Work Text:
"Edgar."
"Hm."
"Edgaaar."
"Hmmmm."
Scriabin pouted from across the table, upper body reaching out dramatically. Edgar, who was diligently taking notes from a textbook, shifted a little further out of reach, eyes flicking up to peer over his glasses a moment before returning to his work.
"I'm trying to study," He stated simply, which was met with a motorboated huff of breath. A knowing smile cracked his otherwise neutral expression.
"But I wanna go out. Come one, we haven't done anything in ages. Let's take a break," Scriabin said, poking the textbook to shift it slightly. "I know a place with good drinks and decent music."
Eyes shifting to him again, the pen paused mid stroke. Scriabin put on the biggest, most innocent grin. Edgar wasn’t sure if Scriabin was ever truly innocent of anything, but that smile caused a flutter in his chest all the same. The sensation was becoming more common these days, much to his chagrin. His eyes dropped back to his notes again, unable to keep eye contact.
"Come on, bookworm. You can't spend all your life studying. You gotta spend some of it actually living."
Edgar was never one to indulge. He didn’t go to parties, he hardly drank any alcohol, he didn’t even buy lottery tickets. All of it seemed superfluous to him. A waste of time and money.
However when Scriabin suggested it, he found himself unable to straight decline like he normally would. He didn’t care about the outing itself, but the prospect of spending time with Scriabin outside of the apartment surprisingly excited him. He hardly talked about himself, at least honestly and without exaggeration, so Edgar was often enticed by the opportunity to glean details when it arose.
After a brief pause, he conceded with a single nod.
“Really? Hell yeah,” Scriabin sat up and exclaimed in surprise. Scriabin’s exuberance only fed Edgar’s meager optimism on the event as he closed the textbook
“But we can’t stay out late,” he added, but Scriabin wasn’t listening to him as he bounded eagerly into the bedroom to get ready. With a chuckle and a slight shake of his head, Edgar organized his things so he knew where to pick back up upon his return. He couldn’t imagine they’d be gone all that long anyway.
After he had cleaned up all of his school gear, Edgar wandered into the bedroom, wondering what was taking Scriabin so long. When he entered, it was to see him standing before his closet, shirtless and posed thoughtfully before his impressive collection of clothing.
“Not ready to go yet? Don’t you have a clean shirt to wear?” Edgar asked as he put one hand in his jeans pocket and hitched a hip against the door frame. Scriabin waved his hand dismissively.
“Just because you have no sense of fashion, does not mean that we both have to show up looking like a couple of college kids living in their parent’s basement,” Scriabin said as he thumbed through a couple options before pulling out a billowy button up.
“But I am a college kid,” Edgar countered reasonably, though he couldn’t help the pang of indignation creeping into his voice. What was wrong with his sense of fashion? Everything he wore was sensible. It kept him dry, they all matched or were interchangeable with each other, and most importantly, they were durable so he didn’t have to go buying new things every semester.
“True, and you aren’t in a basement,” Scriabin replied as he pulled out a black collared shirt. “Still, I think some upgrades are long overdue.”
Before Edgar could argue further, the shirt was flying across the room and colliding with his face. A soft ‘hey’ escaped him in surprise, flinching as he groped at the fabric.
“Put that on,” Scriabin said. He smiled, watching the various emotions fly across Edgar’s face. He could tell he wanted to argue further, but at the same time conceded there wasn’t any harm in complying. Scriabin loved winning, even these small battles.
“Fine. Just, hurry up already. I don’t want to be out really late, ok?” Edgar re-emphasized as he slipped the black collared shirt over his t-shirt. He didn’t like the long sleeves, the cuffs restricting his wrists. After a few moments struggling to unbutton them, Scriabin came over. Edgar stilled as he undid them for him. He appeared in good humor, although Edgar couldn't help thinking he was somehow the butt of a joke. Then Scriabin rolled them up to the elbow so that they were now half sleeves. Edgar relaxed the frown he had slowly been working up to.
