Chapter Text
Steve Harrington didn’t think he’d know what love was if it shoved itself in his face, called him an idiot, and bit him. He knew what love wasn’t. It wasn’t days spent alone in an empty house because his mother couldn’t trust his dad to travel and remain faithful. It wasn’t hooking up with any girl that said his name all nice and sweet like they wanted more, like they wanted him, only to walk out before he ever woke up. It wasn’t keeping his mouth shut every time his friends made a shitty joke, because calling them out would mean he’d be alone again. It wasn’t pretending everything was okay, that his relationship was normal and good and happy, just to be drunkenly shouted at and called bullshit in the middle of a party.
It wasn’t walking back home alone after said party, knowing he was too wasted to drive and having no one to call. He thought maybe it was the feeling he had when he was little and his nanny made cookies when he cried about his parents leaving so she let him lick the spoon. He could taste the salt of his tears mixed in with the cookie dough.
Or maybe it wasn’t that either. How would he know?
Unless love was screaming matches and disappointment, unless it was hiding yourself and hoping you didn’t get found out, or pretending to be someone else just for a moment — just for a little bit — so he wouldn’t be left alone. Unless that was love, because Steve Harrington knew all of that, but he definitely didn’t think that was love.
If it was, he doubted there’d be so many songs about it. He thought for once he’d figured it out, that he understood what the hype was about and all those love-song lyrics finally made sense, but he knew Nancy was miserable, he knew she was going through a hard time when her friend Barbara disappeared, and she refused to talk about it so he assumed he was also supposed to not talk about it, too .
Of course that was stupid, that was a mistake, that was bullshit. And because he’d already told his friends to fuck off about her, he couldn’t lean on them after the fact. He couldn’t go up to them and apologize and beg them to take him back, because he didn’t want to apologize anymore. He still stood by telling Tommy he was a jerk because he was. So what, he wasn’t dating Nancy anymore? That didn’t mean what they’d said about her while they were dating was fine. He didn’t want to grovel and lie and keep his mouth shut just to feel alone at a full table again.
So, yeah. He didn’t know what love was, and he didn’t know if he ever would.
It was easy to ignore, at first. It was easy to sit back and pretend that everything was okay and he was fine being alone. What was the difference between being alone by yourself and being alone in a crowd? He knew what being alone in a crowd felt like and it wasn’t fun. Surely, being alone by himself would be fine? And it was, for a while.
He’d go to school, go home, drive around when the empty house became too empty, and go back home when he’d run out of roads to drive down. Rinse, repeat. He didn’t think he was bad company, but he learned that being his only company was not, in fact, better than being lonely in a group of people. At least with a group, he was blanketed by the warmth of others. At least with a group, he could listen to their voices and drown them into background noise, filtering through his ears and out, like a familiar song. At least with a group of people, it was easier to pretend.
When he was surrounded by noise and bodies and the familiar heat of someone else, going home felt like an escape. It felt like relief to sink into the silence of an empty house and take the time for himself, recalibrate his social meter and settle back into his body. Now, instead of comfort, his house was just an empty building, trapping him inside because he had nowhere else to go. He felt restless, untethered, pacing around the living room that felt gargantuan in its silence, a mausoleum.
His parents weren’t going to be home for another week, it was the first day of spring break at school and there were no parties (at least, none that he’d been invited to). Was it possible to feel claustrophobic in a space so large and empty? There weren’t any walls closing in on him, no people squeezing the air from his lungs, the room was wide open and yet he still felt suffocated by it all.
So he drove.
He drove, and he didn’t stop at the Leaving Hawkins sign, and he didn’t look back toward the empty streets as he left it behind. He didn’t stop until he reached Indianapolis, after two solid hours of second guessing and pushing forward anyway.
The club was dark. That was the first thing Steve noticed as he walked through the doors. He’d only really seen clubs on TV, neon lights and flashing strobes, sweaty bodies swaying together on the dance floor. The sweat was there, definitely. It hung in the air as a tangible thing, making it feel thick like molasses. It stuck in his throat, blanketing him from all sides.
