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Abrams has spent every Saturday at this bar for months now. Since he found that fucking tome, he’s also spent an increasing number of Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays— well, you get the point.
Drinking here feels better than drinking alone, even if, technically, he’s not being any more social than at home most nights. It’s the atmosphere that matters.
Fern sweeps up his empty glass and drops another in front of him wordlessly. Then he’s off to mix something more complicated for somebody else, deft fingers moving strong and certain over the bottles, the shaker, the curlicue of orange rind he pared earlier.
Yeah. Atmosphere.
Abrams will freely cop to any accusations of brooding, but pining? That’s for teenagers. The only adults who can get away with it are those with a few hundred miles or a whole astral gate between them and their significant other.
Abrams doesn’t have that excuse. All he’s got is this cursed book that’s taken over his life and made him poison for anyone who gets close.
He shakes a cigarette free. Fern is there in an instant to light it with the tip of his finger — his favorite party trick for the human customers, most of whom still seem awed by all the shit different Ixians can do that they can’t, even with half a century to get used to them. For Abrams, and maybe for other Ixians, irony simmers behind Fern’s sharp smile.
“Thanks,” Abrams says. “Can’t believe Hank’s got you working tonight.”
“Says the guy bellied up to my bar.”
Another customer draws him away. Maybe Abrams shouldn’t be so surprised by the number of people here; what else is there to do when tomorrow might end in catastrophe?
However understandable, Jezebel’s isn’t quite itself with the boards fitted into the windows. Someone has taken the time to reinforce the barrier with magic — a customer, if Abrams had to guess. Hank doesn’t have that kind of money, but he does have a crowd of grateful lushes. Abrams himself helped with the mundane installation, if not the magical.
The Maelstrom is approaching. The sky was already swirling with strange clouds before the sun went down. Tomorrow’s eclipse will bring it all to a head. At least this bullshit will end. Abrams will either get rid of the tome once and for all, or he’ll die trying.
It’s a sobering thought. The next sip tastes like nothing.
He should be with Geist, but if he dies tomorrow, he doesn’t want to have spent his last night with the soul-sucker. Besides, they’ve prepared all they can.
Better to try to enjoy himself, even if he has to pace it. If he gets a hangover, the solution is right there, chained to his wrist and begging for a sip of the nearest lifeforce. Surely it wouldn’t take much to cure a headache, but Geist is a walking example of where a slippery slope can lead.
He nurses this drink until he’s sipping water that barely remembers the whiskey it met when it was ice.
The next time he catches Fern’s attention, Abrams asks, “You got a plan to stay safe tomorrow?”
Fern’s smirk is as smooth as his pour. “Something like that. You?”
Abrams grunts. He’s not exactly advertising that he plans to be at the ritual, but he should have seen the question coming. “Safe as I can be, all things considered. Glad you’re prepared though. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my favorite bartender.”
Fern’s smile shrinks, too polite and too stiff. Distracted maybe. He has every right not to make Abrams the center of his attention, but it rankles anyway.
Abrams doesn’t know what comes over him that makes him raise his glass. “To one of the only people in this town worth a damn.”
“Alright, big guy,” Fern says with a flustered laugh, but this feels more present than before.
“I mean it,” Abrams insists. In spite of all his internal admonishments to pace himself, he throws this one back like a cheap shot for a little courage. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he says, “You turned your shit around. That’s hard to do. Most people don’t even try, and even fewer succeed, but here you are. It’s — I admire you — it. The rest of us, we’re led around by our vices.” He rattles the ice in his glass to punctuate it. “Not you, though. You’ve got temptation under control.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Fern says, more reserved than he should be after the efforts to gas him up. He plucks the glass from Abrams’ thick fingers, and his hands are too warm, but only just. “Let’s get you some water.”
“Sure.” Abrams deflates. Not his best effort, he supposes, but one can only be so forward when the object of desire is at his place of employment. That he’s a friend makes it somehow more nerve wracking, rather than less.
“Never seen you quite like this,” Fern says, a question mark hovering over it. It’s as close to personal as he ever gets when he’s on the clock.