“Always so serious. You’re gonna give yourself early wrinkles,” Scriabin teased, giving the crease of his brow a gentle poke.“People are going to think I’m a gold digger.” Edgar lifted a hand to feel where Scriabin had touched him after he returned to getting dressed.
"No, I guess we wouldn't want that," he replied. A small grin lifted his features when he heard the sound of his scoffing partner.
It wasn’t much longer before they finally were on their way to the place Scriabin had mentioned. He’d settled on a black sequined shirt styled like a peasant top, with billowed sleeves, a v cut neckline and cinched waist. Black skinny jeans and matching soft leather boots completed the look. Edgar had rolled his eyes when Scriabin declared himself a sexy pirate.
“Heavenly Brimstone?” Edgar read the sign aloud as they got out of the car a little while later. Scriabin had a big grin on his face, made all the wider from hearing the incredulity in Edgar’s voice. “This isn’t like uh,” he trailed off hesitatingly.
“Like what? A gay bar?” Scriabin supplied with tongue in cheek laughter.
“Club. I was going to say club,” Edgar finished, blushing at the implications. Edgar had thought they were going to a nice quiet place where they could have a drink and relax a bit. With a name like that, he didn’t think that was the vibe they were going into.
“Sure you were,” Scriabin replied, one brow lifting in amusement. Edgar looked away, fiddling with the collar of his shirt self consciously.
As they stepped into the building, Edgar was immediately bombarded by the artificial scent of cherries. The kind one used in air fresheners or candles, sickeningly sweet as though trying hard to cover up anything unpleasant, but becoming so in the process. His nose crinkled, but thankfully it quickly became desensitized to it.
The lighting was low overall, the shadows toeing the edges of active spaces like the bar, the stage and the various tables. It took Edgar a moment to adjust to it after the brighter lights outside, but Scriabin didn’t give him time to acclimate as he eagerly pulled him along to the main counter. Only a few people milled around the place quietly, but it was still early. A simmering buzz of conversation permeated the air and soft music played overhead so there was never any dead silence to the place. Edgar could easily picture dozens cramping in. He wanted to be home well before that.
"Where's that slacker of a bartender?" Scriabin said loud enough to clearly be heard over the counter, his palm clapping against the polished surface.
"Scriabin, stop. That's rude," Edgar said anxiously. “The last thing I want is to get into a fight,” he added hastily. Even the thought of it made his stomach churn with worry.
"He quit."
The sudden answer had them turn in sync towards the baritone. A tall, broad shouldered man in his mid thirties gazed at them over the top of a couple boxes he’d been carrying. Large muscles strained through his white collared shirt, black curls from his chest peeking out suggestively. The matching hair on his head was kept short, sharp and faded, but his dark eyes sparkled with humor.
“Bruno! You son of a bitch. I thought you decided you were done with all of this,” Scriabin exclaimed, motioning over head.
"I was given an offer I couldn’t refuse. I run this place now. It’s eh, long story. Why, you finally applying for the job Scriabin?" Edgar felt his neck cramp slightly from how quickly he turned it to see the smile on Scriabin's face.
"Fuck no. This place is a trash heap. You can't afford my talents," He replied smoothly, leaning back against the bar.
The man chuckled, his voice deep and rich as he walked behind the counter and set the boxes down.
“Talents that provide you with a comfortable living, surely,” Bruno replied with a knowing smile. Scriabin huffed and waved his hand at him dismissively.
“Stop acting like you know so much and get us a couple of drinks already,” Scriabin said. “Something with a kick!”
Bruno chuckled, unaffected by Scriabin’s snarky tone as he grabbed a couple glasses off a stack behind him and began filling them with ice.
“And who is it you have with you this time?” he asked, hands busy measuring liquids.
“Such a nosey asshole. This is my-”
“Friend. I’m his friend, Edgar.”