The bodies on the dance floor were less swaying together, and more… thrashing, maybe? Grinding? It was hard to make out individual faces in the darkness. The bouncer outside hadn’t carded him and neither did the bartender as he asked for a beer; he was grateful for it, because he didn’t know if he’d be able to handle the awkwardness of rejection, even from someone just taking his order. The bars in Hawkins were full of people who knew people who knew people, and no one would dare serve Richard Harrington’s underage son alcohol, lest the information get back to the man somehow. He knew his father would be pissed about it, too. Not because he cared that Steve was drinking, not because he cared about his health or wellbeing, but because it reflected badly on him. On the Harrington name. It didn’t matter that Steve would have been the legal drinking age, if they hadn’t raised the stupid thing right when he needed it the most.
But Indy was big, it felt infinitely larger than his podunk town, and here he was invisible.
The bodies brushed against the skin of his arms, sticky and hot as they passed for the dancefloor or the bar or the bathrooms. The din of conversation mixed with the deep, booming music, and he could barely hear his own thoughts let alone anyone else. He was alone, but he wasn’t by himself, and that was enough for now.
The first person to approach him was a woman on the smaller side. She was nice and cute and giggled at the right times. Steve could give in — follow her home and stay the night, drown out the feeling of nothing and empty and silent and lonely — but he didn’t. She asked him to dance, shouted it right into his ear to be heard above the music, and he said no. She nodded gracefully, stepping out of his space with a smile and a wave that he returned because it wasn’t her fault. He was there for something else, something he couldn’t get in Hawkins, something he was too nervous to initiate himself.
So he continued to sit at the bar, and drink, and turn away girls that didn’t fit with where he wanted to end the night. He wanted to be sore, aching, enough to feel it for days after and maybe trick his brain into feeling less alone as he paced around his house again.
After the fourth girl, it seemed like people started to notice he wasn’t looking for another. Instead, a man slid in next to him and asked if Steve would follow him to the dancefloor. He was closer to what Steve wanted, closer than the girls at least, but still not quite right. The man was good looking, sure, but he reminded Steve too much of the people he ditched at the basketball table, of people who looked to him for guidance and approval, like he was meant to take the lead, without his say-so. He still said yes to the dance, at least to send a message. If people were noticing him, he wanted them to notice who he said yes to as well.
So he jumped around on the dance floor for a few minutes, pulling the other man in and pushing him away at the right moments, until he leaned back in to yell that he was thirsty, that the bar was calling him back, but the other guy could keep dancing without him. It was another message for any spectators, yes, he wanted a man but not this man, so someone else was free to try again.
At the bar, he ordered another drink, scanning the floor he’d just left for anyone that caught his gaze, passing over people quickly. He didn’t want to make eye contact with someone before he meant to. But then he was caught, staring across the bar at someone who’d already been staring at him. He was pretty — dark hair that kind of reminded him of Nancy, but the black ripped band shirt and silver rings catching the lights screamed anything but. His eyes were dark, too, as they trailed across Steve’s face; it was almost like he could feel the man’s touch, gliding over his cheekbones and ghosting over his lips, prodding his way from feature to feature. Steve’s mind drifted briefly to the moths and butterflies adorning Richard Harrington’s office.
They were pretty things, like him, that were trapped behind glass and only useful as a conversation starter when people were brought to his office, forgotten and collecting dust while his father was away.
These eyes, though. These eyes made him feel pinned and anything but forgotten. He could sense the warmth of the gaze bleeding over his face, heating his cheeks in a way he hoped was disguised by the darkness of the club. The man was half wrapped around another guy, a short blonde pulling him in to talk over the noise blasting from the speakers, and by the sweet, suggestive, caress of his hands against the other man’s chest, it was obvious what they were talking about. And yet, the man’s eyes were still locked on Steve, like it was him whispering over the noise instead.
Steve blinked himself out of the trap he’d been caught in, looking away to down the rest of his drink and flag the bartender for another. He felt like he had to shake that stare off of him, like it had coated him in warm honey. Or maybe that was just the alcohol talking.
It clouded over his brain, mixing with the music and feeling like he’d been submerged under water, lights floating over him and holding him down. When the bartender placed the next drink in front of him, he glanced back up — to catch the stranger’s eye again, or make a move, or just to look, he wasn’t sure yet — but the space was empty, no dark hair and needle-point gaze to fix him to his spot.
Someone cleared their throat to his right, finger reaching out to tap the back of his hand, and he expected to be pinned once again but it wasn’t someone he recognized — just another stranger shooting their shot. He couldn’t help the vague disappointment that seemed to wash over him, the crash after his heart spiked, thinking the mysterious man from across the bar had, what? Booked it to his side to ask him to dance? To take him home? To pin him with more than just his eyes until Steve couldn’t remember he’d ever been lonely?