“Unprecedented times. Or once-precedented? I don’t know. Maybe if you catch me in another fifty years, I’ll be in the same mood.”
“Yeah, I guess we’re all on edge today.” Fern lingers like he usually doesn’t, looking like there’s more he wants to say. “Thanks. For what you said before.”
Cheeks unaccountably warm, Abrams says, “Figure there’s no telling what happens tomorrow, so just in case, you should know.”
“The world’s not ending, Abe.”
“You don’t know that for sure.” It would be his luck. Finally solve one problem only for another to land in his lap.
“It didn’t last time.”
“Doesn’t mean nothing bad’s gonna happen,” Abrams mutters.
“Hold that thought.” Fern disappears to take care of other patrons, abandoning him with his water.
Fern’s got that easy smile for everybody, and he works fast, with those agile, long-fingered hands. Abrams is still watching those when he returns.
“Alright,” Fern says. “Anything else you need to get off your chest? Or things you want to do? You know, in case the world ends?”
Abrams hesitates, afraid to give himself away. Why, though? Whatever else happens tomorrow, everything’s changing. He regrets so many things he’s done, but maybe he can avoid regretting one thing he hasn’t.
He’s been smoother than this before. Usually he approaches with a lot more confidence, but he’s in his head and off his game when Fern’s around. He can only fake it for so long. “I can think of a few ways to spend the night,” he says as suavely as he can. Fern’s eyebrows jump up his forehead, and sudden panic grips Abrams. He clears his throat. “You know, if you were interested. I mean, it’s fine if you’re not. I wouldn’t normally — not while you’re working. Seems weird? Unfair maybe? Feel free to stop me at any time. This is humiliating.”
“Been out of the game a while, huh?” Fern asks, but he’s still there, so that’s got to be a good sign.
“Like a million years. I’m so sorry. It’s — I made things weird. Sorry.”
“Shut up,” Fern says, poorly suppressing a laugh. “It’s fine. Just surprised it took you this long.”
Fine is not exactly glowing approval, but he’ll keep experimenting with optimism as long as Fern isn’t kicking him out the door. “Wait, you knew? How obvious am I?”
“Like really, really obvious. It’s cute.”
“Oh my God.” Abrams wants to dig his hands into his eyes. He settles for adjusting his glasses, and maybe hiding a wince with the motion. “I was trying not to be rude.”
“I appreciate that. Customers can get weird after enough drinks.”
“I bet.”
Fern smiles. “It’s not so bad when it’s you though.” He leans in, bracing his weight on his hands. “We’re locking up early tonight. My shift ends in forty-five minutes or so. Gives you some time to collect yourself.”
“Time to— oh.” Abrams is blushing again, but hopefully it just looks like he’s had too much to drink.
Fern winks and pulls away, which is both very enticing and very irritating. There’s no reason he should get to have his shit together when Abrams has been over here floundering like an idiot. The news is good though. He can focus on that while he sips at boring ice water.
He probably smokes too much while he waits, but he tells himself that’s nothing Fern hasn’t seen before. He’s seen Abrams in a few different states of drunkenness; a little chainsmoking won’t put him off.
The forty-five minute mark arrives at a crawl, and it happens way too fast for Abrams to feel prepared. He reminds himself he’s a fucking adult — and that Fern said yes to… something. He’s not uninterested.
Every minute feels like another hour as Fern closes the bar. The jingle of his keys makes Abrams’ nerves jump.
The walk is awkward, but Fern’s apartment isn’t far from the bar, which probably sucks for his work-life balance. The cold air gives Abrams some much-needed respite from the warmth of Jezebel’s, and it gives him a chance to feel more normal.
They don’t talk much, but that’s alright. He can appreciate a companionable silence, especially if it means catching glimpses of Fern’s sharp profile in his periphery.
Inside the apartment, the couch feels like the only safe option. Maybe Fern wants to talk or something, and carrying the tome into someone else’s bedroom feels wrong. The cushion sinks deep beneath Abrams, but it holds.
Fern shows up with… another drink. “Really?” Abrams asks.
“This one’s not for you,” Fern smirks. He takes a sip, and Abrams watches the bob of his throat when he swallows.