Scriabin, shot the sharpest glance to Edgar, who looked back anxiously. They stared in silence a moment, even as Bruno set their drinks before them.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Edgar,” Bruno supplied carefully when it was clear neither was going to break the silence on their own. “Scriabin doesn’t bring drinking buddies around here often.”
"Like you know anything about who I drink with," Scriabin shot back, his voice lacking its usual luster. "And he's no buddy of mine," he added sullenly.
Edgar wilted under his hurt utterance, sage eyes falling to the polished countertop. Why hadn’t he fought the compulsion to interrupt Scriabin? He wasn’t normally so rude. Edgar wanted to apologize, to say something to smooth things out between them again, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He felt like a bug put under a magnifying glass, suddenly put to light and too anxious to move.
Ignoring the butterflies in his stomach was easy, the tightness in his chest a little less so, but Edgar could not ignore the pointed silence between them. Scriabin didn’t make it any easier to bear, watching him while a finger trailed the rim of his drink thoughtfully, as if waiting for Edgar to explain himself. If this was a test, Edgar knew he was failing it miserably. He never was good at dealing with social queues.
“Look I-” Edgar attempted to say, but was immediately cut off by a boisterous call from across the room.
“OH BINNY! I KNEW YOU’D COME BACK!”
Both men flinched at the high voice, looking over their shoulders for the source.
A cascade of red and gold bounced down from the stage and leapt onto Scriabin with a joyful giggle. Edgar put a hand over his drink as a puff of glitter came loose from their collision.
“Phoenix,” Scriabin said as if tasting something unnaturally sweet. “How many times do I have to tell you to not give me stupid nicknames?”
“Well I wouldn’t have to if you’d answer me the first time. Just like you haven’t been answering my calls lately,” Phoenix pouted, laying his head on Scriabin’s shoulder. Edgar caught the sharp contrast of Phoenix's copper curls nestled against Scriabin’s ebony waves, but looked back to his drink before the ache in his chest gave him away.
"As if I'd ever answer your calls," Scriabin scoffed haughtily.
"Ooh, a power move huh? Fair enough, I'll play it your way. I'll wait for you to call me then, hmm? Then I'll know for sure when you're down to play," Phoenix said seductively, nuzzling into him like he’d found his favorite toy.
“If only it were that easy to get rid of you,” Scriabin replied with clear disinterest, leaning back and pushing on his shoulder to keep his face a respectable distance from himself. Phoenix pouted, his glitter glossed lip jutting forward and emerald glistening eyes widening comically.
“Don’t say such hurtful things Binny. I really missed you, ya know? We all did. Why’d you up and disappear like that, huh?”
Scriabin flinched, pulling back enough to hold Phoenix at arm's length. His glasses were reflecting the club's light, but Edgar got the inclination he was the new focus. Edgar held his breath.
“It’s not important,” he answered pointedly.
Edgar’s heart sank. He supposed he deserved that. A short sip of his drink added to the burning in his chest. The sensation forced a cough, one he tried to stifle.
Phoenix’s eyes trailed over at the sound, but he snapped back to attention, brightening with Scriabin’s answer.
“Really? Well if it’s not important, then good riddance! They don’t deserve you anyways!”
Scriabin tossed his head back and let out a braying laugh. The sound was filled with anger and more than a little pain. Edgar clutched his chest and covered his mouth to stop his coughing fit. He didn’t think they were referring to him now, but it didn’t make him feel any better for what he said before.
“No one does!”
Edgar stilled, a prickling sting beginning to form in the corner of his eye.
“You alright there lad?” Edgar lifted his gaze. He was used to going unnoticed. However the sincere gaze coming from the bartender surprised him. Slowly he gave a single nod. Realizing he must be looking distressed, Edgar relaxed his face to resume its normal neutral expression. It bothered him that a complete stranger could read him so easily. He wondered if it was a natural talent, or something he picked up through his vocation. Could Scriabin read him that easily? His gaze flicked to Scriabin, who he could have sworn was looking back at him, but had his attention pulled away when Phoenix asked him to dance.
