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Unwilling muse [Rowan x Fletcher]

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Offline Beejoux

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Unwilling muse [Rowan x Fletcher]
« on: January 18, 2020, 07:19:37 PM »
The party was exceptional. Even after two days, the crowd was wild and enthusiastic; the alcohol flowed, as did the food, and the sweets; music thrummed through every inch of the warehouse. It had been converted into spaces that could be used for whatever people wanted or needed. Downstairs, in the biggest open area, a dance floor, where the bass beat pounded off of the floor and echoed off of the ceiling and people thrashed to the sound. The bar in one corner was staffed -- by a couple of people who looked a bit bewildered but willing enough. Beau himself held court in one of the upper rooms, an open space filled with couches and tables, just quiet enough for conversation but still twined through with music.

In the back, games, enough room for whatever people wanted to do. At one point, there'd been an impromptu flag football. Tonight, it was cards, set up on the floor, and spirits were high.

And, of course, there was a quieter area, too. A place where people who'd imbibed too much -- or imbibed something strange -- could curl up on couches or cushions and relax, melt into the floorboards or fill their appetites.

It was exactly the sort of party a person going through an emotional upheaval would dive right into, and that's what Fletcher Lewis had done.  Two months after the separation of his band, five weeks after his last attempts to get Mal to change his mind and come back, and it was safe to say the bassist wasn't handling it all that well.

Being sober meant facing a crumbling reality, so the redhead had been doing everything in his power to avoid it.  Pills were his preferred, but when those weren't available he'd turn to drink, and when things got really bad he'd jump down the rabbit hole with something stronger.  Here it was easy enough to find all three.  It was the entire reason he'd bothered with showing up.

Problem was the entire scene reminded him painfully of parties he'd go to with Mal and Lacey, and for the last twenty-four...ish hours he'd be stuck in a vicious cycle of being blitzed out of his mind and a complete emotional wreck.

At some point he'd found his way, or been led, to the quiet room with the couches and the cushions.  He was curled up on the latter now, shirtless somehow, with his boots unlaced and his hair a complete rumpled mess, but he was sleeping, finally.

Or maybe passed out.

This wasn't a safe place to pass out. It was wild, it was fun, but the one thing it wasn't was safe. Beau Eastoft had invited everyone and everything he knew, and that included unsavories. Even just a few days into it, there had already been one girl who woke up with a strange hickey and a sense of disorientation.

He did nothing about it. He was just the guy who made the place happen, not the boss. He didn't have control over this thing, he'd just given it life.

So it was a miracle that Fletcher wasn't eaten up and spit out again -- that instead he got the opportunity to sleep for a while. Hours, if he wanted. All day, if he needed. And when he woke up, the quiet room would be mostly empty.

There were two girls off in one corner having an intense, quiet conversation, one of them half in tears. There were a handful of other people dozing draped over each other, in warm piles. There was, inexplicably, a giant dog that looked almost like a wolf with its head on a young man's knee.

And perched in a chair right beside Fletcher, dressed in dark green and gold paisley with a black tie and very expensive black loafers crossed near Fletcher's face, was a young man, nursing a drink the same bright green as his eyes.

It was one thing to wake up in a strange place you didn't recognize when the body beside you was warm and familiar and grounding.  It was quite another when it was a stranger, or in this case, the was no one else there.  Sort of.

Fletcher blinked blearily at the pair of pricey shoes a few inches from his face, tipped his head back to follow the legs attached to them up to the body they belonged to, and winced as a spike of pain shot through his temples.  "Fuck, ow."  An obvious hangover.

"You should drink more water,” said the man with what was probably absinthe -- settled lightly on his knee, now, the glass elegant and old fashioned. It suited him, in his suit and tie, with long hair bound into a complicated arrangement down his spine and silver rings on three of his fingers. But more so his face, too pretty -- and a bit hard to look away from.

He rolled, groaning as he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.  It stretched him thin, showered off all that lean, long body.  Pale and littered with freckles, with a splash of a water color tattoo on his collarbone.

Moving felt like a challenge.  "That'd be great, do you have some?"  He dropped his hands, the pain subsiding enough to finally look up at the owner of the voice and that too made him blink, startled maybe.

