loki laufeyson (toberuled) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-03-06 22:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | eames, loki |
Who: Louis and Evan and Evan's imaginary Cory girlfriend
What: Random meeting at the bar, illegal substances, and making out. Can't go wrong.
Where: The Griffin bar
When: Recently
Warnings/Rating: R for drugs and other questionable nonsense.
In the darkest of Louis’ dreams, there was ice. The ice gathered on his skin, clung to the edges of his clothes, and rimmed his eyelashes with frost. It hardened the fabric he wore until it crackled when he moved, and turned his voicebox into a silent, empty cathedral of sound. His surroundings, which always started out friendly and familiar, would fade into a blackness deeper than sight or sound could penetrate. He would wake up feeling cold to his core, though the air outside still rustled with the residual heat of the day.
Of the nightmares Louis had been having, the frozen one was worst. Sometimes, in that dark place, he saw things so strange and revolting in their impossibility that words could do no justice to them. By morning, though, they were always gone. He would reach for them, try to remember what it was that had sickened him, and there would simply be a gap in the vivid, half-remembered landscape of dreaming. He began to resist sleeping, to perpetuate insomnia to avoid the dreams, and ignored the faint chuckling in the back of his mind at these attempts.
When Louis awoke late into Friday night, he’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee at his side, trying to read a book. He eyed the coffee with suspicious bleariness, and searched angrily throughout his mind for the culprit to blame, but found no one. Of course he’d be quiet. Of course he’d be hiding.
There was no chance that he would get back to sleep now, so Louis straightened his clothes a little and left the apartment. He wasn’t too much of a drinker, but in the past few months he’d come to appreciate the benefits of setting his own hours, particularly when he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, sleep. There was a bar down the street that would serve just fine to occupy him, far enough off the beaten path that it was populated mostly by locals as opposed to the tourists who sought a flashier Vegas experience. He walked in, took a brandy with him to one of the back tables, and resolved to drink his way to closing time and walk home to a dreamless sleep - no apparitions, no monstrous paradoxes, and no ice.
The Griffin had great cheap Hamm on tap, and it didn’t have enough bells and whistles to attract the tourists, but Evan hadn’t chosen it for either of those reasons. Basically, it was closest. Closest to the buffet he’d been trying to sober up at when Stella called and let him know that she was carrying the Caped Crusader of his youth around in her head. Now, Evan loved his baby sister. She was a little slow, but she’d always had pigtails for him to pull and boyfriends for him to give hell to, but Superman? There couldn’t be anyone less heroic in the world than his simple little Stella. He’d come around to the fact that everyone around him shared this particular hallucination, but that didn’t mean he had an easy time believing his sister was a comic book hero from Krypton.
Evan left the buffet and walked over to The Griffin, where he put his money clip on the bar and ordered a pint. He was already buzzed, willing to hit it slow, and inclined to think. Still, he looked every bit the rich, rumpled bastard as he leaned against the sticky wood of the bar. He was dressed in a white button-down that felt like heaven under the fingertips. It had lost the first two buttons somewhere during the night, but that only added to the entire debauched rake thing that Evan always had going. His jeans cost more than every bottle behind the bar combined, and his black hair was mussed from too many fingers that weren’t his own.
The golden beer frothed in the cold glass, and Evan lit a cigarette as he leaned back against the bar and watched the people. He loved that, watching people, even in a dark place like this, where people didn’t actually want to be watched. It was all numb, slow motion, filtered through too many drugs to actually hit any pleasure centers in his brain, but he liked it all the same. The dead girl was there too, as she always was, across the way, sitting alone in a booth. He thought, not for the first time, that if someone else died she might not be so lonely. Crap, he was losing it. He raked a hand through his hair, just as the blond man appeared in the doorway. Well.
Evan couldn’t get it up, and he hadn’t felt anything like passion in years, but he could tell pretty when it walked through his door. Pretty and tormented; he’d always liked that combination. It generally made for a really good fuck.
Louis felt eyes on him shortly after he sat down. He’d already made it halfway through his brandy, and was entertaining the idea of following it up with a good beer, since it had been some time since he’d had some, and the growing heat of the days was making him crave something cold. His eyes fell on the bar thinking of drink and found the man sitting at it instead, looking back at him. Louis held his gaze for a second too long. It was reflexive - for a brief moment, having unexpectedly seen something he wanted, he couldn’t look away.
Louis wasn’t accustomed to being a focus of attention, particularly not at places like The Griffin, which presented itself as a bar for straight hipsters. More than that, Louis shouldn’t be his type. He was sitting on his own, in a clean, button down shirt. Sure, the man at the bar was ruffled and rough around the edges, but he was still acres out of his league. A man like that that could get anyone in the room, from the waitresses all the way down to those beautiful straight hipster boys the bar catered to.
