That fucking guy was there.
Right there, elbows on the bar, a drink in his hand. Close enough to touch if he wanted to. Shirt open two buttons at the collar and Nick’s eyes went straight to the ink at the base of his throat before he could stop them — just the edge of something, black lines, the suggestion of something larger underneath. He’d seen the lower back that one time, weeks ago, just a glimpse, and he’d thought about it more than he was going to admit to anyone including himself.
Nick got his drink from somewhere. The barman had already moved on.
The man hadn’t looked at him yet.
Nick stood there with his drink and the pills warm in him and his eyes on the ink at the collar of that shirt and the line of his throat above it and he wanted to put his mouth there. Wanted to get his fucking hands on him. Wanted to find out what was under that shirt and he was going to, he was going to find out exactly what was under that shirt and take his fucking time doing it.
The man still hadn’t looked at him.
Nick drank and waited.
* * *
The night had been fine. Alex had been at the bar long enough that his drink was nearly done and he was thinking about another one and nothing in particular was happening.
Then someone was beside him.
Close. Heat off him and no move to step away again. Not a threat, and Alex had that without looking. His skin knew who it was, too, before he’d turned his head.
His eyes went down first. Arms on the bar alongside his. Hands. Ink from the wrist up to wherever it stopped — both arms, solid work, no bare skin left between the pieces. From across the room it had been one dark mass. This close it came apart into separate work, years of it, one piece grown up against the next. Alex wanted his mouth on the inside of that wrist.
He looked up.
And that was — fuck. That was a face. Open, warm, everything right there on it and nothing like his own. Heat coming off him this close, the brown eyes already on him, and Alex wanted to get his hands on him right now, wanted to push him back against the wall of this bar and find out what he sounded like, had wanted that since the first night he’d seen him across the room and standing this close to him it was immediate.
The man reached into his jacket and the bag was there, held between them for a second, not offered exactly, just visible. His eyes on Alex the whole time.
Alex looked at the bag. Looked back at him.
He finished his drink. The man finished his. Neither of them said anything. Then they were moving, away from the bar, away from the room, and Alex was following or they were walking together, no real distinction.
