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tim outright tells him no, when alex suggests it.
princess <3: its not that bad. 1 night
you: I don’t really party like that. And I don’t love looking after you while you get wasted
alex sends him a row of middle finger emojis after that, and then -
princess <3: we dont have to stay out that long. just enough to get papped together. i wont get “wasted” fuck u
you: You seem pretty damn good at getting white girl wasted.
alex takes the argument to the groupchat with their people, where tim has to play nice or look like he’s stooping down to alex’s level, and they strong-arm him. he relays his displeasure to alex privately, who leaves him on read.
alex argues that he’s also making a sacrifice to his personal comfort, letting the (gasp) rabid paparazzi attack him in weho, going out to a gay-ish haunt when he’s so (a tiny violin wails) uncomfortable with his supposed sexuality still, about the media’s assumptions, doesn’t tim understand this will be a noble trial for them both -
he silences his phone after a bit. gets up to smoke, noodle around on his guitar, try to work out another bridge for a song that refuses all attempts at one.
alex wasn’t lying. one night out is really all that had been suggested. alex and tim, together, clubbing, partying, somewhere gay - a bar had been picked at a speed that made tim’s head spin - looking hot and young and in love, perfectly poised to be “accidentally” caught in a photo on their way out.
(*In, tim texts, I don’t want to be seen carrying him. jay laugh-reacts, but he’s not kidding.)
tim doesn’t go out much, but he knows people who do, and he hears horror stories nightly on tour, from his bandmates and their openers and the damn roadies, so drunk they lost their keys, wallet, got into a fistfight, woke up in michigan - all that not even to mention the coked up, ecstasy-fueled, stoned off their ass antics he’s been regaled with, laughing awkwardly and privately terrified anyone would let themself get so out of control.
he has an idea of what someone with alex’s money would be doing at parties, out in clubs, and he’s not sure it’s amazing for his image. or his health, for that matter. jay assures him the place he recommended has a nice, savory reputation, that alex doesn’t get too wild these days, but tim groans just to think about being in the crush of bodies, the flashing lights, other people’s business all up in his. he likes being on the safe side of the crowd, thank you, the one with the nice solid barricade in front.
it’s not like he’s never gone out, though. that suffocating crowd does tend to fall away, become more friendly after a drink or two, or at least it was always that way at the punk shows he attended growing up. doming a cheap, light beer, hopping into the pit to thrash and run and release all the pent-up fury he was afraid to feel.
he jots down a chord progression he likes. maybe it’ll be the thing he needs, to tie it all together.
-
they see each other a couple times before - a lunch, which is mostly to talk about the script but strategically placed at a cafe that’s been used to (tim sighs in resignation, they’re changing the way he talks, these movie people) ‘soft launch’ celebrity relationships before, and alex orders a mimosa with his belgian waffles, which just makes tim feel bold enough to dare him into getting the couples’ tower, running the toe of his shoe up alex’s calf as he suggests it - for the cameras, of course, and only a little for the pink flush it puts in alex’s cheeks, how quickly he agrees.
“you’re paying,” he mutters bitchily.
“alright, princess.”
alex scowls. “i told you, quit -”
“i have to call you something,” tim reasons, tucking his grin in the corner of his mouth. “you won’t let me say babe, or sugar, or honey -”
“a-alright, those are - babe is fine, that’s fine.”
maybe tim should feel a little bit worse about winding him up. he does, sometimes, momentarily, and then alex will do something so insanely self-centered he wonders why he even agreed to do this in the first place. why he hasn’t tapped out yet. their careers would survive, if they were to ditch it now. tim hopes.
he doesn’t feel bad now, though, not when the (admittedly impressive) tower of champagne glasses arrives at the table, a sampler platter of toast and jams, and tim thoroughly enjoys eating at alex’s taste level. he’s been on the road for so long before this break, he barely remembers how to cook, full-on forgets about restaurants that aren’t all-american fast food, universal on every exit from here to vermont.
the drinks are good, too. tim has an apricot-peach jam on sourdough, and a mimosa made from sumo oranges and authentic sparkling wine from champagne (duh, he supposes); an apple-pear jam on white-wheat that isn’t quite as good, and another glass, and he glances over at alex and finds him picking absently at his own, delicious-looking brioche-strawberry-cream-cheese concoction.
“you alright?”
“uh, yeah.” alex shoots him a squinty look. “how many of those are you planning on having?”
tim nods at the empty glass on alex’s side of the table. “dunno. i’m trying to keep up with you.”
alex rolls his eyes with a violent ferocity, and changes the subject with the determined force of someone redirecting a ship in a storm - “is there anything you want to ask me about the script before we get to set?”
tim sips lazily at his drink. abandons the apple jam to swipe alex’s bread, holding his gaze as he leans over the table and steals a bite, snickering when alex swats at him, starts to sputter -
“you’re so gross,” alex bitches, “quit it -”
his is way better. tim’s annoyed about it. he holds the rest of it up to alex’s mouth, licking the crumbs off his lips and flashing him a smile.
“it’ll be cute,” he mutters, “come on.”
alex rolls his eyes again, but he huffs and leans in and takes a bite from tim’s hand, and maybe he imagines it, but there’s a chorus of shutter-clicks and camera-flashes, a thousand voices cooing in unison. tim’s so good at public relations.
“you have jam in your beard,” alex mutters, holding a napkin over his mouth.
tim flushes. “why don’t you get it?”
he’s not expecting it, not really, but alex licks his thumb and leans across the table, muttering to himself; takes tim’s jaw in his hand, tilts him just-so and rubs off the spot. something in tim’s chest flutters wildly. with irritation, surely.
