#flavored water in that can by the way he’s stone cold sober

[meirimerens]

so my [brother who doesn’t even smile to his own family] has this [guy friend]

[filthforfriends]

First Warning

DILFiano CW: morally grey age gap and power dynamics

Word count: 2.5k

This is the worst thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. Those were your thoughts while choking down your first shot of Malibu. Icarus’ room may have been on the far end of the house, but they were still being too loud.

“Take another shot,” Elliot cheered. You did a hybrid of shushing them and gagging. Moxy and Icarus were laying on the floor cackling. Being the most sober of the group is never awesome, but seems to always be the position you find yourself in. Today was the last day of high school for seniors, with graduation only two and a half weeks away. Celebration had started as soon as you got in Elliot’s back seat, taking a dab that made you sure of impending death for an hour afterwards.

“C’mon, do another,” Icarus hiccupped. It seemed the three of them had some super human capacity in terms of THC consumption. The whole group was cross faded, except you, who’d refused to smoke anymore. After that shot of coconut flavored poison you were about to refuse alcohol too.

“No! You can’t make me drink that shit,” you protested, trying to get the sickly sweet taste out of your mouth. “Ugh! Do we have anything else?” Icarus handed you a cranberry chaser.

“Just steal some of the cheap stuff from the liquor cupboard! They won’t notice anyway.”

“Are you sure they’re asleep?” In another house you wouldn’t dare, but the Davids had given you the occasional glass of wine with dinner. Plus their place was huge, so the master bedroom was somewhat out of hearing range from the kitchen.

“Yeah, yeah! They were having a talk, so they’ve been in their room all night.” She put dramatic air quotes up, rolling her eyes. There had been some vague references to separation, but they hadn’t officially broken the news. They didn’t need to, it was apparent to anyone familiar with divroce.

“Okay, I will be back -” you almost trip, trying to stand up.

“Look at y/n, about to break the rules,” Moxy teased.

“Yeah, yeah, you need water anyway, dumbass.”

“And you're the best!”

“Thank you, y/n!” You shush them before opening the door and stepping out into the hall. The house is dark, but you tiptoe to the kitchen just the same, not wanting to wake Alexander, Icarus’ younger brother. Carefully, you turn the open bottles so you can see the label, and google the price. Selecting the cheapest one, you set it down on their granite countertop as lightly as possible. One ceramic mug knocks against the other when you reach blindly into the cupboard. After wincing, you pour a tiny amount into a Maneskin coffee cup and tag swig.

It's awful, truly terrible, somehow too sweet and too sour. Is this what red wine is supposed to taste like? Only after forcing yourself to swallow did you realize it had probably gone bad. You hear a chuckle and freeze, not as if that’s going to help at this point.

“Pretty terrible right?” Damiano is shirtless in plaid pajama pants, standing on the threshold of the kitchen.

“Shit I’m so, so sorry Dami.” That’s what Chiara calls him. “Sorry, Damiano. I - fuck - I mean sorry. It’ll never happen again.” You feel your heart stop and your body go cold, like you’re made of stone.

“At least you drank the cheap stuff,” he shrugs. You realize he’s not angry, in fact he's wearing a wry grin. Immediately, the tether from that day in the hall pulls so hard your chest hurts.

“What happens when you drink wine that’s gone bad? Not that I don’t deserve it.” He chuckles again, and this time you can see the way laughter moves his body. His chest rumbles, and he takes a few short breaths from his stomach. The black ink drilled into his olive skin draws your gaze to a dozen different places at once. Dami had covered himself with art, even though his body was art, in its own right.

“It’s not spoiled. Icarus stole from the bottle and filled it back up with grape juice.” He pushes off the counter from his hip, walking towards you. “My daughter thinks I’m a fucking idiot,” he rolls his eyes, plafully. “When I heard you, I was hoping she’d come to learn her lesson.”

“Shit, I woke you up too.”

“No, no, I was already awake. Couldn’t sleep,” he dismissed. A shadow crossed over his face, and you must be an open book, because he sees your concern like the words were written across your forehead. “You seem much more sober than I expected.”

“Really?”

“Well, when Icarus dragged you through the door it looked like you were on a different planet. At 3 p.m.” The visual of Dami watching you being pulled across his foyer with your pupils blown out, only 70% conscious made you burst out laughing. He took a couple quick steps towards you.

“Shh, shh, shh.” For a moment, his upheld finger brushed your lips as he signaled you to be quiet. From that place of origin, fire ripped through your veins, and the meeting of your bodies felt inevitable. When your eyes connected for half a second, you saw a barely contained hunger. There was some monster he was trying to tame inside him, determined to be decent. It was the most exciting thing you’d ever felt in your life. Better than winning competitions, and awards, or your acceptance letter to Dartmouth, because there was nothing clean and shiny about it. You wanted Damiano like an addict wanted heroin.

“Chiara’s asleep,” he whispered. You went ice cold, and the fear of waking Damiano’s wife must have been so prominent on your face that it was comical. He was bent over laughing, in near silence, and somehow you ended up joining him, leaning against the kitchen counter as your ribcage shook. His eyes were crinkled, and the smile lines reminded you of all the years he’d stayed youthful, rather than his age. Dami had more youth in him than any teenager you’d met. He was overflowing with life, but that somehow had become so stifled, that a sour expression on your face had his eyes welling up with repressed joy.

“Christ, I haven’t laughed that hard in weeks,” he wiped his eyes. When he raised his arm, you spotted the irritated skin around a fresh ink. It was two figures in ankle deep water, bent forward as if they were walking into the wind.

“Who are they?” His face crumpled in confusion, but you reached forward to his arm, fingerings brushing the outer edges of the tattoo. You almost couldn’t believe that your skin was touching his, your hand trembled. He didn’t brush you off, just rotated his arm so the tattoo was easier to see.

“It’s Deucalion and Pyrrha. They’re mortals.” He pauses, and you realize he hasn’t had to explain this one before. You’ve caught him off guard, and this has an equalizing effect that you revel in. The air becomes laden with something compelling and unspeakable. You don’t dare look him in the eyes, lest his gaze tell you to take a step back.

“Greek mythology right?”

“Yeah, but also biblical. Deucalion is the equivalent of Noah.” Looking closer, you see that the characters are carrying something.

“What are they holding?”

“Stones. After the arc, Deucalion and his wife Pyrrha are told by Hermes to throw stones over their shoulders as they walk. The stones turned into people. It’s how they repopulate the earth after the flood.” His fingers brush yours as he points to Pyrrha, and you let your hand fall from his arm.

“He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone at her,” you recite, finally making eye contact. He nods minutely, then turns back towards his arm before the tension can build. “So is it a contradiction?”

“Very good,” he praises, but without the tone of a teacher. You feel warm everywhere. “Even though we’re not supposed to throw the first stone, doing so rebuilds humanity. There is no world without judgment.”

“Life isn’t as simple as a bible quote. Y’know I’ve been making this case for years.” Brushing it off with cynicism feels wrong. “It’s about life’s inherent complexity. It’s not something you would have gotten when you were younger?” At my age.

“Definitely not, I was an idealist,” he sighs. Some memory makes him perceptibly wince. His routine must be full of landmines that pain him with regret.

“Only adults get tattoos about how the world is full of hypocrites,” you quip, then immediately regret your words. “Sorry, that was -”

“Don’t worry,” he smiles. Dami walks across the kitchen towards the open liquor cabinet. “You’re good company.” It's a saving grace that his back is turned, so he doesn’t see how much these words affect you. Good company: he spoke to you like an adult. You were 18, but it was stupid to expect him to see you that way. And yet, here you were laughing in his kitchen, talking religious philosophy, while his wife was asleep in their bedroom. You should feel guilty, but you don’t. Not even as your eyes memorize every line his body makes.

He reaches to the top shelf with a smal, endearing groan  as he retrieves a bottle. From behind the liquor, Damiano pulls a stout wine bottle. You can tell it’s expensive with the amount of expertise put into the design. The label is embossed in gold.

“I hide it from vulture children,” he grins, oh so charming. The sphinx on his side is stretched over his rib cage when Dami reaches above the wine glasses to the crystal, and pulls out two flutes. One for each of you. He’s letting you in on a secret and that burns between your legs.

“Now that you’ve had to suffer through Icarus’ concoction, I think you should taste some good wine.” He uncorks it and pours each of you a glass, looking over his shoulder at you. “You don’t have to try it if you don’t want to.” You unfreeze, finally, moving across the kitchen towards him. Dami speaks with a casual confidence that you envy.

“Oh, I do,” you assure. Leaning against the counter, Damiano hands you heavy glass. “I’ve never drank from crystal,” you confess. This seems to please him.

“To your future.” You expect one of his megawatt smiles, but his face is serious, a genuine toast to you. The wine flutes clink and you follow Damiano as he smells the liquid before drinking it.

“Slow down. Explore all the sensations” he coaches. “Appearance, smell, taste, feel.” There's something dangerously sensual about his words.

“Feel?” you squeak.

“Does it burn going down?”

“No. It’s smooth…and it's lush.” You smell it again, swirl it around in your mouth, before swallowing.

“Lush,” he ponders. “That's an excellent way to put it. You’d enjoy wine tasting, I think.” Then take me. I’ll go anywhere you want, do anything. My body is ripe for the taking, tissue all but overflowing with sweet juice to coat your tongue. Meanly, you thought of Chiara’s body after two kids and a couple decades. Your breasts are perkier, skin taut. How many years since Dami had touched a body so unsoiled?

“You think I’d like it?” you prompt, craving the timbre of his voice, which was far richer than the wine.

“I do,” he looks at you slyly while taking a sip. “Just don’t swish it around like mouthwash.” The blush burns at the tips of your ears, but there's that full smile, so perfect you don’t care that it came at your expense. Wanting to hide your embarrassment, you turn towards the counter and study the bottle. It's what you imagine a woman taken to wine tastings would do. Golden ribbon ran through the branches of a tree and you trace the indentation of the label with your index finger.

“That's the oldest tree in the orchard,” Dami explained. He stood right behind you, deconstructing the design, but all you could focus on was his proximity. His radiant heat reached your skin, his smell nearly imperceptible, unlike that time you brought Icarus home. Your body yearned for the stench of his sweat. Dami’s breath hit the back of your neck as he spoke in hushed tones, and you steeled yourself.

Turning around, your nose nearly brushed Dami’s from proximity. He didn’t jump backward, but looked back at you, surprised. It was like electricity lay between your two bodies, and would only let you move forward, never back. No one could invade this little bubble, not even real doubt. This time you let your eyes wander to his shapely lips, remembering how he had gazed at yours. You looked back to his eyes; the shock had worn off, and they were hooded, gazing languidly at you. Forcing bravery, you leaned forward infinitesimally and crossed some invisible boundary. Damiano jumped back like the electricity had shocked him.

“No, no,” he chastised. At first his voice was shaky, then stern. “This can’t happen, you can’t be attracted to me.” You should be horrified, but barely concealed under Dami’s discouraging tone was hysteria.

“But, I am,” you answer, feigning calm.

“No, this is all part of sexual discovery. You’re becoming a woman. When you’re young people have chemistry who shouldn’t.” He’s rattling off justifications like he wants to convince himself. Dami runs his hands through his hair compulsively, until it's greasy from the sweat on his palms. “It’s animal, we can’t help it. This will pass, it happens far less when you’re an adult.”

“So when was the last time this happened for you?”

“I – that doesn’t matter.” He takes two strides to the sink and rinses his face in cold water. He skittish, and internally he’s punishing himself.

“You said ‘we.’” you persist. If Dami tells you that you’re another silly teenage girl with a crush, you’ll drop it. “Who was the last person you had an animal attraction to?” He sighs, gripping the edge of the sink, and shaking his head.

“You’re too smart for your own good.” The moonlight through the kitchen window illuminates the gray in his hair. The wine has stained his lips red, but also his teeth. Why can’t something be beautiful without others being ugly? Why do you have to be young and Damiano to be old? Why does the equilibrium of the universe leave everything bruised?

“What does that mean?”

“Y/n, we can’t ever talk about this again.” His hand waves swiftly, like the blade of an executioner. Little does Damiano know that you’d love to be his secret, dirty thing, thrown scraps occasionally to keep it alive. You’d be debased for him.

“Why?”

“Why?” he sneers, tone venomous. It’s a stupid question, but you didn’t expect so much bitterness in his answer. Biting his lip, Damiano shakes his head rapidly, in disbelief. Staring at the ceiling, he lets out a pained sigh, finally leveling his gaze with you again. It was the first time he’d beg with his eyes.

“Okay,”  you let him off the hook. Somehow, he looks more pained, like even then Dami knew there was no fending this off. He gives a decisive, final nod, and in the one gesture decades catch up to him. The failed marriage, two kids, mortgage payments, and credit card financing. A slant of moonlight hits him as he turns and leaves the kitchen. The gray of his hair is the same shade as the blade of a knife.

Notes: a reminder that I'm always writing characters that are not me or representative of me, but an extra bonus reminder since I'm pretending to be an 18 year old in love with her friends dad. this part in the series turned out to be a fic, but other parts will vary in length. thank you for reading!

Notice: tags aren’t consistently working so I’d really appreciate reblogs!