He wasn’t entirely sure what possessed him to do what he did next. Instead of going back to his solitary drinking and assuming the the eyes he’d met had been unintentionally turned in his direction, Louis got up. He picked up his drink, and he walked over to the bar. One of the few seats remaining open was, conveniently, beside the man with the partially buttoned shirt and the granite cheekbones, and he took it. Louis kept his eyes on the menu at the bar rather than the man beside him, and when the bartender swept by, said simply, “A Sapporo, please.” The thickness of the r hinted at a childhood spent in Scotland, and he straightened a little, pretending for all the world that he’d come to sit at the bar for no reason but the open seat.
Evan was smiling. Just a hint of an arch at the corner of one lip, but definitely a smile. His elbows slid off the edge of the bar, his shirt like silk on the sticky wood, and he turned to face the newcomer. “Ever done that before?” he asked, his voice unaccented, a sign of good tutors and enough money to ensure he didn’t bear the stain of geography. “Walk up to someone, instead of waiting for them to come to you?” A silver cigarette case was fished out of the front pocket of his jeans, and he cupped an engraved lighter as the flame kissed the edge of the white rolled paper. Alright, maybe not a cigarette. He looked the man over, blond curls, sharp cheekbones, thin enough that he’d be easy enough to shove against a flat surface, and then he smiled a harmless smile. The pack of not-cigarettes was placed on the bar and slid closer, and Evan held out the lighter, which was warm from his hand. He didn’t ask if the man wanted a joint; he just tipped his head in question, arched a brow, and smiled around the smoke in his mouth.
Louis chose not to despair over his own transparency, turning instead to the man beside him and look at him fully. He looked even better up close. It was silly to pretend that he didn’t remind him of another man he’d known, a man now thousands of miles away and likely out of his reach forever. This one had the same self-confidence, the same ease, but diverted in another direction. Not like the man who was gone, really, but still, just a little little like. “No,” he said, in response to the question, with just a small smile. Maybe the alcohol was starting to get to him, but he didn’t care how that sounded, for once. He was hardly inexperienced in sex, but, no, he never made the first move, never presumed someone would want him unless they took the initiative, made all the moves.
It took Louis only a moment to recognize that what was in the silver case wasn’t cigarettes. How funny it was, that, just a year ago, such a move might have put the handsome man at the bar in jail, had they both been in London. Now he found himself seriously considering what would have previously been absolutely forbidden. He’d come to the bar looking for quiet oblivion, hadn’t he? There was always risk in taking candy from a stranger, but a voice at the back of his head, perhaps his own, suggested that letting down his guard might be exactly what he needed. He reached down and edged one of the joints out with his thumb, settling it between long fingers and taking the lighter from his new companion. “I don’t think I need to ask if you’ve offered drugs to a stranger before,” he said, dry as the paper crackling between his fingers. He lit the joint, trying not to let his eyes linger too long on the other man’s mouth, trailing smoke.
Evan just smiled at the question. No point in telling this man that it was medicinal, that he had papers saying he was permitted low doses for his depression. No one wanted to hear those things, especially not when they were holding a joint between their fingers. Evan’s striking eyes were a golden blue in the light reflected off the beer bottles, and he watched the stranger lift the joint to his lips. Not experienced in that, either, he thought, his grin widening slightly. It wasn’t a mocking grin, not at all, just a pleased one. He liked being right about people. Once upon a time, it had been a key requirement of his life’s ambition, but that was another man’s dream. He sucked on his own joint, dampening the paper more than was absolutely necessary, and he reached back for his beer. He pressed the side of the cold glass to the other man’s knuckles as the joint reddened and came to life. “Careful. Might make you do more things you normally don’t.” Evan was reminiscent of a lazy lion in his den, watching the world before deciding there was something interesting enough to rouse him from his rest.
When the stranger’s gaze lingered on his mouth, Evan exhaled, the smoke sweet and strong. Not cheap weed, that was for sure. “So why tonight?” he finally asked, acknowledging the man’s confession. “Evan,” he added, setting aside the beer, but keeping the joint tucked against the corner of his lip. He held out a hand, one that was strong, with long fingers, devoid of any callouses that indicated a lifetime of work. No, even while completely insane, Evan looked like he owned the world. “And you, my pretty friend, could have made a better choice for your evening.” Honesty, as he waited for that handshake and a proper introduction.
