Chapter Text
The Paradise Lounge didn’t officially exist.
“We’re the best-kept secret in New Orleans, boys” Lou loved to say, “because if the feds ever find us, I’ll be in Angola and you two’ll be shining shoes on Canal Street.”
So every night the unmarked door on Dauphine Street opened only if you knew the password, the windows were painted black, and the band played behind a false wall just in case the revenue men came knocking with axes. Inside, the gin flowed like the Mississippi in flood season and nobody asked questions. Perfect gig for two broke moochers who couldn’t keep two nickels rubbed together.
Which brings us back to the sidewalk, 8:47 p.m., the air alive with the hum of Model T's honking their way through the evening dusk, street vendors hawking beignets and pralines, and the distant wail of a saxophone spilling out from somewhere.
Vinnie was in absolute heaven.
He strode along the cracked sidewalk with a grin that could light up a stage. Beside him, or rather, tottering a few steps behind, was Alastair, his lanky frame squeezed into a borrowed flapper dress that shimmered like fool's gold under the gas lamps. The high heels—courtesy of some chorus girl at the club—were doing their best to turn his usual confident saunter into a wobbly disaster.
"Oh, come on, Al," Vinnie teased, glancing back with a mischievous glint in his eye. He flicked the frayed lapel of his one good jacket, the one he’d been burying cousins in since he was big enough to fit, and still hadn’t been paid for. "You gotta pick a name for tonight. Can't just waltz into Lou's soiree as 'Alastair in a Dress.' How about Alicia? Sounds sophisticated, like one of those society dames sipping champagne…"
Alastair shot him a glare that could curdle milk, his rouged lips pursed into a pout that only made the whole getup more ridiculous. The wig perched atop his head—a cascade of red curls that smelled faintly of mothballs—bobbed with each uneven step. "I am not picking a name, Vinnie," he grumbled, his voice a low, charming drawl—even if it was edged with murder right now. "This is humiliating enough without you turning it into a goddamn vaudeville act. And these heels are the devil's invention—how do dames walk in 'em without breaking their necks?"
Vinnie chuckled, slowing his pace to let Al catch up. “Oh, don’t be like that, sweetheart,” he crooned, grin like a shark’s. “Those gams! I swear, if I had legs like that I’d never wear pants again…”
Alastair’s left heel skidded on a loose brick and he windmilled for balance, clutching Vinnie’s arm hard enough to leave bruises. “If you call me ‘sweetheart’ one more time I will beat you to death with this beaded handbag, you absolute buffoon.”
“What about Alina?” Vinnie went on brightly, ignoring him. “Exotic, like a Russian princess fleeing the Bolsheviks." He waggled his eyebrows, dodging a playful swipe from Al's gloved hand.
"Or maybe Alana—simple, sweet, rolls off the tongue…” At that, Vinnie’s brain, traitor that it was, supplied an unhelpful image: Alastair draped in that silk, no longer glaring but bending near in the backstage murk, red lips parted on a breath.
Vinnie’s mouth went dry, a sudden ache blooming low in his gut.
Alastair huffed, tugging at the padded bodice that did a half-decent job of hiding his flat chest. "Listen, I lost the bet fair and square—poker ain't my game—but if you don't quit yappin', I'll—"
Alastair hissed, but the high heels were murdering his arches and he had to keep grabbing Vinnie’s sleeve to stay vertical, which only made Vinnie’s grin wider.
A wolf-whistle sliced through the humid air.
A trio of rough-looking fellas in newsboy caps sauntered out from an alley, their eyes lighting up like they'd struck oil. One of them, the tallest, whistled low, tipping his hat with a leer. He then elbowed one of his buddies. “Hey, red! Yeah, you in the green dress. How much for an hour of paradise, huh?”