“Come on, we haven’t in ages,” the redhead practically begged, his eyes big and lips all pouty. The expression made him look even younger, which Edgar supposed was appealing to some people, but it made him uncomfortable. Surely Scriabin isn’t into that, he thought.
“What the hell. It’s not like my *friend* will mind, will ya Edgar,” Scriabin replied, his voice cutting like a knife in Edgar’s chest. He didn’t wait for a response as he slipped out of his chair and followed the gleeful young man onto the mostly empty dance floor.
“Well that could’ve gone better,” Bruno stated blandly. Edgar let out a laugh, just one, before he caught himself and locked it up again. The alcohol may have been warming him up, but he felt an even stronger coldness sinking into his gut.
“You’re telling me.”
“I wouldn’t take what he says too seriously. Scriabin has a tendency to rile people up.” Edgar looked up at the man, who continued to clean his counter with an understanding smile.
“That he does.”
“I’m sure he’ll be back once he’s finished indulging Phoenix,” Bruno added in a sympathetic tone. The anxiety built in his stomach, but Edgar tried to swallow it back.
Edgar refused to look towards the dancefloor. At least until he heard the music change and the lighting brighten behind him. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, Edgar’s jaw literally fell open when he saw Scriabin and Phoenix, dancing provocatively to Dip It Low. They were far too close together that Edgar was almost out of his seat before he realized what he was doing.
The room kept changing colors, each time it did, he was a little closer. And each time, they were positioned differently as if mocking him with their undulations and gleeful expressions. Time slowed as Scriabin tossed his hair back and swayed in time with Phoenix’s hips.
Edgar remembered reaching them, saying something, but the music and his own heartbeat rushed in his ears and drowned everything out, then grabbing Scriabin’s arm. He didn’t know what their responses were, beyond their surprised expressions, nor where they were going, just that he needed out of the noise.
By a stroke of luck, or well designed spaces, he pushed through a thick wooden door that led into the men’s bathroom. As it swung shut, the music died down to a muffled booming, which only left the ringing in his ears and the rising stream of curses coming from his partner. He realized he’d been dragging him relentlessly and abruptly let go. Scriabin rubbed his tender wrist, scowling at him.
“Well? What is it then?” he demanded. It was then that Edgar realized that he’d been talking the whole time. Of course he was.
“Why were you letting him paw at you like that?” he managed to ask, hands fisted at his sides. Scriabin’s eyes widened, then narrowed in sharp calculation.
“Why does it matter to you? I thought we were just friends? I can let whoever I want touch me.”
“We aren’t just friends and you know it. I’m sorry I said that ok!” Edgar replied, his voice raising with his anxiety. “It’s not how people in relationships should treat each other.”
“Hmpf. Some relationship. You can’t even admit to it in the one place where it’s the safest to do so,” Scriabin snided, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter. “So I’m spoken for, but only in secret.”
Edgar's face flushed in a mixture of fury, indignation and embarrassment. He'd never been in such a position before, but Scriabin was pushing buttons he hadn't even known he'd had.
“What, so you think you can just mess around with whoever you want and it doesn’t matter? Well, you can’t anymore.”
The smirk on Scriabin's face widened as if he'd heard exactly what he'd expected.
“Hah and why not? What’s the harm in it? It’s not like I’m going home with any of them. You’re the one in the closet Edgar, not me.”
“Because I want you to fuck me. And they don’t get to take that away.” Edgar stiffened when he realized he had practically shouted that at him. Scriabin, who had never before heard such an outburst from him, visibly bit his tongue as if amused or excited by a revelation. However this only stirred up Edgar’s ire further.
“Oh? Is that so?”
Throwing his hands in the air, Edgar let out a frustrated huff. Of course he’d play the coy card. He always had a way of making Edgar admit to things he didn’t expect, even of himself.
However before he could, they both heard heavy banging as if some drunkard was struggling to make it down the hall without doing a drum solo against the drywall along the way. Edgar snagged Scriabin’s sleeve and pulled him towards the rows of stalls without a second thought. Part of him expected resistance, but Scriabin followed without question.
