Chapter Text
Jean Loo doesn’t have an inkling as to what the fuck he’s doing. Nor does he like it. Nor does he have a choice to do or be anything different.
The pavement is rigid in its ways, as all other ones are. The trees sway loosely, languidly with the winds, but even then, the air feels sticky and humid. He can feel as hot as he can, but the sweat won’t bead out from his skin. The grass is patchy and dried out.
There’s a worry that’s been building up in his stomach for a while now. It’s a disgusting mold eating away in the recesses of his mind, building up for the past few years. While it’s always existed as a vapid, numbing but parasitic amoeba that he really doesn’t pay any thought to, it superfluously makes itself known during these business trips. The quiet moments between flights and meetings give Jean Loo a chance to escape the monotonous life he’s resided in.
He recalls all the decisions that have led him up to this exact moment. In all honesty, he could be anywhere else in the world and far more content with himself. Everywhere he looks is a reminder of that. Even in Vegas. The people may be miserable, surrounded by blinking slot machines created to suck any soul left in the user and stale cigarette smoke from men who know better but fly out here to ‘escape’ their wives. Jean Loo figures he’s no better than those people because, even in the face of their misery, they’re miserable together. What does Jean Loo have in his life? Well, currently, it’s three days to untangle the books of a casino with quite the imagination for their financing system before the other party in their merger can point out that “creative accounting” is a euphemism for fraud.
He sighs, knowing that there’s not much waiting for him after this. At least he’s getting paid extra for handling this case, last-minute, too, and the plane and accommodation are being shouldered by the company. Not that there’s anything particularly notable that he’d spend his money on, but regardless, he supposes that the extra weight in his pocket may come in handy some time someday. For what, though, he has no idea.
But it’s safe. This prosaic tragedy is at least safe and clean.
The lined-up trees outside the door of the worn-out taxi remind him of this. They’re all shuffled into place, almost like soldiers in tactical formation. Everyone knows where they are supposed to be, and there they’ll fight for glory.
Though Jean Loo rejects the idea of glory. You’d have to be willing to endanger yourself for that. He’ll take what he can get from his private space—thank you very much.
He finds that it’s not the job that exhausts him, not really. It’s the realization that he’s relegated himself to become the kind of man who says yes to everything because saying no would mean stopping long enough to think. And thinking would mean acknowledging that he hates every single thing about where his life has ended up. His coworkers call him a machine; his boss calls him dependable. He knows, though, that those are just polite ways of saying he’s forgettable. Somewhere along the line, he traded in the idea of being happy for being useful, and it’s too late now to turn back.
He scrolls through his phone, thumb hovering over apps he doesn’t even want to open. All contacts that could possibly reach out to him are cleared. The only text that has popped up lately is from his bank, reminding him that his savings account has hit a new record, which is a number that measures success, if you ignore the loneliness it took to reach it.
He closes the screen, defeatedly. Vegas glitters like a fever dream, and he wonders what kind of person you have to be to find comfort in all that noise. Certainly not him.
The car drives to a halt, jerking Jean Loo forward. He sighs, pulling out a couple of bills from his wallet and handing them to the driver, who’s well overcharged him (At this point, he’d rather go on with his job than argue with this guy) before stepping out in the Nevada sun to get a good look at this casino.
The casino looms a few feet away, its old yellow exterior glowing an obnoxious gold even at 10 in the morning. His coworkers won’t arrive until later, but he figures he might as well get a head start. After all, Jean Loo is dependable and won’t say no to any order.
There’s much to be done over the weekend, but this is what he’ll accomplish today: request the reported income and compare it to the actual transaction logs, conduct a financial audit, speak with their chief financial officer, and begin reviewing the casino’s subsidiary filings. Easy. He’s done most of these before, just in a more legal nature.
He takes one last look at the blinding structure in front of him and sighs. He might be more miserable than someone who’s just gambled their house away. At least that had some sort of thrill.
After the long day, Jean Loo’s coworkers had invited him out earlier that evening; something about unwinding after a long day, and even more so a week, to get drinks “as real people do.” (Something they had actually said to him, mind you.)
He’d been reluctant, at first, but eventually gave in. It was rare for them to include him in anything outside of the office, and some small part of him thought maybe this was their way of letting him in. Except now, they’re nowhere to be found. Somewhere between the casino doors and the bar’s neon-lit entrance, the group had trickled away into taxis and “sudden errands.” He’d laughed it off at first, thinking they’d show up later. They didn’t.
What’s more funny about this is that this isn’t exactly the first time this has happened. Time and time again, Jean Loo seems to let the nature of hope lead him back into this repeating cycle of empty promises.
Now, by the worst of luck and misery, Jean Loo sits in a bar all alone.
Lucky for them, maybe him more, he’s not opposed to drinking; he’s just averse to being needlessly out drinking alone when he could drink with peace in the private space of his suite. Being out here, previously ditched, makes him feel a lot more pathetic than he’s willing to admit. The whiskey burns as it goes down, and he’s not even sure why he ordered it. He doesn’t like whiskey. He’s more of a wine guy.
He sets his glass down and surveys the room. People of every age fill the space, talking too loudly, laughing even louder. Everyone seems to have someone. Even the people who came here alone seem to manage to slip into groups, laughing like they’ve known each other for years. Jean Loo wonders if he’s just not wired for that. If most people are naturally magnetic and are drawn easily to others, then he’s doomed to orbit in his space, perpetually stranded alone.