“Don’t drink on the job?”
“Not really. Some things I like to keep separate.”
“Not this, though?” Abrams asks.
Fern tilts his head, amused. “You want me to change my mind?”
“No.”
“Good.” He settles onto the couch beside Abrams. He’s close but not touching, like he’s granting them both some plausible deniability.
It’s maddening. He’s beautiful from every angle, which Abrams knows from watching him for months. And now he’s right here within reach, and all Abrams wants is to touch, but his hands simply won’t move. He keeps watching while Fern sips at his drink, watching the same way he’s watched for months, too close and too far at once.
The glass lands heavily on the wooden coffee table, then Fern turns half toward him. “I was serious that I’ve been waiting for a while,” he says, gaze traveling down Abrams’ body.
“Waiting for me to make the first move? In your domain?”
“You didn’t seem ready. You’ve had a lot going on. Besides,” Fern smirks, “sometimes I like a slow burn.”
Abrams wants to roll his eyes or laugh or have any reaction that isn’t eating out of Fern’s hand, but that’s not an option tonight. The best he can do is ask, “And now?”
“Maelstrom’s coming. Who knows what tomorrow brings? Besides,” Fern leans in, “I’m sick of waiting.”
Abrams doesn’t have time to react before Fern is closing the distance, lips catching on his. For all his confidence, it’s almost shy when it happens, like he’s asking a question maybe. Abrams answers. Enthusiastically.
The alcohol and desire that’s been simmering slowly bubbles over, and he can’t take it anymore. One hand lands on Fern’s arm, squeezing around the taut muscle. The other is still bound to the tome, inescapable even now.
Fern pulls back; he’s noticed it too. “You gonna keep that thing on?”
“I mean—”
“It’s not gonna sprout legs if you take it off, is it?”
“I guess not.” His stomach knots as reality sets back in. “I shouldn’t be here. Not with this thing. I can’t believe I—”
Fern laughs, a single hand on Abrams’ chest stopping his flight. “You’ve been bringing that to my bar for months, and you’re gonna let it stop you now?”
“You don’t understand. It’s dangerous.”
“I can take care of myself.” Fern studies his face, growing more serious. “I’m not trying to trap you here. Just saying you picked a weird time to get paranoid.”
“It’s not paranoia if there’s really someone after me.”
“Alright. I get it.” Fern backs away, face tight like he’s trying not to let it fall.
Abrams can’t stand it. His hand tightens where it’s still clinging to Fern’s bicep. Even now it takes a moment to screw up his courage. Shakily, he says, “The key’s in my pocket.”
Without breaking eye contact, Fern’s fingers trace up Abrams’ thigh, settling at the pocket bunching beneath his right hip. “This one?”
Abrams nods, wordless, trying not to let his nerves get the better of him. The fingers in his pocket pull his trousers tight across his lap, and it’s everything he can do to keep still. Fern leans across him, too warm and too close. He smells good, which is almost unfair; he should be wearing the stench of a bar at the end of the night, stale smoke and the grease left behind from too many humans in one place. Instead he just smells warm, and sweeter than expected.
The weight falls away from Abrams’ wrist, and he’s going to fly out of his skin. “Don’t touch it,” he says quickly. “Let me—”
“Okay,” Fern says far more calmly, watching, bemused, as Abrams shoves that horrible tome under the couch for the time being.
When he rights himself, Fern is still too close. “Now, where were we?” Abrams asks with more confidence than he feels. Freed from his self-imposed prison, his hand feels strange and weightless, and he uses it to touch Fern’s face, delighting for a moment in the shape of his cheekbone and the smoothness of his skin.
Then Fern’s mouth descends again.
It goes from sweet to sloppy in a matter of seconds, with Fern’s body arching toward his, one hand landing on Abrams’ chest. It’s warmer than someone else’s might be, but Fern has his shit under control for now. Abrams wonders what would happen if he didn’t, and his blood boils, and he pulls until he’s bearing Fern’s weight.