They filed into the second to last stall, barely noticing the many scratched notes and hastily penned art that adorned the walls and door before Scriabin locked them in. The space was tiny, as most bathroom stalls tended to be, but at least the toilet looked clean. Edgar took one cursory glance before settling on his partner, who stood defiantly opposite him with his hands on his hips.
“Answer honestly. Do you think this is a game? That I’m just some toy for you to play with?” Edgar asked in a low voice. Anxiety plagued him with thoughts of the drunkard entering the bathroom and causing a scene. It was the main reason he had been prompted to move them further away and now hoped to keep from getting their attention. Edgar hated making a scene in front of strangers, even if they were inebriated.
But he was really tired of these games. Tired of always being the one at a disadvantage, stumbling around without a clue while his opponent rushed ahead holding all of the cards. It wasn’t fair.
“Yes,” Scriabin replied with a condescending laugh. “But you are my favorite toy. And the only one I want to keep.”
Edgar lashed out before his brain caught up to think better of it. His palms slammed the stall on either side of Scriabin’s head, making them both jump at the jarring sound and the echoing shudder as it traveled to the connecting structures. Scriabin’s eyes widened as if he hadn’t thought Edgar would do something like that and he was sure, judging by his expression, that Edgar had thought the same. Edgar grimaced, berating himself. He was far better at controlling his anger than this, but at the moment he was too upset to care.
*I’m not a toy* iterated over and over in his mind as he thought about Scriabin and Phoenix dancing. He should end this, really that’s the logical thing to do. Someone who genuinely cared about him wouldn’t resort to such manipulative tactics to get his attention. And yet.
“Then play with me,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
"What?" Scriabin sounded genuinely surprised by this.
“Please Scriabin. Touch me. Play with *me*.” He didn’t know where these pleas were coming from, couldn’t think beyond the intense need that had him breathing heavily for no reason. At least none that he could admit to. When Scriabin didn’t move right away, he lowered one hand to pull up one side of his own shirt, exposing part of his belly.
“If I’m the one you wanna keep, prove it.”
“I don’t have anything to prove Edgar. You’re the one in denial,” Scriabin countered in a tone that was clearly a test.
“I’m not in denial,” Edgar countered seriously. “I know what I want.” At that Scriabin reached out and ran his hand up under Edgar’s shirt, expression serious and calculating. Quivering at the sensation, Edgar tried not to break eye contact.
“Oh yea? And what is it exactly that you want Edgar Vargas? Hmm?” he said slowly, the words almost a threat rather than a question. Edgar swallowed audibly, trying unsuccessfully to resist the urge to lean in for a kiss. He managed to stop when they were millimeters apart, their breaths mingling. Scriabin's warm hand traveled up to his chest, and he feared it would alert him to the rapid beating of his heart. Or rather, misjudge his fear of rejection as a fear of commitment.
"I want you. And I don't wanna share," He finally admitted after a hesitant pause.
The moment he answered, Scriabin pushed against him until Edgar slammed into the opposite wall, a grunt escaping from the impact. Before he could protest, Scriabin was pressed bodily upon him and forced his mouth open in a vigorous kiss. Edgar was too stunned to argue and easily melted into the attention, one hand clinging in his hair.
Their kiss was energetic, almost aggressive in nature. Pent up frustrations reconciled as they made it clear just how much they wanted such honesties between them. An explosion of clinging hands, and gyrating hips only increased the frantic nature of their embrace. By the time they parted to take a breath they were both red in the face, hair fluffed, clothes untucked and more than a little unwilling to pause.
"Take your pants off," Scriabin demanded breathily. When Edgar balked and didn't immediately do it, Scriabin got in his face with an irritated scowl.
"I'm not the one that started all of this. If you meant what you said, if you really want me to touch you, only you, then take. . .your fucking. . .pants off."