@gr8rainbowpunk @homesicam @hiraetheral @l0standn0tf0und @iosonoarina @teenyweenynightghost @elvirabelle @8iunie @immrbrightsideeee @idyllicbutterfly @ilwiwbysmv @superchrystaldrug @que--sera--sera @theimpossiblehologramtree @blackberryblossom @weareoddlydrawn @asianhawkeye @butkutee @iamtashaquinn @maneslut @maneskintifoso @little-moonbeam-666 @obiw4n @minnietmouse @thatonebraziliangirl @bohemianrainbow @xweirdxsceletton @daisy0gf @boyswillbeexecutied @stardustingold @damoriaa @teacosea @whore4damia @ohdamiano @wasteddoubts

[hangovercurse]

Ice Cold Pool

Part v of the Without You series: Colson and Y/N try to return to normal, but they still don’t know what normal actually is.

Colson x Reader

Warnings: Cursing (as per usual), substance use, people not following social distancing guidelines.

A/N: Seriously guys, wear your masks, social distance, etc. I really wanna go to a concert sometime in the next 2 years.

Word Count: 2743

| i | ii | iii | iv | vi | 

masterlist

It had been 4 weeks since you and Colson had made the agreement to just be friends. Obviously, there were some hiccups in this plan. Most notably that hanging around Colson reminded you of all the reasons you loved him in the first place, and thus all the reasons you shouldn’t hang around him.

You were glad to be back to somewhat normal. You could hang around your friends without feeling too much tension, you could talk to Casie (who wanted to know everything that happened), and you could smoke again.

That last one you probably shouldn’t have been so happy about, but after a month without weed, you needed it.

Of course, not everything was back to normal. You and Colson weren’t technically… speaking. Yet.

You said simple things to each other, “excuse me,” “thank you,” and even the occasional “bless you” after a sneeze. But you had yet to have an actual conversation since that night. When hanging around the guys, you tried to be as normal as possible, interacting with Colson as little as possible. You didn’t want anyone else to think you felt awkward, because then they would feel awkward and it would be a whole awkward mess.

Tonight, you were hoping to ease some tension between you and Colson. Trippie was releasing the deluxe version of his new album and was having a “covid safe” album release party. All that meant was they would party outside rather than inside and only invite half the amount of people that they normally would.

Against your better judgement, Slim and Baze convinced you to go.

“There’s not even gonna be that many people there.”

“And Trippie would be so upset if you didn’t come.”

“If I go, will you two shut up?”

“Yes.” “Yes ma’am”

“Don’t call me ma’am ever again, Slim.”

So, you made a plan to talk to Colson at some point that night about something other than all of your problems with each other. If and only if the opportunity presented itself.

So, there you were in an oversized Misfits T-shirt that looked like a dress on you and shorts that no one could see, a beer in one hand, and a blunt in the other. You were sitting at the pool edge, your feet dangling in the water, as you talked to Iann Dior about cheese.

You may have been pretty tipsy, but he was worse.

“Cheddar cheese is the worst possible flavor of cheese.” Iann shook his head, laughing.

“Absolutely not. You can put cheddar in dishes, and they taste great. Cheddar makes things taste better. Brie cheese is the worst cheese. It’s literally fucking moldy.” You giggled, taking a swig of your drink.

“You’re both wrong. Feta cheese is the absolute worse and no one will convince me otherwise.” Colson chuckled, sitting next to you.

“There is nothing wrong with feta cheese, you two are just uncultured.” You laughed, the opportunity you needed apparently presenting itself. You took a quick glance at Colson, who was about to dip his feet in the water. “Colson your shoes are still on.”

He looked at you confused, and you realized just how high he was. “So?” he asked and Iann laughed.

“Dude, if you’re gonna put your feet in the water you gotta take your shoes off.”

Colson broke out laughing at Iann’s comment, his whole body shaking with joy. He slipped his shoes off once he finished and dangled his feet of the edge.

“So, you really think cheddar cheese is the best cheese?” He asked, taking a sip of his beer.

“Noooo.” You whined, “I just don’t think it’s the worst kind of cheese. But obviously there are better cheeses.” You kicked your feet up, splashing Colson on accident.

He looked over at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. He reached his hand into the water, splashing water towards you. “Colson!” You squealed, laughing.

You returned the favor by flicking water at his shirt, at which point Iann left. “You get me wet and you die.” He said with a laugh.

Colson then cupped his hands together, bringing water up to your shirt and pouring it all over you, much to your dismay. Luckily, your shirt was black, but the water was still freezing. “Bro.” You pouted, looking over at Colson. He was smiling, but soon mimicked your pout.

“Aww, I’m sorry. Did the little princess get wet?” Your eyes went wide, and you slapped his chest. He grabbed your hand, pulling it up so you couldn’t hit him and accidentally pulling you closer to him. “I didn’t mean it like that!” He laughed, his hand intertwining with yours as he brought it back down.

“Colson…” You trailed off, warning him. He pouted, a sigh leaving his lips as he unlocked your fingers.

“Sorry, forgot I’m not supposed to do that.” You smiled a little, glad that things were slowly becoming normal. “I wanna go for a swim.” He changed the topic, standing up and pulling his shirt off.

“Colson it’s freezing. You’re gonna get sick.” You looked at him with wide eyes but a giggle falling from your mouth.

“Guess someone has to come in to keep me warm.” He shrugged, tugging his shorts down his legs so he was just in his boxers.

It was only at this point that you realized he was very drunk. A few moments later you felt the cold water splash your face as Colson jumped into the pool near you, coming up and running his hand through his hair.

He made his way back over to you, reaching for the beer that he left on the side of the pool. He half-stood in front of you, a needy smile on his face. “Get in the water with me Y/N.” He dragged out the last syllable of your name, causing you to roll your eyes.

“There is no way in hell I am getting in that water.” You chuckled, taking a hit of the joint in your hand.

Colson pouted, taking the blunt from you and smoking it himself. “I guess I could always just pull you in.” He grabbed your thighs and you moved backwards, fighting him.

“Colson, I don’t have a change of clothes, I’ll be cold.” You tried to squirm out of his grip, giggling.

“You can just wear my shirt or something. Someone will have something.” He shrugged, pulling you into the water.

“Colson!” You squealed before your entire body was encased in the cold liquid.

“Too late.” He said, a cheeky smile on his face. His arms wrapped around you as you turned to face the edge, ready to get out. “Noooo, you’re already in here.” He whined, dragging you towards his chest.

“Colson, it’s freezing. We need to get out.” You said, turning your head to face him.

“I don’t want to. This is the closest I’ve been to you in weeks. I just wanna enjoy this for a moment.” His head rested on top of your head, and you let yourself fall back into his chest.

You had to admit, you did miss his playfulness and his touch, and you really hadn’t been this close to him in a while. But you knew he wouldn’t be doing any of this if he wasn’t both drunk and stoned out of his mind.

You sighed, knowing you needed to end the moment, if not for your own sanity. “C’mon Col, we can’t do this. Let’s get out.”

He groaned. “We did this when we were friends before, how is this any different from that?”

You made your way to the edge of the pool. “It just is Colson.” You sighed, trying to mask the anger in your voice. You tried to pull yourself up to sit on the edge of the pool, but you couldn’t quite make it the first time. Colson, of course, took it upon himself to help you, grabbing your hips lightly to lift you up. He got out and sat next to you, both of you soaking wet.

He reached over and grabbed the shirt he was wearing earlier, passing it to you. “Here, so you don’t get sick.” He seemed to be sobering up, probably due to the cold water.

“Thanks.” Your voice was hushed, your cheeks burning with a blush that you couldn’t explain. It’s just a shirt, you told yourself. You stood up, preparing yourself to find somewhere private to change.

“Where are you going?” Colson asked, looking up at you.

“To change.” You said bluntly. “I can’t exactly strip in front of 40 people.”

Colson nodded, standing up next to you, pulling his shorts on. “Where are you going?” You asked him, a small smile on your face.

“Wherever you are.” He smiled and you rolled your eyes.

“Okay, I guess I can use you to clear my path inside.” You chuckled, starting to walk towards the crowd of people near the doors of the house. As you moved through the crowd you found yourself instinctively reaching back for Colson’s hand, not wanting to lose him as you moved through the crowd. He happily took the hint and moved closer to you, his free hand resting on your hip to help guide you to the doors, though you didn’t mind as much as you should have.

You made your way through the open glass door, suddenly very self-conscious about the clothes you were wearing and the fact that you were soaking wet. “Bathroom is this way.” Colson mumbled into your ear as the loud music blasted around you. The hand on your hip led you down a small hallway until you found the open bathroom.

You went in, turning to close the door when you saw Colson had followed you in. “I gotta change, Kells. You can’t be in here.”

“Woah woah woah.” He started, clearly offended, “You never call me Kells. That’s not allowed.” You giggled, rolling your eyes. “And I’ll just… look away.” He covered his eyes with his hands, moving his fingers to form a gap.

“Colson, seriously,” You laughed, “turn around.” He thankfully did as told, and you quickly removed the Misfits shirt you were previously wearing and replaced it with his long sleeve pink shirt. It wasn’t quite as long as the other one you were wearing, but it still went down to your upper thigh and the sleeves went far enough past your wrist for permanent sweater paws. Unfortunately, this meant you would have to keep your wet shorts on.

Upon realizing this, you let out a sigh of disappointment. “What?” Colson questioned, still facing the wall.

“You can look now.” He turned around. “It’s not as long as mine.” You pouted, stretching your arms out for him to see before flopping them back down to your sides.

Colson chuckled, “I really don’t see the problem, Y/N.”

You glared playfully, “I have to wear my wet fuckin shorts.” You whined, a pout on your lips.

“I meannn, you don’t have to.” Colson said, playfully. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! But I don’t know what to do to help you.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, looking off into the distance. “I’m not giving you my pants, Y/N.” Another dramatic sigh. “Okay fine we’ll just go to his laundry room and through them in the dryer, okay?”

“See, you do know what to do to help me.” You smiled, grabbing your wet shirt and pushing Colson out of the bathroom.

The laundry room in Trippie’s house was surprisingly small, given his house was a small mansion. You were able, however, to close the door and pull off your wet clothes. Colson threw your shirt in the dryer as well.

You hopped up onto the washer, your legs dangling off. “You don’t have to stay, Colson.” You told him, knowing he probably wanted to rejoin the party.

“I’m good. This is much more fun than whatever’s going on out there.”

You laughed, “waiting for my clothes to dry? Whatever, loser.”

He moved towards you, his stomach touching your knees. “I’ve missed this.” He said, softly. You met his eyes with your own. “Just us doing stupid shit. Being friends.”

“We’re still friends, Cols.” You smiled, tilting your head to the side.

He sighed, “Yeah but we haven’t really been friends since…” He trailed off, but you knew what he meant. “Not real friends, at least.”

You sighed, trying to decide what you wanted to say. “I’m sorry about that. I just needed a little bit of space and it never felt like the right time to… talk. Like if we started talking in a group everyone would just think it’s weird.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” his hand reached out to touch your waist. “If anything, I should be apologizing. It’s my fault we’re stuck in this weird limbo shit anyways. I was honestly afraid the guys would kill me if I talked to you.”

“Well, good thing it’s not up to the guys anymore.” Your voice got soft as you realize how close your faces had gotten. “And we can be normal friends again.” You added.

Colson looked down. “Yeah, normal friends.” He tried to hide the disappointment in his voice but failed miserably.

“Colson, we’re just friends, right?” You asked, trying to convince yourself more than him.

He nodded, “Yeah, we’re just friends.” He looked up and met your eyes, and you could see the emotions in his crystal blue eyes. “But I don’t know that I can just be friends.” His voice was soft, making your heart sink deeper.

His head was inches away from yours, his nose almost touching your own. He leaned his head to the side, his eyes traveling your face. His lips were millimeters from yours. “Tell me that you don’t want this, and I’ll walk out right now.”

“I…” You couldn’t form a sentence with his lips so close to your own. “We shouldn’t.” You whispered.

“That’s not what I asked.” He paused, touching his nose to yours lightly. When he spoke, you could feel his words on your lips. “Do you want me to kiss you right now?”

You couldn’t answer him for a few seconds. “I don- I don’t know Colson.” You breathed out, leaning your forehead against his.

Part of you was hoping he would take matters into his own hands and just kiss you, but the other part of you knew you would regret anything that happened right now.

He jerked his head away from you, a frown etched across his face. “When are you gonna make up your goddamn mind? I can never figure out where I’m at with you.” His voice raised slightly, making you jump. “One minute we’re not even talking and the next you’re holding my fucking hand at a party. You say we’re just friends and then don’t say no when I ask if you want me to kiss you. Like what the fuck is this?” He ranted, causing your grip on the edge of the washer to tighten.

“Colson, I told you. I need time to figure all of this out. It doesn’t just happen overnight.” You tried to keep your voice calm.

“It’s been weeks, Y/N. How long do you need?”

Confusion took over your features, and then anger. “Colson do you even realize what you did? Honestly, you’re fucking lucky I even wanted to be friends. You kind of screwed me up, really bad. So, excuse me for needing time to figure out if you’re worth it or not.” Your eyes fell to the floor, suddenly very self-conscious of all the things Colson had said to you 2 months ago.

Colson scoffed, backing away from you, “Well honestly it would be a lot easier if we weren’t friends.” His words were harsh, and you were reminded that he wouldn’t change, not really. “Y/N I didn’t mean it like that.” His voice became soft, but it was already too late.

You hopped off the machine, pushing past him and pulling your damp shirt and shorts out of the dryer. With your back facing him, you pulled your shorts on and then took his shirt off, replacing it with your own.

