. He did whatever the hell he wanted to without regard for rules or morals.

He smoked expensive cigarettes, too; one of which he was currently lighting up, a fizz of the thin paper and earthy tobacco, a slow inhale, a hollowing of Sebastian’s cheeks as he stared down at Vincent, something wayward behind his gaze. Unsettling. It made something icy ping off of every notch of Vincent’s spine.

Sebastian was the opposite of Vincent in many respects. Yet, he was not below him. Just different. He lived and experienced life through a lens far removed from the one in which Vincent peered out at the world from behind.

“And that made you want to punch me, did it?” He asked for lack of knowing what else he should be doing with his best mate atop him. Strike a knee up into the tender vee of Sebastian’s legs? Throw his own punch? The angle was all wrong for it, however. He’d likely miss. Roll away? Scream for Ciel? He didn’t know and that was more vexing than Sebastian’s smug expression above him.

“Not so much.” Sebastian murmured. 

“So you like punching people for no good reason.” It wasn’t a question this time, but a biting statement. Sebastian treated it as the former.

“You pissed me off.”

And really. “We’re going around in circles. Get off me.”

“No.”

“What?”

“You’re precisely where I want you to be, on your back for me.” A tucked-up little smile. More of a smirk, really. “This position suits you, Vincent.” A drag on the filtered end of the cigarette, a subsequent exhale of pungent smoke. Right into Vincent’s face.

He refused to cough, clenching his teeth against the reflexive reaction, and instead made to sit up. Why the hell am I entertaining this foul mood of his?

He was promptly shoved back down by a hand at one shoulder. A forceful push, a pitch of Sebastian’s weight, heavy against Vincent’s hips and lower belly. Unremitting at his shoulder.

“No,” Sebastian said again around the slim cigarette between his lips. “Be a good boy for me.”

“Like hell.” What was even the point in this little tantrum of Sebastian’s anyway? He’d only had two cans of beer. He wasn’t drunk. Not even close. Vincent could see the sharp clarity in his gaze. A cleverness that never failed to unnerve him.

And Vincent hadn’t even been the one talking before Sebastian had stood up and decked him. Sebastian had been prattling on about something…Vincent couldn’t recall what….

“You’re insufferable at the best of times, Vincent. Oh, your little boy adores his daddy, of course. And I must admit, you have your charms. But you’re neat little reality – or the pretence of such – revolves entirely around you.”

This was not a newly formed irritation judging by the vehemence behind Sebastian’s words. This was something that had festered a while. A bloated thing, poised to explode. A burst of black-rot and decay.

“Just tell me what I did and get off of me.”

“It’s more a matter of what you didn’t do.”

“What didn’t I do?” His voice was only a very little shrill. He snapped his teeth shut, wincing at the near full weight of Sebastian being balanced on the hand digging into his shoulder and pinning him to the carpeted floor of the living room, before Sebastian sat back again, pinching the cigarette between thumb and index finger and breathing out a long stream of wispy smoke.

“You have no idea what you do to me.” A low-voiced murmur. Barely above a whisper. Sebastian rolled his shoulders. Vincent felt every small shift of his body. Saw the clench of his molars and a decision being made behind his eyes. 

In the lamplight they appeared almost crimson. 

“You’re unbelievably maddening, and yet…there’s a certain je ne sais quoi that makes me unable to give you up. You and your boy both.”

“Were you drinking before you came here tonight? What’s got you so riled?”

“I’m sober enough to know this isn’t a good idea, but…” a lingering look down at Vincent, a study of his face, in which Sebastian must have found what he was looking for, for he tilted his head and said, “but I think you need correcting.”

“Correcting?”

“Punishing sounded too on-the-nose.”

“What the fuck are you – oi! Michaelis, what the –”

The rest of his protests were cut abruptly and brusquely short by the hand at his throat. A squeeze of Sebastian’s fingers, a press of his thumb against the thrumming of Vincent’s heartbeat pounding desperately at the side of his neck. The lambent glow of the red-tipped cigarette held between the pinch of the man’s lips. A stream of smoke from Sebastian’s nostrils as he leaned down.