Edgar paused, ears reddening with indecision. Long enough for Scriabin to stand back and cross his arms expectantly.
"God, alright. I do, I meant it," Edgar conceded. Scriabin watched smugly as he proceeded to shimmy out of his pants.
Scriabin then grabbed one of his bare legs and hoisted it up until Edgar got the hint and held it out straight so that it spanned to the other wall. Keeping his back pinned and one arm grasping the top for support, Edgar shivered in anticipation. He felt so exposed like this. If anyone were to look into the stall through any number of ways, they’d get a full view.
“You love this, don’t you? Admit it Edgar. You’d love it if someone came in and saw you like this. Bare, exposed, begging to receive." Edgar shook his head vigorously. He couldn't admit to that. It was too much.
“No, I don’t want to get caught.” Edgar's voice broke in a startled gasp as slender fingers brushed over his nethers.
"Feh, then you just like the idea that you could be. You like the risk,” Scriabin amended. Edgar covered his face, too embarrassed to admit to anything further. Hearing it out loud like that, he must sound terrible and it was true. Something about being found, it added to the rush. In a different way than pain did. He wondered if that was part of why he had a hard time admitting their relationship, or speaking of his sexuality in general.
“Edgar, it’s ok. I enjoy learning about your little kinks,” Scriabin reassured him as he eased the hand from his face encouragingly. "You need to be more accepting of them."
Suddenly someone burst into the bathroom, likely the one that had been making all the racket that had prompted their relocation in the first place. Both Edgar and Scriabin froze, their hearts beating tightly in their throats. Listening as the drunk shambled to the sink, muttering in a loud yet incomprehensible voice, they waited. Both hoped for the drunkard to leave quickly, though they had vastly different motives.
"If you really don't want to get caught, better not make a sound," Scriabin whispered in Edgar's ear before sliding down his front. Edgar's eyes widened, shifting to watch as Scriabin went into a crouch. The dashing smile flashed his way was enough to cause Edgar to turn completely beat red.
They should stop. Really they should go home. Right now. And yet all he could do was watch in captivation as Scriabin took his erection in hand and slid his mouth over it.
Edgar let out a sharp hiss, but bit his lip before more could come out. His heart hammered wildly in his chest. Alarms sounded in his mind. They should stop, they had to. They'll get caught. Aah, god, don't stop. The grip he had on the stall behind him tightened, trying to ground himself on something as Scriabin tried in earnest to rip his control away.
Edgar reached out with his free hand and tried to grip Scriabin's hair, but it was quickly slapped away. He looked down in surprise, but Scriabin simply glared back at him. It was a shame, his hair looked so good, soft and bouncy. But it didn't matter, the sensations being pulled from him distracted Edgar from being too disappointed.
Scriabin hated the cold roughness of the tile floor. It snagged at his pants, undoubtedly getting them dirty with various fowl substances. He would make sure Edgar paid for it if they got ruined. Oh, how he'd make him pay. Not to mention this situation they were in. All Edgar's fault. Why did he have to ruin their evening out? They never got to go anywhere. And stupid Phoenix. Edgar didn’t like him, he could tell. The look on his face when he came on the dancefloor, priceless.The very thought had Scriabin suck harder on the shaft that filled his mouth, practically demanding Edgar’s submission. Part of him almost wished they'd get caught. The devastation on Edgar's face would be sublime.
Edgar kept silent, but his body spoke for him. It heated up, tensed, vibrated and twitched. All in time with Scriabin's movements. Even his lips betrayed him, mouthing his pleas as he fought to not add voice. This only encouraged Scriabin more, trying his best to break that iron control.
“Please, Scriabin. I-” Edgar started to plead, but his voice cut out in a sharp gasp, body arching, unintentionally pushing himself deeper into Scriabin’s mouth. And just when he thought he’d reached the end, that brilliant burst of sensation just moments away, Scriabin pulled back entirely. Edgar let out a shaky breath, his hips twitching as he desperately tried to finish, but the man before him sat back on his haunches and looked up at him with a glare that practically dared him to finish like that. Unaided. Edgar was tempted, but shook his head in frustration.