“you can’t do anything,” alex murmurs. tim doesn’t think he’s imagining the cameras this time.
they do, eventually, get on the script. tim does match alex, drink for drink, and he ends up wobbling a bit on the way back to his uber and wondering how he’s doing, getting his own ride, his own driver, he’d insisted someone was coming to pick him up. tim had watched him out the window anyway, a cut-out in the LA sunniness, his dark blazer and sharp shoulders.
another lunch, later in the week, and the world’s quickest dinner, just trying to be seen picking up the same double chipotle order, snipping at each other in the line, alex with nothing but barbs and venom to spare, buttoned-up and bitching. tim paid for him, if only because he didn’t want it, had fought him a little over the card-reader. there’ll be cute pictures of them on twitter tomorrow, looking, from a distance, not all that pissed to be with each other.
princess <3: wear something cute
you: ???
you: you might need to dress me
which is a mistake, he knows, but alex’s people are mostly jay and rachel, these days, and so all he ends up signing up for is an extended facetime where jay ridicules the contents of his closet and really only okays a silken burgundy top tim’s old, fired stylist bought.
he wears it anyway. rolls the sleeves up like jay told him, unbuttons it down his clavicle, pairs it with those dark jeans everyone on twitter went nuts for. reminds himself it’s temporary, and these photos will end up filed away with the last run of pictures that could not be posted without cropping his ex-boyfriend, another of tim’s ‘eras’.
alex texts him twice more before they go out - once to confirm they are meeting, because he’s already walking and he’ll kill someone; and another, a photo he must’ve taken before he left, kneeling on the floor and leaning into his full-length mirror with a contemplative frown. tim would respond, except he’s walking, and - alex looks incredibly glittery, silver and sequins and fine little chains around his neck, a shirt that’s barely even there and light-wash jeans that cling to him, run tight around his thighs. he looks amazing. tim tries not to notice.
he doesn’t like alex, which is why he needs him to stop being so damn likable at the worst times.
they meet up at the bar, literally, tim having settled himself and almost flagged someone when alex appears at his shoulder, sparkling and self-conscious and dying for a seat.
tim shouldn’t have taken pity on him. couldn’t help himself.
“and a round for my guy,” he says, speaking up over the music. gestures to the stool next to him, eyeing the man moving in on it hard.
alex slides into the seat he’s offered. gives the bartender his order, tucking his hair behind his ear and peering up through his lashes to ask for his vodka soda or whatever.
“took you long enough,” tim says.
“yeah, well, whatever, it was busy. my bad.”
he makes a pretty little picture, in his sheer button-up. it’s transparent and silvery, not nearly as revealing as some of the outfits tim’s seeing around, but on alex it has a sort of taboo quality, acres of skin that don’t normally see the light of day. his stylist, likely, picked out the little chain-link choker he’s wearing, the artfully layered necklaces draped in the naked V where his shirt splits.
he catches tim looking and shoots him a glare. “i know it’s a lot. rachel wanted me to ‘fit in’.”
“i was just gonna say you clean up nice.”
tim grins to himself when alex’s scowl only gets deeper, his face flushed. “sure. you look… good.”
“that hard to give me a genuine compliment?”
“shut up.”
tim wonders faintly if he’s nervous. he’s sipping at his drink like he’s been in the desert for a week, won’t stop looking around.
“is this your first time in a gay bar?”
this place isn’t, like, aggressively queer, but it’s certainly sparkly, and from their eyelinered bartender to the throng of people on the dance floor, there’s a lot of male torso around. tim hasn’t seen this many six-packs since his last mediocre peek at grindr.
“yes,” alex admits. “i - i’m straight,” he says, “so, not a lot of opportunities presented themselves.”
tim does not believe him- not the straight bit, at least, but he nods anyway. “it’s not that different. less girls.”
“i’m noticing that.”
he flags the bartender for a second, and tim watches him nervously avoid making eye contact with the twink’s bejeweled bellybutton ring. almost tells him to slow his roll, but instead what comes out of his mouth is -
“do you wanna do a shot?”
they do two, tequila because alex likes it, and tim orders a gin and tonic to wash the taste out of his mouth, wincing.
“what’s the appeal of that?”
alex rolls his eyes. “get the lime and salt next time, you’ll get it.”
“right.” unfortunately, the image it puts in his head is - tim’s old bassist insisted on body shots, one of the summers they were touring in mexico, drunk on the beach and surrounded by beautiful people in swimsuits - it’s the last time he had tequila straight, hanging back and politely refusing to lick up the bottle girl’s flat stomach, accepting a line of salt up his own wrist, tipsy and laughing, biting into the lime wedge he’d been offered and asserting yes, yes, it was good, tim does drink.
he does drink, he’s just - it’s not good for him, on any level, to get all comfortable and fucked up. to be unaware of his celebrity status, to relax and be unashamed and lean too far into the personal space of their waiter in berlin, the guy with the slip of a waist and bitchy little glasses on his nose - tim doesn’t need to be thinking about all this. certainly not anything related to mexico or fucking berlin or how those shots would’ve tasted if he’d chased them with alex’s skin.
he sips at his drink. watches alex watch the floor, his head flitting around like a little bird or something, sparkling and fluttery, obviously trying to be low-key about how interested he is. “straight”, yeah, tim reads the same tabloids as everybody else.
“do you dance?” he asks, for something to say. “i haven’t had much of a chance to see.”
he insists he doesn’t, which tim expected, but he acquiesces easily enough, a pink flush blooming on his high cheekbones, and they slip out into the thick, sweat-soaked crowd together, tim with his hand on the small of alex’s back.
he’s trying to keep an eye on him - trying not to scowl at the music, some thumping remix of a song he hated four years ago, trying to move his body and not look antisocial, juggling all the bullshit of being out amidst the public until he can feel the alcohol running through him enough that loosely dancing, at least, becomes automatic. the song shifts, and tim lets a guy who looks like he’s got an equinox membership grind up on him, enjoys it as much as he has to, and somewhere in there he realizes alex has slipped away.
aren’t they supposed to be here together? oh, if he bailed, tim is going to kill him. like, actually, this time, no more jokes. it’s alex’s fault they’re doing this.
the song changes twice before tim catches sight of him. he’s already thinking about leaving, at least sneaking out to smoke if alex is gonna run off - he’s been trying to be polite, holding off to stick with him, and here he goes leaving tim on his own in the loudest place in the world.
fucking figures. he starts cutting through the crowd, trying not to literally huff like a pissed-off child, and someone grabs his arm -
“tim! i was looking for you.”
just for a second, the lights spin and flash white-yellow across alex’s face, cast him in sharp relief. pale and stark like an angel, or a ghost.