Alastair stopped dead, his pout twisting into something feral. Vinnie could see the storm brewing, but before he could intervene, Al squared his shoulders, planted those wobbly heels firm on the pavement, and dropped his voice two octaves. "You want to go, son?" he growled in his deepest, most gravelly timbre, stepping forward with a menace that belied the sequins and fringe.
The men’s smirks slid straight into slack-jawed panic. "Whoa, that's a... fella?" one stammered, backing up as his pals scattered like roaches under a light. They mumbled excuses and bolted down the street, leaving only the echo of their footsteps.
Vinnie lost it, slapping Al on the back hard enough to make the fox stole bristle. "Jesus wept, Al, relax. They just thought you were a very tall, very angry dame…”
Alastair sniffed with wounded dignity. He lifted his chin, rearranging the stole like a duchess who’d been asked to sit in steerage. “Dogs.”
“Can’t even blame ’em,” Vinnie said, letting his eyes take the scenic route from the feathered headband, down the long throat, all the way to the silk ankles doing their best not to wobble. “You clean up nicer than half the chorus girls Lou’s got on payroll.”
“Well, I can blame them!” Alastair’s kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed to slits. “Besides, flattery will get you exactly nowhere, mister. I’m a virtuous girl.” For a moment, Al’s trademark smirk flickered back to life, devilish and full of mischief. “Convent-raised. Veil still hanging in the closet and everything.”
Vinnie scoffed, “That your whole backstory? Tragic past, still no first name?” He meant to laugh, but it snagged somewhere in his throat and came out thin, almost a cough. His pulse was doing something unwise, thudding against his collar in outrageous staccato. Because under the streetlight the rouge on Alastair’s cheeks looked wet and alive, and the cheap satin dress clung to his sharp hipbones in a way that turned Vinnie’s mouth to sandpaper.
Get a grip, Valentino, he told himself, jolting.
What the hell, he had seen Alastair in suspenders and axle grease a hundred times backstage. It was just a costume. It was just Al.
Vincent swept his arm out with theatrical chivalry, bowing slightly at the waist. “Come on, princess. Your adoring public awaits. Anybody else gets fresh, you’ve got carte blanche to emasculate ‘em. Verbally, or biblically, whatever suits. I’ll hold your purse.”
Alastair grabbed the offered arm like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic, muttering curses under his breath while wrestling the wig straight.
The doorman, a mountain of a man named Big Rufus, took one look at Alastair in full flapper regalia and nearly swallowed his toothpick.
“Evenin’, Miss… uh…” Big Rufus squinted. “Lord have mercy, that ain’t—”
“Eyes up here, Rufus,” Alastair snapped, voice sharp as broken glass. “Password’s ‘King Oliver’s in town.’ Now open the damn door before I break my neck in these godforsaken heels.”
Rufus barked a laugh that shook his barrel of a stomach like jelly and swung the unmarked door wide.
Alastair tottered over the threshold, still clutching Vinnie’s arm like a vice. The door thudded shut behind them, swallowing the humid night.
They stood in a coffin-narrow hallway lit by one crimson bulb that painted their faces bloody. A young woman lounged against the opposite wall—Vel, they called her—smoking and filing her nails with the bored precision of someone who’d seen everything twice. She didn't even look up at first.
Then she did. Her nail file froze mid-stroke.
"Well, damn," Vel drawled, exhaling a perfect smoke ring. "Did the chorus line start takin' volunteers, or you just here to make the rest of us look like amateurs?"
Alastair’s grin flashed—but didn’t reach his eyes. "Flatterer. Bet you say that to all the girls who stumble in here."
"Only the prettiest ones." She snorted. “Or the ones dumb enough to lose a poker bet to Vinnie." Then Vel spun, long ponytail whipping, and hammered four sharp knocks on the plaster.
A Judas hole snapped open. A bloodshot eye peered out, widened at the sight of Alastair, then vanished as the panel slammed shut. A heavy bolt shot back.
The wall itself swung inward.
Only then did the Paradise Lounge truly hit them.
