WARNING: I would rate this story at an R. Slashy undertones..
Two men are talking, by the bar. They're both drinking something that's a sunshine yellow in their glasses. They speak with their voices low so that no one can hear them, one in an animated and excited manner with his hand settled too-tightly against the back of the more subdued, man's neck. He's angry, thin lips pressed into a tight line, pale eyes flashing over a long nose. He looks wild, wolf like, with a five o'clock shadow and unbrushed hair that give him the feel of a predator. He's attractive.
I can tell by the way he shakes the other man, by the way his fingers shift and clench against the back of that pale neck, by the way washed out features are turned on his face, that he's berating his companion. The wolf's drink is still near-full, but the mouse has one sip left, two, he's trying to drown out the barrage of insults that come pelting down on him. His fingers shake as he picks up his glass and drains the last of that sickeningly yellow drink in one sip.
The alcohol gives him courage where usually, I can tell, he would be too afraid to move. The wolf's angry glare should freeze him in place, the hand that settles on his arm should make him flinch, he shouldn't dare shake it off. But deep into his drink he has strength where he should have none, his voice finally raising out of its soft tremble as he rises suddenly to stand, shoving the other man away roughly and suddenly and carelessly.
"I hate you, you bastard!"
His sudden movement has knocked over a stool, which hits the ground a moment later with a sudden clatter. There is a lull in conversation as heads turn to blink over at the scene, the trembling young man glaring over at his predator, who merely stares back, seemingly unphazed. But I'm closer than anyone else and I can make out the set of his jaw as he forces a distant smile, the angry light in his eyes, the way strong hands - buried in his pockets - clench into sudden fists. His reply comes too quiet for any of the craned ears to hear, but there's an edge, a threat to it, it's almost a growl.
"No, Jon, I won't shut up! I'm making a scene, damnit!" He's turning into a child, this shaking young man, under the wolf's flashing eyes. He flinches back a step as a strong hand is dragged out of a pocket, a pointer thrust into his face, as Jon hisses something between his teeth - but then he holds his ground, shoving that hand away and all but stomping his foot in a show of…of what? "I'm leaving. And…and that's it, there's nothing you can do about it. I'm not playing this game anymore."
His voice inches up almost into a squeak at that last statement, and he finally turns tail and runs like the mouse he is. Jon is left to deal with the stares and the whispers by himself, teeth ground together in frustration, looking prepared to take his frustration out on the next living thing he comes in contact with. A glare is turned on anyone who dares to look in his direction, and slowly conversations resume, people lose their fascination in him now that the argument is over. And he sinks down to sit in his stool, shoving the yellow drink to the side and almost snarling a new order to the bartender.
As he sips something strong and clear from a short glass, I finally dare to slip in a little bit closer to him, under the pretense of ordering something from the bartender. I watch Jon fuming and sipping at his drink, out of the corner of my eye. He still looks angry, but it's faded out into a mild kind of annoyance, of frustration, and on top of it is a feeling of loss.
Curiousity overcomes common sense. I shift on my stool, drink untouched before me [like the one I left at my prior seat - I don't drink unless I plan to write and tonight I'm uninspired], and fix my eyes solidly on him. This close, I can make out the hazel of his eyes, almost yellow, and the small moonstone stud that sits in his right ear.
"What do you want?" His voice dull and flat as he finally turns a bored kind of look in my direction. Wolfish features are half-obscured by stray locks of gritty blonde hair, the glass of vodka, or gin, or whatever it is sits in front of his lips, already half-finished. He looks lazy and laid back, and for a moment my heart flutters in throat, I can't find my voice.
"I'm - ah, I…" Words are slow in coming, I have trouble gathering my thoughts. But as his expression shifts from angry to amused, as a smile comes to lips that are warped through the ridged glass, I begin to relax. "What did you do to him, to get him to explode that badly? He didn't look like he had a spine."
"He was young," the way he says it gives the impression that it happened days ago, weeks ago, not a matter of minutes. He's already given up on the young man, and when those sharp eyes fix on me, I can't say I really care. He's a predator, and I try very hard to look like the appropriate kind of prey. "He was young, and he went to too many parties, and then had the gall to tell me I spent too much time away from him."
His gin is finished, empty glass pushed back toward the bartender; he goes back to the yellow drink, sipping at it absently, no longer striving for the bliss of drunkenness. He's more than halfway down that road, I can tell by the way he holds himself half-slouched, his eyes hooded, by the slight slur in his gruff voice, "What's your name?"
An exchange of information. I give him my name, I learn that his is Jonathan Freye and that he's a shrink. That explains why he's so persuasive, and why he seems so in control of everything. Before I know it, he's ordered me one of the sunshine drinks; it's sweet and cold and I can hardly taste the alcohol, but it's strong. It hits me hard, I lose the thread of events. One minute we're sitting and talking, he's urging me to tell him more about my writing, about my idea for a book, the story I haven't written a single word of. Then we're slipping out of the bar, he's half-supporting me and I'm surprised by how much taller I am than he is; but I've always been taller than other people, why should I be so surprised? Then we're standing out in the cool air, he's inviting me over and I'm accepting, he helps me into the passenger seat of his car while some sensible part of me whispers that I haven't even known this guy an hour, it asks why I'm so willing to go off god-knows-where with him.
The streets whir by me. I realize we're headed away from my house, further and further, it's going to be impossible to walk home. In the thick of the city he pulls into a parking garage, winding up a long, spiral ramp to the third floor. When the car stops, I'm giddy, and I struggle to get out of the car - he helps by slipping strong arms around my waist with a rough little laugh, swinging my arm up over his shoulder and dragging me away.
More confusion, the moments blurring into one another; an elevator, the scowling and concerned expression of a security guard, him telling a joke that I find exceedingly funny. I know that I'm drunk, because I can hardly stand upright, and if it weren't for those arms tangled tightly about my waist I wouldn't be able to make it into his bedroom, to collapse back onto the bed.
I start to say something, an apology for getting so hammered and spoiling the night, but his lips are suddenly on mine, the kiss so hard it's almost painful. Teeth scrape against my lower lip, drawing blood, and limp arms are dragged up over my head as he perches on top of me. I don't have the strength of will to argue that I'm too drunk, that I can't make decisions, and instead I lay still and willing beneath him.
It fades out into a mix of harsh sensations, some of them verging on pain and some quite the opposite. But that's the way it always is with Jonathan; he likes to push buttons, he likes to see how people are put together and he likes to pull them apart. And I love him for it.