Heartbeat like footsteps—the pitter-patter isn't lost on him. Nothing much is ever lost on him, but tonight's not quite normal, so allow him a measure of surprise. Tonight is rather fucked and twisted, all things considered. Tonight is coins and beads and endless bottles of beer and hastily applied eyeliner (fucking dare, who'd whipped it out, can't remember). And lip-gloss?

Fuck.

Nothing seems to matter now, though, post-insanity, drenched with sweat and drowning in images of flesh. Pale flesh. The bend of a back, the tendon along a neck.

Sean hopes his voice mail got through. If the room's empty, if Elijah hasn't arrived... It's been hours, after all, despite having made the plans when they were sober. Elijah had finished up his partying with the band. But Sean had lost track of how long he'd been passed out for. Woke up in a hotel room and she'd shoved aspirin and water at him and he'd thrown up and brushed his teeth recovered enough to call a car around (noticed the time).

I'm going to check on Elijah.

Amazing that he has energy left at all, but he's willing to bear the pain tomorrow for what's left of tonight. Desperation to fit in everything he'd planned drives him.

Elevator's like a tiny examining room, all mirrored surface and glinting reality. His own face staring back. An alien countenance. Who the fuck are you, anyway? He doesn't like it. He'd gotten stupid tonight, though the details haven't yet come back.

The room is way up there. It's good. Take him off the ground. Away from the surface, away from the normalcy, away from the doubts and questions and causes of hesitation that wraps bands around his torso and squeeze. It's all liquid from here on in. He doesn't care if that's the wine talking.

Eighteenth floor, finally, and he's down the hallway, praying the floor's been secured.

He's down to the bare minimum of costume, just the undergarment stuff and sneakers that don't match, looking like some madman escaped from a Renaissance Fair, beads and coins clanking against his chest, sweat cold on his body. It's clammy and uncomfortable.

But the room's there, and along with it the promise of heat.

Images of flesh. Bend of a back. Neck.

Fucking liquid.

Keycard in his fist, slipping because there's gloss smeared on it from when he'd wiped his mouth. It has glitter in it. The specks catch on the card, and Sean shrugs off a wave of dizziness.

No need to call for Elijah, because his shape near the window is unmistakable. He's dared to open the glass panes and the spice of the celebration has crawled in, coating the room. Spicy, sharp, humming with the vibration of those below. Music floats up from the street like a cocktease gone too far.

Fucking followed us. God, he's beautiful.

No rhythm when he's sober but when he's half drunk it doesn't matter either way. He's got beads, at least half a dozen strands, looped around his neck and shoulders. They're long and many and they drip, unchecked and ignored, down his chest and down his spine, teasing the dip just above the rise of his ass. He's black-blue-white against their color, struck almost anonymous by the lack of light.

Sean just stares. What else is there to do? He says things silently. He says, come to me. He says, it's been fucking forever and waiting is for those who have nothing to lose.

All wrists and awkward limbs as Elijah turns. Of course the door had made a noise, but there isn't logic in any of this. Sean sees naked cock that isn't entirely soft against thigh and beads that tinkle into forever, blending with the light and the noise, defying gravity. Elijah's sweat-slick but drier than he is, hair disheveled and spiky, eyes ringed with black that's smeared to hell. He's got lipstick painted across his cheeks—some last minute attempt to be crazy at the ball—in flares that are almost frightening. He slides one hand along the windowpane (fingertips fingertips) and tugs the beads and watches.

"How long?"

The keycard is at Sean's feet. How many times have I heard you say that?

"Long enough."

Does it really fucking matter? It had been all glances and stage hugs three weeks ago. Not a minute to spare. Minutes to spare now. Have to use them. Gotta find you again. Make it happen. Make it go the way it goes when it's you. No one else is like you.

Sean crosses the room, hand before body. A fistful of beads and fucking skin behind it. He wraps them around his fist before pulling. Exhale—personal space gone, thin cotton of Sean's costume smacked flat into damp flesh. Together (oh, fuck me, fuck, thank you, God). Elijah loops an arm around his neck and bends into him. Elijah smells like cologne that isn't his; a sharp, cheap scent laced with the reek of pot.

His mouth swallows Elijah's next breath, gulps hungrily at lips that are almost too eager. It's just saliva and the tang of gloss and face paint and tacky residue from who knows what. Bitterness of cigarettes. Don't care.

Sean's hand climbs the beads, wrapping them tighter until they bite into the flesh of Elijah's neck. He doesn't mean to be rough but it's hard not to because he gets a little excited hitch in his chest when Sean tugs the beads. Don't wanna hurt you. Never hurt you. Only if you want me to.

Elijah's back hits the windowpane and Sean goes forward with the motion.

He's on fire, covered in it, begging for it silently, composure checked at the door. The warmth falls from his face to his belly to his cock, setting nerves off that haven't fired in a long while. Let's not go there, Astin, because if you put aside time for the mystery we'll be here until the next parade.

Just wanted to say that I love you.

And then Elijah slips a tongue into his mouth and thinking shudders to a blissful stop. He takes Elijah's jaw and holds it, guides the slippery mess between their mouths, heartbeat sounding against the bottom of his own jaw. His pulse is everywhere.