“Nicely now,” he hushed around the slim cigarette, his breath warm and moist against the side of Vincent’s jaw. The acrid scent of smoke choking up Vincent’s throat. He thought he heard the hiss of the tobacco withering down. 

His stomach clenched. A heat through him. Wholly pleasant, which galled. He loathed the part of him that was receptive to this sort of thing. To this man. To Sebastian’s forceful manipulations. 

And yet, he could no sooner tear out that part of himself – a squish and splatter of depravity torn from between the cracks of his ribs, tender and blackened – then he could remove the debauched part of himself that lusted after his own son. 

How corrupted must he be to desire the child as he did.

To desire this. This treatment at the hands of his best friend. His only friend. His only true friend anyway. He had many acquaintances, after all. 

There was something iniquitous within him. Something broken inside his brain. Malfunctioning or perhaps simply malformed. 

How deep did the corruption go? Had it always been nestled within him? Had he carried it with him since childhood? He couldn’t fathom where the roots of it were buried. 

Though, certainly they were entwined tightly, unforgivingly around his ribcage. Choking his heart and lungs and making it hard to breathe quite right.

“See,” Sebastian muttered, his voice very low, breathed against the shell of Vincent’s ear and it was only then that Vincent realised Sebastian had removed the cigarette from between his lips. “Stay nice and still for me.” He told Vincent.

Of course, Vincent did the opposite. Though, perhaps it was telegraphed overtly to Sebastian – or maybe the man just knew Vincent too well – for his attempt to lever himself up onto his elbows and throw off the hand around his throat was thwarted by the crush of the hand around his neck; a tightening of it, a firm press of Sebastian’s palm against Vincent’s windpipe. A warning through-and-through.

“If you think I’m going to lay under you and take it –”

“If you know what’s good for you, you will.”

A heat under his jaw. The scent of pretentiously pricey tobacco. And Vincent’s stomach threw itself up into his chest. A leap, a lurch of unease. He knew what was coming.

“Don’t.”

He knew that look Sebastian wore. Equal parts derisive and amused. A blackened, predatory sort of stare and it was directed most fully at Vincent.

A soft sound from above him. Amusement and something other, something warmer, perhaps. “I have your attention now. Mmh? Good. Play nicely and I’ll let you up.”

And then, without warning – through Vincent hadn’t expected any from the man – the lit end of the half-shrunk cigarette was placed against the sensitive skin just under his jaw. No hesitation.

Nothing but the fixed gaze above him. Pitch and crimson and fucking smouldering like it was full up with embers. Heated through.

Only, it was Vincent’s skin that was heated. A spark of pain against his flesh where Sebastian snuffed out the cigarette. A twist of it, burying heat and hurt into Vincent’s jaw. Nestling within him a strange sensation.

Dismay, obviously. For how fucking dare he! And another emotion. One far closer – too much so – to avarice, or some version of the emotion anyway… a greedy thing. It hungered for… oh shit…

More.

“Get off.”

He wasn’t like that. He didn’t get off on being hurt or burned or held down in his own bloody living room for the amusement and satisfaction of another man.

Sebastian grinned, sharp eye-tooth glinting in the lamplight, and Vincent wanted to punch the smugness from his face.

“Why?” Sebastian taunted, sitting up and flicking the cold cigarette – ashy and crumpled – to the carpet. A bold disregard for Vincent’s home and need for order. Fucker. “So you can pretend you’re not into this?”

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

And Sebastian rolled his hips, pitching his weight forward, a brief thing. He didn’t even look to see if his assumption was correct. A leering sort of triumph when his crotch was pressed up against the indisputable evidence of Vincent’s arousal.

Shit. “It’s not like that,” he tried to say. But it was exactly like that.

Sebastian called him out on his bullshit with a squeeze of his hand against Vincent’s throat.

“Liar. You’re not so different than your son, only…” a press of their hips when Sebastian leaned down again, breathing the next words against the tender, stinging burn mark at Vincent’s jaw. “You like it far more twisted. Should I light up another and burn you some more?”