“Y/N I’m sorry I jus-“

“No, Colson. I’m sorry. I keep forgetting that my existence seems to be the bane of yours.” You shove his shirt into his chest. “You don’t have to worry about me anymore.” You walked out of the small room and through the house, determined to call a cab home.

[poipoi1912]

Barisi Episode Tag, 19x03

(7.9K. Inspired by ‘yummy.’ A canon-compliant story about Sonny and Rafael’s relationship through the seasons. No detail left unexplained, no stone left unturned. Please enjoy.)

~~~

Three Years

~~~

“Meet me at The Double Windsor. 9 o’clock.”

Rafael can’t stop reading the text.

Carisi’s text.

Rafael can’t stop reading Carisi’s bold, matter-of-fact text.

A time and a place.

Nothing else.

No ‘would you?’

No ‘unless you have other plans.’

No ‘please?’

Just “Meet me.”

Like he’s sure Rafael will be there.

Rafael is there.

Rafael is here, at the bar Carisi suggested, or picked out unilaterally, because that text was no suggestion, Rafael is here right now, sitting at a corner table, Rafael is here with his jacket off and his tie loose, to appear more casual, Rafael is here and he’s drinking and he’s waiting.

Rafael has been waiting all afternoon.

Rafael has been waiting for three years, actually, but Carisi’s text only came this afternoon, and Rafael swears the last three hours felt even longer.

He almost didn’t check his phone.

His phone, it went off during a meeting with the D.A., and he almost ignored it, like he always does, except he saw Carisi’s name on the screen.

Rafael had to sneak a peek.

After all, maybe Carisi was texting to brag, because his obfuscation idea had worked like a charm. Or, just maybe, it was ‘yummy’ which had worked like a charm, and Carisi was texting to belatedly respond to that.

As soon as Rafael saw, ‘Meet me,’ he knew it was the latter.

As soon as he saw, ‘The Double Windsor,’ he knew this was a date.

Finally.

And it only took three years.

Despite this truly lamentable delay, and despite the fact he had almost resigned himself to eternal blue balls, Rafael can’t say he was too surprised.

He caught the look on Carisi’s face, as he was leaving Liv’s office.

He saw the way Carisi’s eyes followed him all the way out the door.

Rafael knew ‘yummy’ struck a chord.

He just didn’t know what Carisi was going to do about it.

Send a suggestive text, apparently.

A pretty straightforward tactic, and one Rafael wasn’t quite expecting. He was banking on a smirk or three, next time Carisi came to his office. He was waiting for some gloating, and some teasing, and some more ‘Oh, Rafaels’.  

The text was better.

Marginally.

Rafael had to struggle to keep his expression neutral as the D.A. kept yammering on about new hires at the Manhattan office, and about highly qualified recruits from outside New York, and about ‘promising’ prosecutors placed in positions Rafael could only dream of attaining, despite his years of experience, because he had one too many suspensions on his record now and his career was dead in the water.

Or something like that.

Rafael chose to focus on the positive.

Carisi’s text.

Rafael pretended he was listening as he emailed Carmen to clear his schedule for the rest of the evening.

Right after he replied to Carisi, of course.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

A cliché, but for a reason.

Carisi didn’t text back. Rafael assumes it’s because he wants to have the rest of that conversation in person.

At The Double Windsor.

This isn’t the first time they’ll be meeting here.

That’s how Rafael knew.

He and Carisi, they’ve been here once before.

Before.

This bar, it’s around the corner from Carisi’s place. Technically, Rafael shouldn’t know that, but he does.

From before.

Before Rafael screwed everything up.

It doesn’t matter.

They’re here again.

Now.

They will be here.

Carisi will be here, any minute now, and that’s all that matters.

Rafael’s eyes are glued to the main entrance.

He’d be embarrassed by his own eagerness, by the way he sits up every time a tall and slender enough man walks through the heavy doors, but the time for embarrassment has long passed.

Rafael is excited.

He’s excited to be meeting Carisi, he’s excited to be sharing a bottle of bourbon, just like last time, he’s excited to be here.

Again.

Rafael knows Carisi didn’t pick this place by accident. Carisi didn’t pick it because it’s convenient, because he had a long day and he wants to get home as soon as possible after their date.

It is a date.

If Carisi wanted a professional meeting, he would have picked one of the many cop bars within a four-block radius of the precinct.

Carisi does not want a professional meeting.

Rafael knows that.

He doesn’t know why ‘yummy’ did the trick, of all things, and he does feel it was almost too easy, but he’ll take it.

Lord knows Rafael has tried everything. He’s tried booyahs, and broken clocks, and kewpie dolls, he’s tried agreeing with Carisi, he’s tried disagreeing, he’s tried being there for Carisi, he’s tried being indifferent, he’s tried insults, he’s tried jokes, he’s tried flirting, he’s tried the cold shoulder, Rafael has tried everything short of actually making a move, and now he gets to sit back and enjoy the fact Carisi made the move for him.

Finally.

After three years of dancing around it, it’s finally happening.

Well, after one year of arguing, and one year of dancing around it, and one year of fighting, because Rafael is an idiot and too proud to admit it.

They were so close, before.

In this bar, they got so close.

Once.

Before.

Carisi mentioned it, over-enunciated the name like Rafael might get a kick out of it, Carisi said, ‘There’s this bar I know, it’s called The Double Windsor. Real classy place. You’d like it, counselor,’ and Rafael laughed, Rafael said, ‘I shudder to think what you consider classy, Carisi. Probably what I’d call a dive bar,’ and Carisi snorted, and Rafael closed the case file he was reading, and Rafael said, ‘I’m not doing anything right now,’ and Carisi smiled at him, so sweet, and they left Rafael’s office together, late at night, almost a year ago, now.

This place, it means something.

Or it did.

Almost a year ago.

As Rafael sips his bourbon slowly, as he remembers the rich flavor of the surprisingly high end brand, the same one he chose almost a year ago, as he remembers saying, ‘I have to admit, even I would call this classy, Carisi,’ as he remembers Carisi’s beaming face, Rafael knows.

This place still means something.

Tonight.

It’s taken three years, two of them wasted, but tonight, it’s finally happening.

Their first date.

If Rafael was a little more honest, or a lot more drunk, he would admit this is their second date.

Their real first date happened right in this bar, almost a year ago.

Rafael doesn’t even know if that should count, but that’s because he’s sober.

It counts.

Maybe this can be their second first date.

All because of ‘yummy.’

All because Carisi has forgiven him, finally, and that’s what Rafael is really happy about.

Not this date. First, second, whatever. That, that’s just the icing on the cake.

Rafael is happy because they’re back.

Back to normal.

Carisi is joking again, and smiling, and calling, and texting, and showing off.

That’s what Rafael is really happy about.

Carisi, showing off for him.

Just like the good old days.

Carisi always had a way of making Rafael happy.

And then he spent a year making Rafael miserable.

Because Rafael screwed everything up.

Carisi spent a year sending Rafael cold and lengthy and perfectly businesslike emails to suggest potentially helpful jurisprudence, every time he thought Rafael needed an assist. Carisi didn’t set foot in Rafael’s office for months, not alone. Carisi chose to rely on linked excerpts from law journals, instead of popping by unannounced, pastries in hand, and regaling Rafael with the contents of his latest paper for his Advanced Criminal Law class at Fordham.

Rafael misses that.

Rafael will never get it back.

Carisi is not at Fordham anymore.

Carisi is a lawyer, now, Carisi passed the bar, and Rafael didn’t even get to celebrate with him, not properly, because that’s when the death threats escalated.

Among other things.

Rafael is deeply, painfully grateful Carisi got a chance to say thank you before it all fell apart.

It’s taken almost a year, but Rafael thinks they’re starting to put it back together.

Carisi suggests strategies in person, now. In Rafael’s office, when it’s just the two of them. In front of the others, too. Liv’s office has become a makeshift auditorium, where Carisi carries out his little presentations, the bigger the audience the better.

It’s all for Rafael.

Carisi’s dimples give him away.

The audience is a bonus, because Carisi’s always been a cocky when it comes to the law, but it’s all for Rafael.

Just like the good old days.

Exactly like the good old days, except for the fact Carisi’s suggestions are much more sophisticated, now. Impressively sophisticated. He’s even managed to outsmart Rafael, on the odd occasion, and that feels better than it should. Rafael’s never felt pride for someone else’s accomplishments before, certainly not when they were at his own expense.

It feels weird.

Rafael feels weird, and proud, and grateful, and happy, and he only has Carisi to thank.

And to blame.

Rafael would have totally come up with those ideas first, if not for Carisi distracting him.

That bubbling potential between them, that rekindled connection, it’s so distracting, and beguiling, and Rafael is slipping, sometimes, and he doesn’t even mind.

Just like the good old days.

Exactly like the good old days, except for the fact Rafael says ‘yummy’ out loud, now. He always did think Carisi was delicious, but that was a thought he kept private.

Regrettably.

No more regrets.

Which is a course of action that has backfired in the past, badly, when it sucked all the joy out of Rafael’s life for almost a year, because Carisi was all the joy in Rafael’s life, but that won’t happen again.

Rafael won’t let that happen again.

Carisi won’t let it.

Things are better now.

Their old relationship has been restored. Their old patterns, intact. Like they never stopped being friends. Like they never almost became more.

Rafael takes another sip as he watches yet another man who isn’t Carisi enter the bar.

He’s rationing. He doesn’t want to be even remotely intoxicated when Carisi arrives. He’s been waiting for half an hour, still nursing that first drink, the bottle almost full next to an empty tumbler.

Rafael got here early.

He wanted to take in the atmosphere without having to worry about concealing his reaction. He was irrationally relieved to see the décor was exactly the same, and he’s even more relieved Carisi wasn’t here to see the emotion on his face.

This place, it means something.

Rafael can see their table, from where he’s sitting.

He didn’t even consider sitting there again.

He wouldn’t dream of it.

Not tonight.

Carisi has forgiven him, but Rafael doesn’t want to push it.

That table, by the window, to the left of the door, the one lit more by the streetlights than the bar’s dim lamps, that’s where he and Carisi had a pleasant conversation for the last time.

Until ‘oh, Rafael,’ and ‘yummy,’ that is.

Rafael refuses to take that for granted.

Forgiveness.

Even if he thinks there’s not much to forgive.

Even if he thinks Carisi overreacted.

Holding a grudge for a whole year? That’s the type of tenacity Rafael would normally both admire and wish to emulate, that’s the kind if pettiness Lucia Barba would be proud of, but it’s hard to appreciate it when you’re the intended target.

Rafael was blindsided.

That was the worst part.

Rafael screwed everything up, somehow, by asking to be relieved of his security detail.

Four months had passed without incident, and he had gotten sick and tired of being trailed by unmarked police cars, and escorted in and out of his home, and his office, and the 16th, and every other restaurant on the Upper East Side. Rafael had endured enough strange looks from his de facto bodyguards while trying to enjoy his almost-dates with Carisi, and even stranger looks that one time he attempted to go tie shopping with an entourage of three underpaid cops who blanched at every price tag, so he asked to be freed.

Who could blame him?

Carisi blamed him.

For some reason.

Rafael only wanted some privacy, but Carisi saw things differently. Carisi stormed into his office, mere hours after Rafael’s request, and yelled at him for ‘not caring about his own life.’ Rafael really wanted to say, ‘You care about it enough for the both of us,’ Rafael wanted to say, ‘No one else does,’ Rafael wanted to say, ‘I don’t need the security detail, I have you,’ but he didn’t have the nerve.

Carisi didn’t speak to him for two weeks.

Next time they saw each other, Carisi yelled at him again.

Over a case, this time, but that was only a pretense.

Rafael didn’t argue. Didn’t yell back, didn’t even defend himself. He assumed Carisi needed some time to get over it.

Whatever ‘it’ was.

So Rafael waited.

Rafael even tried to butter Carisi up with a job at the Brooklyn D.A.’s office, everything pre-arranged, all the details worked out, a well-timed vacancy and an old friend conducting the interview.

Not because Rafael wanted Carisi to leave, of course.

Because Carisi wanted to leave.

That’s what he said, that’s what he yelled, in Rafael’s office.

‘You’re the reason I stayed, Barba. You… the death threats, the threats to your life, that’s why I stayed, that’s why I couldn’t leave, and now you don’t care? We haven’t even arrested anybody yet, except for Heredio. Why do you think you’re any safer now? Why did you… Why did I bother?’

Carisi turned down the job offer.

Rafael thought that was the end of it. His act of selfless lov… his act of selflessness had changed Carisi’s mind. That’s what he thought. Rafael was willing to lose Carisi, if it meant Carisi’s happiness, or lose him to Brooklyn, at least, which wasn’t even that far, and fine, maybe Rafael’s sacrifice wasn’t that dramatic, but whatever, Rafael put Carisi first, and he thought Carisi knew that now, so things would eventually go back to normal.

Better than normal, maybe.

So Rafael waited.

Things got worse.

Carisi yelled at him again, a couple of weeks later, Carisi used another case as an excuse, again, and the yelling didn’t stop for months.

Everything else stopped.

Rafael’s life stopped.

Rafael had gotten used to having Carisi around, ever since those death threats, Rafael had gotten used to Carisi’s constant presence, Rafael had gotten used to their late night dinners at the office, and their Saturday brunches, because Carisi wanted the early Saturday shift, so he’d have his Sundays free for Mass, Rafael had gotten used to their drinks after work, and their weekly lunches, Rafael had gotten used to Carisi, and all of a sudden Rafael’s life felt alarmingly empty.