“i was looking for you,” tim lies, and watches alex bite his lip, one of his hands fiddling in his pocket.
“we should go to the bathroom together,” he shouts over the music, and tim over-plays his confusion so it tracks - alex frowns, and then rubs his nose like he’s trying to put a lot of emphasis on it, running his knuckle under his nostril like he’s -
oh. shit. really?
the bathrooms in this place have that dim blue-purple light overhead, a singular naked bulb above the mirrors that’s throwing the graffitied walls into starker relief. alex leads them through the clumps of people with an ease and grace tim doesn’t think he’s seen since they arrived, easily slipping into a stall even though things are so overflowing tim sees more than one girl crowded around the long counter or ducking into her own cubicle with friends.
tim watches alex fish his wallet from his pocket, open up the little baggie and tap it out, his brow knit in concentration. he’s scowling, almost, frowning in focus as he pulls his laundry card from in between the others, presses it down flat, and cuts and taps and cuts again, squinting at the tiny toilet-paper rack. for all the anti-heroin lighting in here, the thing seems like it’s higher up the wall than tim’s used to.
“do you have any way of knowing this isn’t laced?”
“he’s selling it to everybody else here, for one. for two, i watched him do a line before i bought any.” alex leans closer, mutters, “hold your breath if you’re gonna spectate, this stuff isn’t cheap.”
“i’m not gonna fuckin’ blow on it, what kind of a hick do you think i am?”
“shut up,” alex hisses. he digs around in his front pocket, awkwardly fighting with his tight jeans at the shitty angle, and pulls out a tiny cylinder. tim peers at it.
“what’s -?”
“pen barrel. money is so fucking gross, don’t ever put a dollar up your nose.”
“wasn’t planning on it,” tim mutters, leaning over alex’s shoulder to peek at the cocaine itself. it looks like the movies, which he kind of expected. maybe a little grainier than the mountain the bad guys are snorting in the crow but otherwise very, uh, classic. no real surprises. white and sparkling and so small and innocuous it could be sugar or something.
he wonders how much of him was expecting this. not quite afraid, but aware it was a possibility. there might be drugs at this party; alex has a pap target on his back because he’s a frequent, messy drunk. he certainly seems to have come prepared.
“technically we shouldn’t share it, but the whole world already thinks we’re swapping spit. you’re not sick, are you?”
“no.”
alex does another couple pushes and swipes with his card, nods to himself, and then he bends double with the little inch of pen to his nose and does a line.
tim’s watching because he’s curious. because they’re so close there isn’t anywhere else to look. alex’s hair hangs over his forehead, his eyelashes kissing his high cheekbones, and he straightens up with a kind of gasp, his eyes wide -
“that’s good,” he says, breathless, “oh, fuck.”
tim watches him close his eyes, press a hand to his chest, hold the little straw out. “it’s gonna hurt,” he says, and, “ohh, shit, i totally thought that was gonna be cut more. that’s good,” he repeats, and tim stares at his pupils, wide and dark. so big and black they’re dominating his eyes, the green-brown tim’s gotten used to reduced to tiny rings.
he tentatively takes it. he’s not going to pussy out now, but watching alex have to take a beat like this makes him nervous. he tells himself firmly his heart isn’t going to explode. copies alex’s little gesture, his knuckle pressed over his other nostril, and leans down to snort drugs for the first time.
alex was right. it hurts.
he hears himself curse, and cough, and he turns away from the loose powder before alex can scold him, sniffing violently against the fucking burn - “people like this?” he asks, and alex’s slender fingers are knitting through his, stealing their straw back.
it feels like he jabbed an ice pick up his nose. he watches in disbelief as alex leans down a second time, does at least two or three more thick lines. is that how big you’re supposed to cut those? tim’s eyes are watering, still, and he doesn’t even feel anything yet.
alex straightens up and giggles, another thing tim’s never seen him do. “that’s not even the bad part, wait for the drip.” he sniffles - they’re both sniffling way too much, and just when tim’s thinking, oh, okay, there it is, the most awful medicinal taste in the fucking world burns down the back of his throat and for half a second he thinks he might actually throw up.
“what the hell - you didn’t tell me it was gonna end up in my throat, jesus christ.”
alex looks far too smug about the whole thing, leaning back on the stall and tipping his head back to grin, the curve of his throat elegant and sparkling faintly with sweat, his skin so pale and soft-looking under his stupid, flashy jewelry, tim wonders what he’d taste like if he just leaned in and -
“you put it up your nose. you never had a cold? they’re connected, y’know.”
tim is definitely feeling it. “fuck you,” he tells him, and alex rolls his eyes, still smiling. tim feels awake, all at once, like he’s touched a light-socket or hit the most incredible second wind anyone’s ever felt, and he lets himself think, yeah, i see how you could get addicted to this, and it’s not completely terrifying. just a rumination on someone else’s life, a passing thought, nothing to get himself anxious over. he feels like he couldn’t get anxious if he tried, actually.
“do you wanna dance?”
high alex is much better on the floor than sober-ish alex. tim gets why he wanted to go do that - thinks he gets why everyone does it, honestly, if you’re going to be getting so drunk you’re liable to pass out sitting down, it seems obvious. and goddamn, does it make the thumping lady gaga remix much easier to tolerate, not as obnoxious on the ears, almost pleasant? and alex is a pretty picture, getting into it, attempting to throw back what little ass he has. tim bites his lip hard enough to taste blood to keep from calling him a girl again.
he fits in with the other twinks here, slutted out and sparkly. rachel did her job well. he realizes a second later he’s not the only person to notice, that the guy alex is dancing next to is dancing with him, dragging his eyes down the open front of his stupid shirt and holding loosely onto his waist. tim gets an odd flare of something bitter and irritated. is he really that annoyed nobody’s come onto him yet? kinda self-obsessed, damn. he makes a mental note to bring that up in therapy and tries to loosen up a little, not look like the creepy, single bear just watching guys dance.
being drunk makes it easier, but the coke seems to just be making him think - the one guy who does approach him, lithe and younger and wearing those trendy clear-frame glasses, subtly twerks himself away after tim asks if he’s still in college, if his friends are here, if he’s had enough water. that punk kid inside him surges up and begs to see the guy’s tongue, to check if he’s hydrated, even if he says so, and much like the first time someone ever said that to tim, he assumes something horny’s coming and sticks it out, eyes closed.
