Valerian's lips parted at the question. What did he say to that? It was such a clear challenge, and one he couldn't act on immediately, and he was half tempted to stand up and motion for Greengrass to follow him without another word. His breath began to quicken, and he knew he was rapidly losing control over his own body's reactions; the tightness in his pants was becoming almost painful, and he couldn't help but swipe his tongue over his bottom lip.
"Not anymore," he said, his voice a notch quieter than it had been a moment before, but no less intense. He stared at Greengrass, unwilling to break the eye contact. He wouldn't soon forget the shade of his brown eyes, nor the little flecks of gold he swore he could see reflecting off of the club's lighting. It was just a matter of time now; his body was like a clock waiting to strike midnight, and once it did he wouldn't be able to hold himself back any longer.
But then, out of the corner of his eyes, Valerian caught sight of someone approaching and was forced to break the eye contact, feeling irrationally irritated by it. It wasn't even someone he recognized. It was some younger boy, no older than eighteen or nineteen, who was clearly drunk and was slurring something about the bottle in Greengrass' hand. He felt suddenly protective of the bottle—not because he enjoyed it (which he did), but because it was in Greengrass' hand and in the moment the though of anyone else having eyes on the man brought out a possessiveness to him he hadn't felt in a long time.
And he struggled to hide it. He hastily looked back and forth between the man and Greengrass, the aching in his lap no less present than it had a moment ago. "Give it to him, then. We'll get another next time," he said, taking the moment to wet his lips with his tongue again.
"Not anymore," he said, his voice a notch quieter than it had been a moment before, but no less intense. He stared at Greengrass, unwilling to break the eye contact. He wouldn't soon forget the shade of his brown eyes, nor the little flecks of gold he swore he could see reflecting off of the club's lighting. It was just a matter of time now; his body was like a clock waiting to strike midnight, and once it did he wouldn't be able to hold himself back any longer.
But then, out of the corner of his eyes, Valerian caught sight of someone approaching and was forced to break the eye contact, feeling irrationally irritated by it. It wasn't even someone he recognized. It was some younger boy, no older than eighteen or nineteen, who was clearly drunk and was slurring something about the bottle in Greengrass' hand. He felt suddenly protective of the bottle—not because he enjoyed it (which he did), but because it was in Greengrass' hand and in the moment the though of anyone else having eyes on the man brought out a possessiveness to him he hadn't felt in a long time.
And he struggled to hide it. He hastily looked back and forth between the man and Greengrass, the aching in his lap no less present than it had a moment ago. "Give it to him, then. We'll get another next time," he said, taking the moment to wet his lips with his tongue again.