It was almost offensive, how deeply Carisi’s absence was felt.

Rafael was sure he used to have a life of his own.

Before.

Still, Rafael waited.

Several weeks had already passed. He figured he wouldn’t have to wait much longer.

Carisi was still mad, and frustrated, clearly, but that was okay. He simply needed to get all that anger and frustration out of his system.

Carisi needed to punish Rafael, just a little bit more, he needed to punish Rafael by not being there, which was the harshest of punishments, apparently, and Rafael didn’t want to dwell on that too much, and then he would forgive and forget.

Soon.

Carisi always was the forgiving type, and he always did have a soft spot for Rafael, so whatever this was, it would be over soon. That’s what Rafael thought.

Turns out, Rafael severely underestimated Carisi’s stubbornness.

Which is saying a lot.

Turns out, Carisi was too passionate to simply give in.

It took months.

It took months, but eventually Carisi did thaw.

It took about six months, but Carisi stopped yelling.

That’s when he finally started to accept that Rafael would be alright. That Rafael would be safe. That the threat had passed.

That’s Rafael’s theory, anyway.

The distance between them persisted, but Rafael wasn’t willing to rock the boat. He remained respectfully formal, and he waited until Carisi was ready for more.

One day, about eight months in, which marked a year since Heredio’s little stunt, Carisi cracked a smile, and Rafael knew it was time to close the distance.

Rafael started smiling back, and letting Carisi sit in on meetings with defense attorneys, and weigh in on plea bargains, Rafael started acting like he used to, like before, Rafael started letting his eyes linger, Rafael even started joking, all, ‘You’re gonna deport me to Cuba? And take him to Italy?’ and he could tell Carisi appreciated the shift back to normal.

He may have felt Carisi’s absence deeply, but sometimes Rafael thinks he had it easy.

Carisi missed him too.

Carisi cared about him.

Cares.

Carisi cares about him, and it’s as heartwarming as it is unnerving.

Rafael can say ‘yummy’ all he wants, Rafael can lick his lips and bat his eyelashes and shamelessly flirt with Carisi in front of Liv and the others, Rafael can pretend this is a game, meant to wind Carisi up, he can pretend this is about Carisi eagerly lapping up his attention again, but it’s not.

It’s more than that.

Maybe they’ll rekindle that part, too. Or kindle it, because they never got a real chance to start.

Maybe someday they will.

Have more.

Until then, Rafael will stick to shameless flirting.

It’s worked so far.

It got him a date.

If Carisi shows up, that is. It’s nine fifteen.

Rafael keeps glancing at the big clock hanging over the bartender. The guy is new. Rafael doesn’t recognize him.

It’s been almost a year. A lot of things have changed.

Rafael is slowly trying to change them b-

Carisi’s here.

Finally.

Rafael almost gets up, but he decides to stay seated and lean back on his chair, as enticingly as he can, loosening up his tie even more in a transparent attempt to signal that he’s treating this as a date and he’s out for the kill.

Carisi’s eyes fall to Rafael’s collarbone immediately, and Rafael almost undoes another button, but then he remembers this is not that kind of establishment, so he smirks, instead.

It works just as well.

It gets a quick smile, and then Carisi catches himself, and shakes his head, and starts taking off his coat and jacket.

Neither of them says anything.

They’re barely looking at each other.

Rafael is waiting for a cue. Letting Carisi set the tone.

Which may not be the best idea, since Carisi suddenly frowns and stops moving, stops as his jacket is still hanging off his right shoulder. It’s almost as if he changed his mind. As if he regrets ever coming here. At least according to the sharp sense of panic Rafael feels low in his stomach.

It’s an impossibly quick shift. In an instant, Carisi’s face darkens, and it’s such a stark contrast to his little smile from just seconds ago, and Rafael is confused. The change is so abrupt, Rafael wants to pretend it’s a joke. He doesn’t know what else to make of it.

It could be a joke. Maybe Carisi’s mad because he’s been here for less than a minute and he’s already falling prey to Rafael’s manly charms. Maybe Carisi is exaggerating for effect, and the frown is a joke.

It’s not.

Carisi’s expression is definitely serious, and Raf-

Oh.

Carisi is looking at their table.

Not this table.

Their table, all the way across the bar.

That explains the frown.

The emotion in Carisi’s face, gone before Rafael’s even had a chance to identify it.

Rafael wants to say, ‘You’re the one who picked this place, Carisi,’ but he doesn’t.

Rafael is glad Carisi picked this place.

He’s glad he’s not the only one who had a visible reaction upon seeing the mid-range tablecloths and the faux weathered finish of the mass-produced chairs.

They’ve only been here once, but this bar holds a lot of memories.

Rafael is glad, Rafael is happy to see that Carisi is not immune to it.

So he says nothing, and he waits for Carisi to sit next to him.

Not across.

The table is small, and square, and dating conventions would dictate that they sit on opposite ends, the better to soulfully stare into each other’s eyes, but Carisi sits to Rafael’s left.

The better to touch.

Hopefully.

To test that theory, Rafael leans in and tries to find the most casual way to casually let his hand casually fall on Carisi’s forearm, but th-

“Yummy?”

Rafael casually laughs.

As far as opening lines go, this one’s n-

“In front of Liv? Yummy?”

Rafael pours Carisi a glass of bourbon, simply so he doesn’t start cackling. He thinks Carisi just might up and leave if he d-

“Seriously, Barba. Yummy? Are you for real?”

Rafael is trying not to lose it as Carisi keeps finding new ways of intoning ‘yummy.’ There’s disbelief in his voice, and then amusement, and then exasperation.

There’s no cockiness, though, and that’s what Rafael really wanted to hear, so he figures he’ll double down to see if that works.

“What’s the problem, Carisi? I was just being honest.”

Carisi snorts, and Rafael momentarily remembers the good old days, but then he focuses on the way Carisi’s cheeks redden, and the way Carisi’s dimples show, and the way Carisi’s mouth falls open, and it’s almost as if Carisi wasn’t expecting the blatant flirting to start right off the bat, which is sweet, if not insulting.

Rafael Barba does not say ‘yummy’ lightly.

They’re here, and this is a date, God willing, and Carisi willing, and Rafael fully intends t-

“Right. Honest. That’s what you call it.”

Rafael shrugs as Carisi finally gives him a cocky smirk.

Yummy, indeed.

“Yes. You made a clever observation, and I expressed my honest approval as any colleague would.”

Carisi narrows his eyes by way of calling bullshit, and it’s such a Barba expression it almost looks foreign on his fac-

“Uh huh. You expressed approval. As a colleague. By saying ‘yummy.’”

Rafael is proud of himself for not laughing out loud.

“Yes, Carisi. Why? Would you have preferred something else? ‘Delicious,’ maybe?”

Rafael licks his lips for the big finish, and Carisi’s nostrils flare, and it’s getting harder and harder to keep a straight face. It’s always been so easy to get Carisi all riled up. Rafael’s always loved doing it.

Rafael missed doing it.

Missed Carisi letting him do it.

It feels so damn good to have this again.

It feels s-

“Nah, yummy was bad enough, thank you. Come on, Barba. In front of Liv? And Amanda? And Fin? He spent the rest of the day callin’ me Detective Yummy around the unis!”

Rafael can’t help but laugh at that.

He knows, and Carisi knows, that the squad stopped being fazed by their borderline inappropriate banter a long time ago. Somewhere between, ‘Save it for night school’ and, ‘It pains me to say this, but you’re right, Carisi.’

That was a long time ago.

Rafael wonders if the others were as surprised as he was to see that flirtation continue.

As relieved as he was.

Liv was pretty relieved. Rafael knows that.

Because she told him.

Just the other week, Liv said she w-

“I mean, is this your idea of a joke? Tryin’ to embarrass me in front of Liv? Cause, let me tell you, counselor, I don’t appreciate it.”

Carisi is really committing to this bit. There’s an irritation in his voice, now, and Rafael almost feels contrite.

“You called me Rafael in front of Liv. That was pretty embarrassing.”

Carisi almost chokes on his bourbon.

“That’s your name! How is that embarrassing?”

“It’s embarrassing when you say it, Carisi.”

Carisi starts laughing, loudly, and Rafael wants to kiss him.

Carisi is laughing, and he’s leaning on the table, sleeves already rolled up and elbows resting well within Rafael’s personal space, and their hands are so close, and the lights are so low, and the memories are overwhelm-

“So, Rafael, you thought my ‘clever observation’ was yummy?”

There’s that Carisi cockiness.

“No.”

And there’s that little scowl Rafael likes so much.

“I thought ‘obfuscate’ was yummy. You know I love it when you use LSAT words.”

Carisi rolls his eyes, and that’s another Barba classic, but it looks perfect on his face.

Carisi, rolling his eyes because he thinks Rafael is shameless, it’s perfect.

“I don’t see the issue, Carisi. Isn’t that why you said it? To make me think you were yummy?”

Rafael is totally shameless, by the way.

And that ruffles Carisi’s feathers in a way that’s impossible to ignor-

“Wait, so now you think I’m yummy?”

Oh.

Perhaps Carisi is less ruffled than Rafael thought. Not only did he catch that slip-up, he also called out Rafael on it.

Very well.

“I’ve always thought you were yummy, Carisi.”

Now Carisi is ruffled.

Unmistakably.

Carisi is blinking, and gaping, and so desperately trying to come up with a response, and so adorably failing.

“Uh…”

Yeah.

Rafael smirks and tops up both their tumblers.

He lets that statement linger in the air.

He gives Carisi some time to think about what to say nex-

“See, that’s what I’m talking about, Barba. You can’t just say that stuff. I mean, you can say it to me, when it’s just us, but not when the others are around. It’s not… It’s unprofessional.”

Not the response Rafael was expecting, but he’ll go along with it, because Carisi still seems a little flustered.

“It is just us here, Carisi.”

Carisi nods.

There’s an uncertainty in his eyes, and Rafael can’t understand why. Rafael’s intentions have to be crystal clear by now. Almost pathetically so. Right? Maybe he should have undone that extra button, after all. Maybe that would hav-

“Yeah, but… But when we’re at the precinct, you shouldn’t… Just… don’t do that in front of the others. Okay?”

Rafael starts to think that his intentions aren’t the problem. It’s Carisi’s intentions which are vague.

“What do you mean by ‘that,’ detective? What am I doing?”

Carisi downs half his bourbon in one go.

“You know. Callin’ me yummy. Lookin’ at me like you wanna… You know. Stuff like that. Flirtin’ with me. That’s… that should be private.”

Carisi does have a point.

A poorly conveyed, barely articulated point, but still. Perhaps such behavior is better reserved for more private settings.

Like a quiet bar.

Unlike Liv’s overcrowded office.

Maybe saying ‘yummy’ in that setting was a little much. Maybe that’s what’s bothering Carisi.

Maybe that’s why Carisi looks uncertain and can’t finish a sentence to save his life.

Maybe Carisi’s irritation isn’t an act.

Maybe Rafael should feel contrite.

Maybe Rafael got this all wrong.

Maybe Carisi gulped down the fancy bourbon because he wanted to broach an uncomfortable subject.

Maybe that was the purpose of this meeting.

Maybe this isn’t a date.

Maybe Carisi wanted some privacy to talk about the status of their restored relationship. To set up some ground rules, to re-establish boundaries, before anything else happens.

Eventually.

Hopefully.

After all, Carisi did say flirting was okay when it’s ‘just them.’

But not when they have an audience.

Rafael can’t find the fault in that logic. It was somewhat inappropriate of him to flirt like that in front of the entire squad. Rafael should have resisted the urge, but he forgot where he was, for a moment. All he could focus on was Carisi, and ‘obfuscate,’ and his desire to make Carisi smile, so Rafael just blurted it out.

Which is a problem in itself.

Rafael doesn’t speak out of turn. He doesn’t forget where it is. He can’t afford to. Since he was a kid, since he was in college, Rafael has always been acutely aware of his surroundings, and the behaviors expected of him.

Or so he thought, until Carisi came along.

Carisi makes him slip.

Always has.

Right now, Carisi looks all intense, brows furrowed and lips pursed, and Rafael wants to slip all the way into his mouth.

Not tonight.

They’re not there yet.

The distance between them has narrowed, but it hasn’t been eliminated. They’re close enough for ‘oh, Rafael,’ but not close enough for ‘yummy,’ and that’s Carisi’s decision to make, and Rafael’s to respect.

Rafael is happy to respect it.

He can’t deny he’s disappointed, but the date was just the icing on the cake.

They’re back to normal.

Maybe they’re not all the way there, but they’re close enough, and Rafael won’t screw up again.

He’s waited this long. He can wait a little longer. If Carisi wants more time before they can pick up exactly where they left off, Rafael is happy to provide it.

He’ll even provide some distance.

Literally.

Rafael grabs his tumbler and sits back, moving away from the table, and Carisi’s eyes follow his hands.

“You’re right, Carisi. Perhaps ‘yummy’ was a little too forward. I apologize. I’ll choose my words more carefully next time.”

Carisi smiles, like that’s what he wanted to hear, and Rafael is more relieved th-

“Delicious is no good either. Just so you know. For future reference.”

Rafael chuckles, and Carisi laughs along with him. They’re turning some heads, because this bar really is too quiet, and there’s not much laughter to be heard elsewhere, but Rafael doesn’t mind the attention. Not when Carisi looks even more relieved than he feels.