It wasn’t the first joint Louis had smoked in his life, but it was certainly the first in a very long time, and he coughed a little while holding the smoke in his lungs. The cold catch of dew and glass on the back of his hand made him look up from his intent study of the joint between his fingers, and his eyes fixed on Evan’s, bluer than blue. Well, whether he still was or not, Evan could clearly be dangerous, and would be if Louis hung around him long enough. He’d just have to be careful. “I thought that was the idea,” he said, with a hint of a smile. He wasn’t looking to spend this evening in quiet contemplation if he could help it. The more distractions, the more new mistakes, the better.
Louis took another hit, exhaling the smoke in a slow, thin stream. He already had a decent buzz going, and the joint was just starting to tickle the edges of his senses. He took Evan’s hand without any of his usual hesitation. Was shaking hands something one normally did with someone they wanted to have sex with? He couldn’t recall. “You seem to think you know a great deal about the quality and frequency of my decisions,” he said, still with that touch of amusement and heady dose of interest that grew more difficult to hide the more buzzed he was. He released Evan’s hand and half-heartedly fought away disappointment at not having another excuse to slide his fingers over that hand. “Louis,” he said, after a long pause in which he realized his name had been meant to fall. He picked up his beer from where it sat on the bar, shedding condensation down the sides of the glass. If he didn’t remember this tomorrow, all the better. He would have nothing to be mortified over, then.
Evan hadn’t been anyone’s mistake in a very long time, but he’d raked up enough one-night stands and mornings after to last a lifetime. He didn’t feel guilty about any of them, the accumulated choir of gorgeous limbs that had been draped across his sheets as morning light brightened sleep-warmed skin. Sweat and musk and sex, that was Evan’s main memory of his college years. No, he didn’t regret even one of those pretty creatures. “Am I wrong?” he asked when Louis - the name was somehow fitting, all round and a snake’s S - questioned his knowledge. He chuckled without waiting for an answer. “I see things other people can’t,” he said, the enigmatic tone of his voice making it sound mysterious rather than insane. He leaned closer, as if he was sharing the secret of the universe in his whisper, which came close to Louis’ ear. “It’s in the way you walk, the way you carry yourself. Your fingers on that drink, your lips around that joint. Insecurity, my pretty friend,” he whispered, breath smelling of hops and smoke, sounding like sex and mornings. “Louis,” he added, leaning back, as if all that whispering was perfectly normal. The dead girl blinked, and he looked away.
Louis was in the midst of another drag when Evan leaned in and began whispering into his ear. He briefly forgot where he was or what he was doing, forgetting to breathe the smoke out, letting it sit weighty and insubstantial on his tongue. The thick burn in his throat made wetness prick at the corners of his reddening eyes, and still, he didn’t breathe out again until Evan pulled away. The murmur of Evan’s voice in his ear drove his heart into his stomach. Maybe it was the joint, or maybe it was the drink, but he felt briefly stripped bare, found out. He wanted to prove Evan wrong, and a sharp nudge inside him said yes, do it, take what you want.
Louis reached out with his free hand and took hold of Evan’s shirt, his fingers sliding between the intact buttons and over them, into the gap where the shirt was open near his collarbone. He leaned forward, closing the gap Evan had made when he pulled away again, and he kissed him. Normally he would have fretted about things like being in public or having no idea who he was sitting next to, but all those worries felt muffled, wrapped in comforting layers away from the light. And how far had his worries gotten him? What rewards had he reaped by running from even the slightest risk? Now he had stolen a prize, and it came with the taste of alcohol, warm, rough lips and stubble, slow and smooth, like the smoke rising lazily from the joint burning down between his fingers.
Louis pulled back. He was defiant, and he took a clean breath, flushing the smoke from his lungs, smothered pride flashing from behind dark blue eyes. “What else do you see?”
Louis’ original reaction to the nearness and whisper was exactly what Evan anticipated - held breath, rapid heartbeat, forgetting to exhale. It was exactly what Evan expected from someone who looked like they’d never approached someone at a bar without a crook of a finger or some other indication of summoning. He noticed the movement of the hand through the haze of booze and weed, and he had time to get away if he wanted. Evan hadn’t had sex since before jail, but this was like riding a bike - you didn’t forget. Unfortunately, remembering wasn’t the same thing as being equipped to actually ride. But he was drunk, and the joint was making him calm, and he let the hand slip between the buttons and to his collarbone. He watched Louis with more than a hint of a smile as he waited for the other man to kiss him, and he tried to remember if he’d ever been on the receiving end of a kiss, instead of claiming someone’s mouth for his own; he didn’t think so.
Evan let Louis control the kiss. He parted his lips just enough, kept his elbows back on the bar, didn’t move or close any gaps between their bodies. He allowed it with the laziness of that same lion from earlier, one who had watched something tasty walk into his cage when he’d already been fed.