“Why’d you stop?” he asked in a breathy voice. His attempts to stay quiet were valiant, but Scriabin really wanted payback. So he’d have to really put him to the test.
“You don’t get to tell me how I play with my toys,” he replied simply. Edgar looked outraged to be referred to as such, but the expression almost immediately crumbled as he watched his partner spit saliva and precum into his hand and reached up to smear it over his rectum. The puckered entrance tightened at the sudden contact and Edgar sharply inhaled as it was abruptly invaded by a determined digit.
“We shouldn’t be doing this here,” Edgar managed, back arching as a second digit soon followed. Scriabin looked up at him, but his focus was on widening the entrance without causing too much pain.
“And yet, here we are,” he replied sarcastically. “Consequences, consequences.”
Edgar’s heart was slamming in his chest, the hand he used to grip the top of the stall ached from holding it so tightly and his knees shook. The sound of the drunk continued, some sort of shuffling about that kept tearing his focus from what they were doing. Yet every time he looked away, or appeared too intent on what was around them, Scriabin redirected his attention by stroking his cock with a free hand, or thrusting his fingers deeper til the other man shuddered in weeping pleasure.
Scriabin loved his begging, the sweet sound of Edgar’s pleas egging him on. He wished he could hear the reserved man like this all of the time. Yet all too soon he was ready and Scriabin shelved that desire in favor of the one in which he destroyed him, breaking all the barriers that separated them.
Pulling his hands away entirely, he got to his feet. He relished the huff of frustration Edgar released, knowing that he could edge him only so long. Even in a place like this, he knew the man could only be teased to a certain point. For now, at least.
Stepping closer, he leaned his hip into the extended leg. Edgar turned his knee inwards, anticipation making him all too eager. Using a bit more spit, Scriabin pulled out and slicked up his own hard member, a stern look of concentration on his brow.
“Scriabin I,” Edgar began, but whatever he was about to say was lost to the winds as Scriabin lined up and pushed into the space he’d prepared.
“Fuck,” Scriabin hissed quietly as he pushed into the delicious friction. “Fuck yea. This isn’t what I had in mind for tonight, but god I can’t think of anything better right now.”
He didn’t even wait to fully insert before pulling back and beginning a quick and fierce pace. Edgar had to literally stuff a couple knuckles between his teeth to stifle himself from making any noise. The sensation was so intense. His body tried to resist at first, but the insistence of each thrust quickly caused the muscles to relax and give way. They both let out a muffled groan when Scriabin finally managed to get all in.
“There isn’t, isn’t anything better,” Edgar admitted softly. Scriabin opened his mouth to respond, but paused as they heard the man shuffle again. Then the squeak of the door opening, the music blaring, then the clack of it shutting again. They had the bathroom to themselves again, but for how long they had no way of knowing.
“Damn right there isn’t,” Scriabin agreed when he realized they had made it undiscovered. Edgar let out a relieved little laugh as hands shifted to Edgar’s hips to help guide him. Each thrust now held enough force that Edgar and by proxy the stall he was propped against, rattled and shook. At first Edgar tensed, trying to mitigate the sounds they were making. However that didn’t last long as Scriabin sped up, slamming into him with such vigor that Edgar felt himself melting under the heat of it.
It didn’t take very long at all. Perhaps it was the location, all their pent up energies, the anxieties of being in public together for the first time. Or perhaps it was just that he’d been edged twice now. Either way, Edgar quickly devolved to pleading, his hips meeting Scriabin’s mid thrust, causing them both to groan at the force of their contact.
“Come on then. Try not to make a mess on me,” Scriabin allowed, his grip tightening to near bruising levels.
The moment he was given permission, Edgar removed the hand that was in his mouth and instead used it to touch himself. A few quick strokes was all it took. Then he took in a sharp breath. Tilting it back, he encouraged the milky streams to jet up and onto his own chest.