A rolling wave of smoke and heat and music poured through the opening like the place had been holding its breath. The band, tucked behind the sliding false panel, was tearing into the last eight bars of "West End Blues" so hard the trumpet player’s face had gone the color of a ripe plum. Blue haze hung thick enough to spread on toast. The smell was gin, sweat, reefer, and the particular sweet rot of New Orleans night.
Lou himself was perched on his usual stool, dressed all in white, holding court with the weary grin of a man who’d sold his soul to the devil and was still haggling over the price.
He spotted them immediately. His eyebrows went up so high they nearly vanished into his slicked-back blond hair. He flung his arms wide, grin sharp enough to shave with.
“Mon dieu,” he drawled, clapping once in pure delight. “Alastair, darling, you’re giving every dame in here a complex!”
Vinnie’s grin was all teeth as he steered a flushed, furious Alastair past a table of slack-jawed regulars who’d forgotten their cigarettes were burning.
The boss leapt down from the stool. Handsome as the devil himself, Lou barely cleared Alastair’s chin, but that never stopped him. He seized Al’s face in one hand and planted a loud, theatrical kiss square on his mouth. "Muah!"
Alastair squawked, trying to peel Lou’s other hand off his ass. "Lou, I swear to fucking Christ—"
Al tried to step back and nearly went down like a deer on ice. Vinnie caught him—one arm snapping hard around that silk waist, palm landing on bare skin where the dress dipped scandalously low.
Jesus wept.
The heat rolling off Alastair hit Vinnie low and vicious, straight to his groin like a live wire. He could feel the ridge of Alastair’s hipbone under his thumb. He could feel every tremor that ripped through that long, elegant body pressed against him, could feel Alastair’s breath catch hard, a soft, desperate hitch that went with the sudden flush riding high on those razor cheekbones. Could feel his own pulse trying to hammer its way out of his throat and die.
Lou just laughed, low and filthy. “Vincent, you magnificent bastard—you actually got him into the dress!”
Vinnie dragged in a ragged breath, the sound scraping his throat raw, and forced a grin that felt more like a snarl. “Told you he’d do it. Lost a straight flush to my full house. Pride goeth before the fall, Lou, and tonight those French heels are gonna make the landing spectacular…”
Alastair mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a death threat and collapsed into a chair near the tiny backstage area much like a marionette with its strings slashed. He yanked off the heels with the fury of a man disemboweling a fish, flexing long, pale feet that looked unfairly elegant even now.
Lou glided over, two glasses of something illegal and amber in his hands. He set them down with a soft clink. “Drink, both of you,” he ordered, eyes glittering like a cat with cream. “On the house. Because tonight, my tragic little songbird—” he pinched Alastair’s rouged cheek, coaxing a sour little grunt out of him “—you’re the floor show.”
Alastair snatched the glass and threw the gin back in one brutal swallow, throat working, pearls trembling against the hollow of his collarbone. He slammed the empty glass down and fixed Lou with a glare. “I’m singing one song, Lou. Uno. Then I’m burning this dress and we’re never speaking of this again.”
Vinnie took a slower sip, letting the burn crawl down his chest while he watched Alastair massage one arched foot, thumb pressing into the tender spot beneath the ankle bone. The silk had ridden up just enough to flash a stripe of thigh—toned, golden, and fuck. The sight twisted something low and stupid in Vinnie’s gut.
You’ve seen him barefoot before, asshole. What the hell is this?
Well, this was different.
Alastair unguarded—flushed from liquor and fury, lips wet, lashes casting shadows across perfect, sharp cheekbones. Dangerous and soft and lethal.
Then Lou leaned in, whispered something against the shell of Alastair’s ear that made those hazel eyes slit half-closed. Alastair laughed with gusto, head tipping back, throat bared, pearls sliding slow and obscene against sweat-damp skin.
The sound punched Vinnie square in the sternum, stole every ounce of air he’d managed to drag in. He gripped his glass so hard the rim should’ve shattered.