“Try it and you’ll be going home with a broken jaw.”

“You couldn’t hit me hard enough for that, sweetheart.”

“Get off, Sebastian.”

A contemplative sound, it was hummed against Vincent’s jaw, warm and decidedly not complying with his order. “Not just yet.” The press of Sebastian’s mouth to the tender burn, fleeting, a spark of pain. “Give me your mouth first.” He demanded of Vincent.

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Isn’t it?” Vincent felt the words against his jaw. Warm breath and then the sudden lick of Sebastian’s tongue. Wet and hot. Lascivious. Lapping at the burn and making something twist inside Vincent’s body. Heat and dismay and he clenched his teeth hard enough his molars ached. Willing away the thrumming arousal between his hips. 

Not that it was doing him any good. 

Sebastian canted his hips again, seeking out friction. Black denim against the fine-weaved wool of Vincent’s slacks and fuck, but it felt good. A grind of their erections and, and….

“Dad? Sebastian?” 

Ice in his veins. Like a plummet into Antarctic waters. It wasn’t enough to quell the hardness pressing needfully up against Sebastian’s own, mind you.

Sebastian made a sound against Vincent’s jaw; it might’ve been a laugh. Amused by it all. By the fact they’d been caught in the act by the sleepy little boy standing in the doorway; messy haired and squinting blearily at them. His sleep shorts were slung low on his slim hips and his oversized t-shirt – one of Sebastian’s band t-shirts, actually, and when did thathappen? – was draped halfway off one of his shoulders.

He looked like he was still trapped halfway in dreamland. Not quite with it.

“What are you doing?” He asked drowsily.

“Nothing,” Vincent said automatically. Though, he rather thought his denial of the situation he was in, or dismissal rather, didn’t cut it. Not when he was pinned underneath Sebastian, held by the throat and marked by the man’s cigarette. 

This was not nothing. Though, Vincent wasn’t entirely certain he could name what the deuce this truly was.

Sebastian answered somewhat more candidly, though it grated each and every one of Vincent’s nerves.

But it lingered throughout the evening, interrupting the flow of their conversation whenever it grew too bold, over-warm and jarringly potent. It appeared to grown warmer the more they drank. Beer for Sebastian, naturally. Merlot for Vincent, plum-red and staining the man’s bottom lip. The bottle half empty already. Vincent’s pupils blown large, ink-black and cavernous whenever their gazes met. And it stilled the air in Sebastian’s chest every time. Stirred the heat within his stomach. A bloom of something achingly tender and caustic and hard to ignore.

He did his best, however. Vincent was far from fully healed. The stitched wound at his left side was scarring over nicely enough, but internally, Sebastian knew it still had a lot of mending to do. Rest was paramount. And jumping Vincent here and now, in the lamplit study - cigarette smoke a miasma surrounding them, gossamer and stinking, Vincent’s little boy tucked up in bed just down the hall, after having put up quite the sulk about being sent to bed in the first place, mind you - well… it would be the opposite of rest. 

Sebastian was never gentle in his affections, after all.

Still, when Vincent sat forward, elbows resting on the shiny, dark wood of his desk, his hair falling about his face. Concealing only very slightly, and really not at all, the press of his mouth and the slippery emotion behind the blue of his eyes, something came unstuck within Sebastian, a clanging, obnoxious thing. Vincent’s mood was impossible to pin down. Equal parts flighty and bold. Yet, it was, Sebastian rather thought with a twist and dip of his stomach - entirely pleasant and very, very warm - the first sign of something within the inexorably stoic man crumbling.

An undoing of his tight-knit self-control. A loosening of his grip on his morals. 

It was not the first time Sebastian had witnessed such a sight, of course, the evisceration of Vincent Phantomhive’s self-restraint. Yet, it was no less impactful. 

A searing heat unspooling through his innards. Like quicksilver. Hot and unbearably hard to resist the urge to get out of his chair, round the desk, and drop to his knees in front of Vincent and put his hands and mouth to work. 