“you should go get a water!” tim tells him. “you’re dry!”
yeah, alright, he’s striking out. not like he came here to get laid, anyway, kind of the opposite - again, he looks for alex, and again, finds a guy on either side of him, yapping in his ear and getting way too touchy. dragging their hands all over him, leaning in to speak close to his neck. tim watches alex’s face, looking for a smile, a blissed-out look.
finds him unsure, nervous, red-faced.
tim squares his shoulders. alex is a big boy, sure, but he’s decently intoxicated and he’d said this was his first time in a gay bar. tim should’ve been sticking closer.
he tries to be kind of subtle about making his way over, like he happens to be dancing, like he’s having a good time, and the guy on alex’s ass seems to get the picture, and tim tries not to notice how perfectly sculpted he is, how the air smells thickly of sweat and men’s cologne in a way he doesn’t hate. rests his hands on alex’s tight, satiny waist, and feels his body react, immediately, the hot, lithe thing in front of him, the nape of alex’s pale neck - does he never tan, out in the LA sun? too busy, probably, too tightly-strung -
tim leans in and feels his mouth physically water at the proximity to alex’s soft skin. that has to be the drugs.
“you okay?” he asks, and alex stiffens, turns -
faces him, presses their groins together, still moving to the music, runs his hands up tim’s arms. “mostly. yeah. no. i - people keep talking to me.”
“guys,” tim corrects, doesn’t know why. alex’s brow furrows. tim hopes he didn’t hear him.
“it’s a lot,” he shouts, and tim can see the sweat beading on his forehead, his damp bangs. reaches out and nudges his glasses up his nose.
alex shifts closer, wraps his arms around tim’s neck, and tim lets his grip tighten, on his waist, glares over his shoulder at the man making eyes at him. “you should go out more often,” tim yells, something strangely bitter in his voice. “you’re popular.”
tim can’t hear what he says next, but he bends closer, his whole tall body like a weeping willow, a wilting flower, clinging to tim. he can feel his breath in the space behind his ear, hot and whispery down his neck, and it’s somehow the only thing he can focus on, how much smaller alex seems like this, how he’s folded down into tim’s orbit. how easily encompassed his waist feels, in tim’s palms, how warm and close he is.
they’re swaying together, rubbing against each other, and it’s embarrassing how tim’s body can’t stop taking note, or it should be - but he feels nothing but a hot rush of confidence, of possession, almost - alex is tall and thin and beautiful, and he is in tim’s arms. he could have anyone he wanted, could’ve relaxed in the grip of any of those men, but here he is, only wrapping himself around tim. the song changes, something slower, slinkier, and through the thumping beat of this one he thinks he can hear alex panting, alex sighing, alex’s heart thudding in his throat.
he’s not a small man, skinny but never someone tim’s thought of as slight before, hadn’t considered him folding up so tiny in another person’s arms. tim runs his hands up his sides and feels him shiver, his skin hot under the flimsy, gauzy material. holds him around the high point of his little waist, feeling just how miniscule the gap between his fingers is, like he could squeeze a bit and make his hands meet.
“you should be careful,” tim shouts, and he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it, just like he can’t help tightening his grip, making his middle fingers kiss around the small of alex’s back, “don’t go out by yourself.”
alex is too close to see his face, but tim can feel his surprised stiffness, the way he means to pull back, and evil as he is, tim holds him tight, keeps alex fast against him.
“i won’t,” alex yells back, his voice just a shade too loud for how close they are, self-conscious and over-shooting. tim loves it. can’t explain why, doesn’t want to think about it, but it sends a trickle of excitement down his spine, something white-hot and interested. he tries to curse it away. the drugs whisper back that it isn’t the worst he could do.
they end up retreating to the bar to catch their breath, and tim orders a beer and watches alex throw back most of something clear and bubbly, his adam’s-apple bobbing in his throat, his long, smooth neck, his lips glistening after he licks off the drop he spilled.
he can see alex watch him back, the moment he peeks over and takes notice, his eyes widening slightly and then schooling themselves, his whole face falling back into a bad impression of nonchalance. he’s so expressive in the little ways. no wonder the press loves winding him up so much, he never learned a good poker-face. (lady gaga is stuck in his head, again.)
“you having fun?” tim asks, impulsively. wanting to admit to it, in some way, how close he’s been staring - admit and deny it in equal measure, for alex’s benefit. he’s been wondering since he got called in why alex’s team would choose him, of all people, why they’d be trotting tim out to pose with alex for candids that are obviously not candid. why would alex have picked him, out of a crowd of men in the city desperate for an acting job?
tim tries not to dwell on it, usually.
“uhm, i think so,” alex says. “i like dancing. the music here is pretty good.”
“good,” tim says, and is surprised to find he means it. “i’m glad you’re having a good time.”
alex eyes him, something side-long and faintly needy, and asks him, “are you having fun?” in a tone like the answer really does matter.
tim eyes him back. alex is quite a bit looser than he’s ever seen him, and if tim’s feeling the buzz he can assume alex is rocking around the same; that whatever’s coming out of his mouth is unfiltered, that his mood’s a little less mercurial than usual.
“sure,” tim tells him. “i probably wouldn’t have gone out tonight otherwise.”
alex tilts his head to the side a degree, like a cat trying to study him at a better angle. “it’s a saturday night,” he points out. “i’m the only one trying to take you out?”