He entertained the other man for a couple minutes, shouting over the music and sipping on his rum and coke until the guy got the hint he wasn’t in Steve’s future and left him alone. He looked around again, trying to find the man with dark hair and silver rings, but he couldn’t make him out against the other grinding bodies on the dance floor. Maybe he’d already taken that other guy home, maybe they were in the bathroom having a moment to themselves, maybe Steve should just pick someone new or go home with whoever asked next, it didn’t matter who.
He closed his eyes, feeling the bass notes resonate through his head, vibrating his chest and coating him with more of that sticky-sweet-heavy honey feeling. He swallowed the last of his fourth — fifth? — drink, and waded his way into the middle of the throbbing crowd on his own terms. He had a good feeling about tonight, even if nothing had really happened yet.
He had the alcohol thrumming through his veins, making him feel warm — blanketed by the bodies around him, like he wanted, like he needed to reassure himself he wasn’t alone in the universe. He could feel skin against his bare arms; hear the giggling of girls near him, bouncing and jumping and swaying and grinding. He could feel cold breath ghosting over the sweat against his neck, sending a shiver under his skin despite his warmth, head cloudy, soft, empty. He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel anything outside of now, and vodka, and hot.
He yelled out lyrics to songs that he knew, laughing with the other people in the crowd doing the same, and if he dragged his eyes along the outskirts of the room to try and be trapped again — to feel the needle pierce his skin and pin his wings to the cardstock — that was his little secret. He didn’t see the other man. Not at the bar, not along the wall, and not in the crowd like he’d hoped. That was fine. The next one, he promised himself, the next guy could take him home and make him feel good and it would be just what Steve came out to do, to feel, to forget.
A hand trailed along his side, hiking his shirt up just enough to feel the hot palm of a hand against his skin. Someone pressed against his back, hips swaying with the music; the crowd and the honey searing over his skin, sticking them together, filling up his head with that syrupy feeling. He smiled as another hand pushed his hair behind his ear, freeing it for lips to press against his skin and breath to ghost against the cartilage.
“You having fun, Sweetheart?” a voice egged, words touching him the same way those eyes had. He could feel the cool press of silver against his sides and he knew without looking exactly who’d draped himself across his back. His t-shirt was damp against Steve’s, soaking into the fabric just like the rest of him, and for the moment — without opening his eyes, without confirming his suspicions, without drowning in the deep pools of black that had caught him across the bar — Steve melted back into the warmth of another person, hand on his waist clenching like a reward for good behavior.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” the man chuckled but Steve hadn’t processed the question. You having fun, Sweetheart? Sweetheart. Even his voice was syrupy.
He turned in place, keeping his eyes closed until they were chest to chest, because he had the irrational fear of being pinned again before he was ready. He felt a warm nose against his cheek, both hands now holding onto his waist as the bass thrummed in his chest, and this was exactly what he’d wanted, needed, when he’d fled Hawkins on a whim. He wasn’t alone and he certainly wasn’t lonely as those hands squeezed, blunt nails digging in for only a moment before they released themselves and smoothed their way up and down his sides.
He opened his eyes.
Those same dark ones stared back. He felt secure and somehow weightless at the same time, untethered, but still trapped — floating and pinned, despite the two feelings tugging against one another.
The man’s eyes twinkled in the dark and the strobe lights; greens and pinks and blues washing over him, the way his rings glinted and sparkled, his sweat catching the lights. He was glowing like deep sea glass underwater and Steve couldn’t look away again.
“Like what you see?” the man yelled, music reaching a loud crescendo as he fought to be heard. Steve nodded and, instead of competing with the noise, he reached out to drag the man closer — press his lips right up to the other’s ear. He hoped maybe his own breath against his skin was just as warm and sticky-sweet as Steve felt. He wanted to melt into the feeling, let it coat him entirely so he felt it even more when the stranger’s hands drew patterns through it.
“You come here often?” Steve asked, and the man laughed at his cheesy line.
“Apparently not often enough,” he said back, just shy of Steve’s earlobe. He could feel the space between them like electricity buzzing through a phone line.
Instead of wasting any more time, Steve grabbed the man’s hand from his waist and pulled him off of the dance floor, dragging him over to an empty section of the wall. He knew what he wanted, knew what he came for and what this man could give him, and he didn’t want to beat around the bush with flirtations when he could be following the man home instead.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he said once he didn’t have to compete with the music quite as much.