He wanted to unstitch Vincent further. An undoing.  A complete surrender of the man. An unremitting, concerted application of tongue and teeth and hands until Vincent was a writhing thing under his touch.

He already knew the sounds he could coax from the man’s throat. It had been sometime - too long - since he’d invoked, provoked, such a thing within Vincent.

He held himself in check. It probably took a few years off his lifespan, that obstinate bit of self-control. Unlike him, rather.

They were both slipping out of their respective roles tonight. Muscles loosened by cheap beer and expensive merlot. Their wits scrambled by proximity. And surely Vincent felt the pull too.

It was difficult to ignore. A sweet heat between them. Like a lit wick, a flickering, tremulous sort of flame. One breath and it would be fanned higher, hotter. An inferno.

Vincent made no move. He polished off his glass of merlot. Glistening plum-red at the seam of his lips. The dip of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed. 

The conversation continued.

They hadn’t spoken like this since before…before everything. Before Sebastian had seduced Vincent’s kid. Since before he’d seduced the boy’s daddy, too. And…he had. He was sure of it.

It was simply that Vincent, as Vincent was so very apt to be, was distant and reclusive and frustratingly hard to pin down. Even when one had their hands upon the man, his mind was often someplace else. Maddeningly intangible.

His gaze often went unerringly for Sebastian nowadays, second only to his boy, of course. And when it did, it was warm and simmering prettily with a wealth of emotions. Each one more addictive than the next.

There was blatant lust. That was the boldest of the lot. Hot-edged and just as sharp. A jagged thing. Concealed every time Vincent would jerk his chin and look away, a grit of his teeth, a denial of how he felt. What followed in its wake was guilt and longing and the softer, sweeter emotion of need. Not inherently sexual. 

Very similar to what Sebastian had recognised in Ciel. Feeble and unsure of its place. A desire to be seen and known and accepted.

Tsk. And really, didn’t Vincent get the memo when he was serviced by his boy and best friend in his own shower?

A submission of a sorts. As much as Vincent could give, anyway.

And still he acted like a skittish creature. Unsure of his place in all this.

Or… he had. Tonight was different.

Tonight, something had shifted out of place. A misplaced bit of bravado behind the sweep of Vincent’s long lashes. In the tilt of his head and the slow - oh, but he knew how to play underhandedly - wetting of his lips. Tongue tip trailing the seam of his lips, merlot stained, and fucking gorgeous.

An ache within Sebastian. Heavy between his hips and it would only take Vincent leaning over the desk a fraction to see the indubitable proof of Sebastian’s arousal; confined behind the dark denim of his jeans and sore already. 

How swiftly his lust could be stoked and provoked by this man.

Vincent didn’t deign to look, however. Instead, and rather abruptly, he stood. A glance, off-handed, at Sebastian as he moved for the door, leaving Sebastian hard and utterly confused. Alone in the study a moment.

He heard the brief groaning of pipes and then the splatter and spray of a bath being drawn and then Vincent was back, lingering on the threshold of the study, his shirt collar undone, silk tie removed. Just the first two buttons. Yet, something about the peeking of his collarbones and the steady way he regarded Sebastian, moved up Sebastian’s spine like a scatter of hot embers. Cinders burning him to ash.

“I’m going to take a bath.” There was no obvious sign to Vincent's voice to suggest he’d downed over half a bottle of merlot. It was smooth and held low. A whisper so as to not wake his sleeping kid.

The only giveaway was the way he braced himself against the doorframe, steadying his precarious balance. 

A strange and sudden ending to their evening. Vincent was nothing if not unpredictable, however. 

“I’ll finish my drink and leave you to it.”

“You’re in no state to drive, Michaelis.”

“I’m not driving. I’m riding.” It was much the same, of course. But he felt the need to make the distinction, if only to be contrary.

A quirk of Vincent’s fine eyebrows. He didn’t argue semantics. Choosing to ignore Sebastian’s words entirely and instead said - very nearly pouting - and fuck but that’s where Ciel got it from; “…you’re not going to join me?”