He tells himself he doesn’t care, and that Jean Loo doesn’t need anyone, but deep down, he knows the truth: he’s abrasive and far too blunt for comfort. He never quite says the right thing, and when he does, it’s usually at the wrong time. He doesn’t mean to be self-centered, but he’s learned that it’s easier to focus on himself than run the risk of being reminded of how disposable he is to others. Sometimes, he thinks maybe people can sense that about him—like there’s something fundamentally off-putting about the way he exists in a room.
“What’s a fellow like you doin’ here all alone?”
An overly confident, but bright voice with a Southern twang from right beside his seat at the bar top startles Jean Loo a little. He looks up to see…
Elvis?
Well, almost a spitting mirror image of him, save for the nose, of which his is a little more crooked.
Other than that, he has the whole getup and everything. The deep V, the hair poking out of the deep V, the flashy gold belt, and even the mutton chops. For Christ’s sake, he even has gemstones bedazzled on his suit and even a cape attached to his sleeves.
Jean Loo blinks. “…You have got to be joking.”
Would it be strange if Jean Loo thought he looked good? Because, embarrassingly, he does. The thought makes his stomach tighten. He suddenly feels like one of those fainting 1950s fangirls, and it’s mortifying, but he really does seem to understand all the hype now.
Elvis—or whoever he is—grins like he’s been waiting for that line. “Not kidding.”
So does this mean that this guy regularly greets others in this rockabilly getup? Cause Jean Loo certainly doesn’t seem like his first.
“Maybe my appearance set us off on the wrong foot.”
You think? The man flashes a pearly smile at him, leaning forward. Jean Loo glances away as this stranger’s bedazzled chest appears in his line of view.
“Let me ask again, what’s a handsome young fellow like you doin’ here all alone?”
He’s not quite sure how this guy can so easily brush past the fact that he looks like some 70s rockstar who’s teleported several decades into the future. He tries to brush that thought off as he did with Jean Loo’s shock—whatever comes may, he’s made the executive decision to omit the fact that he was deserted by his co-workers.
“Jean Loo just wants a drink and to immerse himself in the community here… Why?”
“I see,” He hums, a finger brought up to his chin as he entertains a thought to himself and himself only. Jean Loo feels transparent through his eyes. ”I can tell you’re not from ‘round these parts, sugar.”
Jean Loo can feel the heat rise to his cheeks at that name. It’s not that it’s anything out of the ordinary; it’s Vegas after all. Except for he fact that it’s coming from fucking Elvis Presley of all people. It’s just—maybe it’s the cadence of how he said it, that honeyed drawl dripping with charm. Yeah. No, that’s it. Elvis just has a nice voice. Objectively.
But no, what the hell, he won’t stand for this allure and… radiance shining right before him. He’s unfairly gorgeous, and it’s embarrassing him, and Jean Loo will not stand for that.
“And who do you think you are? You look like you could’ve fought in the Cold War.” He snaps, eyeing his outlandish getup in poorly disguised disdain.
The guy laughs easily, and Jean Loo feels his shoulders falter. He’s rejected his attempt at a fight, and as sad as it is for Jean Loo, he doesn’t care. He swears that his laugh is the smoothest thing he’s ever heard.
“It’s just,” he pauses, raking his eyes up and down Jean Loo and his work attire. “You’re clearly not with anyone, an’ it seems like you’re coming straight from work. Just doesn’t seem quite right, at least not here in Vegas.”
Jean Loo blinks. “Vegas?” In the land of Vegas, where literally anything can happen.
“Vegas,” the man repeats, smiling softly, like he’s humoring him. There’s something kind in his expression—too kind, maybe—and Jean Loo almost bristles at it. Pity has always felt worse than mockery. The way this man looks at him stings more than his coworkers’ absence. Despite that, his eye-crinkling smile radiates nothing more than authenticity, and Jean Loo, curse the man, can only blindly accept it. How can you turn down such a beautiful man?
“Thought you might want someone to talk to, that's all.”
He starts to turn away, and panic sparks in Jean Loo’s chest before he can stop it.
“Um—...Jean Loo is here for a business trip,” he blurts, too quickly, too loudly.
He can feel his shoulders freeze up, and he just feels silly now. What is he even doing? Why does he sound like a malfunctioning robot?
The man’s laughter breaks him out of his frenzy, and he can feel himself loosen up a little. From then on, Jean Loo challenges himself to make this guy laugh as much as possible. Not that Jean Loo’s funny in any way, far from it, but the things he would do to hear that bright, rich sound, it soothes him like a soft balm over his nerves.
“Name’s Johnny,” the stranger says, tipping his head. “Johnny Splash to you.”