The other man chuckled, biting his lip like he wasn’t quite done playing with his prey before dinner. He hoped the man would get over it, would give in, would leave the teasing for the bedroom because Steve had plans, and if this man wanted dinner, Steve was ready to be eaten.
“You sure about following me somewhere else?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Steve questioned, practically whining, and the other man chuckled at his impatience. He seemed to like it, how desperate Steve was, how he had the most control of the situation and Steve could only sit by and let him take it over. He kind of wanted to see the other man begging a little, too. Later. Right now, Steve didn’t care how desperate he looked or felt, staring into the dark abyss of the other man’s eyes.
“Some people say I’m bad news, Sweetheart,” he said with a smirk, crowding into Steve’s space, and didn’t that sound like exactly what he wanted? Everything he said, everything he did, every touch and breath was just what Steve had been looking for when he sped past the Leaving Hawkins sign without a second glance.
“Maybe I’m looking for bad news, ever think of that?”
“Mmm, pretty boy like you sayin’ things like that. Daddy issues?” he asked, with a quirk of his head. His eyes were twinkling with each flash of the lights, and Steve couldn’t quite tell if he was flirting or making fun of him. It made him itch — lust, impatience and heat crawling up from inside of him.
“Don’t worry,” Steve stepped forward, gripping the front of his dark black shirt, “I have mommy issues, too.”
The man threw his head back and laughed, reaching down to cover Steve’s hand with his own.
“S’at right, Princess?”
Sweetheart, pretty boy, princess. It should piss Steve off, get him worked up like the other boys at his school, tossing around slurs in the locker rooms — but Steve found himself… compelled, almost. Worked up in a different way. He bit his lip, watching the man’s eyes trail over the movement, lids drooping, and Steve felt a split second of power bubbling up his throat. The pure desire floating through those dark eyes, trained exclusively on him like no one else was in this club, like no one else was in the world aside from Steve — it made him feel that deep, heavy loneliness crumble piece by piece. He knew it would build itself back up again in the morning; it would reassemble brick by brick, but right now, in the heat of another person’s gaze, Steve felt it all blow away like dust in the wind.
“Well alright, then,” he whispered, closing the gap between them like the crash of a wave to shore. Almost immediately, his heart calmed as relief washed through him. It was like finally learning you passed a test you thought you’d failed, or finding your way again after circling through unfamiliar streets, or wandering through a store as a child, confused and alone until you finally spot your mother again — and Steve really needed to stop thinking about shit like his mother when another man’s lips were moving against his — tongue trailing little licks against his bottom lip before the other man took it between his teeth and pulled.
Steve groaned into his mouth, pushing himself forward, pulling the black cotton t-shirt toward him, like he wanted to meld into one, make Steve Harrington disappear completely, if only for a moment. He opened his eyes, lips still moving against the stranger’s like he couldn’t get enough. His eyes were scrunched together, eyebrows drawn down in concentration and he looked desperate, hungry. Hungry for Steve.
Being with a man was different than the girls back in Hawkins. He had hooked up with guys a couple times before, just to see, just to know if it was the same — if it was worth it or if he’d just been temporarily curious. Men were rougher, more desperate in a way the girls never were. They were desperate for him to take charge, to push their soft bodies against the wall or the bed and take control, let him make the decisions, and they were so soft — sweet and gentle and Steve always had to guess at how much was too much, how much he should hold back, what would they like him to do?
But men were different, with their hard lines and fast pace, they fought for control, pressed against him like they wanted him to feel it, and he did. He could stop thinking, stop worrying, and just melt into the feeling of weight against him, holding him down and taking what they wanted. The alcohol helped, made him feel so floaty he could just drift away into the feeling of hot and hard and aching and wanting. The other man’s teeth bit into his lip again and Steve groaned, loud enough that he could hear it over the pounding bass of the speakers.
“Come on, Sweetheart,” the man pulled away, taking Steve’s hand and squeezing with the promise of more, “Follow me.”
Steve nodded, biting his lip to chase the feeling of the other man’s teeth. His apartment wasn’t far, just a block away, and Steve was grateful because he didn’t know how much longer he could wait before jumping back into the man’s orbit. It felt charged as they walked, a few inches between them because the club was one thing, but the middle of the street was something else entirely.
They kept sharing glances, wicked eyes locked on what they could do behind closed doors, how they could bring each other to the brink. Steve felt like he was one touch away from losing it, and the cool night air was a good cleanse to pull him back to something manageable.