A double take was entirely in order. Very much warranted. Sebastian quelled it, folding it away with a lift of his chin and, not-quite steadily - a knock of his wrist against the edge of the desk - placed down his beer. A hiss of the liquid inside the can from the force of it.

“So,” he said, a drawl of his voice, wholly on purpose. A regaining of the upper hand, an attempt at it, anyway. “It takes upwards of four glasses of merlot, hmm…”

“For what?” Vincent wanted to know. His voice sounded a touch slurred this time. Warm and deep and very, very irresistible.

“For you to desire a ride.”

A knitting-up of Vincent’s brows. A press of his mouth, displeased by the insinuation. “I’m not the one who was going to ride drunk.”

“I’d argue to the contrary. I don’t bottom, darling. Or haven’t I made that clear enough?”

“Shut-up,” it held no real ire. Though, the acidulous glare Vincent tacked on for good measure was harsh enough to make up for it. And pretty enough for Sebastian’s arousal to kick hard. A impatient thing. “You know I’m not into that shit.”

As if. 

Surely, it was obvious. Rachel had seemed to think it was. It’s… him? She’d said, a sneer upon her lovely mouth. Gnarled on her soft face. Twisted up like Vincent’s innards had been when she’d figured it all out. A slosh and heave of something vital within him, come unstuck, come loose inside the cavity of his chest.

Perhaps it had been his lungs, squishy and tender and utterly useless, because he hadn’t been able to reply, a breathless sort of guilt teeming up his throat, crammed behind his tonsils. So that anything he might’ve said would have been closer to a sob than coherent words. Brittle and gossamer and inefficient in the face of Rachel’s unconcealed scorn.

She liked Sebastian. As a friend. She shared her text books with him, the expensive ones that cost an arm and a leg, and she invited him to dorm parties, included him. Yet, Vincent supposed having her boyfriend slip up, a clumsy miss-step, a shattering downfall, and admit to liking their shared best friend… well, he supposed he understood the scathing words and the crooked expression she’d worn.

The worst of it was that he’d not denied it. Held his silence, bit his tongue, accepted her censure and her tears and her eventual sharp-toned anger. She’d looked like an imitation of herself when she’d yelled at him, screaming so furiously he saw her molars, saw the way her chest rose and fell and her tears streaked her mascara. 

That had been only hours ago. Before he’d fled the scene like he was guilty of a horrific crime. It felt that way. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. Not the way his father would ever accept. He’d left Rachel in her dorm room and returned to his. Forgoing his neatly made bed in favour of curling up in the shadowed little area inside his wardrobe. 

Nestled amongst his hanging jeans and coats. Buried within their hems. The sweet-scented starch. Curled up like some child who was hiding away from the world. Only, he was hiding from the slow shattering of reality.

He’d seen the scorn in Rachel’s eyes at the prospect of him liking another man. Had seen it only because he’d stared enough at his own reflection and knew the particular look, cold and jagged-edged. His chest hurt. His lungs still unstuck. His heart felt like it might beat out of his chest. A sickening combination of adrenaline and self-loathing.

A burning threat of tears behind his eyes and in the back of his nose.

A sharp knock at the wardrobe door. As if anyone would think to politely knock. As if anyone would know he was sheltered within, captive in the small space. Precarious. Poised to break.

Unbidden, and because he had no other idea on what to say, he called out softly, “Come in.”

The wardrobe door vibrated as it was pulled open. Emitting the shadows of evening from the dorm room behind. He wasn’t surprised to see who was backlit by falling night, dressed in leather jacket and heavy frown.

“Thought I’d find you here.” Sebastian said, off-handed, lightly. Like he hadn’t just uncovered his best mate furled up and on the verge of tears.

“Did you?”

“Not really. But I couldn’t find you anywhere else. What happened?”

“Nothing.” Then, because his voice had cracked over that single word, giving him away, he added, firmer. “Just needed some time out.” 

“Mm?” Sebastian glanced behind him as if checking the dorm was empty, then stepped inside with Vincent, which was an impressive feat considering Vincent’s knees were tucked almost to his chest to fit. “Mind if I join you? I have booze.”

