honestly, he’s not sure how he gets from point a to point b to point c. they’re laughing, an acceptable amount of space between them, and then something in the light catches the brights of tom’s eyes or slants just right across his cheek and that familiar surge of need in his chest rears its head like there’s any sort of call for it. they’re not these people. they don’t do this sort of thing. tom is, for all intents and purposes, entirely off limits and he’s not sure why suddenly it just doesn’t matter.
it’s a head space he’s intimately familiar with and one he’s learned not to hide from. ever the pragmatist, ever the optimist—and yet it’s not optimism that’s driving him, not practicality. tom, for an instant, doesn’t scramble away into the dark of his mind and whatever this is, whatever point b is, is good. it’s genuine and the right kind of hurried and his fingers curl into the front of tom’s shirt and he’s more than okay with just seeing where it goes.
and then, point c— “what?” voice turned rough; he’s not even offended. idly he thinks maybe he should be, but he’s not sure why and the whiskey is doing its best to make sure he can’t quite focus on the specifics.
heat lingers on his mouth like a promise of something he’s not quite worth. eyes narrow, lips thin, but it’s confusion that finds itself a home on his face, not anger or despair. he doesn’t lean away yet. “m’not.” small words, nearly lost between them. he’s not sober, he won’t argue that, but wasted is a stretch. it takes a lot for him to reach wasted these days. “you’re thinking too much.” or maybe eli isn’t thinking enough—it wouldn’t be a first.
his fingers are still twisted into tom’s shirt and instead of backing up or letting go he tightens his hold, like tom might turn to smoke and disappear into the dark if he’s not careful. should he care? does he? “why?” // @devilsxson
