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It started simple, innocuous, after a little bit too much drugs alcohol both − after they were well and truly fucked up.
It started when Cyr had made a joke a little too spicy for the crowd at an unfamiliar bar. Of course Will had laughed, spilling his drink a little as he did so, hitting his fist against the table − Cyr was the funniest guy Will knew. It really was a funny joke.
He thinks.
He doesn’t remember it all that well, if he’s being honest.
Not quite blackout, certainly not sober.
But he knows Cyr and knows that whatever he said, had to be good.
It was just a shame that he was the only one who thought so. Some people didn’t have their refined senses of humor. Or a certain je ne sais quoi that Will wished everybody else had because it would make the world a way more fun place to live in.
Point being, they didn’t get it.
While Will was still bowed over the table, fighting for control of his lungs, he missed the hand reaching out to grab Cyr's shirt that hauled him out of his seat.
He didn’t miss the snarl of “oh, so you think that’s funny?” and Cyr’s harried response of… a few startled, worried noises that didn’t pass for actual words before his brain finally spat out “woah, woah, it was just a joke, I’m sorry”.
Just like that, Will was on his feet too, laughter dripping off his face as a serious, stony feeling settled there instead. His hand extended instinctively, grabbing the guys forearm − not aggressively so, just a reminder that he was there − to yield his motions.
It allows Cyr to detach, to take a step back away.
Now − with all of his joking conflicts aside − Cyr, Cyr is no fighter. He’s not violent the way Will is.
It makes sense to insert himself between the two parties, hands up to continue to try to diffuse the situation.
He doesn’t throw the first punch, but he does throw the first punch that actually lands.
It’s a bit of a blur, then.
A blur of nothing but fists and screaming that was indistinguishable from the roaring of blood in his ears and him picking up a chair and slinging it at someone and the bouncers finally stepping in to break up the fight.
When they get kicked out, there is blood smearing drunkenly from his nose to his cheeks like lipstick stains and new bruises along his knuckles.
They stalk a block out before they take one look at each others eyes and matching grins spread across their faces.
They laugh it off.
Cyr had gotten out mostly unscathed and Will finds that that makes something preen in the back of his mind, easily brushed off as a lingering pride at having held his own. Especially since he’d tried so hard to be a shield for his friend.
With the high of adrenaline and alcohol still buzzing through his veins, Will feels as tall as a mountain. Unshakable.
It doesn’t help that Cyr is giggling maniacally now, plastering himself to Will’s side and breathlessly recounting the fight − even throwing in a few air punches for good measure − and heaping praise onto Will.
Even when he tries to act humble about it, he knows he only encourages Cyr's antics in sideways grins and when his chest puffs up in pride as Cyr insists that it was one of the best bar fights he’d ever seen. With raucous laughter as Cyr exclaims “you were busy but his face you should have seen his face-” for the hundredth time as he tries his best to imitate the poor bartender.
Until finally Will throws his arm around Cyr's shoulders and crushes him into his chest in a firm hug.
As he tells him of course, of course he would do that for his friend.
He really would do it for any of his friends.
Cyr shakes his head before he tells him that that it’s admirable and then the subject is finally dropped as they enter the next bar.
And, sure, bar fight aside, there was nothing too outstanding of that night.
Until there was.
Until Will stepped in for Cyr again. He didn’t even think about it, didn’t think about how Cyr was taking it much better this time − they were hardly inebriated and they guy didn’t even seem all that mad that Cyr had bumped into him. Just a little frustrated.
Will himself had blinked before awkwardly pretending he had just been passing by to get a drink, embarrassed as he let them hash it out and make polite.
It had been fine, and the two were laughing together before very long, allowing a knot in Will’s spine to ease.
He took a sip of his drink, and wondered.
Then it happened again and Cyr took note this time.
They put together a pattern.
And like all not-actually-scientists-but-pretending-they-are, they experiment in a really stupid way.
It’s something a little too serious to be called a game, not binding enough to be a challenge.
It was more akin to the way sharks bit boats and stray swimmers because it was the only way they knew how to assess what something was.