“well, i do look pretty attached.”
alex rolls his eyes. “not that, i mean, like - not your band, or anything?”
“i’m not much fun on tour. back at the hotel at eleven, round everybody up for the bus, y’know. somebody’s gotta do it.” tim wants a cigarette, suddenly and fiercely. wants an excuse to stride out the door and catch his breath. the alcohol is hitting him harder, the warm, drowsy smoothing of everything more tangible; tim’s worried his accent has gotten more severe without him noticing, words clumsier on their way out.
“nice to know you’re this boring with everyone,” alex says, and tim huffs, sips at his beer.
“if anything, i’m less boring with you. i’ve never snorted drugs with anybody else,” he admits.
alex stills, in a way tim can sense rather than see, the unspooling, swaying nature of him suddenly curbed, and he downs the rest of his drink.
tim can hear the wet-swallow-dry sound of his throat as he creaks out, “yeah, i gathered,” and sets his glass on the bar for another. “you like it?”
tim hums. “it’s alright. i think i’m kinda losing it.”
alex brings his drink to the bathroom with them, but tim loses track of his beer at some point around the time he makes alex laugh so hard he bends double, holding tight to the bar and slapping tim’s thigh, cheeks bright and creased and so kissable it hurts to sit and stare. he really is lovely, sometimes, the asshole. tim’s life would be so much easier if he could hate him.
they’re both laughing, slipping into a stall together, the joke forgotten but the way they smirk and poke at each other a language all its own, the sniping barbs they’ve always exchanged with a strobe-tinged edge of heat. alex gets touchy when he drinks, tim is learning, seems magnetically drawn to patting tim’s chest or running a hand down the arm of a guy in the doorway who either wants to fuck them or do their drugs or both -
tim might get touchy, too, with how he wraps an arm around alex’s waist and all-but drags him away. whatever. he giggles about it, anyway, a vision in purple and silver, so blue-white he may as well be one of the vulgar uv-splatters up the wall, and tim shouldn’t notice those, shouldn’t think about it -
alex offers him two lines, and then a third, and this all-too-intimate little bump from his thumb, holding his hand up to tim’s face and looking into him, his eyes deep and dark and burning.
tim steals the rest of his drink. faces the wall, tries to remember how public this arrangement is. how that’s the point.
“i wanna try something,” alex says, and tim tries to ignore how the way he’s bent over puts his face level with tim’s groin, in this tiny stall, his cock still thrumming with interest from the close-up, stumbling walk to the bathroom, the way alex had pinned him up against the wall with the weight of his breathless laughter.
“yeah?”
there’s a loud sniff, and alex’s voice is thicker when he says, “yeah,” slanting up with the warm, drunken edge of a smile. tim’s wondering if he can get away with smoking in here, if people are passing schedule ii drugs around casually, when he feels alex tugging at his waistband.
“the hell are you doing?” he hisses, and alex just flashes him a toothy grin when he looks down, all lopsided and fucked up.
“like i said,” and his wobbly fingers are undoing tim’s belt, clumsy, he could stop him, “i wanna try something.”
“what,” tim breathes, “sucking cock?”
he wouldn’t believe it if he wasn’t seeing it himself, alex kralie half-falling to his knees and focusing entirely too hard on getting his jeans down.
alex giggles. “that’s not trying, i’ve done that before. ‘s fun.”
“oh?” tim’s having trouble gauging how drunk he is. he’s been trying to keep up, so things are fair, so he can reach out and stop him if they’ve both had a lot; but alex has been dipping into the coke he bought even out on the floor, like he thought no one was gonna notice. he’s definitely alert in a way blacked out people are not, but he’s talking so much. that’s - kind of normal, but not like this. and, like, well, there’s the whole -
alex looks fucking delighted to finally solve the puzzle of tim’s jeans, and he tugs, looking up through his lashes - were his eyes always so big? - until he’s exposed tim’s gray briefs enough to reach up and palm him over the fabric.
“is this okay?” he murmurs, and he’s leaning so close he almost has his cheek on tim’s bulge, and the sight makes him twitch.
“is- am- are you okay? a-alex, you told me you were straight, like, two hours ago.”
alex glares. pouts, it looks like, his plush lip another thing tim’s cock wants to take notice of.
“we both know i’m not,” he mutters. “i’m- we’re dating, aren’t we?”
tim gapes at him. swallows. they’re two drunk, horny, consenting adults. they are dating, aren’t they.
“sure,” he agrees, “yeah.” his mouth is dry, and he can feel the obvious world-shift underneath him, something dangerously new, another step further down the spiral staircase that is alex, and he nods and tries to be chill about it.
“so,” alex’s warm hand presses itself to his cock again, “is this okay?”
“mm,” tim stifles a groan. he’s stiffening up embarrassingly quick - he’d always thought booze was supposed to do the opposite, but liquor always gets him going. “you’re my, uhm, my boyfriend,” he says, “so.”
“so?”
ugh, this is stupid. this is the stupidest thing tim’s ever done. he links his thumbs in his waistband and shoves his briefs down with the misplaced care of a drunk, trying not to catch his balls in a seam or something dumb.
“so, like, you don’t have to be shy about it.”
he’s already getting hard, and alex seems so fumbly with his hands tim barely know how he did more coke, and he stares up at tim’s cock for such a long heartbeat he’s worried he somehow misread things entirely.
“wow,” alex breathes, and he reaches out- “can i-?” and tim nods, and lets out a long, deep breath when he wraps his hand around him, holding him and feeling him stiffen. “you’re big.”
“n-not really.”
“and it’s so thick,” he goes on, like tim hadn’t spoken, like a fucking pornstar or something, “it’s perfect.”
that, embarrassingly, is taking him to full tilt pretty fucking quickly, the praise, how much alex seems to actually mean it.
“i-”
“just, like, a little harder,” alex says, “yeah?” pumping him slowly, staring up with those wide, blown eyes.
“w-what are you,” tim swallows, feels it scrape it his throat. “trying?”
alex doesn’t answer, still laser-focused on giving him the most intense handjob ever. twists his wrist real sweet and mean, looks up at him still, coaxes a moan out of tim’s throat, something shocked and punched-out.