"Do I look like your butler?" He smiled as he said it, though, a little quirk of his lips; wry and mocking. After a breath, his eyes cut away, around the room. If they'd been somewhere busier, he might have summoned someone to come help. But as it was, the place was too quiet. There wasn't really anyone to boss around.

"Not a butler, no."  His nose wrinkled as he said it, almost a smile.  "Hallucination, maybe."  He didn't look quite real.  Too pretty, too coordinated.  Like high fashion and high fantasy had a bender one night and this mystery man was the result.

With a yawn Fletcher smoothed both hands through his hair to tame it back, then moved to fold them over his chest, only to blink and lift his head enough to look down at himself.  "What happened to my shirt..?"  He'd had one before, or at least he thought he had.  That questioning thought showed loud and clear across pinched features before the angle got the better of him and he had to lower his head again.

"You never had one, so long as I've been here." His eyes raked down as he said it, over the freckles on Fletcher's stomach, just a smidge lower, and then back up again. "It was part of the appeal."


"How long have you been here?"  And how long had Fetcher been out?  He didn't have a clue.  Did he have his phone on him still?  With a thoughtful frown he patted at his sides until he felt the familiar shape of the thin phone in one of the back pockets.  He didn't bother digging it out, instead looking back up at the man with the bright green eyes.  "What day is it?"

"Monday." He sipped at his drink, rolling his shoulders a bit and adjusting his posture; legs just a little more spread, head tipped so hair spilled over his shoulder, rings tapping against the glass. "It's after dark. What are you on?"

"Shit."  He'd been there longer than he’d thought.  Longer than it felt like, honestly.

The second question required a bit of thought, a bit of focusing on his own body before he flicked baby blues up again.  "Nothing currently, I don't think."  He didn't feel high or drunk or impaired in any way, which was a bit problematic.  "But uh, molly, I think.  I don't remember."

"Water, then." He flicked his eyes toward the corner -- there was a table with cakes and cookies and donuts on it. Or what had once been; by now, most of them had been dug into, broken in half, or squashed. "There's a little fridge over there."

It might as well have been a mile away with the way Fletcher stared across the room at it after rolling into his stomach.  Water meant clarity, and he didn't want that.  However, he also wanted his head to stop hurting enough to go find something to drink, or snort, or swallow.

Rising up on hands and knees was a task and came with a mumbled "fuck me," as the world tilted a little.  But he did eventually get to his feet, stumbling only a little, and catching himself on the back of the chair the mystery man was sitting in.

It made him smile, just a tiny bit: a quirk of his mouth that was hard to read, his head tilted back to look up at Fletcher. "You should get me something sweet, too."

He'd do it unquestioningly, bright eyes scanning the table for anything left that might be appealing even as he got himself a bottle of water from the fridge.  The only thing left that hadn't been picked over completely or demolished were a few lingering bonbons, so the bassist grabbed one(white chocolate with red sprinkles), offering it down to the other man as he made his way back to the cushions with the intent to return to bonelessly sprawling.

There was a definite glitter in his eyes as he tipped his head back and opened his mouth.

That made him stop, brows arching as he looked down.  "Oh."  Not exactly normal, but there was very little about the party that was, and as far as Fletch could remember the people in attendance ran a bit on the unique side.

So it didn't seem that strange, holding the treat close enough to brush the bud of the other man's lower lip so he could take a bite.

He took the whole thing, instead, and a nip of Fletcher's fingers, absently crossing one ankle over the other man’s foot. And the point of contact was -- lulling, soothing. It made the edges of things go a little sparkly.

The nip was a little startling, made his hand twitch without jerking back, but he did give the man in green a questioning look.

And he did feel better.  Not great, but better than he'd woken up, but he'd attribute that to just getting up and moving around.

"I know you." He spoke around the mouthful, which was an odd contrast to his put together elegance. "Don't I?"

With his hands free again he cracked the bottle open and took a drink, considering how to answer that question.  "Possibly, depends on what kind of music you listen to, or if you pay attention to social media news..."