Curiosity, then.
A testing of instincts, of applying the right kind of pressure to watch them snap. Two kids pulling a cats tail and shrieking with laughter when it swats at them, holding just out of range.
Cyr would put himself into trouble with a shit-eating grin and a prodding sense of humor that would have anyone raising their hackles.
Every time someone looks aggressive, Will steps in.
Every.
Time.
He could probably control it, if he wanted to. Maybe even just dial it back.
He doesn’t really try though, a little too amused at himself, and Cyr never calls it off.
Cyr jokingly calls Will a guard dog after one of his fights, and Will rolls his eyes indulgently. Pretends there isn’t blood dripping from his knuckles and an unconcerned grin on his face.
It’s after a particularly well fought night, that Cyr had been so hopped up on adrenaline that he'd pulled Will into a kiss... and didn't stop.
Things... devolved. Escalated. Changed.
He doesn't fucking know, he's not an English major and the only thing he can think of when he tries to work out his feelings on the situation is that it's hot.
Which, not helpful.
Soon, Cyr can snap his fingers and Will would be by his side, like a dog to its master.
Pavlov would weep.
Sometimes, Cyr holds Will back from retaliating until he’s taken a hit, just to see how well Will obeys.
And Will is exceptionally well-behaved... when he wants to be.
Cyr makes it up to him, anyway.
Even with blood running down over his teeth, Cyr will kiss him until both of their mouths are drenched red.
It scares him, a bit, how much he likes that.
Seeing his own blood smearing the corner of Cyr's mouth.
Then Cyr bends him over the nearest surface and Will forgets how to feel anything for a little while.
It’s not like he would have acted on those fleeting feelings anyway.
As far as he’s concerned, its worth it.
Tonight, Cyr’s promised him no bar fights.
They’d chosen one that wasn’t a tourist trap, one enough out of the way that there were few patrons and fewer regulations − the front door noticeably absent of the ever-present smoking ban signs.
It’s the kind of bar where the floor is always sticky, and one of the lights in the back barely holds on in a steady flicker. The kind of bar that has shitty good food and where the price of drink is only barely lower than average.
Though, it’s best not to think about the food too long.
It tastes good enough to keep ordering it and that all he’ll say about that.
It's the bar of people that don't give a fuck and who keep to themselves most nights unless its a sports night in which case everyone is up in arms.
He lets Cyr lead him to the flickering corner − empty for annoyance of the light.
They settle down at a circular table with two stools to its name − Will gets the wobbly one but it’s also the one that keeps his back neatly to the wall, the door in his sight.
As Will sets his phone down on the table, Cyr speaks. “Will? Would you mind fetching us some drinks?”
Will groans theatrically but gets up anyway, grin on his face. “Sure, what do you want, my dear?”
Cyr smiles back at the teasing nickname. “Oh, honey, you know me best. Just get me something strong. We’re getting fucked up.”
Will laughed, already heading to the lone barkeeper.
It takes a while for them to notice him, engrossed in their phone as they were.
He doesn’t mind too much − it gave him some time to look over the menu and decide that tonight was a pretty drink night.
He doesn’t give a fuck about alcohol content or price, he feels pretty and he wants a drink to match.
Will orders two of the drink that simply looked the most appealing − something orange and red with an orange slice perched on the side.
When the two drinks are passed to him with hardly a glance, he thanks the bartender and fucks off back to the corner even though the oranges are noticeably more sad looking than they are in the picture.
A slow curl of smoke drifts to the ceiling, pooling in a miniature cloud among the lights before dissipating just as fast.
The glow of the cigarette fades slightly as Cyr blows out, coating the air in a rush of burnt tobacco.
As Will walks closer, Cyr tilts his head in his direction to acknowledge him, flicking ash onto the ashtray absently.
Inexorably, Will is drawn closer to Cyr than to his own seat.
Cyr smiles at him, full body turning this time, and the flicker of the light glances off of his pink tinted glasses, alluring.