“When don’t you?”

The wardrobe door was pried shut by the very tips of Sebastian’s fingertips. Darkness and shuffling sounds.

“Want some?”

“Yeah.”

“Thought so. Here,” and a bottle of tequila was being handed down to him as Sebastian lowered himself to the ground with a grace Vincent knew he certainly hadn’t embodied himself when he’d slid down the wall.

He balanced the bottle against his knees; the shadows were not so complete that he couldn’t make out the label. Agavie, French tequila. Pretentious prick. Yet, there was a certain type of warmth in the expected. For all Sebastian was here on a scholarship, he’d always been weak to the finer things life could offer. Expensive tequila one of them.

The sides of their knees were pressed tightly together by the time Sebastian was seated and settled in beside him. Painfully so. Heat through dark denim jeans and fine-weaved slacks. The shift of Sebastian’s boot against his dress shoe. Their shoulders pressed to the opposite walls of the cupboard. The bloated silence that followed felt stifling.

Vincent filled it by taking a swig of the tequila. A burn that momentarily distracted him. A thick swallow he wondered if Sebastian had heard. Wet and uneasy down his throat and he handed the drink back with a fumbling shove.

“Careful,” Sebastian murmured. He took a long swallow of it himself. Vincent didn’t look over at him to know how his throat looked working around it, the ivory pale skin of his jaw, slightly gritty with day old stubble. “It’s expensive.”

“I know. You have a weakness for fine things, you know that?”

“I wouldn’t call it a weakness. More of an affinity for pretty things.”

“Pretty? What’s so eye catching about it? The fancy French label or the shape of the bottle?”

“I wasn’t referring to the tequila, Vincent.” A pause, in which the bottle was placed in the slither of space between their shoes and the wardrobe door. The thin line of brighter shadow from the crack underneath the door casting a faint shadow around the bottle. Then, “Rachel’s crashing out.”

A slosh of his deflated lungs inside his chest. “Still?” he tried to keep it nonchalant and failed by about a mile.

“Did you expect anything less?” Sebastian wanted to know.

“I don’t know. I hadn’t expected her to…”

“Find out?”

“You know?”

“You mean, do I know you like me? Vincent, it’s deplorably obvious.”

Oh. “Oh. Right.”

A weight at his side when Sebastian shifted a fraction. In the confined space it felt much more than the miniscule movement it was. Made Vincent’s whole body clench up, his stomach stuck to the back of his spine from how stiff he was holding himself. A fissure of unease. A moment that was unfilled, fleeting, yet it seemed to last a lifetime.

“But you were right about me having a soft spot for the finer things. So, I don’t mind. Was counting on it, in fact.”

“Counting on me crushing on you?”

“Always.” 

“Bullshit. Since when?”

“Since the beginning.”

Hah. As if. “You’ve had countless girlfriends. You have one currently.”

“We’re not official. And she’s not you. She’s half-strength beer whereas you’re… well,” a huff of amusement as he leaned forward and plucked up the tequila bottle, “fancy French tequila.”

“Smooth.”

“Says the guy hiding in the closet.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“No? Then why’d I have to crawl in with you?”

“That was your choice.”

“Mm. Perhaps.” The fluid sound of sloshing tequila as he took a swallow. Another. “Liquid courage?” the bottle was held out. He took it. “Might give you the confidence to come out the closet.”

“I can see what you’re doing, you know. You’re not subtle.”

“Can you? I can barely see my knees.”

“Sebastian.”

“I mean it. About the coming out thing. There’s no judgement from my way. And Rachel’ll get over the shock of it. She can be exasperatingly naïve.”

“I hid it well.”

“Not as much as you thought you did. I always knew. Always hoped, anyway.”

“Why?”

“Why not? I like pretty things and you’re very pretty.”

“Don’t give me that. I hear you say that to all the girls you bag.”

“Then you mishear. I’ve never called them pretty.”

“You’ve called them a lot of things though. Gorgeous, beautiful, clever. The list could go on.”