“Duly noted, detective.”

Carisi blinks, slowly, and Rafael could swear they were sitting further apart just a moment ago.

Rafael doesn’t even know who moved. If it was Carisi, or if it was him.

Just like the good old days.

Just like the first time.

Right in this bar.

Almost a year ago.

The last time he and Carisi had a pleasant conversation.

It was the night before Rafael filed the request to dismantle his security detail. Carisi was in his office taking the late shift, as always, protecting him, as always, distracting him, as always, and if Rafael was truly honest he would admit he and Carisi have been on countless dates.

Not one or two.

That night, they left Rafael’s office together, and they took a cab to The Double Windsor, because Rafael refused to be driven to an almost-date by a plainclothes police officer who reported to Carisi for a living.

Carisi kept the conversation going.

As always.

On the way there, Carisi said, ‘Maybe I should call ahead. I know the bartender. I’ll tell him to break out the good stuff. It’s not every day that a Manhattan A.D.A. graces their establishment with his presence.’

When they arrived, Carisi took the lead. He picked the table, and he nodded to the bartender, the one who’s gone now, and he pulled out a menu from out of nowhere, with a flourish, and he let Rafael pick the liquor.

Smooth by any measure.

As smooth as he could be, with three cops watching them like hawks from a few tables over.

Rafael doesn’t remember what they talked about. That last pleasant conversation, it’s a blur, blending into all the warm, easy conversations that came before it. Rafael just remembers Carisi’s smile, and the bourbon, and the way Carisi’s knee rested against his thigh.

Rafael just remembers wanting to get out of there, with Carisi but without the police escort, and knowing that was impossible.

Rafael remembers Carisi mentioning his cooking. Always a favorite topic. Carisi always had a habit of randomly reciting full recipes at the drop of a hat, complete with exact measurements and ingredient substitutions. He’d start and he’d keep going until somebody stopped him. Rafael never stopped him.

Rafael remembers saying, ‘I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal.’

Rafael remembers Carisi saying, ‘You’ve come to the right guy, counselor. I got a home-cooked meal waiting at home. Enough to feed an army. Well, it’ll be home-cooked reheated leftovers, but that’s still better than what you’re eatin’, probably.’

Rafael distinctly remembers not saying, ‘I doubt your cooking is better than the haute cuisine I’m used to, Carisi.’

Rafael remembers asking, ‘Where is home?’ instead.

He remembers Carisi’s smile, and then the answer, quiet and hopeful.

‘My place is right around the corner.’

Rafael doesn’t remember Carisi’s apartment.

He doesn’t remember walking there. He just remembers Carisi’s long coat brushing against his leg.

Rafael doesn’t remember what they had. If they even had anything to eat.

He doesn’t remember Carisi’s living room, or the contents of Carisi’s bookcase, or the color of Carisi’s curtains.

Rafael just remembers how hard it was trying not to kiss him.

There was an unmarked police car downstairs.

Rafael remembers that.

Rafael remembers, because his driver rang the doorbell just when he decided to stop trying to stop.

Rafael can still see Carisi’s face.

They were so close.

Before.

They were standing so close, but that was as close as they were going to get, because Rafael’s driver had to check on him before a shift change.

Carisi smiled, and all Rafael could see was gratitude. Like Carisi was grateful they had even gotten that close. Like that was enough.

Rafael had never been so happy not to be kissed.

The next morning, he filed the request.

That afternoon, it all fell apart.

Almost a year ago.

Rafael doesn’t mean to dwell.

It’s this place.

It’s Carisi, looking at him with that same expression of gratitude.

That’s where the similarities end.

That, and with Carisi’s knee, still pressed against his thigh, as always.

Rafael was hoping to start over, to start from there, to start from that moment when they both leaned in and breathed out, but that’s not going to happen tonig-

“You alright, counselor?”

Carisi.

The question is rhetorical.

Rafael isn’t the only one affected by this place.

By the memories.

Still.

They needed this.

This first step.

The rest, it may not happen tonight, or even any time soon, but if it’s ever gonna happen, they’ll know where they stand.

For the most part.

Rafael empties his glass and thinks he’s still left with a question.

Rafael thinks maybe Carisi shouldn’t be the only one who gets to air out his grievances.

“Can I make a confession, Carisi?”

Carisi’s smirk looks even better three drinks in.

“I’m no priest, but have at it, Barba.”

What the hell.

“I’ve been treating this outing as a date.”

Carisi keeps smirking.

His eyes fall to Rafael’s neck again. He’s staring with a purpose, like he could undo more buttons if only he looked hard enough.

Rafael does his best to ignore it.

That, and the way Carisi keeps glancing at his lips.

Constantly.

This may not be a date, but the attraction between them is still there, still strong, Carisi’s desire is still strong, and Rafael almost feels guilty when he realizes Carisi is reacting to him instinctively. Grudgingly, maybe. This isn’t why Carisi asked him out tonight, or wh-

“You don’t say. What with the way you’ve been sittin’ all loose, with your tie all crooked and your hair all mussed. I never would’ve guessed.”

What’s that about Rafael’s hair?

Never mind.

“But since this is clearly not a date, and since you’ve already said your piece, maybe I can say mine.”

Carisi stares.

“Uh… You…”

“Let me finish, Caris-”

“No, wait, y-”

“Please.”

Carisi looks like he’s bursting to speak, but he stops trying to interrupt.

“I assumed this was a date, because of our more recent interactions. Because things between us have gotten better. Because lately you’ve been…”

Carisi, to his credit, does not try to finish that sentence.

“You’re more animated, and you’re smiling, and you’re giving me pointers again, and you call me Rafael, and…You seem to be over it now. What I… Right? You’ve forgiven me. You’re over what happened.”

Carisi exhales.

For several seconds.

“We can put it behind us. Right, Carisi? The death threats. You’re not going to… That’s over. You’re over it.”

Carisi’s jaw tightens with every word Rafael speaks. He probably wasn’t expecting this conversation, he wasn’t expecting Rafael to bring up the death threats after all this time, but Rafael had to do it.

Rafael wants to know.

“Right, Carisi? Obviously I’m still kicking, which means I was right, so y-”

“You weren’t right, Barba. You were lucky.”

Carisi is not over it.

Not even a little.

It’s written all over his face. The smirk is gone, and the irritation, and the confusion, and the desire is gone, too, and now Carisi just looks two parts angry and three parts sad.

Rafael both regrets asking, and is happy to have asked.

If this is ever gonna happen, they’ll need to know where they stand.

“Yes. I suppose I was lucky the extent of the threats was exaggerated by Heredio.”

Carisi winces at the mere mention of Heredio’s name.

Regret is starting to edge out happiness.

Rafael needs to lighten the mood, as much as it’s possible to lighten the mood when speaking of your own potential demise.

“Then again, it was a small risk to take. Regaining my ability to frequent high end boutiques versus possibly losing my life? I didn’t even have to think about it.”

Carisi does not laugh.

He just bites his lip.

His drink stays untouched.

He looks angrier and angrier by the second.

Carisi’s expression is giving Rafael flashbacks. It’s making Rafael think of all the time they wasted, one entire year, wasted, fighting, and it hurts more than he cares to adm-

“Yeah. Of course. Of course you didn’t, Barba. Why would you? It’s only your life.”

Rafael now regrets this completel-

“It’s a good thing, too. It’s a good thing you were okay with that. Dying. Possibly. That’s all that matters, right? What you thought. Guess the rest of us didn’t get a say.”

This is not what Rafael wanted when he got here tonight.

Rafael wanted to say ‘yummy’ again, to whisper it, he wanted to get Carisi to blush again, just like old times, Rafael wanted to get Carisi to kiss him, like they almost did, once before, Rafael wanted to end this night with his hand down Carisi’s pants, and his tongue in Carisi’s mouth, and his body pinned against Carisi’s ugly purple plaid bedspread, the one he only caught a glimpse of, the first and only time he ever found himself in Carisi’s home.

Not this.

Rafael doesn’t want this.

He doesn’t want to keep rehashing the past. He doesn’t want to see that anger on Carisi’s face ever again.

The pain, on Carisi’s face.

The love.

Not like this.

Rafael doesn’t want to waste another year fighting.

Rafael wants Carisi.

Now.

Rafael doesn’t want to waste another second.

So he doesn’t.

Rafael leans in and kisses Carisi hard, and clumsy, and off-center, and it’s rushed and it’s awkward and it doesn’t matter because Carisi is kissing back.

Carisi breathes out and gives in, Carisi turns his head and opens his mouth and Rafael closes his eyes.

They’re not alone.

They have an audience.

It doesn’t matter.

Rafael wants to touch Carisi’s face, Rafael wants to feel Carisi’s stubble, because it’s late, and Carisi practically looks unshaven now, feels unshaven, too, against Rafael’s lips, Rafael wants to grab Carisi by the shoulders and hold him in place, because this could be the first and last time they kiss, and…

And Rafael keeps his hands to himself.

Rafael wants to give Carisi the option to stop. To pull away and call him an idiot, for thinking this was okay.

Carisi does no such thing.

Carisi keeps kissing him.

Carisi grabs him by the shoulders instead, hands bunching up Rafael’s shirt sleeves, Carisi holds him in place, fingers digging into skin, and Rafael thinks this won’t be the last time.

It better not be.

Carisi’s hands move to Rafael’s neck, to his chest, fingers slipping under Rafael’s collar, right where Carisi’s eyes have been glued all night, and it’s like Carisi was dying to touch him, right there, and Rafael absently thinks that Carisi has a problem with flirting in front of an audience, but heavy petting is apparently A-Okay.

Rafael licks his way into Carisi’s mouth and stops thinking.

This is yummier than h-

“Yummy enough for ya, Rafael?”

Oh.

It’s over.

For now.

At least if the dreamy look on Carisi’s face is to be trusted.

Rafael wants to laugh. He spent the entire duration of their first kiss being emotionally compromised, and thinking he had screwed up all over again, while Carisi spent it fondling his chest hair and coming up with a cheesy line.

“Yummier than I expected.”

Carisi does laugh.

This is what Rafael wanted when he got here tonight.

Carisi, laughing again, like the time they lost has been erased.

The time they wasted, forgotten.

Rafael is s-

“You’re an idiot, Barba.”

Rafael is not exactly sure why Carisi would choose to say something like that in this particular juncture, but he’s too dazed from their kiss to really argue the point, so h-

“This was a date.”

What?

“What?”

Carisi smirks, again, and it’s the exact same smirk he had on his face when he ‘explained’ Baker v. Carr, or when he said ‘obfuscated,’ and Rafael wants t-

“This. It was a date. Or at least I wanted it to be. That’s the whole reason I asked you out. Things between us have gotten better, and I wanted to make sure we were on the same page. To make sure you weren’t just yanking my chain. It’s hard to tell if you’re bein’ serious when you say stuff like ‘yummy’ in front of, like, twelve other people. You gotta stop doin’ that, by the way. I just… I wanted to know if this was for real, or if you were just teasin’ me, like you did back when I first got here.”

Rafael is an idiot.

And so is Carisi, and Rafael loves him for it.

“It was real back then, too.”

Carisi’s jaw drops, and Rafael thinks they’re done wasting tim-

“Wait, so what you’re sayin’ is, you’ve been wasting my time for three years? We could’ve been doin’ this for three years?”

Rafael appreciates Carisi’s insight.

Carisi’s graceful way of turning that intimate confession into a joke.

Rafael was dead serious, and Carisi knows that, it’s written all over his face, the surprise, and the happiness, and the affection, but he refuses to let Rafael suffer the indignity of expressing genuine emotion.

Rafael loves him for that, too.

“You want to talk about wasting time, Carisi? How about that entire year of my life that you wasted? I’m not getting any younger. Somewhere down the line, you just might regret not spending that time with me.”

Carisi’s face is all sadness again, in the blink of an eye.

Rafael belatedly realizes that, not only did he indirectly reference the death threats again, he also made another insensitive joke about his own mortality.

He can only hope ‘somewhere down the line’ makes up for it, because it implies he and Carisi will still be together down the line, and he hopes Carisi picked up on that, Rafael hopes Carisi wants that, becaus-

“You weren’t wrong, Barba. I’m… I’m kinda over it. I’m gettin’ over it. There hasn’t been a threat against your life in over a year, it’s been… It’s almost sixteen months, now, and you’re safe, so... I’m trying. I don’t wanna waste any more time, you know?”

Rafael does know that. And he also knows that Carisi has been counting the months since the last threat, the days, too, probably, if not the hours, and that makes Rafael’s chest tighten.

What Rafael doesn’t know is why.

“Why did you get so angry, Carisi? Why waste all that time in the first place? If you cared about my safety that much, you could have stayed to protec-”

“Of course I care.”

Carisi’s statement is loud, and agonizing, and absolute.

Of course Carisi cares. Rafael didn’t mean to imply otherwise. He just wanted to know why Carisi didn’t stay with h-

“But I couldn’t stay. Not after Dodds. Not when I knew what that felt like. Loss. Not when Heredio refused to give up his bosses. Not when you suddenly decided you didn’t need a security detail because they were a minor inconvenience while you were out shoppin’.”

A minor inconvenience?

Rafael begins to suspect that Carisi has no idea wh-

“What if something happened to you, Barba? And we were… And we were together? I couldn’t live with that. I figured, better if we’re fighting. If we hate each other.”