Christ, he was in trouble.
Lou straightened and clapped his hands. “All right, children. Ten minutes till the band takes a break. Alastair—sorry, Alyssa, darling—up you go. Vincent, don’t just stand there gawking! You’re on mic duty. Make sure the crowd knows we’ve got a genuine radio star.”
Alastair groaned. “I’m not a star till someone gives me a microphone that isn’t bolted to a speakeasy stage surrounded by drunks…”
Vinnie leaned in, voice low an certain. “One day, Al. One day you’ll have a real studio. Big glass windows, a sign that says ON AIR in red letters. You’ll sit there in a proper suit, smiling like the devil himself, and half the country’ll be hanging on every word you say. You’ll be bigger than Rudy Vallée and twice as pretty.”
Alastair went very still. The sarcasm drained from his face, leaving something raw and hopeful Vinnie rarely saw.
“You really think so?” Al asked quietly.
Vinnie’s heart twisted. God, yes. He could see it so clearly it hurt: Alastair’s voice floating out over the airwaves, smooth as bourbon, sharp as a switchblade. Kansas farmwives leaning toward their Atwater Kents just to hear that laugh. And Vinnie—Vinnie would build the box that carried him there. Not just radio. Something more. Pictures and sound together. Alastair’s face glowing on screens in every parlor from here to California.
(Sure, Lou called it pie-in-the-sky nonsense. But he kept them on anyway—probably because they could charm the crowd and mix a mean Sazerac.)
“Yeah,” Vinnie said, throat tight. “I know so.”
For a second the noise of the club faded. It was just the two of them, same as always, except Alastair’s eyes were lined in kohl and his mouth was red as sin, and Vinnie couldn’t remember how to breathe.
The band hit their final cord. The crowd roared. Lou shoved Alastair towards the stage.
“Up, princess!”
Then he thrust the microphone stand into Vinnie's hands. "Look alive, Vincent!"
Vinnie's fingers closed around the heavy stand on reflex. His palms were sweating so badly the metal almost slipped.
Alastair shot him a quick, wild look and leaned in close enough for Vinnie to catch gardenia and nerves.
"If I fall on my face," Al whispered, "you're carrying me home. And I weigh a lot more than I look in this damn dress."
"Deal," Vinnie croaked.
He backed onto the tiny stage, dragging the mic stand, trying not to trip over that thick black snake of a cord while Alastair followed like a green silk feline. He planted it center stage, gave the tube the usual half-turn to be sure it wouldn't fold like a drunk, and stepped aside—just far enough to keep the cord clear of those ankles.
He opened his mouth to announce the act.
Nothing came out.
Alastair saved him. Grabbed the mic himself with a gloved hand, leaned in, and purred, "Evening, darlings. Name's Alicia tonight. Try to keep up."
The band kicked in.
Vinnie's job was simple: keep the cord free, watch the amplifier levels behind the false wall, and under no circumstances look directly at Alastair unless he wanted to drop dead on the spot.
He looked anyway.
Couldn't not.
Vinnie watched him go and thought, not for the first time, that Alastair was born for a spotlight that hadn’t been invented yet.
And maybe, just maybe, Vincent was born to build it for him.
The band slid into a slow, sultry intro. Alastair wrapped one gloved hand around the mic stand, slow enough to qualify as public indecency. The other hand rested on his hip, fingers splayed like a dare. Then he leaned in and opened that wicked red mouth.
Christ almighty.
Vinnie had heard Al sing a hundred times—drunk in alleys, humming to the wireless, crooning off-key while shaving—but never like this. The voice that poured out was velvet dipped in bourbon, low and smoky and so completely female that half the room audibly inhaled. He leaned into the lyric like he’d written it himself, like he’d lived every lonely night Bessie Smith was singing about.