Johnny Splash is really, really beautiful, a real head-turner. He has the kind of face a leading man from some sappy romantic comedy would sport–soft smile, slightly crooked teeth, and a wild mop of hair that always seems to be perfectly in place. And while he chats him up, Jean Loo does his best to make it seem not obvious that he’s been staring at him and the tiny moles and blemishes on his face. Johnny’s got a way of using his hands while he talks, too–tucking a stray lock to the side, tapping a finger restlessly on the counter, and readjusting the hem of his clothes every once in a while
Jean Loo, however, does not catch on to the fact that Johnny is quite the smooth talker as well. Because moments later, and he still doesn’t quite know how, Jean Loo finds himself being pulled to the center of the dance floor, a steady weight on his waist, and another sliding easily into his hand. His palms suddenly feel sweaty, and the hairs at the back of his neck prick up. The remnants of his drink sit sticky and sweet on the roof of his mouth. The music is slow, foreign to his knowledge, though he could easily tell how cheesy it is because of the ringing guitars and the overexaggerated synths. They find themselves under warm, magenta lights, and Jean Loo didn’t even realize that the venue had a holding space for a dance floor.
He shifts to match Johnny’s rhythm, but ultimately just feels janky in his own body. He cringes at what other people must be seeing right now– Jean Loo and his stiff joints and poor excuse of a dance. His bones look like they don’t belong to him, and he just looks like a giant trying not to step on the little townsfolk below him. He’s an alien to his own body; how defeatist.
He mimics the way Johnny sways, but he feels bad about the way he feels like his moves feel almost like a mockery of his. “Jean Loo doesn’t dance,” he says, eyes straying from Johnny.
He’s awkward to fault, and he knows this. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, and, god, he might fall, or trip, or step on a foot, which is humiliating when he’s doing his best to impress the man doing his best to steady him—
“Well, darn, you should go out more often then,” Johnny hums, squeezing his waist as he glides the two of them across the dance floor. There’s glitter in his hair. “I think you’re a natural. You’re getting along just fine, don’t worry your pretty little head.”
Jean Loo nods half-heartedly, wanting to bury himself in the safety of Johnny’s shoulder. His face feels too hot.
“Eyes up here, sugar,” Johnny laughs. “Easy now, you’re gonna find a foot to step on like that.”
He takes a deep breath and wills himself to meet Johnny’s eyes. It’s a difficult sight to behold, not because he’s terrified of him or that he’s something grotesque, far from it. Jean Loo’s just scared that if he stares long enough, he’ll see disappointment shining back at him, his disdain evident in those baby blues.
So he tries, Jean Loo tries his damndest to dance along a little more with the man who could probably star in Footloose. He’d hate to ruin all of Johnny’s fun for the simple reason that the man he chose to accompany tonight is completely and horribly out of his element.
The music’s been blowing right through them, amidst all the corny 80s whining blaring through the cheap speakers, and Johnny leans down to Jean Loo’s shoulder, leaning his forehead on it as he hums along to the melody with that voice saccharine and alluring. The tacky, glittery material of his costume slides roughly against his cheek. Jean Loo welcomes the feeling.
Funny how his Elvis seems to really like Kim Carnes’s Bette Davis Eyes so much.
Jean Loo feels like absolute shit. There’s a pounding in Jean Loo’s head. While it may have rhythm, it’s dull and annoyingly alive, like an elephant drumming on the inside of his skull. Even the thin slice of sunlight cutting through the blackout curtains feels like a personal attack. It lands across his face, unforgivingly bright, and he grimaces, shifting to escape it.
Everything hurts, and his skin feels too rough, and his mouth is dry, and his bones feel loose inside him. Jean Loo vaguely wonders if his feet are still even attached to his body. He reaches blindly for the blanket, hoping to cool off—
Except when he reaches for what should be the space under him, it feels alive. He jolts and tentatively reaches his hand out for the blanket, but suddenly it feels like he's willingly putting his hand in an oven.
A moment lingers with his hand on the heated blanket, and Jean Loo’s hand shoots back. His chest tightens. That was not cotton. That was a person.
He forces his eyes open, and his heart kicks up.
Johnny Splash is lying right underneath him.
What the fuck.
What the fuck?
Jean Loo looks around the room in a frenzy, and he can at least confirm that they ended the night in his suite. His business wear from the night before seems to be generally intact, just with more wrinkles in the fabric, and the same goes for Johnny. Either nothing happened last night, or this guy is really lame—letting Jean Loo lie with him after a night of something with a completely done white button-down and some pants on.
His eyes shift back to the man right underneath him. He’s sprawled out half on the bed, limbs loose and careless, hair mussed, mouth soft with sleep. There’s even a little bit of dried saliva on the corner of his mouth—which should be disgusting, but Jean Loo strangely thinks otherwise. He looks… peaceful. Ridiculously peaceful. The kind of peace that suggests he sleeps like this a lot—wrapped around someone, fingers tangled together, and lips pressed to his lover’s forehead. The mental image brings an uncomfortable tug to Jean Loo’s chest. He can’t recall much from the night before, but he does remember Johnny being sweet. A real gentleman, at that.
Jean Loo can’t remember the last time he woke up next to anyone, much less Elvis Presley.
His pulse is loud in his ears as he sits up, carefully peeling himself away from Johnny’s body. He scans the room once more. His suitcase, his files, his laptop bag in the corner. But the atmosphere feels different—softer somehow. Like the air was warmed just by someone else breathing it.
Johnny shifts in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and the sound hits Jean Loo square in the throat. It’s stupid how gentle it is, and it’s even stupider how much it makes him want to lie back down. He wants to retreat back into the headspace that had engulfed him the night before and settle back into the sheets.
Jean Loo should leave, or kick Johnny out, or panic, or maybe stay right here.
