Work Text:
The glass clinked softly against the bartop as Brian lowered it, the smooth taste of Don Q pleasantly scorching their throat as they swallowed. Across from them, the bartender worked a shaker with a flourish, before pouring cleanly into the emptied glass beside them. Abreast: Stephen, gawking stupidly at the man’s work. He pulled his newly full glass toward himself instantly, smearing a horrible wet streak across the bartop’s surface. To Brian, it kept them strangely pinned; not wanting to endure the sensory challenge of wetting their sleeve if they chose to reach across the bar or lean against it casually.
Some nonsense roared over the bar’s television, and Brian cringed mildly from the unwelcome noise. It wasn’t a sports night: those were far too rowdy for one-on-one time. A laugh track—Brian noted the noise had been—and their eyes glanced up to the screen. Oh, they knew this show. They didn’t truly care too much for television, but a point of contention some years back had been just how little popular media schlock they knew. It was such an easy conversation starter; Oh, did you catch the new episode?, that at some point they figured it’d be a valuable enough asset to justify the time wasted catching up. That, and it meant they’d never again have to awkwardly terminate a conversation about their tastes on the subject. Having no investment in something as societally ubiquitous as watching TV wouldn’t make them a pariah, but it was something that made them different in a way they weren’t pleased with. People would notice, and remember, and forever think they were somewhat odd.
It was easier to have mildly esoteric taste when it was something they actually enjoyed. They’d rarely met anyone who’d ever heard of their favorite bands, much less listened to and liked them, but it helped that music was something people much more typically had an individual relationship with. It wasn’t weird to like a band no one had ever heard of. Especially not when the music was great. In fact, it gave the impression you were quite stylish and interesting. That was a big boon– and the perfect foot in the door for some of their most valuable relationships. The right kind of person would even feel a little humiliated by your superior taste. Awed and envious. Stephen was a little like that—but about everything.
That impression made it easier to drag Stevie along anywhere. He respected their taste—to his detriment, most often. Brian knew Stephen hated bars, which is precisely why they’d invited him out to one, their own distaste for them notwithstanding. Planting that basic seed of discomfort within him was perfect for outings like this. He’d stick closer to Brian, more obediently, because they were familiar to him. (And it meant he wouldn’t try anything really weird like had been happening lately. He wouldn’t—there were so many people here.) To him Brian was a comfort against the harsh sights, sounds, and smells of the dense social atmosphere. That’s how they’d met Stevie, almost. Tucked away in the corner at a party they both hated. Not that he knew that part.
They’d ordered an old favorite, strawberry daiquiri, (straight up, with a slice of lime,) to get them through the night. Stephen, of course, was drinking the same, but he was on his second one. He had a real funny habit of drinking his spirits, instead of sipping them, which got him wasted like nothing; that and his little copycat routine. Not that he’d ever say it, but Stevie Boy wouldn’t know a spirit from wine if you put a gun to his head. He ordered nothing but screwdrivers when they first met, perfect Baby’s First cocktail, for when you can’t stand the taste of liquor. They jeered him for it once, and in hindsight it might’ve been one of their greatest plays. After that was when he started ordering the same thing as them, every time. Made it an absolute cakewalk to get him drunk, when they wanted to.
Whether they needed that trick on this particular evening, they weren’t yet sure. Stevie’d been a little sullen, so far, and they’d talked about almost nothing for the better part of a half hour. Might’ve been work trouble constipating him, again. Some lab problem; investment loss. Brian envisioned it as some cliché work meeting: projection on the wall, graphs that meant something. Lines going down—that meant bad. Things they didn’t know enough about. It was interesting when Stephen talked about it, though. He didn’t know too much about it either, idiot he was, but their conversations were better for it. Brian didn’t really care for the numbers shit. Passion—that’s what really got them. Stephen knew what he wanted from his people, and he had the drive to make it happen. That was interesting—which made the current state of the evening all the more frustrating. After nearly a week’s worth of dissatisfying outings—conversations that went nowhere no matter what tricks they played, anxiety that nipped them every moment no matter how much liquor they downed—they’d been hoping a night with Stephen would be easy. He was always their low effort pull; never turned down an invitation if he could help it, and never forced them to put in the work that a self-respecting individual would demand. Save for nights like this where he gave them nothing. One-word answers and hearty sighs as he fiddled with his drink in silence. Forcing them to dole out all the cheap tricks it took to bring him back to earth. God, they hated when he played frigid.
They said something coy to him, flirtatious, even, just to perk him up. Then he was off, whipping his head around cluelessly. He took a long moment just to process what they said, then he started to second guess himself. ‘They said that to me?’, and then he’d been sure he’d misunderstood them. Maybe ten whole seconds passed before he finally coughed up some response. Fucking awkward, but it made their nerves light up like fire; made their heart thump a little harder. It felt good, when he was predictable.
That predictability was another thing that compelled them to Stephen. It helped that he was stupid. That he was lonely. There was almost nothing they better recognized than the desperate edge to his voice when he spoke to them. That sickly, cloying neediness that embodied his want for companionship. They resented just how nakedly he wore it, sometimes. When they had worked hard to become someone worth anybody’s time. To be the perfect, pretty party friend. Airheaded and egotistical. Just so fucking easy to talk to; completely frictionless, completely reflective. But here he was, the mess of him; the charity case. Though, they didn’t really mean that. It’s not like they were friends with Stephen for his sake. He was funny. Entertaining. The thought made them grateful for the work they’d put in. That work made all the difference between their place and Stevie’s: made sure they were never gonna be the one getting led on like a dog.