“Got a great big bed… but it’s always empty…”
Every time Alastair moved, Vinnie moved with him, feeding slack or taking it back, close enough to see sweat streak the powder, close enough to catch the tremor in those silk-clad knees when a heel threatened to turn. Close enough that when Alastair sang “my bed is empty” and dragged a gloved finger down his own throat, the fingertip missed the mic cord by an inch and grazed Vinnie’s knuckles instead.
Electricity shot up his spine.
He forgot the cord for half a second; the stand wobbled. Alastair caught the dip with a shift of his hip—silk sliding against Vinnie’s thigh for one burning heartbeat—and disaster was averted.
Alastair’s painted lips curved into a smile that should have come with a warning label. Then he hooked one finger under the neckline, tugged it a fraction lower, and let his head fall back, the red curls of the wig spilling across his shoulder. The gesture bared the long line of his throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple that no amount of powder could quite hide, and somehow that tiny masculine detail only made the whole thing dirtier.
The trumpet took a solo, and Alastair used the break to prowl. He walked the edge of the tiny stage like a panther in silk stockings, hips rolling with every step, the fringe on the dress swishing against thighs Vinnie suddenly, desperately, wanted to see without the dress in the way.
The band slid back in. Alastair dropped to a crouch—impossibly graceful, knees together like a debutante—and sang the final lines directly into the microphone like a lover’s secret.
“I said my bed is empty… and my fire’s all out…
But if you come light my fire, daddy… I’ll wear this dress inside out.”
He held the last note until glasses vibrated, then let it die into a breathy laugh that punched Vinnie in the sternum.
The song ended. The room exploded.
Applause crashed around them, a tidal wave of wolf-whistles and drunken marriage proposals, but it sounded miles away, muffled by the roar in Vinnie’s ears. His skin felt too tight, his collar too high, pulse doing some kind of frantic Charleston against his ribs. Lou was on his feet, clapping like a madman.
Vinnie was still clutching the cable like a lifeline, knuckles white, when Alastair released the mic and turned to him wearing that smug little twist of the mouth.
Up close, the illusion cracked just enough to be lethal: the vague five-o’clock shadow under the powder, the sharp, too-wide shoulders, the wicked glint in those kohl-lined eyes. The combination short-circuited every sensible wire in Vinnie’s head.
“Well?” Alastair asked, voice low and rough from the song. “Did I knock ’em dead or what?” The smirk he gave him was pure Alastair—sharp, knowing, a little cruel—but underneath flickered something soft, uncertain, gone in half a blink.
Vinnie’s pulse was hammering in places that had no business to. The answer came out a croak. “Jesus Christ, Al.”
Not his finest hour.
Alastair’s grin faltered for half a second. “That bad?”
“No,” Vinnie rasped. “That… good. Too good, actually.”
Alastair tilted his head, loose curls grazing one bare shoulder. The smile he gave Vinnie was soft, almost shy, achingly gentle. "You all right, Vin? You look like someone baptized you with a bottle of whiskey.”
I wish someone would, Vinnie thought wildly. Put me out of my misery.
"I’m just…" Vinnie swallowed hard. "Fuck, you’re meant for the radio.”
"Don't tell me!" Alastair reached the bottom step, paused to kick off the heels with a low, heartfelt groan that sounded downright pornographic.
The sound curled around Vinnie's cock like a fist.
And Vincent realized—with something akin to horror—that he wanted to shove Alastair face-first into the supply closet. Pin those narrow wrists above his head. Kiss him until the lipstick smeared and the cool, sarcastic bastard he'd known since they both were knee-high to a grasshopper came apart at the seams. Hear his own name torn from that smart mouth—Vincent, Vincent, Vincent—until it shattered into something rawer, wetter, needier. Ruin every inch of him.
He could already taste those lips, feel the silk dress rucked to Alastair's hips, stockings ripping under impatient hands, pearls scattering like hail on tin. Long legs locking around his waist, thighs trembling, ankles digging into the small of his back like spurs. Grind against him until smug, untouchable Alastair became a shaking, gasping mess who couldn't remember his own name, let alone how to be clever.