"Social media news." He said it with a flicker of disgust behind it, chewing and swallowing -- and reached up, idly, to undo his tie. It put a healthy dose of smooth neck on display.

Blue eyes dipped inexorably down, and Fletcher seemed to lose track of what they were talking about for a moment.  "Um."  He frowned, brows creasing and eyes closing before finally getting back on track.  "I'm a bassist, the band I was in was all over social media a few months back."  Which was as much as he was going to say about it willingly.

"Oh, yes." He swiped at the corner of his mouth, too -- there was nothing there, but he did it anyway -- and then washed down the last of the sweet with a good sip of his drink. "And now you're here, destroying brain cells to forget."

His attention twitched up to his mouth, but he turned away at the question with a small, inarticulate sort of noise.  Which was as good a confirmation as words, and had the benefit of being the truth.

"Do you have enough to spare?" He smiled again as he said it, maybe to take the sting out. It didn't entirely work.

That pulled him back around and he looked down at the man with a gauging, thoughtful look as the fingers of his left hand sank into his front pocket. "I think that'd depend on what you're after, high wise."

When his own eyes dragged down, it was slow and unabashed -- raking over Fletcher's belly button and down to where his hand disappeared into his pockets. "I wasn't expecting you to expound on Socrates and Plato."

Oblivious though Fletcher may be, he hadn't missed that, and color darkened pale cheeks and the long line of his neck.  It made him laugh, a little awkward, self conscious huff of something that wasn't quite amusement, but he pulled the little baggy of brightly colored pills from his pocket.  "I mean, if you like uppers I've got plenty to share."

"Oh, honey." His smile shifted all at once, surprised and amused. He set his glass down and leaned forward a little. "I was talking about the brain cells."

He hadn't caught the joke, not until the other man pointed it out, and the blush darkened, gaze skirting away. "Oh, heh.." It wasn't something he would have missed before, but he was very certainly not at his best lately.  Sleep deprived, strung out, broken.

Rowan hooked two fingers into one of the straps on Fletcher's pants to draw him in a step closer. "Those'll serve in a pinch, but I bet I could do better."

It was unexpected for a number of reasons and the bassist stumbled a little, pitching forward, before catching himself on the chair over the other man's shoulders.  Little baggy still held between long fingers.  "Really?  This shits pretty strong."  Not arguing, bantering.

"I already ate all that sugar, I'm not sure I want to put more junk into my body." As he said it, he trailed fingers lightly down Fletcher's abdomen. It prickled and softened the edges of things again, drew all focus onto him.

There wasn't a whole lot he could say about that, which was just fine with how completely distracting the soft downward trail of those fingers along freckled skin was.  It would have shut him up pretty effectively regardless.

The muscles in his stomach jumped, goosebumps rolling up along his sides and down his arms.  Fletcher said nothing, did nothing.  Stood still and quiet, eyes following the motion of the mystery man's hand.

He smiled again, his own eyes going up to Fletcher's face and eyebrows raised just a little. "I have an hour or two."

An hour or two of distraction.  A chance to hand over control and care and worries and just let go.  Fletcher licked his lips as he thought it over, not that there was much to think about.  "Where?"

His smile widened just a touch, fingers still grazing light -- hot -- at the top of Fletcher's waistband. "You've been in a limo before, I'm sure."

He pushed with his fingertips to shift himself back just a little, enough to make it easier to watch those warm fingers teasing low on his stomach.  "Mmhmm."

He hooked his hand into the front of Fletcher's pants, then, and used it to haul himself upright -- which meant he was pressed flushed against him, chin tipped just a little, not quite mouth to mouth. "I could call one around."

He shivered at the slip of warm fingers against bare skin, arms tensing to brace against the other man pulling himself up.  Chest to chest the blonde was shorter, but that didn't matter.  There was an energy about him that Fletcher found incredibly appealing.  Familiar in all the best ways.

"Whatever works best for you."  And he meant it, not unfamiliar with exhibition when the situation fell in that direction.

"It's dirty here." He caught Fletcher's jaw in surprisingly strong fingers to tip his head, to take in the lines of his cheeks -- the color of his eye. It wasn't quite the way someone might look at a horse, but it was close. "And I can fetch you a new shirt."