When the other man pulled back, Evan chuckled. Oh, the laugh was classic. It was like taking a straight virgin and introducing him to his prostate for the first time. The pride was visible through the smoke that had danced up between them from the forgotten joint in Louis’ fingers, which Evan reclaimed as Louis asked his question. He set the joint aside, to join the one he’d already relinquished, and then he smiled. “Want to know what I see?” he asked, and oh, was that ever a smirk on his lips. He looked dangerous then; a hint of what he had been like before. He spread his thighs as he leaned back against the barstool beside him, and he reached for Louis’ hips and dragged him closer, against his body, between denim clad thighs. One hand slid around to Louis’ back, and the other slid up, up, up from Louis’ stomach, to his chest, to his neck, higher. That hand tangled in blond curls, and Evan used the grip to pull Louis into a real kiss. There was nothing tentative about it, nothing inexpert. It was a rough scrape of a tongue, a demand for entrance, teeth and claiming, and Evan’s hand slid from the small of Louis back to his ass for just a second as he tipped his head, slanted his mouth over the other man’s and demanded submission.
And then Evan broke the kiss. He reached back for his beer. “That’s what I see.”
Louis very nearly slipped off the bar stool when Evan grabbed hold of him by the hips and pulled him forward in an obscene and totally unexpected move. His mind, slowed to crawl, didn't even have a hope of recovery before an inexorable slide of hands and a kiss that seared like a brand. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd had hands on him that weren't dreamed up. A long time, a very long time, long enough that the fingers in his hair and the tongue pressing into his mouth just made him want more, heightened that want rather than cooling it. Once upon a time, Louis had feared touch, shied away from it. Somewhere along the line that had changed, and he'd begun to crave it, though that need had surely been there all the while. He liked this man, that he couldn't predict him, that there was something there under the well-fed countenance and easy, predatory confidence. It was all he could do not to just grab Evan again and pin him to the counter, challenge him to see how long it took for him to break and pin Louis back. He could feel his heartbeat at the nape of his neck, flooding scarlet into pale skin.
Louis watched Evan pick up his beer. "Does that take much practice?" he asked, slow and quiet. His eyes were now unabashedly on the edge of the glass where he expected it would meet his mouth. He didn’t move an inch away.
The beer, as expected, met Evan’s lips, and he tipped back his head for a hearty swallow that made his adam's apple move with each pass of liquid over his lips. When he tipped his head back down, the mug was empty. “That? No. That’s the easy part,” he said. Before life dealt him a shit hand (or before he dealt it to himself), Louis would have been exactly the kind of man he would take home and make him blush like that all over. But that was the old Evan, not this one. He fished money from his pocket, and he tossed it onto the counter, tip included, and the dead girl sighed from across the bar and began walking for the door. His gaze chased her for a moment, and then he looked back at Louis. A finger tangled in one blond curl that rested against a sculpted cheekbone, and he tugged on it and then let it go. His thumb painted a line across Louis’ lips, and he pushed away from the bar. “You’re gorgeous,” he told the other man honestly, thumb brushing back across those lips with more pressure, dominance in the casual press of that one digit. “Find yourself someone who doesn’t look at you like you’re dessert.”
Louis was ashamed to say that he was drawn to touch and appreciation with a terrible hunger, a feeling that made the presence inside him blanch and draw away, quieting with disgust. As buzzed as he was, he wasn’t all that good at hiding it, either, not as capable of pretending it wasn’t there as he normally would have been. Making out with a man leagues above him in public and then getting a compliment paired with that sort of touch, the kind that made it the words feel real, not a game or a hook, it was almost enough to make Louis grab him and hold him there. But he wasn’t that pathetic. He still had an inch of pride that held him back from pure desperation. It was a hard won battle, though. “I’m entitled to my preferences,” he said, thoroughly pleased that he’d managed to work together a fairly coherent reply with that thumb against his lips.
Straightening a little, Louis reached for a napkin on the bar. “Here,” he said, and pulled a small metal pen from his pocket, just the right size to fit on his keychain, there for taking notes on the job. He scribbled his number down and slid it across the bar. Maybe he should get stoned and drunk more often, he mused. It numbed all the worries that would have paralyzed him, and made him forget himself. He liked that. “In case you change your mind about dessert,” he said.
“You’re better off hoping that I don’t,” Evan said, even as he took the napkin and folded it twice over before tucking it into his pocket. In turn, he placed Louis’ hand on the bar, and he plucked that small metal pen from between his fingers. He had to press pretty hard to get his number on Louis’ skin, and he glanced up twice to see if the other man winced at the pain. Then, it was done, and he slid his hand along Louis’ hip, stomach, hip again. He walked halfway across the crowded bar, and he gave Louis a one-quarter bow and a smile that could melt butter without even trying. A second later, he was gone.