The sheer wrongness of it—his best friend, his drinking buddy, a man—only sharpened the ache.
His pulse was a drumline in his ears. His palms burned.
Lou chose that moment to barrel between them, throwing an arm around Alastair’s shoulders and planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “My star! My temptress! Drinks for everyone! Vincent, stop standing there with your jaw on the floor and get the lady another gin!”
Alastair laughed, bright and careless, letting Lou steer him toward the bar, but he glanced back once more. Just once.
Their eyes locked.
The supply room behind the stage smelled like a thousand cigarettes. The red bulb overhead bled everything crimson, and the band out front was tearing through a ragged “Ain’t Misbehavin’” like they were trying to wake the dead.
Vincent was three sheets past the wind; he was liquid, boneless, a six-foot-one pile of gin and bad decisions draped over Alastair. Al was doing his level best to keep them both upright, staggering under Vincent’s weight. Vinnie had one arm slung over Alastair’s shoulders just to stay vertical, the other hand wandering with a mind of its own—fingers tracing the beaded fringe at Al’s hip, brushing the bare skin above the stocking tops whenever Al shifted.
“Easy, big guy,” Alastair panted, kicking the door half-shut with a bare foot. “You're built like a goddamn ox, Vinnie.… If I drop you, Lou’s gonna make me pay for his floor.”
Vincent giggled—actually giggled, high and helpless— and let his hand slide lower. The silk caught on his knuckles, sequins scraping softly as the fabric twisted and rode an inch higher. His palm settled warm against the curve of Alastair’s hip, thumb sweeping once, slow and absent, over the place where cool beads ended and hot skin began. “You’re so pretty,” he slurred. “Like a postcard, Al. Can I keep you in my pocket forever?”
Alastair snorted, fond and teasing. He still had that goddamn dress on—hadn’t made it out of it yet. The wig was slightly askew, one dark red curl stuck to his forehead with sweat and gin, lipstick half gone from drinking straight from the bottle they’d swiped off a table. He looked wrecked in the best possible way.
They collapsed onto the loveseat together, a tangle of limbs and sequins. Vinnie’s head lolled against the backrest; Alastair’s thigh pressed warm and solid under silk against his own.
And Vinnie’s hand wandered again, lazy but sure, following the slope of the dress until his fingers brushed the satin suspender clip at the top of the stocking. He hooked one finger under the thin strap, gave it the tiniest idle tug—just enough for the elastic to snap softly against Alastair’s skin—then let it go with a drunken little grin, utterly delighted by the small, sharp sound.
Alastair shoved Vincent's big hand away, laughing warm and affectionate and only a little breathless. "You're awfully handsy tonight, Vinnie. Tell the truth—is my attire doing something for you?"
It was meant as a joke. Just another round of their usual ribbing.
But Vincent crumbled like wet newsprint.
The giggle died in his throat. His fingers, still curled around that silly little garter strap, went suddenly still; then they slid upward, palm spreading wide over the warm satin covering Alastair’s thigh, pressing hard enough that the heat of his hand soaked through the fabric like a brand, and the sound that crawled out of him was a sob, a prayer.
“Al,” he rasped, forehead dropping to the warm curve of Alastair’s neck. “I’m so goddamn drunk—” He lurched forward, aiming for Alastair’s mouth and missing by a mile, lips landing sloppy and desperate on the tendon that jumped under his tongue. He mouthed there, panting hot and wet, hips rolling without permission. “Every day. Every goddamn day I look at you and I—”
Alastair went rigid, a sharp inhale slicing the air. “Vincent!” It came out breathless, scandalized, but his hands hovered at Vincent’s chest like he couldn’t decide whether to shove or cling. His eyes darted to the wedge of light at the door—someone laughed too close in the hallway. “Door’s open, you lunatic—”
Vincent didn’t care. Couldn’t. He wrapped both arms around Alastair’s waist and pushed him down, gentle even in the violence of it, until Alastair lay pinned beneath him on the creaking loveseat, green silk rucked high, heart hammering against Vincent’s ribs.