“you’ll like it,” alex says, breathing on him, jerking him still, “promise.”
“ah- uh, okay.”
“mm-hm.” alex kisses him, along the bare length of his cock, and tim tries not to react. “hold still,” he says, and tim nods, o-okay, and alex pulls him out, strokes up the length of him, purrs for him to come closer.
“bend your knees a little,” he says, and, “a little closer,” and tim only realizes himself enough to bitch as alex is laying his cock down on the little rack, cold metal up the underside of him, makes him flinch -
“there’s no way you’d stay hard enough,” alex tells him, “sorry,” tapping out his little baggie -
“h-hey,” tim pants, “what are you -?”
but it’s become immediately obvious, as alex shakes and shifts the bag of coke around, squints at his cock -
“don’t tell me you’re gonna,” and tim can’t even finish, because alex is, is muttering for him to hold still, and tim holds his breath and watches him tap out a little line running down the shaft of him.
he can just barely feel it, the powder is so fine. there’s drugs on his dick.
“you slut,” he says, breathless. it just tumbles out of him, but alex doesn’t seem to mind, only hums an affirmative and leans down, his face so close. don’t move, tim reminds himself. do not squirm or twitch or fuck up into his pretty pink mouth, the faint brush of his lips absolute torture as tim watches, not daring to breathe, as he snorts the clumsy line he made.
both of them groan, different pitches, the same animal noise.
alex, rabid, fucking feral, leans back in and licks up tim’s cock, and that -
“stop,” tim gasps, rubbed-raw and exposed, like a fucking nerve ending, “the fuck are you -?”
cokewhore, his brain supplies, horny and stupid, and he only knows it’s fallen out of his mouth when alex moans in agreement, porny and perfect, how has tim resisted this long - how is he resisting now, knowing he’s his, said it with his own, drooling, dick-hungry mouth.
“are you, though? i think you’d do that without the drugs,” tim says, and alex giggles, leans back enough to look at him and murmurs nooo, no, like he’s just begging for tim to take him by the hair and fist his cock with the other hand, push it into his field of view.
“you don’t want to?”
he’s being cocky, being rude, but alex’s you’re big is echoing around his skull, his big, wide eyes, and he’s looking up at him with them still, his lashes so long and thick tim would be convinced rachel had talked him into mascara if they didn’t always look like that.
“i do,” alex pleads, too-honest, the coke turning him inside-out in a way tim shouldn’t like so much, his blown-out pupils and the pleading, wired look in his eye, his face flushed and excited and wanting.
“i want to suck you off,” he says, and he sounds like he means it, “tim, please. you have such a nice dick, let me - i want to - please,” he says, emphatically, his hands fisted in his jeans. “i’m your boyfriend,” he adds, plaintively, and something dark surges up in tim’s chest.
“yeah, you are,” tim mutters. “fuck.”
he shouldn’t, really, but the dim light in here paints alex in the prettiest picture he’s ever seen, sweating and shining and staring up at him, something far too ethereal for this dingy bathroom stall. fuck, tim thinks, and he knits his fingers through alex’s hair, pretends there’s anything to consider.
“my cock,” he says, impulsively, “not anyone else’s. yeah?”
and alex is high, alex is horny, alex would say anything, but tim gets a sick, perverse rush of pleasure from the way he nods hurriedly and agrees yesyesyes, “just yours,” leaning in until he’s almost kissing it, “i want your cock so bad -”
that one does it.
“fuck,” tim growls, “fucker,” and he pulls alex’s face in, lets him figure out the tricky part with his teeth and everything so they can slot together, alex valiantly trying to shove the entire thing down his throat at once and almost pulling it off.
his mouth feels amazing. tim hasn’t actually gotten blown in, like-? “oh, fuck,” he groans, as alex surges closer, completely defeating any impression tim might’ve had that he hasn’t done this before, his big watery eyes a porno all their own as he works tim’s cock into his mouth. his wet, hot mouth, spit dripping down his chin already. fuck.
“fuck, you love it, don’t you?”
alex moans, with his mouth full, and tim has to shut his eyes against the vibration that travels up his body, alex’s voice thrumming in his spine, his stomach, tight, coiling heat. he tugs at his hair, and alex responds warmly, arches up to meet him and takes him impossibly deep, his glasses crooked and foggy.
“you stupid whore,” tim sighs, for the way it makes alex whine and try to take him deeper. “fucking slut.” he doesn’t know where it comes from, only that alex moans and sucks like he deserves it, wants it, thrusts himself sloppily at tim’s cock.
he looks a mess, like this, something beautiful and debauched for tim’s eyes only, drooling and moaning and - oh, tim shouldn’t like it - dripping snot down his face, a little, can’t sniffle up all the coke wetness with tim in his mouth like this, boo-hoo, and it’s sick, but tim runs his fingers through his hair, pulls him closer, and alex is so wet and open and limp he just thrusts in, fucks down his tight throat.
“y-you’re good at this,” tim breathes, “you get a lot of practice? whoring yourself out at the club?”
he shouldn’t, in the back of his mind he knows that, but the drugs and the drinks and alex are bringing it out in him, the meanness, the force, the way he slams alex’s face against the mound of his pubes and only feels a little bad about it. alex moans, anyway, his brows all screwed up like he’s enjoying it, and that’s all tim needs to fuck his wet, wanting mouth.
he should feel bad, for how eager he is to get down his sweet throat, how much he wants to fuck that silver-tongue into disuse; but alex makes it so easy, softening himself for tim’s needy force, opening up and moaning sweetly when tim fucks into him, rough enough he’d feel guilty with anyone else. maybe it’s only easy because it’s alex, because tim knows he deserves it, because he’s such a brat already this feels like the natural escalation -
“gotta keep you on a tighter leash,” tim pants, “you’re my boyfriend, right? can’t have you acting like a slut like that.”
alex whines, something that spills out of his mouth messy as the drool he’s leaking, fat rivers of filth that are nearly as hot as the way he dives in and sucks at tim like he’s never wanted anything more.
tim pulls him off, just to savor his fuck-drunk face, limp in tim’s grip and still focusing on his cock instead of making eye contact, making himself look stupid trying to stick his tongue out and taste it again.