Rafael pours the rest of the bottle, half in his tumbler and half in Carisi’s. And then he reconsiders, and dumps out all of Carisi’s bourbon in his own glass.

Rafael takes a sip, and another, and another, as Carisi watches him.

They’re both idiots.

“I got rid of my security detail because of you, Carisi. Because we had gotten close, and I wanted to get even closer, which is technically not allowed, as I’m sure you’re aware, and we couldn’t do that with two patrol cars parked outside my apartment building every night.”

Carisi looks hilariously angry.

For once, Rafael doesn’t min-

“What? Are you crazy? Is that wh… Is that why you filed the request right after we… You… You put this, you and me, you put this over your own life?”

That’s now how Rafael would put it, but it’s not wrong, either.

“Haven’t you been listening, Carisi? I put high end boutiques over my own life. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Carisi deflates, just like that.

“I… I didn’t know, Barba. That’s why I was so mad. And… And the longer I avoided you, the longer I stayed mad, the harder it was to… I thought you had a death wish, or somethin’. I thought this was your suicidal streak talking.”

Rafael smiles at the memory.

“I’m afraid not, detective. I was just horny.”

Carisi laughs, sincere, free, and now, now they’re back to normal.

Carisi radiates happiness, just like he’s supposed to.

Always.

Carisi is happy, and his happiness is so clear, and so bright, and Rafael thinks maybe genuine emotion isn’t that bad.

“If something happened to me, Sonny, and we weren’t together. That’s what I couldn’t live with. I figured, better if I have you.”

Carisi, Sonny, looks completely and utterly in love.

That’s the only word that comes to Rafael’s mind.

Love.

It’s possible he’s projecting.

And then Sonny kisses him again, and Rafael realizes it doesn’t matter.

The time they lost has been erased.

The time they wasted, forgotten.

Three years, and they never got a real chance to start.

“You know, Rafael, my place is right around the corner.”

Rafael smiles.

They’ll start tonight.

[super-queer-hannibal-obsession]

A Soft Crescendo

Many months ago I wrote something for the Hannibal Big Bang, and I promised @fragile-teacup I would write some more for it. I don’t know if she even remembers that, but I have worked on it some over the months. I decided to post chapter 2 today, and I hope she and everyone enjoys! Thanks Alex for being the nagging voice in the back of my head to keep writing this and also thank you for all the beautiful prose you write! 

(Artwork was created by @hannahthemighty for the fic during the bang.)

Notes:  Hannibal and Will hide out in Mexico. This chapter follows some snapshots of their life together as Will struggles to come to terms with their relationship and with himself. They live together in a dance of unbearable intimacy and excruciating distance. Some hurt/comfort and some smut to be found here.

Will pulled the sweaty shirt over his head and threw it on the floor. His whole body was covered in a light sheen of sweat. The small, cheap motel they were in had a broken air conditioner and the rising temperatures left the third-floor room hot and muggy. The walls were yellow and heavily spackled, the paint peeling and slightly greying. There was a watercolor painting of a woman in a red sundress walking down a deserted street with her son. Other than that the room was sparse with no decoration. Will tried to rest on the bed. Hannibal had removed the bedding provided and used his own clean, new sheets. Will flipped through the channels. They were all in Spanish, and he could only understand half of it. Grabbing the bottle of tequila, he took a couple of swigs. It took the edge off of the swollen waiting.

He walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror at his face, skinnier than it had been in a while. He rubbed his thumbs over the bags under his eyes and sighed deeply. The shower let out a high-pitched scream when he turned it on; it was old and the water pressure low. But, the cold water was a relief, and he sighed deeply as the drops caressed his skin. He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to relax. The city was hot and busy, and he was feeling restless with nowhere to go and little to do. He didn’t know where Hannibal was exactly, but he had a vague idea. They had been here for six months and had come to an agreement. Hannibal could kill once a month as long as it was someone who had done something terrible enough to deserve it. Will had no way of knowing if he was following through, however.

The feel of a hand against his shoulder startled him, and he yelped softly, beginning to look around for something to defend himself before quickly realizing that it was Hannibal.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Will said catching his breath. “I didn’t hear you to come in.”

“You need to be more careful, Will. What if it hadn’t been me?” Hannibal half-chided.

Will reached for his towel, but Hannibal reached out and grabbed Will’s forearm. “Don’t.”

Will noted the excitement in Hannibal’s eyes. He must have achieved his goal.

Hannibal unbuttoned the loose, white shirt he was wearing and placed it neatly on a hanger in the closet.

“Hurry up,” Will called, rubbing soap over his chest while he waited.

“Shhh,” Hannibal replied, his voice was dangerous and low.

Will could tell he was in for a treat.

Hannibal removed his pants and briefs just as carefully. Will could tell he was gathering himself, focusing on steadying his breath.

Will would let him have his way, let him be rough, would join in eagerly.

“I wish you had been there, Will.” He lamented as he pushed open the curtain and let himself inside the small shower, placing both his hands on Will’s hips. The energy was tense, but slow and building, not near the crescendo it would be later.

Will stared at the mess of hair on Hannibal’s chest and the slow, deep rise and fall of his breath.

“I’m here now.” Will said, voice already breathy.

The shower wasn’t ideal for sex. But the stifling heat still made it the best option.

“I suppose that will have to do,” Hannibal said, pushing Will against the wall and grinding their hips together. Their cocks slid against each other, pressing into each other’s stomachs. Will was feeling a little heady from the tequila. All he could think of was Hannibal’s hands, on his hips, on his sides, on his shoulders, as he caressed Will’s body roughly.

Their kisses were rougher than normal, Hannibal bit him hard, and Will gasped a bit in pain, pressing his hand up to his lip, blood oozing onto his fingertips.

“I would say sorry, but you look so delightful in your own blood,” Hannibal sucked the wound, licking Will’s blood. It had a distinct flavor; Hannibal had always told Will he would recognize it easily.

“Don’t be sorry.” Will turned around, placing his hands on the chipped tile, presenting himself submissively and without shame.

Hannibal’s fingers opened him up roughly but attentively. Will’s forehead pressed against the wall, his lips parted as he moaned, droplets of water from his hair falling down his face.

“Do it now.” Will begged.

With a groan and a push, Hannibal moved his length inside of him. It ached a bit. Hannibal was impatient. So was Will. Their bodies moved in a fast, erratic rhythm. This was when it all made sense to Will. All the questions and frustrations fell away like the water running off their bodies, swirling down the drain, as their flesh and breath became one.

*****

“I want to go fishing,” Will said out loud to the room. Hannibal was lying beside him on the bed, and Will was attempting to read a book of classical poetry Hannibal had left around. He was having trouble focusing, however. “The weather here reminds me a bit of summers in New Orleans. While I prefer our last home, I was thinking I could find some things to do around here. Feel more myself again.” He was trying to figure out his own thoughts, figure out a way to break out of the monotony, but he didn’t mind hearing Hannibal’s insights either.

“We could easily find you the supplies you need, Will. I could help you find a spot. We will need a house or somewhere more permanent to settle for a time, anyway. I can’t take much more of these dirty, loud hovels,” Hannibal replied, pressing a soothing hand to Will’s forearm. The space between them seemed to be growing wider each day. Will’s confused feelings manifesting in an unwillingness to engage. They talked less than normal. Will rarely let Hannibal touch him But, in this moment, he let Hannibal ease him into an embrace.

“Things will feel more normal soon, Will.” He promised.

*****

A few months later, they settled into a place along the coast. The small, but cozy villa overlooked the ocean, beautiful in the brilliant setting sun. An explosion of yellows, oranges, and soft reds that contrasted with the almost too blue of the water. There were barely any waves; the night was gentle and warm, full of tension, heavy with lazy expectation. The hot, stillness was interrupted by a bottle thrown from the villa balcony, shattering into pieces on a rock below.

“Fuck,” Will cursed to the hot wind. He worried momentarily about sea turtles or birds getting hurt by the glass and vowed to clean up the mess as soon as he was sober enough to figure out how to walk down to the beach.

After a moment of deliberation, he decided he would be able to manage and walked tipsily towards the steps. It took a good amount of time, and a lot of clinging to the old, metal railing, but he made his way to the white sand and walked to the edge of the water.

Will slipped off his sandals and pressed his feet hard into the sand and water, focusing on the irritation of the sand against his skin and the soft rhythm of the waves. If he could have, he would have screamed to the empty, glittering, black sky. But he was never one to be able to express such extreme outbursts of emotion, even when he wanted to.

“What are you doing out here?” Hannibal’s voice, only a few paces back, startled him and he whirled around.

“Fuck, don’t sneak up on me like that. I thought you were in bed,” Will turned away from him, his energy cool and body language stiff.

“I thought I heard something outside, and I looked and you were gone. So, I followed you here,” Hannibal’s eyes searched over Will’s form and came to stand next to him, pressing a hand to his shoulder, but Will shrugged him off.

“Don’t,” Will admonished softly, but with a hard edge. He wasn’t in the mood for games, for world play, for exhausting metaphors. His head hurt, his mind hurt, his heart hurt.

“Please,” Hannibal’s voice was so soft, so pleading, so tender, it softened Will’s stance for a moment, and he turned slightly toward him.

Will began to reach for Hannibal’s hand but instead thought better of it and turned away from Hannibal again.

“It’s been so long since I’ve really touched you, held you…” Will rarely heard Hannibal speak like this. It was romantic, apologetic, and Will was surprised at how well this manipulation was working.

“Don’t. Just don’t. I can’t. Even if I wanted to, I just can’t right now. It’s too much,” Will could hear himself rambling, his words slurring. All he knew was his defenses were starting to fall with the liquor clouding his reasoning and Hannibal so close with his words so sweet.

“You don’t have to make a permanent decision right now, Will. It doesn’t have to be written in blood and stone…” Hannibal’s voice faltered momentarily. “Come to bed. We can talk about death, aesthetics, and morality tomorrow.”

Will’s resistance was crumbling down rapidly, Hannibal could always rip the walls down, walls that were fortified against all others, with a few words or glances.

“I don’t know…” But his voice and stance were softer now, and he slowly pressed the back of his head against Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal’s arms wrapped around his waist and rocked him gently, almost in tandem with the waves.

“Please stay,” Hannibal’s words were near pleading now. “I’ve never been terrified of anything as much as I am of losing you…all of the things that gave life meaning: poetry, art, music, philosophy will be grey and dull without you to share them with. Now that I know how much richer it is to partake with you.” Hannibal breathed against Will’s neck, nuzzling the softness of his curls and taking comfort in his scent and closeness.

Will brushed a hand quickly to his cheek to brush off a tear. “All right,” Will sighed, his hands resting atop Hannibal’s, leaning into Hannibal’s embrace. “Let’s go to bed. I’ve…I’ve missed sharing a bed with you.” Will admitted. This conversation was too intimate, too honest, it almost hurt how hyper-aware and attuned they were to each other in this moment. And the alcohol was making him far too open, far too sappy…

With Hannibal’s help returning inside was a lot easier, he kept a tight hold around Will’s waist, almost as if he was scared if he let Will go for even a moment that he would slip away.

Will slipped off his shoes and shirt and climbed into the soft, white sheets. Hannibal crawled beside him and brought Will close against his chest, stroking his face and over his arms in repetitive, calming motions.

Hannibal kissed Will’s lips gently, attempted to push the kiss further but Will pulled away. “It’s nice to feel you again, Will. To have you back in my arms.”

“For now., You have me back for now. There are conditions. There are things to be worked out.”

“I promise we will.”

“But not tonight, please.” Will pleaded. His voice was low and tired. He pressed his face into Hannibal’s chest.

“No, not tonight.” Hannibal kissed his head softly.

You can read the first chapter or leave a comment on this chapter on AO3. 

[madistidious-blog]

nothing i gotta prove | madsby

WHO: Madison McCarthy & Crosby Wilde ( @crosbywilde ) WHAT: Madison’s a mess, and Crosby’s in the right place at the right time. WHERE: Miami beach. WHEN: Thursday, March 30, night. Spring break #tbt. WARNINGS: Underage drinking.

Madison was drunk. Well, she wasn't, if you asked her; she'd tell you she was 'fiiiine' and then laugh at the very idea. She'd been doing a lot of laughing - she'd been drinking since the sun went down, and even though she'd been drinking water too, she was definitely tipsy. At the moment, she had nobody to laugh with and nobody to dance with, which meant that she was both lonely and bored, so when she spotted Crosby across the beach, tucked into the shadows near the fire, her entire face lit up with a smile. "Cros!" Madison called, scooting her way through the entire population of McKinley to get to him. "Cros!" She repeated, finally managing to come to a stop in front of him. "Look! I'm drunk! And in a bikini!" She held her arms up and spun around, showing off her bikini top and short-shorts, as if he couldn't see them perfectly well. "So we're square 'cause that's why you came!" Madison giggled and rested one hand against her head--dizzy, woof. "Hi, Cros," she said, smile turning a little bit shy as she tried to actually focus on him. "Are you havin' fun?"

Crosby's idea of an epic spring break didn't include spending the whole time at the beach with a bunch of Lima's lamest, but here he was; the fire crackling beside him and an unmistakable voice calling his name. A voice that would've caused him to run in the other direction a few weeks ago, now had a lazy smile tugging at his lips, not that he'd admit that to the small brunette. He flicked away his cigarette (because of course he was smoking), just in time to greet the girl with a laugh. He didn't mean to laugh, but shit, she was drunk off her ass and seeing a girl like Madison in this state was hard not to find amusing. "I'm having more fun now, that's for sure. This look works for you, you should wear this more often." He gladly let his eyes take her in, in his mind she was dressed that way for him, it'd be wrong not to let them wander. "Come on, sit before you hurt yourself." He didn't wait for a response, pulling her down into the sand to sit with him. "What have you been drinking tonight? Who gave it to you?"