The strength and command in those almost delicate seeming hands struck a chord with the bassist, and he moved easily, pliant.  Breath catching and eyes lidded.  "Whatever you want."  It'd thrown an internal switch, established clear roles, and Fletcher had always been so very good at following directions and order.

His smile went shark like as he pushed Fletcher back one step from the chair, off-balance. But he was also strong enough to keep him upright. "Do you sing, as well?"

Fingers slipped from the back of the chair to light on paisley print shoulders as he was pushed, balance off, back arched.  "Yes."

"Maybe I want to hear you sing, then." One more breath of them near flush against each other, Fletcher's skin prickling everywhere they touched, before he pulled away -- sliding off his tie and tucking it into his pocket. Briefly, he pointed to where the vintage glass sat near one leg of the chair. "Pick up my glass."

He'd do it, holding the glass carefully in thin fingers.  A little breathless, a little dazed, and if his pants hadn't been so tight and restrictive more than a little excited.

With a little distance he could breath again though, and he tucked his water under his arm so he could stash the molly back in his pocket.

His new friend was already starting for the exit -- stepping over the wolf-like dog and undoing the top button of his shirt as well. But he'd pause at the doorway to beckon Fletcher after with two fingers.

Fletcher was watching him with his head tilted, brows arched as his focus dipped to the undone button, the tie in his pocket.  A man that didn't believe in wasting time, so it seemed.  That was fine.  The redhead fell into step behind him after the beckon, unscrewing the cap of his water so he could take another, longer drink.

"Tell me your name." It wasn't quite a question -- and it came with a sideways slant of his eyes back toward Fletcher that was sly.

"Fletcher," he chuckled lowly.  "But you already knew that."  Maybe he'd just wanted to hear Fletch say it, though.  A power play.  Didn't matter.

"Fletcher what?" It was smooth. Maybe he genuinely didn't know the details, or didn't remember. He dug out a phone as he headed toward the back door.

The music was louder as they moved through the warehouse, and Fletcher looked like he might have forgotten where exactly he was.  That it was a party, and there were more people around than just the man in the suit and himself.  It distracted him a bit, slowed his answer.  "Lewis."

"Fletcher Lewis." Even through the noise, his voice cut: and when he said Fletcher's name, it was like chimes. Like a promise, or like a bargain. He licked his lower lip as he got a side door into the alley.

There music faded, or seemed to, the volume less overwhelming as he followed in the shorter man's wake.  "What do I call you?"  Names weren't always necessary, but there was a symmetry to tit for tat.

That got a little rumble of a laugh, a look shown over his shoulder toward Fletcher. Outside it was -- quiet. Shockingly so. Quieter than it should have been, like there was a bubble, almost, around the place. "Do you need something?"

A frown appeared when it seemed his question would go unanswered, replaced instead by another.  "Need?"  The quietness that closed around them as they stepped outside was almost deafening, certainly startling.  Fletch glanced up at the building, head cocked at a thoughtful angle as he tried to puzzle out how that was possible.  It was an old building, it shouldn't have been that soundproof.

"What would you call me if you were writing a song?" He tucked the phone back into his pocket and half-turned to just watch Fletcher.

"Hmm."  It was an odd request, and almost anyone else probably would have pointed that out.  Instead, Fletcher seemed to consider it, gaze going unfocused as he leaned back against the wall, one hand hovering before him with the tips of thin fingers twitching out a beat.  Like he was hearing music that had nothing to do with the soft echoes of bass he could just barely pick up from the warehouse behind him.

His head cocked, lips parting, and after a moment of this baby blues sharpened back into focus, glancing down at the glass in his hand before looking up to the other man.  "Absinthe."  A fingernail tapped softly against glass.  "Not for the obvious reason."

"Not exclusively for the obvious reason." He slid his hands into his pockets, head tipped -- just waiting, quietly, like he was chewing it over. There was a rumble from the end of the alley, and that finally made him move, head turned to take in the limo on the street. White, of course. "You can use it for now."