He decides against all though options, though, and finds himself so meekly stretching out. The time on his phone reads 7:54 AM, and according to his personal schedule, Jean Loo should be at his job in thirty. He discreetly gets off of Johnny as much as he can—which isn’t much, considering that the guy has not stilled one bit in the few minutes Jean Loo’s been shifting on top of him—as he goes to take a shower. The glitter takes a while to come off, and he scrubs at his skin until it turns pink.
He picks out some clothes to wear before entering the bathroom, to spare Johnny the grisly and all too frightening sight of watching Jean Loo in his violently red boxers dotted with little hearts, choosing out an outfit. It’s nothing but a simple dress shirt, tie, and pants, much like the day previous. The same uniform, over and over again, like he didn’t just spend the previous night swept away by a dashing young prince in Vegas.
He steps out of the bathroom, making a mental note to go through his things again. He might need to bring his laptop today. He’s not sure, but he might as well, knowing his co-workers and their stupidly thorough work ethic.
“Leavin’ already?” Johnny mumbles, voice thick and syrupy with sleep. ”Not gonna spare a kiss to poor ol’ Johnny?”
Jean Loo freezes. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe, and, god, he hopes it’s not obvious. The sight of Johnny rumpled, sleepy, and teasing seems to knock the breath out of him.
“Why should Jean Loo do so?” he manages, adjusting his cufflinks unnecessarily.
“Such a tease, hunny,” he drawls, letting his head fall back onto the pillow with dramatic flair.
Jean Loo flushes, looking away. “We can always meet later after work.” Awkwardly, he shifts around the room, trying to find the suitcase to recuperate from the grace that shines behind him, that is Johnny Splash.
He hums kindly in disagreement. “I’d love to, but I’m not so sure about that.”
His head snaps back (as quickly as it had just left), and it’s almost fast enough to make Jean Loo worry that he’s given himself a concussion. “Why so?”
“It’s a Saturday, practically our busiest day,” he says, sitting up and stretching out. Jean Loo, pathetically, lets himself succumb to the newfound vice that is raking his eyes up and down Johnny’s figure. “You know, Elvis marriage officiant duties.”
Jean Loo hums, hesitating for a beat longer than necessary, eyes still glued on him, but his face. He realizes that it’s his turn in the conversation, and he takes in a sharp breath, cringing at himself.
“Well… if you’re ever free after 7 PM, you can always text Jean Loo.”
He looks up to Johnny, who’s smiling at him so affectionately. It’s the same smile that he’d given him the night before: open, honest, endearing. And that’s all it is. In this moment, Jean Loo doesn’t misplace it for pity or shame. It’s just him and his charming grin.
He doesn’t want this to end. He has no reason to want that. But he does.
Johnny lifts a brow and tilts his head to the side. “I’d need your number for that, sugar."
“Jean Loo never said he wasn’t going to give it to you.”
Johnny, seemingly, did not seem to expect his direct response. Jean Loo internally relishes the twitch in his eyebrows and slightly taken aback expression. “Gotcha.”
He hands Johnny his phone—aware, acutely, of how vulnerable the gesture feels. It feels intimate, but electric. This could be a normal occurrence for someone, though. Maybe it’s only special to Jean Loo because he’s built his life in solitude.
Johnny fumbles for his phone, patting his pockets with sleepy clumsiness. It’s almost cute, and it physically pains Jean Loo to have possessed this thought.
A beat of quiet settles between them. Neither of them breaks the silence, and Jean Loo only watches him patiently—then immediately shifts his eyes away when he realizes that, shit, maybe I’m making things awkward. As he puts in the number, he gets up to start searching for his briefcase, something he’s just realized might be outside the room.
“…Are you heading out now?” Johnny asks finally, glancing at the doorway.
He shakes his head. “Jean Loo wants to wait until you leave my apartment. Courtesy’s sake.” And you’ve left too much glitter in the room anyway.
Johnny grins, slow and wide. “How sweet of ya’. I’ll be outta your feathers soon. You never know when the chapel needs someone to sing Burning Love.”
Jean Loo actually laughs—a real laugh, light and surprised. It catches him off guard. The sound feels good in his chest, like he hasn’t heard it in years.
Johnny swings his feet off the bed and gets to his level, then Jean Loo realizes how tall the guy actually is. “You mind showin’ me to the bathroom, though?” Johnny asks, rubbing the morning out of his eyes.
“Of course,” Jean Loo says, softer than he intended. He gestures toward the hallway. “Just outside the room. Right to your left.”
Johnny thanks him with a sleepy smile and disappears behind the door. The room feels emptier. Well, of course, but his absence leaves Jean Loo standing there still, unsure what to do himself.
No, he knows what to do; he just finds that he’s frozen in his place to do anything. The laptop, the pens, the audit reports, they’re all within the reach of a few steps, but he just can’t move. And it’s uncharacteristic of him; he’s settled himself as someone who moves fast and efficiently, but for once, he’s shaken up and unmoving in his space.
With some will and confusion, he packs his things methodically, but his hands feel hot from where he brushed his fingers against Johnny earlier. Or maybe it’s just the shower lingering. His skin tingles.