When Will gets close enough, Cyr accepts his drink with a nod of thanks and takes a sip before setting it on the table, cigarette dangling from his free hand.
With his other hand, Cyr reaches out, crooking two fingers under Will's belt, tugging at the leather until Will is towering over him. And then a little bit further, until Will's hips are bracketed by Cyr's legs, shin knocking the metal ring around the stool.
Then his drink is being taken by Cyr − three fingers precariously holding it by the rim, other two holding the stick up − who steals a sip before setting it on Will’s side of the table. His hand returns his cigarette to their place between his teeth and he drags in, making the tip glow a pleasant red.
He’s hardly trapped there, only two loose fingers still tracing the inside of his belt to hold up the claim but he finds himself unwilling unable to move an inch.
Cyr is considering him, lips parted around the stick and crooked in a smirk, teasing up his eyes in amusement.
Then Cyr pulls it out of his mouth − hand releasing his belt to thread through Will's hair and he’s being tugged down, until their lips are sealed together.
Second-hand smoke floods his lungs as Cyr exhales into his mouth.
And Will drinks it in like he’s been suffocating his whole life, eyes fluttering shut as his lungs swallow the haze and warmth that he soaks from Cyr's lips.
The tang of tobacco chases his tongue, the world fades out around him until it is just him and Cyr.
If this was the only way he could breathe, his life would be well spent.
When Will reopens them, Cyr has leaned back again, watching the wafts of smoke drool from the corners of Will's mouth with interest.
Will wonders how long they could trade smoke back and forth before it becomes nothing but a farce, absent of nicotine.
Probably always was but he likes to pretend.
Cyr snaps his fingers, pointing to the ground.
He doesn’t begrudge Will his surreptitious glance around the bar.
The only one that he can see from their corner is the bartender − who is busy on their phone, fingers swiping right more often than left.
He wonders idly what exactly their criteria is before he realizes he couldn’t give less of a shit.
He kneels.
His chin just misses the seat of the stool.
Cyr flicks ash onto the ashtray once more before pinning the cigarette back to his mouth.
He really is slim, Will thinks as his hand came up to circle a thigh to press to his cheek, soaking in the extra contact.
A minute amount of ash dusts his nose as Cyr moves his hand to exhale, blowing it out to billow over Will’s face.
It isn't sharp breath − it's slow. Savoring. Gentle.
Will lets it wash over him, because it’s getting harder and harder to think like this and he doesn’t really want think right now anyway.
Instead, he takes the endorphin rush as Cyr’s hand scratches over his scalp, welcomes the rush of smoke over his face.
Over and over, until he feels like he is nothing more than smoke himself, head buzzing and distant.
The bar is quiet, Will decides. They should pump the music up a few decibels and really let his brain go numb.
Not that is isn’t enjoying the heady limbo of something so intangible yet so present.
Cyr brushes a stray hand against Will’s cheek, bringing him back to the present.
“Open.”
It looks like he wants to make a joke when Will does so without complaint but he’s restraining himself because the tension is making Will squirm. And he likes it when Will squirms.
Will, in same taste, also does not break the tension.
The end of the cigarette is lowered to his mouth and Cyr spares him a fleeting hesitation − a second to back out − before he presses the lit end into the damp of his tongue with a hiss.
It lingers, smearing ashes across his taste buds. The paper frays in his mouth as his mouth waters around the intrusion.
Cyr huffs a laugh before pulling it out, flicking it away with two fingers to let it disappear into the bar like so many others before it.
He swallows.
Will stands up, tongue rolling to press against the burn and blinking out his headache from the flickering light.
He takes his seat and sips his drink slow, letting the alcohol sting the burn.
He raises his eyebrows at Cyr, challenging.
He’s a nice guy, really.
He pretends not to notice the tremble in Cyr’s hand, nor how fast he slams back his drink, suddenly desperate to get out of the bar.
Pretends not to see the awkward way he walks or the sweat along his brow as he tries to play it cool.
He’s chill like that.
He pretends not to do the same and, with only a single drink under their belt, they leave the bar.
They’ll be back later anyway.