Hot fingers brush Abrams’ tie, give it a light tug, then trace down the buttons of his shirt. Fern hesitates there, like he doesn’t realize Abrams would let him get away with anything he wanted. Abrams’ hand settles over his for a moment, which is sweet but not exactly what he’s after. He yanks his own tie loose and flings it aside, then plucks the button at his throat undone.
Fern takes over after that. Each button undone speeds up Abrams’ pulse. By the time Fern’s halfway down his shirt, his mouth has latched onto Abrams’ throat, and all Abrams can do is stare at the ceiling and try to breathe. Fern’s fingers slip inside his shirt now, pushing the fabric aside to dig into the meat of his chest and drag down his side.
Abrams puffs out a laugh. “Thought this might hurt.”
“I’m not gonna burn you, if that’s what you mean.” Fern leans over him to look him in the eye. He smirks. “Unless you like that kind of thing,” he says, and his fingertips grow hotter on Abrams’ skin, just shy of too hot.
It’s hard to answer when Abrams is lunging upward to catch his mouth again instead. Fern touches wherever he wants, and Abrams tries not to squirm beneath him. When that hand descends below his navel, Fern breaks the kiss again. “This alright?” he asks.
Abrams laughs, breathless. “You really have to ask?”
Fern shrugs. “I don’t know. I like you coming around. I don’t want this to change that.”
“You got nothing to worry about.” He grins, brushing a finger along one razor sharp cheekbone. “The world might end tomorrow though. Quit stalling.”
Fern does as he’s told, digging fingers into the muscle and fat of Abrams’ stomach, then setting to work on his belt. His hand slips beneath the waistband, and Abrams’ hips try to jump off the couch at the first touch against his cock — and that’s through the cloth, not skin to skin.
Fern’s grip grows more confident, and he pulls back to watch Abrams’ face, every minute reaction to what he’s doing. Fern’s hand is as agile here as it’s ever been slinging drinks. He slips Abrams’ cock out of the slit in his boxers, stroking over the soft skin now. His grip is firm but gentle enough. His thumb smears across the head of Abrams’ cock, then drags beneath the ridge. Abrams finally has to close his eyes, every twist of Fern’s wrist making more heat pool in his gut.
“Shit,” Abrams mutters, arching for his mouth again. It’s too far away, but he can get his hands on Fern’s body easily enough. He starts pulling at fabric, blindly untucking that sharp dress shirt from his pants.
Fern’s grip shifts and Abrams grunts, feeling it in his toes, in his nipples, at the base of his spine. Sweat’s pricking at his hairline and under his arms, and Fern’s grip has grown slippery with his own sweat and Abrams’ slick.
“Come here,” Abrams manages to string together, because Fern isn’t giving him the space to properly undress him. Fern’s body is hard and muscular though, with that trimmed in waist and broad shoulders, and it’s all Abrams can do not to come all over his hand now.
When Fern kisses him again, Abrams barely has it in him to kiss back. When he manages, it’s messy, mouth pried open wide by Fern’s and held hostage for him to explore as he pleases.
That grip speeds up, slick and hot, fist a tight channel for Abrams to fuck into. His thighs tense and so does his stomach, and every time he tries to relax it gets more difficult.
Fern’s fingers tighten and the rhythm grows erratic, but it’s so fucking good. Abrams’ clutches his waist with numb fingers and draws back so he doesn’t bite his fucking tongue off when he comes — which he does, body jerking with the power of it, while he stares sightlessly at the plaster ceiling.
“Fuck,” he says, panting.
Fern chuckles, way too fucking composed. Abrams might adore him, but he also needs that smug look off his face posthaste. He paws with still-numb fingers at Fern’s waist, at his clothing, at the ass that’s as firm as the rest of him. When he squeezes, Fern gasps, and that’s a good start. He does it again with his earlobe caught between Abrams’ teeth.
As his brain slowly comes back online, Abrams finds more and more places where his mouth gets that kind of reaction. That self-satisfied look disappears from Fern’s face entirely once he’s on his back.
The world might end tomorrow, but at least tonight he has this. And if somehow he survives tomorrow and gets this burden off his back, he’s not going to waste any more time. Either way, he’s got cause to be grateful. He figures he knows how to communicate that; he would be smiling, but his mouth is already full.