Offline Beejoux

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Re: Unwilling muse [Rowan x Fletcher]
« Reply #1 on: January 18, 2020, 07:21:51 PM »
It just added to the mystery, another layer of intrigue that might have been comical but there was something that kept it from that.  Something Fletcher couldn't quite put his finger on, but also didn't really try.  It didn't matter.  "Whatever you say."  A small smile tugged at the redhead's lips, hand lifting to push his hair back again.

He watched as the limo turned down the alley and headed towards them.

It was probably the flicker of amusement on -- well, Absinthe's -- face as he took it in. Then he beckoned Fletcher along again toward the limo. A tall, androgynous driver got the door for him, giving Fletcher a disdainful look as they got in.

It was more than a little reckless, getting into the back of stranger's car, but reckless seemed to be the flavor of the...well, it'd been a reckless choice to join a band on a whim in the first place, and he'd been making them ever since.  Seemed a little late to reign it all in now, especially when distractions were so damn necessary to the pathetic state of his mental health.

They were helping.  If he believed it enough it'd be true.

He shared a long glance with the driver as he climbed inside, that disdainful expression, and wondered idly if it was his shirtless state, the no doubt strung out appearance, or something else entirely that gave them that soured look.

It was a big limo. He'd already settled into one corner, legs sprawled out and posture casual, by the time Fletcher climbed in after him. The door closed decisively, and as it did, Absinthe rolled up the divider. "Do you need a drink?"

He couldn't stand, and there was no graceful way to back to the corner Absinthe had made himself comfortable.  "Do you want a drink?"  He moved carefully, a hand trailing along the roof as he approached.

"No." It was decisive; he spread his knees a bit wider, considering Fletcher through lowered lashes. "I don't think you need one either. Here." And with that, he pointed to the floor between his knees. It would be a tight fit.

Crawling was easier anyways.

He dropped to his knees with the commend, embracing the comfort and security that came from adopting a submissive role.  And in this he could be graceful, shoulders rolling as he crawled the last few feet across the floor of the limo to rise up on his knees between Absinthe's spread legs.

He curled a hand into Fletcher's hair to draw him closer, tipping his head in to speak very near his ear -- "Fletcher Lewis" -- and again, when he said it, it had something behind it, something which charged the air. It had command behind it. "Most rock stars aren't this well behaved."

Fingers in his hair made him groan, softly, and he planted his hands on the seat to either side of the other man's hips as he was drawn in, skin flushed, breath catching as the sound of his name brought a rush of eager excitement.  "I guess I'm a little different."

"You're different enough."  It was casually dismissive; it was a backhanded compliment; maybe it'd work on Fletcher, too. Especially when Absinthe tipped his head to finally steal a kiss, rough.

Fletcher didn't exactly have the highest opinion of himself to start.  It'd grown with the band and personal and professional praise that'd come with it, but the rejection of their singer had cut the legs right out from under him--lower now than ever before.

So the words didn't sting, hardly even registered as the man with the unnaturally beautiful eyes finally leaned in to kiss him, and it was breath stealing.  It made him groan against soft lips, startled by the rough intensity of it with next to no warning, and the bassist arched to press more fully against him.

He let it play out briefly -- fingers still curled under Fletcher's chin to hold him still while Absinthe took control of the kiss. And then all at once he pushed Fletcher back, a quick little shove, and leaned into the corner of the seat. "Impress me."

It was hard and greedy, and everything the bassist liked in a kiss, and it ended too soon.  He dropped back to sit on his heels, breathless, maybe even a little buzzed, but that couldn't have been the case.

Breathing heavily, he looked up at Absinthe, fingers curling against the leather of the seat.  "Can I undo your pants?"  It was a genuine question, ginger brows arched.  "Unbutton your shirt?"

"If you need to." Which was a challenge, in its way: but with that tight flash of a smile behind it, and a light behind his eyes.

Only then did his hands turn to smooth over the outside of either suit clad thigh, nails pressing in enough to be felt but not enough to cause harm to either the man or his expensive slacks.  He followed the line of his hips inward to the buckle of Absinthe's belt to nimbly draw the leather free of the pin.  The button at the top of his slacks was next, but there he shifted gears.