When Johnny reemerges, his hair tips are slightly damp, and his shirt is wrinkled, but much more straightened out than earlier. He’s humming a song, and with some recollection of his grandfather’s records, he can tell it’s Elvis’s In The Ghetto. “I’m done.”
Jean Loo aptly nods and shuts his briefcase. He steps toward the door, opening it for him. Johnny walks through, setting foot on the carpeted floor of the warmly lit hallway. He turns back with a grin that could melt steel.
“I’m excited to see you later, pretty.”
Jean Loo’s throat tightens. “Jean Loo thought you said you weren’t sure if you were coming.”
Johnny tilts his head. “That doesn’t mean I won’t try.”
And for the first time in a long time, Jean Loo lets himself hope.
Jean Loo arrives at the casino a little before nine with a coffee in one hand, a briefcase in the other, a tie pulled so tight around his neck it feels like he’s punishing himself for waking up beside someone who’s so out of his league.
The casino seems to be in even worse shape than it was last night: gaudy walls, flickering bulbs, and a stale cigarette smell baked into the carpet. He isn’t sure how that happened; the casino was advised to cease all activities for the time being, but he guesses someone has to make some money somehow. The place seems generally composed, as much as a weathering casino can be, with no visitors other than the accounting company and the employees there.
The quiet unnerves Jean Loo. He hates it. He hates that it reminds him how empty his life is, and how he has willingly relegated himself to spending the rest of his life looking at spreadsheets and four-function calculators. He hates how, not only has he given up any inch of happiness he has, but he’s also shielded himself from the world, and he’s now unable to truly connect with anyone. He hates that he keeps thinking about Johnny in his bed, warm as a furnace, hair mussed, smiling even in sleep. He really hates that part.
He walks to the staff elevator, showing his ID badge to the guard. The doors creak open because, of course, they do, and he steps inside.
The elevator dings and leads him into the back-of-house offices. Everything smells stale, perpetually trapped in a cycle of paperwork and day-old coffee. It seems the team’s already made a workspace here. His coworkers are huddled around a table, already bickering.
“Jean Loo, thank God,” one of them groans, waving him over like a lifeline. “The CFO is refusing to hand over the transaction logs unless we ‘prove we’re not the Feds.’”
Jean Loo stares. What is this idiot talking about. “Jean Loo is wearing a tie from H&M.”
“Yeah, well, apparently that’s suspicious.”
He sighs, irritation growing, and drops his briefcase on the table. “Fine. Jean Loo will talk to him.”
They all visibly relax, stepping aside to let him deal with the chaos. Of course they do. He’s the reliable one, the one willing to do the job no one wants to. He’s unsure whether to chalk it up because he feels this twisted sense of being needed that he so wants, or maybe because he really does not care at this point. He would’ve protested in the past, but the biting retorts die in the back of his throat. What does he have to hold on to anymore? His pride?
He walks into the CFO’s office, where a middle-aged man in a loud Hawaiian shirt is eating a muffin aggressively. The lines on his face deepen the heavy scowl that seems to be permanently embedded on his face. Jean Loo takes note of how the crumbs build up on the sides of his mouth, bits of chocolate smeared on his chin like a child. Ew.
The man squints at him. “You with the government?”
“No,” Jean Loo says flatly. “If the government sent someone, they would not choose someone who dresses like this.”
The man stares him down at the stitching of his button-up.
Jean Loo doesn’t falter. He keeps the same deadpan look he always does.
A beat.
He nods approvingly and hands him a stack of documents. “Good answer.”
Without breaking a single sweat, Jean Loo carries the documents back. This is why he’s alone. He’s the only one who seems to know how to do anything.
The morning becomes a blur of spreadsheets, inconsistencies, missing receipts, and implausible expense reports like: $14,000 spent on ‘decorative fish,’ a payment labeled ‘NOT ILLEGAL,’ a memo that simply says: ‘don’t ask.’ Jean Loo massages his temples so often that the skin there begins to ache. It’s a wonder this establishment hasn’t collapsed in on itself with such mind-blowingly incompetent leadership.
At some point in the job, or any job he has to do, really, he finds his patience starting to thin out. Usually, when this happens, Jean Loo feeds this restlessness with an energy drink. Granted, the caffeine it provides only aggravates him more, but there’s a taste of sweetness to accompany his misery.
Sweetness. Hm. Just like Johnny in bed with him this morning, laughing and calling him sugar.
Jean Loo slams his laptop shut a little harder than necessary. He feels his face go bright red with shame.
A co-worker of his blinks in his direction, put off by the loud thud. “...You okay?”
He lets his shoulders drop, releasing a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. “Jean Loo is… normal.” He manages.
“Right. Cool.” They shoot him a friendly smile, patting his shoulder like he’s going through a crisis.
Which he might as well be because it seems like every hour, every spreadsheet, every signature, every legal loophole he can find is punctuated by the same thought:
Will Johnny actually show up tonight?
He regrets how much hope that question plants in his chest. It’s a bad omen. He’s a grown man, not some smitten teenage girl.
“Jean Loo,” the same guy calls.
He hums in answer, confused.
“Do you have a life or something outside of work or something?” He asks. “Like friends or a partner or something?”
Even more put off by the guy, he shakes his head.
“I see,” he nods, packing his things. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And like that, he was gone. What?