Scriabin watched him ride out the blossoming high, his insides tightening in fiery waves. The sight of him, twitching and spent while he felt his insides pulsing against him was enough to let Scriabin join him. A few stuttered thrusts more before he slowed down to longer motions, milking the orgasm for all it was worth.
He hummed in satisfaction as he slowed to a stop.
“Oh Binny! Where did you get off too? Binny!!!” Phoenix’s notoriously high voice called as the young man suddenly burst into the bathroom. Both men stiffened in synced dread.
“Fuck, not him again,” Scriabin groaned quietly, still trying to catch his breath.
“Is he always like this?” Edgar asked quietly. He couldn’t help the whimper that escaped him as Scriabin pulled out. They exchanged a look, both knowing that they had been a little more rough than usual. Edgar already was feeling a little raw down below.
“Feh, you’ve no idea. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” Scriabin said. He reached over, grabbed a tissue to clean himself off, then tossed it in the toilet as he fixed his clothes. Once he was at least decently put together, he opened the stall and stepped out, keeping Edgar hidden.
Edgar realized that Scriabin wasn’t going to force him to come out. Even now, after what they’d done, it was still in his power to control. The consideration made Edgar’s heart thump. He paused only a moment before quickly reaching for the tissue.
“Oh there you are Binny! I found you!” Phoenix declared brightly. He clearly was investigating a few stalls, a look of debate on his face. Scriabin wondered if he was deciding if it was ok to peek under them to look at the occupants' shoes. It made him glad they had chosen a stall much further down the line.
“Yep, you found me,” Scriabin replied with a roll of his eyes.
“Why are you here? Are you not feeling well? Did that other guy do somethin, unsavory?”
“What? No, Phoenix, that’s not. He isn’t like that,” Scriabin countered seriously with a shake of his head and hands. No one would believe Edgar to be like that anyways. He didn’t care what people thought of himself, but Scriabin didn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about Edgar.
“If anything, it was him that was being unsavory,” Edgar countered slightly from right behind him. Scriabin’s eyes widened in surprise as he looked back at him.
“WHAT!?!! Scriabin you didn’t!” Phoenix exclaimed with wide eyes. He took a half step back, one hand over his heart in a dramatically stricken pose of disbelief.
Scriabin smiled as Edgar draped one arm over his shoulders in a loose hug. He looked far more relaxed now, a tinge of red still coloring his cheeks. Scriabin was caught between the urge to smack him and kiss him. He chose now, of all times, to have confidence.
“Omigosh guys!! No freakin way! Binny how could you? I was waiting all this time! Why didn’t you say that you were seeing someone? I wouldn’t’ve made all those jokes if I knew you were taken!!” Phoenix lamented, completely unshaken by the idea that these two had had sex in a public restroom.
He seemed far more upset by his social faux pas, which Edgar found endearing and somewhat relieved by. This person adored Scriabin, but he definitely wasn’t going to come along and sweep him off his feet. The jealousy that had tangled in Edgar’s heart seemed a foolish thing now, something that could easily be cast aside.
“It’s ok. We haven't really made it public yet,” Edgar admitted sheepishly. Scriabin coughed, either in surprise or to stifle a comment, he couldn't be sure.
“Oh, of course. Doi. I’m sorry if I was putting too much pressure on ya. It’s a scary world out there. Lots of people that wouldn’t understand,” Phoenix responded with a sagely nod. “Oh but you’re all safe here. No one is going to give you a hard time about that. Scriabin knows, he can tell ya.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Edgar replied with a gentle smile. His hand tightened on Scriabin’s shoulder slightly. A reminder that he’d try to do better, for them.
“Well alright. Let’s go get us a shot to celebrate! First round is on Binny!” Phoenix declared as they followed him out of the bathroom.
"Hey no, wait a second!"
Edgar chuckled to himself as Scriabin pulled away to chase the young man down before he could put the order in at the bar, a trail of glitter sparkling in their wake.