The click of the apartment door was a live wire zipping up Steve’s spine. He was shoved against it, slamming a little too hard, a little too rough, and he couldn’t even think as those lips were pressed against his for the second time. Every slide of his tongue went straight to Steve’s dick, the only thoughts flashing through his head were more, and harder, and fuck.
Hands gripped against his sides and Steve pushed harder against him, tugged at the cotton of his shirt like he was trying to start a fight.
“God, you’re begging for it, huh?” the stranger grumbled out, voice rough and breathy before he crashed his lips back onto Steve’s. He bit down on the man’s lower lip instead of answering, hoping the tug and the pull and the bite would read as yes and god and please.
The push and pull was exactly what Steve was looking for, hands digging into his hips to hold him in place. He couldn’t wait to see the bruises tomorrow morning — hoped they travelled all along his sides, hoped he’d feel them on his thighs next.
He tugged at the man’s shirt, pulling the hem up so he could dive underneath and scratch at his chest. He swallowed the groan he received in response. Another press against the door and Steve could feel the man’s bulge against his — pressing and grinding and dragging against the seam of his jeans, hot and aching, just like Steve.
“Fuck,” he breathed into the other man’s mouth, “bedroom.”
“Yeah?” the stranger whispered, “You want me to take you? You want me to stretch you open and fill you back up?”
“Fuck,” Steve hissed again, digging his nails into the man’s chest, pushing him back — not pushing away, not to create distance, but to move past the entryway. Unless he wanted to fuck Steve against the door, which he wouldn’t be opposed to, though he would like to go for more than one round and a bed was more convenient. Hell, the couch was fine — Steve wasn’t picky.
The man chuckled and pulled on Steve’s waist, shuffling awkwardly through the living room without parting too far.
“Need you naked,” Steve whined as they stumbled forward, breath hot against his face as the other man laughed.
“Anything you want, Sweetheart.”
The tumble through the apartment was like a war zone, a clumsy dance of limbs and hands and tugging and pushing. Steve had a brief thought of wrestling with Tommy in the living room as kids, a mess of tangled limbs that struck a little too hard, a little too blunt, and suddenly he was being pushed back onto a soft mattress, the stranger pulling his knees apart to settle between them.
He could feel the hard press of his cock against Steve’s thigh, feel the warmth through their layers of denim and cotton briefs. Steve was sure his lips were red and swollen, spit-slicked and shiny like he’d just applied lip gloss, and he wanted to feel more — feel the skin of this man against his, feel their sweat damp chests press together without the layers between them, let the thoughts fade as he gave in to each feeling.
He pulled away, nearly elbowing the man in the face as he yanked off his shirt and threw it onto the floor somewhere. His movements were still sticky with the syrupy feeling of alcohol lingering in his bloodstream, and the room kind of swam around him but not in a bad way, not in a nauseous way, though it still made him dizzy with it — honey lingering thick in the air between them as Steve crashed their lips together again.
He could push harder, catch his lip against the other man’s teeth, press recklessly until he tasted the copper slick of blood in his mouth. But he didn’t. He thought maybe that was too much, even for men, maybe he was fucked up beyond repair, or maybe it’s at least something they should talk about first. He didn’t want to freak out his hookup before they even got to the good stuff.
It wasn’t long before the rest of their clothes were discarded, floating somewhere in the sea of floorboards beneath them as Steve drifted in and out of solid thought. His hips were aching already, and each time the stranger let go and grabbed again, he felt the ache just a little deeper, a little tighter, a little more tender at each fingertip as they made his blood cells bloom to the surface.
“God, fuck, look at you,” the man whispered reverently against his collarbone. He scraped his teeth along Steve’s chest, nosing along the hair he found there until he dipped lower, lower, each drag against skin zipping straight to his gut, his balls, his toes the closer the other man got to his destination . He felt like he was going insane, breath ghosting against his pelvis, sending lightning straight up his spine.
Warm lips wrapped around the head of his cock, soft tongue dipping into the slit and licking, sucking. He could feel the vibrations as the man moaned around him, vision flashing white at the edges for just a moment as he squeezed his eyes shut tight. He wasn’t wasting any time, getting straight to sucking Steve down to the base. He sank into it, like the comforter underneath him was liquid, rising around him as he sank down into the mattress, drowning, floating, drifting. He was taken by the current as fingers trailed along his thighs, pulling him apart, hips groaning with the stretch.
