You take him to the very first bar you'd ever sneaked into as a boy and toss him to the sharks. He looks absurdly out of place among the leering, hardened queers who frequent such a place and you sit back and prepare to watch him flounder, laughing silently to yourself.
He is hardly there for more than fifteen minutes when someone buys him a drink and his eyes meet those of one of the most respectable looking patrons that you've seen in all of your years of coming across the scuffed wooden floor. He looks to be about your age. They tuck themselves into a quiet corner and you watch them under veiled eyes while you pretend to brood and chat up the bartender.
In equal parts.
But it isn't enough to help you miss the way that his jacket hasn't been tailored to fit him and his sleeves are just a little bit too short for his arms. What you can hear of his voice is grating and you know that yours is deeper, silkier, sexier. And though it should make you happy that you are better than this man in every quantifiable way—you're quite obviously the most beautiful man that Justin Taylor will ever have—it's insulting that he isn't nearly good enough to follow in your footsteps.
But you could have reconciled your irrational hatred had he not begun to touch him. It starts off innocently enough: a hand on Justin's arm while he's speaking to make a point, just a gentle, friendly gesture. But as the drinks flow and the night wears on the contact gets dangerously sexual. It wouldn't have been a problem, you tell yourself, had Justin been a little more sober, but you've been the one to ply him with alcohol more times than you are willing to admit and are intimately familiar with the stages of inebriation as they pertain to the piece of blonde boy ass on the other side of the bar. The migration of his hand from Justin's arm to his back to his ass—where it just doesn't belong—hits you hard in the stomach, slaps your green-eyed monster right across the face.
It's sickening and you're not going to let it go on any longer. He's not going to go home with anyone but you. Not tonight, he's not.
You stride over to the corner where Justin is about two and a half drinks from getting himself into some serious trouble and pull him to his feet and out the door before his... companion can even say a word. He slumps happily into your side in the jeep and sighs happily.
"Take me home, Jeeves."
He's past the giddy stage by the time you get him back to the loft and upstairs but nowhere near belligerent. He should probably be somewhat angrier with you for having pulled him away from the man at the bar, but he isn't angry at all.
He's happy, it turns out, and he expresses it by kissing you sloppily on the neck in the elevator, wrapping his arms around your waist while you fight to get your key in the door.
You deposit him on the bed and then go to the bathroom to splash some cool water on your face. When you come back, it's to find him unconscious—naked as a jaybird—against your navy bedding, so beautiful that it hurts.
So you leave him for a couple of hours to sleep the worst of it off and turn on your computer to finish some work. You get distracted and before you know it, it's almost 2AM and you're slightly dismayed. It would have been an evening much better spent at Babylon. But all is not lost—you realise at the foot of your bed that he's actually awake—and so you strip off your clothes and slip between your sheets, melt into his body; alcohol has made him soft and pliant—though he's never, ever pushed you away—and he pulls you closer like he always does, begging you, wordlessly, for more. His willingness only encourages you. You know that he wouldn't have been like this with the man from the bar, that it would never have been as good as it is with anyone but you.
If you're entirely honest with yourself, you're not exactly surprised that nothing at all went according to plan. Sure, you'd hoped that by bringing him there you'd be able to prove to him once and for all that he didn't belong to you, that he was much better off at home in the suburbs with mommy and daddy even if daddy did happen to be a homophobic prick—after all, you'd endured a stronger wrath than that belonging to Craig Taylor and you'd turned out just fine, relatively speaking—but the only thing you end up proving is to yourself and it's that Justin Taylor has won. You're damned if you don't care—if only a little—about the stupid little twat.
"Did you like it?" He pants, somewhat more sober than he was before. "Watching me with him?"
"I don't have any idea what you're talking about."
He swats your wandering hand away from its stealthy descent between his legs. "Really? Because I think it made you jealous."
It made you so fucking jealous. But you can't tell him that.
"Well, you thought wrong," you say instead, wanting nothing more than for him to shut the hell up and let you fuck him, so you grab his wrists and hold them above his head with one of your hands, leer at him menacingly.
His full lips are incredibly smug. "He wanted to take me home, you know. He said that he wanted to fuck me. All. Night. Long."
You take his chin between your thumb and forefinger, more gently than you would have liked, forcing him to bring his shining blue eyes to yours. "You should have let him, then...if that's what you wanted. Instead of getting so fucked up that you can barely spell your own name."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"For next time," you tell him and you go about making him forget everyone but you and to your infinite pleasure it's your name on his lips when he comes.
A/N: I'm in the middle of a season one re-watch, can't ya tell?
Reviews are love.