They cooed something chiding, and he reeled a little. Stevie made most things trivially easy, but this was a balancing act. A little embarrassment kept him docile, but they couldn’t just humiliate him. Not that he’d ever leave, he was too sad and too desperate for that; but he would get upset. That would shut him down for the rest of the night, and they wouldn’t get another peep out of him. But if they found that balance, he was perfect: chatty himself, but would listen to Brian talk about anything. And he didn’t care for the presentation—the performance of any putrid, inane little details of life—he couldn’t be choosy like that. He was their pick-me-up; he took what Brian gave him, and gladly. So they supposed it was worth the extra effort, on the odd evening, to placate him. It was still much less work than anyone else would demand.
“Stevie, you’ve been so quiet tonight,” they purred, leaning over the bar—carefully avoiding the wet rings of condensation encircling them—propped up on their hands, to get a good look at his sullen expression. “I’m almost starting to think you don’t want to spend time with me.”
Something like fear flashed behind his eyes, and they struggled not to grin. ‘No, please, I need this–’ they imagined him thinking. He looked away from them—like prey, always the one to blink first—before he cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “There- there's just been some trouble with our investors, lately. They're so damn pedantic about everything, it's like they think I can work miracles!”
They rolled their head over to lean further on their hand, and fluttered their lashes, real doe-eyed and stupid. “Wow, that sounds like a lot of hassle. I mean, I don’t know as much about business as you do, but you’re a smart guy. I’m sure you can get them to turn around, right?”
“You- you think?” he stuttered out. This was the important part, really gassing him up. If they clutched this out, he’d be riding that confidence high for the rest of the night, and then they’d be set. It was a trade-off—he was always a little more irritating if he was in too good a mood, but boy, was he talkative. A whole night of Stephen’s wild stories sounded perfect to them, right now.
“Of course I do, Stevie,” they cooed. It was rewarding, molding him like this. Getting him right where they wanted him. “I mean, they can’t hold out forever. You’re the man in charge, after all. Sooner or later, they’ll have to listen to you.”
“...That’s right,” he hissed. Too easy. “They just don’t get it right now, but they will. I’m Stephen Bass, they’ll- they’ll respect that soon enough.”
“Hey, that’s the spirit,” they hummed, and the triumph in their voice really was genuine. “Anyways, what was it you were telling me about work, last time?” They reached over the table to brush their fingertips against his hand, and he shuddered. They smiled, reveling in his timid vulnerability—but when their looming, possessive gaze traveled up his arms and met his own, their heart sank. His eyes were foreboding, piercing right into theirs; the expression in them something nearly unreadable. There was hunger in it. And something else—something fraught. They weren’t certain, which sickened them. Stephen was usually so perfectly forthcoming. An open book just laying there for them to page through as they pleased, but there’d been more and more moments lately where he was completely impenetrable.
Under their locked eyes, his expression shifted. It was something decisive, now, and his mouth began to twitch. “...Brian, do you-” he swallowed thickly. “Have you ever thought before… that you were part of something bigger? Bigger than yourself?” His hand gripped theirs.
What? Where was this coming from? They forced out a laugh, nearly cringing when the sound came out breathy and strained. “What, like, religion? Stevie, I’m not sure that I–”
“I’ve been having these dreams,” he muttered, licking his lips. He was nervous. That, they could tell. “These- these dreams where I feel like I’m massive. And I can see- I can see everything. Everything in the fucking world through my own eyes, but they’re not in my head. And it’s- I feel like I– It’s telling me... It’s telling me something important, and I just have to look at it right. And it’s only me who can do it.”
His eyes had wandered as he spoke, but they suddenly snapped back up to meet theirs. Looking at them, expectantly. What the hell did he want them to say? How does any normal person respond to something like that? “Those- those sound like… pretty wild dreams, Stevie,” they said with a laugh. What a shit fucking opener, setting him up like that; like they wanted him to elaborate. Only when noticing the trepid flex of his fingers did they realize their gaze had drifted so far from his eyes. They couldn’t stand to look anywhere but his hands—one confining theirs intensely; damp and clammy—looking right into his wild, seeking eyes—it hurt. What they needed was to shut him down. Literally anything would work, anything that would make him talk about anything else at all. Out spilled the first words they could think of. “I mean, I don’t know why you’re telling me. You don’t think you’d be better off talking to a shrink, or something?”
This was the wrong thing to say. He recoiled from them, clenching the stem of his drink, and his dry, cracked lips pulled back into a grimace. “I thought you would get it,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “If you could see it, you would. You’d know what I meant.”
Their gaze trailed from his shuddering glass down the length of the bartop, and they noticed for the first time that their own hands were trembling.
He heaved a heavy sigh, the grip on his glass relaxing. “It… It’s not your fault, that you just can’t see it. I should never have said anything.” Another canned laugh track rang out across the bar.
Dense silence hung between them for a few excruciating moments: the air still—like the quiet moments just after a lightning strike, where electricity still hung in the air. Brian released a breath they hadn’t known they’d been holding, and suddenly the room came back to life around them. Murmurs of people, clinking glasses and the harsh buzz of the lights overhead. They took a long sip from their drink before they spoke again. Something disarming, it didn’t matter. Stephen seemed more receptive to it now: apologetic. He cowed to them again, and the conversation was theirs to lead once more. This was good: they could smooth it over. They were more versed in this protocol than any other.