What was the point of that? And couldn’t the guy be more tactful? Wow, Jean Loo knew he was pathetic, but was it necessary to point it out? Crap, this must be how everyone perceives him. Ha, fuck. Whatever. It’s okay.
But it’s not, because this is really the only life Jean Loo has. Sure, he’s pretty dead, he doesn’t talk to co-workers unless absolutely necessary, he avoids the break room as much as possible, and tries to excuse himself from team building exercises, but this is what he’s built his whole life around. Well, it’s not his dream, but he worked for this life, doesn’t he deserve some dignity over it?
By six-thirty, the workroom is empty, and everyone’s gone out to get a drink. Jean Loo is the only one left from his company there, and he’s just about finished reviewing enough documents to ruin ten, twenty, a whole casino’s career. He gathers his files into his bag, ignoring the stares from his guards as he slumps his way out of the stuffy building.
He walks out of the casino into the early evening air. The city glows. People laugh. Everything is annoyingly alive.
Jean Loo sits alone in the soft amber glow of the bar, elbows on the counter, staring at the melting ice in his glass as if it holds any answers. He told himself he was only here to unwind after work—but if he’s honest (which he rarely is, even with himself), he’s waiting.
Waiting for him. The southern boy with the Elvis smile and the laugh that hit him like a sudden breath of fresh air.
If Jean Loo knows anything about his own patterns, though, it’s that misfortune has a personal vendetta against him. He’s never waited for someone and actually had them come back. He’s been here since, what, seven-thirty? An hour’s about to pass soon, and once again, his inbox is empty.
Hah, so perhaps his co-worker is right. Perhaps he’s been limited to having any sort of life outside of work. I mean, look at him try to form a connection with a guy from Vegas, someone he’ll most likely never see again after this work trip. His life is a dead end, and perhaps he’s paved this miserable road all for himself.
Maybe Jean Loo should’ve come later. Maybe he shouldn’t have come at all. He sighs into his drink, trying not to feel pathetic.
“Have I seen you before?”
The voice slides over him like honey—unmistakably thick, warm, and sugary. That drawl could only belong to Johnny.
Jean Loo’s heart stutters. It’s a tiny, ridiculous leap of joy he immediately tries to smother, as he looks behind him. It’s not as if he was expecting anyone else, but, god, he still feels he’s knocked the wind out of him.
Johnny stands there, not commanding but definitely a presence to be known, with hair a little mussed, pencil eyeliner smudged from performing, jumpsuit unzipped halfway like he peeled it off while speed-walking straight here (Well, he’d like to imagine that he spedwalk here).
“Monsieur,” Jean Loo greets, trying to sound neutral and totally not like he’s been sitting here imagining Johnny’s face the last hour or so. “Jean Loo is glad you got the time.”
Johnny slumps into the stool beside him with a dramatic sigh, tossing his hair. “Elvis doesn’t seem to be a favorite tonight. The crowd was really lovin’ some guy in a Mickey Mouse suit doin’ a line dance. Can ya’ believe that?” He shakes his head.
The disappointment in his face sparks a sense of accountability in him that leaves him feeling guilty. Sure, he wasn’t the one who put him out of commission for today, but he was definitely hoping for it. Jean Loo wonders when he started to feel like he held such a monopoly over this man’s time. What right does he think he has?
He blinks up, and his dismayed look immediately shifts to him shooting Jean Loo a lopsided smile. “Why ya’ so happy though? Missed me already?”
The shame he feels is quickly washed away by just the way Johnny looks at him. He forces his face to stay calm, collected, unbothered—which is difficult when his gaze on him makes it seem like Johnny thinks Jean Loo could hang the stars for him.
“You are a bold one,” he hums, taking a steady sip of his drink.
Johnny leans in, elbow brushing his. He continues to play along with his initial setup. “What’re you even doing here in Vegas anyway? Besides lookin’ all pretty and lonely.”
“Jean Loo is handling creative…illegal financing.”
Johnny barks out a laugh, delighted. “Let me guess, that yellow casino down on Fourth?”
Jean Loo pauses, suspicious. “Yes… How do you know?”
Johnny nudges him with his shoulder like they’re old friends. “Sugar, everyone knows about it. It’s a miracle they hired anyone, much less someone as sharp as you, to clean up their mess.”
The man doesn’t have an inkling of an idea of Jean Loo’s performance at work. It’s not lacking, not by any means, but he thinks he can do better. Johnny doesn’t know that, though, but even then he seems to suspend any disbelief he may have aside and gazes at him with an adoration that's easy and genuine, not mocking. Jean Loo’s stomach twists unexpectedly.
“It’s a tough process,” he admits, “It’s barely legal. Jean Loo can manage with that, though.”
“So you’re a master of finance, huh?” Johnny teases, leaning his chin on his fist, openly admiring him now.
“Interesting way to put it, he supposes.” Jean Loo can feel the way his ears redden.
He quickly shifts the spotlight. “Anyway,” he says, lifting his hand toward the bartender, “let’s get you a drink.” He turns back to Johnny, eyes softening despite himself. “What do you want, chaton?”
Johnny stills. For the first time all night, perhaps even yesterday, he looks so utterly and genuinely surprised. Not flustered—just struck quiet for a second, as the nickname made his gut flutter pleasantly. The tension seemed to sap out of his shoulders, accepting the invitation more than willingly.