“I’ve no doubt.” Sebastian reached over, a knock of his elbow against Vincent’s knee, a bloom of heat in Vincent’s stomach that had nothing to do with the tequila. “Pass it, if you’re not going to drink it.” Vincent did so, swallowing convulsively. Willing away the teeming heat inside of him. A low-burbling thing.

After a second, in which Sebastian chugged the bottle halfway empty, Vincent said, voice held low and quiet, as though sharing a secret or, more to the point, a jagged bit of his inner fear, “You’re not weirded out?”

“I’ve liked you a lot longer than you’ve liked me, Vincent. I’m overjoyed. Rock hard. Bursting at the seams. But weirded out? Fuck no.”

“You’re making it weird.”

“Am I? Better kiss me and shut me up then.”

A laugh, shocked and unexpected and echoing in the small space between them. “Seriously?”

“Utterly.”

“I – I’ve never… kissed a man before.”

“I know.”

“I wouldn’t know how.”

“It’s not much different than kissing a woman, Vincent. You can’t really mess it up.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Just yet… maybe… maybe later?”

“Later is ambiguous.” The bottle was placed back down in front of them. “But I won’t push you. I dare say having Rachel shouting in your face was rather jarring. Bit of a mood killer. I heard her a floor up.”

“She has a right to be upset.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. If she’s gullible enough to overlook her boyfriend pining for his best friend… well, that’s just natural selection. She got what she deserved. Though, I’d argue you didn’t. She said some lowly things to you.”

“She’s not gullible.” Vincent said, ignoring the last part of the sentence. You’ll ruin your family’s name. To lower yourself to desire a man? If it gets out, you’ll be nothing, no one. Rachel had screamed it all, a bellow of hurt and fear and betrayal.

“Homophobic, then.”

“She’s upset and scared.”

“What do you think homophobia implies, Vincent?” drawling voice, the shift of a black denim covered knee against his.

“Rachel’s not like that.” Only, she’d been exactly like that, cursing him out, a flinty bit of hatred in her pale eyes. Off-set by the tears wet on her cheeks. Vincent felt a tug of remorse. The old, festering sting of guilt rawing his insides. A scrape and slash and evisceration of his fragile self-restraint.

And oh shit. The tears refused to be pushed back down this time. Scalding and trailing down his face like ribbons of fresh blood. He was never more thankful that he’d chosen to bury himself into the back of his wardrobe, hidden in the shadows and hems, as he was now.

“She doesn’t deserve your tears.”

“I’m not crying.”

“I can hear you sniffling.”

“It’s the dust.”

“Here,” and Sebastian was moving, not just shifting a slight fraction, but turning and bringing himself up on to his knees, kneeling awkwardly in the cramped space, and Vincent flinched when he reached out, knocking his temple up against the wall, before he tamped down on his flighty reaction and held very still. “Did you concuss yourself?” Sebastian asked with barely concealed mirth.

Vincent gave the hazy, darkened shape beside him a tapered stare. Bland. Entirely faux, for his heart was clamouring in the stuffy confines of his throat at the gentle touch to his jaw, a caress of Sebastian’s knuckles, then higher, wiping away the wetness at his cheek. The other side. 

“What are you doing?”

“The Samba.” Flat and coupled the infinitesimally soft swipe of his thumb against Vincent’s cheekbone. “I’m comforting you.”

Since when did Sebastian Michaelis think of anyone’s wellbeing save for his own? It struck Vincent awry; heat and disquiet. Contrary emotions. “I’m okay.” He muttered.

“Bullshit.”

And yeah, yeah. Maybe it was. A bold little white-lie to shield himself from the truth of the matter. From the fallout that would surely come. He didn’t know if Rachel would calm down, he didn’t know if he’d inadvertently lost her for good. But… but Sebastian was here. In the warm confines of Vincent’s wardrobe, crunched up and cupping Vincent’s face in a way that made his throat tight and his stomach over-hot and his lungs to forget how to breathe.

