closed to: @lymskr
location: hell
He doesn’t wait for anyone to buy him a drink. The bartender that likely hates him by now gives him a surprised look when Evan orders a cheap beer and slips a few small bills down the counter without fanfare. Confusion still written on their face, they pop a bottle open in turn, letting its mouth hiss as it slides across the counter top and collides with Evan’s hand. He takes a sip. It tastes, as he expects it to, like shit.
Alcohol is rarely ever about the taste, just like how sex is rarely ever about the feeling. Maybe he’s just fucked up like that. Maybe all he wants is for his body to feel more like a body and less like a house for grief. His mind’s buzzing. Nothing it says is really coherent yet, but bad thoughts still drift to and away from him. Something about Sam and something about Diego and something about Mar and something about how it’s going to take a while before anything’s going to feel stable — like Evan fucking knows what stability is, anyway.
He takes another swig. Past the sea of tourists dancing drunkenly under dim neon lights, he catches a pair of eyes staring at him, studying him, perhaps. Even as the masses of people blur together as they shift around the room, it’s hard to lose him; the man’s silhouette, well built and taller than god, sticks out in a crowded room. Evan smiles. See, he can’t remember the last time sex was really about the sex and not about the way a person looked at him, the rush of satisfaction that surges the minute he realizes that somebody else wants his body. It’s hard not to get addicted to that feeling. It’s hard not to want being wanted. Propping his elbows onto the counter top, Evan leans lazily back into the bar and meets the stranger’s gaze with the ghost of gallows smile.