His mouth curls into a slow grin. “I’ll have some bourbon.”
Jean Loo signals the bartender, but he can feel Johnny’s gaze on him; curious, maybe a little captivated, zeroing on the slender slope of his neck as he faces forward. For the first time in a very long time, Jean Loo finds himself willingly basking under the watchful eye of someone so kind, despite his stubborn commitment to a monotonous, lonesome life.
The bartender sets the bourbon in front of Johnny with a quiet clink. He wraps his fingers around the glass, lifting it to his lips with practiced ease. Jean Loo watches, or tries not to, but fails spectacularly.
A small tilt of his head, a soft hum of satisfaction, the faintest smirk afterward, and if that’s not enough, he licks his lips, basking a little more in the malt taste. Johnny drinks down the whiskey like he knows Jean Loo is watching him. He can’t help but turn his head away, feeling like he’s gonna melt and burn to the ground like the drink in his throat if he watches any longer.
“Didn’t peg you for a bourbon man,” Jean Loo coughs out, taking a sip of his own drink.
Johnny shrugs, tapping the rim of his glass. “Didn’t peg you for someone who uses French endearments so casually.” He grins widely, clearly amused. “Chaton.”
Jean Loo clears his throat, unsure why his body feels too jittery all of a sudden. “Jean Loo is simply being polite.”
“Polite,” Johnny repeats, leaning towards him. He has a playful smile on his face that looks like it holds it against him teasingly. “Polite ain’t what that sounded like.” He doesn’t touch Jean Loo; he doesn’t even brush him, but his voice lowers, and the air between them shifts. Their knees almost touch. Almost.
Jean Loo forces himself to look away, taking in the bar around them—the neon signs, the gaudy carpet, the slot machines ringing faintly from the casino floor. People are laughing, bumping elbows, failing at darts, and flirting without shame.
It all feels too lively for his own good and for his own sensibilities. He’s not used to being self-indulgent, engaging with others, being himself. Maybe he’s not used to his own nature at all. It feels selfish; he’s a lot more than he deserves. Why is Johnny endeared by him?
“Is this your usual haunt?” Johnny asks, leaning in. “Not Vegas. Like, going to the bars.”
Jean Loo rolls the drink between his palms absentmindedly, ignoring the burning of Johnny’s eyes on him as he answers with shame on his tongue. “No. Jean Loo doesn’t… loiter.”
Johnny shrugs. “Didn’t peg you as the loitering type anyway.”
Jean Loo doesn’t look up at him, nor does he want to. A beat. He studies Jean Loo, eyes flicking over his pressed shirt, his straightened-out spine, his every breath. Get him out of here; he feels almost akin to prey being watched, when it should be much more romantic. Hah, Jean Loo is not made for romance.
“You’ve got… routines,” Johnny speaks up, finally.
Jean Loo’s head immediately turns to meet the man’s. “That is a normal human function,” Jean Loo replies, almost offended.
“I guess so,” Johnny says, grin widening. “But I dunno, you look like a man who types out itineraries for his vacations.”
“That is an assumption.” He says, confusedly raising a brow.
“That right?” Johnny tilts his head. “You didn’t deny it.”
Jean Loo opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, much slower. “Jean Loo enjoys structure. Is that such a crime to you?”
“Never said it was.” Johnny raises his glass in a small salute. “I think it jus’ means you’re steady and careful.”
Jean Loo narrows his eyes. “You are implying something.”
“Maybe,” Johnny says, voice dipping low with mischief. “Maybe not.”
Jean Loo huffs out a quiet breath, somewhere between exasperation and amusement, likely more on the former, though. “Jean Loo can be impulsive.”
“Mm,” Johnny hums, unconvinced. “Show me."
Jean Loo blinks. “Show you?”
Johnny smiles, one that’s not mocking nor patronizing, just warm and a little curious. “Yeah. Surprise me.”
Jean Loo’s pulse stutters. For a moment, he’s frozen, caught between pride and nerves and something he doesn’t have a name for yet.
He lifts his glass, takes a slow drink, and sets it down with more confidence than he feels.
“Jean Loo bought you a drink,” he says simply. “Is that not impulsive?”
Johnny laughs—soft, genuine this time. Not at him, but with him.
“That’s a start,” Johnny spins the bourbon in his glass, watching the liquid swirl. “So tell me, darlin’, what do you do for fun?”
Once more, his hesitance brings him to open his mouth and close it right again. Miserably, Jean Loo, the aforementioned prosaic tragedy, alas, does nothing for fun. He’s never felt more isolated in this bar than now.
Johnny notices. Johnny’s really attentive.
“No hobbies?” Johnny asks gently. “No friends you go out with? No… cute accountant clubs where you all talk about taxes together?”
Jean Loo glares. “That…That is not how accountants function.”
Johnny leans on his hand, smiling softly. “So how does it work?”
“Jean Loo works.” Vague, but it’s not like what he does is really interesting anyway.
In spite of the answer worth nothing, Johnny seems to just stare at him. It would bear a hole right through Jean Loo if it weren’t for the fact that it didn’t feel mocking or pitiful. He just seemed to be looking. Like, really looking. Trying to understand where he’s coming from a little more, in spite of how much Jean Loo tries to avoid that.
“Is that all?” he asks quietly.