“I don’t know what comes next.” He admitted. Thoroughly displaced. His neat reality misplaced somewhere within Rachel’s dormitory. Fickle now. Irreversibly broken. He couldn’t wear it again. It would be ill-fitting now. Like a suit that was a touch too tight across the shoulders, badly tailored, constricting.

“Yes, you do. You finish the tequila, anymore for me and I won’t be able to stand, you’ll be dragging from for the closet. There might even be vomit involved –”

“I hope the fuck not.”

“And then you’re going to let me kiss you. I promise I don’t bite. Unless you ask me to. And then, after that, you’re going to go to bed and sleep on it all. You’ll feel clearer headed in the morning. When’s the last time you slept, anyway?”

“It’s been a while. Midterms are kicking me arse.”

“It’s because you take them too seriously.”

“And you don’t.”

“Which is why I’m well rested and you look like you might crash at any given moment.”

“Nah. Rachel’s already crashed out enough for the both of us.”

“Not what I meant.”

“I know.”

“Drink, then kiss me.”

Sebastian removed his hand. Leaving a chill upon Vincent’s jaw when he did so. He didn’t go far because he couldn’t. Unless he merged with the plastered wall. Or chew through it like a ravenous rodent. He did neither of those things, instead, he handed Vincent the tequila and watched him throw it back.

It was heat in his throat. Liquid fire in his gut. It muddled his head nicely. A pleasant sort of reprieve from the sharper thoughts circling his mind. He didn’t have time to place the empty bottle down before Sebastian was leaning down and in, dark, fuzzy shape, smelling of spicy aftershave and warm tequila and something else, something other. 

Vincent, tequila bottle clutched to his chest with both hands, didn’t throw his head into the wall at the touch of fingertips under his chin this time. Holding himself as still as his heart was not. Breathing not at all. A held breath, a skimming of warm fingers along his jaw, the teasing touch against the shell of his ear, then, all at once and before he was quite ready, the swoop in.

The fizzing, taut moment between feeling Sebastian’s breath against his upper lip, a peremptory breath from the man, and the press of his mouth against Vincent’s own, felt too quick, too feeble. A fleeting moment in which to prepare himself.

And oh, but it was much the same as kissing Rachel. Only Sebastian’s mouth wasn’t sticky with the vanilla-frosting scented gloss Rachel liked to wear. It was firm and unyielding against Vincent’s. Not a chaste press, though far from an open-mouthed thing. Insistent and persistent and Vincent heard the thud of the tequila bottle falling to the floor as he reached up, gripping handfuls of leather lapels and drawing Sebastian closer.

A rush of breath between them when Sebastian pulled away briefly, too close for Vincent to focus on properly, though, he thought he saw the man’s patented smirk; warm-edged and tucked up, very pleased, achingly soft. And then they were kissing again. Properlykissing.

A tug at Vincent’s chin as Sebastian angled the kiss deeper. A slippery, spit-drenched thing, that might’ve been too overwhelming had it of been anyone else demanding it of him. But it was Sebastian, cupping his face and gripping Vincent’s thigh, holding him in place as if Vincent had any room to escape. As if he’d ever want to escape such rapture. 

Held within the shadowy space of his wardrobe, a slick of salvia trailing down his chin, Sebastian’s fingers digging into his thigh from holding himself in his awkward crouch, with the starched shirt tails and neat-hemmed trouser legs, in the midst of his reality crumbling to dust and ash around him, Vincent was held safe, held steady, facing the maelstrom with a belly full of pretentious French tequila and the taste of his best friend upon his tongue. 

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. He didn’t want to think, to worry, to agonise over it. He wanted to draw Sebastian closer, to breathe in the scent of heat and desire and sharp tequila and pretend that when dawn rose pale on the horizon, that he’d figure it out. Wing it, as Sebastian so often did.

A soft noise against his tongue, the hand at his jaw moved to grip the nape of his neck, a breaking of the long, breathless kiss. “You alright?”

Vincent didn’t know. But the words had been spoken against his lips, as though Sebastian wasn’t ready to pull away just yet, and it was enough incentive for him to hope. To speak words which weren’t entirely false this time.

“I think so.”