He rolled his hips once, slow, almost worshipful, letting Alastair feel every thick, aching inch of how far gone he was. A shudder ran through him. “I swear I ain’t a fag, Al,” he whined, the words raw and frantic, soaked in every ugly thing the world had ever taught him about wanting this. “Swear on my mother, it’s just you. Every time I look at you I just wanna—”
Alastair squirmed, flustered, cheeks burning under the last scraps of rouge. “Vinnie—Christ, you weigh a ton, get off—” But Vincent was bigger, heavier, drunk and desperate and pinning him without meaning to. Alastair’s breath came quicker; he twisted half-heartedly, eyes flicking to the door again, but he didn’t scream, didn’t knee him. Just clutched at Vincent’s shoulders like he was afraid to let go entirely.
Vincent lifted his head, vision swimming, and this time he found Alastair’s mouth—clumsy, open, broken clean in half, lapping at liquor and lipstick. Alastair went still for one stunned heartbeat, then melted—just a second, lips parting on a slow, honey-thick exhale that tasted like surrender and gin and something darker, letting Vincent in.
Vincent felt the exact moment Alastair’s body followed his mouth: the elegant spine arching in a slow, feline curve, hips tilting just enough for silk to slide against Vincent’s thigh. Long fingers uncurled from the loveseat, drifting up Vincent’s chest to settle—light as breath—at the nape and jaw.
Vincent groaned into the kiss, hips rolling helplessly. Alastair answered with the smallest rock of his own.
His tongue met Vincent’s in a single, languid glide—warm, wet, curious—then retreated just enough to invite chase. When Vincent followed, greedy and shaking, Alastair let him in deeper, let him lick along the roof of his mouth, let him swallow the tiny, almost soundless sigh that vibrated there.
Then Alastair pulled back, gentle but firm, hands cupping Vincent’s face. His thumb brushed the corner of Vincent’s mouth, gathering a streak of his own lipstick. “Okay, big boy,” he murmured, voice trembling with tenderness and nerves, indulgent as warm honey. “I hear you.”
Vincent whined, chasing the kiss, but the gin was a tide now, dragging him under. He made a broken noise and pressed closer, lips brushing Alastair’s ear with shaky, fevered breath.
“You’re so beautiful,” he slurred, reverent and ruined. “Sometimes I look at you and I just—Christ, Al, I just wanna—”
“Yes?” Al prompted, voice low, trembling, unbearably kind. “Wanna what, sweetheart?”
Vinnie’s whole body shuddered. He buried his face in Alastair’s shoulder, breathing him in like oxygen.
“Want to put my dick inside you,” he confessed into the hollow of Alastair’s throat, desperate, the words tumbling out raw and ugly and honest. “Want you so much, Al. Wanna fuck you so goddamn bad I can’t see straight—”
Alastair’s laugh was soft, startled, impossibly fond. “How poetic,” he murmured, fingers threading through Vincent’s hair, cradling his head like it was something precious.
Vincent’s eyes were already closing, the words dissolving into a sigh. Alastair eased him sideways until his head rested on the armrest, then tugged the fox stole from his own shoulders and tucked it under Vincent's cheek like a blanket—soft fur against stubble, still warm from Alastair's body.
“Sleep it off, Romeo,” he whispered, brushing a thumb over Vincent’s temple. His gaze flicked once more to the door, then back to Vincent’s slack, trusting face. “I’ll stand guard.”
Vincent mumbled something that might have been Al’s name and let the dark take him—the last thing he felt was the ghost of Alastair's fingers lingering in his hair and the warm burn still pulsing on his lips.