Madison flopped next to Crosby obediently, burying her bare feet in the sand with a contented sigh. She looked up at the sky above them - the light pollution was still pretty bad, but she could see stars she didn't recognize in the sky. Or maybe she did, and she was just too drunk to remember their names. The sand was cold but the fire was warm and she couldn't really feel it thanks to the alcohol in her system; she bumped Crosby's shoulder gently before she spoke. "Somebody brought dragonberry rum," Madison said with a shrug, lifting a pile of sand into her hand only to let it trickle back between her legs to the beach. "I poured it myself," she promised, looking back at Crosby with a winning smile. "I'm not ​totally​ dumb, you know. Mixed it with my--my own closed bottle of Sprite," Madison added, brushing her hair behind her ear. "And I can't wear this more often 'cause it's ​cold​ in Lima," Madison pouted. "Whatcha been doin' all by your lil lonesome over here?"

Crosby nodded along, making a mental checklist as Madison drunkenly went on. She poured it herself into her own closed bottle, two things that were music to his ears, and the flavor of the alcohol screamed that a chick brought it along, which eased any worries he might've had. The last thing he needed tonight was having to kick the crap out of someone for trying to take advantage of her. "It won't be cold there forever." He assured her, taking a handful of sand and playfully tossing it in Madison's direction. "I'm gonna expect you to break out the bikini the second it hits 75." Crosby sighed, even drunk Madison was nosy. He hadn't done much of anything, a couple empty beer cans were tossed to the side, but other than that he was just enjoying being at the beach. It's not like it happened often. "I've been relaxing, watching the waves. Patiently waiting for a hot girl to come over just dying to get a taste of skinny dipping in the ocean. Think you're that girl?" He asked, with an eyebrow raised and a devilish smirk. "It's cool if you're not, but you're ruining my chances of a hookup here."

Madison giggle-squealed as he tossed sand at her, hiding her face in her arm. "I can't go ​skinny-dipping​," Madison huffed, even as a smile toyed at the edges of her lips. "There are ​people​ around," Madison said, gesturing to the crowd on the beach. "But if you wanna get in the water we can," she added, looking back at him. "But that would probably make me less--less sober--er, no, I mean, more sober. Soberer." Madison frowned deeply, momentarily confused, before she shook her head. "Or I could just find a cute girl! You're such a good guy, you should have all the hookups you want." Madison reached over to pat the top of his head. Her fingers caught on his hair and she let out a soft gasp, moving to her knees to face him. "Your hair. Is so soft! Oh my gosh," Madison giggled, fascinated. "Gosh."

Crosby felt less amused the more Madison spoke. It was funny at first, it always was, someone who didn't typically drink succumbing to the world of dragonberry rum and losing themselves in it. But he cared too much about her to get to enjoy it properly, not while he himself was stone cold sober. "Whoa, okay let's not get ahead of ourselves here." For some reason she saw him as a good guy, but that wasn't the case. Even if he was in a position to take advantage of her and he was doing the opposite instead, that didn't mean anything. "I think we're gonna have to get you some--" Water. That's how he would've finished his sentence if her next act hadn't stunned him into silence. Her fingers ran through his hair, which he admittedly enjoyed, but the sight of her on her knees in front of him wasn't something he expected to happen. At least not this soon. "I use conditioner." He deadpanned, taking her hands in his and rising to his feet. "Come on, we're either getting in the water or getting you some to drink, cause you desperately need something to make you soberer." He insisted, a hint of mockery in his tone.

Madison wrinkled her nose as he stood up, resting back on her legs to squint up at him. "Crosby Wilde, the beauty-tipper buzzkiller," Madison said, reluctantly moving to her feet too. "What if...what if instead of getting me sobererer and going anywhere," Madison began, a hint of a smile on her face as she toyed his hands through hers. "What if we just danced instead?" Madison spun under his arm and let out a high peal of giggly laughter as she spun-stumbled back to him. "What if you just dance with me, Cros? 'S dark, nobody's gonna care that you're dancin' with the stick in the mud McCarthy 'nstead'a gettin' in one of the pretty girls' pants," Madison pointed out with a graceless shrug. "What if I don't wanna be--what if I like feelin' like this? I feel all floaty, innit this what everybody's always talkin' about when they tell me to relax?"

Crosby clenched his jaw as all the reasons he typically steered clear of sweet girls who were too drunk to function came rushing to mind. "I don't dance." He protested, because it was Crosby and even on his best day dancing is the last thing you'd catch him doing. But Madison didn't seem to care, and he didn't bother pulling his hands away, letting her spin as she pleased. It was kind of cute, how happy she was. "I don't care what anyone thinks, remember? You do that enough for the both of us." He pulled her close, hands falling to her hips in an attempt at steadying her. Not only was dancing not something he did, it was a horrible idea for her to do with this much alcohol in her system. Too much movement. "Yeah, pretty much. But you've taken it a step too far, you're gonna be feeling this in the morning. There's such a thing as feeling too..floaty."

Madison pouted at him again - too floaty? Impossible. But she wasn't feeling up to debating it, and he wasn't making her move, so she just wrapped her arms around his neck and half-swayed them, humming a little tune under her breath. This was nice. This was safe and warm and good. Her eyes fell closed and she let out a happy sigh, hoping she'd be able to remember that feeling, along with whatever else Crosby meant, in he morning. "Hey Cros," Madison began conversationally, voice quieter from where her cheek was resting against his shoulder. "How come you're so nice to me?" Madison peered up at him, trying to study the expression on his face. "Not--not now, cause--that's just cause you're a good guy but--but before. With--when I was all..." Madison waved a hand. "'N all the time." Madison absently brushed the curls at the base of his neck through her fingers - just like Mason's little baby hair. "I know I'm a lot. And I'm--annoying and bossy and--and selfish and kinda mean," Madison sighed. "But you're nice to me. And t'Maseface too," Madison added. "Everybody should be nice to him all the time, Cros, 'n they're not. He's the best. People are dumb." Madison sighed again and shook her head, having completely forgotten her initial question. She felt dizzy, and not in the good way; she shifted closer to Crosby again, because he was stable and sure and good and safe, and her tummy was beginning to hurt..

Crosby swayed back and forth, arms wrapped loosely around her. For someone who didn't do things like this, Crosby wasn't exactly fighting it. Although he wouldn't admit it, especially not to Madison, had it been any other girl who drunkenly stumbled over he wouldn't be in this position, holding her like this. He wasn't entirely sure where it came from, why she was different, why he had the strange need to comfort her, but the feeling was there and he couldn't shake it. "We're friends, me and Mase. You and I too, I guess." He gave her a shrug, as if it was that simple. Crosby laughed as she continued, not at her, but at the situation. If you told him months ago he'd be steadying a drunk Madison McCarthy at a bonfire in Miami he wouldn't have believed it. "Y'know, I would've guessed you were an angry drunk, not a self deprecating emotional one." He admitted, a tad reluctant to go on, but even someone as bad off as she was deserved to hear what he had to say. "Bossy, yeah, annoying sometimes. Those are spot on. But you've never been mean, not to me, and not to anyone who didn't deserve it. And I'd never call you selfish. Not when I know you'd pretty much risk your life if Mason needed it. It's funny, you think he's got all the good qualities and you got the shit end of the stick. But you raised him, so where do you think he gets them all from." He paused, a smile on his face. "It's gotta be you."

Madison giggled along with him, although she didn't understand what was funny. She liked his laugh, and she liked that they were friends - it made her whole face light up as he said it, and she believed in the moment that it was that simple, but she knew it was important all the same. Everything Crosby said was important, so she was quiet as he spoke, trying to pay attention, even though she was pretty sure he was wrong for some reason; Mason had been good since birth, which had nothing to do with her--but she couldn't find the words to argue it in her state, nor the energy to debate the fact that she raised him. "That's probably the nicest thing anybody's ever said to me all at once," Madison said instead, patting his cheek gently. "Dunno why you wanna be friends with me but I like it." Madison decided, resting her head back on his shoulder. She stayed quiet for a little while, enjoying the relative silence and the sound of the waves. "I'm angry all the time," she finally said, without lifting her head. "When I'm not--like this. Takes too much energy. 'S way easier to just..." Madison sighed happily against him. "Not care, when you're like this. More fun to dance and laugh than get all mad about stuff that's stupid. Cause a lotta stuff is stupid. Home and school and life is all really dumb, Cros. That's why I'm mad all the time. But I don't wanna be." she finished with a shrug.

Crosby smiled, not that he was going out of his way to say the nicest things about her, it just came naturally. "I didn't want to be friends with you, remember? But you're obsessed with playing mom for me and it just happened." He had the courtesy to tell her in a joking manner, even if it was the truth. He didn't regret befriending her, it was one of the best decisions he'd made since transferring to McKinley. "I used to be angry all the time." He admitted, a little surprised they had something in common, if he was honest. "Then I discovered weed." He shrugged. "You gotta figure out a way to mellow out so you don't get so pissed off all the time, and you don't care, while still being able to function. Right now," he motioned to her, as sloppy and unable to stand as she was, "this isn't functioning. Find a happy medium." He was wasting some of his best stuff on a girl that would barely remember it, and knowing him he wouldn't be so willing to offer it up again. Or maybe he would, Madison had a weird effect on him, she could get him to be serious. Not an easy feat. "C'mon, we gotta get you back to your room before you knock out right here on the beach." With that, he abandoned their private dancefloor on the sand, and started heading for the walk; McCarthy in arm.

Madison frowned but grabbed her flip-flops all the same, staying close to him. "That's not fair," she said. "That--that everybody else gets to go out and--and go bananas but I can't, and I'm not even, like, Cros, I went to Disney and now I'm with you! 'S not like, like, like I'm missing school or--or hurting anybody," Madison said, sounding like she'd had to convince herself of this before. "You--you get drugs and it's okay but it's not okay for me to feel floaty." Madison huffed, pouty frown still on her face. "I'm--I'm not mad all the time," she continued, a little quieter, a little sadder. "Just when things get..." she trailed off and shook her head, then instantly regretted the motion. Her free hand pressed against her forehead and she let out another little sigh as they crossed into the resort. "Masey's gonna be...be mad or dis-disappointed, just like you."

Crosby sighed, this wasn't the reaction he was expecting, nor one he had any idea how to deal with. "No one's gonna be mad or disappointed in you, Madison." He said truthfully. She wasn't doing anything wrong, and he highly doubted Mason of all people would try to shame her for this. "I'm not." He added, realizing for some reason his opinion mattered to her. But he said nothing more, choosing instead to focus on getting her back to the hotel and into the safety of her room. It was a..bumpy ride, to say the least, she was in no position to be walking long distances, and he thanked his lucky stars that they scored rooms not too far from the beach. "Alright, here we go." He was breathless, plopping Madison down onto the bed before falling into a chair across from it. Lugging a drunk girl for any distance was like running a marathon, he needed a drink and another smoke break. "You good?"

Madison squeaked in surprise as Crosby gave up trying to make her feet behave--they were not listening, and she was slow and silly and not really listening either, but she didn't think any amount of listening could've prepared her for ​Crosby Wilde​ carrying her to her room. Mason, sure, and the Evans boys, maybe, but..Madison giggled as she flopped back in the bed, rolling her head to look at him. "I'm peachy keen. Are ​you​ good?" Madison said. Gosh, this bed was so comfy. She didn't want to move, ever, but she also didn't want to sleep in her swim suit, so with a groan of effort she rolled over, managing to squirm her legs beneath her before she stood, moving doubtfully, carefully toward her suitcase. It was meticulously organized still, despite them being there for four days, but she made a quick mess of that as she rummaged for her pajamas - a sleeping shirt several sizes too big for her and a pair of comfy shorts. The former she just slid over her head, deftly removing the bikini from underneath and tossing it aside. She sat back on the bed with a heavy sigh and wriggled out of her shorts; the t-shirt was longer than they were anyway, and she managed to pull the pajama shorts on over her bikini bottom without too much struggle or what a less drunk Madison would consider indecency. "I can--I can hear sober me tellin' drunk me to brush my teeth an' wash my face so I don't feel like--like the creature from the black lagoon tomorrow," Madison said, fiddling with the edge of her t-shirt. It went almost to her knees. "But I don't..." Madison flicked her eyes to Crosby, chewing the edge of her lip for a moment or two. "I dunno when Face and Marley and Sammy are gettin' back or if they're..." Madison shrugged one shoulder, dropping her gaze again. "Don'tcha ever get tired of bein' alone so much, Cros?"

Crosby wasn't sure if he was supposed to watch this, look the other way, duck into the bathroom or what. A sober Madison would've demanded he avert his eyes, so that' the version of her he had in the back of his mind, as annoying as she was. He turned to face the wall, resisting the urge to peek back at the girl changing behind him, not that she was showing much of anything, but the fact that he wasn't watching was a miracle in its own right. "Good, so you're seeing what a pain sober you can be." He laughed, turning back around. Leaning back into the chair he listened to yet another deep question he didn't expect to hear tonight, the product of drunken ramblings but with too much truth to them for him to ignore. "I've spent half of my life being alone, you get used to it." He admitted honestly, it was easy for him, the only life he's ever really known. For as long as he could remember he was on his own, with his mom always at work and friends that would throw you under the bus to save their own ass he had no other choice. At least that's the way it used to be. "You want me to wait til one of them gets back?"