“i am,” alex pants, “i- i’m yours, i- i shouldn’t,” he’s drooling, still, letting his mouth hang open and slur his words around, “i’m such a slut, ‘m sorry.” he licks his lips, pink and shining. “p-please, let me -”
and tim does, if only because his dick can’t stand the sight of him, the sound of his voice, wrung-out and fucked up, something vulnerable and private tim gets to ruin, gets to have to himself, paps be damned. all of it be damned, the contracts and the press and the movie, every stupid obligation and justification that stands in the way of acknowledging - this.
that alex is tim’s, and tim is alex’s, and regardless of anything, the world knows it. tim doesn’t know how he hasn’t given in before this, to the sick urge to ask for boyfriend treatment, to suggest they may as well play the part all the way through. not when alex has had this mouth on him the entire time, working some kind of sick black magic that has tim white-knuckled gripping the top of the stall, groaning low in his throat and thrusting into alex’s pliant, wet mouth, fucking his face in long, hot shoves.
“you’re so pretty like this,” tim tells him, half a lie, because he is, but he’s pretty all the time, unconsciously, seems not to even know it - all the better, then, that he belongs to tim for the foreseeable future, not loose and untethered out in the world with a face like that, eyes like those, a mouth like -
“o-oh, fuck,” tim groans, “you’re so good at that. s-such a slut, so good -” he hears himself break off into something wordless and wanton, his hips stuttering, fucking desperately down alex’s throat -
he’s wanted this for so long, he’s realizing - has been shoving it down, trying to hide it, but really - all he’s wanted is this, for alex to finally cave, to admit it runs both ways, to some degree, even the smallest one -
“fuck,” tim breathes, and he knits his fingers in alex’s hair and shoves down his throat, his slack, wet mouth, fucking in and out of his sloppy, needy hole, the noise obscene. there’s no way the rest of this men's room doesn’t know what they’re doing in here, not with the way tim’s cock slaps against his tongue, and the thought makes him feel crazy, a little bit.
there will be consequences for this. tim can’t bring himself to care, not in the slightest.
“you feel so good,” he says, slurring it, “you’re so good, alex, so pretty, you’re mine,” and he’s moaning around him and tim can’t take it much longer, he really can’t, has to close his eyes not to cum at the sight of him, alex’s blissed-out, dripping-wet face, his glasses half-on, his perfect hair sticking out in all directions. ruined, all for tim. all his to have like this, to see him at his messiest, tim’s at least for now, and isn’t that what matters -? that alex is his, for everyone to see. tim gets to keep him, to have him, and oh, fuck, does it feel good.
“alex,” he says, tries to pitch it like a warning and not a whine, holding his hair tight and thrusting into him, “a-alex, i’m gonna-”
one of his delicate, strong hands comes up and wraps itself around the back of tim’s thigh, holds him closer, pulls him tight, and the consent, the invitation to shoot his cum down alex’s throat is the thing that tips him fully over the edge.
“fuck- !”
tim breaks off into a groan, biting his lip hard with the wave of pleasure that crashes over him, squeezing the stall divider so tight he thinks he might crack it, rocking against alex’s face and chasing his full-bodied moans of drunk, sprawling want. he whimpers, and gags, and tim fucks into him - rides it out - finally shivers all-over with how sensitive it is, and he pulls out and feels himself twitch to see how ruined alex looks.
he’s tear-streaked, red and blotchy, wet spots staining his glasses - he goes to cough, and oh - oh, tim should be so much more grossed out - there’s fat rivers of white running down from his nose, too thick and glossy to be anything but -
alex gags again, more performance in it this time, swipes his wrist above his lip and bitches - “oh, jesus, it’s in my nose, gross,” and tim, still catching his breath, tells him, “well, y’know, you put it down your throat -” and tosses his head back to laugh at the new round of indignant complaining this draws forth. alex gripes and grouses and doesn’t seem to notice how silly it sounds with tim’s cum dripping down his face, his hair sticking up in all directions. doesn’t seem to care how deeply, intrinsically tim’s he is right now, marked and tainted and permanently tied - tim is drunk, definitely, but he knows beyond a doubt he wants this to stay how it is as long as is physically possible. he is selfish, and greedy, and he wants alex, as much as he can have him.
he reaches down to pet at his hair, shoulders the confused-annoyed glance this earns him. coos something sweet, you-did-good, something that makes alex glare and melt in equal measure. makes him lean in, close his eyes blissfully, only squint them open to tell tim to, “shut up,” after one too many good boys. the same tone he tends to get after a couple too many honeys, but tim’s determined not to notice that, not to file it away somewhere he can examine when sober.
“we should go home,” he slurs, and loose, sniffley, alex whines nooo, but he quiets down when tim starts scritching at his scalp again. leans, limp and pliable, against his thigh, his cheek warm.
tim pulls up uber. he knows they need it, at this point, if only for the shower - but his head is spinning, anyway, and he gently tugs alex up to ask him, “put your place in?”
he needs to be petted more to really do it, blinking blearily down at tim’s phone, and tim takes the opportunity to swipe a little pile of toilet paper under his nose while he’s typing, wipes his cum from alex’s face. accidentally glances down at the dark spot in alex’s light jeans and stops feeling bad at all about how things played out. stops thinking about it, actually, stops thinking about everything, zeroes in on the pink flush of alex’s cheeks, his blown-wide pupils, the dazed way he hands tim’s phone back, like he isn’t all here.
every cell in tim’s body feels like it’s been rewired to take care of him. he forgets his own address. does not think of it at all, not with alex leaning on him warm and unraveled, nuzzling against tim’s jeans and humming soft sounds of pleasure. all he can focus on is the even, steady rhythm of carding his fingers through alex’s soft hair, sighing and shushing at him.
he tilts alex’s head back after a while, when the tile is swimming more than he feels comfortable with, and finds him heavy-lidded but not quite as glassy and far-away; murmurs, “you okay?” and trusts his nod.
he wobbles like a fawn, getting to his feet, and tim puts his arm around him with a rush of affection.