Instead of going directly for the fly he moved his attention upward instead to draw his shirt free, working his way up the buttons, hands smoothing inside and along the smaller man's waist, marvelling at the warmth.

He was very warm; warmer than he should have been, maybe, almost feverish, and he smelled like greenery. Whatever scent he'd put on was perfectly matched to a forest in summer, slightly damp leaves and fading flowers. It went with his eyes. While Fletcher worked he leaned back a little, slow, to pry his phone free and set it on the windowsill.

Absinthe didn't look impressed, but his skin prickled under Fletcher's fingers.

Warm enough he didn't want to stop touching, and it showed in the lingering way his hands roamed before he drew them back again to work his way up the rest of the shirt buttons until he could spread the shirt open.  He'd leaned in as well, rising up on his knees again, as he bent to trail his lips just above the line of a hip bone.  He settled his hands on Absinthe's thighs for balance.

It wasn't a normal scent for soap or cologne or any number of other things, but it was perfect.  Fletcher wanted to rub his cheek against Absinthe's skin, and only barely just resisted it.

Here, too, it was smooth and pale, milk and cream; where Fletcher was freckled, he didn't have so much as a spot. While Fletcher worked, he spread his knees a bit wider, sank down a bit deeper in his seat.

And then, casually, started to pour himself a drink.

Fletcher was either too caught up in Absinthe to really notice the man pouring himself a drink, or didn't mind.  There'd been no command to hurry him along as of yet, no move to stop his exploration, and in his opinion the shorter man was worth taking his time to explore.  (Given the opportunity.)

His lips tingled where they touched as he worked his way up from the flat of his stomach and along his chest.  He glanced up only once, a quick flick of blue eyes, before he shifted his attention to one pale nipple, his tongue sliding in a slow, lingering circle around it before he started to suck and nibble and tease.

That got a little breath out and green eyes drawn back down onto Fletcher's face. This time, what Absinthe poured was clear and sparkling, light and fizzy. He curled one hand around the base of the glass and slowly tangled the other in Fletcher's hair.

It was a light touch, to start, just a gentle comb of perfectly-manicured fingers. Then he curled them tighter, a grip on Fletcher's head to guide his movements.

He tipped his had as much as he was able to back against the soft brush if fingers, but his focus stayed on Absinthe's nipple, tongue swirling and lips sucking.  Even an edge of teeth, light at first, but more if received well.

Even when the smaller man's fingers tightened he didn't stop, but his breath caught, hands tensing against the tops of his thighs.  There'd be no resistance against that guiding hand, wherever Absinthe moved him he'd go, willing and eagerly.

Down -- down in a matter of fact kind of way because that was what they were here for, wasn't it? Not desperate, or concerned, just bossy and direct.

It came with another brief caress of fingers at the back of Fletcher's head, though, reassuring. And Absinthe was watching him, now, through narrowed eyes.


Offline Beejoux

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Re: Unwilling muse [Rowan x Fletcher]
« Reply #2 on: January 18, 2020, 07:24:49 PM »
[ Section redacted ]

Hands tensed, not quite pushing away, and then the pressure was gone and Fletcher was able to lift his head, a ragged breath filling his chest as he fall backward almost bonelessly against the floor of the limo.  His tongue made a sweep across his lips, a hand moving up lazily to rub at his jaw as he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, and his eyes were closed.

Another person might have protested, complained, rolled back up to pursue some manner of reciprocation.  Fletcher lay there breathing heavily, buzzed.

Absinthe was quiet for a count of ten or twenty before he took another long drag of his drink -- and then leaned forward, slow and careful, still a bit boneless, to tip the glass in toward Fletcher's lips in offering.

"Are you one of these millennials that needs praise constantly to survive?" Nevermind that Absinthe looked almost the same age as him.

It was the sound of Absinthe's voice so close that had him opening his eyes again and he blinked at the proximity of the offered glass before lifting his head enough to accept a drink.  And to his surprise it was cold, sweet and smooth.

He let his head fall back against the floor as he swallowed, and made a sound that was almost a laugh but not quite.  "That tastes almost as good as you do."

