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Hide and seek [Beau and Fletcher]
Hide and seek [Beau and Fletcher]
Hide and seek [Beau and Fletcher]
January 18, 2020, 08:18:20 PM »
The morning after the party Fletcher had woken up feeling twitchy, anxious, exhausted to the point of feeling ill,
and his fucking jaw hurt.
had totally been worth it. He'd put the tie on his dresser, carefully folded. The shirt had ended up in Fletcher's bed, residing there until the earthy, woodsy scent had faded from the expensive fabric. Then it'd been hung up.
Then he'd had every intention of going about his usual business. Problem was, the fair featured, green-eyed man lingered. Fletcher caught himself thinking about Absinthe at odd times, and when it happened enough he'd bowed to the inevitable and started making some calls.
A lot of calls.
Over a months worth of calls and phone tag and fishing for information until he’d managed to get the number of the young man that'd run the party.
Now it was just a matter of getting a hold of him.
He was remarkably hard to get pinned down. The number wasn't
hard to get, but no matter how often he called, it didn't seem that Abbot Eastoft would answer his calls.
And he didn't call back.
But some more calls would definitely pin down a friend of his who could be coerced into giving Fletcher a few of Beau's usual haunts. A couple bars. Three of the classes he was taking at the local college.
Taking the host down at the bar seemed the more appealing, but Fletcher really didn't feel like resisting temptation at the same time, so he'd opted to linger outside one of the lecture halls, waiting for one of Beau's classes to let out so he could finally pin him down.
It seemed straight forward enough, and the bassist knew his way around campus, but the last time he'd been there he'd been a student himself, not a recognizable figure in the media, and he had to keep dealing with people coming up to see if he was indeed Fletcher Lewis, formally of Tuck Fhis.
He kept interactions brief but friendly, checking his phone often for the time. Any moment now...
At the party, Beau had been an icon of fashion: done up in a floor length coat and a silk scarf, dripping in necklaces and with
curls. He'd been lazy confidence and careless indifference. He hadn't been cool the way Absinthe had: instead he'd been cool the way twenty-somethings are, too good for the world around them.
As he came out of his philosophy class, though, it was hard to recognize him. in two months, his hair definitely hadn't been cut, and it barely looked like it had been washed. The bags under his eyes were dark and heavy, his complexion sallow under what was half a beard's worth stubble.
The fashion gone, too. Instead he wore pajamas. And slippers. And a bath robe.
The contrast made him hard to spot and Fletcher damn near missed him, only realizing it was him when he turned his head
. "Who's the disaster?" It was mumbled under his breath as the bassist slipped into the departing crowd, weaving his way through with the grace of someone used to performing.
"I need to talk to you." Not a question. Remarkably direct for the redhead, but he'd been trying the polite methods for literal weeks now.
That got a slow blink up at him, the books under his arm adjusted -- so he could scratch, uncomfortably, at the inside of one wrist. "Who are you?"
Fletcher gestured off the path so they weren't blocking the foot traffic. "Fletcher Lewis, I was at your party at the warehouse. I'm trying to find another guest."
Beau let out a sharp sound of annoyance: not charming at all, not attractive in the slightest. But he also let Fletcher guide him off the path, shoulders rolling. "You and everyone else. What happened?"
Ginger brows shot up as he blinked. "A hook up, I didn't get a name or a number, he sort of challenged me to track him down." It had sounded so much more reasonable in his head. Out loud it just seemed a little pathetic.
Beau's response probably made it worse. He stared at Fletcher flatly, very still, fingers curled around his wrist. And when he spoke, the tone was even worse. "...you're pissed....because your hookup beat out on you."
Another blink. "Pissed? No, I'm not pissed." How did he explain this without it sounding...well, desperate. Because that's what it honestly was, Fletch knew that, he just couldn't seem to help it.
"Look, he had blonde hair, long, ridiculous green eyes. On the shorter side, really attractive, had an air about him." He huffed out a sigh, looking away as he reached up to scratch at his cheek awkwardly. "He made finding him again like a game..."
about him." It was huffy, his attention sliding off of Fletcher to the people moving around them. Beau still looked tired. And now
looked a bit annoyed. "Like what? Like he glowed? Like you couldn't say no? Hypnotic eyes?"
Things had taken a strange turn conversationally, but it was moving forward. "Like..." He frowned, thinking back, and after a moment there was color spreading over his cheeks. "Warm, almost feverish warm. His skin felt like it was
, it made my hands tingle." More than his hands. The blush darkened. "He had this really sweet wine with him, might have been home brewed?
Beau rubbed at his face, and as he did, the sleeve of his robe pushed up, revealing a flash of chain tattoo around one wrist. It looked angry, fresh. "Man, I invited everyone to that party. And everyone else invited everyone else. I was the catalyst, but fucked if I know who anyone was or what happened..."
"So you don't..." He looked disappointed, shoulders sagging a bit, and the downward dip of his eyes caught and held the tattoo. "Ouch, that looks infected."
"There's no guest list." It was abrupt, and really frustrated now: angry, he seemed, whether it was fair or not. "But you're probably in over your head. Go home."
Taken aback by the tone, Fletcher actually
"Er, sorry." He wasn’t sure what else to do, where else to go. He'd hit a dead end. "Sorry for bothering you." Fingers twisted in the worn cuffs of his hoody sleeves, nervous, fidgety. Twitchy.
Beau drew in a slow breath at Fletcher's almost flinching tone, closed his eyes -- and when he opened them again, he just looked tired, really. "I'm just. Fucked. And if I help you out I'll be more fucked. But maybe come back in a couple months and I won't care anymore."
His head dipped, shoulders up a little. He didn't look like the confident musician everyone knew from in stage or at parties. "A couple of months," he repeated it with a sigh, fingers twisting even tighter. A nervous habit expounded by what felt an awful lot like the first stirrings of withdrawal, but that couldn't possibly be the case.
"Who knows, maybe I'll be tired of all this -" He gestured, and maybe he meant the school, or the city, or the planet. "Sooner than that."
"Right." He'd glanced around at the gesture but was focused back in Beau's tired face. "Okay. I'll let you get back to your classes." A muscle jumped in his jaw as he said it, something tightening inside him as he turned to leave. Like defeat, maybe. He'd just exhausted his last resource.
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