“easy there,” he says, and alex nods, leans into him. god, he really is fucked up. tim shouldn’t like it so much. tim likes him way, way too much.
-
tim's been introduced to the concept of a nudity rider recently. not that he's needed it, for marble hornets, but his other agent - his new agent - wanted it in his papers, to know what future directors he might work with could or couldn't see.
he has the sense he just rode all the way up the thing.
alex's apartment is starker in the daytime. white and gray and black everywhere, nothing homey or personal tim can see without his - ugh. he winces, and the stinging in his eyes comes into harsher focus.
he glares over at alex, sleeping peacefully, his glasses on the nightstand. asshole. tim's going to have to ditch this pair of contacts when he gets home.
gently, trying not to jostle the bed too terribly, he leans over to the other nightstand and finds his - he turns the screen on, winces - nearly-dead phone. great.
ten-oh-six in the morning. two missed calls from jay, one from his agent, and a twitter notification that drops-down into ten more and promises to be even worse if he opens the app itself. tim’s eyes won’t focus enough to see the details.
he dismisses it and opens his messages.
jay: hope ur recovering lolol!! great pics but we might have to do damage control abt this rumor
jay: 1 attachment
jay: fuckin tmz man
tim squints. he’d sent him a link.
he casts a glance over his shoulder. alex, asleep on his back, snrrks a snore.
the drunk asshole. tim opens jay’s text.
EXCLUSIVE: LA’s Most Infamous Young Director Spends ‘Date Night’ at Gay Club - Alex Kralie rumored to be cokehead exhibitionist, oral sex fiend - exclusive photos and eyewitness account. Read More >
there’s two pictures attached to the headline. blurry, underexposed pap photos, unmistakably tim and alex leaving the club with their arms haphazardly draped around each other, looking around like they’d been transported to the busy sidewalk from the 17th century. windswept and dumbstruck and clinging to one another like they’d blow away otherwise. drunk as all hell. tim doesn’t even really remember this - maybe the white flash of cameras, if he tries, alex trying to squirm out of his arms and shout, tim gripping him tightly and kissing him to get him to shut his damn mouth.
there’s a shot of that, too. it looks a lot more romantic in a still image.
Alex Kralie confirms gay rumors this weekend with indie musician Tim Wright, slated to star in his upcoming film - the two were spotted leaving popular upscale gay bar ***** early this morning, looking very cozy and even sharing a kiss before getting into a shared rental car.
tim groans softly. they shared the uber? no wonder, but, like - this was supposed to confirm that they were seeing each other, not that they were going to hook up after their first real date.
A frequenter of the bar in question tells us he overheard Wright and Kralie while he was attending the club, and alleges the pair got up to some ‘pretty kinky’ activity, initially piqueing his radar because the young ingenues were searching for drugs.
He told TMZ he recognized Kralie earlier in the evening, when the man approached him looking to buy cocaine, and spotted him again entering the men’s bathroom with Wright -
he texts jay NDA, and, I don’t care how much it costs. NDA and we tell TMZ they take it down or we will take them to court.
jay sends him the salute emoji.
jay: im getting ahold of the lawyers now
jay: is he awake yet?
you: No. I’m going to head out.
he casts another look over at alex, still sprawled out and dead to the world. he looks unfairly beautiful, peaceful and blissed-out, something soft and sweet. tim’s tempted to kiss him.
overcomes it, with no small effort, locates his stupidly complicated button-up somewhere in the corner and slowly, slow-l-y extricates each end from the other, everything tangled in on itself like he hadn’t taken any care taking it off. a flash of memory hits him, solving the thing like a rubix cube - alex had wanted it off, and tim hadn’t wanted to argue, and he’d ripped the shirt over his head like an idiot, kissed him square on the mouth until he was pinning him to the mattress.
he winces, still pulling surgically at his buttons. putting them back together, this time, but still more work than it should be for his unsteady fingers to work at the tiny mechanisms, fitting them together with as much focus as his mind can allow. still half-watching alex, asleep and unhindered, snoring and dead to the world. beautiful for it, as much as tim loathes to admit, made prettier by the pronounced lack of tension in his brow, the slack pull to all his muscles.
it takes a long moment, to pull himself away. tim does it. he manages.
he gathers his shoes, his wallet, the very few belongings he’d managed to scatter across alex’s bedroom. tries to walk steadily, quietly, only fumbling and needing to lean on the wall a couple times, the world swaying faintly underneath him - not his fault, that alex’s place is so long and wide, that he has shelves and quirky lamps every two feet, that his fucking jeans are in the bedroom doorway, sprawled like a booby-trap, nearly trip him out into the hall -
“goddammit,” tim whispers, but he makes it. slip-sneaks in his socks out to the couch, wincing at the floor-to-ceiling sunlight flooding in through alex’s gorgeous, expensive windows. pulls up uber for the second time in nine hours, scowling at the price and telling himself he’ll find a way to business-expense it. that, and the drinks, and whatever it costs to shut up the guy running to the gossip rags because he vaguely recognized a director nobody’s heard of. ugh. tim’s gotta get out of this town.
Indie Rock Musician Tim Wright spotted leaving Alex Kralie’s LA apartment this morning, dating rumors CONFIRMED - 10 reasons they have potential to be Hollywood’s next IT couple, Read More >
Alex Kralie & Tim Wright HARD launch this weekend with risqué paparazzi photos, click here for the exclusive scoop on their public kiss, Wright’s walk of shame -
LA’s Hottest New Power Couple - What you need to know about Tim Wright and Alex Kralie, the musician/actor duo taking Hollywood by storm Read More >
“hey, you look familiar,” his uber driver starts, and tim shakes his head, turns to stare out the passenger-side window.
“i just have one of those faces.”