"Hmm, flattery." But it didn't sound displeased, just considering. After a moment, he reached out to stroke hair out of Fletcher's face. It was almost like petting a dog. "Well done, then."

Another laugh, lighter this time, and he tipped his head against the petting fingers, an easy smile on his face.  "Is there more of that?"  That being the wine.

And now he seemed to notice they were moving, and he tipped his head back to look at what little of the passing landscape he could see out the nearest window.  "Where are we going?"  Not that he sounded concerned.  More curious.

"Circling, for the moment." He considered for a moment -- downed the rest of the glass -- and then reached for the bottle. He didn't offer it over; instead he held it out for Fletcher to drink, while he set to putting his clothes back together one-handed. "I don't trust the area to leave a car like this alone."

"Ah."  It made sense so he didn't question it.  Granted, he probably wouldn't have anyways.  Instead he lifted his head again to drink eagerly, refreshed by the chill and the sweetness.

Absinthe set the bottle down carefully and reached down to touch Fletcher again -- his face, and then the freckles on his shoulder, low on his belly. The touch tingled and flared. "You're a disaster of a human being, aren't you?"

He licked his lips as the bottle was drawn away, twitching in an almost grin that faded to interest as Absinthe moved over him, hands on his face, his shoulder, his stomach.  His breath hitched, easing out a second later in a shaking rush.  "Probably I am."  There wasn't much point in denying something that obvious.

"Pretty, though." He took a swig himself, several long swallows. The stuff was strong, and he was small, but it didn't seem to be going to his head. "If you weren't so damaged, and if I knew where you'd been, maybe I'd take you home."

Another laugh, and this one started as upbeat and the rest but the humor drained after a beat, smile fading into emptiness, gaze sliding away and out of focus.  "Wise of you."  The wine was making him fuzzy, already, loosening his tongue.

He reached out after a moment to brush finger down the bridge of Fletcher's nose. "I bet you clean up nice."

A long blink at the brush of warmth down his nose and as he opened his eyes again he turned his head to look up at the other man, let the image of that lovely face fill his vision and his focus.

His thumb smoothed over Fletcher's lower lip, pressing in idly. "But I think you're too far gone to be much use now."

His tongue flicked out to moisten the tip, freckled features sober despite the obvious buzz.

"If you cleaned up, though..." He let the thought trail off, eyes narrowed. "...well. Alas."

Cleaned up.

The muscles around his eyes contracted, brows pinching.  He had a shitty poker face, every emotion sliding across his features, eyes, even body language.

It was hot now, unpleasantly, color spreading across his face and down his neck.

He sat back finally, sipping at his wine - and pushed the button to crack the separator to talk to the driver. "One more lap?"

Fletcher used the space to pull in a deep breath, letting it go slowly, hands coming up to smooth the mess of red hair back a little more neatly as he stared up at the roof of the limo.  His head felt like it was swimming.  Like he was three drinks into a wild night, but he couldn't be drunk, not off two drinks of wine.

Two drinks of wine and Absinthe's touch. The driver murmured something in return and he laughed, settling back to look down at Fletcher. "Did I promise you a shirt?"

He let his arms drop to the floor above his head.  "I think you mentioned something about one."  Everything felt a little spinny, a little floaty, but not in a bad way.  If not for the sting of Absinthe's words from a moment before he might even have been giddy.  "How strong is that wine?"

"Inhumanly strong." He thought about it, then set to stripping out of his own jacket to undo the cuffs of his shirt. "Magic is heady."

"Magic, huh?"  It didn't seem he could help the way his attention lingered on the way the other man’s shoulders moved as he took off the jacket.  "I guess that'd explain why it feels like I've been drinking for the last hour," he huffed softly, amused.  And either he was taking the knowledge of magic being real very well, or didn't think Absinthe was being serious.

"And why most of this will likely feel like a dream tomorrow." He undid the buttons methodically and then shrugged out of his shirt, pulling the cuff links free.

He made a sound in response, but whatever he might have said was lost as his attention dipped from Absinthe's face to his bare chest and the sweep of his shoulders.  Captivated.