He whined, shoving his fingers into the sheets, gripping tight until his knuckles protested the effort.
The man pulled off without warning, cold air against his spit-slicked dick sending shivers down his spine. He whined again, kicking his legs out to try and pull the man back in. It didn’t work, but it did make the soft hands against his thighs grip tighter until Steve felt the pin pricks of blunt nails dig into the meat there, holding him open, forcing his legs apart.
“You’re trying to push me, huh Princess?”
Steve gasped as the man blew cold air against his hot skin, twitching against the hands that refused to give him an inch. His eyes were still squeezed shut, brows furrowed as he sank again. He felt like the man had just pushed him off a building, no longer drifting out to sea — he was free falling, heart in his throat with nowhere to land as the man let go of his thighs completely and crawled up his body. He slotted their hips together, Steve twitching against the slide of skin, both of them hot against his belly.
He could feel the pressure building already, the suggestion of what was to come tight at the edges of his consciousness. He hadn’t even been touched by the other man’s hands yet, and he was already so wound up. He let his mind drift again, pulled by the honey in his veins, succumbing to the floaty feeling — the soft wet press of lips against his throat as he tried to pull himself back from the brink.
It was only a few more seconds until the first wave of pleasure washed over him. Blood rushed in his ears like his brain had been reduced to liquid, the stranger above him groaning sweetly into his mouth, hands tightening on his hips and pulling another whine right out of Steve’s throat.
It was easy, after that, to sink even more, to let it blend together, just a blur of hands gripping and pulling him wherever they wanted, while his mind drifted away and just felt. Skin stuck to skin, air thick and warm like the air inside the club had been. He didn’t know how many times they’d come or if the man had said anything else to him in his haze. Steve could only hang on for the ride and hope with every sharp sting that he’d have marks to show for it.
By the time his head had cleared, he was already wiped clean and tucked in, the stranger at his back already on his way to sleep.
Steve tried to follow his lead, he really did. But the longer he laid there in silence — the only sounds permeating the room, little breaths from the man next to him, and the whir of a cheap fan — the more anxious he became. His head was starting to pound as more of the alcohol wore away and his mouth was full of cotton.
There was a buzzing in his chest as the fog cleared with every quiet second, an itching inside his legs like thousands of ants were crawling up from his toes. He wiggled them, trying to dispel the feeling, and took a deep breath to calm the buzzing in his chest.
It didn’t work.
He felt like his heart was going to swell, take up all the space he had inside, and crush his lungs until he couldn’t breathe anymore. The itching crawled up to his knees. He wanted to pull his toes off, like maybe not having any limbs at all would make the itching go away. Another deep breath, trying to match the sound of steady breathing coming from behind him.
It still didn’t work.
Steve couldn’t even figure out why he was so anxious all of a sudden. He had a good night, a fun time; he was exhausted and aching and satisfied, and it felt great. He’d laughed and smiled, he could still feel the brush of another person's lips on his, so why did he feel like his toes were hanging off the edge of a cliff and the earth was giving way under his feet?
He couldn’t stay there when the urge to run was coursing through his limbs. The man probably wouldn’t mind him slipping out without a goodbye, it wasn’t like that was unusual for a hookup. Steve sighed, sitting up gently so as not to disturb the sleeping man next to him, and reached for his clothes. It would be a shitty drive back to Hawkins, but he clearly wasn’t getting any sleep tonight anyway.
He’d figure out how to spend the rest of his spring break tomorrow, cooped up in his big empty house, friendless and untethered to anyone that could wash his loneliness away. At least, as he bent to retrieve his pants, he felt the sting in his back and the ache in his limbs like he wanted. It would help a little — remind him that he hadn’t been alone, at least for a few hours, at least enough to feel some stranger’s touch and hands around his waist, at least enough to leave a few marks as proof.
He looked back at the nameless stranger one more time, the man’s face buried in his pillow, hair a mess of curls and tangles he knew would be a bitch to comb out in the morning. He smiled, happy he found someone good, someone he hoped to see again some time as he turned to leave.
Maybe he’d go back to the club next weekend, see if he could find those piercing eyes in the crowd and feel the hot grip of his hands around his waist. For now, he pressed his own fingertips into the deep red marks, hoping to feel them for a while, turn his skin to purples and blues that could follow him into the next time, if there was a next time.
He hoped there’d be a next time.