“I—” Jean Loo falters. His chest tightens. “Work is important.”
“Sure,” Johnny says. “But that ain’t what I asked.”
The room suddenly feels too warm. Or maybe that’s just Johnny’s eyes on him. Maybe it’s finally the feeling of crumbling the weight under someone’s view that’s breaking Jean Loo at the moment. Yup, that’s it. Johnny’s gaze no longer feels comforting, but restricting, and Jean Loo is reminded all too well why he prefers being on his own. Why does everyone suddenly feel the need to question the decisions he makes in his life? He thinks, a bit bitterly. The path he’s taken is his to regret; nobody needs to remind him of that.
Jean Loo glances away, jaw tightening. “Jean Loo…does not know how to answer that.”
Johnny exhales, slow and thoughtful, as if considering something. Then he says, “Well, maybe you just needed someone to ask the question.”
The air is anything but simple. It’s heavy, but not grim. It’s sweet, but not flattering. Jean Loo feels something unfurl in his chest. Johnny’s tone is prodding and inquisitive, and anything but unkind. His words seem earnest, and the warm press of their knees together helps ground Jean Loo from spiraling.
Johnny clinks his empty glass against Jean Loo’s. “Tell ya what. It’s your last night here, right?”
Jean Loo stares at him with reluctance, but nods anyway.
“How about tonight, you let me show you a little fun? Vegas-style.”
Jean Loo swallows. “Fun is… subjective.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Johnny says, raising his glass toward him.
Jean Loo tries to glare, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, curving upward. He lifts his own glass. “Jean Loo makes no promises.”
“That’s okay,” Johnny murmurs with a grin. “I’ll make enough for both of us.”
Glasses clink. The sound is small—but it feels hopeful. Like, there’s something bigger that awaits Jean Loo on the other side for once.
Jean Loo blinks awake, and it’s that same feeling from yesterday, where his body feels weightless, disconnected from him, his head feels like it’s gonna blow any minute, and he just feels sick. It’s nothing to him, though; all that matters is doing last-minute check-ups on the site, then going to the airport for a flight back to New York. Those few things and Johnny.
He finds himself resting on his arms, peering over the sleeping man. How peaceful it is. It feels a lot less strange, be it even if it’s only the second time this has ever happened, but Johnny’s made himself a trusting man.
He’s very gorgeous, this Jean Loo had known from the beginning. However, he never realized what actually makes him so attractive. Yes, it’s that golden heart he seems to have, but it’s also in the long, dark lashes, the curl on his face that will never be able to be tucked away, his faint mole on his cheek that he might be hiding under all those locks, the moles and freckles speckled across his shoulders and chest, and so much more.
But–something feels off. Not wrong, exactly, just different.
Jean Loo’s left hand feels oddly tight, like something’s pressing against the skin. A faint metallic coldness lingers along his knuckle, making its presence known to Jean Loo in that very moment.
He brushes his ring finger on the material, eyes still transfixed on the boy, though. He frowns at the sensation, and when he lifts his hand, he feels himself go completely still.
There is a gold ring wrapped around his ring finger. A gold ring that is, unmistakably, a wedding ring.
His stomach drops straight through the mattress. What the hell happened last night?
Jean Loo stares at it stupidly like it might disappear if he blinks hard enough. It doesn’t. It sits there, taunting him. Hugging his finger as it belongs there. Like it’s been there for years.
“No. No, no, no—” he whispers, voice still hoarse from sleep. He twists it experimentally.
His breath stutters. His pulse leaps. The room tilts.
Then—a soft noise beside him. A lazy stretch. A low, sleepy hum.
Johnny shifts under the sheets, hair a mess, one eye cracking open with the gentlest confusion. It seems obvious that he’s doing his best to show concern even when he’s bridled with his own slumber.
Jean Loo looks at him on instinct. A mistake.
Johnny still looks annoyingly good in the morning light: cheek pressed to the pillow, lips parted, sheets half-slipped off his shoulder. And a little to the left of his chiseled jaw, he catches it:
On Johnny’s left hand, it’s glinting, bright, and golden. A matching ring.
Jean Loo’s internal organs collectively shut down.
No. They didn’t. No fucking way.
Johnny starts to still a little more, lifting his hand to rub his eyes—only then stopping mid-motion when he feels the ring brush against the lids of his eyes.
Both men are frozen.
Johnny squints at the ring. Then at Jean Loo’s. Then at the messy suite. Then back at the ring.
A long, heavy silence stretches between them. Jean Loo’s heart is doing somersaults made of fear, shame, and last night’s liquor.
Johnny opens his mouth first.
“Jean Loo?” he rasps. It’s the first time he’s ever called him by his name.
Jean Loo swallows. Hard. “Yes?”
“Are we—” Johnny lifts his hand a little, ring glinting incredulously, “—married?”
Jean Loo’s throat is dry. “It… appears so.”
Johnny blinks slowly, expression unreadable.
Jean Loo waits. Every second feels like a century. He expects him to be furious, panicked, and to start accusing Jean Loo of being so reckless. Great, now he’s messed this up, too. Dread and confusion rise in him like a tidal wave waiting to crash.
Johnny’s brows lift a fraction.
“Well,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. “Ain’t that somethin’?”
Jean Loo opens his mouth—no words come out. He opens it again. Still nothing.
Merde.