Madison looked at him as he spoke. Somehow, the acceptance was sadder than if he'd been upset about it. "Yeah," Madison said, softly. "I'd--yeah. You're not s'posed to leave drunk people 'lone, y'know. I could as--asph--" Madison frowned. "I could die. Then you'd hafta deal with a drunk ghost." Madison snickered and made an oooooo noise, waving her fingers at him. "Hauntcha f'rever, even more of a pain than sober me," Madison said, scooting up the bed to bury herself in the covers. Bed was amazing. She loved bed. "Cros?" She hesitated for a minute, letting out a soft sigh. She hesitated so long she almost forgot what she was going to say - almost. "I don't wanna get used to it and I don't...want you to be used to it either." Madison yawned and petted at another pillow, enjoying the feel of the feathers beneath her fingers. "I like you, Cros, but I don't...I don't think I get you yet." Madison sighed and closed her eyes. "Want to, though."

Crosby smiled, genuinely, an expression that didn't grace his face often, but had a habit of doing so in the company of Madison. It was confusing, something he wanted to hate but for the life of him he couldn't. That was sort of their friendship in general, if he really thought about it. "I'm the expert on drunk people, you don't have to tell me." Which was his way of saying yes, of course I'll stay with you, without actually having to use those words. "You'd be stuck in that outfit your entire time in the after life, so at least I'd be able to laugh at ghost you." He rose to his feet, making his way over to the bed as she seemed to be getting closer and closer to passing out. "You can't knock out on me yet." He said, going over to her suitcase in search of some ibuprofen. It was Madison, he knew she'd come prepared for anything, hangover prevention surely wasn't what she had in mind but there it was. "You're gonna take these," he started, handing a couple pills over to her as he went to the fridge for some water. "With this. Drink it all, you'll thank me in the morning."

Madison was mumbling something about 'ghost capitalism' and was most of the way to asleep when he was nudging her awake. She whined, absolutely undignified, brushing her fingers over the pills he handed her. "I'm fiiiine," Madison protested. "Just need t'sleep, I don't get hangovers." Madison pouted as he insisted on the water, reluctantly rolling over enough to sit up. "I am gonna thank you in the morning," Madison decided with a sigh, opening the water with fumbling fingers and downing a quarter of it in one gulp. "Water's awesome." Madison popped the pills and drank more water, getting it down to half the bottle. "Y'should tell me more about you," Madison said quietly, looking from the water bottle to Crosby. "'Cause...'cause you're figurin' out all my secrets and it's not fair."

Crosby nodded, murmuring an uh huh there and a sure here, mostly tuning out whatever it was she was saying to focus on getting her to drink and take the pills. A sigh of relief fell from his lips when she finally did, thankful she didn't choose now to be stubborn. "Water's amazing, I know. It's gonna be your best friend the rest of the night." Though he had the feeling she wasn't going to last much longer. "If I tell you all my secrets now you won't remember. I'm assuming you don't want that." Her current state also made it easy to get out of sharing, something Crosby wouldn't do on a regular day, but at least now he had an excuse. "Sleep now, I'll bare my soul later." He lied, getting up to pull the covers over her to make her more comfortable.

Madison sighed, a frown creasing her brow. Sleep, don't sleep, drink, don't talk, it felt like a lot and she couldn't keep track of what he wanted. She was so tired, and she just wanted to curl up and fall asleep, but she didn't want to forget what he was saying - she thought the near guarantee of her not remembering his secrets would encourage him to share. Totally not fair. "Promise?" Madison asked, catching his hand in the covers to look at him imploringly for a moment. "And you promise you'll stay?"

Crosby turned his head back towards her when she reached for his hand; she was looking for an answer, one he didn't want to give. But it was hard to look at her and say no. "Yeah, yeah. I promise. Whatever you wanna know." Something told him if she remembered anything from tonight, it'd be this. He'd leave that to bite him in the ass in the morning. "I'll stay." He assured her, sliding into the bed with her, over the covers. Whether that meant until someone else showed up or for the rest of the night, he was willing to do either. She was kinda cute when she was too sleepy to say much.

Madison grinned, settling beneath the covers as he joined her - he was warm and close and he kept her safe and in the haze of her intoxication, that was really all she wanted. "Thanks, Cros," Madison murmured, patting the top of his head gently before she pulled the covers firmly up around them both. Her other arm tucked beneath her pillow and she fixed him with one more sleepy smile. "...A good guy." Madison mumbled, mostly to the pillow, and then with one more deep sigh, she was out.

[toddlazarski]

A Local’s Guide to Eating and Drinking in Buffalo

Paste

Another Rust Belt town, another rebirth.

In Western New York there has been Governor Andrew Cuomo’s ‘Buffalo Billion’ initiative - a generous allocation from the state to create jobs and spur investment throughout the area.  And one need look no further than Harborcenter’s 38-foot TV to see evidence of the downtown dough injection brought by new Bills and Sabres owner Terry Pegula. While everyone throughout the 716 seems eager to express a newfound positivism around the revamped waterside sliver known as Canalside.

These are all local, specific examples of the warm, fuzzy tropes of urban revitalization. All part of a narrative that allows positive analogies to what’s happening in Detroit, what’s happening in Cleveland. And all resulting in a city certainly buzzworthy these days, where visitors can drink Brazilian rum at hotspot Vera, eat anchovy tartine with creme fraiche at Buffalo Proper, sample “fine ferments” at the Portlandia-esque fetishization of a place like Barrel & Brine, ride a water bike down the river, malinger between taco trucks near the warehouses of Larkin Square. Where locals can enjoy all the delicious hipster affectations sweeping such medium-sized, easily-priced cities.

But does this all mean death to those hoary old jokes about the snow? About the Super Bowl(s)?

In a way, we hope not. Because, really, what’s so wrong with snow? What’s more beautiful, pure? What’s more Buffalo? And maybe it’s time to forgive, hell, embrace Scott Norwood, the kicker who cost the football squad Super Bowl 25, and the city’s  entire beleaguered sports history. Perhaps words are due for the best old watering hole to hunker down in this next mean winter. Where one can talk about the Bills, in alternate throes of pissed frustration and drunk nostalgia, wax sentimental on those pretty good 90’s Sabres squads. Maybe it’s time to seek and celebrate the side of Buffalo that’s always been there, through it all. The places, at least, with zero interest in slinging small plates.

Swannie House

To simply and concisely bridge the gap between new and old school, wander away from said water bikes and outdoor movies, past the fresh swarm of Canalside, around the shadow of First Niagara Center, by the wafts of roasting Lucky Charms emanating from the General Mills factory. Swannie is a corner brick bar of wood panels, fish fries, chicken wings, and the same daytime Bukowski-type drinkers that have inhabited the joint since ‘Swanerski House’ opened some 130 years ago, when Buffalo was the third largest seaport in the world. Today it feels like a big-shouldered waterfront dive of a time capsule, at the nexus where the town is being reborn into whatever it is modern American cities are supposed to be nowadays. Swannie slides nicely into this now without changing a thing, existing pleasantly as the perfect bar for a Sabres or Bisons post or pre game, with a rough-hewn friendliness to make everyone, sort of, at home. Still, we prefer it mostly, simply for a proper liquid lunch of too many frigid Labatt Blues.     

Jim’s Steakout

A Philly native once made the mistake of deriding this place in our presence. We finished our Molson Canadians and darts at Kelly’s Korner, somehow forewent the smells rising from the fryer, and trudged across Delaware Avenue to wait in line for steak hoagies. The 11 locations are mostly open till 5am, leaving ample post-drink opportunity for such schoolings of Brotherly Love whiz-lovers. It’s here that a neophyte can be overwhelmed, by the height of the Buffalo sub scene, pummeled by impossibly diced sirloin morsels, swimming with mayo-y secret sauce and melty provolone, singing with banana peppers. The ‘Diavlo’ especially is a massacre of tender meat-bread-sauce-spice medley, the cheese running in rivulets through the steak, the collective sauce gooping sluggishly toward the eater’s ulna bone, the greasy package greater than the sum of its parts. When drunk, when maybe only half-drunk, ok, yes, when stone sober in the middle of the day, this is possibly the best hero/hoagie/cheesesteak in the country, and an endless lesson, even for the well-initiated, in manly, meaty appetite appeasement. And somehow, despite occasionally needing to show far east-coasters how flat-topped meat is done, what Jim’s is most famous for is the Chicken Finger sub.    

Duff’s

Obama ate here. But not really. He got in a quick photo op on the way out of town at the location by the airport. But for the original, a hungry wanderer needs to head a bit north, to Amherst, where a permeable cloud of oil essence wafts around the original location. Where the floor and formica tables have an uncleanable greasy sheen, where your nasal passages are cleared by peppery sauce pungence before you even sit down, as you gaze at walled pictures of Thurman Thomas and desperately hope your name gets called soon. When it happens one does best to observe that “medium is hot” menu disclaimer. Because you might not realize it at first, but your wings are not just coated, the unfortunate ones in the bottom of the wooden bowl are literally drowning in the Frank’s Red Hot-and-butter synthesis sauce that swims through the DNA of any Buffalonian. The wings here are somehow at once skin-crisp and saucy, extremely spicy but tasty, enjoyable but painfully visceral. Both sweat and tear inducing, Duff’s is the apotheosis of the wing experience in Buffalo. Which is saying something in a town where the worst wings are better than anywhere else.

La Nova

The Todaro family has built quite the legacy since 1957. From claims of “largest independent pizzeria in the U.S.”, to legitimate stakes as the official pizza of the Bills, Sabres, and Bisons, it’s an operation that needs to be seen as well as tasted. The original on West Ferry in the rebirthing west side is a venerable ant hill of bustling delivery drivers, a cacophony of ringing phones and oven heat, somehow able to consistently sling both the best barbecue sauce-battered wings around and an exemplary paradigm of Buffalo-style pizza.

Bocce’s

But what is Buffalo-style pizza? Based on how many ex-employee spinoffs the city has (Leonardi’s being the best) and the most common assessment of natives, Bocce’s is probably closest to the prototype: thickish, triangle-cut, pan pizza, a singular, semi-sweet, zesty sauce with some heft, and bountiful, blanketing mozz. And there’s our favorite Buffalo pizza characteristic: a copious amount of quarter-sized, thick-cut pepperoni buttons scattered atop the cheese, curled, burnt and blackened by the oven’s heat lick, which forms them into little cups - holding devices for pools of grease.  

Gabriel’s Gate

Visit friends in any city around the country, and you’ll be inevitably led toward small plates in a newly hip onetime-warehouse district that is half-gritty, yet gentrifying, and mostly striving toward Park Slope. Then there’s Buffalo’s Allentown. With Nietzsche’s and Mulligan’s and other pubs many adult locals’ grandfather’s drank at, and the very real possibility you might see somebody get punched in the face right on Allen Street. It’s easy to realize this neighborhood is actually a funky, Bohemian enclave. And at the heart of it all is Gabriel’s. With the taxidermy, tin ceiling, classic rock, and a building that dates to 1864, it’s easy to assume nothing more than a friendly, comfortable fireplace and chandelier-ed dive bar with an old soul. Yet, again, like so many gin joints in Buffalo, here are some of the best wings in town: smartly crisped, sheeny in sauce, it’s a formidable base for a night of bar-hopping, and should tide you over until it’s time again for Jim’s (there’s another location a block away).     

Ted’s

The problem with Ted’s, a nine-location chain that’s been slinging encased meats since Theodore  Spiro Liaros  began selling his wares to Peace Bridge construction workers in 1927, is that repeated exposure can permanently murder any appreciation for dirty-water boiled dogs. Locally-made Sahlen’s are prodded and pivoted over charcoal grills by expert prong-wielders, cook hot and slow, the flame eventually yielding a midnight-blackened skin which is blistered and charry, smoky and snappy, appearing over-cooked, but holding the juiciest of flavor-bursting centers. The homemade peppery hot sauce, running with Buffalo’s own Weber’s horseradish mustard, tingly caps a transcendent meat-tube experience. A footlong is somehow never enough. Especially when washed down by a Loganberry.   

Essex St. Pub

On the surface this place strikes as just another in a lot of cool Elmwood Village corner bars with pool, darts, bustle till 4am, and a jukebox. But on our latest trip we couldn’t help notice and ponder our bartender’s ‘Malarchuk’ tee shirt. It seemed, in a way, a perfect metaphor for the city itself: a local rock band named in celebration of a Sabres goalie most famous for nearly dying on the ice after his jugular was sliced by an opponent's’ skate. Some joyous gallows humor, and the ability to laugh at the world’s absurdity. We thought what better place to lament the glory days of the Bills, and curse the forthcoming season of inevitable disappointment in the same breathe? To have another benign Labatt, or a crafty, hoppy Southern Tier. What place better to understand the ups, but mostly downs, the Sisyphean struggle of life, than Buffalo? As Camus - certainly a Buffalonian at heart - reminds us, “we must imagine Sisyphus happy.” With fresh cold ones and an order of wings due up from the kitchen - dry rubbed and smoked, fried and coated in a bourbon barbecue sauce, sided by a garlic and cilantro dipping sauce -  it’s easy to do so.