The movements were graceful in a matter of fact way. He folded the shirt in half - tie still in the front pocket - and then sat back, holding it out toward Fletcher on one finger. Likely, it would be snug. But it smelled like him, all greenery and a warm breeze.


A flicker of disappointment swept across his face as he finally sat up, reaching for the shirt, before he could drop his gaze to the tie peeking out of the front pocket.  For a moment he considered not saying anything, then he drew it free, silk sliding between his fingers.  "Do you want this back?"

There was a beat, assessing -- he pulled his jacket back on while he thought it over. "If you can figure out how to return it, I'll be very impressed."

His hand lowered, a puzzled look on his face as he watched the smaller man pull the jacket back on over his naked torso.  He wanted to reach out, to slide his hands up the pale line of his chest to feel the warm tingling against his palms again.  He wanted it bad enough he curled his fingers tightly into the fabric in his hands.  "I don't know what that means."

"You'll think on it, then. Or maybe you won't." The car slowed. He slowly screwed the lid back onto his bottle of wine.

It didn't clarify it for him at all, but that seemed to be the point.  Fletcher looked from him to the window as the limo slowed, and finally rolled up onto his knees with a resigned sigh, pushing up to sit on the edge of the nearest seat.

"Put it on." He wanted to see how it fit -- which was, probably, not very good. It'd be okay if he left it open.

He gave Absinthe a long look, hands shifting to fold the tie small again so he could slid it into the front pocket of his pants.  Then shook out the shirt, sweeping it back to slip first one long arm into a sleeve, then the other.

If he'd been shorter it probably would have fit well enough as it was, but he was stretched too tall.  With a twist of his lips he folded the sleeves back to his elbows.

It got a smile, slowly spreading, wickedly amused. Everyone at the party would be fairly sure that wasn't Fletcher's shirt. Maybe that was part of the point. Absinthe reached past him to grab the door handle and crack it open.

Even wicked it was a nice smile, and Fletch felt himself responding with a smaller one before he glanced to the cracked open door.  "What, no last kiss?"  He chuckled, self deprecating, instantly regretting having let it slip out, and reached for the handle himself so he could let himself out without having to endure what he assumed was an inevitable rejection.

Which shouldn't have bothered him, it was a quick hook up with a stranger at a wild party.  He'd had plenty of those, and never cared about the outcome before.  He wasn't sure why he cared now, except that he remembered the heat in his mouth and the electric tingle beneath his fingers...

His smile faded to something more thoughtful, though; he licked his lips as he considered, arm draped across the back of the seat behind Fletcher. "Ask very nicely."

That made him pause, fingertips on the handle, to look back at Absinthe with something hungry in baby blue eyes.  "Please?"  It was soft, earnest.  Fletch was good at asking for the things he wanted, even begging when the situation called for it.  "One more taste."

Still, he mused it over, fingers slipping under Fletcher's chin. "Promise you'll sing for me next time I see you."

He moved with the touch, savoring the warmth of the fingers tucked beneath his chin.  "As much as you'd like."

"I'll give you a kiss for that." But when he pressed his lips agains  Fletcher's it was chaste, light.

It was something when the bassist had been expecting nothing.  He'd take what he was offered, going still against the soft press of full lips, eyes closing.

The fingers slid up his jaw, lingered there even as Absinthe pulled back.

He stayed like that a moment longer, just lingering in the feel of his touch.  Unwilling, or maybe even unable to let himself out of the limo until Absinthe withdrew his touch completely.

One more light, lingering touch -- and then he patted Fletcher roughly on one cheek and pulled back. "Enjoy the party."

Lips parted, maybe to say one last thing, but he thought better of it.  Reached for the handle instead and slipped out the door, closing it behind him with a solid click and heavy breath.

He was barely out before it left again -- and Fletcher abandoned outside of the strangely quiet warehouse.

He'd barely stepped away, turning to watch the limo glide off down the street and away.

Then he was on his own again, gaze lifting the warehouse in contemplation before he slid his phone from his pocket and started walking towards a cross street, ordering himself an Uber to take him home.  And while he waited he got to draw on the occasional teasing scent of the woodsy cologne that still clung to the too-small shirt.

He wanted a shower, and his pants were still painfully too tight.