Chapter Text
“You’re not watching me.”
I turned my head toward the voice just in time to get a facefull of smoke. I waved it away, then spun on my barstool to face the… Compliment? Accusation? I wasn’t certain.
“Should I be?” I asked.
He was smaller than I’d estimated earlier—no taller than myself. He was also incorrect—I most certainly had been watching him. From the moment he’d entered Le Mystique with his entourage shivering and stamping the snow from their shoes, he’d drawn my attention-I was just better at concealing it than most. Blending into the shadows is a learned skill that I have in abundance. Discipline too, still, now that he was so close, not looking was no small amount of effort. The thatch of dark hair that covered his chest whispered to be appreciated. It converged into a darker line that ran down the center and disappeared under his low cut tank, lost to the whims of my imagination. The tight cut of his designer jeans left no question as to which way he hung.
Left.
I continued not looking.
He did not reciprocate. Eyes so dark that irises and pupils were indistinguishable raked over me, in rather a different pattern to how I’m used to being consumed. My hands, my mouth, arms, ears, thighs, neck, ass-his gaze flitted and tickled chaotically, but I caught the escaping giggle and tucked it in my cheek.
“Can I help you with something, Mr…?” I asked, plucking the cigarette from his fingers and taking a drag while I waited for him to fill in the blank.
He chuckled, and his lips spread back to reveal those distinctive teeth. I wasn’t able to resist a quick flick of my gaze and was caught in the act. He admonished me with a playful scowl and pursing of those full lips.
“Oh, you know who I am.” he teased. “Everyone knows who I am.”
I was aware of dozens of eyes on us, some as bold as to be openly listening from only feet away. He looked over my shoulder and called to one such looky-loo.
“Hey, you,” he beckoned the snoopy patron in closer. “Yeah, you. Fuck off.”
I snorted a laugh, and drained my drink. Tapping the bar, I held up two fingers for another round. Two crown and cokes were produced very quickly, exposing the bartender as just another spectator.
“Of course I know who you are, darling.” I handed over one glass. “But that hardly exempts me from civilized behaviour, does it?” I extend my hand toward him. “Astarion.” After a beat I add “Ancunín.”
He took my hand, and shook it. I was surprised by the handshake—the firmness of it. Not a macho, dick-swinging power-shake, but there was an uncommon sureness to his grasp. He was built of dexterity, not strength. A requirement, I supposed, for anyone who runs about a stage three hours a night, four nights a week.
“Freddie,” he answered, then leaned in to add “Mercury.” He snagged his cigarette back, blowing the smoke to the side this time. “Astarion, are you always this civilized?”
“Absolutely not,” I laughed. “You’ve caught me on an off night, I’m afraid.”
The noise of the club rose as the club’s performers returned for another set. Freddie stepped toward me, and placed a finger on each of my knees. With the barest pressure he made his suggestion, and I obediently parted my thighs. He smirked at me, and I felt sudden empathy for the many helpless souls snared by my seduction over the centuries. He appropriated the space he made, so close that the spicy-woody scent of his skin hit my nose and clung to the back of my palate.
“Astarion, I’m curious—“ He leaned in to be heard, bracing one hand on my thigh. He splayed his fingers across the muscle, and his thumb inched daringly up my inseam. His other hand hovered over the back of my neck, so close that I felt the heat but not the touch. His whiskey-stung breath warmed my earlobe.
“—If I caught you on an on night? What then?”
Leather, sweat, liquor.
My composure was suddenly playing whack-a-mole with the urges racing across my imagination.
Lick, stroke, clutch.
“Are you looking for my attention, Freddie?”
He withdrew as he laughed. “Astarion, I’m like a fairy! Without attention I wither and die!!”
I began to applaud. I knew the reference and I made a split second judgement call. Loudly and enthusiastically, I clapped my hands together, proving that I whole-heartedly believed in fairies. It worked to sustain Tinkerbell, after all.
Freddie’s dark brows shot way up, and his jaw dropped in disbelief. “Oh, you little shit!” he gasped, and reached out to silence my clapping. The moment he grasped my wrist, I tugged. Unbalanced, he collided with my chest, and I pressed a firm, closed mouthed kiss upon him. To my utter delight, he parted his lips.
“Freddie! Oi!” someone called across the noisy club, as the entourage made their loud exit. They left the door yawning open behind them and an icy breeze flooded across the barroom to a chorus of groans and curses at the blatant lack of consideration.
The kiss, over before it started, cooled on my lips.
Freddie handed me the cigarette, so burned down now that I couldn’t help but brush his fingers as I took it. One final pull, and I crushed it in the glass bowl on the bartop while he rooted around in the pockets of his tight jeans for something.
Freddie gestured to the barkeep with his thumb and first finger pressed together in the universal signal for a pen. “Do you think you’ll be as out of sorts tomorrow, Astarion?” he asked, looking sideways at me while he scribbled something on a paper he’d pulled from his pocket.
“I doubt it, love,” I said. “I rarely stay any one thing for very long.”
That answer seemed to amuse him. He slid the paper from the bartop and held it between his first two fingers. I felt a frisson when he tucked the paper into my shirt pocket. His fingers dipped into the space deeper than was strictly necessary, and brushed against my nipple.
“Goodnight, Astarion. Thanks for the drink, darling.”
I watched him leave with his entourage, reeling from the encounter, but equally from sheer bewilderment of being that affected by a little flirting. I was meant to be the one doing the affecting. This was… different. Exciting.
I forced myself to sip my crown and soda at a leisurely pace, disconcerted with how eager I felt to read what burned in my shirt pocket.
After what I felt was a respectable delay I pulled the note from my pocket. My fingers identified it without having to see it. The stiff cardstock, and serrated edge where it had been torn along a perforated line were unmistakable.
A ticket.
And on it, an invitation.