Take it lower, blank the thought. Elijah's soft belly and bony hips are bumping his. Fingers between them. Elijah getting the ties loose, pushing the cloth away. No thought spared for modesty when the kid's got what he wants in mind and Sean knows it. He shrugs and steps and kicks off shoes and ignores the brief chill that's immediately chased away by splayed fingers across his ribs. The clanking coin necklace and beads remain, tickling the hairs on his chest.

Elijah's head blocking the pale of his face; lips parted and spread to allow for tricky tongue. They step desperately, find the bed, and topple a little. Sean ends up sitting and Elijah is whitewashed in his vision and seems hairless, hands coming down on his shoulders. Those tips find neck, tug the soft curls of hair at the nape, and pinch ears. Greeting, almost, letting it come back.

But it's just a distraction. He's sinking and Sean knows it.

Wet fucking heat. Inches, fingers closing around Sean's inner thighs, almost hurting—faint shuddering gag, and then he pulls off. Sean tries to push him by the neck a little, take some space, Jesus, but he's on again, silent noise vibrating skin, head bobbing. Nothing graceful about it, just noisy sucking and the rhythmic clinking of beads.

Elijah lives for the moment when Sean loses it, when he's speechless (only fucking time he is), when he's teetering and about to shatter and embarrassed but fully aware that he's going to—going to fucking—in that mouth—

A noise he'll forget he made tomorrow, but now it seems to echo off every surface in the room. Sweat upon sweat, Elijah's hand flying, tongue streaked with white, fragments coming one after the other until all Sean can do is close his eyes and fall back. Somehow they're on the bed. Somehow, Elijah's on his hands and knees, crawling up.

Beads tickle Sean's chest and he manages a wobbly, private grin (is any part of this conscious? ) before wrapping his arms around Elijah and bringing their bodies together. Hungry. Possession in the way he bites and sucks at Elijah's lips, making them swell with blood but never breaking skin.

Neither of them has the coordination or stamina for the whole nine yards. Sean gropes at Elijah's hips and squirms until they're under him. They kiss and then flop again and Sean falls off to the side. Elijah's back spoons into his front and Sean shudders with pleasure at the shape of it molding to his. Distracts him so much that he's got to sink his teeth into that soft, fleshy bit. Elijah squirms, turns his head, and begs with his lips against Sean's hair.

Can't help falling—

Mashes their lips together, flattening his hand against Elijah's belly. Beads skimming his fingers, rolling tracks around Elijah's bellybutton. And then Elijah's got them between his fingers, got them between their lips, what the fuck, against Sean's tongue and past his teeth and then away and down and he's twining them through and around Sean's fingers, beads slippery with saliva, and then wrapping Sean's hand around his cock. The beads press hard flesh, and Sean stifles a noise. Oh, fuck.

Elijah's spread and clamped up, not a care for the bed squeaking, clasping Sean's forearm like a lifeline as their faces press and stay close. Just before he comes he squeaks a soft, "Yeah," and sobs once. Then it's wet and he's off the bed and his ass is grinding back into Sean's thighs.

Silence louder than the noises they've been making. It beats Sean's ears alongside the beginnings of a fantastic headache. Morning isn't that far away. He's physically sober, at any rate, but his mind lags behind, and the dimness and Elijah still in his arms don't bring much sanity.

"You were fucking trashed," Elijah pants, rubbing off on the sheets and squirming until he's rolled over properly. "I have pictures. And video. Fear Ebay, Sean. Fear."

"I'll buy you off when the people inside my head finish the game and take off their cleats," Sean murmurs, getting close. He slides one hand around Elijah's waist and begins petting. "Hi."

"Hello. How the hell are you even conscious?"

"Long story. Don't know how long it'll last. It's past four, isn't it?"

"Almost five."

"Where are the guys?"

"Passed out two rooms over."

"Lucky fuckers."

"Yeah, they're feeling no pain." Elijah slips one leg between Sean's calves and tucks his cheek against Sean's shoulder. Been a while.

Don't I know it.

He ignores the blossoming pain as much as possible and opens his eyes, finding himself staring directly into Elijah's. "How's the eyebrow?"

Exhaustion makes Elijah look five years younger. "It's alright." With that de-aging comes something akin to shyness and that is what Sean feels when Elijah leans in to kiss him.

Different. It lasts seconds longer than expected, and ends with Elijah wrapping a hand around the back of Sean's neck to deepen it. When they break for breath, Sean's heart is pounding all over again. Forehead to forehead.

"Where are you—"

Elijah cuts him off. "Thought we agreed we weren't gonna ask that question."

"We did." Sean deflates a bit.

Of course he wants to know where Elijah's going after tomorrow. He hates pretending that they'll keep in better touch than they will. It's not that they need to, but that Sean gets so attached to the contact when he has it that it takes a few days to shuffle off the sense of disconnection that follows. And that's all he can see right now, with Elijah's breath warmth and even against his chest. When did he tuck himself there? Sean has been lost in his own thought.

He squeezes until there's no space between them.

"Don't think I'm going to be able to stay awake," Elijah mumbles.

"Go to sleep." Sean drags his knuckles up, down, and across the soft small of his back.

"Almost morning, anyway."

Silence again. Sean smiles and presses his lips to Elijah's temple.

Love you.

Milky, pre-dawn sky looms outside, and he closes his eyes. The world has indeed come back around but—somewhere, somehow—they've been left behind.